Lost Hours

by Alex Walters

‘You don’t know what, Peter? You don’t know if they’re willing to meet me? Well, let’s put it this way. If they’re not willing to meet me, I’m not willing to work for them. If they’re not prepared to see me, I want to be taken off their bloody payroll.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Mickey.’

  She could tell he was striving for his usual paternalistic patronising tone, but this time it didn’t come off. He simply sounded desperate. ‘So how does it work?’

  ‘They call the shots. That’s how it works.’

  ‘Look, Peter, I’m not looking to be difficult for no reason. I’m not being unreasonable. But if I’m going to be out there on the front line taking the risk, I want to have at least some idea who I’m working for. I’m not asking them to divulge their innermost secrets or send me three years of their company accounts. I just want reassurance that these people really do know what they’re doing, and that I’m not being hung out to dry.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Mickey, of course they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Fine. So all they need to do is reassure me of that. If they can’t do that, the deal’s off.’

  ‘That really isn’t how it works. You don’t tell them what to do. You don’t issue ultimatums. Not to these people.’

  ‘Is that right? I was under the impression I’d done just that.’

  ‘I can’t go—’

  ‘If you don’t, then I’ll take a lesson out of poor old Keith Chalmers’ book. I’ll just withdraw my labour. I’ll leave the money untouched in that mysterious offshore bank account, so they can just take it back. Or they can leave it there, I don’t care. And that’s it. I’ll go back to business as usual.’

  Hardy was staring at her. She couldn’t tell if he was terrified or furious. Probably some unholy combination of the two, she thought. ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘I really do. You ought to know me well enough by now to know that.’

  ‘Shit. But what I am supposed to do?’

  ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? I’d say go and talk to them. Tell them what I’ve said. Tell them it’s the price of getting me to carry on with them. If they aren’t prepared to do it and don’t want me to carry on, we’ll know where we stand.’

  ‘I already know where we stand,’ Hardy said. ‘Deep in the shit, if you carry on with this.’

  Watching the expression on Hardy’s face, she almost got cold feet. But she knew she was right. It wasn’t even that she was really that concerned about meeting these people, though it was true she wanted to know more about who they were and what interests they represented. In her experience, if you went blundering about in the dark, you almost invariably ended up tripping over the wrong person’s feet.

  In reality, her real interest was in Hardy. She needed to reassert her authority, demonstrate her leadership. She’d conceded too much to him. If he was worried about the task she was setting him, so much the better. ‘That’s your considered opinion, is it, Peter?’

  ‘All I’m saying is—’

  ‘I don’t much care what you’re saying or what your considered opinion is. I just want you to do what I tell you. And I want you to do it now.’

  Hardy gazed back at her, his face unreadable. ‘You’re not giving me a choice, are you?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice, Peter, no. So there’s a good chap. Just get on and do it, eh? As I believe you old heroine Maggie Thatcher used to say: “I want people who bring me solutions, not problems.” So bugger off and find me a solution.’

  He was angry now, she thought. She couldn’t be sure if that was because he really found the task she’d set him as worrying as he claimed, or simply because she’d made such an explicit point of shifting her attitude towards him. Apart from anything else, he presumably realised it was likely to be a long while before she allowed him back into her bed.

  But it was the right thing to do, she had no doubt about that. Hardy had been gently leading her down the proverbial garden path. He’d built up her dependence on him to the point where she was conceding more and more power and influence. That had been a mistake, and it was fortunate she’d caught it in time.

  She didn’t believe for a minute that, if it came to it, their mysterious partners would really refuse to meet her. They’d probably fob her off with some relatively junior contact, but that was fine. This wasn’t really about the partners. This was about taking the initiative from Peter, preventing him from acting as the gatekeeper. She should never have allowed that to happen in the first place. Peter’s misery now wasn’t because he was anxious about how the partners might respond. It was because he saw that, step by step, she was rendering his own role here redundant.

  Well, that was how it worked. This was her business, and she had no intention of handing any of it over to the likes of Peter Hardy. He’d soon realise how dispensable he really was.

  ‘And, Peter,’ she added, as he was getting up to leave, ‘please don’t try to bullshit me. I really don’t like people who do that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Zoe Everett was leaving the centre of Nottingham, heading out over the seemingly endless sequence of traffic lights and roundabouts along the A610 towards the M1 junction, when Annie called. She took the call on the hands-free and updated Annie on the discussion with Ian Pascoe.

  ‘Interesting,’ Annie said. ‘That certainly gives a whole new perspective on young Justin’s university life. It’s striking that his mother chose to share none of that with us.’

  ‘Isn’t it? She must have known we’d find out.’

  ‘Maybe she thought we wouldn’t. She might have thought she’d deflected us from enquiring into his life at university. Or maybe she thought that the university would close ranks and prefer not to wash its dirty linen in public. We might have got a different response if we’d gone in through formal channels first. Although I can’t imagine that they would have held back everything.’

  ‘So what do you think it was? Her reason for not telling us, I mean. Just a mother being protective of her son?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Annie said. ‘Or, more cynically, a mother being protective of her business. That might have been why she was so keen to suppress the whole thing in the first place. Not just to protect Justin but also because it’s not the kind of story she’d have wanted to see splashed all over the tabloids. I suppose the real question is whether there’s any connection to Justin’s murder?’

  ‘It must be worth considering, surely,’ Zoe said. ‘If the person who Justin assaulted was denied proper justice, someone might have decided to take the law into their own hands. If not her, then some friend or relative. Or maybe it wasn’t a premeditated murder. Maybe someone came to challenge Justin about it, got into an argument and…’

  ‘It went a few steps too far? Of course it’s possible. Although I don’t see how that would link to Chalmers’ death – assuming the two killings are connected. But I’ll get on to the university formally and persuade them to give me the name of the woman in question. Whatever confidentiality assurances they’ve given her, at the end of the day this is a murder inquiry. We can treat it all as discreetly as possible, but we can’t play games.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what I told Pascoe.’

  ‘We’ll get things moving in that direction, anyway. The main reason I was calling is that I’ve just been speaking to Jack Connell. He’s in charge of the investigation into the Matlock thing. The damage to the car. That’s suddenly seeming a lot more pertinent in the light of Keith Chalmers’ killing.’

  ‘Go on. Don’t worry if I go quiet. I’m just trying to find my way round this bloody roundabout.’ The roundabout in question was part of the major junction that linked the A610 to the M1 as well as to a series of local roads. In the course of Zoe’s life, she’d witnessed the junction grow increasingly large and complex as the authorities had struggled to cope with the increasing weight of rush-hour traffic.

  ‘They’ve been working their way through the list of union memb
ers working at the Matlock site – that is, those who were out on strike. A lot of them make pretty unlikely vandals, according to Jack, but there are a few possible contenders. Anyway, they’ve had an anonymous call suggesting that they talk to one of the people on the list. Young guy called Sammy Nolan. Worked in an admin role there, and was one of the people whose job had been transferred to some regional office miles away. Had only been there for a few months so was entitled to bugger all redundancy. He was already on Jack’s list and they were planning to pay him a visit today, but the anonymous call has made Jack take more interest in him. Given the possible link with Chalmers, Jack wondered if one of us wanted to sit in on the interview.’

  ‘You want me to do it?’

  ‘Only if you can. I can always send one of the team from here, but I thought if you were out anyway. Might be a waste of time from our perspective, but who knows.’

  ‘Yeah. Was heading out to see Michelle Wentworth later. One of our regular debriefs in my liaison role. So it’s no real hassle to head to Matlock first.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Annie gave her the address. ‘Connell’s heading up there with one of his DCs. Said he’d meet you there.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Zoe had finally passed the M1 junction and had turned on to the dual carriageway that led back out towards the border with Derbyshire. The A610 actually took her directly to police HQ in Ripley, but she’d continue beyond that towards Matlock. Here, the countryside was largely rolling hills and fields, intermittently visible between what had once been mining towns. As she headed west and north, the landscape would become wilder and more hilly.

  Matlock was one of those places she recalled from her childhood. Adjacent to the town itself was Matlock Bath, a former spa town that, despite or perhaps because of being located about as far from the sea as it was possible to be in the UK, had over the years taken on the style of a coastal resort, with the familiar mix of amusement arcades, fish and chip shops and cafes. The sharp cliffside, with its unexpected cable cars, dominated the road and the shining strip of the River Derwent running alongside.

  Even though it was a weekday and the schools had gone back, the sunshine and heat had brought out the crowds, and the pavements were thronged with day trippers and other visitors. Zoe navigated her way carefully through the town, eventually emerging into Matlock itself. Here, the shops were a little less touristy but it was still an attractive place, set among the greenery of the surrounding hills.

  The satnav took her through the town centre, then out to the east into a residential area. After another half a mile, she turned off into the street where she’d been told Sammy Nolan lived. The houses along here looked as if they’d once been social housing stock, but the ‘For Sale’ and ‘To Let’ signs indicated that at some point they’d been sold off by the local authority.

  She pulled into the roadside a little way short of Nolan’s house. Annie had told her Connell had suggested that he should meet her outside, and that they should avoid making their presence too obvious.

  As she pulled up, Connell’s squat figure emerged from the car parked in front of her. A younger man climbed out of the driver’s side. Zoe left her car and walked across to meet them.

  ‘You must be Zoe,’ Connell said. ‘I’m sure we’ve met before but I’ve a lousy memory for faces.’

  ‘I’ve seen you about,’ Zoe said. ‘My trouble’s with names.’

  ‘Oh, aye. I’m crap with them as well,’ Connell said. ‘So young Ben here’ll have to introduce himself.’

  ‘Ben Francis,’ the DC said.

  ‘Zoe Everett.’ Zoe smiled back at him. ‘So what’s the story with this Sammy Nolan?’

  ‘He’s known to us,’ Connell said. ‘Only small-time stuff and he avoided going down. Couple of shoplifting things when he was much younger. Then some minor drug use, criminal damage, the odd drunk and disorderly. He seems to have turned over a new leaf in recent years. Found himself gainful employment, most recently at the place in Matlock.’

  ‘He was one of the strikers?’

  ‘Apparently. He’d only been with the company for a few weeks. Some kind of junior admin role. He was in one of the functions that was outsourced, and Sammy was apparently given the choice of taking an equivalent job at some regional office some distance away or taking redundancy. Which in his case amounted to three-fifths of bugger all.’

  ‘And you think he was behind the damage to the car?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. He’s been very active in protesting about the way the staff have been treated, apparently, but he doesn’t seem to have been regarded as a troublemaker. He was involved in the union, got himself elected to the local committee. Obviously, we had him in the picture already because of his past record, so he was already scheduled for a visit. But, given his recent unblemished record, I hadn’t seen him as a prime suspect. Then this morning we got an anonymous tip-off. Knew some of the detail, so it sounded like Sammy or someone had been shooting his mouth off about it.’ Connell paused. ‘Don’t know if I’m wasting your time here, of course. Even if he was behind the car damage, I can’t really envisage him being involved in the killings. But I did tell Annie I’d keep you involved in any developments.’

  This thought had also occurred to Zoe, but, like Annie, she also recognised the importance of keeping colleagues like Connell onside. He often had his ear to the ground in a way that was more difficult for the officers in the senior crime team. Furthermore, Keith Chalmers’ murder had brought the focus back on to the trade union link. It was just possible that Nolan might have some intelligence that would be useful to them. ‘I was out on the road anyway,’ she said. ‘And you never know.’

  ‘You never do. Okay, let’s go and see young Sammy.’

  Most of the houses along the street seemed well-maintained and in a decent stare of repair. Sammy’s was more neglected, the small front garden overgrown and the paintwork peeling. To Zoe’s surprise, the front door was slightly ajar.

  ‘Not one for tight security.’ Connell stepped forward and pressed the doorbell, holding it down for several seconds. They heard the shrill tone from somewhere inside the house, but there was no other response. ‘Just our luck if he’s buggered off to the shops or something.’

  ‘Assume he’s not gone far if he’s left the door ajar,’ Francis said.

  ‘You’d think not, wouldn’t you? Mind you, you’ve got two brain cells to rub together.’ Connell pressed the bell again.

  There was still no response. Connell gingerly pushed open the door. ‘Sammy! You in there?’ He looked back at the other two. ‘Could be in the bog, I suppose. Or the back garden. If there is a back garden.’ He pressed the bell once more, this time holding it down even longer.

  Zoe peered past him into the relative gloom of the hallway. She was suddenly feeling uneasy. She couldn’t have pinned down exactly why. Something to do with the quality of the silence in the house. Perhaps something about the way the bell was echoing. Somehow she already had the feeling that there was no one in there to hear it.

  Connell turned and peered down the street, as if expecting to see Nolan striding down the pavement towards them. ‘I’m just going to have a quick look inside. In case he’s out at the back or something.’

  Zoe could tell from Connell’s tone that, for whatever reason, he was beginning to share some of her unease. He walked a few steps down the hall, then stopped. Zoe and Ben Francis had initially hovered by the door, but now Zoe followed Connell into the house. She paused behind him, knowing now what had made Connell stop.

  It was unmistakeable to any experienced police officer. The stench of blood, here mixed with the even more unpleasant scent of decomposition. Connell looked back at her and she nodded. ‘Which room?’

  They were standing beside what Zoe took to be the door to the living room. For all its intensity, the smell seemed too distant to be emanating from there. ‘Kitchen?’

  Connell fumbled in his pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he held over
his mouth and nose. Zoe had nothing similar on her, so she followed a little behind holding her sleeve to her face. Connell pushed open the kitchen door.

  The first thing that struck her, other than the smell, was the buzzing of the flies. She peered over Connell’s shoulder. The body was lying spreadeagled face down across the floor of the small kitchen. It was a man, probably young, although it was difficult to be sure because of the damage inflicted to his head and face. The head itself was surrounded by a pool of congealed blood.

  Zoe suspected that he hadn’t been lying there for too long, perhaps only for twenty-four hours or so. But the body had fallen beside the closed patio windows, and the sun had been shining full on it for some hours. In the summer heat, the body was already beginning to decompose.

  ‘Shit,’ Connell said. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘You think that’s Nolan?’

  ‘I’m guessing so,’ Connell said. ‘Not easy to tell, is it?’ He turned back towards her. ‘Who the hell would want to kill a wee gobshite like Sammy Nolan?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zoe said. ‘But the MO looks very like our other killings.’

  Connell stared back at her, his expression suggesting he was scarcely taking in what she was saying to him. He was an experienced cop, and he must have seen worse than this, but he looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, trying to maintain her own calm. ‘Let’s call this in and get the place sealed off.’

  Connell blinked at her and nodded. ‘Aye, yes, you’re right.’ He followed her back down the hall, but then stopped and looked back. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The afternoon team briefing had been a sombre affair, the team’s tension and anxiety almost palpable. Annie had forced herself to remain positive, and Jennings had done his usual decent job of morale-boosting, but she couldn’t ignore the growing sense that the case was slipping away from them.

  Usually when that happened, it was because of a shortage of leads. That was relatively uncommon, particularly in murder cases. Murder investigations were often some of the more straightforward, with an obvious suspect and a clear-cut motive, even if the circumstances might be sordid or depressing. The trickiest ones were generally the most random, the seemingly unprovoked killings where there was no obvious link between the perpetrator and victim and no evident motive for the crime. In those cases, you could be left clutching at straws – the painstaking gathering and analysis of intelligence, the minute examination of video evidence, the hope that some friend or relative of the perpetrator would report their suspicions. Mostly, those cases came good in the end, usually through sheer hard work and persistence. Occasionally, though, they didn’t. The mystery remained unsolved, and those involved in the investigation would never sleep quite so soundly again.