by Ted Tayler
“Difficult to tell. She was young, very young I thought to be a DI,” said Henry Case. “She read through every scrap of paper we had prepared for his so-called personnel file. The DI asked for copies, which we provided. She asked for a specific date when Burns volunteered himself for treatment. She studied his ID extremely closely.”
Athena tried to reassure Colin.
“Don’t worry Phoenix, we chose Garry Burns for a reason. He did serve in Iraq. Burns arrived here with the first intake the week the Project opened for business. His records before he joined the Army at sixteen and throughout his time served will stack up when they check. He was with us until September 2010 when he went missing on a mission in West Africa. Burns was trying to track members of Boko Haram and his handlers lost radio contact with his party. Nothing was ever heard from them again. Henry merely picked up the threads of his life here at Larcombe as if he had never left. You joined us in July and underwent training and facial reconstruction in your first three months with us. As far as that Detective Inspector was concerned, you were Garry Burns when the ICO inspectors visited.”
“Wouldn’t they spot the difference in our appearance?” asked Phoenix.
Henry Case stood up and walked over to a whiteboard. He placed photographs onto the board and secured them, one by one.
“This is Garry Burns with his mother and father at Barry Island, aged seven. This is Private Garry Burns at seventeen in Rheindalen. Here we have Garry Burns again, this time with half a dozen other squaddies on a beach in Tenerife. He’s about thirty in that one. When he joined us we took this photograph for his ID card. He was thirty-eight years old in November of that year, which was 2007.”
As ‘Head’ Case stuck that final photo on the board even the antique clock on the mantelpiece seemed to pause; the likeness to Phoenix was incredible. Without saying a word, the intelligence head placed Colin’s latest photograph alongside that of Garry Burns.
“Meet your twin, Phoenix,” said Henry, “the surgeons made minor alterations to your features in September and October; perhaps unwittingly, maybe with a nod to a fallen comrade, but as you can see the resemblance is uncanny.”
“The police know how you looked on July 1st, 2010 when you went missing in the River Avon in Bath. You moved a few miles out of the city to be with us and your features were altered. Nobody you knew before that time thinks you are alive, let alone know how you look now,” said Athena. She hoped her lover could see there was little cause for concern.
While this conversation took place, over in the Criminal Investigations offices at Portishead, the young female DI reviewed her findings with her boss.
“His paperwork shows that Burns suffered from PTSD after his experiences in Iraq. Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk to him as he has waited until his early forties to take a gap year. I expect he’s trekking towards Machu Picchu as we speak with a bunch of people half his age.”
“What did you do with the ID photograph?”
“I contacted the ICO inspector who raised the query and sent him a copy. He forwarded it to the colleagues he had with him on the visit to Larcombe Manor. Every single one of them gave him the same reply. ‘That’s the man I saw; I’m almost sure that’s him.’
When I pushed the senior inspector to say whether he was one hundred per cent certain himself he said ‘No, I couldn’t swear to it. In fact, my colleagues agree. We think it’s the same man, but we wouldn’t want to swear to it in a court of law. Please remember; it was a long day, we had trawled through reams of paperwork, carried out interviews with officers of the charity and servicemen receiving help. Their stories were harrowing; we have no concept of the conditions we ask them to endure when we allow our politicians to send them off to such places. Then just as we were bringing matters to a close, the door opened, and this man came into the room. He stood there for less than five seconds, then he collapsed in a heap. He received attention at once by two of the officers of the charity; then stewards came in to carry off the poor devil. I challenge anyone to say they were absolutely certain in those circumstances. If he wasn’t the man in the photo you sent me, then he’s his twin.’
“That’s as far as we’ve got I’m afraid.”
“Forget the ICO people; they can’t help us any further,” said her Chief Inspector “forget the charity too, for now, everything points to them doing a great job. Let’s see if we can find this Garry Burns. We can’t afford to commit many resources to this; there’s no evidence of a crime having been committed. Perhaps we can post a notice on the relevant backpacker sites, asking if anyone has seen him. Leave his photo up on a few forums and ask him to contact us. Not sure what else we can do, to be honest.”
At Larcombe Manor, the morning meeting had finished. Rusty and Phoenix had then brought the elderly gentleman up to speed on the clean-up crew mission in the orangery. He was concerned at the ‘tap-dancing’ they had resorted to in finishing the job.
“My fault chaps, I suppose,” he said. “I should have given you more time to formulate your plans. How are you holding up Phoenix? Everything clear in your head over the police business yesterday afternoon?”
Colin looked at Rusty.
“Do you mind mate?” he said. Rusty took the hint and left them alone.
“That detective paid particular attention to the ID photograph Sir; she pored over it for several minutes. What did she see in this face of Garry Burns? Could she have been thinking that maybe Garry Burns reminded her of someone she knew?” said Colin “I was in Oxfordshire yesterday afternoon. Miles away from Larcombe Manor. How can I know that female Detective Inspector? Yet I’m positive I do.”
“She identified herself as DI Zara Wheeler and her colleague was a Sergeant Toby Drysdale,” said Erebus.
“There you go,” sighed Colin, “she worked with my nemesis, Phil Hounsell. Hounsell and Wheeler were on my tail from Durham to Manchester and then to Bath. I kidnapped Hounsell’s wife to get him to back off, to allow me to travel freely to London. I had unfinished business. Everything went south when I got back. Instead of releasing her and disappearing onto the continent as planned, I was running for my life through Bath with these coppers on my tail. No doubt Drysdale was one of them. I remember Ms Wheeler well; no wonder she’s a DI so young, she’s as sharp as a tack. If she thinks there’s any doubt whatever about the truth of the story, we gave her yesterday; she’ll keep gnawing at it., Like a dog with a bone. That picture holds the key to the slight possibility of a cover-up job. Deliberate or not, my facial reconstruction leaving me with features so similar to Burns may well have given us a problem, not a solution.”
Erebus had listened to Phoenix intently.
“You may be worrying unnecessarily, dear boy,” he said. “When they left here yesterday they believed that Burns had gone off to see the world. If they peel away enough layers of the onion to expose you as being alive where would they look for you? Not here, just minutes away from the city in which you are thought to have died. They might try to trace Burns’s movements and will come to a dead end. I suggest you keep a low profile for a while. As for Burns, well Giles may have to magic up a cover story in a few months; a tragic accident while swimming off the Great Barrier Reef could suffice.”
Colin reluctantly had to agree; he was no doubt worrying about nothing.
CHAPTER 5
In her office at Portishead DI Zara Wheeler stared at the photograph of Garry Burns, which she had pinned to a screen by her desk. Just who was it from her past that Burns reminded her of? It annoyed her, but she resolved to keep trying to remember. This dogged determination had got her to where she was; allied to her extreme intelligence. She reflected on her career since she arrived in the West Country.
Zara had been a DS in the summer of 2010 when she rushed south from Nottingham with DCI Phil Hounsell. They were in pursuit of a killer who had kidnapped Phil’s wife Erica. The then young DS had been helping Phil ever since his short stay at Durham.
DCI Hounsell had been working wit
h SOCA in London and had been sent north because he knew the victim and the story behind his case. He turned up in the murder room where the team had been beavering away without luck looking for clues. A child killer had been shot dead within an hour of being released from prison on parole. Phil Hounsell was convinced Neil Cartwright’s killer to be the father of the girl he murdered. Colin Bailey had waited ten long years to take his revenge on the life of his daughter Sharron.
The events of Saturday, July the first, 2010 would forever stay in Zara’s mind. So much had happened in such a short time. Working with Phil Hounsell had been an eye-opener. Zara was a shy, reserved young woman back then and despite her superior officer being married, with two young children, she couldn’t prevent herself from having feelings for him. Feelings she had never had for a man before.
When she worked with the team at the Manvers Street station in Bath, smart detective work on her behalf had discovered the remote cottage where Erica Hounsell was being held, hostage. Erica was released unharmed and she and Phil reunited. The killer, now calling himself Colin Owens, was wandering around the streets of the old city, without a care in the world; when an off-duty female officer recognised him. She was with her mother, making her way towards the Theatre Royal to watch a play. Shots were fired, the officer injured, but this allowed Phil, Zara, and her colleagues to close in on the killer and bring the manhunt to an end.
Her boss had tackled the fugitive, and both men finished up in the River Avon. Toby Drysdale was a young PC working at Bath and he had rescued Phil Hounsell from drowning in the treacherous waters under Pulteney Weir. Zara had needed to give Phil the ‘kiss-of-life’ to resuscitate him. It was a tough life, but someone had to do it, she thought as her cheeks reddened at the memory two years later. She looked around the office at Portishead, hoping that nobody noticed. How times had changed since then.
Bailey or Owens had drowned. Where the body ended up who knew? Perhaps it made its way as far as the Severn Estuary; more likely it lay somewhere between Bath and the Bristol Channel in the underwater foliage and detritus that populates every UK river these days. Caught up in a shopping trolley, perhaps? Lying for the chance to pop to the surface and frighten an old chap sat on the river bank downstream fishing.
Zara looked at that photo of Garry Burns. Was there a likeness? Was that what had been niggling at her brain? Not particularly, Burns was broader in the shoulder, fairer haired and blue-eyed; he carried two stones more than the killer. The two men were roughly the same height and age. Even so, Burns didn’t resemble the grainy CCTV image they had found from Aberdeen airport when Bailey returned to the UK from West Africa.
She glanced across the room at the back of Toby Drysdale’s head. He had risked his life leaping into the river that day and later received a commendation for his bravery. Phil had been underwater struggling with Bailey for several minutes. When he came up, he was exhausted. Toby had brought him ashore.
Another one of her young Bath colleagues, PC Idris Williams, and the other onlookers kept looking for Bailey. He never surfaced. No way could he have stayed under that long and survived. It was pointless to believe otherwise.
Zara unpinned the photograph and filed it away in a drawer; she intended to give the matter further thought another day. Her desk was full of urgent, up-to-date cases that needed her attention.
Later that day she drove back to Bath from Portishead and arrived home. Strictly, it had been Mary Trueman’s home, Phil’s mother-in-law, but to these days, it felt as if it was her place. She fed the cats and poured herself a glass of wine while she wondered what to get herself to eat. Then she returned to reflect on those early days in Bath.
She remembered the tense journey to Royal United Hospital in the ambulance with Phil. Debbie Turner had arrived earlier and was being treated for a bullet wound. Callum Wood, who worked with Phil Hounsell years before in Wiltshire, was by her side. No doubt, Debbie’s mother had kept an eye on the two of them; wondering whether she might need a new hat in the future.
Zara took her glass of wine and wandered into her bedroom. She opened the wardrobe and brought out the dress she had worn to Callum and Debbie’s wedding early last year. It would be nice to have somewhere special to go. To get the chance to wear that again. She took care when replacing the dress, just in case.
Debbie would be on maternity leave soon. Zara wondered if she could she get away with that dress for the christening? She doubted it. It meant another shopping trip for an outfit and shoes for the occasion. When she could find time to get away from work.
Zara imagined Debbie might well opt not to return to work afterwards at any rate. She and Callum were both pushing forty. Phil always said that the two of them had been in love since he first met them in the late Eighties. She had to get herself shot before the silly sod told her he loved her. Zara walked back into the kitchen and freshened up the drink in her glass.
“Do you think someone would declare their undying love for me if I got shot, Napoleon?” she asked her cat as he turned his head imperiously to acknowledge her presence. Josephine, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in what she had to say. Not tonight and attended to her paws in front of the television.
Not long after Callum and Debbie had got married Mary Trueman had shown signs of not being herself. Zara bonded with Mary right from the start. They were thrown together at Phil’s house with her two grandchildren, Shaun, and Tracey after Erica had been kidnapped. Once Erica had been released, staying over here at Mary’s was the ideal solution for them both. Zara needed a base in Bath, or nearby, and Mary needed the companionship after losing her husband Bob a few years earlier. The house felt empty when she was there alone.
Phil had left RUH and returned to work in London to tie up his loose ends with SOCA. Disillusioned with the way things were going with that outfit, he promised Zara that they would continue to work together. He was owed a favour or two after clearing up four of five cases in one fell swoop with the Bailey business.
He was true to his word. Of course, the authorities helped things progress. They had decided to wind up SOCA and replace it with a National Crime Agency next year in 2013. A lot of former SOCA people had gravitated back to the provinces over the past year. Phil just happened to leave the sinking ship a long time before the rest of the poor devils. Dozens of whom had been trimmed due to the ever-increasing lack of funding; others, naturally, feeling as disillusioned as Phil had left to do something worthwhile.
Phil moved to Portishead and not long afterwards he had been promoted to Superintendent. Zara had asked for a move to Manvers Street, Bath straight after she returned to work. She discovered that despite Durham pleading for her return, she got it sanctioned by the middle of July. It was only a few weeks before Phil set the wheels in motion to get her to join his team on the coast.
There were no more kidnappings, no more manhunts through the streets on Saturday evenings while she was stationed at Bath. But there was still plenty of fun on offer in the old Roman city. That summer she had learned how to let her hair down and enjoy herself at last.
Toby Drysdale had helped. Phil had been right; he said when he was laid up in RUH that Toby fancied her. Soon after that weekend, they went out for a few drinks. They had been to the cinema. They had gone for a meal after watching Bath playing Rugby at the Rec. Then one night it had just happened. Toby and Zara became friends with benefits.
Zara had been glad they had slept together. It didn’t change her feelings towards Toby in any relevant way; nor did it change his towards her as far as he admitted. They were just best friends. Always quiet and studious, her elderly parents had never let her mix with boys that much when she was a teenager. At university, she wanted to get the best degree she could and the antics of most of her fellow undergraduates were beyond her comprehension. So she kept herself apart and didn’t socialise that often.
In her early police career, her superiors recognised her intelligence and application and marked her out for rapid advancement. She
was going places. That alone would have been enough to alienate most of the ‘plodders’ filling up most police stations. But her shyness and odd mannerisms led to her being seen as a figure of fun. Her nickname Mouse unkindly applied by one of the under-achievers in the squad room at Durham who picked on her.
She blushed easily, and she wrinkled her nose as she pushed up her glasses. She didn’t fit in with the lads, and the girls who tried to behave in the same way as the lads didn’t want her around them either. When she was in Bath, the atmosphere felt different. They were a smaller unit and more sociable. It’s always difficult for coppers to mix with the public. A police officer is always on duty. Even when you’re not; you always have to hold something back; so it’s easier to mix with colleagues; they understand.
Toby understood. He was uniform and still a constable then. Zara was a DS being fast-tracked for better things. Toby knew his place. They both knew even as they were lost in the throes of their passion that love and marriage were out of the question. So they saw each other only occasionally. Every once in a while, it led to sex. They both wanted it, they both enjoyed it. Nobody got hurt.
Zara stopped reminiscing and looked at her empty glass. She decided she had better start getting that food. This wine on her empty stomach had started to make her maudlin.
As she prepared a few things she found in the fridge for a quick salad, she recalled drinking on an empty stomach the night Idris Williams left Bath. That was early in 2011 when he returned to the valleys to rejoin the Powys Rangers, or whatever they called the force in South Wales. By that time, she had transferred out of Bath to rejoin Phil Hounsell and his team at Portishead.
She had finished work late, as usual, and rushed back to join the old gang in one of the busy pubs in the city. Everyone had more than a few drinks that night. Toby was bundled into a taxi, legless. Somehow, Idris persuaded Zara to go back to his flat. She was in no condition to drive home. After another large glass of wine, they collapsed into bed at four o’clock.
