Death Walks Behind You

by Scott Hunter

  “Hello again, Inspector Moran,” Celine greeted him with a coy smile.

  “Hello. You play very well.”

  “Thanks. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I panicked, you know. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

  “Not at all. You did the right thing. Did DS Wilmot keep you long?”

  Celine looked puzzled. “DS who? No one showed up last night. I presumed you’d spoken to the police. I waited a while with Terl and then I went home.”

  Moran’s brow furrowed. “Right. I see.”

  “Are you OK? You look a bit nonplussed.”

  “Do I? Sorry.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Should he say anything? There could be no harm in sharing his concern, surely? He took a breath and told her straight. “After I left you last night I went back to wait for the police. The car had gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yep. It wasn’t there.”

  “But–”

  “I know. She was dead. I’d swear to it in court.”

  “How bizarre.”

  “Quite.”

  The dancers began to make their way outside carrying their replenished jugs of ale. Celine gave him a tight smile. “Look, I’ve got to play again. Can we talk later?”

  “Sure,” Moran said. “Have fun. I’ll be here.”

  He watched Celine take her place as the dancers reassembled. The music struck up and the dance began anew, but this time there was something different. The accordion struck up a mournful, minor key melody, almost a lament. The dancers moved slowly, respectfully, heads bowed. Celine’s face was downcast, troubled. To Moran it seemed as though spring and all thoughts of new life had been banished. A cooler wind ruffled his hair and he shivered, turning up the collar of his jacket.

  This was no dance of celebration. It was a dance of bereavement.

  “Message for you, Mr Moran.”

  Terl handed Moran a slip of paper. The dancers had long since departed and the pub had emptied. Rather than eat in the isolation of his cottage Moran had elected to stay for a bar meal, a simple variation on the theme of burger and fries, which he had enjoyed well enough. Celine had declined his offer of dinner, excusing herself by citing a busy day and the necessity of a decent night’s sleep. She seemed troubled, but Moran didn’t want to pry. However, he did intend to do a little digging with Terl over coffee.

  He fished out his glasses and read the note:

  Flight UNA2194, Boston-Dublin-Bristol

  03/05/2013, 06.37 arrival

  Passenger: Ms Blanche R. Cassidy

  DOB: 22/06/1968

  The only ‘Blanche’ I could find.

  Hope it helps, C.

  Moran folded the note and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. Not a phantom, then. A real person – and now, possibly, a missing person. A missing dead person, he corrected himself.

  “Same again, Mr Moran?” Terl made as if to pull another pint.

  Moran raised his hand. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee, Terl, if you’d do me one?”

  “Americano? Espresso?”

  “Espresso, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  Moran finished his beer and reviewed the situation. An American woman arrives in an excitable state, proclaiming the disappearance of a friend who had confirmed the time and place of her visit. She berates the husband for his lack of interest or concern, stays for two drinks and leaves. An hour later she is found in her car by a woman from the pub who fetches an off-duty policeman. He confirms no pulse. The American woman is dead. Twenty minutes later the car and the body are gone.

  “So, no sign of her, then?” Terl placed a cup containing the smallest volume of coffee Moran had ever seen on the bar and slid it towards him.

  “No. Not so far.”

  “Can’t switch off, eh?” Terl grinned widely. “I’ve never met a copper who can.”

  Moran conceded the point with a wry nod.

  “Probably nothing,” Terl went on while vigorously polishing a wine glass. “I’ll bet she just passed out for a bit, woke up, drove away. Probably holed up in some Exeter hotel. I wouldn’t worry.”

  She was dead…

  Terl continued. “Anyway, I’d leave it to the Exeter constabulary if I were you. Enjoy your break. Disappearances are the last thing you need, eh?” Terl selected another glass and held it up to the light.

  “I suppose. It’s odd, though.” Moran pushed the espresso cup across the bar. “Can I trouble you for another? A double, maybe?”

  “Coming up.”

  As Terl prepared the coffee, Moran’s brain raced. Should he contact Exeter again? No one seemed to be taking his report seriously – if, in fact, DS Wilmot had thought it necessary to file a report at all. The more Moran thought about it, the more convinced he became that Wilmot was sitting on it, treating Moran’s interview as either low priority, or worse still, a false alarm.

  “Thanks.” Moran accepted Terl’s second attempt at an espresso. It wasn’t a bad effort, stronger than the first, and this time there was more of it. He took a sip and gave a murmur of appreciation. Settling the cup into its saucer he looked squarely at Terl. It was time to probe.

  “What do you know about Celine, Terl? Seems like a nice lady.”

  “Yeah. She’s all right. Good company. She’s lived here for years – part of the furniture. Like me.” He laughed.

  “No partner?”

  Terl leaned over the bar. “I said you couldn’t switch off, didn’t I?” he grinned, but then he became serious. “She’s been unlucky, right enough. I wouldn’t get any ideas, Mr Moran. Best leave alone, I reckon.”

  “Just curious.”

  “Right.” Terl nodded. “Pull the other one.” He selected another glass, misted it with a swift exhalation and resumed his polishing.

  “Know a chap by the name of de Courcy?” Moran watched Terl’s face closely.

  “Everyone knows him,” Terl replied.

  Moran nodded, noting Terl’s slight flinch at the mention of de Courcy’s name. He pressed on. “Local squire? Lord of the manor?”

  “Something like that.” Terl let the bar cloth fall to his side and shook his head slowly. “He wishes.”

  “Oh?”

  Terl ran a meaty hand through his hair. “His mother is still alive. Lord Cernham’s widow.”

  “I see. The son and heir kept waiting. Prince Charles syndrome.”

  “Exactly that.” Terl selected a small glass and banged it roughly against the Johnny Walker optic. “Join me?”

  Moran declined. “Seemed like a nice fellow. Worried about a deer carcass or something.”

  “Was he?” Terl affected disinterest. “Where’d you run up against Mr D, then?”

  “The police station.”

  “Ah.” The scotch went down in one.

  “Funny, I got the impression that the officer might have been a little … in fear of him?”

  “Is that so? I doubt it very much. Mr D is a nice fella. Likes to keep an eye on things, see that we’re all doing our jobs properly, you know.”

  “Of course. Quite right. Good to have someone keeping an eye on things.” Moran finished his coffee. “Well, time to stagger home. Thanks for a pleasant evening. I enjoyed it.”

  “Pleasure, Mr Moran. Take care, now.”

  Moran paused outside the Green Man and inhaled the fresh, clean air. Somewhere nearby a vixen’s bark split the silence, a strangely alien sound that stayed with him as he wound his way back to the cottage. It was only as he turned the key in the lock that he realised why the noise had unsettled him: it had sounded like a cry for help.

  Chapter 5

  “Thought you might want to see this.” DS Stephen Banner dropped a pile of papers onto the desk and made as if to leave.

  “Wait. Summary, please. I haven’t got time to wade through all that.” DI Charlie Pepper brushed her hair back from her eyes with an irritated flick. She’d been meaning to get a trim for days but since the guv had been off she hadn’t had time to t
hink, let alone book a haircut.

  “Sheldrake’s legacy,” Banner said as he about-faced reluctantly and waited, arms folded in front of Moran’s desk. “I pulled all the info together, did some cross-referencing. Found something interesting.”

  “Namely?”

  Banner sighed. “The Chinese guy from Chalvey, the one who was killed on the motorway? We traced him.”

  “Did you now?” Charlie’s attention was now fully focused on Banner. The Detective Sergeant was smartly dressed as usual, hair fashionably gelled and designer stubble well-tended. Charlie supposed that some women would find him good-looking, but she wasn’t one of them. “Tell me more.”

  Banner shot a glance at the papers, the unspoken implication being that she should read them herself rather than waste his time.

  Charlie kept eye contact until Banner spoke.

  “Huang Tian Hao.”

  “Go on.”

  Banner sighed again. “Born 1967, Wuhan. One brother. More of him in a minute. First caught trafficking 1989, a local affair. Sentenced but got off on some technicality. Reappeared on Interpol’s radar six years ago as a much bigger fish. Suspected of international trafficking with links to Bosnia but nothing proven.”

  Charlie gave a low whistle. “And he was the guy in the Chalvey house. DC Hill’s killer?”

  “Seems so,” Banner said.

  “And the brother?”

  “Huang Xian Kuai. Well unpleasant,” Banner said. “Interpol believe he was at the centre of an incident in Poland where ten people were murdered. Individually.” Banner chewed his bottom lip before continuing. “By having various body parts removed while they were still alive.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Some Polski drug baron got too big for his boots. Tried to double-cross Kuai, cut him out. Kuai rounded up the whole gang, sat them in a warehouse and made them watch each other’s executions.”

  Charlie shivered and folded her arms. “OK. So this is relevant because?”

  “That’s the worrying part.” Banner scratched his cheek. “Someone spotted Kuai recently.”

  Charlie frowned. “Where?”

  “Here. In Reading.”

  If Charlie had ever wondered what a man who had lost everything looked like, this particular prison visit answered the question succinctly. Ex-Chief Superintendent Alan Sheldrake gave the appearance of a man who had been to Hell and back, not just once, but a few times for good measure. His skin was stretched over his face like parchment and his regulation jacket and trousers hung on his body like a set of cast-offs stolen from some Oxford Road vagrant. He allowed himself to be led into the centre of the room and crumpled into the chair, head bowed. When he eventually looked up she saw that his eyes were sunken, empty mirrors with the flat impartial focus of a man who had lost all hope of redemption. She reminded herself that the man sitting before her had been responsible, albeit indirectly, for the deaths of three police officers.

  “You’ve been told why I wanted to speak to you?”

  A nod.

  “Good. It won’t help you in terms of your sentence, I want to make that clear before I begin. Is that understood?”

  Again the nod. The eyes stared into space, fixed on some point behind her.

  “Did you have any contact with the drug cartel besides the Ranandan brothers? I’m thinking of a specific name. Chinese.”

  The eyes swivelled, engaged her for the first time. There was something there now that reminded Charlie of Sheldrake’s past as a hard-nosed, ‘get the job done’ senior officer. “Why do you ask?” His voice was quiet, but steady.

  “Because I’ve received a report that a leading member of an international cartel has been seen locally. I want to know more. Why is he here? What does he want?”

  “Chinese?”

  “Yes. Name of– “

  “Huang Xian Kuai.”

  Charlie leaned back and smoothed her jacket in a reflexive motion. “Right. Can you describe him?”

  Sheldrake laughed, a cracked and humourless sound. “Looks like a Chinaman. Big, though. Tall, I mean, for a chink.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  There followed such a long silence that Charlie thought Sheldrake had declined to answer. As she opened her mouth to repeat the question, Sheldrake spoke.

  “What can I tell you about him?” Sheldrake made a non-committal face. “He’s one of the top men – if not the top man, now his brother’s dead. If he’s in the UK it’s for one of two reasons.” He paused and scratched his chin.

  “Go on,” Charlie prompted.

  “Either there’s a huge deal going down and he wants to be on hand to personally supervise the details, or he’s come over to settle a score.”

  “I see. I can’t imagine that any major drug crime operation would risk a big one in Reading, or anywhere near Reading for that matter. After recent events it’s too risky, surely?”

  Sheldrake leaned forward in a swift movement, catching Charlie unawares. Her chair scraped as she moved back instinctively. The warden took two paces towards them and stopped when he saw Charlie’s raised hand. “It’s OK.”

  “Surely. Too risky,” Sheldrake said. “I agree with you.” He leaned back and studied her expression. “And that being so, you have your answer.” Sheldrake stood up and nodded to the warden. “Goodbye, DI Pepper. And good luck. You’ll need it.”

  “Wait. I’m not finished.”

  “I am,” Sheldrake jabbed his finger into his stomach. “I have to catch up with my carpentry project. I’ve been neglecting it.”

  “Look, Sheldrake. It’s no skin off your nose. Why can’t you help me?” Charlie held herself in check for a moment but then thought, sod it. “You owe us some cooperation at least. After–”

  “After what? After you and Moran screwed things up for me? Wrecked my life?”

  “Your life?” Charlie felt herself losing it and swallowed hard. “What about Helen’s life, and Harding’s? What about Zoe?”

  “The tart?” Sheldrake smirked. “What’s one less tart in the world?”

  Charlie’s hands were trembling. She wouldn’t be goaded. “Tell me something about Huang. Anything.”

  Sheldrake stuck his chin out aggressively. “Anything? OK. If Huang Xian Kuai is here you’d better be on full alert, DI Pepper. I’ve seen his handiwork, and it’s not nice. If he’s here for you, you’ll know all about it.” Sheldrake’s lip curled in a sneer. “By god, you will.”

  “How does he operate? Where is he likely to be?”

  “That’s all you’re getting, Detective Inspector.” Sheldrake turned to the warden. “I want to leave. Right now.”

  Charlie signalled her assent. No point prolonging this; Sheldrake wasn’t going to open up. She was half-way out of the door when Sheldrake seemed to change his mind and called her back. She turned.

  “I never thought I’d say this, DI Pepper, but after what you’ve told me I’m grateful to be here. I wouldn’t swap places with you now. Not for any money.”

  Charlie watched him being led away. She left the room quickly. Her heart was beating like a snare drummer at a military tattoo and she had to lean against the corridor wall to regain her composure. The memory of the night she had been attacked in her flat came back to her vividly. She could see the shadow of the assassin, feel the splinters of glass beneath her feet. A trickle of sweat ran down her forehead as Sheldrake’s words echoed inside her skull.

  To settle a score…

  As Charlie drove back to the station she tried to reassure herself. Why should Kuai single her out? Sheldrake was just trying to rattle her. After all, it was the only weapon he had at his disposal. Don’t let it get to you, Charlie girl…

  She jumped as a car behind her beeped. The lights were green and she hadn’t even seen them change. Irritated, she ground the car into gear and pulled away. Report the situation to the Super and leave it to him, Charlie. Fretting about it won’t do any good…

  A few minutes later she turned in
to the station car park and found an empty space. She switched off the ignition and sat quietly. Her flat lease was due for renewal next week. Right now, another six months on her own didn’t seem like a great idea. Maybe a flat share would be better.

  Charlie checked herself in the mirror. Her mascara was intact but her eyes looked tired. Hardly surprising, given the current workload – and now, guess what? The case that wouldn’t go away was back in her lap. The repercussions from the Ranandan episode were, like the ripples from a heavy stone lobbed into a pond, still spreading far and wide. The death of a police officer always made a splash, but four – five if you counted Mike Airey – had resulted in a national outcry and howling demands from the press and the House of Commons for Sara Stevenson’s resignation; by all accounts the Chief Constable was hanging onto her job by the skin of her teeth. Everything about the case had been subjected to the most intense scrutiny, which in turn meant that further developments would also be examined ‘with the fine toothcomb of thorough investigative procedure, at the highest possible level’, as DCS Higginson, Mike Airey’s replacement, had taken pains to point out.

  Which was why Charlie needed to speak to Higginson ASAP.

  As she waited for the lift she wondered how Moran’s holiday was going. It sounded as if the guv had got himself well and truly roped into this misper case. Typical of him, she thought with a wry smile. Charlie entered the lift and nodded a greeting to Sergeant Robinson who was on his way out with a bundle of leaflets.

  “Morning, Charlie. Still covering for Brendan?”

  “Don’t I just know it.” She tried for cheerful and failed.

  Robinson, one of the station’s old lags, picked up on her mood immediately. “Chin up,” he said. “BM can’t keep away from this place for long,” Robinson told her with a knowing look. “He’ll be back soon enough, don’t you worry.”

  “I’m counting the days, Sergeant.” Charlie forced a laugh. “One at a time.”