by Scott Hunter
Terl’s eyes closed.
Moran picked up Terl’s knife. The woods were deathly quiet, as if even the fauna had been shocked into silence by what had just taken place.
Grim-faced, Moran straightened up, tucked the knife into his belt, and retrieving his spear en route, began to walk briskly in the direction of the bog.
Chapter 34
“Good to have you back, boss,” Bola Odunsi grinned, showing the gap in his front teeth to good effect.
“Thanks, Bola.” Charlie Pepper felt rough after another sleepless night in custody, but her elation at being released was carrying her through the fatigue very nicely so far. Her brief audience with DCS Higginson had also gone a long way towards making up for the treatment she had received at the hands of DCI Wilder and her snakelike number two, Maggs. Higginson had been straight and profusely apologetic that he had allowed himself to be distracted by what he referred to as ‘politically sensitive’ issues, and that his short-sightedness in failing to thoroughly vet the investigating DCI had led to her being held in custody on the strength of ‘very questionable’ circumstantial evidence. In the meantime he was spending ‘some time’ with DCI Wilder to ‘establish the facts’.
“You’ve all done a fantastic job,” Charlie told the team. She looked at each officer in turn. Toby was giving Bola the evil eye and DC McConnell looked like death warmed up. Clearly, something was not as it should be, but for now she needed to get them focused on the task in hand, which was to nail this biker before she did any further mischief, and according to what Tess had been able to report, that mischief was likely to be directed at DCI Brendan Moran.
“So she has a head start, right? We have to assume she’s heading west to – what was the name of the place where the guv’s staying?”
“Cernham.”
“Yes, Cernham. Thank you, Toby. So, we’ve contacted traffic, alerted Devon and Cornwall. Any joy?”
“No sign yet,” George offered. “If she’s using the motorway she’s not riding. Maybe she’s taken four wheels this time?”
Charlie pursed her lips. “Maybe. But this kid has style. I can’t see her changing two wheels for four, somehow.”
“B roads?” Bola suggested. “Scenic route?”
“Again, a possibility,” Charlie agreed. “But whatever – they’re going to be hard pushed to stop every bike heading for the West Country. Any success contacting the guv?”
A general shaking of heads.
“It’s in the middle of nowhere, boss. No signal. Pub doesn’t answer the phone. What can we do?” Bola shrugged.
“What we can do,” Charlie said, “is get our arses down there.”
She turned the key in the ignition and a face appeared at the car window. Denis Robinson, the Duty Sergeant.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am.”
“No probs, Denis. What’s up?”
“Just had a misper reported.” Robinson retrieved a notebook and moistened his finger. Stressed and fired up as she was, Charlie nevertheless felt a smile creep across her face. Denis Robinson was a legend in the station. Old school through and through, he was an absolute stickler for order and detail.
“Go on.”
“Thing is, it was the misper’s previous address I thought you’d be interested in.”
“OK. So let’s have it.”
Robinson read out the address and Charlie’s smile faded. Banner’s house. No, her house. In that moment Charlie realised that she was effectively homeless. No way was she going back there. Ever. “Who is it, Denis?”
Robinson squinted through his specs as he found the detail. “Now it’s a foreign name. Can’t say as I’ll make a great job of the pronunciation.”
Charlie knew what was coming. G.
“Ah, here we are. Miss Gosia Marenkovich.”
“Right. Thanks, Denis. Is the reportee still here?”
“She is indeed,” Robinson said. “I thought you might like a word. Polish. Name’s … hang on… ah yes, Lydia Domasovec.”
She turned to Bola in the passenger seat. “Hang on for me, guys. I need to follow this up.”
Charlie followed Robinson to reception. A petite girl with a fragile, tear-stained face was sitting in Denis’ side room nursing a cup of tea.
“Miss Domasovec, this is DI Charlie Pepper,” Robinson told her. “She wants to have a little chat, all right?”
The girl looked up and gave Denis a wan smile. “Yes.”
Charlie introduced herself and began with some simple questions to establish her relationship with G. They were friends. Both had moved to the UK at the same time. After what had happened at Banner’s house Lydia had invited G to stay as long as she wanted.
“So, what happened?” Charlie asked her gently. “She just didn’t come back?”
Lydia shook her head. “A man came, a Polish man. He is very angry. He wants G to go with him. She must get her passport, pack her things. She would not do this. He says she must. G says no again. I close the door. The man goes away, but later I see him in the car in the street. He has taken G, I know it.”
“Can you describe him?”
As Charlie listened suspicion became certainty. “Does he have a mole here?” Charlie indicated her right cheekbone. “He’s very good-looking, yes?”
Lydia Domasovec nodded and began to cry.
Charlie felt her heart sink. Tess had told them that one of her abductors was a young male. She hadn’t actually seen him, but had been adamant that the accent was European.
Polish, to be precise.
Lydia had just described Andreas.
“Come.”
Charlie entered DCS Higginson’s model office. Everything was the same: neat, ordered. The bone-handled letter-opener was in its place. All was right with the world. Except for the fact that DCI Wilder was sitting in the visitors’ chair.
“Ah, DI Pepper. None the worse for your time in custody, I trust? DCI Wilder here was just explaining the background to her decision. So, you have an urgent message for me, I understand?”
“Sir.” Charlie was seething, avoiding eye contact with Wilder. She had obviously succeeded in talking Higginson round, or at least was well on her way to it.
“Well?” Higginson made an open-handed gesture.
Charlie glanced at Wilder who was inspecting her fastidiously varnished nails. She seemed comfortable and at ease. Her hair was tied up in a school-matronly bun and her legs were neatly crossed at the ankles; altogether the epitome of calm, ladylike professionalism. Charlie wanted to hit her.
“It’s all right, DI Pepper. DCI Wilder won’t betray any confidences.”
Oh, really?
“Very well, sir. If I may speak my mind?” Charlie had intended to save this for later but the circumstances seemed to demand she show her hand before Wilder could add any more spin to her story.
“Of course.”
“If I may first of all point out some key deficiencies in DCI Wilder’s investigative methodology?”
Higginson frowned. “Well, I–”
But Charlie had everything primed and ready; the words came like balls of steel fired from a spring-loaded catapult. “First, sir, I must point out that DCI Wilder failed to follow up a key witness statement that a motorbike was seen behaving in a suspicious manner within the calculated timeframe of the late DS Banner’s murder. Furthermore, crime scene forensics has proved that a motorcycle helmet caused the abrasive marks on the wall immediately above DS Banner’s bed. My team followed these leads and successfully identified the helmet owner, which in turn led to the discovery of the whereabouts of acting DI Tessa Martin. Thanks to their actions, acting DI Tess Martin is now in a stable condition in hospital. I find it incomprehensible, sir, that DCI Wilder and her colleague DS Maggs failed to follow this clear forensic evidence, instead choosing to hold me responsible for the murder on the grounds of purely circumstantial – and I believe planted – evidence.”
“Planted? How exactly? Your prints were on the garrotte, DI Peppe
r. An incontrovertible fact that has yet to be explained.” Wilder’s tone was calm and controlled.
“Well, ma’am, I’ll explain it for you,” Charlie said. She could feel the heat on her face and her heart pumping. She retrieved a small bottle from her pocket. “This was found in the bedroom of the Orts Road house. It’s Rohypnol.”
Wilder was unfazed. “So?”
“The glass by my bed was noted as being empty by your sergeant, but I know that when I went to sleep it was full. Maggs poured it down the sink, didn’t he?”
“I’m sorry?” Wilder was all ‘what is this woman talking about?’
“But what Maggs didn’t know,” Charlie continued, “was that Dom Jensen arranged for the droplets of water on the bedside table to be analysed – the table was highly polished so the water droplets weren’t absorbed by the wood. Dom’s very thorough. And guess what? The water contained traces of Rohypnol – I can confirm this, sir.”
DCS Higginson raised his eyebrows and glanced at Wilder.
“They also analysed the plastic wallet,” Charlie continued. “My prints are there, but only four clear prints across one surface.”
“I really don’t see what you’re getting at,” Wilder said, attempting a complicit smile with Higginson.
“No thumb print,” Charlie said. “You try picking up a plastic wallet without using your thumbs. You just wouldn’t.”
Higginson was leaning forward now. “So, let me get this right, DI Pepper. You’re saying, and correct me if I’m wrong, that someone drugged you and took prints from you while you were in a narcotically-induced sleep?”
“That’s right, sir. But the prints were too perfect. A neat row and no thumbs.” Charlie shuddered as she thought of the assassin bending over her, taking her hand…
Higginson leaned back and folded his arms. “How extraordinary. Were you aware that DS Maggs had thrown the contents of the glass away, DCI Wilder?”
For the first time Wilder’s composure wobbled. “I didn’t appreciate that, I mean, I hadn’t anticipated any need to–”
Trump card time, Charlie…
But still she hesitated. There was no going back once she’d made the accusation. That would be it. If she was wrong, it was a potentially career-ending move.
Sod it.
“And one other thing I feel I ought to mention, sir, is that DCI Wilder is closely related to ex-DCS Alan Sheldrake, your predecessor.”
The implication was not lost on Higginson. His face darkened.
Charlie pressed on before Wilder could interrupt. She felt like a runaway train now; it was all or nothing. She prayed that the hunch she’d had while waiting for the lift was correct. “And I’ve just interviewed a young lady about a missing person, sir. One Gosia Marenkovich, a lodger in Banner’s house. The young lady is certain that Gosia has been abducted by a Polish man, the same man whose voice acting DS Tess Martin heard in the Orts Road house. Passports were mentioned, sir. I believe that Ms Marenkovich has been abducted by Andreas Pashkov and that they are attempting to leave the country. You see, sir, I believe that both Pashkov and DCI Wilder are involved in a conspiracy to murder DS Banner and frame me for the crime; Ms Marenkovich, as a potential witness, may be a threat to the security of their operation. I also believe that their motive is revenge for the conviction of DCI Wilder’s brother, ex-DCS Alan Sheldrake, and that they are both closely associated with Huang Xian Kuai’s drug operation. The Chinese girl is a trained assassin in Huang’s team and her next target is DCI Brendan Moran. With me in prison DCI Moran’s death would complete the act of revenge for our role in breaking the Huang-financed Ranandan drug operation last summer. Sir.” Charlie finished, cleared her throat and waited for the explosion of denial.
But Wilder’s reaction confounded Charlie’s expectations. The DCI had sat as still as a petrified rock while Charlie had been speaking. Now her hands flew to her mouth and her normally measured voice cracked in a sob of despair. “No. You’re lying! He wouldn’t leave me, he wouldn’t just abandon me!”
Charlie felt the tension drain from her body and for a split second she thought she might burst into tears. Higginson’s attention, however, was all on DCI Wilder and his expression of horror and disbelief was one which Charlie would remember for the rest of her career.
Chapter 35
The strident, quavering chirp of a redpoll startled Moran as he headed for the divided path Terl had described. The little bird was perched on a branch fifteen feet or so above him. An alarm call – but was he the cause of the redpoll’s agitation, or had the bird seen something else? Moran stood still and listened. There was another sound, lower, repetitive.
The sound of someone moaning in pain.
Celine…
He hurried on, abandoning the path but keeping it in sight until a wooded archway, a meeting of two bowed birches, came into view. As Terl had told him, it framed a choice: left was the bog, right was – unknown. But the noise, he was sure, came unmistakeably from the left.
Moran’s instincts urged him to rush to Celine’s aid, but two words prevented him from doing so: decoy and trap. Rufus wouldn’t be far away and it looked as if Terl had been wrong about Rufus’ ignorance of the mire. Moran wasn’t surprised. He remembered Rufus’ words:
This is my land…
Moran went right, skirting the fork in a wide circular approach which he hoped would take him between and behind the point at which the paths split and where he might get a better view. He made himself slow down, all too aware that he was competing with a lifetime’s expertise, and he could only pray that Rufus hadn’t had time to pinpoint his position. If he had the game was already over.
Presently he noticed that the ground was beginning to soften and he had to tread with care. The wood was thinning, giving rise to lower, marshy areas which sucked at his feet and reminded him again of Terl’s warning. It was time to turn inside the base of his imaginary inverted triangle and backtrack towards the fork from this new direction. But the landscape had changed subtly, the gnarled and stunted trees providing scant cover but hindering the speed of his progress. His ears picked up the sound of a woman’s sob. He froze. Had he imagined it? No, there it was again: a soft, despairing sigh. He’d reached the bait.
Steady, Brendan… Don’t lose it now…
He caught a slight movement ahead and to the left. A trick of the light? He fixed his eyes on the spot. No, there it was again…
Moran’s heart thumped hard in his chest.
Got you…
Rufus was standing between two alders from where Moran guessed he had a clear view of the path and, most probably, Celine. The location was well chosen and it was only the merest luck that Moran had spotted him
He took a deep breath. One chance, no more. He couldn’t close with Rufus – the man was too quick. If he exposed his position Rufus would track him and make good use of the longbow. Moran lifted his spear and hefted it. Although his athletic youth was a distant memory the javelin had been his forte. Could he trust his aim thirty-five years on? He stole another glance. Rufus was a shadow in the stillness. Moran focused in on the shape of his antagonist’s body. The cloak fell to Rufus’ knees but the stance the hunter had adopted meant that his left thigh was exposed. Moran knew he had to land a crippling blow. Nothing less would do.
But there was another problem. This would be a throw from a standstill, not at a run as he had been used to. The distance itself wasn’t a problem. Moran estimated he was around twenty-five metres from his target, a comfortable range.
Yes, for a seventeen year old, maybe…
The other question was: would the spear fly accurately? It had the weight, but would it fly true? There was no way to be sure, no official rating – it was just a cut of wood. It looked to be straight enough, but Moran knew that three attributes made a successful throw: balance, weight and skill. Plus there was always the possibility that Rufus would move. Moran felt the sweat cold on his forehead as he steadied his aim, felt the solidity of the wood,
drew back his arm. At that moment Rufus turned and looked straight at him. The eyes blazed. Moran released the spear with a cry, putting all his effort and half-remembered expertise into the throw.
Time stood still. If Rufus had seen it coming he was either rooted to the spot in surprise or confident of a miss. Still the spear flew, spinning as it drew closer to its target. Moran’s heart lurched as it dipped and, as if flicked by an imaginary hand, drifted to the right to find ground in the damp earth by Rufus’ feet.
That’s it. You lost.
Moran found himself walking towards the motionless Rufus. The sensible thing to do would be to turn and flee – even though he knew Rufus would catch him in minutes, if not seconds.
So when did you ever do the sensible thing, Brendan?
There was still the fragile hope of negotiation, or at least the chance to buy a little time…
“Fornicator.” Rufus towered over him. Before Moran could get a word out gloved hands encircled his throat and he felt himself lifted off the ground. Stars danced a spangled polka and his vision blurred. He felt his legs kicking in a helpless vacuum. A long way off, someone screamed.
And screamed again.
In a way he couldn’t articulate, this second scream seemed different. Moran felt the grip on his throat loosen and he hit the ground like a sack of sand, writhing and fighting for air. When he was able to draw a single, shuddering breath his vision cleared and he understood why he was still alive; Celine was on her haunches beside him, wild-eyed, panting, both hands wrapped firmly around the javelin’s shaft, the business end of which was buried in Rufus’ thigh. Celine yelled another sob of scarcely-believed triumph and threw her weight behind the ash pole. Rufus’ agonized shriek shocked Moran into action and he scrambled to his feet retching and gasping as Rufus made a scrabble for the longbow which had fallen from the folds of his cloak. Moran kicked it away and Rufus fell back, hands clawing at his wounded leg.
