Chapter 24
“I could be shacked up with that Scottish barmaid, but no, I’m here, staring out of the fucking windows.”
Paul could hear Terry’s mutterings as he crossed from room to room, and he couldn’t blame him. He never imagined surveillance could be so dull, so mind-numbing. At least it wouldn’t last forever. If no one showed by eleven on Thursday morning, chances were they weren’t coming. It was just after one on Tuesday morning, so they had a maximum of fifty-eight hours to sit it out. Even if he managed to sleep three times before the deadline, he could still be staring out into the fields for another day and a half.
It was a depressing thought, and Paul tried to cast it from his mind. He took one last look out the window, then grabbed a plastic bag and went into the toilet. He’d been snacking all day to relive the boredom and had already gone through half of his supplies. It was time to make room for more, but the idea of shitting into a bag had seemed a lot easier than it actually turned out to be. After a couple of aborted attempts, Paul finally did his business, then double-tied the bag and left it in the bathroom. He vowed to leave the next dump until daylight, as the green-tinted night vision goggles didn’t help.
Back in the front bedroom, Paul put his head next to the window frame and scanned the horizon. He saw occasional pearls of light as vehicles passed the farm, but none stopped. Out in the open land, nothing moved.
“I’m gonna get some kip,” Terry said as he dropped onto the camp bed.
“Okay. I’ll wake you when I get tired.”
Paul now had three rooms to cover, but at least it would keep him occupied. He put on Terry’s goggles to change the batteries in his own unit, then went on his rounds.
Within five minutes Paul heard Terry snoring, a sound that was likely to drive him mad before too long. He put his jacket over his head and turned on his iPod Touch, selected an album, then put the unit in his pocket so that the light wasn’t visible.
He continued his rounds, going from room to room, only stopping for the occasional drink of water. Two hours passed, during which time the only movement he saw in the field was a fox looking for something to eat.
He was back in the front room looking out over the road when he struck gold. A car drove along the main road and stopped two hundred yards from the lane that led to the farmhouse. It was difficult to see anything beyond the glare of the headlights, but when the car pulled away moments later, Paul saw a figure jump over the stone wall and into the field.
“Get up!” he growled, kicking the camp bed.
“What?! What is it?”
“We’ve got company.”
Terry threw on his goggles and Paul showed him where to look.
“Bastard!”
“Tell me about it.”
The figure looked like a man to Paul, but it was hard to be a hundred per cent sure at this range. They watched him carry a large bag to the base of the hill, then stop and study the landscape through binoculars.
“Back up!” Paul said, pushing Terry away from the window. He had to be using light-enhancing equipment, and there was a chance he might see them.
Paul manoeuvred himself so that he was kneeling down at ledge height, far enough away from the window as to make himself invisible, but close enough to see what was going on. The man had put down his bag and was now digging behind a small bush. Paul saw him carefully lift off the top layer of grass and put it aside, then spend the next half-hour excavating a hole. He carefully placed the soil on top of some kind of a sheet, and every five minutes the man would stop digging and take the soil back down to the road and spread it out at the base of the wall.
“This guy knows what he’s doing,” Paul said. “I don’t think he’s just a copper.”
They watched for another two hours as the man worked ceaselessly on his hiding place. He took a folding board of some kind and placed it over the hole he’d created, then covered it with the grass he’d laid aside earlier. Once he crawled into the hole, it was impossible to tell that it was there.
“He’s definitely not just poaching,” Terry said. “What now?”
“We stay here,” Paul told him. “When it’s light I’ll get Phil to tell Ryan that the deal has been switched to another location. I’ll say the buyers were nervous and wanted to do it on their own turf, or something like that. Then we wait for this guy to disappear, and we go pay Ryan a visit.”
* * *
“It’s off,” Ryan said as soon as the call connected. He was jogging through Priory Gardens, a small woodland near his flat. The vehicle pollution coming from the adjacent M60 meant it wasn’t the ideal place for a run, but the few people about made a good spot to report in. “Phil told me the buyers weren’t happy with Marsh choosing the location. It’s all stalled until they can come up with an arrangement that suits both sides.”
“Damn!” Brigshaw exclaimed. “I was worried something like this might happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they suspected you, they would feed you false information and see if you act on it. I said from the start I didn’t like this.”
“I think you’re reading too much into it,” Ryan said. “These things happen.”
“In my experience, they happen for all the wrong reasons. I’m pulling you out.”
“Whoa! Don’t be too hasty. We’ve put months into this. Let’s just see what they do.”
“What they may do is kill you.”
Ryan had never considered that. Being so clean, there was nothing in his background that would make them suspect him, so he’d never contemplated them turning on him. If Brigshaw was right, then he was in a lot of trouble. Then again, people were wrong all the time, no matter how long they’d been doing the job.
“Then put a team on me for the next couple of weeks. I’ve got the tracker and the panic button, and we can arrange for me to pick up a few more shirts and some decent shoes so that I’m wearing one at all times.”
There was silence while Brigshaw considered his request.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll get a mobile unit to follow you around. They’ll be a mile away at the most. But you be careful. You see the slightest change in their behaviour, I want you to run, you understand?”
“Got it,” Ryan said, “but I still think you’re calling it wrong. When I saw Phil this morning, he seemed fine.”
“For your sake, I hope I am. Just keep your eyes peeled. I’ll tell Marcus to meet you at the usual place at eight.”
The call ended. Ryan completed his run, then went back to his flat to shower. Afterwards, he wore the polo shirt and trainers that Marcus Hayes had given him the day before, then turned on the television. Phil had told him he wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the day and he didn’t feel like socialising.
At four o’clock, he put a Thai red curry in the microwave and opened a beer while it cooked. He was looking through the TV menu when his phone beeped to announce an incoming message.
Men’s clothing sale. 50% off all items.
It had a link to a website, but Ryan didn’t need to check it. It was a coded message telling him to call in as soon as possible.
Ryan picked up his Walkman and hit the combination of buttons as he left his flat. He never called from inside, just in case Marsh had installed listening devices while he was out. In the street, he put the earphones in and started walking.
“It’s confirmed,” Brigshaw said without preamble. “Your cover’s blown.”
“Wait. How can you be sure?”
“Before I pulled our guy off the farm I had someone else set up a mile away with a zoom lens. Ten minutes after we pulled the first man out, he saw two people leave the farmhouse and get in a car. It was Paul Gardner and Terry Stoppard. They were picked up in Gardner’s BMW by Phil Walker. Clearly, they were there to see if our guy showed up.”
Ryan couldn’t believe it. After all this time, after all the tests he’d passed, they were still suspicious. Not only that, he’d fallen into their trap.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan said. “I should have listened to you.”
“It was my call to make,” Brigshaw replied. “I’m sending the mobile unit in to pick you up now. Just wait where you are.”
Ryan hit the button twice to close the call and turned to face the apartment he’d have to abandon.
What he saw made the blood freeze in his veins.
Chapter 25
Kelly was wearing just a T-shirt and jeans, but she looked stunning. Scott held the door open for her and closed it once she was inside his apartment.
“Something smells good.” She kissed him tenderly, then walked through to the kitchen, where she put her handbag over the back of a chair and poured red wine into two glasses.
“It’s pork tenderloin,” Scott said, taking one of the drinks from her.
“Hmmm. Good choice of wine.”
Kelly took a seat at the dining table and Scott joined her.
“I heard from the office this afternoon.”
Scott tried to read her face, to detect whether it was good or bad news, but she’d have made a brilliant poker player.
“And…?”
Her face lit up. “They want me to go to Australia!”
“That’s fantastic! When will you be going?”
“Next week. I have to go back to London tomorrow and spend a few days at the office, then I fly out next Thursday.” She held up her drink. “Melbourne, here I come.”
Scott clinked his glass against hers. He couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.
“They’re paying for the flight, obviously, and I get a hotel for the first three weeks while I sort out my own accommodation. They’re giving me five hundred a month toward rent, and throwing in a company car.”
“Sounds great,” Scott said. “Do you know anything about the project you’ll be working on?”
“Not yet. I guess it’ll be similar to the one I just completed, but it’s a different culture, so the message will have to be tailored to suit the market.”
She seemed genuinely excited, and Scott couldn’t blame her. Most people would be delighted at the chance to spend a year in the sun doing what they loved. He was pleased, too, for his own reasons. He could see her every day, not just two nights a week.
If she still felt that way.
“Are you still happy for me to join you once you’re settled?” he asked.
“Of course! That’s why I was hoping for this posting.”
Scott almost skipped back to the stove to take his asparagus off the heat and plate up.
The meal was good, one of the best he’d made, and afterwards they opened a second bottle of wine and trawled the internet for places to stay in Melbourne and the tourist sites they would visit together.
Scott’s mood dipped slightly when they discussed life on the coast; he wasn’t sure how he’d feel in beachwear. The scars from his numerous operations would be with him forever, a constant reminder of a life he’d rather forget. That grim thought led to others, the most crucial being: could he ever tell Kelly the truth? If he did, how would she react? Could she handle knowing that the man she’d fallen for was a fabrication? If he was going to reveal his secret, it would have to be sooner rather than later. Better to lose her now, while there were few memories to haunt him, than ten years down the line.
But Scott couldn’t do it. If he did, it would mean becoming the man he was before, and that wasn’t the life he wanted to live. He was now Scott Davison, and would be forever more.
“What are you thinking about?” Kelly asked.
“Nothing.”
“Really? You look serious.”
Scott smiled. “Just wondering how the good folk down under will react when they see my pasty-white body the first time we hit the beach.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Within a couple of days, you’ll look like one of the locals. Your only concern is keeping me happy…and satisfied.”
“That,” Scott said, running his hand up her thigh, “will be my pleasure.”
Chapter 26
John Latimer pulled in behind the marked police car and turned off the engine. The hedges on either side of the narrow country lane stood six feet tall, giving the place a claustrophobic feel. He and DS Paul Benson got out as a uniformed officer approached their vehicle and Latimer flashed his ID.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Through the gate and you’ll see a small copse to your right. SOCO is already there.”
The two detectives walked into the field and immediately spotted activity near a small cluster of trees. Benson made a beeline for them, but Latimer stopped him.
“Notice anything?” the DI asked.
Benson looked around. “No.”
“Exactly. I bet you a tenner that the body was driven right up to the trees and then dumped in the grave.”
“That would make sense. Easier than carrying it all the way from the road. Or, the victim could have walked to the trees and been killed there.”
“I doubt it. The tip-off we got. It’s similar to the one Hampshire received when Sean Conte was discovered.” Again, it had been an anonymous email with detailed instructions on how to find the body.
“You think it’s the same person?”
If it was, they had a serial killer on their hands. Once the press got hold of it, the pressure to find the culprit would intensify. It would also mean that James Knight was innocent. There’s no way he could have committed a murder while on remand in Brixton.
“No one drove across this field in the last few weeks, you can tell. Which means they would have driven around the perimeter of the field. So where are the tyre tracks?”
Benson looked around. “None, just like last time.”
“Come on.” Latimer led him through the overgrown grass to the trees, where white-suited scene-of-crime officers were painstakingly gathering evidence. He showed his ID once more, asked for the officer in charge, and was directed to someone named Carrick.
“What have we got?” Latimer asked her. She looked to be in her forties, with mousey hair tied up under her white plastic hood.
“The jackpot, by the looks of it. IC1 male, laceration to the neck. We’ve got the murder weapon, prints and hair follicles. If the killer’s in the system, you’ll have this wrapped up by the end of the week.”
Latimer wasn’t so certain. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Sure, but you know the drill. We’ve isolated a couple of footprints, so steer clear of them.”
She handed the detectives rubber gloves and plastic coverings for their footwear, then went back to cataloguing the find.
As they approached the body, the smell got worse. The stench of decay. Latimer put a handkerchief to his mouth and nose and stood over the body as it lay in a two-foot-deep hole. The scene was all too familiar. The hands of the corpse had already been bagged to preserve any evidence, and the gash in the throat was filled with congealed blood. Latimer could see bloody prints on the dead man’s bare forearms.
“Any ID on him?” Latimer asked Carrick.
“A wallet with driver’s licence, debit card and a couple of credit cards. His name’s Robert Waterstone, lives in Ealing.”
Latimer copied down the details from her clipboard. “How long do you think he’s been there?”
“Hard to be precise,” Carrick told him. “Two weeks, give or take. It’s been a hot old summer, which tends to accelerate the decomposition process.”
Latimer made a mental note the see if there had been any missing person’s reports for the victim. If he had family, they could help to determine his last known movements. “How long before we have DNA and prints ready for comparison?”
“Some time tomorrow. If you leave me a number, I’ll get back to you as soon as we have something.”
Latimer gave her his card, then he and Benson walked back to the car.
“Still think it’s the same person?” the DS asked.
“I’m sure of it. They left a treasure trove
of evidence, but obscured the tyre tracks. That, and the emailed tip-off, tells me it’s the same guy.”
“Which is good news for James Knight,” Benson said.
“Only if we catch the killer. All we have at the moment are similarities, and all the evidence in the Conte murder still points to James.” Latimer slipped off his gloves and put them in his pocket. “Let’s go find out all we can about Robert Waterstone.”
* * *
Determining Waterstone’s last movements proved more difficult than Latimer had hoped. He was single and lived alone, so there was no one to report him missing. Being a self-employed builder, there were no work colleagues to worry about his absence, either. House-to-house enquiries had turned up very little, but one neighbour noticed that he went out almost every night. Based on the victim’s physique, the officer predicted it was to the pub. His guess was spot on. The landlord of a bar in the area identified Waterstone as a member of his darts team, and confirmed that he’d last been in a couple of weeks earlier, on a Saturday. He hadn’t been that good a player, so when he didn’t show for the last two matches, they weren’t concerned. No one in the pub knew of anyone who would want to hurt Waterstone, and he’d never caused any trouble there.
Unfortunately, there was no CCTV to go through. None of the cameras covering the area stored their recordings for more than ten days. Not that it would have been much help. Regulars at the pub said Waterstone was known to head to a kebab shop on the way home, and the uniformed officer who’d tracked him to the pub also spoke to the takeaway owner. He confirmed that Waterstone had purchased his regular meal two weeks earlier, but hadn’t been seen since. That shop was on the edge of the CCTV coverage area. There were no more cameras between the takeaway and Waterstone’s house, so unless he was abducted immediately after buying supper, it would have been useless anyway. All Latimer could do was wait for the forensic evidence to be processed and see if they could find a match.
Motive Page 21
