Conspiracy

by Adrian Wills

  ‘Kyle, if you’re listening, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you’re in some kind of trouble, call me and we can sort it out. I need you back. We all do. Please, if you hear this message, just get in touch.’

  A dozen hands shot up. ‘Was there any history of depression,’ asked an unshaven man on the front row. He was so close Claire could see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the wrinkles in his crumpled shirt.

  ‘No,’ she said, before the detective could answer. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but Kyle would never take his own life.’

  ‘Are you treating this as a murder investigation?’

  Claire caught her breath and let her eyes fall.

  ‘No,’ said the detective. ‘This remains a missing persons enquiry. Next question.’

  ‘Have you been able to establish what motivated Kyle to drive onto the moor?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the detective, ‘but it’s a significant line of enquiry. We know he’s familiar with the area, but it’s not clear what he was doing there that evening.’

  ‘Is there any indication Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance might be terrorist related?’ asked a well-dressed reporter in a suit and tie, peering over his wire-rimmed glasses.

  Terrorism? What the hell? Claire couldn’t stop herself shooting an anxious look at Fletcher, and immediately regretted letting her mask slip. The fear must have been written all over her face.

  ‘There’s absolutely no evidence that Kyle’s disappearance has anything to do with terrorism,’ said the detective, ‘and I think it would be unhelpful at this stage to speculate further in that respect.’

  How could Kyle’s disappearance have anything to do with terrorists? This wasn’t London, or Manchester. This was sleepy Devon.

  ‘But you must be taking that possibility seriously?’ said a different reporter. ‘ISIS have made no secret of their desire to capture a soldier in Britain.’

  ISIS? What the hell?

  ‘It’s one line of enquiry, but as I said, there is no evidence to suggest terrorism is a factor here,’ said the detective.

  Claire’s cheeks burned. She thought about those awful images she’d seen on the news of captured soldiers and airmen and journalists and contractors in Iraq brutally murdered in front of the cameras by men with their faces hidden behind black scarves. Bile rose from her stomach and burned her throat. Her head swam and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

  ‘Are you liaising with any other forces?’

  ‘As far as we are concerned, this is a local matter,’ said the detective.

  ‘Is there any additional assistance being offered from the Home Office?’

  ‘No.’

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. Claire had to get out, away from all those faces staring at her. She’d said her piece. She’d given them what they wanted. She stood, suddenly, scraping back her chair. It tipped and fell.

  Ryan jumped to his feet. ‘Hey, you okay?’ he asked, placing an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I need some air,’ said Claire, shrugging off his arm and hurrying for the door.

  The detective rapidly wrapped up the press conference and thanked the reporters for attending as Claire stumbled out of the room and into a deserted corridor. A cool breeze hit her face and she gasped for breath.

  ‘Well done, Claire,’ said Ryan, spilling out of the room behind her. ‘You did really well.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Thirty minutes later, Blake and Parkes squeezed into the incident room on the first floor. It was filled with an excited energy. Detectives crowded into every corner and perched on the edge of desks piled high with paper files and cluttered with computer screens and keyboards. DI Hubbard stood at the front. He’d removed his jacket. His shirt was crumpled and his tie loose around his neck.

  ‘Right, people,’ he said, clapping his hands to silence the room. ‘Thoughts on Claire Hopkins’ performance?’

  ‘Cool and calculated,’ said a stony-faced male detective to Hubbard’s right.

  ‘Yes. Anyone else?’

  ‘Controlled, like she was hiding something,’ said a female voice.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Arrogant,’ called out someone near the back of the room.

  ‘She said she missed Kyle, but not that she loved him,’ said a female detective in a black figure-hugging trouser suit. ‘That was odd.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that,’ said Hubbard. ‘Not exactly the doting wife. And what did she mean when she said he had his faults?’

  ‘Maybe he was having an affair,’ someone shouted out. ‘Or he was abusing her.’

  ‘I think she was scared,’ the woman in the trouser suit said. ‘I saw fear in her eyes.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Hubbard. ‘I think it’s fair to say none of us were convinced by Claire Hopkins today. So let’s get round-the-clock eyes on her. I want all her calls monitored and someone at the house twenty-four-seven. And if so much as a penny moves in or out or their bank accounts, I want to know about it. Presumably we have a flag on his cards, Simms?’

  ‘Yes, Guv,’ said a balding guy with glasses.

  ‘Have we spoken to their friends and family yet?’

  ‘Ollie and Steve are on their way up to the Wirral to talk to the families,’ said another detective standing close to Blake.

  ‘Friends?’

  The woman in the trouser suit flicked through a notebook. ‘We’ve spoken to the neighbours and some of the mums at their kids’ school, but they all say Claire kept herself to herself. Same with Kyle. We’ve trawled the pubs in the area where he’s known to have frequented, but nobody claims to know much about him either, other than what we already know.’

  ‘What about his colleagues at the training school?’

  ‘We’ve spoken to all the instructors, but they’re all at a loss to explain his disappearance.’ The woman flipped her notebook closed.

  ‘Right, keep digging. I want to know everything about Claire and Kyle Hopkins. Stay focused and keep an open mind. We don’t know if Kyle is alive or dead, only that he’s still missing, and Claire Hopkins isn’t telling us the whole truth. We know they had substantial debts, so that remains our primary line of inquiry.’

  ‘Do you want us to continue searching the moor?’ a guy at the front asked.

  ‘Absolutely. The press are all over the story now. Whatever we think might have happened to Kyle, we have to be seen to be looking for him.’

  ‘What about the possibility Kyle Hopkins may have been the victim of a terrorist abduction?’ said Blake, stepping forward. ‘Have you dismissed that theory?’

  Several heads turned to identify the unfamiliar voice. Hubbard’s face darkened and his eyes narrowed. He stared at Blake a fraction too long for comfort, then smiled. ‘For those of you not aware, we have a guest from MI5 here in an observatory role. Mr Blake is investigating the unlikely possibility that Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance could be related to terrorism and a possible abduction by a British-based Jihadi cell,’ Hubbard said, beaming broadly as if he was entertaining the musings of a six-year-old.

  A titter of laughter percolated through the room.

  ‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ said Blake, clenching his teeth to control his rising ire. He still thought terrorism was unlikely given the evidence, but it would be foolhardy to dismiss the possibility until they had cold, hard proof. ‘It’s no secret that active cells operating in this country and abroad are talking about capturing a British soldier. If they were to succeed, the consequences would be unthinkable. I sincerely hope that’s not what we’re dealing with here, but we have to take that threat seriously or else. . .’

  ‘Or else?’ Hubbard raised an eyebrow.

  Blake kept his eyes on Hubbard as he made his way to the front. The crowd parted to let him through. ‘For the time being,’ he said, turning to address the room, ‘MI5 remains confident your force has a handle on this case. But should I deem it necessary to bring in back-up, it will be done swiftly and witho
ut question. Don’t make me make that call.’

  ‘And my officers will lend you every assistance in your enquiries,’ said Hubbard with a tight-lipped smile. ‘But I can assure you, my team will have this case wrapped up in a few days.’

  ‘You sound very confident.’

  ‘I have every confidence the team will deliver a result,’ he said. ‘Okay everyone, let’s get on.’

  Hubbard clapped his hands again and the detectives dispersed. People returned to their desks, picking up phones and tapping at their computers until a low hum of activity filled the room.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could join me in my office,’ said Hubbard, as he brushed past Blake and strode purposefully out of the room.

  Parkes pulled a face. ‘I think you’ve upset him,’ she said.

  Hubbard was standing at the door of his office, his face puce with rage. Blake took a seat without being asked and crossed his legs. ‘I meant what I said in there,’ he said. ‘Treat the threat of a terrorist abduction seriously or I’ll have no option but to report back that your force is incapable of properly conducting the investigation.’

  ‘Show some bloody respect. How dare you speak to me like that in front of my team.’

  ‘And I want to speak to Claire Hopkins.’

  ‘What? Absolutely not,’ Hubbard spluttered as he threw himself into the chair behind his desk.

  ‘I need to know about Kyle Hopkins’ state of mind before he went missing.’

  ‘Claire Hopkins has already been interviewed. You can read the transcript.’

  ‘I have some specific questions.’

  ‘No,’ said Hubbard, shaking his head. ‘I’m in charge of this investigation. You’re only supposed to be here to observe.’

  ‘I’m here to investigate whether Kyle Hopkins has been abducted.’

  ‘Do what you have to do but keep away from his wife. For the next forty-eight hours we’ll be watching her closely. I want to see who she’s talking to and what she does. I don’t need you in the way.’

  ‘Ten minutes. That’s all I need,’ said Blake, but sensed Hubbard digging in his heels.

  ‘I said no. Is there anything else?’

  Blake uncrossed his legs and stood up. ‘That was all.’ It was pointless arguing. The guy had made up his mind and was clearly trying to reassert his authority. And for the moment, Blake was happy to let him believe he was still in control.

  ‘Just keep away from Claire Hopkins. Understood?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Detective Inspector.’

  Parkes was waiting outside Hubbard’s office. She jumped up when Blake emerged, like she’d had her ear to the door, listening.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked, scurrying after Blake.

  ‘He thinks I was rude to him and wants me to stay away from Claire Hopkins for now.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘Can you drive me onto the moor?’ said Blake. ‘I want to see where Kyle’s car was found.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  A pack of news-hungry journalists hoping for any titbit of information, a new line or an exclusive revelation that would give them the jump on their rivals, was waiting outside the police station as Blake and Parkes left. Blake nodded a greeting, but kept his mouth shut and the brief swell of excitement their appearance provoked rapidly evaporated. Pens were lowered and notebooks closed as the reporters lost interest and returned to their idle chatter.

  Blake climbed into the passenger seat of Parkes’ Volvo and within a few minutes, they had left the town behind, climbing through winding country lanes framed by overhanging trees and tangled hedgerows. As the sun cracked through a break in the grey cloud, its rays glinted off the wet road, and ahead deep purples, greens and greys of the foreboding moor stretched out before them.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ said Blake, stretching out his legs. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you were with MI5,’ Parkes said. Her hands gripped the wheel lightly, her elbows held high and locked into ninety-degree angles. ‘You said the Home Office had sent you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Blake. He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t in the habit of explaining what he did for a living. His was a world of secrets and danger, hunting terrorists and living in the shadows. Since Patterson had fabricated his death, he didn’t really exist, at least not officially. For anyone who took the time to look up his military records, they’d find he’d been shot by a sniper in the mountains of Afghanistan while tracking a Taliban commander he intended to interrogate about plans for an attack on an American convoy. His obituary was even in the Times. Patterson had seen to that too. And newspaper reports of his funeral, including photographs of his empty coffin draped in a Union flag carried out of the back of a transport plane on the runway at Brize Norton.

  ‘Does that make you some kind of spy?’ asked Parkes. ‘A spook?’

  Blake laughed. ‘Not exactly. They sent me because I used to be in the military. They thought my knowledge of the army would be useful.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Parkes. She sounded unconvinced. ‘And you really think terrorists might be involved in Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance?’

  ‘What do you think? Are you convinced, like Hubbard, that this is a conspiracy cooked up by Claire Hopkins?’

  ‘I’m not sure. My first instinct was that Kyle had come up here to take his own life.’ Parkes slowed to negotiate a lazy herd of cattle ambling across the road.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think maybe his wife is involved somehow.’

  ‘An insurance job?’

  ‘Why not? They could be in cahoots, for all we know.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘She was so cold and unemotional at the press conference. It just didn’t seem right.’

  ‘That’s why I’d like to talk to her,’ said Blake. ‘She’s the only one who knew Kyle’s state of mind before he disappeared. I want to look her in the eye when I ask her. I have a pretty keen sense of when someone’s lying to me.’ Parkes shot him a glance. ‘Call it a gift.’

  ‘You know Hubbard will go ballistic if you go anywhere near her without his permission?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘And you know I can’t help you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I won’t ask you to compromise yourself,’ said Blake.

  Over the brow of a hill the road dropped into a sweeping right hander, and Parkes braked hard. She pulled off the asphalt onto a rough gravel parking area surrounded by a steep grass bank.

  ‘This is it?’ asked Blake. He stared out of the windscreen. The grass bank created a natural, protective bowl, but the surrounding landscape was barren and bleak. A cruel wind whistled around the seals of the door and ruffled the fronds of the ferns on their left. A muddy trail had been cut up the side of the bank to their right, a scrambled route up onto the moor from the car park. It was an inhospitable site. No doubt worse in the middle of the night, in the tarry darkness.

  ‘So why do you think he came up here?’ Blake asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Blake shouldered open the door and pulled on his jacket. The air was bitingly cold, carrying a hint of heather and the earthy aroma of peat and gorse. He scoured the ground in the vain hope of finding some evidence of a struggle, aware that the feet of probably a dozen police officers and a vehicle recovery unit would have since disturbed the area. It was hopeless.

  He turned his attention instead to the muddy trail and clambered to the top of the bank. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find but wasn’t surprised to see open moor stretching as far as the eye could see. Wild and untamed. A scrubby tract of land pockmarked by dark, granite boulders.

  Parkes was leaning against the bonnet of the Volvo when he returned. She’d turned her collar up against the wind and folded her arms over her chest.

  ‘Find anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but it’s a great place to come if he wanted to disappear. Exposure would have got him i
n a matter of few hours. But that begs the question, where’s his body?’

  ‘He could have headed in any direction from here,’ said Parkes, staring across the road at a solitary, scraggy pony watching them from a distance. ‘He could have ended up anywhere.’

  ‘Okay, well let’s say he didn’t mean to come up here to walk out into the wilderness. What are the other possibilities?’

  ‘I guess he could have arranged to meet someone.’

  ‘A woman?’ said Blake. ‘Or maybe a guy. What if he was hiding his sexuality from his colleagues and was looking for somewhere discreet to meet?’

  ‘We’ve not found any evidence to suggest he was having an affair, but I suppose it’s a possibility. It doesn’t explain what’s happened to him though.’

  Blake turned through a slow circle, studying the landscape. They were in the middle of a vast wilderness with nothing between them and the horizon on all sides. ‘It’s the perfect location for a clandestine liaison, don’t you think? And if he did arrange to meet someone here, it was because they didn’t want to be seen. If anyone approached in the dark, they’d have spotted the lights coming from miles away.’

  ‘So why did he abandon his car and his phone? And where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blake, running a hand over his chin. It felt good to be clean-shaven again. ‘Come on. I have an idea.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Tavistock Inn looked as typically English as a cream tea or a red double decker bus, decorated inside in a self-conscious eclectic mash-up of styles; non-matching chairs around water-stained tables, shelves heavy with curious trinkets, gilded mirrors, dark wood panelling, and ornate fake chandeliers. The smell of hops and stale sweat mingled in the air.

  Blake and Parkes found only a handful of regulars at the bar, old men with half-drunk pints of warm beer and towers of loose change balanced on beer mats. It was far too early for the casual crowd. A bottle-blonde woman revealing too much cleavage smiled from behind the bar.