by William Shaw
‘Cupidi, isn’t it?’ said the Bronze commander. The harsh light shone off the inspector pips on his shoulder.
‘I know where he was headed.’
He frowned. ‘How?’
She explained.
‘South is an ex-con,’ he said.
‘But he’s a good man,’ said Cupidi. The commander nodded towards the van and they both stepped inside. One side of the vehicle was loaded with communication gear; on the other was an Ordnance Survey map, pinned at each corner, covered in crayon marks, which divided it into makeshift zones. A circle had been drawn around the bird reserve.
Cupidi pointed towards the blue line of water on the map. ‘Here,’ she said. On paper it just looked like bare land; the trees that surrounded the water weren’t even shown. But Cupidi knew it. She had been there with Zoë many times, waiting while her daughter patiently counted grebes, or whatever she was looking at at the time. The water was fringed with dense clumps of willow and alder.
The senior policeman pointed to the bird reserve to the west, where the more obvious cover was. ‘This is where we’ve been concentrating our search. That’s where the army advisors told us he’d head if he wanted to stand a chance of getting past us.’
‘But Bill took him here,’ Cupidi said, putting her finger on the map.
‘Your daughter reckons? And she’s how old?’
‘Seventeen.’ She saw the flicker of doubt in the man’s face. ‘But she knows this place. And she knows Bill. They used to go everywhere together. She’s sure he was trying to tell her where he would hide.’
She could see the commander looking at where she was pointing. The pits ran up to the Lydd road. Mulligan would be waiting for a chance to break out there, she guessed. If Zoë was right, South would have expected them to follow him there hours ago. Had they left it too late?
‘The chances are that the police cars were already visible along the road, so he’ll have gone to ground here on this bank.’ She pointed at the west side of the body of water. ‘About there, I reckon.’
‘You know it?’
She nodded.
‘You’re sure? You understand that with a search site this big, the perimeters are hard to watch? If we pull people off other areas, there’s a risk he’ll get away.’
‘Yes.’ And she realised with a start as she spoke that this was true: she trusted Zoë. ‘But that’s where he is.’
The radio crackled. ‘Sector H, clear.’
A constable leaned past them, took a pen and put an ‘X’ through one of the zones on the map.
The inspector picked up a handset. ‘Blue Team. We’re going to try something different.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
In the thickening darkness, they drove in a dirty grey Land Rover over the shingle, Cupidi thinking what Zoë would have to say about them tearing the land apart. She would be torn between saving South, or the terns and plovers whose chick-filled nests they might be destroying.
Cupidi pointed just as the helicopter appeared overhead, shining its beam onto the darker line of stunted willows. They grew thickly here. It was an ideal place to hide. ‘Just along there,’ she said.
Other vehicles, less suited to the land, were arriving too, now, scrambling over the uneven ground, sumps scraping as they bounced.
If Mulligan was there, thought Cupidi, he would know that he was trapped. How would he react? South used to walk here all the time and had the advantage of knowing the land, but had spent two years in prison cells. The time had weakened him. Allan Mulligan was stocky, muscular and fit. They had both been coppers, and could both handle themselves, but she didn’t think much of the odds if it came to a one-on-one fight.
Men and women were piling out of vehicles now, forming a line.
‘Stay here,’ said the commander. ‘Don’t move, OK?’
Like Ferriter, she had come from a place where murders had been committed. If this ended up being a second crime scene, they would want as little forensic cross-contamination as possible. She pushed the thought of what that might mean out of her head, wound down a window and watched the officers huddle, discuss tactics, break up into groups, spreading out on both sides of the long thin water.
The air was cut by the helicopter blades above them. Its engine noise roared. It was dark now, and a thin drizzle had started to fall. She watched the torchlight swinging into the thick black branches, shining on the dark water.
The teams were working from north to south, from where the lakes met the Lydd road, back towards the Land Rover, slowly combing the thick vegetation. Another line of officers were stationed in a line that ran south of the lake in case Mulligan made a dash in that direction. It was like a shoot, Cupidi realised, with beaters driving birds towards the guns.
She waited, wishing she could be out there too, but the commander had told her to wait, so she waited. It was a steady, methodical search. After maybe forty minutes, sitting alone, her phone rang; it was Ferriter.
She was crying. ‘He’s dead,’ she said.
‘Oh. Jesus.’
The call had come through from the hospital five minutes earlier. Peter Moon had been pronounced dead.
‘It’s because of me,’ Ferriter wailed.
‘No,’ said Cupidi. ‘No.’
‘I just feel it’s my fault. I didn’t even like him.’
A policeman killed. Word would be spreading now out there too, passing from copper to copper, and with it, a sense of anger and indignation. It was inevitable in this kind of work, when you shared so much, working in the face of public contempt and resentment, this collective sense that somehow the murder of an officer weighed even more heavily than the killing of a civilian.
‘If anything, it was my fault,’ said Cupidi. ‘I should have figured it all out so much earlier.’
‘Any sign of Mulligan?’
‘No.’
They were closing in on the south end of the lake. Resources had been concentrated here because of what she had said – of what Zoë had said.
A sliver of doubt; what if they had been wrong? What if they had pulled coppers from another part of the operation and that had allowed the man who had killed Peter Moon to escape?
Not just Peter Moon. Had he killed Abir Stein too? The boy’s mother? Almost certainly her. Cupidi felt sick.
The torch beams swept the land, coming so close now, dazzling her. They made the darkness around her blacker.
Ferriter, still on the phone, said, ‘Zoë wants a word.’
Looking into the blackness she remembered, with a start, what South had once told her. In a place like this, torches don’t help you. She sat up and peered, not into the light but beneath it, holding up a hand to shield herself from the beams, trying to look into the blackness and discern shapes.
‘Mum?’ Her daughter’s voice. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sorry. I’m fine. I’m just watching. They haven’t found him yet.’ She heard the sound of a radio in the background, chattering news. ‘Tell me something. Do you know where Bill used to come when he was here? Did he have a hide here?’
‘He never used hides. He’d just head for somewhere in amongst the osiers, close to the water.’
‘Which side of the lake?’
‘Any side. Depended on the weather.’
The torches were getting closer.
‘I’ll call you later.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I have to go.’
A roosting duck, disturbed by the men and women prodding sticks at the undergrowth, blurted out across the water, quacking loudly. At any second she expected the shouts to go up, the lamps all to shine on the fugitive. But they didn’t. The slow, methodical progression of officers across the uneven ground continued. And then beaters were in line with the Land Rover, moving past, and the commander was at the window and the helicopter was moving far away out towards Lydd.
‘Wild goose chase,’ he said, quietly but tersely, as if not wanting to criticise her to her face for directing the o
peration to this small part of the landscape. ‘We’ll drive you back.’
‘Do you think he’s got past you?’
‘We’re putting roadblocks further out now.’
Zoë had been wrong. She felt crushed on her behalf; guilty, too. If Mulligan had slipped away, it would be her fault.
‘I’ll walk. I’d like to.’
He shook his head. ‘Operation still in progress. Don’t want you alone out here.’
She looked around. ‘I’ll walk back with those officers then,’ she said, pointing towards a small group who were trudging back towards the control centre.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said and started the engine.
*
She waited a minute, until the rear lights were jumping across the uneven land, then turned the other way, walking back to the Long Pits.
She had sat here, amazed at the young girl’s concentration, sitting so still on the bank, peering through the reeds.
The landscape was empty now. Where only a few minutes ago there had been a bustle of activity there was now stillness, save for the call of the odd bird and the soft patter of the drizzle on the water.
The blackness of the edges of the water was deep, rendering its world shapeless and sinister. The Pits were about three-quarters of a mile long, from top to bottom.
She walked up the western edge of the pit for about ten minutes until she reached the grassy bank that separated the two fingers of water. Water ran off her nylon waterproof, soaking her canvas trousers. She began to shiver slightly.
From the middle of this causeway you had a view of the entire lake. To the south a good-size moon was trying to show through the rain clouds. Its dim light shone onto the water, pale against the black that ringed it.
She squatted down on her haunches and put her head in her hands, exhausted, grateful for the quiet. It had been an awful day, the worst she could ever remember on the job, full of blood and tension. People had died. She had sent William South to prison; now she wondered if she had done something much worse. She pictured his body lying somewhere in this stony land.
She had been so sure.
*
At first she thought the sound of lapping was made by some creature. An otter perhaps?
But when she turned and looked behind her at the north lake where the water was darker, she saw the dark shapes forming out of the water, the shapes of two men rising, and the sucking of mud underfoot.
She crouched down low behind the fishing station. The two men were emerging from the water onto the east bank of the northern lake. She felt in her pocket for her mobile phone. Turning her back to hide the light of the screen, she texted hurriedly to Ferriter: Get help found him big pits urgent. Then she set off sprinting towards the edge of the water where she guessed they would emerge.
At first, as she approached, it looked like the men were having trouble climbing up the bank, falling, sliding back, trying to get up. The water would be bitterly cold still at this time of year. How long had they been hiding in it?
A louder splash and she realised they weren’t just trying to get out, they were fighting, waist deep, attempting to land blows on each other. The last time she had seen Mulligan he had been armed with a knife, the weapon he would have been using to keep South silent.
By the time she reached the bank closest to them, there was only one man standing. She was not sure who it was, but something shone briefly in the moonlight. She was sure she had seen the glint of Mulligan’s knife.
Stripping off her jacket, she shallow-dived into the water. She was used to swimming in cold seas around here, but the ache in her bones was instantaneous, blowing the breath out of her. Gasping for air, her head emerged from the water and she looked around. Where there had been a man, there was no one.
Shit. She looked from left to right. Where had Mulligan gone?
And then he burst out of the water close by, silhouetted, knife in hand. From his mouth came a loud, raw groan.
And then a second head emerged, more slowly, bobbing up to the surface.
She didn’t have time to check on South. Mulligan was coming at her, knife in hand.
FIFTY-NINE
She dived to the left to avoid the knife, into shallow water, thick with reed, knowing that when she surfaced again, Mulligan would still be above her.
But she was a strong swimmer. She pushed back, rose two metres away, tried to find her feet, then discovered that the bottom had disappeared. She sank for a second, pulled by the weight of her clothes, bobbed up again in open water, coughing. When she spun round to look, she saw Mulligan’s black shape between herself and the bank, coming towards her fast.
Somehow she had to keep him here until help arrived.
If help arrived.
He took another step forward, then another, each time descending a little lower into the water. Out here, knife below the surface, she wouldn’t be able to see it coming.
Taking one more step he slid, cried loudly, caught out by the sudden incline. This was her chance. She dived under again.
Below the surface, it was impenetrably black. She could only guess where she was heading. She swam low, feeling stones scraping against her jeans. Her left leg seemed sluggish. Was it cramp? Could she be sure she was even swimming in a straight line?
She slowed as the water became shallower, tried to orientate herself, hoping that she was close to the bank behind him.
He had killed Peter Moon. He had tried to kill her at the Barbican. She swivelled slowly in the water, feet now touching the bottom.
And sprang up, arms wide, hoping desperately that she had estimated her position correctly.
Her weight bellyflopped into empty water.
She had miscalculated. Worse, she had given him the upper hand, falling right at his feet.
Her head crashing onto the stones, she flailed for his legs, found one and, just as he thrust down with the blade, yanked the leg sideways.
This time she was luckier. His footing slipped. She felt his weight shift. She jumped up a second time and as she did so, her head slammed again against something hard – his back this time, she realised. She had pitched him forwards into the water.
She struggled up, but by the time she wiped her eyes, he was there, in front of her, arms extended, the knife in one hand.
‘Give yourself up, Allan.’ Her voice sounded thin and tired.
Instead, he lunged towards her.
She tried to step away but her foot was caught in reeds. She tumbled backwards, and when she came up, spluttering, he was there above her, suddenly silhouetted.
Brain fogged with cold, squinting into the glare, it took a beat for her to realise that they were surrounded by dazzling light and noise.
She tensed for the blow but he, too, seemed confused by the sudden arrival of the helicopter above them. It gave her the time she needed to roll sideways, and away.
Amongst the noise of the rotors, the sound of shouting: ‘Armed police.’
*
She stood slowly. Officers were jumping from the bank, arms extended to help her, to drag her out. In the brightness, she could now see South, on all fours on the grass, vomiting.
Shaking away the helping hands, she dropped down beside him, panting, as someone fetched blankets and stretchers.
‘Obviously I’d weakened him first,’ said South, wiping his mouth.
‘Shut up.’ For the first time she noticed a dark streak of blood running down her left leg. He must have caught her with the blade. In the cold she hadn’t even felt it.
‘What is it with you arresting bloody coppers, anyway?’ muttered South.
In spite of it all, she laughed. She turned to look. Mulligan was knee deep in water, illuminated from all sides. Armed officers were shouting at him to raise his arms.
*
South came home from the hospital that night. Zoë made him soup and they sat at his table in Arum Cottage.
‘We sat in the water for ten minutes, maybe more, while the search ca
me past, just our noses above the water. I thought I was going to die,’ he said. ‘He held the knife to my throat and it was shaking so badly I thought I was going to be salami.’
It was lentil soup. Zoë had watched, trying not to look disappointed as South had piled salt into it. He held the cellar awkwardly, hands bandaged from the defensive wounds on his palms.
‘After the searchers had gone, we sat on the bank trying to get warm. He was ready to make it out onto the road. And then he saw someone on the causeway and he dragged me back in. He knew he didn’t need me any more, so I guessed he was going to try and kill me there. I had to get him first. But I was too cold. I tried, but I couldn’t.’
‘Mulligan went with you because you were a convicted killer,’ said Cupidi quietly.
‘As it turns out, yes. A criminal record has some uses.’
*
The news was full of the arrest of Astrid Miller on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. That morning they woke to film crews from all over the world, camped along Coast Drive. There were photographs of Astrid in all the papers; the same ones Ferriter had collected as a teenager. Her expensive lawyers were claiming she was a victim.
At work, Cupidi phoned Devon.
‘The phone the boys stole off Mulligan had probably been modified,’ he said. ‘It contained a text file that you could only get at if you knew the key code.’
‘We think it was Abir Stein’s phone,’ Cupidi told him. ‘When they searched Astrid Miller’s bungalow yesterday, they found an identical one. When they repeated the keystrokes, it turned out it has twelve more words on it too.’
‘It’s a word-seed,’ said Devon.
‘A what?’
‘A twenty-four-word private key. Almost certainly. Separately, the words on each phone were useless. Together they would unlock a currency wallet.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Crypto-currencies. Getting the money into an offshore bank is easy, but getting it out again without leaving a trail for financial investigators is harder. I’m guessing here, but I’m pretty sure this is about getting the money out of St Lucia.’ She could hear Devon lighting a cigarette. ‘It probably worked like this. They employ an intermediary to buy into a crypto-currency such as Bitcoins, using River Deep’s cash. That cash is stored in a wallet that can only be accessed via a twenty-four-word key. The twenty-four-word key generates your 256-bit private keys.’
