He was awake when his phone went off. It was plugged into its charging cable on the kitchen side. George didn’t always make it to bed; often he would fall asleep in front of whatever was on television. The noise of inane chatter or mocked up explosions was far more relaxing than the whooshing and whirring of his tinnitus. He was still lying out on the sofa. It was just a few minutes after dawn and he was considering how long he should wait before having his first cup of tea of the day.
He moved quickly across the room to his phone. The screen said RYKER and he frowned.
‘What the hell are you doing up at this time of day?’ he said.
‘Who said I was up?’ Emily sounded tired. Her voice was lower than normal and her words were breathy.
‘I guessed you would have to be up to call me. I can’t imagine you would have anything new to tell me from your bed.’
‘That’s how good I am, see? I put the word out about your farm shooting like I said I would. I got woken up by a text from one of the source handlers. They’ve been offered some information. And if I’m awake because of you then I’m definitely waking you up.’
George snatched the phone away from the wire. He walked over to the large window at the far side of the lounge. It looked out over the English Channel. The sea was calm and blue and the sky matched it. ‘What information?’
‘That was all the message said—’
‘You didn’t call me at 5 a.m. to tell me someone had sent you a text message, Ryker—’
‘If you’ll let me finish! I don’t function too well this time of the morning, George. I called him back.’
‘Who? The source handler?’
‘Yes, the source handler. I called him back and he apologised for waking me up, but he had just got off the phone from one of his sources. He was asking to meet. The handler asked what it was all about and he gave him enough to know that it was about the farm shooting.’
‘What did he give?’ George bit down on his lip; he was struggling to stop himself from jumping in.
‘Jesus, George! Give me a chance. He said he knew about a crew. They go out and do rural breaks. They’ve been working in Sussex mainly, but he reckons they crossed the border to do your job. They target wealthy people who live out in isolated areas.’
‘That would fit.’
‘It would. The source reckons there’s a bit more to it than chance. He said something about one of the crew working off a debt — maybe he was borrowing against their takings. Whatever the reason, he chose the venue and he promised them they would get their money back and then some.’
‘From Stan Wingmore?’
‘From that house, yeah.’
‘So what, this crew member knows there’s money there?’
‘That’s what it sounds like.’
‘Your source handler, is he going out to get more information?’
‘Yeah. But George — you’re not going to like it — they’re all out meeting their regulars over the next two or three days over this other job. He’s arranged to talk to him by the end of the week. He’s hoping to set something up by Friday. In Dover somewhere. He said he would give me an update as soon as there is one, but—’
‘Friday’s no good, Emily! He needs to speak to him before then — like, today!’
‘I knew you’d say that. I said the same. He said there was no way that was going to happen. They’ve got direction from up on high. There’s a lot of pressure to clean this other mess up, George. The media don’t even know about Stanley Wingmore’s night.’
‘You know I can’t accept that.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t want to.’
‘Can you go back to him?’
‘And say what?’
‘I’ll speak to Whittaker, get him to put his weight about. He can clear the way for the handler to go and meet him today.’
‘I don’t know if that will do any good. I think Whittaker might even prefer him to be trying to get results for the Dover shooting. No one’s under more pressure than he is around that.’
‘Who was it, Ryker?’
‘Who was what?’
‘The handler you spoke to?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that, George. I did you a favour going to them in the first place — it was all off the record.’
‘And he told you off the record, but why would he do that? He would know that you would go to the investigator with the information, otherwise what is the point of it? I just want to know who it is so I can sound it out with them. Make sure there isn’t anything more that he missed out.’
‘Give me some credit, George.’
‘I’m not mugging you off, Ryker. I know you don’t miss a trick. But that’s my excuse to call him.’
‘I can’t do any more, George, I’ve already done too much.’
‘I know where they’re based, Ryker. I’ll go over there and ask everyone if they spoke to you.’
‘You can’t do that! Why are you being an arsehole? I’m trying to help you out. He shouldn’t be calling me direct with that information — it all needs to go through a controller. You’ll get him into all sorts of trouble.’
‘He might get booted off the team, Ryker. I don’t want to do that, I don’t want him in trouble and I definitely don’t want to be stitching you up. But he knows something, or at least he knows someone who might be able to get me a little closer to these bastards. It’s even more important now — if these people are out of the county, they’ll disappear. You know I’m right. Just tell me who you spoke to. I’ll go to him direct. I’ll be subtle and I’ll ask him to help me. I’ll tell him that I ordered you to tell me his details.’
‘You’re an arsehole, George.’ The phone fell silent.
‘Ryker? RYKER? Dammit!’ George threw the phone over onto his sofa. He turned back to the view. His mind rushed through all the options. He didn’t have many. The source handling team were a closed bunch with a very clear structure for gaining information and feeding it back up the line, just a few officers and a sergeant covering the whole of the south side of the division. Their roles were to effectively form relationships with CHIS — Covert Human Intelligence Sources. More often than not, these were petty criminals, drug addicts or low-level gang members who were willing to meet with undercover officers and trade information. Their reward varied from having their gas bill paid to a free McDonalds or cash in their pocket. It was controversial, but effective. Such was the risk to the sources that every interaction had a strict set of rules. Just as strict were the rules around how the information gleaned was recorded and passed on. To step outside of protocol was to risk everything — it was the same for any of the officers. George was trying to think of a way he could use that to his advantage. Turning up and applying some pressure wouldn’t work; they would shut up shop and he would never get what he needed. But he couldn’t just do nothing, just accept that there was a way of getting closer to this gang but that it would have to wait until the end of the week. George was back to peering out at the sea when his phone pinged. He walked over to it. It was a text message from Emily: Andy McGuiness.
George punched the air. He knew McGuiness. He hadn’t known he was a source handler. He had been a response copper when George had been a sergeant running a team of detectives investigating burglaries. He had been good, too — pro-active. He liked to get in the faces of the bad guys. George’s kind of copper.
His phone beeped again from Emily. It was a row of digits — a mobile phone number. George was in cotton trousers and an old jumper. He needed a shower and then he would make the call from the car. He didn’t know where he was going to be going but he was determined it would be somewhere. He threw the phone back onto the sofa. He was nearly to the bathroom when it pinged again and he had to double back. Another message from Emily: Arsehole.
George smirked. He couldn’t disagree.
Chapter 14
Jenny woke in panic. She had been dreaming and it had been vivid. Joseph had their daughter. He was saying that they
needed to go, and that they needed to go now. He’d said they couldn’t take Isobel with them. Jenny had been frantic. She was trying to get Isobel off Joseph and then, suddenly, she was leaving and Isobel was sitting up in bed crying hard, her arms jutting forward — crying for her mother. Jenny was still panicked and stricken as she jolted awake, and it took her some time to calm down enough to recognise where she was: a wood cabin, bright with light, the air thick with a scented layer of smoke. It all came rushing back. She felt cold, so cold. She swung her legs around so that the wood burner was almost between them. The cast iron was still warm to the touch, but the heat was nothing like it had been. She opened the door, it was heavy and it creaked. The stove bottom had a layer of white embers, some two inches deep, that still glowed red in its centre when she prodded it with some kindling. Sure enough, the small pieces of fresh wood caught straight away. She stacked it up with bigger pieces on top and finally a couple of logs. Within a couple of minutes it was roaring again.
There was water for the kettle in a clear bottle on the floor and just enough milk in the flask for a cup of tea. She needed one. She also needed to pee. She left the kettle warming on top of the wood burner. Outside, she could see a patch of frost sparkling in the sunlight that arrowed through the trees. The sky was perfectly clear, the rain clouds completely gone, and there was a freshness that only came first thing in the morning. She’d meant to sleep only for a few hours and then head out when darkness fell. Instead, she had slept all night. She knew she had been exhausted, how she had yearned to sleep a full night in the last few months, but she’d never considered that a put-up camp bed in a wooden hut would provide her next opportunity to do so. Jenny walked over to the trees to pee. Nobody was about. The sun was low and, from her recent nights with Isobel and having seen the sun rise the previous morning, she reckoned it had to be around 5 a.m.
She pulled up her trousers and stepped back out. The silence was beautiful. Her elevated position was crisp and clear, but a thin mist hugged the ground further down the hill towards the town like it was trying to hide it. Jenny could almost pretend it wasn’t there. She didn’t mind that she had missed the darkness. She suddenly felt better. Safer. Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep or the bright sunshine and the stillness, with gentle birdsong the only sound. She walked back into the cabin just as the kettle began to whistle. She poured out her tea. While she waited for it to cool, she tidied the camp bed away and anything else that was out of place. She pulled out some of the smaller kindling twigs and arranged them on the floor. She swigged at her tea and surveyed her work. The sticks read: THANKS. It was simple but it did the trick. Mike the paramedic had spent his life helping people; old habits died hard, it seemed. He would never know just how much he’d helped her.
Jenny finished her tea. The mist was clearing a little, the sun burning it away as it got stronger. The town of Dover was revealed slowly. It was still early, but the traffic was moving and Jenny knew the risks of heading back down there. She had just one place to go and then she would leave. And she didn’t intend on ever going back.
She took a more direct route back to the town. The road and the wooded path that she had come up was on her right. She hugged the tree line that ran down the left side of the cemetery for as far as she could, but then had to break away and walk back to the centre of the lawn so she could make for the gate at the bottom. The mist was all around her now. It was thinning out all the time but it was noticeably cooler. She pulled the sleeves on her top over her hands.
Jenny made it back to the wide road. It had been choked with traffic when she had made her way up in the middle of the afternoon. Now a solitary car passed. She crossed and turned left, away from the police station. She walked past a doctor’s surgery on the right and then up a street that took her towards the town centre. She could see a large park on her left side as she walked. Already a couple of drinkers were sitting out in the early sunshine. They rested on some steps up to a platform that seemed to mark the centre of the park. One of them gestured at her with his bottle. Jenny was horrified to think that they might have looked at the state of her and assumed instantly she was in the same situation as them. To the seasoned, homeless drunk, she must look like another seasoned, homeless drunk. Jenny picked up her pace.
She walked across the High Street and kept going. She turned right at a large roundabout past a café with delicious breakfast smells blanketing the pavement. She continued past and rounded a corner to find herself back on Dover Road. The traffic was still light. The confidence and self-assurance of early morning that had come with the warm sun on the calm hills was starting to evaporate like the early morning mist. Jenny continued along the road, across the forecourt of a petrol station and towards the train station. She knew she was coming to her hotel. She knew she had to go back in there. She knew there could be people waiting for her.
She stayed on the opposite pavement to the hotel. Her head was up; she was looking for any movement, checking every parked car for seated occupants, every window of every shop, house and flat. Trying to be careful. If the people that were after her — who’d come after Joseph — if they had known about that place, then why hadn’t they come to the room? When they’d all been asleep, maybe? Jenny was still trying to piece together the events of the previous forty-eight hours, but she was sure of one thing: nobody had tried to hurt them until they’d left the hotel. The more she’d thought about it over the last couple of days, the more she’d convinced herself that they’d been watching the car. That was the first sign of trouble: when Joseph had moved it. Whoever it was knew about the car; they didn’t know about the room. That meant she had a chance at least. The room was booked out until the end of the week. That gave her another night and a day. She didn’t intend on staying there, it was too close to where it had all begun, but she needed her phone. It had all her contacts, people who could help, who could finally take her and Isobel away from here. And she might find some answers. Joseph’s stuff was still in there, too — including the things she had never been able to look at before and that had never been any of her business. The bits that when she had asked Joseph about them had always invoked the same reply: You trust me, Jenny, right? It’s best that you don’t know. You just have to trust me.
Well, now there was nothing left to trust in.
The Dovorian Hotel was opposite her. She ducked into the frontage of a large townhouse and peered out. There was nobody on foot, no cars at that point and all the curtains on the hotel looked closed. It was deceiving from the outside: a square of dull grey with bits cut out for windows and with no redeeming features, made all the more drab by the layer of grime from the typically busy road in front. But Jenny had liked it inside: it was neutrally decorated but colourful; the rooms were spacious, the beds huge and comfortable. She could see the window to her room from where she stood. The blackout curtains were drawn across. She couldn’t remember if she or Joseph had opened them, or if he had just turned on the light. She couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. She was going to have to go in anyway. What else could she do?
She stepped back out onto the pavement and moved further up the road, past the steps that led down to the train station; far enough until she felt she could cross without anyone from any of the other hotel windows being able to see her. She reached the other pavement and turned back on herself. She brought her chin down onto her chest, her eyes lifting so that she was still looking forward, out from under the curve of her hood. She had to cross a junction; a road rose steeply up to her right, past the side of the hotel and beyond. The side entrance to the hotel was halfway up. She pushed the door open. A long carpeted hall with a repeating pattern was laid out in front of her. She strode along it. The lifts were right next to reception. It was manned twenty-four-seven but there was a back office. Whoever was working that morning had to be in there. The desk was empty. Jenny was glad, she pressed the button to call the lift and the doors parted immediately. The three back walls were mirrored. She selected the t
hird floor. The door shut and she took a moment to take in her reflection. Suddenly it made sense that she might be beckoned over by street bums. She turned away from herself in disgust. The doors parted. She stood still for a second or two, trying to use the two mirrored sidewalls to see out, to see if anyone was hiding just outside the doors. The angle was wrong; she had to step out.
The hallway was empty. She turned right. She felt in her pocket for the key card, it was still there. She pushed it into the slot below the handle. She pulled it straight out. A light flashed green and it clicked. The door pushed away from her. She knew the room layout: there was a short hall; the bathroom was off to the left; the main room opened up beyond that, a large window on the far side, the wardrobe and TV units down the right side. The door opened enough that she could see the bathroom door. It was pulled closed. Again, she couldn’t remember if she had done that or if it had been like that when she left. She stepped over the threshold and pushed the door a little more. She could see a pair of Joseph’s shoes left untidily in the middle of the floor. She remembered vaguely that he had been fiddling with them, as if considering changing the ones he had on. The blackout blinds were pulled right across and the room was dark. She could see more shapes and bundles littering the floor. As she pushed the door completely open she could see through to the big bed — it had been made. There was a fresh set of towels on the end of it. The maids had been in and had done their bit. They’d left assuming the occupants were out. Jenny’s confidence was back. No one knew she was here. Not the police; not the people who were after her. No one.
The door pushed itself shut behind her. She moved through to the body of the room, reached for the curtains and pulled them apart. Light flooded in.
‘Get on your fucking knees!’
Jenny spun like she had been stung. A dark clad figure leant on the TV unit. Even the balaclava covering his face was a thick black material. Jenny attempted to speak but all that came from her was a rushed whimper.
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 35
