Mariner wished he could share Coleman’s confidence in him. ‘Anything happened here that I should know about?’ he asked.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that we’re on the way to an ID on your lady from the sewer. But I won’t spoil it for Charlie Glover. As acting SIO he’ll want to fill you in. But take it easy to begin with, don’t rush into anything. Take over when you’re ready.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Walking along to his office, Mariner couldn’t help flinching from the everyday hubbub of the building; phones ringing, doors banging, talk and laughter. The garish Christmas decorations were an insult to his mood and by the time he reached his desk his pulse was racing as if he’d just climbed Caer Caradoc rather than walked a few yards along a corridor. The temperamental 1950s heating system had failed to keep the chill from his office, but as he took off his jacket his armpits felt sticky. At least CID was quiet. Officers from each OCU had been seconded to help with the leg-work on the investigation into the St Martin’s incident, and right now Charlie Glover was nowhere around.
Mark ‘Jack’ Russell was one of the few men remaining and was immediately attentive to Mariner. ‘Is there anything you want, sir?’
‘Just time to get my bearings again,’ said Mariner. Russell closed the door on his way out.
On the top of Mariner’s in-tray was Charlie Glover’s progress report on the body recovered from the drain. It was as Coleman had said. Glover had run the prints through CRIMINT but as the woman had no record they’d drawn a blank. Missing persons had turned up no likely contenders either. But Charlie Glover had used his brain, and picking up on the unusual labels on what remained of the dead woman’s clothing, had used these to establish her nationality as Albanian. The last thing he’d done was to contact the National Immigration Centre in Croydon, to see if the government’s crackdown on immigration would be of any help to them. So far it was a competent investigation and not for the first time, Mariner wondered why Glover, in his late thirties, was still only a DC. He must talk to him about that some time.
Key photographs from the post-mortem and notes from the pathologist were included in the file for Mariner. The initial findings reported pressure-point bruises to the oesophagus and damage to the thyroid and cricoid cartilage. X-rays clearly showed the hyoid bone in the throat to be broken — all consistent with the application of extreme pressure with the thumbs. Conclusion: the woman had been strangled with what looked like somebody’s bare hands. She was five foot three and slightly built, so most men, and feasibly some women, would be physically capable of inflicting such damage on her. The facial photograph was not a pretty sight. She had been dead for at least a couple of weeks when she was found, in which time rats had chewed through the bin liner, before attacking her face and torso. They’d need a digital mock-up before they could think of releasing anything to the press. Something else Glover had highlighted: the girl was a mother. She’d given birth around two months before she died.
The likely scenario, Glover concluded, was that she had been strangled, taped into the bin liners and dumped down the sewer. Their strongest lead on a suspect came in the form of the latent prints found on the tape and the bin bags. These were currently being processed by forensics, though with the holiday Charlie wasn’t sure how long that would take. He’d begun a house to house in the area though, as Glover said in his note, with no photograph and only one spare constable to help him, it was going to take some time. That was probably where he was now.
Mariner looked at the photograph of the ravaged face. Hard to tell if the girl had been pretty. Dead eyes stared up at him. Suddenly they were transposed by another pair of eyes, their life draining away even as he watched. His mouth went dry and he felt a slight queasiness. Pushing the picture away, he went and got some water from the cooler.
* * *
Returning to his desk Mariner switched on the PC to check his email, but his mind wandered and it was hard to concentrate. Everything he did seemed to be taking longer than usual. The extensive list of new messages in his inbox mainly originated from people he’d never heard of; an invitation to a New Year’s bash in a different department, notification of minor changes in procedure and forthcoming training opportunities. Each one absurdly banal.
An open-air vigil was to be held for the victims of the explosion in St Philip’s Square in the city centre. A circular gave details of the times and security arrangements, bordering on the paranoid, and information about the collection for the victims and their families. A book of condolence was also available for messages at the council house. In other words, it was standard stuff. Only one other message stood out to Mariner as being of any interest. The subject was walking man.
That was the tag inflicted on Mariner by Detective Inspector Dave Flynn when the two of them had been thrown together four years ago at a conference week in Peterborough. Two DIs in a hotel full of superintendents, they had stuck together, and more so on discovering a mutual liking for proper beer in a hotel that specialised in extortionately priced lager. It was when Mariner had first discovered Woodforde’s, something that he would forever associate with Dave Flynn. Every evening after the presentations they’d gone out on a quest for real ale, Mariner insisting they walk rather than take taxis, restless for the exercise he was missing during the day; hence the nickname. Flynn had a weird taste for naff music; basically anything that wasn’t cool. It was only in subsequent years that Mariner had realised that James Taylor featured on his playlist.
Flynn was ambitious. He was probably a super himself by now. No hint of anything like that in the note though, which was characteristically brief and to the point.
In Brum tomorrow (28th). Fancy a pint?
Dave F
Mariner wondered idly whether Flynn’s visit had anything to do with the explosion. He couldn’t see how, but either way it would be good to see him again; a welcome distraction, and the chance for a good piss up. Mariner tapped in a reply, suggesting a time and venue, and sent it on its way.
* * *
The contents of his paper in-tray were similarly mundane, and after a while the rhythmic process of opening envelopes began to have a vaguely therapeutic effect, creating the illusion (at least) of a return to normality. So when he came to the contents of the A4 manila envelope he was quite unprepared. The room began to close in on him and a shiver scuttled up his spine. Russell must have been watching him from the bull pen. He was beside him at once. ‘You all right, sir?’
Unable to answer him, Mariner handed him the A4 sheet on which a composite of letters cut from various magazines had been glued, in true TV cop-drama cliché. The message was simple: Next time, don’t be late.
Chapter Six
As a direct result of the letter, Jack Coleman managed to get Mariner access to the team investigating the explosion, which meant going into the city to police headquarters at Lloyd House. Movement around the central area was still restricted, with traffic directed around the ring road and directly past St Martin’s. Mariner got stuck behind a silver grey transit, identical to a couple more that were parked adjacent to the church. They were unmarked, like mortuary vans, though logically Mariner knew they couldn’t be. The bodies had all been recovered days ago.
Bulldozers were beginning to clear some of the rubble, to make safe what remained of the tower, but already flowers were piled high on the steps leading up from the church and back towards the city centre, almost knee-deep on the pavement, their cellophane glinting in the sunlight of the clear, frosty day. A handful of people shuffled along studying the dedications in what, since the death of Princess Diana, had become the traditional ostentatious show of public grief. It turned Mariner’s stomach.
At Lloyd House he was asked to wait in reception, which even on this bright, sunny day was a dark and oppressive cave. He stared up at the waves of polished steel that formed the ceiling, distorting the reflections of those beneath.
‘DI Mariner?’ He looked up to see a man approaching, tall with cropped
, silver hair. ‘I’m Jim Addison, Special Branch.’ Addison took him upstairs to where the anti-terrorist squad was co-ordinating the investigation and had commandeered the whole of the second floor. This was the unit routinely called in to handle any issues relating to national security, supporting the local force in investigating crimes with wider national implications. Their presence appeared to reflect the way the thinking was going — until he’d deftly lobbed a spanner into the machinery.
In a briefing room Addison showed Mariner, on a plan of the church, exactly where the explosion had occurred. It had taken out one whole corner of the building and the five people killed had all been clustered around seat B5. It was in the same block that Mariner would have been occupying. The shock must have registered on his face.
‘I wouldn’t read too much into it, though,’ Addison cautioned. ‘The chief constable was to have been sitting directly in front of you.’
Mariner scanned the diagram. ‘But he’s marked as being here, on the other side of the aisle,’ he pointed out.
‘A last-minute change. His wife has a slight hearing loss in one ear and asked to be positioned on the left-hand side of the amplifiers.’ Addison reached over to another desk and produced a second plan, pointing to the seat immediately in front of Mariner’s initials. ‘This plan was operational until the morning of the service.’
‘What do you know about the cause of the explosion?’ Mariner asked.
‘The investigation is ongoing.’ Addison’s response was smooth.
‘But you must have some idea — of the quantity and type of explosive used,’ Mariner pressed.
‘We’re getting there, yes.’
‘So?’
‘We’re not ready to disclose that information yet,’ said Addison. ‘We’re still exploring the possibilities.’
‘Which are?’
A breeze stirred the calm water. ‘I can’t tell you that either. It’s not in the public’s interest. We just want to be sure, that’s all.’
And now Mariner was making them less sure. Because despite Addison’s dismissal, there was now a chance that this might not be an attack on the police force, but an attack on one specific individual. It was another possibility they’d have to consider.
Addison was scrutinising the note Mariner had received.
‘It came through the usual postal channels?’
Mariner confirmed with a nod. Addison studied the postmark, smudged but still easily recognisable as Birmingham.
‘It’s been tested for prints,’ Mariner said.
‘I doubt that there will be any,’ Addison was confident. ‘Anyone you’ve upset recently?’ he asked, giving Mariner the distinct impression that he was being humoured.
‘I’m a copper,’ he said. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘What about political groups?’
‘I had to question members of The Right Way as part of an investigation last summer, but nothing since then that I’m aware of.’ The enquiry into the disappearance and subsequent murder of Asian teenager Yasmin Akram had, for a while, put several right-wing factions under scrutiny. But not for long, since Mariner had fleetingly considered and discounted them with equal speed. ‘Do you think this could be them?’
‘You want my honest opinion? If someone was getting at you personally there are easier ways of doing it.’ Addison handed him back the letter. ‘It’s far more likely that someone who has a grudge against you has seen an opportunity in the press coverage. Anyone who reads the papers could have seen your picture and cooked this up. Didn’t you even make some comment to the effect that you should have been inside the church when the bomb went off?’
He was right. Mariner was being paranoid. Why and how could a disaster of such magnitude have been orchestrated just for him?
* * *
When everything around it was torn down to make way for the International Convention Centre and Symphony Hall, the Prince of Wales, an Edwardian Grade II listed building, had been spared. The pub’s clientele had also remained loyal, comprising an eclectic combination of theatricals from the nearby Repertory Theatre and sportsmen from the county cricket ground, making it one of the few haunts in Birmingham where celeb-spotting could be a worthwhile exercise. The reason Mariner chose it as the venue to meet Dave Flynn had more to do with the extraordinarily and consistently good real ale. It was also conveniently across the road from where Flynn was staying at the Hyatt.
When Mariner arrived, a few minutes early, Flynn, his glass almost drained, was already at the bar, in conversation with a woman. Tall and elegant, a smooth curtain of blonde hair hung down her back. She moved her hand along the bar, something concealed beneath her fingers, and at that moment Flynn looked round and caught Mariner’s eye. At Flynn’s word the woman slipped off her bar-stool and walked out, her looks and walk somehow not quite in sync, as if the tight skirt and four-inch heel combo had been a touch over-ambitious.
Mariner went over. ‘You don’t hang about,’ he observed.
Flynn glanced out onto the street in the direction the young woman had gone. ‘Just being friendly,’ he said, but Mariner couldn’t help noticing that he’d pocketed the card. ‘It’s good to see you, walking man. What are you drinking?’
Tall and muscle-packed, Flynn had put on a bit of weight, Mariner thought, and his dark hair, always unkempt, was beginning to recede, but otherwise he’d hardly changed. ‘How are you?’
Mariner shrugged. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I guess it will start to feel like that at some point.’
‘It’s a tough call. I heard your wife was involved.’
‘My partner. She’s okay. Still in shock, of course, but she’s all right.’
‘I’m glad.’ Flynn glanced around him. ‘You haven’t lost your touch anyway. This is a terrific pub,’ he said, lifting the dregs of his beer. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Mariner asked. ‘The blast?’
Flynn shook his head. ‘Let’s go and sit down, eh?’ He picked up a battered sports bag squatting at his feet and led the way to a booth in a corner of the room, where they spent a few minutes catching up on personal lives. Dave’s marriage, shaky four years ago, was now over. ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ he said. ‘Stuff we should have resolved before we got married.’ The job was the issue as Mariner remembered it, Flynn’s wife wanting more of a nine-to-five routine. Fat chance. It brought their conversation inevitably on to work.
‘Still a DI then?’ Flynn asked.
‘That conference was enough to put me off going any further,’ said Mariner. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ve taken a sideways shunt. I work for the Met Special Branch now.’
Mariner was impressed. It was a bit like staying on the subs’ bench but moving from St Andrew’s to Stamford Bridge. ‘That must make for a more interesting life,’ he said.
‘I’m working on the Geoffrey Ryland case.’
‘Christ. Playing with the grown-ups, then.’ Mariner looked up at him. ‘Is that why you’re here? There’s a Birmingham connection?’
‘You could say that.’ Rummaging inside the sports bag, Flynn produced a padded envelope, which he tossed onto the table in front of Mariner. ‘And, as we used to say in our school playground, “You’re it.”’ He picked up his empty glass. ‘I’ll get another drink in.’
The envelope had been broken open and left unsealed. Mariner unfolded the flap and tipped out the contents, a pile of assorted snapshots. He picked through them with a growing feeling of disquiet. In all, there must have been more than a dozen photographs of varying sizes, some black and white, some in faded colour. Most were curling at the edges with age and, on all but one, the backs were annotated with numbers and dates.
Looking up he saw that Flynn had returned to the table and set down a glass of single malt in front of him. ‘I figured you might need something a bit stronger,’ he said.
‘We thought at first that we’d uncovered Sir Geoffrey’s penchant for
young boys. Then we noticed the pattern.’
The pictures themselves were innocuous enough, but they’d made the hairs on Mariner’s neck stand on end. The main subject, the face smiling out at Mariner from all those photographs, in various stages of development, was his. Most of the shots were familiar to him, copies of those he’d seen at home over the years. Only one, of him as a new-born, was unfamiliar. The most recent was dated 1974, when he’d have been fifteen and in the fourth year at grammar school. Mariner tried to come up with a logical explanation for the discovery, and could only find the one. He’d always wanted to know. There were times in his life when the suspense had been crippling. But he never expected to find out like this, out of the blue, from a man he hardly knew. His whole body felt wired, as if a high voltage current was buzzing around his veins. Sensing that some kind of reaction was called for, Mariner somehow found his voice and forced a wry laugh. ‘Well, what do you know?’
Chapter Seven
‘You had no idea?’
Mariner took a slug of the whisky to quell the maelstrom that had started inside him. ‘Not a clue. My mother died suddenly last year and took the secret of his identity to her grave. She’d never felt that the time was right to tell me. Then all of a sudden it was too late.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Mariner shrugged, unsure of what Flynn was sorry for.
‘It was bloody lucky really.’ Flynn was giving him time to try and take it in. ‘I happened to be overseeing the search of Ryland’s house and was there when one of the plods found the key to a safety deposit nobody knew he had. When it turned up these, I recognised them straight away, remembered what you’d told me that night at the Drunken Duck. I can help you to arrange a DNA test, just to make sure. But I’m fucked if I can see any other reason why this guy would be keeping your life history in photographs hidden in a safety deposit box, can you?’
Killer Lies (Reissue) Page 5
