by Karla Forbes
Mason cast a nervous glance towards Webber, who was appeared to be waiting for his answer with interest. He turned back to Anson, going on the attack. “I presume you haven’t read the case notes.”
Anson inclined his head. “That’s correct.”
“So you won’t be aware of the fact that Sullivan’s wife was having an affair with Wellerby and was expecting his baby.”
Anson seemed unimpressed. “And you think that was a reason for murder? Nowadays it’s probably not even a reason for divorce.”
“He obviously lost his temper,” Mason argued, with mounting irritation.
“Or,” Anson pointed out mildly, “he was telling the truth, and Wellerby was murdered by three men, just as he said.”
Mason opened his mouth to protest, but Anson smoothly interrupted him. “What have you done to find Sullivan?”
Mason was back on firmer ground. “He has a friend, Edward Burgen, a sergeant with the Sussex Force. We know that Sullivan went to him for help. Burgen turned him away, but his sister Annelies wasn’t so sensible. We know for a fact that she helped him out, because we found his car in her garage. We think they’ve gone away together. We’ve done all the usual; monitoring the use of their credit cards and mobile phones, circulated her registration number.”
“Anything so far?” Anson asked.
“It’s early days. We’ve only just found out about the sister’s involvement, but her phone has been used twice; once in Wimbledon and again at Clacket Lane Services. It didn’t help much. They were obviously on the move.”
“No luck with sighting her car then?”
“No,” Mason said regretfully. “Until her phone was used, we’d been keeping an eye open in the Sussex area.”
Anson regarded the ceiling for several long moments. “You’ve been very helpful, Inspector Mason,” he said after a while. “That will be all for the time being. I’m sorry to have dragged you from your bed.”
Mason gaped, unable to believe he was being summarily dismissed. He turned to Webber for support, but the Chief Constable was staring through him in disapproving silence. Mason rose clumsily to his feet, the gall of humiliation rising in the back of his throat.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Anson said with a pleasant smile, “I’ll need to see the file on Sullivan. Straight away, if you don’t mind.”
***
Mason grunted and hurried from the room. Five minutes later, it was a more junior officer who brought Anson the file. Anson scanned it quickly, taking in everything he needed in less time than it took most people take to read a wine list. He looked up to where Chief Constable Webber was watching him thoughtfully.
“We need to make a conference call with your counterpart in Sussex.”
“Go ahead,” Webber offered, indicating the phone on his desk. Anson pressed buttons and seconds later they were being connected. “Chief Constable Becket,” he began. “I’m phoning from Kent Police headquarters. There’s been a development that you need to be aware of.”
“Please, call me Jim,” Becket said. “Who else is party to this call?”
“As few people as possible,” Anson told him. “At the moment just you, me and Chief Constable Webber.”
“Good evening, Gerald,” Becket said, acknowledging the presence of Webber. “What have we got so far?”
“There’s no sign of Malcolm Fox, but I have good reason to believe that he is working with two other men who were responsible for murdering a man a few days ago. It’s a long story and I’ll fill you in later, but there was a witness to the murder: a man called Nick Sullivan. Are you aware of this?”
“No,” Becket admitted. “Should I be?”
“Talk to your CID,” Anson told him. “They know about the case. Suspicion for the murder fell on Sullivan, and he went on the run. It appears that he’s been following Fox. He might even know the identity of the other two men.”
“I don’t understand,” Becket cut in. “If he’s on the run from Kent Police, why would we know about him?”
“He has a friend in Brighton Division, a Detective Sergeant Burgen. He turned to him for help. We think Burgen refused him, but his sister was more accommodating; she helped Sullivan go on the run.”
“I’ll bring myself up to speed on the case as soon as I’ve put the phone down,” Becket promised. “So what do you want us to do? Go public with Fox’s identity? I can have the whole county looking for him. Just say the word.”
“No, don’t do that,” Anson cautioned. “As soon as Fox knows we’re on to him he’ll go underground. We’ll never find him.”
“What, then?” Becket asked.
“Right now, it seems that the only man in the country who might know the whereabouts of Fox is this man, Nick Sullivan. Unfortunately, he currently has little reason to trust the police, so he’s going to be difficult to find. But it’s imperative that we do. If we find him, there’s a very good chance we’ll find the others.”
“Leave that to me,” Webber said, evidently embarrassed by Mason’s earlier failings. “How do you want to play this?”
“Use the fact that he’s wanted for murder,” Anson told him. “Have his face plastered all over the press and television. Make sure every policeman in the land is looking for him, but you must emphasise the fact that it’s in connection with the murder of his friend Tim Wellerby. Fox and his accomplices are going to be reading the papers and watching the television, looking out for the slightest indication that we’re on to them. If they see that we are searching for Sullivan they’ll be suspicious, unless they’re convinced that the only reason we want him is to bring him in for murder.”
“Tough on Sullivan,” Becket commented, “having the whole country thinking he’s killed someone.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Anson told him brusquely. “This is a war we’re fighting. Every war has its casualties.”
“Do you want Burgen to know what’s going on?” Becket asked. “He might know where Sullivan is, and save us all a great deal of trouble.”
Anson considered the question. “Sound him out,” he suggested at length, “but tread carefully. It’s important at this stage that the real reason we want to speak to Sullivan doesn’t get out. There’s too much at stake.”
“I understand,” Becket said. “Keep me informed. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
Anson disconnected and turned to Webber. “I suggest you scale up the hunt for Sullivan. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Webber promised. “I’ll get right on to it.” He reached out for the phone and spent several minutes giving orders. When he had finished, he turned back to Anson. “This plutonium threat, how serious is it?”
Anson glanced up from re-reading the Wellerby murder file. “Hopefully not as bad as we first feared.”
Webber looked surprised. “Really?”
“Now that we know we’re dealing with run-of-the-mill criminals rather than a politically-motivated terrorist group, I can say, almost certainly, that it’s not a nuclear bomb. I’d put my money on it being a number of dirty bombs, and to be honest I can’t see the government handing over sixty million quid to stop one of them.”
Webber looked shocked. “Why not?”
Anson allowed himself a thin smile. “By far the biggest danger of dirty bombs is people finding out about it and panicking. If the government think they can get away with it, they’ll cover it up. The public will be told it was a conventional bomb. Islamic terrorists will probably get the blame. It might even be politically expedient.”
“But people will start dying of radiation sickness?” Webber said, unsure. “How do you hope to cover that up?”
“No one will be seen to die of radiation” Anson said, matter-of-factly. “Most people who are near enough to take a fatal dose will die in the explosion. A few unfortunates might get cancer several months down the line, but by then, no one will make the connection.”
Webber was shocked. “That’s callous,” he said, disapprovingly.
“No
it isn’t,” Anson countered. “It’s sound common sense. Plutonium is only dangerous if it gets inside the body: injection, open wounds, ingestion or inhalation. There’s no way you can feed plutonium to the population, and putting it in the drinking supply is a waste of time because it’s heavier than water, so in any practical way that just leaves inhalation.”
Webber began to speak, but Anson interrupted him.
“What happens when a bomb explodes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Everyone runs like hell. They don’t stand around breathing it in, and even if they did, most of the plutonium would have dispersed in the atmosphere and present no real threat.”
“But you can’t guarantee that,” Webber argued. “If there’s little wind, or thick fog, or smoky conditions, the plutonium could hang around for ages.”
“That’s true,” Anson agreed, “and if people were standing around, it could be dangerous. But as I’ve already said, they won’t be. They’ll be running away.”
“I guess you know best,” Webber said, sounding unconvinced.
Anson sat back in the chair, relaxed, one leg crossed casually over the other.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not complacent about the dangers of plutonium, but I don’t see how any terrorist, or common criminal in this instance, can ensure the right conditions. First, they would have to devise some way of making sure that instead of running away, people would be standing around for at least an hour or so breathing it in. And secondly, you have to ensure that there’s very little air movement and the plutonium stays near the ground. How could anyone pull those two things off simultaneously?”
Webber had no answer.
“Exactly,” Anson said confidently. “Trust me on this: it can’t be done.”
“But if it could be?” Webber ventured.
“Then it would be disastrous,” Anson agreed. “But it’s not something we have to worry about. I don’t think anyone is that clever.”
***
Cathy Roberts opened a reluctant eye and listened; the silence was balm to her ears. She pulled the duvet back over her head and closed her eyes again. The last thing she wanted to do right now was get out of bed and stand shivering at the kitchen door watching the dog pottering aimlessly around the garden. She was almost asleep when it came again, a single bark. She sat up and glared with suspicion at her snoring husband. Was he really asleep, or was it a ruse to get out of taking the long cold walk downstairs? If he was pretending, it was an Oscar-winning performance.
With a disgruntled huff she threw back the covers, rummaged around in the darkness for her slippers and hurried downstairs, wrapping her arms around her for warmth. She turned towards the kitchen but was stopped in her tracks by another single bark coming from the saloon bar. What was the dog doing in there? She hesitated, unsure. Could they have intruders? It had happened before, people breaking in after hours, either to raid the till or help themselves to the booze. She told herself to get a grip. It wasn’t a warning bark, just a call for attention.
All the same, she grabbed an umbrella and gingerly pushed open the door to the saloon. The dog raised his head at her appearance, but quickly resumed sniffing a strange object behind the bar.
“What have you got there?” she asked, yawning now that the threat of danger was past. She laid the umbrella to one side and hunkered down beside him. It was an unremarkable-looking box with a note pinned to the outside. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when they had been tidying up to go to bed. She guessed it must have been kicked to one side and overlooked. She turned the note over in her hand, read it through twice, then looked again at the box with renewed interest. She ripped it open, raised an eyebrow in surprise, then turned back to the note, scanning it for a clue to the identity of the writer. There was nothing. She tried to think who it might be, but quickly gave up. It could have come from any number of their regulars.
She resealed the box and carried it out to the kitchen, stowing it in the broom cupboard. As she straightened up, she felt a cold wet nose brushing against her legs and she reached down to fondle the dog’s ear.
“You don’t really want to go in the garden do you lad?” she asked, hopefully. The dog eyed up the door and decided that he did, and it was ten minutes later that Cathy was hurrying back upstairs.
Her husband opened a bleary eye. “What’s up?” he asked drowsily.
“Nothing,” she told him. “Go back to sleep.” She snuggled into the small of his back wrapping her arms around him to absorb his warmth. Minutes later, she was fast asleep, the box already forgotten.
Chapter Twelve
Nick steered with one hand and rummaged around in the glove compartment with the other, searching for anything that could help his sore throat. A stray boiled sweet, chewing gum, anything would do. It was becoming difficult to swallow, and now there was a new discomfort to add to his growing list: aching limbs. He glared accusingly at the road signs as he headed towards Ramsgate. At first, as the directions for Kent International airport had appeared, he had been alarmed. If they caught a plane and flew out of the country, there would be nothing he could do to stop them. But they had kept on going. Relief quickly gave way to exasperation. Was this journey ever going to end?
“Where the hell are you going?” he muttered wearily. He was tired and hungry, and the idea of given himself up and availing himself of Mason’s kind hospitality was sounding more attractive with every passing hour. At least in a prison cell he would be fed and have nothing more strenuous to do than lay back and go to sleep. He might even get to see a doctor. Prisoners and pets had one thing in common, he mused: they were rarely left to suffer from ailments that the rest of the population was expected to endure.
He angrily shook the idea from his mind; he wasn’t ready to give up yet. The airport receded into the distance and still they kept going, heading towards the outskirts of Ramsgate.
“What now?” he growled. “A nice trip to the seaside to round off a day in the park?”
The BMW took an unexpected turning to the right. Nick followed, feeling uncomfortably exposed. Previously his presence had been screened by other traffic, but here the cars were few and far between. How long would it take them to realise that the same headlights were hanging on their tail? He pulled back as far as he dared. The roads became narrower. A sign loomed out of the darkness and their indicator light flicked on. As they turned in, he kept going, snatching a glance through the windscreen as he drove past. He rolled his eyes in disbelief at the sign proclaiming their new destination to be the Golden Galleon Caravan Park. Did anything about this day make sense?
He waited for ten minutes until he was sure that they weren’t coming out again, then drove in behind them. It was a typical caravan park, with acres of identical caravans that were parked several yards apart in regimental rows. At night and out of season, it seemed forlorn and derelict. He glimpsed the clubhouse and swimming pool complex situated some distance away and tried to imagine how it would look in the height of summer, ablaze with light and noise and music. Like a blowsy older woman who only truly shows her age in the cold light of morning, it had the seedy feel of a place built for summer: good to look at until the first grey chill of winter arrives.
He drove slowly around until he saw it: the BMW parked outside one of the caravans on the edge of the park. There was another vehicle there, a white van. The vultures were gathering yet again. At least he could stop worrying now about leaving Annelies alone with Hubner. He pulled over and watched with narrowed eyes. He knew what he had to do: book a neighbouring caravan and continue the surveillance. There was no question of him doing anything else. He hadn’t come all this way to give up now.
Making the decision was easier than carrying it out. He assumed that booking a caravan wouldn’t be a problem. There were very few cars dotted around, a result he guessed of most sensible people preferring to spend the first few chilly days of November huddled around their own firesides. Paying for it presented a whole new challenge. It was
one thing to use his credit card when he was on the move, quite another to use it in a place where he could be staying for God knows how many days. He eyed up the caravans with longing. He wanted nothing more than to get out of the car, stretch out in a real bed and rest his aching joints. Reluctantly, he turned the car around and drove into Ramsgate, cruising around until he found a cash machine. He withdrew the maximum amount he was allowed, realising that there was a good reason why his account hadn’t been frozen: they wanted to track him. It hardly mattered now. What good would it do them to know that he had passed through Ramsgate? It could take them forever to find him buried in an out-of-the-way caravan park.
He felt better with a wallet full of his own money. He pulled into a twenty-four-hour supermarket and treated himself to some much-needed supplies, and by the time he arrived, once again, at the entrance to the Golden Galleon Caravan Park, his good spirits were restored. It lasted less than five minutes – right up to the moment, in fact, that he discovered that the reception office was closed.
It was going to be a long cold night sleeping in the car.
***
“What I don’t understand,” Wilson said pensively, “is why you’re so sure this woman didn’t stumble across the van by accident.”
“It was the way she reacted,” Hubner explained. “The moment she saw me she ran.”
“But if she’d seen Feltham’s wife inside, she would have known something was wrong,” Wilson pointed out.
“Of course,” Hubner agreed, “but she wouldn’t have known what. When I turned up, you would have expected her to hesitate, look confused, ask what was going on. Any of those things would have been understandable. But she just ran.”
Wilson looked unconvinced.
“It wasn’t just that,” Hubner continued, “When I got back to the van, I found a small collection of tools on the ground. I think she’d been trying to pick the lock.”
“Christ!” Fox said alarmed. “Who do you think she was? The police? MI5?”
