by Hayden, Mark
A distant voice shouted, ‘Ask him in and close the ruddy door. It’s freezing in here.’
The boy returned and stood aside. Kate noticed the pile of shoes on a mat and started untying her laces as best she could with numb fingers. After closing the door, the boy disappeared upstairs.
A shout – Evan! – came from the back of the house. If that were the boy’s name, he’d never hear because sounds of a computer game were already drifting down from his room. A few seconds later, Mrs Wade appeared through the door into the kitchen.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought you were a man.’
Kate decided on good non-cop. ‘You aren’t the first to make that mistake.’
‘No, no, I mean Evan didn’t say that you was a woman. I just thought it was a man at the door. I didn’t mean that I thought you was a man.’
She had her hair pulled back and was wearing a long top over leggings and fluffy slippers. On top of all this was an apron. Flour and make-up were smudged on her face.
‘Please … it’s okay,’ said Kate. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt – I can come back later if you’re baking.’
‘I’m not baking: my daughter is. Officially, that is. For the Christmas Fayre at school, would you believe … except if we don’t practise now we’ve got no chance next month – and the rugby’s off ‘cos of the weather, so Evan and his friend are upstairs.’
She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Kate properly. Recognition slowly dawned on her face. Kate realised that she was never going to be good at this – so few women had her build that once noticed, she was rarely forgotten.
‘Aren’t you…?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry we argued last time we met. The inquest must have been terrible for you.’
Mrs Wade looked back into the kitchen. ‘Cerys, can you put some of those things in the dishwasher and start to wipe down the surfaces? That’s a love. I won’t be long.’ She took off her apron and hung it from the kitchen door. ‘Come with me.’
Kate followed her into the front room with its floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bay. It was spectacular, but even with double glazing, she could feel the heat leaching out. Mrs Wade pointed to one of the chairs arranged to face out, and Kate sat down, unzipping her jacket to make herself look more like a welcome visitor and less like an intruder. It didn’t work.
‘It’s Captain Lonsdale, isn’t it?’
‘Not any more. I resigned my commission in the summer. It’s Miss Lonsdale, or preferably Kate.’
The other woman nodded, but didn’t offer her own first name in exchange.
‘The reason I called,’ said Kate, ‘is that I went to see Vinnie’s parents the other day. His mother was going through his affairs and found that he had more money than she thought he would have been able to save. I just wanted to make sure that you had a good lawyer who was on top of things. In case, you know, that Gareth had been ultra-careful with his assets.’
‘You’ve come a long way to say that, haven’t you?’
‘I do contract work now. I had a job in South Wales and I thought I’d make a long weekend of it in Pembroke. That’s the thing about the Army – like everything else, your spare time comes in rations, so you have to make the most of it. I’m not used to being a civilian yet.’ She was getting nowhere. Mrs Wade hadn’t made eye contact, nodded or shown any sign of engaging in a conversation. Kate was starting to waffle, so she just shut up and left a silence. Mrs Wade broke first.
‘We’re doing all right, thank you. I’ll have to go back to work after Christmas, but we’ll be okay.’ There was a pause before she continued. ‘I don’t know how the kids are going to cope without him on Christmas Day, mind. Even when he was on a tour of duty, he always Skyped them. I think Cerys is still expecting his face to appear on the computer any day now. I had to stop her from replaying all the old sessions that she’d recorded. Pretended to her that the computer had broken.’
She was laying it on with a trowel. Kate didn’t doubt a word of what the woman had said, and she imagined that the children would be wandering around for years expecting to see their father, just like she had done when her mother died, but the Grieving Widow act was even less convincing than Kate’s Concerned Colleague. She’d seen enough.
‘I’d better let you get back to your baking. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Mrs Wade smiled with relief and stood up. She stood for a long time with her hand on the front door catch, waiting for Kate to retie her shoelaces.
She drove to the nearest pub and ordered some lunch, picking the first thing on the menu that came with chips.
She knew a brush-off when she got one. She had also checked various estate agents’ websites, and there was no sign that the Wade home had been put on the market. Therefore, Mrs Wade must have found enough money to carry on in the short term. What would Tom do now?
Well, there had been three men in that helicopter. Two of them had been receiving money from an unknown source: what about the third? Could Conrad have been in on something with them?
It had taken all her determination to speak to Mrs Wade: she hadn’t a clue where to start with Conrad Clarke. The man was just so plausible. He was the sort of bloke that a husband might find in bed with his wife – and then end up going down the pub with him, because Conrad had convinced the husband that there was a perfectly innocent explanation. If she didn’t get anywhere else, she’d think about tracking him down.
Her food arrived, and she devoured it in minutes. Around the bar, couples were eating lunch, and groups of men were chatting over a pint. She had never felt so alone in her life. Tom was with his family, her friends were in the Army, Vinnie was dead and she had no colleagues.
She dug out her phone and sent Anthony Skinner a text:
Ready for the next job so long as it’s not in Hong Kong. He might respond on Monday … it might be weeks – or never.
She thought back to Tom’s injuries. Whatever he was into, it was very serious, and he had told her last night that he was back on the case in Earlsbury. Could she do anything to help him? Something behind the scenes?
It was nearly nine months since the Valentine’s Day shootout at Four Ashes Farm in Essex. There was one other loose end – Mina Finch. On the day that Mina’s husband had been stabbed – and Mina had shot his killer – Kate had found herself staring down the barrel of a gun being held by a very small woman, who seemed to have been expecting her. Perhaps she could visit Mrs Finch in prison and put her on the spot. No. Bad idea.
She had got an out of season bargain at the hotel – a five star room for a three star price. Included in the deal was access to the gym and pool. Kate picked up her keys and left the pub. She was going to have a nap and then hit the gym. Tom’s throwaway comment from his sick bed had reminded here that there was one part of her life she could control – and that was her waistline.
After her nap, she checked her phone and found a message from Skinner suggesting a meeting at a completely new location – the London HQ of Consolidated International Security. Had he got a new job for her? She replied and told him Any time after 15:00 Monday.
It wasn’t a day for looking at new cars. A coating of snow had given way to sleet, and Tom’s father had very quickly suggested – after visiting the BMW garage – that the internet would be a lot warmer. Tom agreed. When they got home, his father had to manoeuvre around a small hatchback partly blocking the drive. His mother was waiting for them at the back door.
‘There’s a journalist in the hall,’ she hissed. ‘She says there’s going to be a story tomorrow that you should comment on.’
Tom had no intention of commenting on anything.
‘Why did you let her in?’ asked his father.
‘Would you leave someone outside in that weather?’
Tom and his father shared a glance. Yes, they both would. Without hesitation. ‘Don’t put the kettle on until she’s gone,’ he said to his mother, then went through to the hall. Too late. The journalist was alre
ady enjoying a cup of tea.
‘DI Morton. How can I help you?’ he said in a voice which implied he had no such intention whatsoever.
She introduced herself as Juliet Porterhouse, and Tom insisted on checking her credentials. Most journalists know better than to doorstep police officers, and Tom had learned early on that the ones who did so were invariably freelancers or (worse still) bloggers. He never talked to either type. This one, however, was a staff reporter for one of the Sunday broadsheets. When he saw the name of her paper, he vaguely remembered her.
‘You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?’
‘I was in Blackpool last night. I’ll file my copy from here then head back down the A1.’
She looked at the door to the sitting room, hoping to be invited in. Tom said nothing, and she began by asking about his convalescence. He gave polite but truthful answers about his health and played a straight bat when her questions shifted to how he had come by his wounds.
‘I’ve come here for a reason,’ she said. ‘We’re going to be running a story tomorrow which identifies Benedict Adaire as the leader of a Republican hit squad in Northern Ireland. The Lancashire and Westmorland Constabulary have already identified the bomber as coming from Belfast, and he would be the right age to have been a terrorist himself during the Troubles. We want to give you a chance to explain what you were doing in that car. The Lancashire & Westmorland press office has given us nothing at all.’
Porterhouse opened her notebook. ‘Are you really working for Professional Standards, or is that a cover for something else?’
Tom looked around him. His instinct was to send her packing, but the very last thing he wanted was his picture next to the article and veiled hints that he worked for MI5. ‘I’ll give you two quotes,’ he said. ‘One for free and one with a condition.’
‘Let’s start with the free one,’ said the journalist. ‘Do you mind if I record it? My fingers are too cold for shorthand.’
‘Go ahead.’
She took out a recording device and held it up.
‘I’m a very lucky copper. Or a very unlucky one,’ he began. ‘Most of my work for the police has been in fraud and money laundering. I’m very handy with a spreadsheet and normally I don’t even carry handcuffs. On that night, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was the unlucky part. The lucky part is that I’m still alive and I’ll make a full recovery.’
‘And the second quote?’
‘The condition is that you do not begin your piece by saying: speaking from his parents’ luxurious Georgian house in York where his father is a judge... ’
The look on her face said that she hadn’t been thinking of saying that but wished she had. She nodded, and Tom pointed to her recorder. ‘Say it for the tape, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Fair enough. Minimal personal context. You are married, though?’
He pressed his lips together. ‘Very nearly divorced. Just waiting for the judge to pronounce that life in the marriage is extinct.’
‘Sorry about that. Go on.’
‘Benedict Adaire was a common criminal, and so was the man who murdered him. They were both involved in a wide variety of crimes in England that had nothing to do with their past in Northern Ireland. Crime, not paramilitary violence, is what brought them together and crime is what made them fall out.’
Porterhouse switched off the recorder and considered what he had said. ‘Okay. Not what I hoped for, but more than I expected. Thanks, Inspector.’
He showed her to the door, and she buttoned up her coat. Patches of icy sleet were beginning to accumulate at the edge of the lawn. ‘Drive carefully,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a long way.’
‘You’re not joking. I’m going to head off now and phone my copy in from the services.’ She dug her hands in her coat pocket to retrieve her gloves and pulled out a business card with them. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘If you like what you read tomorrow, bear me in mind for the future.’
He made a point of putting it in his wallet, and she smiled at him before making a dash for her car. It never hurt to have a contact in the press.
On the way back to the kitchen he received a text from Kris Hayes.
Body found in Earlsbury. Inside info says Patrick Lynch. Do you want me to start digging now?
He responded: Wait until Monday. Dig gently.
Chapter 6
London– On the Train – York – London
Monday
22 November
Clarke’s second appointment with the neurologist was at the ludicrous time of eight o’clock on Monday morning. It was the doctor herself who admitted him to the building, and this time she didn’t bother to take off her coat. Neither did he: it was too cold.
‘Sorry to drag you into town so early, Conrad. I’m pleased to say that this won’t take long.’
‘Oh good. I like the sound of that.’
‘I accessed your MRI results yesterday – it beats trying to cook Sunday dinner. You have no tumour and no stroke damage. They were my main concerns.’
‘There’s a “but”, isn’t there?’
‘Isn’t there always? I think you might have had some very minor trauma damage, possibly in the crash. Can I show you this?’
She pushed her computer monitor around, and several multi-coloured scans of his brain were revealed. ‘Can you imagine standing on top of a very tall building?’ He nodded. ‘These images are like looking down at floor plans. Each one shows a different level through your brain. It’s not quite the same because they’re rotated through 90 degrees, and the first one is close to your left ear, the last one is close to your right ear. Got that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Normally, this section talks to that section.’ She pointed to two different parts of his brain. ‘But in your case, there might have been some damage – even a temporary break in the circuit. There’s no way of knowing this, but when you crashed, I think that this section stopped talking to that section for a few seconds, and because the brain is very adaptable, it found a way round via here.’
It was all a bit much. She was pointing to different parts of his head as if meant something to him, and it meant nothing.
She pressed on regardless. ‘When you woke up, normal service was resumed, but it now seems that there is a scenic route in your brain. Very, very occasionally, some of the signals don’t go down the motorway. They go for a drive round the coast and pick up a passenger – a man in a cloak.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘That’s a very nice metaphor, Doctor, but what does it mean for me?’
‘It means that I want – I insist – that you have another scan in six months’ time, to see if there is any change. In the meantime, carry on as before unless the symptoms get worse. Or you could try psychoanalysis – perhaps the man in the cloak isn’t a neurological phantom but something surfacing from your past.’
That was a relief. Probably. His doctor was smiling like a TV advert on pause. She was waiting to see if he had any questions. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and she started to close down her computer. On one of the bookshelves was a tiny statuette of Kali.
He stood up to go. ‘Tell me Doctor, do you think the man in the cloak might be Ganesha?’
She sat there with her mouth open as if she’d suffered her own short-circuit.
‘I don’t like therapists,’ he said. ‘I wondered if a priest might not be more use.’
She closed her jaw and stood up. ‘Whatever floats your boat, Conrad. Whatever floats your boat.’
His new laptop was working, his new(ish) BMW was sitting on the drive, and his new skin was healing nicely. That’s the glass half full view of the world, thought Tom. He had never been a glass half empty person.
Snow had been forecast for tomorrow, but he wasn’t in a position to leave now. The hospital had insisted he get dressings from the district nurse, who couldn’t come until tonight.
Kate had pointed him in the direction of an encryption system for videoconferencing, and he told
Hayes to check it out. Before long, he was looking at a low resolution image of her in a conference room at BCSS.
‘How was your first day back at work? Any problems?’
She shrugged. The encryption system added a slight delay, and her shoulders seemed to spasm. ‘It was okay. I went to Human Resources and told them the Griffin investigation was still active, and that they should ring CIPPS in Lambeth. They couldn’t be bothered. It’ll take a few days before ACC Khan even realises I’m back.’
‘Good. What news on Patrick Lynch? Is it definitely him?’
‘Yes. Because we had arrested him, it wasn’t too difficult for me to find out what was going on.’
‘Even better. Take me through it from the beginning.’
There was a flash and a flicker as the connection nearly disappeared, then Hayes looked down at her notebook to give him the story.
‘On Saturday morning, a delivery driver followed his satnav down a dead end. He couldn’t turn his waggon round in the lane and went through into an old loading dock by the canal. This is about two miles from Earlsbury centre, under the M5 flyover. The driver had to do a careful ten-point turn and came face to face with an old van in the bushes. He could clearly see a body in the front and dialled 999 straight away.’
She paused to see if he had any questions. He waved for her to continue – and four seconds later – she did. ‘The body was in the front passenger seat and slumped over the dash. There was no obvious sign of foul play, but the officer attending recognised Patrick Lynch, and the full Major Incident Protocol was observed.
‘However, there was nothing to find. There were no prints on the van at all except Patrick Lynch’s. The keys were missing, but the door was unlocked. The only forensic note of any significance was that the van has been used regularly for the transportation of fish.’
‘Fish?’
‘Yes, sir. The van had false plates but the VIN proved that its last legal owner was a fresh fish business based in Fleetwood, Lancs. They sold it to a man who gave a false name and paid cash.’
