In the Red Corner - Volume III of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mina. ‘I got the impression from Sergeant Morton that you dealt fairly with people. I’m surprised he didn’t come today – he seemed to be very invested in this case.’

  ‘He is, but he’s moved on. Apparently it’s Chief Inspector Morton now. If they let you look at the internet again, you should check out a bombing in Blackpool recently. Try the Sunday Examiner if they’ve got a decent website.’

  ‘Why?’

  Fulton gave her a cryptic smile, and the three men left the interview room.

  ‘Do you want me to look it up on my phone?’ asked McEwan.

  ‘No, don’t bother. There are back copies of a month’s newspapers in the library. I’ll read about it there.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s getting worse, I’m afraid.’

  Damn. Clarke rubbed his hand over the top of his head and looked in the mirror. He knew that his bald patch had been spreading, and the barber confirmed the worst of his fears. If he didn’t do something soon, he would be entering comb-over territory, and that was not a good look.

  ‘You are quite tall,’ said the barber. ‘Most people won’t notice.’

  ‘Time for emergency action. Cut it all off.’

  ‘Are you sure? A complete shave takes a long time to grow out. How about a one-eighth fuzz? Just enough to give a shadow.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  The barber did a good job, and Clarke was satisfied with the result. Of course, he couldn’t trim it himself afterwards, unlike a complete shave, so he would have to keep coming back to the barber. He paid and walked out on to the main street. It was no hardship coming to Garstang. He had never heard of the little market town until the other day, and he quite liked its single street and the sense that everyone knew everyone else. It also had a Booths supermarket, another pleasant discovery. He was going to eat well if he shopped there.

  He peered into the windows of two jewellers and chose the second one because there was a woman behind the counter. He went up to her and said, ‘I’ve got fifty pounds to spend on a birthday present for a woman I’ve never met, whose birthday party I’ve been invited to. What would you recommend?’

  ‘Earrings,’ said the assistant, and showed him two trays. He chose a yellow gold pair and asked for them to be gift-wrapped.

  He wore a suit but no tie for the supper. It was supposed to be informal, after all, and he arrived at twenty to nine. His one concession to vanity was parking the Land Rover well away from the grand entrance, so no one saw him arrive in what amounted to an agricultural vehicle.

  On his way to the private dining room, he stopped to look at the pictures. Sure enough, there was Joseph’s great grandfather in hunting pink. The caption said his name was Charles Kirkham Malbranche. They must have dropped the last bit.

  He went to the top floor and down an unfamiliar corridor. Approaching him was Julian Bentley, leading two small boys in pyjamas. ‘Hello Conrad, glad you could make it. It’s bedtime for these two, so just go in and say hello.’

  ‘Thanks, erm, Julian. Excuse me for asking, but which one’s the birthday girl?’

  Bentley laughed. ‘Blonde hair, gold dress. Can’t miss her.’

  Clarke tried to walk into the room as if he belonged there when everything from his shaven head to his parade-ground shoes said he didn’t.

  The buffet was under wraps at the back of the room, and in front of it was a mixed crowd of friends and relatives. At least, he assumed they were friends, because the Jennings family couldn’t have produced so many cousins in their thirties.

  ‘She’s not here yet,’ said a voice from behind him. It was Lady Jennings.

  ‘Susan. Did you get here all right? No snow?’

  ‘Not so much. Amelia is bringing her latest conquest tonight. Apparently he’s quite a big name in entertainment, but I had to look him up. He’s some sort of music producer.’

  ‘Good for her. Now you’re here, would you mind terribly introducing me to Olivia – it is her party, after all.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’ve made your point. Come with me.’

  Clarke really was fed up with this. The whole family seemed to be assuming that Amelia had broken his heart, and that his single status, nine years later, was self-evident proof that no one could replace her. The real problem was that until he’d met Mina, they’d been right.

  Susan Jennings led him to her older daughter. Olivia was indeed wearing a gold dress, but it was one that Clarke thought more appropriate for someone’s twenty-fourth birthday, not their thirty-fourth. He could see plenty of her legs, but they would have looked better in jodhpurs. Her mother introduced him, and instead of referring to the Jilted by Amelia Club, she said that he was replacing Will Offlea. Then she left them alone.

  Olivia gave him two air kisses and said, ‘You’re not an actor as well, are you?’

  ‘As well as whom?’

  ‘As well as William, of course. He was always going down to London for jobs and changing his appearance.’

  God above, that man is a piece of work, he thought. Only Will Offlea could land up on the Fylde peninsula and pretend to be an actor. Clarke shook his head, both to deny that he was in the profession and also in wonder at Offlea’s cheek.

  But there was more. Olivia leaned closer and swayed ever so slightly on her heels. ‘We looked him up, but there was no sign of him anywhere. I asked him what sort of films he made, and he winked at me and said Adult entertainment, with the emphasis on adult. Can you imagine? A porn star.’

  Clarke could not imagine Offlea as a porn star. His head was bursting with the idea, and his brain was in danger of shutting down at the thought. He focused on bundles of US dollars to wipe the image out of his mind.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ he said. ‘I was in the RAF until recently.’

  Light dawned in her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re the one who proposed to…’

  He cut her off in mid flow. ‘You run the Fylde Equine Research Centre, don’t you?’

  She patted his arm. ‘Yes. That’s right. Well, I run the livery side. I’m not a scientist but I know my horses.’

  ‘That’s fascinating. I used to hunt, and it seems that riding is good for my wound. Do any of your horses need exercising?’

  ‘Really? Gosh, that would be great. If you’re sure you’re up to it…’

  ‘Only one way to find out. When’s the big day? Your birthday, I mean.’

  ‘Yesterday. Don’t ask how old.’

  ‘Many happy returns for yesterday, then,’ he said, and handed over one of the gift-wrapped packages he had brought with him.

  Olivia gave him her drink to hold and was just opening the box when her husband returned.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ said Bentley.

  She wasn’t an actress or a politician. Even so, Amelia Jennings made all the heads turn when she walked into the room. Unlike her sister, she had dressed down for the occasion in trousers and a black blouse. Except that her trousers were leather, and the blouse was the finest silk, accessorised with a diamond necklace.

  Her other accessory was a man in early middle age who was wearing a loosely cut jacket to hide his emerging paunch. He followed two steps behind and seemed as far out of his comfort zone with the country set as Clarke would have been at a London nightclub.

  Amelia scanned the room and made a beeline for her sister. By the time she arrived, Clarke had disappeared into the background.

  Supper was served five minutes later, and he managed to grab Sir Stephen on his own.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ said Jennings, ‘but not here. Can you really shoot, or will you embarrass me tomorrow?’

  ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Good. I’ve arranged for us to be paired together. Lunch is provided, and there’s transport back here afterwards for those excused the dinner.’

  ‘You make it sound like a chore. I hear the food is rather fine at Hartsford.’

  ‘Food is food: It’s getting dressed for dinner that
bothers me. Olivia insists that it’s a black tie occasion, and I’m getting too old for the penguin suit. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Jennings joined the queue for the buffet, and Clarke looked around. In the middle of winter it was easy to forget that the Sporting Hotel was part of the racecourse. All down the left-hand side of the dining room were doors opening on to an exclusive area of the grandstand. He saw Amelia’s escort taking out a packet of cigarettes and asking one of the hotel staff a question. The waiter pointed to a curtain, and the man nipped outside. Clarke followed him.

  They made typical smokers’ small talk, and Clarke discovered that the other nicotine addict was still married to his second wife, ‘But things don’t look good,’ said the man.

  ‘Do you want to get back with her?’

  ‘I want to go home. I’m living in a rented flat, and she’s in Islington.’

  Clarke nodded. ‘Let me guess. After your first date, Amelia made sure there were pictures of you in the papers.’

  ‘Yeah. Funny, that.’

  ‘Do you want my advice?’

  ‘Not really. I’m getting a lot of that at the moment from everywhere. Especially Twitter.’

  ‘Sorry. Never used Twitter, so I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I had half my leg blown off by the Taliban, so I know exactly how lucky I am.’

  ‘Really? Straight up?’

  Clarke stuck his cigarette in his mouth and rolled up his trouser leg. The scar was long and livid in the light from the dining room.

  ‘Then what would you advise, Mr War Hero?’

  Clarke stuck out his hand. ‘It’s Conrad, and I’m no hero.’

  ‘Gerard. Pleased to meet you. Go on then.’

  ‘Well, if I were you, I’d dump Amelia. Very publicly and humiliatingly, but not here: she has too many friends and there are no paparazzi. Do it soon. Then I’d go down on one knee to your wife and grovel. Also in public. At the same time, I’d find a rich Russian or Indian who wants to buy your house and get your lawyer to hint that your wife will have to move out before Christmas unless she takes you back.’

  They both lit a second cigarette, and Gerard mused on his advice. Before he could comment, the door opened, and Amelia stood silhouetted against the light.

  ‘There you are. Come inside: you haven’t met anyone yet.’

  Clarke didn’t move. He looked at her, and she glanced at him. The light was shining from inside on his face, and she suddenly recognised him. ‘Conrad? Is that you?’

  ‘Hello, Amelia. How are you?’

  Gerard was alarmed that they knew each other, and Amelia was put out to find him talking to her escort. She was torn between whisking Gerard away and stopping to assess Clarke’s long-term health. He took another drag on his cigarette, and she wafted away the smoke with her hand. ‘Are you going to the shoot tomorrow?’

  ‘Your father invited me.’

  Satisfied that she would get her chance later, she stepped aside for Gerard to go back. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to Clarke, and then took Amelia’s arm.

  Conrad fingered the other package in his pocket, the one Joe had brought back from the Trafford Centre, and he considered whether to cut and run. That would be a shame; the Sporting Hotel did excellent food and he was starving. He headed for the buffet and found Olivia stuffing an open sandwich into her mouth. She waved her fingers in front of her face, and he picked up a couple of tasty morsels himself.

  When she had finished chewing, Olivia said, ‘Just trying to soak up the wine with carbs. I saw you coming back from outside with Gerard. What’s he like?’

  ‘Prey.’

  ‘Pray for him? Why?’

  ‘No. Prey with an E. He said his name was Gerard. What’s his last name?’

  ‘That’s it. Or he doesn’t have one. Even his Twitter handle is @JustGerard. Thanks for the earrings, by the way. They’re lovely.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He finished stacking his plate. ‘Excuse me, I need to rest my leg. I’ll take you up on that offer of a ride, perhaps when the ground’s not so frosty.’

  He left her at the buffet table and started searching for a quiet corner.

  Kate’s flat was full of life. Unfortunately, all of it was concentrated in the fridge in the form of mould, bacteria and fungus. As he cleared it out, Tom wondered if the Army inoculated its personnel against these things. He had promised to keep an eye on her flat while she was in Dublin; she expected him to make sure the pipes didn’t freeze, but he was up early and thought he’d clean both flats properly. They were only tiny, after all, and he was full of nervous energy. Tonight, he was going to do something different. Tonight, Tom Morton was going speed dating.

  There had been a leaflet on the hall floor when he got back yesterday – Speed Dating in the City – Square Mile Residents Only. He read the small print and rang the number. There was still room for men under forty, so he was booked in. Only when he disconnected the call did he realise how madly stupid this was. He was going to die of embarrassment. He knew it.

  That was why he was up early and cleaning the flats – too much nervous energy and too cold to go anywhere outside. He tied up the bin liner full of Kate’s rubbish and put it on the landing. Then the door buzzed – for him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Tom, it’s Pete. Pete Fulton. Are you busy?’

  What on earth was his ex-boss doing in the City on a Saturday morning? He buzzed him in and shouted down the staircase for him to come up. He shoved the black bag in Kate’s flat and closed the door. He had the kettle on before Fulton got to the top floor.

  His visitor held up two bottle bags when he came in and then put them on the breakfast bar. ‘When you left, I didn’t get you a present,’ he said. ‘I was pretty hacked off about you leaving, but I got over it and bought you a nice bottle of wine. I know you’re a bit of a foodie.’

  ‘Not so much lately.’

  ‘Well, I never got round to bringing it over. Then I heard about the bomb, so I upgraded it to a single malt, and still didn’t bring it round. Been sitting on the floor of my office, tempting me, it has. And then I heard you’d got DCI, and I was going to keep them both.’

  Tom handed over a mug of coffee. ‘What changed your mind?’

  They sat on stools, and Fulton looked around the studio flat. ‘Bit like a monk’s cell, this, innit?’

  Tom shrugged. It was better than being compared to Mr Bleaney: at least monks had a vocation.

  Fulton continued, ‘It was yesterday that changed everything. I’ve been out to a women’s prison. Not my normal hunting ground, but we had a call from Mina Finch’s lawyer.’

  Tom looked up sharply and spilt some of his tea. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘A deal. Early release for Mina Finch in exchange for the location of the printing works.’

  ‘Did you bite?’

  ‘Too right, we did. The deal’s conditional on her delivering the goods. I’m on my way up to North London to see how the surveillance is going.’

  ‘Why now? What made her give it up so long after being arrested?’

  Fulton repeated Mina’s story, and Tom said, ‘Load of rubbish.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Well, not too closely.’

  ‘When are you going in?’

  ‘Monday morning. We’ve had a bit of a problem tracking down the owners. It seems that the list of directors at Companies House is a bit out of date.’

  ‘Will you let me know what happens?’

  ‘Straight away. You bust that distribution ring on your own, Tom, and it’s a shame you can’t get the glory for taking down the printers. As soon as it’s safe, I’ll be on the phone.’

  Tom kept his own counsel. He had a firm opinion about what they would find on Monday morning, but he wanted Fulton to discover it for himself.

  ‘How’s things in the Midlands? I saw your appearance on the TV.’

 
; ‘Not my finest hour, was it? How come you saw it? I thought it was only on the local news.’

  ‘It was on the internet. The whole office had a look.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I thought you did okay, considering you was ambushed. Anyway, how’s your wounds? It looked bad from the papers.’

  Fulton was suitably sympathetic. Unlike most of the money laundering team, he knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of criminal violence. Tom found it made a difference to talk about it with someone who’d been there and come back again. It made him think of Ian Hooper in Earlsbury. There was some unfinished business there as well.

  When his ex-boss had gone, he was left with some cleaning materials, two expensive bottles of drink and the speed dating leaflet. He resolved not to touch the drink until afterwards and to arrive at the dating event sober. That way he could enjoy the full horror of his humiliation.

  The minibus from the Sporting Hotel dropped its passengers at Hartsford Hall and drove away. Clarke wandered over to Julian Bentley and asked, ‘No Gerard today?’

  There were very few women on the shoot. Olivia, her mother and friends were having a day in the spa at the Sporting Hotel: Amelia was here, but without her escort.

  ‘According to my sister-in-law, he’s never fired a gun, and he needs to make a call to New York this afternoon,’ said Bentley with a shrug. ‘Here’s the gun I promised.’

  Clarke examined the firearm. It was an old and rather plain double-barrel, but it was in good condition. Probably Bentley’s first gun, now replaced.

  ‘Thanks. Much obliged.’

  He stuffed his pockets with shells, and skirted the groups of guns waiting for the gamekeeper to call them to order. He found Sir Stephen talking to a man he vaguely recognised from Iraq and Afghanistan when he had ferried mixed parties of intelligence people around the combat zones. The memory came into focus when Jennings introduced the man as Anthony Skinner, Chief Exec of CIS.

  ‘He’s brought me some news,’ said Jennings, ‘but I’d rather he told you in person over lunch. We’re off now.’

  They were led around the Hall and over a field to where the pegs were laid. Both men got their guns ready, and Jennings said, ‘Listen, Clarke, do you want any of these birds or not? They’re costing me thirty-five pounds each. There’s no need to slaughter them if you’re not going to do anything with them.’