by Hayden, Mark
‘Are you saying that I’ve lost my sense of perspective? You wouldn’t be the first.’
‘No. It’s just harder to have absolute standards, that’s all. Excuse me for saying this, but if you had been killed in that bomb – if Leonie Spence had been sitting in your chair – what would she have done?’
That was a very good question. He held up his hands in surrender. ‘You’ve got me there. It’s hard to do a thought experiment when you can’t agree on the starting point.’
Hayes gave him a full-wattage smile, all her white teeth shining. ‘We called them dilemmas, not thought experiments. We used to do things like this in my Bible Study group, and I was quite good at it. Probably because I wasn’t sure whether or not I believed in God.’
‘I think that’s a conversation for another day, but I’ll tell you this: I made a promise to Brewer to destroy the file, and I will. I never told him that Juliet Porterhouse has a full copy. If she decides that there’s a story in it, then that’s up to her.’
‘That’s nasty. Really nasty. I like it.’
‘Good. Now, let’s get that statement written.’
Clarke had to fill his Zippo before leaving Ribblegate Cottage, and when he opened the cupboard to find the tin of lighter fuel he came across the box containing his Air Force Cross, awarded for his gallantry in Helmand. Why didn’t he flaunt it?
He reckoned he deserved a medal for what he had done in Iraq six years ago – flying his Chinook into insurgent fire and getting all the Marines out of the ambush in record time. But he had fallen out with his CO at the time, and he didn’t even get a mention in dispatches, so perhaps he and the RAF were even. He still thought they’d only given him the AFC because he had also been invalided out of the service.
The medal was a lie – so why did he feel guilty about showing it off? He lied to people all the time, often for fun, and always for advantage. Perhaps Mina could explain it one day. She was good at that sort of thing. He pushed it further back in the cupboard and took out the lighter fuel.
Hours later, he was getting fed up of light industrial units. It seemed that all the criminal activity in Britain took place in little workshops and warehouses dotted around industrial estates. What was wrong with abandoned factories? Or old quarries? That’s what they did on the telly. The showdown was always in an old factory, which echoed with menacing footsteps.
Today’s rendezvous with danger was taking place at the Golden East Spice Company in Greater Heathrow, the enormous range of warehouses and units that surround Britain’s largest airport. Clarke found it and reversed up to the doors. He saw them rise in his mirror and he continued backwards until the nose of his van was right under the line of the shutters.
His preparation for today had involved lots of elements. One of them was buying an extra-thick coat: another was stealing old Joseph’s tweed cap and getting himself a crutch. He could hear shouts from behind the van, but he ignored them and pulled the cap down on his head. Then he grabbed the crutch, opened his door, levered himself very slowly out of the van and put his weight on the crutch. Still ignoring the shouts from behind him, he slammed the door and walked forward.
Ranged around the loading area were four men of Pakistani origin, but very much second-generation. You could tell that from the jeans, the sparkling white trainers and the bling. Lots of bling.
‘Are you deaf as well as blind? I said Move your van back. I can’t get the doors down.’
He was clearly their leader. Taller, slightly older and with a beard. He wore boots instead of trainers, but there was just as much bling.
‘Are you Mohamed?’ asked Clarke.
‘Yeah, I’m Mohamed,’ replied the other.
‘I’ll move the van if we need it,’ said Clarke. ‘It was painful enough getting out, and I don’t want to get back in unless I have to.’ He leaned on the crutch for effect and rubbed his left leg.
‘Of course we need it,’ said one of the others. ‘And it’s bloody freezing with that door open.’
That was one of the reasons Clarke had bought the coat. None of the other men were dressed for outdoor work.
‘We haven’t done any business yet,’ said Clarke. ‘We’ll shake on the deal, then I’ll get the van in.’
‘Whatever,’ said Mohamed. ‘How much have you got?’
‘Half a million US. I reckon that should be worth £240,000 at current rates.’
‘Things change. We’ve got inflation at our end, and the bribes have gone up. Today’s rate is £200,000. Take it or leave it.’
Clarke adjusted his crutch. He took off Joseph’s cap and wiped his head with his sleeve. The man nearest to the warehouse doors started to shiver a little in the cold. ‘That’s forty thousand less than I was expecting. I can’t go back with that. They’ll make me pay the difference, and I can’t afford it.’
‘That’s your problem, not mine.’
‘Well, in that case … I’m very sorry gentlemen, but I’ll have to leave it and go elsewhere.’
‘Not so fast, old man. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble today. There’s an arrangement fee of twenty thousand US dollars. You’re not leaving unless you pay it.’
Clarke stared at him. The two men on the outside of the group took a step towards him, and Mohamed’s sidekick, the one who had complained about the cold, folded his arms. Clarke held his right hand up to show it was empty and very slowly moved it towards his pocket. The sidekick pulled a gun from his waistband and levelled it at Clarke. ‘Freeze. Right there.’
‘I’m not armed,’ said Clarke. ‘See? Finger and thumb.’ He put his first two digits in his pocket and pulled out a small remote control.
‘What the fuck?’ said Mohamed. ‘Is that a fucking bomb you’ve got there?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m not a suicide bomber. I’m just an old man with a bad leg. Have a look at the top of the van.’
Some vans have little vents on the top to circulate fresh air to perishable cargo or livestock. Clarke’s van had had no such thing when he bought it, but yesterday, Joe had welded one on top – with a couple of additions, including a little red light, which was now blinking.
‘There’s something here,’ said the one who’d gone to look at the roof. There’s a red light and some electrics.’
‘Live remote feed,’ said Clarke. ‘My boss said you might not be trustworthy, but I said you should be given a chance. That’s why I blocked the door – so the signal could get out, and they can get in if you try anything.’
Mohamed took a step towards the van with shock on his face. His plan had worked. If he had gone in as an ex-forces hard nut, they wouldn’t have believed him, but the contrast between the stooped old man with the crutch and the hi-tech surveillance had caught them completely off guard.
‘Come on, Mohamed,’ said Clarke. ‘There’s too much at stake for us to get into a pissing contest. Just do the deal at £240,000, and I’ll be on my way. No harm, no foul.’
Mohamed looked around his men. This was the crunch point. If he had authority, they would accept him backing down. If Mohamed was short on respect, then things could go wrong very quickly.
Clarke had one last throw of the dice left. ‘It was a good try, Mohamed. I’d have done the same in your position, but I’m not in it for death or glory, just the money. I’ll open the van, and we’ll get started.’
The man with the gun looked up at Mohamed. The leader of the group laughed. ‘Okay, mate, deal on.’ The gun disappeared and the other men stood back.
‘I’m not going to move the van,’ said Clarke. ‘If I were you, I’d go and get something warm to put on.’
Mohamed jerked his head, and the three others disappeared into the background. Clarke opened the van doors wide and revealed Joe’s other piece of welding. Instead of a plastic panel in the door, there was an aluminium cover. It looked shoddy, but this was a van not a limousine. Clarke pretended to fiddle with the cargo until the three other men came back with their coats. This time, they instinctively stoo
d together around their leader rather than spreading out in an arc. Clarke had them exactly where he wanted them.
He unzipped his coat and it flapped open to hide his movements. He removed the aluminium panel and took out his souvenir from Essex – an AK47. He swung it round and dropped his crutch. Soldiers would have dived out of the way as soon as they saw it, but these men weren’t soldiers. Or Taliban. They just froze to the spot.
Clarke didn’t want to humiliate them, but he wanted to teach them a lesson. ‘You. With the gun. Take it out very slowly and put it on the ground, then slide it over. Anyone else makes a move, and you’re dead. All of you.’
The man took out his pistol and slid it across the floor. Clarke let it lie. ‘Now, the rest of you. Coats off again and turn around. No one’s going to get hurt. It’s just business. Start with you on the end.’
Mohamed tried to assert some authority by saying Do it so that it seemed like the order was coming from him and not Clarke. Either way, the men complied, and in a few seconds Clarke had two more guns. Mohamed, it seemed, was not armed. That was good. Clarke wanted Mohamed to stay in charge of this operation.
‘On your knees, all of you. Just until I’ve picked up these guns. Then we’ll get to work.’
‘Down,’ said Mohamed, and they all dropped.
Clarke put all three guns in his coat pockets and then stepped aside. He pointed his Kalashnikov at the three junior men. ‘You three can sit down. Cross-legged. Don’t move.’ When they had complied, he beckoned Mohamed across and took out a folded piece of paper, which he tossed over. On it was written a set of instructions:
Get the suitcase out of my van and put it on the floor. Empty it. Then get your cash and put it in the case. Add an extra fifteen hundred pounds for me. I don’t want that on the tape.
It was cheeky, but if you don’t ask you don’t get. ‘Where’s your money?’ said Clarke. ‘I don’t want you wandering off looking for a gun of your own.’
‘It’s down the back, with the counting machines.’
‘We’re not going to do any counting today. Which aisle is it down?’
Mohamed pointed down the building. ‘Off you go,’ said Clarke, and he took up a position where he could cover both Mohamed and the three seated men, who were now shivering violently.
It was all over in ninety seconds. Clarke had their money and his crutch in the van, and they had the US dollars. He even had a bonus to cover his expenses. Job done. He ordered them to lie face down and he put their guns at the side of the room, well out of reach. His last instruction was for them to cross the road and wait. Mohamed looked as if he were about to mutiny, but Clarke said, ‘I’m going to get in the van and drive off. I’ll be vulnerable when I do that. If you’re across the road, I’ll have enough time to get away safely. We’ve come this far, Mohamed. Let’s seal the deal.’
They did as he asked, and he climbed into the van, putting his gun on the passenger seat and hiding it with the coat. Carefully, he drove away. On the top of his van, the little red light kept blinking, which it would do all day because it was a child’s toy, not a video camera, and there was no backup around the corner.
He had come away with the money and a bonus. It wasn’t a stunt he could pull twice: next time, he might need some extra help.
He was about to turn right on to the roundabout when he saw a figure watching him from the corner. He involuntarily slammed on the brakes and his Kalashnikov slipped off the passenger seat into the footwell, and a loud air horn from the truck behind him told him how close he had come to being rear-ended. When he looked again, the man in the cloak had gone. Clarke took a deep breath and slung his coat over the gun. Then he set off for Putney.
Tom and Kris spent Wednesday going through Niall Brewer’s statement and preparing for the following day’s interview. Tom had taken out the second of the files from DS Griffin and was looking for inspiration. It eventually came when a memory surfaced, and he told his DC that they were going to pay a sympathy call on the Lynch family. He asked Hayes to make the call, and when she had finished, she stared at the receiver with a puzzled expression.
‘What’s up?’ asked Tom. ‘Are we personae non gratae?’
‘If that means she told me to sod off, then no. Mrs Lynch said she’d been planning to get in touch. Strange.’
The temperature was already below zero when they pulled up outside the Lynch house at six o’clock. The car had barely warmed up on the short journey, and they were still muffled up to their noses when Helen Lynch answered the door. She gave Tom in particular a very hard stare, but invited them into the living room, then disappeared into the kitchen.
‘I really am very sorry about Patrick,’ said Tom.
‘And me,’ added Hayes.
Fran looked composed, but obviously wounded. The signs of her real age were visible in the wrinkles around her face, and the grey was starting to show in her hair. From her lack of make-up, he guessed that she was so prone to crying that she’d stopped bothering.
The same could not be said about her clothes or the house. Both were still impeccable, and there was no sign of skimping on the housework. Mrs Lynch nodded at their sympathies and offered them a seat; Helen reappeared with the tea tray.
It was Fran who began the conversation. ‘Tell me, Chief Inspector, what do you think happened to Pat? I know what the local cops think and I know what the Coroner thinks, but what about you?’
Tom looked at Helen. Her hair was pulled back in its customary ponytail and she was still wearing the corporate uniform. He said to her, ‘Could I trouble you to show me something in the kitchen?’
She frowned, but got up and led him through. When Tom closed the door behind him, she folded her arms. ‘What do you want?’
‘A simple question, but one I didn’t want to ask your mother. Could you show me where she found your father’s pills and mobile phone?’
Helen pointed to a corner of the worktop at the end nearest the door to the hall. ‘Just there.’
‘I know you haven’t lived here for a while, but was that his normal place? When I get home, I always put my keys, phone and warrant card in a dish. Is that what your dad did?’
Helen nodded.
‘Car keys, too?’
‘Not always. He sometimes had to take them to open the front door.’
‘But on an average day, he’d come in and go out through the back, and leave his keys next to his pills?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’
Tom went back to the living room, where Hayes informed him that there could be no funeral just yet because the cemetery ground was frozen.
‘Just what you don’t need,’ said Tom.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Fran.
Tom drank some of his tea. ‘You know that I’m very much not involved with the MCPS, don’t you?’ Fran nodded, and he continued, ‘So can I ask what they said about his keys being probably next to his phone and pills? Why he would have taken the keys but not the other things?’
‘They said that it was “just one of those things”. They said that not everything has an explanation. They even started to compare his death to a suicide with no note. “Happens more than you think”, they said. My Pat would never have done anything that smacked of suicide.’
‘I understand. Pat was a man who knew his mortal sins.’
Helen was about to object, but Fran gave him a smile and said, ‘Some of them. He was very good about honouring his mother and keeping the Sabbath. He was less hot on “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery”.’
‘As a detective, I reckon the most likely explanation is that Patrick did take his phone and his pills with him, and that the person who stole his car brought them back here afterwards. Which was a terrible risk. The two questions that follow on are: if he did have his pills with him, why didn’t he take one when he had an attack, and why was it so important to bring the pills back here? So, the best way of answering those questions is to find out who your husband was meeting. If you
had any idea, I’m guessing that you would have told MCPS.’
Fran picked at something on the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Yes. Of course I would.’
‘I don’t think it was someone he knew well. Someone local – like Kelly, for example.’
She shook her head. ‘No. That man would sell his grandmother if he could, but he would have done everything in his power to help Pat if he had an attack. He’d have called 999 himself.’
‘Which leaves someone from outside. Someone very keen to cover their tracks. I had someone like that in the back of my car recently. He left a bomb behind and ran off. The day before Pat died.’
Fran coloured red, the blood showing a few tiny broken veins as it circulated. ‘I’m sorry. I should have asked how you are. It must have been terrible.’
‘It was, but I’ll feel a lot better when I catch whoever did it. Tell me, did Patrick ever mention having dealings with someone from Northern Ireland – not Benedict Adaire, but someone from the other side? A Loyalist?’
Fran looked into the past, but shook her head. ‘I know he did meet someone a couple of times, but he only talked to Dermot about it. From the look on Pat’s face, they can’t have been easy meetings. Sorry, I don’t know any more.’
‘Well, if you think of anything – anything that might help, here’s my card.’
Tom put his card on the tea tray and adjusted his position. ‘How’s Elizabeth?’
Fran shrugged. ‘Terrible. Being strong for her is all I’ve got left now. I’ve even started to look at her when she’s getting changed for bed to see if she’s self-harming.’
Tom stole a glance at Helen. The line about being strong for Lizzie is all I’ve got left hadn’t gone down too well with her other daughter. He said to Fran, ‘I’ve got a question that I’d be very grateful if you kept to yourself. I know what a small world it can be around here.’
‘Go on.’
‘St Modwenna’s is a very small school. I wondered if Elizabeth had much to do with a girl called Pandora Nechells?’
