“Guess this is where the fun starts,” Sarah said.
“Ever do this? You’re in for a treat.”
“I bet. By the way, Officer Brennan?”
“Ah, yes. Thing with the badge, huh?”
“The impersonation of a police officer, yes, Jack.”
Sarah watched Jack rub his chin.
“Yeah. Don’t recall ever doing that. Even now, just happened to show her my old badge. No crime in that! But you know — like I said — this is family.”
“Absolutely!” said Sarah.
“And great work backing me up. It was like we rehearsed or something.”
“What a team.”
“You bet. And now …”
Then Jack turned to the row of books in front of them. “Okay, ‘Micky whoever’ … let’s see if we can find you.”
Jack began to search the taller rows of the metal shelves, Sarah the lower, looking for 1990.
Hunting for the name of Len’s lone visitor.
7. The Hunt
Sarah flipped through the pages of another visitor register, each day clearly marked, names scrawled, a time noted, address, car registration, and who the visitors were there to see.
The kind of ward Len was on, clearly subject to careful checks.
It had taken nearly an hour to find the registers covering the year 1990. But, finally, Sarah had found the stack that seemed to be from the period that Len was hospitalised, and met Lizzie.
Autumn 1990.
“How you doing, Jack? My eyes — going wonky, reading all these scrawls.”
“Me too. Just looking for anything that looks like the ‘M’ of a Micky, and in the next column—”
“Right. Len’s name.”
But, as she slowly flipped the pages, going even slower as if that might be more likely to bring some revelation, she started to think, it won’t be here.
And that would be wasted time. Len in jail, and the wedding getting closer … and what had they achieved?
Until she heard Jack take a breath.
“Hang on.”
And he pointed to a line where — in surprisingly neat handwriting — she saw the name Micky. Then the surname …
Hooke.
She slid her finger, slowly — almost afraid that she’d be disappointed — to the column of who was going to be visited.
Len Taylor.
“Well, well,” Jack said. “Just as I was starting to lose hope.”
“Don’t count your chickens yet,” said Sarah, pointing to the gaps in the register. “No address, phone number, or relationship to patient.”
“Got a licence plate though,” said Jack. “That’s something.”
Sarah used her phone to take a picture of the page, zooming in, tight on the name and the other details. People’s handwriting didn’t change; could be useful.
Then she turned to Jack. “Back in the office — I can get online, search.”
Jack nodded, but his expression looked as if he was thinking hard about things.
“Hooke. Not a common name? Save in Neverland.”
“The signature — the handwriting might help us. Car registration, too.”
Jack didn’t seem convinced, and a bit of his doubt rubbed off on her after that flush of excitement at finding Len’s visitor.
“Could go back to Len?”
“We will. Eventually. But first, well, let’s get out of the catacombs here, give my new friend Jenny a nice ‘thank you’ and see what good old Google reveals about the name.”
Sarah closed the register, and slid it back neatly into its spot where she doubted it would ever be disturbed again.
Together they walked out of the maze of records, the hallway outside, an elevator, and finally out of the hospital.
*
It was late afternoon now, and the setting sun had turned golden orange. Jack’s MG looked out of place on the hospital parking lot amid so many SUVs.
Sarah stood as Jack unlocked the car.
“Right,” said Jack. “I need to get you to your computer, work some of your magic.”
“Actually, this time I think it will take magic.”
“Guess so. You know, we have no guarantee that this Micky — who was maybe travelling in the same drug and deal circles as Len — didn’t already meet with an untimely end.”
“And you? Going to check in with Tony? Any new developments?”
And at that, he smiled. “Got a different idea. Been thinking, those years ago, with what Len was up to, drugs, dealing and all. That I just might know somebody who could help narrow our search.”
For a second, Sarah didn’t have a clue who Jack could be talking about but then — like a light-bulb turning on in a smoky (ganja smoke, to be sure) room, she knew.
“Right. You’re talking about Ray.”
And Jack laughed.
“Indeed I am. Shall we get going? Think we have some full days and nights ahead of us.”
Sarah slipped into Jack’s MG with its smooth, warm leather seats, and that special sports car smell.
*
Back home, Sarah cleared away Daniel’s supper plate, abandoned on the kitchen table, and made herself a quick omelette and salad.
Glass of Merlot in hand, she went through to her home office and powered up the main computer.
First, an email to an old contact who could “access” vehicle records. She didn’t know if he could go as far back as 1990, but, if not, then maybe — by some miracle — if the plate was still alive the current owners might be able to help.
Then newspaper records. Over the last few years, working with Jack, she’d accumulated quite a few log-ins for useful databases. Most legitimate. One or two … let’s say … borrowed.
But always for a good cause, she thought. Funny — I call Jack on using his police badge, while I do this …
Clearly also illegal.
It didn’t take her long to find a report of Sally Hayes’s death in an English paper from 1990. With a thumbnail photo.
She synced the photo with her phone, shared it with Jack, then stared at the picture again.
The girl — pretty, dark-haired, and so young.
Then she got onto YouTube, started lining up Ibiza clips, music, video, documentaries — anything that could bring that clubbing scene to life.
With those first sounds now playing in the background, the volume up, the light from the big screen flickering on the walls of the now-dark room, it was time to open her laptop and start the search for Micky Hooke in earnest.
She leaned forward over the keys, searching, listening, learning.
*
Jack walked carefully along the dark towpath to the end of the wooden plank that served as the entrance way to his friend Ray’s shabby barge.
The deck was filled with a variety of plants, some in pots, others sitting in piles of loose dirt and their own roots.
Jack remembered that his marijuana-loving friend had been talking about getting ready for when growing pot would become full-on legal.
“No more paying for what God gave us for free, Jack.”
From the looks of the abandoned gardening experiments on the deck, it seemed like Ray had decided to take a break.
Taking breaks was, Jack knew, one of Ray’s fortes.
“Ray — you around, pal?”
No response, not even from Ray’s new mutt, a black and white dog of indeterminate pedigree, its coat looking as if paint had been dumped on it haphazardly.
The dog was a perfect fit for Ray. Slept when he did, and showed no inclination to ruin a perfectly good day by barking.
“Ray! Need a word with you.”
Jack liked to observe the protocol of the barge community here, namely, you don’t go on another person’s boat without an invite.
But maybe — considering Ray’s proclivities — this suggested an exception.
And Jack started up the plank, bouncing a bit as stepped, not really sure that the splintery wood could support him.
<
br /> With Ray, his boat, his life — anything could happen.
*
Sarah started to feel as if she was making progress on the list of Michael Hookes.
She was definitely up to speed on the sounds of summer 1990.
And in one documentary about the DJs, she’d even seen a very young Len being interviewed, talking about the life, the pressures, but also the incredible buzz of the Ibiza scene.
Amazingly, some of the tracks on the videos were familiar — even though her own very brief clubbing days were a few years later.
While the music throbbed from the floor speakers, the room was dark, save for the glow of the screens. But then she heard her office door open a bit, then swing wider.
Chloe — who had been doing such a great job in the office recently, learning the ropes from Grace.
And someone else with whom Sarah had decided she’d best not share what had happened to Grace’s dad. Her daughter and Grace had grown close over the last few weeks.
Chloe, also very much on the side of truth and justice, would feel compelled to reveal to Grace that her father was in jail.
“Whoa, Mum! This what you listen to when I’m out the house?”
“Ha, as if,” said Sarah. “No, it’s work stuff.”
“Aha — you mean that kind of work stuff?”
Sarah gave a smile.
“Right. Not exactly the sound track for Hatchet’s Fruit and Veg, is it?”
Chloe laughed. “Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Brilliant.”
But then her daughter lingered. Maybe sensing, in that way one’s own children can, that something was up.
“Any of that ‘work stuff’ I can help you with?”
Sarah kept her smile in place. She guessed that, what with Chloe growing up with her mum investigating crimes, she maybe lived in hope she might be included on a case one day.
For a moment she considered telling Chloe what was happening. She had come to depend upon — and trust — her adult daughter so much.
But then — Chloe would, for sure, argue that Grace must be told. So …
“No, love — I’m pretty much done now. That tea would be great though — and maybe a biscuit if you can rustle one up.”
Chloe nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Be right back.”
And when she was gone, Sarah turned back to her lists of Michael Hookes and her playlists.
*
“Jack, my man! To what do I owe the honour?”
Ray pulled up a vacant blue metal chair, sitting just outside what passed for the saloon of his ramshackle boat. Ray had also, in what appeared to be one smooth motion, rolled up what he called a mix.
A joint — half tobacco, half pot.
“My eye-opener,” as he had once described it to Jack.
Ray gestured to the other metal seat nearby, this one with red flaking paint that, no matter how you positioned it, continued to wobble. Jack guessed that the wobblier one got oneself in the course of day, the less wobbly the actual chair might seem.
“Ray — been keeping good?”
“Always, Jack. Weather like this — days on the river.” Ray took a big drag. “Doesn’t get any better, does it? Fancy a beer? Think I got a can or two hiding in the fridge.”
Jack smiled, shook his head. “Ray, been looking into something. Thinking you might be able to help.”
Jack knew that, despite his many human failings, Ray was as loyal and, when needed, as close-mouthed as they came.
“It’s about Len Taylor. Been arrested. Being kept quiet — for now.”
“For?”
“Murder.”
And even the unflappable Ray went wide-eyed at that.
*
It amazed Sarah — these days — how much information was now available on the internet, without using any special skills whatsoever.
Take people’s ages …
She had the list of Michael Hookes narrowed down to anyone belonging to what she thought would be the right age bracket.
Still a formidable list.
One thing she knew for sure, she and Jack did not have time to dig through all of them. That would take weeks.
She looked at the phone, as if wishing it to vibrate with a call from Jack.
Instead, Chloe brought in a tray. Pot of tea — not just a cup. Small plate of biscuits. Two cups.
Sarah looked at her screen. Nothing there that would alert Chloe to what was up.
“Thought I’d join you anyway, Mum. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Never,” Sarah said, turning the music low as Chloe put down the tray and poured the tea.
Her daughter grabbed a nearby chair on wheels and pulled it close.
“Spoke to Grace this afternoon,” Chloe said. “Asked if she needed help with anything.”
Sarah nodded. “She holding up all right? Lots of wedding jitters, I guess?”
“Yes. But — dunno — she seemed a bit distracted. She said her mother was acting all quiet and stuff, and she hadn’t spoken to her dad since Nick’s stag do.” Chloe grinned at that. “Hope her dad didn’t overdo it.”
“Maybe Grace’s dad is just recharging for the main event.”
Chloe nodded. “Hope so. If it was my wedding I’d want everything absolutely perfect, you know?”
Sarah nodded at that, and then realised. Chloe. Getting married. Going to happen someday. And amazingly, someday wouldn’t be that far away.
“We’ll make it so, huh Chloe?” Then a grin. “As long as we watch the budget.”
“Right, no releasing white doves or a carriage with white horses. Who knows … maybe I’ll elope!”
Sarah wondered — did Chloe have someone in mind for just such an event?
One thing she knew for sure, when Grace left, she and Chloe would be getting to know each other in a very special way. Two adults — mum and daughter — working closely together.
That, Sarah thought, is going to be interesting.
8. Breakthrough
“Bloody hell, Jack. Poor Len. And his daughter? And you and Sarah … you got nothing to go on?”
“We do have one thing. And well, long shot, thought you might be of some help.”
“You know me. You need anything, then I’m your man.”
“Know that, Ray. And appreciate it.”
“So, fire away. Tell me what you got.”
“An old friend of Len’s. Way before he came to Cherringham. Guy used to hang out in Ibiza maybe, early 90s.”
“Ibiza. My kind of place, Jack.”
“Right,” Jack said, laughing. “Thinking this friend may know something about the charge against Len. What could have happened. Guy maybe involved in drugs, dealing, back in the day.”
“Oh, I get it. You think because of my, um, extensive network of connections — my ‘circle’, so to speak — that I may know of such a person?”
“Or know someone who might know? Long shot, I know.”
“Still, a shot, Jack. Fire me the name.”
“Micky Hooke.”
And, for a moment, Ray’s eyes registered nothing. The name descending deep into the recesses of Ray’s blurry brain, with its cellular Rolodex of petty criminals, pot dealers, and all those who walk the line between legal and not.
But then …
Those slightly-stoned eyes opened.
“Micky Hooke, you mean? Sure … right age … and, if the stories are true, he’s still maybe not living that differently from his days on lovely Ibiza.”
“You heard of him?”
“I could say ‘who hasn’t’, but, I guess, since you haven’t, then why don’t I tell you all about Mr Micky Hooke.”
*
“Well — guess I’ll clean up here, let you get back to work, Mum. Just shout out if you need some more fingers hitting those keys.”
“I will, love,” Sarah said, as Chloe picked up the tray, and headed out of the office.
Her phone vibrated. Her contact. She answered.
“Sarah?”
“You got something?” she said, flicking open her notebook — these calls tended to be brief and to the point.
“Maybe. Not sure it’s what you want.”
“Shoot.”
“Car was a BMW. Very pricey vehicle, for the day. Got owner, name and address, October ’90. But no connection with any Michael Hooke, I’m afraid.”
Sarah felt her shoulders drop. This was their one real lead.
“Give me the name anyway.”
“Terence Grainger, 15 Station Street, Gloucester. Age 25 at the time. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Don’t work too late. See you in the smoke sometime.”
“Sure. And thanks.”
The call cut off and Sarah sat back. Thinking. Terence Grainger …
Wait! She’d heard that name recently. But where?
She closed her eyes. Concentrated. Then — yes — she got it.
One of the YouTube videos of Ibiza — one of the documentaries on the “Second Summer of Love”.
Quickly she opened the browser on the main computer, fast-forwarded through the clips.
The beach scenes, crazy club nights, guys at decks — then interviews at an old finca up in the hills …
Yes! This was the one! Shot in the garden of the finca, she guessed. She hit play, turned up the volume. A scrawny guy in shorts, smiley T-shirt, smoking, talking to camera. Sitting on sun-loungers next to him — a bunch of other guys, maybe other DJs — laughing, joking, joshing him about his DJ name — Tigz.
Called “Tigz” — because his real name was Terence Ian Grainger. “Like some bloke who works in insurance,” one of the guys joked.
Terence!
Then another clip. Tigz and another man — bigger, balding — with their arms round a couple of young women. One of the women was blonde, the other dark-haired. Was one of those Sally?
Sarah took a screen grab, blew up the image, checked it against the newspaper photo. Yes, it was Sally for sure.
Back to the video. The group was now chatting with an older woman with a toddler in her arms — a little girl no more than three or four years old. Another man in a flowery shirt joined Tigz and the girls. He put his arm around them — the big guy making space — and all five of them were smiling at the camera.
Cherringham--Murder under the Sun Page 5
