Nathan made a half-hearted attempt to raise an unopened can. “Care for a drink, Detective?”
Wild waved it away with a flick of his hand. “Still on duty, thanks all the same.”
Nathan brushed away at the grass. “Come and join us, why don’t you?”
Wild decided that his bad news would be better delivered standing up.
Nathan drank greedily from his can. “Back in the day, the Porter family held wealth and power. Now look at us.” He squeezed the can as if he could extract more from it by force of will. “Mind you, it was already a bloody ruin then. We’re not so lucky with money — you might have noticed that.”
No one had asked why Wild had turned up. He was hoping one of them would make it easier for him. No such luck. He took a deep breath and stood to attention. “Jeb, we’ve been trying to find you. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your grandfather was involved in an incident today, and I’m sorry to tell you that he died as a result of his injuries. I’ve come to fetch you so you can be with your grandmother.”
Jeb didn’t move for a few seconds. He sat in silence, gazing out at nothing in particular. His next words surprised Wild, but he didn’t place any store by it. “Was it an accident?” Who wouldn’t prefer a random tragedy to someone else’s malice?
Nathan pushed against the wall and struggled to his feet. “Well, answer him then. He has a right to know.”
Wild would have told him to mind his own business, but it was the day of his father’s funeral so he cut him some slack. He moved round to face Jeb directly. “We are treating the death as suspicious, pending enquiries.”
Nathan lurched forward and for a second Wild thought he was going to take a swing at him. He balled a fist and edged back out of reach.
“That’s what you said about my dad, for all the good that’s done.”
Wild relaxed and extended a hand to Jeb. “I think we should go now — your nan is waiting. Give me your car keys.” He helped Jeb to his feet and then turned back to Nathan. “You’re in no fit state to drive. Where would you like me to drop you?”
Jeb found his voice again. “He can come back to mine.”
Wild left them at the top of the Walshes’ drive. He figured Olsen was still at the house and didn’t wait to find out. He had an appointment with the boss, and more importantly the photocopier. If everything went to plan, he’d keep his promise to Pauline.
Chapter 27
Wild checked his watch on the stairs — still around fifteen minutes before the team huddle or whatever they called it here. He noticed Marsh’s glassy gaze as he walked past her office, but she didn’t stir. He avoided the rest of the team and checked the paper trays of the photocopier. After a couple of trial pages, he adjusted the copier settings so that he could actually read the good doctor’s writing.
Partway through the copying one of the admin staff came over with a small folder of paperwork. “Hi.” She smiled awkwardly, and he returned the favour. “Are you going to be long? I only need four sheets.”
He stalled for a moment, caught between team spirit and the task at hand. “Sorry, I really need to get this done. I’ll be as quick as I can. Maybe another five minutes . . . or so.”
She nodded, tapping the folder against her palm as she walked away. Another Christmas card he wouldn’t be getting. No great loss, he hadn’t been a fan of Christmas since he was a kid.
He printed the last pages with the admin woman (another name to learn and write down) loitering on the periphery like a timeshare agent in a holiday park. He checked his watch again. Bollocks. No chance of getting the book back to Pauline for a while. The only saving grace was that Jeb would have other things on his mind.
The team’s mass migration to the briefing room gave him no chance to return to his desk. He folded the A4 pages into the jiffy bag with the diary and kept it close.
* * *
DI Marsh treated him with the same disdain she showed the rest of the team. Maybe that was her take on equal opportunities. She directed Ben Galloway to a second whiteboard, and he seemed to revel in the chance to be pen monitor. Marsh pointed around the room, seeking updates from the team while conspicuously leaving Wild untroubled. He knew his turn would come though.
Finally, this loaded game of spin the bottle pointed his way. He approached the whiteboard so he could face them all. If he were getting a grilling, he’d do it on his own terms. The first thing he told them was that Jeb Walsh had been located and informed of the death of his grandfather. Ben Galloway’s face lowered a few inches. “I left him and Nathan Porter at the Walsh household before returning here.”
DI Marsh threw him a glimmer of a smile, more — he reasoned — for his chutzpah than his detective skills. The room fell silent and tunnel vision kicked in. Although he wanted to reach for a pill, he knew there’d be questions. Maybe he could ride this one out. His mouth turned to sandpaper.
Marsh cleared her throat. “Whenever you feel ready.”
A ripple of laughter flitted around the team. He forced himself to make eye contact, remembering the war films that cautioned the troops not to shoot till you saw the whites of their eyes. It didn’t help, and the pounding in his head grew so loud he wondered whether the others could hear it. The team started to get restless, their whispered side conversations a more polite way of turning their backs on him.
Say something. He took a gasp of air and gripped the pen until his knuckle whitened. “I’ve not been a popular choice for DS!” He laughed at his own joke — he was the only one laughing. “I know you would have much preferred someone local in the role and to be honest this hasn’t been a bed of roses for me either. This case is all about extended families and historic loyalties. People around here seem to care more about the past than they do about the present. I dunno, maybe it’s me — maybe I’m the one who’s out of step.”
Marsh scratched her head. “Detective Sergeant Wild, is there a point to all this? Beyond the entertainment value, I mean.”
Wild began to extract the photocopied pages from the jiffy bag. “The point, Detective Inspector Marsh,” he enjoyed watching her bristle, “is . . .”
He felt the team lean in closer to watch the car crash. Bollocks to them. He stuffed the copied pages back into the jiffy bag. “You know what? There is no point — none at all.” And as he said the words, he saw Marsh’s face harden like a malfunctioning Medusa. He started walking.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
He voted with his feet, one hand slamming against the door so that it careered backwards in his wake. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he’d made a decision.
At Hollings and Gresham he asked to see Pauline and returned the envelope, minus his copy, thanking her for the loan of a book on local history. Afterwards, he drove to the supermarket, picked up six cans of lager and then went home. He thought about taking one of his pills — the daily medication his last GP had prescribed for anxiety — and then decided against it. Besides, lager ought to do the job just as well.
The house seemed less inviting than usual, which wasn’t saying much. Maybe he’d get a cat. He laughed at the idea. Yeah, a cat would make all the difference. It was only when he reached the kitchen that he realised he’d forgotten to change into slippers. Sod it, what did it matter? What did any of it matter?
He popped a can and raised it to himself. “Congratulations, Craig — you’ve finally achieved what the Met couldn’t. By this time tomorrow, you will be officially unemployed. On the plus side, think of all the leisure time.” That’s when he remembered Caitlin from the café. He dialled her mobile phone and left a message, promising to ring her again once he’d dealt with some work stuff.
He wondered whether DI Marsh would ring first or simply put in the disciplinary papers. And for the first time in ages, he didn’t care. It was liberating not having to worry whether anyone was critiquing his performance, or what the bosses might say, or if his work colleagues found out how spectacularly he’d screwed
up in London. No, this way the hand on the dagger was his own. Well, the counsellor had talked about the need to take back control of his life. He figured they’d junk him on health grounds and that way he’d still get his pension. Life would go on, somehow, with or without a cat.
He quit at two lagers and made a sandwich before sitting down to watch television. It didn’t so much numb the pain as make him wonder whether he was staring into his future. What was left of the afternoon dragged itself into evening like a dying creature looking for a final resting place.
Having had his fill of antiques shows, garden makeovers, and quizzes for the masses, he turned on his computer. A gaggle of emails offered him funeral plan insurance, Bitcoin investments, and introductions to fun-loving singles in his area. Unlikely, he reasoned, as his new address looked set to be up Shit Creek.
His eye was drawn to the Skype icon along the bottom of his screen. He clicked on it. His lone contact showed as offline and she’d left a text message for him.
Craig, it’s Jackie. I need to talk to you. I don’t feel safe any more. Can we meet? I’ll explain everything in London. Here’s my new mobile number. Text me when you get to London. Jackie.
The screen galvanised him into action. There was only one thing to do — the right thing. He packed a bag and turned his mobile back on. DI Marsh deserved that, at least. Part of him hoped he could get away with leaving a message, but when had he ever been that lucky? She picked up on the third ring.
“It’s Craig Wild. I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour. I think we can both agree that this little experiment hasn’t worked out. I, er, I need to go to London. I’m sorry to let you down.”
“Is everything alright, Craig?”
He smiled at the phone. How often had he heard that line in the past few months? “I’ve got some personal stuff to sort out. Sorry, it can’t wait. I can sign whatever papers you need me to when I get back.”
There was a pause on the line and then Marsh took a breath. “Papers? Look, maybe you came back to work too soon. I can spare you for a couple of days. I’ll tell the DCI it’s on compassionate grounds, and I’ll speak to the team as well. Go sort your head out. And take my advice: leave your ex-wife well alone. DCI Hutcheson does not need the aggravation. And neither do you. I’ll see you in two days’ time.”
“Thanks, boss.” He cut the call and spoke to an empty room. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Chapter 28
Wild kept his bag to a minimum — change of clothes, warrant card, collapsible baton . . . the usual. All being well, he could see Jackie, finally get some useful intel and then pass it on to the shitbags in the Met that he used to call colleagues. Granted, he wouldn’t get the glory but there’d be the personal satisfaction of seeing their faces when he came bearing gifts. He didn’t bother booking overnight accommodation. There was always the faint possibility that he could wrap everything up quickly and catch a late train back. Failing that, maybe he could kip at one of one of his old oppos’ places. Spoilt for choice with shelves of unread books, he grabbed a Stephen King and chucked the photocopied diary pages in his bag for good measure.
He got a cab to Swindon station, tried to barter down to the cheapest train tickets possible, and waited on the platform. A train arrived — late for others but bang on time for him — and he had the strangest feeling that rather than returning to the big smoke to prove them wrong, he was actually making a farewell performance. Then again, his departure had not been so much under a cloud as washed away by a monsoon.
The train crawled along. It took a few chapters of Cujo before he remembered to check his phone, and when he did, he was glad. Marnie Olsen had left a message — her breathing so laboured it sounded as though she had run up a hill for a signal.
“Wild, I heard about what happened today. Well, not exactly, but DI Marsh said you were going to London. I hope you’re not planning on seeing your ex-wife. Anyway, I need to talk to you about Jackie. Ring me when you get this. It’s Marnie, by the way.”
He stared up at the onboard display: only three stops to London, if they ever got there. The train arrived at Didcot Parkway and took up residence. An announcement cited technical problems and promised an update in the next few minutes. He moved out of the carriage and called Olsen back.
“Where are you?” She sounded desperate.
“What’s up, Marnie? Are you okay?” He hadn’t expected to give a shit about another human being quite so soon.
“It’s not me, it’s you, Wild. Did you get my message?” She huffed at herself. “Of course you did, or you wouldn’t be ringing now.”
“That psychological insight of yours is really paying off.”
“Now is not the time. My friend got back to me about Jackie, your witness. They ran her details through their searches, and she’s been lying to you, probably.”
“Probably?”
“I told you before that her IP address for Skype was in London. I think she’s always been in London.”
He filled her in on Jackie’s latest message and the fact that she’d given him a new mobile number.
“She probably bought that one specially for the occasion. I bet if you asked to see the receipt it would be from London. My friend — the one I was telling you about — she said there’s a secure data warehouse for all active mobile phone numbers.”
He moved his bag out the way to let someone get to the toilet. “That can’t be right about Jackie. She’s been avoiding London for months because of Tony. She wouldn’t even tell me where she’s been living.” He pressed the mouthpiece closer. “What’s that about a database?”
“Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it — it’s inadmissible. The point is, she’s been lying to you.”
“Well, we’ll soon know, won’t we? I’m going to London to meet her.”
“I think it’s a mistake.”
“Bit late for that as I’m on a train.” The train lurched forward, prompting a chorus of sarcastic cheers from the other passengers.
“You still there, Wild? I’m serious. Could you get local backup in case it’s a ploy?”
“I think we both know that’s unlikely. Listen, Marnie, I appreciate your concern, but I can look after myself.”
“I think you’re blinded by this need to prove a point.”
“And is that your considered psychological perspective?”
“Don’t be a dick. Look, I’ll meet you in London. Send me details of a pub where I can find you.”
“Marnie, don’t be stupid. I’ve been on the train for at least half an hour. I’ll be in London within the hour — God willing. It would take you ages.” He smiled for an instant because he realised she had his back.
“I’m already part way up the M4. Text me. And you’re paying for my petrol.”
The line went dead and he found another seat to put his phone on charge. He stared blankly out of the window at distant horizons, at farmland where no one was being murdered, and at his own blurred reflection. What if Olsen was right? In the cold light of day, all Jackie had ever given him was the promise of something useful. Sure, she’d confirmed things he already knew, about Tony’s past trips to Spain and the feud with his brother, and his propensity for violence. But despite their little chats over Skype these past few months, what did he really have for his time and his money?
He opened his wallet and dug out a small piece of paper that looked as though it had intended to stay hidden. “Kieran? Hi, it’s Craig. How’s life in the Met? Yeah, you’re never going to believe this but I’m on my way up to London. Fancy a quick drink later?” He rattled off his sentences without a pause, aiming to browbeat Kieran into submission. Just like old times.
Sergeant Kieran Byrne wriggled a little, as expected, and then he caved. “I can squeeze in one drink — I need to be somewhere afterwards, a social thing.”
Wild didn’t dive in straightaway. He took his time, like a predator weighing up the strengths of its next meal. Kieran’s silence could only m
ean one thing.
“Are you likely to run into Steph there?”
“Christ, let it go, Craig. She has moved on with her life, why can’t you?”
Kieran didn’t sound defensive, so no suspicions on that front. But the gauntlet had been thrown down and Wild knew he wouldn’t get any peace until he had the full picture. And Kieran knew that too.
Wild dug the truth out of him like a splinter, until finally it glistened red raw. Not a party this time, a gathering. Now where had he heard that before? He smiled to himself, recalling the get-together for Steph’s promotion, the one he gatecrashed after a mini pub crawl.
Kieran sighed. “Don’t do it, Craig. Have some self-respect.”
“I’ve got nothing left to say to Steph. And if I had, we do all our talking through lawyers.” He wanted to ask if there was anyone in her life, but what difference would it make? “I’ll see you in about an hour and a half. Where do you want to meet?”
“The World’s End.”
It seemed fitting, given that his world had pretty much ended when he left North London.
* * *
As soon as he reached Paddington Station, Wild sent a text to Jackie and then took a moment to soak it all up. He’d missed the ebb and flow of a meandering crowd at the terminus, and the way the evening heat of the city enveloped him. The London Underground seemed like the United Nations on wheels and he realised he had missed that too. He embraced his anonymity and joyfully entered the maze of walkways and tunnels to make his way to Camden Town.
Kieran was already at a table, two pints in front of him. Conclusion: he wasn’t stopping long. Wild tried to make it easy for him and summoned all the fake bonhomie he could muster.
“I got you your usual.”
Wild splashed a smile across his face and proffered a hand. “Thanks, it’s been a while.” All bullshit of course. In reality it had only taken a few months for his relationship to fold, the job to have gone tits up, and for him to be signed off sick before someone on high intervened to truck him out of London. But, hey, what’s a white lie between friends?
Long Shadows Page 13
