“Shouldn’t you be wearing a stab vest at least?”
Laghari broke off suddenly from his discussion. “It might tip Jackie off that he doesn’t fully trust her. The team will be able to hear everything and they’ll be near enough to respond.”
Wild caught the look on Olsen’s face and forced a smile. They knew what they were doing. Probably.
* * *
He opted for the hotel stairs, partly for the illusion of space and free choice. The steps were shallow but he was puffing by the fourth floor. “I’m on the last flight,” he announced to an otherwise empty stairwell.
* * *
Inspector Laghari craned forward a little in the unmarked police car parked a couple of streets away. Olsen sat beside him, poised like a child waiting for fireworks, a mixture of dread and anticipation. Her feet rested awkwardly on Wild’s bag. Laghari turned to her as the firearms team confirmed that they were ready to seal off the hotel and nodded at the dashboard.
“You can relax now, Olsen. No one else is getting past them.”
“And what if Tony Weston is already there?”
Laghari’s face froze. He turned back to Olsen, who had already opened the passenger door.
* * *
Wild heaved open the fourth-floor fire door, grateful for level ground again. He wasn’t unfit as such, he’d just never been the athletic type. Sure, he’d chased down his share of villains, buoyed up by adrenaline and peer pressure. Now though, the uncertainty of what awaited him clung to his legs like weights. Added to that, he was knackered.
For no reason at all he started whistling ‘Walking Back to Happiness’ — an old tune he remembered from the Labyrinth café. Then he stopped in case his colleagues at the other end of the wire thought it meant something. “Soz,” he whispered.
Room 406 looked no different from its neighbours. He knocked three times, as arranged, and looked along the corridor to a discarded dinner tray three doors along. Room service sounded like a great idea.
Jackie took her time opening the door. One part of his brain still wanted to believe the charade and told himself she was ultra-cautious. Another chunk of grey matter had processed every ounce of Olsen’s evidence and found Jackie guilty of conspiracy, perverting the course of justice, and taking his money under false pretences — arguably the biggest crime of all.
She stood in the doorway and looked around him, her voice as staged as her performance. He wondered where the audience was. “Hello, Craig. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
He thought the text messages they’d shared had been a strong clue. She deserved an Oscar for this. He followed her in and the door closed of its own accord.
“Can I get you a drink?” She waved a bottle of Teacher’s in the air as if it could ward off evil spirits.
“Actually, tea would be nice.” He had it at the back of his mind that a hot drink might be a useful weapon if — or when — Tony Weston put in an appearance.
She seemed thrown off balance by his reply but she made good with the miniature kettle and two teeny plastic sachets of milk.
He sat in the desk chair and manhandled it round to face her. “How have you been, Jackie?”
“Oh, you know.” Her face looked flushed on one side, like it had been recently slapped.
He didn’t comment. He set his cup down. “You asked me to come here . . . ?”
Her whole body tensed. “Alright. Give me a minute, will you? I’m taking a big risk talking with you. If Tony was to find out . . .”
He was getting Skype déjà vu. “I have already said that we’ll protect you. Mind if I write this stuff down?” He reached slowly into his pocket, as if extracting a gun. The look on her face suggested that pen and paper could be just as deadly.
“Start with the Logan Brothers’ snatch. Talk me through what you know.”
He cupped his tea and watched her dancing for ideas. If she refused, it would leave him open to ask what else she had instead. And if she responded he would flush out the truth like a ferret in a rabbit warren.
Jackie started slowly, wasting his time. He stood it for a few minutes before heading off to the bathroom. To his relief, Tony wasn’t hiding in the shower. He heard the TV through the bathroom speaker and was grateful he had an empty bladder now. Her demeanour had changed when he emerged. She’d kicked off her shoes and now sat perched on the edge of the bed. He smelt perfume in the air and, unless he was mistaken, her hair seemed a little mussed up. He retreated to his chair.
“Finish your tea then, before it gets cold.”
He went to take a sip and looked up at her, stark fear in her eyes.
“Nah, I think I’ll leave it.”
“Please, drink your tea.” Her voice seemed shrill.
He pushed the cup away. “Why, what will happen if I don’t?”
“Don’t play silly buggers, Craig.” Her gaze darted to the door, and two loud raps made them both jump.
He was halfway across the room when a truck smashed into the back of his head. As he fell to the floor, he heard a disembodied voice.
“You idiot, you shoulda taken the easy option.”
His head lolled to one side and as he opened his eyes, he felt Jackie stepping over him to get to the door. He tried to move but someone had filled his head with cement. His eyes fought to focus as she scrabbled at the door guard and unlocked the door.
Marnie Olsen stepped forward at the sound of the door unlatching and gave it a hefty shove with her shoulder. She heard a woman swearing and then a muffled thud. The door hit something solid and refused to open any further.
“Wild, you in there?”
He struggled to his knees, one hand at the back of his head protectively. “Yeah, I’m here. Watch your step: she has a cosh.”
Olsen appeared from behind the door, one hand out in front of her. “Well, I have a baton. Jesus, Wild — did she slug you?”
Jackie let go of the weapon and sat up, dazed. She looked like she was thinking very slowly and then opened her mouth to speak.
Olsen closed the door behind her, an extendable baton at her side. “Save your breath, Jackie. Tony Weston is in custody. The firearms team caught him coming down from the fifth floor. What did you do, leave your mobile on?”
Jackie slumped back a little. “Look, I still have information to trade — as a witness.”
Olsen retrieved the cosh carefully, watching Jackie all the while. “You must be kidding. Assaulting a police officer — that’s got to be at least six months. And then there’s assisting an offender . . .”
Wild hauled himself up to standing with the aid of the chair. His head felt twice its normal size. He reached back. No blood, which was always a bonus.
Jackie stayed kneeling. “Please, Craig. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard — I panicked.”
“What was the plan then? Give me the truth now.” His confidence came from the wire on his chest and Laghari at the other end.
“It was Tony’s plan. Drug you. A few photos with me . . .” She slipped a strap off her shoulder for effect.
“You were going to blackmail him?” Olsen fingered her baton.
Wild touched his head again. “Or proof of a bent copper if Tony got caught. It’d make any subsequent conviction unsafe and torch what I have left of a career. And the Skype calls?”
Jackie gave her best impression of contrite. It wouldn’t win any awards. “All Tony’s idea. He used to sit off-camera and listen — I never had a choice. His mum’s ill so he can’t stay hidden for ever, and you were an easy option.”
Wild nodded gently, blinking as his brain sluiced around inside his head. Lazy. He should have checked the family connections again.
“Handcuffs, I think.” Olsen took the lead and Wild didn’t argue. She clicked them on despite Jackie’s compliance and then said to Wild, “Your arrest, I believe.”
Wild raised his palm. “No, she’s all yours. I was busy testing the carpet. You’ve earned it, Marnie. Well done.”
Chapter 31
Wild said his goodbyes to Olsen at Charing Cross police station, declined a trip to A&E to get his head checked over, and went off to complete his statement. In some ways it was a relief not to have to worry about Jackie any more. And as for her and Tony Weston facing justice, that would be someone else’s problem.
It read less like a statement and more like a confession. He held nothing back: the Skype calls, the payments by PayPal, and his own testimony about the events in the hotel that he knew would be corroborated by the sound recordings. If he felt good about anything, apart from the fact that the throbbing in his head had abated, it was that Olsen would get some recognition. She did well under pressure, a world away from Ben Galloway’s performance on the stakeout. He’d definitely put in a word for her with DI Marsh when he got back.
He had hoped someone could have driven him to Paddington Station, but fair enough there was still a lot of work left on the case. And yeah, he would’ve loved to sit in on an interview with Tony Weston — if only to see the look on Tony’s face. Still, the journey on the Tube helped him get some perspective. His contribution now was as a witness, who would no doubt be called to court when the case went to trial. Beyond that, for the first time in a long while, he felt free of Steph and his old life, as if he were finally leaving London on his own terms. He made it to Paddington Tube station with time to kill and treated himself to half a lager at a nearby pub. A darts game was in full swing and he toyed with the idea of trying to muscle in. Best not.
The train boarded ten minutes before departure, which gave him time to find a table seat with no one else in close proximity. He opened the overnight bag that he wouldn’t need now and took a chunk of chocolate from the bar. Yes, they really had rewarded him for his efforts and injury — with a large bar of bastard chocolate. The adrenaline rush had long since left him so cocoa and sugar were all he had to fall back on. Keen to stay awake so that he’d sleep properly later, he took up the photocopied pages from Jeb’s great-grandfather’s diary and started reading.
The pages spilled their secrets like poison being drawn from a wound. The good doctor had used his diary as a confessional. Nothing strange in that, except the secrets all belonged to other people. Wild read slowly and carefully, falling back on procedure by making notes. Dr Jacob Walsh was a master of self-justification. He wrote earnestly about being telephoned for an emergency near some farmland. And how, when he arrived, there were two men there to greet him, and only one of them was alive.
‘George Porter was hysterical, weeping like a child. I found myself disgusted by his weakness, unworthy of his Home Guard uniform. This is war, after all. I recognised the young GI from an earlier brawl between a group of soldiers and some local men. Perhaps he’d sustained a more serious injury than I’d first realised, or he could have been attacked a second time. It mattered little, there was nothing to be done for him.’
Dr Walsh confirmed the death and immediately made contact with an American base captain who he’d had dealings with earlier. Porter had been left to stand guard over the body.
Wild looked up from the page and rubbed his eyes. He had questions that would probably never be answered. Who was in the earlier fight and how did Porter come to find the body? He read on.
‘Captain McAllister came out to take control of the situation, such was his arrogance. He ordered us to remain with him and stood awhile, smoking while he formulated a plan.’
Now Dr Walsh digressed, weighing up the pros and cons of a decision he insisted was never his to make. The unexplained death of a serviceman would have had severe repercussions on everyone, he said, and would have driven a wedge between the Americans and the locals. The captain proposed that they bury the body in secret. Porter had the perfect place — a small medieval graveyard in a parcel of land that belonged to his family. Dr Walsh recorded that he, George Porter and the US Army captain had said a prayer for Private Melvin Kravers and then hidden the body temporarily in a ditch.
With the pact assured, the captain now played his part. As the GI had been found — quite by accident — on a path that was seldom used, Captain McAllister returned to base and told his commander that Private Kravers was missing. He ordered a detailed search of the base and confined everyone to their barracks. It was then up to the doctor and George Porter to dispose of the body by nightfall.
Wild became aware of a pair of shoes in his peripheral vision.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, may I see your ticket please?”
Wild offered up the necessary without bothering to read the man’s name badge.
“Thanking you. Must be a good book you’re reading.”
“Yeah,” Wild mustered a half-smile. “It’s a killer.” He waited until he couldn’t see the conductor’s head over the seats, dug out more chocolate and reconnected with 1944.
Dr Jacob Walsh had been vague about where they’d buried the body and said they hadn’t been able to mark the spot. Wild reckoned a jury would have found that convenient. In the days that followed, Dr Walsh moved swiftly from guilt to acceptance, aided perhaps by a realisation of possible consequences. There had been no post-mortem for one thing, so what if it hadn’t been an accident after all? An entry five days later showed the good doctor livid that Captain McAllister had telephoned and arranged a meeting of the three conspirators. At the meeting the captain revealed that he had confided in his base commander. The commander authorised the captain to let it be known that Private Kravers had been selected for a mission that was vital to the war effort.
In the days that followed, Dr Walsh’s diary entries were little more than impersonal memoranda of his daily life and those of his patients. Then, uncharacteristically, a gap of weeks was followed by a summary that bordered on melodrama. Dr Walsh presented a problem, a girl of seventeen who had discovered she was pregnant. Maybe the doctor had learned from his last experience because this time he avoided facts and kept his reflections to his own judgement of the situation. He had spoken with the girl’s mother when she brought the girl to him. Only at the end of the long passage did Dr Walsh mention her name: Constance.
Wild added that to his notes. It wouldn’t be hard to trace the name through parish records. He remembered the photographs he’d taken at Paxton’s Country Hotel and sifted through his phone, expanding the image and sliding it around the screen so that he could read names. Constance Elleth was one of a handful of names that Aaron Kravers had identified as possible connections with his great-uncle.
The next section in Dr Walsh’s diary read like a Greek tragedy. While Constance had refused to name the father of her unborn child in the presence of her own mother, she had been more forthcoming when she spoke to the doctor alone. All she knew about Melvin Kravers was that he was missing and, in the opinion of Dr Walsh, unlikely to return. Only a few days before, the neighbouring family, the Causlys, had learned that their youngest, Peter, had perished at Normandy. Dr Walsh’s solution was to name Peter as the father. Constance had known Peter all her life so where was the harm? No, as Dr Walsh pointed out to history, doing this would bring comfort to the Causlys in their time of grief. Dr Walsh then spent half a page absolving himself of Kravers’s secret burial by the way he’d provided for the unborn child.
Wild looked up at the window and smiled to the darkness. It sounded like what Dr Walsh needed most was a priest. The tannoy announced Didcot Parkway as the next stop in ten minutes’ time. Wild took out his phone.
“Hi, is that Caitlin?” He frowned — of course it was. He’d made a point of entering her number into his phone very carefully so as not to make a tit of himself.
“Hello, Craig, I wasn’t expecting your call so soon — and so late!”
“Sorry. Bad time?”
“No, no.” She yawned and then apologised, laughing. “Where are you — some sort of echo chamber?”
“Close. I’m on a train.” He winced. He sounded like the sort of person he hated. He raised his head like a meerkat and glanced around a near empty carriage. “Coming
back from London.”
“You sound pretty pleased about it.”
“I am. Tied up a few loose ends. I, er, wondered if you were busy later?”
“What time does your train get in?”
“It’s scheduled to reach Swindon around ten.”
“Fancy a curry?”
“You’re on!” He tried to temper his enthusiasm.
“I’ll see you at Swindon station then. Make sure you wait if I’m not there when you arrive.”
“Brilliant.” He cringed. Too eager. “Yeah, looking forward to it.”
“See you soon, Craig.”
A text came in from Olsen, sharing her plaudits from the Met. He sent one back to tell her she owed him a drink.
He used the time stuck at Didcot Parkway on a red light to apply some critical thinking. So what if Constance Elleth’s child had been a cuckoo — what bearing did that have on a murder seventy-odd years later? And yet . . . and yet Alexander Porter’s murder happened within days of Aaron Kravers arriving in the area. And what about Jeb Walsh — where was his place in the domino sequence?
Caitlin was waiting at the exit. He had wondered if she’d change her mind, what with the time and everything. She nodded as he approached the exit and he floundered for a greeting. A kiss seemed presumptuous and a handshake ridiculous. He muttered, “Hi,” and raised a hand like he was stopping traffic.
She smiled. “Do you have an Indian restaurant in mind?”
“No, sorry, I thought you’d know somewhere. I could look one up on my phone . . .”
“It is a bit late . . .” Her voice dipped.
He smiled. But here you are. He clicked his fingers. “Got it! I know where we can get a curry, only it’s a bit of a mad idea.”
“Try me.” She steered him across the car park to her car.
Wild directed them to a twenty-four-hour petrol station close to where he lived. She waited outside while he rummaged through the ready meals, holding them up so she could see them through the window and give him her approval.
Long Shadows Page 15
