by Jim Eldridge
‘Yes, and if I’d been in the office on that day I’d have spiked it,’ said Murphy. ‘The trouble was I was away when it came in and there was all hell over Tamara Armstrong being murdered, so no one at the top was checking the smaller stuff.’
‘So a whole half a page allegation of my beating up some poor innocent kid is smaller stuff, is it?’ said Georgiou.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Murphy. ‘The trouble is Jenny wants to make a name for herself so she can get on one of the big tabloids down south, and she wants to do it fast.’
‘As far as I’m concerned the sooner she moves down south and stops bothering me, the better,’ said Georgiou.
‘Look, Andreas, whether you like it or not, we can be a help to you on this case. We can get stuff out to the general public.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Georgiou.
‘So, why don’t we get together? You and me and McAndrew? Come on, Andreas, this is the biggest story that’s happened here for years …’
‘So I’m told,’ said Georgiou. ‘The superintendent says that even the American media have been on to him.’
‘And you want to cut out the locals, just because this kid has got your back up?’
‘No, because this “kid”, as you call her, distorted what I said to her. So who’s to say she won’t do the same again but with worse consequences. We’re dealing with a murderer. I don’t want her distorting things because she’s so eager to make a name for herself that someone else gets murdered because of it.’
He heard Murphy sigh.
‘OK, you and me. I’ll leave her out of it. What do you say?’
Georgiou thought it over.
‘Superintendent Stokes has ordered me not to talk to the press. All press enquiries have to go through him, or press liaison.’
‘Oh, come on, Andreas! Stokes is about as useful as tits on a bicycle! We can help you, and you know it.’
‘OK,’ said Georgiou. ‘But it’ll all have to be off the record, and you’ll need to reconfirm it with Stokes.’
‘That suits me,’ said Murphy. ‘Shall I drop in to the office?’
‘Not a good idea,’ said Georgiou. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go and see someone. I’ll call you when I’ve finished.’
‘Don’t leave it too long,’ urged Murphy. ‘This is a big story.’
‘Really?’ said Georgiou. ‘I hadn’t realized.’
Vera Little had always struck Georgiou as like a tiny house mouse in a Beatrix Potter book. Small and very neat, almost starched. Tidy to the point of obsession. Perpetually frowning as if looking for something wrong for her to correct. Richard Little had struck Georgiou as the same. Richard and Vera Little, a pair of tiny, neat and obsessive book-ends. Now, in her fastidiously clean living room, Vera Little seemed to be doing her best to cling on to her proper and best behaviour, but Georgiou could see that tears were just a word away.
She sat on the edge of the settee, twisting a handkerchief in her hand. Now and then she dabbed at her eyes with it. Georgiou sat in an armchair and listened, his face showing his concern. Conway sat in the other armchair, looking very awkward. This was his partner they were talking about.
‘I just don’t know where he is or what could have happened to him,’ said Vera, and once more she dabbed at her eyes. ‘He’s never done this kind of thing before. Never gone without saying a word. I wondered if it was something to do with this special operation he’s been on lately.’
‘Special operation?’ queried Georgiou, doing his best to keep the surprise out of his voice.
Vera nodded.
‘He’s been on some kind of surveillance which means he had to be out a lot at night. All night. I know you’re not allowed to tell me what it is, but I know he hasn’t been happy about it.’
Oh God, no, thought Georgiou. Another piece in the jigsaw nailing Richard Little.
‘I said to him he ought to ask you to be let off, but he’s always been so conscientious. Always done his duty. You know that, Inspector.’
‘Indeed I do.’ Georgiou nodded sympathetically. ‘When did you first notice this … night duty … getting him down?’
‘Just before he started on it. About a month ago. It even seemed to hang over him when he wasn’t on nights. I could tell he was worried, but …’ She dabbed at her eyes again, then continued: ‘I asked him what it was that was troubling him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. And then, when these murders started, I knew it must be about them.’
A month ago, thought Georgiou. About the time that Michelle Nixon was murdered.
‘Has he said anything lately about having any … personal problems?’ asked Georgiou.
‘What sort of personal problems?’ asked Vera, and immediately there was a defensive tone to her voice.
Georgiou gave her a sympathetic smile and shrugged helplessly.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘To be honest, Vera, we’re clutching at straws here. As you say, this is so completely unlike Richard. All we know is that he seems to have disappeared.’
Vera’s face crumpled slightly and she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief again.
‘You don’t think …’ she began in a voice that was barely above a frightened whisper ‘… you don’t think this … murderer might have caught him? Killed him?’
Georgiou shook his head.
‘I’m convinced that hasn’t happened,’ he said, with as much assurance as he could. ‘This killer has made sure that the victims are found very quickly. No, I think for some reason we don’t know about, Richard has decided to … slip away for a while.’ A thought struck him. ‘Has Richard been seeing his doctor lately? Is he on any form of medication?’
Vera shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think it’s the stress of the job he’s been doing. Working too hard. Days and nights.’
‘You may be right,’ agreed Georgiou. He knew he couldn’t leave it like this. With so many questions needing answers, urgent answers, he had to tell Vera the truth.
‘Vera, these night duties he’s been doing …’
‘Yes,’ asked Vera.
‘Did he tell you they were official?’
Vera looked at him, puzzled.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Why? Wasn’t he supposed to tell me? He didn’t say what he was actually doing. He was always very conscientious about not breaking a confidence.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Georgiou. ‘The thing is, Vera, to the best of my knowledge, Richard wasn’t on any official night surveillance duties. Not on police business.’
There was an awkward silence. Vera looked at him, and now the puzzled look on her face was one of complete confusion.
‘What are you saying?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘I’m saying that whatever Richard was doing out at nights, to the best of my knowledge it wasn’t on official police business.’
‘But it must have been!’ she burst out. ‘He said it was!’
‘If it was, I think I might have known about it,’ said Georgiou gently. ‘I certainly hadn’t given him any instruction about working a night operation.’
‘Then … then it must have been someone else!’ said Vera desperately. ‘He must have been working for someone else.’
‘If so, no one’s said anything to me about it,’ said Georgiou. He looked across at Conway. ‘Conway?’
Conway shook his head.
‘Sorry, Vera,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Then … what’s he been doing all this time when he’s been out?’ she demanded. Angrily, she turned on Conway. ‘Is there some other woman?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Conway. ‘He’s never mentioned anyone to me but you.’
‘But … this is madness!’ spluttered Vera. ‘This isn’t like Richard!’
‘I know,’ said Georgiou. ‘That’s why we’ve got to find him, find out what’s been going on. Vera, can you remember the dates when he was out at night on this … operation?’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
; ‘It might give us a clue to what was going on. Which might help to lead us to him.’
She sat there, rigid now on the settee, the handkerchief crumpled tightly in her hand. Georgiou could almost see her mind racing, trying to cope with this sudden shocking news.
‘I … I don’t know,’ she said.
‘If you can, it will help us enormously. Help us find Richard for you. If you can search your mind, draw up a list of dates when you know he was out …’
‘I don’t see how that can help,’ she said.
‘Trust me, it will,’ said Georgiou. ‘At least it will give us somewhere to start looking. We can ask around, see if those dates mean anything to anyone at the station. After all, it could have been a secret operation that we didn’t know about, but someone must.’
‘Yes,’ said Vera, grateful that some reason was forming to explain why Richard had stayed out so many nights. Any reason. Any excuse.
‘If you could make out the list as soon as you can and phone us when it’s ready,’ said Georgiou. ‘Iain will come over and pick it up.’
Vera nodded.
‘This isn’t like Richard,’ she said, her voice urgent, insistent.
‘I know,’ agreed Georgiou. ‘Don’t worry, Vera, we’ll find him.’
Georgiou and Conway waited until they were in the car before they spoke.
‘Well, sir,’ said Conway. ‘This night stuff seems to clinch it, doesn’t it? Looks like Richard’s our man.’
‘Maybe,’ said Georgiou. ‘But let’s wait until we see what dates Vera comes up with. See if they match the killings.’
‘She’ll fix them,’ said Conway. ‘She knows what we’re thinking. She’ll make sure the dates don’t match. She’s no fool, is Vera.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
As soon as Georgiou and Conway got back to the station, Georgiou headed up the stairs to Stokes’s office, but found the superintendent was out.
‘He had to go to a lunch,’ Stokes’s secretary, a smart young woman called Deirdre Fisher, told him. Georgiou liked Fisher, knew her to be efficient and calm under pressure, the very opposite of Stokes. Georgiou wondered how she tolerated working for someone as insecure and unstable as Stokes.
Georgiou looked at his watch. It was three o’clock.
‘A long lunch,’ he commented.
‘It’s a lunch with the business community,’ Fisher said smoothly. ‘These things can go on.’
I bet, thought Georgiou.
Georgiou went back down to his office and dialled the superintendent’s mobile number. When it answered, Georgiou could hear the droning chatter and clatter of glasses and bottles in the background that told him this lunch was everything he thought it would be.
‘Stokes,’ snapped the superintendent’s voice.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you did instruct me to tell you if there were any developments on the case—’ began Georgiou.
‘You mean you’ve got something?!’ Stokes interrupted him, hopefully.
‘Well, there have been developments which implicate someone …’
‘The killer!’ said Stokes excitedly. Then Georgiou heard him say smugly to whoever his companions were: ‘My men think they’ve got a lead on him.’ Then Stokes’s voice was clear in Georgiou’s ear again. ‘Have you arrested him?’
‘Not yet, sir …’ began Georgiou.
‘Why not?’ demanded Stokes. ‘We need a fast result on this!’
‘First, he’s vanished—’
‘Vanished?!’ echoed Stokes, angrily.
Before the Superintendent could say any more, Georgiou added, ‘and he’s one of our own team. Detective Richard Little.’
There was a silence that went on for so long that Georgiou might have thought they’d been cut off, if it wasn’t for the background noise.
‘Sir?’ prompted Georgiou.
‘You’re to say nothing of this to anyone, Georgiou,’ said Stokes, his voice suddenly low and conspiratorial. The background chatter on the phone had receded and Georgiou imagined that Stokes had moved away from his cronies to be out of earshot.
‘But …’ began Georgiou.
‘Nothing,’ snapped Stokes. ‘Is that clear? Nothing. I shall be at the office within the hour and I want to see you with everything you’ve got.’
Then the connection was cut.
Seward sat at the table in the canteen toying with the plate of vegetable chilli. Opposite her, Taggart stopped tucking into her steak and chips and looked at her partner, concerned.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Seward, forcing a smile. ‘It’s just this business of these murders. And Richard disappearing like that, and maybe the suspect.’
She hoped it sounded convincing. The truth was, last night was still hanging heavy over her. Georgiou being beaten up, seeing him with grazes and bruises, knowing he was in pain, made her want to pour her heart out to him about her feelings for him. Maybe that’s what she should do. Maybe she should come right out with it to his face. Tell him she had feelings for him. That she loved him. No, that was too much at this stage. Just tell him she had feelings for him. Strong feelings. That she wanted to spend time with him. Personal time. That she wanted to take him in her arms and …
She must have let out a heartfelt sigh, because Taggart was looking at her, even more concerned than before.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Taggart.
‘Yes. Absolutely,’ insisted Seward.
‘Only if there’s anything you want to talk about. You know, nothing to do with the job …’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Seward. Again, she forced a grin. ‘It’ll be OK once this particular job’s over.’
Stokes paced around his office, shaking his head, an expression of horror on his face, as if his worst nightmare had arrived. Which, in a way, it had.
‘How on earth can it be one of our men?’ he demanded.
‘We’re not saying it is,’ said Georgiou. ‘All we’re saying is that circumstantial evidence …’
‘What about this terrorist?’ demanded Stokes, and suddenly the superintendent was desperate for the murderer to be the terrorist he’d been so anxious to avoid. Anybody, rather than one of his own squad.
‘There was no terrorist,’ said Georgiou. ‘GCHQ traced the website, and the video clip. It turned out to be some unhappy teenager in his bedroom in Cornwall, jumping on the bandwagon. No terrorist links at all, except in his head. He’s currently under arrest. Or, at least, he was. I imagine he’s been released back to his family while they work out what to charge him with.’
‘It can’t be one of ours! It can’t be!’ groaned Stokes. ‘The press will have a field day! They’ll wonder what sort of coppers we employ here! I’m going to come out of this looking like … like …’
Stokes stopped, lost for words. He shook his head numbly, shocked. ‘This could finish me.’
‘You can hardly be held responsible for the people you employ, sir,’ said Georgiou. Though inside he thought: yes you can, and rightly so. It’s about time some of the shit stuck to you. But then the other thought rose up again: if Richard Little was a rogue cop, Georgiou should have spotted it.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Stokes, and this time he was really asking; almost begging Georgiou to come up with an answer that would save his skin. ‘Isn’t there some way we can keep this to ourselves?’
‘No,’ said Georgiou. ‘If it is Richard Little who’s the killer, and we don’t know for sure it is – as I said, at the moment it’s just circumstantial – then we have to warn the public against him. It would be even worse for us if we say nothing and he kills again.’
Stokes groaned, slumping down in his chair.
‘There’s got to be a way,’ he appealed.
‘One way would be to just say he’s disappeared and put out an alert for him. We can say he’s a member of the team investigating the killings and we think that stress has caused him to disappear. That way we can get
his picture in the papers and on TV without anyone assuming he’s the killer.’
‘But we want the public to keep away from him, not run up to him if they see him and be sympathetic!’
‘We add that because of his stress, Detective Little may be in a disturbed state, and members of the public are advised not to confront him but to get in touch with the police. It still doesn’t give anything away. And if it turns out he’s not the killer but just … run away … there’s no harm done. No one knows.’
‘Some smart alec journalist will put two and two together,’ groaned Stokes.
‘Not if we handle it properly,’ said Georgiou. ‘And not if we pick up Little quickly. And for that we need to use the media.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
The view from Castlerigg Stone Circle was breathtaking. Seward had been here a few times before, and each time it took her by surprise. No, surprise was the wrong word. Each time she was filled with a sense of awe. It wasn’t just the stone circle itself, which – as stone circles went – was interesting enough, it was the setting: the fells of the North Lakes on all sides grim and imposing, and at the same time beautiful. No wonder the ancients had believed this place had magical properties. Even in this ultra-realistic non-believing twenty-first century, the power of the fells came through. This was nature at its most powerful, worthy of those ancient Britons erecting this circle of huge stones as a temple in its midst.
Right now the stone circle was buzzing with activity: cameras, cables, generators, all the trappings of a film company on location. In this case, scaled down to Eric Drake and his handful of student friends manhandling the equipment into place and shouting at one another to watch out for this and take care of that.
Seward and Taggart stood and watched the activity. At the centre of it all was Eric Drake, and Seward couldn’t deny that he was the hub of everything, stomping around, giving out orders, checking the camera, the equipment and the costumes. When they’d met him first in his room he had given the appearance of laziness to the level of sloth. The Eric Drake here was a different person altogether: high energy and organization.
