by Ian Jarvis
‘I had nothing to do with this,’ said Sharp. ‘It wasn’t me.’
Silva slid one of the pictures across the table. ‘You’re saying you didn’t speak to this woman, Lorraine Peters?’
‘Well... maybe.’ A sweat droplet trickled down Sharp’s cheek. ‘I spoke to lots of people...’
‘Coincidental though, that you were actually at this station. That you possibly spoke to one of these girls on the night she vanished.’
‘I know how this looks, but I swear...’
‘No need.’ Silva held up a hand. ‘If you say you had no part in this, I believe you. I have to ask, as I’m sure you realise. I must be certain of my people.’
‘Of course.’ The relief on Sharp’s face would have sold any laxative. ‘Thank you for...’ The words dried as he noticed the President’s eyes.
‘The next time,’ hissed Silva, ‘you will follow Elite procedures.’
Strand cleared his throat. ‘Anything further, Sir?’
‘We’re finished.’ The President gestured to the door as the breeze from twenty relieved sighs almost blew the photos from the table. ‘I’ll see you all at our Winter Solstice meeting on Friday.’
The Committee hurried past the large cat statue and into the corridor, heart rates decelerating. Silva, Strand and Tayman were the last to leave the room, the latter pressing the elevator call and convulsing with a nervous twitch.
‘Oh dear,’ sympathised Strand. ‘I’m sure that unfortunate condition of yours is growing worse, Freddie.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snarled Tayman. ‘How can it?’
Grinning at the exchange, Sharp took the opportunity to wipe the cold sweat from his face, then froze as the lift opened to reveal four large bodyguards. Strand had half-expected this and grimly backed away with the rest of the Committee. The most trusted of the Presidential security team, Hinds, Browning, Sangster and Fisher looked as if they’d been built in a Terminator factory, but their intellect was also on par with a robot. Hinds and Sangster seized Jordan Zucco, slammed him into the wall and forced an arm up his back.
‘That’s the wrong one,’ hissed Silva.
‘Sorry, Sir.’ Sangster released the groaning doctor and grabbed Sharp.
Strand moved aside to let them pass and glanced at Fisher and Browning’s compact weapons - Uzi machine pistols with silencers. Sharp noticed the guns too and whimpered as he was dragged down the corridor and through a door. The room was empty; just brick walls and a polythene-covered floor.
‘Please,’ sobbed Sharp, seeing the plastic sheet. ‘I meant to tell you, but I couldn’t get through that night. I was too scared later.’ The man was thrown against the far wall. ‘Listen to me,’ he begged, scrambling to his knees on the polythene. ‘It was just one girl, the one called Peters. I burnt her. I swear I never even saw the other.’
Silva signalled to the guards.
‘Wait...’
The harsh splutter of silencers terminated the scream. Sharp kicked and writhed, blood splatters and flesh chunks bursting from his twisting torso. A hot cordite stench filled the room, the horrified Committee watching as the machine pistols were emptied into the scarlet carcass and fresh magazines snapped into place. Several seconds passed before Strand broke the silence.
‘Excuse me.’ Pushing between Browning and Fisher, he walked across the polythene, taking care not to step in the expanding pool; steaming blood and offal wouldn’t do Italian leather any favours. Sharp lay spread-eagled, rib cage and stomach pulverised and tattered intestines covering the floor. The Vice President licked his dry lips, suppressing his mounting fury with deep breaths. This lunacy would soon be over, and the sooner the better. Regaining his humour and feigning a concerned frown, he turned to the chalk-faced audience. ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’
Only Doctor Zucco responded, but the laugh sounded as genuine as a Thai Rolex.
‘Clear that mess up,’ said Silva. He turned to the twitching Tayman. ‘Ring Oldman and inform him of Sharp’s resignation from the Committee. Explain that he’s replacing him. By the way... Peel?’
Conjecture or subconscious movement, Peel couldn’t decide which, but a space had formed around him - a space that had little to do with body odour, but plenty to do with the unhindered passage of bullets. The Yorkshire Controller whimpered.
‘Not today,’ said Silva, guessing his thoughts. ‘But if any more of your people contravene the rules like Doctor Stapleton, your removal will make this look like something from a children’s lullaby.’ He turned to Strand. ‘Tell me, Matthew, who are you taking with you to York?’
‘Taking with me?’ said Strand. ‘I didn’t intend...’
‘Take these gentlemen.’ Silva motioned to the four deadpan guards and smiled at their smoking weapons. ‘I insist.’
Chapter 19
A herd of cattle watched from the meadow above Lamberley as Quist’s soft-top Volkswagen passed by on the lane towards the narrow river. Iron-dark clouds hung low over the tarnished chrome water and ground frozen hard as steel. Nature was evidently in a metallic mood this Wednesday morning.
‘Just look at this.’ Watson nodded to the vale ahead. ‘Talk about shitholes.’
‘The Yorkshire Wolds?’ The detective changed gear on the descent. ‘I take it this bleak winter beauty does nothing for you?’
‘It depresses me.’
‘Ah.’ Quist braked as the terrain levelled. ‘Just out of interest, what sort of place would you class as beautiful?’
‘Dunno.’ Watson shrugged. ‘Las Vegas.’
‘The world’s most ostentatious monument to gaudiness and excess.’ He parked on the frosty verge by a gate. ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Guv. Yorkshire’s brilliant.’ The youth clambered from the car. ‘I’m just not into the crap historic stuff, or the boring countryside bits. Anyway, where the hell are we?’
‘Lamberley is about a mile away.’ Quist looked around. ‘The village of Wetwang is a couple of miles to the south...’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’ Watson zipped up his jacket. ‘The middle of bleedin’ nowhere.’
Police tape across the gate still denied access to the meadow beyond, and the frozen grass down to the river had been trampled flat by forensic vehicles and constabulary boots. Quist ducked under the tape, lifted his leather overcoat and climbed the gate. Winter thrushes spilled chattering from the trees overhead.
‘Are we allowed to do that?’ Watson nodded to the sign on the wall. ‘With your amazing powers of observation, I thought you might have spotted the notice saying: Police - Keep Out.’
‘The place is deserted.’ Quist headed for the hawthorn thicket by the water. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Fine, unless we get hypothermia.’ The teenager followed, scanning the surrounding hillsides and woods. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘Invigorating is the word.’ Quist had to secretly agree; cold like this was normally associated with penguins, igloos, and summer holidays on the British coast. ‘You don’t think it’s pleasant to escape the city on such a bracing day?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Watson blew warmth into his hands. He could think of pleasanter things, involving lager and televised sport.
‘Just look at the wonderful chalk landscape. Where’s your soul?’
‘Maybe it disappears in weather like this. My balls certainly have. You could have looked at this place on Google Earth, you know?’
Slowly pacing beside the shallow river, Quist stooped to inspect the path. ‘Mmh! Camera tripod indentations and vague scuffle marks. What do we deduce from that?’
‘The blood has been cleared up, but this is the spot where it happened?’
‘Correct.’ He stroked his nose thoughtfully. ‘Strange that Lisa Mirren’s binoculars were taken, but not her came
ra equipment.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Watson. ‘I still can’t understand what we’re doing here. Selden asks you to look into his bird’s suicide and you come to the place where Saturday’s murder happened. You obviously think the two are connected?’
‘Both girls worked for Ebor Pharmaceuticals and died within forty hours of each other.’
‘You’ve never heard of coincidences?’
‘I’ve learnt never to dismiss them.’ Quist knelt in the grass to check a nondescript mark. The secret longing to come here had been with him from the moment he read of how Lisa Mirren died. The Diane Woodall connection provided a good excuse. ‘I don’t expect to find anything, but I wanted to see this place.’ Still kneeling, he leant on his hands and gazed at the nearby hedgerows from the strange press-up position. ‘See it and get the feel of it.’
‘Right.’ Watson eyed him curiously, frowning as Quist lowered his head. Was he sniffing the grass? No, surely not. ‘There was me thinking that trudging around a freezing field was a waste of time.’
Quist climbed to his feet. ‘I notice you dressed appropriately for rural fields.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Watson looked down at the red jacket, fluorescent trainers and yellow sweatshirt. ‘I’m a bit too gaudy?’
‘You’d appear gaudy in a Mardi Gras.’
‘What did you expect me to wear?’
‘I didn’t expect you to dress like an explosion in a paint factory...’ Quist stiffened, and gaping incredulously, stooped to pick up a tiny object. ‘Oh, come on. This is ridiculous.’ The badge was chrome with Harley engraved in crimson. He turned it over, half-expecting to find clue etched on the reverse. ‘I really don’t believe this.’
‘You can say that again.’ Watson laughed. ‘Two deaths and the cops have missed a badge at both sites. How crap is that?’
‘What on earth is this doing here?’ Quist stroked his nose. ‘A police search would pick up contact lenses, fingernails and needles in proverbial haystacks. There’s no way this would be missed. First that strange talk with Selden and his behaviour, and then these badges. What the hell is going on?’
‘Selden doesn’t know we’re here, Guv, or that we went to the railway last night. He’s probably hired someone else by now.’
‘Something tells me that won’t be the case.’
‘We were supposed to be starting that divorce case today. If Selden hires another firm, he won’t be paying you.’
‘Forget the divorce. I think we’ll pursue this a little more.’ Quist fingered the badge, common sense and danger screaming in his head. Leave it! Don’t get involved any further! ‘This is very intriguing.’
‘Oh well,’ said Watson. ‘So long as I’m getting paid, who cares? If you reckon there’s a connection between the dead girls, why don’t we see the people at the lab where they worked?’
‘Yes, we’re going to Ebor Pharmaceuticals,’ said Quist. ‘But first I want to ask a few questions in Lamberley.’
***
To call Lamberley a village would be lying. With its small church and huddle of limestone cottages by the river, even hamlet was an exaggeration. Quist parked his Beetle in the cobbled yard of the Hound inn and strolled about the car park inspecting the ground.
‘What are you looking for now?’ asked Watson.
Drawing on his cigarette, the detective ignored him and stooped to examine a cobblestone.
‘Those fags will kill you, you know?’
‘Don’t bet on that.’ Quist stood up, snuffed the cigarette underfoot and headed for the inn.
The rear door opened into a hallway with a taproom and lounge leading off. Quist chose the lounge, where a log fire bathed the flagged floor and rafters in a cheerful glow. From their appearance the customers appeared to be farm workers. Six were drinking at the counter, three pushed dominoes around a table, and a flat-capped villager, somewhere between eighty and deceased, sat by the fire.
Solid and bald, with red cheeks that belonged on a baboon’s backside, the archetypal rural landlord appeared behind the bar. ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘What’ll you be having?’
Quist tugged off the overcoat and straightened his cord jacket. Theakstons was the guest beer. The flagship of this Yorkshire brewery went by the name of Old Peculiar. A brew with a gravity of some daft figure, a few pints left one experiencing similar floating sensations to the ones surgical patients describe when they leave their bodies and look down at the operating table from the ceiling.
He pointed to the hand pump. ‘Two pints please.’
‘And a bag of beef crisps,’ added Watson.
Hearing the words, a collie trotted up, growled at Quist and backed away. Watson bent to stroke it, noticed the curling lips and decided it would be wiser to stroke a bear trap. The dog began barking.
‘Pack it in you silly bugger,’ bellowed the landlord. ‘Or you’ll get my boot up your arse.’
‘Thanks.’ Paying for the drinks, Quist lowered his voice. ‘I imagine you’re growing tired of this by now, but I’d like to ask a few questions about the girl who was killed near here.’
‘Oh right.’ The landlord ran a sceptical eye over the mismatched pair. ‘You certainly don’t look like police, so I take it you’re reporters.’
‘Neither. This is a private investigation.’
‘Wow! A private eye?’
‘Consultant detective. I wonder if you could help?’
‘I thought the police would be sorting this out.’
‘So did they,’ agreed Watson, through a mouthful of crisps.
‘We’re investigating a case which overlaps with your local tragedy.’ Quist sipped his beer. ‘According to the newspapers, Doctor Mirren left her vehicle in your car park that day, but didn’t call in the pub.’
‘Ah!’ Watson crunched his crisps. ‘That’s why you were looking around out there.’
To be truthful, Quist was amazed not to have found another motorcycle badge in the yard.
‘That’s right,’ said the landlord. ‘She left her car here around ten-thirty and followed the footpath. It runs east along the little river for about a mile.’
Quist nodded. ‘To the hawthorn thicket with the owl roost.’
‘Yes, where she was killed at noon. There isn’t much I can tell you that you haven’t read in the papers. Everyone here has been interviewed and the police have all the facts.’
‘How about hearsay and rumour?’ asked Quist. ‘What ideas do your regulars have about the death?’
‘Village gossip? That’s important, is it?’
‘Useful information can sometimes be found in the wildest theories.’
‘No, the murder is the main topic, as you can imagine, but no one seems to know anything.’
‘Any strangers in the area over the weekend?’
‘Strangers? I should say so.’ The landlord gave a humourless laugh. ‘We had seven hell’s angels in here on Saturday and they don’t come stranger than that. A violent-looking bunch with a gorgeous blonde girl.’
‘Bloody hell, Guv.’ Watson nudged him hard. ‘Harley Davidsons.’ He looked around, eyes narrowing as a black Ferrari screeched by the window and turned into the car park.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Quist. ‘Do you know where they were from?’
‘No idea,’ said the landlord. ‘Leeds or Hull probably.’
‘Satan’s Heralds,’ called out the old man by the fire. He’d either been listening or was quite insane.
‘Yes, that’s what they called themselves.’ The landlord nodded. ‘It was on their jackets.’
Tapping the beer glass with his ring, Quist raised an eyebrow.
‘You can forget whatever you’re thinking.’ He glanced over his shoulder as the car park door opened. ‘Their visit was a coincidence. All seve
n of them were in here when she died and the police seem satisfied they had nothing to do with the murder. Hang on, I’ll just serve this chap in the other side.’
‘How about that?’ Watson gestured across the counter to the black-garbed man in the next room. ‘Tom Cruise.’
A couple of locals were eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. It wasn’t every day they got twelve grand’s worth of designer leather jacket in the taproom, or the lounge. They didn’t get many in the entire county.
‘Get your autograph book ready.’ Quist watched the man talking with the landlord, the latter pointing in their direction. ‘I think we’re about to meet him.’
The door opened and Rex Grant walked in. If looking cool ever became a competitive event, mused Watson, here was a guy who’d need a wheelbarrow to carry his trophies. His jacket, Armani jeans and sweater were black, and his shades were Gucci. What degree of coolness the hidden Walther PPK in his waistband would have scored with the teenager was anyone’s guess. Strolling casually towards them, Rex trashed the image by tripping over the growling collie and falling on his face.
‘Oops!’ Quist reached down to help. ‘Are you alright?’
‘No problem,’ spluttered Rex, jumping up. ‘I just mentioned Lisa Mirren to the landlord and he tells me you’re asking about her too. Apparently you’re some private eye investigating her death?’
‘Consultant detective. And no, we aren’t investigating. We were just passing through and asking a few questions. I’m Bernard Quist and this is my assistant, Watson.’
‘Er... right.’ Rex peered rudely at his large aquiline nose. ‘I’d like a chat with you. Grant’s the name. Rex Grant.’
Eyeing the designer labels on the trainers and jeans, Watson whistled to see the diver’s wristwatch. It was accurate down to a thousand metres, a staggering technological achievement matched only by the staggering price. Rex, however, like most folk who could afford one, hadn’t been deeper than three feet.
‘Are you the Rex Grant?’ asked Watson.
