Wallace was equally puzzled by Macaleer’s body washing up on a Hampshire beach, if he was supposed to be in Switzerland. Was it just coincidence that the murder victims on his patch were stripped naked? The only difference was that they had been mutilated while Macaleer had been shot. He grinned as Conrad furrowed his fingers through his hair, a habit that Wallace used to find irritating when they worked together.
“Damn! That’s it!” Wallace exclaimed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Your hair, it was always too long. Your cap left an indentation at the back of your head, because it was too tight. The victim on my patch had the same thing. He could have been a military man. Macaleer was washed up in Hampshire even though he was supposed to be in Switzerland. Is it possible that Foley turned up in Shropshire?”
“Come on, you’re clutching at straws,” Conrad said sceptically.
“Perhaps, but it’s worth checking out. I haven’t got any other leads. I’ll get the victim’s blood checked against Foley’s army records. We’ll have to contact a relative to get a DNA sample.”
“It’s highly unlikely,” Conrad said, “but if by some fluke it does turn out to be Foley we’ll have to keep a lid on it. The Chief Constable will be informed. All your people need to know is that the victim remains unidentified, nothing else.” Conrad excused himself and dialled a number on his mobile.
“Breakdancer,” a voice rasped.
“Regis reporting. I have a problem. It turns out an old intelligence colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Ben Wallace, is out here in connection with two murders in Shropshire. He also knows about Macaleer being washed up in Hampshire. His old pal from Interpol is also sniffing around, a guy called Ernst Dreher.”
Pearce was silent for a few moments anticipating Conrad’s anger when he told him about Dreher. He had been active as a covert field agent for IMIC for a number of years.
“Why the hell didn’t he tell me?”
“Why would he? He doesn’t know you’re involved with IMIC.”
Conrad wanted Wallace on board, but he had to convince Pearce of his suitability. Wallace had left the army due to wife trouble over his long absences. That didn’t augur well, especially as he was due to be promoted to Major. On the plus side his work with Dreher gave him the edge and he had a good record in military intelligence.
“Jack, you know I trust your judgement, but I’d like to run the usual security checks on Wallace. Ring me this evening.”
“Why don’t you join us for dinner?” Dreher said, as Conrad prepared to leave.
“My wife always cooks enough for a small army. That way we can talk without being overheard.”
Wallace grinned at the thought of another scrumptious meal cooked by the beautiful Sophia.
*
Snow fell gently past French doors that opened out onto a wooden veranda stretching along the front of the chalet overlooking the lake. Dreher drew the heavy drapes then placed a large log in the middle of the glowing fire. Within seconds it licked hungrily at the seasoned wood, engulfing it in tongues of orange flame. Mellow light from antique wall lamps spilled over the polished mahogany desk and gleamed on brass fire irons.
Dreher poured generous amounts of brandy and handed it to his guests. Conrad sat down in an oversized armchair and waited until the other men were settled with their drinks. This was as good a time as any to broach the subject.
“Have you ever heard of IMIC?” he asked.
Wallace shrugged his shoulders. Dreher stared intently into the fire, giving it a sharp jab with a brass-handled poker. Conrad quickly dialled a number on his mobile and handed it to Dreher. Looking perplexed, he listened carefully for a few minutes. Without saying a word he handed the mobile back to Conrad.
“IMIC stands for International Military Investigation Corps,” Conrad explained. “It deals with anything that relates to the Armed Forces. Military espionage, terrorism, extortion involving personnel, anything that risks national or international security. It’s highly secretive with an exclusive executive. Unknown to me, Dreher has worked undercover for them for some time. He has eyes and ears throughout Europe. Not even the CIA know about it, although Breakdancer has his American sources.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Wallace asked.
“We’re dealing with the sale of military secrets. MI6 sussed out a ‘sleeper’ in GCHQ going under the name of Colin Lynes. They don’t know how much information he passed on to the Russians before he was rumbled.”
Conrad revealed how Lynes had been spying for the Russians for decades and deliberately set out to recruit Foley who had been working at GCHQ when he disappeared.
“What Lynes didn’t know was that Foley was playing the same game. MI6 had recruited him to set up the ‘sleeper’. He cultivated a friendship with him through their mutual love of chess. Somehow the plan backfired. We don’t know what happened after Foley came to Switzerland for his planned kidney transplant.”
“What do you mean?”
“That was how Lynes was set up. Foley had been given the all-clear after a blip on his kidney had been found on a private body-imaging scan. MI6 decided to use it to trap Lynes. He offered to obtain a kidney in exchange for military intelligence.”
Wallace stood up and blew out his cheeks. “The murder victim on my patch had surgery to remove his right kidney, fairly recently.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It must be Foley. Don’t tell me Macaleer was involved as well.”
“Unlikely, but we believe he found Foley. What happened after that is anybody’s guess. We have to fit the pieces together.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Shropshire, England
Wallace’s flight from Geneva had been delayed for three hours. That, coupled with irritating road works, had plunged him into a foul mood. The last thing he needed was this little creep. Baker had put his foot in it again. Butler had only just managed to smooth things over at the Blood Transfusion Unit after a female member of staff threatened to report him for a lascivious remark. His face bright raspberry, he jabbed a finger at DC Baker.
“I’m recommending you go back into uniform. Now get out and close the door!”
Taking a deep breath he willed himself to calm down and think clearly about the flimsy leads they had so far. Richards and Connelly had come up with zilch at the hospitals. The only other lead on Joanne Howard was the fabric sample found under her nails. A young man had ordered a suit in that material from a tailor in Shrewsbury who had a website dealing with quality off-the-peg clothes. He had paid online, but the credit card turned out to be stolen.
Apparently, the owner didn’t report it straight away. A number of purchases were made over the space of a few days. The fraud squad was alerted by the credit card company following a query about a statement. However, the fraudster could be ruled out of the murder investigation.
They might have more luck with a travel agent from Oswestry who had also ordered a business suit in the same fabric about a month earlier. One of her office staff, living in Shrewsbury, picked it up from the shop and paid cash. He was furious that nobody had followed it up while he was in Switzerland. His face was purple with rage as he strode into the outer office.
“Butler!” he barked. “Follow up that lead on the travel agent and do it now!”
Butler shot out of his chair and scurried out before Wallace could say any more.
“Touchy sod! He’ll have a heart attack one of these days,” he muttered.
*
Wallace and Dr Barnett sipped coffee in her office away from the unpleasant smells of the post mortem room. The corpse found in Borton Wood was definitely Bruce Foley. Toxicology tests had already shown evidence of anaesthetic drugs, but he had died from suffocation as Jo Barnett had confirmed. What neither of them could understand was why he had been pumped full of drugs and then smothered. It didn’t make any sense. Why was he murdered in Switzerland and dumped over here? Wallace shook his head in perplexity. It had been difficult to ma
ke a formal identification, because of the state of the victim’s face, or lack of it. His brother had identified a birthmark on the victim’s scalp. That and the DNA sample had clinched it.
Foley’s brother was also an army man. He knew Foley was working on something top secret so he understood the need for secrecy, but his mother needed closure.
“Once I’ve had a word with the Chief Constable they can go ahead with the funeral,” Wallace said. He gulped down the remainder of his coffee and rose to leave. “I’ll ring you later this evening.”
Outside, he breathed in the chilly air trying to rid his nostrils of the cloying odour of the mortuary. Humming to himself he strode to the waiting car and ordered the driver to take him back to the police station. Back in his office he closed the door and dialled a number.
“Jack, I’ve had the results of the DNA tests on the victim. I was right, it’s Foley,” he said triumphantly.
“Well, that’s one mystery partially solved, but we still don’t know what happened to Rob Macaleer. The same goes for Ethan Bateman. I may need you to come back out here, Ben, but hold fire on that for the time being. Carry on with the investigation at your end. Dreher wants a chance to do a bit more digging over here.”
Wallace replaced the receiver in its cradle. They knew the identity of the murder victim and his connection with Macaleer, but where was he murdered and why would he have been in Shropshire? Why had Macaleer turned up in Hampshire?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Church Stretton, Shropshire
Wallace felt ridiculously nervous as he drove through the wrought-iron gates. He pulled up outside a period building with impressive bay windows either side of the front door. This was the first time he had been invited to Jo’s home. When she greeted him with a disarming smile his nervousness melted away.
She ushered him through into a large living room with shuttered windows and high ceilings. Cream walls, conker-coloured chesterfield and real oak floors highlighted with antique rugs. A real log fire glowed in the marble grate. Crystal wine glasses and a sherry decanter sat on a coffee table alongside a copy of The Lancet. Watercolours of seascapes, enhanced by clever lighting, adorned one wall.
In the dining room an antique table was set ready for dinner. An ornate sideboard took up much of one wall with vintage Queen Anne armchairs in two corners. Overhead, tiny ceiling lights twinkled like stars in the dim light.
“I love antique furniture,” Jo said, noting his amused look, “but I just couldn’t resist the modern lights. They are so pretty.”
Taking her in his arms he pressed his mouth down on hers savouring the sweetness of her lips, the scent of her hair.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “I love the perfume.”
“I should think so,” she laughed, pushing him away, “after all you bought it. How did you know Chanel No. 5 is my favourite?”
“Sophia Dreher. I overheard you talking when you were helping in the kitchen. Sherry please, if it’s dry,” he said.
“Big bad Ben, a sherry man?”
He really rather enjoyed it, but if anyone down at the station found out he would never live it down.
“My parents always had a glass before dinner. It’s a little ritual I’ve become part of whenever I go home. I’m sure they would be delighted to share some with you.”
Jo coloured at the implication. Embarrassed, he pretended to examine a painting, acutely aware he had pushed the relationship a step further before she was ready.
After dinner Jo replenished their glasses with the last of the wine. Sitting close together, her head on his shoulder, he felt blissfully content. He hadn’t felt so much at peace with himself since the first heady days of his failed marriage.
“Incidentally,” he said, “the body found in Atcham: we’ve got a witness.”
“As my report states, he didn’t drown,” Jo interjected. “He suffered a massive heart attack coupled with excessive alcohol in his blood.”
Wallace had interviewed Adam Taylor himself; a respectable married man with kids. He was scared to death his wife would find out he leaned both ways. Apparently, the victim had propositioned him in a pub. They were both blind drunk when they went down to the river for a bit of hanky panky. Afterwards the guy decided to have a paddle. He waded in, half naked, and lost his footing.
All Taylor could remember was the bloke shouting, ‘It’s bloody freezing in here!’ before clambering up the bank and falling face down in the mud, legs still in the water. Taylor thought he was just goofing around. When he realised he was dead he ran off scared to death. They couldn’t charge him with lewd behaviour, because they hadn’t been caught in the act, but he was charged with failing to report a death. Wallace wondered how he would explain it to his wife and teenage sons.
“That leaves us with Foley, the woman on my patch, plus the body in Portsmouth.”
Jo lifted her head and placed a finger on his lips to silence him. She pulled his head down and kissed him with more passion than she intended. Taking his cue Wallace swept her up in his arms. To hell with murder, he thought. It can wait until tomorrow.
*
On the horizon, fingers of silvery light probed the sky. A watery sun peeped through metallic, grey clouds. Glittering needles of rain sliced the hazy air like tiny swords, disappearing into gutters overflowing with water from an overnight deluge. A light mist hovered between branches of trees almost bare of their leaves.
Incessant rain had fallen for weeks, high winds clutching at umbrellas almost bowling people off their feet. Winter was just around the corner. Still, Wallace preferred this to the cloying decay of autumn. He hated the slush of wet, dead leaves underfoot. The drooping trees, the clammy feel of sodden foliage dropping on his head when he tried to clear them up. Winter was cold and clean and sharp. That’s how he felt this morning. Clear-headed, alert, his mind ready for the onslaught of his working day. Whistling loudly, he marched into the station.
“What’s with Wally today?” a young DC whispered. “He looks as though he’s had his cake and eaten it.”
Wallace beckoned to Butler who followed him into his office and closed the door. “What did you find out in Oswestry, Phil?”
DI Butler relaxed. The guv always called him by his first name when he was in a good mood.
“We spoke to the woman, a Mrs Waterman, who picked up the suit. She told us she delivered it to Joanne Howard, the owner of the firm – Waldean Travel. A few days later her boss went off on a working holiday inspecting hotels in Estonia. Apparently, Howard lived in Eastern Europe for a while. She met her husband, an English university professor, when she was studying for a language degree. That’s all she knew.”
“How long will she be away?”
“Mrs Waterman had no idea. When Howard goes off on her inspection tours she’s away for weeks. They never know when she’s coming back until they get a telephone call out of the blue.”
“How do they contact her in an emergency?”
“They don’t. Mrs Waterman is in sole charge of the business while she’s away. Sometimes she’s away for two weeks, sometimes a month.”
Wallace chewed his bottom lip. It was a peculiar way to run a business, especially in these financially stringent times. Something was not quite right about this Joanne Howard. They needed more information.
“We need place of birth, marriage, friends and any information on her husband. If she was travelling abroad perhaps Interpol could find out more about where she had been living and studying before she came to this country.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Butler said heading for the door.”
“And Phil, have a good day.”
Butler grinned as he closed the door behind him. Wally must have won the lottery.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Geneva, Switzerland
Ernst Dreher handed Lukas Merien a cup of steaming coffee. The man was clearly badly shaken up. He had reported what he had seen to the local police who had passed it on to the Federal Police. It a
ll seemed very far-fetched, like something in a film.
Merien lived in Faulensee in the Bernese Oberland, but worked in Geneva three days a week. He had been out walking in the mountains near Interlaken when he spotted a man about three hundred metres below him. Even at that distance he could see he was dragging some kind of bundle on a trailer behind a motorbike. It disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks then reappeared at the edge of a steep precipice and stopped. He was so curious he scrambled down and watched from a safe distance. The man was dressed from head to toe in black. He couldn’t see his face, because it was covered up with a balaclava.
“I watched him drag the bundle off the trailer and haul it to the edge of the precipice convinced he was going to push it over the side. Just then a helicopter appeared out of nowhere. It circled around then hovered close to the motorcyclist. I could see someone leaning out raking the area with binoculars.”
Merien was perspiring heavily. He extracted a large handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face. His hands were shaking now.
“Whoever it was spotted me. The next thing I knew the helicopter was closing in. A second guy had a gun with a telescopic lens. He pointed the gun at me, but he didn’t fire any shots. I don’t think they wanted to kill me, just scare me off. I’m convinced they were trying to dispose of a body.”
“What makes you think it was a body?”
“It looked very heavy… just the shape of it and the way it was tied up.”
“Why didn’t you report this to the local police at the time? Why has it taken so long for you to come forward?”
“The more I thought about it the more ridiculous it seemed. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” Merien hesitated for a few seconds. He stared up at the ceiling. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was sure I wasn’t wrong about the gun? It just kept nagging at me until I finally went to the police.”
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