“Just a moment, Miles. I’ll play along with the paranoia bit. But be realistic. When the police get involved, they have to go through the proper procedure. This fake ambulance crew would take the body to a real hospital. Surely the hospital staff or the other ambulance crews would spot the fakes?”
Miles laughed. “Haven’t you read newspaper stories about the unqualified surgeons working in our hospitals? Or fake nurses patrolling the wards? I think it would be very easy for an ambulance to bowl up to the emergency room with the victim of a traffic accident and hand over the body. It’s even easier now that the National Health Service is increasingly using private ambulances for emergency calls. By the time the police have made their enquiries at the hospital, the fake ambulance crew has made sure he’s dead and removed all forms of identification.”
“But surely the police would be able to have the body identified from dental records or possibly fingerprints?”
“My dear Dominic, that all takes time. It’s highly likely that they won’t have his fingerprints on file. Finding dental records can take several weeks. My theory is that whoever commissioned the hit was expecting the usual delays caused by an overload of work to slow everything down. What they hadn’t banked on was you three jokers turning up. By the way, can you remember the license plate of the ambulance?”
Before Dominic could answer, the door burst open, and Gemma appeared in the doorway, panting heavily. A second later a shaven-headed man with the build of a heavyweight boxer appeared behind her. It was Harrison, Miles’s clerk. Dominic had met him on several previous visits but still only knew him by his last name. Miles had been to Westminster school, and he retained the habit of addressing many people by their last names only.
“I thought I told you that you couldn’t just barge in here?” Harrison’s stentorian voice betrayed his East London roots. It was never a good idea to pick a fight with Harrison. He turned to Miles. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Torrington. This young lady was asking to see you and Mr. Delingpole. I told her she had to wait downstairs, but she was a bit insistent that she come up straight away….”
Gemma dropped a rucksack on Miles’s desk. She was flushed and on the verge of tears. “Mr. Delingpole, please help. A man’s been following me all the way from Holborn subway station. He hung back when I got to Lincoln’s Inn, but I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for me across the street.”
Dominic poured a glass of water for Gemma and gently guided her to a chair. “Why have you come alone? I thought that John was coming?”
“Si seems to be improving slightly, so he wanted to stay behind in case he could get a chance to talk to him. John’s managed to hack into Si’s laptop—”
Gemma’s explanation was cut short by the phone ringing. Miles strode across to his desk and answered it. “Torrington. Yes. Really? Does he say who he is? Hmm. Well, I’ll get Harrison to go fetch him. Yes, he’s with me now. Oh and Jenny, call main security. Just in case.”
Harrison was already on his way down the stairs as Miles hung up the phone. “If it’s your tail from the station, then he’s downstairs now,” said Miles. “Apparently he’s a detective from Sussex, and he’s very insistent on coming up. Just what is it you’ve brought here?”
“It’s Si’s laptop. John found some pretty interesting files on it and wanted Mr. Delingpole to see it as soon as possible—”
“Don’t tell me any more,” interrupted Miles. “Let me ask questions later rather than you volunteering information. The less you disclose now, the less I am legitimately withholding from our boy in blue when he arrives. Leave this to me.” Miles removed the laptop from the rucksack and placed it in the top drawer of his desk.
Harrison returned with the detective, and Dominic immediately stepped forward when he recognized Inspector Scott from the day before.
“What an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon, Inspector Scott. May I introduce Miles Torrington QC? I understand that you already know Gemma. She tells us you’ve been tailing her through most of London.”
Inspector Scott’s pallid complexion flushed for a moment, and he paused to take stock of the situation. “Mr. Delingpole, I must say I am bemused to find you here. But it’s as well that you are. You’ll be interested to know what this young lady has been up to.”
Gemma opened her mouth to speak, but the inspector interrupted before she could start.
“We have reason to believe that John Fraser and Gemma Young are in possession of evidence pertinent to our investigation into the possible attempted murder of Simon Gregory.” He looked at the rucksack on the table. “I believe that Gemma Young has brought it here this afternoon. I do hope that you are not complicit in any of this. Mr. Delingpole? Mr. Torrington?”
Miles stepped forward and stood close to the inspector. He peered up at him over the top of his reading glasses. “Inspector Scott. Members of our nation’s much-admired police force are always welcome in my offices, even when unannounced and uninvited. However, I am sure that you are aware of the need for due process. I would rather you went through the proper channels if you are saying that I am somehow complicit in the withholding of evidence from your investigation.”
The inspector was about to speak, but Miles raised his hand to silence him as he continued. “That is a very serious accusation to make of a member of the English legal bar, let alone a queen’s counsel. If you wish to substantiate it further, I suggest you return with a search warrant. Or you can withdraw that accusation immediately and stop tailing our young friend here. Otherwise I am sure she will ask for the assistance of Mr. Delingpole and myself in bringing a harassment charge against your force. It would be an instruction we would reluctantly have to take.”
Inspector Scott looked from Miles to Dominic and then to the rucksack lying on the table. There was a pause before he responded. He chose his words carefully.
“I don’t think you realize the dangerous game these students are playing. By failing to cooperate with us, you may be putting them in even greater danger. Perhaps you may be putting your own life at risk. We have good reason to believe the same people are behind the attempted murder of Simon Gregory and the suspected murder of Peter Freedman in Brighton.” Inspector Scott turned to Dominic. “Yes, Mr. Delingpole, we have identified the victim whose death you witnessed two nights ago.”
He walked slowly to the door before turning and addressing his final remark to Miles Torrington. “I am confident that you will make Miss Young fully aware of the penalties for obstructing the police, Mr. Torrington. I suggest that you reconsider your position on this matter too.” And with that he left the room.
Miles turned to Gemma. “So, young lady, what exactly do you have in that rucksack?”
Chapter 18
JONATHAN’S TALL French Le Chameau boots sank deep into the sodden ground as he strode across Glynde Reach on the approach to Decoy Wood. He inhaled the damp December air as he paused to listen to the stillness all around. There was no rustle of leaves. They had long fallen and mulched into the soggy ground. A lone robin eyed him from a branch before resuming its pretty tune.
In this place, away from the noise of Brighton’s metropolitan seaside, Jonathan could pause and refresh his mind. Now, it was muddled with a thousand thoughts and emotions. After Dominic had left them at the Grand Hotel on Brighton’s seafront, Christophe had wanted to spend the afternoon with Jonathan at his tiny cottage in Lewes.
It was an offer that Jonathan found tempting. But he was too distracted by the break-in at Dominic’s apartment. He could not stop worrying about his partner. He made an excuse to Christophe about work and left him at the hotel. Jonathan needed space to think, and to worry about Dominic. That was why he came to Glynde Reach. His special place.
Worrying was something that Jonathan rarely did. Much of his life so far had simply happened to him. He seized opportunities if they appealed, ignored them if they bored him. Never had he refused a challenge because it might scare him. He could not understand people who kept doing
the same old thing. “What’s the worst that can happen, my dear?” he would ask. It was a simple philosophy and, until now, a successful one.
Then he met Dominic. On a beautiful summer’s day at the Glyndebourne Opera House, less than a mile from this spot. He loved opera at Glyndebourne more than anywhere else in the world. It was so quintessentially English. The opera house had been built by a rich Englishman in the 1930s. John Christie’s wife was an aspirant soprano and loved to perform. So her husband built her a stage to perform on.
On a wonderful afternoon in July, just over two years ago, Jonathan was with a few friends on the lawns around Glyndebourne, setting up their picnic for the long break at the end of the first act. That was when he first saw Dominic, relaxing with friends on a tartan rug just a few yards away. Jonathan thought him the most beautiful man he had ever seen. He could not take his eyes off him as he joined the line to enter the opera house for a performance of Handel’s Rodelinda. All through the first act, Jonathan barely looked at the stage. Instead, he scanned the auditorium for a sighting of Dominic.
During the ninety-minute interval, while the audience tucked in to their sumptuous picnic meals on the Glyndebourne lawns, Jonathan wasted no time in making himself known to Dominic.
Perhaps it was love at first sight. Jonathan could only be certain once he had brought Dominic to Glynde Reach the following weekend.
It was a sort of test. He wanted Dominic to love this special place. He wanted to know that they both loved the breathtaking beauty of nature. As they lay on a dog-eared rug beneath the trees that sultry July day, Jonathan knew then that he had found his spiritual, as well as sexual, partner. This was now their favorite spot for walks and picnics. They were seldom disturbed by other people, even in the height of summer.
Jonathan continued to stride toward Decoy Wood. He already felt a metaphorical weight lifting from his shoulders. Worrying was the most destructive of activities, in his opinion. Walking, by contrast, was the healthiest.
About a hundred yards to his right, he could see faint movements in the thinning undergrowth. It was highly unusual for anyone to be up here, especially in December. Jonathan slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the binoculars he always carried with him. In the gloom of the December afternoon, he could see the figure of a man. He was looking away from Jonathan, hunched over a bag. From what Jonathan could vaguely see through his binoculars, the man seemed to be operating some kind of electronic equipment. Even from his back view, Jonathan could clearly see who it was: Steve, the skinhead with the 16-hole Grinder boots who had accompanied John into the Bulldog pub two nights ago.
Jonathan considered creeping up on Steve to catch him unawares. He dismissed the idea quickly as pointlessly furtive. Instead, he strode forward purposefully. His boots stomped through the thickening undergrowth on the outskirt of the wood. As Jonathan drew closer, Steve suddenly turned. With hand gestures he motioned Jonathan to be quiet. Then Steve recognized Jonathan. He beckoned him forward with his left hand, the index finger of his left hand still held to his lips.
As Jonathan drew closer, he could see that Steve was staring at a TV monitor. It was mounted on top of a bag lying on the ground. Jonathan crouched down on his haunches to get a clearer view of the screen. It showed the inside of a nesting box. The eyes of a short-eared owl loomed at the camera. The black-and-white pictures were astonishingly clear, almost as though they came from a night-vision camera.
“So you’re a bird watcher,” he whispered. “Who’d have thought it?”
“She’s in that nesting box up there, see.” Steve pointed to a tree over to their left. “First time I’ve had it checked out. Beautiful, isn’t she? The short-eared owls have adopted Sussex as their home in the past few years. I love them because they fly in daylight too. It’s easier to see their beauty. Chances are if she starts hunting from there, then she’s going to stay.”
“Have you got other cameras set up around here?”
Steve sat back on the earthy floor and pulled a tablet computer from his bag. Flicking through several maps on the screen, he enlarged one showing a series of small red pins.
“There’s nearly twenty nesting boxes with cameras in them. A couple over toward Mount Caburn by the Lewes Downs. This is one of the latest setups. Solar powered with backup batteries, motion detector, wireless video link, and ten days of recording time. All in a small pack under the floor of the nesting box. I got asked to rig them for Sussex University for a longitudinal survey they’ve commissioned.” Steve looked back at the monitor. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he repeated. “It’s good when you can mix business with pleasure.”
Jonathan was fascinated by the clarity of the images on the video monitor. The owl’s plumage and markings showed in great detail. He turned to Steve.
“Business? Who else do you spy on, then?”
“Anyone who pays me, mate. I’m one of the best in the country, though I say it myself. Clients are all sorts. From suspicious wives with time and money on their hands to businessmen wanting a bit of inside knowledge. They get me in; I do the rest. Once it’s rigged it’s pretty well undetectable, unless you’ve got some really sophisticated equipment.”
“Is this the little business you do for young John, then?”
Steve started to pack away the monitor. “I’m not going to start divulging who my clients are. That’s commercial—” His last words were cut off by a well-targeted kick to his right kidney. As he lay winded on the ground, Jonathan leapt on top of him and wrapped his hands around Steve’s throat.
“Don’t play games with me, sonny, or I’ll rip your head off. There’s a young student lying in a hospital bed that someone’s tried to kill, twice. Another man’s been killed by a supposed car accident, and my partner’s apartment has been done over. I want to know what the hell’s going on. So don’t choose this moment to get all coy with me.”
With Jonathan’s full weight on top of him, Steve struggled to breathe. His legs flailed and kicked at the muddy ground as he clutched at Jonathan’s hands around his throat. In vain, he fought, but Steve’s stamina was no match for Jonathan’s strength. Slowly his resistance weakened.
Jonathan looked over at the recording equipment scattered across the ground in the struggle. “In a moment, I’m going to take my hands away. And I promise you, if you try to make a run for it, I’ll find all these camera rigs, one by one, and destroy them.”
Steve gave one last petulant kick before he lay still. “All right. Get off me. I’m not going anywhere. Just give me a moment to get my breath back.”
Jonathan stood up; his legs remained on either side of the panting body on the ground. Reaching down, he helped Steve into a sitting position. The exhausted man put his head between his knees and breathed deeply.
“What exactly is it that you and John were up to with hidden cameras? Spying on MPs, maybe? Or is it drug company executives? Perhaps it’s you who took those photographs that Jay found in Simon’s bedroom?”
Steve looked up. He had a surprised expression on his face.
“You must think we’re real shits if for one moment you thought that we’d spy on Simon. So you’ve seen the photos he’s in, have you? Well, we’re not the bastards who took them. Just like you, we’re trying to find out who did. And what the fuck Simon was doing there.”
“If you’re one of the best in the country at this kind of surveillance work, taking photos like those would be child’s play to you.” Jonathan crouched down and thrust his face close to Steve’s. He reached out and held Steve’s head firmly in his hands.
“Maybe it was all three of you who had a hand in taking the photos. You, John, and Simon. Let’s see if I can piece it together. Simon has some interesting contacts as a result of recruiting drug-testing guinea pigs for Barton Kane. He and his lover, John, organize a little orgy for them. Meanwhile, they recruit you, the voyeur who’s an owl obsessive. They get you to rig a few cameras to catch some interesting party photos. Then you
’ve got the blackmail material you can use to make a fistful of money.”
Jonathan shoved Steve’s face away from him and stood up again. “But it’s all backfired on the three of you, hasn’t it?”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong!” Steve scrambled to his feet and leaned heavily against a tree, breathing deeply. “All right. Listen. I have done rigs for John. But Simon’s got nothing to do with them. You’ve got to believe me, mate. We’re on the same side here. Simon’s got into something way over his head. We’re all trying to find out what it is before anything else happens.”
“If you want me to believe you, you’re going to have to tell me more about what you and John have been up to. What rigs have you done for him?”
Steve eyed Jonathan warily for several seconds. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat, and he stepped forward to the tablet computer resting on his bag. He flicked through several screens before holding the computer for Jonathan to see. On it was the image of a meeting room in a modern-looking building. A group of five people sat around a table.
“The examination committee. They meet in the biochemistry department at Brighton University. They’re deciding on the marking scheme for the end of year exams. John’s exams. I did it to show him I could. I did it so he might show a bit more interest in me. But he’s besotted with Simon. Not surprising, really. He is very cute.”
Jonathan laughed and handed the tablet back to Steve, who put it back on his bag. “That’s a hell of a thing to do just for a pickup. I presume you boasted about what you did, and he asked for a little help?”
The Necessary Deaths Page 11
