Truth couldn’t wait to give up that insipid bitch to those hard men. She wanted to be free of the lady’s damning eyes, her demands. Eyes that reminded her of the woman who had held her hostage all her life, eyes that shamed her for never being as good as her older sisters, her brother.
But where were they now? Living lives of value, leaving Truth to bear this burden. She alone could save the one they called mother. And, perhaps, finally, she would be recognised as having value of her own, and not as a mere shadow, a failure.
What if they don’t come? The fear continued to gnaw at her. What could she do to protect herself, protect her interests? What other means did she have at her disposal? But she wasn’t a little girl now. She was a killer. Perhaps they should be afraid.
She was no closer to learning if the hounds were closing in. The museum was open again, except for the galleries, and the police were sniffing around in all the wrong places. But that private investigator, the one called Amy Lane, was also keeping an eye on them. What did she know? What could be hidden from her?
Should Truth strike first before she was known?
After tonight. She could not risk losing her fragile alliance with the men of the dark. First, she had to wait. Sitting in the cold, hard plastic chair, she stared down the pale green walls, that uniform colour that decorated every cold institution across the world, and she waited. She would wait all night, if that was what it took – it was a small price to pay, in the end.
For what greater prize than truth and, finally, her mother’s respect.
The pair of SOCOs were unimpressed about being dragged out on a Sunday to inspect an apartment that probably wasn’t even a crime scene.
But Matt was apparently oblivious to their discontent, ordering any and all technology bagged and a thorough search of the premises conducted. Bryn was grateful for the two uniforms beside him, who at least knew how to conduct a thorough search and not disturb potential evidence.
The flat was barely more than a studio, a small kitchen-diner-lounge with a pokey bedroom and a shower room. It had been recently decorated, the cream paint barely marked, and a series of prints from the National Museum’s collection hung on the walls. Including the missing La Parisienne.
‘Photographs of all this,’ Matt said to no one in particular and disappeared into the bedroom.
A chorus of mimed affront was turned on Bryn, which he silently pacified with open palms. At least the place was small, and one SOCO took the bathroom while the other scooped up the laptop on one side of the dining table.
A small rucksack was hanging off the back of a chair, which Bryn opened up. He found a notebook, a set of Tupperware boxes and a series of gadgets that baffled him. He called over the nearest SOCO and together they bagged the collection, which also included some old 35mm film canisters, a compass and a couple of magnetic cylinders smaller than his little finger. What the hell was Paul Roberts into?
Bryn opened up the notebook. A set of dates, locations and reference numbers, many in Cardiff but others much farther afield. Was he a train spotter? Bird watcher? But then where were his binoculars – and his camera?
‘Look out for a camera,’ Bryn called out to the room.
If he’d taken pictures of something incriminating, he could’ve ended up in the grip of the gangs, forced into helping them and then dying for knowing too much.
Matt returned from the bedroom and cast a glance over the items. ‘Perhaps these—,’ he tapped the bags of canisters and plastic boxes, ‘—were for making drops. Weatherproof, waterproof, unobtrusive. Maybe that’s how he communicated with his contact.’
Despite Matt’s matter-of-fact tone, Bryn was worried they’d fallen down a rabbit hole. They had nothing to suggest that Paul Roberts was the linchpin in some grand conspiracy. And did this flat look like the haunt of a spy? The cupboards were stacked with instant noodles and soups, the fridge and freezer full of ready meals for one. The wardrobe was full of sensible jumpers and well-worn shoes.
But perhaps affable bachelors made for the best agents precisely because they appeared too boring to attract comment or attention. They knew next to nothing about Paul and searching his apartment had only brought more questions, none with ready answers.
Though who would have those answers, now that he was dead? Who really knew him? Hunting down those online art societies would be a good first step, but Bryn only knew one way to do that and Matt had expressly asked him to keep Amy out of this.
Yet Bryn hadn’t informed Amy she was off the case. He hadn’t contacted her at all. She was probably still working on the leads he’d given her, while Jason was away playing his part in North Wales. If Amy wasn’t involved, Jason wasn’t either, except they were both in the thick of it.
‘I think we’re done here,’ Matt said, and Bryn made his decision.
While they were collecting the evidence bags, making one final sweep, Bryn tapped out a quick text and hit Send before he could regret it.
Look at guard again.
Chapter 22
The secret life of vans
Frieda returned at eleven, all business, her cool manner chilled to Arctic frost.
She had a list of questions to which she wanted answers from his trip – route, cargo, rendezvous point, outgoing transport, names. Having watched her interrogation of Benjamin, Jason had a pretty good idea already, but he patiently listened to her instructions.
‘What’s your cover story?’ she asked.
‘The one I gave Jonah or the one for the guy?’
‘Both.’
‘I’m working for a rival gang, finding intel for my boss. As for the other, I’ll work it out with Jonah on the way over.’
‘Too many potential holes for your arse to fall into.’ Frieda’s face was impassive, her tone disapproving. ‘You need something clear. You’re the one calling the shots, not Jonah. Don’t give him an inch.’
‘If I say I’m his cousin—’
‘You’re his cousin. I don’t care if his parents were both only children and everyone in town knows it. Keep it simple. Why are you going to Cardiff?’
‘I live there. My car broke down. I need a lift home.’
‘Where should he drop you off?’
‘I don’t want to put him out—’
‘No. Be firm.’ Frieda looked like she wanted to slap some sense into him. ‘Pick somewhere close to the centre, nondescript.’
‘Canton. I’m meeting some mates for breakfast.’
Frieda paused, the barest movement of her lips visible as she considered. ‘It will do. Don’t make small talk, don’t give too much of yourself away. If you have to speak, answer as your best friend. His likes are now your likes. His family is your family. Clear?’
Jason thought over his best friends. Lewis was banged up in Cardiff Prison, his baby brother dead and his mum a wreck of her former self. And Amy was an elite hacker with a sister in Australia and parents she’d stolen millions from. He settled on Dylan as his model, a nice, dependable bloke with simple tastes in cars and beer.
Jason checked his backpack, now retrieved from the saddlebags on Frieda’s bike. He removed all of Amy’s business cards from his wallet, and slipped his returned phone into his pocket. He left his bike leathers folded on the chair – they didn’t fit with the cover story, and were stained with crusted sediment from the lake.
‘I expect a call as soon as you part ways,’ Frieda instructed.
Jason had given her Cerys’ number in place of Amy’s, but he hoped she wouldn’t have cause to use it. Even allowing for frequent stops and a wild detour, he should be in Cardiff before dawn.
He opened the hotel room door and turned to say goodbye. Frieda was at his side and, for a moment, he thought she might kiss him again.
But she merely patted his arm and offered a small smile. ‘Good luck.’
Jason trudged out of t
he hotel and walked the twenty minutes back to the pub by Menai Bridge. Despite being in the shadow of the city, the road was surrounded by green fields and only disturbed by the odd house.
Walking in the near-total darkness, Jason felt the full weight of what he was about to do. He would be alone in the night with a stranger, a man who worked for a dangerous criminal and could choose to turn on him at any moment. It was at times like these that Jason longed for his old knife, or his father’s long-lost gun. But he had only his fists and his wits tonight.
He arrived at the pub just before the meeting time, the building dark and closed up, with one solitary van in the car park. The lights flashed once as he approached and Jason crossed to the passenger door, hoping he was heading for Jonah Fish and not some dogging enthusiast.
Jonah was in the middle seat, his eyes purple and swollen as predicted, and an unshaven middle-aged man was driving. He drove off before Jason could say anything, but he thought he detected a family resemblance. Drunk uncle perhaps?
They immediately crossed the narrow Menai Bridge to Anglesey, the arches barely large enough for their van, the dark water flowing beneath them. They skirted past Llanfair PG, the town with the longest name, a challenge kids in Wales had long been trying to wrap their tongues around, and down another road surrounded by fields.
Jonah said nothing and Jason didn’t start anything. The driver whistled tunelessly as the hedgerows, trees and clumps of houses flew by, occasionally broken up by what passed for a small village round here. After about half an hour of fields, they skirted a town that proclaimed itself Newborough and slipped into the embrace of a forest.
The road was little more than a single-lane track, branching and curling through the trees seemingly at random. Jason quickly lost count of the turns, and he realised that if they were to throw him out of the car, he might not be found for days, weeks. He doubted Amy had a fix on him out here and Frieda only knew he was on Anglesey. By the time they found his body, the crows would’ve ruined any chance of his mam’s recognition.
Eventually, the trees parted to reveal a clear open space with only the stars to light it. The moon was wreathed in clouds, a couple of days off full, staring down at them like a giant unblinking eye. The driver stopped the car and killed the engine.
‘We’re meeting on the island,’ Jonah said.
It was the first time he’d spoken since their departure. He sounded like he had a particularly bad cold from the swelling in his nose, and it was clear why he hadn’t piped up before.
Jason got out without saying a word, Jonah following him. They walked down towards the beach together, the night silent save for the occasional bird and the susurrus of waves on the shore. The long thin island jutted out from the beach, joined to the shore of Anglesey by a narrow trail of rocks that would fall victim to high tide, a squat white lighthouse marking out the end some seven hundred yards out.
Jonah led him down the beach towards the tide mark. The sharp taste of salt in the air reminded him of weekends spent at Barry Island, stealing Cerys’ ice cream before their dad chased him down the beach. That was a long time ago and memories of his father didn’t belong in a place like this, on a night of dark deeds.
Jason knelt down on the shore, pretending to tighten his shoelaces while surreptitiously filling a small specimen pot with sand and slipping it into his pocket. Frieda had been clear that they needed a comparison sample to prove the route.
‘He’ll believe me,’ Jonah said suddenly. ‘He trusts me. I don’t want this to get back to me, okay? So if I help you, I need some insurance.’
‘If you help me, you might live to see Christmas,’ Jason said casually, as if he was talking about the weather. Threats were the currency of the street, on the inside. He could threaten as easy as breathing.
Jonah said nothing, but Jason read the tension in his shoulders, the hesitancy in his step. If he wasn’t believed, for whatever reason, he would have two problems to deal with. Jason hoped the men they were meeting weren’t carrying. He was already at a disadvantage, away from his home turf and his electronic minder, and he didn’t want to run into the trees away from an unhinged shooter. He’d had enough of that for one lifetime.
The rocks were slippery and Jason’s socks were soaked in seconds, the unpleasant briny water oozing into his shoes from the shallows. Jonah navigated them like a pro, before giving Jason a hand up onto the island proper. In the distance, Jason could see a lone figure holding a powerful torch, flicking it on and off in some coded message.
‘Boat’s on its way in,’ Jonah translated.
They crossed the rough ground by the light of the moon alone, the orb overpowered by the flashlight as they neared the man Jason assumed to be Kyle.
He turned as they approached, similar height and build to Jason with his face in shadow. He stared at Jonah, silently demanding an explanation.
Jonah gestured towards his face and the torch was flashed into his eyes.
Kyle returned the torch to play across the sea, beginning his flashing rhythm again. ‘Name?’
Kyle didn’t even look at him, his face impassive in profile as the moonlight played across it. He was in his forties, his cheeks weather-beaten, and scowl lines ingrained into the flesh.
‘Dylan.’
‘You police?’ Straight to the point.
‘No.’ Jason spat on the ground.
‘Don’t like cops?’
‘Did time inside.’
‘For what?’
‘Thieving a car.’
‘Why you helping this scum?’
‘He’s family. And I need a ride.’
He realised too late that he hadn’t cleared the official story with Jonah, checked what he’d told his mystery contact, made sure they were on the same page.
‘You packing?’
‘Can’t,’ Jason said, with a hint of bitterness that wasn’t entirely feigned. ‘Cops know my face.’
‘Good. I need you to look scary and say nothing. We get the package to Bridgend in the next five hours or we don’t like what happens. You slow me down, I ditch you. Are we clear?’
‘Clear.’
Kyle was English, Jason realised, heralding from somewhere in the Midlands, maybe Manchester. Jason had never been much for accent geography beyond Wales, save for Scousers and posh BBC.
Jason also hadn’t realised they were headed for Bridgend. Owain – and now, technically, Cerys – lived in Bridgend, which was only forty-five minutes from Cardiff. Not too far from backup, but far enough for the worst to happen while his cavalry were still getting their boots on.
After a moment or two, Jason caught his first glimpse of the boat. It was a fisherman’s trawler, much abused by the sea, and a small light was flashing the same sequence as the torch on shore.
It took another few minutes for the boat to close in, before a little dinghy dropped from the side and a solitary figure rowed to the shore. Kyle walked down to him, as he beached the little boat. The rower handed out what looked like a large plastic beer cooler and Kyle passed him a thick envelope from beneath his coat, before shining the light for him to count. It was practised, routine, and Jason wondered how many times these two men had enacted this scene on the beach.
The count complete, Kyle pushed the dinghy back out and the rower returned to the fishing boat. Wordlessly, Kyle returned to Jason and Jonah before walking past them with the expectation of being followed. The pair fell in silently behind him, as Jason tried to suss out the mystery box. However, the light was too poor to tell more than it looked like a plastic picnic hamper, with no distinguishing markings and a combination lock on the lid. Why would a picnic hamper need a lock?
Of course, Kyle probably wasn’t carrying sandwiches and cake. Drugs, maybe? But why hadn’t the man checked the goods before accepting them? Seemed like a big risk to take, unless the power he was leveraging was so great no
one dared cross him. Yet the guy in the dinghy counted the money. It didn’t make sense.
When they were off the island, Jason and Jonah parted ways. Jonah stepped forward and hugged him, which Jason tried to accept without flinching.
‘Kyle don’t talk much. Safe trip.’
Jason pulled away first, before following Kyle towards his car, which was parked by the other stretch of beach. It was a Land Rover, two or three years old and kept tidy. Kyle placed the cooler in the boot, surrounded by a nest of blankets and covered by an old tarp. Whatever was in the cooler, it was fragile.
Could it be an antique? One of those Chinese vases or a delicate statue? Was that why he didn’t look at it, in case the salt air got inside and ruined it? Jason’s mind ran wild with the possibilities, as he waited for Kyle to let him into the passenger seat.
Once inside, he sat still and quiet as Kyle started the engine and Bruce Springsteen filled the cab. ‘You don’t like The Boss, you get out now.’
‘No arguments from me.’
If it had guitar, Jason was all over it – from Queen to Bon Jovi, his father’s favourites. He’d got in trouble with Amy for his passwords reflecting his taste in music, and she had started a rotating system for him that changed every month. He still locked himself out of his accounts at least once a week.
Kyle took a different route back through the forest, which Jason only realised after they emerged on the other side of Newborough. They followed another lane, this one even narrower than the last, before emerging onto the A55. The vast road carried them quickly out of Anglesey across the large Britannia Bridge, and away into the wilds of North Wales.
Jason was truly on his own now.
Chapter 23
A needle in a needlestack
Jason’s GPS signal skirted the edges of Bangor and then vanished once more.
Amy scowled at the map, as if she could will the two-dimensional landscape to give up her assistant with the force of her ire, before returning to her perusal of spy-grade satellite tracking systems. The market leaders were a little out of her price range, but she could possibly MacGyver a more reliable device out of a satnav’s innards.
Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) Page 12
