by LJ Ross
He turned strode back through the concrete shadows, and out into the light.
* * *
It was past two o’clock by the time Ryan and his team convened in one of the smaller conference rooms at Northumbria Police Headquarters. As he watched them pulling out chairs and rustling through the summary sheets he always took the time to prepare, Ryan was struck forcibly by the uncomfortable sensation that he didn’t really know any of them.
Not really, not deep down.
These were people he trusted and called friends, but he could never truly know them and all they were capable of. Nobody ever could; just as they would never know the deepest depths of his psyche, either. That hidden corner of his mind was the province of violence and rage, of hatred and guilt—all the emotions he kept rigidly at bay, or else be driven mad. There was an animal in each and every one of them that made it so that even ‘good’ people were capable of dark acts.
And dark betrayals.
The other people in the room were no exception. When the situation called for it, they were each capable of untold acts that went against their true nature.
The difficulty was in finding out who and why.
Ryan’s gaze passed over the front row, where Phillips was seated on the end with a mug of tea in his hand. Emblazoned on the side was a faded picture of them both, their faces superimposed onto a picture of Batman and Robin that still made him smile. Next to him, MacKenzie balanced a file on her knees and was busy polishing off the remainder of a sandwich he presumed she hadn’t found time to eat at lunchtime. Lowerson was seated on her other side, his skin appearing almost the same colour as his grey suit beneath the glare of the strip-lighting overhead. One hand rubbed his left thigh, while the other tapped his pencil in an incessant drumbeat rhythm against the notebook on his lap. Yates was seated behind Phillips on a separate row, indicating an emotional separation from at least one or all of the team, though Ryan would put his money on it being just one person in particular she wished to distance herself from.
Another thing to mourn, in all this.
“Right, now that we’re all here, let’s make a start,” he said, and hitched himself up onto the desk at the front of the room. “Let’s start with progress on Operation Watchman. Yates, MacKenzie? How did the interview go with Singh? Are we any further forward in understanding what happened to Rochelle?”
MacKenzie glanced behind to where Yates was seated and gave her a polite ‘go ahead’.
“Ah, well, we paid a visit to Mr Singh’s workplace last night,” Yates told him. “He has high-level security in place at his offices, and a member of his private security staff was present at all times. Mr Singh had also arranged for his solicitor to be present, so the interview was conducted with him in attendance.”
Ryan nodded.
“Go on.”
“We questioned Mr Singh about the nature of his relationship with Ms White, first of all. He told us that, whilst they had formerly been in a cohabiting relationship, this ceased to be the case sometime during the course of last Wednesday. He states that Ms White left the home they shared to go to work on Wednesday morning but that’s the last time he clapped eyes on her. He claims that he returned home to find a number of her possessions, including a bag, had gone missing.”
“And he didn’t think to report it?”
“Mr Singh says he had suspicions that Rochelle had been seeing somebody else on the side. Given the physical evidence we have linking Rochelle to Dan ‘The Demon’ Hepple, we anticipated his name would arise but, in fact, Mr Singh claims that Rochelle was seeing a police officer.”
Lowerson leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and looked down at the floor. It was a necessary action, to encourage more blood to flow to his brain, which seemed ready to go into meltdown.
“Does he have any basis for thinking that? Did he give any names?” Ryan asked, and didn’t so much as glance in Lowerson’s direction.
“No, sir—he had no names or any real basis that we could see,” MacKenzie replied.
“So, it could easily be a fabricated story designed to detract from his own misdeeds,” Ryan concluded. “How original.”
“No way of proving that, either,” Phillips pointed out, with his usual precision. “Does he say why he never reported her missing?”
“He cites a broken heart,” MacKenzie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Apparently, Mr Singh felt there was no need to report a relationship breakdown, so as not to waste police time.”
“So thoughtful,” Ryan cooed.
“Mr Singh says he knows nothing about her disappearance and has nothing to add,” Yates continued. “He wouldn’t budge on that, sir, and is sticking to his story that he came home to find her gone.”
“Does he have CCTV at his house? If he’s hot on security, it seems likely,” Ryan said.
“He’s unlikely to offer it voluntarily,” MacKenzie said. “He’ll make us get a warrant, and that comes back around to the same problem as before: we don’t have enough on him to prove reasonable grounds.”
“He’ll have wiped it by now,” Ryan said, and tried another approach. “What about Rochelle’s work colleagues—the woman who reported her missing? Any family?”
“No family to speak of,” Yates supplied. “Mother and father both in Canada, no siblings or grandparents. She seemed not to have many friends, either.”
“Classic move,” MacKenzie muttered. “Target a vulnerable woman and then isolate her from anybody who matters. I’m surprised he let her work.”
“It seems to have been more of a hobby than a professional enterprise,” Yates said. “We’ve already spoken of the possibility her design business was being used to launder the proceeds of crime, and the number of projects and footfall through her place of business would suggest that’s the real source of income.”
“At least they cared enough to call the police,” Ryan said. “Who was it who made the call?”
“A woman called Ella rang it in when Rochelle didn’t turn up for work on Monday morning. She hadn’t been into work the previous Thursday or Friday, either, but she was sometimes in the habit of going off for days at a time, without much warning.”
“What made this time different?”
“We had a chat with Ella this morning and she says Rochelle was distracted and seemed anxious the previous week. I had the impression she was worried about Singh having something to do with that, but didn’t like to say as much,” Yates replied.
“When did she last see Rochelle?”
“Ella Marks says that Rochelle came to work on Wednesday morning, then left for lunch and never came back. At first, they assumed she’d taken the afternoon off, or had set up a meeting somewhere.”
Lowerson was, by now, almost swaying in his chair. He fiddled with his pencil, running it between his fingers like a stress toy.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Rochelle’s dead eyes, staring across the room at a camera lens, empty and glassy like a porcelain doll.
They’d never find her, now. Not so long as Singh believed she was the best way to keep him at heel. Rochelle was their ace in the hole, and those pictures the perfect leverage.
He only hoped he could pull off a miracle, or he’d be up on a charge for murder.
CHAPTER 25
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Ryan said.
“Yates, try to get your hands on any video footage from Singh’s workplace and home on a voluntary basis. We have an expectation that he won’t provide either, but we have to try. Remind him that, since he says he has nothing to do with her disappearance, he should have nothing to hide.”
“Will do.”
“Mac? I want a warrant to enter Singh’s property. Get Morrison involved, even the Commissioner, if necessary, because Singh’s bound to have some of the magistrates in his pocket. Let’s give ourselves a fighting chance.”
“Right,” MacKenzie said. “And what about pushing Rochelle�
��s picture out to the press?”
Ryan was in a quandary. Normally, he would have suggested the same thing, but there were significant extenuating circumstances in this case.
But there was no question of not doing what was right.
There never was.
“Yes, get it out to the press—let’s see if the public can help us out here.”
“Right enough.”
“Lowerson?”
Ryan spoke the name deliberately, and it sounded clipped and formal, betraying the edge to his voice.
Jack looked up.
“Sir?”
“I’d like an update, please. What progress has been made in locating Paul Evershed, alias ‘Ludo’?”
Lowerson cleared his throat.
“Ah, I’m afraid very little,” he said. “There’ve been no sightings of Paul Evershed fleeing Biddlestone. Officers have been stationed at the farmhouse on the off-chance he will return but there’s been no movement, at all.”
“Must have been tipped off,” Phillips said. “There’s nowt else for it.”
Ryan trod carefully. There were other forces at work, here, and if he allowed too much chatter about tip-offs and kickbacks, it might drive the guilty ones to ground.
“It’s a strong possibility,” was all he said, and it was the truth. “What happened to the Defender? What about his vehicle?”
“Again, no sightings, sir. However, I’ve been in touch with the DVLA to obtain a list of current and previous vehicle registrations. A red Land Rover Defender with ’02 plates was registered to Frankly Flowers, which is owned by its parent company, Rest Easy Inc., a subsidiary of Mainland International, one of the off-shore trust corporations we believe to be owned and operated by Singh.”
The others sat up, suddenly energised.
“There you go,” Phillips said. “We knew Singh would have a hand in this, somewhere.”
“Good work, Jack,” Ryan said.
In truth, he had already known. The metadata analysis of the spreadsheet of known addresses and vehicles associated with Singh, compiled by the Fraud Team, had come back to show that a Land Rover Defender had originally been listed on that spreadsheet, right up until Monday afternoon, when somebody had deleted the entry. They had also taken the trouble to delete the address entry listed as ‘Biddles Farm’.
The tracking analysis had enabled him to find out the name of the person who had made the changes, the name of whom Ryan had passed immediately to DCI Blackett. In line with proper protocol, he had not told another person, and that included his friends in the room, the Chief Constable or even his own wife.
DCI Blackett’s team of undercover data analysts were now in the process of unravelling what other alterations had been made to police intelligence, some of which may prove useful in finding Paul Evershed’s present location.
In the meantime, there was the surface investigation to deal with.
“What car does Rochelle drive?” Ryan asked.
“White Range Rover,” Yates said, and reeled off the registration plates. “There’s been no sign of it. I’ve requested all the ANPR footage from Highways England, but it’s a big ask considering Rochelle could have gone anywhere after leaving work. I’ll concentrate on the area immediately around there, and see if we get lucky with the footage.”
Ryan nodded his approval. It was good, solid work, and it gave him no pleasure to know that they were hunting for a woman who was already dead. The decision to help Jack Lowerson was more of a burden with every passing hour, one he would rather not bear.
That was the price of leadership; sometimes, decisions had to be made that would test the strength of longstanding friendships. He wondered if all the people in the room would be prepared to forgive the omissions he was making, once it was all over and done with.
He pushed away from the desk and paced around a bit, before moving on to the next matter on his agenda.
“Let’s turn to other active cases,” he said. “Frank and I have been dealing with the suspicious death of an eighty-year-old man, Alan Watson. Control came through this morning to tell us his son, fifty-two-year-old Simon Watson, took an overdose sometime during the night.”
“Awful for the rest of the family,” Yates said, and there were murmurs of agreement.
“How did it go at Simon Watson’s bungalow—have the CSIs finished up there?”
Ryan turned to Phillips, who took a slurp of his tea.
“Well, they were still going when I left them,” he said. “I had a snoop around the bungalow to see what’s what, but the bloke lived like a puritan; no junk anywhere and no sign of any other drugs knocking around, either.”
Ryan could see the direction of his sergeant’s thoughts, and wondered how he was ever going to manage to convince him that Simon Watson’s death was accidental, especially when he, himself, had been the one to question the supposed overdose in the first place.
That was before he’d received a message from Lowerson telling him of the latest threat he’d received, which strongly suggested Singh was somehow involved in one or both deaths. Ryan had taken the decision to help Lowerson and that meant pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes, or risk Jack being thrown to the wolves.
Oh, the tangled webs we weave…
“It’s sometimes the case that, when a former addict hasn’t touched anything for a while, their body reacts extremely badly when they pick up the habit again, because they take the same dose they’d been used to back when their body had built up a kind of immunity,” he said. “So, it’s not surprising there weren’t any other drugs stashed away in Watson’s cupboard.”
Phillips nodded.
“That’s a fair point,” he conceded. “It still doesn’t solve the issue of how he fell, or what happened to the drugs pouch.”
Ryan opened his mouth, but could think of no plausible reason for either of those discrepancies, so snapped it shut again.
“Anyhow,” Phillips carried on, “I had a quick chat with one or two of his neighbours, who had plenty of nice things to say about him. Nobody remembered anybody unusual or suspicious turning up, which isn’t surprising since Simon died sometime after dark.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I stopped by the jobcentre on my way back to the office, just to see if there was anything lying about, and I found a few bits and bobs including an envelope addressed to Simon’s dad.”
Ryan hadn’t been expecting that and, by the look on Lowerson’s face, neither had he.
“Alan?” he queried. “Why did Simon have one of Alan’s old envelopes at his office?”
Phillips shook his head.
“The envelope wasn’t old,” he said. “It had a recent postmark and must’ve arrived sometime in the last couple of days, but not before the fire. I’ve been trying to get a hold of the local postie, to see if he’ll confirm dropping that envelope off at Simon’s house.”
“You think he took the redirection into his own hands?” MacKenzie asked, and Phillips nodded.
“Had to be,” he said. “There were other letters addressed to his mum or dad, and they were all redirected. Faulkner found a stack of them on the kitchen counter, and a bunch of circulars in the recycling.”
“But this was the only envelope Simon took into work with him,” Ryan said. “The only one Simon locked away for safety. What was the content?”
“It was an FOI response,” Phillips replied.
Yates was momentarily confused.
“FOI?” she queried.
“It stands for ‘Freedom of Information’,” Lowerson muttered, shifting in his chair to face her. “People are allowed to make ‘FOI requests’ to public bodies for accessible information.”
She nodded, her eyes lingering for a second too long.
Damn him.
“Which public body had he applied to?” Ryan asked.
“GCHQ,” Phillips replied, taking them all by surprise again.
“Why on Earth was Alan Watson pestering GCHQ?” MacKenzi
e demanded. “I’d have thought most of their information was protected, anyhow.”
“It was, for quite a while,” Phillips agreed. “But they finally coughed up a bit of information Alan had been asking about for thirty-odd years. He wanted to know about the government strategic operations behind the 1984-85 Miners’ Strike and, in particular, whether there was a government mole operating around the village of Penshaw at the time.”
“You mean, ‘The Worm’,” Ryan said, and explained the relevance for those who had not been privy to their investigation so far.
“Aye, that’s it. Seems like old Alan had the bit between his teeth and wouldn’t let go. He wanted answers.”
“And? Does the paperwork from GCHQ give any names or anything that would tell us who it was?”
“It all reads like a spy novel, to me,” Phillips complained. “I can’t make head nor tail of it, with all the redactions of ‘sensitive material’, but you’re welcome to have a go. I sent the original over to the lab, but Faulkner’s made a copy of its contents.”
Ryan nodded, his mind kicking into over-drive.
Suppose the hapless, well-meaning Simon Watson had come home to find the post intended for his father, and had decided to open it—never knowing what he might find inside. Suppose that he read the contents from GCHQ and recognised the person known as ‘The Worm’. What then? Would he come to the police or try to confront them himself?
Ryan feared he already knew the answer.
“Joan Watson’s being kept in hospital,” Phillips continued. “She can hardly stand another shock, with her husband and son both going in the space of a week. Any word from the pathologist?”
Ryan kept his tone light, and thought back to the unprecedented conversation he’d had with Dr Jeffrey Pinter.
“He’s sent through his preliminary findings,” he said, referring to the report that was available for those with police access to view under the case file number on their intranet. “The general opinion is that Simon Watson passed away sometime between midnight and three o’clock. He wasn’t found until nearly eight o’clock the following morning, which means he’d been dead for up to eight hours by then.”
