by LJ Ross
He frowned, wondering if Ludo was staying in one of those houses.
It seemed highly unlikely that he would be visiting the school.
But, as he moved into the tiny hotel bathroom to brush his teeth, the thought percolated in his mind and he began to wonder.
What had happened to Paul Evershed’s family?
Before drugs and crime had ruined him, he’d been a salesman, with a wife and children who subsequently left him. Perhaps one of those children had since made him a grandfather?
Spitting toothpaste into the sink, Lowerson hurried back into the room and brought up the other files the service station had supplied, covering the last five days, three of which were weekdays and, consequently, school days, too.
He chewed his lower lip as he clicked on Monday’s file, and began the recording at seven-fifteen. It was a tense wait as he watched lorries and cars passing through, and he was by now so tired he could barely see in a straight line.
Then, his index finger tapped the button to freeze the screen.
At around the same time, seven-thirty, a Land Rover Defender turned into the car park and slid into one of the empty parking spaces nearest the pathway. A moment later, a tall, broad-shouldered hulk of a man unfolded himself and walked away from the camera, in the same direction as before.
Jack went through the same process for the previous Friday, and found the same outcome. Every day, at the same time, Paul Evershed parked his car and made his way to a destination that lay somewhere through those houses.
He needed to find out where, because, if Ryan had taught him anything, it was to look for patterns of behaviour. Once you found the pattern, you found the man.
CHAPTER 30
Thursday, 14th June 2019
The following morning, the weather took a turn for the worse.
Gone were the balmy blue skies of the day before; they gave way to deep grey rain clouds that rolled in from the North Sea and hovered overhead like an ominous threat, ready to give out at any moment. When the heavens finally opened, Melanie Yates watched it patter against the windows inside the Chief Constable’s office.
Sandra Morrison had a lot of time for Yates, in whom she saw a lot of herself as a younger woman. However, it was no longer her job description to deal with Human Resources matters. She was a busy woman, and said as much.
“I do apologise for bothering you with trivial things, ma’am,” Yates replied. “However, as DCI Ryan is handling several more urgent matters at the moment, I felt you were the only other person who would be able to sanction my transfer request.”
The truth was, she didn’t want Ryan to talk her out of it, as she knew he could. It had been hard enough to make the decision to transfer, without having to go through it all again.
“Why do you believe a transfer is necessary?” Morrison asked. “I understood you were happy in Ryan’s team. Is there anything I should be aware of?”
Now that it came down to it, Yates didn’t know what to say. After a moment, she decided that the truth was always best.
“Ma’am, the relationship between myself and DC Lowerson has become strained,” she said. “I take responsibility for my share in letting that happen—we embarked on the very early stages of a romantic relationship which has, predictably, gone south.”
“Well, this isn’t Love Island, Yates!” Morrison burst out. “If you get into romantic entanglements with your work colleagues, you have to be prepared for things when they don’t work out. You can’t expect to run to your boss and have them parachute you out of an awkward situation—”
“I realise that, ma’am,” Yates said, in a firm tone that took Morrison by surprise. “My decision to transfer isn’t based solely on that. I no longer have confidence in DC Lowerson’s ability to train me, which has the capacity to affect my career pathway and personal goals I’ve been striving towards for a number of years.”
“Somebody else within the team could take over,” Morrison suggested. “Phillips was originally assigned to train you, I recall.”
“That’s correct, ma’am. The fact is, I believe that the tensions that now exist both personally and professionally may impact on the wider team, which is something I’m seeing already and want to prevent getting worse. I believe this is the best way.”
Morrison looked out at the rain and sighed.
“You seem to have your heart set on it,” she said.
Yates felt her stomach quiver, but she ignored whatever reservations she might have had, and answered clearly.
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
Morrison nodded.
“In that case, leave it with me. You say you want to stay in Major Crimes? That’ll mean a transfer to another command division, since Ryan’s team covers such a broad area, up here. I’ll see if there’s room for you in Durham CID.”
Yates nodded, feeling somehow deflated.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Dismissed.”
* * *
Ryan had spent much of the previous evening reading through the GCHQ papers that had been provided to Alan Watson, in an effort to understand whether they were relevant, or another one of those red herrings that could lead an investigation down the wrong track. It was far from clear, given that the content of what appeared to be government memoranda was at least thirty years old. However, it did confirm one thing: there had been a local person who had fed information back to the government, which had allowed the police to know in advance where flying pickets would be set up, as well as various other sensitive details pertaining to the strike. It was perfectly possible that, without the actions of this mole and others like them, there would have been less violence and less unrest, though Ryan couldn’t say whether the strike would ultimately have succeeded.
Now, seated at his desk at Police Headquarters, Ryan picked up the papers again. The government codename for the Penshaw mole was not “The Worm”—that had been coined by the locals. GCHQ had kept things simple and used, “P”, which could relate to their given name but was more likely “P” for Penshaw. Ryan imagined other people living in other towns might be assigned “E” for Easington, and so forth. There were long passages detailing the methods by which P could be contacted, and the location which was, fittingly, Penshaw Monument. It seemed that P’s handler was a man called Jasper Ogilvy, who conducted any of the face-to-face meetings or other direct communications. The paperwork contained heavily redacted passages giving the content of each meeting, but it was the contents of the appendix that interested Ryan the most. It read:
“Ogilvy has been reprimanded for misconduct relating to his handling of this matter and has been reassigned as of 1.1.1985.”
Ryan ran a quick Google search and found that Jasper Ogilvy had subsequently been knighted in the 1990s, but at the time of the strikes had been a junior civil servant seconded to the National Coal Board. Unfortunately, Ogilvy died over ten years earlier, so would be unavailable for him to question.
Ryan was beginning to wonder whether the secret of P’s identity had died with him.
CHAPTER 31
Lowerson had been up with the larks.
His first stop had been to pick up a rental car from the airport across the road, since his own vehicle might be recognised. After collecting a nippy little three-door Corsa, he checked the time and drove towards the A1, turning southbound along the route that would take him to Washington Services. There was some morning traffic but, by seven o’clock, he was in position in the service station car park, with a good view of the entrance. He’d thought carefully about whether to tell Ryan, or any of the others, but there was little time to spare and he wanted to avoid Ludo being tipped off.
Time ticked by, and Lowerson kept his eyes trained on the entrance, waiting.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
At seven twenty-five, a different car turned into the car park and, to begin with, Lowerson was thrown. He was expecting to see a Land Rover Defender, but Ludo had obviously acquired a new vehicle which was, he
supposed, the smart thing to do.
The dark green Nissan parked in its usual spot, near the entrance and a short distance from where Lowerson hunkered down inside the rental car. He watched Paul Evershed step out of the vehicle and take a quick glance around, his eyes lingering on the other cars in the car park. Luckily, the service station was always a busy one, and Lowerson’s Corsa didn’t stand out any more than the rest.
Evershed turned onto the pathway, the back of his head disappearing behind the hedgerows, and Lowerson judged it the right moment to follow.
He stepped out of the car, and moved swiftly across the tarmac.
* * *
While Lowerson tailed one of the country’s most wanted men, Phillips and MacKenzie bickered light-heartedly about whether the ending to the recent Game of Thrones television series was to their taste.
“Jon Snow should’ve been the one to kill the Night King,” Phillips was saying. “That was his fight, and he was robbed.”
“Aye, but Arya was a hero,” MacKenzie said. “She had the skills, and she used them.”
“Should’ve saved them for that one with the white-blond hair,” Phillips complained. “You know? The one with the dragons.”
“Fun night at the MacKenzie-Phillips household, I take it?” Ryan chimed in.
“You have no idea,” MacKenzie replied. “I’ve never heard the end of it.”
“Fancy a bacon sarnie?” he asked. “The canteen’s open.”
“S’pose that’ll have to do,” Phillips complained. “The bloke from the Pie Van’s off on holiday, this week. He’s got no idea how much we hardworking officers of the law depend on him to sustain us, through the long hours of the day.”
“You should’ve auditioned for Jon Snow,” Ryan quipped, drawing a chuckle from MacKenzie. “With speeches like that, you could’ve been the King in the North.”
“Aye, well this old king needs a stottie cake, or he’s at risk of fainting from a lack of bacon in his diet.”
“Lead the way, my liege.”
* * *
Lowerson kept a safe distance from his target, blinking through the rain which was now falling steadily. Ludo was a giant of a man, who walked with a loping gait about a hundred yards ahead of him, the toes of his boots scuffing against the pathway as he wound his way through the housing estate that bordered the Washington Service Station. His hands were tucked inside a navy-blue, all-weather bomber jacket that looked expensive, for a man who was supposedly on the run.
Paul Evershed was the sort of man who kept to his own course, and did not waver for man, woman or child. Consequently, he did not move aside for a mother pushing a pram, or an old woman out walking her dog. They were forced to move awkwardly around his colossal frame, the wheels of the pram running into the muddy grass by the side of the pavement.
Ludo continued along the pathway, which was flanked by semi-detached houses on either side, until he came to the main road at the end. Lowerson, who was only just turning onto the pathway at the other end, kept him in sight and jogged lightly to catch up, moving politely aside for the lady with the pram, and stepping around the old woman with the dog.
It was just how normal people behaved.
When he reached the end of the path where it met the main road, he slowed down considerably and stuck his head around the corner, half expecting Ludo to lunge for him.
But he didn’t.
Evershed, he could see, was otherwise occupied standing on the other side of the main road, peering through a gap in the fence behind which, Lowerson knew, was a school playground.
His might have assumed the worst and, given Ludo’s other character traits, it would not necessarily have been a surprise. However, he had already done a check on Evershed’s family, to see where they were now, and had found that Ludo’s daughter lived only a few streets away and her two young children attended the primary school.
Ludo was visiting his grandchildren, the only way he could.
It turned out, Singh was right: there was always a weakness, if you knew where to look for it.
* * *
In the staff canteen, the three detectives were about to tuck into some inferior bacon stotties, when Ryan noticed something on the local news, which was playing on a flatscreen television with the subtitles turned on.
“That’s the park near Penshaw, isn’t it?” he asked Phillips, pointing to the screen.
His sergeant turned around to glance at the screen.
“Aye, that’s the one. Are they hosting an event there? If it looks any good, maybe we could take the little’un,” he said to Denise.
“Not an event,” Ryan said slowly, his eyes tracking the subtitles as they appeared on the big screen. “The local planning office has given the go-ahead to build three hundred houses there.”
“What?” Phillips said. “That doesn’t seem likely. The locals love that park. It’s basically a memorial to the colliery that was there before. There’s no way the local council would allow all those houses to be built there.”
“I know—but look, Frank,” Ryan said, and called out for someone to turn the sound back on.
“The project, which is in line with the government’s sustainable housing initiative, is designed to provide affordable housing to people in the local area,” the newsreader said. “The development has earned the backing of the head of the local council, Councillor Sally Emerson, who had this to say…”
Ryan watched with hard eyes, while Emerson gave a short speech about investing in the region’s future.
“I grew up in Penshaw, and my father was a miner. I know what the area’s history means to a lot of people, but I also know it’s important for the children of today to have adequate housing. I firmly believe this project will be a success, and we are proud to work with the Priory Development Group to make this happen.”
“She’s a smooth one,” Phillips remarked.
“This kind of project would need high-level planning permission,” Ryan said, turning to the other two with the light of battle in his eyes. “Who’s the Head of the Planning Office in that area?” he asked, rhetorically.
“Mike Emerson,” Phillips said, with disgust.
“He won’t have his name anywhere on the paperwork,” MacKenzie thought aloud. “They’d want to avoid the suggestion of there being any collusion.”
Ryan nodded.
“I want to look into the Priory Development Group,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing it on the list the Fraud Team sent over.”
“I’ll check it out, right away,” MacKenzie said. “Are you thinking there’s a connection between this and the deaths in Penshaw?”
Ryan looked at his friends and thought of the warning Blackett had given him, and what would happen if the undercover investigation were jeopardised.
“I don’t know yet,” he said, not having seen the CCTV footage of Ludo placing him in Penshaw on the night Simon Watson had died. “But I know Singh had a hand in this, somewhere. I can feel it.”
CHAPTER 32
Jack Lowerson watched Ludo from the corner of the street for fifteen minutes, during which time a number of families with young children passed him on their way to the morning drop-off at the primary school across the road. Ludo didn’t react to any of them, until a young woman crossed the zebra crossing beside the school gates, holding a spotted umbrella in one hand and a four-year-old boy in the other.
Evershed’s body straightened up and he kept to the edge of the fence, trying to make himself invisible, then moved back to his gap in the trees where he could watch their progress for a while longer until they disappeared inside the school building.
When he began to step away, Lowerson turned and beat a very hasty retreat, sprinting full pelt on his bad leg to reach the other end of the pathway before Evershed could cross the road and see him, up ahead.
Lowerson almost made it.
When Evershed turned back on to the path that would take him to the car park at the service station, he caught the tail
end of a man’s running figure at the far end of the path. He couldn’t make out a face, or even much of his build, but he was immediately on full alert.
As he rounded the corner, there was nobody there.
He continued walking back to the car park at a steady pace, but reached for the piece he kept in his inside pocket, moving it to the side pocket of his jacket for easier access if he should need to act quickly.
Nobody was waiting for him when he entered the car park, and his eyes searched behind the windscreen of every car, peering through the rain to see if he’d been marked.
Eventually, having satisfied himself that all was well, Ludo slid back inside his Nissan. He’d barely strapped on a seatbelt, when the headlights of a Vauxhall Corsa came on, indicating somebody had started the car.
The only problem with that was, there had been nobody in the car when he’d checked.
There had been nobody crossing the car park to get inside it, either, which could mean only one thing.
Police.
It couldn’t be one of theirs, he thought. It had to be some ‘Have a Go Hero’ who’d spotted him and decided they’d try to bag themselves a big name, in time for the commendations dinner.
They’d have to catch him, first.
* * *
When Ryan returned to his desk, he found the pathologist had sent over a private report concerning the death of Simon Watson to his personal e-mail account, as requested.
Jeff Pinter had come through for him.
He began to read its contents, which confirmed what he already expected. Although there were no defensive wounds to indicate Simon Watson had fought for his life, there was something far more revealing to be found in tandem with the forensics report. What they had believed to be one head wound was, in fact, two wounds; the second layered on top of the first, possibly to hide it. Pinter theorised that the first wound would have led to the blood spatter Tom Faulkner had remarked upon but not found anywhere in the living room where Watson fell, and the second wound would have left little or no spatter at all.
