by Tiana Carver
Clemens shrugged. ‘Possible. But we would have preferred a clean arrest.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Phil. ‘But it’ll still stick this way. He won’t be able to wriggle out.
‘And speaking of the raid,’ he added, looking at the two SOCA officers, ‘I won’t be able to take an active part in it due to my suspension, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Clemens. ‘We didn’t invite you.’
‘He means,’ said Fennell, sugaring Clemens’ words, ‘that we haven’t made provision for you.’
‘No,’ said Phil, ‘but I think it’s time you got us locals involved, don’t you?’
‘What did you have in mind?’ said Fennell.
Phil pointed to Mickey. ‘The finest detective sergeant in the county. Mickey Philips. Take him with you.’
‘Well,’ said Clemens, ‘we don’t—’
‘I insist,’ said Phil.
The two SOCA men looked at him, then at each other.
‘It’s time to play nicely,’ said Phil.
Fennell nodded. ‘You’re right.’
‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘Give the Super a ring in Chelmsford, tell him what’s happening. Don’t worry. He won’t tell Glass. Not if he wants his career to continue.’
‘Right,’ said Fennell. He turned to Mickey. ‘We’ve got a firearms unit coming up from London. They’re on the way now.’
‘OK,’ said Mickey. ‘Let’s go and join them.’
‘Which is all fine,’ said Marina, ‘but it still doesn’t tell us where Glass is going to be. Where the farmhouse is. Or the Gardener. We don’t know any of that.’
Phil thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I think I know someone who could tell us.’
‘Who?’ said Clemens.
‘Remember I told you about that tramp? Paul?’
‘The one you thought might be Paul Clunn,’ said Fennell.
‘That’s him. If anyone knows where the Gardener is, and the farmhouse, it’ll be him. In his own addled way.’
‘And you know where he is?’ asked Marina.
‘I do. Want to come along?’
She did.
Phil smiled. ‘Better bring your boots.’
‘What about me?’ said Don.
Phil looked at him. Mickey was aware of something passing between them. He wasn’t sure what, though: he got the impression it could have been a father-and-son moment, or the sense of a baton being passed.
‘Could you look after Donna and the boy?’ asked Phil.
Don nodded. ‘I’ll call Eileen. Tell her we’ve got more coming round for dinner.’
‘Thanks, Don.’
Don nodded. Looked away.
And in that gesture, that sad, defeated, redundant gesture, Mickey saw his own future. He was sure that Phil saw his too.
‘Right.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get going.’
Phil looked at Marina. ‘So had we. Good luck, everyone. We’ll need it.’
110
Lynn Windsor took a sip from her glass, looked out over the balcony.
It was dark now. She could see the lights along the other side of the river, the stream of car headlights heading away from the town centre. Beyond that she could see up the hill to the town centre. It should have been a beautiful sight. After all, she had paid enough for it. But she couldn’t enjoy it. Not tonight. She couldn’t enjoy anything tonight.
Another sip from the glass, larger this time.
Michael Fenton had been strange with her when he had driven her home. Distracted. Distant. But with a sadness to the distance. On the few occasions he had looked at her, it was with downcast, almost tearful eyes. She hadn’t been able to hold his gaze either. They both knew without saying it that what would happen next wasn’t going to be good.
He had let her out, driven quickly away. Started to say something, then stopped himself.
So she had come inside. Got changed, had a shower. Ignored the white wine in the fridge, gone straight to whisky.
And now she stood in her towelling bathrobe, drinking, watching. All those other people. In their cars, on the streets, the trains, in their own homes. All those ordinary lives. Those brief lives.
At one time she would have called them boring. Living life blindfolded, she would have said. Unable to experience everything, do everything. Limited, bound by convention. By fear. Lynn hadn’t been like that. She had prided herself on not being like that. She had wanted to experience everything, push herself to the extreme. She wanted to control, dominate. She wanted power, too. Had been brought up that way. Not just to feel superior, but to be superior.
She was her mother’s daughter in every respect.
And look where it had got her.
Her hand trembled as it held the glass. She took another sip. Made it a mouthful. Felt the liquid burn as it travelled down inside her.
It was no more than she deserved.
What she had done, the things she had been responsible for, the lives she had ruined, ended … Not her personally. Never her personally. But she had been there, in the background, pulling the strings. Dominating. Powerful.
Tears sprang into her eyes then. She looked down once more at the town. Thought of all the lives she had controlled, had taken. They could have still been here. They could have been like the people down there. Living their small, unimaginative lives. Beautiful lives, the kind she would never live.
Lynn thought of Mickey Philips. Of last night. He had given her a glimpse of another life. A better life. Happier. There had been a connection there, a real connection. And she had let it go. She’d had to. He would never have understood. Then she thought of that afternoon in the interview room. And how he had nearly reached her. A little bit more time … and that would have been that.
She might as well have done. Told him what he wanted. She knew what was going to happen now. Knew she couldn’t go back. She was tainted. No use. Just had to accept it.
Another mouthful. Her glass was empty. She reached down, tipped more in from the bottle. Replaced it on the deck. Heard a noise from behind her. She didn’t turn round.
‘I let myself in,’ a familiar voice said.
He joined her on the balcony. She turned. Saw Glass’s features looking out over the town. Another mouthful. It burned.
Neither of them spoke. For her, it was the silence of resignation. For him, she knew it must be the silence of anticipation.
‘I know what you’re here to do,’ she said, taking another mouthful, vision swimming from all the whisky.
He sighed. ‘This could have ended so differently, you know.’
‘I know.’ Another mouthful. Bigger this time.
‘I had high hopes for you. Such high hopes …’ He stroked her shoulder.
She had felt his touch so many times before. Never tired of it. Now, she just wanted to fall into his embrace, sleep it all away.
She took another mouthful. The glass was empty. She refilled it.
‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to drink it all. Lucky I brought you another.’
He placed an identical bottle next to the first one. Same brand, same size. She noticed he was wearing latex gloves.
‘And here,’ he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He took out a brown plastic bottle, rattled it. ‘Something to help you sleep.’
She took the bottle from him. Nodded.
‘I’ll wait while you do it,’ he said.
‘I thought you might.’ Her mouth was dry despite all the liquid she had been pouring down it. She twisted the top off the bottle, shook out a few pills. Took them one at a time, swallowing them down with a mouthful of whisky.
He watched her all the while.
The pills went down easily. So easily.
‘And another handful,’ he said.
She did as she was told. The amount of whisky getting larger with each pill.
Her tears were falling freely now. She could hardly see the town, between the blur of salt wat
er in her eyes and the alcohol affecting her vision. And now the pills. Could hardly see anything at all.
Her sobs became vocal. He shushed her. Not unkindly; tenderly. Like a lover would. She tried to be as quiet as she could.
Soon the pill bottle was empty. She let it drop on the deck.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Won’t be long now.’
‘Will you … will you wait with me …’
He looked at his watch. Back to her. She thought she saw a flash of irritation in his eyes. Blinked. It was gone.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’
He stood next to her, watching.
She began to feel tired. Her head spinning. She closed her eyes.
‘Take another drink,’ his voice said.
She did so.
‘Good girl.’
She closed her eyes once more. The town was slipping away. The balcony. The flat. Him. It was suddenly an effort to stand up. So she sat down. She heard glass breaking. Didn’t have the energy to find out what it was, where it was. She just wanted to rest.
Then it was too hard to sit. She needed to lie down. She did so. Heard his voice.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
From the other end of a long, dark tunnel. Didn’t have the strength, the words to answer him with. Let him go.
Tired. So tired. Sleep. She wanted sleep. It would be so peaceful.
So …
Lynn Windsor fell asleep.
111
‘You ready, then?’
Marina nodded and got in the car. They set off for Halstead.
Neither spoke. Johnny Cash: Unchained provided the soundtrack.
‘You OK?’ Marina asked eventually, her voice low.
Johnny Cash was singing about how everything was done with a Southern accent where he came from. Some beautiful guitar work accompanying him.
Phil nodded as he drove. ‘Working through it. You know.’ He turned to her. Smiled. ‘We’ll get there.’
She placed her hand on his thigh. He kept it there.
The drive out to Halstead was busier than they had expected, catching the tail end of the evening rush-hour traffic. With the darkness had come rain, blowing across the road in front of them, hitting the windscreen like sheets of diamond-hard static. Cars were moving slowly on the twisting country roads, taking time on the hills, avoiding skids and spills.
They followed the villages along the River Colne, eventually arriving in Halstead.
Phil came to the crossroads in the town centre, went right. As he did so, he looked down the hill leading to the old mill at the bottom that represented the town centre. It was an old market town, the original architecture maintained, a place of decent restaurants, bars and pubs, upmarket independent furnishing stores. He and Marina had driven out for Sunday lunch a few times, bought a couple of little things for their new house. The shops were still hanging on. A few more empty ones than previously, a few more charity shops sprung up. He saw Marina looking.
‘We’ll have to come back here one Sunday,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘When this is over.’
‘Yeah. When this is over.’
He drove out of the centre, down the hill towards the Halstead Manor Hotel. Pulled up in the gravel driveway. Johnny Cash was singing that it was so hard to see the rainbow through glasses as dark as his. Phil turned the music off. They looked at each other.
‘Ready?’ said Phil.
‘You sure this is going to work?’ said Marina. ‘Asking a mad tramp what’s going on?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
‘You sure he’s not the murderer?’
‘Wouldn’t I have brought him in if he was?’
Marina shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You haven’t been thinking straight these last few days.’
Phil sighed. ‘I know. But I looked at him, looked in his eyes. It’s not him, Marina. He’s damaged, yes, troubled. But not a killer. He wanted the Garden to be a place of healing. Retreat.’
‘And look what happened to that.’
‘Let’s go.’
They got out of the car. Seeing the rain start, they had both dressed practically. Jeans and boots. Waterproof jackets. Phil took a torch out of the boot of the car. ‘This way.’
They walked off behind the back of the hotel, started down the bank towards the river. Phil swung the torch around. Picked up marks on the ground.
‘Someone’s been here,’ he said.
‘There was a murder here,’ said Marina. ‘I should think there have been a lot of people tramping around.’
‘No,’ said Phil, pointing to the path they were following. ‘Look. There are fresh footprints. Fresh tracks. Someone’s been down here recently.’
‘Is that good?’ asked Marina.
‘If it’s Paul,’ said Phil, ‘yes.’
‘And if not?’
‘Let’s hope it’s Paul,’ he said.
They walked along the route as Phil remembered it. It was harder going in the dark, harder still in the rain. Secure footholds crumbled away to muddy nothing. Branches and trees used night as camouflage to entrap them. The two of them had to hold on to each other, help each other down and along.
‘Here it is,’ said Phil at last as they reached the river’s edge. ‘At least I think so.’
He swung the torch round. Listened. There was no sound except the rain hitting the water, the leaves. Like hot, sizzling fat or incessant machine-gun fire.
Along the muddy bank the torch picked out a larger area of darkness.
‘There.’
They began to walk towards the cave mouth.
‘This is it?’ said Marina, stopping in front of it. ‘The man who started the Garden. This is where he lives?’
‘Yep. When he’s not in one of his other properties dotted around town. All connected to the Garden, all derelict.’
She nodded. ‘I could get a PhD out of him alone.’ She peered into the cave mouth. ‘Well, that looks inviting. What do we do, call to him? Leave food outside?’
‘Or whisky,’ said Phil. He swung the torch into the cave, stepped inside.
‘Careful.’
‘I am.’ He walked on. ‘I think someone’s been here,’ he called back.
Marina heard his voice echoing round the stone mouth.
‘I think—’
Phil screamed. There was a clattering, smashing sound. Silence.
‘Phil? Phil?’ Marina ran into the cave mouth, still shouting. Panic rising inside her. ‘Phil … Phil …’
‘It’s … all right …’ His voice, distant, distorted. Echoing.
‘Where are you? Phil?’
‘I’m … Don’t come any closer. You’ll do the same.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a … an entranceway here. A slope. I didn’t see it and I’ve just slid down it.’
She saw the faint glow of torchlight against the darkness, went towards it. She reached the lip of the shaft Phil had fallen down. Knelt before it. It was just big enough for one person to go down, as long as they weren’t too wide. She could see him at the bottom, looking up. The sides, where the torchlight hit them, looked smooth. Too smooth to climb up again.
‘How are you going to get out?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe Paul’s down here. I’ll ask him.’
‘And maybe he isn’t.’ She sighed. ‘Have you still got that tow rope in the boot?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘I’ll go and get it. Don’t wander off.’
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Marina stood up, made her way back out of the cave. She looked around, tried to get her bearings. The woods seemed scarier without Phil. Bigger, wilder. Things unseen lurking behind trees.
Trying to swallow down the panic that was threatening to rise within her, and telling herself there was nothing to be scared of, she set off in what she hoped was the direction they had come from. Back to the hotel, back to the car.
&n
bsp; As quickly as she could.
112
The circus was on the move. Under cover of darkness and with the Super’s reluctant, angry blessing. Mickey sat in the first van of the convoy, up front with Fennell and Clemens. Body armour on over his day clothes, the two SOCA officers doing the same.
The Super hadn’t been happy when Fennell had called him. Engaging in a clandestine operation on his turf without his consent was exactly the kind of thing to make him angry. But Fennell, displaying great political skill, had won him round. Reminded him what a feather in his cap it would be for a people-trafficking operation to be halted on his manor. That the covert joint operation (he had stressed the word joint) would result in the rooting out and successful capture of a corrupt police officer. How such a superintendent would be looked on by the Home Office in the next round of budget cuts. When all this was pointed out, whatever misgivings the Super had were kept to himself.
Fennell had hung up, clearly happy with himself.
Yeah, thought Mickey, now we just have to carry all of that out. Because if we don’t, it won’t be the SOCA glory boys who’ll take the blame. Not once they’ve involved the locals.
The convoy drove along the A120 towards Harwich. There were two ports on the mouth of the River Stour. Felixstowe and Harwich. Most of the heavy cargo, Fennell had informed them all at the briefing, came through Felixstowe. And as a result it was the more carefully guarded of the two. Weaver and Balchunas’ cargo was coming in the Harwich side, where it would be less likely to be stopped and searched.
They would get in place for the shipment, identify it, follow it to the lock-up.
And then take them down.
The firearms unit was in the van behind. Mickey felt uncomfortable with them around. The cowboy outfit, Phil always called them. The shoot-first-fill-in-compliance-forms-later brigade. He must have caught Phil’s allergy to them, Mickey thought, smiling to himself.
They were approaching Harwich, going round the roundabouts, heading down to the port itself.
Mickey always found Harwich a strange place. Away from the front, there were rabbit-warren streets of old Georgian houses, interesting local pubs and even a converted lighthouse. But the front, and the port, was different.
They drove along the front and round to the side, the convoy coming to a halt in a car park by the edge of the water.
