“The man it hit is my father-in-law. He’s going to die from the injuries.”
A squirt of information colored the sergeant’s desktop terminal cube with flecks of light. “Sorry, sir. Whoever reported the incident didn’t know what the vehicle was, nor when it happened. If we don’t have anything to go on, we can’t make enquiries. There’s nothing to ask.”
“Did anyone even go out there and check? He’s dying! The driver of that vehicle has killed him.”
The sergeant did manage to look reasonably embarrassed. “The nature of the injuries wasn’t disclosed at the time, sir. It’s not down here.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“The case would have been graded accordingly.”
“Graded? What the fuck is graded?”
“We would have given the incident a higher priority, sir.”
Greg bit back on his immediate reply. Shouting at the ranks wasn’t going to solve anything—it was the generals not the squaddies who decide the campaign strategy. He paused, took a breath. “What about forensic? There are all sorts of marks out there, even some paint off the bodywork. Any decent forensic lab would be able to match the paint type with the manufacturer, at least get an idea of what kind of vehicle they were driving. Then you could start asking if anyone saw it.”
“Yes, sir. Was the gentleman insured?”
“For what?”
“Crime investigation finance. It’s becoming more necessary these days. Most companies offer it as part of their employment package along with health cover, pension, housing guarantee, that kind of thing. You see, the sort of investigation you’re talking about launching will absorb a lot of our resources. The Rutland force has only limited civic funds. To be honest with you, successfully tracing the driver would be a long shot. The chief has to focus his budget on areas which have a good probability of bringing positive results.”
“I don’t believe this. He’s a kibbutznik, he’s not employed by some big-shot corporation. The only money they have comes from selling eggs at the market. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a citizen; he’s entitled to time and attention from the police.”
“Sorry, sir. I’m not trying to discourage you, just telling you the way it is these days. I don’t want you to leave here with false hopes of us being able to launch a manhunt for the driver. And even if we did, a hit-and-run incident without a witness…” He shook his head. “Just about zero conviction rate.”
“I can pay,” Greg said. He pulled out his platinum Event Horizon card. “Just show me what I have to sign, and get that bloody forensic team out there.”
“It’s Sunday, sir. The assigned case officer won’t be in until tomorrow, I’m afraid. You’ll have to speak with him about upgrading the investigation status.”
Greg wondered if they would have the resources to investigate a member of the public punching an officer inside the station. Tempting to find out.
“There are private forensic laboratories, sir,” the desk sergeant said. “We have an approved list if you’d like to use one. Some of them are very good.”
It was no good shouting. Greg could see he was trying to be helpful, after a fashion. At which point Amanda Patterson called out his name.
Greg put the two pints of Ruddles County down on the table. Mike Wilson gave his glass a wary look.
“Cheers,” Greg said. After they had got back from the Sullivan bungalow, he had waited outside the police station until the insurance agent had come out, then invited him for a quiet drink at the Wheat sheaf pub just around the corner. So far, Wilson was curious enough not to offer resistance, but he was clearly worried.
“You can relax,” Greg told him. “I used to be a private eye. I’ve worked on corporate cases before. I understand the need for discretion at times like this.”
“Uh huh.” Mike took a sip of his beer.
“I know who did it.” From a psychic perspective, the jolt of surprise flashing into Wilson’s mind was quite amusing. He only just managed to avoid it triggering a physical jerk. That spoke of good self-control. Greg wasn’t surprised at that, it confirmed several things he had speculated about the man.
“Who? We didn’t see anyone who matched that bloody genome image.”
Greg folded his arms and smiled. “You don’t need to know.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I don’t want them convicted.”
“I see.”
“Which is the same reason you were given this investigation, isn’t it? Keep an eye on Amanda. Wise move by your company. I worked with her before. She’s a smart girl. And a very good police officer. She won’t make compromises.”
“And you will?”
“When it suits me. And this certainly does.”
“Crescent Insurance would be happy to consider an adequate remuneration for the time you’ve spent advising Oakham CID.”
“You should research more. I’m already rich.”
“What then?”
“Tell me what line of investigation Crescent wants avoiding, and I’ll see if we can help each other.”
Wilson took a slow sip, and eased back into his chair. “Okay. I’m actually on secondment to Crescent; my employer is Hothouse.”
“Byrne Tyler’s agency?”
“Yeah. Look, showbiz is not pretty, okay? We deal with images, illusions. That’s what we sell: characters larger than life. To the general public, Byrne is some hot young chunk of meat with a six-pack stomach and the devil’s smile. In the dramas all he’s got to do is show off that body in some tough action sequences and blow away bad guys with his big gun. In real life we portray him as an It Guy; he goes to all the best parties, he dates the most beautiful actresses and models, he’s friends with the older, real celebrities. That’s what we’re promoting here, the more he’s in the ’casts, the more ’castworthy he is. Doesn’t matter if it’s private-life gossip, or reviews for his latest pile of interactive shit. We put him out there and shine a light on him for everyone to idolize and buy every tie-in funny-colored chocolate bar we can slam at them. We make money, and Byrne gets a bigger apartment and a better nose job. Unfortunately, in reality, he’s some half-wit sink-estate boy from Walthamstow we uprooted and dropped in front of the cameras. That’s a shock to anyone’s system. Certainly for him it was. He couldn’t tell where the image stopped and life began. He’s got a syntho habit, a dream punch habit, a sweet&sour habit…he even uses crack, for Christ’s sake; he can barely remember his one-word catch-phrase, and his autograph isn’t in joined-up writing. What I’m saying is, he needs—needed—a lot of agency management and handling to cope with his new existence, right down to potty-training level.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“I’ve never met him. Like I said, this is showbusiness, with the emphasis on business. Byrne Tyler was an investment on Hothouse’s part. And it was starting to go ripe. A year ago he was living on credit, and his career was nose-diving. Well, even that’s okay. It’s not exactly the first time that’s happened to a celeb. We know how to handle that. We got him partway through detox therapy, paired him up with the gorgeous Tamzin, and together they’re riding high. Bingo, we’re back on track, he’s being offered new interactives, she’s getting runway assignments for the bigger couture houses.”
“So you wrote a happy ending. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is the middle of the story. When his cash was low and no studio would touch him, he earned his living the oldest way you can. All those trophy wives who’s husbands are so decrepit they can’t even take Laynon anymore. Single trust-fund babes, except at their age they aren’t babes any longer. Even supermodels who wanted a serious no-comebacks, no-involvement shagging one night. Tyler serviced them all.”
“Let me guess. You pimped him.”
“Our investment was going negative. We pointed people in the right direction. Nobody got hurt. It paid off.”
“Except now he’s dead. And he recorded all those women on that
big waterbed of his.”
“Stupid little prick.” Wilson nodded remorsefully. “Was it one of them, some husband or boyfriend who found out?”
“No. You’re in the clear.”
“Hardly. Amanda Patterson is going to start phoning around that goddamn list he left behind. Look, he beds twenty rich and famous girls, and he’s a superstud, a hero to the lads. Thirty and he’s unbelievable…how the hell did he manage that? Fifty of the richest women in Europe night after night, and damn right nobody’ll believe it can happen. There’s going to be rumors; the media will start scratching round. We won’t be able to keep a lid on it.”
“Perfect,” Greg said. “I can deliver someone who can take the rap for Tyler’s death. Amanda will stop phoning your list, and go after him instead. The Tyler case will be closed, and the women involved can quietly apply to the police for the recordings to be wiped under the privacy act.”
“Who is it?”
“A nasty little man called Richard Townsend.”
“Never heard of him.”
“No reason you should. But I’m going to need a motive to link him in with Tyler. What other failings did our late celebrity have?”
Gabriel Thompson was one of Greg’s oldest friends, from his army days. Morgan Walshaw he knew pretty well, handling security for the biggest company there was: Event Horizon. Trustworthy and competent at exactly the level Greg needed. It helped that the two of them had taken a shine to each other after meeting on one of Greg’s cases. They’d moved in together a few months later, living in a grand old terrace house in Stamford.
Greg phoned them as soon as he got back from his drink with Mike Wilson. They arrived together at the farmhouse as the sun was sinking behind Berry but spinney on the far shore. Gabriel helped with Christine’s bath time, while Greg and Morgan tackled the menu from the Chinese take-away in Mill Street.
They wound up sitting in the conservatory with the cartons from the take-away on the big cedar table. Pink light drained away from the clouds bridging the horizon leaving a quiescent gloaming in its wake.
“I need a safeguard before I agree to this,” Morgan said after Greg had finished talking. “I appreciate there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence that Townsend had Noel Broady run down, but we don’t know for certain.”
“I’ll get myself in on the preliminary interview,” Greg said. “If I can see he’s guilty of paying someone to run Noel over, will that be enough for you?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “I’ll accept your word.”
“If he’s not?” Gabriel asked archly.
“Then we collapse the deal. It’ll leave a nasty smell, but at least he walks away.”
“Okay,” she said. “So what’s the link between him and Tyler?”
“Hothouse set up a virtual company for Tyler to sell his action dramas and interactives. I think there’s even a best-of compilation from Marina Days.”
“Compelling stuff,” Gabriel muttered.
“Yeah, anyway. This company is called Firedrake, and Mike Wilson has agreed to sell Hothouse’s half share. It’s only a pound New Sterling, so they don’t exactly lose out. All we have to do is convince Townsend to buy it, and back-date the agreement.”
“Why?” Morgan asked.
“Tyler wasn’t quite as stupid as you’d think. He was using the site to sell bootleg memox crystals of his own stuff. Any orders you place on the Firedrake site are supposed to go to the distribution company that’s contracted to deal with all Hothouse’s clients. Tyler, the clever little sod, rigged the site so that two thirds of the orders are redirected to a bootlegging operation that he’s got an arrangement with. That way, instead of getting his half-percent royalty payment from the cover price of the genuine crystal, he gets fifty percent of the price from the bootleg. Cash only, non-taxable. Hothouse found out about it a month ago, and confronted Tyler. He claimed he knew nothing, and that some hotrod had hacked into the site and loaded the diversion instructions. As his engagement to Tamzin was starting to produce results, Hothouse overlooked it, and sorted the site out.”
“So whoever his partner in Firedrake is, they’re being ripped off by Tyler,” Eleanor said. “Anyone examining the Firedrake site order log and comparing it to the legitimate distribution company’s orders will see the missing sixty percent straight away. The partner in Firedrake will have a justifiable grudge against Tyler.”
“What that partner will do is have Tyler’s apartment broken into, and steal a painting that is of equal worth to the missing money. Unfortunately, Tyler was at home when the burglary happened, there was a brief struggle, and he got pushed downstairs. That makes whoever received the stolen painting an accessory to murder. It’ll be the physical proof Amanda needs to nail him.”
“Can you get us a painting out of the apartment?” Gabriel asked.
“I think so,” Greg said. “I reviewed the Macmillan art encyclopedia database. We got lucky, the most valuable piece Tyler owns is also the smallest one. It should be easy enough to lift it.”
“When do you want to start?” Morgan asked.
“Right away. See if you can get an appointment with Townsend tomorrow morning. Gabriel, you’re going to be the accountant. You’ll have to hire an office for us in Peterborough. It needs to be ready by Tuesday at the latest. Suzi will give you a hand.”
“Suzi? You’re kidding!”
“No way. I’m going to bring her in as your company’s secretary. She’ll be perfect as the courier for the swap—Townsend won’t argue with her.”
“Jesus wept. Okay, if you say so.”
“What about the Firedrake site?” Morgan asked. “Won’t Townsend be suspicious of me marketing the interactives of a dead celebrity?”
“You won’t be selling Tyler’s products,” Greg said. “I’ve got Royan designing a completely new architecture for us; from midnight, Firedrake will be selling software products and obscure music acts. Once Townsend has bought in, we’ll change it back.”
Gabriel gave her glass of beer a quizzical glance, then smiled softly. “Sounds good to me.”
Greg had been right about Amanda Patterson—she was a first-rate detective. As soon as Hugh Snell confirmed the McCarthy was a fake she redirected her team’s effort to produce maximum results. Every art house and auctioneer in the country was squirted an immediate notification about the painting, and CID staff were told to get in touch with known fences and dealers. A reward was mentioned.
Of course, as Townsend was blissfully unaware he had anything to hide, Sotheby’s in Stamford got back to Amanda less than two hours later. Richard Townsend was identified.
“Not the person who actually pushed Tyler,” she said regretfully, as she compared his picture with the genome visualization. An undercover team was assigned to keep Townsend under surveillance.
Greg watched as she turned her team to establishing the link between Tyler and Townsend. It was the accountant who tracked down the partnership in Firedrake. After that it was plain sailing. The accountant worked well with Alison, running analysis programs through the virtual company’s records. The distribution company made their order logs available.
By ten o’clock that evening they had it all worked out. Byrne Tyler was ripping off his Firedrake partner Townsend, who discovered what was happening. Knowing the money would never be paid over, a burglar was hired for a custom theft. But there had been a flaw. Byrne Tyler was awake when the breakin occurred. There must have been a struggle.
Amanda took the case to Vernon at quarter past ten. He reviewed it, and authorized the arrest warrant.
Throughout the interview with Townsend, Greg had felt as if he was the one on trial. Not so far from the truth. He was the one who had brought them all together. The strain was twisting him up inside, having to wait patiently while Amanda asked questions which Townsend didn’t understand, let alone have answers for. Finally, he could ask the one question that counted.
Physically, Townsend froze up. His hands gripped the armrests, swe
at glistened on his brow as his mouth hung open. In his mind, horror and fright rose like ghouls to contaminate every thought.
“Guilty,” Greg said. He hoped he hadn’t sagged at the release of his own tension.
“Thank you, Mr. Mandel,” Amanda said.
It was the tone which alarmed Greg. He hadn’t been paying attention to the detective. Now he could sense the doubts rippling through her mind. She held his gaze steadily, and said: “I think we both need to take a break now. No doubt you’d like to consult with your solicitor, Mr. Townsend. Interview suspended.” She switched the AV deck off. “Greg, a word, please.”
“Sure.”
As they left the interview room a frantic Townsend was whispering furiously to Jodie Dobson. Amanda went straight downstairs and out into the station’s car park. She rounded on Greg. “What the hell is going on?”
“You were right about him, my question confirmed that.”
“Oh, bollocks, Greg. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.”
“He’s guilty. I swear it, Amanda.”
“Yeah?” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
“I thought they were illegal?”
“No. That’s a common mistake. Usage just prohibits you from claiming National Health Service treatment. If you choose to make yourself ill, don’t expect the state to pay to make you better. So given that smoking actually makes it illegal to go to an NHS hospital, it’s easy to see how confused people can get over the actual wording of the law. And it suits the government to encourage that confusion.”
“Are we talking in metaphors here?”
“I don’t know, Greg. I don’t know what’s metaphor, what’s confusion, and what’s truth. But I’m bloody sure Townsend didn’t have anything to do with Tyler’s death. Detective’s instinct, remember.”
“The evidence points straight at him.”
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