by Alan Veale
*
Emily’s emotions had been unpredictable since the day, as a child, she had stood in the middle of the road with a car bearing down on her. Anything resembling a personal threat could provoke an unpredictable reaction. On some occasions she remained calm, time seeming to slow down while she took command and steered a situation to her advantage. On others, she could freeze, taking the hit if necessary, but furious at her inability to keep control as she scrambled to recover.
To that degree she had grown to recognise at least two parallels between her own personality and that of Peter Gris. Both had displayed a perverse appetite for sex, but the dominant aspect was a need for control. While he had the benefit of being in powerful positions for a number of years, she had youth on her side. Where he was determined to stamp out any threat to his political and personal reputation, she had a hunger for revenge and survival. In Emily’s eyes, the outcome was down to whoever had the tenacity to finish on top, and missionary had never been her position of choice.
Now, as the speedometer climbed past 80 mph, she found herself reflecting on the memory of a man she had addressed by a childhood name for nearly thirty years. Her grandfather had bought her that book for her tenth birthday, with the character of Wally hidden inside a series of postcards. She had been quicker than her sister to point out the tiny figure clad in red and white stripes, and then her grandfather had challenged her to find him in some old photos. From that moment on, rather than Walter, Walt or Grandad, he had become Wally to her, and to almost everyone who knew him. She touched her lips in an unconscious gesture, a brief shake of her head in self-denial. You wally, Wally. Now she had to find his killer.
Eighty-five miles per hour. This was more like it. The M62 less than five miles away, and Liverpool beckoned inside half an hour.
Speed. There’s irony for you. Emily’s detachment led her thoughts in another direction. That was what had started this whole thing, indirectly. For how many years had Titanic enthusiasts puzzled over the excessive speed of the doomed liner? Why had Captain Smith ignored warnings of ice and continued to power forward into the Atlantic at around 26 knots?
She knew why.
It was for the same reasons she had now: a rendezvous. Time was critical. Titanic had the benefit of Marconi radio, but the other ship did not, so Smith had to be in position by the agreed time, and they’d been held up leaving Southampton later than he could afford. Icebergs? So what? The officers were experienced enough to steer round any they might encounter. Or so they had thought. It was all in that document Gris was so desperate to destroy: Morgan and his big idea for publicity; Ismay and his determination to impress; Lord Pirrie in a panic while caught up in a plan he had opposed from the outset. All there, written in notes taken on Pirrie’s instructions by her own ancestor, Michael (Mickey) Palmer.
*
There was always a chill wind at Clarence Wharf. Mickey reckoned it was the coldest part of town, where winds from the north gusted down the channel between Ireland and Scotland, then took a diversion up Belfast Lough to test the mettle of anyone daft enough to work the shipyards. Even today, on a Sunday in the middle of May, he was shivering. But then he couldn’t deny his nerves were shot to pieces. He stood alone in the lee of the pump house, waiting for Tully Mac—and whatever Tully said to him, he had to listen. Tully’s Law. Mackenzie Tulse was the law in the shipyards. Since Old Man Pirrie left Ireland in shame, the Orangemen had filled the void. Loyalists had total control and all talk of Home Rule had blown off in the wind. Had Mickey done enough to prove himself? He’d soon find out.
From the direction of Queen’s Road came two figures: one lean and bare-headed, the other bulky with his head covered by a cloth cap similar to Mickey’s own. While the latter stopped a hundred yards off, leaning casually against a railway wagon, the other man continued to stride towards him. Mickey had never spoken to Tully before. Not even seen him up close. But he recognised the beard, ginger fading to grey at the tips, and the strong black eyes under heavy brows.
‘You the pen-pusher?’ The words were accusing, spat out from thin lips barely visible under an untidy curtain of whiskers.
Mickey nodded, determined not to lose any ground despite the man stopping less than three feet from his chest and standing fully six inches taller. ‘Mickey Palmer. Pleased to meet you, Mr Tulse.’
‘Stuff that. I’m Tully to everyone here. Even Himself Almighty. You got ambitions?’
The question puzzled Mickey. ‘Well, yes. Er… I’m not sure what you—’
‘You want to be the next fecking Prime Minister or something? Is what I see here supposed to impress me?’ Mickey watched his own notes being brandished above his head like a hammer. ‘Pirrie’s a twat and a turncoat. You think this is some kind of defence of his treachery? Well, do you?’
‘No! Not in the least, Mr… not a bit… Tully. Those are copies of notes he asked me to take at all kind of meetings. Private notes. I thought you might find them useful. Specially after… well, you know. After we lost… Titanic.’ Even saying the name felt awkward.
Tulse’s lean figure towered over Mickey, but now he let his fist drop to his side. ‘Go on, lad. I’m listening.’
‘There’s that big inquiry going on in London, isn’t there? I heard that we’re getting blamed for not building her right. And that’s bollocks. Those men at the department… well, they’ll want to cover their backs, won’t they? And Churchill, he—’
‘Careful, laddie! That’s a name we don’t welcome round here.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, him and some others were the ones that knew what Mr Morgan was about. They approved it! So, if them at the inquiry want to point fingers—’
‘Enough!’ Tully raised his other hand an inch in front of Mickey’s face. ‘I’ve heard enough of what you’ve got to say, and I’ve read your fecking notes. So now you listen to me.’ He tugged at the top of Mickey’s waistcoat with one hand, then used the other to stuff the bundle of papers into the gap. ‘You take these back home with you and keep them someplace safe. You might mean well, laddie, but leave the politics to others, cos it’s a messy fecking business, this. There’re some bastards out there who’d take all your lovely scribbles and use them to close this yard. Permanent. Then where would we be? Fourteen thousand men and their whelps all wanting revenge on whoever lost them their livelihood. Don’t worry your pretty little head about the inquiry. We’ve got a lawyer for the association who’ll savage anyone who has a go at Harland & Wolff. We won’t take any shit. But trust me, you let those papers of yours out of your sight—ever—and I promise you that someone will come after you. You got family?’
Mickey nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Three girls and a boy.’
‘How old’s the boy?’
‘Just turned nine.’
Tully’s face produced the nearest thing he could to a smile. ‘The apple of his father’s eye, eh? Well you see that your boy gets to follow in your shoes. Keep your nose clean and make sure he still has a future in this yard. You know what to do.’
He poked Mickey in the chest with a bony forefinger to drive the point home, then he turned on his heels and walked back in the direction of his minder and the Queen’s Road.
Thirty-Two
It was the first time she had entered the house and found it empty of life. The cluttered living room and kitchen were just as she remembered, the walls plastered with images she knew as intimately as her own body. The air stale as ever, a blend of nicotine and Old Spice she associated with her grandfather since the first time she snuggled onto his lap. Now her former home stood vacant with only the husk of an old man sitting in a chair, his head tilted back as if asleep. But this wasn’t her Wally. Not anymore.
Emily turned away, arms crossed protectively over her chest, struggling to push aside her own grief and assume the role of Detective Inspector. The investigating officer had introduced himself as DI Pratt. Ironic but it matched. He’d assessed the situation in textbook fashion (no evidence of assault or forced entry)
and accepted the pathologist’s initial pronouncement of death by myocardial infarction (heart attack) because it was convenient to do so. Why waste police resources when there were muggers using knives two streets away? Same old, same old.
She stood by the window, looked back again at the body in its chair, forcing herself to confront whatever it was that seemed to be screaming at her brain. What?! I know there’s something, but what?
O’Brien was in the kitchen, giving her some private space and talking quietly to a man with an air of mournful exasperation. Pratt was around the same age as Emily, dressed in a well-worn grey suit and tie, but with oddly casual shoes.
‘Miss Whitney Hollings at number ninety-six has given us the photograph you mentioned. The vehicle does look like a recent Audi model but there’s no registration visible. However, she says she thinks she can remember the number. We’ve passed it on to ANPR, so hopefully we might get a match.’
‘Very good, Pratt. It’ll almost certainly be a rental, but at least it’s something.’
An excited voice from the living room cut through the despondent air.
‘Sir! Would you come in here, please sir?’ She was stood directly in front of Wally’s corpse, her hands poised but hesitant. ‘If he had a heart attack, why is he not clutching his chest? Or doing something else? He’s too relaxed.’
The two men followed Emily’s gaze to the position of Wally’s arms, perfectly aligned with those of the chair.
‘What if someone held him down, while another smothered him with a cushion? Can we check for bruises on his forearms? I think there’s a reason why he’s sat like that.’
O’Brien glanced at the man by his side, saw his expression take on more animation. ‘You’re the I.O.’
Pratt nodded. ‘Shall we?’ Spreading his own arms in invitation, he took a step closer to the corpse. Emily did the opposite.
‘There,’ said O’Brien, peering closely as Pratt pulled up Wally’s sleeve to just below the elbow. A patch of discoloured skin about an inch wide spanned the thin arm two inches above the wrist. Something about its appearance bothered him. ‘Try the other one.’
Pratt remained silent, a puzzled frown on his face as he let go of Wally’s left sleeve and followed the same procedure with the right.
‘Identical. How do you see it?’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Pratt slowly. ‘But something isn’t. He didn’t get those marks from anyone leaning on his arms. Just hold on a minute, sir.’
He left the room to speak to the officer manning the front door, while Emily’s curiosity won over, urging her to examine the bruising herself. O’Brien watched her come to the same conclusion.
‘They tied him down.’
There was no emotion in her voice, and before O’Brien could add anything further Pratt was back with a penlight torch. The two men knelt down to view the underside of Wally’s chair.
‘See it? There’s some scratches right there.’ He directed the light at some pale marks on the wooden arm, then examined the right-hand side. ‘And on this one too. It’s my bet forensics will find flakes of old varnish on the carpet below. I’d say that happened recently, wouldn’t you?’
‘Agreed. Someone used cable ties to strap him to the chair.’ O’Brien took a deep breath. At least the diversion to Bootle had come up with positive evidence of homicide. A box ticked for Operation Pentland. ‘You’ll get your pathologist to concur on the bruising?’
‘I will. I’ll also get photos of this before we move the body. DI Blake, my apologies. It looks like you got your murder after all.’
*
Emily had accepted Pratt’s apology with a nod but said nothing more. She offered no objection to O’Brien’s announcement that they needed to continue their journey to Manchester, and spoke little as they made their way towards the M62. O’Brien drove. He pressed her for more information. ‘Tell me your thoughts on Lee Meredith.’
Emily didn’t answer at first, her focus remaining somewhere beyond the windscreen.
He was about to try again when she spoke without shifting her faraway gaze. ‘He’s mid-fifties, well-built and a smart dresser. When I saw him seventeen years ago, he was very particular about his appearance. I’d also credit him with being highly intelligent. He’s quick with numbers and fiercely loyal to Gris. Very well connected, and because he’s on Gris’s payroll I’d say he has a lot of doors open to him. I often wondered if he’d track me down after I joined the police. And if he did, who else knows?’
‘You think Gris or Meredith have someone on the inside?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ve always thought it possible. That’s why I never raised it at a high level. Gris once had the whole of the Home Office at his feet. The higher you go, the easier it is to misdirect an investigation. I even waited before contacting you.’
‘Why was I in favour?’
‘Because Operation Ascot got pulled. And because I did remember the nice guy at Peter Beard’s retirement. You had something about you I felt I could trust.’ She turned to look at him for the first time. ‘I was sorry about the interruption from the other officer.’
‘Christ almighty.’ O’Brien glanced to his left and caught the glimmer of a smile that did a lot to ease the tension from that morning. ‘You’re a bloody case, you are.’
Feeling more relaxed herself, Emily broached a question.
‘What’s our priority in Manchester?’
‘We’re going to meet a couple of men who may have another insight into activities under the direction of Peter Gris. A few days ago, in Salford…’
He was interrupted by a phone alert over the car radio; a number flashed up on the instrument panel. O’Brien tapped a button.
A male voice said, ‘Sir? I got a hit from ANPR on that Audi.’
‘Yes? Go ahead.’
‘Registered to a rental firm in Bury, North Manchester. Just spoke to them and they said it’s out on loan for a month since the eighth of August.’
‘Paid in cash?’
‘No, sir. Credit card in the name of Eric Vinke.’
Thirty-Three
Three days before Emily and O’Brien’s visit to Bootle, Billie Vane stepped out of the rear entrance of All Star Lanes in Manchester, determined to shake off any bad guys on his tail. The trivial nature of those two words struck home as he remembered where he was—on the streets of Manchester where he spent his childhood. In the mid-seventies, the film and TV characters of James Bond, John Steed and Emma Peel had set a trend that inspired imagination. Together they had influenced the games he played with his mates. One they called Catch the Spy involved dodging in and out of shop doorways in Stretford, sometimes with plastic guns in their hands. God! What would people say now? Billie shuddered at the thought, still struggling to accept how his present situation had become so serious. These people really were after him, and he must do everything he could to lose them.
He walked quickly, keen to distance himself from Deansgate. It was an area he was once familiar with, having worked in the city in the nineties, but so much had changed. He remembered the rough grid of the city centre streets, turning south and then east. The further away the better. Conscious that reflections in shop windows had already proved helpful, he repeated the exercise, sometimes stopping and crossing the road to provoke anyone following into mimicking his actions. But there was nothing he could spot this time. His thoughts took another direction.
There had been enough visual reminders. Everywhere he looked there were people walking along holding one-sided personal conversations with phones held to their ears, or pausing at random spots on the pavement to engage in one- or two-digit typing.
My phone! What have I done? It had been a spur of the moment thing. My phone is suddenly a threat so I have to ditch it. Really? Am I sure about this? His nerves felt like they’d been plugged into the National Grid, so Billie stopped at the corner of Great Portland Street and forced himself to take deep breaths. S-l-o-w-l-y. That felt better. It was just a ph
one. A mechanical box. I can live without it. Or at least… He still needed a replacement with no personal stuff and a new number. I’m in the middle of a city, with shops full of the things. No big deal then?
Thirty minutes later, leaving a small shop near Piccadilly Gardens, Billie’s mood brightened over his secondhand purchase. It was a Samsung similar to his own, but an older model, and he felt familiar with accessing the settings. As he blended into the crowds on Cross Street, he considered his next priority: somewhere that provided both refuge and a power socket. Returning to the Hilton was not an option, so should he just look for a cheap hotel? If this had been Glasgow, he knew exactly where he would go: the Mitchell.
Manchester was his place of birth. He had lived with an aunt after losing his parents in a car crash at the age of five. She had brought him up as her own, so this city held special memories in his heart. The aunt had died twenty years ago, and Billie’s closest living relative was a cousin in Cornwall. His aspirations had been fed by a world of books and the infinite knowledge within their pages. Libraries fostered his imagination, providing inspiration and healing for the stresses of puberty and beyond. The place where he felt most comfortable became his working environment, initially at the Central Library until his marriage to a dancer from Glasgow led to a transfer there in 1996. While matrimony lasted barely two years, the Mitchell became more of a home to Billie than his poky house in the East End. He’d even slept there on one memorable occasion. A later relationship with a girl from Edinburgh (Tina’s mum) still didn’t tempt him to move, and he had rarely been back south of the border. Now the intervening years felt easy to push aside, parting like dusty net curtains at the thought of what lay ahead: a place where he could think… and plug in his phone. Recognisable streets surrounding Manchester’s Central Library led him instinctively to St Peter’s Square.
