by Alan Veale
Perhaps just a brief message. Something cryptic like “Ready to exchange favours.” No… she might interpret that as something sexual, just to add to his misery. What, then? With the phone poised in one hand and his coffee cup partly drained, an incoming call nearly caused him to choke. Who knew his number? A mobile, not Robin’s, but he answered it anyway.
‘Hey, Oor Wullie! How’s it hanging? I hear you’re awake now!’ The fake Scots accent and opening line confirmed the caller’s ID.
‘Ed? You sound better than I feel! How the devil are you?’
*
The man opposite was in uniform. A large desk between them. Their grave expressions a perfect match, reflecting their respective concerns. One had authority over the other, so Meredith spoke first.
‘Tell me again exactly what you said in your message.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Again.’
Uniform bit his lip in exasperation. He had his instructions. Meredith was not to be questioned. But it was getting harder to hold back from kicking the bastard in the balls. He breathed out slowly. ‘It went straight to voicemail, so I told him my name.’
‘But not your rank?’
‘No. I told him I was a senior officer with the GMP, and I’d very much appreciate an urgent call back regarding an incident at Salford Quays last week. Then I left my personal number. That was it, pretty much word for word.’
Meredith considered the situation. ‘If Vane retrieved his phone from wherever he’d hidden it, and the planted bug somehow failed, he’s hardly likely to ignore a message like that from a senior police officer. But that was yesterday. Try again now, and make sure you tell him your rank. It might reassure him.’
The other man gave a curt nod before calling Billie’s number. He received an immediate, automatic response. ‘Voicemail, again.’
‘Do it.’
‘Mr Vane? This is Chief Superintendent Tanner again. I realise it’s a Sunday afternoon and you probably thought I’d be off duty, but this matter is very urgent now. I’d appreciate a call back as soon as you get this, whatever the time. My number is 07700 900 876.’
The matching expressions returned. But only for a moment.
Meredith stood up and brushed an imaginary hair from the lapel of his suit. ‘Keep me updated.’
*
Chrissie was wearier than she cared to admit when she reached Glasgow. Reluctant to put aside the excitement of last night’s discussion with Billie and Robin, she had made use of hands-free calling while fighting holiday traffic on the motorway. She took business calls from colleagues in America and Glasgow, and was just concluding a conversation with Ed’s personal assistant in Clydeside when an afterthought struck her.
‘One more thing… shit, I sound just like Columbo. Seriously, I need a bit of amateur detective work doing.’
‘Sounds exciting. What are you after?’
‘Can you do some internet surfing for me, find anything you can about Joseph Bruce Ismay, formerly of the White Star Line?’
‘The Titanic bloke? Yeah, should be easy. Do you want it printed off with the other reports?’
‘That would be good. Just concentrate on anything after the sinking. I’ll slip you a little extra at the end of the month.’
‘No probs, Chrissie. See you tomorrow.’
When she walked into Ed’s office at Fersen Marine two and a half hours later, two piles of documents awaited her attention on the desk. A Post-it note on one bore the name “Ismay”. Which should she tackle first?
*
Billie regarded his reflection in the full-length mirror and noticed a button missing from his shirt. When did that come off? Couldn’t have been last night or Chrissie would have been sure to notice. The thought of her made him examine his appearance with a more critical eye. He saw a middle-aged man who had found little success in life. His most notable achievement to date was to have fathered a daughter with whom he could never spend enough time. How good is that? He had scored some short-term success in relationships, but Chrissie had been the best, lasting a little over a year before their opposing worlds imploded and they agreed to call it a day. Now he was sleeping with Pandora’s Box under his pillow and facing life on the run.
In the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water. Another mirror. Now he looked even worse. Stuff that. Back in the room he kicked off his shoes and flung himself on the bed, a blank ceiling offering no comfort.
Robin had set up a three-way phone conversation with Ed earlier. They’d talked a lot but resolved nothing. Ed reported he felt stir-crazy in his hospital cell, while both he and Robin felt little better in their respective hotels.
‘Couldn’t you have just taken a photo of every page?’ Ed had complained. He wanted to see the document for himself, but last night they had accepted Robin’s advice that even storing images on their phones was problematic.
‘Not worth the risk,’ Robin had said. ‘Especially when we know there are people out there who already accessed Billie’s phone. Who’s to know they won’t somehow find their way into ours? Then there’s the matter of control. While there’s only one copy out there we can take proper measures to protect it, as a parent can protect a child. Imagine the difficulty in keeping a whole group of children safe when they’re spread out so far you can’t even see them?’
Billie picked up the offending instrument and stared at the blank screen. How the hell had they all become so fixated on these bloody things?
Then a WhatsApp notification flashed up. A photo from Chrissie, with a note asking him to call her when he’d read it. Odd? But the photo was of a document, and while it was a partial record of a conversation between two unnamed persons, the subject matter clearly related to the Titanic:
18358 Will you tell us what you said?
I cannot recollect what I said. I think I read part of the message to them about the ice and the derelict – not the derelict, but the steamer that was broken down; short of coal she was.
18359 Did you understand from that telegram that the ice which was reported was in your track?
I did not.
18360 Did you attribute any importance at all to the ice report?
I did not; no special importance at all.
18361 Why did you think the Captain handed you the marconigram?
As a matter of information, I take it.
18362 Information of what?
About the contents of the message.
18363 The ice report?
About the contents of the message. He gave me the report of the ice and this steamer being short of coal.
He knew what he was looking at: an extract from the British Inquiry following the disaster. The numbers related to questions asked by Attorney General Sir Rufus Isaacs, and Billie was fairly certain the responses were from Joseph Bruce Ismay. Chrissie must have spotted something. But what?
Thirty-Eight
‘Did you pick up on it?’ Chrissie’s voice was excited.
‘On what, exactly?’
‘He referred to a derelict! Right at the top. You remember from Emma’s document? Wasn’t that what they called the boat they were scuttling? I’m sure that’s what I read last night. But you’ve still got the document there, haven’t you?’
Billie flew off the bed to grab the green case, the phone clamped to his ear. ‘Hold on a sec… damn, I need both hands! Hold on.’
He knew the section Chrissie was referring to, the meeting between Pirrie, Ismay and the American. He felt sure she was right. Mickey Palmer’s distinctive handwriting had been so easy to read, the loops and curls, the spacing and… there it was!
The derelict will use rocket signals only to identify its position.
‘You got it? I’m right, aren’t I?’ Chrissie’s faint voice floated up from the phone on the bed. Billie snatched it back to his ear.
‘Chrissie, you’re right on the money! That must have been a slip of the tongue from Ismay. Isaacs was asking about the ice reports, particularly the on
e Captain Smith gave him to look at. He showed it to a couple of the female passengers, I remember now.’
‘Okay, okay. Great. But I think there’s more. What did the document say about the German ship? Wasn’t there something about needing a reason to be in that position? You know, towing the derelict until Titanic got nearer?’
Billie skimmed down the rest of Mickey’s notes for that meeting. Then he spotted it. ‘Right again, Chrissie! Ismay said The Germans will need a reason for remaining static in busy shipping lanes for a lengthy period. I would suggest the obvious explanation will be a shortage of coal. We’ve even got the name of the German ship: Deutschland. Mickey noted it with a question mark at the foot of the notes, with what I think must have been the name of the derelict: Pendragon.’
‘Guess what?’ Chrissie sounded smug.
‘I know what you’re going to say! Ismay referred to the other ship being short of coal, just as they’d planned.’
‘Even better! I also found this on the internet. It’s a copy of that same ice report Isaacs and Ismay were talking about. After the bit about the ice it continues: Last night we spoke with German oil tank steamer Deutschland, Stettin to Philadelphia, not under control, short of coal. Then it gives the ship’s position. Wishes to be reported to New York and other ships. That’s game, set and match, if you ask me.’
*
Once updated on Chrissie’s discoveries, Ed made a further observation. ‘It would account for the confusion in some witness statements about sightings of a mystery ship. Many reported seeing the light of a ship close by. That couldn’t have been the Californian, not at that distance. What if it was the Pendragon they saw? Makes sense to me. And Stanley Lord was only interested in rocket signals, which is all he would have been expecting as he’d sent his radio operator to bed! He must have thought the ones seen from his ship were from the Pendragon.’
Robin also declared himself satisfied that Titanic had indeed met her fate while attempting a publicity stunt gone tragically wrong, and the detail of events revealed in Emma’s hidden document seemed to leave no room for doubt. They had a genuine artefact, but were they any nearer to understanding its importance to Peter Gris?
Refreshed by sleep, Billie checked out of his hotel early next morning and was instantly consumed by a city of commuters in the summer sunshine. His bag slung over his shoulder, and his resolve emboldened from last night’s conversation, he felt armed for the tasks ahead. With the T Doc safely returned to the library, there was a lightness to his step when he left St Peter’s Square.
Waiting for his train to depart, Billie felt satisfied with their plans for today. Ed was expecting to be discharged at any time, and Robin would collect him from the hospital before taking a technician to All Star Lanes—someone who could test Billie’s old phone for bugs. That would be helpful to know. In the meantime, he had come to a decision about Emma. He had a pretty good idea where he might find her, and somehow the idea of catching her off-guard felt quite appealing. Time for the proverbial boot to switch to another foot.
*
It was just after two when the three of them entered the bar. Ed used his crutches as Robin insisted, but used them more to skim the ground than transfer his weight in any helpful way.
‘It’s all good. I need to get these muscles back to where they were, so quit fussing.’
The third man’s name was Bogurad, an immigrant Pole who was happy to be known as “Bog”. He looked around with approval. ‘All quiet, Mr Hazell.’
Robin agreed. ‘What I was hoping for. Let’s hope our main man’s on duty.’
The difference between Monday afternoon and Saturday lunchtime could not have been more marked. A young couple sat quietly in a corner with a couple of beers between them, both occupied with something on the girl’s phone. A noise resembling the collapse of a small log pile reached their ears from beyond the almost deserted dining area. It was completely ignored by a man in a tweed jacket sitting at the bar, tapping away at an iPad before he looked up at the new arrivals.
‘Can I help you gents?’
‘We’re looking for a guy called Matt. He was behind the bar on Saturday.’
A slow smile crossed the man’s lips. ‘Do you mind me asking what your business is with him?’
‘A friend of ours left something with him for safekeeping.’
The man nodded. ‘And?’
‘And we’re here to collect it. My name’s Robin Hazell.’
Another nod. ‘Fair enough. You’re in luck, Matt came in an hour ago. Take a seat, gents. I’ll go tell him you’re here.’
They perched on three adjacent bar stools, taking in the variety of bottles on display before them.
Bog scratched his shaven head in frustration. ‘An empty bar and my arm is too short.’
Ed laughed. ‘Hey, look at you! I’d heard you’d been off the booze at least a year.’
The Pole winked and put a finger to his lips. ‘Ssh! Rumours like that bring trouble. But I’m getting there, mate.’
Then they were joined by the smiling bartender, carrying a small package in one hand.
‘Mr Hazell? Sorry, I was just out in the back. I’ve got what you want.’ He held out a padded envelope and took up his position behind the bar.
‘Thanks, Matt.’ Robin withdrew Billie’s phone and checked it was powered off.
Matt resumed his professional duties, scanning the faces of the other two. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Ed spoke first. ‘You bet. Mr Hazell’s round. What do you say, Bog?’
‘Coke for me.’
‘You serious?’
‘Got to be. Have to keep a clear head today. What your buddy’s paying me for, eh?’
Robin handed him the phone. ‘That’s right. Time to get busy. Work your magic on that, Bog, and there’s a bottle in it for you.’
*
Billie stood in front of the door. Metaphorically he hoped the opening of this one would lead to others. The incident in the Stirling Room at the Mitchell had caught him by surprise: a girl dressed to thrill; a proposition designed to entice. A job almost lost. This time he felt confident of the advantage.
The address was correct. It was simply a matter of catching her unawares. Would she open the door? He raised a fist, about to knock again, when he caught movement behind the frosted glass, and the door swung open. But not by the person he sought.
‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Emma Palmer.’
The tall man in the immaculate blue suit seemed oddly out of place. He looked at Billie for a long moment before stepping back and inviting him inside.
‘Then you’ve found the right place. Please. Do come in.’
Billie stepped into the cramped hallway and found himself standing before another door to his left. As he pushed it open, he heard the front door close. The man behind him raised his voice.
‘Hey, Wally! Guess who’s come to see you.’
The smell was the first thing that struck him. Something rank and stale clung at the back of his throat. An old man was sitting in a wreck of an armchair with what looked like a sock in his mouth, eyes blinking back tears as his head rocked from side to side. Billie never knew anything about the second thing that struck him. From behind.
Thirty-Nine
‘Two voicemails.’ Bog announced his initial discovery. Before turning on Billie’s phone, he had unpacked a mini-laptop from a pouch he’d brought with him, and attached a couple of cables.
‘Can you put them on speaker?’ asked Ed. They had moved away from the bar and found a quiet corner for privacy as more customers drifted in.
Bog was listening on an earpiece, and shook his head. ‘I could, but you want all of Manchester to hear? One moment… sounds interesting… police.’ Ed and Robin exchanged a look. ‘Copying it now. Let me check the other… same guy.’ He listened to the second message. ‘Okay, boss. Got that one too. You want to listen now?’
He passed the earpiece to Robin while Ed could barely contain
his impatience, glaring at the approach of two girls who wisely turned away. No talent here.
Robin frowned as he removed the earpiece. ‘Ed, listen to these. I need your opinion.’
His partner was eager to oblige, nodding to Bog to replay the messages as soon as the bud reached his ear. He heard a well-spoken voice with a southern accent.
‘Hello, Mr Vane. My name is Tanner and I’m a senior officer with the GMP. I’d very much appreciate a call back regarding an incident at Salford Quays last week. You can reach me direct on 07700 900 876.’ The second recording followed.
‘Mr Vane? This is Chief Superintendent Tanner again. I realise it’s a Sunday afternoon and you probably thought I’d be off duty, but this matter is very urgent now. I’d appreciate a call back as soon as you get this, whatever the time. My number is 07700 900 876.’
‘What do you think?’ Ed’s expression was blank. ‘Is this for real?’
Robin had been considering the same thought while Ed listened to the playback. ‘Possibly. Bog, check for infiltration while we think about this, will you? It sounds plausible that the police would contact Billie again after your little… accident. He provided a statement, but he told me they showed very little interest.’
‘He told me that, too.’
‘So we have to ask ourselves if a record of Billie’s statement reached someone at a higher level. And if so, why would someone at the rank of chief superintendent make direct contact? That’s a mobile number he left for Billie to call back. Why not a landline, perhaps with an extension?’
‘You’re thinking this might not be the police at all?’
