by Alan Veale
‘Go on.’
‘Mum listened to the stories Wally told about his grandfather, Mickey Palmer. He’d worked at Harland & Wolff when they were building the Titanic, and he reckoned there’d been some sort of conspiracy over her sinking. Uncle Eric loved conspiracy stories, and earned a lot of money from publishing books about them. Have you read Will of the Gods?’
O’Brien shook his head. ‘Probably not my sort of thing.’
‘Anyway, he encouraged Mum to write about it, and she did. She bought some books for research, and she went to Belfast a lot when we were living in Portadown. When we moved back to Liverpool after Dad was killed, Uncle Eric and Auntie Helen came to visit. I remember lying awake at night, listening to them talking downstairs, often about the Titanic. Over the years I just tuned it out, even after my sister...’ Moisture in her eyes. More fiddling with the ring. ‘Then I left home and went to London and… you know, got distracted with other things.’
‘Did your mum continue with the writing?’
‘Yes. On and off. She got Parkinson’s a few years ago, and that slowed things down a bit. When I came back to live with her and Wally, after joining the force, I helped type up a lot of her stuff, or retype it, if I’m honest. I got interested myself, and once Uncle Eric had approved it, his agent helped us get our first book published. It came out earlier this year: The Tragic Sister. Doing quite well, actually. We published it in Mum’s name: E. M. Dearing. Now you’re supposed to ask me why.’
A shower of rain burst onto the windscreen as a heavy wagon loaded with scrap metal shook the ground. O’Brien checked his watch, aware of the need to reach their next appointment in good time. ‘Let’s get moving. I want to hit the motorway. You carry on. I suppose I’m more curious as to why your mum seems to have two surnames. Her birth name was Palmer, wasn’t it? Same as Wally?’
‘No. That was the name she took from Wally. That’s what I mean about Uncle Eric. He’s not a proper relation because Auntie Helen wasn’t really my mum’s sister. They were both friends, and they were adopted together.’
*
‘What do you think?’
It was the second time Ed had asked the question, and Robin didn’t have a properly thought out response. They were still in their hotel room, looking at the tracked position of Billie’s phone—a green blinking spot on a satellite image nowhere near the location they had expected. When they last looked, the phone appeared to have been taken to Greater Manchester Police Headquarters, a short drive away. Now it seemed to have moved about forty miles to the north, deep in rural Lancashire.
‘It makes no sense at all. I might check with Bog. See if he’s had any glitches on GPS.’
Ed looked glum. ‘In the meantime, the man himself has also gone off the radar.’
‘Billie? Still nothing?’
‘Nothing since yesterday morning. I’m getting worried, Robin.’
‘Ach, he’ll probably have lost his phone for real this time. Or had it pinched. He was heading for Liverpool, wasn’t he?’
‘So what’s to stop him getting another? He’s got a Fersen Marine charge card… unless he’s lost that too. Wait till I get hold of him.’
A single tone from the hotel phone. Ed answered it with a brief acknowledgement. ‘Commander O’Brien’s on the way up.’
Robin checked his watch. ‘Only five minutes late. Not bad. Now remember, keep it to the basics, and don’t go off-piste! Check with me if you’ve any doubt.’
‘What shall I say about Billie?’
‘The truth. You can’t get hold of him. If they’re that interested in speaking to him, let them try. They’ve got more resources at their disposal than we have.’
*
‘What names did you say?’
Downstairs, after walking across the lobby, O’Brien could see Emily’s reaction was one of deep shock. He’d told her they were meeting two men who claimed to have encountered someone acting on behalf of Peter Gris. An RTA in Salford. ‘Ed Fersen and Billie Vane. Why?’
‘Here? In this hotel?’
‘Yes. That’s who we’ve come to see. I did tell you.’ He pressed the button to call the lift.
‘You didn’t mention their names! Whereabouts did this incident happen?’
‘Close to your home address.’ He was watching her closely as the lift doors opened. ‘I thought you might have shown more interest?’
‘Holy shit… wait! Don’t get in.’ She reached for something inside her bag.
‘What? Emily, I really can’t—’
‘Something’s not right! Look. Look at this, please. It came through about twenty minutes ago and I haven’t replied.’
The lift doors closed again as he turned to examine the message on Emily’s phone.
*
Robin opened the door. He saw a tall, slim older man in his late sixties, wearing heavy-framed spectacles, a brown suit and a beige tie. He carried an old-fashioned attaché case. Standing close behind was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, smartly dressed with long brown hair swept back from her face.
‘Mr Fersen? We spoke on the phone.’
‘Sorry, no. You spoke to my partner. Please come in.’
Ed was standing by the window. He swallowed hard as he heard his guests enter the room, then turned to greet them. O’Brien blocked his view of the woman for a moment, stepping forward to shake his hand before moving aside to make the introduction.
‘This is Detective Inspector Blake—’
She cut him short. ‘Hello, Ed. I guess I owe you an explanation.’
‘What the fu—?’ He felt disoriented. The face and voice were familiar, but it still took a moment to register. ‘Emma?’
‘Yes. And no. Fact is I have a couple of names. Right now, it’s Emily Blake. And yes, I’m also a police officer. Sorry, but this is really important. Where is Billie?’
Ed looked to Robin for assistance. He got a perplexed frown in return.
‘Er… we’re not sure. To be honest, we haven’t heard anything from him for twenty-four hours. He’s not replied to any of Ed’s messages.’
‘I guess he’s not contacted you, either?’ asked Ed.
She shook her head. ‘How would he do that?’
Robin said, ‘You left your number on the letter. If that was you. You are the mysterious Emma that Billie’s been chasing for weeks?’
She ignored the question and asked one of her own. ‘What letter would that be?’
Robin bit his lip as the answer came from Ed. ‘For Chrissakes you know which letter. The one with the fucking document about Titanic! Now just tell us what the hell is going on here!’
She seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Her eyes closed for a moment, but with no barrier from despair she simply sat on the bed and hung her head. ‘Please tell me he didn’t take it with him.’
‘The document?’ said Ed. ‘No! He put it back in the library. I’ve still not had a chance to look at the bloody thing.’
She gave him a curious look, then turned towards her boss.
O’Brien’s face was grave. ‘Perhaps in the light of that, you should let Mr Fersen see the message.’
Emily retrieved her phone, tapped and scrolled, and then held it up for Ed and Robin to inspect. ‘Read this. But don’t believe a word of it.’
The WhatsApp message on screen was short and to the point:
Hi Emily. This is Billie. Thanks for your message. I think we should meet to talk about the document. I’m in Lancashire. Where are you?
Forty-Two
Ed’s business sense won over his emotional shock at Emma’s reappearance. It was her superior officer who earned his respect by suggesting they relocate to a private room at the Central Library. Once there, all four were able to digest the implications of the WhatsApp message, and Mickey Palmer’s legacy could be evaluated by both Ed and O’Brien. The document pages were spread on the table in front of Ed now, but it was his friend’s fate that held their attention.
‘There is
a slim possibility it did come from Billie,’ argued Robin. ‘He obviously kept your covering letter, as it’s not here. The number it came from is certainly the one he used, and he could simply have changed his mind before getting to Bootle.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why he ignored my messages while sending that one to Emma… sorry… Emily.’ Ed offered her an apologetic glance.
‘It doesn’t,’ she agreed. ‘But nothing gets around the fact that you now know I use both those names—yet Billie doesn’t. He’s not going to call me Emily, is he? He’s only ever known me as Emma, or Em. Which then begs the question: if that wasn’t Billie, who was it? And how did they get my number and his phone?’
Robin’s voice broke the silence that followed. ‘I’m afraid it gets even more complicated. That was his new phone. The old one went on a curious journey. Have a look at this.’ He set his own handset down on the table and explained how Billie had been concerned about hacking, causing the episode at All Star Lanes and the discovery of the tracking bug. ‘This is where it is now: somewhere in deepest Lancashire. I used their own tactics against them.’
‘Explain that.’ O’Brien shot him a look.
‘I work in the communications industry. I got one of my colleagues to overlay a similar piece of software on top of the one they planted. We just wanted to see if the voicemails were genuine. Now I’m convinced they weren’t.’
Emily leaned forward. ‘You have a name? The officer who left the voicemails?’
‘I can do better than that. Listen to this.’ A recording of the second voicemail from Billie’s phone came over the speaker, prompting an immediate reaction from Emily.
‘Tanner? Charlie Tanner… fuck me! I never saw that.’
‘Excuse me,’ said O’Brien, reaching into his jacket pocket. He glanced at his phone, vibrations building to an audible buzz. ‘I’ll have to take this. Base,’ he said in explanation, stood up and made for the door. ‘Yes, Pauline…’
As he left the room, Emily shook herself out of her reverie and took over. ‘Let me see that tracking information again. Did Tanner collect Billie’s phone in person?’
‘A uniformed officer picked it up and took it back to GMP HQ. Then later it showed up here, not far from Clitheroe in Lancashire. I’ve checked, and it just seems like a private house out in the sticks. That wouldn’t be Tanner’s home address, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Emily had a puzzled look on her face as she zoomed in on the map. ‘But I do know whose address it is.’
*
‘Say that again.’ O’Brien was stood in the corridor, his phone clamped to his ear.
Pauline’s voice held little emotion, but he knew her well enough to understand how much she was holding back. ‘The chief’s given us twenty-four hours from noon today. Unless you have something concrete by then. We’ve nothing fresh here.’
O’Brien swallowed a sigh. ‘Understandable, I suppose. He won’t want useful officers sitting idle on a dead-end project.’
‘But you don’t think this is one?’
He could hear the hope behind the question. ‘No. I’m sure of it. We’ve had a few interesting developments. I’ll need an hour or two today before I call him. What is it now, twelve forty? If he gets back on to you, tell him my phone’s switched off and you couldn’t reach me.’
‘Will do. One more thing: our man in Manchester needs a word. Are you in a position to meet, or do you want to phone him?’
‘I’ll give him a call now.’ O’Brien rang off and immediately looked for another contact on his display. He only had to wait a couple of seconds to get a response. ‘Tanner? What have you got for me?’
*
It was a surprise to learn how closely Emily was connected to Eric Vinke, but Ed was more shocked to learn that Billie’s phone had been taken to the writer’s home in Lancashire. Emily was adamant she recognised it on Google Maps, having visited the house several times with her mother.
‘I haven’t been there for about… fifteen years. But that’s definitely it. You can see the extension to the original property on here, and I remember seeing the photos. He was very proud of it. Designed it himself.’
‘But why would this policeman have taken the phone there?’
Emily’s brain was in turbo mode. ‘My uncle knew about that.’ She pointed to the open folder Ed was still studying. ‘We were about to work together on a second book, and he was going to figure out the best way of using the information without risking a legal case. Then he stopped communicating. Maybe he knows Tanner. Or maybe… Gris knows him.’
In the silence that followed, Ed glanced at Robin, receiving only raised eyebrows in return. He returned his attention to the papers in the folder, still puzzled by what he had been reading. He scarcely noticed the next part of the conversation between his partner and Emily.
‘Look, I realise it complicates things if this is your uncle’s place, but I do think we have to think about the ramifications of both Billie’s phones potentially being in Gris’s hands—if he's alive.’
‘Sorry. Yes, you’re right. If this is Gris’s work, or even Meredith’s, then we have to assume he now has all our contact details.’
‘Worse than that. He almost certainly has Billie as well. You did say your friend saw a second man enter the Bootle house. And we know Billie was heading there yesterday.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Correct. The way I’m seeing it is this: Meredith got to Wally first and killed him after extracting information, probably about the history of the document. Billie must have arrived in the middle of it, or shortly after, and so Meredith had to deal with him too. He’d need to find out about Billie’s connection, so he’ll want to question him somewhere. And this could be where he’s taken him.’
‘But why would he go there? What’s the link to your uncle?’
‘The only thing that springs to mind is they were on opposite sides of the argument. Uncle Eric liked to explore conspiracy theories, to uncover the stuff people like Gris wanted to keep quiet. So I’m wondering if he went too far.’
‘Who?’ said Robin. ‘Peter Gris?’
‘No. My uncle. Maybe he got a visit from Meredith too.’
Respecting the implication, and with Emily’s attention on pause, Ed gave a small cough to alert her to his own contribution. ‘Can I say something?’
‘What?’
‘This document. There’s something wrong with it.’
Now he had her undivided attention. ‘Wrong? You mean fake?’
Ed swallowed hard. ‘No. I… it’s just this one letter. The one about Ismay. It’s supposed to be from the Seaman’s Association in Belfast.’
‘That’s right. One of the unions.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Ed was on home territory now. ‘There’s no such union. No such company to my certain knowledge. There never has been.’
It was a second, baffling revelation to consider. Quickly followed by a third. Ed’s phone produced an audible alert, and he checked the short message on screen. ‘I don’t like this. Chrissie says she’s just had a very odd text from Billie.’
Forty-Three
The noise was merciless. A constant barrage of hits, as if made by a demented drummer in a rock group, echoed around his skull while his eyelids battled in vain to keep out the light. Billie had never known a hangover like this. He couldn’t recall whose party it was, and when he did dare to open his eyes and try to focus on his surroundings, what he saw brought confusion in place of clues.
He was in a single bed. The room’s decor was bright, populated with feminine soft furnishings and overtly pink. Curtains the same shade as the wallpaper lacked enough substance to conceal the state of the weather outside. An angry wind hurled raindrops at the window like pennies from hell. Billie tried to sit up, but the pain in his head said no. He shut his eyes again, trying to remember, raising one arm with an effort and reaching round to find the tender part at the top of his neck. Ouch! A spongy swelling told the story: he’d hit his hea
d on something—or the other way around. Not a hangover then.
High up in the corner opposite his bed was a small security device. His movement triggered a sensor, which activated a camera, that lit up a monitor in another part of the house. The time on screen was 09.23; Meredith noted the time on a pad.
‘Over ten hours. You were right. I should have used a weaker mixture.’
A voice behind him. ‘Not your fault. Wish I could say the same for the head injury. Better get Helen.’ Nudging a joystick and hitting another button, the occupant of an electric wheelchair steered himself into the corridor.
Upstairs, the assault on the window pane subsided as the rainstorm passed over. Billie managed to sit up and swing his legs out of bed. The action of pushing the duvet back had brought another discovery: he wasn’t wearing anything. He looked around, taking in the dressing table and stool, a free-standing wardrobe, chest of drawers and an armchair. All of it high quality with no obvious signs of wear: Ikea simplicity with a Harrods bank balance.
Then he spotted a blinking LED on the device in the corner of the ceiling. He shivered, aware of his nakedness. On the back of the door hung a fluffy white bathrobe; he pushed himself off the bed in an effort to reach it. The pain in his head screamed back as the floor slanted sharply to his left, his legs failing to cooperate.
Billie felt grateful to whoever had covered most of the stained oak floorboards with a thick rug, its fibres producing a slight chemical odour in close proximity to his nose. But his position seemed awkward, and for several moments he puzzled on what made him get down there. A light tapping sound not far away. More rain? No. Knuckles on wood. A female voice floating above him. Could it be an angel? Never again…
