Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  Meanwhile Ben Marrington would liaise with Robyn’s parents and keep Grace informed while she continued to investigate Leonard Ingold’s illegal activities. It was a tricky balancing act, but she still had the Church murder inquiry to pursue, and she was all too aware that the rest of the team was waiting for today’s action plan. There was a message on her desk to call DI Gupta in Ely, and dozens of emails to be read. Yet she turned her back on everyone in the office and, staring out over the jumbled roofs of the town as she tried to control her panicky breathing, called Curtis Mullins.

  ‘I want to speak to you,’ she said curtly. ‘I’d prefer to do so unofficially, but if you refuse, then fine, let’s make it official.’

  Ten minutes later she met him at the exit to the car park and led the way silently to the cafe where she’d confronted him before. It was empty after the early-morning rush and she took a table at the back where they wouldn’t be overheard by the staff behind the counter. She had made up her mind to speak openly and she no longer cared about the consequences.

  ‘OK,’ she said, once they had got through the necessary business of ordering coffee. ‘I don’t know how much or little you know about your friends. Maybe you’re in it up to your neck. But if you’re not, this is your chance to put things straight. Your only chance.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said. ‘One rancid fucking crazy bitch.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, you’re here, aren’t you? So I can’t be that crazy.’

  He scowled. ‘Then let’s get it over with. What do you want?’

  ‘Have you ever visited a golf resort in Portugal called Vale do Lobo?’

  ‘No.’

  Curtis looked sufficiently perplexed by the question that she believed him. It gave her some sense of the extent of his involvement. ‘So how deep is Adam Kirkby’s connection with Leonard Ingold?’

  ‘Now you’re really away with the fairies.’

  ‘So why was Adam staying in his villa in Vale do Lobo?’

  Once again it was Curtis’s look of surprise that told her the truth. She pressed home her advantage. ‘Mark Kirkby was in illegal possession of a rifle and ammunition supplied by Ingold. That same weapon and ammunition was used by Russell Fewell to kill Mark and five other people in Dunholt.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What was Mark doing with a rifle? Why did he want it? Why didn’t he apply for a licence and obtain one legally?’

  Curtis bit his lip but then caught her observing him and sipped at his coffee. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Then help me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not helping you to trash Mark’s memory. No way.’

  ‘Still having nightmares?’

  He gave her a look of pure hatred, but she refused to let up. ‘Mark would still be alive if you hadn’t helped him to harass and torment Russell Fewell.’

  ‘And you think I don’t feel like shit about that? Let alone all the other victims? Of course I do.’

  Curtis drew his lips into a tight line and stared over the top of her head. She could almost feel the waves of tension washing through him, but she sat tight and waited for him to say more.

  ‘Mark loved Donna,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t ask me why. She seemed pretty vanilla to me. Maybe it was the kids. One day he was eating takeaways for one, the next he had a family around him. He wanted to do his best for them. That was all.’

  ‘And you were his friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, an edge returning to his voice. ‘I was.’

  ‘Well, here’s some stuff he didn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘I just told you that his ammunition came from Leonard Ingold. Ingold also made the bullets used by the sniper who killed Gordon Church as well as two other victims. I’ll ask you again: why was Adam Kirkby staying in Ingold’s villa in Portugal?’

  Curtis said nothing, but she saw him blink repeatedly as he attempted to process the information.

  ‘Does Adam also have an interest in guns?’

  Curtis gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Does he have a rifle?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I never actually saw Mark with one either.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He hung his blond head. ‘But they talked about it.’

  ‘About what? For Christ’s sake, Curtis, whatever’s going on, it’s got to stop.’ Watching him struggle, she made herself recall the pain and humiliation of being kicked into the mud of the riverside path. ‘Did you leave a note on my car? Send someone to assault me?’

  A fine blush spread up his pale cheeks and he avoided her eyes. She felt nauseous as the shock of the violence returned to her, and she only just managed not to reach down to massage her bruised and injured shin.

  ‘I kept the note, by the way,’ she told him, managing to keep her voice steady. ‘And I’m guessing it’ll have your fingerprints on it, so you’d better tell me what Mark and Adam were up to.’

  ‘They went on a trip to Arizona,’ said Curtis, ‘about a year ago. Their dad organized it through some links the Federation have there, like an exchange visit. They stayed with some weird militia outfit and came back full of bullshit about liberty and patriotism and inalienable rights and self-reliance. Or Adam did, anyway. I thought it was just about dressing up in camouflage gear and doing military-style fitness training. It was all so much hot air. And then Mark met Donna and had other stuff on his mind. I forgot about it.’

  ‘What about Adam? Did he just forget about it?’

  ‘No, probably not. He’s a wannabe, Adam. Got turned down by the police so went into the prison service as second best. Always got something to prove.’

  ‘Did Adam ever ask you about Gordon Church?’ asked Grace as various pieces of the puzzle began to lock ominously into place.

  ‘Don’t think so. Don’t remember. I don’t see Adam much. I only ever really hung out with him because of Mark.’

  ‘Are you sure? You wouldn’t have mentioned to the guys over a beer that a notorious cop-killer had come into the nick one day?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Has Adam ever driven a metallic-grey Renault van?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes flamed an icy blue. ‘Piss off and leave me alone.’

  Grace gave an exhausted laugh. ‘Fine. But you are not to discuss any of this with anyone. Especially not Adam. If you do, I’ll make sure the book is thrown at you. All of it. Wilful misconduct, the lot.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m getting out anyway. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Good! One last question. Are you absolutely sure there’s nothing you can tell me about what happened to Peter Burnley?’

  ‘You’re the super-sleuth,’ he sneered. ‘That was your case, and you didn’t find anything, did you, ma’am?’

  ‘No,’ she conceded. ‘But Adam was definitely with you the night you saw Peter and Lance in the Blue Bar?’

  ‘Yes. Now can I go?’

  Grace nodded, glad to be rid of him. He tossed a handful of coins onto the table and made his way out, letting the door bang shut behind him. She sat on for a while in the empty café, nursing her untouched coffee. What had stopped her being immediately honest with Robyn’s distraught parents or taking her suspicion that Lance was complicit in Robyn’s disappearance straight to Colin? Loyalty to a friend in trouble. Yet could she honestly tell herself that the way she’d acted out of her concern for Lance was so very different to what Curtis had done for his old school friend Mark Kirkby?

  54

  The drive out to Leonard’s workshop gave Grace a much-needed breathing space. On previous journeys she’d paid little attention to her surroundings, but now, driving over the bridge and slowing down to glance out at the long tree-fringed reservoir, she was taken almost by surprise by the empty expanse of air between water and sky, and realized how much
she’d felt over the last few days as if the walls were closing in on her. She pulled over and sat for a moment, letting her mind do nothing more than take in the clouds and choppy water. Only now did it fully hit her how the enormous risk she was taking could, if things went wrong, alter the course of her life. Not only would she lose her job, but both her own and Ivo’s investigations into Leonard Ingold would have been for nothing. No judge could possibly direct a jury to convict a man on evidence given under duress by the kidnap of his daughter by a police officer.

  She looked out of the window and breathed in the exhilarating sense of space: she wasn’t going to let any of that happen. No point ruminating over the rights and wrongs of her recent decisions, she’d come too far down the road and was determined to see it all through. She put the car in gear and drove on, relieved now that she hadn’t – as the voice of correct procedure had told her she should – asked Ben Marrington to accompany her on this mission.

  Leonard and Nicola must have heard her car for they rushed out of the house as she pulled to a stop. Both wore jeans and pullovers, Nicola with no make-up and Leonard unshaven. Nicola opened the car door before Grace even had time to turn off the engine.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Nicola asked, wild-eyed.

  ‘I’m sorry, no. May I come in?’

  Leonard hung back and allowed his wife to lead Grace inside. Grace had not expected the homeliness of the living room, where Nicola made a stab at removing dirty mugs from the coffee table and straightening cushions on the couch before inviting her to sit down. They’d entered through an untidy kitchen, where she’d taken note of the expensive double Aga and a big modern fridge, but the living room had certainly seen better days. Not that she had imagined bling, but there was no huge flat-screen television or designer curtains, and the well worn carpet and comfortable three-piece suite had both been made to last a bit longer with rugs and throws.

  Leonard remained standing. Catching the beseeching look Nicola threw up at her husband as she sat down, Grace realized she’d have to harden her heart if she was to carry out her plan: the last thing she wanted was for Leonard to cave in and admit that he knew why Robyn had run away; she needed him to hold on to enough doubt to fear that his cherished daughter could have been snatched by people who meant to do her harm.

  ‘I think the time has come for some straight talking,’ she said. ‘I’ve come here alone. No one knows I’m here. And if you’ll hear me out, you’ll understand why it has to be this way. But first you have to level with me. How well do you know Jerry Coghlan?’

  Nicola’s hand flew to her mouth, but this time she did not look at Leonard, whose expression reverted to its customary blankness. Grace allowed the silence to grow before she went on. ‘I know about your villa in the Algarve. I know about the shell company in Panama that’s supposed to stop me knowing about it. I know that a steady stream of police officers stay in that villa, often for free, all organized, at least to begin with, by John Kirkby.’ She paused again to give Leonard time to think. ‘Now do you see why I’ve come here on my own?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Leonard.

  ‘Was it Coghlan or Kirkby who sold you on the idea as an insurance policy?’ she asked. ‘To ensure that no cop could ever speak out against you because they’d been compromised? Well, dream on. You’re the fall guy. That insurance policy only covers Coghlan. If anyone comes knocking on his door, asking awkward questions about how you paid for your villa, then all he has to do is claim ignorance and point to the long queue of coppers taking kickbacks from you in the form of free holidays. He’d give you up, Leonard. Quick as you can say “No comment”. So would Kirkby.’

  Leonard sat down beside his wife and squeezed her hand. Grace wondered whether it was for reassurance or as a warning to keep quiet. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Go on,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t tell me you were really naive enough to think that a bent ex-cop would play by the rules.’ She took his silence for assent and carried on. ‘Not clever.’

  Nicola let go of her husband’s hand. ‘I don’t understand. Robyn will be safe, won’t she?’

  ‘Hear me out, Mrs Ingold,’ said Grace. She looked back at Leonard. ‘You understand, don’t you? You don’t want half the police force of Essex as your personal enemies, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So tell me how it all worked,’ she said, starting to believe that her stunt might pay off. ‘It started with John Kirkby, right? When he was still a high-up in the Police Federation.’

  Leonard nodded. ‘He’s an old pal of Jerry’s. He put us in touch.’

  He watched her steadily, his expression unreadable, but Grace felt a heady rush of relief: this was the first informative statement that Leonard had made.

  ‘And Kirkby’s sons got preferential rates if they wanted to stay at your place?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Leonard. ‘I never needed to know. I left it all to Jerry. Arm’s length. That was the deal.’

  ‘And did you ever call in any favours in return?’

  ‘Once or twice. Nothing much.’

  ‘And did you do anything else for them? Like supply Mark or Adam Kirkby with weapons?’

  Leonard shrugged and looked away. Beside him Nicola remained unnaturally still.

  ‘You do know that Gordon Church was killed with two of your rounds?’

  Grace watched him carefully and saw his pupils widen in alarm, a visceral reaction that not even he could control. ‘John Kirkby’s a pretty straight guy,’ he said, a gruffness in his voice revealing an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty. ‘I met his sons through a gun club. They’re not hotheads, they’re both in positions of responsibility.’

  ‘Responsibilities they seem to take very seriously,’ Grace said. ‘What I’m hearing is that Adam, and very probably Mark too, likes to dress up as a vigilante and maybe even to run around cleansing the streets of criminal trash that the law is too weak to deal with. How does that chime with you?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he said emphatically. ‘They didn’t want to go through the hassle of all the paperwork just to go hunting on private land. And they didn’t need firearms licences to join a shooting club. So I cut them some slack.’

  ‘Was John Kirkby aware that his sons were buying weapons from you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Are you saying these men have taken Robyn?’ cried Nicola. ‘What kind of danger is she in?’

  ‘If you want to keep her safe, you need to tell me the truth,’ said Grace. ‘You have to trust me. It’s not only the Police Federation who have a stake in this.’ Grace reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and took out a folded piece of paper. Leonard’s reaction to the photograph of Peter Burnley would be her final test. She smoothed it out and handed it to him, watching his face carefully. ‘What can you tell me about this?’

  Ingold took the paper and studied it without apparent interest. ‘It’s Adam Kirkby with Jerry Coghlan on the golf course at Vale do Lobo,’ he said, handing it back. ‘I don’t recognize the other two.’ His eyes were steady, his face impassive; the paper did not tremble in his hands. ‘So what?’ he asked. ‘What’s the significance?’

  Grace found it impossible to judge whether his lack of reaction was natural or whether he’d reverted to his mask because she was now approaching secrets that were dangerous to him. She looked at the photograph of Peter and was assailed by a vivid flashback of his mashed-up face in the morgue. ‘This man,’ she said, pointing him out and trying to keep her voice steady, ‘was in Vale do Lobo working undercover for one of the security and intelligence services.’

  ‘Undercover?’ Leonard’s amazement was clearly genuine. ‘Why? Who is he? Is he after me?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘He was murdered in Colchester a month ago.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘No, beaten to death.’

  ‘Who by?’ asked Nicola. She clung to her husband’s arm. ‘Leonard, tell me what’s going on!
’

  Grace steeled herself. She was here for Lance, not for them. ‘I believe that we’ll get Robyn back safely if we find out who killed this man,’ she said. ‘Are you prepared to help me? It has to be official, under caution, or it’s no good.’

  Leonard disappeared inside himself again, not even glancing at his wife, who waited helplessly for him to make his decision.

  ‘I need to speak to my solicitor,’ he said at last.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll need protection. Assurances.’

  ‘It can all be arranged.’

  He stood up and held out his hand across the coffee table. Grace took it. If she was lucky, she might just be in time to save Lance from ending his career and earning himself a prison sentence.

  55

  Ivo had spent a futile couple of days trailing around after Donna Fewell and her kids, and today looked likely to be no more successful. First thing Monday morning he’d phoned his editor to ask if he could take an impromptu week’s holiday – after all, he had plenty owing. When he was little, before his mother became ill, his parents had taken quite adventurous holidays, exploring out-of-the-way areas of France or Spain. He only remembered sunshine and exotic-smelling food and his parents’ laughter. Afterwards, summers had meant never having enough to do during overlong visits to his well-meaning and permanently sorrowing maternal grandparents in the Scottish Borders. So Weymouth – even in early February – wasn’t really that big a stretch of the imagination for him as a vacation choice. Still, even with the proviso that if a big story broke he’d be back at his desk pronto, he was rather chagrined at the nonchalance with which his request had been granted.

  He should set off soon to get into position before the kids came out of school. It wasn’t far from the school to their seafront apartment, and Donna walked them there and back every day. Ivo had found a small supermarket where, if he timed it correctly, he could linger without attracting too much attention, just in case the little family varied their routine and offered him the chance to make an approach. He looked out of his hotel window to check the weather: the day looked bright and blustery, with an unseasonably soft wind scudding fluffy white clouds across a watercolour-blue sky, but he wasn’t going to be fooled by that and pulled on an extra sweater and made sure he had his leather gloves and cashmere scarf. The scarf, a gift from his second wife, was probably older than Davey, but Ivo still enjoyed the soft feel of it around his neck. His mobile rang, an unknown number.