(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  To Gordon’s relief, Patricia greeted this news with equanimity.

  ‘That had to be expected. I’m sure Stemper will have another chance to go in soon.’

  ‘But if she hangs around ... do we approach her?’

  ‘As a last resort. Not if we can avoid it.’

  The Blakes had encountered the sister only once, at a party thrown by O’Brien to celebrate his divorce. Gordon remembered a handsome, forthright woman, a little too similar to Patricia in both manner and appearance to be of much interest to him.

  Patricia, needless to say, had loathed her on sight.

  ****

  Back to the computers. Gordon was reviewing the files recovered from Hank’s spare laptop. It was mostly porn.

  Jerry’s warning about the nature of the material had made him sound laughably prim. Don’t tell me you’ve never watched the sick stuff, Gordon had thought – but hadn’t quite dared to say.

  Watching it cold wasn’t much fun, although inevitably there were one or two moments that produced an involuntary response. Nothing he could do to ease the pressure when he had Patricia sitting opposite him. There was no hope of persuading her to take a break and retire to the bedroom: not in the midst of a crisis. Not in daylight.

  Instead Gordon had to file away a few beguiling moves for re-enactment on his next visit to Alexia, a high-class escort based in Kingston-upon-Thames. Over the years he’d auditioned a wide selection of female talent, gradually reducing them in number in the manner of those Simon Cowell TV shows, and Alexia had emerged the winner.

  The X factor, indeed.

  ****

  He finished with the porn, deleted it with a military-grade destruction program, and was making a fresh pot of coffee when Stemper phoned with a positive report.

  ‘There’s no wider conspiracy. The barmaid has confirmed the burglar’s story. He’s strictly small-time, an opportunist.’

  ‘Any danger to us, going forward?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so. Neither of them wants anything else to do with this. Or with me,’ he added.

  Patricia took her coffee from Gordon and cupped it in both hands, smiling into the steam as it warmed her face. ‘That’s a marvellous relief.’

  ‘In fact, Patricia, last night’s intervention proved a godsend. The barmaid had some very interesting news.’

  ‘She was willing to cooperate, then?’

  Stemper chuckled. ‘Let us say she was quickly convinced. As you’d expect from the company she keeps, she’s no ally of the police. She held back from them a very significant point.’

  ‘Go on.’ Patricia flashed a look at Gordon: This is more like it.

  ‘She thinks the woman with your chap may have known the men who broke up the fight.’

  ‘Accomplices,’ Patricia murmured. ‘But why terminate him in the way they did?’

  ‘I’ll find out. I have basic descriptions of all three, and I’d venture that the men in the pub were the same pair in the BMW.’

  ‘If only that photo had been clearer,’ Gordon said.

  ‘It was a setback, but I do have some clues as to what the men were doing there.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Patricia was so thrilled that she overlooked the sound of Gordon slurping his coffee.

  ‘It’s no more than a theory at present. One question, though. Do you know where your man was based during the summer and autumn of 2010?’

  Patricia flapped her hand at Gordon, who called up the Microsoft Project document that detailed – in code – Hank’s movements, objectives and results.

  ‘Travelling far and wide. In fact, the whole year he was barely in the UK for more than a week at a time, and he stayed in a London hotel.’

  ‘Not at the farmhouse?’

  ‘No. He’d put it on the rental market following his divorce.’

  A brief silence. Somehow they both understood that it boded well, for once.

  ‘Does that help?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Stemper said. ‘Remember to watch the film. Before tonight, if you can.’

  ‘We’ve not forgotten,’ Gordon told him. And when the call had ended, he said crossly: ‘I do resent the way he doles out orders. As if we have nothing better to do than lounge in front of the TV.’

  Patricia was unmoved. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s earned the right. He gets results.’ Then an excited smile. ‘Something’s put a spring in his step.’

  Gordon shuddered. He doubted that Patricia had given much thought to the methods that Stemper might have employed to extract information from the barmaid. The girl, as pictured in Gordon’s imagination, was a sweet vulnerable little bird, terrified by Stemper’s raptor-like demeanour.

  ‘Whatever the reason,’ he said, ‘in my book it fully justifies a proper lunch.’

  Patricia pursed her lips, but he added sternly, ‘No arguments. Love, honour and obey, remember?’

  ****

  He drove them into Dorking, to a charming Italian restaurant where the management knew them well. The food was simple, unpretentious; perfect for a not-too-heavy lunch.

  As they sat down, Gordon surveyed the diners at surrounding tables and was struck by how similar everyone looked: nearly all couples, nearly all in late middle age and sleekly prosperous. We’re the golden generation, he thought. The last of the lucky baby boomers.

  It prompted a plaintive question: when will it be my time to relax? With Patricia so driven to succeed, he found it hard to imagine being granted a life of unlimited leisure. As became clear during the meal, her ambitions were undiminished by the dreadful setbacks this week.

  ‘It’s the children I feel for. If somebody else has appropriated our scheme, you can bet they won’t have our good intentions at heart.’

  Gordon, who’d taken to researching yachts in the three-to-six-million price bracket, swallowed a mouthful of fettuccine and said, ‘I know. It was a fabulous idea.’

  ‘And so it remains. We made a pledge, Gordon. A promise to ourselves. And if we don’t find a way to see this through ...’ He was greeted by the remarkable sight of a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘We can’t fail them. We simply can’t.’

  ‘I know. But if Stemper’s right, and these three were working together in the pub, it occurs to me that they were planning something else. What the Americans call a shakedown.’

  Patricia frowned. There was a dab of cheese sauce on her lip. Fifteen – perhaps even ten – years ago, Gordon could have kissed it away without fear of censure.

  ‘Explain,’ she said.

  ‘We know he was a randy bugger. Maybe they’d set him up to allege sexual assault, then blackmail him.’

  ‘So why kill him?’

  Gordon threw up his hands. ‘That’s what makes no sense. Unless that was never their intention. Perhaps something went wrong.’

  ‘Then we’re back to square one. The fact is, we still have no clear idea what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Just thinking aloud.’ Gordon took another mouthful of his delicious pasta. Looking around at all the silver hair, the pearls, the golfing attire, he doubted that any of the other patrons were having a conversation quite like this one.

  Patricia was studying her phone: a text had come in.

  ‘Templeton’s on his way to New York. All still on track, according to our man in Delaware.’ She stared at Gordon, suddenly animated. ‘Maybe this isn’t about us, or Templeton Wynne. What if it’s the American angle? A disgruntled shareholder, or even a rival bidder ...?’

  Gordon shook his head. ‘There are easier ways of sabotaging the deal than this.’ He went to take a final sip of wine and found the glass was empty. ‘Now, I know we said only a single drink ...’

  ‘No. We need to return to work. Any more wine and we’ll be dozing off mid-afternoon.’

  Reluctantly Gordon agreed. The job of reviewing the hard drives was soporific enough on its own.

  The next stop was W.H. Smith to purchase the DVD of Entwined. Patricia studied the case an
d said, ‘Looks like utter pap.’

  ‘That will get us dozing, I bet.’ They walked on, and Gordon was struck by a fanciful thought. ‘Could Hank have been caught in a background shot, perhaps when he was with someone he shouldn’t be—?’

  ‘Oh, Gordon,’ Patricia said. ‘That sounds like the plot of a movie itself. A bad one.’

  ****

  Back home, they spent an hour reviewing the hard drive, scanning through dozens of dreary emails, before accepting that they were beginning to wilt. Gordon made non-alcoholic fruit cocktails as a pick-me-up, and then they retired to the living room and slipped the DVD into the player.

  Jerry called when they were about twenty minutes in. Hank’s sister was still at the farmhouse, and there were other visitors.

  ‘Two geezers turned up in a van. They’re loading up all the stuff from Hank’s filing cabinet. They took his laptop and the PC as well.’

  ‘Templeton’s people,’ Patricia decided. ‘Are you sure you found nothing incriminating?’

  ‘No. Everything they’ve got is clean.’

  ‘Then it’s no cause for alarm.’

  When she’d put the phone down, Gordon said: ‘Quick off the mark, isn’t it?’

  ‘Understandable. Hank did have access to sensitive data.’

  ‘Funny that the sister was so eager to oblige them.’

  ‘Why should she care?’ Patricia sighed. ‘We have to find those documents.’

  Gordon said nothing. He leaned forward, almost toppling off the sofa. As Patricia spoke his name he raised his arm, jerkily, like a marionette, indicating the screen.

  ‘Gordon, what’s wrong?’

  ‘There!’ He fumbled for the remote control, found the pause button, took it back a few frames. ‘Look at that.’

  Patricia said nothing. Then gasped. Then gestured at him to pause and rewind again.

  In a rather ungainly manoeuvre for a woman of her age and build, she moved on to her hands and knees and crawled up to the TV. Gordon tried to ignore the stirring he felt at the sight of her generous backside.

  ‘Is that where I think it is?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Patricia growled. ‘Get that bloody man Conlon on the phone.’

  CHAPTER 46

  On Friday night Joan had a get-together with her library book group. She’d been going for a couple of years, and through it she had befriended a more recent member, Ron, a widowed retiree in his mid-sixties.

  Joan, who had lost her own husband to a heart attack nearly two decades ago, insisted that a romance was out of the question. That didn’t stop Louis and Dan from indulging in some good-natured teasing, if only to encourage her that the possibility still existed.

  ‘I’m too old,’ Joan had protested, and when Dan had demolished that argument, she had an admission: ‘If you want the truth, it frightens me. I’ve been on my own so long.’

  ‘I understand that, but you’d adjust to it.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Then there’s you two to think of, don’t forget.’

  ‘We’re fine. Anyway, we’ll be off your hands before—’

  He realised his mistake when he saw the panic dart across her face. They both smiled and pretended it hadn’t been there.

  ‘Ron was dropping hints about a new film coming out,’ she confided. ‘He told me he’s signed up to that Orange Wednesday thing.’

  ‘If he asks you, I want you to say yes.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Joan sighed, her gaze growing distant. ‘Though it is one I’d quite like to see ...’

  ****

  Dan had texted Hayley, offering to visit her after work. He did so knowing he’d have to take a bus to Newhaven and find a good excuse not to have driven. But Hayley said there was no point. She was still feeling lousy and intended to sleep through the evening.

  For once it appeared that Louis wasn’t going out. He was ensconced in his bedroom, his music thudding through the ceiling – music that, in most cases, Dan had introduced and recommended to his kid brother: Kings of Leon, Tribes, Arcade Fire.

  At around eight o’clock Dan trooped upstairs and knocked on the door. The music abruptly paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to do myself a pizza. Do you want one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dan sighed. He hated these situations, condemning him to the role of disapproving father figure.

  ‘Come on, Louis. You must be hungry—’

  ‘I don’t want anything. Leave me alone, okay?’

  The music snapped back on, making further conversation impossible.

  ****

  Dan heated up a pepperoni pizza. An evening of inane TV beckoned, with beer to blunt the tedium. Earlier he’d caught news bulletins on all the main channels and he’d checked the Argus website several times, but there was nothing more on the hit-and-run. No sign of the e-fits, either. Dan wondered if that was because of the amendments suggested by Cate.

  He thought about calling her, not to invite her out but just to see how she was. Or maybe he could raise the idea of meeting up for a drink. As far as he knew, she was still single following her split from Martin Gilroy.

  Dan had always regarded her ex-husband as a bit of a dickhead, though he’d put that down, in part, to his own jealousy. He had never quite recovered from his adolescent crush on Cate. It mystified him now that she hadn’t met someone else. She must be able to take her pick of men.

  For a while he sat holding his phone with Cate’s number up on the display. One touch away from making contact. It was a pleasant daydream for as long as he could sustain the illusion that he might actually do it; then a longer period of low-level torment once he’d decided that he would not.

  There were plenty of sound reasons why he shouldn’t. She might assume he was willing to cheat on Hayley – and she was bound to take a dim view of that, given Martin’s infidelity.

  Then there were the lies, the deceit he would have to maintain no matter how much she challenged him. Because Robbie had been right about one thing: for her own sake, it was essential to keep Cate in the dark about Hank O’Brien’s death.

  ****

  Louis’s music was still thumping away. Dan had another beer and watched some of the comedy shows that he normally enjoyed, but the jokes went right over his head. Had anything really made him laugh since Tuesday night? He didn’t think so.

  Growing maudlin, and reluctant for once to fight it, he fetched a photo album from the dining room. Handling it as he would high explosives, he rested it gently on the coffee table and sat back at a safe distance before flipping the cover open.

  It had been many months since he’d looked at these pictures. Most were of his parents in the early days of their marriage: pre-children, or with Dan as an infant. He was shocked to discover how little emotion they stirred. He did not recognise this smiling couple, younger here than Dan was now. The baby they held in their arms could have been any baby.

  Over time the photos were losing their power to hurt. Dan couldn’t connect to these images – or, rather, to the memories that the images were supposed to nourish. When he tried to recreate important moments he found that his imagination was filling the gaps. His past was becoming fictionalised, to the point where, ten or fifteen years from now, he wondered if he would look back on the events of Tuesday night and find it impossible to believe he had ever been complicit in a fatal road accident.

  He closed the album. There were other reliable aids to his memory, of course. For years after his parents’ deaths Dan had insisted that Joan use the same washing powder and fabric conditioner. The scent of a freshly laundered shirt or duvet cover could enable him to create, if only for an instant, the illusion that he was still a child, with a mother and father who would always keep him safe, protect him from the world and the monsters that lurked in the dark.

  For the same reason he sometimes drank his dad’s favourite soft drink, Dandelion & Burdock, even though he’d never like
d the taste. He sought out reruns of Blind Date and Only Fools and Horses on obscure TV channels, because those were shows he’d watched with Mum and Dad.

  He remembered the troubling cocktail of jealousy and pride when his brother was born. Showing Louis off to his mates, and even, on one occasion, changing his nappy in front of them, to sniggers and noisy derision that masked a grudging respect. This was so far removed from the experience of most twelve-year-old boys that none of them could decide whether it was ‘cool’ or not.

  Then he recalled an evening when his exhausted mother had spotted the symptoms of an irrational but very real sense of abandonment. Leaving Louis to cry for a few seconds, she had taken Dan in her arms, nuzzled her face against his and told him, confidentially: ‘You’ll always be my big grown-up boy, Daniel. My hero.’

  And now that hero was wondering how long it would take for time to erase the knowledge that he had killed a man.

  CHAPTER 47

  Jerry arrived at the Blakes in a sour mood. Once again he’d been up at the crack of dawn to get to Sussex. His miserly employees wouldn’t stump up for a hotel, which meant he was spending half his life on the choked-up roads of the South-East. He was going through a small fortune in petrol, and they had the cheek to be funny about it. Wanting to see receipts, as though the price of fuel had passed them by.

  Then there was the logistical headache posed by keeping the farmhouse under surveillance when it was on its own at the end of a private lane. Jerry had no choice but to leave the car nearly a mile away, then walk along a succession of muddy, dogshit-splattered footpaths until he found a spot that allowed him a glimpse of O’Brien’s property.

  In the afternoon he’d just informed the Blakes about Templeton’s people clearing the house when Gordon called and demanded an urgent meeting. Jerry was buggered if he was going to drive up there, only to be sent back to Sussex afterwards, so he insisted that he needed to stay and monitor developments for another couple of hours.