by Angie Smith
He smiled and shook his head. “No it isn’t, but I’m flattered you think it is.”
“Don’t deny it, you’re the exact type; you have that look of superiority, that cockiness, that I’m-in-charge attitude, I’m unflappable, nothing bothers me; you ooze confidence, you’re articulate, intelligent, good looking; need I go on?”
“When did good looks become an entry requirement for the Secret Intelligence Service?”
“You see, you even refer to it by its official title, admit it, you’re a Secret Agent.”
“Pauline, you’ve been reading too many books. And even if I was, which I’m not, I couldn’t admit to it.” He paused and frowned. “Are you trying to tell me it’s over?” his tone was softer, with a hint of sadness.
“How long have you known me?” She wasn’t letting go that easily; she wanted resolution and him to demonstrate commitment.
“Eight months.”
“Right, thirty-two weeks to be exact, and in that time, you’ve stayed here four weekends, one full week, and we’ve had a week together at the villa. That’s a total of twenty-two days out of two hundred and twenty-four. I used to see Gerrard more than that, and he worked all over the world. I’d know which hotel he was staying in, and he’d always ring every couple of days to check how I was. And if I had a problem, he’d fly straight here and sort it out.”
“Pauline, he had his own personal jet, and with one click of the fingers could organise a flight home. I don’t have that luxury, I’m sometimes days from civilisation and I’m not contactable.”
She sighed; this wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“And besides, I’m not Gerrard,” he added.
“I know that,” she snapped, “but I need stability in a relationship, to feel cared for, feel wanted and not to be left dangling on a thread. I was so cheesed off the other week, I chatted someone up in a bar.”
He smiled, sipped his coffee and tilted his head ever so slightly.
“You’re not bothered are you?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I stopped it before anything could. Besides, he was half my age.”
“So there was nothing to be bothered about.”
His smugness irritated her. “You drive me insane,” she snapped. “You’re intolerable, insufferable and damn near impossible.” She looked away and chewed her lip. “The problem is I like being with you,” she conceded. “I must be completely mad.”
He appeared to be holding back a smile. “So now you’ve got that off your chest, where does it leave us?”
She sat in silence and looked down at her coffee cup which was still full. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “When you’re not here I get wound up; I want to finish with you. And when you turn up, I don’t want you to leave.”
He gave the thinnest of smiles. “I may have a solution. I’m thinking of retiring after my current assignment; I’m getting tired of the hassle. I can draw my pension when I reach fifty, and I’ve already made tentative enquiries with my superiors. . .”
“Do you mean M, or P, or is it Q? That’s how you all refer to one another; no one has a name, just a letter. Which one are you?” she quipped. “Let me guess; X.” Her mood had lightened at the news of a potential solution.
“Anyhow, my superior, F-B,” he grinned, “has agreed in principal.”
“Wow, two initials, he must really be important.”
“Some of us have three,” he raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t tempt me.”
He grinned again. “So, if you can stand to be around someone who has that I’m-in-charge attitude, oozes confidence, is articulate, intelligent, extremely good looking, and is intolerable, insufferable and impossible… then we may be able to spend more time together.”
“That was just about a word perfect recollection of what I said. Did it take F-B long to teach you that?” Feeling better, she smiled.
“Is that an acceptable solution?”
“I suppose it’s a start,” she concluded.
Saturday 24th March.
The investigating officer on Abdul Hussain’s death was Detective Inspector Shaun Higgson, who was based at Huddersfield Police Station. It was only his second week there, having recently been promoted to Inspector and transferred from Wakefield. His Chief Inspector had allocated the investigation to him, feeling it would be good experience for the new Inspector, in his initial settling in period. Higgson, therefore, was determined to demonstrate his willingness to work hard and undertake a thorough investigation; this being something that had proved difficult under his last superior, Detective Superintendent Greg Woods, who was a perfectionist and possessed the annoying habit of picking fault with the work and undermining the confidence of his detectives. Higgson was relieved to be away from Wakefield, and in his first two weeks at Huddersfield had found the atmosphere and working conditions much improved.
He now stood waiting to update Detective Chief Inspector Chris Newsom.
“How’s the investigation going?” Newsom asked.
“We’ve carried out a thorough examination of the bridge and only Hussain’s fingerprints were on the handrail above where he was found hanged,” Higgson replied, looking confident and relaxed. “Hussain’s burnt-out car was discovered in the car park at the far end of the dam, and is currently being examined by forensics. His wife says he’d left the house just after nine supposedly going to collect their son from Slaithwaite, but didn’t turn up.” Higgson took a breath. “When she discovered he’d not arrived she’d kept trying to ring him on his mobile, but it had been switched off. Only once did it ring through at around 11.15, but the call was rejected. We’ve analysed the data from the phone and this tallies with what she says. Signals indicate he travelled from the house towards Slaithwaite and then headed up to the dam, switching the phone off at 9.21. It was turned back on at 11.12 and off again at 11.17, during which time an e-mail, with all the hallmarks of a suicide note, was sent to a work colleague, Mrs Julie Noble. I’m going to interview her later. It’s looking like Hussain was in some sort of relationship with her and that things were getting on top of him. His wife said he’d been acting out of character for the past few weeks, but she thought it was related to work pressures; she never mentioned anything about Noble. I should have the initial results from forensics and the post-mortem later this morning.”
“Good work, Shaun.”
“Thank you. Oh, one thing I nearly forgot to mention. On the e-mail to Noble, Hussain ended it with MCXVI.”
“One thousand, one hundred and sixteen?”
Higgson smiled, “Yes, I had to look it up, and I wasn’t sure what significance it had, but then realised the e-mail had been sent at 11.16; maybe it was Hussain’s way of noting the time. I’ll check it out with Noble and see if it has any specific meaning to her.”
Higgson walked up to the small semi-detached house and pressed the doorbell.
The woman who answered looked as though she had been crying and not slept much during the previous night.
“Julie Noble?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sounded nervous.
“Detective Inspector Shaun Higgson,” he held up his ID. “Can I come in and have a word?”
“Is this about Abdul?” she asked anxiously.
He nodded.
“Has he committed suicide?”
“I’m afraid I’m investigating his death, that’s all I can say at the moment. Please may I come in?”
Mrs Noble started weeping. “Yes,” she managed to say.
“Is there someone here with you?” he asked, as he was shown into the living room, which was tastefully decorated in a minimalist style. “Or do you live alone?”
“No, I live with my husband, Edward,” she said between sobs. “Luckily, he’s away golfing this weekend; it would have been kind of awkward, if he’d have been here.”
“Shall I make you a drink?” Higgson offered, looking towards the kitchen.
“No, I’ll be okay.” She blew her nose on an already damp handkerchief. “What a mess this all is.”
He waited until she had composed herself, “So tell me about you and Abdul Hussain.”
The colour slowly returned to her face, but her voice was quaking. “We’ve been seeing each other for about six months. We became friends at work and started going out for lunch together. We shared a passion for walking and we’d head up to Scammonden Dam.”
Higgson leaned forward. “The car park near the motorway?”
“Yes, it’s quiet there; we enjoyed the solitude and walks around the dam.”
“When were you last there?”
“Thursday lunchtime.”
“Did you argue, or have you been falling out recently?”
“No, not at all.”
“Had you noticed anything strange about his behaviour?”
She sighed, and blew her nose again. “He was under a lot of pressure at work, budget cuts. I sensed it was getting to him, but he said he looked forward to our lunchtimes, it was a way of relieving the pressure.”
“Were you lovers?”
“What difference does that make?” She appeared cross.
“Mrs Noble, I’m not here to make judgements, I’m just trying to build up a picture.”
She sighed. “Yes… we were lovers,” she answered sheepishly.
“Can you think of anything that might have caused Mr Hussain to take his own life?”
She shook her head.
“Has he ever discussed ending his life?”
“No,” she said, but then hesitated. “He did mention someone he knew had committed suicide, and I think it had an impact on him.”
Higgson chewed his lip. “Who else knows about your relationship?”
“No-one,” she said defiantly, crossing her arms. “We were very discreet, making sure always to go out in separate cars, leaving and returning at different times, being careful not to advertise we were an item. Neither of us wanted any trouble, or for our other halves to find out.”
“Do you think your husband suspects?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s only interested in golf. Oh and maybe his pals down at the golf club.”
Higgson paused for a moment. “Mr Hussain sent you an e-mail late on Thursday evening.”
“Yes, he did. I didn’t receive it until I logged on at work yesterday morning. I desperately tried to ring him, but his phone was switched off. I replied to the e-mail, and never got a response. Then later in the day there were rumours flying around at work saying he’d died. I deleted the e-mail; I’ve been frantic with worry ever since.”
“Did you notice anything strange about the e-mail?”
“No, should I?”
“It ended MCXVI. Does that mean anything?”
“Eleven, sixteen, I googled it. It’s the exact time the e-mail was sent; I assumed he was letting me know it was late. He was always ending his e-mails with quotes, or silly puzzles that you had to work out; he was well known for it at work. My favourite was, ‘for the Snark was a Boojum, you see,’” she looked at Higgson who had raised one eyebrow. “Lewis Carroll,” she said, with the hint of a smile.
“Oh.” The quote had obviously thrown him off track. “Right, that’s about it for now. If you think of anything else please give me a call.” He handed her a card.
“What happens next?”
“I finish my investigations and produce a report for the coroner.”
“Will there be an inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Will I be asked to give evidence?”
“That’s up to the coroner; he might accept the e-mail as sufficient evidence or he may decide to call you to the witness box.”
“When will I know?”
“I can’t say really; I’ve still to complete the investigation.”
“So it’s weeks and weeks of purgatory for me, is it?” She held her head in her hands.
“I’ll let you know when I’ve completed my report,” Higgson said, getting up.
When Higgson returned to his desk there was an e-mail from the pathologist who had completed the interim post-mortem report on Hussain; he immediately opened it and started reading. The report stated that Hussain had died as a result of asphyxia due to hanging by a ligature; his body had been suspended by an 18mm rope with a six loop hangman’s knot. The time of death was estimated at around midnight; the chill factor from the variable Pennine wind and Hussain’s empty stomach made it difficult to determine. When examined, Hussain’s mouth was open and his face congested; his tongue was found to be protruding and both eyes were partially open with the cornea hazy. There was an 18mm ligature mark encircling the neck running upwards towards the back of his head where there was a small gap which was beneath the knot. On the right side of his neck were two small 8mm burn marks; the marks were 14mm apart and approximately 21mm below the ligature mark. There was no mention of other marks on the body and the major organs were described as normal, although toxicology results were awaited.
Higgson snatched up the phone, called the pathologist and after introducing himself asked about the two burn marks on Hussain’s neck. “Any idea what might have caused them?”
“That’s your job, Inspector.”
“Ignited petrol splashes? It appears he set fire to his car before walking to the bridge.”
There was a pause.
“Yes, that’s possible.”
“What about sparks from the car fire?”
There was another pause.
“Yes, that’s a possibility too, because the burns were recent.”
“How recent?”
“Probably within two hours prior to his death.”
“They’re too close together to have been from a taser or stun gun.”
“Yes, they are. I’d already discounted that.”
“Okay, thank you,” Higgson said, putting the phone down.
Two minutes later he was disturbed by a call from the team inspecting the burnt-out car. He listened carefully, making notes as he did so; then he replaced the receiver.
Thursday 29th March.
It was only days since Jonathan Plant had left and already Pauline was feeling unsettled. Before leaving he’d told her he was flying to Peru, and would probably be away for a couple of months; he’d promised to telephone as often as he could, but said not to expect any contact for the next couple of weeks. Although he’d divulged more information than ever before about his intended destination, and was promising to keep in touch, she was still convinced he worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Furthermore, she doubted he’d be staying in Peru, and thought this was most probably a stopover, before travelling on - none of which had done anything to assist with her contentedness, and as each day passed her anxiety intensified.
In an effort to take her mind off things, she’d spent the day out hacking on Huntford, a ten-year-old, 17 hands, jet black thoroughbred gelding, who could not be described as anything other than possessing presence. He was her favourite horse, whom she enjoyed taking out to explore the beautiful Yorkshire Dales countryside with her. Together with her three loyal chocolate Labradors, Isambard, Kingdom and Brunel, obediently tagging along, she’d become well-known around the area, where the locals referred to her as the friendly lady from the large farmhouse.
After returning home and bedding the animals down for the night, she’d eaten and, hoping for a relaxing evening, settled in front of the log fire with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately, her mind had other ideas and instead of relaxing she become increasingly tense. In an effort to combat this she opened a second bottle. You’ll regret this in the morning, she thought, sipping from the glass.
Around 10.30 p.m. she was awoken by the telephone ringing; she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. She got up to answer the call, her heart thumping. Oh my head.
“Hi, Pauline, it’s Tracey.”
“Hi. W… What time is it?”
“Half ten, I haven’t got you up have I?”<
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“Err… no, I’d fallen asleep in the lounge, too much wine.”
“I thought you sounded slightly off key.”
She cleared her throat. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” There was a pause.
“Have you forgotten? I said I’d ring this week so you can tell me all about who you’re dating.”
“Oh yes, of course you did. Just bear with me a second while get some water from the fridge.” She headed to the kitchen, taking the phone with her. “That’s better,” she said, sipping the iced drink and sitting at the breakfast bar. “Right, I’ve met this guy called Jonathan, he’s tall, handsome, very fit and he speaks seven languages. . .”
“He sounds interesting.”
“He reminds me so much of Gerrard; in fact he looks similar, he’s ultra-confident, cool, calm, has a very dry sense of humour, and is totally unflappable. He was on the same table as me at a charity function in Harrogate. We got chatting and one thing led to another. That was eight months ago.”
“I like the sound of this. And have you. . .”
“Yes, and before you ask, he’s wonderful.”
“I’m becoming jealous.”
“Ah… Well, before you get carried away, there’s a problem. . .”
“Let me guess; he’s married.”
“No, he’s not. The problem is that he’s away for months on end; he spends all his time travelling the world.”
“Pauline, are you sure he’s not married?”
“Tracey, he’s not. He works for the Foreign Office, something to do with the Diplomatic Service. It’s all covered by the Official Secrets Act, and so he can’t tell me exactly what he does.”
“Wow, a Secret Agent?”
“Well, that’s what I think, but he won’t admit to it, which makes me even more convinced. Anyhow, because he’s away so much it’s driving me crazy; when he’s here it’s heaven, but as soon as he walks out of the door it’s hell. He stayed the weekend and we had a fantastic time and then he flew out of the country on Monday. I’m already hitting the bottle trying to numb the pain.”
“Surely he keeps in touch. You can Skype from anywhere these days.”
