Stalked By Shadows

by Chris Collett

  But the day didn’t start well. On Mariner’s desk was an urgent message for him to contact IT technician Max. Knox appeared while Mariner was making the call, and his slight incline of the head told Mariner that it had been a no-show. He confirmed as much when Mariner hung up the phone.

  ‘We have to be prepared for that,’ said Mariner, though he could tell that Knox was disappointed. ‘It’s not our only setback.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘That was Max on the phone,’ Mariner said. ‘They’ve just realised that Martin Bonnington’s computer clock is twelve hours adrift, which means he has an alibi for a lot of the computer activity. It’s looking like he might have had a hacker after all.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Knox.

  ‘That’s two pieces of crap news,’ said Mariner cheerfully. ‘And here’s DCI Sharp with the third.’

  Sharp had appeared in the doorway, her face grim, and Mariner’s remark failed to raise a smile. ‘Could you give us a moment, Tony?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Knox got up from where he was perched on a low filing cabinet. He walked out into the bull pen, curious that everyone seemed to be standing around waiting expectantly. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. But before anyone could tell him, an agonised howl ripped through the air from Mariner’s office behind him.

  ‘You heard about that road-rage incident on the M5 on Saturday night?’ Millie said quietly.

  ‘Yeah, I caught somethin’ about it on the news,’ said Knox, puzzled. ‘But they hadn’t named -’

  ‘It was Anna Barham,’ said Millie.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ breathed Knox, turning to stare at Mariner’s office.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom,’ Sharp said.

  Mariner sat at his desk, head in his hands, clawing at his scalp. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looked up at Sharp, beseeching her to say it wasn’t true; that she’d made a mistake; that it was a cruel prank. ‘I just saw her,’ he said, as if that could change things. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was a passenger in a Porsche driven by a Dr Charles Morse,’ Sharp said, quietly. ‘They were driving from Birmingham back to Hereford on Saturday evening, and got into some altercation with another driver. He and his mates followed them to the exit junction, waited until they were out in the wilds before forcing them off the road and attacking Morse. It looks as if Anna tried to intervene. They each died from multiple stab wounds, Morse at the scene and Anna on the way to hospital. Another woman survived the incident. I’m really sorry, Tom.’ Going round to where Mariner sat, she placed a hand on his back. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No,’ Mariner whispered, ‘thank you, ma’am.’ And as Sharp closed the door behind her Mariner jumped up from his seat and swept the contents of his desk on to the floor.

  ‘Anything you want us to do, ma’am?’ Knox asked, as Sharp walked past them to return to her office.

  Gazing in at Mariner, Sharp shook her head sadly. ‘Just keep doing your job,’ she said. ‘Is everything in hand for tonight’s surveillance?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s my shift, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, at least let’s try to get a result for him, eh?’

  For some time CID remained unnaturally quiet; everyone kept their heads down trying to ignore the raging figure that could be seen pacing from side to side.

  After forty minutes Mariner’s door opened and, staring straight ahead, he walked purposefully across the bull pen, down the stairs and out of the building. All they could do was watch him go.

  Throughout, Mariner had remained dry eyed, the overwhelming pain in the centre of his chest, like a vortex, sucking him dry. He got in his car and drove too fast up to Monument Hill where he could park and look out over the panoramic view south, towards the Malverns and beyond, to the place where she had perished. As he switched off the engine the tears came, and once they came they would not stop.

  He must have sat there for hours gazing numbly out at the horizon because suddenly he became aware that it was getting dark, and his limbs were stiff with cold. His head felt muzzy with grief. Mariner got out of his car and walked in the dusk up to the miniature fortress that marked the top of the hill, immune to the cold wind that cut through his shirt. Pinpricks of light were beginning to appear in the urban sprawl below. He and Anna had stood up here to watch the new year fireworks. It seemed a lifetime ago. ‘We’ve everything to look forward to,’ she had said at the time. How wrong could anyone be?

  The next hours were a blur. When Mariner got home there were messages from Knox, wanting to know if he was all right, and from DCI Sharp. ‘I’ve arranged compassionate leave,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you need.’

  Mariner had abused his position and harassed West Mercia police for details of the incident, but they could tell him little more than was on the news. Already the story was starting to drop off the national cycle completely, and he was reduced to searching the Internet for scraps.

  On Tuesday morning he got up and dressed at six in the morning. In his car, he retraced Anna’s last journey, down the motorway, off the exit and on to the country lane where it had happened. He had no trouble finding it. On this sunny early spring day the narrow lane running between tall hawthorn hedges was bursting with life, the bright-green leaves beginning to push through the buds. A bedraggled strand of crime-scene tape provided an obscene counterpoint. Just beside it, on the road, was a dark stain. It could have been anything, but to Mariner’s experienced eye it was unmistakable. He crouched on his haunches and again his vision blurred.

  Afterwards he drove on into Upper Burwell, the village where Anna had made her home. His plan had been to offer his condolences in person to Gareth, but now he couldn’t bear to even think of another man grieving for her. Instead, he drew up outside the chocolate-box cottage that he remembered as Becky and Mark’s. Becky, Anna’s former assistant, had been the catalyst for Anna’s longing for the rustic life. They’d stayed here once for a few days, back when it was ‘Tom and Anna’. It was when she had started to pull away from him.

  ‘Tom.’ Becky was shocked to see him and momentarily Mariner thought he’d made a terrible mistake, but then her arms were around him and she was weeping into his shoulder. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It’s just too awful.’

  ‘I want to find out exactly what happened,’ Mariner said. ‘Do you think Lottie would talk to me?’

  ‘We can try.’

  Mariner wondered if Lottie would even remember him, they had only met on one occasion. In the event it didn’t seem to matter. Lottie was too dazed to notice and he couldn’t begin to imagine how she must be feeling. But there was little she could tell him beyond what he already knew.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’ Mariner found himself saying to this woman who was a stranger.

  He repeated the mantra to Becky as they walked back to the house, though it was said automatically; a futile gesture. So, it was unexpected when she said, ‘Actually, Tom, there might be. The thing is, nobody’s cancelled the wedding coordinator. I don’t think anyone can bring themselves to do it and I daren’t raise it with Lottie. As you’re up in Birmingham anyway, and in your official capacity, could you call in on your way home and explain to them what has happened? I can give you all the details.’

  It was, in truth, the last thing that Mariner wanted to do, but he’d made the offer, how could he possibly refuse, despite the gaping hole in his world? Armed with his warrant card, he made his way into the city centre. He would make himself useful and do what Becky had asked. Retracing his steps along Corporation Street, between the high buildings, Mariner had to pass by the spot where he’d bumped into Anna just a few days ago. He lingered on the pavement for a moment, remembering the way the sun had glinted on her hair, the animated expression on her face, the image so powerful he felt he could reach out and touch her. Only when he saw an elderly woman staring up at him did he realise that he was weeping. Wiping his eyes, he ventured into Brackleys, running the gamut of the aftershave sa
les girls, and caught the escalator up to the fourth floor.

  The wedding department staff were upset and sympathetic. They’d had no reason to connect a random news item with their client. It was unprecedented, and the young assistant Mariner spoke to had to go and fetch the manager, leaving him to wait in one of the private booths that they used. This was clearly big business and Mariner idly wondered how much was charged for this service. Restless and unable to settle, he paced the tiny enclosure. Certificates on the wall announced the awards for past Wedding Coordinators of the Year. Designed to impress customers, no doubt, but what the hell did it mean? His attention was drawn to one in particular.

  ‘Inspector Mariner, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’ The manager appeared, in a tight-fitting suit and too much make-up, with a range of paperwork for Mariner to sign, and in ten minutes it was all over. Charles and Lottie’s wedding plans scrapped for ever. Travelling down again to the ground floor, Mariner felt a wave of sadness for poor Lottie. Walking down past the railway station, Mariner made his way through the exclusive Mailbox, Anna’s favourite shopping centre, and to Brindley Place where he dropped down on to the canal. Anna was living near here when they’d first met. It seemed that everywhere he went there were stinging reminders. It took him a couple of hours to walk back along the waterside, away from the city centre and to his house, and once there he felt unaccountably tired. The remaining bottles in the beer carrier that Kat had bought him sat untouched and inviting in the kitchen, and, after a couple of bottles to ease the pain, he fell asleep on the sofa.

  When he woke up it was dark, and after a while he dropped back to sleep again. Then something woke him with a jolt. This time he found his watch. It was three in the morning. Christ, he’d been asleep for nearly eight hours. As he lay in the dark Mariner heard a milk float rumble by. He thought about the surveillance op and wondered who was on shift tonight. Were they just wasting time and resources with that? His mind skimmed over all their suspects, and for some reason came to rest back on those wedding planner awards. There had been something about that one. And that was when it came to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After scrambling for his mobile, Mariner called through to Tony Knox. His sergeant was groggy when he answered, woken from his own slumber.

  ‘What day is it?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Jesus. That you, boss? Are you -’

  ‘What day is it?’ Mariner demanded again. ‘And who’s on surveillance?’

  ‘It’s Wednesday, and I think it’s Millie, boss, but -’

  Mariner cut him off and punched in Millie’s number. She answered almost immediately.

  ‘I know what we’ve missed,’ he said. ‘I know who it is, and they’re coming today. I’m coming over. I want you to let me in.’

  ‘But, boss, you could blow our -’

  ‘It’s still only three am and I’ll be careful. Just be ready to let me in.’

  The roads were deserted as Mariner drove to the Manor Farm estate. After parking his car in a cul-de-sac close to the entrance, he locked it and continued on foot, staying close to fences and hedges along the way. Under cover of a high fence he stopped at the end of Hill Crest and stood for several minutes, waiting and watching. It was a freezing morning, his breath steamed the air and a light mist cast halos round the sodium lights. A cat padded across the road ahead of him casting wary glances from side to side, but there was no other movement. Slowly and silently Mariner proceeded along the road, pressing himself into the shadows. All the houses, including Bonnington’s, were in darkness. Mariner crept cautiously up the side of the drive of number nineteen and as he got to the door it opened without a sound, drawing him inside.

  ‘Up here, sir.’ After closing the door soundlessly, Millie led him up the stairs and into the front bedroom, where in the darkness Mariner could just make out the silhouette of the night-surveillance equipment on its tripod in the window. Millie passed him some binoculars. There was a light crackle as she activated her walkie-talkie. ‘DI Mariner safely admitted,’ she said, and the recipient rogered and signed off.

  ‘Who have you got?’ Mariner asked, his voice low.

  ‘Solomon and Evans tonight, sir. Poor guys; they definitely got the short straw. They’re tucked in behind the bins round at the side of the house. They’ve fixed a temporary security light down there too, for when it all kicks off - if it ever does. You want some tea, sir?’ She lifted a flask.

  ‘I’m fine,’ whispered Mariner, lifting the binoculars to scan the front of the house. ‘Where’s Jarrett?’

  ‘Went to bed hours ago. We’ve hardly seen him since we’ve been here. I’m starting to think this whole thing has been a complete waste of time. Three nights now and not a tickle. The DCI will do her nut.’

  ‘That’s because it’s tonight,’ said Mariner, still watching the street.

  ‘But how can you be so sure, sir?’ Millie had joined him now, and they stood, side by side, two pairs of night-vision binoculars trained on the drive below.

  ‘What’s the thing that Lucy Jarrett and Rachel Hordern have in common?’ Mariner whispered.

  ‘Nothing, boss.’ Millie was confused. ‘That’s the whole point.’

  ‘No, I’m not talking about Nina,’ Mariner said, exasperated. ‘Lucy and Rachel; what do they have in common?’

  ‘They’re both young women. They’re both married?’ said Millie eventually, uncertain of where this was going.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mariner. ‘And they both -’ He stopped. ‘Did you see something, there, on the left?’

  Millie jerked her binoculars over to where Mariner was looking. ‘Are you sure? There’s - Yes! I’ve got it! Wow. That’s way too big to be a cat.’

  They both watched as a shadowy figure crept along the hedge bordering the Jarretts’ house, tucking in behind a large shrub.

  ‘When’s the milkman due?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘The other days he’s come between half-three and four,’ said Millie. ‘Could be here any time.’ She took out a mobile.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Solomon’s got his mobile set to vibrate. It’s the signal. God, I hope those two have stayed awake.’

  It seemed that no sooner had Millie replaced the phone than they heard the distant whirring of a milk float and, as they watched, dull headlights appeared at the end of the road. ‘Shit, this is it,’ Millie breathed, the tremor in her voice matching the pumping of adrenalin through Mariner’s own body.

  Millie held out the walkie-talkie. You want to give the signal, sir?’

  ‘No, this one’s yours.’

  The milkman was making his tortuous way along the street, hopping off the float every few yards to make his deliveries. Finally he got to number nineteen and they watched as he hurried up the drive, deposited the bottles with a clink and moved on. Step by step, the milk float chugged its way to the end of the road and disappeared, leaving behind a deafening silence. Mariner and Millie stood rigid, binoculars fixed on the shrub below. Nothing happened. Minutes passed.

  ‘Christ, have we missed -’ But as he spoke Mariner saw movement, a dark figure emerge from the shadows and approach the front door.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Millie hissed into the handset, and instantaneously the front garden was flooded with light. Mariner and Millie thundered down the stairs to the sound of shouting and scuffling outside, followed by a strangled cry. Mariner flung open the door to see Solomon lying on the ground and Evans running towards the street and after their culprit.

  ‘He stabbed me,’ Solomon was saying, in disbelief.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ Mariner shouted to Millie, already running. ‘And stay with him. Then call for back-up.’ And he followed Evans, hot in pursuit of their perpetrator.

  The chase was never going to be about speed, but, in the darkness, the housing estate provided plenty of cover, and rounding the corner from Hill Crest their quarry seemed to vanish into thin air. Without adequate support it was an impossible task to search the maze
of roads and driveways in the dark, and, when Mariner heard the distant sound of a car engine igniting, he know they had lost. He and Evans returned to Hill Crest empty handed and despondent, arriving as Solomon was being driven off in the ambulance. By now Will Jarrett was awake and one or two neighbours had appeared to see what the commotion was. Officers in two squad cars were awaiting instructions, but Mariner shook his head. ‘It’s too late,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll get prints from the syringe,’ said Millie. ‘Solomon’s sure his attacker wasn’t wearing gloves. Will he be all right?’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Mariner said. ‘We need to get to Brackleys. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s quarter to five, sir. Brackleys won’t be open for hours,’ Millie said uncertainly. ‘Why do we -’

  ‘Then we need to get the manager out of bed.’ Mariner was pacing the pavement trying to work out what to do next. Tracking down the store manager would take time, as would getting him or her into the store at this early hour to retrieve what Mariner needed. Suddenly he stopped. ‘No, it’s simpler than that. We just need to get back to the station. Meet me back there as soon as you can.’ And he was off running back down the street to pick up his car.

  Mariner had a head start on Millie, had found what he wanted from Tony Knox’s desk and was hurrying back down the stairs when he met her coming up.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘All we need now is a piece of luck. Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Driving too fast through the suburbs, Mariner drew up in a narrow street of terraced houses.

  ‘I don’t understand. What are we doing here?’ Millie asked.

  ‘Hitting lucky,’ said Mariner with some satisfaction, and Millie followed his line of vision to where a silver Honda was parked some way down the road, its boot open, while the driver loaded things in. ‘I didn’t know if she would still be living at this address, but for once we’ve had a break.’