Relentless: A Novel

by Simon Kernick

‘We’re out of choices, Kathy,’ I said, meeting her gaze. ‘They’ve got us over a barrel this time.’

  I got out of the car and walked into the trees at the side of the road. I switched off my phone and threw it into a fern bush. Then I switched off hers. But I didn’t throw it away, because I knew Kathy was right. When we turned up to wherever it was our tormentor – and I could only guess it was the man Daniels called Lench – wanted us, and he’d got the information he wanted, we’d be surplus to requirements, loose ends to be dealt with. But it wasn’t that which bothered me; it was the fact that they might also get rid of Max and Chloe. Our whole family wiped out, like we’d never existed. I didn’t know who could help, but I did know without a doubt that if I threw away Kathy’s phone, that would be the end of our last lifeline.

  I placed it in my pocket and headed back to the car.

  ‘Head for the motorway,’ I told her, and without another word she pulled away, driving north.

  It had just turned ten past seven.

  36

  Bolt was woken up by the shrill blasts of his mobile as it vibrated away like an enthusiastic sex toy on his bedside table. After a long yawn, he reached over and picked it up. He still hadn’t even opened his eyes when he heard the angry tones of a voice he didn’t immediately recognize.

  ‘I think you owe me a very fucking big apology, DI Bolt. What is it with you? Do you think because we’re based in the suburbs we’re so utterly incapable that we’re not worth bothering with? That you can run roughshod over our investigation and not bother to keep us informed of what you’re finding out?’

  Bolt inched open an eye, saw that, according to the alarm clock, it was 7.17 a.m. and realized that he was talking to the man in charge of investigating Jack Calley’s murder.

  ‘Ah, DCI Lambden. You’re up early, sir.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Bolt. I’ve just been talking to Calley’s neighbour, Bernard Crabbe. He tells me you and your colleague came to see him last night, with a photograph of Tom and Kathy Meron.’

  Bolt sat up in the bed, fully awake now. ‘How did you know about them?’

  ‘Not through you, that’s for sure. I suspect we found out the same way you did. We checked Mr Calley’s phone records and saw that his last call was made to the Meron address. Bet you didn’t think we could manage that, did you?’

  ‘Listen, I’m not trying to hide anything—’

  ‘We also found out that Mrs Meron appears to be wanted in connection with the murder yesterday of a Vanessa Blake,’ continued Lambden, still sounding extremely irate. ‘So, we’re not as pig-ignorant as you might think.’

  Bolt rubbed his eyes. ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘Actions speak a lot louder than words.’

  ‘If you give me a second, I’ll tell you everything I know.’

  ‘Good. Fire away.’

  ‘First of all, I’m sorry. Everything was moving so fast yesterday, I got ahead of myself. I was going to call and update you this morning.’

  ‘OK, apology accepted,’ he said, without missing a beat. ‘Now, what can you tell me that’ll make my job of finding whoever strung up Calley easier?’

  Bolt knew he was going to have to give Lambden something decent if he was to get him to remain onside. So, as he got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, he told him that Parnham-Jones’s suicide was looking like murder, and that at the time of his death he was being blackmailed. He didn’t mention the child abuse allegations since there was still absolutely nothing tangible to back them up. ‘I don’t know what connection the Parnham-Jones death has with Jack Calley or the Merons, but the timing’s extremely coincidental,’ he concluded.

  ‘Someone’s looking for the Merons,’ said Lambden. ‘I found out this morning that a cottage they part-owned in the New Forest got burned down last night, and there were reports of gunfire coming from the area. The local police have got SOCO teams going over there this morning to sift through what’s left of the wreckage and see if there are any bodies in there.’

  ‘If they’re dead, we’re in trouble. I can’t think of anyone else who’s in a position to explain why Jack Calley and Vanessa Blake were murdered. Have you put out traces on their mobiles?’

  ‘That’s another of the reasons I was calling you,’ said the DCI. ‘You know how hard it is to get authorization for a trace. We need one on Kathy Meron’s phone, and you, being NCS, have got a better chance of getting it than me. If you can do something on that score, it’d be a big help.’

  Bolt poured himself a glass of water. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll keep you posted of how I get on this time as well, OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘None at all.’ It sounded as though Lambden meant it as well, which made Bolt feel a little guilty. Perhaps he’d judged him too harshly yesterday. Lambden gave him Kathy Meron’s mobile number and hung up.

  If either Tom or Kathy had their mobile phones with them, and they were switched on, it would be possible for the network provider to pinpoint their exact location simply by tracking the phones’ signals – something that Jean Riley could probably sort out in no time, with her contacts. But in the UK Police Service there are always hurdles to jump, and Bolt would have to go right up the chain of command to the head of the NCS, Detective Chief Superintendent Steve Evans, in order to gain approval for such a course of action. He called Evans now.

  The DCS was a renowned early riser, a habit he’d picked up in his previous life in the military, and he answered on the second ring, as if he’d been waiting for exactly this call. Bolt was swift and to the point. He wanted a trace on both the Merons’ mobile phones, and explained his reasons.

  Evans listened patiently, and when Bolt had finished the DCS was also swift and to the point. ‘I’m going to give you verbal authorization for a trace on Kathy Meron’s phone, not Tom’s,’ he said. ‘There’s not enough probable cause on him.’

  Bolt didn’t argue. There was no point. Evans was sticking his neck out as it was. He thanked his boss for his help.

  ‘Keep me informed of your progress,’ Evans told him, ‘and we’ll sort out all the paperwork later.’

  Next, Bolt called Jean Riley, waking her up. She sounded awful, hardly able to string a sentence together. ‘It’s twenty past seven, guv. What are you doing? I’ve only been in bed three hours.’ At twenty-four, Jean Riley was something of a party animal who liked to let her hair down when she wasn’t working. She was the complete opposite of Matt Turner, which was probably the reason they got on so well.

  ‘Emergency, Jean,’ Bolt said unsympathetically, filling her in on what he needed and ignoring her hangover-induced groans and occasional bouts of rasping coughs.

  ‘Blimey, this case is taking on a life of its own, isn’t it?’ she said, waking up at last. ‘Any ideas what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Plenty, but whether they’re the right ones is anyone’s guess. Call me back as soon as you’ve got a trace on Kathy Meron’s phone.’

  Then, having flung on a dressing gown and made some strong coffee, he called Mo and updated him on the new developments, from the blackmail email Turner had discovered on Parnham-Jones’s PC to the burning down of the holiday cottage in the New Forest. It was breakfast time in the Khan household, and he could hear the sound of Mo’s kids charging about and Saira trying, with only limited success, to keep order. The raucous noise made a stark contrast to the silence in Bolt’s kitchen.

  ‘So someone else knew about P-J’s little sideline?’

  ‘It looks that way. Turner’s trying to track down the source of the email and he’ll be getting back to me later. The reason I called was just to keep you in the loop. I don’t need you to do anything today. Spend some time with the family.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Mo, and told him to hang on a moment. Bolt heard a door shutting and the background noise fading out. ‘Listen, boss,’ Mo whispered, ‘I don’t want to miss out on anything, not on a case this big. If y
ou need me, let me know, all right? We’re just planning a quiet morning here, so you won’t be disturbing anything.’

  ‘No problem. If anything serious comes up, I’ll be on the phone. But you go and enjoy yourself, OK?’

  ‘Do you think the Merons are dead?’ he asked.

  ‘They could be,’ Bolt admitted, ‘because whatever they know is obviously worth killing them for. And if they are dead, their secret’s going to die with them, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that’ll put us straight back to where we started.’

  They fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mo eventually, ‘you know where I am.’

  37

  ‘I think you owe me an explanation,’ I said at last when we were on the M27, heading east towards Southampton and the M3. In the twenty minutes up until that point we’d driven entirely in brooding, fearful silence.

  Kathy sighed, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding my gaze. I had a feeling she’d avoid my gaze now for the rest of her life – however long that was going to be.

  ‘When I was at Jack’s yesterday, he gave me a key. It’s for a safety deposit box in King’s Cross.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me. He said that if anything happened to him I was to go down there, take out the contents, and make them public. He said he couldn’t do it himself because it would be unethical.’

  ‘Since when did he ever worry about being unethical? It’s unethical to sleep with your friend’s wife. That didn’t seem to bother him.’

  ‘I’m telling you what he said, all right?’

  ‘This is what they’re after, isn’t it? Whatever’s in that box?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

  ‘And you never asked him what was in it?’

  ‘I did, but he just said it was something that belonged to a client. And before you ask, I don’t know who the client was.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘And you took it? The key? Why did you have to get involved? What the hell did any of it have to do with you?’

  ‘Listen, Tom, I know I made a mistake, OK?’

  ‘Is that what you call all this? A fucking mistake? It’s a little bit more than that, love. At least three people I can think of are dead, and now some sadistic bastard’s got our kids. All because you had to have an affair with that cheating, lying bastard.’

  ‘I know, Tom, I fucking know. You don’t have to keep reminding me.’

  I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. ‘And you really have no idea what’s in that deposit box?’

  Kathy seemed to calm down as well, and when she replied her voice was softer. ‘I don’t, and I’ve got no desire to find out either. Whatever it is, they’re welcome to it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier, then?’

  ‘When did I get the chance? After Jack got killed, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked and just drove down to the cottage. I was trying to work out what to do. Then when you came down with that man who claimed to be a policeman—’

  ‘Daniels.’ In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about him. He’d saved our lives the previous night, and I wondered if he too had made it out.

  ‘Yes, him. When I recognized his voice from Jack’s place, it threw me completely. I was sure he was after whatever was in the box, and I thought that once he found out about it, and we were no longer any use to him, he’d get rid of us.’

  It sounded like a plausible story, though God alone knew what the box contained. Something explosive, I had no doubt about that. But why had Jack given the key to Kathy? His excuse about ethics was just that, an excuse. He’d given it to her for a reason, and again I felt sure she wasn’t telling me the whole truth.

  I asked her once again how her prints got on the filleting knife.

  She said she honestly didn’t know. ‘You do believe I didn’t have anything to do with Vanessa’s death, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Because the man who killed her attacked you. But you still don’t believe me?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ I answered, and it was true. I didn’t.

  Once again we fell into a tense silence as both our minds focused on the most important thing: the welfare of our kids.

  38

  Bolt drank two coffees, ate the leftovers of his Thai takeaway and a banana, showered, and was in the process of getting dressed when his mobile rang again.

  ‘Bad news and good news.’ It was Jean Riley, and she was sounding a lot more sprightly than earlier.

  ‘Give me the bad.’

  ‘They can’t get a trace on Kathy Meron’s number. It’s switched off.’

  ‘And the good?’

  ‘It’s unlikely they’re dead. Or at least Tom Meron isn’t. I managed to get a check done on his records and a call was made from his mobile at 7.08 this morning, lasting ninety-eight seconds. The location was just outside Bolderwood in the New Forest. The number being called was a pay-as-you-go mobile, not registered to any individual.’

  Bolt looked at his watch. 8.05. Less than an hour ago. ‘Can you get a trace on that one?’

  ‘You’ll need to speak to the big boss to get that.’

  Bolt knew it was doubtful that DCS Evans would approve a trace on a number called from Tom Meron’s mobile when he wouldn’t approve a trace on Meron’s own phone. And if the number belonged to the people who were after the Merons, it was likely that it would already be switched off. But the fact that a call had been made at least gave him room for some optimism.

  ‘Do me a favour, Jean.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘The last, I promise. You’ve got to make sure that you know the minute Kathy Meron’s phone emits a signal, and tell me straight away. And if you can do some begging and pleading, and see if you can get your contact to let you know if Tom’s gets switched on, even better.’

  ‘That’s two favours.’

  ‘Well, they’re the last two. I know it’s not strictly above board, but see what you can do. I’ll stand you drinks all night the next time we all go out.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’d settle for knowing exactly what it is the Merons have got to do with the Lord Chief Justice’s suicide.’

  Wouldn’t we all, thought Bolt as he hung up.

  39

  The village of Hambleden, perched at the edge of the Chilterns, is quintessentially English and has been used as a backdrop for numerous films and TV programmes. I know this because I’ve seen some of them. It’s got a small, attractive square with a fourteenth-century church, a village shop, a family butcher’s and a pub on the corner called the Stag and Huntsman. The houses are quaint, old and very attractive. A couple of them even have thatched roofs.

  It was 8.13 when Kathy pulled up at the side of the road, directly outside the phone box. I got out of the car without looking at her, and stepped inside. The interior of the phone box smelled a little stale, but was remarkably free of the usual stench of urine you get in the ones in London. Perhaps they preferred using toilets out here.

  I stood there, cold and still, watching the second hand ticking on my watch. It made it to the top and kept going. 8.14. One more minute. Thank Christ Kathy had driven like a maniac. But I couldn’t help thinking that it might be too late. My children, my precious children, might already be dead. A five-year old and a four-year old – everything to me, yet just an inconvenience and a bargaining tool to the men who’d taken them. And put in this position all because of the treachery first of my former friend, then of my wife. I didn’t care what was in that fucking safety deposit box at King’s Cross station. It meant nothing to me. All I wanted was to get back to where things were before, when my marriage was good and the world was fine, and my children were laughing and happy. But as the second hand ticked relentlessly on, passing the six, I knew that whatever happened the past was gone for ever. And that the future for all of us might well be very short and very dark.

  The phone rang, shrill and loud, startling
me. I stole a glance at Kathy. She was staring through the windscreen, her features rigid and haunted, having aged ten years in the past hour. I picked up. My throat felt dry, and when I spoke my voice was a croak.

  ‘Tom Meron.’

  ‘You’ve made good time,’ said the man I’d spoken to earlier. ‘I trust you’ve followed your instructions.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘You switched off the phones and got rid of them?’

  ‘I did. I’m not going to do anything that risks my children’s lives.’

  ‘Very wise. I have further instructions for you. You are to walk north through the village square in the direction of the Stag and Huntsman pub. It will be on your right as you pass it. Continue on the road as it goes up the hill, and you’ll be met by someone on the way. That person will have his identity concealed, and you will go with him. If there’s anyone tracking you, we’ll know about it, and one of your children will be sacrificed as forfeit.’

  I shivered visibly, knowing that he meant what he said, and feeling physically sick with fear. ‘We’re not going to try anything, I promise.’ But I was already speaking into a dead phone.

  I stepped out of the phone box and motioned for Kathy to park up properly. She found a spot next to the wall that lined the village’s graveyard, and got out. Her movements were unsteady as if she might collapse at any time, and her face was ashen, but I had no sympathy. She’d got us into this.

  ‘This way,’ I told her, pointing up the hill past the pub and the family butcher’s. ‘We’ve got to hurry.’

  She fell into step beside me and we strode up the road in silence. A white-haired man in his seventies appeared in the front door of one of the cottages. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and tie, and he smiled and gave us a small wave. Instinctively, I waved back and managed a weak smile in return, feeling hugely jealous of anyone who had anything to smile about on this particular day.

  The road became steeper and was lined with overhanging trees as we passed the pub, and soon the terraced cottages gave way to a wooded hill of oaks and beeches, with just an occasional house appearing through the greenery on either side. The only sounds were the squawks of pheasants and the faint but ever-present roar of planes passing above the ceiling of unbroken white cloud above us. Then, suddenly, from the garden of one of the houses, came the laughing shouts of young children. I felt my insides constrict so tightly it was difficult to breathe. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to keep walking, wanting to get as far away as possible from the sound and what it reminded me of. Kathy kept pace, her features contorted into a frozen expression of deep animal pain. I knew that this was tearing her apart as much as it was me.