by Scott Hunter
One or two of the officers exchanged glances. It wasn’t hard to read the meaning.
So, we’ve got one wacky suicide … why are we going through all this?
Moran didn’t blame them; wacky suicide was still a real possibility. He went on quickly. ‘The tech boys are still working on the audio but for now that’s all we’ve got. Next stage, so the boffins tell me, is to pull the whole recording to bits and look at the digital imprint. Don’t ask me to elaborate, it’s all Chinese to me. Ones and noughts – binary registers and the like. It’ll take a few days, they reckon. I’ll keep you posted if anything surfaces.’
‘Thanks, guv.’ Charlie moved to the whiteboard. She tapped Neil Butterfield’s photo. ‘We’ve spoken to the boyfriend – seemed genuine, but pretty out of it, at time of interview. We’ll be speaking to him again to get the skinny on Michelle’s friends and colleagues. Forensics have been over his flat. Clean as a whistle.’ She pinned another photo to the board. ‘We’ve also spoken to Bill Nedwell at Red Ned’s recording and rehearsal studios. Again, genuinely shocked. Hasn’t seen her for months. Given us a bunch of names.’ She folded her arms. ‘No one seems to have a clue why or how this has happened, adoptive parents included.’
‘Except whoever else might have been in the graveyard when she was buried,’ DC Collingworth offered. ‘That’s the only potential lead at the moment.’
‘Yep. Speculative, but worth following up.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Ideas anyone?’
‘DC Collingworth suggested we lay some bait,’ Tess Martin said. ‘To see if we can catch a grave robber.’
Collingworth glanced at Tess – a look of gratitude? Or was it more than that? Charlie filed the thought. ‘Over to you, DC Collingworth.’
‘OK, so the burial, assisted suicide, whatever, might have been witnessed – which seems likely, judging by the post-mortem results on the finger and the missing ring. We know that grave thieves are potentially active in the area. If we arrange a high-profile burial in another local cemetery, make a meal of the corpse’s financial status and what he’s intending to be buried with, I don’t know, whatever, his gold bullion or some such–’
There were a few head-shakes and muttered rebuttals.
‘No, hear him out,’ Moran’s hand was up. ‘This isn’t a bad play.’
‘–we stand a reasonable chance of flushing out our witnesses. Right.’ Charlie mimed a round of applause. ‘However, as DC McConnell pointed out, if the severed finger is common knowledge via our press buddies, then whoever buried Michelle has already figured out they were observed.’
‘But they’re in the same boat, boss,’ Collingworth said. ‘Where do they start looking? They’ve no idea what the witness – or witnesses – look like, where they live …’
‘Pawn shops?’ DC Tomlinson suggested. ‘They stole Michelle’s ring, they want to cash it in. Where else?’
‘Good. Keep it coming.’ Charlie paced up and down, encouraging attentiveness. ‘Let’s concentrate. Right. Number one, pawn shops. Let’s find this ring. Number two, a mock funeral? Too OTT. Too much hassle for no guaranteed return. And it’ll take too long to set up. Alternative… OK, what about this. We have a friendly reporter on the Evening Post, I believe? Jean? Gina, is it?’
‘Josie, boss,’ Bola confirmed.
‘Right, thanks – I can always rely on you for fairer-sex contacts, DC Odunsi, eh?’
When the noise had died down, Charlie continued. ‘So, let’s work backwards. Find out who’s been buried where recently – that should be easy enough – choose the most affluent, check with the next of kin, explain what we’re doing and why. Do be tactful and sympathetic. Tell them they’ll be doing the community a favour, ridding society of parasites and so on. You know the drill. Ask Josie to get something in tomorrow morning’s edition if possible? They publish online as well, right? So that can be done quickly. Something plausible to catch the eye of a small-time mindset, something about what might have been laid to rest with the deceased … not gold bullion DC Collingworth–’
A strained ripple of laughter rose and fell. Collingworth shrugged it off.
‘And,’ Charlie continued, ‘not a whisper that this is linked to the LaCroix death. I don’t want the local rag running sensationalist exclusives. That would be a disaster.’
Nods and murmurs of agreement. Charlie took a breath, surveyed the room. She felt empowered by the sense of unity. Everything would be OK. They’d nail this one and her name would lose its tarnish. ‘Tess, could you take this one? But go easy. Fake news isn’t getting a lot of love these days. Tell Josie that if she’s discreet, and she does a good job, she’ll be first in line to get the juicy stuff.’
‘Sure.’
Charlie nodded. Bit of a lacklustre response. But under the circs…. Cut her a little slack, Charlie.
‘Thanks, Tess. Number three, Butterfield’s mates; number four, Nedwell’s contacts. Number five, the earring. Provenance, possible origin, anything. DC McConnell will co-ordinate tasks. Keep me updated, by the hour if necessary. That’s all for now.’
Conversation began again, low at first, then louder as the team began to discuss the case. Above the noise, George’s voice, calling for attention, trying to organise them.
Charlie watched Moran limp away, stickless as ever – stubborn old bugger – back to his admin. Not. He’d be turning the case over in his mind, trying this theory, that theory, worrying at it like a dog with a fresh bone. The thought gave her comfort.
Her office door beckoned, and with it the telephone. This morning it had rung constantly, mainly thinly-disguised press enquiries. They’d try anything to get through. Which reminded her–
‘Wait up. One more thing.’ She hushed the room. Conversation died. George, red-faced, interrupted mid-flow, his head nodding impatiently, terrier-like.
‘Not a word outside these doors, all right? This is high-profile enough without having to worry about half-baked tabloid speculation – and, in this case, the sodding music press as well. That’s all, thanks.’
She closed her office door, shut out the racket. Her stomach was still aching, not as much, but enough to make her feel off-colour. God, that’s all I need, to get ill now.
She looked at the pile of paperwork in her in-tray. Welcome to the paperless office. Yeah, right.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Stars sparkled and faded.
The phone rang.
A deep breath.
Come on, DI Pepper. Do the job.
Moran sat heavily in his chair and picked a buff-coloured folder from the top of the pile to his right. The pile on his left, his out-tray, had not grown significantly. The rumble of traffic from the inner distribution road and odd snatches of passing conversation from beyond his office went unheeded as he turned over the morning briefing again in his mind, looking for anything they might have missed. There was a lot to do, a lot of ground to cover.
Moran toyed with the folder, turning the corner up and down, thinking about Michelle LaCroix’s rise to prominence. His thoughts turned to the ex-band mates – left behind as the star of the show began her short-lived fast-track to fame. Motives there, surely? If not motives, then deeper insights certainly. And the boyfriend – Bola and George would be getting to grips with him shortly. If the guy was still out of it he’d be headed for a night in custody to detox. Butterfield would have insights too, grieving or not – maybe more than just insights…
There was something not right about this whole case, and it was bothering him. Suicide? He didn’t buy it. Suicide as art? That sounded totally crazy. But it did seem as if Michelle had been something of a wild child, prone to bouts of depression, so maybe…
He needed someone to open up – preferably someone who had been closer than close to Michelle. He espied George McConnell through a gap in the badly-fitted blinds of his office window; the little Scot was busy dispensing tasks, waving his arms animatedly to emphasise a point. Moran replaced the folder carefully on the right-hand pile,
fished his car keys from the drawer and groaned when he saw the invite. Neighbours. Tonight. This time he had to make the effort, having bypassed the Christmas drinks invitation and the ‘get to know the neighbours’ Easter coffee morning. They understood he was busy, sure, but there was busy and just damned unsociable.
Which is about right, Brendan, let’s face it…
George had stopped talking and was shrugging his wiry frame into his jacket.
Come on, Brendan. Make yourself useful…
Moran heaved his office door open. It stuck as usual and he heaved again. When were the damn carpenters coming to fix it? He’d walked just two paces into the open plan when one of the team, a young officer recently promoted from uniform, sprang to her feet, almost knocking her chair over while making excited movements with her free hand. ‘There is? Now?’ The frantic, inclusive gestures continued.
‘Something’s occurring. I’ll get Charlie,’ Bola said to Moran.
The young officer was almost shouting down the phone. ‘Can you keep him there? Yes, yes. That’s right. No, just act normally. Maybe … maybe you can tell him you have to make a call to establish value – whatever. Yes, that sounds OK. We’ll have someone there as soon as possible. My name? Oh, yes, DC Bower. Yes, with a B. Yes, I’ll stay on the line.’
Bower covered the receiver with one hand which, Moran noticed, was trembling.
‘What’s up? Moran voiced the question first. From the corner of his eye he could see Charlie approaching at the double.
Bower’s words came tumbling. ‘The first pawn shop I tried, guv. The owner says there’s someone there now, asking about a ring – it sounds like the one, I mean, it must be, right? Can’t be many around with the same design, and the price, you know? Has to be it – hang on, he’s back on. Hello? Yes, I’m here. Right, that’s great. Try to get a good look at him. We’ll need a description if we – yes, yes, we’re sending someone right now.’
Charlie’s voice was calm. ‘Bola – get yourself over there, please. Sharpish. And George.’
Tess had been listening to the exchange from her desk. Now she came to join them at Bower’s workstation. ‘I’ll go, boss. You need George here.’
‘No. It’s OK, Tess. Concentrate on the Evening Post job.’
‘Collingworth can handle that – his idea anyway. You need George here.’
Charlie glanced at Moran. He said nothing but with a look, gave Charlie the answer he would have given.
To her credit, Charlie’s hesitation was minimal. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sure. You’re right. Quick as you can, please. Across town on foot – no point taking a car.’
Moran watched them go. He caught George’s eye.
So they both felt it; a sense of something out of kilter, that something untoward was about to happen, something nobody could have predicted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘You know the place?’ Bola spoke briskly, saving his energy. They were headed through the pedestrianised centre of Reading towards the Kings Road where the old pawn shop rubbed shoulders uncomfortably with the trendy cafés, bars and restaurants of the new development around the library and canal.
‘Yep,’ Tess replied, as tersely. ‘Never been inside, but I know it.’
They reached Jackson’s Corner, crossed the busy interchange and broke into a run by the estate agent. Bola stole a glance at his colleague. Cheeks slightly flushed, a few beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. ‘Where are uniform when you need them?’
‘Where indeed?’
Bola knew what Tess was thinking. They were close to the canal, where she’d sustained a shotgun flesh wound during the MI5 case. Both were aware, but neither had made any comment when DC Bower gave them the address, although Bola had clocked the look Charlie had given the guv.
They could see the shop now, the Medici three-sphere symbol prominently suspended from an ornate wrought-iron structure above the plate-glass window.
‘Let’s hope he’s still–’
Bola’s words froze as the door was pulled violently open, smashed against the door stop, and a well-built guy in his early thirties emerged. He looked both ways, saw them, and promptly took off along the Kings Road, shoulder-length hair whipping behind him like a horse’s mane.
‘I’ll take him,’ Bola said. ‘Meet you in the shop.’
Bola set off in pursuit, legs pumping. He saw the guy reach the traffic lights and veer right to cross the canal bridge. From the look he’d got at him, he was pretty sure of the fugitive’s small-timer status. A chancer, cashing in. Not much brain power. Who’d try to flog a ring as expensive and unusual as this? Idiot.
He redoubled his efforts and saw with satisfaction that he was closing the distance. Bola was fit and athletic, and proud of it. He rarely missed his daily workout and this was the reason he stuck to it. Tess would be OK at the shop. He’d get this guy tackled and banged up, no probs.
Tess opened the pawn shop door, did a 180. A glass counter running the length of the room. All manner of goods on display in free-standing cabinets. CCTV camera at ten o’clock. No staff, no customers in sight, but something set her senses to full alert. A noise, suppressed but urgent, coming from–
Behind the counter.
‘Police. Stand up, very slowly. I’m armed.’
Liar…
The stillness was something Tess could almost touch. Her heart was hammering.
Oh god, it’s going to happen again…
All her instincts were telling her to run, get out. Whatever was behind that counter was bad, rotten, dangerous. She could smell it.
‘Counting to three.’
A shuffling sound, a grunt, as if some unseen person was being restrained, hurt.
She moved a step closer. Now she could see a few items on top of the glass counter, as if the proprietor had been showing a customer a selection of … what? Jewellery. Tess could see open cases, a hands-free telephone on its side. Something else…
Blood, in two distinct pools, spreading over the glass top.
‘One.’ Her voice sounded flat in the enclosed space.
Another sound, more distinct this time. Someone rising to their feet, a scraping of shoes on the cheap linoleum.
Bola … where are you…
‘Two.’
Tess bit hard on her lip, cast about for some means of defence. Better, surely, just to backtrack, get out. Wait for Bola, call for backup…
A wall clock chimed and she almost screamed. A passing bus shook the building as it moved along the Kings Road. Normality, just metres away.
‘Last chance. I’m coming over. Hands raised high – please. We don’t want anyone to get hur–’
Tess stepped back as, slowly, a man appeared above the counter’s reflective horizon. His body seemed to unwind, to unravel as he got to his feet, a strange elastic movement, like a reptile, maybe, a snake, or, or…
Her limbs wouldn’t move, her voice was dried up, her brain in neutral. She could only watch as the man’s face broke into a languid smile. It was a plain face, almost featureless. Only the eyes seemed alive, glinting in dark sockets.
‘No,’ the man said easily. ‘We don’t want anyone to get hurt, that’s right.’
The voice was as featureless as the face. It was as though all trace of accent had been meticulously erased, sliced and trimmed until nothing was left but angular consonants and perfectly rounded vowels.
Tess tried to moisten her lips, to issue a command, a word, anything…
The man spoke, or was it in her head? She couldn’t think, it was all wrong…
‘I’m going to slip out now,’ the voice said. ‘We will meet again, be sure of it.’
Tess blinked. Something about the way he was looking at her … something almost possessive… but in a moment the man was behind her, the door had opened and closed and she was alone.
Not quite. The proprietor.
The spell was broken. Tess rushed to the counter. A man was on the floor behind it, bleeding from a head wound. S
he vaulted the glass and squatted beside the body, heard the door rattle on its hinges.
‘Tess? You there?’
Bola’s voice bounced around the shop like a stray basketball.
‘Here, Bola. Behind the counter.’
She held the man’s head in her hands, fished for a handkerchief, anything to stem the bleeding. He groaned, opened his eyes, the pupils turned up under his eyelids.
She felt Bola beside her. ‘Ambulance, big man. This guy’s in serious trouble.’
Bola nodded. ‘On it.’
Tess pressed the handkerchief to the head wound but it was saturated in seconds. Blood pooled around her until her knees were wet with it. Seconds passed, minutes.
Outside the sirens howled, drew nearer.
‘Did you catch him?’ Tess tried to keep her tone even, calm and conversational but she could hear her words sticking, the tremor obvious to her if not to Bola.
The paramedics finished trolleying the injured man into the ambulance. Two jumped in with him, the third went to the cab and gave them a brief wave. Blue lights flashed, the engine revved.
‘Did I catch him?’ Bola’s face creased into a grin. ‘What do you think? Uniform are nicking him even as we speak. Caught him before he’d got to Queens Road.’
