by Scott Hunter
The nurses began to march past in single file, heads nodding and bobbing, as if some hidden puppeteer was pulling strings from on high.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tess retrieved the photograph from the scanner and went to her workstation, pulse racing. Her collar was damp with sweat. She fired up Chrome, accessed the intranet, clicked the link for the FR software. Staff were arriving for the morning shift, but so far, no one from the team. George and Bola had probably had a late one.
Keeping her eye on the open plan, particularly the far door which led up from the underground car park, she browsed through the software’s menu and uploaded the photo.
Searching…
Come on. She framed her face with her hands, rubbed her sore eyes. She was in dire need of coffee but a trip to the machine was too risky. No time. Get this done, get it sorted. Anytime now, Collingworth would appear. He was an early bird, keen as mustard. A sudden flashback reminded her of what had happened. She could smell his aftershave, feel his breath on her neck, his crestfallen expression as she pulled away…
You’re an idiot, Tess.
The software’s hourglass was still revolving slowly. The POI’s face was frozen at the top of her screen. She didn’t recognise him. What if he didn’t have any previous? What if she couldn’t trace him? What if…?
The program completed with an unceremonious No Matches popup. Her heart sank.
Tess continued to stare at the useless screen as her thoughts tumbled over one another. OK, no choice now. Call up the Oxford SR team. But how to keep it under the radar? She bit her lip until she tasted blood. The answer was clear. No calls or emails. Personal visit.
Tess downloaded the image to a USB stick, deleted it from her desktop, emptied the recycle bin and logged out. She hurried down the back stairs to the car park. She could make Oxford by nine, no problem. But how to explain her absence?
Worry about that later…
The car park was quiet, thank God. Still too early for the morning rush. Her footsteps echoed wetly on the concrete apron. She bleeped her car, opened the door, dropped keys and bag inside, was about to get in when a voice called her name.
Tess spun on her heel.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s Tracy Jones – from The Sun group. I believe you’re working with DI Charlie Pepper on the LaCroix case?’
‘What if I am?’ Tess felt her hackles rise.
‘Any chance of an update? I understand that there’s been some interest in a churchyard in Goring?’
‘Have you been spying on me?’
‘Just doing my job, DC Martin.’
‘Take a hike.’ Tess felt her blood temperature rising. The bloody nerve…
‘A few words will do. The whole country wants to know what happened to Michelle, DC Martin. You are aware of that?’
‘Of course I’m aware.’
‘Well then?’ Jones held out her iPhone.
‘Investigation ongoing. That’s it. Now piss off.’
‘Who was the guy you were talking to at the hospital?’
Tess stopped dead, half-in, half out of the car. ‘What did you say?’
‘The tall guy, outside the HDU?’ Jones was wearing a ‘how damn clever am I’ expression.
‘None of your business,’ Tess hissed. ‘That was personal.’
‘Didn’t look like it.’ Jones shrugged. ‘Looked serious to me. Like you were worried about something.’
Tess planted both her feet onto the concrete, squared up to the journalist. ‘Take my advice. Go back to your desk and work on something else.’
Jones raised both eyebrows. ‘Wow. Have I touched a nerve, or what?’
Tess was out of patience and time was short. ‘Just leave it, OK?’ She opened her bag to retrieve her keys. They weren’t there. She rummaged, trying to quell a feeling of rising panic.
Jones watched her with interest. ‘Something’s really got to you, I reckon.’
Tess rummaged on, then realised that she’d already taken the keys out, put them on the seat.
Idiot…
Jones toyed with the buttons of her phone. ‘The guy spoke to someone else too, after you left. Want to know who?’
‘Get lost.’
‘A woman,’ Jones persisted. ‘Young. Bit of a corker, as we say in these parts.’
Jones leaned into the car as Tess belted up. ‘Quite a tiff, I reckon. I wonder what they were so excited about? I’ll find out, you know. It’s what I do.’
Tess started the engine, looked Jones in the eye. ‘I catch criminals. It’s what I do. I know what they’re capable of, and I’m warning you, for your own good. Back off.’
Without waiting for Jones’ response she slammed the door, tore out of the space and, with a vice-like grip on the steering wheel, joined the impatient traffic on the IDR.
‘Morning, all. Eyes front, please. Let’s get these brains into gear.’ Moran stepped up to his customary position by the whiteboard. It felt right. He didn’t need to pretend to himself that he was fine taking a back seat. This was where he belonged, what he was good at. He was all for giving talented officers an opportunity to shine, but for now, through no fault of her own, Charlie was out of the picture.
He felt guilty, nevertheless, frustrated for Charlie. Bad luck, that’s all, sheer bad luck. There’d be other cases, other ways to get her back on track with her seniors. He’d see to that personally. But for now … business as usual.
He surveyed the room, paused at each expectant face. George looked bright and cheery, ready for action. Bola, less so. If black men could look grey, Bola was doing a fine job of it right now. Moran made a mental note. DC Collingworth seemed a little jaded, too. The stakeout. Long night. No result, so he’d heard. Well, there was always tonight.
Where was Tess Martin, though? He scanned left to right. DC Tomlinson, and a mate of his, another new arrival on the team whose name Moran couldn’t recall, sitting together. But no Tess. Well, he’d have to press on regardless.
‘Right then, down to brass tacks. First of all, sincere apologies that I had to scrub the briefing last night. Other developments captured my attention, for reasons which will soon become clear. Now, I know some of you cancelled plans, stayed later than usual, got yourselves in hot water with the other halves, and so on.’
Moran paused for the murmurs of mutual sympathy to dissipate.
He held up his hand to restore quiet. ‘Sure, you can make it up to your various amours when we’ve nailed whoever’s responsible for Michelle LaCroix’s murder … and you’ll notice that I no longer qualify that statement. Murder is what we’re dealing with here, not assisted suicide, nor any other weird and wonderful theory. It’s murder, pure and simple. Wait, hold that; maybe not so simple. That’s what we’ve yet to establish.’
Moran briefed the attentive police officers, focusing on the audio revelation and his intention to keep the pressure on Nedwell.
‘He’s admitted to fixing the recording, but he’s adamant that the wrong version ended up in the grave. So, we want to talk to a young fella named Luca. He apparently passed the recording on to the suspects. Nedwell may know more, but he’s either too scared or too stubborn to come out with it. More work required. And that means asking the right questions, DCs Odunsi and McConnell.’
Nods.
‘You can catch up on your sleep later, DC Odunsi,’ Moran said pointedly. There were a few nudges, knowing looks. Bola lapped it up; he enjoyed his reputation as a ladykiller. And as long as it didn’t compromise his job, Moran was prepared to tolerate, if not celebrate, the Detective Constable’s peccadilloes. He’d veered close to the boundary line once or twice though, most notably with an undercover MI5 officer. The chastising experience clearly hadn’t put him off.
‘Some good news.’ Moran allowed himself a smile, a brief optimistic flicker, ‘is that our friend, Mr Milton, has regained consciousness. I’ve had him moved to a more secure location, just to be safe. Yes, DC Collingworth?’
�
��Any idea if and when he’ll be fit for questioning, guv?’
‘Possibly later this morning, I’m told. I’m awaiting an update.’
The mood in the room lightened, the subsequent gentle buzz of approving murmurs and comments music to Moran’s ears. They badly needed something tangible, encouraging. Time for another boost.
‘You’ll also be glad to hear that DI Pepper is on the mend. No further complications since yesterday. She can receive visitors this evening if anyone wants to pop in and say hello.’
The atmosphere could hardly be described as buoyant, Moran thought, but it was a good deal better than earlier. Now for assignments.
‘DC Collingworth. Let me know when DC Martin checks in, please. Let’s give the Goring stakeout one more night before we write it off. I have a couple of suggestions.’
‘Guv.’ Collingworth nodded, made a note.
‘Bola and George. Back to Nedwell. Get him rattled. I want connections. Connections we don’t yet have. Who are these people? Why target Michelle? What was she to them? A threat of some sort, yes, but what kind of threat? Musical?’ Moran shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. These guys sound like pros – if Nedwell’s telling the truth and they exist outside his imagination. They don’t sound like jealous musical rivals to me.’
George’s hand was up. ‘Guv, the guy you clocked in the churchyard? Same guy Tess saw, maybe? You think he’s one of Nedwell’s hard men?’
Moran puffed out his cheeks. ‘Could be, George. If our pawnbroker remembers anything it may join the dots for us.’
‘He seems to have a knack for giving us the slip,’ George said. ‘It’s like he’s a ghost or something.’
Moran shook his head. ‘Nothing paranormal about this fella, George. His heart is beating just like yours and mine. He’s good, I’ll grant you that, but we’re better, right?’
‘Too right, guv.’ George nodded. He looked around for support and found it in a chorus of echoed sentiments.
Moran surveyed the room again and was pleased with what he saw. ‘That’s all for the moment. Don’t forget, zip up when you enter and leave the building. The vultures are poised. Don’t let them choose you for dinner. Thanks for your time.’
Moran slipped away, leaving the IR bubbling with a hundred simultaneous conversations and positively crackling with energy. He needed a few minutes to himself to think.
Moran fired up his desktop. Last time he’d checked his emails there’d been some IT message announcing mail server issues. It wouldn’t hurt to check; maybe Tess had sent in a sick note.
Moran waited patiently as the backlog of emails filled his inbox. He scanned them top to bottom as they arrived. Nothing. It wasn’t like her to go AWOL without letting anyone know. She’d been front and centre with the LaCroix case right from the start. Perhaps he’d call her, just a gentle enquiry. Last thing he wanted was for her to feel he was on her case.
A name caught his attention. Bagri, Moninder. The pathologist. An update. Moran checked the email sent date. Hell, this was forty-eight hours old. He clicked the message open and read:
My dear Inspector Moran,
Please excuse my tardiness in making this information available to you – it may or may not affect your deliberations and investigations. You recall that I pointed out an old operative scar on Ms LaCroix’ s abdomen. Further examination has revealed that one of her kidneys has been removed, I am estimating three, perhaps four years ago. The closure was poorly performed, leaving much scar tissue. I am surprised to find such a thing. It must have been a painful experience for the poor girl as it is not something I would expect to find in a young person living in the United Kingdom. Please let me know if you need more information.
Kind regards,
M Bagri.
Moran sprang to his feet, let out a muffled curse as his leg, protesting at the sudden movement, shot a bolt of pain through his hip. He limped to the door, changed his mind, went back to his desk, rummaged through the papers in his in-tray until he found what he was looking for: Mr and Mrs LaCroix’s address. He quickly made his way downstairs. This could be a major red herring, but Moran’s antennae were vibrating with a new energy. Some called it a gut feeling; Moran preferred the phrase ‘logical intuition’.
As he exited the car park he mentally berated email, computers and everything generally IT-related. What was wrong with good, old-fashioned paper? Paper didn’t get caught up in some virtual post room; it got bloody delivered. On time, nine times out of ten. He’d lost two days because of the email outage.
But this was what he’d been looking for: a reason, a motive for Michelle’s murder. He didn’t know how, or whom, yet. But he would, eventually.
And someone, possibly a tall, grey man in a fedora, was going to find out that crossing an Irishman was a very bad idea indeed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Still no Tess?’ George leaned over Collingworth’s desk.
Collingworth continued typing.
George tapped the DC on the shoulder. ‘I asked you a question.’
Collingworth stopped typing, looked up. ‘I heard you.’
‘Well?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Have you called her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s a big girl. She can look after herself.’
George felt his face flush. ‘She’s been through a lot. The least you could do is call her.’
‘I said I’m going to, OK?’ Collingworth resumed typing.
George leaned forward and turned off Collingworth’s screen.
‘What the he–’
Heads at nearby workstations turned. Conversations halted in mid-flow.
‘Call her now.’ George found Collingworth’s eyes and held them.
There was a brief pause as Collingworth seemed to weigh up the best course of action. He folded his arms. ‘I get it, George. You were a team. She was your buddy. You like her.’
‘Call her,’ George said.
‘I’m not her keeper. I’ll call her when I’ve finished what I’m doing.’
‘You want to talk about this outside?’
‘What?’ Collingworth’s voice rose to a pitch of disbelief. ‘Come on, George, you’ve got to be–’
‘The name’s DC McConnell. Let’s talk outside.’
Collingworth moistened his lips, nodded. ‘You been at the sauce again, is that it?’
‘What did you say?’ George blinked. The red rage was rising. He couldn’t stop it now. He leaned over, grabbed Collingworth by the shoulder, hauled him out of his chair.
‘George! Hey!’
George heard Bola’s voice as a plain white background against a scarlet mist. For a few seconds both colours fought it out. Red faded to a pale pink. The mist cleared. He let Collingworth go. Bola’s hand was on his arm.
‘George, mate,’ Bola was saying. ‘Let’s get a coffee, OK?’ To Collingworth, ‘Sorry – I’ve got this. Forget it, all right?’
Collingworth brushed himself down, glared as Bola led George away.
Bola stopped outside the lifts, jabbed George in the stomach. ‘Are you crazy? I mean, what the hell?’
George lifted his hands defensively. ‘All right, all right. I was out of order. No harm done.’
‘No harm? If I hadn’t turned up, then what? If the guv had seen you–’
‘The guv’s gone out. Left in a hurry.’
‘Whatever. You get my point, though, yes?’
George couldn’t remember when he’d seen Bola as angry as he clearly was now. ‘Look,’ he explained, ‘that cocky little so-and-so is supposed to be looking out for Tess. And has he called her? No.’
‘She’ll be OK, George. Be cool. Get over it, man.’
‘Get over what, exactly?’
Bola clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Are you kidding? Everyone knows you have a thing for Tess.’
George opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. Everyone knew. Of course they did. But if
Collingworth wasn’t looking out for her, someone had to. And he was that someone.
Bola was looking at him. ‘So. Are we doing this interview, or what?’
‘Only after I’ve called her.’ George produced his mobile, punched a shortcut, met Bola’s gaze, eyeball to eyeball, daring him to object.
‘OK, OK. When you’re ready. Meet you there.’
Bola strode off, his body language drawing concerned looks from a passing WPC.
George wasn’t bothered. He was listening to Tess’ voicemail service telling him that she couldn’t answer right now but would get back to him as soon as possible.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr LaCroix.’ If Moran had been wearing a hat, he’d have removed it. There was something in the elderly man’s manner, an impressive old school dignity, which made him feel like an unwelcome intruder from a troubled and sinful world. Which, he supposed, he was. Moreover, he suspected, the trouble was about to get worse.
‘Please, come in. We are happy to help, in any way we can.’
Moran was shown into a plainly decorated lounge where Mrs LaCroix was waiting, perched on a corner of a long, cream sofa, hands folded in her lap, knees together, lending her the appearance of a child on best behaviour, ready to receive unwelcome but inescapable visitors.
‘You have something to tell us? Please–’ He indicated an armchair and Moran sat down. Mr LaCroix joined his wife on the sofa and took her hand. Their eyes briefly met and Mrs LaCroix managed a weak smile. They’d been through a lot together, that much was apparent to Moran.
