by Scott Hunter
Povey’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘You leave my mum out of this.’
‘No offence. I’m going to step outside now to have a chat with my colleagues, let you think it over.’ Tess went to the door, opened it. The fresh air fanned her face. She turned to Povey. ‘And no sneaking off while my back’s turned. I have the photo, and if you go AWOL, the police will have it within the hour. Then you’re screwed.’
Without waiting for Povey’s response, Tess ducked into the street, gratefully sucking in lungfuls of air.
She gave him two minutes. When she went back in Povey was all smiles.
‘You ain’t got no colleagues. You’re wingin’ this, ain’t you?’
‘Makes no odds, either way.’ Tess shrugged. ‘Just tell me what I want to know, and I’m gone.’
Povey nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Want a coffee?’
She did. She was desperate for coffee, but not here, never here. ‘No thanks. Just the info.’
Povey appeared to consider for a moment. Eventually he said, ‘If I tell you, you’ll guarantee to keep me out of it?’
‘Yes.’
Povey sniffed, wiped his nose on a grubby sleeve. ‘Me and Jim, we were about to dig, right? Some local geezer, put under a few weeks back. Loaded, we reckoned. Worth a look. They always put somethin’ in, the women. Wedding ring usually stays on, maybe a piece of her jewellery, y’know, a piece of her with him an’ that. Sentimental, like.’
‘Go on.’
‘So, Jim says, hang on a mo’ – somethin’s occurrin’. And I looks, and there’s two blokes carrying somethin’, comin’ towards us, like. So we back off and wait to see what’s goin’ down.’
‘Two people? Male?’
‘Yeah. A tall geezer and a stocky little guy. Anyway, they go right off to the edge of the yard, and we sneak a bit closer, an’ there’s already a hole there, all dug and ready, covered over with a tarpaulin. They put the box down, we can see it’s like a coffin, only not, kind of custom-made, and they get the ropes sorted, like they do, and lower it in.’
‘So they knew what they were about? Like they’d done this kind of thing before?’
Povey nodded. ‘Oh yeah. They knew what they was up to, for sure.’
‘And then?’
‘That was that. They covered it over, and went off. I says to Jim, go see where they go, like, and I thinks about what to do.’
‘I’m still listening.’
‘You keep Jim out of this too, right? He’s all right, is Jim.’
‘I’m not even going to ask about Jim. This is between you and me.’
Another sniff. A nod. ‘OK. So, we wait a bit, maybe twenty minutes, half-hour, I dunno. And then we go and take a look at what’s in there.’
‘You uncovered the grave?’
‘Yeah. Easy enough. We had the gear, and the earth was still soft, see? After they’d shovelled it all back.’
‘And you found her.’
Povey hesitated. ‘Yeah. The girl.’
‘She was dead?’
A nod. ‘Oh yeah, dead as a door nail.’ Povey fell silent.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Very young, she was,’ Povey said. ‘I mean, you don’t mind the old ‘uns so much, they’ve had a life, right? But when you sees a youngster, it upsets you a bit, know what I mean?’
‘I’m touched.’
Povey’s expression changed from reflection to irritation. ‘Don’t take the piss. I mean it. It was a shock.’
‘What next?’
‘Yeah, well, I just wanted out, but Jim says, no, wait, the ring. I says, no, come on, leave it. It ain’t right. But he says, look at the size of it, it’s gotta be worth a bomb. But it wouldn’t come off, would it?’
Tess felt nausea rise in the pit of her stomach. Povey clocked her expression.
‘It wasn’t my idea. Jim really wanted it, see? I looked at the girl again, and that’s when I thought, it’s that kid on the telly, the singer. Well, Jim was even more determined then, wasn’t he? ‘Cause he thought, y’know, rock star, big money.’
‘OK, I can guess the next bit.’
Povey was unapologetic. ‘Yeah, Jim hacked it off. But in the end, we left it there. Not exactly deliberately, like. We was going’ ter bury it again, y’know. Leave it with the body. But what I mean is, well, Jim actually lost it, if I’m honest.’
‘Lost it?’ Tess shook her head. These guys were something else.
Povey spread his hands. ‘We was spooked. We just wanted to hurry up, get out, y’know? It was dark – you couldn’t see yer hand in front of yer face. And Jim, ‘e dropped it somewhere, didn’t ‘e?’ Povey shrugged.
‘But you reburied the body?’
‘Oh yeah. Did a good job, too. Time we left, you’d never know.’
‘I’ll bet. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You’re bona fide experts, by now.’
Povey shook his head. ‘Boner-what? I dunno. It was all wrong, anyhow, seein’ that young kid in there like that. It was a right cock-up, that night was.’
‘And the two guys who did it? I’m waiting for a description.’
‘I told you, didn’t I? One tall, one stocky.’
‘That’s it?’
Povey got up, went to the coffee table, shoved a few cartons aside. He picked up a piece of paper, handed it to Tess.
‘Like I told you – I sent Jim to take a look as they went off.’
Tess looked at the paper. On it was scribbled a few letters and numbers. It took her tired brain a second or two to assemble the dyslexic scribble into something coherent.
A car registration number.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
George looked up as a brief knock interrupted the interview, and Bola stopped in mid-question. ‘DCI Moran has entered the room. Interview paused at–’ he glanced at the wall clock ‘–twelve-ten.’ He hit the stop button on the audio recorder.
Moran beckoned. ‘A word, both.’
Nedwell stood up.
‘Not you,’ Bola said. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Nedwell waved his finger. ‘You can’t keep me here. You guys are way out of order. I asked for a solicitor–’
‘Back soon.’ George gave him an assured wave, closed the door. Nedwell’s yells of protest followed them into the corridor.
‘You first,’ Moran said. ‘Anything concrete?’
‘He’s still holding out on something, guv,’ George said. ‘Says all he can remember is being scared – very scared – and that these guys were serious. They kept an eye on him, regularly, until he’d put the recording together from bits of out-takes, conversational stuff between the control room and the studio during Michelle’s demo recordings. Clever stuff, but then he’s a good engineer.’
‘Still maintaining it was the wrong recording?’ Moran enquired.
‘Yep. He reckons what went into the grave was one of the early versions, untreated. Just the raw splices. He doesn’t know how that happened, unless his buddy Luca was playing silly buggers, for whatever reason.’
‘Tomlinson’s on that,’ Moran said. ‘So far, no joy. Luca’s gone to ground, probably in London according to his housemate. Tomlinson’s arranging the house search, although I doubt Luca would leave any evidence lying around if he’s up to no good.’
‘Why would he switch the recordings, though? What possible good would that do?’ Bola knitted his brow.
‘It left us a signpost – which led us straight to Nedwell,’ Moran said. ‘If the pristine recording had gone into the grave as intended, we’d have no clue where to look. Or even if we did, we’d have nothing against Nedwell.’
‘So, it’s a fit-up? Against Nedwell?’ George said.
‘Maybe. But Nedwell’s not off the hook yet. In fact, he might be hanging from something much worse.’
Bola and George exchanged glances.
‘Music’s taking a back seat from this point,’ Moran explained. ‘Bagri emailed an update, but thanks to t
he mail server issue I only got it this morning. Michelle’s scar – the one on her abdomen – she’s missing a kidney. Her parents confirmed that something happened a few years back, something odd. She was unwell. Some medic turned up, sorted her out – off the books, mind.’
‘Bloody hell,’ George said. ‘Organ trafficking.’
‘Perhaps,’ Moran said. ‘And Mrs LaCroix gave a reasonably accurate description of your friend Nedwell visiting Michelle in connection with whatever was going on, so he can say goodbye to any prospect of getting out of here for the time being. DC Odunsi? Something wrong?’
‘Not sure, guv.’ Bola moistened his lips.
‘Spit it out.’
‘A scar, you say? On the abdomen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kind of a ragged scar?’
‘According to Bagri, a poorly – or hastily – executed incision. Why?’
George’s face had adopted a weary, seen-this-before expression. ‘For god’s sake, Bola–’
‘It was only a one-off,’ Bola said. ‘I mean, I didn’t think she had anything to do with anything. She was just visiting Butterfield’s place, right?’
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
‘Would someone care to enlighten me?’ Moran cocked his head to one side. George looked as if he knew something, but appeared to have found something more interesting under one of his fingernails.
‘Gill Crossley-Holland,’ Bola said eventually. ‘A mate of Butterfield’s. Well, a neighbour, an acquaintance, whatever. She gave me the come-on.’
‘Crossley-Holland?’ Moran frowned. ‘Wait, I know her. Or, I should say, a friend of mine knows her … anyway, what’s your point, DC Odunsi, before I frog-march you to my office for the formal reprimand you so clearly deserve?’
Bola exhaled. ‘I’m sorry, guv. Really. It was stupid.’
‘Once is stupid. Twice is something else. Again, what’s your point?’
‘That scar you’re talking about, on Michelle’s abdomen? Crossley-Holland has one as well.’
Moran held a hand to his forehead. ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Well, that could be one big, fat coincidence – or not, as may be. Leave it with me for now. In the meantime, back in there, the pair of you. Grill Nedwell about Butterfield and Michelle. They’ve spent time with him – a lot of time – recording music, chewing the fat. See if you can make any connections with Crossley-Holland. And here’s something to ponder – did Ms Crossley-Holland visit Butterfield purely out of sympathetic, neighbourly concern? Or did she have something else in mind?’
‘Five minutes, max.’ The nurse shot Moran a stern frown.
‘Right you are,’ Moran agreed. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘You’ll do better than that,’ she said. ‘You’ll stick to it, or else you’ll answer to me. That poor man’s been in the wars, right enough. The last thing he needs is an interrogation.’
Moran held both hands up in surrender. ‘Just a quick in and out, that’s all.’
She gave him a brief nod, but Moran detected the twinkle in her eye. Salt of the earth, his ma would have called her.
And it’s the likes of her that’s keeping the NHS afloat, that’s for sure…
His nostrils twitched as he entered the side ward. The combination of smells – the warm, electric scent of the purring machines, the tang of antiseptic mixed with the headier fragrance of stronger medication – always made him feel slightly nauseous.
The figure on the bed was lying very still, immobilised not just by trauma, but also by the tubes and various connections snaking from his limbs to the gently pulsing instruments at his bedside.
‘Mr Milton?’
Foolish to expect an immediate response. Moran went on. ‘My name is Moran. I’m from Thames Valley Police. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need to ask you a few brief questions. Is that all right? The nurse will shoot me if I go over my allocated five minutes, so…’.
‘I’ll bet you didn’t find it.’
Moran was taken aback by both the swiftness of Milton’s response and the clarity of his speech. This guy was made of strong stuff, indeed he was.
‘Find what, exactly?’ Moran found that he was speaking in a near whisper, his ‘hospital’ voice. He cleared his throat, but Milton was already clarifying his opener.
‘The other CCTV cam. The hidden one.’
A spark of hope shot through Moran like a current from one of Milton’s machines. ‘What hidden cam, Mr Milton?’
‘I had it installed, to be certain, you see. Had a spate of shoplifting last year. Couple of threats, nothing new. Seen it all before. So, kept the main cam – the obvious candidate for thievery. All working, so it’s pukka. But I had a smaller one fitted too, just in case. Bet he didn’t find it.’
‘And where exactly is it located?’ Moran prompted, not that Milton required any prompting.
‘The Hockney print, to the right of the counter. Mini-cam through the wheel of the car to the left of the diving board.’
‘A picture,’ Moran said. ‘On the wall.’ And we missed it?
‘That’s the one. Footage goes straight to a hard disk set into the wall cavity just behind it.’
‘That’s very helpful – and very far-sighted of you, Mr Milton. I’ll get the team onto it, pronto.’
The nurse had appeared, hovering behind him like a bird of prey. Moran could feel her presence. He raised his hand. ‘Almost done, nurse. Mr Milton, can you recall anything about the man who attacked you?’
Milton coughed, cleared his throat, raised his head a little from the pillow.
‘Not a Brit, that much I can say. Polish maybe, from his accent, or somewhere else in Eastern Europe, I’d guess.’ He finished with a spate of coughing which propelled the nurse to centre stage.
‘That’s enough, officer. I’ll thank you to be on your way. Off you go, now. Let me attend to Mr Milton.’
Moran retreated, feeling like a chastised schoolboy. Outside in the bustling corridor, he called forensics. Yes, they’d brushed around the print. No, they hadn’t spotted the cam. He signed off, called Collingworth, told him to get over to the shop and retrieve the HD, lickety split.
He looked at his watch. Next port of call, Charlie Pepper’s ward.
Charlie was sitting on the edge of her bed, pale-faced and wearing a defeated look. She brightened as Moran came in. ‘Guv. I wasn’t expecting you. In fact, I was about to call you.’
‘You’re supposed to be concentrating on making a recovery,’ Moran smiled. ‘Not keeping tabs on us.’
‘Can’t switch off. Or rather, can’t switch off without the drugs.’ Charlie made a grimace.
‘Are you in pain? Shall I call someone?’
‘No, no. I’m fine. They knocked me out with something last night, I’m only just coming round. Last thing I want is more medication.’ Charlie rotated her finger around her temple in a doolally gesture.
Moran laughed. ‘Compos mentis, that’s the way.’
‘Guv, is Tess OK?’
‘Last time I looked, yes. Why?’
Charlie pursed her lips, fiddled with the name tag on her wrist. Her regulation nightie and bare legs made her look vulnerable, like a child. ‘I saw her last night. Here, I mean – in the corridor.’
‘She’s been popping in to check on Mr Milton – whom I’ve just seen, incidentally. He’s doing well.’
‘That’s good. That’s great,’ Charlie said. ‘But … oh, I don’t know. I was pretty out of it. Maybe it was nothing.’
‘Come on, come on. Let’s hear it.’ Moran sat himself down in the visitor’s chair. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s the wee, small things that can make a difference.’
‘OK. There was a guy. She was talking to him, outside – outside the ward, I mean. By the stairwell.’
‘Don’t tell me. Tall, fedora hat…’
Charlie looked down at the floor. ‘I know. Maybe I was imagining it. The anaesthetic… But it seemed
real. They were having quite a heated exchange, or it seemed like it.’
‘OK, noted,’ Moran nodded. ‘Tess is late in this morning.’ He held his hand up at Charlie’s reaction. ‘It’s probably nothing, so don’t be worrying over it. I’ll get Collingworth over to her place to make sure all’s well.’
‘But what if–’
‘–I’ll let you know as soon as I hear she’s OK. OK?’
Charlie’s shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘All right. You win.’
‘Tell you what you could do, if you feel up to it.’
Charlie’s chin came up. ‘What?’
‘There’s a surgeon, name of King – Alan King. I’d be interested to hear any gossip, get a feel for his reputation – only if you feel up to it, mind.’
Charlie’s eyes had regained some of their lustre. ‘Leave it with me, guv.’
‘Good. But that’s enough shop talk now, DI Pepper. My advice to you right now is to lie back and get yourself mended. I’ll keep you posted, never fear.’
Charlie swung her legs up onto the bed, rested her head on the pillow. ‘Is that an order?’
‘Most definitely.’ Moran smiled. ‘Catch you later.’
He left the smile at the ward exit door, took out his mobile and called Collingworth on the way to the car park. ‘DC Collingworth? Moran. Located the pawnshop cam?’ He listened impatiently to Collingworth’s detailed response. ‘And the hard disk? Good. DC Martin showed up? No? Get yourself over to her flat. Yes, now, and I mean now.’
Irritated, Collingworth left forensics to finish up and unlocked his car. Was it his responsibility that Tess hadn’t turned up? She was probably just making a point about last night. Women. Never knew what they really wanted. Still, she was worth being patient over. She liked him, that much was obvious. So, it was only a matter of biding his time, making the odd suggestion.
Collingworth hummed a tune and accompanied himself with light taps on the steering wheel as the car sped along the Wokingham road. Lower Earley, once the biggest new housing estate in the world, now a bunch of Eighties houses in rapid decline. As his dad used to say, they don’t make ‘em like they used to, son. Buy old, never new – the corners they cut these days, you wouldn’t believe it. But Tess hadn’t had the benefit of his dad’s advice, so she was holed up in some MDF maisonette with paper-thin walls and dodgy central heating. She was always banging on about it. Maybe that was a potential way in for him; easy to suggest he just pop over and take a look. No trouble.
