Never Dead

by Wonny Lea

  He walked to his study and from a locked drawer took out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and selected Samatar’s number. Despite the difference in time between the UK and America the phone was answered immediately.

  ‘I’ve been expecting a call. Did you manage to get hold of your mother’s papers?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And was her insurance policy worth as much as she made it out to be?’

  Charles didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t had the stomach to read it. ‘Suffice it to say that it’s better in my hands than being turned over to the police.’

  ‘So the bitch did name names, did she?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant now. I’m guessing you’re keeping up to speed with the news from here. It was suggested that Dalmar’s sister could identify people in relation to her brother’s death. That means Ahmed and, more importantly, me! Normally the police would act immediately on that, but if it comes down to my word against hers there’ll be no contest. Yes, Dalmar was killed at Woodcanton Hall, but I personally saw to it that every trace of him was wiped clean. I even had new flooring fixed over the concrete. The local SOC were down there a few days ago, trying to solve the mystery of my father’s car, but that was all.’

  Charles hesitated. ‘I think I’m going to take a look anyway, just to be sure. If that side of things is OK then I think I’m in the clear – There’s nothing that my lawyers won’t be able to sort. What’s happening with Ahmed?’

  ‘He’s my biggest problem at the moment. He could be staying –’

  ‘Don’t tell me where he is! The less I know, and the more distance there is between me and him, the better I like it. Can’t you just have him put down?’

  There was silence. Charles thought they’d been disconnected until Samatar’s cold voice replied.

  ‘That would be the way you English gentlemen deal with things that are no longer useful, but it’s not our way. Ahmed is a fellow countryman, a member of my extended family, and unlike you I have respect for my family. I’ll make whatever arrangements are necessary to get him out of the country – as you say, he’s not your problem.’

  ‘But he would be if the police caught up with him and he opened his big mouth. So make sure you do sort things out – and quickly.’ He cut the call.

  Samatar marvelled at the arrogance of the man he’d been speaking to. If self-importance and egotism were pre-requisites for a PM then he’d been speaking to a future government leader.

  He tried for the umpteenth time to contact Ahmed. The line was still dead, and so he went through the list of names he and Ahmed shared as contacts. In total there were eighteen names, and he’d almost come to the end of the list before he reached Nick Cutler.

  ‘Yes, he’s here, much to my wife’s disgust. She keeps telling me that every policeman in the country is looking for him, and we’ve got too much to lose if they come snooping around here.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘There’s no phone signal where he is, and I’m not going to risk him wandering about the farm with all the kids and families we’ve got here just now. I can give him a message.’

  ‘What I want you to do is give him a vehicle, and to make sure it’s got a full tank of petrol. I’ll ring you back in half an hour to give details of where I’ve arranged for him to go. Tell him to be prepared to move quickly.’

  Nick dodged the nagging questions from his wife about the call, and answered a few questions from farm visitors about why the pigs were so pink. When it was safe to do so he opened the security door and made his way to the rear of the animal enclosures. Ahmed was pacing about and his face was red and blotchy.

  ‘I can’t take much more! This bloody weed stinks, and I think I’m allergic to something it gives off. Look at me – I’m pinker than your disgusting pigs.’

  Nick had to admit that Ahmed looked very hot and bothered.

  ‘You’re on the move anyway so no worries. Samatar has got something planned for you and wants you out of here quickly – so be ready to go.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, be ready to move? I’ve only got the clothes I stand up in and all the documents I need are in the car.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t take the car you drove here in, so get what you need from it and I’ll sort out some alternative transport.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I don’t even want to know. All I have to do is make sure you have plenty of petrol and tell you to make sure your phone is fully charged. When I get the next call I’ll tell you what time you’re to leave here.’

  True to his word Samatar made a second call to Nick exactly thirty minutes after the first, and soon after the farm had closed for visitors Ahmed was driving away in one of the vans usually used for transporting livestock. The smell in the van was more obnoxious than the cannabis, but Ahmed was in no position to argue.

  ‘Samatar’s instructions were for you to drive the first ten miles in the direction I’ve told you and then to wait for his call. That’s all I know and all I want to know.’ There were no fond farewells, and it was with considerable relief that Nick and his wife watched Ahmed drive away.

  Having just spent over twenty-four hours in the hothouse Ahmed was finding the early November evening very cold indeed. Although he was shivering from the cold his face and hands were burning up and he felt awful.

  After driving just over nine miles his phone sprang to life and lots of missed calls and messages flooded in. He ignored them all, but they prompted him to pull over to the side of the road in anticipation of the call he’d soon be getting from Samatar.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘Tell your DCI Phelps that his idea was nothing short of brilliant. He’s obviously got the measure of Charles Ferguson, and he was spot on with those papers – taught an old dog some new tricks there!

  ‘I’d made sure that William Everton and Sons had been instructed not to release any of Catherine Ferguson’s papers, but I hadn’t reckoned on Charles having such influence over the “and Sons”. Fortunately Martin had foreseen that possibility, and I’ve now got in my office photocopies of everything taken before the originals were handed over to Charles – and it all make compelling reading. I guess Catherine Ferguson knew the type of men that she was dealing with, and one notebook in particular she must have seen as her personal insurance policy. It’s stupid, really, because the contents implicate her as much as anyone else – but that won’t worry her now, which was probably always the plan.’

  DCI Mortimer paused for breath before continuing. ‘Anyway, she makes it very clear that the killer we’re looking for is named Ahmed Hassan, and I’ve got full details of his personal documentation here, as well as a comprehensive list of his known associates. Will you ask Martin to ensure his media friend tells the world?’

  Matt found Martin on the phone.

  ‘Tuesday the thirtieth is fine with us, Basra. Professor Moore suggests you get the undertakers to speak directly to him and together they’ll be able to make whatever arrangements you want. Sorry? Yes, of course I’ll join you and … what? Yes, of course, if that’s your wish.’

  ‘So have you had the DNA results?’ asked Matt.

  ‘No. But the Prof has told her to go ahead with the funeral anyway and she was just checking with me.’

  ‘Does she want you to be a bearer? Is that her wish? Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping …’

  ‘No – she just asked if I wouldn’t wear a suit!’

  ‘OK! Well what I really came to talk to you about is the conversation I’ve just had with Graham Mortimer. He’s had a chance to read the papers Catherine Ferguson left with her solicitors – well at least the photocopies. Charles did exactly as you suspected he would and has the originals in his possession. I’d love to be around when he explains that away.’

  Matt filled Martin in on the rest of his exchange with Mortimer and passed on the request for maximum media exposure. Without delay Martin phoned Laura Cummings.

  ‘A n
ame! You’re giving me the actual name of the man wanted for these murders. DCI Phelps, I love you!’

  Martin ignored the journalist’s last words but corrected one sentence. ‘Wanted in connection with these murders is as good as you get for now.’

  ‘Still that’s brilliant but my editor may want confirmation from you before he allows me to broadcast.’

  ‘Put him on – I want this this to be aired as soon as possible.’

  After giving the required endorsement Martin listened to the rest of Matt’s report.

  ‘A positive DNA result would be the icing on the cake, but DCI Mortimer believes he’s already got enough to bring Charles Ferguson in for questioning. Trouble is, he’s having problems locating him at the moment. His office isn’t expecting him and he’s not answering any of his phones. His sister’s got no idea where he is but needs to contact him to sort out some family matters.’

  ‘Woodcanton Hall?’ suggested Martin.

  ‘It’s a possibility, but if I were him I wouldn’t go near the place. Too many ghosts!

  It was a view shared by someone else in a very different type of conversation.

  ‘You’re off your fucking head! Nothing would induce me to go back to that place. It’ll be swarming with cops! I might just as well walk into the nearest station and hand myself in. Think again – it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Calm down and listen. There are very few options. Getting you out of the country by any of the conventional ways is out of the question. I’ve spoken to people who would usually help and they won’t have anything to do it – not for any amount of money. A helicopter is a perfectly good option, and thankfully I know someone who owns one. More to the point, I know that he uses his prize possession for trips other than the legitimate business that he declares … and he’d prefer me to keep my mouth shut. He’s brought the machine down in the grounds of Woodcanton Hall twice before, so that’ll give you a clue about his activities. The estimated time to land, get you on board, and get out again is apparently no more than five minutes. The engines won’t be switched off, and it will be for you to get yourself into position to be picked up. No one will be expecting this so you’ll have the element of surprise.’

  ‘I’d have to get inside the place first, and the cops are hardly likely to open the doors for me in my pig van.’

  Pig van ? Samatar didn’t bother asking for an explanation. ‘I spoke to Charles earlier, and he told me that the two entrances aren’t operated on the same security code, so you’ll be able to use the usual one for the rear gates. He says he plans on going to Woodcanton later to see exactly what’s going on there. I assumed he meant in relation to his mother’s death, but he kept harping on about the outbuildings. I think he’s losing the plot, so the sooner we get you out and leave him to stew in his own juice the better.

  ‘The police will be focusing on the inside of the house. They probably won’t even realise the helicopter was there until it’s all over. Even if they do pick up the sound before it lands, none of them will have the legs of Mo Farah and I’m not even sure he’d get there in time. It’s a really good plan and it will work.’

  Samatar’s positivity was rubbing off on Ahmed and he listened to details of timing and logistics.

  ‘Are you sure you can get it all sorted in such a short time?’

  ‘Positive. Just make your way to one of the lanes near the Hall and park out of sight. Keep your phone line open and be ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  Charles had already reached the front door of the house and was prevented from entering his mother’s part of the house by barriers of blue and white tape and an officious young officer.

  ‘You can’t go through there!’

  Rather more used to giving orders than taking them, Charles gave her a withering look before turning left into the room he’d always used as an office when he was at his parents’ home. He knew what Samatar was planning, and he thought it would be amusing to see the police being fooled as the killer the whole country was looking for escaped under their very noses. The thought made him smile and he felt more confident than he’d done for some time.

  He fancied a drink but knew that there’d be nothing worth having on this side of the house and so he settled for a coffee. All the time he listened and tried to second-guess what was happening just a few yards away.

  His new-found confidence would have vanished instantly if he’d been able to hear the call that was being made to DCI Mortimer.

  ‘He’s here, sir! No, he hasn’t said anything at all, and he’s in the house somewhere. No, that’s fine, we won’t speak to him or give him any clue that you want to speak to him – unless he gets into his car.’

  Armed with the information he’d been waiting for, the DCI put a call through to Goleudy and interrupted Martin and Matt who were enjoying one of Iris’s famous hot beef and horseradish rolls.

  ‘We’d love to be there when you arrest Charles Ferguson, but you’ll want to do it as soon as you can and it’s at least an hour down the motorway for us. Let us know how you get on. Oh, and there is someone who will want to be as close to the action as possible, and maybe she’ll have some local media contacts, so I’ll give Laura Cummings a call. She’s been such a help, and I’d be grateful if you could give her the first shout on whatever happens.’

  Martin’s mobile rang whilst he was on the phone to Graham and he handed it to Matt to take the call that he could see was from Prof. Moore. Matt gave a thumbs-up and Martin relayed the news.

  His next call, to Laura Cummings, was answered immediately. When he told her that police were on their way to Malmesbury to arrest Charles Ferguson MP in connection with the death of Dalmar Shimbir, she gave a screech that almost perforated his eardrums.

  ‘DCI Phelps, I’m going to have you as my personal lucky mascot. Do you know where I am now?’

  Not expecting or waiting for an answer she rushed on.

  ‘Amazingly, I’m visiting an old schoolfriend who lives in the quintessentially English village of Biddestone. It’s less than twenty minutes from Malmesbury and I’m on my way!’

  The information he’d just received from his fellow officers in Cardiff was the icing on the cake for DCI Mortimer. The package of papers from Catherine Ferguson’s solicitors was damning, though it was always possible that some clever QC would be able to prove that she’d lied – but there was no disputing the DNA evidence. It categorically proved that Dalmar Shimbir had been killed in the outbuilding at Woodcanton Hall, also helping corroborate the sister’s statement.

  Mortimer had arrested men like Charles Ferguson before. They presented a public image of total respectability, when in reality they were guilty of every crime in the book. Generally speaking, they didn’t resist arrest, but they did protest loudly and wheel in the best lawyers that money could buy. DCI Mortimer was looking forward to ensuring that this particular worm didn’t wriggle off the hook.

  Three police cars arrived silently at the gates of Woodcanton Hall. Knowing the entry code they drove in and parked at the side of the house seemingly unnoticed.

  They were however expected by the team already working in the house and the young officer who had previously spoken to Charles Ferguson came out to meet the DCI.

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on Mr Ferguson, and at one point I thought he was going to drive off. He left the house, but he didn’t go near his car. He went down that slope and I think he went into the last building over there.’

  She pointed to a building the DCI knew was one Ferguson would be particularly interested in.

  ‘I didn’t show myself or speak to him, and I’m sure he didn’t even realise he was being watched. He was only there for a few minutes, but I don’t think he liked what he saw because his face was a mixture of fury and fear when he went back into the house.’

  ‘And he’s there now, is he?’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t heard a sound from him for the last half-hour or so.’

  A sudden thought panicked the DC
I, and he walked quickly towards the front door, going straight through into Charles Ferguson’s study. Men like Ferguson were not always renowned for their courage, and in times like this often took a coward’s way out …

  Luckily, all that faced him in the study was a man sitting at an enormous oak desk, leaning forward with his head resting on his hands. Charles Ferguson looked like a broken man.

  With due formality, Mortimer introduced himself before making the arrest. There was no reaction from his captive, and two of the officers with the DCI moved away from the door and around the desk.

  Charles suddenly leapt to his feet and rushed through the front door like a man possessed. He took the officers by surprise yet again as he headed not to his car, but down the slope and towards the open expanse of the grounds.

  Until then no one else had really heard the helicopter. Even if they had, it wouldn’t have registered as anything significant, but to Charles the sound of the engine and the blades meant only one thing. He was going to be arrested and publicly hung out to dry, while Ahmed was going to get away with it – and he wasn’t going to let that happen.

  He struggled to get the breath he needed to run, and it was only the element of surprise and his knowledge of the grounds that kept him ahead of the officers. There was no doubt now of the helicopter’s presence: the noise was deafening. He could see it hovering above and could already feel the force of the air it was moving.

  From where he stood, looking down from the top of the slope, DCI Mortimer was the first to spot another figure approaching the helicopter from the rear gates of the Hall.

  Charles was still some distance from the helicopter. He still hadn’t seen Ahmed, but knew he must be close, and his one desire was to stop him getting on board.

  It wasn’t to be, as Charles was brought to the ground by one of the officers who had been chasing him – but at that point he did see Ahmed. He was so close to getting away and Charles tried to warn the officers but his voice couldn’t be heard above the now overwhelming vibrations of the helicopter as it lifted into the air and over the treetops.