by Scott Hunter
He wanted to go up, but his feet refused to move. He heard footsteps, and there she was, looking down at him. Tess smiled, took two steps down. There was something wrong. She stopped, her hand went to the banister to steady herself. He wanted to help her, but he was frozen to the spot. He watched helplessly as Tess’ head bowed and her body shimmered, became insubstantial. He reached out, tried to make his rebellious limbs move. He had to help her. She would be fine, if only he could just–
‘Are you in the queue, or what?’
The voice dragged him back, made him jump as though stung.
DC Chris Collingworth raised a hand in mock defence. ‘Woah, steady, now.’
George glowered, moved forward in the queue.
‘Nerves bad?’ Collingworth enquired. ‘Take a break, George. You’re due a bit of leave, aren’t you?’
George ignored the question. The last thing he needed right now was Collingworth. He shuffled forward.
‘What can I get you, George?’ The caterer grinned. ‘Large one, as per usual?’
‘He’s always up for a large one,’ Collingworth said. ‘Several, if my sources are to be trusted.’
George felt his face reddening. It wouldn’t take much, not the way he felt this morning. He nodded, scanned his card.
‘Sleepless night, eh? Collingworth probed. ‘Pining over a lost love? Now then.’ He tapped his chin with his forefinger. ‘Who might the lucky lady be?’
George felt his fists bunch. With an effort, he calmed himself.
‘Here you go, George. Chocolate on top.’
‘Thanks.’ He accepted the coffee, walked away.
‘Rude, I call it.’ Collingworth’s mocking voice followed him, but George kept going until his colleague’s voice was lost in the canteen’s hubbub.
‘Over to you, DI Pepper.’ Moran ceded the floor to his reporting officer.
‘Morning, all.’ Charlie’s eyes swept the room. ‘This is what we have so far – I know there’s not much to go on, but you’re going to change that.’ She turned to the pinboard and tapped the first photograph. The passenger. Dead at the scene, but not killed at the scene. Unlike this guy, the driver.’ Charlie tapped the second photograph, ‘Isaiah Marley. Killed, we believe, on impact. Driving a stolen car, incidentally. Owner reported it missing yesterday afternoon.’
She faced the assembled officers. DCs Bola Odunsi, relaxed and amiable as ever, George McConnell looking like death warmed up, Chris Collingworth and, at the back, DC Swinhoe – Bernice – leaning forward with her usual attentive expression. A good detective, that one, reliable, got on with the job – just don’t call her Bernice. Charlie cleared her throat. ‘So, our medical report states that the passenger was, in fact, dead before the accident. Suffocated by persons unknown, at a location also unknown. We don’t have a definite ID yet, but we do have an address for Marley. Bola, George, you’re off to the salubrious Oxford road, to number eleven Lorne Street. Does Marley have a partner? Did he live alone? Whoever you find, they won’t be aware that he’s no longer with us, so if you’d like to break the news when appropriate?’
Nods.
‘DC Collingworth, see what you can do with this photograph. Someone must know him. I want a name and address by lunchtime. Think you’ll be able to oblige?’
‘You’ll have it by morning coffee break, boss.’ Collingworth’s reply slid easily from his mouth. ‘Mind if I start now?’
‘Yes, I do mind. You’ll wait till Briefing’s over like everybody else.’
From the corner of her eye she caught Moran’s imperceptible nod of approval. Collingworth was good – very good – at what he did, and had recently impressed a tough promotion board to gain his Sergeant’s rank, much to the rest of his team’s consternation. But he still needed to apply for the post, and that hadn’t happened yet. If Charlie had her way, she’d get him to apply to a different constabulary altogether. She’d lose a good detective, but she’d have a much happier team.
‘You’re the boss.’ Collingworth almost winked, but under the withering laser of Charlie’s glare, he settled for a cocky smile of compliance.
‘I am indeed. I note that your power of recall is, happily, fully intact, DC Collingworth.’ Charlie placed a subtle emphasis on ‘DC’.
In the corner of the room, to the right of the pinboard’s easel, Moran coughed into his hand.
George McConnell had his hand up.
‘Yes, George?’ Charlie tilted her chin.
‘Want me to check the mispers list while DC Collingworth is playing with his wee pictures?’
This drew a shake of the head from Collingworth, who opened his mouth to reply but Charlie cut him off. ‘No, George. You concentrate on Marley for the time being.’ George was good at stats and lists, but she wanted Collingworth on the tracing.
‘CCTV?’ Collingworth suggested. ‘Find out where the car was coming from, find the old boy’s roost.’
‘Yep, go ahead and cover that.’ Charlie paused. ‘This looks to be a one-off situation, but you never know. I want a thorough job done, OK? Someone’s taken a life. It’s not just an RTC. Any questions?’ She scanned the room. Bernice Swinhoe’s arm went up. ‘DC Swinhoe?’
‘How about a DNA test, boss?’
‘Yep, already arranged, DC Swinhoe. Be a couple of days, though. The PM might turn something up in the meantime. And in that regard, I expect DCI Moran will be taking an interest?’ She looked pointedly at Moran.
‘I will, indeed, DI Pepper. How well you know me.’
A ripple of laughter rose and fell. They all knew that Moran couldn’t resist some investigative work, especially post mortems.
Bola Odunsi’s hand went up. ‘How about the iPhone, boss? Might be some data on there to link Marley to the passenger?’
‘Be my guest, DC Odunsi. You can collect it from my office.’
Bola nodded.
‘Good.’ Charlie clapped her hands. ‘That’s all for now. Let’s get to it.’
The team dispersed to their appointed tasks. The guv looked as though he might want a word, the way he was sidling over.
‘Nicely handled,’ Moran said, sotto voce. They weaved their way between the banks of desks towards their respective offices.
‘Collingworth?’ Charlie arched her eyebrows.
Moran nodded, smiled.
‘An explosion waiting to happen, those two,’ Charlie sighed. ‘Did you see the look George gave him?’
‘I did. It’s Tess, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie was silent for a second. ‘George blames himself – and Collingworth, mainly.’
‘I’m the one to blame,’ Moran countered, ‘if anyone is.’
‘That’s just not true, guv. You know it’s not.’ Charlie chewed her bottom lip. ‘How is she?’
Moran shrugged. ‘Pretty much the same. I’ve been meaning to pop in, but…’
Charlie frowned. ‘You’ve been flat out, guv. And that business at your house last month, I can’t imagine how–’
Moran’s hand signalled caution. ‘Ah. Less said about that, the better.’
Charlie fell silent. ‘Sure. Sorry.’
Moran waved Charlie’s discomfort aside. ‘Come in for a sec.’ He held his door open. ‘Give it a shove,’ he advised. ‘It’s still not right.’
The door opened reluctantly on misaligned hinges. They exchanged knowing looks. Moran had been offered an alternative room following the recent attempt on his life by a man posing as a maintenance worker, but he’d declined. He liked to be where he could keep an eye on things. And, to be fair, that’s where Charlie liked him, too. She had confidence in herself, but all the same, it was good to know the guv was around.
‘Have a seat,’ Moran offered.
He looked at her thoughtfully over his desk, toying with a set of keys. He seemed distracted, as if he didn’t know where to start. ‘It’s only fair I should tell you what’s going on in my mind, just now, Charlie.’
That didn’t sound good.
‘
You mentioned the problem I had at home. Well now, the thing is, regarding that, I’ve a mind to sort a few things out. I’d hate to think I’d lived out my life with…well, with any loose ends trailing, if you get my meaning.’
‘Not entirely, guv.’ Honesty was always the best policy with the guv’nor.
‘No. Of course. I don’t mean to be deliberately obscure.’ He paused, rattled the keyring again. ‘I’ve been thinking – for a while now – that maybe it’s time to bring this to an end.’ He waved his arm to encompass his office, the open-plan beyond. The whole building.
‘But–’
‘Wait.’ Moran held up his hand. ‘Hear me out.’
Charlie felt her mouth soundlessly open and close.
‘It has to happen sometime, Charlie. I’m not getting any younger. And the problems I need to address – well, let’s just say that it wouldn’t be entirely appropriate to address them as a serving police officer.’
Charlie felt a lead weight in her stomach. She had an inkling what this might be about. The incident at Moran’s home had involved an old friend, who’d turned out to be some kind of terrorist sympathiser or facilitator, and there’d been some kind of spook involvement too. His friend, or a neighbour? It all sounded well dodgy.
‘Why not take a sabbatical, guv?’
‘Not burn my boats, you mean?’ Moran smiled sadly. ‘I suspect my sailing days will be over if things turn out the way I think they might.’
‘Guv, you’re worrying me.’
Moran stood up. ‘Nothing’s going to happen for a while, Charlie. I’ll keep you posted. And don’t look so stricken. Things will work out…well, the way they’ll work out.’
He held the door open for her. ‘Best not mention any of this to the troops, eh?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
Full of foreboding, Charlie went to catch George before he left the office. He’d spoken to the guv that particular weekend, the weekend of Moran’s ‘problem’. The guv had asked about some car registration, but it couldn’t be traced to a specific owner. Just an organisation – if that was the right word for an Embassy.
The Russian Embassy.
CHAPTER THREE
George McConnell eased the car into Lorne Street, a minor side road off the Oxford Road, found a space, parked, turned to his colleague. ‘Ready?’
‘Are you, George? That’s what I want to know.’ DC Bola Odunsi didn’t look like he was going anywhere until he had a satisfactory answer.
‘Meaning?’ George snapped.
Bola sighed. ‘Come on, George, you’re wound up like a spring.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Don’t let him get to you.’ Bola shook his head. ‘He ain’t worth it.’
George leaned back in his seat, rested his head. Bola meant well, he knew that.
‘Besides, he’s got his promotion. He could be gone soon.’
‘You think?’
‘Sure.’ Bola nodded. ‘Collingworth’s got no sense of loyalty. Except to himself. He’ll apply for the first post that comes up, you watch.’
‘I can handle him,’ George said.
‘You just got to let it wash over you, that’s all.’
‘Easier said.’
‘I know, man. I know. Listen,’ Bola’s face radiated concern. ‘How is she? Any change?’
Change. George had been waiting for the smallest sign. But, as yet, Tess Martin hadn’t given the slightest inkling that she even knew who he was. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘There will be, man. She’ll come out of it, you’ll see.’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘You want to talk about it, anytime, OK?’
‘Yeah. Thanks. Anyway,’ George masked his discomfort in bluster, ‘shall we?’
‘Lead on, Macduff.’
‘That’s a rival clan. Careful, now.’ George allowed himself the briefest flicker of a smile.
‘Woah.’ Bola’s hands went up. ‘McConnell. Sorry, no offence.’
‘None taken.’ The smile was still playing around George’s mouth as he double-checked the house number. ‘Numero eleven. Here we go.’
The house was one of twenty or so conjoined terraces. There was no front garden. A set of mossy stone steps led down to what appeared to be a basement flat, while three rather more worn steps led up to the front door. A series of buzzers confirmed what George had already anticipated. He gave Bola a look. ‘Bedsits.’
Bola nodded. He knew what George meant, especially in this area. Bedsit land. Itinerant residents. Drugs, probably. He ran his finger down the labels. ‘Here you go. Marley.’ He pressed the buzzer.
‘Nothing,’ Bola said after thirty seconds.
‘Lived on his own.’ George was scanning the other names. ‘First on the list, let’s give it a whirl.’ He pressed the button next to the label which read Turner.
Twenty seconds passed before the sound of footsteps on bare boards caused the policemen to exchange glances. The door opened to reveal a young guy in blue overalls, his hair flecked with white paint, roller in one hand and cigarette in the other. ‘Yes?’
George showed his warrant card. ‘DC McConnell, and this is my colleague, DC Odunsi. Thames Valley Police. This your place?’
‘I’m the owner – landlord, yes. What’s up?’
‘Bedsits are they?’ Bola cast his eyes to the upper storeys.
‘Yeah.’
‘Could I have your name, please, sir?’ George asked politely.
‘Turner. Nick Turner. What’s up? I’ve done nothing wrong.’ He inhaled smoke and let it out in a thin stream.
Bola coughed. ‘We’d like some information regarding one of your tenants, a Mr Isaiah Marley.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s he done?’
‘Mind if we take a look around his flat?’
‘Sure.’ Turner sniffed, stepped aside to let them into the narrow hallway. ‘First on the right. Dunno if he’s in or not.’
‘He’s out.’ George said. ‘But you’ll have a key.’
‘Sure. Hang on.’
He went to the stairwell, called down. ‘Win? Bring up the keys, love, would you?’
A petite blonde woman put her head around the stairwell, ducked back, and then a bunch of keys came flying up towards them. Turner snagged them from the air.
‘My missus.’ Turner told them, as he led them into the building and worked his way through the jangling bunch of keys. ‘Doesn’t like the police much.’
‘We’re used to it,’ George said.
‘I bet. Here you go.’ Turner selected a key and opened the door to their right. ‘All yours.’
‘How long has Mr Marley lived here?’ Bola asked.
Turner tapped ash onto the bare boards. ‘Couple of months.’
‘And did he seem … all right to you?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Was he agitated, nervous, would you say?’
‘Didn’t see a lot of him, to be honest. We’re busy doing the rest of the place up. Not much time for chit-chat.’
‘As long as the rent gets paid, right?’
‘Yeah. Exactly. What the tenants get up to is their business. And he’s a good payer, anyway.’
‘Oh yes?’ George pricked up his ears.
‘Six months up front. I’m not complaining.’
Bola and George exchanged looks. ‘OK, thanks, Mr Turner,’ George said. ‘We’ll give you a shout when we’re finished.’
Turner shrugged. ‘Sure.’
The room was tiny. A sofa bed, a small table, a Belling two-ring grill, bare walls. The sash window looked out on an unkempt garden. Bola rubbed grime from the glass. ‘Nice.’
‘Bloody depressing.’ George poked around in the only cupboard, a second-hand cabinet that had seen better days. ‘Leastways, he doesn’t have to come back to this.’
‘So better off dead, is what you’re saying?’ Bola pulled up a chair cushion, looked underneath. Nothing but dust.
‘Well, maybe. I mean, just look at this room,�
�� George waved his hand in the air. ‘I mean, you’d top yourself after a couple of weeks, let alone months.’
‘Maybe he didn’t spend much time here.’
‘Maybe not.’ George was down on his hands and knees, checking under the sofa-bed. ‘Hello. What’s this?’ He fished around in the dust, withdrew a slip of card. ‘Train ticket. Edinburgh to Reading. January.’
‘Couple of months old.’
‘Right. So, our friend has recently moved south.’
‘Could’ve been visiting friends?’ Bola said.
‘Naw. If you were visiting, you’d have a Return, wouldn’t you? Not a Single.’
‘The man has a point.’
George bagged the ticket. ‘Anything else?’
‘Guy travelled light,’ Bola said. ‘Lived light.’
George nodded. Couldn’t deny that; there was next to nothing in the room. No spare clothing, not even underwear. Nothing of a personal nature at all.
‘Worth getting forensics over?’
‘I suppose,’ George replied. ‘Not much to check over, though, is there?’
‘Mr Anonymous.’
‘Isn’t he just? What about his iPhone?’
‘I had a quick flick. His FB friends list falls well into the ‘sad’ category.’
‘Like, under ten?’
‘Yep – even less than you.’
‘Ha ha.’
Bola grinned, ran his finger along the mantelpiece, inspected the resulting grime and made a face. ‘So, I don’t think that level of social media engagement will tell us much, but that won’t stop me pulling it apart anyway. One thing I did notice, though.’
