by Scott Hunter
They went into the hall, George closing the door behind them. ‘Oh yes?’
‘He’s got a VPN app set up on the iPhone.’
‘So?’
‘His IP address’ll be masked. Which means he doesn’t want his online activity tracked.’
‘So, he’s just paranoid, or–’
‘He’s scared someone might trace him.’
George worried at a hangnail. ‘Uh huh. So … he’s scared. Very little in the way of personal effects. Zero social media activity – bare minimum. Anonymous bedsit. VPN. What’s that sound like to you?’ He went to the stairwell. ‘We’re going, Mr Turner,’ he called into the void, but the only response was the blaring of a radio, the sound waves wafting on a heady aroma of paint and turpentine. George shrugged, called over his shoulder, ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’
A group of teenagers watched them suspiciously from further up the street. One made an inaudible comment and pointed. The two detectives heard their laughter rise and fall until it was drowned out by a passing motorbike.
‘It sounds,’ Bola said, as George pulled out onto the Oxford Road, ‘like Mr Marley was someone who didn’t want to be found.’
A sabbatical. Well now, Moran admitted to himself, there was an idea he hadn’t fully considered. He’d surprised himself, the way he’d confided in Charlie, the way his thoughts had shaped themselves, unbidden, into words. Truth was, his mind, overactive at the best of times, had been working overtime on his … problem since the strange night of Liam Doherty’s arrival – and unpredictable departure.
A sabbatical. He turned the word over, playing with its syllables. Trendy, these days, to take time out. Often to travel, or work with – or for – some charitable cause. But was he not a little long in the tooth to be taking time out? Higginson would find it odd – and he didn’t intend to appraise his boss of the details. Trouble was, he’d still be formally attached to the Thames Valley Constabulary. Anything that happened during a period of time out would automatically affect his job, career, life, whichever way he looked at it. But if he made a clean break – well then, whatever happened would fall firmly into the ‘post-career’ silo, and therefore wouldn’t reflect badly on what had gone before – for his team, or for himself.
But where to start? Moran went to his internal window, lifted the corner of the blind. A hive of activity, earnest conversations, eyes glued to screens. All searching for the keys to unlock the secrets of a dead man’s killer. They’d succeed, Moran had no doubt; Charlie was back on top form, her recent illness behind her. She was sharp, respected by the team, keen to get the job done. A possible successor. There was a thought: to be succeeded. Replaced.
He watched the team at work, and an unexpected stirring of emotion washed through him.
Pride.
Yes, he was proud of them. And why shouldn’t he be? The team’s results spoke for themselves. So many complementary skills under one roof, a strong sense of camaraderie, a cohesion of like-minded detectives, all focused on one goal: to get the job done. They’d manage without him, no problem.
No one is indispensable, Brendan…
But could he really imagine life outside the Force? He’d faced this beast before, had always been the first to blink. But that was understandably, surely, with such unfocussed prospects? A lonely retirement, another house move, perhaps. But where? Why? Life would still be repetitive, meaningless, wherever he lived. A pint down the local of an evening. A walk along the river. Everything behind him, very little ahead, except illness, decline. Death.
Furthermore – increasingly so, these days – Moran felt as though his role had settled into a predictable routine, that he was merely biding his time. He’d reached that part of a song where the chorus simply repeats till fade, until eventually the needle skates off the last groove into an eternal loop of crackling silence.
His case involvement these days was mostly consultative, the paperwork endless. Reports, statistics. Meetings. Sure, he still allowed himself a little involvement when an opportunity presented, but only when and where he felt he wouldn’t be cramping Charlie’s style. Infrequent chances to get out and about, get his hands dirty; the occasionally autopsy – but, these days the opportunities were fewer and farther between. Or so it seemed.
He let the blind down with a snap. Retirement. No. Not for him. Not yet. There must always be something ahead. As, in fact, there was now. He had a ‘situation’ on his hands. A mystery – an adversary too, in all but name. An old friend who had forfeited the right to that title.
Joe Gallagher. Politician, terrorist sympathiser and facilitator. Was it Moran’s job to stop him? Must it fall to him to embark upon what amounted to a personal crusade?
Moran returned to his desk, sat down and rested his head on his swanky new chair’s comfortable headrest – one tangible benefit of his recent (and still much talked-about) brush with an onsite assassin. The office had been refitted and refurbished – after a fashion – but, from this angle, he could see that the light shade was nevertheless well past its sell-by, and the cobweb he’d noticed a few weeks ago was still casting delicate tendrils as far as the top of the bookcase, a precarious bridge for any spiders with ambitions above their station.
Moran sat quietly, gave his thoughts some space.
No, it wasn’t inappropriate ambition that was driving him, but rather a sense of fair play. What had happened was wrong, and he wanted to…what?
Fix it.
Which was, he knew, quite impossible. What was done, was done, but then…but then…
…but then, he had the recording.
And he didn’t know what to do with it.
He’d considered taking it to MI5, but to whom? Could they be trusted? What would they do with it? He couldn’t be sure. Maybe his hesitation, procrastination, whatever, was merely the product of loyalty to an old friend, whatever that friend had now become. In his mind’s eye he could still see Joe Gallagher’s irate expression, the fanaticism in his eyes as the politician held court in Moran’s own lounge and nailed his Republican colours to the mast. Moran knew every word. Could repeat it back verbatim, he’d played it so many times. What had prompted him to retrieve his voice recorder from his coat pocket as it hung in the hallway? He only used the machine from time to time, to record his thoughts, case notes, trivia, anything that came to mind.
Something had prompted him to turn it on, though.
Now, he almost wished he hadn’t.
And then there was Samantha Grant’s abrupt disappearance to consider. Last seen in a riverside car park, being bundled into a car. A vigilant neighbour had taken photos and Moran had studied the prints, so he had the registration, clear shots of the two guys. ANPR had found a match which had led to the Russian Embassy, but from that point onwards he had met with a wall of impenetrable silence.
So there it was: four parts of a problematic puzzle. Joe Gallagher, recently elevated to the post of Ireland’s Minister for Foreign Affairs and Trade; a missing MI5 operative; the Russian Embassy; and a voice recording of Gallagher’s own admission of support for Republican terrorism.
And the fifth part? A senior detective on the cusp of retirement, who didn’t take kindly to being threatened in his own home, who wanted to help someone he’d considered – and still did consider – a friend. But how could he help Samantha Grant? She could be anywhere.
You have no idea, Brendan. None.
Moran tapped his fingers on the desk in a repetitive pattern that swiftly escalated in volume until his left hand brought the ostinato to a crescendo with a thump that toppled the teetering top layer of his in- tray.
But you have to try…
CHAPTER FOUR
Chris Collingworth was in an upbeat mood. The year had started well. He’d passed his promotion board, which meant, as he’d always known, that he was a cut above his colleagues. Nice to have it officially confirmed. Now it was just a case of securing a role. Here, or elsewhere – he didn’t care too much. Although… yes, there w
as DC Stiles to consider, to be factored in to his calculations. She’d been gradually warming to his subtle advances for several weeks now; the moment was almost upon him. She’d say yes, he was confident of that. He just had to choose his moment, simples. After a couple of drinks down the local – the tried and tested method.
Julie Stiles shared a house in Calcot with two housemates, both female. Perfect. It wouldn’t be hard to persuade her to invite him back for a coffee, and then…
‘Any progress?’
Collingworth started, but quickly collected himself. Charlie Pepper had his number, was always on his case, but that didn’t faze him. He liked a challenge. He swivelled in his chair to face her.
‘Sure. Got a trace on the Inner Distribution Road, our own roundabout, thirty-five minutes before the accident. Turned onto the Tilehurst Road at Castle Hill. Twenty minutes later, camera at the petrol station near IKEA picked him up, heading for the M4. Driving was a bit erratic.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Good work. But what he was doing before he hit the M4? What goes on in the Tilehurst Road area?’
Collingworth shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Few pubs. There’s a park, a church.’
‘OK, keep on it. I want that name.’
‘You got it, boss.’
‘But I don’t have it. Not yet.’ Charlie kept eye contact briefly, before turning and walking away.
Collingworth gripped the mouse tightly, glared at the screen. Snotty cow. You wait. I’m catching you up. Just wait till I’m the DCI and you’re still where you are. That’s all. Just wait.
He clicked onto Google Maps. Tilehurst Road. The road to nowhere.
Wait. The stiff was an old boy, right? And there was an old peoples’ home around there, somewhere. Collingworth racked his brains. Maybe…
His fingers danced on the keyboard.
Got it.
Chapelfields Home for the Elderly. Matlin Road.
He tapped the screen with his biro. Not a definite, but worth a shot.
He sat back in his chair, phone tucked under his chin. Julie Stiles was chatting to a colleague by the water cooler.
Come on, babe. Just a little look … come on, feel the force…
She glanced in his direction, the smallest of glances, but it was long enough for him to turn on his well-rehearsed, five-star smile.
She coloured, turned back to her colleague.
‘Hello. Chapelfields. Can I help?’
Collingworth dragged his attention away from Stiles’ shapely legs. ‘Yep. This is DC Chris Collingworth, Thames Valley. I was wondering – are you missing any residents?’
Bola’s face was a picture of concentration. George, at the adjacent workstation, watched the big man flicking through the iPhone’s apps, searching for something, anything, to give them something to go on. Collingworth had just left in a hurry. As he’d shrugged his jacket on he’d given George a look. A look that said: What you got, George? Nothing, I’m betting… And with a smirk, he was gone.
That wouldn’t do. He’d wipe that smug smile off Collingworth’s face. He swivelled his chair to face Bola’s workstation.
‘Well?’
Bola looked up from his search. ‘Nothing yet. Nada.’
‘No phone numbers? Recent calls?’
‘Come on, man. Give me some credit.’ Bola shot him a hurt look.
‘How about we give it to our boffin buddies? If there’s anything on there, they’ll find it.’
‘I’m on it, OK?’
Bola was a calm guy, but even he had his limits. George knew when to stop. He turned back to his own PC. But a moment later, a sudden thought struck him. He swivelled again. ‘Where would you keep phone numbers, if not in Contacts?’
‘Notes. Reminders. Tried them. All blank.’
‘I mean, if you needed to remember them, but didn’t want to write them down.’
‘George, man, what are you on about?’
‘Voice memos. In the Utilities folder.’
Bola sighed. ‘OK, just for you.’
George waited as Bola tapped the screen. His expression said it all. George sprang to his feet. ‘What? What’s it say?’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ Another tap. Then, from the iPhone speaker:
Oh perfect number twice lawn – eight zero plus mid-nineties dob
‘What? Play it again.’
Bola obliged.
‘Great. He’s not stupid. It’s a code of some sort.’
Bola shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Phone number? Could be anything. Bank account number, maybe?’
‘I’m betting phone. Why take the trouble to code a bank account number? You still need PINS and passwords to get into an account. No, this is a phone number.’
‘Want to hear it again?’
‘Write it down this time.’
Bola scribbled on a Post-it note. Both men looked at the result.
‘What the hell?’ Bola sighed. ‘How we going to figure this one?’
‘We’re detectives,’ George said. ‘It’s what we do, right?’
‘Right.’
George wheeled his chair over. ‘OK, so let’s start at the beginning. Oh perfect number.’
Bola frowned. ‘Numerology ain’t one of my strong points, but–’
George gnawed the soft part of his hand, at the base of his thumb. ‘What?’
Bola sat back, folded his arms. ‘In the Bible, the number seven is significant. It’s used to indicate completeness.’
‘Or perfection?’
‘Maybe.’
‘OK.’ George seized the pencil. ‘So let’s say we have zero – for the oh, and seven.’
‘07. Sure.’ Bola nodded. ‘But twice lawn. What the hell? Whose lawn?’
George inspected the red bite mark he’d left on his flesh. He turned his attention to the pencil, tapped it on his knuckles. The tea trolley clanked past, causing a collective shuffling for purses and wallets from nearby workstations. A queue formed, along with a buzz of conversation.
George focused on the Post-it note. It couldn’t be that hard – Isaiah Marley would never have remembered it. He frowned, twiddled the pencil. The lightbulb flared, lit up.
‘Not lawn, you knob. Lorne. The street. His bedsit.’
‘Ah, right. Nice one.’ Bola’s face lit up.
‘We’re not done. Come on. Focus. What have we got so far?’
‘Let’s see. 0711. Wait, it said twice Lorne.’
‘No, it’s the seven that’s twice. Perfect number twice–’
Bola looked doubtful. ‘Could be twice 11.’
‘So we try them both. We try all combinations till we get someone picking up. 07711. Sounds like a mobile number already. Then we’ve got eight zero. He must have got bored trying to figure out a clue for that one. 07711 80–’
‘Then mid-nineties.’ Bola scratched his head. ‘So let’s go for the obvious. 95.’
‘Agreed.’ George scribbled on the pad. ‘Dob. Date of birth. You’ve got his FB account there, right? He put down his birthday?’
‘He did.’ Bola grinned. ‘Hey, this is easier than I thought.’
‘I’ll post your MENSA application on the way home. Let’s have it.’
‘1984. So it says.’
‘We’ll try it. 07711 809584. Definitely the right format.’
‘I’ll do a Ripper application. Shouldn’t take long – as it’s a murder enquiry.’
George grunted. ‘The guv’ll still have to sign it off. May as well make the call while we’re waiting. Who knows? – They might even volunteer their address.’
The tea trolley queue had shortened to one. ‘A co-operative POI, you mean? I doubt it ve-ry much.’ Bola raised his hand. ‘Hang on, though. I need to fix me a coffee and a bun before the big call.’
‘Make that two.’ George said. ‘Large, if you’re buying.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Higginson’s reaction had been one of curiosity, which, given the possible alternatives, was a relief. Moran had kept things vague, open-ended
. A spot of leave, from next week, for a month or so. As far as the team were concerned, no need to elaborate; he was just taking time off, that was all. Charlie was more than capable, Higginson had agreed. As he had shut the door on the superintendent’s ordered domain, Moran’s response to Higginson’s green light had been relief, rather than any great sense of expectation.
So now you have the time. But where to start, Brendan?
Thames House, maybe. But somehow he couldn’t see those doors swinging open at his approach. And who to contact? He didn’t have a name – unless he asked for Aine’s daughter. But what could she do? MI5s 1970s Irish operations were covert for sure, some more than others. The setup Joe Gallagher had been involved in had to be right at the top of that particular list – its existence only known to a select few. They’d sanctioned murder, albeit, as Samantha Grant had admitted, for the greater good, but still…
Moran reached down, unclipped Archie’s lead, and watched the little dog dash off to the canoe ramp, his favourite spot for a dip in the Thames. The water meadows were still partially flooded from the recent rain but there was a freshness in the air that promised change. Moran strode on, deep in thought.
He’d called his old guv’nor the morning after Liam Doherty had burst in upon him. It’d been good to talk to the old man after all this time, not just for the evident pleasure his call had conferred, but also because Moran needed to hear a friendly voice after the trauma of the twelve preceding hours.
‘Brendan Moran. Well, well, well. Not a name I was expecting to hear when I picked up the phone this wet and windy evening. Not at all. Tell me, how are things in the sunny Thames Valley? All ship-shape, decks sparkling and a brisk wind in your sails, am I right?’
Moran had smiled at the memory. Same old Dermot Flynn. Should have been a naval officer like his old man, instead of a high-ranking Garda officer.
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure, DCI Moran? How can a retiree like myself, scuttled in the depths long, long ago, be of assistance? Or is this just a social call?’
‘Both, sir, to be truthful.’
