by Scott Hunter
‘I think we can dispense with the sir, don’t you?’
Moran smiled. The voice crackling down the line was clearly weakened by the weight of years, yet Flynn’s sharpness of mind appeared to be very much intact. ‘Old habits, sir.’
‘Very well, Brendan. You’ll at least allow me to be informal?’
‘Of course. Absolutely.’
They exchanged news, reminisced, discussed the state of the Republic, Brexit, the weather, until Flynn steered the conversation back to Moran’s reason for calling.
‘That’s all by the by,’ he said. ‘And you’ve something more important to tell me, I’ll be bound.’
And Moran told him. After he’d finished the line was quiet. All Moran could hear was Flynn’s deep, regular breathing as he digested the information. Presently, Flynn cleared his throat.
‘Well, I’m sorry you had to endure all that, Brendan. Deeply unsettling, I’m sure, even for a man of your experience. And Joe Gallagher! Extraordinary. The man’s an absolute pillar these days. Or appears to be. And you have a recording, you say–?’
‘Yes, sir. One of those old-school mini-cassette machines. Something made me turn it on. Now I just don’t know what to do with it.’
‘I see. I see. Well, let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. Should the burden be all yours? It sounds as though MI5 are already on the case.’
‘Maybe they are, but they’re not making a particularly good job of it. Besides, there’s a personal aspect to this.’
‘Ah, yes, so you say. But this … foreign influence you detected,’ Flynn spoke quietly now, so that Moran had to strain to hear his old mentor’s words clearly, ‘it doesn’t bode well for our future, you don’t think?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘Well, you know, the Eastern warlords are no strangers to our shores, Brendan. Wherever discord can be sown, they’ll be there.’
‘Is there anything I should know about Gallagher?’ Moran wanted to focus Flynn’s thoughts on the specifics; the ex-police chief was advanced in years, plenty of time on his hands, accustomed perhaps to viewing the world through a wider-angled lens than Moran. ‘Anything you’ve heard, maybe, which could be … helpful, in any way?’
Another long silence. ‘I have no idea if this is any help at all, but I do happen to know that Gallagher is a keen sailor.’
Moran frowned. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Quite involved in the sailing club at Ringaskiddy. Chairman, or some such. You know the place?’
Moran did. It was a village fifteen kilometres along the N28 from Cork. ‘Yes. There’s a port – and I believe there’s a ferry service?’
‘There is – and was,’ Flynn confirmed. ‘The Swansea connection is shut now, but you can still get a ferry directly to France.’ The old man paused for so long that Moran wondered whether he was going to continue. Eventually he said, ‘And that’s all I know, really.’ Another long pause, then: ‘You know, Brendan, I wouldn’t worry too much about this business. You’ve had a good career. I should leave it to those who walk the corridors of power, hm? They’re best placed to steer this particular ship – and who knows, they’ve probably got it all under control by now? I’d advise against stirring up a hornet’s nest. I don’t believe it’ll do you any favours.’
‘You’re probably right, sir. Listen, I mustn’t keep you any longer. It’s been good to catch up.’
‘Lovely surprise to hear from you. Don’t leave it so long next time, Brendan,’ Flynn said. ‘And be sure to drop in next time you’re over.’
‘I will. That’s a promise.’
Moran whistled to distract Archie from the moorhens and swans congregating by the canoe ramp. The spaniel came bounding over, shaking the river from his fur in a halo of spray. Moran stepped back to avoid the deluge.
His clipped Archie to his lead, much to the little dog’s frustration, and made for the exit turnstile. Archie planted his feet and pulled in the opposite direction until Moran at last resorted to bribery and produced a paper bag of treats.
On his way to the station an hour later, he reflected again on the conversation he’d had with his old boss. Joe Gallagher had never shown much interest in sailing when Moran had known him back in the day. Could be something, could be nothing. The thought stayed with him for the remainder of the morning until a fresh discovery regarding Cleiren’s wrecked transporter was brought to his attention.
‘Semtex? One hundred percent sure?’ Moran raised his eyebrows.
Charlie Pepper nodded. ‘Yep. Small traces, but traces nevertheless.
‘Could be legit? Demolition and so on.’
‘Ah, yes, it could be. But maybe not if you also take Forensics’ other discovery into consideration.’
‘Go on.’
Charlie ran a hand through her hair. ‘Under the driver’s seat. A Baikal pistol. Adapted.’
Moran frowned. ‘CS gas weapon, right?’
‘Usually. This one, as I said, adapted – to fire 9mm bullets.’
Moran sat quietly for a few moments. Someone thought Cleiren might need a weapon – which implied that persons unknown were taking an interest in the Dutch driver’s cargo and itinerary.
‘Do we have the route traced?’
‘We do. And this is interesting. Big artic, bound for Ireland, via Fishguard, naturally, cause they all go that way, don’t they?’
‘They do,’ Moran said cautiously.
‘Well, so did Cleiren. Except he made a small detour before he hit Fishguard.’
‘Let me guess. Another harbour…’ Moran frowned. ‘Tenby is down the road, isn’t it? Twenty miles or so?’
Charlie’s face fell. ‘How the heck did you know that?’
‘It’s a lovely spot. Been there a few times in my youth. Nice harbour. Boat trips and so on.’
Moran’s mind was racing ahead. Surely not…
Charlie was looking at him. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Nothing. Maybe. I don’t know.’ Moran went to the coat stand, grabbed his jacket. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Go? Where?’
‘I want to see it. Cleiren’s artic.’
‘Er, guv. You’re forgetting something…’ Charlie looked pointedly at Moran’s stick, propped up against the wall.
Moran gave her a withering look, retrieved it with a flourish, and shook it at her mock-threateningly.
‘For your own good, guv.’ Charlie stood her ground.
‘Thank you, DI Pepper. And since you insist on treating me like an invalid, we’ll take your car.’
CHAPTER SIX
Chapelfields nursing home was a small but well-run establishment. Chris Collingworth picked that up immediately; well-tended flower beds, freshly painted car park tramlines, sparkling windows. He buzzed. The door was opened by a smart, middle-aged woman in an immaculately pressed dark blue uniform. Her name badge proclaimed her to be Mrs Judith Miller, manager.
‘Detective Constable? Do come in.’
Collingworth followed Mrs Miller into the warm interior. He braced himself for the usual assault on his senses – the smell of age, micturation, institutionalised food – but, surprisingly, it felt more as though he’d stepped into a modest but friendly four-star hotel. He was shown into a small office, offered a chair.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled warmly. Always charm the older woman – that way, you get what you want, more smoothly and usually a lot quicker. Collingworth was a man in a hurry, so quick ticked the boxes. ‘So, you said you were about to call us this morning?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Miller frowned. ‘One of our residents was collected yesterday evening for a minor operation – at the Dunedin Hospital. Only–’
‘Only they weren’t booked in?’
‘Exactly. We called this morning to find out what was going on, and they said no, the operation wasn’t due till next week.’
‘No sign of your resident?’
Mrs Miller looked down at her hands and clasped them in a swift, anguished gesture. ‘None. I can’
t understand how–’
‘Can I get the resident’s name?’ Collingworth said.
‘Yes, of course. It’s Mr Daintree. Such a nice man – teacher by profession, very knowledgeable. And pretty compos mentis most of the time,’ she added quickly.
‘But not all the time?’
‘Well, he’s in his nineties, so there’s usually a little confusion creeping in by that stage.’
Collingworth jotted in his notepad. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Yes. He’s tall – rather imposing in the classroom, I imagine, in his day. Grey hair, still thick, brushed back from his forehead. A pencil moustache. Well-groomed. He likes to keep himself looking respectable.’
‘Uh huh.’ Collingworth looked up. ‘And who let him out?’
Mrs Miller moistened her lips. ‘I was off duty last night. It was one of the temp carers – she hasn’t been here long. And the fellow who collected Mr Daintree seemed very genuine, so I can’t blame the girl–’
‘I see. Can you describe him? Is the carer here now?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact she is. She’s rather upset, as you can imagine. We can’t think where Mr Daintree has got to.’
‘Ah, I’m afraid I have some bad news in that regard,’ Collingworth said.
As he delivered the news, he noted Mrs Miller’s reaction. It was understated but profound. Her skin grew pale beneath the heavy layer of foundation, and her eyelids fluttered. ‘Murdered? Suffocated? But why?’ He hands unclasped, gripped the edge of the desk as though it might support her.
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, Mrs Miller. Now, the carer?’
‘I’ll fetch her straight away. One moment.’
Collingworth stretched his legs, belched surreptitiously, and allowed his mind to wander to more pleasant pastures: Julie Stiles. Great legs, and that smile…
‘Detective Constable? This is Connie Chan. Do you want me to stay, or–’
‘No, that’s all right,’ Collingworth told her, sitting up straighter. ‘This will only take a minute.’ His attention was only half on Mrs Miller as he spoke, because Connie Chan was an absolute stunner. Petite, with a face that looked to have been sculpted in porcelain by a master craftsman. She was, quite simply, off-the-scale beautiful.
Mrs Miller nodded briskly. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She closed the office door with a firm click.
‘Now then, Miss Chan, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Collingworth flashed his best reassuring smile. ‘You’re not in any trouble at all. Please,’ he indicated Mrs Miller’s vacant chair. ‘Have a seat.’
He watched Chan slip reluctantly into her manager’s chair. She wore her long, glossy hair over one shoulder, tied loosely in a gold band.
‘There we are. Comfortable? Good. Now then, just tell me exactly what happened.’
Moran sniffed the air. The remains of the transporter had been arranged into manageable sections. This was the section immediately behind the driver’s cab. Forensics were moving around the shell like ants, dusting, checking, peering into cracks and corners.
‘Here you go, guv.’ Charlie proffered a thick plastic evidence bag containing the Baikal.
He held it up, hefted it, handed it back. ‘So what was he worried about, our Mr Cleiren, that he might have felt the need to wave this around at any given stage of his journey?’
‘Ben Ruiter might have some insights – the senior CSI. D’you know him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Seems all right. Let’s have a word.’
Charlie led them around the side of the vehicle towards what sounded like an animated conversation between a disgruntled-looking sergeant and one of the Forensics officers. As they approached, Moran caught the tail-end of the conversation.
‘I’ve got six more vehicles booked in here,’ Ruiter said peevishly. ‘You said you’d be done by two at the latest.’
‘I said two-ish,’ the Forensics officer replied. ‘And that covers us till at least two-fifty-nine. We’re going as fast as we can, all right?’
‘No later. I mean it.’ Ruiter pitched his final words towards the Forensics officer’s retreating back. ‘Bloody Forensics,’ he muttered. ‘Think they have all the time in the world.’ He caught sight of Moran and Charlie approaching and stiffened. ‘Ah, DI Pepper. I was just–’
‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ Charlie reassured him. ‘DCI Moran and I were just wondering if anything else of interest has turned up.’
‘Oh, right.’ Ruiter looked relieved. ‘Let me take a look.’ He took out a pair of flexible glasses, hooked them around his ears and riffled through a sheaf of papers on his clipboard. ‘Let’s see now. This morning. Last three entries of interest. The pistol–’
‘Yep, we know about that.’
Ruiter glanced up. ‘Yes, of course. We’ve had the dogs go over the vehicle since we last spoke. They had a good sniff around, so we now have traces of human cargo – the forensics reports have all the detail. And–’ he peered through his lenses. ‘Gunpowder. From magazine cartridges, apparently. Again, the details–’
‘Sure, Charlie smiled. ‘All in the reports.’ She glanced at Moran, raised her eyebrows. ‘Thanks, Sergeant. We’ll let you get on.’
‘No ordinary haulage company, then.’ Moran replied to the unspoken question. ‘Explosives, people trafficking and firearms. Not necessarily in that order.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Cleiren wouldn’t have wanted to hang around once he’d made those kinds of deliveries. He was caning it back to Dover as fast as his wheels could carry him. So, double-unlikely that he deliberately caused the accident.’
‘Agreed. Another Smart statistic.’
‘Ergo, no connection with Isaiah Marley either. Just a random shunt?’
‘It does look that way. But let’s see what George and Bola pull out of the hat before we dismiss it altogether.’ He frowned as his mobile buzzed. ‘Moran?’
‘Hello guv, it’s DC Swinhoe.’
‘Yes? How can I help you…’ Moran checked himself; he’d almost said Bernice. ‘Detective Constable?’
He listened to DC Swinhoe’s precise briefing. ‘Right. Thanks for letting me know. This could be very useful.’
‘Good news?’ Charlie asked.
‘We’ve been contacted by Police Scotland. Our Mr Daintree came up on a search this morning. Apparently they have two similar – and as yet unexplained – deaths in the Highlands, of all places. Same MO – care home resident goes missing, turns up dead.’
‘Suffocated?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And they want us to help?’
‘Sounds like a two-way thing,’ Moran smiled. ‘They’ve already despatched one of theirs to Heathrow. Fancy popping up the M4 and collecting him?’ Moran glanced at his watch. ‘He’ll be landing round about now.’
‘Finally. It’s ringing.’ George cupped a hand over the phone and mouthed the news to Bola, who was draped over his chair, apparently deep in thought. This was the tenth try, at least, and George had begun to think that the perma-engaged status meant that the mobile was out of commission. Another dead end, like the bedsit, but at least Bola had nailed the provider and the address – super-quick. George was surprised at the speed, not to mention the location.
‘Hello? Is that you, Isaiah?’
Female. Middle-aged. Wife, partner? ‘It’s about Isaiah,’ George said.
‘Who is this?’
Deep suspicion in the tone, unsurprisingly. George went for urgency. ‘Don’t hang up, please. This is DC George McConnell, Thames Valley Police.’
‘Thames Valley? What’s wrong? Where’s Isaiah? Has something happened to him?’
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’
A pause. ‘His sister.’
This was always the hardest part of the job. Never an easy way. Always best to keep it simple. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news. Is there someone with you?’
Hesitantly. ‘No. I live on my own.’
‘I see. I’m sorry to say that
Isaiah was killed in a road traffic collision yesterday evening.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
‘I heard you.’
‘We’d like to have a wee chat – about Isaiah.’
‘No.’
The line went dead. George held the phone up, exasperated. ‘Great.’
Bola stepped forward, ‘Here, let me try.’
‘No point. She’ll be on the alert. She’ll either ditch the mobile or refuse to answer.’
‘So now what? The address is out of our jurisdiction – by a country mile.’
George scratched his cheek. Beard needed a trim. That wouldn’t do; he planned to see Tess later on. ‘Aye, it is that.’
‘But your neck of the woods, eh?’ Bola grinned. ‘Hey – d’they still wear that blue face paint like in Braveheart up there?’
‘If you weren’t bigger than me, I’d knock you down for that.’ George’s face reddened.
Bola went into rapid reverse, spread his hands. ‘Come on, man. I’m only kidding. Where the heck is Aviemore, anyway?’
‘I might be able to help you with that.’ A voice spoke behind them – a Scottish voice.
Bola did a double take. ‘George, you said that without moving your lips.’
The next voice was Charlie Pepper’s. ‘All right guys. Take a break. I’d like you to meet DS Ian Luscombe, Police Scotland, Major Investigations Team–’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Bola interrupted. ‘Aviemore.’
‘See?’ Charlie appealed to the newcomer. ‘I told you they were a bright lot, didn’t I?’
‘You did indeed, DI Pepper.’ DS Luscombe’s expression wasn’t giving much away, but George discerned the hint of an appraising glint in his eye.
‘Briefing in ten,’ Charlie told them. ‘I’ll leave DS Luscombe in your capable hands until then. Perhaps you can show him the delights of the canteen?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘We have two victims, same MO. Both elderly. Both suffocated by a person or persons unknown.’ DS Luscombe paused to allow the impact of his words to register. ‘Whoever is responsible leaves little or no trace. Our killings are three months apart. So far, our investigation has drawn a blank. We have two sets of very unhappy relatives, national press interest and a high percentage of public investment in the outcome. In short, the media is buzzing like a swarm of flies around a dead dog, and our boss is in the frame for being eaten alive. I’m here to assist you with your investigation in the optimistic hope that it will help us with our own enquiries.’
