When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  ‘Sure. Sorry, I’ll make sure it’s charged.’

  After the call, Charlie sat for a minute, thinking hard. Marley and Chan. What was the motive? Why would they kill a helpless old man? Daintree had had nothing stolen from his room in Reading – he had no worldly goods to steal. Unless, as the guv had surmised, they were acting on behalf of somebody else.

  She glanced at the clock and her heart jumped. Luscombe would be here in fifteen minutes and she still looked a state. Charlie abandoned the conundrum, stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The following morning, Charlie heard Luscombe’s beep bang on eight-thirty. She grabbed her bag and closed the bedroom door. The faint odour of fried eggs and bacon wafted along the hotel corridor from the restaurant but she wasn’t hungry; she’d eaten enough for two the night before – and drunk too much wine to boot. Luscombe had proved to be engaging company, regaling her with Highland tales past and present. He was a natural raconteur, so she’d been able to sit back, relax and enjoy the meal.

  Luscombe hadn’t strayed into his personal life at all, which was curious and yet, in a way, also something of a relief. He’d dropped her back at the hotel around ten-thirty and she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep twenty minutes later.

  Beep beep!

  She hurried past the checkout desk and into the car park. Luscombe opened the passenger door and muttered a cursory ‘morning’ before joining the traffic and eventually merging onto the Grampian Road. He preempted her first question with a gruff statement: ‘Not far.’ From this she concluded that he wasn’t in a talkative mood and the rest of the short journey passed in silence until they turned into a wide driveway signed Chapelfields Residential Care Home.

  Mrs Fiona Brodie was a handsome woman in her late fifties. If she was surprised to find two detectives on her doorstep she was hiding it well. Her manner exuded calm professionalism. She ushered Charlie and Luscombe into a spacious lounge where one or two residents were dozing in a corner with the TV flickering silently above them on a hinged wall bracket. It was very warm. Mrs Brodie invited them to sit down and Luscombe opened the proceedings.

  ‘Does the name Isaiah Marley mean anything to you?’

  Charlie noted her reaction. There was no attempt at evasion. Instead, Mrs Brodie nodded and said, ‘Yes, Isaiah worked with us for a short time. A little admin, some driving on occasion.’

  ‘Were you aware that he was in the country illegally?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Illegally? Goodness me. No, not at all.’

  Luscombe probed further. ‘There must have been paperwork, references, prior to you taking him on?’

  Mrs Brodie frowned. ‘Well, my husband usually takes care of that side of things; his secretary would have run the standard checks.’

  ‘Can we speak to his secretary?’

  ‘Ah, well, she works remotely. It’s a company we use – a virtual PA and secretarial service. I can give you the details, if you like.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ Charlie said. ‘Where is your husband at the moment, Mrs Brodie?’

  ‘Away on business.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘And when are you expecting him back?’

  Mrs Brodie made a non-committal gesture. ‘Who knows?’ She gave a short laugh. ‘He comes back when he’s concluded whatever deal he’s currently working on.’

  ‘I see.’ Luscombe frowned. ‘Are we able to contact him?’

  ‘What exactly is the problem, Detective Sergeant?’

  Luscombe looked at Charlie, held her gaze. Was he asking her permission? Or were those eyes telling her something else? She gave an imperceptible nod, looked away.

  ‘Isaiah Marley was killed in a road traffic collision a few days ago,’ Luscombe’s tone was conversational. ‘But we believe that he may have been involved in the murder of his passenger. An elderly gentleman.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘So anything you can tell us about Mr Marley would be enormously helpful,’ Charlie suggested.

  Mrs Brodie looked genuinely shocked. ‘Murder? Isaiah? No, no. That’s not right. He’s such a gentle soul. Was. Oh dear, how awful.’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Always kind, nothing was too much trouble.’

  Luscombe rolled out his next question. ‘How long was he in your service, Mrs Brodie?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A few months, on and off.’

  Charlie leaned forward. The temperature was beginning to get to her. Her eyelids felt heavy. ‘Mrs Brodie, did Isaiah ever mention a girlfriend? Or did you ever see him with a woman?’

  Mrs Brodie toyed with her necklace. ‘No, I don’t recall. But then, you see, we’re always on the go here. We have people coming in and out, visiting you understand, all the time. And on top of that we have nurses, the occasional doctor, deliveries. Oh, the list goes on. But I don’t remember ever seeing Isaiah with a woman, no.’

  ‘He wasn’t … friendly, with any staff member in particular, I mean?’

  ‘It’s hard work here, Detective Inspector. I simply don’t have time to notice any romantic dalliances that may be blossoming under our roof, and neither would I expect any staff member to behave in such an unprofessional manner during working hours.’

  ‘You’ve built up quite a business,’ Luscombe observed. ‘Ten care homes, is it?’

  ‘There’s a need, Detective Sergeant. We are in the privileged position of being able to fulfil that need.’

  ‘Quite a success story, your husband.’ Luscombe said. ‘He’s becoming something of a celebrity.’

  ‘The television appearances? Oh, I suppose so. But look, he doesn’t enjoy the limelight. He’s not like that. He just has a knack, I suppose you could call it. A good head for business.’

  ‘You’ll have heard about the two local murders?’ Luscombe changed tack. ‘Both elderly gentlemen.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Have you not found the perpetrator yet?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Luscombe said. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Tell me, are these events connected in some way?’ Mrs Brodie frowned. ‘How do you imagine we can help?’

  ‘Just routine enquiries for the moment,’ Luscombe said.

  Charlie took over. ‘We’ll leave it there for the time being, Mrs Brodie. I’m sure you have a lot to be getting on with. Thank you for your time.’ She stood up, extended her hand. Mrs Brodie’s grip was dry and firm.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Luscombe nodded. ‘You’re not from around these parts, Mrs Brodie?’ He pitched the question at her retreating back as they followed her through the lounge double-doors and into the hall.

  She paused by the front entrance. ‘No. I was brought up in England. They tell me I’m sounding more Scottish every day, though.’

  ‘You’ve a way to go yet,’ Luscombe shot her a dour smile. ‘I can always tell a local from an outsider.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel like an outsider any more, Detective Sergeant. I feel very at home here.’

  Luscombe buttoned his jacket. ‘We’ll be in touch. And I’d appreciate it if you could let us know when your husband intends to return.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to ask. Good day to you.’

  ‘About time you met the team,’ Luscombe said over his shoulder as they waited for the lift. ‘They’re a good lot.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ When she was sure Luscombe wasn’t looking, Charlie surreptitiously checked her appearance in the lift mirror. She hooked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as the doors slid open onto a short corridor. Luscombe banged through a set of double doors and Charlie followed before they closed on her.

  Heads turned.

  ‘Morning all.’ Luscombe led Charlie towards a corner desk and waved vaguely in her direction. ‘DI Charlie Pepper, Thames Valley.’

  There was a chorus of hellos. Charlie counted five in the team altogether.

  ‘Just had a call from James McMillan’s son, Sarge.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Luscombe hung his j
acket over his chair and indicated a spare for Charlie. ‘Have a seat, by the way.’ He turned to the officer who had spoken, a girl in her late twenties with strikingly pale skin, Scandinavian for sure, Charlie thought. Luscombe encouraged her with a jut of his chin. ‘What’d he have to say for himself, Jenny?’

  ‘He said he’d remembered something that might be something, might be nothing.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘Just that his father was due to give up his house next month. Mr McMillan junior said he wasn’t sure if he’d mentioned it before.’

  ‘I don’t recall that he did. So that’s it? He was giving up his house? To move in with his son?’

  ‘No, Sarge, he was due to move to a care home, the big place on the Grampian? One of Duncan Brodie’s homes.’

  ‘Was he indeed?’ Luscombe sat on the edge of his desk, hands in pockets. ‘Thank you Jenny, that’s very interesting, because DI Pepper and myself have just come from said establishment. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, DI Pepper?’

  ‘Why would Mrs Brodie not have mentioned it?’ Charlie pursed her lips. ‘She’s bound to be up to speed with upcoming vacancies, new applications and the like.’

  ‘Quite. And we did mention the two murders specifically.’ Luscombe nodded. ‘There are two sins a person of interest can commit. Sins of commission, and–?’ He looked at each officer in turn.

  It was Jenny who finished his sentence. ‘Sins of omission.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jenny drove in silence, despite Charlie’s attempts to encourage conversation. All she got back was one yes and two nos. The silence was uncomfortable and Charlie was glad when they pulled up at the nursing home.

  ‘Oh, hello again.’ Mrs Brodie looked surprised. The clank and clink of food preparation spilled out into the car park. Lunch was underway.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ Charlie said. She glanced over her shoulder at Jenny, standing a pace behind her. ‘This is DC Armitage, by the way.’ Charlie could feel Jenny’s hostility sweeping up and down her spine like a laser. I’ve touched a nerve here, somewhere…

  Mrs Brodie was looking at her quizzically, so she hurried on. ‘There’s one other thing we need to clarify. Sorry if it’s an inconvenient time.’

  ‘Not at all. We’re fully staffed today. Come in, come in.’ Mrs Brodie stood to one side.

  Charlie braced herself for the wave of warmth, this time laced with the smell of cabbage and boiled meat. Her stomach contracted involuntarily. They followed Mrs Brodie into the lounge once more, and this time the manageress offered them a seat by a table piled high with well-thumbed magazines.

  ‘Thanks. May I have a look at your waiting list?’ Charlie asked brightly.

  ‘Our waiting list? Well–’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble. You do keep a record? Nice home like this, you’re bound to have folk queuing up to get in, I’ll bet.’

  Mrs Brodie gathered herself. ‘Of course. One moment.’

  ‘I’ll go with her.’ Without waiting for Charlie’s response, Jenny followed Mrs Brodie.

  Charlie watched, a little nonplussed. The Detective Constable had been all smiles at the station, but as soon as Luscombe had departed, the shutters had come down. Charlie sighed. Maybe I’m stepping on toes here…

  Whatever. It would have to wait. Mind on the job, Charlie.

  The manageress was rattled, that much was clear. Catch ’em on the back foot, Moran always said. If the Brodies were hiding something, Charlie was set on winkling it out. She wondered how Luscombe was getting on with Mrs Baxter. He’d charm the information out of her, she had no doubt. The Scot’s easy manner would charm any member of the opposite sex – a disquieting thought. Charlie felt a frisson of jealousy prickle the hairs on her arm.

  ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Brodie reappeared with Jenny. The DC was carrying an A4-sized ledger which she set down on the table next to Charlie with a testy flourish.

  ‘You’ll both excuse me for a wee minute?’ Mrs Brodie said. ‘I like to be on hand during lunch service.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t let us hold you up,’ Charlie replied.

  The ledger began in 2015. They went through it page by page. 2016. 2017. The names and addresses were inscribed in the same meticulous handwriting. Charlie scanned down the list until her attention was caught by one entry. Her heart gave a little lurch.

  McMillan, James, dob 12/10/32, G-on-Spey

  There. ‘Jenny, could you take a photo?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jenny took out her smartphone, snapped the entry. Charlie took a place mat from the table, inserted it in the ledger. Her finger travelled down the page, turned to the next, and the next. The din of clinking cutlery was escalating, the tinny chatter peppered with the entreaties and encouragements of staff members. The strains of Happy Birthday drifted in with the kitchen smells, followed by a smattering of half-hearted applause.

  God, don’t let me end up in a place like this…

  Charlie’s fingers moved down the ledger, and half way down 2018, she found it. ‘Here we go.’

  Daintree, Francis dob 05/05/35, Inverness

  Unprompted, Jenny took a second snap, slipped the phone into her bag.

  There it was in black and white. Two pensioners, both with their names down for Chapelfields.

  Both murdered.

  Charlie felt a thrill of exhilaration.

  Right, Mrs Brodie, let’s pose a few more questions, shall we?

  ‘That’s weird. They sang Happy Birthday at Chapelfields.’ Charlie wrinkled her nose. ‘I won’t ask what the damage is.’

  ‘No secret,’ Luscombe grinned. ‘Thirty-nine and still breathing.’

  ‘Well, congratulations. I’d have got you a card if you’d told me earlier.’

  The station had cleared; just Charlie and Luscombe were left. Outside, rain pattered on the tarmac, sprayed against the windows in wind-driven flurries.

  ‘Och, it’s a working day. And I don’t like a fuss.’

  ‘Typical bloke.’

  Luscombe laughed. ‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘No ma’am, remember?’ Charlie furrowed her brow. ‘So, are you celebrating tonight?’

  ‘Maybe. But business first. Tell me about Mrs Brodie.’

  ‘Brodie was all right. It was Jenny I had a problem with. Or rather, vice versa.’

  Luscombe snorted. ‘Pay no heed. Jenny’s all right. Can be a wee bit moody.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Anyway, Brodie. Evasive, I’d call her. Thing is, ‘Daintree’ had been circled in the ledger, and underlined. That implies significance, but when I put that to her she just shrugged and explained it away with some comment about a telephone reminder or some such.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Agreed. But how do we play it?’

  ‘Husband due back soon?’

  ‘She wouldn’t be drawn. He has a new project – another Chapelfields home down south. Sussex, apparently. Could be away for weeks, overseeing the builders et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘So, no further. I–’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘Wait. I also spoke to one of the care workers while Mrs Brodie was busy in the dining room. She knew Isaiah.’

  Luscombe was paying full attention now.

  ‘She remembers a woman – a very pretty lady, as she called her. Used to pop in when Isaiah was working. Clearly a love interest.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Oriental. Beautiful.’

  Luscombe whistled. ‘Hello, Connie Chan.’

  ‘Mrs Brodie still denied anyone of that description was ever around the home.’

  Luscombe wagged his finger. ‘The lying wee madam.’

  ‘And Mrs Baxter?’

  ‘Ah. We talked about life for a while. She brought the subject up herself – Isaiah’s woman. Only met her the once, she said, but once was enough. She says she doesn’t like to think about her. That the first time she set eyes on her, she knew it was going to end badly for Isaiah.’

>   ‘Oh?’

  ‘She said the first thing she did after Connie Chan left her house was double-lock the doors.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Moran was impressed. The railway station was located thoughtfully just a few steps from the Schiphol Airport concourse. Moreover, the noticeboard proclaimed the Rotterdam train to be due at 10:07, and at 10.07 precisely the train swished silently into view, an achievement that spoke volumes about the Dutch way of getting things done.

  Just under an hour later he emerged from Rotterdam Centraal station, slightly bewildered and very conscious of being alone in a strange city. A large route map, situated conveniently just outside the station frontage drew his attention, and he quickly plotted a theoretical route to the hotel, which, if he elected to walk, Moran reckoned he should reach in twenty minutes or so.

  As he walked, he felt again the buzz of nervous anticipation, the same buzz he’d felt as Collingworth had handed him the latest forensic find from Cleiren’s burned-out truck. The contents of the plastic bag were charred, but still readily identifiable: a credit card. And not just any credit card. The name had been partially erased, the corner of the card destroyed by the heat, but the remaining letters had been easy to read:

  … mantha Grant.

  It had shaken him, he had to admit. But here at last was a clear connection. He knew at that point that a visit to Rotterdam was no longer optional, it was mandatory. Ireland, the Netherlands, Russia – and Samantha the link in the chain of events which joined them all together. Was she here? Or was he too late? It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what Russian Intelligence might do with an MI5 agent unfortunate enough to fall into their hands.

  Barring the number of bicycles and ever-present tram lines, the streets of Rotterdam were not unlike those of any other European city. He passed a McDonald’s which was doing a lively trade, cafés, clothes shops, restaurants, bars. A tall building loomed on the opposite side of the road, the headquarters of Robeco, and Moran’s first landmark. He crossed two main roads, a wide, open space which he surmised was reserved for some kind of regular market, and eventually found his hotel wedged between a bar and a mini supermarket.