When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

‘I didn’t know what to do with it,’ Moran admitted. ‘But it’s all yours. You can decide.’

  ‘You’ve made my day. My boss will be over the moon.’

  ‘Be sure to send him my regards. ‘Moran went back to the window. Paranoia was setting in, but although a faint light had begun to colour the sky the streets were still empty, wrapped in the pre-dawn stillness that preceded the slowly escalating bustle of the city waking up to a new day. He grunted. ‘We’d better make a move. Van Leer’s mob may yet trace us to the hotel.’

  ‘I doubt that – they’ll be too busy repairing the damage – but I’m ready when you are.’

  Moran went to the door, checked the corridor. Not a soul. ‘All clear. Shall we? I don’t want to miss the boat.’

  She joined him in the corridor. ‘That’s something I could never accuse you of, Brendan.’

  Moran didn’t consider himself a poor sailor, but the crossing turned out to be the roughest he’d experienced. As the container vessel passed the BP refinery, left the Hoek van Holland behind, and entered the open waters of the North Sea it began to pitch and roll, driven by the strong westerly wind.

  They’d boarded the Rotterdam Comet shortly before five in a no-fuss, no-questions-asked manner that Moran found slightly unnerving. When questioned, all Samantha would say was, ‘We have an arrangement. Don’t stress it, Brendan.’ In response to Moran’s query, the merchant seaman who’d boarded them estimated their arrival time at London Thamesport, assuming they maintained a steady fifteen knots, at approximately eight-thirty in the evening.

  They’d been allocated a basic cabin below deck – two bunks, a connecting low-level table, an adjoining bathroom. It was cramped and spartan, and not only did Moran feel sore and exhausted but also decidedly queasy. The prospect of a whole day at sea held little appeal, but his main concern was that it was another day lost. At least, he consoled himself, he and Samantha were safely on board, and he could communicate with the team via his mobile. He wedged himself between the bottom bunk’s headboard and the riveted bulkhead, jabbed the passcode into his mobile. A glance showed him what he didn’t want to see.

  ‘Problem?’ Samantha emerged from the bathroom, ducking her head to avoid what Moran had already done once, and would probably do again on subsequent visits to the head.

  ‘No damn signal.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not unusual out here. Give it an hour or so – we’ll come back into range.’

  ‘I’ve been out of range too long already.’

  ‘Busy back at the ranch?’

  ‘Yes. Several murders, similar MO.’ Moran sketched out the details.

  Samantha listened and when he’d finished she was silent for a few moments. Then she smiled wryly. ‘Well, excuse me for making an observation, Brendan, but what you’ve achieved this last twenty-four hours is way more important.’

  ‘Than a few oldies who were going to die soon anyway?’

  Samantha wrinkled her nose. ‘You know what I mean. And what about me? I’d still be locked in that ghastly room if it wasn’t for your – forgive me for saying so – rather reckless break-in.’

  ‘I take it that’s a ‘thank you’?’

  ‘It is. And you know I’m grateful. I was going crazy in there. God, if you hadn’t turned up, who knows what would have happened?’

  Moran sat up. Somehow lying down made the motion of the ship harder to deal with. ‘I expect you’d have received a visit from Moscow in the very near future.’

  ‘You’re quite sure the KGB are involved, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, you’re not denying it. I know what I saw in Pangbourne, and I traced the car to the Russian embassy.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Samantha went to the porthole and looked out just as the ship pitched forward and water crashed against the thick glass. Moran’s stomach rolled with it and he shut his eyes momentarily.

  When he opened them again, Samantha was still standing, feet planted apart, and swaying with the motion of the vessel. He took a deep breath, kept his eyes fixed on the doorframe, a solid, unmoving object. Unmoving in the world of the cabin, at any rate. He moistened his dry lips.

  ‘The Russians are in this up to their necks, that’s my take on it. They’ll take any route they can to destabilise the UK. They’ve got people in the House of Lords, for heaven’s sake. Seriously rich businessmen. And Joe Gallagher’s operation fits their bill beautifully. And look at what happened in Salisbury – no pretence about it, their hit squad came in and basically did as they pleased. Never mind that the population of an entire city could have been wiped out if the nerve agent hadn’t been isolated and disposed of. No, Moscow has a finger in any number of pies, I’m convinced of that. And right now, the Irish Republic is their flavour of the month.’

  ‘We can put a stop to Gallagher now, Brendan. You have the evidence to bring him down, you have exactly what we need.’

  ‘Well, as I said, it’s all yours. I’ll be glad to get shot of it.’

  ‘I’d like to get hold of the cassette asap, pass it to my senior.’

  ‘Of course. It’s easily accessible.’ The words came easily, but the wording of Samantha’s demand had ripped through his body like an electric current.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘The sooner we get this out, the better.’

  ‘Absolutely. Listen, I’m going up to the deck for some air. I’m in serious danger of losing my last meal. Quick wash and change first, though.’

  He took his bag into the cramped shower room, splashed water on his face, selected a fresh shirt, sat on the loo and tried to figure out his next move.

  He emerged a few minutes later. ‘See you shortly.’

  ‘Sure. Mind how you step.’

  Moran shut the cabin door behind him, swayed along to the staircase which led to the lower deck, clung onto the steel banister as the ship pitched and gravity threatened to throw him back. Once he’d reached the deck level he staggered a few drunken paces to the external door, wrenched it open, reached out for the ship’s railing and hung on.

  He fixed his eyes on the see-sawing horizon and tried to think. Samantha had said ‘cassette’. He had never mentioned the recording format; was this an innocent assumption, or something more sinister by implication? Surely the natural assumption these days would be that he’d recorded his conversation with Joe Gallagher on a smartphone, using the voice recorder.

  Surely.

  He’d only mentioned the cassette format to one other person – his old boss, Dermot Flynn.

  Surely not. It was too grotesque to contemplate.

  The ship’s prow dipped and Moran dipped with it, tried to keep his eyes on the dancing horizon.

  He went over the events of the last twelve hours again. Van Leer. The handbag. The purple smartphone, easily located in his desk drawer. Samantha’s strangely lengthy incarceration.

  The late discovery of the burned credit card. How had Forensics missed it? Unless they hadn’t missed it… unless it hadn’t been there when they signed off.

  And there was the silence of the guy in the four-by-four.

  You’ve just sprung two of your own from a dangerous situation. And not a word. Not a single.

  Only one reason Moran could come up with. When you speak, you give away a lot about yourself. You reveal your background, your origin, your country. And if Moran had been a betting man he would have been confidently wagering that the driver’s accent would have revealed that he was no product of a British public school, no early recruit into the intelligence service. Not at all. His English would have been perfect, but his accent – that would have been the giveaway. An accent is hard to disguise.

  The ship leaned to one side and Moran’s legs nearly went from under him. He held on until the Rotterdam Comet righted herself and, for a few brief seconds, remained roughly perpendicular to Moran’s distant point of reference. His thoughts, however, continued to dip and wheel with the constant movement of the gulls above.

  Sure, the guy could have been Dutch, b
ut Moran’s money was on a more distant country.

  Mother Russia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The pub was filling up, Sunday lunchtime in full swing. Noisy chatter and the tempting smell of roasting meat wafting from the kitchens. Collingworth found his way to the bar, ordered a tonic water. As the barmaid fixed his drink, his eye strayed to the corner table. There he was, dressed as smartly as before. No dress-down Sunday for this guy. Collingworth admired that. Keep up standards, look the part. Nice.

  He paid for his drink, excuse-me’d his way across the busy saloon bar.

  The guy looked at his wristwatch. Expensive, Collingworth noted. Of course it was expensive.

  ‘Right on time. I like that,’ the smartly dressed young man said. He didn’t get up or offer a handshake, so Collingworth drew up a stool and set his glass on the table.

  ‘How can I help?’ Collingworth sipped his tonic water.

  ‘You’ve provided a valuable service. I thought you might wish to witness the fruits of your labours.’

  ‘That sounds … appealing,’ Collingworth replied. ‘Do I get a name this time, by the way?’

  A smile. ‘You can call me Alan, if you wish.’

  ‘So, Alan,’ Collingworth leaned closer, kept his voice low. ‘How about you tell me the whole story? So I have a little context.’

  ‘It’s a story from long ago, before your time – and mine, to be fair. It was during the Irish … ah, let’s call them difficulties. They don’t like the other word. Your man was young, tempted off the straight and narrow. Got himself involved with undesirables – undesirable to some, I mean. To the powers-that-be, at least. To others, less so, depending on your political persuasion. Long story short, it involved an ambush, several murders.’

  Collingworth drank it all in. This was meaty stuff. ‘And you have proof, of course?’

  Alan sipped his soda water. ‘All the proof we need. He’s on his way back from Rotterdam as we speak, with a known terrorist in tow.’

  ‘Rotterdam? But what–’

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Alan wagged his forefinger. ‘I can’t tell you too much.’

  ‘Right. Of course.’ Collingworth nodded.

  ‘I wanted to give you the opportunity to witness the fish being reeled in.’

  ‘I appreciate that. Very much.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Alan said smoothly. ‘Least we could do.’

  ‘This terrorist. The woman, the name on the card?’

  Alan drew his finger across his lips. ‘Sorry. But you’re on the right lines.’

  ‘Just tell me when and where.’

  ‘Tonight. Port of London, eight-thirty. A container ship – the Rotterdam Comet. Dock number 12b.’

  Collingworth scribbled the details on his notepad. A thought occurred to him. ‘Anything I can do? I mean, I’m a policeman, and–’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ Alan said, draining his glass. ‘Just keep a low profile, and keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry. Another drink?’

  ‘Well, if you’re offering, why not?’ Alan held out his empty glass.

  The bar was busy, but Collingworth was in no hurry. Plenty of time to get to London. As he waited for service he allowed himself a little fantasising. DS Chris Collingworth, then DI Chris Collingworth, and then … maybe an opening with the security services. Wait – how about sooner rather than later?

  ‘What’ll it be, love?’

  Collingworth placed his order. Yes, why not? Why not cut through the dead-mens’-shoes promotion prospects altogether? Alan would put in a word, surely? He’d proved himself to be an effective covert operator. He’d completed his mission. Small fry, sure, but that wasn’t the point. Why had they approached him in the first instance? Because they’d checked him out, obviously. They’d figured out that he was the right stuff.

  ‘Here we go. Four pounds twenty-five please, love.’

  As Collingworth grabbed the drinks, he became aware of some small commotion in the corner. Had someone fainted? Head were turning. He couldn’t see. He craned his neck. Where the hell was his change? Here she came.

  ‘Seventy-five pence, love. Thanking you.’

  Collingworth pocketed the coins, shouldered his way towards the corner table. The double doors nearby swung shut. The crowd parted and Collingworth did a double take. Someone else was sitting at the corner table. An older man, casual shirt open at the neck, half pint of lager in front of him. Where was Alan?

  ‘Excuse me. My friend and I were sitting–’

  ‘Park your behind on the stool, shut up, and listen,’ the man told him.

  Collingworth felt his mouth open and close. He sat as instructed, put the drinks down carefully. ‘Who are you? What’s going on?’

  The man leaned forward. ‘I said shut up and listen.’

  Collingworth felt a cocktail of confusion and anger rise deep in the pit of his stomach, but there was something about the way the stool usurper spoke that made him hold his tongue. He stole a glance to wards the double doors.

  ‘Your buddy won’t be coming back. Now, I want you to tell me everything he told you.’

  ‘You’re–’

  ‘–someone acting in the interest of this country. Here–’ The man in the open-neck flashed an ID card.

  Collingworth read it. It looked official, but now he didn’t know what or whom to trust.

  The man’s tone was tinged with exasperation and not a little urgency. ‘I haven’t got time for this, but if you need to double check, the address and phone number is right here.’

  Collingworth read again. Thames House, Millbank.

  ‘Your buddy is a Russian KGB agent. Educated at Eton, if you were wondering.’

  ‘KGB? But I–’

  ‘Just tell me what he asked you to do, what you did. What he wanted today.’

  Collingworth cleared his throat. Five minutes later, he was finished.

  ‘Thank you, DC Collingworth. Now, if I were you, I’d go home and stay home. And here, take these. Someone will be over in the morning to collect them.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Official Secrets Act. Two copies. Sign both, please, and seal the envelope.’

  Collingworth took the envelope without a word.

  ‘And in future, try to avoid talking to strange men in pubs.’

  ‘I thought–’

  ‘We know what you thought. And if we hadn’t stepped in, you wouldn’t be thinking anything at all this time tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean they were going to–?’ Collingworth felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Two birds with one stone. Nice and neat.’

  Another guy appeared at the double doors, gestured urgently.

  ‘Have a nice day, DC Collingworth.’

  Collingworth didn’t move for a long time, nursed his tonic water. He felt sick.

  Half an hour later, his mobile rang. He had half a mind to ignore it, but it was insistent.

  ‘DC Chris Collingworth.’

  George McConnell’s irate tones filled his ear. ‘Don’t you look at any of your messages? Briefing. Urgent. Started fifteen minutes ago. Get in here. That’d be now. Are you there?’

  ‘I heard you.’ Collingworth slammed his empty glass down, banged through the double doors.

  Patronising little…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘OK, gather round.’ George McConnell polished his glasses as he waited for the team to settle. All present and correct – except for Collingworth. George had tried to keep his tone friendly on the phone but knew he had failed miserably. He only had to hear Collingworth’s voice to feel a growing tension, his blood pressure rising. Lack of sleep probably didn’t help, and neither the fact that he couldn’t raise Brendan Moran despite several attempts. In Charlie’s absence George was the senior most suitable to keep the ball rolling, and right now George was poised for a strike.

  ‘OK, here it is. Following a lead suggested by DC Tess Martin, DC Odunsi and myself have spent a fru
itful night sifting through one of Southampton’s cold cases.’ George clocked the reaction Tess Martin’s name had caused. Wide eyes, sideways glances, a collective exhalation. A hand went up.

  ‘DC Swinhoe.’

  ‘Tess spoke to you? How–’

  George held up his hand. ‘Yes. Briefly, and with difficulty, but she spoke.’

  The mood in the IR perceptibly lifted. A buzz of conversation rose with it. George allowed their sentiments free rein for thirty seconds before he called a halt to the celebrations. ‘All right, all right. Yes, it’s great news. Early days, but it has to be a good sign. But the point is, Tess recognised a name. I was rambling on about the current case, and she stopped me. She’d heard the name before – Connie Chan. A cold case, from her Southampton days. If I read the newspaper article we found in the case notes, it’ll give you a good overview, so pin back your ears.’ George opened the folder, withdrew the photocopy, and started to read:

  “A serial killer who murders vulnerable elderly people may have been active in Britain since the1990s and could still be on the loose, according to an independent and confidential report.

  The report, compiled by one of the most senior coroner’s officers, raises serious concerns about two cases where widowers living alone were suffocated in their own homes. After re-examining the cases using modern techniques, the report finds that both cases were likely to have been murders and also identifies three other similar cases of elderly men killed in the northwest of England.

  It suggests that the first two suspected murders — both in Knutsford, Cheshire — could have been the work of an offender unknown to the police.

  This weekend Cheshire police said it was conducting a review of the findings in the report, which was handed to the force last month. It has also alerted police in Greater Manchester and Cumbria where some of the other killings took place.

  The 149-page report calls on the National Crime Agency and Interpol to review cases in Britain and Europe to determine whether there are more related murders. “This individual will not stop killing until someone or something stops him,” the report says.