When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  John Morris, MP for Chester, said police must act swiftly: “The implications don’t bear thinking about if there is an offender responsible for a series of what were dreadful crimes.”

  The report, written by Steven Dalley, the senior coroner’s officer for Cheshire, is supported by evidence from his predecessor at the time of the first deaths and a US-based crime-scene analysis expert.

  The first two killings happened in 1991 and 1993 only two miles apart in Knutsford, the Cheshire town. These were originally thought by police to be murder-suicides. One victim was discovered lying on their bed and the other had been abandoned in the front seat of a car parked in a supermarket car park.

  Similarities between the cases included the murder MO – suffocation by means of a scarf, or similar.

  The report, which Dalley produced in his free time, examined police files and crime scene photographs and points to “a number of inconsistencies which do not corroborate the original manner of death of being suicide”.

  It also identifies a further three cases — in 1995, 1996 and 2000 — that Dalley believes should be reviewed to see whether they are linked to the Knutsford killings. Two of the cases were in nearby Greater Manchester and the third was in the Lake District.

  Denis O’Keefe, former chief prosecutor for the northwest, said: “We could potentially have a serial killer in our midst. There needs to be a proper review of these cases and others which carry similar hallmarks.”

  Cheshire police said: “We are in receipt of the report and it is being reviewed. This is a piece of research that has been undertaken by a staff member, independently. As with any case that has been closed, where new information comes to light it is reviewed and acted upon if appropriate. We have notified Greater Manchester police and Cumbria constabulary.”

  George finished and looked up. The silence was deafening. Another hand was in the air.

  ‘DC Tomlinson.’

  ‘Can we get hold of Steven Dalley? Sounds like he’s committed to the case – he’s exactly the guy we need, surely?’

  ‘Surely, indeed.’ George nodded. ‘Unfortunately, that’s not going to be possible.’ He picked out another photocopy from the folder, read aloud:

  Daily Mail, Monday 2nd April 2005. Hit and run death. Steven Dalley, 43, from Frodsham, Cheshire was the victim of a hit and run driver in the early hours of Sunday morning. Mr Dalley was a long-serving member of the Cheshire coroner’s office, acting as senior coroner’s officer from 1995 to the present. He leaves behind a wife and two children. The driver and vehicle have yet to be identified.

  Silence. Someone said ‘Bloody hell’ under their breath.

  George went on. ‘Zubaida Binti Ungu, native of Malaysia. Wanted by Malaysian authorities. Suspected of killing her uncle and absconding with his worldly goods. Arrived in the UK 1990 or thereabouts. Wanted in connection with the unexplained death of a seventy-four year old man in Bursledon.’

  ‘She gets around,’ DC Swinhoe observed.

  ‘She sure does,’ Bola Odunsi agreed. ‘But what we need to know is, where the heck is she now?’

  ‘This lady is very good at losing herself,’ George said. ‘Which is interesting, because she’s a striking-looking woman. And the only person we know who’s actually seen her in the flesh is–’

  As if on cue, DC Chris Collingworth bumped through the IR door, took a seat at the back.

  All eyes swivelled to the rear.

  George resisted the urge to make a snide remark. ‘DC Collingworth? A description of Connie Chan, if it’s not too much trouble?’

  Collingworth looked flustered, preoccupied. ‘What? Oh, right. Well, she was a stunner. Oriental. Long black hair, tied in a loose knot. Mole high on her right cheek. Perfect teeth. Around 5’ 6”; puts on a good act, if she’s the one we’re after.’

  ‘She is,’ George said. ‘DC Delaney? You have something?’

  Delaney was an athletic-looking thirty-year old whose mission in life was to run as fast as possible to get there. Half-marathon, marathon, whatever, he’d be out in all weathers. A good detective, in George’s opinion. Liked to get stuck in. Delaney’s eyes were bright and focused, in contrast to George’s which were in danger of closing unless he grabbed another shot of coffee, fast.

  Delaney’s words raced across George’s lagging brain. ‘Chan must have had lodgings nearby, if she was working at Chapelfields, right? Temporary, because she knew she wouldn’t be staying long. So, not a tenant. Friends in the area? Doubtful. She sounds like a solo artist to me. So, what then? B&B, or a hotel somewhere nearby. Chan didn’t get the King’s Cross train. So, where did she go first? Has to be Reading station, right? I bet Marley was supposed to dump the car, get to Reading station to meet her, and then…’ Delaney shrugged.

  ‘To London, to King’s Cross.’ George nodded.

  ‘So, assuming she found out pretty soon that Marley wasn’t turning up, what’s her next move?’

  ‘Back to her lodgings.’ Bola spread his hands.

  ‘So where haven’t we checked CCTV so far?’ George appealed to the room.

  ‘We covered Reading station,’ DC Swinhoe said.

  ‘Front and rear?’ George stuck his chin out.

  Bernice Swinhoe and Delaney exchanged a look.

  ‘That’ll be a no, then.’ George made a fist, nudged his front teeth. ‘And, correct me if I’m wrong, but there are several budget hotels to the rear, on the Caversham Road, are there not?’

  Nods.

  ‘Right, you two,’ this to Swinhoe and Delaney, ‘get to it. If she shows up on the recording, I want to know.’

  DC Stiles had her hand up now. ‘George, the newspaper report mentioned a US-based crime scene expert. Worth chasing?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll get onto Southampton first thing. Hopefully someone can supply a name.’

  ‘Any word from the boss up north?’ Collingworth called out as they began to disperse.

  ‘I’ll be in touch with DI Pepper shortly.’ George raised his voice above the clatter of chairs.

  ‘And DCI Moran?’ Collingworth was making his way across to Julie Stiles.

  ‘Not available as of now,’ George replied. ‘He’ll be in contact soon, I’m sure.’

  ‘Bad time to be out of the loop,’ Collingworth said. ‘Wonder where he’s got to?’ This with a wink to DC Stiles.

  George took a breath. ‘That’s his business, DC Collingworth. You’d best be cracking on with the job in hand.’

  ‘Makes you wonder, though.’ Collingworth addressed the observation to Julie Stiles, although it was clear that his intended audience was George.

  George tapped reserves of restraint he was unaware he possessed. ‘DCI Moran has been through more crap than you’ll experience in your lifetime, DC Collingworth,’ he said slowly, for emphasis, tucking the photocopies back into the folder. ‘He deserves some time to himself. A little peace and quiet. Let the man have his Sunday afternoon. He’ll be out walking his dog, enjoying his Sabbath rest.’

  ‘R&R,’ Collingworth smirked. ‘That’ll be right, eh Julie?’

  Julie Stiles smiled coyly. ‘I’d like some of that, too.’

  ‘You can both forget that for now,’ George said. ‘We have a serial killer to catch.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Moran heard the heavy steel door behind him open and then close with a bang as the wind caught it and slammed it into its frame. He was reluctant to upset the delicate balance of stability he had spent the previous few minutes achieving, so he didn’t turn round immediately. He reasoned that Samantha would hesitate to shoot him in the back, would want some final word of absolution before she did what she had to do. The ship yawed, and he swivelled to face her, his back to the railing and his hands curled tightly around the metal tubing.

  Her hair blew wildly as the wind caught it and he was struck once more by how attractive she was. She didn’t look her age; her body could have belonged to a woman ten years younger. Her grip was firm, and the small automatic she hel
d was unwavering, unaffected by the flurries and gusts being hurled at them by the North Sea squall.

  ‘You figured it out, Brendan. As always.’

  ‘Sorry if I’m getting a tad predictable in my old age.’

  A stray wisp of hair stuck to Samantha’s cheek and she brushed it away. The pistol stayed where it was. ‘This is hard for me.’

  ‘Forgive me if any expressions of sympathy appear inadequate.’

  The ship rocked again, and Moran experienced the illusion of the world being tipped backwards. His stomach see-sawed along with the motion.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Flynn.’ Moran had to shout as the noise of the wind grew stronger. ‘Flynn is the only other person I told – that I recorded the conversation with Gallagher. I happened to mention it was a cassette. And so did you.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  Samantha’s feet were placed apart for balance. As the ship moved, she swayed with it. Sea legs, Moran thought; there’s experience for you, right there. She was looking at him intently, as though she wanted to burn his image onto her memory.

  Better keep talking, Brendan.

  ‘And the more I thought about your disappearance, the credit card, how you’d been locked up for weeks for no apparent reason, well–’ He tightened his grip on the rail as spray flew up, soaked his back. ‘It didn’t make sense.’

  ‘I was supposed to do this before,’ she said. ‘I sent you out for a walk instead.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Nothing about the way I feel, at least. But there’s too much at stake. You’re not going to part with the tape now, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then. You understand.’

  ‘What did they offer you, Samantha? Money? Property? Kudos?’

  ‘Moscow?’ She laughed. ‘None of the above. It’s not about material gain, Brendan. It’s a matter of principle.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before somewhere.’

  The gun was levelled directly at him. He couldn’t get to the door in time, and even if he did she would shoot him before he was half way down the staircase. No one would hear. As long as he kept her in sight, faced front, there was a chance.

  ‘How do you know I haven’t left instructions to despatch the tape to Thames House?’

  She cocked her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think you intended to give it to me directly. When you found me.’

  He shrugged, nodded. ‘You’re right. That’s what this whole setup was about. Clever. You knew I’d take the bait.’

  ‘You don’t like loose ends, Brendan. I’ve learned that much about you.’

  A seagull cruised down to inspect them, hung on the wind for a moment, and was gone. No food, no stay.

  ‘I’m disappointed about Flynn,’ Moran said. ‘One man I thought was dependable.’ Disappointed didn’t come close. He felt crushed by his mentor’s betrayal.

  ‘And he is, Brendan, so far as the Republican cause is concerned.’

  ‘A closet extremist, all these years.’ Moran shook his head sadly. ‘I missed that one. I looked up to him. So I’m not always right.’

  ‘Is he so wrong? He’s willing to stand up for his cause. Not everyone can say that about themselves.’

  ‘I have no problem with a cause. It’s the methods I’d call into question.’

  To his right, on a deck far below, Moran could see a knot of merchant seamen busy with some nautical task. They were absorbed in their work, too far away to be of any assistance, even supposing they’d be willing. ‘Something must have happened to turn you from your original cause, Samantha. Something made you renege on your masters. What was it, I wonder?’ He hesitated to use the word traitor, although the term seemed to fit the bill.

  Samantha was keeping her distance. The automatic was still pointed at Moran’s chest. If he rushed her, she’d get a shot in way before he made contact. The wind snatched at her voice, made her shout to get the words across.

  ‘I was a student – Cambridge, if you want to know. One of my professors was more than he seemed. I knew there was something slightly mysterious about him. He was a headhunter for the intelligence service.’

  ‘He had his eye on you?’

  ‘In more ways than one, as it turned out.’ Samantha flicked the unruly strand of hair away from her eyes, but the gun remained steady.

  ‘He recruited you. And then he seduced you.’

  She nodded, her lips twisting with distaste at the memory. ‘I was young, impressionable. I looked up to him.’

  Moran shook his head. ‘Oh, no, no. Don’t tell me this is all some kind of revenge trip? So what, he dumped you? You were devastated. How could a man you respected, a man you held in such high esteem mistreat you so badly? Is that it?’

  ‘His wife found out. We got careless; he blamed me for the indiscretion; I left some article of clothing where I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘And naturally, he was never going to leave his wife.’

  Samantha’s compressed lips gave him the answer.

  ‘So, you joined up but always intended, at some suitable point, to slip away from your spymasters, go over to the other side just to get your own back on the professor. Rather childish, don’t you think?’

  A shrug. ‘Maybe. He’s long dead, of course, but I won’t pretend it wasn’t hugely satisfying to imagine how he’d react if he knew. But there’s more to it. You need to wake up, Brendan. Great Britain lost the ‘Great’ a long time ago. The country’s a shadow of what it once was. The empire is over. It won’t be long until the real world power makes its move, assumes its rightful place.’

  ‘Russia? You really believe that?’

  ‘If you only knew what I’ve been privy to, Brendan. It’s only a matter of time. I know whose side I want to be on.’

  ‘I think you’re deluding yourself.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Have you any idea how easy it is to bring influence to bear in Whitehall? Especially where money is involved. Where do you think certain key political parties receive the majority of their donations from?’

  ‘A covert network of Russian oligarchs, no doubt.’

  ‘Correct. And a great deal of money buys many favours.’

  ‘The enemy inside?’

  Samantha’s mouth formed a disdainful smile. ‘Enemy? Saviours, more like. The UK is currently run by a bunch of privileged playboys. They deserve all they get.’

  ‘In that respect, I might find myself agreeing with you.’

  She raised the automatic. ‘I’m so sorry, Brendan. I really am. I can’t allow that tape to fall into the wrong hands. This is where it ends.’

  At that moment, the ship plunged into a deep trough and Samantha was propelled forward into Moran’s arms. He held onto her and, for a second they clung together like the lovers they had almost become. He caught her wrist in a firm grip, but the rain made her flesh slippery, and as the ship righted itself she tore herself away, staggered back. The automatic came up, purposefully this time, and she squeezed the trigger.

  Moran felt a punch in his midriff and doubled over, slipped down the railing, legs splayed on the soaking deck. He couldn’t catch his breath. It was like being badly winded, only exponentially so. He was vaguely aware of the Rotterdam Comet beginning a new plunge.

  With nothing to hang on to, Samantha lost her balance and slid across the deck towards him; he felt her foot catch on his outstretched leg. Although his cheek was pressed against the deck, he had a clear view of what happened next. Samantha hit the railings hard and the automatic was thrown from her hand, went skittering across the deck and over the side. The railing, whether through negligence or sheer bad luck, gave way on impact with a scrape of tormented metal. For a frozen moment, like a still from a movie, Samantha held onto the unsecured tubing as the ship continued its downward dip. In the next second she and the railing had disappeared over the side.

  Moran felt himself sliding and caught hold of the railing base, which had been
partially torn from its mount. Two rivets remained. He hung on. His legs dangled over the abyss and he knew that, if the ship continued its current trajectory, he too would be swept overboard. He didn’t have the strength to hang on for long. His chest was a breastplate of agony, and a fierce pulse was hammering in his temple, like Thor with his mythological hammer. Still he held on.

  After what seemed an eternity, he felt the deck levelling out. As it reached the horizontal, Moran let go, began to crawl towards the stairwell. If he could reach the door, he might be able to force it open. At first, the ship’s opposite roll assisted him and he made good progress but half way across he felt the familiar pull as, once again, the deck canted sharply beneath him. He grabbed the nearest object, a protruding air vent, wrapped his arms around it.

  The pain in his chest intensified as he fought against gravity. When the ship flattened out again, he threw himself forward onto his hands and knees. Getting his feet beneath him proved even harder, but it had to be now, or he would be dragged back again towards the missing railing.

  Lurching to a half-crouch he flung himself at the door, wrenched it open, tumbled down the first three stairs, slid on his back the rest of the way until his head was resting on the upright steel banister at the foot of the stairwell. He dragged in lungfuls of air, tried to calm himself. Gingerly, his hands began to explore his chest area. He stripped off his coat, found the straps securing the Kevlar vest and gently loosened them, slipped out of the garment and held it up for examination.

  Just below the breastbone was a deep indentation, scarred at it edges by the heat and impact of the bullet. He pulled his shirt open, the buttons pinging and scattering on the floor. The bruise was already well-formed, the colours radiating outwards like a blurred butts target. He probed his ribs and groaned. Bruised, certainly, but hopefully, not broken.