by Scott Hunter
It took another five minutes to reach the cabin. Moran stretched himself out on his bunk as the Rotterdam Comet continued its journey to London. No alarm had been raised, no panic or man overboard klaxon had sounded. Samantha had gone to her death silently, exactly as she had intended for Moran.
He closed his eyes.
No one asked any questions as he disembarked; no one even cast a curious glance in his direction. Merchant seamen went about their business, unloading, supervising quayside workers, arguing and swearing, whistling tunelessly as dockside workers did. Moran found himself walking along a service road next to a clutch of warehouses that looked as though they were in the process of restoration. His legs felt odd, like flesh-coated springs rather than bone-covered muscle. The pain in his chest was bearable, provided he took care not to make any sudden movements. The train station was a ten-minute walk, and Moran felt he could manage that.
He turned right, following signs to the railway, and very soon became aware that he was being followed. He stopped, turned, in no mood for evasion. An ordinary-looking man was walking smartly along the same route. Thirties, clean shaven, casual jacket and chinos. He looked vaguely familiar. Moran waited for him to catch up.
‘Hello.’ The man greeted him brightly. ‘Sorry. Intended to meet you off the ship – had a few matters to clear up first. Took a bit longer than expected. Always the way. Good trip?’
Moran didn’t need to ask for identification. The guy’s whole demeanour was pure MI5.
‘I’ve had better,’ Moran told him. ‘How can I help?’
‘You’ve been jolly helpful already,’ the man said cheerfully. ‘Samantha not with you?’
‘She lost her sea legs, I’m afraid.’
The man made a sympathetic face. ‘I see. Ah well, I’ll cross that one off my list.’
‘You’ve been following me,’ Moran said. He remembered now: the young guy in the car, always in the background, just out of reach, unseen at close quarters – except for his neighbour, Mrs P, who had reported his presence in Pangbourne.
‘Bit strong. Keeping a watchful eye is a better way of putting it. Cigarette?’
‘Not for me.’
‘Very wise.’ The agent lit up a Benson and Hedges and drew in smoke. ‘Listen, I believe you might have something of interest to us.’
‘Of course. You know all about it.’ Moran felt a huge weariness come over him. ‘And about Samantha’s loyalty reshuffle, I’m assuming?’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ He exhaled smoke, nodded enthusiastically.
‘But you let her off the leash, to see where it would lead you?’ A plane droned low overhead on some unknown flight path, filled the area with the noise of its engines.
The guy raised his voice to compensate. ‘She had to finish a little job for us, but then she went off the radar. Figured out what she was up to, and then lo and behold, up you pop again.’
‘She tried to kill me.’ Moran felt anger burning in his throat. ‘Was that part of your little job?’
‘No, no, no! Not at all.’ The man looked stricken. ‘She was batting for the other side. We have no designs of that sort.’
‘That’s comforting. So it was only Liam Doherty’s murder that was sanctioned by your lot?’
The man took another pull on his B&H. ‘No. That wasn’t part of her brief. Her new company issued that order. We wanted Doherty alive, as it happens. Look, I know it all sounds a little rough to a respectable police officer like yourself, but–’ he shrugged. ‘It’s a dirty game. We try to keep one step ahead. Most of the time we succeed. Other times–’ he shrugged again, ‘one has to concede the odd wicket.’
‘All for the greater good,’ Moran muttered.
‘Exactly so. Exactly. Now, I don’t want to keep you. You have things to do, murders to solve, all that sort of thing.’
Moran sighed. ‘The tape is with my neighbour. Mrs Perkins. I’ll let her know you’re collecting it.’
The man beamed. ‘Splendid. That’s the ticket.’
‘Be nice to her.’ Moran glowered. ‘She’s a good friend.’
‘Of course, of course. Absolutely. Well, I shan’t keep you. Thanks for your help, Chief Inspector.’
‘You don’t want to know what I found in Rotterdam?’
‘At Guust Vervoer?’ The man allowed himself a little chuckle. ‘The trade route? Don’t worry. We know all about it. And after we air the contents of your inspired recording, well, how can I put it?’
‘MI5 win by an innings?’
‘Spot on. I like that. Have a nice evening, DCI Moran.’
Moran watched the man walk away. He looked at his watch, acutely aware that he’d been out of contact with the team for way longer than he’d intended. Time to get back to work. He had a lot to catch up on.
Moran squared his shoulders and walked resolutely in the direction of Tilbury station.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘She’s ready and waiting,’ DS Luscombe said, holding the hotel door open for Charlie. ‘Not too happy either, according to Jenny.’
‘Happy or not, we’re going to find out what she’s hiding,’ Charlie told him. ‘I just got off the phone with DC McConnell. They’ve found some interesting intel about our Ms Chan.’
‘Oh yes?’
Charlie held her coat over her head as they headed for Luscombe’s car. ‘God, doesn’t it ever stop raining here?’
Luscombe looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Not really, no.’ He opened the passenger door, stepped aside. ‘Maybe a wee bit in August. But then you have the midges.’
‘And I thought it rained a lot in Berkshire.’ Charlie buckled herself in.
Luscombe swung into the driver’s seat. ‘So, DC McConnell?’
‘There’s a cold case. A number of incidents – murders, going back to ’91. We have a name for Ms Chan. Her real name.’
Luscombe nodded approvingly. ‘Good work.’
‘Zubaida Binti Ungu. Malaysian. Killed her uncle. Got a taste for it, came over here and refined her MO.’
Luscombe whistled softly. ‘Well, well. At least we know who we’re dealing with. That makes me feel a whole lot better.’
‘I’ll feel better when we get Mrs Brodie to spill.’
‘You and me both. Anything else?’
Charlie shook her head. ‘They’ve been through the contents of Mr Daintree’s trunk. Nothing helpful, unfortunately.’
‘The teacher.’
‘Yep. The trunk was jam-packed with memorabilia – going back to the Seventies.’
‘It’s always worth a look. You never know.’
The remainder of the short journey to Luscombe’s station passed in silence, but it was a comfortable silence in which the possibility of intimacy hung in the space between them like an unanswered question. Charlie felt as though she had known Luscombe all her life, even though, in reality, there was much she didn’t know about the dour Scotsman. It was hard to concentrate on the job in hand, although George’s early phone call had had the effect of sharply refocusing her attention on the case.
Jenny met them outside the pair of interview rooms. She looked Charlie up and down reflexively, and Charlie noticed that she took great care to address herself only to Luscombe.
‘Just to warn you, she’s not a happy bunny. You’re liable to get an earful.’
‘Thank you, Jenny. I’ll take it from here.’ Charlie gave her a close-lipped smile. ‘Could you arrange some tea for us, please?’
You’re not undermining me, young lady … whatever’s been going on between you and DS Luscombe.
Ignoring Jenny’s outraged expression, Charlie took a mental deep breath and went in.
‘Good morning, Mrs Brodie.’
‘Good morning? Well, I must say you have a ner–’
Luscombe interrupted Mrs Brodie’s outburst with a raised hand and a calm tone. ‘Just a few questions, Mrs Brodie. You’re not under caution. We just need to get a few things straight.’
Mrs Brodie si
ghed. ‘I’ve already answered your questions – on two occasions. What else do you want to know?’
Charlie sat down and folded her arms. She noticed immediately that, regardless of Mrs Brodie’s abrupt manner, both eyes were red-rimmed – skilfully camouflaged, but still visible as such under close scrutiny. The harsh strip lighting wasn’t helping the deception much, either. Charlie cleared her throat just as Luscombe hit the record button on the prehistoric tape machine. ‘Let’s begin with the young lady, shall we? Isaiah’s girlfriend.’
Mrs Brodie’s attempt at a blank expression didn’t quite come off.
Luscombe hadn’t sat down. He paced the floor behind Mrs Brodie. ‘One of your staff members told us about her, Mrs Brodie. So why don’t you save us a great deal of time and trouble and tell us what you know about Connie Chan.’
Mrs Brodie looked at her hands. ‘Well, I can’t say I cared for the woman very much.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Charlie asked.
‘I don’t know, really. I just didn’t think. We’re so busy–’
‘Ach, come on Mrs Brodie.’ Luscombe took the chair next to Charlie and looked Brodie in the eye. ‘Stop shilly-shallying around. We’re investigating a murder – no, multiple murders – so, time is of the essence. Do you get that?’
‘Yes, yes. I do. Of course.’ Mrs Brodie fiddled with her wedding ring. At close quarters Charlie could clearly see not only the redness, but also the lines around her eyes, the slight darkening of the thin skin beneath. This was a troubled woman, no doubt about it.
The door opened and Jenny came in carrying a tray. She set it on a table by the barred window and left without a word. ‘I’ll do the honours,’ Luscombe said.
As Luscombe clinked about with mugs and milk, Charlie pressed on. ‘You didn’t care for her, you say. Tell me how you came to meet Ms Chan.’
‘Through Isaiah, of course. She didn’t work for us. She used to collect Isaiah after his shift. She talked to the carers, naturally. I didn’t have a great deal to do with her.’
Luscombe set the mugs on the desk and sat down. Mrs Brodie eyed the tea suspiciously.
‘Police standard issue. It won’t kill you. At least, it hasn’t killed me yet.’ Luscombe kept a straight face. Charlie could see that Mrs Brodie was unsure how to respond. Frowning, she opted for a reluctant ‘thank you.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t have a great deal to do with her?’ Luscombe asked. ‘You never spoke to her, passed the time of day?’
‘We’re so busy, I can’t recall.’ Mrs Brodie took refuge in attending to her tea. She sipped the hot liquid delicately, grimaced and put the mug down.
‘I did warn you. An acquired taste,’ Luscombe said. ‘I’m not altogether sure I’ve acquired it.’
‘Where exactly is your husband, Mrs Brodie?’ Charlie changed tack.
Mrs Brodie reacted as though she had been stung. Her face paled, and it took her a few seconds to regain her composure. ‘As I told you before, he’s away on business.’
‘Something to do with a new home, we understand?’ Luscombe prompted.
‘A new project, yes. He wants to convert an old building. It’s recently come into his – into our – possession.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He likes to get a … a feel for a building, you see, before the architects get to work.’
‘And where might this building be, Mrs Brodie?’
‘I don’t see what this has to do–’
‘Just answer the question, please, Mrs Brodie,’ Charlie said.
‘Sussex, if you must know.’
‘And what sort of building are we talking about?’ Luscombe went on. He took a sip of tea as he waited for Mrs Brodie’s answer.
‘I think it’s … I believe they were once school buildings.’ She coughed, reached for the mug of tea, changed her mind.
Charlie turned to Luscombe. ‘A quick word?’ To Brodie she said, ‘Excuse us a moment, please.’
The corridor was empty. Luscombe was looking at her curiously. ‘What’s up?’
‘A school. It may be nothing, but…’ Charlie chewed her lip.
‘Go on.’
‘Our Mr Daintree was a teacher. Unpopular, by all accounts. He used to live in the south, before he moved here.’
‘Then the daughter arranged for him to move south again – to the care home in Reading.’ Luscombe said patiently. ‘So?’
‘Well, where did he live? Where in the south? And where exactly did he teach? I’m sure the guv said that Mrs Fowler – Daintree’s daughter – mentioned that her father had spent a long time at a prep school in Sussex. I’m going to call George. If you want to carry on in the meantime…’
‘Sure.’ Luscombe looked slightly bemused.
‘It’s probably nothing. Indulge me.’ She gave him a terse smile. ‘I’ll just be a few minutes.’
It took a while to run George to ground. ‘Make it quick,’ he told her. ‘The guv’s just arrived and he wants us all in the IR, pronto.’
She told him what she wanted.
‘All right, I’ll risk his wrath if you think it’s important. Give us ten minutes,’ George told her. ‘The guv’ll be all right if he knows it’s come from you.’
‘Thanks, George. Is he OK? I mean, how is he … in himself?’
‘Not in the best of moods, but aye, he seems fine. Why?’
‘I don’t know … he just sounded a bit … odd, when I last spoke to him.’
‘Well, he’s here, in the flesh, so to speak, so I’d better get cracking.’
‘Be quick.’
‘Amn’t I always?’
Mrs Brodie looked up as Charlie came back into the interview room, hesitated in mid-sentence. ‘Carry on,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘You were talking about your husband,’ Luscombe reminded her.
‘Yes, well, he’s away a lot. He’s a successful man. I don’t try to keep tabs on him all the time. Why should I?’
‘Why, indeed?’ Luscombe agreed. ‘Did your husband know this woman, Chan?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mrs Brodie replied, a small speck of colour appearing on her cheeks. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything, Mrs Brodie,’ Luscombe said patiently. ‘I’m simply trying to establish a set of facts which will help us.’
Charlie took over. ‘How often would you say Ms Chan came to see Isaiah at Chapelfields?’
Mrs Brodie considered the question briefly. ‘A handful of times, I should say.’
‘Did Isaiah’s duties include any deliveries, or visits?’ Charlie moved the interrogative goalposts in another direction.
A long hesitation. ‘He may have used the van once or twice.’
‘For … what, exactly?’ Luscombe joined in.
‘Collecting, running errands, that sort of thing.’
‘Collecting people?’ Charlie tilted her head to one side. ‘Or medication? Or…?’
‘Look, I can’t remember everything the man did. Others would have asked him to perform various duties. He was there to help. A gofer.’ A note of exasperation had crept into Brodie’s voice.
A knock on the door. Jenny’s head appeared. ‘Phone call. DI Pepper. Urgent.’ Her head disappeared again.
‘Excuse me.’ Charlie got up. ‘Keep the tape running. I shan’t be long.’
It was George. She listened impatiently to her colleague’s rapid patter. A good copper, George, but he didn’t half go on sometimes. ‘And the name of the school?’ she cut in.
She heard George riffling through sheaves of paper. ‘Here we are. Eagle Court. It’s near Petworth, in Sussex. Stockbroker belt,’ he added, a note of disdain modulating the vowels and consonants of his soft Scottish brogue.
‘OK, George. Look, you’re going to kill me, but I need you to check that trunk again. Is there anything in there about the pupils? We’re talking mid-Seventies, or thereabouts. School reports, photographs, maybe? I don’t know … pupil admissions, sporting
achievements. New arrivals.’ She racked her brains. ‘Prefects’ lists?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘It’s a long shot,’ Charlie admitted. ‘But there may be some connection. Daintree taught at this school, right? Well, Mrs Brodie’s husband has just bought an old school in Sussex. I haven’t got the name yet, but I’m about to run this past her.’
George was silent for a moment. ‘Sounds plausible. If she says Eagle Court, you’re thinking…’
‘Ex-pupil with grudge against ex-teacher gets his own back. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.’
‘And he buys the old place for … what reason, exactly?’
‘He’s rich and successful. He wants to expand, build further residential homes. An old prep school in the country – well that’s a perfect location, right?’
‘Right. And to put the past to bed, make some kind of peace with himself, and it. But hang on – that doesn’t necessarily explain the other killings. They can’t all have been teachers at the prep school.’
Charlie bit down hard on her lip. ‘I know. You’re dead right. But let’s check, anyhow.’
She passed Jenny in the corridor. The DC walked right past her without a word.
Suit yourself, madam…
Back in the interview room, Luscombe was standing by the window, his back to the bars. Charlie took her seat as before. ‘So, Mrs Brodie. I want you to think very carefully before you answer this question. Is the school your husband intends to buy called Eagle Court, by any chance?’
Mrs Brodie didn’t need to articulate an answer. It was obvious from her expression. She almost winced at the sound of the name.
‘I need to hear your reply,’ Charlie said. ‘For the tape, if you wouldn’t mind. Is your husband’s intended purchase Eagle Court?’
Mrs Brodie’s mouth opened and closed. Her confidence had evaporated to the extent that Charlie decided to go with her hunch and pitch the big sub question. ‘Did your husband attend Eagle Court as a pupil, Mrs Brodie?’
