When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

Moran smiled to himself. On the ball, as ever, Mrs P had referred to Samantha Grant, regarding her abduction a few weeks back, as a duck between two drakes, the Russian duo who’d played the role of her kidnappers. ‘Let’s just say she took to the water on a permanent basis.’

  Mrs Perkins had folded her arms. ‘Well, as long as that’s a tidy solution, I’m glad. Now you’d better get Archie his dinner. He’ll be hungry after his swim.’

  That had been last night. Since then, no phone call – and now, no reply from her landline. Mrs P didn’t believe in mobile telephony. He ought to pop over, check that all was well.

  Moran looked up as his office door swung open after the most perfunctory knock. DCS Higginson, in full uniform, assigned himself the visitor’s chair without invitation and placed his hat carefully on Moran’s desk.

  ‘Sir. How can I help?’

  ‘You have a suspect, I understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We believe the lady in question is on her way to, or has recently arrived in, Billingshurst – a small station in Sussex, near Petworth.’

  ‘And you can’t raise my opposite number in Sussex?’

  ‘Not so far, sir, I’m afraid. They have a lot on their plate today, so I’m told. Traffic down that way also have a major incident on the M23 to contend with.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. Major RTC on the M25 as well, near the M23 junction. Fog. Worse down there than here. We have to apprehend this POI, Brendan. We can’t let her slip through the net again. I’ve seen the history. Makes grim reading.’

  Moran sighed. ‘I can’t help but agree, sir. I’ll keep trying Sussex.’

  ‘Anything I can do, you’ll let me know?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Moran watched Higginson stride from the room, straight-backed, uniform crackling in its finely pressed creases. The boss’d carry the can for this one, for sure – and Higginson clearly wanted the can to be brightly painted, a success trophy.

  Moran went to the internal window, drew the blind. A thin mist was blurring the fading, wintery light. Headlights were on, traffic crawling. He returned to his desk, eased himself into his chair. His ribs were so tender he’d hardly slept. He took a deep breath and winced.

  What had happened on the boat had shaken him, taken the wind out of his sails. He was too old for this kind of thing. He remembered the automatic, how it had jerked slightly as Samantha pulled the trigger. The hammering blow to his chest.

  He’d been lucky. It could have gone the other way. It was hard not to go through the list of what ifs. What if he hadn’t thought to don the Kevlar jacket? What if she’d gone for a head shot? What if the barrier hadn’t given way? Samantha had been a professional. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, he firmly believed that, but professionals were trained to get the job done.

  Moran dragged his mind back to the present. Chan was, in all likelihood, and for reasons yet unknown, heading for a meeting with Duncan Brodie. Which implied a degree of collusion. Or did it? Sure, the guy had suffered a bad few years at school, but then again, Moran’s schooldays had hardly been a walk in the park; Blackrock had been renowned for its discipline in those days, and for all he knew, still was.

  But, there’s a thin line between discipline and abuse, right? In fairness, he conceded, Blackrock had always stayed on the right side of that line. If that hadn’t been the case, though, would he have considered murder as a revenge option? The answer to that question depended much on character, and from what he knew of Duncan Brodie, the guy was personable – if a little bland – generous, a philanthropist of note, a successful entrepreneur, a businessman with a conscience. It didn’t sit right.

  He checked his watch. Four thirty-five. Mrs P.

  He called, let it ring for a minute, two minutes.

  No answer.

  He had to be sure. It would take forty minutes to get to Pangbourne and back, allowing for rush hour traffic – and fog.

  As he put the phone into his pocket it vibrated. He stabbed the answer button. ‘Charlie. What news?’

  ‘Guv, I’m boarding a flight to Gatwick. Should be there by six-thirty.’

  ‘You’re flying into Gatwick – in this muck?’ Moran glanced outside. ‘I hope your pilot knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘They ummed and ahd for a bit but they’re going for it. I’ve got to get down there, guv. She’s in Sussex somewhere, for sure. The school, or–’

  ‘I know. But you’ll be on your own, Charlie.’ Moran tried to keep the alarm out of his voice. ‘The roads are a nightmare – you’ll be lucky to get out of Gatwick, let alone anywhere near Petworth.’

  ‘If Sussex can’t oblige, what are we going to do? This is the closest we’ve got to picking her up. And you’re not going to get there, with the traffic, weather and all, are you, guv?’

  An idea occurred to him. ‘There’s always the chance of a chopper. I’ll see if I can swing it – Higginson’ll sign anything off, the mood he’s in.’

  ‘They’re calling the flight, guv. Got to go.’

  ‘Tell me when you’ve–’

  There was a bleep and the line went dead.

  He pocketed the phone and went to find Higginson.

  The DCS had said anything, hadn’t he?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘It’s worse than I thought.’ Duncan Brodie peered through the Lexus’ tinted windscreen. ‘Where are the damn fog lights?’ His fingers scurried across the instrument panel. ‘Aha. That’s a bit better.’

  ‘It’s nearly dark,’ Connie Chan said. ‘That will help.’

  ‘How’d you figure that?’ Brodie shot her a sideways look.

  ‘The half-light is the hardest time to see, even in the mist. I don’t often go out at this time.’

  Brodie chuckled. ‘Why ever not? You’re a strange one, right enough.’

  ‘Listen to this, Duncan Brodie. The dead come without a history in this shifting rain, and leave no trace in our habitation, our private landscape. In the light of morning, upon a fallen hillside and mud about the hedges in a suburb without memory, they will bring no change of heart and no hint for new rooflines. Word of the terrible dragon’s descent upon a neighbouring hill will pass into the breaking prism of the rain, leaving house and suburban roads in the cold and wet and nothing to plague the dreams of precocious children. In the rain’s passing, I stare upon the quiet, the mild hysteria of lallang, green under street lamps.’

  ‘That’s rather beautiful – a little sombre, maybe,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Wong Phui Nam,’ she replied. ‘A Malay poet. I like his work very much.’

  ‘And what is lallang?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s a type of grass, very common in Malaysia. A wetland grass.’

  ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’ Brodie squinted at the road ahead. Dim, shrouded headlights passed on the other side of the road, like ghosts following some predetermined track through ancient forest.

  ‘It’s very spooky, in this fog,’ Chan said. ‘I’m glad I’m with a big, strong man.’

  Brodie felt a burst of protective pride, but modesty directed his response. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘But you are,’ Chan said admiringly. ‘A successful businessman needs to be strong, forceful.’

  ‘Mentally, perhaps. But I’m no gym fanatic or sportsman, I’m afraid.’ He felt a cold thrill of memory, the rugby fields of Eagle Court, the freezing cold afternoons, the fear. He coughed. ‘I haven’t participated in sport since school, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she mimicked. ‘You Englishmen. So funny with your expressions.’

  He smiled indulgently, tucked the vehicle behind a cautious fellow traveller, allowed the car in front to feel the way forward. ‘Well, I think that’s enough about me. Tell me more about yourself. You haven’t mentioned your family, your career.’

  ‘My family? Ah…’

  ‘I’m sorry – have I trampled on a sensitive issue?’

  She sighed. ‘My mother died in childbirth. A
nd my father died when I was still young.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’ He glanced at her but her face was turned away. ‘No siblings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well… how about your job? How do you earn a living?’

  Now she turned her head towards him. ‘I murder old men for their money.’

  ‘What? Ha ha! Seriously.’

  ‘Yes, seriously.’

  ‘Now you’re playing with me.’

  ‘And you are a lovely toy, Duncan Brodie.’

  ‘Wait.’ He spotted the familiar sign looming through the fog. ‘We’re here. Look at the state of those gates – I had to prise them open the other day. I’ll just open the right hand one a little further– it was a bit of a squeeze last time.’ He parked next to the stone gateposts and, leaving his hazard lights blinking, got out of the car and tugged the obstructive iron gate open a few more inches. The other was non-functional, broken-hinged. He stood back and assessed his efforts. That should do it. Plenty of room now.

  He rejoined Connie Chan, and eased the car cautiously through the gap. His heartbeat accelerated the way it always did when he got close to Eagle Court. He remembered the dread with which he’d used to return after spending half-term with his stepfather. Half-terms had hardly been full of love and excitement, his stepfather being a reticent, ascetic man, but at least it’d been an opportunity to escape for a few days.

  They passed the familiar 10 MPH signs; the drive swung to the right and there were the twin gates, one to enter, one to exit, the drive itself arcing around in an inverted U to lead parental traffic in and safely out.

  Brodie entered via the left gate and drove slowly up the slight incline to park four-square in front of the main school building. ‘We’ll need a flashlight. The power’s off.’

  ‘OK,’ Chan said. ‘It’s all right, Duncan Brodie. I’m not afraid if you’re with me.’

  Outside the protective carapace of the Lexus, Brodie felt the damp air invade his lungs. He paused before walking around the car to open the door for Connie Chan. He felt the need to remind himself that he was an adult, and he could leave this place any time he chose. No one was going to harm him, make demands on him. He was with a beautiful woman, a fun companion. He was buying Eagle Court in order to make something good out of something bad. There was a sense of karma about the whole prospect.

  ‘Come on.’ He held the passenger door open. ‘I’ll show you inside the main school building. The school is split in half. Old House, over there – can you see the bell tower?’ He pointed down the incline. ‘And here, where we’re standing, School House. Originally a stately home. Some sugar magnate built it in the early nineteenth century.’

  ‘Ah,’ Connie Chan said. ‘And those little huts?’ She drew her coat around her slender body, pointed to the low line of rooftops that ran north south beside a row of tall maple trees.

  ‘Originally built for the Canadian army. They were billeted here before Dieppe – a Second World War raid. They lost over three thousand men.’

  ‘So, unlucky for them, this place.’

  ‘Yes. But let me show you inside.’

  Brodie inserted the key into the impressively solid front door. It swung open at his gentle push. He turned on the flashlight, lit the way, and they entered the building into a wide reception area. Doors led off left and right to other rooms. ‘The library,’ Brodie pointed to the right. ‘And along this passageway the refectory, and a staircase up to the dormitories.’

  ‘All little boys, sleeping together in a cosy room? It’s so sweet.’

  Brodie thought of the cold nights, the barely-suppressed weeping from his neighbour’s bed, the insistently tolling bell that would awaken them at six. ‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ he said.

  He led the way along the corridor. It smelled musty, unlived in. ‘The changing rooms are in there.’ He pointed to a doorless area, the flashlight glinting on rows of coat hooks. ‘And just in here, the communal showers.’

  ‘You all had showers together?’ Chan asked.

  ‘Yes. In batches, like battery hens. We were herded in, given a squirt of shampoo by the supervising teacher, ten minutes maximum, then out.’

  He shone the light into the cave-like room. The shower nozzles were rusting, much of the pipework stained green and blue with corrosion.

  ‘Yes, I think this will do,’ Connie Chan said.

  Brodie frowned, half-turned to ask for an explanation. ‘Do for wha–?’

  He felt a crushing impact on his head, an explosion of pain that made him stagger, fall to his knees. He tried to make sense of it. Had the ceiling fallen in? Was Connie all right? He tried to speak, but another blow crushed him face down onto the concrete. A black cloud filled his head, gradually sucked all the light away until he knew nothing more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Moran cursed himself for a fool – not for the first time since he’d left the station. He’d underestimated the weather conditions, big time. Traffic was stacking up on all routes in and out of town, and his forty minute estimate was proving to be grossly inaccurate. Four-thirty already and he had just under an hour to get to Pangbourne and back to Prospect Park in time for the helicopter to pick him up. Even then, it would only pick him up if the pilot considered it safe to do so – and that, looking at current conditions, seemed increasingly unlikely.

  The main road into Pangbourne from Reading was host to two sets of roadworks, the second of which was responsible for this final, frustrating holdup at temporary lights. Moran banged the steering wheel with both hands as the lights changed to red with five or six cars still ahead of him.

  The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that he’d endangered Mrs P. He’d broken his own rule and confided in a stranger, the spook on the docks. But the guy had known all about Samantha, her divided loyalties.

  Yes, but so do the Russians, Brendan…

  He’d been exhausted, battered, bruised.

  Excuses.

  He’d let his guard down…

  How could he have been so stupid? Maybe he was losing it. He’d wanted a sabbatical, but the wiser option, surely, would be to bow out gracefully. Call it a day.

  The lights changed and the traffic crawled forward.

  Come on…

  The sequence clicked to red, one car ahead.

  She’d be all right. He’d knock on the door, and she’d answer. He’d politely refuse an offer of tea, get back in the car and head for Prospect Park. Why hadn’t he taken an official car? He could have put the blue lights on, be past the roadworks by now.

  Green. The guy in front stalled.

  One second, two seconds … the car edged forward.

  Then he was through, twenty metres from his turning.

  Moran found a space on the road and parked badly. The curtains were drawn in Mrs P’s front room. He rang the bell. Waited. Nothing.

  Rang again.

  His heart sank. She was always in at this time.

  Maybe the garden? In this weather … doubtful.

  He peered through the front-room window. Empty.

  ‘Is that you, Inspector?’

  He turned to see Mrs Perkins, one hand on her gate latch, Archie straining eagerly on his lead.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, darling, but I took it upon myself to pop out for a bit. I do love this weather. I know it sounds eccentric, but it reminds me of my childhood in London. The pea-soupers. And then I thought to myself, Constance, why not take Archie with you? Inspector Moran won’t mind. You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs P, not at all.’ Relief swept through him.

  Archie was wagging his tail excitedly. This was an unexpected treat – an extra walk, and his master at the end of it, too.

  ‘Mrs P, I wondered, have you had any visitors? Someone may be calling to collect the package I asked you to hang on to.’

  ‘Nothing so far, darling. Will I need to ask for ID?’

  Moran reconsidered. ‘I think perhaps it mi
ght be better if … I take the package back, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind? It’s your business, Inspector. Hold on and I’ll fetch it for you.’

  Something else occurred to him. ‘Hold on, Mrs P. Maybe that’s not a great idea.’ He wasn’t thinking clearly. If an unwelcome visitor did call and Mrs P denied possession of the tape, things could turn nasty. ‘On second thoughts, it might be better if you hang on to it. I’ll assign an officer to keep an eye. He’ll be unobtrusive, don’t worry. And I’m sure everything’s fine,’ he added. ‘Just a precaution.’

  ‘Well, that sounds rather dramatic. Am I to give the caller what they ask for?’

  It was a simple question, but Moran’s mind was as fogged as the surrounding streets. Charlie’s safety was nagging at him, the competing urgency compromising his judgement. Perhaps he should just have Mrs P taken into protective custody? No, too drastic. Not fair either, to spring something like this on her. Come on, Brendan, make a bloody decision…

  ‘If and when you receive such a visitor, Mrs P., tell him – or her – that Inspector Moran will personally deliver the package, sometime over the next twenty-four hours. My officer will be on hand to make sure you don’t have any trouble.’

  ‘Of course. That’s fine, darling. Now, can I offer you tea?’

  Moran pulled the car into the lay by opposite Prospect Park. The helicopter was airborne, incoming – ETA, ten minutes. The fog had lifted over the town and NPASS had rubber-stamped the provision of a Eurocopter AC135.

  Moran made the call to secure Mrs P’s protection and followed it with another to Charlie. The call went to voicemail. If they’d let the flight go ahead, she’d be landing anytime now. He left a message, ordered her to wait before taking any action.

  George had confirmed with a hotel in Petworth, the Swan, that Brodie was in residence, but that he’d left the hotel sometime over the last hour with a friend. The friend had been described by the hotel receptionist as petite, pretty, and of Eastern origin. The receptionist had provided Brodie’s car registration, and DC Swinhoe had traced the vehicle heading east along the A272.