by Scott Hunter
Come on, Brendan. Enough …
Went downstairs, put the kettle on, took out the bread and butter to make a jam sandwich.
It was no good. He had to know. He grabbed his keys, went to the front door.
‘Hold on a little while longer, boy,’ he told the little Cocker who had reappeared with a ball jammed firmly in his mouth, tail windmilling like a propeller. ‘I just need to check on Mrs P. Won’t be a second.’
There was no response to his knock. He waited for a bit. Knocked again. Still nothing. He bent and opened the letter box flap.
‘What on earth–?’
The hallway was bare. The big dresser had gone. On the wall to the left was a clean space where a full-length mirror had hung. Moran let the flap go with a clang. He went to the front window, cupped a hand over his brow, squinted. Empty. Not one single piece of furniture, nor carpet. Bare boards.
He returned to his house. It made no sense. He picked up his letters, sifted through the usual junk mail, circulars, pizza offers, until he got to the last item. An envelope simply marked: ‘DCI Brendan Moran’. Hand-written and hand delivered.
Now what?
He slit the envelope open, took out a single folded sheet of paper.
Hello Brendan
Sorry I wasn’t able to put you in the picture in person before the move. Don’t worry, everything is fine and the item you were concerned about is safely in the right hands.
I do feel that I owe you an explanation. Would you care to meet up tomorrow morning? How about Streatley? At the top of the hill there’s a sign across the road from the car park which reads ‘The Holies’ – I’ll take a stroll up there, rendezvous say 8.30? Lovely views. Do bring Archie – he’ll love it. Lots of rabbits, moles and goodness know what else.
Kind regards,
Constance P.
Moran reread the note before placing it carefully in his coat pocket. He was too tired to even consider what might have prompted Mrs P’s abrupt relocation, or where she might have gone. Tomorrow was another day, and Mrs P herself seemed keen to save him the trouble of attempting to unravel this latest conundrum on his own. He returned to the kitchen to finish making his sandwich, and ate it with an accompanying cup of strong breakfast tea, watched intently all the while by Archie, who had carefully positioned himself to address any morsels Moran might be careless enough to drop.
The sun was bright in Moran’s eyes as he left the car park, which was already half-full, and crossed the road. There was the sign Mrs P had mentioned – ‘The Holies’. Archie tugged at his lead, already scenting the wildlife, and pulled Moran up the incline into the woodland. The hundred odd acres of The Holies was now owned by the National Trust, and the chalky grassland was home to a number of rare flowers and insects. Somewhere up here, Moran recalled, was the remains of a Bronze Age hill fort. And no wonder the ancients had selected this spot – the views of the surrounding landscape were breathtaking.
They made good progress along a flint and gravel track, continuing along the path and through a robust kissing gate, Archie taking the easier route beneath the woodwork and accelerating up the slope in pursuit of a bolting muntjac.
The trees gradually thinned, until dog and man were delivered onto a wide, grassy coombe dotted with stemless thistle and wild thyme. A low bench presided over the expanse in the centre of which, sitting demurely with her hands recumbent on her lap, was Mrs Perkins. Archie spotted her immediately and gave up on the muntjac. Here was something more familiar and much more accessible. The spaniel dashed across the grass and pushed his nose against Mrs P’s coat, tail thrashing furiously.
‘Hello Archie. You found me.’ Mrs Perkins smiled indulgently. ‘Let’s see if I have a treat for you.’ She reached into her pocket and produced a thin paper bag. ‘Nicely now, no snatching.’
Moran joined Mrs P on the bench. ‘Morning.’
‘Hello Brendan.’
‘They’ve moved you on, then. Job done.’ Moran was taking in the view. It was extraordinarily clear, miles of hedgerow-delimited fields, smoking chimney stacks, clusters of houses nestling in the dips and cracks of the rural landscape. He’d slept well – surprisingly so – and his clarity of thought had been, if not entirely reinstated, at least ameliorated to some degree.
‘You’ve been thinking it through.’
Archie was sitting at full attention, waiting for the next tidbit.
‘I can only get so far, but yes, I think I have a rough idea. The thing is, just when I think I’ve worked it out, another layer presents itself and I’m back to square one. A bit like trying to peel a large onion in the dark with a blunt pair of pliers.’
Mrs Perkins made a face. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to an onion before. That’s a first.’
Moran laughed, ‘No offence. I’m just a simple policeman trying to do my job.’
‘None taken. And for what it’s worth, you do it very well.’
They lapsed into a companionable silence. To the north, the landscape unrolled before them like a mosaic tapestry, the needlework of numberless hedgerows separating the greens and browns, criss-crossing the panorama like the work of a careless seamstress. Leaves rustled in the westerly breeze, unseen wings fluttered in the undergrowth. Archie’s ears twitched, and the spaniel cocked his head. Too many scents, too many choices…
Presently Moran said, ‘You were right, this is quite a view.’
Mrs Perkins sighed. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? I could sit up here forever. One feels … above the world and its problems.’
‘Yes. It’s very peaceful.’
‘I’m officially retired, you know.’ Mrs Perkins fed Archie his next scrap. ‘But from time to time I receive a little message. It’s understood, you see. Once you’re in, you’re never really out.’
‘You don’t find that rather – unsettling?’
Mrs Perkins gave a short laugh. ‘I suppose some might, but I like to keep myself occupied. Keep the grey matter ticking over.’
‘Yes,’ Moran agreed. ‘I’d probably feel the same way.’
‘Look, Brendan, I don’t want to you to feel that our friendship is all a … well, a sham. Not at all. I’ve genuinely enjoyed your neighbourliness, walking Archie, all those things. I hope this business doesn’t leave a sour taste. I should be sorry if that were the case.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Perkins. I’m getting used to it.’
‘Well, let’s hope you’ll be intrigue-free from now on, darling – patience, Archie.’ Mrs P rummaged in the paper bag. ‘Just two left. There you are. Good dog.’
‘Let’s rewind,’ Moran said. ‘Samantha Grant killed Liam Doherty in my house. Shortly after that, she was taken by persons unknown.’
‘Our friends from the East, yes.’
‘Samantha told me that MI5 wanted Doherty terminated, that he was too much of a risk.’
‘He represented a risk to us, yes. But more so to Moscow, and especially to Joe Gallagher.’
Moran nodded. ‘I figured that much. So Samantha was acting on behalf of the Russians. But what about her abduction?’
‘Staged,’ Mrs P said. ‘For my benefit – and yours. But we already knew what she was up to. She was good, Brendan, but not beyond a careless slip or two. She’d probably have been offered in an exchange, some time in the future.’
‘Ah, one of theirs for one of ours?’
‘Precisely. And then she’d have been in a perfect position to continue acting as a double. And they’d have got a man back.’
‘Except she didn’t know you were onto her.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I learned an interesting snippet of news yesterday evening,’ he said, ‘about the RTC, the Guust Vervoer truck.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘The brakes had been rigged. Explosive charges.’
‘That was them, not us. Ruthless lot, aren’t they?’
‘They wanted Cleiren’s artic to crash exactly where it did, because they knew I’d be dealing with the after
math, make the link with Guust Vervoer and from there to Samantha.’
‘That’s how we read it, yes. Typical belt and braces approach. Although, from what I understand, Cleiren lost control even before the charges went off.’
Moran frowned. ‘You’re aware they knobbled one of my team? Got him to plant Sam’s credit card in the wreck?’
‘Yes, we were onto that. My guess is that other links – carrots, we could call them – to lead you to Samantha that had been planted in Cleiren’s truck were destroyed by the fire. Samantha and Cleiren were something of an item, by the way – a fast worker, that woman. Cleiren no doubt had a photo, or a scribbled love letter, or something of that nature somewhere in the cab. That’s why they selected Cleiren’s artic – there should have been plenty of Samantha for you to discover. Unfortunately for them, the fire destroyed all of it. Your man was plan B.’
‘Let’s talk about the tape.’
‘You weren’t to know, Brendan, but when you gave it to me for safekeeping, you were effectively giving it directly to Thames House. It’s a done deal. Action is being taken, even as we speak.’
Moran fell silent. A kestrel hovered, tracking some unfortunate shrew or vole. As they watched it stooped, struck, and sailed away with its breakfast hanging limply.
‘One other thing. I’m assuming your lot intended to apprehend Samantha when we arrived at the Port of London, but there was no reception committee waiting. She might easily have slipped your net even then, got herself on board some another ship.’
‘Unlikely,’ Mrs Perkins said. ‘You only saw the fellow you spoke to because he wanted you to see him. We were well represented, trust me. But as things turned out, the operation was unnecessary.’ She fed Archie his last treat, and the spaniel gulped it down. Mrs P screwed up the paper bag and stuffed it in her coat pocket. ‘Off you go, Archie. Have a run around.’
They watched the little dog sniff the earth as he caught a scent, trotted off to investigate, nose to the ground.
Mrs Perkins said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come through this, Brendan. And I’m sorry you were dragged into it.’
‘I seem to have a nose for trouble,’ Moran said drily. ‘It’s always been a problem.’
Mrs P had risen from the bench. ‘I’d better be off, darling. Things to do, you know how it is with a house move.’
‘I’ll not expect a Christmas card.’
Mrs P laughed. ‘I won’t be so far away, Brendan. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other from time to time.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s a comfort or not.’
‘I’ll leave you to work that one out. Goodbye, Chief Inspector.’
Moran sat for a while longer, watching Archie scurry hither and thither. He knew what Mrs P meant, about feeling above everything on this plateau. In the distance the two wooded hills known as Wittenham Clumps presided over the landscape like silent guardians. It wasn’t hard to imagine the hill forts of bygone days, the stern, vigilant eyes looking out from their vantage point, alert for an approaching enemy. Had it been easier then, Moran wondered, to tell friend from foe? Before men had perfected the art of subterfuge, deceit, mendacity, betrayal?
A breeze ruffled the leaves in the surrounding trees, as though in answer to Moran’s unspoken question.
Not at all, they whispered. It was always this way.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘George? I took a call for you – I left a message on your desk.’
George took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair. ‘Oh, right. Thanks, Avani.’ He gave the recently seconded DC a wave of acknowledgment, picked up her scribbled note. He recognised the number instantly. High Nelmes. The note read: Call manager urgently.
‘Avani?’ he shouted across the office. ‘Did they say what it was about?’
‘No, not at all, actually. But she sounded a bit stressed, I think.’
‘Tell the guv I’ll be back later.’
George took the stairs two at a time. Damn the lift. He bleeped his car unlocked and gunned the engine. Traffic was bad, the IDR still jammed with commuters. ‘Come on.’ George nosed the car forward, blocked a patiently queuing Corsa, drew a silent, hostile stare from the driver. No matter, he’d made a space. Ten frustrating minutes later he was at last able to open the throttle and point the car towards Cold Ash, the well-worn route to Tess’ residential home.
As he drove, George’s imagination filled in the gaps. Tess was dead. Or perhaps worse, had suffered some catastrophic stroke. No, a heart attack. That was more likely. Her heart had been erratic since the poison had been administered. Or maybe an accident? An overdose?
George banged the steering wheel as a tractor emerged from a gateway a few hundred metres ahead.
He ground his teeth for the next half-mile, following the farmer along the narrow country lane, half-tempted to use the blue light. Eventually the tractor turned off, the farmer gave a laconic wave of thanks, and George steamed on past.
As he approached the familiar Nelmes entrance, with its security box, ivy-clad gateposts and well-tended frontage, he slowed to a sedate 10 miles per hour. His heart was thudding heavily under his ribs. He couldn’t go in, couldn’t face it, whatever it was. It was a mistake to have come. He should have just made a call, got it over with quickly. He parked the car and turned the engine off. There were the hedgerows, beyond which lay the lake, his thinking place. Everything looked the same. But something had changed. Well, there was nothing for it. He might as well go and find out the worst.
A receptionist he recognised looked up as he came in. ‘Hello, DC McConnell. Have you come to see our Tess?’
George wanted to reply but his throat felt constricted, his mouth dry. He nodded to the girl.
‘Go right on up,’ she said with a smile. ‘You might get a pleasant surprise.’
George climbed the staircase with winged feet, his mind in a whirl. What did she mean? She didn’t look upset, or worried, or–
He saw a wheelchair being wheeled along the corridor from the direction of Tess’ room. A carer was chatting away to the person in the wheelchair. The carer saw him first.
‘Ah,’ she called out. ‘There you are. We saw you parking from the window. Tess was wondering if you were ever going to come up, so we decided to come and meet you instead.’
George reached the top of the staircase and waited, scarcely daring to believe. As the wheelchair drew closer he saw Tess, smiling – no, grinning – the way she used to when she was winding him up, or telling a joke, or–
The wheelchair stopped, dead in front of him.
‘Hello, George.’ Tess’ voice was husky, as if speech was a newly-learned art form, but her eyes were sparkling and her smile was wide and focused. ‘You took your sodding time. I hope you haven’t brought more of those wretched satsumas. I hate satsumas.’
George hardly dared open his mouth. When he eventually managed to speak, he heard himself say, ‘I’ll bring grapes instead, then. Bloody ungrateful, I call it.’
Someone had left a copy of The Times in reception. Moran picked it up, scanned the front page.
‘All bad, as usual,’ Denis Robinson, the duty sergeant, said from behind his screen. ‘I don’t bother reading the papers any more. Life’s hard enough as it is.’
‘You’re a cheerful soul this morning, Denis.’ Moran looked up and smiled.
‘Nothing good in there, Brendan, like I said. They reckon this budget is going to wreck the economy for years to come.’
‘Do they indeed,’ Moran said, but now he was only half-listening, because his eyes had lit upon a column at the foot of the front page.
Irish Minister exposed as terrorist sympathiser
Joseph Gallagher, the current Irish Minister for Trade and Industry, is being questioned by senior Garda officers concerning his alleged involvement in historical and current terrorist activities…
Moran scanned the article to its conclusion.
…It is understood that a retired senior Garda officer is also
helping investigating officers with their enquiries. His name cannot be divulged at present for legal and statutory reasons.
‘Public services were badly off before,’ Robinson was saying. ‘And what about the NHS? Been hanging on by a thread for who knows how long? No better for us lot, either. Same old story, every year.’ Robinson shook his head sadly.
Moran folded the paper and set it down on the table. ‘Well, thanks for the cheery welcome, Denis. Have a good morning, yourself.’
Moran took the lift. He’d promised himself he’d use the stairs in future, any exercise being worthwhile. But today, sod it.
‘Morning all,’ he greeted the room as he went in.
Bernice Swinhoe stage-whispered on his way past. ‘The boss is waiting for you, guv. In your office.’
‘Thanks, DC Swinhoe.’
That was all he needed. An ear-bending from Higginson. Moran braced himself before he opened his door.
‘Morning, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘Have a seat, Brendan. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘No? Oh, well, I’d better hear it, anyway. Oh, before you tell me, have you heard about Tess Martin?’
Higginson’s face cracked a smile. ‘Yes, now that is excellent news, indeed. She looks to have turned a corner. DC McConnell tells me she’s talking, even walking a little. Marvellous to hear.’
‘It is, sir. Now then?’
Higginson sighed, tapped the brim of his cap, which he held on his lap as though cradling a baby. ‘Well, you’re not going to like it. I expect the news’ll be breaking very soon.’
Moran felt a cold hand race along his spine.
‘It’s Chan, I’m afraid. Zubaida. She escaped from Crawley Hospital. Sometime in the early hours.’
