Jericho Road: A Nathan Hawk Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Mystery series Book 5)

by Douglas Watkinson

  I muttered to Grogan, asking if people were really capable of this? Weren’t the practical hurdles involved too high, the moral disfigurement required to kill any number of people beyond belief? You’d think that after thirty years scooping up some of the most evil men and women who’d ever lived I wouldn’t need to ask. Which is probably why Grogan didn’t answer.

  And not for the first time I’d found myself playing God, if only at county level. Just like Kashani I was gambling with a few lives in order to save many more, maybe hundreds, even thousands if whoever sold Rollo that vial of spores could be located. Unlike Kashani, though, I couldn’t play for time. I had none left. It would be two days before Laura blew the lid off it all for the sake of a sickly child. Two days in which to persuade Ronald Finchum that I’d uncovered an outsize crime. Did I have enough gift of the gab to convince him? Would he conclude that it was all a grotesque ploy to get Tom Manners out of custody and re-united with his pocket bloody watch? Or would he take pity, send for the men in white coats and have me carted away? For a moment I considered going straight to his boss and rejected it. The best that would achieve was a slow burn inquiry and everyone involved in Maryan’s murder, trafficking people from Europe, plot to kill NAOC executives would disappear the moment the blue lights started flashing.

  We crawled our way round Oxford’s roadworks in silence, but as soon as we reached the open road, Grogan stuck himself behind a Dutch juggernaut, slow lane, and asked,

  “This Finchum, is he straight?”

  “Married.”

  He took his eyes off the road for a` split second. I thought he was going to suggest nipping round to Finchum’s house and beating him till he came round to our point of view, but no.

  “I didn’t mean straight or gay, guv. I meant ... straight. On that spectrum, bent as a U-turn one end, easily swayed the other.”

  I’d forgotten: he wasn’t the black and white thinker his bulk might’ve suggested. He had his subtle moments.

  “Straight but lazy,” I said. “Quiet, easy life.”

  Grogan nodded. “You’ve answered my next question, is he married. Kids?”

  “Two.”

  “How old?”

  I turned and looked him in his left ear. “What’s with all the domesticity, Bill? They’re seven and eight.”

  “Good. See, that’s when women take control of things, in a normal family. They have to, if only temporarily. I mean we can hope that she’s a natural trouser wearer, but they tend not to marry coppers.”

  I smiled and spoke to the ear-lobe. “Come back to me, Bill.”

  “When you had a real bastard of a case on, did you ever talk it over with your wife, like the rule book says we aren’t supposed to?”

  “Of course I didn’t!”

  He took his eyes off the road again, long enough to raise his eyebrows at me.

  “Course I did.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Share the burden.”

  “Do me a favour!”

  He was beginning to irritate. “Were you in the room with us...?”

  “You told her stuff, not just for a fresh pair of eyes on the subject, but for balance. You, more than any copper I ever met, need your dials resetting occasionally.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “You’d go off down a line that would end in ... trouble. Maggie would stop you.”

  I laughed, not because it wasn’t true but I thought he was equating me with Finchum.

  “I never met the man,” he said. “But just from what you’ve said I’ll bet money if the three of you are in the same room he’ll respect her opinion, if only because he’ll need it in the future. He’ll play the reasonable, all ears, considerate husband.”

  “So I’d be talking more to her than him, you mean?”

  “Fifty fifty.” He smiled. “Nobody gets upset that way. And let’s face it, you’ll know within five minutes what side she’s on.”

  I thought about it for a few moments. Maybe this carthorse who’d never been married, never had children, had more of a fix on human nature than most.

  I nodded. “Tonight. You coming?”

  He shook his head. “I have this ... effect on people. I bring out reservations. Something to do with looking too much like a copper, I suppose.”

  He signalled and pulled out to overtake the Dutch lorry. It took him a full minute to get completely past it. Once he was safely back in the inside lane I said,

  “You know your trouble, Bill?”

  “I know some of them.”

  “You don’t talk enough.”

  ***

  Laura wasn’t at home when Grogan dropped me off at Beech Tree. I invited him in but he declined. Stuff to do back at home. Sleep, maybe, but I should call if I needed him. There was a note from Laura propped up against the kettle. It said she was round at Chestnut, she’d be back at 7.00. I was pleased. I’d be at Finchum’s house by then having been spared any moral to-ing and fro-ing with Laura about what had happened that morning and my plans to deal with it.

  As I left the house, the phone on its hook by the door seemed to beckon me and I paused, wondering if this was pure paranoia, or simply a desire to know things that others were keeping from me. There was only one way to find out. I took the phone and hit the redial button. Nothing new. But what about recent calls? And there it was again, the number beginning +81. So Fee was phoning Laura, Laura was phoning her back. Christ, didn’t I have enough on my plate?

  - 31 -

  I parked the Land Rover over on the verge of the main road to Crendon and walked up into the cul-de-sac where Finchum lived. I’d read somewhere that cul-de-sacs were favoured by the ancient Greeks as a means of bringing your enemy into killing range, then blocking off his only exit.

  I can’t remember who’d given me the address, but Number 3 was one of five new-build lookalikes and a safe place to live. You could let a seven and eight year old out in the garden, provided you kept an eye. Two cars on the driveway were both within the pay grade of a Detective Chief Inspector and his part time teacher of a wife.

  Through the side window of the porch I could see a run of walking boots, four pairs in descending order of size, the domestic hierarchy maintained even in their footwear. Lights were on upstairs. Seven o’clock. Sounds of children being hustled into bed. End of day was always easy for us, at least it was for me since I had little to do with the logistics, but I don’t recall any objections from Fee, Con, Jaikie or Ellie. They slept two by two, bunk beds. They would chat or read and then magically it would go quiet. Maggie and I would then eat, maybe watch telly. The programmes were so much better then. All I can find now worth watching are those same dramas, 25 years on, repeated on far away satellite channels...

  The front door opened and broke my idle recollection. I hadn’t rung the bell, simply triggered a light as I’d approached the house. Finchum stood in a semaphore pose, one arm at right-angles to his body, holding the edge of the door. He wasn’t happy to see me.

  “Mr Hawk,” he said, valiantly. “What brings you to my door?”

  My inclination was to say ‘What the fuck do you think?’ but it came out in a less provocative way.

  “I need your help.”

  It didn’t sound like me, in either tone or substance. It surprised Finchum as well.

  “What’s the problem?”

  I glanced round, the actions of a worried man, as if someone might overhear me. I pretended to try and form a sentence.

  “Come in, man,” he said.

  I wiped my feet on the doormat, excessively. I think there used to be a mat Beech Tree’s front door, but since most people entered the house through the kitchen, it was a moot point.

  Finchum rattled his hands to tell me not to bother taking my shoes off. I looked round the hall. The same paternalistic structure I’d seen in the porch was in play here. Coats were hung his, hers, his junior, hers junior. There were no crossovers. Bags were on the appropriate hooks.

&nbs
p; He led me through to the kitchen. Order prevailed here as well. In this house the kids cleared away their stuff into his/her baskets. No doubt they put their plates, mugs, cutlery into the dishwasher after supper. We’d tried that ourselves when ours were young, one of many battles we lost. But in return, I choose to believe, we created such an interesting family...

  “What can I get you? Tea, coffee...?”

  I would’ve said whisky and to hell with the blood alcohol level when it came to driving home but that would’ve given the Finchums a cause for doubting me, once I’d left. ‘And on top of everything else he drinks’. He put the kettle on. I went over to a photo of his children

  “Alfie, Jessica,” he said.

  “Lovely,” I said.

  When did anyone turn to their hosts and say ‘What bloody awful names you’ve lumbered your ugly kids with.’?

  His wife entered and I turned to her, immediately wishing I’d shaved before leaving the house. She had a curiously beautiful face, something of a surprise, though with a glance at her husband I could see that he had his finer points.

  “Cress, this is Nathan Hawk. Nathan, Cressida.”

  “Mr Hawk,” she said. “How nice to meet you. I feel as if I know you already...”

  So they did talk work over the kitchen table. I shook the offered hand and carried on being struck by the distant, dark eyes, the almost black hair, and the kind of figure no one remembers since it’s nigh on perfect. A real head turner, my father would’ve said. Finchum had pointed at the kettle, she’d smiled and nodded.

  “Mr Hawk ... I mean Nathan and I have something to discuss,” he said. “Would you mind awfully if we...?”

  “No, please,” I said, immediately. “Please, I’d like your wife to hear this.”

  He shrugged and she gestured for me to sit at the table, at right angles to her. She was clearly flattered that I wanted her input. My problem, as I’d laid it out in my mind, was where to start. At one stage I’d shuffled the pieces, thrown them in the air believing that the more disjointed the telling, the more credible it would sound. I junked the idea and started at the beginning. Damn it, I even began with Heinrich Himmler. Cressida listened with genuine interest. Her husband was merely ... considerate. I covered the arrest of Tom Manners with a great deal of empathy for him. I would’ve done the same, I insisted, and went straight from our shared belief in evidence to barista Steve Bellamy and on to the six slave workers at Hillside Farm. Finchum wanted to justify the fact that he hadn’t visited the place, but I was full of understanding, almost making it my fault for trying to spoil his perfect picture of the crime. His wife had her own concerns.

  “Six people in a portakabin, working for two pounds an hour? A woman among them? Brought into the country by that repulsive creature who sells bags on Thame market?”

  I smiled. I wasn’t the only one who’d taken an instant dislike to Leonard Blake.

  “Why do you say that, Cress?” asked Finchum.

  She made a gallant attempt at Blake’s pseudo Cockney accent.

  “‘Allo, sweetie, got just the bag for all your bits and pieces.”

  Evidently, when she’d turned to him and he realised she was nearer forty than twenty he apologised, but had still tried to sell her the bag. I could see Finchum hadn’t liked his wife being mistaken for a tart. I held up a hand, included them both in my concern.

  “I have to say that no one who’s been brought in can describe him. He’s kept himself well out of the limelight, which at his size is quite a trick. The man who’s done his dirty work is a young...”

  I stopped, in a manufactured dilemma. I’d no intention of saying Terry Baines’s name and Finchum knew it.

  “Go on,” he said.

  I took them straight to the circus. Amira, her grandmother, her son, larding it with possible pneumonia and Kellogg’s extortionate rent. I left out the bit where I’d poked him in the eye. But I did relate it all to the attic in Rollo’s house, via the frozen tooth, bolstered it with information from John Stillman, my trip to Abbeville, and finally we reached Jericho Road. By that point Finchum was beginning to feel uncomfortable about the amount of work I’d done and he hadn’t. I tried to brush it aside but when I introduced Jean-Pierre Duchemin he had a glimpse of his career going up in flames. I let it burn for a few moments and then chucked the anthrax on the fire.

  “Anthrax!” he said, she said, one voice, but after a moment Cressida put Duchemin’s approaching death into the simple language it needed.

  “The Kashanis have killed this man to save their daughter. Can either of you say you wouldn’t have done the same?”

  “Who exactly is he?” Finchum asked.

  “I don’t really know. A distant relative, maybe, but a gofor, handyman, dirty worker.”

  Finchum had some questions, the first being had I really needed to come to his house and involve his wife? Yes. If I’d told him all this at Thame police station he’d have thrown me out at the first mention of Tom Manners whereas now he was willing to believe the old boy had been framed. His other questions were practical: where was the house, how many entrances, what was nearby, had I told the Kashanis to lock the car, hide the keys and if and when Jean-Pierre died where would they put the body? The lab freezer.

  I knew I was home and dry when Finchum said, “So what would you suggest I do?”

  I shrugged, as if delighted that he’d asked me. “I say we catch them all in one net. The Kashanis have agreed to help.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  ***

  I walked back to the Land Rover with all the satisfaction of ‘a job well done’, my father would have called it. On a lower level I’d proved that I still had enough gift of the gab left in me, the ability to perform as well as Jaikie with all those downward apologetic glances, pleading hands begging for help, the hint of desperation. In other words I’d manipulated a bone idle detective and persuaded him to get his arse into gear.

  His preference for doing as little as possible didn’t bother me. In fact it was a bonus. Whereas energetic loose canons throw ideas, prejudice, gut reactions and occasional inspiration at a case, lazy bastards beat us hands down when it comes to efficiency. Men like Finchum can organise anything from a picnic to a politburo, all on the back of an envelope. I just hoped he wouldn’t disprove my theory and even now be trying to change his wife’s mind. Would he succeed in dismissing my claims or would she hold him to the task ahead.

  I drove to Longwick and pulled up outside the Baines’s cottage, a house built for midgets and estate agents’ finest prose. An 18th century end of terrace, beamed throughout, an inglenook fireplace with bread oven, original windows and stone floors. This one had been passed down to Michelle Baines. Her family had owned it, lived in it for three hundred years and I was about to break the chain.

  I tapped on the front door and could hear the jokey exchange within.

  “Can you get that?” he said. “My hands are wet.”

  “I’ll get you a towel,” she replied.

  “Your legs are younger than mine.”

  “Yours are longer.”

  Terry Baines opened the door and the joshing turned to apprehension as he looked at me. I beckoned him to step outside with me. Two minutes, I said. He called back to Michelle, saying he wouldn’t be a moment and closed the door behind him. We stood in the dusk, the flame from his cigarette lighter glinting off the nearby flints.

  “Not good, Terry,” I said.

  “I can see that.”

  “I think you’re owed ... something and this is it. Police will descend on you in the next few days. The least of the charges will be people trafficking.”

  He nodded. “You’ve told them?”

  “No, but all the people you brought in can describe you to a T.”

  He reached up to his pitted face, absently.

  “You got anywhere to go?”

  “My brother, down in Plymouth. We don’t really get on.” He paused and took a drag of his cigarette. “How long w
ould I get?”

  I shook my head. “No idea, but judges don’t like the modern slave trade.”

  “You know who killed her?”

  “I know that you didn’t.”

  He looked back at the house, through the brick and flint to the image of his wife and daughter.

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  I nodded. “I thought you might. You know what judges like? Guts. If it comes to it, play your army record, your PTSD card, the shrapnel, the fact that you told me Maryan was missing. Then tell them Mr. Hawk suggested that you make a run for it. You decided to stay and face the music.”

  He flicked the half smoked cigarette out into the road, turned and went back into the house. I drove home.

  - 32 -

  Laura reminded me over breakfast that I had just one day left in our agreement and that was today. My willingness to accept the fact, my capitulation, made her suspicious and she searched my face, over the top of her glasses, trying to form a diagnosis.

  Last night, she said, she’d been to Kellogg Farm again to see Sami Ovadia and whilst his chest was no worse, it was no better either. She’d had a lengthy chat with his mother and convinced her of the danger her son was in. They’d settled on the plan of Amira seeking refugee status with Laura as her spokesperson, if needed. Evidently Laura had been researching the procedure and Amira’s chances were excellent. On top of which Sami’s possible illness was a bonus, not a hindrance. A sickly child would always tip the balance.

  “What are your plans for today, then?” she asked.

  I decided not to complicate matters with details like anthrax and a possible dead body in a freezer at the house on Jericho Road, to say nothing of implying to the Kashanis that Maryan was still alive. It was one of those moments, of which there’ve been several in my life, when for a split second I doubted my own sanity.