Resolutions

by Jane A. Adams

  Ursula cast him an anxious glance and he managed a smile. ‘You’ve been through worse,’ she said quietly

  George nodded. He probably had, but that time Karen had been on his side and he’d been grateful for it. This time he was not so sure he wanted that.

  Abe Jackson and Fitch were at Abe’s main office on the industrial estate. The solicitor’s office was great as the public face of his business, but here, in this more anonymous setting, he had the computers and the faxes and the phones and the personnel.

  Fitch had been on the phone for the past hour, talking to previous associates of his late boss, and was building a picture of a Karen Parker that even George would have had trouble recognizing. Her father had been little more than hired muscle; even Jimmy Duggan had once employed him for that purpose, though, finding that he lacked finesse, it had not been a job opportunity that had lasted long enough to become a career. All agreed that Karen was far more intelligent, reliable and ruthless.

  ‘No nerves,’ Fitch was told. ‘A real ice maiden and with the looks to go with it.’

  Fitch also gleaned the impression that Karen was not in this for the long haul. She would make her money and then get out. ‘She’s a flash in the pan,’ Fitch learnt. ‘Give her a year and she’ll burn out.’

  ‘Give her a year and I reckon she’ll be off, find herself a rich old man.’

  And they were all right, Fitch reckoned. Karen did not plan a lifetime as a hired assassin; she was in it for the short term, for the instant cash it afforded and which she would have the sense to invest in something more solid and steady and life-changing than the mere destruction of a handful of individuals whom few would mourn and whose deaths many would rejoice over. Five years down the line, Karen would be something else, all trace of this episode in her life gone.

  He found himself thinking that he’d almost like to know her then, when the anger had been consumed by action and she had her life on track; trouble was she was threatening now those Fitch was determined to protect.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked Abe once he’d got off the phone and told him what he had learnt.

  ‘Well, the Reverend Tom Longdon seems clean, as far as we can tell.’

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ Fitch grinned.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I just don’t like vicars. There’s some bits and pieces about Ricky Marlow. You remember, Peel went to his pub and Marlow threw him out? Well, Marlow definitely knew Rains as well. He gave him a reference for a driving job. A proper driving job, not as in fast car, clean getaway. Rains worked it for six months, then decided honesty was hard work.’

  ‘How did you turn that one up?’

  ‘Got one of my associates to go back over Rains’s work record. He called round a couple of his previous employers, said Rains had applied for work and given their names for references.’

  ‘And no one twigged that he was asking about a dead man?’

  Abe laughed. ‘It seems not. I think people don’t like to think they’ve been associated; they’d rather lie to themselves. Having said that, Rains worked all over the country, and some may genuinely not have made the connection. Needless to say, my man wouldn’t be employing him on the strength of previous recommendations. Nothing more, though, on John Bennet. Apart from having the misfortune to work with Peel and know Ricky Marlow because he helped with the survey on his extension, there’s nothing to suggest that John Bennet is any more interesting that he purports to be.’

  ‘Can’t win them all,’ Fitch observed.

  ‘And the investigation? Has Wildman made any more progress?’

  ‘My contacts tell me that DCI Wildman now accepts that Peel brought Miriam down from the cliff top. His car was still there and a second set of tyre tracks. They’ve taken impressions, but—’

  ‘But he’s now accepted there was a third person on the beach?’

  ‘Has he hell. No, still convinced that Mac did it.’

  ‘What’s Mac done to piss him off?’ Fitch queried.

  Abe leaned back in the black leather chair. ‘Oh, the animosity goes back to long before Cara Evans was killed. It seems there was evidence, planted as it happens, that Wildman was on the take. Mac was the man who found that evidence and then headed the investigation. Eventually it was all handed off to Internal Affairs and Wildman was finally cleared, but it took six months and he’s never got over it. Then, the night Cara Evans was killed, Wildman was in the office next to Mac when Peel phoned him, summoned him to the beach and told him to come alone. Wildman was convinced that if Mac had briefed him, asked for his help, they might have saved the kid and got Peel.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever know, but the pair of them have to live with the possibility.’

  ‘And then Mac does the selfsame thing when Peel takes Miriam, and it damn near ends the same way.’ Fitch nodded. ‘I can see how that might gall a man like Wildman. It would bloody gall me. In fact, when this is over and I’ve got time to say my piece, our friend Sebastian McGregor is going to find out just what kind of a bloody fool I think he was.’

  Abe smiled. ‘I think you may have to join the queue,’ he said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Despite everything, Mac and Miriam had slept and slept late, waking to find the sunlight pouring into the flat above the boathouse and the view from the porthole window of a clear sky and calm sea, most uncharacteristic of November.

  Breakfast was bread, taken from the freezer and hacked into rough slices with a penknife Miriam found in the boathouse below. The still-frozen slices were defrosted under the hot grill and made fairly decent toast.

  ‘We have to go shopping,’ she said. ‘We need groceries and a bread knife at the very least.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Can we call into work?’ he said. Corrected himself. ‘Call in to see Andy and Frank Baker. They’ll be worried. I feel bad about not having spoken to them.’

  Miriam nodded. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Kate while you shower, tell her I’m car-less and will get over to her soon as I can.’ She felt oddly reluctant to go and see her sister: it meant travelling the road where Peel had blocked her route and kidnapped her. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

  Half an hour later and they were on the wooden walkway that led from Frantham Old Town to Frantham new. Bright sunlight sparkled off the slightly choppy water, and the sky was such a clear blue it might well have been high summer, but for the freezing chill that blew in off the ocean.

  Miriam had clothes of her own at the boathouse, but she’d had to borrow a fleece from Mac, her coat still most likely residing in an evidence bag somewhere. She added it to her list of things needed, though today she’d settle for getting a couple of warm sweaters and a fleece that did not actually drown her.

  ‘Oh and I need a hat,’ she said. ‘Something bright and totally outrageous.’

  ‘Ask Eliza and Bethany. I’m sure they will oblige.’

  ‘I’ll do that, but not today. I don’t think I could deal with all the sympathy and love-bombing.’

  ‘Love-bombing?’

  ‘You know, like they do in cults to make you feel needy, or maybe it’s to fill the neediness; I’m not sure about that one. Anyway, that’s why people stay: they’re love-bombed into submission.’

  That was a new one on Mac, but he didn’t argue. Right now, Rina and Tim were part of the bad times over the past few days. Later, maybe even later today, he would want and need to speak with them and be reassured he was still a part of their family – to be love-bombed, as Miriam put it. Just now, though, he needed distance and brightness and fresh air, and to do the ordinary things like buying bread and finding Miriam an outrageous hat.

  They passed the police station on their way to the promenade, but put off their visit until they’d seen to shopping and spent more time enjoying the unexpected sunshine. Several people spoke to them, one or two asking Mac if he’d been away. How long, he wondered, before the media storm once again broke over Frantham and everyone knew just
where he’d been and why?

  One of the shopkeepers asked Miriam about her face. ‘That looks sore. Gravel rash, is it?’

  Miriam nodded, delighted to have an explanation handed to her. ‘Came off my bike,’ she said.

  ‘You should have worn your helmet.’

  She found her hat, purple with a blue and red bobble and ear flaps. Mac didn’t think even Eliza Peters could have produced anything more garish. Then, shopping in very heavy bags, they turned back towards the police station and reality.

  Andy Nevins glanced towards the door as they came in and his face lit up. He came round from behind the counter, shouting to Sergeant Baker in the rear office, and Mac got the distinct impression that he only just avoided a hug. Miriam did not get off so lightly.

  ‘Mac, boss, you’re OK. No one would tell us nothing. DI Kendal’s been trying to get some information, but they’re saying nothing up there.’

  Baker came bustling out and, to Mac’s surprise, Dave Kendal followed him.

  ‘You’ve saved me a trip,’ he said. ‘How are you, Mac? Miriam?’

  ‘Suspended.’

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Come on through, we were just about to watch the news. Wildman is supposed to be releasing a statement.’

  Mac felt his shoulders sag. Couldn’t he just go home and forget about everything? They crowded into the little office that was officially Mac’s; might be his again when all of this was done. For now, though, he felt like a visitor and was glad when Miriam took the chair behind the desk. Kendall had set up a laptop to receive web television, plugging it into Mac’s Internet connection. The news was about to begin.

  DCI Wildman announced that he had a prepared statement to read out.

  He was, Mac noted, still dressed in that same, loud dogtooth jacket, though the bald patch seemed to have grown. He put such random meanderings aside and tried to focus on what he had to say.

  ‘On Monday morning at approximately eight a.m., Thomas Peel is known to have abducted a young woman on her way to work. He is then known to have held her for a period of several hours at a location as yet undisclosed. Later that same day, he took this young woman to Rowleigh Bay, threatened her life. As I’m sure everyone here can appreciate, we had every reason to believe he would carry out his threats.

  ‘Thanks to a covert police operation, the young woman was released, largely unharmed, and is now back with her family. As a result of that operation, Thomas Peel died. The investigation of that death will, as is procedure, be carried out by the Police Complaints Authority and we will afford them every assistance. We are, however, satisfied that nothing could have been done to prevent the death of Thomas Peel and are just relieved at the positive outcome for the young woman he threatened.’

  Wildman closed the folder on the statement and nodded to the waiting press. ‘That’s all I have to say just now. I’m sure you realize that the investigation is still in its early stages and further statements will follow.’

  The room erupted. Mac saw journalists he recognized (and a lot he didn’t) get to their feet as one and fire questions at the DCI as he prepared to leave the little stage. He picked out some of the questions from the hubbub, registering that someone asked if the young woman was Peel’s daughter. Another, why there had been no earlier statement. Several wanted to know the background to the shooting two days before Peel’s death. And one froze Mac to the spot. Miriam heard it too and gasped.

  A journalist fought his way to the front of the pack, his progress noted by the cameraman recording the chaotic scene. Wildman paused and looked his way, and the rest of the journalists, realizing that one of their number had scored, fell quiet.

  Wildman walked on, but the journalist repeated his question, the satisfaction in his voice evident as he realized his information was correct, even though Wildman refused to give confirmation.

  ‘I wanted to know, Chief Inspector, was the woman on the beach a CSI called Miriam Hastings? And the man who came back to the pub to raise the alarm – that would be DI McGregor, would it not?’

  Wildman had disappeared through the swing-doors at the end of the sports hall the police had borrowed for the event. But the journalist hadn’t finished. He had another question which threw doubt on everything Wildman had said.

  ‘Funny sort of operation, wasn’t it? So covert that none of your radios worked, no mobile phones that could get a signal anywhere. Funny the way your man had to walk back from the beach and use the pub phone to call for help.’ He looked around, clearly enjoying his moment, and the camera that had been about to pan away, to cut to the next item, stayed fixed upon him. ‘Funny kind of covert operation that seems to have consisted of just one man. I mean, I know the cuts have been bad but . . .’

  Laughter, cut short by Kendal muting the sound.

  ‘It was bound to come out,’ he said. ‘Wildman put on a good show, but it was bound to come out. What you did, that you were alone.’

  ‘But they have our names.’ Miriam was furious. ‘Who gave our names?’

  ‘Any number of people could have leaked that information,’ Mac said gravely. ‘Miriam, I’m sorry, maybe you should go and stay—’

  ‘With my sister? Oh yeah, great idea. Look how that turned out last time.’ She sighed. ‘We need more shopping.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Enough to last at least a week. I’m not going anywhere until this has been sorted out and gone away. We buy a shopping trolley, get more groceries, stock the freezer.’

  ‘Hide away in the boathouse?’

  ‘Unless you have a better idea.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Maybe I do.’

  One short call to Bridie Duggan and it was settled: that’s where they would go. Mac had sheltered people at her home before; now he was the one who needed help and he could think of no better place. Fitch was summoned, and Joy, reluctantly, agreed to head for home with him, but with the proviso that she was coming back as soon as the fuss died down. An hour later and they were on the road, Mac having grabbed a few essentials from the boathouse, knowing that Bridie would provide anything else they might need.

  It felt odd, though, claiming sanctuary from the other side, but just now there were few people he felt he could trust with Miriam’s life; certainly not his colleagues who seemed intent on blaming him. Certainly not himself: his judgement so far had been not just wide of the mark but practically off the map.

  I’m not running away, he told himself, remembering that earlier time, when Alec had intervened to keep him sane. I’m just retreating.

  In the little house that Peel had once called sanctuary, Karen watched the television news and heard Wildman make his statement. She was furious that Mac had been allowed to get away with Peel’s killing. What were the police? Utter incompetents? But Karen was not outmanoeuvred yet; she’d get what she wanted somehow. The phone call she’d made earlier that morning seemed to have paid off anyway. The look on Wildman’s face when he had heard the names of Miriam Hastings and DI McGregor had been priceless. The journalist would be able to tell them nothing, just a woman’s voice, put through from the central switchboard, claiming to be his sister. She had merely suggested he ask Wildman that question, left the rest to him.

  Karen left the living room and wandered through the house. She’d begun to redecorate, painting walls and stripping paper. She’d have to get someone in to measure up for carpets, though she’d probably leave the bare boards in the kitchen and dining room and would definitely not touch the perfect tiles in the hall. The honey glow of softly polished wood was very nice, even if it wasn’t in keeping with the period of the house. Whoever had stripped them back had really gone too far, removing the years of patina that would have built up; years of waxing and dusting and the tread of feet. Same went for the doors, but there was nothing she could do about that. She paused in the room that she had allocated for George. The bed was already in place, a big brass bedstead she had seen in an antique shop and which she knew he would love. Furniture was something
he should choose himself, and the blue carpet was fine for the moment – it matched the heavy velvet curtains, which, again, she felt George would appreciate. Better than anything he had at that Hill House place.

  He just needed persuading, and Karen was sure that would not be so hard. She’d made the mistake of allowing herself to be carried away. Put too much pressure on, when the poor kid was, most likely, just getting over their mum’s death and Karen having to go away. It was her job to persuade him that she’d not be going away again, not his just to believe her.

  Satisfied that all would be well in George-and-Karen world, she went back downstairs, put on the wellington boots she’d left by the kitchen door and went out to weed the rose bed.

  Of all strange things, Karen had discovered gardening. George would piss himself laughing at that. His sister – first in the family to have green fingers.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Abe had been doing some informing of his own, passing on what he’d discovered about the Billy Tigh connection to DI Kendal, who had duly passed it on to Alec with the suggestion that they talk to the brother of prison visitor, Sara Curtis. See who may have talked to Billy Tigh about Curtis and Rains and the abuse of his brother.

  He also had a possible lead on the gallery. Igor Vaschinsky had an aunt who ran a small gallery. It was an independent operation, though Igor had invested in it, and the aunt was also an illustrator. She had set up the gallery as an outlet for her own work and also for a group of local artists. It had a very good reputation; she had a knack for recognizing talent and also a real skill when it came to marketing. Now in her sixties, she was talking about retirement and looking for a buyer.

  Abe thought it all sounded about right.

  The Southern Gallery at West Bay Harbour had a website, and Abe downloaded some pictures of the outside to show George on the off-chance Karen might have told him something useful.

  In addition, this now narrowed his search for Karen’s house. She’d want, presumably, to be close to the gallery, so all he had to do now was find a house that matched George’s slightly sketchy description to one within, say, a twenty-mile radius of Bridport, and that would be that. Easy.