by Penny Grubb
He put in a call to the lab. The woman wasn’t there, so he gave the message to one of her colleagues. ‘Tell her not to bother about Mr Morgan. I’ve found him.’ And he read out the URL Ahmed had given him.
Sunlight speared through the line of trees, bouncing from every reflective surface, making bright jewels of a pair of discarded drinks cans. Webber shaded his eyes and pulled his jacket tight around him. He strode away from the building imagining Farrar’s stare following.
What was the deal with Brad Tippet, the man who’d ruffled Farrar’s feathers back when he was a lowly constable? Bloody Farrar! Bloody Suzie bloody Harmer! The best part of a day lost chasing some silly suicidal woman. No, that wasn’t fair. Pamela Morgan hadn’t come across as silly, just desperate. Ahmed might have left more detail on his voicemail.
‘Found your man, Guv,’ said Ayaan Ahmed’s voice. ‘I’ll text you a link. It was horrible, but nothing to do with 9/11. Robert Morgan died in 1986.’
1986? Webber tried to fit this to his image of Pamela Morgan. Sensible people did senseless things on the spur of the moment. They didn’t wait fifteen years. It was a common enough name. As he wondered whether Ahmed had found the right Robert Morgan, he felt again that glimmer of something reaching out from his own past. 1986. He’d have been at school, in his O Level year. What had Ahmed said? It was in all the papers. Yes, by attaching it to a year, the sense of familiarity was heightened.
His phone pinged a new email as he climbed into his car. The woman from the lab. The subject said, Robert Morgan. Opening it, Webber read,
re Mr M. Got your link. Nasty business. Here’s the PM report if you want it. Grim reading though.
* * *
Webber hurried in and over to where two colleagues sat watching the screen that showed Tom Jenkinson in the interview room. He leant across them to take a look at the boy who’d caused all the trouble. Had more cautions and interviews than most students get Big Macs. Certainly Jenkinson looked relaxed. He wore a battered hi-vis jacket, garish orange with black lettering Webber didn’t recognise. Its ripped collar hung lopsided as Jenkinson leant back in the chair, eyes at half-mast.
‘How long’s he been in there?’ Webber asked.
‘Half an hour. Ayaan Ahmed suggested we let him stew 30 or 40 minutes.’
‘Is Ayaan here yet?’
‘Yes, he’s chasing something from Jenkinson’s record.’
Webber looked again at the relaxed young man in the interview room. ‘I thought this was outside Jenkinson’s MO. What have we got?’
‘The systems aren’t showing any tampering and they’ve had time to have a good look.’
‘So, is it sleight of hand or something sophisticated enough to escape detection?’
‘Sleight of hand. I’d put money on it.’
It was what Webber wanted to hear, but he wasn’t going to be convinced just because it was the easiest answer. ‘Tell me more.’
‘The statements. It was quick, chaotic. Most people were too shocked to be sure what had happened, but when you boil it down, we have the couple waiting for the filter. She saw it go green. Said it just flipped red to green like on the continent. And the driver approaching from the north. He’s slowing for the red light when he realises it’s changed and he speeds up. And bang. And the woman at the crossing. She swears it was showing both red and green, but for a split second the green was much brighter. They’re the three who had reason to notice.’
‘What’s Ayaan looking for?’
As he spoke, he saw Ahmed come through the far door, a look of satisfaction playing about his features. ‘I’m sure that’s it,’ he was saying. ‘It’s on the footage where he …’ Ahmed pointed towards a screen that was replaying the CCTV images from last night.
‘Ayaan.’ Webber acknowledged him with a nod. They turned to the frozen image of a junction at dusk, Jenkinson in profile. ‘Show me what you’ve found.’
Ahmed hurried across and reached for the mouse to set the film running. ‘This is the bit, here.’ He clicked an icon and Jenkinson’s moves slowed until he was wading through treacle. ‘See how he looks across the junction, then glances back at the traffic coming through behind him. Now … there … he’s looking directly at those lights.’
Even through the artificial sluggishness of the image, Webber saw Jenkinson cringe, his face puckering as though he’d bitten into a lemon. ‘He knows exactly what’s going to happen,’ Ahmed said, his voice heavy with censure.
On the image Webber saw Jenkinson screw his eyes tightly shut, saw his fists clench before he spun on his heel and made to run. ‘Didn’t look like he was over pleased about it,’ he commented.
Ahmed ran the film backwards. ‘Now look again. The bit before he turns. He looks at the traffic and then up towards … whatever’s up there at the far side of the road.’
‘Trees … gardens,’ someone said.
‘Way back,’ Ahmed went on. ‘He’d have been eight or nine and it wasn’t put down to him, but a gang of them started messing with traffic signals. All sorts, chucking paint, taking the lights out with air rifles. And flashlights. No damage done, but it’s surprisingly effective in the right light.’
‘Flashlights?’ Webber said. Surely they hadn’t caused that near carnage with flashlights.
‘Or a handheld laser. Split second stuff,’ said Ahmed. ‘A powerful enough beam, the right time of day, tired drivers.’
Webber turned. ‘Read me what the guy in the VW said. And the woman at the crossing.’
He let his gaze lose focus as he listened to the two accounts.
‘… slowing down, lights red … just flipped like one of those French lights … suddenly saw … speeded up again …’
‘Does this fit with anything else?’ he asked, and turned to Ahmed adding, ‘We had some anonymous intel 10 days ago. Someone wanting to gridlock the streets during the rush hour. And we had some kids try to blockade a junction last week.’
‘They weren’t messing with lights,’ someone put in.
‘And it wasn’t Tom Jenkinson. He was back in Scarborough that day.’
Webber fought down a surge of frustration. They’d picked up some of the pieces but not the pattern. On the other hand, if all they were talking about was kids messing about, nothing hightech, then he would allow himself to relax a bit.
‘OK,’ he said, pointing again at the image of Jenkinson. ‘How come he doesn’t have a flashlight with him?’
‘I think that’s what he was looking back at,’ said Ahmed. ‘Either some kind of fixed light, set to go off at a particular time. Or maybe he had an accomplice. But why? He’s grown out of stupid pranks, turned his life round. Why would he do something so idiotic?’
‘Have you got enough to get the story out of him?’
Ahmed nodded. ‘More than enough.’
‘Then let’s find out, shall we?’ Webber nodded Ahmed towards the interview room and moved to watch on the screen.
* * *
Webber looked at Jenkinson, lying back in the chair semi-dozing. He hoped this idea of bringing Ahmed across was going to work. He didn’t want to have to chip the story out over hours. On the screen he saw the door begin to open, saw Jenkinson’s bored glance flare into a start of alarm as Ahmed entered.
Webber felt his mouth curve to a smile. Jenkinson shot upright in his chair, mouth agape, and stammered out, ‘M … Mr Ahmed. What are you doing here?’ It would be OK. Jenkinson had surrendered at the first hurdle.
Ahmed gave Jenkinson a hard stare, then took his time pulling out a chair to sit facing the youth. Eventually he said, ‘Someone could have been seriously hurt yesterday, Tom.’
Webber, expecting the boy’s eyes to drop, saw he’d misjudged the situation. Tom Jenkinson launched at once into a detailed account of the walk across the city that had brought him to those lights at the key moment, of how he’d seen a young lad with a flashlight and known just what was going to happen. ‘… from that business when I were a kid, Mr Ahmed. You’ve seen my
file. We’ve talked about it. I saw what were going to happen, but I were too late to do owt. Just a young kid, like I was. I only got a glimpse. Up in a tree the other side of that fence. I couldn’t see him properly. I were looking into the light. Probably I should have got on to one of your lot, but what with my record …’
Jenkinson spread his hands in a gesture of supplication and gave Ahmed a pleading look. Ahmed maintained his relaxed bearing, sitting back, hands in his lap, fingers interlaced, his expression neutral as he watched Jenkinson in silence.
Webber cursed under his breath and heard someone spit out an expletive behind him. Jenkinson’s story was way too prepared and detailed to hold an iota of credibility. But it was good. They hadn’t a shred of evidence to contradict him. He hoped their faith in Ahmed was justified. Today of all days, he didn’t need to be late home.
Ahmed maintained his silence. Jenkinson fidgeted in his seat, his hand shot up to loosen his already loose collar. ‘Honest, Mr Ahmed, I wouldn’t want to see some kid go the way I did, would I?’
Webber watched with interest as Ahmed’s apparent indifference seemed to rack up Jenkinson’s tension. At last, Ahmed made a move. His hand rose to his mouth to cover a yawn. He let out a sigh before fixing Jenkinson with a benevolent gaze. His tone was mild as he said, ‘You gave the kid the flashlight, Tom, and you showed him how to do it, didn’t you?’
Jenkinson’s demeanour took on a level of desperation. He ran his hand through his hair. Then his gaze dropped to the floor and he said, ‘Yes, Mr Ahmed. I did.’
Webber felt his mouth stretch to a grin that he saw mirrored on his colleagues’ faces. Ahmed had been on a wing and a prayer, but he’d held his nerve and Jenkinson had blinked.
‘Good work,’ he murmured into the microphone. ‘Now get the detail.’ As he spoke, he glanced at the clock. It was nearing the time of day it had all kicked off yesterday.
Having crumpled, Jenkinson couldn’t have been more anxious to tell everything he knew.
‘It were the money, Mr Ahmed. I had to give me mam fifty quid last week.’
‘Tom, your mother has to manage her money. You don’t have enough to keep bailing her out. How many times have we been through this …?’ Webber heard Ahmed make a conscious effort to rein in his exasperation. ‘Look, I’ll go and have a word with her. Now tell me about yesterday. How did that come about?’
Jenkinson told of hearing a rumour about money on offer for someone with particular software skills. ‘I know nowt about that stuff, Mr Ahmed, but I put out me feelers. I needed the cash. I thought maybe I could go in with someone.’
Webber was interested to learn that Jenkinson knew about the gang of children who’d tried to block the traffic a week before.
‘They weren’t going to get no dosh for that. Whoever it was, wanted something better. And I thought about that thing with the lights and I thought, well, if I can convince him I’m doing something clever, maybe he’ll shell out. And he’s not going to report me, is he, when I don’t deliver?’
‘Who is he, Tom?’
Jenkinson shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Mr Ahmed. Honest. I never met him, never saw him. I tried once … we had a go. Wouldn’t have gone that far if we’d thought he were streetwise, but …’
Bit by bit, Ahmed chipped out the information.
‘See, I just put out feelers, talked things up, waited to see if he’d bite and he did. First time he rang me I told him straight, said I could wire him up a mobile to interfere with the traffic lights. For a cost, of course.’
‘And could you do that, Tom?’
‘Nah, ’course not. But I thought they use them to set off bombs and that, so he’ll likely believe me. Then I said he’d have to get me a special phone. I thought if he doesn’t fall for it, the thing with the lights, then at least I’ll get a good mobile out of him. And if he falls for it, then I’ll have cash in advance before I agree to do more. Only I never knew if he’d be watching, so I got this kid, young lass called Emmett. She’s right good, on the ball. So I stand at the junction, with my phone, so if he’s watching it’ll look like it’s me doing it, but I’ve already said to him this is a test ’cos I don’t know what sort of systems I’m dealing with, so it’s like a one-off and if it works then I’ll be able to sort him out properly.’
Ahmed’s glance briefly flashed towards the camera lens as he said, ‘And what did he think of that little charade yesterday?’
Jenkinson shook his head. ‘I never meant for that to happen, Mr Ahmed. If you do it right, the cars set off then they stop and you get all the shouting and swearing. That’s all I wanted. A load of action with car horns, drivers cursing and that. Only Emmett, she didn’t have the right view of the road and … Anyway, if he saw what happened, he’ll be back for more.’
‘How will he contact you, Tom?’
‘He’ll ring. He might be ringing me now. Your lot have got my phone. One of you answers it, that’s goodbye to my cash.’
Webber spoke to Ahmed through the mic. ‘Push him on how he talked to the mystery man, whether he ever saw him, I want to be clear whether this character exists outside his head.’
‘Tom, you told me you’d never seen this man, but that you’d “had a go”. What did you mean?’
‘I thought I’d seen him … Well, not seen him, but I knew he was watching me. It were spooky, Mr Ahmed, like a ghost. It was after he’d first been on to me, like he was checking me out. So I thought if I can get my mate to bring his wheels round and I can clock him when he thinks I’m all tucked up in bed, then maybe we can just turn the tables, follow him home. I don’t like people following me, not when I don’t know who they are.’
Webber felt a touch on his shoulder. ‘Jenkinson’s phone, Guv,’ said the woman at his side. ‘The number that’s been calling him. We’ve not tied it down yet, but there’s a message, a voicemail from that same number. Yesterday just before the traffic thing kicked off.’
‘Hang on.’ Webber spoke to Ahmed. ‘Ayaan, ask if he’s ever had voicemail from this guy.’
They both watched Jenkinson shake his head. ‘No, Mr Ahmed, it were always … Oh, hang on, yeah, there were one. Yesterday. I didn’t hear it ring with all the traffic and that. But it were just saying get on with it, nowt really.’
‘Go on about when you followed him, Tom.’
Webber looked the question at the woman beside him. ‘Just a single word. Go. We need to analyse it, but it doesn’t sound like a man’s voice to me.’
Webber looked back at Jenkinson. Was his mystery man a mystery woman? Did she exist after all?
‘… tried to clock him,’ Jenkinson was saying, ‘but we weren’t sure and we ended up following the wrong car. I think we had him.’ Jenkinson sounded uncertain. ‘We’re a few cars back from this fella we think is him and you know how it gets all twisty round town down there. And he gets well ahead of us and we think we’ve lost him. Then we spot him heading out of town so we get back on his tail. Only when we get near enough to see, there’s two of them, and it’s a woman driving. So we know we’ve lost him back in town and we go back.’
‘What can you give me on the cars you followed, registration, make, colour?’
Jenkinson squirmed in his seat. ‘I’m right sorry, Mr Ahmed. We were that busy keeping out of his way, I didn’t really think to clock owt like that. Not till later. I said to me mate, I said, we’re gonna look like right Charlies if anyone asks us. We was kinda hoping no one would. It were silver. They were both silver cars. But we must have lost him right down in town and there were no point going and looking for him. We’d been led a right dance, way outa town.’
‘Just for the record, where did you end up before you stopped following the car?’
As Jenkinson answered, Webber felt his eyes open wide.
‘Right out by them old gravel pits,’ said Jenkinson. ‘Where they’re doing up the fishing lakes. That’s where we turned back.’
CHAPTER 6
Webber eased his way down the stairs, tread
ing carefully to avoid waking his son. Melinda sat at the computer in the living room. Her back was to him but he could see she was reading his emails and making no attempt to hide it. Two days ago, last night even, he’d have demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. It didn’t seem to matter now. He wondered how long she’d known his password.
Sam had been uncharacteristically amenable to his father doing the bedtime routine and had fallen asleep before page three of Dr Seuss. Maybe Melinda had counted on him taking longer to settle the boy, but she could hardly be unaware of him, now standing behind her, reading over her shoulder.
Then he saw his phone lying beside her on the desk and looked again at the programmes open on the PC. It was her own email, not his. She’d forwarded things from his phone. He reached across her to pick it up. It might or might not have occurred to her that emails forwarded from his police account to his wife’s personal email might get him in deep water. His inbox was sorted by sender. She’d checked for other communications from the woman at the lab. He deleted the forwarded mails from the sent box and hoped for the best.
She’d checked his texts, too. A copy of the article Ahmed had found was lying by the printer.
When he’d arrived home, she’d been very matter-of-fact, almost cheerful, but he supposed that was put on for Sam. She’d told him she’d contacted Harmer’s partner, Fiona, and that all future negotiations over paternity, alimony, access and everything else would be conducted by her and Fiona. The reference to access threw him. Was he expected to play a role in this child’s life? How was that going to work?
‘There’s no reason for you to have any contact with Harmer that isn’t strictly necessary for work,’ she’d said, and he’d agreed.
‘You won’t like not being in control,’ she’d added, ‘but that’s your look-out.’
Was she right? Being in control was part of his job. He’d never thought about it spilling over into home life. He didn’t like the idea of her and Fiona becoming close, but that wasn’t something to make a fuss about yet.
