by Sarah Hilary
‘Finn.’ She nodded at his wrist. ‘Your boy?’
Aidan moved his jaw, but didn’t speak.
‘Really? You give me the long talk about murder houses and prison and finger-painting, as if someone’s paying you by the word to keep me here, but you can’t tell me what I need to know to get your boy out of the bath and into an ambulance?’
His eyes sparked responsively. ‘Arrest me.’
‘What?’
‘Arrest me.’ He put his hands on the table, wrists together. ‘Take me in your nice police car out of this pit to somewhere we can talk properly.’
‘You’re afraid.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Who are you afraid of?’
‘Right this minute?’ He crooked his mouth. ‘I’m afraid of you.’
It was the truth. She could read it from his face.
‘Because he’s right. You’re a stone-cold heartbreaker, Marnie Jane Rome. You’ve got gravel in your veins, and ice in your blood.’
He tipped his head at her, grey eyes unblinking. ‘You’ve brought the winter in here with you and it is long and cold and it’s going to kill us all.’
37
Ron was smoking in the station’s car park when Marnie got back from Cloverton. She hadn’t known that he smoked. He stubbed it out when she parked up: ‘Trying to keep warm, boss.’
She moved her head in a nod. ‘How’s Noah?’
Ron had texted while she was driving back. Noah had been attacked with a baseball bat, outside Carole Linton’s flat. He was in hospital, bruised but not badly. It could have been so much worse.
‘Concussion. They’re keeping him overnight. I reckoned you’d want a catch-up before DCS Ferguson gets on our case.’ Ron peered at her. ‘You okay, boss?’
‘Who was it? Did Noah say?’
‘Ollie, he thinks. But he’s not a hundred per cent.’ Ron jogged his shoulders, trying to dislodge the cold that’d settled there. ‘What d’you find at Cloverton?’
‘Nothing good.’
How was she going to explain herself – to Ron, to Noah, to her team? Ferguson would need to know the worst of what Aidan Duffy had said. Marnie had called her from the prison, giving the skeleton facts, enough to outline the seriousness of the situation, but Ferguson would have lots of questions. She was going to be holed up here for a long while.
‘Do me a favour?’ she asked Ron.
‘Of course, boss.’
‘Check on Noah. Let him know that I’ll see him as soon as I can, but it might not be today.’
Ferguson would pull her off the case, that’s what she feared most. When she heard what Aidan had said, she’d pull Marnie off the case.
She looked up at the window of Welland’s office where ice had laid its web across the glass, just as it had over the tarmac under her feet. Black ice, resisting the best efforts of the salters. What was the word favoured by the weathermen? Treacherous.
She tried to see Stephen as a small boy made to stand barefoot in the snow. Finger-painted, Aidan had said, by his parents. Lies written on his skin by the woman who’d been his mother in name only. The woman he’d accused Marnie’s parents of bringing back into his life.
And now this other boy, Finn. Aidan’s son. Tied with duct tape, terrified.
Marnie’s breath came in clouds as she stood seeing the pictures Aidan had put in her head.
Not knowing which, if any, were true.
Lorna Ferguson was waiting in Welland’s office.
Marnie didn’t shut the door, expecting to be moved to an interview room. The thought of giving a statement made her sick, but it was necessary. Stephen had made it necessary.
‘Sit down.’ Ferguson reached a hand into the drawer of Welland’s desk, bringing out a bottle of Lucozade. ‘Blood sugar. You look like you need it.’
Marnie took the drink, her chest tight with tears. ‘Thank you.’ She hadn’t expected sympathy from this woman, wanting Welland – someone who understood how deep this went.
‘Aidan Duffy,’ Ferguson said. ‘How much do you trust him?’
‘Not much.’ She unscrewed the lid from the bottle and drank a mouthful. ‘He’s scared for his son. That was real. The rest of it? I don’t know.’
‘All right. Let’s start with his son. We’ll take it a step at a time.’ Ferguson closed her laptop, setting it aside. She looked up when Marnie frowned. ‘You thought I’d have you in an interview room, taping the whole thing?’
‘Yes.’ It came out too bluntly. She softened the word with a smile. ‘Yes.’
‘In fact I’m a bit of a bitch.’ Ferguson tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Usurping his office, challenging your team. That’s what you think.’
‘You’ve got a job to do. I respect that.’
‘You can stop being so careful, that’s what I’m getting at.’ Ferguson sat back. ‘I’m a bitch because it gets results from people. But not from you.’
‘It’s true I’m missing Welland,’ Marnie offered, ‘as a friend.’
‘Of course you are. Well . . . Let’s shove on, shall we? Just remember I’m a Northerner. That means blunt speaking, no bollocks, but I can hand out hugs when I need to. Most days I’m having trouble holding them in.’ She straightened, her voice crisping. ‘How’s DS Jake?’
‘Concussion. They’re keeping him in overnight, but DS Carling says he’s okay. He got a look at our vigilante. Not a good look, but enough to think it’s Ollie Tomlinson.’
‘How does that fit with what Duffy told you?’
‘It does and it doesn’t.’ The brisk questions helped; solid ground under her feet. ‘We could make it fit. That’s the trouble. I’m not sure how much of what he said was rubbish. Clever rubbish, but rubbish.’
‘Well, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll pick apart what he said and set it against what we know. What doesn’t stand, we set to one side. But I’ll tell you what I’m not having.’ Ferguson thumbed a speck of mascara from under her eye. ‘I’m not having some sick little sociopath running my cases or pointing his fingers at my detectives. I don’t care how pretty he is.’
A jolt of dismay – did she mean Stephen?
‘Aidan Duffy.’ Ferguson curled her lips around the name. ‘I looked him up. Those Irish eyes and the holy black curls, like him off the telly forever pouting round Cornwall on his horse . . .’
‘You should see him in action.’ Marnie smiled. ‘He’s good.’
‘Not so good he isn’t slopping out with the rest of the scumbags.’ Ferguson eyed her. ‘He pressed your buttons, and that’s no easy thing. Tell me about his son.’
‘I was hoping you could tell me, if you’ve seen his records.’
‘One dependant. Finian Paul Duffy. Eleventh birthday coming up. Another one his dad won’t see, being in prison.’ Her voice was hard, careless. ‘Finian lives with his mum in north London. I’ve written down the address.’
‘We should contact her, to check Finn’s safe. There’s nothing in Misper.’ Colin had looked while she was driving back from Cloverton. ‘But we should make sure.’
‘Because you believed that bit.’ Ferguson studied her. ‘What makes you think it wasn’t button-pushing like the rest?’
‘Aidan was scared. He says ten weeks ago Finn was lifted off the street by people who’re holding him, as leverage to make Aidan carry out threats inside Cloverton.’
Ferguson flexed her eyebrows. ‘These kidnappers, who are they?’
‘He doesn’t have names, he wasn’t given any. At first he thought it was the men he’d embezzled from, revenge of some kind. But the things they’re demanding make no sense . . . The kidnappers want him to get close to Stephen Keele. He thinks they must’ve known he was already close. He’d singled Stephen out as soon as he arrived at Cloverton, as someone he could use.’
‘Empire building,’ Ferguson said.
‘He didn’t put it like that, but yes.’
‘So when did these mystery kidnappers get in touch?’
‘Ten weeks ago. A message was passed t
o Aidan by Jacob Collins who says he was handed it by the visiting healthcare team.’ Marnie put down the Lucozade, knotting her hair behind her neck. ‘Aidan destroyed it because that’s what you do with messages like that in places like Cloverton.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Oh there’s every kind of convenience in his story, and no evidence unless Finn is missing—’
‘He is.’ Ferguson served the words like punches, two short jabs from behind her desk.
‘What?’ Bile burned in Marnie’s throat.
Ferguson watched her reaction with interest. She’d let her sit here for six minutes, hoping for six minutes that it was all a fantasy spun by Aidan.
‘There’s no Finn Duffy in the Missing Persons database—’
‘No,’ Ferguson agreed. ‘But I rang his mum while I was waiting for you to get back here. She thinks he’s been staying with his uncle Regan for the last ten weeks. Uncle Regan has no idea where his nephew is, and cares less. It’s one big happy family. Be glad you’re not part of it.’
Marnie couldn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself. Under the lip of Welland’s desk, she clenched her hands so hard they hurt. A child of ten was missing, and it was on her account.
‘There’s something else.’ Ferguson spoke as if she was reading her cues from Marnie’s face, taking stock of the buttons she could press, an arsenal of her DI’s tells. ‘Finn’s at school with Ollie Tomlinson. The pair of them hang out together. He should’ve been in our sights right from the start.’
The radiator whined, unhappy because Welland liked it at full blast while Ferguson played with the temperature according to her mood. Right now she was giving out a cold front as treacherous as the black ice in the car park.
‘So now we know our scumbag’s telling the truth about his missing son.’ She smiled at Marnie. ‘What else did he have for us?’
Us? Nothing. Aidan’s confidences had been for Marnie’s ears. Perhaps she should demand a formal interview, and a solicitor. One thing was clear – she needed to tread very, very carefully with Detective Chief Superintendent Lorna Ferguson.
‘He had Jacob Collins beaten up. Because he wanted the police to come to the prison, but he couldn’t be the one asking for us. That would’ve got back to the kidnappers, and put Finn in worse danger. So he had his friend attacked, and told Jacob to ask for me.’
‘That’s a lot of sneak, even for a sociopath. What’s Duffy’s end-game?’
‘I’ll write it up, but this part may be fantasy. Aidan knows about the assaults. He knows we’re looking for vigilantes who are targeting ex-cons. He wants us to believe that our suspects and his son’s kidnappers are one and the same. It’s . . . complicated.’
Ferguson’s face was a reminder of just how much she hated complication. ‘And this leverage inside Cloverton, whatever it is the kidnappers are asking Duffy to do. How does that fit with our investigation?’
‘Which version do you want?’ Marnie asked. ‘His fantasy, or my speculation?’
‘Start with the fantasy, and we’ll work from there.’
38
Dan sat at the side of the hospital bed, reaching for Noah’s wrist. ‘Hey . . .’
Noah pulled his hand close enough to kiss. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’
‘You too, but I could do without the bruises.’
‘They don’t look heroic to you?’ He smiled, wanting to take the worry from Dan’s eyes. ‘You should’ve seen the way I went down those steps – that was some serious triple lutz action.’
‘Triple klutz, I think you mean.’
‘That, too.’ He pushed his fingers inside the sleeve of Dan’s jumper, finding the hard shape of his elbow. ‘C’mere.’
‘All right, Eric Radford, you win . . .’
After the kiss, Dan stayed close enough for Noah to feel his heart beating. He hadn’t realised until this minute how afraid he’d been for them both, after the morning’s texts and the afternoon’s assault. ‘Have you been back to the flat?’
Dan shook his head. ‘I came straight here after DS Carling called. I was expecting Marnie to be the one telling me you’d landed back in here.’
‘She’s stuck at the station, Ron says. She’s dropping by later. I’m here for the night.’
‘On account of the lumpy head.’ Dan nodded. ‘You know I’d sleep in the chair if they’d let me.’
‘They won’t. And I need to know if Sol’s home.’
‘This isn’t down to him, is it?’ Dan stopped short of touching the baseball bat’s bruise, setting the ends of his fingers to Noah’s temple. Tension in his voice, and his touch.
‘It’s not down to Sol.’
‘Good. Because I like him, but I’d turf him off the sofa in a second if I thought he was a danger. We’ve got enough of those without family pitching in. And you’ve got it worse than I have.’
Not just homophobia, he meant. Racism. Noah had kept the worst of it to himself, but London had changed in the last year, too many people believing they’d won a mandate for their prejudices.
‘It’s not Sol, just the weather. I’d have stayed upright if it wasn’t for the ice.’ He smiled. ‘Go home. Let me know if you find him on the sofa.’
‘I’ll text you either way.’
Dan turned Noah’s hand over in his, opening its palm for a kiss and closing Noah’s fingers to keep it there. ‘Before you say it, I’ll stay safe. Can’t have two of us taking up bed space in here.’
‘Do something for me?’ Noah smiled up at him.
‘Anything.’
‘Order tacos and eat my share?’
It was 10 p.m. by the time Marnie reached the hospital. She parked up, checking her reflection for evidence of her close encounter with Ferguson. The day was written all over her face. Much the same as Noah’s, but at least her day had only featured metaphorical baseball bats.
A full minute passed with her too weary to climb from the car, wanting nothing more than to drive home to Ed. Less than forty-eight hours ago, she’d questioned the value of the silence that shaped their closeness, but silence was what she needed. An end to the day’s questions and noise, the pictures in her head of a four-year-old boy finger-painted with obscenities and a ten-year-old boy bound with duct tape, out of her reach.
Tomorrow they’d start hunting for Finn Duffy. Marnie didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. She wanted to be hunting now. Her whole body burned, from her ankles to her ears, with the need to rescue Finn. ‘Go home,’ Ferguson had said. ‘Get some rest. Child Protection can take the night shift. We’ll regroup in the morning.’
She hadn’t taken Marnie off the team, but she had to be considering it. The idea of this mess, of any part of this mess, having been made on her account was bad enough. But to be taken off the team responsible for putting it right? That was unbearable.
She was locking the car when her peripheral vision gave her the lurker, standing to the side of the hospital entrance in a grey hoodie and track pants. Not smoking, just the cold turning his breath white. Noah’s height or nearly. Same build, same way of standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders up.
She walked towards the entrance without looking at him, changing tack at the last second so that they were face to face. ‘It’s Sol, isn’t it? Hello. I’m Marnie.’
Noah’s brother stared at her, on the brink of an instinctive denial.
‘I could use a hot drink,’ she said. ‘You?’
Sol could use a square meal. Hollow-cheeked, with the glassy eyes of someone who’d been running on empty for days. Unshaven, unwashed. He had to unlock his chattering teeth before he could answer her. ‘Is he okay?’ His eyes flickered to the hospital entrance. ‘Noah. S’why I’m here.’
‘They’re keeping him overnight, but he’s good. Visiting hours are over, though. There’s a late-night place round the corner. Fish and chips, if you fancy it.’
Sol blinked. Nodded. ‘I’ll check it out.’ He turned on his heel.
‘I’m headed ther
e myself,’ she said.
He kept his face averted, but his shoulders were shaking.
She fell into step at his side, not touching and not looking, letting him walk with her without the need for any show of bravado.
When they reached the café, Sol came to a standstill. ‘No cash on me.’ The neon striped his face blue and white. He tried a smile. ‘Have to owe you, yeah?’
Under better circumstances, she bet, that smile could win wallets. He had his brother’s good looks plus a rakish edge that was being undermined just for the moment by hunger.
‘My treat.’ She let him open the door for her. ‘Cod and chips, and tea. How does that sound?’
‘That’s . . . Yeah.’ He nodded.
She brought the meals to the table he’d chosen at the back of the café, with a clear sightline to the door. Wooden forks, but he got stuck in with his fingers.
‘This’s cool. Thanks . . .’ He brightened almost immediately, like a flagging child transformed by food. ‘So you’re his boss . . . He loves you, man.’ Eyes shining as he sucked hot tea from the cup. ‘Can’t believe he got busted. But it’s not bad, yeah? You said he’s okay.’
Marnie nodded. She was hungry, and the food was good. Hot, salty flakes of fish, fat, vinegary chips. ‘He’s been worried about you.’
‘Yeah.’ Sol sucked grease from his knuckles. ‘Me too.’
‘You’ve got some tricky customers on your tail.’ She kept it casual, eating with her fingers the way he was eating, keeping wide of an interrogation. But she’d not forgotten Noah’s eyes when he’d received the threatening text in Kim’s café at the start of the day. If she could do nothing else, she could put Noah’s mind at rest, or try to.
Sol played with the wooden fork, bending it between two fingers while his other hand went on feeding chips into his mouth. Resisting her statement. No, it was more than that. Antipathy, and not just to her. To what she represented. Authority. Sol, she was sure, had sixty names for the police and not one of them complimentary.
‘I was with him,’ she said. ‘When he received the text sent by whoever you’re hiding from.’
