by Mari Hannah
‘Would you?’ Maguire made a face. ‘She legged it PDQ, a fact corroborated by both security guards. She’s a teenager, guv. Her parents rang in as soon as our number went up on the six o’clock news. We have two witnesses who live close to the junction where the incident took place, and one other – the Clio driver who still hasn’t come forward to reclaim his car.’
‘Guv?’ a voice said from behind.
O’Neil and Maguire both turned round. A worried-looking female civilian was standing in the doorway. She’d overheard them talking and held up her phone. ‘I got a message from Control. The Clio was reported stolen from Byker at around midday by an eighty-year-old who’d refuelled at the garage at the top of Shields Road and left the key in the ignition while she went to pay for petrol. When she came out, the car was gone.’
‘Damn!’ O’Neil glanced at Maguire. ‘So, is Clio Man a probable suspect or a thief who dumped a stolen vehicle when his luck ran out?’
‘The former, I’d lay odds on it—’
‘Because the car was stolen not far from the Crown Court?’
‘There is that.’
‘You know something I don’t?’
‘In Irwin’s statement, he said the driver of the Clio was wearing sunglasses even though it was pissing down. He thought it was odd at the time, but then lots of people wear them for driving, including me.’
‘Why? Does it make you look cool?’
‘Just an observation.’ Maguire was blushing.
‘They could equally have been a way to hide his identity.’
‘Yes they could. Oh, and he likes Coldplay.’
‘Come again?’ O’Neil said.
‘He had the radio on. Volume turned up high, Irwin says. The music stopped as the Audi arrived. I reckon it was at full blast to mask the sound of the hijackers arriving at speed.’
‘Works for me.’ O’Neil called out to the civilian: ‘What’s the tale with the Audi, Cath?’
Cath was back at her desk. She got up and walked towards them, a sheet of paper in her hand. ‘The owner is Nicholas Wardle. Resides on the outskirts of Sunderland. There’s no answer at his address, according to area command. The place is locked and secure. His neighbour claims he’s working away in Nigeria. That could explain why he hasn’t reported the vehicle stolen.’
‘Or that’s the story he’s put out and he’s involved,’ Maguire suggested.
‘Did they say who he worked for?’ O’Neil asked.
‘No,’ Cath said. ‘They were very vague. Apparently, he plays his cards close to his chest. Something to do with the oil industry they think, but aren’t sure. He didn’t like it, though – working in Nigeria, I mean.’
‘Can’t say I blame him. Keep on it, Cath. We need to trace him.’
As the civilian went back to her desk, O’Neil received a text from one of her team:
Crime scene traffic lights tampered with and those either side. Clever eh? Ensures no vehicles approaching hijack from either direction – and no witnesses.
Swearing under her breath, O’Neil dropped her mobile into her pocket and turned her attention back to Maguire. ‘They had help,’ she said, sharing the development.
‘They’ll have paid a couple of kids to do the business.’
‘Yeah, well, we need to find them. You sure there were no other eyewitnesses?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s it, guv. Squad cars were dispatched as soon as the SOS came in. By the time they got there, the hijackers were long gone, Fenwick along with them. We’ve put a marker on the PNC to trace the Audi, with a warning that it may contain armed offenders and/or firearms and needs to be preserved for Forensics. No one was seriously hurt. I suppose that’s something.’
O’Neil was thankful for that. The situation could’ve been so much worse. Her job was made more difficult because on-board communication devices had been rendered useless when the two guards were pulled from the prison van. Cameras in the vehicle’s lock-up bay were smashed by the hijackers the second the rear doors were opened. The last visual relayed to Control was the butt of a gun as it was rammed towards the monitor, another fact she shared with Maguire. ‘Which means we have no footage of Fenwick getting out of the van or what happened next. What was he doing when the hijack was going down?’
‘He was going crackers, yelling at the driver to put his foot through the floor. Deserves a BAFTA, no?’
She held his gaze. ‘Why don’t we view the evidence before we give out any nominations?’
‘He had nothing to lose, guv. And everything to gain.’
‘So you said. He has a family, a wife and three kids he adores. If someone threatened them, he’d do anything he was told, wouldn’t he? Even if it made him look as guilty as sin.’
Maguire was almost sulking.
O’Neil wished she could knock that malicious streak out of him. In his head, he had the cuffs on the Special Branch DI and was marching him towards a ten-year prison term. There was a difference between investigating and prosecuting complaints against police officers and revelling in their downfall. A good detective Maguire may once have been. Shame he also had to be such a dick.
7
Ryan was waiting outside Godfrey, Smart & Co solicitors when it opened for business first thing on Saturday morning. He looked on as Paul Godfrey, senior partner, parked his silver Jaguar on the office forecourt. Checking his watch as he got out of the car, the brief strode towards his office with a sense of urgency, a heavy briefcase weighing him down, a sheaf of papers under his arm.
Ryan stepped from the shadow of an overhanging tree. ‘Sir, may I have a word?’
Godfrey pulled up sharp, appearing more riled than startled. It wasn’t the first time he’d been doorstepped. Even so, he seemed visibly relieved to see a decent human being and not a thug standing there. If it didn’t pay so well, he’d bin his criminal cases in favour of divorce. The clientele weren’t any better but, instead of fighting him, they tended to fight with each other – a healthier scenario all round.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
‘DS Ryan, isn’t it?’ His accent was regional but cultured. Public school, Ryan guessed. Put it this way, he’d not struggled to learn to read and write in a classroom of thirty-odd.
‘Yes, sir, Matthew Ryan, Special Branch.’
‘Then I can’t talk to you.’ Godfrey walked – keen to end their exchange before it had even begun – disappearing through an impressive front door.
Ryan followed.
The office smelled of polish. It was spacious, contemporary, furnished in shades of grey, with cool black-and-white images adorning the walls. A young couple were waiting to be seen, nicely turned out, neither of them paying attention to who had just walked in. Not shite, Ryan was certain. If he was any judge, these were hardworking folks, probably buying a house or making a will. Ignoring them, Godfrey greeted his receptionist. Scooping up his mail, he turned, almost bumping into Ryan – a resigned look on his face.
The detective wasn’t budging.
‘You have two minutes,’ Godfrey said. ‘Follow me.’
Dumping newspapers and correspondence on his desk, the solicitor opened his office blinds to allow the sun in and took a seat. Ryan remained standing, hands behind his back. Detectives never sat down until invited to do so.
‘OK,’ Godfrey said. ‘Let’s start again shall we?’
‘I appreciate your time,’ Ryan stalled, unsure of exactly how to play his hand. Experience told him that the best way was straight with men like Godfrey. If it didn’t go well he could always change tack. ‘I should tell you I’m currently suspended, sir.’
‘I see. Then that makes things rather difficult.’
‘Depends which side of the fence you’re on.’ Ryan kept his focus on the lawyer. ‘Do I have to engage your services before you talk to me? If so, where do I sign? My Northumbria colleagues have tarred me with the same brush as someone we both know. If they can, you can.’ When Godfrey said nothing, Ryan carried on:
‘I realize it’s unethical for you to discuss a case with someone other than a client, but Jack Fenwick has rights too. I happen to believe he didn’t escape but was abducted by an organized gang. I’m convinced his life is in danger. Now it’s your turn.’
Godfrey was teetering, weighing up in his mind how to respond, whether or not he could trust Ryan who, by his own admission, was under suspicion for conspiracy. And still he kept quiet, staring across his expansive desk, considering his position, taking his time. Time Ryan didn’t have.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I need your help. Time is running out. You went to see Jack in the cells after his bail hearing. What was your take on his demeanour? What was he doing, saying? In short, I have to get my head around what was going through his. Are you going to help me or not? Because I’m all he’s got.’
Godfrey cleared his throat. ‘Off the record?’
‘What record? I’m persona non grata as far as the police are concerned.’
‘Take a seat.’ The brief waited for Ryan to make himself comfortable. ‘Despite forensic evidence, your colleague was adamant he was being fitted up. He said the guns were planted to frame him – to discredit him and sully his good reputation. Ditto the blanket fibres found in the boot of his car—’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Meeting Godfrey’s intense stare, Ryan apologized for being flippant. ‘Jack has a point though, doesn’t he? Anyone could’ve put them there.’
‘Quite so. For what it’s worth, I was inclined to believe him. The problem is, despite several hours in consultation, he gave me nothing to work with. That weakened my position, making it virtually impossible to refute the allegations. You’re not the only one trying to operate in difficult circumstances, DS Ryan.’
‘Fitted up by who?’
‘He never said.’
‘He must’ve said something.’
Godfrey shook his head. ‘Only that it had far-reaching implications.’
Ryan’s brow creased. ‘I was working with him until his arrest. Mostly routine stuff, nothing heavy.’
‘My understanding is that it had been going on a while. He never mentioned what it was. Only that he didn’t have enough evidence to make a case. He wouldn’t divulge any details until he was sure of his facts.’
‘Even though, potentially, he was facing seven years?’
‘He hinted at corruption. He said scores of innocent people would be affected if he went about it in the wrong way. He’d obviously been putting a case together under the radar. He was worried that if he was rumbled they, whoever they were, might eliminate witnesses and destroy evidence. He didn’t know how far the conspiracy extended or who could be trusted. Don’t ask me what he meant by it. He was planning to tell you though—’
‘Makes you say that?’
‘He seemed to think you were the only one who could get him out of the trouble he was in. Clearly he had more time for you than he did me.’
There was more. Ryan sensed it. ‘And …?’
The brief let out a loud sigh, a regretful expression on his face. ‘He asked me to make contact with you. That’s the only reason I’m talking to you. Had events not overtaken us, I would’ve done so. I had other cases yesterday. By the time I made it to the office, the hijack was breaking news. I know one thing though: he was desperate to see you. I gather he wanted you to arrange a VO.’
Ryan never flinched. Never showed the guilt that was eating him up. ‘Save the black looks,’ he said. ‘I feel bad enough without you making it worse. I couldn’t make contact with him while he was banged up. I was warned off. Told it would be unwise to seek a visiting order. The officers dealing with the matter were at pains to point out that Jack was being prosecuted for possession of firearms without lawful authority, that I should choose which side of the law I was on. In case you’re in any doubt, that’s code for “back off or else”.’
‘You misunderstand,’ Godfrey said. ‘I meant yesterday.’
‘He didn’t ask for me until yesterday?’
‘After the bail hearing.’
‘You sure it wasn’t before then?’ Ryan queried.
The brief stared him down. ‘I may be long in the tooth but I’m not completely gaga, Detective. That’s the first thing he said when I entered the cells. He was shattered that he wasn’t getting out.’ Godfrey’s jaw bunched. ‘I’m afraid I led him to believe that bail was a distinct possibility. They changed the sitting judge at the eleventh hour.’
‘Is that right? I don’t suppose they gave a reason?’
‘You know how these things work, Ryan.’
‘So what you’re saying is—’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘But you’re not disputing that he’d have fared better with the listing judge?’
‘You are correct in that assumption.’
Ryan’s heart began to beat faster. If Jack wanted him to visit, he must’ve been under the impression he was going straight to jail. He wasn’t expecting to be sprung. He wasn’t. Taking a pen from his pocket, Ryan reached forward, helping himself to a yellow Post-it note from a pad on Godfrey’s desk. Writing down a name – Det. Supt. Eloise O’Neil – he scribbled a number beside it and handed the note to the solicitor.
‘I’m not here to put words in your mouth or tell you what to do, sir. If you believe Jack was innocent, I’m sure you’ll follow your conscience.’ Ryan pointed at the note. ‘O’Neil is the SIO. Jack’s gone up in the world. He still needs your help and she needs to know what you just told me.’
Godfrey read the note and then stuck it to his computer screen. ‘Won’t it put you in an even worse position with Professional Standards if I talk to them?’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what position it puts me in. Neither am I asking you to lie on my account. However, if you could find a way to have that conversation without mentioning my name or the fact that we’ve spoken, I’d be grateful. All I’m interested in is the truth and finding Jack. There’s something terribly wrong here. His wife thinks so. I think so. You’ve had years of interviewing prigs. What do you think?’
It was a rhetorical question.
Godfrey’s face was enough to convince Ryan that his DI was being well and truly shafted – and not only by persons unknown. His own force had abandoned him. They were hunting him down like a common criminal. It needed sorting. Ryan happened to think that he was the man to do it.
8
Jack Fenwick opened one eye, incapable of opening both. He swallowed hard, felt the pain of broken ribs, the effects of dehydration. He tasted a mixture of blood and chloroform, the latter forced over his mouth and nose in the car, ensuring his compliance. He hadn’t been able to time the journey or second-guess in which direction the hijackers had taken him. They were done with him for now, but they’d be back.
Jack listened.
No hum of traffic. Not a whisper. This place must be buried deep within a building, possibly underground or in a rural location. Shutting his eyes, he held the image of an arm around his neck, a sleeve pulled taut, a wide wrist, a Swedish flag tattoo depicted in three slivers, confirmation that he’d been pursuing the correct lines of enquiry. Jack understood national pride. He’d spent his life defending Queen and country.
Patriotism was overrated.
The place he was in was windowless. Pitch-black. He thought of Caroline, wishing he had her sensitivity to the dark – her inbuilt radar. Unable to tell if there were solid objects around him or not, he worked gingerly from left to right, in a zigzag pattern, a fingertip search. He estimated the area was no bigger than eight by twelve. It was rough underfoot, earthy rather than dusty, damp and cold. A stifling claustrophobic space, not a breath of air, empty of furniture – on the ground at least.
Hauling himself off his knees, he faced the wall, feeling his way around the room. Brick built. Solid. Standing on tiptoes – his shoes and socks had been removed – he reached up, hoping for shelving, a weapon, anything he could use to make good his escape. The roof was r
ounded, like a tunnel, perhaps an air-raid shelter or part of a church. At six three, his head was hunched into his chest, the curvature of the wall making it impossible for him to stand upright. He couldn’t comprehend the space and found nothing of use in his search.
Unlucky, he was done for.
Abandoning his search, he turned his attention to the arched door. It was firm. Unyielding. No handles on the inside. No leverage. Jack stepped away. Tried a shoulder charge. He squealed in pain as he made contact: once, twice, three times. It was useless. Exhausted, he slumped to the floor. Beaten. There was nothing he could do except wait for the bastards to come again. They had hurt him but not enough to kill him. That meant only one thing. They thought he’d talk. A realization dawned: silence was his only currency. Anything less would sign his death warrant.
9
Godfrey’s words floated in and out of Ryan’s thoughts as he walked to his vehicle. The more he turned things over in his head, the more convinced he became that Jack was in serious trouble. He had to find him soon or face the possibility of telling three wonderful children that their father was never coming home.
Ryan flinched, an icy hand settling on his shoulder.
In a split second he was ten years old, sitting on the stairs, his knuckles turning white as he clung on to the banister, unbearable images scrolling before his eyes: his mother’s world collapsing, a colleague of his father’s breaking her fall as her legs gave way, easing her into a chair as the shock hit home, followed by a sound that Ryan’s younger self felt sure could only have come from an animal in distress – a strangulated wail that seemed to last forever.
For years that sound had invaded his dreams.
Ryan couldn’t bear the idea of turning into the death messenger. The bogeyman. He’d done it many times in the past – it was part of his job – but never to a family with whom he was personally involved. That was one task he wasn’t ready to face. It would be like history repeating itself in the cruellest way possible.
