by Mari Hannah
‘Maguire,’ Ryan lied. He could see he’d made the wrong choice as soon as the word was out of his mouth. He stuck out a hand. Unflappable. ‘As in Chris, not to be mistaken for DS John Maguire, another idiot with his head up his arse. Like you and Storey, we don’t really see eye to eye.’
‘You got that right!’ Irwin huffed.
Ryan changed the subject. ‘Can I give you a hand with these bags, mate?’
‘Nah, leave ’em. It’ll give her indoors something else to crow about.’
Ryan grinned at his newfound friend. Male bonding was a wonderful thing. Now they understood one another, it was time to ask a few pointed questions. Then he could relax with a fortnight’s grace while Irwin was out of the country with his family. By the time he returned to the UK, one way or the other, it would all be over.
12
Jack woke suddenly as the key turned in the lock. Before he had time to look round, he was hauled on to his back, a flashlight trained on him. The bright light blinded him, forcing his eyelids closed. Pushing away the Swede’s arm, he blinked them open. He could smell garlic on the guy’s breath. This was the one who did all the talking, the one who took the most pleasure in inflicting pain.
‘Give it up, Jack?’ The balaclava-clad face looked ominous illuminated behind the torch.
‘Go to hell!’ Jack’s voice was hoarse. He’d been yelling to attract attention, for all the good it had done. He cried out as the man struck him a blow to the side of the head with a fist that felt like a rock. The pain was excruciating. Nauseating. He almost lost consciousness. Wished he had.
The eyes behind the mask were smiling. The bastard was enjoying himself, unconcerned that Jack was a policeman or that the whole of Northumbria force – and possibly forces countrywide – were looking for him. Such blatant disregard was disturbing. It messed with Jack’s head, clear indication of the trouble he was in. Trouble he might never get out of.
‘Come on, Jack. This is so unnecessary. We know you’ve been gathering intelligence. Talking to people. Poking around in business that doesn’t concern you. It really won’t do. It makes people nervous. Angry even—’
‘You know nothing, or I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Save yourself, Jack. Your contact had the chance to talk to us. He didn’t. He’s since been taken care of. But you already know that, don’t you? Despite what you think, I’m a reasonable man, prepared to give you that same chance. Take it.’ He paused. ‘No?’
The Swede struck Jack with a hand as big as a shovel, a blow even harder than the one before.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘have it your own way. I’m a patient man. But know this: I will keep coming back until you cooperate, until that information is in my possession.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The Swede glanced over his shoulder, nodding to his cohort who was standing behind him, backlit by a shaft of light filtering in through the open door, midges dancing around his head. The man stepped forward, drew back his leg and gave Jack a good kicking, winding him, breaking more ribs.
The Swede again. ‘Jack, don’t be stubborn. I need to know what information you have, what you plan to do with it and who you’ve told. Was it Ryan or someone else? I know you passed it on, because it’s not in your house.’
Jack tried not to react but his eyes gave him away.
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you I’d been through your house and met the family? My mistake. It must have slipped my mind. Your wife Hilary was most amenable, your children too, especially Lucy. Pretty thing, isn’t she?’
Jack was dying inside. If either of these two had touched one hair on Lucy’s head he’d hunt them down and kill them both. The Swede was bluffing. He had to be. Ryan would be looking after Hilary and the kids, keeping them safe from harm. That much he knew. That much he hoped.
13
Ryan showed up half an hour early. Grace Ellis was waiting on a first-floor terrace of the Pitcher & Piano on Newcastle’s Quayside with a pot of coffee and a pile of newspapers spread out on a corner table with headlines guaranteed to sell: Audacious Hijack in Broad Daylight. Suspended Special Branch Officer Flees Justice. Prison Van Hijacked at Gunpoint. As soon as she saw him, she started banging on about the press, her face twisted in anger.
‘They love dishing the dirt, don’t they?’ She didn’t stop for a response. ‘Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? It bloody annoys me. You want coffee … something else?’
Waving away the offer, Ryan kept his thoughts to himself. Grace was spot on, though. Whenever coppers were involved, the media always had a field day. It bugged him that they could get it so wrong. More often than not they would report that officers had been charged with criminal offences when they weren’t police at all but civilians who’d worked for five minutes on a front desk, in the Control Room or in an admin office at HQ.
Ryan sat down.
Picking up a newspaper, he scanned the print for information that might prove useful, anything she might have missed that they could possibly work with. Names of witnesses they didn’t know about, people who might talk, given the right stimulus – which usually meant money.
And still Grace protested …
The copy was full of shit …
Jack had been hung out to dry.
Tuning her out, Ryan wondered how Hilary and the kids were coping in the media spotlight. Unscrupulous journalists would do anything to get their names above the fold. As if the family hadn’t already been through enough.
The screech of seagulls made him look up.
Dozens of the birds had taken refuge on the arc of the Millennium Bridge and on the roof of the Baltic, a contemporary art centre on the south side of the Tyne. In the foreground, the river was as grey and choppy as the mood around the table and a dark sky threatened rain.
A mobile bleeped several times in quick succession.
Not his.
Lowering her newspaper, Grace pulled out her phone. ‘Jesus, I’ve got a full house.’ A number of text messages had arrived all at once, she told him. With a face like thunder she scrolled through them, then pocketed the device, dark eyes on Ryan. ‘It seems I have less friends in high places than I thought. The rumour squad have shut up shop. No one’s talking.’
‘Which means they’re nervous.’
‘Yes it does. O’Neil has her enquiry locked down tight.’
‘She’ll be pissed,’ Ryan said. ‘I mean really pissed. Can’t say I blame her. Jack’s case is not going according to plan. One of her witnesses went to the BBC with footage she didn’t know they had. The hijack was on the news at one. I watched it just now in the police club.’ Taking in her surprise, he prodded at the air with his forefinger. ‘I still have the combination to get in. The lasses behind the bar were as good as gold. They not only served me beer, they gave me all the gossip they’d heard across the bar.’
‘Which is …?’ Grace was never one to underestimate the police grapevine.
‘The evidence is hard to argue with. The footage shows Jack climbing out of the van, an Audi A6 taking off at speed. I have to warn you, it’s not good quality. Whoever took it was moving away. It’s very shaky. O’Neil has something similar, she told me. No wonder she thinks Jack is guilty. That video needs a professional eye. Proper enhancement.’
‘Oh yeah? And how do you propose we manage that?’
‘I have my contacts.’
‘Good luck,’ Grace said flatly. ‘A private job will cost thousands.’
‘I’ll cover it. My inheritance has to count for something. My mother liked Jack. Caroline adores him. He was very kind to both of them. Believe me, if they were here, they’d approve. There’d be no argument.’
‘That’s very generous.’ Grace raised her voice above a crocodile of noisy schoolchildren making their way along the quayside, teachers front and back instructing them not to dawdle and to keep holding hands. ‘Was Jack in the front seat of the Audi or the rear?’
‘Can’t tell. Only
two figures are visible, the driver and someone in the rear. Assuming they’re the hijackers, Jack was probably lying in the footwell out of sight. O’Neil was on the money. He was walking, not running to the car. No one shoving him around, no gun in his back – we need that analysis.’
‘We need to talk to the witness who sold the video to the BBC,’ Grace said.
‘I’ve got feelers out. For what it’s worth, I think Irwin’s on the level. He was kissing the tarmac when the hijackers opened up the security van. He didn’t look round so can’t say what actually took place. He claims there was a loud smash as the comms were disabled. It was all over in a matter of minutes.’
‘Did Jack say anything when they took him?’
Ryan shook his head. ‘Not a whisper.’
‘No words exchanged – you sure?’
‘The co-driver told it the same way.’
Grace wasn’t happy. Keen to see the footage for herself, she suggested reconvening at her place. The introduction of news programmes 24/7 ensured that the video taken at the scene would be replayed over and over, hyping up the intrigue, making Jack look like a dangerous fugitive. As she carried on talking, Ryan stopped listening. His thoughts were still on Irwin. The security guard had proved to be more intuitive than Ryan had given him credit for, specifically in his observations of Eloise O’Neil.
‘Ryan?’ Grace said. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
He looked up. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Where were you – if I’m allowed to ask?’
‘According to Irwin, O’Neil has her doubts about Jack’s guilt. I asked Godfrey to contact her and tell her what he told me. I was wondering if he’d done so. You think I should call her and repeat my offer to assist her enquiry? I know Jack better than anyone. I have a lot to give, expertise Maguire stupidly dismissed out of hand.’
Grace was shaking her head. ‘That’s a really dumb idea. Eloise is a fine officer. I respect her but she’s not like you and I. She plays by the book or she doesn’t play. We can’t afford to tip her off that you’re not on a golf course practising your putting. She’d lock you up as soon as look at you.’
‘For …?’
A raised eyebrow screamed: Wanna list? She proceeded to give him one. ‘How about, disobeying a lawful order? Or maybe neglect of duty? Or, because you’ve been stripped of your warrant card, she might prefer impersonating a police officer.’
‘Why should I be any different? Maguire’s been doing it for years.’
Grace laughed. ‘I’m not joking, Ryan. You’ve seen her. Any magistrate would melt if she asked for a remand in custody to keep you out of her hair. Besides, you said yourself it was a feeling Irwin had, nothing she actually said. She’s very deep and therefore not easy to read. He could’ve picked her up wrong. I’ve done it myself on numerous occasions. No, we need more information before tackling her again.’
Ryan had only met O’Neil the once but she fascinated him. In other circumstances he was sure they would get along. He didn’t know her well enough to make a judgement call. Grace knew her better. If she was wary of pooling information, it was probably wise to hold back. They had the opportunity to work incognito, to do a ‘rubber heeler’ of their own with no one looking over their shoulder. It made sense to keep it that way. When they had positive intelligence to share, Grace would facilitate a meeting.
‘Did Irwin say anything about the hijackers?’ she asked.
‘Big bastards. Foreign. That’s it.’
‘Foreign?’
‘Well, one of them is. Irwin’s no linguist. He told me that only one of them spoke, that he was probably Eastern European. Storey disagrees strongly. He thinks Scandinavian – definitely not European, Eastern or any other kind. His best guess was Icelandic or Norwegian. The voice was muffled through a balaclava. He couldn’t be sure. There wasn’t a lot of conversation going on. The hijackers let their weapons do the talking.’
Ryan checked his watch: two thirty.
Catching the eye of a waitress, he signed an imaginary bill on his hand. As she hurried off to sort it, he turned to Grace, rubbing his chin with the palm of his hand, a smile playing round his lips.
‘Something amusing you?’ she asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘Care to tell me what?’
‘Maguire never asked Storey about accents, only Irwin.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
Ryan shook his head. ‘I didn’t push it in case the lad got suspicious.’
‘And who do you believe?’
‘My money’s on the graduate, which means O’Neil and Maguire might be looking in the wrong direction.’ He met her gaze across the table, the smile gone. ‘Actually, it’s not so funny. We should be sharing this with Professional Standards. They could be wasting precious resources on misinformation—’
‘Tough. You offered your services. They weren’t bloody interested. It suits us that their eyes will be elsewhere. Let’s play that to our advantage. Make our own enquiries. If we uncover anything they have to be told about, I’ll do it. Eloise knows I plan to write a book. I’ll tell her I’ve decided on real-life cases, that interviewing witnesses is part of my research.’ She grinned. ‘There’s no law against it.’
Ryan liked her style. It wasn’t a bad ploy, either. It meant she could also talk to police. Not that the latter would be forthcoming. O’Neil was nobody’s fool. She’d have gone through Jack’s personnel file a million times. She’d know that he and Grace had once enjoyed a close working relationship and had probably kept in touch. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out what was going on.
Then again, she’d have to prove it.
14
They left the Quayside in separate cars, Grace giving Ryan her key so he could let himself into her place. She had a quick errand to run and would swing by on her way home. The minute he opened her front door he sensed there was someone in the house, a feeling confirmed by the smell of a freshly lit cigarette.
Leaving the door ajar, he crept inside, looking for a weapon. On the hall table, a marble figurine stood out as the most weighty object with which to defend himself. Lifting it gently, keeping his back against the wall, he took one step closer to the living room, peering through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb.
A man stepped into view.
He was lean, not skinny. About five ten. Casually dressed, smoke drifting from the cigarette in his mouth. A small holdall lay at his feet with wires hanging out: mobiles, chargers and cameras.
Thieving bastard.
As the focus of his attention switched to the rear of the television, something snapped in Ryan’s head, white noise taking away his power to concentrate, the association of the lean man and the TV bringing bile to his throat. Blood drained from his face as the intruder morphed into a killer, a druggie hiding his stash inside a TV shell, the internal workings having been removed.
Like a loose-leafed calendar being blown in the wind, his mind raced backwards – ten years, fifteen, twenty … and stopped in 1988. The eighteenth of July. The day his boyhood hero, twenty-one-year-old midfielder Paul Gascoigne, left Newcastle United and joined Spurs – and the last day of another hero’s life: his father’s.
Out of curiosity, and against Jack’s advice, Ryan had read the case papers of the incident – and wished he hadn’t, even before he’d closed the file. The photographic evidence alone gave him nightmares, woke him sweating and calling out to his dad in the middle of the night.
Told you, mate. But would you listen?
Ryan should have listened. Having lost a sibling in tragic circumstances, Jack had spoken from experience. Also prey to sleepless nights and bad dreams, he knew only too well that the younger detective would live to regret his actions – and so it proved. Despite his best efforts to bury the past, horrendous images Ryan would rather not know about were embedded in his memory, ready to loom up in his internal rear-view mirror at every opportunity. It was something that he and
Jack had talked about often over a pint, the glue that bound the two men together. But it wasn’t helping now …
Ryan’s heart was kicking a hole in his chest from the inside. In his head, he saw his father and another drug squad officer enter a house on the say-so of a snout, an everyday drugs bust that went horribly wrong. Having discovered the cache of drugs hidden inside the TV, DS Ryan Senior had placed them in a pile on the coffee table, pointing out to the offender that it was too great a quantity to pass off for personal use. Realizing he was facing a long term of imprisonment, the dealer had charged like a bull at the arresting officers, a flick-knife leaving its casing as he took them on.
Pulling at the neck of his T-shirt, Ryan tried to calm down and deal with the here and now, but the documentation and crime scene photos were still with him: his father lying dead on the floor of a stinking fleapit in the city’s East End, deep puncture wounds to his chest, his colleague calling for backup, trying to stem the flow of blood with his bare hands as his partner’s life ebbed away.
Ryan’s left hand felt the repair patch of leather on the jacket he was wearing. Despite several attempts to remove it, the silk lining was still stained with traces of his father’s blood, the knife having gone straight through. Looking down at his right hand, Ryan saw that his knuckles had turned white from gripping the marble figurine so tightly. Lifting it in the air, he drew in a deep breath, flashes of his father continuing to scroll through his head: his lifeless body, the TV, the drugs, the knife.
The front door creaked as it was pushed open.
Fearing assault from behind, Ryan swung round. Grace was standing there, bewildered. Another noise … this one from over his shoulder. Ryan swung round again to find the lean man standing in the doorway, a wide grin on his face, his eyes on Grace. He studied her for a moment before turning his attention to Ryan, still poised to strike, beads of sweat on his forehead, his face drained of colour.
