by Mari Hannah
‘Eh?’ Ryan was losing the will to live.
‘Caroline said that you—’
‘Luke, I’m really pleased you live next door and look out for my twin, but—’
‘Margie would love it if you’d join us for breakfast.’
‘I’d love it too, but I can’t hang around. Not today. Some other time?’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘Look, I’m freezing my balls off here.’ Ryan began to close the door. ‘Have a nice day, Luke.’ At last, he was gone.
Sprinting along the hallway, Ryan made his way to the utility room, a blast of icy air hitting his bare skin as he opened the door. Flipping the switch failed to bring the light on. He looked up. Tried again. The bulb was spent. With no need for illumination, Caroline had always referred to such useless items as her ‘extra-special energy-saving light bulbs’ and called him a wimp for needing them. At the moment he was living up to that description. He was the one who was blind. He couldn’t see a thing.
Opening the door wider, allowing light to flood in from the hallway, he peered inside. A transparent food storage container was under the window by the back door. He wheeled it out into the hallway, spun it round three hundred and sixty degrees. No note visible. Nothing taped to the rear or underside. There was a covering of almost ten inches of food inside the bin, enough to hide a small notebook or two. He pulled off the lid and tipped the food out, his hopes plummeting as dry pellets spilled out over the slate-tiled floor.
No notebooks.
Gutted, he sat back on his heels, the smell of lamb and rice fit only for dogs filling his nostrils. Disgusting. His eyes shifted once more to the utility room. Above the washing machine and tumble drier, boxes of soap powder, dishwasher powder and cleaning materials were lined up in precise order so that Caroline wouldn’t get them mixed up. To the right of the washing machine was a large cupboard. Scrambling across the floor, Ryan pulled open the door and found two more bags of dog food, both unopened.
More supplies than the Battersea Dog’s Home.
Ryan got to his feet and dragged the bags out by their handles. He examined them carefully, finding nothing to suggest they had ever been slit open and resealed, until he upended them and felt along the bottom seams.
Bingo!
One of them had been tampered with.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he grabbed the unregistered mobile Newman had given him and retraced his steps, photographing the bag in situ. Only then did he peel away the seal – marginally, halfway and then fully – taking pictures of each stage of the process. Keeping his fingers firmly crossed, he then tipped the whole thing upside down, scattering the food pellets in all directions.
As the last of the contents spilled across the floor, the notebooks fell out with a solid thump. Taking yet more photographs, he knelt down on the floor, examining them before picking them up and turning them over in his hands. Wrapped together in cling film and covered in smelly food, they were unremarkable but identical reporter’s notepads with blue plastic covers, the like of which you’d find in any bookshop or supermarket for just a few pounds.
Ignoring the mess he’d created, Ryan placed the bag in a clean refuse sack he found in the utility room. Sealing it with gaffer tape, he grabbed a ballpoint pen from the hall table and signed over the seal so it couldn’t be tampered with before it reached the hands of forensic examiners. Moving to the breakfast room, he laid the lot out on the kitchen table. He took yet more photographs, then scrolled through the images, making sure he had enough. Satisfied, he removed the cling film, bagged it, washed his hands and opened up the books.
The first was full of stuff he didn’t understand. It was obvious that the notes contained therein had been made contemporaneously: the entries were in different ink, some in script, others in capital letters. They included references to times and dates going back months and details of people or organizations whose names were merely initials: AF being mentioned several times.
His frustration grew …
AF meant nothing to him.
He speed-read the notes, trying to decipher Jack’s shorthand. He’d used many acronyms – RFCC, LUN, FAT, CAT, ITR, MCCR, TRF – but they failed to generate a single connection to the work the two men were normally involved in. One thing was clear. Whatever Jack had kept to himself, it was outside of the territory of Special Branch.
Undeterred, Ryan put on the kettle, then ran upstairs again and pulled on a pair of jeans and a warm sweater. Collecting his old laptop and his watch, he returned to the kitchen and made himself a strong coffee. His computer was slow to boot. Switching on the radio, he caught the news headlines at eight o’clock and then set to work, hoping the notebooks would reveal something – anything – that might spark him into action.
Nothing did.
The second notebook was only half full. AF was mentioned several times, along with a new set of initials – VP – which stymied Ryan all over again. He was beginning to give up hope when, on the inside back cover, he noticed among the doodles a small flag with an uneven cross sketched in black ink, the horizontal line in the centre, the vertical off to one side. Logging on to Google, a quick search brought up the CIA’s Flags of the World database. That particular flag configuration yielded only six possible countries, all Scandinavian: Denmark, Finland, Faroe Islands, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. That detail picked at the edges of his brain as he made a list. Unable to get a handle on why, he searched other sites too and came up with three more possible places he’d never even heard of: Åland Islands (Finnish), Bouvet Island and Svalbard (both Norwegian); conclusive proof, if he needed any, that he was looking in one direction only – northeast of Newcastle, across the North Sea. The last entry was dated a week prior to Jack’s arrest and detention on firearms charges. RIP 1960–2013. It made him weep.
Ryan stared at the dates.
Was Jack hinting at his impending death, referring to his own lifespan, or had someone else died in the course of his enquiries that happened to be the same age? Dashing upstairs to his mother’s study, he turned on her printer. Fortunately it was still in working order with plenty of ink. He made three copies of the notebooks for himself, Newman and Grace. Bagging the originals, he left the house, placing the evidence in his car. There was no doubt in his mind that he was closing in on those responsible for Jack’s death. Too late to save him, sadly, but not too late to prove what an exceptional person he was.
Before driving away, Ryan pulled out his mobile and made a call.
In the silent room, the phone rang. Grace picked up. There was no greeting, no friendly Hi, it’s me or how you doing? Ryan didn’t even bother with hello.
‘Is Frank there?’ he asked.
‘Affirmative. Will I not do?’
‘You’re far too young for me.’
‘Ha!’ She smiled. ‘If only that were true.’
Grace felt her spirits rise. She didn’t need to see his face to know that he had something important to say. Ryan had always been like a kid with a new toy when in possession of breaking news. It wasn’t just his jokey tone that led her to that assumption. There was a serious undertone to his voice she recognized from the days when they were colleagues.
‘You want the phone on speaker?’ she asked. ‘Then I can listen in. You know how nosy I am.’ She was only half-joking. She hated being left out of anything.
‘Good plan. This concerns all of us.’
‘OK, shoot, we’re all ears.’
‘I’m on my way in. Is now a good time to have that extraordinary general meeting?’
‘I’m free.’ Grace winked at Newman.
The spook had received Ryan’s cue.
By the look of her, Caroline was curious too.
Even Bob’s tail was wagging.
‘Copy that,’ Newman said.
‘I’ll bring my notebook and take the minutes.’ Ryan said.
Although Jack’s body was lying in the morgue, Ryan still couldn’t help but feel aggrieved that he’d
gone off-piste without telling anyone. Trying not to dwell on that, he imagined Grace and Newman’s impatience. They would be clearing the decks, readying themselves for his arrival with vital evidence, something tangible they could work on. Without being specific, Ryan had said enough to ensure that his cryptic message hit the target. He’d spoken in code, unable to trust the phones.
Only a fool would do so these days.
As he got ready for the drive south to Newcastle, that fact was reinforced on the radio. Presenters were full of outrage because of a tap on Angela Merkel’s mobile. The German chancellor was demanding an explanation from Barack Obama as to why the US National Security Agency was monitoring her calls. The practice was commonplace. What chance for anyone else?
Newman and Grace were thrilled to see him when he arrived shortly after nine thirty. Ryan took off his coat, gave his sister a kiss, handing over the dog food. He put the evidence he’d collected in Grace’s safe, along with his unregistered mobile, the food bags, the wrapping and notebooks. The plan was to use the photocopies only, preserving the originals for forensic examination when he eventually presented them to O’Neil.
When the others had read through both notebooks, Ryan stood up. ‘You got a whiteboard we can use?’ he asked.
Grace shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’
‘You want me to go out and buy one?’ Newman asked.
‘No, I’ll improvise.’ Ryan turned to Grace. ‘You got a roll of lining paper or wallpaper?’
‘In the garage.’ She handed him the key.
Minutes later, he was back with it under his arm. Cutting off a long piece, he asked Grace if she minded him covering the patio doors leading to the garden, utilizing the space as a makeshift murder wall.
‘Ready?’ Grace asked when he was finished.
Ryan put down the Blu-tack, nodding.
‘OK, let’s have a look at these acronyms,’ she said. ‘I’ll act as Receiver and search HOLMES. You two research the Internet.’
Caroline disappeared into the kitchen to make a pot of tea and the room went quiet as they got to work. Grace was first to hit on one of the acronyms, finding a reference to RFCC on the system: Regional Flood & Coastal Committee. When no one round the table got excited, she wrote it down and continued, the guys ploughing on with their Google search.
‘Jesus!’ Ryan said, a few minutes later.
‘Found something?’ Newman didn’t look up.
‘TRF is the code for Sandefjord Airport, Torp.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Grace said.
‘I have.’ Newman took his hands away from his keyboard, eyebrows knitting together. ‘From memory it’s about a hundred clicks south of Oslo, a low-budget airstrip serving the east of the country—’
‘Yeah, but even more interesting,’ Ryan interrupted, ‘is the fact that Jack flew in there in June.’
‘You sure?’ Newman asked.
‘I remember that.’ Grace was nodding in agreement.
‘Can you remember why?’ Newman again.
‘A weekend away from the kids,’ she said. ‘Late anniversary present, as I recall.’
‘A surprise he kept from Hilary until the very last minute,’ Ryan added. ‘Such a secret, he didn’t even tell me.’ Another thing he didn’t share. ‘I don’t think she was too happy either—’
Newman cut him off. ‘You think he had another agenda?’
‘No,’ Ryan shook his head. ‘He’d never put Hilary at risk.’
‘Under normal circumstances,’ Grace said. ‘But these weren’t normal, were they?’
Ryan’s thoughts were all over the place. Everything they had learned so far had led them to the conclusion that Jack had been desperate to right a wrong. Maybe he’d also been reckless, just this once. Had he used a romantic weekend away as cover for something altogether more sinister? He looked at Grace. ‘O’Neil would have interviewed him about the months leading up to his arrest, yes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is Norway flagged up anywhere on the system?’
The two men looked on as her fingers flew over the keys, eyes glued to her computer screen. Her search flashed up a positive result. ‘Yes, it is …’ she said. ‘There’s a mobile telephone number in Jack’s phone history with a +47 prefix. According to the data here, that’s the international dialling code for Norway.’
For a moment, no one spoke.
‘It’s a link,’ Grace said.
‘It’s a damned sight more than that!’ Ryan was getting excited.
‘Did O’Neil raise an action on it?’ Newman asked.
‘She did.’ Grace pushed a few more keys. ‘It was traced to a man called Anders Freberg. There’s no record after that. Looks like she hasn’t yet allocated a follow-up.’
‘She will when she sees these.’ Ryan pointed at the notebooks. ‘There’s a lot of contact here between Jack and someone with the initials AF. That must be Anders Freberg. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.’
Grace was still reading from the computer screen. ‘Jack didn’t try to hide his holiday in Norway. He claimed the Norwegian number belonged to a mate. Anders Freberg is apparently someone he’s known for years – or that’s what he told O’Neil. I’ve known him for years and yet that’s the first I’ve heard of him.’ She glanced at Ryan.
He shook his head. ‘The name means nothing to me. We’re on to something here.’
Picking up a pen, he walked to the do-it-yourself murder wall and scribbled a number of points down in chronological order of discovery. If his memory was correct, a definite pattern was emerging:
1. Foreign voice at the hijack scene – Scandinavian?
2. Claesson Logistics 4x4 – near the scene (Swedish name)
3. The flag in Jack’s notebook – definitely Scandi
4. Sandefjord Airport, Torp (Norway)
5. Jack/Hilary Norwegian holiday
6. +47 mobile – Anders Freberg (Norwegian prefix)
Ryan stood back, admiring his handiwork. It was all coming together. Grace reeled off Anders Freberg’s number and he wrote that on too. Newman immediately made the call. The line was unobtainable.
He shook his head. ‘Sounds like it’s on the blink.’
Ryan hoped it was nothing more ominous.
47
Eloise O’Neil linked her hands together and stared at her computer screen. Until recently, she’d been running a very closed enquiry, keeping everything tight, believing Jack Fenwick to be a perpetrator, rather than a victim. She’d been looking at the hijack scene, the security van and Jack. Nothing more. Then things had spun off in a different direction – a post-mortem ruling out accidental death. After being hit by a car, Jack Fenwick was run over.
He was murdered.
O’Neil looked across the room at Maguire. He’d fingered Ryan as a likely suspect. She’d since ruled him out. His vehicle was not involved. Thank God. The Job had enough bad press without adding to it. She’d instructed Maguire to widen the search to include all similar vehicles within a five-mile radius of the scene. A few minutes ago, he’d come up with a contender: a four-by-four belonging to a firm called Claesson Logistics.
‘Find out who they are and where they operate from,’ she said. ‘And while you’re at it, chase up that Norwegian guy, Anders Freberg. I feel so sorry for Jack Fenwick and his family, but I’m not sure he was telling me the whole truth about him. Do it now and let me know how you get on.’
Maguire picked up the phone. She could feel his resentment from across the room. He’d hardly said a word since she’d bollocked him over his sloppiness and bad attitude to a fellow officer. Given the GBH on Ryan yesterday, Maguire had to concede that he’d been wrong to point the finger at him. Just as well he didn’t know what she’d found on her computer or he’d start his vendetta all over again.
Before she’d left the hospital last night, Ryan had accused her of being behind the curve. He wasn’t wrong. Not only had the Organized Crime Unit been tailing him without her knowledge, th
ey’d lied about it and failed to respond to her request for full disclosure. A keystroke check on the PNC for the vehicle they used produced surprising results when she followed it through with a systems background check. The Police National Computer had been accessed via HOLMES.
Someone had gone into the system using Ryan’s ID.
Another glance at Maguire.
How was that possible when he’d taken possession of Ryan’s warrant card? Given the bad blood between the two men, O’Neil wouldn’t put it past him to set up his rival, a man he hated with a passion. She knew what was eating him up. Why he was so spiteful when it came to this particular officer. As she suspected, it involved a woman. DC Roz Cornell had dumped Maguire and taken up with Ryan, a relationship that had since blown off course.
Men!
Eyes back on the screen. Pushing a few more keys, she noticed something odd, something she could so easily have overlooked. Her eyes grew big as she stared at the computer, hoping she was wrong, knowing she wasn’t. She’d been too quick to judge Maguire. Ryan’s warrant card was an old one, upgraded days ago by none other than retiree Grace Ellis. What the hell were those two up to?
48
Grace picked up her ringing landline and checked the display: O’Neil. Ignoring the call, she continued to search the HOLMES database, leaving the answering service to kick in.
‘Grace, it’s Eloise. We need to talk.’
Four angst-ridden eyes turned in her direction. Passing a worried look to the others, Grace was about to say something when Ryan’s mobile began to vibrate on the dining room table. He picked it up, examined the screen, the hairs on the back of his neck rising when he recognized the caller.
‘Is it her?’ Grace asked.
Nodding, he let it switch to voicemail, waiting to see if O’Neil would leave a message, worrying when he noticed a red dot pop up on the tiny screen to indicate that she had. ‘I think we’ve been rumbled,’ he said.
Newman disagreed. ‘If that were the case, she’d be on the doorstep with a backup squad.’
Dialling his voicemail, Ryan lifted the phone to his ear: Call me the minute you receive this. He deleted the message. ‘She’s on to us.’ He pointed at the computers on the dining room table. ‘We’ve got to shut this lot down.’
