by Diane Janes
‘The way he left the van door open, then let her get away into the woods. And if he’d always intended to finish the thing by killing her, why bother with a false identity at all?’
‘Pay attention, McMahon,’ he said. ‘He needed the false identity for everyone else. He couldn’t have her knowing who he really was, then sharing that information with all and sundry in the run up to the crime.’
‘True. But in that case, why did he stop looking for her? He must have known that she couldn’t get far. Bound, gagged, and barefoot? He’d got every advantage, including a torch.’
Peter noticed that she had just contradicted herself, but he also knew that she was not really arguing the position, just thinking aloud, trying to prompt something useful.
‘Maybe he had a deadline to work to,’ he suggested. ‘There’s the hypothetical other person, remember. The one we think may have driven the car to the lay-by, so that he could get away, once he’d torched the van. While he’s at Foxden Woods, supposedly finishing off his victim and dumping her body, he’s out of communication with this accomplice, because as we know, he doesn’t want to risk making use of a mobile phone. Meantime, perhaps the accomplice is expecting him to rendezvous somewhere? Does a Plan B kick in, if he doesn’t show up on time? Or maybe there’s another reason that he couldn’t afford to stick around. Having disposed of her, what does he need to do next? Does he have a ticket for a cross-Channel ferry? Maybe he’s proposing to fence some of the jewellery abroad?’
‘That’s an interesting one,’ Hannah said. ‘He told Jude Thackeray that he’d got some previous connections with Holland. Harwich is not a million miles away. We should be able to get records of the vehicles which took the ferries that day from the early hours onwards.’
‘It would take some following up. Better talk to the boss about it.’
‘Meantime, it won’t cost anything to drive home via Jude Thackeray’s lay-by in Foxden Woods. I know it’s all been looked at before, but you never know: going back there, one more time, something might just come up.’
THIRTEEN
As he jumped from the dinghy and splashed ashore through the shallows, dragging the boat behind him, Stefan could not help but feel pleased with the way it had gone. He had navigated his way to the place – Anonymous Bay, as he had taken to thinking of it – easily enough, and encountered no difficulties in bringing his craft into the beach. Better yet, from out on the water, he not only commanded a view of the entire beach, but also of significant lengths of the path which ran along the top of the cliffs, and this, he thought, would enable him to choose a time to come ashore when there were no troublesome hikers around to ask questions. He calculated that by early evening most of them would be well out of the way, stuffing their faces with pasties or locally caught shellfish, at some hostelry or other. In any case, if the boat – or rather boats – because he would need to tow a second one in for the actual operation itself, were well pulled up, they wouldn’t be easy to see from the top of the cliffs, and from all of his observations so far, it did seem as if visitors to the beach itself were extremely rare.
The place would have been even better with the addition of some kind of cave, where he could leave a few essentials in advance (in particular the grappling hook – he had decided that a large stone from the beach was not going to suffice) but you could not have everything and in every other way the location was looking better and better. The weather was the one unpredictable factor. Tides he could handle, but the weather had to be right. Not just for bringing the boats in and launching them again, albeit that this was a vital part of the plan, but also to render it likely that someone with relatively little experience would have attempted to take a boat out, before meeting with an accident.
Not, he thought, that it would take too much believing. The south-west coast of England was a positive magnet for idiots who assumed that they were safe to attempt to sail, or surf, or pootle out to sea using their newly acquired boats and boards, at all states of the tide and in all kinds of weathers. Stefan had grown up close to the sea and he knew better. A plan involving the sea was going to serve him much better than the previously flawed operation on land had done.
He nodded to himself without realizing it, and set about re-launching the dinghy. Once the outboard came to life, he reached the deeper water in less than a minute. Five minutes and the detail of the beach was lost, becoming a line of colour which he could barely differentiate from the cliffs. The lines of waves making their way ashore had merged into a single lacy thread, which marked the division between the land and the water.
It would be dark, of course, when he actually had to do it, but with luck there would be some moonlight and if not, then a torch would have to suffice. It was a clever idea, he thought. A well-thought-out scheme, much better than the last one. This time it was going to work.
FOURTEEN
Though Peter had been surprised by Hannah’s suggestion of a call at the lay-by where Jude Thackeray had escaped her would-be killer, he had been perfectly willing to go along with it. Sometimes an off-the-wall suggestion unexpectedly led somewhere useful and it had certainly never occurred to him that his colleague might have been entertaining some sort of ulterior motive, entirely unrelated to the Thackeray enquiry.
It was not until they had arrived on the edge of Foxden Woods and been sitting in his parked car for about five minutes that the situation took an abrupt diversion from its expected course, with Hannah returning the conversation to the lovers who had observed a parked car in that other lay-by, where they normally played out their extramarital fixtures. Though he had initially failed to see where this was leading, Peter abruptly flagged an amber danger signal, when his colleague mused, in an odd tone of voice that she had never attempted to have sex in the back of a car. The amber signal turned red a moment later, when he unexpectedly found McMahon’s hand resting on his thigh.
The gesture generated a sensation which ran from his hairline to the soles of his feet. It would have been ridiculous to pretend to himself that he didn’t find her attractive, but he also knew that becoming embroiled in a relationship with a colleague was the dumbest thing he could do right now, with major decisions to be made about the future, so he attempted a light-hearted tone and asked if she wasn’t the person who had said that sex in the back of a car was distinctly passé, a diversionary tactic which failed dismally, when Hannah responded by agreeing that it would be far better if they both went back to her place.
At this point Peter Betts did a mental double take. He hadn’t been sure whether to take her initial remark, and even the follow-up hand on his leg, as a joke, but her persistence suggested that she was serious. He was completely wrong-footed. His dealings with McMahon had always been maintained on a strictly professional level. In spite of her undoubted attributes, he had never allowed himself to think of her as a potential date. She was one of the team in a way which made a proposition from her as unexpected as would have been a proposition from the determinedly heterosexual Jerry. It was an awkward situation and not one for which they prepared you in basic training.
He hesitated, then said carefully, ‘Look, Hannah’ – he usually addressed her as McMahon, but that didn’t feel altogether appropriate under the circumstances – ‘it isn’t that I don’t find you attractive, because I do, but relationships with work colleagues – specially in our job – well, I’ve always thought they’re just too full of complications. In fact …’ he hesitated, then continued, ‘I seem to remember you once saying something similar, after that business when Timpson had to ask for a transfer. I know some people make it work—’
‘Who said we need to have a relationship?’
She was looking him straight in the eye, but he fancied that he detected an element of false bravado in her voice. While he was still trying to think of something else to say, she added, ‘Don’t you want to get laid? Without any complications, I promise.’
That’s what they all say, he thought, but none of them ever me
an it … except maybe for Ginny, which reminded him again of the still unanswered email.
Hannah almost read his thoughts, as she said, ‘And there was me, thinking that you had a wild streak, Bettsy. Haven’t you always tried to let on that you have this secret, parallel existence? Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, and all that.’ She attempted a laugh, but did not quite manage to bring it off.
‘I’m a part-time guitarist, not a fully paid-up member of the Rolling Stones.’ He tried to keep it light, but the trouble is, he thought, that even though nothing had happened, her suggestion and his rejection would become a future source of awkwardness. He might as well have taken advantage of the offer and slept with her. It came as a surprise that she even found him attractive. He had never for a moment suspected it – or maybe she didn’t and she really was just desperate for some plain, uncomplicated sex. It was sometimes hard to have normal relationships. Not for nothing did many of the older hands talk of being married to the job.
‘I think we’d better get back,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to see here.’
Her car was still parked at headquarters and the drive back was conducted amid an air of false heartiness, with each of them trying and failing to pretend that what had happened in the lay-by didn’t matter. In the underground car park she thanked him for the lift, then unexpectedly leaned across from the passenger seat and very deliberately kissed him on the mouth. ‘Just to let you know what you’re missing.’ Afterwards he told himself that it had only happened because he hadn’t been quick enough to anticipate what she was going to do and take evasive action.
She got out of his car and walked over to her own without looking back, head held high, heels elevating her to just over six feet tall. Giving him the full benefit of her swinging hips and neat backside. He knew exactly what she was up to and for a moment he was tempted. What did it matter anyway, if he intended to take up Ginny’s offer and join the band? In his head, Steppenwolf roared out the chorus of ‘Born to be Wild’. He hummed it as he drove away.
He hadn’t made a decision on Ginny’s offer yet, but Hannah was helping to push him the wrong way – or was it the right way? Having sex with a colleague in the back of a car was somehow such a cliché, and rendered all the more sordid by the idea of congress taking place at a crime scene. That wasn’t how he wanted his life to be.
Though he knew next to nothing of McMahon’s private life, he didn’t think it was how she wanted her life to be either. The episode left him uncharacteristically bewildered. McMahon never came on to colleagues. (If it had ever happened with anyone before, he was confident that he would have heard about it. There were no secrets in CID.) If anything, she had encircled herself with an invisible barbed wire fence, which said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ She was always professional, never flirted, and no one (not even Jerry) messed with McMahon. Her behaviour was all the more unsettling because it had come from nowhere.
It was also unresolved. What had that parting kiss been all about? McMahon regaining some dignity? Having the last word? How would they be together, when they had to work one-to-one again tomorrow? At least there would be a brief, enforced cooling-off period, because in the morning he had to temporarily abandon work on the Thackeray case, in order to make a court appearance in connection with a juvenile accused of armed robbery.
It was an unusual business. A bullied youth, goaded into robbing an elderly shopkeeper at knifepoint, in order to impress his tormentors. The kid was a wimp and would never have actually used the knife, but the shopkeeper wasn’t to know that, had been traumatized at the time and had lost his confidence since. There were no winners in a case like that. It was lose-lose whichever way you looked at it. Many of the people against whom he had helped to gather evidence, were inadequate in some way. A significant proportion needed treatment as much as they needed punishment. Sometimes, as in the Jude Thackeray case, there was no one to bring to court at all, because in spite of their best endeavours, he and his colleagues failed to find the perpetrators, or failed to make a case which would stick.
Those unsolved cases were the worst. Getting a result was not just about the personal satisfaction which came from gaining a conviction, not just about being on the winning team. Failing to put the perpetrators of a particularly vicious crime behind bars was almost akin to breaking a promise, betraying the trust invested in you by the victim.
In some way that he couldn’t quite explain to himself, having sex with McMahon at a crime scene associated with the Thackeray case would have been to let the victim down in a particularly bad way. He did not want to spend a lifetime letting people down. As he drove back to his flat, the standing ovation he had received with Shuffle ’n’ Deal all those months ago replayed itself in his head, like some sort of in-vehicle entertainment system. There was another life out there, and maybe it belonged to him.
FIFTEEN
Mark had gone to a lot of trouble to set the scene. It had taken him very little time to realize that Jude was extremely susceptible to romantic gestures – a bunch of red roses, a thoughtful little non-Valentine’s Day card – but creating just the right atmosphere tonight had assumed gargantuan importance, because it was vital to gee her up before making his pitch. ‘We love one another … we’re so right together … when you’re sure you’ve found the right person, why wait … I just can’t live without you …’ He had practiced his lines until they were stale in his mouth. All clichés of course, but what woman didn’t want to be told that she was the most beautiful, most desirable, most special person in all the world?
He liked to think that he was good with women. He had a track record. He was both gentle and gentlemanly, and women liked that enough to overlook things like the extra few pounds that he carried around his middle. Otherwise it would have been mad to contemplate a scheme like this, however desperate he was. It wasn’t as if he was doing anything illegal – in fact it was a lot more legit than placing all those dodgy bets on behalf of Chaz’s friend, and hey, once they were married, she would be entitled to share whatever he had. There was his flat (even if it was mortgaged to the hilt and the service charge was crippling him, property in London would inevitably escalate in value, making it a good investment in the long term). Once he had everything back on an even keel, he would be able to build up another portfolio of real estate. He had done it before; he could do it again.
It wasn’t as if he would stop being kind to her, once they were safely hitched. Keeping her happy had not proved so very difficult up until now, and once he had access to her funds it would be easier still. Fair point, it wasn’t the way he had ever imagined that he would end up marrying someone. (Truth be told, he’d never really given much thought to getting married until now.) But they were both in need of different kinds of security and there were far worse reasons than that for tying the knot.
He took another look around the kitchen (gleaming, thanks to the attentions of Agnieska – his cash-in-hand cleaner) mentally ticking everything off. It was in his favour that Jude didn’t much enjoy eating out. She claimed that ever since all the publicity surrounding the kidnap, she always felt as though people were looking at her: recognizing her face from the television and the newspapers, remembering the case and imagining how it had been for her, and what had been done to her. Personally he’d always thought she made too much of it: most people’s memories were short and the case had been out of the papers for months now. Even so, she was definitely paranoid about being recognized, and though he had reservations about the likelihood of that, he could understand how she hated the thought of it happening: this private person, entirely unknown to the general public, until she had achieved unwanted celebrity as the victim of a violent conman, who had first robbed, then attempted to murder her.
Initially he had tried to reassure her that she was nothing like as recognizable as she thought. Personally he thought it more likely that people took a second glance because she was jolly attractive, or else because they vaguely recognized her face, and a
ssumed that she must be an actress or something. This was borne out by the occasions when complete strangers had found an excuse to accost her, in an attempt (always thwarted by Jude) to ascertain who she was. Worse still were the insensitive idiots, who having realized exactly who she was, enquired with syrupy solicitude, whether she was ‘better now’, or ‘over it all’, as if being reminded of a terrifying ordeal by a complete stranger was likely to assist in the healing process. The intrusive nature and crass stupidity of a celebrity fixated public, never ceased to amaze him.
Anyway, he had soon stopped trying to persuade her that she was completely safe from recognition and curiosity, because her reluctance to be seen out and about in public places represented a useful saving on restaurant bills and tickets for events, and was particularly handy right now, as it provided the perfect excuse for another romantic night in together.
He supposed that a true romantic might have arranged to propose on a weekend in Paris, which was all very well, if you didn’t have to draw down money on yet another new credit card, just in order to pay the cleaning woman. Mark was risking a shortcut, with dinner à deux, against a backdrop of the London skyline. He was a pretty decent cook – it was another thing that women liked about him – but tonight of all nights, he didn’t want to risk any unexpected culinary cock-ups, or fail to focus his attention completely on her, so he had bought the lobster ready prepared, put together a crisp, colourful salad to accompany the very best steaks that he had been able to obtain (any fool could manage to keep half an eye on a steak) and to follow all this he had obtained as the pièce de résistance a fabulous concoction of delicate sponge, topped with peaches soused in liqueur, meringues and whipped cream, (Jude shared his love for desserts) which had been provided – after not inconsiderable negotiation and a quite ridiculous amount of money changing hands – by the chef of his favourite local restaurant. Even Mark, who was more of a bread and butter pudding man, had to admit that these confections looked so pretty, perched on individual glass plates in his fridge, that it really would be a pity to dismantle and eat them.
