by Scott Hunter
“Yep. They’ve been great. The boys think all this gear is ‘well cool’.” Phelps described a sweeping motion with his arm, taking in the buzzing and beeping machines. “Jane’s been brilliant. Keeping her pecker up, you know?”
Moran nodded. “If I know Jane, she’ll have everything well under control.”
“Including me, if I ever get out of this place.”
“You will. All in good time.”
Moran pushed his chair back as a dinner lady wheeled a trolley into the room. She plonked a tray on the side table and clattered away. The smell of cabbage permeated the room.
“Smells like the Charnford kitchens.” Moran sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Remember?”
“How could I forget?”
Moran paused. “Robert, I’m sorry to talk shop, but I have to ask. Did you manage to talk to anyone at OCG?”
“Yep. I spoke to an old mate. He told me that Sheldrake and his DS were … well, you know, pretty close.”
“Oh yes?”
“He’s a married man. She’s a single girl.”
“A bit spiky, I’ve been told.”
“That’s an understatement. She’s the archetypal pain in the butt. Good copper, though.”
“Right,” Moran said thoughtfully. “Anything else?”
“My mate said he’d keep a weather ear open for us. His name’s DS Chris Newland. Good bloke. If you ever need an extra DS, he’s your man.”
“OK, Robert. Thanks. Listen, I’ll leave you to your cordon bleu. I’ve got an appointment up the corridor.”
Phelps took a wheezy breath and raised a betubed hand. “Bloody old crocks, the pair of us.”
“What music would you like?” the receptionist asked with a weary ‘I’ve done this a hundred times today already’ air about her.
“Music?” Moran was perplexed. “What, during the scan?”
“Yes,” she replied. “The machine makes a lot of noise. It’ll help relax you.”
“I see.” He thumbed through the proffered catalogue. “Not much I like here,” he told her honestly.
“Well, you’ll have to pick something.”
“OK. I’ll go for Enya.”
She snatched the booklet from him. “Number 35? Fine. Take a seat.”
As Moran waited he found himself wondering for the first time what he would do if the scan picked up anything amiss. Like a tumour, or brain cancer, or–
“Mr Moran?”
A white-coated medic was standing over him with a clipboard. He followed her into the scanning room.
“Done this before?”
“No.”
“Nothing to worry about.” She smiled brightly. “Bit noisy, but pay no attention. Try to relax and think about something else.”
“Right.”
“Take off your watch, please, and the chain around your neck.”
Moran removed his watch, chain and crucifix as bidden.
“Lie down. Here are the headphones. Keep your finger on this button. If you feel uncomfortable, just press it and I’ll stop the scan. OK?”
“Terrific.” Moran lay back and the scanner lid slid over him. He felt as though he was being buried alive. The feeling was compounded when the angelic, ethereal voice of Enya began to filter through his headphones. Moran began to wish he’d chosen Springsteen or even Led Zeppelin as alternatives, either of whom would have provided some earthy reassurance that he was still alive.
The machine began to bang and clatter as the scan progressed. ‘A bit noisy’ was proving to be an understatement. He tried to ignore the racket, instead turning his thoughts to Atul Kumar. The young man had clearly been rattled at the mention of murder, immediately concerned for his cousin, and yet he had told them that she was visiting relatives in India. Moran had a pretty good idea which physio practice Jaseena Ranandan had worked for; Mr Suri would be receiving a rather more thorough interrogation at the first opportunity.
As the scan progressed, and despite the random banging of the machine, Moran found himself dozing. He dreamed that he was lying in a graveyard, in an open coffin. Faces looked down at him: Shona, black-veiled and tearful, Phelps, dark-suited and sober, DI Pepper, strangely clad in a long evening gown. He felt the gentle sprinkle of rain on his face. The coffin lid closed abruptly and clods of earth began to thump on the lid. He couldn’t push it open; it was stuck fast. Somewhere in the distance he heard the mourners singing a familiar hymn. Now thank we all our God, with hearts and hands and voices...
Moran woke with a stifled cry.
“All finished, Mr Moran.” The scanner lid opened and the operator leaned over him with a smile. “Up you get. Don’t forget your watch and chain.”
Moran blinked and gratefully clambered to his feet. Mumbling a quick thanks to the scanning technician he made a hurried exit through the clinic doors, back to the land of the living.
Chapter 17
The Kafir sipped a lemon tea and folded his newspaper. He wanted to feel the satisfaction he had so keenly anticipated, but instead he felt only a gnawing sense of unease. He had been so careful. He had taken all possible precautions, and yet he was quite sure that he had been followed. But by whom? Certainly not a policeman. They were nowhere near working out what was going on, he was quite sure of that as well. Someone was playing a very dangerous game – but who? And why?
He had of course considered the possibility that it was them, Jag and Atul, but if they had known where to find him they would have confronted him by now. No, this was more sinister, as if someone was playing cat and mouse, keeping just out of sight but nevertheless following his every move. The Kafir was deeply unsettled. He had to deal with this proactively, and soon.
He went to his kitchenette and reboiled the kettle, pondering his options as he waited for the water to cool. The temperature had to be just right for lemon tea, not too hot, not too cold.
When he had made and tested the tea to his satisfaction he went to the window and looked out at the river. The sun blazed in an empty sky. The newspapers were comparing it to the summer of seventy-six, when the heat wave had lasted all summer until the weather finally broke over the Reading Rock Festival weekend. A few boats were lazily moving up and down river and the larger shape of the Caversham Princess, the popular pleasure cruiser, was moored at its usual point of departure by the rowing club boathouse. People were in a holiday mood, making the most of the weather. The pitiful, sad nobodies.
The Kafir finished his tea and sat down cross-legged in the centre of the room. He needed to decide on the best way forward. If this follower knew what he had done, he would never be safe. It was time to turn the tables – and, whoever his stalker might be, they were going to regret their actions for the rest of their lives, a period of time he intended to make as short as he possibly could.
Had he forgotten to lock his front door last night? Moran racked his brains as he drove across town to his delayed appointment with Suri, the physiotherapist. Maybe I am going nuts... Moran was a careful man – not pedantic, but he liked things in order. He couldn’t remember a previous occasion when he had failed to secure his house.
So what did that mean? Had Shona broken in? Ridiculous. The door had been unlocked, not forced. She had arrived to find it ajar, which explained why Archie had gone walkabout. Why would she want to break in, anyway?
After last night, however, Moran found he could forgive her almost anything. He put his worry on hold for a moment, savouring the recollection. Then he frowned; the door incident was still a niggle, especially taking into account that anonymous note.
The prime suspect was, of course, Gregory Neads; after all, he had delivered a direct threat. Moran didn’t believe Neads capable of any real harm, though. Harassment and mischief, perhaps, but not to the extent that he would plan some injurious revenge.
Moran overtook a dawdling Nissan and put his foot down, half tempted to switch the squad car’s blue light on. That’d get the idle dawdlers out of his way. Damn holiday traffic...
Despite Moran’s best efforts to think of other things, the problem of Gregory Neads lingered in his mind for the rest of the journey. He could still see Neads’ twisted expression, hear the bitterness in his voice: Watch your back, Moran...
He shook his head, as if by doing so he could clear some space to think. He had enough mental balls up in the air at the moment without Neads troubling him as well, but he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he was missing something important.
Mr Suri was at the reception desk when Moran walked in. As he glanced up his expression clouded.
“Inspector Moran. I was expecting you yesterday evening.”
“Something came up. But I’d like to have that chat now, if you have a few minutes?”
“Certainly, Inspector.”
Moran was led once more into Suri’s office. When they were seated Moran asked if the receptionist had recognised the man portrayed in the Photofit.
Suri spread his hands. “Unfortunately not.”
“Have you ever employed someone by the name of Jaseena Ranandan?”
Suri frowned. “No, not to my knowledge.”
“And how long have you worked here?”
“For five years now, since the practice opened.”
“I see.” Moran studied Suri’s face. Was he lying? If he was, he was good at it; there was no trace of discomfort, no tell-tale beads of sweat on his forehead. The smile was easy, unwavering.
“May I see your employer records?”
A slight hesitation. “I will need to consult the administration manager. She is away this morning.”
“But as the practice head you must know where they are kept, surely?”
“Indeed.” Suri smiled again and Moran was struck once more by the perfect alignment of his teeth. “But Vina has the key to the filing cabinet.”
“And you don’t have a spare, in case Vina is off sick?” Moran asked, keeping the irritation out of his tone with difficulty.
Suri frowned. “Perhaps Barinder has a set. One moment.”
Moran waited patiently. After a minute or so, Suri bustled back into the office. “I’m sorry, Inspector. It is a shortcoming, I’m afraid.”
“When will the information be available?”
“When Vina returns from our other clinic.” He consulted his watch. “I expect by midday.”
“You have another clinic?” Moran raised his eyebrows.
“The chiropractic clinic, yes. Vina works between the two, but for practical day-to-day business we run pretty independently.”
“I see. Why didn’t you mention this before?”
Suri shrugged. “I am sorry; I did not think it important.”
“Could the chiropractic clinic have employed someone called Jaseena Ranandan?”
Suri pursed his lips and leaned forward, resting his arms on the polished walnut. “I cannot be certain, Inspector. I have few dealings with the other clinic – only in terms of the administration, budgets and so on, rather than individual employees, if you understand me. They have had quite a high turnover in the last year or so, that is all I can say. Freelance staff come and go. You will need to speak to Mr Virjii, the senior partner.”
“Address?”
Suri opened a drawer and passed a card across the desk. Moran thanked him and took his leave.
The thing about surveillance was that you could never afford to relax. Take a breather, stretch your legs, doze off for a minute and you could miss the significant incident, the moment that cracks the case wide open.
Charlie Pepper knew all about the boredom of surveillance work. Been there, seen it, done it, got the T-shirt – and the stickers, poster and mug to boot. That’s just how it was: nine tenths mind-numbing boredom, one tenth adrenaline rush and action. Right now she was somewhere at the wrong end of the tenths scale.
She looked at her watch. Half past four. She’d been stuck here for hours, and so far nothing. Moran had called her at lunchtime, not that she’d been able to eat anything. There was a deli just down the road, but she knew that if she succumbed she would run the risk of missing the moment Atul Kumar decided to make a move. The guv was on his way to a chiropractic clinic in the hope that he could find out something more about Jaseena Ranandan before they knocked on her cousin’s door a second time. If Mr Kumar was indeed her cousin.
Charlie sighed. The glamour of detective work, eh Charlie? Still, she was content enough with her new posting. Moran seemed like a good guy, and the rest of the team were friendly enough – except maybe DS Banner, but she’d win him round in the end. She wondered how her old team in Coventry were doing. Her promotion had been hard-won over five eventful years. She’d earned her stripes and got her DI after another two. Sure, she missed her old mates, but it had been time to move on. She had no ties in Cov. Her last relationship had ended a year ago, by her decision. So it was time to start afresh.
It felt right to be here in Berkshire. Reading itself wasn’t much to write home about, but Helen had promised to show her the countryside and she was looking forward to sampling those Tolkienesque pubs she’d heard so much about. She’d also been up to London with a friend, Anna, and an Oxford Street shopping trip was already planned for the summer plus another outing to the West End to catch a show. Maybe she could invite Helen as well; her new colleague looked like she could do with a bit of nightlife. Charlie smiled to herself. For the short time she’d flat-shared with Anna it had felt like she was on some kind of extended holiday and it was only when she’d moved into her own place and fallen ill that reality had kicked in.
At that moment the front door opened and Atul emerged, followed by another young man of similar age and build. They got into the BMW and reversed out of the drive in a style that wouldn’t have pleased a driving instructor. Charlie waited until the car had sped past and then gunned her engine and swung the car in a wide U-turn. She just caught sight of the Beamer as it made a left turn onto the main road by the hospital. Charlie settled into gear three cars back and kept her eyes fixed on the speeding vehicle.
Which way were they headed? Not into town, she muttered to herself, as they continued along the London road towards Southcote. Charlie wound her window down in an effort to cool the car interior; the aircon was rubbish. But then it was an old police vehicle, so what did she expect? TVP’s budget was clearly as limited as West Midlands’. DCI Moran, she deduced, wasn’t much of a petrol head.
The BMW hurtled onto the Bath road and continued west. By the time they reached the Theale roundabout and turned off to the right Charlie’s limited knowledge of the local geography was beginning to fail. Up until now she had always had Anna in the car with her, so she hadn’t paid a lot of attention to where she was going.
On they sped through villages Charlie had neither heard of nor visited: Tidmarsh, Pangbourne, across a quaint toll bridge for which Charlie had to ransack Moran’s glove box for the forty pence toll, on into the middle of nowhere and a world of twisting, narrow country lanes delimited by tall hedgerows. She held her breath as the BMW slowed, thinking she’d been spotted, but it was only a horse and rider up ahead, languidly waving the traffic on. There was now a blue Transit between them so she was comfortable that the two men were still oblivious to their tail.
A few minutes later the Beamer turned off onto a raised farm track and disappeared. Charlie found a suitable spot on the verge which wouldn’t obstruct the sparse traffic that was likely to pass by, and wondered whether to put in a call to Moran. Deciding against interrupting her new guv’s appointment, Charlie got out and walked cautiously up the track, keeping close to the hedge.
The rutted ground was baked hard beneath her soles and she stumbled once or twice before the track flattened out and she found herself alongside what appeared to be a collection of farm outhouses. Several cars were parked in a line by a wire and wood fence, one of which was the BMW.
The outhouses formed the perimeter of a yard; empty save for a raised shed-like structure in the farthest corner. Even with her limited know
ledge of farming Charlie recognised the building as a granary, differentiated from the other buildings by the six mushroom-like stone supports upon which it squatted. It was from within this building that Charlie could hear the sound of raised voices.
She crept forward, alert for any sign of movement from the adjacent buildings. Now she could see that the farmhouse was hidden away behind another hedgerow to her right. Next to the house a painted sign advertised fresh farm eggs. As she reached the granary she could see the hens’ coop and wire enclosure to the farmhouse’s left.
Somewhere close by a diesel engine fired, missed and fired again. Charlie’s heart also missed and fired again. Not a car or a lorry ... a tractor eased slowly into view. It must have been tucked in behind the farm drive. Another metre and the driver would see her.
She moved quickly around to the back of the granary. A wooden ramp led up the side of the building past an open window which looked out onto open fields beyond.
The tractor crawled away along the path Charlie had just walked up. As the engine noise faded she heard voices again, but she could hear them clearly now because she was crouched just below the line of the window. A female was speaking, interrupted every so often by a male voice Charlie recognised as belonging to Atul. At each interruption the woman simply railroaded through until Atul was bludgeoned into silence again.
“I’ve told you. It’s sorted. There’s nothing to get het up about.” The woman’s voice was getting louder, and Charlie realised she must be standing right beside the window. Charlie flattened herself against the woodwork and prayed that she was out of the woman’s line of vision.
“How can it be sorted if the cops have just come knocking?” Another voice, deeper and with a more pronounced accent.
“Will you just shut up and listen to what I’m telling you?” The woman again. Charlie pressed her ear to the woodwork. “Tonight is bust night. After that you’ll be off the hook.”
