by Anna Legat
She was wrong. Scarface is there: in the ivory tower of his closed-door office, conferring with Ms Pennyworth and a posh-sounding bloke from MI5, of which fact she is appraised by Webber the moment she enters the building. ‘Scarfe’s been at it flat out, day and night. His career is on the line for as long as that bastard bomber is still on the loose,’ he informs her.
‘It’s been over a week,’ she comments, an atypical note of sympathy for the Super in her voice. It’s common knowledge: if the fugitive hasn’t been apprehended within the first twenty-four hours, the chances of ever finding him diminish at an alarming rate.
‘Eight days,’ Webber confirms. ‘We have all the airports and the bus and train stations covered. We have all Ahmed Usmani’s and Malik Sadat’s contacts under surveillance – nothing... The bastard has vanished into thin air. We don’t even have his identity.’
‘Talking about Usmani, is that the one who allegedly detonated the bomb?’
‘Yeah, Ahmed Usmani. Did you watch that Panorama programme where they interviewed his parents?’
Gillian nods absent-mindedly. She is thinking of Ahmed Usmani. They got it wrong. She needs to clear this with Forensic and raise it with the Chief Super.
Scarfe’s office door swings open, releasing Ms Pennyworth into the world like a plague. She totters on her high heels, passing by Gillian and Webber without acknowledging either of them. She is definitely frazzled, which is a pleasing thought. She is followed by the posh-speaking, and by all accounts, poshly dressed MI5 agent. He too isn’t aware of the existence of such mere mortals as the two police detectives. But Chief Superintendent Scarfe takes instant notice of them. ‘DI Marsh!’ he hollers from his office and crooks his finger in her direction. ‘If you have a minute.’
Great opportunity! Gillian marches in. Normally, Scarfe doesn’t waste time on courtesies, and neither does Gillian, ‘Sir, about the train bombing – Ahmed Usmani couldn’t have detonated that bomb... I don’t think he could. He wasn’t there – I mean -’
‘Detective Inspector, we have experts on this case. They’ve turned the scene inside out and there’s evidence at hand. In fact, my advice is that Usmani is the very person who did it. But that isn’t any of your concern. I see you’re back -’
Gillian is dismayed. ‘Just passing by, sir. I’m not due back until Tuesday.’
He doesn’t seem to hear her. ‘So I’d like you to take personal charge of a missing person inquiry: Joshua Weston-Jones has been missing for a week now. My hands are full and, frankly, it’s bedlam here, so I need you to look into this ASAP.’
‘Sir.’ Gillian turns on her heel and takes herself out of Scarfe’s office. There is no point arguing with him – that will only make him more obstinate. But she has her priorities straight: she’ll talk to Riley first.
‘Mark, pop over to the Weston Estate, do some sniffing around. His highness has gone off on his travels without telling anyone.’
‘I can’t, Gillian. I’m up to my eyes with the Hornby case. Time doesn’t stand still when you’re away, I told you, didn’t I!’
Gillian pauses. ‘So who is the new SIO?’
‘DCI Grayson. On loan from Bath.’
‘Now that I’m back, I intend to take over that investigation.’
‘I’d like to see you try,’ Webber snorts, amused. ‘You haven’t met DCI Grayson. Scarface is a pussy cat by comparison.’
‘Is he a tiger, our Mr Grayson?’ Gillian’s laughter comes out as a rattle. ‘Oh well, he’ll have to bugger off back to his cosy little cage in Bath and mind his Jane Austen collection. This is my turf.’
Webber performs bizarre facial contortions, rolling his eyes and nodding his head like a spooked horse. Is this the onset of a well-overdue mental breakdown? She will have to ask him about the situation at home, with Kate. Later. Now, she asks for the Hornby case files to find their way to her desk by Tuesday.
‘You’ll have to have DCI Grayson’s permission, ma’am.’ Webber goes all formal on her.
‘Grayson’s permission? Grayson can go whistle. I want those files, Mark. And stop calling me a bloody madam. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Sir!’
Sir? Now Gillian is certain: Webber needs a break – before he breaks down. Poor bastard! She is about to tell him to go home and have a lie down when a male voice interjects:
‘DI Marsh, I presume?’
She turns to find herself face to chest with a very large man with a pale Nordic complexion, red beard, and the bearings of a Viking. He is standing with his legs wide apart, presumably to accommodate what is between them, and holds the thick clubs of his arms folded on his wide chest.
‘DCI Grayson. Nice to meet you, at last. I’ve heard a lot about you, DI Marsh. You’re a good detective, but, nevertheless – no, thanks...’
‘No thanks for what?’
‘I won’t need your help with the Hornby case. I have it well in hand. And I’ve got DS Webber working on it with me.’ It is at this point that he flexes his fist and his bones cracks. If there was anything in his hand, it’d be crushed.
Gillian isn’t intimidated. She says, ‘I’ve got a few theories regarding the use of the packing tape...’
‘I’ve got a few of my own. Like I said: no, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Gillian wants to punch him in the gut, but that would probably break a few bones in her hand. So she executes the verbal punch with all the contempt that man deserves: ‘Sir!’
He nods and swaggers off. Arsehole.
She is not giving in – not by far – and she’ll resume this battle on Tuesday, when she’s officially back in the saddle. For now, she turns to Erin. ‘Okay, DC Macfadyen, it’s you then. Off you go to the Weston estate.’
Erin scowls. She didn’t like the Westons the first time she and Gillian had the misfortune to meet them.
Gillian doesn’t care: rather Erin than her. And it is a matter of principle: she won’t do as she is told and she won’t be demoted to do tasks a constable could do just as well. She tells Erin, ‘Just go and feign some interest, ask some questions. Talk to Weston-Jones senior. Get Uniform to interview all his minions. The usual tokenistic crap. I’m off. I must catch Riley.’
Jon Riley is busy. He’s having a takeaway curry, judging by the pungent aroma. Poppadom crumbs litter his keyboard. The tomato sauce stains on his shirt and his general washed-out look indicate that he hasn’t been home or, if he has, he slept in his clothes and came back to work wearing yesterday’s attire.
‘Gillian, my lovely,’ he beams from above a fork-full, ‘you always catch me in flagrante delicto! I’m in the middle of my dinner, as you can see.’ He points to the array of plastic containers. ‘I’d ask you to join me, but... it’s all gone.’
‘It’s fine, Jon, I’m not hungry. I’ve just had breakfast. I want to talk to you about the train bombing.’
Riley screws up his chubby face in disappointment, ‘I’ve been talking about nothing else... It’s coming out of my ears. I don’t even get to go home nowadays.’
‘I can tell, but that’s out of choice, I guess.’
‘Well, let’s put it this way: no one’s waiting for me at home. You know the type: a sweet, size ten twenty-something with a shepherd’s pie in the oven and -’
‘Yes, Jon, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gillian cuts in, knowing he won’t stop whinnying on his own accord. ‘Humour me. It’s important.’
‘Everything is always important with you Gillian. But as far as I recall, you’re not on that case.’
She ignores his unhelpful remark. ‘Are you sure one of them detonated the bomb outside the train -’
‘Positive. The bloody thing went off just as the head of the train rolled over the bend, and it was there – on the ground, not on the train.’
‘And the bomber?’
‘He was there too, just off the railway tracks, bang on in the middle of it, if you excuse the pun,’ Riley grins. His warped sense of humour never deserts him, no matter what the c
ircumstances. Perhaps that’s his way of dealing with the horrors.
‘Ahmed Usmani?’
‘That’s the man... or what’s left of him. Frankly, I’m told, he looked like a dog’s breakfast and they had to use dental records and DNA.’
‘In that case, you do not have all of them,’ Gillian concludes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If he wasn’t on that train, then there is another one.’
‘Yes, the trainee driver... what’s his name?’ Jon presses a few buttons on his keyboard with his curry-infected fingers. ‘Malik Sadat, that’s him!’
‘No, one more!’ Gillian leans over the computer screen. ‘Have you got the names of all the people on that train?’
‘We do, yes, but why do you say there was another bomber?’
‘Charlie!’
‘The bomber’s name is Charlie? It doesn’t have the right ring to it,’ Jon scrutinises Gillian’s face with concern. ‘What are you on about, Gillian?’
‘No! Charlie, my son-in-law to be... He was on the train. He saw two men – two men of Middle Eastern or Asian background – they were pushing to the front of the train. There were two of them, do you understand? Two of them on the train!’
‘P’raps he saw the trainee driver and the one who got away – that would make two,’ Riley attempts to introduce reason and method to the conversation.
‘No. The old man, the one I came face to face with...’ An imperceptible but chilly shudder travels through Gillian’s spine at the memory of the encounter. ‘He was at the rear of the train. He alighted from the last carriage. He was nowhere near the driver’s cab.’
‘So there is a third one...’
‘Charlie saw two of them going for the driver. He recognised them when he was shown photos of all the passengers. One of them is -’
Erin is hurrying towards them in a state of agitation. Her pony tail bounces from side to side. ‘Gillian!’
‘Not now, Erin,’ Gillian squints at her, none too pleased to be so rudely interrupted. ‘What are you still doing here? I thought I asked you to deal with Weston-Jones.’
‘I am! This is it: Weston-Jones. A dog walker found a body near Sexton’s Wood. It looks like it’s Weston-Jones.’
‘Shit!’ Gillian curses. The man has impeccable timing – just as she was in the middle of something! ‘We’d better be on our way.’ She briefly fixes Riley with a commanding forefinger, ‘You Jon, you’d better talk to Charlie Outhwaite. He’s still in hospital. The Western National.’
XXIX
PC Miller is at the scene and is briefing Gillian as she marches purposefully towards the taped off area, ‘It’s a shallow grave. Dug out in a hurry, just a couple of feet deep. A lucky find, if you can call it that, ma’am. The dog went after a ball and found a hand. ’Twas licking it. Mrs Moss over there,’ he points to a middle-aged, corpulent woman, wrapped in a shiny thermal blanket and drinking from a polystyrene cup in the back of an ambulance. ‘She’s pretty shaken if you ask me... She found the dog licking the hand and couldn’t bring herself to pull the wretched creature away from the corpse. So she called 999 and watched the dog dig. By the time we got here, the dog had successfully excavated most of the body.’
‘So the grave’s been disturbed?’
‘Unfortunately. By the dog. Nothing we could do about it.’
Gillian ducks under the police tape, followed by Erin and Miller. She spies out Michael Almond, discernible by his huge moustache, busy at work as he points out areas of interest to the police photographer. It is indeed a very shallow, makeshift grave, a bit of upturned soil, some leaves and moss. An opportunistic crime. She leans over to take a close look at the corpse. It is discoloured and covered in muck, but there is no doubt – this is the once fresh-faced Joshua Weston-Jones.
‘How long has he been here?’
Almond looks up at her from behind his moustache, and nods a curt hello, ‘DI Marsh. How long? Can’t tell you in greater detail than a few days: five to eight days.’
‘He’s been missing for a week,’ Erin says.
‘It’d fit.’
An unexpected feature of the scene is the fact that the victim is naked from his waist down. Gillian comments on this fact.
‘We’ve bagged the clothes,’ Almond says. ‘They’ll go for forensic analysis. They’ll let you know what they make of it. I’m more interested in what the state of the body tells me.’ He turns away and continues with his examination, making an occasional remark into his Dictaphone.
‘So how did he die?’ Gillian can’t sit through every anal detail pertaining to the content of the victim’s every orifice.
‘My bet is a blow to the head. Several blows, in fact. His head was pretty much smashed in. Look here,’ he points to the bloodied mass of tissue around the man’s left temple, then runs his gloved finger down, ‘I can feel the left cheekbone’s been fractured in several places. I’ll have the body on the slab as soon as they’re finished at the scene. I’ll give you more detail then.’
‘We’d better inform the family,’ Gillian says grimly. She half-expects to be crucified by the Weston-Joneses.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the snotty butler – Gerard – inquires at the doorstep.
‘It’s about the young master, Gerard,’ Gillian tries to be tactful, though she feels like telling the old git to get the hell out of her way.
His already very pale face pales in comparison to what it was when he hears that. ‘Yes, yes, that’s good... We’ve news of Master Joshua. Follow me.’ He leads Gillian and Erin to the same reception room as before, and within seconds, returns with both the lord and lady of the manor. They look composed, clearly not expecting the worst. Both of them look ordinary: just two average-looking people interrupted in the middle of their Saturday morning pottering around the house. She is wearing gardening gloves and in one hand is still holding a pair of secateurs. Her hair is greying, untouched by dyes, cut in a little bob with a thick fringe, in the fashion of the twenties. She has a voluptuous figure, full lips and a round face – Joshua inherited her appearance. The father is lean and stooped, and there is just a touch of anxiety in his eyes, something he tries to cover up with an upfront manner. He stretches his hand to Gillian, ‘Sir Philip Weston-Jones. I believe you have found Joshua? Where has he been hiding?’
‘DI Marsh,’ Gillian shakes his hand, and points to Erin, ‘DC Macfadyen.’
‘How do you do,’ he says, perfectly controlled.
‘Would both of you like to sit down,’ Gillian suggests, knowing what effect the news will have on their composure.
‘Is it bad?’ the lady asks nervously. ‘Is he hurt?’ Her husband ushers her to the sofa and sits next to her.
‘Is it bad?’ he repeats her question.
‘I’m very sorry... We believe we’ve found your son’s body. In Sexton’s Wood.’
‘What do you mean by his body? Is he dead? Is that what it is you’re telling us?’
‘We would need a formal identification... we need you to come and identify the body, but yes, we believe your son is dead.’
‘Phil?’ Lady Weston-Jones gazes at her husband, her question quivering in mid-air, unanswered. Gerard groans from the corner of the room, which he has never left, keen to hear the good news about Master Joshua.
‘This may be a misunderstanding,’ Philip Weston-Jones says with a surprising lightness to his tone. ‘What do you mean he’s dead? Was there an accident? What? Talk to us, woman!’
‘We don’t know yet exactly how he died, but we have reason to believe he was murdered.’
The secateurs from Lady Weston-Jones’s hand tumble to the floor with a clank. She jumps at that, startled. ‘Phil... Phil...’she chants, searching for the comfort of her husband’s hand. He offers it to her and takes her in his arms.
‘To be sure. We need you to identify the body. Are you able to -’
‘Yes,’ the old man stands up. ‘Let’s be done with. I’m sure it’s a terrible misunders
tanding.’
There is no unseeing what he just saw. Philip Weston-Jones sobs by his dead son’s side. ‘Leave me alone with him,’ he demands. ‘Leave me alone with my son...’ The shame of tears, the shame of his naked grief on display, for all to see, makes him shout. ‘Get out! Stop staring!’
Gillian nods to Dr Almond and to Erin, and they walk out, leaving the door slightly ajar. It isn’t quite the protocol to leave a civilian with a body before the full autopsy has been carried out, but Gillian has never followed protocol. Why break the habit of a lifetime? She gives the grieving father a moment alone with his child.
But only a moment. The investigation must move on swiftly. She returns and faces Weston-Jones from the opposite side of the slab. He is composed now. It didn’t take him long to regain control of his emotions. The stiff upper lip at its best.
‘Can you confirm, sir, that this is your son, Joshua Weston-Jones?’ she has to ask the question.
‘Oh yes, this is my son – my boy... Find me his killer,’ he speaks through his teeth, his jaw taut and his speech stilted. ‘Bring me his killer. It’s one of those fucking squatters in the wood. One of them. Get him and bring him to me.’
‘We’ll find your son’s killer,’ Gillian assures him. She means it. It doesn’t matter whether she liked the stuck-up toff or not – she will bring his killer to justice. Of course, bringing to justice isn’t the same as delivering the killer into the hands of the father, who is raging with hate. ‘Thank you for coming, sir. DC Macfadyen will drive you home.’
