He recalled it had been a surreal experience. Even though he had known it was fake, the notes looked so real. It was more money than he had ever seen in one place before, or ever would again. It would have supported not just his wife and children in some style; there would have been something left over for his grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren.
The memory had popped up as he and Roper walked past rows of new build houses as they headed through the suburban streets of Cheltenham towards the centre of town and the flat. It was late afternoon and while the temperature was mild, the sky was becoming dark and threatening. Twice in the last few minutes he had felt fat drops of rain landing on his head. His thinning hair made him especially susceptible, while Roper, with his thick curly mop, seemed oblivious.
Hooley kept an anxious eye on the sky and another on his watch as he noted they had now been walking for twelve minutes, just over half-way, and he started daring to believe they could make it back without getting a soaking. A few moments later and those hopes were dashed as they were caught in a brief, but torrential downpour that dumped what felt like a bath load of water straight onto them. As quickly as it started it was over, leaving Hooley wet and cold.
He rubbed his hand over his head in a pointless attempt to mop up the rainwater that was trickling unpleasantly past his shirt collar and down the back of his neck. He turned to his companion to issue a complaint and saw that Roper, who looked like a drowned rat, was perfectly relaxed.
“My grandmother always used to say it was raining cats and dogs when we got a proper downpour. For a long time, it was something that really worried me. I used to think she meant there really were cats and dogs coming down out of the sky, but I could never see them.
“One of my teachers at school helped me to understand it was just her way of talking. It was an expression rather than a statement of fact. So, when it rains like this, it always reminds me of her, and me looking out for cats or dogs.”
Standing dripping wet in the street, this insight was the last thing Hooley expected. Just when you thought you had nailed him down, he came up with something to make you think again.
They carried on back to the flat, with Hooley anxious to get a marker down. “I know how keen you are to get to the Indian restaurant again, but there’s no way I’m going until I’ve changed into something dry and I’ve warmed up a bit.”
To his relief, Roper didn’t put up a protest. Once set on something it could be hard to distract him but this wasn’t the case today. Instead he said: “I want to make sure that everything is very precise for when we get to the restaurant which means I also want to wear clean, dry clothes. I’m surprised you need to warm up though. I thought the rain was lovely.”
Hooley didn’t think there was anything remotely pleasant about it and couldn’t wait to get out of his wet clothes. His discomfort was being intensified by the way his damp trousers were chafing the insides of his thighs. He was determined to slow the pace down, and when they arrived home he asked Roper to ring the restaurant to warn them they would be late. While he was more than happy to eat there two nights running, he felt like he had been running non-stop since the summons to come down here. It already felt like he’d been in Cheltenham for a week and half, rather than just a day and a half.
He made himself a cup of tea, ran a hot bath, and laid back in the comforting warmth. A couple of paracetamol to nip an incipient headache in the bud and within 30 minutes he was feeling ready to go again; not exactly a new man, but certainly a revived one. A couple of beers would help the process.
He dressed and left his room and straight into deja vu. Roper was sitting in the same place as this morning, wearing a fresh version of his ‘uniform’. Knowing his man was ready to go, he sketched a casual wave at the front door. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
Roper glanced about the room, apparently checking there was no one else there. “What do you mean by MacDuff?”
“Sorry, Jonathan; like your grandmother, it’s just an expression. Don’t worry about it for now, I will explain later.”
As they walked in to the restaurant, the familiar spice smells made his stomach rumble. They were shown to the same table - Roper had been careful to request it - while the same waiter appeared and took the same food and drinks order, Roper sticking to tap water and Hooley ordering his beer. The DCI was pleased to see his lager arriving. He carefully picked up the pint and drank steadily while they sat in silence.
He ordered a second pint and took the opportunity to look at Roper. From the air of disappointment, he could tell the plan had failed. He decided to wait until the food arrived before asking. Might as well give it every chance.
The delay made no difference other than deepen Roper’s misery. To his astonishment it had even stopped him helping himself to the food. The waiter appeared, clearly sensing something was amiss. Hooley waved him away. “Don’t worry, it’s not the food.”
He persuaded Roper to eat. “There’s no point in you getting hungry. It was always a long shot that doing this was going to help you to refocus. I bet it takes quite a bit more time, so try not to worry about it tonight. We’ll get there, I’m totally confident.”
He added: “When we get to work tomorrow, how about looking at the American intel reports? I think there is something fascinating about that.”
chapter 13
“The Texas Skinheads! I hadn’t really thought about that culture appearing in America. I thought it was more of a European thing, or even over here. When I first started as a police officer, back in the late 1970s, there were lots of issues around skinheads. Especially at football matches.”
If Roper was interested in this information he was doing a good job of hiding it. They’d been there since just after 5am, walking in while it was still dark. It had been mercifully rain-free, but Hooley had unearthed an umbrella which he intended to keep with him to avoid any more soakings.
He was concentrating on some new intelligence that had been provided by Roper. He’d explained the sudden appearance by claiming that he hadn’t finished with it himself. That was why he had left it out of the material Hooley had seen yesterday, he claimed.
He’d only spent an hour on it but he was already wondering what he was missing and why Roper was apparently trying to read so much into it. Taken at face value it was an interesting analysis. As well as learning about the Texas Skinheads, he had also discovered that the Ku Klux Klan were alive and well, acting as an important power broker in the field of the ultra-right. While he was too long in the tooth to think these groups couldn’t cause major problems, this all felt like domestic difficulties.
They were also under the close attention of the US law enforcement teams. The new documentation came from a joint FBI/Department of Justice investigation, probing the use of fake news to promote troubling conspiracy theories.
He was so taken with one bit of information he read it out. Waving a printout, he said. “It says there are court cases where people are claiming that if they write out a cheque they don’t need funds in the bank to pay for it. That’s because banks are some sort of international conspiracy designed to take money off the poor. A thought crossed his mind. “Maybe I could try that as a method of ducking out of my divorce payments?”
He stopped. Talking about the financial settlement for his divorce, and thinking about the hated teacher being in his former home, had the effect of making him angry, as well as making his blood pressure spike.
He needed breakfast to restore his sense of humour. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t do this stuff on an empty stomach. I think I’m ready to eat now, so is our cafe open?”
Roper had no problem switching seamlessly between terror attacks and sorting out food. “It certainly is. If you give it five minutes Nigel will have three bacon sandwiches ready, white bread, no butter and tomato ketchup on the side, plus a large take-away pot of strong coffee.”
The DCI said. “Have you worked out some way of reading my mind? A bacon sandwich is exact
ly what I want.”
The answer turned out to be down to observational skills, rather than anything mystic. “I know how much you love bacon sandwiches, but you only allow yourself one from time to time. I knew this would be a very early start and that is usually when you do decide to have one. It’s why I was talking to Nigel yesterday and explained that he should have our food ready for 6.30 am: two for me and one for you. I’ve got coffee on order as well. At your age, you need all the help you can get with maintaining mental function.”
The glare he received was so potent that even Roper realised there might be an issue. “Have I said something wrong?”
◆◆◆
Twenty minutes later and all was forgiven. The food had been perfect. It was almost worth getting up in the middle of the night to be rewarded with such a treat, and the coffee was precisely what he needed. There was no point hiding from it; a bit of help staying alert never hurts as you got older. Nigel had provided a flask of coffee and Hooley was helping himself as he looked over to Roper. “You look like you have at least one other surprise up your sleeve.”
Hooley managed to contain his laughter as Roper checked his sleeve then looked embarrassed. “Just an expression. I was being too literal again. But no, that’s it really. No more surprises. What about you; what do you make of it so far?”
“I must admit the main concern I have is that I can’t see any big picture here.” He held his hands up. “I admit I haven’t taken anything like the time you have over this, but it all feels very domestic. I was hoping for more international intrigue.”
“It may be you are right,” said Roper. “People here did say to me at the start that you get so much information it can be a bit overwhelming, and it is easy to jump to conclusions.
“I am beginning to understand that something is going on here that shouldn’t be. After I talked to you yesterday I couldn’t get it off my mind, so much so I had very little sleep last night. I am starting to get an idea of what it might be, but I don’t want to talk about it until I have thought it through properly. I think I have done quite a bit of guessing lately.”
Hooley was stunned into silence. He had never previously heard Roper being so tough on himself. He was almost dreading finding out what the younger man’s theory was that had led to this situation.
chapter 14
It hadn’t taken a great deal of detective work to establish the reason behind Sandra Hall’s sudden change of circumstances. Eighteen months ago, she had been the sole beneficiary of a will leaving her a house worth £500,000, her parents turning down their share so that their only daughter could leap straight on to the property ladder. If that wasn’t enough, she had also been awarded a year’s salary as a bonus - a more modest sum but it helped pay for finishing touches and boost her savings account.
The bad news was that all their inquiries had failed to shed any light on where she might be. Julie Mayweather had reluctantly authorised a missing persons alert. She was anticipating it would trigger a media firestorm once reporters established that Hall was the trusted PA to Tom Bennett. Clearly there would be speculation that she might be the latest victim of a killer being dubbed the ‘Face Ripper’.
She need not have worried. Hall was a major story in her own right. Pictures supplied by her worried parents showed a pretty young woman possessed of the ‘girl-next-door’ look beloved of the tabloids. Her backstory helped. As a student she had devoted time to working on aid projects all over the world. After taking up full-time work she had done what she could.
Her parents were also an appealing pair. Both retired academics who came across as kind, if slightly otherworldly. It all added to an irresistible package that was soon featuring the word ‘Angel’ in headlines.
◆◆◆
Mayweather had returned to the Victoria HQ to prepare for her trip north when she was interrupted by Cleverly. He looked grey and unwell. Mayweather was shocked; what could have happened?
“What is it? You look like you’re just received terrible news.”
He didn’t wait for an invite but sat down heavily in one of the two seats in front of her desk. He’d chosen the one where Hooley normally sat, although she was sure he wasn’t trying to make a statement. He needed to sit down. She noted his eyes seemed bright, almost feverish, and he was swallowing hard as he tried to compose himself.
Finally, he pulled himself together. “You haven’t opened your email, I take it.” Her mystified expression confirmed he had guessed right.
“We’ve both been sent a message with a video clip in it. Quite terrible. The video is so awful you keep thinking it must be some sort of sick joke, brutally realistic, but a bad taste prank and at the end everyone will get up and go home.”
He rubbed his thumbs into his temples, trying to erase what he had just seen. With a cold feeling descending on her she fired up her computer screen to look for messages. She was startled to see that an email had been sent to an internal address that was not widely known. In fact, she was pretty sure only her husband, outside her professional circle, was aware of it.
She went to click it open then stopped, her finger tips hovering above the keyboard.
“Do you think we should get the IT people in here? Might this be some sort of attempt at hitting us with a virus?”
The DI managed to look even greyer.
“I should have thought of that, but look at the subject line. You might forgive me for opening it straight away.” He picked up the phone while she looked at the header and caught her breath. The subject line read “Tom comes out to play.”
About thirty seconds later an IT man with a frantic manner, and wearing a crumpled shirt that had clearly started out as white but many trips to the washing machine had given it a light grey tinge. Ignoring the two detectives, he carefully checked the whole room then fixed on Mayweather’s screen. The only computer in sight.
Wrapped in his own bubble, he studied it closely, plugged in a small device which he attached to a laptop. He said. “Use this thing for now, it should be secure, but to be honest if there is anything nasty then you may already have let it in. I’ve ordered a check so will be able to let you know. What is worrying is how someone found their way into the system in the first place.”
He left, leaving them the laptop, and Cleverly saw it was primed for his boss so he handed it to her to enter her details. She called up the rogue email. Just as she hit the enter key she saw Cleverly was bracing himself in his chair, clearly hoping it would ward off what was coming.
Moments later a video was playing. The picture was clear and horribly in focus. It started a few seconds before the knitting needles were smashed into Bennett’s brain.
The video looked as though it had been shot from in front of the victim and offered a very good close-up of the moment the knife appeared and filleted - there was no other word - the victim’s face. The screen went black for a moment then the film restarted.
This time it lingered on a figure, probably a man, wearing the face of his victim and offering a thumbs up to the camera. It shut down and for a moment Mayweather wondered if she might throw up. She hoped not, but she turned to look for the waste paper bin just in case the feeling in the pit of her stomach got any worse. It was strange: she’d not been so badly affected seeing the body in situ, but seeing that film, with the killer obviously relishing what he’d done, made it so much worse. To her relief the feeling of nausea faded, leaving her feeling washed out and exhausted.
She suspected she now looked as ashen as Cleverly, who started to apologise. She took a steadying breath and rubbed her hands, noting that her palms were clammy. “Don’t apologise. Nothing could prepare you for that and having it arrive by email seems to make it more personal somehow.
“What I’d like to know is how did the sender know to direct that at you and me? It’s not been announced we’re on the case, at least not officially, so how did our names come up?”
Cleverly shrugged. “It could have come from the local boys in ei
ther Clapham or Leatherhead. Maybe someone was annoyed at us muscling in, or maybe even just mouthing off because they were relieved to escape a nasty case. But I’m willing to bet though that we won’t ever know.”
“I expect you’re right: there’s no time to waste on worrying about things we have no control over. It underlines what a clever man it is we are looking for. I take it that scruffy bloke who was here a minute ago was just the advance guard of a tracking operation?”
Cleverly nodded. “I’ve been promised one of their best people.”
Moments later a young woman turned up, introducing herself as Anne James. Mayweather guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She had long brown hair, held in a ponytail, and protruding eyes that gave her the look of being permanently startled. The police woman smiled; she could imagine Roper exchanging shy looks with a young woman like that.
“Sorry about the delay. I launched a tracker analysis before I came down here so we might get something. But I can tell they’re using high-level protocols. The sort of stuff you might expect our intelligence services to use. I’m going to be really honest and admit there may not be anything I can do, although you can be sure I will try.”
She added. “If you know anyone at GCHQ, for example, now might be the time to call them. They can do far more than we can.”
She missed the look that passed between the two officers. “I do know someone who might just be able to help,” said Mayweather. “I’ll put a call in to find out who can help you.”
I Can See You Page 6
