by Scott Hunter
‘My bad. Let’s go.’
The foyer of the new apartment block was plush. And locked. George shaded his eyes and spied a desk strategically placed dead-centre just above the short stairway leading from the foyer. Behind the desk a suited individual was shuffling papers and speaking into a mobile phone. Sales rep. New apartments, so rep on site. That figured.
He rapped on the glass door. The man looked up, finished what he was doing and came down the stairs at a brisk trot. Tess showed her ID.
‘Ah, right. Nothing amiss is there, officers?’ The guy was what George would have termed a typical new homes estate agent. Smart, a little obsequious – not unpleasantly so – but way too heavy on the aftershave.
‘I’m John. I work for the agents. How can I help?’
Tess explained: ‘We’re trying to trace a young woman. We understand she’s bought an apartment here recently.
‘I see. Well, quite a few people have. They’re very nice apartments.’
‘I’m sure,’ George said.
‘You have a name?’
‘Caitlin Hannigan,’ Tess told him. ‘Twenty-six years old. Fair, reddish hair, just above shoulder length.’
‘Irish.’ John nodded. ‘Yep. I know her. Very pleasant. In fact, she was the first to complete.’
‘Right,’ Tess said, ‘so she’s not moved in yet?’
‘Not yet, no. She has keys, though. I expect she’ll be moving in anytime.’ He scratched his bald pate with his biro. ‘I can’t recall if she said this evening or tomorrow. This weekend, at any rate.’
‘You have security cameras.’ George glanced around the foyer. ‘On all floors, or just down here?’
‘All floors,’ John told them with a hint of pride colouring his voice. ‘State of the art. IP camera system. You can monitor all floors – and the car park – in real time online. From your phone if you want.’
‘Security guards?’
‘Sadly not.’ John allowed himself a regretful smile. ‘Too much of an overhead. But the cameras obviate the need for human intervention.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for your time. You’re here until?’
‘Six o’clock.’
Tess gave the agent a card. ‘If you see – or hear from – Miss Hannigan, can you ask her to call me as a matter of urgency?’
‘Nothing serious I hope?’
‘We hope not.’ Tess smiled her professional smile.
The smile stayed with George as he led the way back to the car. He guffawed as he unlocked it. ‘Obviate the need for human intervention. He’s in the wrong job, that fella. He should be on Countdown with Carol Vorderman.’
Tess giggled. ‘Carol Vorderman? She left the show years ago, George.’
‘Aye, well, whatever.’
‘So, now what? Wait until Caitlin turns up?’ Tess turned the sunshade down and checked herself in the mirror.
Don’t bother, George thought, you look just fine to me.
‘Better idea.’ George unclipped his seat belt. ‘Technology is our friend, remember?’
George returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Simples. Courtesy of Countdown John, I have the app name, login and password for the security system. We can monitor on my iPhone. Soon as she turns up, back we come.’
‘Impressed.’ Tess raised her eyebrows. ‘So you are entering the UK Mr Multi-Tasker awards, 2017 after all. I’d heard a rumour, but I wasn’t sure if it was your thing.’
‘Funny.’ George started the engine. ‘Let’s away – I’m in the middle of a car reg trace.’ He glowered. ‘As it happens.’
But deep inside he felt a pleasant warmth. He’d impressed Tess. That was one cool way to close off the week.
They queued to get onto the main road. Traffic was bad and getting worse by the minute. Something was going on.
‘It’s Friday evening,’ Tess reminded him. ‘It’s always bad.’
‘No.’ George shook his head. ‘This is definitely a lot worse than usual. Can you get hold of Traffic?’
A swift call confirmed George’s assessment. Two lanes of the M4 westbound were shut, one lane eastbound too. RTA, multiple vehicles.
‘Damn.’ George drummed his fingers. The inner distribution road was clogged as far as the eye could see. He’d wanted to knock off by half six, maybe squeeze in a pint or two on the way home. Think about his next move with Tess. The car in front had turned his engine off; the driver was standing on the door sill, peering ahead to see what could be causing such an irritating obstruction. George turned his own engine off and sat back in exasperation.
Fridays. He hated Fridays.
‘OK, George,’ Charlie said. ‘Thanks for that. Keep a close eye, please. I’m not a hundred percent on the IP camera thing. We need closer obs until we’ve found Miss Hannigan and briefed her.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ George said, a little tersely. ‘I’ve checked the tech – I can see all floors, and the lift interior too. Reading’s gridlocked; we’d never get a car over there now in any case. Soon as she shows you can call her up.’
‘If she has her phone on.’ Charlie knew that George was like a dog with a bone once he’d made his mind up. Best to reinforce the details and let him get on with it.
‘She will, won’t she? It’s probably out of charge just now. Or something.’
Or something. Charlie held her tongue and left George to his vehicle checks. She wanted to calm the nagging feeling that Caitlin Hannigan had already been found, but by other interested parties. What had happened to the guv’s promised update? This was too like the Cernham case – guv goes away, finds a problem, phones in, goes offline.
Not good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When in doubt, keep moving. It was an imperative Moran had always stuck by. Yes, he was wanted by the gardai – or at least some unofficial version thereof; yes, it was probably unsafe to move around freely and yes, he was now beginning to have second thoughts about O’Shea. He’d therefore concluded that to stay in the safe house would be anything but.
So, keep moving was the first imperative, but the second was to find Aine. She couldn’t have gone far, not without transport. But, he supposed, it was possible that O’Shea had returned while he was speaking with Charlie and that, for whatever reason, Aine had simply gone with him. In which case they could be anywhere. But then, why didn’t they wait for him?
Moran reached the end of the street and turned into another, wider and longer, dotted with shop frontages in a variety of contrasting primary colours. The first, a butcher’s, told him what he’d already suspected; he was in Dingle town itself. He’d been here before, of course, a long time ago, and before it had become the tourist hub it was today. A gentle breeze ruffled the shop awnings and Moran tasted salt on his lips.
Memories, poignant and insistent, flooded back. He lifted his face to the weak sun and felt the warmth of a time long gone by. Donal, Geileis, Janice, Jerry. The auld group. And someone else. But who? The face swam in and out of focus, defying recognition. Probably unimportant. Nevertheless, as Moran continued up the street, peering into each shop in turn, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the missing memory was significant in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He let it go, consigned it to his subconscious while he concentrated on searching for Aine. She was a mother, and a worried mother at that. Contact with Caitlin would now be an all-consuming need. No phone. So what would he do? Did they still run internet café’s here? Maybe – with 4G not yet fully rolled out. He passed a coffee bar. Cheeky, but worth a punt. The proprietor was friendly and gave him directions. Next street, turn right, third on the left. He couldn’t miss it. Moran thanked the guy and bought a packet of biscuits to salve his conscience.
The internet café was painted a lurid green and Moran didn’t miss it. Sitting at the rear, face glued to a screen, Aine was concentrating hard and didn’t look up as he approached.
‘Any joy?’
Aine started as if stung. Her shoulders slumped.
‘How did you find me?’
‘It’s not rocket science. If O’Shea didn’t abduct you, this was an obvious alternative. Have you got hold of her?’
Aine shook her head. ‘Not responding.’
‘She’s moving house. Busy girl.’ Moran opened the biscuits and offered one.
‘No thanks. Look, Brendan. This is not your problem. I don’t want you involved.’
‘Bit late for that.’
She sighed, pushed her hair back from her forehead. The café was half-empty. A backpacking couple were busy at a neighbouring PC, no doubt looking up B&Bs or cheaper alternatives. The remaining computer stations were empty and the waitress looked bored. Season’s end was closing in.
‘I can look after myself. I have friends.’
‘Like O’Shea?’
‘He’s all right, I told you.’
‘Then you should get back to the house. He obviously has a plan.’
‘Drink?’ The waitress had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Sandwich?’
‘Coffee. Black. Thanks.’
The waitress hovered, more interested in the raised voices than a sale. Moran waited until she had sidled away. He lowered his voice a little. ‘O’Shea warned you about Caitlin. So he is thinking about her.’
She nodded. ‘Of course he is. But it’s my welfare which concerns him too.’
Moran pulled up a stool. ‘Ah. Now it makes sense.’
‘We’re not an item, Brendan. There was something, once, but this is about friendship. Loyalty.’
‘That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing. Ah – thanks.’ Moran nodded to the waitress and placed a few coins on her tray. ‘I’ll not be staying long.’
‘Whatever.’ Aine fumbled in her handbag. ‘I’m going outside for a smoke.’
‘Keep out of sight.’ Moran tasted the coffee. Luke warm. He called after Aine. ‘And don’t go wandering off.’
‘Fat chance with you on my case the whole time.’
Moran drank his coffee, all the time keeping Aine’s slight figure in view. She was standing half-in, half-out of the café taking short, nervous puffs on her cigarette. If it wasn’t for the small matter of his being wanted for murder he’d have no difficulty in reaching a decision about the way forward: he’d frog-march Aine back to the farmhouse, leave her with Donal to sort things out and be on his way.
Or would you, Brendan?
He finished his coffee, leaving a centimetre of sediment at the bottom of the cup – at least it was real coffee. Moran hated instant coffee almost as much as he hated loose ends. Especially loose ends like a potential terrorist threat in the UK and a possible abduction on his patch. So no, he wouldn’t walk away now. He’d see this through, whatever the consequences.
Moran returned his empty cup to the counter. The waitress gave him a smile which could have been coquettish, or it could have been his imagination. ‘Your girl’s taken off.’ She gestured with her chin. ‘Best get after her.’
‘What–?’ Moran spun on his heel and strode to the door.
He looked right, then left. Aine’s sprinting figure was just visible, threading through the crowds.
Muttering expletives under his breath Moran followed, breaking into a run when he realised he’d never catch up at a fast walk. A few seconds later he knew he’d never catch her.
A diesel engine roared behind him. Moran turned, imagining a vehicle mounting the kerb, intent on mowing him down. It was the four-by-four. O’Shea’s head appeared through the window. ‘Get in.’
Moran got in, and O’Shea floored the accelerator.
‘Your idea or hers?’ he asked, tersely.
‘Watch out!’ Moran tensed as O’Shea spun the four-by-four past a family group. He looked back – the father with raised fist, shouting, the mother clutching a toddler.
‘Take it steady.’ Moran took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Her idea, since you asked.’
O’Shea’s mouth was set in a determined line as he urged the vehicle down the street. Aine’s blouse came into view. She’d slowed down, thinking she’d lost him.
O’Shea pulled over. In a second he was on the pavement and had grabbed Aine by the arm, dragging her into the Land Rover. Aine turned the air blue as O’Shea took off with a screech of tyres, scattering tourists and shoppers.
‘Welcome back,’ Moran said.
‘I got you a phone,’ O’Shea said over his shoulder. ‘You can call from the house.’
Defeated, Aine lapsed into fuming silence.
‘Sorry to keep you hanging around, darlin’,’ O’Shea said. ‘Had a few things to sort out. Oh, I bought you some clothes too – on the back seat there, look now, in the bag. Jeans, a couple of tops. Underwear. Hope you like them. Shampoo as well – if you want it.’
‘Thanks,’ Aine said grudgingly. ‘Can I use the phone now?’ Her voice was laced with irritation.
O’Shea fumbled under the dash. ‘Help yourself.’ He threw the device over his shoulder. Aine caught it deftly in one hand. ‘Burner. Chuck it when you’re done.’
They turned into the safe house road and O’Shea performed his customary circle around the block. Satisfied, he found a space and parked up.
‘Hello? Hello? Oh, thank God. Where have you been?’ Aine’s tone veered unsteadily between relief and anger.
A pause as Aine listened. O’Shea was making irritated gestures for them to follow him into the house. They did so, Aine still glued to the mobile.
‘Right. That’s good. Now listen to me, Caitlin. There’s no need to be alarmed. I have an old friend here, a policeman. He’s going to have a word. I want you to do exactly as he says.’
Another pause.
‘No, I can’t explain everything. It’ll be all right. You just need to listen carefully and do as he says, please?’ Aine held out the handset and Moran took it.
‘Caitlin? My name is Brendan Moran. I work for the Thames Valley Police. Where are you now? In your apartment? Good. Now listen.’
As briefly and gently as he could, Moran explained their concerns. Caitlin understood. She sounded frightened, but in control. A chip off the maternal block. She’d moved the remainder of her furniture into the new apartment – or rather, she’d overseen the move. The furniture guys had gone. No, she wasn’t intending to go out again that evening. Traffic was apparently bad – some issue on the M4. Yes, she had everything she needed for a night in. Her first. She was excited. Her own apartment, first sleep. No, she didn’t think anyone else was in the new block yet. She was the first. The sales reps had gone for the day. So yes, she supposed she was alone in the complex. No, that wouldn’t normally have worried her. It did now. Moran understood. The apartment had a security entry system. Could she check it? Sure.
Thirty seconds elapsed, Aine riveted to Moran’s every word and gesture.
Caitlin came back on the line. Yep, all good. Video entry working. No one outside. Door double-locked. Sit tight? Of course. Yes, she was happy for Moran to send someone to check on her later. Would she like the number, just in case? Absolutely. Moran gave it.
‘Ask for DI Charlie Pepper. If she’s not available, DC Tess Martin, OK? Now, I don’t want you to worry unduly, Caitlin. You’re safe where you are.’ He listened to the response and nodded.
‘I can’t tell you any more just now. I’m sorry. Your mother is fine, and I saw your father a couple of days back. No need to worry on their account. Just be vigilant and stay put. We’ll give you chapter and verse soon. I’ll hand you back now.’
O’Shea came down the stairs two at a time. Checks complete. But he looked worried about something.
Aine signed off, handed the phone to Moran. ‘Call your people. Please.’
‘Seems like a level-headed girl.’ Moran took the phone and began to punch in Charlie’s number. ‘Took it well, considering it’s the last thing she’ll have been expecting.’
‘She’s always been strong,’ Aine said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Ever since she was a wee thing.’ She inhal
ed deeply. ‘Once, on the farm, she fell and cut her leg badly. There was blood everywhere, but Padraig had scratched his arm on a bramble patch while they were out together and all she could think of was her brother.’
‘I’m away out for a while,’ O’Shea broke in. ‘I strongly advise you both to stay put.’
‘If there’s something I need to know, O’Shea–’ Moran began, but O’Shea was in the hall and out the front door. They heard the four-by-four start up.
Moran was holding the phone to his ear. No loudspeaker. Just in case there was something Aine shouldn’t be party to. It rang. And rang.
Come on, Charlie.
‘DI Charlie Pepper.’
Moran clocked the tension in her voice immediately.
‘What’s up, Charlie?’
‘Guv – George has the apartment block security cams on his iPhone. Someone’s outside. Hoodie, something under his arm.’
‘Could be legit. Workman?’
‘I think not, guv. He’s looking through the glass … oh what? – He’s buzzed the lock open, guv. He’s in …’
‘Get someone over there, Charlie.’
‘It’ll have to be on foot. Reading’s gridlocked.’
‘What’s happening? What is it?’ Aine was at his side, grabbing at the phone.
Moran held up his hand, flicked over to loudspeaker.
‘Charlie, you’re on speakerphone. I have Caitlin’s mother here.’
‘Right. Understood. Stay calm please, Mrs Hannigan. Your daughter is safe in her apartment. She’s double-locked in. Oh–’
‘Talk to me, Charlie.’
‘Hang on – sorry, guv. It’s just that – George has the security cam app open. He’s switched to the atrium view.’
‘And?’
‘Guy’s taken the left-hand door from the atrium. Let’s see – apartments three to fifteen. Odd numbers.’
‘Caitlin’s in five.’ Aine’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘He knows,’ Moran said under his breath. ‘He knows exactly where she is.’