Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

  ‘Couple of hours,’ the islander said as if reading his mind. ‘All I need these days. Quiet night. I was half-expecting visitors.’

  Moran thanked O’Shea for his vigilance. He himself had been in no state for guard duty last night. ‘So why is the where not a problem?’ Moran buttered toast and drank the coffee gratefully.

  ‘That’ll be because I know exactly where they’ve taken her,’ O’Shea replied.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Cottage up on Slea Head. It’s a partial derelict but one room’s fit. Right on the clifftop, steps down to a small beach. He keeps a motorised dinghy there.’

  ‘You’re very well informed.’

  O’Shea nodded. ‘Thought that’s why you wanted to work with me.’

  ‘You followed them, after the ambush at the roundabout?’

  Another nod. ‘You were bound to cut and run. I had a few choices open to me for the ambush, but see, Inspector Moran,’ he leaned forward, ‘I know Sean. I know how he thinks.’

  ‘Well, tell me how he’s thinking now. About whatever’s planned for the UK.’

  Moran had considered whether to share his hypothesis with O’Shea but had decided against, primarily because his trust of the islander was cotton-thin. O’Shea was an ally for now, sure, but in Moran’s head the guy was still working on his own. Moran was never comfortable with hidden agendas, particularly when they had the potential to blindside an investigation into potential acts of terror.

  ‘Let’s worry about Aine first of all,’ O’Shea said, guardedly. ‘I have every confidence in your home team, DCI Moran. We’ll all play our part and things’ll work out just fine.’

  ‘D’you ever see Caitlin?’ Moran asked.

  The islander shook his head. ‘What do you think? She’s been brought up by Donal and Aine. She has her own life now.’

  ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’

  ‘More coffee?’ Geileis broke in.

  Moran held out his cup, watched O’Shea’s reaction.

  ‘Better she doesn’t.’

  ‘But you’ve followed her career, I’ll bet. She’s doing well, her ma says.’

  A trace of pride in his expression, the islander nodded. ‘She’s a bright girl.’

  ‘So you know what she does for a living?’ Moran eased the crack of the conversation open a fraction.

  ‘Civil servant,’ O’Shea said shortly. ‘Ironic, in a way, you’ll be thinking, with her old man how he is.’

  ‘Kids go their own way,’ Moran agreed. ‘Different politics, different approach to life.’

  O’Shea was watching him carefully. ‘Where are you going with this, Moran?’

  ‘I’m just wondering which way she’d turn, if push came to shove.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing. Just wondering. I need to make a call. Excuse me.’

  Outside, Moran breathed the unpolluted air. The contrast between his present location and Berkshire was polar. Perhaps he’d move back, one day. He thought of Geileis, the way she had waited at the bedroom door.

  Perhaps, one day.

  He dialled Charlie. You’ve reached the voicemail of DI Charlie Pepper … Moran muttered a curse under his breath, pocketed the mobile, went back inside. Enough talk, in any case.

  It was time to get things moving.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Charlie listened to Moran’s message, tried to call back. No answer.

  Royalty, celebrity? Surely not?

  She rubbed her eyes. Better get onto it, but first…

  Charlie popped her head out of her office. ‘George? A word, please.’

  ‘Boss.’

  Charlie returned to her desk and sat behind it, drummed her fingers. She wasn’t a fan of the type of conversation she was about to initiate, but some issues couldn’t be ducked. George fell squarely into such a category.

  George came in. He looked all right – a little tired, maybe, slightly red-faced. Wait. A bruise, on his head. Looked nasty.

  Charlie came straight to the point. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Sorry, boss?’

  ‘Bola said you went home with a migraine last night.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right. I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘I can’t have my team going awol with migraines,’ Charlie made bunny fingers, ‘when they’re supposed to be working a case.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that – well, it was a really bad one, maybe the VDU issue again, like before when I needed to change my glasses, because–’

  ‘Oh, please, cut the crap, George. What happened to your head?’

  ‘Banged it on the cooker hood. Always doing it.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No, really. It’s got a sharp edge, badly installed. I should really get it seen to… ’ George petered out into an awkward silence. He looked at his hands, placed one on top of the other.

  ‘Shaking again? Don’t suppose for one minute that I haven’t noticed, George McConnell. I may be younger than you, but I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  George nodded miserably.

  ‘You’re upset about Tess. I understand. But this is not the answer.’ Charlie sighed. ‘Look, George, you’re a good detective. A bit annoying sometimes, maybe, but we all have our little foibles. Foibles are fine. Getting pissed on the job isn’t.’

  George nodded again. It was unusual to see the little Scot lost for words.

  Charlie pressed on. ‘You’re going to register with the AA.’

  George looked up. ‘I can’t, boss.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t sit there with all those … saddoes, and, and–’

  ‘They’re not saddoes, George. Just people like you who need help.’

  George sniffed, took off his glasses, began polishing them on his shirtsleeve.

  ‘You need help, George. If you register with the AA, keep off the booze, you get to stay on my team. If not–’ she shrugged. ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  George looked up, checked she really meant it, looked down again.

  ‘It’s been going on for a while, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’ George cleared his throat, swallowed hard.

  ‘And you want to fix it, don’t you? You want to keep your job? You want to live to collect your pension? Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Go to the website. There’s a national helpline – or just put your postcode in to find a local meeting that’ll work for you.’

  A nod.

  ‘Right. That’s that.’ Charlie pushed a sheet of paper over the desk. ‘Business. Two things. First, the guv thinks this Black guy is majorly anti-royal. Check on any visits due – countywide, OK? Second, mobile calls last night from the Eldon Square area. Contact the major providers, see what you can dig up.’

  ‘On it, boss.’ George folded the paper, got up and moved towards the door.

  Charlie called him back. ‘George?’

  George turned in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

  ‘Don’t let me down.’

  ‘So, you followed her back to the apartment? And she was alone?’ Charlie motioned for Bola to sit. Her office blinds were open and she could see George at his desk, head down, busy with the job she’d assigned him.

  ‘After the guy left her, yeah.’ Bola scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘She went into her apartment. That was it. No more visitors, just our lot finishing off. They were done by midnight – I checked them all out. But there’s weird stuff going on, boss. First the guy talking to Tess was a spook if ever I saw one. Second, the argument I overheard between the other guy and Caitlin Hannigan sounded more serious than some lover’s tiff.’

  ‘And he had an Irish accent?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Coincidence? She’s from Ireland. An Irish boyfriend wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.’

  ‘They weren’t discussing where to go on holiday, boss. It sounded heavy.’

  Charlie nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK, so maybe he’s another link to Sean
Black.’

  ‘Maybe Caitlin’s another link to Sean Black.’

  Charlie pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, tried to massage the tiredness away. She’d been up most of the night and the day wasn’t getting any shorter. ‘Maybe. Let’s rewind a moment. According to the guv Sean Black is some A-lister Republican terrorist. He assembles his team for a new UK-based mission. But Black needs one particular person on his team, and she’s not playing ball. Aine Hannigan – Caitlin’s mother.’

  ‘Right,’ Bola nodded. ‘So he arranges for her daughter to be taken hostage, to put pressure on, flush her out.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what the guv reckons.’

  ‘Right.’ Bola frowned. ‘Then the hostage gunman tops himself, and Caitlin Hannigan walks free. Which means what?’

  ‘Well, her being released makes sense, kind of, even though the method smells iffy. Because the guv and Aine Hannigan were jumped, and now Aine’s nowhere to be found. They didn’t need Caitlin anymore.’

  Bola nodded. ‘So, we assume Black’s responsible. That means he must have got word to his gunman that the cat was in the bag and he could let Caitlin go, right?’

  ‘But instead the operative turns the gun on himself. Why would he do that?’

  Bola shrugged. ‘Forensics report in yet? Might tell us something.’

  ‘Any time now.’ Charlie pushed her chair back and stretched. ‘I’m due at Pathology shortly to find out what Dr Bagri can tell us about the gunman.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Hang on, we didn’t find a second mobile phone in the Eldon Square apartment, did we?’

  ‘Apart from Caitlin Hannigan’s, no. So did Black contact the gunman via Caitlin’s phone?’

  ‘Maybe. Unless Caitlin removed the gunman’s phone. Either way–’

  ‘We need to have another chat with Ms Hannigan.’

  Charlie inclined her head. ‘We do indeed.’

  A tap on the door and George’s head appeared. At Charlie’s nod the little scot bustled in. ‘Boss, we might have a problem.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I checked the dignitaries calendar. We have something coming up.’

  ‘Who and when?’

  ‘Duchess of Cambridge, opening a new orthopaedic wing of the RBH. State-of-the-art operating theatres, all supporting electrics controlled by a special IT hub – completely customised operating system. They’ve been planning it for ye–’

  Bola broke in. ‘When, George?’

  ‘This afternoon. Three o’clock.’

  Charlie was on her feet. ‘Bola, get Caitlin Hannigan in now. George, with me.’

  ‘Hang on boss, there’s something else.’ George almost tugged at her sleeve.

  ‘Quickly, then.’

  George produced his iPhone and Charlie clamped her lips together before she said anything disparaging about IT. ‘George, will this take long?’

  ‘No. Here, look.’ He held the device up so Bola and Charlie could see. ‘I recorded this earlier.’

  Caitlin Hannigan’s apartment CCTV. The foyer. As they watched, Caitlin came into view, went through a set of doors and disappeared.

  ‘Back stairs,’ George explained. He tapped a button on the app. Now they could see the underground car park. Caitlin appeared through the service door. She walked quickly to the garage doors and pressed a button. They slid open and she went out. Twenty seconds later she came back in, closed the doors, retraced her steps up to the foyer.

  ‘What time was this?’ Charlie shot Bola a look.

  ‘Last night, around midnight,’ George said. ‘I’m betting she wasn’t nipping out for a smoke.’

  ‘No? Then what?’ Bola folded his arms.

  ‘I reckon she was getting rid of something,’ George said.

  Charlie pursed her lips. ‘Right. And where would you dump something if you wanted rid?’

  ‘Simples, Boss,’ George said. ‘In the canal.’

  ‘Right. Get a diving team together, pronto. Whatever it is, I want it found, yesterday. Bola, why are you still here?’

  George caught Bola in the car park. ‘What? Can’t it wait?’ Bola had the car door open, was about to break a few speed limits.

  ‘I only showed the boss half the story,’ George said, producing his iPhone. ‘Thought you might like to comment on the rest.’

  Bola exhaled. He knew what was coming.

  ‘This would be around, what? Three-ish? During your overnight ‘observation’ shift?’ George offered the iPhone, which was playing a video with a familiar backdrop. The apartments. The corridor. Number five.

  Bola watched himself on the screen, the discreet knock, the smile. The invitation. The door closing.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ George felt his face colour. ‘Are you completely off your head?’

  ‘It was stupid, yeah, you got me. I know. But there was something about her.’ Bola bristled, glanced around.

  ‘So now you’re going to arrest her? Awkward.’

  Bola compressed his lips and nodded. ‘I can trust you, George, right? Don’t shop me, will you?’

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot.’ George took the iPhone and pocketed it. ‘If this goes to court, and I have a wee feeling that’s exactly where we’re going with Ms Hannigan, I’ll have to produce any relevant recordings, won’t I?’

  ‘But this one, it won’t be relevant, right?’ Bola wasn’t begging, but he was getting close to it.

  George sighed, shook his head. ‘Not clever, Bola. Don’t ever do this to me again.’ He thumbed the delete button.

  ‘You got it, George. Thanks.’

  ‘I’d get going if I were you,’ George said. ‘And give the florist a miss.’

  ‘Ha ha. Hey, by the way, what happened to your head?’

  ‘Knocked it on the cooker hood.’

  ‘Clumsy sod.’

  George worked up a smile, shrugged. He watched Bola drive off with a squeal of rubber. His head didn’t hurt that much. He gave it a short, experimental shake, probed the bump with his fingers. Probably looked worse than it was. He wasn’t worried about the abrasion itself – more the fact that he couldn’t remember how on earth it had happened.

  Dr Moninder Bagri’s autopsies were not mere medical procedures; they were events. Consequently there was always, inevitably, a gaggle of students assembled to watch the great man at work.

  Bagri’s routine was always meticulously followed, to the extent that fast results were seldom forthcoming, even when urgently required. Today, Charlie needed fast results. It was half past eleven. The clock was ticking and she still had no idea what, when – or where – the countdown would end. She chewed her lip as she waited behind the rectangular observation window, watching the little Indian begin his ritual.

  ‘Good. So, we make the start.’ Bagri beamed at the students. ‘But, an unfortunate end, isn’t it? As always, therefore, we shall pay our respects to human life, whatever kind of life it might have been. And so, let us be silent.’

  Bagri bowed his head and the students self-consciously followed suit. One, a young man with John Lennon glasses, nudged a fellow student and was rewarded with a stifled titter. Bagri looked up and uttered one word.

  ‘Who?’

  The students looked blank. There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet. Eventually, when it became clear that Bagri would not continue without a confession, the Lennon-lookalike raised his hand cautiously, tried hard to conceal a smirk, failed, and finished by shaking his head as he let out the burst of laughter he was unable to suppress.

  ‘Something funny, young man, is it? About death? About this devastated face?’ Bagri enquired in a soft voice.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Lennon had turned a shade paler under Bagri’s scrutiny.

  ‘Good. Because what you see here,’ he indicated the ruined body, ‘is what we all shall become. I would not wish for my remains to be the subject of mirth, would you, young man?’

  Lennon shook his head sheepishly.

  ‘Good. Then if you would be
so kind as to compose yourself, this will be just like starting over.’

  Charlie put her hand to her mouth. It was subtle, and there was no way the student would have got it, but Bagri had just namechecked the real John Lennon’s posthumous chart-topping single. Beneath the dignitas, the little doctor concealed a wicked sense of humour; sometimes, it would leap out and surprise you, if you were ready for it.

  Ceremony concluded, Bagri continued. He leaned in to inspect the gunman’s face. ‘Death caused, in all probability by the shotgun blast.’

  Charlie was puzzled. In all probability? She was no pathology expert, but what else would have caused such damage?

  ‘However,’ Bagri looked up to Charlie’s observation eyrie, ‘one must not be quick to jump to fast conclusions, isn’t it?’ He turned to his students. ‘We must never accept the face value. Always be looking for the deeper truth, especially in cases such as this, where a life is brought to an abrupt end. ‘Poor fellow, we think, to take his own life like this. And in front of a helpless young lady. How desperate he was, how unhappy, how unable to face his future.’

  Charlie was listening hard now. Something was coming up. Something she wasn’t expecting.

  ‘So, we look deeper, isn’t it?’

  Bagri’s instrument probed the deep wound and Charlie’s stomach groaned in protest. She’d seen worse, but this wasn’t the kind of thing you ever got used to.

  ‘Ah.’ Bagri withdrew something from the tattered flesh and held it up for inspection. ‘Observe. A shotgun death? I think not. This is a round from an automatic pistol. I am sure that DI Pepper’s ballistics team will confirm.’ Again Bagri’s balding head turned up towards Charlie. ‘But which came first, the shotgun or the pistol? To explore this question, I might ask, why shoot a pistol into this poor fellow’s head, when the shotgun has already brought about the desired result? Mm?’ Bagri looked at each student in turn.

  Charlie was already on her mobile. Bola wasn’t bringing in a harmless young woman for questioning. He was bringing in an armed and dangerous murderer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT