The words trailed away as Sam nodded, balanced her wrists on the top of the wheel and took a cigarette out of the packet.
‘There could easily be an element of auto-suggestion,’ she said. ‘She’s seen the photo and convinced herself that’s the man who was at the door.’
‘That’s why we had to show a witness12 different photographs in an album back in my day,’ Ed said.
‘Exactly,’ Sam agreed, conjuring up the photograph of Reynolds, the newspaper article about a convicted killer who was being released. ‘But don’t forget Cat and his links to Ray.’
Ed whipped his head to face her.
‘Hang on Sam, there’s nothing to link Cat to this.’
‘Other than you saying the guy on the CCTV walks like him.’
Sam put the cigarette between her lips and lit up.
Ed said nothing. He pressed his nose against the window. Could this be down to Ray Reynolds and a bunch of vigilante cops?
‘We’ll go and see him tomorrow,’ Sam said.
‘Ray?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘And say what?’ Ed liked Ray Reynolds, wanted him far from the frame. ‘We’ve got a witness with dementia who saw your picture in the Post and says you were one of the men who abducted Jeremy Scott. He’ll eat you alive and feed what’s left to the wolves.’
Sam bridled. ‘Maybe you’re too close to him?’
‘Maybe I am,’ Ed holding his ground. ‘But that ID is weak and you know it.’
Sam was about to come back when Ed’s mobile rang.
He answered and listened.
‘She asked for me personally?’ Ed said. ‘Okay, I’ll be there in ten.’
Sam watched as he ended the call.
‘That sounded important,’ she said. ‘Where to?’
‘Sea View Palace.’
Sam laughed, said she thought it had been condemned or bulldozed.
‘Not yet,’ Ed stared out of the window. ‘Why’s the owner asking for me? I think I’ve only met her twice and that was years ago.’
Ten minutes later Sam pulled up outside a building so tired looking it could have been called Rip Van Winkle, salt-blasted paint work long missing in action, the net curtains faded sepia from tobacco smoke and time.
The Sea View Palace, like the rest of the small hotels in the curved Georgian terrace perched above the sea, had been popular throughout the first half of the 20th century, a beach escape from the coalmines and shipyards.
Now it housed contract labourers looking for cheap digs. Rooms at less than £15 per night left enough cash for beer and a fish supper from their accommodation allowance.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ Sam asked.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Ed said, getting out of the car. ‘If it’s anything I’ll let you know.’
He pushed open a wooden gate that might once have been red, walked up the path and through the door. The name-plate had begun life as brass but was now a sickly blue-ish green, the chemical reaction between the copper and the atmosphere left unchallenged since its last, distant polish.
There were no tourist plaques, no stars or rosettes. Trip Adviser wouldn’t have heard of this place.
He pressed the bell on the tiny reception desk and a shoulder length peroxide blonde appeared behind him. Jeannie Jackson looked as tired as her hotel.
‘Jeannie,’ Ed said, as he turned. ‘How are you? It’s been ages.’
‘Long time Ed, a long time.’
Ed saw the memory of the pretty woman he remembered. For the second time that day he felt a jab of sadness.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Not me,’ Jeannie said. ‘Harry. He’s in the room down the hall.’
‘Harry who?’ Ed asked, nonplussed.
‘Harry Pullman,’ Jeannie told him. ‘Who do you think?’
The Harry Pullman who’s supposed to be on his way to Argentina?
‘What does he want?’ Ed’s mind racing now, playing catch up.
‘I’ve no idea, other than he thinks only you can sort out his problem.’
‘Well I can’t build him a new pub.’
Now it was Jeannie’s turn to be lost in the dark.
He followed her down the hall, watched and listened to her knuckles giving two quick taps on the unpainted door of room 2.
Harry Pullman answered.
Ed thought he looked like shit.
‘Cheers for coming,’ he saw Ed look him up and down, eyebrows heading for the mildewed ceiling.
‘Jeannie got me some clothes off the other residents,’ Harry’s explanation.
The shirt was too small, the trousers too big.
‘All a bit cloak and dagger,’ Ed said, walking past Harry into the room.
‘Thanks Jeannie,’ Harry said, closing the door behind Ed.
Ed sat on the bed. ‘Is this the best you can stretch to Harry? It’s an absolute shit hole. I know Scaramangers’ gone up in smoke...’
‘What?’ Harry interrupted.
‘You don’t know?’
Harry’s wide-eyed stare gave Ed the answer.
‘Burnt down earlier this afternoon Harry,’ he said. ‘Sorry to be the bearer and all that.’
Harry had his back against the door.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t planning on going back.’
Ed asked again what Harry was doing holed up in a toilet.
‘Shitholes are sometimes the last places people look for you,’ Harry told him. ‘And I can trust Jeannie to keep her mouth shut.’
‘Who’s looking for you?’ Ed said, taking in the room’s joyless decay, like something slowly dying. ‘Luke and Mark Skinner for a kick-off.’
Ed gave Harry his full attention.
‘Luke said you and Deano were heading for Argentina,’ he said. ‘Some bull about your fascination with escaping Nazis and Diego Maradona.’
‘Very funny,’ Harry looking a million miles from amused. ‘Those bastards killed Dean and tried to kill me.’
Ed was working this on the hoof, trying to hold the unfolding story together, looking for gaps he could fill in the jigsaw.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ he said.
‘I want to go into that witness thing,’ Harry dropped next to Ed. ‘You know where you get a new identity.’
Ed smiled but he was watching Harry Pullman, watching a man who was scared and playing the last ace in his hand. He wouldn’t be the first frightened criminal to bring down an empire.
Ed puffed out his cheeks and slowly blew the air from them. It was becoming a habit.
Putting someone into witness protection wasn’t easy and there were strict criteria to be fulfilled. Not only that, but as the police had a duty of care until the person on the scheme died, it was a huge financial undertaking.
‘Witness protection,’ Ed whistled softly. ‘What have you witnessed to qualify?’
Harry licked his lips and leaned forward, chin in his hands and elbows on his knees.
‘Everything the Skinners have got up to in the last thirty years,’ he said slowly. ‘The drugs, prostitution, extortion, murder.’
He had paused before the last loaded word.
Yep that could safely be said to put you at risk of serious harm, Ed thought. You’re on your way to qualifying.
He stared at the peeling floral wallpaper and said nothing, waiting for Harry to continue.
‘Luke and Mark Skinner tried to kill me last night,’ Harry told him. ‘They probably killed Stuart McFadden, they definitely killed Geoff Mekins and that twat Luke was smiling when he showed me a photo on his phone of our Deano just before they killed him.’
Ed shuffled, heart telling him to punch the air, head keeping him in check.
This might be pure investigative gold but gold that would take days of interviewing to ensure it was mined correctly.
If Harry was as good as his word he would need every bit of help the UK Protected Persons Service - all the individual Witness Protection Units now un
ited under one National Crime Agency umbrella - could deliver.
Harry Pullman swallowed and spoke again.
‘I can give you the lot,’ he said. ‘Even the name of the skipper who takes them out to sea when they want to get rid of somebody. Ask Ray Reynolds. He knew about them throwing people over the side, he could just never prove it.’
Reynolds popping up again
‘My boss is outside,’ Ed said. ‘I need to speak with her.’
‘Parker?’ Harry sat up, looking at the door as if Sam was about to walk in.
‘DCI Parker to you.’
‘God if I was 20 years younger,’ Harry letting something crude but exciting briefly shine in his gloom.
‘Even then you couldn’t have punched that far above your weight,’ Ed killing it. ‘You understand once you start down this road there’s no going back.’
Harry sat forward and put his head in his hands.
‘What’s to go back to?’ he said. ‘Deano’s gone, the pub’s gone. I’d be watching my fucking back forever anyway.’
‘Who killed Billy?’ Ed asked.
Harry looked up, shook his head. ‘No idea.’
Ed jumped off the bed.
‘Enjoyed the craic Harry but I’ve got better things to do than hang around listening to your shite,’ he said. ‘You either tell me the lot, or you don’t bother at all.’
Harry pushed himself up off the mattress and moved towards Ed.
‘The easiest thing for me would be to feed you a load of bollocks, tell you what you want to hear, but what’s the point of that?’ Harry was close enough for Ed to catch the stale, sour breath. ‘You’d find out sooner or later it was all crap. I’ll tell you what I know, no more no less. What you do with it is down to you.’
Ed stepped backwards, Harry watching and waiting, no cards left to play.
‘Fair enough,’ Ed told him. ‘But where’s Mat? Has he gone AWOL as well?’
For the first time, Harry Pullman allowed himself a smile.
‘He’s missing alright,’ remembering, enjoying the replay running in his head. ‘Missing at sea, presumed dead. I pushed him overboard.’
Ed turned towards the door, said it was time to move.
‘Why?’ Harry asked, reluctant, wary. ‘It’s sound here. Jeannie would never tell.’
‘And Sam Parker’s been sat outside in a car and I’ve been sat in here,’ Ed told him. ‘If you want to do this, you do it our way or not at all, and the first thing, right now, is your safety.’
Ed opened the door.
‘Move it.’
Harry Pullman was sat in the back of the car behind Sam as she sped west towards the Lake District.
They had stopped and bought him some clothes that fit - a jumper, a pair of cords, a three pack of underpants, three pack of socks and a pair of shoes. They’d kept the receipts. They didn’t buy him a coat. He wasn’t going out. Not yet anyway.
Harry Pullman was well known around the north east and Sam and Ed couldn’t take the risk that he’d be seen with them going into a hotel or recognised by a member of staff.
Harry said he had never been to the Lake District so the likelihood of him being clocked over there was minimal. As long as he stayed in his room and didn’t speak to anyone he should be fine. He would only be there long enough to be interviewed and the Skinners arrested. Once that happened he’d be moved.
While Harry had never been to the Lake District, Ed couldn’t remember how many weeks he’d spent there.
He loved the whole area for different reasons. Meandering around the shops in Keswick and Bowness, walking up Fleetwith Pike and Great Gable, relaxing on the steamers on Ullswater or Windermere.
Ed suggested Ullswater. It was the first lake you came across when you travelled west across the A66 from Seaton St George. It was also very quiet at this time of the year.
The White Lion in Patterdale, nestling under Place Fell, was a typical Lakeland Inn: open fire, real ale, clean functional rooms often occupied by walkers tackling some or all of the coast to coast route, and few prying eyes. Sam knew the pub, told Ed she thought it was perfect for a one or two night stay.
Harry didn’t want anyone else to interview him, insisted it was Ed. That had gone down just dandy with Sue. If staying away wasn’t bad enough, the limited mobile and wifi coverage just ramped up the grief. Fortunately he hadn’t had long to explain. At one point he considered letting Harry talk to his wife to validate the trip, but he thought better of it.
Sam would have loved a couple of days in the Lakes, but there was too much going on in Seaton St George and besides Sue might just turn up. Sam didn’t want any repeat of the humiliating hospital scenes when Ed was injured. Sue had made it crystal clear she wanted Sam nowhere near.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Wednesday 17th December
Sam pushed open the glass door of the cafe, coffee fumes hitting her nose before her feet were over the threshold. The steam swooshing from the machine did nothing to ease the pounding like a steam hammer in her skull.
The drive back from Patterdale had given her a headache that refused to budge, but it had also given her time to think...time to think about the murders, time to think about the kiss with Ed, time to think about Jayne Culley and her revelation about Ray Reynolds.
She was heading to the counter and searching her bag for her purse when she glanced up and spotted Reynolds sitting at a table by the window. A large white cup was in front of him, his head was down, and the pen in his hand was hovering over the Daily Telegraph crossword.
Sam bought herself a hot chocolate and walked over.
‘Morning Ray.’
Reynolds looked up over the top of his reading glasses, stood, and shook Sam’s hand.
‘Hi Sam. How are you?’
He looked around, something that could have been curiosity in his eyes. ‘No Ed?’
‘Not today.’
‘Please have a seat.’ He indicated to the chair next to his, folding up the newspaper. ‘Surprised you’ve got time to pop into these places what with all the dead bodies and gang wars.’
‘You’re well informed,’ Sam said, sitting and lifting the mug to her lips.
‘I know a lot of people.’
Just like Ed, she thought, blowing across the chocolate.
‘Actually I’m glad I’ve bumped into you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s about Ed. I’m worried about him.’
She sipped on her drink.
‘Go on,’ Reynolds said, eyes darting around the shop.
‘I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something’s not right,’ Sam stared into her cup. ‘He doesn’t seem himself but he say’s everything’s fine. I just get the feeling he’s not telling me something, that there’s something preying on his mind.’
Reynolds tapped the pen on the newspaper, watching Sam.
‘He seemed okay to me,’ he told her. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s had grief off Sue for years but he can cope with that. Or at least he could back in the day.’
Sam watched the pen, temporarily Reynolds’ drumstick. Nothing too flash. Decent enough, but not worth hundreds.
‘You might be right,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe I’m looking for things that aren’t there, watching him too closely. He should have taken retirement like you.’
Sam asked Reynolds what it was like to give up The Job and drank her hot chocolate as he told her how things were different in his day...different society, different expectations from policing, different rules.
It could have been Ed on one of his ‘good-old-days’ rants.
Sam let Reynolds talk before she picked her moment, pushed the chair backwards and stood up. ‘Well I best be off.’
Reynolds got to his feet, glanced around the gathering crowd at the counter and the over-worked barista, and smiled as he shook Sam’s hand.
‘Nice to see you,’ he said.
‘Ray, would you mind, in case I ever want to check in about Ed, could I give you a call? Between you and me.’
> ‘Of course,’ Reynolds still smiling.
Sam took a notebook out of her jacket pocket. ‘Left my phone in the car. Needed ten minutes without it.’
‘Can’t say I blame you.’
‘Can I borrow that pen?’ Sam bent down and took it off the newspaper before Reynolds could answer.
He gave her his home phone number. ‘Refuse to have one of those mobile things. Managed before they came out, still manage without one.’
Sam smiled. ‘Thanks Ray.’ She turned and was gone.
He picked up the newspaper and put it down immediately. She’d taken his pen.
Ed spent all day in a small hotel room with a DVD recorder and Harry Pullman. They’d told the staff Harry’s wife had left him for another man, that they’d be unlikely to go out.
Harry, grieving for Dean Silvers and feeling the pressure of turning informer, looked miserable. Ed knew every hour he was away the more shit he’d get when he got home. In truth, he wasn’t much more cheerful. Given their cover story, that was fine.
At 5pm Ed turned right out of the White Lion and walked towards Glenridding. He’d told Harry to chill in the room for a couple of hours and then they’d go downstairs and get something to eat.
Ed walked briskly through Patterdale and into Glenridding. He knew Ullswater was on his right but he couldn’t see it, not in this light.
He walked up the driveway of the hotel, through the glass doors, past reception and into the lounge.
Sam was already in the corner by a huge window, a glass of white in front of her, a pint of ale next to it.
In daylight they would have seen the lawn sweeping down to the shore of the lake, the surrounding fells providing an ever-changing backdrop.
‘Cheers,’ he said, as he sat opposite. ‘How was the trip?’
‘Fine,’ she told him. ‘Few of your favourite wagons on the A66 but no real hold ups.’
‘I told you,’ Ed said, jumping on it. ‘More lorries than you can...’
‘It was a joke,’ Sam stopped him. ‘Don’t even go there. How have you got on?’
Ed told her they needed to move tomorrow, that Harry was getting cabin fever, even wanted to go and help in the bar.
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