Death Walks Behind You

by Scott Hunter

  Moran felt a cold thrill run through his body which had nothing to do with his physical situation. “Don’t tell me. To supply the annual offering? He travels. Meets a girl. Spins some yarn about the idyllic country life. Brings them here. Marries them. And then–”

  “They have to be … the right sort.” Celine whispered. “I mean, no ties. No family, no baggage.”

  Moran was silent. This was unprecedented. Feudal, dark ages barbaric. For a moment he forgot his own predicament.

  “I have to go.” Celine moved away.

  “You can’t leave me here, for God’s sake,” Moran hissed. “And while I’m on the subject, where is ‘here’?”

  “It’s the ice house. In the grounds at the far end of the lawn. They’ve … adapted it.”

  Moran remembered the low shape he had seen earlier. Ice house. Appropriately named…

  “I have to finish this tonight, Brendan. It’s been too long. It’s time for it to stop.”

  “Celine! Wait!”

  Moran heard her footsteps recede, then the clunk of wood against wood. He spent the next ten minutes throwing his body weight against the metalwork before exhaustion finally overcame him.

  Moran was suddenly alert. Something felt different. He turned his head very slowly, wary of the consequences after the last time. The lights danced again, but not as wildly. He prodded the cage door. To his amazement it gave immediately and fell, soundlessly at first, until it met the floor somewhere beneath him with a rattling crash.

  Moran needed no further encouragement. He rolled over and let his legs dangle. It hadn’t sounded that far to the ground, but when he made contact with the compressed earth of the ice house floor his legs buckled and he felt something give in his knee. He lay still for a heartbeat then rose, groaning, to his feet. A brief experiment with weight distribution confirmed two things. First, it hurt. A lot. Second, he could still walk.

  Putting aside the puzzle concerning the identity of the cage unlocker for the time being, Moran limped towards the faint outline of the ice house door. He was still drowsy from the de Courcys’ anaesthesia, still arguably at a considerable disadvantage, and still in great danger. But, Brendan, he muttered under his breath. you’re also still alive.

  “This is nuts,” Toby said as Bola Odunsi manoeuvred the car into a narrow parking space in the over-subscribed Bristol police station car park. “We should have waited for Moran.”

  They’d spent an age on the M4, or more accurately participating in the lorry-fire-inspired M4 tailback between Newbury and Swindon. There’d been plenty of discussion while they waited, the bulk of which had centred on the route their investigation was taking, or rather the direction in which both men felt it had been steered.

  “Damn right we should’ve. The guv wouldn’t have sent us on a career suicide mission,” Bola said as he killed the engine and leaned back with a groan. “I don’t know what else to call this.”

  “Goodness,” Toby chuckled. “You mean we actually agree on something?”

  “Maybe. But who’s to say what we do while we’re here?” Bola let the question hang between them. When Toby declined to reply, Bola went on. “So this is the scam.” Bola undid his seatbelt and half-opened the door. “We sign in. Find the canteen. Have a brew. Wait half an hour and head back.”

  Toby frowned. “What’s the point? We may as well ask around while we’re here. What harm can it do?”

  “Harm? All it takes is one of Wilder’s mates to call her up and tell her we’ve been poking around and Diva’ll plaster the walls with us.”

  “Tess’ orders, though. Can’t just ignore them. And Diva doesn’t have any mates, right?” Toby took off his specs and began polishing them with his tie, a compulsive habit he invariably succumbed to when uncomfortable. There was no benefit to the lenses; Toby never cleaned his ties.

  Bola jigged with exasperation. “Come on, man. No way is Wilder bent. This whole damn biker thing is just Martin trying to make a splash. You can tell what she’s like. Pushy, ambitious. She wants to make a mark.”

  “What if she’s right?”

  “What if she ain’t?” Bola shrugged. “I don’t like the idea that Charlie Pepper is guilty any more than you do, but you know as well as I do that she hasn’t been the same since the Ranandans. She’s a bag of nerves.”

  “It doesn’t make her a killer, Bola.”

  Bola’s expression became thoughtful. After a moment he said, “What if she did it without knowing?”

  Toby looked at Bola and puckered his brow. “Are you kidding? How could you throttle someone and not know?”

  “That’s the angle they’re going for, man. Maggs told me. She’s been on these pills, right? They’ve affected her bad – like, she’s been sleepwalking. Her med report has it all down.”

  Toby fiddled with his tie. “So did she sleepwalk to the garrotte shop as well? You don’t normally include covert and deadly weapons on your Tesco list. It’s the mark of a pro, an assassin’s weapon. And Charlie Pepper is no assassin. She’s a great copper. Always straight with you. Nice girl, too.”

  “Aw, come on, Brit. I know you’ve had a thing for her in the past. Don’t let that get in the way. Look, for me, it’s way more plausible that she did it under meds than, like, some random biker just happened to break in and throttle someone they didn’t even know.”

  “The housemates’ alibis could be false.”

  “The alibis check out. That much is deffo.”

  Toby pressed on. “And Wilder does seem to be suffering from serious tunnel vision. And what about the Huang Xian Kuai alert? This could be a Huang hit. That’s what Charlie reckoned. She spoke to DCS Higginson about it. Why isn’t Wilder following it up? She’s from NCA – they’ve got all the gen on Huang. Come on, Bola, it sucks. Maybe Wilder is dodgy.”

  Bola gave a dismissive tut. “You’ve got some serious imagination, Brit, I’ll give you that. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure – I for one ain’t going down with this sinking ship.”

  “No one’s asking you to. Come on, Bola. We’re here. Let’s just ask around. Low profile.”

  “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Bola got out and slammed the door.

  Toby followed suit, blinking as a shaft of sunlight glanced off the car mirror, highlighting his preoccupied expression and the egg stains on his tie.

  Chapter 26

  “Prints, provenance? Anything?” Tess could see by the expression on the traffic cop’s face that the questions were wasted. He glanced at his colleague who shrugged and patted the padded seat.

  “We’ve been over it like a rash, ma’am.”

  “And you were both involved in the pursuit?”

  Nods.

  “So, did you get any impression of the rider? Size, sex, riding style?”

  “Good rider. Fast, took a lot of risks,” the first policeman said, and his mate nodded agreement. Small-ish build.”

  “A female?”

  “Could’ve been. We didn’t get close enough to be sure.”

  “Traffic cams?”

  “We have some images, but as the plates are false–” He shrugged.

  Tess sighed. “OK. You lost the rider where? A33?”

  “That’s right. May have turned into an industrial estate and got out round the back somewhere. We found the bike at the waste recycling centre.”

  “The tip?”

  “Yup.”

  “And did you check to see if the rider dumped anything else at the tip before doing a Houdini on you?”

  The officers exchanges sheepish glances. “Our remit was to track down the bike and question the rider, ma’am.”

  “Right. Great.” Tess paused to take a quick photo of the bike as the traffic officers watched with awkward embarrassment. “Well, thanks anyway.”

  On her way back to her car she called George McConnell.

  “George? Time for some treasure hunting. Waste recycling centre, forty-five minutes.”

  She hung up before McConnell co
uld conclude his long groan of dismay.

  “Brew’s worse here than back home.” Bola Odunsi settled himself in the hard plastic chair. Rain gusted in sheets onto the grimy plate windows. The room was laced with the lingering smell of the morning’s overcooked bacon and the temperature was uncomfortably warm. “I’m not hanging around here long, you can bet on it.” Bola folded his arms.

  “I don’t recognise anyone,” Toby said, stirring his lukewarm brew with a knife handle. “Any ideas?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” Bola knocked back his tea, grimaced and reunited the cup with its saucer with a theatrical clatter. Heads turned. Someone held up a hand, waved.

  “Friend of yours?” Toby asked with a jerk of his head.

  Recognition dawned in Bola’s eyes. “Allright! Ken Bantu, my man! What’s he doing here?” Bola’s face split into a huge grin.

  Toby noted the transformation of his colleague’s mood with relief. Better a happy Bola than a miserable one, especially with a wet journey home in prospect. Ken Bantu. He’d heard Bola mention the guy before. An athlete? A runner, was it? As Ken Bantu made his way to their table Toby tried to recall what else Bola had told him.

  “Well, looky here what the cat brought in!” Bantu grabbed a chair and scraped it up to their table. He was a big man, six foot four or five, Toby estimated, wiry and muscular. Big-framed for a runner – sprinter probably…

  Bola was introducing him. “Ken, this is DS Toby Glascock. Also known as Brittledick to his mates.”

  Toby felt his hand seized and pumped like a crank handle. “Brittledick? Love it! Nice to meet you.” Ken settled himself down and launched into a stream of news updates, much of which was lost on Toby although he noticed that Ken made an effort to include him by means of eye contact and frequent soliciting of his opinion on various topics ranging from last week’s Chelsea-Leeds match to the future of policing in inner cities. Toby found himself warming to Ken Bantu as they chatted, but eventually the small talk petered out, shortly after which came the inevitable question.

  “So, what are you guys doing in these parts? Thames Valley too dull these days?”

  Toby and Bola looked at each other. What would it be? Flannel or fess up?

  “Oho. Hush hush, eh? I get it. You guys have joined special ops, right?” Bantu grinned.

  “Um, not quite.” Toby toyed with his tie.

  “Look,” Bola leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You ever heard of a DCI Suzanne Wilder?”

  Toby dropped his tie and shot a wide-eyed glance at Bola. What had caused this abrupt volte face? Oh well, he obviously felt he could trust Ken Bantu, and so far Toby hadn’t noticed anything about the man to suggest even the smallest degree of untrustworthiness. He was one of those blokes you clicked with straight away, who wouldn’t let you down. You could just tell. Toby relaxed a fraction.

  Bantu frowned. “Sure. She came from down under, right? Not that long ago, neither.”

  Toby leaned in closer.

  Bantu continued: “She wouldn’t be my choice of guv’nor. Works her team to the bone. Small on praise, big on criticism. That’s how it is in Oz, so they say. Shall I go on?”

  “But she’s all right, yeah? People say she’s ambitious, but hey, why not?” Bola prompted. “Some people are.”

  For the first time Ken Bantu looked uncomfortable. “What’s all this about, guys? What’s Wilder been up to? I’m not one for dropping people in it.”

  “Sure. Understood,” Bola said. “We’re only after a bit of background, that’s all – just making sure Wilder’s cool. She’s leading an investigation on our patch and she hasn’t made many friends so far.”

  Ken nodded. “Right. She’s not known for social stuff. She joined NCA, didn’t she? Suit her, I reckon. They call her ‘The Diva’, apparently.”

  “So would you describe her as a driven person?” Toby chipped in.

  “Oh yeah,” Ken said without hesitation. “Big time driven. Especially since her brother went down. She took that real bad, so I heard.”

  “Brother?” Bola and Toby spoke simultaneously.

  “I’m not surprised you’re in the dark, guys. She’s kept it real schtum. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? I only found out ‘cause I worked a case with a DCS who knew her.”

  “Kept what schtum?” Toby’s heart skipped a beat. Whatever it was, it sounded bad.

  Ken Bantu shook his head in disbelief. “Her brother is DCS Alan Sheldrake. Ex-DCS, I should say. She transferred to the UK after the trial. Probably wanted to move closer so she could visit. Yeah, Alan Sheldrake. Man, that was a screw-up, huh? Used to be your boss, remember? Or don’t you guys read the papers?”

  On her way out Tess made a snap decision to pay Charlie a quick visit. Surprisingly, they let her in; Wilder wasn’t around and Maggs seemed unusually accommodating, perhaps because they’d already gone through the formal processes and now weren’t so concerned about outside influences intruding on their desire to get Charlie banged up.

  Tess was shocked by Charlie’s appearance. She tried not to show it but her boss looked as though she’d been put through the mill backwards, sideways and once more for good measure.

  “Hi.” Tess’ attempted note of cheeriness fell flat in the stale air of the interview room.

  Charlie looked up. Her face was white. Not pale – white. There were dark shadows of fatigue under her eyes. When she replied her voice was emotionless, mechanical. “Hi, Tess.”

  Charlie was sitting at the plain table, an untouched glass of water in front of her. Maggs hovered by the door, a gaunt, oppressive presence in an ill-fitting grey suit. Tess turned to the DS. “Give us five minutes?”

  Maggs made a face. “Three. Max.” He closed the door behind him with a bang.

  “So,” Charlie said in a low murmur. “How’s it going?”

  Tess came straight to it. She was here to provide hope, something to hang on to. Her heart went out to the efficient, bubbly DI Charlie Pepper she knew, reduced to this grey despair by Wilder and Maggs. “Charlie, we’re trying to trace a bike rider seen near the property the same day. It’s a long shot, but, well, we’re trying.”

  “I appreciate it.” A weak smile.

  “I just wanted to say, you know, we’re rooting for you. We’re on your side.”

  “That means a lot.” Charlie’s lip quivered minutely and she reached for her glass. “Is Brendan back yet?”

  “No. Tomorrow, we hope.”

  “They won’t let me talk to Higginson. Or anyone above DI.”

  “There’s a bit of a hoo haa going on,” Tess said. “Home Secretary’s been here. Press all over.”

  “Fame at last,” Charlie said quietly.

  “I know you didn’t do it, boss,” Tess said. “Just hang on.”

  “They’re going to remand me.” Charlie looked up. “You know what happens to police officers on remand.”

  Tess did. “I’m on it, boss. I promise.” It sounded horribly inadequate.

  Maggs came back into the room sipping from a plastic cup, reeking of cigarette smoke.

  “Time up.”

  Impulsively Tess reached over and squeezed Charlie’s arm. “It’ll be OK. I promise.”

  Tess waited in the corridor. She toyed with the idea of seeking out DCS Higginson. No, not yet. First she needed evidence, and if she had to rake through rubbish to get to it, so be it.

  George McConnell had already made a start. His face told her all she needed to know about the scale of the task.

  “Do you know how much rubbish comes in here every day?” His face was scarlet.

  “No, but I’m guessing you’re about to appraise me of that very statistic.”

  “Two hundred and nineteen tons, on average.”

  “Better get my gloves on then.” Tess ignored George’s exasperated expletive and called his team of reluctant recruits to her side where they formed a cautious semi-circle. The noise around them continued unabated as cars drew up alongside the various bays to unload t
heir waste and pulled out again, only to be replaced by another.

  Tess raised her voice above the hubbub. “OK, we’re looking for anything bike-related. Gloves, helmet, visor, straps, whatever. I’m hoping that our rider dumped his or her costumery here after parking up and before scooting off, either on foot or maybe in a car – we don’t know. Just remember, a DI’s future might hang on what you do or don’t spot. I know it’s unpleasant. I know it stinks, but so does the whole damn thing. I’m sure George has given you as much information as he is able. Questions?”

  A general shaking of heads.

  “OK, let’s crack on.”

  “We’ve identified the areas to sift for the period in question,” George told her as they walked. “Obviously those bins are today’s intake.” He waved at the car bays which gave direct access to containers labelled metals, woods, and general household waste. “Over there,” he pointed, “my kind friends in Reading’s municipal waste employ have indicated where we might find items deposited between Wednesday and Thursday morning.”

  Tess followed George’s pointing finger. The pile of metal debris rose into the air like a slagheap. She blew out her cheeks.

  It was going to be a long night.

  “Come on, Bola,” Toby insisted. “Make the call.”

  “So she’s Sheldrake’s sister, so what?” Bola, a passenger this time, drummed his fingers on the glove box. His face was like the Wiltshire sky, dark and brooding.

  Undeterred, Toby pressed on. “So what? So it gives her a big fat motive, that’s what.”

  “It’s just a coincidence. She’s a senior officer. No way would she take that line.”

  “No? Her brother did.”

  “You really want to go for this?” Bola turned in his seat and the belt strained across his chest. “Count me out. You make the call.”

  “Sometimes, Bola, I wonder whose side you’re on.” Toby found a police observation lay-by and pulled in.

  As Toby dialled through to Tess Martin’s mobile Bola’s reply came, half-mumbled under his breath: “I’m on my own side, man. My own side.”