by Jane Adams
‘Maybe they’re not PNC refs. Let’s take another look anyway, try to get an ident.’ He glanced sideways at George. ‘How come you haven’t asked the big boss man for access?’
‘He’s already left for the night.’ George smiled. ‘OK, so it’s a favour for a friend. Might be nothing, but I said I’d check a few names.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Not likely. A body hauled out of the canal. Name of Frank Jones. I pulled his records with no trouble, petty theft, suspected runner for Pierce, though nothing ever stuck. These references were in a file appendix and I got to wondering what they were.’
‘OK, we’ll give it a go.’
George watched. Phil was methodical. He ran the codes through normal channels first, retracing steps that George had taken already, looking for common input errors, the sort of thing that was often so obvious it could be missed. He got the same results as George had done.
‘Obviously not for general consumption,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to find a way back in.’ He logged out of the PNC and back onto the Net. ‘Might take a little while. First thing is to see who’s already cracked it and what route they took. No point in trampling on the grass if someone’s already cut a path.’
George nodded. PNC like many government structures was a common target. In the world of information there was no such thing as a secure system. If you were networked, you could be accessed, though many hackers simply tagged a site, added it to their clamed list and then left it alone. There was little point in getting in and then declaring the fact to the world if you might want to go back later. Why force someone to tighten up their system just for the sake of it?
‘This might take some time,’ Phil told him.
George nodded and prepared to leave him to it. Phil didn’t like to be watched, it put him off his stride.
‘All right. Let me know if you come up with anything.’ But Phil was already engrossed and didn’t trouble to reply.
* * *
Sarah had taken a couple of days off, which was just as well considering how late they slept.
They made breakfast together, saying little but very much at ease. Then, as Sarah made more tea, Ray commented, ‘I dreamed again last night.’
She glanced at him, concerned. ‘The same dream?’
‘No, this was something new. I think I dreamed about her. About Kitty.’
‘Oh?’
‘She was riding a horse. Sitting sort of side-on behind a young man.’ Ray poured her tea and then his own. ‘It was so vivid. I’ve had a lot of vivid dreams lately, most of them unpleasant, but this one . . . I could smell the air and feel the wind in my face and I knew it had just been raining. There was this overwhelming scent of damp earth and wet grass.’ He laughed. ‘And gently steaming horse.’
‘Very pleasant. I’m not one for horses at the best of times.’
‘I’ve not been close to that many. Never seen the attraction.’
‘That was all?’
‘Pretty much. Would she have ridden like that?’
‘Pillion behind a man? Probably. Not too comfortable or too safe, I would have thought. It wasn’t even a proper saddle, just a kind of soft pad. Lord knows how they held it in place, or how they stayed on for that matter. What was she wearing?’
‘Wearing? Oh, a long brown skirt. She had it all tucked in around her. And some kind of reddish cloak thing with a cape round the shoulders and a big hood.’
‘Sounds about right. A lot of riding cloaks were like that, reddish and caped. Little red riding hood was a West Country Lass.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The cloth, that’s where most of it was made.’
He smiled, suddenly a little embarrassed. ‘Getting a bit carried away with this, aren’t I?’
‘I don’t see any harm in it. Did you read something in Jordan’s diaries that put this in your mind?’
Ray shook his head. ‘Not that I can think. It seems to have come from nowhere. Sarah, I don’t believe in all this ghost and past life stuff. I’ve always been a down-to-earth, difficult to convince bugger. You have to be in my job, no time for all that fancy thinking.’
‘But now you’re not so sure?’
Ray nodded. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
* * *
Phil had news for George when he came into the office the following morning.
‘You know that Frank Jones you were looking for? You know he was tied up with the Pierce business?’
‘His record said he was suspected of being a runner.’
‘Right. Well, those references you gave me, they belong to the Pierce investigation, but they’ve nothing to do with the locals, this is National Crime Squad.’
George thought about it. ‘It was a big bust,’ he said. ‘No surprise that it had major involvement.’
‘Big isn’t the word for it. This went international.’
George raised an eyebrow. ‘A little out of Frank Jones’s league, I would have thought.’
‘But the interesting thing is, his isn’t the only death associated with the investigation. You remember Michaeljohn?’
George frowned. ‘Dealer,’ he said. ‘Found shot a couple of months back.’
‘Informer,’ Phil told him. ‘They were about to pull him in but it seems they struck a deal.’
‘Didn’t do much of a job protecting him.’
‘No. A troop of boy scouts could have done better. But the thing is, George, Michaeljohn was a key witness. Without him there’s nothing that makes Mark Pierce anything more than a middleman and not a very important one at that. The whole thing was in danger of falling apart. On top of that, there’s some sort of internal investigation going on. Accusations that someone’s been taking backhanders.’
‘Any names?’
‘Sorry. Officer A and officer B, that’s all I’ve got, but the impression is that it’s high level and it spreads a long way. Look, I’ve done you a printout, but this is bigger than you thought. I don’t think you’ll be able to cover your tracks. You start poking your nose into this and someone’s going to notice.’
George Mahoney nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then maybe it’s time to declare the interest,’ he said. ‘See what I stir up.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Ray was reading more of Matthew’s journals. On 25 August 1642 Matthew Jordan recorded that the conflict had already come to his home to roost.
A great band of soldiers led by the Prince Rupert did descend upon the town bringing news of the King’s intent, and calling on all good men to support him in his battle. It is said, among those who saw the King’s standard raised in Nottingham three nights ago, that a great storm did rage and lightning hit the earth with such force that ancient trees were blasted not twenty yards from where the King himself was standing. It is in my mind that this whole land will be blasted by as great a lightning before this thing is done.
Prince Rupert’s men did first ride to Bradgate with Colonel Hastings at his side and attacked there the house of Lord Stamford, threatening the lives of those within and injuring the furnishings of the great house, before departing with great store of arms and ammunition. He has since set up camp at Queninborough, not above three miles from here. It is supposed the King will find winter quarters soon, perhaps at Oxford, to build strength and plan his strategy. I wish no ill to that town but it will not grieve me if he calls that hothead prince to heel and takes him there.
A few days later, Ray noted, Rupert had been at it again.
He did send from his camp at Queninborough a letter to the mayor and corporation demanding the sum of £2,000 sterling, to be submitted by ten of the clock in the forenoon. The letter that accompanied this demand was read this very day in my hearing. Prince Rupert dared to threaten that, should the officials not comply, he should ‘appear before your town in such a posture with horse and foot, and cannon, as shall make you know ’tis more safe to obey than to resist His Majesty’s command’.
The corporation did then send word to
the King, pleading that they did not possess such funds and asking his intervention. They received a message in the King’s own hand, expressing his displeasure at the Prince’s action and releasing the town from all such demands. Sadly, before this message had arrived, it had been seen fit to send certain gentlemen to the Prince, attended by six Dragoons, to fetch the sum of £500 to the Prince and bring back to the Town Hall receipt of this.
He promises to repay these moneys when this conflict shall be over, but I doubt that these funds will ever be seen unless the King himself should see fit to demand it.
Amused and sympathetic, Ray set the copied notes aside. He knew Queninborough slightly, though it was no longer a village in anything but name, being long since absorbed by the advancing city. Parts of it, he recalled, were very pretty, though it was years since he had been there. He had still been with his wife then, accompanying her reluctantly on one of her antique hunts. He had a vague memory of timbered buildings and horse shit in the road but that was all.
A folder had arrived from George Mahoney by the second post. It had been delivered just as Ray and Sarah had been leaving for Edgemere and he had not had the time to look at it before. He and Sarah had lunched together then spent the afternoon at Sarah’s tiny house on the outskirts of the town. She had a long-standing evening out arranged with her sister and Ray had left her getting ready, arriving back at the cottage in the early evening.
He’d glanced quickly through the file but, now that it was here, felt an odd reluctance to delve further, putting off the inevitable by making a sandwich and a second pot of tea, scanning more of Jordan’s diaries before finally giving in and sitting himself down with Mahoney’s package.
It contained a picture of Frank Jones, his arrest record printed straight from computer. Photocopies of statements, an assessment made by a prison psychiatrist and another by a doctor. Previous known addresses, aliases, a list of associates — George Mahoney had worked hard on Ray’s behalf, and yet, glancing through the small stack of documentation, Ray couldn’t place Frank Jones in the frame. It didn’t add up. Jones was a petty criminal who’d started thieving from the local shops when he was just a kid and graduated to pinching cars and the odd opportunistic burglary in his mid-teens.
As a career, that had been about as far as he’d got until he was twenty-two. Between time in youth custody and then two years in prison, Frank Jones had found the leisure to get a wife and father a child. At twenty-two, his baby then nine months old, Frank Jones had actually got his first legitimate job, moved his little family into a council flat and for the next five years nothing had been heard of him. He seemed to have turned his life around.
Then it had all gone pear-shaped. The company he worked for had gone bust and Frank had been out on his own once more. Unable to find work and with Christmas just around the corner, it seemed that Frank had gone back to his old ways. He’d been suspected of thieving from cars, radio cassettes and the like. Been pulled in on sus for the odd burglary, but nothing could be made to stick. Then Frank had shifted leagues. In the January he’d found semi-legitimate work as a doorman at one of the local clubs, but the money he’d been bringing home from that didn’t add up to the changes in lifestyle that the local police had noticed. He’d bought a car. Nothing expensive, or particularly new, but it was something he’d never managed to do before. And his flat suddenly acquired new furniture, a decent TV and video instead of the ex-rental stuff he’d scraped the cash for previously. It was suspected he was acting as a runner for the local drugs interest, they were known to hold a controlling share in the nightclub Frank worked at, though the three times he was brought in he was always clean.
The drugs link fitted with the theory that Guy Halshaw had been the target and Ray just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But either way, it was a big step for Frank Jones to take. Car thief to effective hitman. He remembered George Mahoney’s comment. If someone had wanted Guy Halshaw out of the way, then why not have him shot? A simple contract might have cost a couple of grand, tops. What had been done to Ray, well, that was much more up close and personal and in a public place in the early afternoon . . . In Ray’s eyes, that had never made a lot of sense.
If Frank Jones had been the man responsible, had it been a personal grudge against Guy? Halshaw was an inveterate womanizer, could he have tried it on with someone he shouldn’t? Frank’s wife, perhaps? He glanced through the notes but could find no record of her having been interviewed, though even George could only be so thorough on such short notice. On the other hand, if you’re settling a personal grudge, wouldn’t you be able to identify the target? Ray knew that he had never encountered Frank Jones before.
If Frank Jones was settling a personal issue for someone else then that would make more sense, but if so, then what and who and was it Ray himself or Guy Halshaw that was the intended target? And if he was settling someone else’s score, then what would it take to make someone like Frank Jones, who from his record tended to go for easy targets — empty houses, unwatched cars — attack a police officer in the open in broad daylight with only his own two feet on which to make the getaway?
Ray picked up the photograph of Frank Jones and looked at it, trying to remember every detail of the man who attacked him that day. He’d seen little. Witnesses said the man had a knitted hat with some kind of logo on it pulled down well over his ears and the lower portion of his face covered by a scarf, though even this slight description was in doubt. There was no agreement even on the colour of the scarf or the design of logo on the hat. It had been a cold day and a man wrapped up against the chill was of little note to most people.
Ray covered the lower part of the picture, just concentrating his attention on the eyes. He had no memory even of seeing the man’s eyes, it had all been over so very quickly, but he tried now to superimpose Frank’s eyes onto the scene replaying in his mind.
Sighing, Ray put the picture down. There was no way he could be sure. The man who had attacked him could have been Frank Jones, but for all the certainty Ray could put on that judgement it could have been John Rivers or Sarah Gordon.
Angry with himself, Ray put the folder to one side and fetched himself a drink, swallowing single malt with an absence of attention that it did not deserve. He switched the television on and stared at the screen, watching speeding cars chase through improbably empty streets. Outside it had begun to rain and the wind was blowing hard and rain pelted against the window loudly enough to drown the noise of the television. Irritably, Ray increased the volume, then turned it down again. Then killed it altogether. He felt lonely and wished that Sarah could be there. The cottage, and Ray’s life, suddenly felt very empty.
He poured another drink and then another, staring at the silent television screen and allowing his mind to wander. His thoughts returned to Sunday and the conversation they’d had with John Rivers and Maggie about the Ouija board. On impulse, Ray crossed to the desk and rummaged for a sheet of paper. With great concentration he tore the paper into rough squares, then wrote the letters of the alphabet and the words yes and no upon them. He spread the torn paper carefully around the edge of one of Mathilda’s little tables, then upturned his empty glass at the centre, resting his finger lightly on its base.
Then Ray waited, aware that this impulse owed much more to whisky than to spirits and glad that there was no one there to see. ‘Is there anybody there?’ he demanded, then laughed self-consciously. ‘Dammit, Kitty, if you’re a bloody ghost then say something or I’m going to stop believing in you altogether.’ He felt more than a little put out. After all, she’d shown herself to Beth. In his somewhat drunken state, Ray couldn’t help but feel that reeked of favouritism.
He sighed, turning the glass back the right way up. ‘God almighty, how much have I had?’
Carefully, he gathered the slips of paper and threw them into the fire, then poured himself another drink, sipping it with more attention this time as he watched the letters burn.
* * *
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It was a cool night in August when the rains had come after a hot day and such winds as lifted Kitty’s skirts high and threatened to tear her shawl from her hands. She had come home late and was so glad to be back inside out of the storm that for a moment she did not think of what was wrong.
And then she saw it. A fire burned in the grate, though she had been out all day and there had been no one home to set one, and she saw a man, kneeling on the hearth, his hand poised as though he reached for something set beside the grate.
It was the same man that she had glimpsed before, though this time far more solid and more real.
She had begun to speak, meaning to challenge him, though the strange thing was, she felt no fear. But in that instant the man was gone, the fire too, though when she came closer, the embers still glowed and the room, too, was warm despite the fierce wind outside.
Still she felt no fear. Odd as it might seem she felt drawn to this man. He seemed, she fancied, like some friendly spirit, almost an angelic presence, though she knew that should any know those thoughts they would only give more evidence of the devil’s influence.
Though, for all that she might wish or feel, she knew him to be just a man, though she knew neither his name nor his origin. He was just a man. The man she had dreamed of. Seen standing in her garden, with much too sweet a scarred and ugly face ever to be an angel.
Chapter Twenty-two
DI Peterson regarded George Mahoney with more than a little suspicion. He had listened to George’s explanation without comment but was clearly far from happy. ‘This friend of yours. How much have you told him so far?’
‘I gave him access to Frank’s arrest record. That’s all.’
‘All right.’
He could see the disapproval on Peterson’s face but was completely unworried by it. Peterson and his ilk had no influence on what George did.
‘You should tell your friend to back off.’
‘One certain way to make him probe more deeply. Ray doesn’t frighten easily.’