Conspiracy

by Adrian Wills

  Parkes already had a pair of cuffs on one of the first guy’s wrists as Blake dragged his man backwards so his feet kicked and slipped across the stripped wooden floor. Out through the doors. Onto the street. Into the cold night air that Blake hoped would bring some sobriety to the guy’s senses and cool his temper. And more importantly, get him away from his mate. He wanted the guy to feel isolated and beaten. Humiliated by being taken down by a woman.

  ‘Bar’s closed,’ said Blake. ‘Do yourself a favour and go home.’

  The guy bucked and writhed, clawing at Blake’s arm, panicking for breath. Blake loosened his grip a little. ‘You understand?’ he said. The guy tried to nod. ‘And I suggest you find somewhere else to drink in future. Got it?’

  The guy tried to nod again.

  Blake let him go. The man’s face was flushed red. Snot ran down his cheek. His shirt was crumpled and dishevelled. ‘Fuck you!’ he said, his features twisting into a scowl.

  He feigned an arcing left-hand punch, but the real shot came from his right. A powerful uppercut aimed at Blake’s head, designed to lay him out with one punch. Blake parried with his forearm, knocking the man’s fist away. But he came again in a torrent of fists and elbows and arms, driving Blake into a narrow alley where the pub’s bins festered and stank.

  Blake soaked up the attack, letting the guy exhaust his energy, knowing he’d tire eventually. His punches were stinging but ineffective, and there was no finesse to his fighting skills. He was all brawn and bluster. A street brawler who relied on hitting hard and fast and who depended on his opponent going down quickly, when no doubt he’d show no reluctance to lay in with the boot.

  But Blake had no intention of going down. As he’d predicted, the guy slowed and dropped his fists after less than a minute. His lungs heaved as he gasped for air.

  ‘Seriously? Is that all you’ve got?’ asked Blake.

  He wanted to entice the guy to come at him again. To expend his last reserves of energy, like squeezing out the last slug of toothpaste.

  The man wiped his hand across his nose and grinned. Blake readied himself for a second onslaught, rocked back on his heels and grounded himself like a boxer, checking his balance. Not too much on the left. Not too much on the right.

  But the guy didn’t come again.

  Instead he dived to his right and grabbed an empty beer bottle rolling around by the bins. He held it by its neck and smashed it against the wall. The jagged edge of glass, razor sharp, glistened with the stale dregs of beer. The guy rose to his full height, steadier on his feet now, as if the cold air had indeed sobered him up, but not quelled his temper.

  Swiping the bottle through the air, he edged closer to Blake, whose back was up against a chest-sized commercial bin, its lid wedged open by overflowing cardboard and black rubbish sacks.

  ‘Guess you just ran out of luck, old man.’

  Blake hated being called old. ‘I’m still betting on the home team,’ he said. ‘I watched you play pool tonight which makes me fairly certain you couldn’t hit the ground if you fell out of a plane. So let’s see what you’ve got.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Are you supposed to be threatening?’

  The man charged at him with a roar of fury. Blake didn’t underestimate the damage a smashed bottle could do. There was a reason it was such a common weapon in a bar brawl. It was just about as effective as any other weapon at close quarters. Blake had once seen a man lose most of his face in a fight in much the same circumstances. A moment’s loss of concentration and he was lucky not to have lost an eye.

  But this guy was a rank amateur.

  Blake sidestepped, knocking the bottle away from his body. The guy swayed back. And came again. The same predictable move, leaving himself wide open to Blake’s counter punch. A smart jab in the kidneys. An elbow on the back of the neck as he stumbled. The man grunted as he lost his balance and fell to the floor, the bottle shattering in his hand and shredding his palm.

  Blake hauled him up by his collar and shoved his face into the wall. ‘I gave you the chance to walk away. You should have taken it while you had the chance.’

  The guy mumbled something inaudible. Blake didn’t want to hear it. He grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back, ready to slam his face into the brickwork.

  ‘Do it and you’ll spend the rest of the night in a cell,’ said a voice from the street. Parkes stood with her arms crossed, silhouetted by the security lamp. At first Blake thought she was joking, but the look in her eye persuaded him she was deadly serious. ‘A patrol car’s on its way to pick them up. I suggest you don’t complicate matters.’

  Blake let go of the guy’s hair. He slumped to the ground defeated, clutching his bloodied hand. ‘You’d better a call an ambulance too,’ he said, straightening his jacket.

  He stepped over the guy and out of the alley, squeezing past Parkes without giving her a second glance.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ Blake said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Blake skipped breakfast and left the hotel early to avoid Parkes. The sky was set grey and a gloomy mist shrouded the town. He pulled up his collar, ploughed his hands into his pockets and walked at a brisk pace, past the police station and the picture-perfect Norman church opposite the market square, until he hit an impossibly steep hill climbing out of the town.

  At the top, he turned into a neat cul-de-sac of 1950s bungalows and followed the numbers on the doors until he found the Hopkins’ house. It hadn’t been hard to work out the address using an online electoral register.

  The house and garden were surrounded by a white picket fence, the bungalow a dreary and unappealing grey pebble-dashed eyesore with few architectural redeeming features. A black BMW on 52 number plates and still in decent condition, sat on the drive.

  Blake swung open the gate watching for twitching curtains in the neighbouring properties. No doubt Claire Hopkins was the talk of the street. Speculation about what had happened to her husband was bound to be rife. Easy fodder for the gossips and rumourmongers. He rapped on the door with his fist and waited, savouring the clean, morning air, so fresh and unpolluted by comparison to London’s filthy smog. Footsteps sounded heavy from inside. A shimmering shape morphed into view through a frosted pane of glass. The door opened on noiseless hinges.

  ‘Yes?’

  Blake stared at the soldier, momentarily surprised. His army fatigues were freshly pressed, and he sported a military-grade close-cropped haircut and a weary look of disdain on his face, as if his day had already started on the wrong foot.

  ‘I was looking to speak to Claire.’

  ‘She’s got nothing to say,’ the soldier said, stepping back inside.

  Blake jammed his foot in the door. ‘I’m not a journalist.’

  The door opened again. The soldier looked him up and down.

  ‘I’m with the Home Office, helping with the investigation into Kyle Hopkins’ disappearance.’

  ‘Who is it, Spider?’ a woman’s voice called.

  ‘Some bloke says he’s with the Home Office. He says he wants to talk to you.’

  Claire Hopkins emerged from the darkness, dressed in a pale pink towelling dressing gown tied around her middle. Dark rings framed her eyes and her skin was a deathly shade of pale. She looked like a tired shadow of the woman who’d appeared at the press conference the day before.

  ‘It’s a bit early,’ she said, her voice husky with sleep.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.’

  Claire nodded to the soldier, who cast Blake a disparaging look and slunk away.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Claire, ‘although I’ve been over everything a hundred times with the police.’

  The house smelled of burnt toast, and the sound of children squabbling drowned out the tinny chords of a pop song coming from a radio. Two children, a boy and a girl in charcoa
l grey school uniforms were eating breakfast at a table in a large open-plan room that served as a lounge, kitchen and dining room. They glanced up at Blake with vague interest, then returned to their cereal bowls and bickering.

  ‘Right, go and clean your teeth. You’re going to be late for school,’ Claire said, sweeping the children’s bowls away. They howled in protest. ‘Will you just do what I tell you for once without making a fuss!’ Claire screamed, shocking them into silence.

  ‘Come on, kids. Let’s go and sort out your bags,’ said the soldier, intervening before Claire completely lost the plot. He chased them out of the room, swinging his arms and growling like a monster, turning their tears into peals of laughter.

  ‘Thank God for Spider,’ said Claire with a long sigh. She buried her forehead in her hands and Blake thought she was going to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry to come so early. You must be under a lot of strain.’

  She dropped the kids’ cereal bowls onto a towering pile in the sink and filled a stainless-steel kettle with water. ‘Just tired,’ she said.

  Blake stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching Claire as she pottered around the kitchen, putting cereal packets back in cupboards and sweeping crumbs off the worktops.

  ‘Right, we’re off,’ said the soldier, reappearing with the children now in coats and shoes and with rucksacks slung over their shoulders.

  As Claire swept her children up in her arms and smothered them with kisses, Blake’s attention was caught by a cheap wooden shelving unit heaving with framed photographs. Pictures of the children as bright-eyed babies; in their school uniforms smiling with missing front teeth; a photo of the family tanned and relaxed by an azure sea in somewhere hot and summery; a shot of Claire and Kyle, dressed formally at what looked to be some military function; and Kyle in desert fatigues, covered in dust, his eyes red and soulless.

  The front door slammed shut. A car started up and pulled away. Then above the silence that fell over the house, Blake was aware of the chug and hiss of the kettle boiling.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Blake. ‘It’s good you have some support with the children while. . .’

  ‘While Kyle’s missing? Yes, Spider’s been a life saver. They all have.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘The lads at the school.’

  ‘Right,’ said Blake.

  ‘Spider’s been doing the school run for me. I couldn’t cope with that at the moment, not on top of everything else. All those mothers with their fake pitying smiles and gossiping behind my back.’ She handed Blake a mug of tea and cleared a space on the sofa for him to sit. ‘I thought you might have some news.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, although her eyes revealed little disappointment. Maybe all her emotion had been wrung dry. Or she’d not really been expecting any developments. ‘So why’s the Home Office interested in Kyle?’

  ‘I’m here merely to assist the police investigation. I used to be in the army, so they thought I could help.’ Blake sipped his tea. Too milky and too sweet for his taste. ‘I wanted to find out about Kyle’s state of mind in the last few weeks.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was he happy?’

  ‘You mean, do I think he was capable of taking his own life? No.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Twelve years in July. We met young,’ Claire said, answering the question in Blake’s head. She hardly looked old enough.

  ‘How’s the marriage?’

  ‘What kind of question’s that?’

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘It’s no secret the army throws up its own particular problems for couples.’

  ‘Does it?’

  Blake had witnessed enough marital break-ups among the men in his own unit to know that relationships were all too readily strained by the transient nature of military life. ‘In my experience, yes.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Yes, we were happy. No, we weren’t having problems. Yes, everything was fine in the bedroom. Anything else?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ said Blake.

  ‘If you want to help, you should be out there trying to find him.’

  ‘So nothing on his mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Concerns about money?’

  The question hung in the air like a bad smell. Claire stared at Blake with ill-disguised contempt. ‘No.’

  ‘But you do have debts?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Did you call Kyle on the night he went missing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Apparently,’ said Claire.

  ‘Any idea who?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must have thought about it. It was possibly the last person to speak with him.’

  ‘It could have been anyone. I thought that’s what the police were supposed to be finding out.’

  ‘Did he have many friends?’

  ‘Look, I’m not really sure how this is helping to find my husband.’

  ‘Tell me about Kyle’s army career.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘When did he join up?’

  ‘When he was sixteen. Straight out of school.’

  Blake stood and moved to the photos on the shelves. He picked out the solitary picture of Kyle in desert fatigues. ‘Tell me about this photo,’ he said. ‘When was it taken?’

  Claire let her smile slip. She took the frame from Blake and studied the picture. ‘Not long after basic training. He was posted to Iraq almost straightaway. It’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Did he see much action?’

  ‘He never talked about it, but I don’t think he enjoyed it much.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Dunno. He just . . .always shut down the conversation if I ever tried to bring it up.’

  ‘But he was physically unscathed?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Yeah, he was one of the lucky ones, I guess.’

  ‘And his mental health?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Claire.

  ‘I served in Iraq,’ said Blake. ‘It was hot and dirty and dangerous. It was hard, I mean really hard. Lots of guys I know suffered stress-related trauma when they got back.’

  ‘Not Kyle,’ said Claire, shaking her head.

  ‘Many of them thought it was a sign of weakness if they admitted they weren’t coping, so they tried to hide it, but usually the wives and girlfriends knew. They were the ones who bore the brunt.’

  ‘I told you, he was fine.’

  ‘No nightmares?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Signs of anxiety?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He ever hit you?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Look, he wasn’t even there that long. They pulled him out after a couple of months.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘When they offered him this job, yeah.’

  Blake frowned. ‘And he’s been in this post ever since he returned from Iraq?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never posted anywhere else in all that time?’ The army was notorious for moving its people to new postings at least every couple of years. It didn’t add up in Blake’s mind.

  ‘It’s not exactly the life I imagined when we got married. I used to dream of the day Kyle would get posted to somewhere hot, but I can’t see that ever happening now, and Kyle won’t entertain the idea of leaving the army. I hate it here. You know it’s so damp in the winter I struggle to get clothes dry. But, you know, they need him here.’

  Blake took the photo from Claire, put it back in its place, and adjusted it so it was lined up with all the others. It brought back memories of the dry, arid heat, the smell of effluent in the streets and the hum of generators that left his ears ringing. ‘What about the guy
s he served with? Is he still in touch with them?’

  ‘Of course, he works with them every day.’

  ‘At the training school?’

  ‘Yeah. They were all posted here after Iraq. I guess that’s probably why he never wanted to leave. It’s all he knows.’

  ‘What about in the days before Kyle disappeared? Did you notice anything suspicious or unusual about his behaviour?’ asked Blake, returning to the sofa. He drained the last dregs of tea and found a heap of undissolved sugar at the bottom of his mug.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Any unusual phone calls? Strange cars in the street outside? Strangers watching the house?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Did Kyle mention anything unusual that had happened to him in recent weeks?’

  A solitary tear rolled down Claire’s cheek. ‘You’re not going to find him, are you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s been gone for almost a week.’

  ‘The police think you might be involved.’

  Claire’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why would they think that?’

  ‘They suspect you and Kyle cooked up his disappearance together, for the insurance and to clear your debts.’ It was a risk giving away Hubbard’s major line of enquiry, but he wanted to see how she’d react.

  ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Blake, as Claire wiped away the tear and blew her nose loudly in a tissue.

  ‘I just want to know he’s safe, you know, for the kids’ sake.’

  She looked up at Blake, a vulnerability written over her face and despair in her eyes. Blake became aware of a clock ticking, the buzz of a fridge, and the thread of a pulse in his neck. He studied her closely, noting the paleness of her unblemished skin still taut over prominent cheekbones and the rash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She glanced away with a blush when she realised he was watching her. She was an attractive woman, still in her prime, an understated beauty undiminished by twelve years of marriage and two children.