by Hayden, Mark
She sipped her wine. ‘Fine words, Tom, but … as they say round here, fine words butter no parsnips.’
‘No, they don’t. That’s what they say where I come from. God only knows what they say round here.’
He had broken the spell. Leonie laughed and told him to pour his tea before it went cold. While he was doing so, she asked if Lancashire & Westmorland had made any progress on locating the bomber.
‘No. There was no magic piece of evidence, and the trail is colder than the weather outside. Finding the rotten apple in MCPS is our best hope.’
When she relaxed, he quite liked her. She asked about his parents’ house and he asked about where she lived. ‘A small flat near the river. Not too far from you, if you cross the wobbly bridge. A relic of my divorce.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago now, or seems that way. Trouble is, it’s so handy and it’s worth a fortune … but if I sell it, I’ll never get another place so central. Almost none of our old neighbours live there now. It’s a mixture of foreign nationals and bankers using them as their city crash-pads. Anyway, time for bed. I hope your next case is in London. It must be lonely out on the road.’
‘You can be lonely anywhere. I’ll see you in the morning.’
The rain had turned to snow overnight, and Tom took great care in joining the slow moving traffic.
‘Go on. You’re dying to ask me,’ he said to Kris.
‘I won’t give you the satisfaction,’ she responded.
‘You mean you don’t want to know what your mother said to me in the kitchen when she was changing my dressings?’
‘Of course I want to know. I’m just not going to give you the satisfaction of asking.’
The traffic came to a standstill, and he turned to her. ‘Actually, she was very nice. She said almost nothing that wasn’t related to my injuries or how I was going to get back to London in this weather.’
Hayes grinned in triumph. Tom hadn’t been entirely truthful because Mrs Hayes had also said So that’s what a chief inspector looks like with no shirt on. But there was no way he was going to repeat that.
Eventually they escaped the jam, and Tom parked as close to the entrance as possible. Every time he’d got into his new car, he’d checked the back seat carefully for unwanted guests. They slipped and shivered their way into the building, and Tom had to go through the process of renewing his accreditation. Hayes slipped away into the offices, and Tom found Leonie waiting for him outside the Boardroom (as the posh meeting room was known).
‘Let’s not hang about, Tom. I want to get back to London before the country grinds to a halt.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes. He said to just go in when we’re ready.’
‘Right. This is it.’
Leonie knocked and led the way into the Boardroom. Tom guessed that its nickname came from the real wooden tables, padded chairs with proper arms and a deep carpet with the force motto worked through it. Every time you looked down, you were reminded of your duty: Protecting All. The Chief was working his way through a pile of reports.
He had a reputation as a Copper’s Copper. Yes, he was a graduate, but he had worked his way up the uniformed ranks, and all of his promotions had been to operational roles. He stood up and shook hands with both of them. He turned his attention to Tom first.
‘If you’re back on duty, you must be doing all right.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Have a seat.’ He turned to Leonie. ‘I hope the first thing you’re going to do, Ms Spence, is to tell me why I’ve had to come out here in the snow, and why you telephoned me at home to make the appointment.’
The look on the Chief’s face said that he was giving her the benefit of the doubt, but only just.
Leonie put her hands flat on the table, one on the other, crossed her legs and turned her shoulders to face the Chief. Her voice was professional and steady.
‘There’s no easy way to put this, sir, but we have reason to suspect that one of your Command Officers or – just possibly – your PA was involved in the Griffin case.’
‘Go on.’
Tom would have fidgeted at this point but Leonie kept her cool, not moving even a finger.
‘When DCI Morton uncovered DS Griffin’s mobile number, we established, with independent witnesses, that Griffin received a phone call directing him to the Great Western Goods Yard. We have tracked down the origin of that call to an extension in the Victoria Hotel, Edgbaston. It was just outside the Lickey Hills suite.’
In the silence that followed, Tom noticed that Leonie had retrospectively added herself to his investigation by saying that we tracked down the origin of the call instead of Tom and Kris tracked down the call. It’s what Samuel Cohen called chutzpah, and his grandfather called brass neck. Having said that, she was the one talking to the Chief, not him. She was welcome to it.
Finally, the Chief spoke. ‘We were all there. The whole senior team gathered to discuss budget strategy – or how to save twenty million pounds.’ He rubbed his hand round his jaw and looked at Tom. ‘Proof?’
Tom slid over the relevant printouts. Now the focus was off her, Leonie uncrossed her legs, and he could see a red mark on her thigh through the nylon where one leg had gripped the other.
‘Why exclude me from your investigation?’ was the Chief’s next question. It was addressed to both of them, and Leonie gave Tom the slightest nod for him to answer.
‘We have a statement from the late Patrick Lynch that shows Griffin had a boss – a handler, if you will. That statement also shows that the relationship pre-dates your appointment to this force. Although some of the team have been promoted since you arrived, they were all with MCPS at the relevant time.’
‘The whole team? I can’t trust any of them?’
‘No, sir. You can’t trust one of them. There’s another factor.’ Tom repeated the story of the bombing, and that the bomber had quoted John Lake’s words to him.
The Chief didn’t need to ask: he knew straight away who was present on both occasions. ‘Niall, Malik, David and Evelyn,’ he said, almost to himself. He turned back to Leonie. ‘Let’s be clear. You want to investigate my deputy, one of my assistants, my media relations guy and my own PA?’
Leonie answered what Tom thought was a rhetorical question, ‘Yes, sir. And the reason it should be CIPPS is that we can move faster and more discreetly than any other professional standards team.’
The Chief shook his head. ‘I’ve got no choice, have I? Not that I should be looking for one. I can’t see an alternative explanation.’ He sighed heavily. ‘How low a profile can you keep this investigation?’
‘I think it better if Tom takes the lead at first,’ said Leonie. ‘He and Kristal are known around here, and they can work the background case to see if anything comes to light. No formal interviews will take place without my authorisation.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘A letter of authorisation to your HR manager so that Tom can review their personnel files.’ The Chief nodded. ‘And a description of the events of that evening, if you’ve got time.’
‘As it happens, I don’t.’ He took a diary from his pocket and flicked through it. ‘Can you meet me at the Victoria Hotel tonight, around six o’clock?’
‘Of course,’ said Tom.
‘If you don’t require me directly for the meeting, sir, I’ll head back to London,’ said Leonie.
The Chief stared at her for a second and then nodded. ‘It’s a big place,’ he said to Tom. ‘I’ll be staying the night and they know that my details are not to be given out lightly. Text me when you get there. Here’s my personal number.’ He had to dig deep into his wallet to find a card with the relevant details, and passed it to Tom. ‘You can type that letter of authorisation to HR yourself, as I can’t use my PA to do it. Bring it tonight and I’ll sign it.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Wait.’ shouted the Chief. Tom and Leonie both flinched at the vo
lume he used. He pointed to a smaller door across the room. ‘You can leave through the kitchen. ACC Khan is waiting outside. He’s going to tell me which police stations he thinks we can close without provoking a riot, and I don’t want him seeing you two with me.’
They were halfway to the door when the Chief said, ‘One more thing, Morton.’
‘Sir?’
‘If you’re going to pick another fight with my staff, watch out for Evelyn. She has a nasty right hook.’
‘What was that about?’ said Leonie when the door was safely closed behind them. They were standing rather close to each other in a small kitchen. Tom could smell her perfume. It was the same one Caroline had used when she wasn’t in court – Expression of Woman.
‘I got into a fight with the DCI from Earlsbury division. He gave me a black eye.’
Leonie shook her head. ‘For such a quiet man, you don’t half attract trouble.’
‘It must be my magnetic personality.’
‘In your dreams, Tom. Anything else before I go?’
‘Just the one. Unless you want to wind her up deliberately, don’t call Hayes “Kristal”. It’s “Kris”.’
Leonie bristled and took a breath. Then she let it out again and said, ‘Don’t go native on me, Tom.’
‘That’s what my grandfather said when I went to London. I’ve tried to follow his advice.’
Leonie shook her head and walked away.
Tom headed towards the canteen. Hayes would look for him there. With any luck she would already have bought the tea.
The priest had given special dispensation for the heating to be turned on. At other times, the volunteers were expected to wear gloves and coats in cold weather, but today, with so much work to do, the Church of Our Lady was warm and bright as its worshippers prepared for Advent.
Since Patrick’s body had been found, Fran had discovered that work doesn’t stop you thinking about things, it just stops you going mad. Not that she would have minded going mad: it might have been a relief from the pain. She was here in the church because she didn’t want Elizabeth going mad and because she had to stay sane for her daughter’s sake.
She wanted her to go back to school as soon as possible, but that wasn’t going to happen this week. The poor child was beyond devastated. She was just numb. Fran let Elizabeth lead, and no matter how slowly her daughter worked, she fell into step. Helen, always more impatient, would drift off and come back.
The outside door opened, and a gust of icy air rippled along the wall and shivered its way down Fran’s arms. She didn’t hear it close, and turned around to see who was letting all the heat out.
In the doorway stood Theresa King and her surviving son, James. He put his hand into the small of her back and ushered his mother into the church. Fran dropped the florist’s wire and nearly swore. Theresa put her hand to her mouth and looked as if she wanted to run away, but James held her gently and urged his mother towards the altar.
Fran, Helen and Elizabeth stood in silence and watched them genuflect, cross themselves and kneel down. The radiators clunked as they expanded, more sleet blew against the windows, and a lorry laboured up the hill outside. No one moved.
James broke the silence with an Amen and stood up. He walked over to the flickering rack of votive candles and cleared some of the burned-out lights away. From his pocket he took three red candles and placed them carefully on the ledge. Fran put down her fake garland and walked over, crossing herself on the way.
‘The Father doesn’t like people bringing their own candles,’ she said. ‘He says it’s a fire hazard. We’re supposed to use the safety ones.’
‘If only we could buy safety guns and safety knives to go with them, the world would be a better place,’ said James.
Fran stiffened, and James bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lynch. Your loss is terrible. Please forgive me.’
She pointed to his candles. ‘Is one for Patrick?’
He took out a box of matches (another thing frowned on by the young English priest, but used all the time by his Irish and Polish colleagues in the team ministry). James struck a match and put it to the candles, naming each one in turn. ‘One for my father, one for my brother, and one for my sister’s father.’ He blew out the match. ‘It would not be right in my soul to pray for Dermot because I didn’t know him and my prayers would not come from the right place.’
They both stared at the candles for a second. Fran glanced over at Theresa, who was still in prayer. ‘Why red candles, James?’
‘For the blood that was shed. Their own and others.’
She stepped forward and whispered hotly in his ear. ‘My Patrick died of a heart attack, and he never, never shed anyone else’s blood.’
She grabbed the third candle, blew it out and thrust it towards James. He took it from her and rolled it in his hands. ‘He let my father’s killer walk away, and he let that man come back to kill my brother,’ said James.
Fran was aware of movement in the church. Theresa had climbed up from her knees and was moving unsteadily towards them. Helen was coming out of the shadows. Her oldest daughter was like that: she wouldn’t let her mother get outnumbered.
If only it were so easy. James wasn’t the enemy, nor was Theresa. Admitting it to herself was the hardest thing, but he was right: Patrick had been like one of those little fish on the wildlife programmes, swimming around the sharks. And now one of the sharks had turned and swallowed him.
James seemed to be reading her mind and said, ‘That heart attack. I heard he didn’t have his pills with him.’
‘Leave it alone, James,’ said Theresa. ‘Let them have the place to themselves.’
Theresa was so bundled up against the cold outside that only her face was visible. She put her hand on James’s arm, partly to restrain him and partly for support.
Fran took the candle out of James’s hand and relit it from the other two. She jerked her head towards the back of the church and said to Helen, ‘James and I are going to nip out for a smoke. Can you tell Theresa about the funeral arrangements? Or lack of them.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lizzie standing in the shadows, still clutching a plastic garland. She couldn’t think what to say to her and pretended not to have noticed. She grabbed her coat on the way, and James followed her out of the little door at the east end of the nave.
The church of Our Lady almost fills its plot completely, but there is a small garden at the back, stepped down the hill. Ashes are scattered there, and brides have their picture taken there in the summer.
Fran was going to stop smoking after the funeral. That was her promise to herself. She didn’t need it like some of them did, and she’d done without for years. Unfortunately there was no sign of the Coroner releasing Patrick for burial. She lit two cigarettes and passed one to James. He’d never be able to roll one of his own in this weather.
‘What do you think happened?’ she said.
‘I’m only looking from the outside. What did the police tell you?’
‘That there were no signs of a struggle, and that the only crime committed was the theft of his car.’ She blew smoke away from them and shivered.
‘It was Hope who told me about the pills and the phone being left in the house. I don’t think he would ever have done that,’ said James.
Fran was vehement. ‘I know he would never have left them behind. Never.’
James nodded. ‘Do you think it was a coincidence that Benedict Adaire was blown to Hell just before this? I don’t.’
‘Neither do I. It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Have you spoken to the one that arrested him? Inspector Morton, wasn’t it?’
‘Haven’t you heard? He was in the car that got bombed. He only just escaped with his life. Apparently, the other one – the woman – she’s on the sick as well. There’s no coppers interested in Patrick now he’s dead.’
James dropped his cigarette in a puddle and then carefully placed the filter in a waste bin. Fran fel
t obliged to do the same.
‘They’ll be back,’ said James. ‘At least Morton, will be. When he is, if you need any help to convince him, let me know. In the meantime, try and think of anything that Patrick was holding back. Anything that might help them.’
Fran pulled her coat more tightly round the neck to keep the wind out and went back into the church. James was right, if ever there was a policeman who didn’t give up, it was that Morton bloke. The last time she had met him, he had threatened to take Lizzie away. Did James realise that the man was close to being a shark himself?
‘Are you sure you should be going back to London tonight?’ said Hayes.
‘Are you worried about the weather or about me deserting my post?’
‘Both, I suppose. They say the snow’s going to get worse in the South and, you know, we’ve only just started this investigation.’
He was giving her a lift home before heading against the traffic into Edgbaston for his meeting with the Chief. They had spent the day negotiating with the BCSS Facilities Manager to get a small room and a secure cabinet. Even telling the man that it had been authorised by the chief constable had no effect. The only way round it was for Tom to ask for the bill to be sent to CIPPS.
‘I need to see Leonie tomorrow.’
‘Missing her already?’
‘Leave off, Hayes. She’s not my type.’
‘I don’t know what your type is. Sir.’
‘I’ll tell you this much – she’s too dangerous for me. What about your type? You’ve never said anything about your private life other than football and the church.’
‘When I know what my type is, I’ll let you know.’
He was nearly at her house and changed the mood. ‘There is a good reason for seeing her. Not only do I have to explain the facilities bill that’s going to land on her desk, I also want her to be the one asking for the personnel records.’
‘She won’t like that, will she?’
‘Tough. You would have gone ballistic if you’d seen the way she blithely told the Chief that “we” found out about the Victoria Hotel. If she wants the credit for an arrest in the future, she’ll have to work for it.’