by Hayden, Mark
Joseph grunted in sympathy. Clarke’s fingers found the combination and he slipped off the padlock.
‘Have you got the cash?’
‘Of course. Hang on a second, and I’ll just get this open.’
‘Not so fast, Mr Clarke. I don’t know what’s in there and I don’t want to know. Just give me the money and you can do what you like.’
Clarke slipped the padlock into his jacket and dug out the envelope with the cash. Joseph Kirkham stood in the freezing cold wind and counted every note before stuffing it in his pocket and touching his cap. ‘Thanks. The only reason we’re still in dairy farming is getting the rent on this place. If you want a brew when you’re done, pop inside.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared around the corner.
Clarke heaved at the shutter, and it glided upwards on a counterweight. That must have cost a pretty penny. Inside he saw a light switch and flicked it on.
It was like looking at a room within a room. Builders had created a plasterboard frame inside the raw stone walls, and there was an assortment of Swedish flat-pack kitchen units with worktops. Resting on these were several currency-counting machines and half a dozen mobile phones next to their chargers. Underneath one of them was a note. He pulled on some latex gloves and picked it up.
Don’t use the phones here. Too easy to trace. I’ve texted all contacts to expect someone different. Books in cupboard. 1st Shipment in crate.
There were more Post-it notes with code names next to the phones. The ledgers in the cupboard were headed with the same names: should be easy to work it all out. Clarke plugged all the phones into their chargers to give them a boost and opened the wooden crate in the corner. Still wrapped in blue plastic – and stamped with the US Treasury logo – was half a million dollars.
He also saw that there was a fan heater in the shed and switched it on. With the roller door pulled down to keep out the wind, it was almost cosy. He perched on a stool and started to read the books. There was no elaborate code system here, just cash in from Afghanistan and the amount of laundered currency received from Offlea’s contacts. According to recent transactions, the five thousand $100 bills in the crate should fetch him £240,000. That was simple enough. All he had to do was arrange an exchange, and then find some way of putting the money into Fylde On-Track. That might be more of a challenge.
He poked around a bit more and found some other useful items. First was a sack barrow for moving the crates. He had wondered how Offlea managed that bit. The man was strong, yes, but he wasn’t built like a piano shifter. Second was an adjustable ramp for getting them into vehicles. Also logical. The most interesting item was a stand-alone printer that churned out vehicle number plates along with a box of vinyl films and blank plates. He would enjoy playing with that.
He left everything where it was except for one of the phones and locked up behind himself. Knocking on the farmhouse door, he found the family sitting around the kitchen table. The baby was asleep in a basket, and a young girl wearing a tutu had joined them. She was clearly the cupboard door artist, judging from the felt tip pens scattered amongst the mugs and teapot. If old Joseph had a wife, she was nowhere to be seen today. They didn’t stand up to greet him: he just took off his wellingtons and joined them at the table. Joe poured a cup of tea.
‘You’ve met Kelly,’ said old Joseph, nodding at his son’s wife. ‘This is her daughter, Natasha.’
Ouch. That made things very clear. Kelly had brought a child on to the farm who would be forever labelled as not belonging to Joe. The child carried on drawing, oblivious.
Young Joe passed the tea and said, ‘There’s something we should ask you. Do you mind if we keep the hurdles and stuff in the other shed? If you have a bigger van, they might get in the way.’
‘I haven’t got a van at the moment,’ said Clarke.
‘You’re not into fish as well, are you?’ said Kelly, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
Even Natasha joined in. ‘Smelly fish.’
‘You’ve lost me there,’ said Clarke.
‘Your predecessor used to keep a van up there,’ said Joseph. ‘He’d leave his Range Rover and take the van for a couple of days at a time. Or more. When he came back, he liked to dump rotting fish out in the pasture. I wouldn’t have minded, but there was a lot of scallops mixed in. They’d have fetched a packet if they was fresh.’
‘I’ll try not to do that.’ Clarke finished his tea. ‘One more thing before I go. I’m staying in a hotel at the moment. Do you know anyone who might have somewhere to rent for six months?’
The two men turned to look at Kelly. She shrugged and said, ‘I don’t mind. So long as we can spend the money on doing it up after.’
Old Joseph spoke for them. ‘We have a little bungalow on the edge of the farm. It’s where my parents retired to, and we’ve had it as a holiday let, but it’s not been doing too well. We’re not exactly on the tourist trail here. The youngsters were going to move in after Christmas but Kelly’s right, it could do with a bit of sprucing up first.’
‘Does it have heating? Furniture? A telephone?’
‘It even has Wi-Fi,’ said Joe. ‘We put it in because the lettings agency said we could get more for it, but it’s just been a waste standing empty. How much should we charge, Dad?’
Joseph stroked his chin. ‘For a residential let, I think six hundred a month is the going rate.’
‘Here’s the deal,’ said Clarke. ‘I’ll give you six months’ rent in advance, in cash. You keep all the services in your name, and I’ll pay for them at the end.’
‘When do you want to move in?’ said Joe.
‘How about Monday? Give you a couple of days to get the place warmed up and aired.’
Joseph held out his hand, and they shook on the deal.
Ian Hooper was in a thoroughly bad mood. It made things worse that he knew he was in a bad mood, but could do nothing about it. The hospital had finally discharged him this morning, and he discovered that his first-floor flat was effectively a prison. Getting up the stairs had almost incapacitated him, and he wasn’t going anywhere until Monday morning, when he was back at the hospital for a physiotherapy assessment.
Ceri had been marvellous. Again. She had walked one step behind him as he tackled the stairs and done her best to make him comfortable on the settee. And then she went out.
He had encouraged her to go out. He had told her that he wanted to watch the rugby, and that she should go and see her friend and that he would be alright. Well, he wasn’t alright at all.
England had been trounced by the South Africans at Twickenham. The two beers he had allowed himself had gone straight to his bladder, and the effort of getting to the bathroom had felt like his stitches were bursting. And what were they going to do tonight? Unless he could think of a better idea, in a couple of hours he was going to be watching Strictly Come Dancing.
He reached into the sports bag next to him where Ceri had put all his things from the hospital. He had told her that he would finish a couple of puzzles or read Matt Dawson’s autobiography, but it was neither of these things that he got out of the bag. It was last week’s Sunday Examiner.
The man who had shot him was pictured on the front page. Benedict Adaire. Every time he looked at the picture, he was taken back to the Goods Yard and he could hear Adaire’s voice saying we know where you live, we know where your wee girlie teaches. And on the second page was a small picture of DI Morton, taken a long time ago.
Morton had told him to decide whether he wanted to be a copper or not. He had talked about having to decide where his loyalties lay. Morton was happy being a copper and serving whatever Higher Power he thought was in charge of the universe. Ian wasn’t. His loyalties began and ended with Ceri. He heard light footsteps outside and put the newspaper back in his bag.
Chapter 8
London – Earlsbury – Fylde
Monday – Tuesday – Wednesday
29 November-1 December
It was five o’clock in the mo
rning. Tom and Kate were huddled around her laptop, drinking coffee. Both were checking the travel news: Tom for the M40, Kate for Heathrow. Although snow had been falling through the night, both motorway and airport seemed clear.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘It’ll take me ten minutes to get the car. There shouldn’t be any traffic wardens at this time of day.’
He rinsed his mug and put it on her drainer, then crossed the small landing to his flat next door. His cases were packed, and he lugged them downstairs, leaving them at the front door. In ten minutes’ time Kate would wheel all their luggage out of Horsefair Court, and he would meet her on Carter Lane.
He slipped twice on the way to the long-stay car park, and felt the dressing move on his arm. That would need attention later. Neither of them spoke as he drove through the whirls of snow towards the West End. The local radio told them that the motorway in Kent was closed due to a multiple accident, but fortune smiled on them, and Tom was soon on the road to Heathrow.
‘For the last time,’ he said. ‘You’re sure that this job is on the level? No one’s going to slip poteen into your luggage? Or leprechauns?’
‘Not this time. I’ve already been in touch with my new client, and the chief executive is fuming about the leak. I’ll be alright, Tom, but I’m worried about you. This Jigsaw crew are a violent lot when you get close to them.’
He dropped her at Departures and stepped out of the car to remove some of the layers of clothing he’d put on for the walk from the flat. A quick kiss and she was gone to Dublin.
Two hours later, he pulled into a colder but less snowy Midland Counties Police headquarters and signed for two document boxes, which HR had left for him to collect. He completed the journey to Earlsbury, and at half past eight he was finishing his breakfast in the BCSS canteen where Hayes joined him.
‘Blimey, sir, what time did you get up this morning? I thought you might be snowed in down there.’
‘That’s one reason I left so early. Another reason was that I wanted to pick up the files from HQ.’
‘I am impressed. Want another tea? Of course you do.’
‘Let’s take them to the office.’
Steaming mugs on their desks, Tom pointed to the sealed cartons from HR. ‘This is the point of no return, Kris.’
‘That’s a bit dramatic for a Monday morning.’
‘But it’s true. If you’re with me when we open those boxes, you can’t pull out. No matter how nasty it gets, you’ll have to stay the distance.’
She hardened her expression and crossed her arms. ‘I’ve already apologised for bailing out last time. It won’t happen again. Besides, how nasty can it get? I can’t see the Chief’s PA planting a bomb on us.’
Tom winced and felt his shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean that. Look, sir, one of the reasons I couldn’t hack it last time was that I didn’t want to believe that it had happened. I didn’t want to find out that even more police officers were bent. I just wanted to work in a place where you could trust people. When I heard what happened to you, when I saw you in hospital, I realised that you can never trust everyone. We can make MCPS a better place doing this.’
‘I hope so, Kris, I really do. Okay, let’s begin. First of all, did your efforts with Griffin’s arrest records throw up any interesting connections?’
She grinned and opened the secure cupboard. There was nothing inside it except three slim folders which she passed to Tom. He took the scissors out of the desktidy and offered the handles to her. ‘You open the personnel records: I’ll read these.’
Old Joseph climbed into the Land Rover and gave Clarke directions to Ribblegate Cottage. ‘It’s not a cottage at all,’ he said. ‘It’s a bungalow.’
Clarke turned round in the yard and drove past some trees and down a dip. Typically for farmers, they had built the new house on an unproductive piece of land at the bottom of a sloping area of scrub grass and backed by trees. By using this land for building, there had been no loss of grazing. The plain brick walls almost oozed damp, but the Kirkhams had been true to their word. Inside the bungalow, the oil-fired heating was on, and Joseph took pride in showing him the power shower. It was fitted over the bath, but it would be a welcome boost during the cold weather.
‘Where are you staying at the minute?’ he asked.
‘At the Fylde Sporting Hotel. Do you know it?’
‘Just a bit. You’ll have met my great grandfather then.’
‘I don’t see how, but tell me anyway.’
‘If you’ve been up the grand entrance to the old building, you’ll have seen some portraits in the gallery. My great grandfather was the younger son of the Earl of Morecambe Bay. He was a great sportsman and reckoned that if he built a racecourse near Blackpool he’d get all the trippers to come along.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. In principle.’
‘Aye, in principle. But he was too much of a gentleman to stick to racing. He thought that if he built a gentlemen’s club, he could get all the quality folk to go there too – have shooting parties and such like. Fool.’
‘It didn’t go well, I take it.’
‘Trouble is, there weren’t enough rich folk around here to make it pay. He had to sell the racecourse after only a couple of years. Some theatrical entrepreneur from London bought it. Great grandfather took to drink and left his wife and child to fend for themselves. A hundred-and-odd years later, here we are, still fending for ourselves.’
‘You’re trying hard to make a future for Joe and Kelly. And the grandchildren.’
‘Grandchild. I’ve only the one so far. Plenty of time yet.’
Double ouch. Clarke opened the fridge and found a pint of milk already in place. He offered to use it to make them tea.
‘Another time. I’ll let you settle in. I need to see how David’s getting on with the sheep. We keep a few over winter.’
‘David? Oh yes – young Joe. Of course.
The farmer left, and Clarke set about moving in. He had brought everything except the storage box, which had been couriered from London. He wasn’t sure what to do with that yet. Half way through hanging up his shirts, he got a phone call from the Race Office.
‘Mr Clarke? I’ve got Mr Bentley for you.’
It was his boss. Or nominally his boss. The Chief Exec of all things Fylde Racecourse (and son-in-law to Sir Stephen Jennings) had only spoken to him once, when he handed over the key to Offlea’s cottage. Bentley had told him to make an appointment for next week. Maybe he couldn’t wait. The assistant connected the call, and Bentley spoke. His tone was far more conciliatory today.
‘How’s things, Conrad?’
‘I’m just moving into my new digs.’
‘Glad to hear it. Listen, I’ve had Sir Stephen on the phone.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘It’s Olivia’s birthday this weekend and it’s something of a Jennings tradition to celebrate it up here. We all gather for supper on Friday night at the Sporting Hotel, then next morning we head up to Hartsford Hall for a shoot. After that it’s Livi’s birthday dinner at their Michelin-starred restaurant.’
‘Very nice, I’m sure.’
‘Yes. The thing is that Stephen would like to see you for a chat and thought you might like to join us for Friday supper and the shoot – if you’re into that sort of thing.’
Clarke tugged his forelock. He wished Bentley were there in person to see him do it. On the other hand, Clarke had never been a proud man. Although excluded from the fancy dinner, he wasn’t going to turn down a day’s shooting. He was less sure about the family supper, though.
‘Sounds good. Where’s Hartsford Hall?’
‘It’s the Earl of Morecambe Bay’s country house. Or it used to be. He lives in part of it now, and the rest is a hotel. It’s near Cairndale – we get a minibus there and back. It’s good sport.’
Clarke had done some research on Bentley. He had gone to a school not dissimilar to his own, and then a minor university, and th
en a career in the City. He was doing well at it, apparently, until he married Olivia Jennings. A couple of years later, he became squire of the racecourse. To hear the man talk, you’d think his family went back to the Domesday Book.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ said Clarke. ‘If you can lend me a gun, I’d be grateful. I haven’t got round to applying for a UK shotgun licence since I left the RAF.’
‘No problem.’
‘About the supper, though … I really don’t want to intrude on a family occasion.’
‘Stephen was most insistent. Not only does he want to talk business, he said that you’ll need to bite the bullet at some point.’
‘That’s what worried me. You mean that Amelia’s going to be there, don’t you?’
‘’Fraid so, old chap.’
Sod it. Jennings was right – the sooner he met her and got it over with, the sooner he could disappear back into the woodwork. He tugged his forelock again and asked Bentley what time he should be there on Friday.
‘Any time from eight o’clock. Supper’s served at nine. See you there.’
Despite signing up to a horrendously expensive deal for their minuscule office and secure cupboard, Tom and Kris did not yet have a connection to the BCSS switchboard. If they did, they might have received warning of their first visitor on Tuesday morning.
‘This is where you’re skulking,’ said a woman, who burst open the door and nearly knocked Hayes flying.
Tom spent half a second noting that she was dressed for the cold before recognising the Chief’s Personal Assistant, Evelyn Andrews, from the photograph in her file. He stood up and moved between the woman and the two desks where confidential paperwork was strewn everywhere.
‘Good morning, Mrs Andrews. I’m DCI Morton. How can I help?’
She stepped right into his personal space so that she could close the door. Tom couldn’t help flinching. Then she stepped back and said, ‘You can tell me what’s going on. I had a phone call from a friend last night. She told me that my personal file had been copied out to Professional Standards. What’s going on?’