by Alex Scarrow
‘History isn’t one of my strong subjects,’ said Boyd.
‘Well, it is mine. I did a degree in it. And it’s a subject that illuminates the future as much as it does the past. Things are changing here, and changing fast. We have a new elite setting up home. And they have more money and more influence than the old boys.’
‘So we’re swapping one set of bastards for another, then? Is that what you’re saying?’
She smiled. ‘It’s a lot easier talking plainly, isn’t it?’
‘It helps,’ he admitted.
‘So… all that said, I’m being politely asked, by the old guard, to influence the outcome of this particular investigation.’
‘Just like the Nix case.’
‘Yes, only, unlike the Nix case, I’m inclined to ignore this request.’
He hadn’t been expecting that. ‘What?’
‘Follow this case wherever it goes, Boyd. If it leads to the front door of some Knight of the Garter or some House of Lords grandee, I don’t care. I’m not going to stop you nor pull you off the case.’
Boyd stared at her, unsure as to how to respond.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Boyd,’ she said. ‘What you need to understand is that at my rank and upwards, neutrality isn’t an available option. You are part of a solution or part of a problem. You’re on one side or the other.’ She was fiddling with the fountain pen again. ‘There is a changing of the guard, Boyd. The old Junta is being replaced with the new… and the best way to demonstrate one’s allegiance to the new ones is to help put the old ones to the sword. And this is not a hill that I’m prepared to make a last stand on. Fuck them.’
So… she sat back. ‘How is the investigation going?’
Just like that? From casually admitting to gross misconduct, to asking for an update within thirty seconds?
‘We have a potential lead, a journalist,’ he said cautiously.
‘With a story, I presume?’
‘Yeah. In a nutshell – a rich boys’ initiation party. A female student was drugged and raped by a number of them. She died from a combination of the narcotics and alcohol.’
Her mouth dropped open as he explained most of what Darren Jacobs had told them yesterday – holding back his name and where precisely they’d stashed him.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘The haute monde, they can’t help themselves, can they?’
‘Sorry?’ he said, wishing she’d stick to English.
‘Those born into it.’ She shook her head, looking genuinely disgusted. ‘The “little people” mean nothing to them. I want you to nail those bastards, Boyd.’
On that point, it seemed, they were in total agreement.
‘So this informant, Boyd, is he safe?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘For the moment.’
‘Will he interview willingly?’
‘I think so. If he’s protected.’
‘Well then, for goodness’ sake, bring him in!’ She got up and rounded the desk. ‘And, for the love of Christ, do it now and do it discreetly.’
She went over to the cabinet where she’d placed his phones. ‘Take DI Lane with you. He’s trained in close protection. Just in case.’
‘Can… he be trusted?’
She turned to look back at him. ‘What do you think? You’ve been working with him.’
‘He seems straight,’ he said.
‘Okay. Well, don’t make a big fuss about it. You and Lane go and get him.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And you’ll be back for lunch.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She returned his phones to him. ‘Plain talking.’ She managed a faint smile. ‘It’s rather refreshing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Good, well… hopefully that’s the last time we’ll need to have a conversation like that. Now let’s get your informant here asap.’
61
‘Not that I mind being whipped off my feet and whisked away to some surprise spa retreat, but…’ Lane turned to look at Boyd as he drove past the eagles standing guard to Sutton’s ruins and headed up London Road and out of town. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We got a lead yesterday after you left to check into your B&B,’ Boyd replied.
‘And?’
Boyd found himself evaluating on the fly. How much to share? There was no reason not to trust Lane, but at this stage all he needed to know was that they were picking up someone who might be useful to the investigation.
‘Someone came forward with new information on Sutton.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
Boyd nodded.
‘What was he doing – drug dealing or something?’ joked Lane. ‘Home-cooking meth?’
‘He had compromising material.’
‘On who?’ Lane asked.
‘We’re bringing him in to interview. Hopefully we’ll get some names,’ Boyd said.
‘Who’s the informant?’
Boyd glanced his way. ‘Lane… I don’t want to sound like an arse, okay. But I’m keeping names out of it until we get him safely to Hastings.’
Lane raised his hands in supplication. ‘That’s fine. I get it.’
‘I brought you along because you’re trained in close protection.’
Lane’s brows raised. ‘Seriously? Are you actually expecting trouble?’
‘Not expecting it, exactly, but, you know… It’s always best to be prepared, right?’
‘Christ,’ Lane muttered. ‘It’s all got very serious all of a sudden.’
Boyd cleared Hastings and they travelled up a relatively empty A21, listening to Radio 4.
‘…the prime minister’s pre-election cabinet pick. It’s thought that he’ll be looking to give the cabinet a few long-serving familiar faces from the back benches to reassure the party and the public alike that wiser, older minds are steering Britain into the turbulent future…’
‘Jobs for the old boys,’ said Lane. He looked at Boyd. ‘But in the end they’re all the same…. aren’t they?’
‘Politicians?’
‘I was going to say the Eton lot and the like. Groomed from birth to be either ministers or board members, moving from one easy gig to the next… and all the time privately patting themselves on the back.’
‘Christ, you sound like Emma.’ And Hatcher, Boyd thought.
‘Doesn’t that bug you, Boyd?’
‘A little. Not enough to vote Labour if that’s where you’re going.’
‘Who would you vote for?’ Lane asked.
‘None of the above.’
Lane shrugged. ‘Well, there you go… That’s why the old boys network is so entrenched.’
They drove on in silence for a while, the radio talking for them.
‘So… whose job do you think is safe in the cabinet, Laura?’
‘Well, it does seem that Tim Portman is a very popular choice within the party. He’s been a stoic supporter of the PM through the recent difficult times. He performs well on camera, and he has the advantage of being quite charming and debonair. Some are likening him to David Owen. So a future PM perhaps? A fresh face for the party and a chance to rebrand their image after all the sleaze and cronyism allegations…’
Boyd reached out and switched to Radio Two.
62
Okeke arrived at work an hour late. She’d got home at nine last night. In any case, she was certain Sutherland would rather she flexed her hours than log overtime.
Plus, last night had been sleepless. Her mind had been racing in tear-arsing circles with Darren Jacobs’ story. And then, when she’d finally dropped off at whatever o’clock and woke up this morning, the whole thing was beginning to sound a little like a paranoid conspiracy theory.
Maybe… this girl, Amy Cheetham, did go missing after some Oxford freshers party? That was something she was going to check on LEDS first thing this morning. But… her friend Laura Khan being murdered in such a public way ten years later? Then the MP Chris Lewis? And someone as well known as Sir Arthur Sutton?
It
struck her that a group of rich, now middle-aged men – who shared a secret from their past that would destroy them if it came out – would be somewhat more circumspect and cautious about how they covered it up.
She entered the Incident Room and noticed it was down a couple of people. ‘Where’s the guv?’
‘He nipped out with Lane,’ said Minter. ‘Didn’t really catch where they were off to, to be honest.’
‘How long ago?’
Minter checked his watch. ‘Three quarters of an hour ago, or thereabouts.’
She hadn’t seen Boyd’s Renault in the staff car park. She’d presumed he hadn’t walked into work today, because, in all likelihood, the first order of business would probably have been to bring Jacobs into the station.
He’s gone to get him… with Lane. Jacobs was her discovery. Not Lane’s. The conclusion stung more than a little. She hung her jacket over the back of her chair, switched on her PC, then wandered into the kitchenette and slapped the kettle on.
It’s not fucking fair. While she waited for it to boil, she went over to see how Warren and O’Neal were doing.
‘How’s the CCTV going?’
O’Neal answered. ‘We’re just going through a bunch from the shops by Pelham Arcade.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘You could help?’ said Minter, looking up from his screen. She gave him a sharp glance, and he shrugged. ‘Many hands make light work, Okeke?’
‘Yes, sarge,’ she replied sarcastically. She had been going to offer to make a brew, but that ship had sailed. She went back to her desk and logged on.
She navigated to their team’s shared storage area to find that the CCTV footage had been dumped into folders named by the shops they’d come from.
‘Who’s on what?’ she asked.
‘I’m on Chappy’s Chippy,’ said O’Neal.
‘I’m doing the café right now,’ said Minter.
‘The corner shop’s been done. And I’m doing the tobacconists at the moment,’ said Warren.
She sighed. ‘All right… Seaside Gifts is mine, I guess.’
Boyd pulled into the Travelodge’s car park and found a space tucked away in a discreet corner.
‘Good thinking,’ said Lane. ‘Away from the reception cams. We should sneak him out of a side exit rather than reception, if that’s possible.’
Boyd nodded. ‘Are your bodyguard superpowers tingling yet?’
Lane looked around the car park. ‘There’s nothing here that looks like goons-in-waiting.’
‘All right, then.’ Boyed pulled out his phone and dialled the number for Jacobs’ new pay-as-you-go. It rang a dozen times before going to answerphone. He glanced at Lane and dialled again.
There was still no answer.
‘Boyd,’ said Lane. ‘We going in?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Let’s go.’
They made their way to the reception.
‘Morning,’ Boyd said to the receptionist. ‘We’ve come to collect one of your guests. It’s a Mr Jay Turner. I believe he’s in room twenty-three.’
She checked her screen. ‘Yes, yes he is.’
‘Great, can you buzz us through and we’ll go knock on his door?’ He pulled out his warrant card. ‘Police,’ he added.
‘Oh. Are you arresting someone?’ she asked.
‘No, just collecting. May we…?’
She buzzed the door to the rooms and Boyd pushed it open. ‘It’s up the stairs on your right,’ she called out as they stepped through.
‘Boyd, wait,’ said Lane after the glass door swung shut behind them. He seemed to Boyd to be taking this a little more seriously now. ‘Let me take point.’ He pulled his jacket aside to show a discreet shoulder holster.
‘Jesus, Lane! Is that logged out from London?’
‘It’s unofficial,’ he replied. ‘If it turns out there’s no problem here, can we say you didn’t see it?’
‘Shit.’ Boyd nodded. ‘Have you been wearing that since you joined us?’
He shrugged. ‘Most days.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, Lane.’
‘I’m licenced to carry,’ he pointed out.
Boyd sighed. ‘Provided you don’t bring it into the bloody office again, I guess I can have not glimpsed it just now.’
‘Deal.’ Lane stepped round Boyd and led the way up the stairs. At the top they picked out room twenty-three and cautiously approached it. Boyd leant close to the door and listened. He could hear that the TV in the room was on.
‘Telly’s on,’ Boyd whispered. He dialled Jacobs’ phone again and leant in to listen once more. After a few seconds he heard its ringtone.
Lane could hear it too. ‘That’s not promising,’ he said.
Boyd was about to hang up when the call was answered. ‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘Jacobs?’ he replied.
There was a long pause, then: ‘Is that you, DCI Boyd?’
He felt a surge of relief. ‘I’m outside your hotel-room door.’
A moment later, the door clicked open and Darren Jacobs’ dark beard and battered nose appeared in the gap. His small sleepy eyes squinted suspiciously out at Lane. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is DI Lane. He’s one of my team. We’ve come to bring you in. We’re going to take your statement down in Hastings. Then sort you out with witness protection. Are you ready?’
‘Oh, thank fuck,’ Jacobs said, visibly relieved, and beckoned them in.
63
Warren quickly realised that the entire day was going to be devoted to watching CCTV on his monitor. Of the nine seafront businesses from which they’d acquired footage yesterday, only one of them had a modern motion-sensor-activated camera. The rest were five or ten years old: cameras that recorded at a rate of two frames a second. Their jerky images gave him a stress headache in much the same way as watching a film that was having buffering issues. He’d already spent an eye-watering hour watching stop-motion kids and mums come and go from the corner shop. Another hour of that and he was going to need a lie-down.
He opened the folder for the old-fashioned tobacconist’s shop, fully expecting a stop-motion migraine for the next hour, but was relieved to discover that the folder was full of lots of little AVI files instead of a single twenty-hour file.
Thank fuck.
He remembered now that the old man in the shop had said he’d only had his CCTV installed a year or so ago. The files – there were three hundred and two of them – were all small, and mercifully named with a timestamp. Looking at the dates, the oldest was a fortnight ago; they’d been lucky to pick them up when they did. Another couple of days and, starting with the oldest, they’d have been deleted.
Warren scrolled down the list of files until he reached the date of the Eagle House fire, then continued through that day until 5.45 p.m., the time at which the mystery figure had been spotted emerging from Pelham car park and crossing the road.
He double-clicked the first of six recordings that had occurred during that hour. The first AVI file opened to show a view from the corner of the shop that took in the shop’s door and most of its small interior including, nearest to camera, the edge of the counter. He watched the back of the old man, as he wandered over to the door, opened it and looked out.
‘Slow day, eh?’ muttered Warren. He watched to the end of the clip and sighed. He’d just spent forty-seven seconds watching the old man standing in his doorway. The good news was that half a dozen figures had passed his door in that time and, although none of them were their man, the image quality was good enough, and in colour, to be sure of that.
He double-clicked on the next file. The same view appeared on the screen, this time with a customer entering the shop. Warren lurched forward in his seat.
The figure entering the tobacconists was darkly clad, with a bulky rucksack on his back and wearing a dark-blue baseball cap.
‘Shit.’
The man wandered over towards the counter. His free hand was gesturing slightly
; he was asking something. The back of the old man’s head was in shot as he turned round and pointed at something behind him.
Baseball Cap Man removed the rucksack and set it down on the floor. To Warren’s eyes, it looked heavy. The man seemed relieved to offload it as he leant on the glass counter and pointed at something. His face, most of it anyway, was obscured by the peak of the cap. Warren could see his mouth moving, though.
The old man pulled something from the shelf behind him and showed it to his customer. It looked like a pack of cigarettes.
Baseball Cap Man nodded, then pointed again. Warren thought he could guess what he was saying, or thereabouts. ‘Yeah, mate… Those are the ones. Gimme another pack, could you?’
The old man produced a second box and set it on the counter.
Warren leaned closer to the screen. Come on. Come on. The holy grail moment, that’s what he was waiting for, hoping for… Pull out a card reader…
Baseball Cap Man reached into his back pocket and took something out. As he passed it over the counter, Warren’s heart sank.
Cash.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he hissed.
‘You all right there, Warren?’ called out Minter.
Warren answered without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘I think I’ve got him!’
64
‘All right,’ said Lane, peering out into the corridor. ‘The coast is clear.’
He led the way to the stairs; Jacobs followed, with Boyd bringing up the rear.
Jacobs had hastily dressed in the first clothes he could grab: a floral short-sleeved shirt, dark tracksuit bottoms and a pair of sandals.
When Boyd suggested he wear something more practical, he pointed at the flaky rash across his feet. ‘I’ve got psoriasis in case you hadn’t noticed. I need air on my feet otherwise I get –’
‘Fine. Fine.’ Boyd didn’t want a detailed account. ‘Sandals are fine, mate, honestly. But let’s get a move on.’
At the rear, Boyd couldn’t help a quick glance down at Jacobs’ feet. They were raw and red from being scratched, and had been dusted with a coating of talcum powder that was leaving a pitiful trail in his wake.