by Will North
PENWARREN FOLLOWED THE ambulance carrying Jan back to the Royal Cornwall Hospital, not because he was worried about her care there, but because he needed a more conclusive diagnosis of Randall Cuthbertson’s condition. The man had shot two people. The physician who had been treating his rapidly progressing dementia had ordered a new scan of Randall’s brain, only partly because of the concussion. Penwarren met Dr. Lawrence Fairchild at the hospital’s imaging center. Despite sporting a wispy moustache that matched his cropped blond hair, Penwarren had trouble believing Fairchild could be old enough to have gone through medical school, although his manner was authoritative. They sat beside each other, facing a wide screen computer monitor.
“This is the image we took yesterday.” It was a top-down view of Cuthbertson’s skull. He pointed to a spot on the left side, where there was a shadow. “That’s a hematoma from the concussion. It’s already receding. But look at this.” He brought up another image. “This one was taken more than a month ago. Compare it with the latest one and what do you see?”
“More dark space in the new one?”
“Exactly. This new scan shows just how rapidly his disease has spread. I don’t know why this man is even able to be upright. His brain and his body are shutting down. He is very close to death.”
“This brain deterioration will actually kill him?”
“Yes.”
“How long, then?”
Fairchild shrugged. “Days? Weeks? It’s impossible to say. His family should make preparations.”
“His family—daughter and wife—are both recovering in this hospital. He shot both of them.”
“Good Lord. I will say that violence is not uncommon in cases like this. With this level of deterioration,” he said gesturing to the most recent image on the screen, “I feel confident in saying he would not have been in his right mind, as they say. Will he be prosecuted?”
“I can’t say. That’s a matter for the Crown Prosecution Service. And that takes time.”
“I understand,” Fairchild said. “Time, Detective, is something Mr. Cuthbertson doesn’t have. We cannot release him, given his condition. He will probably die here.”
DAYLIGHT SLID WESTWARD beyond the window in Beverly Cuthbertson’s room. It had been a cold, dreary Saturday. In the gathering darkness, Penwarren sat on an unforgiving chair beside her bed. A nurse had wanted to switch on a light when she came to check her patient’s blood pressure, but he’d said no. Though still sedated, she was breathing on her own now, no oxygen tubes. He’d been at her side for two hours, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest and the regular neon yellow path her heartbeat traced on the monitor above her head. A nurse assistant had wheeled Jan over from the building next door to Trelawney and they’d sat together, saying almost nothing, until Jan had to return to her room for more pain meds. Just before she left, she squeezed his forearm and whispered, “She loves you, you know.”
Penwarren looked at her but was speechless. Later, the sky outside now dark and the only light coming from the monitors, he slipped a hand beneath her blanket and held hers. Moments later, her eyes flickered, struggled to focus, and she saw him.
“Artie. My sweet Artie,” she said and then slipped away again.
Day Twenty-One
Forty-Five
PENWARREN WAS DRIVING out of Padstow Sunday morning when the mobile resting on the black leather bucket seat beside him rang. He pulled into the forecourt of the Texaco petrol station at the top of the hill. It was Morgan.
“Did I wake you, boss?”
“It may be Sunday, but I am already on the road, I’ll have you know.”
“Heading south to the hospital?”
“Did you have a reason for calling, Morgan?”
“Sorry, boss. Just being cheeky.”
“What a surprise. But yes, I was.”
“You might want to detour to Bodmin. Adam and I are both here and we think we know where O’Dare went.”
When he arrived at the incident room, Novak had put a map of the UK and Ireland on one wall and had drawn a circle centered on the Davidstow aerodrome.
“I reached the president of the little flying club late yesterday,” Morgan said, “and found out what kind of plane O’Dare has. This morning, I had Adam come in and he did his research magic and found that, while it is technically what’s called an ‘ultralight,’ it has a powerful engine and a 220 mile range. That’s the approximate radius of this circle. We’ve done a search of aerodromes in Ireland, or rather Adam did, and there’s only one within the plane’s range.” She nodded to the constable. “Adam?”
Novak made a mark at head of narrow bay on the very edge of the ragged southeastern coast of County Cork. Penwarren crossed the room and joined him.
“Bantry Bay. It’s a private airstrip,” Adam said.
“And get this,” Morgan practically crowed, “it’s owned by a pharmaceutical company. How’s that for drug-running convenience?”
Penwarren took a seat and stared at the map for a few moments. “This is marvelous work, you two. Thank you, both. Has anyone contacted Dunleavy in Cork?”
“Terry did, or at least she left a message at the headquarters there this morning. She was told he’s likely at church. They’ve texted him. She’s on her way here.”
“Correction,” Terry said as she marched into the room, her wavy, ginger hair bouncing. “She’s already here. But I haven’t heard from Dunleavy yet.”
As if on cue, her mobile rang. She passed it to Penwarren.
“Superintendent Dunleavy, good morning!”
“Don’t you even get the weekend off?”
“I think that’s above my pay level, sir.”
Dunleavy rumbled a laugh. “Apparently mine, too. What’s up?”
Penwarren explained.
“That’s about sixty miles from here, on mostly minor roads, but I’ll have a team there in a bit over an hour. I’ll be with them.”
“I doubt you’ll find O’Dare waiting for you, sir.”
“Nonetheless.”
“BLOODY WILD GOOSE chase you sent me on Penwarren! I’ll not forget that!” It was Crawley on the phone, in high dudgeon as usual. Penwarren had just found a space for the Healey in the car park outside the hospital.
“Malcolm? Is that you? I’m in Truro. Bad signal apparently. Can you speak up?”
“Ministry of Defence, dammit! Know what they told me?”
“Hello, Malcolm?” Penwarren was enjoying this ruse.
“That they have better things to do with their satellites than watch the bloody coast of Cornwall!”
Penwarren shut his car door and walked toward the hospital entrance. “I don’t know whether you can hear me, Malcolm, your voice keeps breaking up. But if you can, I can report that my people have worked out where we think O’Dare went and colleagues in the Irish Garda are on their way to a private airstrip on the southwest coast of Cork. I’ll keep you posted.” He turned off his phone and pocketed it.
Beverly’s eyes were open when he entered her room. Someone had elevated the back of her hospital bed.
“Hello, darling man. Look at me! I seem to be alive after all. Jan was here a little while ago, in a wheelchair. They expect to discharge her tomorrow.”
Her voice was weak. As he had the night before, he took her hand and this time she squeezed it.
“How are you? Are you in pain?”
She shook her head slowly. “They’re giving me something for pain—I don’t know what—but at least I am awake. That’s a mixed blessing. I keep running what happened in my head. How is Randall? Jan says he’s being guarded.”
“His doctor says he’s likely to die here in the hospital. I’m so sorry, Bev.”
“Jan said he had a concussion. Did he fall off that damn horse?”
Penwarren dodged the question. “That’s not what will kill him, luv.”
She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes. I understand.”
She squeezed his hand again, this ti
me firmly. “Jan told me everything this morning, Artie. Good Lord, what an idiot she’s been. Will she be arrested?”
Penwarren smiled and shook his head. “She’ll be at home. I suppose it’s a sort of house arrest, in that I’ll have to have someone there. But I don’t think she plans to go anywhere. And she wants to look after you when you are discharged. Your nurse tells me that may be soon. They’ll give you antibiotics to prevent infection and something for pain.”
“Will you look after me, too, Artie?”
He stood and kissed her forehead.
“Faithfully,” he said.
DUNLEAVY CALLED PENWARREN late in the afternoon. “I’m standing on the tarmac at Bantry Bay. This bloody airstrip is barely longer than my driveway at home and drops into the ocean at both ends!”
“O’Dare’s plane is an STOL.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Short Take Off and Landing.”
“That makes sense. We have the plane. It seems to be made partly of fabric stretched over thin aluminum struts. I wouldn’t even sit on the ground in the damn thing!”
“Where did you find it?”
“In one of the unlocked wooden sheds here.”
“And no O’Dare, of course.”
“No, and he looks to have left in a hurry. He even left a handgun behind. Presumably someone collected him. This spot is pretty remote.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A Webley .45, of all things.”
“I thought they stopped making them years ago.”
“And you’d be right. But they were the standard issue service revolver for the British Armed Services, including those who fought the IRA in Northern Ireland. I suspect plenty of them were taken off dead or wounded British soldiers and have been nestled in bottom drawers ever since. We’ll take prints, of course.”
“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ll also need your forensics people to give the plane a thorough search: hair, fibers, drugs residue—anything to connect it O’Dare.”
“I’m ahead of you for a change. That team should be here momentarily. But it may take a day or so for them to report.”
“I’m three weeks into a bizarre murder and a week into two related shootings, thankfully not fatal. Relatives of mine, actually. The brass are all over me, Superintendent, but I can wait and I am deeply grateful for everything you’ve done so far.”
“I’ll try to have something for you tomorrow.”
Thank you, sir.”
“You can drop the ‘sir,’ Penwarren.”
Day Twenty-Two
Forty-Six
IT WAS ONLY nine on Monday morning and DCI Ralph Waggoner’s shaved pate was already perspiring. He noticed his right hand was trembling as he made a fist and rapped on the door marked Detective Chief Superintendent Fitzhugh. He resolved to keep it clenched.
“Come!”
There was a certain imperiousness that DCS Margaret Fitzhugh radiated, a stiffness in both manner and appearance, that had given her, though apparently not to her knowledge, the nickname, “Thatcher.” Like the former Tory Prime Minister, Fitzhugh had come from humble origins and, by means of a tough carapace and driving ambition, had risen quickly, from one of Merseyside’s earliest female recruits to the head of Special Branch. She was ten years younger than Waggoner, athletically slender, her streaked, blond hair perfectly coiffed. She was invariably crisply turned out in tailored pantsuits, but with a plunging neckline that almost dared you to admire her décolleté. No one did.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Ralph? And please, do take a seat.” She gestured to the two stiff-backed chairs that faced her uncluttered desk. The wall behind her was hung with framed commendations, lest anyone had forgotten.
“I’ve read your team’s report on the drowning at the Albert Dock Pool last week. Well done.” She looked at the mannish watch on her left wrist and said, “I have a meeting with the Crime Commissioner at eleven. Will this visit be brief?”
“Yes, ma’am, I…”
“If you’ve come to tell me you’re short-handed,” she interrupted, “I know that. But you’ll have to wait for the city council to approve the tax levy before we can bring on new recruits. I am told that is forthcoming.”
“That’s not it, ma’am.”
She looked at her watch again. “Well, what is it?”
“I wish to tender my resignation, ma’am. Immediately.”
Just briefly, he saw her façade crack. She recovered quickly and smiled.
“Well, you certainly have served long and well and I know you have been eligible for retirement for some years, but one usually gives some notice so the force can choose and train a suitable replacement. You said immediately?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
For God’s sake, Waggoner, why now?”
“Late last week, I received a call from a detective superintendent in the Irish Garda, informing me that someone on my staff has been coordinating a drugs trafficking operation for the New IRA.”
“Here? Who?”
“It was Detective Sergeant Bert Doherty.”
“Was?”
“He has apparently fled to Ireland. He worked for Special Branch for several years and had dual citizenship.”
Fitzhugh stood abruptly and pointed. “And this was going on right under your nose?”
“Yes, but through coded communications. The Garda, with the help of our National Crime Agency, broke the code.”
“Jesus, Waggoner, the media will dine out on this news for weeks! Who else knows about this?”
“Only you, ma’am, and possibly the CID in Cornwall. Someone from Liverpool who was involved in this operation down there was murdered. They came north to get our help in identifying the victim. Beyond that, we could not help them. As I said, we knew nothing about it.”
Fitzhugh paced around him as if to contain her fury, and sat again. “I will have to report this to the Commissioner immediately. In the meantime, say nothing. If I hear of a leak, your pension will be in jeopardy. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do.”
She waved a hand in the direction of her door. “Get out.”
In the corridor, Waggoner smiled. It had gone just as he’d hoped. He’d spent the weekend considering his options and had chosen abject, if only partial, confession and resignation. His own role had been almost invisible and he suspected Doherty, if he ever resurfaced, would keep it that way for his own sake. And between his pension and the IRA money he had invested carefully, his future was secure—although the mistress, or the wife, might have to go. He wasn’t sure which.
“I HAVE THE report from ballistics!” Calum said, waving a print-out, as he barged into Penwarren’s office. “Dr. Duncan was right; the bullet wasn’t a small caliber.”
Penwarren turned from his stand-up desk and smiled.
“Yes, it’s a .45. From a Webley revolver.”
West’s shoulders slumped. “Jesus, boss, you take all the fun out of my job.”
“I’m sorry, Calum. Truly. But Dunleavy found the plane and the gun had been left behind. O’Dare must have been in a hurry. Have a seat, my friend.”
Calum did so and Penwarren joined him.
“Let’s consider where we are,” the DCI said. He’d made a short list and set it between them.
“We have a dead body in the mortuary at Treliske, Mr. Lugg, late of the Rough Tor Mire. We now have a bullet which may have killed him and a gun of that caliber. The bullet was found by your people in the hanger where O’Dare packaged his heroin and cocaine for distribution throughout the county. For that, at least, we have solid forensic evidence. We believe Lugg worked for him. So tell me, what are we missing?”
West considered for a moment and then nodded.
“We have nothing to tie O’Dare to Lugg’s murder.”
Penwarren leaned back in his chair: “Correct.”
“But Morgan told me Jan Cuthbertson said in her statement that O’Dare shot Lugg during a fight.”
“And what would the Crown Prosecution Service say about that?”
West closed his eyes and shook his head. “The bloody CPS would dismiss it. She wasn’t there. You’re right. We have no case.”
“No, and not because of any failure on your part, Calum. Your instincts have been spot-on, yours and Morgan’s both. You’re right. There’s no case. Not yet. But I have hope.”
“From?”
“Ireland.”
IT WAS LATE Monday afternoon when Dunleavy called again.
“Cork is a fairly quiet county and our forensics people are not often busy. Drunken pub brawls, late night auto accidents, often involving sheep, the usual. So they’ve been delighted to be busy with your boy’s plane and we have a few things.”
“Are these ‘things,’ things you care to share with me, Detective Superintendent, or are you just stringing me along?”
“‘Heaven forefend! ’, to quote your bard…”
“Come on, Roger.”
“Okay, okay. We have a few fibers and bits of hair. Curly. Also, traces of cocaine and heroin.”
“Yes, well, it was O’Dare’s plane, after all.”
“We also found a small spot of blood on the passenger seat.”
“Blood? Jesus! Can you get me the type and the DNA?”
“Be patient, lad. We helicoptered the sample to Forensic Science Ireland in Dublin with an urgent request. It’s being analyzed as we speak.”
Penwarren had sent his team home. He watched the day fade outside his office window and decided it was time for him to follow suit. Whether it was the case, or Beverly, there was nothing to do but wait.
He hated waiting.
Forty-Seven
CALUM WAS SEARING chicken thighs with butter in a cast iron Dutch oven, when his girls came home from school. Megan, always the curious one when it came to food—he wondered if she were destined to be a chef—peered into the pot just as he sifted flour, salt, and pepper onto the meat and tossed it with the mix. Then he poured in a tin of chicken broth, added a bay leaf and the last sprigs of thyme from the garden outside, covered the pot, and reduced the heat to simmer.