by Tania Carver
The woman shook her head. ‘Stop telling her it’ll be OK. Stop lying to her.’
Tyrell felt anger rise within him once more. This woman seemed to be able to bring that out in him very easily. ‘I’m not lying to her. I mean it. It’s the truth.’ He felt himself holding tight to Josephina. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt her.’
The woman gave another contemptuous snort. ‘Yeah. Right. Whatever. You saw what happened back at the house. You saw what the Golem did to Graham.’ Her mind slipped into a reverie. ‘Graham, oh God, Graham … ’
Tyrell was more interested in something else she’d said. ‘The Golem?’
She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Focus coming back, her words just a perfunctory explanation. ‘Yeah. The Golem. That’s his name.’
‘But why is … why did he do that? Why is he after us? Who is he?’
She shook her head. ‘Questions, questions … He wants to stop me. And you. And he’s a killer. That’s all you need to know.’
Tyrell couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What about … ’ He gestured towards Josephina.
‘And anyone who gets in his way.’
Tyrell’s head was spinning. Hurting from more than the cramp and the sunlight. ‘But … why? Who sent him?’
She looked at him. Straight. There was pity in the look. Tyrell didn’t know if it was for him or herself. ‘Ghosts,’ she said. ‘Ghosts from the past. They’re after us. They’re always after us … ’
‘Then … we’ll go to the police. Tell them what’s happened.’
Her eyes became slits, her mouth narrowed. ‘Don’t be stupid. We can’t go to the police, can we? Remember? If we do, it’ll be the end of everything. No money, no future.’
Tyrell said nothing.
‘D’you want to go back inside? Is that it? Because that’s what would happen. At the very least.’ She shot Josephina a glance. The girl flinched. ‘And God knows what would happen to her without you to protect her … ’
Tyrell felt like crying. At that moment prison didn’t sound too bad. But he wouldn’t leave Josephina with this woman. Definitely not.
‘So that’s why you’re doing this? Money for you, a future for me.’
‘Got it in two,’ she said.
A thought occurred to him. He had to voice it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t care about me. About giving me a future. Just so long as you get your money. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Her eyes flashed. It was like glimpsing a monster hidden behind a mask. ‘Yes. The money. Because by Christ, I’m owed it.’ She moved closer to him. He flinched, stepped backwards, taking Josephina with him. The woman’s lips twisted into an ugly smile. ‘Can’t you remember? Why you went inside? Why you were put away?’
‘No,’ said Tyrell, eyes screwed tight shut. ‘No. I don’t remember. Don’t want to remember. I never remember.’
‘You mean you don’t remember what happened? Any of it?’
‘I … ’ Tyrell could feel his mind slipping back at her words. Could see the bodies before him. Feel the shotgun in his hands. ‘No … ’ He shook his head. Tried to dislodge the memory, think about something else.
She watched him. ‘What about me? Don’t you even remember me?’
‘No,’ Tyrell said, shaking his head, not looking at her. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Not before this, anyway.’
She smiled. Regained some control. Turned away. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way. For now.’
Tyrell’s heart was slowing. He was trying to think. He would have remembered meeting this woman before, he was sure. All he knew about her was that he didn’t like her, didn’t trust her and didn’t want to be with her. And that made up his mind.
‘I’m going,’ he said.
She turned back to him. ‘What?’
‘I’m going. And I’m taking Josephina. You … you can do what you like.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yeah. Yeah really.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Tyrell turned. The woman was holding a gun, pointing it at him.
‘I really don’t think so … ’
55
‘Thought I’d find you in here.’
‘Love a gadget, me. You know that.’
Mickey had made his way into the kitchen. He found a pile of electronic equipment on the table, a mass of wires. And DS Adrian Wren.
Jane Gosling and Adrian Wren were often paired up together. The Birdies, as they had become affectionately known. But whereas Jane was large and gregarious, Adrian was the opposite. Everything about him was thin. His frame, his hair, his features. He was a marathon runner in his spare time, a subject on which he was obsessive to the point of exhausting. A conversation with Adrian and Mickey felt like he’d run a marathon himself. His other passion was electronics. Anything at a crime scene that needed a plug and an instruction manual and he was straight in.
‘So what have we got here, then?’ asked Mickey. ‘Any ideas?’
Adrian looked down at the mess before them, rubbed his chin. ‘Well, this here … ’ He pointed to a small black box. It had an illuminated screen, several buttons and lights, jacks for leads. ‘I reckon that’s a GPS tracker.’
‘Right.’
‘And I reckon it’s been connected to … ’ he indicated the centre of the table, ‘something here. Probably a laptop, from the space made. And given the tangle of wires and the way everything has been left, I’d say whoever was here took off in a hurry.’
‘Probably when the dog murderer appeared.’
‘That what we’re calling him? The dog murderer?’
Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Press loves a nickname.’
‘He killed a man, too.’
‘Yeah. And you know what the media are like. Given the choice between reporting on the murder of a human and the death of a dog, you know which one they’ll always go for.’
‘Right. So dog murderer it is.’
Mickey straightened up, looked round the kitchen. The electronics, gleaming silver and black, were at odds with the surroundings. The sink and cupboards looked over forty years old, and any attempt at upkeep, or even cleaning, had long since been abandoned. The lino on the floor was cracked and stained, leaving huge threadbare gaps over the discoloured and dirty floorboards. The furniture was mismatched and well used. The windows were opaque with dirt, the walls a deep, greasy nicotine orange. Dishes at the side of the sink indicated that there had been three people here; two large plates, one small one, by Mickey’s reckoning.
Lovely, he thought, and returned his gaze to the equipment on the table. ‘So what was all this used for?’
‘Well, if it is a GPS system, which I strongly suspect, then it’s been used to track someone. Or to see if someone’s tracking them. Either way.’
Mickey frowned. ‘And there’s no way of knowing who? Or why?’
‘Not without that computer. But if – or should I say when – we find out who, then it shouldn’t be too difficult to see why.’
‘Ah,’ said Mickey. ‘Police work.’
‘Right.’ Adrian gave a grim smile. ‘Find that laptop, Sergeant.’
‘At once.’
Adrian opened his mouth to speak. Mickey knew what he was going to ask but didn’t think he could talk about Phil again, so he thanked Adrian and turned towards the door leading to the rest of the house.
‘Forensics done in here, are they?’
Adrian shrugged, already back examining the electronics. ‘Don’t know. They let me in, so it must be OK.’
Mickey moved out of the kitchen. The rest of the house was in a similar state. The place had been allowed to fall into serious neglect. He needed to find out who had lived there and what had happened to them.
He walked down the hallway – all peeling, faded floral paper, spreading triangles of mildew in the corners and everything coated in several layers of grease and dirt – and went up the stairs. Sleeping bags and mattresses on the floor. Clothes and belongings, litter and de
bris, from two people sharing the room. In the bathroom, more of the same. A few cosmetics, a fairly new bar of soap, the logo not yet washed off, the wrapper balled up on the floor, a half-used bottle of shampoo. Like someone had been camping indoors. Or squatting. Plenty of stuff for forensics to be going on with.
He went back downstairs and into the living room. Through the filthy windows he could see the team moving about like ghosts in the mist. He looked round the room. A portable TV had been hooked up in the corner, a cheap aerial on top of it. The settee was huge, horsehair stuffing falling out of it. An old blanket had been used as a throw. And on the door handle, a rope.
He crossed the room, looked at it. It hung down over a sheet-covered mattress. A small bowl at the side. This must be where the third one had been sleeping. He looked at the rope once more. Tied up? Against their will, a captive? Christ …
He hurried back into the kitchen. Adrian was still poring over the GPS system. ‘Adrian, can you get the team together? Need to have a few words.’
It took a few minutes, but soon everyone was assembled outside the house, away from any TV cameras. They all stood there looking at him, expectant.
I’ve got to inspire them, Mickey thought. Say the kind of thing Phil would say if he was here. Send them off to do their jobs. Make them the best they can be. Searching for Marina would have to wait. This case would now take priority. That was how the system worked.
‘Right, listen up,’ he said, unconsciously echoing the words Phil always used to start a briefing. They were listening. ‘The boss, as you all know, isn’t here. And in his absence, it falls to me to take charge. So here’s what we’ve got and here’s what we’ll do. First thing. Identification of the deceased. Jane, coordinate with uniforms. Get this area canvassed, door to door. I know neighbours are a bit thin on the ground round here, but someone saw the dogs so they may have seen something else. Hopefully something suspicious.’
‘Like a murderer coming up the drive?’ asked Jane.
‘Exactly that. And Adrian, it looks like someone’s either rented this place or was squatting here. Obviously rented would be best and easiest for us. Get on to that. Check rental agencies, find out who owns this place, who owns that caravan out there.’
Adrian nodded, making notes in his electronic notebook.
‘And something else.’ Mickey’s phone rang. He ignored it. He tried to continue speaking, but the phone was insistent. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d better get that.’ He took it from his pocket, checked the display. Anni. Not now, he thought. Later. I’m working here.
But then so is she …
He looked up, aware of everyone watching him. Knew he had no choice. Pressed the answer button. Turned away from them.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’m in the middle of—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t phone if it wasn’t important.’
‘Right.’
Just work colleagues again. No mention of the previous night.
‘I’ve been back to see the farmer’s wife at the service station, watched the CCTV footage again. I had an idea.’
Mickey waited.
‘And Marina, she’s sent us a message. That thrown-away wrapper. It had a postcode written on it.’
‘Brilliant. If you can—’
‘No, just listen. I put it into my sat nav, and guess where it came up with?’
‘No idea, tell me.’
‘Where you are now. After she left the garage, Marina was on her way to where you are … ’
Mickey let the phone slip away from his face. His heart was hammering; he felt numb. He turned back to the group, saw them all staring at him. Thought of the mattress in the living room. The rope tied to the door handle.
‘Shit … ’ he said. ‘Listen up. There was someone kept here against their will. And I think I’ve worked out who it was. Josephina. Marina and Phil’s kid … ’
56
DS Jessie James threw her head back, dry-swallowed two paracetamol. This was becoming a habit.
Just one quick drink, she had told herself. Just one. Then back home for her regular Saturday night in with Terry. Takeaway, maybe a DVD. Then Sunday they had planned a day out. A run out to Audley End, maybe, make the most of Terry’s National Trust membership. Dinner in some quaint country gastropub. She had told him she was on call, but neither of them thought she would be called in. But that was before she was handed this case.
So the previous night she had found herself dropping in to her neighbourhood pub on the way home. Just the one, she had said to herself. Just the one. A quick gin and tonic. Support the local economy, and all that. Maybe Terry would join her. They could make a night of it.
But of course he was at her house, DVD on the TV stand, takeaway menu in hand. Waiting for her. So she would just have the one. It went down so fast she barely noticed it. So she had another. And another. And when she arrived home, the house was dark, cold and empty.
So she had another drink.
She had noticed this pattern before when she was working on a case as big as this one. She would pull away from those closest to her, make excuses not to spend time with them. It was the only way she was capable of working. And it always involved alcohol. She was surprised Terry put up with it. She doubted he would for much longer.
DC Deepak Shah was looking out of the window. Away from the house, away from her. He had kept his eyes averted all the time she had sat there taking the tablets. He had made no comment, no judgement, but his lack of comment was judgement enough.
Jessie looked at him. He still had his eyes averted. ‘What?’
He stayed where he was. ‘I didn’t say anything. Ma’am.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ she said, running her tongue over her teeth. Feeling the bitter grit beneath. ‘I think we’ve worked together long enough for me to know when I’ve disappointed you in some way.’
He turned, looked at her. Slowly. ‘What you do in your free time has nothing to do with me. As long as you can still function when we’re working together, that’s fine. Ma’am.’ He looked away again.
Jessie kept staring straight ahead at the big front door of the Sloane house. Willing it to open.
The two of them had visited the Sloanes as their last call on their way home the previous night. As soon as Deepak had taken the call concerning ownership of the car left parked outside the destroyed cottage in Aldeburgh, the Sloane residence had jumped to the top of their list for investigation. They had pulled up in the early evening, gasping audibly. The house, situated in Playford, between Ipswich and Woodbridge, was a huge, imposing sixteenth-century hall.
Jessie had stood at the front gates, spoken to the intercom. The voice on the other end had tried to fob her off, but she had been insistent. The gates had opened and they had both walked up the drive past the gatehouse, over the footbridge to the door of the main hall, trying to pretend they weren’t overawed. They flashed their warrant cards, asked to speak to Michael Sloane and were told by the housekeeper that he was out and wouldn’t be back that night. They asked when he would return and were greeted with a shrug. They left a message asking him to call them and departed. The gates closed behind them.
That had been that.
And Jessie had spent the rest of the night hiding in a bottle.
Deepak, on the other hand, hadn’t been idle.
He had called in at the station, run a check on Michael Sloane. Found out that he ran one of the biggest industrial farming operations in the east of England, with trade and shipping links to Europe. A very wealthy man, a very well-connected businessman. They would have to tread carefully when they spoke to him.
‘Oh God, that’s all we need,’ Jessie had said, groaning. ‘Involving one of the Chief Constable’s golfing mates in this investigation. We’ll have to be careful how we handle this, Deepak, me old mate. Or you and me’ll be back in uniform working in Traffic.’
‘We don’t know that he knows the Chief Constable,’ Deepak had repl
ied.
‘No, we don’t. But until we learn otherwise, let’s just assume.’
‘There was something else,’ Deepak said. ‘A couple of things, actually.’
Jessie waited.
‘I don’t know if you remember, but the Sloanes were involved in a huge case a few years back. Their father remarried and their new stepbrother took a shotgun to the whole family.’
‘Oh,’ said Jessie. ‘Those Sloanes.’
‘Indeed. Michael and his sister survived but needed a lot of patching up. They took over the family business, extended into Europe and became recluses at the same time.’
‘A sister and brother? Holed up in that house together? Weird.’
‘And there’s something else. Get this. Jeff Hibbert, our dead man from yesterday, was one of the chief gangmasters for Sloane’s Farms.’
Despite the headache, something prickled at the back of Jessie’s neck. ‘Oh. Now that’s interesting. A mystery man gives Hibbert’s address at the scene of a crime and then disappears. Hibbert is then found murdered. And Michael Sloane’s car is found at the scene of the first crime. Interesting … ’
They had cancelled their plans for Sunday and come to pay Michael Sloane another visit.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Jessie. ‘You know what was odd about last night?’
Deepak said he didn’t.
‘The housekeeper. She never asked why we were here. Two detectives rock up on your doorstep to speak to your boss. Never once did she ask what it was about. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘Maybe she didn’t think it was her place,’ Deepak said.
‘Or maybe we were expected,’ said Jessie.
They had resumed their vigil while they decided what to do.
Their minds were made up for them. As they watched, an Ipswich city cab pulled up. The passenger got out, paid the driver, watched the car pull away before turning to look at the gates.
‘Hey,’ said Jessie, ‘see who that is?’
Deepak nodded. He was looking towards the house now. ‘Helen Hibbert. Widow of the parish. Wonder what she wants?’
They watched as Helen Hibbert walked up to the gate, pressed the intercom, spoke. Waited.