He toyed with taking his own car round to the rear of the house but couldn’t immediately see how to do so. Finally, he parked in the same spot that Rowan Wiseman had used on their previous visit. As before, he was afraid of making a fool of himself, but he reasoned he was more likely to do so trying to navigate his way around the house. If Kennedy preferred him to move the car elsewhere, he’d presumably say so.
He climbed out of the car and stood for a moment in the chill afternoon sunshine. The place felt eerily silent. On his way over here, he’d been envisioning that the house would be a hive of activity, with substantial numbers of people attending. But perhaps the symposium was a more intimate affair than that.
There was no immediate response to the doorbell. Clive pressed it again and waited, wondering if he could have somehow misunderstood Kennedy’s invitation. But surely it had been clear enough, unless the symposium was taking place somewhere else on site. Clive looked around in case he’d missed some sign or other indication, but as far as he could see there was nothing. He looked at his watch. It was already nearly 2:30. If he didn’t find the location of the meeting soon, he’d be late. He pressed the doorbell one more time, telling himself that if there was still no response he’d try the rear of the house in the hope of tracking down the other attendees.
But this time, finally, he heard a movement from within and the door was opened. To his slight surprise, Robin Kennedy himself was standing inside. Clive had been expecting the door to be opened by Eric Nolan or some other member of the team.
‘Clive, welcome! We’re delighted that you were able to come at such short notice.’ There was, Clive noted, no apology for keeping him waiting or even an acknowledgment of the delay in opening the front door. ‘Come in.’
Clive had half-expected that the symposium would be held in some conference room, but instead Kennedy led him along to the same living room in which their previous meeting had taken place. Kennedy pushed open the door and ushered him inside.
Clive took a step forward and then froze. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looked back at Kennedy. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Welcome to our symposium, Clive. You’re our guest of honour.’
Clive looked around at the small group gathered in the room and blinked. It was, essentially, the same group who had been here on his previous visit, although there was no sign of Eric Nolan. Rowan Wiseman. The man known only as Charlie. There was only one newcomer, whose face looked vaguely familiar.
‘I wasn’t expecting—’
‘No, we appreciate you weren’t, Clive. I’m afraid we haven’t been entirely honest with you.’ He paused. ‘But then I feel you haven’t been entirely honest with us.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Please do take a seat.’ Kennedy gestured to an armchair that had been moved to the centre of the room. The remainder of the seats had been arranged in a circle around it. Clive lowered himself on to the seat, acutely conscious of the others’ gaze fixed upon him. He’d expected to be here as an anonymous observer. He had no idea of what role he was now being asked to play.
Kennedy took his own seat directly opposite Clive. He was still dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and expensive-looking trousers, and he looked as relaxed as he had on Clive’s previous visit, It struck Clive for the first time that Kennedy’s appearance and image were very carefully cultivated. The full but neatly trimmed beard, the swept-back mane of hair. A man who was out of the ordinary, but fully in control. ‘I had read some of your material, Clive. Some of the articles you’ve produced.’
‘Yes, I know. You told me—’
‘I told you I’d been impressed by them. Yes, I know. That was one of the areas in which I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I’m afraid I didn’t really like them.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Clive. They seemed well-researched. Thorough. Perhaps even well-written, though I’m not the best judge of that. But far too sceptical. Far too muck-raking.’
‘I try to make them objective—’
‘We believe you also have contacts on the national tabloids, Clive. That you’ve fed sensationalist titbits to in the hope of furthering your own journalistic career.’ The last word was spoken with an edge of irony. ‘We’ve also read the sensationalist pieces that resulted.’
‘I’ve never done anything inappropriate.’ He had no idea how Kennedy had found out about his tabloid contacts. But he didn’t understand anything that was happening here.
‘We all have different ethical standards, Clive, and I’m not interested in judging yours. But I do know that we became a little uneasy when we discovered that you were sniffing around ours and some similar organisations. We really don’t want that kind of publicity.’
‘But I thought—’
‘I’m afraid we gave you the impression we were interested in working with you. We really aren’t. I wanted to meet you to see if I was misjudging you, to see if you were the kind of person we might work with. But I quickly realised that your knowledge and understanding was very superficial. I think you’d be interested only in presenting a sensationalist view of our activities.’
Clive knew he ought to be feeling furious at the deception. But even now he felt as if this was all his own fault, as if in some way he’d let Kennedy down. Yes, he had considered whether any of his findings here might be of interest to the national media, although he’d never intended to misrepresent or sensationalise anything. But somehow he still felt as if he’d been caught out.
‘You see, Clive, our range of work here is complex. The movement is small and discreet and works very well for us. We achieve enlightenment through materialism and that involves expanding our material resources. We do that in a variety of ways, some of which the authorities might disapprove of. So we demand loyalty from our inner group, and we have ways of establishing and enforcing that.’
Clive still wasn’t really following what Kennedy was saying, but he realised the final sentence carried an undertone of threat. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve misunderstood what you wanted from me. But perhaps I should just go now.’
Kennedy shook his head slightly. ‘I don’t think so, Clive. We have some other plans for you.’
Clive began to rise from his seat, but Kennedy nodded to Charlie, who immediately rose, walked over and pushed him back down. Charlie stood over Clive, glowering down, his hand firmly gripping Clive’s shoulder. ‘I think you’d better show a little respect, Clive,’ he said, ‘and listen to what Robin’s telling you.’
‘You can’t just—’ Clive began but stopped as Charlie’s grip on his arm became even tighter.
‘Please don’t make things difficult, Clive,’ Kennedy said. ‘I do want to tell you a little about how the movement works, so you can understand why this is so important to us. I suspect that some of it will go over your head, but that can’t be helped.’
It was finally beginning to dawn on Clive that he really was in some kind of trouble. He didn’t understand how or why, or what any of this was about. But Charlie’s physical grip on his arm had convinced him that this was no longer a game. ‘Look, you can’t just—’
Kennedy smiled. ‘I think we can, Clive. And I’m sure you’ll be gratified to know that, despite our differences, you’ll be able to do your bit to help us on our way.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Back at police HQ, Annie Delamere had spent an hour or so briefing the team and hearing updates about the ongoing investigation. She could sense a renewed sense of purpose among those working on the case. A further comparison of the CSI images of the body with the picture provided by Ellie Jordan had confirmed Annie’s view that the third body was that of Carl Francis. That meant they now had identities for all three victims and a link between them. It felt as if they were finally beginning to make some progress, and Annie had directed the team to various new lines of enquiry. They were looking at the personal finances of the three victims, conducting
detailed searches of their flats, trying to track down Cathy Parkin and gathering more information on Werneth Holdings.
Even so, Annie herself remained frustrated that, as yet, they still seemed a long way from finding a killer or even a motive. For all the activity, they had too few real leads, and it still wasn’t clear where or how they might make a real breakthrough, even now they’d identified the first body as Carl Francis. Ellie Jordan had apparently known little about her flatmate’s private life, and Annie couldn’t imagine that the third flatmate would provide many additional insights. They’d need to talk to Francis’s parents but, despite the mother’s apparent lies, they might have little more to offer. Perhaps she’d lied to them simply because she was a mother who wanted to think the best of her son.
Time was passing. While it was true that the new lines of enquiry combined with the continuing painstaking work of conducting interviews, examining CCTV footage and reviewing forensic data might eventually throw up some lead that would open up the case, every day that went by made their work that much harder.
‘What’s the plan?’ Zoe said, when they finally reconvened later in the afternoon.
Annie was chewing on a belated lunch of a tuna sandwich while trying to catch up with her overflowing in-tray of emails. It was the first time she’d sat down since they’d returned to the office. ‘Wish I had one. Or at least a more inspired one. There’s a lot going on, but we still need a real breakthrough.’
‘We’re making progress,’ Zoe said. ‘We’ve identified the victims. We’ve got a clear link between them. We’ve got some new leads.’
‘I know. And we’re doing all the right things. We just need that one break.’
‘It’ll come,’ Zoe said. ‘Any word on how they’re doing at your place?’
‘CSIs are still there, though I’m told they’ve nearly finished. I had a quick chat with Danny Eccles, but it doesn’t look as if there’s anything very new emerging. And I spoke to Sheena, who’s only too keen to get away from the place. She’s been okay this morning because there’ve been plenty of people milling about, but I’d like to get her out of there before the CSIs pack up.’
‘Do you want to do that first, then?’
‘Why not? Then we need to pay a visit to Francis’s mother and father. Break the bad news.’
‘Always my least favourite part of this job.’
‘Tell me about it. Especially when it’s someone so young. I’m dreading this one even more than most. We need to keep things moving. We’ll have to press the mother because we really need to know why she lied to us before, and find out if there’s anything useful she can tell us about Carl.’
‘Doesn’t feel like the moment to be interrogating her,’ Zoe said.
‘Sadly, it may be the best possible moment. That’s why I want to handle this one myself. Like I said in the car, this job sometimes turns me into a person I don’t much like. But given we’ve now had three identical murders, I don’t think we can afford to waste any time. Jennings has told me five times that the media office’s phone is ringing off the hook and the nationals are sniffing round.’
Zoe nodded. ‘I guess we’d better get going then.’
* * *
They completed their first task relatively straightforwardly. Annie had phoned ahead and Sheena was waiting for them. She’d packed a small bag with a few changes of clothes, and was sitting at the kitchen table, drumming her fingers anxiously on the wooden tabletop.
Annie had been outside for a brief conversation with the CSIs, who confirmed that they were in the process of packing up and would be gone within the next hour. The remaining police presence had largely been removed, and, with darkness already beginning to fall, Annie was becoming conscious again of the isolation of the house. Even when this was all over, they might have to rethink whether this was the right place for them to be living. It had been such a happy place for them but now it felt tainted.
‘It’s really good of you to offer to do this,’ Sheena was saying to Zoe as Annie returned from the garden.
‘No worries at all,’ Zoe said. ‘We’ll be delighted to have you. Gary’s quite star-struck.’
Sheena laughed. ‘I hope I’m not a sad disappointment to him. But it really is just for a few days. I’ll do my best not to be a burden.’
‘I’ve told Andy Dwyer where you’re going,’ Annie said, ‘but asked him not to spread the word too widely. I don’t trust some bugger not to leak it to the media. Dwyer’s going to keep any security pretty low-key. I’m hoping your biggest safeguard will be that no one knows you’re there.’
They left the house with Sheena dressed in a heavy waterproof with a hood that would help conceal her face when they reached Zoe’s house. The chances of anyone spotting her arriving in the middle of a suburban housing estate were limited, but Annie didn’t want to risk any nosy neighbours blabbing to the press. Whether she liked it or not, Sheena’s features were only too familiar from her frequent appearances on local media.
With Sheena safely in the car, Annie went through the routine of locking up the house behind her. Her own bag for her stay at her mother’s was already packed and stowed in the back of the car, so there’d be no need for her to return here tonight.
The process of locking up and departing felt oddly final, as if they were moving away permanently. Perhaps they were, she thought bitterly, or at least perhaps this was the beginning of that process. The events of the last few days felt as if they’d changed everything. Sheena had been insistent that her determination to continue her work was as strong as ever, but Annie could sense there’d already been a change. What the impact of that change might be she had as yet no idea, but it felt as if their lives were at a point of transition.
Zoe lived in a relatively anonymous estate on the edge of the city. It was the kind of place that Annie would normally have found soulless, with its rows of largely identical ‘desirable’ houses. She knew Zoe liked it for precisely that reason. For her, it provided a low-effort normality, a place where she could just lose herself once she’d finished dealing with whatever the job might throw at her. Tonight, Annie could understand what Zoe meant.
As soon as they reached the house, Zoe jumped out to unlock the front door while Annie retrieved Sheena’s bag from the rear of the car. Their aim was to minimise the amount of time Sheena would be exposed to any potential public gaze. The whole thing felt absurdly cloak-and-dagger, particularly as it was already almost dark, but Annie wanted to take no chances.
Minutes later, Sheena was inside, and Annie was already feeling more relaxed. It was only then that she realised how anxious she’d been feeling on her partner’s behalf. She’d been trying not to think about what had happened over the last few days, but the attempts on Sheena’s life had been close calls. The dumping of Garfield’s body, whatever the motives, had brought it all even nearer to home. It had shaken Annie more than she’d understood. Sheena had always seemed extraordinarily resilient, but Annie wondered what the impact on her had really been.
‘I’ve just spoken to Gary,’ Zoe said as she returned from the kitchen with a welcoming coffee for Sheena. ‘He’s on his way back from work. Reckons he’ll be about thirty minutes. Do you want us to wait till he’s back before Annie and I head off?’
‘You go,’ Sheena said. ‘I’ve already wasted enough of your time this afternoon. I’ll be fine for half an hour. Nobody even knows I’m here.’
‘You’re sure?’ Annie said.
‘Annie, I’m not an idiot. I fully appreciate what’s happened and the risks. But we’ve got to continue with our lives. I’m as safe here as I can be.’
Annie hesitated. She knew Sheena was right, and she also knew that the last thing Sheena wanted was to make any concessions to those who had tried to harm her. It wouldn’t help Sheena’s state of mind if they continued to treat her like some kind of invalid. ‘Well, okay. But you’ll call me straight away if there are any problems.’
‘Like what?’
Anni
e shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. But you’ll call. Promise.’ More than anything, she wanted to embrace Sheena – for her own sake as well as Sheena’s – but she knew Sheena would feel self-conscious in Zoe’s presence.
‘If there are any problems, I’ll call. I promise. Now, bugger off, both of you.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Let me explain a little about how we work, Clive.’ Robin Kennedy had begun to walk around the room, with the air of a professor delivering an extemporised lecture. ‘I can’t expect you to understand or follow all of it, and you will probably misinterpret our motives as so many do. But I’d like at least to try to explain. In the circumstances, you deserve at least that.’
Clive still had no idea what Kennedy was talking about. He had begun to wonder if Kennedy was simply insane, but he suspected that the truth was simpler and more mundane. For all his superficial charisma, Kennedy was just an articulate con man, peddling the twenty-first century equivalent of patent medicine. Clive didn’t consider himself to have much of an intellect, but perhaps that was why he could see through this stuff. If he’d been brighter, he’d have made more effort to try to engage with what Kennedy was saying and after a while he’d no doubt have begun to find some spurious meaning in it. As it was, it just sailed above his head, leaving him convinced it was all just vapid nonsense.
Unless, of course, Kennedy was right and he was just too dim to understand. But that was the anxiety that people like Kennedy played on. Nobody wanted to admit that they didn’t understand, so they fooled themselves into believing they did.
Even so, Clive was scared. He didn’t know where this was leading or what a man like Kennedy might be capable of. It was already clear to Clive that he was being held against his will. Although he’d made no further efforts even to rise from his seat, let alone leave, he had little doubt he’d be stopped forcibly if he tried. Charlie had returned to his seat but was watching him closely. Clive had also now managed to place the semi-familiar face of the man sitting in the corner of the room. He’d seen him on TV a few times, usually in the middle of some filmed altercation. Today, he was incongruously dressed in a dark blue business suit rather than his usual T-shirt and jeans, but Clive recognised the short muscular body, the close-cropped hair, the air of barely contained steroid-fuelled aggression. It was that far-right thug, the one who risibly called himself Bulldog. Mo Henley. Clive considered the man a joke, but he didn’t doubt that he’d be more than capable of real violence.
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