by Chris Ewan
‘Just like that.’
She didn’t say anything. I don’t suppose there was much to be said.
‘I’m not a robot,’ I told her. ‘I can’t just switch off from this.’
‘You can for a little while.’ She glanced across at me again. ‘I said I promise, OK? But this is about priorities, right now. And I need you focused when we meet Erik. Not distracted by anything I might tell you about Laura.’
I wanted to tell her my dead sister was a priority. That she was more than just an item on an agenda that we’d get to when it suited her. But I didn’t. I just sat there, staring at the road ahead, the blur of hedgerows, the licence plate of a passing car.
‘You asked what I’d been doing,’ Rebecca said. ‘Well, I took your suggestion and I went to police headquarters in Douglas to speak with DS Teare.’
‘And?’ I heard myself ask. ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She was unavailable to speak with me.’
‘Unavailable?’
‘Some uniformed prick on the front desk called her internal line. He was listening for a good two minutes before he hung up and told me it was a no-go. I asked if she was sick. Apparently, that was none of my business. So I told him I was working on behalf of your family in connection with the botched investigation into your road traffic accident and the suicide of your sister. My voice must have been pretty loud, because it carried all the way upstairs. To DI Shimmin’s desk.’
‘He came down?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. He told me to leave. Not asked, mind. Told. He even escorted me from the premises.’
‘And you let him?’
‘What would you have had me do?’
‘I don’t know. The way you were talking, about working on behalf of my family, it sounded like maybe you could have demanded to speak with Teare.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I decided I didn’t need to. Not yet, anyway. The fact Shimmin didn’t want me to speak to her had already told me more than I was expecting. And besides, I had other things to do.’
I studied her, waiting for more. She pretended to be absorbed by the rush of tarmac ahead of us, the flickering white line vanishing beneath our front bumper like milk through a straw.
‘Are you going to explain?’
‘Happy to. You remember we talked about how somebody must have reported your accident? They would have called 999, right?’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Well, a place like the Isle of Man, you only have one emergency control centre. I did some research and I found that it’s located right behind the police station. So once Shimmin had guided me out to my car, I drove around the block, and came back again. Then I hung around until I found somebody to speak to.’
‘An officer?’
She shook her head. ‘When you dial 999, what you’re basically put through to is a call centre staffed by civilians.’
‘So?’
‘So I met a guy called Matt. He’s a smoker. And a chatty one. Being a practical kind of girl, I took some of the expenses your family aren’t exactly paying me, and I gave them to Matt. And in return, he checked some records and gave me some information.’
‘Go on.’
‘The caller was a man. Refused to give his name. But the system they use in the control centre has caller ID.’ Rebecca reached two fingers inside the chest pocket of the leather jacket she had on. She removed a square of yellow paper. ‘This is the telephone number of whoever reported your accident.’
I took the scrap of paper from her and studied the number that had been scrawled on it in black biro. It was for a mobile phone. There was no international code, but the number didn’t begin with the prefix for a Manx mobile. It had to originate from the UK.
‘What do we do with this?’ I asked.
‘It’s five to seven. How far are we from the airport?’
We were approaching the outskirts of Ballasalla. Grey, pebble-dashed bungalows lined either side of the road. A Mercedes dealership was on our right, a family pub further ahead at the mini roundabout.
‘Two minutes,’ I said. ‘Maybe less.’
‘Good.’ Rebecca veered across the road and swooped into the forecourt of the Mercedes garage. She yanked the handbrake on. Cut the engine. Removed her sunglasses and folded them away. ‘Then I suggest we call that number.’
‘And say what exactly? We don’t know who this person is. And we can’t tell them how we came by their telephone number. They’d have no reason to talk to us.’
‘Not us, no,’ she said, and delved inside her jacket for her phone. ‘But they might talk to a friend of ours.’
*
Menser was perched on a metal container stuffed with life jackets and buoyancy aids, his hands buried in his pockets, his feet planted on the greasy deck. A thick, wet rope was coiled nearby, discoloured with tar and gunge, the end formed into a gaping loop like a hangman’s noose. So this was what it came down to. The end of his assignment. Toss a rope on to a quay, wait for it to be secured and tied off. Release the girl from below deck and hand her over to the men who were expecting her.
Then disappear.
The port was grey and dismal, hunkered down beneath a bank of low mauve clouds. Functional warehouses lined the harbour wall and a white-and-blue police van could be glimpsed through the vaporous mist. Four blurred figures were standing outside it. Two in trench coats. Two in navy-blue uniforms, heavy leather boots and baseball caps. One of the trench coats sparked a lighter and fired a cigarette. A movie fan. Amateur hour.
Menser heard the sudden din of a foghorn from behind him.
He jumped and turned. Clarke was grinning inanely from the wheelhouse, saluting towards the figure with the cigarette. Menser had a surer feel for his partner now. Clarke was the kind of guy who probably thought of himself as a maverick. To Menser’s mind, that was code for idiot. Given the choice, he’d never work with him again. But choice was irrelevant. This was a one-time-only assignment. In all likelihood, he’d pass through the rest of his life without ever seeing or hearing from Clarke. And he’d certainly never learn the man’s real name.
The girl had remained stubborn. She’d barely talked. Not to ask after Pieter. Not to beg to be released or to bargain with them. Menser was still bothered by her attitude, unbalanced by it. He’d come to think that maybe she was on something. One of those rich-girl drugs to keep reality at bay. But he wasn’t sure of it. Her pupils showed no trace of any stimulants. There’d been no hint of withdrawal. No jitters. And he was haunted by the nagging fear that he was searching for an excuse. One that didn’t involve a mistake.
He told himself that her attitude would change once they’d docked and the men came aboard to take her away. The berth was two hundred metres ahead, maybe less. The trawler veered sideways, charting a course between the docked fishing vessels. Menser watched the man with the cigarette adjust his stance. Saw the uniformed figures descend a flight of stone steps carved into the harbour wall.
That was when the ping first sounded. Hollow. Metallic. Like sonar.
The noise repeated itself. It was coming from inside the backpack slung over Menser’s shoulder. He frowned. Unzipped the bag. Their operational equipment was inside, ready to be dismantled and ditched as soon as the girl was transferred. The screen on one of the phones was illuminated. Clarke’s phone. He’d changed the damn ringtone.
Menser studied the number that appeared on screen. Not one of theirs. He pressed a button, killing the sonar ping, and raised the phone to his ear.
He could hear breathing on the other end.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Good evening, sir. This is Detective Sergeant Jacqueline Teare, Isle of Man Constabulary. To whom am I speaking, please?’
‘Sorry?’ Menser plugged his free ear with his finger to cut out the rumble of the trawler’s engine. ‘Who did you say you were?’
The woman repeated herself. Asked who he was again.
‘My name’s Donald Fry.’ The lie came easily. Straight to his lips. ‘I think you have a wrong number. I’m not based in the Isle of Man.’
‘Where are you based, Mr Fry?’
Menser shut his eyes. Forced himself to concentrate. ‘Can I ask why you’re calling me?’
‘It’s in connection with a motorbike accident. It occurred three days ago in the south of the Isle of Man. A man fell from his bike and suffered serious injuries.’
Menser knew all about the accident. He and Clarke had planned it. Carried it through. But they’d done it without leaving trace evidence. He was sure of it. So why was she calling Clarke’s phone?
‘I’m sorry, Detective, but I don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Somebody reported the incident to the emergency services. They requested an ambulance.’
Menser waited. He could feel the tension gripping hold of him. The creeping sensation of betrayal. The sickness that came with it.
‘The call came from this number.’
Clarke.
When had he placed the call? Probably when Menser was dealing with the girl. Loading her into the van. Restraining her. His back had been turned. The van doors closed.
‘Mr Fry?’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Our records are very clear, sir. But the reason I’m calling is connected to a related incident. The gentleman involved in the crash says that he had a passenger on his motorbike. A blonde woman. In her twenties. Is it possible you saw her?’
‘You’ve made a mistake, Detective. A wrong number.’
‘But I have the number right in front of me, Mr Fry. We’re looking for a missing girl here. It’s a serious situation and it would be helpful if we could talk to you in more detail. If you would consent to –’
Menser cut the connection. He snapped the back off the phone, freed the battery and the sim card, tossed all of it overboard with a grunt.
The trawler was pulling alongside the harbour wall. The uniformed figures were leaning outwards, gesturing for Menser to toss them a rope. He turned from them and waved his arms at Clarke. Warning him off.
It was no good. Menser cursed and hustled for the wheelhouse ladder. He hauled himself up the metal treads. Yanked open the cabin door and yelled the command.
Clarke stared at him blankly. Then he slammed the engine into reverse.
There was a bumping, scraping noise. The prow glanced off the stone steps. The uniformed figures snatched their legs clear and the trench coats advanced towards the edge of the quay, perplexed.
‘Get us out of here,’ Menser yelled.
‘You’ve flipped, pal.’
‘Take us away. Now.’
Menser barged out the wheelhouse, clomping down the ladder to the metal deck, ignoring the calls of the men they’d been scheduled to meet. He dug a hand inside his rucksack and removed the phone he’d been given for this assignment. He sucked in a breath and summoned up the number he needed to call. Clamped a hand over his eyes and raised the phone to his ear.
‘It’s Menser,’ he said. ‘We have a problem.’
Chapter Twenty
‘He hung up.’ Rebecca showed me her phone. ‘Said I had a wrong number. That he has no connection at all to the Isle of Man, or to your accident.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe the guy at the control centre was leading you on.’
‘No. He hung up when I pressed him on Lena. He knows something.’
‘So call him back.’
Rebecca shrugged and tried just that. Then she pulled the phone from her ear, a wry smile on her face. ‘Switched off.’
‘He’s avoiding you.’
‘Looks that way. He said he was called Donald Fry. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s probably a fake.’
‘You think?’
‘The man I spoke to was calm. Unusually so. If that had been a genuine mix-up, I reckon he’d have been curious to know more. And he definitely wouldn’t hang up on a police officer and switch off his phone.’
‘So what can we do about it?’
‘We can go and meet Erik. See if he can shed any light on what might be going on.’
‘Listen, are we sure about this?’ I asked. ‘You said yourself that we have no way of knowing if what he told us on the phone was true.’
‘So let’s go and find out. It’s our best way of making fast progress.’
Rebecca reversed at speed and rejoined the road to the airport. The road took us over the level crossing for the vintage steam train that runs between Douglas and Port Erin, then past a gas station and a shabby collection of palm trees. Rebecca slalomed into a parking space and was already cracking her door and grabbing her backpack before the engine was dead and the handbrake was engaged.
I wasn’t crazy about joining her, but I sensed she was going with or without me. Shaking my head, I heaved myself out of the car and followed her past a taxi rank and a vacant smokers’ shelter, then inside through the sliding glass doors to the arrivals lounge. Erik hadn’t explained how we’d recognise him but I didn’t anticipate a problem. Ronaldsway Airport isn’t exactly Heathrow. Even now, with the London City flight recently landed, there were only fifteen or so people standing around.
A petite young woman with a shock of white-blonde hair was one of them. She was dressed in what appeared to be a pilot’s uniform. Tailored white blouse, smart blue trousers, polished black boots. The blouse had brass epaulets on the shoulders and a golden tulip embroidered over her breast pocket. She held a cardboard sign with the word Rob printed on it in marker pen.
She lowered the sign as we approached.
‘You are Rob?’ she asked, and glanced at my sling. Erik had said that he lived in the Netherlands and the woman’s English was marked with broadly the same accent.
‘Yes. We’re here to meet Erik Zeeger?’
She nodded. ‘He waits for you. And this is your friend?’ She turned her attention to Rebecca. Her expression hadn’t altered, but I sensed a tension between them. ‘My name is Anke. I will take you to Mr Zeeger. You will come with me please.’
We did as she asked, following her up a sweeping staircase towards Departures, skirting the buffet-style cafeteria and snaking through the crowd-control bollards set up outside airport security. I’d expected to be escorted to a waiting car or whisked away to a nearby hotel, but not this.
Anke had us show picture ID to the security official on duty and then we were invited to walk through a metal detector and wait for Rebecca’s bag to emerge from a scanner.
‘This way.’
Anke ushered us through a pair of double doors into the departure lounge, where a scattering of people occupied the bolted-down seats. A computer screen listed flights for Liverpool, Manchester and London Gatwick. The lounge was surrounded by double-height glass and I could see two passenger planes out on the tarmac and the lighted runway beyond. The airport was located on the very edge of the coast and the runway extended right out into the Irish Sea.
Anke passed a swipe card through a sensor on the wall and led us through a door and down a flight of metal stairs to the runway apron. We crossed the wrinkled tarmac towards a private jet. The jet was low-slung with a pointed nose cone, a cigar-tube fuselage and squat, slanted wings. There were two jet engines and a tail fin that featured the same insignia I’d noticed on Anke’s blouse – a golden tulip, flower-head tilted to the right.
An entrance hatch was open towards the front of the plane and a set of cabin steps was suspended just above the ground. There was no indication of who exactly might be waiting inside. No way to gauge the dangers we might be exposing ourselves to. My stomach had turned to water. My heart rate was up. Last chance to back out, I told myself. Then Rebecca poked me in the back and I found that I was climbing the steps.
‘Rob? Is that you?’
A tanned and sandy-haired man levered himsel
f up out of a vast leather armchair on one side of the cream and walnut cabin and advanced towards me at a stoop. He was tall and wiry – too tall for the interior of the plane – and he was bent at the hip, craning his long neck to gaze up and meet my eyes as he offered me his hand.
I swallowed dryly. ‘Erik?’
He nodded. Took in my sling. Smiled briefly.
He wasn’t anything like I’d expected. The man in front of me now was mid-to-late forties, with a square jaw, a wide forehead and a prominently hooked nose. He wore white linen trousers, open-toed sandals over large brown feet, and a blue cotton shirt.
‘This is Rebecca,’ I managed, leaning to one side in the cramped space so that Erik could shake her hand. ‘The friend I mentioned.’
‘Actually, Mr Zeeger, I’m a private detective.’
Erik’s eyebrows shot upwards to form two handsome arches.
‘I was hired by Rob’s family to look into an unrelated matter,’ Rebecca explained. ‘Now I’m helping him to investigate your daughter’s disappearance.’
Erik smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were hard and so perfectly blue that the colour seemed artificial.
‘And who is this gentleman?’ Rebecca nodded towards a stocky guy who was lurking behind Erik.
‘This is Mr Anderson,’ Erik said. ‘He is my head of security. A man I trust deeply.’
If Anderson was moved by the sentiment behind Erik’s words, he didn’t show it. He was a squat figure, dressed in a dark-blue suit, a sober tie and a clean white shirt. His shoulders were wide and his neck was short. He was clean-shaven, with a military-style buzz-cut, a low brow and a watchful expression. He was younger than Erik, but not by much. He looked like a man who was adept at handling himself in pretty much any situation. Definitely not the type of character to pick a fight with. Definitely not the type of character to aggravate.
‘Mr Anderson, hello.’ Rebecca extended her hand.
Anderson considered the move. He took his time over it. His expression remained hard. After a long pause, he reached out for a swift clench, then offered me the same greeting. His grip was like the first move in a brutal judo throw.