Chloe- Never Forget

by Dan Laughey

  ‘Not just Lotherton,’ declared Sant, his voice commanding now. ‘The blame isn’t all on him. Read the files yourself, Lister. And better still, read the news reports. It’s clear that several detectives were party to systematic flaws in the Gray investigation, you being one of them.’

  ‘Rubbish! You’d better tread carefully, sonny. Don’t think I take lightly to your dragging my good name through the mud. I expect that medical examiner will be marching towards your door imminently, ready to test your common sense.’

  ‘No-one threatens me,’ said Sant, trying to control the anger swelling within.

  The chief constable scowled. ‘You think that’s a threat? You won’t know what’s hit you next time.’ He fixed his gaze on Sant. ‘What has this spiel about Sergeant Gray got to do with events of the twenty-first century anyway?’

  Sant grasped the moment. ‘DS Dryden’s murder and the bus massacre that went with it – that’s the event of this century which collides with October the 31st 1984.’

  Lister spat out in fury. ‘Rubbish! Comic-book nonsense!’

  ‘Dryden was halfway through discovering a new lead – ’

  ‘I’ve heard such rumours doing the rounds, DI Sant. Now I know their source. They come from the bullshit-filled mouth of a once respected officer going nowhere fast.’

  Sant shook his head. ‘No rumours, Lister. These are facts. In the course of investigating the disappearance of Chloe Lee, Dryden conducted a clandestine interview with a snitch calling herself Susan Smith in the grounds of Kirkstall Abbey on the night of Halloween – six days ago. That same night at about half past eleven, moments after meeting the woman, Dryden got on the 33 bus back to town. A minute later he was shot twice in the head.’

  Lister stamped his foot to the ground. ‘Don’t you think I know all of this? Get to the point, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Susan Smith told Dryden something about the 1984 shootings. What exactly she said, we shall never know. But this same Susan Smith was the one-time neighbour and guardian of Chloe Lee. I’ve reason to believe Chloe’s disappearance is related to what Susan Smith told Dryden about the police shootings. And this same Susan Smith – lately known as Marie Jagger – was the woman found murdered by the canal yesterday morning.’

  ‘Where’s the evidence, for crying out loud?’

  Sant stroked his chin stubble with a warm sense of self-control. ‘There’s plenty. The diary found on the dead woman tells us she was Dryden’s informant. Details of her recent housing tenancy match up with what we know of her movements. What we also know about Marie Jagger, aka Susan Smith, is how she featured in the Gray murder investigation. Back in 1984 she was called Sheila Morrison and she lived in a council flat on Stanks Lane South raided by police just days after the shootings. She was clearly under suspicion at the time. Why? Because she knew something.’

  ‘What did she know? I want facts, Inspector.’

  ‘She may’ve been a witness to the Gray murder and the wounding of Tanner. Or she may’ve been linked to potential suspects. But she appears to have chosen not to speak under questioning. More over, there was a blatant cover-up because no mention is made in the Gray file of Sheila Morrison or the raid on her flat. So why was she arrested? And why did she keep changing her name subsequently? Because what she knew – or what those who feared her suspected she knew – was red-hot, critical, lethal.’

  Sant thought it wise at this stage not to reveal Holdsworth’s line of enquiry – that the Stanks Lane South-residing Sheila Morrison may have been the same Sheila Morrison writing for the anti-fascist magazine Red Lamp back in the eighties – though he was certain she was the same person.

  He also left out mention of the Oliver Mosley lead which hinted at some kind of fascism/anti-fascism triangle connecting Sheila Morrison, Chloe’s disappearance and Dryden’s clandestine probings. He’d not yet moved to formally question Mosley, but that move could wait a little longer. Besides, he wanted to cut Capstick some slack in shadowing his quarry without interference from bigwigs like Lister and Gilligan.

  Lister looked at his Longines and then back at Sant. ‘You’ve painted a pretty pattern of interlocking theory and speculation, DI Sant, though your melodramatic manner is not winning me over in the slightest. And I’ll take a hell of a lot more convincing before those pretty patterns add up to something meaningful.’

  Sant tried to interrupt but only heard himself talking over the chief constable.

  ‘I will have you know that I have an important public engagement to fulfil this weekend,’ Lister said as he marched out of Gilligan’s office, ‘but on my return first thing Monday morning I expect you to be on call when I require you. Then, depending on how focused you are, I will either offer a generous reprieve or serve notice of suspension from duties with immediate effect. The choice is yours, Inspector. My advice is to choose wisely.’

  7

  Your name is…

  Your name is…

  Your name is Nigel Fleming.

  Wrong.

  Your name is...

  Your name is...

  Your name is Nigel Tanner.

  Half correct.

  Your name is…

  Your name is…

  Your name is Frank Fleming.

  Stop playing games, Frank.

  You know what your name is.

  Frank Tanner.

  Francis Algernon Tanner. FAT, for short.

  And Stevie Wonder has taken you back, Frank.

  You were thirty-nine years old.

  You remember your thirty-ninth birthday party. It was the seventh day of October. The year was 1984. Party poppers. A mammoth cake baked by your lovely wife Mrs Tanner and topped with melted Galaxy. A card from your dear children played ‘Congratulations’ by Cliff Richard when you opened it.

  Good memories.

  The great memories you reserve for Sheila. She entered your life that year – and vanished soon after. A short-term fling, you might say, but the love you felt for Sheila was like no other.

  She may’ve been a loose woman – she had other men, like that lazy-eyed git she hung around with. It didn’t bother you, though. Her flirting didn’t stale her appeal.

  Walks in the woods. The afternoon flicks. Late-night rendezvouses in hotel bars. All those sweet nothings she whispered in your ear. The silk against your thighs. The cherry on your lips. The scent of her perfume running down your neck.

  Stevie Wonder all night long!

  Those memories bring back the heat, the passion, the desire.

  You masturbate. The first time in years.

  The sex. The wonderful sex.

  Good memories rarely fade. Great memories never do.

  But you also know the truth, Francis Algernon Tanner.

  The simplest truth.

  Bad memories don’t fade either.

  Sant charged up his dead phone and checked the missed call. Professor Rothwell had been in touch. Was he ready to break out of his shell on the subject of Tony Gordon? Either way, Sant had nothing more urgent on his plate. Besides, Rothwell was indisputably Chloe-related, guaranteeing the inspector a place in CC Lister’s good books. Stick to your missing persons. Lanky Lister’s grainy voice still rang in his ears.

  Mid-afternoon dimness was descending into dark as he steered his Fiesta towards a university campus fast becoming his third home – after his rented apartment, which he only slept and ate breakfast in, and his shared office at Elland Road HQ, which was no more than a chaotic desk and three overflowing filing cabinets. On the way he illegally used his phone to call Mia, but got no answer. A pity – he craved to see her. No doubt she was just as busy as him.

  He imagined her engrossed in her PhD research, finetuning psychological experimentations, priming her way through the human mind. That reminded him – a stint of meditation was long overdue. Maybe Mia would appreciate his Buddhist outlook on life.

  The School of History and Politics was clearly in Friday wind-down mode, the building practically deserted a
s Sant made his way to the office door he’d stormed through earlier that day. He opted to knock on this occasion, his mood a little calmer now. In return for this show of civility, Rothwell did the courtesy of opening up.

  ‘Glad you could come, Inspector. May I apologise – ’

  ‘No need,’ said Sant, the pleasantries over as far as he was concerned. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Care for coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  Sant sat down heavily, wedged a toothpick into his jaws and waited for Rothwell to begin, that lazy eye twitching less violently than before.

  ‘Very well, I understand matters are pressing. Let me tell you what I know, though I would rather our conversation remain off the record.’

  Sant nodded vaguely but said nothing, growing restless by the second.

  ‘As I mentioned earlier,’ the professor went on in his Cornish drawl, ‘Tony Gordon and Chloe were close – inappropriately so. But there was no romantic interest. Rather, their relationship was unhealthy on an ethical and – dare I say it – political front.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘There is no other way of expressing it. To put it bluntly, Inspector, Dr Gordon is a fascist.’

  Sant bit hard on his toothpick. ‘I thought he merely studied the subject.’

  ‘Sadly not. He practices what he preaches.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Rothwell twitched slightly, then said: ‘Without wishing to be boastful, I can spot the signs. Tony does not act like a fascist and would not admit to being one, yet there is an undercurrent of extremist thought running right through him. Eugenicism, racial nationalism, social Darwinism, anitsemitism, anti-Islamism – Dr Gordon not only analyses these movements in his work; he implicitly grants a license to them. And if that were not enough, I chanced upon his diary not long ago and checked the entry for April the 20th. Guess what he had written?’

  Sant knew the significance of the date. ‘Hitler’s birthday.’

  ‘Correct. He probably bakes a Swastika cake and joins his Nazi chums for a day of depraved hero worshipping and Holocaust denial.’

  ‘Did Chloe suspect as much?’

  ‘I am not certain, though if she did – and I would not put it past her – then she appears not to have realised the danger involved in engaging with such abhorrent politics.’

  ‘You think he abducted her?’

  ‘Or worse.’

  Sant snapped his toothpick in half. ‘Why’ve you waited till now to tell me this?’

  ‘Well, I – I was not… sure – not at first.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure that Tony’s a fascist.’

  ‘True.’ The professor ruffled his blonde shock, ‘But I was not sure whether his political persuasions might cause him to – how can I put it? – do harm… to one of his students.’

  Sant tossed the remains of his toothpick in the wastepaper basket and decided it was time to change course. ‘Tell me what you know about Sheila Morrison.’

  Rothwell had anticipated the name, his left eyelid more relaxed than it might have been. He paused for thought before saying: ‘I knew her, yes, a long time ago. But we lost touch. I understand from the news broadcasts that Sheila was found dead a few days ago.’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Quite.’ The professor reached for his chair. ‘Umm, how did you know – ?’

  ‘An eyewitness recalled someone matching your description being arrested following a raid at Sheila’s council flat on the night of the 2nd of November 1984.’ Rothwell’s mouth gaped open. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that Sheila was once an undercover journalist writing exposés on fascists. And given your own interest in far right politics, my bet is you did the same line of work.’

  Rothwell was daydreaming by now, his mouth motionless, his eyes firmly shut.

  ‘You are right,’ he said after a long silence. ‘I was once the editor of a radical-left periodical. Sheila was chief reporter. We investigated hard-case stuff. Fascists, racists, rapists, paedophiles – the cream of society. That is why everyone who wrote for Red Lamp used a pen name… except Sheila. Sheila Morrison was her birth name. She wanted to prove a point, unwisely in my opinion.’ Rothwell looked up at Sant anxiously. ‘I tell you this in confidence, Inspector. My well-being and others depends on your… discreetness.’

  Sant nodded. ‘The other bet I would stake is that you have a longstanding fear of the police stemming from your arrest all those years ago.’ He made firm eye contact before saying: ‘Rest assured – I’ve no axe to grind.’

  ‘I understand so,’ said Rothwell as moisture formed behind his drooping eyelid.

  ‘Why were you and Sheila arrested?’

  ‘That is a question I have asked myself many times, and still I have no answer. Our arrest was never explained to us. I would not even go so far as to call it an arrest. We were brutally escorted to a cell and… beaten black and blue.’

  Sant allowed the man a moment of grief, the memory of that night still fresh. Then he said: ‘Professor, I need to find Chloe. She is my number one priority. We can return to the past for sure, but the present matters most.’

  Rothwell swallowed hard. ‘Though of course, there is no present without the past.’

  ‘Which is why I think Chloe’s current fate is tied up with the events of ‘84; with the shootings of those two policemen and how Chloe’s ex-neighbour Susan Smith, who we now know to be Sheila Morrison, was caught up in the aftermath.’

  The professor mulled things over for a while before sighing deeply. ‘I was aware that Chloe knew Sheila, so when she started studying here I kept a close eye on her. I also became aware that she was interested, academically, in the same political scene that Sheila and I and everyone else at Red Lamp had spent a decade or more interrogating.’

  ‘So this interest of hers explains why you think Tony Gordon has abducted or even killed Chloe?’

  ‘I know it all sounds incredible; too farfetched. That is why I feared a sceptical reaction to any claims I made about Dr Gordon, never mind claims I can make about those shootings. But since you know much about the past, Inspector, I imagine you might just possibly believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Rothwell dried eyes on his NR-initialled handkerchief before continuing: ‘It is true that Sheila and I were caught up in the shootings of Sergeant Gray and PC Tanner. And not only by way of the aftermath. We were there.’ It was Sant’s turn to gape. ‘Sheila and I were working on what is colloquially known as a tip-off. I won’t volunteer my source, though needless to say it came from inside West Yorkshire Police. And this tip-off was too good to ignore. You see, we suspected several senior officers of involvement in hate politics and hate crimes, and we were working on a splash for Red Lamp with the aim of outing them. What we did not predict was just how far those officers were prepared to go to demonstrate their fascist outlook.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Sant, bubbling with excitement.

  ‘What we had unearthed was so unbelievable that we struggled to believe it ourselves. Our source had overheard an order, from the very top of the police hierarchy, to violently restrain an officer reckoned to be a liability. A threat to security was how it was put.’ He blew into his handkerchief. ‘The order was bollocks. The officer being targeted turned out to be a mere community constable without an evil bone in his body. What made him ostensibly dangerous was the colour of his skin. He was a Muslim who had experienced racial and religious hatred, and he had even gone to court to testify against a group of racist thugs who had abused him during a political rally.’

  ‘PC Jack Patel,’ Sant interjected.

  ‘You’ve done your homework, Inspector. Patel had become a figure of hate not only to the National Front, but also to those officers with links to the party. And so the NF wanted revenge and – driven as they were by the promise of a hefty financial reward – those officers wanted revenge, too. Thus explained the order to restrain and effectively assassinate PC Patel.’

  ‘Ass
assinate?’

  Rothwell nodded. ‘I warned you my tale was farfetched, but I can assure you it is not fictional. On the contrary, it is a tale about the hard reality of money and power. As the writer Eric Ambler once said, “The important thing to know about an assassination is not who fired the shot, but who paid for the bullet”. And moreover, in this case the absurd severity of the order meant the operation it licensed had to be uncompromisingly covert, with no questions asked and no consequences for those officers in the know. Such was the grand design. And no-one would have been any wiser about what ensued on Halloween 1984 had Sheila and I not received prior intelligence.’

  ‘So you witnessed the operation?’

  ‘Not only witnessed; we filmed it.’

  Sant widened his eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, Inspector.’

  ‘You got more than you bargained for.’

  ‘Correct. You see, Sheila and I felt that if we could capture on film a racially motivated attack on a policeman at the hands of his fellow officers, then we could destroy the whole rotten hierarchy of West Yorkshire Police. And score a major coup for investigative journalism at the same time.’