by Hayden, Mark
‘I didn’t know she was married.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘She made a point of telling me afterwards – so I knew she wasn’t looking to get together again after the course was over. She took off her wedding ring at Oslo airport and went on the cookery course to get laid.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Kate believed him. It was good to see Tom a little less frustrated. She kept quiet about what she’d been up to for the last four days: a spontaneous dirty weekend in Edinburgh with a canoeing instructor from Oban.
After dinner, they looked at Di’s paintings. Kate thought that Diana had cheated by doing a triptych and trying to pass it off as three separate pieces, but they were good. Kate would never look at sheep in the same way again.
While Di loaded the dishwasher, Tom whispered to Kate. ‘How did you get on with that favour?’
She opened her bag and passed him a piece of paper. It was the printout from a hotel register in Spain showing three of the names from the visitors’ log with an asterisk next to a known alias for Tom’s missing conman.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Your colleagues had missed the big picture. In fact it was literally a big picture – on a social media website. Four of them at a bar in Spain. Some criminals really are stupid.’
‘What are you two plotting?’ said Diana.
‘Tom’s just won the booby prize,’ said Kate. ‘He gets to go to Birmingham.’
Despite the late hour, Gatwick Airport was busy, and Conrad Clarke found it difficult to secure a table in the café. He was gasping for a cigarette already, and it would be a very, very long time before he could have one. A woman in black robes, headscarf and veil approached him, and he was about to tell her that the other seat was taken when he recognised the eyes and stood up to greet her.
‘Have you converted to Islam?’ he said.
‘No, Conrad, I haven’t,’ said Mina. ‘I can see the attraction, but I don’t plan on becoming a Muslim just so that I can wear a veil.’
She sat down, and he asked her if she wanted anything from the café. ‘No thanks. I can’t eat solids for another few days and if I have any more coffee I’ll burst.’
‘How is it?’
Mina turned away from the crowded departure lounge and carefully unhooked one side of her veil. She showed him the wound. Dried blood and stitches lined her face where the surgeon had rebuilt her jaw. ‘I’m not just wearing the veil for anonymity. I don’t want people looking at this.’
‘My God, you’re beautiful. You do know that. I can’t believe what a difference it makes.’
She hooked the veil back on and told him to stop flattering her.
‘But it’s true. I always thought you were stunning, but now you’ve got your jawline back it’s completely different. Did they do the dental implants as well?’
‘No. Too much for one operation. I’ll have to wait until I’m in prison before I can have them – and the cosmetic work on the scars. But I can chew on the left side from Wednesday. That’s the day after the sentencing hearing so I get my first solid meal for six years inside a prison.’
Clarke reached under the table and took hold of her hands. He massaged her fingers and stroked her nails and felt the tension in her palms receding. ‘If something happened to me, would you wait?’
She gripped his hand and locked her eyes on him. ‘What’s happened, Conrad?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, but if they ever tracked me back to what happened in Essex or if something happened in the future…’
She lowered her gaze, and he could see only the veil but her hand was still in his. ‘For what you did before,’ she said, ‘all has been washed away. What you do in the future is different. By the time I come out of prison, we will both be different people. I cannot promise anything until I have paid my debts.’
‘Our atmans will still be the same.’
She took her hand out from under the table and punched him on the shoulder. ‘Stop winding me up. You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘And if I didn’t believe it – would that make it any less true?’
‘Go and get me a diet Pepsi – and a straw.’
Clarke heaved himself out of the seat and wondered why the change of mind. Half way to the counter, he remembered. She hadn’t seen him since his own operation to remove the pins from his leg. Well, to remove the ones sticking out. He was left with a rod in his tibia and no matter how hard he worked in rehab, he now had a limp. She was checking out his walk.
‘It’s so funny to see you without crutches,’ she said when he got back with her drink. ‘What did you call running on them?’
‘Cromping.’
‘That’s right. You could move faster on one leg and two crutches than my mother can move on two legs.’
‘It had its moments, but I’m glad to be off them. It doesn’t hurt most of the time, either.’
‘No heroics in Afghanistan, do you hear me? If I’m going to dump you when I get out of prison, I want you to be alive, so that you suffer.’
Clarke grinned at her. ‘You can’t dump me unless we’re an item. And you’ve never said that before.’
She looked down again, and he thought that she might be blushing. ‘I do want you to take care, though. Please.’
‘I’m going to teach the Afghan Air Force how to fly large helicopters. It’s not completely safe, but it’s a lot safer than Helmand.’
The delayed BA flight to Manchester is now boarding at Gate 14, came the announcement.
‘When you get back,’ he said, ‘start developing a serious interest in cricket, especially the Indian Premier League. I’ll explain why in a letter.’
She reached into her niqab and pulled out a small box. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ He opened it and inside was a Zippo lighter with a garish purple image of Ganesha, the Hindu elephant god.
‘Look on the back.’
He took it out and turned it over. There was a custom engraving of a little fish. Her name – Mina – meant little fish.
‘Ganesha will watch over you, and so will I. Now give me your other one. You won’t be wanting it now.’
He pulled a similar (if more tasteful) lighter from his pocket and took one last look at the inscription: To Conrad, with love from Amelia. He tossed it on the table, and Mina – equally casually – picked it up and tossed it into the bin.
Clarke gripped his new lighter in his palm and leaned over to unhook her veil. As the final call for her flight was announced, he brushed his lips against hers.
Chapter 4
Earlsbury
4 – 17 October
The custody sergeant at Earlsbury division was beginning to lose patience. Ian Hooper had filled one of his cells with stolen bicycles two weeks ago, and there were still four left in it. Ian promised the sergeant they’d be gone by Wednesday. Perhaps Ceri’s school could ‘borrow’ them for cycling proficiency practice. That would get him a bonus point for community engagement.
The recovery of stolen bicycles and the arrest had tipped the balance in his favour, and Ian was now an acting detective constable. He went back to the CID room and asked Angela what was new. Her bump was now very large and she wasn’t going to be doing much field work for the next two weeks. Then her maternity leave would start, and Ian would have six months to prove himself.
‘Get us a cup of tea, love,’ she said. ‘We’ve all been summoned to an eleven o’clock briefing. I’ll see you in the conference room.’
Ian did as he was bid and slipped into the back of the room five minutes later. Angela was next to the door because anything longer than half an hour was likely to be interrupted by a visit to the Ladies. She’d given up on coffee but didn’t seem to realise that tea had much the same effect.
At the front of the room, Griff was talking to an unknown suit with a temporary security pass. The visitor was pale, thin, and had hollows round his eyes. The hunched shoulders suggested a man with an intimate knowledge of
computer screens.
When DCI Storey – the head of Earlsbury CID – appeared, Griff moved to a seat on the front row, and their senior officer addressed the group. ‘Morning all. Sorry to drag you away from operations, but you all need to hear this. I’ll say no more except to introduce our visitor.’ Storey consulted a piece of paper. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Tom Morton from the Money Laundering Investigation Unit in the Economic Crimes section of the City of London Police. Have you all got that?’
‘I got the “Tom” bit,’ said Griff and the others laughed.
Blimey, thought Ian. If that’s what happens to you when you join the Fraud Squad, I’m avoiding it like the plague. The visitor stood up and straightened his jacket.
‘Thanks. I’ll be very brief. Earlier this year we uncovered a major counterfeiting and money laundering ring in London and Essex. We cleaned up the distribution network, but we got nowhere near the actual forgers. Now they’re back in action, and they’re on your patch.’
While this was sinking in, DS Morton took some twenty pound notes out of his pocket. ‘These aren’t in an evidence bag because we’ve got so many of them. I’ll leave them here for you to have a look at afterwards. I’m not going to try and tell you about the economic damage caused by counterfeiting, because life’s too short.’ Morton paused and put the notes on a table. ‘But I will tell you this. When we closed down that gang, one man was stabbed to death, one man was shot and a young girl was beaten up so badly it took months for her to recover. There’s a network around here somewhere, and I need your help to root it out. Preferably with a solid lead back to the printing presses this time.’
He sat down, and DCI Storey stood up. ‘I endorse everything DS Morton has said. He has to go back to London in a week, and I want you to put maximum focus on this while he’s still here so we can pick his brains. If we get a result, it’ll be to our credit. DS Griffin, could you take over?’
The DCI shook hands with the visitor and left. Griff replaced him. ‘We’re going to have a full Ops meeting on Thursday at nine o’clock when I’ve worked out the details.’ He turned to the visitor. ‘In the meantime, DC Hooper will introduce you to Earlsbury. Where are you staying, Tom?’
‘I’m at the Holiday Inn in Birmingham - at my own expense.’
‘We can’t have that, mate: it’s too far away and I want you to sample some Black Country hospitality. You’ve got a spare room, haven’t you Ian? Good. You can show our guest the highlights and lowlights of Earlsbury, and book it down to expenses. Any questions? No? Right, off you go.’
The room cleared, and some officers took a sample from the pile of forged notes. Ian went up and looked at them. They were stamped FORGERY in red letters. He shook hands with the visitor.
‘Has DS Griffin told you I’m only acting DC, sir?’
‘Yes, and it’s “Tom”, not “Sir”.’
‘Righty-ho, Tom. Shall we start with a walk down the High Street?’
The Lynch family were used to compromise. Patrick was very lucky that Fran had accepted him back after Hope’s birth had exposed his infidelity. When you’ve a bastard in the maternity unit and two dead bodies in the Barley Mow, it’s a special woman who’s willing to forgive. Patrick had promised to keep his flies zipped, and eighteen years later (and eight years after his heart attack) he reckoned that their marriage was at its happiest since its beginning. Tonight’s compromise was a family send-off for Hope, conducted midweek instead of round the Sunday dinner table. Since Rob King had come out of prison, Hope’s house was out of bounds for him, and so the assembled Lynch clan were making polite conversation in the conservatory.
The guest of honour was leaving tomorrow for university in St Andrews after a good crop of A Level results. She was leaning on an armchair, talking to her grandmother. Elizabeth, who idolised her older half-sister, was standing on the other side. Patrick and Fran watched from the living room.
‘At least she’s not doing the four year course,’ said Fran.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’ll save you a few bob not having to pay for the extra year, like most of them do in Scotland.’
‘The fees are cheaper than at St Modwenna’s.’
‘And how much will her living costs be?’
‘I told her mother that it was fees only from now on.’
‘Maybe she’ll pick up a prince. That seems to be the main reason for going to St Andrews.’
‘It has a tremendous reputation. So I’m told.’
‘It’s a long way off, and that’s the main thing. So long as we aim higher for Elizabeth.’
‘Higher?’
‘Oh, yes, Patrick. If our daughter doesn’t get into Oxford, I’ll want to know the reason why.’
The doorbell rang, and Fran went to answer it. Dermot should be here by now, surely, but if that was him, why didn’t he use his key? Fran took her time and came back with a sour look.
‘It’s your golfing buddy. I told him this was a private function but he said it was urgent. I told him to wait outside.’
Putting down his glass of wine and soda (urgh, but at least it still had wine in it), Patrick went through to the hall and peered out of the glass. Shit. What was Griff doing here tonight? He opened the door and almost yanked the detective sergeant through the kitchen and into the garden. They paused by the garage, out of sight of the conservatory.
‘Nice to see you, Griff. You’ve not brought a present for Hope, then?’
‘Give over,’ snapped Griffin. ‘This is fucking serious.’
DS Griffin squared his shoulders and took half a step closer to Patrick. ‘How long have you been shifting dodgy notes, eh?’
Patrick ran his finger round his collar. It suddenly felt very warm for October. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Griffin took another half step, and Patrick backed into the wall with a bump. ‘You said you wanted a tip-off if someone called Morton appeared. Well, he appeared this morning with a big bunch of counterfeit twenties and an action plan to find the distributor. That would be you, wouldn’t it? He said this is the second time he’s been on the gang’s trail and he’s not going to give up until they’re all in jail and he’s closed down the printing press. Last time there were two murders. I looked it up. The people behind this are psychos.’
‘Jesus, Griff. I had no idea about this. Honest. I’ll admit to playing a part in distribution, but I had no idea it was connected like that.’
‘You’re on your own. I won’t help him, but I won’t shield you, either. I’ve palmed him off with a rookie until Thursday, but after that…’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort it.’
‘You better had.’ Griffin walked off. ‘Enjoy your party,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘It’s very kind of you to invite me into your home.’
‘Don’t be daft, Tom. We’re getting a free meal out of it.’
Tom started to remove the lids from a huge selection of Indian takeaway cartons. After their tour of Earlsbury, Ian had insisted that a good curry from East of Earlsbury was exactly what they needed. Instead of a menu, the acting detective constable had simply phoned the restaurant and asked for A Special for three please, Ali, on the CID account.
There was barely room for all the food. Tom had scanned the flat, and the coffee table in front of the TV was the closest the young couple had to a dining area. Where Tom would have put a proper table, there was a desk and computer. The kitchen didn’t look much used, either.
When they arrived with the Tandoori Banquet, a young woman was sitting at the desk and busily typing, surrounded by exercise books. ‘Lesson plans,’ she said, as if that explained everything.
‘So how did you two meet?’ he asked while Ian opened some beers.
‘Rugby,’ she replied. After a day of Black Country accents, Ceri’s Welsh was strikingly different. ‘Ian played for the Midland Counties police team – still does – and they had a Police Cup match against South Wales Police. My brother was on the winn
ing side, of course. I took pity on the losing Number 8.’
She looked up at Ian (most people had to look up at Ian) and gave him a smile. Then she tweaked his misshapen nose. ‘We texted each other for weeks after, and when I finished college, I applied for a job here. Easier for me to start here than for Ian to get transferred to Wales. He doesn’t speak Welsh too well.’
Tom put down his plate and excused himself. Ceri pointed to the bathroom, and he locked himself in. The food was excellent, so why did he feel sick? Looking at the two of them had turned his stomach: not with revulsion at them, but at himself. They had bought this flat, about twice the size of his own, and they had made it a home. Together.
He was only seven years older than Ian. For goodness sake, man. Pull yourself together. He washed his face and stared in the mirror. When his father had paid a visit to London in August, he had taken one look at Horsefair Court and said, ‘Mr Bleaney lives here.’ When Tom had asked what he meant, his father said, ‘Philip Larkin. A hired box. Look it up.’
Tom returned to the room and found them watching TV.
‘Are you alright, Thomas?’ said Ceri.
‘I’m fine. It must have been the CID coffee. Ian must be immune.’
She patted his arm and offered him the biryani. ‘Put a proper lining on your stomach, that will.’
‘Gorra build your strength up for tomorrow,’ said Ian. ‘We’re going to a pole dancing club in the afternoon.’
‘He’s not joking, either,’ said Ceri.
They met up at Sandbach services in Cheshire. Patrick parked on the north side and walked over the bridge. After buying a coffee, he went to the petrol station and waited by the exit. Dead on time, an anonymous white van filled up with diesel and stopped next to him. The driver wound down the window. It was Red Hand himself.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Paddy?’
‘Patrick.’
‘Same question.’