It’s not uncommon for older, more experienced officers to watch the young bloods at work and curse them, whilst at the same time being reminded of themselves when they were first starting out. They’re faced with a combination of irritation and nostalgia. Irritation at the lack of ability, and nostalgia for those days when they had been so full of energy and determination to be the best they could. Where Brian Oakes was concerned, there was only the irritation, and that was escalating into something approaching annoyance after forty minutes of watching him laboriously trying to make sense of his own notes. And not once did the dozy idiot ask what all the fuss was about.
When he was satisfied that there was nothing useful he was going to learn, Collins sent Oakes to get the notes typed up while he started with the witnesses.
He had told them he wanted to take statements, but what he really meant was he wanted to interrogate them, and he did. At length. He did it in a friendly manner - he chatted, he smiled, he looked for opportunities to make a joke. But he also made copious notes, and he went back over things with them, “just to make sure I’ve got this right...”
McLean had responded well. Collins was sure he understood what was going on, but was happy to go along with it. He had the air of a man who had nothing to hide.
Mrs McLean was different altogether. She had clearly recovered somewhat by the time Collins sat down with her. All of the interrogations were held in his office. He felt that the formality of an interview room might have put them on their guard. Of course, the office itself wasn’t without formality, but he’d softened that by arranging the chairs on one side of the desk. For all of them, this was helpful. In Mrs McLean’s case, having no barriers between them had obvious benefits, and O’Neill certainly took advantage of them. And, in her somewhat refreshed state, she was clearly willing to take advantage of that. Her sitting position, and every adjustment she made to it during the course of the interview, was carefully considered. Every time she had to stop and think about an answer to a question, she tilted her head back and angled it slightly away from them. She knew what to do to make herself look good. Collins wasn’t immune to her charms, but he was a student of human behaviour, and that interest distracted him enough to avoid falling into any of the traps she was laying for them. O’Neill, on the other hand, was jumping gleefully into them, and seemed quite happy to impale himself on the spikes.
Collins was fascinated by the manipulation. As he carefully went through his questions with her and found nothing suspicious in her answers, he couldn’t help wondering why she did it. The behaviour suggested that she might be trying to hide something by diverting their attention away from what she was saying and on to her. By the end of the interview, he was confident that this wasn’t something she was doing because of the circumstances. It was just what she did. She needed attention, and took every opportunity to get it.
They saved Gates till last. It was a deliberate choice by Collins. His impression from the early morning meeting had not been good, and the feedback from Oakes also gave him cause for concern. The interviews with the McLeans had provided a further opportunity to unearth more so he had something else he could use, but nothing obvious had come up.
By the time O’Neill led Gates into the office, the McLeans were on their way home.
The three men sat down in a loose triangle. Collins ran a weary hand through his thinning hair. Although he was nearly fifty, his hair was still very dark, almost black, but his widow’s peak was becoming more pronounced. His sharp features, softened only slightly by the weight he’d put on over the last couple of years, gave him a hawkish appearance. If anyone looked at a photograph of him, they could easily assume he was a mean spirited and possibly even a bitter man. There were times when that impression was useful to cultivate. If a good cop/bad cop routine was required, Collins was already typecast. It was a testament to his character, though, that he could dispense with that image very rapidly, as he’d already demonstrated in the interviews with the McLeans.
He looked tired now, partly due to the early start. But he was deliberately overplaying it for Gates’s benefit. It didn’t do any harm to make the witness think you wouldn’t be paying proper attention.
“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Martin.” Collins gave a short sigh. Not too obtrusive, but enough to be noticed. “It’s been a long day for us all and I’m sure you just want to get back to the farm.”
“It’s safe to go then?”
“Oh yes. The van’s been removed.”
Collins made a big show of checking his notes, even though he had read them thoroughly before asking for Gates. After a moment or two, he looked up. His head was shaking slightly, his face registered puzzlement.
“I’m sorry about this, Martin. It’s been that long since we last spoke, I’ve forgotten where we were up to.”
Gates made a show of checking his watch. “Well it has been over eight hours.” He made no attempt to hide his annoyance.
“Have you been treated okay?” The question was filled with concern for his wellbeing.
“Yes, fine,” Gates said impatiently. “Now can we get on?”
“Of course.”
And they did. Slowly, methodically, Collins went to work. At first, Gates came across as defensive, which he’d expected after the feedback from Oakes. But gradually the barriers came down, and they even shared a few smiles along the way. Even so, after an hour and a half, Collins felt he’d learnt little more than he already knew. He also felt sure that, in spite of the rapport they’d built up, Gates was keeping something from him. Unfortunately, feelings alone weren’t enough to detain him further.
“Well, Martin,” he said brightly, covering his disappointment, “I can’t think of anything else we need to cover at the moment. So I’ll let you get home and get some rest.” He hesitated for a moment, clearly pondering something. “Not that the farm is your home.” He made the remark as if it was a puzzle to him. “In fact, where is your home, Martin?”
It was Gates’s turn to look thoughtful. “That’s a good question, Inspector,” he said at last. “Technically, I have an apartment in Gran Canaria, but the rent on that’s only paid to the end of the month. After that, I could be homeless.” The idea seemed to amuse him.
“Do you think you’ll move back to the UK?” Conversational, not interrogative.
“I doubt it.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Bloody lousy weather.”
“More like a bloody lousy family.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Mine’s in a class of its own.”
A chuckle from Collins. “Are they really that bad?”
“I’d be here all day telling you,” Gates said. “And you’ve got bad guys to catch.” He gave Collins a meaningful look. “Unless you think I’m one of the bad guys.”
“In all honesty, Martin, I can’t rule anything out at this stage. But I would struggle to see how your family problems could have anything to do with a stolen van.”
“Especially not a stolen van with a bomb in it.”
And not just any bomb, Collins thought, but he kept it to himself. He stood up and stretched out his arm. As Gates responded in kind, Collins gestured to the door with his free hand.
“Obviously, you’ll need to sign the statement, and we’ve got to get that typed up first. Sergeant O’Neill here will make sure you’ve got somewhere comfortable to sit while you’re waiting. But as soon as that’s done, we’ll have a car take you back to the farm.”
“Thanks.” Gates turned to the door.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Collins added before he opened it. “It’s likely that we’ll need to have another chat with you over the next day or two, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t head back to the Canaries.”
“Do you want my passport?”
“Just your cooperation will be fine.”
Martin nodded his agreement and allowed himself to be steered out of the room by O’Neill.
When O’Neill returned a fe
w minutes later, Collins was sitting behind his desk reading through the notes he’d made. They would be needed for typing up the statement, but he obviously wasn’t in a rush to let Gates go yet.
“What do you think, Guv?” he asked after closing the door.
The DI looked past him to make sure the door was closed. Within CID only a handful of officers knew how serious this enquiry was, and he was pretty confident they’d be forced to sign some paperwork concerning the Official Secrets Act before long.
“I haven’t got a clue what to think, Les. All three of them are hiding something. I just don’t know what it is. And that’s not helping us to find out how a van containing a device stolen from the Atomic Weapons Establishment ended up in a barn in Sherwood Forest.”
Seventeen
Tanya was tired, but restless at the same time. The police enquiries yesterday afternoon had been disturbing enough for her, but the events overnight and today had left her with a mixture of emotions. Being told you have a bomb only a few yards away from your home was hardly an every day event. To be ordered to leave your home because of it threw yet more feelings into the mix. Fear of death or injury, combined with frustration and anger at being told what to do, and having no choice about it.
Ian hadn’t been much help either. He’d just gone along meekly with whatever the police or the soldiers said. Why didn’t he argue with them?
As she wondered that, she knew that there wouldn’t have been any point in arguing. And she also knew that Ian would have recognised that, and saved his energy for more important things. But she hadn’t wanted rational and considered thinking. She’d wanted some action. Someone to show they’d got a bit of life in them.
Even though she was still concerned about what he was up to, she still preferred the way Martin had behaved yesterday with the Plod. It probably wasn’t very productive, but at least it showed there was a spark of life in him. Whether he’d shown the same spark this morning, she couldn’t tell. When Ian had come up to the bedroom, Martin had been busy downstairs. She thought she’d heard him talking to someone, but couldn’t be sure. While Ian sat on the bed and talked to her, she’d heard him go outside again. She’d only been vaguely aware of it. Ian was telling her that they’d found the missing van in the barn. That they were going to phone the police soon, but Martin had to do something else first.
“What? What’s he got to do?”
He’d shrugged, unsure what to say to her.
“It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one who stole the van. He’s covering his tracks, isn’t he?”
But he’d shaken his head very firmly. “No. It isn’t Martin.”
“Well what’s he up to then?”
Instead of answering, Ian said: “Look, we need to give him some leeway.”
“Leeway!” Her voice had risen, and he responded by lifting his hands and waving them downwards, indicating that she should do the same with her volume.
“We need to tell the police that we only found the van...” He glanced at the alarm clock. “...around four o’clock.”
She followed his gaze. “It’s not even half-three yet.”
He ignored her protest. “Martin needs a bit more time.”
“For what? Has he got another dog to butcher, or is he going to see if he can catch some of those bloody ravens, so he can sacrifice them?”
At five o’clock in the afternoon, she still didn’t know what Martin had been up to. Ian either didn’t know, or wasn’t telling. He’d given nothing away when he’d returned to their bedroom this morning. Instead he’d stressed that he hadn’t time to explain, that he needed her to back him up. By the time he’d convinced her to do that, Martin was back in the house and on the phone. She could hear his muted tones as she dressed.
And when Ian had finally led her down the stairs, they had only a few minutes before the police arrived. Then Ian and Martin had taken the officers to the barn, and after that all hell seemed to have been let loose. Lots of sitting around on her own. You couldn’t really class the police officers as company. She’d hardly seen Martin or Ian over the next several hours. They were kept apart at the house, they were driven to Westfield in different cars, and they were taken to separate offices within the police station.
There were times when she’d been tempted to tell the detectives that her husband and lodger were up to something. But her annoyance at being treated like a common criminal more than balanced out that urge. And, even though she had always enjoyed male attention, there was something unusually distasteful about being ogled by men who were supposed to be investigating a serious crime. Especially one in which her own life could have been threatened.
So she’d held out. Hoping to get some answers from Ian and Martin when they got home.
But the answers hadn’t come. Once the bomb had been removed from the site, the police had been allowed back on to the farm. And when Tanya and Ian were dropped off at the house, it was to find it still occupied by officers who were searching for evidence. Evidence of what, they weren’t prepared to disclose, though it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that they were going through the process of “eliminating the McLeans and their house guest from their enquiries”. Or not, as the case might be.
When she’d first gone into her bedroom, it had briefly crossed her mind that they might have been burgled in their absence. Drawers had been left half open, clothes had been dropped on the bed or floor, their hangers lying loosely nearby as if they’d been deliberately separated. Ornaments were scattered haphazardly across the surfaces on which they’d previously stood so neatly. Whoever had carried out the search had been given orders to do a thorough job as rapidly as possible. Finesse wasn’t part of the job description.
On reflection, burglars might have been preferable. At least they’d have taken what they wanted and gone. Instead, her most private areas had been breached by strangers, but strangers who were still in the house. And from the looks exchanged between a few of them, she knew they’d found things even Ian didn’t know were hidden in her drawers. Being judged by those bastards made her feel ashamed – even though she knew she had nothing to be ashamed about. And then there was the anger she felt knowing they’d been pawing through her underwear. More conflicting emotions. Adding to the confusion in the same way that she didn’t know who to be more angry at: the police for invading her privacy, Martin for possibly being the cause, or Ian for persuading her to cover for him.
To make matters worse, because the police were still searching the house, it was impossible to talk to Ian properly and try to find out exactly what had happened in the early hours of the morning.
They could have left the police to it, but she didn’t feel happy about that. Not that she was overjoyed at the prospect of staying close by where they could let their eyes drift over her, imagining her wearing some of the more adventurous underwear they’d come across. Or maybe the videos in their heads were playing images of her using some of the toys they’d found. And they had definitely found them. One had been left in the middle of the bed, a far from discreet message for her.
Under other circumstances, she’d have perhaps enjoyed letting a police officer catch a glimpse of some of her private items. It might have been fun to pick one of them out and tease him. It wasn’t unheard of for her to offer tantalising hints of what she was wearing underneath a skirt or blouse, or to “accidentally” show a little more leg or cleavage than might be expected. The knowledge of what that could do to a man was exciting. But it was also on her terms. She was in control. This was different.
As well as the police, there were still soldiers around. None of them were in the house, or even in the yard. But they had seen the olive coloured Land Rovers and a lorry still parked up by the barn. And they could hear them intermittently. No idea what they were shouting about or why the occasional clattering noise was happening, but in their own way she guessed they were being as thorough as the police.
Not that she could blame them. Another conflicting tho
ught. She was pissed off at the intrusion and disruption. But at the same time, she knew she’d be just as annoyed if they’d simply taken the bomb away and then buggered off without bothering to check the area, either for more bombs or for evidence so they could catch whoever was responsible.
Which made her think of Martin. What the hell was he up to?
She’d expected to find out from Ian, but as soon as the police left the house he was out the door and jumping into his own Land Rover. The timing was deliberate. She knew that. As he crossed to the yard, there were still police cars manoeuvring to make their exit. At least one was only moving out to join the Army vehicles anyway. An officer had already told them there would be a police presence on the farm for at least another couple of hours. If she caused a scene, they might well decide to stop in the yard – or even come back to the house. More frustration, then. He’d made some comment about going to check how Matthew and Patrick were getting on. But she wasn’t sure if that was just an excuse for him to go in the opposite direction to the police.
Now, an hour or so later, she was feeling angry and confused, frustrated and bitter, frightened and embarrassed. And lonely.
The bedroom was tidy. It had been therapy of sorts. At times, her discoveries of what had been unearthed had left her mortified. But she’d ploughed on, gradually restoring order to the room, and hoping that deep down some order would start to be restored inside her.
When she heard the kitchen door open, she assumed it would be Ian. She hadn’t heard him drive into the yard, but with military vehicles still moving around outside, she could easily have missed his Land Rover.
A part of her wanted to storm down and demand answers. Another part of her wanted to be held tightly and reassured that it was all over. Either way, she needed to be with him. Her head and heart in turmoil, she trudged down the stairs. Martin was waiting for her.
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