by Michael Kerr
During one of their many discussions, Matt had said that forgoing the reinstatement of the death penalty, then he believed that all offenders whose crimes warranted a mandatory life sentence, should be dumped on an island – maybe as distant as the Falklands – and have to form their own society, grow crops and sink or swim.
Beth put away such thoughts, poured herself a glass of wine and went over the details of the cottage that they were purchasing in Borehamwood. It was almost midnight when the phone rang.
“Beth?”
“Yes, Matt.”
“I’m Sorry I’m not there.”
“So am I. Where are you?”
“At the seaside.”
“Huh?”
“Frinton, on the Essex coast. I’m with Pete.”
“Give me a clue as to why.”
“Foley. It’s a place he visited a few times. We dropped by his ex-wife’s place again, and she told us that they spent some holidays here, in a static.”
“But whoever took Laura, kept her in a cellar. I’ve never heard of a caravan with one.”
“We’re clutching at straws, Beth. We need to find him, and then worry about where he might take them.”
“Does his wife...ex, think he has it in him to do what was done to Laura?”
“No. She said if he wanted to get even with anybody, he wouldn’t beat around the bush. That if he held a grudge against someone, he’d deal with them personally.”
“Be careful. If it is Foley, he’s a full-blown psychopath.”
“You know me. Careful is my middle name these days.”
“You do realise that I won’t be able to sleep now, until you get back to me and let me know what happened.”
“I’ll do that. Read a good book, or watch a movie.”
I love you.”
“Ditto.”
“Does ditto mean that Pete is in earshot?”
“You got it. Bye for now.”
“Watch your back,” Beth said and hung up.
They had parked on the coast road just a couple of hundred yards from the Silver Surf Holiday Park.
“Looks deserted,” Pete said as they approached the entrance gates.
There was an empty car park, an office-come-shop, and a large single-storey prefabricated building with a sign denoting it as the Treasure Chest, which was obviously the site’s drinking hole and entertainment centre.
“They aren’t year-round concerns, Pete. It’s Frinton, not Benidorm. Not many people want to freeze their balls off by spending winter in a plastic or aluminium clad box.”
“You’d get good rates.”
“Yeah, and double pneumonia.”
The office and club were shuttered up and padlocked. They walked through the light fall of snow and were faced with at least ten rows of static homes, that appeared to stretch all the way to the grassy-topped, frosted dunes and the blackness behind them, which was the sea.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Pete said through chattering teeth.
“We take a stroll up and down. Check them out.”
They stayed together, drew their guns from shoulder holsters and kept them in pockets of their jackets, held ready. Pete wore a Parka, but Matt had only a thin windbreaker over his sweater.
Keeping close to the sides of the holiday homes, they looked and listened, not hopeful, but alert for the slightest sound or glow of light.
It was Pete who thought he heard a creak from a unit in the fifth row. He tapped Matt on the arm and they both stood stock-still, their senses heightened by a rush of adrenaline. As Pete hitched his shoulders, sure that he had been imagining the noise, it came again, and they both nodded. It could have been a stealthy footfall.
Matt considered switching on his mobile and calling for backup, but it was still a long shot. The sound could have been anything. He pointed to the windows and mouthed ‘watch them’ to Pete.
Moving quickly around to the door, Matt drew his Beretta and jacked a round into the chamber. It sounded loud in the still of the night. It was decision time. The door could not be shouldered in. It opened outwards. He held the gun two-handed and took a deep breath. “This is the police, Foley,” he shouted. “Open the door and come out with your hands on your head.”
At the other side of the unit, Pete backed away and waited, ready for an attempted escape through one of the windows. If necessary, he was prepared to fire a warning shot. He was too numb with cold to have to give chase if Foley tried to do a runner.
Matt stepped forward cautiously and hammered on the side of the unit, not risking being in front of the door, in case it was thrown back in his face. “The place is surrounded by armed police, Foley,” he exaggerated. “Don’t make us have to come in.”
There was a harsh cough, and the door opened slowly towards him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE figure was thin, hunched, and the hands were held up, palms facing Matt.
The voice was weak, but angry. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Are you Eddie Foley?” Matt said, keeping the muzzle of his gun pointed unwaveringly at the man’s chest.
“No, I’m Lord fuckin’ Lucan?”
“Step outside and lay face down on the ground,” Matt ordered.
“In this weather? Give me a break. Either come inside or shoot me.”
Pete appeared from the side, moving fast. He grasped the man by the front of the baggy pullover he wore and jerked him forward, down onto the snow-covered ground. He had the cuffs on in a second, but remained knelt with one knee on his captive’s back.
“That’s all I need,” Eddie spluttered, turning his head to the side and spitting snow from his mouth. “Who the fuck are you two? Batman and Robin on a crusade against squatters?”
Pete frisked him, and then pulled him roughly to his feet, eliciting a moan.
“He’s clean, boss.”
“Help him inside.” Matt said, slipping his pistol back into its holster.
The interior of the unit looked like a landfill site. It was never going to feature in a good homes guide.
Pete steered Eddie onto the bench seat behind a small table in the dinette, as Matt showed the man his ID. It was Foley, of that there was no doubt, but he looked sixty, not forty. He was skeletal, and his face had a yellowish hue. His eyes appeared overlarge and had a haunted quality, like someone who was dying and knew it.
“You’re under arrest, Foley,” Matt said. “I must caution you that anything―”
“Cut the crap, Barnes,” Eddie said. “Get to it. Why are you hasslin’ me?”
“Where is the Marshall woman?” Matt said.
“Who?”
“Kirstie Marshall. I want to know where you’ve got her stashed.”
Eddie’s brow creased in an expression of puzzlement. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Search this rat hole,” Matt said to Pete.
“Give me a clue,” Eddie said. “I might be able to put you straight and save us all a lot of wasted time.”
“You came out of prison bitter and twisted, and decided to get back at Ray Preston by abducting and murdering his daughter. Now you’ve lifted another woman. How’s that for starters?”
Eddie grinned. “Look at me, Barnes. My liver’s shot, and my heart’s hangin’ by a thread. I can hardly stand, much less lift anythin’. You’ve fucked up, again.”
“Meaning?”
“I recognise you. You’re the wanker who got his team capped on a baby-sit, so don’t act the big tough cop with me. I was at the sharp end for years, and didn’t get shot up, or lose any of my men.”
Matt clenched his fists.
Eddie laughed. It was a phlegmy, nasty sound. “Go on, Barnes, hit me. That’s what cost me everythin’, losin’ my temper with a badmouthed, motherfuckin’ nigger.
Matt held off. He had nearly let the racist piece of shit push him over the edge; had almost lowered himself to Foley’s level. “Why are you in hiding if you’re innocent?” he said.
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“I’m not hidin’. I came here to die. I like the peace and isolation, and the sound of the ocean. A quack told me that without a liver transplant I probably won’t last for more than another couple of months. I thought this would be as good a place as any to check out.”
“You must have known we were looking for you.”
“Sorry. I don’t have a paper delivered. And if you look around, you’ll see that there’s no radio or TV. I’ve opted out, Barnes. I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about what’s goin’ on in the world anymore.”
Pete finished searching the bedroom, bathroom and living/kitchen area. He shook his head. “Nothing, boss. Not even any food. Just half a dozen bottles of scotch and a few hundred cigarettes.”
“I’m on a diet,” Eddie quipped.
Matt’s heart felt heavy. Against all odds they had found Foley, but he was positive that the man was in no way connected to the crimes. He was a dying man who had just gone to ground to finish himself off with the help of his good friend Johnny Walker, of both red and black label fame.
“You need help, Foley,” he said.
“Spare me the sympathy, Barnes. If you want to help, then just turn a blind eye and leave me here. Is that askin’ too much? I was a good cop, you know. I took a lot of scum off the streets. My problem was a short fuse. I never took to bein’ called a pig, filth, or a fascist. I may have been a little heavy-handed at times, but we’ve all got faults.”
“Where’s your car?” Matt said.
“I haven’t driven since I got out. I came here by way of train to Colchester, then a cab to Frinton.”
Matt was a cop, not a social worker or doctor. A seriously ill man with a death wish wasn’t within his specialist area. All he needed to do was make a decision; take Foley in for further questioning, or walk away and let the man determine his own fate. It was heavy shit. He could call the local police and let them know that they had a trespasser at the holiday park, but what the hell, he had no bone to pick with the ex-cop.
“Take the cuffs off,” he said to Pete.
Pete did as he was told.
“Thanks,” Eddie said, reaching for his cigarettes and lighter with shaking hands. “What are you goin’ to do?”
“Accept a scotch off you, and then bugger off. If that’s what you really want.”
“So you believe me?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It would have made my day if you’d been the killer. As it is, we’re back where we started.”
Eddie opened a bottle of Scotland’s finest, and Pete got three paper cups from a cupboard above the sink.
The unit was freezing. Eddie had no power to light or heat it. Only the brightness from the moon, reflected from the snow, gave a pale visibility through windows filmed with condensation. The clouds had passed over, and were no doubt dumping their load out to sea.
“So tell me about the case, Barnes,” Eddie said, topping up their cups.
“I don’t think so,” Matt replied.
“Why not? I investigated my fair share of murders. I might be able to give you some pointers, if you’re not too proud to accept help.”
Matt sensed a spark of interest in the abrasive eyes. Against his better judgement he told Eddie what had gone down in more detail.
Eddie thought it through and said, “The Marshall woman or her husband has to be linked to Preston, if it’s the same creep. Now that I’m off the hook, you need to look at any other ex-cons who would bear a grudge. It will be someone who has a history of sex or violent crimes on his sheet.”
“We’ve been that route. There was nobody sprung over the past five years who didn’t have a cast-iron alibi. Apart from you, the only other guy who looked up for it was a convicted rapist who had threatened the chief. And he’s dead.”
“Was he married? Have you checked his relatives? There could be a brother, son or a father out there who’s decided to avenge the guy’s death. Put his name in the mix with Preston and all members of the Marshall family.”
“I’m impressed,” Matt said. “What do you think we’ll find?”
“You know that the girl was dealt with to hurt Preston. I’d be lookin’ for the Marshall woman to be a relation of the rapist’s victim. Have you confirmed that it wasn’t Kirstie Marshall herself who was raped? It would be easy to overlook if she was single at the time, livin’ at a different address and known by her maiden name. Even her husband might not know about it. It carries guilt and shame. It isn’t the sort of thing you share.”
“You’re making me feel like an amateur, Foley. But I like what you’re telling me,” Matt said.
“You’d have got there,” Eddie said, looking pleased with himself. “You were too blinkered; sure that I was the doer.”
“Any other gems?”
“Yeah. Laura was the target to hurt Preston. A victim by proxy. So take a long, hard look at the missin’ woman’s family. They may have been tied in to the killer’s trial. Maybe on the jury that found your dead con guilty. Or part of the prosecution team. It could be as simple as her father being the trial judge who sentenced him.”
As Matt and Eddie talked, Pete took notes. The initial disappointment at having tracked Foley down, just to find that he had at least one foot in the grave and could not possibly have the physical strength left to manhandle anything more passive than a scotch bottle, was now dissipating. He was surprising them with his agile mind and ability to throw out investigative possibilities with the speed of a monkey shelling peanuts.
The liquor warmed them. Matt gave Beth a call, told her that she could relax, and brought her up to speed with Foley’s condition and the insight he had given. He then phoned DC Phil Adams in the squad room. Told him what checks to make.
Wrapped in blankets that had been left in the unit, Eddie, Matt and Pete saw the better part of two bottles of JW off, and fell asleep where they sat.
As dawn broke, Matt groaned and rubbed his temples. He had a force ten headache, and his mouth tasted like a backed-up sewer. He went to a window, wiped a patch of it clear with his hand and looked out. The thin covering of snow sparkled. Jesus, it was cold! And being able to see the white crests of waves breaking on the beach close by was no comfort. He thought of how the conversation with Eddie had gone. He had got round to mentioning that he and Pete had met his wife, when Eddie asked how they could have possibly known his whereabouts. Matt was surprised at what they had then been told. There are always two sides to every story. It was easy to believe that Maureen Foley had suffered domestic violence at the hands of a wife-beating husband. Especially when her ex was suspected of being a sadistic killer. Now, he had doubts. Eddie admitted that they fought. He stated that Maureen was a raving nymphomaniac, who throughout their marriage had screwed everything in trousers. When he came out of prison and called to see her, she put her hands up to being on the game, and told him to piss off. He said he did, without so much as raising his hand to her. Matt believed him. He had no need to lie now, about anything.
“Another two or three nights of this weather and he’ll freeze to death,” Pete said, talking in a whisper so as not to wake Eddie, who was huddled sideways on the bench seat, snoring.
“Do you want to aid and abet someone who is trespassing on private property?” Matt said.
“By doing what?”
“Going into town and buying a few items. If he wants to stay here, then I’d be happier if he had the heating up and running, a few provisions, and a mobile phone in case he decides to call for help.”
Pete grinned. “Are you going soft on me, boss?”
“Yeah. I think the guy has enough problems. A few creature comforts might make his last weeks or months a little more endurable.”
“Shouldn’t we just call an ambulance?”
“No, Pete. He’s old enough to make his own decisions. I don’t think he wants to die in a hospital bed.”
By ten o’clock a weak sun was melting the snow. They were drinking black coffee, and the unit was now warm. Pete had driven into
Frinton and bought: two large bottles of Calor gas, groceries, a mobile phone, torch, more scotch, and a carton of 200 cigarettes. On his return he connected the gas up, and while Matt brewed the coffee, he unpacked and showed Eddie what he’d bought.
“Christmas come early, eh?” Eddie said, giving them both a slow nod, which was as near to a thank you as they could expect from him. “Why the phone? You think I might suddenly get the urge to call the Samaritans, or maybe a sex-chat line?”
“You might just choose to quit the hooch and salvage something,” Matt said. “I’ll leave you my number. If you need anything, give me a call.”