by James Oswald
‘Roger? What’s that old scrote got to do with all this?’
‘Old scrote?’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘What a wonderful expression. Haven’t heard it in ages but it sums him up perfectly.’
‘Is he why you went back to London last night? Have to admit I was a bit worried when you didn’t come home from the pub.’
‘I didn’t go to London, I was taken.’ I tell Aunt Felicity a little of the story of my abduction, her face narrowing into a scowl with each new word.
‘Horrible, horrible man. You know he tried to feel me up at one of our Christmas parties?’
‘You and me both. I’m guessing you weren’t underage at the time though.’
She shakes her head. ‘Probably for the best he spends all his time down in the City these days, though I feel a certain pity for poor old Margo, rattling around in that big old house of theirs.’
‘That might explain why she was on the gin in the middle of the afternoon. Guess that’s the price you pay when you sell your soul to the Devil.’
Aunt Felicity stares at me, her expression even more startled than when I told her about being abducted. ‘My dear child, I’d no idea things were so bad.’
‘What do you mean? Margo and the gin?’
‘No, silly. You. I thought you were just a bit shaken up about work, but it’s much worse than that.’ She reaches over and gives me as good a hug as is possible in the confines of a car. ‘Come on. Let’s get the kettle on and have a cup of tea. Things are always better with a cuppa, and your cat will be pleased to see you.’
I’m about to protest that it’s not my cat, but before I can speak she’s out of the car and almost at the door. I follow reluctantly; Aunt Felicity is right about the tea, and I could use a shower and change of clothes, but there’s something warm and safe about the interior of her car. Bad things can only happen if I leave it.
The crunch of wheels on gravel breaks the silence as I reach the open front door. A couple of seconds earlier and I’d have been inside, could have ducked out back and into the woods. Escaped. As it is, I know I’ve been seen, and really there was no way of avoiding this, so I wait patiently as the shiny new Range Rover parks alongside my shabby old Volvo. The man I want to see even less that Roger DeVilliers climbs out and looks up at the cottage, slowly taking it all in before resting his gaze on me. He’s balder than I remember, but my father’s sneer is just the same.
‘Constance. What the devil’s happened to your hair?’
To say that the atmosphere in Aunt Felicity’s kitchen is tense would be something of an understatement. My father has never been all that fond of Folds Cottage, and his relationship with his sister can best be described as strained. His earlier comment about my hair surprised me until I realised just how long it’s been since last I saw him. I’ve had my boyish crop since I made detective constable, but it was short even before then. The last time we spoke face to face, it still hung below my shoulders. His has long since departed.
‘Your mother’s not been well. Are you going to come and see her?’ It’s the first thing he’s said since accepting a cup of tea, and while I’m halfway down mine he’s not taken so much as a sip.
‘I’m not sure I want to set foot inside Harston Magna Hall ever again. Perhaps we could meet in the pub.’
‘What’s this I hear about you upsetting poor Margo DeVilliers, chasing young Isobel around?’ His sigh is far too passive-aggressive for my liking, but I can hear the petulant teenager in my own voice too. This is why I stay away.
‘Have you spoken to Margo? Or has Roger been bending your ear?’
‘Both, actually. Roger tells me you’ve quit the police.’
‘Well, he’s full of—’
‘Cake, anyone?’ Aunt Felicity cuts through our conversation before it gets too heated.
Father takes a slice, even though he clearly doesn’t want it. I pick mine up with my fingers, shove it into my face and take an unladylike bite just to spite him. He toys with his with a fork, not actually eating anything. It takes about two minutes before the silence breaks.
‘Why do you have to go chasing off after Isobel? I’m sure she’s just fine wherever she is, otherwise her father would have called the police.’
I lick my fingers one by one. It’s an excellent cake, and I know it will annoy my father. ‘Isobel’s just turned sixteen. She doesn’t have to go to school any more, but she’s not an adult. The police should have been informed the moment she didn’t turn up home at the appointed hour, but nobody seems to give a shit what’s happened to her. All I’ve heard is that apparently she’s called her mother, only when I asked Margo about that she flew into a panic. And your best buddy Roger had a couple of his goons abduct me and take me down to London against my will. Now he’s threatening my boss and me if I don’t back off. And all I’ve done is ask a few questions about the whereabouts of his daughter. So tell me, Daddy dearest. What would you do given the circumstances?’
It’s the ‘Daddy dearest’ that ruins it. For a moment, I thought I’d got him, if not on my side, then at least considering there might be more than one side to the story. No doubt his old pal Roger has been on the phone to him, but my father trained as a lawyer. Once upon a time he was able to think critically, at least about things not affected by gender. On the other hand, he considers women to be inferior beings, quite incapable of functioning without the firm guidance of a male hand, and everything he will have heard about my recent misfortune at work will only have bolstered that opinion in his mind. I called him ‘Daddy’ ironically; inevitable I suppose that he will have taken it entirely straight.
‘I would do precisely what the girl’s father asked me to do, Constance. And that is what you must do. Of course.’ He smiles as beatifically as any pope, wipes at his thin lips with a napkin even though as far as I can tell he’s neither eaten any cake nor drunk any tea. I hope he is finished, but then again I learned long ago not to have any hopes where my father is concerned.
‘And you must come home. Straight away.’
I’m still seething at my father, even though if I was being rational I’d have to admit he’s not done anything too terrible this time. Watching from the relative safety of the living room as the Range Rover pulls away, I’m even more determined not to stay in Harston Magna. He won’t leave me alone, and sooner or later I’ll have to face up to Mother. At least my father doesn’t really do emotional blackmail. He’s just a dinosaur.
‘I need to pop into town for an hour or so. Want to come?’
I can tell from the tone of Aunt Felicity’s voice that she’s only asking because she feels she should. Tea and cake with her brother is obviously something that doesn’t happen often. I expect like me she finds the easiest way to deal with him is to keep her distance.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here and sort some stuff out. You’ve got broadband, right?’
‘Password’s on the fridge door. Make yourself some lunch if you want it.’ My aunt’s relief at being able to get some time to herself is well concealed, but I’m trained to read people. I know she said I could use the spare room for as long as I needed, but it’s another reason why I’m going to have to find somewhere else to go.
I wait until she’s gone before I dig out Izzy’s laptop and the bag of goodies I bought with purloined cash this morning on the Tottenham Court Road. I know that sooner or later someone’s going to come around for the trunk, but I’ve got a plan that should buy me some time.
Unscrewing the cover on the underside of the computer, I extract the hard drive, relieved to see that it is the specification I thought it was. I’ve another one, identical but unused, in my bag, along with a couple of external cases and a shiny new laptop of my own. It takes a while to set everything up, and longer still to download the relevant software from the web, but eventually I’ve got a brand-new, cloned copy of Izzy’s hard drive alongside the
original. I put the clone into her computer, screw the cover back carefully so as not to leave any obvious sign it’s been opened, and then put the whole thing back in its place at the bottom of the trunk. Then I drag it out into the hall, where it can wait to be collected.
I’m tucking into a sandwich when Aunt Felicity returns, laden down with what looks like therapeutic shopping to me. She dumps a bag of food from something that describes itself as an artisan delicatessen onto the kitchen table, then hands me another, larger bag from the local department store.
‘You didn’t have much in the way of luggage when you arrived, dear. So I took the liberty of buying you a couple of outfits. Nothing flash, I know what you’re like.’
I open the bag and the first thing I see is a box of underwear. Not the sort a man might buy me, but sensible stuff that’s actually comfortable. The rest of the clothes are as close to perfect as I can imagine, and as I go through them I can’t help the tears that prick the corners of my eyes. It’s a long time since anyone’s shown me such kindness.
‘You really shouldn’t have.’
‘But I wanted to.’ Aunt Felicity embraces me in the kind of warm hug I imagine most children get from their mothers. She’s always been a better parent than either of mine. Perhaps because she never married, never had kids of her own. I’ve often wondered about that, but never dared to ask. Now’s not the time either.
‘Look at me. Battle-hardened detective constable and I’m crying over a three-pack of Sloggi knickers.’
We both of us laugh at that, and for a while everything’s OK. It’s Aunt Felicity who speaks up though, says the thing I need to say.
‘You’re going to keep poking at this until it explodes, aren’t you, dear.’ It’s not a question.
‘I have to. You know that. Otherwise they win.’
‘I know.’ Her smile fades, a look of regret passing over her face as she accepts what we both knew was inevitable. ‘And Fairchilds never back down from a fight.’
26
The address on Veronica Copperthwaite’s card takes me to a small business park off Coventry Road on the way into central Birmingham. It’s just as well I’ve got satnav on my phone otherwise I’d never have found the place. Even with it I spend twenty minutes wandering around looking at doors with no numbers or name plates on them before I reach the right one. A bored-looking receptionist asks me if I’ve got an appointment, then directs me to an uncomfortable chair in the corner while I wait to be seen. There’s half a dozen dog-eared Cosmopolitans and a couple of National Geographics on the table beside me, and a distinct lack of offers of coffee while I wait.
I’m halfway through an article about the Nile Delta with photographs far better than its prose when I catch sight of a door at the other end of the room opening.
‘Constance. This is a surprise.’
Veronica Copperthwaite is dressed almost identically to the way she was when I met her at Pete’s funeral. Businesslike dark suit, sensible shoes, a stack of folders in one hand. She dumps these on the receptionist’s desk, then crosses over to greet me. Her smile is genuine, but there’s a hint of worry in her eyes.
‘Sorry. I should have phoned ahead, but it was all a bit spur of the moment. I was wondering if I might beg a favour.’
‘If I can help, of course.’ She turns to the receptionist. ‘If Reg shows up, tell him I won’t be long.’ Then back to me. ‘Come on through.’
It’s only as the door behind me closes with an electronic click that I begin to notice the security about the offices. It’s not a big space, just the reception area, then a corridor with half a dozen doors off it and a window at the back looking out onto yet another car park. Veronica leads me into the last room on the left, a small office piled high with boxes, surveillance gear, wet-weather clothing draped over a chair back and a couple of sorry-looking pot plants gathering dust on the windowsill. She indicates an empty seat, then scoots around the desk and sits down.
‘If you’re looking for a job, you’ve come at a good time. We’re crazy busy right now and could use some help.’
Now I feel bad for bothering her, but the offer is welcome all the same. ‘I’d love to take you up on that, but right now there’s something else I need to deal with.’
‘Pete?’
‘In part, yes.’ I hesitate a moment, unsure how to begin. Then decide to just leap in anyway. ‘I think the people who killed him are trying to kill me now. Seems there’s a price on my head.’
‘I take it that you’re coming to me because your colleagues in the Met are being less than helpful.’
‘Worse. I think at least one of them’s in on it. Possibly more. But I’ll deal with that. I’ve another little problem that may or may not be related.’ I pull my bag off my shoulder and root around in it for my phone. ‘I think someone’s using this to track me. Either that or they’ve got tech I can’t even begin to understand, let alone find.’
Veronica looks at me for a moment, then pulls open a drawer and takes out something that looks like a wand with attitude. She stands up, comes back around the desk and waves it over me. Nothing happens, at least not that I can see.
‘Well, you’re not bugged, that’s for sure. Nothing active anyway, or this would have picked it up.’ She puts the wand carefully back in the drawer; it’s either very expensive, very illegal or both. ‘Let’s have a look at your phone, then.’
I hand it over, having thumbed the button to unlock it. She taps away at the screen for a while, clearly in her element, then shuffles some things around on her desk until she finds a lead, plugs it in and fires up her computer.
‘You’ll need to let it know it’s OK for me to access it.’ She hands me back the phone, now asking for my PIN.
‘What do you reckon?’ I ask as I hand it back.
‘Have you let anyone else access this recently?’
‘Not knowingly, but it might well have been taken off me for a while.’ I think about the journey from Harston Magna down to London, and how much of it I spent out cold. It would have been simplicity itself for Adrian or his silent friend to take my phone at the start, unlock it with my thumb, and put it back when they were done.
Veronica says nothing, staring intently at her computer screen, one hand holding up her chin, the other expertly guiding and clicking at a mouse with the tiniest of clear spaces on her desk to work in. I leave her to it, not quite sure when I first decided I could trust her more than any of my colleagues at work.
‘Ah, now that is sweet. Very high tech. Ian would love to see that.’
‘Ian?’ I lean forward, but can’t see the screen.
‘Our IT guru. He’s much more into this stuff than I am.’ Veronica looks away from the screen and back to me. ‘You’re right though. Someone is using this phone to track you. Listening in when they want to as well. And they can access the cameras, front and back. All without you having the faintest idea. Damn, this is GCHQ-level stuff. You’ve some powerful enemies, Constance.’
‘Umm . . . Do they know we’ve found it? Are they listening to us?’
Veronica smiles at me like a hungry tiger. ‘No. It’s dormant right now. I can delete it, if you want. Or better yet, make it so you can see it, so you can control it. I’d still advise you get another phone for day-to-day stuff, but this could be much more useful if whoever put it on here doesn’t know, wouldn’t you think?’
If I thought Birmingham was difficult to get into, it’s ten times worse to escape. There seem to be roadworks and diversions every half-mile, and I get bored of the tinny electronic voice on my phone’s satnav programme telling me she’s recalculating the route, or to turn around and go back the way I came. On the plus side, the convoluted journey confirms my initial suspicion that I’m being followed.
I clocked them in the car park when I left Veronica Copperthwaite’s offices, two blokes sitting in a car for no good reason. They’re
not particularly skilled, but have perhaps had a little training. The car they’re using is suitably anonymous: a dark metallic-grey Ford Focus that’s a couple of years old and has probably been stolen, its plates swapped. If I was on active duty I’d call it in, have a check run on the number, but I know that as soon as I do that Detective Superintendent Bailey will hear of it and I’ll get an earful or worse. It’s always possible they’re some of Roger DeVilliers’ men keeping tabs on me. What they’ll make of me going to the offices of a close-protection and private-investigation firm is anyone’s guess.
When we finally reach the motorway, I accelerate hard into the traffic, keeping up with the fastest idiot commuters in the overtaking lane for a good five miles. Then I slow down and slot in between two trucks doing a regulated sixty miles an hour. Sure enough, my dark silver shadow drops back, tucked in a few lorries behind me and just occasionally pulling out into the middle lane to check I’m still there. We stay like that all the way to the A14, and when I pull off at the Harston Magna slip road, they’re still following.
Damned if I’m taking them home, I turn instead towards Kettering and the local police station. I might be suspended, but I’ve still a few friends on the force. A formal complaint should at least get the number checked, and I suspect whoever’s tailing me won’t want to hang around once they know they’ve been rumbled.
There’s a certain inevitability when tailing someone on minor roads that you’re going to end up right behind them eventually. The little Ford has been a couple of cars behind for a few miles, and then both of us take a turning at the same time. Before I can react, they have accelerated, pulled alongside. I know this road, know how difficult it is to overtake, and having seen them follow me all the way from Birmingham, I immediately understand that overtaking’s not on their minds.
Even so, it’s a shock when the Ford swerves hard and sharp into the side of my Volvo. My vision sharpens, and time seems to slow down. The road verge here is a narrow strip of grass, a hedge that’s seen better days and then a sharp drop into a recently harvested field. At the speed I’m going, ending up down there’s not an option, so I steer hard the other way, mashing my foot to the floor as I do.