All eyes were still on Cyril.
“Anyway, we discover that the good doctor and Phillip continued to develop their relationship away from Ripon. They became involved in a profitable people trafficking business, at the heart of which, I believe was Charles, the controller. As I said, the doctor disappeared and only his DNA and some body parts were discovered. There was little evidence to implicate Jarvis and the Forensic evidence on the suicide car worked in his favour. Consequently, he received ten years that was reduced. So we’ve never knowingly seen Charles.”
“Do we have a description?” Shakti asked.
“No, as I say, we never heard nor saw him but we knew he was there in control, the Godfather. A pushbike accident in Nice killed the one person we hoped might be able to help; I think it was from her that we got his name. All we know was that Charles had a reputation for being a sadistic bastard.”
It was then that a number of pennies dropped into place, bringing an unnerving silence. It was as if no one dared speak first, to burst the bubble of realisation. Finally, Owen spoke.
“Tangible evidence. Pushbike you said, Sir? Tangible evidence or coincidence?”
Cyril tapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Yes and hatpins! I’ve been a fool! Killed using Charles Horner pins!”
“So too have I! Liz’s handbag, her handbag wasn’t there.” Shakti moved to the images of Liz’s hall. See, it’s missing.”
***
James Atkins’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocket for the second time in a matter of ten minutes; it was ignored. The class of pupils was his main concern, particularly a small group of girls who consistently tried to derail the lesson to another agenda. He had allowed it at the start of the term, believing foolishly that they were curious and overly enthusiastic to communicate, after all, it was an English lesson. When the interruptions started to take over his planning he decided it should stop. It was then that he faced a more organised form of Year Eight anarchy. In some ways it amused him, but in truth it was affecting his coverage of the curriculum. He was just about to ask one of the girls to leave the room, divide and rule being his new mantra, when the phone vibrated yet again.
He turned away from the class and removed his phone. He didn’t recognise the number but whoever it might be had left three messages. It would have to wait.
The bell echoed outside in the corridor and Pavlov’s alarm, as he called it, immediately brought a more understandable disturbance within the class of clattering chairs and raised voices, which, in turn, brought James a degree of relief. He had to admit that this particular class was a real test of his teaching and pupil management skills. As the last child stumbled out of the room, he perched on the edge of the desk and dug for his phone.
He pressed the answer phone, waited then followed the mechanical voice’s instructions.
“Mr Atkins, we’ve never met and I’m sorry for the intrusion. My name is Grant, Frederick Grant. Please give my number a call, it’s of the utmost urgency that we communicate as soon as possible.”
He listened to the other messages and they were all very similar. He checked his watch, he had an hour for lunch and so he dialled.
“May I speak to a Frederick Grant.”
“Mr Atkins thanks so much for getting back to me.” Knowing the quality of James’ relationship with his sister, he decided not to offer condolences. “I’ll not waste your time. I’m your sister’s agent or should I say I was, before her sad and untimely death…”
“Murder, Mr Grant, murder.”
“Yes, yes, her dreadful murder. She was working on an extremely sensitive documentary about a criminal gang working in and around the Harrogate area. She had, somehow, and to be honest we don’t know how, infiltrated this gang.” He lied in the hope that it might help his cause. “And from that very dangerous involvement, she amassed a catalogue of incriminating facts. She formulated a draft documentary that was put to selective media clients and as a consequence of the importance and the sensitive nature of the material, one of those clients offered an immediate, unequivocal, commission. It was at that point that we believe that her cover was blown. Her credibility within the group was lost resulting in her murder. I also believe that you have seen and read the evidence she has stored on her computer?”
“I have and to be honest, although I can see the extent of the criminality, it’s extremely jumbled and to me makes little sense.”
“Believe me, Mr Atkins, it’s all there, jig-saw like, I know, but all there. Now we’re faced with a dilemma. Sorry, I’ll rephrase that, you’re faced with a dilemma. You can hand the laptop to me and we can fulfil Valerie’s dream and get the programme out there. Obviously, we’ll have to have a different presenter but the credits and royalties will be partly hers, I personally believe that’s what she would have wished for. The other two concerns are that you might send it to the police and they might, and I emphasise, might, apprehend those responsible for her murder. It wouldn’t surprise me, however, if the culprits have already taken the necessary steps to close down their operation and fled. Lastly, a concern that you should give most thought to. They might be like me and have already tracked your location. Should that be the case… well we’ll not consider that possibility until you make up your mind as to which path you wish to take. I can relieve you of the baggage today. I can meet you at a place of your choosing by this afternoon. It will then be all over for you.”
Atkins considered the ambiguity of his language in the final sentence. “I’ll text a time and venue within the next half an hour. The laptop will be placed in a secure location and I’ll then text you the details. It’ll be up to you when you then collect it. I suggest, if you’re not already, that you should be in the Wigan area by mid afternoon. I trust this will be the last I’ll hear from you.”
“You have my word. Mr Atkins, thank you. I believe your decision today might result in a good deal of police action and a number of the criminal fraternity getting what is only just and fair.” He hung up. For the first time in days he felt a sense of relief.
James Atkins felt exactly the opposite; suddenly he felt as though his family had again come to burden him. He went through to his locker and retrieved Valerie’s laptop before heading to the IT stockroom to collect a sleeve of discs. As a guarantee he would copy what he could, after which, they were welcome to the bloody thing.
He left the machine running through his first lesson of the afternoon, occasionally changing the disc when necessary. The bell sounded to signal the end of the lesson, he would be free for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Grant was now passing over the M62, the high, Pennine Way footbridge well behind and Winter Hill clearly visible in the distance to his right. He had decided to continue round the M60 and then head north up the M6.
***
James Atkins wrapped the laptop in brown paper and taped it thoroughly adding a label, For collection by Frederick Grant. He then began to text.
Parcel ready for collection from St Thomas’s Academy. He added the address followed by the instruction. Go to the main Reception, Bill Lyons, caretaker will have the parcel. You will need identification. You must be at the address no earlier than 17:30 and no later that 19:00.
By choosing this as the collection point, James knew that the handover would be recorded on the school CCTV. He had his doubts as to whether Grant’s motives were as charitable as he had stated.
***
CCTV footage of the area around the Stray Agency and Liz’s apartment had failed to provide any clues. Stuart Park had reported that even though the hard drive had been removed to investigate further Coulson’s computer, a deep screening investigation had discovered a hidden logic bomb or slag code. This cleverly concealed a second code that was activated on attempting to clear the first, resulting in the released virus closing down and corrupting all of the stored data. It was now unlikely that they would be able to recover any thing further. The only thing that could be significant was that
certain files had been deleted around the time of Coulson’s abduction.
“That, more than likely is Dan’s handiwork,” Stuart Park informed the collective. “Should we discover Atkins’s laptop there’s also a likelihood that the same viruses will be present.” He raised his hands as if to suggest someone had made an error. “At least we’ve been forewarned and know the nature of the foe.”
Most of the computer information passed Cyril by. He just mumbled something about the work of the devil before thanking Stuart. Another day loomed. What they needed now was for the Forensic results to shed light into the dark corners of the criminal world. He also had to plan carefully the next move. Owen checked his watch and flicked on the television. Within minutes, the news broadcast the public appeal made by Cyril earlier in the day. He always found looking at himself on TV to be disconcerting but he watched with care, keen to see if the urgency in his message was conveyed. His request for anyone who had seen anything at either address, no matter how insignificant it might seem, to come forward was clear, but it had been Owen who had suggested that he stress the need for anyone using a dash cam or bicycle helmet cam in the area from Friday 13:00 in the afternoon to noon Saturday to come forward with the memory cards. Liz’s on screen photograph with all the contact details the public needed, brought home the solemnity of the moment. Shakti couldn’t control herself anymore and burst into tears. It had been a dreadful roller coaster of a day and incredibly stressful.
***
It was dark when Cyril eventually crossed The Stray. He had declined a drink with Owen, it seemed neither appropriate nor desirable. He had work to do, work that just could not wait. His mind was an amalgam of mixed images of a past case blending uncomfortably with the graphic images of Liz.
The intermittent sheets of drizzle spread in waves of varying opacity. He showed little concern as he ducked under the umbrella; his mind was elsewhere. He had found it difficult to talk to Julie about his sudden feelings of professional impotence. He was a copper for Christ’s sake, a detective at that and a bloody good one. Were he and the others so personally involved that it was blunting the edge of his normally sharp mind? Should he step back and let others take over?
He nipped through the narrow ginnel linking West Park with Robert Street. He was glad to be home. He put down his laptop, removed his shoes, wiped them and added shoetrees. For once in his career he was looking forward to the arrival of the officer from the NCA in the morning. It would bring a specialist’s expertise, a professional detachment that would help focus the investigation. Experience of working within the Anti Kidnap and Extortion Unit could only be a blessing.
***
Grant was later than he thought, even the car’s Sat Nav. had decided to take him on a very circuitous journey. He parked in the Visitors’ car park; there were no other cars. The lights of the Reception area were bright, reflecting off the wet pathway that led from the car park. He tried the door but it was locked. He then noticed the, After hours, ring for attention, sign. Within minutes a young man arrived carrying a brush, followed by a German shepherd dog. He opened the door.
“Can I help?”
“Mr Lyons, Bill? My name is Frederick Grant, I’ve come to collect…”
“Expecting you.” He saw Grant looking warily at the dog. “He’s fine; it’s his twin you need to worry about but I only bring him when I’m checking the site at night. This one’s as daft as a brush, soft as dry sand. Come in and wait there and I’ll get the package. The dog ‘ll stay with you.”
Grant stared at the dog. Its upper lip lifted revealing a row of white teeth followed by a shallow growl. Grant took a step backwards before seeing the caretaker returning with the parcel. “I’ve been told to check some ID and get you to sign this.” He handed over the receipt but kept hold of the parcel. Grant signed, showed his driver licence and took the parcel. The caretaker watched as the look of excitement flushed across the visitor’s face.
“That’s all there is, Mr Grant.”
“Yes, yes, thanks.”
Bill showed Grant out, locking the door behind him. The dog stayed at the glazed door, its breath misting the window until Grant had driven away. James Atkins came out of the room behind the Reception desk as the lights from Grant’s car moved away towards the school gates. Bill Lyons reappeared.
“Was that him, James?’ Bill quizzed as he called the dog. “Seemed a bit eager and overly excited. What you give him, a hundred grand?” Both men laughed.
“Easy to make a desperate man happy, just give him what he thought he’d lost.” He smiled. “Thanks, Bill. I’ll be fifteen minutes and I’ll be gone, I’ll give you a shout.”
“It was nothing, just remember me at Christmas!” Bill said, chuckling to himself before calling the dog. “By the way, your receipt!”
James returned to the office and photocopied it. The CCTV camera recorded in five minute blocks, enabling easy tracking of the images. James scanned through the files and identified the section of tape featuring Grant. He copied the relevant footage onto a memory stick.
***
Grant turned onto the A580 and quickly glanced at the parcel lying securely on the passenger seat. At last he had the laptop. He felt a sudden burst of elation. He looked up as if to give thanks for the manna that had finally landed into his hands. In three hours he would be home.
***
Reading through the case notes, Cyril was surprised as to how quickly the time had flown by. Had he really known Owen and Liz that long? He also felt a stab of guilt as he considered the evidence balanced against the coincidences within this case and the past one. He was now, more than ever, convinced that his actions so long ago had sown this particular wind. He awaited the tornado.
Chapter Fifteen
Liz sat on the mattress, her knees under her chin. One arm enwrapped them as if she were offering herself a degree of security; the other was shackled to a metal ring set on the wall. She was sore and had been bleeding but that thankfully had stopped. However, she was reluctant to pee, the burn was excruciating. She assumed that she had been raped, but she had no recollection of the incident nor of anything that had happened to her. Her impressions seemed vague and unreliable. She had tried to recollect, but it had only been over the last few hours that she had been able to visualise her past through piecemeal recollections that seemed neither clear nor credible. She could see Owen, but she was unsure of exactly who he was. She remembered his saying something about a French letter. She remembered slapping him and laughing. What were she and this Owen doing with a condom? Strangely and confusingly, she had no difficulties in connecting the term French letter and condom! Her mind played back the moment and as the cocktail of drugs slowly dissipated, she could recall more but for Liz the process was happening far too slowly.
By day at least, Liz had the birds for company. She could often hear them scrabbling in the eaves of the building or calling outside, frenetic, free and alive. It was her only contact with the world she so cherished. It amazed her how things that had seemed so important last week had no intrinsic significance now. What she had taken for granted, when denied, suddenly seemed so very precious. It was now down to a more animalistic form of survival where only the basic bodily functions mattered; the next drink, the next meal, when the stinking bucket would be emptied. The one luxury she treasured was having the security of a thin veil of yellow light glowing throughout the long, cold, night hours. The idea of a change of clothes, washing, breathing fresh air, walking freely in the open air were now gone.
The square window, set high within the rustic brick, allowed some daylight and the evening brought the red glow of the setting sun on the opposite wall, but it afforded little warmth. The wired, opaque glass was too high, too dirty for her to find clues as to her whereabouts. There were some noises; the occasional vehicle, the over-flight of a low aircraft and the quiet chatter of human voices, many foreign, which she could hear just outside the window. This was now her world.
She looked
at the three scratch lines that she had added to the wall. They enabled her to keep track of her time alone. She had no awareness as to why she had started marking them, it had been instinctual. She stood, stretched and walked as far as her heavy, wrist-wrapped chain allowed; it was not far. Her world was encapsulated in a triangle comprising the bed, the bucket and the bowl.
She assumed that the building had, at some stage in its past, been a stable block, and her cell was one of the stalls. The walls stopped well short of the roof but they were still high, allowing some distant light to flood into the corners during darkness. On occasion, she could see shadows move across the wooden rafters and exposed red roof tiles, as people moved within the unseen spaces elsewhere in the building. She knew that if it were not for the spilling security of the twenty-four hour light, she would be in a much worse emotional state. She had become, even in such a short time, thankful for small mercies.
She moved herself, sitting more upright as the bolt on the upper part of the door was slid back and opened. A female stared at her, always the same one, always the same emotionless expression. Liz believed them to be about the same age. She smiled in the hope of receiving some kind of human interaction within this twice-daily ritual, but her hopes were dashed. The door closed without a reciprocal smile or a word spoken.
She was determined to remain as positive as possible. She pulled the blanket up over her knees. The now greying, paper coverall offered little protection from the dropping evening temperature. She knew that within half an hour the door would open fully, some food would be added to the bowl, some water placed nearby and the bucket swapped. She closed her eyes trying to recall any specific event, to concentrate on the slap she somehow remembered giving Owen. It was a desperate attempt to see if she could unlock any more of her memory. Why a French letter? she asked herself as the bolt was drawn back on the door.
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