If Fear Wins

by Tony J. Forder

  Chandler, who had been standing to his left and slightly withdrawn, now stepped forward. ‘The boss and I believe we can rule out our friends from Britain Unites. Equally, neither of us have been able to identify any other local right-wing factions willing and able to carry out such an act. Alternatives are thin on the ground. The possibility of it being drugs-related is high, despite our inability to find any connections between our victim and the trade. Duncan Livingston would appear to be unblemished in every way, apart from one thing his parents revealed. He told them he had received a promotion, and a nice fat salary increase. That was untrue. Now, it may have been a case of their son spinning them a white lie in order to make it seem as if his career was taking off, but given his immediate superior had him on the promotion ladder anyway, that seems unlikely. We think, therefore, that the young airman was laying the ground to justify a much larger income than his salary would otherwise indicate.’

  ‘Which leads us back to drugs, doesn’t it?’ Carmichael said.

  Bliss nodded. He dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets and as he did so, he widened his stance to provide a more stable platform. ‘Quite possibly. It remains our favourite theory, but given what we know right now, we’re going to have to go digging far deeper than we have so far to find any sort of connection with the main players in the area. As I said earlier, we’re now working against the clock, and unless there are any other suggestions, the team aim will be to delve into this poor young man’s life and tear it apart.’

  ‘We start with your people on the streets,’ Chandler said. ‘Spread his name around, find out if anyone has heard whispers. I want the top five dealers on our list interviewed, and if they are all eliminated then you move onto the next five and then spread the net wider. Anywhere within the regional boundaries. The boss and I will pay a visit to the Phillips family first thing in the morning. As the biggest empire in these parts, we may strike lucky with them. Unrestricted overtime until you hear otherwise. Keep the case file up to date, let’s hammer this and see what we can scare up.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing. DC Ansari, would you please contact the CCTV people again and ask them for the video feed for the same camera going back two weeks. Those branches were broken fairly recently, and whilst I’m sure these people know how to cover their tracks, it might be interesting to see what footage was captured at the time the branches were tampered with.’

  After the briefing broke up, Bliss spent the following thirty minutes in his office. There was nothing more to be done about their murder victim at this stage, so he switched his attention back to Simon Curtis. Simmering frustration boiled over when he found himself stymied by the system. Data protection often worked against the police, and in this instance where he was seeking information without attaching a case number, his reach was severely limited. Unable to think clearly, Bliss decided to take a chance he would normally have avoided at all costs.

  Nick Preston was one of the technicians who worked in the Tech-Ops unit. He and Bliss had bonded slightly in terms of sport and music, their rapport genial and friendly. Bliss was about to put that to the test. To his relief he found Preston alone in the Tech-Ops office where the security footage had been reviewed. He would not now have to call the young man outside in order to ask for the favour he had in mind.

  The two chatted amiably for a couple of minutes, but Bliss grew increasingly uncomfortable. At one point he came close to wishing the tech a good weekend and leaving, but his desire to close this off with Emily was overwhelming. He also admitted to himself that the circumstances behind Curtis’s death were intriguing, and the answers would not now be for his ex alone. Curiosity – as it always did with him – won the day.

  ‘Nick, I’m here to ask you for a favour,’ Bliss said, glancing out of the glass walls to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear their conversation.

  Preston frowned, but appeared unconcerned. ‘Okay. Shoot.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out as much information as I can about someone who was killed a couple of weeks ago. It was a possible suicide, but the facts are unclear. This is off the books, so anything I try to do will be flagged if I don’t tie it to an ongoing case. I can’t have that, given the nature of the current operation, and I can’t think of anything to bury it inside of.’

  ‘You want me to trawl for this info for you?’ Preston said, anxiety now creeping into his voice.

  ‘That, or at the very least, find me a cold case still open whose number I can use. Something nobody will pick up on. Search for something not updated for a number of years.’

  Preston was silent for a few moments. He eschewed the usual tech casual dress code and opted for smart business-style, and he now fingered his tie as he chewed over what he’d been asked to do. He blinked behind his narrow tinted spectacles.

  ‘If I get caught I could lose my job over either option,’ Preston said, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Fine. Tell you what, forget about running the search yourself,’ Bliss said. ‘I agree, that could come back to bite you unless you cover your tracks really well. But letting me have a case file number is a perfectly reasonable thing to do if I request it. Only I would know how I acquired it, and I would never give you up. Trust me on that.’

  ‘I do. It’s not a question of trust, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll do it?’

  ‘This is for info only, right? Nothing more than that?’

  ‘Absolutely. I want to set minds to rest is all.’

  Preston took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It’s just a case file number, right? Why wouldn’t I look it up for you?’

  Bliss nodded. ‘Why indeed. And, Nick… thank you.’

  ‘Thing is, and I mean no offence, sir, but even if you have access I’m not convinced you’ll know how and where to search for what you need.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Bliss regarded the tech closely as the young man’s features softened.

  ‘I’m saying I know how to cover my tracks. I’m saying I can get more out of the system than you can. Let me have the name.’

  The tension in the room had been palpable, but had now been replaced by confidence and optimism. Bliss thanked Preston and asked him to first search for a website in the name of Simon Curtis. A standard Google search located the site within seconds. Both Bliss and Preston browsed the site together. The photographs were stunning, but other than the contact details there was little else of interest. Preston then ran an image search. He scrolled down the screen a few times, a frown forming a ridge on his brow.

  ‘This is odd. I’m finding duplicates of these photographs, only the image data tells me they are the work of someone else. A woman, actually. It looks as if her domain was shut down years ago, but these images pre-date the ones I’m finding on your man’s site.’

  Bliss was puzzled by the finding. He wondered if that meant Curtis had plagiarised this woman’s work for his own reward, or if the site itself – and therefore perhaps Curtis’s career also – was a front. He set the thought on the back burner and decided they should move on. Less than fifteen minutes after Bliss had provided the full details, Preston looked up from his monitor, hands paused over the keyboard. The frown he wore was deep and troubled.

  ‘You say this Simon Curtis died a couple of weeks back?’

  ‘Yes. Took a dive from a bridge close to Stilton onto the A1.’

  ‘And this birthdate and place of birth you gave me are correct?’

  ‘As they were provided to me by his widow, yes. Also, given the searches I’ve already run myself, I know they are accurate because they provided me with the appropriate data. Why, what’s the matter, Nick? What have you found?’

  Preston pushed himself back from the desk and gave Bliss a long, hard look. ‘Sir, it’s more a question of what I haven’t found. If this really is the genuine Simon Curtis, he died when he was eleven years old after suffering a violent asthma attack.’

  25

  Bliss brought home som
e Italian takeaway which he and Emily polished off in no time at all. Whilst he washed the food down with his current favourite brand of lager, Emily stuck to water. In his absence she had taken a shower, and now wore a deep red towelling robe over lilac pyjamas. To Bliss she seemed softer and smaller somehow, younger even. The strain of recent events were etched deep into her face, though. She ate barely half of her meal, and Bliss sensed she had taken no pleasure in that which she managed to swallow down.

  The idea of adding to Emily’s woes filled him with dread. But it could not be avoided. After Preston had hit him with the revelation about Simon Curtis, Bliss had sat alongside the young tech as he cycled through every relevant database. Together they scoured the system working backwards. The Simon Curtis who was married to Emily and lived in Holme at the same address, paid no taxes, no national insurance, and neither was he registered as self-employed or as the owner of a limited company. His appearance on the electoral roll could be traced back no further than ten years. The same story was revealed when they burrowed into his credit rating and financial dealings. The property in Holme was in Emily’s name only. According to the data, the real Simon Curtis had died in 1979, whilst the current version had surfaced in 2008.

  Having finally persuaded Emily into accepting a glass of red wine, Bliss found an opportunity to raise the issue of her husband’s identity during a lull in their conversation. He patiently explained every detail in the order in which it had occurred. When he dropped the hammer on her husband’s lack of verifiable identity, Emily curled up on the chair and hugged her legs as if retreating from him.

  ‘There has to be a mistake,’ she insisted.

  Bliss shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. We couldn’t have been more thorough.’

  ‘Then there has to be a reasonable explanation.’ Emily implored him with her eyes. Rescue me from this nightmare. Tell me everything is going to be just fine.

  Rising from his chair, Bliss walked across to peer out into the garden. He switched on the lights and spent a few moments breathing in the tranquil scene. He hated this. Emily had come to him for answers, but in return he had provided only more questions. Finally he turned, thumbing the scar on his forehead.

  ‘Emily, the only possibility that comes to mind is that your husband may have been provided with a new identity and placed in witness protection. When I was with the NCA I came into contact with the Protected Persons Service on several occasions. Most people under police protection don’t get a change of identity, they’re just relocated and the service works to keep their new whereabouts secret. But there are also those who get the full package.’

  ‘So that would mean Simon once witnessed a pretty dreadful crime, is that right?’ The way Emily asked the question told Bliss that something about the scenario made sense to her all of a sudden. A previous event or conversation seemed to be falling into place inside her head, like the tumblers of a lock reacting to the turning of a key.

  Bliss puffed out his cheeks. This was the part of the conversation he had dreaded most of all. ‘Not necessarily. There is also the possibility that he was involved in organised crime, and had perhaps provided evidence for the prosecution service against previous employers or colleagues.’

  ‘No.’ Emily’s shake of the head matched her firm tone of incredulity. ‘Simon did not have that in him. A person may be able to change their identity and hide away from their past, but they can’t lock away who and what they are. Their true nature. The Simon I met, dated and eventually married and lived with was not a bad man, Jimmy, and I refuse to believe he ever was.’

  ‘Yet you’re not dismissing the notion that he may well have been in witness protection.’ Bliss took a sip of Cabernet from his own glass.

  There was a pause whilst Emily gathered her thoughts. Still hugging her knees she said, ‘There were a couple of things. Occurrences which, in retrospect now that you have raised the question, might mean more than I realised at the time. My husband said something once which appeared to contradict what I knew about him. When we first started dating he told me he had no siblings and that he’d grown up in foster care having never known his real parents. Yet one day when we were discussing my brother, he mentioned something about making a balsa wood model… at which point he stopped, but I had the distinct impression he was about to say he’d made it for his own brother.’

  ‘That’s still possible, Emily. He may have been referring to a kid he was in care with.’

  ‘Except that he didn’t continue. He bailed out of the conversation and left it hanging. I didn’t push him on it, although it seemed odd at the time. But also there was one occasion when someone stopped by our table while we were in a restaurant in Cambridge. The man spoke to him as if they had once worked together, but Simon had always worked on his own to my knowledge.’

  ‘So now what I’ve suggested is making sense of those anomalies.’

  Emily twisted around in the chair and edged forward, feet planted on the carpet, her eyes wide and fixed on his. ‘To a certain extent, perhaps. In all the time we were together, I never met anyone from either his past or present life. I didn’t think too much about it. After all, he was an orphan and an only child, plus he made a solitary living. He never mentioned it, and I never asked.’

  Clutching the folds of her robe, Emily stood and walked barefoot out of the room and into the kitchen. She returned moments later, having refilled her glass. She carried the bottle in her other hand, and set it down beside Bliss’s chair before taking her seat once more. He said nothing as she took a drink and ran her other hand through her straggly hair. He thought her eyes now looked distant and haunted, and knew he was partially responsible.

  ‘It was never a problem for either of us,’ she said. ‘Or so I thought. After a while my friends became our friends, and I never considered the distinction between the two. Jimmy, do you really think this could be true? That Simon was in witness protection.’

  Bliss raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s entirely possible. It would certainly explain a lot. And… thinking about it now, it could also be the reason he was murdered.’

  As intellectual and aware as she was, the look of horror on Emily’s face told Bliss that particular penny had only just dropped. Her head tilted forward and her hair splashed across her face. Bliss wanted to reach for her hands, but he felt self-conscious and didn’t quite know how.

  ‘I still have plenty of contacts at the NCA,’ he said gently. ‘I can have a word with them. If Simon was under their protection, he’s no longer around for them to protect. I think I can find out more for you. Doing so may also lead us one step closer to finding out who killed him and why.’

  Bliss sat there looking on, still conflicted. But Emily made the decision for him. She slipped from her chair, took a couple of steps to join him on his, and sat there wedged alongside him, wrapping herself in his embrace. Head down on his shoulder. Weeping.

  They held each other for several minutes, Bliss hugging tight but saying nothing. Allowing Emily to vent her grief without having to listen to platitudes. What was there to say? She had made a new life for herself with someone who was not who he claimed to be. She now had to accept that as well as deal with his death. His murder, as appeared most likely from what Bliss could tell. Emily would question every day of every year they had spent together, asking herself how much of it had been fake. Wondering if the man she had loved had ever truly loved her back. Bliss could offer no solace. He had never known her husband. He closed his eyes at the thought. There was something else Emily was eventually going to realise, another hurdle to overcome in the weeks and months to follow. Simon Curtis was not her husband’s real name. Which begged the question, had they ever been married in the legal sense of the word?

  Bliss had no intention of raising that specific question. It would occur to Emily soon enough. Probably from the moment she had her grief sufficiently under control to think clearly. For now all he could reasonably do was offer support, be there for her, and to first find out the truth
, and then help Emily adjust and cope with whatever facts emerged from those truths.

  As the night wore on, Bliss began to consider the sleeping arrangements. He lived alone. Nobody ever visited, let alone stayed overnight. Though there were three bedrooms in the house, he had need of only one bed. On the rare occasions he and Angie Burton had got together they had chosen a hotel room. When Emily admitted to her exhaustion, Bliss persuaded her to take his room for the night. Too weary to put up much of a fight, she went upstairs still dabbing her eyes with a tissue, her heart breaking right in front of him.

  Moments afterwards, Bliss pulled out his phone, looked up a contact and sent a text. He did so expecting no response until the following morning, so was surprised when the incoming text tone chimed just a few minutes later. Smiling to himself, Bliss read the response and then pressed the call button.

  ‘Hi, Clare. Thanks for letting me call.’

  ‘No problem. Long-time no hear, Jimmy.’

  Bliss winced. He had pretty much severed all contact when he left the NCA. It was his way. When he went, he usually went all the way.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is.’

  ‘Not really, but it’s up to you who you keep in touch with. We’re friends, so I’ll take your call anytime.’

  Bliss was grateful. Clare Dunphy had been making her way through the ranks just as he was looking to ease his way out. They had worked together on several occasions, and had an easy relationship. Clare was gay, so there had never been any sexual chemistry between them to get in the way.