“Did Charlie request a whole section to himself?” Payne asked.
Lang sighed. “Yes. We had a few words about that. But you can see we’re not exactly brimming with customers yet. It seemed churlish to argue with the man about his privacy whilst we had the room. On the understanding that we’d start to let out the other berths once we started to fill up. I’ve got the key like you asked on the phone.”
“Thanks,” Payne replied and started to put his hand out, but Lang had already turned and was walking towards the boat.
“You’re coming with me?” Payne asked.
Lang looked slightly put out. “Is that a problem? I thought I’d be able to help.”
“Would you mind if I just went in on my own at first? I need to secure the boat.”
“Oh, sure. I hadn’t really thought of it like that I suppose.” Lang handed over the key. “Watch your step on the gangway. They get slippy.”
“I will.” Payne took the key from Lang and marched towards the jetty.
“If you need me, I’ll be in the bar,” Lang called behind him.
Payne raised a hand in salute but pressed forwards onto the jetty. The solid wood clunked under his feet with a reassuring dullness and the water sloshed against the supporting pilings below.
Lang had been right, the gangplank was slippy. Payne had to grab for the handrail at the stern to save falling forwards and losing his dignity. When Payne slid the key into the lock, it turned with a reassuring click.
Inside, the scene was exactly what Payne had been dreading.
He was not the first to get here.
The place had been well and truly turned over.
28
Payne should have got on the phone to the station. Forensics weren’t going to be happy with him contaminating the crime scene, but he felt close to answers here and time was of the essence.
He stepped down into the boat, past an open toilet door on his left and stepped along the passage. He’d moved several foot when it occurred to him that the people who’d done this could still be on board.
Blast.
The door had been locked when he boarded but the intruders may have shut it to give them some privacy.
Payne slowed down, and took in the lay of the canal boat. After the toilet, there was a short galley style kitchen which he’d need to walk through to reach a benched area with a compact dining table. Papers and drawers from a couple of free-standing filing cabinets were strewn over the table with many papers spilling onto the floor. Another corridor led from the space behind the dining area into the rest of the boat, and he could make out at least two doors leading off from that. They were both closed.
In short, it was entirely possible for someone to be hiding on board.
He dug in his pocket for his phone then realised he’d left it in the car. Careless.
“Police!” he shouted. “Make your whereabouts known, then when I say to, come out slowly with your arms raised above your head. There’s an armed response team covering the windows and they won’t hesitate to shoot at the first sign of weapons.”
Nothing.
Payne moved through the lounge, trying not to step on the loose papers scattered over the floor, his senses alert. He glanced down at the dining table as he passed and picked up a sheaf of papers, letters and receipts. None of it seemed to be in any order. That no doubt frustrated the hell out of whomever had trashed this place.
He found the light switch for the rear corridor, stopped in front of the first closed door on his left and reached for the handle. He yanked it open and readied himself to charge at anyone hiding inside. Besides an unmade bed and the, by now, expected detritus on the floor—clothes this time the room was empty.
The next room along also had its door closed and he pulled open the door, ready to grapple anyone who may have been hiding.
But there was no need to search for the intruder; the intruder was standing in the middle of the room. The blank tilted its head.
Oh blast, not again.
“Stay right where you are. You’re under arrest on suspicion of breaking and entering. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
The blank didn’t move.
Payne could smell the decay and body odour on the man; he can’t have washed in weeks.
Payne took a step backwards, his foot crossed the threshold back into the main passageway. Another smell joined the putrid smell that he first smelt when entering the room. Tiny tendrils of smoke rose and twisted from the guy’s shirt collar. Payne took another step back.
The smoke was coming faster now; the blank’s head flushed red.
Payne ran for his life.
Lang had sat down outside the bar, and looked out across the marina when the bomb went off. The noise thundered through his head and he felt the wave of hot air brush over him as the boat exploded and a great fireball bloomed in the darkness, blinding him momentarily. The top half of the canal boat lifted into the air in thousands of impossibly shaped objects before smashing back down into the water.
All that was left on the water was a burning remnant of a boat.
29
Nixon took the coffee from Carter and leant against the wall watching her as she picked up her notes from the table. She’d got it into her head to investigate the Ainsdale blackout by blowing up a map of the village and pinning markers into it.
She’d been working alone on this when Nixon came in.
“What are the markers for?” Nixon asked, sipping his coffee.
“All the reports of blackouts we’ve taken,” she said placing a final pin into the board and stepping back to look at her work. “What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think Payne’s going to bollock you. You’re meant to be working the unsolved murders files.”
“Anyone can do that. This required a bit of imagination. Come and stand over here.”
Nixon did as she asked and stared at the board. The pattern was obvious. A circle of dots reaching out from the centre of the village.
“Well done,” he said impressed.
“Thanks,” she replied.
“So what do you want to do with it now?”
Carter got closer to the map and stared at a building in the approximate middle of the circle. “Every circle’s got a middle, an epicentre. Look at all the dots around this building.”
Nixon got closer and caught the scent of Carter’s perfume. “That’s the church where Payne’s niece goes.”
“And what’s this next door?”
“That’s the telephone exchange.”
Nixon paused and caught himself thinking of the minutes in the interview suite interviewing Max Harding. “All our mobiles went off before the station was attacked. You don’t think there’s a connection?”
Carter was already heading for the door. Nixon had to run to keep up.
On the way, Carter had grabbed the service number for the exchange and a VW van was parked in front of the telephone exchange by the time they arrived, its signage identified it as a North West Telecoms van.
“He got here quick,” Nixon said to Carter as he turned onto the access road and parked alongside the van. “Now all we need to do is get past this lot,” he nodded at the reporters, still a few dozen feet away. But the reporters were hunting for a story and a couple of them sidled up as soon as they stepped out of the car.
“Terrible isn’t it, about what happened yesterday. Were you in the village yesterday?” One guy in glasses asked.
“No, so piss off,” Nixon said, pulling a quick grin at the man.
“Yeah right. Well I was only asking.”
“What about you miss?” a second guy directed at Carter.
Before Carter could reply, a petite woman in black combats and matching polo shirt hauled herself out of the telecoms van. Nixon caught the hint of a tattoo peeping out from around her collar. “I thought I told you Muppets to get lost.” But the reporters shrugged their shoulders.
“Just making a living
love. We’re not harming anyone.”
“Sure mate, you keep telling yourself that eh.” She turned to look at Nixon. “You the police?”
The spectacled reporter whipped out a mini tape recorder and flicked the switch to record. He held it in front of him.
“How’s the investigation going officer? Do you care to make a statement? Do you think it’s connected to the recent trouble in—”
Nixon shoved against the guy’s recorder. “I’ve only just got here. If you’d be so kind as to piss off and let me do my job, that’d help.”
The reporter grinned. “Front page news. Tomorrow mate—front page.” He backed off, smiling at his colleague.
Once out of earshot, Nixon turned his attention back to the engineer, and offered his hand. The engineer shook it gratefully.
“Nicely handled,” she said. “Daliah Blevins. North West Telecoms.”
“Do you mind letting us in so we can have a look?” Nixon said as he led the way to the ornate double doors on the front of the exchange building.
“We’ll go around the back. Those doors are just for show.”
Daliah led them along the access road which continued along the side of the building. “I can’t see why you think this might have something to do with the blackout. I don’t see what you think you’re going to find. There’s nothing that can do that to people is there? I mean make them pass out. If there was, the military would be using it wouldn’t they? They’d be taking out whole parts of Afghanistan whilst they go in and clean up.”
“As I said, we’ve got to look into everything.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just so crazy. I’m babbling, I know I am. But I’ve got family here. You don’t like to think about this kind of thing on your own doorstep.”
Inside, Daliah flicked a switch and the room lit up bright. For a moment, Nixon was struck by the massive difference between the outside of the building and the interior. Banks of metal cabinets were arranged in aisles full of rows of grey and blue cards, each about the size of a CD, with LEDs embedded in the surface and cables running to central points on each cabinet. The air was fresh and cold on his skin, thanks to the air-conditioning units fitted in the ceiling.
“I think we’ve just stumbled onto the bridge of the Enterprise,” he muttered to Carter.
“What are we looking for?” Carter asked.
“I don’t know. Use your initiative,” he said quietly, then to Daliah he said, “is there anything that strikes you as out of the ordinary?”
Daliah scanned along the aisles whilst Carter checked out a small office in the corner of the room. They both came back shaking their heads.
“Anywhere else to check?” Nixon asked.
“There’s some equipment on the roof.”
“Lead the way,” Nixon said.
Daliah led the way up a steep flight of stairs and unlocked the door leading out onto the roof. Nixon was glad to be out of the manufactured environment of the main exchange room. The wind blew a steady breeze over the roof space. Metal boxes for the air-conditioning housing grew out from the otherwise flat roof. Nixon walked over to the ledge at the front of the building, and leant on the railings. The church gardens were on his right and the main shopping street ran in front of him. He couldn’t see the reporters who were pestering them earlier.
“We’ve found something,” Carter said from somewhere behind him. “Come and look.”
Carter and the engineer huddled low in front of what must be the mobile telephone mast: a metal latticed frame, about ten metres high, with rectangular dishes at the top. A fat cable fed from the back of a large metal cabinet and snaked its way up the mast framework. Daliah had opened the cabinet and they were both staring at something inside. Nixon got down on his haunches and joined them.
“I’m guessing that’s not a standard fitting.”
“You’d be right,” Daliah answered.
The cabinet’s insides had been messed with. You didn’t need to be an engineer to realise the thin web-like material that coated the interior, and pulsed with an internal light source, was not part of the original fittings. An object was trapped in the centre of the material and it took him a moment for his brain to work out what he was seeing.
“That’s a finger,” he pointed to the shadow.
“What, where?” Carter lent forward.
As she approached, the pulsing sped up. Nixon pulled her back. “I don’t think it likes observers. Maybe we should take a step back.” But even as they moved away, Daliah lent in, screwdriver in one hand.
“Let me get a look. Someone’s playing a prank.”
Nixon put his hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her back but it was too late. The screwdriver touched the fibrous material, and the web material reacted violently. It sped along the screwdriver, and in a second reached Daliah’s hand.
“Oh my god, it stings.” She yelled, and scrambled to her feet. Nixon pulled her away from the cabinet, careful not to get any of the material on him, and the material snapped back into place, pulsing angrily.
Everyone was breathing hard.
“We need to contain this.”
“I don’t believe it,” Carter said. “What could do that?”
“I don’t know. But I think we’ve found the source of our incident.”
“You think that’s something to do with the black out?” Carter said.
“And you don’t?” Nixon snapped. “You’ve seen what it’s just done. If I were to compile a list of strange shit I’ve seen in the last twenty four hours that goes straight to the top.”
Carter’s phone rang.
“Hello?” she answered, and listened to the caller. Nixon watched as her face turned ashen. Eventually she spoke again. “OK. Where should we meet you?”
When she hung up, she looked at Nixon, her eyes glistening.
“What’s the matter?”
“That was Taylor. He wants us to meet him at Scarisbrick Marina. DI Payne is dead.”
30
They’d taken Dennis’s car. It seemed sensible at the time in case Max’s was being looked for, but after sitting in the passenger seat with Dennis driving for an hour, Max guessed it would have been less risky going in his own car. Dennis had a way with traffic that defied belief. It was almost as if he drove, knowing that other cars weren’t going to hit him. On the drive back to Southport, there’d been a couple of times when Max had instinctively slammed his foot into the passenger well, reaching for a brake pedal that wasn’t there.
Max had convinced Dennis that they should stop at a cafe in Churchtown, minutes away from home but in an area where Max was unlikely to be seen by anyone that would recognise him. He sipped his tea and poured another sachet of sugar into the mug. Dennis cradled his mug in both hands, spinning it round to a new position when his hands got too hot.
“So what’s the plan?” Dennis said quietly. The cafe was about a third full with other customers making the most of the cream teas on offer.
Max had spent most of the journey, when he wasn’t bracing for impact, considering this. So far, he’d been focused solely on clearing his name and that had meant finding Cindy in the hope that she knew more than he did about what happened the night Heather died. But now he had a new lead.
“We find Thadeus.”
Dennis grinned, but it was a half-hearted attempt. “I knew you were going to say that. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does things by halves.”
“Have you ever tried to find him?”
“Of course. Never got very far though. Can’t find him in census records, or electoral rolls.”
“Phone book?”
“I’ve told you, he works for a secret government agency. You aren’t going to find him in the phone book.”
“I guess not.” Max glanced up at the waitress, and thought about the state of his stomach. He called her over and ordered a sausage barm cake.
“Tell me though,” Max asked, “how did you find out his name?”
“He
told me. When he came into our house with the rest of that team.”
“And what about the others? What were they like?”
“There was a woman. She led the conversation. She might be in charge. She was Alice Linwood. Then there was another man Carey. They were shifty. Completely different from the police officers we’d already had round. These acted more like businessmen. Professional types out to do a job. No interest in the people’s lives they were intruding on.”
“And how did they say they would help? What were they going to do about Ben?”
“Well, it was a load of spiel about how they were taking his disappearance very seriously, but they were a little less clear on how they were taking any action to find him. Carla was furious with them. She hated their aloofness, and in hindsight I’ve grown to hate it too.”
“How many times did you see them?”
“Only twice. The second time it was just Thadeus. And he was even less pleasant on that second visit. Carla wouldn’t let him in the house. It felt like he was just checking up on us. Making sure we weren’t lying to them about Ben being missing.”
The waitress arrived with Max’s lunch and he took a huge bite out of it. After the day’s activities he was ravenous.
“How’s the shoulder?” Dennis nodded at the place where Carla had stabbed him.
Max finished chewing, relishing each mouthful. “Honestly, I don’t feel a thing. It hurt like hell at the time, but now, there’s nothing. No painful sensation at all. It’s not even tender.” He placed his barm cake back on the plate and rolled up his sleeve. In their hurry to leave Dennis’s house, he hadn’t had time to wash all the blood off, so his skin was still stained with the red stuff. Looking past the dried blood, it was obvious to see that the wound had gone. It hadn’t just healed, Max thought as he stared hard at the skin, it appeared to be as good as new, like it hadn’t ever been injured.
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