‘Lazko said something along those lines in a letter he sent me last week,’ Fennimore said. ‘I don’t see it, myself.’
Haverford pursed his lips. ‘Your methods differ, to be sure,’ he conceded. ‘But your appetite for the truth, your – forgive me, Professor – your ruthlessness in seeking it out …’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes … yes, I do see a similarity.’
This sobering thought kept Fennimore silent as they parked and went into the hotel.
Josh wasn’t in his room and there was no sign of Fennimore’s luggage. The hire car wasn’t in the car park either. Fennimore remembered the cop glancing at Josh in the hotel foyer. Then he flashed to Lazko, handing him the file on Josh’s family, the fear in his eyes when he said, ‘I wouldn’t want some of the faces in that folder to think I’ve been poking my nose into their affairs.’
Fennimore returned to the foyer. Haverford was waiting in one of the easy chairs, talking to his office on the phone. He caught Fennimore’s eye and glanced towards the restaurant area just off the reception area. Fennimore went to the desk and asked if Josh had left a message.
‘No, sir,’ the receptionist said. ‘He just phoned from the motorway services to say he’d been called away unexpectedly.’
Fennimore turned away from the desk as two hard-looking men came out of the restaurant. They kept their eyes on him as they walked to the exit and out into the sunshine. He was on his way over to Haverford when the phone rang on the reception desk and the receptionist called him back. ‘It’s a Mr Haverford for you, Mr Fennimore.’
Haverford had pocketed his phone and was still seated in the easy chair, reading a newspaper he’d picked up from the coffee table. Fennimore took the receiver and held it cautiously to his ear.
‘This is Nick Fennimore,’ he said.
‘Nick, it’s Josh.’
‘Okay,’ he said, aware of the receptionist a few feet away.
‘I’m at the library in St Martin’s Square, Chelmsford. I’ll meet you inside. I took the car – but don’t use a cab – and make sure you aren’t followed. There’s a couple of blokes watching the hotel.’
‘I think I know who you mean,’ Fennimore said.
‘Nick, you should turn off your mobile phone; they could be tracking it.’
‘Right,’ Fennimore said, keeping his tone polite, but formal. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ He hung up and crossed the foyer to sit opposite Haverford.
‘The two men who came out of the restaurant are members of the Collins gang,’ Haverford murmured, smiling pleasantly, as though talking about a dinner invitation. ‘Nasty bunch.’
Fennimore returned the smile. ‘I thought as much. Can you turn off your phone and bring your car around to the fire escape at the back of the building in five minutes?’
‘Certainly.’ Haverford stood and shook his hand, a businessman bringing a meeting to a cordial conclusion. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’
Fennimore watched him leave, then slipped his room key from his pocket, jangled it from his finger for the benefit of anyone who might be watching and headed towards his room.
32
Manchester, Thursday Lunchtime
At twelve-thirty, Kate Simms was drinking coffee and watching Timmy eat an egg mayonnaise sandwich. BBC Radio Manchester played in the background and she listened with half an ear, waiting for news of Lauren Myers. There was nothing new – just a rehash of the discovery of Julia Myers’s body and Mr Myers’s breakdown as he begged the killer to let his little girl go. The bulletin ended with an appeal to anyone who might have seen something suspicious to phone the hotline set up by Manchester Police. She had no idea what was happening on the case: had the woman who survived the attack given them anything useful? Did they have a description of the attacker? Had the mould spores Cooper found on Mrs Myers given them any inkling about her daughter’s whereabouts?
‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, tipping the rest of the coffee into the sink.
This was torture. Her life was a shambles: she was barred from working on the search for little Lauren and she had alienated a powerful ally in Enderby. Her mother was chafing to return to her own life in London; Becky would be in Paris by the end of the day: unable to delay any longer, she’d given permission for her to make the trip. Kieran had come home at just after 2 a.m. He had slept on the couch in the sitting room and was still there now. Timmy was about the only member of the household who had warmed to her since her return.
Tim’s voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘Why are you sad, Mummy?’
Startled and feeling a little guilty, she exclaimed, ‘I’m not sad, darling – just thinking, that’s all.’
‘Why do you look sad when you’re thinking?’
‘I didn’t know I did. Let’s see …’ She tried a few expressions, naming each one: ‘This is thoughtful … This is puzzled … And this is sad …’
‘Sad,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Definitely.’
Definitely was his new word.
He took another bite of his sandwich. ‘How about this?’ Simms began with a clown sad-face and ended by crossing her eyes, just to make him laugh.
He chortled. ‘Silly Mummy.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘Why is Daddy asleep on the couch?’
Uh-oh … ‘He had a late night.’
‘Yes, but why isn’t he in bed?’ Tim spread the fingers of his free hand to emphasize his astonishment.
‘I’m not sure. Finish your lunch and have a piece of fruit and then we’ll go and ask him, shall we?’
‘Mm-mm,’ he hummed, to avoid speaking with his mouth full. He took a swig of juice to wash down his food and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Definitely.’
Her mobile started buzzing on the kitchen counter and Simms snatched it up.
‘Diane.’
‘I heard you were carpeted.’
‘Oh, where did you hear that?’
‘Well, actually, I didn’t hear it, I made a careful analysis of the data. Was I right?’
Simms trapped the phone between her shoulder and her ear and picked up an apple to slice for Tim. ‘I’m at home, cutting up an apple for my five-year-old. Analyse that.’
‘Thanks for keeping my name out of it,’ Diane said.
Simms said nothing.
‘Want the latest?’
‘You probably shouldn’t even be speaking to me,’ Simms said.
‘It’ll be all over the six o’clock news anyway.’
‘Is that something you heard or another prediction?’
‘Turn on the telly at six, see if I’m right.’
Simms smiled. Diane was irrepressible.
‘So your abduction survivor described her attacker as lanky – long arms and legs – out of proportion with his body. Weird body-shape, she said, freakishly narrow at the shoulders. When he came out of the back of the car, she thought it was an animal.’
Simms gave an involuntary shudder, thinking of Julia Myers and her little girl.
‘Weird, huh?’
‘Mm,’ Simms said, handing Tim a slice of apple. ‘Anything else?’
‘He was dressed in black and wore a mask – like a ski-mask.’
‘That won’t help,’ Simms said.
‘No.’
‘Are they of a type, the other women?’
‘Mostly,’ Diane said. ‘They were all small – under five-three tall, pale-skinned, blue-eyed.’
‘So not really comparable with the – um … latest,’ she said, not wanting Tim to hear the word victim.
‘Nothing like. Mrs Myers was five-seven, brown hair, grey eyes.’
Like Rachel, Simms thought. Like Fennimore’s murdered wife.
‘Nothing helpful on the occupations either,’ the analyst went on. ‘A nurse, a care worker, one temped as a clerical assistant. The survivor is a rep for a marketing company.’
‘So no similarities there either.’
Simms sighed. ‘There must be something they have in common,’ she said.
‘You would th
ink,’ Diane agreed.
She couldn’t ask Diane to send pictures of the victims – that would leave a paper trail – but there was nothing to stop her looking them up online. ‘Those, um, women,’ she said. ‘Can you give me their names?’
She jotted them down.
‘Thanks, Diane, I really appreciate this.’
‘So,’ Diane said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Up? Nothing.’
‘O-kay … So why do you sound down?’
‘I don’t,’ Simms said. ‘I mean, I’m not – it’s just this … investigation.’
Timmy crunched a piece of apple, gazing up at her, and she stroked his head, forcing a smile.
The letterbox rattled and Tim scrambled down from his chair. ‘Postman!’ he yelled, charging down the hall to pick up the post.
‘Kate, this is Auntie Diane – you can’t keep secrets from me.’
‘It’s nothing—’ But it wasn’t and she knew it, and suddenly she didn’t want to go on keeping her worries to herself, acting like everything was all right. She lowered her voice. ‘I think Kieran is having an affair.’
‘What? Why?’
‘He’s been pissed off with me ever since I got kicked out of the National Crime Faculty.’
‘I meant what makes you think he’s having an affair?’
It was a fair question. Kieran had been sweet – if a little chaste – since she got back from the States. Until last night. The unprovoked flare of rage was unlike him.
Was it unprovoked? she thought. Cranking back through the timeline, examining incidents and actions was one of her strengths as a cop. He had flown into a temper when she asked if there was something he needed to tell her. Why had he assumed she was accusing him of having an affair? A voice whispered in the no-trespassing, don’t-go-there backwoods of her mind: Because he is, it said.
‘Mission Control to Simms,’ Diane said. ‘Do you read me?’
‘Yes. Sorry, Diane. Forget it – I’m just being paranoid.’ Tim hadn’t returned and she peered down the hall and saw the sitting room door open. ‘Uh-oh,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘All right,’ Diane said. ‘But call me.’
She made the promise and hung up, cursing herself for having been so indiscreet.
What was she thinking? She hadn’t seen Diane in over five years. Why confide? Perhaps the time factor was part of it – it gave an implied distance, a false anonymity. But she had to admit she felt better having told someone and she knew Diane could be trusted to keep a confidence.
She headed down the hallway, fast-dialling Fennimore, but he wasn’t picking up. She left a message and took a breath before stepping into the fuggy half-darkness of the sitting room. Tim was standing by the sofa, a bundle of letters in one hand, shaking his daddy’s shoulder.
‘Wake up, Daddy. It’s daytime. I brought you a – apple for lunch.’ He dug into his trouser pocket and brought out a segment of the apple Simms had cut up for him.
Kieran groaned and turned.
‘Gimme a break,’ he moaned.
‘The postman’s been. Look,’ Tim said, dropping the crumpled envelopes on to his lap.
Simms leaned against the doorframe, watching them, smiling, and sudden tears sprang to her eyes.
Kieran cleared his throat. ‘What time is it?’
Timmy picked up his daddy’s watch from the coffee table. ‘The little hand says it’s twelve o’clock and the big hand says … I don’t know what the big hand says.’ He shoved the dial towards Kieran’s face so he could get a closer look. Kieran winced, taking the watch and squinting at the time.
‘Oh, God …’ He glanced up and saw her for the first time. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘I should be at work!’
Simms blinked away her tears and leaned off the doorframe. ‘Good party?’ she said with a smile.
Tim clambered up and sat astride his daddy and Kieran gave another groan.
‘Looks like Daddy needs coffee,’ she said.
She sent Timmy out to play in the back garden and returned a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee. Kieran was sitting up when she came through the door and he ruffled his hair and rubbed his face vigorously with both hands before accepting the cup.
She waited until he had taken a few sips before asking, ‘Do we need to talk?’
‘No.’ He glanced up sharply and winced against what she imagined was a cracking headache. After a pause, he said, more softly, ‘No, Kate.’
He looked hungover and contrite. After a couple more sips of coffee, he flashed her a crooked smile. ‘Term’s almost over,’ he said. ‘I’ll be more human after a few days’ holiday, I promise. Look – why don’t you call Becky, tell her to come home, we’ll go off somewhere nice for a few days?’
‘Ah …’ Simms said. ‘That might be a problem.’
33
The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY (ATTR.)
Essex, Thursday Afternoon
Haverford dropped Fennimore on the third level of a multi-storey car park, three minutes’ walk from the library. He drove up to the fourth level, parked, went into the theatre nearby and bought tickets, then went straight back to his car. Fennimore was waiting in the stairwell at level three.
‘I think you’re in the clear,’ Haverford said.
‘No one following – you’re sure?’
‘No one – but give me five minutes to drive out, just in case they’re waiting on one of the lower levels.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you at your offices as soon as I’ve finished here.’
‘Your young assistant looked familiar,’ Haverford said.
Fennimore kept his expression bland. ‘Mistaken identity – he gets that a lot.’
Haverford’s smile was tinged with sadness. ‘That could be fatal in this part of the world.’
Fennimore nodded. ‘I’m sending him home,’ he said.
They passed on the stairs and a few seconds later, Fennimore heard the fire escape door close with a hollow thud. A minute after that, Haverford’s Mercedes swept past. He waited and listened for another five minutes, before heading down the stairs.
On the short walk to the library he remained alert, but avoided glancing over his shoulder, despite the fact that it felt like a spiteful sprite was tugging at the short hairs on his neck. At the last moment, he ducked into the theatre and lingered there, reading the notices, picking up brochures, checking everyone who came through the door. At last he ventured into the library, walked slowly past the desk and through the main collection, pausing at shelves to give Josh plenty of opportunity to see him, then he found a table in a quiet corner and picked up a newspaper. He glanced up a minute later to see Josh standing in front of him.
‘Your phone?’ Josh said. He looked tense and pale, the laptop bag worn across his body somehow making him seem younger and more vulnerable than Fennimore had ever imagined him.
‘Turned off.’
Josh led the way to a bay where they could talk without being observed. ‘The cop at the hotel recognized me.’ He hesitated. ‘Who I used to be.’
‘I gathered as much.’
Josh held Fennimore’s gaze. ‘Did you tell Lazko where we were staying?’ His voice sounded tight. ‘In your phone messages – did you tell him which hotel? Is that what got him killed?’
‘Josh,’ Fennimore said, ‘I didn’t even say I was travelling down with you. What happened to Lazko isn’t your fault. It was just unlucky that detective recognized you.’
Josh exhaled shakily.
‘The two thugs at the hotel?’ Fennimore said.
‘They work for my family. The cop is in their pocket as well.’
Rapid footsteps. They both looked up.
A figure turned the corner into their bay and Josh tensed. But it was only a youth, sixteen years old maybe. He stood chewing gum, watching them, his hands in his pockets. Josh gave him a hard stare.
‘Want
something?’ he said.
The youth jerked his chin. ‘Book,’ he said. ‘Jim Butcher. Behind your head, mate.’
Josh plucked the book from the shelf and jammed it into his hand. ‘Now piss off,’ he said, thrusting his face inches from the boy’s. The youth jerked back, then turned on his heel and hurried away, his trainers squeak-squeaking on the floor tiles.
‘Where’s the car?’ Fennimore asked.
‘In the multi-storey.’
Josh, why did you come here, of all places – you should have got out, found a quiet place out in the sticks where we could meet.’
‘You needed those copies doing.’ Josh snuffed air through his nose. ‘Besides, library’s about the safest place in town,’ he said. ‘My lot aren’t big readers.’
‘Josh,’ Fennimore said, ‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have brought you here.’
‘It isn’t like you put a gun to my head,’ Josh said.
Fennimore winced.
‘Here’s the stuff you asked for,’ Josh said, reaching into his bag and handing over a bundle of papers, along with Mrs Hazle’s diary. ‘Originals are on top.’
‘Thanks, I’ll lodge them with the solicitor. And thanks for getting the message to him – I’d probably still be in Chelmsford nick if it weren’t for Haverford.’
‘No worries. So what now?’
‘You need to get out of Dodge,’ Fennimore said.
Josh frowned, began to argue.
‘Haverford recognized you,’ Fennimore said. ‘That cop recognized you. Which means others will. Josh, you have to leave.’
The student nodded, though he still seemed reluctant.
‘And … it’s probably best you don’t go back to Aberdeen,’ Fennimore added. Experience had taught him that giving bad news in small bites sometimes made it more manageable.
Josh shook his head.
‘Let your handler know – have him arrange a place of safety.’
‘My thesis,’ Josh said. ‘I can’t just ditch it.’
‘You can work on that anywhere.’
‘That’s not how witness protection works,’ Josh said. ‘They’ll drag me out, give me a new identity. Everything I’ve worked for will be finished, wiped out.’
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