by Alan Veale
‘How about both?’
‘You won’t find it written down anywhere, but I was told the official reason is it means Nil Quota Allocated. In other words, there’s a recommendation that no police resources should be applied for further investigation. Which is why it goes all the way to the top for the Chief’s final decision. What’s in it, anyway? It’ll say on the front.’
‘Just a couple of recent incidents in Salford Quays. Nothing I’d have thought the CC would want to look at.’
‘Ah, you never know. But that’s why me and a few others reckon NQA means something else: No Questions Asked—sensitive stuff the top brass keep to themselves. Bet you’ll never see that file again. Know what I mean?’
*
In the London Metropolitan area, reports of the retirement of Commander Neville O’Brien MBE were brief and to the point. As the officer in charge of the inglorious Operation Ascot, he was leaving under a cloud, but with a golden handshake for forty-three years loyal service. A small party was held in his honour, attended by the Commissioner, before an even smaller group of invited guests assembled at the former commander’s home in Richmond upon Thames for private drinks.
Six serving officers sat around O’Brien’s dining table with neutral expressions and a glass of Prosecco each. He included himself in that number as he still (unofficially) held the role of Head of Operations. Four others remained from Ascot—all the Commissioner could afford. That left the sixth person, who sat opposite O’Brien at the far end of the table. Time for introductions.
‘Welcome to day one of a non-official investigation I’m calling Pentland. Each of you have a written brief in front of you, and I’ll get to your individual assignments later. Just let me remind you that ranks no longer carry weight here, and while each of you answer directly to me, I respectfully ask you not to address me as “Nobby”.’ Polite laughter round the table. Sidelong glances at the familiar nickname. ‘Some of you may already have met her, but for those yet to do so, let me introduce Emily Blake from Greater Manchester, who has the rank of Detective Inspector.’ Several eyes turned to look at a solemn-faced woman of around forty, her hair tied in a French plait. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. ‘Emily is the author of the report you were issued with yesterday, so you will understand why recent events in Manchester have been flagged for our attention. Emily.’
‘Thank you, Mr O’Brien.’ The accent was northern with a hint of something else. ‘Peter Gris has only recently come to our attention in Manchester. He was identified as a potential source of hostile activity in connection with the author Eric Vinke about six weeks ago. This was reported through colleagues in Lancashire who have jurisdiction for Mr Vinke’s home address. Shortly afterwards, a Salford resident with connections to Mr Vinke sent a document to GMP implicating Peter Gris in at least two homicides at her former home in Northern Ireland. Both victims were members of her family. We have been unable to interview the woman, who appears to have left her home address. To date, Lancashire have also been unable to speak to Mr Vinke, who we understand may be receiving care in a nursing home. I believe Mr O’Brien has since received a further angle on Peter Gris.’
‘Thank you, Emily,’ O’Brien acknowledged. He knew Emily had skimped on detail from the written report with good reason, mentioning only the main points, while key information had come from elsewhere. No matter. The Manchester angle was secondary to his contribution. ‘If you look inside your folders you will find a printout from Wikipedia about Peter Gris. This, like the obituary written by Sir Antony Jaeger, is assumed to be part fact, part fiction. There is a reference common to both implying the two became friends after Gris was elected as an MP in 1970. The truth, as I understand it, is that they first met a lot earlier than that.’
*
‘Let me start by telling you about the Great Welsh Lie,’ Jaeger had said, his breathing sometimes heavy between phrases, but every word enunciated with care. ‘Wikipedia will tell you that Gris is a shortening of Griffiths, and that the family’s ancestry is Welsh. True, but only on his mother’s side. Apparently she was a direct descendant of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, a King of Wales in the eleventh century, and she certainly came from a wealthy family. Peter used to joke he had royal blood in his veins. He was just five-years-old when his mother died in 1938. Suicide, evidently.’ Jaeger took a careful sip from his glass. ‘But then her husband did have a fierce temper.’
O’Brien frowned. ‘Are you saying—’
‘I’m saying nothing—about him. Clive was very kind to me. But don’t forget I’m nearly five years older than Peter, and I knew the family. I knew about his father Clive’s little games, and his appetite for sex. I was invited to watch some of them. Yes, at the age of fourteen. His mother Anna was just as bad, so of course, there was no hope for the son. They were a very close family.’
Jaeger sat in sombre reflection for a moment while O’Brien felt his own breathing tighten, turning over the implications in his mind.
‘You also won’t know about the stepmother. Clive’s second wife.’
‘A second? No, I don’t recall seeing anything on file.’
‘You wouldn’t. I’m not sure it was ever legal. Her name was Priscilla. A whirlwind romance, I believe. I was at Winchester so didn’t hear about it until afterwards. Let’s just say they found each other only about a year after Anna died, and she got pregnant almost straight away. Clive was thrilled about it at first, as he was convinced she was going to produce a brother for Peter. But it was a girl, born 7th July 1940. Two years to the day since Anna… None of this was recorded for posterity. All hidden and swept away under the thickest of carpets. The baby, Helen, survived the war, but her mother did not. She was killed in an air raid on London barely three months later. Clive never got over it.’
Jaeger lapsed into silence, his downcast eyes drawing a curtain over his thoughts. His guest sensed something even more serious was about to surface.
‘Helen was a sweet little thing,’ breathed the old man. ‘Lush long brown hair and pale blue eyes. It was Peter’s sixteenth birthday and I was home for the holidays. Just the four of us playing games. Not the average childhood ones, you understand. Musical Chairs with a twist. When the music stopped the last one to sit lost an item of clothing, and it always seemed to be Helen. Nine-years-old and giggling fit to burst. Clive was in his element, getting her to sit on his lap. I could see what he was up to, and so could Peter. But we were all just laughing. I don’t remember if there was any booze involved, but suddenly there was Clive with a massive erection. “Look, Helen, I’ve got my flagpole up! Come and be a Welsh flag!” Then she was back on his lap, and she wasn’t giggling anymore. She cried, but not much, I think. It wasn’t the first time for her. But it was for Peter. His father offered her to him as a birthday present, and he took full advantage. I watched. I didn’t take part. But I knew this was a landmark for Peter. It wasn’t so much a sexual experience, more an exercise in power. His father taught him to take control over every situation. It was a lesson he never forgot.’
*
O’Brien looked round the table to measure the impact of his report on Peter Gris’s early life. Several avoided eye contact, their owners still processing the information. Only one pair returned his stare.
‘What happened to the girl? Was she his first homicide?’
‘You’re slightly ahead of me there, Emily. She disappeared about five years later, but we can reasonably assume the sexual abuse continued throughout that period. Our first job is to find out her fate, and to check how accurate these allegations from Jaeger might be.’ He paused, aware that his next speech was bound to lead to some lively discussion. ‘One more thing. In the past we’ve all too often been on shaky ground, pursuing information about the lives of celebrities and politicians. There are people out there now quietly enjoying the demise of Operation Ascot, their reputations damaged but not destroyed. Some have every right to feel outraged at what we did, but there are others… I know some of you sat round
this table feel cheated at being so close to achieving a conviction and then seeing it snatched away.’ He noted two of his guests slowly nodding. ‘So, listen up! This one will not get away. This is a man who abused his powers when he was at the height of them, when he was a Cabinet Minister, with millions of people’s lives under his thumb. He used those powers to his own personal advantage, and he used the privilege of office to cover up his actions. Pursuing evidence of those activities will not be easy, but remember this: What kind of criminal fakes his own death if he doesn’t believe someone will hold him to account?’
Twenty-Eight
The streets of Bootle were not dissimilar to those he remembered from his own childhood in Watford: a miscellany of red brick and concrete, glass panels clinging to elderly plastic frames or state of the Ark wood. Sitting in a rented Audi, wearing a Belvest suit that came with a €2,000 price tag, he noted his surroundings with a mix of nostalgia and distaste. He’d upgraded his own life by learning fast and finding the best arses to lick (including that of Peter Gris), so why couldn’t everyone else do the same?
Lee Meredith could claim over thirty years’ loyalty to Gris and had little time for anyone whose efforts in life fell short of the maximum. The Mayfair incident of 1999, when his boss was severely injured, had been the low point from which he would never again let his standards slip. He’d been forced to demonstrate his personal displeasure only recently in Manchester: a certain ponytailed individual had paid for his mistakes with a broken nose and several missing teeth. Such failings and needless errors put the pressure back on. His boss had given him a simple enough task: use whatever resources you can to find Emma Dearing and destroy any Titanic material from ‘85, whether in her possession or not. Both had so far proved more elusive than anticipated, but he was convinced Bootle would provide the breakthrough. Which was why his manicured fingers were now lightly tapping the steering wheel, the only indication of his impatience while awaiting the arrival of the man he knew to be Emma’s grandfather, Wally Palmer.
Meredith sat in his car for over an hour, attracting attention from some younger elements of the community. A group of three boys aged around fifteen, two wearing grey hoodies, ambled past the spotless SUV with its shiny chrome trim. Seeing the driver inside with the window open, his eyes masked behind dark glasses, one boy nudged his companion while making an observation loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
‘Hey, Parsley! I told you. It’s him off the telly… come to sell us insurance!’
Laughter and jostling followed, the boys casting nervous glances in Meredith’s direction, just in case. But he stared them out, wisely resisting the temptation to raise his middle finger skyward. The boys moved on in search of more challenging material. Just as he was beginning to think he should take a break for the sake of his bladder, he caught a movement in his wing mirror that looked more promising.
A skinny, white-haired man with pebble glasses was hobbling towards him supported by a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. They made an odd couple: him wearing a navy duffle coat that looked like a relic from a museum, and the girl with her bleached-blonde hair up in bunches, dark red lipstick and bare arms sprouting out of a short dress resembling a sack the colour of beetroot. She was giggling at something the old man said, but then both stopped short as Meredith stepped out of his car.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
It took a moment for Wally to process the image of the tall, well-built man in a blue suit blocking his path. But then confusion turned to recognition, followed almost immediately by resignation. He turned to the girl and spoke in a voice loud enough for Meredith to hear. ‘Okay, Whitney. You piss off now. I’ll be all right from here.’
‘You sure, Wally? Is this someone you know?’
‘Yeah. An old friend. We got stuff to talk over. Go on. Scoot.’
*
Inside, the house was cluttered and untidy but fairly clean. Bric-a-brac accumulated over thirty years or more filled shelves and mantelpiece—evidence of family routine and associated detritus. Several faded snaps filled random frames over once-fashionable floral wallpaper. A tired grey-brown two-piece suite adorned with a scattering of newspapers and biscuit crumbs was the dominant feature of Wally Palmer’s living room, accompanied by an even older chair-cum-rocker towards which Meredith now pushed the old man.
‘Sit down. I need your full attention, so don’t get too comfortable.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Same as before. Information. Only this time I need it to be a little more accurate.’
Wally looked into his eyes as Meredith placed particular emphasis on the last word. He didn’t like what he saw there. A shudder ran down his bony back as he pushed himself deep into the chair.
‘I also need you to appreciate how seriously I need this information, Wally.’ At this, Meredith put his face close to the old man before placing a stiletto blade point upwards into Wally’s line of vision. ‘You remember our last discussion?’
The old man did. ‘No, please.’ Images of his precious goldfish skewered on that same blade, jerking around in its death throes. And then…
‘I brought you a little treat.’ Meredith stepped back and held up what could have been a bag of sweets. ‘After all, a man with such a big mouth needs the occasional extra… flavour.’
The memory of Meredith’s last visit, when his dying fish had been placed inside his open mouth, had never left Wally. Terrified at whatever new torment he was about to experience, his eyes followed the blade as it dipped inside the paper bag and came back out spearing something brown, almost the size of a golf ball.
‘Fudge. What self-respecting grandfather doesn’t appreciate a nice piece of fudge? Open wide.’ The old man hesitated. ‘Wide as you can, Wally. What’s the matter? Worried it might have something hidden inside? Good… so you should be. Now I’m going to place the fudge onto your tongue, and you are going to close your mouth just enough to grip the blade between what remains of those foul yellow teeth of yours. Okay? Do it. Good. Now just concentrate on keeping fudge and blade exactly where they are while I get you a little more comfortable. Oh, and a piece of advice: don’t swallow.’
The words were spoken quietly and with sincerity. Wally had no doubt there was broken glass or something equally lethal inside the fudge. His life was forfeit if he didn’t do exactly as requested. Blood roared in his ears and his vision blurred despite the spectacles as he felt his left wrist being clamped to the arm of the chair with something tight and rigid. Not daring to move a muscle, he fought a gagging reflex as he sensed movement in front of him, then his right wrist was secured in similar fashion. Moments later he felt his left shoe being removed, followed by his sock.
‘Right, then, I won’t ask you to do anything else for a moment. Open.’
Short-lived relief as the blade and fudge were removed, then replaced with his sock. A tear ran down his cheek as he blinked and tried to focus on his assailant.
‘I’m now going for a piss, and afterwards we’ll have a little chat. While I’m upstairs, just have a think about what you told me last time.’
Wally tried not to panic as his visitor turned back into the hallway and ascended the stairs. Controlling his breathing was difficult. One of his nostrils felt blocked, and he wished he could reach for his handkerchief. His heartbeat was loud in his head—reassurance that things were still okay in that department, but for how much longer? Noises from above, Meredith using the toilet. His own bladder about to give way, Wally stared blankly around his living room without recognition. Faces smiled back at him from photo frames on walls and shelves but offered no comfort. A dark vision filled his brain: Meredith’s steely stare. And that awful knife…
‘Okay. Let’s make a start, shall we?’
The sock was gone. Dropped to the floor. Wally’s imagination anticipated further threats. Instead he saw his unwelcome guest ease into an armchair after plumping a cushion and brushing away evidence of previous occupation
.
‘This is just like last time, Wally! You over there. Me over here with my papers. Remember our little discussion about family inheritance?’ Meredith kept the tone light, with an undertone suggesting that could change on a syllable. ‘We talked about all that lovely money you were going to receive. Or your next of kin. I offered you my condolences about the loss of your daughter Marion. Then you told me about her daughter, your granddaughter Emma Dearing.’
‘That’s right, I did. Only I might have been confused.’
‘Yes, I wondered if that might have been what happened. We went all the way up to Glasgow to find her, but guess what? She wasn’t there.’
‘No… no, I think she moved to—’
‘Manchester? Yes, that is what I understood too. But we drew a blank there. And then I found out why. Do you know why, Wally?’ Meredith suddenly leaned forward, causing the subject of his stare to shrink even further into his chair. ‘I’ll tell you! Because all this time I’ve been chasing a ghost. Emma Dearing died twenty-six years ago.’
Twenty-Nine
Last night, the girl once known as Emma Dearing had had sex. The first time in weeks and it made her feel better about herself. But then O’Brien had sent a text suggesting an early start for the drive up to Manchester. Instead of feeling peachy in the afterglow, she had turfed out her lover and bundled her stuff together.
‘You can drive,’ her new boss had said.
Now it was approaching six in the morning and they were fifteen miles short of Birmingham on the M40, doing seventy-five in the middle lane.
‘Watch your speed,’ said O’Brien from the back seat without looking up. ‘No need to attract attention from Traffic.’