by Alan Veale
‘Yes, sir.’ Wanker. Emily was pretty sure he was reading her personal file. She dropped the speed down a touch for a mile before letting it creep back up. Something about being alone in a car with a man five ranks her senior made her feel on edge. Especially if he was sat there looking at her personal stuff.
‘What made you come back early from bereavement leave?’
Shit, I knew it. ‘Boredom, sir. Mum died in February but it wasn’t completely unexpected. We felt it was likely after her second stroke. I got her a good solicitor to sort out the probate, and she didn’t have much personal stuff to go through.’ Emily forced her breathing to slow. Sometimes it was just easier to lie. Would he pick out anything else? Her disastrous marriage to Danny Blake, perhaps? Ten seconds. Tick-tock. ‘M42 coming up. Can I ask you something, sir?’
‘Go on.’
‘Yesterday you told us this op is strictly off the record.’
‘Yes.’
‘So none of us are to ID each other by rank?’
‘Correct.’
‘What do I call you then?’
‘Just do the same as you did yesterday. I’m plain Mr O’Brien now, and that’s official.’
‘Okay, sir.’
‘Okay, Mr O’Brien. Cut out the sir!’
‘Fine with me… Mr O’Brien.’ Say please and I will.
She tried to relax, but her mind kept drifting to other irritations. First was her hair: she’d planned to cut off the bleached tips this morning before the journey north, but O’Brien’s late-night message had blown that idea. Instead she’d scraped her hair back into a messy knot and thrown random toiletries into a travel bag. Then there was Mia. She couldn’t help feel anxious about her friend and neighbour. She’d made her promise to WhatsApp her if anyone came snooping, but so far nothing. Someone must have been round by now. Logic said her friend had simply lost the new number, but it didn’t stop her worrying. Copying Mia’s distinctive hairstyle had helped her slip away from the flat without drawing attention. ‘Sisters!' That’s what Mia had said when they checked their images side by side in the mirror. 'If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m your sister.’ How cool was that?
*
The stiletto had made a second appearance, and Wally felt something give down below.
‘I’m just an old man. I forget things. I’ll forget you were ever here when you’ve gone, I prom—’
‘Stop your babbling,’ said Meredith. ‘Or I’ll be the one to forget my manners. I always respected my elders, but in your case I could make an exception. Now start remembering. I want to know the truth about those twins.’
He moved behind the old man’s chair, an action that seldom failed to produce a result—his unseen presence while holding the knife applied more pressure on Wally than anything physical. It also brought side effects, as the stench of fear wafted outwards.
‘It’s just the way she went after her sister died. She were only twelve. Or… they might have been eleven. They both were… a car hit them just around the corner from here.’ The old man gasped at the memory, his breathing already strained. He took several moments before continuing. ‘And Emma died. It was bloody awful cos I’d just told them to be careful… but you know what kids are like. I saw it happen.’ Another pause while he squeezed his eyelids closed, a useless attempt to shut out the hurt of that day. ‘How Em survived I’ll never know. Broken bones, yes… but something affected her brain. It were like she took on her sister’s life as well as her own.’
Meredith circled the chair, slipping the blade back inside his jacket. Wally would hold nothing back now.
‘Emma were always the leader of the pack, and Emily the quiet one. Personalities like chalk ‘n cheese, as they say.’ The thought invoked a memory. ‘But after that day, things changed. Em were like a wild child. Sharp as a tack as always, but you’d never know what were coming next. As she got older she got herself in all kinds of trouble… with boys ’n that. You know. Sexy stuff.’
‘Which was how she came to be in London in 1999?’
Wally nodded. ‘That’s about right, yes. Got herself into erratic dancing, performing and… stuff.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Complete change. Went all quiet again. Did some learning. Got herself qualifications and helped her mum with her writing and… what d’ya call it… research. Which is how she… well, I told you about that before. Everyone has to call her Em. It’s what she insists on. Like I say, it’s like there’s two girls inside one body. Some days she’s all fire and brimstone, and others you won’t get a peep out of her. It’s why I got confused, see. Emily and Emma. Well, they’re the same, if you know what I mean? Er, I couldn’t go to the toilet, could I?’
‘Correct. Much too late for that, my friend. That’s something you can keep to yourself. What I need to know now is where the document went. Has she still got it?’
The old man sat in his squalor, glasses beginning to mist over. ‘I suppose she has. That bloody book of Marion’s. Why the fuck did I have to open my big mouth?’
Meredith drifted towards the front window, taking in the view of the street through yellowing net curtains. ‘Tell me about Vinke.’
Wally lifted his head. ‘Who?’
‘You know who I mean. I showed you the photograph.’
‘Oh, the German feller.’
‘That’s the one.’ Meredith turned away from the window and stepped towards the armchair, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the offensive odour as he approached. ‘When did you show him the document?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh yes you did. We’ve had it from the man himself. Now I want to hear your version. The photograph is of the two of you. You and Vinke. Did he see it on that occasion?’
‘What I meant was, I didn’t show it him. It were her! She were writing the bloody book for God’s sake!’
‘Just to clarify. You’re saying Marion had the document because she was going to use it in her book?’
‘Yes! God rest her soul. Living over there in Ireland, and knowing my family connection, she got interested, didn’t she? She always wanted to write a book, so when the kids were... when she didn’t have to look after them no more, she started her writing. About Titanic. That were when I told her what I knew. In confidence, like. Then she showed me that fucking document! I couldn’t believe it cos last I saw, it were with Paddy Faulkner. Thought it were gone forever.’
‘Let’s get back to Vinke. He came to see you and Marion. About the document?’
Wally glared at the interruption. Some of his old fire had returned at the thought of his one-time plans for pocketing a slice of Eric’s royalties. No chance of that now. All that mattered was survival. What else could he say to save his neck?
‘Yeah. Least, I think so. It were Marion he were talking to. Writers, both of them. Least, he were. Proper published an’ all. He’s made a mint from some of—’
A loud knock on the front door came as a shock to both. Meredith moved quickly for such a big man, stuffing the discarded sock back into Wally’s mouth before retrieving his stiletto blade. He stood for a moment by the chair, considering his options.
‘Expecting anyone?’
The terrified pensioner shook his head. Meredith moved to the window, but he had no direct view of the front door from there. With a final glance at the old man strapped to the chair, he went into the tiny hallway and pulled the door to behind him.
Wally strained his ears to hear the conversation, which was brief and too quiet to catch. Then the door opened again and he heard Meredith’s voice.
‘Hey Wally! Guess who’s come to see you.’
Thirty
Just after seven in the morning. Caffeine deprivation and a need to access the internet vied for Emily’s attention. Over twelve hours since she’d last checked WhatsApp. Hilton Park Services on the M6 had passed without comment from O’Brien, still with his nose in some file or other. The tank half-full. So was her bladder.
‘Mr O’Brien?’
>
‘Where are we?’
‘Just past Stafford. I was wondering—’
‘Pull in at the next services. We could use a break.’
Kind of you. Must be exhausting reading all that crap. ‘Yes, sir… Mr O’Brien, do you want me to top up the tank?’
The response was negative, and within ten minutes Emily was satisfying one of her personal needs in the ladies toilets while checking her mobile phone. A message sent last night. Not what she wanted to hear:
Em, u need to get here. I watched out 4 Wally like u said. he had a visiter today an I think he were frightend. I watched the house anuther man came. dunno whats gone down but only saw 1st man come out an drive his car. got a pic 4 u. want me to knock? Whitney X
The photo was of a tall, well-built man in a dark suit reaching for the door handle of a silver coloured car. Emily was almost sure it was an Audi. She was more certain of the man’s identity. Wally kept bad company sometimes, but this guy? Screw Manchester. Bootle was more important. She finished up and found her new boss waiting for her in Costa with two coffees to go.
*
O’Brien had known the refreshment stop would be his best opportunity. He had to tackle this female DI on a number of issues, some arising from what he had learned over the last couple of hours, and he steeled himself as he watched her approach. He glanced again at the screen on his iPad. The message received twenty minutes ago demanded an urgent response. But that wasn’t a call he could make. Not yet. He had to give her an opportunity. He owed her that.
‘Let’s take these outside.’ O’Brien headed for the car park entrance with the coffee. Emily took in the subtle change in body language and followed without comment. Through the automatic doors the air was stale with the fumes and fury of speeding traffic, while a westerly breeze battled in vain to keep the clamour on the far side of the building. O’Brien led the way to a stained picnic bench where a couple of discarded items were stuffed between the slats. He sat down and waited for Emily to do the same before pushing a carton towards her.
‘Black, no sugar. Right?’ She nodded, waiting for him to speak first before taking a sip. O’Brien ignored his own drink and took a deep breath. ‘You know how many rules you’ve broken lately? Police resources used without permission. Signatures forged. You’ve lied to your colleagues. Lied to me.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Not to you. I only told you the facts about Gris and what I knew to be true. You wanted to hear it anyway.’
O’Brien considered the last point before answering. ‘And how am I expected to sort the truth from the fiction when they have the same source?’
‘Experience. You’ve a lot more of it than I have. Pursuing the truth is what it’s all about, isn’t it? Your mate Colin thought so.’
He stared at her. Pursuing the Truth was the title of a recent book written by a DCI friend. The featured case had grabbed media headlines, and several contributions to the text came from himself. She would know that. ‘I ought to—’
‘What? Discipline me? Except you can’t, can you? There’s no rank here, you told me. You’re retired from the force, so technically you have no authority over me. I’m the one who volunteered to help you. Remember?’
It was like a slap in the face. As a police inspector, Emily Palmer had a reputation for talking tough. Watch a terrier with a rat, one colleague had said, and you’ve got the picture. Now O’Brien felt empathy with the rat. This officer certainly had plenty of backbone. But she was wrong on one vital point: he did have the authority to suspend her from duty. Hiring and firing anyone on his team had been something he’d insisted upon when signing up to this unofficial operation, within certain restrictions. Right now he could ill afford to lose her personal knowledge of Peter Gris, even if it meant giving her more ground than she deserved.
‘From my point of view, Emily, you didn’t so much volunteer as snatch at a chance opportunity. The way you see it, this operation gives you the break you’ve been looking for. Am I right?’ Her expression didn’t change, but her silence spoke loudly enough. ‘Emma Dearing the author disappeared for a good reason. She had another identity made available to her from the age of twelve. She could use her married name, her mother’s name, or her sister’s to hide her very existence from someone she considered a threat to herself and her family. If only half of what I know is true, then I understand your fear, and your hatred of that man. But you never had the right to be judge and jury. And you’ll never get it.’
The defiance in her eyes slowly melted. He recognised the stress levels he had seen many times in officers under his command. The girl had a mental strength to be envied, but for how much longer? He needed to rely on her to continue working at the level required of a professional police officer. He didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.
Emily’s voice had lost its edge. ‘I knew you were reading my file.’ Stray strands of hair flicked across her eyes and she pushed them back behind an ear. ‘Is there anything in there about… what I did before?’
‘Before you joined the force? Plenty. But I didn’t need to look at your records for that.’ O’Brien drank some of his coffee for the first time since they’d sat down. Emily did the same. He looked to his left, aware of some HGV drivers having a smoke nearby. The conversation could be moving into sensitive territory. ‘You told me once before about your life as a sex worker.’
‘What? When?’ Now there was something nearer to panic in her voice.
‘Quite a few years ago. I realised yesterday at what I initially thought was our first meeting. We’d met before. Peter Beard’s retirement? You wouldn’t remember me. I’ve gone a bit greyer and put on a few pounds since then. You, on the other hand…’
‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Was I—’
‘Pissed? Yes, very. But then so was I. The difference is down to perspective. You saw a Chief Superintendent in a very relaxed mood, and I saw a hugely attractive DI in an amorous one, flattering me to kingdom come. I’m not sure what you were after then, but I know my own motives were highly suspect.’
Emily’s complexion deepened. ‘Oh my God… I remember being there. There was this one fit guy, not you…’
‘Quite. He was younger than me. Don’t know his name or rank either. He prised you away just as it was getting interesting. I remember you telling me a few things I’m not likely to forget. Encounters with people from your previous life who should have known better. You also told me you’d nearly killed a high-ranking politician. I never got to hear the full story. It could have just been the drink talking, of course. But now? Now, I’m beginning to wonder. So come on Emily. Would you care to finish that particular tale?’
She hesitated. He watched her closely, keen to read anything in her face that would betray another lie. He knew he was putting her under more pressure than might be fair, but this could be a critical moment to assess Emily’s ability to continue with the project. Would she confirm a previous contact with Peter Gris, or try to bluster her way out with some fabrication?
‘It was—’
Their attention switched to Emily’s phone which vibrated with enough energy to travel a centimetre closer to her coffee. He registered the reaction on her face at the name on the display.
‘I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take this.’
O’Brien sighed as she snatched up the phone and walked away a few paces to answer the call. An occasional verbal response reached him on the fragmented breeze, her body language speaking of anger and upset. Then she was striding back to him, her face flushed with fury.
‘We’re going to have to go to Bootle. Wally’s dead. And I’m pretty sure I know who killed him.’
Thirty-One
O’Brien’s outward focus was on the motorway traffic ahead as they sped north. Inwardly he had murder on his mind. ‘The investigating officer says there was no sign of forced entry.’
‘There wouldn’t be. Stupid sod probably invited him in.’
&nbs
p; Emily was driving again, this time regularly exceeding the speed limit. She kept to the outer lane, alternately cruising and cursing when the traffic was choked into narrow sections by roadworks. O’Brien’s car was a standard issue BMW 3 series, powerful enough when the situation allowed, but minus the blue lights or siren fitted to Incident Response Vehicles. Now she had to risk her colleagues in Traffic pulling them over during the sixty or so miles to Bootle.
‘Anything else?’
O’Brien glanced at her, aware of the seething anger in the girl beside him as she hunched over the steering wheel. They’d argued back at the services over who should drive. He had mixed concerns about taking a diversion, but conceded that Wally’s death was almost certainly connected to their investigation. He also felt Emily’s relationship to the deceased was an argument for making her take a step back. This was not a case she could take a professional part in, and yet… this was not a normal case. Emily had every right, as Wally’s next of kin, to attend as quickly as possible. But as she was seconded to his operation, O'Brien had to ensure she remained answerable to his command. On a practical level, he elected to man the phone and make all the necessary communications (to Merseyside Police, to Manchester and to his own team in London) while Emily concentrated on getting them to their destination.
‘He says there’s no indication of any physical assault.’
‘Meaning?’ Emily picked her moment to accelerate past a VW Beetle as some roadworks came to an end.
‘Meaning no apparent indicators for cause of death. Just sitting in a chair with his mouth wide open. PM will confirm, but COD probably a heart attack. Time of death at least nine hours ago, possibly as much as twenty.’
‘Shit.’ Emily’s attention switched back to the road. A sign told her it would be another nineteen minutes to the M62. Could she do it in ten?