by Alan Veale
Robin’s reaction was noncommittal. ‘We have to consider that as a possibility.’
‘Then the other alternative is?’
‘Peter Gris.’
Bog interrupted. ‘Phone is infiltrated. Nonconsensual tracker too. Software only.’
Ed looked at his partner and saw his reaction. Up to then he had accepted bad news was likely. Hearing confirmation of it still came as a shock. ‘Little feller was right all along. The bastards got inside his phone. Well, they can’t track him down now. But what in Christ’s name can we do? Go to the real police?’
‘Let me see that, will you?’ Robin peered at the data displayed on Bog’s laptop and sighed. No doubt about it. ‘Lodged in there via Bluetooth. Simple but effective. Billie was right to trust his instincts.’
‘Can you get rid of it?’
Bog glanced up at Ed, then saw Robin shake his head.
‘No! That won’t achieve any purpose now. We have to find a way… wait… why don’t we just do the same?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We have the technology.’ Robin’s face brightened. ‘They say the best way to fight a fire is with another fire. We’ll give them what they want. Then they can lead us to what we want!’
‘Do we even know what we want?’ For once, Ed found himself at a loss to understand his partner of three years.
‘We need to know who we’re dealing with, Ed! Bog, can you clone this thing? Without the tracker?’
‘Sure, it’ll take an hour on this kit. A lot quicker at the lab.’
‘And then can you put our own tracker onto it?’
‘Leaving this one in place? You bet.’
‘Do it, then. Right now, please. Ed, I think it’s your round. Fruit juice only, mind. Then I’ll explain.’
Ed shook his head in wonder, shifted himself upright and followed a cautious path to the bar.
*
A senior officer in the Greater Manchester Police was attending a meeting with a group of local councillors when a phone vibrated in his pocket. It was not his official handset, and he couldn’t afford to ignore it.
‘Just a moment, folks.’ He glanced at the screen and recognised the name. ‘Sorry, everyone, I’m going to have to take this. Excuse me a moment.’ He exited the meeting room and found an empty corridor before answering the call.
‘Tanner.’
‘Is that Chief Superintendent Tanner?’ It was a young man’s voice with a local accent.
‘Speaking. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Matt Haig, and I’m a bartender at All Star Lanes on Deansgate. I’m ringing from a phone that was left behind by a customer a few days ago.’
Tanner found he was holding his breath, so let it out slowly as the caller continued.
‘You left a couple of voicemails, so I thought it best to contact you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Matt. You don’t happen to know the owner of the phone, do you?’
‘No, sorry. We thought someone might come back for it. People usually do. Anyway, as you’re a policeman, I thought you ought to know.’
Tanner thought he heard another voice in the background. ‘That’s right. Good of you to call me. And very clever of you to access the voicemails.’
‘No problem. I mean about the voicemail. There’s no security code or anything. Bit careless, really.’
‘You’re dead right. He has been careless.’
‘Are you going to collect it or should I hand it in to a police station?’
‘We’ll collect it. I’ll send someone round soon as I can.’
‘Okay thanks. Bye.’
The caller disconnected, leaving Tanner with a small glow of satisfaction as he strolled down the corridor in search of a gofer.
*
‘Fifty pounds? You’re sure?’
Robin nodded at the young man’s wide grin. ‘That was brilliant, Matt. You’ve been a big help, honestly. We’ll just wait over there now and see who turns up.’
‘A policeman, right?’
‘Probably. But he might not be in uniform.’
Robin returned to his seat with Ed and Bog, his wallet suitably lighter, but feeling quietly confident about the result.
‘I guess we’re not expecting sirens and blue flashing lights.’
‘No, Ed.’
‘So, you’re convinced this Tanner guy is not really a policeman. Simply another lackey of Peter Gris?’
‘In my opinion, that is the most likely answer. Matt did a good job. He didn’t even freak out when the guy asked how he’d accessed the voicemails. Just claimed there was no security.’
‘But there is.’
‘Not any more,’ said Bog. ‘And I wiped those contacts you said. It’ll look clean enough and all they got is the call log. If I had longer I could’ve fixed that too.’
Robin took a sip of malt whisky. ‘No matter. We’ll take the risk. At least now we should be able to keep tabs on that phone ourselves.’
‘Do we tell Billie?’
‘I’ll call him later. Or you can. Use the WhatsApp group and then Chrissie will be in the picture too. In the meantime, I intend to enjoy this Laphroaig.’
The two men sat quietly for another twenty minutes while Bog worked his magic. They watched the activities around them, keeping a keen eye out for any new customers engaged in conversation with their cooperative bartender. Another round of drinks reached their table shortly before Ed gave Robin a nudge.
A uniformed police officer had just entered the bar, causing a lull in everyone’s chatter. Matt immediately waved him over and began a short conversation, ending with Billie’s phone exchanging ownership. As the policeman stepped out the door, Matt gave the group of three a big thumbs-up and a broad smile.
Ed spoke without looking at Robin. ‘Well, I guess that blows the pretend police theory right out of the water.’
*
He heard the connection kick in, then a rustling of static before a familiar voice acknowledged his call.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Tanner.’
‘I know who it is. I’m driving.’
‘You’re not on hands-free then?’
‘So arrest me. What do you want?’
‘You said to keep you updated about Billie Vane’s phone. Well, guess what I’ve got in my hand?’
‘This had better not be a sick riddle.’
‘Barman at All Star Lanes handed it in. Said he didn’t know who left it.’
‘How’d you get it? When?’
‘He accessed the voicemails. Called me this afternoon. That a quick enough solution for you?’
‘Accessed the voicemails? You buy that?’
‘No reason not to. The phone’s not got a passcode or fingerprint sensor. So are you going to come and pick it up?’ He could hear traffic noise over the earpiece as Meredith briefly considered the question.
‘You’ll have to take it to him yourself. He’ll want it asap.’
‘What? I can’t just—’
‘Yes, you can. You’ve got your instructions, same as me. Should take you about an hour. If I turn back now it’ll be double that. Now get off your pert little arse and make like a postman. He’ll be happy to see you.’
Forty
Ed wasn’t too worried about the lack of response from Billie. He knew the little guy was being extra cautious about communications, and the lessons he’d learned that afternoon had reinforced his own opinions. Mess with these guys and you’ll need strong medication—a lesson he could testify to personally.
It was early evening, another painkiller in forty minutes, then he was going to check out the hotel health club for some recommended water therapy. He hoped they had swimwear in a large, otherwise his jockey shorts would have to serve. He should have asked Robin to go shopping, but the poor guy had taken himself off for a walk somewhere, still upset over his error with Billie’s phone.
It had gone to GMP headquarters, their own tracker confirmed that. So perhaps the police
were the good guys after all. Robin had insisted he get some rest, but Ed felt too wired to sleep. He’d sent a group WhatsApp two hours ago and Chrissie had responded almost immediately. He checked his phone again. Didn’t seem Billie had even picked it up yet.
Robin had left him a book, but he had no inclination to read. None of the Fersen family were readers, except possibly Chrissie, but then she always had been one for doing things different to other folk. Boredom was a terrible thing for an engineer. He needed something to do with his hands. Something. Anything.
He swung his right leg off the bed, then used his arms to help his left do the same as he’d been shown in the hospital. It was a short stretch to the window, and the view was something else. If only he knew what he was looking at.
‘Surprise!’ Robin’s voice behind him, striding through the door with a floral bouquet held out like a riot officer’s shield. ‘And don’t pretend your hay fever’s kicking off. This is my way of saying sorry for not loving you enough.’
Ed blinked, genuinely touched, and surprised. While Robin had been his usual caring self at the hospital last week, today he had seemed colder and distracted by the business with Billie’s phone.
‘You dope! You bought me flowers last week. There’s no need.’
‘There’s every need. You and me need a little downtime together. A little privacy too. Know what I mean?’
Their embrace was warm and tender, but Ed still stifled a wince.
‘Sorry. There’s something else.’ Robin placed his first peace offering on the desk by the window, then pulled a pair of swimming trunks patterned in lilac, pink and green from his jacket pocket. ‘A little number I thought might come in useful later?’
Ed’s smile broadened into a grin. ‘Oh, you lovely creature… you read my mind.’
‘No, but I saw you looking at the brochure! The colour should match your bruises. Now let me take a quick shower and we’ll get going. There’s a table booked in forty minutes.’
The door to the bathroom snapped firmly shut. Two minutes and so much extra colour. Ed looked from one gift to the other and counted himself truly blessed. As he examined the variety of blooms in the arrangement, a tinny version of Yankee-doodle-dandy started up next to the bed. A London number on the display.
‘I’m looking for Mr Edward Fersen.’
A female voice, her opening gambit typical of so many marketing calls. His response was automatic. ‘Could be. What are you selling?’
‘I’m not selling anything, Mr Fersen. This is Detective Sergeant Pauline Baker from the Metropolitan Police. I’m making some routine enquiries following an incident in Salford, Manchester last week.’
Ed eased himself carefully back onto the bed, unsure how to answer. He could hear noises in the bathroom. ‘I guess it is. Hold on a sec… did you say Metropolitan Police? Not Manchester?’
‘That’s right.’ Her tone was polite, almost friendly, intended to put him at ease. ‘I’m part of a small team following up some enquiries on another incident. The report of what happened to you in the car park came through to us because there was something in your statement that might connect to our own investigation, and I’d just like to check it with you, if you don’t mind.’
Ed’s curiosity was aroused. He could not imagine what might interest an officer in London, but he couldn’t see any risk in confirming his statement.
‘Do you remember what you said about Peter Gris?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Now he felt his heart rate surge. ‘No! No, I don’t remember that. What did I say? I was in hospital at the time. Maybe the drugs… sorry, I don’t remember this. What did I say?’
‘Yes, I understand, Mr Fersen. You’d been involved in a collision with a vehicle and were probably affected by shock on top of any medication. That’s why we need to check. I’ll read it back to you: “I know who was responsible. Peter Gris just tried to kill me. Not him, but one of his sort. It must have been Gris.” Do you remember now?’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Ed was trying to think back to the conversation with the young male police officer at his bedside. All he could remember was a pair of startling blue eyes.
Robin padded naked out of the bathroom, mouthing ‘Who is it?’ as he reached for the wardrobe doors. Ed shook his head in response.
‘Did I really say that?’
The voice on the phone was still friendly, almost cheerful. ‘You did sign it as being a true statement, Mr Fersen. But that’s why I needed to make this call. There must have been a reason why you said that. It does seem an odd thing for anyone to say, weeks after Mr Gris had died.’
The words slipped out. ‘He’s not dead.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Robin pulled on a pair of underpants and sat on the edge of the bed, alarmed at his perception of the conversation.
‘Could you repeat that, Mr Fersen?’ Her tone more excited now.
‘I said he’s not dead. In fact, I’m sure of it. With all that we know now… it’s obvious.’
Robin could bear it no longer. ‘Who are you talking to? Ed? Who is this?’
‘Sorry, officer. Just a second.’ He muted the call. ‘Metropolitan Police. They want to know about Gris. This could be what we need.’
‘Could be? Are you mad? Ed! We can’t report this yet! And that… it’s just a person on the phone. It could be anyone!’
Another voice on the line. Male this time. ‘Mr Fersen? Mr Fersen, are you there? This is Commander Neville O’Brien from the Metropolitan Police. Hello?’
‘I’m here. Have you some way of confirming your identity?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that. Assuming you have access to the internet, go to the Met Police website and use the search bar to type the word “Pentland”. Don’t bother yourself too much with the information on that page. Just use the direct dial number shown and I’ll be waiting on the other end. Got that?’
‘Got it.’ The connection ended, and Ed gave Robin the same instructions. Reluctantly he obliged, letting Ed see the number to redial. This time he put the call on hands-free so that Robin could hear. The same voice responded.
‘O’Brien.’
‘It’s Ed Fersen.’
‘Thanks for calling me back, Mr Fersen. I can understand your concerns. Is it okay to talk?’
‘I have my partner here with me, Robin Hazell. We’d both like to hear what you’ve got to say.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but let’s see what we’ve each got to offer. My understanding is you believe the former politician Peter Gris is not actually dead, and that someone acting on his behalf used a vehicle to attack you last Thursday 18th August?’
‘Correct.’
‘Can your partner corroborate that?’
Robin shook his head. Ed raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘No, but my friend Billie Vane can. He saw the whole thing.’
‘And would he have similar reasons to suspect Peter Gris of being responsible?’
‘He’d have a whole lot more!’ Ed felt relatively at ease now. The cavalry had finally showed up.
‘We need to talk. Are you still in Manchester?’
‘At the Hilton on Deansgate. Just another couple of days. My friend’s not in town, but I’ll make sure I get him back here pretty quickly.’ Another quizzical look from Robin.
‘Do that, please. I’ll be travelling up from London first thing tomorrow morning with another member of my team. Your safety is paramount, so please can I ask you to stay where you are and keep alert for any further incidents. You have this number, but I’ll contact you again to confirm a time when we can meet. Okay?’
‘Fine with me.’
While the content of the call filled one party with a measure of apprehension, the other was celebrating a breakthrough. Adrenalin and urgency governed the former commander’s next actions as he turned to the girl next to him.
‘Good work, Pauline. It’s a slim chance but worth following up. I’ll use my own car. Give DI Palmer a call and say I need her to be ready
for an early start. We’re going up to her home turf.’
The girl smiled. ‘I’ll try. I think Emily’s out on a hot date tonight though. Am I to tell her about Mr Fersen?’
He was already at the door. ‘Tell her nothing. I’ll fill her in when I’m good and ready.’
Forty-One
Less than twenty-four hours later, O’Brien pulled his car over to the side of the road on the edge of Bootle and switched off the engine. Emily’s reaction to the name on the credit card needed challenging. ‘Eric Vinke? You know him?’
‘Give me a minute, will you?’ She was breathing hard, her face flushed.
O’Brien’s instincts told him to be patient. Emily’s behaviour in Liverpool that morning, and at the motorway service station, had alternated between rude and inspirational. Under normal circumstances he would have rebuked her for insubordination, but these were not normal times. His own career had ground to a halt, leaving one last shot at achieving a result. Ironically, the woman beside him could help deliver that goal, while her own professional aspirations would almost certainly be blown away. He watched with interest as Emily slowed her breathing, fingers tightening around the top of her thighs before pushing down to her knees, smoothing her skirt along the way. Her posture relaxed, she eased back into her seat and closed her eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Emily nodded, keeping her eyes closed.
‘So, Eric Vinke. Tell me what the name means to you. Because it’s completely off my radar.’
Eyes open, calmer again, she turned to him. ‘I can tell you what I thought I knew, but right now I’m not so sure I’ve got the whole picture.’ She paused while she framed the right words. ‘We’re sort of related. I always called him Uncle Eric. Until recently I hadn’t seen him for years. Not since before…’ More hesitation as she fiddled with a gold ring on her finger. ‘When I was eighteen and working in London, he made it clear he didn’t like my “profession”. But he was very close to my mum, and because he’s been a published author for so long, and she took such an interest, he encouraged her to try writing a book.’