Night Vision

by Jane A. Adams

‘Why him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘We had a bit of a chat at the funeral, and he seems to be – well, gut instinct, you might say, tells me he’s all right.’

  ‘OK,’ Patrick said. ‘Well, seeing as we’re acting on instinct, I think there’s something else we should do.’

  ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’

  ‘Um, don’t know. But I think we should send the pictures to that email Jamie put in the card.’

  ‘And your reason?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘No better than yours,’ he said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clara was not so keen on opening the door this time. Her wrist hurt abominably, but stubbornness and shame had prevented her from doing anything about it in terms of seeing a doctor or asking for help. Resentfully, she had done as the man had said, applying cold compresses, bandaging it to give support and, when the pain grew too much, managing to tie a sling. She’d got through her own supply of painkillers and had eventually walked to the corner shop for more, but all the time she was out she’d felt exposed and scared.

  But that was nothing compared to the fear for her children that had built and built since Gregory had left and now felt ready to explode.

  She had tried to call Paul again, but he still wasn’t answering his phone. She had tried to find the number for Tilly’s farm, but either it was ex-directory or it didn’t have a phone and her search was not helped by the fact that she didn’t know the actual address. To them it had always been Tilly’s farm, at the end of an unadopted road, up a long cart track. She wasn’t even sure it had a proper name.

  Peering out this time when the doorbell rang, Clara was met with a strange sight. A man, a woman and a dog. A dog wearing a harness. A guide dog?

  Her first thought was to wonder what religion they were selling, and she glanced up and down the road in search of their inevitable companions. Jehovah’s Witnesses tended to go about in small gangs, in Clara’s experience. As did chapel types and Seventh Day Adventists, whereas Mormons generally only went about in pairs. On bicycles.

  The man saw her watching and waved encouragingly. She retreated from the window. He must have bent down and opened the letter box next, because she heard him calling, ‘Clara, we need to speak with you. Clara, I’m—’ Whatever he was, she thought, he obviously thought better of it, but his next words shocked her.

  ‘Clara, we were friends of Jamie Dale.’

  ‘Jesus!’ That was all she needed.

  ‘Clara, we just want to help you.’

  She stood uncertainly in the hallway, cradling her injured hand across her body, and wondered what she had to lose. What could they do to her that hadn’t already been done?

  Quite a lot, she supposed, but somehow this man and woman and dog didn’t seem so much of a threat. Reluctantly, but resignedly, Clara Thompson opened the door.

  Patrick had been unable to get through to Alec’s phone. He had sent a text telling Alec to call as soon as he could. ‘Signal isn’t always great with these phones,’ he said. ‘It could be that, or he might just be keeping it switched off. It just says the phone is unavailable.’

  Harry had similar problems getting through to Munroe but had left a message on his voicemail. It was all, he thought, a little anticlimactic, just when they’d tried to be decisive. Patrick had sent the email and uploaded photographs to the ‘Jeannie’ email.

  Now all they could do was wait.

  The next decision was where they should do their waiting. They decided to head back south towards home.

  ‘We fly out in two days,’ Harry said.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘That’s what we arranged. Rearranged, rather.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Patrick, I think we’ll have to take it as it comes, don’t you?’

  Clara sat on one of the overlarge sofas and stared at the people she had let in. She had taken in only part of what they had to say, but she gathered that he was a policeman and his wife had also been one. That they had known Jamie, and that the man had once arrested her brother.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ Alec asked.

  Clara shrugged. Then wished she hadn’t. Every movement hurt.

  ‘Where are your children, Clara? Your husband?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘They’re not here. I sent them away.’ Trouble was, he knew where they were, and Clara was not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Would the man called Gregory do them harm? He seemed to be saying to her that they were under much greater threat from elsewhere.

  Clara could no longer think clearly about any of this. She hurt. Physically, mentally, the pain consumed her.

  ‘I want to see my kids,’ she said. ‘I want to know they’re safe.’ She made up her mind. ‘You can take me to them.’

  Alec began to argue, to ask if that was really a good idea.

  Naomi laid a hand on his arm. ‘Tell us where to take you,’ she said.

  Gregory had made better time than he had hoped. His boat now lay at anchor some way from the shore, but within the broad bay. The ruin on the headland matched the one in the picture he had taken from Clara’s home, and he had seen the kids and their father playing on the beach.

  He made lunch and thought some more about what he was going to do. Gregory was by nature a man who planned, but no action seemed ideally suited to the moment. He still wasn’t sure what he intended to do.

  He thought some more about Jamie too, about the time it had all come to a head. She had dug too deep, rattled the bars of too many gilded cages, and uncovered the fact of exactly which palms the Night Vision project had greased to get its contracts through the government hoops. And she had uncovered the name of the director of operations . . . and it was a name Gregory knew well.

  Even now, Gregory was unconvinced that Jamie understood what a dangerous game she had been playing until—

  He had warned her to back off, warned her that this was not just business, it was life or death, but she hadn’t believed him until the night he had told her that if she kept pushing he could no longer protect her. And had tried to convince her to what lengths certain people would go in the protection of their interests.

  ‘People have died for less, Jamie.’

  ‘You’re just trying to scare me.’

  ‘So, be scared. Make your film, just leave out the accusations. This isn’t political, Jamie, this is criminal. This is corruption on a level you can’t even begin to comprehend.’

  ‘I won’t be put off.’

  ‘Then if you aren’t scared for yourself, be afraid for those you love.’

  He saw doubt in her eyes for the first time. ‘They’ll take it all from you. Everything you love, all you hold dear, and in the end you won’t care if you die because you’ll have nothing left that’s worth living for.’

  She had considered his words. ‘You’re serious,’ she said at last.

  ‘I’m serious. I’ve been told, Jamie, to keep you in check or stop you dead, and frankly I know which they would prefer.’

  She stared at him, disbelieving. ‘You wouldn’t hurt me.’

  ‘Yes, I would. I have obligations that go back a lot further than knowing you.’

  In the end, she had been right. She had, in consequence, died a terrible death, and that was something Gregory regretted more than he could say.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Michelle Sanders had been furious when he arrived but had eventually accepted that Munroe was going to talk to Trevor Griffin and that he had the clout to insist. An hour in and he knew no more than when he had first arrived. Except that Michelle was even more annoyed. She had tried to call Eddison and been told that he was unavailable.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about a telephone number.’ This had been Griffin’s line from the start, and he didn’t seem ready to vary it.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Michelle Sanders said.

  Munroe watched Griffin, the way his gaze kept skipping towards the governor and then back again.
>
  ‘Neil Robinson didn’t give you that number, did he?’ Munroe asked.

  Michelle Sanders shifted position, impatience conveyed in her every gesture.

  ‘No,’ Griffin said.

  That was at least a change of line.

  ‘Was it another inmate?’

  That little sideways flick of the eyes again. ‘No. I don’t know. Look, I just picked it up somewhere. I thought it would be a laugh. Get one over, you know.’

  ‘I told DI Friedman it was a wind up.’ Michelle Sanders sounded triumphant. ‘Enough now. We’ve wasted enough time.’

  Munroe nodded, as if in agreement. ‘Strange coincidence then,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That Griffin here should happen to pick up a number that he should happen to decide he’d use in a wind up that just happens to have relevance to our investigation, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, if it turns out Griffin here is being economical with the truth. If we find out, for instance, that he knew this was the number of the Madigor offices—’

  ‘Madigor?’ Michelle Sanders looked puzzled now, which was progress of sorts, Munroe thought.

  ‘The bloke what blew up the van?’ Griffin looked anxious. ‘I don’t have nothing to do with that. I just dropped the number. I didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘No?’ Munroe persisted. ‘Of course, then it might add up to a conspiracy charge. It might—’

  ‘I only dropped the number. I don’t know nothing!’ Griffin was on his feet.

  ‘Sit down,’ Michelle Sanders ordered.

  ‘She told me to,’ Griffin shouted. ‘Her.’

  ‘Me?’ The governor was outraged. ‘You can’t believe – right, I think that’s enough.’

  ‘You gave him the number? Why was that, Michelle?’

  ‘I think you should leave now.’

  Munroe agreed, oddly enough. Was Griffin telling the truth? Munroe could think of no reason why Michelle Sanders would have done such a thing, but neither could he come up with a convincing reason for Griffin telling that particular lie.

  ‘Michelle?’

  She said nothing but opened the door and motioned for Griffin to leave, then tried her phone again, frowning as no one picked up.

  ‘Eddison still leaving you out in the cold?’ Munroe said.

  She slammed the phone down on the table and dropped into the chair Griffin had vacated. She seemed at a loss.

  ‘Did Eddison give you that number?’

  ‘Why would you think that? How would that make any sense?’

  Munroe shrugged. ‘It doesn’t,’ he said. ‘But then, not much does right now.’

  She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as though a headache was starting. ‘Charlie and I go back a long way,’ she said at last.

  ‘And you and Travers?’

  ‘Alec told you then?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Charlie and I . . . we go back a lot further than that. He’s been a good friend to me, was a good friend to my brother.’

  ‘Your brother was shot, wasn’t he?’ Munroe said. ‘An armed robbery if I remember right. He got caught in the crossfire.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So you feel obliged to Charlie Eddison, is that it?’

  ‘Like I say, he’s been a good friend.’

  ‘And that phone number?’

  She hesitated, but it was clear she now knew something was badly wrong.

  Munroe waited.

  ‘He said he had intelligence, something linked to Neil Robinson. He didn’t say what, only that it was big. He needed – he said he needed a nudge, just to get the investigation moving in the right direction, that he had to protect his source. So he gave me the number and asked me to find a way to get it dropped into the investigation. He said he knew the link was there but he had no way of, well, of making things happen, not now Neil Robinson was dead. That he couldn’t make the links.’

  ‘Links?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, he said something about organized crime and computers. He said he couldn’t tell me exactly what, just to trust him.’

  ‘And so you trusted him.’

  ‘He’s been a good friend. I—” She gestured angrily. ‘I had Griffin drop the number where Alec Friedman would see it. It seemed like such a simple thing. I knew it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t see what was wrong either. I was just doing a favour for a good friend. A good police officer.’

  ‘And now?’ Munroe asked.

  ‘Now I feel like a bloody fool. Charlie used me, didn’t he?’

  ‘You allowed him to use you.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought—’

  ‘I don’t think you did,’ Munroe told her gently. ‘That’s just it – I don’t believe you thought at all.’ He paused and then asked, ‘Did Eddison come here to talk to Neil Robinson?’

  ‘You’ve seen the visitors list. He isn’t on it, is he?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘How about the day Robinson died. He come over for a chat that day, did he, Michelle?’

  ‘Not to see Robinson. No.’

  ‘Someone else then. Someone who may have done his dirty work for him?’

  One look at her face told him she wasn’t going to say anything more. No matter, he thought, he could guess the truth of it and there would be time later to put pressure on the Governor. Right now he had more urgent matters to attend to.

  He left, feeling it was enough to have shaken the tree for now, though it would be interesting to see what fell out. Just what game was Charlie Eddison playing, and how far had he and Parks helped him along the road? What damage had they all done – for that matter, damage to what?

  Checking his phone as he returned to his car, he found a message from Harry Jones accompanied by half a dozen photographs. Two of which featured Eddison in deep conversation with someone Munroe did not recognize.

  When Munroe returned the call, Harry was driving, so Patrick answered. Munroe listened as Patrick explained about the card and the memory card.

  ‘I think we need to talk,’ Munroe said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  He heard the murmurs of a swift conference. ‘Dad says anywhere we can get a decent meal,’ Patrick says.

  ‘I think your dad has a good set of priorities,’ Munroe said.

  Travers had been moved from the high dependency unit and into a side room on a main ward. He was still very weak, still slept a great deal, but he was definitely on the mend.

  Maureen sat beside him on one side of the bed, the family liaison officer, Susan Moran, on the other, and they watched the television news.

  Gregory’s picture was on the screen. The reporter was reprising the list of offences for which he was suspect.

  Including, the attack on DI Nicholas Travers.

  ‘No,’ he said. No one called him Nicholas. ‘No,’ he repeated, not sure if that last thought had been spoken out loud. ‘It wasn’t Gregory, it wasn’t him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maureen asked him. ‘Trav, this is good, they’ve got his picture, they’re out looking for him.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t him.’

  Susan Moran leaned in closer. ‘You’re saying you know this is not the man that attacked you? Nick, are you sure about this?’

  ‘I told you, it wasn’t Gregory. I know Gregory. There was a brief moment when I thought – a superficial resemblance – then I knew it wasn’t him. The man who attacked me was taller, heavier, it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Who is this Gregory?’ Maureen was demanding. ‘You don’t know a Gregory.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Susan Moran left him to explain. She called DI Eddison and told him what DI Travers had said.

  ‘He’s mistaken,’ Eddison said bluntly. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

  Susan Moran was left staring at the phone.

  ‘Where the hell is Munroe?
’ Eddison demanded. No one knew, but there were missed calls from Michelle Sanders, and soon the mystery was partly solved.

  ‘And where is he now?’ Eddison demanded.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Michelle said, over the phone. ‘He left a half hour ago.’

  ‘Damn.’ He turned on Parks. ‘Find out where the hell he’s got to and get him back here.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  ‘Right,’ Parks said. ‘Oh, there’s a message come through for you. About some place in Wales. Desk sergeant has it.’

  Eddison left.

  Parks tried Munroe’s phone and then, unable to get through, sent a text. Eddison got news from Wales. U R in deep shit. Trav says it wasn’t Gregory.

  That, he figured, was about all he could do. He went back to talk to Marsh, convinced now that whoever had attacked Nick Travers, he was just a thug for hire.

  ‘So tell me more about this man you picked up,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some pictures I’d like you to take a gander at.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gregory had come ashore to watch. The children were called Kay and Jilly. He hadn’t known that. They ran on the beach, their father in tow, his stiffness of movement testament to his injuries. The little girls were tanned and lithe, their blonde hair flying out behind them. The father was dark-haired and olive-skinned, handsome in a fine boned way, Gregory thought. Clara was of more solid build.

  The man was nervous, alert. Twice he looked towards Gregory’s hiding place, as though sure he had sensed something unusual. Gregory did not move. An untrained eye on high alert was as likely to spot the unusual as any trained observer, especially with so much at stake.

  What was he here for? Gregory asked himself. Just what was he hoping to achieve? Were Clara’s family actually in any danger now?

  That depended, he thought, on how the tide turned next. It might ebb gently and the matter be quietly forgotten, Clara and her children be left alone. Or the storm might break over them, as it had her brother and Jamie Dale, and that rather depended on what Eddison did next.

  Had he drawn Eddison here? Had he made it worse? That, Gregory acknowledged, was a major possibility. He had come here initially to direct Paul to leave, to take the children elsewhere until home was once more a safe place, as it should be if Eddison was finally rid of Gregory, and that would be easy. He had seen the news, heard the accusations, knew he was a wanted man, a hunted man, and that the one who hunted him knew all the tricks of the trade. Had been trained as Gregory had been trained. Another of the dinosaurs, Gregory had thought, but one with the skill to pretend to be a mammal.