Ivo produced a murmur of sympathy as Kirkby looked directly into his eyes, making it hard for Ivo not to feel for the man’s distress.
‘Oh well,’ said Kirkby, reaching into a pocket for his wallet and tossing a couple of notes onto the tablecloth. ‘Thanks for listening. I hope I haven’t given you indigestion!’
He got up and, passing Ivo’s table, held out his hand. Ivo took it. ‘Take care,’ said Ivo, and was surprised to find that he almost meant it.
As the restaurant door closed behind Kirkby, letting in a freezing gust of air, Ivo’s eyes fell on the banknotes left on the table: the man had left a stonkingly generous tip.
27
Grace hated to admit it, but she had felt a tangible sense of release when Duncan proved as good as his word and had whistled up a last-minute flight for Lance to take a welfare break in the Algarve courtesy of the Police Federation. Lance had left the previous evening and would not return for more than a week. Grace had wrestled with herself for the past couple of days: should she have told him the little she knew? Should she argue with Colin to find out more? Or should she shut up and not interfere? Then she’d woken in the middle of the night, gripped by the dread that one of the security services knew precisely why Peter had been killed and the identity of his killer, yet intended to take no further action. Sleepless, she’d lain in bed, imagining herself in Lance’s place and telling herself how right he’d be to curse the cowardly friend and colleague who simply sat on her hands and followed orders.
This morning, taking advantage of Lance’s absence, Colin had officially informed the team that their first week’s work on the Peter Burnley murder was being transferred to London, where the coroner now had jurisdiction over the case. He fielded their questions patiently and skilfully, and although no one was happy – this investigation was close to home, and they wanted to do their very best for a colleague – Grace couldn’t help wondering whether there wasn’t an undercurrent of relief. The team’s inquiries so far had hit dead end after dead end, and no one wanted to be the first to say aloud that they had drawn a complete blank. A thorough examination of the crime scene had yielded nothing of any value; few people had been around so late on such a grim night; it wasn’t a residential area so house-to-house had been of little use; and a limited media appeal had failed to bring forward any new witnesses. Grace understood the team’s dismay at their inability to make headway, so perhaps morale would rise now that responsibility for solving this case had been lifted from their shoulders.
Every detective had an inquiry like this at some point in their career, in which the assailant just didn’t make enough mistakes to be caught. It didn’t take a criminal mastermind for that to happen, just dumb luck the victim didn’t fight back or cry out loudly enough to attract attention, no passer-by witnessed anyone leaving the scene and no meaningful physical evidence was found. Here the only remaining angle was why the killer had chosen Peter as his victim. In most murders there is some kind of prior association between victim and assailant, but, with the rest of the team working on the assumption that Peter Burnley’s cover story was his true identity, that line of inquiry was, unbeknownst to them, a complete waste of time.
And it wasn’t only Lance she felt guilty about. There was Davey Fewell too. Grace’s last conversation with Ruth Woods had carried a bitter sting: the FLO had informed her that John Kirkby had arranged for Donna Fewell and her kids to be relocated to the south coast. History would be written by the victors: John Kirkby would get to coddle Davey into accepting his version of the truth. However much Kirkby knew or didn’t know about his son’s corrupt activities, Davey would end up even more undecided about what he had seen, even further from the truth about what had driven his father’s actions on Christmas Day.
A date had yet to be set for the inquest into the Dunholt killings, so Grace still had a little time in which to find some evidence to support Davey’s story about the rifle, though where that was going to come from, she had no idea. She told herself that was why she hadn’t yet said anything to Colin: not only would he not thank her for dumping unwelcome hearsay evidence on him, but she was also certain that he wouldn’t be able to suggest anything she hadn’t already thought of herself. The even more uncomfortable truth was that no police force liked to wash its dirty linen in public, and Davey’s allegation would probably have been investigated very differently had they suspected the lethal weapon had previously been in the illegal possession of one of the civilian victims of the Dunholt massacre.
Her guilt wasn’t helped by the knowledge that she’d been avoiding Curtis Mullins, who’d been hanging around the past few days looking for an opportunity to speak to her. For all she knew, it was about the Peter Burnley murder case: he’d been the first on the scene after Peter’s body had been found, and many officers would feel that gave them a personal stake in an inquiry and the right to be kept informed. But she just couldn’t trust herself to be civil to him, not when she suspected that he was still acting as John Kirkby’s eyes and ears.
The hours until lunchtime dragged. Grace had seldom felt so ineffective or useless. Deciding that a breath of fresh air might help, she headed out, intending to treat herself to a brisk walk around Castle Park. At the bottom of the stairs she spotted Curtis crossing the back lobby and made a snap decision: time to push on, do something, stop hiding! She called to him, curtly suggesting he accompany her to one of the nearby cafes for lunch. He accepted without hesitation.
They stood silently beside one another in the queue at the counter, his height making Grace feel slightly overpowered. She ordered and paid for herself, then made her way to an empty table, leaving Curtis to follow. He soon joined her with only a coffee, nothing to eat. She bit into her ciabatta and waited to see if – and how – he’d open the conversation. He spooned up some of the froth on his cappuccino and took a long look around the cafe – she almost wondered if he were checking whether anyone else from the station was here – but said nothing.
‘You’ve been wanting to speak to me,’ she said. ‘What about?’
He hung his head, and she found herself staring at the reddish-gold strands of his hair. He and she were more or less the same age, yet he seemed much younger.
‘It’s what you said about Fewell leaving his court summons as a suicide note.’ He looked at her directly, his eyes a vivid blue. ‘Did you mean that? Do you really think that’s what made him do what he did?’
‘I don’t know about the others,’ she said, ‘but I believe it’s what drove him to kill Mark Kirkby. After that I imagine he just lost it. But he was the only one who took the decision to go on to kill four other people – and himself – and nothing justifies that. He should rot in hell for that.’ Recalling the row of coffins in the church, she pushed away her roll, no longer hungry. ‘There’s no explanation that makes sense of six deaths, is there?’
‘No.’
Grace studied Curtis as he concentrated on stirring his coffee. She was trying hard not to despise him.
‘I’ve been having nightmares about it,’ he said at last.
‘So it was you?’ she asked.
He looked at her in wary surprise.
‘Mark Kirkby asked you to smash Fewell’s rear light.’
Curtis lifted his teaspoon then dropped it into the saucer and stared at the wall.
‘I retrieved the broken plastic from where you pushed it under the hedge,’ she said.
He made no denial.
Grace shook her head in contempt. She was tempted to wish him sleepless nights for the rest of his life, but swallowed the words as, simultaneously, a great wave of relief washed over her. She was not some crazy conspiracy lady; she had not gone rootling around that pub car park in search of UFOs; her hunch had been correct, and she’d been right to trust her instincts.
‘Mark was always the leader.’ Curtis’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Right from school we always did what he said, never questioned him. And we always had fun doing it too.’
‘Fun?’ exclaimed Grace. ‘You might’ve had fun. But what about other people? People like Fewell? Or his kids?’ Aware of the people packed in around her, she tried to keep her voice low but refused to hide her anger. ‘We’re police officers. We of all people should beware of creating the kind of flashpoints that can lead to carnage. How could you do such a thing? For one of us to twist the law is never insignificant. Never!’
Curtis heaved a deep sigh. ‘I realize that now. And I couldn’t be more sorry for all those innocent people who died.’
Grace tried desperately to bring her fury under sufficient control to work out how best to ask Curtis what he knew about Mark Kirkby’s possession of an illegal weapon. Now was the time to take advantage of his contrition, but she mustn’t let her outrage scare him off. ‘Do you know how Russell Fewell could have got hold of a rifle?’ She asked the question as casually as she could. ‘We asked Donna, but she had no idea. And we think the ammunition may have been supplied locally.’
She watched his reaction closely but was certain there was nothing, not a flicker. Curtis shook his head and once more looked directly at her, his eyes beginning to take on a flinty brightness, reminding her of the look he’d given her the night of Peter’s murder when she’d asked him if he would’ve handled Russell Fewell’s arrest any differently.
‘You do realize that I’m never going to admit to breaking the light?’ His tone was almost sulky. ‘If you say I did, I’ll deny it. Not for my sake, but for Mark, for his family. I’m not going to sell out a mate, especially not when he’s no longer here to defend himself.’
‘Defend himself?’ jeered Grace in spite of her best intentions. ‘I’d like to hear him try!’
‘Yeah, well, you’re not going to, are you?’ Curtis shot back, getting to his feet. ‘He’s dead. Anyway, what would you know? From what I hear, you don’t have any friends to defend!’
‘Sit down, PC Mullins,’ she said, trying not to let him see how much his jibe had stung. ‘I have one more question to put to you.’
He hesitated, but then reluctantly slipped back into his seat.
‘Why didn’t you tell me last week, when you attended the scene in the alley, that you’d seen the victim before?’
He looked puzzled. ‘I hadn’t.’
‘You didn’t see Peter Burnley in the Blue Bar with DS Lance Cooper just before Christmas?’
‘No.’
Grace watched as the memory slowly returned to him and he began to make sense of her question. She’d have given a lot to know his thoughts at that moment.
‘I had no idea who he was,’ Curtis protested. ‘And, for the record, I had no idea until the Burnley murder that DS Cooper was gay either. Why would I?’
‘What about your friends?’
‘I can’t speak for them,’ he said primly, placing both hands on the table, ready to push himself to his feet. ‘May I go now, ma’am?’
Grace ignored his sneering tone. ‘So who were you with in the bar that night? Why would they have been in the least bit interested in Lance being with Peter?’
Curtis attempted to stare her down. ‘I was with Mark, as it happens. The last drink I ever had with him. Along with his brother Adam and a couple of mates. So what is it with you? Is having friends you’re prepared to stick by, no matter what, some kind of dirty offence in your book?’
‘It is when you place loyalty to friends above the law. And it doesn’t change what you are, PC Mullins. A corrupt officer. Don’t expect me to forget that.’
‘Please yourself, ma’am.’
He walked away. Grace looked down and saw that her hands were shaking.
28
Apart from dog walkers and the occasional jogger, there was no one else crazy enough to be out in such gusting weather on a dreary Thursday in Weymouth. Ivo had trailed Donna Fewell to the local primary school and then home again, and was now holed up in a steamy seafront cafe and beginning to wonder what the fuck he was doing here. Did he really intend to sit around all day in places like this until Donna picked the kids up from school in the afternoon? And then what? Stand outside the flat until they switched off the lights and went to bed? If he were honest, he hadn’t really factored in how bloody cold it was going to be beside the sea.
He’d more or less decided to pack it in and return to London and was paying his bill, when to his amazement he spotted Davey walking past the window, shoulders hunched, head down and hands in his pockets. So the kid was playing hooky. That wasn’t good. Zipping up his jacket, Ivo left the cafe and, staying a reasonable distance behind, followed the boy on his lonely excursion. Davey barely glanced at the closed-up play area with its sodden sandpit and empty paddling pool, but Ivo watched as, walking close to a line of terraced beach huts, he rattled several of the padlocks as if in search of an open door.
Ivo hoped the kid wasn’t looking for trouble. He knew all about that. He’d been the same age as Davey when he’d taken up smoking. Sent back to boarding school after his mother’s death, he’d been determined to find some way to kick against a system that had hurt him, and, as he now acknowledged, to punish himself for his own continued existence. A couple of years later, after he’d moved on to his minor public school, he discovered booze and took to it like it had been invented just for him. He didn’t want Davey going down that road so was relieved when, on reaching the main esplanade, he observed him veering off to sit in one of the ornate Victorian shelters.
It contained four benches, each facing in a different direction, with glass partitions between them. Ivo didn’t yet want to risk coming too close, so pretended to wait at a nearby bus stop while keeping a sharp eye on Davey. The boy’s feet, in trainers, barely reached the ground, and Ivo watched him begin to shiver with cold. When Davey got up and made his way down onto the sands, walking right out towards the waterline, Ivo took the boy’s place in the shelter, from where he had a panoramic view of the beach. He was ready to make a dash for it if the kid tried to do anything daft, but Davey looked around for pebbles to toss into the waves and then, seemingly bored, started walking again, still heading for the harbour and the centre of town.
There were enough shoppers in the pedestrianized streets for Ivo to blend in and remain unnoticed as he tailed the boy. In a newsagent’s he observed how Davey’s hand hovered over a display of chocolate bars and then seemed to rehearse the movement required to pocket one. His hesitation and the constant glances he made towards the shopkeeper caught the man’s attention, and Ivo prayed that Davey, a rank amateur, wouldn’t attempt the steal. The boy clearly thought better of it, and set off again on his apparently random journey, this time going back towards the sea.
The shuttered concrete cafe on the Pleasure Pier – a misnomer if ever there was one – looked across the inlet to a grim stone fortification looming above a second pier. Davey wandered to the far end of the Pleasure Pier, where a few fishing rods had been set up against the railings. Their owners were hunkered down in the shelter of the cafe’s raised terrace, where Ivo suspected they were fortifying themselves with substances that young Davey didn’t need to know about. As the boy leaned on the railings, staring out to sea, Ivo smiled at the fishermen.
‘Catch anything?’
One of them nodded. ‘Couple of bass. Not big enough to land, though.’
‘Shame. Fishing good here generally?’
‘Not bad.’
Ivo remembered a tube of extra-strong mints in his pocket and handed them round. By the time Davey wandered back in their direction, Ivo was as near to being one of the gang as he was ever going to get.
‘Don’t let the giant squid catch you!’ he called out to the boy.
Davey didn’t smile, but the remark did the trick of offering sufficient encouragement for him to linger, half-hidden behind one of the brick columns that supported the terrace. The fishermen were obviously tolerant of kids hanging around who really ought to be in school, and did Ivo’s job for him, letting Davey bait a hook and giving him a good-natured and admi
ring pat on the back when not only did he fail to grimace at the contents of a plastic canister full of squirming lugworm but seemed to know what he was doing. So, when Ivo’s instinct told him the time was right, he declared that he was going for a cup of nice hot tea and a bacon bap. And when the fishermen suggested a place that knew how to cook bacon to exactly the right degree of crispiness, it was easy enough to sell Davey on the idea of going with him.
Ivo was well aware that to any concerned citizen he must look like a paedophile straight out of Central Casting, but, relying on the British knack of avoiding embarrassment by pretending not to notice, he was able to steer Davey to the recommended cafe without interference. Once inside, the aroma of frying bacon acted as powerfully as a siren’s song and kept the boy glued to his seat, overcoming whatever misgivings Ivo jolly well hoped any sensible lad ought to be having by now.
As Davey did justice to a bap and a chocolate milkshake, Ivo debated whether to come clean about his identity, or at least part of it. He probably wasn’t going to get a second opportunity as good as this, and he didn’t want to blow it by being over-cautious and losing his prey. As soon as the warmth and the food hit the boy’s nervous system, he was going to come to his senses and skedaddle, so he’d better get on with it.
‘So you’re a fisherman, right?’ Ivo asked.
Davey nodded, trying to smile with his mouth full.
‘Your dad taught you.’
The boy nodded, but looked up at Ivo with troubled eyes.
‘I never knew your dad, but I heard good things about him,’ Ivo said matter-of-factly. ‘From Martin Leyburn at the angling club that your dad belonged to.’
Davey’s eyes grew rounder, and he swallowed the last bite of his bap and silently accepted the paper napkin Ivo handed him from a metal dispenser. Ivo waited for Davey to wipe his greasy mouth before he spoke again.
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 15