‘Maybe I should be asking him for investment advice.’
‘Could do worse,’ said Gavin, pushing away his empty plate. ‘Seriously, I think that’ll be your easiest way in.’ He reached for the dessert menu. ‘They have a nice muscatel here that goes rather well with the chocolate tart.’
Ivo was fine with that: big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em. He was perfectly content to sit and enjoy the view while his newspaper picked up the tab. The paper’s proprietor could well afford it.
36
Robyn was so intent on her computer screen that she failed to hear her mother tap at her door and enter her bedroom. Nicola had brought clean bed linen and was mid-sentence, offering to give Robyn a hand changing the duvet cover, when she stopped and stared at the screen. ‘What are you doing?’
It was too late for Robyn to hide what she was looking at, so she shrugged uncomfortably. Since the last visit from the police she had spent every free moment obsessively searching online for examples of gun crime. Last year there had been dozens of deaths, with Birmingham and the West Midlands leading the way. Many of those who died were her age or younger: a seven-year-old girl in a takeaway waiting with her older brother to buy chips; two brothers, fifteen and sixteen, gunned down walking across a park on another gang’s turf; a fourteen-year-old executed after he panicked and threw away the drugs he was supposed to deliver. How had their killers been able to get hold of firearms so easily? There were so many newspaper articles, all chronicling different and unrelated incidents, that she would never manage to read them all. It felt as if they were cascading around her, cramming themselves into the very air in her room, and yet she had to keep searching and looking: if she stopped, she’d have to answer the question her mother had just put to her, and she simply couldn’t face her own motives and suspicions.
Nicola reached over her shoulder to jab at the keyboard. ‘Turn it off! What do you want to look at stuff like that for?’
There was no point pretending. Robyn clicked obediently onto something more benign, hunching into herself, away from her mother’s anger.
‘Don’t you know that all your father cares about is you?’ Nicola demanded.
Robyn felt her breath leave her body as if someone had let the air out of her. Fear made her angry in return. ‘There is a real world out there, you know. Or don’t you care about what happens outside your own little bubble?’
‘What bubble?’ Nicola tossed the clean linen down on the bed and folded her arms tightly across her chest. ‘You think running the business and washing and cooking and cleaning and shopping is all a bubble? You wait until you have to start doing it all for yourself at uni!’
‘That’s not what I meant. You know that!’ cried Robyn. ‘But why do we have to live here like this, completely away from everyone and everything? What it is? It’s almost like we have something to hide!’
Nicola slapped her across the face. It happened so fast that, had Robyn’s cheek not been stinging, she might have imagined it. Her mother stood motionless with horror at what she’d done. ‘I’m sorry, Birdie,’ she said after a shocked silence, moving forward to try and hug her daughter. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Robyn wasn’t sure whether to be angry or afraid. Not afraid physically – the slap had felt like more of a gesture than an assault – but of what lay behind her mother’s totally uncharacteristic reaction. Her parents hardly ever lost their temper and had never hit her except perhaps a spank when she was little and had tried to stick her fingers in a plug socket. It had always seemed to Robyn that, perhaps because she was an only child, their relationship was far more open and inclusive than the little she’d seen of her friends’ families. But now, she wondered, maybe it was only that she’d never rocked the boat.
‘Get out of my room!’ she cried, turning away. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘No, listen, Birdie. This is about Angie, isn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘I know how fond you were of her. And it’s hard the first time someone your own age dies. But, believe me, time is a great healer. And the last thing Angie would’ve wanted is for you to go on being miserable about her.’
‘It’s not because of Angie!’ Robyn spun back round, but then, face to face with her mother, her courage failed and she was too afraid to raise the spectre of the truth.
Nicola sat down on the bed and patted the space beside her. When Robyn didn’t respond, she took hold of her wrist and tugged her gently. Robyn sat, her head hanging, hands between her knees.
‘Listen to me, Birdie. You don’t want to go looking for things like that on the internet. It’s nothing to do with us, nothing to do with the work your dad does.’
‘He makes bullets. The kind of bullets that killed Angie.’
‘That’s true, yes. But he didn’t kill Angie. He’s never hurt anyone in his life.’
‘And you don’t think any of Dad’s stuff ever ends up in the wrong hands, the hands of people who do kill?’
‘More people die in car accidents in this country than from guns.’
‘But it’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Nicola. ‘But that’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘How can you say that?’ Robyn felt utterly bewildered. ‘Everything’s connected. We’re all responsible for what happens in the world.’
Nicola smiled and patted Robyn’s knee. ‘Everyone thinks that at your age.’
Her mother’s dismissive words were unbearable. Robyn clenched her hands and turned to look hard at her mother. ‘Did Dad know the gunman who shot Angie and all those other people?’
‘No!’ Nicola looked shocked. ‘Of course not.’
‘So why do the police keep coming to talk to him?’
‘They’ve only been twice, haven’t they?’
Robyn heard the sharp rise in Nicola’s voice, even though she could see that her mother was doing her best to keep her expression and posture calm. ‘I don’t know,’ she said harshly. ‘Have they?’
Nicola stood up, brushing at the front of her skirt. ‘That’s enough. How dare you talk like this about your father!’
‘Like what?’ asked Robyn. ‘What have I said?’
‘You’re not to think these things. It’s so ungrateful, so hurtful. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘What things? What am I thinking? Tell me, Mum. Say it!’
‘That’s enough!’
‘Why do we have to live in the middle of nowhere? With locks and alarms and cameras?’
‘It’s security. It’s what all dealers have to have.’
‘There are plenty of gunsmiths in the town centre,’ said Robyn. ‘And why do you never like me bringing friends home?’
‘We’re busy. We’re working,’ said Nicola, becoming flustered. ‘Your friends’ parents probably don’t work from home, that’s the only difference.’
‘It’s not!’ cried Robyn. ‘Why does Dad throw things in the creek? Why not recycle or take stuff to the dump?’
‘What stuff?’
Robyn saw how her mother instantly regretted her words, but it was too late to take them back.
‘I don’t know what was in the bags,’ said Robyn, watching Nicola carefully. ‘He didn’t realize I’d come home early. I saw him go off with two farm shop carriers and come back without them.’
‘You’re imagining things!’
‘No,’ said Robyn. ‘I’ve been with him when he’s dumped other stuff in the creek. Casings he said were no good.’
‘Nonsense. Anyway, what if he did? It means nothing. He’s a good man. He’s as devastated by what happened in Dunholt as you are. You mustn’t think these things.’ Nicola was struggling to mask her alarm.
Images came into Robyn’s mind from movies or TV news footage of earthquakes and avalanches and mudslides, pictures charting the unalterable onset of catastrophe.
Nicola gripped her arm. ‘You know how much he loves you,’ she pleaded, giving her a shake. ‘Please, Birdi
e. Don’t break his heart.’
All Robyn could hear was a slipping roar signalling the destruction of everything she had ever known – or thought she’d known.
37
Ivo admired the manicured perfection of the putting green at the Vale do Lobo golf course from his seat on the terrace of the clubhouse brasserie. Beside him, Jerry Coghlan, tanned to a leathery brown, relaxed with his second ice-cold Sunday-morning beer. Ivo consoled himself with the custard tarts that came with his coffee.
After four nights here he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the expat lifestyle with its endless loop of undemanding fun, whether he’d ever be tempted by the lotus-eater existence or whether he’d end up like Odysseus, rousing his men to escape. Even in his drinking days, he’d never been in search of nirvana; on the contrary, booze had only ever fuelled his indignation, his need to find a target for his anger. And now, in the shade of an umbrella pine, a fountain plashing idyllically nearby, he could feel that old anger start to rumble in his guts like an incipient bout of Montezuma’s revenge.
He wasn’t fooled by his companion’s bonhomie either. Ivo reckoned good old Jerry was about as laid-back as a rattlesnake. His mistrust didn’t merely stem from Jerry having been a bent copper. Ivo already knew plenty of those and, no hypocrite, had never held it against them, especially not when they were feeding him valuable information in return for really quite paltry sums of cash. No, Jerry was the kind of bastard who had to con you out of something, even if it was only your time or your dignity, just because he couldn’t help himself; the kind of guy who insisted on calling you by some nickname of his own invention.
After Ivo had engineered an introduction, he’d clocked Jerry’s frustration at being unable to find a diminutive of ‘Ivo’ and anticipated a backlash. He could see the gleam in Jerry’s eyes now as he waited for the right opportunity, which soon came in the form of an attractive young waitress who laughed at something Ivo said to her. In a flash Jerry’s arm went out, encircling her waist as she stood between them, nudging her closer when she tried politely to free herself from the grasp of a regular customer and club member, as he locked his gaze onto Ivo’s, daring him to play chicken and be the first to look away.
Ivo could never be bothered with such games – Jesus, so Mummy had laughed once too often at Jerry’s little winkle in the bath; so bleeding what? But Ivo knew he couldn’t just throw in the towel; he’d have to give the prick a decent run for his money before letting him win. So he stared him out for as long as he could and then tried to appear suitably chagrined about losing. It seemed to do the trick, for Jerry let go of the poor waitress and ordered himself another beer, taking the opportunity to remind Ivo that he didn’t drink.
‘So,’ said Jerry, leaning back in his chair and nodding sagely, ‘you mentioned that you’re looking for an investment opportunity.’
‘That’s right. As I told you, a few friends who, like you, were in the job, said they were very happy with their arrangements out here.’ Ivo didn’t dare mention either Kirkby or Burnley by name; he couldn’t risk scaring Coghlan off until he’d gained a better idea of what he was looking for. ‘And I know how much the boys in blue appreciate a good deal,’ he went on cheerily. ‘Well, they deserve nothing less after decades of service.’
‘Service that you’ve supported,’ said Jerry politely.
‘Well, the Courier likes to do its bit. Though, what with Operation Elveden and one thing and another, none of us feels appreciated the way we used to.’
‘Sad but true.’
‘Still nothing beats bricks and mortar, does it?’ Ivo nodded towards a distant cluster of white-walled villa apartments gleaming in the sunshine. ‘Especially if there’s a bit of holiday rental income to be had as well.’
‘You’ve probably missed the boat here in the Algarve,’ said Jerry. ‘Although there may be some interesting opportunities opening up further along the coast, in the Alentejo, if you’re interested?’
‘Very much so. Although my pension arrangements are somewhat unorthodox,’ said Ivo, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘The funds might not be coming directly from the UK. Would that be a problem?’
Jerry shook his head. ‘The parent company in charge of the development is based in Panama. They have plenty of experience of dealing with non-EU banking systems. All perfectly legal and above board, of course.’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Ivo. ‘But won’t my pension pot be too small for this kind of development?’
Jerry smiled. ‘That’s where I come in. I wait until I can package a number of relatively small investors like yourself and then buy in under the umbrella of a single holding company. For a small commission, obviously.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘The holding company also has the advantage of providing a bit of a firewall if anyone like, say, a greedy divorce lawyer should come knocking. You won’t have to share your pension fund with anyone you don’t want to.’
‘Suits me.’ Ivo aimed for a wolfish grin. ‘Two ex-wives already riding the alimony pony are quite enough for me.’
The grin seemed to convince Jerry. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to some people and come back to you. How long are you here for?’
‘Well, I’m on expenses so I can’t string it out indefinitely. But it’ll be easy enough to fabricate a reason to come back.’
Jerry shook his head, though whether at the gullibility of editors or with nostalgia for his own good old days Ivo was unable to tell. He then knocked back the last of his beer and sat twisting the empty glass around on the table. Ivo waited, pretending to drain his empty coffee cup and taking a long appreciative look around at the carefully maintained grounds. He decided this place was his idea of purgatory, and he’d rather go straight to hell.
Jerry gave a loud sniff and pushed aside his glass. He appeared to have come to the end of his silent deliberations. ‘You keep a pretty close ear to the ground, right?’ he asked.
‘I do my best.’
Jerry licked his lips, making Ivo wonder what was making him nervous. ‘Ever come across an outfit called Buckingham Gate Associates?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Ivo lied. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ said Jerry. ‘Doesn’t matter. Just some financial advisers in London who seemed keen to do business. I always like to do my homework.’
‘I can ask around if you like.’
‘No, no worries.’
‘Well, anything I can do to help, just let me know. So what’s the rental market like around here?’ Ivo asked, eager to demonstrate that he had no interest in why Jerry was probing Peter’s cover story.
‘Pretty dire the last few years, to be honest,’ said Jerry. ‘But I’ve kept good links with the Police Federation, who send a lot of people my way. Has to be reduced rates for them, but then that’s balanced by a nice steady stream of punters.’
‘Any chance I could see the kind of place they go for?’ asked Ivo. ‘Give me an idea of what I should aim for.’
Jerry checked his watch. ‘I guess we could take a gander at one of the more popular villas.’ He injected enough reluctance into his reply to suggest he might almost be postponing an important meeting in order to accommodate Ivo’s whim. ‘Just the outside, obviously, but it’ll give you a clue.’ Jerry leaped nimbly to his feet. ‘It overlooks the sixteenth tee. Fabulous sea views.’ He looked down at Ivo. ‘We can wait for the minibus if you don’t fancy the walk?’
Ivo obliged with an Oscar-winning performance of lumbering up out of his chair and stretching his creaking back: he was more than happy to concede as many points as it took to win his own long game against this slimy bastard.
38
Leaving home on Monday morning, Grace felt her phone vibrate as she locked her front door. It was a number she didn’t recognize, so she answered formally: ‘DI Fisher.’ No one spoke. Used to how often people would hesitate when calling the police, she softened her tone. ‘Grace
Fisher here. Can I help you?’
Her attention was snagged by a flyer tucked under the windscreen wiper on her car, and she went to pluck it out. The silent caller hung up, but then as she was getting in behind the wheel the phone went again, the same number. ‘Hello, Grace Fisher here.’
‘I think I need to talk to you,’ said a young-sounding female voice.
‘That’s fine,’ said Grace, hiding her exasperation that this would make her late. ‘I’m listening.’ She flicked open the flyer, ready to discard it on the passenger seat, and breathed in sharply. It was a folded sheet of white paper: written in pencil on it was WATCH YOUR STEP. She flung it down as if she’d been stung and then realized that she’d not heard what the voice on the phone was saying. ‘I’m sorry. I was distracted for a moment. Can you say that again?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have called,’ said the soft voice.
‘No, wait. Really, I was just . . . Look, let’s start again. You wanted to talk to me. I am listening.’ There was no response, so Grace took a calming breath and made herself focus properly on the caller. ‘It’s difficult sometimes to speak to the police. I understand that. You only have to tell me what you’re happy for me to know.’
After a pause, the young caller spoke: ‘I think my dad might be a criminal.’
Immediately Grace had a mental image of Robyn Ingold in her school uniform standing watchfully against the wall in the gun dealer’s workshop. That, and the way the girl had looked at Grace when telling her that her school friend had been among those killed in the Dunholt shootings, convinced Grace that she was now speaking to Leonard Ingold’s daughter.
‘That must be very difficult for you,’ said Grace.
There was a second, longer pause. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
One half of Grace longed to be handed evidence she could use to convict the armourer. And, if Robyn were to offer such information, she would have no choice but to act on it. But the girl was young, and Grace was loath to cajole her into saying words that could never be retracted – or forgiven. ‘You haven’t told me your name,’ Grace reminded her gently.
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 20