‘Did she give you any clues?’ Kate said finally, knowing Brodie wasn’t prepared to trample into Jack’s space just yet.
‘No. Except I don’t think we should imagine for a moment that this is over. She’s got nothing more to lose. She’ll go after whomever this Pierrot is, and we have to presume that she knows his identity.’
‘You think she got the information from Fletcher?’ Brodie said, sliding into the conversation now that Jack had stopped brooding.
‘Yes, I think we can hazard that guess.’
‘What do you want us to do now, Hawk?’ Brodie went on. ‘Swamp’s just checking in with Sussex. He said he’d call the ops room as well.’
Jack sighed. ‘Let the forensics boys back into Bowles’s house — we have no further need for it. Although I’d like you to nip back and hunt down that clown mask Bowles spoke of.’
Brodie nodded, glad to have something specific to get on with. ‘I’ll do it now.’
Jack’s phone rang. It was Sarah. ‘How come you’re still there?’ he asked as he answered. ‘The occupational health and safety stalkers will have my guts.’
‘I did get a couple of hours’ shut-eye but their rules don’t apply to us,’ she said archly. ‘Especially when I have some good news.’
Jack felt his heart lurch. ‘Tell me.’
‘I spoke with Rowe, the angler who discovered Anne McEvoy on the pier.’
‘And?’
‘To cut a long story short, there could have been a person on the graveyard shift that night — a guy called Garvan Flynn. According to Rowe, no one was fishing that night because of the storms that were threatening. He said Flynn had cut his own key for emergencies and had offered to keep an eye on the place during the winter months.’
‘No one followed it up?’
‘Remember the crash at Chanctonbury Ring? That grabbed a whole load of police time and some of the details of Anne McEvoy’s case got lost amongst the drama. Colin Moss did try to follow up but this Flynn guy disappeared and then Moss had a heart problem, retired early. Anne McEvoy was forgotten. As I said, there was nothing formal about this security arrangement, sir, it was more like an understanding between the Pier Trust and the anglers. So there aren’t records to consult — we’re dealing with people’s recollections.’
‘Okay, I understand. So what do we know about this Flynn?’
‘This is the good bit, sir. Rowe says he’s of Irish descent. Didn’t Bowles mention something about Pierrot sounding like Val Doonican?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Jack breathed. ‘What else?’
‘Rowe reckons in 1974 Flynn was around twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-eight, so that fits the profile. I asked if he smoked and Rowe said he seemed to remember that Flynn rolled his own.’
‘The tobacco tin,’ Jack murmured.
‘That was my thought,’ Sarah said, unable to keep her own excitement in check. ‘Rowe thought he was married but had no kids.’
‘Is that it?’
‘No, sir, the best is yet to come.’
‘You’re killing me, Sarah.’
‘I heard it’s been a bad day.’
‘I’ve had better. Go on.’
‘After Rowe found Anne McEvoy early on that morning, not only did no one from the Brighton angling gang, who were quite a close-set mob, see Flynn again, they heard on the grapevine that he’d resigned from his clerical job and moved house. He was effectively gone from their lives within a week or so of that event. No one put two and two together at the time, but the clues are in the detail and you only have to step back a short way to see the picture coming together.’
Jack could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘The timing’s so neat.’
‘Definitely too much of a coincidence to ignore, whether Rowe’s memory is dodgy or not. We have to go after this Flynn guy.’
Jack wanted to blow a huge kiss down the phone and hear Sarah laugh, but he daren’t, not with Sharpe on his back. Instead, he asked her to listen while he put his mobile onto loudspeaker. Then he drummed the table and made cheering and whistling sounds. It was the first time any of them had had anything to grin about in a long time. He picked up his phone, flicked it back to its original setting. ‘Find me an address for Flynn,’ he said. ‘And, Sarah . . .’ He waited, knowing she was probably blushing from the drumroll and catcalls.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m very proud of you. That’s a great morning’s work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Keep us in the loop, okay? Cam’s heading over to Bowles’s place, and Swamp — well, I think he’s still with us but sorting out a few things with the Sussex boys.’
‘Back soon, sir.’
Jack flicked the phone closed. ‘A break,’ he said and quickly filled Kate in.
‘Brilliant.’ She was relieved just to see Jack on top again. She knew his guilt was weighing heavily on him. ‘I’d have Sarah on any team of mine,’ she added, knowing it was the right thing to say.
Jack eyed her as he drained his glass. ‘Then reassure her that there’s no hard feelings.’ When Kate frowned, he added, ‘She’s feeling awkward about mistrusting your judgement earlier.’
‘Really? What did you say?’
‘That I know you’re not the kind of person to hold grudges and that I’d count you amongst the best detectives I’ve worked with.’
Kate flushed. ‘You said that?’
‘I’m not lying. How’s Dan?’
She looked down. ‘We haven’t talked.’
‘Don’t write him off.’
‘I haven’t, but until we close this case I can’t focus on anything else.’
‘Come on. Fancy some fresh air? We’ve got to kill some time until Sarah calls back.’
40
Anne had worked fast. It was nearing four-thirty and she felt ready. Nothing could be too meticulously planned, but she had learned from her previous experiences that she needed to be flexible in her approach. Flynn might not behave the way she anticipated, although she felt confident he would if he’d been keeping close watch on the news reports.
Billy Fletcher’s death was hitting all the main radio and TV services — Flynn could hardly fail to acknowledge that the members of his Jesters Club were being systematically picked off. What she needed to do was frighten him sufficiently into following her instructions. And whatever the personal risk to her, this was the best chance she would ever have to settle the score.
Anne checked the time again and decided to wait until she was near the house before she made the call. She turned the ignition, pulled out into the seafront traffic and headed for the address in Rottingdean.
Jack and Kate strolled along the Brighton seafront. The afternoon had turned grey and cold but at least it was dry. A sharp wind whipped across their faces, numbing their ears, but both were glad to have it blow away the blurriness that came with too little sleep and too much work pressure.
Kate paused to lean against the promenade’s green Victorian railing and stared out at the choppy waves lashing the ruin that was West Pier in the distance.
‘Did you ever go on it?’ she said.
Jack, who was looking the other way, seemed to grasp her cryptic question instantly. He matched his gaze to hers as she continued, obviously not requiring his answer.
‘I was fascinated by everything about it, from the twisted serpents on its lampposts to the iron benches that made you feel like your arse was hanging out to sea.’
Jack smiled. ‘I’ve only been on it once when I was very young. I remember those serpents but very little else except the candy floss and that helter-skelter. It’s why I didn’t realise what those photos were in Sophie’s apartment. I knew they were of the ruins of a pier, but not which one. You know, it’s arguably the finest example of Victorian seaside architecture in the country. She was obviously a very graceful old girl in her time. It’s such a pity it’s been allowed to get to this state.’
‘Makes a nice home for the starlings though,’ Kate said. ‘If you weren�
��t at the Yard, I’m sure you’d have made a very good stuffy old history academic.’ She looked again at the ailing pier. ‘But it’s going to be renovated, isn’t it?’
‘I gather. It’s going to be amazing, I imagine, when it’s finished.’
‘And all of its secrets, good and bad, will be cleaned away,’ Kate said.
‘We’ll make sure one never gets forgotten,’ Jack replied, his voice passionate. ‘Whatever kind of monster Anne McEvoy has become, the monster was likely shaped by her experience on that pier in 1975. I glimpsed what Anne might have been through knowing Sophie,’ he added. ‘It’s heartbreaking to think those two people existed alongside one another.’
‘Sophie wasn’t real, Jack.’
‘She was to me.’
Kate decided to change tack. ‘Fancy a coffee? I’m buying.’
Jack allowed his mood to lighten. ‘How about tea? There’s a great spot further down called the Mock Turtle Tea Shop that has been around forever. Great cakes.’
‘Cake? In that case, lead the way.’
Jack offered his arm in a theatrical manner. ‘Come on then. I need somewhere quiet anyway to take Sarah’s call when it comes.’
It wasn’t Sarah calling when Jack’s phone gave a strangled rendition of what sounded like the ‘Mexican Hat Dance’. It was the only ringtone it would play since he’d hurled it across Phil Bowles’s lounge room.
‘It’s Martin, Jack. I’ve just got rid of Deegan.’
‘What’s it about, sir?’
‘Apparently the Paul Conway death isn’t over. Deegan seems to think he has something incriminating on you. He’s pushing for a formal investigation.’
‘That’s bullshit, sir!’ Jack said, winning the attention of two older ladies in the tea shop. He added hurriedly, ‘Pardon my French.’
‘I hope so, Jack. He doesn’t seem to think so.’ Sharpe took a few moments to fill his DCI in on what precisely Deegan was following up. He finished with a sigh. ‘Look, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll keep stonewalling him, but I can only hold him off for so long. The Ghost Squad has a lot of clout. If he persuades the right people that a formal investigation needs to be set in motion then you know even I won’t be able to prevent them from stopping you in your tracks. I don’t want the operation stalling because of some past indiscretion, Jack, so be very sure there are no skeletons rattling in your cupboard.’
‘There aren’t.’
‘Alright,’ Sharpe said, happy to accept Jack’s word. ‘So, tell me what’s happening.’
Jack spent the next few minutes bringing his Superintendent up to date with the morning’s events. It did nothing to improve Sharpe’s humour.
‘What a bloody mess,’ he said when Jack had finished. ‘So we’re no closer to McEvoy?’
‘Well, that’s not true, sir. The fact is, she’s made contact. It was her call, not mine. We know where she is and we know she’s remaining in Brighton. I’m waiting for an urgent call from the ops room. Fingers crossed, we may have an address for Garvan Flynn. I know she’s going after him.’
‘Get there first, Jack. I don’t need to tell you how it will work in your favour and against Deegan’s crusade if you can apprehend the nation’s most wanted killer. Not to mention saving her final victim so he can face the music he should have faced decades ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The appeal of the carrot cake sitting on the table in front of him had suddenly soured.
Kate nibbled at her brownie. ‘What was that all about?’
Jack told her and admired her ability to hide whatever she was thinking.
‘So that’s why Dan’s accusation scared you,’ she said, referring back to Jack’s reaction to her quip in the lift. ‘The case may re-open.’
‘I won’t make the same mistake, Kate. My liaison with Liz is still haunting me.’
‘Obviously I knew about the Drummond thing but I was under the impression you were exonerated. Are you worried?’
‘I was exonerated. I’ve got nothing to hide. I don’t know what Deegan’s got on me.’
‘I know Deegan, worked with him briefly. He’s a creep.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Jack said and groaned.
‘Well, not many people know this. He’s gay but hides it well. The Met’s not homophobic outwardly but ...’ She trailed off.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘It really wasn’t an issue. I’m only mentioning it now because we’re talking about him. No one else seemed to register it, but I realised he never joined in the blokey stuff easily and he certainly didn’t flirt with the women, as far as I could tell. Not with me, ever.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m far too good for him,’ she added loftily and Jack grinned. ‘The only reason I know for sure he’s gay is because I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. I’ve never said anything to anyone until now.’
Jack didn’t press for more information. ‘I can’t imagine why he’s targeting me,’ he said.
‘A grudge, presumably. Somewhere, somehow, you’ve trodden on his toes and either not apologised, or worse, not noticed.’
Jack’s face took on a pained expression. ‘How could I have? I’ve never had anything to do with him. I’ve run across him, but only in passing or via other people.’
‘He hasn’t too many friends around the Yard from what I remember.’
‘Then Ghost Squad’s probably the best place for him. Finish your brownie.’
‘Bit dry. Can I eat your carrot cake instead . . . as you’re not touching it?’
‘Sure.’ As he pushed the plate towards her his phone rang. It was Sarah again.
‘Got it, sir,’ she said breathlessly and began reciting the Rottingdean address.
41
Peter hadn’t been able to face his parents. He’d left the family home on Saturday afternoon and refused to take their calls while he brooded. He’d told Ally he was going to be caught up in work for a couple of days, and that got him off the hook of having to explain his foul mood to the person he least wanted to offend. He promised to see her on Monday evening.
But now it was Sunday afternoon and he’d dwelled long enough on his next move. He was determined to find his mother, to reassure himself that she was either dead, or, as his father claimed, a drug addict who didn’t regret giving him up as a baby and wanted nothing to do with him now. Either of those scenarios would make it easy for him to forget this situation had ever presented itself.
Peter didn’t want to upset his parents any further. It was obvious they had never planned to tell him unless it was forced out of them, and he certainly didn’t want a new mother in his life, but something wouldn’t permit him to let the shock pass or the moment disappear without him doing something about it. Perhaps it was because he was ready to settle down, marry and start a family of his own? Family was important to him. He would never forgive himself if — now he knew the truth — he didn’t try to find out more about his birth mother. Besides, there was too much at stake. Apart from Ally, this new government contract meant everything to him. It was the step up in status and income he’d been yearning for, and would undoubtedly mean travelling overseas. He couldn’t do any of that without knowing exactly who he was, and getting a birth certificate to prove it. He needed to get to the bottom of this, which was why he’d steeled himself to face his parents. He couldn’t imagine they were having a terribly happy Sunday afternoon anyway.
He pulled up outside the house and let himself in as usual. He waited for the inevitable greeting, expecting it to be awkward. No one came.
‘Dad?’ he yelled.
Perhaps his mother was out and his father in the shed? But the back door was locked, so no one was outside. Peter checked the time. It was almost four-thirty. He couldn’t imagine where they’d be at this time, other than his Aunt Sheila’s. He had to assume they’d sought the comfort of their nearest and dearest.
Outside of the usual gripes and groans in any family, Peter had never had a falling out with his parents. Even their disa
ppointment over the business with Ally replacing Pat in his heart had quickly turned into a diplomatic response. His parents weren’t argumentative people and he was a good son; they didn’t need reminding of that and treated him as respectfully as he did them. But the revelation of his birth had rocked the household and Peter felt as though he was navigating an unknown course right now. Just knowing what to say to them, how to put into words the cascade of strange feelings he was experiencing, would be hard enough.
He put on the kettle and went through the motions of making a pot of tea while he thought about how to approach the situation without inflaming it further. He had no intention of changing his mind but he needed to find a way to convince his parents that tracking down this woman was important to him.
He’d just put the tea cosy on the pot when the phone rang.
Anne heard a man answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Er, hi,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Garvan Flynn.’
‘He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?’
‘Oh, so I do have the right number for him?’
‘Yes. Who is this, please?’
‘Um, I’m an old friend.’
‘Shall I leave your name, perhaps a number where he can call you back?’
‘No, look, I might try again later. Are you expecting him back today?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Okay. Who am I speaking to?’
‘This is his son.’
Anne couldn’t speak. The silence stretched.
‘Hello?’ the man said.
‘I’m here,’ Anne said, her voice suddenly thin and shaky. ‘Sorry, er . . . what’s your name?’
‘Peter.’
Again the choking sensation in her throat, her chest.
‘Okay, well, feel free to call back tonight perhaps,’ he offered. ‘No, wait,’ she said. It came out as a plea. ‘Peter, you said?’
‘That’s right. Who am I talking to?’
‘My name’s Anne McEvoy. I . . . knew you as a baby . . .’ Her voice shook again and trailed off.
Bye Bye Baby Page 42