Lane: A Case For Willows And Lane

by Peter Grainger

  After a pause, Emily said, ‘Yes, it is. Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Doing what you’ve done today. I think it’s safe to say that I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Right place, right time, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. You were the right person as well, that’s very clear.’

  Lane didn’t answer. They were approaching the brow of a hill, and she slowed right down, using the height to look back into the darkness behind them. A long way down she saw a brief flash of headlights among the trees but the chances were that it was someone else – Friday night after all, bound to be people about.

  Emily was saying now, ‘That’s what I don’t understand. What were the chances that you would see what happened at my front door, involve yourself as you did, thank goodness, and then know exactly what to do? Is it all a coincidence? Because I have to tell you - and I don’t even know your first name - I have to tell you that-’

  ‘There’s a house ahead look, down this hill on the right. We’ll give it a try.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘And I don’t really know what to say… “My neighbour and I are being pursued by a maniac with a gun. Please may I stay here and use your telephone while she drives off?” It’s going to sound a little odd, isn’t it?’

  They were standing on the road between the car, its engine still running, and the gate that opened onto the front garden of the house. A substantial house, detached and double-fronted, set back from the road. There were lights on downstairs in all the rooms, and every window had the small, diamond-shaped pattern of Georgian leaded glass; the house looked old, comfortable and secure, exactly what Lane had been hoping for, but Emily Willows had raised a good point.

  ‘OK, I’ll come to the door with you. We’ll think of something. If they are reasonable people, this has to be a better plan than driving around up here, hoping to see a sign-post to Liskeard or a lost Panda car. Come on.’

  Lane made a move towards the gate but Emily was motionless now, looking back up the hill. There were lights approaching, dipping and swaying, the headlights of a vehicle climbing up to the brow.

  Lane said, ‘Mrs Willows – Emily, come on.’

  ‘I think it’s them.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing that. There are villages further on. It could be anyone. Let’s knock on the door.’

  Emily was still watching the top of the hill.

  She said then, ‘I’m not saying that I know it’s them. I’m saying that it is, nevertheless. I’m often right about such things.’

  ‘You can show me your Mystic Meg impression another time. Let’s see if these people will help us out. Emily?’

  The car arrived at the top of the hill and stopped – it was doing exactly what they had done minutes earlier, using the vantage point to look over the countryside. Lane muttered a curse. The lights of the Skoda were still on and perfectly visible to the car on the hill, though the occupants could not see what sort of car it was. If they drove down to take a look, and if it was the two men, they would recognise it instantly; they could pull ahead, block them in, and the road was so narrow there was no way that she could turn the car around quickly enough and escape. There wasn’t time now to ask for help here but she could leave Emily to hide and then seek assistance once she, Lane, had driven on. She was sure the men would follow the Skoda rather than investigate why it might have stopped here, as sure as she could be. She told Emily to go through the gate and into the shadows of the bushes in the garden.

  ‘And leave you to deal with this alone? Besides, if they guess what we’ve done? They might be able to see us standing here against the lights of the car… If they come into the garden looking for me? If they have torches, how am I going to hide?’

  The car was still on the brow of the hill, and the longer it waited there, the more convinced Lane became that Emily Willows was right – it was the Volvo, watching the lights of the car down below and waiting to see whether it was the one that they were pursuing. As to the rest of it, it was fifty fifty again; would the people open the door, would they offer to help, would they even become victims themselves if they did? If Small realised what they were doing here in front of this house, and Emily was caught hiding in the rhododendrons, it had all been for nothing.

  Lane cursed again, not quietly this time, and said, ‘Back in the car.’

  Robert Willows, of course, knew even less about his mother’s neighbour than she did herself. Telling what he knew took no more than twenty seconds. Even on this matter, Hannaford seemed from his manner to think that he might be lying, though with what possible motive was quite beyond the detective sergeant. But Harley had something to add now. He said to Hannaford, ‘In view of the circumstances, we gave authorisation to force an entry into the neighbour’s property a while ago. We should get something back from that before too long.’

  Hannaford sat back and shook his head – he was clearly going through the same thought processes that in turn Willows, Harley and Russell had as far as the events of the afternoon were concerned. They waited for him to come to some sort of conclusion, and eventually he did.

  ‘So this next door neighbour, about whom no-one knows a bloody thing, has come to your mother’s assistance during what appears to be some sort of kidnap attempt or hostage situation. Apparently she has shot and wounded one of the assailants. We don’t know whether she went in armed or took the gun from one of them first – has anyone here asked that question?’

  Superintendent Harley had certainly considered it, though he had not asked it of anyone. He said, ‘Not seen as a priority, yet.’

  ‘Maybe not, but either way it puts her in an interesting light, doesn’t it? Not your average Mrs Smith-next-door, by the sound of it. Then she drives off like Lewis Hamilton’s sister, manages to take out one of the opposition’s cars before going through the central reservation, still being pursued, and now she’s heaven knows where in the dark, still with your mother, presumably.’

  He was looking at Willows reproachfully, as if all this, all of it, was somehow the detective sergeant’s fault.

  ‘And Cornwall’s finest haven’t a clue where they are.’

  Harley said, ‘We believe they are on the moor – or at least they headed in that direction.’

  ‘Oh, a piece of piss, then! How many dozens of square miles is it?’

  If anyone knew the answer, they didn’t offer it up. Uncomfortable silences seemed to be something of a speciality for Hannaford, and another one was developing when Superintendent Harley received a text from the office manager of the main incident room, respectfully requesting his presence. He made his apologies and left – Robert Willows would have to look after himself for a few minutes.

  Uniform Sergeant Wilf Youngs had led the team of three officers that entered Ling Cottage, and he was still on the line to Leanne, the office manager. No, he told Harley, no forced entry had been necessary, the door had been unlocked. It was a more or less tidy place, and they had soon found some useful paperwork. Youngs began to recap on the salient points as Harley listened and made brief notes on the nearest piece of paper – the back of a takeaway menu the night-shift sometimes used. Her full name, a National Insurance number and some employment history from a CV that she was obviously working on. Youngs himself had prefaced the last item with ‘You’re going to love this, sir’, and when he heard the details, Harley asked him to repeat them slowly.

  Then Wilf Youngs said, ‘There’s a folder of newspaper cuttings as well, sir, which confirm what I’ve just told you.’

  Harley waved Leanne across to him and said to Youngs, ‘OK. Give me the dates from the cuttings. Leanne, get these up on the screen, any of them will do, doesn’t matter which one.’

  While she was busy with that, Harley said, ‘Wilf, what about a phone number? A mobile? Is it on the CV?’

  Youngs found it and read it over the line; Harley had an excellent memory for numbers and was certain it was
the same one that they had been tracking before it was lost, but he would check to be sure.

  ‘Sir?’

  Leanne was pointing at the nearest screen. Harley moved round and read what was there under the headline. Then he looked at the photograph of a striking, dark-haired young woman, frowning and looking directly into the camera lens as she came down the wide, stone steps in front of one of England’s most famous criminal courts.

  ‘Jesus H Christ…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sorry, Leanne. Just appealing for help from above. Take over with Wilf Youngs for me. Make a note of everything he’s found and then start getting it all checked out. Can you do a couple of hours this evening? I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘She was a what?’

  Superintendent Harley had pulled Hannaford out of the interview room rather than impart the information in front of Robert Willows. Now he repeated what he had said word for word.

  Hannaford said then, ‘Well, that answers a few questions and asks a whole lot more. Did she just happen to be living next door to your boy’s mother? How long has she been there?’

  ‘About six months. Too long for this to be anything other than a coincidence, in my opinion.’

  ‘Maybe. But he doesn’t need to be told any of this just yet. The less he knows, the better until we’ve established all the facts.’

  Harley couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice any longer.

  ‘We’ve absolutely no reason to suspect Robert Willows. There is nothing yet to indicate that he is anything other than a victim here. He should be told what we know about the woman who is with his mother.’

  Hannaford’s smile then was a menacing one.

  ‘I hope you’re not trying to pull rank here. I’m conducting an internal investigation. I don’t care how many letters you’ve got in front of your name - they don’t count for nothing. And I say he isn’t to be told what I’ve just been told until it’s all been properly evaluated. Sir.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They don’t count for anything – the letters in front of my name.’

  Robert Willows had not been detained, of course. He was free to come and go but had been asked not to leave the building without informing a superior officer. He had not the slightest intention of doing so, naturally, unless it was to be reunited with his mother. At the end of the first interview with Hannaford and Cooper, just a few minutes ago, Superintendent Harley had waited and spoken quietly to him, saying that he should call his wife first, which he had, and then be up in his, Harley’s, office in ten minutes, and that’s where he was now, waiting outside.

  The door opened and Harley beckoned him in before looking out into the corridor and then closing the door. Without preliminaries, the superintendent said, ‘I’m sorry about all this, Robert. I’d say it’s just routine but it isn’t. I don’t understand how or why Hannaford and his sidekick have become involved as quickly as this. As far as I’m concerned, he’s an obnoxious pillock.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Harley pointed to a seat and then took his own behind his desk.

  ‘We now know a little more about your mother’s next-door neighbour. I’m under instructions not to reveal to you what it is that we have discovered, as yet.’

  There could be many reasons why the superintendent had been told such a thing, and Willows was bound to assume the worst of them, under the circumstances – the look on his face made it clear that he was doing so.

  Harley said, ‘However, I am going to say this much. Hannaford was right about one thing; Ms or Mrs Lane, whatever she is, is not your typical Mrs-Smith-next-door. This woman will know how to take care of herself, and I have no reason to think that she will not take good care of your mother as well. Sorry I can’t say more, but telling you things you aren’t supposed to know will only complicate matters in any further interviews with our two new colleagues. I hope you understand, Robert.’

  ‘To be completely honest, sir – I don’t, not really.’

  ‘No… To be completely honest, neither do I. But stay away from the operations area and don’t go quizzing your friends here. That only puts them in a difficult position. Be as patient as you can be. We have leads now. It shouldn’t be too much longer.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already heard. Summer Lane, isn’t it?’

  How, the Assistant Chief Constable asked himself – how could you possibly already have heard when we’ve not had this information here in Bodmin for more than forty five minutes ourselves? And another thing; the way that Meredith Carr had spoken those words made it sound as if she knew the Lane woman personally. Before he could respond, Carr was speaking again.

  ‘Or should I say, more correctly, ex-Detective Inspector Summer Lane? I expect you are wondering whether to be relieved or not, Martin.’

  That was the first time that she had used his Christian name; if it was intended to be friendly and reassuring, it had quite the opposite effect on Martin Russell. Nevertheless, it was exactly what he had been wondering for the past ten minutes before he made this phone call.

  Carr continued, ‘This is a very peculiar turn of events, and I did insist on no surprises. I suppose that you will claim that this one was entirely out of your control – and I suppose it was. Still, from what I’ve been told in the last few minutes, it could all end horribly, couldn’t it?’

  Russell had assumed that at this time in the evening she would be at home – a nice apartment perhaps on the edge of Kensington – but he could hear traffic and car horns, London cabs tooting away as they do. Maybe she’d seen who was calling and stepped outside of the wine bar.

  ‘What do you mean – it could end horribly? Why would you say that?’

  ‘You said just now that you had looked into this girl’s background. You do know her story…?’

  ‘I’ve read a couple of newspaper reports, that’s all. We’ve requested access to her service file but there’s no chance we’ll get that tonight, if we get it at all. Maybe that’s something you could actually help us with.’

  She didn’t respond to his dig at her, but said, ‘I imagine the newspaper stories were lurid enough. But you told me earlier that you believed her to be armed – that’s why I said it could all end horribly, Assistant Chief Constable Russell. It could end up in another bloodbath.’

  One of the stories from a tabloid certainly had been lurid enough. He closed his eyes and saw the headline transposed to tomorrow morning or the following one, this time with the new setting of Bodmin Moor. On his watch – no wonder the CC had dodged this one.

  The lazily infuriating voice continued at the other end of the line.

  ‘I mean, she has already shown that she has lost none of her willingness to pull the trigger. When you promised me that this would soon be sorted, this isn’t quite what I had I mind. Have you been in the job very long?’

  Russell ended the call then, just pressed the red button before she could press any more of his. He had done what he had been asked at the beginning – he had kept her, whoever she was, informed. The situation was bad enough without him having to take insults from some toffee-nosed-

  His mobile was ringing, the display saying number not known. He answered it, and she was there again, but without the background noise of traffic – she had changed her position before she called him back.

  ‘Mr Russell – I decide when our calls are over. I’m very annoyed with you, so annoyed that I’m going to break one of my golden rules; I’m going to use a cliché. If you ever do that again, you will find yourself directing traffic within one month.’

  And after that, she did indeed end the call.

  Chapter Ten

  Although Lane had driven off quickly again, Emily had expected the car behind them to be on their rear bumper within a matter of seconds, Lane having pointed out more than once how much faster the Volvo was than her own now cruelly mistreated vehicle; there had been no appropriate moment to tell Ms Lane that the Skoda’s name was Sally
…

  Instead, the Volvo – neither of them had the slightest doubt now – followed at a distance, sometimes fifty, sometimes as much as a hundred yards. This in itself was soon quite unnerving, and Emily asked Lane what she thought they were trying to do.

  ‘Not sure. I refuse to believe there’s yet another car waiting up ahead. These two have lost the plot. If they had a script, this was never in it. They could have been halfway back to whatever stone they crawled out from by now. Neither do I think they know this area – they’re driving as blind as we are, except that we’re ahead, lighting up the way.’

  Lane was watching the mirrors as much as the road ahead, and at times she was steering into bends that she could hardly have had time to see. On top of that, with both front windows gone, the air was rushing into the car, quite cold at these speeds, adding to the sense of disorientation and danger.

  Lane said, ‘We’ve got plenty of fuel and could keep going all night. Eventually we’ll get to somewhere where they can’t do whatever it is they’d like to do to us, so I’m actually OK with this. I don’t think they know what to do.’

  Really, thought Emily Willows – you’re OK with this, are you? I am not. I’ve been punched, had a razor held to my throat, been shot at for God’s sake – pardon me – I’ve been thrown around in this car – my car, which is now a wreck – and it is still not over. I’ve no idea what has happened to Robert and Marie, and the police force for which I pay a good deal of money every month seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth-

  ‘Spoke too soon. Hold tight!’

  There was a blaze of light as the car behind was suddenly only inches away from them. Lane accelerated again, the engine howling in protest, and the Skoda hurtled on into the night.