Carver

by Tom Cain

  ‘Not sure. Why d’you want to chat?’

  ‘It’s a matter of national security. You’d be helping us keep people safe. And I’m sure you want to help …’

  She looked uncertain. ‘Well, yes, suppose so.’

  ‘Good. Well, then, when they found you this morning, you told the paramedics, “You’ve got to stop the attack” …’

  Bull looked at Fenwick for confirmation. ‘Did I?’

  ‘I believe so,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Carver underlined, wondering when exactly Fenwick had known about a possible attack, and hoping for his sake that it hadn’t been before ten thirty. ‘So were you talking about the attack on Rosconway refinery – the one that happened today?’

  ‘Dunno …’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  Bull struggled to formulate the words. ‘I’ve never heard that name … what was it?’

  ‘Rosconway.’

  With more certainty she said: ‘No, I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘But you knew there was going to be some kind of attack somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know where it was going to be,’ Bull argued, finding it a little easier, now, to talk. ‘All Bryn told us was that the target was a place that was harming Mother Earth.’

  ‘I see. Who’s Bryn?’

  She sounded surprised he didn’t know. ‘Bryn Gryffud, of course. He’s … well, not the leader, because we don’t believe in that kind of hierarchy … but he’s the founder of the Forces of Gaia, our group. It was his farm we were staying at.’

  Carver caught Bull’s eye and held it as he said, ‘Did Bryn get you all to fit up a Toyota Hiace camper van with a dozen home-made mortar tubes, firing explosive shells, set on some kind of timer fuse?’

  Bull nodded, too ashamed to acknowledge what had happened in actual words, and Carver saw Fenwick frown as he looked at her, the reality of what she’d been involved with starting to sink in.

  ‘I was there when the mortars went off, Deirdre,’ Carver said. ‘Right there, standing by the van. Couldn’t do anything to stop it. I don’t feel too good about that. Thing is, I saw what those shells did. They killed two hundred people, Deirdre: innocent people, just going about their lives, doing their jobs, loving their families. Did they all die for the sake of the planet?’

  She’d been biting her lip as he spoke, trying to retain some self-control. Now her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes as she sobbed. ‘Oh God … oh God … I worried something bad might happen … I prayed to Gaia because I was worried we were doing the wrong thing. But Bryn sounded so convinced, and I, well, we all, we just believed him, and—’

  ‘Because he’s a good man. Yeah, I get it.’

  ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’

  Carver shrugged. ‘How should I know? He’s not exactly advertising his whereabouts.’

  Bull sniffed, and then muttered, ‘Thanks,’ as Fenwick pulled some tissues from a box by her bed and handed them to her. ‘It’s all that bloody woman’s fault,’ she continued, wide awake now, wiping her face with her working hand. ‘She’s the one who put the idea into Bryn’s head …’

  ‘What woman?’ asked Carver, frowning.

  ‘Uschi … Uschi bloody Kremer …’ Bull’s voice rose in intensity, filled with bitterness and pain that had nothing at all to do with her physical wounds. ‘It was so obvious – the men only went along with her because they wanted to get into her knickers.’

  The last thing Carver wanted was to be diverted by an angry woman’s sexual jealousy. ‘OK … take it easy. I know you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘No! I don’t believe in violence! I—’ Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain. ‘My chest hurts so much,’ she whimpered, her eyes filling with tears again as she slumped back against her pillows. ‘Everything hurts …’

  Fenwick turned to Carver. ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t doing her any good at all. If you carry on like this, I’m pulling the plug.’

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ Carver pleaded. ‘This won’t take long …’ He took a second to gather his wits, then focused on Deirdre Bull once again. ‘I’m sure you’d like a chance to make things better. To try and put things right … as much as they can be put right, obviously.’

  She nodded miserably. ‘Yes … please … I never meant to do any harm.’

  Carver glanced across at Fenwick, and was relieved to get a nod of approval. ‘All right …’ he continued. ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Malachi Zorn?’

  Bull looked puzzled. ‘No … should I?’

  ‘I don’t know … He’s an American, works as a financier.’

  ‘Well, no wonder I’ve not heard of him. He’s obviously the kind of man I despise. I don’t want to know about people like that.’

  Carver tried again: ‘Or how about a Pakistani man called Ahmad Razzaq? He’s middle-aged, wears a moustache, quite distinguished-looking. Sometimes calls himself Shafik.’

  ‘No … I don’t know anyone like that at all.’ She sounded more confident now, as though her ignorance somehow established her innocence.

  ‘You haven’t even heard their names mentioned by other people … people like Bryn?’

  ‘No.’

  They seemed to have reached a dead end, and Fenwick sensed it, too. ‘Well, that settles it. She can’t help you. I think we should call this a day.’

  Carver tried not to let his desperation show. He was sure he was close to a breakthrough, if only he could find the right button to push. Something Bull had said had rung a bell, but he’d missed it, failed to make the right connection. It was there, though, somewhere: he knew it. He fixed an ingratiating smile on his face and spoke to Fenwick and Bull together. ‘Wait, let’s just take it nice and easy … a few simple questions. Nothing to get excited about. Is that all right?’

  Fenwick looked at Bull.

  She nodded.

  He gave Carver a shrug that said, ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘So … How many of you were there in the group?’ Carver asked.

  Bull closed her eyes, picturing her old comrades in her mind. ‘Ahh … six of us at first, then Dave Smethurst and that Swiss bitch joined …’

  ‘Kremer?’ Carver asked, thinking: ‘Her again.’ Bull nodded. Kremer loomed so large in Bull’s memories of the group. Maybe he should stick with Kremer: see where that took him.

  ‘So when was that?’

  ‘About four or five months ago, I suppose. Though even then, she was never really part of it like the rest of us. She was always flitting in and out, leading this disgusting, privileged life …’

  ‘So she’s rich?’ he asked, a bell just starting to ring, very faintly, in the back of his mind.

  ‘Her family’s stinking rich. That’s what she said, anyway, and the way she behaved, I believed it.’

  ‘And you people weren’t violent before she arrived, four or five months ago?’

  Bull gave a feeble shake of the head, wincing at the effort. ‘No … I mean, we believed in direct action as a way of making our point. But no one ever got hurt. We were just trying to attract people’s attention to what was being done to the planet.’

  ‘Then along comes Uschi Kremer and says …?’

  ‘Well, she never said anything to us women. But she was always whispering with Bryn, or taking him off to dinner … I’m sure he slept with her. She was certainly making it very obvious she was available.’

  ‘So she’s attractive?’ The bell was ringing louder now.

  ‘If you like that kind of thing. Personally, I think it’s cheap and vulgar. But you know what men are like …’

  ‘We fall for that kind of thing …’ Carver said, as it all tumbled into place: the woman who could seduce men at will, who’d always been able to make anyone do anything she wanted. Could it really be her?

  ‘Describe Uschi Kremer,’ he asked.

  Bull gave a little ‘Huh!’ of disapproval. ‘Well, she’s older than she likes to admit, that’
s for sure. The way she acts, you’d think she was in her early thirties, maybe even her twenties. But if she’s a day under forty, I’d be surprised. If you really look at her, close up, it’s much more obvious.’

  Fenwick was leaning forward a little in his seat now, aware that something had changed. There was a new atmosphere of expectation in the room.

  Carver already knew the answers when he asked, ‘Height, weight, eyes, hair colour?’

  ‘Oh, well … she’s a couple of inches taller than me, I suppose, and I’m five foot six. But she’s very slim. If she weighs much more than nine stone I’d be amazed. She’s less than that, even. She’s a redhead, so she’s got that colouring. You know, blue eyes …’

  ‘Freckled skin?’

  Bull started, surprised. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Quite full lips: you know, pouty … sexy …’

  Now she gave a puzzled frown. ‘I suppose so, yes, if that’s what you think is sexy. But how do you …?’

  Carver raised a finger to his face. ‘A little groove, on the end of her nose … just here?’

  ‘Yes … yes, that’s right. Do you know her?’ Now Bull was displaying the anxiety of someone who suspects that they may have been the victim of an elaborate practical joke. Fenwick, too, was looking at Carver as if he was trying to spot the trick he was playing.

  Carver got out his phone, put the black and white photo of Celina Novak on screen, and held it up so that Bull could see it. ‘Well, you tell me … is this her?’

  ‘Yes! That’s Uschi all right, though she looks a lot younger there.’

  ‘Thank you, Deirdre … thank you very much indeed.’

  ‘Really … have I helped?’

  ‘Oh yes. A lot.’ Carver nodded at Fenwick. ‘Thanks, doctor. Couldn’t have done it without you.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said.

  59

  * * *

  Paxford, Gloucestershire

  ON THE FRINGES of a village on the northern edge of the Cotswolds, where the last boxy little houses of a newly built estate met the first drab fields of farmland, stood a run-down scrap metal site. Its single-page website was dotted with contemporary, eco-friendly buzzwords like recycling and reclamation. But that didn’t alter the reality of a grimy, litter-strewn graveyard for abandoned cars and piles of metallic junk – from shopping-trolleys to radiators and old library shelves – run by three oil-stained, boilersuited men fuelled by PG Tips and nicotine. None of them were present as Uschi Kremer – alias Magda ‘Ginger’ Sternberg, alias Celina Novak – drove up the dusty lane that led beneath the arch of a long-abandoned railway and turned in through the scrapyard gates, ignoring the sign that said the yard was closed. The two black Range Rovers were waiting for her. Braddock was leaning against one of them, smoking. As she drove up, he threw the cigarette on the floor and ground it under his heel. The driver of the other Range Rover got out and walked towards his boss.

  ‘This is Turner,’ Braddock said as Ginger emerged from her car.

  She did not bother to shake their hands or say hello. ‘There’s no one else here?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Gone to lunch,’ Braddock replied.

  ‘And when are they coming back?’

  ‘When they’ve pissed away the five hundred quid I gave them down the bookies and the pub. We’ve got a while.’

  ‘OK.’ Ginger looked around the yard, noting the CCTV cameras at the gate and by the front door to the Portakabin that served as an office. ‘What about these?’

  ‘All off. The video-machine’s not working. Something seems to have gone mysteriously wrong with it.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get on.’

  She opened up one of the rear doors and pulled away the blanket that had been covering the bodies of Gryffud and Smethurst. Braddock turned away in disgust at the stench that emanated from the corpses. Ginger looked at him contemptuously. ‘Their bowels evacuated at the moment of death,’ she said, speaking with a technician’s precision. ‘A man like you should be used to that.’

  ‘Shit still stinks, however much you’re used to it,’ he said. Then a thought struck him. ‘I’m not having that fucking smell in my car!’

  Ginger looked at him with utter contempt, then gave an impatient sigh. ‘All right, let’s clean it all up.’

  There was a standpipe outside the Portakabin, with a bright yellow hose attached to it. Braddock and Turner pulled the two bodies out of Ginger’s BMW, before they and the car’s passenger compartment were drenched with water, rinsing away all the filth. Braddock took a roll of green plastic sheeting out of the back of the Range Rover and cut off a couple of metres of it, which he then laid on the ground. The two men dragged Brynmor Gryffud’s body on to the sheet, then rolled it over twice, so that the body was entirely wrapped in plastic. Braddock used gaffer tape to secure the package, and then he and Ginger hefted the body into the back of one of the Range Rovers.

  The process was repeated for Dave Smethurst’s remains.

  ‘Good thing I’ve got blacked-out windows,’ Braddock said, breathing heavily as he closed the tailgate.

  ‘If you drive sensibly, there will be no problem,’ said Ginger bluntly, wasting none of her charm on him. ‘You are confident that the bodies will be disposed of securely?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Braddock assured her. ‘This bloke Gryffud was obsessed with the environment, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’ll love what’s going to happen to the bodies, then …’

  ‘Just so long as no trace of them is ever found.’

  ‘It won’t be, trust me.’

  ‘Huh … So, now we deal with the car. Can you operate a forklift?’

  ‘I can’t … but he can.’

  Turner got behind the controls of the scrapyard’s forklift. There was a compactor on the far side of the yard. It consisted of two massive steel slabs, supported by hydraulic lifts at either end. The forklift picked up the BMW and carried it across to the compactor. The car was slid on to the bottom slab, side-on, then given another couple of prods with the forklift’s two sharp prongs to make sure it was as far in as possible. Braddock pressed the button that operated the compactor, and the whine of the hydraulics combined with the sound of crumpling metal as the top slab descended with grinding inexorability, reducing the BMW to a mechanical sandwich filling. Braddock pushed another button, the two slabs parted again, and the forklift removed the crushed remains of the car and placed them on a pile of other flattened vehicles.

  Ginger watched the proceedings from the passenger seat of the second Range Rover while she made a call to Derek Choi.

  ‘Do you know any more about the project we discussed?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ve been busy on other affairs.’

  ‘But you still anticipate activity tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m sure you heard the speech that our mutual friend made. The original schedule is being maintained, with a higher public profile than ever. So my original estimates still hold true.’

  ‘I agree. And I will proceed on that basis. Incidentally, your friend Samuel had company last night – a woman, Alexandra Petrova Vermulen. I believe you are old friends.’

  Ginger caught the taunting edge to Choi’s voice, and was infuriated to realize that he had succeeded in getting to her. Of course, she did not want Carver. She had only seduced him for professional reasons. It wasn’t personal. So why did it annoy her so much to think of that pathetic little bitch Petrova getting her claws into him?

  She had not even mustered a reply when Choi said, ‘Please contact me immediately if you receive any further information. Goodbye.’

  Ginger used the five minutes between the end of the call and Turner’s return to the car to refresh her make-up, though she only applied her lipgloss and mascara with a fraction of her full concentration: the rest was devoted to Alexandra Petrova and what she would do to her if she ever got the chance. Turner gave her a lift to Moreton-in-Marsh Station, where she took the train back to Lond
on. She sat in the first-class compartment in a foul mood. With just a couple of sentences Derek Choi had ruined what should have been a triumphant day. She would not forget or forgive that, either.

  An hour later Braddock drove his Range Rover up a broad track, deeply rutted by the tracks of heavy vehicles, that ran like a disfiguring scar across the side of a once picturesque hill. At the top of the hill a massive pit had been dug, a wound to the landscape made worse by the continuous slurry of concrete being poured into it from a line of giant truck-mounted mixers. This despoliation of the countryside was largely subsidized by government funds, despite the blatant flouting of every known planning regulation pertaining to conservation areas and Sites of Special Scientific Interest. (A scattering of rare orchids and several species of butterfly had once added their fragile beauty to the hilltop, only to be obliterated by the first few scoops of the digger’s bucket.) But then, the destruction of the environment didn’t seem to matter if its end result was a gigantic, noisy, bird-shredding wind turbine. That this was made of steel and rooted in concrete – two substances whose manufacture generated vast amounts of CO – was neither here nor there. Nor did anyone seem to care that the turbine, like virtually all others, would be very lucky to operate at more than ten per cent of its full capacity, and would require constant backup from oil- or gas-fired power stations to make up for the times when the wind ceased to blow. Wind turbines were magically going to cut greenhouse gases, keep temperatures down, lower sea levels, and prevent polar bears from falling off melting icebergs. Therefore they were good.

  Braddock owned the farm on which the turbine was being erected, and was collecting a substantial subsidy accordingly. It made him laugh, getting paid to wreck the landscape just so a bunch of sandal-wearing, lentil-eating eco-twats could feel better about the environment. The fact that turbines were such obvious cons only made it even funnier. And bunging a couple of dead Greens into the hole, so that they could spend the rest of eternity under thirty feet of concrete, supporting a propellor on stilts, well, that was fucking hilarious.