Occasionally they tried to trip me up by asking the same question twice but in different ways. However, because I wasn’t attempting any bullshit, I parried them without too much trouble, and with only limited help from McFee, whose enthusiasm for my case seemed to be plummeting faster than frozen aeroplane turd.
‘You ought to be out there trying to find the man who attacked me and killed Vanessa,’ I said when there was a pause in proceedings. ‘And helping me find my wife.’
‘We are trying to find your wife,’ said Sullivan accusingly.
‘She didn’t do anything. I promise you.’
‘Why are her prints on the murder weapon, then?’
They had me there. Whichever way I looked at it, and I was looking at it in every way possible, I couldn’t explain that cold fact away. ‘I don’t know,’ I said eventually, trying too hard to keep the defeat out of my voice. As I spoke, I looked at McFee, but he seemed to be inspecting something on the ceiling with rapt interest. For a long moment I felt completely and utterly alone in the world.
‘Why don’t you tell us the truth?’ demanded Sullivan, leaning forward again, his narrow eyes boring into mine.
I met his gaze. I had no choice. ‘I am. I promise you. I am telling the truth.’
‘You’ve got to see things from our point of view, Tom,’ said Caplin quietly, folding his arms and rocking back in the chair in a way that was peculiarly avuncular. ‘No-one else saw this man you’re talking about, yet we have several witnesses at the university today who saw a man fitting your description running away from the scene.’
‘My client’s not denying he was there, or that he ran away, DCI Caplin,’ put in McFee.
‘No, I’m not. I was there.’
Caplin casually lifted an arm to halt any dissent. ‘The point is, we know you were there, and we know the victim was there. We also know, because you’ve told us, that the injuries you received are from the murder weapon, but the only witness to the alleged masked man you talk about is you.’
‘We’re putting it to you, Mr Meron,’ said Sullivan, ‘that the masked man didn’t exist.’
‘Well, I’m putting it to you that he did. How the hell do you think I got these injuries?’
Sullivan allowed himself a little smirk. ‘As far as we can see, there’s only one way you could have got them, Mr Meron. They were inflicted by your wife during a violent struggle. Either because you interrupted her attacking Vanessa Blake, or because, more likely, she interrupted you.’
‘This is ludicrous, gentlemen,’ put in McFee, going to town on the word ‘ludicrous’ with his lilting Scottish burr. ‘My client’s already told you what happened.’
‘But the problem is, Dougie,’ said Caplin, pronouncing the name ‘Doogie’, ‘we don’t believe him. It’s an extremely far-fetched story.’
‘No more far-fetched than the one you’re peddling,’ I said. ‘I hardly knew Vanessa Blake. I’ve met her maybe five times in the past five years, and that’s probably an exaggeration. And if I was disturbed by my wife and attacked her, then why didn’t you find her?’
I was pleased with the incisiveness of this latter question. It made a mockery of their theory, but to my dismay, neither man made any attempt to accept this. Instead, they simply ignored it.
‘But this masked man business,’ continued Caplin, making a dismissive gesture with the hand he’d lifted a few moments earlier. ‘You’re going to have to come up with something better than that. It makes us think you’re hiding something. It’d be best for everyone concerned if you just told us what really happened.’
Sullivan turned his beady eyes on McFee. ‘You’ll be doing your client a favour if you get him to talk, Doogie.’
‘My client’s already told you what happened, Mr Sullivan,’ McFee repeated, though his enthusiasm seemed to have finally hit the depths and I got the feeling that he’d be happy just to get home to his long-term partner.
It was clear that none of the men in the room believed my story, and not for the first time that day I began to get really angry. When Sullivan asked me for the second or third time in that accusing tone of his where I thought my wife was, adding that I’d be helping both of us if I told them, I finally snapped. ‘Fuck this,’ I said decisively. ‘I’ve had enough. I’ve told you everything I know, and it’s blindingly obvious that you haven’t got any real, tangible evidence linking me to this crime. Also, my wife didn’t kill anyone. Full stop. I’ve known her more than ten years, and I’ve never seen her violent once. She’s a good-hearted person from a good family who can’t stand the sight of blood, had absolutely nothing against Vanessa Blake, and has never been in trouble with the police. Now, you’re holding me on suspicion of Vanessa’s murder, right?’
It was Caplin who answered. ‘We’re questioning you in relation to that, yes.’
‘Well, on what evidence are you holding me? If I killed Vanessa Blake, then why aren’t my fingerprints on that knife?’
‘Because you wore gloves,’ answered Sullivan in a way that suggested this was an entirely stupid question.
‘I’m assuming you’ve got CCTV footage of me from the university. Am I wearing gloves in it?’
‘They could have been in your pocket. You could have put them on when you reached the scene.’
‘But I didn’t. I wasn’t wearing gloves at all today. I haven’t worn a pair for months.’ I was on a roll now, no longer intimidated by the questions being flung at me, the anger at the injustice of my situation still seething inside. ‘So, if I wasn’t wearing gloves, and my fingerprints aren’t on the murder weapon, can you tell me on what evidence you’re holding me?’ I turned towards McFee. ‘Tell these men that I’m not saying anything else until I know exactly why I’m being held. If the reasons aren’t good enough, I want to be released now.’
When I turned back in the direction of the two detectives, I saw that Caplin was holding up a small resealable plastic bag. ‘Do you recognize these?’ he asked me. ‘They were found near the scene.’
I could see through the clear material that it was a pair of black leather gloves. I looked more closely, but I didn’t really need to. I might not have worn them for the last couple of years but I recognized the diagonal stitching on the fingers immediately, and as I did so my heart jumped high in my chest.
The bloody things were mine.
11
Bolt and Mo were just coming off the M4 near Heathrow, heading back to HQ, when Bolt got another call on his mobile. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the number on the screen. He didn’t recognize it, and said a curt hello, not wishing to give out his name over the airwaves to someone he didn’t know.
‘Is that Mike Bolt?’ asked an unfamiliar female voice.
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘My name’s Tina Boyd. I’m a former police officer.’
Bolt knew the name straight away. Tina Boyd had been relatively famous in the small, incestuous world of the Metropolitan Police. She’d even made the cover of Police Review in happier times, being just the kind of young, attractive, go-getting female cop the Brass love. Before it had all gone wrong. Now people called her ‘The Black Widow’.
‘I’m guessing that you’re the Tina Boyd,’ Bolt said, exchanging glances with Mo. ‘From the cover of the Police Review.’
‘That’s me, yes.’
‘I was sorry to hear about what happened.’ Bolt knew he was going to have to bring up her past at some point, and decided he might as well get it out of the way now. ‘My understanding was that you were a very good copper.’
‘I did my best,’ she said, clearly not interested in exchanging pleasantries. ‘I’m calling because I understand you’re dealing with the suicide of the Lord Chief Justice.’
‘That’s right,’ answered Bolt carefully, surprised that she’d found out about his involvement. It wasn’t that it was a top-secret investigation, but there was no publicity surrounding it either.
‘I have some information.’
<
br /> Bolt felt his copper’s antennae perk up. ‘What kind of information?’
‘Not the sort I want to talk about on the phone, but it’s something you’re definitely going to want to hear about. I would have called you earlier but it took some string-pulling to get hold of your number, and I also wanted to check you out to see if you were trustworthy enough to be given this information.’
‘I’m assuming I passed that test.’
‘You did,’ she said, without a trace of humour. ‘And that’s why I’m on the phone.’
‘And I’m very keen to hear what you have to say. Forgive me for asking, but how did you come by this information?’
‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you, but I promise I’m not wasting your time.’
‘I’m intrigued. When can we meet up?’
‘Are you in London tonight?’
‘I can be easily enough.’
As he said this, Mo pulled the car up outside their building. There were no cars in the spaces and it looked empty inside. Jean had obviously gone home.
‘I live in Highgate,’ she told him. ‘There’s a pub called the Griffin, just off the high street. How about meeting me there? Can you make eight?’
Bolt looked at his watch. It was just short of seven o’clock, and already his mind was whirring. ‘Let’s make it nine. I’ve got a few things to do first.’
‘OK, nine it is. And something else. I don’t want what I tell you to be on the record. This is just a lead for you. No mentioning my name or anything like that, at least not for the moment. And I need your word on that. Otherwise everything’s off and you can forget I called.’
Bolt was surprised. This didn’t sound much like a police officer talking, even a former one, as she now was. ‘All right, it’s a deal,’ he said, knowing that if it came to it, he might have to reconsider the terms of his agreement. ‘But I may bring one of my officers with me, a man who’s also completely trustworthy.’ He winked at Mo when he said this, and Mo smiled a little and pulled a face that was full of mock flattery. ‘Is that all right?’
There was a pause while she thought this through. ‘OK,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll see you at nine, then.’
‘One question,’ he said, before she hung up. ‘We’ve just come from the scene of a very violent murder, which happened only hours ago. Off the record – and this is one hundred per cent off the record – the victim was the Lord Chief Justice’s personal lawyer. Could this possibly have something to do with the information you have for us?’
There was an audible intake of breath at the other end of the phone, and then another silence. Finally she spoke. ‘Possibly,’ was all she said before hanging up.
‘Well?’ said Mo as Bolt pocketed the phone. ‘What did the Tina Boyd want?’
‘She wants to meet up. She has a lead. It sounds like it might be a big one.’
‘All happening today, eh? Now even the Black Widow wants to get in on the act.’
‘You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. You’ve put in enough hours on this case already today.’
‘What? And let you get all the glory? No, boss, I won’t let you slave away on your own, and if it’s a decent lead, I want a part of it. Are we meeting Boyd in a pub?’
‘We are.’
‘And it’s an unofficial chat, right? So I can have a drink?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Then I’m in. Let me check in with the other boss. Let her know what’s happening.’
Bolt watched as Mo climbed out of the driver’s seat and phoned home. He had only met Mo’s wife once, when he’d gone round there to pick him up for a job. He remembered her as a short, well-built girl with a very attractive moon-shaped face which lit up when she smiled, and who seemed to be permanently surrounded by young kids. She was very friendly, with a calm, easy-going manner, and Bolt had thought at the time that she seemed to be perfect for the trials and tribulations of motherhood. Mo clearly adored her, kissing her on the head and ruffling her hair in a surprisingly affectionate manner as he’d said goodbye, before kissing and making a fuss of each of his kids in turn. Bolt had seen in the look she’d given him that she felt the same way.
And now he was keeping them apart. Bolt knew that one of the reasons Mo had agreed to work with him tonight was because he felt sorry for him. Everyone who knew about the life-changing event that had happened three years ago, and which had left Bolt with physical and mental scars that would probably never heal, felt sorry for him, and it inevitably made them treat him differently. Of all the people he worked with, only Mo Khan was able to seem perfectly natural in his presence, and this was one of the reasons he liked him so much. But even Mo couldn’t help letting the knowledge affect his behaviour on some occasions, such as this one. The irony was, Bolt would have been happy to carry on alone tonight. He enjoyed his own company, always had. It was why he was coping now, and why he’d continue to do so.
He got out of the car and unlocked the office door. He wanted to check whether the police national computer system, the PNC, held anything on either Tom or Kathy Meron. At the same time Mo, who’d been pacing up and down in front of the building, came off the phone.
‘Is Saira all right?’ Bolt asked him.
Mo nodded. ‘She’s fine. Happy not to have me getting in her way. I told her not to wait up.’
Bolt could tell he didn’t mean it. There was a look of disappointment on his face that he was trying hard to hide, but he couldn’t quite manage it. It was obvious that Saira had given him a bit of a hard time, and he couldn’t blame her.
As he moved through the office doorway, he only hoped their lead was worth it.
12
Fifteen minutes later they were driving through the back streets of west London, heading north in the direction of the Meron residence, which was about fifteen minutes east by car from where Jack Calley had been murdered. The PNC had given Bolt the information that Thomas David Meron had never been in trouble with the police, but his wife, Katherine Cynthia, did possess an ancient conviction for obstruction, earned at the age of eighteen during a student demonstration in Cambridge city centre. A whopping £25 fine had been the result. Hardly the work of a major criminal.
But the timing of the call from Calley was bothering him. The police surgeon at the scene had stated that he’d died no later than 3.30 p.m. that afternoon. Calley had therefore been confronted by the men who’d killed him at some time before 3.30. They’d come into his house, forced him up the stairs, tied him to the bed and tortured him. The whole process must have taken at least ten minutes, probably longer, because somehow Calley had managed to get free, which presumably meant he’d been left on his own for a time. There’d then been a chase that must have lasted a further five minutes before he was finally butchered on the forest path. The absolute latest they could have come for their victim was, by Bolt’s reckoning, 3.10, nine minutes after he’d made that last call. But that was if he’d died at exactly 3.30, which seemed very unlikely, given that the surgeon’s time range spanned an hour. So it was possible the call had been made after he’d been confronted. If so, the Merons had to be involved somehow.
It was ten to eight when they pulled up outside Tom and Katherine Meron’s house. A high conifer hedge bordered the front of the property, obscuring the view of the house. Next to the hedge was an empty two-car driveway in need of retarmacking that led up to a double garage. It wasn’t immediately obvious where the entrance was.
The sounds of lawnmowers and kids playing in unseen back gardens drifted across the cool breeze as the two detectives stepped out of Mo’s car. The earlier wall of cloud had thinned and broken in places, revealing slithers of pinkish blue sky that glimmered in the last of the setting sun’s rays.
They found a wooden security gate with intercom system in the top corner of the drive that had been hidden by the angle of the hedge. It wasn’t usual to see a gate like this on a suburban estate property. Usually only the rich and paranoid bothered wi
th them. Bolt wondered if it might signify something. He pressed on the buzzer. There was no answer. He pressed a second time.
‘Do you think it’s worth vaulting over and having a look, boss?’ asked Mo.
But Bolt never got a chance to answer him. There was a sound of footsteps behind them and a confident female voice asked, ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
The two men turned round and were immediately confronted by a pretty uniformed policewoman in her mid-twenties. She was about five feet three and of commensurate build, and looked as if she’d have had some difficulty handling things if they’d been a pair of villains who’d decided to turn nasty. Then a second uniformed officer, a male, slightly older, approached from a house across the road from where they’d obviously been watching the Merons’ address.
Bolt gave her his best smile and produced his warrant card. Mo did the same. They introduced themselves and Bolt asked her name.
‘I’m PC Nicki Leverett,’ she said, inspecting the cards carefully, and making doubly sure that the photos that appeared on them corresponded to the faces in front of her. Bolt thought that the country’s crime rate would probably be slashed by 20 per cent if everyone was as careful as she was. ‘And this,’ she added as the other uniform approached, ‘is my colleague, PC Phil Coombs. Phil, these guys are from the National Crime Squad. They’re looking for the Merons.’
Coombs nodded curtly, and grunted a greeting. He looked like a man with an inferiority complex, as well as a bit of an unrequited crush on his colleague.
‘We need to speak to them in connection with a murder inquiry,’ explained Bolt.
PC Leverett nodded. ‘You’re talking about the girl at the university. I didn’t know the NCS were involved in that.’
Bolt shook his head, caught out by this sudden revelation. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘A woman was murdered over at the university today,’ Leverett explained. ‘Mr Meron was arrested in connection with it, and they’re looking for his wife. Apparently, she worked with the dead woman. We were told to come over and keep an eye on the place, in case she returned.’
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