by Scott Hunter
‘Well done. That’s great.’
‘Not so great. If he’s telling the truth he’s just a shoplifter. Says he’s gone in the shop, no one’s around, so he grabs the nearest stuff he can find and legs it.’
‘He didn’t look behind the counter.’
‘Clearly not.’ Bola looked directly at Tess. ‘What happened in there?’
‘I–I don’t know. There was a man. Tall. A long coat. He was carrying a bag – a holdall. He left – out the front. I tried to stop him but–’ She gave up, shrugged.
‘But?’
‘I don’t know, Bola, OK? He just got away, that’s all.’
There was a brief, awkward pause. Tess went on quickly. ‘So your guy has nothing to do with anything, is what you’re saying?’
‘He’s an idiot. But you never know, he might have seen something you missed.’
‘I didn’t miss anything, Bola. He was a tall, odd looking man with–’
‘A long coat. Yeah, I know.’ Bola’s voice softened as he looked Tess up and down. Her skirt and legs were covered with blood. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll call a car to come collect you – you’ll scare the hell out of the shoppers looking like that.’ He flashed a matey grin which didn’t quite come off.
Tess tried to answer but didn’t trust herself to speak, just nodded.
Bola made the call, pocketed his mobile. ‘Two minutes. Hey, maybe the owner is the key to telling us what was going down here.’
‘If he survives.’ Tess shivered, pulled her coat around her.
‘Yeah. Good point.’
George McConnell set two mugs of coffee down with a flourish. The canteen was enjoying its daily hiatus, the routine no-mans land between day and evening shifts. A faint rattle of pots and pans, the percussive clash of cutlery, cups and saucers came from the hidden kitchens behind the counter as the industrial-sized dishwashers consumed their evening quota. Tess and George were the canteen’s only customers. A waitress moved sluggishly between tables, wiping Formica tops, spraying cleaner, straightening chairs, zoned out to her dull task, plugged into music via iPhone earbuds.
‘Thanks, George.’ Tess slid the mug towards her, toyed with the idea of sugar, rejected it, left the plastic spoon on the table.
‘So,’ George said brightly, ‘Bola’s grilling his catch even as we speak.’
‘Yes.’
‘You never know.’ George shrugged, ‘He might surprise us.’
‘He’s a nobody, George. A shoplifter.’ Tess could see the shop in her mind’s eye. The glass display cabinets, the two pools of blood, the wall clock. A tall, grey man. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember his face. There was nothing there, just a blank, as if her memory had somehow been bypassed, short-circuited.
George sipped his coffee and grimaced. ‘At least it’s hot, eh?’
When Tess didn’t respond, he went on. ‘So, you saw someone else, Bola said? Another guy in the shop?’
Tess pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. God, she was tired. So tired. She took a deep breath. ‘Look, George, I don’t know what I saw. There was someone else there, yes, but I didn’t get a good look at him.’
‘He must have walked right past you?’
‘And?’ Anger coursed through her like a shot of adrenaline. ‘I told you. I didn’t get a look. You think I’m lying?’ Tess fought back tears. ‘Or maybe you just think I’m losing it, big time?’
George held up both hands. ‘Woah. That’s not what I meant.’
‘Yes it was. You all think that. You don’t need to cover it up, George. I’ve seen the way everyone looks at me. And you’ve been avoiding me for weeks, haven’t you? Admit it.’ It was all coming out now, the dam was breached.
‘Hey, hey, no, look, that’s not it at all.’ George’s face was all alarm and shock. ‘We’re concerned about you, obviously. You’ve had a hell of a time, we all understand that. God knows how I’d have coped. Tess, I didn’t want to avoid you, I just didn’t want to–’ he struggled for the right words, ‘… get in your way, I suppose.’
‘Get in my way?’ Tess flicked away a stray tear. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
George warmed his hands around his mug. He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘You know, you’ve got a new partner, green but keen as they say…’
Understanding was bobbing to the surface of her mind like a cork being released in deep water.
He likes me. Really likes me.
This insight was too much. She downed her coffee in one, pushed her chair back. ‘Thanks for the drink, George. I’ve got stuff to do.’
She didn’t turn around as she left. She could imagine George’s stricken expression. It didn’t make her feel any better.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Moran could feel the paper invitation pressing against his shirt in his inside pocket.
Joe and Marion.
The neighbours.
She’d caught him on the way out one morning. We must get to know each other. You’re not the only new face around here… thought we’d throw a little party, break the ice…
And he’d heard himself say: Sure. Good idea. See you then. Sorry, in a bit of a hurry…
He’d have to go. Rude not to. Besides, it was good to socialise a little. Charlie was always egging him on. God knows, guv, you do little enough of it … get yourself out there … it’s not all about work, y’know.
But it was, that was the thing. At the end of the day, the job was everything. Which was why he was content to keep the looming void of retirement at a comfortable distance. It was in the future, somewhere, but never close enough to worry about. And then a small voice would remind him of Geileis; a sceptical Geileis, granted, who didn’t believe he’d ever be happy – or would be able to settle – if and when he threw in the towel for the last time. And could he really consider a move to Ireland? After all that had happened?
He stopped at the Oxford Road lights. On impulse, he reached forward and turned on the radio. The speakers purred with an ambient, soothing melody. To his surprise, he liked what he heard. Radio 2 wasn’t his thing at all; he’d invariably turn to a classical station, but … he had to admit, this tune had something. The vocal melody was haunting, hypnotic:
Summer’s end brings autumn peace,
A dusk where you can hide
The memories you wish to leave behind,
Walk on to sweet release …
Moran was captivated. When the song finished, the DJ, in sombre tones, revealed the name of the artiste. The hairs on the back of Moran’s neck stood to attention.
‘And that, of course, was the latest – and last – offering from Michelle LaCroix. What a talent. And … what a waste.’
A pause.
‘We’ll be playing that every hour for the next twenty-four hours as a mark of respect. Beautiful, beautiful, as a person and a songstress. Once again, our thoughts are with Michelle’s family at this sad time.’
His mobile rang, and for once Moran was grateful. He hit the receive button on the steering wheel. ‘Moran.’
‘Guv, it’s Charlie. Heard you’ve been out and about?’
‘I have. Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid. Nice bunch of lads. I’d describe their take on Michelle’s record deal as pragmatic, rather than vengeful. They could see it coming. As soon as record company talks began it was pretty clear they were going to be made redundant. Michelle was whisked off to Nashville and there was a band ready and waiting. All top session guys.’
‘Pretty tough on them, I guess. So, they didn’t come up with any names? No one they thought might have it in them to do something like this?’
‘They were less than complimentary about Bill Nedwell. Having said that, none of them reckoned him capable of murder. Or that he’d go along with an assisted suicide request. Way too cautious. By the way, how did Bola get on with his arrest?’
‘Nothing doing. The guy’s just a shoplifter. Knew nothing, saw nothing.’
‘What about the proprietor? An
y news?’
‘Still in ICU. They’ll call if there’s any change.’
‘And Tess Martin? How’s she doing?’
A pause. ‘Not sure. Seems OK, but…’
‘You need to find out what happened, Charlie,’ Moran said gently. ‘There’s a missing piece here, and a significant one at that. We’ve got to find this guy, even if Tess can’t describe him adequately. He can’t just have disappeared.’
‘That’s the thing, guv. No one else saw him. Bola was on his way back; plenty of people walking past. We’ve checked. No one saw anyone in a long coat anywhere nearby.’
‘And what if there was no one else around?’ Moran let the question hang.
Charlie’s incredulity came over loud and clear. ‘Really? Come on, guv. Tess is fine. She wouldn’t even consider… hang on, got to go. DC Martin and DC Tomlinson’ve just come in. It’ll be about the Evening Post news-bite. See you in the morning.’
Moran signed off with a buoyant cheerio, even though he wasn’t feeling particularly buoyant. He’d been worried about Tess Martin ever since her return, even more so after this afternoon’s incident. Acceptable psychological assessment score notwithstanding, you could never be completely sure. The mind was a convoluted landscape, and no one knew that better than Moran. It didn’t take much to upset the brain’s fragile equilibrium and Tess Martin had been through the mill, as sure as eggs were eggs. Should he get her taken off active duty, just in case? A tough call. Moran sighed. Something to discuss with Charlie in the morning.
The Evening Post piece was a long shot in every sense. It would hit their website tonight, the local rag in the morning. But it would have to be damn good – pitched perfectly, too – to stand any chance of attracting the grave robbers. Were they even local? They might have moved to another town by now. Perhaps that’s how they operated, town by town, in a twisted kind of circuit. But it was worth a try, nevertheless. DC Collingworth was thinking out of the box, and Moran liked that.
He eased the car down from fifty to thirty as he entered Pangbourne. His recent move, he reflected, had been one of his better decisions. Close enough to Reading, yet slower paced with pleasant shops, pubs and of course, the water meadow, where he’d taken to enjoying an early morning stroll. The clean, moisture-laced air was invigorating. He wondered why he’d put up with his old gaffe for so long. It felt like a fresh start – not as drastic as the one he’d been considering, but a fresh start of a sort, for sure.
He was distracted by the roar of a souped-up engine. Headed his way, and surely in excess of the thirty-mile-an-hour restriction, was a red BMW saloon – and not any model you’d find in the catalogues, either; this was a custom job. The multicoloured glow emanating from beneath the chassis told him that much, but it was the intense glare of the twin HID headlamps which prompted Moran’s yell of frustration and impotent fist shake – for all the good it would do. The BMW roared past, leaving him with flashing, rectangular patterns imprinted on both retinas. He checked his mirror, but even if he hadn’t been so dazzled, the car was now too far away to offer any hope of reading its registration. An ear-splitting tannoy blast of three descending notes blazed through the Beamer’s slipstream.
Bloody insult to injury …
Cursing and muttering, he slowed the car down, gave his eyes time to recover. These damn HID headlight conversion kits were a menace. Wound him up at every encounter. Despite the clear risk to safety, and the incontrovertible statistical record relating to their being a direct cause of night time traffic accidents, the CTSi seemed unable, or unwilling, to enforce a ban. If Moran had his way, he’d set up a designated traffic team for the sole purpose of hunting down and removing any such customised vehicle from the roads.
He was so irritated he almost passed the petrol station. A rapid manoeuvre corrected his oversight and he pulled into the forecourt. He filled the tank and, en route to the till, paused as usual at the Costa machine. Cappuccino. Large. Make it. Moran’s finger danced its customary ostinato around the icons. As he waited for the programme to finish (the process could hardly be described as percolation, surely?), his attention was diverted by a new arrival – conspicuous not only by her dress, but also by her demeanour.
The woman had to be in her late seventies – early eighties, perhaps – and had obviously taken great care in preparing herself for the short journey between the adjacent retirement home and the forecourt shop. She was wearing a long, elegant, fawn-coloured coat, a felt hat with pins and feather, matching handbag, dark gloves, a silver-handled walking stick and make up so skilfully applied that Moran found himself staring in admiration. Here was a senior who still cared. Not for her the all-too-often-seen descent into dowdiness common to her age group. Far from it; she looked like a film star, or a visiting dignitary, perhaps.
This must, Moran reflected, be a regular outing which gave her evenings a sense of purpose. As if to say: there is meaning to my life. I have a goal, an aim. He watched her select a few token items from the shelves and make her way to the counter, where a young Asian woman handled the small transactions with a brief greeting and a smile.
‘If you don’t mind, mate? I’ve got deliveries to finish before I knock off.’
Moran looked up. An overalled lorry driver’s patience had spilled over along with Moran’s cappuccino. With a muttered grunt of apology he found a lid for the cup and made his way to the counter where the old lady was sorting her bag of provisions. He wanted to offer some word of praise or congratulation, but aware that this might appear inappropriate or, worse still, patronising in the worse possible way, he settled instead for a complicit smile with the cashier, paid for his fuel and coffee and hurried back to the car. The dashboard clock read just after seven, so he wasn’t as late as he’d thought.
As he turned into his road Moran found himself wondering about the old lady’s life. Widowed, no doubt. Alone in the world, but defiant about her age and status. Creating purpose where there was no real purpose – at least not in society’s eyes. No high-powered job to occupy her time, no pressing engagements, no deadlines, no riddles to solve – save perhaps the Times crossword which, Moran guessed, she probably completed daily as a matter of due diligence.
Good for you, he muttered aloud. Perhaps that’s the way forward, Brendan. Keep the old grey matter ticking over…
‘Brendan. Come in.’ Marion’s smile was wide and genuine. ‘So glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to the gang – we’ve had a great turnout. What can I get you to drink? You’re not on duty, I hope?’
‘No. For once.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll take a little red wine, if you have some?’
‘Of course. Come on in.’
He was shown into a roomful of earnestly chatting adults, glasses in hand, some with handfuls of crisps, others making emphatic gestures as they drove home their opinions on local affairs, the state of the roads, Brexit, the lamentable quality of baby-sitters…
‘Hello. You must be the policeman. I was warned about you.’
The voice was low, dusky, amused. He turned, surprised at the familiarity.
‘Samantha Grant.’ A hand was extended.
‘Brendan Moran.’ He offered his and she took it. ‘I wasn’t aware that my presence had been so warily anticipated.’
Samantha Grant laughed. ‘Well, one has to be careful what one says when you lot are around.’
Her voice was cultured, with a husky edge to it that set Moran’s senses tingling. He guessed her age to be just the right side of fifty, but her eyes were bright and her unlined complexion could conceivably have belonged to a woman ten years her junior.
‘Sangiovese OK, Brendan?’ Marion had appeared at his elbow.
He took the glass. ‘Perfect. Thanks.’
‘I see you’ve met Samantha? She’s been dying to meet you.’ A wink, and Marion was gone into the living room melee.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.’ Samantha sipped her drink. ‘But I must confess to being a little intrigued. Are yo
u a desk policeman, or do you still chase bad guys?’
‘A bit of both, as it happens.’
‘Not slowing down, then?’
Before Moran could analyse the question they were interrupted by a tall, bearded man in an Aran jumper. ‘Chief Inspector Moran, isn’t it? Delighted to have you among us. Joe Turnbull – we waved from afar once or twice.’
‘Of course. Nice to finally catch up.’ Moran shook the proffered hand. Marion’s husband seemed an odd match for the petite blonde, but then what did he know about marital pairing?
‘Must come over for a bite to eat. Get to know each other better.’ Joe clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on.’ He continued on his errand, disappearing into what Moran assumed was the kitchen.
‘Well. A Chief Inspector, no less.’ Samantha smiled, showing a row of even, white teeth, the middle two slightly gapped. Far from being unattractive, the feature lent her smile a touch of playfulness Moran found appealing.
‘I’ve been at it a long time. The steady climb rather than the meteoric rise.’
‘I suspect you’re being rather modest, DCI Moran.’
‘Brendan, please.’
‘All right. Brendan it is.’
He sipped the Sangiovese, enjoying the warm sensation as it eased down his throat. Very drinkable. ‘But you haven’t told me about yourself,’ he countered. ‘You’re local, I’m assuming?’
‘So we’ve passed in the road how many times and you’ve not noticed me? That’s hardly encouraging for an older woman now, Brendan.’
‘I’m sorry. I tend not to notice much when I’m walking.’
A wave of laughter from the centre of the room washed over them as Joe Turnbull made some pithy remark. They waited for the noise to subside, Samantha acknowledging their conversational pause with a smile and a shrug. Then she said, ‘We’re three doors from each other. I often see you walking along the water meadow.’