Gone Too Soon

by Scott Hunter

  ‘Popular chap,’ Moran said.

  ‘Alan’s quite the philanthropist,’ Dr Gordon said. ‘Fantastic surgeon, and generous with it, too.’ She caught Moran’s eye and held it. ‘But I didn’t ask you why you were here. Anything I can help with?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Our DI, Charlie Pepper – the SIO on the LaCroix case – has just been admitted.’

  ‘Oh no! Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Everything’s under control, I’m told. But she’ll be convalescing for a few weeks once she’s discharged. She’ll be seething with frustration when she comes round. Big case for her.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Frustrating. Glad she’s OK, though.’ Dr Gordon’s expression exuded concern. ‘If I can help at all, let me know.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s very kind.’

  ‘Well, must dash.’ Another Hello Magazine smile and she was off along the busy corridor, clipboard in hand, gracefully negotiating the wheelchairs and slow-movers with practised ease.

  Nice girl. Spoken for though, no doubt. Moran found himself envying the lucky guy, which in turn led him to thinking about the previous evening, Dr Gordon’s fading image making way for Samantha Grant’s playful smile.

  You’re too old, Brendan. Too old and too busy.

  And busy was about to get worse; a summons to Higginson’s office was inevitable. His back seat role as mentor was about to change to the seat with the wheel and accelerator. The one labelled SIO.

  ‘Guv; you’re back. How’s Charlie?’

  ‘Stable.’ Moran gave Tess the thumbs up. ‘Gynae issue – unpleasant but under control. She’ll be out of the picture for a while. We’ll have a team get-together shortly, if you can rally the troops. Say ten minutes?’

  ‘Sure. Glad she’s OK. By the way, the audio guy’s looking for you. The nerdy one, with the glasses, you know?’

  ‘They’re all nerdy, right?’

  Tess smiled. Good to see, and rare these days.

  ‘True,’ she said, ‘but this one has a little goatee.’

  ‘I know the one. Thanks, Tess. So, make it twenty for the IR – tell the team, would you? ’

  Moran made his way to the ground floor, feeling a sudden burst of optimism. He wended his way through the server room to the audio lab, pressed the buzzer. As he waited he found his thoughts returning to Dr Gordon. He had the nagging feeling he’d missed something; he was sure he’d meant to ask her about… no, it was gone.

  Someone peered through the glass. Tess’ nerdy guy.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ the technician said as he held the lab door open. No preliminaries, not that Moran expected any. This was uber-geek territory, after all.

  Moran followed the t-shirted, jean-clad figure into the lab. Staff of similar age and appearance were dotted around the room, all apparently created from the same mould. Most had headphones clamped to their ears, were focused solely on their silently running software. For an audio lab it was as silent as the grave, which struck Moran as disquieting.

  ‘I’ve broken this right down,’ Moran’s man said. The ID card dangling from his lanyard read James Branston.

  ‘OK, just give it to me in layman’s terms,’ Moran encouraged him. ‘Something I don’t need a computer science degree to understand.’

  ‘What? Oh, sure, OK.’ Branston straightened his glasses. ‘It’s pretty straightforward, actually, as it turns out. I’ve broken the recording down to machine-code level. So it’s all binary now, you see.’

  ‘Or Chinese, in my case,’ Moran said. ‘Go on.’

  Branston licked his lips. ‘Right, well, each registry item ends with the same code – what I mean is, effectively, a cut or a pause, in binary-speak. Each registry holds x number of binary digits, you see–’

  ‘I’m sinking already,’ Moran said. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘In simple terms, the recording’s been spliced together, probably from different sources. But, and here’s the thing, most probably – and I say this carefully, ‘cause I may be wrong – most probably recorded in the same location. I can tell because I’ve isolated all the background noise, popped the signal through the decoder and–’

  ‘Wait. You’re saying that someone took some original recordings of Michelle LaCroix’s voice and created a fake recording – joined words together to create the ‘confession’?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, pretty much.’

  ‘And it was all done in the same place, the same room, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A recording studio, for instance?’

  Branston nodded. ‘Wouldn’t have to be, these days; a home studio’ll have the same gear, or a demo studio. Yeah, it’s possible. They’d have all the necessary equipment.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Moran said. ‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

  He had one foot in the corridor when Branston called after him.

  ‘Inspector Moran?’

  Moran turned, impatient. ‘What?’

  ‘Look for somewhere that has a bike garage, or repair shop, or something like it nearby.’

  ‘A motorbike garage?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s very helpful – and well done,’ he added, but Branston had already returned his attention to the twin monitors on his workstation, was peering at the next item in his schedule.

  Moran headed for the IR. Weren’t Bola and George at Nedwell’s demo studio right now? And wasn’t there a bike shop right next door?

  ‘All of it?’ Bola was trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice and doing badly.

  ‘Yes,’ Moran confirmed. ‘Anything which can store audio. I’m no expert, but laptops, PCs – they record with computers these days, don’t they? – tapes, CDs, all storage media. I want all of it back here in the audio lab by this evening.’

  ‘What about Nedwell?’

  ‘You can tell him not to leave town. He can stay put for now.’

  ‘He won’t be a happy bunny by the time we’re done,’ Bola said. ‘This is the guy’s living.’

  Bola sounded slightly aggrieved. Or maybe sympathetic? The DC was into music; maybe he’d found a common bond. Well, tough. Moran said ‘He could well be our prime suspect, Bola. Just do it please, as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Moran made a beeline to his office, unlocked his PC and found the audio file, closed his eyes, sat back and listened again with new ears.

  So, I’ve killed myself.

  I wanted to record something for posterity. Lucky you, whoever you are. Here we go.

  I’m not frightened. It won’t be much fun, I know. When the air runs out…

  I know what you’re thinking. Was she crazy? Why this?

  No. It’s what I want.

  Life is a cycle. Birth, life, death. You can hear the cycle in my songs.

  Now, I’m going into the earth, a fallen leaf.

  Today, the day you found me, a new song is unveiled.

  A leaf must fall.

  Yes, it’s art. Don’t get that? In which case, I can’t help you.

  I’m sorry if it’s really gross in here by now.

  So, to be clear, no one did this to me; I did it to myself. But…

  I got someone to help, obvs.

  No questions.

  No talking me out of it. That was part of the deal.

  Someone I didn’t know.

  Someone anonymous.

  You won’t know them, either. Don’t even bother looking.

  Anyway, no point rabbiting on. I always talk too much. Hard to work with. That’s one of the big issues, he always said.

  Well then; bye for ever, and sorry about the hassle.

  The leaf will fall, go into the earth…

  My name is Michelle LaCroix. I was twenty-nine years old. That’s it.

  He listened again. Paused at Don’t even bother looking, replayed it.

  Don’t even bother looking

  Was he imagining it? Could he hear the cut? Between ‘bother’ and ‘looking’.
/>
  Moran stopped the audio and wondered about complexity. Such an odd way to kill someone. Why had the killers taken all this trouble? Plural, because Nedwell, if Nedwell was indeed their man, couldn’t have been acting on his own. The secret burial, which hadn’t been as secret as they’d have liked, would have taken considerable effort and planning. They’d have needed an inside man too – or woman. The gravedigger, or the verger, perhaps? Or someone yet to be identified – Tess’ mysterious man in the pawn shop?

  Which reminded him. He picked up the phone, asked to be put through to the ICU. He waited a few seconds before a female voice answered.

  ‘ICU, can I help you?’

  Moran made his enquiries. No change. The pawn man, Milton, was still unconscious. In his experience, head injuries were always touch and go. It could go either way. For now, though, without wishing to sound callous, Milton was a dead end.

  So it was all about Nedwell for the time being. But, Moran conceded, something still felt wrong. Moran had been around the block too many times to count his chickens prematurely. There was more legwork to be done, more to be uncovered. Butterfield had been overly keen to point the finger at Nedwell – and if Nedwell proved to be innocent, that would mean that the guilty parties had gained more time to put distance between themselves and the murder, and Moran wasn’t happy about that prospect, not at all. So, then – options open, legwork to continue while Nedwell’s interviews were in progress.

  And then there was tonight’s graveyard trap at St Thomas’ in Goring, an unlikely road to salvation.

  Sometimes, though, as Moran well knew, salvation could appear in unexpected forms.

  Even in the form of a long-dead saint.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Goring-on-Thames. The epitome of an English rural town. It had everything: peace and tranquillity, the thread of continuing prosperity – courtesy of Old Father Thames – picturesque, red-bricked buildings glowing in rich, autumn sunsets, a sense of history, connections with literature, famous residents. The list went on.

  But was it too far out of town to attract the grave robbers? For all Tess knew they could be miles away, working some other area. Birmingham, Leeds, Portsmouth. Who could say?

  She sighed. It was a slender hope which, if she were to be completely honest, she would never have hung her hat on, but for DC Collingworth’s enthusiasm – Chris’ enthusiasm – reinforced by the supportive (and rather surprising) backing of the guv and Charlie Pepper. Well, Charlie was out of the picture for now, and Tess didn’t know how she felt about that. Or rather, she did, but she was keeping that thought at bay, in case it kick-started a process she’d later regret. She had only recently concluded that DI Pepper’s role in the events which had taken place outside the hospital that terrible day required a more thorough examination. And the dreams – the nightmares, Tess, be honest – had taken on a harder, harsher edge of late, in which DI Pepper’s persona had shifted from sympathetic, supportive boss into some kind of malignant despot, determined to send Tess into the fire if she could find an excuse to do so.

  Last night had been particularly bad. She’d awoken suddenly, sat bolt upright, her nightie drenched in sweat. The clock told her it was three twenty-five. Elements of the dream were still in her mind’s eye, freewheeling in slow motion like shrapnel. She went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and painstakingly began to reassemble the fragmented picture. Twenty minutes later, an untouched mug of tea beside her, she had the gist of it:

  She blamed Charlie Pepper for ordering her to stop the Duchess’ car, for exposing her to a bomb she’d known was out there.

  But Tess had been the only option, that’s how it had gone.

  Really? How about if they’d found the culprit earlier? How about if they’d handled the whole sorry episode more efficiently? How about if someone had simply called the Duchess’ driver, instead of sending an already-wounded officer into danger?

  But the dreams didn’t stop there. Since the recent pawn shop episode they’d taken on a more sinister quality. A tall man– the man – was there in the background, watching, waiting. He never spoke, but somehow Tess was able to hear his voice, the words a carefully articulated expression of intent: ‘We will meet again, be sure of it.’

  There’d been no more sleep after that, just another cold, grey dawn.

  ‘DC Martin?’

  Tess jumped, startled out of her reverie – or had she drifted off for a moment? She wound the window down. ‘Yes, PC Howard?’

  ‘We’re in position, well out of sight. Nothing to report as yet.’

  Tess checked the time on the dashboard clock. ‘There won’t be, not for a long while. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow night.’

  Maybe never…

  ‘Right you are.’ PC Howard nodded. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  Had Tess imagined the resigned look on the man’s face? Probably not. The prospect of a lengthy nocturnal stakeout was hardly living the dream, especially for a young guy with a family. Which reminded her; where was Collingworth? He’d nipped out to grab a sandwich and two coffees half an hour ago. Tess checked the rearview. A few pedestrians walking their dogs in the fading light, one or two couples holding hands, taking the air, heading for a romantic stroll by the river before dinner.

  Tess envied them. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since Mike had walked out on her, citing her job as the relationship killer. Had she truly believed that? Not really. She’d felt rejected, taken it as a personal affront. She hadn’t been good enough for him – that’s what he’d meant but never had the guts to say. Since then she’d focused on the job, pretended she didn’t need a bloke, joked with girlfriends that she was better off without one, enjoyed her independence, her freedom.

  All lies.

  Traffic through the village had thinned since early evening. All quiet in England’s green and pleasant land. But where was Collingworth? Street lamps on now, daylight all but gone. Very little movement – no, wait; a cat, scurrying across the narrow road. From Tess’ parked position she enjoyed a clear view of the entrance to the walled-off open land immediately adjacent to St Thomas’ church, the Rectory Garden, donated to the parish way back when. It was dotted with trees, a bench on the far side, but the shadows were claiming the area for their own.

  Another five minutes passed. She felt herself wishing for sight of the two PCs – or anyone, come to that.

  A fine mist had drifted over the village as darkness fell. She could barely make out the wall, and ten minutes later the church itself had all but vanished. It was stuffy inside the car. Tess wound her window down a little. The smell of the dank autumn evening invaded her nostrils, conjuring childhood images of conkers, long family walks, smoky bonfires. Her mind drifted, her eyes closed.

  She opened her eyes, disoriented. Where was she? She remembered, relaxed. Then the sound of footsteps on the wet pavement.

  Someone coming at last. Collingworth, finally.

  Not Collingworth.

  Too tall.

  Tess froze, tried to make herself smaller, hunkered down in her seat. The window was still open. She wound it slowly up, a centimetre at a time. The footsteps came closer.

  She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself crying out.

  The footsteps slowed, came to a dead stop.

  She became aware of a noise, breathless, high-pitched, realised it was coming from her – a primitive whimpering noise, like a terrified animal.

  Tap tap tap…

  Her heart leapt. Oh God, Collingworth, where are you? … please, please…

  Tap tap…

  She daren’t look.

  She looked.

  Not Collingworth.

  The hat was pulled down low, his face looming in the side window. Their eyes met.

  Tess screamed, lunged for the lock button, hit it, heard the clunk as the doors sealed. Her hands were trembling so much she could hardly operate her mobile. She dropped it between the seats, cursed. Her fingers closed around it. There was a muffled thump on
the roof.

  Don’t look, don’t look…

  But when she did, there was no one. The face had gone.

  Wait, forty metres ahead, under the street lamp…

  Coming towards her.

  Tess banged the mobile in frustration. Answer, answer, answer…

  The ringtone stopped. Bad signal. She threw the device on the floor.

  What now? Collingworth had the keys. She couldn’t drive away, couldn’t get out, in case she…wait. She looked again. The mist cleared a little.

  Collingworth.

  She unlocked the doors. Collingworth got in, smiling.

  ‘Sorry – took ages – everything’s shut, of course. Had to persuade a pub to let me have two coffees and a round of chicken sarnies. Took bloody ages. Hey – you all right?’

  Tess didn’t trust herself to speak. She was shaking like a drunk with the DTs.

  ‘What happened? Come here, it’s OK, it’s OK…’

  She leaned over, happy to follow instructions, allowed Collingworth – Chris – to hold her.

  ‘Tell me. What happened?’ His voice was gentle, soothing, made her feel safe.

  ‘The guy in the pawn shop. He was here.’

  ‘What?’ Collingworth disengaged, looked her in the eye. ‘Are you kidding?’ His hand went to the door handle. ‘When? Just now?’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘He’s gone. I don’t know how, it was all so quick.’

  Collingworth frowned. ‘Same as before? Who is this guy, Tess? Are you sure–?’

  ‘I’m not crazy, I know what I saw.’ She could feel her lip quivering.

  Collingworth saw it, pulled her to him again. She wanted to object, but–

  He smelled good, masculine, strong. She buried her head in his shoulder. This was all wrong. Unprofessional. Mad.

  After a while she looked up, their eyes met, and their lips soon followed.

  But the voice in the back of her mind, whispering at first, grew louder and louder until it was a roar that filled her ears: