by Scott Hunter
Stop. Stop this now.
She pulled away. ‘I’m sorry. This is ridiculous. Your wife–’ She drew a breath. ‘Stay here please, DC Collingworth. I’m going to check on the uniforms, make sure they’re paying attention.’
‘Tess, look, you don’t–’
‘DC Martin, please. Let’s keep this the way it should be. Professional.’
‘But–’
Tess got out of the car, leaned in. ‘You stay put. Keep your eyes peeled.’ She slammed the door, walked away, breathing hard.
What the hell are you thinking?
The church was shrouded in gloom; mist clung to the ground like a scene from a Hammer B movie. She turned the corner, found the path that led down the side of the church to the cemetery. No sign of the uniforms. Which was good; the first would be by the far wall, near the commemorative bench, as agreed, and the second near the rear exit which led to the street.
The porch loomed out of the darkness and her heart leapt. Had something moved? She stood stock still.
A cat sauntered from the shadows and passed her with a disdainful look, tail in the air. She relaxed, but her senses were on high alert, her night vision improving and the irregular shapes in the churchyard beginning to form themselves into gravestones of diverse shapes and sizes.
And then he was there, right in front of her, blocking the path.
She froze.
Don’t panic. The uniforms were watching. They would spot him, move in, grab him before he could–
‘I told you we would meet again.’
‘Who are you?’
She was surprised at how calm she sounded, her voice flat in the mist.
‘I am someone you obey. Without question.’
Tess fumbled in her jacket, produced her ID. ‘You’re under arre–’
The man made a dismissive gesture. ‘Your parents. They are infirm, I believe?’
‘What?’ Her heart, which had begun to thump in a slow, survival-mode rhythm, missed a beat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They will be my insurance.’
‘I don’t underst–’
‘To ensure that you follow my instructions.’
Where were the uniforms? Why couldn’t they see what was…
‘You will go to the hospital. You will talk to the duty police officers, tell them to take a break. You will allow me to enter the side ward. You will do this at 04.30 hours.’
Tess stepped forward. ‘There are police officers surrounding this church. You have nowhere to go.’
‘04.30 hours. Without fail. I mean what I say.’
And, in a moment, Tess was looking at empty space. She went to the corner of the church, checked the porch, backtracked. Nothing.
Mum, Dad…
She leaned on the porch wall, felt the damp stonework against her sweat-soaked back. Panic and dread coursed through her, a sense of utter helplessness.
What do I do?
Her mother had suffered a stroke three years previously. She was completely paralysed on one side, some movement in her right arm but not much. Her father managed a heart condition. They were frail, vulnerable, reliant on neighbours popping in, friends, their daughter…
They will be my insurance…
Tess wiped clammy sweat from her forehead. What time was it? After midnight, surely? She lingered by the porch, in a storm of indecision.
Uniforms. Find them…
‘Tess?’
Collingworth.
She turned. There he was, coming up the path. ‘I told you to stay in the car.’
‘I know, but–’
‘But nothing. Get back to it. I’m fine.’
His face was a mask of conflicting emotions. For a moment she wanted to tell him everything. But she couldn’t do that. Not now.
‘Sure. All right.’ Collingworth squared his shoulders and retreated, his body language radiating confusion and anger.
Tess swallowed hard, walked quickly through the churchyard.
She found PC Howard. He hadn’t seen anything. No one had arrived, no one had left. When Tess asked him why he hadn’t spotted her by the church he confessed that he might have been taking a pee at the time. PC Trent had decided to check the back streets for suspicious vehicles. Tess tore Howard off a strip and gave him a message for PC Trent along the same lines.
She went back to the car. Collingworth had opted for monosyllabic communication, which suited her fine. It was one thirty-three.
Which gave her a couple of hours to think.
Not enough, but it would have to do.
Moran turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open. He was met by darkness and silence, something he still wasn’t accustomed to following his Cocker Spaniel’s departure to a new home. Archie’s frantically wagging tail, the presentation of a chewed rubber ball at his feet, and the keen expectation in the dog’s eyes were all sadly missed, but a policeman’s house was no place for a pet, particularly one as lively as Archie. He still saw him from time to time around the village, straining on his lead, pulling his new owner along on his way to a riverside walk where, Moran knew from experience, the little dog would plunge into the water by the canoe ramp, sending alarmed ducks and moorhens scattering.
Moran flicked on the light switch and the doorbell rang. He consulted his watch. It was after ten. Muttering, he went to the front door, applied the chain, opened the door a crack.
‘Hi.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Moran smiled wearily. ‘A cup of sugar?’
‘Ha ha. No, evening stroll, if you’ve a mind and a good pair of legs.’
‘Aha. That’d be right – I didn’t think you were the kind of girl to take no for an answer,’ Moran said.
‘Hm. Good judge of character, but then you are a policeman, after all.’ Samantha Grant chuckled.
‘I’ll get my coat,’ Moran said. ‘No, wait, I’m still wearing it. But then, as you’ve been spying on me, you’ll already know I’ve just got in.’
‘Cross my heart, I had no idea,’ Samantha said. ‘I just thought, let’s see if he’s about.’
Against his better judgement, Moran allowed himself to be led outside and along the street towards the water meadow.
‘Do you mind?’ Samantha tucked her arm into his. ‘Bit chilly tonight. There was a mist on the water early this morning. You missed it. Oh, how did your graveyard visit go, by the way?’
‘By the way, I’m not really supposed to talk about the case,’ Moran replied.
‘Oops. There I go again. Sorry.’
‘But, as you asked, it was odd, and a little frustrating.’
‘Now I’m intrigued. You can’t leave it there.’
They entered the car park and found the stile leading onto the meadow. The darkness was profound, the river a strip of deeper blackness to their left. The recently mown grass was springy. A light wind rustled the unseen leaves high above the river and an owl hooted somewhere – a warning, maybe, or a challenge to some other nocturnal predator.
‘But I must, I’m afraid,’ Moran said eventually. ‘Until it’s all out in the open, all resolved.’
‘Hugely satisfying, I’d have thought,’ Samantha said. ‘Solving a case, I mean. Cracking the puzzle.’
‘Funnily enough, by the time you get there, you just want it to end,’ Moran admitted. ‘It’s usually a joint effort, not just down to my own deductive powers – which are limited at the best of times.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’ Samantha nudged him gently.
’You’d better,’ Moran said. ‘It’s the truth.’
She stopped, unlinked her arm and looked him in the eye, or so he believed; it was too dark to be sure. ‘Have I found an honest man?’ she said, almost to herself. ‘Finally?’
‘There are a few about,’ he replied, a little uncomfortably.
‘Well, then. Let me show my appreciation.’ She leaned in close, her lips brushed against his, and he drew her towards him, all resistance gone. She smelled wonderful. He kissed
her gently, then more urgently.
They stood, fused together in the darkness. Time passed. He didn’t want it to end.
A sudden movement, a black shape racing in the darkness, caught both their attention simultaneously. They disengaged, reluctantly, both startled.
‘Oh!’ Samantha pointed. ‘What on earth–?’
The shape had altered trajectory. It was now headed straight towards them.
Moran tensed, but then as recognition kicked in, he relaxed and laughed. ‘It’s all right. It’s an old friend.’
The shape gained clarity as it drew nearer. Now the tail was visible, and the ears, flapping to the rhythm of the pounding feet, were unmistakable. Moran got down on his haunches to welcome the dog. ‘Hello, Archie, what are you doing out here at this time? Yes, yes, I know.’ He looked up, sharing his pleasure at the unexpected reunion. ‘This is Archie. My old buddy.’
‘Hello, Archie.’ Samantha tried to pat the excited dog, but Archie was far too busy reacquainting himself with the familiar scent of his previous owner. His tail banged against their legs, whip-like, as the little dog moved between them both, checking them out.
‘Is he bothering you?’ A voice called out. ‘Sorry!’
‘Gill?’ Samantha peered into the gloom.
‘Sam? Oh, it is you.’
The newcomer was a woman of medium height, attractive, wearing a body warmer and wellies. Standard country garb, Moran thought, for sloshing about the water meadow. ‘Hello, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.’
‘Well, I had no idea you had a dog!’ Samantha retorted. ‘You never mentioned it.’
‘Didn’t I? Oh well.’ She shrugged. ‘Pardon me, darling. One can’t remember all the news, you know how it is.’
‘He looks well,’ Moran said. ‘You’re spoiling him, no doubt.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ Gill Crossley-Holland said. ‘Plenty of exercise, though. For me and him.’
They chatted for a few minutes until Gill said that she was getting ‘rather chilly’ and parted company with a promise to Moran to ‘pop over with Archie some weekend soon’.
Moran and Samantha continued up the towpath for ten minutes in silence, then, prompted by a light drizzle, turned as one and headed back towards the car park. The brief intimacy they had shared earlier had left Moran feeling awkward and unsure of himself. He took refuge in diversionary conversation.
‘Gill seems a pleasant sort,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t around when Archie was collected. I met her briefly a few weeks beforehand – just to vet the new ownership, you know–’
‘Awful pun.’ Samantha chortled.
‘What? Oh, sorry, completely unintentional. But I wanted to make sure he was going to a good home. I met the husband when he came to pick Archie up. Seemed pleasant enough. I forgot to ask after him. You know each other well?’
‘Not really. We work together – at the hotel, you know. We chat, village gossip and the like. I wouldn’t say I know her well, no.’
There was something in Samantha’s tone, something guarded. He let it go.
They found their way out of the water meadow, passed beneath the soft filter of the street lights and the railway bridge, and arrived presently outside Moran’s house.
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘Me too.’ Samantha’s tone had brightened. ‘See you around, no doubt.’
‘I take it that means you’ll be spying on me?’
‘No. Definitely not. I’m not the stalking, spying type, I swear. I’ll leave that to you lot.’
Moran laughed. ‘You make me sound like James Bond,’ he said, searching for his keys. He paused, ‘Look, about earlier, I didn’t, I mean I wasn’t–’
‘It’s fine, Brendan, relax. It was nice. I enjoyed it.’
‘Oh, well, that’s good.’
She laughed. ‘No pressure. We’re two grown-ups, right? Let’s see how things go.’
‘Yes, of course – and I enjoyed it, too. I mean, that’s fine by me. To see how things go.’
‘Good.’ She smiled and her eyes twinkled. ‘That’s sorted, then.’
He toyed with his keys. ‘It’s been a while since, I mean, since I had any… kind of relationship. Work, you know. And something else, from a long time back…’ he tailed off.
‘You were married?’
‘I was going to be. She was killed. A car bomb.’
‘Oh my God, Brendan. How awful. I’m so sorry.’
‘Like I said, it was a long time ago.’ He tried to brighten, rekindle the sense of optimism he’d felt by the river, but he knew his face was giving him away.
‘I’m glad you told me.’ She reached out, took his hand. ‘If you ever want to talk about it, you know where I am.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate that. Really.’ He couldn’t meet her eyes.
‘I enjoy your company, Brendan. I mean it. We’ll take things slow, as slow as you like.’
‘And have a drink or two along the way, I trust?’ Now he looked up and smiled.
She laughed. ‘That’s more like it. Of course. We shall indeed.’
He selected the house key from his keyring. When he looked up, Samantha’s expression had clouded. ‘What is it?’ He waited, key in hand.
‘You said you’d met the husband – Gill’s husband?’
‘Yes. Foreign-sounding, friendly enough.’ He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I said I didn’t know her that well, and I don’t. But I do know one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She’s not married.’
‘Well, it is 2019.’
‘I don’t mean that.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean there’s no man in tow. Gill’s a bit of a loner, as far as I can tell. She’s certainly not married, not even co-habiting.’
‘Maybe he was a friend?’ Now Moran too, was puzzled. Why would Gill claim to be married? He’d stipulated a stable home for Archie. Maybe she’d not wanted to risk his saying no. He ran the thought past Samantha.
‘That’ll be it, I expect.’ Samantha shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s her business. Probably nothing.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for a nice walk, Brendan. See you soon.’
Later, as he was brushing his teeth, he found himself puzzling over Gill Crossley-Holland’s white lie. That’s all it was, a white lie. No harm done. Archie had seemed perfectly content.
He drew the bedroom curtains, and one of his mother’s sayings came back to him. It was almost as though she were in the room with him, wagging her finger.
‘A lie’s a lie, Brendan, remember that. And there’s always a reason for it …’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Come on, Mr Nedwell. You’re tired, we get that. The sooner you come clean, the sooner you get to count sheep. Understand me?’ Bola tapped his pen on the table in a short, syncopated rhythm.
Nedwell, head bowed, arms folded across his chest, sighed deeply. When he looked up, his face was flushed. ‘I’ve told you five times already. I didn’t kill her.’
‘No one’s accusing you of murder, Mr Nedwell,’ George assured him. ‘But according to our boffins, the audio file points to you. Even the background noises correlate to the bike shop next door, right down to the external phone alarm the bike guys have set up. So, the recording was made in your studio. Ninety-nine point nine percent dead cert.’
Nedwell was shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Exactly what don’t you understand?’ Bola’s pen-tapping pushed the tempo a little. ‘It’s all pretty clear, I reckon. Unless you’re saying someone else made the audio? On your premises. With your equipment. How’s that work?’
George leaned forward. ‘You made the recording, didn’t you? You took all the bits and pieces from the studio out-takes with Michelle, all the talkback comments, and spliced the bits together to make a confession. George made bunny fingers. ‘And, as my esteemed colleague has already pointed out, our audio lab has confirmed
a match with the recording found clasped in Michelle LaCroix’s dead hand. Why would you go to all that trouble unless you were up to mischief?’
‘I don’t get it.’ Nedwell said miserably. ‘I just don’t.’
‘Explain.’ Bola double-tapped the pen, made Nedwell blink and look up. He chewed his lip.
‘Can I get out for a smoke?’
‘No.’ Bola waved the pen from side to side.
‘OK.’ Nedwell took a breath. ‘I’ll tell you. It’s the wrong CD, the wrong recording.’
George glanced at Bola. The big DC frowned, made a gesture of incomprehension. ‘What do you mean, wrong?’
‘It was perfect. I removed all external noise, all traces of joins, everything. Right down to hex level. There’s no way any audio lab could have sussed it. It was perfect.’ He spread his hands. ‘So, it must be the wrong CD.’
‘I’m not with you,’ George said. ‘You’re admitted to creating the audio, but you’re saying that the wrong finished product ended up in the grave?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better start from the get go,’ Bola said. ‘Like why you made the audio in the first place?’
Nedwell thought for a few seconds, as if weighing the risks, then started talking. ‘Two guys. They came in one night. I was on my own. One stayed by the door, just out of sight. One came right in. Threatened me. Told me what he wanted.’
‘Must have taken you a while. Complicated job, I’d have thought,’ George said. ‘Finding all those old sessions, picking out the between-take conversations, the odd words, exchanges between yourself and Michelle. It must have taken a hell of a long time.’
‘Yeah. It did.’
‘Like, how long?’ Bola was intrigued now, the tapping had stopped.
Nedwell shrugged. ‘Couple of weeks. They kept a close check on me. Every day, bang on eight, there they were. Back for the progress report.’
Bola broke in. ‘They, they, they. But who are they?’ Bola thumped the table for emphasis and Nedwell flinched. He reacted in kind, shouted back.
‘I don’t know who they were. I have no bloody idea, all right?’ His face turned a darker shade of puce. ‘I only vaguely remember what the guy who spoke to me looked like. He was ordinary- looking. Short hair, dark. His face was always half-covered. The other one, I just didn’t see him clearly. He was always on the fringe, you know?’