Gone Too Soon

by Scott Hunter

  Collingworth smiled. His record of successful pulls spoke for itself. He was a good-looking guy, he knew that. It was just a matter of patience, time and technique – as well, of course, as making the appropriate excuses at home. But he was pretty good at that, too. Jane had never sussed him, so no harm done.

  He steered the car into a resident’s parking space; they’d be at work so unlikely to need it for the few minutes it’d take to rattle Tess’ cage. Besides, he had his warrant card to wave at any irate locals pernickety enough to complain.

  No sign of Tess’ car, though. Bloody wasted visit. She’d probably be at the station now, wondering where the hell he was. He checked the house number. Yes, this was it. Number thirty-three.

  He rapped the knocker three times. No answer. Collingworth cupped his hands and peered in through a slim crack of window not covered by the partially-drawn curtains. Wow. What a mess. Taken aback, he squinted through the gap a second time.

  The lounge was a tip: empty food cartons and plates, empty bottles strewn everywhere, on the tabletop, the floor, the settee …clothes lying in neglected piles, clean or dirty it was impossible to tell. What he could see of the kitchen looked even worse. Not a square inch of surface visible, crockery, pans and … just stuff, piled on top of other piles. An overflowing waste bin, and maybe the most telling of all, a vase of dead flowers upended on the carpet, the dry petals crunched into the thin weft like brown confetti.

  Collingworth stood back, shocked and perplexed. The house was in a worse state than the most slovenly student’s room he’d ever seen at University. But what should he do? Tell the guv? Challenge Tess directly? If this was a reflection of her mental state it was a miracle that she was able to function in any professional capacity at all. He checked the address again. Maybe it was the wrong house. He hoped it was the wrong house. No, no mistake.

  And no Tess. Should he call the station? Bloody George would be pacing the IR like an expectant father. Maybe leave it till he got back. He’d done what the guv had asked.

  And besides, like he’d told DC Pain-in-the-Bum McConnell, he wasn’t Tess’ minder. He went back to the car, tore open his M&S sandwich, turned on the radio. Chill for twenty minutes; she might even turn up during his lunch break. Collingworth chewed his cheese and ham sandwich thoughtfully. Maybe he’d cool the seduction for a bit. Yeah. Best keep it well cool; if she was going down, no way was she taking him with her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Gill Crossley-Holland,’ George opened. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

  Nedwell regarded them with bleary eyes. ‘Didn’t sleep a bloody wink last night. You ever spent a night in one of your cells? No, ‘course you haven’t.’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Nedwell.’ Bola folded his arms, every inch the patient interviewer.

  ‘The noise. It never bloody stops,’ Nedwell told them, anger radiating from him like a police siren’s sound wave on max. ‘Slamming doors, drunks and crazy people yelling. And it’s freezing in there, like a bloody ice box. And–’

  ‘The question, Mr Nedwell.’ George cut him off.

  Nedwell’s shoulders slumped. ‘I know her. She hung around a bit when she was going out with Neil.’

  Bola leaned forward. ‘She went out with Neil Butterfield? Before Michelle did?’

  ‘Yeah. So what?’

  ‘When? For how long?’

  Nedwell shrugged. ‘A few months, I suppose. She used to come to the studio when Neil was recording with his own band. Wasn’t that into the music, I never thought.’

  ‘How did they meet?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know. Why don’t you get her in here and ask her?’

  ‘Because we’re talking to you at the moment, Mr Nedwell, that’s why.’ Bola smiled, his tone nice and reasonable.

  Nedwell scratched his chin. ‘The bass guitarist, I think it was through him they met. Yeah, that’s right – and a right pain he was, too.’

  ‘And how did Michelle get to swop squeezes with Crossley-Holland?’ George asked.

  ‘What am I? A dating agency?’

  Neither policeman responded.

  Nedwell looked at each in turn, sighed wearily. ‘OK, so as I read it, Crossley-Holland told the band that her sis was keen on singing. That she had a good voice, but never really had the chance to show it.’

  ‘Wait. Did you say sis?’ George looked at Bola, back to Nedwell.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bola’s eyes widened. ‘Crossley-Holland is Michelle’s sister?’

  ‘Maybe not blood sister. Adoptive sister, half-sister. Whatever. You didn’t know?’ Nedwell smirked, enjoying his unexpected turn in the driving seat.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ George sat back, blew out his cheeks.

  Bola leaned forward, joined his hands on the tabletop. ‘But you and Michelle were close, Mr Nedwell, weren’t you?’

  ‘Not really; like I said–’

  ‘Yeah, like you said.’ Bola cut him off. ‘But you’ve met mum and dad, haven’t you, Mr Nedwell? Leastways, you knew Michelle well enough to visit her at home. Her parents’ home?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘We’re asking the questions, Mr Nedwell,’ George clarified. ‘And you answer them, right DC Odunsi?’

  ‘That’s the generally accepted idea,’ Bola agreed.

  Nedwell was shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. That’s not true. I never went to her place, ever. Why would I?’

  ‘We’re waiting for you to tell us, Mr Nedwell. Let me jog your memory. Michelle wasn’t well at the time. Maybe you paid her a visit to see how she was?’

  ‘Brought flowers?’ Bola added.

  ‘No. I didn’t. I was never there. I hardly knew her back then. What is this?’

  ‘Back then? So you remember it was quite a while ago? Any idea why she was under the weather, Mr Nedwell? Or perhaps you met her medic while you were chewing grapes at her bedside?’

  ‘Medic? What medic?’

  ‘Who was he, Mr Nedwell? Remember anything about him?’

  ‘Look, this is a non-starter. I never went anywhere near her house. Her parents’ house, whatever.’

  ‘We’ll give you a few minutes to ponder, Mr Nedwell.’

  George’s finger hovered over the pause button. ‘Interview paused at–’

  Nedwell’s face reddened. ‘Oh come on. I’ve been here all bloody night. You can’t drag this out any longer. I’ve already asked for a solic–’

  ‘All in good time, Mr Nedwell.’ George stopped the recorder and Bola shut out the expletives with a firm shove of the heavy door.

  Moran was outside, poised to interrupt. His expression put George on immediate alert. ‘Guv?’ He wanted to cover his ears, didn’t want to hear what was coming. But Moran was more interested in Nedwell than imparting bad news.

  ‘Any joy?’ Moran looked at them in turn.

  ‘He just came out with something we didn’t know,’ Bola told him.

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘That woman, Crossley-Holland,’ George said, ‘she’s Michelle’s sister.’

  ‘Or adoptive sister, or something like that,’ Bola added.

  Moran let out a low whistle. ‘Is she, indeed? Well, well, well.’

  George couldn’t help himself. ‘Guv … Tess, is she–?’

  Moran held up his hand. ‘Calm, George. DC Collingworth has just confirmed she’s not at home, but that doesn’t mean anything, necessarily.’

  Necessarily. George’s heart skipped at the word. It meant that something else might mean something. And furthermore, the guv looked like he wasn’t giving the full story. Something was up. ‘I’m going to find her–’ George made as if to leave but Moran pulled him back.

  ‘Can’t let you, George. Not at the moment. We have some pieces to fit together – a nice juicy piece of CCTV, to begin with.’

  ‘What about–?’ Bola motioned to the closed interview room door.

  ‘Leave Nedwell for a while,’ Moran said. ‘We still have a few hours before w
e have to let him out. Or we can charge him with conspiracy to murder. I’ve not decided yet.’

  ‘Can you zoom in on the counter area?’ Moran squinted at the image.

  ‘Can do sir. One moment.’

  The IT officer clicked a menu item, made a selection from an array of radio buttons. The screen zoomed into focus.

  ‘That’s better. Now we know who we’re after.’

  ‘The ghost,’ Bola muttered behind him.

  ‘Like I said, DC Odunsi, he’s no ghost.’ Moran felt a buzz of adrenaline kick in. ‘Run this guy through the usual ID checks. Something tells me he’ll be well off our radar, though. George?’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Give Interpol a buzz, would you? Send them this fella’s fizzog – pronto. They may have something on file.’

  They all gazed at the screen. The pawn shop interior, the counter. Mr Milton, chatting to his latest customer. A tall guy in a long coat, fedora hat. The customer who, seconds later, would reveal the true nature of his visit. The clearest shot of the man’s face was a semi-profile, but it was a good enough shot for ID purposes.

  ‘Can you email it to me please, Tina?’ George was asking the IT operative.

  ‘Sure, George. Two ticks.’

  Moran committed the face to memory. It wasn’t easy. There was nothing about this guy’s face to help you remember. Except the eyes – deep set in hooded sockets, coal black tunnels of darkness. Moran had seen eyes like that before, and he knew what they signified. Two words sprang immediately to mind.

  Professional.

  Killer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tess drummed her fingers, did her best to filter out the car hire company’s on-hold muzak. The operative had been reluctant to disclose their client’s name and was checking with her manager. Tess had provided her ID, stressed the urgency of the enquiry, but in these days of obsessive GDPR compliance it was always going to be touch and go. The muzak looped back to the start, began its tinny repertoire all over again. The car hire offices were in Maidenhead, and Tess was reluctant to waste any more time.

  Come on…

  ‘Hello? Can I help?’

  Why did they always do this? She’d already explained what she wanted. Now she had to repeat the whole thing for some snotty-nosed manager’s benefit. Tess bit her tongue, went over the details again using her most officious tone.

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, we would ask you to–’

  ‘–I know, I know, it’s just that we need this urgently. I’m not talking run-of-the-mill, Mr–?’

  ‘Parker.’

  ‘–Mr Parker. The information is needed for a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Murder? Oh dear. Well, in that case…’

  Tess jotted down the details. An hotel, of course, some two-star dive on the Caversham Road – she knew it, had driven past it earlier.

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Pleasure. I hope you get your man.’ Mr Parker sounded pleased.

  Tess signed off, reached for the ignition, hesitated.

  Wait. Think.

  Eldon Square was still and silent, only the buzz of traffic from the London Road spoiling the memorial gardens’ illusion of isolation. The railed gardens themselves formed a peaceful oasis between the two main arteries in and out of Reading, overlooked as they were by the solid, Bath-stone-fronted houses around the square.

  This was the scene of the Irish siege, the background to her injury in the hospital bomb blast. Tess didn’t want to hang around here, of all places; bad memories … but she needed a plan. No good just waltzing into the hotel and demanding a room number.

  What then? If he was there, what could she do? Arrest him? Yeah, right, on her own? He was really going to let that happen, wasn’t he? Tess massaged her neck. She was exhausted, worn out. Maybe it was time to call it in. Explain what had happened. Then Moran could lead the team, make the arrest.

  But if it failed? Tess was in no doubt – he would carry out his threat. And that wasn’t going to happen, no way.

  The adrenaline she’d needed to confront Povey was ebbing away. She turned the sun visor down, looked in the mirror. God, what a state. Lipstick. She reached into her handbag, made herself look slightly more respectable, mussed her hair.

  OK, Tess. Come on. What now? She reread Povey’s scrawled writing on the crumpled scrap of paper, folded it, pursed her lips.

  I don’t know. I can’t think straight anymore.

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Maybe ten minutes shut-eye would clear her brain, reenergise her. Tess felt her mind beginning to drift, her thoughts moving subtly from the rational to the surreal on the familiar slipway to unconsciousness.

  She awoke with a start. Daylight had faded. Headlights were moving slowly along the London Road. What was the time? She reached for the keys, started the engine. The display lit up. Six-thirty four. She’d slept for over five hours and felt … groggy, but, well, yes, much better for it. Now, maybe a coffee from the local garage and some serious thinking. Tess rubbed her eyes, took a quick swig from the bottle of Evian she always kept in the door pocket, released the handbrake.

  The side window exploded, showering her with glass. An arm followed, caught her wrist in an iron grip, twisted her hand away from the wheel, removed the keys from the ignition. The engine died. The hands moved to her neck. Tess tried to pull away but the grip was relentless. She fought for breath as the gloved hands tightened, but her windpipe was closed for business. She pulled at the hands, tried to get her fingers under them. Too strong. She might as well try to shift a steel door. Her arms dropped to her sides. A black cloud was descending, a dark fog she knew she’d never escape. The hissing in her ears faded, the pain receded.

  All became still.

  Tess was adrift on a dark, flat sea, an endless expanse of water with no horizon.

  Again, she awoke. This time there was no moment of orientation; her discomfort overrode any attempt by her subconscious to bring her up to date. Her hands were numb and her head was pounding with a fierce pulse. She swallowed, painfully; her neck felt tender and bruised. Instinctively she tried to bring her hand to her throat, assess the damage. She couldn’t move her hand. She couldn’t move anything. Fear clutched at her, a cold, penetrating dread that set her teeth chattering and her heart racing.

  Where am I?

  There was something over her eyes, and over her mouth. She could feel the blindfold chafing her skin, so securely had it been applied. A sickly smell invaded her nostrils, a familiar smell she couldn’t quite place. She shifted her bottom, tried to wriggle against whatever was holding her. She pressed her back against something solid, unyielding – wood, or metal, she couldn’t tell. Was she sitting, lying down? Sitting, yes; it felt like she was sitting on a hard, wooden chair.

  Keep calm. You’ve been trained for this stuff.

  But she hadn’t, not really. Not for the stark reality of her situation. She was in the hands of a killer, no doubt there. The only positive was that he hadn’t killed her yet. But why not? Tess took a deep, steadying breath. That means he probably needs you for something. Tess felt panic rising like a small tornado, quelled it, tried to calm herself. It might be information, something he doesn’t know yet. That was her hope, that was the raft she had to cling to.

  Use your senses. Use what you’ve got.

  Tess strained her ears. All was silent, not a sound broke the stillness. No traffic noise, no ticking clock. Nothing. She felt panic swirling, ready to burst out.

  Come on. You can hear. You can breathe – you can think…

  The noise, when it came, was a shock. Some door, or lock had been sprung. A hiss of air, and a change in atmosphere. Someone else was in the room. Tess stiffened.

  Movement. Objects being placed on a surface. A coat removed, perhaps. A settling sound, like someone had sat down to read, or watch TV. Hysteria made a determined assault on her self-control; only by sheer force of will was she able to stop herself whimpering in terror
.

  The newcomer cleared his throat. ‘DC Martin. I must confess to a little disappointment.’

  His voice slipped around the room’s silence, each vowel and consonant carefully articulated.

  Listen. Listen and figure him out…

  She made a noise in her throat to let him know she was listening. It was painful, the sound she made more like a croak than the wordless query she had tried to express.

  ‘Yes. I think you know what I am referring to. We had an agreement, did we not?’

  Not English. Polish? Serbian?

  ‘But you decided to withhold the information, to keep me in the dark. And by now, DCI Moran and his team would be – on my trail, yes? As the old spaghetti Westerns would have it.’

  Mid thirties? Well educated …

  ‘But you cannot reply. How remiss of me. One moment.’

  A movement of air, and he was beside her, ripped the tape from her face. She gasped at the sudden pain, opened her mouth experimentally. It felt as though her lips belonged to somebody else. She ran her tongue across them, tasted blood.

  ‘So. Now we may enjoy a two-way conversation.’

  She heard him settle again.

  ‘Please. Your comments.’

  Tess coughed, took a breath. ‘You’ve abducted a police officer. Bad idea.’ Her voice sounded weak and apologetic, not strident and confident as she’d intended.

  A pause. Then, ‘I am awaiting a response to my question.’

  ‘I never liked Clint Eastwood.’

  A soft chuckle. ‘You may be wondering why you are still alive. And here is the reason: you have spirit. That and … the way you look.’