by Scott Hunter
The way I look? … What does that mean?
No way would she dwell on the nature of this attraction. She went for bland. ‘Your English is commendable.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment. It was a statement.’
The smell was becoming more noticeable. Something in her expression must have given her away.
‘Forgive me. The air is a little … foul.’
‘So now what? You’ve disposed of Mr Povey, I take it. Who’s next?’
‘My assignment is not a subject for discussion, DC Martin.’
‘At least tell me what this is all about. Who are you? Why did Michelle LaCroix have to die?’
Another pause, longer this time. When the response came it was directed not at her, but almost as a reflective murmur of introspection. ‘And why should I not?’ his voice said. ‘Where is the gain in covertness?’ Louder: ‘This much I will tell you.’
Keep going, Tess … he’s opening up…
‘Michelle LaCroix broke a bond of secrecy, Ms Martin. She felt a burden to … reveal certain truths to the wrong people.’
‘Money? Music royalties? What?’
‘Business, Ms Martin. An interruption of an important international business.’
‘I see.’
‘There are those who are needy, and those who are able to fulfil such a need. For a small reward. The needy will pay whatever they must for the privilege.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of extending their lives, Ms Martin.’
It’s Ms Martin now, not DC Martin.
‘Can you take this off my eyes, please? It’s uncomfortable.’ Worth a shot. If they were getting matey, he might comply.
‘Not at the moment, I’m afraid. Not until we are … ready.’
A chill rippled through her body. There was intent. Plural intent.
Keep him talking…
‘They’ll be searching, you must know that. I’ve been missing for hours now. They’ll have checked my house. They’ll be looking.’
‘Indeed. But they will never find you, DC Martin.’
Something about the way he said never killed any hope Tess had been nursing. She was going to die here, for certain. Eventually – when this madman had finished whatever he was planning to do.
‘They will.’ Her voice broke and she bit fiercely down on her lip. ‘They’ll find me.’
They must.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Ilhir Erjon.’ Moran spoke the name aloud, allowed it to hang in the air, and then said it again, as if the words were an incantation or summons. The grey man, as the team were calling him. He reread the email. For once Interpol had been speedy in their response. Yes, they knew him – or rather they knew of him. Erjon had been on their blacklist for more than three years, but his current whereabouts was unclear. What they did know was that he was of Serbo-Croatian descent, that Ilhir Erjon was probably not his real name, and that he was a professional hit man with a background in drugs, extortion, fraud – in short, whatever ‘business’ required his services. Interestingly, Interpol also included a sub paragraph relating to Erjon’s unproven but rumoured skills in coercion and hypnotic suggestion techniques.
Moran studied the photograph they’d sent. It wasn’t much better than the still image the techies had lifted from the CCTV footage. Better than nothing, though. He went through a mental checklist of sightings. First, if Nedwell was to be believed, Erjon had visited Red Ned’s Rehearsal Rooms, the pawn shop, and the cemetery, was possibly present at Michelle LaCroix’s internment – but had certainly been there when he, Moran, had visited the churchyard – and then, according to Charlie, had turned up at the hospital. The last sighting involved Tess Martin, who had now disappeared. Maybe she’d returned to the hospital to check on Milton? Or maybe she was working to another agenda? He reached across his pile of paperwork to pick up the phone, but before he got to it, it rang.
‘Moran.’
‘DCI Moran?’
‘Yes.’
‘I – I don’t know if you can help. We’re trying to trace one of our employees.’
‘We being?’
‘Sorry. James Fisher – Sun newspaper. This isn’t really an official enquiry, as such. I’m calling as a friend, to be honest…’
Moran frowned. ‘What’s your problem? I’m not a missing persons bureau. You can file a missing persons report with–’.
‘–I know,’ Fisher interrupted, ‘but my friend is working on the Michelle LaCroix investigation, which I believe you’re leading?’
‘That’s correct.’ An uneasy sensation crept into Moran’s stomach and made itself at home.
‘Her name is Tracy Jones. You’ve spoken – or so I understand.’
‘Briefly, yes.’
‘The thing is, she’s not answering her mobile – calls or messages. And her flatmates were expecting her home early this evening. Special occasion – boyfriend’s birthday. We just wondered if you’d spoken to her recently, or–?’.
‘No. Not for a day or so, I’m afraid. But look, she’s probably busy hassling one of my officers for an update. That’s what you’d expect her to be doing, right?’
‘Yes, absolutely, but she’s on a regular check-in time slot, you see. That means she has to file a daily report with the news desk by lunchtime. She’s always punctual – one of our best. If there’s a story to be found and filed, she’s our woman.’
Moran made a deliberately non-committal noise. ‘It’s probably nothing. She could be in transit, or maybe her mobile battery’s dead?’ Moran knew how weak it sounded, but it was the best he could do.
‘Maybe.’ Fisher sounded unconvinced. ‘Can you let me know if she gets in touch? I suppose it’s too much to ask you to–’
‘Investigate?’ Moran sighed. ‘Look, Mr Fisher, I’m in the middle of a high-profile murder enquiry, and–’
‘We’re aware of that, Chief Inspector. That’s why we sent our best journalist to cover the story.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I’d be very grateful. Her boyfriend’s very worried. So am I, frankly.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Fisher.’ Moran replaced the receiver.
‘It’s late, I know. But we have a missing team member.’ Moran scanned the assembled semicircle. Of them all, George looked the worst; pale, angry, possibly not rational. Should he send him home? No, better keep an eye, keep the man busy, otherwise he might decide to take matters into his own hands. It had happened before.
Moran stood by the incident boards. ‘Let’s go over what we’ve got, what we know, and what we suspect. There’s a link here somewhere with Tess Martin’s disappearance. I don’t need to emphasise the urgency; the first few hours are critical, as you all know, so let’s keep this brief and to the point.’ He turned and stabbed his finger at Ilhir Erjon’s image. ‘This is the clean-up guy. Tess saw him in the pawn shop. I clocked him in the cemetery. Last night Tess met him at the hospital.’
‘She did what?’ George was outraged, fists bunching at his sides.
Moran cocked his head. ‘I know. Unexpected, to say the least, but Charlie saw it. Sometime during the wee small hours. He’s got something on her, maybe he’s even leaning on her. Ideas?’
Blank faces.
‘DC Collingworth?’
Collingworth sniffed. ‘She’s been a bit touchy of late. Likes doing things on her own.’
Moran raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you elaborate?’
The young detective shrugged. ‘Freezes me out, mostly.’
‘Example?’
‘Went into the Goring graveyard solo to have a poke around. Hasn’t been particularly communicative. Not much of a team player, I’d say.’
Moran ignored George’s growl of protest and the basilisk look he shot at Collingworth. ‘Did she seem bothered by anything? Worried?’
‘Stressy. Time of the month, I’d say.’
Moran flinched inwardly at the gasps from the female officers present, but t
his was no time for a heavy reprimand. Collingworth was a rough diamond, sure, but there was potential there, if you knew where to look. The cockiness would fade in time. Moran filed it for later, waved the murmurs of protest away. He needed cohesion right now, not division.
‘All right, simmer down. DC Collingworth, we all have low points during the working month. You’d be wise to remember that. Now, did you notice anything specific about DC Martin’s behaviour which might help us?’
‘Not specifically, apart from what I’ve already said, but her house – well, it’s a disaster area. Looks like a student flat after Freshers’ week.’
Moran nodded, unsurprised. Mental state – not good. ‘Let’s work backwards, then. What have we got against Nedwell?’
Bola leaned forward. ‘The recording. He did it – that’s for sure. Maybe the coercion is an invention, not to mention the mystery of the wrong recording. Just bullshit to muddy the waters?’ Bola suggested.
‘And the finger,’ George said. ‘How’d it come to be in his studio if he didn’t put it there?’
‘And the earring,’ Bola added. ‘Which matches one found at the grave.’
‘And what does that all add up to?’ Moran thrust his chin out.
‘Guilty as hell,’ Collingworth said.
‘You reckon?’ Moran went to the board. ‘Don’t you think that the carefully arranged evidence against Nedwell is just that? Too neat, too conclusive?’
‘Someone wants him to take the bullet? Stitch him up for Michelle’s murder?’ Bola scratched his stubble.
‘I’m leaning that way, DC Odunsi. So, what about our other persons of interest? He stabbed a finger at each photograph. ‘Who’s the stitcher? Mr Butterfield, the grieving party? The missing musician – Luca? How about Butterfield’s friend, Ms Crossley-Holland – whom we now know to be Michelle’s adoptive sister? Or maybe our Welsh grave-digger? Or the verger?’ He faced the room. ‘What, or whom, is Mr Erjon covering for? Are Michelle’s and Ms Crossley-Holland’s scars related? Are they significant? What is Erjon so anxious to keep under wraps?’
‘You really think it might be illegal organ trading, guv?’ one of the female detectives piped up.
‘We have to consider the possibility,’ Moran conceded. ‘But if not that, what? Drugs? Money-laundering?’
‘We’re wasting time,’ George said under his breath. ‘Find Erjon, we find Tess, and then we know.’
Moran considered George’s comment. The wiry Scot was keeping himself under control only by a huge effort of will. His cheeks were red and his breathing slow. He was like a boiler reaching its maximum sustainable pressure.
‘What if Tess figured out something we don’t yet know?’ The female detective again. ‘And what if Erjon grabbed her before she could tell us about it?’
Moran trawled his memory for a name, found it in the nick of time. ‘Good. Thanks, DC Swinhoe. Question is, what?’ Moran paused. ‘When was Tess last in the office? Can someone check? Her login times and so on? Who was front-of-house this morning?’
‘Denis Robinson,’ George replied. ‘He’s on nights this week.’
‘Ah.’ Moran winced. Denis Robinson was not known for his speed of response. A meticulous, old-school copper who would not be rushed, he was best bypassed when the rubber hit the road. ‘Right. I’ll have a word. DC Swinhoe, can you ask IT to check DC Martin’s login times? And emails too, if you can.’
‘What about Nedwell?’ Bola had stood up, jacket over his shoulder.
Moran thought about it. ‘Let him walk. For the moment. But keep an eye – he might give something away.’
‘But–’
Moran waved away Bola’s protests. ‘We know where to find him. Right now there are other fish to fry.’
‘So who’s first up for battering?’ Bola shrugged his jacket on, straightened his tie.
‘First,’ Moran took a deep breath, ‘I’m going to pay Crossley-Holland a visit. You and George are going to pick up with young Mr Butterfield. I want to know more about his relationship with Crossley-Holland – especially if there was any animosity between them, or between her and Michelle. DC Collingworth?’
Collingworth sauntered over.
Moran looked him in the eye. ‘You’re with DC Swinhoe, and I want the Goring graveyard shift running again tonight. You don’t have to be there in person, just co-ordinate the uniforms, get them to report back hourly.’
Collingworth made a face.
‘Problem?’
‘Waste of time in my humble. I mean, it just sounds a bit desperate to me.’
‘We’re trying to solve a murder, DC Collingworth, which means that I’ll follow any leads I see fit, however unpromising you might consider them. Besides, it was your idea, right? And you’ll address me as ‘guv’, got that?’
Collingworth coloured, squared his shoulders. ‘Guv.’
George was at Moran’s side, competing for attention, his body language radiating impatience. ‘What about Tess, guv? We can’t just–’
‘DC Collingworth is going to follow the trail, George. He’s Tess’ partner.’
‘But guv–’
‘No buts, George. We do our job properly, we’ll find Tess. The answer is there, but so far we haven’t been asking the right questions.’ Moran turned to the room again. ‘Last thing: Erjon is a professional. If, over the next few hours, anyone gains even the slightest inkling of where he might be holed up, do not, I repeat, do not take any risks. Contact me immediately. Is that understood?’
A chorus of ‘guvs’.
‘Good. We reconvene here at–’ Moran consulted his watch. ‘Midnight. Everyone fine with that?’
Nods.
On his way out, a thought which had been niggling at him resurfaced, like a cork bobbing up from the depths of his subconscious. Dr Gordon had been the on-duty pathologist the day Michelle’s body was discovered. She’d told him she’d been sent by Sandy Taylor, the senior pathologist, who’d been busy on some other assignment. Unusual, these days, to have a path doc onsite so quickly. Might be worth having a catch-up with Sandy. And a second niggling thought was the Sun’s phone call. It was too early to be sure that Tracy Jones was definitely missing, but Fisher had sounded worried.
And it probably took a lot to worry a Sun journalist.
CHAPTER TWENTY
How long had he been gone? An hour? More?
Tess steeled herself for another tug on the rope. Her wrists were raw and tender but she could feel a slight slackening.
One, two…
This time the pain was intense. She felt a warm trickle run from her wrists to her palms and along her fingers. She relaxed the pressure, tears of frustration prickling her eyes. All the turmoil of the past eighteen months funnelled into her head like a cyclone. Everything she’d been through, the misery, the agony, the annihilation of her confidence – what was the point? Just to end up here. What had she ever done to deserve this?
And Mum and Dad? What of them? He’d carry out his threat, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Tess hung her head and wept, her sobs echoing drily in the airless space.
She awoke with a start.
How could I have slept?
The silence was all-encompassing. Not a sound, not even a distant rumble of machinery nor the passing of a speeding motorcycle, penetrated her prison. She reasoned that she must be underground, perhaps in a cellar or basement. But it didn’t feel damp, or cold. On the contrary, the temperature was mild, warm and dry.
Purpose-built.
A shudder ran through her, top to bottom.
A killing room. A place where loose ends are tidied up. And that’s what I am. A loose end.
She strained and pulled at her bonds with renewed energy, careless of the pain, screaming as loudly as she was able. Someone might hear. Anyone…
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. She heaved at each repetition of don’t.
Her hands remained tied, blood dripping on the floor. She fell back,
exhausted.
Don’t you? A new voice in her head spoke up. Why not?
She tried to shut it out, think about something else, but the voice just kept repeating the question, over and over.
Don’t you? Don’t you?
She gave in, answered it. No, I don’t.
But why not? the voice reasoned. An end to pain, an end to the struggle, the disappointment…
Tess bit her lip. Because, she hissed, there’ll be no-one to keep an eye on Mum and Dad. And what about…
…Your job? the voice interrupted. What about it? Look where it’s got you.
Tess wanted to jam her fingers in her ears, to shut out the awful logic.
Anyway, your parents won’t be an issue.
Shut UP. Tess silently screamed the words.
And you know why, of course. The voice paused, almost savouring the moment of the coup de grace …
Tess screwed her eyes tightly shut, not that it made any difference; the voice was indifferent to her physical senses.
Because, the words were proclaimed triumphantly, because they’ll be dead too.
Won’t they?
Moran turned into the car park adjacent to The Elephant in Pangbourne. As he manoeuvred into a space he was startled by a loud burst from a motorcycle engine. He caught a glimpse of black leather, full-face helmet, a flash of chrome, and then the rider was tearing onto the main road, the roar of twin exhausts reverberating in the bike’s wake like a Phil Collins drum fill.
The car park was jam-packed and Moran picked his way carefully between the shoehorned vehicles, eventually locating the short alley which led to the Elephant’s side entrance. He patted his pocket.
Yes, all present and correct. Just in case.
The bar was packed, and he was obliged to shoulder his way through the noisy Saturday evening crowd towards Hotel Reception. If she wasn’t here, then at least he could get an address. Why hadn’t he made a note when Crossley-Holland’s husband – ‘friend’, he corrected himself – had come to collect Archie? But there’d been no reason to. It had been a simple transaction, a new home for his frustrated Spaniel.