by Scott Hunter
Moran emerged into the hall, momentarily nonplussed to find a familiar face watching his approach.
Samantha Grant’s smile was wide and genuine. ‘Well, hello Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Hello Samantha. Official business, I’m afraid.’
‘Yikes. Close to home, too. How can I help?’
‘Gill Crossley-Holland. I’d like a word.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’s not here?’
‘Well … she was. Bit of an issue, actually.’ Samantha smiled sheepishly.
‘Tell me more.’
She made a face. ‘A friend turned up. They had a bit of a row. It was pretty bad, actually. I had to distract the manager – Gill’s not in his good books as it is.’
‘How bad?’
‘Well, he was a pretty heavy-looking guy. Short, tattoo – biker type, you know, all shaved head and piercings.’
Moran thought of the motorbike, the angry roar of its engine.
‘Who was he? D’you know him?’
‘Not at all. Never seen him before. Gill obviously knew him pretty well, though.’
‘Did you catch what the problem was?’
There was a slight pause as a waiter appeared, walked past them into the restaurant. The door opened, and the warm blast of conversation and smell of food made Moran’s stomach yaw.
Samantha grimaced. ‘Well, I didn’t want to earwig, you know, but…’
‘You couldn’t help yourself.’
‘You know how it is.’ Samantha flushed. ‘I mean, she’s a friend, so…’
‘More a work colleague, you said.’
‘Yes, I guess so. Oh, a bit of both, I suppose. Anyway, I only heard a little.’
‘And what was the subject matter?’
‘Sounded like money to me. Isn’t it always? Listen, can I get you a drink? Or something to eat? I bet you haven’t eaten all day…’
Moran could have eaten a scabby horse, but he shook his head. ‘No – thanks all the same. I need to talk to Gill Crossley-Holland.’
Samantha blew out her cheeks. ‘Well, you could try The Cross Keys – over the road. She’s been known to take refuge in there.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure.’ She looked furtively around. ‘Can I steal a kiss?’
‘What? Well, I–’ Moran was taken aback, but pleased all the same. No one was looking. Why not?
She leaned over the reception desk.
He hesitated. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t…
‘OK, I get the message.’ The light went from her eyes.
‘Look, I’m on duty, I’m sorry. I’ll catch up later.’
Moran felt Samantha’s eyes boring into his back as he made his way across the hallway, sidestepping bar staff and waiters as he went.
The Cross Keys was as rammed as The Elephant. Ducking his head to avoid a low beam, Moran went down two steps into the lounge bar. Sure enough, Gill Crossley-Holland was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, tapping on her smartphone.
‘Ms Crossley-Holland?’
She looked up. ‘Inspector Moran. How are you? Social call?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can we pop outside for a chat? Bit noisy in here.’
‘Wow. Mysterious. Sure.’
They stood by the main road. Cars whooshed by and a soft drizzle began. Crossley-Holland stuffed her hands in her trouser pockets. ‘Well?’
‘You didn’t mention you were related to Michelle.’
‘Well, to be fair, nobody asked me. It’s not something I trumpet from the rooftops. And related is probably not entirely accurate.’
Moran nodded. ‘Michelle was adopted.’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t get on?’
A shrug. ‘We never didn’t get on. We were a few years apart. Not much in common.’
‘Except a boyfriend?’
‘Ah. Who told you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But you did go out with Neil Butterfield, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but not for long. Music was all he cared about. And dope, I suppose.’
‘How did you feel when he and Michelle became an item?’
Crossley-Holland lit a cigarette, blew smoke. ‘Indifferent. Good luck to her, I thought, if you must know. He’s a bit wet, anyway, and he likes his blow too much. But so what? Why are you asking?’
‘Aren’t you even slightly curious as to the identity of your sister’s killer?’
‘Of course. If it was murder. Michelle was quite capable of putting on a show, you know. Attention seeking, even on her way out. True to character, if you ask me.’
‘We’re beyond that line of enquiry. Suicide – even assisted suicide – has been ruled out.’
‘I see. Well, you’re the detectives, after all.’
Moran stepped back a pace, away from the billows of smoke.
‘Sorry, bad habit.’ Crossley-Holland threw the remains of the cigarette to the pavement and ground it with her heel.
‘You’ve just had an altercation, I believe? With a stocky guy, bald. Motorbike.’
‘That’s my business.’
Moran put his face close to hers. ‘Everything to do with you is my business, until I find out who killed Michelle. Clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘So, I’m listening.’
‘He’s just a guy I once knew.’
‘And what was the argument about?’
‘Money.’ Crossley-Holland laughed. ‘As usual.’
‘I’d like a name.’
‘He’s nobody. Really.’
‘Ms Crossley-Holland, I can trace the bike very easily. He’ll be on ANPR. It might take a few hours, but I’ll find him, so you might as well come clean.’
‘God, you make me sound like I have something to hide.’
‘Have you?’
‘No! He’s just a guy in a band.’
‘Who now makes a living out of the dead?’
Silence.
‘Gruffydd? St Swithun’s? The gravedigger?’
Crossley-Holland ran a hand through her hair, toyed with her pack of cigarettes, gave a reluctant nod.
Moran pressed on. ‘And the money? Why is ‘a guy you once knew’ asking for money? Quite a bit of money, judging by the heated exchange I’ve just been told about.’
Beads of sweat had appeared on Crossley-Holland’s forehead. She was looking past him, assessing her options. Moran knew the signs.
Her muscles tensed. Moran was ready. He caught her by the arm, grabbed her wrists, applied the cuffs.
‘Oh, come on.’ She tried to pull away.
‘Nothing to hide, nothing to worry about.’ Moran pulled her towards him, led her to the car, ignoring the shouts of protest, the language. A couple crossing the road gave them an odd look and a wide berth.
‘Get in.’ He pressed her head down.
‘Where are you taking me? I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘In which case, you’ve nothing to worry about. We’re going to have a little chat, and you’re going to tell me all about Gruffydd. And I’ll take your smartphone, while we’re about it.’
‘No way. You’ve no right. Get off… ’
Moran pushed her cuffed hands away, dipped a hand into her coat pocket, grabbed the phone.
‘Don’t! He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me!’
Moran slipped the smartphone into his own pocket, gunned the engine. ‘Who? Gruffydd? I don’t think so. Who’re you talking about, Gill? Ilhir Erjon, maybe?’
But Crossley-Holland had zipped up, turned away, pressed her face to the side window.
As they passed the The Elephant’s ornate frontage, Moran caught sight of Samantha silhouetted in the doorway. She raised a hand, then dropped it to her side when she saw Crossley-Holland.
Moran’s arrest had lapsed into sullen silence.
He drove on, mentally rearranging a sequence of events which, at last, was beginning to make a dark kind of sense.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Guv – quick word?’
DC Swinhoe was waiting in reception, buzzing with anticipation. Moran called a uniformed sergeant over. ‘Keep an eye on Ms Crossley-Holland would you, Sergeant?’
‘Sir.’
Moran shut his ears to another burst of expletives and left Crossley-Holland to inform Denis Robinson’s ponderous pen strokes. She’d clearly decided on a policy of non-cooperation, but Robinson was taking it in his stride. ‘Date of birth?’ Robinson enquired, genially. ‘In your own time, young lady. We’ve plenty of it. I’m here for the duration, so when you’re ready, hm?’
Swinhoe was all wide eyes and excitement. ‘Just been chatting to Denis, guv. He says Tess was in early, just before he went off shift – like, really early.’
‘Go on.’
‘We’ve got her login details. Plus I checked her browser history.’
‘And?’
‘She ran a photo through recognition, guv. Then she went to the Oxford website.’
‘What photo?’
‘Here, look.’ Swinhoe produced a glossy photo from a manila folder. ‘She thought she’d deleted it, but the app kept a backup. I think it’s the pawn shop. So this must be the guy who sold the ring – Michelle’s ring.’
Moran peered closely. ‘But where on earth did she get this? Unless–’
‘Unless Erjon tracked her, guv. Unless he gave her the photo and asked her to run it through recognition. But why on earth she’d–’
Moran’s mind was racing. ‘Oxford. Why Oxford?’
‘Guv?’
Moran turned. ‘DC Collingworth? Aren’t you supposed to be in Goring?’
‘We’ve made an arrest, guv – I mean, a guy turned up. He was hanging around, like he was waiting for something – or someone. So we nabbed him.’
‘OK, good. See what you can get out of him.’
‘He’s spilling already, guv.’ Collingworth looked pleased. ‘Told us he was on a job – leastways he was supposed to be, but his partner never showed.’
‘Oh yes? Hey! Keep it down, please!’ This to Crossley-Holland whose protests had been slowly escalating in volume.
‘You can’t keep me here – you have no right…’
‘But we do, I’m afraid,’ Robinson was saying. ‘Best just go along with it, eh? By far the best way.’
To Collingworth, Moran said, ‘You and Swinhoe take the Goring guy. I’m with Crossley-Holland. What’s the time?’ Moran glanced at the large analogue clock face above the desk sergeant’s workstation. ‘We’ve an hour or so before the midnight briefing. I want facts, and a clear way forward. Any intelligence relating to DC Martin, I’m interruptable, got that?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘I have a missing police officer,’ Moran told Crossley-Holland. ‘And I want you to tell me where I might find her.’
Crossley-Holland shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
Moran leaned forward. ‘Because something tells me you’re up to your neck in this, that’s how. Where’s Erjon?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘But I think you have.’
A head shake.
‘Why did you visit Butterfield? Your ex? Bit awkward, usually, those kind of visits.’
Several seconds ticked away, the only sound the gentle hum of the recording machine.
Crossley-Holland moistened her lips. ‘I just wanted to show my sympathy, you know? Make sure he was all right. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘Or maybe you wanted to warn him off. Make sure he kept his mouth shut.’
‘Warn him off what, exactly?’
‘Oh, come on, Ms Crossley-Holland.’ Moran sat back, folded his arms. ‘You have a lateral scar on your midriff. Same as Michelle’s. Inexpertly performed, according to my medical colleagues. Is that how you got involved?’
‘In what?’
‘In smuggling human tissue.’
‘You’ve been reading too many Inspector Morse novels, DCI Moran.’
‘I don’t read novels. You have a grand little network going here – a very lucrative one, too, I’m guessing.’
Crossley-Holland gave a dismissive snort.
‘So I’ve asked my staff to take a look at your mobile contacts, maybe do a little tracing. Help me join the dots, you know?’ Moran’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you can speed the process along by telling me precisely what and whom and how and where and when.’
‘No evidence. I’m not obliged to say another word.’
Moran stood up, went to the window, rubbed the glass to clear a patch of condensation, looked out onto the busy roundabout. Lights changed, cars revved. Horns honked. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, drawing ever closer. He faced the room, went to the recorder, hit the pause button and stood behind Crossley-Holland, leaned on the back of her chair. His voice was barely a whisper in her ear. ‘If your non-compliance results in the injury or death of one of my officers, I’ll make sure you go down so far you won’t be able to see the surface again. Ever. Is that clear?’
The door opened and George appeared. ‘Sorry, guv – a word?’
Moran closed the interview room door behind him. ‘Make it quick, George.’
‘I got hold of Butterfield. He’s in London, working on a new album, some basement studio in Soho. Anyway, he told me a bit more about Crossley-Holland. You know – the two of them. Nedwell fancied Michelle but it was never on. Crossley-Holland got matey with Butterfield’s band members – one in particular, the bass player.’
‘OK. So?’
‘He was drummed out of the band – excuse the pun – at Nedwell’s suggestion. For being crap, basically, but also for being a belligerent little bastard.’
‘Nedwell stitched the guy up?’
‘Yep. And we’re talking big grudges here, guv. Butterfield’s band has done all right.’
‘Name?’
‘Gruffydd. The grave minder.’
‘Saints and sinners.’ Moran clapped a hand to his forehead.
‘So, we have a motive.’ George was bobbing his head.
‘Against Nedwell, sure. But we’re still missing something.’
‘How about Gruffydd got taken on as a useful guy by Crossley-Holland and co? He must have needed the money.’
‘Go on.’ Moran frowned.
‘How about he helped put Michelle in the ground? So he would have been party to the plan, the whole suicide cover-up thing.’
Moran nodded. ‘OK, so he was aware of Nedwell’s recording, too.’
‘Must have been.’
‘So … he may well have figured that, were the grave to be discovered, there was a strong possibility of the recording being traced back to Nedwell? Especially if he could arrange for the prototype recording to be swopped for the finished product.’
‘Good, good. And to help us along he added a few embellishments of his own.’
‘The finger at Nedwell’s place?’
‘Yep. And the earring.’
‘He’ll have a buddy, I shouldn’t wonder, an insider – someone who still uses Red Ned’s studio.’
‘Luca, I reckon. Has to be. Nedwell trusts him with a key, he comes and goes whenever.’
‘Any news on his whereabouts?’
‘Nope,’ George said, but positively, as if there was more to come.
‘Go on.’
‘So, London is still the likeliest place for the guy to be holed up. But here’s the thing, guv; DC Tomlinson spoke to Luca’s mates again. One of his buddies who wasn’t home last time reckoned he spotted Luca counting a stash of money. Like, we’re talking fifties, not small change.’
‘The reward for evidence planting. And CD switching.’
‘And guess who’d just been over to see him?’
‘Don’t tell me: a guy on a motorbike.’
‘Spot on, guv.’
‘Right,’ Moran said. ‘I want Gruffydd here. On a plate. Now. Last seen leaving Pangbourne at around nine on his hotshot bike.’
‘Already looking, guv. He’s
not at home.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s been after his share, but my guess is Crossley-Holland’s given him the bum’s rush. Let’s suppose you’re right, George, that Gruffydd has a grudge against Nedwell. He exposed the grave, yes? He raised the alarm. But in doing so, he also exposed their carefully planned operation. Maybe he didn’t think that through.’
‘Not very bright, then, our Gruffydd.’ George’s face was flushed.
‘That being so, it shouldn’t be too taxing for you to find him – unless Erjon finds him first.’
‘Good point. We’re on it, boss.’ George made as if to leave.
‘Wait. If he beats you to it, don’t take any chances. Caution is the watchword, got that? And make sure you warn Bola.’
‘Got it.’
Moran watched him stride away. ‘George?’
‘Boss?’
‘Nice work, the pair of you.’ Moran mentally rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath, pushed the interview room door open.
‘Sorry to keep you.’
Crossley-Holland failed to make eye contact, continued picking at a hangnail.
‘You know what I think?’ Moran asked, propping himself against the chipped window sill.
‘What?’
‘I think you need a new recruitment policy.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Bit of a rough diamond, young Gruffydd, isn’t he? I mean, he’s a good laugh down the pub, but he’s not exactly the brightest star in the sky.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘So, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to employ him as a joint-assassin.’
‘Assassin?’ Crossley-Holland gave a short laugh. ‘A gofer, that’s all Gruffydd is.’
‘But the worm turned, unfortunately for you. Somewhere in his devious little mind, he sensed an opportunity to get his own back on young Mr Nedwell.’
Crossley-Holland picked harder at the nail, her mouth a thin line of resentment. ‘He’s an idiot.’
Moran let half a minute slide by. Then he went on. ‘What was Michelle’s crime, Gill? Did she threaten to expose your sordid little operation? Was that it? Or was it that you just couldn’t bear her to have any success? Because you’re the hot-shot international wheeler-dealer, aren’t you, Gill? You’re the family success story.’