by Scott Hunter
‘Yes, we knew.’ George scribbled the address. Made no sense. An old people’s home? ‘Did he mention a name?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘So, what did he do there?’
‘I can’t elaborate, I’m afraid, DC McConnell.’
‘The main points will do,’ George said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘The flavour of it, I said.’ A note of testiness had crept into Lockhart’s manner. ‘Seal of confession? Remember?’
George gritted his teeth. ‘Go on.’
‘The long and short of it was that he’d stupidly got involved with Michelle’s murder. Orion Court was his contact point. I believe he mentioned meeting someone he felt to be rather threatening – the person who was to accompany him on his mission to put that poor girl in the ground. His commanding officer, of sorts.’
‘Name?’
‘He didn’t mention a name. He simply said that when he met this individual, his blood ran cold. And I can assure you, DC McConnell, Gruffydd wasn’t the sort of man to scare easily.’
George nodded, prompted her to continue.
‘Well, he knew they were after him, because of his giving the game away. I mean, he told me about the burial at the first opportunity – I must say I couldn’t understand why he did that – if he hadn’t, well, no one would have known, no one would have noticed. As I said before, the graveyard is fully subscribed. Gruffydd’s the only groundsman, and apart from mourners – well, they’re there for a particular plot, aren’t they? But for some reason he blew the whistle. He said something about getting his own back on somebody. Anyway, whatever he’d intended, the whole thing backfired on him rather badly. Goodness,’ she paused for a sip of Scotch, ‘I can hardly believe I’m saying all this. It’s as though Inspector Morse has come to life in Tilehurst, don’t you think?’
‘Not really.’ George was out of patience. He put his notebook away. ‘Thanks for your time. I may well contact you soon, so don’t leave the country. Don’t even leave town.’
‘Ha! Fine chance. Oh!’ Lockhart’s hand went to her mouth. ‘I’d quite forgotten. I have to be in Reading for an eight-o’clock meeting.’
George glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It read just after seven. He rubbed his eyes with a weary gesture. ‘Not driving, I hope?’ He looked pointedly at her empty glass.
‘No. No, I shouldn’t, of course. I wonder, would you do me a huge favour?’
‘Namely?’
‘Could I possibly have a lift? The meeting will take up most of the day, and by then I’ll be fine to drive.’
‘We can’t spare any vehicles at the moment, as I’m sure you understand–’
‘–Of course! But I meant my car.’
George thought it through, couldn’t find a reason to refuse. ‘All right,’ he told her, wearily. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘You’re a gent,’ Lockhart smiled. ‘I’m awfully grateful.’
As Lockhart bustled about looking for keys, retrieving her laptop, putting her coat on, George shot a parting glance at his untouched drink. The cut glass pattern winked at him, almost a taunt.
You’ve won today’s battle, George, but the war’s not over yet. Not by a long shot…
Traffic was, as George had anticipated, bumper-to-bumper. Each car was being checked, each occupant questioned.
George showed his ID at the roadblock by Prospect Park, and curtly informed the officers that his passenger was helping police with their enquiries. He waited, fuming, as the uniforms ran their checks. By the time they’d left St Swithun’s Barraclough and co were winding down. Not a trace of Erjon – the op had been a complete washout, and Barraclough’s failure to apprehend the gunman was not only a poor reflection on the ARU team, but also a disastrous result for George and Bola. They’d led the grave digger to his death as surely as if they’d lined him up in front of a firing squad. The memory of Gruffydd’s resistance, his reluctance to leave the church, lingered in George’s mind.
The uniform stuck his head in George’s window, glanced again at his warrant card, sniffed. ‘All right, DC McConnell. Away you go.’ He waved them through.
Lockhart managed a wan smile as George negotiated the roundabout and floored the accelerator by St James’ Catholic church. ‘I’ll be a bit late, but I think under the circumstances, the committee will understand. I do appreciate this, DC McConnell.’
George grunted some noncommittal response. His mind was racing ahead. He wanted to catch up with the guv, get over to Pangbourne, check out that address.
He eased Lockhart’s car into Greyfriars’ church car park. A two-minute walk to the station. Two minutes to prepare for Moran’s questions. George felt a queasiness in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. Lockhart was chattering away, asking him something. ‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing – I’m wittering as usual.’ Lockhart gave a short laugh. ‘Thanks so much again. I must get going – they’ll be waiting in the church hall.’
‘Have a nice day.’ George handed her the keys. ‘And don’t move this vehicle until at least five pm, OK?’
Lockhart raised her hands in mock defence. ‘Scout’s honour.’
George headed off, hands in pockets. What had happened wasn’t his fault. Maybe they should have kept Gruffydd inside, double checked the whole area. If only … oh, what the hell. What was done was done. He had to face it: everything was going down the pan, Tess was still missing, and he was about to get his head chewed off and spat out.
Great start to the day, George.
Lockhart waited at the church entrance until George was out of sight. Satisfied, she backtracked to the car, unlocked it, got in. Sat quietly for a moment.
Turned the key in the ignition.
Composed herself.
Reached for the button to unlock the boot. Hesitated.
Withdrew her finger.
Mumbled a quiet prayer.
Pressed the button.
Click.
The temptation to look in the mirror was huge, but she resisted.
The Volvo’s suspension lurched, steadied. She held her breath.
A shadow fell across the window.
She wound it down, kept her eyes focused on the windscreen, the dashboard.
‘Good,’ a voice said. ‘You may go about your business. Now forget everything you have seen and heard.’
Lockhart felt her heart thudding irregularly behind her ribs. Her mouth was dry.
‘You may keep your money.’
Her heart almost stopped. He knew. But how? She tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
‘Provided, naturally, that your silence is guaranteed.’
She nodded, a quick jerky movement. She didn’t want to look up, to see those eyes boring into hers.
‘Or perhaps you have already said too much?’
‘No, no! I didn’t tell him anything. Nothing at all. Only that Gruffydd had turned up, frightened, wanted to stay in the church, that’s all.’
There was a pause, a silence which seemed to go on and on. Then:
‘Perhaps, like the Welshman, you cannot keep your peace.’
‘No! I said nothing.’ Lockhart shook her head from side to side. ‘I’m telling the truth.’ She sounded desperate, even to herself.
‘I do hope so, Ms Lockhart. Good day to you.’
She sat, frozen in the same position, for a good ten minutes until she felt able to leave the security of the car. Her legs were wobbly, untrustworthy. Gruffydd had paid for her silence, but now she’d given McConnell the nursing home address. Oh God, why? Why had she done that? She leaned against the door, took a deep breath.
You know why, Sandra. To make an end of it, that’s why. And the police will catch him, won’t they? Before, before…
No, don’t think of that. Of what might happen if he finds out. The police would catch him now, of course they would. And maybe then…
Maybe things will get
back to normal. You still have the money. Gruffydd’s gone, so who will know?
Cars passed on the roundabout. Shoppers walked by on their way into town. Bound for Sainsbury’s, WHSmith, maybe a coffee at Costa, a chat with friends. A normal day.
But not for Lockhart.
Normal had ended the night she had looked into the graveyard from her bathroom window and witnessed a young girl being buried alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Moran looked up. ‘Ah, George, Bola. I’ll make this quick,’ he said. ‘What exactly was it about be careful you didn’t understand?’
‘Guv, I–’ George began.
Moran waved him down. ‘Forget it, for now. We have a registration. It’s not a Lexus; it’s a Volvo – XC90.’ Moran tapped the side of his head. ‘My friend Jimmy’s not so great on luxury SUV IDs. Anyway, it’s a hire, and we have an address coming up any time now. And also it’s not the first enquiry they’ve had about said vehicle. Yesterday evening, around six, the hire company received a call from a police officer.’
‘Tess,’ George said.
‘In all likelihood. What is it, George? Something else on your mind?’
‘Lockhart gave me an address. A Pangbourne address.’
‘OK. Context?’
George told him. Moran knew it. Orion Court was next to his local service station.
Swinhoe tapped at the door. Moran beckoned her in.
‘Got it, guv. Hotel. Caversham Road.’
‘Off you go, then, yourself and Collingworth. With care,’ Moran added.
George opened his mouth but Moran raised a warning finger. ‘No. You two stay put. I can’t afford to risk sending you out until we’ve had a full wash-up. And in any case, I’ll need someone here to co-ordinate.’
Bola, silent up to this point, cleared his throat. ‘It wasn’t our fault, guv.’
‘It was someone’s fault,’ Moran said evenly. ‘But like I said, the post-mortem will have to wait for now. And I’m not talking about Gruffydd’s.’ He looked sternly at each officer. ‘George, it’s Crossley-Holland for you. Give her a grilling. See if you can break her. Bola, you’re with Swinhoe and Collingworth. Keep a close eye. In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in Pangbourne. Out, both.’
George and Bola slunk away, went in opposite directions. No eye contact.
Moran got up, retrieved his stick. The phone rang.
‘Moran.’
‘Morning, Brendan. Sandy Taylor. Got your message – about the LaCroix girl? How can I help?’
Moran sank into his chair. ‘Probably nothing, Sandy. I was just wondering; Dr Gordon attended to verify death, do the necessary and so on. Presumably on your say so?’
A pause, then:
‘Not specifically, since you ask. Didn’t mention it to me, at any rate. Probably keeping herself busy – not a bad thing, in my book. She’s had a rough time of late, young Morag. Mother’s a problem for her – the father died a couple of years back. Nice fellow – Swedish chap. Met him once or twice. They were very close. He was waiting for a transplant. No donors, sadly. She frets about her mother, visits her regularly – she recently moved, I believe. Quite a kerfuffle but the old bird’s game. Your neck of the woods, actually – Pangbourne. Lovely new place. Wouldn’t mind a room myself there one day.’ Sandy chuckled.
Moran knew the answer to his next question, but asked anyway.
‘She did tell me,’ Sandy replied. ‘Hold on, let the old grey matter tick over.’ Moran heard light tapping on the receiver at the other end. ‘Something to do with star signs. Zodiac, was it? No, Orion. That’s the place. Orion Court.’
‘Thanks, Sandy. Listen, I have to go. Speak soon.’
‘Pleasur–’
Moran crashed the phone into its cradle. The door caught on the carpet. He cursed, kicked it hard, slammed it behind him. Multiple pairs of tired eyes looked up as he limped across the room, quickly looked back to their screens.
Moran steered the car onto the IDR, took the Caversham exit. As he drove he thought about Morag Gordon, specifically the way she had spoken about the consultant she’d introduced him to. What was his name? King. Alan King. They hadn’t said much, just small talk, an exchange of pleasantries – although less pleasant was King’s rather disparaging remark about the LaCroix investigation. Cheeky so-and-so. Moran had let it go at the time. But the way he’d looked at Gordon – they hadn’t said much, but their eyes had spoken volumes.
Moran swung the car in a tight U-turn. Horns blared, fists waved. He put his foot down, carved his way through the rush hour traffic towards the Royal Berkshire Hospital. Pangbourne could wait.
He parked outside the main entrance. Damn the parking restrictions.
On impulse he stopped to buy a bunch of flowers. Roses, a few carnations.
Moran hurried to Charlie’s ward, hit the buzzer. The doors hissed open.
She was sitting in a chair next to her bed. ‘Guv! Thanks – they’re lovely.’
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Moran told her with a wink. ‘But I see you’ve lost your independent side-ward status?’
‘I don’t mind. Feels a bit more sociable. Staying long?’
‘Flying visit.’
‘Mm. My second of the day. Fiona Read popped in earlier.’
Moran frowned. The name was familiar, but…
‘The FLO. She’s lovely.’
‘Of course.’
‘Funny thing, though.’ Charlie swept her hair back absently in a familiar gesture.
‘What’s that?’
‘She was trying to get in touch with the LaCroix parents – step-parents. They were desperate to see Michelle.’
‘I remember.’
‘But they blanked her. Totally.’ Charlie made a go figure gesture. ‘Fi tried twice. She said the mother was quite rude when she eventually got hold of them.’
Moran shook his head. ‘Grief can do strange things to people.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Anyway, any luck with the grapevine?’
‘Any luck? My ears are aching with the volume of goss.’
‘Tell me all. Can I sit on the bed?’
‘Not supposed to, but no one’s looking right now.’
Moran perched himself awkwardly on the hard mattress. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Right, well, firstly, he’s ex-army. Served abroad – bit of a hero, apparently.’
‘Oh, really? Where did he serve?’
‘Balkans somewhere – not sure yet, haven’t had time to dig that deep, but I will, never fear. Anyway,’ Charlie leaned forward, like a conspirator passing on state secrets, ‘they all hate him,’ she said. ‘He’s a serial sex-pest with a serious ego problem.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ Moran reached for Charlie’s fruit bowl, selected a tangerine. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead. I can’t stand oranges.’
‘You’re supposed to be eating healthily.’
‘Yes, doctor.’ Charlie picked a grape, popped one in her mouth. ‘The thing is,’ she continued, ‘he’s damn good at his job. All the patients want him to operate. They all want to see him in the Outpatient clinic. His registrar doesn’t get a look in – he’s thinking about an alternative career, poor guy.’
‘Private practice?’
‘Oh, yeah. Have you seen his car?’
‘Don’t tell me. Bentley? Porsche?’
‘Close. Aston Martin. Yellow. Special order.’
‘OK. What about girlfriends?’
‘Well, his latest is, surprise surprise, our Nordic pathologist. But he casts a wider net.’
‘Is Dr Gordon aware?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Probably. Blinded by love. Lust. Money – whatever. It doesn’t seem to be a problem for her.’
‘OK. So, any other habits, lifestyle observations?’
‘He has one weekday off a week, regular as clockwork. Never misses.’
‘Happy registrar.’
‘Yes, his only day of grace.’
‘So, what’s the great man up to on his day off?’
Charlie shrugged again. ‘A day of passion with Ms Gordon? Maybe not. He’s never in a very good mood when he comes in the next day. So I’m told.’
‘Charlie, you’re a gem.’
‘What’s going down, guv? Are you getting close?’
Moran was on his feet. ‘Closer. Listen, I have to go, but let me have any more gen on King, when you get a chance – only if you feel up to it, mind.’
‘Of course. What else am I going to do stuck in here?’ She grinned. ‘But Tess? She’s OK, right?’ Charlie paused in mid grape-selection.
‘Just get well, Charlie,’ Moran said. ‘You’re sorely missed.’
A frown. ‘You haven’t answered my –Guv?’
But Moran was already half-way along the ward. He didn’t turn around, just raised his stick in salute.
Moran cruised into the fuel station, filled his tank, looked across at Orion Court. Odd place to build a retirement home, next to a Shell garage, but still. Convenient for some, he supposed. He paid for his fuel, paying particular attention this time to the staff. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mostly Asian. Young. Normal.
Maybe not so normal.
Orion Court’s ten parking spaces were vacant apart from one commandeered by a laundry van. Moran parked directly outside the front door, rang the bell. A voice in the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see number three,’ Moran said.
‘Mrs Gordon? Come right in.’
A buzz.
Moran pushed and the door opened.
He was immediately hit by the usual institutional environment atmosphere; boiled cabbage, lavender, and something else … the unmistakeable smell of old age. It couldn’t be suppressed, even at this price tag.
A woman appeared from a nearby cubby-hole office, looked him up and down. ‘Hello. You’re after Mrs Gordon? She’s just back. Always pops out in the morning for her paper. Amazing for her age.’ The woman gave him a wide smile. ‘I’m Angela Brown, the manager. You’re a relative?’