by Scott Hunter
George went through the update. ‘…but the reporter, Jones. Out of it, the guv says. He gave her something – some drug or other.’
‘What drug?’
‘It’s affected her memory – like she’s forgotten who she is. I don’t know any more. Wait. What’s he up to–?’
The white van had parked opposite Alan King’s house – one of those new estate cul-de-sac jobs, five bedrooms, double garage, zero character.
The van logo read Aqua-Mazing Services. Bathroom refits, general plumbing. A web address, but no contact number. Funny how companies assumed that everyone on the planet was online, or could use a computer at least.
Bola was rambling away in the background. ‘So this guy’s a surgeon?’
George’s parents didn’t have a clue about the internet, social media, wifi. His septuagenarian mother still referred to computers as commuters, despite frequent correction by both Mr McConnell senior and George himself.
‘George? You listening, man?’
‘What?’
‘Chill, man. No need to bite my head off. So this doctor, he’s the big cheese at the RBH, right?’
‘Apparently. General surgeon. Walks on water. There’s a but.’
‘A big but, if the guv’s intel turns out to be on point.’
‘Is it ever not?’ George said. ‘Ah, here we go.’
The front door of the property had opened. A smartly dressed man in a blue pinstripe, carefully trimmed hair, slightly too long to be fashionable, carrying a leather briefcase, headed for the Audi sport in the drive. He clicked the lock, opened the car door, placed his briefcase inside. Stopped. Looked across the road, frowned.
‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’ Bola muttered.
‘Yes. Wait. What’s he up to?’
‘Sorting out his plumbing agenda, by the look of it,’ Bola said.
King walked smartly across the road and tapped on the driver’s side window.
Bola shook his head. ‘Parking issue. Self-righteous resident.’
The surgeon finished his brief exchange with the driver, returned to his car. The van engine started, moved off. George followed its progress. The Audi reversed smartly, and turning on a dime, as his favourite author Lee Child would no doubt have put it, accelerated up the road. The van went one way at the T junction, the Audi the other.
‘Tail him?’
‘I think so.’ George already had the engine running. He gave the Audi a fifteen-second head start, but then they were off at a speed which made Bola hang onto the passenger strap.
‘Easy. My grandchildren would like to know me a little.’
‘If this bastard has anything to do with what’s occurred, I want him on a plate,’ George replied through gritted teeth. They joined the main road. King was three cars ahead.
‘Hospital?’
‘On his day off?’
‘Maybe he needs to see a patient. He does private, too.’
‘We’ll find out.’
A gap opened up ahead. George stabbed his right foot down and the car took off like a bullet.
‘Mate, Brands Hatch this is not,’ Bola said.
‘What’s your problem?’ George overtook a lorry, swung back into the left-hand lane.
‘My problem is, if he checks his mirror and sees Damon Hill coming for him, he might get a tad suspicious. You carry on like this, we lose the surprise factor and I lose my breakfast. Both bad outcomes.’
‘All right, all right.’ Reluctantly George eased off the gas. He shut his ears to Bola’s commentary and concentrated on keeping the surgeon in sight. They were headed east along the Kings Road. Sure enough, the Audi eventually made a right turn towards the hospital.
George followed it into the overcrowded hospital car park. King headed for a marked bay, swung the car in, killed the engine. George cruised past him, turned left. No spaces. He braked hard. ‘Take over for a wee while, would you?’ he asked Bola.
‘Like I have a choice.’
George had already opened the car door, slammed it shut.
Now, let’s see what the hurry’s all about, Mr King…
He caught sight of King disappearing into the hospital block. George followed at a discreet distance. Every few metres the surgeon was warmly acknowledged by a nurse or junior doctor.
Royalty in their midst…
George walked briskly to keep up. King was a tall man, and he set a fast pace. He disappeared through a set of double doors marked Pathology. George hesitated on the threshold, peered through the double-square windows.
King was in the corridor, talking animatedly to a white-coated woman whose back was turned towards the doors. King was waving his arms around, didn’t look too happy. George didn’t need to see the woman’s face; he recognised the blonde hair, the perfect figure, so clearly well-proportioned even under the white coat: Dr Gordon. Even from the corridor, George could hear their raised voices.
The conversation went on for a bit, until it was abruptly terminated by Gordon simply walking away. King went after her, wagging his finger, but she continued on, into the depths of the Pathology department until she was lost from sight.
King slowed, stopped, gave up, made an about turn, came storming down the path lab corridor and through the doors like a raging bull. George had already stepped aside, found something intriguing to look at on his mobile.
He tailed King back to the car park, found Bola with the engine still running, cruising the car park like a prowling wolf. He got in.
‘Well?’
‘Not a happy bunny.’
‘Lovers’ tiff?’
‘Bit more than that, I’d say.’ George strapped himself in. ‘But we can’t arrest a guy just because he’s annoyed about something.’
‘True. So what now?’
‘We keep on him. He might go somewhere interesting.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘OK, we’re all knackered. I get that,’ Moran said to the assembled officers. ‘We’ll call it a day after this. But can I just begin by welcoming back DC Martin–’ Moran was going to carry on but the burst of heartfelt applause drowned him out.
‘All right, settle down, settle down.’ He felt the beginnings of a smile crease his face, for what felt like the first time in a very long time.
But they wouldn’t settle. The racket went on and on until he had to shout to make himself heard.
Eventually the noise subsided. Tess had remained at her workstation throughout the teams’ expression of relief and solidarity, hands clasped, sleeves pulled well down. Moran knew she shouldn’t be here. So, he also knew, did she. But he was acutely aware of her history, what she’d been through in the line of duty and his instincts told him that she was better off here than in some sterile side-ward being condescended to by a twenty-five year old postgrad psychologist – at least for the time being.
So here she would stay, where he could keep a watchful eye. He remembered his own abduction just a few months back, the way he’d felt – helpless, targeted, fearful. Better to be among friends, to keep the mind occupied. That was the way.
Moran stood in front of the whiteboard, cleared his throat. ‘We know a lot more than we did, thanks to your hard work. DCs Odunsi and McConnell are currently watching one Mr Alan King, our latest person of interest.’ Moran indicated a new photograph on the board. ‘We’ve good reason to suspect his involvement in the transplant racket, maybe even as primary surgical resource. Also Morag Gordon, doctor,’ he pinned a fresh photograph alongside King’s, ‘the pathologist who turned up at the grave on day one. The two are, in all likelihood, romantically linked.’ He picked up a marker pen and drew a connecting line. ‘Although I doubt that’ll continue after we’ve nailed them both. Which we will.’ He banged the marker pen on each for emphasis.
Moran went on. ‘I’m going to spend another hour with Gill Crossley-Holland, see if she’s feeling a little more co-operative. I’m convinced she’s a key player. Probably not at the top of the pyramid, but significant. Whatever – I’m ninety-fi
ve percent certain she’s responsible for what happened to Michelle LaCroix.’ He surveyed the upturned, tired faces. ‘In the meantime, back to your lives for the rest of the evening. I’ll see you all tomorrow, fresh as daisies, all right?’
The chorus of assent made him smile again. ‘Go.’ He made shooing motions with both hands.
As the room emptied Tess was left on her own. Moran hesitated, watching her from his vantage point. What was she thinking? How was she feeling? She was coping remarkably well, or so it seemed. Moran chewed his lip. Tess had gone off piste, way out on a limb, possibly compromising the investigation to boot. There’d be a reckoning – had to be.
But not yet.
She’d been lucky, if you believed in luck, to survive the experience. No harm done? Who could tell? Would he have done the same, to protect a family member?
You’ve a short memory, Brendan, sure you have … look what a mess you got yourself into in Ireland…
For family.
An image of Janice, his long-dead fiancée, appeared unbidden in his mind. What kind of family might they have had? Boys and girls? Just boys? They’d be grown by now, maybe with kids of their own…
He shook his head, dispelled the images.
He knew he’d have to address Tess’ actions at some stage. Higginson would insist, even as he, Moran, would put it off. But now was not the time. Now was the time for empathy. Moran put the marker pen down and went to her side.
‘How’re you doing?’
She looked up from her screen. ‘As well as can be. You know.’ She gave him a tired grin. ‘Tell the truth, guv, I could sleep for a year. But–’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t…’ She faltered.
‘Don’t want to go home?’ His heart went out to her. ‘Look, you can stay the night at mine, if you like?’
‘Really?’ Her expression brightened.
‘I don’t mean–’ He glanced around the room, but the last team member was headed out the door, jacket on, no doubt off to the local with several of the others.
‘Of course not, I understand.’ She shook her head, laughed at his awkwardness. ‘Guv, that would be so nice. I’d love to. But are you sure?’
‘Sure? Absolutely. I’ll get someone to run you over. Here–’ he fished in his pockets. ‘Here’s the keys. Number 21. The spare room’s all made up. Make yourself at home and I’ll see you later.’
She took the keys. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you. And … about what happened. I mean, if you hadn’t–’
Moran held up his hand. ‘No ifs, buts or maybes. Team rules.’
‘Right. Sorry. Forgot.’
‘See you later.’
‘Yes.’
Moran left his office, made his way to the interview suite, opened the first door.
Gill Crossley-Holland was standing by the window.
Her solicitor was seated, making notes. Balding, forties, badly-made suit. He grunted an acknowledgement.
‘Pleasure,’ Moran said.
Crossley-Holland began.‘Finally. How long are you intendi–?’
‘Sit down.’
She made a face. ‘Do you realise how long–?’
‘I said, sit down.’ Moran’s voice cut the air like a knife taking the head off a pint of Guinness.
Crossley-Holland sat.
Moran walked to the window, looked out. An ambulance wailed its way around the roundabout, headed out towards the hospital. Some other unfortunate – or fortunate, depending on circumstances – heading for medical attention.
‘You’ll be pleased to know our missing officer’s been found safe and well,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Why would I think otherwise?’
‘Because it was your man holding her hostage, maybe?’
‘My man?’
Moran went to the scarred table, put his face near hers. ‘Your man. Ilhir Erjon. Where might I find him, I wonder? I’m anxious to catch up.’
The solicitor leaned over, whispered something in her ear.
‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid.’ She avoided eye contact.
‘Does it not? Does it not?’ Moran nodded. ‘I have a fine picture building up here, Ms Crossley-Holland, and you’re well in the foreground.’
‘Tell me, do.’
Moran folded his arms. ‘OK, let’s summarise. The list comes in pretty regularly. Couple of time a week, maybe. At least six times per month at any rate. To a service station in Pangbourne. Maybe from India, Pakistan, Kashmir – somewhere similar, I’m betting. The list is collected by a pleasant, well-educated, grieving, but misguided elderly lady – I mean, no one’s going to suspect her of any wrongdoing, are they? This list is then passed onto a local doctor – the old lady’s daughter, as it happens – and eventually to a surgeon based at the Royal Berkshire Hospital. He in turn has a list of patients awaiting donor organs, and he goes through both lists, matching organ to patient as best he can. And I reckon he does pretty well. He probably has a little program on his laptop to do the matching for him. How am I doing?’
‘Total fantasy.’
‘But it isn’t, Ms Crossley-Holland, is it? I’ve already spoken to Mrs Gordon. We had a nice cup of tea together. She doesn’t like your Mr Erjon much, though. She had a bad feeling about him.’
‘Not mine. I don’t know this guy.’
‘Gruff used to pop in to see her from time to time, I guess when Morag was too busy. He owned a motorcycle, wasn’t averse to a bit of courier work between Pangbourne and Reading.’
‘You have no proof that I’m in any way involved.’
‘Where does the operating happen, Ms Crossley-Holland? Maybe at yours? Well, we’ll be having a good look around, just to see. Or maybe Mr King has other facilities, a house in the country somewhere? Off the beaten track? A spare room, all kitted out? D’you ever help with the operations? Scrub up, ready for action? Or are you just the financier? My money’s on the latter.’
The solicitor cleared his throat. His accent was public school through and through. ‘Are you going to charge my client? Is this speculation going to drag on for much longer?’ He looked at his watch. ‘If you don’t intend to charge Ms Crossley-Holland, I have to tell you that you are obliged to release her–’
‘We’ll be charging her, don’t you worry,’ Moran interrupted, ‘and well within the allotted timeframe.’
Crossley-Holland was picking her nail, wearing it down. She looked pale, hair lank and greasy. Her eyes were flicking from her fingers to the door, back to Moran.
Moran softened his tone. ‘Gill. We’ve had a good old poke around your mobile. Some interesting inbound text messages. Monosyllabic. Business-like. And the outbound messages are good, too. The last one, in particular. What was it you said? Don’t take my mobile, he’ll kill me? Are we talking about Erjon? I think we are.’
‘You texted Erjon, didn’t you, Gill? Just before I picked you up. Just after you had a little contretemps with Gruff. Get rid? Was that the gist of it?’
‘No.’
‘I think that’s exactly what you said to him. It’s coded, of course. But I think the message went along these lines: Gruff’s getting too troublesome. He’s blown everything wide open. Take him out. Right?’
‘No.’ A headshake.
A bead of sweat was clinging to Crossley-Holland’s hairline. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Moran sat down at last, joined his hands together. ‘I told you my team are good. Even under duress. That’s what they’re trained for. My officer found Erjon’s car registration. She even found a way to pass the information on just before she was kidnapped.’ Moran smiled benignly. ‘We traced the car. It’s a hire, of course, but even a hire has to provide an address. That’s right. The hotel. Where Erjon was staying. Forensics are going over that now, with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. I wonder what else they’ll turn up? But I digress. Guess what we found in the car?’<
br />
Crossley-Holland moistened her lips.
‘The burner phone. Which you called from Pangbourne. Which proves you know Erjon, doesn’t it? Oh, sure, he used a different name for the hire, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a man of many changing faces, Gill, isn’t he? He parked the car in Goring. Tucked away at the back of the village. I guess he thought it was too dangerous to backtrack to the vehicle after we found the boathouse.’
The solicitor took off his glasses. ‘And the charge is?’
‘Conspiracy to murder, your starter for ten,’ Moran said. ‘There’ll no doubt be more. But I reckon I’ve still got plenty of time. Enjoy your stay, Ms Crossley-Holland. I look forward to continuing our discussion in the morning.’
For once, Crossley-Holland had no response.
Moran paused at the door. ‘Oh, and I’ll be taking my dog back, if that’s all right with you. He deserves a better home.’
He left with the solicitor’s baffled expression hanging in the air.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Moran was struggling to keep his eyes open as he parked the car outside his house, killed the engine and wearily gathered up his bits and pieces, shoving pens, wallet, paper reminders, and finally his mobile into his jacket pockets. Before he let go of the phone, however, it bleeped. He groaned.
Now what?
Text from Charlie.
Been doing a bit of research, guv. Butterfield’s band were starting to do pretty well, but lost their record deal AND management recently. Something to do with changing trends. He’s an interesting guy. Ex heroin addict. Started out as an actor. Had a few TV bit parts. Anyway, probably nothing. Just thought I’d share. Take care. C.
Butterfield. The grieving boyfriend. Genuinely upset, Bola reckoned. Keen to diss Nedwell. Too keen, maybe. Actor.
Playing his part…
Ex-heroin addict? A tough one to beat, heroin, once it got hold of you. Hadn’t noticed any track marks on the guy, but needle sites could be hidden – his legs, maybe … Lost record deal. Not a lot of money around, then. Forensics had sieved his apartment to the last mote of dust – but maybe that was the point. Clean and tidy. Above suspicion. They hadn’t been back. Hadn’t needed to. Moran locked up, walked slowly to his gate. He had nothing to link Butterfield to Erjon directly, but what if …