by Scott Hunter
‘Brendan.’
He turned. Samantha.
‘I can’t believe this,’ she was saying. ‘What happened?’
‘Arson happened. I don’t know. The fuel went up.’
She had, like him, thrown on a jumper, a pair of jeans. Unlike him, she seemed alert, wide awake. The thought was in his head and out of his mouth before he’d had time to fully consider its implications.
‘You went into the forecourt shop earlier?’
‘I did, to get milk.’ She folded her arms. ‘Thank God, I mean, what if it had gone up then?’
Moran looked away. His expression would reveal what he was really thinking. But too late, she’d worked it out.
‘You don’t think…my god, Brendan, how can you even think that?’
‘It’s my job. I have to look at every angle.’
‘But why on earth…Oh, I get it. I work with Gill. Therefore, guilty of subterfuge. Well, thanks a lot.’
‘Look, I–’
But she was already walking away. Should he go after her?
Not now, Brendan, this isn’t the time …
A new cluster of squad cars arrived, and firemen began to fan out to nearby houses, evacuating residents, shepherding them to safety. Moran went forward, collared one of the traffic cops, showed his ID.
As the emergency vehicles rolled in he joined the line of fire personnel escorting unhurt tenants to safety. The stretchers began their short, tense journeys, emerging with human cargo – some covered, some alive but injured. Mrs Gordon’s apartment had been on the south side. He knew that any enquiry was pointless; the wing had been completely destroyed.
He put his arm around one sobbing lady, led her to a paramedic.
‘Why?’ she appealed to him. Her hair was awry, her face blackened with soot and grime. A deep cut ran diagonally across her forehead. ‘Why has this happened?’
‘I don’t know, my love.’ Moran squeezed her hand. ‘But I’m going to find out. That’s a promise.’
The incident room was ablaze with activity. After a shower and a change of clothes Moran had called the team in. He was angry, angrier than he’d been for a long time. Preliminary examination of the fuel station debris had yielded a casing fragment from some kind of improvised explosive device. When he’d quizzed the specialist forensics guy about how sure he was, the answer came back instantly: ninety-five percent. The guy knew about explosives. That was good enough for Moran. By the time he’d read Charlie’s email, another piece of the puzzle had locked into place. The message made compulsive reading; Charlie had been her usual thorough self, attached scanned pdfs, old newspaper cuttings. Photos to follow.
Moran emerged from his office, prowling the IR like a restless tiger. DC Swinhoe was on the phone, beckoned him over.
‘Any joy?’
‘Promising, guv,’ Swinhoe cupped the phone with her free hand. ‘Hang on a sec – they’re just checking.’
Moran nodded. He wanted to get back to Gill Crossley-Holland – Giselle, he reminded himself. He’d not finished with her, not by a long shot. George and Bola were sifting likely locations, cross-checking with ANPR. The plumbing vehicle had appeared on camera several times over the last twenty-four hours and Moran was hoping for an early result. Panic usually led to drastic measures, and drastic measures usually led to sloppiness.
By Moran’s reckoning the events of the last forty-eight hours had created a ripple of panic which had peaked with the fuel station explosion. Question was, who had panicked the most? It had come as no surprise to hear that one of the staff fatalities in the service station had been one Rajeev Thakrar.
So Moran had his theories, one of which was, hopefully, about to bear fruit.
‘Thanks. That’s great,’ Swinhoe was saying. ‘Courier is fine.’
She ended her call. ‘They have a back-up, guv. Files are sent at nine pm, just before shift changeover. They’re sending a DVD via courier.’
‘Good,’ Moran nodded. Whoever had destroyed the fuel station hadn’t taken that into account. CCTV remote backups. Always a good IT policy, and fortunately, the fuel company had taken it seriously enough to make it part and parcel of their daily routine. ‘How long?’ he asked Swinhoe.
‘Within the hour, guv.’
‘Excellent. I’ll be with Crossley-Holland if anyone wants me.’
‘Good morning, Ms Crossley-Holland. How are you today?’
Her expression told Moran exactly how she was. She didn’t even look up.
‘Let’s stop beating around the bush. Let’s discard the alter egos, shall we?’
Now she looked up.
‘Giselle. And let’s drop the Crossley-Holland as well, while we’re at it. Good English name, that. Let’s not sully it any longer by association, hm?’
‘Whatever.’
The solicitor gave her a sideways glance. His suit wasn’t much better today. It hung slackly on him like a reprimand.
Moran said, ‘So, Ms LaCroix, your boyfriend picked a fight with me last night. Fortunately, his aim was off.’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Oh, but you do, Giselle. Neil Butterfield is your boyfriend and co-conspirator in the whole sorry episode of Michelle’s murder.’
‘Denied. He’ll deny it too. I told you, we had a brief thing once, but nothing since.’
‘You’re lying.’ Moran sat down now, faced her.
‘Prove it.’
‘As you wish.’ Moran took out Tess’ mobile, played the memo.
As the recording progressed, Giselle LaCroix’s face grew paler. The solicitor leaned over, whispered something. She compressed her lips.
‘My officer may have been at a low ebb, but she kept her wits about her. I’ll bet there’s not many can outsmart Mr Erjon.’
‘No comment.’
‘Rajeev Thakrar is dead. He died in an explosion at a fuel station in the early hours of this morning. Mrs Joan Gordon, resident of the retirement flats next door, also died in the explosion. Coincidence, you think? Or has someone lost their bottle?’
‘Search me.’
‘You’re a ruthless lot, aren’t you? You haven’t asked me anything about Neil Butterfield’s condition.’
A shrug.
‘Ruthless and arrogant. That’s my take on it. But the guy who takes the biscuit for arrogance is about to find out he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.’
There was a knock. Swinhoe put her head around the door. Moran paused the interview, went out.
‘You’ll want to check this out, guv. Looks like you were right.’
‘That’ll make a change.’ Moran allowed himself a small grin. ‘Lead on.’
A group of officers was crowded around Swinhoe’s workstation. As Moran appeared they parted like the Red Sea. ‘What have we got?’ He peered at the screen.
Swinhoe sat, ran the footage. ‘I figured we should start at the end of the day shift and work back, guv. Whoever planted the IED won’t have wanted it to be in situ too long before detonation time. Risk of discovery.’
‘True,’ Moran said. ‘So when’s this?’ He peered closer. The time clock in the top right of the CCTV app display read 20.35.
They watched as people came and went, paid for their fuel, bought cigarettes, chocolate, bottles of wine. Then, at 20.49, a familiar figure appeared.
‘King.’ Moran smiled grimly. ‘Surprise, surprise.’
He was carrying a plastic bag. For a moment or two he moved amongst the aisles. The camera lost him for a few seconds, but then he reappeared near the counter, paid for his fuel and a pack of cigarettes, left the shop.
‘No bag,’ Moran said. ‘Did you catch that? He dropped it somewhere. Can we go back?’
‘Yep,’ Swinhoe said. ‘And we can pick up the missing seconds on camera two.’ She clicked the mouse twice, and the display changed. Now they could see King on the other side of a bank of shelving cabinets. He bent down, cleared a row of plastic oil refills, placed the bag behind them, replaced the oil. All d
one in a matter of seconds. He took out his phone, checked something, then returned to the main aisle.
‘That’s it.’ Moran stood back. ‘We have him. Good reason to suspect.’ He looked around, saw Collingworth craning his neck. ‘DC Collingworth? Pick him up, please. ASAP. You’re with me, DC Swinhoe. We’ll collect Dr Gordon. Something tells me their relationship is about to take a turn for the worse. Let’s see if we can encourage the rift a little, fill her in on what King’s been up to.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Moran waited for Collingworth’s call confirming that King had been booked in before reopening the brief conversation he had begun with Dr Gordon when they’d interrupted her ‘very busy morning’ at the RBH. Moran could tell that she was holding it all together with difficulty. When he expressed surprise that she’d gone to work as usual following news of the fire and her mother’s death, her reply had been pragmatic.
‘I can’t spend too long away,’ she told them, as Moran held the car door open for her. ‘There’s only myself and a junior on duty.’
‘Not a problem, Dr Gordon,’ DC Swinhoe said. ‘Just a few things we need to clear up.’
‘Of course.’ The smile was tight, professional.
Cold as ice, this one…
Moran kept his eyes peeled as they approached the desk. No sign of King. Good. Collingworth had done his job well. By now King would be in the interview room next-door to Giselle LaCroix, and in a short while, Morag Gordon would book into the room on the other side. Three ducks in a row.
The timing was important, and eleven-thirty had been agreed between them.
Moran ushered Dr Gordon into the interview room. DC Swinhoe shut the door.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he told Dr Gordon.
She settled herself and fixed him confidently with her film-star eyes. ‘Shall we?’
‘Yes,’ Moran agreed. ‘First, I’m very sorry to hear about your mother. A terrible thing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You know’, Moran continued, ‘I’ve always thought that building a retirement home complex next to a petrol station was an accident waiting to happen.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t happy when Mum moved in. But she insisted.’ Dr Gordon gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘She could be very persuasive.’
‘Oh, I have to agree,’ Moran said. ‘But very charming, too.’
‘You’ve met her?’ The first trace of surprise clouded Dr Gordon’s face.
‘Absolutely.’ Moran glanced at DC Swinhoe. ‘You remember, DC Swinhoe, how impressed I was?’
‘I do indeed,’ Swinhoe replied.
‘Honest, too,’ Moran said. ‘Well meaning.’
‘She was,’ Dr Gordon said, a note of suspicion beginning to creep into her voice. ‘But we’re not here to talk about my mother, DCI Moran, are we?’
‘Are we not? Well, then, Dr Gordon, we’d better just touch on the subject of the weekly list, before we move on.’
‘She told you. God. She told you.’
‘Oh, yes. She knew the game was up. No point dragging it out, once the cat was out of the bag.’
‘But what led you to my mother? I don’t under–’ Gordon’s expression was pure panic. Her eyes traversed the room, an automatic reflex Moran knew well: the trap was closing.
‘Ah, that would be telling. But we’re hoping you can fill us in regarding a few missing details?’
‘Such as?’
‘You attended Michelle LaCroix’s grave, as I recall.’
‘I did. Standard procedure.’
‘Not so standard that you thought to inform your senior, Sandy Taylor.’
‘He was busy. Sandy’s always busy.’
‘He knew nothing about your visit, he told me himself. And while you were examining the body, we believe you might have mislaid a … personal item. DC Swinhoe?’
‘I’m showing Dr Gordon item number twenty-three, an earring, found at the grave of Michelle LaCroix.’
‘Well?’ Moran arched his eyebrows. ‘Wait – you’re going to ask for a solicitor. That’s quite in order. All in good time. Let me tell you what I think. I think that you were tasked to drop the earring onsite in order to implicate one Mr William Nedwell, of Red Ned’s Recording Studios. I wonder who asked you to do that, Dr Gordon?’
Silence.
‘Was it Gill Crossley-Holland?’ Swinhoe asked.
‘Giselle LaCroix?’ Moran clarified.
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘And there’s also the mystery of Michelle’s missing finger,’ Moran continued. ‘We know why it was removed, but the circumstances of it reappearing at Mr Nedwell’s studio are less clear. Perhaps you came across it during your examination of the body? In or around the burial site?’
‘No, I–’
‘Not to worry. It might have been Gruffydd, I suppose. Still, whichever, it makes no difference now. The idea was to stack up as much evidence against Mr Nedwell as possible. That’s what you were up to, wasn’t it? After Gruffydd blew the whistle? You, Gruffydd, Mr and Mrs LaCroix, Neil Butterfield. All pointing the finger at Nedwell.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Let’s move on,’ Moran said. ‘Mr Alan King, the surgeon? Would you say you’re on close terms?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Ah, you see, I was wondering if you were aware, that’s all,’ Moran said, one eye on the clock. Eleven twenty-five.
‘Aware of what, exactly?’
‘Aware that last night, at eight forty-five – in the petrol station near your mother’s flat – Mr King deposited an IED – that’s an–’
‘I know what it is,’ Gordon interrupted. ‘What are you saying? It’s a lie. He wouldn’t do that. I mean, it’s quite impossible–’
Moran let her flounder for a moment before leaning back in his chair. ‘DC Swinhoe?’
‘We have CCTV footage of Mr King acting in a suspicious manner in said petrol station,’ Swinhoe said, ‘depositing what we believe to be an incendiary device on a low shelf in the service station shop. The device exploded at approximately three-twenty-two this morning, igniting the fuel reservoir, and destroying–’
‘Stop. Just stop.’ Gordon raised a trembling hand. ‘You have proof, you say, that–’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Moran confirmed. ‘Ah, eleven-thirty. Let’s take a break.’
As Moran knocked to prompt the attending officer to open up, he heard two other door locks click open. Moran ushered Gordon into the corridor ahead of him just as Collingworth led Alan King out of the room two doors away. A few seconds later, from next door, Giselle LaCroix was escorted in like manner into the corridor.
A split second passed, then all hell broke loose.
‘You bastard!’ Gordon lunged at King, who stepped back in alarm, arms raised in self-defence. Gordon pressed home her attack. ‘I can’t believe it. You murdered my mother, you bastard!’ Her hands went for his neck. ‘You killed her, you … you…’
The uniformed constable grabbed her wrists, tried to restrain her – but now it was Giselle LaCroix’s turn. She went for Gordon, and before Moran, Swinhoe or the uniformed officer could intervene, delivered a swinging punch to Gordon’s face. ‘You stupid cow! You let your mother blab her senile old mouth off–’
Gordon reeled, cracked her head against the wall. But LaCroix hadn’t finished. ‘I told you that she’d do for us all. I told you you shouldn’t trust her–’
‘It was your idea to hire that Welsh idiot,’ Gordon shot back, blood trickling freely from her nose. ‘He blew the whole thing wide open. You stupid moron.’
King was watching events unfold with growing horror.
‘Have they told you? That you were caught on camera? Have they?’ Gordon was yelling at King now. ‘Murderer!’
‘I did it for us – to protect us,’ King blurted. ‘I didn’t expect it to … I thought it would take out the shop, the backups … that little thug, Thakrar. I didn’t mean to k
ill anyone else. I’m so sorry, I–’. King’s poise and arrogance had vanished.
‘You killed my mother,’ Gordon hissed, breathing hard. ‘Well, I’m going to destroy you just as surely. I hope you rot.’ She lunged at King.
‘That’ll do for now, I think,’ Moran said. ‘A little decorum, please. Thank you, sergeant.’ This to the duty sergeant who had appeared with three uniforms to investigate the disturbance. ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes, Mr King. I’ll try not to keep you waiting.’
‘It doesn’t look good, does it, Mr King?’ Moran folded his arms, regarded the surgeon across the table. ‘Illegal organ transplants, and now murder.’
‘I’m not saying a word until–’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Moran said. ‘You’ll get your phone call.’ He sighed. ‘But you’ll need a darn good solicitor to get you out of this. If you want my take on it, I don’t think such a man exists. You don’t need a solicitor, you need a bloody miracle.’
King opened his mouth to reply, found nothing to say, gave up.
‘Hero to zero, eh? That’s how it is, isn’t it? The man who had it all, reduced to nothing.’
King looked at him, a curious mixture of hate and resignation burning in his eyes.
‘So, tell me, just for the record. Why? What made you do it? What’s your connection with these people? These international criminals?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think I would. Your NHS salary not enough? Not even with your private practice?’
‘It’s not just about money.’
‘No? Enlighten me.’
King took a deep breath. ‘You’ve obviously been poking around, know my background – my army background, I mean.’
‘You served in Bosnia. Yes, I’ve read the newspaper cuttings. Quite the hero. Rescuing civilians from burning buildings, emergency operations in the field. Exciting life for a young man, I imagine. Some spare time for a little cross training, I shouldn’t wonder? Explosives, perhaps? I suppose you get to know about these kind of things by default on the front line. You’re in touch with contacts from the old days? Contacts not averse to the odd favour?’