by Scott Hunter
King shook his head disdainfully. ‘All right. I’ll tell you how it was. There was a family. Bosniaks. They were sheltering in a house. The roof had gone. There were six of them. Somehow, they got separated. A mother, father, and four children; an eighteen year old girl, the eldest, a girl of thirteen, and two boys, one sixteen, the other eleven. The youngest boy and the eighteen-year-old ended up together, running from the bullets. But the mortars kept coming in, so they hid behind a wall, the remains of an apartment block.’
Moran nodded. A mortar attack was something he knew all about. King’s voice was quieter now, sombre.
‘The youngest boy, he needed to take a pee. He walked away, just a few metres, missed the blast. The girl was killed outright. All that was left was bits of her clothing. She was blown right out of her clothes.’ He looked at Moran. ‘Three houses along, the parents were hit by shrapnel, the eldest boy fatally. The youngest daughter sustained a heavy abdominal wound. She was half-dead. A mess.’
Moran was adding numbers, putting the final bits together. He’d missed something else. One of the vital pieces. He half-rose, thought better of it, sat down again.
Too late. Too late, by a long way.
He motioned King to go on.
‘I operated on the spot. With the shells and air-to-grounds raining down. I saved her.’
‘But she needed a transplant?’
‘Yes. Once we’d stabilised her I got her into hospital. Not the kind of hospital you’d recognise, DCI Moran. A field hospital.’
‘And you found her another kidney.’
‘There were plenty of donors. That’s how it was.’
Moran was silent for a while. ‘And when did they get back in contact? Mr and Mrs LaCroix, I mean?’
King held his head in his hands. ‘Ten, eleven years ago, maybe.’
‘And by then they had a business plan, useful contacts; all they needed was a willing surgeon?’
‘Something like that. Don’t judge them. You have no idea what they’ve been through.’
Moran was curious. ‘But Michelle was opposed to the family ‘business’, wasn’t she? That’s why she was killed. And yet,’ Moran frowned, ‘she’d also donated a kidney?’
King gave a humourless laugh. ‘That was Giselle’s influence. Michelle was into drugs – big time – when she was sixteen or seventeen. She needed money. Giselle goaded her to donate, knowing she hated the idea, but–’
‘But addiction made her desperate?’ Moran said quietly.
King shook his head in distaste. ‘I think Giselle took a perverse pleasure in that. It was nothing to do with me – Michelle made her own arrangements. She didn’t want her family to know. But it didn’t go well. Surgeon made a bloody hash of it from start to finish – I’d never leave a patient with a scar like that, for god’s sake. Inevitably, she contracted an infection. She had to go to ground to recover – back home. So they knew in the end. I think they were pleased. They saw it as an end to Michelle’s opposition, but I think it just made it worse.’
Moran bowed his head, digested the information in silence. Wondered how he’d misread the LaCroix seniors so badly.
He looked up after a moment. ‘LaCroix. An assumed name, I imagine?’
‘Yes. They resettled in Belgium before eventually moving to the UK. What does it matter? Their identities were destroyed in Sarajevo, as well as two of their children.’
Moran nodded. ‘Poor Michelle. The replacement sister. She was never really one of them, was she? Just couldn’t align herself with how her adopted family made their living.’
‘I don’t know what to say. That wasn’t my doing. I’m not responsible for her.’
‘Maybe not. Not directly, anyway.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be back, Mr King. Quite soon. You can make your call now.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The LaCroix house had an air of abandonment about it. Moran knew before he knocked, could see the empty lounge through the window, the hurriedly half-drawn curtains.
But he’d known before they’d even left the station.
The birds had flown.
‘No one home, guv,’ Swinhoe said. A statement, not a question.
Moran cupped his hands around his eyes, squinted through the front door’s decorative panel of glass. A few bits of junk mail scattered on the bare floor, a rug, rolled up and left behind, propped against the wall.
He stepped back. Swinhoe tried the door handle. It opened.
‘Story of my life,’ Moran said ruefully. ‘The obvious always too obvious. Thank you, DC Swinhoe.’ He hesitated on the threshold. ‘Look, I can’t keep calling you Swinhoe – it’s not my style.’
‘Everybody does, sir.’
‘I know, but–’
‘It’s just that, well, I don’t really like my first name, sir.’
‘If I promise not to use it in company?’
Swinhoe chewed her bottom lip. ‘I suppose that’ll be OK, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s Bernice.’ She winced.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I hate it. My close friends call me Berni. I can just about cope with that.’
‘Splendid.’ Moran smiled. ‘After you then, Berni.’
The front room was empty of furniture and personal items. No vases of flowers. No knick-knacks. No pictures.
Except one.
Moran went to the mantelpiece, picked up the frame. It was a family photograph, one he remembered from his first visit. He wiped a thin layer of dust from the glass. Berni Swinhoe was at his side.
‘Zilch upstairs, guv.’
‘Here they are.’ He held the frame up for her inspection. ‘Recognise anyone?’
‘Wow.’ Swinhoe examined the photo. ‘That’s Giselle. And the girl on the right, she’d be–’
‘The daughter who died. Michelle’s predecessor.’
‘But … she looks like–’
‘–Tess Martin? Yes. It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?’
Even then, back in 1992, or thereabouts, the similarity was striking. The shape of the face, the curl of the mouth. She could have been Tess’ twin.
‘What about him?’ Her slim finger tapped the glass. ‘The young boy.’
‘Look at the eyes,’ Moran said. ‘They’ll tell you all you need to know.’
‘Oh, my god.’ Swinhoe’s hand went to her mouth. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Erjon?’
‘The surviving brother, yes. The face I should have recognised when I was last here.’ Moran shook his head slowly.
‘Come on, guv, you’re too hard on yourself. You were visiting Michelle’s grieving parents, not looking for criminals.’
‘You’re too kind, Berni. Too kind.’
Moran replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece, realigning it within its small, dust-free rectangle.
‘They left it deliberately. For me to find,’ he said quietly. ‘To rub my nose in it.’
‘They can’t run forever, guv. We’ll catch up with them.’
‘Maybe we will.’ Moran wiped his hands on his coat, more to remove the taint of the LaCroix family than to brush off any dirt which might have been transferred to his skin. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The Martin’s house was small, but smartly maintained. Every aspect of the exterior and drive was perfect, neat, well cared-for. Moran parked outside, switched off the ignition and mentally ran through what he wanted to say.
He exchanged pleasantries with the on-duty uniform. Probably unnecessary now, but he wasn’t going to tell this young fella he was wasting his time. He rang the bell.
An elderly man answered the door. He was wearing a cardigan, a pale green tie and a pair of reading glasses, which hung from a leather cord around his neck.
‘Mr Martin?’
‘Yes. You’ll be the Chief Inspector. Come in, please.’
Moran was ushered into a comfortable sitting room where a woman was reclining on an armchair. A wheelchair was folded up against the wall nearby.
/> ‘My wife, Patricia.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Moran said.
‘Here, let me take your coat.’ Mr Martin extended his hand.
Moran shrugged it off, handed it to the older man.
‘Please sit down, Inspector Moran.’ Patricia Martin’s voice carried traces of a county more northern than the one they were in. Borderlands, perhaps – Cumbria or thereabouts?
‘Thank you.’
As Mr Martin fiddled around with Moran’s coat in the hall, Patricia Martin said, ‘I want you to know that Tess holds you in high esteem. She’s always talking about you.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so,’ Moran told her. ‘And let me say, first and foremost, that DC Martin has been an exemplary officer throughout her time with us.’
‘There’s been no change, then?’ Mr Martin said, settling himself in the spindle-backed chair next to his wife.
‘Not as yet, I’m afraid,’ Moran admitted. And nor, he reflected, was there ever likely to be. His job now was to couch that reality in terms which would be readily understood, and yet not in a way which would add to their suffering.
‘I’d like to pop down to see her, when it’s appropriate,’ Mrs Martin said brightly. ‘Perhaps the sight of our faces will prompt her memory, don’t you think, Jim?’
‘Aye, it can’t hurt,’ Jim Martin said.
‘Of course,’ Moran said. ‘She’ll need a few days to settle where she is, let the carers get used to her and vice versa.’
‘Is it nice?’ Mrs Martin’s voice floated on the slightest hint of a wobble. ‘Where she is? I mean, it’s not one of those ghastly homes with dark corridors and grim-faced nurses, is it?’
‘Not at all,’ Moran replied, relieved that he could be totally honest. High Nelmes residential home for retired police officers was a tranquil, peaceful ex-stately home with extensive gardens, a restaurant, all manner of modern facilities. ‘Quite the reverse. I’d be happy to live there myself,’ he added. ‘Who knows, maybe I will, one day.’
‘That’s good to hear, isn’t it, Jim?’
‘Aye, it is that.’
‘That’s a good one of Tess.’ Moran pointed to a large gold-framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Tess, in full uniform, smiling. Her passing-out parade. She looked vibrant, ready for action, straining at the leash to get going in her chosen career.
‘Aye, she made us proud that day, didn’t she, Pat?’
‘She did. Oh, yes, she did. She was so happy.’ Mrs Martin leaned forward. ‘She’s not suffering, is she, Chief Inspector? I don’t think I could bear it if–’
‘No, not as far as we can tell.’ Moran put that fear to bed immediately. Bad enough that their only child had been reduced to some close-to-vegetative state, let alone that she might also be in pain, either mental or physical.
‘I want you to know,’ he told them, ‘that even under extreme duress, your daughter was still determined to bring the perpetrators of the crime she was investigating to justice. Without her help, we may not have progressed nearly as far as we have done.’
‘You haven’t got them all, then?’ Mr Martin observed.
‘Not yet, but we will.’ It sounded weak, inconclusive, a feeble statement of intent.
Mrs Martin came to his rescue. ‘A dreadful business. That poor young girl, Michelle.’ Mrs Martin shook her head sadly. ‘We’ve heard all about it on the news, of course. They will keep playing her music on the radio, too. We’ve been following the story, haven’t we, Jim? Our Tess’ last case–’
That thought was too much, an admission too far. Mrs Martin buried her head in her hands. Her husband leaned towards her, put an arm awkwardly over her shoulder. ‘We’ll be all right, Inspector. We’ve always been all right. Just let us know when we can come down and see the lass, would you?’
Moran stood up. As weary as he was, he was still perceptive enough to recognise a dismissal when he heard one.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll call in a day or so. I’ll see myself out.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Moran found an empty space next to George’s saloon and eased the car carefully into the gap; he’d fallen foul of the underground car park’s concrete pillars before. Another scrape wouldn’t do much to improve his mood.
He was locking the car when he remembered that Butterfield’s revolver was still in the glove box. Bad, bad, bad. He’d meant to check it in that morning, but distraction upon distraction had postponed his visit to evidence. Best do it now; it’d need checking, forensic examination, all the usual. He briefly debated whether or not to empty the chambers. No, best keep all as it was. It was evidence, after all.
He dropped the weapon into his coat pocket, conscious of its weight banging against his thigh as he made his way up the back stairs to the second floor.
The first person he chanced upon was DCS Higginson. ‘Ah, Brendan. Been to see the Martins, I understand? How’d that go?’
‘As well as can be expected, sir.’
‘Quite. Well, always best to apply the personal touch, wherever possible. Good of you to take it on.’
‘DC Martin was my responsibility, sir.’
Higginson looked him up at down. ‘Of course. You’re a good man, Brendan.’
An awkward silence ensued. Higginson went on quickly.
‘Any progress with the LaCroix woman? I’m keen to make an announcement as soon as – get these blasted press people off my back.’
‘I’m confident we have enough on her, sir. I just need a little time to – how shall I put it, dot my Is and cross my Ts.’
Higginson harrumphed. ‘And the surgeon?’
‘We traced the mobile surgery, sir. Cover was a plumbing company. Inside the truck, a state-of the art theatre. Fortunately for us, they were careless on disposal. I think we probably panicked them, once they knew we were onto them. And when we did track them down, forensics found a bucket of contaminated swabs. We can trace these back to King, I’m confident.’
‘Good. Well, I must get on. Don’t spend too long on the minutiae, Brendan. Messy one, this, with the Welsh fellow’s incident on top of it all – there’ll be an inquiry, you can be sure of that. I’ll be wanting a chat with the officers involved. Drop by when you’ve got your ducks in a row. I want this case put to bed, tout suite.’
‘Sir. I’d like to point out that DCs McConnell and Odunsi were instrumental in tracing said plumbing vehicle.’
Higginson nodded. ‘I’ll make a note. What about DI Pepper? Any update?’
‘Making a good recovery, sir. I’m sure she’ll be keen to get stuck in once she’s back.’
‘I certainly hope so.’ Higginson strode off, terminating the conversation with customary abruptness.
Moran steered a course for his office. He needed time to think, consolidate, build watertight cases against Giselle LaCroix, Butterfield, King and Gordon – Crown Prosecution wouldn’t settle for anything less.
George McConnell jumped up on sighting Moran. ‘Ah, guv.’
’George. What’s up?’
‘All good, guv. The Met have tracked Luca down – the missing musician. He’s already confessed to the planting of incriminating evidence at Red Ned’s Studios, so that’s one less worry. They’re sending him back to us.’ George glanced at his watch. ‘Should be here by mid-afternoon. Happy for me to interview?’
‘Absolutely, George. Go right ahead.’
Bola and Berni Swinhoe had also clocked Moran’s arrival. They hovered a few feet away.
‘Form an orderly queue.’ Moran tried not to show his irritation. ‘And make it quick. You first, DC Odunsi.’
‘A body’s been found in the canal, guv. Identified as one Aaron Povey. Strangled. Want me to attend pathology?’
Moran made a face. ‘I rather thought he might turn up like this. Yes, please, DC Odunsi. Might find something useful, you never know. Any clue to Erjon’s whereabouts has got to help.’
Berni Swinhoe came forward. Moran softened his tone. ‘Ber
n– sorry, DC Swinhoe?’
‘It’s nothing, guv – just wanted to warn you that I let the repair guy have the spare key to your office – he’s fixing up your door.’
‘At last. Thanks for letting me know.’
Moran reached his office without further interruption. A pair of overalled legs and an open toolbox greeted him.
‘Mind if I step over you?’ he enquired, as a matter of courtesy.
The overalled figure didn’t look up, just waved his hand. ‘Sure, carry on. Won’t be long.’
‘No problem,’ Moran told him. ‘Take as long as you need. Been annoying me for weeks.’ He high-stepped awkwardly over the prone workman, went to his desk, hung his coat on the chair, fired up the computer.
It felt like a long time since he’d been here. There were the two stacks of paperwork, same size and shape. There was the old photo of the Hannigans, his adopted family, taken so long ago it seemed like another world. The cheery, naive faces smiled at him through the years, full of bright optimism and youthful vigour.
The phone rang. Moran groaned.
‘Moran.’
‘Ah, Chief Inspector. Sandra Lockhart. St Swithun’s.’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘It’s a little awkward to discuss on the phone,’ Lockhart said.
Moran rolled his eyes. ‘I’m rather busy at present. Perhaps if you gave me an indication–’
‘I’m frightened,’ Lockhart’s voice said. ‘He’s going to come for me.’
‘I’m sorry? Who–?’
‘I’ve been a very foolish woman, Chief Inspector.’
Moran looked up as the door clunked against the wall. The workman was swinging it, testing the hinges, checking the alignment.
‘I’m not sure–’
‘I really do need to speak to you. Urgently.’
Moran looked at his watch, sighed. ‘Very well. This evening? Seven?’
The door made a soft clunk as it closed, opened, another clunk. Then a click as the workman tested the lock.
‘Thank you Inspector. I shall be waiting. I’ll meet you at the church entrance.’