by Scott Hunter
Moran replaced the receiver.
The workman was gathering his tools, replacing them in the toolbox. The door was still firmly shut.
Moran turned his attention to the computer. His thigh bumped against something heavy in his coat pocket. The revolver.
Brendan, your memory is surely in decline…
He swivelled in his chair, slipped the gun out, set it on his lap. A little alarming to be brandishing a firearm. Best wait until the workman had gone.
But the workman was still rummaging in his toolbox, crouched on the carpet, muttering. As well as the toolbox, there was a battered brown holdall on the floor beside him.
‘All right down there?’ Moran asked him.
The workman looked up, so that Moran was able to see his face clearly.
The eyes.
Moran didn’t move. Not a muscle.
‘I always go to the top,’ the man said. ‘It takes a while, sometimes. But I get there.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Moran replied.
Now he could see the squat automatic nestled in Erjon’s hand. Silenced, of course.
‘You will not stop until you have tracked my family down,’ Erjon said. ‘I could sense this from the outset. As soon as I saw you in the graveyard.’
‘I like to think that persistence is one of my better qualities.’ Moran was trying to remember if the revolver was loaded. He’d intended to empty it. In the end, he hadn’t even checked.
‘Stand up.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘In which case, I will shoot you where you sit.’
‘And what, then? You just walk out of here?’
‘Precisely.’
And he would, Moran knew. No one would bat an eyelid. The door would close. A few people might glance up, go back to their screens. Someone would come in eventually, of course, and find him slumped over his desk, a bullet hole drilled through the front of his skull.
But it wasn’t going to end like that. Not if he could help it.
‘You won’t get very far.’ Moran moved his right hand slowly, lining up the revolver as best he could, given the angle, the obstruction of a desk in front of him, and the need to behave as if he were an unarmed man facing certain death.
Erjon raised the automatic, drew a sure and certain bead. So confident.
The professional…
Moran studied his fingers, looking for the tell-tale contraction of muscles and ligaments, tried to judge the moment.
‘This is not personal,’ Erjon said. ‘Regrettable, nevertheless. I am sorry, Chief Inspector. And no,’ he tapped the silenced automatic with his forefinger, ‘no one will hear anything.’
‘Interesting,’ Moran said. ‘Because they’re certainly going to hear this.’
The faintest of frowns appeared on Erjon’s face, as he sought to interpret Moran’s meaning.
Moran fired.
The revolver exploded in his lap. The heavy bullet hit Erjon in his forehead, just above his right eye, smashed him against the door. Glass shattered. Blood sprayed. Moran doubled over. The recoil had caught him squarely between the legs.
Ten, maybe twenty seconds passed.
A deep, shocked, silence.
Bola Odunsi’s head appeared, poked gingerly through the wrecked door and outer partition, followed a second later by George McConnell’s.
George was struggling to get his words out. ‘What in the… Guv? … What…?’
‘He’s only killed the guv,’ Bola stammered, took a step into the office, a step back.
Other faces, pale, equally shocked, were beginning to gather round. A low babble began, like someone adjusting a communal volume control, as the team members tried to understand what had just happened in their midst.
Moran raised his head from the desktop and grimaced. ‘I’m still here, DC Odunsi. Damage entirely self-inflicted.’ He tried to stand but the pain between his legs wasn’t having any of it. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair. ‘And temporary, I sincerely hope.’
The room stank of cordite and blood. George was on his haunches, checking Erjon’s body. He looked up, shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Moran tried standing again. The pain had eased to a dull throb. ‘I’d have loved to have spent a wee bit more time with him.’ He surveyed the damage to his office frontage, shook his head ruefully. The revolver was still in his hand. He set it down, changed his mind, picked it up, checked the cylinder chambers.
Empty.
Moran walked stiffly around his desk, inspected Erjon’s body. What a waste. A life driven to extremes by the extremes of life, a young head turned by bitterness, war, and … what?
The overwhelming need to avenge, to be in control.
Moran bent, unzipped Erjon’s bag. Inside, a rag and bone collection of fabric, a dark souvenir of the past. He sighed, closed the zip.
I’m sorry, son, but I’m in control here…
He stood up, gave the assembled officers his best shot at a grin. ‘Pity,’ he said aloud. Someone passed him a cup of water. ‘Ah, thank you.’ He swilled it around his mouth, swallowed. ‘I’ve waited months for that damn door repair.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
‘Usual, Bola?’
Brian Carroll, hard-pressed and long-suffering landlord of the station’s watering hole of choice, The Falcon, smiled genially as Bola and George approached the bar.
‘That’s a yep from me, Brian. Cheers.’ Bola returned the grin. ‘Easy on the ice, my man.’
‘I know. I’d be a pretty rubbish landlord if I couldn’t remember my best customers’ preferences. Orange and lime, max one ice cube, right?
‘Right. You are the man.’ Bola gave George a wink.
Brian turned his attention to Bola’s colleague, who was busy fiddling with some app on his phone. ‘George?’
George looked up. ‘I’ll take a whiskey. No ice.’
Bola did a double take. Had he heard right? George looked the other way.
‘Celebration, is it?’ Bola queried. ‘A little premature.’
And a little unwise, surely, given the history…
‘How so?’ George shrugged. ‘We nailed the medics, LaCroix is in custody, as will be her paramour – when he gets out of hospital.’
‘Yeah, but there’s the seniors, the elder LaCroix’. They’re the fat spiders in the centre of this particular web.’
‘But they’ve gone,’ George countered. ‘Probably crossed the Channel by now. Not our concern any more.’ Brian appeared with the drinks, set them down, failed to hide his discomfort. George accepted his tumbler. ‘Problem, Brian?’
‘Nah. I just thought you were … you know … on the proverbial wagon, that’s all. Your call though.’ Brian spread his hands, went off to busy himself collecting empties.
George glowered, sipped the Scotch.
‘Not our concern? Are you kidding?’ Bola felt his irritation spiral.
‘It’s pointless, isn’t it? All we do is scratch the surface, kill a few bugs. The real monsters are way too far down to reach. And,’ George wagged his finger, ‘maybe closer than you think.’
‘Oh, come on, George. You’re catastrophising, big time.’
‘Yeah? Well, think about this. How did Erjon bypass security at the station so easily?’
Bola shrugged. ‘Faked his ID. Got himself a security badge, put on a set of overalls. That’s all. Not so hard.’
‘You reckon? Or maybe, just maybe, he had a little help?’ George held his tumbler to his chest. ‘How would he know where to position himself? Where the guv’s office was located? Plus, he knew what was on the maintenance list.’
‘You saying we have a mole?’
‘I’m saying, think about it.’
‘I don’t know, George, it seems unlike–’
But George was in full flow. His cheeks flushed pink, then a darker hue. ‘Wheels within wheels, Bola, my friend. My advice is to watch your back. We’re just scraping the surface, and it’s hard to
see through it. Who knows what’s down there?’
‘I dunno. It’s a good team. We worked damn hard on this one. I can’t say I’d find it easy to point the finger at any of them.’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘Well, I’d keep them to yourself for now, George. Really.’
‘What difference?’ George jabbed Bola in the stomach with his forefinger. ‘You know what’s next for us, anyhow. We get hauled up before some holier-than-thou tribunal of spotty graduates – plus token senior officer – to explain why a key suspect ended up with a bullet in his head.’
Bola took a swig of his drink, clinked his ice cube. Tried not to respond with something he might later regret. ‘It’ll be OK, George. Firearms Command and Barraclough’s team are in that loop, too. We’ll get a slap on the wrist, that’s all.’
‘And there’s the small matter of you and Crossley-Holland. The guv wasn’t impressed.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Bola shrugged. ‘I didn’t know she was involved, did I?’
George grimaced. ‘The guv’s not been himself, recently. Have you noticed? Lot of anger there. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes right now, son,’ George shook his head. ‘Not at all.’
‘He’ll come round. We did good tracking the mobile theatre, right? So, like you said, we nailed the medics. There’s enough points on my tab. I’m not worried.’
George downed his Scotch, made a dismissive gesture. ‘You know your trouble, Bola?’
‘Nope, but something tells me you’re going to enlighten me,’ Bola said. ‘So come on, let’s have it.’
‘You trust the system too much. You think it’s there to back you up, to serve you. Well, it’s not. You get out of line, they drop you like a hot stone.’
‘George, I get that you’re upset. We all are, man. Tess was–’
‘Tess is, not was. She’s alive, and she’ll get better.’
Bola fell silent. No point contradicting that statement, not in George’s current frame of mind.
The saloon door banged open and Chris Collingworth came in. He made a beeline for them.
‘All right? Man, am I glad that shift is over.’
Bola groaned inwardly. Not just bad timing on Collingworth’s part – bad timing and off-key as well.
‘Hey.’ Bola got his greeting in first. ‘What can I get you?’
‘You buying, big man? Cool. Pint of Stella top, if you please.’
Bola could feel George simmering beside him. As long as he was between George and Collingworth, he had some degree of control. He ordered the drink, kept talking. ‘Heard you’re a hot shot in the pool department. Wanna see how it should be done?’
‘Are you kidding? Lead me to the blue baize.’
‘Catch you in a while, George. Gonna hustle this boy a while.’ Bola led Collingworth to the far corner of the pub where the pool table was – unusually – unoccupied and open for business.
Bola kept George in his peripheral vision as he set up the table. Collingworth was chalking his cue, oblivious to any danger.
They played a couple of frames. Time passed. Collingworth sauntered to the juke box as Bola was lining up a shot. Michelle LaCroix’s voice filled the bar. Her last single.
Bola froze in mid-shot. Bad taste. Bad idea, too.
Collingworth was heading for the toilet. Bola watched George slip off his bar stool, follow the DC towards the gents.
Bola dropped the pool cue, shouldered his way past the knot of drinkers around the bar. He wasn’t making fast enough progress. As he barged the door to the gents he was greeted with the familiar sound of a fist meeting flesh.
Collingworth was half-sprawled over the washbasin, hand clasped to his face, blood dripping freely from his nose. ‘This guy,’ he bubbled, ‘is a certifiable maniac.’ He waved in George’s general direction, but George was already lining up for round two.
Bola waded in, shoved George in the chest, hard enough to send him crashing against a cubicle door, which banged open and allowed George to continue along his unexpected trajectory until he came to a final, limb-splayed rest on the toilet.
‘Get out of here,’ Bola said to Collingworth over his shoulder. ‘And you say nothing about this, OK?’
‘Don’t bloody worry, I’m going.’ Collingworth made a rapid exit, leaving a spotted trail of blood in his wake.
‘What the hell, George?’ Bola stood over his colleague, effectively barricading him in the cubicle.
‘He’s the one,’ George yelled. ‘He’s the one to blame. He should have looked out for Tess. He should have raised concerns, kept her in sight. And he doesn’t even care.’ George was shaking. Close to tears.
Bola nodded, softened his voice. ‘Come on, man. You want a lift over to see how she is? I’ll take you. We’ll both go. It’s not far, right?’
George looked at him as a child might look at a generous parent. ‘Really? You think we could?’
‘Sure. I beat the ass off that smart-arse rookie, anyhow.’ He extended his hand, hauled George to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, my friend. You don’t want Tess to see you looking like a bag man, right?’
Her arms were folded, brows firmly knitted which, perversely, only served to increase her attractiveness. Moran approached with a closed smile, tried to make it seem a touch rueful.
Samantha wasn’t impressed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.’
So much for repentance…
Moran held out both hands, palms upward. I come in peace… ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I never really thought–’
But Samantha wasn’t in the mood for excuses. ‘No, you jolly well didn’t.’ She tilted her chin up a little. ‘How you could even imagine that I’d be involved in something like–’
‘Samantha. Just hear me out, would you?’
The arms remained folded. She looked him up and down. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Thanks. It’s been a busy couple of days.’
‘Go on, then. I’m listening.’
So he told her, probably more than he should have done. When he’d finished, she bowed her head, was silent for a moment. ‘God, unbelievable. So they got away?’
‘They’ll turn up somewhere else, under a different name. Here, abroad. Who knows?’
‘Well at least you got the bent surgeon.’
‘They’ll find another. Everyone has his – or her – price.’
‘And that verger? She was on the take as well?’
Moran gave a sardonic grin. ‘She saw the whole thing from her bedroom window, recognised one of the culprits, applied a little of her own pressure. Church funds were running low. She took a punt.’
‘Crazy. I’d have called the police straight away.’
‘But you don’t have a crumbling Anglican pile to maintain.’
‘True.’
‘Anyway, I’ve set her mind at rest. Her nemesis won’t be coming after her. Not now.’
‘Why won’t you tell me what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t think that’s wise. Best you don’t know.’
She looked him up and down. ‘I don’t know how you do what you do.’
‘It’s all I know,’ he admitted. ‘I just do it. Then, onto the next.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. That about sums you up, Brendan. That, and one other thing.’
‘What’s that?’
She took his arm, led him away from the street corner by the chemist, towards the water meadow. ‘Let’s forget the pub, drink in a little scenery instead, shall we?’
The river was a grey, sky-reflecting stream of concentric ripples, nudged gently to the bank by a passing cruiser. The recent rain had raised the water level; it lapped against the swollen banks, created shallow pools in the lengthening meadow grass. Another few cloudbursts and, as in previous years, the water meadow would flood.
‘It’s so lovely out here,’ she said. ‘Helps me think.’
He said nothing, waited for her lead.
Presently she turned
to him. ‘Look, Brendan. I like you. A lot. But I can see that it’s never going to work, not the way things are.’
He’d seen that coming, but the disappointment still hit him. Hard. He cleared his throat. ‘The way things are? How so?’
She looked at him, and he tried to interpret her expression. Compassion? Frustration? Resignation?
‘You’re in love, Brendan, but not with me.’
He had no answer. He let her carry on.
‘You’re in love with a ghost. From long ago. I can see it in your face every time we meet. I can’t compete with that.’ She took a breath, looked across the river to where a mallard was making a great deal of noise – some territorial fight, no doubt. It splashed about in the sullen water, darted to the bank, out into the middle.
Now she was looking at him directly. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? You want to move on, but you just can’t. She must have been very special. Very special indeed.’
He swallowed in a futile attempt to clear the lump in his throat. ‘She was. Indeed she was.’
He let his eyes find the horizon, a distant line of trees somewhere towards Streatley.
‘I have to guard my heart, too, Brendan. I can’t face being hurt again, you can understand that, can’t you? Sure, I’ll see you around. We can still enjoy the odd walk together. When you’ve time.’
He didn’t turn around, not wanting to watch her leave, fixed his gaze instead on the trees. Was that a kite circling high, just above the tallest? He’d heard they’d become more common in the area. Beautiful birds, huge wingspans. He envied the ease with which they soared and glided on the winds, searching the ground far below for quarry.
He stood for a long while, watching the river, the comings and goings. People walking their dogs, or just taking the air. It was only when the water surface became pock marked with the beginnings of a fresh downpour that he left the river to its tears and retraced his steps towards the village centre.
The DCI Brendan Moran Crime Series
Black December
Creatures of Dust
Death Walks Behind You