by CJ Carver
When a car approached, Mouse Woman pushed the gun out of sight. Dan waved the car past and the instant it had gone she brought her weapon up again. Unerringly trained it back on Dan.
Over the next hour he waved a variety of lorries and cars past. Only two people stopped to lower their windows, good Samaritans making sure they couldn’t help. Dan assured them the tow truck was on its way and that his girlfriend, Charlotte, was fine, thank you. As soon as he said the word Charlotte, they nodded, feeling safe in the belief he was telling the truth and that everything was in hand.
Eventually, an Isuzu truck – no decals, plain blue – arrived. Right behind it was a black Ford transit van. Tinted windows. A crumpled off-side wing where it could have rammed or been rammed by another vehicle. The side door opened and three men climbed out. Jeans and sweatshirts, boots. Hard faces. Dan didn’t move. Just stood against the tree and watched.
One man moved to stand between Dan and the MX-5. Dan shifted his position, uncrossing his arms and standing squarely on the balls of his feet. An alert posture that suggested he was ready for anything. As he moved, the man’s hand went to the small of his back to check his weapon. Dan raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. The man nodded. Let his hands dangle at his sides.
Another man went to the MX-5 and opened the driver’s door. Helped Mouse Woman out. She was clutching a handbag, big enough to carry her handgun. The third man stood by the van, gesturing traffic past, keeping an eye on Dan. All three men wore earpieces.
Dan’s phone rang as Mouse Woman clambered inside the van.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘The car belongs to Joanna Loxton, Holland Road, Kensal Rise.’
‘Can you run another two plates for me?’ He rattled off the truck’s and the Ford transit’s number. He didn’t wait for confirmation and hung up.
The car was loaded on to the back of the Isuzu. The men stood around, half-watching the process, half-watching Dan. When Dan pushed himself forward, away from the tree, one of the men stepped forward putting a hand up in a STOP gesture. Dan began to walk across. The man put both hands up. Dan stopped where he could be heard.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man’s mouth pinched as he shook his head.
‘Who do you work for?’
Again he shook his head.
Dan took another step towards them but this time the man’s hand went to the small of his back.
‘What? You’re going to shoot me?’ Dan looked pointedly at a car driving past.
There was a clank and a rattle of chains as the MX-5 was made safe on the back of the tow truck. The truck driver and his buddy gave the men the thumbs-up and climbed into their cab.
‘Come on,’ Dan spread his hands. ‘Your colleague was following me. Why? What are you after?’
Two of the men turned and clambered into their black van. The last man said, ‘Throw me your car keys.’
‘No.’
This time he showed his weapon. A Glock 17. Same as Mouse Woman’s.
‘You want me to put a bullet in your tyre?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then throw me your car keys.’
‘No.’
Dan folded his arms.
‘For Chrissakes . . .’ a Scottish brogue erupted. One of the men inside the van leaped outside, pulled out his gun and aimed it at Dan’s right knee. ‘Just fucking hand them over. And don’t think I won’t shoot you because I fucking will, OK? I don’t care who sees, either.’
From the way the man’s dark eyes burned into his, Dan knew he meant business. He brought out his key and threw it to the other man.
The Scot turned and climbed into the van. The other man brought back his arm and threw Dan’s car key through the air, into the vegetation on the other side of the ditch. As best as he could, Dan marked the spot between a weary ragwort and a beech sapling.
The man joined his pals inside the van. Dan didn’t bother watching them go. He was already leaping across the ditch, looking for his key.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Hi, it’s me again,’ said Lucy brightly down the phone.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Mac, sounding weary. ‘You want another favour.’
‘How did you guess?’ She didn’t pause but ploughed straight ahead. Momentum was the key. ‘Another number plate. Two actually. One apparently belongs to a black Ford transit van, the other, a tow truck.’
‘He’s broken down?’
Mac was being droll, but before he could ask what Dan was up to, Lucy said, ‘No, he’s on a mission.’ She didn’t know any such thing but thought it prudent to give Mac something. Now she thought about it, if she hadn’t known Dan as well as she did, she would have thought him exceptionally rude. No words of acknowledgement on the phone, no salutation. Just: ‘I need a number plate run’. Luckily Mac hadn’t quibbled the first time round, but now? How long could she push her boss’s goodwill?
‘I am not Dan Forrester’s personal link to the DVLA,’ Mac grumbled.
‘It’s really important,’ she wheedled. ‘Pretty please? I’d do it myself but obviously I can’t as I’m on holiday.’ Which wasn’t strictly true as she had a contact she could use, someone she’d carefully cultivated when she’d been at the Met, but she didn’t want to blot her copybook if it came out she’d used him for personal reasons. She’d only been a detective for seven months.
‘You’ll owe me a drink,’ he told her.
‘Ohhhkay.’ She was hesitant.
‘At the Swithenbank.’
‘You mean the one on the moors?’ She was slightly taken aback he’d choose one well out of town and on the edge of the North York Moors National Park.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I like it there.’
‘But isn’t it more of a restaurant?’
‘It’s still a pub.’
She rubbed her forehead. It was a bit like doing a deal with the devil. The bad news was that it was a charmingly romantic stone pub with blazing fires and candles on the tables, but the good news was that she’d have to drive there so she couldn’t have more than one drink and would remain stone-cold sober. ‘OK then,’ she relented. ‘I’ll buy you a drink at the Swithenbank.’
‘And I’ll call you back with the info’,’ he said, suddenly sounding cheerful.
Before she headed back to Lone Pine Farm, Lucy rang Grace.
‘Yes.’ Grace sounded tired.
‘Where are you?’
‘Surgery. But I’m going home now.’
‘Can I pick something up for supper?’ Lucy offered. ‘I make a mean chicken curry if you fancy it.’
‘That would be fantastic. Would you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
Lucy picked up the ingredients on the high street, enjoying the fact she could park outside each shop if she wanted and that there were virtually no queues. It would have been the most restful grocery shop she’d ever experienced if it hadn’t been for the panic over Connor’s murder. Everyone had a view. There were open outpourings of fear and grief, and demands for the authorities – the police in particular – to do something. The newspapers were filled with photographs of Connor and his family, and on the radio journalists speculated endlessly.
‘I bet Nimue Acheson was murdered as well,’ said one woman. She rolled her r’s so the word murdered was drawn out and rumbling.
‘Ach, I dinnae believe that. She was proper unhappy, that lassie. She was on anti-depressants according to Susan in the surgery.’
‘And that makes it gospel? If little Nimue wasn’t murdered, then I bet it was an accident. Kids stealing drugs from all them labs and shooting up.’
‘All the labs?’ Lucy remarked. ‘Why, are there many around here?’
‘Well, there’s Christopher Baird’s environmental lab, and several others too on the other side of town, like the Green Test Lab. What do they do, Liz? Something about contaminated land and water—’
‘They also do things for Chris
topher sometimes. To do with the environment. Or is that Biofoods? I can never remember.’
‘And there’s the veterinary laboratory.’ She pronounced it vetin-ry labortry. ‘And the Turfgrass place. They test turf and—’
‘Soil,’ Liz supplied firmly. ‘Sand and rootzone for golf courses and the like. I know, because Carol’s boyfriend works there.’
Carrier bags banging against her thighs, Lucy headed to the car. Once inside she looked up Biofoods and Green Test Lab to see both were located on the edge of a mini-industrial estate at the base of the moors. She checked her watch. It was 4 p.m. Not the best of timing it being a Friday afternoon and she crossed her fingers that not everyone had decided to bugger off early for the weekend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
By the time Dan found his car key, his shoes and trousers were soaked and he had stinging nettle blisters on his hands and wrists. Even though he knew it was futile, he ran for his car, started it up and hared in the direction the truck and transit van had gone. Despite driving as fast as he dared to on a public road, he didn’t see either vehicle again. He’d have to wait for Lucy to supply the information he needed. In the meantime he had an address for Mouse Woman’s MX-5 in Kensal Rise, London, which he punched into his satnav.
He rang Jenny as he drove but she didn’t pick up. He leaned his head against the headrest, letting his hands rest lightly on the steering wheel as he wondered whether to leave a message or not. On balance, he thought he probably should in case something came up that prevented him from making another call, like those men reappearing and separating him not just from his car but from his phone too.
‘Hi, love.’ He spoke to her messaging service. ‘I’m on my way to London to see someone. Something came up when I was in Chepstow, a lead into . . .’ He stopped as with a little shock he remembered that Mouse Woman knew where he lived. Where Jenny and Aimee lived.
‘Actually, I’m not going to London at all. I’ve changed my mind. I’m coming home.’ He took a breath. ‘Things are . . . well, potentially, er . . .’ He didn’t want to use the word dangerous, so settled for saying, ‘unsettling.’
He suddenly wanted to get home now. He wanted to make sure Jenny and Aimee were safe. He pressed the accelerator until he was inches from the rear bumper of the car in front. Riding tightly through the bend he popped out at the exit in the perfect position to overtake. He zoomed past.
‘I love you, OK? Love you very much. See you in twenty minutes.’
He was haring over the Severn Bridge when Lucy rang him. She said, ‘The information you wanted.’
‘Yes.’
‘Both vehicles are registered to Top Car Leasing in London. When I rang them – with my DC hat on, of course – they told me their biggest client was the Home Office and that both vehicles were currently in the hands of Home Office employees.’
He’d already guessed that was the case, but that didn’t stop the sensation of what felt like a large tarantula creeping down his spine.
‘Buddies of yours?’ she asked, openly curious.
‘Not today, they’re not.’
‘Oh.’
‘What news?’ he asked.
She filled him in on where she’d been and who she’d spoken to. She’d visited a small industrial estate on the west side of town but apparently nobody was there. She sounded frustrated. ‘They’ve all left for the weekend.’
‘You think one of them might be involved in Connor’s murder?’
He flicked his indicator on before he overtook a lorry hauling a container.
‘I won’t know until I start ferreting about.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll give it a try tomorrow but if nobody’s around I might go home for the rest of the weekend. Come back Monday.’
‘It sounds like rather a long shot. Are you sure it’s a worthwhile lead?’
‘Not particularly. It was the phenol that got me going. Where would the killer get it from? It’s horribly toxic. They have to work in some sort of lab, surely?’
‘I would have thought so but I’m no expert.’
‘Nor am I. God, Dan. I can’t stop thinking about poor Connor.’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder what he did. If he stepped out of line, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he saw something. Witnessed something . . . I know he was your godson, but was he into drugs? He could have been buying them from one of the labs, supplying the kids at school, or being a gofer of some sort . . .’
‘I’d like to say no, but I guess anything’s possible.’ Dan moved to the inside lane as he approached the Severn Bridge.
‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ she told him.
‘Thanks, Lucy.’
*
Jenny was propped on her bed with her tablet on her belly but when she saw him she pushed it aside and started to clamber clumsily upright.
‘Hey, don’t get up . . .’
She suddenly started to cry. He swept her in his arms. ‘My love, what is it?’
‘It’s m-me. I’m sorry.’ She sobbed against his chest. ‘It was you saying you were going to London and even though you changed your mind and said you were coming here I thought what if he’s in danger and I remembered how much I love you and realised what a crap wife I’ve been . . .’
He couldn’t help it, he chuckled.
‘You’re not allowed to laugh!’ She leaned back, wiping her eyes. ‘You’re meant to tell me I’m a brilliant wife and that even though I’m a whale and hideously ugly and behaving like some kind of insane madwoman, I’m still beautiful and look as young as I was when you first saw me fourteen years ago.’
‘You are definitely more beautiful than you were then.’
‘Liar.’ She swiped at his arm but she was smiling.
He pulled her into his arms again. Rested his chin on top of her head and rocked her gently. Breathed in her scent of wild bluebells and mimosa.
‘How’s the baby?’ he asked.
‘Much calmer than I am. I can’t wait to pop.’
He led her back to the bed. He sat and cradled her in his arms as he told her about the recent events, about Mouse Woman. She didn’t look at him as he spoke, just listened.
When he finished, she twisted around, looked him in the eyes. Her gaze intensified and when she spoke, her voice was calm and firm. ‘You must go to London,’ she told him, ‘and talk to this Joanna Loxton. Find out what’s going on.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As he trickled through the streets of London, Dan stopped to buy a big, expensive bunch of flowers. He then invested in a baseball cap and a cheap wind-breaker. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses followed. When he checked himself in a shop window, he figured his appearance was altered enough to satisfy a cursory inspection.
Makeshift disguise in place, Dan drove to Holland Road to find that Joanna Loxton, aka Mouse Woman, lived in a neat Victorian terrace with white-painted bow windows and a deep red front door. No MX-5, which he guessed was in a garage somewhere, being fixed. From the quantity of bins in the front garden, he guessed the house had been converted into flats. His guess was confirmed when he checked the doorbell. Two flats. Joanna Loxton and Mark Roll lived on the ground floor.
Dan pressed the bell.
‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Delivery for Loxton.’
‘I’m not expecting anything . . .’ Her voice was wary.
‘Flowers,’ he added. ‘From the Fresh Flower Company. I can leave them on the doorstep if you like.’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
Dan put the flowers down. Then he walked out of the garden, turned left, pausing behind a huge hedge in next door’s garden. He counted to ten then strode up the neighbour’s path and stood waiting in their garden, next to the low wall that separated the two houses.
The instant he heard Loxton’s latch click he hurdled the wall and launched himself at her front door.
Mouse Woman didn’t stand a chance against 190 kilos
of moving muscle. His shoulder crashed the door open and at the same time he grabbed her and spun her inside her hallway. She started screaming but stopped when he wrapped an arm around her waist and clapped a hand over her mouth.
‘Quiet,’ he told her.
She fell perfectly still.
He took in the door on the left, which stood ajar. He could hear music coming from inside. Jazz of some sort.
‘Who else is there?’
She shook her head.
He waited.
‘Sweetheart?’ A man’s voice came trailing out, along with the smell of frying onions.
‘You are going to tell him I’m a friend,’ Dan told her. ‘We are going to walk inside and you are going to introduce me as Barrie from work, and we are going to have a civilised chat because I have a gun and I do not want to use it. Clear?’
She nodded.
He eased his hand from her mouth. She turned to look at him. ‘Barrie?’ she said, wiping her lips with the back of her wrist.
‘Whatever.’
‘Sweetheart, is everything OK?’ the man called out.
‘It’s just a friend from work,’ she called back. ‘Baz, sorry Barrie Dix. He’s come for a chat and a glass of wine. He’s HR’s Ops Manager in our Kensington branch.’
‘Nice embellishment,’ Dan muttered. He nudged her forward.
The flat was open plan, with the kitchen at one end and living space the other. A long kitchen bench created a dividing line between the two.
‘Sit,’ he told her, gesturing at the sofa.
She sat. Folded her hands in her lap. She looked far more in control than he liked and put it down to her being on her own turf.
‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ A man arrived, looking harried, anxious. To Dan’s surprise he didn’t introduce himself but went straight into the kitchen area and opened a cupboard, brought out a wine glass. ‘Red, Baz?’ he asked. ‘Or white?’
‘Red, please.’
‘You, darling?’
‘Vodka, please.’