When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  ‘OK.’

  She showed them out, watched them from the doorstep.

  As they drove away, Luscombe voiced Charlie’s thoughts in two simple words.

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Yes. She knows something.’

  ‘Too scared to let it out,’ Luscombe said. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She works at the hospital, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And what do cleaners do, apart from clean?’

  Charlie considered the question. ‘They chat. And gossip. And keep their ears open.’

  ‘The hospital, then?’ He turned his head towards her and the eyes did their unsettling thing.

  Charlie kept her voice brusque and businesslike. ‘Yep, OK. Let’s do it.’

  Chris Collingworth was angry. He’d been assessed – no, not just assessed, the board had put him through the mill, big time – and deemed capable of working in the higher grade of Detective Sergeant. In fact, he’d been highly commended by the board for his performance at the interview. But, for whatever reason, the powers-that-be clearly took the opposite view. What was all that about? Sure, Charlie Pepper was always going to be a tough nut to crack and, he had to admit, he’d failed in that respect. His well-honed charm offensives seemed to bounce right off her, as though she was wearing some kind of bloke-resistant armour plating. But he was getting tired of her constant needling. It was like she went out of her way to trip him up whenever she got the chance. Never took him at his word, nothing was ever good enough.

  The internal vacancy had been posted just a couple of days back – Julie Stiles had come over especially to tell him she’d just seen it. That was a good sign. So he waited for Charlie Pepper to put two and two together, call him into her office, acknowledge that, despite the fact they didn’t get on too well, he was clearly the guy for the role. She’d give him one of her tight smiles, congratulate him, make some comment about starting over, clean sheet and all that. Wish him the best in the new job, hope we can work well together, et cetera, et cetera.

  Except it never happened.

  She obviously knew about it. She got the HR notices too. She was on the email list. So. Two plus two, he wasn’t going to be put up for it.

  And then she’d been seconded with that Scottish geezer. Which meant she’d be out of the way for a bit, and when Moran moved into the frame for SIO, that had been one big green light for soliciting the Irishman’s recommendation. If he could get that, put it in front of Higginson, make the promotion a fait accompli before Pepper got back, wouldn’t that be a coup? He’d just love to see her face.

  Collingworth ground his teeth and smouldered. He deserved better than this. He was better than the lot of them. He let his eyes wander around the office. George and Bola. Laurel and Hardy, as he privately called them, rabbiting away together like a couple of old women. Bernice Swinhoe – she was another cold fish. Pretty, though, in a forbidding kind of way. She was clicking away on her keyboard, beavering away on some Pepper-related task, no doubt. And there was Delaney, the runner, laughing at some joke with Julie – that wasn’t a good sign.

  And here was Moran, heading for his office, limping along as usual. Collingworth’s lip curled as he watched Moran’s awkward progress. There was one guy who should be put out to grass. That was the whole problem, right there: the old never wanted to make way for the young, the more capable. Moran had had his day. He was done. Why couldn’t he see it? Life moves on. The world belongs to the strong.

  Tomorrow belongs to me, old man…

  Moran was heading in a direction that would take him past this bank of desks. Better look busy. Collingworth tapped a few keystrokes, chewed his pencil until Moran had passed by.

  Gutted. Thats how he felt. He’d thought more highly of Moran’s judgement, but after this morning’s car crash of a conversation, it was clear that Moran was just like all the rest.

  Collingworth looked at his watch. Midday. Too early for a drink? No. That’s what he needed right now. Sod the investigation. It could wait.

  He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugged it over his shoulders, and headed for the lift.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The pub was pretty quiet. Too early for most; there were a few folk dotted around the tables, just one guy at the end of the bar, nursing a half pint. Brian Carroll, the long-serving landlord of the Falcon, gave him a welcoming smile.

  At least someone’s pleased to see me …

  ‘Yes, young man. What can I get you?’

  ‘Can I get a small Scotch.’ Collingworth couldn’t find a smile in reply. ‘And a half of Tennent’s.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He sat and sipped, lost in thought, until the pub began to fill up and food orders began. Collingworth wasn’t hungry. He looked at his watch and grimaced. He should be getting back.

  ‘Bad day?’

  Collingworth looked up. The guy at the end of the bar had moved along, was looking at him with a mixture of amusement and … what?

  Oh, great. A gay pickup. Just what I need…

  ‘Get you a drink?’

  ‘No way. Look mate, you’ve got the wrong idea, I–’

  ‘Chill. I’m a married man.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring. I have to get back to work.’ Collingworth downed the last centimetre of Scotch.

  ‘At the station, yep.’ The guy cocked his head towards Thames Valley Police Station, just visible through the pub’s far window. ‘Busy time right now.’

  Collingworth squared up to the stranger. He was a smart looking dude in an expensive dark suit. He was around thirty, clean-shaven. Looked like an insurance salesman. ‘You following me, or what? Collingworth stuck his chin out.

  ‘A minute of your time, if you will. It could be, how can I put this… beneficial for you.’

  ‘Scuse me,’ Brian Carroll stretched between them to dump a fistful of empties onto the bar.

  Collingworth moved back to allow the landlord space. He contemplated just turning his back and leaving. But his curiosity was aroused, and there was something about the guy’s manner that didn’t fit with insurance salesmen.

  ‘A quiet corner, perhaps?’ Collingworth’s new friend indicated a recently vacated corner table.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Collingworth said.

  ‘That’s plenty.’

  Collingworth sat down tentatively, and the smart-suited guy took the chair opposite. ‘I’ll get to the point. You’ve been investigating an RTC, the one last night on the M4.’

  ‘You’re press, aren’t you? Which paper?’ Collingworth started to get up, but the man waved his suggestion away.

  ‘No. I’m not with a newspaper.’

  ‘Then what?’ Collingworth eased himself back down onto the chair.

  ‘Let’s just say that I represent a … government interest.’

  Collingworth was paying full attention now. The murmur and hubbub of lunchtime conversation receded as he homed in on what the guy was saying.

  ‘There are certain related matters where, if you were willing, you might be able to assist us.’

  ‘How? In what way?’ Collingworth moistened his lips, which had suddenly become very dry.

  The guy talked, and Collingworth listened.

  Ten minutes later he was on his way back to work, and for the first time since his earlier encounter with Moran, there was a spring in his step.

  ‘So, no change, then?’ Bola’s eyes were all concern, and George appreciated the sentiment. Bola was a caring guy. Annoying at times, sure, but basically he had George’s back, and that was what counted.

  ‘Nope. Well, at one point I thought she might be trying to say something, but it’s hard to tell.’

  Bola nodded. ‘Still losing weight, d’you think?’

  ‘Not according to the head honcho, but she looks damn thin to me.’

  ‘Does she know you? I mean, does she recognise you?’ Bola took a gulp of coffee. The canteen was cl
earing out after the lunchtime rush and staff were buzzing about cleaning tables, working their way closer to where George and Bola were sitting.

  ‘I think she knows my voice. It’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Man, it’s awful.’ Bola shook his head slowly. ‘Why? I mean, she let this thing happen to her.’

  ‘We can’t be certain of that,’ George shot back. ‘She was alone with Erjon at the time.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Bola spoke gently. ‘I know, man, I know.’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t mean to snap.’ George peered into the dregs of his coffee. ‘We’d best be getting on.’

  ‘Yep.’ Bola finished his coffee and stretched. ‘Man, I’m bushed already. Is it just me, or is today going on forever?’

  ‘Briefing with the guv shortly,’ George reminded him. ‘Your forever is about to be extended.’

  ‘Ha. Ain’t that the truth.’

  As they passed the lift, the doors slid open and Chris Collingworth almost cannoned into them on his way out.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Bola warned. ‘Take it slow, man.’

  ‘Slow is for losers,’ Collingworth called back over his shoulder. ‘And that’s not my category.’

  George felt his hackles rising.

  ‘Down boy,’ Bola said, in a mock-serious tone, ‘that dog ain’t worth it.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him one day.’

  ‘Uh uh,’ Bola shook his head. ‘Save your energy. Guys like Collingworth are like shooting stars, man. They start off pretty strong, but they burn themselves out a lot faster.’

  Moran had already taken his place at the front by the whiteboards. George was pleased to see him. There was something reassuring about Moran’s presence. You had the feeling that everything was going to be all right when the guv’nor was around. Charlie was great, but the guv – well, he was the guv. George found a chair and Bola plonked himself down next to him.

  ‘Good afternoon ladies and gents.’ Moran had hold of his stick – unusually; it was an unpopular accessory, and usually resided in the guv’s office. Today, however, he was flourishing it like a weapon. ‘What do we have so far? A suspected illegal, a murder that went wrong – at least at the disposal stage – and no idea of motive. Unless…?’

  Moran looked out over the room, eyebrows arched. ‘Collingworth? You went to Chapelfields. Anything else strike you, apart from the care worker?’

  A ripple of amusement broke the ice in the room. Collingworth, as ever, seemed unfazed. George watched him bathing in the warm waters of his Lothario reputation. There was a pencil behind Collingworth’s left ear, a habit that George found highly irritating.

  ‘I’m planning on a return visit, guv,’ Collingworth spoke up above the noise. ‘Chat to a few of the residents, see if they can give me an angle. I’m not hopeful, though. The manager told me Daintree kept himself to himself, pretty much. Didn’t like to socialise.’

  ‘He moved down from Kingussie, correct?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Collingworth nodded.

  ‘So, that’s a loose connection to DS Luscombe’s victims. And, as Isaiah Marley’s sister also lives in the area, I think we can safely conclude that Isaiah, for homicidal reasons among maybe other, as yet unknown, motives, followed him down here.’

  ‘Eight months later, though,’ Julie Stiles piped up. ‘Why such a gap?’

  ‘Good question.’ Moran tapped the whiteboard where a recent photograph of Frank Daintree was pinned next to a sketch of Isaiah Marley’s face. ‘Why wait? If he intended to kill Daintree, why wait eight months? Or why even wait for him to move south?’

  DC Tomlinson’s hand went up. ‘Maybe he couldn’t get to him before? I mean, when he lived in his own house?’

  ‘Good,’ Moran nodded. ‘Was he living alone at the time? Can someone make a note to ask DI Pepper? She’s best placed to answer that. Come on, this is better. Keep it coming.’ Moran gestured with his free hand.

  ‘Any clues from the PM, guv?’ DC Swinhoe asked.

  ‘Nothing useful, I’m afraid. Frank Daintree wasn’t a well man. Prostate cancer. Would have killed him within a year or so, Dr Bagri tells me.’

  ‘That’s even stranger then, guv.’ Swinhoe frowned. ‘Why go to the trouble of killing someone who was so obviously unwell?’

  Tomlinson again: ‘Beneficiary in Daintree’s will? Maybe he couldn’t wait to collect?’

  ‘I doubt whether someone from Isaiah Marley’s background would be a named beneficiary. Unlikely, but worth following up, just in case. Would you check that out please, DC Tomlinson?’

  ‘Sure, guv.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Moran scanned the room, the tense faces. ‘All right, how about this. Marley was here illegally, he needed money, a way to survive. He kept poor company. Maybe someone offered him a job.’

  ‘A contract killing?’ George spoke up. ‘But even if that were the case, we still need a motive. And to do that, we have to find the contract instigator.’

  ‘Correct.’ Moran rubbed his jaw. ‘So, as you are no doubt about to suggest, DC McConnell, that takes us back to square one. We’ll just have to hope that Daintree’s daughter gets in touch soon. She might be the only person who can open the box of Daintree’s life a little wider.’

  ‘DS Luscombe didn’t think their murders were the work of a contract killer,’ DC Swinhoe said.

  ‘There must be something,’ George muttered. ‘Some angle we haven’t considered. It’s usually one of four possibilities.’ He ticked them off on his finger. ‘Greed, revenge, blackmail, jealousy.’

  Next to him, Bola said. ‘Or hate. Hate crime is popular these days.’

  ‘Targeting a particular demographic?’ Moran mused. ‘So, an ageist crime? Someone who doesn’t like old people?’

  DC Swinhoe nodded vigorously. ‘Right. An undercover euthanasia group?’

  Bola shrugged. ‘Sounds crazy.’

  ‘Most murderers are a little crazy,’ George said.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Bola shook his head sadly.

  ‘Are we a hundred percent sure Cleiren didn’t ram Marley’s car deliberately, guv?’ Bernice Swinhoe suggested. ‘There still could be some connection.’

  ‘Sure as we can be,’ Moran told her. ‘The footage we’ve seen doesn’t tally with a deliberate act. Cleiren wasn’t paying attention, but to be fair, he didn’t have much time to react.’

  ‘Smart motorway,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Don’t mention that word,’ Moran warned. ‘All right. Let’s go through everything again, in case we’ve missed something obvious. CCTV, worth another look. We need to establish where the murder took place. That’s what’s holding us up. We know it wasn’t in the car. Once we have the location nailed, Forensics can turn the place upside down. Come on, you know how this works. We have a killer to catch. That’s what we do, isn’t it?’ He clapped his hands to conclude the meeting, prompting a general shuffling of chairs and chorus of ‘yes, guvs’.

  Moran watched them disperse, hoping he’d sounded more confident than he felt. This was a strange one, and no mistake. The reality was that they had nothing, and time was slipping away.

  He hoped Charlie was making better progress.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ivy had all but obscured the once imposing gatehouse, but he knew the path so well it was second nature. The old stonework with its elaborate carvings was visible only in patches, and these were crusted with the dirt and moss of decades. No one came here any more. No one had reason to. But he liked to come anyway, to sit for a while in the stillness and contemplate the past, the present and his intentions for the future.

  The old huts were still there, old even in his youth, built originally – and hastily – as billets for Canadian troops before their ill-fated journey to Dieppe, and latterly converted into classrooms within whose prefabricated walls he had been made to suffer on an almost daily basis during his time at Eagle Court.

  The door to 1A was unlocked, as they all were now. Two trestle tables, four benches. The blackbo
ard, the shelves, the window that overlooked the static water tank, turned into a makeshift swimming pool in the summer. He went to his designated place and sat down, folded his arms, closed his eyes.

  It was almost spring. There were only six of them in the classroom. Five he knew from previous terms, one new boy. Only six because of the size of the school. It was what they called a crammer. They crammed you with enough knowledge to pass the exam. It was an exam-passing machine, the whole setup. He’d arrived one sunny June day, the only new boy. Extracted from his old school mid-term, separated from his friends and his usual routine, plunged into this new world of dormitories, houses, matrons and crusty, middle-aged, tweed jacket-attired overseers. Mr Millman, Mr Turner, Mr Harris, Mr Penmore. He quickly learned who to avoid, who to be wary of, and who to shun.

  But in the classroom, there was no hiding place, no escape. The torture was relentless. It wasn’t hard to understand why he’d been singled out. Mildly dyslexic, he’d struggled with English comprehension, languages, history, geography. These disciplines all involved skills he sadly lacked. He could not express himself clearly on paper; the words would blur, the letters crossfade into one another. Nothing made sense when he tried to write.

  And the bamboo cane would be there, always, at the ready.

  Now, in modern, more enlightened times, if the school had still been a going concern – and because there was now a name for his condition – things would no doubt be better. But in those dark days, there was little understanding and his condition went unrecognised. He was lazy, stupid, backward. A dummy.

  An imbecile.

  And, after a few months of such treatment, he began to believe them.

  He opened his eyes. There was a wide cobweb in the top left-hand corner of the prefab, and a spider with long, web-spanning legs sat motionless in its centre. The paint had begun to peel from the walls, the roof was leaking and a small puddle had formed beneath the crack, rotting the wooden boards. Three damp shards of chalk still rested on the long runner beneath the blackboard.