When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  His shoulders began to heave, and an awful noise came from the back of his throat, spewing from his mouth in a howl of anguish that shook the building. The windows rattled and the floorboards moved with the sound; the vibrations were familiar to the molecules of wood and metal that held the classroom together. A small boy’s abject terror had been imprinted into its architecture as surely as the maintenance man had applied layers of paint year after year, term after interminable term, to the window frames, doors and fittings of Hut 1A, Eagle Court.

  When he had regained control of himself, he rose, left the classroom. The old house still towered over the drive, its dark, empty windows staring vacantly, some with glass intact, others cracked, many just open to the elements. He could picture the corridors within, the changing room, the showers, the library, the staircases, the dormitories. The headmaster’s room at the top, the eyrie that overlooked the grounds. He walked past the once-imposing front door, and into the expansive gardens. They were overgrown now, untended. He’d put that right. Once forbidden to all but the masters and prefects, in the very near future they’d be a welcoming space for all.

  He found a garden seat, brushed away some stray leaves, sat down. The classrooms would have to go, of course. New buildings for the staff would replace them – smart, modern apartments. This, he realised, would probably be his last visit before the bulldozers came, at his behest, to destroy the physical conduits of his suffering. Of course, the memories would never be completely erased. Bleak, sad, friendless memories, since even his peers had taken the masters’ side, mocking his shortcomings.

  Only one person had buoyed his spirits in those terrible times, had seen the abuse first hand – not in the classroom maybe, but on the rugby fields. Afternoon after freezing afternoon, hands blue and brain fogged with cold, he was made to exercise his clumsy limbs up and down the field until he felt as though his mind were entirely separate from his body. A defence mechanism, of course, as he now understood.

  Dropped it again, have you? Five lengths of the field. Go! …

  He remembered the friendly face watching anxiously from the touchline. During a circuit of the field when he felt as though he must sink to his knees in sheer exhaustion, their eyes had met in a meaningful, lingering gaze, and he had known he had an ally at last.

  They met, illegally, whenever they were able. Behind classrooms, the bike shed. In the shelter of the entrance gate in pouring rain, when everyone else was sheltering inside. They talked.

  And he endured.

  It was hard to imagine how things would have turned out, had they never met.

  And yet, the past was still haunting him.

  Maybe it always would.

  The view across the downs was breathtaking. He drank it in, enjoying the movement of the trees as they were stirred by the cool currents of air. The sun emerged from behind a cloud, turned the slopes into a golden carpet. He could see sheep grazing on a distant hillside.

  He was putting things to rights. That’s what he was about, these days.

  Perhaps, in time, he would even manage to lay his own ghosts to rest.

  ‘Where to start?’ Charlie hesitated in the hospital’s entrance foyer. The area was buzzing with people coming in and out, doctors hurrying past with bundles of case notes under their arms, a few nurses chatting in groups by the coffee bar. She felt a shiver of anxiety run down her spine – it wasn’t long since she’d been an in-patient herself. Not an experience she was in a hurry to repeat.

  ‘With a pick-me-up, I suggest.’ Luscombe pointed to the coffee stall.

  ‘Great suggestion.’ Charlie felt a stab of gratitude. Mrs Baxter hadn’t offered them refreshments and her head was woolly with fatigue.

  Luscombe bought the drinks and set them down on one of the tiny two-seater tables clustered round the coffee bar. ‘Five minutes won’t hurt.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Charlie stirred the cappuccino with the wooden stirrer, took a long sip.

  Luscombe was watching her, as though sharing her enjoyment. ‘Coffee aficionado?’

  ‘Couldn’t live without it,’ she told him truthfully. ‘I suppose that makes me an addict.’

  He laughed. ‘We’re all addicted to something, whether we admit it or not.’ He held her gaze and raised his cup in a toast. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers to you.’ She nudged her cup against his. It felt curiously intimate.

  ‘Me, I’m addicted to results.’ He took a sip.

  ‘Do you get them?’

  He set his cup down. Two cleaners went by, side by side, chatting to each other as they went. Luscombe’s eyes followed their progress until they disappeared through a set of double doors signed Hunter Ward. ‘Oh yes. One way or another.’ His eyes bored into hers until she had to look away.

  When she looked at him again, he was warming his hands on the coffee cup. ‘I should tell you that Isaiah Marley’s name was known to us – not as a person of interest, we never got that far. We weren’t sure of his full name, or even if it was his real name. But we knew of him. In fact we wanted to talk to him along with a few others in connection with Mr Lewis’ death.’

  Charlie was shocked. ‘You didn’t mention any of this at the briefing.’

  ‘Our jurisdiction.’ He shrugged. ‘Your team won’t get an opportunity to conduct interviews here.’

  ‘Well, I might just decide otherwise.’ Charlie bristled. ‘Now I’m in situ. Is there anything else you elected not to mention?’

  Luscombe was unruffled. ‘We haven’t just been sitting around, waiting for an,’ he described quotation marks in the air, ‘Isaiah incident to happen somewhere else. We have actually done some work on the case.’

  ‘So maybe now would be a good time to share where you’ve got to? So we’re both on the same page?’

  Luscombe took a leisurely swig of coffee. ‘Of course. But first of all, I think we should catch those lovely ladies before they go off shift.’ He indicated the nearby ward. ‘Ready to go hunting?’

  ‘When we’re done here, I want a full debrief.’ Charlie got to her feet, grabbed her bag, began to walk away.

  Luscombe called after her. ‘Wait. You haven’t finished your coffee.’

  She didn’t turn around. ‘No,’ she flung back. ‘It left a bad taste in my mouth.’

  Charlie shouldered her way into the ward. The two cleaning ladies were half-way along the short corridor to the nurses’ station, dipping mops into buckets and talking animatedly to each other. The space was filled with the sound of their laughter. Charlie approached them, took out her warrant card. ‘Morning ladies. Can I ask you one or two questions?’

  She felt Luscombe’s presence behind her.

  ‘Oh my. What have you done now, Etta?’ They exchanged glances. The nearest giggled, put a hand over her mouth.

  ‘You haven’t done anything,’ Charlie assured them. ‘Do you know Grace Baxter?’

  ‘Gracie? Sure, hen, Gracie’s one of us.’

  Charlie read her name badge. ‘Thanks, Rosie. We wanted to ask if she ever mentioned her brother, Isaiah.’

  Again, the swiftly exchanged look.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ the other woman, Etta, answered. ‘We didn’t go a day without hearing about Isaiah.’

  ‘In what regard?’ Luscombe broke in.

  The two woman looked Luscombe up and down. ‘She worried about him all the time,’ Etta said.

  ‘Him and his fancy girl,’ Rosie added.

  ‘Fancy girl?’ Charlie raised her eyebrows? ‘A girlfriend?’ Grace Baxter hadn’t mentioned any girlfriend.

  ‘Sure, she worried she was leadin’ him astray, right, Etta?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Etta confirmed. ‘She sounded like – what I call – a grabbin’ woman.’

  ‘In what way?’ Luscombe had moved to Charlie’s side.

  Etta folded her arms. ‘The kind of a woman who leads a man astray, that’s what. All kinds of fancy ideas, Gracie was sayin’. Wanted it all, she did. Gracie said she don’t love Isaiah, she just us
in’ him.’

  ‘Do you recall a name?’ Charlie prompted.

  Etta frowned. ‘Why don’t you ask Gracie herself? She’s on shift at five.’

  ‘We’ll talk to Grace,’ Luscombe said. ‘When we’re ready.’

  ‘Oh. All right, then.’ Etta looked doubtful, exchanged a worried look with her colleague.

  ‘You’re being very helpful,’ Charlie smiled. ‘If you can remember a name, that would help us even more.’

  Etta scratched her head. ‘You remember it, Rosie?’

  ‘I got an idea it might have been Carrie?’

  ‘No, no.’ Etta waggled her finger. ‘Not Carrie. Connie.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Please. Have a seat.’ Moran indicated the empty visitor’s chair.

  Mrs Fowler sat down, placed her handbag on Moran’s desk. She was a serious looking woman in her forties. Carefully styled shoulder-length auburn hair, tasteful makeup. Bright, grey-green eyes. A businesswoman through and through. Used to high-level meetings, driving home her point of view. Moran suspected he was going to experience the full force of that right now.

  ‘So. Let me summarise. My elderly father is escorted from a safe residential care home by an unknown person, driven to an unspecified location, and smothered to death. Does that cover it?’

  Moran took a deep breath. ‘Yes, That’s about the length and breadth of it. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. My father and I didn’t get on particularly well. In many ways he was easier these last couple of years – the dementia. It’s known to cause distress, make people hard to deal with, but in my father’s case it seemed to soften him. He wasn’t as obstreperous as before.’

  ‘I see.’ Moran relaxed. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the ear-bending he’d anticipated. ‘I assume it was at your behest that he moved here from Scotland?’

  ‘Yes. I needed him closer, to keep an eye. I’m away a lot, but at least I didn’t have to make any extra trips up north to see him every time I came home. I could just scoot over in the car, say hello, make sure he was all right.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Fat lot of good it did, as things have turned out. Have you found the culprit? Some lunatic, I assume?’

  ‘We’re in the early stages of our investigation,’ Moran told her. ‘We’re keeping our options open at present. Of course, when I have something concrete–’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’

  Moran leaned forward, joined his hands together. ‘Mrs Fowler, I have to ask; did your father have any enemies that you know of? Is there anyone he’s been associated with – friends, family – who might wish him harm?’

  ‘God. I don’t know. Hundreds, probably. He always called a spade a spade. He was a teacher, you know. Not a particularly popular one, either. He was quite the disciplinarian. Old school.’

  ‘I see. And which schools did he work at? It would be helpful if you have any documents, correspondence.’

  Mrs Fowler pursed her lips. ‘I have his old trunk. You’re welcome to delve in there if you like. He spent many years at a prep school in Sussex. I forget the name. Then he moved to a comprehensive. Hated that. Eventually he moved to Scotland, did a little supply teaching, I think, before retiring.’

  ‘I see. That’s very helpful, thank you.’

  ‘Tell you the truth, Chief Inspector, although it’s not the way I’d have wanted him to go, I’m glad it’s over. I’m sorry if that sounds callous, and of course I want the criminals brought to justice, but I can’t find it in myself to be very sorry. He was an awkward old so-and-so.’

  ‘I understand, Mrs Fowler. Did your husband get on with your father, by the way?’

  Mrs Fowler hesitated before answering, straightened her back. ‘My husband died ten years ago, Chief Inspector. Cancer.’

  Ah. Nicely done, Moran…

  ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aware.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. It’s all right. I have my business, it keeps me occupied. What’s past is past, and I can’t change it.’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘Well, is that all, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, for the time being – I’ll send someone round for the trunk, if that’s all right. Please don’t be afraid to contact me if you remember anything you think might be relevant.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything, Chief Inspector. Not anymore.’

  Moran lingered in his office after Mrs Fowler had left. He recognised a fellow sufferer, someone who had loved and lost. Someone who was making the best job she could of the rest of her life, knowing it could never be the same, never be as fulfilling. Someone vital was missing, creating a void that could never be filled. He understood.

  What’s past is past, and it can’t be changed…

  The hands of Moran’s wall clock made a close right angle at three pm. Still he sat, deep in thought, his mind’s compass dial inexorably fixed in the direction of Rotterdam, Fabrice Cleiren’s starting point and his return destination. Something was happening in Rotterdam, which was somehow connected to Ringaskiddy, and highly probably to Joe Gallagher.

  Semtex, weapons…

  He had the name of Cleiren’s company, the haulage firm. Guust Vervoer. He had an address. Interesting that no one had made contact, so far as Moran knew, to establish the fate of their driver. Which meant what? Which meant that the company didn’t want to raise its head above the parapet. Its representatives surely must have found out what had happened to Cleiren? It had been reported in the media. Were they preparing themselves for an imminent investigation? Were they, even now, ensuring that their dark corners were properly hidden, that there would be no trace of impropriety when the authorities came knocking? What would they be expecting? A full-scale joint raid by customs, the Dutch police, officers from Moran’s patch?

  Well, for now at least, they had nothing to worry about, because Higginson was procrastinating. Yes, there was evidence of explosives, but that could be legitimate; building companies regularly used explosives. Cleiren’s inventory, if it had ever existed, had been lost in the fire. Gunpowder? Could be residual from any legal shipment of munitions. No need, therefore, for counter-terrorism to get involved. People trafficking? Not enough evidence. It was a haulage accident. What about the gun? Cleiren could have been paranoid, Higginson had suggested. Just a precaution. He may even have owned a license.

  ROCU involvement, then? No, Higginson had maintained, there was zero evidence – nor any sign of – organised crime in the area related to the truck, no hint of Cleiren belonging to such a gang. Taking all these factors into consideration, the matter was something to be fed back to the Dutch authorities, not for Thames Valley to deal with. When Forensics completed their investigation, as soon as they confirmed there was nothing further to be found that might relate to Isaiah Marley and his unfortunate passenger, the results – including the vehicle carcass – would be handed over to the Dutch – should they wish to conduct an investigation of their own.

  Moran understood Higginson’s caution, his reasoning. His priority – and therefore Moran’s – was the murder investigation. But the thought of what might be happening in Rotterdam wouldn’t leave Moran alone. He flicked his smartphone to calendar. Friday tomorrow. He could be in Rotterdam on Saturday, Friday evening even, and be back on Sunday evening. Just to satisfy his … what? Curiosity?

  No, it was more than that. Much more. There was something of huge significance in this RTC, he knew it. He could feel it. And he wasn’t comfortable allowing it to fall between the cracks, whatever Higginson had decided. Fate, or providence, or just blind luck had decreed that the incident should occur on Moran’s patch. He might have to let it go, officially, but what he did in his own time was his own business…

  Moran went to his window, looked out over the busy roundabout towards the tall, turn-of-the-century Bath Stone terraces of Castle Hill. One weekend, that was all. Two days to investigate Cleiren�
�s destination, Rotterdam.

  What did Moran know about the Dutch city? That it was Europe’s largest seaport, boasted a well-respected university, enjoyed a vibrant and a lively culture, was proud of its long maritime heritage. There it was again: that connection to the water. Europe’s largest port…

  Moran wiped a smear of condensation from the glass, returned to his desk.

  The Chapelfields murder was shocking, absolutely, and needed to be addressed as a priority. But Cleiren’s ill-fated journey represented something of a different order, something much bigger than a parochial homicide, of that Moran was convinced.

  George McConnell put his head around the door. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Yes, George?’

  George waved his smartphone. ‘I’ve got Charlie on the blower. She wants a word.’

  ‘Sure.’

  George handed the phone to Moran and half-retreated, hovering in the doorway.

  Moran listened as Charlie brought him up to date. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone round to Chapelfields pronto.’

  He finished the call and gestured to George. ‘Come in, George, for goodness’ sake.’ He returned the phone. ‘You and Bola – get over to the nursing home as soon as. That care worker Collingworth interviewed? Looks like there’s a good chance she’s Isaiah Marley’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Right you are.’ George’s eyes lit up at the prospect of action. ‘So, you don’t want Collingworth to do the deed?’

  ‘Not this time. In fact, if you could ask him to pop in, I’d like a word.’

  George beamed. ‘With pleasure, guv.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Collingworth left Moran’s office with a face like thunder. Sidelined again. Well that was the last straw. How fortuitous, then, that he knew exactly what to do about it.

  The guy in the pub had supplied him with some very interesting information. He’d heard rumours about Moran’s recent weekend ‘problem’ – some kind of hostage situation where some weirdo had held him at gunpoint. It had all been swept under the carpet, and for good reason too, it seemed. He understood from a long-serving sergeant downstairs that it had something to do with Moran’s early days as a Garda in Ireland. Which fitted with what the pub guy had told him. Dodgy past, dodgy goings-on in the present. Had to be true, if the security services were onto it.