When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  Moran’s mobile buzzed just as he was scanning his keycard. He pushed into the hotel room and threw his bag on the bed.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Hello, DC Swinhoe. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Just had an update from Charlie, guv. They’ve got another connection to Chapelfields. One of Luscombe’s victims was due to move in there, but the manageress forgot to mention this fact when Charlie and Luscombe interviewed her.’

  ‘So they’ll be speaking to the good lady again, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Any sign of the girlfriend?’

  ‘Not yet. Kings Cross is a definite no-show – we’d have spotted her by now.’

  ‘So she may not be heading for Aviemore.’ Moran thought for a second. ‘Has anyone checked back at Isaiah Marley’s bedsit?’

  A brief silence. ‘Um, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘There you go. Worth a look. She could have backtracked, decided to hole up there for a few days. She’s probably sussed out that the police have inspected the room – i.e. been and gone.’

  ‘Good point, guv.’

  ‘And I’d ask Charlie to pose a few more questions regarding Chapelfields’ waiting list. What’s the process, how do they admit new residents, and so on. It might tell us something.’

  Another brief silence, a little longer this time.

  Moran figured the reason. ‘You can tell DI Pepper that you’ve spoken to me – my suggestion.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, guv. Will do.’

  Moran signed off, smiling at Bernice Swinhoe’s well-tuned sensibilities. Teaching granny to suck eggs was probably not the best way to endear yourself to a senior officer, even one as reasonable and well-balanced as Charlie Pepper.

  Moran sat on the bed and inspected Cleiren’s company address. It was in the dockside area – by his calculations, a ten minute walk, maximum. He’d decided on a direct approach for two reasons: first, to test the waters for a possible later, more clandestine, visit; and second, to witness the company’s reaction to what he had to say first-hand. A risky strategy, especially if his suspicions proved to be correct, but time was short. He had the remainder of the day and the best part of tomorrow before his evening flight. And one other possible timeframe.

  The wee, small hours.

  George held Tess’ hand in his. It was limp and lifeless, but she was looking at him intently, as though some faint flicker of recognition was fighting to get through. Encouraged, George prattled on.

  ‘We’ve made some progress, but it’s a bizarre case, to say the least. Two dead in Scotland. Same MO as our Mr Daintree in Reading. Marley’s girlfriend’s vanished. Literally. And she’s the key to all this.’ George let Tess’ hand drop gently into her lap. ‘So, where we go from here, I have no idea. Charlie’s running with a lead in Aviemore, but there’s no guarantee she’ll turn up anything much.’ He smiled, shook his head. ‘I don’t know where to look next, that’s the truth of it. We’ve got an empty bedsit, nothing in the record books, and a dead pensioner who surely didn’t deserve to die the way he did.’

  A sunbeam chased across the faded carpet, lit up Tess’ face. She blinked, moved her hand to shade her eyes. This was a good sign, surely? Her reactions were more finely tuned than he’d noticed before.

  ‘Here, I’ll draw the curtains a little.’ George made as if to get up, but her arm reached out and rested gently on his. Shocked, he sank back onto the hard surface of the chair, his heart thumping. She’d never responded like that before. ‘I’ll leave them open, shall I?’ He swallowed.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and one of the carers breezed in, retrieved a tray from Tess’ bedside table, cleared the crockery and cutlery into a plastic container, stacked the empty tray on top of the others. George caught her eye. ‘She moved – I mean, she made a deliberate physical action.’

  ‘That’s good,’ the young woman replied. ‘You’re obviously helping.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I hope so.’ George turned back to Tess who had reverted to her customary blank expression. ‘Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, this girlfriend, Connie Chan, we just don’t know where to start.’

  If George had been startled by Tess’ earlier reaction, he was gobsmacked by what she did next. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as if to speak. Her lips moved soundlessly, but nothing came out.

  ‘What? What is it, Tess?’ He leaned closer. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Co–’

  George’s eyes widened. She was trying to speak. This was the first sound he’d heard from her in all these months. ‘Connie Chan,’ he said, ‘that’s right.’

  Tess moved her head one way, then the other.

  ‘No?’ George held her hand. ‘It’s OK, this is great, take your time.’

  Tess’ face screwed up in an agony of effort. ‘Col–’

  George put his face closer. ‘Cold? You’re cold? Let me shut the window.’ He made as if to get up but again came the slow movement of her head, left to right, right to left. It was taking a huge effort. A thin crown of sweat had appeared on her forehead. George reached over to the occasional table and grabbed a tissue, wiped it away. ‘It’s all right. Take it steady.’

  Tess wasn’t finished. ‘Col-l-d.’

  George was at a loss. What did she mean? Perhaps she was just reacting irrationally, without logical thought. Maybe she imagined she was cold, but…

  ‘Casss…’ The word came out as a painful exhalation.

  ‘Listen, Tess. Don’t worry. Just relax. It’s OK.’ He didn’t know how to help her. The effort it was taking scared him. But the more he tried to calm her, the more insistent she became.

  ‘Cold-d-d…’

  He sat helplessly, gripped her hand. ‘

  ‘Cas-s-s…’

  Understanding exploded in his head. ‘Cold case? That’s it, right? You’re telling me about a cold case?’ His heart was banging like a drum solo. ‘To do with Connie Chan? You’ve heard the name, you remember something about her? You worked on the case?’

  A flicker of a smile raised the corners of Tess’ mouth.

  ‘You’re there. My God,’ George marvelled, scarcely able to believe it. ‘You’re in there, Tess, aren’t you? You understand?’

  This time her chin tilted up, then down.

  ‘Listen,’ he told her, ‘I’m going to fetch the manageress, get her to send the doctor in to see you, OK?’

  But Tess’ eyes had closed, exhausted by the effort. George gave her hand a final squeeze, and left her to doze quietly. He made himself walk normally along the corridor, though his instincts were telling him to sprint. His head buzzed with renewed hope and electric excitement. She can think. She’s still in there… she gave me a lead …

  He took the stairs two at a time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Moran peered through the tall steel gates. The sign told him he was in the right place; Guust Vervoer was emblazoned atop the gates in electric red and blue, matching the livery of Cleiren’s ill-fated artic. He could see a security box a few metres beyond the gates. A fleet of transporters of various sizes were parked diagonally in their allotted spaces. Beyond the forecourt a tall green and grey warehouse dominated the skyline. In the absence of the usually ubiquitous Portakabins, Moran assumed that the company’s onsite offices would lie inside.

  This isn’t much of a plan, Brendan…

  He was beginning to draw attention; a small group of men in overalls had noticed him. One pointed, and a moment later, a uniformed guard emerged from the security box and made his way purposefully towards him.

  ‘Kan ik u helpen?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Dutch, I’m afraid.’ Moran constructed a friendly smile and showed the man his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to your transport manager, if he’s available?’

  ‘Beheerder? Nee.’

  The body language told Moran that his request hadn’t met with the success he’d hoped for. He tried again. ‘Police. English. I need to sp
eak to the manager. Beheerder.’ He added, for emphasis.

  Moran became aware that the group of men had disbanded, one towards the warehouse, and the other two headed in his direction. The first, a tall shaven-headed thirty-something, spat a phrase to the guard which Moran didn’t catch, but it was evidently some kind of command. The guard retreated to his box, and Moran waited to see what the bald guy had to say.

  ‘Engels?’

  ‘Yes, English. Police.’

  ‘Politie? Engels?’ Overall man shook his head. ‘Nee.’ He waved a meaty hand dismissively, as though shooing away a stray dog.

  Moran stood his ground. The man’s arms were huge, biceps protruding through the thick material of his overall. An amateurish tattoo stained his neck, an inky, smudge of blue.

  ‘I have some information of interest,’ Moran persisted.

  The guy squared up to Moran, invading his personal space even with the metal gates between them. ‘Informatie? Inlichting?’ The last word was delivered with a dry laugh.

  This wasn’t going well. Moran played his last card. ‘Fabrice Cleiren.’

  The name had an immediate effect. ‘Fabrice? Wat is er met hem?’ He reached through the bars of the gate and snatched Moran’s warrant card from his hand. ‘Wacht!’ He turned on his heels and made off towards the warehouses.

  Moran watched to see where he was headed. He went into the smaller warehouse on the left, entering through a side door with a dirty, sticker-covered, plate of glass in its upper quadrant. The security guard was loitering at the entrance of his box, keeping an eye on him. Moran gave him a nod and a smile.

  Minutes passed. The sky darkened and heavy droplets of rain soon began to fall, driven into the old port by the gusting, onshore wind. The gusts drove the downpour horizontally, ensuring that, by the time the bald guy reappeared, Moran was wet through and freezing cold.

  Overall man made a signal and the electric gates opened slowly, allowing Moran access to the compound. He gave the security man a brief wave in passing, and followed overall man through the grubby side door into a small reception area. A glazed window to the left revealed an office and a short, middle-aged man in a cheap suit working at a paper-strewn desk. Overall man opened a door beside the counter and signalled that Moran should go through into the office beyond.

  The door closed behind him.

  For a few seconds, the man at the desk continued to tap away at his keyboard, referring occasionally to some kind of list or inventory, until, apparently satisfied with his final entry, he removed his thick glasses, pushed his chair back and regarded Moran with weary suspicion.

  ‘You don’t speak Dutch, so you must put up with my English.’ He said it in a resigned, bored sort of way, which implied that he was often called upon to speak English, but didn’t care for it much.

  ‘Of course. That’s perfectly all right. I wish I could speak a European language, but I’ve never had the time to learn.’

  ‘Ah, the time, the time.’ The man sighed deeply. ‘If only we had more of this.’

  Moran couldn’t think of a suitable response, so he just nodded noncommittally and waited for the man to continue.

  ‘Here we have to speak English. It is something we need for business.’ A shrug. ‘So,’ he peered at Moran’s warrant card on the desk beside him. An oily smudge indicated where the bald guy had held it. ‘My name is Andries van Leer. Manager of the transport Operatie.’

  ‘The Beheerder?’

  ‘Ah, you see? You are learning already. And so, what can I help you with, Inspector … Moran?’

  ‘I’ve been investigating an RTC – a road traffic collision – on the M4 motorway, near Reading. One of your drivers, a Fabrice Cleiren, was unfortunately killed.’

  ‘Yes. We are aware. It is unfortunate.’

  ‘You knew? I don’t believe you’ve been in touch with the police in England?’

  ‘We have been informed,’ Van Leer confirmed. ‘And we will be … making … afspraken.’ He waved his hand, searching for the word.

  ‘Arrangements?’

  ‘Indeed. To recover the vehicle in due course.’

  ‘There’s not a great deal left to recover.’

  There was a second door and a large window behind van Leer, through which Moran could see a bustle of activity in the main body of the warehouse. The air was heavy with diesel, even in the enclosed space of van Leer’s office, the noise of revving engines making it difficult to converse.

  ‘Ah, of course, this is to be expected. A most unfortunate, yet not uncommon, scenario, Inspector Moran. It is not the first time we have lost a driver.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Van Leer rested his pudgy hands on his lap. ‘The organisation delivers across Europe as far as Russia. Casualties are unavoidable.’

  ‘You take a very pragmatic view.’

  Another shrug. ‘Shit happens. We go on. What can I say?’

  ‘Eloquently put. Did you know Cleiren well?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Van Leer shook his head. ‘We have so many drivers.’

  ‘Were you aware that he carried a firearm?’

  Van Leer hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘That is not official company policy, but some roads are… more dangerous than others, Inspector.’

  The slight narrowing of the eyes as van Leer delivered this statement made Moran wonder if the manager was issuing some kind of veiled threat. ‘So, you turn a blind eye?’

  ‘If you like to put it this way, yes.’ Van Leer smiled. ‘It is a good expression. I must remember it.’

  ‘The vehicle was returning from Ireland. Do you have a full inventory of contents prior to delivery?’

  Van Leer was silent for a moment. ‘Why are you here, Inspector? What is the purpose of your visit?’

  Moran was ready for the question. ‘It’s quite simple. We need to ensure that we have all the facts so that we can provide accurate information to the accident investigation team. There was another car involved, another fatality.’

  ‘That is very unfortunate. But you say we. Is this correct, Inspector, or do you mean to say, I?’

  Van Leer was more astute that he looked. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer, so I or we covers it all, equally.’ It sounded weak but it was the best Moran could come up with.

  ‘I see.’ Van Leer nodded. ‘Well then, let me assure you – and your superiors – that we shall be taking steps to recover whatever remains of our property – very little, it seems – and I will also personally undertake to inform Cleiren’s next-of-kin.’

  ‘And the inventory?’

  ‘Will be collated and forwarded to your headquarters in due course.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful.’ Moran hadn’t expected van Leer to hand anything over immediately, if at all, especially to an unexpected visitor.

  The door behind van Leer opened with a crash and Moran’s tattooed overall man came in, rattled off some request far too fast for Moran to deduce its meaning, and retreated into the warehouse as quickly as he had arrived. Van Leer had sprung to his feet at the interruption. ‘You will excuse me a moment, Inspector? There is a pressing matter I must attend to.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please help yourself to a coffee - the apparaat, like me, is past its best days, but still it does the job.’ Van Leer indicated a battered-looking drinks machine in the corner of the office, wedged in between two filing cabinets.

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  Van Leer left the door to the warehouse swinging shut behind him.

  Moran cast his eyes around the grubby office. The noticeboard was studded with yellowed, curling lists, semi-pornographic calendars, and various forgotten reminders. Next to the noticeboard, on a makeshift hook, hung a bunch of keys. Moran went to the coffee machine and experimentally stabbed a few buttons. His eyes were drawn again to the keys. Keys would be missed. But then, there were many keys on this particular keyring, spares possibly, or even little-used.

  Really,
Brendan?

  He was taking a risk, there was no doubt in his mind. If Higginson got wind of this visit, there’d be questions to answer – questions he might well not have satisfactory answers to.

  One chance, Brendan. One chance and that’s it…

  The wheezing machine gave a final cough and Moran gingerly withdrew the plastic cup. It smelled vaguely of coffee. He put it to his lips, took a tentative sip, grimaced, and went to examine the lock on the external door. A simple affair, mortice. He noted the shape, the locksmith’s insignia.

  Returning to the office, he could see van Leer through the window, in conference with a group of similarly-clad drivers – or warehouse workers, perhaps. Moran estimated that it would take the little man thirty seconds or so to cover the distance back to his office. Keeping half an eye on the window, Moran checked through the bunch of keys. There were twelve altogether, a mixture of Yale-type and mortice. Only one had the same inscribed insignia as the external door’s lock. Another glance into the warehouse. Van Leer was on his way back, having dismissed his workers to their allotted tasks.

  Now or never…

  Still he hesitated. If they found a key missing, the conclusion was foregone. A stranger alone in the office, a missing key – a no brainer. All sorts of bad stuff would descend on Moran’s head, probably following van Leer’s official complaint to Thames Valley HQ. He’d be roasted alive. Higginson would have him for breakfast.

  Moran was rooted to the spot, in an agony of indecision. He could see van Leer making brisk progress across the warehouse floor. Another twenty seconds and the moment would be gone. He gave the inside of the office one final scan, one final perusal, searching for justification.

  That was when he saw it – an object so unmistakeable that his stomach gave a sick lurch of recognition.

  A handbag, its tooled leather patterns forming a distinctive, unique design. He remembered remarking on it the first night they’d met at a neighbours’ party. Special order, she’d told him. From a master craftsman, a guy who owned his own mini-tanning factory, created works of art in leather and hide. He remembered it in crystal clear detail, resting on the sofa next to its owner the night Liam Doherty had forced his way into Moran’s home at gunpoint. And here it was, discarded in a corner, resting at the base of a cheap wooden hatstand. No ordinary handbag. No doubt at all as to its owner.