by AD Davies
Kuno cleared her throat. “Norman, do you need a break?”
Norman now sat up straight, no hint of that confused, frightened, troubled ex-con. He did not reply.
Alicia said, “And the establishment wants to avoid a scandal, yet there are all these policemen who saw what you did, and other hookers coming forward with information. So they feed you your story. Stick to it, and you’re out in twenty years. Blab about the other stuff, and you’re done for life. And you’re right, I’m surprised too that they let you live, but maybe you have a little nugget or two stored away for a rainy day. And they don’t want to risk it being released.”
His breathing grew laboured, not through illness, but through concentration.
Alicia said, “You didn’t fall for that undercover MI5 op, did you? In fact, you revealed the secrets, and also the fact you kept them in a place, maybe somewhere that could reveal those secrets to the world, including Russia, if anything were to happen to you in jail.”
As well as breathing, Norman smiled, his teeth now hidden. If you took away the mottled stubble over his pate, the roughness of his cheeks and dirt under his nails, you would have seen that expression a hundred times before on politicians caught in a lie on television, unable to answer for their actions.
Alicia said, “But you really believed in your cause, and in prison you had time to reflect on the bad person you’d become. You have turned over a new leaf. But now you’re living in poverty, the way you should have all along.”
Norma’s lips pursed and he nodded.
“Your penance isn’t learning to ease your temper, or to respect women again. It’s to show the courage you lacked in the face of capitalist temptation. And you have that courage, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure it’s courage,” Norman said. “But Kireyev Anatoliy Ilyich died a long time ago. Any contacts in my former homeland ain’t interested in me no more. It’s all out of date, and can’t harm no one. I’m just a man now, tryin’ to find a way to start again.”
Alicia eased back and racked her brain for another approach. The trigger words did not yield a flicker of a response, and although she was full of respect for the detective work to get them this far, she was convinced it was all smoke. The fire died long ago.
“Your motives were not emotional,” she said. “You didn’t feel guilty for it, it was your job. You’re a sociopath, like a hitman, not a psychopath. I don’t believe you took pleasure in what you did, and I’m glad you were punished for it.” She handed the Tolya file back to Stevenson. “Would you like to take over again?”
Stevenson, like Norman, regulated breathing, although this was anger suppression rather than self-consciousness. “Interview suspended.”
* * *
As Norman was escorted back to his cell, where he would conference with Kuno, Alicia took a deep breath and admonished the custody sergeant for a “non-regulation pen.”
“You gave me this pen,” he said, pointing to the words “Sgt Custard” on the side. “Secret Santa two years ago.”
“And you kept it? I’m honoured.”
After a little banter with the almost-retired Harry Dent (who she used to call “Sergeant Custard” when she couldn’t remember his real name, as in “custard” Sergeant … custody sergeant … get it?), Alicia returned to the observation suite where Murphy and Stevenson waited. Predictably, Stevenson spoke as loudly with his hand-waving as he did with his mouth.
“What the hell was that? I had that handled.”
“You were wrong,” she said. “You know it now. But you were running with it.”
“That was not a professional way to persuade me.”
His agreement took Alicia by surprise, and she wasn’t quite sure where to go next.
Murphy said, “He’s right about that. Detective Sergeant Stevenson, do you wish to make a complaint?”
“No.” He folded his arms and glared at Alicia. “Not at this time. I wish to consider my options. I would hate to make a decision like that while I’m still angry.”
Clever. Basically a warning shot. If Alicia embarrassed him again, her actions today were on tape, and could be used against her.
“I apologise,” Alicia said. “But since you agree, you probably agree on the reasons. Namely, Norman Faulkner, or ‘Tolya’, is an organised man. Or at least he was. We are looking for someone who sews the seeds of anarchy. Someone who loves chaos, and wants to see it spill onto the streets.”
Stevenson was nodding along. “Rocaby. The football hooligan.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Murphy didn’t like taking Alicia on yet another car journey, but Paulson was her boss, and her boss liked in-person updates. And she possessed far more resources than Sheerton, so Murphy persuaded his boss that Sheerton should back up whatever the SCA brought to the table with brawn, but they needed the specialists in on this.
Hopefully, Paulson would not yet have reviewed the interview.
Stevenson agreed to summarise the findings without mentioning specifics, but assured them he would not lie except by omission. In return, Stevenson would present the case for Jacob Rocaby to be named the prime suspect, which would push the notion that it was his idea all along.
With all three in Paulson’s office, he said, “From what we learned in the interview with Norman Faulkner, we no longer believe he’s behind these crimes. But Jacob Rocaby is a good fit psychologically speaking. Physically abused, institutional mental abuse from a religious perspective, then found release in the chaos of organised football hooliganism. He is currently under arrest for assault and obstructing police officers in the performance of their duties—”
Paulson hit a series of buttons on her computer and checked screen. “He’s been in custody fourteen hours. Pending a section evaluation?”
“He was highly agitated last night. Kuno Kae is his lawyer, and she says his medication had been missed. We retrieved it and allowed him to take it himself, and it did calm him down. Social services are bringing someone in this afternoon, but it won’t do much good unless we can get more on him. We should bail him.”
Paulson looked at Murphy, and held on him, clearly expecting him to speak.
“I agree,” Murphy said. “His movements have changed recently, and we know he has been very disturbed over time. Likewise, he may have learned other skills whilst inside, made contacts that could help him cause this much fear and chaos.”
“I understand he hasn’t quite achieved what he was after.” Paulson then looked at Stevenson.
“Not yet,” Stevenson said. “If he’s manipulating people from his base there, he’s had plenty of time to plan. A slow Internet connection, but sufficient for messaging and basic forum use. Complete anonymity both online and secluded from society. Hidden behind the legalese of a medical facility. Look at the warrant yesterday. We could arrest and question Norman Faulkner, search his premises on-site, but medical records were off limits.”
“We need more than suspicion to requisition confidential data like that.”
“That’s why we’re asking you for OU12 support.”
She sat back, sighed as if they asked her to donate a kidney. “Observation Unit 12 does not come cheap. What does his lawyer have to say?”
“Ignoring the Norman Faulkner business,” Stevenson replied, “she’s back to her old ways. With Jacob Rocaby, she’s already screaming for recompense, accusing us of picking on the mentally ill.”
“So it would probably serve us well to release him into the care of the Institute where he has resided without incident for many years.”
“It would,” Alicia said, her first utterance since greeting Paulson.
“Then we’ll surveil him remotely, from a distance. Wiretap, email, intercept any snail mail post on its way. Once that’s in place, we’d better have a physical presence. That might take until the morning.”
“Understood,” Murphy said.
“In the meantime, Stevenson, I want you to get Cyber to step up their efforts. Whatever the
reason for it, the Institute and that school are linked in some way. Find that link.”
The three stood, murmuring variations on “ma’am”, but before anyone could leave, Paulson stopped them.
“Detective Sergeant Friend and DCI Murphy, I need a word.”
Stevenson lingered only a few seconds longer than he normally would, then exited.
Paulson indicated they should both sit. As soon as Alicia and Murphy touched down, Paulson came straight out with, “Detective Sergeant Friend, I instructed you to take a backseat on this, observation only. And yet I received a phone call from Kuno Kae half an hour ago in which she accuses you of interrupting the interview between her clients and DS Stevenson. This is in direct contravention of my instructions, is it not?”
Alicia bowed her head. “It is, ma’am. But I came across intelligence that was required immediately.”
The backup plan. Murphy concocted it on the way over, without telling Stevenson. He was in his own car at the time. But Murphy sensed they were not far away from solving this.
He said, “This is correct. If it weren’t for Alicia’s additional insight, we may not be here right now.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” Paulson said.
“It’s the truth.”
“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. On one condition. You tell me what that intelligence was. What intelligence did you glean that Stevenson missed? What did you learn in the short time you spent watching the interview that your colleague, who’d been on this since the previous afternoon, did not hold in his file?”
Nobody spoke.
Paulson was unlikely to accept Alicia’s moments of clarity as “additional intelligence” even if Murphy did. Alicia stuttered. A rare sight, indeed.
Murphy said, “Yesterday afternoon?”
Paulson set up straighter. Hands together. “DS Stevenson had a theory, yes.”
“One he chose not to share with the detective chief inspector responsible for the case? One he chose not to enter into the case file. DS Stevenson’s chief superintendent knew of the arrest. Meaning … a breach in the chain of evidence gathering.”
“It does not mean a breach.”
“Unless a senior officer makes a complaint. I should have been informed. Yet I was not. Because somebody knew I would ask Alicia for her feedback before acting. I was kept out of the loop so dear Stevenson could put his theory into play, and you facilitated that. Indirectly, I’m sure.”
“Murphy…” Alicia started.
Paulson showed Alicia her palm, and said, “DCI Murphy, do you realise what you are implying?”
“I’m implying,” Murphy said, “I was not alerted in sufficient time about the arrest of a suspect. That’s all. Then if I put in a complaint against the arresting officer, is it possible he will implicate anyone else?”
Paulson sighed deeply. Her eyes narrowed at Murphy, passed over Alicia, back to Murphy. “I’m going to get a copy of the interview, and when I do, Alicia’s contribution better be utterly without flaws and absolutely essential, or she is sitting on her arse with her feet up by breakfast time tomorrow.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Alicia said.
“I’m sure it’ll be in order,” Murphy said.
Paulson stood, an indication Murphy and Alicia should as well. When they did, the chief superintendent said, “I will be watching what happens next. If either of you piss me off in any way, I’ll take my chances with the review board on Faulkner’s arrest. Am I understood?”
* * *
It was a risky play, one that sort of paid off, just not as much as Murphy hoped. And the tiny, near-imperceptible bounds in Alicia’s step as she exited the office made Murphy’s stomach sink. Once there was no chance of them being overheard by Paulson or her assistant, he said to her, “You’re not going to play along, are you?”
When her head turned, her hair floated out slightly. The twinkle in her eye had been missing for a while. Now it was back as she replied, “Of course I’m going to play along. Not even considering going against clear orders like that. In fact, I’m taking the rest of the day off to reflect on my actions this morning. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how it goes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Murphy returned Alicia to Sheerton to collect her car, during which time he confessed he only knew the basics of OU12’s operating procedure. It was boring, but she explained the gist: earlier this year, the government authorised the establishment of specialist observation units across the country, employing a mix of civilian digital experts—mostly ex-military from regiments like the Royal Signals—and boots-on-the-ground surveillance, which facilitated covert operations involving vehicles, drones, and even camouflaged officers hiding in bushes. Far more effective than any regular surveillance by grass roots police.
The only problem with OU12 was that they usually required around a week’s notice.
So Alicia did exactly as she said she would: returned home in her vehicle, put her feet up for a while, allowed her mum to pamper her with home-made soup, to run her a bath, and indulge in a little online shopping for baby clothes. The pair agreed upon a dozen onesies in gender-neutral colours of white, yellow, and purple, with varying degrees of cuteness printed upon them. When Roberta came home, Alicia insisted the other two women indulge in some fine gin she bought earlier, along with various flavoured tonics and fruit slices, including melon, which her mum initially turned her nose up at, but eventually asked where she could buy such exotic food. Alicia gave her the address of Tesco, and Roberta’s hooting laughter set Dot off as well.
Alicia wished she could drink.
And also wished she did not have to go out again that evening.
Once the others were suitably sauced, she dressed all in black, like a ninja trying to blend in to a beach scene disguised as a ball, and drove out towards the moorlands. She took a roundabout route to the village of Thorpdale, one that avoided the traffic camera on which Jacob Rocaby had been snapped on a regular basis, then changed his pattern immediately upon interest from the police.
The advantage of these countryside locations was the abundance of farmers’ fields and gates that were never locked. She was able to open one of them, back her vehicle inside, and wait with her lights off. Because the night was muggy and warm, she kept the window open, loving the smells of manure and fresh hedgerow, but she attributed her tapping feet and restless fingers to the notion that this random fishing trip could fail to pay off in even the smallest of ways.
The things I do to get out of an evening with my drunk mum.
Was that the real reason she came out here? Would she have taken this chance if Dot were tucked up with a G&T in her own house an hour away from Alicia’s? That Rocaby had only broken his pattern once was a thin pretext on which to act. If it demonstrated any sort of solidity she could have gone the official route and brought in more officers.
She mentally slapped herself and turned on the radio. Two more songs, and she would turn in for the night and forget the odds of a highly-focused individual breaking his firm schedule twice in a week.
In the middle of the second song, something by Ed Sheeran, at shortly after 9:00 p.m., Jacob Rocaby’s Honda Civic passed by. Alicia gave him a full thirty seconds, before setting out.
Jacob passed the school without slowing, although Alicia could not help gazing at the walls and guard station, before concentrating on the route ahead.
The roads out here were winding and often narrow, enough for two standard cars to pass one another, although she pulled over twice—once for an oncoming bus and another time for a lorry transporting goods to Thorpdale’s Little Waitrose. Another fifteen minutes on from the school, Alicia guessed where Jacob was headed.
Sure enough, as the elevation dropped, Ingram Lake was visible from the road, a natural body of water as opposed to IROMOV’s quarry-generated feature. When Jacob turned off to the lakeside cabin listed on his property records, Alicia pushed on to the next waterside access route, and f
ollowed it to the end.
This particular location was nothing more than a picnic spot, but her phone still found 3G reception, with 4G left a long way behind, so she booted up Google Earth to figure out where she was in relation to Jacob’s holiday lodge.
The cabin appeared isolated from the other properties around the water. Alicia’s current location was probably the closest any member of public could get to Jacob’s land, and that would require a hike through half a mile of woodland. Carrying on further beyond, it would be 5 miles until any other access was clear. It was as isolated as you can get within a populated area.
Alicia called Cleaver, who was more than happy to chat through the property history.
“Most of Jacob’s investments are self-funded. Partly through profits from grants aimed at the Institute. He reinvested to make the most of tax loopholes. But this land you’re on about, it originally belonged to his father, who we now know passed away three years ago. We looked and there doesn’t seem to be any contact between Jacob and Horacio Rocaby during their time inside.”
“But Jacob claimed he had no knowledge of his dad’s whereabouts,” Alicia said. “If Horatio died and left him property, he’d have known.”
“And it’s Jacob’s name on the death certificate. Drowning. They reckon suicide, but listed as an accident. I’ve requested pathology, but it hasn’t come through yet.”
“One thing I’m not sure of is if the location is a coincidence.”
“What sort of coincidence?”
Cleaver paused and made a noise that sounded like he was checking his computer. “That IROMOV is located so close. I mean, they snatched up the cheap land because no property developer wanted it due to the mining under the area. A few wood cabins is all it’d cope with, so it makes sense financially. But he picked it up four years before his dad passed, and inherited a property, what, an hour away?”