by Tana Collins
Fletcher nodded and got back into her car.
***
As he drove home, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and thought about Fletcher. He let out a huge frustrated sigh. Then, of course, there was Harris to deal with. He let himself into his cottage, went straight to the kitchen and selected a bottle of merlot from the wooden wine rack. He foraged in the freezer for something to eat. Finding a steak and kidney pie that his mother had brought over for him a while back, he took it out. He didn’t know how long it had been there but he was pretty sure it wasn’t more than a couple of months old. Putting the oven on, he opened the wine, poured himself a glass. He hunted for his mobile phone, decided to switch it to silent whilst he ate and plugged it in to recharge.
He sat down in the living room nursing the glass. Bottle at his feet. Thinking of his mother he wondered how she was getting on in Rhodes. His phone had been unusually silent whilst she’d been away. They were close but he really wished she didn’t phone him quite so often. He listened to the silence. A wave of loneliness swept over him. He felt in the mood for some folk music. He leapt up and put on a CD. He shut his eyes as he listened to the soothing sound of Gillian Welch.
By the time the pie was ready he had already drunk half the bottle and was feeling the effects. It had done the trick; taken the edge off and kept the loneliness at bay.
He settled back into his brown leather chair with his food, stretching out his long legs in front of him. Having finished the meal and the wine he got himself a whisky and put some music on. One finger of whisky turned into two and soon enough he fell asleep in his chair with the packaging of his empty dinner for one forlornly beside him. As he was drifting off an image of beauty came into his head. The woman was standing with her back to him. She was tall, slim and elegant. It was Mairi. The woman turned round. She had green eyes, dark well-defined eyebrows and black shoulder length hair. He had been mistaken. It wasn’t Mairi at all. It was Siobhan.
At some point he thought he heard the house phone ringing. It was too much effort to drag himself from his drunken stupor to answer it. In the end the ringing stopped and his dreams continued.
***
THURSDAY MORNING, 31st MAY
Jim rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck; he might have slept like the dead but a night in a chair had left him aching and uncomfortable. He pretended this was the worst of his discomfort but he knew his aborted visit to Siobhan was a colossal mistake. So did Fletcher. He also knew pride and superior rank would stop him from thanking her for saving his hide. He wasn’t sure what was going to stop his neck bleeding, though.
He dabbed another piece of toilet roll on to the shaving nick and tried to ignore his haggard features, the red veined bleariness of his eyes. The cut had bled on to his collar in the car so he changed his shirt for the spare he kept at the office. He had no way to iron the thing so it wasn’t as crisp as he would have liked and he shifted uncomfortably as he tried to smooth the creases out.
Just as he was wondering how to greet Fletcher, in she walked, looking as immaculate as ever. She was wearing a pristine white shirt and a navy knee-length skirt. Carruthers could barely summon the energy to greet her. He had a ferocious hangover and his aching muscles weren’t feeling any better. He couldn’t remember what time he’d awoken with a mouth like a bear pit, but it must have been four or five in the morning. As the birds had started their dawn chorus he’d climbed the stairs and crawled into bed. He felt like he’d barely closed his eyes before the alarm had gone off.
After a cursory ‘good morning’, he said, ‘What did you find out last night?’
‘Very little. Mathews says she only met Sean Coombe once. Didn’t hear Evans talking about him much. Didn’t know who else Roberts might be working for.’
He massaged his neck. ‘Oh well, it was a long shot. I’m just completing some paperwork then I’m heading back to the RAF base to interview Coombe. I take it the documentation’s come through OK?’
Fletcher stared at him, hands on her hips.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you get any of my messages last night?’
‘What messages?’
‘The messages I left on your mobile and house phone.’
Surprised, Carruthers took his mobile out of his pocket. It was on silent. Five missed calls. Shit! As for the house phone, he’d thought he’d heard it through his alcohol haze, but imagined it had been part of his dream.
He looked up at Fletcher. ‘I went to bed early. Out like a light. What did you want?’
‘Coombe’s left the RAF base. Apparently he’d put in a request for a transfer a few months ago.’
‘Shit. Not another one,’ he said. ‘What the hell’s going on at that RAF base? Where’s he gone? Not far I hope.’
‘Falkland Islands.’
Carruthers muttered an expletive. What a bloody fool he’d been. Distracted by a woman he hardly knew, then drinking himself into oblivion.
He stood up. ‘We need to stop Coombe boarding his flight,’ he said. ‘We’ll insist he be brought back here. We need him for questioning – that sort of thing. I’ll talk to Bingham.’
‘No point. I’ve checked. Flight’s already left.’
‘Oh Christ,’ Carruthers groaned and gingerly touched the side of his head that was throbbing.
‘I’ll get you a coffee. You look as if you could use it.’
Carruthers nodded, utterly shamefaced. He stood up, left his office and walked into the gent’s toilet. It was unoccupied. He walked over to the wall and punched it. Cursed. Then nursed his now sore hand. At the sink he splashed water on his face.
Whatever possessed him to get drunk? He hadn’t set out to get pissed and yet he still had. It reminded him of the early days of Mairi’s departure where he had spent too many nights in an alcohol induced haze. He wasn’t an alcoholic but he knew he’d almost got to the point of becoming dependent a few months ago. He was determined to learn a valuable lesson from this. He wouldn’t turn into his father. He was buggered if he was going to make another costly error. He walked back to his desk, gingerly flexing the fingers of his damaged hand.
Fletcher came back into his office carrying a black coffee. Setting it down with two painkillers she looked at him but said nothing. He felt she was expecting him to speak.
‘It was a one-off,’ he finally said.
‘My stepfather used to say that. He was an alcoholic.’
***
The man ground the cigarette into the pavement with his foot and looked at his watch. It was 1:05pm. Ten minutes to go. He watched a teenage girl with long red hair walk past with a Scottie dog. The dog stopped and sniffed the ground. It then cocked a leg. The owner pulled on the lead but the dog started walking further into the car park taking the lead with it. The man cursed. The man found he was holding his breath. Glanced at his watch again. Rubbed his damp hands down the side of his jeans. He hadn’t expected to feel nervous, but he did. Fumbled the cigarette packet with nicotine-stained fingers. The dog trotted up to the first car. Sniffed the front tyre. The red headed girl was once again pulling at the dog. 1:10pm. Five minutes to go. At 1:13pm the girl finally managed to drag the dog out of the car park. The man’s eyes shifted from dog and girl to the front door of the university department. The professor was nowhere in sight. The car park was empty. 1:14pm. He cursed. Where was he? He should be coming out of the front door now. He found he was holding his breath.
The hands of his watch said 1:15pm. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, an ear-splitting explosion and the sound of breaking glass. A plume of fire barrelled into the sky. A woman inside the building screamed.
***
Carruthers was leaning over Fletcher’s desk. A loud crumpling noise sounded somewhere outside.
‘Jesus,’ said Fletcher. ‘What the fuck was that?’
Instinctively Carruthers leapt to his feet knocking some of his paperwork to the floor. ‘Explosion.’
Carruthers raced through to Bingh
am’s office. The door was open so he just walked straight in to find the super on the phone. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece Bingham said, ‘Can’t talk now. Got the chief super on the phone. Get over to the politics department of the university. Take all available manpower. Looks like a bomb.’
SIX
A thick plume of acrid black smoke filled the air. As Carruthers drew closer he could see several cars on fire and one completely destroyed. Twisted, blackened metal and broken glass littered the car park. The windows of the ground floor had been blown in by the explosion and the building’s fire alarms were going off. The intensity of the suffocating heat kept the knot of onlookers back.
Carruthers dispatched Harris to shepherd them back further behind the police tape that Fletcher was hastily erecting. A deafening noise hurt his ears as the flames ignited a petrol tank. A shower of sparks and debris rained down on them. Someone screamed.
‘Jesus, what’s keeping the fire brigade?’ he shouted to Fletcher. ‘Take cover in case there’s another explosion. And get these people well behind the tape.’
A plump bespectacled middle-aged man, casually dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a crumpled shirt, approached Carruthers. He appeared to be ducking under the police tape until Carruthers put his hand out to prevent him.
‘No closer, sir. It’s unsafe to cross the tape.’
‘Good God. Is it a gas explosion?’ The man was visibly shaken and immensely pale.
‘We don’t know what’s caused the explosion at this point,’ said Carruthers. He wondered who could have planted a bomb. He could taste the bile in his mouth. He wondered about the conversation between Bingham and the chief super. How had they known so quickly where the explosion had occurred?
‘Only I know whose car has exploded. That is– was the car of Professor Nicholas Holdaway.’ The man gestured towards the burning vehicle. ‘Christ, could it be a bomb? I wonder if he was the target. I knew his views were controversial, but I had no idea anyone would go this far.’
The man had started to babble. Must be a nervous reaction, thought Carruthers. ‘Controversial?’ asked Carruthers. He heard a wail of sirens and out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire brigade approaching.
‘He’d been getting hate mail. I told him to report it to the police but he seemed reluctant.’
‘And you are?’
‘Oh sorry,’ he shouted over the noise of the inferno and the siren of the approaching fire brigade. ‘Professor Edward Sadler. I have the office next to Holdaway.’
‘OK, Professor Sadler, how many people are still in your building?’
‘There shouldn’t be anyone. We’re all out the back. It’s a miracle nobody’s hurt. There’s broken glass everywhere.
‘Is anyone missing?’ asked Carruthers.
‘I don’t know. Barbara Fairbairn, our secretary’s going through the register at the moment. What d’you think’s caused the explosion?’
Carruthers placed a hand on his arm. ‘Can you find out for us if everybody’s accounted for? Make sure they’re right away from the building and this car park. We’ll need to take a statement from you all, so make sure nobody from the department leaves the vicinity until they’ve spoken with us.’ Before Sadler had the chance to ask another question Carruthers turned away from him to address Fletcher.
‘I’m going to fill the firemen in on what we know, which is precious little,’ he shouted, striding towards the first of the vans. ‘Just make sure nobody gets into the cordoned off area. He surveyed the gaggle of onlookers behind the police tape before turning to Harris. ‘And Dougie?’
‘Aye, boss.’
‘Get on to the station and ask them to check up on Nicholas Holdaway, professor of politics. See if there’s anything on file about him receiving hate mail.’
‘You’ve done a good job securing the area and setting up the exclusion zone but we need to make it much wider,’ said one of the firemen, a thin-faced man in his thirties with receding reddish blond hair. ‘Christ, we would’ve been here a lot sooner but we’ve just got back from a hoax. Some wee scrote’s had us out on a wild goose chase. Told us there was a fire over in Methil. We’ll take over from here,’ he shouted.
Carruthers nodded.
‘Looks like the fire started in bay five and spread to surrounding bays,’ said the firefighter over his shoulder to Carruthers.
A breathless Professor Sadler ran up to Carruthers. ‘I’ve spoken to Babs, our secretary. She’s taken the register. The only person missing is Professor Holdaway. He was in the department this morning. Nobody remembers seeing him leave.’ He stared over at the inferno still raging in Bay 5. ‘Oh my God. You don’t think…’ he left the question hanging in the air.
‘Dinnae see anyone burning in the front seat, do you?’ said a sweating Harris, the buttons of his shirt straining over his hairy belly.
‘Can you give us your statement now, sir?’ Carruthers looked over at Fletcher who was talking to one of the fire officers. ‘Andie, take a statement from Professor Sadler, will you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Fletcher went over to Professor Sadler, taking him by his arm and guiding him away from the blazing car.
‘Boss,’ said Harris. ‘The super wants you back at the station, pronto.’
‘What, now?’ said Carruthers surprised.
‘Got the feeling it’s something to do with the explosion. Of course, I’m just a lowly DS so he’s no’ gonnae to tell me, is he?’
Carruthers pulled the car keys out of his pocket and strode past the cordoned off area. A small crowd had gathered. His last sight was of the firefighters ordering the public to leave the area.
***
The man melted into the crowd of horrified onlookers but not before pulling his baseball cap well over his face. He wondered where Holdaway was and how he’d managed to escape. How had his recruit so right royally managed to fuck things up? Yes, the explosion had been on a timer but it had been the younger man’s responsibility to make sure Holdaway was at his car by just after one. The recruit would have to be dealt with. However, part of him was enjoying this game, he thought, feeling in the inside of his jacket pocket for his gun.
Holdaway deserved to feel fear and to have his death drawn out. He reminded himself he was doing this for his sister. Pushed the image of his sister out of his head. Focus. Whenever he thought of her he didn’t see her in the wheelchair. Refused to see her confined to that God awful metal contraption. In his dreams she was laughing, walking, wearing one of her long hippy dresses. Her long blonde hair framing her face. But then the dream changed as it always did. He would hear gunshots and screaming. He would turn to see his sister lying on the ground covered in blood. That’s when he thought of Holdaway.
***
‘I’ve heard the car that blew up belongs to a Professor Holdaway. What do we know about him?’ Grim-faced Bingham came straight to the point. Instead of sitting behind his desk he was pacing up and down his office. Carruthers wondered how he’d got that information so quickly.
‘Apparently,’ said Carruthers, ‘according to one of his colleagues, a Professor Sadler, Holdaway had been receiving hate mail.’
Bingham stopped pacing and faced Carruthers. ‘Is this on file?’
Carruthers shook his head. ‘He didn’t report it. What’s going on, sir?’
‘We’ve had the Castletown Citizen on the phone. They’ve taken a call from a group calling themselves “Bryn Glas 1402.” They’re claiming responsibility for the explosion.’
Carruthers was aghast. ‘That’s what you were talking to the chief super about?’
Bingham nodded. ‘We haven’t heard back from the fire brigade yet to confirm it’s a bomb,’ continued Bingham, ‘so it’s not been verified. Don’t think it’s in any doubt though. Have you heard of this group, Bryn Glas 1402, Jim? I hadn’t.’ Bingham sat down behind his big mahogany table and rolled up his sleeves.
Carruthers searched his memory and drew a blank. ‘No.’
�
��Well, we need to find out who they are,’ said Bingham, ‘and, if they’ve targeted this Professor Holdaway, why on earth him? I’ve managed to get the Citizen to keep quiet about this for the moment.’
‘What evidence is there they’re targeting Holdaway? I take it they didn’t name him in their call to the paper?’
‘No, they didn’t. But I’ve just had the Fire Chief on the phone. The fire started in a car in bay five. I learned that–’
‘That bay is Holdaway’s,’ said Carruthers.
‘Exactly. What else do we know about him?’
‘Very little, other than he’s a politics lecturer. And allegedly receiving hate mail. I left Fletcher interviewing Professor Sadler. Apparently their offices are next door to each other in the department.’
‘Good. Where’s Holdaway, now?’
‘I don’t know. Sadler hadn’t seen him. According to the fire register he’s the only one missing. Can’t be far if his car was in the car park, though.’
Bingham picked up his phone. ‘Find him, Carruthers. Send someone to his home. See if he’s made it back there. Speak with Fletcher. Get a debrief of her interview with Sadler. Report back to me when you know more. Be quick about it. Can’t let the grass grow under our feet on this one.’
‘You don’t think it could be Islamic State…?’ said Carruthers.
Bingham put the phone back down. ‘Let’s not speculate, although it might be worth checking whether Holdaway has any Middle Eastern connections. There is one other thing that might be helpful. The journalist that took the call says he’s pretty sure the man had a Welsh accent.’
Before Carruthers had a chance to pass comment Bingham once again picked up the phone. ‘I’ve got some calls to make,’ he said, waving Carruthers away with his free hand. ‘Close the door on your way out, will you? And Jim?’
‘Sir?’
‘Keep this to yourself for now. And don’t go too far. I may need to speak to you again shortly.’
***
Carruthers went back into his own office. Shut the door to make the call from his mobile.