The Silent Room

by Mari Hannah

  Despite the reassuring words, Ryan still felt like he’d let her down.

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’ Grace asked, an attempt at getting him back on track.

  ‘Yeah, none of it good. O’Neil is having me followed – although she says she’s not.’

  ‘You talked to her?’

  ‘Briefly. She denies it, of course.’

  ‘Could be Maguire.’

  ‘That would be my guess.’

  Grace swore under her breath as if Newman might be listening. ‘Don’t tell me they have this address?’

  Ryan felt her anxiety down the line. That would be the worst possible scenario.

  ‘No,’ he reassured her. ‘I called in on Hilary after I left you. They tailed me from there. I’m certain I wasn’t followed from your place.’

  ‘Can you shake them off?’

  Smiling, Ryan put his foot down.

  23

  He needed to get rid of his car. On a Sunday, with less traffic on the roads, there was only one way to do it. Travelling at speed on the A1 south, Ryan took a detour into Newcastle, entering the city centre at five past three. Dropping down on to St James’ Boulevard to Times Square multistorey car park, he drove up to the fourth floor, heading for a bay as close to the exit door as he could get.

  Grabbing his bag, he locked the Discovery and legged it to the stairwell. As he pressed for the lift, he ventured a look through the narrow panel in the door in time to see the Beamer drive up the ramp, the men inside scanning in both directions looking for him. He couldn’t believe their incompetence. There was one way out of the car park and there were two of them. Anyone with half a brain would’ve parked up on the street and sent their colleague in on foot.

  He continued to watch as the BMW pulled up sharply.

  The passenger jumped out and approached his car, a look of disdain on his face when he realized there was no ticket on the windscreen. It was a pay-on-return facility and he had no bloody idea how long Ryan intended to stay.

  Time to put some distance between them.

  Entering the lift, Ryan pressed for the ground floor.

  Once outside, he sprinted up Railway Street, the wind at his back. This was never a busy part of town and he needed the cover of others to blend in and disappear. The lights were on red, so he crossed the road and sped up Marlborough Crescent, passing the Centre for Life on his right. Cutting through Times Square was a good move. In seconds, he was lost in a crowd attending an art exhibition set up in the centre of the pedestrianized area. Only then did he chance a look over his shoulder. There was no one on foot following him.

  Now was as good a time as any to make a move.

  Mingling with drinkers making their way into the Blonde Barrel for a pint, he edged his way nearer to the Neville Street exit, then peeled off and broke into a run. Keeping an eye out for the BMW, he moved swiftly past a line of taxis waiting in the car park, dodging smokers getting their fix outside the entrance to Newcastle’s recently modernized railway station.

  He checked the clock on the portico.

  Perfect timing.

  One flash of his old warrant card at the barrier and the ticket inspector let him through in time to jump aboard the 15.48 Edinburgh train. So what if he didn’t have a ticket? If challenged, he’d call the British Transport Police and invent some cock-and-bull story about trailing a serious offender. By the time they checked his ID – if they checked his ID – he’d be off the train at Alnmouth. In the end, that wasn’t necessary. He was sweating so much, pressing his point that he was hunting someone on the run, the ticket inspector took little notice of his warrant card and let him through.

  Thanking him, Ryan jumped aboard Coach M, a first-class carriage. He removed his jacket, took a seat. No point moving down the train if he could get away with a free upgrade. East Coast staff even offered to feed him. Much as he could’ve done with a shot of alcohol, he opted for coffee instead and a packet of shortbread biscuits, his favourite.

  He called ahead.

  A taxi was waiting for him when he disembarked at Alnmouth station at ten past four. It whisked him away and in no time he was back at his mother’s house, calling out to Caroline as he closed the door behind him.

  She appeared from nowhere. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘Sure did.’ Pleased to see that she was up, dressed and looking a lot less agitated, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I need to borrow Mum’s car. OK with you?’

  ‘What if I want to use it?’ she joked. ‘What’s up with yours?’

  ‘Nothing. I just fancied a try of a Honda Jazz.’

  Caroline laughed, even though she’d never seen one.

  He made it to Grace’s house surveillance-free at quarter to six, explaining his delay. Newman handed him a beer on the way in. That was all he was getting by way of apology.

  They clinked bottles.

  Nuff said.

  Newman didn’t like the sound of the tail on Ryan, suggesting it might not be the police. Maybe the Security Service was involved somewhere down the line. All options were on the table until they discovered what Jack had been investigating.

  Grace threw Ryan a smile. ‘Told you it wasn’t personal.’

  Newman’s proposition sounded too far-fetched. Ryan wasn’t buying it, although he had to concede that conspiracies weren’t always theoretical. Maybe Jack had found his Watergate, a scandal so big that government departments were involved at the highest level. The only way to be sure if Newman was pissing in the wind was to go along with it.

  The spook offered to drive around and check on police safe houses in case Jack had been taken there and held against his will. And, because Ryan was Special Branch, they had a starter for ten because he knew exactly where they were.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Ryan said. ‘I think we’re wasting our time. The guys following me were useless.’

  ‘We’ve got sod-all else,’ Grace reminded him.

  ‘I have the registration of the surveillance vehicle,’ Ryan offered. ‘There’s one way to find out if it’s the police on my tail and that’s to clone a car myself. A mate of mine has the exact same model, arguably in better condition than the one following me, but not noticeably so. I’m sure he’ll let me borrow it if I ask nicely.’

  ‘Mind if I take care of the rest?’ Grace asked.

  The two men looked at her.

  ‘O’Neil and her team aren’t looking for me,’ she added. The suggestion made sense. Besides, Grace had set her sights on going undercover, her favourite aspect of police work since joining up thirty-odd years ago. Having listened to her outline what she had in mind, the two men grinned. They liked her style. It was a plan that just might work.

  24

  While Newman went off to check safe houses, Grace went shopping. Not only for food – although she bought that too – along with enough office supplies, alcohol and fags to keep three going for the foreseeable future. The coming days would be frantic. Meals would be simple and easy to prepare, a case of take it or leave it. She’d selected a particular supermarket, one she was familiar with. When she was done, she dumped her purchases in the boot of her car and did a recce of the car park, thinking through her undercover strategy for the following day.

  The southwest corner was ideal, assuming Ryan could persuade his pal to part with his beloved BMW. It had been windy the last couple of days. Some overhanging horse-chestnut trees had lost their leaves. Perfect for what she had in mind. She didn’t risk picking any up in case she was seen acting suspiciously, but made a mental note to collect some on her way home.

  On the way back to her car, she pulled out her mobile and called Ryan.

  He picked up immediately.

  ‘Any joy with that BMW?’ she asked, getting in.

  ‘Yup, we’re good to go.’

  ‘Did your mate ask why you needed it?’

  ‘He’s Job. He knows better.’

  ‘I like him already.’

  Grace rang off and
made another call. The guy on the other end owed her a favour. It was time to call it in. Ordering a set of number plates, she told him she’d send someone to collect and pay for them first thing in the morning. No names were mentioned. No receipts required. Hanging up, she drove away.

  Further on, she scanned the street. Spotting a horse-chestnut tree, she pulled up alongside and got out. Collecting a handful of fallen leaves from the ground, she shoved them surreptitiously in her bag, climbed into her car and continued on her journey, arriving home a few minutes later.

  She packed away her shopping, satisfied that her idea had legs. While she was out, Ryan had cooked a simple shepherd’s pie. When Newman got back, they all sat down to eat. The spook was none the wiser from his trip round the safe houses. He hadn’t seen the BMW in any location visited. He’d returned hungry and weary, much like Grace. For the first time since they had met, Newman and Ryan seemed to hit it off over the meal. This was gratifying for Grace, given that she had to go out again. She had an urgent errand to run.

  Leaving them deep in conversation, she left the house and made her way across the road, returning fifteen minutes later, armed with a couple of weighty plastic bags and a walking stick with a bone handle in the shape of a wolf’s head. Not ideal for her needs, but not far from it. In the art of subterfuge, she’d been taught never to use a prop that might draw unwelcome attention or could easily be traced. But, on this occasion, she couldn’t help herself.

  She smiled at the irony.

  All she needed was the sheep’s clothing.

  Mounting the stairs two at a time, she went off for a dress rehearsal. Setting the contents of the two bags out on her bed – clothing, wig, costume jewellery and stage makeup borrowed from a neighbour heavily into amateur dramatics – she took her time applying face powder and pink blusher, pencilling in overly arched eyebrows and slapping on lippy too dark for the pale complexion of the octogenarian she was trying to create.

  Next, she changed clothes: thick tights, a grey skirt, a flowery blouse done up to the neck, a bulky cardigan, an overcoat, scarf and flat black heavy shoes with laces. The grey wig was a perfect fit. She added a hat, picked up her walking stick and looked in the mirror. She had to admit, the transformation was amazing. Even her mother wouldn’t have recognized her. She was her mother.

  25

  First thing Monday morning they breakfasted together, Ryan and Grace opting for a full English to keep them going all day, Newman helping himself to muesli, the eating of which he managed to turn into an art form.

  This guy did nothing in a hurry.

  Afterwards, Grace sent him off to pick up her dodgy registration plates and Ryan to collect his friend’s BMW while she got dressed for the performance of her life. By the time the two men returned, shortly after nine, she was cloaked in the invisibility of old age.

  Ryan fitted the plates while Newman took the leaves she’d collected the night before and super-glued them under the windscreen wipers, enough to obscure the tax disc without raising suspicion.

  ‘You ready?’ he said.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Grace answered in an old lady’s voice.

  She drove to the supermarket, parking up in a spot she’d chosen on her previous visit, making sure the car was in full view of CCTV. With the aid of her walking stick, the handle taped over to hide the wolf’s head, she hobbled into the store, bought a newspaper and made her way to the cafe, where she overstayed the three-hour parking limit, knowing it would trigger the issuing of a ticket, then she shuffled up to the information desk, apologizing profusely for having done so.

  Although sympathetic, the tall, thin lad behind the counter couldn’t do anything to assist her. He didn’t brush her off. On the contrary, he took his time explaining that it wasn’t up to him to police the car parking area. Although employed by his management, the security company responsible for that side of the business would most probably spit out a fine automatically if an offence had been committed.

  Grace knew they were shit hot. A friend of hers had been caught more than once and had received fixed-penalty notifications in the post the very next day. Employing the most distressed face she could muster, Grace peered at the lad through a pair of bifocals, telling him she was only just managing on her small pension and had no money with which to pay a substantial fine.

  ‘Someone told me it will be seventy pounds,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering.

  The lad tried for reassurance. ‘Less if you settle within seven days.’

  ‘But still …’ Reaching for the counter, Grace feigned distress. ‘I lost my husband. Please,’ she begged. ‘I can’t pay.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The lad seemed genuinely upset by her predicament, his face the picture of understanding. He took a sheet of paper from under the counter and held it out to her. ‘Here are details of the security company. Why don’t you give them a ring?’

  ‘Could you? I’m not good on the phone.’

  There was a moment of hesitation. ‘OK. What’s the registration number?’

  ‘Bless you.’ Grace reeled off the number of her false plates.

  The lad made the call, explaining her situation almost word for word. From the look on his face, he was getting the precise reaction she’d anticipated: indifference. Repeating the registration number, he paused, listening to the person on the other end, his expression one of regret. Asking them to wait on the line, he covered the speaker with his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The ticket has already been issued.’

  ‘Really?’ Grace checked the clock behind his head. ‘But it’s only one thirty. I’m only an hour overdue.’

  ‘He said that he needs a word.’ The lad held out the phone. ‘Apparently, the registration number has come up as a blocked vehicle. He’s asking for your name and address.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Oh yes! Grace dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I haven’t been truthful with you, young man. That’s because I … I bought the vehicle from the police and now I’m concerned because I’ve not yet informed the DVLA. I’ve changed my mind about the ticket. Please tell him I want to pay.’

  Taking the receiver, the lad did his best, then shook his head and handed her the phone.

  This time she took it. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice all of a quiver.

  ‘I need your name and address, madam.’

  ‘Can’t I appeal?’

  ‘No, sorry, pet.’ He sounded nothing of the kind. ‘I don’t get the money myself, you understand. I just work here. I’ve heard every excuse in the book as to why people don’t deserve a ticket.’ He laughed. ‘Take my advice: don’t appeal it. Clear the debt and take more care next time. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief.’

  Patronizing bastard.

  Grace gave him dodgy details, rang off and left the store.

  Only when she’d cleared the car park did she call Ryan, letting him know that the surveillance vehicle was blocked. That meant that the car was definitely official. O’Neil, Maguire … or maybe not … it could be CID or, even worse, someone from the Security Service, as Newman had already hinted at. If so, they were operating independently of the police. That begged a worrying question. Was a department or organization other than Professional Standards after Jack?

  26

  Ryan put down the phone. The blocking of the BMW by the DVLA only told half the story. The vehicle might well be official, but there was an alternative to the teams Grace had suggested might be responsible for the surveillance operation.

  ‘What’s stopping clever offenders cloning a vehicle and making out they’re someone they’re not? If Grace can do it, anyone can.’

  Newman was nodding. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘The important thing is finding out who exactly they are.’

  ‘Agreed. Tell me who to track and I’m on it.’

  They waited until Grace got back for a debrief. After a short discussion, they agreed to lay a trap. Grace had done her bit for the day, so Ryan asked Newman to drop hi
m in town behind the Central Station, away from prying eyes. They couldn’t afford for the wrong people to see Newman’s car and track them to Grace’s. The two men left the house immediately.

  Newman parked in Forth Street. Ryan got out and walked to Times Square multistorey, where his own car was parked. He paid his dues, collected his Discovery from the fourth floor and drove out of the car park, turning right and right again, then along Forth Street, straight past Newman, who was poised to follow on behind.

  A few seconds later, Newman called him. ‘BMW behind you with two-car cover,’ he said.

  ‘Got him.’ Ryan replied. ‘OK to lose him?’

  ‘Be my guest. I also have cover.’

  ‘OK, good luck. Let me know what gives.’

  Newman grinned as Ryan pulled away. The BMW followed suit and so did he. Trying to keep up with Ryan in the city would take all the concentration of any surveillance team, even more so if they were sloppy. These clowns in the Beamer were so incompetent, he was sure that while they were looking ahead, they wouldn’t be taking any notice of what was going on behind. In twenty minutes, they had lost Ryan completely.

  The BMW slowed and stopped.

  Pulling up on the other side of the road, Newman saw the driver slam a hand on the dash in frustration, ranting at his co-driver. The surveillance team, such as it was, had fallen for their deception and been outclassed. Newman was impressed with Ryan. He’d made losing them look like child’s play.

  The guys in the BMW cruised around for almost two hours trying to pick up the scent, checking car parks, on and off-street. If they were official, Newman knew they would do anything rather than return to base and tell their supervision that they had failed once again in their mission to keep an eye on their target. As darkness fell, it became obvious that Ryan had vanished into the chaos of rush hour as many thousands poured into their cars trying to make it home.