by G I Tulloch
"Oh please," pleaded Adam. "I hate to laugh out loud in public, it doesn't do my self image any good. I know that Granger Bartlett was murdered by the IRA."
A small school-kid pressed their nose to the window. Ford banged on it and told him to 'Clear Off'. He turned back to Adam.
"Bartlett left a suicide note on the day of the car crash. It said he couldn't live with himself over what the IRA were doing, and he was going to take the only way out."
"This didn't come out at the inquest."
"No it didn't."
"Do we know why?"
"What's with the 'we' stuff?" demanded Ford.
Adam smiled. "Sorry I thought we were building up a good working relationship here."
"On your bike. This is strictly off the record."
"The FBI has no knowledge?"
"The investigation was controlled from outside the local area," confessed Ford. "Rumours were that MI5 were involved. The release of evidence was 'controlled'."
"So it was a cover-up?"
"I didn't say that. Did I say that?"
Adam looked out the window. A man lurked across the street reading a newspaper. There ought to be a law against it, thought Adam, it makes the public nervous.
"So it was actually a suicide after all?" asked Adam.
There was silence from the other side of the table so Adam repeated the question.
"No," came Ford's curt response.
Now Adam was confused. "So there was a genuine suicide note but you're saying it wasn't suicide?"
"I got in touch with one of the detectives who was assigned to the investigation. He's retired but we occasionally touch base. According to him the body in the car had a bullet hole in the side of the skull. If it was suicide, he would have had to drive the car into the tree at high speed, shoot himself whilst unconscious, and then throw the gun so far away that a search of the scene didn't find it."
Adam paused to let it sink in.
"So it was murder?" But what about the genuine suicide note?
"Looks like it."
"If it was the IRA and they killed him, would it have been enough to cause the cover-up." suggested Adam.
"Given the fact that he was a strong IRA sympathiser it's possible I suppose."
"But you're not convinced."
Ford's voice almost dropped to a whisper as if walls had ears.
"There's a far more plausible explanation."
"There is?" whispered Adam.
"If MI5 had him killed because of his strong and open support for the Republican cause they would definitely want it hushed up," argued Ford. "But you didn't hear it from me."
Adam paused for a second to let the enormity of the suggestion sink in.
"Oh shit. It all fits."
Adam burnt his mouth on the coffee and asked Ford about Fran's death.
Ford sighed. "I wondered when you would get around to that."
"What goes around, comes around," conceded Adam.
"Okay. This wasn't covered up but there were aspects of the case that didn't hang together."
"Explain," demanded Adam.
"Mrs Lennox made two calls from her mobile within the space of minutes."
Adam interrupted. "One call. To me at home. I wasn't there and didn't answer."
"No. You were the second call. The first call was to an unlisted number. They couldn't trace it."
"So, was she ringing someone else about what she'd found, or what?"
"That didn't come up at the inquest."
"It wouldn't. There was no real suspicion of foul play and it was treated as insignificant. But who would Fran want to phone first?"
Adam put his coffee mug down so hard it slopped over the table.
"What else was odd?" he continued through gritted teeth.
"The conflict in witness statements. One witness claims that they saw Mrs Lennox with a folder of paperwork as she went to leave the building. Brad Wilding on the other hand claims that she didn't, and being first on the scene confirmed that there was no paperwork."
Adam brought Ford up to speed on their opinions of Brad, and videotape contents.
"It all seems feasible. She found evidence of the smuggling and was killed to keep her quiet."
"Could Brad have been the driver?" queried Adam.
"No. Derek was right. He has an alibi for the crash itself. A witness remembers being next to him when they heard the crash, and was impressed with the speed at which he took off to find out what was going on."
"Possible, but if you're right then he's a dangerous fish. I wouldn't push him too hard."
"He's taken off anyway. No one can find him."
"Admission of guilt?" posed Ford.
"Possibly. But guilt of what? Murder, or just smuggling on the side? It doesn't make sense anyway, he didn't need the money, he wasn't opinionated on the subject of Irish Unity. Why get involved?"
"Dunno. What was the paperwork anyway?"
"Papers. Everybody's looking for papers."
"What do you mean?" demanded Ford.
Adam hesitated and then explained about his kidnapping, giving only very bare bone details.
Ford exploded quietly. "You shit. You said you knew nothing of the hit-man."
"I lied."
"You're going to get into serious trouble."
"I already am."
Ford started to make noises about leaving but he wasn't quite finished.
"Before I go there's something you should know," he said.
Adam put his coffee down as a precaution.
"There's someone else looking into your wife's death. The case file has gone missing but it hasn't been booked out."
"You mean someone who has access to police files has taken it without authorisation."
"Exactly that. Exactly that."
"Thanks," said Adam. "I owe you one."
"Not true. You owe me lots," retorted Ford, and getting to his feet he grabbed his coat and left.
Chapter 29
Adam made is way up to the flat using the concealed spiral staircase that he had had installed to connect the office with the flat. At the top there was the option to go straight into the flat or out onto the landing outside the flat's front door. On this occasion and against his normal practise he went out onto the landing, for no good reason that came to him. The landing was not your standard 'block of flats' landing but really an extension of the inner hallway as there was a locked entrance to the street at the foot of the main staircase.
Checking the hallway for flotsam and jetsam he noticed that the windows needed cleaning and made a mental note to get Clare to rustle up some men with ladders.
Turning to the door something in his spine started to tingle. The front door, normally carefully shut so that the catch held, was standing very slightly ajar with the catch held open. Might be nothing, might have been Clare bringing up the day's post, might be his memory, but in the current circumstances relaxation left him like a heavy overcoat and he seemed to rise higher on the balls of his feet. Unlike most police dramas that show people dashing from room to room, Adam's army training in room to room searches in enemy territory was very different. Most of the time is spent listening whilst trying to reduce your own noise to that of feathers alighting on the ground, and this is what he did now.
He moved slowly through the doorway into the inner hall, blessing a recent oiling frenzy that had him lubricating every door in the flat. The door opened noiselessly as he moved on the carpeted floor to the door of the lounge. The afternoon sunshine was creating a squared pattern of light on the floor through the panelled window.
There was little noise above the fridge compressor in the kitchen, and the very slight background hum from the various electrical appliances. Any extraneous noise was coming from outside in the street. He risked a glance out of the window and down into the street where an old beat up Vauxhall Vectra was sitting with its engine running, the driver busy on his mobile phone.
Adam's wariness raised itself a n
otch and he crept around the edge of the lounge. Half-way round he stopped, his senses alerted to a faint scratching noise from the Dining Room, mice or intruder, it was a toss up. He pulled a lethal looking stiletto knife from a sheath concealed in the waistband of his trousers and moved around the half-open door of the dining room to find a long-haired individual in jeans and leather jacket, going through the drawers in his writing desk.
In these situations there are two options; one, rush the guy before he has a chance to grab a weapon, or two, reverse far enough out of earshot and call the police.
Adam thought of a third, and moving as close as he dared with the man's back to him, he coughed politely.
There was nothing wrong with our friend's reaction times, he had obviously been practising. He spun round, pulled a small calibre automatic from his armpit and raised it. He then watched as it spun out of his hand into a corner of the room as he crashed onto his back with Adam's knife at his throat. Jason Bourne would have approved but Adam's army instructor would have criticised him for being a fraction slow and not taking possession of the firearm. Such is life. You can please some of the people some of the time....
Relaxing slightly Adam took a better look at his erstwhile assailant. Male, medium build, untidy ponytail, greasy complexion, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty something perhaps.
Adam opened communications.
"So I presume that you haven't come to read the meters?"
An expletive obscenity spat from his intruder's mouth that Adam hadn't heard since his Army days.
The knife slipped slightly and drew blood from the throat.
"Tut, tut. Language Timothy!" reprimanded Adam. He pushed the knife a little further.
"You know, I don't really hold with the limitations on what a householder can do to protect his property. Your life hangs by a very, very thin thread my friend." The word 'friend', it had to be said, did not carry a sincere ring to it.
"Go shit yourself."
Adam was relieved. "My word, he speaks, after a fashion." His voice lost its jolly note. "What is it you're looking for."
Silence.
The knife was now hitting the bone of an Adam's Apple and a little sweat was showing, albeit with difficulty, across an already greasy brow. The look of defiance was starting to wane. Blood was in danger of staining the carpet.
Adam's expression grew into a frown. "I want to know who sent you and I'm prepared to push this knife through the back of your neck and into the floor in order to find out." Only once he'd said it did Adam recognise the dichotomy of his statement.
Fear lent expression. "He wants his papers back." In reality there were no aitches on his words, revealing a local background in the East End.
"Who?"
"I don't know." The eyes started darting left and right, and Adam should have recognised the signs.
"I think you.."
The last word was lost as his legs were whipped from under him in a desperate manoeuvre to gain freedom. He recovered in a single movement but came up face to face with a miniature automatic pulled from a sock.
The defiance and a glint in the eye returned to the intruder's demeanour.
Adam had had to let go of the knife in order to achieve speed of recovery. He backed off slightly to try and spot it.
"So, where are they?" barked the greasy one, mopping the blood from his throat with the back of his free hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Adam.
"The papers, Creep, where are the papers?"
Adam shrugged, "Everybody's looking for papers and I haven't a clue what they're talking about."
Greasy squinted at him. "You know, I think you mean it. Shit." He considered a moment and a smile lit up his face for the first time. "They said not to kill you but they didn't say anything about maiming you for life."
He lowered the gun until it pointed at Adam's knee. Adam dived to his left to recover the knife. There was a soft 'plop' from somewhere in the kitchen doorway, and Adam came up to find his assailant on the floor with half his face blown away. He turned to see Mitch in the doorway, a very sophisticated silenced automatic in his hand. He looked back at the lifeless body on the carpet.
Adam reacted. "Get him out of here. Don't be seen. Dispose of him and find out if anyone knows him. Let Erikson know" He glanced back at Mitch. "I'm sick of these dead ends."
Five minutes later the room bore no trace of any disturbance. The body had gone along with the two automatics and the knife. The settee had been moved to cover a small bloodstain on the carpet. All accomplished with a remarkable efficiency.
There was a noise from the front door. Adam still on high alert darted to the doorway to meet any new threat, and nearly crashed into Bel as she entered the dining room. She took one look at him and frowned.
"What's the matter, Lennox?"
Adam relaxed. "We've had a break-in, Trent. No damage."
Bel glanced around. "Anything missing?"
"No."
She put her mobile on the table. "Did you see anyone?"
"No."
She looked at Adam. "Are you going to phone the police?"
"No point. No damage, nothing missing, waste of time."
"You're lying. It was them wasn't it? After their precious paperwork, whatever it is."
"Probably."
"Your very uncommunicative."
"Thinking."
"Thinking what?"
He looked out the window. The Vectra had gone. He turned around.
"I think I have an idea what this paperwork might be, in essence at least."
"What?"
"I'll tell you later. I need to test some theories first."
His expression didn't brook argument. Bel frowned.
"You don't trust me, Lennox. If you don't trust me just tell me."
Adam smiled. "That frown becomes you, Trent. It's not a question of trust. If anyone were to ask you questions I would prefer you to be able to honestly say that you don't know. The more convincing it is the fewer finger nails they're likely to pull out."
Bel grimaced but remained unconvinced. "I'll be downstairs."
Adam spent several more minutes checking that everything was in place and made to follow her when a mobile phone rang once.
Adam stopped. Incoming text. He checked his own but nothing showed on the display. He looked around and spotted Bel's phone on the table. He would never understand afterwards what made him read the text, but what he read disturbed him greatly and confused him not a little. He erased it and then reached for his own phone and dialled.
DCI Ford came on the line with his usual bad grace.
"Ford. What do you want?"
"A favour."
"Ho. A favour. This aught to be good."
"I need a background check on Fran and Bel."
There was a pause of inward digestion before Ford replied. "I don't understand. Surely you know all the background or at least you don't need me in order to find it."
"That's the problem. I'm too close. Bel's just received a text message. 'You can't escape responsibility. Fran's gone, you're next'."
"What does that mean?"
Adam frowned. "I think it means that Fran's death is linked to Bel and I don't understand why. I need you to check the records for anything that ties Fran and Bel to someone that may have a grudge. It's a wild shot but I need to try everything."
"It could just be a crank," suggested Ford.
"It could, but I can't afford to take the chance."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks." Adam rang off just in time to hear the house phone ring.
"Adam, Gerry. I've got Stan Hollis for you." Gerry wasted no time in connecting the call, evidenced by the bellowing voice that caused Adam to swiftly move the phone away from his ear.
"Lennox, what are you trying to do? Are you trying to ruin me or what?"
Adam risked bringing the phone closer.
"What's the problem, Stan?"
"That bloody elephant. It's all over the place. It's making me a laughing stock."
Adam had visions of an elephant mocking, and shook his head.
"I don't understand, Stan."
"I've just been told that someone was videoing that catastrophe that you call a photo shoot, and now the video clip is the most watched clip on the Internet. I'm a laughing stock."
Adam had to sit down. "Stan, you don't understand. If what you say is true then this is the best publicity you could ever want, and it's free."
"What do you mean?" asked Stan suspiciously.
Adam explained in words of one syllable for the internet-challenged.
"All you have to do is leak to the press that the photo-shoot was about your product and soon your product name will be on every media site in the country and possibly across the globe."
Stan remained unconvinced. "What, just like that?"
"You have no idea how fast news travels on the Internet. Talk to your sales people."
"I'll try, but I still consider it damage limitation." He hung up.
Adam re-dialled the office, and got Gerry.
"Gerry, you're a coward."
Gerry's grin was palpable across the phone line. "I can take that."
"Gerry. I need you to do two things," continued Adam. "Get me as much background on Brad Wilding as you can. Use whatever you can Stateside. I want to know where he came from."
"And?"
"I'm sure he has a second address in London that's not listed anywhere. I need you to find out what it is."
"You don't ask much, do you?" quipped Gerry.
"Stick around and you'll find out," returned Adam, and hung up the phone.
Chapter 30
Reilly, had he but known it, would have shared common views with DCI Ford on the perils of waiting in a car for long periods. The battered and barely recognisable Vauxhall Vectra stood in one of the anonymous lay-bys that line the A31 south of Aldershot. On the edge of the Downs it gave wide views down towards Portsmouth during daylight but as now in the pitch dark the land lay like a jewelled carpet before him, visible through the windscreen, but filtered by the accumulated grime of many miles without a wash.
He watched the approaching traffic in his rear-view mirror, a procession of headlights stabbing the darkness behind him and sweeping past him to disappear as dots of red. The dull roar of constant traffic had subsided to a rhythmic staccato of Doppler shift and the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray had long since spilled over onto the floor. If he was worried about the risk of fire, he didn't show it but his regular time check exposed a concern of some kind.