‘Shut up, Tallis,’ she said, pushing him down. Then, climbing astride him, she removed his towel and slipped off her robe.
35
* * *
HE DID not see Belle’s face. He only saw Charlie’s. As a lover, she was everything he needed her to be. After the first time he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him.
They were lying together, watching the light stream in through the windows. She rolled over towards him. ‘Want me to take you home?’
‘Soon,’ he said, pulling her towards him again.
Afterwards, they showered and dressed and slipped downstairs. Tallis paid the bill while Charlie got the car. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir?’ The restaurant owner smiled.
‘Definitely,’ Tallis said, stepping out into a car park flooded with September light.
‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ Charlie said, gunning the engine, ‘I decided to drop the hood.’
They talked little mainly because the sound of the engine was accentuated twentyfold with the top down. On the outskirts of the city, she asked whether he thought it safe to go back home.
‘I’m not going back. At least, not yet.’
‘Oh?’ She flashed him an inquisitive sideways look.
‘I want to check something out.’
He asked Charlie to take him to Walsall. He still had a set of keys to the premises. They arrived at the unit shortly after ten. Charlie waited outside while Tallis let himself in and found the vehicle he was looking for. He smiled. Kennedy hadn’t got rid of it at all. Had he known that one day Tallis would come back for it? Making his way down to the bottom level, Tallis located the Rover and, unlocking it, jumped inside and drove round to meet Charlie. By comparison with the Vanquish, he felt as if he was driving a hairdryer.
‘From the sublime to the ridiculous again.’ He grinned, coming up alongside her.
‘You’ll be all right?’ There was a reluctant note in her voice. He wasn’t sure whether it was born of genuine worry for his safety or because they were saying goodbye.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Great.’ She smiled, awkward.
‘Be in touch,’ he added, then drove away, glancing in the rear-view mirror once.
The bungalow was as he had left it, apart from an extra layer of dust inside, calf-length grass and weeds outside. Both home and garden retained a mildly defeated air only lifted by the swanky presence of the Audi TT sitting in the carport. Cursory investigation told Tallis that it hadn’t been keyed, windscreen wiper snapped off or any attempt made to steal it. Things were looking up in the neighbourhood.
Out of habit, he checked the bungalow for anything untoward and was faintly surprised to find everything as he’d left it. Ignoring the urgent sound of his answering-machine telling him he had several messages, he changed into a clean pair of jeans and sweater then stood at the kitchen window for several minutes, waiting for the kettle to boil. The weather wasn’t so great now. Sun, the colour of pale lemon, was shrinking against a sky blushing with red-tinged cloud. He immediately thought back over the past surreal twenty-four hours. Charlie was a brilliant woman and he felt a pang of guilt for leaving so abruptly. The truth was that, in spite of spending an exciting night with her, it felt marvellous to be solitary again. Alone, he knew where he was. Life was uncomplicated. Bottom line, he felt bleak about the possibility of forming another meaningful relationship. He never wanted to expose himself to the possibility of feeling such despair again.
After he made coffee, he settled down, feet up on the coffee-table, and listened to his messages: two from his mum, the latest asking if he would like to have lunch with her the following day; one from his sister, Hannah; one from Stu, his mate from the firearms days, which managed to be deeply interesting and uplifting. And two from Crow, the first informing him that she’d been up to her ears in work and hadn’t been able to carry out his enquiries, the second that she’d found something out and needed to talk. He called her straight away. She wasn’t simply pleased to hear from him. She was effusive. He glanced at his watch: noon. ‘Where are you?’ he said, as if he didn’t know.
‘A local hostelry, sitting outside having a fag and enjoying a rare moment of sunshine and peace.’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘V&T. My second, as it happens.’
‘Only your second?’
‘Cheeky sod. This is my first full weekend off in a month.’
‘A policeman’s lot and all that.’
‘Police officer,’ she corrected him, the rattly sound of her lungs expanding and contracting travelling down the phone line.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you called.’
‘I did, indeed. Two snippets of information for you regarding Gayle Morello.’
‘Yeah?’ His gut sharpened.
‘First husband, Bryn Gannon, killed in a road accident six years ago.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Patience, Tallis.’
‘Sorry, go on.’
‘No witnesses, straight, fast bit of road, weather conditions fine, familiar route as Gannon used it each day to travel to and from work.’ So what? Tallis thought. He knew the statistics. You were more likely to die in a road accident on home territory than miles away in a foreign county. ‘According to the incident report, Gannon swerved off the road and hit a tree.’
‘It happens. Maybe he was trying to avoid a bird or animal.’
‘Except paint found on the wing of Gannon’s car suggested it had come into contact with another vehicle, skid marks providing further evidence that another vehicle was present at the time of the accident.’
‘What are you saying? That Gannon’s car was forced off the road?’
‘That’s the opinion of the vehicle investigator.’
‘Was the other car or driver ever traced?’
‘No.’
Tallis scratched his head. Was it significant? He fully understood Gayle not wishing to talk about the death of her husband, but the fact that Garry had never mentioned it seemed odd. Garry was, after all, a crime correspondent. He would take an interest in such things. It was inconceivable he didn’t know.
‘Where did this take place?’
‘Outskirts of York.’ Of course, he remembered Gayle saying that she’d lived in Yorkshire for a time. Yes, that would explain her brother Stephen’s accent.
‘The second thing?’
‘Gayle Morello’s family. I checked them out. Mother still alive and living in Ireland. Sister resides in Canada. No record of Gayle Morello having a brother.’
‘You’re sure?’ Tallis said. ‘No half- or stepbrother?’
‘No. All very curious, don’t you think?’
Curious, yes, but hardly evidence.
‘Think I’ll keep a watching brief, if you don’t mind.’
‘You have the time?’ He expressed surprise.
‘I can always make time for people who interest me,’ she said, a frisky note in her voice.
‘Thanks, Micky. I owe you,’ he said, cutting the call. He must have sounded glum. Crow had made no attempt to press home the advantage and call in the favour.
He phoned his mum and arranged to see her the following day for lunch. Fortunately, she was one of those rare women who didn’t like to chatter for hours on the phone. Ten minutes after that he was on the road again. He slotted a newish CD into the player, Shadows Fall. Deciding to make a break with the past had been his sole reason for buying it, that and the weird cover of a screaming being with sewn-up eyes.
Skipping through the tracks, he homed in on ‘Another Hero Lost’, a poignant tribute to a young soldier who’d lost his life in the latest conflict in Iraq. Made Tallis think about Napier, made him wonder who or what the poor bastard was currently chasing.
Traffic for a Saturday was light. The TT felt a whole lot better than the Rover to drive but, up against the Aston, it was like driving a tank. The gear change, which he’d loved, felt tight and oversprung, steering uninvolving
. Probably no more than a symptom of his rapid change in mood. Either way, he decided that when he got back to Birmingham, the TT had to go, returned to its rightful owner, except Kennedy would no longer be there or in a position to accept it. Probably already in a safe house, waiting to be flown halfway across the world to some unknown destination with a brand-new identity.
He pulled off the motorway and onto the A38 around three-thirty in the afternoon. It took him another forty-five minutes to motor to the small popular holiday town of Kingsbridge, which lay situated at the head of an estuary. Simon Carroll, Kennedy’s alleged victim, had fled there following the court case. Remembering Carroll’s address from the file, he headed straight for the Tourist Information Centre, which was in the main part of the town in the middle of a car park. In front was a row of Georgian houses. To the left, a roundabout, and some shops off. Behind, a bar and restaurant with an outdoor eating and drinking area. It had the busy, bustly feel of a typical town near the seaside yet not quite near enough to fully qualify for full-blooded bucket-and-spade status. Beyond it, the road curved up to another roundabout then led straight up a hill.
Brief enquiry revealed Saffron Park to be a modern housing estate located on another hill off the main centre of the town five minutes’ walk away. Putting a couple of hours’ parking on the TT, Tallis decided to stretch his legs, the climb worth it. The weather was an improvement on the flaky, can’t-make-your-mind-up stuff he’d experienced in the Midlands. The sun was warm and strong, blades of light bouncing off cream-coloured buildings and scenery. The sound of arguing seagulls rattled in his ears, the oystery smell of seaweed in his nostrils. The higher he went, the more outstanding the view. From the top, he glimpsed white sails cresting blue-green water. The estuary looked calm and tranquil and inviting. The houses were a mixture of small and larger builds, a few quite imposing.
After turning off into an avenue, he found Carroll’s house, a large, double-fronted plain brick dwelling with a handsome porch and hanging baskets, a garage for two cars and a neat, well-tended front garden, mostly laid to lawn. He wondered how much such a place would cost. A small, dumpy woman was kneeling down on the grass, weeding a border. On his approach she looked up, her smile warm and friendly.
‘Mrs Carroll?’ he said.
She shook her head, struggled to her feet, wiping the dirt off her hands on the back of her ample denimed rear.
‘Hasn’t lived here for the past year.’
‘Any idea where I can find her?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, the smile fading. Her brown hair was cut in a short soft bob. She had small eyes, small nose, small mouth. Even her head was small. Her body, by contrast, was out of all proportion. Tallis was reminded of an artist who regularly exhibited in the Halcyon Gallery in Birmingham. All her figures had pea heads and enormous bodies.
‘I understand.’ He smiled, nice and friendly with it.
‘It’s just that, well, you know, after what happened…’ she said, dropping her voice as if frightened one of her neighbours might hear.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Tallis said. Especially not here, he thought. He’d been there five minutes yet at a guess it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
She agreed, small eyes fastening on him, clearly trying to weigh him up and wondering whether she could trust him.
‘Tell you what. Can you direct me to the nearest business park?’ he said.
Again the cautious look. ‘The one outside town?’
‘The one where Mr Carroll worked? See, I’m planning to write a book about his abduction and murder.’
‘Oh,’ she said, small mouth falling slack. ‘You’re a writer.’ She said it as if she’d never come across the breed before. Tallis was given the impression that he’d suddenly metamorphosed from foe to interesting and socially desirable friend.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘I’m Verity Wintour, by the way,’ she said, giving an odd little bob of her knees as if he were royalty. ‘You look a bit warm after that climb up the hill. We can have a nice cold glass of homemade lemonade and I’ll write it all down for you.’
Not only did Mrs Wintour draw a map and write down the address of the business unit used by Carroll before his unfortunate demise, she gave Tallis Wendy Carroll’s telephone number. Cautious to the last, she declined to give the home address. ‘Wouldn’t be right,’ she said, eyeing him.
‘Always best to call first,’ he agreed. ‘Gives people a chance to decide whether they want to co-operate.’
Mrs Wintour nodded, the caution in her eyes still there, as if she was having second thoughts about entertaining a stranger. Silence filled the room. Unfazed, Tallis took the opportunity to study his surroundings. The kitchen was all fully fitted. The sitting room where she’d invited him to sit down was plush and comfortable and led out to a huge glass-domed conservatory. The back garden was a picture. He reckoned it had to be four bedrooms minimum. The pound signs that had been swivelling in his brain on first viewing the house suddenly ratcheted up several-fold. He wondered how the hell Carroll, a lowly council official, had made the financial leap.
Finally, Verity Wintour broke. ‘Locals reckoned he was bumped off because he was in trouble with a crime lord.’
‘Yeah,’ Tallis said, noncommittal.
‘Evidently that’s why the Carrolls moved down this way. Popular place for people on the run,’ she sniffed, taking another swig of lemonade.
‘Right.’ From his brief glimpse of Kingsbridge, he didn’t think it densely populated with crooks and nonces. Refugees from the rat race, more like. He wondered if he could settle in such a place. Doubted it.
‘Wendy never spoke much about what happened. I think she was too frightened. Mentioned a car accident Simon was involved in.’
Tallis nodded.
‘Never found the blokes that did it,’ Mrs Wintour chatted on. ‘Think your research might provide a lead?’
‘What?’ Tallis said, his concentration jacking up a level.
‘The blokes that did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Killed Carroll,’ she said, exasperated.
‘Blokes?’
‘There were two of them. At least, that’s what I was told.’
‘By whom?’
‘One of the owners of a unit up there.’
‘He saw them?’
Wintour shook her head vigorously. The soft bob of her hair rippled like a King Charles spaniel shaking its ears.
‘Not exactly. He saw a couple of young men hanging round. Notice things like that, don’t you? Evidently, they’d driven there on a motorbike. Anyway, he asked them if they were lost. One of them came up with an excuse and then they left, smartish, by all accounts. Well, as you’d imagine, after Mr Carroll went missing, he started to wonder.’
Yeah, Tallis thought, me, too.
Tallis called Mrs Carroll from his car. There was no reply and no answering-machine to take a message. By now, it was after five. Undeterred, he made his way to the business unit in Churchstowe some three miles or so out of the town. At once the surrounding countryside seemed to open out with banks on either side of the road, large fields beyond. He drove onto a bumpy bit of road and pulled into the industrial estate. There were several units, including computer supplies and services, a motor repair outfit and a place that supplied labels. A man with a buzz cut was locking up. Tallis didn’t get to see what was inside. The man turned. He had the pinched expression of a bloke who worked long hard hours for little reward. There were too many people like him, Tallis thought.
‘Help you?’ the man said.
‘Perhaps. I’m a journalist,’ Tallis lied. ‘Researching the murder of Simon Carroll.’
‘Not local, then.’
Tallis threw him a quizzical look.
The man cracked a smile. Made him look younger. On first sight Tallis had had him down for mid-forties. Now he looked mid-thirties. ‘I know all the local hacks.’
/> ‘Popular story, then.’ Tallis smiled back.
‘Don’t have too many murders around here, at least not like that. We tend to go in more for domestics, somebody shagging somebody else’s wife scenario.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, shook a couple out and offered one to Tallis, who declined.
‘Know much about what happened?’ Tallis said.
‘Only hearsay. Before my time, thank God.’
‘So what have you been told?’
‘Carroll had a small business here repairing motor mowers, engines, bit of this bit of that. Lived in Kingsbridge after moving down from up country. Gather his missus moved to West Charleton after he disappeared,’ the man said conversationally.
‘Is that near here?’
‘Back into Kingsbridge and it’s the first village over the bridge at Bowcombe.’
‘Right, sorry, you were saying.’
‘Came to open up around six one morning and by the time Steve over the way there…’ he jerked his head vaguely in the direction of one of the other units ‘…arrived an hour later, he’d vanished.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yup.’ The man took a drag of his cigarette. ‘One of the blokes here reckons that there were two fellas hanging round the day before. Whether or not they had anything to do with it, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t suppose you know what those guys looked like?’
‘Only that one of them had a tattoo on his hand—like half the population in the country.’
‘Tattoo of a spider, by any chance?’
The man’s jaw dropped open, his cigarette clinging tenaciously to his bottom lip. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
Nathan Brass, Tallis thought, feeling as if a bitter wind had just blown over him, one of the two men responsible for Garry Morello’s murder, the man who’d worked for Kennedy, the man whose name and activities had been blacked out in the file.
The Mephisto Threat Page 30