Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  Chapter 22

  “Ask her,” Phelps said. “She didn’t have anything good to say about this Jag bloke.”

  Helen McKellar chewed thoughtfully on an orange segment. “No. Nobody does. And Zoë gave you the Chalvey link?” she asked, helping herself to a grape.

  “She did.” Phelps shifted on his pile of pillows and winced. “She’s all right. I reckon she’d do it.”

  DC Harding shrugged. “So where do we find her?”

  “Oxford Road. Or the Zodiac. Or the Two Princes in Duke Street.”

  “OK,” Helen said. “I’ll call Charlie.”

  “We’ll have to make sure Flynn’s out of the way,” Harding observed. “Otherwise she’ll spill the whole thing.”

  “I have a feeling Flynn will be well out of the way by the time we get Zoë on board,” Helen said. “We’ll leave you in peace, Sarge. Hope you feel better. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

  “Disturb? From what exactly?” Phelps grimaced. “Do me a favour, Helen – see if you can’t get hold of a Shakespeare commentary. Macbeth is what I’m after. The missus has banned my books.”

  “I’m not sure if I’d want to risk the wrath of Mrs Phelps, Sergeant.”

  “No,” Phelps said thoughtfully, “can’t say as I blame you. Just a thought.”

  “Keep thinking, Sarge.” Harding shot Helen a wide grin. “That’s what you’re good at.”

  Banner searched the sea of faces. He’d have no trouble recognising the scumbags who doped him. This time, things would be different. He ordered a tonic water and looked down the length of the bar. Sharron Flynn was at the end, talking to a girl wearing a ludicrously short skirt and a low-cut top. Banner looked past them, towards the exit.

  There. That was one of them, deffo – the tall guy with the shaved head. He had a distinctive mole on his cheek and a short goatee. Banner ducked his head, cradled his drink and risked a further glance. He cursed and scanned the crowd; the man had vanished. Banner looked at his watch. What the hell. He was officially off duty, wasn’t he? He signalled the barmaid with the Aries T-shirt and ordered a proper drink.

  Ten minutes later he ordered a chaser, downed it in one and ordered another beer. Still no sign of his abductor. Maybe he could get an intro to Flynn’s friend. He excused his way out of his hard-won square metre and pushed his way to the end of the bar.

  “Hi girls,” he shouted over the music. “How’s it going?” He winked at Flynn. “What’s your name, babe?” he asked the girl with the long hair and short everything else.

  Flynn shot Banner a look that conveyed both puzzlement and irritation. Banner returned a challenging smile.

  “It’s Zoë, if you must know, love.” Zoë exchanged a fleeting look with Flynn. “I’m just having a chat with my friend, if that’s OK.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Banner said, finishing his beer with a long swig. “Just keep an eye on your handbag. You never know what might go missing.” He glared at Flynn, daring her to object. But Flynn was in character and doing a good job. She let the comment wash over her without batting an eyelid.

  “What are you saying, mate?” Zoë’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “On your bike. Like I said, I’m talking to my friend.”

  Banner was angry now, at Flynn’s impregnable undercover status and at Zoë’s attitude. Moreover, he was still smarting from the dressing-down he’d received from DI Pepper. Most women were only too pleased to be chatted up by Stephen Banner. They didn’t tell him off or brush him off – no way.

  He glared at Flynn, feeling the build-up of rage inside him. If she was mixed up in this, then his Ketamine humiliation was her doing. Banner’s hands clasped and unclasped at his side. He opened his mouth to give her some verbal, but before he got anything coherent out a suave young Asian in a dark jacket sidled up to the group.

  “You girls OK?” the man asked, looking Banner up and down with mild curiosity. Banner clocked the unmistakeable promise of violence in the dark eyes,

  “Yeah. Just fine.” Zoë rolled her eyes and looked away.

  “We haven’t met.” The Asian extended his hand. “I’m Jag.”

  “Stephen.” Banner took the proffered hand and shook it firmly. “I’m a friend of Zoë’s.”

  “Really?” Jag replied with a half smile. “I thought I knew all Zoë’s friends.”

  “A new friend.” Banner twisted his lips into a smile. Zoë’s face was still turned away. It was clear there was no love lost between them. Banner watched for Flynn’s reaction to Jag’s appearance, but her face gave nothing away.

  “I see. Well, nice to meet you, Stephen. Have a good evening, and take care.” Jag excused himself and moved off towards a table where a noisy group of students was clearly celebrating a birthday or exam success. Banner, feeling a little foolish, slid back to the bar. So that was Jag – the potential king pin, the guy who had ordered his Ketamine episode.

  For the first time Banner began to feel uncomfortable. What had he been thinking, coming down here on his own? Jag obviously knew who he was – which meant trouble. But maybe he could still do something useful, claw back a brownie point or two – if he was careful. Banner knew he couldn’t afford any more cock-ups.

  As he ordered another beer something made him glance to one side where the barmaid was serving a new customer. Banner recognised him immediately. It was Moran’s old DS, Greg Neads. Hadn’t Moran wanted a word with him? Something Phelps had said? Banner frowned. Then he remembered; Neads had told Phelps he knew where that poor sod DC Hill had been taken. And then Neads had vanished. Nice one.

  Banner weighed up the best course of action. If he tackled Neads directly there’d be a scene. Best just keep tabs until he had a chance to get Neads on his own.

  For the next half hour Banner kept an eye on Neads, all the time checking on Jag’s movements around the club and keeping an eye open for any sign of the goatee guy. Neads was behaving oddly. He had a vacant, weird look in his eyes. At one point Banner thought Neads had recognised him, but the other man seemed to look right through him as if he wasn’t there.

  At just after eleven, Jag made for the door with Zoë in tow. Neads came alive, downed his drink in one and headed towards the exit. Interesting, Banner thought, following close behind. He stepped onto the pavement in time to see Jag and Zoë getting into a BMW. Neads waited until the tail lights had gone out of sight before beginning to walk slowly in the direction the BMW had taken. Banner followed him all the way to the river until Neads let himself into a new block of flats and disappeared inside.

  Moran awoke suddenly, disoriented. It took a full five seconds before the room assumed a depressing familiarity. His mother lay still beneath the bedclothes. The noise of her laboured breathing had stopped, the resulting silence plainly the cause of his awakening.

  Dry-mouthed, he leaned forward, took his mother’s wrist and gently explored for a pulse. As he felt the coolness of her flesh he knew he wouldn’t find one. It was over. Had they spoken during the night? He couldn’t clearly recall – perhaps a reassuring whisper, some small shared memory? Or had he just dreamed these fragmentary conversations?

  Moran remained in his chair until the sun had fully risen and its rays reached along the worn carpet to touch his feet. His mother’s face was peaceful, a faint smile creasing her lips. After a while he rose, rested the back of his hand lightly on her forehead, and quietly left the room.

  “We didn’t want to disturb you, Mr Moran.” The duty manageress smiled sympathetically as he turned the corner to reception. The two uniforms were propped on a bench seat sipping mugs of tea. They both looked knackered and fed up.

  “I’ve given your friends some tea,” the manageress said brightly.

  “She’s gone,” Moran told her. “There’s nothing more I can do.”

  “We’ll take care of the immediate arrangements, Mr Moran. Perhaps you could let me know which undertaker you’ll be contacting in due course?”

  “I can do that now.” As Moran jotted down the details
his mobile rang.

  “Guv? It’s Charlie. The keys I found in Flynn’s kitchen fit the evidence room lock. The warrant should be approved within the hour.”

  “Good. Get that blouse checked out as soon as you can. If you get a positive result, bring Flynn in. And only let Airey know what’s happening if we have the evidence.”

  “Will do.” Charlie paused. “How are things, guv? Is there any–?”

  “She died a short time ago,” Moran said. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry, guv.”

  “Yes. Yes, thanks.”

  Moran signed off. It was uncomfortably warm already, and he felt grubby, tired and numb. Death, he thought, followed him wherever he turned, one way or another. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on it; that was a sure fire route to melancholia. Which was why he was more than glad to have other things to occupy his mind.

  “Would you like a cup of tea as well, Mr Moran?” The manageress wore an expression of professional condolence, and to be fair she wasn’t all that bad at it.

  Moran passed a hand wearily across his forehead. “In the absence of anything stronger, I suppose it’ll have to do. Thanks.” Besides, he thought bleakly, it would allow him an extra ten minutes away from the dubious comforts of a police cell. As he sucked the hot liquid over his teeth he comforted himself with the thought that if all went to plan and allowing for a little luck, he’d be swapping places with DS Sharron Flynn before the day was done.

  Chapter 23

  “Did you get to Dr Bagri?” Charlie pitched the question to Banner like a Graeme Swann offspinner. She was pretty sure the DS hadn’t bothered to carry out her instruction. It was deliberate, of course. Banner would test her authority, and so would the rest of the team – in different ways, perhaps, but test they would, nevertheless. She was expecting it, but she knew that whatever they threw her way, she had to pass muster or else lose both face and respect, a potentially fatal result for any new DI on the block. And that, Charlie determined, wasn’t going to happen to her, oh no.

  Banner looked up from his screen and feigned surprise. “Not yet. I was going to call in on him this morning.”

  “I asked you to go last night, DS Banner, remember?” Charlie said pointedly. “We need that autopsy update. Airey’s already bending my ear. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I caught up on some paperwork, checked on the Audi and knocked off. It was late.”

  “It was late?” Charlie simmered. “You didn’t think it was important, or what?”

  By now the exchange had the attention of the other detectives in the squad room. The tapping of keyboards tailed off.

  “I’ll get on it.” Banner got up in a leisurely fashion and slipped his jacket on.

  “You’d better,” Charlie told him. “If I wasn’t so busy I’d make a performance monitoring note for your PDR review.”

  Banner froze. “Now wait a–”

  “Just do it, DS Banner, all right?”

  Banner stormed off without another word and Charlie withdrew into Moran’s office.

  She had just sat down and picked up the phone when Helen stuck her head around the door.

  “Come in, Helen.” Charlie indicated the chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Can’t stop,” Helen said. “Banner wants me to go with him. Just to let you know the warrant’s signed and sealed. Oh, and the chiro secretary – Nalini – has sent in a list of all the past employees at the practice. On my desk if you want a butcher’s.”

  “Great. Thanks, Helen. I’ll handle the search of Flynn’s flat with Harding. Don’t let Banner push you around, OK? Call me if you have any probs.”

  “Will do,” Helen said perkily and disappeared.

  Right, Charlie said to herself, time to pay you another visit, Mrs Flynn. Hope you’ve got the kettle on and changed the baby’s nappy...

  “I see.” Mike Airey stroked the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. “I see. And where is DS Flynn now?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” Charlie said. “Something might have spooked her. But I can’t think what – we’ve been careful.”

  “I’m sure,” Mike Airey said. “I’m sure you have. And Superintendent Sheldrake? Have you made contact?”

  “No, sir, I–”

  Before Charlie could finish Airey’s office door swung back on its hinges with a crash.

  “Ah, Alan,” Airey began, “we were just–”

  “Where’s Moran?” Sheldrake wasn’t exactly spitting fire, Charlie thought, but he was doing a good impression of it.

  “Chief Inspector Moran is on his way to the Emerson Estate, Superintendent,” Charlie said sweetly. “We have reason to believe that a suspect linked to the Broad Street murder may be holed up in one of the rented farm buildings.”

  “What’s this nonsense?” Sheldrake demanded. “Who the hell applied for a warrant to arrest my sergeant?”

  “Take a pew, Alan, if you please.” Airey kept his voice even and low. “I’m afraid we do have some rather compelling evidence that DS Flynn has been up to no good.”

  “Up to–? She’s a damn good officer, what are you talking about?” Sheldrake grabbed the back of a chair and leaned over it aggressively.

  “We’re talking about a set of skeleton keys found at her flat, sir,” Charlie advised. “And security stains on her blouse. The blouse she was wearing when she broke into the evidence room and took the heroin. Sir.”

  “Now look–” Sheldrake stammered.

  “And, apparently, a vial of gamma-hydroxybutyrate in her bathroom cabinet,” Airey concluded, poker-faced. “Now, why do you imagine DS Flynn would have such a substance in her possession, Alan?”

  “There are probably all sorts of reasons,” Sheldrake blustered. “She works undercover, on the Kestrel team. You know that, Mike.”

  “I also know that traces of gamma-hydroxybutyrate were found in DS Reed-Purvis’ blood.”

  “Yes, but–”

  “Alan,” Airey said patiently, “we intend to question DS Flynn when we find her. Can I suggest that you also prepare a statement?”

  “Of all the damn cheek!” Sheldrake exploded. “You’ll regret this, Airey, by God you will!”

  And Sheldrake was gone, leaving papers flying in his wake.

  “Sorry about that, DI Pepper.” Airey cleared his throat. “Now, tell me about this Jag fellow, and what was discussed with Sergeant Phelps.”

  Moran knocked on the farmhouse door. He had a pretty good idea of the layout of the farm from Harding’s Google Earth printout. There were many interesting features in and around the property, the granary where Charlie had eavesdropped on the Ranandans being one, but what interested Moran most was the field beyond the granary, which was long and smooth and featured a windsock at the end nearest the farm buildings. A private airstrip, no less, with two corrugated hangers next to the grain silo. Very handy, Moran had little doubt, for the import and export of illegal substances. The fact that the Ranandans and DS Flynn had recently been on the premises gave Moran a pleasant warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, more pleasurable even than his release from custody and Mike Airey’s back-pedalling speech of remorse, even though it hadn’t come across as entirely sincere:

  ‘Never doubted you, Brendan. Had to go through the procedure. Sure you understand…’

  Was Flynn here? Probably. If not, it was only a matter of time before they ran her to ground. What concerned Moran more was Jag Ranandan and his sibling. Or siblings, if you included the missing sister. Nevertheless, he was confident that Ms Flynn would be able to point him in the right direction.

  “Can I help?” A smartly dressed man in his sixties was framed in the open door. He was wearing tweeds, a checked shirt, an olive green tie with stitched club logo, and a pair of worn but expensive-looking brogues.

  “DCI Brendan Moran. Thames Valley Police.

  “That so? Won’t shake hands, if you don’t mind,” the man said. “Doing a spot of DIY. Damn taps playing up again. Probably the heat. ” He
pocketed an oily cloth and stuck his chin out inquisitively. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Sharron Flynn. Can you help?”

  “Goodness, what’s the girl been up to?” the man said, tucking his chin into his collar.

  “You know her?”

  “’Course I know her,” he replied, blowing out his cheeks. “My daughter.”

  “Ah. Mr Flynn.”

  “Colonel, actually.” He stood aside. “You’d better come in.”

  “Thanks,” Moran said. “If you don’t mind. It won’t take long.”

  The interior of the farmhouse spoke of a comfortable retirement. It was cosy, but with the suggestion of one-time affluence here and there: a signed first edition print by a nationally famous artist, an original Giles cartoon, expensive-looking antique furniture, a well-stocked bookcase and, most notably, a magnificent grandfather clock with a hand-painted face depicting pastoral scenes of times gone by.

  “Like it?” Colonel Flynn said, noticing Moran’s admiring expression. “Eighteenth century. Scottish, you know.”

  “Very nice,” Moran said. “Clocks used to be a bit of a hobby of mine. No time these days, if you’ll excuse the pun. But let’s talk about Sharron, shall we?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Colonel Flynn bobbed his head. He had a Brylcreemed fringe of white hair and an almost cartoonishly gleaming bald pate. A pair of pince-nez completed the elderly country gent look. “Busy girl. Always working, y’see. Can’t get enough of it.”

  “She enjoys her work?”

  “Good grief, yes. All she ever wanted to do after … well, after her disappointment.”

  “And what was that?”

  Colonel Flynn raised his eyebrows as if he thought it odd that Moran didn’t know. “Flying, of course. Applied for three of those charity jobs, you know. In Africa. Flying supplies and so on. Turned her down, all of ’em.”