Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “That’s a shame,” Moran prompted. “Why?”

  “No idea, really. Well, tell you the truth, she’s a little hot-headed. Doesn’t get on with people too well. Don’t know where she gets it from, I’m sure. Her mother’s very affable, and as for me, well, I’ll talk to any Tom, Dick or Harry. Saving your presence, no offence.”

  “None taken. And how do you get on with her? Sharron, I mean.”

  Colonel Flynn’s face clouded. “Not too good, I suppose, if I’m honest. We don’t see eye to eye. The mother does all the social stuff. We do see each other occasionally – Christmas and so on … and when she’s flying I might catch the odd glimpse, but she never calls in. Sad, I suppose.” He trailed off.

  “And where is she now, Colonel Flynn?”

  “Where? Oh, I thought you knew.” He cupped his ear. “Listen, can you hear it? Sounds like she’s on her way back.”

  A faint buzzing could be heard, like the drone of a large mosquito. A single-engined plane – a Cessna, maybe, or one of those kit planes Moran had heard people built to keep the costs within an attainable budget.

  “She turned up an hour ago. Often flies to relax when she’s come off shift. If we’re quick you can meet her when she’s down,” Colonel Flynn said. “She doesn’t normally hang about after she’s landed. More’s the pity,” he added wistfully.

  They went outside and walked through the garden at the rear of the property. A large area had been wired off for a chicken run, and beyond this lay the fence which ran behind the two hangers at the airfield’s edge.

  “Who else uses the airstrip?” Moran asked as he scanned the sky for visual contact.

  “Not sure, to be perfectly honest. Don’t get involved. Some private club, I believe. Couple of foreign-looking fellas.”

  “So the land doesn’t belong to you?”

  Colonel Flynn guffawed. “I wish. No, we own the farmhouse and one or two of the outbuildings. The rest is owned by Lord Emerson and the estate. Rents a lot of it out privately. Time are tough, you know, even for the landed gentry. Austerity and all that.”

  “I’m sure.” Moran could see the plane now. It was turning in towards the end of the runway at a few hundred feet. No, wait, – it was climbing again. Or–

  “What the deuce is she up to?” Colonel Flynn shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. “Damned aerobatics again, I shouldn’t wonder. She’s good at it, you know. Likes to show off a bit.”

  Moran felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach, a premonition of catastrophe. “Is she in radio contact? Can we talk to her?”

  “Talk? Well, she’ll be in touch with ATC, but I don’t have the equipment – oh, I say...”

  The aeroplane had reached the zenith of its climb, where it hung for a moment, suspended like a high explosive shell at the very tip of its trajectory. Then its nose dipped and it began to plummet earthward.

  “Seen this before,” Flynn said. “Scares the life out of me. You watch.”

  Moran was rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the plunging machine. Pull up, he muttered. Pull up... But something told him that Sharron Flynn had no intention of pulling up. Or no way to pull up. The machine continued to fall, propeller whirring at full revs, urging it on to terminal velocity.

  A few seconds later it was clear to both men that, whatever the pilot’s intentions, there was no chance of the plane pulling out of the dive. Colonel Flynn raised his other hand, as if by some miraculous power he could somehow reach out and pluck his daughter’s tumbling aircraft to safety. Moran took a half step forward, paralysed by his powerlessness to intervene.

  The aircraft hit the ground roughly halfway down the airstrip and crumpled like a paper toy. For a split second it seemed as if there would be no fire, but then the wreckage heaved and exploded with a sheet of orange flame and a thump which shook the crows from the trees at the field’s perimeter. Bits of metal were flung into the still air and a pall of black smoke puffed up in the wake of the detonation.

  Moran gripped Colonel Flynn’s arm and tried to restrain him, but the old man tore free with surprising strength and set out on a shambling trot to the airfield gate.

  “Wait! Colonel Flynn... There’s nothing you can do! It’s not safe!” Moran yelled himself hoarse at the running figure. He took out his phone and gripped it hard to stop his hands trembling. Emergency services answered and Moran directed them to the farm. He then set off in pursuit of Flynn, who had got to within fifty metres of the fireball before the heat had brought him to a standstill. As Moran entered the field and broke into a run he saw the old man sink slowly to his knees and bury his head in his hands.

  Chapter 24

  “We had no idea,” Mrs Flynn said quietly. “That she was, was–”

  Colonel Flynn put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Now then, let’s be calm and try to help DC McKellar, shall we? This business isn’t over yet.”

  “But drugs! I mean, why?” Mrs Flynn wasn’t exactly wringing her hands, but she was as close to it as Helen had seen in a long while. “Oh, there he goes again.” She got up at the sound of a baby’s cry. “The poor little thing, without his mummy...” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob and rushed out of the room.

  Helen waited tactfully for a few moments before speaking. “Colonel Flynn. I understand how hard this must be, but I do need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Course you do. Understood.” Colonel Flynn gazed reflectively into a half-tumbler of malt. “Got a few questions myself, as it happens.”

  “You didn’t know about the baby?”

  “Not a thing. Can you credit it? Me, a grandfather, and I had no idea. Suppose she thought I’d disapprove. Probably do, come to that. Unmarried and so on.”

  “I understand,” Helen nodded.

  Colonel Flynn looked up. “Do you? Not many would these days. Try to do the decent thing, bring up your children the way you think best. Teach them a good moral code and so on. For what? So they can just go off and do whatever they like, eh?”

  “Your wife thinks Helen was too ashamed to tell you about the baby. She was struggling, needed money. It turned her head.”

  Colonel Flynn shook his head. “Silly girl. Should have come to me. Prodigal son and all that. Daughter, anyway. Same thing. I would’ve been angry, of course I would, but I’d never have turned away my own flesh and blood. Never.”

  “She must have been a proud woman.”

  “Proud? I suppose so, yes. Stubborn, too. Like me.” He shook his head self-deprecatingly and sipped his whisky.

  Helen wondered how long it would be before the Flynns discovered that their daughter had, in all probability, been involved in the death of her fellow officer DS Reed-Purvis, intentionally or not. That wasn’t somewhere she wanted to go today, but once the press got hold of it...

  “I’m afraid your daughter was mixed up in a drugs operation, Colonel Flynn. She was working undercover, but at some point she made the decision to switch allegiance. There have been repercussions, and we need to find out who she was in contact with. I have a couple of names.”

  “Fire away.” Colonel Flynn waved his hand. “What does it matter now? She’s gone.”

  Helen took a breath and carried on. “Jagdip and Atul Ranandan. Do those names ring any bells?”

  Colonel Flynn shrugged. “Not to me they don’t, I’m afraid. I told your Inspector that a couple of foreign-looking fellows have come and gone – using the airfield, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. It may well be them. Can you remember the last time they were here?”

  Colonel Flynn scratched his head. “A couple of weeks or so, give or take a few days. Never paid much attention. Told your Inspector that as well.”

  Helen gave him a tight smile. “Yes. Thank you.” Helen closed her notebook. “I’ll leave you my number. It’s very important that you contact me if you see them on or around the farm again.”

  “Understood. Anything to help.” Colonel Flynn knocked back his drink and looked wi
stfully at the half-full bottle on the dining table.

  “I’ll leave you in peace now,” Helen said, getting up from the sofa. “Thank you for your help. I’m very sorry for what’s happened here today.”

  Colonel Flynn made a broken noise in his throat and lowered his head. Helen made her way out of the lounge and left the Flynns to their grief.

  Moran flicked through the pile of papers on his blotter. At the bottom of the pile he found a note from Helen McKellar pinned to Nalini’s list of the chiropractic clinic’s ex-employees. There she was, highlighted in green. Jaseena Ranandan.

  What happened to you, Jaseena? Had her brothers dealt with their awkward family situation in some permanent way? It had happened before. Moran remembered a recent story concerning a young girl whose own parents had murdered her to prevent her marrying – or absconding with – a Western boy. He hoped that Jaseena would not prove to be another of these horrendous statistics.

  Moran was about to put the list to one side, but then a name further down caught his eye. He did a double-take. Surely not... He checked again in case he’d completely misread it. But he hadn’t; Shona Kempster’s name was three down from Jaseena’s.

  Moran scrunched the paper into a ball and flung it at the corner of the office. Shona had lied to him. He got up and paced the room. Why? This called into question her entire motivation for contacting him. Had she manufactured the whole situation? If so, what on earth for?

  A short rap on his door and DS Banner appeared. Seeing Moran on the prowl he hesitated briefly before withdrawing into the safer environment of the squad room.

  “Come in, Banner,” Moran called through the gap. “And bring some good news while you’re about it.”

  Banner reappeared. “Nice to see you back, guv,” the sergeant remarked, to Moran’s ears rather disingenuously. “Dr Bagri has some observations regarding Father Jeffries’ murder.”

  “Sit.” Moran indicated the empty chair.

  Banner cleared his throat. “No witnesses, as we’ve already established, guv. Throat slashed in much the same way as Bling Boy’s – and Slough Boy’s.”

  “Mr Dass,” Moran said. “Slough Boy has a name.”

  “Yes, guv. Same as Mr Dass’ wound, then.”

  “There’s more, I trust?”

  “No prints. No weapon. A mint on the floor of the box.”

  “A what?”

  “A mint, guv. A Tic-Tac; you know, the little mints in clear plastic boxes? There was one on the floor of the box where we found Father Jeffries.”

  “A confessional, Banner. It’s called a confessional.”

  “Right. Anyway, it wasn’t fresh from the packet; partly consumed, I think was the way Dr Bagri put it.”

  “So we have a DNA sample. Excellent. How do we know it didn’t come from Father Jeffries’ mouth?”

  “Checked with his understudy, guv. Father Kearney. Young bloke, bit of an old woman if you ask me, but he said Father Jeffries would never consider eating or drinking on the job.” Banner grinned stupidly. “If you get my meaning, sir.”

  “Yes, Banner, I get it.” Moran exhaled with a heavy sigh. The rush hour traffic rumbled in the background, horns blaring impatiently. Moran felt the headache that had been threatening all day rise another notch on the pain scale. He sat down and rubbed his cheek, a twenty-four-hour growth of stubble rasping against his fingertips. “Come on then; what else did Father Kearney have to say?”

  “Plenty,” Banner said. “Not much that was useful, though. No grudges against the victim. Jeffries was well liked by his parishioners. Kept himself to himself. Bit of a shining star, I suppose.”

  “So,” Moran nodded. “Apart from the fact that he was a practitioner of religion, we have no apparent motive.”

  “None that we’ve been able to establish so far, guv.”

  “What’s DC McKellar up to at the moment?”

  “Finishing off some paperwork, guv.”

  Finishing off your paperwork, I shouldn’t wonder. Moran allowed the thought to pass without vocalising it.

  “You’ve heard about Flynn?”

  “Yes, guv. Unbelievable.”

  “Isn’t it?” Moran said. “Especially since we’d gone to some trouble not to alert her to our suspicions, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “I wonder what spooked her, then?”

  Banner licked his lips and shrugged. “The mother probably told her McKellar had called.”

  “Nope. We had mum under obs. She hadn’t made contact with her daughter before the airfield incident. I heard you took her out for a drink. That right?”

  “Yes, guv. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Apart from the fact she borrowed your keys, of course.”

  “I’m sorry about that, guv,” Banner replied. He was beginning to perspire in the sticky heat of Moran’s office. “It won’t happen again.”

  “No?” Moran shook his head. “I’m pleased to hear that, DS Banner.” Moran paused and rested his elbows on the desk. “You didn’t by any chance meet up with DS Flynn at a later time? Last night, maybe?”

  Banner visibly flinched. “I inspected the Audi last night, guv. Knocked off and went for a drink.”

  “At the Zodiac?”

  Banner hesitated for a second too long.

  “Correct, yes?”

  “Yes, guv. I was–”

  “You weren’t thinking, were you?” Moran held the sergeant’s eyes. “For the second time in recent history.”

  “I didn’t say anything to spook her, guv. I was just, you know–”

  “Letting off a bit of steam? Fancied a bit of revenge?”

  Banner sniffed and looked away.

  Moran drummed his fingers on the desktop, a long, rhythmic pattern of military precision. “Good job Flynn’s still alive then, isn’t it? Otherwise you might develop a life-long guilt complex.”

  “Alive?” Banner looked up in surprise. “But–”

  “But she went down in the aircraft? The one I witnessed crash and burn on the Emerson Estate?”

  Banner looked bemused. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Well, my internal radar says she didn’t. And you and Helen are going to prove it,” Moran said. “And no cock ups this time, if you think you can manage that?”

  Moran turned into the road, a normal, suburban pocket of late twentieth century houses. The address had been on Nalini’s list and Moran had no reason to suppose that Shona had moved, recently or otherwise.

  He parked with some difficulty, trying to find a section of road that would not obstruct a driveway, but the houses were packed together in usual new estate fashion, like sardines in a tin. He turned the engine off and tried to gather his thoughts. What would he say? Eventually, realising he’d just have to wing it as usual, he got out and approached the house.

  The front room curtains were drawn, the drive empty. He knocked. No response. He pushed the letterbox open a fraction and caught a flicker of movement. He called through the gap.

  “Shona?” He hammered with his fist. “Open the door. Police.” He squinted through the letterbox a second time. Someone was coming. It wasn’t Shona. He stepped back as locks scraped and the door hesitantly opened inwards.

  A pretty Asian girl in her mid-twenties stood on the threshold. It didn’t require a PhD in ophthalmics to see the fear in her deep brown eyes.

  “Jaseena Ranandan, I presume?” Moran showed his ID. “May I come in?”

  “So let me get this straight,” Moran said. “I’ve been told that your brothers didn’t approve of your relationship with your boyfriend? That true?”

  Jaseena nodded. “My family are strict Muslims. Simon is an Englishman.”

  “And Shona offered to put you up so that you could hide from your brothers?”

  “They want to send me home in disgrace. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “OK. I see.” Moran felt some compensatory relief that Shona seemed to have been acting in good faith rather than for some hidden
nefarious purpose. “But what does your boyfriend think of all this? I understand there was a fracas at the clinic?”

  “Yes, there was. He is a little volatile. But I haven’t seen him for a long time. He was beaten up, you see, by my brothers. He was in hospital.” Jaseena bit her lip. “They hurt him badly.”

  “Did he report the assault?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Moran cocked his head at the sound of a car engine and wondered fleetingly what Shona’s reaction would be when she found him in her sitting room. “Jaseena, are you aware that your brothers are involved in drug trafficking?”

  Her hand went to her mouth. “No. What are you saying? They wouldn’t. Jagdip is in business. He’s not–”

  “I’m afraid the evidence is mounting.”

  They both turned their heads as a key snecked in the lock and Shona came in. When she saw Moran she stopped and put down the shopping bags she was carrying.

  “Ah. Brendan. You’re here. I was going to tell you...”

  “I wish you had. Might have saved me quite a bit of time and hassle.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m doing it for Jas.”

  “I know. To protect her from her brothers.”

  “Her brothers? Her boyfriend’s the scary one. The brothers might want to send her home, but God only knows what Simon’s capable of.”

  Moran raised an eyebrow. “You make him sound like a psychopath.”

  The two women exchanged knowing glances.

  Moran gave Shona a hard look. “Come on. Tell me more.”

  “Didn’t Jas tell you? Her brothers beat him up. I saw it happen.” Shona took a deep, resigned breath. “I’d popped into work to collect a cheque; the clinic owed me some money. He was hanging around outside, asking for Jas. I said she wasn’t in and he stormed off. He was ranting and shouting. I thought he might do something to himself, you know . . . then, by the canal … well, they nearly killed him, that’s all.”

  Shona paused, worrying the strap of her handbag. Moran gave her time to collect herself.