Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

“I called the ambulance,” Shona continued. “Waited for the paramedics to arrive – I mean I didn’t want the poor guy to die or anything.” She looked over at Jaseena appealingly but the girl’s head was bowed, as if embroiled in some exigent inner turmoil.

  Shona moistened her lips. “Since then he’s changed. Something happened to his head; he was a bit odd before, but now–”

  “I’m scared he might be, might have–” Jaseena began, but Shona cut her off with a look.

  “Might have what?” Moran asked.

  Jaseena took a breath. “Might have killed those poor boys. The stabbings in the newspapers,” she blurted. “He hates Asian people now.”

  Moran sat down heavily in an armchair. He looked at Shona with shocked reproach. “You knew about this guy and you didn’t tell me?”

  “It’s probably nothing to do with him.” Shona fumbled in her handbag and produced a packet of cigarettes. “I’m only saying he’s a bit of a nutter. Sorry, Jas.” She lit up and winced at Jaseena, who shook her head and looked miserably into her lap.

  “I’ll be the judge of whether or not it’s anything to do with whomever, or whatever.” Moran said, aware that his anger was making him less than coherent. His thoughts and words tumbled over each other. “You should have told me.”

  “I’m sorry, Brendan.”

  “What’s this man’s name?”

  “Simon Peters,” Jaseena said. “He’s a nice guy, mostly, really he is–”

  “Spare me,” Moran said shortly. “Where can I find him?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know where he is anymore.” Jaseena shrugged. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “He came to the clinic a few months ago. He had problems with his back. An accident, he said. We talked, and then after his last session he asked me out.”

  “Distinguishing marks? Habits?”

  “He wears gloves a lot of the time. He burned his hands badly in a fire.”

  “Anything else? What does he do? Job-wise, I mean?”

  The women looked at each other. “He’s retired,” Jaseena said. “On health grounds, with a good payoff. He writes poetry. He’s very good at it, too.”

  “Really.” Moran jotted the facts down.

  “I have a photo.” Jaseena brightened. “Wait a moment.” She got up and Moran heard her footsteps on the stairs and then the creak of a bedroom floorboard.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Brendan, I feel very foolish. I know I should have told you.”

  “Yes. You should have. You lied to me, Shona; I asked you if you knew the practice.”

  “I didn’t work for Suri,” Shona protested. “It wasn’t really a lie. I worked at the chiropractic clinic, not the physio.”

  “Oh, come on,” Moran said under his breath. He was seething with anger, struggling to rein it in before he said something he might later regret.

  “We can still see each other, can’t we? I mean, it needn’t spoil things, need it?”

  “I’ll think about it, Shona. Right now I’ve got too much on my plate.”

  “I understand.”

  An aeroplane hummed somewhere high in the stratosphere. As it faded the sound merged into the staccato rattle of someone’s lawnmower.

  Jaseena’s footsteps pattered down the stairs. “Here. I couldn’t remember where I’d put it.” She handed a small, passport-sized photograph to Moran. “Can I have it back?”

  Moran took it. “Of course you can. I just–” He broke off, staring at the picture in his hand.

  “What? What is it?” Shona demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Simon Peters? This isn’t Simon Peters, or Simon anyone. This is Gregory Neads. My ex-sergeant.”

  Chapter 25

  Banner edged his way past the granary towards the hangers. He could hear an aero engine firing and missing, as though a mechanic was working on some fault of timing or ignition.

  They had called at the farmhouse first and found only Mrs Flynn at home. She had been unable to confirm her husband’s whereabouts, but she had looked shifty to Banner. He’d left Helen in the farmhouse to make sure that the faithful wife didn’t alert Colonel Flynn to their presence.

  Banner reached the hanger door and peered cautiously into the open space. A single-seater plane took up most of the space, one of those kit jobs that Banner would never have entrusted his life to. Two people were busily attentive to the open engine compartment; the first was Colonel Flynn, the man who claimed no aeronautical interest or involvement. The second was Sharron Flynn.

  Banner retreated a few paces and called in the uniform support he had positioned on standby a few hundred metres down the lane. As he waited for his backup’s customary tyre-screeching arrival Banner reflected on Moran’s finely tuned intuition. Colonel Flynn had all but convinced Helen of his role as grieving and ignorant father, but Moran had spotted something else: Colonel Flynn had been cleaning his hands with an oily rag when Moran had called. Nothing odd about that, except the old man had told Moran he’d been fixing some plumbing problem – not the sort of repair work you’d usually associate with oil. That, and the fact that the Flynn’s bookcase had contained a number of aircraft-related books and a well-thumbed wedge of aeronautical magazines, had aroused Moran’s suspicions.

  Banner felt a pang of jealousy. Would he have spotted the tell-tale signs? Maybe, maybe not. Still, at least he was on site to make the arrest. That always made him feel better. Once he was done here he’d decide what to do about Neads. He hadn’t told Moran yet that he’d followed the ex-detective sergeant, that he knew where Neads could be found. Knowledge was power, Banner reminded himself. You had to be careful who you shared it with.

  “He’s calling himself Simon Peters,” Moran announced. “I want a check made of all recently rented flats or houses in the area under that name.”

  Helen raised a hand.

  “Yes, Helen?”

  “Do we have any evidence actually linking Greg Neads to the murders, guv?”

  Moran hesitated. Apart from the fact that Neads had every reason to be both anti-Muslim and anti-Catholic, there was no hard evidence. But that might change once he’d interviewed Sharron Flynn.

  “Honestly, no,” he told Helen and Harding. “But it fits. Neads appeared to know what was going down in Jag Ranandan’s operation, even to the extent of claiming to know where DC Hill was being held. Banner tells me that he spotted Neads at the Zodiac stalking – or at least keeping tabs on – Jag Ranandan himself.”

  Helen bit her lip and looked away at the mention of Hill’s name.

  “Which means he’s been playing detective.” Harding chewed his pencil.

  “Yes. And he’s pretty damn good at it, too,” Moran said. “The question is, what will he do next? What are his motives?”

  “Revenge.” Helen shrugged. “Against the Ranandans. And their family,” she added.

  “And you too, guv,” Harding said. “He sounds crazy enough. And he did threaten you.”

  “Uh huh.” Moran paced the floor. “I can look after myself, DC Harding. But thanks for your concern.”

  A few corridors away Charlie Pepper and Banner were in the process of softening up Sharron Flynn for the main event: Moran’s interview. He was itching to get on with it, but Neads had to be found as a matter of urgency. Blind, Moran, that’s what you are – blind... He now admitted that he hadn’t allowed himself to include Neads as a potential suspect. Why? Guilt, that’s why, Moran. Plain, idiotic, blind guilt...

  He shook the thought away and went on. “According to the hospital, a Simon Peters was discharged a week ago from the RBH. The doctor I spoke to confirmed the description, and also surmised that Neads could be suffering from what he called ‘cognitive disruption’.”

  “No wonder, after what he’s been through,” Harding muttered. “Why the name change, though?”

  “A fresh start? Rejection of his past life?” Helen offered.

  “Quite possi
bly. But whatever the reason,” Moran continued, “he’s not in his right mind. Whatever thoughts of revenge he was harbouring as fantasies might now be translated into real action. That means he could well be our killer. And it also means he’s extremely dangerous.” Moran sat down heavily at a spare desk and rubbed his eyes. “I’d like to take the lead on this, Helen but I’ve got Flynn to sort out first. Take Harding with you, make sure you have backup, and bring in Gregory Neads. Do whatever it takes, but do it fast.”

  Sharron Flynn looked up briefly as Moran entered the interview room and then let her gaze drop back to the tabletop. Banner took his cue and made a swift exit. Charlie spoke to the recorder.

  “DCI Brendan Moran has just entered the room. DS Banner has left the room.”

  Moran sat at the table and fixed his eyes on Sharron Flynn. She looked terrible. Her eyes were dark and sunken, her skin pale and unhealthy-looking. Too much stress? Too much time spent tinkering with aero engines? Too much sampling the contraband?

  “So. Back from the dead,” Moran stated. “How does it feel?”

  Flynn compressed her thin lips and said nothing. Her fingers described vague patterns on the tabletop.

  “We’re interviewing your father next door,” Moran told her. “So you might as well tell us everything.”

  Flynn toyed with a lock of her hair. “About?”

  “Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?” Moran was making a huge effort to keep his cool. If he was right, then this woman was partly responsible for the deaths of two police officers. He noticed Charlie shooting him an anxious glance.

  Flynn shrugged.

  “It all began well, didn’t it?” Moran folded his arms. “High profile operation. Working with an experienced and respected SIO.”

  Flynn worked her facial muscles and carried on with her patterns.

  “And then the laws of attraction came into play. You got too close to said SIO. You fell pregnant. Not good.”

  Flynn gave Charlie a look, as if she were seeking some kind of female empathy for her actions.

  “And then what? Money too tight? A wicked idea came to mind?” Moran leaned forward. “Maybe I could threaten to spill the beans, you thought. Unless, Mr SIO, you give me a nice little paycheck every month. Is that what you were thinking, Sharron?” Moran leaned back and watched Flynn’s expression, noting a small droplet of sweat appear just beneath her hairline before it was wiped away with the back of her hand.

  He went on. “But – oh dear, what then? Mr SIO doesn’t have enough dosh to shell out without Mrs SIO getting suspicious. So he tells you he doesn’t know what to do. His career and marriage are at stake. No problem, you say, I’ll do a little deal with Mr Ranandan. We’ll turn a blind eye to his operation and he’ll give us a cut. In fact, we’ll even help him out. We’ll let him use the airstrip and I can fly for him. We’ll double the profits and take an even bigger cut. Problem solved – Ranandan and Co. get the old bill on their side, Mrs SIO is kept in the dark and we both get rich.”

  Flynn shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Can I have a drink?”

  Moran nodded to Charlie, who went to the door and asked for three mugs of tea.

  “And a jolly nice flat you have too, by all accounts, DS Flynn. I bet you couldn’t pay for that on a sergeant’s take-home pay, eh?” Moran raised his eyebrows.

  Charlie sat down again and Moran got up. He went to the window and folded his arms behind his back. “But then you had a little problem, didn’t you? In the shape of DS Reed-Purvis. She was a good cop. And she sussed you out, didn’t she?” He came and stood behind Flynn, placed his hands on the back of her chair. “Didn’t she?”

  Flynn’s hands were shaking. She clasped her right wrist with her left hand.

  Moran leaned down until his mouth was by Flynn’s right ear. “So you drugged her. With GHB. That’s gamma-hydroxybutyrate, Sharron. But you know that, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted her out of the way that evening. She was alive the last time I saw her. Honest to God. She left the club, but I felt bad. I wanted to make sure she was OK. I was going to call her a cab.”

  “Is that so?” Moran straightened up. “But you didn’t. Perhaps you’d like to tell DI Pepper and myself what happened next.” Moran went to the radiator and leaned on it. The evening sun spilled into the room and fell across the table. It made Flynn’s face appear even paler.

  “I went to the exit, but Val was already walking down the street. Then she stopped. I saw someone run across the road. I heard her call out. She’d seen something. I followed. There was a guy in a doorway – he was dead, I could tell. And then I saw Val chasing this guy who was running away. Then he turned round and caught her. I didn’t know what to do. I had no backup.”

  “No backup?” Charlie’s mouth fell open. “You poisoned your own colleague and then thought about getting backup?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Flynn shouted. “It wasn’t me. The guy she chased, he did it. There was a struggle. She fell over and he put her in the boot of his car.”

  “Oh my God.” Charlie’s hand was at her mouth. “She couldn’t fight back. The GHB had kicked in.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “And then?” Moran prompted.

  “He drove off. I went back to the Zodiac.”

  “You walked away. All sorted, right?” Charlie’s voice caught and she cleared her throat huskily.

  The door opened with a peremptory knock and a uniformed sergeant brought in a tray of tea.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I think we all need that.” Moran smiled thinly.

  Moran returned to his seat and sipped the hot tea. Flynn stared at her drink but her hands remained clasped as if manacled together. Moran placed his mug carefully on the table.

  “Who was in the plane?”

  Flynn ran her tongue around her lips and looked at the window, as if it might suddenly open and allow her to escape.

  “Come on, Sharron. We’ll find out anyway, once forensics has pieced it all together.”

  “Was it one of the Ranandans?” Charlie asked.

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “A friend. A mechanic. He tests the planes for us, services them.”

  “I see. An expendable friend,” Moran offered, his tone steady and reasonable.

  “It was my father’s idea. He–” Flynn began, but broke off, coughing.

  “Have a drink,” Moran suggested.

  Flynn took a deep breath before continuing. When she looked at Moran her eyes were defiant. “He fixed an aileron so it wouldn’t function at a certain height. I didn’t want to go that far, but–”

  “No. It’s always someone else, isn’t it, Sharron? Not your fault.” Charlie’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “He loves me,” Flynn protested “Any father would protect his daughter. Do you know that the farm has been in my family for generations? And they’re taking it away from him, piece by piece? Do you know how much that hurts him? How much it costs him?”

  “Daddy’s another beneficiary of your scheme, is he, Sharron?” Moran took a mouthful of tea to mask the bitter taste in his mouth. “Anyone else currently enjoying your largesse that we should know about?”

  Flynn shook her head.

  “What was the next move, then, Sharron?” Moran pressed on. “A new life in Australia? A forged ID? A short hop over the Channel and then a long haul to the Outback?”

  “Close. Thailand, actually.” Flynn sniffed and tapped the edge of her mug.

  “Plenty of opportunity to offer your trafficking expertise there, I expect,” Moran observed caustically.

  “Can you describe the man you saw attack DS Reed-Purvis?” Charlie had brought herself under control. Her face was composed, her mouth set in a determined line.

  “Six foot. Fair to blond hair. Limped.”

  Moran nodded. It had to be Neads. Unluckily for him, a police officer had spotted him just seconds after his first murder. Unlucky, Greg
ory. Unlucky again...

  “What will happen to me? And Alan?” Flynn’s eyes were flat, resigned.

  “That’s not up to me, DS Flynn,” Moran said icily. “Luckily for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, DI Pepper is going to ask some more questions regarding the Ranandans. I strongly suggest you co-operate.” Moran nodded to Charlie. “Carry on, DI Pepper.”

  Moran left Charlie to conclude the interview and dialled Helen’s number for an update on Neads.

  Chapter 26

  “Got it, guv.” Helen’s matter-of-fact tone belied the excitement Moran knew she must be feeling.

  Almost immediately Banner was at Helen’s desk. Moran wasn’t much slower. They all focused on the photograph and description on Helen’s laptop screen.

  “I know it, guv.” Helen looked up, her face slightly flushed. “It’s a new development near Caversham Bridge, overlooking the river. Quite posh.”

  “I know it as well,” Banner said. “Must have had a nice payoff. To afford a place like that, I mean.”

  “He would have done,” Moran said tersely. “The annuity lump sum would have covered most of it.” He straightened up. “Nice work, Helen. Let’s pay Mr Peters a visit, shall we?”

  “Ascetic,” Moran said, taking in the bare apartment with its Spartan rectangular strip of carpet, unused kitchen and pristine pine dining table.

  Helen crossed the room and opened the fridge. It was empty, sterile. She stuck her head into the small bedroom and frowned. “No bed either. Are we sure he’s actually been living here?”

  “Oh yes,” Moran said. “I can smell him. He’s been here all right.”

  Banner loosened his collar and stuck his head out of the Velux. “Nice view. Wonder why he chose the penthouse?”

  Moran took a last look around the empty flat. “He used to climb. Big hobby of his. Maybe high places make him feel superior to the rest of us. I’ll bet he feels like a god up here.”

  “Some god.” Helen shuddered, thinking of the photographs of Father Jeffries’ mutilated body.