Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Well, god or loony,” Banner said, closing the window with a bang that made Helen jump, “the million dollar question is, where the hell is he now?”

  The Kafir knocked on the door. If he’d timed it right they’d both be here. He’d taken a great deal of care deciding on the order of events, and his final decision pleased him. He had also spent a long time marvelling at the wonderful serendipity of it all. Jag Ranandan and DCI Moran at the same time. Surely it had all been predetermined by his helper? It was all meant to be. And now, here he was; this was the coup de grace, the end game to avenge all the wrongs done to him. He felt a little dizzy at the prospect.

  The security chain jingled and Jaseena’s face appeared. The door began to close almost at once, but he’d been ready for her reaction. His foot was in the gap, his shoulder against the wood. The chain split and the door flew open. He heard another voice call out.

  “Jas? Are you OK?”

  He closed the door behind him, bent and severed the BT line. Jaseena was backed against the wall, her mouth open in horror. “What’s the matter, Jas? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  Another woman appeared in the lounge doorway – Shona Kempster. Moran’s love interest. Excellent; both eggs safely in the basket. The Kafir grinned a greeting and held up the kitchen knife so that both women could see it.

  “I wasn’t sure which one to bring,” he told the cowering women. “This one is brand new. Nice and sharp.” His voice roughened. “Pack a bag,” he told them. “I can’t wait to show you where we’re spending the weekend.”

  “Brendan? Someone to see you.” Denis Robinson, the Duty Sergeant, shrugged an apology.

  Moran groaned. It was late. He had Flynn and Sheldrake in custody, all units were on alert for Gregory Neads, aka Simon Peters, and he had hoped for a nightcap with Shona followed by a decent night’s sleep. Not that he’d sleep much anyway. Now that the others had knocked off and he was alone with his thoughts they kept returning his mother lying motionless beside him as he dozed. Drifting into eternity on her own...

  “She seems upset, Brendan,” the sergeant prompted. “I’d best go back down and make sure she’s all right. Can’t leave the front desk unattended.”

  “Who is it, Denis?” Moran asked wearily.

  “Young girl. Indian. Says her name’s Nalini – or something like that.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Right you are, Brendan. By the way–”

  “What?”

  “You look knackered. You should go home and get some kip.”

  “Thanks, Denis. I’d never have thought of that.”

  Moran logged off his PC and made his way down the stairs to reception. Nalini was on her feet as soon as he appeared.

  “Mr Moran. I had to tell you. He made me. I’m sorry. I am very frightened.”

  She seemed it. She was shaking like a sapling in a storm. Moran took her arm.

  “All right. Take it easy; you’re safe now – Denis?”

  “Yep?” The sergeant’s head popped up at the reinforced glass counter.

  “Can you rustle up a cup of tea for this young lady? We’ll be in number one.”

  “Right you are.”

  Moran ushered Nalini through and sat her down. “Now, slowly does it. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “It’s Simon. He came to the practice again. I was alone. He frightened me. He was different.” Nalini covered her face with her hands. “Now, I think he is even more crazy. He called himself this strange name, Kafir... ‘I am not Simon,’ he said. His voice was different. He wanted to know if Jag had been back to the practice. If I’d told him anything. He said he knew where Jaseena was now. I was very frightened.”

  Moran felt a chill run down his spine. “What else did he say?”

  “He said she was with her friend, Shona Kempster. Shona used to work in the practice, last year. She’s very nice. Very kind. I am frightened for her, I–”

  “It’s all right, Nalini. When did this happen?”

  “This evening. He let me go eventually. He said a lot more crazy stuff, and then he said his helper had just told him where Shona lived. I wouldn’t have told him, Mr Moran, I came straight here. On the bus. It took a long time. I’m sorry.”

  “Tea?” Sergeant Robinson came in and plonked a tray on the table. There were two sachets of sugar and two teaspoons lined up neatly by the mugs.

  “Go on,” Moran encouraged. “It’ll do you good.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Nalini sipped her tea Moran slipped out and told Robinson to get Banner and Helen McKellar over to Shona Kempster’s house sharpish. He gave them strict instructions to take no action, just observe. Then he rejoined Nalini, who was looking a little calmer – considerably calmer than Moran himself felt. Why had he not anticipated this? How could he have been so short-sighted? You stupid Irish tosser, Moran...

  He tried to keep his voice steady and reassuring. “What else did he say, Nalini? Anything at all, even if it sounds silly or irrelevant.”

  “He was smiling and laughing a lot. Talking nonsense. I thought he would hurt me. He talked about going away, going to a clean town?” She shrugged. “I’m not sure. He didn’t make much sense to me at all. I was so happy when he went.”

  Moran nodded. “Thank you. You did the right thing coming to see me. I’ll get one of the female duty officers to give you a lift home.” He caught the anxious look in Nalini’s eyes. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on you. I promise.”

  Just after Nalini left Moran received a call from Banner. They’d checked out Shona’s house: no one home. Moran’s heart did a slow roll. What was in Neads’ head? What would he do? He recalled the consultant’s dry pronouncement: cognitive disruption...

  “Clues?” Moran barked down the phone, his voice sounding harsh and flat.

  “Funnily enough, guv, yes. There’s a note pinned to the front door, a cartoon of a knife. And a message.”

  “Go on.” Moran clenched the receiver hard.

  “It says: ‘Leaving the smoke for an elevated view of a cleaner town. See you there, Brendan.’”

  “That’s it?”

  There was a brief silence at the other end. “There’s a PS,” Banner said, reluctance clear in his voice.

  “Spit it out, Banner.”

  “It says: ‘You have until dawn. Then one dies. If you’re still a no show, Brendan, the second dies at midday tomorrow. I haven’t decided who’s first yet. Oh, and come alone. No funny stuff or they both get the chop. Don’t be late.’”

  Chapter 27

  “What does he want?” Helen McKellar’s brows knitted into a frown which made her look vulnerable and attractive at the same time. She pushed the hair away from her eyes and folded her arms.

  “He wants me,” Moran said. “I’m to blame for this whole ludicrous mess.”

  “Come on, guv, that’s not true,” Helen protested. “The guy’s got a screw loose.”

  “Yes, and I’m the one who undid it.”

  “With respect, guv, that’s bullshit,” Helen spread her hands in a gesture of appeal. “You did everything you could at Charnford. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Moran sighed. “I wish I could believe that, Helen.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Moran paced his office. The sound of a motorcycle engine filtered in through the open window. The room was humid and airless. All Moran wanted was a shower, a change of clothes and Shona Kempster. He didn’t want to dwell on what she might be going through right now; given his emotional involvement, that would be counter-productive. It was down to him to get her out of the mess she’d inadvertently got herself into. That you’ve got her into, Moran... He stood at his desk and rattled his fingers on the desktop.

  “I’m going to have a quick word with Sergeant Phelps, Helen. Then I’m going to make an end of this. In the meantime, I want you and DI Pepper to talk to our friend Zoë. Use whatever powers of persuasion you can bring to bear. I want Jag Ranandan of
f the streets, and Zoë is our best bet.”

  Charlie Pepper sucked an extra strong mint and tried to push Sharron Flynn out of her head. In all her experience she had never met anyone as cold and callous as Flynn. How anyone could betray a colleague the way Reed-Purvis had been betrayed was beyond Charlie’s imagination. Her success in trapping Flynn, feather in her cap though it might be, wasn’t nearly enough to cleanse the bad taste in her mouth. She suspected that even Jag Ranandan’s entrapment would fail to restore her spirits.

  But she’d been here before; this wasn’t the first time a fellow police officer had come to a bad end on Charlie’s patch, and, she reflected, it probably wouldn’t be the last. She knocked on the door of the dark blue Vauxhall Movano van and waited to be admitted. When the door opened she clambered in and slid it shut behind her.

  “All right, boss?” DC Harding settled back into his swivel seat in front of the surveillance desk. Charlie could hear the low-volume monitored sounds of the Zodiac emanating from the stereo speakers built into the desk’s panelling. The aircon was bliss after the stifling heat of the town centre. Charlie undid her blouse a notch to allow the cool air to circulate around her skin.

  Her mobile bleeped. A text from Helen – Zoë was in situ. Good. Now all they had to do was hope that Mr Ranandan turned up. Charlie wondered how patient Zoë would be in her role as agent provocateur, how long it would take before she lost interest. It hadn’t taken a great deal of persuasion to get her to agree to the job; she hated Jag with a vengeance, and this was her chance to get him off her back for good.

  “All working?”

  “So far,” Harding grinned. “Let’s hope he doesn’t suss her out.”

  “She’s cool,” Charlie said. “There’s no flies on Zoë, so I’ve heard. The original streetwise kid, apparently.”

  “Hmmm. Oh, by the way, I was wondering...” Harding said casually.

  “What?”

  “If you might be free for a drink tomorrow night?” Harding beamed his best, most winning smile.

  “Let’s keep our minds on the job, DC Harding, shall we? I’ll give you an answer later.” Charlie turned her head to avoid showing Harding the grin she was struggling to suppress. Men. Talk about one track…

  “Sure thing, boss. No problem. Is Helen joining us?” Harding transitioned smoothly back to work mode.

  “Soonish. I told her to hang around for a bit, just in case Zoë needs any help. And Harding?”

  “Yep?”

  “Please don’t call me ‘boss’. It makes me feel like an extra from The Godfather.”

  “Fair enough.” Harding adjusted a slider and put a set of headphones to one ear. “Zoë? Can you hear me OK?”

  “Loud and clear.” Zoë’s voice, laconic and long-suffering, came back through the speakers.

  Charlie dipped her head closer to the microphone. “Hi Zoë. Charlie. Any sign?”

  “Atul’s here somewhere. No Jag yet.”

  “OK. Keep us posted.”

  “This had better be worth it, doll.”

  “It’s always worth getting scumbags like Jag Ranandan off the street, Zoë,” Charlie said with feeling.

  “Hang on,” Zoë said. “He’s here.”

  “Good luck. Take it nice and easy.” Charlie bit her lip. So, Moran had been right. Even though Jag must have known what had gone down at the farm earlier that day, he was still arrogant enough to maintain his local profile. Well, Mr Ranandan, Charlie muttered to herself, your profile is about to be significantly lowered...

  “Wondered when you’d be back, guv.” Sergeant Robert Phelps was sitting in a chair next to his hospital bed.

  “Am I being rebuked, Robert?”

  “Not at all, guv. Busy man, I understand.”

  “You can say that again.” Moran slumped into the visitor’s chair. There was a pile of magazines and an unopened carton of cereal bars on the bedside table. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” Phelps said. “No, actually, that’s a lie. I’m bored out of my bloody mind.”

  “Physically?”

  “Consultant reckons I’ll live a bit longer. Provided I make a few sacrifices.”

  Moran smiled. “That’s great.”

  Phelps shook his head vehemently. “No, it’s not. How am I going to survive without a fag? Or a glass of Glenfiddich?”

  “Take it easy. Don’t get yourself excited.”

  Phelps guffawed. “A bit of excitement wouldn’t go amiss. So, come on, let’s cut to the chase. It’s way past visiting time. Something’s up, right?”

  Moran was enjoying the hunger in Phelps’ eyes. He was still a copper, coronary survivor or not. Moran would have given a lot to have Phelps with him for the next twelve hours.

  “It’s Neads.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Phelps scratched his cheek and raised his chin interrogatively. There was something incongruous about a big man like Phelps dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown. The sergeant was like a fish out of water in his hospital garb and surroundings.

  Moran ran a hand through his hair. God, he was tired. He took a deep breath and went on. “Looks like Neads flipped. Some heavies beat him up and chucked him into the canal a week or so back. They didn’t want him to date their sister. And get this – we now have a witness who saw Neads attack DS Reed-Purvis the night Bling Boy was killed.”

  “OK. Sounds promising so far.”

  “It gets worse. Neads has just abducted the sister and Shona Kempster.”

  “Whaat? That’s the girl who you–”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, guv.” Phelps shook his head. “That’s just unbelievable.”

  “Isn’t it. Problem is, I don’t know where he’s taken them.”

  “Ah. That’s where I come in?”

  “What do you remember about Greg Neads? What made him tick?” Moran leaned forward. “He left a note.”

  Phelps watched as Moran fished a piece of paper from his trouser pocket. Leaving the smoke for an elevated view of a cleaner town. “I mean, what the hell is all that about?”

  “He’s being his usual self,” Phelps grunted. “An arrogant little shit.”

  “I have to find him, Robert. He’s given me until dawn. Then he’s going to kill them both.”

  “Will he do it?”

  Moran got up and drummed his fingers on the bedstead. “I think so, yes. He’s not in his right mind. Cognitive disruption, the consultant reckoned.”

  Phelps was silent for a few moments, pondering. “He fancied himself as a poet. Used to read stuff to me. It wasn’t bad.”

  “What else? A cleaner town?” Moran forced his tired brain to think. “Are there any clean towns? Unpolluted? Is that what he means? There’s pollution everywhere. It can’t be that.”

  Phelps was grinning. “I know what he means. He’s having a laugh.”

  “I’m glad someone is.”

  “Bath.”

  “Bath?”

  “Can’t get any cleaner than that, guv.”

  Moran batted the side of his head. “Right! You’re a ruddy marvel, Robert!” Then he frowned. “But what’s the elevated bit?”

  “A high place. He was into mountains, wasn’t he? Climbing?”

  “He was.” Moran thought of the penthouse, the lofty view.

  “OK, so maybe you’re after the top floor of a hotel in Bath?”

  Moran shook his head. “He wouldn’t choose somewhere so public.”

  “All right, then. A hill? Bath is in a valley.”

  Moran retrieved his iPhone and googled Bath. “Solsbury Hill? Just outside the city?”

  “He’d want somewhere secure, guv.”

  Moran clicked on the next link. “Beckford’s Tower?” He scanned the page and read the blurb with a growing sense of excitement.

  “Heard of that,” Phelps said. “It’s a Landmark Trust building. You can rent it. Me and the Missus have stayed in a few Landmark properties in our time. BK, that is – before kids.”

  “It�
��s perfect,” Moran said. “But is it right?” He tapped a key on his mobile. “Banner? Can you check if Beckford’s Tower in Bath has been booked for the weekend? If so, by whom? Straight away please. Thanks.”

  Two minutes later Moran’s phone rang. “Guv? Banner. Yes, it has. To a Mr Simon Peters.”

  Phelps raised his arm in poker-faced farewell as Moran made for the door. His sergeant’s parting words followed Moran into the car park, resonating in his head like a tuning fork.

  “Watch him like a hawk, guv,” Phelps had warned. “Right now he’s got all the aces, and I’d hate you to finish up holding the joker.”

  Chapter 28

  Charlie felt sweat run down her back as she listened. They’d killed the engine and the aircon had gone with it. Zoë’s voice was beginning to fade into the escalating background racket as the pubs emptied and more punters arrived for their after-hours entertainment, which made it difficult to hear what was going on, even despite the supposed sophistication of Harding’s surveillance equipment. Charlie puckered her lips and tried to concentrate.

  “You heard about the arrests?” they heard Zoë prompt, casually.

  “Yeah. So what?” Jag’s voice was calm and unruffled.

  “So, she might grass you up.”

  “Not a chance,” Jag replied with a snort. “She’s got nothing on me, anyhow. Nobody has.”

  “That copper, Moran. He knows you’re involved.”

  “Why are you suddenly so interested in my welfare?” Jag’s voice probed silkily.

  “’Cause I don’t want to get done, neither. I’ve got a living to make an’ all.”

  “You do a good job for me, Zoë. Have I ever let you down?”

  “What about the other copper? Flynn’s boss?”

  “Sheldrake? He won’t make any trouble. He’ll go down, anyhow. Flynn will stitch him up. Why shouldn’t she? As for the others, the ones that matter are in my pocket, sure thing.” There was a rustle as Jag tapped his chinos to illustrate his point. “Even the new ones,” he added smugly.