Chapter 4
Ben had first crossed paths with DI McAllister a while back, when a trip to Oxford for a reunion event at his old college had brought with it the inevitable trouble that seemed to dog him everywhere he went. It had been the start of, if not a beautiful friendship, then at least a particular sort of unusual relationship.
Ben’s past experiences as a freelance kidnap and hostage rescue specialist had ingrained in him a certain mistrust of law enforcement officers in general, and he often didn’t get along too well with them. Grace Kirk had been one notable exception to that rule. Thames Valley Police Detective Inspector Tom McAllister had been another. Ben had found the Northern Irish cop to be a rough diamond and a straight shooter. He was also a dyed-in-the-wool maverick who thought outside the box, tended to bend the rules now and then, and had had his own run-ins with his superiors who regarded him as a loose cannon. Ben could resonate with that.
‘I’m still alive,’ he replied. ‘And I see you’re still in the game. Not quit the force to open your own restaurant yet?’
McAllister scowled and shook his head. ‘So, if I may ask, what the frig are you doing here? You may have noticed that you’re walking into a restricted area.’
‘So have the wizards at Thames Valley worked out who killed him?’
‘Killed who?’
‘Come on, McAllister. No need to play those games with me. Carter Duggan. The guy who was stabbed to death here last night.’
McAllister’s face crumpled up into an expression of curious puzzlement. ‘Certainly seem to have the inside track, Hope. In which case you ought to know that they already have someone in custody.’
Ben noticed the ‘they’, instead of a ‘we’. Ever the outsider, that McAllister. He replied, ‘I was aware of that. The problem is that they’ve got the wrong person.’
‘And so you’ve come to confess that you did it, is that right?’ McAllister said with a nasty grin.
‘Actually, I was more hoping that I could prevail upon the forces of law and order to see the error of their ways and nail the real killer. Or else I might have to give them a helping hand.’
Cops generally didn’t like it when civilians threatened to get mixed up in their investigations, especially ex-Special Forces soldiers with a known talent for mayhem and bedlam. McAllister didn’t seem especially perturbed but said, ‘I’m a little fuzzy on your involvement in this case.’
It was time for Ben to come clean. ‘The suspect in custody for killing Duggan is my son. That’s why I’m here.’
McAllister frowned. This was news. ‘Hold on a minute. Jude Arundel is your son?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Bullshit. Arundel’s parents were Simeon and Michaela Arundel and they’re dead.’
Ben held his eye. ‘Tom. Look at me. Am I the kind of person who would bullshit you about something like this?’
McAllister returned Ben’s look for a long moment, then nodded. He glanced back at the house, peering through the open doorway at all the activity that was taking place inside. He turned back to Ben and said, ‘Walk with me a minute. I don’t want those eedjits inside to overhear.’
McAllister descended the steps from the front door and the two of them strolled away from the house. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ Ben said.
‘Your son?’
‘It’s a long story. You just have to believe me.’
McAllister heaved a sigh. ‘You might be a lot of things, Hope, but you’re no liar. I believe you. Okay, so how much do you know?’
‘When I talked to Jude earlier he hadn’t been charged with it yet. I’ve just come from the Abingdon station. Tried to find out what’s happening but they wouldn’t talk to me.’
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ McAllister said. ‘They charged your boy with murder late this morning.’
Ben felt a great weight pull at his heart. He took a deep breath. ‘How bad does it look for him?’
‘Not good. His prints are all over the handle of the knife, for a start. Results came through this morning. That’s what clinched it.’
‘There has to be some other reason for that.’
McAllister shrugged. ‘No sign of forced entry, suggests the killer had a key to the house. And it wasn’t a robbery, either. Duggan had two hundred quid cash in his pocket and was wearing a fancy Tag Heuer watch that your average opportunistic crook would’ve whipped off his wrist faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Plus, there are two witness statements that he was seen having a hell of an argument with the victim earlier in the day. About what, I can’t tell you. In fact I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you.’
Ben remembered what Jude had told him about the grilling he’d received in the police cells. ‘Were you one of the interviewing officers?’
McAllister shook his head and replied, ‘No, I’m a latecomer to this party. Just come off the case of the Rose Hill polka-dot underwear rapist, who I’m happy to say is now behind bars. The chiefs didn’t put me on this assignment until this morning, after Jude was charged. Lucky me, eh?’
Ben wished that he knew more, and that Jude had had time to tell him about it. ‘He’s headstrong. And he can be a handful to deal with.’
‘Just like his old man?’
‘But he’s not a murderer. He did not do this.’
‘Tell that to the judge.’
‘Who was Carter Duggan?’ Ben asked.
‘I only know what I know,’ McAllister replied. ‘Canadian citizen, native of Ottawa, here in the UK on a temporary visitor’s stamp. Fifty years old, six-one, sixteen stone. He’s an ex-cop who spent seventeen years with the Ontario Provincial Police, retired in 2012 with the rank of detective staff sergeant.’
‘What was he doing here in Little Denton?’
‘I’m looking into it.’
They had walked as far as McAllister’s car. McAllister opened the door and cranked down the window to give the dog some more air. Radar stuck his head out and painted his master’s face with a huge pink tongue, the same way that Storm did with Ben. McAllister patted him lovingly, in a way that made Ben suddenly yearn to be home again.
Ben curled his fingers and offered his hand for the dog to sniff. He asked, ‘So what happens next?’
McAllister replied, ‘His bail hearing is set for tomorrow morning at Oxford Magistrates’ Court in front of District Judge Crapper. That’s moving along pretty fast. He might’ve had to sit waiting a lot longer. Means he gets to enjoy the hospitality of the Abingdon station custody suite for another night. Nothing anyone can do until the hearing.’
Ben dreaded asking. ‘How likely is he to be granted bail?’
McAllister shrugged. ‘Letter of the law? According to Section one-one-four, paragraph two, of the Coroners and Justice Act, bail may not be granted unless the court’s satisfied that there’s no significant risk of the suspect trying to make a break for it or hurt anyone else. So technically, the kid could be freed tomorrow as long as someone’s willing to enter into a recognisance.’
‘Speak English, McAllister.’
‘In layman’s terms, it means to act as his guarantor and cough up a large amount of cash if the suspect breaks the conditions of his bail.’
‘He won’t break them,’ Ben said.
‘That’s up to you to persuade the court,’ McAllister replied. ‘Though I wouldn’t get my hopes up, pal. In real life it all hangs on what the Crown Prosecution Service push for. This was a nasty killing and I don’t see the CPS taking a light touch here. They’ll already be leaning on Judge Crapper to side with their decision.’
‘But Crapper still gets the final say, doesn’t he?’
McAllister made a noncommittal yes-and-no kind of gesture. ‘Aye, he does in theory, but he’s got a reputation for being a weak auld bugger. He knows if he grants bail against the Public Prosecutor’s recommendation, then it’ll get automatically appealed to the High Court and that could d
rag on for ever and make him look bad if the appeal’s upheld. I’d expect him to take the path of least resistance, cave in to the Crown like he generally does and order your boy to be remanded in Bullingdon Prison until his trial date. Which could be months away.’
Another heavy weight tugged harder inside Ben’s chest. He felt a numbness spreading through him. ‘Where’s Bullingdon?’
‘Arncott, near Bicester.’
Ben knew the old market town because of MoD Bicester, the Ministry of Defence’s biggest ordnance depot. He’d been there once when part of the regular army, prior to his SAS days. It was about twenty miles away from Little Denton. But once Jude was banged up inside, he’d be so far out of Ben’s protective reach that it might as well be on the moon.
‘You said this was a nasty killing,’ he said. ‘Just how nasty are we talking about?’
‘Murder weapon was a large cookery knife. Belongs to a matching set from the block on the kitchen counter. Nice ones, too. Misono.’ McAllister was a keen chef in his home life. Ben had once seen him take time out at a murder scene to admire the victim’s collection of copper saucepans. He knew a thing or two about cookery knives, as well. ‘Sharp’s not the word. You could chiffonade basil with it and the leaves’d feel like they were coming off in perfect ribbons in your hand. So you can imagine what a bit of determined hack and stab work did to this poor bastard.’
Ben didn’t have to imagine, because he’d seen similar or worse done to people in the past. For Jude to do something so brutal and violent to another human being, he’d have to have lost his mind and been on hallucinogenic drugs. It was simply unthinkable.
Ben was about to reply when the patter of tyres on gravel made them both turn and glance towards the gates, to see another unmarked police car turning in off the road and rolling up the vicarage drive. McAllister looked at the approaching car with a dismal expression. ‘Oh, shite.’
Chapter 5
‘It’s Forbsie,’ McAllister said. ‘What the hell is that wee skitter doing here?’
Forbsie was Detective Superintendent Alan Forbes, McAllister’s superior and nemesis. Ben had met him once before, too. And another time long before that, back when Ben was a student and Forbsie was still in uniform, an occasion that had resulted in Forbsie getting covered in human excrement. That, too, was a long story, and not one that had done anything to endear Ben to the man.
‘You’d best get out of here,’ McAllister warned him. ‘There’ll be hell to pay if he spots you hanging around.’
A row of conifer trees stood next to McAllister’s Plymouth, planted there by Michaela a long time ago. Ben stepped behind them so that Forbes wouldn’t see him. ‘Thanks for the advice, anyway, for what it’s worth.’
Forbes’s car reached the top of the driveway and rolled to a halt. The Detective Super was the only person inside. He looked just the way Ben remembered him, a reedy-looking individual with a dyed black comb-over and a moustache that bristled like the hairs on the back of an angry cat.
McAllister seemed about to go over to meet his superior, but then paused and instead moved behind the trees closer to Ben, so that Forbes couldn’t see him either. With a thoughtful twinkle in his eye he asked, ‘Where are you staying?’
With all the rushing around, Ben hadn’t given it an instant’s thought. ‘I don’t know. A hotel, I suppose.’
‘You can come and doss on my couch, if you like. Then we can talk more.’
‘Isn’t that a little unconventional, for the cop leading the investigation to offer to discuss the case?’
‘I’m an unconventional kind of guy,’ McAllister said with an alligator grin. ‘This way I get to keep an eye on you. Last time you poked your nose into a police investigation on my turf we ended up with a bloody war kicking off and an estate block that looked like something from Beirut, 1982.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Ben said. He remembered the occasion well. He’d disappeared long before the police armed response vehicles had come screaming to the scene.
‘Anyhow, the dog likes you.’
‘Then how can I refuse?’
‘Meet me at the Trout at Tadpole Bridge tonight at eight o’clock. My place isn’t far from there.’ McAllister pressed a business card into Ben’s hand. ‘Here’s my number in case you change your mind.’
Ben slipped further behind the conifers as Forbes stepped out of his unmarked police car and began strutting towards the house. McAllister went over to greet him. They shared a couple of brief words and then went inside. Ben waited until McAllister shut the front door behind them, then emerged from the cover of the trees and walked quickly back to his car.
It was after five in the afternoon and Ben now had almost three hours to kill before meeting McAllister. He got into the Alpina and took off out of the village with no clue where he was going. There was no way for him to contact Jude or do anything more to help him until the bail hearing in Oxford tomorrow. He felt sick with worry and his mind was buzzing with so many thoughts that he could barely think straight. He was soon lost in the deep countryside that lay all around Little Denton. Fields and farms and signposts and the occasional house flashed by, but he scarcely even noticed them.
After a few minutes on the road he began to worry about losing concentration at the wheel, and pulled over in a grassy field gate entrance across the road from a patch of woodland. He sat there for almost an hour, staring into space and thinking about what Jude must be doing and feeling at this moment.
Restlessness getting the better of him, he climbed out of the car and crossed the road to go wandering a while in the forest, hoping that it would help to clear his mind. It felt good to move. He found a track through the trees that reminded him of his woodland paths at Le Val, and his walking pace stepped up to a jog, then to a run as the energy coursing through him found its release. His feet pounded the dirt. Twigs lashed his face. He sprinted faster, and faster, pushing himself to maximum speed and holding it there for as long as he could, until the burn in his legs made him stop. He had run almost a mile through the woods.
Ben spent some time resting on a fallen tree and giving in once more to the temptation of his Gauloises. The run had helped to flush some of the turmoil from his head, but he could still feel it all hovering over him like a black storm cloud. As early evening came he made a quick call to Jeff at Le Val to update him.
Jeff sounded shocked that Jude had been charged with the murder. Ben wished he’d had better news to give. He promised to phone Jeff again when he knew more. When the call was finished, he used his phone to locate the rendezvous point for his meeting with Tom McAllister at eight. He made his way back to the Alpina and set off, giving himself plenty of time to get there.
The Trout at Tadpole Bridge lay a few miles away in rural west Oxfordshire, by the Thames close to a place called Buckland Marsh. Ben drove over the old stone humpback bridge and turned into the car park of the historic inn. It was two minutes to eight and McAllister’s car wasn’t there yet. Ben wandered inside. The decor was the usual old-world, rustic-chic style of these Oxfordshire country establishments. Aged oak beams as thick as tree trunks, uneven flagstone floor and a fireplace flanked by stacks of logs. Something about the place struck him as vaguely familiar, and after a moment he realised with sadness that he might have come here on one of his legendary pub crawls with Simeon Arundel, all those years ago. Back then, even among the wealthy elite of Oxford, it had been a rare privilege for a student to possess their very own set of wheels – and Simeon’s bright red classic Lotus Elan had earned him both the envy of the young gentlemen and the admiration of the ladies, in equal measure. Ben had fond memories of those summer nights zapping about the county in their Quixotic quest to sample every variety of real ale known to mankind.
It had been in the same red Lotus that Simeon and Michaela would later meet their deaths. They were still so young. Ben missed them both badly.
He ordered a double scotch, no ice, no water. Most of the pub tables w
ere occupied and he didn’t much feel like company anyway, so carried his drink out to the beer garden and sat alone where he could see the road. He’d been waiting just seven minutes when he heard the unmistakable V8 rumble of McAllister’s car approaching; then the Barracuda appeared on the bridge and came rolling up next to Ben’s Alpina in the car park. Ben quickly downed the last of his drink and walked over to meet him. McAllister rolled down his window and said, ‘Follow me.’
Chapter 6
McAllister led Ben deeper into the countryside, through a web of single-track lanes that in places were little wider than the huge Plymouth. After passing through a hamlet called Chimney McAllister’s car turned off the road and Ben followed him along a rutted private track overhung by thick tree cover, which wound and snaked down towards the river. The lane petered out near an ancient, semi-derelict watermill which still had its wheel and most of its stone walls intact, but not much else. McAllister pulled up and clambered out of his car, and Ben stepped out to join him.
‘Here it is,’ McAllister announced, spreading his arms out wide. ‘Home sweet home.’
For a moment Ben wondered if McAllister was having him on, or whether the detective was really crazy enough to live in a crumbling ruin – but then, glancing around him, he noticed the little path through the trees that led up to a small cottage half-hidden among the foliage. He said, ‘You certainly found yourself a remote spot to live in, McAllister.’
‘Aye, well, it suits us.’ McAllister tipped his driver’s seat forwards to let the dog out. Radar jumped from the car and bounded over to investigate their guest.
‘Come on up to the house and have a drink while I get dinner on. Hungry?’
‘I haven’t eaten a thing all day.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place.’
McAllister led the way up to the cottage. A small conservatory at the front doubled as a greenhouse and was filled with culinary herbs. The combined aromas of rosemary, thyme, sage and dozens of others that Ben couldn’t identify were a harbinger of the gastronomic treats in store. The inside of the house was as rustic as the exterior, and as lived-in as a comfortable old shoe. Ben liked the place immediately. Warning him to mind his head on the low beams, McAllister hustled into a bedroom and reappeared a minute later, having changed out of his dark work suit into a pair of worn jeans and a baggy shirt. He headed straight for the kitchen. ‘Beer?’
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