‘I never thought it would be instant, but four days? Can’t it be speeded up?’ Sophie frowned at Ameera Khan.
‘It’s the sheer volume of network data, ma’am,’ Ameera said. ‘There are several masts that cover central Dorchester and the volume of traffic is immense. I know we can narrow it down to that five-minute spell, but there are still several thousand calls recorded in that time. It might take a lot less than four days, that was just the timeframe I was given. I think the guy I spoke to was being unduly pessimistic.’
‘Well, let’s go ahead with it. Though if those two had any sense, they’d have been using burner phones, which won’t be traced anyway. I want confirmation of Rose’s theory that they were there for a specific purpose. I need the evidence to back up my request for a unit to keep an eye on that family.’
Barry was pleased to see Sophie back to her usual impatient self. She’d been unusually lacking in focus the previous day and he’d wondered what had caused her introspective mood.
‘I do have much better news on a different front,’ he said. ‘A lot of the people on that migrant boat have confirmed that the boatman had a slight squint.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t be hard to forget, if he was local. Tommy, could you follow up on this down at the harbour? A bearded boatman with a squint? Maybe that old salt you spoke to about Bunting also knew something about this guy. Go and see him. You did very well last time.’ She smiled at him encouragingly, and he visibly perked up.
‘Sure thing, ma’am.’
‘The thing that still puzzles me,’ she said, ‘is why Bunting went to Southampton. We know it was just for the evening — he left here just after rush hour. We assumed, or maybe hoped, that he was visiting Louise, but that now seems unlikely. So, what other reason could he have?’
‘Zelinski. He’s my first choice,’ Rae said. ‘He lives in Southampton. Has he ever cooperated fully in the way we would have expected? I know I haven’t been involved in interviewing him, but I’ve read the notes you both made, and he’s obviously holding things back. Could he have been more closely involved with Bunting than he’s let on?’
Sophie ran her fingers through her short hair. ‘The Met’s team have him now, and Jack and Gwen from Southampton don’t even have access to him anymore. I’ll give Paul Baker a buzz and see if he’ll open up. I need to phone him anyway. He promised me a copy of the report into Corinne Lanston’s abduction. It should have been with me yesterday but, as always, they need a nudge.’
‘Have they found any trace of her, ma’am?’ Barry asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. Not a sign. And as each day goes by, the chances of them finding her alive drop. They’ve got hundreds of people out looking for her but there’s not been a whisper. I always thought the chances of finding her were remote. We’re dealing with a bunch of ruthless killers here. Would they want a live hostage to cope with? It’s not as though they were ever going to use her as a bargaining chip. What would be the point? What would they be looking for? The only thing that puzzles me is why they bothered to abduct her in the first place. Why not just kill her and have done with it? That’s what’s happened to the others who got in their way. But we’ll wait and see what the report says. Maybe it will enlighten us.’
‘My guess is that they were after information that only she could provide. But the end result would be the same, either way. Once they got what they wanted out of her, she’d be a liability. And if they didn’t, she’d still be a liability.’ Barry shook his head. ‘What motivates these kinds of people?’
Sophie smiled grimly at him. ‘Better not to even try to work that one out, Barry. I don’t want you getting into their heads and going funny on me. Now, everyone, something else odd has occurred to me, the fact that Bunting was local. He was born in Weymouth and grew up here. If you’ve got to put him in a safe house, why choose his hometown? That breaks the normal rules.’
‘Maybe they were just paying lip service to the notion,’ Rae said. ‘Or maybe he insisted on staying local. Unless we’re making a mistake and it wasn’t a safe house, but just somewhere he could live for a few weeks.’
‘But it has to be a safe house, Rae. In theory anyway. That’s what those properties were bought for. The ones we checked were listed as such on the inventory held in Whitehall. Are you suggesting that it was for some other reason entirely?’
Rae shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it might be worth looking into, don’t you think, ma’am? Shall I do a bit of poking around?’
Sophie tilted her head, smiling. Clever Rae. ‘Why not? I bet no one else has thought of this angle.’
* * *
It didn’t take Tommy long to find old Andy Coates. He was in the same spot as before, leaning on a barrier, pipe in mouth, watching the scene. And why not? Tommy found quayside scenes fascinating, and he had nothing to do with the sea. What better way for a retired fisherman to while away the hours?
‘I reckon I could do wi’ a mug o’ tea,’ the old man said, seeing Tommy approach. ‘I bets you’ll be after more information, won’t you? So, you can pay.’ He tapped his head. ‘Stuff I’ve got in me head don’t always come free, yer know.’
‘That’s fine, Mr Coates. Where shall we go?’
The old sailor looked around him. A nearby quayside pub was just opening its doors.
‘Well now, yon’s solved a problem. They serve a good pint in that place. We can sit outside in the sun.’
They made their way to the pub and Andy settled himself into a seat that gave a good view across the water. ‘Pint, please. An’ make sure it’s from a handpump. I don’t want any o’ that keg piss.’
Tommy went in, momentarily blinded after the bright outdoor light. He blinked at the row of handpumps. ‘A pint of bitter, please — one of these.’
‘Is it for old Andy Coates?’ the barman asked.
Tommy nodded. ‘He sounded a bit choosy.’
‘It’ll be this one he’ll have, copper.’ The barman pulled a glass of a dark gold ale. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, just an orange juice, thanks.’
Tommy picked up the glasses and took them outside.
Andy took an exploratory sip and gazed across the quay. ‘That’s grand. This is the life — sunshine, the boats. A pint o’ beer. What could be better, eh?’
‘You’re right there, Mr Coates.’ Tommy took a mouthful of his orange juice. ‘But I’m on duty, so I’m stuck with this. Now, I’ve got something else to ask you.’
‘Yeah, well, I guessed that. I dunno if I kin tell you any more about Bobby.’
‘It’s not him. We’ve got a problem identifying someone else who we think might have worked on the boats. He’s probably in his early thirties. Dark curly hair and a beard?’
Andy snorted in derision. ‘That’s half the men who work on the water.’
‘He might have had a squint.’
‘Ah, now you’re talkin’.’ He swallowed several more mouthfuls and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Sounds like Dorry O’Brian, the mad Irishman from Donegal. He worked the boats a few years back, was always pickin’ fights. I haven’t seen him around for a couple o’ years. What d’you want him for?’
‘We don’t want him, Mr Coates. We just wanted to know who he was, er, is.’ Tommy sipped at his orange juice. ‘Did he live around here?’
‘Only when he was working the boats. Someone said he moved along Southampton way after he got his last sacking. Worked on the Isle o’ Wight ferries. Dunno if that’s true.’ Andy stretched out his legs and took another large gulp of beer. ‘Ain’t this grand?’
* * *
Rae paid another visit to the house used by Bunting and again talked to the neighbours, but she learned nothing new. She then visited Ritchie Finn, the young man Tommy had found. He was at home with his mother and answered her questions at the front door.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you about Robert Bunting and where he lived. Do you know if he was paying rent?’
Ritchie looked p
uzzled. ‘Yeah, of course. No one gets a house for free, do they? Though he said his was a bargain, the rent was lower than the other places like it.’
‘Did he ever say who the landlord was?’ she asked.
‘No. Why would he?’
‘I have to ask the question. Did he ever say anything else about the house, or the rent?’
Ritchie frowned. ‘Just once. He was looking for some cash to buy us drinks. He said he was a bit short, but he had a lot of notes stuffed in the back of his wallet. He said it was for his rent.’
‘So, what you’re saying is he paid his rent in cash?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thank you, Ritchie.’
Rae looked at her watch, thinking. If she hurried, she’d be able to catch the next train to Southampton. She wanted to have a look at the house Louise Bennett had used and talk to the neighbours. If she got the answers she expected, a bit of extra digging was called for. She phoned Gwen Davis.
* * *
Rae and Gwen made their way to Louise Bennett’s erstwhile residence and set about interviewing the neighbours. Many had already been questioned, but they hadn’t been asked about the house, its previous occupants and anything they might know of the rent arrangements. As expected, most of the neighbours had no idea, apart from two, whose comments bolstered Rae’s suspicions. There had been two previous occupants in the house, and they’d complained about having to pay their rent in cash. No one knew who the landlord was, which was hardly a surprise, given that it was a Home Office unit. But if the rent on its properties was being paid in cash, who was taking the money and where was it going? The two detectives speculated on the existence of a secret slush fund, run without official knowledge and with cash coming in as regularly as clockwork. Exactly how many of these properties were there, and where were they located?
Troubled, Rae said to Gwen, ‘When I researched them, I found evidence of eight. But I was only looking at the south coast. What if there are more, further inland — London, for example? It could be very lucrative for someone if they’re operating under the radar.’
‘I’m with you on that,’ Gwen said. ‘Let’s find out a bit more. I’ll do the rest of the Hampshire and Sussex ones. You do Dorset and then Devon. Maybe Bristol as well? We ought to check one of the big cities. Have you got any contacts there?’
Chapter 28: Pale and Frightened
Friday afternoon
Paul Baker, Sophie’s senior contact in the Met, emailed the provisional report into Corinne Lanston’s abduction at midday. It made interesting reading. Corinne still hadn’t been found, despite a major effort on the part of Scotland Yard.
Sophie scrolled through the report. It was clear that the operation had been meticulously planned. Two of the internal security cameras, one in the foyer and another on the first-floor landing, had been found not to be functioning, whereas the cameras on the upper floors were still working. A camera on the street outside proved to be much more useful, and several stills from its recordings were attached to the report. The first, from late on the previous Thursday evening, showed a tall, dark-clad man with a hat pulled down low over his brow and a scarf encasing the lower half of his face emerging from a shiny black BMW parked close by and entering the block of flats. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers. Ten minutes later, he reappeared, holding Corinne Lanston by the arm. His other hand seemed to press something into her ribs. The photo showed her looking pale and frightened, glancing around before he pushed her into the vehicle.
Sophie examined the image closely. There were traces of blood apparent on the lower part of her face, possibly from her nose. Several other spots could be seen on her shirt collar, although most of it was obscured by the coat she was wearing. That coat had obviously been put on in a hurry, and she looked dishevelled. Her eyes were wide with fear. No traces of the assailant had been found in Corinne’s flat, or the rest of the apartment block, the assumption being that he had worn gloves and had overpowered Corinne quickly.
The report went on to say that the car drove away at speed, heading north. Almost an hour later it was recorded on a traffic camera on the M1, still heading north. It was moving rapidly but within the speed limit. The still extracted from the footage showed two shadowy figures in the car. That was the last visual contact. Despite all efforts, no other trace of the abducted woman had been found.
Sophie looked again at the vehicle, a black BMW four-by-four. It was the same one, surely? She scanned quickly through the rest of the report, looking for its registration details. There they were. The vehicle was registered in the name of Louise Bennett at the address of the Southampton safe house. Sophie swore under her breath. They were going round in circles. But it wasn’t the BMW that had been at the hospital that morning — that had been blue — and, as she continued to read on, she discovered that the car used in the abduction had been found early on that Saturday morning, burned out on land surrounding a disused factory close to the M1 near Watford.
Was this abduction linked to the current investigation? The recent events seemed to sprawl more than halfway across the south of England, such that they might be utterly separate crimes. But Sophie was unconvinced of this. Something shadowy was gnawing away at her thoughts, a vague notion that hadn’t yet coalesced into a specific idea. But she felt strongly that it was indeed all connected, and that somehow, somewhere, it would all become clear. And sometime soon, with any luck. Her problem was that she hadn’t been able to talk to anyone who’d been in direct contact with Corinne. That was being handled by the team from the Met. She needed to find her own contact to gain an insight. A thought struck her. Would Alice Linklater have met her at any time?
* * *
Another trip to Oxford, the second in three days, and very rushed. Sophie left her car in the Redbridge park and ride and managed to leap onto a city centre bus just before it pulled away. She stepped off at Westgate, and hurried through the Queen Street crowds, past Carfax and along the High. She’d promised Alice that she’d try to be there before five, and she only had ten minutes to go. A left turn up Catte Street past the Radcliffe Camera and Hertford College, then right at the Kings Arms into Holywell Street. The door to the charity offices was ajar. Maybe the staff finished early on a Friday.
Alice was in the foyer talking to Alan Marchand. ‘You look as if you need a cup of tea,’ she said, and laughed.
‘That would be lovely. It has been a bit frenetic. Thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’
‘It’s always a pleasure, Sophie, you know that. Please explain more.’
She accepted the mug of tea that Alan held out to her and took a sip. Lovely. ‘Corinne Lanston is the great unknown in all this. She was abducted at the weekend and there’s still no sign of her. I have to say that the omens aren’t good, but that’s between you two and me. I’m not involved in the team out looking for her or looking into her role at the Home Office, though I know they’ll be doing a thorough job. But I’m curious to know what she was like, and when you told me that you’d met her at a government reception, I decided to come up and see you.’
‘Well, I hope your time hasn’t been wasted. There’s not much to tell. It was two years ago. I’d been giving legal advice to a working group of civil servants. We had a lunch reception and I found myself next to her in a food queue, and we got talking. I didn’t know who she was because she wasn’t in the group I’d been working with. It was only a couple of minutes, but I was impressed with her insight into some difficult situations. Too many people think the law is simple, a case of black and white, but as you know, that’s often not the case. And it’s particularly true in the practical application of asylum law. Corinne seemed to know my background. She seemed very empathetic and I was impressed by her obvious wish to consider the ethical side of the issues. I can remember wishing that all senior civil servants were like this.’
Sophie sipped her tea. ‘So, Louise never mentioned her?’
Alice shook her head. ‘No. But when Louise a
pplied for the job, Corinne was one of the referees on her application. It was one of the things that swayed my decision.’
‘What did she look like?’
Alice thought for a few moments. ‘Slightly taller than average, I’d guess. Pale ginger hair, in a neat bob. Some freckles.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Very businesslike. Quite stylish, actually. I think she had on a blue, pinstriped, skirt suit. I remember because I wondered about getting something like it myself.’
‘Personality?’
‘Fairly quiet, I think. As I said, she showed understanding. Clever, at least she seemed so from the short time we chatted. I liked her.’
‘Did she know who you were?’
‘Oh, yes. I had to wear a name badge with my full title. Very grand!’ Alice looked at her watch. ‘Look, I need to be going. As I said on the phone, I’ve got an evening reception to attend and I need to get my togs sorted. Lovely to see you. I’ll leave you with Alan.’
She picked up her bag and document case and hurried out.
Sophie turned to Alan Marchand. ‘Is there something you want to add? It could be my imagination, but you didn’t seem all that happy back then.’
‘Alice doesn’t know, but I also met Corinne once. I don’t share Alice’s somewhat benign view of her.’
‘Can you give me the background?’
‘Okay. It was about a year ago, at a conference on the refugee crisis. I was late arriving because of another meeting beforehand. I’d been given my badge but had shoved it into my pocket to put on later because I didn’t want to miss the talk that interested me. I was hurrying and nearly collided with her as she came out of a seminar room, and she dropped some papers. I stepped back and apologised, as the British always do, even though it was as much her fault as mine. She told me to piss off. I was about to help her pick her things up, but I changed my mind at that point. My guess is that she confused me with one of the lackeys. As you see, I tend to dress informally.’
‘There could be any number of reasons,’ Sophie said.
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