She has to clear her head and focus. Elena. Finding the Spanish woman is the priority.
Vish walks ahead of her. He remembers the access code to the pontoon. But even before they get there he notices.
‘Think we’ve got a problem,’ he says.
‘What?’ says Megan. She’s still struggling to get her head in gear.
‘Looks like Barry isn’t here. His boat’s gone.’
‘Shit,’ says Megan. She was hoping to take him by surprise. ‘Okay, try ringing him.’
Vish gets out his phone. ‘Do you still want to go on the pontoon?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, let’s take a look.’
Vish keys in the code and opens the gate for Megan. They walk down onto the pontoon. Quite a few boats are absent from their moorings. It’s turned into a lovely afternoon, calm sea, perfect weather for a cruise.
Vish clicks on Barry Porter’s number and lets it ring. ‘Depends how far out he is. Phone might not work but he’ll have a radio.’
Megan wanders along the pontoon. If Elena had come from a neighbouring boat, which one could it be? Is it too much to hope that she could still be around?
Suddenly Vish comes rushing past her. ‘Bloody hell!’ he says. ‘Listen!’
The faint sound of a phone ringing?
He kneels down and reaches his arm underneath the pontoon. The structure is made of steel struts and floats up and down with the tide. There’s a gap of about half a meter between the wooden decking on the top and the surface of the water. Vish lies on his stomach so he can reach further.
‘I think it’s down here on the float,’ he says.
‘Don’t fall in!’ says Megan.
He stretches a little further. ‘Gotcha!’
Vish’s arm comes up and he rolls onto his back. In his hand he has a ringing phone.
‘Barry’s phone,’ says Vish, holding it up. ‘He must’ve dropped it over the side but it landed on the buoyancy float.’
Megan stares at it. ‘You know what,’ she says. ‘I think we’ve been looking at this case all wrong.’
Forty-Five
Monday, 3.10 p.m.
Megan stares up at the crossbeams in the vaulted ceiling of the Porters’ huge hallway. They’ve been stripped and treated with a light stain to match the blond wood floor. The overall effect is to lift and lighten. She finds herself wondering what it’s like living in an enormous house like this. The luxury of such space. Her entire life, until moving into her sister’s terraced house in Devon, has been lived in flats. Most of them small and pokey, from dark basements to a dingy tower block.
Vish has his hands in his pockets. She wonders what he’s thinking, possibly something similar. He’s still living with his parents and commuting.
The nanny greeted them at the door and has gone to fetch Penny Reynolds.
As her eye roves around Megan notices Imogen peeping at them from the kitchen doorway. She’s wearing a bikini and pink heart-shaped sunglasses.
‘Hello,’ says Megan. ‘Are you Imogen?’
The little girl nods but remains half concealed behind the door jamb.
‘You know what we did yesterday,’ says Megan. ‘We went on your granddad’s boat. Do you like boats?’
The little girl nods again.
‘What do you like best about them?’
Imogen ventures half a step forward. ‘The jet ski,’ she says, almost in a whisper.
‘Wow!’ says Megan. ‘You’ve got a jet ski. That’s amazing! I’m so envious. Who do you go on the jet ski with?’
‘With me,’ says Aidan, appearing in the doorway behind his sister. He wears a checked pair of baggy swim shorts, which are dripping water onto the polished floor. ‘My aunt’s on the phone. She’ll be with you in a minute.’ He turns to go.
‘Well,’ says Megan with a smile. ‘It was just a quick question really: does your dad have a boat?’
‘Not any more, ’cause he’s dead.’ The tone is surly. ‘So technically I suppose they belong to my mum.’
They? So more than one boat.
‘Of course,’ says Megan maintaining the smile. ‘Jet ski, several boats. Wow! Most kids’d envy that.’
‘I would’ve,’ says Vish.
Aidan bristles, which is her intention.
‘It’s not like that,’ he says in a tetchy tone. ‘My dad and my granddad have got this company, it owns luxury yachts that they rent out. It’s a proper business not a plaything.’
Megan nods, glances at Vish.
‘Still, you get to go on them,’ he says. ‘Your granddad’s boat, that’s amazing. I bet it goes fast.’
‘The Seamew isn’t my granddad’s, it belongs to the company. I’ve just told you.’
Penny Reynolds comes striding out of the kitchen towards them. ‘Sorry to keep you,’ she says briskly. ‘I’ve been speaking to my sister’s lawyer. I gather you’re releasing her under investigation.’
‘Yes,’ says Megan.
‘Then I don’t understand why you’re here.’
‘Under investigation means we’re continuing with our inquiries. And we’d like to take another look at your brother-in-law’s office.’
‘Thought you said you just wanted to ask about the boats?’ says Aidan.
Penny shoots him a warning look.
‘Darling,’ she says sharply, ‘I’ll deal with this. You and Imo go back to the pool.’
Aidan looks like he’s about to argue then he turns, puts a hand on Imogen’s shoulder and shepherds her away.
‘This must be really hard for them,’ says Megan. ‘How are they holding up?’
Penny shrugs. ‘They’re okay I suppose. I’m not much of an expert on children. They’ll be glad to have their mum back.’
‘I’m sure.’
Megan fixes the other woman with a steady gaze. Penny stands stiffly, clutching one hand with the other. She’s rippling with tension.
‘Well, you’d better come this way,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ says Megan. ‘By the way, you haven’t spoken to Barry today, have you?’
As soon as they found the phone, Megan called Slater. Uniformed officers were despatched to Barry Porter’s home but his wife hasn’t seen him. He does appear to be missing.
‘Why would I?’ says Penny. ‘He tolerates me but we don’t exactly get on.’
Penny leads them through the kitchen and out onto the terrace. Below it the twins, Harry and Lucas, are splashing around on a huge inflatable dinosaur in what Megan judges must be at least a twenty-metre pool. Aidan has retreated to a lounger and headphones. His sister watches them pass like a nervous mouse keeping an eye out for cats.
They cross the terrace and take a small gravel path, which weaves across the lawn to a long, low building. It’s brick-built, probably once a cow shed or stable block.
There’s a digital keypad on the door overlooked by a security camera. Slater’s right about the security system. High end, cameras everywhere. Megan’s beginning to wonder why Greg Porter felt the need to take such precautions. But it will definitely help them once they’ve broken all the data down.
‘So why are you interested in boats?’ says Penny Reynolds, a little too casually.
‘It’s just one line of inquiry,’ says Megan. ‘Your brother-in-law was in the business of renting out luxury yachts. Has he been doing that long?’
Penny taps in four digits, but one of them is wrong. She huffs and tries again. ‘These bloody things, they’re so annoying.’ Megan watches her hand, which is visibly shaking.
‘What’s wrong with an old-fashioned key?’ Megan says jovially.
On her third attempt, Penny succeeds in unlocking the door.
Megan is monitoring her escalating stress; she goes in for the kill.
‘We were also wondering,’ she says. ‘Do you know where we can find Elena?’
This stops Penny in her tracks. ‘Sorry? Who?’
‘Just wondered if you knew her?’ says Megan. Clearly she does.
�
�No. I’m only here to support my sister. I know next to nothing about Greg’s business interests or who he dealt with. He was a property developer. That’s all I know really.’
But she knows the code to his office.
‘You never went on one of his boats?’ says Megan.
Penny hesitates. She’s calculating how likely it is her lie will be found out, that’s Megan’s guess. ‘I get seasick really easily,’ she says.
‘Did Yvonne ever mention she thought he had a mistress?’
‘Well, Yvonne’s always felt insecure in her marriage. I don’t think you can read that much into some of the things she says.’ A diversionary tactic? But why does Penny Reynolds want to protect Elena? What’s their connection?
They step into the office, an airy space with a picture window at the far end, which overlooks a field of spring barley. The bare brick walls are hung with photographs and plans of various property developments. Megan and Vish wander around, leaving Penny hovering by the door.
A large glass desk sits under the window. Next to it on the wall is a small framed photo of a sleek yacht, newer and bigger than the Seamew. Megan gets out her phone and uses the magnifier to read the name on the prow: Seahawk. Then she snaps a picture of it.
Over her shoulder she’s aware of Penny Reynolds nervously watching her.
Forty-Six
Monday, 5.30 p.m.
Megan is running on adrenaline but the feeling that they could be close to a breakthrough is spurring her on. The twitchiness of Penny Reynolds, the disappearance of Barry Porter and his boat. A much larger puzzle seems to be emerging and, for Megan, it’s what makes being a detective exciting.
She and Vish stride down the hotel corridor side by side. The once palatial establishment has seen better days. Built to serve wealthy Victorians, it now relies on coach parties of elderly tourists and bevvies of Chinese language students. They reach the end of the corridor and a door marked ‘The Gladstone Suite’. Vish raps on it.
A moment passes and it’s opened by Brittney. She’s grinning from ear to ear.
‘Hey, welcome to the A team,’ she says.
‘Yeah, you wish,’ says Vish. ‘This place looks more like somewhere doddering OAPs come to die.’
Brittney tilts her chin upwards. ‘You’re just jealous ’cause you’re not working with the NCA.’
‘True,’ he replies, following her in.
Megan brings up the rear. They follow Brittney down a short corridor into the drawing room. It’s full of mock Louis Quinze furniture, which has been rearranged to accommodate an array of computers with extra monitors. Wires snake across the floor connecting to blocks of surge protectors. The NCA has set up a rapid response incident room of its own.
Danny Ingram is leaning against the heavy brocade curtain and talking on his phone. He raises a hand in salute.
‘Danny’s talking to Slater,’ Brittney explains. ‘And I think you know the others.’
Garcia, Rodney and Bibi are at their respective computers.
Garcia jumps up and gives Megan a quick hug. But her gaze strays immediately to Vish.
‘Hey, Vish the dish,’ she says. ‘Welcome to the gang.’
He returns the look. Ingram was obviously right; she’s catholic in her tastes.
Bibi smiles and Rodney remains glued to his screen, oblivious to their arrival.
Megan does a circuit of the huge patterned carpet. She’s feeling too wired to just be still. There’s an energising buzz in the room, a sense of purpose and competence. If it’s a choice between this and arguing with Collins, Megan knows where she’d rather be. But Brittney has taken her place as liaison officer and is in her element. Megan watches her teasing Vish.
Ingram hangs up the phone and gives her a smile. She catches the look in his eyes but only for an instant. He flips straight into professional mode.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘DCI Slater is asking for our help with some specific lines of inquiry. Could the murder of Greg Porter be related to a wider conspiracy to traffic illegal migrants into the UK? Was Porter part of this conspiracy? Let’s start with the boats.’
He glances round the room expectantly.
‘Okay,’ says Garcia. ‘Well, we’ve checked and they are gone. The one you sent us a picture of, Megan, is the Seahawk. The other boat you’ve told us about is the Seamew. We’ve been in touch with the company that owns the marina. Greg Porter rents moorings for two boats from them. The company he uses to do this is interesting though. Registered offshore, beneficial owner concealed behind a series of shell companies.’
‘Is this about tax avoidance?’ asks Vish.
Garcia gives him a smile. ‘Good question. That could be one reason. But the Seahawk looks new, the Seamew, from your description, is maybe only six months old. And these are expensive boats. Each one three or four hundred grand minimum. So the shell companies could also disguise the source of the financing.’
‘Dirty money?’ says Vish.
‘Could be,’ says Garcia.
‘But how does a man like Porter get into this?’ says Megan. ‘He’s a property developer, his dad’s a builder. How do they decide to rent luxury yachts?’
‘They know someone who knows about money,’ says Ingram. ‘Either legitimate business loans – because Greg Porter would have collateral – or more dubious sources.’
‘So it would help if your sister-in-law worked for an investment bank?’ says Megan.
‘Certainly would,’ says Garcia. ‘Do we have a name?’
‘Penny Reynolds,’ says Megan. ‘Works in Canary Wharf somewhere I think. And as soon as she found out we knew about the boats, she looked ready to shit a brick.’
Garcia’s fingers fly across her keyboard. ‘Here we go,’ she says. ‘I’ll put it up on the monitor. Is this her?’
They all turn to one of the screens. A slick, professional shot of Penny Reynolds, carefully coiffed and looking younger, pops up on the screen. Garcia reads from the text appearing beneath the photo. ‘LSE, MBA at Stanford Business School, which got her into an American investment bank. She’s a high flier, now a senior VP in their London office.’
‘It’s definitely her,’ says Megan.
‘And this particular bank is also interesting,’ says Garcia. ‘They have been accused on several occasions of having some very dodgy clients. We’ve had run-ins with them before. And money laundering does go on there.’
‘Okay, let’s play devil’s advocate,’ says Ingram. ‘Why does Penny decide to give her brother-in-law a shedload of money to buy boats he can rent out? What’s in it for her?’
Brittney raises her finger nervously. ‘Can I say something?’ she says.
‘Go for it,’ says Ingram.
‘Maybe she’s not doing it for him. It’s the other way round. She’s using him as a front. He’s a local businessman, if he wants to rent moorings in the marina, who’s going to find that suspicious? Him and his dad belong here, probably know the local bigwigs. They’re ultra respectable.’
‘I’ll buy that,’ says Ingram. ‘They’re the front. But who’s Penny doing all this for then?’
‘Elena,’ says Megan. ‘What if Greg wasn’t lying to his wife? She is actually his business partner and provides the dosh. Based in Spain. Upmarket people smuggling. Posh boats.’
Ingram nods. ‘Which is exactly who we’ve been looking for.’
Forty-Seven
Monday, 8.30 p.m.
By the time Megan gets home she’s ready to crash. Danny Ingram tried to inveigle her into going for a drink. But she refused. She was spent, emotionally and physically. Switching from professional mode back to something more intimate was too taxing a prospect. All she wants is her own bed and sleep.
She lets herself into the house. It’s quiet and calming, her haven. Scout comes trotting down the hall, tail wagging, to greet her. She can hear the sound of nebulous voices accompanied by a tinny laughter track: the television. She passes the open sitting room door. Kyle is curled up at one end of
the sofa, Ruby, in pyjamas, with cuddly elephant at the other.
She wanders into the kitchen to find her sister sitting at the kitchen table, peering through her reading glasses and writing a list.
‘Hiya,’ says Megan casually, plonking her bag on a chair.
‘There’s some moussaka in the fridge,’ says Debbie, without looking up. ‘If you’re interested.’
Megan remembers that she missed lunch.
‘Yeah, if it’s going spare,’ she says.
Debbie takes off her glasses and gets up. ‘Do you want a bit of salad with it?’ she asks. She’s maintaining a cool distance.
‘It’s okay. I can get it myself,’ says Megan.
‘I don’t mind,’ says Debbie. Megan notices the tone: neutral bordering on irritated. She knows her sister has been brooding. Probably for most of the day.
‘You look completely knackered,’ says Debbie, opening the fridge.
‘Long day,’ says Megan. She’s glad to sit down.
Debbie takes a Pyrex dish from the fridge, gets a plate from the cupboard and spoons a generous portion of moussaka onto it.
‘Did the bloke from the NCA find you this morning?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ says Megan.
‘You didn’t mind me telling him where to go?’
Megan scans her sister. She’s wearing her sorrowful face. It hasn’t really changed since she was about seven. Megan wants to say: can’t we skip this bit and go back to normal? But Debbie likes to play out the drama. Moretti says it’s the only way her sister can feel better.
Megan sighs. ‘No, I didn’t mind,’ she says. ‘He brought his umbrella.’ Her encounter with Ingram on the beach feels like an eternity ago, although it was just this morning.
Debbie puts the plate in the microwave and sets the timer.
‘Did he tell you I wanted to talk?’ says Debbie.
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 20