‘I don’t know,’ says Megan. ‘She lures him somewhere, pulls a gun on him, makes him get in the back of his own car, drives it up onto the moors, shoots him. It’s doable.’
‘How does she get away though?’ says Collins. ‘She’s up on the moors with a dead body and no vehicle to escape in?’
Megan meets his eye; he gives her a sour grin. He’s right.
Slater’s phone buzzes. She checks it and sighs. ‘Three bodies washed up at Broadsands Bay. It won’t be long before the media gets hold of this, so please be aware.’
‘What do you want us to prioritise, ma’am?’ says Collins.
‘I should’ve thought that’s obvious,’ says Slater. ‘Find this bloody woman!’
Fifty-Eight
Wednesday, 8.05 a.m.
Megan wants to go alone with Vish but Collins is adamant, he’s coming with them. Penny Reynolds needs to understand they mean business. Much as she dislikes his bullishness, Megan has to admit to herself that, in this situation, arriving mob-handed might work. They take uniformed back-up in a separate squad car and let them lead with blues and twos. The squad car snakes its way through the morning traffic; Vish follows, Megan is relegated to the back seat again.
As they turn into the driveway of the Porters’ house, Collins glances over his shoulder and says, ‘You’ve dealt with this woman, Megan, you take the lead.’
‘Fine,’ she replies in a neutral tone. She doesn’t want any more aggro.
Throughout the journey Brittney has been updating her with the body count. The initial three have turned into five more, including a child, all carried in on the morning’s high tide. She checks her phone one last time before getting out of the car. Brittney’s latest text reads:
TV vans outside. Shit and fan connecting!
One of the uniformed officers is hammering on the Porters’ front door. It’s opened by Aidan.
Collins presents his ID and is first into the house. They find Yvonne and Penny in the kitchen having breakfast with the other three children.
Megan watches as they absorb the effect of having five cops, two in uniform, three in plain clothes, stomp into their kitchen.
‘Mrs Porter,’ says Collins. ‘Perhaps you could take your children into another room while we speak to your sister?’ No conciliation. The subtext is: follow instructions now. It has the desired effect. Penny Reynolds is rattled. She puts down her coffee cup and her hand is shaking.
‘The children are having their breakfast. Is this necessary?’ she says. But there’s little conviction in her voice.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ says Collins politely. But the point is already made.
Yvonne gathers up the twins, Aidan takes Imogen’s hand and they disappear.
It gives Penny time to adjust. She’s wearing a silk dressing gown, pale peach. It looks expensive. She draws it across her chest and tightens the belt.
‘This is really outrageous,’ she says. ‘I think I’m going to call my lawyer.’
Megan steps forward. ‘Which you’re entitled to do, of course,’ she says. ‘But first you might like to pick up that remote and turn on the television news.’ Megan points to the screen mounted on a wall bracket next to the fridge. ‘Because how helpful you are to us now,’ she adds, ‘will probably determine whether or not you go to prison.’
Penny stares at her for a moment then grabs the handset.
She clicks onto the BBC’s rolling news channel, where the inset behind the newsreader is a panning shot of Broadsands Bay.
‘—our reporter, Clare Carter, is live in South Devon,’ says the newsreader. ‘Clare, can you tell us more?’
On screen the reporter holds a microphone in front of her. In the background flashing lights, ambulances and police cars are visible.
‘The first bodies were discovered by an early morning dog walker,’ says Clare Carter. ‘But they were just a hint of the terrible tragedy now unfolding here on these beautiful Devon beaches. Details are still being pieced together by the police. But we understand an incident took place in the Channel last night. Two luxury yachts, each believed to be carrying around a dozen illegal migrants, many of them women and children, were involved. They were spotted by a Border Force vessel and, fearing they would be apprehended, the smugglers forced all the migrants overboard into the water in order to escape.’
The reporter turns and behind her, on screen, Megan gets a glimpse of Danny Ingram, wearing blue vinyls, talking to a senior uniformed officer. The reporter pushes forward against the police cordon and shoves her microphone at Ingram. ‘Can you give us any more details about the bodies you’ve found so far?’
Ingram waves her a way with a hand. ‘No, sorry.’ Megan catches a glimpse of his face. Frowning, severe, dismissive. There’s no trace of the pain she knows is there.
She turns her attention back to Penny Reynolds. Reynolds’s gaze is fixed on the screen. She’s standing very still, her face a blank mask. She seems to recollect herself and clicks the television off.
‘Quite awful,’ she says. ‘Though I’m unsure what this has to do with me.’
‘The boats involved,’ says Megan, ‘were the Seamew and the Seahawk, owned by the company that you set up using Greg and Barry Porter as a front and cash from Javier and Elena Lopez. Officers from the National Crime Agency are already accessing company records and tracing the offshore accounts used to channel the funds. My guess is that Mr Henderson’s firm will be advising your employers to co-operate fully because once they see what the Lopezes have done, they will throw you under the bus.’
Reynolds reaches out and places a hand on the kitchen counter to steady herself. Megan takes her by the elbow and guides her to one of the high stools. ‘Sit down, Penny,’ she says.
Penny sits down.
‘Now,’ says Megan. ‘We know Elena Lopez is still in this country. Where is she?’
Penny shakes her head. ‘I never thought,’ she says, ‘I never imagined—’
‘Look at me, Penny. Where is she? You’re smart enough to know that you have a choice here. You protect these people now and you become an accessory to murder.’
Penny swallows hard and looks at Megan. ‘I don’t know where she is this minute. But they’ve been renting a holiday cottage on Dartmoor.’
‘The address?’ says Megan.
‘I’ll need my phone to look it up. It’s in my bedroom. I put it on to charge.’
‘We’ll fetch it,’ says Megan. She nods to Vish.
‘Top of the stairs, second room,’ says Penny.
Vish goes to get the phone. Jim Collins walks round the kitchen counter and stands directly in front of Penny.
‘Holiday cottage?’ he says sarcastically. ‘You sure about that?’
Penny’s gaze flickers. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Who owns it?’ says Collins.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘Some company, I suppose.’
She’s leaning back in her stool, trying to edge away from Collins. He’s certainly intimidating her. Why? Megan has an uncanny sense that he knows something. He’s working to an agenda of his own.
‘I think you’re lying,’ says Collins.
Megan is about to intervene. But Penny starts to cry. They’ve witnessed enough tears from Yvonne. But from Penny it seems unexpected.
‘Okay,’ Penny says, wiping the tears away with her hand. ‘It’s someone the Lopezes know. Her name is Sally Doyle. She arranged it for them. That’s the truth, I swear.’
Collins’s smile is ghostly but smug. He just nods and says, ‘You were cautioned when you spoke to us before. That still applies. You need to put some clothes on and come with us.’
Fifty-Nine
Wednesday, 8.30 a.m.
Megan follows Collins out of the house. He walks across the drive, takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights up.
‘Hang on, Jim,’ she says. ‘Am I missing something here?’
He inhales, turns and looks at her. ‘Sally Doyle. AKA
Mrs Dennis Bridger. I know you’re not keen on my hunches, but try this one for size. The Lopezes didn’t kill Barry Porter, they contracted it out to someone with local knowledge. Loads easier.’
‘How do the Lopezes know Bridger?’
Collins takes a long drag, blows a plume of smoke.
‘I know you don’t think I’m much of a detective,’ he says. ‘Nowadays it’s all high-tech gadgets, face recognition software and drones. But I can still do my job.’
‘I know,’ says Megan. Jennings was right, they both have something to prove.
‘Last night I went digging in the archives,’ says Collins. ‘Read up on the life and times of Dennis Bridger. Few years ago, before his last stretch inside, Dennis went on the lam down on the Spanish Costas. Used to be a popular hideaway for his class of villain. To make ends meet he did some work for a local drug gang. Run by guess who? Javier Lopez.’
‘What made you look at Bridger?’
‘Brittney told me about the problems with timings. They were trying to figure it out, make it fit and they couldn’t. She’s like a little terrier, that lass. She’s turning into a bloody good cop.’
‘I know that too,’ says Megan.
‘It was clear to me the Lopezes needed help. Had to be someone local.’ He gives her a wary look, then he says, ‘And then I thought about Ted.’
‘Did Ted try and get in touch with you too?’
Collins sighs, grinds his cigarette underfoot.
‘You were right to be concerned. He sent me quite a desperate email on Monday, which I ignored. Then, after he turned up dead, I looked at it again and discovered an attachment, a video. Bridger’s place was supposed to be under surveillance. What the dozy sods didn’t realise was that Dennis was climbing over the back wall. Ted realised and he filmed it. He filmed a woman picking Bridger up in a Mini Cooper on Sunday morning and again on Monday.’
‘You think it was Elena using a different vehicle?’
‘Think about it,’ says Collins. ‘Once he was on the loose he was free to go after Barry on Sunday evening. Monday night, I think he probably went after Ted. Somehow he must’ve clocked him.’
‘He did this on his own?’
‘No. He’s got plenty of contacts round here. Thugs he can call on. His problem was just getting in and out of his place without being seen and moving around without being tracked. So, ditch the phone and use a different vehicle. Easy.’
Megan finds she’s playing catch-up but it does all make sense. The drug-smuggling business runs on cross-border connections and hook-ups. It’s not that surprising that criminals like Lopez and Bridger know each other.
‘You sure it was Elena?’ she says.
He pulls out his phone. ‘Take a look at the video. You tell me.’
He finds the clip and hands Megan the phone. Ted must have filmed it through the hedge of an adjacent garden. The wall at the back of Bridger’s house is made of rough stone. It’s high but he’s over it in a trice. Ted pans across to the car and through the driver’s window a woman’s face is visible.
Megan scrutinises it carefully.
‘Shit,’ she says. ‘It is her. Did you speak to Slater about any of this?’
‘Haven’t had the chance,’ he replies.
But he did have the chance.
Megan wonders whether to call him on this. He gives her a surly look. He must’ve guessed what she’s thinking but he’s a man on a mission. He wants to be the one to crack the case and after his earlier mistakes Megan can see why.
Vish comes out of the house to join them.
‘I’ve got the address, boss,’ he says to Collins. ‘You want me to call for back-up?’
Collins chuckles. ‘What?’ he says. ‘The three of us can’t arrest one woman?’
Yep, this will be his vindication.
‘We don’t know what we’re walking into,’ says Megan. ‘And given what you’ve just told me, I think we should request armed back-up.’
‘And how long’s that going to take? Bloody ages,’ says Collins. He grins at Megan. ‘Thought you were the one who gets impatient with proper procedure. Don’t be such a wuss. We’ll call it in on the way.’ He turns to Vish. ‘Tell the two PCs to take Reynolds in, then let’s get cracking. We don’t want to get there and find her gone, do we?’
Megan has to admit he’s got a point. This could be their one chance to get Elena Lopez. Even half an hour’s delay could risk losing her. The window of opportunity. Missed.
Sixty
Wednesday, 9.15 a.m.
Vish is following the satnav but Collins lives in Ashburton and knows the southern part of Dartmoor well. He starts to direct Vish. Megan checks her watch. She’s feeling nervous. Their armed back-up is at least forty-five minutes away. On the phone Laura Slater has been precise in her instructions. Once they get there, they should remain concealed and wait. This should be a firearms arrest.
Jim Collins seems to be in a strange, elegiac mood. As they drive up onto the moors he points out landmarks. He sounds weirdly like a guide on a tour bus.
‘I used to walk here all the time with my wife,’ he says. ‘We’d tramp for miles, all weathers, she loved it.’
Megan catches Vish’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He’s finding the DI’s manner odd too.
The road winds across treeless upland then gradually narrows to a track and Collins says, ‘Slow down. I think there’s a turn-off coming up on the right. It dips right down into quite a hidden little valley. I’m pretty certain that’s where this place is.’
Vish looks at the sat nav. ‘I can’t tell a bloody thing from this,’ he says.
‘I think we should leave the car here,’ says Collins. ‘Approach on foot. She’ll hear us otherwise.’
‘Slater said to wait,’ says Megan.
‘We haven’t even confirmed she’s here,’ says Collins. ‘You want the cavalry to come thundering in and we find the place empty? Slater’s not going to thank you for that. Let’s just do a recce.’
Megan wants to argue. The problem is he’s right. They get out of the car. Collins leads the way.
The path down into the wooded valley is steep and rutted, more of a cart track just wide enough for a single vehicle. There’s a sound of rushing water at the bottom of the ravine but its source is invisible behind the trees. The further down the hill they go, the denser the woods become. Sunlight dapples down on them through the canopy of the trees.
‘This is such a cool place,’ whispers Vish.
Megan nods. It’s idyllic and secluded. It’s no wonder that the NCA’s search drew a blank and even the drones couldn’t find it.
A long stone building comes into view between the trees. As they get closer they see that an old terrace of three workmen’s cottages has been knocked into one. It sits next to a rushing stream, water bouncing over boulders. Megan pictures the image in the holiday brochures; the perfect romantic retreat.
Next to the main house is an open-sided carport. A black Range Rover Discovery is parked under it and next to it, a Mini Cooper S.
‘I’ll check the reg of the Discovery,’ says Megan. She pulls out her phone, clicks it on and sighs. ‘No signal,’ she says.
‘There won’t be down here,’ says Collins. He points through the trees. ‘Let’s do a loop. We should be able to get down and across the stream and along the side of the property without being seen from the house.’
‘Unless someone comes out,’ says Vish.
‘What if there’s a dog?’ says Megan.
It seems unlikely there would be. But something in Collins’s whole manner is making her extremely nervous. He’d made the connection between Bridger and Lopez last night but failed to tell Slater. Why would he keep such information to himself? Megan wonders what his agenda is. Is he hoping to come out of this the hero? Ted Jennings went after Bridger in a bid to redeem himself. Is Collins hoping to do something similar? Is this all about male ego? Proving he can still cut it. Or something else? A corrupt cop covering his track
s?
Collins scrabbles down the steep slope, weaving between the trees. It’s easy to lose your footing and a couple of times he slides and ends up on his backside. His face is pale and sweaty. Vish follows, more agile.
He turns to Megan, bringing up the rear, and whispers, ‘Is our back-up even going to find this fucking place?’
‘Probably not,’ Megan replies.
They reach the stream. An old stone bridge with a single arch takes the track across it to the front of the property. But Collins crosses twenty metres upstream using the boulders as stepping stones. At one point he slips and Vish grabs his arm to steady him. Megan follows, wondering at the craziness of the whole escapade. All they really needed to do was block the access, make sure no one could leave and wait for support to arrive. She feels she should do something. But what? Collins is the DI and therefore in charge. And they still don’t know that Elena is definitely here.
The trees overhanging the stream are willow and alder, their barks overspread with lichen. The valley bottom is a glossy carpet of green. As Megan climbs up from the stream she reaches for handholds and feels the soft dampness of the moss on the rocks.
Collins pushes stealthily through a sea of ferns to the side of the carport. They stop and listen: birdsong and water. He points to the carport and they creep into it.
Vish pulls on his blue vinyls, slips down one side of it to the door of the Discovery. He tries it. It’s unlocked. He opens it carefully, scans inside, clicks open the glove compartment, opens the central console. He lifts out a phone, holds it up for the others to see. He puts it in a plastic evidence bag.
Collins and Megan are the other side, next to the Mini. She hands him a pair of blue vinyls from her pocket. He pulls them on, opens the passenger door of the Mini. He searches the glove compartment, then reaches under the front seat. He smiles and lifts out a nine-millimetre Glock handgun. Could it be the gun that killed Barry Porter?
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 25