by Alex Walters
In the picture Graeme was dressed, as he usually was, in relatively formal attire. A dark grey business suit, incongruous in the context. The only concession to informality was the unusual absence of a tie. Otherwise, that was how Graeme always dressed.
She could sense that some other thought was troubling Wickham. 'What is it?'
'Brody,' he said. 'I’ve just realised. He's been in here. A couple of days back. Popped in for a chat. Supposedly some work he was pushing in my direction. Ran into the police on his way out, funnily enough.'
'You think he could have planted those things of Luke’s?'
'I don’t see how else they could have got in here. Brody was the one who claimed to have found Luke when he went missing that first time. He could have got stuff out of Luke’s schoolbag then, maybe. It was Brody who claimed Luke had been scared by someone in a van. No-one else saw it. As far as I know, no-one ever asked Luke to confirm it. The WPC who came wanted to talk to Luke, but Sue wasn’t keen. Luke was very vague about the whole thing and nobody thought it was worth pursuing.'
'If Brody really is Graeme, he could probably have persuaded Luke it had happened anyway,' Kate said. 'Graeme could persuade you night was day. Christ, we need to do something.'
Wickham fumbled in his pocket for the business card Murrain had given him. 'First thing we do is tell the police.'
'You think they’ll believe it?'
'I don’t know. I think this guy Murrain might, or at least be prepared to listen to us. They’ve nothing much to lose by following it up.'
'As long as they do it quickly.'
'If they don’t do something, we do. But we tell them first, OK?'
***
'Finlan Brody?' Murrain said, disbelievingly.
'The very same. The guy we met at Wickham's.'
The headache felt almost as if needles were being drive into his temples. He could almost hear the crackle of electricity. 'And she admitted this?'
'Eventually,' Bert Wallace said. 'Denied everything to start with. So I reminded her we were conducting a murder enquiry and said we'd take a dim view of anyone withholding what might be relevant information.'
'And that did the trick?' Murrain could envisage exactly how Wallace would have handled the conversation. He didn't imagine Mrs Morrison would have felt she was left with much choice.
'Eventually. Didn't want her husband to know. I said I couldn't make any promises.'
'Quite right. We'll have a job keeping it quiet if Brody's involvement really is significant,' Murrain observed. 'How did she meet him?'
'Her mother was in the residential home. Suffered from Alzheimer's. She reckons Brody was very—I think "solicitous" was her word.'
'I bet he was. Did she ever take her son over there?'
'Sometimes. School holidays and the like. She reckons Brody was keen to know how Charlie was coping with his gran's death, that kind of thing. Very caring. But, when I probed her a bit about what Brody had asked, it sounded to me like he might have weaselled out a lot of stuff about Charlie. What his daily routine was. How he got home from school, that sort of thing.'
Murrain sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. For a moment, as Wallace had been speaking, he'd almost seen something, some image behind his eyes. A flicker in an electrical storm. 'Well,' he said, 'this is certainly an interesting coincidence.'
Wallace was smiling. 'And I've another one for you.'
'Go on.'
'It occurred to me to do a bit of checking up. I phoned up the residential home and had a discreet conversation with one of their admin people. It turns out that Mrs Morrison isn't the only one who had a relative in Brody's place. Ethan Dunn's grandfather's was in there, too, until he died a couple of months back. His mother was another regular visitor.'
Murrain always struggled to find the language to describe his feelings. Now, the tenor of his headache had changed. His mind felt like the air on a humid summer's evening, the pressure slowly building as the weather prepares to break. This wasn't the end, he thought. More was coming.
He was about to speak when his mobile buzzed on the desk. He glanced at the screen then thumbed the call button. 'Yes?'
'It’s Kevin Wickham. I’ve something to tell you.'
More to come. Even sooner than he'd expected. 'Is this a confession?'
'Not from me,' Wickham said. 'I'm phoning about Finlan Brody. You know, the guy at the care home.'
There was a long pause. 'Well, talk of the devil,' Murrain said, finally. He raised an eyebrow to Wallace who was listening intently to the conversation. 'Now the coincidences really are starting to pile up. As it happens, I've just been talking about Mr Brody for quite another reason. What can you tell me?'
'That he's not Finlan Brody, for a start. Or not only Finlan Brody. He's also known as Graeme Ellis. And he has a history.'
Murrain listened as Wickham recounted what Forester had told him. 'And you're sure, are you? That Brody and Ellis are one and the same?'
'As sure as I can be,' Wickham said. 'They're not particularly clear photographs of him, but I'd swear it's the same guy.'
'OK. I think we need to go and talk to Mr Brody. But if you’re yanking my chain, Wickham, you'll be back behind bars whatever happens. You understand that?'
'Clearly. All I want to do is help you find Luke before it's too late.'
'Then we're of one mind.'
Murrain ended the call and sat for a moment, staring at nothing. As he'd been talking to Wickham, he'd sensed the image again. Two figures. An adult and a child. Just two shapes in an intermittent darkness. He blinked, as if returning to consciousness.
'You've done brilliantly, Bert,' he said, finally, his tone suggesting he'd only just remembered her presence. 'Go and see if you can dig anything more up on Brody. And do a check on this Graeme Ellis, too. Anything, any kind of record. Maybe check with the Prison Service as well.' He paused, his brain making another half-connection. Another flicker of light in the darkness. 'That guy Hulse. The railway line death. He worked for the Prison Service, too, didn't he?'
'Think so,' Wallace said. 'Though I've not been involved. Is that likely to be relevant?'
'God knows,' Murrain said. 'At least I hope he does. Because I sure as hell don't. OK, Bert. You go and dig whatever dirt you can on our friend Brody a.k.a. Ellis. And Joe and I will go and pay him a visit.'
***
By the time Murrain and Milton left the MIR, it was almost dark and the weather was beginning to turn. The wind was growing stronger and there was a first scattering of rain. They took Milton’s car and headed down through the village towards the edge of the moors. The residential home was harder to find in the murky evening, set back among the trees in an unlit stretch of road. Finally, Murrain spotted the illuminated sign and signalled for Milton to turn into the car park. Beyond the squat building, there was open moorland, a bleak empty space with only a few distant lights visible.
The receptionist looked up in surprise as they entered, Murrain waving his warrant card. 'We need to see Mr Brody,' he said. 'Urgently.'
She blinked. 'I'm afraid you've just missed him. Half an hour or so.'
'Do you know where he's gone?'
'I don't—' She stopped, her expression confused, on the edge of tears. 'He's been in a state all afternoon. Said something had gone wrong, but tore me off a strip when I asked if there was anything I could do. He's not usually like that—'
Murrain turned to Milton. 'Maybe he got wind of Bert's call here.'
'Or maybe the Morrison woman contacted him and told him we'd become interested.'
'And you've no clue as to where he might have been heading?' Murrain said to the receptionist. 'Could he be heading home?'
She shook her head. 'He lives here. Has a self-contained flat at the back. He just went off in the van. Didn't say a word.'
'Van?'
'There's a van belongs to the home. We use it to get stuff from the cash-and-carry mainly. He's been in and out to it all afternoon.'
Murrain exchanged a glance with Milton. 'Get an alert out on this van. I'll check Brody's office and meet you outside. I don't think we can afford to waste time.'
When Murrain emerged from the building some time later, Milton was waiting by the entrance, speaking urgently into his mobile phone. He finished the call and gestured across the car-park. 'We've got company.'
Murrain squinted into the darkness. 'Who the hell's that?' A car had been parked next to their own, and two silhouetted figures were tramping towards them across the gravel.
'Mr Murrain—'
'What the hell are you doing here, Wickham?'
Kevin Wickham blinked at the floodlights illuminating the exterior of the building. 'I'm sorry. We just thought that, if Brody starts denying things, it might speed things if he were to meet Kate here. She'll confirm who he is. She knew him as Ellis.'
'It's academic anyway for the moment,' Murrain said. 'Brody’s not here. Seems we’ve just missed him.' He looked back at Milton. 'Nothing much in the office. Though it looks as if he might have left hurriedly. His flat was locked up but they had a spare set of keys. Nothing untoward in there as far as I could see. You've got the alert out?'
Milton nodded. 'Receptionist had a note of the van reg, luckily. '
'Where is he?' Kate asked. She was looking past the two police officers, through the brightly-lit reception.
'Supposedly drove off hurriedly about an hour ago.'
'You believe us, then?' Kate said.
Murrain looked at her in apparent surprise. 'I think I’ve believed Mr Wickham here from the start. Just an instinct. But as it happens we'd just become interested in Mr Brody for another reason.'
'You think he’s got Luke with him?' Wickham asked.
'It’s possible. There's nowhere here than he could be concealed without the staff being aware. There’s not a lot more we can do till we get a sighting of the vehicle.'
Wickham looked past him at the open moorland. 'They’ll take some finding if they’re out there somewhere.' None of them wanted to raise the question of whether Luke was likely still to be unharmed. They could do no more than hope for the best.
'Receptionist reckons he went down towards the village,' Murrain said. 'But that doesn’t get us very far. He could be heading towards Manchester or the other way up into the Pennines. Or, quite frankly, anywhere.'
Kate was staring into the darkness, as if seeing something that was invisible to the rest of them. 'I’ve an idea,' she said, speaking more to herself than the others.
Murrain was watching her. 'Go on.'
'I was thinking about how those items of Luke’s got into Kevin’s house. It seemed inexplicable, until we realised that Brody had been in there. Brody could have taken them from Luke when he took him in that first time, and then left them when he visited Kevin—'
'And?'
'Similar things have happened to me. I found things in my house that shouldn’t have been there. I had a sense that Graeme had been in there. I thought I was just being paranoid. But it's just struck me. Only one person could have let him know where I was living now. Only one person had a spare copy of my keys.' She stopped, as if thinking through the implications. 'My mother.'
Murrain was watching her carefully, as if he could read her thoughts in her expression. 'You really think that your mother might have given Brody access to your house?' The words were sceptical, but the tone less so. Murrain could feel the rising pulse that suggested there was something in what Forester was saying.
'I don't know. It's just a feeling. I thought I'd finally persuaded my mother I wanted nothing more to do with Graeme, especially after my breakdown. But he was capable of anything. What if somehow he still managed to talk her round? What if he'd somehow persuaded her that he was going to win me back, if only she'd help him? I know what he was like. He could make you believe whatever he wanted. It's partly about control with him. Game playing. He'd want to set it up so that he could walk into my house whenever he wanted. Do enough to disconcert me. Make me doubt my own judgement. Maybe even get access to Jack whenever he liked—' She was looking at Murrain with something close to panic in her eyes. 'He could be down there now. With my son. Who’s the same age as Luke.' She spun round and fixed her eyes on Wickham. 'Who’s the same age as the child that Kevin was supposed to have killed all those years ago.'
'But there's no reason to think—' Milton began.
'I don’t pretend I’m entirely following this,' Murrain interrupted, 'but I'm feeling that we should check it out.' As she'd been speaking, he'd had that same flash of an image. The sudden glare of a mental flashbulb. Three figures, one large, two small.
'Please,' Kate begged. 'I’m probably making a complete fool of myself. But if I’m not—'
'OK,' Murrain said. He turned to Milton, who looked as if he was about to intervene. 'Instinct, Joe, instinct. That and the fact that we don’t have a clue what else to do next anyway. We've nothing to lose.'
***
They left Kate’s car parked outside Brody’s house and headed down in the police vehicle, Milton driving. The road through the village was narrow, with the rows of parked cars allowing only a single line of traffic through the centre. Milton, who’d long ago accepted the need to go with the flow of his boss’s eccentricities, didn’t stint on turning on the siren and lights whenever the conditions demanded. Fifteen minutes later they were approaching the turn off past the canal that led to Kate’s house.
He pulled into Kate’s driveway, and the four of them scrambled out. The house was ablaze with light, every window uncurtained, every room lit, but there was no other sign of life. The wind was booming along the canal, the rain coming down harder.
Murrain peered around him, then pointed. 'There.' There was a dark-coloured van parked further along the street. 'Is that Brody's?'
Milton moved to check the registration and then nodded.
'Instinct,' Murrain said to Kate. 'Whatever it means, it looks like you were right.'
'I wanted to be wrong,' she said. 'Shit.'
Murrain gestured for Kate and Wickham to stand back while he and Milton approached the front door. Kate knew he was being sensible—none of them knew what they might find in there, and Milton had already called for back up—but she wanted to push past and rush in there herself. The door was ajar, light streaming from the hallway out on to the wet path.
Murrain stepped slowly inside, Milton a step behind. The house was silent, except for the rattle of rain against the window, the occasional roar of the wind gusting down the chimneys. The interior felt chilly and a breeze touched his cheek as he stepped into the hallway. He paused momentarily to touch the hall radiator and check that the central heating was on. The cold was coming from elsewhere.
With Milton still close behind, he stepped into the hallway and listened. Nothing. He gestured to Milton to check the living and dining rooms while he continued into the kitchen. The downstairs rooms were deserted. The back door, like the front, was ajar—the source of the chill breeze blowing through the house. Murrain opened it and peered briefly out, but could see nothing. 'Let’s check upstairs first, then we’ll try outside.'
It took them only a few more minutes to confirm the upper floor of the house was an empty as the downstairs. Jack’s room looked undisturbed, with no sign that he or anyone else had been in there since the morning.
Murrain gestured for Kate and Wickham to join them in the hallway. 'Wait here,' he said. He and Milton made their way back through the kitchen, Milton pulling a heavy flashlight from the inner pocket of his overcoat.
Murrain turned off the kitchen light and allowed a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then Milton shone the torch beam around the small rear garden. At first, both officers thought that the garden was as deserted as the house. It was only a small plot, given mostly to lawn, with a couple of flower beds and a few small bushes.
'There,' Murrain said, suddenly. 'What’s that?' He took Milton’s wrist and guided the beam slo
wly back. The largest of the garden’s bushes stood alongside the far corner of the house to the left of where Murrain and Milton were standing. When the beam had first touched it, Murrain had thought the odd shape below the bush was simply an effect of shadows. But it hadn’t looked right. Now, as Milton moved the beam up and down, he saw that the patch of darkness was something else, something large, below and behind the bush.
The two officers stepped out into the damp air. The garden was sheltered from the worst of the wind, but the rain was coming down heavily now. Milton pulled back the foliage and both men peered forward as he shone the torch into the cavity behind.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was an elderly woman, her body twisted, her white blouse soaked with blood. With another flick of the torch-beam, Milton illuminated the large kitchen knife protruding from her stomach. Murrain leaned down and checked the pulse, but it was clear they were already much too late. 'Christ,' he said. 'Who could do that?'
'Somebody not in their right mind,' Murrain said. 'The more important question is: where the hell are they?'
They made their way back into the house and, while Milton phoned for back-up and an ambulance, Murrain ushered Kate and Wickham back into the hallway. 'I'm afraid it's your mother,' he said, briefly. 'We're too late to help her. I'm very sorry.'
Kate raised a hand to her mouth as if she were holding back a scream. 'Oh, Jesus—' She made a move to push past Murrain, but he held her firmly by the shoulder. 'Please don’t touch anything. All of this is a crime scene now. There's no sign of your son out there.'
'But where is he?' Kate was looking desperate now. 'What the hell’s happened to Brody?'
'That's what we need to find out,' Murrain said. 'I want you both to stay right here. Don’t move till back-up gets here.' He stepped out of the front door and peered into the darkness. Other than the rhythmic swaying of the trees, there was no sign of movement. As he turned to re-enter the house, Kate, her face drained white, pushed unexpectedly past him and hurried to the front gate. 'Jack! Where are you? Jack!' Her voice was loud but almost immediately whipped away by the wind.