‘I’ve told you already, the car comes at five. We’re hoping to miss the M6 traffic.’
‘I’ll make you something to eat. I’m still hungry.’ He got out of bed and dressed quickly. He was tanning already from his work on the fells for mountain rescue. Men who spent a serious amount of time outdoors aged differently, Kelly thought. His eyes were bright and his skin glowed. She couldn’t help think of Matt Carter, and how all the time she’d been in his bed, she’d never felt like this.
She got up and pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt. She’d change into her plain-clothes garb at five minutes to five and not a minute earlier. Her hair was washed and dried, though a bit tousled now, and her make-up relatively intact. A quick shower would freshen her up later.
A call from Ted interrupted her. He’d breathed down the necks of a lab in Carlisle for the best part of twelve hours and they had the results from the en suite bathroom at Allerdale House. The pattern of smudges and smearing, along with the protein analysis of the specimens, was consistent with somebody being killed inside the shower unit. Kelly had her crime scene, though they’d have to wait for workable DNA to prove that the person who died in there was George.
However, it blew any previous motives out of the park. If George had been killed inside the house, and nothing had been stolen, that only left one conclusion: that the scientist had been deliberately targeted.
Chapter 11
Kelly spent the drive to London studying the report from the double homicide in the garage in Bethnal Green. She’d walked home with fish and chips through that alleyway – a shortcut between Bethnal Green Road and Old Ford Road – more times than she cared to remember. It was ten minutes from her old flat. The landscape was one of high-rises and car parks, as well as rented garages. She looked at the photographs of George Murphy’s two colleagues. It would appear that Emily Wilson and Mike Hudson had been pursuing some kind of torrid affair, and had been caught in flagrante.
Kelly didn’t like coincidences.
Emma was the perfect travel companion. She assessed documents and data, and didn’t make small talk. The driver was silent throughout, apart from to ask if either detective wanted to stop for a comfort break. The answer was negative; they wanted to get to London as soon as possible to meet the SIO in charge of the double murder. And they wanted to find out what George had been like in life.
Darkness descended as they sped through the Midlands and around Birmingham via the M6 toll. The mountains of the Lake District were a lingering memory; housing estates, high-rises and choked roads replaced the clear air of lakes and rivers. Kelly felt slightly claustrophobic, but Emma was entranced. As they approached the outskirts of London, thousands of lights bounced off the windows from cars, cafés, shops, phones, aeroplanes and trains. They were surrounded by neon and noise, assaulting them in a wave of electrical pulses. Kelly closed her laptop, as well as her eyes.
She was back.
Her heart rate increased and she felt the familiar pump of adrenalin flood her veins. Her life was so different now. Three years in the Lake District had softened her. Not that she’d lost her edge professionally, but her environment was no longer filled with testosterone junkies, dawn raids and stab vests. She’d had her fair share of danger in the Lakes, but that came with the job. If you apprehended bastards for a living, then some harm had to be expected. But in London, there was scum on every corner, on every street, in every office and behind every shadow. It was as if the city was a giant organism with an underbelly of seediness and crime, and the officers pursuing truth were constantly battling against it. Homicide detectives no longer worked alongside colleagues at local stations. Now, murder was a specialism, and they had their own headquarters. Three control centres ran the whole of London, regardless of which borough the crime was committed in. Scotland Yard was the mother ship, but pods existed around the city, usually in the areas where it was cheapest to rent large office complexes. The one they were making for was in Hendon.
The car stopped in front of a huge glass building with all the lights still burning. Murder wasn’t nine-to-five. Kelly read the sign outside, emblazoned with the Met’s badge: Middleton House. Specialist Crime and Operations Command. The size of the office block denoted how busy they were: death kept this whole premises in operation. A flutter of intimidation disturbed her, but she heard Johnny’s voice in her head, reassuring and supportive. Her internal dialogue pulled her this way and that, between failure and success. She looked sideways at Emma, who was transfixed.
‘Come on, we’re here,’ she said.
They thanked the driver and told him they hoped they wouldn’t be too late. He’d likely grab a coffee and catch up with colleagues as he waited to drive them to their hotel. He was on the night shift, so he had hours to kill.
Kelly gathered her briefcase, notes and various screens, leaving her personal items in the boot. Emma did the same. They both stretched, and straightened their clothes – they’d been sitting in the back of the car for almost five hours – before entering the building. Their ID was checked and their names entered on the system, then they were allowed through the glass barrier and upstairs to level five, where the SIO was expecting them. Kelly fiddled with her ponytail and her collar, trying not to look nervous in front of her junior. She hoped their welcome would be as smooth as possible, and that there would be no subtle one-upmanship from their elite colleagues. They were here to work on the same page.
They were escorted to one of the many incident rooms, and Kelly saw Emma glancing around, taking in the sheer vastness of the operation. In Penrith, Kelly’s office and one incident room, boasting some new chairs and a knackered old radiator, was the sum of Serious Crime for the Northern Lakes. Her colleague and friend DI Lockwood took care of the south.
She scanned the corridors and the desks through the glass walls to see if she could spot any old colleagues. She had no idea how she would react if she did. On the one hand, it would be wonderful to catch up with people with whom she’d shared countless lunches, office hours and after-work drinks. But on the other, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d look down on her because she’d run away to the provinces. She drew a deep breath and they entered the room.
She counted nine officers, and she knew that there’d be another nineteen in bed, ready to take up the reins in the morning. But at least the SIO was there, and they could get an up-to-date picture on how the investigation was progressing.
‘Boss,’ their escort said.
A man in dark trousers and a white shirt turned around and ran his hands through his hair. He had no tie on, and he looked as though he’d put in twenty-four hours straight already.
‘DI Kelly Porter, boss. Cumbria Constabulary.’
‘I know who our guests are, thank you. We’ve been expecting you, DI Porter.’
Kelly held out her hand. When their skin touched, it was like a thousand knives shot into her sticky palm and up to her shoulder. With an effort, she kept her grip firm as she stared into the eyes of DCI Matt Carter.
Whatever happened from here on in, it couldn’t get any worse.
Chapter 12
Tilly Knight parked around the corner from George’s address, as she knew full well that the main road was a nightmare for traffic. She’d never visited his home before, but she knew the area well. She gathered her notes and her bag from the passenger seat and got out. Perhaps he was ill, she thought.
She’d spent all morning in the library, researching Ravensword, the theories behind George’s calculations, and a few names that he had supplied her with during their only phone call. It was all good background, but she couldn’t help the nagging feeling that she was wasting her time. If he wasn’t home, and he didn’t answer her calls this afternoon, then she’d move on. He’d specifically asked her not to call him at Ravensword, and she’d honoured that, though she could always pretend to be somebody else: it went with the territory.
Wanstead High Street was full of kids from the local high school
eating chips, pies and other unhealthy fare. They were, for the main part, well behaved, with the odd joker jostling a pensioner or shaking up a Coke bottle and spraying his mates with it. Tilly walked away from the centre of town and under the railway bridge, taking a left turn. Ahead of her she saw police. Her footsteps slowed and she looked left and right but kept walking, not wanting to attract suspicion. She got her sunglasses out of her bag and put them on. A patrol car sat outside George’s address, and police tape cordoned off the property. Two uniforms stood outside the front gate, looking straight ahead with the intermittent side glance. Occasionally one or other of them spoke into their radios.
It was perfectly normal for members of the public to rubberneck under such circumstances, and Tilly paused as she approached.
‘Ma’am,’ one of the officers said.
‘Good morning. I know the man who lives here. Is everything all right?’
One of the officers reached into his pocket for a notepad.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am, but if you’d like to give us your details, we can get back to you. Did you know him well?’
‘Not really, just to say hello to, but it looks a bit worrying, if you know what I mean. Is George all right?’
The officer spoke into his radio, off to the side, nodding and pressing buttons. The radio crackled but Tilly didn’t catch what was said. He turned back to her.
‘The occupant is deceased, ma’am. An investigation is under way. When was the last time you saw him?’
Tilly touched her hand to her mouth in genuine shock. Adrenalin flooded her system and she remembered George telling her how serious he thought his story was. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence?
‘Oh, about two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Before he went on holiday.’
‘Right, ma’am, and did he mention that he was meeting anyone on holiday?’
‘No, he said he was fishing as always, and couldn’t wait to get away. He didn’t mention anyone to me.’
‘Very good, ma’am. Can I take a name and contact number? The detective in charge of the case might like to contact you. It’s part of a routine line of questioning.’
‘Of course. It’s Madeleine Cromer. I live on the other side of town.’ She racked her brain for a random street in Wanstead, and remembered Redbridge Lane West. She was fully aware that she was committing a crime, but the likelihood of them remembering her face after a three-minute exchange, when their focus was on the property behind them, was slim. It might raise questions when no Madeleine Cromer lived at the address she was supplying, but if they let her go on her way now, she need never set foot in Wanstead again.
‘When did he die?’ she asked.
‘On holiday, ma’am.’
Tilly returned to her car and drove as fast as she could back to Leyton. She referred to her notes and dialled the number for Ravensword.
‘Oh, hello there. I’m sorry, I’m a bit teary, I…’ She broke off for authenticity before carrying on.
‘Do you know the extension you need?’ The woman on the other end wasn’t in the best of moods, but Tilly persevered.
‘Well, it’s the neurocellular lab. You see, I just found out about George, and I…’ She paused again.
‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry. Yes, we’re all in shock here too. How can I help? Are you a relative of George’s?’
‘Yes, he is… he was my uncle, my only relative really. He was like a father to me, and I just don’t know who to turn to. I can’t get to London, and I need to do something. Can I at least talk to his colleagues? I know Emily quite well – I met her kids once, when I was down seeing George. Or perhaps Alexandros? I know he was like a son to George.’ It was an Oscar-worthy performance and she thought the mention of George’s colleagues added a touch of class.
‘Oh, gosh, miss, I… Wait a moment, please.’
Tilly was put on hold for a few minutes. When the woman came back on the line, her voice was conspiratorial.
‘Look, I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s been a terrible incident. You need to contact the police.’
‘Why? What’s happened? I’m due to meet with lawyers and the police when I get to London. Please tell me what’s going on.’
‘You say you’re his niece?’
‘Yes, he had no children.’
‘Can I take your name, miss, in case I have to call you back?’
Shit.
‘Of course, it’s Carrie Law. Mike knows me too.’ She hoped that would do the trick.
‘You need to call the officer in charge, Miss Law. His name is DCI Carter. The investigation is ongoing, but Emily and Mike were found dead too.’
‘What?’ The panic in Tilly’s voice was genuine. ‘What about Alexandros?’
‘He’s…’ The woman coughed. ‘I’ve said too much. I could lose my job.’
‘Please,’ Tilly pleaded.
‘He’s gone missing.’
Tilly couldn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. The woman had hung up. She double-checked that her caller ID was off. Some clever dick might be able to trace the call sometime in the future, but by that point Tilly hoped she’d have got to the bottom of what was happening. Huge companies like Ravensword had the facility to record calls, of course, but she was confident the receptionist wouldn’t have taken that risk.
She sat at her kitchen table staring into space, then reached for her bag. She went out onto the balcony with her cigarettes and lit one shakily before bringing a news site up on her phone. The report about the murders made no mention of Alexandros. What the hell did it mean? George had told her that he was staying in a pal’s pad on some lake up north. She went inside to get her notes, not caring that cigarette smoke followed her. When she first had contact with a source, she wrote everything down, from their favourite takeaway to their pet’s name. It was there: he’d said he’d be staying at Allerdale House, on the shore of Derwent Water, owned by the Montague-Roland family. Christ. Montague-Roland was the name of some lord, she was certain of it. It was the kind of name that, once heard, never went away.
She googled the local news for the Derwent area and found what she was looking for straight away: London man found murdered at Lakes marina. Within a few minutes, she had learned all she needed to know about the death of her new source. A man who’d told her that he’d spent months trying to find the right journalist for the job, and that he was sitting on something that might cause him harm. The article was to be his insurance.
Next she googled Montague-Roland. A photograph of a slimy-looking City type came up, alongside one of a much older man. The older man had died late last year; the slimeball was his grandson and heir. She clicked on related searches and learned that Sebastian Montague-Roland intended to create a leisure empire out of the pile on the shores of Derwent Water, and that building work was due to start soon. She also read of the recent burglary, in which hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of items had disappeared from the boathouse. The dates matched: George had been there.
Some story.
Tilly felt her heart rate increase and knew she was on to something.
She contemplated her next move. She’d already lied to the police, and George had very likely been killed for whatever it was he knew. Perhaps so too had his colleagues. She had several options. She could forget about the whole thing and concentrate on something else, but the problem with that was that she had nothing else solid at the moment. She could continue nosing about here and find out more about George Murphy. Or she could book a hotel in Keswick, three hundred miles away, and snoop around up there.
She googled the small town and studied the photographs of the quaint market, the lake and the fells. She was enchanted. She knew enough about murder investigations to be aware that the body would be kept in situ until all the tests were complete. She googled the chief coroner in Carlisle, and Ted Wallis popped up. He looked like the kind of man she could have a pint with. She checked her bank balance: she had five hundred quid left or th
ereabouts, but she had a credit card. It was reckless, it was foolish, and it was utterly impulsive, but that was what she was in this game for. Something about it felt right. Something inside her made her want to find out what had happened to George Murphy. She brought up the Ravensword website and stared at his photo on the staff page. He had a kind face. There were photos of his colleagues on the same page, and she shivered as she looked at them.
As she sat staring at the screen, her bank balance changed. A sum from her pending transactions had just cleared into her account. The amount was ten thousand pounds, and it had been paid by George Murphy.
Tilly went to pack.
Chapter 13
It was an unusually choppy day on Derwent Water, and no one was on the lake. Not even the launch was keeping to its timetable. At the marina, all the kayaks, canoes and rowing boats were out of the water and stored in the shed, and Graeme sat behind the counter reading a book. If he had no customers by noon, he’d shut up shop. The stormy weather was forecast to last for three days, but in the Lakes, weather forecasts meant nothing. Yachts and Lasers bobbed up and down on the swell, and tarps flapped with the wind.
Graeme had given his staff the day off. Should anyone venture to rent a rowing boat on a day like this, he was capable of fitting them with a life jacket, giving them a map and reading them the rules. The office was warm, heated by a powerful portable radiator that Graeme had pulled close to him as he lounged on a comfy chair.
At eleven o’clock, a man opened the door and strode in. He didn’t look local. He wore red chinos, a blue shirt open at the collar with a brightly coloured cravat, a tweed jacket, and a tan, certainly not gained in Keswick. Perhaps he was lost. It happened often. The marina was a dead end, and people were usually looking for the beginning of the Cat Bells walk. The man didn’t look like a hiker, though, and it didn’t take Graeme long to work out that he was eyeing him as if he wanted more than directions. Graeme had had his fair share of homosexual interest down the years, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest, though he knew plenty of people that it did offend, especially in the army.
Bold Lies Page 6