Mercer didn’t attempt to engage Nick in conversation during the run down to Orton and for that, at least, Nick was grateful. Instead, the CTC man spent his time engrossed in the case reports, leaving his driver alone with his thoughts.
Behind him, underneath his jacket on the rear seat, was the security video from the hotel. It had taken a bit of fancy footwork to get them to hand it over, but having a long-range killer on the loose had already caused cancelled bookings and shortened stays. Fear alone was making people unusually co-operative.
He wasn’t entirely sure what made him go back for the tape. Something in the momentary look that passed between Mercer and the men in the hotel lobby tweaked his instincts. Now he wanted to know who they were, why they were here.
Nick resisted the temptation to make Mercer carsick, keeping it smooth and to the speed limit. More TV crews were heading north on the other carriageway, he noticed, just as packed-up cars and caravans were flooding south. Tourists cutting short their holidays.
Eventually, Mercer reached the final page with a grunt. “Well, it seems your crime scene people are reasonably on the ball.” And Nick almost heard, even if nobody else is.
“They seem very thorough,” he said neutrally.
“And easy on the eye, huh?” Mercer flicked him a sly glance. “Let’s face it, Nick, you weren’t thinking with your brains when you rushed out to play the white knight to that McColl girl, were you?”
Grace is a woman, not a girl. Nick busied himself with overtaking a dawdling Vauxhall saloon in the left-hand lane, making more of it than he needed to, just to negate a reply.
Mercer took his silence for guilt, continuing to pin Nick with a cool indolent stare. “So, how’s the luscious Lisa and that little moppet of yours? Chlöe, wasn’t it?”
“Sophie,” Nick bit out. “They’re fine.”
“Really?” Mercer lounged in his seat. “Only, when I called round to see you the other morning, I rang the bell at your flat and there was no reply. Bit early for her to be out, I thought, with the kiddie.” He left a long pause but Nick kept his eyes steadfastly on the road. “Do I detect a hint of trouble in paradise?”
You couldn’t detect your own backside with both hands and a sniffer dog, Nick raged silently, kept his face bland.
“This is our turnoff.” He put the Impreza hard enough into the tight curling slip-road to throw his passenger against the belts and send him grabbing for the armrest.
Little victories…
Mercer didn’t try to score any more points for the remainder of the drive up through undulating countryside to Orton village. The road was edged by dry stone walls, aged to grey and coated with lichens. It was flanked alternately by small stands of trees and sweeping fields, colours soft and hazy as the sun crested towards midday. Mercer looked vaguely bored.
They had to run the gauntlet of the press photographers at the gates to Duncan Inglis’s imposing house while they were cleared to enter. The driveway was long and winding, the shrubbery thick enough to keep prying lenses at bay.
As Nick swung onto the gravel forecourt, he saw a dark blue Jaguar saloon with the doors open. A young man in a discreet suit was lifting matching luggage out of the boot. Another man stood near the Jag, also wearing a suit, but there the similarity ended. He was larger, fleshy, more opulent and arrogant, in his politician’s pinstripe and his handmade shoes. Even without researching the man, Nick would have recognised Duncan Inglis, MEP.
“Good timing,” Mercer said. “Inglis only flew back from Brussels this morning.” Just for a moment, his voice lost its mocking edge as he added, “He’s already made the necessary identification.”
And for all Inglis’s haughty manner, Nick hoped the usual compassionate job had been done to reassemble the man’s wife before he was obliged to view her body.
Inglis stood his ground and let them come to him, his eyes on Mercer. Close up, he had the confident air of a man who wields a great deal of power and is totally aware of the fact. He might once have been handsome but now he was beginning to redden and jowl. Nick could understand why his well-preserved wife had sought entertainment elsewhere.
He also did not look happy at this intrusion and, for a man in his profession, was taking surprisingly little trouble to hide it.
Mercer stepped forwards. “Mr Inglis.” He thrust out his hand. “Matthew Mercer, Counter Terrorism Command. I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”
Inglis’s gaze narrowed sharply and he regarded Mercer with a certain wariness.
“Really?” He had a deep orator’s voice. “Tell me, Mr Mercer, what involvement does the CTC have in this tragedy?”
Nick caught the fractional flinch, quickly smothered. Curiouser and curiouser…
“We can’t rule out anything at this stage, sir,” Mercer said tightly.
Inglis nodded. His eyes flicked over Nick, managing to impart both contempt and lack of interest in a single brief glance.
“We’ll continue this inside,” Inglis said and turned on his heel.
Face white, Mercer twisted to Nick. “I’ll speak with Mr Inglis alone,” he snapped. “Wait in the car, Weston.”
Nick hid a smile, nodded. “How long will you be, sir?”
A muscle clenched in the side of Mercer’s jaw. “As long as it takes, detective constable. Do you have somewhere more important to be?”
“I need a shower,” Nick said flatly. “If you’re planning to be here a while, I’ve time to go and get one.”
For a moment he thought the CTC man would refuse just out of spite, but then he made an impatient gesture. “Oh, do what you have to.” He yanked open the car door to retrieve his paperwork, checked his watch. “Just make sure you’re back here inside an hour.” And with that, he strode away across the gravel.
Which barely gives me time to get home and back, never mind shower while I’m there. Nick thought bitterly as he watched Mercer disappear inside the house. But there was somewhere else he could think of, only minutes away, with a shower. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the picture his imagination had painted the last time he’d heard it running.
He pulled out his mobile phone, hit redial.
“Hello again,” Grace’s voice said in his ear.
“Hi.” He couldn’t keep the sheepish note out of his voice. “That favour you owe me—can I collect?”
It only took a moment for her to agree to meet Nick at the cottage. As he started up the Impreza’s engine and moved away quickly down the drive, he slotted his phone into the hands-free kit and dialled a London number he’d almost forgotten since he moved north.
“Hello, Bill,” he said cheerfully when it was picked up. “How’s life in the Met? Have they turned you into a soft southern shandy drinker yet?”
“Nick! Gawd, it’s good to hear a friendly voice, mate. Where are you?”
“Oh, still up in the wilds of Cumbria. About eighty miles past a sign on the M6 that says ‘Here Be Dragons’.”
There was a splutter of laughter at the other end. “Yeah, I heard you applied for a transfer. I always thought you were a city boy, but I can’t say I blame you, not after…” His voice trailed away, became a little more cautious. “Anyway, doesn’t sound like life’s dull up there from what I hear. What can I do for you, mate?”
“I was hoping for some inside info—on the quiet,” Nick said. “Do I recall that you used to have ties with Special Branch?”