The memorial service for Angela Inglis was held at All Saints’ Church in Orton village, strictly limited to close friends and family at Duncan Inglis’s request.
The press pushed it as far as they dared, milling around in the two lanes that led up to the church, smoking and talking and giving the occasional burst of inappropriate raucous laughter, expensive cameras slung from shoulder straps like status symbols.
The narrow approaches were clogged with private-plated Mercedes, BMWs, a couple of Bentleys. The grieving widower arrived by stately coach-built Rolls Royce, chauffeur-driven and painted a noncommittal shade of battleship grey.
Nick had worn his darkest suit by way of camouflage, but was already regretting the choice for its heat-absorption qualities alone. The overnight rain had done little to relieve the humidity. The over-saturated air seemed to condense inside his lungs.
He stood in the graveyard, mindful of where he put his feet. The church was a low building dating back to the thirteenth century. At one end it had a huge bell tower with heavily buttressed corners. The tower looked to Nick like a later addition, painted household magnolia. He saw Mercer the moment the CTC man came through the gates.
Mercer made a beeline for him, pointedly checking his watch. “I got your somewhat cryptic message,” he said as soon as he was close enough not to shout, voice clipped. “I can give you five minutes.”
Nick turned, began to stroll along the line of ancient canted headstones, forcing Mercer into step alongside.
“So,” Nick said, conversational, “does DI Pollock know the real reason why you’re up here?”
“Real reason?”
“Does he know that Angela Inglis’s maiden name was Angela Mercer?” It hadn’t taken much finding, once Grace had shown him what to look for. “That she was your sister?”
Eventually, Mercer said quietly, “No. Do you intend to enlighten him?”
Nick side-stepped that one, knowing Mercer would be quick to exploit any sign of weakness. “There is no political connection, is there?” he said instead. “You’re on this purely as a personal thing.”
“Wouldn’t you be, in my place?”
Nick shrugged. Mercer was tense for the inevitable next question. Only trouble was, Nick wasn’t sure what that should be. What else are you hiding? he wondered.
“What gave it away?” Mercer asked then. “Duncan?”
“Partly,” Nick hedged, mind still backtracking furiously. He’d already decided to keep the flak away from Grace, if he could. After the picture in the newspaper, Mercer seemed to have the tall CSI singled out. “He disliked you on sight and he doesn’t seem astute enough to make that kind of a snap character assessment.”
Mercer gave a cynical little smile. “Yeah, well, we never were one big happy family. It’ll come out, of course.” He jerked his eyes in the direction of the press, who were studying them the way a pride of lions watches for the lame zebra. “I’ve done what I can, but I can’t expect to keep it under wraps indefinitely with that lot hanging around. I was hoping to get more of a handle on the whole thing first.”
“Or that your boys would take care of it for you.”
Mercer raised an eyebrow in obvious surprise. “My boys?”
“At the hotel,” Nick said, his voice casual. “Former SAS, now working for a London private security outfit who just so happen to hold a number of government contracts. Didn’t know you were contracting out your dirty work these days. I wonder if they still operate a shoot-to-kill policy.”
Mercer paused. “You were Firearms, Nick,” he said at last, evasive. “You of all people should know you always shoot to kill.” He shot a cuff, glanced down at his watch. “Time’s up.” But he didn’t immediately move away, nodding instead to another batch of new arrivals, walking with suitably sombre stride along the pathway to the front door of the church. One of them was a tall thin man that Nick had no trouble recognising, very upright and correct in khaki number two dress uniform.
“If anyone’s got the ear of the SAS, past or present,” Mercer murmured, “perhaps you should be talking to the good major.”
Nick was about to question that when his phone buzzed. Mercer took the opportunity to flee while Nick was still reaching for his inside pocket, disappearing briskly into the church.
With a muttered curse, Nick clicked open the phone. It was Grace.
“Bad timing?” she asked pleasantly.
“No, sorry. I think I’m allergic to Mr Mercer. What can I do for you?”
“I’m at the North Lakes Hotel.”
At the morning briefing, Pollock had assigned DC Yardley to follow up on the four men, a task which should not have routinely called for the presence of crime scene technicians, unless…
“What’s happened?”
“Relax—nothing. They’re gone. Checked out yesterday to go off ‘rambling’, if you please. Their rooms have been turned over and cleaned—more thoroughly than normal housekeeping would warrant, unfortunately.”
“So, what did you find?”
“Nothing, which I take as a personal affront to my skills, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she said with cool amusement. “No hairs, no prints, no fibres. It’s as professional a wipe-down job as I’ve ever seen.”
“Which is a lot of trouble for a group of lads on a hiking trip.” Nick watched more people in sober hats and dark suits arrive and hurry into the church as if determined not to be left with the cheap seats.
“They didn’t put down a car registration number on their check-in form, but I went over the CCTV covering the car park, anyway,” Grace continued. “It shows them walking in from the main road, so we don’t even have a line on their vehicle.”
Nick muttered a quiet oath under his breath, then glanced in silent apology at the surrounding gravestones.
“If they are here to track him down,” Grace’s voice murmured in his ear, “then we need to find him before they do.”
“Well, they’ll certainly deal with him, you have to give them that,” he pointed out, not sure if he was entirely ambivalent. “Justice of a sort.”
“Death’s too easy,” she said. “I want him in prison for the rest of his life, and I want to know I helped put him there.”