‘Please. Have a seat.’ Moran indicated the empty visitor’s chair.
Mrs Fowler sat down, placed her handbag on Moran’s desk. She was a serious looking woman in her forties. Carefully styled shoulder-length auburn hair, tasteful makeup. Bright, grey-green eyes. A businesswoman through and through. Used to high-level meetings, driving home her point of view. Moran suspected he was going to experience the full force of that right now.
‘So. Let me summarise. My elderly father is escorted from a safe residential care home by an unknown person, driven to an unspecified location, and smothered to death. Does that cover it?’
Moran took a deep breath. ‘Yes, That’s about the length and breadth of it. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you. My father and I didn’t get on particularly well. In many ways he was easier these last couple of years – the dementia. It’s known to cause distress, make people hard to deal with, but in my father’s case it seemed to soften him. He wasn’t as obstreperous as before.’
‘I see.’ Moran relaxed. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the ear-bending he’d anticipated. ‘I assume it was at your behest that he moved here from Scotland?’
‘Yes. I needed him closer, to keep an eye. I’m away a lot, but at least I didn’t have to make any extra trips up north to see him every time I came home. I could just scoot over in the car, say hello, make sure he was all right.’
‘I understand.’
‘Fat lot of good it did, as things have turned out. Have you found the culprit? Some lunatic, I assume?’
‘We’re in the early stages of our investigation,’ Moran told her. ‘We’re keeping our options open at present. Of course, when I have something concrete–’
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’
Moran leaned forward, joined his hands together. ‘Mrs Fowler, I have to ask; did your father have any enemies that you know of? Is there anyone he’s been associated with – friends, family – who might wish him harm?’
‘God. I don’t know. Hundreds, probably. He always called a spade a spade. He was a teacher, you know. Not a particularly popular one, either. He was quite the disciplinarian. Old school.’
‘I see. And which schools did he work at? It would be helpful if you have any documents, correspondence.’
Mrs Fowler pursed her lips. ‘I have his old trunk. You’re welcome to delve in there if you like. He spent many years at a prep school in Sussex. I forget the name. Then he moved to a comprehensive. Hated that. Eventually he moved to Scotland, did a little supply teaching, I think, before retiring.’
‘I see. That’s very helpful, thank you.’
‘Tell you the truth, Chief Inspector, although it’s not the way I’d have wanted him to go, I’m glad it’s over. I’m sorry if that sounds callous, and of course I want the criminals brought to justice, but I can’t find it in myself to be very sorry. He was an awkward old so-and-so.’
‘I understand, Mrs Fowler. Did your husband get on with your father, by the way?’
Mrs Fowler hesitated before answering, straightened her back. ‘My husband died ten years ago, Chief Inspector. Cancer.’
Ah. Nicely done, Moran…
‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aware.’
‘Of course you weren’t. It’s all right. I have my business, it keeps me occupied. What’s past is past, and I can’t change it.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Well, is that all, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, for the time being – I’ll send someone round for the trunk, if that’s all right. Please don’t be afraid to contact me if you remember anything you think might be relevant.’
‘I’m not afraid of anything, Chief Inspector. Not anymore.’
Moran lingered in his office after Mrs Fowler had left. He recognised a fellow sufferer, someone who had loved and lost. Someone who was making the best job she could of the rest of her life, knowing it could never be the same, never be as fulfilling. Someone vital was missing, creating a void that could never be filled. He understood.
What’s past is past, and it can’t be changed…
The hands of Moran’s wall clock made a close right angle at three pm. Still he sat, deep in thought, his mind’s compass dial inexorably fixed in the direction of Rotterdam, Fabrice Cleiren’s starting point and his return destination. Something was happening in Rotterdam, which was somehow connected to Ringaskiddy, and highly probably to Joe Gallagher.
Semtex, weapons…
He had the name of Cleiren’s company, the haulage firm. Guust Vervoer. He had an address. Interesting that no one had made contact, so far as Moran knew, to establish the fate of their driver. Which meant what? Which meant that the company didn’t want to raise its head above the parapet. Its representatives surely must have found out what had happened to Cleiren? It had been reported in the media. Were they preparing themselves for an imminent investigation? Were they, even now, ensuring that their dark corners were properly hidden, that there would be no trace of impropriety when the authorities came knocking? What would they be expecting? A full-scale joint raid by customs, the Dutch police, officers from Moran’s patch?
Well, for now at least, they had nothing to worry about, because Higginson was procrastinating. Yes, there was evidence of explosives, but that could be legitimate; building companies regularly used explosives. Cleiren’s inventory, if it had ever existed, had been lost in the fire. Gunpowder? Could be residual from any legal shipment of munitions. No need, therefore, for counter-terrorism to get involved. People trafficking? Not enough evidence. It was a haulage accident. What about the gun? Cleiren could have been paranoid, Higginson had suggested. Just a precaution. He may even have owned a license.
ROCU involvement, then? No, Higginson had maintained, there was zero evidence – nor any sign of – organised crime in the area related to the truck, no hint of Cleiren belonging to such a gang. Taking all these factors into consideration, the matter was something to be fed back to the Dutch authorities, not for Thames Valley to deal with. When Forensics completed their investigation, as soon as they confirmed there was nothing further to be found that might relate to Isaiah Marley and his unfortunate passenger, the results – including the vehicle carcass – would be handed over to the Dutch – should they wish to conduct an investigation of their own.
Moran understood Higginson’s caution, his reasoning. His priority – and therefore Moran’s – was the murder investigation. But the thought of what might be happening in Rotterdam wouldn’t leave Moran alone. He flicked his smartphone to calendar. Friday tomorrow. He could be in Rotterdam on Saturday, Friday evening even, and be back on Sunday evening. Just to satisfy his … what? Curiosity?
No, it was more than that. Much more. There was something of huge significance in this RTC, he knew it. He could feel it. And he wasn’t comfortable allowing it to fall between the cracks, whatever Higginson had decided. Fate, or providence, or just blind luck had decreed that the incident should occur on Moran’s patch. He might have to let it go, officially, but what he did in his own time was his own business…
Moran went to his window, looked out over the busy roundabout towards the tall, turn-of-the-century Bath Stone terraces of Castle Hill. One weekend, that was all. Two days to investigate Cleiren’s destination, Rotterdam.
What did Moran know about the Dutch city? That it was Europe’s largest seaport, boasted a well-respected university, enjoyed a vibrant and a lively culture, was proud of its long maritime heritage. There it was again: that connection to the water. Europe’s largest port…
Moran wiped a smear of condensation from the glass, returned to his desk.
The Chapelfields murder was shocking, absolutely, and needed to be addressed as a priority. But Cleiren’s ill-fated journey represented something of a different order, something much bigger than a parochial homicide, of that Moran was convinced.
George McConnell put his head around the door. ‘Guv?’
‘Yes, George?’
George waved his smartphone. ‘I’ve got Charlie on the blower. She wants a word.’
‘Sure.’
George handed the phone to Moran and half-retreated, hovering in the doorway.
Moran listened as Charlie brought him up to date. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone round to Chapelfields pronto.’
He finished the call and gestured to George. ‘Come in, George, for goodness’ sake.’ He returned the phone. ‘You and Bola – get over to the nursing home as soon as. That care worker Collingworth interviewed? Looks like there’s a good chance she’s Isaiah Marley’s girlfriend.’
‘Right you are.’ George’s eyes lit up at the prospect of action. ‘So, you don’t want Collingworth to do the deed?’
‘Not this time. In fact, if you could ask him to pop in, I’d like a word.’
George beamed. ‘With pleasure, guv.’