Moran checked the time. Four o’clock. Mrs P would be sitting down for her habitual afternoon cup of tea. She was never out at four.
He’d arrived home the previous evening, collected Archie and told his neighbour that someone would be calling the following day to pick up the package he’d left in her care. Mrs Perkins had nodded.
‘That’ll be fine, Brendan. I’ll be in all afternoon. And how was your weekend away?’
‘Unusual, Mrs P, would be the way I’d put it. But I’m back safe and sound.’
Mrs Perkins was, Moran knew, insatiably curious, but to her credit, she rarely probed into his activities, especially the kind of activities associated with his job. For that, he was grateful. She was discreet. Also in her favour, Archie loved staying over at her house. He looked down at the excited little dog, pacing the hallway with furiously wagging tail, torn between returning to his permanent home and the prospect of extra time with his exciting friend, Mrs P, who always took him for long walks by the river or into the woods at Sulham to sniff out deer or rabbits.
‘Will you call me when it’s been collected, Mrs P?’ Moran asked as he clipped Archie to his lead.
‘I’ll be sure to.’
‘Thanks again.’
‘Think nothing of it, Brendan. There was one thing I was wondering, though.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Did you find your duck?’
Moran smiled to himself. On the ball, as ever, Mrs P had referred to Samantha Grant, regarding her abduction a few weeks back, as a duck between two drakes, the Russian duo who’d played the role of her kidnappers. ‘Let’s just say she took to the water on a permanent basis.’
Mrs Perkins had folded her arms. ‘Well, as long as that’s a tidy solution, I’m glad. Now you’d better get Archie his dinner. He’ll be hungry after his swim.’
That had been last night. Since then, no phone call – and now, no reply from her landline. Mrs P didn’t believe in mobile telephony. He ought to pop over, check that all was well.
Moran looked up as his office door swung open after the most perfunctory knock. DCS Higginson, in full uniform, assigned himself the visitor’s chair without invitation and placed his hat carefully on Moran’s desk.
‘Sir. How can I help?’
‘You have a suspect, I understand?’
‘Yes, sir. We believe the lady in question is on her way to, or has recently arrived in, Billingshurst – a small station in Sussex, near Petworth.’
‘And you can’t raise my opposite number in Sussex?’
‘Not so far, sir, I’m afraid. They have a lot on their plate today, so I’m told. Traffic down that way also have a major incident on the M23 to contend with.’
‘Yes, I heard. Major RTC on the M25 as well, near the M23 junction. Fog. Worse down there than here. We have to apprehend this POI, Brendan. We can’t let her slip through the net again. I’ve seen the history. Makes grim reading.’
Moran sighed. ‘I can’t help but agree, sir. I’ll keep trying Sussex.’
‘Anything I can do, you’ll let me know?’
‘Sir.’
Moran watched Higginson stride from the room, straight-backed, uniform crackling in its finely pressed creases. The boss’d carry the can for this one, for sure – and Higginson clearly wanted the can to be brightly painted, a success trophy.
Moran went to the internal window, drew the blind. A thin mist was blurring the fading, wintery light. Headlights were on, traffic crawling. He returned to his desk, eased himself into his chair. His ribs were so tender he’d hardly slept. He took a deep breath and winced.
What had happened on the boat had shaken him, taken the wind out of his sails. He was too old for this kind of thing. He remembered the automatic, how it had jerked slightly as Samantha pulled the trigger. The hammering blow to his chest.
He’d been lucky. It could have gone the other way. It was hard not to go through the list of what ifs. What if he hadn’t thought to don the Kevlar jacket? What if she’d gone for a head shot? What if the barrier hadn’t given way? Samantha had been a professional. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, he firmly believed that, but professionals were trained to get the job done.
Moran dragged his mind back to the present. Chan was, in all likelihood, and for reasons yet unknown, heading for a meeting with Duncan Brodie. Which implied a degree of collusion. Or did it? Sure, the guy had suffered a bad few years at school, but then again, Moran’s schooldays had hardly been a walk in the park; Blackrock had been renowned for its discipline in those days, and for all he knew, still was.
But, there’s a thin line between discipline and abuse, right? In fairness, he conceded, Blackrock had always stayed on the right side of that line. If that hadn’t been the case, though, would he have considered murder as a revenge option? The answer to that question depended much on character, and from what he knew of Duncan Brodie, the guy was personable – if a little bland – generous, a philanthropist of note, a successful entrepreneur, a businessman with a conscience. It didn’t sit right.
He checked his watch. Four thirty-five. Mrs P.
He called, let it ring for a minute, two minutes.
No answer.
He had to be sure. It would take forty minutes to get to Pangbourne and back, allowing for rush hour traffic – and fog.
As he put the phone into his pocket it vibrated. He stabbed the answer button. ‘Charlie. What news?’
‘Guv, I’m boarding a flight to Gatwick. Should be there by six-thirty.’
‘You’re flying into Gatwick – in this muck?’ Moran glanced outside. ‘I hope your pilot knows what he’s doing.’
‘They ummed and ahd for a bit but they’re going for it. I’ve got to get down there, guv. She’s in Sussex somewhere, for sure. The school, or–’
‘I know. But you’ll be on your own, Charlie.’ Moran tried to keep the alarm out of his voice. ‘The roads are a nightmare – you’ll be lucky to get out of Gatwick, let alone anywhere near Petworth.’
‘If Sussex can’t oblige, what are we going to do? This is the closest we’ve got to picking her up. And you’re not going to get there, with the traffic, weather and all, are you, guv?’
An idea occurred to him. ‘There’s always the chance of a chopper. I’ll see if I can swing it – Higginson’ll sign anything off, the mood he’s in.’
‘They’re calling the flight, guv. Got to go.’
‘Tell me when you’ve–’
There was a bleep and the line went dead.
He pocketed the phone and went to find Higginson.
The DCS had said anything, hadn’t he?