By the time Moran reached the scene, traffic had thinned to a steady trickle; rush hour was over, but not for the emergency services. He was guided into the area by a stressed traffic policeman in a chequered hi-vis waistcoat. The powerful lighting blinded him momentarily as he killed his car engine and stepped out. DI Charlie Pepper had already clocked his arrival and was on her way to meet him.
Moran shielded his eyes. ‘What a mess.’
‘It sure is. Smart motorways, eh?’ Charlie grimaced.
‘Don’t get me started,’ Moran growled. ‘Just lead me to the bodies.’
Charlie guided him to the remains of the Astra. The corpses had been extricated – with some difficulty – by a cooperative of fire and police personnel. From the start it had been clear that medical attention was not required. The corpses lay together on the tarmac, side-by-side, zipped into body bags.
‘Doc still here?’ Moran craned his neck for Sandy Taylor’s familiar profile.
‘Dr Taylor’s with the ambulance crew, guv. They offered him a hot drink.’
‘Good. I want to quiz him while it’s still fresh in his mind.’ Moran approached the first bag. ‘Which is which?’
‘Passenger on the left, driver on the right.’ Charlie stood back.
‘Bad, is it?’ Moran bent to unzip the first.
‘Pretty bad, guv.’ Charlie’s hand was over her mouth. ‘Put it this way, the doc could have done with something stronger than tea.’
Moran hesitated. ‘Right. Thanks for the warning. Do we have names?’
‘We have an address. Label on his keyring. Lorne Street, Reading. Lantern showed negative on the prints, but–’ Charlie held up a clear plastic bag.
‘Smartphone?’
‘iPhone 6, so we’re in with a chance. Might as well do it now.’ She bent, started to unzip the body bag, exposed the driver’s head. The zip stuck.
‘Let me help.’ Moran straightened the offending area, jerked the zipper down smartly.
‘Thanks.’ Charlie gingerly withdrew an arm, splayed the fingers on the right hand.
‘Might be a leftie.’ Moran made a face.
‘We’ll soon know. Hang on a mo’ – God, he’s stone cold already. I’ll need to warm him up a bit first.’
Charlie took the corpse’s index finger, rubbed it between her own hands. ‘My hands are almost as cold.’ She continued to massage the finger.
‘You know what they say,’ Moran smiled. ‘Cold hands–’
‘Yeah, yeah. Not sure where my heart is these days. Let’s not go there, eh?’ She continued with the massage. ‘OK, that’ll do. Here’s hoping.’
Charlie took the smartphone out of the bag, pressed the driver’s finger to the touch button. For a moment nothing, but then the screen lit up. ‘Bingo.’ She let the corpse’s arm drop, and her own fingers moved nimbly over the iPhone’s screen.
‘Here we go. Mr Isaiah Marley.’ She stabbed the screen again. ‘Aged thirty-eight. Single.’
‘Facebook info?’
‘Yep.’
Moran bent and quickly unzipped the passenger. Multiple lacerations, deep wound to the neck. Dislocated shoulder by the look of it, not that that was bothering him now.
‘Ah, Brendan.’
Sandy Taylor’s cultured tones interrupted Moran’s train of thought. He straightened up. ‘So, what’s the issue, Sandy? Looks straightforward enough to me.’
‘Indeed,’ Taylor agreed. ‘Until we examine the mirrors of the soul.’
‘Bloodshot?’
‘Take a look for yourself,’ Taylor invited.
Moran bent again, lifted the eyelids. Sure enough, both suffused with blood.
‘See the bruising around the nose and mouth?’ Taylor went on. ‘Also classic signs. I expect to find hypercapnia – high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood. I’ll let you know as soon as.’
‘And the driver?’
‘Traumatic injuries to chest and skull. Killed in the accident, no doubt at all.’
Moran stood up, stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was late March, but a winter chill still hung in the air. ‘Satnav, Charlie?’
‘Yep. Bagged up along with a few other bit and pieces from the Astra.’
Moran nodded. ‘Good. I want to know where Marley was going – and where he was coming from. Get George and Bola onto it first thing. Let’s find out all we can about Mr Marley. I want his life examined under the proverbial microscope.’
‘Think he killed the old chap?’ Charlie moved out of the way of a recovery vehicle, nosing its way towards the Astra’s twisted carcass.
‘Gut feeling?’ Moran shot his DI a wry smile. ‘Maybe. Or he may have been on a body disposal errand. We’ll see.’
Charlie chewed her lip. ‘Thing is, the old chap has to be, what, in his seventies? What kind of threat could he have been to anyone?’
Moran fished for his car keys. ‘Old guys were young once, you know, DI Pepper.’ He tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek.
‘Sure, I mean – I didn’t mean that–’
Moran let Charlie squirm for a second before allowing the corners of his mouth to rise. ‘I know what you meant. I’ll see you back at the ranch in the morning. Hopefully we’ll have chapter and verse from Sandy and co by then.’
He was heading for his car when a thought occurred to him. ‘Charlie?’
She turned, tilted her chin.
‘The guy who hit the Astra. What do we have on him?’
‘Dutch. Fabrice Cleiren. Twenty-five. Worked for some haulage company in Rotterdam.’
‘Better not leave him out, eh? Tachograph readings?’
‘Sure. I’ll get on it.’
Moran drove home automatically, scarcely aware of the route he was taking. An old man, suffocated. A Dutch lorry driver. A fatal RTC. Connections? None apparent. But there always were, if you looked hard enough.
The canteen was rammed, the queue for decent coffee well into double figures. DC George McConnell cursed under his breath. The machine was broken – as usual. No choice, then. He couldn’t contemplate starting the day without a serious boost of caffeine. His eyes stung from lack of sleep. Every night was the same – getting to sleep, no problem, but then in the wee small hours his eyes would open and his mind would replay a dream’s subconscious images. He’d lie still, breathing hard, finding little comfort in the familiar contours of his bedroom, his mind insisting that he was standing in the entrance hallway of the High Nelmes Residential Home, a home for retired and injured police officers, at the foot of the wide staircase that led to the first floor, and to DC Tess Martin’s bedroom.
He wanted to go up, but his feet refused to move. He heard footsteps, and there she was, looking down at him. Tess smiled, took two steps down. There was something wrong. She stopped, her hand went to the banister to steady herself. He wanted to help her, but he was frozen to the spot. He watched helplessly as Tess’ head bowed and her body shimmered, became insubstantial. He reached out, tried to make his rebellious limbs move. He had to help her. She would be fine, if only he could just–
‘Are you in the queue, or what?’
The voice dragged him back, made him jump as though stung.
DC Chris Collingworth raised a hand in mock defence. ‘Woah, steady, now.’
George glowered, moved forward in the queue.
‘Nerves bad?’ Collingworth enquired. ‘Take a break, George. You’re due a bit of leave, aren’t you?’
George ignored the question. The last thing he needed right now was Collingworth. He shuffled forward.
‘What can I get you, George?’ The caterer grinned. ‘Large one, as per usual?’
‘He’s always up for a large one,’ Collingworth said. ‘Several, if my sources are to be trusted.’
George felt his face reddening. It wouldn’t take much, not the way he felt this morning. He nodded, scanned his card.
‘Sleepless night, eh? Collingworth probed. ‘Pining over a lost love? Now then.’ He tapped his chin with his forefinger. ‘Who might the lucky lady be?’
George felt his fists bunch. With an effort, he calmed himself.
‘Here you go, George. Chocolate on top.’
‘Thanks.’ He accepted the coffee, walked away.
‘Rude, I call it.’ Collingworth’s mocking voice followed him, but George kept going until his colleague’s voice was lost in the canteen’s hubbub.
‘Over to you, DI Pepper.’ Moran ceded the floor to his reporting officer.
‘Morning, all.’ Charlie’s eyes swept the room. ‘This is what we have so far – I know there’s not much to go on, but you’re going to change that.’ She turned to the pinboard and tapped the first photograph. The passenger. Dead at the scene, but not killed at the scene. Unlike this guy, the driver.’ Charlie tapped the second photograph, ‘Isaiah Marley. Killed, we believe, on impact. Driving a stolen car, incidentally. Owner reported it missing yesterday afternoon.’
She faced the assembled officers. DCs Bola Odunsi, relaxed and amiable as ever, George McConnell looking like death warmed up, Chris Collingworth and, at the back, DC Swinhoe – Bernice – leaning forward with her usual attentive expression. A good detective, that one, reliable, got on with the job – just don’t call her Bernice. Charlie cleared her throat. ‘So, our medical report states that the passenger was, in fact, dead before the accident. Suffocated by persons unknown, at a location also unknown. We don’t have a definite ID yet, but we do have an address for Marley. Bola, George, you’re off to the salubrious Oxford road, to number eleven Lorne Street. Does Marley have a partner? Did he live alone? Whoever you find, they won’t be aware that he’s no longer with us, so if you’d like to break the news when appropriate?’
Nods.
‘DC Collingworth, see what you can do with this photograph. Someone must know him. I want a name and address by lunchtime. Think you’ll be able to oblige?’
‘You’ll have it by morning coffee break, boss.’ Collingworth’s reply slid easily from his mouth. ‘Mind if I start now?’
‘Yes, I do mind. You’ll wait till Briefing’s over like everybody else.’
From the corner of her eye she caught Moran’s imperceptible nod of approval. Collingworth was good – very good – at what he did, and had recently impressed a tough promotion board to gain his Sergeant’s rank, much to the rest of his team’s consternation. But he still needed to apply for the post, and that hadn’t happened yet. If Charlie had her way, she’d get him to apply to a different constabulary altogether. She’d lose a good detective, but she’d have a much happier team.
‘You’re the boss.’ Collingworth almost winked, but under the withering laser of Charlie’s glare, he settled for a cocky smile of compliance.
‘I am indeed. I note that your power of recall is, happily, fully intact, DC Collingworth.’ Charlie placed a subtle emphasis on ‘DC’.
In the corner of the room, to the right of the pinboard’s easel, Moran coughed into his hand.
George McConnell had his hand up.
‘Yes, George?’ Charlie tilted her chin.
‘Want me to check the mispers list while DC Collingworth is playing with his wee pictures?’
This drew a shake of the head from Collingworth, who opened his mouth to reply but Charlie cut him off. ‘No, George. You concentrate on Marley for the time being.’ George was good at stats and lists, but she wanted Collingworth on the tracing.
‘CCTV?’ Collingworth suggested. ‘Find out where the car was coming from, find the old boy’s roost.’
‘Yep, go ahead and cover that.’ Charlie paused. ‘This looks to be a one-off situation, but you never know. I want a thorough job done, OK? Someone’s taken a life. It’s not just an RTC. Any questions?’ She scanned the room. Bernice Swinhoe’s arm went up. ‘DC Swinhoe?’
‘How about a DNA test, boss?’
‘Yep, already arranged, DC Swinhoe. Be a couple of days, though. The PM might turn something up in the meantime. And in that regard, I expect DCI Moran will be taking an interest?’ She looked pointedly at Moran.
‘I will, indeed, DI Pepper. How well you know me.’
A ripple of laughter rose and fell. They all knew that Moran couldn’t resist some investigative work, especially post mortems.
Bola Odunsi’s hand went up. ‘How about the iPhone, boss? Might be some data on there to link Marley to the passenger?’
‘Be my guest, DC Odunsi. You can collect it from my office.’
Bola nodded.
‘Good.’ Charlie clapped her hands. ‘That’s all for now. Let’s get to it.’
The team dispersed to their appointed tasks. The guv looked as though he might want a word, the way he was sidling over.
‘Nicely handled,’ Moran said, sotto voce. They weaved their way between the banks of desks towards their respective offices.
‘Collingworth?’ Charlie arched her eyebrows.
Moran nodded, smiled.
‘An explosion waiting to happen, those two,’ Charlie sighed. ‘Did you see the look George gave him?’
‘I did. It’s Tess, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie was silent for a second. ‘George blames himself – and Collingworth, mainly.’
‘I’m the one to blame,’ Moran countered, ‘if anyone is.’
‘That’s just not true, guv. You know it’s not.’ Charlie chewed her bottom lip. ‘How is she?’
Moran shrugged. ‘Pretty much the same. I’ve been meaning to pop in, but…’
Charlie frowned. ‘You’ve been flat out, guv. And that business at your house last month, I can’t imagine how–’
Moran’s hand signalled caution. ‘Ah. Less said about that, the better.’
Charlie fell silent. ‘Sure. Sorry.’
Moran waved Charlie’s discomfort aside. ‘Come in for a sec.’ He held his door open. ‘Give it a shove,’ he advised. ‘It’s still not right.’
The door opened reluctantly on misaligned hinges. They exchanged knowing looks. Moran had been offered an alternative room following the recent attempt on his life by a man posing as a maintenance worker, but he’d declined. He liked to be where he could keep an eye on things. And, to be fair, that’s where Charlie liked him, too. She had confidence in herself, but all the same, it was good to know the guv was around.
‘Have a seat,’ Moran offered.
He looked at her thoughtfully over his desk, toying with a set of keys. He seemed distracted, as if he didn’t know where to start. ‘It’s only fair I should tell you what’s going on in my mind, just now, Charlie.’
That didn’t sound good.
‘You mentioned the problem I had at home. Well now, the thing is, regarding that, I’ve a mind to sort a few things out. I’d hate to think I’d lived out my life with…well, with any loose ends trailing, if you get my meaning.’
‘Not entirely, guv.’ Honesty was always the best policy with the guv’nor.
‘No. Of course. I don’t mean to be deliberately obscure.’ He paused, rattled the keyring again. ‘I’ve been thinking – for a while now – that maybe it’s time to bring this to an end.’ He waved his arm to encompass his office, the open-plan beyond. The whole building.
‘But–’
‘Wait.’ Moran held up his hand. ‘Hear me out.’
Charlie felt her mouth soundlessly open and close.
‘It has to happen sometime, Charlie. I’m not getting any younger. And the problems I need to address – well, let’s just say that it wouldn’t be entirely appropriate to address them as a serving police officer.’
Charlie felt a lead weight in her stomach. She had an inkling what this might be about. The incident at Moran’s home had involved an old friend, who’d turned out to be some kind of terrorist sympathiser or facilitator, and there’d been some kind of spook involvement too. His friend, or a neighbour? It all sounded well dodgy.
‘Why not take a sabbatical, guv?’
‘Not burn my boats, you mean?’ Moran smiled sadly. ‘I suspect my sailing days will be over if things turn out the way I think they might.’
‘Guv, you’re worrying me.’
Moran stood up. ‘Nothing’s going to happen for a while, Charlie. I’ll keep you posted. And don’t look so stricken. Things will work out…well, the way they’ll work out.’
He held the door open for her. ‘Best not mention any of this to the troops, eh?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
Full of foreboding, Charlie went to catch George before he left the office. He’d spoken to the guv that particular weekend, the weekend of Moran’s ‘problem’. The guv had asked about some car registration, but it couldn’t be traced to a specific owner. Just an organisation – if that was the right word for an Embassy.
The Russian Embassy.