Just after seven in the morning. Caffeine deprivation and a need to access the internet vied for Emily’s attention. Over twelve hours since she’d last checked WhatsApp. Hilton Park Services on the M6 had passed without comment from O’Brien, still with his nose in some file or other. The tank half-full. So was her bladder.
‘Mr O’Brien?’
‘Where are we?’
‘Just past Stafford. I was wondering—’
‘Pull in at the next services. We could use a break.’
Kind of you. Must be exhausting reading all that crap. ‘Yes, sir… Mr O’Brien, do you want me to top up the tank?’
The response was negative, and within ten minutes Emily was satisfying one of her personal needs in the ladies toilets while checking her mobile phone. A message sent last night. Not what she wanted to hear:
Em, u need to get here. I watched out 4 Wally like u said. he had a visiter today an I think he were frightend. I watched the house anuther man came. dunno whats gone down but only saw 1st man come out an drive his car. got a pic 4 u. want me to knock? Whitney X
The photo was of a tall, well-built man in a dark suit reaching for the door handle of a silver coloured car. Emily was almost sure it was an Audi. She was more certain of the man’s identity. Wally kept bad company sometimes, but this guy? Screw Manchester. Bootle was more important. She finished up and found her new boss waiting for her in Costa with two coffees to go.
*
O’Brien had known the refreshment stop would be his best opportunity. He had to tackle this female DI on a number of issues, some arising from what he had learned over the last couple of hours, and he steeled himself as he watched her approach. He glanced again at the screen on his iPad. The message received twenty minutes ago demanded an urgent response. But that wasn’t a call he could make. Not yet. He had to give her an opportunity. He owed her that.
‘Let’s take these outside.’ O’Brien headed for the car park entrance with the coffee. Emily took in the subtle change in body language and followed without comment. Through the automatic doors the air was stale with the fumes and fury of speeding traffic, while a westerly breeze battled in vain to keep the clamour on the far side of the building. O’Brien led the way to a stained picnic bench where a couple of discarded items were stuffed between the slats. He sat down and waited for Emily to do the same before pushing a carton towards her.
‘Black, no sugar. Right?’ She nodded, waiting for him to speak first before taking a sip. O’Brien ignored his own drink and took a deep breath. ‘You know how many rules you’ve broken lately? Police resources used without permission. Signatures forged. You’ve lied to your colleagues. Lied to me.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Not to you. I only told you the facts about Gris and what I knew to be true. You wanted to hear it anyway.’
O’Brien considered the last point before answering. ‘And how am I expected to sort the truth from the fiction when they have the same source?’
‘Experience. You’ve a lot more of it than I have. Pursuing the truth is what it’s all about, isn’t it? Your mate Colin thought so.’
He stared at her. Pursuing the Truth was the title of a recent book written by a DCI friend. The featured case had grabbed media headlines, and several contributions to the text came from himself. She would know that. ‘I ought to—’
‘What? Discipline me? Except you can’t, can you? There’s no rank here, you told me. You’re retired from the force, so technically you have no authority over me. I’m the one who volunteered to help you. Remember?’
It was like a slap in the face. As a police inspector, Emily Palmer had a reputation for talking tough. Watch a terrier with a rat, one colleague had said, and you’ve got the picture. Now O’Brien felt empathy with the rat. This officer certainly had plenty of backbone. But she was wrong on one vital point: he did have the authority to suspend her from duty. Hiring and firing anyone on his team had been something he’d insisted upon when signing up to this unofficial operation, within certain restrictions. Right now he could ill afford to lose her personal knowledge of Peter Gris, even if it meant giving her more ground than she deserved.
‘From my point of view, Emily, you didn’t so much volunteer as snatch at a chance opportunity. The way you see it, this operation gives you the break you’ve been looking for. Am I right?’ Her expression didn’t change, but her silence spoke loudly enough. ‘Emma Dearing the author disappeared for a good reason. She had another identity made available to her from the age of twelve. She could use her married name, her mother’s name, or her sister’s to hide her very existence from someone she considered a threat to herself and her family. If only half of what I know is true, then I understand your fear, and your hatred of that man. But you never had the right to be judge and jury. And you’ll never get it.’
The defiance in her eyes slowly melted. He recognised the stress levels he had seen many times in officers under his command. The girl had a mental strength to be envied, but for how much longer? He needed to rely on her to continue working at the level required of a professional police officer. He didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.
Emily’s voice had lost its edge. ‘I knew you were reading my file.’ Stray strands of hair flicked across her eyes and she pushed them back behind an ear. ‘Is there anything in there about… what I did before?’
‘Before you joined the force? Plenty. But I didn’t need to look at your records for that.’ O’Brien drank some of his coffee for the first time since they’d sat down. Emily did the same. He looked to his left, aware of some HGV drivers having a smoke nearby. The conversation could be moving into sensitive territory. ‘You told me once before about your life as a sex worker.’
‘What? When?’ Now there was something nearer to panic in her voice.
‘Quite a few years ago. I realised yesterday at what I initially thought was our first meeting. We’d met before. Peter Beard’s retirement? You wouldn’t remember me. I’ve gone a bit greyer and put on a few pounds since then. You, on the other hand…’
‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Was I—’
‘Pissed? Yes, very. But then so was I. The difference is down to perspective. You saw a Chief Superintendent in a very relaxed mood, and I saw a hugely attractive DI in an amorous one, flattering me to kingdom come. I’m not sure what you were after then, but I know my own motives were highly suspect.’
Emily’s complexion deepened. ‘Oh my God… I remember being there. There was this one fit guy, not you…’
‘Quite. He was younger than me. Don’t know his name or rank either. He prised you away just as it was getting interesting. I remember you telling me a few things I’m not likely to forget. Encounters with people from your previous life who should have known better. You also told me you’d nearly killed a high-ranking politician. I never got to hear the full story. It could have just been the drink talking, of course. But now? Now, I’m beginning to wonder. So come on Emily. Would you care to finish that particular tale?’
She hesitated. He watched her closely, keen to read anything in her face that would betray another lie. He knew he was putting her under more pressure than might be fair, but this could be a critical moment to assess Emily’s ability to continue with the project. Would she confirm a previous contact with Peter Gris, or try to bluster her way out with some fabrication?
‘It was—’
Their attention switched to Emily’s phone which vibrated with enough energy to travel a centimetre closer to her coffee. He registered the reaction on her face at the name on the display.
‘I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take this.’
O’Brien sighed as she snatched up the phone and walked away a few paces to answer the call. An occasional verbal response reached him on the fragmented breeze, her body language speaking of anger and upset. Then she was striding back to him, her face flushed with fury.
‘We’re going to have to go to Bootle. Wally’s dead. And I’m pretty sure I know who killed him.’