Chrissie’s departing shot, whispered, in consideration of the late hour, was to advise Billie to sleep with a chair wedged under the door handle. Such was his state of mind that he caught himself nodding. What price security? But the Ziploc file did find a temporary new home under the mattress.
Sunday dawned without any interest from Billie. The breakfast hour passed unnoticed, and it was a protest from his neglected stomach that put an end to his slumber shortly before eleven. Chrissie had re-titled the Titanic document as the T Doc, and it was now his constant companion. He kept the green plastic case with him as he reached the restaurant four floors below, settling for a liquid breakfast loaded with caffeine.
It sat under his notebook while he scanned the scribblings from the previous night’s debate. The concluding agreement had been for Robin to come over again that afternoon, while Chrissie drove up to Glasgow to resume her managerial duties with Fersen Marine. Once there, she would have time to trawl the internet. Ed was expected to be discharged some time on Monday, so Robin would take him back to the Hilton for a few days. Billie was to return the T Doc to the library for safety. But after that?
On one page he’d scribbled just two words: “Emma” and “WhatsApp”. He had her new number, and so considered challenging her about the accusation she’d made causing him to be suspended. But that felt like asking for her cooperation—admission that he had let her take control of his life. He’d researched Titanic because the subject intrigued him. But then he had listened to her claims about Peter Gris, played the gallant helper by coming down to Manchester, and nearly got Ed killed as a result. Now the document which appeared to have started all this mayhem was in his possession. Shouldn’t he be calling the shots?
Perhaps just a brief message. Something cryptic like “Ready to exchange favours.” No… she might interpret that as something sexual, just to add to his misery. What, then? With the phone poised in one hand and his coffee cup partly drained, an incoming call nearly caused him to choke. Who knew his number? A mobile, not Robin’s, but he answered it anyway.
‘Hey, Oor Wullie! How’s it hanging? I hear you’re awake now!’ The fake Scots accent and opening line confirmed the caller’s ID.
‘Ed? You sound better than I feel! How the devil are you?’
*
The man opposite was in uniform. A large desk between them. Their grave expressions a perfect match, reflecting their respective concerns. One had authority over the other, so Meredith spoke first.
‘Tell me again exactly what you said in your message.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Again.’
Uniform bit his lip in exasperation. He had his instructions. Meredith was not to be questioned. But it was getting harder to hold back from kicking the bastard in the balls. He breathed out slowly. ‘It went straight to voicemail, so I told him my name.’
‘But not your rank?’
‘No. I told him I was a senior officer with the GMP, and I’d very much appreciate an urgent call back regarding an incident at Salford Quays last week. Then I left my personal number. That was it, pretty much word for word.’
Meredith considered the situation. ‘If Vane retrieved his phone from wherever he’d hidden it, and the planted bug somehow failed, he’s hardly likely to ignore a message like that from a senior police officer. But that was yesterday. Try again now, and make sure you tell him your rank. It might reassure him.’
The other man gave a curt nod before calling Billie’s number. He received an immediate, automatic response. ‘Voicemail, again.’
‘Do it.’
‘Mr Vane? This is Chief Superintendent Tanner again. I realise it’s a Sunday afternoon and you probably thought I’d be off duty, but this matter is very urgent now. I’d appreciate a call back as soon as you get this, whatever the time. My number is 07700 900 876.’
The matching expressions returned. But only for a moment.
Meredith stood up and brushed an imaginary hair from the lapel of his suit. ‘Keep me updated.’
*
Chrissie was wearier than she cared to admit when she reached Glasgow. Reluctant to put aside the excitement of last night’s discussion with Billie and Robin, she had made use of hands-free calling while fighting holiday traffic on the motorway. She took business calls from colleagues in America and Glasgow, and was just concluding a conversation with Ed’s personal assistant in Clydeside when an afterthought struck her.
‘One more thing… shit, I sound just like Columbo. Seriously, I need a bit of amateur detective work doing.’
‘Sounds exciting. What are you after?’
‘Can you do some internet surfing for me, find anything you can about Joseph Bruce Ismay, formerly of the White Star Line?’
‘The Titanic bloke? Yeah, should be easy. Do you want it printed off with the other reports?’
‘That would be good. Just concentrate on anything after the sinking. I’ll slip you a little extra at the end of the month.’
‘No probs, Chrissie. See you tomorrow.’
When she walked into Ed’s office at Fersen Marine two and a half hours later, two piles of documents awaited her attention on the desk. A Post-it note on one bore the name “Ismay”. Which should she tackle first?
*
Billie regarded his reflection in the full-length mirror and noticed a button missing from his shirt. When did that come off? Couldn’t have been last night or Chrissie would have been sure to notice. The thought of her made him examine his appearance with a more critical eye. He saw a middle-aged man who had found little success in life. His most notable achievement to date was to have fathered a daughter with whom he could never spend enough time. How good is that? He had scored some short-term success in relationships, but Chrissie had been the best, lasting a little over a year before their opposing worlds imploded and they agreed to call it a day. Now he was sleeping with Pandora’s Box under his pillow and facing life on the run.
In the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water. Another mirror. Now he looked even worse. Stuff that. Back in the room he kicked off his shoes and flung himself on the bed, a blank ceiling offering no comfort.
Robin had set up a three-way phone conversation with Ed earlier. They’d talked a lot but resolved nothing. Ed reported he felt stir-crazy in his hospital cell, while both he and Robin felt little better in their respective hotels.
‘Couldn’t you have just taken a photo of every page?’ Ed had complained. He wanted to see the document for himself, but last night they had accepted Robin’s advice that even storing images on their phones was problematic.
‘Not worth the risk,’ Robin had said. ‘Especially when we know there are people out there who already accessed Billie’s phone. Who’s to know they won’t somehow find their way into ours? Then there’s the matter of control. While there’s only one copy out there we can take proper measures to protect it, as a parent can protect a child. Imagine the difficulty in keeping a whole group of children safe when they’re spread out so far you can’t even see them?’
Billie picked up the offending instrument and stared at the blank screen. How the hell had they all become so fixated on these bloody things?
Then a WhatsApp notification flashed up. A photo from Chrissie, with a note asking him to call her when he’d read it. Odd? But the photo was of a document, and while it was a partial record of a conversation between two unnamed persons, the subject matter clearly related to the Titanic:
18358 Will you tell us what you said?
I cannot recollect what I said. I think I read part of the message to them about the ice and the derelict – not the derelict, but the steamer that was broken down; short of coal she was.
18359 Did you understand from that telegram that the ice which was reported was in your track?
I did not.
18360 Did you attribute any importance at all to the ice report?
I did not; no special importance at all.
18361 Why did you think the Captain handed you the marconigram?
As a matter of information, I take it.
18362 Information of what?
About the contents of the message.
18363 The ice report?
About the contents of the message. He gave me the report of the ice and this steamer being short of coal.
He knew what he was looking at: an extract from the British Inquiry following the disaster. The numbers related to questions asked by Attorney General Sir Rufus Isaacs, and Billie was fairly certain the responses were from Joseph Bruce Ismay. Chrissie must have spotted something. But what?