Less than twenty-four hours later, O’Brien pulled his car over to the side of the road on the edge of Bootle and switched off the engine. Emily’s reaction to the name on the credit card needed challenging. ‘Eric Vinke? You know him?’
‘Give me a minute, will you?’ She was breathing hard, her face flushed.
O’Brien’s instincts told him to be patient. Emily’s behaviour in Liverpool that morning, and at the motorway service station, had alternated between rude and inspirational. Under normal circumstances he would have rebuked her for insubordination, but these were not normal times. His own career had ground to a halt, leaving one last shot at achieving a result. Ironically, the woman beside him could help deliver that goal, while her own professional aspirations would almost certainly be blown away. He watched with interest as Emily slowed her breathing, fingers tightening around the top of her thighs before pushing down to her knees, smoothing her skirt along the way. Her posture relaxed, she eased back into her seat and closed her eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Emily nodded, keeping her eyes closed.
‘So, Eric Vinke. Tell me what the name means to you. Because it’s completely off my radar.’
Eyes open, calmer again, she turned to him. ‘I can tell you what I thought I knew, but right now I’m not so sure I’ve got the whole picture.’ She paused while she framed the right words. ‘We’re sort of related. I always called him Uncle Eric. Until recently I hadn’t seen him for years. Not since before…’ More hesitation as she fiddled with a gold ring on her finger. ‘When I was eighteen and working in London, he made it clear he didn’t like my “profession”. But he was very close to my mum, and because he’s been a published author for so long, and she took such an interest, he encouraged her to try writing a book.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mum listened to the stories Wally told about his grandfather, Mickey Palmer. He’d worked at Harland & Wolff when they were building the Titanic, and he reckoned there’d been some sort of conspiracy over her sinking. Uncle Eric loved conspiracy stories, and earned a lot of money from publishing books about them. Have you read Will of the Gods?’
O’Brien shook his head. ‘Probably not my sort of thing.’
‘Anyway, he encouraged Mum to write about it, and she did. She bought some books for research, and she went to Belfast a lot when we were living in Portadown. When we moved back to Liverpool after Dad was killed, Uncle Eric and Auntie Helen came to visit. I remember lying awake at night, listening to them talking downstairs, often about the Titanic. Over the years I just tuned it out, even after my sister...’ Moisture in her eyes. More fiddling with the ring. ‘Then I left home and went to London and… you know, got distracted with other things.’
‘Did your mum continue with the writing?’
‘Yes. On and off. She got Parkinson’s a few years ago, and that slowed things down a bit. When I came back to live with her and Wally, after joining the force, I helped type up a lot of her stuff, or retype it, if I’m honest. I got interested myself, and once Uncle Eric had approved it, his agent helped us get our first book published. It came out earlier this year: The Tragic Sister. Doing quite well, actually. We published it in Mum’s name: E. M. Dearing. Now you’re supposed to ask me why.’
A shower of rain burst onto the windscreen as a heavy wagon loaded with scrap metal shook the ground. O’Brien checked his watch, aware of the need to reach their next appointment in good time. ‘Let’s get moving. I want to hit the motorway. You carry on. I suppose I’m more curious as to why your mum seems to have two surnames. Her birth name was Palmer, wasn’t it? Same as Wally?’
‘No. That was the name she took from Wally. That’s what I mean about Uncle Eric. He’s not a proper relation because Auntie Helen wasn’t really my mum’s sister. They were both friends, and they were adopted together.’
*
‘What do you think?’
It was the second time Ed had asked the question, and Robin didn’t have a properly thought out response. They were still in their hotel room, looking at the tracked position of Billie’s phone—a green blinking spot on a satellite image nowhere near the location they had expected. When they last looked, the phone appeared to have been taken to Greater Manchester Police Headquarters, a short drive away. Now it seemed to have moved about forty miles to the north, deep in rural Lancashire.
‘It makes no sense at all. I might check with Bog. See if he’s had any glitches on GPS.’
Ed looked glum. ‘In the meantime, the man himself has also gone off the radar.’
‘Billie? Still nothing?’
‘Nothing since yesterday morning. I’m getting worried, Robin.’
‘Ach, he’ll probably have lost his phone for real this time. Or had it pinched. He was heading for Liverpool, wasn’t he?’
‘So what’s to stop him getting another? He’s got a Fersen Marine charge card… unless he’s lost that too. Wait till I get hold of him.’
A single tone from the hotel phone. Ed answered it with a brief acknowledgement. ‘Commander O’Brien’s on the way up.’
Robin checked his watch. ‘Only five minutes late. Not bad. Now remember, keep it to the basics, and don’t go off-piste! Check with me if you’ve any doubt.’
‘What shall I say about Billie?’
‘The truth. You can’t get hold of him. If they’re that interested in speaking to him, let them try. They’ve got more resources at their disposal than we have.’
*
‘What names did you say?’
Downstairs, after walking across the lobby, O’Brien could see Emily’s reaction was one of deep shock. He’d told her they were meeting two men who claimed to have encountered someone acting on behalf of Peter Gris. An RTA in Salford. ‘Ed Fersen and Billie Vane. Why?’
‘Here? In this hotel?’
‘Yes. That’s who we’ve come to see. I did tell you.’ He pressed the button to call the lift.
‘You didn’t mention their names! Whereabouts did this incident happen?’
‘Close to your home address.’ He was watching her closely as the lift doors opened. ‘I thought you might have shown more interest?’
‘Holy shit… wait! Don’t get in.’ She reached for something inside her bag.
‘What? Emily, I really can’t—’
‘Something’s not right! Look. Look at this, please. It came through about twenty minutes ago and I haven’t replied.’
The lift doors closed again as he turned to examine the message on Emily’s phone.
*
Robin opened the door. He saw a tall, slim older man in his late sixties, wearing heavy-framed spectacles, a brown suit and a beige tie. He carried an old-fashioned attaché case. Standing close behind was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, smartly dressed with long brown hair swept back from her face.
‘Mr Fersen? We spoke on the phone.’
‘Sorry, no. You spoke to my partner. Please come in.’
Ed was standing by the window. He swallowed hard as he heard his guests enter the room, then turned to greet them. O’Brien blocked his view of the woman for a moment, stepping forward to shake his hand before moving aside to make the introduction.
‘This is Detective Inspector Blake—’
She cut him short. ‘Hello, Ed. I guess I owe you an explanation.’
‘What the fu—?’ He felt disoriented. The face and voice were familiar, but it still took a moment to register. ‘Emma?’
‘Yes. And no. Fact is I have a couple of names. Right now, it’s Emily Blake. And yes, I’m also a police officer. Sorry, but this is really important. Where is Billie?’
Ed looked to Robin for assistance. He got a perplexed frown in return.
‘Er… we’re not sure. To be honest, we haven’t heard anything from him for twenty-four hours. He’s not replied to any of Ed’s messages.’
‘I guess he’s not contacted you, either?’ asked Ed.
She shook her head. ‘How would he do that?’
Robin said, ‘You left your number on the letter. If that was you. You are the mysterious Emma that Billie’s been chasing for weeks?’
She ignored the question and asked one of her own. ‘What letter would that be?’
Robin bit his lip as the answer came from Ed. ‘For Chrissakes you know which letter. The one with the fucking document about Titanic! Now just tell us what the hell is going on here!’
She seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Her eyes closed for a moment, but with no barrier from despair she simply sat on the bed and hung her head. ‘Please tell me he didn’t take it with him.’
‘The document?’ said Ed. ‘No! He put it back in the library. I’ve still not had a chance to look at the bloody thing.’
She gave him a curious look, then turned towards her boss.
O’Brien’s face was grave. ‘Perhaps in the light of that, you should let Mr Fersen see the message.’
Emily retrieved her phone, tapped and scrolled, and then held it up for Ed and Robin to inspect. ‘Read this. But don’t believe a word of it.’
The WhatsApp message on screen was short and to the point:
Hi Emily. This is Billie. Thanks for your message. I think we should meet to talk about the document. I’m in Lancashire. Where are you?