Tanner for Your Thoughts

(Inkerman and Lawson Book 3)

A novel

by

Michael Rolls

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Dedicated to the memory of my dear wife

Veronica Rolls

14-5-1943 to 23-1- 2018

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Tanner for Your Thoughts

Part One........................................................................................2

Chapter One 22nd September, 2009..............................................2

Chapter Two. 23rd September.......................................................4

Chapter Three 24th September...................................................10

Chapter Four 26th September......................................................12

Chapter Five 28th September......................................................15

Chapter Six 29th September........................................................20

Chapter Seven.............................................................................21

Chapter Eight 29th/ 30th September.............................................27

Chapter Nine 1st October............................................................31

Part Two......................................................................................36

Chapter Ten 8th / 9th September..................................................36

Chapter Eleven 11th September..................................................40

Chapter Twelve 12th September.................................................42

Chapter Thirteen 13th September................................................44

Chapter Fourteen 14th September...............................................54

Chapter Fifteen 15th September..................................................55

Chapter Sixteen 16th September.................................................64

Chapter Seventeen 17th September............................................69

Chapter Eighteen – 18th September............................................72

Chapter Nineteen – 19th September............................................77

Chapter Twenty – 20th September..............................................81

Chapter Twenty-One – 21st September.....................................82

Part Three...................................................................................84

Chapter Twenty-Two- 2nd October.............................................84

Chapter Twenty-Three – 4th October..........................................87

Chapter Twenty-Four – 5th -6th October.....................................90

Chapter Twenty-Five – 7th to 9th October...................................94

Chapter Twenty-Six – 10th 12th October...................................107

Chapter Twenty-Seven – 13th October.....................................109

Chapter Twenty-Eight – 14th- 15th October.............................114

Chapter Twenty-Nine Friday, 5th February 2010...................116

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Part One

Chapter One 22nd September, 2009

Detective Inspector Jane Lawson of the Surrey Constabulary knew that she was dying – and that was the good news. The bad news was the excruciating pain and that it was taking so long. Why couldn’t she just die, sink into blessed, pain free oblivion, and have done with it?

Slowly she opened her eyes and attempted to lift her head. Big mistake. The pain, which she had thought unbearable before, ratcheted up to a new level of intensity. Every muscle, every bone, every nerve ending, screamed in protest. She closed her eyes again and let her head sink back once more.

Time passed. She drifted into and out of consciousness, the consciousness unwelcome because of the pain.

More time passed. She became vaguely aware of a small dog nuzzling her face. A shape loomed over her and she heard a disembodied voice far away. The words made no sense to her.

More time passed. She felt hands on her body, the very touch of them increasing the pain yet again.

Somehow, she seemed to be suspended in midair.

Detective Chief Inspector Harold Inkerman looked anxiously through the cubicle window into the ITU bay. He turned to the uniformed constable at his side. He happened to know him; Constable David Crossman was about Inkerman’s own age, but that was the only resemblance. Crossman was content to be a neighbourhood bobby, one of the rare breed that Surrey ratepayers actually saw on their streets from time to time. As it happened, a year or so previously, Crossman had been drafted into the team, headed by Inkerman, than had conducted an exhaustive search for a missing child, a little girl whose tragic corpse Crossman had actually found.

“Tell me what you know, David.”

“Well, sir, the DI was found by a young lad walking his dog. The dog actually found her – she had been rolled under some bushes just off a seldom used footpath. The lad, Billie Lambert – had his mobile on him and called for an ambulance. Then he didn’t know what to do – he had told ambulance control where he was, best as he could, but they were a hundred yards or more off the road. He was worried that the ambulance crew would never find them unless he went to the road to flag them down, but scared to leave her alone in case something happened. Happened his school had a visit from a community liaison officer a week or so earlier giving them a chat on drugs and the like, and she’d handed out the contact card, so he phoned the number on the card. His message to control was a bit garbled, but they got the gist of it that there was someone in trouble. I was in the area so they directed me there.

“I got to the area about the same time as the ambulance – they actually beat me by about a minute –

and we started to look for them. Struck lucky, found them in less than five minutes.

“Billie and his dog were there, guarding the DI. To be honest, I was sure that she was dead, but the ambulance paramedic found a pulse and we whipped her into the ambulance. She was very, very cold

– they told you she was naked, sir?” Inkerman nodded, “and they weren’t very hopeful, but we got her here in just about record time. I called in to control, told them that I was leading the ambulance to make sure it didn’t get delayed, and they sent someone to secure the scene.”

He hesitated.

“I suppose I should have stayed at the scene and left the ambulance crew to get on with it, but after finding that little girl last year..” His voice tailed off. Inkerman reached out and touched him lightly on the arm

“No, David, you did fine. If you hadn’t found her when you did, she almost certainly would be dead by now. I can’t thank you enough. You off shift now?”

“Yes, sir, but I just wanted to hang around and see how she was.”

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“Well, it looks as though she should be alright, although it’s still a bit dicey, but she’s a tough girl and I’m sure that she will pull through.”

A few minutes later Inkerman was talking to Doctor Sonali Gutcharra, a quite incredibly good looking Asian woman, perhaps forty years old, and the consultant on call.

“How is she, Doctor?”

“I’m pretty confident that she will make a good recovery, Chief Inspector, although she is not totally out of the woods yet.”

“Can you give me any idea what may have happened to her?”

“Yes I can. She was suffering from an overdose of heroin.”

Inkerman looked at her in amazement.

“Heroin? Are you saying that she is an addict?”

The woman shook her head.

“Not at all. This was not self-administered. I examined her most carefully. Her body has just the one injection site. There are absolutely no signs of previous usage. Moreover, the drug was injected just behind her left shoulder,” she indicated the area with a graceful movement of her own arm, “a location almost impossible to reach oneself. There is also quite extensive bruising around the site as though she was struggling when she was injected. No. I am very much afraid that somebody else injected her, and from what I understand about how she was found, it looks as though she was not intended to survive.”

“Was she sexually assaulted, can you tell?”

“Well, there are no signs which would indicate sexual penetration of any kind, so, dependent upon what Inspector Lawson herself says when she is able to talk, I would say that there were no obvious sexual aspects of the attack upon her.”

Inkerman’s thoughts were reeling. Jane had not turned up for work that morning and there was no explanation as to why. Her partner (and soon, he understood, to be her husband), Harry Oakes had phoned in just after nine concerned that he had not seen her since the previous morning. Inkerman was at a loss to know what had happened. Jane had left the office a little after six the previous evening, making no comment about anything that might in any way explain what had happened to her. From that moment on, until Billie Lambert and his dog had discovered her at nearly seven o’clock that evening, nobody had any idea what had happened. Inkerman had already ordered a check of all possible CCTV coverage in the town, but that would take time. It would probably be at least a couple of days before he could speak with Jane herself.

It was dark now, but he decided that it was not too late to go to the scene himself.

When he arrived, he found that the only police presence was a uniformed constable guarding the taped off area where a woman in a white scene of crime suit was just packing up her bag prior to leaving.

Inkerman waited until she ducked under the tape then approached her.

“Evening, Sarah – anything for me?”

Sarah Cunningham, the senior SOCO, peered at him. Realising that he was silhouetted against the temporary floodlight illuminating the scene, he stepped to one side.

“It’s Inkerman, Sarah.”

“Ah, Chief Inspector. Not much, I’m afraid. The scene was obviously pretty churned up by the feet of everyone who helped her, but I can tell you that she was carried here by one person, presumably a man judging by the size of the prints and the length of the stride. His footprints were more heavily indented coming than when he left; also when he came, his left print indented a bit more heavily than his right, whereas the indentations were equal when he left, so he almost certainly carried Jane slung over his left shoulder, dumped her on the grass, then rolled her under the bushes where she was found.”

She shuddered slightly.

“He may not have realised that she was still alive, but if he did, he clearly intended for her to die here.

Thank goodness it was mild last night, otherwise I don’t think that she could have survived.”

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Inkerman nodded slowly. He had a very high regard for Jane Lawson and he was extremely glad that she had, in fact, survived an horrendous ordeal. The question still remained, however, what had caused that ordeal?

The two of them made their way to their respective cars, both with work ahead of them.

On a whim, he returned to the hospital, where he found Harry Oakes, which scarcely surprised him, but also PC Crossman, which did.

“Hello, Harry, I hope that they have already told you that she should be OK?”

The big man nodded.

“Yes, thanks. Do you have any idea what on earth happened?”

“Not really so far, I’m afraid. All we know for certain is that somehow somebody injected her with a nearly lethal dose of heroin, then dumped her. She wasn’t raped or anything as far as we can tell, and at the moment, I’m just totally baffled.”

Harry Oakes nodded slowly and Inkerman reflected that if ever the person who had done this crossed the path of one-time Captain Harry Oakes, MC, of the Bomb Squad, he would live to regret ever having been born. But probably not for long. Already one vicious killer had died at the bare hands of Harry Oakes1, acting to defend Jane and, on a secondary level Inkerman felt sure, himself.

Inkerman turned to Crossman.

“Still here, David?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Oakes turned up just as I was about to leave, and – I hope it’s alright – I told him what I knew about what had happened.”

“No problem, David – I’d have done the same. You off home now?”

“Yes sir, it’s been quite a day”

“And David – thanks again for everything – it’s just about certain that DI Lawson owes her life to you finding her in time.”

The policeman ducked his head in embarrassment.

“I’m just glad that she’s going to be OK, sir. Please tell her how glad I am that we were in time.”

“We will, David, we will.”

As Inkerman drove away, he mulled over in his mind who might be responsible for what had happened to Jane. Like any police officer, there were criminals Jane had put away who might jump at the chance of getting their own back, but this seemed, to say the least, weird. The more he thought of it, the more likely he felt that whoever had carried Jane into those woods must surely have known that she was still alive. If whoever it was had wanted her dead, why not finish her off there and then?

Nothing could have been simpler – she was absolutely helpless.

If whoever it was had not wanted her dead, why treat her in such a way that had made the chance of her dying an extremely high one? Heavily dosed with heroin, no clothes on, a late autumn night –

although thankfully a mild one – her chances of survival had been very slim.

Perhaps, he told himself, whoever it was didn’t care one way or the other?

Chapter Two. 23rd September

More time had passed. Vaguely, Jane had been aware of people in the near vicinity and noises that might have been voices, but which made no coherent sense to her.

Slowly, she came to realise that the excruciating pain had lessened to something more or less manageable provided she didn’t try to move. She wondered, in an abstracted sort of manner, where she might be. She had a vague memory of being cold, very cold, but that was no longer the case. She tried opening her eyes and quickly shut them again as searing pain lanced into her eyeballs. She drifted back into semi-consciousness.

Nearby, Inkerman was once again talking with the striking Dr. Gutcharra.

1 The Grass is Green

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“Well, Chief Inspector, I am glad to be able to say that she is definitely going to recover from her ordeal and, so far as I can tell at the moment, she will suffer no permanent physical effects. What it might have done to her mind, however, I cannot say. There, we will have to wait and see; there is always the risk of psychiatric damage in such cases, but I have already discussed Inspector Lawson’s case with one of my psychiatrist colleagues and from what we know so far he is hopeful that she will recover fully.”

“Well, that is very good news, doctor. Jane Lawson is very highly thought of and her colleagues will be glad to hear that she is out of physical danger.”

“There is one thing that intrigues me, Chief Inspector. As you know Inspector Lawson had been undressed before being abandoned and naturally, in such circumstances one would suspect some form of sexual assault. No such evidence is apparent here, but when I examined her again most carefully this morning, I found something which was not evident on initial examination last night. On the back of her skull, hidden by her hair, there is very slight bruising. By itself that could mean anything or nothing – it is, as I say, very slight. However, over-laying the bruising there is discoloration of the skin and the hair. Again, it is slight, but it looks as though she either struck her head against, or was struck by, something which had been recently painted, with the paint not having completely dried, or something similar. I felt this might be of help to you, so I snipped a lock of the discoloured hair and retained it.”

She passed over a small plastic bag containing a lock of blonde hair which, when one examined it closely, bore traces of red. Either paint, or something similar.

“Thanks, doctor, I’ll ask our forensic people to have a look at it – this is most helpful of you.”

Dr. Gutcharra inclined her head graciously and ushered Inkerman out.

Inkerman returned to his office, checked his incoming messages, found nothing of great urgency, and went into the office housing Jane’s team. In her absence the team was headed up by her Detective Sergeant, David Clarke, universally known as ‘Skull’ in recognition of his cadaverous appearance.

The two DCs, Alan Taylor and Dave Cross were also there, all three keen to know how Jane was progressing.

“OK chaps, the news is good. She is still under sedation to allow her to recover naturally, but the medicos have no doubt that she will make a full recovery. Now, next task is to find out who attacked her and why. As Jane herself was the subject of the attack, she obviously can’t be involved in investigating it; I am handing that job over to DI Lewis and her team, but I want you three to make yourselves available to her the moment she may need extra troops. As for what else is on the team’s plate, as the DI should be back in not too long, there’s no point in bringing in anyone acting – so Skull, you are in charge. If it looks as though the DI won’t be back for longer than we expect, I’ll review things, and if necessary I’ll second another DC to you so that you won’t be short of hands.”

Clarke nodded, pleased at this show of confidence in him.

“Do you know who the extra DC might be, sir?”

“Not yet, Skull, but if needed I reckon I’ll be able to find someone for you by the end of the week.”

Inkerman returned to his office and called in Shirley Lewis. As the DI sat, he launched straight into things.

“Shirley, I want you to take on looking into what happened to Jane Lawson – and I want the bastard caught. Nobody fucks my team over like this and gets away it, so I want you to give it absolute top priority.”

Shirley blinked, surprised at the unaccustomed strength of Inkerman’s language, but after a second decided that if it had been herself, rather than Jane Lawson attacked in such a manner, she would want to think that her colleagues would display just that level of determination.

“OK, sir – you’ve got it. Do we have any idea of Jane’s movements on Monday night?”

“Not yet. I’ve ordered every bit of CCTV that might help to be pulled and it’s being reviewed as we speak. I put Sergeant Cope from Division in charge of the donkey work, and told him that he would be reporting to you – he’s a good bloke, but make sure that he realises just how seriously we are taking all this.”

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Shirley nodded, whilst in her mind she quickly ran through what needed to be done.

“I’ll have a quick word with Skull and the rest of Jane’s team to start with so they know I’m going all out, and also to go through anything they can think of which may have a bearing.”

“Fine. Keep me posted, please.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Oh, before you go – the doctor in charge of Jane’s case found some very slight bruising at the back of her head and what looks like traces of paint or the like in the hair. She snipped some of the hair and let me have it; I’ve already sent it down to the lab for them to have a look at and I’ve asked then to copy the result to both of us.”

“Right, sir.”

As she made her way to the office of Jane’s team, Shirley thought over the possible ramifications of what had happened. At Jane had survived, and because she had had to be rushed to hospital, at least there were no scene of crime photographs of her to cause embarrassment to her. Wasn’t there a TV

programme called ‘The Naked Detective’? She would have had quite a bit of difficulty in living that down around the station.

She opened the office door; all three of Jane’s team looked up at her.

“Right, listen to me please. The DCI has asked me to use my team to head up the investigation into what happened to DI Lawson. However, he, and I, want you to be fully involved. I expect that you have already been giving some thought to possible scenarios, so I’d like to hear your thoughts – don’t worry if they are just vague ideas at the stage. Whoever did this to your DI is effectively sticking two fingers up at the lot of us. I don’t like that, and I don’t suppose you do. So, what thoughts?”

Clarke was the first to speak.

“Well, boss, DI Lawson left a bit early by her normal standards. She had a telephone call about five –

you can hear the bell,” he waved a hand in the direction of Jane’s office, which opened off the main room, “but we’ve no idea who it was from. However, the door was open and I heard DI Lawson say something like ‘OK, seven then’. I’ve no idea who it was, or what it meant, but if it was an agreement to meet somebody it might have a bearing.”

“Thanks, Skull. Anything else?”

Dave Cross answered.

“Boss, we don’t know what happened to her car. It hasn’t been found and there is no report of it being dumped anywhere. However, I did a check on torched vehicles – whoever grabbed her might have wanted to sanitise her car – and there was an Astra estate burnt out Monday evening over Stoughton way. It was on the Wellmeadow Estate – as you know, torched vehicles aren’t all that rare around there, and I can’t be sure that it is the DI’s car, but I’ve had uniform take a look and they’ve let me have the chassis numbers and the like off the manufacturer’s data plate. I’ve just tried phoning Mr.

Oakes to check the details against the car’s registration details, but there is no reply – I expect that he is still at the hospital.”

“Dave, have you had the car lifted?”

“No, I was going to try and verify it is hers first.”

“Get it lifted straight away. If it’s a waste of time, blame me, but let’s not leave what might possibly be a helpful piece of evidence lying around.”

The DC nodded.

“Anything else, anyone?”

The three men shook their heads.

“Right, I’m off back to my office, but anything at all – don’t hesitate to let me know.”

More time had passed. Slowly, Jane opened her eyes once more. This time there was no flash of pain, just a dull ache over her entire body. Slowly, her gaze wandered around the cubicle in which she lying on a bed, various medical monitors attached to her. Clearly, she was in a hospital, but why? Had she had a car crash? She closed her eyes and drifted off once more.

Through the glass partition, Harry Oakes watched anxiously. The nurse standing beside him, sensing his anxiety, murmured reassuringly.

“She’s doing very well, Mr, Oakes. In a few hours we expect her to be fully conscious.”

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“Thanks, I just can’t help worrying.”

“Why don’t you stretch your legs a bit, have a cup of coffee? You’ve scarcely moved for twenty four hours or more.”

“Thanks, but I’m OK here.”

The girl wandered off, reflecting on the policewoman in the bed. Apparently she was very, very lucky; a few more hours of exposure and she would have died. The nurse hoped that she was properly appreciative of the hunk who was hovering over her.

Inkerman’s phone rang.

“Inkerman.”

“Inky, it’s Eileen McCarthy. Got news for you.”

“Eileen, thanks, what do you have?”

“I’ve had a quick look at that lock of Jane Lawson’s hair. It isn’t paint – it’s lipstick.”

“Lipstick?”

“That’s right. At some stage the back of Jane’s head made contact with somebody’s mouth.

Presumably a woman, but in this day and age you can never be sure. There’s more good news. I think, can’t be sure, but I certainly hope, that we may be able to get a DNA sample from it.”

“Good Lord, just from a smear like that?”

The forensic pathologist chuckled.

“You’d be surprised at what we can do down here! Anyway, the less good news. If we can get a DNA sample it’s going to take a good few days – probably well into next week. Still, we’ll do our best.”

“Eileen, before you go – the ICU doctor said that there was very slight bruising to the area of Jane’s head where that trace came from. Now, to get that lipstick on her like that, the person wearing it must have been standing behind her and, perhaps in a struggle, the back of Jane’s head must have come into contact with that person’s mouth. How hard, though? The back of somebody’s head is a lot harder that the lips. Is it likely that the lipstick wearer would have bruised or swollen lips?”

“Good point – I’d say that it is just about certain. To make a bruise, even a very slight one, on the flesh over the skull would be quite a bump. The recipient will almost certainly have swollen lips, perhaps bruising around the mouth – the lipstick could cover up bruises to the lips themselves –

perhaps cuts to the inside of the lips.”

“Thanks, Eileen – you will let me have a report of this for the file, won’t you?”

“Of course, I’ll just add what we’ve talked about and the E-mail will be on its way to you and Shirley.”

“Thanks, bye.”

He put down the phone and thought about what he had just been told. Jane was a fit, strong young woman. She would not be subdued easily if not taken by surprise. That lipstick – it seemed to indicate that there must have been some sort of struggle, and that either deliberately in an attempt to inflict injury on her attacker, or just by general chance, the back of Jan’s head had smacked into somebody’s mouth, and had done so pretty hard. With Jane struggling, but ending up unconscious from the effects of the heroin, that made him pretty sure that more than one attacker had been involved.

The injection; heroin addicts injected into a vein for rapid assimilation of the drug. Jane, on the other hand, had been injected into an area of muscle. That made him more certain than ever that there had been a struggle. He picked up his phone and contacted Eileen McCarthy again.

“Eileen, Inky again. Sorry, I should have asked this before. Jane wasn’t injected into a vein but into the muscle area behind the shoulder. Would that make the effect any different?”

“Not in the long run, no, but it would make its initial effect take much longer. I haven’t had a report on her from the hospital yet, but that might well be what saved her life. If she had enough injected into a muscle to have the effect it had, straight into a vein might well have killed her in a matter of an hour or so – it there was enough of it, even in minutes.”

“Thanks again,”

He sat thinking some more. He had been puzzled from the outset by Jane’s survival. If whoever had attacked her wanted her dead, why not finish her off? Now, however, there was a possible answer. If

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that person was accustomed to the speed with which enough heroin into a vein would kill, perhaps he simply hadn’t realised how much more slowly an injection into a muscle would work? Had Jane's body fought off the effects of the drug and thus ensured her survival? Whatever the reason, he was pleased that she had indeed survived.

More time had passed. Once again Jane opened her eyes. This time she managed to focus them upon somebody at the end of the bed. It was Harry. He smiled down at her.

“Hello, darling. How are you feeling?”

“A bit groggy. What happened to me?”

“That’s what we all want to know. A boy and his dog found you yesterday in a wooded area off the A281 near Shalford.”

“Shalford? What on earth was I doing there? Had I been in a crash or something?”

“Again, we don’t know. All that we do know is that someone stuck a needle full of drugs in you and left you under some bushes well off the beaten track.”

Jane looked at him in complete mystification.

“Drugs?” She paused, “Harry, do people think this was some sort of attack?”

“We don’t think it – we know it was. Look, how well are you feeling? Your boss is anxious to talk to you to try and make some sense out of all this.”

She closed her eyes whilst she gave thought to her physical state. She felt quite wretched; as weak as a kitten, nauseous, and still with a thumping headache. However, that was far better than when she had last opened her eyes and couldn’t bear the pain that had exploded behind them.

“I think that I will be up to it.”

“OK – I’ll talk to your doctor first, though.”

Harry departed in search of a medical opinion on Jane’s state of health. Doctor Gutcharra was off duty, but her deputy, a small, fussy looking man of about thirty-five or so, agreed to come and see Jane straight away.

“Would you mind if I came with you, doctor? As you can imagine, I’ve been worried sick about her.”

The man smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his face, that made his grey eyes twinkle.

“Of course, Mr. Oakes. Come with me by all means. I can hardly imagine how bad this must have been for you, but she is going to be all right, you know.”

The two of them made their way to Jane’s cubicle, where the doctor introduced himself, that smile once again in evidence.

“Good afternoon, Inspector. I am Doctor Davis, currently responsible for your care. I understand from Mr. Oakes here that you feel well enough to talk to your police colleagues about what happened to you?”

“Yes, I think so doctor – I must admit to feeling pretty rough still, but the sooner I can talk with them, the sooner they may have something to go on.”

“Very well, then – but I must insist that you do not overdo things – you have had a very nasty experience, and it will some days yet before you are really back to strength.”

“I promise, doctor, I won’t overdo things.”

“Jolly good.”

As a result, forty-five minutes later Inkerman and Shirley Lewis were at Jane’s bedside.

“Well,” said Inkerman, “you certainly look a lot better than you did when I first saw you in here. How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty groggy, to be honest, and they say it will be a few days before I am right again. That’s why I wanted to see you as soon as possible.”

“OK, so, what can you tell us?”

“Not all that much, I am afraid. I had a call in the office at about five. It was from George Govern,”

Inkerman nodded. He well remembered Govern, one of Jane’s informants, who had been involved in a murder case earlier in the year. “He wanted to meet, but never showed up. We normally meet down by

- 10 -

the river, near the bridge, but there was no sign of him, so after waiting around for about fifteen minutes, I walked back to where I had parked.

“I was crossing the road and had just about reached the pavement when a Transit size van braked hard beside me. Three figures jumped out, grabbed me, and hauled me into the van, which then drove off fast. I struggled and it was quite chaotic for a while, with the four of us all swaying and stumbling as the van went round corners. They were too many for me, though, and eventually I was face down on the floor of the van with someone’s weight on top of me, somebody said something like ‘Come on, stick it in the bitch’ and I felt something sharp being jabbed into my shoulder. It must have been a hypodermic for I could feel that I was being injected with something.

“After that they seemed content just to keep me pinned down, and after a while I passed out. The next thing I remember is being bitterly cold and a having a dog nuzzling my face, then everything was all disjointed until I really started to come to properly about an hour or so ago.

“I never saw them properly – in the seconds they took to bundle me into the van I got a quick impression, but once in the van it was pitch black – couldn’t see a thing. Three of them, as I said. Two were quite tall, certainly taller than me, one was about my height. Whoever pinned me down felt pretty heavy. The short one I think may well have been a woman, although I can’t be sure.”

Inkerman reflected on what Jane had said. That solved the mystery of the injection. In the back of a van in motion, and in total darkness, there could have been no question of the person with the hypodermic being able to inject into a vein, so he, or she, simply stabbed it into Jane in the most convenient place.

“It almost certainly was a woman. In your struggles, the back of your head hit her in the mouth, leaving traces of lipstick - and just possibly a DNA sample.”

“That’s good – if she’s on the database we could be going places fast.”

“Yes we could. You can’t be the investigating officer, of course – not seeing that you were the subject of the attack. Shirley will lead, but keep you and your team in the loop.”

Jane nodded. It was no secret that she and Shirley did not hit it off particularly well, but they were both sensible enough not to let it interfere on a professional basis, and despite the lack of fellow feeling between them, they respected each other’s abilities.

“Anything else you can think of, Jane?” asked Shirley.

She shook her head.

“No, I just don’t understand it. That call from George Govern must obviously have been to set me up, but why?”

“Revenge?” Shirley suggested.

“Well, it’s possible – but in that case – who? Like everybody else, I’ve had villains mouthing off at me, telling what they were going to do to me when they got out, but it’s never turned out to be more than just noise.”

“Do you think Govern might have been behind it?”

“No, not George – he doesn’t have that sort of clout around here. I can see him setting me up if somebody paid him, especially if I wasn’t expected to survive to come after him over it, but that’s about it.”

Inkerman had been thinking further about that struggle in the van.

“You know, I think the way they abducted you explains something else that was puzzling me. To be honest, I couldn’t understand how it was that you survived. I mean, if they wanted you dead, why not make sure? Sarah Cunningham reckons that you were carried to where you were found by one person, presumably a man. He carried you slung over his left shoulder, so he was reasonably strong. I think that in the darkness of that van nobody could be sure if you were already dead – but Eileen McCarthy and the hospital doctors all reckon that if the amount of heroin they injected had gone into a vein, you would have died very quickly. I think that they just didn’t realise that injecting into muscle would slow things down so much. They probably thought that they were just dumping a body. Now, we have no real idea just when he dumped you, but I am imagining that it was still dark. I can’t imagine that they would have waited all night and then taken you there in daylight; even though where you were found is off the beaten track, he still had to get there from the road, and he surely could not have dared

- 11 -

take the chance of being seen. Carrying a naked woman’s body slung over his shoulder would be hard to explain.”

“Naked?”

“Yes, I’m sorry – I assumed that you knew. They took the clothes off you, presumably to make identification more difficult, but it also meant that of you hadn’t been found when you were, hypothermia would have killed you even if the heroin hadn’t.”

Jane shuddered at the thought, and made a vow to herself that she would get back at whoever had done this to her, no matter how long it took. The vision of herself slung over some bastard’s shoulder like a sack of coal was not one that she liked in the slightest.

Chapter Three 24th September

The next morning, Thursday, Inkerman sat in as Shirley reviewed progress. In addition to her own team, she also had Jane’s, fulfilling her promise to keep them up to speed.

“Right,” she said, “what we have so far. DI Lawson was abducted Monday evening. She was down by the river expecting to meet an informant. When he didn’t show after fifteen minutes or so she returned to her car. Just as she reached it, a van stopped beside her. Three people, almost certainly two men and a woman, jumped out, grabbed her, and bundled her into the van and it drove off. The van was windowless, so the resultant struggle took place in the dark. The assailants overcame DI Lawson and injected her with what they assumed to be a lethal quantity of heroin. Fortunately for her, and for us, it wasn’t lethal. She was found nearly twenty-four hours later by a lad walking his dog in a wooded area off the A281 near Shalford village. She is now in the Royal Surrey County Hospital, has made a complete recovery, and is expected to be discharged tomorrow, although I don’t know yet when she will be back at work.

“So, that’s the background. Now for the action.” She turned to her DS, Larry Parsons.

“Larry, CCTV news?”

“I’ve been working with John Cope from Division who put together six blokes to review every scrap of footage that might be relevant. They’ve put together the most useful bits – which include footage of DI Lawson actually being lifted. Shall I run the tape now?”

“Please.”

Parsons switched on the big screen tape unit and the team watched a succession of clips. One showed Jane leaving her parked car and walking in the direction of the river. Another showed her about to reach her car when a van pulled up beside her, three figures emerged and dragged her, struggling madly, into the van which then sped off. Another clip showed the van leaving town, headed south.

Another clip showed a man breaking into Jane’s car and driving off in it, and successive clips showed her car being driven to the Wellmeadow area where the man got out of it and stood waiting. A few moments later another car drew up and another man got out, carrying what looked like petrol cans in each hand. He handed one to the car thief and they splashed the contents all over Jane’s car, both inside and out. They then stood well back whilst the original man doused what looked like an old towel in some liquid from a can and applied a cigarette lighter to it. He then tossed it onto the car.

Immediately the vehicle burst into flames. The two men got into their car and drove off. Another piece of CCTV footage showed the vehicle leaving Guildford headed north.

“We’ve made the registration numbers of the van and that car with the arsonists in it. Both are false plates. The van’s plate actually belongs to a genuine Transit, but we’ve checked and it is owned by a furniture removal company in Brighton. No way is it the right van. The car’s number belongs, not to the Mondeo we have seen, but to a Fiat Punto owned by a lady in Winchester.”

“So,” Shirley interjected, “we have two vehicles involved. Going by the timings on the CCTV clips, the stealing and torching of DI Lawson’s car cannot have be done by the three people – four counting the driver – in the van, they happened too close together in time. So we have a minimum of six people involved in this. Also a fair amount of organisation – false plates on the Transit and the Mondeo, the phone message which lured the DI to where she could be snatched, and I should imagine that they

- 12 -

must already have sussed out where they intended to dump her. They can’t have just driven along looking for a likely spot – especially as it was dark.”

Dave Cross spoke up.

“Boss, I checked on burned out vehicles that night. The Sussex police found a burned out Transit just off the A281 near Rudgwick. A Mondeo was found burnt out off the A3 near Ripley. No sign of plates on either vehicle, but I reckon they must be the ones we’ve seen – too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

“Well done, Dave – ask forensics to look them over, although I suppose we are unlikely to find anything useful from them.

“So, this is even bigger. The chummies in those vehicles wouldn’t have been walking away from them

– they would have to have been picked up, so at least one more vehicle, much more likely two. So, we’ve got a van with four in it, the man who picked up the DI’s car, the man in the Mondeo who picked him up and someone to pick up the Transit, unless they torched it near to a vehicle they had already cached. Minimum of six people, more likely at least seven. At least three vehicles, more probably four. This was nothing casual, and it doesn’t look like some yobbo out for revenge for being put away by DI Lawson, unless it was a very important yobbo.”

The detectives all looked at each other in exasperation. At this stage no reason for the crime suggested itself to any of them.

Inkerman raised a point.

“Jane was at that spot in response to the telephone call from George Govern. Any joy in laying hands on him?”

It was Shirley who answered, shaking her head.

“No, sir. We’ve all been putting pressure on our informants. Nobody admits to seeing Govern later than lunchtime on Monday, four or five hours before he phoned.”

“So where is he?” mused Inkerman. “That looks like a first priority – finding the man.”

Shirley, however, was ahead of him. “I’ve already had people knocking on doors, sir. He isn’t at home

– he lives with a woman called Ursula Nolan. She says that she hasn’t seen him since he left the house on Monday morning, about eight-thirty to go to his shop. He has an assistant there, a man called Dave Fellowes. Govern got to the shop OK, but a good bit later than usual, saying he’d done a deal on a couple of chairs before coming in. Apparently Fellowes had told him about the chairs, phoning him at home the previous evening. Govern left again about eleven, telling Fellowes that he didn’t know when, or if, he would be back that day. Apparently that is nothing unusual for Govern, so Fellowes didn’t attach any importance to it. When he didn’t turn up Tuesday morning, he still wasn’t worried, but he did begin to wonder by Tuesday afternoon. Again, not coming in like that isn’t all that unusual, but what was unusual was that Govern didn’t phone in as he normally does. Also Nolan said that he sometimes stays away for a day or two on business at short notice, but that he always phones to let her know. This time he hasn’t phoned, or so she says.”

“Any reason to doubt her?”

“Just that we know that Govern isn’t exactly as pure as the driven snow – nearer to the driven slush –

so if she lives with him...”

Shirley shrugged her shoulders expressively.

“Does she have a record?”

“No, sir – we checked, but nothing known. Same for Fellowes. As you know, Govern did time for receiving stolen goods – two years, out in one, back in 1990, but been clean since.”

“We’ve got to find him, Shirley.”

“We’ll keep hard at it, sir.”

“OK, everyone, thanks for your efforts. I’m off now, see you in the morning.”

Inkerman left to a chorus of ‘Goodnights’ and made his way home, but not before phoning the hospital to check on Jane. She was fine, he was told, and would be discharged the next day.

- 13 -

Chapter Four 26th September

In the event, it wasn’t the police who found George Govern. It was, once again, a boy walking his dog. Nowhere near Shalford, where Jane had been dumped. This finding was in Oxshott Woods, a good fifteen or sixteen miles to the north-east. Ken Rivers was sixteen, a bit older and much more self-possessed than fourteen year old Billie Lambert who had found Jane. He and his dog, Hobo, a big, clumsy but lovable Labrador, were wandering with no fixed purpose in mind other than to allow Hobo to get, hopefully, enough exercise to fight off the weight gain Ken’s parents were always foretelling.

It was perhaps just as well that it wasn’t someone as young as Billie Lambert who found George Govern that Saturday morning. Unlike Jane, George was quite definitely dead and it was the police that Ken phoned on his mobile, after tying Hobo up to a sapling to prevent him investigating the body too thoroughly.

Oxshott, where Govern had been found, was in the North Surrey Division, rather in Inkerman’s West Surrey Division, but the call for information on Govern’s whereabouts was now nationwide, so there was very little delay in Inkerman being informed of the find.

It was a major development for him; the Thursday and Friday had seen a lot of effort by his teams, but no results, no real progress. Even the hoped for DNA sample from Jane’s hair was less useful than had been hoped.

“I can get an 80% match, but that’s all,” Eileen McCarthy had said ruefully, “it’s just too contaminated. If you have a suspect, I can say a definite ‘no’, but otherwise, no better than

‘possibly/probably’.”

Inkerman called Shirley Lewis, but received no reply. She was, in fact, simply out shopping and had inadvertently left her mobile switched off. Checking, Inkerman found that Clarke was on duty, so called him instead and the two detectives met up at the scene only just over an hour after Ken Rivers had made his initial call.

They found the scene cordoned off with blue and white incident tape and half a dozen uniformed officers, led by a sergeant, already conducting a preliminary search of the ground around the cordoned off area. Inside, two white overalled figures were kneeling beside the corpse.

As Inkerman and Clarke approached, the nearer figure stood to greet them; it was Eileen McCarthy, the forensic pathologist.

“Morning, Inky – thanks for spoiling the weekend!”

“Sorry, Eileen – still, it’s spoiled mine as well. What have you got so far?”

“Well, white male in his fifties. Difficult to say how long he’s been dead until I can have a good look at him, but certainly several days, perhaps as long as a week.”

“So Monday would be possible?”

“Possible. Leaving aside a coincidental heart attack or the like, cause of death was two bullets in the back of the head. Small calibre, low power, probably from a .22 of some sort – they are still inside the skull. According to the driving licence in the wallet, he’s George Govern, 16, Lammas Drive, Burpham. Is this the man you’re looking for?”

“Seems pretty certain. Was he killed here, do you know?”

“I’ll need to check lividity patterns, but from the position of the body, I’m inclined to say yes – as you can see, his hands have been secured behind his back with a cable tie and it looks as though he was forced to kneel, then shot. That being the case, I’m expecting to find different angles to the two bullet paths, one from when he was kneeling, the other as he was falling or even after he hit the ground.”

“When will you do the post mortem?”

“Well, if you ask nicely, I could do it later today – I’m away on Monday for a few days in France –

my sister lives over there and we are getting together for the first time for a couple of years. It’s simpler if I do it now rather than hand over to Dr. Caine, and any long tests should be ready by the time I’m back.”

Inkerman smiled at her.

“I’m asking nicely, Eileen. DS Clarke here will be our presence.”

“Fine.” She turned to Clarke.

- 14 -

“Would three o’clock suit, sergeant?”

“Fine with me, doctor.”

“Right, three it is.”

Inkerman turned to the sergeant in charge of the uniformed officers.

“Sergeant, is the lad who found the body still here?”

“Yes sir. Once the transit arrived, I got him to wait there rather than hang about here.”

“Good idea. What sort of state is he in?”

“Surprisingly composed about it, sir. He phoned his home to let his family know what was happening

– I spoke with the mother – and she will come and fetch him. In fact, that could be her now.”

He indicated a woman being led by a PC who was being careful to keep the bulk of the police vehicles between her and a sight of the body. Inkerman made his way over to the pair. The woman was tall, with ash-blonde hair to the shoulders of her Barbour jacket, worn unzipped to reveal a heavy white roll neck sweater. Light blue jeans and green wellington boots completed a ‘smart country wear’

ensemble.

“Mrs. Rivers?”

“Yes, that’s right. Is Ken alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine, Mrs. Rivers. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman and I’m heading up this investigation. I must say that I am very impressed at how well Ken has handled this. Do you mind if we both go and talk to him for a moment? I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet, and I’m sure that he would be happier with you there as well.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course.”

Inkerman led her over to the far side of the Transit van which had brought the uniformed men to the scene, where they discovered Ken and Hobo idly passing their time, Ken sitting on the floor of the van with his legs stuck out in front of him, Hobo wandering back and forth as far as the limit of his extending lead would allow.

Inkerman looked at the boy, who stood up as they approached. Tall for his age, but slimly built, dressed in a heavy fleece, jeans and trainers, he seemed surprisingly composed for somebody who had just recently found a dead body. He was fair skinned, with light brown hair and blue eyes which regarded Inkerman with understandable curiosity.

Inkerman introduced himself.

“Ken, I’m DCI Inkerman, and I’ll be heading this investigation. If I may, I’d like to talk to you about what has happened.”

The lad nodded and Hobo, clearly unwilling to be left out of things, wandered over to investigate the newcomer. As the dog sniffed inquisitively at his trousers, Inkerman absentmindedly patted the shaggy head and was rewarded with having his hand licked by a large, warm and very wet tongue.

“I suppose it was Hobo who actually made the discovery?”

“Yes, sir. I had let him off the lead and he was just rummaging around generally, then dashed over here from where we were back there,” he waved a hand, indicating a area of path about thirty yards away, “I came over to see what he was interested in. I couldn’t believe it at first, but when I did, I just dialled 999.”

“And we’re very grateful that you did. We think that this is a man we have been looking for for some days. Tell me, do you come to this part of the woods very often?”

“Not at this time of year. It’s nearly dark by the time I get home from school. During the week mum walks Hobo.”

“Yes, that’s right, Inspector – but I walk him on the other side of the road behind our house. I never normally come this way – it’s often very muddy.”

Her son nodded in agreement.

“That’s right – it can be very muddy over here, so I don’t often come over this way either. I only came today because I like to let Hobo have a change from time to time and it hasn’t rained all week, so it’s fine to walk on today.”

Which made Jane’s survival even more a matter of good fortune, Inkerman reflected. Rain overnight would almost certainly have resulted in her death from exposure.

- 15 -

“Well thanks very much to both of you. Could I impose on you to let one of my officers run you down to the station for Ken to make a statement that he can sign for me, please?”

Mother and son readily agreed and were whisked away, and Inkerman conferred with John Headley, the uniformed sergeant, and Eileen McCarthy. As a result, he agreed to the removal of the body, and Headley presented the results of the search of the immediate locality – several cigarette ends in varying states of decomposition, a used, and clearly pretty old, condom, and the only truly interesting element, two used cartridge cases. They all inspected them.

“Two-two rim fire,” pronounced Inkerman to the accompaniment of nods of agreement from the others.

Eileen McCarthy nodded again.

“Those things can be the very devil to match,” she observed glumly, “soft lead bullets going through the bones of the skull – they will probably be too mangled to use for comparison if we find a possible weapon. If we can find the actual weapon, it might be possible to match the cases to it,. The marks of the firing pin and the extractor can be matched with a bit of luck, but it’s not as easy, nor as certain, as matching a bullet.”

Inkerman agreed, then turned to Headley.

“Sergeant, would you please keep looking for anything within fifty yards of the scene – can’t see any point on a bigger area, at least not at this stage. Once that’s done, post a man here at least for the next twenty four hours. I’ll send someone up later today to take anything you find – save your boys having to transport it and it’ll allow another of my people to familiarise themselves with the scene. I’ll also leave DS Clarke here to have a general scout round.”

“Right, sir.”

Inkerman turned to Clarke.

“Skull, just have a general scout round, see if you come up with anything interesting, talk to any dog walkers you see – you know the score. Come back when whoever I send up arrives so you will be in time to attend the post mortem, OK?”

Clarke nodded acquiescence and Inkerman left for his car.

Once he was out of earshot, Clarke turned to Headley.

“Sarge – do you or any of your lads know this area well?”

“I’m new to round here but Davis over there – the big chap – has lived in the village all his life.”

He indicated a heavily built young constable who was examining the ground minutely in the hope of finding something missed so far. Clarke strolled over to him.

“PC Davis?”

The young man straightened up.

“That’s me, sir.”

“Sergeant Headley tells me that you are a local. Tell me, do you think anyone who dumped the body here would need to know about the area, or could you just happen on it?”

Davis furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment.

“Well, you could just happen on it, but it is a good spot to hide something. I mean, they must have come by car, mustn’t they? You can’t just stop on the road here – even at night it’s pretty busy and you’d be certain to be seen. If they were lugging a body out, somebody would have seen them almost for sure.”

“Suppose chummy was still alive at that point? That they marched him into the woods and shot him there?”

“Even then a parked car in the road itself would stick out like a sore thumb. On the other hand,” he pointed vaguely away from where they stood, “about a hundred and fifty yards over there there’s a lay-by. It’s screened from the road by trees. A vehicle parked in it can’t be seen from the road and wouldn’t look suspicious. A lot of cars stop there.”

Clarke jotted in his notebook the need to try and find anyone who might have seen a vehicle in the lay-by at whatever time the pathologist reckoned the killing took place.

“Can you take me to it, so I can see what sort of route they would have taken to get here?”

“Right, it’s this way.”

- 16 -

The constable marched off, with Clarke beside him. By the time they got to the lay-by Clarke was convinced that whoever shot Govern had known where he was taking him. The murder had taken place well away from several clearly defined tracks, all of which had evidence of use by dog walkers, some less responsible than might be wished. OK, it might be that the killer or killers had simple struck off into the deeper part of the woods and happened on the spot were Govern was killed by chance, but he was convinced that local knowledge was more likely.

Thirty minutes later Larry Parsons, Shirley Lewis’ DS, arrived to take over at the scene and Clarke left to attend the post mortem of George Govern.

He had always disliked attending such events but over the years had become more or less immured to them. This was a particularly unpleasant one, because Govern had been dead for the best part of a week before being found, with the inevitable effects of decomposition and predation.

At last, however, it was over, and Dr. McCarthy summarised her findings for him in a few cryptic comments.

“Well, sergeant, I will be getting the full report over by the end of the day, but briefly, as we assumed, death was due to the gunshot wounds. The bullets are soft lead – as is normal for a point two-two rim fire, and are badly mangled by passing through the skull. No chance of a ballistic comparison, I’m afraid. Death occurred not earlier than around Monday evening, not later than Tuesday evening –

can’t be more exact, I’m afraid. He was in decent health for his age, no sign of chronic, nor debilitating medical conditions which would have caused him any problems or contributed to his death. And that’s about it, apart from one other thing of interest. He had taken – or been forced to take – some sort of sleeping draught some hours before he was killed. I’ll need toxicology tests before I can say what it was, but it looks as if it may have been used to subdue him. There are no scuff marks on his clothes or shoes consistent with him being dragged to where he was shot, so it may be that he was able to walk at that time.”

“Right, thanks, doctor – I’ll be on my way.”

Gratefully, Clarke escaped from the sights and smells of the autopsy room and made his way back to the station, where he found Inkerman and a mortified Shirley Lewis, mortified because she had only in the last half hour realised that her phone had been off and in consequence had missed what had been happening.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she was saying, “I can’t imagine how I was so bloody stupid..”

“Don’t worry about it, Shirley, you were off duty, and anyway, no harm done. Skull here and Larry have coped and I’ll leave it to Skull to fill you in on it, but first, Skull – how did the autopsy go?”

“Dr. McCarthy says death was definitely caused by the gunshot wounds, and Govern died between Monday evening and Tuesday evening. She recovered the bullets, but they are very badly mangled –

no chance of a ballistic comparison. She has also discovered that Govern seems to have been subdued with a sleeping draught of some sort before he was killed, although it looks as though the effects had worn off enough for him to have walked before being killed.”

Inkerman nodded glumly; he hadn’t expected anything better.

The rest of the weekend saw no further progress; Inkerman’s team, called from their weekend’s rest, reinforced by local uniformed officers, knocked on doors, talked to joggers and dog-walkers, all to no avail. Nobody had seen anything suspicious over the relevant period.

The only positive over the two days was that Jane Lawson had phoned; the hospital were happy with her and she was retuning to duty on Monday.

Chapter Five 28th September

It was with a degree of diffidence that Jane entered her office that Monday, to find that her team were already all present and waiting for her.

To a chorus of ‘Good morning, good to see you’ and the like, she found a message on her desk from Inkerman, asking to see her straight away.

Inkerman greeted her warmly, but then went on with news that she didn’t like.

- 17 -

“Jane, the personnel people have been on to me. They are insisting that you see Dr. Fowler before starting back at work. It could be worse – I’ve managed to get her to see you right now, but unless she is happy with you, you are going to have to take sick leave.”

“But that’s daft, sir. I’m fine.”

“I’m sure that you are – but you need to convince her of that.”

He picked up his phone, dialled an internal number and spoke into the handset.

“Inkerman here, doctor. Inspector Lawson is with me now – can I send her straight along?”

Clearly the answer was in the affirmative, and a few minutes later Jane found herself sitting in an easy chair facing the woman who had the power to keep her out of action for an indeterminate period.

Corrine Fowler was a consultant psychiatrist who worked with the police on an as and when basis, so Jane was impressed and grateful that Inkerman had managed to arrange an immediate interview. All too often such an interview might have taken days to arrange, with the unhappy subject forced to kick his or her heels in the interim. She was about fifty years old, a bit on the stout side, with an aura of comfort about her, from the understated clothing to her plain features. She was, however, an extremely able woman with a reputation for being impossible to fool.

“Thank you for coming, Inspector,” as though I had a choice, Jane thought to herself, “I just want to talk through with you the experience that you have had, so that we can both be sure that you are fully ready to come back to work. Firstly, what is your immediate reaction to what was done to you?”

Jane hesitated for a moment, wondering how to pitch her reply, wanting to be sure that anything that she said didn’t give this woman an excuse to stop her coming back. She hesitated too long.

“Don’t try and work out what you think that I want to hear, please. Just tell me the truth.”

Jane bowed her head briefly in acknowledgement of the ease with which the woman had read her thoughts.

“OK, my first reaction, once I got over the shock of so nearly ending up dead, was one of fury. How dare somebody treat me like that? But not just fury at them – also fury at myself for being taken so easily. I’m a trained police officer – I should not have been so easy a mark for a bunch of thugs. Next up, I want to see them caught and punished. Ideally I’d want to work the case myself, but I accept that that is impossible.”

“Yes, I can understand your reaction – it’s natural and understandable. But tell me, how do you think what happened has affected you?”

“I don’t think that it has. I haven’t been injured, I’m as fit as ever.”

“But it must have affected you, surely? You are a team leader. All your team are male. You were found naked, helpless, near death. Don’t you think that must affect how your team see you?”

Jane paused; she had indeed given some thought to just that aspect of the affair. At least none of her team had been at the scene when she was found. It was bad enough to wonder what the men might think about it; it would have been much worse if it had been one of them who had actually seen her in that state. She forced herself to smile.

“I’m glad that none of them did actually see me. I would have found that very embarrassing, and so, I am sure, would they, but it didn’t happen that way. As it is, I suppose it is inevitable that they will all have played the mental image in their minds – they wouldn’t be human if they didn’t – but I know them pretty well. None of them are going to see it as a weakness in me; they will see it as an attack on them as well. I just don’t see a problem there.”

The psychiatrist looked at her for several moments before speaking again.

“What about your partner, Mr. Oakes? How has he reacted?”

What’s that got to do with you, lady? Jane thought angrily. The thought must have played across her face, because the doctor seized on it instantly.

“No, that isn’t an unwarranted intrusion into your privacy, much as it might seem so. If the incident causes the two of you problems, it will almost certainly affect your work, and it might be as well for you to have some time off to make sure that such a problem doesn’t occur. One aspect of such a problem could well be Mr. Oakes not wanting you to continue on the police force when you are subject to such risks.”

“Doctor, the only effect upon Harry is to make him more determined than ever to keep me safe, but not to that extent. I don’t know if you are aware that the only reason I am alive today is because

- 18 -

Harry, with his bare hands, killed a man – a multi-murderer intending to add me to his list of victims.

He didn’t try and talk me into leaving the force after that, and he hasn’t this time, either.”

Corrine Foster smiled back at her.

“Yes, I know about that adventure the two of you had. I must say that Mr. Oakes sounds a most capable man.”

She straightened slightly in her chair.

“Right, brass tacks. I think that you are perfectly fit to resume your duties straight away, but something like this can have delayed effects. I want you to come and see me immediately if you find yourself unable to sleep, losing your appetite, whether for food or sex, or if you find yourself feeling depressed in any way. In any case I want to see you again a week today, same time, in this office. That is a specific requirement – if you don’t come, you will be on sick leave immediately – and it might be a while before I could find another time slot for you. Are we agreed?”

Amazed at how smoothly and quickly things had gone, Jane agreed with alacrity.

Once she had left the office, Corrine Foster picked up her phone and dialled Inkerman.

“Inky, I’ve spoken with Jane Lawson and cleared her to start work straight away. I’m sure that will be better for her than moping around at home on sick leave, but I’ve told her that she must see me again next Monday – if she doesn’t, or tries to make any excuses, I’ll put her on indefinite sick leave straight away. Something like this could have a delayed effect, so keep an eye on her, please. If anything worries you, let me know immediately, OK?”

“OK, Corrine, and thanks for seeing her.”

It wasn’t until she got back to the office and had been brought up to speed by Inkerman and Shirley Lewis that Jane heard about the murder of George Govern.

“It must be connected to what happened to me, surely? It was George who set me up to be where I was grabbed.”

“That’s what we are all assuming, Jane. It still leaves a big puzzle over the whole thing, though. Why should they have done any of this? And who are they anyway?”

“I think that the Tanners must be involved somewhere. I know George was terrified of them when we were working on those shootings in March. I had to really drag out of him the fact that some of the information he gave us came via them. As you know, they have a reputation for not leaving people around to talk about them. If George found out something big about them, and they knew he had found it out, silencing him wouldn’t be out of keeping.”

The detectives considered what they knew about the Tanner brothers. Dan and Billy Tanner were two brothers who had first made themselves notorious in southern England some twenty years earlier. They had been gangsters, pure and simple, and for a decade or more had seemed above the law, thanks to the ruthlessness with which they eliminated anyone they feared might inform on them. Nobody, but nobody, would testify against the Tanners in court. A number of very promising cases had either collapsed completely or seen very minor fish the only ones to be caught in the net. Eventually, however, they had been nailed, although only for fraud and tax evasion; their violent crimes had all escaped punishment, and their prison sentences, although the maximum allowed for their specific crimes, had been derisory compared to what the various police forces of the south felt they really deserved. Ever since then they had kept clear of the law, but nobody believed that they had reformed, just that they had become more careful and probably even more ruthless.

Inkerman furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

“OK, I can understand that it might be the case that Govern crossed them somehow – but what has that got to do with what happened to you? And if, for whatever reason, they decided to eliminate you as well, why didn’t they make a better job of it?”

“That does seem really weird. I mean, whoever it was had me at their mercy – so why an injection of heroin? It makes no sense. Is it possible that whoever did it thought that I was dead or as good as?”

“Very much so – if they had injected into a vein you wouldn’t be here now. You were dumped at night –

perhaps they really did think that they had killed you before they dumped you.”

“Another think – why strip me? That doesn’t make any sense either. Just taking somebody’s clothes isn’t going to achieve much in the way of delaying identification, so I can’t believe that was they cause.”

Shirley Lewis interceded.

“You know, that’s really been puzzling me as well. If they wanted you dead, a bang on the head, a knife or a bullet – job done. Why all this messing about? I’ve been thinking, though. Because you survived, there’s been

- 19 -

nothing about this in the press, at least not so far, and I can’t really see it happening now. It’s already old news, and the murder of Govern has been on local TV news and Sunday’s and today’s papers and is much more likely to make the pages for a day or two more. On the other hand, if Jane had died in those woods – wouldn’t it have been a media field day? Naked policewoman dies of overdose?”

Inkerman pondered on what she had said.

“Yes, it would, but to what purpose? They put a lot of effort into lifting Jane; they must have had a reason.”

Jane had a thought.

“I wonder if using heroin was intended to convey something? Either to us, or someone else?”

“But again – what? If you had died, I would have thought the use of heroin was perhaps a sadistic overtone, but I can’t imagine that it would have meant anything else.”

Shirley spoke again.

“You don’t suppose it could have been mistaken identity, do you? I know Govern phoned and asked to meet – but suppose whoever abducted you, and whoever killed him, had thought he was getting someone else to that spot?”

Inkerman looked searchingly at Jane.

“Do you think that is a possibility?”

Jane shook her head slightly.

“I don’t see how. He phoned the station on my direct line, he knows – he knew – my voice over the phone, so he certainly knew he was talking to me.”

“What did he actually say?”

She thought for a moment.

“He said, ‘You know who this is. Meet this evening. It’ll be a good one for your lot, believe me.’ As far as I can remember that’s word for word, but the line was poor; he was probably on a mobile – I could hear faint traffic noise in the background.”

She hesitated.

“I wonder – he said ‘good for your lot’, but...” Her voice tailed off, then she spoke again, “I wonder if he was trying to say that I needed to have more than just me there? Suppose whoever killed him already had him and was listening to him.”

Shirley broke in.

“On mistaken identity – suppose you are right, his killer or killers already had him, but they thought that he was phoning somebody else?”

Inkerman spoke again.

“Perhaps the heroin really was a message – and it was intended for somebody else. Suppose Shirley is right, that whoever killed him thought that he was phoning somebody else – and that they only realised they had a police officer when they went through your clothes and discovered your warrant card? Not going any further, not finishing you off, but just dumping you and hoping that nobody could trace them would make sense then.”

All three looked at each other. The scenario Inkerman had sketched out seemed to make more sense than anything else they had come up with to date.

Inkerman decided to do some digging into such a possibility.

“I think that we need to talk to the Drug Squad and see if any sort of message like this makes any sense in what they know about the local set-up. Shirley, will you arrange for the three of us to meet up with Superintendent Corkoran as soon as he can slot us in.”

Shirley nodded and the meeting broke up.

As it happened, Superintendent John Corkoran was able to see them immediately after lunch and welcomed them to his office. A native of Luton, who had served in the Met before coming to Surrey two years earlier with the promotion of his predecessor, Bill Halliday, who had been promoted to be the Divisional Commander, he was highly regarded throughout the force. A well built man, his dark skin contrasted vividly with a shock of white hair and dazzlingly white teeth. He waved them to chairs and listened intently whilst Inkerman outlined the tentative theory they had come up with.

When Inkerman had finished, Corkoran thought for several minutes before replying.

- 20 -

“At the moment, Inky, there are three main syndicates covering this area. The biggest is headed up by a couple of Russians, Igor Denisovitch Balkann and Yuri Ivanovitch Tscenko. They both live in London – Earl’s Court area to be exact, and the Surrey element of their operation is, to them, pretty small beer compared to what they are raking in from central London itself.

“The other two are more local. Harry Harris is based in Wimbledon, Freddie Gooch works out of Portsmouth. Like the Russians, Surrey is small stuff for Gooch, but Harris scarcely goes beyond South West London and Surrey.

“Now, you’ve mentioned the Tanner brothers. I’ve heard of them, of course, who hasn’t, but they aren’t currently major players on the drug scene around here. If your idea is right and Inspector Lawson was lifted by mistake, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if what happened had been intending as a warning. You can look at it two ways – a warning to the established mobs that someone was moving in, or, more likely, a warning from one of the established mobs to someone trying to muscle in. Killing a messenger with an overdose of heroin would be a fairly clear indicator, I think.”

“So, it could be that the Tanners are trying to move in and are being warned off?”

“Could be. One snag, though. This fellow Govern – he had links to the Tanners and, by what you have said, was scared of them – very scared of them. How does that tie in with him betraying a Tanner representative to a rival set-up?”

Inkerman turned to Jane.

“Jane, did anything you ever got from Govern indicate that he had any contact with these other crooks?”

She shook her head.

“He had a lot of contacts, but I never heard a whisper from him on these Russians, Harris or Gooch.”

Corkoran spoke again.

“One other thought occurs to me. Until a couple of months ago, until we bust it, there was a fourth ring, based in the Epsom area. It was headed up by a man called Harry Barrow, a truly nasty piece of work. He’s currently on remand, awaiting trial, as are a number of his principal lieutenants. There are, of course, still a number of his dealers around, and they will have been looking for fresh suppliers.

Perhaps some of them, or even just one of them, is trying to step up the ladder, possibly with a bit of help.”

Jane wondered anew at just what might be behind all of this; everything seemed so nebulous, full of perhaps, maybe, not a single lead to anything concrete.

Suppose, she asked herself again, she really had been snatched in mistake for somebody else. If that was the case, who was that somebody else? Presumably a woman? Or perhaps – that bloody word again – perhaps the abductors didn’t even know if a man or a woman was to be expected.

It was a less than satisfied trio of detectives who made their way back to their own offices after the meeting with Corkoran. The case still seemed a total fog to them, with no clear sense of a way forward.

Seated once more in his office, Inkerman mulled matters over. The sheer nerve of lifting one of his team still infuriated him, but with nothing to go on, he was becoming less and less optimistic about achieving a satisfactory outcome. The murder of George Govern was similarly stalled. Nobody had seen the man from lunch time on the Monday of Jane’s abduction until his body had been found on the Saturday.

He wondered about the motive for killing Govern; he had been an informant, and it was probable that someone had known about that fact, but was that enough to get him killed?

His mind went back to the Tanner brothers. Earlier in the year they had been peripheral figures in the investigation into the shooting of four people, and the killing of two of them2, in a Guildford restaurant. Even though the killer had been brought to justice, the case had possessed several unsatisfactory aspects, one of which had been the fact that the Tanners had been a source of information for Govern, who had in turn passed it on to Jane Lawson, but he suspected that they had their own agenda in so doing. Could it be that during that time Govern had somehow upset them and that that had been enough to earn him a bullet from the Tanners? They had a reputation for disposing 2 Vengeance is Mine

- 21 -

of people who knew too much about their activities. Perhaps Govern had stumbled over something that they would have preferred to have kept secret?

However, even if the Tanners were implicated in the murder of Govern, how, or even, did, that tie them in with Jane’s abduction?

Wearily, he decided that he had had enough for one day and made his way to the car park and thence home.

Chapter Six 29th September

The next morning Jane got to the office early, in fact before any of the others had arrived. She was pleased; she intended to review everything she knew about George Govern and especially anything that connected him with the Tanner brothers. Somehow, remembering how terrified Govern had been of them, she was sure that they were involved in his death.

She was still ploughing through past notebook entries nearly an hour later when Clarke arrived, soon followed by Taylor and Cross.

“Morning, guys.”

“Morning, boss – couldn’t you sleep?” This from Cross.

“Dave, I’m at my wits end over this Govern shooting, so I thought I’d spend some time looking back over old notes.”

“Anything useful?”

She shook her head.

“All I’ve done is give myself a headache. There is one thing, however, that I think may be worth following up. When we were investigating that shooting back in March, Govern mentioned a guy called Bert Lombard. According to Govern he runs a car hire business in Godalming. See what you can dig up about him, will you please, Dave?”

Cross nodded and returned to his desk, whilst Jane continued to thumb through old notes, desperate to find anything that might provide even the tiniest scrap of help.

Cross came back to her just over an hour later.

“Boss, I’ve checked out Lombard a bit. No record, although he comes up as a known associate of both the Tanners. The lads from the local nick say that he drinks at the same pub as they do and they are sometimes seen together, although not very often. Word from the locals is that the Tanners see Lombard as small fry, to be used when it suits them, but nobody has caught him at anything criminal.

One interesting point – he doesn’t just run a car hire firm. He also has a couple of other set ups, one sells second hand cars, there’s also a place with workshop facilities.”

Jane saw at once what Cross was driving at.

“So if a few vehicles were needed at short notice, Lombard could provide them.”

“There’s another thing, boss. We’ve been assuming that the van used to lift you was nicked, due to its false plates. Ditto with the Mondeo used to get away by the guys who torched your car. But nobody’s reported a Transit missing recently in the area anywhere near. OK, several Mondeos have been reported, but there are lots of them around and lots get stolen.”

“Dave, see what you can find out about Lombard’s business arrangements. Also, what staff he has.

Who knows, if he supplied the vehicles, he may also have provided some of the people.”

“I’m on it.”

It took some hours, but late that afternoon Cross came back to her.

“I think I may have something, boss. First, regarding Lombard’s set-up. In the car hire business it runs out of a small office in Wharf Street with just three staff, two female receptionists who do all the paperwork and between them cover all seven days of the week, and a male sort of dogsbody – cleans the cars, checks them over, that sort of thing and works Monday to Friday. The workshop – it’s on the industrial estate – has four blokes working there. It just works Monday to Friday. The car sales place –

on the Milford Road, also opens seven days a week – has five men and two female receptionists. The tax people gave me all the names and I ran them against criminal records. Nothing serious against any of the men, but one of the women who work in the car hire bit has a record for GBH – bashed her then

- 22 -

boyfriend with a bottle ten years back. She got two years, suspended, so never went inside. Name of Jill Knight.

“There’s something else, as well. I checked the industrial estate and Wharf Road CCTV footage –

there’s no coverage in Milford Road – and a Transit left the estate at about the right time to be the one we’re after. Picture wasn’t good enough to make out the number plate, unfortunately. Then, about ten minutes later, out comes a Mondeo. Finally, about fifteen minutes after that a Ford Galaxy leaves.”

Jane felt a stirring of excitement. OK, all still very tenuous, but the Transit and the Mondeo could be the cars involved in her abduction; the Galaxy, big enough to carry seven people, might well have been tasked with picking up the villains after the vehicles were torched.

“So, four people, including the driver, in the Transit. Two in the Mondeo – one to be dropped to pick up my car, the other to pick him up again and help torch the Astra, and one in the Galaxy. Seven people. I wonder if they are all from Lombard’s set-up? If, that is, we are the right track, of course.”

“Well, there are enough of them, but is it likely? It is a genuine business and doing reasonably well.

Also, the CCTV in Wharf Street shows the car hire place still open for business at the time the Galaxy left, so at least one of the two staff was still there.”

Jane thought for a while. On hearing that the woman who worked at the car hire desk had a record for assault, she had regarded her as a strong possibility for being one of the group she had been taken by, but if she was working at the time, that was out of the question.

Then she brought herself up with a jerk. She was supposed to be concentrating on Govern’s murder, not on what she herself had been subjected to. She would have to pass this on to Shirley.

“Right, Dave. Go and see DI Lewis and let her have all this – this is her part of the investigation.”

Cross did as he was bid and Shirley Lewis heard him out with a touch of asperity. Once he had finished and returned to his own office, she picked up her phone and phoned Jane; she didn’t want what she had to say to be heard by anyone else.

“Jane, Shirley. Why are you getting in on the abduction element? You know you can’t touch it –

conflict of interest. Now please drop this side or let’s both go and see the DCI and sort out who is doing what.”

Jane heard her colleague out in silence, then gently slid in her own comment.

“Shirley, this came up precisely from the Govern element. Govern had contact with Lombard, so I’m following it up. It threw up associated stuff with more bearing on your side than mine, I’ve passed it over to you ASAP, so what’s your problem?”

Shirley realised that she was out on a limb and in danger of making herself look foolish. With an effort, she swallowed her intended retort and answered calmly.

“I don’t have a problem, and I’m sorry that you think so. However, you set Cross working on the abduction element. That should have come to me in the first instance. You and your team must steer clear of the abduction or we are going to be in the shit if a defence counsel decided to make a song and dance over it as a conflict of interest. If you can’t see that, then we really do need to take this to the DCI.”

Reluctantly, Jane admitted to herself that Shirley was right. She was not, however, about to meekly acquiesce.

“Dave’s work was aimed at Lombard’s interaction with Govern. The rest came up because of that, not the other way round, OK? Now you’ve got it, why don’t you do something with it instead of arguing about it?”

Shirley drew a deep breath, then decided that the argument was going nowhere,

“Don’t worry, I am following up on it – so I’ll do my bit and leave you to do yours, OK?”

“Alright with me.”

Both women rang off simultaneously.

Chapter Seven

The resentment between his two female DIs was clear to Inkerman when he had his usual morning briefing with them and his other DI, John Hall. A quick review of current cases and workload and he

- 23 -

was able to dismiss Hall. Hall, although not very highly regarded in the force, and only months from retirement, was no fool. Like Inkerman, he had sensed that the two women were not happy with each other and whilst it was no skin off his nose, he did wonder about the cause and the likely outcome, if any.

Inkerman looked at Jane and Shirley thoughtfully. He was well aware that they didn’t really much care for each other, but to date it hadn’t been a problem. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to knock their heads together a bit.

“So, how is the joint effort going?”

The two both hesitated, then Shirley got in first.

“It’s OK as far as it goes, sir, but it is now getting a bit confused. Jane started looking at someone, Guy Lombard, who had been in contact with Govern. That threw up a possibility that Lombard may, in fact, have been involved in her abduction, so it had to come to me. To be honest, I think that the whole lot, the abduction and Govern’s murder, should be seen as one case at this stage and handled by one team.”

“And that should be your team?”

“Well it can’t be Jane’s – conflict of interest.”

“Jane?”

“Govern was my informant. I know more about him than anyone else, so I think it is sensible that his murder stays with me. There’s no confusion in my mind about it; anything that comes up that has a bearing on my abduction goes straight to Shirley, as has already happened.”

“Yes, well, if Lombard is implicated in both the murder and the abduction, I have to agree with Shirley – it effectively becomes one case and you’ll have to come off it. Now, nobody has spoken with Lombard yet, right?”

Jane nodded.

“Right, well I think that it’s time that happened – and I’ll do it. As he did the legwork, I’ll take Dave Cross with me. Jane, tell Dave to sort out the arrangements.”

Inwardly seething, Jane nodded again. Shirley, scarcely less happy, frowned in irritation.

Inkerman decided that it was time to lay down the law a bit.

“Neither of you seem very happy at that?”

Two heads, one blonde, one dark, were shaken.

“Look you two – it stands out a mile that you aren’t getting on over this. I’m not going to have the two of you bickering over who does what, understand? I’ve got enough on without having to worry about whether the pair of you are trying to score points off each other. I’m not going to have to say this to either of you again; if you can’t cooperate fully it will rub off on your teams and affect them as well, and I won’t have it. If I see any more problems I’ll have to take action, which could involve some reassessment of roles.”

The women were both taken aback. Jane was the first to recover.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I think that you are reading too much into this. OK, Shirley and I see things a bit differently from time to time, but that isn’t hampering the investigation at all. I accept that it would be tidier if I hadn’t been the subject of the abduction, but I was – nothing that we can do about that.

Unless you want to take the whole lot away from me, I don’t see how else we are going to proceed.”

Shirley chimed in.

“We’ve both done a lot of work on this, sir. I can’t see that changing things at this juncture, provided that we can keep the two elements separate, will help anyone.”

Inkerman stared at the two of them.

“All right – but I don’t want to have to say anything of this again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

“Right, back to work.”

They left his office and Inkerman reflected on what had been said. In truth, he had no intention of changing things, at least not at this stage of the cases, but bringing those two up with a bit of a jolt was probably all to the good. He could not afford to allow either of them to develop prima donna tendencies, and he was fully aware that, given the chance, both would.

- 24 -

A little later he entered Graham’s office for the morning meeting between the Superintendent and his three DCIs. Bill Conway was already there, and as Inkerman was seating himself, Helen Laird bustled in.

Graham looked at them all for a moment before starting proceedings.

“Right, before we start looking at things, I just wanted to say that Bill has now decided on his retirement date – it will be the end of April, so, Bill, good luck for the future and many thanks for all your work in the past.”

Inkerman and Helen joined in the congratulations. Conway, as both Inkerman and Graham were well aware, had bitterly resented Graham being promote two years earlier; he had felt that the job should have gone to him, but over time he had come to grudgingly accept the situation. Now, in just under six months, he would be gone, and neither Graham nor Inkerman could truly say that they regretted the fact.

Graham then turned to the normal quick run through of progress. He was particularly interested to hear what Inkerman had to say.

“Inky, do you think there is a realistic chance of pinning anything on the Tanners? It really would be a feather in our caps if you could.”

“It’s too early to say, sir, but I must say that I dearly hope so. It’s not just a case of nailing them when everybody else has effectively failed. There’s also the question of what happened to Jane Lawson. It’s only by the grace of God that she wasn’t killed, and I very much want to get whoever was responsible.”

Graham drew the meeting to a close, but as he was about to leave, requested Inkerman to stay behind for a moment.

“Inky, I want to sound you out. Now that we know when Bill is going, I need to look for a replacement for him. I’ve already spoken with Mr. Blake about the DIs throughout the force, not just this Division. He came up with a couple of names, John Henderson, who is over in Oxted and your Jane Lawson. I don’t know anything about Henderson – I don’t know if you do?” Inkerman shook his head, “but what do you think about Jane?”

Inkerman paused to think. Chief Superintendent Michael Blake was the head of administration and a man with his finger on every pulse, with a reputation for getting things done and also for spotting talent for promotion.

“Well, she’s a bit young, I suppose, but she is very good. By the time Bill goes she will have been a DI, acting at first, then substantive, for three years. Again a bit quick, but not impossibly so. I’d be very sorry to lose her. Frankly, as I know you appreciate, John Hall is a bit of a makeweight and Shirley Lewis is very new, although she is also doing well.”

“Right, that sums up how I feel about things. Now, another bit of news, but you must keep this under your hat. The Deputy is retiring – his health hasn’t been too good this last year - and Mr. Bannerman is expected to take his place.”

That really was news. James Munro, the Deputy Chief Constable, was now in his mid-fifties and had been a success in the post. Bannerman, the ACC (Crime) was about forty-six and another success story. He and Munro had pulled the force round after the trauma of the helicopter crash four years earlier which had killed the then Chief Constable and ACC(Crime). Losing Munro would be a blow, but Inkerman could think of no better replacement for him than Bannerman.

“That is big news, sir. When is it being made public?”

“End of the week. The post will be open for competition, of course, and there are several likely contenders around, but the vibes are that the chief wants Mr. Bannerman for the job, and he usually gets what he wants.”

Inkerman nodded. The Chief Constable, Sir James Gilmour, was a highly respected officer throughout his own force and wider afield as well. Another point occurred to him. Sir James was about two and half to three years away from retirement himself. If Bannerman made it to Deputy, three years or so would see him still just the right side of fifty and a very strong contender to take the top job.

“Interesting times ahead, then, sir!”

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?”

- 25 -

Inkerman left Graham’s office, wondering where they imminent changes would leave him. Just two years ago he had been a DI, getting long in the tooth, but happy in his job with no intention of any further promotion. Graham had been his DCI, fairly newly arrived and it was pressure from Graham, who had stepped up to head the Divisional CID when Superintendent John Wilson had died tragically early and suddenly, that had resulted in him accepting the role of DCI rather than work for either of his then two DI colleagues, John Hall, now soon to be retired, or Ken Newsome, already retired and replaced by the far more able Shirley Lewis.

If, and admittedly it was a big if, Graham were to gain promotion in the subsequent reshuffle, where would that leave me, he mused to himself. Still, that was for the future and he took himself to task for letting his mind wander. Next thing on the agenda was to talk with the unpleasant sounding Mr.

Lombard.

An hour later, Dave Cross drove Inkerman and himself to Lombard’s car hire office and Inkerman found himself seated across from a heavily built man in his late forties, with black hair cut short and plastered down. A moustache, equally dark in hue, adorned his upper lip and dark brown eyes stared out of a weather-beaten face.

“Mr. Lombard, I am investigating the death of Mr, George Govern, who I understand was known to you.”

Lombard nodded heavily. Everything about him, Inkerman reflected, seemed to be made, or moved, heavily.

“Yes, that’s right. I knew poor old George. Not very well, mind you, but well enough to chat if we met in the pub, that sort of thing, you know.”

“Can you think of any reason why anyone would wish to kill him?”

Lombard shrugged, again a slow, heavy movement.

“I can’t, I’m afraid. I don’t know him - didn’t know him – well enough to say if he had upset anyone to that sort of degree, but I can’t see why anyone would want to. As far as I know he was a small time antique dealer - nearer the rubbish end of the market than the expensive end. Unless he had something somebody wanted and it went wrong – but I can’t imagine what that might be. I mean, have you seen his shop?”

“Not personally, but my officers have.”

“Well, then, you’ll know the sort of stock he had. Nothing there worth killing for – or being killed over.”

Inkerman decided that it was time to change tack.

“When did you last see Mr. Govern?”

“Sunday of the week before he was found. Met him in the Three Bells – not an arrangement – just bumped into him. We had a couple of jars together, then he went off.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“’Fraid not. He just said cheerio and went.”

“Do you know if he spoke to anyone else that evening?”

“Well, I was already there when he arrived and still there when he left. Several blokes joined us from time to time, but it was just general chat – you know, ‘how are you’ sort of thing.”

“Can you remember who else joined you?”

Lombard paused for a moment, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

“Lemme see, now. Terry Douglas – he works for me, saw George and me, just come over to say hello and ask if we wanted a drink, but we were OK. A guy who knew George, but I don’t know who he was, again, just hello and went after a few minutes. And Billy Tanner,” he looked shrewdly at the two policemen, “yes, I know he’s a bit of a villain, but he’s the sort of guy you don’t ignore if he chooses to talk to you, know what I mean?”

Inkerman nodded.

“Yes, we know of Mr. Tanner’s reputation. What did he have to say?”

“Not much. He knows both George and me so I suppose he just thought that he would say hello. He did ask if either of us had any tips for Sandown for the weekend – he’s fond of a flutter on the races –

but neither of us had. Me, I can’t abide horses, actually, but I looked interested while he and George

- 26 -

discussed some nag called Flying Billy. Billy fancied it because of the name, but George hadn’t any idea whether it was a likely winner.”

Inkerman decided that it was time to change tack.

“Tell me, Mr. Lombard, a bit after normal closing time last Monday, three vehicles left your workshop on the estate. A Transit, then a Mondeo, then a Galaxy. What were they doing?”

Lombard looked puzzled.

“What’s this to do with anything?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“Could be anything. I’ve got three car businesses. Motors are always going backwards and forwards –

what do you expect?”

“I realise that you have a lot of vehicles, Mr. Lombard, but I am particularly interested in these three.”

“Well, OK. Let’s see – what registration numbers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Chief Inspector, I’ve got four Transits, a dozen Mondeos, two Galaxies. Still, let’s see,” he turned to the computer on his desk, “Monday last. One of the Transits, five of the Mondeos, both Galaxies visited the workshop for fuel. All went back to the hire site, although I can’t tell the exact times. All could have been any time during the day. ”

Inkerman began to feel that the CCTV footage was going to prove less helpful than they had thought, but it had to be played out.

“We looked at CCTV for Wharf Road. We didn’t see those vehicles arrive there.”

Lombard, Inkerman decided, was trying very hard not to appear smug.

“Well you wouldn’t, would you? That CCTV only covers the road coming from the town centre.

From the estate we often tend to go the other way and come in from the further end of Wharf Road.

Not always, depends on time of day and whether whoever is driving wants to pick up some fags or anything.”

“You said that the vehicles went to get fuel. Isn’t that unusual? Whenever I’ve hired a car the first think you need to do is fill up.”

“Exactly, Chief Inspector – and that’s one of our selling points. Whenever you hire a car or van from Lombard’s, it comes with a full tank – and we don’t ask hirers to return it with a full tank.”

“Isn’t that expensive for you?”

Lombard shrugged.

“Not really. We make a small mileage charge and still work out cheaper, and more convenient, than the big boys.”

“Why do you have to drive cars back and forth to fill up?”

“I did want to have a pump at the car hire site, but the council refused to give planning permission, Still, it’s no great problem.”

Inkerman could see the chances of proving anything against Lombard over the vehicles disappearing fast. He determined to have the CCTV checked for a period to see if it bore out Lombard’s claim of a constant passage of vehicles between the two sites, but he had an uneasy feeling that Lombard’s claim would be vindicated. On the other hand, the more he dug into this, the more convinced he was that Lombard was involved. There was an air of satisfaction about the man that didn’t sit right if he had been innocent of any involvement. But how to prove it? He decided that enough was enough for the time being and he and Cross took their leave.

Once back in the car he gave Cross instructions.

“Dave, I want you to look at the CCTV for those sites again. See if there really is the sort of constant traffic that Lombard claims – you know what to look for.”

The DC nodded.

“OK, sir. Will do.”

The rest of the journey was conducted in silence whilst Inkerman turned the problem over in his mind yet again. OK, the movement of those three vehicles, so convenient for making out a case for Lombard’s involvement, could be countered by a defence lawyer quite easily. So, what could he think of as a Plan B?

- 27 -

Back in the office he briefed Jane and Shirley and their teams on the outcome of his interview with Lombard.

“So,” he concluded, “we have circumstantial evidence of his involvement, but so far that is all.

However, I’m sure he is guilty of some part in all this. His reactions to being questioned were all wrong. He wasn’t inquisitive enough, he wasn’t worried enough. He wasn’t angry enough. He was just smug. He reckoned he had all his bases covered. I’ve got Dave checking CCTV footage to see if this claim that sometimes his staff drive in from the far end of Wharf Road stands up; it would look very fishy if it doesn’t, but I don’t really hold out any hope.”

Jane thought for a moment.

“What about the killing of George Govern? From what we know about the movements of those vehicles, it doesn’t seem likely that any of them were involved. They could have been, I grant you, but is it likely?”

Inkerman paused for thought.

“I don’t see why they couldn’t have been involved. In fact, come to think of it, once you were out for the count, the Transit could well have been used for Govern as well. In fact, I suppose, for all we know, he could have been actually in the van when you were lifted.”

Jane thought this over. What Inkerman had said was true; in the struggle in the dark inside the van she had no idea what, or who, else might have been inside it. There was one point, however, which surely made it unlikely.

“But Govern was shot in Oxshott. I was dumped in Shalford. From Guildford those are in opposite directions. That doesn’t seem likely, surely.”

“I agree that it doesn’t seem likely, but it’s by no means beyond possibility. Also, for all we know, Govern may have been killed before you were lifted – we can’t tell where he phoned you from, after all.”

At that point, Clarke, silent up to now as he absorbed what was being said, spoke up.

“One thing, sir, about the murder. As I said after we found Govern’s body, I think that whoever shot him knew the area. It was a perfectly secluded spot, not easy to come across by accident. I’ve checked the addresses of Lombard and all his staff. Lombard himself lives only five minutes drive from where Govern was killed.”

This pronouncement was met with an embarrassed silence from the three senior officers. Why, though Inkerman angrily, had none of us noticed that before?

“Good point, Skull – and bad marks for those of us who didn’t think of that aspect. Can we check if he is likely to be the walking type? Does he actually walk in the area?”

Clarke continued to press home his advantage.

“I’ve checked what we learned from one of his neighbours, sir. She was one of those whom we questioned immediately after finding Govern - a Mrs. Halford. She walks her dog regularly in the area and one of the questions we asked everyone was if they could put names to any other regular users of the walks. She came up with several names, but also some folk she only knew by sight. One of those was someone she recognised not just because she sees him walking his dog but because she knows that he lives only a few doors away from her. Those are big houses there, and I get the impression that they are not exactly a close knit community - but Lombard lives within two hundred yards of Mrs. Halford. She told the officer who spoke to her that she knew the dog, a Boxer, was called Bruno, but she didn’t know the name of the owner. We can’t be certain that the man she is talking about is actually Lombard, but it seems probable.”

“So, a bit more circumstantial tying in Lombard. Does he have a firearm certificate? I suppose it would be too much to hope that he owns a two-two rifle?”

“’Fraid so, sir, although he does has a licence for a shotgun.”

“OK, one of you – perhaps you, Skull, as you’ve got this far on this one – go and see Mrs. Halford with a picture of Lombard and see if she recognises him.”

“Do we have a picture of him, sir?”

“You can get one from the passport people or perhaps DVLA. Probably take a few days, though.”

- 28 -

“We can do better than that, sir,” put in Jane, “Lombard has a website for his car hire company – and it’s got a picture of him on it. Whilst Skull was talking I’ve just been looking at it – and it’s printing off now.”

She crossed to the printer and picked up the picture, which she handed to Clarke.

“There we are, Lombard in the flesh.”

Clarke thanked her and put the picture in his wallet.

“I’ll call on her first thing tomorrow, sir.”

And with that the briefing broke up and they went to their various homes.

Chapter Eight 29th/ 30th September

Jane got home to find Harry had only beaten her to it by a matter of minutes. She slumped wearily into an armchair and gratefully accepted the proffered cup of tea.

“Hard day?” he enquired.

“Not really, it’s just that this investigation is getting to be a right mess. Inkerman ticked off Shirley and myself like a pair of naughty schoolgirls because we don’t always see eye to eye and he’s now effectively taking over the whole bloody thing with us and our teams as dogsbodies. OK, that’s his privilege – he is the DCI after all, but it’s not very encouraging. The problem is, the two cases really do impinge on one another – and as a victim of the abduction I can’t be heading that up. He might even decide that because of the cross-fertilization between the two, I ought to be out of the loop altogether, and I want to catch those bastards.”

Harry nodded grimly. He would also very much like to get his big hands on those who had left Jane to die in the woods, but could not see the opportunity ever occurring.

“Anyway,” she continued, “how about your day?”

“Well, it was quite interesting for once. I got called out to investigate an assumed arson, another attempted insurance fraud, and in the course of it I met a chap I knew in the army – and he’s offered me a job.”

Jane immediately perked up. She was well aware that Harry’s job with the Fire Service didn’t really stretch him and that he had become increasingly dissatisfied with it of late.

“Oh, sounds interesting, what sort of job?”

“Running a team of insurance investigators for all sorts of attempted fraud, not just arson. Based in Guildford, but the team covers the whole country. Office job ninety per cent of the time, but I’d need to be hands on occasionally. In fact, it’s his own job, but he’s moving on to pastures new – got a two year contract to set up a security organisation for a company in Saudi. What do you think?”

“It sounds good to me. Get you out of that awful fireman’s uniform for a start.”

He laughed.

“Do you know, I’ve worn a uniform – first the army, now the fire service – for over twenty years now.

It’s time I bought a decent suit!”

“Go for it, Harry,” she urged, “it’s time you moved on. You know what you’re doing now isn’t really satisfying you. I’ve been wondering how long it would be before you decided to find something different.”

“OK, I will – oh, and just as a sweetener, the salary is nearly double what I’m getting at the moment.”

“Can’t be bad,” she laughed, “so, what do you fancy eating?”

“Well, if you aren’t too tired after your day, how about going out to celebrate?”

“Love to – I’ll change into something more suitable.”

Whilst Jane and Harry were celebrating at one of Guildford’s better restaurants, Inkerman was deep in thought at his own home. He was seriously concerned about the investigation and Jane’s part in it. He was beginning to feel that he had made a bad mistake in allowing her to be involved at all, but on the other hand he needed to deploy more people than a single DI’s team of four. He could scarcely take her team away from her and place it under Shirley – it would look like an appalling expression of lack

- 29 -

of faith in her – but the more the case went on, the more chance there was of her involvement being seized on by a defence counsel who would claim that her personal interest in the case had prejudiced the investigation with a motive of revenge.

He briefly considered taking Jane and her team off the case entirely and replacing them with John Hall and his people, but rapidly dropped the idea. Hall, only months away from retirement, lacked the drive and flair of either of the women, it would take time to bring the newcomers up to speed and, again, it would be seen as a lack of confidence in Jane, just when he had told Graham that she was suitable for promotion to DCI in the near future.

Shirley Lewis was also thinking about the case and, in particular, the telling off that she and Jane had received from Inkerman. She lived alone and, with nobody in whom to confide, she satisfied herself with a trip to the gym where a thirty minute workout left her too tired to worry any more. However, as she was drifting off to sleep that night, she realised that they had all missed a possible trick. She would bring it up at the morning briefing and hopefully repair some of the damage she felt that she had suffered in Inkerman’s eyes. The fact that it was something that, of all of them, Jane should have been the most likely to come up with didn’t hurt.

At the morning briefing on the case, which followed quickly on the heels of Inkerman’s regular get together with his three DIs and preceded Inkerman attending Graham’s similar meeting with the DCIs, Shirley wasted no time in bringing up the point that had occurred to her in the night.

“One thing, sir. Now that we have a possible lead, shouldn’t Jane get the opportunity to hear Lombard’s voice and those of his staff? After all, she heard someone say something when she was in the van.”

Inkerman and Jane looked at each other. Jane was furious with herself for forgetting something so obvious; Inkerman was also annoyed that he hadn’t remembered it.

“Good point, Shirley. Jane, do you think you might recognise the voice if you heard it again?”

“It’s worth trying, sir. How do we do it?”

“Jane, I’ll talk to Lombard again, and this time you’ll come with me. We’ll go to the garage on the estate – that’s where the vehicles left from that evening, and if he and any of his people are involved, then they are more likely to come from there than the other two places.”

“No women work there, sir.” Dave Cross pointed out.

“Yes, you’re right. So the woman must have either been picked up after the Transit left the place, or have transferred over there in advance.”

“What pretext do we have for visiting again?” Jane asked.

“I’ll tell him that we have reason to believe a Transit was involved in Govern’s murder and that what was possibly the same vehicle was seen on CCTV leaving his premises on that night. Ask him to account for the movements of the Transits he has on his books. Dave, before we go – check via DVLA just what vehicles are registered to his company. It will be interesting to see if one is missing.”

Cross, however, came up against a problem. Fifteen minutes later he reported back to Inkerman.

“Got a problem, sir. DVLA don’t keep their records in a way that enables an easy search of who owns particular vehicles – it’s set up the other way round, They can tell you who owns a given vehicle in moments, but not what vehicles somebody owns anything like a quick. They reckon that a computer search that way round is possible, but would take hours of computer time. Do you still want to go ahead with it?”

Inkerman cursed angrily. In this day and age he had assumed such a search would only take minutes to perform; obviously not.

“I wanted to have another go at Lombard today, but without that information we won’t know if he is short of a vehicle or not.”

Cross suddenly had a thought.

“There might be another way, sir. The tax returns for his hire company will probably show the registration numbers of all his vehicles. It won’t be as certain as the DVLA – he could always claim that he had sold one on since the last tax return and fiddle his books to make it look true, but it could

- 30 -

be a help, and as I’ve already talked to them about his employment records, it ought to be quite easy for them to find – at least, I hope so.”

“Good idea, Dave – see what you can get.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Cross was back.

“Got it, sir. Lombard’s company owns four Transits, registration numbers GU07ASN, GU07CLL, GU08GGS and GU08HHA.”

“Right, Dave, well done.”

Half an hour later Inkerman and Jane met Lombard at his workshop on the Godalming industrial estate. It proved to be a large hangar style building with enough room and facilities for as many as six vehicles to be worked on at once and was a hive of activity as they arrived. Lombard took them into a small office set in one corner of the building which, as he closed the door, proved to be thankfully soundproofed from the noise and bustle outside.

“So, Chief Inspector, what brings you back?”

“The same inquiry, Mr. Lombard. We now have reason to believe that a Transit van may have been involved, or at least in the vicinity, of Mr. Govern’s murder, so we are checking up on such vehicles.”

“What, every Transit in Surrey? You’ve got a job on.”

“Not every one of them, Mr. Lombard, just those belonging to people who knew Mr. Govern, and you are in that category. I understand that you own four such vehicles,” Inkerman referred to his notebook,

“with registrations GU07ASN, GU07CLL, GU08GGS and GU08HHA. We’d like to see them, please.”

Lombard hesitated for a fraction.

“I think that three of them are out on hire at the moment, but you can certainly see the one that isn’t and the others if memory plays me false and they are not out, but they aren’t here – any that aren’t out will be in the Wharf Road compound.”

“We’ll follow you over there then – but first I’ll to talk to each of your employees here briefly – how many work here?”

Lombard frowned in mild irritation.

“Very well, then. I’ve got four men here. Dave Leach, he’s the foreman, Freddie Bates, Colin Marshall and Dick Young. Do you want to talk to them all together, or one at a time?”

“Individually, please.”

Lombard ushered in each of the four men in turn, and in turn each was asked to account for his movements on the previous Monday. The answers came readily enough, whilst Jane listened intently to each voice. None of them admitted to anything more exciting than finishing work, going home, having a meal and watching TV.

As they drove away, following Lombard in his Jaguar, Inkerman looked at Jane questioningly. She shook her head.

“It certainly wasn’t Lombard I heard, nor Bates nor Marshall. It could possibly be Leach or Young, but to be honest I don’t really think so.”

The two cars arrived at the Wharf Road site and they followed Lombard into the office. The reception desk was manned by a rather sturdily built woman, perhaps an inch or so taller than Jane’s five feet six inches. Short cut, dark hair framed a square jawed face of slightly masculine appearance and dark brown eyes surveyed the two detectives inquisitively.

Lombard made the introductions.

“Jill, this is Chief Inspector Inkerman and Inspector Lawson. They want to look at our Transits. Are any of them in?”

The woman nodded.

“ASN and HHA are here, but CLL and GGS are both out.”

“In that case, we’ll need contact details of the persons hiring them, please.” Inkerman said.

She turned to a computer, hit a few keys, and two sheets of paper emerged from the printer.

“There you are, Inspector.”

Inkerman thanked her and he and Jane followed Lombard into the parking area beside the office. The two Transit vans were in the far corner and the two of them examined them closely. Inkerman actually

- 31 -

had no expectation of finding anything – he was convinced that the burnt out Transit found in Sussex was the one which had been used to snatch Jane and the tale he had told Lombard of a Transit possibly being involved in the murder of Govern was a fabrication; he had no such evidence. He simply wanted to see if Lombard had a Transit missing from his fleet.

Eventually they drove off, leaving Lombard looking smugly confident.

“So, Jane, thoughts?”

“That woman, Jill Knight, recognised me – I’m sure of it. When we walked into the reception office she stiffened for a moment, eyes widened a fraction. She wasn’t expecting to see me and failed to keep a straight enough face.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Right. Get on the phone to Dave. Get him to do as much digging on her as possible. I know he’s already done some, but there may be more. Also, I want one of the team to keep a watch on the car hire place and see where she goes when she leaves. Not Dave, he was with me last time I went there and Knight might recognise him.”

Jane got on her mobile phone and by the time Inkerman drew up outside the first address that they had been given on the hirer of one of the Transits, she had arranged for Clarke to keep an eye on the car hire site at closing time that evening.

They had arrived at an average three bedroomed semi-detached house on the outskirts of Guildford with a Transit van parked in the road outside. The door was answered by a tall, well-built young man, who introduced himself as David Fielder. Inkerman’s explanation that they were checking on the Lombard vehicles in connection with a possible crime scene, but not, he emphasised, as having been used criminally, was met with some confusion but complete cooperation, and ten minutes later they were on their way again.

“So,” said Jane, “that’s three of Lombard’s Transits accounted for, GU07ASN, GU08GGS and GU08HHA. Just GU07CLL to go.”

The second address was a totally different type of home. Several miles out of Guildford, it was what had clearly once been a farm worker’s cottage, reached at the end of a muddy, pot-holed track, screened by trees and with no other house visible. Inkerman’s knock resulted in the door being opened by a woman of perhaps forty years of age, heavily built with greying hair scragged back in an incongruous pony tail, emphasising a pasty complexion with a face running to fat.

“Mrs. Leigh?”

The woman looked suspiciously from one to the other.

“And if I am?”

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman; my colleague here is Detective Inspector Lawson. We’d like to speak to Mr, Leigh, please.”

“You can’t. He’s away.”

“When will he be back, Mrs. Leigh?”

The woman shrugged dismissively.

“Couple ‘a days, probably.”

“Do you know where we can reach him?”

This time the shrug was accompanied with a shake of the head.

“He’s doing a job up Birmingham way somewhere; dunno where, though.”

“Has he recently hired a Transit van, Mrs. Leigh?”

“Yes – his own van broke down last week and he had this job on, so had to hire – bleeding fortune it’s costing, too.”

“What sort of job is he doing, can you tell me?”

“He’s a painter and decorator. Got this job to do over a house a bit.”

“Birmingham’s a long way to go to do some painting, isn’t it?”

She almost sneered.

“Haven’t you noticed there’s a bloody depression on? Rich goes where there’s work, if he’s away for a day or two he sleeps in the van. We ain’t got no nice steady money like you lot. Now, anything else,

‘cos I’ve got better things to do than stand around.”

- 32 -

Inkerman handed her his card.

“Please ask your husband to contact us when he returns. He doesn’t have a problem, but we are interested in the van he hired.”

Mrs. Leigh nodded, stepped back and shut the door.

“Interesting that,” observed Inkerman as they drove away, “she didn’t seem surprised enough by our visit for my liking, and it’s very convenient that she doesn’t know where Leigh and the hired van can be found. When we get back, let’s have Leigh checked out. I smell something fishy in this,”

Once back at base Jane set Alan Taylor to digging into the Leighs and he soon came back with news.

“Boss, Leigh has a record. He did three years back in the nineties for assault. Also, he is a known associate of Billy Tanner.”

At last! Some sort of link was beginning to appear. Jane wasted no time in advising Inkerman of the development,

“Jane, issue a request to all forces south of Manchester for information on that Transit. It has to be somewhere and I’d dearly like to find it.”

The request was issued, but by the end of the day nothing had come of it.

Chapter Nine 1st October

The next morning Inkerman called the two teams together to review progress.

“Skull, anything interesting from your surveillance on Knight?”

“Nothing, sir. Just went home. There is a man there as well – saw him through the window, but neither of them stirred by ten o’clock so I called it a day.”

“Dave, anything more on Knight?”

“Not a lot, I’m afraid. As we know she has a record, but nothing since then, not even a speeding ticket. According to the electoral roll the man at the house is Vic Griffiths. He’s a bit more interesting.

He’s also got a record, again for assault. He’s forty-five years old and is another known associate of Billy Tanner.”

“Is he, indeed? This could be beginning to stack up. Any idea where, or if, he works?”

“He’s on benefits at the moment, has been for just over a year. Before that he worked as a barman at the Nightingale club in Farnham. That closed down due to the recession, the smoking ban, general decline in custom. It was owned by one John Manners, who, once again, shows up as an associate of the Tanners, this time of both of them. After the Nightingale folded, the Tanners took him as manager for the Shangri-La, one of their more down market places.”

“So,” mused Inkerman, “we have a missing Transit van, which may in fact be the one that was torched in Sussex, ostensibly hired by Rich Leigh, who has a criminal record for violence and is an associate of Billy Tanner. We have Jill Knight, also with a record for violence, who works for Lombard, an associate of both Tanners. She lives with Vic Griffiths, who, yet again, has a record for violence, again an associate of Billy Tanner, and used to work for yet another Tanner associate.”

“It has to be more than coincidence, all this” Clarke offered.

“I agree, Skull, but getting beyond suspicion is still a big hurdle.”

“Do you think that we have any grounds for talking to the Tanners themselves?” Shirley asked.

“I can’t see it, not yet – I mean, what do we say to them? I can’t think of anything that would have any impact. We’d just be wasting our breath.”

It was Gordon Price, the younger of Shirley’s two detective constables, who made the next suggestion.

Inkerman had been mildly disappointed in the twenty-nine year old so far; although keen enough, he had seemed to be a bit out of his depth in the tasks that he had been set.

“Sir, a couple of the clubs that the Tanners own are clubs at the tatty end of the spectrum, way down market from the Blue Boar and the like. They’ve had the odd bit of bother – drugs, the odd fight or two. I did a quick check when Dave mentioned that club of Manners and I wondered if there might be some other tie up. As Dave says, Manners is now running one of the tatty clubs, the Shangri-la, and its

- 33 -

licence is one of those up for renewal in the next few months. Couldn’t we put a bit of pressure on them over the renewal? It would be a genuine reason for talking to them, even if we couldn’t bring up anything about the real reason, it might worry them a bit.”

“H’mm, that’s a thought, Gordon. I’ll keep it in mind. Normally their local nick would be the ones to object or not to a renewal. Get down there and talk to the locals and see if they can come up with anything for us.”

“Will do, sir.”

The next move occurred about two hours later. Inkerman’s telephone rang.

“Inkerman.”

“This is Rich Leigh. Me missus says you want to talk with me.”

“That’s right, Mr, Leigh. Where are you?”

“Just got home – the job I was on got finished quicker than I thought.”

“Do you still have the van you hired, Mr. Leigh?”

“Yeah – I was just gonna have a bit o’ grub and take it back.”

“Mr. Leigh, this is important, Would you please stay at home until I can get to you. As I explained to your wife, it’s not you we are interested in, it’s the van.”

“OK, squire, I’ll hang on – but are you going to be long? If I don’t get it back by five it’s an extra day’s hire and bang goes most of me profit.”

“We’ll be with you in half an hour or so.”

True to his word, thirty-five minutes later Inkerman and Jane were back at the Leigh household where they inspected the Transit van, As with the other two vans, it gave no indication that it might have been used in any way in the crimes they were investigating. A phone check to the DVLA had confirmed that the registration - GU07CLL – matched the chassis number and other details on the manufacturer’s data plate under the bonnet, and all seemed above board.

But it wasn’t.

As they drove away, Jane checked the details she had written in her notebook when they had examined the vans they had seen at Lombard’s site.

“No doubt about it, sir. They’ve switched plates on the vehicle. It’s a van we saw at Lombard’s. The plates are different, but it still has a scratch on the passenger door and another one over the nearside rear wheel arch. I don’t suppose we could prove it to a jury – but that vehicle is one of the vans we saw yesterday when it must have had false plates.”

“So Lombard really has used one of his vans – only explanation. Right, what was the number that van had yesterday?”

“GU08HHA”

“OK, phone back, have someone nip round to Lombard’s and ask to see that one again. Pound to a penny they will say it is out on hire and we won’t be able to get to see it until they have had time to ring the changes again.”

“No takers – either that or they will claim it has been nicked.”

“No, I can’t see them risking that. Mark my words – it’ll have been hired out this morning,”

And when Alan Taylor called at Lombard Hire, that was exactly the story he was told.

Inkerman was not in the least surprised, as he explained to the teams.

“We’ll never be able to pin anything on anyone through the vans – the one they used that Monday is the one that was torched. By the time anything can be developed against Lombard or any of his people they will have had plenty of time to ring a few more changes and present four perfectly innocent vehicles. That isn’t important, What is important is that we now know Lombard and his set-up are involved. Now all we have to do is prove it, and also find who else is in the frame,”

“Well,” said Jane, “we do know that the Tanners use Lombard from time to time. We also know that there is a bit of a vacuum in the drug trade at the moment after the Drug Squad put Harry Barrow out of business. The Tanners aren’t known for drug involvement at the moment, but they may well see an opportunity here. The more I think about it, the more I think that Superintendent Corkoran was right in thinking that all this is somehow tied into the changes in the drug set up here.”

Gordon Price spoke up.

- 34 -

“Sir, I’ve checked with the locals about the licence renewal for the Tanner’s Shangri-La club. They reckon that it could reasonably be opposed, although unless there is another reason they wouldn’t have bothered – it’s no worse than some of the others around there.”

“What was that name again?”

“The Shangri-La, sir.”

“Right, At the moment we have nothing else to go on, so I think that a visit to the Tanners over the club licence is called for. I’ll go, and Gordon, as you’ve done the legwork, you come with me.”

“Right, sir.”

Dan Tanner looked in surprise at Rita Malley, his secretary.

“Who did you say?”

“A Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman – wants to talk to you and Billy about the club licences.”

“A DCI on something like that? Something’s fishy. OK, tell him seven this evening – if he wants to come sooner, tell him Billy isn’t around at the ‘mo and we can’t get him here any earlier. Then get me George Walters on the blower.”

“OK, Dan.”

Dan Tanner watched appreciatively as Rita left his office. She was a bright girl and also a very attractive one. Not for the first time, he wondered if she would be amenable to a weekend away somewhere, but as ever, flinched at the thought of his wife finding out. Dan Tanner’s was a name to instil fear in the local underworld, but he in his turn was very wary of the temper of his wife. Helen Tanner, ten years younger than his own fifty-three years, was nothing like the empty-headed bimbo that fiction often attributed to the likes of women partners of men such as himself. A one-time solicitor and a very bright lady, she was an equal partner in the business, unlike Billy’s wife, Fiona, who really was at the tail end of the intelligence stakes for all her wide eyed beauty.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up to hear Rita’s voice.

“It’s George on the line, Dan.”

“OK love, put him through.”

“George – I’ve got some DCI, name of Inkerman, wants to see Billy and me about the club licences.

Know anything about him?”

“I’ve heard of him, Dan, never met him. He’s a divisional CID bloke, effectively number two to Graham, the CID boss round here. What’s he doing getting involved in licences? We normally get that plonker of a uniformed sergeant, Grant, from the local nick. Sounds fishy to me, Dan. Watch your step with this guy – he’s got a reputation as a smart bugger.”

“I will, George. I will.”

Tanner replaced the phone and sat back in his chair, thinking hard. Why would CID, and one of their senior people at that, be interested in his club licences? There was no need, no need at all, for them to get involved in such a routine matter. Had he but known it, he was already fulfilling Gordon Price’s belief that such a high level visit would cause concern.

At seven that evening Inkerman and Price were greeted by Rita Malley at the door of the Tanner’s office building. Following her swaying walk towards the inner office, Price wondered how it was that so gorgeous looking a girl would work for two thugs like the Tanner brothers. Tall, and with the help of heels high but not extravagantly so, almost matching his own five feet ten, she exuded glamour from the glossy auburn hair to the patent leather shoes, with everything in between fully meeting with the young detective’s approval.

She tapped on the door, and without waiting for a response from within, opened it and ushered them through.

The two men seated behind the big desk rose to meet the two policemen. Dan and Billy Tanner, aged fifty three and fifty respectively, could well have been twins, so closely did they resemble one another. Both were powerfully built, an impression of squat physical power enhanced by the fact that both were no more than five feet eight or so. Dark hair, lightly shot with grey, was swept back from the forehead and both had glittering dark brown eyes, deep-set in a tanned face. Square jaws, with just a trace of incipient jowls, surmounted short, thick necks rising from broad shoulders.

- 35 -

They were even dressed alike in dark blue business suits, white shirts and deep crimson silk ties.

Expensive looking wrist watches flopped loosely on each left wrist, and each wore a thick gold wedding band.

“Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,” thought Price to himself.

Dan Tanner was the first to speak, waving the detectives to visitors’ chairs as he did so.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I am Dan Tanner, this is my brother Billy. How can we help you?”

“Good evening, Mr. Tanner. I am Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman; this is my colleague Detective Constable Price. We would like to talk to you on a couple of matters, the first of which is that the licences for your several clubs , some of which come up for renewal in the near future. Now, normally such a matter would be dealt with by the local station, but there are elements surrounding them that aroused my interest. Our records department have been undertaking a survey of reported incidents involving clubs such as your own, and yours have come out at the higher end of the statistics, based on the number of cases reported of people being drunk and disorderly, or indulging in acts of violence or vandalism. Admittedly, none of these incidents have taken place actually within any of your premises, but some have involved members of your staff who have been involved in ejecting customers, and all the incidents we have logged have occurred in close proximity to your premises.”

Neither brother spoke; both sat still, watching Inkerman impassively.

“Now, in the past we have adopted a fairly lenient view towards such incidents, but ever since such an incident a couple of years ago resulted in death and a number of serious injuries, we have had to look much more closely at clubs and how they are run – and by whom. Now, you gentlemen both have criminal records of sufficient seriousness to make you unacceptable for directly running such establishments. I realise that currently you get round that problem by employing managers for each club, with your company having only a financial interest, not a direct management involvement, and that you yourselves are demonstrably very much hands off regarding them.

“However, there is a feeling that such an arrangement is no longer likely to be accepted by the licensing authorities. I am sure that you would wish to continue with things as they are, and this might be possible but by no means certain.”

Dan Tanner blinked slowly. ‘Is this copper after a backhander to put in a good word?,’ he asked himself. Surely not, or he would have come alone – or are they both in it, intending to back each other up if anything comes out? His chain of thought was immediately negated by Inkerman’s next words.

“Provided that you can demonstrate a rigorous approach to stamping out bad behaviour by your customers when they leave your premises, as well as when they are in them, the licences are likely to be renewed. Otherwise, I feel your chances of retaining them are poor.”

Before the brothers could digest fully the import of his words, Inkerman changed the subject in an endeavour to get them off balance.

“However, the question of your licences is secondary to our main purpose in coming to see you, although this probably only concerns Mr. William Tanner.”

Billy Tanner stared fixedly at Inkerman, a frown crossing his brutish face.

“Mr. Tanner, I am investigating the death of Mr. George Govern, whose body was found in Oxshott Woods last week. We are trying to gather together a picture of his last days and we understand that you met with Mr. Govern in the Three Bells public house the Sunday before he disappeared – in fact the Sunday before he was murdered.”

Billy frowned.

“I wouldn’t say that I met with him, Chief Inspector. We were both there at the same time, that’s all. I saw him talking with Guy Lombard, I know them both, so I wandered over to say hello. That’s about it.”

“Do you remember what you spoke about?”

Tanner shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Not really. I think I mentioned the racing at Sandown, but not much else.”

“Can you think of anyone with a reason for wanting Govern killed?”

Another shrug.

- 36 -

“No, I can’t. He’s – he was – a bloke who knew a lot of people, but I never heard nobody say anything bad about him. He just wasn’t the sort of bloke people get excited about, you know – a bit of a nothing?”

“Before the Sunday, when did you last see him?”

“It must have been earlier that week. I often pop into the Three Bells for a quick drink before going home, so I’m in there for twenty minutes or so perhaps three evenings a week. I certainly saw him one evening – I reckon it was Tuesday, but that time he was with a couple of guys I didn’t know, so I just sort of waved hello to him - didn’t go over or nothing.”

“These men with him – would you recognise them if you saw them again?”

Tanner shook his head.

“Don’t reckon so – they were all standing near a corner of the room, One had his back to me, never saw his face. The other was sort of half turned away, so I scarcely saw him neither.”

“Can you give me any names of people you know who also knew Govern?”

“Well, there’s Dan here, of course. Guy Lombard and one of his blokes – Terry Douglas who was there that Sunday, but apart from that, the folks I see in the Three Bells are just faces. Some you see once in a blue moon, some regular, but how many of them actually know – knew – George, I haven’t a clue.”

Inkerman changed the subject.

“You both know Guy Lombard, is that correct?”

Dan answered.

“Yes. We sometimes use his hire company and we’ve both known Guy for some years. He offers good rates, he’s local and always obliging, not like some of the bigger lots. What’s he got to do with anything?”

“Like your brother here, he was one of the last people we know to have seen George Govern alive, so naturally we’ve been speaking to him. Tell me, do either of you, or your company, own a Transit van?”

Just for an instant, Gordon Price thought that detected a slight stiffening in both brothers, but then it was gone.

“No, Chief Inspector. Neither of us have any need to own a van personally. The company has a small van, but it’s an Escort, not a Transit. Why?”

“We believe a Transit was used in the murder of Mr. Govern, so we are checking on all such vehicles owned locally, and especially if the owners knew Govern.”

This time, Price was sure he detected a relaxing in the brothers and wondered if his boss had noticed it as well.

Inkerman nodded at Tanner.

“Right, gentleman, I think that’s all I need to ask at the moment, Don’t forget what I said about your licence renewal applications, will you?”

Once in their car, Price wasted no time.

“Sir, I think that both the Tanners reacted when you asked about the Transit. They seemed to be worried when you first mentioned it, then relaxed when you said it was connected to the murder.”

“Yes, I noticed that as well, Gordon. There was something there, quite definitely. Those two are mixed up in all this somehow. Now all we have to do is find out how – and then prove it!”

Back in their office, the Tanner brothers were reflecting on their recent visitors.

“What do you reckon, Dan?”

The elder brother furrowed his brow in thought.

“I reckon the licences were just an excuse to see how we reacted about that murder. Now why should they want to tie us up with that?”

Billy shrugged.

“They’re cops – why not? Somebody gets topped and they’d love to pin it on us, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, could be that simple – but I don’t like it, I don’t like it all.”

- 37 -

The brothers would have been even more unhappy had they been aware of a meeting that was to take place in David Douglas’ house an hour or so later.

Part Two

Chapter Ten 8th / 9th September

Some two weeks before Jane was abducted, Chief Superintendent Anna Harrison got to her desk in New Scotland Yard early. The day promised a mountain of paperwork connected to yet another enquiry by the Independent Police Complaints Authority, this time into allegations of brutality on a picket line the previous month. She was therefore irritated when her secretary buzzed through shortly after nine o’clock.

“What is it?”

“I know you’re busy, ma’am, but I have a Mr. Lewis on the line who says he needs to talk to you urgently and asked me to tell you that it is in connection with the Nimrod file, whatever that is.”

Anna froze, the handset clutched fiercely in her hand. With an extreme effort she kept her voice normal.

“Oh, very well – put him through”

“Mr. Lewis, Anna Harrison here. What can I do for you? You mentioned the Nimrod file – but that was years ago.”

The voice that came through the phone was flat, expressionless, almost robotic in its quality.

“Thank you for talking to me, Chief Superintendent. Yes, Nimrod was closed a good while ago, but there is an ongoing investigation which seems to query some of Nimrod’s findings. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes to discuss it? I’m sure that you appreciate it is too sensitive to discuss over the phone.”

“Very well, Mr. Lewis. How urgent is this? I am very tied up at the moment and will be all day, but could we meet this evening? Either here or – where are you calling from?”

“I’m quite close at hand. This evening would be fine – tell you what, we both have to eat, so suppose we meet over dinner somewhere? As it is a working meal and it’s my case – my treat.”

“Right – there’s a small restaurant just nearby – The Gilded Rose – pretentious name, but the food is good and it is quiet. Nine o’clock suit you?”

“That would be ideal.”

In the next office, Cathleen Connor, Harrison’s secretary carefully replaced her phone. Now that, she told herself, was an interesting conversation. She had only been in her present post for three months, but she had long experience of the office politics in the Met and she made it her job to know as much as possible about the people for whom she worked. She had found Chief Superintendent Harrison a cold fish and didn’t like her. This sounded like something worth knowing about. She turned to her computer and, satisfied that her boss was so tied up that she herself would be undisturbed for a while, she started a search for a file called Nimrod.

Shortly before nine that evening, Anna was seated at a table in the Gilded Rose, a table which gave a good view of people as they entered. It was midweek and the restaurant was half empty.

She watched closely as a heavy set man entered, talked to the maitre d’ and was pointed towards her table. The man had dark hair, lightly shot with grey, which was swept back from his forehead and had dark brown eyes, deep-set in a tanned face. Square jaws, with just a trace of incipient jowls, surmounted a short, thick neck rising from broad shoulders. The impression of stockiness and physical power was emphasised rather than reduced by the fact that he was no more than five feet eight or so in height.

He stopped in front of her.

“Ms. Harrison?”

She inclined her head.

- 38 -

“Mr, Lewis, I presume. Won’t you sit down?”

He accepted the invitation and as soon as he was seated, a waiter was hovering at their side, proffering menus and asking if they wished for anything to drink whilst studying them.

“Scotch.” The one word was issued in a flat monotone. Anna declined a drink and the waiter retreated.

She decided to start the ball rolling.

“Nimrod, Mr. Lewis. What is your interest in it – and under what authority?”

“Not so fast, please, Chief Superintendent. A little background first, although to set your mind at rest, I’m Home Office, not police. I’m afraid we don’t carry anything like a warrant card, but I’m sure I can convince you of my bona fides as we talk. Now, as I understand it, you were sent to Ulster in 1988 to investigate security leaks. You did your job well, various people got fingered, there was the usual Whitehall cover-up, you came home, job done. You were rewarded with promotion and everybody, or nearly everybody, was happy. There was a report about it all, the Harman Report, which anyone can read under the Freedom of Information legislation. There was also a lot of stuff that didn’t appear in that report and which your bosses have kept under wraps ever since.

“But that wasn’t all of it, was it, Chief Superintendent? The IRA were into a lot of things back then over and above pure terrorism – bank robberies, prostitution, drug dealing, all to bring in money for the cause. There was a lot of money involved, an awful lot. Much of it really did go to the cause directly – buying weapons and explosives and the like, but some of it went to indirect efforts – bribing people, buying information, that sort of thing.

“And some of it just disappeared. It got creamed off and went into private bank accounts all over the world. And that’s where Nimrod comes in, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Anna, “it was a combined investigation by the RUC and the Garda into money laundering.

They tracked down quite a lot of money and in so doing identified people high in finance and banking circles who were actively helping the IRA. But how do you know about this? It was never a widely advertised exercise and it was all twenty years ago – and why call me about it? Presumably you have somehow discovered that I was one of the Met officers who liaised with the Nimrod team when it came to investigating contacts on the mainland, but so what?”

“Don’t be naive, Chief Superintendent. We both know that your involvement went far beyond that.”

Anna shook her head in irritation.

“Then you know more than I do, Mr. Lewis, because that’s all I did.”

“You are still being naive. I wonder how much £350,000 in 1988, carefully salted away somewhere, is worth today? Even with the credit crunch and all that, it surely must have at least doubled, wouldn’t you say?”

Anna could feel the room pressing in on her; her breathing seemed difficult. How much did this man know? And how? And above all, who was he?

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t think that I am going to stay and listen to this rubbish – enjoy your meal, I’m leaving.”

She started to rise from her chair, but Lewis tossed a scrap of paper onto the table between them.

“As you wish, but before you go, take a look at this.”

Despite herself, she reached for the paper, stretched it out between her hands and examined it closely.

She sat back in her chair.

“I thought that might get your attention. Now, we both know that number is the bank account into which, in 1988, you paid £350,000 which you had transferred out of various accounts that you and your colleagues were investigating. I have no doubt that the money has long since disappeared from that account to somewhere even more anonymous, but equally, I am sure that your colleagues in the Serious Fraud Office, starting with that number, would be able to unearth your misdeeds, don’t you agree?”

She stared blankly at him.

“What are you claiming?”

“You’re still at it, Chief Superintendent. You know as well as I do that the information on that piece of paper could put you behind bars – and wouldn’t the other inmates love to get their hands on an ex-Chief Superintendent? Your life in prison would be hell on earth. Now, I don’t want to see that happen to a nice lady like you, and I’m sure that you don’t, either, so I have a proposition for you.”

- 39 -

“What is it?”

“Quite simple. I want £100,000. You can afford it and it’s a cheap price to avoid prison, isn’t it?”

“How do I know that you won’t come back for more?”

Before he could answer, the waiter reappeared with Lewis’ drink and to take their orders. Numbly, she made a choice, scarcely able to take in the printed menu. Once the man had disappeared, she turned her attention back to Lewis.

“Well?”

“Well, I suppose that you can’t, not really. However, look at it from my point of view. I’m asking for a sum that, unless you have been very careless with your investments, you can easily afford. When you have got over the shock of all this, you will realise that it is a price well worth paying to keep your freedom. But –“ he emphasised the word, “but if I were to press you too hard you might well become desperate, and desperate people sometimes do reckless things – you might decide to take me down with you, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us, now would it?”

She was defeated, and they both knew it.

“How do I get the money to you?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to ask for a suitcase of used fivers. No, you can arrange for a bank transfer to this account.” He pushed a second slip of paper across the table to her. She glanced briefly at it, then back at Lewis.

“How did you find out about this?”

“Well, there’s no harm in telling you, I suppose. A mutual friend filled me in about you and Ulster.

Do you remember the late Liam Riley?”

She certainly did. Riley, a former senior member of the IRA, had been imprisoned as a result of the Achilles exercise. She had largely been responsible for identifying him, but she had also effectively saved his life by covering up his part in skimming off IRA money. Had his part been known to his IRA colleagues, he would have been dead in the instant. It was an irony that he had been released from prison early under the terms of the Good Friday agreement, and a further irony that he had been murdered earlier that year in Guildford, and that her action in restricting access to his police records had raised something of a stir in the investigation. With his death she had thought that she was finally and totally secure from the ghosts of Ulster, but they had come back to haunt her with a vengeance.

She nodded.

“Well, Liam was going to do some work for me, but unfortunately he went and got himself killed before he could complete it. However, when we were talking about the job I wanted him for, he offered to cut me in on something else as well – getting money out of you. He hadn’t tried it himself –

he felt that taking on a senior member of the Met’s Special Branch, and one who knew a lot about him, was far too risky, but he felt that I would probably be able to arrange things at arm’s length as it were. So here we are, and the funny thing is – I don’t even have to share the proceeds with him anymore, thanks to some nutty woman with a shotgun3.”

The first shock was beginning to wear off and her mind was working furiously. Somehow, she had to rid herself of this parasite, but in a manner that kept her in the clear. Who, she wondered, was he? For a start she didn’t believe that his name was really Lewis, nor that he was with the Home Office. It was much more likely that he was a criminal, pure and simple Their food arrived, giving her an opportunity to think. Once she transferred the money it was gone forever, but ‘Lewis’ was right in one thing; compared to ending up in prison it really was a price worth paying.

“All right,” she said, “you win. I’ll arrange the transfer, but it will take at least a couple of weeks or so to arrange. I don’t have the money sitting in a bank account; it’s tied up in property in Switzerland. I’ll have to raise a loan against one of the properties – that won’t be a problem, but it can’t be done overnight.”

Lewis frowned; clearly he had not anticipated this, so perhaps he wasn’t as bright as he thought he was.

“Not good enough – I want the money in forty-eight hours.”

3 Vengeance is Mine

- 40 -

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Can’t be done – I simply don’t have it available that quickly. However, if you like I can transfer a smaller amount tomorrow – a down payment of you like. I can transfer £10,000 into that account tomorrow, the rest as soon as possible, probably a fortnight from now.”

She could almost see Lewis’ mind working; was it worth taking a first payment, with the risk that his victim might somehow be able to use that transaction to trace him, or should he wait? He clearly made his mind up.

“OK, transfer the £10,000 tomorrow, but I’ll give you a different account for the balance - oh, and I think that the balance ought to be £100,000 again to compensate me for having to wait – call it interest.”

“Call it a bloody nerve – but I suppose that I don’t have any choice, do I?”

He shook his head.

“None at all, none at all.”

“Right, tomorrow I will arrange the transfer of the £10,000. Then what?”

“I’ll be in touch with a new bank account number for the rest of the money.”

He finished his food and pushed the plate aside.

“Thanks for that, Chief Superintendent. I’ll let you settle the bill – and don’t try to follow me, will you?”

“There wouldn’t be any point, now would there?”

He paused for thought.

“No, I suppose there wouldn’t.”

He rose and left the restaurant, unaware of the man who had left a table nearer the door a moment before and was now struggling into a heavy overcoat.

It was ten o’clock the following morning. Anna Harrison’s phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Inspector Kirkham is here ma’am.”

“Show him in, Cathleen.”

The door opened and Detective Inspector Jim Kirkham, a tall, slimly built man with a floppy mop of blond hair and a small moustache of the same colour, walked into her office. She waved him to a chair and he seated himself.

“Right, Jim, what news?”

“We followed him, no problem. He gave no sign that he realised that he was being followed – I used a three car tag team, myself and Sergeants Foulkes and Crawley and we tracked him to a big house just outside of Guildford. House belongs to one Dan Tanner who has a record – three years for fraud and tax evasion, and a reputation for having done a lot worse, and from what I saw of the man in the restaurant, and his picture on file, that was the man himself.”

“Oh, yes – I’ve heard of the Tanner brothers – he’s the elder, isn’t he?”

“That’s right, ma’am. He’s fifty-three; brother Billy is fifty. How did it go?”

Most of her subordinates would have waited to be told, but Kirkham was a special protégé, and able to take liberties.

“Waste of time, I’m afraid. He claimed that he could stitch up Foggarty and Kieller for us. He knew a bit about Foggarty, but nothing earth shattering, but with regards to Kieller, he didn’t even know that we lifted him last weekend. I think that Mr. ‘Lewis’ as he calls himself, is out to do a bit of muscling in should those other two be removed one way or another – certainly it is believable given the Tanner’s reputation, but for the moment, no further action needed. Thanks for the work, Jim – and pass my thanks on to your sergeants.”

“Thanks, ma’am, I’ll do that.”

And with that he left the office.

Anna sat back in her chair, thinking hard. She now knew who her enemy was, and he was going to find that trying to blackmail her was a very foolish move indeed. The fairy tale that she had spun for Kirkham’s benefit was one of several stories that she had prepared to explain why she had had Tanner,

- 41 -

as she now knew him to be, followed from the restaurant, the selection made when she an idea of the most suitable tale to tell. She opened her handbag and, taking out a mobile phone, dialled a number.

A man’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello yourself. I’d like a brief chat fairly soon.”

“Here tonight?”

“Fine – nine suit?”

“Yes”

And the conversation was over, the meeting arranged.

At nine that evening Anna Harrison drove up to the entrance of a fairly large detached house on the outskirts of Guildford. The door was opened at once to her knock. The man who stood before her was a little above average height, with black hair brushed fiercely back from a high forehead, and deep-set, dark eyes which surveyed Anna unblinkingly. She knew that David Douglas was fifty-seven years old, but he carried the years lightly and could easily have been mistaken for a man a good few years younger. He led her into a large, comfortably furnished lounge and fixed them both drinks. He sat down opposite her, the unblinking eyes firmly on her face.

“So, Anna, what brings you here? Trouble?”

“Yes. I had a visit yesterday from a villain from this neck of the woods, Dan Tanner.”

Douglas’ eyebrows rose slightly, but he gave no other reaction.

“He knows about Nimrod, David. That little bastard Riley told him all about it and he came sniffing round wanting to be bought off. I’ve fobbed him off for a few days, but I’m damned if I am going to pay him off.”

“The Tanners have quite a reputation around here, you know.”

“Yes, I do, but that isn’t going to save them. Presumably you haven’t been approached yet?”

“No, but if Riley fingered you, he is almost certain to have fingered me as well, I wonder why I haven’t had a visit? A local night club manager must seem far easier fish to fry than a senior officer in the Met.”

“Don’t have an answer to that, but we need a plan to draw the teeth of this bloody little gangster.”

“Yes, but what? When it was just Riley in the know, he stood to lose as much as we did. If he squealed on us we would take him down as well, and his IRA chums would have had him dead in a trice. Tanner doesn’t have any such threat to worry about. Let me think about this. Somehow we either have to convince him that revealing what he now knows would be even worse for him than for us – or we have to remove him.”

“Well, if you come up with a means for persuasion, I’m all ears, but removal seems the more likely solution.”

The two of them discussed the matter for over an hour before finally agreeing on the details of a plan which they thought would be effective.

Chapter Eleven 11th September

It was two days later. Dan Tanner was becoming increasingly frustrated; by now he had expected to receive confirmation that Anna Harrison’s initial payment of £10,000 had been transferred to the bank account he had set up for the purpose, but he had received no news at all. He was on the verge of contacting the woman again, still in his assume persona of ‘Mr. Lewis’ and attempt to tighten the screw when his secretary phoned through to him.

“Dan, there’s a Mrs. Lewis on the line for you – says its important but won’t say what it is about.

Dan began to feel decidedly uneasy.

“Put her through.”

He picked up the phone.

“Mrs. Lewis?”

“Not really, but then, you aren’t Mr. Lewis., either, are you, Tanner?”

He said nothing, waiting for the caller to continue.

“I want to talk about our deal again. You don’t have to worry, things are in hand, but they are taking longer than expected, so I’ve used the time to some research that might be seen as advantageous to both of us.”

He replied cautiously.

“In what way?”

- 42 -

“More profit for you, less cost for me.”

“And how would that be?”

“I can put you in touch with another Nimrod player – one with considerable assets which he might well be persuaded to share.”

“What sort of level of assets?”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about such matters on the phone – you never know who might be listening, do you? Let’s just say. Think of a number and double it, and that could be your profit.”

Did she mean £700,000, he wondered. He replied even more cautiously.

“I might well be interested. How do we take this forward?”

“How about another dinner date? Same time, same place?”

“All right – I’ll see you then.”

At nine o’clock that evening, Dan Tanner once again entered the Gilded Rose restaurant and made his way to Anna Harrison’s table. Once again she was ostensibly alone, as was Tanner, although in fact each had a confederate already in place at other tables.

“Good evening, Mr. Tanner.”

He inclined his head.

“Chief Superintendent.”

It was a different waiter from the previous occasion, but one just as attentive, so there was a momentary pause while he took their order for drinks. Tanner again demanded Scotch; Anna had a tonic water.

“So, Ms. Harrison, what, or I suppose I should say who, do you have for me?”

“Another Nimrod player. As you doubtless know I was a DI at the time, acting undercover and masquerading as a lowly detective constable. One of the more senior people was an Army officer, a Major by the name of Harry Collett. He now runs a reasonably successful transport company – but that is really a front to give credence to his actual monetary worth. If you check into him, you will find that his life style away from the company is a bit higher on the hog than you would expect from the income such a company should be bringing him. Dig a bit deeper and you will find that long, very expensive holidays also factor into his life style. I made a comfortable amount out of Nimrod; Collett must gave gathered in perhaps a million pounds or more. I am sure that between us we could persuade him to funnel some of that your way, enough. I feel, for you to consider seriously that it would be better for you to have me as, if not a friend, at least a willing ally rather than a victim hoping for an opportunity for revenge.”

Tanner blinked slowly. This was something totally removed from what he had expected. The arrival of the waiter with their drinks, and his obtaining their orders for food, gave him time to think.

“What have you got on this Collett?”

“Well, you can’t expect chapter and verse at this stage – I have to keep my hand close to my chest or what is to stop you taking both Collett and me for all you can? Let’s just say that a list of bank transactions, kept in a safe place, would make life easy for the Serious Fraud Squad and very difficult for Major Collett.”

“So why haven’t you used this before?”

Anna shrugged.

“No need to. No skin off my nose what he did, but I came across the information whilst doing my own digging and decided to keep it just in case it ever came in useful. Now it looks like a wise move.”

“So how do we proceed?”

Anna noted the ‘we’ with satisfaction. Tanner was beginning to nibble at the bait, but she was under no illusions as to how carefully she would have to play this particular fish.

“He lives just this side of Reading. I don’t know if he would remember me – it is, after all, over twenty years since we last met, but I don’t want to take that chance. You will have to be the one who approaches him, and I would suggest that the word ‘Nimrod’ would be just as much a wake-up call to him as it was to me. Now, one thing to bear in mind – Collett was effectively sacked over the

- 43 -

happenings in Ulster. Nobody, apart from me, knew about his financial scheming. He was suspected of passing information on to Loyalist terrorists to enable them to take out IRA members. Nothing could actually be proved or he would have gone to prison, but he was persuaded that he should resign his commission rather than face a long investigation which probably would have come up with enough evidence in the long run. He didn’t want to go to prison, and the powers that be didn’t want a scandal, so he was allowed to go quietly.

“Because the real thrust of the investigation was to clear up and cover over the allegations of collaboration with the Loyalists, nobody else looked into the finance side, so Collett thinks that he is clean in that respect, and he has always felt safe to mutter about being made a scapegoat on the collaboration front, although hasn’t dared to really carry it through. His protestations of innocence are just window dressing. Reminding him of Nimrod and where his money came from should be easily enough to have him running scared – and unlike me, even if he does get desperate, he has no way of hitting back at you.”

Tanner sat back in his chair, thinking furiously. He had no reason to trust the woman seated opposite, but on the other hand it was quite understandable that she should try and wriggle out of her own predicament like this. Could he, he wondered, squeeze both Harrison and this Collett man? If between them they really did steal something well over a million or more, he could see an opportunity for creaming off a good proportion for himself and Billy.

“So how do I get hold of this Collett chap?”

Anna passed over a scrap of paper.

“There is his telephone number.”

“What’s his address?”

“Not so fast – just phone him and arrange to meet. His address is my little secret for the time being.

Later – well, who knows? Perhaps we can share knowledge, but that depends on you.”

Tanner decided that, for the moment, he would play along.

“All right, I’ll phone him tomorrow, but I’m not letting you off the hook yet. Later, as you say – who knows?”

At that point the waiter reappeared with their food and they spoke no more of business until their plates were empty. Both declined a sweet or coffee and Anna Harrison sat back in her chair and surveyed Tanner carefully. The man was greedy and his thought processes transparent, but that did not mean that she dared underestimate him. The plan she and Douglas had hatched was only in its very preliminary stages; much more work was still to be done.

Chapter Twelve 12th September

The next morning Dan Tanner phoned the number he had been given by Anna Harrison. A man’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Is that Major Collett?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s not here. Can I take a message, I’m their neighbour, I’m keeping an eye on the house.”

Tanner thought quickly.

“Damn, I particularly wanted to talk to Harry about the reunion next year. Is he away for long?”

“Well, look, who is it calling?”

“Oh, sorry – I didn’t say. It’s Bill Goddard – Harry and I served together in Ulster years ago and , well, I lost touch with him until I bumped into another of our chums the other day who gave me Harry’s number.”

“Oh, I see. Well. I’m afraid he and Elizabeth are off on their winter break, Bermuda, you know. They won’t be back for a couple of weeks – Thursday fortnight in fact.”

“Right, well, I’m sorry to have bothered you – I’ll get in touch when they are back.”

“No trouble at all. Cheerio.”

“Cheerio.”

- 44 -

David Douglas put the phone down. That, he felt, had gone just as hoped. Now Tanner would be kept in limbo for a little while whilst the plan to get him off Anna’s back – and possibly his own –

matured.

Dan Tanner replaced the phone handset in frustration. Now what? Once Harrison had dangled the thought of greater profit in front of him, he had been looking forward to putting the squeeze on this man Collett. At least the news that he and his wife had gone to Bermuda for at least three weeks or more tied in with the story of his life style. The question now was what to do in the meantime before Collett returned. He picked up his phone and dialled again, but this time to the mobile number Anna Harrison had given him. It was switched off. Growing more frustrated by the minute, he phoned her office number, despite having agreed with her that he would only use the mobile in future. Her secretary answered.

“Chief Superintendent Harrison’s office.”

“This is Mr. Lewis, I need to speak with her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. She isn’t in today; she is at a conference.”

“When will she return?”

“Not until after the weekend, I’m afraid.”

“Can you give me a number I can reach her on?”

“Sorry, Mr. Lewis. It is a very important conference and nobody can contact the people involved until it is over.”

“This is ridiculous. It is important that I reach her.”

“I’m sorry, I really am, but I cannot give you a number, It is a matter of security. There is one way I can help. I can send her an E-mail and let her have a contact number for you, but I must emphasise that I cannot promise she will get back to you, nor can I let you have the E-mail address.”

Tanner was tempted to slam the phone down, but restrained himself.

“Please do that.” He gave her his number and replaced the phone.

Cathleen Connor, Anna Harrison’s secretary, also put down the phone. This, she thought, is getting very interesting. Lewis wanting to get in touch again. She knew that her boss had met with him at least once and that she had had him followed by her pet protégé, DI Kirkam. Just who was this mysterious Mr. Lewis and why was Harrison so interested in him? She was suspicious about Harrison’s instructions that nobody outside her own team or her superiors should be provided with a contact number at the conference she was attending, a conference of scarcely earth-shattering importance to warrant such an embargo on contact. Something, she was sure, was up, and she had a feeling that the something was something fishy. Long experienced in the internal politics of the Met, she wondered just what her boss was up to. Certainly she was up to something. The conference she was attending had been organised months ago, but she had only decided to attend it two days ago.

Cathleen wondered if she had suddenly decided to make herself unavailable to people, including, perhaps, the mysterious Mr. Lewis. If she didn’t want to be contacted, what, or who, was she hiding from?

Two hundred and thirty miles away, Anna Harrison answered the phone in her hotel room. As her secretary had surmised, she was attending the conference – a boring exercise in examining the use of CCTV evidence in court – simply to remove herself from contact with Tanner whilst the plan she and Douglas had hatched had a chance to mature. In fact, once she had signed in, she had simply returned to her hotel room to await an update.

It was Douglas on the phone.

“He’s tried to make contact, Anna. Seems to have swallowed the ‘subject away’ tale. Presented himself as an old Army buddy.”

“Good. Now to set the dogs on him.”

“It’s already in hand.”

- 45 -

She returned the handset to its rest and sat back in her armchair. Tanner was about to get a nasty shock, one which would should persuade him that trying to blackmail her was a poor life style choice.

Back in Surrey, David Douglas was making another telephone call. He heard the ringing tone, then the person at the other end answered.

“Yes?”

“You know who this is?”

“Yes.”

“We are clear to go. Do it in your own time,”

Chapter Thirteen 13th September

Kenny Blake was an employee of the Tanners, working in both their legal and their illegal operations.

In the former, he was a doorman, a euphemism for ‘bouncer’ at one of their clubs. In the latter he was an enforcer, charged with making sure that any of the many minor criminals whose activities impinged upon those of the Tanners either paid a proportion of their earnings to the brothers or suffered a painful visit from Kenny or one or other of similarly skilled Tanner associates. He had no criminal record – an essential prerequisite for the job at the club – but this was due simply to the fact that he had never been caught, not to a blameless life.

It was four in the morning, some fifteen or so hours after David Douglas had made his phone call, not that Kenny was aware of the fact. Nor would he ever be.

He left the Flamingo club by the back door. Behind the building there was a small parking area, where Kenny had left his Range Rover after arriving for work.

He entered the vehicle, started the engine and drove carefully out of the car park and onto the road.

The sight lines were very poor and the exit virtually invisible to traffic already on the road, so caution was needed to avoid becoming another road traffic accident statistic. A hundred yards further on there were traffic lights. Inevitably, they were at red, and Kenny coasted to a stop. As the Range Rover came to rest, a motorcycle drew up alongside, and Kenny glanced incuriously at the rider who was wearing one of the fashionable all enclosing helmets with a dark visor.

“Silly fucker,” Kenny said to himself, “how can he see anything at night with that bleedin’ thing in front of his face?” He became aware that the rider’s right hand was not in view grasping the handlebars but hidden from sight; he thought nothing of it until, as the lights changed the rider’s hand came into view grasping a pistol. Before Kenny could react in any way it was all over. The motorcyclist fired two shots into the Range Rover’s front tyre, then accelerated away. It had taken less than five seconds.

Even at four in the morning, it was only minutes before the stationary Range Rover was causing traffic to back up, and horns were sounded. A shaken Kenny got out of the vehicle and, with some difficulty, persuaded a couple of the delayed drivers to help him to push his car onto the pavement. He got out his mobile phone.

Billy Tanner was sound asleep when the bedside phone rang. A heavy sleeper, it was his wife, Eileen, who was first awakened by the bell, but knowing full well that a call at that hour wasn’t going to good news, and was unlikely to be anything she would want to know about, she mercilessly prodded her husband in the ribs until he reluctantly surfaced.

Blearily, he examined the bedside clock in disbelief, then lifted the phone.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

“It’s Kenny Blake, Mr. Tanner. Some fucker’s just taken a pot shot at me and taken out one of me tyres.”

Dan Tanner had always been regarded of the brains of the Tanners, Billy the muscle. That, however, did not mean that Billy was stupid; far from it.

- 46 -

“Where did it happen?”

“At the first lights on the main road. I stopped for the lights, motorcyclist draws up alongside and as the lights change he shoots out the bleedin’ tyre, then tears off.”

“Anything happen out of the ordinary at the club last night? Any fights, punters really pissed off. That sort of thing?”

“No, Mr. Tanner. It was a quiet night. I turned a drunk and his bird away at about two, but they were both just about paralytic already. Both of ‘em could scarcely walk, never mind ride a bike.”

“OK, Kenny. Say nothing about this to anyone, right? I’m going to put the word out tomorrow, but you say nothing.”

“Right, Mr. Tanner. Sorry about this.”

“Not your fault son – get some kip.”

Billy replaced the phone, rolled onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. Why would anyone carry out an attack like that? Anyone twisting the collective tails of the Tanners was really looking for trouble –

or what it something personal against Kenny? Whatever, it could wait until morning. Within minutes he was once more fast asleep.

In the meantime, the motorcyclist who had shot out Kenny Blake’s tyre had made the short journey to another of the Tanner’s clubs. The Blue Boar had once been a thriving public house, but some ten years earlier it had fallen on hard times, largely because the Tanners had their eyes on it and had managed to orchestrate several fights, leading to the licence being temporarily withdrawn. When the licence had come up for renewal, the Tanners, through a placeman, were the only interested party.

That, however, was in the past. Now, the Blue Boar was a small club specialising in what was euphemistically termed ‘exotic dancers’ and over-priced drink and food.

The manager, George Walters, had just finished locking the takings into the office safe, when he was aware of the sound of breaking glass. Making his way into the main area, he found that one of the windows was broken. The cause was immediately obvious; on the floor was a half brick, wrapped in a sheet of paper. Angrily, he picked the object up, smoothed out the paper and read the message scrawled on it in amazement. Written in crude, black marker pen capitals was the message ‘NEXT

TIME YOU BURN’.

He looked at his watch. Four thirty – he decided against phoning his boss immediately, but instead looked around for a means of making the window secure; he couldn’t leave it as it was, an open invitation to any passing idiot to come in and help himself. Finally, he found a piece of plywood, part of a packing case put out for the dustmen, and nailed it roughly in position. Then he got out his mobile phone.

Billy Tanner hadn’t been back to sleep for more than thirty minutes before the phone rang once more.

Angrily, he snatched it up.

“What?”

“Billy, George Walters. Somebody just chucked a brick through the window at the Blue Boar with a message threatening to burn the place.”

“What!? Some bugger has also shot up Kenny Blake’s car. Somebody’s looking for trouble. George, was your CCTV on?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t looked at it yet – more important to secure the bleedin’ window.”

“Right, look – come over to the office, make it around seven. I’ll call Dan and we’ll get Kenny there as well.”

At seven that morning, the four men assembled in the Tanners’ office and gathered round the TV

monitor to watch the tape Walters had brought in.

It showed a motorcyclist coast to a halt outside the Blue Boar, reach into a pannier, pull something out and hurl it. As the camera was mounted on the wall, the actual impact with the window couldn’t be seen, but there was no doubt as to what they were watching.

- 47 -

“That look like the same bloke, Kenny?” Billy asked.

“I reckon so, Mr. Tanner. You can’t make out the registration, and anyway the fucker who shot out my tire was away before I could clock his plate, but it’s the same looking helmet that hides his face, leathers look like the same, and that bike is the same - a Honda VFR800 – not many of those around here, and what chance more than one in Guildford at four in the morning?”

“So, we’ve got some comedian trying to make a nuisance of himself. Any ideas why? Kenny, you upset anyone recently – I don’t mean just at the club, anywhere?”

Blake shook his head slowly.

“No, Mr. Tanner. There was that Chinky food shop about six months back, didn’t want to pay for protection, and the son came on a bit strong, but he calmed down after I belted him a couple of times.

Paid up regular since then – can’t see them suddenly getting all brave. Anyway – that bike is the best part of ten grand on the road – that family had a Fiesta and a small van. Can’t see any of them suddenly going round on a flash bike like that one.”

Dan Tanner was beginning to have an uneasy feeling. Only his brother Billy was aware of his attempt to blackmail Anna Harrison, and he wondered if Billy was getting the same feeling. He turned to Walters.

“Any thoughts, George?”

It was Walters’ turn to shake hid.

“No, can’t think of anything, Dan. Everything at the club has been fine. What puzzles me is why? If someone wanted to fire the Blue Boar he could have done it there and then. Why warn us?”

“Fuck knows, George. Anyway – I’ll talk to the others and see if anyone has noticed anything odd. In the meantime, you have somebody stay all night at the Blue Boar so that if somebody does try something, we’ll be ready. I’ll make sure the other clubs do the same.”

Walters nodded.

“Wildo.”

Dan turned to Blake.

“Kenny, I want you to talk to that mate of yours with the bike shop. See if he knows anyone with one of those –what was it?”

“Honda VFR800.”

“Yeah, right – one of them. OK?”

“Yes, Mr. Tanner.”

When the others had left, the two bothers looked at each other. It was Billy who voiced their common thought.

“Reckon this could be anything to do with that Harrison cow?”

“Well, it does seem odd timing, doesn’t it? Perhaps I should turn the screw on her a bit – sod this waiting for this Collett guy to put in an appearance.”

In the event, turning the screw on Anna Harrison had to wait. Just over two hours later, Billy Tanner had yet another phone call. This one was from Ricky Davis, another of the Tanners’ club managers.

“Billy, we’ve just opened up for the cleaners. Someone has been round the back, broken a window, and poured in paraffin and thrown in a note. It says ‘NEXT TIME I’LL REMEMBER THE

MATCHES.”

Billy swore violently, told Davis to guard the club day and night, and slammed down the phone.

Billy turned to his brother .

“This has got to be something to do with that bloody Harrison woman. What are you going to do about her?”

“If it is her – and I’ll grant you, it seems likely – I’m going to make her sorry she was ever bleedin’

well born. I don’t care if she is a fucking Chief Superintendent – nobody does this to us and gets away with it.”

“So what you are going to do?”

“I’ll call her right now.”

- 48 -

He was about to pick up the phone when he remembered his abortive attempt to contact her the day before; she was effectively incommunicado until Monday, three days away. He swore angrily, but uselessly and told Billy that contacting the woman would have to wait.

Jane Lawson’s telephone rang.

“Lawson.”

“Desk sergeant here, Inspector. I have a gentleman here, a Mr. Donald, who wants to report shots being fired near the Flamingo club early this morning.”

“The Flamingo? Is that you, George? Isn’t the Flamingo one of the Tanner’s places?”

George O’Kelly, the desk sergeant, chuckled.

“I thought that would get your interest, Jane. Shall I send him up?”

“Please, George, and when I’ve finished with him, could you pop up and see me for a few minutes?

I’d like to pick your brains.”

“OK, see you shortly.”

“Thanks, George.”

Three minutes later a young constable ushered in a tall, slim man dressed in a conservative business suit in dark blue, the white shirt and silver tie complementing it neatly. Jane judged him to be in his mid-forties, his dark, swept back hair lightly dusted with grey. Dark brown eyes surveyed her from a lightly tanned face.

“Mr. Donald, won’t you sit down? I’m Detective Inspector Lawson. I understand you want to let us know about shots being fired this morning?”

“That’s right, Inspector. I was walking home from an evening spent with friends – we’d been playing cards – and I passed the Flamingo night club. At that hour there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, but as I neared the club a Range Rover pulled out of its car park onto the road. It had to stop at the traffic lights – they’re less than a hundred yards away – and a motorcycle drew up alongside it. As the lights changed, the motorcyclist leaned towards the car, brought up a pistol and fired two shots into its offside front tyre, then accelerated away.”

“Did you manage to see the motorcyclist’s face, or get his number? Did you see the make of the bike?”

“I couldn’t see his face at all. He had one of this all-enveloping helmets with a visor, so he was effectively completely masked. I did, however, get his number, one of these fancy personalised things

– NOR888, but I’m afraid that apart from the fact that it looked big and powerful, I have no idea what sort of motorbike it was – they all look the same to me. I also got the number of the Range Rover –

TW07FGP.”

“Thank you, that’s terrific. What happened after the shots were fired?”

“The car didn’t move – I would imagine that the driver was pretty shaken – and a few moments later two more cars arrived. With the Range Rover just standing there they couldn’t get by and the drivers got out and helped push the Range Rover to the side of the road.”

“Did you get any numbers, Mr. Donald?”

“Yes indeed. A dark blue Ford Mondeo SU06TGB and a silver Astra BT55HBR. I also have something else for you,” he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a plastic envelope which he laid on Jane’s desk. Inside it were two spent cartridge cases. “I thought it best to pick them up rather than let them be lost. I was careful; I used a pencil to do so, so my fingerprints aren’t on them.”

Jane examined the two spent cartridge cases; they were, she was pretty sure, from a 9mm pistol – a serious weapon.

“Mr. Donald, this is really helpful. Could I ask you to give me a written statement about it, please?”

“Yes, of course. In fact I assumed that you would want something in writing, so I typed up what I have just told you.” He produced a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it across. Jane scanned it quickly; as Davis had said, it laid out, clearly and succinctly, what she had just been told.

“Thank you once more. Just one thing, Mr. Donald, why didn’t you phone the police straightaway?”

- 49 -

“I would have done, but I didn’t have my mobile with me – I forget to pick it up when I left my flat to go out. By the time I got home twenty minutes had elapsed and I knew that the motorcyclist would be long gone, so I decided to get some sleep and then come in first thing.”

Jane nodded. Even with the man’s logical explanation, it was annoying that he hadn’t called in immediately, Still, at least he brought the information in. A shooting involving the Tanners, she mused to herself., but one that only damaged a car.

“Tell me, Mr. Donald – you seem pretty unfazed by all this – shots on a public road in the middle of the night, in Guildford of all places?”

“Well, they weren’t fired at me, and the threat disappeared with the motorcyclist’s getaway. Also, I’ve heard gunfire before. I was in the Army – 2 Para. I was a twenty year old subaltern in the Falklands back in ’82 and a company commander in Afghanistan in ’02. I retired a couple of years back.”

“My fiancée was in the Army – Bomb Squad. He was too young for the Falklands, but he did a couple of tours in Afghanistan.”

“Bomb Squad, eh? I could never have done their job, much too much the coward. I wonder if I ever came across him?”

“He retired as a Captain – Harry Oakes.”

Donald furrowed his brow in cogitation for a moment.

“No, sorry, I don’t think I knew him. Mind you, specialists like that often came and went before you really had time to register them, so it’s possible our paths crossed if he was out there in ’02.”

“Pity, I know he misses the Army to an extent, although he got out because he was fed up of the politicians wanting more and more for less and less all the time.”

“Isn’t that the truth? To be fair, though, I would have gone anyway. I’d reached my limit – I was a major, my contemporaries – those still in the Army that is, were mostly lieutenant colonels or brigadiers – a couple had even reached major-general, so I decided it was time to try pastures new.”

“So what do you do now?”

Donald looked mildly embarrassed.

“Well, actually, I write, under an assumed name, because I seem to have a bit of a gift for churning out blood and thunder stuff. It sells quite well; nothing to worry Dick Francis or the like, but, with my army pension, enough to make ends meet.”

Jane had let the conversation wander well away from the evidence Donald was providing because she had a feeling that somehow there was something not quite right about what she was being told.

“Well, thanks once more, Mr. Donald. I’ll get one of my folk to type up what you have let us have on an official witness statement for you to sign, if you don’t mind. Would you like to wait whilst I have it done, or would you prefer to come back later today?”

“I’ll wait, if that’s alright; being self-employed, my time is my own.”

“That’s great – we have a canteen downstairs which is probably the most comfortable place to wait.

I’ll have someone show you down and collect you when the statement is ready – shouldn’t take long,”

“That sounds fine.”

Jane picked up her phone and rang through to George O’Kelly on the desk.

“George, Jane again. Could you send someone up to show Mr. Donald to the canteen please and treat him to a cup of tea?”

Many would have asked if it was beyond the wit of CID to send somebody down with their witness themselves, but O’Kelly knew Jane well enough to sense that there was a reason behind the request.

“OK. Do want me to come up now?”

“Yes please.”

A couple of minutes later, the same young constable who had showed Donald to Jane’s office collected him again. The moment they were on the way there was a tap on the door and George O’Kelly entered.

“George, sit you down please.” Jane picked up her phone.

“Skull, can you come in please?”

Seconds later, ‘Skull’ Clarke entered and nodded to O’Kelly.

“Skull, there’s a guy in the canteen, George will give you the nod when he leaves. If possible follow him and see where he goes. He claims to have seen a Range Rover have a tyre shot out in the early

- 50 -

hours, but somehow he seems a bit too good to be true. For a start he memorised four registration plates, one of them only visible to him for seconds. How many people could do that? I certainly couldn’t. Also – he says he was in the army but even so, to witness shots being fired and then just stroll on home and not report the matter until the next morning? And there’s these,” she indicated the plastic bag containing the cartridge cases, “he calmly wanders around the road and picks them up, lifting them with a pencil to avoid contaminating them with his own prints? OK, he may be kosher, but I need him checked out. George, when he leaves, could you point him out to Skull – second thoughts, Skull send one of the others down to do the following. Can you get on to your old army contacts and see if you can get any gen on Donald – he says he retired a couple of years ago as a Major in the Paras. Also, get someone to check the ownership of these four vehicles” She passed the numbers over to him.

Clarke nodded.

“OK, I’ll get on it.” He rose and left the room. Jane turned her attention back to O’Kelly.

“George, have you heard anything about someone wanting to cause trouble for the Tanners?”

She studied him as he thought. He had been her first Sergeant when she joined the force and had been a guiding light to the then PC Lawson as she struggled to make her way in a male-dominated environment. George had been a Sergeant then and was a Sergeant still. He had never shown any interest in further promotion, but it was generally acknowledged in the force that anything he didn’t know about the shadow world of crime in southwest Surrey wasn’t worth knowing. A widower and childless, his only interests were the job and, as a relaxation, fishing.

He shook his head.

“Nothing on the grapevine, Jane. Not many people fancy tangling with the Tanners, as I know you realise. It might be internal, but I doubt it. They have their set-up sewn up pretty tightly. The only recent mutterings I have heard were six months back. One of the club managers was rumoured to be unhappy – cause unknown, and before you knew it, he’d got the push and left the area in a hurry.

Name of John Trescott. Last I heard, he had been seen in York, presumably in pastures new for his health.”

Jane jotted the name down on her pad.

“Thanks, George. Anything that sniffs of the Tanners from now – let me know, would you please?”

“Of course.”

He left her alone to think over the disturbing testimony of Peter Donald.

It was only a few minutes before Alan Taylor knocked on her door.

“I’ve checked those registrations, boss. The Range Rover belongs to Kenny Blake, associate of the Tanners, works in the Flamingo as a bouncer and is also an enforcer generally for the brothers. The Astra belongs to one William Conway, address in Epsom, the Mondeo to James Dillon, who lives in Ripley. The motorbike, however, is a bit odd. The plate exists and it is on a bike, but it is for an old Norton for which a SORN declaration has been made by a John Littlewood, who lives in Birmingham.”

So, that bike had false plates; a SORN – Statutory Off Road Notification – mean that the bike wasn’t taxed and could not be used on the road legally. Was it coincidence that the machine had plates belonging to a genuine machine, or did the rider know of the off road ringer? Was the owner of the genuine machine involved?

“Right, Alan. Phone the owners of the Astra, the Mondeo and the bike, but not Blake and find out what they can tell us.”

“You got it.”

Twenty minutes later he was back.

“The two drivers, Conway and Dillon, both came up to the traffic lights to find the Range Rover stuck with a flat tyre. They helped push it out of the way. Neither of them saw a bike at the lights, but Conway saw a bike at the previous lights which accelerated through them as they were changing, whereas Conway had to stop for them. He described the rider as having a helmet with a dark visor, but didn’t notice anything else. The owner of the bike in Birmingham says it hasn’t left his garage in three

- 51 -

months and couldn’t anyway – he’s got the engine out and is overhauling it. He sounds genuine – he was only too keen to talk about the machine which apparently is worth quite a bit because it is a classic. He belongs to a Norton owners club – I checked their website and he is listed as the magazine editor.”

“So, I wonder if it was just coincidence that our mystery man choose that number? Seems a bit risky to do it deliberately – always the chance of being picked up by a police number plate recognition camera and being flagged up as a SORN being on the road illegally.”

“There is one thing, boss – unless he was actually stopped, if the plate was picked up on camera any enquiries would go to Birmingham in the first instance – could delay things if it was just a routine check.”

“Good point, Alan. I guess the odds are that the bike has already been ditched or had its plates changed. I suppose we don’t know what make it was or anything?”

Taylor shook his head.

“’Fraid not. Conway took no notice, the only other person who might know is Blake. We going to talk to him?”

“Oh yes, but I want a bit more background first, especially on this Donald character.”

As if on cue, there was a tap on the door and Clarke entered.

“Come in Skull. Found anything?”

“Yes, boss, I have. Donald’s story checks out – assuming he’s not an imposter, of course. Major Peter Donald retired just under three years ago. He had a good record – got the MC in the Falklands and a bar to it in Afghanistan, but I talked to a couple of friends of friends and that isn’t the whole picture.

He had guts – no doubt about that, but he was seen as a bit limited and lucky to make Major. He was the senior company commander and second in command of the battalion in Afghanistan. His colonel was away from the battalion for a couple of days and Donald ordered out a patrol. It came under attack from Taliban fighters and Donald led a relieving force – and made a right mess of things. The result was three soldiers dead, six more wounded, by a roadside bomb. Getting that close to an obvious booby-trap location was where Donald cocked up – despite the warning of his senior NCO, who was one of the men killed. Donald himself was slightly wounded, but more to the point, he had a total breakdown. After six months of treatment, counselling, rehab, you name it, the Army finally decided the time had come for him to go. I tracked down someone who actually served with him who said that the mess was totally out of character – he had always been seen as competent if unimaginative, so the error was all the more awful.”

“So, it looks as if he is genuine. I’m still concerned at that trotting out those number plates, though –

who can remember four car numbers just like that? And why the delay in reporting it all?”

She straightened up in her chair.

“Still, I think we’ve got enough to talk to this Blake character. Alan, you and me; if he works in a nightclub, chances are he’ll be at home catching up on his beauty sleep at the mo.”

Half an hour later, with Taylor beside her, she was knocking on the door of a semi-detached house on the outskirts of Guildford. The door was answered by an attractive woman of around thirty, smartly dressed in designer jeans and a heavy silk blouse, her dark hair caught up in a bun. Dark eyes narrowed suspiciously as she eyed them.

“Good afternoon. We are police officers,” Jane held up her warrant card, “I am DI Lawson, my colleague is DC Taylor. We are looking for Mr. Kenneth Blake. I understand that he lives here?”

The woman stepped back.

“You’d best come in – he’s in the back.”

They were ushered into a medium sized lounge, dominated by a large plasma TV screen fixed to one wall and an equally large aquarium full of tropical fish on the wall opposite. Kenny Blake had been in the process of sprinkling fish food into the aquarium as they entered. He straightened up and regarded them suspiciously.

“”Yes?”

“Mr. Blake, I am DI Lawson,” Jane again flashed her warrant card, “ and this is DC Taylor. We are investigating an incident in Woodbridge Road at about four-thirty this morning, an incident in which your vehicle was apparently the target of a gunman who shot out one of your tyres.”

- 52 -

“Eh? What is this? What you talking about?”

“Mr. Blake, we have an eye-witness who saw a motorcyclist draw up alongside your vehicle – a Range Rover, registration TW07FGP – and fire two shots from what appeared to be a handgun into your offside front tyre and then ride off.”

“What shots? I had a blowout. Couple of geezers from other cars helped me push me motor out of the way.”

“You never saw the motorcyclist?”

Blake hesitated before replying.

“More or less – didn’t take no notice ‘cos me tyre had just gone. Shooters – in Guildford? Someone’s havin’ you on.”

“No, Mr. Blake, nobody’s having me on. Not only do we have an eyewitness, we also have physical evidence from the scene. Now, we need to examine your vehicle. Where is it?”

“It’s at Simpson’s garage in Woodbridge Road; I changed the wheel when the tyre went, but it done something to the brake so I had them tow it in when they opened.”

Jane got her phone and dialled her office. Cross answered.

“Dave, Lawson. Get a car to Simpson’s garage immediately and have them impound the Range Rover, registration TW07FGP that is there, for forensic examination. Call me back as soon as the vehicle has been secured.”

“OK, boss, I’m on it.”

Jane turned her attention back to Blake.

“Now, Mr. Blake, I’d like you to think very carefully about all this. A crime has been committed and as it involves a firearm it is a serious crime. You are a material witness and if you persist in this story of a blow-out you may find yourself charged with perverting the course of justice. Do I make myself clear to you?”

Blake was sweating.

“Look, Inspector, I don’t want no trouble over this. OK, that motorcyclist did shoot the tyre out, but I don’t know why and I don’t want to know why. I work for the Tanners – you know that – and they got enemies. I reckon this was some kind of message, but I don’t know what. I’m just glad he only shot out me tyre and didn’t blow me fuckin’ head off. You happy now?”

“No, Mr. Blake. I am very unhappy at the thought of characters going around shooting off firearms on my watch, but we will leave it there for now.”

As soon as the detectives were out of the house, Blake was on the phone to Billy Tanner, relaying what had been said,

Tanner thought for a while.

“OK, Kenny. If they’ve got a witness, not much else you could have done. Now, what you told them is fine. Just stick to that story with just one little point. Don’t tell that you told me about it first, or they’ll want to know why I didn’t get in touch with them. Play up on the fact that you’re scared of getting involved in anything and that you thought letting anyone know about it would only land you in trouble, but that you told me after they came to see you. Got that OK?”

“Yes, Mr. Tanner.”

“Good man.”

Dave Cross phoned Jane whilst she and Taylor were still in the way back to the station. He had arranged for the Range Rover to be transported to a police compound for examination, although now that Blake had admitted that the shooting had happened, proving it became less vital.

They had not long got back to the station when Jane was phoned by Sarah Cunningham; Sarah’s firearms expert, Nicole Farrant, had identified the cartridge cases which Peter Donald had picked up.

“They are nine millimetre cases, Jane. From the head stamps they are army issue, made six years ago.

The weapon they were fired from must be pretty new, or at least has seen very little use, as the markings made by the firing pin and extractor show very little wear, not enough to positively match a

- 53 -

single weapon to the cases. I can, however, say that the gun was a Browning High Power – which is a standard army issue pistol.”

Jane began to wonder once more about Peter Donald and his evidence. He was ex-Army. The pistol and the ammunition used were Army issue. Could it be that Donald was himself the shooter? If he had been, it would have given him a little more time to memorise, or even to note, those number plates, but if it was him, why on earth come forward in this way? It made no sense, no sense at all.

She buzzed through to Clarke.

“Skull, how did following Donald go?”

“No problem, boss. He walked here – only lives quarter of a mile away. The block of flats he went to tallies with the address he gave us on his statement. I had Dave tail him and he hung around for twenty minutes in case Donald came out again, but no sign of him so he came back.”

It was looking more and more as though Donald was genuine, but Jane still could not get out of her head the thought that the man was too good to be true. She wondered if she could come up with a plausible reason for visiting him at his home to see if meeting him in his own environment would spark anything in her mind.

She looked at her watch; five o’clock. Acting on impulse, she decided to have an early night but also to call on Donald before she went home. As Clarke had said, his flat was only a few minutes walk away so she left her car and strode along the road, relishing the fact that the day was dry and, for the time of year, quite warm.

Five minutes later she was seated opposite Donald in the latter’s living room, a pleasant room furnished in predominantly beige and oatmeal colours with a few splashes of colour to prevent it from being boring.

Jane spoke a little diffidently.

“Major Donald, I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this. Although I am here to follow up on the incident you observed, it is more a matter of satisfying myself on one specific point,”

“Tell me what it is and I will try and help, Inspector.”

“Thank you. Firstly, I should be grateful if you keep what I am about to say to yourself, at least for the time being.” He nodded and she pressed on. “The man who had his tyre shot out is a known associate of criminals and we think that the incident may be some sort of gang warning. Whether it will ever come to court, I don’t know, and even if it does I don’t know if you will ever be asked to appear as a witness. If that should happen, however, I think one thing that a defence counsel might query is the fact that you were able to remember those four number plates after just a few seconds viewing of them. Most people couldn’t do that.”

She hesitated, waiting to see if Donald would fill the silence. He did so.

“Ah, yes, I take your point, Inspector. Fact of the matter is that I am blessed – or possibly cursed –

with what people like to call a ‘photographic memory’. I really can remember visual images after just a few seconds – although the memory doesn’t stay for long. If I hadn’t written those numbers down the next morning before coming to see you I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea now what they had been.

Let me demonstrate – but please don’t think that I am trying to show off – it’s just a gift, nothing I can claim any credit for.”

He looked around him, then his gaze alighted on a book on the coffee table, a book with a bookmark tucked into it.

“That book- I was reading it before you arrived. If you wouldn’t mind opening it where the marker is, and turning back a couple of pages or so?”

Jane did as he requested.

“What page are you looking at?”

“Page 36.”

“Ah, I was on page 40 when you rang the bell. Let me see,” he hesitated for a moment, then, “page 36.

It starts off by saying ‘Adams turned to face his accuser, his face suffused with rage. ‘Anyone who thinks that of me had better be able to prove it, or I’ll see them in court – and that includes you’’

March glared back at him, and for a moment Julia thought that the two men would come to blows.’.”

- 54 -

“Shall I go on? It’s not exactly riveting stuff, I’m afraid; it’s written by someone working in a similar vein to myself but, I hope, a little less convincingly.”

Jane shook her head.

“No Major, that demonstration would convince anyone, I’m sure.”

“Thank you. One thing – although I can remember things like that in this way, the memory doesn’t last. By this time tomorrow I would struggle to remember that, and by the day after, whilst like anyone else I will be able to recall the generality of the situation the writer is describing, the word for word ability will be totally gone. I’m also pretty hopeless at remembering the spoken word. I’ve always had to write down anything verbal which was important.”

Jane thanked him again and took her leave, now convinced that Donald’s feat of memory was clearly genuine.

She got back to the station, retrieved her car and drove home to find Harry already there and waiting for her.

“Hello, there. Crime taking an off day for you to be home so early?”

“Not really, it’s just that I reached a natural; break and thought ‘ah, sod it – time to go’.”

She paused as a thought struck her.

“Harry, the Army still use the Browning High Power pistol, don’t they?”

“Yes, although it is being replaced on a gradual basis by the Sig Sauer P226.”

“Why?”

“Cheaper to make and more reliable, although the Browning was itself very reliable.”

“Did you ever use either of them?”

“I carried a Browning in Ulster and Iraq. By the time I toured Afghanistan I had the P226. Why the interest?”

“There was a Browning used in the early hours today – a motorcyclist shot out a tyre on a Range Rover. We think that it may be gang-related, but there are some oddities. Tell me, if a soldier wanted to hang onto a pistol issued to him, how easy would it be?”

“Well, it all depends. If he had been on active service it would be easier – claim it had been lost or stolen in a combat area and provided it had been hidden somewhere and he had a means of smuggling it back, it wouldn’t be too difficult. If he wasn’t on active service – much more difficult – the army doesn’t really like to have any of its weaponry go missing. Why? Do you think some off duty squaddie is moonlighting as a pistolero for local criminals?”

Jane hesitated. That thought hadn’t actually occurred to her. Guildford was, after all, still a town with an Army presence, and there were more soldiers in Aldershot. Suppose that was what had happened?

The half-formed suspicion about Donald became even less likely.

“Well, it’s a pistol the army use. I know that it isn’t only used by the military, but the ammunition used was also military, according to our ballistics people, manufactured six years ago. Obviously we need to give thought to a military involvement in some way, even though it sounds pretty unlikely.”

Another thought struck her.

“Harry, whilst you were in Afghanistan did you get involved with the paratroops – in particular a Major Donald in 2 Para?”

“I did some work with 2 Para. Never actually met this major, but I did hear about him.”

“In what respect?”

“He made the most appalling mistake – led a patrol into an obvious bomb site and had three men killed. You have to remember, by army standards the number of troops on the ground out there at any one time is fairly small and they are pretty concentrated, so news gets around very quickly. He had a breakdown and I believe that he subsequently resigned his commission.”

“Yes, one of my guys dug that much out about him. The thing is, this Major was witness – and as far as we can ascertain the only witness – to this shooting. Somehow, something about him doesn’t ring quite true. He memorised the licence numbers of four vehicles – he demonstrated to me that he has one of those trick memories, so that bit I now believe – he picked up the spent cartridge cases for us and was careful not to leave his prints on them, but he delayed for hours before reporting the incident.

There is something there not right, somehow, but I don’t know what it is.”

- 55 -

And on that note she dismissed work from her mind and settled down for the evening.

Chapter Fourteen 14th September

The next day, at the morning meeting with Inkerman and the other DIs, Jane quickly brought the others up to speed on the shooting. The very mention of the name Tanner, even though the connection was by no means direct, was enough to interest one and all.

“Are you going to talk to the Tanners about this?” Inkerman asked her.

“I want to, but it’s pretty vague and I don’t want to put them on their guard if there is anything going on that gets really heavy, so I thought that I would hang in for a day or two to see if anything more happens.”

“OK, best of luck with it.”

Back in her own office Jane gave more thought to the situation, but couldn’t come up with anything more than she had said to Inkerman.

A few miles away Douglas’ phone rang and he picked it up. He recognised the voice; there was no need for introductions.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“So far, so good. I’ve given them something to think about, now it’s up to you to take the next step.”

“OK, thanks – I’ll get in touch if we have any more for you.”

“You know where to find me.”

The next step occurred that evening. Dan Tanner left his office intending to go home to change his clothes and have a light meal before returning to one of his clubs for the night. His route took him along a quiet road and his driver, Garry Wheeler, suddenly broke the silence.

“Boss, we’re being followed. Dark blue Jag, at least two, more likely four, in it.”

Tanner twisted in his seat and peered back down the road.

“I see them Garry. I don’t like the look of them. Lose them.”

Wheeler floored the accelerator and the big Mercedes leapt forward. For two miles there were no turnings off and the Jaguar dropped back a couple of hundred yards. A sharp curve came up, forcing Wheeler to slow and as he took the curve he saw a vehicle parked across the road, leaving no space to get by. He braked savagely and put the Mercedes into reverse, intending to make a U-turn and force his way past the following Jaguar, but that car was already close behind, forcing him to a stop.

Wheeler flipped open the glove compartment and withdrew a pistol.

“You got anything, boss?”

Tanner shook his head; he was unarmed. The two of them waited anxiously. After a pause of perhaps thirty seconds, one of the doors of the vehicle blocking their path opened and a man emerged. Tall and well built, he was dressed in a business suit, the jacket of which was open. He held his arms outstretched and walked slowly towards the Mercedes.

“I think he wants to talk, boss.” Wheeler observed. Tanner, however, was looking at the Jaguar, from which two further men had emerged. They made no move towards the Mercedes, but both were armed with vicious looking sub-machine guns. For the moment the weapons were pointed at the ground, but Tanner was under no delusions.

“Put the gun away, Gerry. We’re outnumbered.”

As Wheeler complied, the man from the second vehicle, a large MPV, got to within three or four feet of the Mercedes, where he stopped , waiting. Tanner opened his window and the man spoke.

“Mr. Tanner, I won’t reach in my jacket for my warrant card – I don’t want to make your friend nervous, but I am Detective Inspector Ferris. My boss is in that car,” he nodded at the MPV, “and wishes to speak with you.”

Tanner slowly exited the Mercedes and made his way to the other vehicle, a Ford Galaxy. Two of the doors opened and two more men got out; the one who had come from the back left his door open and motioned to Tanner to take his place.

- 56 -

“Come in, Mr, Tanner,” invited Anna Harrison, “I think that it is time for us to have a talk.”

Tanner climbed inside and shut the door behind him.

“So, what’s all this about, Chief Superintendent?”

“A little demonstration of how unwise it is of you to try and blackmail me. Now, let me tell you just what the score is. Firstly, I have available to me people who make your toughest petty gangsters look like frightened schoolboys. Secondly, I have already given you a demonstration of what I can arrange.

If there has to be a next time, it won’t be a tyre that stops a bullet, and my operative will have some matches with him.

“I expect you thought that the information you had really would put me away. Sorry to disappoint you, but what you have is useless. I only pretended to play along with you because I wanted some time to arrange my demonstrations. You won’t get a penny from me. Now, if you were to go to the Serious Fraud Squad, or for that matter anyone else, the evidence you have would very quickly be shown up as worthless. However, I don’t want you even doing that. The reason is simple. I have my career to protect; within the next two years I expect to be promoted to Deputy Assistant Commissioner and I do not intend to put my promotion at risk. If you do produce your evidence there is always the danger that some of my superiors will think that it may be a case of no smoke without fire, which could hinder my chances.

“So, one word out of you, Tanner, and I will have you ruined. A couple of your clubs burned down, an associate or two seriously hurt, that sort of thing – and your acquaintances will come to realise that Dan Tanner is on the skids. Do I make myself clear?”

Tanner glared at her without speaking for several moments. She repeated herself.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Grudgingly, Tanner nodded his head.

“Yes.” It came out from between gritted teeth.

“Good. Oh, and one further point. Harry Collett. I’m afraid I lied to you about him. He never touched a penny of the IRA money – I just wanted you to be distracted and I knew he was out of the country, Sorry about that. Now, I think that we are through here, don’t you?”

Seething but impotent, Tanner returned to his own car. By the time he had settled himself into his seat the Galaxy had driven off. Gerry Wheeler wisely kept his mouth shut for the remainder of the journey,

As soon as he got into the house, Tanner was on the phone to brother Billy, telling him to come over as quickly as possible, so just thirty minutes later the two of them were discussing the latest twist in the affair.

Billy was sceptical.

“Are you sure she ain’t just bluffing?”

“She had five coppers with her, two of them waving bloody great machine guns. Does that sound like a bluff?”

Billy shook his head.

“No, I suppose not. After all, with her coming mob handed those with her must have been told some sort of story, and she couldn’t risk them talking if she had anything to really hide, so I suppose that we can kiss goodbye to putting the screws on her.”

“Exactly, so we back off and chalk it down to experience.”

And there it might have ended; but it didn’t.

Chapter Fifteen 15th September

Jane was at her desk early the next morning. The only thing that might have had any bearing on the strange shooting was a lab report on the Range Rover, confirming that the offside front tyre and the corresponding wheel and brake disc had received damage consistent with being struck by two bullets of low to medium velocity. She read through the rest of the report. The lab had not contented

- 57 -

themselves with just looking at the damage to the wheel and tyre, but had also given the rest of the vehicle a thorough examination, but with no results of any interest.

Some two miles away George Govern was enjoying a leisurely breakfast and talking to Ursula Nolan, his long term partner. They were discussing the possibility of talking a short winter break somewhere warm when the telephone rang. Ursula answered it, listened for a moment and passed it over.

“George, is that you?” It was Dave Fellowes, his assistant at the shop.

“Now who else would it be? What’s up? You’re surely not at the shop already?”

“No, I’m still at home. Listen, George, I was in the pub last night and Fergus O’Leary, him as runs that betting shop, was in there. He was telling me that one of his regulars, guy called Bill Hatter, is looking for a buyer for some nice pieces of furniture – a couple of chairs - that belonged to some aunt or something that’s just snuffed it. Hatter asked Fergus if he knew anybody likely to be interested in buying them as although most of her stuff was the normal sort of junk, she always swore these were valuable. Do you want to take a look at them?”

“Where are they?”

“At this chap’s house – he took them away before getting anyone in to clear anything else just in case they were worth a bob or two and before anyone starts claiming that they should be part of the estate for tax.”

Fellowes gave Govern a telephone number and address and as a result, an hour later Govern was talking to Bill Hatter in the latter’s modest semi on the outskirts of Guildford.

“These are the chairs, George.” Hatter indicated a pair of wooden dining chairs with upholstered seats.

They were clearly old but in good condition and Govern looked at them closely. Hatter was still talking.

“Aunt Beth got them from her aunt, an old lady who died about fifty years ago who had herself inherited them from someone in the family. They must be getting on for a hundred years old at a guess. So, what do you think?”

Govern finished his examination of them and straightened up.

“Well you’re not all that far out on the age – I reckon they were made about 1890, it’s the sort of chair that was very popular back then, called Chippendale style. Auction them and if you are lucky and there is some interest, you could well get a couple of hundred each, perhaps a bit more. On the other hand, you’ll have to pay ten percent commission and you might be unlucky and see them knocked down for fifty or so each. I’ll give you two hundred and fifty for the pair – how does that sound?”

Hatter thought for a while, then nodded his head.

“Done.”

Govern pulled out his wallet.

“Cash or cheque?”

“Oh, I’ll have cash please.”

Govern peeled off the money and took the chairs back to his estate car. As he drove off he reflected on a good morning’s work. He had been honest in his estimate of the date of the chairs, but he would be disappointed if he failed to get five hundred for the pair. He had several contacts always on the look out for suitable items, but in this case he already had a private buyer looking for just such chairs and by the end of the day he had offloaded them for a profit of three hundred pounds.

The man to whom he sold them lived quite close by and a telephone call was all that was needed to see him handing over the chairs and receiving the money, without even needing to go to his shop.

It was whilst the buyer was out of the room fetching the cash that Govern’s innate noisiness led him into a mistake that was to prove disastrous.

He was standing in the middle of a large room clearly used for dining; against one wall was a big sideboard which he had no difficulty in identifying as late Victorian and a suitable match for the chairs he had just sold. One of the drawers was slightly open and, for no good reason at all, he pulled it open. To his surprise, nestling on some table napkins was an automatic pistol. Hurriedly, he closed the drawer and stepped away back to the room centre. He failed to appreciate that by closing the drawer completely he had left a clear signal that he had interfered with it.

- 58 -

The buyer returned a moment later, handed over the cash, and Govern was on his way, thinking hard about what he had seen. His immediate reaction was to wonder why the man to whom he had sold the chairs would have an illegal weapon such as that pistol: Govern had long operated on the fringes of the underworld and had never come across the man before in such circumstances.

As he drove away, his buyer looked at the sideboard and realised that the drawer which had been slightly open was now closed. Clearly Govern had been nosing around. Anxiously he crossed the room and opened the drawer fully. To his relief, the pistol was still there, but he cursed himself for his carelessness in leaving it there in the first place, and wondered uneasily what, if anything, Govern might do with his new-found knowledge.

Jane Lawson had still not made up her mind about interviewing the Tanners about the gun attack on Kenny Blake’s car. She would dearly like to put some pressure on the brothers, but was only too aware that they would almost certainly simply deny all knowledge of the attack and any possible motive behind it. With a sigh, she turned her attention to a file her team were compiling regarding a spate of robberies with violence, either actual or threatened, in local small shops. They were almost certainly the work of a group of youths from the Wellmeadow housing estate, notorious in the area for the proportion of its inhabitants following a life of crime. She leafed through the papers in an abstracted manner, her thoughts still more on the Tanners. As she looked through the papers, one of the entries caught her attention. The premises targeted had all been small shops with just one, or at most, two, staff – sub post offices, newsagents, family grocers, those sort of places – with one exception. The youths had also targeted a betting shop, but not whilst it was open – there would have been too many people around. Instead, they had waited until the shop closed, then forced their way in as the manager was alone and locking up. Indeed, the modus operandi, and the takings, were so different to the other crimes that she would have doubted that the same criminals were involved had it not been for the fact that the descriptions given by the manager tallied with those given by the other victims.

Even more interesting, however, was the fact that the shop was one of several owned by the Tanners.

She checked the dates of the various robberies; this one was the latest of the string, only four days previous.

She called Clarke into her office.

“Skull – these robberies. The last one was a betting shop owned by the Tanners. Did nobody spot that?”

“Sorry, boss – but we only found that out this morning whilst Dave was pulling the file together. The manager was interviewed by uniform – nobody from CID has seen him yet and he never mentioned that the Tanners owned the place.”

“Right. That gives us a reason to talk to the Tanners. Get on the blower, tell them we are coming over.”

Thirty minutes later the two detectives were ushered into a room at the Tanners’ offices where the two brothers awaited them.

Jane introduced herself and Clarke.

“Gentlemen, we are investigating a series of robberies from local shops. The most recent robbery was against the manager of your betting premises on the London Road. I want to talk to you for two reasons. Firstly, to assure you that we are treating these robberies very seriously, but secondly, to ask if you can help us in any way. You see, we are sure, from the descriptions that we have been given by witnesses, that the robbery from your manager was carried out by the same group that have been targeting local shops, but what puzzles me is that whereas all the other robberies have been during opening hours and carried out against premises where only one or two people were present, this latest one was quite different. They waited until closing time and they also came away with much more than in any of their previous attempts. The shop robberies seldom gained them more than a few hundred pounds, some cigarettes, that sort of stuff. I understand that they took over three thousand pounds

- 59 -

from your establishment, and the fact that it was so much more successful makes me believe that they will try the same sort of thing again.”

It was Dan Tanner who answered her.

“Well thank you for the warning, Inspector. In fact we have already made some changes to try and stop it happening again. In future, none of our managers will be left alone when they shut up shop, We’ve organised a team of, well I suppose that you could call them bodyguards. The shops are now closing at staggered times, so the team can visit each in turn and escort the manager to the bank night safes they use.”

That wasn’t all the Tanners had organised, but he had no intention of telling this copper what else was in the wind.

“That sounds a wise precaution, Mr. Tanner. Whilst we are here, there is something else I would like to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Inspector?”

“Your employee, Kenneth Blake. Yesterday morning, somebody fired shots at his vehicle – now what would all that be about?”

Dan Tanner blinked slowly.

“Why ask me, Inspector? Kenny told us about it, of course and that you’d been to see him. Dreadful thing to have happen here in Guildford, but I’ve no idea what might have caused it. Have you got any leads?”

“We’re still investigating, Mr. Tanner, but it’s early days yet. However, that sort of thing doesn’t happen without a reason. Given your wide range of business interests,” that, Jane told herself, was one way of looking at it, “I can’t help but wonder if some business rival is sending you a warning of some kind. Tell me, Mr. Tanner, who are your enemies – for I am sure that you must have some.”

“Well we have rivals, Inspector, but I wouldn’t call them enemies, certainly not to the extent of shooting things up. I mean, lots of people in our line of business can be seen as rivals – there’s only so many punters for betting shops to attract, so many people wanting to come to night clubs and the competition is pretty fierce, but shootings...”

He shook his head in negation.

Jane decided to up the pressure a little.

“You didn’t make any enemies whilst you were in prison, for example.”

Tanner looked irritated.

“Inspector, we made mistakes over income tax and other financial dealings. Those aren’t the sort of things to get you mortal enemies – unless they are in the inland revenue. And anyway, we were no more evil than the MPs who fiddle their expenses every day.”

Jane had, some time past, done some homework on the Tanners whilst working on the Guildford shootings at the beginning of the year and she had failed to come up with any names that might be seen as enemies of the Tanners from their stay in prison. She had no doubt, though, that such enemies existed; finding them was another matter.

“So you have absolutely no idea who might be responsible for shooting up Mr. Blake’s vehicle?”

Tanner shook his head, an action copied by his brother.

“Believe me, Inspector, it is as much a mystery to me as it is to you."

Jane very much doubted that, but she had no leverage to apply, so she and Clarke took their leave.

Once they had gone, Dan Tanner turned to his brother.

“What’s the latest in the little fuckers who robbed Micky Morgan?”

“It should be getting sorted right now.” Billy replied with a smirk.

Billy Brewer was a young man who felt that he had reason to be pleased with himself. Eighteen years old, two years out of school, where he distinguished himself only by his total lack of commitment to any form of structured learning, from the age of thirteen he had gravitated quite natural to one of the gangs that infested the Wellmeadow Estate, and now was the acknowledged leader of half a dozen like minded youths who had made minor pilfering and shop-lifting a way of life. Just recently,

- 60 -

however, Billy had moved the group’s endeavours up a notch. He still relished the look on the face of that betting shop manager when they had set on him, knocked him down, administered a good kicking, and lifted over three thousand pounds from him. As leader, Billy had appropriated a thousand for himself, splitting the balance amongst the other five. Money for old rope, and he felt sure that this was only a beginning. A few more jobs like that one and he would be able to afford to buy a car of his own, instead of having to beg his mother for the use of hers – a request turned down more often than not. Yes, he told himself, Billy Brewer was going places. As a first step, he had already spent fifty pounds on a new fleece, blissfully unaware of how horribly its bright orange material clashed with his green died hair.

He was on his way home for a meal before going out again to meet his acolytes in an nearby pub, but as he turned the corner into his road, a man stepped out of a doorway.

“Hello Billy; I’d like a little word.”

Billy stopped and glared at the man. He was, he reckoned, about forty, a couple of inches shorter than his own five feet ten and slightly built. No threat, then.

“What yer want?”

“Three thousand pounds Billy. You’ve been very foolish you know. That betting shop you robbed –

that’s one of the Tanners’ places and they don’t like little punks like you getting above themselves.”

Billy had heard of the Tanners – who in Wellmeadow hadn’t? – but if this character was all they could find to do their messages, he wasn’t much bothered. He stepped up closer to the man, glaring down at him from his superior height.

“Yeah? What about it, then?”

The pain was excruciating as the smaller man kneed him savagely in the crotch. As Billy doubled over, he was rabbit-punched on the back of the neck and went down onto his hands and knees. His tormentor kicked him in the ribs, not once, but several times, and Billy ended up curled into a ball on the pavement, trying to protect himself.

The man stopped kicking him and stepped away to survey his victim.

“Now, Billy, am I getting through to you? The Tanners want their money back. Do you understand?”

Billy remained silent, more concerned with his pain than with what was being said. The man kicked him again, harder than before, raising a near scream of pain.

“Billy, I said do you understand. Answer me.”

“Yes, I understand” the words came out through sobs of pain.

“Good. Now, I will be waiting at the Horse and Groom at eight o’clock this evening. Bring the money to me, all of it mind you, and the Tanners may be happy to call it just a misunderstanding. Don’t make me come and find you, Billy, or I will really hurt you – and if the money isn’t all there, I’ll hurt you even more. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The man turned away, paused, and came back. “Don’t forget, now, will you, Billy?”

“No, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” The man gave Billy one more kick, this time little more than a prod compared to what had gone before, and was gone long before Billy managed to drag himself to his feet.

As he limped slowly and painfully home, Billy wrestled with the problem he now had. There was simply no way that he could come up with all the money they had stolen by eight o’clock that evening. He had already spent over two hundred pounds of his own share and he was sure that the others would already had spent a good deal of the rest.

Painfully, he mounted the stairs – as usual the lift was out of order – to the fourth storey flat he shared with his mother. Brenda Brewer looked in horror at her battered offspring as he staggered through the door and flopped down on the nearest chair.

“Billy, what’s happened?”

“Some geezer jumped me. Says the money we took last week belongs to the Tanners and they want it back.”

- 61 -

Brenda Brewer, thirty seven years old and hard-faced and cunning, was under no delusions as to where Billy’s money had been coming from. What she didn’t know was the source of the latest acquisition.

“The Tanners? You bleedin’ little idiot – what the fuck are you thinking about messing with them?

They’re poison, sheer poison.”

“I didn’t know, right?”

“So what now? Can you pay them off?”

“Of course I bloody can’t! The guys will have spent some of theirs, I’ve spent some of mine. Dunno what I’m going to do.”

“I’ll tell you what you are going to do – you’re scarpering. You tell the Tanners they can’t have their money and you’ll be a hospital case – or worse- before the night’s out.”

She strode over to the phone and speed-dialled a number from its memory. It was the number of her sister, who lived in Croydon.

“Rita? It’s me, Brenda. Look, love, I need a big favour. That stupid kid of mine has got on the wrong side of some local hard cases. Can he come and stay at your place for a week or two until it all blows over?”

There was a pause whilst Brenda Brewer listened to her sister’s response.

“Oh, thanks, love, you’re a life saver. Make the little bugger behave himself – don’t take any lip from him, you know what they are like.”

She replaced the handset and turned to her son.

“Right, Rita’s agreed to put you up. Keep your nose clean and your stupid bloody head down while you’re there. Now, there’s a bloke I know just might be able to put in a good word for you – no promises, mind. The Tanners will want their money, and how you get it is up to you and I don’t want to know, but this bloke might be able to get them to back off and give you a bit of time, right?”

Billy looked sulkily at her.

“So I’ve got to run away and hide and hope they will let me give them the money?”

“You got any better ideas, you idiot? Robbing those guys is just about as stupid as anyone can get. Do you realise they’ve had people fuckin’ killed in the past? Now get your stuff together and get on over to Rita’s.”

“Can I take the car?”

“No you bloody can’t! What do you think I’d do without it? Get the soddin’ bus or train.”

Half an hour later Billy Brewer left the house, a rucksack on his back and carrying a sports bag, which between them contained his clothing and other essentials for a protracted stay away.

When he had made his way home he had been in a lot of pain. It was therefore not surprising that he had failed to realise that his assailant had been following him at a discreet distance and was now loitering a hundred yards or so away. It was with absolutely no surprise at all that he watched Billy leave the block of flats and limp slowly away in the direction of the bus route. He resumed his following.

Billy, still unaware of his danger, had made it almost to the main road and the bus route when there was a sudden rush of feet behind him and he found himself being bundled into a path between two rows of houses. Giving onto the small back gardens and a row of separate garages, it was deserted. He squealed with pain as his attacker twisted his right arm up behind his back and rammed him face first into the roughcast wall of one of the garages, then swept his legs from under him, sending him pitching headlong to the ground.

The man bent over so that his mouth was only a foot or so from Billy’s ear.

“Billy, I told you what would happen if you tried to avoid paying up. Now you are going to be very sorry for a very long time.”

It was perhaps half an hour later that Wendy Nicholls came out of her house and made her way to the detached garage that housed her Fiesta. Wendy had come to Guildford six months before, taking up a post teaching French in the grammar school. The school was a prestigious one and she had been overjoyed to escape the horrors of teaching, or more accurately trying to teach, in her local

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comprehensive in Droitwich. The downside was the far higher cost of housing. What she had made in the sale of her house was a good bit short of what was needed here, so she was renting the cheapest place she could find whilst saving hard. The fact that the nearby Wellmeadow estate was the reason for her current abode being cheap had not been immediately apparent. Once she realised just what an area was on her doorstep, she had redoubled her determination to get something better as soon as possible. Even the few yards from front door to garage had to be taken with care, only too well aware of the predatory youths that ranged the vicinity.

She hurried towards her garage door, then stopped uncertainly. There was someone lying in a crumpled heap in front of its up and over door, someone who was moaning softly in what sounded like pain.

Fearfully, she approached, to see a young man, his face a mask of blood, curled up in a foetal position, clutching himself in clear agony. She got out her mobile phone and dialled 999.

Uncertain what to do next, worried that whoever had carried out the attack might still be around, but reluctant to leave somebody so clearly helpless, she waited in an agony of indecision for what seemed and age before, to her intense relief, a police car, followed less than a minute later by an ambulance, arrived.

The paramedics quickly whisked the helpless youth away, leaving Wendy alone with the imposing figure of the policeman.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said, “I was getting really scared that whoever did that to that lad might come back.”

PC Sam Collis smiled down at her, reassurance epitomised by his six feet three, heavily built frame.

“It was very brave of you, miss. That lad looked in a poor way – you may even have saved his life.

Not many round here would have got involved.”

“Surely nobody could just leave him lying here like that?”

“Round here? Most of them would have gone through his pockets, then, if he was lucky, made an anonymous call for an ambulance. They’d never call us out as well.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It is – but I’m afraid it’s normal. Look, would you mind if I made a few notes? Could we go into your house as it’s a bit dark here for writing.”

“Yes, of course.”

She led the way back into her house and, almost by reflex, had the kettle on for a cup of tea, so that a few minutes later she was facing Collis across the coffee table whilst he produced notebook and pen.

“Right, miss. What can you tell me? For a start, could I have your name, please?”

“Of course, I’m Wendy Nicholls. I teach at the Royal Grammar – French,”

“Have you been here long? If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t sound local.”

“No, I’ve only been here six months. I used to live and teach in Droitwich, didn’t like the school, saw this job advertised and was lucky enough to get it. I was a bit horrified when I saw the price of housing around here, so looked for somewhere to rent whilst I sorted out a deposit on something permanent. This place was cheap – and once I moved in I realised why!”

Collis nodded knowingly.

“So what happened tonight?”

“Well, I got home from school, put the car away and had a bite to eat. Then I sorted out a shopping list for Tesco’s – I often shop in the evening – they’re less crowded – went out to get the car, and saw the lad on the ground. He was obviously badly hurt, so I dialled 999.”

“Did you hear anything outside before going out?”

She shook her head.

“No, and if I had I would have stayed inside. There was a fight outside the garages last week and I didn’t dare go out.”

“Could you see anything of it? Might tonight’s victim have been involved?”

“I don’t know – you can’t actually see the garage area from any of my windows, but I could hear it right enough. A lot of shouting and swearing,” she paused, “I know I said it was a fight, but I didn’t actually see it, so I suppose it could have just been noise. Whatever, I stayed indoors. It only lasted about five to ten minutes or I would have called the police.”

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Collis put his notebook away.

“Well, thank you again, Miss Nicholls. You’ve been very helpful. If you should think of anything –

such as perhaps remembering if you have seen the lad before anywhere, please let us know.” He handed over a card with the station telephone details on it. “Easiest if you ask for me, PC Collis, Sam Collis.”

“Thank you, Mr, Collis – if anything does come to me I promise to get back to you.”

She let him out and, belatedly, organised her shopping trip.

Nearly an hour earlier, and unaware that it was already too late, Brenda Brewer had made a telephone call to the man she hoped might be able to act as an intermediary for her feckless son. It was to George Govern, whom she knew via a loose network of mutual friends and acquaintances and whom she knew had a highly developed network of contacts in the shadier side of life throughout much of south-east England.

“George, it’s Brenda Brewer.”

There was a pause at the other end whilst Govern mentally searched for a face to match the name.

“Brenda, of course. Nice to hear from you.”

“George, I need a favour, a big favour, and I can’t think of anyone else who might be able to help me.”

“What’s the favour?” Govern was wary. He knew Brenda, but not well. Certainly not well enough to automatically want to do her any favours, big or otherwise.

“George, that stupid son of mine, Billy. He’s only gone and knocked over one to the Tanners’ betting shop managers. The Tanners have sent someone after him, someone who gave him a good hiding. No complaints from me there, if the silly little bleeder is daft enough to cross the Tanners he needs some sense knocking into him. Trouble is, they want their money back by eight o’clock tonight and he just hasn’t got it.”

Govern looked at his watch; it was nearly five.

“Brenda, love, I can try and put a word in to get him some time, but I can’t go to the Tanners straight off – they don’t have any time for me.”

“I know you don’t have them as pals, George, but surely you know some of their boys who could pass the word on?”

“Well, there are one or two who might do that for me, but I can’t promise anything, mind. Where is Billy, anyway?”

“On his way to me sister’s until this calms down.”

“I think that’s the best idea, love. Look, I’ll be honest with you. I will put in a word, but I reckon it won’t do any good. It’s Billy Tanner as runs the shops, and once Billy makes up his mind, dynamite won’t shift him. Still, I will try, and I’ll get back to you as quick as I can.”

He put down the phone. He was aware of the robbery at the betting shop four days earlier, but until now he no idea who had carried it out, nor, for that matter, had he any interest in the matter. Now however, he had information which was worth something to him, but he had no intention of contacting anybody even remotely connected with the Tanners. Instead, he contacted somebody quite different.

It was just gone five when Jane’s phone rang.

“Lawson.”

“It’s George Govern, here, Inspector. I’ve got a bit of news that might interest you. It concerns the Tanners.”

Jane’s interest was immediately aroused.

“Oh, and what might that be, George?”

“I don’t know if you are involved in the string of robberies at shops of late,” Jane grunted noncommittally, “ but it’s the same group of lads that knocked over one of the Tanners’ bookie managers the other day. The leader is a kid called Billy Brewer, lives on Wellmeadow estate. Thing is, the Tanners have worked out it is him and have had somebody give him a good hiding to teach him

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who’s boss around here. They’ve also told him to give the money back by eight o’clock tonight, or else. The kid just hasn’t got it any longer and he is doing a runner, but he normally lives with his mother, Brenda Brewer, who I guess knows where he could be found.”

“Right, George – do you know where the meeting was supposed to take place?”

“’Fraid not – his mother didn’t, or wouldn’t, say.”

“Well, thanks anyway for this – I won’t forget.”

“All part of the service, Inspector, all part of the service.”

Jane replaced the handset and leaned back in her chair. So, even as she and Skull had been talking to the Tanners, they not only knew who was responsible for robbing them, but had already put in hand their own kind of vengeance. But how to prove it? One thing was for certain – she needed to talk to this Billy Brewer. From what Govern had said, whoever would be waiting for him at eight o’clock was going to be disappointed; it was a pity Govern had not known where the meeting was to take place. Still, the mother was the first port of call. She looked in the phone book; there was a ‘B.

Brewer’ with a Wellmeadow address so she tried the number, but it was engaged. Ten minutes later she tried again; this time there was no reply.

The reason that Jane’s first attempt had got an engaged tone was because Brenda Brewer had received a call from the Royal Surrey County Hospital. Her son had been admitted with severe injuries and was asking for her. By the time Jane tried again, Brenda Brewer was already in her way to the hospital.

When she got there, she was worried to find that there was a police presence; a uniformed constable, who introduced himself as PC Sam Collis.

“What’s happened?” she demanded anxiously.

“As far as I can tell, Mrs. Brewer, your son has been the victim of a very violent attack. The doctors can tell you what his injuries are, but he is in the operating theatre at the moment..”

“Operating theatre? My God, what’s happened to him?”

At that moment a nurse approached them.

“Mrs, Brewer?”

“Yes, that’s me – what’s wrong with my Billy?”

“He’s in theatre at the moment, Mrs. Brewer. He has a badly broken arm which needed immediate attention, and I am afraid that he has a number of other bad injuries, although it is the arm which is the most serious. I’m afraid it will be some time before you will be able to see him, and even then he will still be under the effects of the anaesthetic.”

That was the start of one of the worst nights of Brenda Brewer’s life. All night she stayed at the hospital, but was unable to see her son, still less to speak to him. On learning that it would be many hours before Billy could be expected to be conscious and able to answer questions. PC Collis had long departed, leaving her alone with her fears.

It was the small hours before she was able to see Billy who, still unconscious from the anaesthetic, looked incredibly young and vulnerable, a million miles removed from the would-be hard case of the estate. She was brought up to date on his condition by a tired looked house surgeon.

“We’ve done as much as we can for the moment, Mrs. Brewer. The most urgent injury was his broken arm. Not only had it been broken in several places, there were pieces of broken bone threatening to sever the major blood vessels in the arm. We’ve pinned the bones of the arm back together and in time he should recover just about full use of it, but that is some months away, I am afraid.

“In addition to the arm he had a fractured cheek-bone, two broken fingers in his right hand and two more in his left. The fingers just needed splinting and won’t take as long to heal as his arm, but again it will be a good few weeks. The cheek bone, again, was a simple fracture which we have left for the moment – it should respond to manipulation in a day or two when he has recovered some of his strength.

“Finally, as far as skeletal damage” he paused at the look in non-comprehension, “that is damage to bones, he has suffered several broken ribs. Fortunately none of them have punctured a lung, so for

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those it just a case of strapping them up, which has, of course, been done, and letting them heal naturally.

“What we cannot tell at this stage is if there is any internal damage. Given the severity of his injuries, we must be very careful here. Nothing major is immediately apparent, but we will need to do some more X-rays and run quite a few tests before we can be sure.”

Shell-shocked at the extent of her son’s injuries, she was almost bereft of speech, but finally managed to come out with the one question haunting her.

“He is going to live, isn’t he doctor? And he’s not going to be crippled, is he?”

“No, Mrs. Brewer. Provided we don’t find any internal damage which could turn nasty – and I have no reason to believe that is probable – he will make just about a full recovery, but it will take time, quite a lot of time, perhaps six months or more before everything is mended.”

Chapter Sixteen 16th September

Jane was at her office early again the next day. The previous day she had tried to contact Brenda Brewer, but there was nobody home. Now, she determined to try again and this time the phone was answered. She didn’t know it but she had caught Brenda just as she was about the leave, having only returned to change her clothes. Fearful that it was bad news about Billy, she couldn’t reach the phone quick enough.

“Yes, what’s happened?”

Jane was taken aback at the vehemence in the other woman’s voice.

“Is that Mrs. Brewer?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Mrs. Brewer, I am Detective Inspector Lawson from Surrey Constabulary. I really want to talk to your son – I understand he was attacked recently.”

“Yes – they’ve put him in hospital – that’s where I was just off to when you rang – I thought you were the hospital.”

“In hospital? I hadn’t realised that. Which hospital?”

“Royal Surrey – they had to operate on him last night. The swines have really smashed him up. It’ll be months before he’s right.”

“Mrs. Brewer, I will need to talk to both you and Billy. Are you going back the hospital now?”

“Yes, right away.”

“OK, I’ll see you there. Do you know if Billy will be able to talk to me?”

“Dunno, but I doubt it – he was still out of it when I left or I wouldn’t have come away.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brewer – I’ll see you there, and try not to worry too much.”

It was just over an hour before Jane, accompanied by Cross, could get away and seek out Brenda Brewer at the Royal Surrey County hospital. She found a worried, anxious woman in her late thirties, dressed in navy blue slacks and a white roll-neck sweater, bottle blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail style too young for her years. Dark, deep-set eyes viewed the two detectives uneasily from a face devoid of make-up but which, Jane surmised, would normally have been hidden under layers of Max Factor or Boot’s best.

“Mrs. Brewer? We spoke on the phone – I’m DI Lawson, this is my colleague DC Cross.”

The woman nodded dully, her mind clearly on her son’s predicament, not the presence of the two police officers.

“Can Billy talk to us, do you know?”

The blonde head was shaken in negation.

“No, he’s still out of it. They told me it’ll be a couple of hours or more before he’s really round.”

“Well, what can you tell us, Mrs. Brewer?”

Brenda Brewer was in a quandary. She wanted whoever had done this to her son punished, but on the other hand she was only too aware of the reputation enjoyed by the Tanners, and the thought of crossing them scared her into a panic.

She shook her head again.

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“You know what it’s like round our way, Inspector. Things like this are always happening. I don’t know what Billy done to have this happen – I don’t even know if he done anythin’ at all. Round the Wellmeadow you can get beat up for just walking down the wrong bleedin’ road.”

Jane knew that what was being said was perfectly true. She had also already realised that although the woman almost certainly knew exactly why Billy was now in hospital, it was extremely unlikely that she would volunteer any information about it.

Reluctantly, Jane and Cross took their leave. She intended to talk to Billy Brewer once he was able to converse, and had agreed with the hospital staff that she would be advised as soon as that state of affairs was on the cards.

The phone call came earlier than she had expected. At half past four that afternoon, she and Cross were seated at the bedside of Billy Brewer who, although still clearly in considerable pain, was able to talk to them.

Jane leant towards the patient.

“Billy, we know that the Tanners had this done to you in revenge for robbing their betting shop. Now, whether we charge you over that has still to be decided, but one of the things we will consider in making that decision is how cooperative you are. So, who attacked you?”

Cross listened with a degree of unease to what Jane had said. It sounded too much like offering a deal, something they both knew they were in no position to come good on. Billy’s reply made the worry just about go away.

“I dunno, never seen ‘im before. Anyway, I never robbed no one.”

Jane sighed theatrically.

“Don’t piss me off, Billy. I’m not happy at this sort of thing going on on my patch, so make me happy

– who did it?”

“I told yer – don’t know, never seen the bastard before.”

“OK, so describe him to me.”

Billy hesitated. He was telling the truth – he never had seen his attacker before, and had no problem with giving this smart cow a description, but he wasn’t going to admit to being worked over by the weedy looking guy who had done the damage.

“Big fucker he was, over six foot.” He had an additional thought. “Black, with one of them Afro hairdos.”

“What was he wearing?”

Billy hesitated whilst his mind worked over a story.

“Jeans, an’ a black T-shirt an’ a padded black anorak.”

“Did he have the anorak open?”

“Don’t remember.”

“But you’re sure about the T-shirt.”

Billy realised that his story was beginning to sound odd.

“Perhaps not – just I didn’t see nothin’ under the anorak so I thought it must be summat black.”

“I see. Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”

“Course I would – think I’m blind?”

“Right – I’ll have one of my officers come and see you tomorrow with a collection of mug shots for you to look at.”

And with that, Jane and Cross took their leave. On the way out they saw Mrs. Brewer once more. She was outside the building, having a cigarette, and looked alarmed at the sight of the two police officers.

“Is Billy OK?”

“No need to worry, Mrs. Brewer – we’ve just asked him if he knew, or can describe, the man who attacked him. I’m hopeful that what he told us will be helpful.”

At this the woman looked more worried than ever. She said nothing, but her mind was in turmoil.

What had that stupid kid of hers told these coppers? If he was trying to finger the Tanners he could be signing his own death warrant – and quite likely hers as well. Would he never learn?

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Back at the station, Jane decided a quick snack was called for as she wanted to spend some time at her desk before going home – Harry, she knew, would be late. He was lecturing new recruits to the service on what to look for in possible cases of arson.

She made her way to the canteen and helped herself to a plate of egg and chips and a cup of coffee.

Looking around for somewhere to sit in the relatively crowded room, she saw George O’Kelly at a table by himself and made her way over to him.

“George, mind if I join you?”

The big desk sergeant smiled at her.

“Of course not, Jane, sit you down.”

She seated herself opposite her one-time mentor and returned his smile.

“End of shift, George?”

“Yes, I’m stacking up on the calories – a mate of mine and I are going down to the coast to do a bit of night beach fishing.”

“Really? Rather you than me – have you seen the weather forecast? Heavy rain and strong winds.”

“Well, I never worry about what that lot say – they’re usually wrong, anyway. How’s tricks?”

“Frustrating, I saw a kid in hospital who has been beaten up by one of the Tanners’ boys. He gave me a description, but I wonder if it is worth anything. A big black man with an Afro – how helpful is that?”

“Not very – it’s also an downright lie.”

“Eh?”

“The Tanners, Jane do not have any coloured blokes working for them – the Pope converting to Judaism is more likely. That pair are so bigoted that they make the BNP look like shining examples of racial tolerance.”

“Do they, indeed? Thanks for that, George – I’ll have another word with young Mr. Brewer tomorrow.”

“Brewer? Any relation to Brenda Brewer, lives on Wellmeadow?”

“Her son – why, does the name mean anything?”

“She is the widow of Dave Brewer – small time villain who got above himself, oh, must be thirteen, fourteen, years or so back. He was a burglar, did a couple of short stretches, then decided life would be better as a driver for a guy called Lomax, Mickey Lomax, out of Wimbledon way. Mickey had ambition – saw himself as a big time bank robber. He, Dave Brewer, and two other guys stuck up the Barclays Bank in Mitcham, drove off, and found themselves being chased by the local car which was nearby – just by luck. Dave wasn’t as good a driver as he thought he was – lost it on a corner, hit a wall, killed all four of them – and they’d only got away with about five grand. At least it was just the four of them who bought it - they didn’t take out any bystanders or other motorists. Brenda and Mickey’s wife actually tried to sue the police, claiming that the police car caused the crash! Got nowhere, of course.”

So often, Jane thought, the criminals that she had to deal with where the product of parents who were or had been criminals themselves. Was it in their genes to try and prey on society rather than stand on their own two feet?

That same morning Fergus O’Leary, a man who had always stood on his own two feet, came to a decision which was to have far reaching consequences. He had lived in England since 1984, when Belfast had become too hot for him and there was a danger that the IRA would discover that, far from being a loyal supporter, he had been an informant for the security forces. He had left Ulster before the operation which had involved Anna Harrison and David Douglas, but had become aware of their Ulster past earlier that year when a blast from the past, in the form of Liam Riley, had appeared in the area. Liam, a genuine ex-IRA soldier, had been hired by the Tanners to do some bomb making, only to be killed by chance when an embittered farmer’s wife had opened fire in a Guildford restaurant at men she held responsible for her family’s effective ruin. Riley had been unlucky enough to be in the line of fire.

Before his death, however, he had come into O’Leary’s betting shop and, to their mutual surprise, the two men, who had been to the same school as children and knew each other slightly despite O’Leary

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being two years the senior, had met for the first time for many years. Both were very wary of the other; O’Leary feared that Riley might know of his true past and be looking for him on behalf of those elements of the IRA for whom the war against the English would never be over until Ireland was united, whilst Riley feared that O’Leary might be aware that, once captured, Riley had attempted to alleviate his punishment by selling out his comrades.

In the event both had found their fears groundless and, without revealing their respective pasts, had enjoyed a drunken evening together, reliving the past. The evening had started in a local pub and after closing time they had returned to O’Leary’s flat where Riley had spent the night. During the course of the evening Riley had told O’Leary about the presence in Guildford of David Douglas. O’Leary, in common with many others, knew that Douglas was ex-Army, even that he had served in Ulster. He had not, however, been aware of something known to Riley – that Douglas had managed to get his hands on a considerable amount of IRA money, money which had financed him in his later career as a night club owner. Riley also told O’Leary about Anna Harrison, who had similarly dipped her fingers in the till.

The two of them had fantasised about blackmailing Harrison and Douglas; indeed, they might actually have done something about it, but for Riley’s unexpected death just two days later. With Riley gone, O’Leary had no expectation of being able to capitalise on what he had learnt until he had found a small pocket-book under the settee upon which the former IRA man had slept that night. In it he had found Riley’s jottings of details concerning Harrison and Douglas.

Even then, he was undecided as to whether to try and use his new-found knowledge until he had thought about George Govern. Govern was, he knew, well connected within the area. The coincidence of telling Govern about Bill Hatter, the man wanting to sell a couple of antique chairs, had made him rethink the position. The thought of taking on Anna Harrison, a senior police officer with the Met, did not appeal at all, but Douglas, a small time night club owner, was another matter altogether.

He phoned Govern and arranged to meet him that evening at a pub overlooking the river.

He arrived to find that Govern was already there.

“George, been waiting long?”

“No, just got here – what are you having?”

“Guinness, please.”

When they were both settled with their drinks and O’Leary was sure that they could not be overheard, he cautiously broached what he had in mind.

“George, you know David Douglas – owns the Marlborough night club?”

“Yeah, I know him a bit.”

“You know he used to be in the Army? Served in Ulster?”

“It’s no secret.”

“Well, I’ve found out some things about Douglas that he wouldn’t like to become public. Things I reckon he would pay a good bit to be kept quiet.”

“What sort if things?”

“When he was in Ulster he managed to get his hands on money the IRA reckoned was theirs. Even now I reckon that there are IRA people who would be after him if they knew.”

“So why tell me?”

“I want someone – and you seem a good choice – to talk to him and suggest that he makes a nice fat payment to keep the IRA in ignorance.”

“Why do you need me?”

“He was in Ulster – military police. I don’t know how much he knows about me, or what contacts he might still have over there. For all I know he might be able to link me to things over there – I won’t pretend that I’ve not got Ulster skeletons in my cupboard. That’s why I need a partner in this. I know that you know him a bit, he will know that you have a lot of connections, so there is no reason why he should link me to it.”

“So what do I tell him – how am I supposed to have found out his secrets?”

“That’s the tricky part. According to my original source, Douglas salted away the best part of half a million pounds in an account in the Cayman Islands, and their banks are famous for being difficult.

However, they aren’t as difficult to deal with now as they were back then – the banking world is a lot

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different to even ten years ago on this sort of thing. Even the Swiss banks aren’t what they used to be if the authorities want to know things. Now, my source didn’t know the Cayman Island account number or anything like that, and in any case it would have to be the police or other government department to get the bank to cooperate – but what he did know was that Douglas wasn’t able to make any transfers direct to it – he had to actually get his hands on much of the money in actual cash which he paid into a number of ordinary accounts in Ireland – not in Ulster, but in Dublin. His mistake back then was to not realise that he was being followed by one of his own people who was actually on the IRA’s payroll. The follower reported back on what Douglas had been up to – and the man he reported to was my source.”

“All that sounds good and well, but what’s to stop him from just telling us to get stuffed. What sort of proof could we threaten him with?”

“No real proof – but the Real IRA are still in business, even if they aren’t anything like as big as the Provos used to be. Douglas knew the names of many IRA players and some of those are still around, still not happy with what is happening in Ulster. Getting their hands on Douglas would make them happy – especially if they could squeeze his money out of him. There is one name in particular that my source said would demonstrate to Douglas that he is a dead man if he doesn’t play along. The name is Padraig Kelly. Kelly was a unit commander with the Provos; now he is generally reckoned to be one of the big noises in the Real IRA. Back before the Good Friday agreement, Kelly was suspected of being behind the killing of two of Douglas’ colleagues who were investigating links between the Loyalist paramilitaries and the security forces. They were decoyed to what they thought was a meeting of an RUC man and some Loyalists; it was an ambush and Kelly’s group killed them.

They also left a list of people they saw as targets with the bodies. Douglas’ was one of the names on the list. ”

“And how do we convince Douglas that we can set this Kelly on him if he doesn’t play ball? And how come I am supposed to have to know all this? Me born and bred here in Guildford, and all this happening years ago in Ulster?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Remember that shooting in the cafe back at the beginning of the year?

The Irish guy who copped it? Name of Liam Doherty in the papers – but that wasn’t his real name. It was actually Liam Riley. Now that never came out at the time, not in public. Although the police knew who he really was, that couple who went down for the shooting were only charged with killing the other guy who died – Collins, and wounding the other two. I guess they didn’t charge them over Riley because it would be a second bite at them if something went wrong with the first charge.

Nothing did, of course, and the pair are inside.”

“And?”

“Well, Riley was here in Guildford to do some work for the Tanners..”

“Oh, no. If those two nutters are involved, I’m out of it. Do you have any idea what they would do to anyone they thought was muscling in on their interests?”

“Don’t worry – they aren’t involved in this at all. Riley only told me about Davis, and only then because he was pissed out of his skull, happy to have met someone from back home – me.”

O’Leary had no way of knowing that what he had just said was wrong, a fact that was to have grave consequences in the weeks ahead.

Govern thought long and hard. On the face of it, there was the opportunity to share in a valuable little con, but he was uneasy at any mention of the Tanners – any mention at all. Also, Douglas might not be a push-over. It was Douglas to whom he had sold those chairs. Douglas who had that pistol in his drawer.

“I don’t know, Fergus. Douglas may not be the Tanner boys, but he is ex-Army and nobody’s fool, or he wouldn’t have been able to do what Riley says he did. I mean, think about it. Robbing the bleeding IRA? That takes guts, real guts. Also, I know that he keeps a pistol – I’ve just sold him a couple of chairs and happened to see that he had a pistol in a drawer. No, I’m sorry, mate, but I just can’t see it.”

O’Leary pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Not even for two hundred grand? I reckon we can take him for four, so equal shares, two hundred each. That’s serious money by my book.”

- 70 -

“Sure it is – but it won’t pay for a bullet in the head if Douglas turns nasty. No, Fergus, I’m not interested – too risky.”

And with that, O’Leary had to shelve the idea of getting Govern to do the dangerous aspect of the scheme for him. He was not, however, about to give up on the opportunity.

Chapter Seventeen 17th September

David Douglas was in his office relatively early; the clock showed just ten past nine when his phone rang.

“Douglas.”

A thick Ulster accent came down the line.

“Now isn’t it good to hear your voice after all these years, David?”

Douglas frowned.

“Who is this?”

“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it. Let’s just say that I’ve a message for you. Check your E-mail.” And with that the phone at the other end was replaced.

Douglas sat for a minute or two, gazing at the telephone as though it might supply the answer to his query as to who had phoned him. Finally, he turned on his computer. True enough, there was new E-mail, a message that was both succinct and worrying.

‘Remember Podraig Kelly? I do. I’ll be in touch again.’

Douglas cast his mind back over twenty years. Yes, he remembered Podraig Kelly, all right. The man had been a hard line IRA assassin, directly responsible for the deaths of two of Douglas’ colleagues. It was Douglas himself who had organised what had seemed to be a straightforward operation to strike at the unholy alliance that was suspected to exist between some members of the security forces and Loyalist terrorists. Information, later seen to be a plant, had come to him that there was to be a meeting between a man he suspected of involvement, a Sergeant Wilson of the Military Police, and unnamed Loyalists. The meeting was supposed to take place in a derelict warehouse down at the docks. Douglas detailed two of his men, Sergeant John Cooper and Corporal David Thompson, to identify if, indeed, Wilson did arrive at the warehouse and if he met anyone. Their orders were simply to observe and report, but the whole thing was a trap. Kelly’s unit were waiting to see who would turn up to take the bait. He was disappointed at only enticing two NCOs – he had hoped for bigger fish –

and had to satisfy himself with them. Both soldiers were shot dead and a list of names was pinned to Cooper’s chest, a list which identified a number of the men most involved in clandestine work against the terrorists of both sides. A list which included Captain David Douglas.

Douglas was worried. He had thought that the problems of Ulster were long behind him, but his complacency in the matter had been shattered when Anna Harrison had come to him eight days earlier. Then the threat had come from the Tanners and had been directed only at Anna. Was this a follow-up after she had scared the brothers off? The approach was entirely different, but given the failure of the earlier attempt, that wasn’t surprising. It was the mention of Kelly that gave this a potentially new dimension. The Tanners had got information about Anna’s theft from the murdered Irishman Riley (Douglas had recognised Riley from the newspaper pictures, despite him being named as Doherty in the press) but hadn’t tried to extort anything from himself, something that had puzzled both of them at the time. So, was this Plan B for the Tanners? Or something else entirely?

He rang Anna Harrison’s number and in a cautiously worded conversation the pair agreed to meet again that evening at Douglas’ house. Unknown to either of them, Cathleen Connor, Anna Harrison’s secretary, had been listening in and added the gist of the conversation to her mental file of something odd going on.

That same morning, Inkerman met as usual with his three DIs to review progress on the various cases they had on their plates. He was listening with only half an ear to John Hall’s report on a string of minor robberies when a name caused him to pay closer attention. Hall had mentioned that one of the robberies had been of sub-post office come small general store. The robbers, youths in their teens or

- 71 -

very early twenties, had made off with only a couple of hundred pounds, but in the process of the robbery the last lad to leave the shop had fallen heavily when he tripped over an empty milk crate left outside the door. True to type, his mates had run off and left him, allowing the assistant post master to grab him. The thief had tried to fight his way clear, but was out of luck; the fall had resulted in a badly wrenched knee and the struggle had resulted in him further damaging it to the extent that the shopkeeper was able to restrain him and call the police.

It was the name of the thief that caused Inkerman, and Jane, to prick up their ears.

“Brewer, you said, John?”

“Yes, George Brewer.”

Jane chipped in.

“Do you know if he’s any relation to the Billy Brewer in hospital for robbing one of the Tanners’

betting shops?”

Hall frowned. He hadn’t given the boy’s name any thought, but now here he was on the spot with Inkerman and this bloody young woman again.

“There are several Brewers in the Wellmeadow. Far as I know they are all some sort of relations.

Right little dynasty they have over there. I’m not sure of his exact relationship mind - probably a cousin.”

“Would you mind if I have a word with him?”

Hall shrugged his shoulders.

“Help yourself. He was held overnight but not charged yet.”

“Where is he – downstairs?”

“No, he’s at Stoughton nick.”

“Right, thanks John.”

Thirty minutes later Jane was at the Stoughton police station, but first she had spoken with Sergeant George O’Kelly,

“George, there’s another Brewer been picked up – name of George. Know anything about him?”

The big sergeant furrowed his brow for only a moment.

“George – oh yes, got him now. He’s a cousin of your lad. His father – long vanished mind you – was Dave Brewer’s older brother. Name of Harry. Married a girl from the estate – Hettie Lewis. Never really worked and Harry walked out on her when the kid, George, was about a year old. Last heard of up north – Newcastle, I believe. Although Harry was the older brother, George is about a year younger than Billy.”

“Any idea as to what he’s like?”

“The usual for that family – been up in juvenile court several times, had an ASBO issued against him

– which he ignored. Did six months in the young offenders institution. All water off a duck’s back, I’m afraid.”

“Right, thanks, George. Oh, do you know if he and Billy hang out together or anything?”

“Don’t honestly know – certainly George isn’t an obvious mate of Billy.”

Jane looked across the interview room table at George Brewer. There was a distinct family similarity to his cousin Billy. Much the same build, not exactly stocky, but not skinny either. The same pale blue eyes and fair hair; mercifully, George had left his its natural colour rather than dyeing it in the manner of Billy’s verdant green locks. The youngster glared sullenly at Jane as she sat down across the table from him.

“George, I’m Detective Inspector Lawson. I don’t know if you are aware of it, but your cousin Billy is in hospital after making the mistake of upsetting the Tanner brothers.”

Brewer shrugged his shoulders.

“Nuthin’ to do wif me.”

“But I think that it may well become something to do with you. We both know that the Tanners get protection money around here. What do you think they will do if they find out that you robbed one of their clients?”

- 72 -

Jane was indulging in hypothesising. Arun Del, the assistant postmaster, had angrily rejected any suggestion that he paid protection money, whether to the Tanners or anyone else, but Jane was hoping that George Brewer didn’t know that.

He didn’t; that much was clear for the obvious unease with which he looked across at her.

“Look, lady, I don’t have nuthin’ to do wif them Tanners and I don’t have nuthin’ to say to you.

Right?”

The attempted truculence was unconvincing, Jane simply stared at him. He met her gaze defiantly for a moment or two, then looked away. She let the silence continue until at last she broke it.

“You’re very brave in here George. Now here, nobody can get at you, right? However, we both know that some soft-hearted magistrate is only going to slap you on the wrist over robbing Mr. Del. But the Tanners, now – they don’t go in for slapped wrists. Broken rib, arms, legs and pulped faces are more their line. Look at this – Billy got a lot more than a slapped wrist.”

She slid a photograph across the table to him. It was a full face portrait of Billy Brewer; the broken nose, split lips and black eyes were horrific. It would actually have been hard for anyone who knew Billy to recognise the boy from the picture.

“Look hard, George. In a few hours you will be released after you’ve been charged. You’ll be back on the streets, and the Tanners may well decide to come after you. Now, so far you’ve refused to say who was with you when Mr. Del was robbed. Very loyal of you – especially as your mates buggered off and left you to face the music by yourself. Now, once you are out of here, we can’t protect you from the Tanners, and anyway, why should we? What have you ever done for us that we should be even interested in helping you? On the other hand, if you name your mates, at least that will mean that it isn’t just you the Tanners will come after – and as you didn’t actually get any of the money, they might even leave you alone.”

“I ain’t no grass!”

“Your choice, George, your choice. Walk out and take your chances, or name names and I’ll get the word put round that it was one of them who talked. As I say, your choice.”

He was clearly weakening, struggling to decide where his best interests, and safest options, lay.

“But they’ll know I talked.”

“Only if we let the word out. The story going round will be that Mr. Del recognised them from photos

– or if any of them have been picked up in the past, from mug shots. Now, to be honest with you, I’m not very interested in you and your mates. What I want, and what I think that you are going to give me, is information on who works the streets round here for the Tanners.”

“You fuckin’ crazy, missus? If the Tanners knowed I done anyfin’ like that I’d be dead – straight up.”

“They’ll only know if you tell them- or tell someone who reports to them – and why would you want to do that? Let’s get down to cases, George. I can make sure that what happened to Billy will look like a slap and a tickle compared to what will happen to you if I drop a word in the right place. We already know the top end of the Tanners organisation, but tracking down a couple of layers below that is not easy. You can get that information for me and if you do, I’ll make sure nobody ever knows where it came from. If you don’t help me – well, better get your mum to check the visiting times at Royal Surrey Hospital.”

George Brewer was now a thoroughly frightened young man. He quite believed that this callous bitch would do exactly as she was threatening and drop him in it with the worst gangsters around. He decided two things. Firstly, he was going to promise this bitch that he would do exactly as she wanted.

Second, the moment he was out of here he was off. He had never really known his father, but he had his address in Newcastle and there had been something of a reconciliation between his parents the previous year, so he was hopeful that his father would be able to find him somewhere safe, far out of the clutches of the Tanners and the Surrey police, to hide away in, forever if needs be.

However, Jane’s next words rendered that hope still-born.

“Oh, and George, don’t even think of leaving the area in the near future, will you? That really would upset me – and don’t think that I don’t have contacts up north. One telephone call is all it would take to check on your father.”

In fact, it would take a lot more than that, but Brewer wasn’t to know. He swallowed nervously.

“All right, missus, you’ve made your point.”

- 73 -

“Right, George, that’s it for now.”

“You mean that I can go?”

“As soon as you have been charged – but don’t forget our agreement.” She handed him a plain piece of card, the size of a credit card. “That’s my private line. It doesn’t go through the police switchboard and it will only be answered by me, and even then only if I am in the office. I want names within forty-eight hours, George, or you are in real trouble.”

As Jane left the station, she reflected on her interview of George Brewer. Hopefully, amongst the names he would provide (‘and he’d better!’ she told herself grimly) might be a lead to the man who had beaten up Billy Brewer, even some way of throwing light on the mysterious shooting out of the Range Rover’s tyre at the traffic lights. She accepted that there was no way that tackling the Tanners themselves would yield anything; perhaps a bottom up approach might have more success.

At nine o’clock that evening, Anna Harrison and David Douglas met once more at the latter’s house.

Neither knew what to make of this latest turn in events. For her part, Anna was convinced that she had put enough of a scare into the Tanners for this not to be a second attempt on their part, although she had to agree with Douglas that the gangsters might have felt that a changed target would not leave them open to the same degree of risk.

They finally decided on a course of action that was to have far-reaching consequences, not all of which they had foreseen.

Chapter Eighteen – 18th September

The next day, the Friday, Douglas found another E-mail awaiting him when he got to his office.

Again, it was succinct and to the point.

‘One hundred grand or Podraig Kelly finds you.’

He thought for a while, then attempted to reply to the E-mail on the lines that he and Anna Harrison had agreed. His own text was a similarly succinct, just one word longer than the one to which he was responding, but he had no idea if it would actually reach the sender who, if he had any sense, would be used the anonymity of an internet cafe or a public library or the like, and therefore might well not be looking to receive any response to his threat.

‘Last I heard, Kelly was dead. Prove me wrong.’

Douglas, and Harrison, were correct in their assumption that the anonymous E-mails were coming from a source that was located somewhere other than the sender’s own premises. In fact, O’Leary was sending them from the Guildford public library. However, not truly versed in using such a means of communication, O’Leary had set up an E-mail account which he accessed later that day. His intention had been to send a third message to Douglas; the fact that he had received a reply threw him. It was not something that he had expected and the demand for proof of Kelly’s continued existence made him stop and think.

He was virtually certain that Kelly was still alive. Certainly there had been no reports to the contrary, but it was now several years since the Good Friday agreement which had seen Kelly, and other hardliners, create the Real IRA in disgust at what they saw as a sell-out by the high command of the Provisionals.

He had used Kelly’s name in the expectation of frightening Douglas; he had no means of contacting Kelly, and even if he had known of any channel of communication by which to reach him, he would never have dared contacting the man, and now it looked as though Douglas was calling his bluff. So now what?

Could he make one last attempt at convincing Douglas that he was in real danger, or should he give it up as a bad job? The thought of all that money which Douglas had managed to get his hands on, money that, if the likes of Kelly knew about it would represent Douglas’ death warrant, was so tempting. Against that, however, was the fact that Douglas had obtained it at great personal risk; having gone to those lengths it looked as though he wasn’t going to crack easily.

- 74 -

In an agony of indecision, O’Leary decided not to respond to Douglas’ message; instead, he left the library and made his way to a nearby cafe, where he sat nursing a cup of coffee and nibbling distractedly on a scone.

He had been there some ten minutes or so, aware that it would soon be time to leave and open up his betting shop to catch the early punters after they had cashed their benefits, when he became aware of someone approaching his table. He looked up; it was George Govern.

“Fergus, how are you doing?”

O’Leary frowned as he wondered just how he really was doing.

“Could be worse,” he finally grunted.

Govern sat himself down; like O’Leary he had a cup of coffee, and he set it down as he seated himself.

“Come on, Fergus, you like you lost a fiver and found a tanner.”

O’Leary shrugged his shoulders, looked round to ensure that nobody was in earshot, but lowered his voice anyway.

“It’s what we talked about the other day – that Douglas guy.”

“What about him?”

“Well, I tried putting the arm on him – E-mailed him telling him to pay or I’d set one of the IRA on him.”

Govern examined his companion with unconcealed surprise.

“And could you?”

“ ‘Course not – I know I come from Ulster, but I don’t have anything to do with any of that lot. Think I’m stupid?”

Govern forbear from giving an honest answer, merely shook his head.

“So what happened?”

“Bleeder called my bluff. I mentioned a guy called Podraig Kelly – real hard case – said I’d let him know where Douglas is and about the IRA money. Douglas just comes back saying he reckons Kelly is dead and tells me to prove he ain’t.”

“And is he – dead, I mean?”

“How would I know? If he is it never made the papers – and he was a big noise, so if he got taken out I’m sure it would have been news, but I can’t be sure – and I can’t think of a way to convince Douglas that Kelly is still around.”

Govern looked thoughtful.

“I reckon you’re well out of it, Fergus. Like I said, Douglas can’t be no pushover if he got away with robbing the IRA – and I know he’s got a gun.”

Glumly, O’Leary accepted that his attempt to blackmail Douglas was a non-starter; ho finished his coffee and left, leaving Govern still at the table.

Govern had never regarded himself as a hero, not a particularly brave person; he preferred to see himself as one who used his wits to avoid any need to be brave – bravery, he reckoned, was a much over-rated attribute and one far more likely to get you hurt than anything else. His conversation with O’Leary, however, had set him wondering if there wasn’t a way to build on what the Irishman had started to his own advantage. He had never heard of Podraig Kelly until O’Leary had just now mentioned him, but he had a feeling that Douglas’ reaction to the name was interesting. If this Kelly wasn’t a cause for concern to Douglas – or at least a potential cause for concern – why hadn’t he just told O’Leary to get lost?

What had also set him thinking was O’Leary using E-mails to attempt to blackmail Douglas; like O’Leary himself, Douglas was of a generation that was only reluctantly coming to terms with the Internet and its many ramifications.

Inkerman’s meeting that day with his DIs was beginning to show that their caseloads, for once, contained nothing of great urgency and the four of them subconsciously started to think in terms of the upcoming weekend. Jane brought the others up to date on her interview with George Brewer and her hopes that it might bear some sort of fruit, although her colleagues enthusiasm over the possibility was even more muted than her own.

- 75 -

For Jane, things started to change at four o’clock that afternoon. Her private phone, the one the number of which she had given to George Brewer, rang and, mentally crossing her fingers, she answered it.

“Lawson.”

“It’s me.”

She recognised the voice as that of George Brewer; perhaps things were looking more interesting.

“So, what do you have for me?”

“You never heard it from me, right?”

“That’s our deal – provided it’s worth my while. Otherwise, you can expect to be in real trouble.”

“All right, missus, no need to rub it in. Look, the Tanners don’t have much to do wif anything on the streets themselves – that’s how they keeps their noses clean wif you lot. Thing is, there’s this guy what collects from shops in our area – name of Dave, Dave Walters. Now he don’t go direct to the Tanners, but he’s got a bruvver, George, and George runs one of them clubs the Tanners own – the Blue Boar, and he’s always saying how much in wif the Tanners bruvver George is. How’s that, then?”

“I’ll check it out, George and if its kosher you’re out of my hair and I’m out of yours – but it better had be kosher.”

And with that she put down the phone.

She turned to her computer and searched the criminal data base for Dave Walters. A few moments later she was looking at a picture of the man himself, with a synopsis of his record. Walters was thirty-eight years old and had several convictions, ranging back to stealing and/or vandalising cars as a teenager to the culmination of a five year sentence for GBH which had seen him released some five years earlier after serving two and a half years.

What grounds, she wondered, could she think up for pulling him in and trying to put pressure on him

– pressure which might lead to the Tanners themselves?

She then looked up his brother, George. George was also ‘of interest’ – but had never been inside and his only conviction was for driving under the influence over twenty years ago, an offence which had seen him fined and banned from driving for twelve months. Since then, nothing. Of course, she reflected, he would have had to be pretty clean to get a licence to run the Blue Boar club. Although the licence was in his name, the ownership of the club, as with the other Tanner ‘legitimate’ holdings, vested in their company, Tanner Holdings. On the surface the only connection they had with the clubs and shops was that Tanner Holdings took an income from each – all legal and above board – at least on the surface.

She sat back in her chair as she pondered on possible courses of action; nothing that she came up with appealed immediately. It had been an accepted fact for many years now that nobody would testify against the Tanners, not if they valued their health. Putting pressure on Dave Walters seemed unlikely to yield any results. On the other hand, putting him under surveillance just might.

First things first. She called Dave Cross into her office.

“Dave, I’ve learned that one of the Tanners close associates – George Walters – has a brother Dave, who is a low level collector and the like for the Tanners. I want him watched and caught in the act of doing something that he shouldn’t. Here’s his last known address,” she tossed across the print-out from Walter’s record, “check if he still lives there and let me know, please.”

Cross departed and, to her pleasant surprise, was back inside ten minutes.

“Checked the address, boss. He still lives there; since he came out he’s got married and they have a kiddie, two year old little girl.”

“Thanks, Dave – that was quick – how come?”

“Asked a couple of my snouts – they both to know him. I also asked if they knew if he collected for the Tanners – just in case young Brewer was having us on – they said that he does collections alright –

and also an occasional bit of strong arm stuff from time to time.”

“Right, so how do we nab him?”

Cross looked less happy.

- 76 -

“Can’t see that it will be easy, boss. He collects from betting shops – those the Tanners don’t own, of course – and a few local shops as well. I know how he does it in the betting shops – it’s standard practice round here.”

Jane looked at him, realising that she was ignorant of the mechanics if protection collection from betting

“So how does it work?”

“Dead simple. The collector goes in with a betting slip, hands it in and is given his ‘winnings’. The slip is a blank, but with the bookie’s stamp already on it, he already has it from his last visit – he phones the bookie before coming, is told the horse and the amount to fill in and that’s it. Even if we nab him actually in the act, what can we prove? He has a legitimate slip and has been paid the proper amount of his winnings.”

Jane furrowed her brow in concentration. She could see the point that Cross was making.

“OK, no point in going after him at a betting shop. What about an ordinary shop?”

“Better chance there, boss. Grab him as the shopkeeper hands over the money – but of course, to make it stick we need the shopkeeper to give evidence – and that’s not likely.”

Jane was annoyed with herself; she hadn’t thought this through properly at all. She had been so pleased at having a link in the Tanner chain that she had ignored the practicalities. Back to the beginning?

She cursed herself inwardly. What was wrong with her? The actual collection of the money, who did it and how, was immaterial. What was important was happened to it next. Why hadn’t see gone at this from the start?

“OK, slight change of plan. Never mind who Walters collects from, nor how he does it. The big question is what does he then do with it? That’s what we need surveillance for. Get yourself organised to find what his run is and where he goes after he has finished. Do we know how often he makes his collections?”

“Not for sure, boss, but most of them normally call once a week on their victims.”

“OK, try and find out when Walters is next doing his thing and find out who he pays his takings to.”

“OK, boss.”

It was nearly six o’clock when Cross came back to her.

“Boss, we’re not going to need to watch Dave Walters – I’ve tracked down that he pays the money he collects to a guy called Neil Jagger.”

“Never heard of him – no relation to Mick, I suppose?”

Cross smiled and shook his head.

“No, he’s new on the scene, and he hasn’t got a record, which is why we’ve not heard the name before. Came down from York just over a month ago. Word is that he did the Tanners some sort of a favour up there – if anyone knows what the favour was, they’re not telling – but in the process got a bit unpopular with the law up there and they were sniffing around him, so the Tanners gave him the chance to come down here.”

Jane leant back in her chair. Someone doing a favour for the Tanners in York? Her mind went back to a conversation a few days earlier with George O’Kelly, the desk sergeant, when he had mentioned that one of the Tanners’ former managers, now, what was his name? Like that fat politician – Prescott?

No, Trescott, that was it – John Trescott.

“Dave, check with York police – ask if anything has happened to a John Trescott, formerly one of the Tanners’ people down here, who went up north a while back, probably because he was in bad odour with the Tanners for some reason.”

Cross was only away for about quarter of an hour; when he re-entered her office it was clear that he had news to tell.

“Boss, Trescott is in hospital in a coma – been that way for over a month. He got a right beating apparently. The locals reckon it is touch and go as to whether he ever comes round – and they had Jagger down as a suspect, but unable to prove anything against him, He was granted police bail and told not to leave York but he has skipped from their area. As he has broken his bail conditions, they would like him back and asked if we could pick him up and hold him for them. I said I’d have to talk to you and get back to them.”

- 77 -

“Well done, Dave. Give the York folk a quick bell and tell them that we’ll pick him up for them as soon as we can lay our hands on him.”

Cross disappeared to do her bidding and Jane smiled to herself. This was fortuitous, but any opportunity to put a spoke in the Tanners’ wheel wasn’t to be sneezed at.

She looked at her watch; getting on for six thirty. What were the chances of picking up Jagger right away? All she knew about the man was what Cross had been able to find out over the phone; she didn’t even have the remotest idea what he looked like, nor where he was staying. As she sat there, a thought suddenly struck her. How come Dave Cross, never regarded as the sharpest blade in the toolbox, had been able to find out all this so quickly?

When Cross returned she put the question to him; the DC looked uncomfortable.

“Boss, I’ve got a contact that I use from time to time.”

“A contact where, Dave?”

“Well, it goes back a long time.” He hesitated.

“Come on, Dave, out with it.”

Still he hesitated, then, seeing the look on his superior’s face, he shrugged his shoulders miserably.

“It’s Sheila.”

“Your wife?” Jane exclaimed in astonishment.

“Well, not really Sheila herself, but she’s got a cousin, Helen who’s married to Sid Cavanaugh.”

Jane furrowed her brow as she tried, and failed, to place the name.

“Don’t know him – who is he?”

“He’s clean now, but getting on for twelve years or so ago he was a right tearaway. Nothing very serious, but always in one sort of bother or another. Well, back then I had newly made DC and I was on DI Newsome’s team.”

Jane groaned inwardly. Ken Newsome, now thankfully retired, had been a byword for sloppy investigations and corner cutting for some years before his retirement and replacement by Shirley Lewis. He had, by all accounts – it was long before her own time – been a good DS and, initially at least, a conscientious, if limited, DI. It became clear, however, that he lacked both the ability and the drive, to progress any further, and realising this, he had become more and more laid back in his approach to the job. When the now DSi Graham had arrived about two and a half years or so ago, one of his first acts, as the then DCI to whom Newsome reported, had been to seek to get rid of him, but the senior staff had over-ruled him, happy to let Newsome serve out time until he retired on full pension. At the time Jane had been Inkerman’s DS, and in common with most of the other younger officers in the Division was very unhappy to see such a waste of space still in post and blocking the promotion of someone more able.

It was therefore with some trepidation that she awaited Cross’ next words.

“Well, boss, Sid finally went a bit too far and the DI nabbed him for rolling over a sub-post office.

Nobody else was involved and for some reason the postmaster didn’t want to press charges, so the DI had Sid in and gave him a good talking to – to be honest, I think that it may have been more than just a talk, but nobody knows for sure. Anyway, from then on Sid never put a foot wrong and he was a useful source for the DI as he knew a lot if the younger set – Sid was only about nineteen or twenty at the time – who were beginning to start getting in with the Tanners’ boys. Then Sid started knocking around with our Helen and I went to Mr. Newsome to let him know – I didn’t want it coming out that I had any link to him, no matter how slight, without me being up front about it. I was really surprised when the DI said that Sid was a useful asset and that I wasn’t to worry about anything, because he, the DI had enough on Sid to make him keep on the straight and narrow for the rest of his life.

“Well then I transferred a while later to Mr. Inkerman’s team as was and thought no more about it, but when this came up I thought about Sid and what DI Newsome must have had on him, so I gave him bell, I told him that now Mr. Newsome had retired we were about to have a reorganisation and that what the DI knew about him might well come out. That really scared him – do wish I knew what it was all about – and I told him that if he could find out about what was going on with Dave Walters, I would do my best to make sure that the DI’s files accidentally disappeared. Ever since then, I’ve used Sid as a very deep asset. He still knows folk, even though he isn’t any part of their scene any more.”

Jane shook her head in bewilderment.

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“Dave, why on earth didn’t you tell me, or when he was in this job, Mr. Inkerman about this long ago?

Your Sid could be a very useful asset to us.”

Cross looked mildly defiant.

“Boss, I don’t know what Mr. Newsome had on Sid, and as he’s more or less family, I don’t really want to know, even supposing it’s possible to find out. I just thought that this time it was worth taking the chance that he might be of more use than usual – and he has been.”

Jane sat back again, pondering what she had just been told. Finally she decided that there was no point in making things hard for Cross over it – what would be gained? On the other hand as this Sid had been useful on this instance, perhaps it would be worthwhile seeing if he could be useful in the future.

“OK, Dave, I still think you should have told somebody about your in-law or whatever he is once Mr.

Newsome retired, but I can’t see that there is any harm done. So, exactly what have learned from him?”

“Well, Jagger arrived about five weeks ago and straightaway he starts acting for Billy Tanner as a go-between with the collectors – not that Billy was doing it himself before, mind you, Jagger just became one of several such. He’s staying just off the Stoughton Road somewhere; Sid didn’t know exactly where, but he does know that he drinks in the Wooden Bridge of an evening.”

“That’s a bit away from the Tanners, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, they don’t want to be seen too near to their sort of next level as it were.”

Jane nodded; that made sense.

“Do we know if he has a car?”

“I would guess so, but if he does Sid didn’t know for sure. He saw him arrive in a Zafira the other evening, but he was with another guy and Sid didn’t see who was driving.”

“What do York have that might help us? He hasn’t been charged, I suppose?”

“No, so no fingerprints or anything, but I asked if they have a picture of him and they have a couple of surveillance shots which they are E-mailing to me. In fact, they are probably here by now.”

“Have a look, will you Dave?”

A couple of minutes later he was back with a print-out of the promised E-Mail attachment and Jane found herself looking at a picture of a well-built man who looked to be in his mid-forties or so, with dark hair cut short and deep-set dark eyes under heavy eyebrows.

“York have also come up with his car, boss – a Zafira KV58ACD – so that’s probably the car Sid saw at the pub that evening.”

“Right, I don’t suppose for a moment that he has registered the change of address on the V5, but let’s put out a call on the car to the traffic guys – call it in if they see it but do not approach.”

Jane was hoping that the car would be located that evening, but no such luck, so just after eight she called it a day and went home to reflect on the new twist the case was taking.

Chapter Nineteen – 19th September

That new twist meant that the quiet weekend that Jane had been contemplating had gone by the board.

Instead, she was in her office just before nine, to find that Clarke and Cross had both beaten her to it.

“Morning, guys – anything new?”

It was Clarke who responded.

“Traffic have spotted that Zafira, boss. Parked outside a house in Woodbridge Road - saw it just half an hour ago and called it in. DI Parrott’s team are on call for overnight and the weekend and Kate Keiver, their DS, saw our log entry so gave me a bell – I called Dave in and tried to get you, but only got your voice mail – you must have already been in your car.”

Jane nodded; she had a hatred of getting calls in the car, even hands free, so unless she was actually on duty and needed to be in contact, the phone was switched off whilst she was driving.

“Right, any idea if the car is still there?”

“I saw you driving into the car park, so I’ve asked dispatch to send a car past to check – should hear in a minute or two.”

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Sure enough, less than three minutes later, the phone rang; the Zafira was still parked outside the address at which the traffic car had first seen it.

“Right, we’re on our way – Skull, you stay and mind the shop, Dave, as you did the donkey work, you come with me, but I want a uniform with us.”

They left via the main entrance where George O’Kelly was yet again on duty as desk sergeant.

Jane gave him her best smile.

“George, Dave and I are on our way to pick up a bail absconder wanted in York and one we also want to talk to. He’s got a record of possible violence, so I’d like to borrow one of your lads if I may – I think that a uniform presence could be very useful.”

O’Kelly smiled at her.

“No problem, Inspector, I have just the man for you.”

He put his head through the door of the back office and called out.

“PC Hammond, here a minute, if you please.”

A moment later a uniformed constable appeared. Jane looked him up and down and smiled at O’Kelly again.

“Thank you George, I think that PC Hammond will do very nicely.”

The subject of her appraisal was an imposing figure. A fair haired young man, a good six feet five or six tall, and heavily built, the stab proof vest he was hurriedly donning made him look bigger still as he joined them and the three of them hurried round to the car park. Jane had decided to use her own car rather than a marked vehicle, just in case Jagger took to his heels – or his wheels – at the sight of an official police car.

Ten minutes later she pulled up a few yards away from the Zafira they were looking for.

It was parked immediately outside a semi-detached house, with no other vehicle within ten yards or so, a good indicator of which house the driver was currently in. Even as they drew up the door opened and a man emerged.

“That’s him,” Cross exclaimed excitedly, “that’s Jagger!”

As if sensing their presence and their interest, the man hurried towards the Zafira, but Cross was already out of the front passenger door, closely followed by Hammond, as Jane struggled out of her seat belt and engaged the hand-brake.

Cross reached Jagger first, but stepped back warily as the man turned, a knife held menacingly in front of him. Hammond took in the situation and advanced on their quarry, his extensible baton swinging gently from one hand, whilst the other held a pepper spray at face level.

“Drop the knife, sunshine, or prepare to cry your eyes out,” the big policeman grated threateningly.

Jagger hesitated for a moment, then, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, let the knife drop to the ground.

Still out of arms’ length, Hammond ordered Jagger to lean against the Zafira with his legs spread and his weight bearing on his hands; then he maintained a careful watching brief whilst Cross searched their prisoner. He proved to have no other weapon on him and Cross handcuffed his hands behind his back and he and Hammond forced the man into the back of Jane’s car with Hammond taking the other rear seat.

Jane drove them all back, then had Jagger put in a holding cell whilst she had Cross get in touch with the police at York and arrange for a couple of officers to come and collect Jagger on the following Monday.

In the interim, Jane wanted to talk to the man and accompanied by Clarke had him brought to an interview room.

She looked at the prisoner.

“Right, Mr. Jagger. In case you haven’t already worked it out, I am Detective Inspector Lawson. My colleague here, who hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting you before, is Detective Sergeant Clarke.

Now, come Monday, some officers from York will be coming here to take you back. What happens there is out of my control and to be honest, also out of my sphere of interest. What does interest me is what your relationship is with Billy Tanner. No need to worry about anything you say getting back to him – it won’t.”

Jagger eyed her suspiciously.

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“What’s in it for me?”

“To be perfectly honest – not a lot. Whatever may await you up North doesn’t concern me. For all I care they can string you up from the first lamp post they come across – not that they will, of course, more’s the pity. No, what little there is in it for you is the gratitude or enmity of the Tanners.”

Jagger’s brow creased in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we both know that the Tanners have a very long arm. We both know that scuttling off to York didn’t do John Trescott much good, now did it? I can’t prove that the Tanners sent you after him – but I don’t need to – that’s a job for the York people. All I am interested in is clipping the wings of the Tanners down here – and that, my friend, is where you come in. I want to know everything you do about their organisation. Tell me what I want to hear and the Tanners will never know that it came from you. Refuse to help me and I will make sure that the Tanners find out that you have been really, really cooperative. You see,” she leant forward over the table that separated them, “I have some information from one of my own sources that could enable me to knock over one of their enterprises.

Problem is, if I act on it, there is a very good chance that they will be able to work out who my source is – and that could be fatal for her. She wouldn’t be the first person whom the Tanners have made disappear and I don’t want to risk that happening to her. However, what she knows you also know –

we know more about the Tanners’ operations than they know. Now, if I act against that part of their set-up – and word leaks out that picking you up was where I got the information – well, do I have to paint a picture for you?”

Jagger continued to stare at he; then he switched his gaze to Clarke, taking in the smug expression on the sergeant’s face, then back to Jane.

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you? Fuck me, you’re a hard bitch.”

Jane smiled wolfishly at him.

“I like to think so – it makes life so much more enjoyable.”

For the next hour they quizzed Jagger unmercifully. His knowledge of the Tanners’ organisation was scarcely encyclopaedic, but it served to add to the totality of the police database on the brothers. At last they were finished and Jagger was escorted back to his cell. Clarke looked at his DI with increased respect.

“Bloody hell, boss, you were really pushing the boat out there, weren’t you? How much of what you told him was true?”

“Not a lot, Skull, not a lot, in fact hardly anything – but it worked. Believe me, what he told us wasn’t earth shattering, but every little helps, and if it is the last thing I ever do, I will bring those two evil buggers down. Right, I think we’ve done enough for a day when we’re not even on duty – see you Monday.”

As she was leaving, George O’Kelly called to her.

“Jane, can you spare a minute?”

“Yes, of course, George, what is it?”

For the first time that she could remember when, as a probationer WPC she had first met him over ten years before, she realised that George O’Kelly looked slightly embarrassed.

“Jane, how did Hammond do?”

“He was fine – didn’t flinch when Jagger started waving a blade around, moved in to place himself between Jagger and Dave Cross, made Jagger back down. Why, did you doubt him?”

“No, no, not at all,” the sergeant hastily assured her, “it’s just that, well, he’s my son in law, and I’ve promised Meg, my sister – his mother – that I’d try and take care of him. The lad has done everything he’s been asked to do and he’s dead set on getting into CID, I wonder, if you think that he’s worth it, if you’d put in a good word for him if the occasion arises.”

Jane smiled.

“Of course I will George. Mind you, I don’t know of any vacancies for DC in the division right at the moment, but something is sure to turn up in a little while. For instance, Bert Carmody in John Hall’s team is likely to be retiring in a matter of months.”

On that note, Jane left the station and drove home.

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A little earlier that morning, George Govern had come to a decision. Fergus O’Leary’s attempt to blackmail David Douglas had come to nothing, but the more he thought about it, the more Govern thought that it might be an idea worth following through if he could come up with a method of achieving it at arm’s length – he was uncomfortably aware that Douglas seemed to be no sort of a pushover.

He did something that O’Leary clearly hadn’t; he searched for Podraig Kelly via Google. Numerous references appeared, but the one which most provided him with what he wanted was an article in An Phoblact, the strongly Republican Irish newspaper, which had a brief article about a commemoration of an IRA attack fifty years earlier. Kelly was mentioned as one of those present.

He composed a brief E-mail to Douglas; brief and to the point. It merely said ‘Proof enough?’ and attached a copy of the article.

In doing so, he failed to realise that he had made a bad mistake.

Some ten minutes later Douglas had read the E-mail, studied the attachment and come to a decision.

As part of that decision he sent an E-mal in reply, saying ‘We need to meet?’; he had no anticipation of the blackmailer actually agreeing to a physical meeting – it was simple a delaying tactic.

In the meantime, he had a call to make, a call which would have serious consequences for George Govern.

Lloyd Farrow, who despite his somewhat Hollywood star sounding name, was a mild mannered, tubby fifty year old who regarded the world myopically from behind frighteningly strong spectacles that made his already somewhat protuberant eyes looks like those of a startled goldfish, was a man with who Douglas had had previous dealings. Farrow was a self-employed IT consultant who worked out of his second storey flat at the top of Guildford High Street; Douglas had come across him by chance when Farrow had been in a computer shop chatting to the owner, whom he clearly knew, when Douglas had brought in a misbehaving laptop.

The problem, whilst totally beyond Douglas, had proved simple for the shopkeeper; in the ten or twelve minutes it took him to effect a cure, Douglas and Farrow had chatted idly, and Douglas had happily accepted a business card from Farrow on the grounds that one can never have too many contacts, even if they appear to be of little or no immediate value.

In fact, the contact with Farrow had proved useful a couple of months later when Douglas became worried that the accountancy system he was using to keep track of his nightclub’s finances seemed to be throwing up inaccuracies. Farrow had inspected the system, discovered and cured a computer virus, and vastly improved its security.

Farrow answered his telephone at the second ring.

“Lloyd, David Douglas here.”

“David, nice to hear from you – what can I do for you.”

“Lloyd, I’ve received a couple of E-mails that I’m not happy about – probably a disgruntled punter who lost more than he could afford at one of my tables. I’d like to get him to stop, but just sending an E-mail in reply seems a bit pointless. Is there any way that I can find out where the e-mails have actually come from so that I can phone him?”

“Yes, that’s quite easy if you have the E-mail address from which it came. There can be snags – if someone knows what they are doing they can use an anonymous server so you effectively get stopped by a cut-out. If that isn’t the case, however, it’s easy to get at the phone number to which the computer is attached or where its router is. Better warn you, that may not be terribly helpful; the E-mail may have been sent from an E-mail cafe, somewhere like a public library, or a mobile phone – but enough of that – what’s the E-mail address and the date and time the mail was sent?”

Douglas recited the necessary details and Farrow promised to get back to him as quickly as possible.

To his pleasant surprise, less than twenty minutes went by before Farrow was on the line again, reciting the telephone number from which the E-mail had originated. Douglas thanked him, agreed a modest fee and promised a cheque in the post by the Monday or earlier if he was near a post box over the weekend.

Douglas sat staring at the telephone number for several minutes; one of the things that he had learnt in his time in the Military Police was how to obtain an address from a telephone number, but he had a

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nagging feeling that in this case he wouldn’t need to. It happened to end in three sixes, and he felt sure that he had seen such a number very recently – then it came to him. He crossed to his desk and opened the file he kept of recent invoices and receipts, and there it was, right on top. It was the receipt for the dining room chairs he had bought just that week. He remembered with a chill that the man who had sold them to him, George Govern, had nosed around his sideboard and seen the pistol in the drawer.

Once again he cursed himself for his stupidity in leaving the gun around like that, but that was all water under the bridge.

He never did notice that today’s E-mail came from a different E-mail address than the earlier ones.

The Tanner’s organisation was possessed of nothing if not an efficient grapevine. Within half an hour of Jagger having been picked up, Dan and Billy Tanner were aware of the fact. The woman with whom Jagger had spent the night had seen what had happened to him from her bedroom window and she wasted no time in letting one of the Tanner foot soldiers, the man who had actually introduced her to Jagger in the first place, know what had happened. He in turn had passed the news up the line.

The two brothers were annoyed, though not particularly concerned. They felt sure that Jagger would be far too sensible of his own skin to tell the police anything that might be to their own detriment.

They failed to realise that their very reputation would mean that, promised anonymity, Jagger would happily tell all he knew rather than risk the brothers believing that he had.

Their lack of concern over Jagger did not, however, extend as far as being complacent. A phone call to an informant they had in the police confirmed that the officer leading the apprehension of Jagger was DI Lawson.

“That little bitch again!” exclaimed Dan Tanner. They had for some time been aware that DI Lawson saw them as the arch villains of south-east England. Their police contact had kept them informed of her involvement earlier in the year in investigating the murder of Liam Riley, a murder which had prevented him from carrying out a lucrative piece of work for them. She had already poked her nose into a number of their lower level dealings; now a man they regarded as a useful asset was under lock and key because of her.

“It’s time that bitch was taught a lesson,” agreed his brother.

Chapter Twenty – 20th September

It was Sunday, a Sunday that was spent in a variety of ways by a variety of people. Jane Lawson and Harry Oakes drove down to the coast and enjoyed a walk on the beach at West Wittering, luxuriating in the warm autumn sunshine to gain an appetite for a pub lunch before a leisurely drive back and a quiet domestic evening.

George Govern puzzled over what to do next in his attempt to extract money from David Douglas. As Douglas had assumed, Govern had no intention of having a face to face meeting; instead, he was planning how to set up a risk-free money drop. He had started thinking of how to achieve such a result before sending his E-mail and he had several alternatives in mind. Finally, after reviewing each in detail, examining each for possible dangers or logistical problems, he made his choice and composed a further E-mail which he duly sent off.

In contrast to the low key efforts of those three, the Tanners turned the Sunday into a hive of activity for themselves and some of their associates. A plan to clip Jane Lawson’s wings had quickly been hammered out between the two brothers, but as was the norm for them, they would have it implemented by others, with no direct trace of their own involvement.

David Douglas received the second E-mail from George Govern and read it carefully. It was much as he had expected; an attempt to have him actually deposit cash in what Govern clearly, but mistakenly, felt was a safe dead drop location. He thought carefully over his reply. Too easy an acquiescence

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might raise Govern’s suspicions, but it was essential that the man thought that he had won. Finally, he sent off an answer agreeing to the place, but claiming that the amount demanded of him couldn’t possibly be got together in cash in the timetable dictated, even if he could have raised that much cash

– which he couldn’t.

Inkerman was another who enjoyed a quiet day; he had spent some time on the Saturday reviewing the various cases in which his teams were involved, but with nothing of great import in hand, Sunday could be treated as the traditional day of rest, so he and Chrissie spent the day tidying up various odds and ends in the garden before indulging themselves in the evening by dining out at a favourite restaurant, the Inn on the Lake at Godalming. After they had finished their meal, they took their coffee out of doors in the still mild twilight and idly watched a couple of swans gliding over the surface of the lake which gave the restaurant its name.

“Do you think we might get a few days way soon?”Chrissie asked her husband.

Inkerman nodded his head.

“I would hope so, things seem pretty quiet at the moment.

Chapter Twenty-One – 21st September

Monday was the day that everything changed. Over two hundred miles away, in York, Detective Inspector Harry Jordan was seething over the fact that, having gone to the trouble of gaining the cooperation of the Surrey police in re-arresting Neil Jagger, some soft-hearted idiot of a magistrate had granted the man bail, so he was now free to roam the streets again, and quite possible do a runner again. Jordan wasn’t to know it, but Jagger’s bail was to have far-reaching consequences.

Back in Surrey the day began normally enough; Jane was first in to the office of her team, but the rest were only minutes behind. There was nothing major on their plates and when she joined the other DIs for their daily meeting with Inkerman, the same story held good across the whole section.

Graham’s meeting with his DCIs was equally mundane; for once it seemed that the criminals of Surrey were taking a comparative rest.

For the police, it was a false dawn, although that was not to become clear until considerably later.

George Govern was mulling over the reply that he had receive from David Douglas. He hadn’t been so much of an optimist as to expect immediate agreement to his demands, and had factored that inevitability into his thinking from the outset. What he hadn’t realised and therefore had not considered in his thinking was that Douglas would so quickly know who he was and where he could be found.

For the Tanners, the logistics of an abduction had been carefully worked out. Vehicles and personnel had been allocated to specific tasks; only one element remained to be put into place. It was necessary to have Jane Lawson where and when she could be isolated and snatched. For this to be achieved, she needed to be lured into the right place by somebody she trusted. That somebody was George Govern.

Govern was blissfully unaware that the Tanners were fully aware of the fact that he was one of Jane’s informers and had done so far a year or so. They had taken no action over the fact because they knew full well that Govern was too scared of them to ever offer up anything that would work to their disadvantage; as a result Govern was being allowed rope and didn’t even know about it. Now, however, it was time for that rope to be given a sharp tug.

It was a little after four in the afternoon when Govern decided that the day was too nice to waste the rest of it indoors – or at least, that was what he told Dave Fellowes, his assistant, as he made for the door of his shop. In fact, he was on his way to check out his memory of his preferred dead drop area in which, in due course, he was hoping that Douglas would leave a considerable amount of money for him. The spot that he had chosen was , he felt, fool-proof. It was the left luggage facility at Guildford station; his plan was that Douglas would leave the package containing the cash there and the ticket

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needed to reclaim it in a waterproof envelope in the toilet cistern of the disabled toilet. Govern’s plan was to do nothing for a full twenty-four hours, then enter the toilet, remove the ticket and ‘reclaim’ the package. His intended visit was to reassure himself that the toilet hadn’t suddenly been vandalised or the like.

He never made it. As he left his shop he failed to notice a car a few yards down the road pull out.

After Govern had walked perhaps ten yards to where his own vehicle was parked beside the pavement, the following vehicle pulled in the kerb in front of him and the rear passenger door opened, and Kenny Blake stepped out in front of Govern who stopped uncertainly. He recognised Blake and knew him as an associate of the Tanners, always a bad sign. Blake smile wolfishly at him.

“Hallo, George, somebody you know wants a word.”

Govern looked around desperately, but there was no opportunity for escape and he reluctantly allowed himself to be helped into the back of the car which promptly drove off. With Blake beside him, and a man he didn’t recognise driving, Govern had no opportunity to escape and a plaintive demand to know what was going on was met with a determined silence.

The journey was short, taking only ten minutes or so before the driver drew up outside the Blue Boar night club which, at this hour of the day was closed and dark. Govern was hustled inside and pushed into a small store room, the door of which was then locked behind him. He looked round, hoping to find some means of escape, but without success. The door was firmly locked and the only window was high up in the wall and no more than twelve inches square, if that, Even if he had been able to reach it, there was no way that he could have squeezed through it. A single wooden chair stood in the middle of the small room; miserably he sat down on it and settled down to wait and discover what was in store for him.

David Douglas, parked across the road, was an interested spectator. He had arrived at Govern’s shop, with his own plans for the antique dealer, just in time to see him hustled into a car by a man he recognised as Kenny Blake, one of the Tanner mob. He had followed the car containing Govern; intent on what they were doing, neither Blake, nor the driver had realised that they were being followed, and Douglas pulled up opposite them unseen. As he watched, Govern was hurried into the club. What, Douglas wondered, was going on now?

As he watched, Blake and the driver of the car, whom he now recognised as George Walters, the manger of the Blue Boar, emerged from the front door, locked it behind them, got into their car and drove off. Douglas looked at his watch; just after five thirty. He wanted to have his own discussion with Govern, but he saw little point in sitting in his car for what, for all he knew, could be hours. What did the Tanners want Govern for? Douglas was unaware of Govern’s role as a police informant, or he might well have surmised that the Tanners regarded that as sufficient grounds for scaring the life out of the man – or worse. As it was, he was totally puzzled, and after waiting for twenty minutes or so, just in case anything happened, was on the point of driving off and returning home, when Blake’s car returned. This time Blake was driving and he got out and opened the rear passenger side door from which Dan Tanner emerged. A moment’s delay and then the other rear door opened and Billy Tanner got out. Blake unlocked the nightclub’s front door and all three men disappeared inside.

Unseen by any of the other players in this little drama, O’Leary was an equally interested spectator.

Jane looked at her watch; nearly six, time to finish the paperwork on her desk and head for home.

Then her private line rang; she picked up the handset.

“Yes?”

“You know who this is. Meet this evening. It’ll be a good one for your lot, believe me”

She did indeed know who it was; it was George Govern. She wondered what information he had for her.

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Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Two- 2nd October

Inkerman and his two teams – really more like one team with the hands on approach he had decided to take over the twin investigations – met early to review the events of the previous day so that everyone was up to speed. Although the meeting kept everybody informed, it failed to identify any likely ways forward. The detectives were sure that they know how Jane had been abducted, who had actually carried out the abduction, and who had ordered it, but knowing and proving were two very different things, and proof was something that they simply did not have.

Anna Harrison was also early in at her office, thinking through what she and Douglas had discussed the previous evening at his house. She had originally been satisfied that her waylaying Dan Tanner on the 15th of September had scared him off, and the subsequent attempt by the now deceased George Govern to blackmail Douglas had been a separate enterprise, but where else might information about Operation Achilles and its offshoots reside?

Govern had, she was sure, told all that he knew before his death; the worrying thing was that his source of information had been the dead IRA man, Riley, and Riley had been in Guildford to do some work for the Tanners, which was how Dan Tanner had obtained the information that he had used in his clumsy attempt to blackmail her.

It was now over two weeks since she had scared Tanner off, but during those two weeks she had become more and more uneasy at the possibility that demonstrable proof of her illegal activities in Ulster might be lying around somewhere. At the time – all those years ago – she had thought that she and Douglas had covered their tracks completely. Now, however, she was less sure.

She ran through the possible sources in her mind. Riley was dead, but he had passed his knowledge on to Govern, now also dead, and the Tanners. Who else might know? She decided to have a check run on anybody in the Guildford area who might have links with Riley, Govern and the Tanners. She would need some form of cover story for the task; a Special Branch Chief Superintendent doing that sort of thing herself would cause raised eyebrows in the ranks and would doubtless lead to rumour and speculation, things she wished whole-heartedly to avoid.

The ambushing of Dan Tanner had been bad enough. No way could she have used actual police officers for the task – the layers of authorisation and report writing before and after such an exercise would have been horrendous and would undoubtedly have led to questions being asked about what on earth she was up to. No, the ‘police officers’ involved in that charade had been contacts of Douglas, brought in from well outside the area, quite happy to earn a few pounds for their play-acting.

Not for the first time, she felt uneasy at just how much Douglas knew about her, and she wondered if, in the final analysis, she could really trust him. There was the fact that she knew just as much about him – that sort of thing cut both ways. Did he, perhaps, wonder if he could trust her? Her position as a senior police officer surely made her less vulnerable than was Douglas himself; might that of itself be a cause for concern to him?

It was perhaps only to be expected that, thirty miles or so away, David Douglas was going through much the same thought processes. He had always regarded the money he had appropriated during his time in Northern Ireland as a just, if highly illegal, reward for the dangerous, dirty job that he had been called upon to do over there. He had survived two assassination attempts, one by the skin of his teeth, and his team had suffered fatalities. His conscience, he told himself, was totally clear. But what about Anna Harrison? Like himself, she had helped herself to money that she had no right to; for years there had been no suspicion of any comeback over what they had done, but now what he had thought to be long buried had returned. He relived his last conversation with George Govern, in which the antique dealer had named Fergus O’Leary as the source of his information. O’Leary has been absent from his betting shop for the last week or more, ever since, in fact, the news of Govern’s death had appeared in the media. Now why was that? Was he concerned for his own safety, or was it coincidence? He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have shared that information with Anna Harrison; initially his decision not to do so had been based on his feeling that it would be to his own advantage

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to hold some things close to his chest and not to be totally open with the woman, but now he fell to wondering if his decision had been the right one. Anna, after all, had the resources of the Metropolitan Police at her disposal. If O’Leary needed to be found she had an infinitely better chance of doing it than he had himself.

Fergus O’Leary was a worried man; he was also a frightened man. He had learnt for sure of George Govern’s murder only when the news had appeared on local TV the day after the man’s body had been discovered, but he had started worrying before then. David Douglas was not the only person to know that Govern had been lifted by the Tanners’ people; O’Leary had been intending to visit Govern and had also seen what had happened. He had also seen Douglas following the Tanner vehicle, and when that evening he had phoned Govern’s home only to be told that he had not returned, O’Leary had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He had telephoned Colin Brown, his assistant at his betting shop, told him that he was taking a few days holiday and had driven away from Surrey without even returning to his own home. Unmarried, there was nobody to raise an immediate concern at his disappearance. By eleven o’clock that evening he had booked into the Mitchell Lane Travelodge hotel in Bristol, a hundred miles away from Guildford and hopefully a hundred miles away from possible trouble. He had booked in for just the one night and had paid by cash, claiming that he didn’t want to use his credit card as it was near its limit.

The next morning he had pushed further west, ending in Fishguard where he had taken the ferry to Rosslare; he felt it very unlikely that the Tanners, Douglas, or even, should they be interested, the police, would track him to the Republic. From Rosslare he took the N25, first north, then west to Waterford, famous for its cut glass crystal ware, but more importantly for O’Leary, a town in which he had friends.

Kevin and Eamonn Geraghty were brothers who owned a small engineering works in the town. Thirty years earlier they had, like O’Leary, lived in Belfast and, again like O’Leary, had moved away from the incessant violence. Catholics and mildly Republican, they had felt that Eire was more to their liking than Ulster or England and in 1984, the same year that O’Leary had moved to mainland Britain, they had headed south rather than east and settled in Waterford. The three of them had been in the same year at school and had kept in casual touch over the years.

A telephone call from Fishguard had resulted in the Geraghty brothers offering O’Leary sanctuary whilst he tried to work put what to do over what was happening in Guildford, and the three of them enjoyed a mildly drunken reunion when O’Leary arrived at the Geraghty house near the Pairc Ui Murchu, the ground of the Roanmore Gaelic Athletic Association club.

The Geraghtys were sympathetic to O’Leary’s plight and the three of them had gone over and over the possible options facing him, but without coming to any real conclusion. Finally Kevin sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his thinning hair, once ginger but now grey, and stared at O’Leary.

“Fergus, why don’t you stay here in the Old Country? Sure, nobody’s going to be looking for you here, now are they?”

“Kevin, don’t think that I haven’t thought of it – but every penny I own is back in England. All I’ve got to me name at the moment are the clothes on me back, me credit card which won’t support me for much longer, and a few Euros left after I changed me pounds at the harbour. No, somehow I’ve got to go back, but I’ve get to make sure that I’ll be safe.”

“And how are you going to be doing that? Those sound like serious men who might be after yez.”

“Don’t I just know it, then?”

O’Leary hesitated, then plunged on with what had been occupying his mind more and more during his time with his friends.

“Look, how I see it is that Govern was murdered either by Douglas or by one of the Tanners’ boys.

Now, I don’t know why the Tanners should want to put him away, but Douglas is another matter.

Govern knew as much about Douglas as I do, because I told him when I tried to get him to help me out in squeezing a little something out of the man. He wouldn’t touch it at the time, but when I told him I was ducking out, I reckon George decided to try his hand – and blew it.

“I know Douglas had a gun – George saw it and told me about it – and I know from the papers that somebody shot him. I reckon that ‘somebody’ must have been Douglas and if he was then he must

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have got George to talk to him before he killed him, which, like I said, means he knows about me. I reckon the only people who can protect me from Douglas are the police, so I’m going to tell them what I know about him.”

“What, you mean go back and see them?”

“Not likely – Douglas might get to me whilst they are thinking over what I tell them. No, I’m going to get them to meet me well away from Guildford.”

O’Leary had met Inkerman earlier in the year when the police had been investigating the deaths of Liam Riley and Councillor Collins, so it was Inkerman that he phoned that afternoon. Inkerman had been engrossed in paperwork and was glad of the distraction when the switchboard operator told him that a man called O’Leary was on the line asking to speak to the DCI and nobody else.

“Put him through, please.”

A moment’s wait, then an Irish voice on the line.

“DCI Inkerman?”

“That’s me. What can I do for you, Mr. O’Leary?”

“Mr. Inkerman, do you remember me from when you were looking into the death of Liam Riley?”

Inkerman searched his memory briefly, then placed the man.

“Yes, Mr. O’Leary, I remember you.”

“I’ve got information, Chief Inspector, about the murder of George Govern.”

Inkerman’s interest was aroused.

“Tell me more, please.”

“It’s a long tale and I’d prefer to tell it face to face, but I’m not coming to Guildford – I’d be in too much danger.”

“Danger from whom, Mr. O’Leary?”

“David Douglas and possibly the Tanners as well.”

“All right, I can understand your concern – so where do you want to meet me?”

“Well, I’m not in England at the moment, but I could meet the day after tomorrow. I realise that you won’t want to travel too far outside Surrey, so what about Reading? There’s a Quality Hotel in Duke Street near to the station. If that is OK for you I’ll book a room there for Sunday and I’ll tell you all I know about David Douglas and why I reckon that he killed George Govern.”

Inkerman reviewed the idea in his mind. He had been looking forward to a quiet weekend after the previous one had blown up in his face with the discovery of Govern’s body, but with no other leads apparent, it was a possible way forward and had to be taken.

“Right, Mr. O’Leary – what sort of time?”

“Well, I have to get there, and book in and all that – how about three o’clock?”

“Right – and I’ll be bringing a colleague.”

“Fine by me, Chief Inspector, the more the merrier.”

Inkerman put down the phone, pushed his chair back, and mentally reviewed what he knew about O’Leary. He and Shirley Lewis had interviewed him after the murder of Liam Riley earlier in the year, but O’Leary had been able to provide nothing of any use. The man had left Belfast for England, first London, then Guildford, in 1984. He had no criminal record and, from he had said when interviewed, no remaining links with Belfast.

It was, however, an intriguing point that Douglas had also been in Ulster at the time that O’Leary had left for pastures new, as a military policeman, doing work still shrouded in secrecy. What connection could there by between Douglas and Govern? And then he remembered that the reason that he and Shirley had interviewed both O’Leary and Douglas in the first place was because it had been Govern who had named them as contacts who had told him that Riley, masquerading at the time under the name of Doherty, had been a quite major figure in the IRA. That line of enquiry had led nowhere; in fact Riley’s death was an accident, he had simply been in the killer’s line of fire as she shot at the other men in the restaurant with Riley and who were her true targets.

Shirley had been with him when he had seen O’Leary previously, but the Govern element of the current investigation he had given to Jane Lawson, so it was Jane who had her second Sunday in a row spoiled by an unexpected development.

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Chapter Twenty-Three – 4th October

So it was that, rather less than forty-eight hours later, Inkerman and Jane arrived at the Reading hotel and met O’Leary in his room.

Inkerman was the first to speak after the introductions had been made

“So, Mr. O’Leary, what do you have to tell us?”

“You remember that Irishman that was shot earlier in the year? Liam Doherty according to the papers?”

“Yes, of course – Inspector Lawson and I were involved in the case, and I interviewed you with DI Lewis.”

“Yes, well, I told you at the time all the background I knew about Liam, but I didn’t tell you quite everything.”

Inkerman looked hard at the Irishman.

“What did you leave out, Mr. O’Leary?”

“Two days before he was murdered he came into my betting shop. Neither of us could believe our eyes. We’d not seen each other in over twenty years, but we recognised each other right off. It was near closing time anyway, so I told Colin Brown – he helps me in the shop – to look after things and lock up and Liam and I went to the pub for a few drinks and to talk over old times.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when DI Lewis and I saw you at the time?”

“What would it have meant? Liam was dead, nothing we had said to each other that night had anything to do with his murder or why he was murdered, and I didn’t want to get any more involved than I had to.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Liam was a bit unsteady when the pub closed, so I took him back to my place. Once there we had a few more drinks and he spent the night on my couch. He left after breakfast in the morning and the next I heard about him he was dead – shot by that mad cow of a farmer’s wife.

“Thing is, we had been reminiscing about the old days – I knew he had been hard line IRA and he knew I knew. He also knew that I left Belfast in 1984 and he told me about some of the things that had happened after I left. One thing he said was that there had been a belief in the IRA that some of the security people were feeding information to the Unionists and that some of the losses to the IRA were a direct result.

“Now, I knew Liam was a hardliner; what I didn’t know was just how high he had risen in the Provos since I had come over here. He knew that not long after I had left, and long before the talks that lead up to the Good Friday agreements were started, the Foreign Office were already talking to folk in the IRA, trying to reach some sort of agreement. The folks they spoke to said they would only even consider talking if the leaks to the Unionists were stopped, so the Brits sent up an investigation and transferred some folk, put others out to pasture, and the leaks stopped. It all had to be done hush-hush, mind you. The Brits didn’t want anybody to know what was going on, and the IRA folk they were talking to had to sell the idea of talks without letting anything come out in the open and give the real hard-liners – those who would be against talks anyway, any ammunition.”

All the time that he was talking, O’Leary was closely watching the two police officers. He had no idea as to whether or not they were aware of the true reason for him leaving Ulster back in 1984 – that although professing loyalty to the cause of a united Ireland, he was also a low-level informer to the security forces. Hopefully, it was something of which they were ignorant, and judging from their expressions and body language they seemed to accept everything that he had said – so far. Now, however, he had to move his tale on, to give them a reason for looking at Douglas – and perhaps, although far less likely in his opinion, the Tanner brothers.

“Now, this is what I learned from Liam that night. One of the people involved in the investigation was a military policeman; Lieutenant, later Captain, David Douglas, and Liam couldn’t believe that Douglas was actually living in Guildford. Now, one of the things that Liam knew about Douglas was that he had been feathering his nest whilst he was in Ulster – apart from the investigation into the leaks, he had also been ferreting out some of the IRA money launderers and squeezing money out of

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them. I don’t know how he did it – Liam didn’t say – but it must have taken a lot of guts and he couldn’t have done it all by himself.

“And that’s the next step. One of the investigation team was a DI from the Met, Anna Harrison.”

If O’Leary had tried to create an impression he couldn’t have been more pleased. Both Inkerman and Lawson allowed their surprise to show; this was something that they hadn’t bargained for.

“She was masquerading as a Detective Constable, but she and Douglas between them managed to get their hands on a lot of money – and Liam had details of how they had done it and where they had hidden it.”

Jane’s mind was in a whirl; she had taken an instant dislike to the now Chief Superintendent Harrison when she had met the woman from the Met in the investigation into Liam Riley’s murder. It was Harrison who had made their job more difficult than it need have been by denying them access to Riley’s full criminal records, an action which had lead the Surrey team to waste a lot of time and effort trying to follow up what eventually proved to have been a red herring.

Inkerman was equally surprised at what they had just been told, although he hid his surprise a little better, but not well enough to deceive O’Leary.

“But how does all this tie in with the murder of George Govern?” he asked.

“Well, I’m coming to that. You see, when Liam left me that morning, he didn’t realise that he had left behind a notebook. It had lodged down behind the cushions of the couch he slept on. Why he had it on him that night, and why he didn’t immediately realise that it was missing, I just don’t know. Thing is, I didn’t find it until a few days later, after Liam had actually been killed, so I couldn’t give it back to him, could I?

“When I found it, I was intrigued and had a good look at it. In it Liam had a lot of information about Douglas and Harrison, including a list of dates of when, and who from, they had got the money and bank account numbers.”

What none of them knew was the reason that Riley had had the notebook on him that night. He had met with the Tanner brothers earlier that day and had needed the notebook to verify the details of Anna Harrison’s activities, something that he had told the Tanners about at an earlier meeting. It was the information that Dan Tanner had used in his abortive attempt to blackmail Harrison. As far as Riley was concerned, the information was of little value, so regaining the notebook wasn’t a high priority, although he had intended to do so before his misfortune at being in the wrong place at the wrong time had led to his death so soon afterwards. His reasoning had been that Harrison knew his full story and could pose a threat to him should she ever reveal it in circumstances that led to it getting back to his former colleagues in the IRA. Giving the Tanners the opportunity to blackmail her, something that might, with luck, lead to her downfall in disgrace from the Met was a faint possibility, but one which he had felt was worth instigating.

O’Leary continued with his tale.

“Now, when I saw the information in that book I did wonder if I could make use of it. I wasn’t interested in what it said about Harrison – I had ne intention of having anything to do with a senior police officer – I looked her up and discovered, as I’m sure you know, that she is now a Chief Superintendent, but I was interested in Douglas. I knew about him, had seen him around a few times, even been to that Marlborough club of his once or twice. I’ll be honest with you – I did wonder if he could be persuaded to buy the book from me, but in the end I decided it might be dangerous to cross him. The way I saw it, some guy with the nerve to steal from the IRA wasn’t likely to be too easy to deal with, so I dropped the idea – but I did mention it to George Govern.”

Jane interrupted the flow.

“Why?”

“Well, I thought that George might have a go at Douglas and that if he did there might be a little something in it for me – and without the risk of getting directly involved myself. I didn’t give the book to George, but I did give him enough detail to convince Douglas that his secret source of money was known about.

“Now, I didn’t see George to talk to after that, but on the Monday, the 21st that was, I decided to go and see George to find out what, if anything, he intended to do about what I had told him about Douglas. I never got the chance. His hop is in quite a busy road and as I was having to park quite a

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ways from his door I saw him leave. He walked down the street a few yards and a car drew up beside him and Kenny Blake – one of the Tanner crew – got out and said something to George who got into the car – I don’t know what was said, but George didn’t look over happy. By now I was just about parked and I was wondering what, if anything to do when a car pulled out and followed Blake’s car –

and it was Douglas.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Inkerman.

“Well, to be sure, it was his car – he drives a Jag with one of those silly personalised number plates -

his is DD666, and whilst I couldn’t actually see for sure that he was driving, who else would it be? I reckoned something odd was going on, so I followed the two of them. Blake took George to the Blue Boar club and he, George and another bloke who had been driving – I saw then that it was George Walters, the manager of the Blue Boar, all went inside. Douglas parked a little ways up the road and so did I, as I reckoned it might be worth keeping my eyes open to whatever was going on. About twenty minutes later Blake’s car returned and this time it was Blake and the two Tanners in it, and they all went into the club.”

“What time was all this?” Jane had to ask the question, but felt sure that she already knew the answer and O’Leary’s next words confirmed what she expected to hear.

“It was about quarter to six, give or take; I didn’t actually look at me watch at the time, but it was about then sure enough.”

Jane and Inkerman were having the same thoughts. The timing was right for the call that Govern had made to Jane, the call that had nearly led to her death. Inkerman looked at O’Leary, wondering how much of what they were being told was the truth, how much was fabrication, and how much was being held back. Not for a moment did he believe that O’Leary was as unconcerned in the attempt to blackmail Douglas as he professed to be; the two, Govern and O’Leary, he felt sure, must have been working together. Quite apart from anything else, it would explain why O’Leary had hung about outside the Blue Boar.

“What happened next?” she asked.

“About quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, later, George came out and hurried away. He passed Douglas’ car, which a moment or two later pulled out after him, followed him for a few yards, and then stopped beside him. I could see that Douglas said something to George through the car window, then George got into the car. I never saw him again.”

Inkerman thought hard. This was the first break, even if a tenuous one, in the investigation into Govern’s death.

“Mr. O’Leary, what you have told us is very interesting, and very helpful. Now, from my point of view, there are two threads to all this. All the stuff that happened in Belfast – that’s way out of my jurisdiction, but I will pass it on to the police in Northern Ireland. To do that, I’ll need that notebook of Riley’s – do you still have it?”

“Indeed I do, Chief Inspector – it’s in me case over there.” O’Leary nodded to were a small suitcase lay on the bed.

“Thank you. Now, the other thread, and as far as DI Lawson and I are concerned the more important one, is the murder of Georg Govern. I want you to make a formal written statement on what you saw that day which the Inspector will witness. We’ve brought some official witness statement forms with us, so we can do it here and now – I can understand your reluctance to come back to Guildford for the moment, so it won’t be necessary.”

There was a small desk come dressing table in the room and for the next ten minutes or so O’Leary wrote down his statement and handed it to Jane for witnessing. He also handed over the small, dog-eared notebook that had already played so pivotal a role in what had happened.

After telling O’Leary to be sure to be where he could be found if needed, the two detectives took their leave of him.

Once they had turned the car towards Guildford, Inkerman asked Jane, who was driving, her thoughts on what they had heard from O’Leary. She thought for a while before responding.

“From what we’ve been told I think that O’Leary and Govern tried to put the arm on Douglas and they underestimated him. He picked up Govern outside the Blue Boar and either that night, or at the very latest twenty-for hours later, Govern is shot dead. Now O’Leary is running scared and wants to see us

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take Douglas out of circulation so that he, O’Leary, can breathe more easily. What I don’t know is what we can do about the goings on in Ireland all that time ago. On the other hand, we now have an eye witness to Douglas picking up Govern, which surely ought to give us a way forward.”

Inkerman nodded in agreement, then realised that with her eyes on the road she would not have seen his gesture.

“Yes, that’s how I see it as well. As for the Irish stuff – I’m going to talk to Mr. Graham when we get back, but even if it were our case what O’Leary has told us wouldn’t get us very far. It’s notes made by a dead man – always supposing it really did belong to Riley and it’s not something that O’Leary has dreamed up for some reason of his own – so no chance of verification by him. The thing that really worries me about it, though, are the allegations against CS Harrison. If they are true, and I’m not saying that I necessarily believe them, then they really are damaging, both to her and the investigation that was carried out all those years ago.”

He thought for a long time before speaking again.

“Jane, this is something that, at least for the moment, you must keep completely under your hat. I’m only telling you because you heard what O’Leary had to say.

“When we were investigating the murders of Riley and Collins earlier this year, Mr. Graham and I visited a retired RUC – as it was then – officer who confirmed that the investigation was a whitewash to convince factions in the IRA who might be willing to talk peace terms that there had been a few low-level members of the security forces passing information to the Unionists and that these people had been quietly rooted out. Nothing went public – it would have been to embarrassing for the government of the day and also a song and dance over it would quite probably have hardened the outlook of the IRA members who had to be convinced that peace talks could be worthwhile.”

Jane absorbed this new information as she drove, wondering if it would ever come to anything. It was all a long time ago, there had been politics involved, politics that insisted on sweeping it all under the carpet, but in her heart if hearts she felt that the Harrison woman really ought not be allowed to get away with she was alleged to have done. She admitted to herself that much of her reaction was due to the way Harrison had impeded them when they were investigating the double murder back in March, but even without that, the thought of a police officer stealing was just not right.

Chapter Twenty-Four – 5th -6th October

First thing that Monday morning Inkerman and Graham met in the latter’s office. Graham, alerted by a phone call from Inkerman the previous evening, had put everything else to one side whilst the DCI went through everything that had been learnt for O’Leary the previous day. At last Inkerman was finished and his superior leant back in his chair, his face a mask of concern.

“OK, Inky – on the Govern murder pull Douglas in after searching his place, his office and his car; we’ve enough for a warrant from what you tell me. In a way, I’m sorry that it is Douglas and not the Tanners that O’Leary fingered – still, at least we are getting somewhere.”

An hour later, David Douglas was shocked to find himself in police custody whilst teams of officers busied themselves seeking evidence of any involvement with George Govern, paying particular attention to the interior of his Jaguar.

It took time, quite a lot of time, but the painstaking efforts were worth it. Hairs which matched Govern’s DNA were found in the car and in the house, as were fibres which matched the clothes that Govern had been wearing. Most significant, however, was the discovery of a pistol. The pistol, a Colt .22 Woodsman automatic had been wrapped in polythene with little bags of silica gel to protect it from damp. The packaged weapon had then been sealed in a large plastic biscuit container and buried in the garden, only to be discovered by police metal detectors. Eileen McCarthy, the forensic pathologist was able to match the cartridge cases which had been recovered from the murder scene to Douglas’ pistol; the pistol had Douglas’ fingerprints on it despite the evidence of attempts to clean it.

As a result, Douglas was charged with the murder of Govern and remanded in custody. His interview under caution when he had been accompanied by his lawyer, Gordon McIlroy, whom none of the police had ever met before, from a London firm, McIlroy & Ferris, with whom they had never dealt

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before, was singularly unilluminating. Douglas said that Govern had been to his house to sell him some chairs – which upon investigation proved to be true – and the traces of him in the Jaguar were because Douglas had given him a lift. The problem for Douglas, however, was the pistol. Without that damning piece of evidence the case against him would have been very weak indeed. With it, it was strong.

Inkerman discussed that fact with Jane the next day, the Tuesday, after Douglas’ preliminary appearance the previous day had resulted in him being remanded in custody.

“Why did he keep that pistol?” Inkerman mused. “It is a really damning piece of evidence. He can’t claim to know nothing about it – his fingerprints are on it. I suppose that at trial he will claim that it is a souvenir from his Army days and he never had a certificate for it, so buried it when it became illegal even it own a pistol or something like that.”

“He’ll have a problem with that,” Jane replied triumphantly. “not only was the careful wrapping of the gun a clear indication that he wanted to keep it in good condition – he made a really, really stupid mistake using that biscuit box. I’ve just heard from the forensic people that it had a ‘Best before’ date on it – which proved that it was bought not more than two months ago!”

Inkerman sat back in his chair and laughed.

“Oh, I like that, I really do. But why,” he added soberly, “did he keep the thing?”

Jane had wondered the same.

“I think he expected to need to use it again, and I think he intended using it on O’Leary. We know he abducted Govern and had him in his house before taking him to the woods and killing him. I reckon that it is certain that he made Govern tell him everything he knew before he murdered him – and that would point the finger at O’Leary – but O’Leary did a runner the moment he heard about Govern, so Douglas was biding his time.”

At that moment Inkerman’s phone rang.

“Inkerman.”

“Inky, its Graham. Could you pop in please, and bring DI Lawson with you.”

A couple of minutes later the two of them entered the Detective Superintendent’s office to find that he already had a visitor, a rather pudgy young man, later twenties very early thirties. Dressed in an expensive looking dark blue suit with a pale grey chalk-stripe offset by a dazzlingly white shirt and crimson tie, he rose to meet the two detectives, not waiting for Graham to make the introductions.

“Ah, you must be DCI Inkerman and DI Lawson. Pleased to meet you; I’m Brent Hogan from the Crown Prosecution Service.”

Jane looked the newcomer up and down and had an immediate impression, from his whole demeanour, that somehow the morning was going to go downhill. Brent, for God’s sake what sort of name was Brent for a public service lawyer? She immediately felt a sense of distrust of the man; small, deep-set eyes (piggy eyes, she told herself disparagingly) peered from behind black horn rimmed spectacles which perched on a snub nose, the end turned up. Black hair was swept back over a high, domed skull. Altogether, Jane found him totally unimpressive.

He resumed his seat and Jane and Inkerman seated themselves. Graham spoke before Hogan could say anything else.

“Mr. Hogan has brought us news which I have to say does not please me. Apparently, the CPS feel that the evidence against Douglas for the murder is not strong enough to take it to court.”

Both Inkerman and Jane were dumbfounded. Finally, Inkerman found his voice.

“But why ever not?”

Hogan almost smirked as he replied in a tone little short of patronising.

“Well, Chief Inspector, what do we actually have here?”

He held up one pudgy hand, fingers outspread, and ticked of his various points with the index finger of the other.

“One, forensic evidence that Govern was in Douglas’ house. He doesn’t deny it, says he gave the man a lift and your eyewitness actually saw that happen.

“Two, forensic evidence that Govern was in Douglas’ house at some time. Again, not denied –

Govern brought a couple of chairs to the house and sold them to Douglas – verified by the receipt for the money on Govern’s records and the statement of Govern’s assistant.

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“Three, the cartridge cases found at the murder scene. They came from a weapon similar to that which Douglas owned, but your own people, I am sure, would be unable to swear under oath that those cases could only have been fired in Douglas’ weapon. As I am sure that you know, matching spent cartridge cases to a particular weapon is far less fool-proof that with bullets.

“Four, the pistol itself. Douglas accepts that it was a crime for him to own it, and will plead guilty to possession of an illegal firearm.”

Inkerman and Jane both glared at him. Again, it was Inkerman who spoke.

“So, Mr. Hogan, you’re telling us that the CPS are going to let Douglas get away with five years – of which he will serve no more than two and a half, perhaps even less, because the time remanded in custody will presumably be taken into account, for a murder that we know he committed?”

Hogan looked pained.

“We don’t know that, Chief Inspector – you and your colleagues presumably believe it, but I have to justify bringing the case to court with all the cost to the public purse that incurs. No, I’m sorry,” no you’re bloody not, you smug bastard, Jane seethed inwardly, “ but if this case came to court on the evidence that you have presented, my estimation is that there would be a seventy per cent chance of acquittal.”

He shook his head.

“As I say, I’m sorry, but that sort of chance doesn’t warrant the risk of prosecution.”

And effectively, that was that. After Hogan left, Graham, Inkerman and Jane all looked at each other.

Each was furious, sure that the man from the CPS was simply unwilling to the chance – and none of them believed his ‘seventy per cent chance of acquittal’ claim – of the case being lost and looking bad on his record,

“Well,” Graham said at last, “at least Douglas will go down for the firearm offence.”

“Yes,” Jane said bitterly, “and he’ll spend his time inside laughing at us over how he literally got away with murder.”

Inkerman was a little more philosophical, but not a lot.

“Well, at least the sod is going down. And there is fact that as he is not being tried for the murder, then it is still an open file. You never know, we might find something more at some stage. You know,” he said reflectively, “what I would really, really like is to fine something that enabled us to arrest him for the murder after he finishes him time inside!”

The other two chuckled grimly, but in their hearts, all three knew full well that the likelihood of that happening was low in the extreme.

“What about the stuff about CS Harrison, sir?” Jane ventured.

Graham looked rueful.

“I took it all to the ACC and he has been in touch with the Met. He talked to the current Assistant Commissioner responsible for what was done in Ulster back then, and the Met are looking into it, but Mr. Bannerman got the impression that the AC saw it as something of a poisoned chalice, so who knows what will come of it. We may never know.”

And on that far from satisfactory note, Jane and Inkerman returned to the latter’s office. Inkerman called in Shirley Lewis and John Hall for the normal daily session and also to update them on the outcome of the Govern case.

They had scarcely sat down before Inkerman’s phone went. He picked up the handset.

“Inkerman.”

He listened for a moment, then, his voice a studiously non-committal, he spoke.

“Thank you, sir.”

He replaced the handset, shaking his head slowly.

“Something that smug Mr. Hogan omitted to tell us. In view of the CPS decision on the murder charge, he has been released on bail.”

“What?” Jane could not believe her ears. “What about O’Leary – he believes that Douglas is under lock and key. He’s got to be warned.”

Inkerman pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket and went through it.

“He gave me a card with his mobile on it when we saw him in Reading. I’ll let him know the bad news.”

- 94 -

O’Leary had just opened up his betting shop and was checking the events scheduled for the day before the punters started coming in when his mobile rang.

“Yes.”

“Mr. O’Leary? This is DCI Inkerman.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector, what’s up?”

“Mr. O’Leary, I felt that I should advise you that David Douglas has been granted bail, and will be released later today, probably just after lunch.”

O’Leary couldn’t believe his ears.

“You stupid fuckin’ gobshites! You mean that you can’t even keep a murdering bastard like Douglas safely locked up?”

“I’m sorry about this, Mr. O’Leary...”

O’Leary broke into the conversation.

“Not half as fuckin’ sorry as I am!”

And at that he terminated the call.

Jane looked across the desk at her boss.

“How did he take it?”

“Very badly.”

Inkerman sighed.

“I don’t like this, Jane. Look, get onto uniform and ask them to keep an eye out for Douglas once he’s officially released, will you please – and also have a car pull past O’Leary’s house after hours – he should be safe enough in his shop.”

Jane nodded her acquiescence and left for her own office.

O’Leary was hurriedly reassessing what he intended to do following the unwelcome news of Douglas’

release on bail. His assistant, Colin Brown, had just arrived and O’Leary told him that he had to leave Guildford again for a while.

“You see, Colin, it’s me da’s brother – only relation I have left. His missus phoned last night – the old guy is in a bad way and not expected to last. She reckons her brother Con – a right shite, always has been – is hovering around trying to get to the old boy to change his will. As it stands Maureen – that’s the wife – and I stand to inherit quite a nice bit, but she reckons Con is trying to muscle in and with Fergus – that’s me uncle, I was named after him – losing his marbles he might give in without her knowing. So, I’m off to the Auld Country for a while. Don’t know how long it will be, but you can always get me on me mobile. So, you’re in charge the while. Do you reckon you’ll need anyone to help?”

Brown considered for a while before answering.

“Well, lunchtime and coming up to knocking off time, it really needs the two of us, now, don’t it?

How about I get my brother Dave in for two hours at lunch and another two from half four?”

O’Leary nodded.

“OK, that sounds OK – pay him cash I suppose?”

“Oh, yes – he’d not going to want to lose his benefits, now is he? Ten quid an hour OK?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

And with that O’Leary was on his way, congratulating himself on the cock-and-bull story he had fabricated for Brown’s benefit at such short notice. In truth, truth was something singularly lacking in it. He had, indeed, been named for his uncle – his mother’s brother – but that uncle had died over fifteen years earlier and had never married. O’Leary had no intention of returning to Ireland – it was much easier to use his bank account and keep an eye on things generally if he remained in Britain. He was resigned that with Brown and his brother running the shop for the while his profits were going to suffer – it was certain that they would do a bit of skimming without him there – but a loss of profits was infinitely preferable to the risk of a bullet in the head.

He returned home and hurriedly packed a couple of bags with necessities, and less than an hour later he was on his way, pointing the car north whilst he thought out where to go to ground. His first

- 95 -

thought had been to go back to the hotel in Reading where he had met Inkerman and Lawson, but on reflection decided that it was not far enough away from Guildford, so headed north rather than west.

As he drove, he formulated his plan; anyone who needed to contact him, and to whom he was willing to talk, had his mobile number, so it didn’t matter where he chose as a bolt hole.

Eventually he decided on York, for the simple reason that he had never been there before, and nobody there knew him. No danger of a chance meeting, or even a chance sighting, being relayed back to Douglas.

In so deciding, he was blissfully unaware that the Tanner brothers had links to York.

Anna Harrison heard the news of Douglas’ arrest with dismay, but did not panic. Panicking had never been an element of her make-up. Instead, she went through the routine of her day outwardly completely the same as normal, but inwardly turning over the alternative courses of action open to her.

Douglas knew too much; that was the first point of concern. The second was whether he would, for whatever reason, decide to betray her. Why would he do that? He was being charged with possession of an illegal firearm – likely result, a bit over two years in jail. As things stood, he was not being charged with the murder of George Govern, but supposing that the police managed to get more evidence against him, enough for the murder charge to brought back into play? She couldn’t see him being too worried about the possession charge – but murder, was another matter. Faced with fifteen or more years inside, might he try to get a lighter sentence by telling all he knew about her? She decided that it was a risk not worth taking.

Once she had made her decision, she took a mobile phone from her handbag and rang a pre-entered number. After a few rings, her call was answered.

“Yes?”

The voice was flat, almost robotic.

“You know who this is.”

“Yes”

“Our mutual friend needs to go away.”

There was a pause, quite a long pause at the other end before the voice answered.

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll see to it.”

The call ended at that point. Anna opened the phone and removed the SIM card which she placed in a stout envelope, then fed the combination through the heavy duty document shredder that sat beside her desk.

Had O’Leary but known it, Douglas wasn’t even sparing him a thought when he at last returned home that evening. Instead he was wondering what to do about the future. His night club, The Marlborough, was his first concern. Many people assumed that he was simply its manager, an assumption he did nothing to dispel, but in fact he owned it outright. He knew full well that once he had pleaded guilty on the firearm possession charge and was sentenced to prison, – as there was no doubt that he would be – his licence to operate a gaming club would be withdrawn. He had no chief assistant at the club, preferring to keep his senior people in a state of constructive tension with each other, but as a result, he was dubious as to whether any of them would be a suitable full time manager to take care of the place for him. Perhaps his best course of action would be to sell it; he knew that the Tanner brothers were looking to expand and owning The Marlborough would represent a significant up-market move for them. Against that as a course of action was the fact that they would soon know, if they didn’t know already, that he was prison bound and would doubtless try and hold him over a barrel as a result.

Chapter Twenty-Five – 7th to 9th October

Wednesday, the 7th of October, was without incident. Douglas continued to grapple mentally over what to do about the Marlborough, O’Leary spent much of his day in his hotel room, although he did

- 96 -

make a couple of phone calls to Colin Brown, his assistant at the betting shop, firstly to check how business was going in his absence, but secondly to reinforce the impression that he was actually in Ireland. Surrey CID continued to plough on over the case of Jane’s abduction, but at a lessened level of intensity; Inkerman and Shirley Lewis – and for that matter everyone else – were convinced that they know who had ordered it, who had carried it out and how, but the mystery remained as to why it had been carried out and the fact remained that they had no proof and could see no way of getting any.

One person, however, was busy planning. Anna Harrison had decreed that Douglas was to be got rid of, and the man tasked with the job spent the day reviewing ways and means of achieving his objective. He had studied Douglas’ movements with great care, seeking windows of opportunity, but more importantly, identifying escape scenarios from those windows. By the end of the day he was near to determining his preferred solution.

The next day, the Thursday, the 8th of October was different. O’Leary, tiring of staying in his hotel room for the major part of each day, decided to visit the nearest pub for lunch and a couple of beers to spin out the boring hours whilst waiting for news from Surrey.

It was just a coincidence that he walked in and passed a table at which sat two men. One of the men gave a start of recognition – a start unobserved by O’Leary.

The man who had recognised him was Neil Jagger, currently out on bail. During his brief stay in Surrey Jagger had several times frequented O’Leary’s betting shop, but whilst he recognised the Irishman instantly, to O’Leary he would have been just one of many punters and the recognition was not mutual.

Jagger watched O’Leary carefully, whilst doing his best to disguise the fact. In that he was completely successful; O’Leary had no inkling that he was under surveillance.

When O’Leary left, Jagger downed the remnants of his pint of bitter and followed at a discrete distance and watched as his subject entered his hotel.

Jagger wondered what had brought the Irishman all the way up to York. He was well aware of the fact that, unbeknown to the man himself, O’Leary’s betting shop was on the Tanner brothers’ list of possible take-overs, whether by (reasonably) fair means or foul. He decided that there would be no harm in giving the Tanners a phone and letting them know of O’Leary’s presence in York. He reached Billy Tanner, who thanked him for the news and sat back contemplating it. It was probably nothing, he told himself; the betting shop owner was probably just taking a break, but it made him think. He picked up his phone and rang for Kenny Blake, who often acted as his driver during the day.

“Kenny, come and pick me up will you? I want to visit O’Leary’s betting shop.”

“Right you are, Mr. Tanner.”

Fifteen minutes later, Colin Brown looked up from taking a bet on the next day’s three-thirty to see Billy Tanner and Kenny Blake enter the shop. Sensing trouble, he muttered out of the side of his mouth to his brother Dave.

“Watch it, Dave, this might mean trouble.”

Dave, an insignificant looking five feet seven and eleven stone, never known for physical courage, looked up at the newcomers and his face blanched. Colin decided to put a brave face on things.

“Afternoon, Mr. Tanner, what can we do for you.”

Billy Tanner stared at Brown for long enough for the latter to become uneasy, then spoke.

“Fergus around, is he?”

“No, Mr. Tanner, he’s off over in Ireland on some family business – seems his old uncle is about to snuff it and his sister asked him to go over.”

That’s interesting, thought Tanner – so how come he was in York an hour or two back? For the moment, however, he decided to do nothing until he had talked matters over with his brother Dan. He shrugged his shoulders.

“OK – when he gets back tell him to give me a bell, right?”

“Right you are, Mr. Tanner.”

Tanner and Blake exited the premises and Brown let out a sigh of relief.

- 97 -

“Christ, I wonder what all that’s about? You don’t reckon Fergus has got himself in bad with the Tanners do you?”

His brother still looked worried at the visitation.

“Well, if he has, I don’t want to know nuffin’ about it!”

When he got back to their offices, Billy wasted no time in conveying what he had learned to brother Dan, who digested the information for no more than a moment or two.

“Bugger’s on the run,” he stated flatly, “he’s heard Douglas is loose and he’s scared – only explanation.”

In common with the police, the local criminal fraternity had no doubt that Douglas had murdered George Govern and most were amused at the clear inability of the police to do anything about it. Dan Tanner, however, was capable of seeing beyond that facile reaction.

He cast his mind back to when Govern had been persuaded to set up DI Lawson for abduction. In the course of his short lived incarceration, assuming that he was in far deeper trouble than was actually the case, Govern had passed on to the Tanners all he knew about Harrison and Douglas, unaware that he was telling them nothing new – that the late Liam Riley had already given the brothers that information months earlier.

“So,” Dan mused, if O’Leary is too gutless to face Douglas, perhaps he would be willing to accept a reasonable offer for that shop of his. Billy, why don’t you and Kenny take a little trip up to York?”

His brother grinned wolfishly at the prospect of taking the runaway Irishman apart until he decided to accept a ‘reasonable’ offer.

“OK, Dan, me and Kenny’ll go up there tomorrow. That’s not a bad little shop the thick Mick used to own!”

The three of them joined in mutual merriment.

In contradiction of the progress that the Tanners were looking forward to, Inkerman and his subordinates had no advances on the main case on their agenda – Jane Lawson’s abduction, but they did make some progress in following up a series of small time robberies, all of which had involved violence, and which had been possessed of a worrying tendency for the level of violence to increase.

The most recent victim, a seventy year old former soldier, had provided a more spirited resistance than the robber’s earlier victims, with the result that, although the old soldier himself was now in hospital with multiple injuries, none thankfully life-threatening, they knew that the perpetrator had not escaped scot free, but was suffering from a badly broken left hand where his victim had dodged an intended blow, resulting in the criminal hitting, not flesh and blood, but an unyielding brick wall. An alert to local hospitals and doctors’ surgeries had led to the follow up questioning of fifteen men of about the right age and build and with damaged left hands, one of whom had proved to be the man they were after and who had been arrested by Larry Parsons, the DS on Shirley Lewis’ team, and Gordon Price, one of her Detective Constables. The man, one Harry Jacobs, had made the mistake of resisting arrest, a resistance which had included pulling a knife on the two officers. He had over-estimated his own prowess with a blade and sadly underestimated the speed of thought and hand of Price, who had knocked the knife to one side and dropped Jacobs with a couple of short, sharp punches to the midriff which had winded the thug, followed by a hefty rabbit punch which had rendered him semi-conscious.

“Means we’ll probably be sued for use of excessive force,” Inkerman observed glumly to Shirley, “but tell Gordon bloody well done, anyway!”

Shirley nodded happily, pleased that it was her team that had made the arrest; another tiny credit mark, she felt, in her competition with Jane Lawson to be seen as the most effective DI in the section, perhaps in the entire Division.

David Douglas spent the day sounding out several contacts in the night club business from as far afield as Winchester, Reading and South London, seeking a buyer for the Marlborough who would keep it out of the clutches of the Tanners. He received several expressions of interests and set up several meetings with possible buyers for the following week. He had just put down the phone from a conversation with a man from Wandsworth, when the doorbell rang.

- 98 -

Wondering who would be calling at just before six, not long before he was due to go to work, he looked at his visitor with surprise.

“I wasn’t expecting you – what’s happening?”

Friday morning, the 10th, Jane was early at her desk. She had scarcely seated herself before the phone rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, it’s George O’Kelly – just had a call from a woman saying that she cleans for David Douglas and she arrived a few minutes ago to find him dead – the local car is on the way to the scene, but I know he’s a person of interest to you, so I thought I’d better let you know.”

“Thanks, George – I’ll get over there. Even if it’s natural causes, I’d like to see what happened.”

“From the sound of the caller, natural causes it ain’t!” the sergeant replied grimly.

As she left her office she met Clarke and Cross coming in. She thought for a moment, then made up her mind.

“Skull, I’m leaving you to mind the shop. Douglas has been found dead at his home and I’m going over to have a look. Tell Mr. Inkerman as soon as he gets in, will you? Dave – you’re with me. You drive, I want to make some calls whilst we’re on the way.”

After the death of George Govern, long her chief source of information about the goings on of the ungodly in the area, Jane had resurrected several earlier sources, sources which were less well immersed than Govern had been, but the best that she had available, and she spoke with three of them whilst Cross drove her to the Douglas house, telling them to ask around t see if there was any sudden antipathy towards Douglas locally.

They arrived at the Douglas house to find the local car already there, with its two occupants standing outside whilst a pale looking woman sat sideways on the rear seat with the door open so that she could rest her feet on the ground.

Recognising the two detectives, the older of the PCs advanced on them, saluting Jane as he did so.

“Morning, ma’am. We haven’t gone into the house at all – you can see the victim from the door,” he indicated the front door to the house, which hung open, “and he’s very obviously dead, so we left well alone.”

“Right, thanks Constable.”

Jane turned to Cross.

“Dave, call up SOCO and the pathologist, please, whilst I have a look from the door.”

She walked the few paces to the front door and looked inside. Douglas lay on his back just inside the door. He had been wearing a dinner jacket which was open, showing the shirt beneath it saturated in blood. In addition to the obvious wounds to the torso, Douglas had also been shot in the head – for she was certain that she was looking at bullet wounds, with a blue rimmed hole in the middle of his forehead and a pool of blood beneath and around his head. Not, she told herself, a pleasant sight for the cleaning lady to have found. She turned again to the PC.

“Do we know her name?”

“Yes, ma’am – it’s Mrs. Avril Jenkins.”

“Thanks.”

She crossed to the car and crouched in front of the woman.

“Hello, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m Detective Inspector Jane Lawson and I’m in charge of investigating what has happened to Mr. Douglas. Do you think that you can help me by answering a few questions?”

The woman looked blankly at her, the made a conscious effort to pull herself together.

“Yes, Inspector – how can I help?”

What time did you find Mr. Douglas?”

“It was just after nine o’clock – I clean for him and the Weatherbys down the road,” she waved vaguely to her left, “and as Mrs. Weatherby is a bit frail and doesn’t get up early I always come to Mr.

Douglas first.”

“Do you come every day?”

She shook her head.

- 99 -

“No, just Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, like today.”

Another thought struck Jane.

“Do you know what time the post gets here?”

She looked confused, but answered.

“It’s a bit late round here, usually about ten, ten fifteen sort of time.”

Jane considered what she had been told. Douglas was dressed in a dinner jacket which indicated that he had been shot not long before leaving for his club, which she knew opened at about seven thirty in the evening. It seemed unlikely that he had been killed earlier than the previous evening, but it would have to be checked out – if he hadn’t been seen at his club on Wednesday evening, it was possible, provided that he had not had any post for the postman to delivered and find him Thursday morning, it was possible he had been shot on Wednesday, but it seemed very unlikely.

At that moment another car arrived and Dr. Eileen McCarthy, the pathologist, arrived.

“Morning, Inspector,” she said brightly, “what do you have for me today?”

“Morning, Doctor, one dead male, David Douglas – not formally identified yet, of course, but I have met him and it’s him alright.”

Jane watched as the young pathologist donned her scene of crime paper suit and approached the corpse. Although they were of an age and came into relatively frequent contact, the two women had never progressed to more than a purely working relationship, whereas McCarthy’s late predecessor, Eric Lane, had been an avuncular figure with whom Jane had immediately struck up a strong rapport.

McCarthy examined the corpse at close range.

“Are your scene of crime people on their way?” she asked.

“Yes, should be here soon – in fact I’m surprised that you beat them to it.”

“Ah, I’ve moved from my flat – got a house just down the road and the call came just as I was about to leave for the hospital.

“Well,” she continued, “as you’ve no doubt surmised, leaving out a coincidental heart attack or keeling over from fright, death was caused by three gunshot wounds. From the blood pattern he was shot in the body first, then the head shot a little later. Guesswork until I get him on the table, but he would have died from the shots to the body but not straight away, so the head shot was the finisher.”

As she finished speaking, so the SOCO van arrived, disgorging the small team of specialists who would go over the crime scene in minute detail, searching for the most insignificant of clues.

McCarthy waited patiently as one of the SOCO officers photographed the corpse from several viewpoints and then turned back to Jane.

“OK to take him away now?”

“Yes, of course, Doctor. When do you think that you will be able to do the post mortem?”

McCarthy looked briefly at her watch. It was, Jane realised with surprise, still only just after ten thirty.

“I expect that I’ll be able to be ready straight after an early lunch – say twelve thirty?”

Jane nodded her thanks.

“Thanks. I think that I’ll attend this one myself.”

Just under two hours later, after having reported the death of Douglas to Inkerman, Jane suitable gowned and masked, entered the hospital autopsy room. This would be the first time that she had attended one of Eileen McCarthy’s post mortems, although she had several times been the attending officer in Eric Lane’s day, and she was impressed with the speed and thoroughness with which the pathologist worked. By comparison, Lane had been something of a plodder. Even so, it was nearly two hours before the task was over and, hands in the small of her back as she stretched away the effects of leaning over the mortuary table for so long, that McCarthy pronounced herself satisfied that she had wrung all she could from the body of the late David Douglas.

“Right,” she summarised, “as we assumed at the scene, death from gunshot wounds. The first two would have been fatal eventually, but would probably have taken a good few minutes to kill, so hence, one assumes, the head shot to make sure and hurry things along. From the angles of the wound channels and some minor powder burning to the clothing, the first two shots were delivered from around four feet away. Douglas fell back as a result, and was on the ground, lying on his back, when he was shot in the head. The head shot exited the skull, but the bullets from both body shots stayed in

- 100 -

situ and I have recovered them. They are jacketed bullets fired from a 9mm pistol or 0.38 revolver, and are in good enough condition to be used for comparison matching if you are lucky enough to find a suspect weapon. I expect that your SOCO people will find the third bullet either buried in the floor under where the victim’s head was resting or, if it ricocheted, somewhere in the hall behind where the shooting took place. That bullet is likely to be pretty mangled. Just to confirm – he was killed where he was found; he wasn’t shot anywhere else and then moved.

“Apart from being shot dead, Mr. Douglas was in pretty good health – no malingering diseases or anything like that. And I think that is about all that I can tell you of relevance.”

So, Jane reflected. Pretty straightforward. Now all she had to do was to find out whose finger had been on the trigger.

As she contemplated that task, a sudden thought occurred to her, triggered by Eileen McCarthy’s comment that the bullets had come from a ‘9mm pistol or 0.38 revolver;’. When she got back to the office she phoned Kenny Blake to ask him a question that so far nobody had posed to him.

“Hullo.”

“Mr. Blake, this is DI Lawson – I spoke to you when you had the tyre of your car shot out.”

“Oh, yes – I remember.”

“Mr. Blake, when the gunman fired at your wheel, did you actually see his gun”

“Well, only for a moment, like.”

“Do you remember what it looked like? A revolver or an automatic?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line whilst Jane mentally crossed her fingers.

“It were big, and it were a revolver – you know, like Clint Eastwood in them Dirty Harry films.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake, that is very helpful.”

She sat back in her chair. Revolvers don’t eject their spent cartridges by themselves after being fired in the way an automatic pistol does – you have to remove them manually. However, one time Major

‘Mr. Memory Man’ (as she had privately christened him) Peter Donald had produced two ejected 9mm cartridges, claiming that they had come from the weapon fired at Blake’s car. Nichole Farrant, the SOCO team’s firearms expert had identified the cartridge cases as having been fired in a Browning High Power pistol, certainly not any sort of revolver, and that the cartridges had been Army issue.

Either Blake was wrong in what he had seen, or the gallant Major was telling porkies. Either way, more digging was called for. She called in Alan Taylor and explained the anomaly to him.

“Alan, right from the start something seemed odd about that guy. I want you to see if you can...” she broke off as another thought struck her.

“Just a thought – you remember that the motorbike had a fancy number plate?”

“Yes, boss – NOR888 – a ringer of a bike up in Birmingham.”

“Yes, that’s it – look, the actual owner of the real bike with that number – he’ll be in the file – have a chat with him, try and find out how anyone could know about his bike and its fancy registration.”

It was about an hour later than Taylor returned to her office, a look of triumph clear on his face.

“Boss, I spoke with that motorbike owner – John Littlewood – as it says on the Norton owners club website, he edits their magazine. It’s quite a well put together effort and gets sent out every couple of months to members. Now, it only goes to current, paid up members, but Kallis keeps a database of past members and folk who have contacted the club looking for help or advice over locating spares for old Nortons. They are happy to help – but expect anyone they help to take out a six month associate membership – which includes three issues of the magazine.

“Six years ago they had a request for help in finding parts for a very rare Norton, a Model 77

Dominator from 1951 or ’52. Apparently that particular model was an export production for the Australian market – heaven knows how this one got back to the UK. The important thing, however, is that the person seeking help was a P. Donald who gave as his address the Officers’ Mess, Merville Barracks, Colchester – which is the home of 2 Para, in which our Peter Donald served. And it gets better; one of the issues of the club magazine that was sent to Pater Donald had a picture in of John Littlewood and the machine he had at the time, which had his registration number of NOR888 clearly visible, and an article by Littlewood himself saying that he used that number on whatever his current machine was – a Norton, of course – transferring it whenever he got a new ‘bike.”

- 101 -

Got him! Thought Jane to herself. In his conversation with her Donald had claimed to be unable to tell one motorcycle from another – yet he had, presumably, owned and worked on a very rare one – surely he must be, or must have been, an enthusiast?

Was it possible, she asked herself, that Donald was in fact himself the mystery motorcyclist? It would explain why he hadn’t come straight to the police station after seeing, as he claimed, the shooting. But if he was the gunman, why come forward in the way he had? It seemed ridiculous when all he surely had to do was to lie low instead of drawing attention to himself.

There was, she told herself, one possibility. Since the death of George Govern and her increased reliance on other informers, she had learnt that the shooting out of Blake’s tyre was not an isolated incident that night; there had been low level attacks on two of the Tanners’ clubs. Suppose – as seemed quite likely – all the incidents were the work of a single person, travelling by motorbike. By coming to the police with his strange tale, perhaps Donald had sought to create the impression that, no matter what any potential eye-witness might claim, he could not possibly have been the rider. In which case, Mr. Donald, Jane told herself grimly, you have out-smarted yourself.

She contemplated bringing Donald in for a formal interview, but in the end decided that it would be premature. She needed to have more, more linking him to what had happened, if she possibly could.

One thing to check on straight away, however; she phoned Sarah Cunningham. the senior SOCO

officer.

“Sarah, it’s Jane Lawson.”

“Hi, Jane – what can I do for you?”

“Sarah, have your folks found any cartridge cases at the Douglas murder scene?”

“Not so far, and we’ve just about covered everywhere. From what we’ve seen so far, the killer doesn’t seem to have entered the house at all, just shot Douglas as he answered the door.”

“Thanks, Sarah. Do the bullets recovered from Douglas’ body tell us anything?”

“Not yet – we’re still checking - as the doc said, either 9mm or 0.38. There are several candidates which fit into that category, but we should be able to tell which after we have had a chance to examine them – they’ve only just got to us. Nicole Farrant, my firearms specialist will be able to give us a guide soon – I’ll ring you back, OK?”

“Thanks, that’s fine.”

Jane sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers under her chin as she thought. No cases found at the scene; either the killer had picked them up after shooting Douglas, or he used a revolver and avoided the need of hunting for ejected cases. If it was a revolver it just might be the same weapon that had been used on Kenny Blake’s front wheel. The bullets from that attack had never been found – they could have ricocheted anywhere, and by the time Donald had reported the shooting it was for too late to have any hope of finding them.

Some two hundred and fifty miles to the north, Fergus O’Leary was enjoying a late lunch in his Fossgate hotel when he became aware of two men approaching his table. He looked up and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised them. Kenny Blake was trouble; Billy Tanner was TROUBLE.

It was Billy who spoke.

“Well, hello, Fergus – mind if we join you?”

Without waiting for a reply he pulled out a chair opposite O’Leary and sat down, with Blake following his actions.

“Now, Fergus,” Tanner continued, “here we all were thinking that you were off across the sea to old Ireland and we find you tucking into a nice looking steak here in York. Now how could that be?”

O’Leary swallowed nervously, only too aware that the presence of these two could mean nothing good for him.

“Well, Mr. Tanner,” he began, but Billy interrupted him.

“No, let me finish, Fergus, let me finish.”

O’Leary fell silent, waiting for his tormentor to continue, which he did with obvious relish.

“Now you see, Fergus, when we all heard that you had gone across to Ireland to your poor old uncle’s death bed, we all felt sorry for you – but my brother Dan, now he’s the smart one in our family. Know what he said?”

- 102 -

O’Leary shook his head silently.

“What brother Dan said was you never did no dash across to see the old uncle. He said that you’d done a runner. That you took off on your toes because you were scared. He reckoned that you were scared of Dave Douglas. Now we all know, even the cops, although they can’t prove it, that Dave blew poor old George Govern away. What we don’t know, not for sure, is why. Why top poor old George, who never did nobody no real harm?

“Know what Dan reckoned, though? He reckoned that George tried putting the black on Douglas – big mistake, big, big mistake. Douglas is quite a tough cookie, don’t do to mess with guys like him. Now, so happen that Dan and me, we know a bit about Dave Douglas – know he nicked a penny or two when he was over in Ulster – nicked from the bleedin’ IRA would you believe. Fancy trying the black on a bloke like that? A bloke not scared to nick money from the IRA? Makes you laugh, don’t it?”

O’Leary waited in growing apprehension to discover just what it was that Tanner wanted from him.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Now, Fergus, having told the world you was over in Ireland means you don’t want anyone knowing where you really are, right? Now that’s all right with me and Dan, but what about Dave Douglas? I’m sure he’d like to know where you’re staying at, so he can pay his respects like, wouldn’t you say?”

O’Leary looked at his tormentor with a growing realisation of what was coming.

“’Course, he don’t have to find out where you are, not if you an’ me can come up with a better idea.

Now, so far, we’ve let you get on with your life, run your shop how you like, but it’s time for a change. We don’t want to buy you out or nothin’, but it only seems fair if you show your appreciation for Dangerous Dave not knowing where you’re hiding. Let’s say a grand a week, shall we? A nice place like yours – you’ll not miss it, now will you?”

At last O’Leary got a word in.

“Mr. Tanner, that’d ruin me – I hardly clear that as it is.”

“Well, that’s your problem, old son – a grand a week it is or you’d better start running again.”

And with that, Tanner, closely followed by Blake, got up and left. O’Leary looked down at his plate, then pushing it away; his appetite quite vanished.

Jane’s phone rang less than an hour after she had spoken with Eileen McCarthy.

“DI Lawson.”

“Hello, Inspector – it’s Nicole Farrant – I’ve had a look at the bullets taken from Mr. Douglas’ body.

They are from a point thirty eight revolver, either thirty eight Special or 357 Magnum, but as they are metal jacketed I’m pretty sure that they came from a thirty eight Special cartridge – a jacketed Magnum round at that range would almost certainly have gone straight through the victim and out the other side.

“So it would definitely been a revolver?”

“Yes, and from the rifling marks on the bullets it was probably a Smith and Wesson. One caveat –

although I am sure the cartridge was a thirty eight Special, that round can also be fired in point three five seven Magnum revolvers, so don’t necessarily discount such a weapon of one turns up.”

“Right, thanks Nicole.”

So, definitely a revolver. Almost certainly a revolver was used on Kenny Blake’s Range Rover. The same weapon? The same shooter? Donald had almost certainly lied to her about the cartridge cases –

only if Blake was mistaken could Donald’s account be believed. Add to that his ambivalence over his knowledge of motorcycles and Jane felt that he had a lot of questions to answer. However, it was all pretty circumstantial so far. To pull him in at this stage, she decided, would be premature – she needed more to go on.

It was almost as if the telephone could read her mind; as she started to sit back in her chair, it rang and she picked up the handset.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, it’s Sarah Cunningham, we’ve found something.”

Jane straightened up in her chair; she could discern an element of excitement in the senior SOCO’s voice.

“What is it, Sarah?”

- 103 -

“Our Mr. Douglas was very paranoid. His house and garden are riddled with hidden CCTV cameras –

and we have his killer on film!”

Jane was astonished. Obviously those cameras were well hidden – she had been to the crime scene and had never noticed them. Now she couldn’t wait to see whom they had captured.

“I’m coming to you right away!”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Ten minutes later Jane was admitted to the SOCO laboratory by a Sarah Cunningham who could scarcely conceal her glee at the breakthrough which she and her team had achieved. Wordlessly, she indicated that Jane should take one of two chairs placed in front of a large monitor screen, seated herself and switched the machine on.

Seconds later she was treated to a view of a murder. The camera must have been placed somewhere in the ceiling of the hall with a full view of the front door. She watched as Douglas, viewed from behind, approached the door and opened it. At first the person standing at the door was, with the exception of the top of this head, obscured by Douglas himself, but then he fell backwards as the first bullet slammed into him. The shooter stood still, extended his arm and fired again. Jane sat back in her chair and gave a sigh.

“Well, nobody’s going to be able to dispute that evidence. Sarah, you’re a star!”

The other woman grinned at her.

“We try to please, Detective Inspector!”

They exchanged high fives and Jane was on her way.

Three hours later a bemused Peter Donald found himself facing Jane and Clarke across a table in a small, cramped interview room, At Donald’s side sat his solicitor, a plump little man with whom neither of the detectives were familiar. Dresses in a dark business suit with white shirt and regimental style tie to complete the ensemble, his greased down, thinning black hair and heavy black rimmed spectacles somehow gave him a nineteen forties air in Jane’s imagination. She could visualise him playing the role of a country solicitor in an old black and white film. He had introduced himself as Howard Lucas and it was clear that he and Donald already knew each other fairly well.

He had a fussy air about him, an air reinforced by the restless way he fiddle with an expensive looking fountain pen lying on the as yet blank notebook on the table before him.

Lucas looked from one police officer to the other and spoke.

“Inspector, I have been advised that my client is under arrest in suspicion of murder, plus the lesser charge of possession of an illegal firearm.”

Jane interrupted the flow.

“Those are just the charges so far, Mr. Lucas. As we speak my officers are conducting an extremely thorough search of Mr. Donald’s flat. Depending upon what they find, there may well be other charges to bring against you client. In the interim, however, I want to hear your client’s version of the events which took place –“ she broke off and ostentatiously consulted her own notebook, “at approximately seven minutes to six on evening of Thursday, the eighth of October?”

For the first time since entering the room, an expression of concern flitted briefly across Donald’s features.

“That’s a very precise time, Inspector; I went out to some shopping about five twenty. By seven minutes to six I was probably walking back to my flat, but I’m afraid I cannot be more precise.”

“So if somebody claimed that they saw you in the vicinity of the house of the late David Douglas at that time they would be mistaken?”

“Certainly – unless they were lying, of course, but if your witness seems reliable, then it is a simple case of mistaken identity.”

“So, just that we can be totally agreed, at around seven minutes to six yesterday evening,” she paused momentarily, “for the purposes of the tape recording, that is seven minutes to six on the evening of Thursday, the eighth of October, two thousand and nine, you were nowhere near the house of Mr.

David Douglas?”

Donald was beginning to look vaguely disconcerted, but before he could speak, his solicitor chipped in.

- 104 -

“Inspector, I think that my client has already fully answered that question.”

Jane ignored the interruption and continued to look at Donald.

“Are we agreed, Mr. Donald?”

The man frowned slightly.

“Yes, I was in Guildford walking back to my flat, as I have already said.”

Jane smiled grimly at him.

“In that case, Mr. Donald, I have something interesting to show you,” she turned to Clarke, “Sergeant, would you run our video for the benefit of Mr. Donald and Mr. Lucas, please?”

Skull turned to the DVD player sitting at the far end of the table and switched it on. It had already been set up to run the surveillance film from a moment or two before Douglas had answered his front door and the four occupants of the room watched in silence. As the film showed Douglas falling over backwards, the unmistakeable figure of Donald was shown full face, the gun still in his hand. They continued to watch as the image of Donald pointed the gun at Douglas’ recumbent figure, fired again and then turned and walked away.

Jane watched Donald and Lucas closely; she had switched her gaze away from the film after just a second or two. Donald had gone ashen faced; Lucas was clearly thunderstruck.

For a moment, the room was deathly silent, then, recovering a little of his composure, Lucas spoke.

“Inspector, I would appreciate a few minutes in private with my client.”

“Certainly, Mr. Lucas, take as long as you like. There is a constable outside the door; when you are ready to speak with us again let him know and he will fetch us back.”

She looked at her watch and spoke for the benefit of the recording. “Interview suspended at the request of Mr. Donald’s legal representative at nineteen twenty five hours, Friday the ninth of October, two thousand and nine.”

She and Clarke rose and left the room.

Once they had left, Jane turned to Clarke.

“What do you reckon, Skull?”

“I reckon our Mr. Donald is just about wetting himself in there, boss. And did you see Lucas’ face?

Looked like he’d been hit by a bus.”

“Yes, I reckon even that smug little oik Hogan of the CPS will be happy to take this one to trial.”

The two detectives returned to Jane’s office; she phoned through to Inkerman and gave him a quick update on the position, then settled back to wait.

“I suppose,” Clarke mused, “the only line of defence they could really come up with is to claim the film is a fake.”

Jane nodded.

“They could try that, Skull. What they don’t know is that that film is only one of five from Donald’s various CCTV cameras that show him approaching the house or knocking on the door. If they try the fake film approach, we’ll produce those as well. No jury is going to believe we went to the trouble of producing five fake films.”

A few minutes later, PC Donaldson, who had been guarding the interview room door, appeared.

“Mr. Lucas says they’re ready again, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Constable – tell him that we’ll be with them in a moment.”

Before leaving for the interview room, Jane made a quick phone call to Sarah Cunningham. The SOCO leader had gone from Douglas’ house to Donald’s flat were she had instigated a thorough search, looking for anything that further sealed Donald’s guilt.

“Nothing of any help so far, Jane, but we’re still searching. Something we will have to dig into – there is a bunch of keys here, with what appear to be spare and door keys, car keys, but also a key that doesn’t fit anything in the flat or the rest of the building.”

Jane thought for a moment.

“Sarah, could you have someone bring that bunch of keys over, please? I’d like to put it front of Douglas and invite him to tell us what it opens – oh, can you have the identified ones tagged with what they are?”

“Will do – they’ll be with you inside ten minutes.”

- 105 -

True to her word, the bunch of keys was with Jane only a few minutes later and she had them, secured in a transparent evidence bag, when she and Clarke re-entered the interview room.

Curtis looked up as they entered the room.

“I have advised my client that it is in his best interests to plead guilty to the charges facing him. In doing so, he also wishes to draw to your notice the fact that he did not act alone in this matter.” Jane was intrigued as to how the pompous little man could refer to a brutal murder as ‘this matter’, but she was intrigued to hear what else the lawyer, or Donald himself, had to say.

“Alright, Mr. Donald. Who else was involved?”

“Chief Superintendent Anna Harrison of the Metropolitan Police.”

Jane nearly recoiled in surprise.

“Are you serious? A senior police officer is involved in murder?”

“Oh yes, Inspector. She hired me to kill Douglas because she was afraid that he would implicate her in crimes they both committed back in their Ulster days in the hope of lessening his sentence if found guilty of the murder of George Govern.”

Jane’s mind was reeling under this new information. It was CS Harrison who had made her investigation into the murder of Liam Riley and Councillor Collins earlier in the year slower and more complex than it need have been by putting a bar on the former’s criminal records, but she hadn’t actually met the woman – that privilege had been restricted to DCI Inkerman and DSi Graham when Harrison had finally relented and allowed then full access to Riley’s records.

She realised that she was still holding the evidence bag containing the keys about which she had intended to quiz Donald and laid the bag on the table.

“Do you have any evidence to support your claim?”

“Oh yes. Anna Harrison has an inflated idea of her own talents. She hasn’t realised that I tape every telephone conversation I have – and you’ll be able to voice print my conversation with her when she hired me to kill Douglas. I don’t know how realistic her fears were about Douglas betraying her, but knowing the man I’m sure that he had information about her squirreled away somewhere.”

Jane dragged her mind back to the simpler question of Douglas’ murder.

“Well, we’ll look into what you say about Chief Superintendent Harrison. In the meantime, however,”

she pointed at the evidence bag on the table, then put her forefinger on the unidentified key, “what does this key open?”

Donald hesitated for a moment, then clearly came to a decision.

“I have a lock-up storage unit on the Stoughton industrial estate. That’s the key to the door of it.”

“Right, Mr. Donald, I think that is all for the moment. We have arranged for you to appear before the magistrate tomorrow morning, when you will, I am sure, be remanded in custody awaiting trial. In the meantime, we will follow up what you have said about Chief Superintendent Harrison. I hardly need say that if it turns out to be fallacious, we will not be amused.”

Donald shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s all true, Inspector, as you will discover in due course.”

Once Donald had been returned to his holding cell, Jane wasted no time in acquainting Inkerman with the man’s claims.

The DCI leant back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If what Donald says is true, this is incredible. You didn’t meet CS Harrison when she was here, did you Jane?”

Jane shook her head.

“Well, I can’t say that I took to the woman, and her blocking access to Riley’s file when we were investigating his murder wasted us a lot of time and effort, but this...”

He pulled himself together.

“What have we got so far to substantiate what Donald is saying?”

Nothing yet, but it’s early days. SOCO teams are taking Donald’s flat apart, we’ll be looking at his lock-up at Stoughton, and Douglas’ house is still being searched.”

“Right, we’d better let Mr. Graham know what is going on; you’d best come with me.”

A few minutes later they were closeted with the Detective Superintendent, who found Donald’s claims equally astonishing. After hearing them out, he looked at his watch.

- 106 -

“Thanks, both of you. I’ll just be in time to catch Mr. Bannerman before he leaves – he needs to hear this, but in the meantime, make sure Donald’s and Douglas’ places get the full treatment.”

Graham hurried from the room, intent on catching the Assistant Chief Constable before he could leave for home, whilst Jane and Inkerman returned to their own offices, Jane to check on the progress of the SOCO teams, Inkerman to go home.

He got back to his house with his mind in a whirl at the possible ramifications of what Donald was claiming. As he had said to Jane Lawson, he had not taken to Anna Harrison when she had finally come clean about Liam Riley back at the beginning of the year. More than that; he had taken an almost instant dislike to the woman, whom he saw as devious and self-serving. However, not for one moment had he suspected her of being crooked. Much as he disliked the idea of such a senior police officer being dishonest, he felt in his bones that Donald’s words, even if heard only on the interview tape which Jane had played for him, had a ring of truth to them. This, he thought grimly, is really going to set the cat amongst the pigeons.

It was a relief to enter the house and normality. Chrissie had prepared a special evening meal to celebrate the fact that they were being visited by their son Ian and his bride of a few months, Fiona. It was a pleasant meal and the family talk succeeded in temporarily banishing all thoughts of the hiatus which everyone would be facing in the days ahead from his mind. The newly-weds were both still based at RAF Leuchars where Ian flew Tornado fighters and Fiona worked in Air Traffic Control, and most of the talk was about the expectation that Ian and his squadron were likely to be sent on a tour of duty in Afghanistan in the near future. He had already served one tour, a year and a half earlier, and was not looking forward to another so soon, but accepted that it was inevitable, given the reduced scale of UK forces in recent years, that tours were likely to be required with increasing frequency.

Meanwhile, Jane, still at the office, remembered that Fergus O’Leary was presumably under the impression that he was still in danger from Douglas, so she phoned the mobile number that she had for the Irishman. It was answered at the second ring.

“Yes?”

“Mr. O’Leary? This is DI Lawson.”

“Yes, Inspector?”

“Mr. O’Leary, I thought that you ought to know that David Douglas has been murdered. His body was discovered this morning and we have a suspect in custody.”

She heard a deep felt sigh of relief at the other end of the line.

“Thanks for that, Inspector – sure, it’s a relief to know the murderin’ bastard ain’t after me no more.”

As he put down the phone, O’Leary reflected on how the news would affect the attitude of the Tanner brothers. In common with many businesses in Surrey and the surrounding areas, he already paid the brothers for ‘protection’; the thousand a week that Billy had demanded was over and above that. He wasn’t looking forward to telling the Tanners that with Douglas dead they couldn’t expect him to pay to avoid a threat that no longer existed – but the thought of not getting that money wasn’t going to sit well with them.

How, he wondered, could he make the idea of not getting the extra cash acceptable to them?

At last Jane left her office to return home, reflecting on the events of the day. It looked as though the murders of both Govern and Douglas could now be marked ‘Case closed’ in the very near future; it would be interesting to see what evidence was turned up by the searching of Douglas’ and Donald’s residences, but the case against Donald was already just about watertight and with Douglas dead there was no need for anything more against him over the murder of Govern. The pursuit, assuming it came to that, of Chief Superintendent Harrison, would presumably be an involved one – over and above her involvement on the murder of Douglas, her earlier crimes in Northern Ireland would be outside the remit of the Surrey police, but there was bound to be some cross-over in the two investigations. Also, at the back of her mind was the niggle that they were no nearer to being able to take any action against the Tanners and their gang for her own abduction and near murder.

Once home, and after a light meal washed down with a bottle of decent Chianti, she unburdened her frustration to Harry. He heard her out and shrugged ruefully.

- 107 -

“Looks as though it’s a dead end, doesn’t it love? I can’t see any of that mob turning Queen’s evidence, and from what you say, that would appear to be your only hope of getting anything on the Tanners.”

She wasn’t aware of it, but her continued frustration over the failure to bring her kidnappers to book was having a profound effect on her partner. Harry Oakes had already killed once to protect Jane and, although he would never admit to the fact, he would have no hesitation in doing so again if needs be.

He changed the subject. He had been offered, and had accepted, a new job. Tired of serving in the Fire Service as a specialist in arson cases, he had agreed, just on two weeks earlier, to a post with a Guildford based company which specialised in investigating insurance fraud. He was due to start the following Monday, having used untaken leave from the Fire Service as part of the notice he had been required to give.

“I had a call today from Nick Ferris.”

Jane pricked up her ears. Ferris was the man whom Harry would be replacing at Southland Investigations, the company he was joining. A former Army friend of Harry’s, Jane had met Nick and his wife when she and Harry had dined one evening with them to celebrate Harry’s decision to accept the job offer. She had taken an immediate liking to the man, and to his wife, and wished them luck in their forthcoming move to Saudi.

“Oh, what did he have to say?”

“He’s a bit worried about the branch the company have in Edinburgh. He reckons the guy in charge is a bit of a waste of space and needs to be sorted out or got rid of. As Nick leaves in a couple of weeks, he asked me to sit in with him – so it means going up to Edinburgh on Wednesday and staying up there for at least one night, more likely two.”

“Go for it, Harry – you weren’t thinking of not doing so, were you?”

“Well, it’ll be first time I’ve been away from you since the kidnapping..”

He got no further.

“Harry,” she interrupted fiercely, “that’s past and done with. I’m a big girl now, and a couple of nights alone aren’t going to worry me.”

“OK, love, if you’re sure...”

“I told you – of course I am.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“OK, OK. We’re driving up there in the Range Rover – Nick’s car is a classic MG – bit small for me for four hundred miles or more!”

Jane nodded, smiling; at six feet seven tall, Harry had trouble fitting into most cars. Even his Range Rover had had the front seat runners adapted so that he could get the seats themselves far enough back to travel in comfort. The thought of him cramped up in Nick’s tiny 1947 sports car for any length of time was just ludicrous.

Harry continued speaking.

“I don’t know where we will be staying offhand, but I’ll have my mobile, of course, so you can reach me if you need to.”

Harry had watched Jane very closely – whilst trying not to make the fact obvious – ever since her release from hospital following her abduction. He was relieved beyond measure to see that to date, at least on the surface, the ordeal seemed to have had no lasting effects upon her, but he’d been a soldier in war zones and knew full well that it sometimes took months, even years, for post traumatic stress to reveal itself.

One of the elements of relief from post traumatic stress could be the certain knowledge that the event or events which had caused it would never be repeated and although by no means an infallible remedy, it was something that might do good and could scarcely do any harm. It was for that reason that, for the first time since they had come together, he had lied to Jane.

He was indeed meeting up with Nick Ferris for a couple of days the following week, but not for the reason he had given to Jane.

- 108 -

Chapter Twenty-Six – 10th 12th October

Monday, the 12th of October. Inkerman and Jane ploughed through the results of the searches of the homes of Douglas and Donald. The forensic reports made fascinating reading. Donald’s flat had yielded nothing incriminating, but his lock-up had been another matter. In it had been found a motorcycle, an expensive Honda VFR800 which, a near as could be established, matched CCTV

images of a similar machine being ridden around Guildford in the early hours of Sunday, the 13th of September, when Kenny Blake’s Range Rover had had its tyre shot out. The actual incident of Blake’s tyre being shot out had not been captured on CCTV – no camera was in quite the right location to do so, but the machine had been filmed a hundred yards or so further down the road at the right hour. At the time the film was useless- the driver was unrecognisable in his dark visored helmet and the registration plate was, of course, false. Also present was the false number plate NOR888 which had been used that night. Also in the lock-up was a small safe which, when opened, revealed several tapes of telephone conversations between Donald and Douglas and one between Donald and Harrison – the one that had been Douglas’ death warrant. More incriminating were two handguns. The first was a Smith and Wesson Model 14 revolver. Chambered, as Nicole Farrant had surmised, for the 0.38

Special cartridge, and with a barrel just over eight inches long, it was a big, dangerous looking weapon, fully justifying Blake’s likening it to the weapon wielded by Clint Eastwood in the Dirty Harry films. Test firings had matched it indisputably to the fatal bullets taken from Douglas’ body during the post mortem. The second weapon was a 9mm automatic pistol, a Browning High Power, which was almost certainly the weapon which had provided the two spent cartridge cases Donald had produced in his cock and bull story of witnessing Kenny Blake’s Range Rover having its tyre shot out.

The safe also contained a notebook in which Donald had recorded in meticulous detail his dealings with both Douglas and Harrison.

The search of Douglas’ property had also been worthwhile, producing more written records of Harrison’s involvement in the theft of money whilst she had been in Northern Ireland, the meetings she had had with Douglas regarding the attempt that the Tanners had made to blackmail her, even the names of the men – one time Army colleagues – Douglas had supplied to her to warn Dan Tanner off.

One of those men had been Donald himself, so a definite link was established via a live witness, not just written records which a defence barrister would doubtless try to discredit as the work of a dead fantasist.

Finished at last, Inkerman leant back in his chair and surveyed the paper pile, then his subordinate.

“So, Jane – views?”

“Well, sir, we already have enough on Donald – the CCTV image of him actually shooting Douglas is totally damning. No defence lawyer can possibly get round that. He knows it, which is why he says he will plead guilty. Trying to drag Harrison down with him is an attempt to persuade us to go less hard on him than might otherwise be the case. Harrison is a big fish – and a rotten one. Weeding her out will be a good thing. On Donald’s oral evidence, plus the recording of her telephone conversation with him, we have a good case for conspiracy to commit murder. OK, her actual words don’t say ‘Kill Douglas’ but given everything else we have, I think it would be a pretty dim jury that failed to convict her.

“The Northern Ireland stuff – well, that’s surely outside our jurisdiction. From what we have seen from the paperwork, I think that a determined effort to trawl through her financial affairs would be almost certain to find evidence of criminal activity. However, to my mind that is down to the Met –

she’s one of theirs – or the Police Service of Northern Ireland, because that is where the actual crimes were committed, or possibly the two forces working together over it.”

“So, next step?”

“We offer what we have regarding Harrison’s crimes in Ulster to the Met and/or the PSNI. Regarding the murder of Douglas we proceed against Donald – already in hand, of course, and we arrest Harrison on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Yes, I agree with you on all that. So, let’s go and see Mr. Graham.”

Fifteen minutes later they had outlined their findings to Graham. The Detective Superintendent listened carefully, then sat silent for a minute or so before speaking.

- 109 -

“OK; the conspiracy to murder element – no problem. We’ll get a warrant and arrest her. In view of her rank, I’ll advise Mr. Bannerman where we stand. Regarding the Ulster business- that’s clearly out of our hands, but the conspiracy to murder takes precedence. What the Met and the PSNI decide to do is up to them, but they play second fiddle as far as I am concerned and I’m sure that Mr. Bannerman will agree. However, as a matter of courtesy, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to the Met before we make the actual arrest.”

It was well after lunch before Graham called for Inkerman again. As he walked into his chief’s office Inkerman found that Bannerman, the ACC (Crime) was also present.

“Sit down, Inky. Mr Bannerman has news for us.”

The ACC smiled.

I’ve taken this right up to the Chief Constable, Chief Inspector, and we are all agreed. Harrison is going to be arrested by Surrey officers and charged with being an accessory to the murder of Douglas.

She will also be interviewed by officers from the Met and the PSNI, but the Chief has agreed with the Assistant Commissioner that our claim comes first. I’ve spoken with the CPS and made sure that they are on the same song sheet – I understand that you weren’t too happy with their Mr. Hogan’s decision not to prosecute Douglas for the murder of Govern, so I’ve gone over his head – there’ll be no more problems from that source, especially after I pointed out that that had the CPS done as we wanted and had Douglas remanded in custody the man would still be alive.”

Fergus O’Leary arrived back in Guilford on the Sunday evening after an early lunch in his York hotel.

All the way down south he was turning over in his mind what his approach to the Tanners should be –

indeed, so fixated was he on his problem that he very nearly ran into the back of the car in front when it slowed for the inevitable tail-back caused by road-works on the motorway. Shocked out of his near trance like state, he paid more attention to the other traffic for the rest of his journey, but was still undecided on a course of action when he finally turned in for the night.

The Tanner brothers also gave O’Leary some thought over the weekend. They had lost the hold over him of revealing his whereabouts to the now deceased David Douglas, but having mentally awarded themselves an extra thousand pounds a week from the Irishman, they were reluctant to see it disappear.

“Perhaps,” Dan mused to his brother, “the time has come to make a take-over bid for O’Leary’s shop.

It does quite good business, but why should we let some thick Mick come down here and dip his snout in what should be our trough?”

Billy smiled at the thought; it was not a pleasant smile.

“Do you think that we should have a chat with him, bruv, or just push him out of the way?2

Dan thought for a while.

“Well, you know what thick skulls these Paddies have – might be difficult to get through to him with just words.”

“Yeah, see what you mean – why don’t I arrange for him to have a little visit?”

“Yeah, you do that Billy.”

Anna Harrison was at her desk early on the Monday morning. She had been contacted by Donald on the previous Thursday evening to assure her that she no longer needed to worry about Douglas. Now her thinking turned to how she could ensure Donald’s silence. She had, as agreed, transferred his fee to his bank account, using own of her off-shore accounts to make the actual payment – she had no wish to leave a money trail by using her normal bank account. She had already started planning Donald’s future for him even before she had given him his murderous task. One of her many contacts, this one not the sort of contact that be expected of a senior police officer, was a throw back to her Northern Ireland days. Seamus Flaherty had been a minor thug in the ranks of the UDF – the loyalist paramilitary organisation every bit as reprehensible as the Provisional IRA. He had left the province after the Good Friday agreement had seen the premature release of IRA men, some of whom still bore a deep-seated grudge against anyone with UDF connections, and Flaherty was worried that his own part in the Troubles might well be known to such men. He now ran a small taxi company in Essex,

- 110 -

but, unbeknown to David Douglas, Harrison had kept in touch with the man, finding him a useful source of information regarding the movements of former loyalist paramilitaries who, like Flaherty himself, had left the province for safer, anonymous, pastures new. She had a hold over Flaherty; long ago she had made it very plain to him that, with her Special Branch facilities, she could, any time that she wished, make his new location known to anyone she wished – ‘anyone’ including men with long memories and few scruples. It was fear, rather than money, which she expected to be able to use to make Flaherty follow her wishes. She used her private mobile to arrange to meet the man the next day, In all of this, she was blissfully unaware on that Monday morning that Donald was already under arrest. It was an ignorance which was to cost her dear.

Chapter Twenty-Seven – 13th October

It was late on the morning of Tuesday the 13th of October. Anna Harrison looked up as there was a short tap on her office door, immediately followed by it being opened. To her surprise, Assistant Commissioner Morgan walked in, accompanied by two men she did not at once recognise.

Morgan was in uniform – in itself an unusual sight for a normal working day. The uniform, with its silver braid and medal ribbons, was normally restricted to appearing on formal occasions, and she wondered what was happening today to prompt its appearance from the wardrobe. It was also the first time that he had ever visited her in her own office; whenever they had met in the past it had either been in the AC’s office or in a variety of meeting rooms.

She started to rise from her chair, but something in Morgan’s expression made her subside back into it.

“Chief Superintendent Harrison,” Morgan’s tone was chillingly cold and formal, “these two gentlemen are officers from Surrey. They have something to say to you.”

Now Harrison placed Morgan’s companions. She had met them when she had visited the Surrey police earlier that year to fill them in on the background of Liam Riley. The younger one was a Detective Superintendent, his name, yes, that was it, Graham. The other, taller, older, was a DCI with an unusual name, Inkerman, that was it. She inwardly congratulated herself on her memory, but was at a loss to understand just what was going on.

It was Graham who spoke.

“Chief Superintendent Harrison, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit the murder of David Douglas on the 8th of October, two thousand and nine.”

She listened in disbelief to the rest of the formal caution, her gaze flitting between each of the three men standing in front of her desk.

Graham finished speaking, but her ordeal was not yet over as Morgan spoke again.

“Chief Superintendent, you will accompany these officers to Surrey where you can expect to be remanded in custody in due course. However, in addition to the crime with which Detective Superintendent Graham has just charged you, I must warn you that you can also expect to be interviewed at a later stage by Metropolitan Police officers and officers from the Police Service of Northern Ireland about actions performed by you in the province in the past.”

Her mind reeling, Harrison found herself being escorted from her office, past her astonished secretary, and a few minutes later found herself in a marked police car, driven by a uniformed constable from the Surrey force. She was seated in the back, with Inkerman beside her and Graham in the front passenger seat. She had not been handcuffed and for a desperate moment she toyed with the idea of trying to escape from the car when it stopped at traffic lights. As though he could read her mind, Inkerman spoke to her.

“Just to remind you, Chief Superintendent, these back doors can’t be opened from the inside of the car.”

The tension that had been building within her as she contemplated such a forlorn course of action drained away, and she slumped back in her seat for the rest of the journey to Guildford police station.

Once she had been processed by the desk sergeant, almost inevitably George O’Kelly, she found herself locked in a holding cell awaiting the arrival of her solicitor, still unable to understand what had

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happened, still unaware that Peter Donald was also under arrest and was the direct cause of her problems.

Fergus O’Leary had spent the previous morning going through the books of his betting shop. As he had expected, the takings for the period that he had been away were a little down on what they should have been. Colin Brown and his brother had clearly been skimming the takings, but not to such an extent that O’Leary felt that it was worth bothering about. Far more bothering was the thought of what he could do about the Tanners, and even more bothering, what they might be thinking of doing about him. He was under no illusions; the brothers had, without a shadow of a doubt, been looking forward to squeezing an extra thousand a week out of him, and he couldn’t see them being happy at having lost the hold over him that would have enabled the extortion.

Now, as he opened the shop for Tuesday’s punters to come and lose their money, he was unpleasantly surprised when the door of a car parked a few yards away opened and Billy Tanner, accompanied by Kenny Blake, emerged from the vehicle’s interior and approached him.

Billy smiled wolfishly at him.

“Morning, Fergus, mind if we come in for a little chat?”

All three of them knew that the request was not going to be refused and O’Leary nervously led them inside the shop.

As they entered, Blake closed and bolted the door behind them, turning the sign that hung at the door window to indicate ‘Closed’.

Billy Tanner gazed thoughtfully at the clearly worried Irishman.

“Well, now, Fergus – I guess you know Douglas is dead?”

O’Leary nodded his head vehemently.

“Yes, Mr. Tanner – heard on Sunday, so I reckoned it was safe for me to come back.”

Tanner smiled, his head slightly to one side.

“Safe is it you want to be, Fergus?”

O’Leary smiled in his turn, but a sick, anxious grimace with no mirth in it.

“Well, we all want to be safe, don’t we, Mr. Tanner.”

Tanner failed to reply; instead he looked around the shop carefully. At last he spoke again.

“You know, Fergus, I think I like this shop of yours – I think I like it very much. Now, I’ll tell you how you can be safe, shall I?”

Correctly judging the question to be rhetorical, O’Leary said nothing.

“Now, Fergus – brother Dan and I have been thinking things over, and we like what we see about this shop of yours – so we’re going to buy you out.”

For a moment, O’Leary was lost for words; then reaction kicked in.

“But I don’t want to sell..”

Tanner raised a hand and O’Leary closed his mouth.

“Not interested in what you want, Fergus – I’m telling you how it’s going to be. Now, we’ve done some checking and seen that you rent these premises, so we’ll just take over the lease, like. Happen we can probably get a better deal than you’ve got, anyway. So – we don’t buy the premises – obvious.

No, I guess you could say that we’re buying the goodwill, ain’t that right, Kenny?”

Blake spoke for the first time.

“Yeah, that’s dead right, Mr. Tanner.”

“So, Kenny, how much do you think that Fergus’ goodwill is worth?”

“Can’t be a lot, Mr. Tanner. The punters’ll still come no matter who runs the place.”

“Yes, you’re right there, Kenny.”

Tanner turned his attention back to O’Leary.

“You know, Fergus, I don’t think we really need to pay much for the goodwill of this place at all. In fact, I reckon that all we need to do is for the three of us to go round to your landlord and sort out the change of tenant...”

He stopped in mid-flow.

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“No, I’ve got a better idea than that. We’ll just make a nice friendly agreement with you, Fergus. You keep paying the rent, but Kenny here will move in and make sure that the interests of Danny and me are looked after. Yes, that’s how we’ll do it.”

“But what will I do for money, Mr. Tanner?”

“Oh, we’re not unreasonable, Fergus. We’ll give you the rent money out of the takings – can’t sat fairer than that, now can I?”

“But what will I have to live on? I’ve got to live, Mr. Tanner.”

Tanner looked thoughtful.

“Well. That could be seen as a debatable point, Fergus – I mean, you wouldn’t want us to get pissed off with you, now would you?”

O’Leary paled, but said nothing, feeling the whole discussion was turning into a nightmare.

“Tell you what,” Tanner continued, “I don’t want to be unreasonable. Like I say, Kenny will keep an eye on you, so don’t try anything funny, but I’ll let you keep half the takings – half for you, half for us, that’s fair – and you pay the rent out of your half, of course.”

O’Leary was so frightened that he saw what was now being offered as the best deal he could possibly expect and a lot better than what might have happened. He was under no illusions about the Tanners.

Nobody had ever been able to prove anything, least of all the police, but it was common belief that a number of local rivals who had vanished from the scene over the years had been helped on their way to premature, unmarked, graves by the Tanners and their henchman. O’Leary had no wish to join the list of the disappeared, so he agreed with Tanner’s proposal with alacrity, well aware that it meant virtual penury but unable to see any healthy alternative.

Seamus Flaherty drew his Vectra up against the kerb outside the nondescript pub in Wandsworth that Anna Harrison had nominated as their meeting place. He was intrigued; in all the years that the policewoman had used him as a source, this was only the second time that they would meet face to face. The first meeting still rankled, over twelve years later; Harrison, at the time a DCI, had been accompanied by a formidable looking plains clothes officer whom she had not introduced, and who had sat just out of earshot, fixing Flaherty with a basilisk like stare the whole time. At that meeting Harrison had made it very plain just how much information she had about Flaherty’s past, and just how she would put that information to use if he didn’t comply with her wishes at all time.

He got out of the car, locked the doors, and crossed the pavement. Inside, the pub was dingy and almost empty. An overweight woman,, resplendent in a too tight scarlet top which clashed badly in colour with her red hair, was behind the bar, looking bored. On the other side of the bar, perched awkwardly on a high stool, and talking to the barmaid sat another woman who could well have been her sister, but with the red sweater and hair replaced by black.

In a corner at a small table sat two middle-aged men deep in some muttered discussion that looked to be less than riveting, judging by the way one of them was using the forefinger of his left hand to idly trace patterns in some spilled beer on the table top whilst his right hand was clutched round a pint glass roughly half full of beer.

And that was the sum total of the clientele. Flaherty was puzzled; obviously Harrison would come in plain clothes, but even so she would stick out like a sore thumb in this dowdy establishment. Still, that was her problem.

He ordered a pint of beer and took it over to a table as far away from the rest of the clientele as possible and settled down to wait for Harrison to arrive, quite unaware of the fact that she was already in custody and that he would have to wait a very long time indeed if he ever wished to see her again.

An hour after Anna Harrison had left her office under escort of the Surrey officers, Assistant Commissioner Harold Morgan sat at his desk, unhappily surveyed the contents of the woman’s briefcase. When Graham and Inkerman had come to see him with the appalling news that one of his most senior officers was nothing more than a common criminal, he had agreed with them that he would have Metropolitan Police officers search Harrison’s office and flat and turn their results over to the Surrey people. The first fruits of those searches already lay before him. Harrison’s briefcase

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contained two items that should never have been in her possession. One was a file, carefully hidden within a large envelope. The file was clearly marked as confidential with the added stricture that it was not to leave the building and that it was only to accessed on the written authority of an officer of Assistant Commissioner rank or above. The authorisation sheet showed no such signature. Its contents were potential dynamite should they ever fall into the wrong hands – it was a listing of all the Northern Ireland informants who had been used by the security forces during the last thirty years. A good few of the names in the file were of men and women now dead, but there were also names of people still living and, in many cases, still supplying information to the police. That list, carefully used, could represent death sentences for many of those people. What on earth was Harrison doing with it?

The second item that she should not have in her possession was more straightforward and more immediately damning. It was a small pistol; a Walther PPK, the favoured arm of the fictional James Bond. A fraction over six inches in length and weighing only twenty-one ounces, it was an easily concealed weapon and although lacking the power of normal police or service issue pistols, was quite powerful enough to be deadly at close range. Again, why did she have the weapon? He had already checked that there was no question of it having been issued to her officially for any reason. The question was not only why did she have it, but also, where had it come from?

He turned his attention to the young Detective Sergeant who had brought the case and its contents to him and sighed sadly.

“Right, Fiona, get all this stuff evidence bagged and prepared for shipment down to Surrey – and not a word to anyone else about what was in the case, alright?”

DS Fiona Cartwright was on Morgan’s personal staff, acting as a sort of aide de camp and it was the fear of just such a damning find that had caused Morgan to use her to search Harrison’s office in the first instance rather than leaving it to the normal forensic people who were, even now, turning over the wretched woman’s flat. What, he wondered, might they find there?

“Right, sir. I’ve had a word with the evidence store people and they have set aside a discrete area for anything we get from CS Harrison’s office and flat with access, once items are stored there, only on your authorisation.”

“Right, good work – get this stuff down there. Oh, and Fiona,”

“Sir?”

“Check the serial number on that pistol against records – see if CS Harrison might have acquired it from a crime evidence box or the like.”

“Yes, sir.”

The young woman left Morgan to his thoughts, thoughts that were far from happy. Mentally, he reviewed Anna Harrison’s career. She was, he knew, now fifty-two years old. She had been a rising star back in the 1980s and had done good work in Ulster, working effectively undercover in that she was put there masquerading as a Detective Constable to act as a dogsbody to the officers investigating alleged leaks from the security forces to Loyalist paramilitaries. In fact she was a DI and seen as a very bright one and her work had been invaluable. That was back in 1983; Harrison had made DI in just over five years after joining the force. A further four years had seen her promoted to DCI. All that time she had been in Special Branch, but in 1990 she had switched, still as a DCI to divisional CID at Ealing – something of a backwater for a high flyer. For some reason, her career seemed to have stalled at that point. It took her eight years to make Detective Superintendent as head of Divisional CID in Surbiton – for a one time high flyer, that was positively snail’s pace.

Her final promotion had taken her out of main line CID and had seen her come to New Scotland Yard as a Chief Superintendent. That had been in two thousand and four, so she had been in her present post for five years. There would shortly be a vacancy on the next but one rung of the ladder – Deputy Assistant Commissioner, but although it was not unknown for Chief Superintendents to reach DAC

rank, bypassing Commander in the process, that was for sustained high flying officers. With no immediate Commander vacancies, Harrison might have harboured hopes of making the leap, but Morgan knew full well that it would not have happened – at fifty-two she would have been seen as too old. She might make Commander, but even that was unlikely, given the lack of any suitable vacancy in the immediate offing.

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It was tempting to think that her lack of rapid promotion, after the spectacular speed which she had shown in first reaching DCI rank had left her embittered – Morgan was fully aware that the ranks of the Met, the biggest force by far in the country, contained a fair number of officers who felt, rightly or wrongly, that they had never received the promotions their ability entitled them to, but even if that were the case with Harrison, it was no excuse for the activities she was now indulging in.

He gave more thought to the pistol and the forbidden file that she had in her briefcase. Having the pistol was a straightforward criminal offence – no question. The file was an internal disciplinary measure. Both offences had occurred in the Met’s area, not Surrey’s, so it was the Met – in essence, himself, to take matters forward. He felt, however, that it would be only courteous to let the Surrey force know that in addition to her Ulster dealings, there were now more charges likely to be levied against her.

He picked up his phone and asked his secretary to get Graham on the phone for him, and a few minutes later was connected to the Surrey detective.

“Mr. Graham, AC Morgan here.”

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Mr. Graham, as we agreed, CS Harrison’s office and home are being gone over, but I thought that I should let you know straight away that we have discovered that she was in possession of an illegal held firearm – an automatic pistol. Obviously, we will charge her with that in due course, so even if she somehow manages to avoid being sent down for her other crimes, she’ll certainly see the inside of a prison for this one. We’ll need to agree when she gets charged for the possession – but I thought that it might be useful to you when you interview her to know that she has this hanging over her head as well as everything else,”

“Right, thank you, sir, that’s very helpful.”

Morgan put down his phone; he had not mentioned the file to Graham – that was nothing to do with the Surrey force, but the moment the finding of the pistol was known by Harrison, she would also know that the file would have been found, and would surely realise that nothing but trouble was facing her,

Graham and Inkerman convened in the former’s office after a long, frustrating session interviewing Anna Harrison. Flanked by her lawyer, a smooth looking man in his mid fifties who had introduced himself as Miles Sawyer, her response to virtually every question put to her had been met in a flat monotonously delivered ‘No comment’. Sawyer had been a bit more forthcoming, claiming that his client clearly had no case to answer. The recorded telephone conversation – no court would accept such a piece of evidence under current legislation. The evidence of Peter Donald? Clearly a disgruntled fantasist, probably with mental health problems. The gun in the briefcase? Clearly planted there. And so it had gone on. And on. All four players of the scenario had played their part, almost as though it had been scripted for them, but despite the non-cooperation from their suspects both detectives were satisfied that when it came to court, Anna Harrison was going down. The only real question was for how long.

Graham eased his back, aching from the long session on the hard chair in the interview room.

“We’ve got her, Inky, yes?”

“Oh yes, sir. She’s not going to walk away from any of this. It’ll be interesting to see if the Met’s forensic people come up with anything more – the gun is enough even if everything else falls apart –

not that it will, I’m sure of that.”

“Right, change of subject. You’ll remember that I told you the other day that the Deputy is retiring?”

Inkerman nodded; it was hardly the sort of news to slip one’s memory.

“Well, it will be officially announced at the end of the week and as it is on health grounds he will be going at the end of the month – and Mr. Bannerman will become acting DCC until formal interviews take place in a couple of months or so. That means that the ACC post needs filling, and, again on an acting basis I have been asked to fill in – I’ve accepted, of course.”

Inkerman felt his pulse quicken as he hopefully guessed what was coming next. Graham smiled at him.

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“I’m sure that you’re ahead of me. I want you to act up as head of Divisional CID, so as from the first of November it will be Acting Detective Superintendent Inkerman, OK?”

“Very much OK, sir – so, and acting DCI?”

“Of course, can’t expect you to do both jobs at once. Now, as all these are acting appointments and might have to be undone in the fullness of time, though if the Chief has his way that won’t happen, it must be made quite clear to all concerned that this is a possibly temporary situation, So acting DCI – I know we’ve spoken about this before – still of the same opinion?”

Inkerman didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, sir. Jane Lawson is my choice.”

Graham nodded.

“Yes, I agree. I know that when we last spoke I mentioned John Henderson over in Oxted – Mr. Blake mentioned him, but thinking it over it would be less upheaval should things have to be unravelled if the acting DCI was in this Division rather than dragging in Henderson and having East Division have to switch people around in consequence.”

“Right, sir – can I tell Jane Lawson yet?”

“Go ahead – tell her to keep it under her hat until next week when the arrangements are announced.

The acting appointments won’t take effect until the first of November, but obviously people need to start bringing themselves up to speed in their new roles as soon as possible, so things will start to gel from next week. So, all that leaves is someone to take over Lawson’s role as DI. Ideas?”

“Oh yes, DS Clarke. He’s experienced, capable, doesn’t panic and I know that the rest of the team respect him.”

“OK, Clarke it is – let Lawson tell him.”

Inkerman nodded.

“Will do.”

With that, he left his superior’s office, his mind in a pleasant whirl. Superintendent, even on an acting basis, was a rank he had never even considered just a couple of years ago. Back then – and it somehow seemed a long time ago now – he had been a DI, happy in his role and with no expectation of, nor indeed any desire to, achieving any higher rank before he retired. He was fifty years old; at least another five years before he would expect to retire; what might those five years bring?

Harry Oakes just beat Jane home that evening and it was immediately clear to him that she had good news to impart. When she told him that in a few short weeks she was to become acting DCI he fully shared her excitement and instead of dinner being the frozen lasagne previously destined for the microwave, he whisked her off for a celebratory meal at their favourite restaurant.

In bed a few hours later, and before drifting off to sleep, she turned to him and prodded him back into full wakefulness.

“You know, Harry, there is just one more thing that would make everything absolutely bloody perfect.”

“What’s that, love?”

“Nailing those bloody Tanner brothers for everything that they’ve done in general and what they had done to me in particular.”

“With you on their tail, I’m sure that their days are numbered.”

“Well, I’m not really on their tail – conflict of interest – so it’ll have to stay with Shirley.”

She sighed and rolled over; a few minutes later she saw asleep.

Harry Oakes was still awake, however, thinking over what she had said.

Chapter Twenty-Eight – 14th- 15th October

From the point of view of the police it had been a satisfactory day. Anna Harrison had appeared before a magistrate and been remanded in custody, a fate already the lot of Peter Donald. Jane Lawson had thoroughly enjoyed telling ‘Skull’ Clarke that he would shortly be an acting DI; as with herself, it

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was news to be kept under the counter for the next few days, but would soon be public knowledge. In addition to enjoying Clarke’s pleasure, Jane was secretly relishing the news of her own advancement becoming known to her two DI colleagues. John Hall was too near to retirement to really care any longer, although he would doubtless feel that the acting rank should have gone to him. Shirley Lewis would be seething inside that Jane had again beaten her to the post in the promotion stakes. Tough!

Seamus Flaherty was puzzled. He had waited over an hour for the Harrison woman in that scruffy, down at heel pub, but she had never appeared. He had a mobile number for her and had tried ringing her, but his call had simply gone to voice mail. He had decided against leaving a message.

Fergus O’Leary had not enjoyed the first day of the new regime. Kenny Blake had arrived a little after opening time, had plonked himself down in O’Leary’s office, and watched the day’s proceedings like a hawk. At the end of the business day he had simply appropriated half of the takings and driven off.

O’Leary’s business was still virtually all cash based – he was too small an operator to have much of a credit based business and too down market to have many telephone account customers.

Billy Tanner had, like the police, had a good day. The takings from O’Leary’s betting shop had been a nice little extra, he had spent an hour with his brother as they reviewed the takings of their other enterprises, which were encouragingly up on expectations. Either people were beginning to feel that the worst of the financial crisis was over, or they were desperate for money and were turning to the Tanner’s gaming establishments in the hopes of easy enrichment.

As was his custom, he had Kenny Blake drive him home – he was probably a bit over the limit and there was no point in taking chances – the local filth would just love to nab him, even for something as trivial as driving whilst a bit over the limit.

Kenny drove into the entrance to Billy’s house, gently braked to a stop outside the front door, got out and opened the passenger door for his boss. Billy got out, straightened his back and looked at his watch. Half past one in the morning. He mentally reviewed the programme for the morrow – nothing of importance.

“Think I’ll have a bit of a lie-in tomorrow, Kenny. Pick me up at ten.”

“Right you are, Mr. Tanner – I’ll see you at ten.”

“Right, night Kenny.”

“Night, Mr. Tanner.”

Blake got back into the car and drove away whilst Billy inserted the key into the front door lock after a brief fumble – perhaps he was a bit more than just over the limit he told himself – and walked indoors a little unsteadily, letting the heavy front door swing closed behind him. He decided to have a night-cap before turning in and made his way to the lounge, where he crossed to the ostentatious bar that he had had fitted in the far corner of the room.

As he reached it, he heard a slight sound behind him; he turned, to find himself looking at a man, dressed in black from head to foot and with his face concealed by a ski mask, black like the rest of his ensemble.

Billy gazed at the intruder, his drink befuddled mind at first refusing to accept the fact that somebody had dared to break into the house of Billy Tanner. His mind slowly formed words, threatening words for this stranger who didn’t know what was what, but before he could utter them, the man raised an odd looking pistol and fired. There was no gunshot; instead there was a sort of ‘Phutt!’ noise and Billy felt something hit his stomach. He looked down in disbelief at the dart projecting from his abdomen and then back at the man who had shot him with it. Billy felt his legs beginning to fail him and he fell back against the bar, then slid to the ground, his legs out in front of him, his back still against the padded surface of the bar.

Half an hour later, Dan Tanner had also arrived home. Unlike Billy, he had been stone cold sober and had driven himself. He parked the Jaguar in its garage and entered his house by the intercommunicating door, which led straight into the kitchen. As he entered the room, he felt a blow

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in the stomach; in amazement he realised that someone unseen had shot some sort of dart at him, a dart now sticking through his clothes and into his flesh. He took a step forward, then another, then a third and as he did so he realised that the room seemed to be spinning round and his legs were losing their strength. Slowly, he crumpled to the floor.

A man, dressed in black from head to toe, his features hidden by a ski mask, stepped into the kitchen from the open door leading into the hall from where he had fired the anaesthetic dart into his victim.

He checked the recumbent gangster; pulse and breathing were steady, no sign of him swallowing his tongue. All was well.

He took a mobile phone from his pocket and speed dialled a programmed number. He was answered immediately.

“OK?”

“Yes.”

“See you in fifteen.”

Fifteen minutes later a small, anonymous white van drew up outside Billy Tanner’s front door. The driver got out and entered the house. A few minutes later he and another man emerged, carrying the limp form of Billy Tanner between them. They opened the van’s back door and deposited Billy alongside his similarly unconscious brother, closed the van doors and drove off.

Three minutes before ten o’clock the next morning, Kenny Blake drove up to Billy Tanner’s front door which, to his surprise, was standing open. Puzzled, he cautiously got out of the car and stuck his head inside the front door and called out.

“Mr. Tanner? It’s Kenny.”

The house was silent and it somehow felt empty. With redoubled caution Blake entered the house; on the hall carpet lay a bunch of keys. He picked them up; they were Billy’s – he had seen them, easily identifiable from the small plastic skull which adorned the key ring, many times in Billy’s possession.

He called out again, but again without response.

Cautiously he went through the house, but found no trace of his employer. He checked the garage, in case Billy had driven himself away, using a spare key and forgetting to check the front door. Billy’s Mercedes stood cold and silent.

He got out his mobile and phoned Dan Tanner; the phone rang, then went to voice mail. He phoned George Walters, the manager of the Blue Boar and as near as there was to a deputy to the brothers.

“Mr. Walters, it’s Kenny Blake. I was due to pick Billy up at ten and he’s not at his house. The front door was open, his car’s in the garage but there’s no sign of him. I tried phoning Dan, but there’s no answer.”

Walters was nonplussed. He hadn’t seen either brother that morning, but it was still a bit early. Telling Blake to stay where he was, he drove first to Billy’s house to see for himself how things stood, then, with Blake following in convoy, drove to Dan’s house to find the same scenario – front door open, car in the garage, keys on the floor – in this case in the kitchen rather than the hall, but that was the only difference.

Neither of the Tanner brothers was ever seen again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine Friday, 5th February 2010

It was a good day, Jane reflected. The previous day the trial of Anna Harrison had ended. Despite the increasingly desperate attempts of her defence counsel, each of them rebutted by the prosecution with comparative ease, the jury had found her guilty on all counts. Five years for the firearm offence, five years for fraud, ten for conspiracy to commit murder. The only disappointment was that the sentences would, as was usually the case, run concurrently, so in effect only the ten years counted.

That was by no means all that was good. That Monday, the first of February, the various acting arrangements that had been put in place when the Deputy Chief Constable had retired had been

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formalised. She was no longer an acting DCI but a substantive DCI. Detective Chief Inspector Jane Lawson – it had a nice ring to it, she told herself. She and Harry had discussed the question of her name; they had married in November so she was now Jane Oakes outside the police force, but they had both agreed that it would be less confusing within the force if she retained the name Lawson.

Mentally, she told herself that should she ever move to another force then at that time she would become Jane Oakes in all walks of life.

One thing still rankled – nobody had ever been arrested for her abduction back in September.

Admittedly, the Tanners, who had surely ordered her ordeal had apparently vanished off the face of the earth, but it would have been nice to see somebody go down for what had been done to her that autumn evening.

Strange about the Tanners. Their disappearance had never been brought to the notice of the police in any official manner. Both men were unmarried (Dan had been married once but divorced long ago) and apart from each other had no close family to report their disappearance. Their associates would have had no wish to involve the police in anything touching the activities of the brothers nor, indeed, of themselves, so there wasn’t even a missing persons file opened.

It had taken a week or two for the brothers’ absence to make itself known on the police radar and Jane, in common with many other detectives, had quizzed her various informants about the non-presence of two of the south of England’s more notorious citizens. Nobody professed to knowing anything definite. There was speculation that they might have somehow upset criminals even more powerful than themselves, but it was only speculation. If such had been the case, one would have expected whoever had been behind the disappearance of the brothers to make some sort of take over bid of their various enterprises, but nothing of the sort had happened.

With the brothers gone, however, Jane had just about given up worrying about her abduction, especially when, two weeks earlier, Shirley Lewis and her team had succeeded in nailing Guy Lombard, the garage proprietor who, Jane was quite sure, had been one of her abductors. He had been caught out in a VAT fiddle and looked like facing a crippling fine, perhaps even some time inside.

She mentioned her continuing puzzlement over the fate of the Tanner brothers to Harry that evening.

“I wonder where they are?” She mused.

Harry shrugged expressively’

“Who knows?” he said, but he didn’t complete the sentence with the words so often attached to it ‘I don’t’

The End

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Table of Contents

Chapter Three 24th September

Chapter Five 28th September

Chapter Six 29th September

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine 1st October

Part Two

Chapter Eleven 11th September

Chapter Twelve 12th September

Chapter Thirteen 13th September

Chapter Fourteen 14th September

Chapter Fifteen 15th September

Chapter Sixteen 16th September

Chapter Seventeen 17th September

Chapter Twenty-Two- 2nd October