Vengeance is Mine

(Inkerman and Lawson Book 2)

a novel by

Michael Rolls

1

Dedicated to the memory of my dear wife

Veronica Rolls

15-4-1943 to 23-1-2018

2

Chapter One: Thursday.................................2

Chapter Two: Friday...................................9

Chapter Three: Saturday..............................17

Chapter Four: Sunday................................21

Chapter Five: Monday................................21

Chapter Six: Tuesday.................................24

Chapter Seven: Wednesday...........................26

Chapter Eight: Second Thursday.....................35

Chapter Nine: Second Friday.........................41

Chapter Ten: Second Weekend.......................47

Chapter Eleven: Second Monday.....................47

Chapter Twelve: Second Tuesday....................58

Chapter Thirteen: Second Wednesday................63

Chapter Fourteen: Second Thursday..................67

Chapter Fifteen: Third Thursday.....................70

Chapter Sixteen; Third Friday........................77

Chapter Seventeen: Third Weekend..................85

Chapter Eighteen: Third Monday.....................87

Chapter Nineteen: Third Tuesday....................93

3

Chapter Twenty: Third Wednesday...................99

Chapter Twenty-One: Fourth Thursday.............101

Chapter Twenty-Two: Fourth Friday...............108

Chapter Twenty-Three: Epilogue...................110

4

Chapter One: Thursday

It could have been a summer’s day, although it was, in fact, an unseasonably warm Thursday in late March, the 26th of that month. The wind of the previous few days had disappeared and many of the lunch-time shoppers found that the coats they had donned earlier in the day were now excessively heavy.

It was a quiet, calm day, with no indication of the carnage which was to come. As a nearby church clock chimed quarter past one, Liam Doherty raised his wine glass and toasted his lunch time companions.

“Well, here’s to this time next week” he said, and the other three men smiled as they sipped from their glasses.

It was a small restaurant. In summer time it would have been crowded with tourists unfazed by the high prices displayed on the menu. On this day, however, Doherty’s was one of only two occupied tables. At the other a middle-aged couple dined, engrossed in a determined, but non-acrimonious, debate on the choice of bedding plants they would shortly be purchasing from the largest of the local garden centres.

The door opened. Seated opposite it, Doherty glanced up, then started to rise from his chair.

“No, for Christ’s sake, no!” he shouted, his voice near to a scream.

The blast of the shot-gun cut his protest short; the impact of the shot sent him back over his chair. His companions started to turn to face the threat from the open door, but long before they could take any action the shot-gun was fired again and again and they joined Doherty on the floor in a welter of blood, shattered glass and spilt wine.

Stunned and shocked, the middle aged couple gaped at the tall figure, its face concealed by a motorcycle helmet with a tinted visor, which now stepped back through the open door and within seconds had disappeared from view.

Then the woman started to scream.

* * * * *

The phone on his desk rang and Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman lifted it to his ear.

“Inkerman”

“Despatch here, sir. I’ve just got a report from area car Alpha Three. There’s been a multiple shooting in Mario’s, the Italian restaurant in Gainsborough Road. Four victims, two definitely dead, the others don’t look good at all.”

“I’m on my way – have SOCO and Forensics been advised yet?”

“No sir, I thought it best to tell you first, but I’ll get on to them now.”

“Right, thanks.”

Inkerman replaced the phone and rose from his chair. Pausing only to grab the light coat hanging behind his door, he strode into the next office. He looked round and his eyes settled on the woman occupying the furthest of the five desks in the room.

“Jane, with me, please – shootings in Gainsborough Road, at least two dead.”

Detective Inspector Jane Lawson rose hurriedly from her desk.

“You drive or me, sir?”

“You drive – I want to get on the blower to the boss and let him know what’s on.”

In less than ten minutes the two detectives were at the scene. The small side-street was blocked off at both ends by police cars; there were also two ambulances in evidence. Recognising them, a uniformed constable saluted and held up the ‘Police: Keep Out’ incident tape which he had just finished stringing along a temporary barrier outside the small restaurant. The two detectives ducked under it and passed through the door. Inside was a shambles; a table near the window, clearly that which had been occupied by the victims of the shooting, was on it side amidst a welter of broken glass, upturned plates, a flower vase lying on its side, but above all, there was the blood and the bodies. The blood had splashed over the furniture and the nearby wall which additionally was peppered with shot holes. The bodies, two in number, were sprawled on either side of the table. Both male, the further man was on his back, his chest the recipient of an horrific wound, his shirt and suit jacked soaked in blood. The other victim lay face down; the back of his head was a mess of blood, bone fragments and exposed brain tissue.

Inkerman surveyed the scene. The only other people in the room were a uniformed police sergeant stationed immediately inside the door and a young woman, dressed in a white scene of crime suit, who 5

knelt beside the nearer victim, the man lying face down. Aware of the entrance of Inkerman and Lawson, she got carefully to her feet, fastidiously avoiding treading in any of the detritus surrounding her.

“Chief Inspector Inkerman?” she enquired.

“That’s right”

“I’m Dr. McCarthy – I replaced Dr. Lane.”

“Ah, pleased to meet you, Doctor. This is Detective Inspector Lawson.”

The two women nodded to each other, each mentally assessing the other. Jane had heard that the replacement for Dr. Lane was a woman, seen, apparently, as a rising star in the field of forensic pathology. She saw a woman of a little above average height, about the same as Jane’s own five feet six, with a pleasant, rather than beautiful face, expressive dark brown eyes behind slightly tinted spectacles. McCarthy spoke again.

“Sorry to mention it – but shouldn’t the two of you be suited?” She indicated her own all-enveloping white scene of crime suit with a wave of the hand. Inkerman answered.

“Don’t worry, we’re not coming further into the room yet – I just wanted to see who was on scene and get a quick overview. What happened to the other two?”

“They were already on their way to the Royal Surrey before I got here. Apparently they are both in a pretty messy state.”

The uniformed sergeant spoke up for the first time.

“They were both still breathing when they left, sir. Both had wounds to the upper torso and face.”

“Thank you, sergeant.” He returned his attention to the pathologist. “Anything I need to know straight away, Doctor? “

“Well, the cause of death seems pretty obvious – gunshot wounds. They might have expired from heart attacks at the sight of the weapon, but I doubt it. The weapon itself was a twelve bore shotgun of some sort – there are three shell cases in the room and judging from what I’ve seen so far that ties in with at least three shots fired. Judging by the spread of shot, and the presumed position of the gunman, I think it was a sawn-off. I haven’t turned or moved either body yet – I was just about to turn this man over when you arrived, so I haven’t got any identification for them.”

“Thank you, Doctor. We’ll leave you to it for a while.”

Inkerman retreated from the room, with Jane following him. They crossed to the nearest police car, where a woman constable was comforting a middle aged woman who was sobbing softly. A man of similar age stood close by, an expression of shocked bewilderment on his face. A male constable greeted the two detectives.

“These are Mr, and Mrs. Wild, sir. They were in the restaurant when the shooting occurred.”

“Thank you, constable.” Inkerman turned to Jane. “Jane, would you talk to Mrs. Wild, please. I’ll speak with her husband.”

Inkerman turned to the man and produced his warrant card to identify himself.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman of Surrey Constabulary. I understand that you and your wife were in the restaurant when the shooting occurred?”

The man collected himself with a conscious effort.

“Yes, that’s right, Chief Inspector, we were. It was horrible, quite horrible.”

“Can you tell me what you saw, please?”

“Yes, well Madge – that’s my wife over there,” he indicated the woman who was still sobbing on the shoulder of the policewoman, “and I were discussing what we wanted to buy in the garden centre. The waitress had just taken our order and disappeared. There were four men at the only other table in use.

One of them – he was in my line of vision, so I couldn’t help but see him - raised his glass as though making a toast or the like. As he did so, the door opened and a man stepped inside. He wasn’t immediately in my view, so it wasn’t until the man with the glass shouted something like ‘No, for Christ’s sake no!’ that I looked that way. As I did so, the first shot was fired, then, very rapidly, two more. Then the man just stepped backwards out of the door and vanished.”

“Can you tell me anything about what he looked like?”

“Well, I couldn’t see his face at all- he was wearing a motor-cycle helmet with a heavily tinted visor –

almost black. His clothing was dark, perhaps black as well. He was about the same height as you or me.”

Inkerman, five foot ten, looked at Wild and judged that, as the man had said, they were of a height, so the gunman was probably a bit under six feet tall, but perhaps a little more.

“His build?”

6

“Well, not very heavy – but he didn’t seem over thin – but it was all over so quickly, you see. I only saw him for seconds.”

“What about the gun?”

“That I am sure about – it was a pump action shotgun and the barrel had been sawn off. I saw him work the action and the spent cartridges fly out.”

“How many shots?”

“Three, quite definitely three.”

“You say it was a pump action, sir. Are you familiar with shotguns?”

“Oh yes, Chief Inspector. I do a bit of shooting myself – game birds. I have a double barrel BSA myself – been in the family for years.”

“Did the gunman say anything?”

“Not before firing – if he said anything afterwards I would not have heard him – my ears were ringing from the noise of the gun.”

“Did you notice his hands? Was he wearing gloves?”

Wild furrowed his brow in concentration.

“I think that he may have been, but I’m afraid that I can’t be sure, Chief Inspector.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful, Now, when my colleague has finished talking to your wife, I wonder if I could ask you both to hold on here for a little while and then come back with us to the police station so that we can get written statements from you whilst everything is still fresh in your minds?”

“Of course – anything that we can do to help.”

Inkerman looked around for his next task. Nearby, a second police car had its rear door open. A young woman, dressed as a waitress in black dress and white apron, was sitting sideways on the back seat, her legs outside the vehicle. She had her face buried in her hands; what little of it could be seen was pale with shock and she seemed oblivious of the young constable attempting to talk to her. Standing near, but a few feet away, was a man in his forties, dressed in a chef’s apron and a further man, wearing a dark business suit, was beside him.

Inkerman approached them and introduced himself. The man in the suit was the first to respond.

“I’m Thomas Callen, Chief Inspector. I’m the owner of the restaurant. This is my chef, John Gillespie, and the girl there is Sandra Hill, who was the waitress on duty.”

“Thank you, sir.” Inkerman led the man a few paces away from the others. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

“Not much, I fear. I wasn’t in the body of the restaurant – I have a small office just off the kitchen, and I was in there going through the accounts. John was cooking, of course, and Sandra had just passed my door on her way into the kitchen to give John the order for the couple at table six. The shots were extremely loud; at first I couldn’t understand what they might be, but something was obviously wrong.

The three of us got into the restaurant together, more or less colliding in the doorway as we did so, but by then it was all over. Whoever had done the shooting had gone and the lady at table six was screaming. All the men at table three were on the floor and there was blood everywhere. I called 999

for police and an ambulance, and that’s about it, I think.”

“The men at table three, Mr. Callen. Did they book the table or just come in off the street? And have you seen them before?”

“They booked – Councillor Collins phoned earlier today. He comes in -” Callen hesitated, then continued “he came in – perhaps two or three times a month. Usually at lunch-time and nearly always with guests, although he has come once or twice for dinner with his wife.”

Inkerman pricked up his ears.

“Councillor Collins? Which one was he?”

“The man with his back to the door – he’s lying in there face down.” Callen stopped, then swallowed as he kept himself under control with an obvious effort. “I just can’t believe it, Inspector – one moment people were having lunch, then..” He broke off and turned away for a moment, then turned back. “I’m sorry”

“That’s all right, sir, please – you have been very helpful. One more question – obviously you knew Councillor Collins – but what about the others?”

“The other dead man I’ve never seen before that I can remember. The other two have been in here before with the Councillor once or twice, but I’m afraid I don’t know their names.”

Inkerman repeated the request that he made to the Wilds and the restauranteur and his staff agreed to wait until they could all be taken to the station to make formal statements.

7

As he finished speaking to them, Jane Lawson came over to him.

“We’ve managed to calm Mrs. Wild down, sir. She didn’t really see much at all – she was facing her husband and had her back both to the other table and the door. She turned round as the shooting started, but only caught a brief glimpse of the gunman as he stepped back through the door, reckons he was tall and dressed all in black with a motor-cycle helmet hiding his face. She says the weapon was quite short, much shorter than her husband’s double barrel shotgun, but that’s all she could tell about it.”

“Wild says it was a pump action – he saw the shooter work the slide and saw the cartridge cases fly out.”

The two detectives returned to the restaurant, this time stopping to don the all-enveloping scene of crime paper suits.

Dr. Lane was waiting for them.

“I’ve done all I can here, Chief Inspector. According to the papers they have on them, the man over there is Liam Doherty, whose business card says he is an industrial security consultant. The other man is Councillor Collins, a County Councillor.”

“Thanks – that bears out what the restaurant owner says – he identified that man as Collins, but doesn’t know the other one. Anything that you can say about the shooting?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that three shots were fired. With four people shot, that means two of them, at least, must have been hit by the same shot. What I think happened,” she stepped over to the door and turned to face into the room “is that the gunman entered, lined up his first shot at the back of Collins, who couldn’t see him, of course. Doherty could see him and must have reacted in some way, possibly started to stand up from the position of his body.”

Inkerman nodded. “That ties in with what Wild has told us. Doherty said something like ‘No, for Christ’s sake, no’ and started to stand as he was shot.”

“Right. Now – that first shot I’m pretty sure hit both Collins, still sitting, in the back of the head. The spread of shot was such that some of the pellets missed Collins and hit Doherty. I think that he then turned right and left – I can’t tell in which order – and fired one shot in each direction. That accounts for the four men being hit with just three shots fired.”

“The survivors, if they do survive, were very lucky, weren’t they?”

“I think that they were very lucky indeed. I think that the shooter probably tried to fire his second and third shots too quickly, because most of the pellets from those two shots ended up on the walls” she waved an arm to indicate the peppered walls, “only a few hit the men. From where the gunman stood, they were both facing inwards, as it were, and turned to more or less face him after the first shot.”

“Thanks for, that, Doctor. Inspector Lawson and I will just have a look over the scene and as soon as we’ve finished, you can have the bodies. Is that OK?”

“Yes, that’s fine – I’ll get away now. I’ll do the PMs late this afternoon – who will be the police representative?”

“Inspector Lawson, I think – you can do that, Jane?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll brief my team, then be ready at – what, would five o’clock suit you, Doctor?”

“Yes, that’s fine with me.”

Inkerman and Lawson prowled over the restaurant for a further ten minutes or more, but finally accepted that the scene had nothing to tell them that wouldn’t be covered by the reports of the pathologist and the SOCO team. Jane drove them back to the station; as she did so, Inkerman raised the subject of responsibility for the investigation.

“A double killing and a County Councillor one of the victims. I think that is above DI level, Jane, so I’ll head things up overall, with you and your team doing the day to day. First thing we need, of course, is to talk to the survivors as and when, and if, that is possible.”

“Yes, sir – I’ve already checked who accompanied them in the ambulance – it was Constable Lewis –

and told him to report back as soon as he knows anything, but I’ll check at the hospital myself –

there’ll be time before the PMs and after I’ve briefed the team- unless you want to go to the hospital?”

“No, I’ll leave that to you. I’ll sit in on your briefing, but you handle it.”

“OK.”

Jane would have much rather that Inkerman had designated her as the officer in overall charge, but being realistic, she recognised that the nature of the case, and her own fairly limited time in rank, combined to mean that it was never going to happen. At least, she told herself, she was in on the case and it promised to be high profile so a useful addition to her experience, and if she did well (and she was determined that she would do well) it would add to her reputation.

8

* * * * * *

Half an hour later, Jane had her team assembled and, with Inkerman present but only playing a listening role, she quickly summarised what had happened and what was known so far. Then it was a case of allocating tasks.

“Right. I’ve checked with PC Lewis at the hospital. The other two victims are still in surgery, but we do have names and addresses for them. They are Thomas McNulty, who is a local solicitor, and John Raymond, of Raymond Developments, who is a property developer based in Woking.”

She turned to her two detective constables.

“Alan, you check on McNulty – anything that you can find. Dave, the same for Raymond, please.”

Alan Taylor and Dave Cross nodded their acknowledgements. She turned to the third member of her team. “Tom, you take statements from the witnesses – they are all waiting and I don’t want them having to stay too long, and as soon as you have done that, start checking the backgrounds of Doherty and Collins. I’m off to the hospital to see what news there is on the progress of the two, then I’m attending the PMs on the dead men. I’ll get traffic to run a quick check on any motor-cycles seen in the vicinity at the right time – chummy made a clean escape, and that helmet may indicate he used a bike, as well as being useful camouflage. We’ll reconvene at seven thirty and share news. Tomorrow, we’ll need to talk to the families of the victims – by now they will have learnt what has happened from the victim support people.”

Jane, and had she known it, Inkerman as well, was unhappy that recent policy was to break such news as sudden death to the families of the victims by a group of officers who had received training in counselling. She would much rather have broken the news herself in a case such as this so that she could gauge the immediate reaction of family members, but unless thinking changed, that was out of her control. She knew the reasoning behind the policy – there had been a number of complaints, two of them very serious, at the way in which people had been told of the death of loved ones, but she felt that in a case like this, as opposed to a road accident or the like, the first approach should be made by those investigating the crime.

Mentally, she reviewed the three detectives. The DCs, Alan Taylor and Dave Cross had been with the team when it had been Inkerman’s in his DI days and pre-dated her. Steady plodders rather than men given to imaginative leaps, she knew that they would do good jobs on the tasks she had set them. Tom Morgan, on the other hand, had followed her onto the team. Originally seconded to help out when Inkerman had been acting DCI but also expected to oversee his existing team, he had stayed with them and been promoted to Detective Sergeant at the end of the previous year when her own promotion had created a vacancy for a sergeant. He was bright and ambitious, and she knew that Taylor and Cross were not over-happy at having someone considerably younger than themselves promoted over their heads. For that matter, she assumed that they had some resentment to being under the command of a woman who was, again, younger than they were. Still, there had been no open expressions of resentment, and they both did a good, thorough job on anything they were set to.

Such thoughts still occupied her mind as she drove to the hospital and sought out the two survivors of the shooting. She quickly learned that both were in the Intensive Care Unit, both were still unconscious from the anaesthetic, and both were expected to make full recoveries, but that speaking to them would be out of the question for at least twenty-four hours.

That established, her next task was to attend the post-mortems of Doherty and Collins. It was the first time that she had attended PMs carried out by the new pathologist and she was impressed with the speed and thoroughness of Dr. McCarthy. Her predecessor, Eric Lane, had been a more stolid performer; he and Inkerman had known each well, worked together over the years and had a high degree of mutual respect, but she had always found Lane irritatingly pedantic and, she felt, condescending to those he did not know well, especially when young, female and, she admitted to herself, openly ambitious.

McCarthy finished her work and turned to Jane.

“Well, nothing unexpected, Inspector. One thing about the cause of death might be interesting, though.

Most shotgun cartridges are loaded with quite small pellets and lots of them. The most common size is number six, one tenth of an inch in diameter and in a typical load there would be over four hundred of them. These men were killed by considerably larger shot – size AAA, which is twice the diameter of number eight, so each individual pellet weighs eight times as much and carries a lot more hitting power. There would have been about forty or fifty pellets in each cartridge. At the short range 9

involved, I doubt that it made any difference, but at longer range – say fifty yards or more, it would be a deadlier load than a normal shotgun cartridge. Also – I don’t suppose that gun shops get much call for such loads.”

“Thanks, Doctor – that’s a line I’ll get followed up.”

McCarthy watched the detective as she left; she had recognised a kindred spirit – a young woman in a hurry in a male dominated world. It might well be worthwhile cultivating Detective Inspector Lawson, she thought. She had the aura of future high rank about her and contacts in the police were often useful.

Had she but known it, Jane was having similar thoughts about the new pathologist.

* * * * *

It was seven thirty and Jane’s team, with Inkerman in attendance, had gathered in the team office.

Additionally, there were two uniformed constables who would be used on the morrow to add numbers to the enquiries to be made around Mario’s in the hope, unlikely to be fulfilled, that somebody might have seen something helpful.

She opened the proceeding.

“Right, Tom, you first please – anything from witness statements that expands on what they said at the time?”

Morgan shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid, boss. It was all too quick for them to take anything in other than the briefest impression in the case of Mrs. Wild, and a bit more from her husband. Gunman a bit over average height, dark clothing, gloves almost certainly, motor-cycle helmet and a sawn-off pump gun.”

“Thanks, and what have you on Collins and Doherty?”

“I’ve sent their prints to central registry for checking, not heard back yet. Nothing on criminal records about Doherty. Collins had a conviction for speeding ten years ago, nothing else of a record, but I did find a cross-reference.

“Apparently a couple of years ago he informed his local nick that he had received some anonymous threats in the mail.”

“Oh, did he, now? Were they followed up?”

“Yes. It was looked into by Mr. Newsome’s team.” Inkerman inwardly groaned; DI Newsome, recently retired (and not a moment too soon on most people’s opinion) had been clearly coasting in the last couple of years before he retired and his attitude had rubbed off on his team, a cross that his successor, Shirley Lewis, formerly a DS with DI Hall, was still muttering about, even though she had rapidly instilled a new sense of urgency in the team (and, it was tacitly understood, promised some royal blood-letting if things didn’t improve rapidly). Odds were that any investigation could well have been superficial at best.

“What came of it?”

“Nothing much, sir. The councillor didn’t receive any further letters, so it all got shelved.”

“We’ll see if the wife can add anything when we talk to her.”

“Actually, sir, according to Newsome’s file, the wife knew nothing about it – apparently the Councillor didn’t want her worried.”

“I wonder if she does know now or not. We’ll have to find out. First, however, let’s have a look at the file.”

Morgan laid it out on the desk and Inkerman skimmed quickly through it; quickly for two reasons – he was a fast reader and there wasn’t much in it. The gist was that just over two years ago, Councillor Collins had received two letters in the mail. The first he had thrown away, dismissing it as a crank letter. The second, however, he had taken to the police and it still remained in the file. It was short and to the point. In block capitals, crudely written with a thick marker pen on cheap paper, so that the ink had leached through to the other side, it said:

“I know about you. I’ll get you for what you done. You’re a dead man walking.”

According to the files notes the first letter had been much the same other than it had only the first two sentences.

Again, according to the notes, Collins had professed to total ignorance as to why he should have received such a threat. Newsome’s investigation had come up with absolutely nothing, and after a couple of months passed, with no follow up letter and no action taken against Collins, the file had been closed.

Morgan changed the subject as Inkerman closed the file and put it to one side.

10

“I’ve also liaised with the victim support people and I’ve done a note on each man with addresses, names of kin, etc., and there are copies for everyone on the table. Briefly, though, Collins had a wife and two children, both in their twenties, neither still at home. One son, one daughter. The son, David Victor, is in the Army, a second lieutenant, and currently serving in Afghanistan. The daughter, Gillian Mary, is recently married, lives in the Manchester area. Her husband is a junior hospital doctor, Malcolm Griffiths, the daughter works in an estate agent’s. The wife, Fiona Susan, maiden name Halloran, is into a number of charities, sits on committees, helps in charity shops, she is a prison visitor, keen golfer.

“Collins was a County Councillor – stood as an Independent and has been on the Council for eighteen years. He is the Vice-Chairman of the Planning Committee. Before he came onto the Council he was a successful estate agent, and kept that up at first, but stepped down from his business when he was appointed to the Planning Committee to avoid any hint of vested interest. That was eight years ago. He also took on a number of ad hoc jobs around that time through his council contacts. He now gets his income from a trust he set up to run the estate agency and also a number of garages. His address is a fairly pricey one, but not madly so. He seems to have no money worries, healthy bank balance, no known big debts. That’s all so far.

“Doherty is more difficult to pin down. The address on his driving licence is in Farnham – trouble is that when the victim support people went there, nobody had ever heard of Doherty. It is a small block of flats, six in all, all occupied. The victim support people didn’t go any further than that, so we’ll need to find out in Doherty used to live there and never remembered to change his licence, or if there is anything else going on.”

Jane inwardly seethed. If they had taken on the notification of families themselves, by now they would know if Doherty had ever lived in that block. As it was the hand-holders had simply walked away without establishing a vital fact.

“Thanks, Tom – keep digging tomorrow, please. Dave, what about Raymond?”

Cross cleared his throat, opened his notepad and laid it on his knee for easy reference.

“John Raymond is thirty-nine years old. Lives in Woking. Married, two children. Wife, Alice Barbara, née Hammond, aged thirty-six. Two children, David George, aged ten, Mary Helen aged eight. Both children attend the local school.

Raymond is the owner of Raymond Properties, a medium size building company which specialises in low cost housing and simple commercial buildings – warehouses, that sort of thing. He took over the business from his father, George David Raymond who is aged seventy-three and lives in Eastbourne.

Raymond senior takes a pension from the company but seems to have no other interest in it.

Raymond’s mother, don’t know her names yet, died some years ago; again I don’t know the details yet, but was in a traffic accident of some sort.

“Raymond Properties seem to be booming at the moment, although they went through a lean patch three years ago when they lost out on a big contract in Portsmouth – council flats. I’ll know more tomorrow about the real state of finances.”

“Thanks, Dave – keep digging.” She turned to Taylor “Alan, your turn.”

“Thanks, boss. Thomas McNulty is a solicitor. Aged fifty four, married to Joan Alice, aged 50, formerly Joan Alice Calder. No living children; they had one child, a girl, who died aged five days, twenty-six years ago. McNulty is the senior partner in Calder, Harris and McNulty, based here in Guildford. The Calder in the firm’s name was his wife’s father who died five years ago, the Harris name is Frederick Harris who retired seven years ago and lives in Godalming. The firm has three other partners, David Lacey, forty-nine, George Jones, forty-five, and Denise Saunders, thirty-nine. Nothing on any of the three of them in criminal records, nor on McNulty himself. Interestingly, he didn’t start with his father-in-law’s firm; when he first qualified he worked for a big firm – Anders-Moore – based in London, who specialised in criminal law. Now, however, he and his partners are just general solicitors and don’t do any criminal work.”

Inkerman spoke for the first time. “Anders-Moore. Weren’t they the firm that specialised in working with defence counsels back in the seventies and eighties?”

“That’s them, sir. They were involved in a lot of high profile cases at the time.”

Inkerman nodded his thanks and Jane wound things up.

“Right, folks. Traffic have come back with a possible escape bike. Their cameras picked up a machine turning out of that round just two minutes or so after the shooting. The licence number has been checked – it is a 1990 Honda 250 cc machine - the owner is being traced as we speak. Tom, Dave, 11

Alan, keep digging into the victims tomorrow morning first thing. The DCI and I are going to talk to the widows, but more importantly we need to find where Doherty comes from and I’ll cover that as well.” She turned to the uniformed constables, “Blake, you and Clarke knock on doors around Mario’s, stop folk in the street around lunch-time, see in anyone noticed anything. Long shot, but it’s got to be covered, so make sure you check everyone you can.” She turned to Inkerman. “Anything to add, sir?”

“No, I think you’ve covered everything.”

* * * * *

It was gone nine before Jane got home to the flat she shared with her partner, Harry Oakes. Harry was already home and the enticing smell of a casserole met her as she opened the door.

“I’m home” she called out, and Harry emerged from the lounge, a wine glass in each hand. He kissed her and handed her a glass. She took a grateful gulp of the wine and followed him back into the lounge, where she kicked off her shoes and slumped onto the settee.

“Hard day?”

“Christ, you could say so – have you heard of the shooting in Guildford at lunchtime?” Harry nodded

“I’m on that – Inkerman is in overall charge but my team will be doing all the leg work. You should have seen that restaurant – a real shambles. Two dead, two wounded – shotgun.”

“I can imagine”

Yes, Jane thought. Harry could well imagine such a scene. Resigned from the Army just over two years ago now because he had finally got fed up with the way the government of the day was treating its armed forces, he had been a captain in the bomb squad and had seen sights of carnage most could not even imagine in their worst nightmares. So Captain Harry Oakes, MC, had joined the Surrey Fire Service as a specialist in arson investigation. The two of them had met as the result of that work when Harry had investigated a house fire connected to a murder case Jane had worked on as Inkerman’s Detective Sergeant.

Once again she reflected on how lucky she was to be here. She and Harry, on holiday, had by the remotest of chances crossed the path of the killer, who had intended the death of them both to cover his tracks. In an exhibition of speed and ruthlessness that she could not have believed had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, Harry had knocked the gun from the man’s hand and killed him with a single blow with the heel of his right hand driving nasal cartilage into the man’s brain. She still remembered standing there, motionless from shock, and saying “You’ve killed him!” and Harry’s shrugged response “Never pull a gun on a soldier unless you know what you are doing. He didn’t.”

Chapter Two: Friday

Jane had arranged to meet Inkerman at eleven and drive him to visit the two wives and one widow; first; however, she wanted to dig into the mystery around Doherty. She got into her office just before eight, pleased to see that the rest of her team were already there and working. Morgan followed her into her office.

“Boss, we have something on Doherty.”

“What have we got, Tom?”

“Fingerprints – they are on file, but not as Liam Doherty. They match one Liam Riley, who went down in 1988 for thirty-four years for making bombs for the IRA. He was one of those released early by the politicians, so he has been out since 1999. I’ve called up the case records from the Met and they will be couriered over to us this morning, but the computer records are already available to us from central records.”

“Fast work, Tom, well done. Let’s have a look at the computer” she swivelled the computer monitor round so that both of them could see it and, at Morgan’s prompting of file numbers, saved herself the necessity of a computer search. She found herself looking at a photograph of the man she knew as Doherty; taken at the time of his arrest twenty years earlier; the Irishman had not changed greatly in the intervening years.

“Tom, when the paper files arrive let me see them straight away – if they don’t come until after I’ve left with the DCI have a quick run through yourself.” She paused for thought. “IRA? I wonder if that is behind the killing? Revenge from some other group or a disciplinary thing?”

12

“Could be, but why shoot the others? Collins might just have been in the line of fire and unlucky, but the other two were definitely targeted.”

“Fair point – if it was to eliminate witnesses it wasn’t very successful, and if that was the reason – the Wilds were only feet away and would have seen as much, or as little, as those at the table. Anyway, I must let the DCI know of this twist.”

She went along to Inkerman’s office and appraised him of the latest information. Inkerman frowned.

“IRA connections? We’ll likely have Special Branch or the Anti-Terrorist mob all over us in no time.

I’ll talk to Mr. Graham and see if we can get them kept away. Still no idea of where Doherty/Riley was staying or anything?”

“Not yet, but we are running down the Doherty persona as far as we can. So far, no employment records that we can find for tax or the like. Of course, he may have used more than one alias.”

“OK – I think I will talk to Mr. Graham straight away, then we’ll see the wives and widow as we arranged.”

“Right, sir.”

As his Inspector left the room, Inkerman reflected gratefully on the fact that she no longer called him

‘Guv’ as had been the case when he was her DI. It was a form of address that he felt she had probably picked up from too much TV, but he had felt it would have been petty to pull her up over it, even when the rest of his team caught the habit. He also noted that now that she was the DI, her team didn’t use ‘Guv’, but called her ‘Boss’. Turning to more important matters, he made his way to Superintendent Graham’s office.

Graham welcomed him and indicated a chair, reflecting as he did so that the view that he had shared with his own superiors just under two years ago, that Inkerman was coasting as a DI and should be persuaded to accept promotion, had been fully justified since. Despite inheriting two DIs, Hall and Newsome, who had been unhappy at coming under him, Inkerman had quickly whipped things into shape and got results. Things were even better now, as Newsome had recently retired and been replaced by Shirley Lewis, promoted from Detective Sergeant in Hall’s team. Hall himself would be retiring soon, and that would mean the opportunity to find another good sergeant ready for the step up.

He listened as Inkerman told him of the past history of Doherty, now known to be Riley.

“Yes, I can see the worry, Inky. Unless we can show that the IRA connection is coincidental – or at least likely to be – the Anti-Terrorist boys and Special Branch are bound to want a finger in the pie.

I’ll have to let folk know about this – but let’s do a bit more digging first. Let me know how things stand at five o’clock and we’ll take it from there.”

“Thanks, sir – I’ll get on with things.”

* * * * *

Jane turned into the drive of the Collins’ house, a well built, pseudo-Georgian, pseudo-manor house in an expensive development only a mile or so from the M25. She braked gently to a halt, careful not to disturb the immaculately raked gravel, and she and Inkerman reached the front door, where she pressed on the door-bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by a middle-aged woman of formidable appearance.

Virtually as tall as Inkerman and heavily built, the woman wore a tweed skirt, which together with a similar jacket over a sweater, ‘sensible’ shoes and a single row of pearls round her neck, conveyed an impression of immovable respectability.

Jane produced her warrant card.

“Good morning, I am Detective Inspector Lawson and this is Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman. We arranged to see Mrs. Collins this morning.”

The woman stepped back, indicating with a nod of the head that they should enter.

“Come in, Mrs. Collins is through here.”

”Are you a relative, madam?” Inkerman enquired.

“No, I’m Mrs. Hebblewhite. I live nearby; Fiona and I are both members of the local Community Council, and when I heard what had happened I naturally came round to see if I could help.”

She led the two detectives into a large lounge, large enough for the imitation Adams fireplace to form a central point for three settees arranged in a U-shape in front of it and still leave plenty of room to move about. Paintings hung on the walls, and to Inkerman’s appreciative, if untutored, eye, they had the look of expensive originals, not reproductions. Fiona Collins proved to be a slim, attractive woman with silver blonde hair of shoulder length framing an oval face. Seated on a large settee, she was 13

dressed expensively, Jane instantly deciding that the pale cream suit and paler cream silk blouse beneath it were well out of range of a Detective Inspector’s pocket. Dark blue eyes gazed listlessly at them as Inkerman introduced Jane and himself. Mrs. Collins wearily indicated a settee opposite the one upon which she sat and they both sat down.

Jane opened her notebook as Inkerman spoke.

“Mrs. Collins, I am so very sorry to have to intrude upon you at a time like this, but I want to catch the man who killed your husband and to do that I need to know as much as possible about Mr. Collins.

First if all, can you think of anyone who bore him such a grudge as to wish to kill him?”

The widow shook her head, and tears started to gently squeeze from beneath closed eyelids.

“No, Inspector, I can’t think of any reason or anybody. Why did this happen?”

“I don’t know yet, Mrs. Collins, but I intend to find out. Another question, if I may. The men who were having lunch with Mr. Collins – John Raymond, Thomas McNulty and Liam Doherty – did you know any of them?”

“Tom is our solicitor – I’ve met him a lot of times. But the others – Mr. Raymond I met at a council event of some sort last year, but that was the only time. The other man – Doherty?” Inkerman nodded in affirmation “No, I’ve never heard Norman mention anyone of that name as far as I can remember.”

Inkerman broached the subject that intrigued him most.

“Tell me, Mrs. Collins, did you know that two years ago your husband received two threatening letters and reported the fact to the police?”

The widow looked astonished.

“Threatening letters? To Norman? Whatever for? He certainly never mentioned them to me. I mean, as he was on the planning committee, he did receive one or two unpleasant letters from time to time, I know that. But he never mentioned any actual threats. And he was only the vice-chairman. I know that the chairman – Dennis Appleby – did get some quite vicious mail from time to time, but not much came Norman’s way.”

And, despite another quarter if an hour of gentle, but probing questions, that was effectively that. Mrs.

Collins had no idea what, if anything, the lunchtime discussions might have been about. The fact that Raymond was a property developer and Collins was on the planning committee meant nothing to her.

She didn’t recognise a picture of the man who had called himself Doherty.

It was a frustrated pair of detectives who drive to their next appointment, with Alice Raymond. They were even more frustrated to discover upon their arrival that Mrs. Raymond had left for the hospital, following a message that her husband had regained consciousness. The news of her departure had been conveyed by Mrs. Raymond’s parents who had come over to be with her as soon as they heard the news of the shooting. Neither George nor Helen Hammond could shed any light on the matter; they had no knowledge of their son-in-law’s friends nor business acquaintances.

Their third visit at least found Mrs. Joan McNulty at home, but, as with Mrs. Collins, she had no idea why her husband and his companions should have been targeted by a gunman. Like Mrs. Collins, she had met Raymond at a council function the previous year, but had no knowledge at all of the man calling himself Liam Doherty.

There was one faint glimmer of progress, though.

“Thomas said that it was a business lunch, Inspector. He and Norman were going to talk to somebody

- I assume John Raymond and this Mr. Doherty, about some property development scheme, but that is all he said about it. I’m afraid that I don’t know any of the details.”

Inkerman said nothing, but he did start to wonder. Collins had been the vice-chairman of the planning committee. Why might he and his solicitor be meeting with a property developer and a ‘security consultant’ who had been active in the IRA? If a meeting was deemed needed, why in a small restaurant, not at the Council offices? He began to wonder if there might be something not all together kosher about that meeting.

After they left Mrs. McNulty, Jane checked by phone with the hospital.

“Still not much joy, sir. They reckon both men are out of danger, and although Raymond recovered consciousness for a while, he’s away with the fairies again – heavily sedated, not likely to be able make sense today, perhaps not even tomorrow. McNulty hasn’t yet regained consciousness at all. Mrs.

Raymond is still at the hospital with her husband – do you want to go on and talk to her there?”

“No, let’s get back. She’ll keep until tomorrow”

• • • • • •

14

Miles away, shooter was watching the news on TV. It had reached a report on what was described as

‘the horrific shooting in a Guildford restaurant’ with the mandatory interviews with witnesses who hadn’t seen anything, and concerned ‘community leaders’ who didn’t know the victims.

The killer was in a state of near despair. It had taken time, cunning, and finally sheer nerve to do what had been done – and in the end it had been a partial failure.

Panic had set in after the first shot – the sight of the blood spraying from Collins and Doherty had been horrible, resulting in the second and third shots being fired in blind panic, with the result that two of the targets had survived.

• • • • • •

At the same time, the telephone was ringing in Jane’s section office and Tom Morgan answered it.

“CID, DS Morgan.”

“PC Vine from Traffic here, Sarge. We’ve tracked down the details of that Honda motor-bike you are interested in.”

“Great – let’s have ‘em.”

“It’s registered to John Andrew Carlisle, lives in Farnham - but there is a snag. He obviously sold the machine a couple of months ago, because the seller’s part of the V5 has been sent to the DVLA, but the buyer has never re-registered the machine.”

“Oh, shit – is there a buyer’s address?”

“Yes, but I’ve done a quick check – the address is non-existent – it is 76, Weysprings in Haslemere –

that road doesn’t have anything like 76 houses in it.”

“OK, thanks – we’ll take it from here’ – oh, what name did the buyer give?”

“He claimed to be a Barry Cryton..”

Morgan put the phone down and wondered what to do with the information he had just received. He looked at his watch; Inkerman and Lawson should have just about wrapped up talking to the spouses of the shot men. He phoned Jane’s mobile.

The two senior detectives were, in fact, on their way back when Jane’s phone rang. In common with all CID cars, Jane’s had hands-free capability for her mobile so she was able to converse legally and Inkerman was also able to hear what was being said.

Jane listened to what Morgan had to say, then glanced enquiringly at Inkerman.

“Thanks, Tom. I’ve got the boss with me – we can be at the Carlisle address in ten minutes or thereabouts, so we’ll go and talk to him.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later Jane was knocking on the door of a modest semi in Farnham. It was opened by a young woman, perhaps mid twenties, with a small girl peering from behind her legs. The child echoed her presumed mother’s colouring, with light blonde, almost white hair and pale blue eyes. The child, however, had her hair cropped short, whereas the woman wore hers to just below shoulder length. An oval face, framed by the long, pale hair gave her an almost ethereal look. Dressed in a simple full length dress of pale blue, only about five feet tall and lightly built, she conveyed an air of fragility, an air reinforced as she looked warily at the two detectives.

“Good morning, madam,” Inkerman said formally, producing his warrant card. “I am Chief Detective Inspector Inkerman of the Surrey Constabulary, and this is my colleague Inspector Lawson. We were looking for Mr. Carlisle – is he in?”

The young woman looked anxiously up at Inkerman.

“Is John in some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all, Mrs..?”

“Simmons – and it’s Miss – Elizabeth Simmons – John is my partner.”

“Ah, Miss Simmons – we want to try and find out what happened to the motor-bike he sold a little while back.”

“Why, what’s wrong? I know that bike was fine when he sold it.”

“It’s quite alright, Miss Simmons – there is no problem for you or Mr. Carlisle about it – we just need to talk to him.”

“Well, he’s working, of course. He’s a carpenter – does shop-fitting and the like. He’s on a job just up the road today – Lambert’s, the shoe shop in Upper Street. You’ll see his van parked there.”

She looked at her watch.

“In fact, he should be back for lunch at any moment – he likes to eat early because he starts early.”

15

Hardly had the words been uttered than a Ford Transit van turned into the road.

“Look, there he is now.”

Inkerman turned and looked at the vehicle. Elderly, but in quite good condition, it was white in colour with the legend ‘Carlisle Carpentry’ in bold royal blue letters on the side, together with the owners address and telephone numbers.

The van drew up outside the house and the driver emerged. Young, although not as young as his partner, judged Inkerman – perhaps thirty. Tall, several inches taller than Inkerman himself and sturdily built, with jet black hair, heavy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, his colouring and build were in complete contrast to those of his frail-looking partner.

Inkerman advanced to meet him, proffering his warrant card.

“Mr. Carlisle?”

“That’s me – what’s up?”

“I’m DCI Inkerman, this is DI Lawson. Mr. Carlisle, I’d like your help in trying to trace the motorbike you sold to a Mr. Cryton a couple of months back.”

The younger man looked puzzled.

“The old Honda? Well, come inside, not there is much to tell.”

A few moments later, having declined Elizabeth Simmons offer of a cup of tea, Inkerman explained the purpose of their visit.

“You see, Mr. Carlisle, it looks as that that Honda was used in a crime. The man you sold it to – he told you his name was Cryton?”

“Yes, Ben Cryton – or was it Barry? Began with a ‘B’, anyway.”

“It says Barry on the V5.”

“Right, Barry, then.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Hmmm, not very much – as I guess you know, it was an old bike. It was already about eight or nine years old when I bought it about ten years back when I was just starting working for myself. Money was tight and I had to sell my car, but still needed to get around sometimes without using the van – too thirsty on petrol. The bike did me well until I could afford a car again and then I kept it on for a while

– it was quite fun to ride occasionally.

“But you don’t need that – Cryton.” He screwed up his face in concentration. “He paid cash – it was only a hundred and fifty quid. Tallish, about my height or a shade less. Nothing really remarkable about him that I can remember – average sort of looking bloke, bit hefty but not very tall, brown hair, but he did have a moustache and a bit of a beard. Oh, and he wore specs – heavy looking ones with tinted lenses.”

“How did he get here, do you know?”

“Well he didn’t have a car or anything – in fact he rode the bike away. I did warn him about that, but he said his insurance covered him for a bike.”

Inkerman was growing less optimistic by the word. It sounded very much as though the purchaser had worn enough of a disguise to make it unlikely that Carlisle would recognise him again.

Jane broke in.

“Do you remember what he was wearing, Mr. Carlisle?”

“Not really. Jeans and a jacket of some sort, I think. I did notice his helmet – he’d carried it with him and it looked a bit flash. Very dark visor and decorated with sort of zig-zag patterns in lots of colours.”

Elizabeth Simmons, quiet up to this moment, spoke up.

“He didn’t have boots, like you’d expect for riding a bike – he was just wearing trainers, and they were pretty worn. I remember because he made a good job of wiping them on the mat before coming in. His jeans were a bit grubby – he said he wouldn’t sit down as he didn’t want to dirty the furniture, but I made him sit on a kitchen chair. His jacket, too, was a bit grubby – it had been dark blue denim but it was very worn and faded.”

“Well, thank you to both of you. Do you think that you could come to the station and try and make a Photfit picture of him. I realise that you are in the middle of a day’s work, Mr. Carlisle, but if we were send a plain car for you and your wife this evening, would that be alright – bring the little one as well if there is nobody you could leave her with?”

Elizabeth answered “Oh, she’ll be OK – Jenny next door will look after her whilst we are out – we often do that for each other.”

“That would be most helpful. What time should I have the car call?”

“Seven-thirty?” Carlisle suggested.

16

“Right, seven thirty it is. And thanks again for your cooperation.”

Once again Inkerman and Jane headed for the office; this time they made it without further interruption. Once ensconced, they had a brief run through of the little that they had learned. The one real lead was, of course, the motor-cycle. If it could be found on other traffic or CCTV camera on the day of the murders, they might have some idea of where the killer had come from. The Photofit Inkerman saw as a necessity, but he held out little hope of anything useful happening as a result. In all his years as a detective, he had quickly learned that the process – and the Identi-Kit images which had preceded it, seldom gave more than a vague resemblance to the subject. Still, it was a stone which must not be left unturned, just in case.

Leaving Jane to organise the checking of camera footage in the hope of picking up the trail of the killer – and having to remember that although it seemed pretty certain, they could not be absolutely sure that the killer and the Honda were actually connected – Inkerman turned his attention to a review of the other cases his teams were involved in. He was just mulling over a brief note from DI Shirley Lewis regarding some counterfeit £10 notes in circulation when his telephone rang. He picked it up.

“Inkerman”

“Inky, Graham here. Can you pop in please?”

“On my way, sir.”

A couple of minutes later he was in Graham’s office. Graham was not the only occupant. Seated in one of the visitors’ chairs was a woman of about fifty, with iron grey hair cut short surrounding a square jawed, almost masculine face. Stockily built, she was dressed in a black skirt and pale blue sweater. A Barbour jacket,, presumably hers, hung from the back of her chair.

“Inky, this is Chief Superintendent Harrison from the Met’s Special Branch. Superintendent, this is DCI Inkerman; his team is working the Riley shooting.”

The woman nodded at Inkerman who responded politely.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

She launched straight into what she had to say.

“Chief Inspector, I decided to come down here myself to brief you and Superintendent Graham regarding Riley.

“He was born in Dublin in 1956, but he and his family moved to Belfast in the early 60s. By 1973, now a teenager, he was a runner for a local IRA cell. A few years later, around 1978, he disappeared from view, only to reappear in 1980 when we had intelligence that he had become a bomb-maker, and by all accounts a good one.

“His luck ran out in 1988, when we picked him up as part of a general sweep; we managed to link him to several bomb incidents, which between them caused over twenty deaths, and he got sent down for thirty four years. Unfortunately, he was one of those to benefit from the Good Friday agreement and he was released in 1999. For three or four years we were able to keep a gentle eye on him, and as far as we could see, he seemed to have severed his IRA links. Then, in 2004, he simply disappeared off the radar. Thanks to the case here, we now know where he went; it seems to have been a pretty good case of assuming a new identity, and it continues to sit with him not being connected with the IRA in any of its forms any more.

“However,” oh dear, here we go, thought Inkerman, there is always a ‘however’ with these people, “it seems that he has been putting his old skills to some use in helping to organise arson incidents for money.”

Here, Inkerman mentally sat up and took notice. It was the discovery of just such an arsonist for hire that had featured in the case of Thomas Farleigh which he had been involved in some two years earlier. Could there be some sort of link? The woman kept on talking.

“We feel that there may be links between Riley and, not this time the IRA, but some element of organised crime, especially with some of the criminals we currently have over here with East European origins and connections. Now, we don’t want to interfere in your operation in any way, but we would be grateful if you would bear what I have said in mind and let us know of any links you may come across – it could be very helpful.”

In other words, Inkerman thought to himself, in addition to sorting out a double murder on your own behalf, see if you can sort out any Russian Mafia links you happen to stumble over. Great! The possible ramifications of the case had just widened enormously.

Graham was speaking.

17

“Of course, we will be only too pleased to pass on anything we come across – let your team know about all this, will you, Inky?”

“Of course, sir.”

And with that he took his leave from the two Superintendents.

When he told Jane and her team the news, she was amazed.

“Do you remember, sir, I went up to the Met during the Farleigh case and met an Inspector Fallon up there? This guy Riley wasn’t in their list of possible arsonists then. How come all of a sudden they know about him now, when they seemed not to then?”

“Good question, Jane, but I don’t have an answer to it, good or bad. Now, what’s the next move?”

“Well, we haven’t spoken with Mrs. Raymond yet – she was still at the hospital when Tom checked an hour or so ago. I’ll see her tomorrow, unless you want to be involved, sir?”

“No, I’ll hand that over to you. Any more news on the motor-bike?”

Alan Taylor spoke up.

“We’ve reviewed a lot of film so far, sir. The bike appears coming down Farnham Road, past the hospital, and goes directly towards Mario’s. When it leaves, however, it takes a different route –

straight up London Road and onto the A3. The last sight we have of it is when it turns off into Send.

From there we lose it – a lot of minor lanes around there without any camera coverage.”

“So it looks as if chummy planned a route to confuse. Have you looked further south, before he appears in Farnham Road on his way in?”

“Yes, sir – all the way back to Farnham, without a trace of him. He obviously knows the area pretty well.”

“And/or rehearsed things pretty thoroughly. Have you got any more film to review?”

“Only if we spread the net even wider, sir.”

Inkerman thought about, then looked at Jane with a quizzically raised eyebrow. She responded at once.

“I think we should put any more film viewing on hold, sir. This man knows what he is doing, he has been able to plot a route which allowed him to seem to appear from nowhere and then disappear back into nowhere. Unless something specific comes up, I think it would be a waste of effort.”

Inkerman nodded, then looked at his watch.

“Gawd, seven o’clock already. I’m off – see you all tomorrow.”

He left to a chorus of ‘Goodnights’, leaving Jane to apportion tasks for the morrow.

“Alan, I’d like you to come with me when I talk to Mrs. Raymond. Dave, keep digging into any background that you can find on Riley. Tom, you try and see if you can find any links between the four men – somehow, I feel that they weren’t lunching together as a purely social gathering. All OK?”

There were nods all round and the team dispersed to their various homes.

• • • • • •

When Jane got back to the flat there was no sign of Harry, but the answer phone was blinking. She pressed the ‘Play’ button and his voice came through loud and clear.

“Hi, love – it’s me. Sorry, but I’m going to be late – a suspicious fire out Ockley way they want me to look at. I reckon I’ll be back around nine.”

“Damn,” she thought to herself, “just when I fancied a bit of relaxation and a nice little bedroom romping.”

Morosely, she went into the kitchen and fixed herself an omelette, which she ate in front of the TV.

• • • • • •

Inkerman, on the other hand, got home to a pleasant surprise. Parked in front of the house was a strange car – a Mondeo – and on entering the house it proved to belong to their son Ian, newly promoted to Flight Lieutenant, but still based at Leuchars in Scotland.

“Hi, Dad. I’ve got a few days off so I thought I would pop down for a visit. Mum’s kept dinner waiting so we can all eat together, and I can pass on some news.”

“What sort of news?”

“Wait till dinner – you’ll see!”

And indeed he did see, for when Chrissie, his wife, appeared in the dining room, she was accompanied by a stranger, a tall, slim girl in her twenties, a girl with jet-black hair that reached well below her shoulders and which framed a flawless oval face featuring dark blue eyes that positively glittered in 18

the light of the candles which adorned the table. Inkerman rose to his feet, taken completely by surprise. His wife smiled mischievously at his obvious confusion.

“Sit down, Harry, and take that bemused expression off your face.”

Ian chimed in.

“Dad, I want you to meet Fiona Farraday. Fiona and I are going to be married!”

Inkerman rallied as best he could.

“Well, I must say you do have the ability to surprise. Fiona, I am delighted to meet you. Welcome, welcome, welcome. As I am sure you realise, Ian hasn’t said a word about you to us before. Please, sit here by me, I want to hear all about the two of you.”

He turned to his son.

“Ian, why the secrecy? How come we haven’t heard of Fiona before?” He was tempted to ask ‘What happened to what’s her name – Julia? The girl you were going out with last summer?’ but he had the good sense to make no such comment.

Ian smiled, looking for all the world like the cat who got the cream.

“Fiona is in the RAF, like me – she was posted to Leuchars just before Christmas, and we met up –

and things just progressed from there.”

Inkerman turned to the girl, realising that she had yet to say a single word.

“So what do you do in the RAF, Fiona?” he enquired.

“I’m in Air Traffic Control, Mr. Inkerman.

“Please, it’s Harry, OK?”

The girl smiled in acknowledgement.

“I do think it was mean of Ian and Chrissie to spring me on you like this. Please don’t hold it against me.”

“I promise not to. So, when you say that you are going to get married, have you set a date yet?”

It was Fiona who answered. “We haven’t finalised anything yet, of course, but we want to get married this summer – June or July would be nice.”

“What about your parents, Fiona? Are they in the picture yet?”

A slight shadow crossed her face.

“They are both dead, Harry. They died in a road accident on holiday in France two years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You couldn’t know, it’s alright.”

“Please, tell me some more about yourself.”

“Well, I’m twenty-seven, my birthday is the 25th July. Dad was in the Air Force, mum was a teacher before she married. I have a brother, David – he works in the City in a bank. He’s a year older than me. I’ve also got a sister, Angela. She’s two years younger than I am and works in France – mum and dad were visiting her when they died, so it hit her even harder than the rest of us. She and a girl friend run a small restaurant just outside Rennes. Her friend is French – they met at university when Colette was doing a Master’s degree – she’s a bit older than Angela, I think she’s twenty-nine although I am not sure. She’s married and her husband has a small farm. I’ve never actually met him – I was going to go over the year mum and dad were killed, but after that I just couldn’t face going over. All being well, Ian and I are going over soon, though.”

“Why did you join the Air Force?”

“It was because of dad, really. He joined straight from school, went to Cranwell, served over most of the world at one time or another so as kids we were always on the move. I loved it, but neither David nor Angela did. They both wanted to stay put in one place for more than a couple of years or so at a time, even when they were quite little. We must be the original Air Force family – not only was dad in the RAF, but so was my grandfather, and my great-grandfather was in the RFC in the first world war.

Dad was terribly disappointed when David opted out of the family tradition, I enjoyed the travelling we had seen, so it just seemed to follow on naturally.

“I did want to be a pilot – the RAF has quite a lot of women pilots now, but I didn’t have the aptitude for it, so air traffic control it was. That was a disappointment – dad was a pilot and flew in the Falklands, granddad flew at the end of the second world war and in Korea and great-granddad flew in France all through the first war. They must have been pretty good, because they didn’t get as much as a single scratch between them!”

“Will you stay in the RAF once you are married?”

“Until we start a family, but once that happens, all being well, I’ll want to be a full-time mum.”

Inkerman, his mind spinning at this unexpected turn of events, turned his attention to his son.

19

“And you, Ian – any other plans?”

“Well, not plans as such, dad, but I am being sent to the States next month for six weeks. Our squadron is doing some combined exercises with the USAF out in Nevada – apparently over some of the most miserable desert you could hope not to find. On the longer term – well, my twelve years are up next year. I’ve been told that I can have another three if I want them with no problem, and that if I want to go for a permanent commission and retire at fifty-five, my chances are good, but there are no guarantees. The trouble is that the way this government is treating the Forces, I’m not even sure that I want to take the extra three.”

As he went to bed that night, Inkerman realised that the family news had meant that, for the first time is ages, his evening hadn’t been spent half-watching the TV or chatting to his wife, whilst most of his brain was going over the various cases his officers were working on.

Chapter Three: Saturday

“Murder investigations,” Jane observed sadly, “do not recognise week-ends.”

Harry propped himself up on one elbow and watched as she dressed for work. In passing recognition to the fact that it was, after all, a Saturday, the normal skirt or smart trousers gave way to a pair of faded jeans, the business like tops to a sloppy sweater over a heavy silk blouse, the latter a present from the man who now watched in open admiration as she finished her preparations for the day ahead.

“Any idea of when you will be home?” he asked.

“Not a clue, but hopefully I’ll be back before eight, so at least we can eat together.”

“I’ll put a slow casserole on again – then it won’t matter when you are home – provided that you still feel like eating if you are really late.”

A few miles away, Inkerman was similarly preparing for another day at the coal face over the half-hearted protestations of his wife.

“But Harry, Ian and Fiona have to go back first thing tomorrow – you’ll scarcely see them.”

“I know, love – I’ll try to get back as early as I can, but murder cases set their own timetable, I’m afraid.” And with that, he was off; he had arranged to have breakfast in the canteen with Jane Lawson so they could ensure that each was up to speed, without the likelihood of telephones interrupting them.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting opposite his subordinate, wondering how it was that she could tuck into a big fried breakfast whilst seeming not to gain an ounce, whereas he only had to look at something like a fried egg for the scales to register their protest.

“So, no new thoughts, Jane?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Until we can get somewhere on the mysterious anonymous letters, or find some sort of link with those four men and whoever wanted them dead, I can’t see a way forward.”

“Nor me, still, we’ll just have to keep digging. Any news yet on the health of Raymond and McNulty?”

“I phoned before coming in – both making reasonable progress, and the medicos think that we can talk to them later today if we wish.”

“Well, at least that is something. Can I leave that to you?”

“Of course,” secretly pleased at this expression of confidence, Jane nevertheless tried not to let it show. She would much have preferred to be in sole charge of the case, but had recognised at the outset the unlikelihood of that happening, but this was the next best thing, Inkerman delegating a major step to her instead of doing it himself with her tagging along behind. “I’ll take Alan with me – he’s the best note-taker amongst us, and I’d already told him he’s with me when I see Mrs. Raymond.”

Five minutes later, their respective meals finished, Jane went to meet with her team whilst Inkerman went to his own office and met with his newest DI, Shirley Lewis. Shirley was already waiting in his office for him and started to get to her feet as he entered, but he waved her back down into her chair.

“Shirley, thanks for coming in on a Saturday. I won’t keep you long, but I did want a quick update on the van robberies and also your take on something DI Newsome handled before he left.”

Shirley groaned inwardly. Thirty nine years old (but still under forty, she reminded herself) she had been disappointed not to have been Inkerman’s replacement when he stepped up. After all, she had a good bit more experience than Jane Lawson and also seniority over her as a sergeant. However, that was in the past. Jane had been lucky to be in exactly the right place at the right time, whereas she herself had been stuck with a horribly complex investigation into some property fraud which had, 20

frankly, been beyond, DI Hall, her boss at the time. She had been too valuable where she was for her to be moved.

As she started to speak, Inkerman studied her closely. She was, he knew, only a few months short of forty, but she looked a few years younger. Very tall for a woman, as tall as himself or even a fraction taller, she had jet-black hair razor cut to frame a rather long face. It was a striking face, not a beautiful one, the outstanding features being her long, perfectly straight nose and wide-set violet eyes under heavily arched eyebrows. She was, he knew, highly intelligent – embarrassingly more so than her one time boss, DI Hall, and she was also a very determined woman, as had been evidenced by the speed with which she had instilled a sense of urgency into what was now her team, after the inertia that had lurked close to the surface in the months leading up to Newsome’s retirement.

“We are near on the robberies, sir. As we suspected, the organisation stems from the inside. The transport manager, Maurice Weatherby is providing the gen, his cousin Neil Rogers is organising the actual heists. I’ve got two of the drivers being tailed on their next run, which is Tuesday, using myself and DC Cross in one car, DS Parsons and DC Grainger in another, with two area cars each with four uniforms to provide back-up. We expect one or other of the two vans to be hit, and we’ll nab the villains in the act.”

“Firearms?”

“None of the previous robberies have seen firearms used, but to be on the safe side I want all four CID, including myself, to draw pistols. If it is OK with you, I’ll ask Mr. Graham for authority on Monday.”

“So, depending on which van is hit, it could be down to DS Parsons to lead the immediate counter.

You happy with that?”

Of course I am, Shirley thought to herself, or I wouldn’t bloody well organise it that way! She kept that thought to herself, however.

“Yes, sir. Larry Parsons has been involved in a similar situation four years back and coped well.”

She didn’t bother to fill in the details. She knew that Inkerman was fully aware of the fact that Parsons had had to sort out a mess created by his then boss, the now retired (for which much thanks) DI Newsome which had involved firearms and which, but for the sergeants quick thinking a courage, might have turned out very nasty indeed.

“OK, see Mr. Graham tomorrow – tell him I back your request.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, the other thing. You know about the murders at Mario’s, of course?”

She nodded.

“One of the dead – Councillor Collins – received a couple of threatening letters two years back.

Nothing came of them, and the investigation seems, from the file, to have been a bit perfunctory. All three of your people were in the team at the time, although it looks as though DI Newsome actually did just about all the investigating. Please talk to your people and see if there is anything they can bring to mind which might not have got on the file.”

“OK, sir. Wildo. As I’m the only one in this morning, is Monday OK?”

“That’ll be fine. Thanks, Shirley – enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

In her team’s room, Jane had updated them on the fact that the two survivors of the shooting were now fit to be interviewed and that she and Alan Taylor would be doing the interviewing later that day in addition to the interview they already had planned with Mrs. Raymond..

“Right as for the rest of the day, as we agreed last night – Tom, try and find connections, Dave keep digging on Riley. Let’s meet up again at five. Any questions, comments?”

Heads were shaken and the four detectives went their separate ways, with Jane and Alan Taylor heading for the latter’s car.

Their first call was on Mrs. Raymond. Previously advised of the intended visit, the woman was waiting for them when they arrived and ushered them into a comfortably furnished lounge in a medium sized, detached property on the outskirts of Woking.

Jane examined the woman seated opposite her. Alice Raymond was, she knew, thirty six years old, with tow school age children. The house bore evidence to a comfortable life style, as did Mrs.

Raymond’s under-stated, but clearly expensive, trouser suit and blouse, set off by a diamond brooch in the form of an insect of some sort on the left hand lapel of the suit jacket. Physically, she was short, no more than five feet tall, and slim, with ash-blonde hair streaked with darker tints and cut short to the nape of her neck. The fair hair was matched by light coloured eyebrows over dark brown eyes.

21

“Thank you for agreeing to see us this morning, Mrs. Raymond, and I am so glad that your husband is now out of danger. All being well, we will be talking to him later today, but before we do that, I wanted to ask you if you have any thoughts as to why he should have been attacked in such a horrible fashion?”

“I can’t understand it, Inspector. As I expect you know, John runs Raymond Developments. He took over from his father when he retired six years ago. Mostly he builds low-cost housing, although there have been a few bigger projects over the years. At the moment, with the economic climate so bad, there isn’t very much on and he has had to lay some people off, but that is always happening in the building trade, and I can’t imagine that has anything to do with him being shot.”

“The men who were with him at the time, Mrs. Raymond – Councillor Collins, Mr. Doherty and Mr.

McNulty – do you know them?”

“Well, Thomas is our solicitor, - he has done work for us – wills and things – but also legal work for the firm. We know each other well, and also Joan, of course. Norman is” she hesitated, “I mean was, a member of the same golf club as John and myself, so we met quite often there, although I don’t think I ever met him anywhere else, but I know that John met him from time to time. Mr. Doherty – I’ve never heard of him before, I’m afraid.”

“You said that your husband and Councillor Collins met from time to time. Do you know if that would be about business?”

The woman looked keenly at Jane.

“You mean, why should a builder and a councillor on the planning committee be getting together? I hope that you aren’t implying anything, Inspector?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Raymond – I am simply asking the question.”

“Well, yes, John and Norman did meet about business matters – but that was always in the council offices with others present. They enjoyed each others’ company at the golf club and sometimes had lunch or dinner together, either there or at a restaurant such as Mario’s.”

“As you knew Councillor Collins well, Mrs. Raymond, can you think of any reason why he might have been a target? Or either of the others? At the moment, the attack seems totally without motive, but the murderer clearly planned it carefully, so there must have been some motive, but so far we just can’t find it.”

“Well, as I said, I’d never even heard of the man Doherty before, but as for Norman and Thomas, I just don’t see any reason for it. I suppose with Norman on the council, some decision he was involved in might have caused someone problems, although it seems a long way from that to murder, but as for the others...”

Her voice tailed off as she shook her head in negation of the idea.

And that was as far as they got. Afterwards, in the car, Taylor voiced Jane’s own puzzlement.

“I just don’t see it, boss. OK, a solicitor, a builder, a councillor on the planning committee, they might have been on some sort of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’, but where does Riley fit in?

The man was a bloody IRA bomb maker. I know that Super from the Met says he’s out of that scene –

but the Met aren’t always one hundred percent right, now are they? I reckon it’s the IRA connection.

Someone tracked Riley down and took him out. They’re vicious bastards with long memories, and they don’t care if anyone else gets in the line of fire. That must be it, surely? After all, if it’s anything to do with building – why Riley. You don’t blow things up when you are building houses or whatever.”

“No,” said Jane, but than a thought struck her, “but you just might want to burn something down to give yourself a clear field. Alan, first thing Monday, go to the council planning offices –I want to know all the planning applications going through at the moment which involve Raymond and/or McNulty.”

“OK, boss – sure it can wait until Monday?”

A bit surprised at this display of eagerness from the normally placid DC, Jane thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, it’ll have to – you’ll never get any sense out of the council on the weekend.”

The interviews with Raymond himself and also with Thomas McNulty were similarly inconclusive.

Neither man had any idea why they should have been the target of a gunman. On the question of what they knew about ‘Doherty’ and why the four of them were having lunch together, however, there were some discrepancies in their stories.

When Jane asked Raymond what he knew of Doherty, he was vague.

22

“I met him for the first time at that lunch. Poor old Norman apparently had some sort of job he wanted doing. I don’t know the details, Liam was just introduced to us as a security consultant who was going to run something for Norman. I suppose only Norman could have told you.

“As to why we were having lunch together, well Norman and I quite frequently had a meal together, sometimes at the golf club, sometimes, as on Thursday, in town. I think that he intended to talk business with Doherty and Thomas after we had finished lunch – perhaps Thomas can tell you more.”

McNulty’s take on matters was rather different.

“Well, Inspector, Norman had asked me to join himself, John Raymond, and Mr. Doherty for lunch to discuss a building project he had in mind. Nothing in Surrey, of course – with Norman’s position on the council that would have been quite wrong. No, Norman had acquired some land in Hampshire and he wanted to build a couple of houses on it. He knew of John Raymond’s work, of course – several of John’s schemes had passed through the planning committee in Norman’s time – and he wanted me to sort out the legalities when the time came. I don’t really know where Doherty came into the picture –

we hadn’t got very far into things when that man came in.”

Jane thought for a moment.

“Tell me, Mr. McNulty, how much was the question of building those houses actually talked about over lunch?”

McNulty furrowed his brow in contemplation.

“I can’t really be sure, Inspector. To be honest with you, I’m a bit confused about it all now. I mean, Norman had told me about the land long ago – I did the conveyancing for him – so I’ve known about his plans for it for months. I don’t know how much the others knew before we met up for lunch – John Raymond might not have known much at all – then again he might already have been working on plans for it – you’ll need to ask him on that.”

Jane had taken the precaution of having Raymond sign a statement, detailing his answers to her, and now did the same with McNulty. As she and Taylor left the solicitor’s bedside she wondered whether to tackle Raymond straight away on the discrepancies or to leave him be for a while.

She decided that it would be best to wait; she didn’t want to give Raymond any excuse that he was being over-burdened in his, admittedly, weakened state. Also, if she left him for a few days, Dave Cross’ digging into planning applications might have produced something.

She looked at her watch; already nearly three o’clock. Conscious of the ever-mounting overtime bill, and feeling that there was little else to be achieved that day, she had Taylor drive them both back to the station and then sent him off home.

She went back to her office, intending to just drop off the signed statements and check for any messages. To her surprise, Inkerman was waiting for her.

“Jane, how did you get on?”

Quickly, she brought him up to date with her results. Inkerman pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“So, there is a bit of variation in the tales. Whilst you were out I did a bit of checking of my own into McNulty. A friend of mine, David Saunders, is also a local solicitor and I asked if he knew anything about the man. You remember that he started work in London?”

“Yes, sir – with Anders-Moore, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Now, this is pure gossip and speculation, but it is rumoured that he left London under the trace of a cloud. Nothing ever public, nothing ever proven, but there were thoughts that his defence work in criminal cases went a bit over the top behind the scenes – witness intimidation and the like.

Not that he was involved directly, of course – but that he had links he would rather folk didn’t know about.”

“So, perhaps Mr. McNulty isn’t the upright local solicitor we have assumed?”

“Precisely.”

“So have a possibly dodgy solicitor meeting with a councillor on the planning committee, a builder and a perhaps retired IRA bomb maker. Sounds more dodgy by the minute.”

“Once again – precisely.”

The two of them agreed that there was nothing more to be achieved that day and returned to their respective home, Inkerman to bid farewell to his son and prospective daughter-in-law as they set off north, Jane to indulge in the bedroom activities with Harry that she had missed out on the previous evening.

23

Chapter Four: Sunday

The various detectives all managed to pass a care-free Sunday. Inkerman and his wife spent the day pottering in the garden. Jane and Harry, after a long lie-in, drove to a pub in Ripley for lunch, then spent the rest of the day in quiet self-entertainment. Alan Taylor, wife Paula and daughter Jill, watched son David play rugby for the local club’s under 15 side. Dave Cross and his wife Sheila visited her parents in Brighton. Tom Morgan, watched by his current girl-friend, Rachel Kindmann, also played Rugby, in his case for his club 1st XV, and excelled himself in scoring a brace of tries in a hard fought victory. Shirley Lewis, single and currently unattached, drove to a favourite nearby wooded area to indulge in her casual hobby of bird photography, a quiet, relaxing pastime far removed from the energetic, driven personality she displayed at work.

Another player in the events spent a very different day.

The killer woke early, just before five by the bedside clock. An attempt to get back to sleep was without success, and eventually gave in and got up around half past and went downstairs for a cup of strong tea and three thick slices of toast and marmalade as a pre-breakfast snack.

A vital question was still unanswered. Now that McNulty and Raymond had survived, dare another attempt be made?

The shotgun had almost been thrown away after Thursday, after much agonising, it had been retained, at least for the present. It was one of two in the house. The other, an ordinary double-barrelled weapon such as farmers up and down the length of the country possessed, was in its cupboard. The murder weapon, however, illegally owned, and with its barrel illegally shortened, was carefully concealed in the garage.

Clearly the two men, once they were discharged from hospital, would be on their guard. Equally, the police would undoubtedly be paying attention to their future welfare. Even if the courage and determination could be found for a second attempt, how likely was it that an opportunity would present itself?

Under normal circumstances, the killer was not a very decisive person, but the vendetta against the men was something that would never go away..

Back in the house, everything in sight had been worked hard for; those men had cheated and robbed and as a result the chance of for once, just for once, getting a bit of money together had been snatched away. What was the old saying? ‘Vengeance is a dish best eaten cold’? Well, this vengeance would be very cold indeed, but the dish was still going to be eaten – all of it.

Chapter Five: Monday

Shirley Lewis got to her office early to clear up some paperwork before the other members of her team arrived. Thirty minutes later, they were all there.

“Right,” she said, “tomorrow should be a god day for us. I’ve got the DCI to agree that we all draw pistols, just in case, but the back-up cars will have the heavy artillery, so no heroics, please.”

The three members of the team nodded their heads in agreement as she swept her gaze over them. Her DS, Ron Parsons, thirty seven years old, had already experienced a similar situation in the days of the unloved DI Newsome and had come through with flying colours, in the process probably saving Newsome’s life (his biggest mistake in the black humour of the station). The other two, DCs Gorton Price and Fred Grainger, like herself, were new to a situation in which firearms might well be needed, but she was confident that they would cope.

“Now, something else. I wasn’t here at the time, but you all were – do you remember the Councillor who was killed last week – Councillor Norman Collins – making a complaint about receiving death threats a couple of years back?”

Parsons spoke for all.

“Yes, boss – Mr. Newsome checked into it. Nothing came of it, though.”

“Yes, well, the DCI spoke to me about it. Seeing the man now has been murdered, perhaps there is a tie-up, although to be honest, I doubt it – I mean, why wait two years? Anyway, the file on this isn’t very comprehensive. From it all we have is the second note, the statement by Collins, and Mr.

Newsome’s own notes, saying that he had got some of his snouts to ask around about Collins to see if there was anyone who might have enough of a grudge – or even a reason – to take him out. He came up with nothing. Did any of you get involved at all at the time?”

24

It was Fred Grainger who answered.

“The DI got me to look through the local newspaper records to see if there was anything that might cause threats. I went back two years and found nowt.”

“That’s it? Nothing more?”

“’Fraid not, boss.”

“OK, I’ll let the DCI know. Thanks, Fred.”

Inkerman heard the news with disappointment; he didn’t know what he had hoped for, but knowing Newsome as well as he had, he had hoped that some stone might have been left unturned, from under which a motive, or a suspect, or preferably both, might have emerged.

He passed the news on to Jane, who took it philosophically.

“Ah, well, sir, I suppose that it was clutching at straws.”

“Now that you have interviewed McNulty and the Raymonds, what is your take on things?”

She thought for a moment before replying.

“Well, I don’t buy that this was some casual lunch. Those four were together for a reason. Whether that reason had anything to do with why they were shot, I just don’t know.

“I’m still not happy about Riley. I know that Superintendent from the Met reckons that Riley is no longer involved with the IRA, but I wonder? He might have moved away from them, but do they see it that way? There have been the offshoots from the Provisionals in recent years – the Real IRA and the Continuity IRA – suppose someone within those organisations decided they had a grudge against Riley, or they wanted to shut his mouth over something he knew and they didn’t want to come out?

Come to that, if the Met are right and he now has links with East European crime – perhaps they might have wanted him shut up.”

“What about the others who were shot? Surely you don’t think they had any IRA connections? Or with Eastern Europeans?”

“Doesn’t seem likely, sir, but on the other hand, neither the IRA in its various guises, nor East European gangsters seem to care too much about anyone getting in the way. If whoever it was wanted all four men, why use a weapon only capable of three shots?”

“What makes you think he only had three shots?”

“Well, that’s the limit for shotgun magazines.”

“Legal limit in the UK, yes, but there are millions of shotguns world-wide capable of more than three shots. It could be something made before the law changed, it could have been brought in from abroad, it could have been modified by a gunsmith.”

Chastened, Jane had to accept that Inkerman was right and that from the outset she had made the mistake of assuming that the killer had emptied his weapon before leaving the scene of his crime. How important that fact might, or might not, be, she had no way of knowing, but it annoyed her that she had over-looked it – and especially that she had paraded her mistake in front of Inkerman.

She returned to her team to be met by Dave Cross with a big smile on his face.

“Boss, I’ve found a connection between Riley and McNulty!”

“You have? Well done! What is it?”

“Well, you remember McNulty started his legal career in London, with Anders-Moore?”

She nodded.

“Well, they were the solicitors for Riley back in 1988 when he was arrested – and the solicitor who dealt with Riley was McNulty.”

“And he had the gall to tell me that he had never seen Riley before!”

That, she decided, put a different complexion on matters. Were it not for the fact that McNulty was still in a hospital bed, still very weak from his wounds, she would have had him in for a grilling before the day was out. As it was, she was in a quandary. He would probably need to be questioned under caution, with a solicitor, should he so choose, present. Such a procedure scarcely seemed appropriate under the present conditions; should, for whatever reason, McNulty come to trial, she could imagine the song and dance defence counsel would make; claiming that statements had been extracted under duress would be the least of it.

She passed the news on to Inkerman, who agreed with her that they should hang fire on further questioning of McNulty.

“After all,” he said, “we know where he is, and he isn’t going anywhere else soon.”

She returned to her team, to find Tom Morgan now seeking her attention.

25

“Boss, you know DI Newsome’s investigation went back a couple of years in the newspaper files?

Well, I’ve gone back a good bit further. Back in 2001 when the foot and mouth epidemic was raging, the Government set up a number of local panels to look into questions of compensation for farmers who had lost herds. The one around here was chaired by Collins – and there were a number of people unhappy at the way he did things. It seems he took a very tough line, and the complaints were that in other parts of the country farmers were treated much more generously than they were by Collins and his committee.”

“Any specifically bad instances?”

“Well, one man – a Simon Daniels – took a pickaxe to Collins’ car in a fit of absolute rage. Nothing sneaky about it – he stormed out of his interview, took the pickaxe from his Land Rover, marched up to Collin’s car and started to lay into it right in front of a beat bobby who promptly arrested him. He got a suspended prison sentence, fined £2,000 and given a hundred hours of community service. As far as he was concerned, however, that must have been peanuts – more importantly, the amount of compensation he got was so low that he went bust. Six months later he topped himself – shotgun in the mouth.”

Jane shuddered. “Did he have any family?”

“Yes, a picture from before the decision shows him with a woman, presumably his wife and two youngish couples.”

“Was there anybody else who fell foul of Collins and his committee?”

“Yes. Quite a few folk complained at the way Collins and company interpreted the guidance. There were some other major losers. A man called Harold Balfour – he went out of business, declared bankrupt, as were James Littlebrook and Abraham Kirby. Peter Harris lost a lot of money and sold up voluntarily, as did Michael Calley. One last major loser, Nathaniel Gorton – Collins apparently refused him so much as a penny, reckoning he had infected his own herd.”

“Well, that surely gives us a few suspects – but if it was any of them, why wait so long? Those threatening letters were five years after the event, the shooting over seven. If it was any of them, or people connected to them, perhaps a more recent event triggered things off?

“OK, Tom, start digging into these people – we are going to have to talk to them all, but I want as much background as we can get before doing so. Seeing there’s so many of them, get Alan onto it as well. Dave, will you keep plugging away into Kirby and McNulty, please?.”

“OK, boss.”

At the end of the day Inkerman joined the team for a collating session. Tom Morgan kicked off.

“I think that Alan and I have got just about as much together as we can just sitting here. To take them in alphabetical order, what we have found is this.

“Harold Balfour is now sixty-eight. He was bankrupted by the foot and mouth losses and now apparently lives on his old age pension, although he may have had other interests over and above the farm, so it may not be only the old age pension. He is a widower; his wife Brenda died in 2007 aged sixty-one.

“Michael Calley. He is now fifty years old, married to Helen, who is forty-eight. Three children, David, twenty-five, Nigel, twenty-three, Gillian twenty-two. After selling up down here he left farming altogether, now runs a small chain of garages in the Hereford area. Of the children, David works for his father, Nigel is in the Army, a corporal in the Military Police, and the daughter works in a florist’s. She still lives at home, David lives in a flat in Hereford.

“Simon Daniels – the guy who killed himself. At the time of his death he was fifty-one years old. He is survived by his wife, Janice, now fifty-five, their daughter Tara thirty-two, who has a husband, Alan Barton who is thirty-six, and son James, thirty years of age, who is married to wife Alice 28

“Next is Nathaniel Gorton. He was actually imprisoned for fraud, following allegations that he infected his own herd for the compensation. He was released from prison in 2005 and left the area, but as yet we haven’t been able to track him down. He has a son, Leonard, aged thirty-nine who has a small sheep farm in North Wales and is married to Julie, aged thirty-six.

“Next up, Peter Harris, who is now forty-nine. He sold up in 2002 and for the moment all we have been able to find out is that he was working for a garden centre in Woking until June 2004. He left the 26

job, no forwarding address, and the address he gave the garden centre is a rented property now occupied by a family of four who, as far as we can see, have no connection with him. We can’t find any trace of a wife or children.

“Abraham Kirby, who is now seventy-two and the eldest of the bunch. He was another bankrupt and he must have had a bit hidden away from the creditors or survived on odd jobs until he got his old age pension, because there are no employment records that we can trace for him since his bankruptcy. He lives in what, from the address, looks like a bed-sit in Epsom. He was married, but at the moment we haven’t been able to trace the wife – not on the electoral roll, no death certificate, no divorce filed, nothing.

“Finally, James Littlebrook, who is now fifty-eight and was another bankrupt at the end of it all. All we have found out about him so far is that he sold up and left the district in 2002, closed his bank account, and seems to have vanished without trace. At the time he was married to Kathleen, née Lawrence who must be fifty-five, but she has vanished as well.”

Jane sighed at the end of Morgan’s recital, then gathered herself together.

“Thanks, Tom, you and Alan have done wonders in the time you’ve had – kept at it tomorrow, please.

“So, a positive raft of potential suspects. I think that we need more background before we start interviewing; let me see, I make that about seventeen people to track down –“ she raised a wry grin, “-

but not tonight.”

She turned to Inkerman.

“Anything to add, sir?”

“Nothing, thanks, Jane, except to congratulate you all on the progress you have made. Let’s hope tomorrow will fill in some of the blanks.”

As he drove home, Inkerman reflected on the two highest profile cases his teams had on their hands.

Of the two, the Riley affair was going to demand a lot of time with so many people to follow up on, but the more imminent, and the more worrying to him, was Shirley Lewis’ expectation to nab the lorry hijackers on the morrow. The police would be armed, always something that worried him. Where firearms were involved, there was always the chance of an irreversible mistake being made – someone shot in a case of mistaken identity, an innocent bystander catching a stray bullet, a police officer being killed or wounded.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have taken over the control of the counter-ambush himself, but grudgingly had to admit that he couldn’t be everywhere, do everything. He had to leave it to his subordinates.

Chapter Six: Tuesday

Jimmy Gates carefully manoeuvred the thirty-two ton artic out onto the road in front of the Coates Transport warehouse. A happy-go-lucky character, Jimmy was forty-three years old, running a bit to weight, with fifteen years in the Army, and now seven years with Coates behind him.

There were two big lorries going out this morning, both loaded with many thousands pounds worth of goods – bottles of wine in Jimmy’s vehicle, fags in that of Tom Evans, the other driver. He reflected on the chat the boss had had with both of them thirty minutes earlier.

“Look, blokes,” he had said, “it’s now four months since Johnny Wallace’s van was hijacked. The police have told me that there might be another attempt soon, perhaps even today, so for Christ’s sake be careful. If anyone tries anything – let the fuckers have what they want. Don’t resist – the vans are insured, so are the contents, but I can’t replace you guys. I don’t want to tell one of your wives have gallant you were, but sorry, missus, you’re now a widow. OK?”

Good bloke to work for was Bill Coates. Like himself, he was ex-Army and a pretty tough nut. It had hurt the business when it had suffered three hijackings in the last year. None of the drivers had been hurt, but it was humiliating to think that some sods just came up and took your load off you, just like that.

He wondered if anything would happen today; it was quite a short haul by big lorry standards, just up to Brum.

27

He had only driven a few miles, and was approaching the M25 when it happened. A Ford Transit overtook him, suddenly swerved in front of him and braked hard.

Jimmy trod on his own brakes and the big vehicle shuddered and squealed to an emergency stop.

As it did so, a second Transit pulled up close behind, three men emerged from each van, and they started towards the cab. For a moment, despite Bill Coates warning, Jimmy contemplated fight rather than flight, but then decided that odds of six to one were a bit much, even for a former member of the Parachute Regiment.

Then it all changed again. Two cars came screeching to halt alongside and four uniformed police, wearing helmets and body armour, and carrying sub-machines poured out of one, a man and a woman in plain clothes from the other.

“Armed police,” the woman virtually screamed at the top of her voice, “on the ground, NOW!”

Bemused and clearly terrified, the would-be hijackers did as they were told. In moments they were all hand-cuffed and ten minutes later a police van arrived and took them all away. In the meantime a third car, this time a marked police car, had arrived and whilst two of its occupants controlled the traffic which had started to build up, two others busied themselves photographing the vans, Jimmy’s lorry and the general layout.

The woman had introduced herself to Jimmy as Detective Inspector Shirley Lewis, and after ensuring that he was all right took him through a quick recounting of what had happened.

Inkerman had been waiting on tenterhooks for the phone to ring, but even so, when it did it made him jump. He answered it anxiously.

“Inkerman.”

“Lewis, sir – all’s well. They went for the lorry with the wine for Birmingham. We nabbed them in the act, nobody hurt on either side, no shots fired, and they are all under lock and key. We’ve let the lorry go on its way – the villains never actually got to it, so no need to dust for prints or anything.”

“Well done, Shirley. Are you going to pick up Weatherby now?”

“Already done, sir. As soon as we had secured the gang I radioed Ron Parsons and he broke off following the other lorry and went and arrested Weatherby at the warehouse.”

“Better still – pass on my congratulations to all concerned, please.”

“I’ll do that – and thank you, sir.”

“No, Shirley, it’s thank you.”

The news quickly spread through the station and gave everyone a boost. Jane, whilst sharing the general pleasure for the force as a whole and Shirley and her team in particular, did have somewhat mixed feelings. She didn’t really want to be out-shone by someone even newer to the rank of Detective Inspector than herself, and it made her even more determined, if that were possible, to succeed in the current murder case. There was the problem, of course, that as Inkerman was in overall charge, a successful conclusion would not earn her as many kudos as it would have if it were her case alone (she ignored the fact that Inkerman’s involvement would partially deflect criticism from her if things went wrong; Detective Inspector Jane Lawson did not deal in negatives).

The Tuesday wore on with the team patiently ploughing through all available records and making telephone calls to try and strengthen their knowledge of their possible suspects. Jane was of the opinion that it was all probably a waste of time – given the time lapse between the misery Collins and his committee had inflicted, and the actual shooting, she found it very difficult indeed to credit the thought that one of those people was responsible; it was, she was almost certain, more likely that Riley had fallen foul either of some element of the IRA, or some gangsters.

Even more frustrating was the fact that by the end of the day, very little new information had been obtained. The Littlebrooks, husband and wife, remained a total mystery after 2002; it was as though the earth had opened up and swallowed them. Similarly, no trace could be found of Mrs. Kirby.

Jane sat down at the end of the day to prioritise the suspects and thus decide which ones to pursue first. The apparent disappearance of the Littlebrooks, Peter Harris and Mrs. Kirby decided her to leave them to last. That left the family of the late Simon Daniels – five people at three different 28

addresses, Leonard Gorton, the son of the disappeared Nathaniel Gorton, Harold Balfour and Michael Calley and family.

Balfour and the Daniels family all lived reasonably close to hand. Calley and family were in Hereford, Gorton in North Wales. She decided to start with Balfour and then, in a minor rearrangement, added Kirby to the early interviews – he also was close at hand and the vanishing wife could be checked out at the same time.

Chapter Seven: Wednesday

In the event, she started with Abraham Kirby. His address proved to be a one bedroom flat in a largish house in a quiet road on the outskirts of Epsom. It had once been a reasonably prestigious address, but that was years, indeed decades, earlier. Now it cried out for work being done to it; peeling paint, sagging guttering, ill-fitting doors and windows all declared out loud how the house had come down in the world.

When Jane, accompanied once more by Alan Taylor, gained admittance, much the same could be said of the occupant.

Abraham Kirby was a tall, gaunt figure of a man. A little over six feet tall, he looked as though he scarcely have weighed eleven stones and gave the impression that a gentle puff of wind would bowl him over. Dressed in grey, grey slacks clearly too big around the waist for him, a grey shirt open at the collar and with a grey cardigan, half unbuttoned over it, his features took on much the same colouration. Grey, wispy hair was uncombed, unshaven cheeks displayed perhaps three days of grey stubble, eyes of a washed out grey, and a grey pallor to his skin gave him a totally unprepossessing appearance.

He invited them in and offered them chairs; when he spoke, his voice was weak, somewhat tremulous.

“How can I help you, Inspector?”

“Mr. Kirby, we are investigating the murder of Liam Doherty and Norman Collins in Guildford last week – you may know about it, it was in the papers and on the TV news.”

Kirby waved his hand around the room, indicating the lack of a television.

“I don’t think I have heard of it, Inspector. I seldom buy a newspaper these days, and as you can see I don’t have a TV – too expensive, and they only show rubbish anyway.”

“Well then, Mr. Kirby, let me tell you what happened. Norman Collins, a County Councillor, and Liam Doherty, who seems to have been a business acquaintance of his, together with two other men, Thomas McNulty, a local solicitor, and John Raymond, who has a building company, were having lunch in Mario’s Restaurant in Guildford last Thursday. A man walked into the restaurant and opened fire with a shotgun,

“Councillor Collins and Mr. Doherty were killed instantly, Messrs. McNulty and Raymond were seriously wounded. The gunman, described as about six feet tall and wearing dark clothing with his face concealed by the visor of a motor-cycle helmet, then escaped.

“Now, Mr. Kirby, the reason that I have come to see you is because you knew Councillor Collins.”

The old man looked blankly at her.

“I did? I don’t remember doing so – I must admit, Inspector, that my memory isn’t what it was, but I really can’t call him to mind.”

“Oh, you’ve met him, Mr. Kirby. You met him in 2001, specifically in July 2001. On Monday the 16th of that month Councillor Collins chaired the committee which considered your claim for compensation for the culling of your dairy herd. The committee awarded you compensation, but only forty per cent of the maximum available, deciding that you had been insufficiently rigorous in safeguarding your herd.”

Kirby looked more confused than ever.

“That I do remember, Inspector, but I don’t remember the names of the committee. Councillor Collins was on it you say? And now he’s been killed? Well, don’t expect me to be sorry for him – that committee ruined me. Look at this place, young woman – do you think that at my age I should have to live in somewhere like this? I lost my livelihood, my home and my wife thanks to that decision, so don’t expect any help from me in catching the man who shot that bloody councillor. Serves him fucking well right!”

29

“It wasn’t you, was it Mr. Kirby?”

He looked at her scornfully.

“Do I look as though I go around on a motorbike shooting people, Inspector? Don’t be ridiculous. I can hardly walk more than a hundred yards at a time - the stairs in this place are slowly killing me.”

Jane changed tack.

“You said you lost your wife, Mr. Kirby – what happened?”

“Left me, she did – after thirty years of marriage, the miserable cow just up and left me.”

“And where is she now?”

“Gone to live with her sister – even changed her name back to her maiden name of Grant to spite me, so she’s now Mary Grant, after being Mary Kirby all those years. Said I was welcome to live in squalor but she wouldn’t.”

“Where does her sister live?”

“Over in Mitcham – only a few miles away, but I’ve not seen her from that day to this.”

He stopped for a moment, and Jane could see incipient tears welling up in the old man’s eyes.

“When did she leave, Mr. Kirby?”

“Just six months after I was declared bankrupt. April 2002 that was. Seven years ago – and all thanks to that committee.”

Jane found herself beginning to feel some sympathy towards this broken old man. From the digging her team had already done, it seemed clear that Collins’ committee had, indeed, been far less forthcoming with compensation than had been seen as the norm elsewhere. The slightest evidence of less than one hundred per cent endeavour to keep the loathsome disease at bay was seized upon to deny or reduce the sums awarded, and the result sat in front of her.

“For the record, Mr. Kirby, where were you between midday and two o’clock last Thursday?”

“Where I always am at lunchtime – here, having a bite to eat.”

“Can anyone verify that for you?”

“’Course not – what do you think?”

“One last question, and we will leave you in peace. Do you own a shotgun?”

“Why would I need one here? I used to have a twelve bore when I had the farm, but it went with everything else.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kirby – we’ll be on our way.”

The two detectives drove away from Kirby’s flat, each mentally re-running the interview.

“What do you think of Kirby, then, Alan?”

“I can’t see it – I mean, look at him. He’s not only old – he’s ill. Those clothes were almost falling off him, and he looked ill in the face. He reminds me of a neighbour of ours who died from cancer a couple of years back. Towards the end, he lost a lot of weight and had that gaunt, grey look that Kirby has.”

Jane nodded in agreement. Then a thought struck her. All along she had been inclined to dismiss the farmers and ex-farmers involved because of the time lag. Suppose, however, just suppose, that a specific event – like being diagnosed with a terminal illness – occurred and triggered long-standing resentment into anger and action?

The more she thought about it, the more she felt that she had been too hasty in her mental dismissal of their possible suspects. She still couldn’t see Kirby as the killer – he just seemed too frail, and although in theory he might have hired someone to act on his behalf, the cheapness of his flat and the evidence of his impoverished life style made her very sceptical of such a possibility. Where could somebody like Kirby find the money?

“Right, I reckon he’s just about out of the frame, but we’d better check the wife out – it’s only fifteen minutes or so away.

Taylor drove them to the address Kirby had given them, which turned out to be a neat, medium sized semi in a quiet residential street a few minutes walk from the centre of Mitcham. They walked up to the front door and rang the bell, to be answered by a woman in late middle-age dressed in a sweater and slacks.

“Good morning, madam. I’m Detective Inspector Lawson of Surrey police and this id my colleague, DC Taylor. We are looking for Ms. Mary Grant, Mrs. Kirby as was.”

“That’s my sister – what’s the matter?”

30

“We just want to speak to her, Mrs...?”

“Mrs. Allen – you’d better come in.”

Mrs. Allen ushered them into a comfortably furnished living room, in which another woman of like age was seated on a settee, reading the newspaper.

“Mary, these people are police officers, want to talk to you.”

Mary Grant laid down the paper and looked at them.

“Police? What do you want with me? Is it something to do with Abraham – because if it is, I’m not interested.”

No, thought Jane, I can see that you’re not. She contrasted the comfort she saw around her with what she had seen in Kirby’s flat, the plump, self-satisfied appearance of the one-time wife with the gaunt ill-health of her former husband.

Mary Grant was perhaps latter half of the sixties, grey hair neatly cut, running to excess weight with deep-set brown eyes peering at her almost aggressively, certainly not exuding any air of intended cooperation.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Grant, but we need to follow up on an interview we have had with Mr.

Kirby this morning.”

“Oh, what’s he done?”

“Nothing that I know of, Ms. Grant, but he is one of several people we are having to interview because they were all victims of the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001 and all claimed compensation for losses incurred, with their claims being adjudicated by a committee chaired by Councillor Norman Collins.”

Mary Grant looked puzzled.

“So?”

“Councillor Collins was murdered last week.”

Ms. Grant looked blankly at her.

“But what would that have to do with me? Or with Abraham for that matter?” She paused. “You surely don’t think he would have had anything to do with it? Abraham? He wouldn’t have the guts –

he’s useless.”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort, Ms. Grant. I just want to check with you a few points that Mr.

Kirby made to us.

“Firstly, he said that he was declared bankrupt in late 2001 and that you left in April 2002 – is that right?”

She nodded “Yes, that’s it. When that happened – the bankruptcy – we lost everything – our house, the cars, the farm – the lot. It took a little while but I found out that if he’d had the sense to arrange things differently, we need only have lost the farm, but oh no, not with him. He had no time for accountants and such, so things were a lot worse than they need have been. If he’d had a bit more sense, we’d have been able to carry on quite nicely, but the old fool ruined us. So, as far as I was concerned, that was that – I told him straight – he’d made his bed and he’d have to lie in it. I was having nothing to do with it, or him, any more. Edith had just lost her George, so I came here and it suits us both fine, doesn’t it, Edith?”

Thus addressed, the sister, still standing in the doorway, nodded in agreement but made no other comment.

“Do you have any idea how Mr. Kirby felt about Councillor Collins?”

“Of course not – how should I? Until you just told me, I didn’t even know the man’s name, and I literally haven’t seen Abraham, nor spoken to him, since the end of April 2002 when I left him after giving him a piece of my mind.”

I can just imagine it, thought Jane, and I think you probably enjoyed it.

“Are the two of you actually divorced, Ms. Grant?”

“No – that would mean solicitors and expenses. Abraham hasn’t two farthings to rub together, and I don’t see why I should pay anything for the privilege of getting a piece of paper.”

“One final point, Ms. Grant – do you know if Mr. Kirby has health problems?”

“You mean apart from stupidity? Not when I last saw him – fit as a fiddle he was.”

“Thank you, Ms. Grant, I won’t take up any more of your time – thank you for talking to us.”

Mary Grant made no attempt to see them out; instead it was Edith Allen who escorted them, and, as they were about to step outside, tugged at Jane’s sleeve.

“Inspector, you asked about Abraham’s health in there. I know that he’s very ill, although I haven’t told Mary. I saw a an old school friend the other day – we meet up once a month or so – and she lives near where Abraham now lives – they have the same GP and she saw him in the waiting room a little 31

while back. Apparently he has cancer and she thinks he hasn’t very long left. I thought you ought to know, but please don’t tell Mary – she wouldn’t like to think that I had been talking about Abraham to anyone – she really hates him still.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Allen – we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

So the poor old sod really is very ill, thought Jane to herself as Taylor drove them to their next interview, this time with Harry Balfour, who lived a few miles outside Guildford. The address she had been given turned out to be a small bungalow with a well kept garden surrounding it. Balfour, when he answered the door, although only four years younger than Kirby, could well have been the junior by twenty years. A spruce, upright man of a little above average height, he welcomed the detectives, offering tea and biscuits. On the point of refusing, Jane changed her mind and accepted gracefully.

Once they were all settled with their refreshments, Balfour smiled at her inquisitively.

“So, Inspector, how can I help you?”

“Well, sir, I understand that back in 2001, at the time of the foot and mouth crisis, you made a claim for compensation because your herd had to be destroyed?”

The smile faded away.

“Quite right, Inspector. Those were quite awful times. The farm was made bankrupt when I failed to get the full measure of compensation that I was expecting, but even so, I came off better than many. A neighbour of mine, Simon Daniels, actually took his own life over it – terrible tragedy, he was a fine chap and had a lovely family – they were all totally devastated, as I am sure you can imagine.”

“I hadn’t realised that you knew Mr. Daniels.”

“Oh yes, Simon and I were good friends. He, Janice his wife, and Brenda and I often had dinner together at each other’s houses. But that’s all old history now, I’m afraid. Simon is dead and my Brenda died the year before last. I haven’t seen Janice or her family for several years now.”

Jane felt a stirring of some sort of vague idea beginning in her mind.

“I understand that those were very hard times locally.”

“Yes indeed. For some reason our local compensation committee seemed to take a delight in cutting us all off short – I’ve got a chum in Somerset and they were dealt with much more leniently. I sometimes think that the committee actually wanted us to go under, but I suppose that’s just paranoia.”

“Mr. Balfour, did you know any of the other farmers who did badly out of the affair.”

“Well of course I did. We weren’t all close, you understand, like us and the Daniels, but we all knew each other.”

“So you knew Mr. Kirby – Mr. Abraham Kirby.”

“Oh yes, poor old Abraham – he didn’t manage his affairs at all well, I’m afraid. Didn’t just lose the farm like I did – he lost the lot because he didn’t have the acumen to keep his various activities in separate legal entities. House, cars, everything. On top of it all, his wife walked out on him over it.

Mind you, I never did much care for Mary Kirby – a selfish, greedy woman I always thought.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Look, Inspector, I really don’t understand why you are interested in all this, you know?”

“Mr. Balfour – do you remember who chaired the compensation committee?”

“Of course, it was poor Norman Collins, who - ” he stopped in mid-sentence, “but of course you know Norman was murdered last week. Is that why you are here? Something to do with Norman?”

“Well, Mr. Balfour, I am trying to speak to as many people as I can who had suffered in some way or another because of things Mr. Collins may have done.”

“Well I never. Do you think any of us may have had something to do with Norman’s murder? Really, Inspector, that is very far-fetched.”

“I’m not suggesting anything at the moment, sir, just trying to fill in as much background as possible.”

Balfour looked less than totally convinced.

“Tell me, Mr. Balfour, how well did you know the councillor?”

“Quite well, I suppose. I was on the council for a while myself you know,” no I bloody well didn’t, thought Jane to herself savagely. Why didn’t we pick that up? “so we came into contact quite a bit. I always found Norman very straightforward, very honest, although he did seem to be a devil for the detail, always looking for ways of stopping things – housing developments, whatever – rather than letting them go through. It made for some right old arguments in the Planning Committee, I understand.”

“Were you on that committee?”

32

“Oh no. Education and Finance were my areas. I feel strongly about education in this country, and around here especially, and as for Finance, well a businessman who doesn’t understand enough about money to be useful on a finance committee isn’t much of a businessman – in fact, look at poor Abraham – prime example of my point.”

“I see what you mean. Tell me, Mr. Balfour, was Mr. Kirby also a neighbour of yours?”

“Well yes. Simon’s farm was one side of me, Abraham’s the other. Made it very easy for us to help each other out from time to time with equipment and the like.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Balfour – it’s something that I’m having to ask everyone I talk to – but can you account for your movements between midday and two o’clock last Thursday?”

“That’s when poor Norman was killed, wasn’t it? Well yes, I can quite easily. I was at the golf club.

We – it was a pairs game – teed off at half past ten, got back to the clubhouse at about ten to one, I think, had lunch together and finally broke up around quarter to three. My partner was John Mortimer, he’s retired like me, lives over Elstead way. We played against David McLean – he’s the manager of the local Lloyds branch down the road and one of your folk, Chief Superintendent Halliday – I don’t know if you know him?”

“Oh yes, he’s my Divisional Commander. Well, I think that’s all I need to ask, sir, apart from just one more question. Do you own a shotgun?”

“Yes, I do. I still do the odd bit of rough shooting on friends’ farms from time to time. The gun is kept in a cupboard in the back bedroom. Would you care to see it?”

“Yes, please, if we may, Mr. Balfour.”

He lead the way into a small bedroom at the back of the house. A wardrobe stood in one corner, an old-fashioned, heavy item in wood so dark as to be almost black. Balfour unlocked it, to reveal a metal cabinet inside it. This had a combination lock, which Balfour operated and opened the door. He indicated a double-barrelled weapon to Jane who took it out and examined it briefly. Clearly, she told herself, this in no way was the murder weapon. She handed it back.

“Thank you, sir, that’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

As they drove away, Jane’s mind was racing. Three farms all next to each other all went bust due to the way compensation for their losses was handled. What happened to them? And for that matter, the other four? She realised that she should had that aspect checked out before; still, not too late.

Balfour – his alibi was unimpeachable. A golf match including her own Divisional Commander, no less. Even so it would have to be checked out – and CS Halliday told that one of his golfing companions had been interviewed in connection with a murder inquiry.

Next on her list was Janice Daniels, widow of Simon, but before they went to see her she phoned in to the office and got hold of Dave Cross.

“Dave, Jane here. Look, something we need an urgent check on. When the various farms got sold up, who bought them? At least three of them - that’s Daniels, Balfour and Kirby, were next to each other.

If they all got joined up under one ownership they would be quite a spread.”

“OK, boss, leave it with me. Do you want me to phone you back?”

“We’ll be interviewing – a phone call might disrupt at the wrong moment. I’ll leave my phone on vibrate and phone you back as soon as I can.”

“OK.”

Her next call, still whilst Taylor was driving them towards the Daniels’ house, was to Inkerman.

Quickly she filled him in on Balfour’s alibi.

“OK, Jane. I’ll pop along and let the Commander know straight away so that he isn’t taken by surprise if Balfour phones him.”

Ten minutes later, Inkerman was in Halliday’s office, recounting the tale.

“Right, Inky – thanks for the heads up. Harry Balfour has always seemed a pretty straight sort of fellow, and I doubt that he will try to pull any strings, but if he does I will be ready. That apart, how is it going?”

“Not a lot of progress so far, sir. We have identified a number of people with reason to bear a grudge against Collins, but nothing touching the others. Inspector Lawson is following up on the leads 33

connecting to Collins, obviously, and by the end of the day all the locals should have been seen. Then those further afield will then have to be followed up.”

Jane and Taylor arrived at Janice Daniels’ house, a smallish semi-detached just outside Guildford.

Mrs. Daniels proved to be a small woman, perhaps just five feet tall, with dark hair, slightly shot with grey, cut short. Green eyes gazed at the two police officers from an oval face, slightly lined and tired looking.

“Hello, Mrs. Daniels. I’m Detective Inspector Lawson and this is my colleague DC Taylor. We’d like to talk to you, please.”

“Come in, do. What do you want to know from me?”

She lead them in to a tidy lounge and indicated chairs for them. Once they were all seated, Jane started the proceedings.

“Mrs. Daniels, I’m sorry to have to revisit events that must be very painful to you, but I really do need to ask you what you know about Norman Collins, the man who chaired the committee which denied your husband full levels of compensation back in the days of foot and mouth. As you may know, Mr.

Collins was murdered last week, so I am having to revisit everyone who was involved with him back in those days, as well as more up to date happenings.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you. I heard about the murder, of course, and whilst I wouldn’t wish anyone dead, I can’t say that I am heart-broken about it. That man’s wretched committee were the sole reason for Simon to take his own life, something that he would never have dreamed of otherwise. It’s his fault that I am a widow with money problems, instead of the wife of a successful farmer. I don’t know what else I can say.”

“Well, something I have to ask – what were your movements last Thursday between midday and two o’clock?”

“I had lunch with a friend of mine – Marion Edwards. She lives in Godalming and we went to the Inn on the Lake. We both had soup of the day – it was vegetable broth. She had Dover Sole, I had roast chicken. We left the restaurant a bit after two and I got home about half past – I had to get petrol on the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Daniels. If you could just let us have Mrs. Edwards address?”

The woman complied and as she was doing so, Jane took the opportunity of looking around the room more attentively. The mantelpiece had four photographs on it. One was a wedding shot, presumably of Mrs. Daniels and her late husband, a second was of the man by himself. The other two pictures were, again presumably, of their children, a young man and a young woman, both perhaps in their early twenties.

“Are those your children, Mrs. Daniels?”

“Yes, Tara and James. The shots were taken on their respective twenty firsts. Will you be talking to them as well?”

“Yes, Mrs. Daniels, they are also on my list of people to interview. Well, thank you for your time.”

As they drove away, Jane phoned back to the office and spoke with Dave Cross.

“Dave, when you’ve finished checking - ” he interrupted her.

“I was just about to phone, boss. Those three adjacent farms were all bought up by the same company

– calls itself Southern Surrey Farmers. Because of the financial problems of the owners it seems they got all three at pretty knockdown prices. One of the other farms, that of Calley, was also bought by them, again at a good price from their point of view.

“The other three weren’t bought by SSF – the Littlebrook place was bought by a company called Tillerman Holdings. Part of it became housing, the rest is rented out for grazing. Harris’ farm was bought by something called Ferns Trust and is now a big garden centre plus a bit of housing, and the Gorton farm was bought by a Harold Ferris and is the only one still being farmed the way it was before.”

“Thanks, Dave – you’ve done wonders. Keep digging, won’t you. One other small job – Mrs. Daniels says she had lunch with a Mrs. Edwards the day of the murders – could you phone her and just check that, please.” She gave Cross the number and reflected on his news. Clearly some folk had done pretty well out of buying up the bankrupted farms. It would bear closer examination. For the present, however, she still had to interview the Daniels younger generation.

34

In the event, neither added anything to her knowledge. Tara Barton, née Daniels, received them in a neat, middle of the range bungalow with a garden in need of rather more attention than it was clearly getting. She had two children of her own, both under school age, which made the interview somewhat disjointed, but the upshot was that on the day of the murders she had been home with the children and her husband had been at work. The nearest she could offer as an alibi was that her next door neighbour, another young mother, had come round with her own little girl and whilst the three children played together, their mothers chatted over a cup of tea. That had been from about eleven to about one.

James Daniels was interviewed at his office in Braine & Dawes, local architects. His alibi was simple.

At the time in question he had been in a meeting in the office with his boss and a client, plus a secretary. He didn’t own a shotgun and had never owned one.

The final interview of the day was with Alan Barton, husband of Tara. Again seen at his workplace, which proved to be the headquarters of a medium sized haulage company where Barton was the general manager. His alibi was a bit less definite; he had, he said, been around the place all day, in and out of his office itself, but also down at the loading bays and the storage areas. This long after the event he couldn’t demonstrate that he might not have left the site for a while, and his place of work was only seven miles from the centre of Guildford.

Jane appraised him carefully. About six feet tall, perhaps a trifle more, he was fairly slimly built.

Physically, he could be the gunman, though it scarcely seemed likely. Carefully she computed time and distance in her head. He would had had to go to his motor-cycle, which he could scarcely have had on the premises without raising comment, seeing that his reserved parking space held his Mondeo.

Then a twenty mile round trip at least, depending on just what back roads he taken to avoid traffic cameras. Then get back to the site. She couldn’t see such an exercise taking much less than an hour at the very least, and from the way he, and his staff, worked, it seemed unlikely that he would not be missed over such a time span. Again, he did not own a shotgun and asserted that he never had owned one.

It was just gone seven when Jane reassembled her team for a briefing. The interviews had brought nothing of any substance, although it was worth a quick run through the alibis.

“OK – first up, Abraham Kirby. No alibi, but he is old, frail and according to a neighbour, terminally ill. I can’t see him at all. Also every indication is that he is broke; I can’t see him being able to hire a hitman.

“Next, Balfour. Impeccable alibi – golf with the Chief Super and two others. Could not have done it himself. On the other hand, unlike Kirby, he isn’t broke. Perhaps, if he wanted to, he could find the money to hire someone.

“Mrs. Daniels. Not only has an alibi of lunch with a friend, which has been verified – yes, Dave?”

“That’s right, boss – she checks out.”

“Not only that, but even if she was dolled up in heavy enough clothing to be mistaken for a man, she is much too short to be the shooter. As for hiring – she claims to be hard-up, but she lives reasonably comfortably.

”Her children – Tara has two kids under school age, like her mother she’s too short. James – tight alibi

– in a meeting with three other people. Again verified. Like their mother, either of them could probably afford to hire if they really wanted too.”

“Especially if they all chipped in,” contributed Morgan.

“Very true, Tom. The last one we saw today – Alan Barton, Tara’s husband. Right build, hasn’t got a fool-proof alibi, but given the very visible presence he is in his company, it seems extremely unlikely that he could have sneaked away to do the killing. We couldn’t see James’ wife, Alice. Her mother is ill and she has gone up to see her in Newcastle.

“So, that’s the interviews covered. Tom, what joy on digging into Collins and Riley?”

“Riley – precious little. The business card he had on him when he was shot simply said ‘Liam Doherty, Industrial Security Consultant’ with a mobile telephone number. Needless to say, the number was that of the phone he had with him. No business directories have any record of him trading under his own name, and as we already know, the address on his driving licence was a false. I did check with DVLA in case a change of address for him was in the pipe-line, but no joy. The only avenue I can think of pursuing now is through McNulty, who either lied about knowing him, or has a very poor memory.

35

“Collins, however, is a bit of a better story. For a start he is a lot more wealthy than you might imagine. I spoke with his bank and they confirmed that he has assets that they know of to the tune of just on a million. However, that’s not all. He used the bank as a reference in setting up with a stockbroker, Gregson and Mathey, in London. I spoke with them, and Collins’ portfolio, as of close of business yesterday, stood at just over five millions, despite the hammering shares have taken recently.

Now, he used to be in business as an estate agent, quite a successful one, but sold the business when he was appointed to the Planning Committee eight years back. That netted him a bit over half a million

– that’s when he set up his account with Gregson and Mathey – but he opened the account with just over two millions. As yet, I don’t know where the extra came from.”

“I think I have an idea” said Cross.

“What’s that, Dave?” Jane asked.

“Well, you know that you asked me to find out what happened to the farms that got sold up?”

“Yes. A company, South Surrey Farmers?” Cross nodded “bought the three adjacent ones and one of the others, then Tillerman Holdings and the Ferns Trust bought one each and an independent farmer –

forgotten his name?”

“Harold Ferris.”

“Right, Harold Ferris, bought the last one.”

“That’s right, boss. I checked on the management structure of those three companies. Despite the different names, they all have a common major shareholder – a forth company called Copperfield Investments, and that company has yet another company with a major holding. This one is called Ekon Holdings – and one of its major shareholders is our Councillor Collins.

“Now I can’t prove any of this, not yet, at least, but I reckon that Collins got his committee to ruin those farms so they would be sold off cheap, then sold them, or bits of them, on to the other companies, because South Surrey Farmers, Tillerman Holdings and Ferns Trust weren’t, as it first appeared, the original purchasers – Copperfield Investments was. I think we are looking at fraud –

Collins using his committee and then benefitting from the subsequent sales and re-sales.”

Wow, thought Jane. This could really hit the fan – crooked county councillor, no less. She made a quick decision.

“Well done, Dave. Now, everybody. I am going to brief the DCI on this, but absolutely nothing about this must be so much as whispered other than between the four of us. We are going to have to lean on McNulty – I’m sure he is tied up in all this – and Raymond as well, and we will probably not be able to do that straight away in view of their current state of health.”

Inkerman was still in his office – he had told her that he would be working late and had asked her to update him when her briefing meeting was finished – and he listened to what she had to say with growing unease.

“Jane, this looks like becoming a major task. In all this, and your team has done well, we still haven’t got any further forward in tracking down the killer. I think it may be time to bring more officers in on the job – you and your team concentrate on the actual killings, and a second team on the fraud aspect.”

Jane didn’t like what she was hearing. Working things the way the DCI was thinking would reduce her and her team to just one element of the investigation. On the other hand, she was realistic enough to know that the sheer workload this might well involve would be too much for four people to cope with in an acceptable time frame.

“I see what you mean, sir, but the two elements really are part of the same thing. Raymond and McNulty tie into both areas, I am sure. If we go after them straight away, we are sure to get their briefs claiming that they aren’t well enough to be questioned at length. I checked with the hospital this afternoon – the doctor looking after them both reckons that they will be fit enough to be discharged by the end of the week, which gives us two days to do more digging. We still haven’t tracked down Nathaniel Gorton, although we know where to find his son, the Littlebrooks or Harris.”

Inkerman thought over what she had said. He was well aware that she wanted to maintain as much control of, and involvement in, the case as possible – he would have felt the same himself in her position. He still felt that more people would be needed, but the question of the people not yet found, and the fact that Raymond and McNulty were still in hospital decided him.

“OK, we’ll keep it under review, but concentrate on your missing people for the time being and we’ll keep the rest on ice until we can have a real go at Raymond and McNulty. What’s your next step?”

“Well, as we know where Leonard Gorton is, I’m going to see him tomorrow - he lives in North Wales, has a sheep farm near Porthmadog, up around Snowdonia National Park. I can also take in the 36

Calley family in Hereford. Hopefully, I can get it all done in the day, but I may have to stay over tomorrow night somewhere and return Friday.”

“Who are you taking with you?”

“Alan Taylor again. Dave and Tom are better at digging than he is, and he’s a good second pair of eyes and ears in interviews.”

“OK, Jane – have you already told the locals that you will be on their patches?”

“Already done, sir. Both forces offered to sit in, but agreed it wasn’t needed when I explained that this is only background stuff at this stage.”

It was nearing ten o’clock when Jane finally got home to find Harry had prepared yet another slow cooking casserole.

“This is getting to be a habit,” she apologised.

“Don’t worry, love, you’re back now – that’s what counts. What’s tomorrow going to be like?”

She pulled a face.

“Even worse – I’ve got to go to Hereford and on to North Wales, up in the wilds somewhere. I probably will have to stay overnight somewhere.”

Harry perked up.

“Hereford? I’ve got a good idea – at least, I think that it is. You know the SAS have their headquarters there?”

“Of course, who doesn’t?”

“Well, I was attached to them for a while a few years back, lecturing on what to look for in booby traps and the like. I found a really good little hotel on the outskirts – the Mayflower. Now if you can time it right, I’m taking tomorrow and Thursday off in lieu of the weekends I worked last month and we could meet at the Mayflower for tomorrow night. How’s that sound?”

“Great – but I will have one of my DCs with me. I wouldn’t want him able to put around the tale that I was busy getting myself screwed instead of concentrating on the case.”

“Is he likely to do that?”

“Harry, you know what the police and the like are for gossip. Half a tick, though – he’ll be doing the driving. Is there another hotel anywhere near this place?”

“Well yes, there is – not as good, mind you, a bit impersonal. The Tollgate it’s called, though Heaven knows why – it’s nowhere near any toll gate that might have existed in the area. They are about a mile apart.”

“OK, how about this. Alan Taylor and I do our Hereford interviews tomorrow. There are three of them to see and I’ve already warned them we will be coming – don’t want to go all that way to find nobody home – And I’ve also phoned the Welsh chap but I told him it might be tomorrow, it might be Friday and that I would get in touch again. I’ll spin things out tomorrow so that we have to stay over. I’ll book Alan and myself into the Tollgate and then it’s a case of your place or mine?”

Harry grinned at her.

“It would be easier if I came to you – I can get away any time, whereas your DC would presumably expect to see you at breakfast.”

“OK, you’re on - in every possible way!”

Inkerman was also not home until nearly ten o’clock, to be met by Chrissie with a worried expression.

“Harry, I’ve just heard from mum – dad has had another attack, and this one seems to be really serious.”

Inkerman groaned inwardly; Harry Ogilvie, now seventy years old, had suffered from a series of heart attacks in recent years. Every time it happened, Chrissie got sent for to dash off to Cheltenham, effectively to hold her mother’s hand, as Alice Ogilvie was a woman who had the greatest difficulty in coping with even the most minor crisis in life.

He looked at his watch. Nine forty-seven. It was a journey of just over a hundred miles. Nearly a two hour drive for an average driver but Chrissie wasn’t happy at trying to drive at speed. It would take her well over two hours and she would be worrying all the way.

“Are you packed?”

“I’ve got my overnight bag ready.”

“OK, get in the car. I’ll drive you.”

37

“Harry, you can’t. It’s nearly ten.”

“I know, but I can get us there a good bit quicker than you would by yourself. I’ll have a few hours sleep there, leave early, still be back at work at a reasonable time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, no problem. Come on, love, sooner we start, the sooner we will be there.”

Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way, and once on the motorway Inkerman, not without a feeling of guilt, decided to use his blue light to push well past the normal speed limits. In just under an hour and a half he drew up outside his in-law’s house. Chrissie had phoned ahead whilst they were travelling and been told by her sister Carole that their mother was staying overnight at the hospital.

Chapter Eight: Second Thursday

Inkerman was on the move at just after five o’clock the next morning. At that hour traffic was light and he made good progress whilst still staying within the speed limits and he was back at his house in time to have a shower, breakfast and change before making his way to work.

He called in first on Shirley Lewis and her team; after the high of Tuesday and the interviews of the captured hijackers over the following two days, there was something of an air of anti-climax as the team members returned to the consideration of more mundane cases. He wondered whether, despite what he had agreed with Jane the previous evening, he shouldn’t even now draft Shirley’s team into the fraud aspect of the case, but eventually decided against it.

Instead, he went along the corridor to DI Hall’s section. John Hall had originally been very unhappy at seeing Inkerman promoted to DCI, but of late, without the similarly upset Newsome to feed off, and with retirement only a year or so away, he had mellowed into a neutral acceptance of the situation.

“Hello, John, how’s tricks?”

“Nothing to worry about – two more of those filling station robberies late last night – I’ve got Frank and Bert out checking them over and Terry is out looking for word on the street.”

Inkerman reflected on the members of Hall’s team. DS Terry Laine, newly arrived from Hampshire to replace Shirley Lewis, was the one out listening for the word, whilst DCs Bert Carmody and Frank Engleton did the leg work. The change of DS in the team was too recent for him to be sure just how it would work out, but from what he had seen so far of the ‘country copper’ as some of his colleagues had dubbed the man with the soft, broad burr of Hampshire in his voice, he was impressed.

Finally, he entered Jane’s section, reflecting as he did so that it was a measure of the times that Hall’s team was the only one in his section which was all male – and the two females were the team leaders in the other two. It was very different from the day twenty years ago when he had been a young DC.

Jane greeted him and confirmed that she and Taylor would be leaving directly for Hereford to interview the Calley family. The more she thought about it, she said, the more likely it was that they would need to stay overnight in Hereford and go to North Wales on Friday morning. He nodded and went on to his own office.

As he entered the door, so the phone rang.

“Inkerman”

“Harry,” immediately he sensed the news was bad, “Harry, dad died two hours ago. Carole and I were there with mum, and we’ve phoned Brenda – she’ll be here as soon as she can.”

“Oh no, love. I’m so sorry. What can I do – shall I come back?”

“No, you’ve only just got away. But is there any chance that you can take tomorrow off and bring some things for me and lend a bit of support?”

“Yes, no worry – in fact, I’ll leave this evening – expect me between eight and nine, OK?”

“That would be grand, Harry – and thank you.”

“Don’t be silly, no need for thanks – I’ll be with you tonight.”

As soon as he put the phone down, he left for Graham’s office. The head of CID was immediately sympathetic.

“That’s tough luck, Harry. Of course get to Chrissie – do you want to go now?”

“No sir, I told her that I’d be there this evening; that’ll be soon enough, although I’ll try and get away a bit earlier than usual.”

38

“Of course. Anything I need to keep an eye on in the interim? You’ll surely stay with the family until the funeral?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t want to be away too long, but Chrissie’s mother tends to go to pieces over the least trifle – this will really knock her back. Can I let you know how things go?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks – as far as what’s on, obviously the shootings are top priority, but Jane’s off interviewing the more far-flung suspects with Taylor, whilst her other two do more digging from the office. We will need to talk at length with Raymond and McNulty, but although they are likely to be discharged from hospital tomorrow, a few days isn’t going to hurt – might even be advantageous. We don’t want any claims that they were being harassed whilst still recovering.”

“OK, let’s play it that way.”

Inkerman returned to his office and had his secretary call in the three DIs. Quickly he explained what had happened, received their sympathy with thanks and sent them on their way. He had assured them that he only expected to be away for a day or two, and said that anything they would normally need to bring to him they were to take to Graham.

Jane and Taylor drove away a little later than expected, but still with plenty of time to make their estimated time to meet the first of the Calley clan, Michael Calley himself.

They met the one-time farmer, now garage owner in the office to his Hereford showroom, which was clearly a prosperous concern, judging by the quality of the appointments and the trophy blonde receptionist.

Michael Calley greeted them at the desk and escorted them into to his office where he offered tea or coffee which, after a two hour plus drive, both detectives accepted gratefully. Once they had cups in their hands, Jane looked at her host over the rim. Calley was a bit above average height, with sort, smartly cut dark hair slicked well down. His features were quite weather-beaten, presumably a legacy of his past life as a farmer, rather is current one, with widely spaced, light grey eyes beneath heavy eyebrows.

“Right, Inspector, how can I help you?”

“As I said on the phone, Mr. Calley, we want to talk to you about the death of Councillor Norman Collins, who was murdered a week ago today. He chaired the committee which decided compensation for foot and mouth affected herds back in 2001 and, as I understand it, the reduced award to yourself effectively drove you out of farming.”

“Yes, it did – and to be frank, it was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

That was a surprise for Jane. All the others had been angry at losing their farms, but here was someone pleased at the loss.

“How s that, Mr. Calley?”

“Well, I sold the farm, but the farm wasn’t my only business in Surrey. I also owned a number of houses. Some had originally been farm cottages – which had become very desirable for upgrading –

and some were just ordinary houses. I had been renting them all out, but losing the farm made me take stock. I was forty-one years old, so I was young enough to make a clean break, so that is what I did.

What I got for selling up in Surrey was easily enough to set us up here in a manner that I couldn’t have afforded before. We – that’s my wife and I and our daughter Gillian, live in a far better house than we could afford in Surrey, and this business would have cost an absolute fortune to get going there, whereas here we afforded it relatively easily.”

“So you don’t hold any grudge against the Collins committee?”

“Don’t get me wrong – at the time I was furious. I knew damn well that Collins and his henchman were up to something in that committee, and later on I heard that the farms that went bust were all snapped up at bargain basement prices. By then, however, I was past caring – we had moved up here and things were looking good. They still do, despite the recession. Had I stayed in Surrey that second outbreak in 2007 would probably have finished me off anyway, so really I have cause to be grateful for what happened.”

“Do you still keep in touch with anybody there?”

Calley shook his head.

“No, not really. One or two people Helen knew from the WI still send Christmas cards, but nothing else, really. In a way, it’s a different world we are in now. Farming no longer interests me, the folk I knew there have no links with the motor trade, so..”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

39

“One last question, Mr. Calley, then we will move on to talk to your son and daughter. For the record where were you last Thursday lunch time?”

“Thursday I was here; any or all of my staff can vouch for me. As we knew you were coming, I asked David and Gillian to come here to save time – as I mentioned on the phone, David runs our Leominster branch and Gill works here in Hereford. You’re a bit earlier than I expected, but they should be here in” he broke off and looked at his wrist-watch “about ten minutes, if that’s OK?”

“That’s fine, Mr. Calley; thank you for the thought.”

“I don’t suppose I can interest either of you in a new car whilst you are waiting?” he asked with a smile.

Jane shook her head determinedly. “No thanks, but I would appreciate it if there is a room we can use in the meantime?”

“Please, use my office. As soon as David and Gillian arrive I’ll usher them into you.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as Calley left, Jane turned to Taylor.

“Well, Alan, what do you make of our Mr. Calley?”

“Too bloody smooth for my liking, boss.”

“Yes, me too. I can’t help thinking it is all a little too pat. If anyone of those we have seen is in a position to hire a killer – after all, he couldn’t have done it himself – Calley is. There’s money here, recession or no recession.”

The two detectives reviewed the notes Taylor had made of the interviews so far and were still engrossed when a knock on the door heralded Calley again.

“They’re both here now, Inspector – shall I show them in?”

“We’d like to speak to your son first, please, Mr. Calley.”

“Of course.”

Moments later Jane was surveying David Calley. He was, she knew, twenty-five years old. About six feet tall, neither heavy nor slender in build, his features mirrored those of his father to a considerable degree, except that the outdoor look that still lingered in his father’s face was completely missing from that of the son.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr. Calley. As I expect your father has told you, we are investigating the death of two men last week. One of them, Norman Collins was in large part responsible for your family having to sell up your farm in Surrey. Now, what can you tell me about that?”

The young man blinked.

“Well, not very much really. After all, I was still at school at the time.”

“Yes, I know – but you had to leave your Surrey school and start afresh here – how did you like that?”

He shrugged is shoulders.

“It was a bit of a change, sure, but I soon settled in.”

“So the family really didn’t mind having the farm taken away from them?”

“Of course we did. Dad was convinced Collins and his crew were up to some sort of fiddle over the buying and selling that went on down there, but there was nothing he could do about it, and in fact, we’re better off here now than we were.”

“Do you still keep in touch with anyone from your Surrey days?”

“Not really – a couple of my parents’ friends still send Christmas cards, but that’s about the lot.”

Jane was beginning to feel frustrated. Yet again, here was someone who simply didn’t seem to have any reason to worry about Collins eight years on from the events of the foot and mouth outbreak.

“One last question, Mr. Calley. For the record, where were you last Thursday?”

“I had last week off. I’ve got a motor-home, a small one, and I was touring down in Hampshire. On Thursday,” his brow wrinkled in concentration, “I would have been in the Winchester area.”

“Presumably you stayed overnight on a site of some sort?”

“Yes. Wednesday night I stayed at a small site called Farraday Farm – it’s just a patch of land next to a farmhouse. I have a small motor-cycle on the back of the van, and I used that to go into the city itself.

Spent all day wandering around, went back to the van about seven, I suppose, slept that night, moved on Friday morning, go back to Hereford about six or so.”

“Could I have the address and phone number of the site please?”

“Sure.” He jotted the details down on a scribbling pad to hand on the desk, tore off the top sheet and handed it to her.

40

So, she thought to herself, we have at last found somebody who could have been in the area at the relevant time, and had easy access to a motorbike. On the other hand, she thought ruefully, how likely was it that David Calley might be the assassin? On a range of one to ten, somewhere about two minus.

“One other thing, Mr. Calley. What are the details of your motorcycle?”

“It’s a ninety cc Honda. Not exactly quick, but it’s small, light and easy to manhandle. It’s also great for getting around whilst leaving the van behind.”

It is also, she reflected sadly, not remotely like the machine used by the killer. Or, could the killer have used two motorbikes? Swapped from the one seen on CCTV and traffic cameras somewhere quiet and then been able to ride around without worry? It was, she admitted sadly to herself, pretty far-fetched, but it was at least a possibility to bear in mind.

After all, the younger Calley had been within striking distance of the murder scene; it was possible that he had planned the thing. Then the overwhelming snag hit her. If he had been swanning around the countryside, how had he known where to find Collins and company? Earlier questioning had elicited the fact that only Collins, who had booked the table, his companions, and the secretaries of Collins, Raymond, and McNulty had known about the lunch. Even the respective wives had not been aware of it. How likely was it that Calley could have known?

How else could you have got himself into the right place at the right time? One possibility was that he had followed Collins – or for that matter, one of the others, to the restaurant – but it scarcely seemed credible that Calley would have ridden off on his own ‘bike, swapped it for the one purchased from John Carlisle, ridden to the location of one of the three offices of which she knew (if the police knew nothing about Riley’s whereabouts, was it likely that Calley could?) followed someone to the restaurant, done the shooting, escaped, swapped machines again – no, it was all too far-fetched.

Reluctantly, she consigned Calley junior to the ‘extremely unlikely’ category.

“Thank you, Mr. Calley. Would you mind asking your sister to step in, please?”

Gillian Calley proved to be a wispy blonde, about two inches over five feet tall, slender to the point of almost appearing anorexic, with pale blue eyes and eyebrows so fair as to be almost invisible.

She seated herself almost shyly and looked at the two police officers with an uneasy expression.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Calley. Just a few questions if we may.

“Firstly, how did the loss of the Surrey farm affect you and the rest of the family?”

“Well, I didn’t really understand much about it – I was only thirteen at the time. I didn’t like having to move – I had a lot of good friends in Surrey – but we soon settled down here and I made new friends.”

“Do you still keep it touch with any of your Surrey friends?”

“Not really; a couple who were really good send Christmas and birthday cards, and one of them, Sally Beaumont, spent a few days with us about five or six years ago, but that’s about all.”

“Do your brother or parents keep in touch with anyone from those days?”

“Again, not really – cards at Christmas to mum and dad – I don’t think David keeps in touch with anyone at all.”

Jane could think of little else to ask the girl and sent her on her way.

Calley senior poked his head round the door.

“Anything else we can do for you, Inspector?”

“Not really – you did say that we will be able to catch Mrs. Calley at home around now?”

“Yes – I’ve just phoned her to tell you that I thought that you would be with her quite shortly.”

“Well, thank you once more, Mr. Calley. If anything should occur to you, you will get in touch, won’t you.” She handed him her card and he stowed it in a slim, expensive looking pigskin wallet.

“Of course, Inspector.”

Fifteen minutes later they drew up outside the Calley family home on the outskirts of Hereford. It was a large, detached property, built in mock Tudor style and set in about an acre of well maintained garden,

Helen Calley proved to be a tall, attractive woman dressed in a smart skirt, blouse and jacket, who ushered them into an expensively furnished lounge and offered them coffee, which they both gratefully accepted.

Jane studied their hostess over the rim of her coffee cup. The woman had none of the wispiness of her daughter; instead she exuded an air of confidence and competence, with a frank, open expression on her oval face, a face dominated by large hazel eyes and framed by expensively styled auburn hair.

41

Jane wondered where Gillian got her colouring; she bore no physical resemblance to the rest of the family – to those of the rest of the family we have seen, she corrected herself, for there was a second son, Nigel, who was in the Army, currently serving in Afghanistan.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Calley. As you know, we are talking to all the people who, back in 2001, were affected by the decisions of the compensation committee chaired by Councillor Norman Collins, murdered last week.”

“Yes, I heard about it, but I don’t see what I can do to help you, Inspector. I never met the man, although I had to put up with Michael cursing him up hill and down dale for days on end at the time.

We lost a lot of money because of Collins, but in the end it actually worked out to our advantage. It made us sell up and thanks to the way Michael – and his accountant – had organised our business affairs, there was still enough money to enable us to move here and really start a new life.”

Same old story, thought Jane wearily. This Hereford trip was achieving nothing other than elimination.

“Tell me, Mrs. Calley, do you still keep in touch with anyone from your Surrey days?”

“I exchange Christmas cards with some of the women I knew at the time – mostly from the WI, but that’s the limit of my ‘keeping in touch’, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen or even spoken to any of them in years.”

“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Calley.”

As Taylor drove them away from the house, Jane ran through their day’s work in her mind, and left with the inescapable conclusion that it had been a waste of time. She looked at her watch. Just on five.

Taylor correctly interpreted her thoughts.

“We could always push on to the Gorton place now, boss. I’ve looked at the map and it’s about a hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty miles. On those roads say two and half hours, a bit more.”

“I thought about that as well, Alan – but that means finding his farm up some bloody track in the dark, then getting back here to the hotel. No – you’ve done enough driving for today. Let’s call it quits for now. I’ll call in and see if there is any news from the station and then we’ll call it a day.”

Back at Guildford, some hours earlier, Dave Cross pushed his chair back from his desk and exclaimed

“Got him!”

Tom Morgan looked up at his colleague.

“Got who, Dave?”

“The missing Mr. Harris – tracked him down at last.”

“So where is he?”

“In hospital. He had a complete nervous breakdown and was admitted to Springfield hospital in Wimbledon, and he’s still there.”

“Why has it taken so long to find him?”

“Bloody GP records. They lost his records when they computerised them four years back.”

“So how did you find him?”

“I trawled all the hospitals. I knew that there was no death certificate, no record of tax or employment, no record of his passport being used to leave the country, so the next thing to try was the assumption that he was effectively hidden away in the system somewhere. I started with the general hospitals –

you know, perhaps he had been in an accident, ended up as a John Doe, even dead and buried but unknown. Nothing. Then I tried the mental hospitals and Springfield had him – and still do. I’ve just finished speaking to one of the medical staff. Poor bugger is a mental basket case. Apparently one day in 2004 at the garden centre he just suddenly stopped working, sat in a chair sobbing his heart out, and nobody could get a word out of him. He’s not spoken from that day to this. The doc reckons that he probably never will talk again – it’s the worst case of catatonic shock that they have ever seen. What nobody can understand is what caused it. He’d worked at the garden centre for about a year when it happened. The house he had lived in was rented, so there was no estate to clear up, which is why nothing showed up that way.”

“But shouldn’t the hospital have notified somebody as to where he was? Inland Revenue or the like?”

“Apparently not. All they had to do was to apply for legal guardianship if he was admitted under legislation, in which case they would have done all that sort of thing, but he was apparently seen as a voluntary patient. After speaking with the doc, I spoke to one of their admin people, and she reckoned what they should have done more in that line than they did, but for some reason they didn’t. Reading between the lines, they clearly cocked up, but they aren’t going to admit it, and as far as we are concerned it doesn’t matter – we can strike him out as a suspect.”

42

“Well that’s good news. We’ve got too many ‘just possibles’ and no ‘quite likelies’ so far. So, one down – any joy on any of the others?”

“I think I may be on the track of the Littlebrooks. Husband and wife effectively disappeared after 2002, but I did some digging into their family backgrounds and traced a cousin of the wife. She lives in Huddersfield and I haven’t been able to speak to her herself yet, but I spoke with her daughter this morning and she reckons that her mum and Mrs. Littlebrook still correspond by letter, although that’s all she knows. He mother – she’s a Mrs. Callaghan – should be home” he looked at his watch “about now, with luck.”

He dialled a number and, from the response, it was clear that Mrs. Callaghan was at the other end of the line. It was nearly ten minutes before he put down the phone. As Morgan looked at him from time to time during the conversation, he saw a look of increasing incredulity on his colleague’s face. Finally the call was ended.

“Well, Dave – what’s the news?”

“I can hardly believe this. When the Littlebrooks farm was declared bankrupt, they, like Balfour, had things set up so that it was only the farm that they lost. Selling that up, after the tax bills and the bank had been paid off, left around sixty percent for other creditors – not bad by some standards where creditors down the line are lucky to get anything at all.

“That left them with their house, which they sold for three quarters of a million. I already knew that, of course. What I hadn’t been able to track down was what happened afterwards. Two things; they emptied their bank account in the form of a banker’s draft – which I also knew - and then they simply bought themselves a ticket on Le Shuttle and swanned off to the continent. I’d already checked carriers trying to trace a movement by them, but back then records were only kept for three years – it’s different now – so by the time I came asking, they had effectively disappeared off the radar.

“Once over in France they opened a French bank account, bought themselves a big motor-home, and ever since have simply been wandering around wherever the fancy takes them.”

Morgan shook his head in disbelief.

“But surely they must have left some sort of trail with HMRC or the DVLA or somebody!”

“Doesn’t look like it. According to Mrs. Callaghan, they were so disgusted with the way Collins and company stitched them up, they swore never to set foot in Britain again – and so far they have achieved that.”

“But what about a driving licence, for instance? That has to have your address on it.”

“Of course it does – and as far as DVLA are aware, the Littlebrooks still live in Guildford. They aren’t the only people driving around with an out of date address on the licence. As far as the continental authorities are concerned, they simple never register as anything other than tourists. They don’t stay very long in any one place, and when they do stay anywhere, it’s caravan parks and the like. Mrs.

Littlebrook writes to her cousin from time to time, very occasionally phones her. The last communication she received was a letter a month or so ago, posted in Florence. Over the years she’s received letters from France, Spain, Portugal, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, just about all over the continent.”

“What about the French bank? How do they keep in touch? Surely there must be some address for them to deal with?”

“First up there was, but they only kept it open for a month or so and then closed it and transferred the funds to a Swiss account – and you know what that means! So, I don’t know what bank it is – and Mrs. Callaghan has no idea either – no reason why she should, I suppose.”

The two of them looked at each other; a smile slowly spread across each face and then they both broke into laughter.

“You’ve got to hand it to them, Tom,” laughed Cross, “all the tracking and surveillance and paper trails people normally leave, so you can’t move without someone being able to find you, and they stick two fingers up at it all and bugger off to wherever the fancy takes them.”

“Well, it looks as though we can discount them form the list – except, I suppose for hiring someone to do it – a couple that clever would have no trouble finding a hit-man, I’m sure.”

“But again – like the others – why now?”

Morgan shook his head.

“Not a clue, Dave, not a clue.”

* * * *

43

Jane and Alan Taylor got back to the hotel and went their separate ways to their rooms. On being asked if they would have dinner together, Jane had begged off, claiming a bit of a headache and the need to update Superintendent Graham on progress so far, and the desire for an early night.

Only the last was true. There was no headache, and she had already E-mailed a brief update both to Graham and to Tom Morgan. The early night, in the form of Harry Oakes’ considerable presence, tapped on her door some twenty minutes later.

“Oh, come in, do,” she exclaimed “I’ve been on to room service and ordered a light meal and a bottle of wine – OK by you?”

“Great – how’s the day been?”

“A bit pointless. Interviewed folk, ninety percent plus eliminated them from our list of suspects, which I would have done even before seeing them, but it had to be done.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Off to wild and woolly Wales – a sheep farm, in fact, and then back to Surrey. How’s your day been?”

“Met up with two blokes I used to know when I came to Hereford. Had a quiet beer at lunch time, swapped stories.”

“They still in the Army?”

”Yes, but not for much longer. They are both fed up with the way things are going. One of them has an offer of a job in a security firm, the other is joining his brother to run a haulage business. Shame, really – good guys, both of them, sort of men the Army can’t afford to lose, but what can you expect with the way the government keeps expecting folk to do more and more with less and less.”

At that moment the room service meal arrived and no further business was discussed that night.

Chapter Nine: Second Friday

Inkerman woke slowly, aware that he was in a strange bed but, for the first waking moment, unsure why. Then, as Chrissie moved slightly beside him, he remembered why he was that and also that it was Friday morning, so he decided to phone in for an update on what was happening. He looked at his watch; seven fifteen. Possibly a bit early, so he went downstairs and made himself a cup of tea.

By the time he had finished it, he reckoned it was a reasonable time to phone. His first call was to John Hall – as his senior DI, even if the least prized, it was only courteous to talk to him first.

“John, Inkerman here – I’m just making a quick call for an update. Anything new at your end?”

Hall, irritated at, as he saw it, being checked up on, gritted his teeth.

“Nothing new – still digging into those robberies.”

There had been a spate of robberies of small shops in the last few months, looking suspiciously like being all the work of one gang and Hall’s team had been digging into them without much success.

“Thanks, John – can you transfer me to Shirley, please?”

A few minutes later, having received, although with better grace, a similar non-event report from the DI, Inkerman was again transferred, this time to Tom Morgan, whose report was more encouraging.

“We’ve found out what happened to the Littlebrooks and to Harris.” Quickly he filled his superior in with the relevant details.

“Well done – DI Lawson is back today, yes?”

“Yes sir, she’s been in touch so I’ve updated her as well and she is seeing Gorton before lunch and expects to be back probably around four.”

“Right. I’ve told DIs Hall and Lewis that I will be in on Monday; the funeral isn’t fixed up yet, but will probably be next Wednesday – let DI Lawson know when you next speak with her, please.”

“Yes, sir – I’ll do that.”

“Right, Tom – see you all Monday. Now could you transfer me to Mr. Graham, please.”

After updating his chief, Inkerman turned back to family business. He had been in contact with his son and Ian expected to be able to get away for the funeral and hoped to bring Fiona with him. Chrissie’s two sisters, together with their respective spouses and children all lived reasonable close at hand, so there were no problems there. The only question mark now hung over Harry Ogilvie’s younger brother, Thomas, who lived in France and was away from home on an early break. So far efforts to trace him had failed, and Inkerman reluctantly decided to make use of a contact he had in the Paris police. Aware that he would need to be very careful to avoid any accusation of improper use of police 44

time and resources, he put through the call and was pleasantly surprised to track down Inspecteur Henri Lacombe within minutes.

“Henri – it’s Harry Inkerman here.”

“Harry, what a pleasant surprise – I have not heard from you in ages. What can I do for you, mon ami?”

“Henri – this is not official business, and please say if you don’t approve. The problem is that my father-in-law has just died and we can’t get hold of his brother Thomas Ogilvie. He runs a bookshop in the Rue Parnassus, but he’s away for a short break. His assistant said that he is touring the Bordeaux area, but that’s all he knows. Is there any way that you can help?”

“Harry, this is simple for the finest minds in the police of France! Give me his details. If we cannot find him within twenty-four hours, he isn’t in France!”

Gratefully, Inkerman passed on the requisite details and, still feeling somewhat guilty, put down the phone.

He turned to find Chrissie nearby.

“I think that we will be able to find Thomas, love. That was a friend of mine in the Paris police; if Henri can’t find him, nobody can!”

“That’s a relief. Mum’s really fretting about it. She’s very upset at the idea of Thomas not knowing what has happened until after the funeral and everything.”

Henri Lacombe was as good as his word; Thomas Ogilvie was in touch by telephone the next morning and in England on the Sunday, but that was for the future.

* * * *

At much the same time as Inkerman woke, so too did Jane. To avoid any possibility of bumping into Alan Taylor, Harry had slipped away an hour or so earlier, an event she had vaguely registered in a semi-waking state. Now fully awake, she quickly showered and dressed, and by eight o’clock she and Taylor were having breakfast together.

“I heard about the DCI from Tom this morning, Alan. He’s back on Monday – probably be away on Wednesday for the family funeral. He’s pleased at the progress we are making so far, so hopefully we can get back early afternoon to get a bit more time in on sewing things together. Once we’ve spoken with this Gorton guy I want us to get straight back, OK?”

“OK with me, boss. He shouldn’t take long – can’t see a Welsh sheep-shagger being involved in this, can you?”

“Not really, although I’m still puzzled at to what happened to his father after he was released from prison.”

Just before eleven o’clock, after a frustrating journey along narrow lanes seemingly inhabited by every slow moving tractor ever made, they pulled into a small farm yard nestling in the lee of sombre, brooding hills untouched by the weak sunshine of an hour earlier.

Leonard Gorton proved to be a heavily built, slow moving man, who drove into the yard moments later on a quad bike, towing a small trailer. Jane walked over to him.

“Mr. Gorton?” The man nodded, “Good morning, Mr. Gorton. I am Detective Inspector Lawson of the Surrey Police, and this is my colleague DC Taylor. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Gorton nodded.

“Come into the house. Julie’ll have the kettle on, happen.”

He led the way across the yard and through the side door of a relatively large, stone built farm house.

The door led straight into a large kitchen with a worn stone floor uneven under foot. A very tall, thin woman, evidently Mrs. Gorton, was in the act of pouring water into a large brown enamel teapot of a kind Jane remembered her grandmother owning.

All four of them sat around a big scrubbed pine kitchen table; again, Jane reflected, her gran had had just such an item. Before she start the questioning, Gorton spoke.

“So, I hear that bugger Collins got hisself killed, Good riddance, if you ask me.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Gorton?”

He looked at her quizzically from under heavy, dark eyebrows which met in the middle.

“Cos he good as killed me dad, of course.”

Jane’s mind worked quickly. She decided, at least for the moment, not to reveal that the police had no idea that Gorton senior was dead.

“We haven’t found any evidence to support that, Mr. Gorton. What makes you say it?”

45

“Because it were his fault dad went to prison. He claimed dad infected his own herd. Daft bugger –

dad was right proud of that herd o’ his. Broke his heart it did to see ‘em destroyed – and then to be told it were his own fault!”

“Just how did your father die, Mr. Gorton?”

“In fucking agony, that’s how he died! You ever see anyone die of AIDS, have you?”

Jane shook her head, her mind in greater turmoil than ever. Here, surely, was a first class motive for murder. For the first time, Mrs. Gorton spoke.

“Come on, Len, love. Don’t upset yourself.”

“Upset? Course I’m upset” he said bitterly, then turned back to Jane.

“My dad were the most honest man I ever knew. For that slimy bastard to accuse him of infecting his own herd – the herd that was his life..”

He tailed off uncertainly, then looked at the two detectives.

“You think I killed him? Well, I’ll tell you the truth – I would’ve if I could’ve, but how could I? Sides, weren’t there others as well? I never even heard of them.”

Jane tried to get the interview back to a more normal pattern.

“I can understand that you are upset, Mr. Gorton. Look, I don’t want to be unkind, but if you can just answer a few questions, we will be on our way and out of your hair. First, we couldn’t find evidence of a death certificate for your father, so it is unclear to us just when he died.”

“Fifth of August, two thousand and seven,” he recited tonelessly, “reason you never found no death certificate is cos he died in Spain and he’s buried out there. He’d always fancied a holiday out there but never really could spare the time – he and mum met on holiday out there before he took over the farm from my grand-dad and they always wanted to go back – but then mum died and he just couldn’t face taking the time away and being on his own, but then when he took really ill, Julie and me took him over. We all knew he’d never get away again, but we never expected he wouldn’t be coming back. We’d been there about a week – we’d rented a little place up in the hills above Malaga – and he just suddenly collapsed and died on us. The local priest and the doctor – it was only a little town, village really, wanted to help us get him home for burial, but we couldn’t afford it, no way, so we had him buried there.”

“But didn’t you tell any on the authorities here that he was buried in Spain?”

“What for? He were dead – what did it matter. He were only sixty-four, so didn’t get a pension or nothing like that, so we just left it.”

“Didn’t he at least have a bank account?”

“He closed his bank account when he went to prison. Had a building society account which he opened when he come out, but he drew all the money out to go on holiday with – not that there were much in it – and we spent it on his funeral.”

Jane was sure that both in Spain and in the UK there must have been regulations being broken, but, as Gorton had said ‘what did it matter’? Gorton was still talking.

“I’d have liked to bring him back, but where to? He’d lived in Surrey all his life; being buried there wouldn’t really be any different from leaving him in Spain. He’d never lived here – only visited the place a few times, so no sense in him being here, even if we could’ve afforded to bring him back.

Look at this place, it’s only a small farm. We’ve got less than three hundred sheep; a lamb fetches less than sixty pounds a time whole carcase. To makes ends meet I have to do a bit of driving for a local firm and as many odd jobs locally as I can. Fact, I got one later today putting up a fence for the new owners of a house in the village. We just didn’t have the money to bring him back.”

“I see what you mean, Mr. Gorton. Tell me, do you own a shotgun?”

“’Course I do – I’m a farmer. You won’t find many as don’t, leastways, not round here. I’ve got a BSA double barrel – had it since I were a lad – dad bought it me when I was eighteen. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes please.”

He turned to his wife.

“Julie, love, will you fetch it for us?”

Silently, Mrs. Gorton rose and went to a sturdy cupboard in the corner of the room which she unlocked and produced a double-barrelled shotgun which, still without a word, she handed to Jane. As she did so, Alan Taylor relaxed. You stupid bitch, he had thought to himself as Jane quite happily let one half of a pair who must be seen, however peripherally, as murder suspects, go and get a deadly firearm.

46

Jane accepted the weapon and examined it briefly. Clearly it wasn’t the murder weapon, just a perfectly normal shotgun like thousands of others to be found in the homes of farmers, gamekeepers and the like up and down the country.

“Do you find much need for it here?”

“More than we used to – that stupid anti-hunting law means we sees more foxes than there used to be -

shot one only last week. Bastard was after one of the lambs.”

“Did your father own a shotgun?”

“Yes – like me a double-barrel BSA.”

“What happened to it?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I dunno – expect it got sold along with everything else when he went bust.”

Jane handed the gun back to Mrs. Gorton who, still without a word, locked it away again.

“Mr. Gorton, something I can’t understand. When your father was released from prison, he left the Surrey area. Nobody who knew him ever saw him again. Where did he go?”

“He went to live with my Aunt Grace in Preston. She’d not long been widowed and was happy to take him in. She was married to Dad’s brother Joseph, so she’s dad’s sister-in-law. Then he took really ill and had to go into hospital and they said he’d got AIDS – got it in that fucking prison, he did.

“They dosed him up with all sorts of stuff and sent him back to Aunt Grace, but they told her he didn’t have very long to go. That’s when we had the idea of the holiday for him – sort of a goodbye, really.”

“Something else puzzles me, Mr. Gorton. We didn’t find any trace of Mr. Gorton leaving the country

– no record of his passport having been used – in fact, as far as we could find out, he didn’t actually have a passport.”

Gorton, for the first time, looked uneasy. Hello, thought Taylor, guilt if ever I saw it. What’s up?

Jane hadn’t missed the uneasiness either.

“Well, Mr. Gorton?”

“Well, no he didn’t – and he were too ill to take the time and bother to get one – so he used his brother’s one. They’s always looked alike – almost like twins they looked, and there was only just over a year between them, so dad had no problem in passing hisself off as Joseph.”

“Mr. Gorton, you must know that it is an offence to use a false passport?”

“Course I do – who doesn’t?”

“But you helped your father break the law..”

He shook his head and the gesture was echoed by his wife.

“No way – we never knowed until we went through his things after he died. We just thought he had a passport - simple as that.”

And try and prove otherwise, Jane thought to herself.

“Fair enough – now, please, where were you on Thursday of last week? And also,” she consulted her notebook, “on Saturday, the 13th December last year?”

Alan Taylor thought for a moment, then remembered that the second date was the day on which the motor bike used in the crime had been purchased by the mysterious ‘Barry Cryton’.

“Well, last Thursday, I was here as always. Thirteenth of December? I expect I was here as well that day. This is a farm, Inspector, the lambs don’t look after themselves.”

“But that would be a bit before lambing time, won’t it, Mr. Gorton?” Taylor interjected. The farmer looked at him, then nodded.

“Yes, but not long – I’d have a lot of pregnant ewes to worry about. Short days in December, mind, so I’d be here at home, or perhaps down at the pub seeing it was a Saturday, quite early – I try to get away a bit on a Saturday evening when I can, just like Julie goes to the WI when she can get away –

that’s on a Thursday. Come to think of it - last Thursday, love – that was the WI sale of work, wasn’t it?”

His wife nodded.

“Yes, I bought that cherry cake we had Friday.”

“So you did – and it was Thursday John McGill from the feed company came with the lamb feed delivery.”

“When would that have been, Mr. Gorton?”

“About one o’clock – he had a packed lunch with him and he ate it here and we had a cuppa together.”

“Can you tell me where I can reach Mr. McGill.”

“Yes, he works out of Pwllheli for Morgan’s Feedstuffs, just about twelve miles away.”

He pulled out his wallet and extracted a dog-eared business card.

47

“Here’s their number.”

“Right. Well, thank you, both of you. Oh, one last thing and we’ll be on our way. How long have you lived here – you used to live with your father in Surrey, didn’t you?”

“Yes – I were born on the farm and lived there until Julie and me got married. When the farm went bust there was no point in me staying in Surrey. We hadn’t long been married, but we already had a bit of land of our own. We had intended to join it up as a business with dad’s – it were about two mile away – and run a bigger herd between us, but the foot and mouth put a stop to that. We sold the land end of 2001 and it gave us just enough to put a good deposit down of here – ‘course, we couldn’t afford anything in Surrey.”

Alan Taylor spoke again.

“Any reason for the change from cattle to sheep, Mr. Gorton?”

“Sheep farms are cheaper to buy – or were when we bought this. Couldn’t afford to stay with cattle –

simple as that.”

Jane thanked them again and she and Taylor took their leave.

In the car, she thought about the couple they had just interviewed. On the face of it, Gorton undoubtedly had the strongest motive of anyone they has seen to date. But the logistics seemed against it. From the farm to Guildford was a bit over two hundred and fifty miles – say four and a half to five hours travelling time. OK, it could be done – leave eight in the morning or a bit after and be in Guildford in plenty of time. Do the killing, be back about seven – be dark by then, of course, but Gorton would obviously know the local roads. The big snag, though, was the feed man. Assuming Gorton’s tale was true, then he could not possibly be the killer.

Whilst Taylor drove them, she used her mobile to contact Morgan’s Feedstuffs. After a brief conversation, she finished the call, convinced that Gorton’s alibi stood up.

So who did it? She was now more convinced than ever that the foot and mouth sufferers were a distraction and that the real answer lay with Liam Riley’s murder, and that the death of Collins and the wounding of the other two were merely ‘collateral damage’. Riley was supposedly ‘ex’-IRA and also believed to have had links with London gangsters. Surely those avenues were far more likely to result in the shooting than some disgruntled farmer with a grudge over something that happened years ago?

It was, she felt, time to question McNulty far more closely about his previous acquaintanceship with Riley; when first questioned he had claimed to have met the Irishman for the first time at that lunch, but that was demonstrably untrue.

Inkerman was having a more successful day, although nothing to do with the case, which frustrated him. The various relatives had all been contacted and advised of the arrangements for the funeral which was, indeed, to be held on Wednesday. He had agreed with Chrissie that he would drive back on Sunday afternoon, spent Monday and Tuesday at work, and leave early Wednesday morning to return in plenty of time for the funeral. Henri Lecombe had been as good as his word; Uncle Tom had phoned and would be back on Sunday, and finally, just before lunch Ian and Fiona arrived to take some of the burden of coping with Alice off Chrissie’s shoulders. He was more impressed than ever with Ian’s fiancée; she was calm and composed, willing and able to help at every turn. Inkerman also realised just how tall she was. Somehow when they had met before it hadn’t really registered, but she was as tall as himself and her height somehow added to her impression of being in control.

As the car got within an hour or so of the station, Jane phoned Tom Morgan.

“Tom, Jane here. Tell me, what do we know about McNulty – has he been discharged from hospital yet?”

“I checked last night, boss. He is still there, but they were expecting to let him out after the medicos checked him over this morning. I haven’t yet checked to see if it has happened but I’ll ring them now if you like and phone you back.”

“Yes please.”

Ten minutes later Morgan confirmed to her that McNulty, and indeed Raymond, had both been discharged an hour or so earlier.

48

Thinking it over, she decided that to descend on McNulty’s doorstep only hours after he got home would be politically unwise. He could wait a while, but not too long a while.

Taylor interrupted her reverie.

“So, it can’t be Gorton, can it, boss?”

“Can’t see it. His alibi sounds water-tight. The feed man was adamant that they were together at around half past one, quarter to two, so no way was he in Guildford.”

“So where do we go from here? Apart from back to the nick, that is.”

“Well, we’ll have a go at McNulty again, and at Raymond – there are discrepancies and down-right porkies in what those two have said.”

Taylor decided to broach the subject of the Gorton shotgun.

“One thing, boss. Were you happy letting the Gorton woman go and get that shotgun? I mean, if Gorton was the shooter, and if she knew about it...”

Jane felt her blood run cold. Alan was absolutely right. What on earth had she been thinking of? They could have both been blown away in an instant. She took a deep breath.

“Fucking hell, Alan. You’re right. I promise I will never make that mistake again.”

“Don’t worry, boss – all’s well that ends well.”

“Yes – and I’ll try and make sure that things stay that way.”

Hmm, thought Taylor, so she is human after all. That really frightened her when she realised what she had done. Let’s hope she really had learned her lesson, or I think I might be putting in for a transfer, Wonder-woman or no Wonder-woman.

Twenty minutes later they were back in their office, bringing Morgan and Cross up to speed on their abortive efforts.

“So, back to square one, boss.” Cross observed dourly.

“Looks like it. At least until we’ve had another go at our two survivors. One thing in the meantime, though. Gorton said that he had a bit of land near his father’s farm and he sold it when the old man went bust. Dave, could you try and track the deal down and see who ended up with it?”

“Already done, boss. You remember how the sales of the bankrupt properties went?”

Jane nodded.

“Well, I thought that it might be an idea to see if the buyers had any other interests locally. Southern Surrey Farmers bought up Gorton junior’s land as well as his dad’s.”

“Good work, Dave – what has happened to it since, do you know.”

“That’s interesting. Seeing that they have made use of all the other land, you’d expect something to have been done with this – but nothing has. It’s just lying there. They might have it let out for grazing or the like – that would be unlikely to show up without going to the company themselves, and I didn’t want to do that, of course.”

“Set aside, do you think?”

Cross shook his head.

“No, I wondered about that and checked the register of local set aside land – it doesn’t show up.”

Jane furrowed her brow. Land in that part of Surrey was very valuable, even farm land fetched good prices. So, why should a company which seemed very keen to maximise its use of its other acquisitions, seem positively disinterested in doing anything with this piece?

“Remind me, Dave – what’s the link with Collins?”

“SSF, Tillerman Holdings and Ferns Trust all have the same major shareholder – Copperfield Investments. In its turn, Copperfield Investments has a major shareholder, the company called Ekon Holdings. It is Ekon in which Collins was a major shareholder.”

“No sign of McNulty or Raymond in any of this?”

“Not so far, boss, but it’s a right rat’s nest of a tangle. I can’t say for definite that neither of them aren’t somewhere in the picture – just that I haven’t found them yet if they are.”

“Can we be sure that Ekon is the only company Collins had a stake in?”

“Nope. It works the other way round. Quite easy to find who is involved with a particular company, but to find out what companies an individual is involved with you need to be the taxman – and even he can be fooled in this sort of maze.”

Jane decided on a change of tack.

“Let’s think about the gunman again. What can we be sure about?”

“Nobody saw his face,” said Morgan, “and he used a pump gun.”

49

“Quite tall, not very heavily built, wore a helmet as a mask,” offered Taylor, “and the bike he used was bought from that Carlisle chap.”

“But the man Carlisle met, he described as being quite hefty and not very tall.”

“How tall is Carlisle, boss?”

“Tall – perhaps six four? Six five?”

“Well to someone that tall, ‘not very tall’ could mean a six footer. Hefty? Perhaps padded out – after all, the beard and the specs sound like a disguise.”

“Let’s look at the CCTV again.”

They did, but no new ideas emerged and finally Jane had to admit that, for the time being, they were unlikely to make any progress until she had interviewed the two survivors of the shooting.

“OK, blokes,” she said, “let’s all go home – see you on Monday.”

Chapter Ten: Second Weekend

As far as the murder case was concerned, Saturday and Sunday passed without incident. Jane and Harry Oakes visited her parents, where Harry and her father spent several hours working on the latter’s pride and joy, his 1955 Jaguar XK140, whilst Jane and her mother discussed, in somewhat guarded tones on both sides, the prospect of marriage, children and ‘settling down’, without any promises being made nor maternal satisfaction achieved.

Inkerman spent the morning ensuring that all the arrangements for the funeral were truly in hand and that nothing had been over-looked, then allowed Ian and Fiona to take him and Chrissie away from the house for an hour or so whilst Alice caught up on much needed sleep – the events of the last few days had left her a nervous wreck. Chrissie had felt guilty at leaving her mother alone, but it was Alice herself, in a rare show of determination, who had finally shooed them from the house.

Tom Morgan spent the weekend with his girl friend, Rachel Kindmann, who had a full weekend off duty from the Royal Surrey County Hospital; included in the weekend was the necessity for her to loyally turn out to watch him play rugby on the Saturday afternoon, a game which saw him have to be helped from the field just after half-time with an injury which required much nursing attention over the next day and a half. Despite the very personal nursing service he received, it was clear that he would not be able to walk for some days.

Rugby also claimed some of Alan Taylor’s time, although in his case it was to watch his son David play for the school Under-15 side and had no unfortunate overtones. Alan’s fatherly pride was reinforced when David, whom the school’s rugby master described as ‘quite promising, although in need of bulking out a bit’, left two opposing boys, both a lot bigger than himself, floundering in his wake as he scored what turned out to be the decisive try and, to add icing to the cake, converted it himself.

Dave Cross spent a quiet weekend with his wife, the two of them enjoying a spell of mild sunshine to do some overdue work in the garden. However, all the time that he was working in the garden, Dave found his mind drifting back to the case, and the niggling thought that they were all overlooking something. But what?

The killer had a far less carefree weekend. How much had the police worked out? Would it be possible to go after Raymond and McNulty?

Chapter Eleven: Second Monday

Inkerman was at his desk by seven o’clock, anxious to catch up with all that was going on in his section. All three DIs, he was pleased to see, had left him copious written updates of progress on their various cases. Even that from John Hall was comprehensive; John seemed at last to be coming to terms with Inkerman’s promotion and his own effective sidetracking.

He read Jane’s summary with much frustration; clearly that investigation, the most pressing of them all, was running out of steam. Interviews had yielded nothing; digging into the background of the various people, whilst coming up with a lot of fascinating information, had produced nothing of any relevance in catching the killer. Should he take a more active part in it again? The death of Chrissie’s father had meant that he had left more of the work to Jane than he had originally intended; was she really coping, checking every possibility? The fact that he had committed himself to going back to 50

Cheltenham on Wednesday preyed on his mind. Was he being fair to the investigation, leaving it in the hands of a DI of less than a year’s substantive standing, even though she had been in an acting capacity for a year before that? He wondered how he would present the situation to Graham, whom he was due to meet, along with the two other DCIs, in less than two hours? Graham was a good boss, but he wasn’t an easy-going one. He expected results – not unreasonably.

As his subordinates had done, he let his mind go back to the mystery of Liam Riley. Why was the Irishman at that lunch? His business card described him as a security consultant. The others all had connections of one sort or another with building projects, redeveloping farm land, garden centres, that sort of thing. What possible commonality could they have with a one-time IRA bomb maker? There was the fact that McNulty had been involved with the man twenty or so years ago – he agreed with Jane’s decision not to go after McNulty immediately, but was determined to ensure that follow-up action was not excessively delayed – and it would be interesting to see what came out of that action.

At eight o’clock he met up with the three DIs but the meeting was brief, producing nothing new, other than Jane advising him of Morgan’s enforced absence and saying she intended to interview Raymond and McNulty later that day. He came to a decision and asked to her to stay on for a moment as Shirley and John left his office.

“Jane, I’ll come with you on those two interviews.”

“Right, sir. I was thinking of seeing Raymond first, before lunch, McNulty after, if that’s alright with you?”

“Yes, that’ll do fine – you drive – pick me up about eleven.”

“Yes sir.”

Jane left the office quietly seething. She wasn’t in a position to argue, but she felt that over the last few days she had really got her teeth into the investigation and that the lack of positive progress, despite all the things that had been learnt, was simply an indication of how difficult the case was. Now, with Inkerman sitting in again it diluted her authority over it all. That, plus Tom going and getting his stupid self injured, were conspiring to make it a just perfect start to the week. Still, nothing she could do but grin and bear it. She got back to her team’s office and told Alan Taylor that he would not now be in on the interviews, but that they would be conducted by the DCI and herself.

Oh, thought Taylor to himself, that’s interesting. Has madam blotted her copybook in some way? Is the DCI unhappy with her? Her quickly invented explanation, that with Tom off sick she needed Alan in the office, didn’t convince him in the slightest.

The meeting of the DCIs with Graham was a somewhat tetchy affair. Conway and Hall, even after two years, still resented Graham’s promotion over their heads, and although they had the good sense not to let it show too blatantly, it coloured the way the department worked; everything they did tended to have a secondary agenda – could it be done in such a way as to illustrate that it was their ability which achieved results, not Graham’s leadership?

This was, however, due to change. Jim Ball was now due to retire in just a few weeks and had reached a stage of no longer caring very much what Graham – or anybody else – thought, and delighted in arguing every comment made in the meeting.

At last, however, it was over, but as the other two filed out, Graham asked Inkerman to remain behind.

Expecting to receive at least a reproof over lack of progress on the murder enquiry, Inkerman was pleasantly surprised at the way the conversation went.

“Inky, first, just let me say again how sorry I am about your father-in-law. I know you intend to be off Wednesday for the funeral – are you sure you don’t want a day or two more?”

“Thank you, sir, but the one day will be fine – Chrissie will stay a few more days and so will my son and his fiancée, so there will be plenty of support for Alice. I’m hoping that after the interviews today we will be able to make some progress on the Collins case, and I really feel the need to be in touch on it.”

“I understand that – but from what I have seen, Lawson is doing a pretty good job.”

“Oh yes, I’m perfectly happy with her, but the more the merrier is I think the way on this one.”

“Right – now, I asked you to stay because I want your advice. As you know, Jim Ball goes in just over three weeks and, as usual, Personnel have been dragging their heels over a replacement. Apparently the ACC had his eye on someone from the Met that he wanted to bring in, but that has fallen through, so on Friday I got his agreement that we will make up an existing DI on a temporary basis whilst we go through the hoops of making a permanent appointment. I’ve been giving it some thought, as you can imagine. First off, obviously Jane and Shirley are much too new in post to be considered, and John 51

Hall just isn’t up to it, so you are effectively a neutral observer. Looking at the DIs in Ball and Conway’s sections – any views?”

Inkerman was taken by surprise, but he had been around a long time; all the DIs in question were pretty well known to him

“Well, looking at Jim’s own three, Len Parrott and Oliver Manston have always struck me as thorough workers, but not given to inspiring their troops as much as they might and with a mindset that doesn’t look outside the box enough. Peter Kinge, on the other hand, is a much more imaginative character.

“There is the question, also, of how well promoting one of the three would go down with the other two. Given that Peter is the youngest, and with the least time as a DI, I think that might give some problems – it’s no secret that I had that sort of problem with John and Ken Newsome until he retired.

“Looking at Bill’s DIs – George Brant strikes me as a bit of a time server. He doesn’t, to my mind, have the leadership qualities you want in a DCI. That leaves Terry Neill and Helen Laird. I’d put them pretty much level pegging. If pushed for a choice between them I would plump for Helen, but I think it’s very close.”

“Thanks, Inky. You might like to know that your views match my own. I’m going to recommend to the ACC that Helen is made up on an acting basis. I’m impressed with her DS, Peter Corke, so he’ll act up as DI. That will leave a vacancy in her section for a DS. I don’t want to make up a DC on an acting basis in case Helen doesn’t get confirmed – I don’t want to raise the hopes of someone at that level and bring them down again. I’d like to take one of your sergeants and transfer them across and bring in a new DS. What do you think?”

“Hmm, my best sergeant at the moment is Tom Morgan. He’s bright and very hard working. However, I’d be loath to move him right in the middle of a major case, but for the fact that the silly bugger injured himself playing rugby over the weekend and won’t be back at work for a week or so. Would this be a permanent move if Helen gets confirmed?”

“I don’t really know at this stage, but I would be more inclined to say ‘yes’ rather than ‘no’.”

“Who would be Jane’s new DS? Anyone I know?”

“No, it’s a chap I knew as a DC when I was with Thames Valley. He’s now a DS – has been for just on two years – and wants to move down here. I’ve spoken with him over the last couple of weeks and I’m sure that he will fit in well and do a good job.”

“How soon could he come over?”

Graham looked slightly embarrassed.

“Actually, he’s waiting outside.”

Inkerman began to feel unhappy. Much as he respected Graham, this seemed a bit like being railroaded. Jane was to lose her DS, an officer who was doing well in her team, and have a newcomer foisted on her without any opportunity to vet him.

“This would be a temporary arrangement, wouldn’t it, sir? After all, Lawson doesn’t know anything about this chap and, with respect, you haven’t been in contact with him for about three years.”

Graham responded calmly.

“Inky, if it doesn’t work out, it’s my fault, no quibble about that and I’ll sort out a new billet for him.

Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes sir.”

“OK, let’s have him in.”

He picked up his phone and buzzed his secretary.

“Helen, show DS Clarke in please.”

The door opened and Helen Smith, the long serving secretary of the department, ushered in the waiting officer.

Clarke proved to be tall, perhaps six foot three or so, and thin to the point of being virtually skin and bone. A long face, crowned by an almost bald skull, increased the impression of a walking skeleton, the skin stretched tight over the underlying bones. The eyes, deep-set in their sockets, were very dark, the irises virtually black.

“David, this is DCI Inkerman – you’ll be working in one of his teams.”

The sergeant, whom Inkerman estimated could be no more than thirty or so, advanced and proffered his hand. Inkerman took it and was surprised at the strength of the grip.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Inkerman nodded in response and resumed his seat.

“Right, Inky, I’ll leave Clarke to you.”

Inkerman rose and led the younger man out of the office.

52

Five minutes later he was back in his own office, with Clarke seated opposite him.

“Right, sergeant – tell me about yourself, and why you’ve come to Surrey.”

“Well, sir, I’ve been in the police five years; before that I was in the Army. I was invalided out after being wounded in Iraq. At the time they told me that I would be unlikely to walk again, but as you can see I proved them wrong. I did actually think of applying to rejoin, but in the end changed my mind and applied for the police. I started with Thames Valley, which is where I met Mr. Graham; I was seconded from uniform to CID because there was a major case ongoing. Mr. Graham led the team – a big one – and at the end of it he had my transfer to CID made permanent. I was promoted to DS just over two years ago.”

“Why the move to Surrey?”

Clarke looked Inkerman straight in the eye, holding his attention with an unblinking gaze.

“I don’t know how much is common knowledge about why Mr. Graham moved away from Thames Valley, sir?”

Inkerman began to feel uneasy. What was going on here?

“Very little. I presume you know more?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Graham uncovered corrupt practices by some senior officers, ranging from an ACC

down. They formed a small clique within the force, covering each others’ backs and making themselves a good deal of money. They thought that they were above suspicion, but Mr. Graham – he was a DCI then, got to the bottom of it. I was one of his team on the investigation, doing a lot of the donkey work on checking telephone records, that sort of thing.

“There was never enough evidence to charge three of the group, including the ACC, and although he soon took early retirement, the other two are still in place, still in senior positions in CID. They had their knives out for Mr. Graham, which is why he up and left. Recently, I found out that they hadn’t known that I was involved in the donkey work in the case – but given their positions, I can’t believe that it will be long before they do find out. Once that happens, I reckon I can kiss goodbye to any chances of promotion in Thames Valley, so I got in touch with Mr. Graham, and he arranged for me to come here.”

He paused in his narrative.

“Look, sir, I can see that this must be very awkward for you and whoever leads the team I’ll be working in. I promise you that I will do my utmost to deserve this chance.”

Inkerman looked back at the younger man; if Superintendent Graham trusted him, as he clearly had, he felt that Clarke would have the makings of a valuable team member.

“Well, you’re right that this is all somewhat awkward; the vacancy you will be filling is on a team in the middle of a major murder investigation. The DS managed to damage his leg or something over the weekend, and is on his back for at least a week, so we are switching him, when he returns, to another team as we simply can’t afford to have this murder case hampered for lack of bodies.

“Your team leader will be DI Jane Lawson and I’ll introduce you to her shortly. First, however, I want a few minutes alone with her to put her in the picture – she doesn’t know anything about all this at the moment. So, nip down to the canteen, have a cup of tea and come back here,” he looked at his watch,

“at ten fifteen. OK?”

“Yes, sir – see you at ten fifteen.”

The sergeant departed and Inkerman phoned for Jane. When he told her what was happening she was not happy.

“I appreciate the need for a pair of hands whilst Morgan is off sick, sir, but why can’t I have him back as soon as he returns?”

“Hopefully there will have been a good bit of progress by then. As it is you are going to have to get Clarke up to speed as quickly as possible. If Tom comes back to you a couple of weeks from now, the whole process will have to be gone through again, and the knowledge that Clarke will have acquired by then will be effectively lost. When the case is over, or at some other logical break point, we can look at things again.”

And with that Jane had to be satisfied.

When Clarke returned, Jane, like Inkerman before her, was immediately struck by his cadaverous appearance. He looks as if a puff of wind would blow him away, she thought to herself.

She shook his hand.

53

“Glad to have you on the team, sergeant. I’m going off with Mr. Inkerman in a few minutes; in the interim, I’ll introduce you to the other members of the team and leave you to go through the case log to get as much as possible of the background before I get back.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m looking forward to working here, and from what Mr. Inkerman has told me it looks a big case.”

Yes, it is, reflected Jane to herself with some irritation, and with that idiot Morgan putting himself out of action it hasn’t got any easier.

She took him to the team office and introduced him to Cross and Taylor, who greeted him with muted enthusiasm. Neither had been overjoyed to have Tom Morgan promoted over their heads; now they were stuck with another newcomer over them.

Once Jane had left, Clarke turned to the other two.

“The DI told me to go through the log and familiarise myself with the case as much as possible. Is there anything that I should be focussing on in particular to start with, or should I just start at the beginning and plough through?”

Taylor responded.

“Well, sarge...”

Clarke interrupted him.

“Most of the folk I work with call me ‘Skull’ – I guess you can tell why. Is that OK with you?”

Taylor smiled at the man – so he had a sense of humour, even if you would never dream it to look at him.

“Fine by me, Skull. The thing that is really bugging us at the moment is the fact that the only leads we really have all relate to things that happened seven, eight years ago, and it just doesn’t seem sensible for them to have resulted in mayhem last week. Also, the guy with the strongest motive seems to have an iron clad alibi.”

Clarke bent his head to the file and read avidly for nearly an hour before speaking again.

“This Irishman, Riley. He doesn’t seem to fit, does he?”

“That puzzles all of us – the others you can understand, perhaps a planning application, or some sort of building work, but Riley just doesn’t seem to fit.”

“He was a bomb maker. Is there anything that looks as those it needs moving – a stubborn tenant or the like?”

“Not that we have been able to find so far.”

It was at that point that Dave Cross, who had been on the phone to somebody, replaced the handset and said,

“Something just come up might be useful.”

“What’s that, Dave?” Taylor asked eagerly.

“There’s a planning application in from Raymond – and it’s the land that Leonard Gorton used to own but sold to Southern Surrey Farmers. It’s a big development – houses, shops, car park, school, pub, the lot. Must represent millions and millions.”

Clarke and Taylor looked at him keenly. Could this be something of a pivotal moment?

Clarke looked at his watch.

“The boss and the DCI will have already spoken with Raymond. We’d better let them know, though.

What’s her mobile number?”

Jane and Inkerman had arrived at John Raymond’s house shortly after eleven to be greeted by his wife Barbara, a tall, well dressed brunette who led them into a large sitting room where Raymond himself was seated on a settee in front of a large fireplace. He struggled to his feet to welcome them and Inkerman looked closely at the man, seeing him out of a hospital bed for the first time.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr. Raymond. How are you feeling?”

“Lucky to be alive, Chief Inspector. When I think of poor Norman and his friend...”

His voice tailed away as he sat down again, as he did so waving the police officers to a second settee at right angles to the one upon which he sat. His head was still bandaged and his left arm was in a sling. On his left cheek a plaster covered the site of one of the pellet strikes.

“The doctors tell me that both I and Thomas McNulty were incredibly lucky.” He raised his hand to the plaster and then to the bandage round his head.

“Apparently, an inch or so to the right with either of these two and I would be dead. Still, I’m not, so what can I do to help catch the bastard who did this?”

54

“Thank you, sir. Now, when Inspector Lawson here talked to you in the hospital you were a bit vague about the lunch. You thought that Mr. Collins might be intending to talk business with the others, but that was about it.”

Raymond nodded before speaking.

“Yes, thing is, though, I have to admit that I was still pretty groggy at the time, and the events of that lunch were pretty much a horror story to me. I think that at that stage I subconsciously didn’t actually want to remember any more than I absolutely had to. In fact, there was more to it than I remembered back then. Norman had some land in Hampshire, just on the outskirts of Alton, and he wanted to build some houses on it. It was quite a small site – perhaps two large houses, or three or four smaller ones, that sort of site. I still don’t know why Mr. Doherty was there – presumably that would have become clear later. Thomas McNulty was there for the legalities of the job.”

“Thank you, sir. That ties in now with what Mr. McNulty told us.”

“Have you got any leads on the case, Inspector? As you can imagine, I have been wracking my brains over it ever since it happened. Honestly, I can’t think of anything that I have ever done to anyone for this sort of thing. I mean. I’m just a bloody builder, for Christ’s sake – what can I have done to deserve this?”

“We are following up one line of enquiry that we think is promising. Did you know that Councillor Collins received some death threats about two years ago?”

Raymond’s eyes widened in shock. Inkerman and Jane, both watching him closely, were convinced that the shock was genuine.

“No, I didn’t – but I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you talk about casually. What happened?”

“The threats were anonymous; the Councillor had no idea who might have sent them, nor why, and we were unable to trace the sender. At the time nothing further happened, but now, of course we are not ruling out the possibility that they have some connection with the murders. Tell me, can you think of anybody with a grudge against the councillor? By the way, how long had you known him?”

“I’d known Norman for about six years, I suppose. I first met him when I took over running the company from my father when he retired. In all the time I knew Norman I never came across anything that might have suggested that somebody would want to kill him – it still seems ridiculous. Are you sure he was the target? I don’t know anything about Doherty, but he was Irish – might that have something to do with it?”

“Why should you think that, Mr. Raymond?”

“Well, it’s just that the whole thing is so bizarre. Could it just be some sort of nutter? Like that maniac in that school in Dunblane? Or that one in Hungerford? After all, those were just random, wanton killings. Might not this be the same sort of thing?”

“We don’t think so, Mr. Raymond, because we have found evidence that the attack was pre-planned –

that elements of it were undertaken some months ago. Random killers don’t fit that pattern in our experience.”

Raymond, Inkerman reflected, was looking more subdued as the discussion went on.

“Just one more thing, Mr. Raymond, and then we will leave you in peace. I know that you were asked this before, but as you have said, your memory earlier was a bit fragmented. Have you any idea what the relationship between Mr. Doherty and either Councillor Collins or Mr. McNulty might have been?

Was any mention made of any project they might have had a shared interest in?”

“Not as such, Chief Inspector. As I said, there was the question of Norman’s wish to develop his site in Hampshire, and it might have been that had the lunch progressed, I might have learnt what, if anything, was Doherty’s involvement in it, but the shooting happened too early for that to occur.”

“Sorry, I know I said just one more question – but one thing I’ve forgotten to ask, did you have any dealings with Mr. Collins when he chaired his committee on compensation for farmers who lost animals in the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001?”

Raymond shook his head.

“No, that was before I knew Norman. Eight years ago, I was still learning the business under my father.”

And at that they left the Raymond house.

“Right, Jane,” Inkerman said, “time for a quick spot of lunch and then on to McNulty. “Pub lunch OK

with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then her mobile rang. It was hands-free so she answered without hesitation.

“Lawson.”

55

“Clarke here, ma’am. Dave’s just come up with something interesting. The land that Leonard Gorton sold to SSF is now the subject of a planning application made by Raymond’s company – and it’s a big one. Worth millions and millions to all concerned.”

“What? We’ve just been talking to bloody Raymond and he never said a dicky bird about any planning application coming up. Are McNulty and Collins shown in the paper work?”

“No, ma’am – just Raymond.”

Jane took her eyes off the road to look at Inkerman.

“What do you want to do, sir?”

“Live to be ninety – look at the bloody road. Right, back to the nick – forget lunch. Let’s see what we can work out about this application.”

Twenty minutes later the five of them were discussing what Cross had found out.

“When was the application made, Dave?”

“It was originally made two years ago, but the submission then was made by another firm of builders –

Denbigh and Sons of Winchester. No connection that I can find with Collins, Raymond or McNulty.

That was an outline application and it was approved subject to a number of conditions, but Denbigh’s never took it any further. This application was only put in last week – Friday, in fact, so it was only today that the chap I have been dealing with on the council knew about it and let me know.”

Inkerman furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

“Why didn’t Raymond mention this when we spoke to him?”

Jane broke in.

“Is there any reason why he should have done, sir? We asked if he had any idea who might have had it in for Collins, or anything else he might think of, but on the face of it, from Raymond’s point of view this has nothing to do with anything we are looking at.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. And only Raymond’s company name appears on the papers, nothing we can use against McNulty.”

Inkerman was struck by a thought.

“Jane, you said that Leonard Gorton was very bitter about Collins. I wonder if he knows that SSF has links with Collins?”

She shrugged helplessly.

“No idea, sir. But if he did, and sees Collins and company set to make a fortune out of land he had to sell for a relative pittance, it would strengthen his motive against Collins – and as his associates, perhaps against the others as well.”

“Yes, but he has a cast iron alibi.”

He was struck by a thought.

“The motorbike. The non-existent Barry Cryton who bought it. We think that whoever it was, was in disguise. Carlisle said that ‘Cryton’ had a flashy crash helmet. His wife remarked that Cryton wore trainers. ‘Cryton’ doesn’t seem tall enough to be our killer and also too heavily built. His height, however, is a bit debatable. Carlisle is very tall, taller than ‘Cryton’, taller than our killer, so he might inadvertently be misleading us about the height. Mrs. C said about the trainers – most motorcyclists wear boots – certainly the killer did. The killer had a plain black helmet, may or may not have been taller than ‘Cryton’ and is almost certainly less heavily built.

“OK, ‘Cryton’ and the killer are two different people. ‘Cryton’ seems to have gone out of his way to minimise his apparent height – hence the trainers. The killer wore boots with thick soles and heels, so maximising his height. Tell, me, how tall is Mrs. Gorton?”

Jane and Alan Taylor looked at each other uneasily.

“Well, she’s tall – a good bit taller than me.” Jane offered.

“Yes, sir – she’s about my height and she’s certainly as tall as her husband, perhaps even a bit taller.”

Taylor added.

Inkerman cast his mind back to Ian’s fiancée Fiona. Somebody of her height, dressed in asexual clothing such as a motorcyclist’s leathers, her face hidden behind a darkened visor, could easily be assumed to be a man rather than a woman. Could it be that the killer was, in fact, a tall woman, not a man at all?

“But she’s got an alibi as well, sir,” Jane objected, “that Thursday she was at the WI...”

Her voice tailed off as she realised that they had no actual corroboration that Julie Gorton had been at the WI that day. Cursing herself for not checking something so obvious, she continued.

“But we only have her word for that, I’m afraid.”

56

Inkerman frowned; it was unlike Jane Lawson to have allowed such an oversight, and he wondered why it had happened.

“Jane, follow that up, please. We must have it verified one way or the other. I know it sounds far-fetched, but if she could have got to Guildford that day we need to take another look at the Gortons.”

Furious with herself, Jane nodded. “I’ll check it out, sir.”

Inkerman continued his cogitation over the affair.

“There’s still the question that, if it is the Gortons, how did they know that Collins would be in that restaurant? Surely it can’t be just chance. There must have been some reason, some way in which that information was available to them, but how? They live two hundred miles and more away; to get to the restaurant at lunch time would have meant starting about nine in the morning, getting back about six.”

Clarke spoke for the first time.

“Could they still have a local contact, sir? After all, they had both lived here all their lives until they moved to Wales.”

“Could be – get a check on their phones. See if there are any local numbers they call regularly or which call them. Jane, will you check with the local WI before we go and see McNulty – come and get me once you’ve made contact, or if you can’t.”

He turned to Clarke.

“By the way, it’s David, isn’t it?”

“Well that’s what I was christened, sir, but most folk call me Skull. You can see why. It started in the Army – every other Clarke was ‘Nobby’ and there were several Clarkes in my unit – so Skull it was.”

Inkerman managed a chuckle for the first time since he had heard of the death of his father-in-law.

“OK, Skull it is.”

Ten minutes later, rather to her surprise, Jane was speaking to the secretary of the WI branch which numbered Julie Gorton amongst its members. Bronwyn Evans was fascinated to receive a call from the police of far off Surrey which, from her reaction, might as well have been Outer Mongolia.

“Thursday before last then, yes. We had a sale of work by members – you know, everything from home grown vegetables to cakes and home made wine and that. Yes, I remember Julie being there, we’re quite a small branch and there must have been no more than thirty or so people there for most of the time. But why would you be wanting to know about Julie, then? Such a nice girl she is. Not in trouble, surely?”

“No, Mrs. Evans, it’s just some routine checking we have to do. Would you know what time she was at the sale?”

“Oh, I don’t know for sure, mind you, but she took over the cake stall from me at seven, and she’d been a while before.”

“Could she have been there before six, could you say?”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Well, she might have been there then, mind you I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Thanks very much, Mrs. Evans – you’ve been very helpful. One last thing. I’d be most grateful if you didn’t mention I’ve been asking after her to Mrs. Gorton, please.”

“Right you are, then.”

And that, thought Jane, unless I very much miss my guess, means that Julie Gorton will know that we have been asking about her movements before the phone grows cold.

She reported on the conversation to Inkerman as she drove the two of them to the McNulty household.

They had been there before, but Jane was still impressed by the place. It must, she reckoned, be worth easily a million quid – nice work if you can get it.

Joan McNulty met them at the door and led them into a small study off the entrance hall, where they found her husband working at a computer on a nice looking antique desk.

He half rose as they entered, then gave a wince of pain and subsided back into his chair, waving them to visitor’s chairs as he did so.

“So, Chief Inspector, Inspector, how can I help?”

“Well, sir, we’d like to know how much you can tell us about Liam Riley.”

McNulty blinked uncertainly at them.

“Riley? Do you mean Doherty?”

“Well, the dead man used both names, and for all I know he may have used others. He was a member of the IRA, imprisoned in 1989, released under the terms of the Good Friday agreement in 1999. The 57

solicitors who acted for him in 1989 were Anders-Moore. At the time you worked for them and they tell me that you actually dealt with Riley.”

McNulty looked astonished. Now, thought Inkerman, is this an act?

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chief Inspector, but if it’s the same man I’m afraid I simply didn’t recognise him. Until you mentioned the name I don’t think that I could have recalled Riley to mind.

After all, it was twenty years ago. People’s looks change over that sort of period, Also, I’ve dealt with, quite literally, thousands of clients over that period. It’s interesting that he made no comment about recognising me, which rather demonstrates my point.”

“Wasn’t dealing with a notorious IRA bomb maker something that one might expect to remain in the memory?”

“Absolutely, but as I have already said, I simply didn’t recognise him and he didn’t seem to recognise me. Again, twenty years really is quite long time. I was thirty-four years of age and, as I am sure that you appreciate, the world would have seemed very different to us both back then. Just contemplate your companion – the Inspector here would have been a young school girl. Is there anything else I can help with Chief Inspector, or is that the limit of your enquiries?”

“Well, there are one or two other points I need to check with you, sir. How well do you know Mr.

Raymond?”

“Quite well. He has done several housing developments in the local area and I have been involved with one or two of them.”

“Have you acted on behalf of him, or his firm, in any land sales or acquisitions?”

“Not specifically, although I have been involved in a couple of developments in a secondary capacity

– mostly advice on planning law rather than conveyancing or the like. John has a big application in at the moment on land currently belonging to SSF and I have been involved in the discussions as to just how that will be handled.”

“Was Councillor Collins also involved?”

“Oh no; that could have given rise to accusations of clash of interests.”

“Will SSF retain ownership of the land?”

“At the moment that is still under discussion. As I am sure you realise, Chief Inspector, the current financial climate makes such a development a rather higher risk proposition than would have been the case a few years back. I don’t think that I am breaking any confidences in saying that it is unlikely that SSF nor John Raymond would want to carry the whole initial cost single-handed.”

“Going back to Liam Riley for a moment. What did he have to say at the lunch?”

“Very little, actually. Norman introduced him as a security consultant, and I got the impression that he would be doing something for Norman in the Hampshire development, but it was only an impression.

Now, of course, we will never know unless you can discover something more. I don’t even know where his office is.”

And neither do we, thought Inkerman grimly.

Nothing else was learnt from McNulty, and it was two very frustrated detectives who returned to the station where Jane called her team together so that she and Inkerman could update them. That having been done, she turned to Clarke.

“Any joy on the phones, Skull?”

He shook his head.

“’Fraid not, boss. I got good cooperation from the phone company, but there are no calls from the Gortons to any Surrey numbers over the last six months, nor any record of calls to them from any Surrey numbers. Of course, there is nothing to stop them using pay-as-you-go mobiles. No way we can trace that, if they did do it.”

Inkerman cut in.

“One thing that bugs me. If the Gortons are tied up in this they must have a local contact. Let’s go through them again.

“First, Kirby. How likely?”

Jane shook her head.

“I don’t see it, boss. He’s probably bitter enough to be involved if it were possible, but he’s utterly defeated, just a shell. I can’t see him at all.”

“Balfour? Ex-councillor, knew Collins well, would have known what was going on if he wanted to find out. How long has he been off the council by the way?”

“Stood down at the election two years ago, sir,” replied Taylor, “as far as I can find out, he just didn’t want to carry on. His wife had just died, and it looks as though he simply wanted a change.”

58

“Hmm, his wife’s death might have been a cause of belated anger, perhaps?”

“I checked, sir,” Jane objected, “she died of cancer. Nothing to do what happened back in 2001.”

“Not logically, no. But the mind can play funny tricks over things it doesn’t want to accept. If, and I’ll grant you that it’s a very big if, Balfour went into some form of denial over his wife’s illness and started to look for someone to blame...”

He broke off in mid-sentence.

“What date did his wife die? And what date was that first anonymous threat to Collins?”

Clarke had the file in front of him and hurriedly looked through it.

“Mrs. Balfour died on Saturday, the 3rd of March 2007. The first letter arrived on either Thursday the 22nd of March or the next day – Collins’ statement isn’t totally clear on that point. The second letter arrived on Wednesday, the 11th April. The council elections were on Thursday the 3rd of May.”

“So, those dates pan out for such a scenario. All circumstantial, of course. OK, let’s leave Balfour for the moment. What about the Daniels?”

“Could be,” Jane answered. “They all bear a grudge. They all have alibis for the time of the actual killing, but those mean nothing against being a source of information for the Gortons, if they are involved. They are all local enough to be possible.”

“The Littlebrooks?”

Jane shook her head.

“No way – they have been swanning about on the continent for several years now. They couldn’t have had any worthwhile gen to pass on.”

Inkerman nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I’m sure we can rule them out. Similarly Harris – been in a mental hospital and off the scene, so can’t be the information source. He might be the author of the anonymous letters, though. How long has he been in hospital?”

“Since June 2004, so he couldn’t have been the letter writer.”

“So we can strike him out – also the Calley family – again, they are out of the local picture so can’t be an information source. I suppose one of them could be the letter writer, but it seems very unlikely.”

“So,” Jane summarised, “we’re down to Balfour and the Daniels family as being the only ones likely to be able to finger Collins – unless there is somebody we don’t know about.”

Inkerman nodded.

“That just about sums it up. Now we need to work out how to find out who is the actual source, always assuming that we are on the right track. Balfour, Janice Daniels and her children Tara and James, four possible people, or six if you include the spouses of the Daniels children.”

Clarke, who had been browsing through the file again, looked up and spoke.

“One thing, sir. James Daniels. He works for an architects. Is there any chance there could be a link there with Raymond?”

“Good one, Skull – check into it, will you.”

The sergeant nodded.

Inkerman looked at his watch; five o’clock.

“Right that’s all from me for the moment. I’ll leave all you to it.”

After checking all the team members knew what they were doing next, Jane retired to her own desk and thought hard.

Inkerman’s theory was plausible, but also built on a raft of suppositions. She kept coming back to the presence of Riley at that lunch and the fact that he had been killed. They were effectively ignoring why he might have been there; instead they were concentrating on revenge aimed at Collins, with the others either just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or gunned down simply because they were associated with Collins.

She was still unhappy at such an assumption. Given Riley’s violent past, and his probable, perhaps certain, tie in with London gangsters, surely he was more than an incidental character in events? She decided to do something that had been at the back of her mind for days now and reached for the phone.

Lucy Crane was deep in thought as she stared at her computer screen. The problem her boss, the recently promoted Chief Inspector Ruth Kendal, had posed was essentially simple, but it was also tedious. Kendal’s instruction had been clear and concise; ‘check how secure our computer systems are’. That was the easy part. The tedious part was that their computer systems interacted with many 59

others and Lucy had now been working for over three weeks on the task. So far, she had discovered a worrying number of potential problems, ranging from weakly protected links from one system to another, to discovering that the Chief Constable, no less, had a level of protection on his desk computer that wouldn’t have fooled a five year old.

It was therefore a relief when the phone went. She picked up the handset, pushed her spectacles back up her nose, and answered.

“Sergeant Crane.”

“Lucy, Jane Lawson here. Can you spare me a few minutes after work?”

“Sure – meet for a quick drink at the Red Lion at, say six-fifteen?”

“Ideal – see you there.”

Lucy replaced the phone thoughtfully. Jane was one of the force’s high-flyers, whom Lucy had been able to help significantly a couple of years earlier in decoding some highly sensitive files found on a computer belonging to a murder victim. Hopefully, this would be equally interesting.

Jane made another phone call immediately after speaking to Lucy Crane. This one was to one of her informers, a man who was only too aware that if Detective Inspector Lawson really decided to make things difficult for him, he would be unlikely to escape prison for a variety of crimes, petty in themselves but numerous enough to earn the serious disapprobation of an unsympathetic judge. This was a chance that George Govern did not wish to take, so when the Detective Inspector called him, he listened carefully and did his best to please her.

He listened carefully this time, and as a result sent out feelers to his many and varied contacts, seeking information, any information, no matter how trivial, about a man calling himself either Liam Doherty or Liam Riley.

At six fifteen prompt, the two girls met in the pub, just half a mile or so from the station, but one which was seldom frequented by the local police officers, most of whom prevented the Three Feathers which was nearer and with a better ambience for a relaxing drink after a hard day.

“Lucy, what’ll you have?”

“Gin and tonic please, plenty of tonic, plenty of ice – I’m driving.”

“Me too, think I’ll have the same.”

The two girls got their drinks and settled themselves at a table in a corner where they could not be overheard.

“Right,” said Lucy, “why all the cloak and dagger?”

“A feeling I’ve got that what I am going to ask needs to be very carefully handled, and I didn’t what Chief Inspector Kendal wondering why I was talking to you direct instead of coming through her.

She’s an officious cow and I reckon she would just make it difficult out of principle.”

“Why should she do that?”

“We’ve had words before – I reckon that she doesn’t like me.”

Lucy shrugged.

“I suppose in theory you should come through her – send a request for whatever it is you want and she’ll pass it on – but we can get round that OK. Just E-mail me first thing tomorrow asking whatever it is you want to know – I presume it means a computer search?”

Jane nodded.

“Right, tell me now of course so I know what it’s all about, send the E-mail very first thing – I still get quite a lot of routine requests direct to me that way. Kendal would be snowed under if she tried to vet all those as well as doing her own job.”

“OK, I’ll do that. Now, you know this double murder at Mario’s we are working on?” Lucy’s long fair hair bobbed as she nodded understanding, and for about the tenth time already that evening, her spectacles slipped slightly down her nose and were pushed firmly back into place.

“Well, we are currently working on the assumption that the principal target was the councillor, Collins, and the others were either unlucky or shot because they were associated with him. If that’s the case, that Collins was the real target, it makes some sense that two men were only wounded, whilst two were killed.

“It seems to stand up – Collins looks to have been up to some shady tricks back in 2001 which just about ruined several people and left others a lot worse off than they would otherwise have been. One of his victims even killed himself, leaving a family behind. So, a vengeance killing makes some sense.

My problem id the timing of it all – it that is the reason for it, why wait so long? The other thing I 60

don’t like is that the second man killed is ex-IRA, or so the Met tell us. The ID he had said that he was Liam Doherty. His real name was Liam Riley. He was an IRA bomb maker who was caught and imprisoned, then released early, as part of the Good Friday agreement, in 1999.

“A Chief Superintendent Harrison from the Met came down and told the DCI and Mr. Graham about Riley’s history. She also said that he was no longer linked to the IRA, but that he did seem to have links to London big time crime, and that he was now a freelance arsonist come explosives expert.

“That all sounds very plausible, except that when we were working on the Leighton case I met an Inspector Fallon, also of the Met Special Branch, who took me through all the arsonists they knew of who were likely to be in the job market, and Riley – whom the Met already knew about, had known about for years – wasn’t on his list! I think that there is more to Mr. Riley than meets the eye – more than we are being told by the Met, for whatever reason.

“I want to know all I can about the man, but be careful, Lucy. Don’t go sniffing into systems that aren’t openly available. I don’t want us being investigated for unauthorised access to anything.”

“Don’t worry – I’ll go in on tippy-toes.”

The two girls finished their drinks and went their separate ways.

Chapter Twelve: Second Tuesday

Jane was in the office early, wanting to make sure that she could E-mail Lucy Crane without anyone knowing she had done so and was relieved when, no sooner had she sent it, than Clarke and Taylor, followed a minute or two later by Cross, trooped into the office.

They all settled down to various tasks and Jane was surprised to receive an E-mail only an hour or so later from Lucy. It was short and to the point.

To: DI Lawson

From: DS Crane

Subject: Liam Riley aka Liam Doherty

As requested, I have interrogated the CRO database regarding this subject with the following results: DOB:

03-11-56

Place of Birth:

29, O’Connell Street, Dublin, ROI.

Criminal Record:

Arrested 03-07-88 and charged with possessing explosives Tried and convicted of possession and as being involved in the supply of explosive devices causing the deaths of at least twenty-three (23) persons.

Sentenced to thirty-four years imprisonment.

Released 17-08-99 under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement.

NOTE:

The file of this subject has elements to it which are not available for examination without the authority of the Commander, Special Branch, Metropolitan Police.

Jane studied the report, convinced that it supported her contention that Riley needed to be investigated far more thoroughly than had been done to date. She printed it off, then walked to Inkerman’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come in, oh, morning Jane, what’s up?”

“Sir, I asked Lucy Crane to check the CRO database on Riley for me – I was hoping that it might show some associates which would link back to our suspects somehow, but no joy on that. However, what she did find out was the plain file is very sparse – it doesn’t even show any known associates, and to get any further information needs the authority of the Commander of the Met Special Branch. There must be more to Riley than we have been told.”

Inkerman looked at the report and wondered just what it all meant. He had to accept that trying to prove anything against anyone in this case looked a pretty forlorn hope, and now this. He cast his mind back to the meeting with the Harrison woman. It now seemed clear that she had been holding out on them; if not, why such a high profile bar on Riley’s file?

“Good thinking, Jane – we should have checked the possibility of finding associates via CRO earlier, though.”

61

One up to me, Jane thought.

“We did, sir. When we identified him via his finger-prints, we ran a standard CRO check, which came up with nothing. Because we didn’t know that somebody had put bars on the file, we didn’t realise that the possibility existed. Now, I’m not saying that the full file would necessarily tell us anything - but if we don’t know what’s on it, how can we tell?”

“True – I’ll take it up the line and try and get the full file released.”

Inkerman took the problem up with Superintendent Graham who agreed that they had a need to see the file and promised to get approval as quickly as possible.

In the meantime, Clarke’s digging into the possibility of James Daniels, in his work as an architect, coming into contact with Raymond, or for that matter with any of the other victims of the shooting, had born some fruit.

“Look at this, boss,” he said to Jane, “Braine & Dawes, the firm Daniels works for, have done several jobs for Raymond’s company. Mostly just designs for one-off houses, but also a small factory down in Havant, and they are also one of the companies bidding for the development on what was the Leonard Gorton land.”

Jane cast her mind back; had she asked Daniels if he knew any of the victims? Surely she had, but she knew she must check.

“Alan,” she called over to Taylor, “can you check your notes of our interview with James Daniels, please?”

“Sure, boss.” He rummaged quickly through the file and brought it over.

“Here we are.”

“Thanks, what did he say about knowing any of the victims?”

“Here it is; he wasn’t specifically asked that,” diplomatic, Jane thought to herself, what you really mean is than Detective Inspector Lawson didn’t ask the question, “but when you asked him if he knew anything about anyone wanting to shoot the men, he said he couldn’t think of any reason. Surely he should have said if he knew any of them?”

“Unless he’s playing the innocent with us. I think that I’ll have another word with him.”

“Today?”

“Not sure – depends on how the day pans out.”

In truth, Jane wanted to put off the interview until the next day, when Inkerman would be attending the family funeral, rather than have to admit, if asked, that the follow-up was needed because she hadn’t been thorough enough in the original questioning.

Her telephone rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, it’s Lucy – fancy a quick one at lunch time?”

“That’d be nice – Red Lion?”

“See you there – one o’clock?”

“Fine.”

Nothing further of any consequence happened that morning, but the news Lucy had to impart made Jane more convinced than ever that she was on the right track in pursuing the Riley aspect of the case.

“Right,” said the IT expert as they settled down with their drinks, “what have you done about the note?”

“Took it to the DCI, pointed out that if the plain file hadn’t been fiddled with we might have learnt a lot more than we have. He’s taking it up the line to get the full file released.”

“Good! Although there may be resistance. I had – strictly off the record – a gentle look around the file to see what sort of bars were on it. They are quite sophisticated – anyone attempting to bypass them will be logged. I could almost certainly outwit them, but that really would be sticking my neck out, and a certain breach of authorised procedures, and I have no mind to be slung out on my ear. Anyway, you may well learn more from what isn’t on the file when, or of, you get it, than what is there. Those bars have been in place since the date of Riley’s release from prison. They haven’t been updated since, so the file has almost certainly lain dormant over the last ten years. If Riley is some sort of perceived threat, that file would have been regularly updated.”

“So there must be some sort of reason why that has happened.”

“It would look like it, wouldn’t it?”

“Thanks, again, Lucy. I owe you one.”

62

Lucy smiled and nodded acknowledgement and the two returned to their offices.

Clarke and Taylor were waiting for her on her return.

“We’ve found another possible link, boss.” Clarke informed her.

“Tell me, what have you got?”

“Alan’s idea – if James Daniels, or for that matter one of the others, passed information on to the Gortons, how did he get it?”

“Yes, so?”

“We’d already checked who knew that the table at Mario’s was booked for Collins – the owner, Callen, the waitress who actually took the order over the phone, the chef, Collins’ secretary who made the booking, and the four diners themselves. We’ve always assumed that somebody must have got the information from one of the first four; after all none of the diners are likely to set themselves up for target practice. All four were interviewed. The chef says he only knew the table was booked, not who was sitting at it, and it seems a pretty likely scenario. The owner and the waitress both agreed that they knew in advance that Collins and three others would be dining there that day, but say that until the men arrived they had no idea who the other three diners might be. However, if the shooter knows that Collins and the other three, or even just Raymond and McNulty of the other three, are working together, it would be a reasonable assumption of the killer’s that Collins would have company. So, either the manager or the waitress knew enough to be valuable to the killer. The manager has been at Mario’s ever since he opened it six years ago. On the other hand, the waitress, Sandra Hill, has only been there four months. Before that she worked for Braine & Dawes as a receptionist.”

“So, she could have known James Daniels?”

“It’s not a very big firm – seems just about certain that she would.”

“So, we had better have another word with both of those two.”

Jane was in two minds on the matter. Sure, James Daniels had a motive for wishing harm to befall Collins – but what about the others? McNulty might just possible have been involved back in 2001 –

although there was no proof that he had been – but Riley and Raymond most decidedly had not been.

She looked at her watch.

“OK, Alan – you and I again – we’ll check with the girl first. Assuming that she is on duty this lunch time she should just about be still there.”

Twenty minutes later they were talking to Sandra Hill. Jane hadn’t received much of an impression of the girl when she had seen her on the day of the shooting; deeply shocked, she had scarcely been coherent, and what little she had said merely bore out what had been said by the others.

Jane looked at the girl carefully. Smart in appearance, the black and white waitress’ uniform set off a trim figure and short blond hair framed an attractive, carefully made up face. Blue eyes gazed back at the detective.

“Miss Hill, I’m sorry to have to take your mind back to the murders, but we are still anxious to get every bit of information about the Irishman, Mr. Doherty, that we can.” Jane had decided on an oblique approach to her questioning, and by appearing to concentrate on ‘Doherty’, she hoped to allay any guilt that might be present in the girl’s mind.

“You see, the problem is that the survivors, Mr. McNulty and Mr. Raymond didn’t know him – it was the first time that they had met him. Tell me, Councillor Collins was a fairly frequent customer, wasn’t he?”

“Oh yes, I suppose he would be in here on average nearly once a week. I don’t think I ever remember him coming in by himself, though. Nearly always he would have somebody with him. Lots of different people. Mr. McNulty – I learned his name from the papers – was with him fairly often, and Mr.

Raymond a few times. But I never saw Mr. Doherty before, I’m afraid.”

“Did they arrive all together?”

Sandra’s brow wrinkled in concentration.

“Nooo - -,” she said slowly, drawing the word out whilst she thought, “ Mr. Collins and Mr. McNulty came in together. Mr. Raymond came in just a minute or two later. They all ordered a drink and I’d just served them when Mr. Doherty arrived – he apologised to the others for being late – said he’d been held up in traffic - and just as I was putting their drinks on the table, he asked me for a gin and tonic.”

“You’ve got a good memory!”

The girl shuddered.

63

“It’s a day I’ll never forget. At first I didn’t think that I would be able to come back here, but Mr.

Callen was ever so understanding – gave me until Tuesday off with pay and gave me a bit of a bonus as well – ‘a reward for standing by him’ he called it.”

Jane decided that it was time to change tack.

“How well did you know James Daniels when you worked at Braine & Dawes? Oh, and why did you leave them?”

Sandra blinked in surprise.

“Eh? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Please, Sandra – just answer me.”

“Well, I knew him – it’s only a small firm – just Mr. Braine, the senior partner – Mr. Dawes died some time back, before I joined them - and Mr. Daniels and Miss Harlow the junior partners, then there were two draughtsmen, Mr. Johnson and Davey Kitchen, and an assistant architect, Lizzie Lewis. I knew all of them.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Well, they aren’t doing too well at the moment. Mr. Braine spoke to all us one at a time and told us that we were going to have to take a cut in wages to make ends meet – but I wonder if he would take a cut! He’s a greedy old bugger, that one. I didn’t get much as it was, and even less would mean it would hardly be worth working. A friend of mind, Julie Rogers, was a waitress here at Mario’s and she was leaving to have a baby, so she suggested I approach Mr. Callen. I did a bit of waitressing before I worked at Braine’s, so I knew enough to convince Mr. Callen to take me on.”

“Did you ever go out with anyone from Braine and Dawes?”

“Well last Christmas we all went out for a meal one evening, but apart from that, no – my boyfriend would have had something to say if I had!”

“Do you have a mobile?”

“Yes – look, what is this? What has me working for Braine and Dawes and having a mobile got to do with anything?”

“Relax, Sandra, this is just routine. We just want to check on something that we have been told by somebody else.”

“What? And who?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. It might all be nothing at all, but it is something that we need to check out. Now, your mobile, is it on a contract, or a pay as you go phone?”

“It’s on a contract.”

Well that, at least, is something, Jane thought. At least we can check with the company what calls were made and received on it, unlike with a pay as you go. In common with many police officers, Jane would like to have seen such phones outlawed and to hell with personal freedom. It was something that she and Harry disagreed about vehemently. He felt that Britain was already spied upon far too much, with CCTV and the like all over the place. Jane was sure that such technology was essential to protect the public from the bad guys. Harry reckoned that the growing attitude of government was to control everything and everyone and that the police were in danger of becoming an arm of government rather than upholders of law and order.

“Can you tell me the number and the suppler, please?”

Sandra did so, and Taylor made a note of them.

“Where do you live. Sandra?”

“Dave – my boyfriend – and I have a flat in Burpham.”

“And the telephone number?”

With a frustrated sigh, the girl provided both the number and, without being asked, the address.

After thinking it over, Jane decided that it would be a mistake to put off seeing James Daniels until the next day, so he was their next port of call. They found him in his office and he welcomed them in somewhat abstracted fashion.

“What can I do for you, Inspector? I hope this won’t take long, I have a client due shortly.”

Jane smiled sweetly.

“Mr. Daniels, I am investigating a double murder. I am afraid that my questions will have to precedence over your meeting,”

“So, what are your questions?”

“Firstly, do you own a mobile phone? And if so, is it on a contract?”

“Yes to both – but why?”

“Just a process of elimination, Mr, Daniels. What’s the number and the supplier, please?”

64

Daniels quoted both and Alan Taylor noted them down.

“And your home number?”

“I have two at home – one for business, the other for family.”

Again, Taylor noted the numbers.

“Mr. Daniels, do you know Sandra Hill?”

“Sandra? Well, she used to work here. What about her?”

“Have you ever been out with her?”

“Apart from the office party last Christmas, she sat next to my wife and I, no. Why?”

“I am afraid that I can’t say exactly why at this point, Mr. Daniels, but it is just routine.”

“Look, Inspector, I can’t see what any of your questions have to do with me. Now, is there anything else?”

“I am afraid that there is, Mr. Daniels. Tell me, please, how well did you know Mr. Collins and the other victims of the shooting?”

“Well, I knew about Collins at the time of the foot and mouth troubles and subsequently when my father committed suicide my mother blamed Collins for it. I have to say that I share her feelings about the man – if his committee hadn’t treated dad so shabbily he would be alive today, so I am afraid that I am not shedding any tears over him.

“As for the others – Thomas McNulty is quite a well known solicitor locally and as he often gets involved in planning applications the firm comes in contact with him from time to time. I know John Raymond rather better because we did some design work for him last year and most of it was down to me, so I met him quite a bit.”

“What do you think of them as people – McNulty and Raymond?”

Daniels shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve got on fine with them when I’ve met them – no complaints. John Raymond is nearer my own age

– we’ve had a couple of drinks together in an evening once or twice when an afternoon project meeting has finished late. I’ve never socialised with Thomas McNulty – to be honest, I find him a bit of an old woman.”

“What about the other people who suffered at the time of the foot and mouth outbreak? Do you know Harold Balfour?”

“Only in as much as he was a near neighbour – again, he’s much older than I am and there has been nothing in my work to bring me into contact with him.”

“What about Abraham Kirby? Peter Harris? The Calley family?”

“Again, I can’t really help. Old Abraham and his wife were much older than me – older than my parents, and I never had anything to do with them – I don’t mean that we didn’t get on or anything, just that our paths scarcely crossed. The Calley family – I knew them a bit better -the Calley children went to the same schools as Tara and myself, although they are younger than us. But they moved away. Of course – I haven’t seen or heard from or about them since.”

“Do you know the Gortons? Leonard and Julie Gorton?”

“Well, I used to a bit – Leonard worked for his father so I knew him slightly then. I also met Julie a few times when they both came to various farming events – back then, before my father was driven to kill himself, he had hoped that I would follow him into farming, but I was already keen to become an architect, so although I met them a few times, I didn’t know them well.”

“Have you been in contact with them recently? Or them with you?”

“No, why should I have? They went to Wales somewhere – wanted to get away from everything around here. I suppose you know Nathaniel Gorton went to prison?”

“Of course.”

“Well when that happened Leonard didn’t want to stay around here - too many wagging tongues.”

“Thank you, Mr. Daniels, I think that’s all we need from you for now.”

As they drove away, Jane sifted through in her mind what the two had said. The only useful nugget –

possibly useful, she corrected herself – was Sandra Hill’s comment about Riley arriving late and blaming the fact on the traffic – so surely he had come by car? A search of the DVLA database in the early days of the investigation had failed to find any record of a car registered to the man, either as Riley or Doherty, but if there was a car of his somewhere around, it just might yield information of some use. But how to find it?

Thinking about it, it would clearly have been static for over a week now. It wasn’t in a car park, or at least not in any park in Guildford. Dave Cross had checked with them all, and none had had a vehicle 65

left over a prolonged period. Neither was it parked on a meter – Dave had also checked that out. So it must be parked in a street somewhere, one without parking restrictions, assuming that Riley’s comment to his lunch companions was the truth.

“Alan, when we get back I want you to get a search organised of all the streets without parking restrictions within a one mile radius of Mario’s restaurant. We’re looking for Riley’s car – Sandra Hill said that he claimed to have been held up by traffic, Dave couldn’t find a car in a car park nor on a meter, so if Riley was telling the truth, the car must be in a street somewhere. We need to find it.”

“OK, boss – I’ll get on it.”

As they continued the journey, Jane gave more thought to the question of a car. Riley didn’t have one in his own name, nor in the name of Doherty, so the possibilities were that he had hired a car, borrowed one, stolen one, or had used yet another alias.

She discounted the idea of a stolen car – why on earth should he take such a risk? Hiring, borrowing or another alias, on the other hand, were all credible. Hiring could be checked – had any firm not had a car returned? – but was difficult. For a start, she had no idea where Riley had come from to attend the lunch – it could be anywhere within a reasonable driving distance – a hundred miles, for instance, so the number of firms to be checked would be massive. There was also the possibility that he had hired it for an extended period and that it didn’t yet show as missing.

Borrowing or another alias were even more of a needle in a haystack proposition. Her only real hope was the street search finding the actual vehicle.

Back at the office Alan Taylor, after setting up the search for the car, checked with the various phone companies, and quickly established that there had been no calls made to, nor received from, the Gortons by either Sandra Hill or James Daniels. Another dead-end she told herself resignedly. There remained the possibility that the Gortons had contacted one or other of Hill or Daniels and had used pay-as-you-go phones which they had not declared to her, but she was more and more inclined to strike the possibility of a Gorton/Hill or Gorton/Daniels combination off the list of likely scenarios.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, but also without any progress. The street search for Riley’s car failed to find anything; Taylor had organised a search by half a dozen uniformed officers who had knocked on doors and asked if those answering had noticed any vehicles parked nearby without moving for several days. Several such vehicles had been pointed out, but all had checked out as being owned by identifiable people, nothing to do with the mysterious Riley.

On the other hand, a fair proportion of the doors knocked on had not been answered – people out at work or simply not at home – these would be followed up in the evening and, if necessary, the following day.

It was nearly eight o’clock that evening when the breakthrough occurred. PC David Summers knocked on the door of a house identified as ‘no answer’ earlier that day. George Philips answered, looking inn mild surprise at the young constable.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Good evening, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but we are looking for any vehicles which may have been parked and not then moved for at least several days. Have you seen any such?”

“It’s funny that you should ask. You see that Mondeo opposite?” he indicated a dark blue estate car on the far side of the road, immediately opposite his own drive, “It’s been there for a week or so. I did think it might have belonged to one of my neighbours, but it doesn’t seem to do so.”

“Thank you, sir – that’s most helpful – I’ll have it checked into.”

Summers check quickly ascertained that the car was registered to one Liam Murphy, with an address in Redhill. The news was passed to CID, but by then nobody of Jane’s team was still in the office. The duty officer noted the details and E-mailed them to all the team members – he had no wish to send them to the one person who would, by Sod’s Law, prove to be out all day.

Chapter Thirteen: Second Wednesday.

Inkerman left home at seven that morning to ensure getting to Cheltenham in plenty of time for his father-in-law’s funeral.

In his absence, as was their normal practice, Jane checked any post or E-mails he had received, then turned to her own incomings. Second on the list was the overnight E-mail from the duty officer. A car 66

registered to Liam Murphy, not been moved for a week or more according to the inhabitants of the street where it was parked.

This, she told herself, must be Riley’s car – he clearly believed in sticking with his own Christian name, no matter what surname he used.

She made a snap decision and turned to Clarke.

“Skull, get this Mondeo lifted, There’s a good change it belongs to Riley. If it turns out not to, we’ll apologise nicely, but in the meantime, I don’t want it stuck in that street for a moment longer. Right idiots we’d look if it is his – and some yobbo nicks it or vandalises it before we can examine it.”

She turned to Taylor.

“Alan, you and me again – we’re going to Redhill to check out that address - bring a picture of Riley, will you?”

In just a few more minutes, she and Taylor were in the latter’s car, headed for Redhill, whilst Clarke bullied the traffic division into arranging for the suspect car to be towed to the police pound and kept secure until it could be examined.

The address ‘Liam Murphy’ had given for the registration documents of the Mondeo proved to be a small detached bungalow in a back-street about a mile away from Redhill town centre. Nobody answered their ringing the door-bell, nor their hammering on the door, so they quizzed the neighbours.

On one side an elderly woman told them that she rarely saw her neighbour, didn’t even know his name and was unsure about the picture she was shown. It might be him, she admitted, but them again it might not.

The neighbour on the other side, even older but much brighter, had no doubts.

“Yes, that’s Mr. Murphy, but he must be away; I haven’t seen him in over a week and his car is gone.”

Right, thought Jane, that’s it. She was about to tell Taylor to break the door open, using the police battering ram from the car, when a thought struck her, a thought which straight away had her on her mobile to Superintendent Graham.

“Sir, it’s Lawson here. We are at the house that Riley – except here he called himself Murphy, was living in. No sign of anyone around and I want to get inside, but it strikes me that the man was an IRA bomb-maker. It’s just possible he might have left a booby-trap inside. I’d like the bomb squad to have a look, if you agree.”

There was a momentary pause before Graham answered, a pause just long enough for her to wonder if she was about to be cast as a girlie wimp.

“Good call, Jane – can’t be too careful with someone like him. Stay where you are, don’t let anyone else approach the house, just in case. I’ll phone you back.”

Fifteen minutes later the mobile rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“It’s Graham, Jane. The Bomb Squad are on their way; should be with you in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks very much, sir.”

Graham’s estimate was a little conservative; scarcely fifteen minutes had passed before three Army vehicles arrived and discharged half a dozen soldiers. Jane and Alan Taylor got out and approached the military contingent, one of whom, a tall fair-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties, broke away from the rest and approached. He offered his hand to Jane.

“DI Lawson? Pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Jim Bailey. I understand this place is the home of one of the IRA bomb-makers, so I think that we had all best be a bit careful. First off, I’d like the next five houses either side, and the eleven immediately opposite, evacuated. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course, Captain.”

Ten minutes later, with all the designated houses now empty, although not before some bad-tempered muttering from the woman who had been uncertain of Riley’s identity, the soldiers started a slow, careful reconnaissance of the building.

The exercise took over an hour, but at last Bailey emerged from the house and came back to them.

“That was a good call, Inspector. Your IRA chap was a careful, nasty piece of work. He didn’t bobby-trap the front and back doors, as most folk would have done. I guess he thought that anyone making a clandestine entrance might know a bit of the sort of things he might leave behind and be very careful with those. Oh no; what he did was to leave those harmless, but to booby-trap a couple of internal doors. Anyone relaxing their guard after getting inside stood a very good chance of being blown to pieces and taking the houses either side of this one with them.”

67

Jane felt weak at the knees, but managed not to show it. To think that she and Alan had been so close to blundering in there.

“Captain, I can’t thank you enough. We’ll take the site over now, if that’s OK?”

“Absolutely – we’re through here – all yours.”

As the soldiers clambered back into their vehicles, Jane phoned Graham and updated him.

“Taylor and I are going to have a quick preliminary look, sir, but I’d like a full forensic check of the place. Heaven knows what the man might have got up to here.”

“OK, Jane – I’ll get them to send a team down. Once they arrive – probably best part of an hour, you can leave them to it.”

“Thanks very much, sir.”

The two of them searched through Riley’s house, careful to leave no contaminating traces to cause confusion for the subsequent forensic examination, but they found nothing of any great interest, not even the normal things such as electricity bills or the like. Riley certainly had taken care to leave nothing incriminating behind him, other than those fiendish booby-traps, of course.

Once they got back to the station, they found Clarke waiting with a barely suppressed state of excitement.

“Boss, we’ve had a quick look over Riley’s motor. In the boot he had a briefcase and a laptop. Come and see what we’ve found in the case.”

He led them over to his desk. There, laid out on a clean sheet of material, was a pile of papers and, glistening evilly beside them, two items no normal business man would be carrying around.

Side by side were an automatic pistol and a hand grenade.

“The pistol is a Browning Hi-Power 9mm. The grenade is a white phosphorous one, American Army issue – the Yanks call it ‘Willie Pete’. Pull the pin and chuck it and it releases dense, choking white smoke. It also burns pretty fiercely, and sticks to anything it comes into contact with – all in all pretty nasty stuff.”

“How come you know all this, Skull?”

“Army training, boss. I’ve handled both those items in my time.”

“What about the papers and the laptop?”

“I’ve had a quick look at the papers. Some very mundane, electricity bills for that house in Redhill and the like, and the lease for the property – he’s only been there for just over six months - but there are also papers about the development on what was the Gorton land; copies of letters to and from an adjoining owner, offering him buy him out, offers which he rejected. The odd thing is that these letters were written by Riley himself, not Collins or one of the others – a bit of deniability, I suppose. He wrote them using the Doherty name, but the ‘Murphy’ Redhill address.”

“Can you tell what sort of property this neighbour has? And what’s his name?”

“He is Roger Hall, a widower, aged seventy. The house is a medium size bungalow, but more interesting is the fact that it has a paddock, most of which runs beside the Gorton plot of land. Add that paddock to what SSF already hold and I reckon it would become much easier to get road access and probably make the whole thing a good bit more valuable.”

That, Jane thought to herself, was very interesting. Put together a very valuable building development, an obdurate neighbour refusing to sell land which would make it more valuable still, an accomplished bomb-maker, and what have you perhaps got? An unfortunate fire? Perhaps also a dead neighbour, clearing the way for the more grandiose development? At last Ripley’s presence at that lunch was beginning to make sense.

“What about his computer?”

“I’ve spoken with Lucy Crane – she’s looking at it right now.”

“Well done, Skull. It’s beginning to make sense at last. We’ll have something to really roast McNulty and Raymond over – they must have had some idea of what was being planned. Does the lease say who he was renting the property from?”

“Yes, it’s a letting agency in Ewell. I’ve given them a ring and they confirm that he took the property on a twelve month lease, no option to extend. The house is actually owned by a university lecturer who is on a three year contract in California – the three years will be up at the end of Riley’s lease, hence the ‘no extension’.”

“Right, in the DCI’s absence, I’d better update the Super on all this.”

Ten minutes later, she was doing just that.

68

“Well done, Jane, it sounds as though something is moving at last. Keep me in touch if anything more breaks before Mr, Inkerman gets back, please.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

As she got back to her own desk, she looked at her watch and was surprised to see that it was already six o’clock. She was about to suggest to her team that it was about time to knock off for the day when her phone rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, Lucy here – do you want a quick run through on the Riley computer?”

“Please. Shall I come down?”

“No need – it’s pretty mundane, I’m afraid. Your Mr. Riley was a very careful man – you might even say paranoid. The hard disc has been wiped clean every two months; whether the information deleted has been archived anywhere I can’t say, of course. What is on it at the moment is a diary with meetings logged on it, including the fatal lunch. He was also scheduled to meet the same three men tomorrow, again for lunch, although it doesn’t say where it would have been.

“There are also copies of letters, all harmless stuff as far as I can see – a letter to his bank arranging a transfer of funds to a savings account – not an amount to get excited about, just three hundred quid.

Another letter to the bank, this one setting up a standing order to pay for a magazine subscription or the like – the company is Derry Publications and the amount is four pounds a month. And that, I’m afraid, is that.”

“Lucy, what name is he using in those letters?”

“Murphy – so he was keeping at least two identities going, but there is nothing there about any other name. I’ll send a report up tomorrow, but it isn’t going to change the world, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks anyway, Lucy – we can’t win ‘em all. Oh, just a thought – if the drive was wiped, how can you tell that it was wiped every two months?”

“He only wiped the applications; the BIOS still keeps a record of the events – but it doesn’t keep a record of the files, of course.”

So, thought Jane, if Riley kept records as ‘Murphy’, did ‘Doherty’ really exist at all, other than as a name on a business card to be used when talking with Collins and company and in writing to the man with the house they wanted to buy? And, just a passing thought – how much did McNulty really know about his one-time client? The worry was that if McNulty and Raymond kept their heads and stuck to the story that they didn’t know why ‘Doherty’ was at the lunch, it was going to be just about impossible to disprove. It would depend on how much they could wring out of the fact that the pair of them, but especially Raymond, were clearly involved in the planned development; with Riley making offers to purchase the adjoining property, how credible would any denials seem to a jury?

For the second time she was about to dismiss her team when the door opened and Inkerman strode in.

“Good evening – how’s tricks?”

Jane gave her boss a quick rundown and received his congratulations, especially on not getting herself and Alan Taylor blown sky-high.

“Well done, everybody. At last it looks as though the jigsaw is beginning to fit those four together –

but it still doesn’t get us any nearer to finding our killer. All we have managed so far on that front is probably eliminating some folk. Look, it’s late; let’s not try and thrash anything out now, but I think a full brainstorming session first thing tomorrow is called for.”

At last the team were able to depart, Jane feeling a little put out that Inkerman had effectively minimised the importance of what they had achieved compared to what they had not. Still, on the morrow they might find some way forward between them.

Inkerman watched as they departed, turning things over in his mind still, despite what he had said to the others. There were, he felt, two very distinct threads here, even though they were interwoven – the planned development, which might (or might not) have overtones of fraud and criminal intimidation –

and the actual murders. He had little interest in the development, unless it proved to have provided a motive for the murders.

One avenue of investigation, he realised, had not been followed up on, and he cursed himself for not spotting the fact sooner. Gorton had sold that land and gone to Wales – but by all accounts what he had received for it as just a fraction of what it now looked like being worth. Did Gorton realise that he had sold it cheaply? They had talked of that as a possible cause for Gorton to harbour a grudge against anyone connected with the sale and the development of the land, His father-in-law’s death had distracted him, but why hadn’t Jane followed up on it?

69

Chapter Fourteen: Second Thursday

As far as Jane was concerned, Inkerman’s brain-storming session started badly and then got worse.

“Right, one thing I don’t think has been checked out thoroughly yet – the younger Gorton’s land, the land he sold to SSF. It looks as though it is worth a lot more than he was paid for it. Why? Does he know that he sold it cheaply? Did he have any advice over the sale? Does he know how valuable it now is?”

Jane felt as though she had been kicked. Why hadn’t she followed up on this? She’d spent enough time with the Gortons and this obvious line of enquiry had simply never occurred to her. What was wrong with her? She had missed this, she had also had to go back to James Daniels because her first interview of him had been less thorough than it should have been. She hadn’t checked on Mrs, Gorton’s alibi until the need to do so had come out in front of Inkerman. She seemed to be losing focus, and she wondered uneasily if it was because now that she was living with Harry she was less single-minded in her approach to the job.

Inkerman was still speaking.

“Now, we need to check on just how Gorton sold that land. We know it was to SSF, but were any of the shooting victims involved in the sale directly? McNulty is a solicitor – was it to him that Gorton entrusted the sale? Did Raymond approach Gorton at all – or vice versa? Does all of this amount to enough of a motive to put the Gortons back in the frame?”

Dave Cross spoke up.

“I’ve checked the Land Register details, sir. Gorton used a company of solicitors in Woking, Davis & Gregory, to do the work. No mention of McNulty anywhere.”

Inkerman frowned.

“So, there goes one possibility. Let’s go back a bit. Gorton’s father knew Collins, obviously, and the son did as well. Is it likely that Gorton junior would have approached Collins over the matter at all?

Collins was, after all, on the planning committee.”

“It hardly seems likely, sir,” Jane objected, “as far as Gorton is concerned, Collins got his father sent to jail, and sending him to jail caused his early death. When Alan and I spoke with the Gortons, he was very bitter about Collins.”

Taylor nodded his agreement. “That’s right, sir. I could see him shooting Collins, easy, but not asking his advice.”

Inkerman turned to Jane.

“Jane, have Davis & Gregory checked out – find out who actually dealt with Gorton. Talk to them, or have one of your team do so. Find out what you can about the sale, why the possibility of the land being valuable doesn’t seem to have come up.”

“Yes, sir,” in her turn, she looked to Clarke. “Skull, handle that will you.”

“Yes, boss.”

Inkerman was speaking again.

“Right, that’s it for the moment. Jane, can you come to my office, please?”

He rose and left the room, Jane following in his wake.

When they got there, he motioned her to a chair and sat himself behind his desk.

“Jane, I won’t beat about the bush. What is going wrong here? You are clearly missing things that you shouldn’t be. This land thing should have been followed up days ago. You went over to Wales, saw the Gortons, and came back with only half the story. I’m surprised and disappointed at the way things are going.”

Jane sat miserably in the chair, trying to muster some credible form of defence, but had to admit to herself that there wasn’t one.

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t offer any excuses for what we haven’t achieved, but I have made some progress, and I can only say to you that I’ll try even harder from now on.”

“OK, message given and, I am sure, understood. Now, on to other things. The CRO file on Riley.”

Jane perked up – she was sure that the file would have a bearing in the man’s death. However, Inkerman’s next words dashed that hope.

“We’ve been refused access to it on grounds of national security.”

“What? But it could be vital to finding out why he was killed. Who is denying us?”

70

“Unfortunately, the refusal is very high level. Mr. Graham contacted the Commander, Special Branch at the Met who refused point blank to release it, so the Super took it up with the ACC. Mr. Bannerman got the same refusal from Special Branch, so he went higher – and got turned down by the Assistant Commissioner, so he in turn went to the Deputy – same story. Riley’s file is obviously very sensitive for some reason.”

“Then it’s all the more likely that Riley was the principal target, not the others.”

“It certainly seems a possibility. The Deputy has offered to take it to the Chief Constable if we can eliminate any other line of enquiry, but Mr. Graham has told him that we are not yet at that stage, and I have to agree with him.

“Now, a couple of other things. This investigation seems to be over-taxing you and your team...”

Jane opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again as Inkerman waved her to silence.

“..given all this Riley mystery, it is important that all other threads are followed up at top speed, so I’m adding extra hands to the pumps. From this morning, I’m doubling up the team by adding Shirley Lewis and her team into the case. I’ll head it up – thanks to the family funeral, I haven’t been pulling my weight over the last few days, but that’s behind me now and I can concentrate on the job in hand.

You’ll be number two on the team, Shirley obviously number three. I’ll dish out the jobs on a team basis, you and Shirley will distribute them amongst your team members.”

He looked at his watch.

“I’ve asked Shirley to join us in a couple of minutes time – before she arrives, any comments?”

Yes, thought Jane, a lot, but I’m not making them now.

“Not really, sir. I do still think that my team can handle it all, but I guess more hands should speed things up.”

“Good.”

Almost at once there was a knock on the door and Shirley Lewis walked in.

“Shirley, sit down. I’ve just told Jane that I’m adding your two teams together, under me, to really steam into this bloody case. To make that easier, I’ve got agreement to move both teams into the old meeting suite, which will give you more room for the teams and will reinstate the possibility of a separate office for each of you, like all DIs used to have here.”

Is that supposed to make me feel better? Jane asked herself. The thought of the work, and therefore the credit, being still further diluted did not appeal to her in the slightest. She and Shirley Lewis had never exactly been friends, and now that they were both pretty new DIs, there was rivalry between them. Not that either of them allowed it to be too openly displayed; ‘team players’ were the in thing in police forces and going against that policy would do one’s promotion prospects no good at all.

The two women nodded at each other as Shirley settled herself into Inkerman’s second visitor’s chair.

The three of them spent the next hour sharing thoughts and bringing Shirley Lewis up to speed on the progress made, and it was she who made the final comment on the process.

“So really, sir, we’ve two strands here and don’t know how related they are – in fact they may not even be related. Where do you want me and my team to concentrate our efforts?”

“Whilst Jane’s people follow up the possibility of Gorton and his wife being the main suspect, I want you to look again at this Riley character. God knows where to start with his full CRO file currently unavailable to us, but we must get a better handle on him.”

Shirley sat back in the chair whilst she digested what had been said. So, Inkerman and his blue-eyed girl had effectively hit a brick wall and she was somehow expected to breach it. Great!

“Right, sir, then I’d best start getting my team up to speed on everything. Oh, when are we moving offices?

“Today – I’ve roped in a couple of uniforms to help, and the switchboard have already organised all your existing extension numbers being transferred to phones in the new offices. Lug your files and computers over – the two PCs will help, of course, and we’ll have a meeting of the whole new team in the big office at two.”

The next three hours were a period of frantic activity as files, computers, and various papers were hurriedly moved to their new location, but by two o’clock it had been achieved and there had even been time for a snatched lunch in the canteen for one and all.

Inkerman viewed the eight faces. With the exception of Clarke, he knew all of them well, but he also knew that they had never worked together in a larger team environment in this fashion. He was also quite aware of the rivalry between Jane and Shirley, but discounted it. A bit of healthy competition there would be all to the good, and neither of them were daft enough to take the ‘cussed’ route displayed by some of their older colleagues in the recent past.

71

“Right, everybody, listen up. This investigation is absolute top priority; I know the DIs have either kept, in the case of DI Lawson’s team, or put, in DI Lewis’ case, you all in the picture. I’ve already discussed division of labour with the DIs and they will, as ever, be allocating specific tasks, but I just want to emphasise that for this case you are a single team, not two lobbed together. There will be a full team briefing in this room every morning at eight. I will attend, but the DIs will lead. So, down to work, please.”

With that he left the room, leaving Jane and Shirley to allocate tasks.

No sooner had she done that, and returned to her new office, than her phone rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“Hello, Inspector. It’s George Govern here.”

About time, Jane thought. She had just about given up on her informant, but hopefully he might at last have something useful for her.

“OK, George, what have you got for me?”

“Not on the phone, Inspector – you know that.”

Jane sighed inwardly; she really wanted to get down to some serious thinking about how to dig into the Gortons and try once and for all either eliminate them or nab them.

Instead, fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on a park bench next to George Govern, a tubby man in his late fifties, with slicked down dark hair and a small toothbrush moustache which always reminded Jane of photographs of Adolf Hitler.

“Right, George, make it quick – I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment.”

Govern looked pained.

“Inspector, I’ve had to work hard for this. Your Liam Riley; word is very vague, but what there is makes him out to be a very dangerous man. The tale that he was just a bomb maker for the IRA is a load of balls. He didn’t just make bombs – he used them. The word is that he used to play both ends against the middle – the IRA believed he was their man, pure and simple, the security forces thought that he was a top-level grass, and all the time he was just working for himself. The reckoning is that when he was picked up and put inside, it was really for his own protection – that the IRA were beginning to get a bit suspicious of him.

“Since he was let out he’s used several different names, never stayed in one place for long. Now, whether the IRA, or anyone else, is after him, I don’t know – but he’s being very, very careful, so it wouldn’t surprise me.”

I knew it, Jane exulted. But now what? This side of the investigation was down to Shirley and her troops, and anyway, it was all rumours on the grapevine, nothing concrete.

“How come you’ve managed to get all this, George?”

“You know how it is, Inspector – friends of friends of friends and that.”

Not for the first time, Jane wondered uneasily about her relationship with this man. They both knew that she had enough on him to get him put away – but it was the accumulation of many minor things that would count against him, not something major. Was she justified on letting him stay at liberty?

On balance, she felt that she was; Govern was a receiver of stolen goods; if he were inside the thieves would simply find another fence. In the meantime, he gave her valuable information, and this about Riley fell into that category.

On her return to the office she went and saw Shirley Lewis.

“Shirley, I’ve just had one of my informants come back to me on something I asked him to check on –

the word about Riley on the street – and the word is that not only was he an IRA bomb-maker, he also used those bombs himself and acted as an informant for the security forces.”

Shirley blinked slowly.

“That’s interesting. I wonder if it was, after all, a hit aimed at him and the others were just in the way?”

“Well, at least it doesn’t sound impossible now, does it?”

“No. OK, as Riley is on my plate, I’ll take the news to the boss.”

“Yes, your plate – but my informant – we’ll both go.” Jane contradicted; she wasn’t going to let Shirley take all the credit, when it was her own work that had git the information.

Inkerman greeted the news with less than unbounded enthusiasm.

“So, if this informant is to be believed, there really is a possibility that Riley was the principal target, but we still can’t be sure all other avenues can be discounted, and until we’ve done that the Deputy won’t get the Chief involved. So, keep digging, both of you.”

72

As the two women left his office, Inkerman reflected on what they had told him. How come an informant in Guildford knew so much about a man like Riley? What he was saying sounded credible; certainly it could explain the block put on Riley’s file, but the fact that so much was known by someone who was presumably far removed from the circles in which such information would be common worried him.

He had a sudden thought, a thought which caused him to pick up the phone and ring Shirley Lewis.

“Shirley, can you pop back in for a moment, please?”

“On my way, sir.”

As soon as she came in, Inkerman waved her to a chair.

“I’ve been thinking – how is it that a minor villain in our neck of the woods could know so much about somebody like Riley. Do you believe it likely?”

“Well, it seems far-fetched, but Jane has faith in this informant of hers.”

“Yes, well, I’ve never met him, and I’m not so sure. Look, at the height of the troubles in Northern Ireland there was a lot of propaganda being pushed out by the IRA and their sympathisers. Every convicted terrorist was a martyr to the cause. There were a number of newsletters going the rounds at the time, giving glowing CVs of just about every thug behind bars. Things have moved on since then –

now there are websites doing the same thing. Have somebody do a real Internet search and see if they can find anything.”

Shirley looked at her boss.

“Do you think this information we’ve been fed is just the result of a bloody Google search?”

“I don’t know – but we’d better be sure before we place too much reliance on it.”

Shirley went back to her own office almost gleefully. If Inkerman’s idea was anything like right, Jane Lawson would be left with an awful lot of egg on her face!

She called Larry Parsons into her office and told him the gist of Inkerman’s idea – except that she didn’t mention the fact that it was the DCI rather than herself, who came up with the idea.

“OK, boss, I’ll get on it.”

It took Parsons nearly three hours, but just before Shirley was thinking of going home, he returned to her office.

“I’ve got something, boss.”

“Tell me about it, Larry.”

“I found a website devoted to what it called ‘the glorious struggle’. It had pages and pages on various IRA members who had been imprisoned. Riley was among them. According to this website he had been an ‘honourable soldier in the struggle against the forces of British oppression’ – that’s their euphemism for a murderer. It told about him being imprisoned and welcomed his release under the Good Friday agreement as an example – their words again – that ‘the arms of truth and justice will always prevail’. What it doesn’t say, though, is anything about him informing for the security forces, though that’s hardly a surprise.”

Shirley chewed on the end of her pen as she ruminated on this news,

“So, some of what DI Lawson was told could have come off the net – but what about the rest?”

“I can keep trying, boss, but I really wonder if there is anything more to be found on it.”

“No, it’s likely to be a waste of time. What really need to do is to put the squeeze on Lawson’s informer.”

“Will she give him up?”

“She’s going to have to.” Shirley replied grimly. She looked at her watch.

“Right, Larry, time to knock off. I’ll take this up with her and the DCI in the morning.”

Chapter Fifteen: Third Thursday

Inkerman was at his desk early, but even so he was the last of the enlarged team to arrive, and no sooner had he settled behind his desk than there was a tap on the door and Shirley Lewis came in.

“What is it, Shirley?”

“Sir, I need a word before the briefing.”

“OK – what about?”

73

“The information Jane got on Riley. Searching the net has brought up quite a bit on Riley’s activities as a member of the IRA, but nothing about him being an informant. The fact that his CRO file is of limited access means that the informant story is highly probable, almost certain, I would think, but how is that sort of thing apparently common knowledge around here when it is supposed to be kept from us? We need to know where all this is coming from, and the only way I can see us doing that is to quiz Jane’s informant.”

Inkerman thought long and hard. Every CID officer of any ability had informants; in years gone by the culture had gone too far and had led to numerous scandals, with criminals effectively being protected in return for information and then allowed to continue with their life of crime, often effectively being aided by their informant status in having a blind eye turned to their crimes. He wondered just how deeply protective Jane would be of her source; again, an officer’s sources were seen as ‘private property’ much of the time, but not always – not if their anonymity would hamper an investigation, and he felt that this stage was now being reached.

He picked up his phone and rang Jane’s extension.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, I’ve got Shirley with me. Would you join us, please?”

“On my way, sir.”

A moment later she slipped into the room and took the chair Inkerman indicated.

“Jane, we need to know how your source got his information on Riley.”

“He wanted to keep that to himself, sir. I didn’t press him at the time as I wanted to try and see how what he was telling me panned out, but now that aspect isn’t with me any longer.”

She looked across at Shirley Lewis, wondering just what was going on. She was already annoyed at having a major element of the investigation taken away from her, and now this.

“Jane, we are going to have to bring him in and question him.”

“With respect, I don’t think that is a good idea. He’s been a valuable source for a couple of years now.

News that he has been brought in here will get around and lessen his usefulness a hell of a lot.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“I’ll talk to him again, threaten him with what I have on him if he doesn’t cooperate.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Shirley interjected, “after all, this is my side of the case.”

Jane shook her head vigorously.

“He won’t talk in public – and two of us would constitute talking in public as far as he is concerned.”

Shirley was about to respond when Inkerman broke in.

“OK, Jane. One more chance for him. Talk to him today; if he doesn’t come across, we bring him in.”

Jane was about to argue, then thought better of it.

“OK, sir. I’ll talk to him.”

Jane returned to her office and phoned George Govern, arranging to meet him an noon that day. Then she went into the large office for the daily briefing. The progress reports were discouraging; effectively, there wasn’t any. Inkerman closed the meeting with a reminder to everyone that it was now a fortnight since the shootings and the pressure on all of them was mounting by the day. They must make progress with this case.

Jane met George Govern by the river bank, where he was sitting on a bench, idly tossing scraps of bread to a motley collection of ducks, sparrows and pigeons.

Jane sat down beside him.

“George, you and I have a problem.”

He stopped feeding the birds and turned to her.

“What sort of problem, Inspector?”

“A big one. My boss insists that you tell me where you got your information on Riley – names, George, not generalities.”

“No way, Inspector, if all the people I’ve been talking to knew that I had passed it on to you, I’d be lucky if I only ended up in hospital.”

“Sorry, George, that isn’t good enough. Either you tell me, or you get arrested. We both know that I’ve got enough on you to have you sent down for a couple of years at least – and inside it won’t take people long to find out that you have been a grass. Think on that George, think on that.”

Govern was looking more unhappy by the second.

“Inspector, as I live and breathe, you don’t know what you are asking of me. This could be my death.”

“So could prison, George, so could prison.”

74

She could see that Govern was getting desperate and waited patiently. A full minute went by before he opened his mouth; she could almost see his mind churning over possibilities. At last he spoke.

“Look, if I tell you, that’s it. I’m finished round here and I’ll need to get away somewhere. I’ve been a big help to you over the last couple of years; that’ll all be over.”

“I know that, George – but this is a big one, too big to protect you over if you don’t cough up what I want.”

Govern looked viciously at her.

“You fucking little cow – I’ve been good for you – and now this! Fuck you!”

He leapt to his feet and started to stride off, but only managed a few paces before he was stopped in his tracks by a tall, thin man who simply placed a hand flat on his chest and pushed him firmly to a stop.

“I don’t think so, Govern,” said Clarke, “I don’t think the Inspector has finished with you yet.”

Govern tried to twist away and the next thing he knew he was face down on the ground, his arm painfully pulled up behind his back and Clarke’s knee in the small of his back, totally immobilising him.

“Thanks, Skull,” said Jane, “put the cuffs on him and we’ll take him back to the nick.”

“Only too pleased, boss.”

Clarke swiftly handcuffed Govern and pulled him to his feet, then glared into his eyes.

“Now, little man, are you going to come quietly or do I have to get rough with you?”

Realising the hopelessness of his position, Govern allowed himself to be led to Jane’s car, parked nearby, and fifteen minutes later found himself in a holding cell in the police station.

Greatly annoyed at her failure to get the names she wanted from Govern, Jane paid a brief visit to the cell.

“I’m saying good-bye, George. You had your chance and you’ve blown it – big, big time. A couple of my colleagues will be down soon to talk to you, but as far as you are concerned, I’ve thrown you to the wolves.”

A few minutes later a uniformed constable appeared and escorted Govern to an interview room where Inkerman, with Shirley Lewis at his side, were waiting.

“Please sit down, Mr. Govern. I am Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Lewis. I want you to realise that you are not, at this moment, being charged with any offence, but that I am aware of evidence against you concerning a number of crimes, details of which will be conveyed to you if I decide to charge you. Additionally, I am considering your role as a possible accomplice after the fact of the murders of Norman Collins and Liam Riley and the attempted murders of John Raymond and Thomas McNulty. This is an interview under caution, which is why it is being recorded. If I decide to charge you, a copy of the recording will be made available to your solicitor. Are we clear so far?”

Govern looked at the detective in amazement. Accessory to murder? What were they trying to pull here? Dumbly, he nodded his head.

“Right, for the record, please state your full name.”

Govern licked his lips uncertainly.

“George Govern,” He had meant it to come out strongly, a defiant statement, but even to his own ears it sounded hollow.

“Right, Mr. Govern. I am aware that you have advised a colleague of mine, Detective Inspector Lawson, that you were able to obtain information from contacts of yours regarding the late Mr. Liam Riley. I now require from you the name or names of those contacts or I will charge you with attempting to pervert the course of justice, with the likelihood of further, possibly more serious charges to follow. It’s your move, Mr. Govern.”

Govern thought furiously. He had not been joking when he told Jane Lawson that he believed divulging the names of his contacts might cost him his life. On the other hand, this bugger of a DCI was clearly intent on putting him away, and Govern was under no illusion as to what was likely to happen to him inside once it became known that he had been a police informer, and known it surely would be.

“What happens if I tell you?”

“Provided the names you provide check out you will be free to go.”

“No charges?”

“Not at this time. As for the future – that is really in your own hands.”

Govern swallowed nervously.

75

“OK. I got the word from two men. Fergus O’Leary and Dave Douglas. Fergus runs the betting shop on the London Road. He it was as told me Riley was an IRA soldier, not just a back-room boy. Dave –

he runs the Marlborough night club – he’s ex-Army and he told me that Riley was a grass for the Army and the RUC.”

Inkerman gazed thoughtfully at Govern.

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Govern. Tell me, why should they talk to you of such things?”

“They both know that I hear things, that people tell me things. Riley is dead; why shouldn’t they say?

No skin off their noses, and it means that I owe them favours – not big ones, but favours for all that.”

“And how is it that they know such things?”

Govern shrugged.

“Dunno – you’d have to ask them. I just put the word about, and as Riley’s dead they weren’t bothered about talking. Don’t suppose they would have done so if he were still alive.”

Inkerman and Shirley looked at each other, each thinking that after Govern’s reported protestations to Jane Lawson, this all seemed suspiciously easy.

“Right, Mr. Govern, I think that is all for now. You are free to go, but don’t leave the area. We may want to talk to you again.”

Thankfully, Govern made his retreat. Inkerman turned to Shirley.

“Shirley, get in touch with those two and tell them that you and I are coming round for a chat. If they don’t want to be cooperative, remind them that their premises need licences to continue to operate, and we might feel obliged to look closely at their operations when renewal time comes round.”

“Right, sir.”

As she left the interview room, Shirley felt that she had made definite progress compared to Jane. Two years ago now, when Jane had been made acting DI, Shirley had been put out that the younger woman, with less time in sergeant’s rank, had been made up before her. The feeling had been intensified when Jane’s promotion had been made permanent. Now however, with the two of them were in direct competition, she felt that she was drawing ahead in the promotion stakes. True, the next DCI vacancy was only three weeks away, when Jim Ball retired and that was far too soon for her to be considered, and surely too soon for Jane as well, but Bill Conway would be going in just over a year, by which time she and Jane should be the obvious candidates from within the division. There was always the possibility of an outsider being appointed, of course, but neither she nor Jane had any control over that. In the meantime, the more kudos she could gather for herself, the better. She was being helped by the fact that there had been some fairly obvious flaws in what Jane had done over the past couple of weeks; admittedly, nothing disastrous, but things done less well than they might have been, interviews having to be revisited, things not followed up quickly enough. Yes, she said to herself, the blue-eyed girl was definitely losing some of her lustre.

First things first, however, and the first thing was to get interviews lined up with O’Leary and Douglas. First she checked to see if either man had a criminal record; they did not. Then she started phoning,

As a result, an hour or so later, she and Inkerman were ushered into the small office at the back of O’Leary’s betting shop. Inkerman introduced them and the two detectives seated themselves in the proffered chairs.

Inkerman opened the questioning.

“Mr. O’Leary, we are investigating the murder of Mr. Riley and Mr. Collins a fortnight ago. I believe that you knew Mr. Riley?”

“Well, not exactly knew him – but I certainly knew of him. We went to the same school, you know, although he was two years behind me. Liam became quite a big noise on the Bogside in the old days.

He wasn’t a man to cross, believe me. I still can’t believe that he got killed by some yokel down here –

if that’s what it was.”

“Do you any reason to believe the killer wasn’t someone from around here? After all, Riley wasn’t the only victim. Mr, Collins was also killed and Messrs. Raymond and McNulty quite seriously wounded.”

“Chief Inspector, I don’t know – with Liam’s past, however, I just find it hard to believe. Now, believe me, I had nothing more to do with the IRA than any other lad growing up in the Troubles. My folk were Catholics – me, I don’t really care for religion – and generally sympathised with the IRA in the early days. They didn’t approve of all the killings, though, but it wasn’t the sort of thing to make a song and dance about – or you might find yourself a target. I don’t know if Liam perhaps upset some 76

of his old mates in some way, but if he did, getting himself killed the way he did seems much more likely to me than that someone from round here had reason to go after him.”

That, reflected Inkerman to himself, was almost exactly the line that Jane had plugged. Could it, he wondered uneasily, be the right line after all?

Shirley cut in – after all, she told herself, she wasn’t here just to be a pretty face.

“Do you think then that he might have upset someone from the old days?”

“I have no idea at all. How could I? I’ve lived in England now for over twenty years. You used to see Liam around in Belfast, but I haven’t seen him since those days. I know he was caught and sent to prison, and I read at the time that he was one of the IRA people released early – as I knew of him, I took notice at the time, but as far as I can remember, the last time I saw him was in 1984, just before I came over here.”

“And why did you come over here?”

“Are you joking? No, perhaps you’re too young to really remember, but things were really getting out of hand by then. The IRA, the UDA, the UVF, the security forces, all at each other’s throats. Belfast was getting more dangerous every day. My parents were both dead, my younger brother Billy had emigrated to New Zealand, I was twenty-eight years old and could see no end to the war – because that’s what it was, you know. So I upped sticks and came across to England. I knew a man – William Driscoll, who’d left a few years earlier and by then was running a betting shop in London. He gave me a job, I did well, and eight years ago I moved down here to run this one for him. He retired last year, gave me to chance to buy him out of it, so now it’s mine.”

Inkerman resumed the questioning.

“Mr. O’Leary, can you give me any names of people that Mr. Riley was close to?”

“What, family do you mean?”

Inkerman shrugged.

“Whoever.”

“Well, I know that he had a sister, Bridget, pretty wee thing she was, but I don’t know what became of her. He had various girl-friends in his young days – I don’t think that I ever knew the names of any of them, because, like I said, I wasn’t close to him at all. Obviously he would have had acquaintances in the IRA, but you’d know more about those people than me.”

If only, Inkerman thought bitterly to himself, feeling more hampered than ever by the lack of the full file on Riley.

“There was one particular friend he had from school days – Donagh O’Kelly. Donagh was a wild one, got himself killed in a shooting match with some soldiers in 1977 – only twenty he was. I heard that Donagh’s death made Liam all the more determined – we all knew he was already an IRA soldier, of course, but that seemed to make him really determined to make his mark. You remember when Mountbatten was blown up in his boat in 1979?” Inkerman nodded, “well, it was always believed in our street that Liam was in the team that did it, although nothing ever was said, of course.”

“But the man McMahon was arrested and found guilty – and he never cited anyone else.”

“Now why would you be thinking that a soldier like Tommy McMahon would have pointed a finger at anyone else?”

Inkerman nodded in acceptance of the point.

“Is there anything else, or anyone, you can tell us about that might have some bearing on why he was killed or who killed him.”

O’Leary shook his head.

“If I could think of anything at all, believe me, I’d tell you. Liam was a true believer in the cause, and whilst I never agreed with the violence, I am too. I’d like to see whoever killed him caught.”

“The cause?” Shirley asked. He looked at her pityingly.

“A united Ireland, of course, lady. It’s wrong that England broke Ireland up in 1922. All these troubles for all these years afterwards – they wouldn’t have happened, but as far as England, and the English media are concerned, it’s all the fault of the Republicans.”

Inkerman interrupted, as he could sense a lengthy political diatribe in the offing.

“Well, thanks for what you have been able to tell us, Mr. O’Leary, we’ll be on our way.”

As they drove away. Inkerman expressed his opinion of the interview.

“Well, although that was interesting, it doesn’t take us anywhere. Let’s hope that Douglas is more helpful.”

77

Shirley had to agree; the interview hadn’t told them anything of any consequence. Riley might have been involved in the murder of Lord Mountbatten all those years ago, he’d had a good friend killed in a gun fight, and he had a sister, location and fate unknown. There had been girl-friends, names unknown. No real help at all. Nothing, above all, to give any clue as to why his file was so closely guarded by the Met’s Special Branch.

David Douglas proved to be a compact, well-built man. From his gaming licence application, Shirley knew that he was fifty-seven years old, but he could easily have passed for ten years younger. Hair still black was brushed fiercely back from a high forehead, and deep-set, dark eyes surveyed the police officers closely and unwinkingly. He showed them into his office – a well appointed room easily four times the size of that from which O’Leary had operated, and with deep leather chairs rather than O’Leary’s hard wooden ones.

In addition to his age, Shirley also knew that Douglas had been a captain in the Army, in the Military Police.

“So, what can I do for you?” He asked of them.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr, Douglas. I’m DCI Inkerman, this is my colleague DI Lewis.

We are investigating the shootings in Guildford a fortnight ago, and we understand that you may have information about Mr. Riley – he was using the name Doherty at the time – who was one of the victims.”

Douglas leaned back in his chair.

“Yes, Mr. Inkerman. I can tell you a bit about Riley. Back in 1988 the Army and the RUC conducted a joint effort to sweep up a couple of IRA cells which we had learned were being prepared for coming over to mainland Britain to step up the bombing campaign. The information came from a variety of sources – by then all of Belfast was riddled with informants, some of them double agents, some probably triple for all we knew. One of those caught up was Riley. He tried to lessen his sentence by passing on information to us. It wasn’t, as you would have expected, information about the IRA. Oh no, this was something much more interesting. He told us about a link between certain members of the security forces and the Unionist paramilitaries. As a result, we were able to clean out what might have proved a very embarrassing situation before it could really get underway. He claimed, and we proved him right, that a couple of Army officers, two Metropolitan Police officers on secondment to the security forces, and an RUC Chief Inspector, were regularly meeting with UVF members and passing on intelligence we had about Republicans. Riley didn’t say, and we were never able to find out, but I reckon that the only reason he told us was that he, or men he was associated with, were tasked to take these people out and being arrested was going to prevent that from happening, He probably saw it as ironic to have us do his work for him.”

“What happened?”

“We mounted an enquiry. There wasn’t enough hard evidence for a prosecution, but the Army men and the RUC Chief Inspector involved were all persuaded to take early retirement. The Met officers were much lower fry – they were only detective constables - and were already back in London. As far as I know, nothing ever happened about them, although I don’t suppose it did their career prospects much good. The whole report was one of the documents made public under the Freedom of Information Act, and has been in the public domain for several years now. It doesn’t have names in it, though.”

That, Inkerman told himself, must be why Riley’s full file had been kept from them. DCs twenty-one years ago; if still in the force they would be in their fifties now, and quite possibly of senior rank. It seemed unlikely that it was national security keeping that file under wraps, but a secret the Met didn’t want known.

“How do you know all this, Mr. Douglas?”

“I was one of the investigating officers. The Army side of the enquiry was headed by my boss at the time, Major David Ross. He died last year – he retired in 2000 as a Lieutenant Colonel. The team was comprised of representatives from the RUC, the Army, and as serving British police officers were concerned, a police representative from another force – it was an Assistant Chief Constable from West Midlands force, name of Johnson.”

“Thanks for that. Changing the subject, how come you are in Guildford? I believe you originally came from Manchester?”

“That’s right. When I finished in Northern Ireland in 1995 I was posted back to the military police HQ, which in those days was at Roussillon Barracks in Chichester, and stayed there until I retired in 78

’02. By then I had no connections with Manchester anymore – hadn’t been back there in many years, my parents were both dead and I have no other family there. I had married a Manchester girl, but we broke up years ago – I don’t even know where she is now – never had any children, so I just stayed around the south. A contact I had was opening this place at the time and invited me to be the manager, so here I am.”

Shirley posed a question of her own.

“You are being very frank with us, Mr. Douglas – is there anything that you can’t tell us – Official Secrets Act and the like?”

“Nothing I have told you breaches that – of course, I signed the act when I was in the Army, but what I’ve just told you isn’t secret or I wouldn’t have told you. If there is anything that I know that is secret, and I am not saying whether there is anything or not, then I won’t tell you. Simple as that.”

Feeling that she had just received a considerable put down, Shirley sat back in her chair. That, she told herself, was a stupid question. She realised that she had been guilty of under-estimating Douglas; she hadn’t expected any great intellect from somebody running a night club. The fact that he had been a fairly senior military policeman should have forewarned her.

Inkerman was speaking again.

“Well, thank for all that, Mr. Douglas. It has helped to give us a better picture of Riley. One last point

– do you think that his murder is connected with his having been in the IRA?”

“I honestly don’t know, Chief Inspector. It wouldn’t surprise me, in fact, if it had been carried out by a Loyalist group. Nothing we knew about Riley at the time gave any indication that he had upset any of his own side, but that was, of course, a good few years ago now.”

As they were driving away, Inkerman turned over in his mind what they had learned from their interviews. Precious little of any real use, he decided. So, what next? He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was after eight o’clock.

“Good Lord, look at the time! I think that’s enough for today Shirley. Drop me at the station and you, I and Jane will review things in the morning.”

Shirley dropped Inkerman in the car park, but instead of driving straight home, she returned to her office. To reach it she passed through the outer office used by the two teams, where, to her surprise,

‘Skull’ Clarke was still working.

“You’re keen, Skull. No home to go to?”

“Just about to leave, boss. – finished checking on the day’s reports for tomorrow’s briefing.”

With that, he rose and left, leaving her alone in the department.

Wearily she went into her own office and typed up the notes she had made of the interviews of O’Leary and Douglas. Twenty-five minutes later, finished at last for the day, she made her way back to the car park and drove home.

At much the same time, Jane Lawson and Harry Oakes were enjoying dinner together in their flat, although Harry could sense that all was not well with his girl-friend.

“What’s up, love?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ve heard that one before - it wasn’t true then and it isn’t true now. Tell me to mind my own business if you want, but don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Jane looked across the table at him, unable to bring herself to say what was truly in her mind, but she raised a weak smile.

“OK, you win – it’s been a bitch of a day, and I feel that I’m losing my grip. I keep making silly mistakes. Nothing major, thank God, but a whole raft of things that I just haven’t done as well as I should have – or as well as I know I normally can do.”

“Too much on, too little time? It happens – you’ll come through it.”

“I certainly hope so – oh, sod it – pour me another glass of wine and then let’s go to bed.”

Later, in the dark of the bedroom, as Harry slept peacefully beside her, she wrestled once more with her worries. Why was she making so many mistakes? It was totally unlike her to overlook obvious things when questioning people. She was forgetting things as well. Was it, as she feared, because she was now living with Harry and much of her mind was occupied with their life together that she just wasn’t devoting enough energy to her job? Would breaking up with Harry solve matters? She loved him, she knew that. He loved her, she knew that as well. She even, quite literally, owed her life to him; 79

in her mind’s eye she could instantly picture once again the moment when they had been at the mercy of the murderer, Roy North two years ago. Harry had saved them both, killing North in the process; she knew full well that had she been alone that night she would have died at North’s hands.

Her mind still in a whirl, she finally dropped off to sleep, a sleep much disturbed by dreams in which Harry and North featured endlessly, only this time Harry didn’t save her. This time she died.

Chapter Sixteen; Third Friday

She woke slowly and reluctantly, feeling as though she had scarcely slept at all. Harry was already up and the smell of coffee drifted pleasantly into the bedroom. With a conscious effort she threw back the bedclothes and made her way to the shower.

Ten minutes later, refreshed from the shower, and having breakfasted on coffee and toast, she looked across the table at Harry and, in a split second, reached a decision on the problem facing her.

The choice was stark; to stay with Harry or not? She finally realised that, problems or not, she infinitely preferred the choice of Harry and, if necessary, no job, to the alternative of the job and no Harry. As she came to her decision she felt as if a crushing weight had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders.

She left the flat in a whirl of activity and was in her office before anybody else of the teams had arrived.

As she quickly reviewed her E-mails – nothing of any importance – she got to thinking about George Govern. The man had been frightened of naming his contacts about Riley. She would have to take that up at the briefing, now that the DCI and Shirley had interviewed first Govern and then his contacts.

What else? The DCI had been dismissive of the idea that Riley had been the principal target, killed by the IRA for being an informer. It still made some sense compared to the idea that someone in what had been the Guildford cattle farming community had pulled the trigger; an IRA gunman stalking Riley and taking him out in the way it had happened was perfectly feasible. Might that be the reason for Govern’s fear? The thought that there was an IRA hit-man around? It would not have been the first time that the IRA had been active in the area, although the bombing of the Horse and Groom and the Seven Stars pubs was a long time ago – 1974 in fact. That was before she had been born, but Govern would have been in his twenties at the time.

The briefing was interesting when it got to the matter of the interviews. Jane was amazed to hear that one of those interviewed had actually been involved in the Riley affair, and was a retired military policeman.

“Sir, that puts what Govern told me in very odd light. He claimed that ‘the word’ was that Riley was a grass, all right, but that it was the IRA he was informing on. Now this! Either he was barking up the wrong tree, or we still aren’t getting everything. This man Douglas – is he telling us everything?”

Inkerman and Shirley looked at each other; the way in which Douglas had effectively told them that there might be things he wouldn’t tell them went through both their minds. Jane continued.

“I am sure that he was genuinely worried about passing on those names, but from what you were told yesterday, why should he be? Neither O’Leary nor Douglas sound as though they would pose the slightest threat to him. Perhaps there are others, whose names he didn’t give you, he spoke to and it is those others he is scared of.”

Inkerman frowned uneasily. There was much in what Jane had said; like her, he could not equate Govern’s reported fear with the attitude and character of O’Leary and Douglas.

“Jane, do you think a follow-up by yourself might get some more out of him? He was certainly rattled by the time Shirley and I had finished with him. If there are more people in the background we need to know. Don’t spend too much time on it, though. Catching the killer is still the priority.”

This, thought Shirley to herself, is getting messy. I think the DCI is losing the plot. The Riley element was supposed to be my side of the investigation.

Inkerman must have read her mind, for his next words illuminated his thinking.

“It may be that he sees you as a more or less friendly face, with the rest of us a threat hanging over him.”

Jane nodded.

“OK, sir – I’ll get on to him today.”

80

Some fifty or so miles away, Anna Harrison was sitting at her desk in New Scotland Yard when her phone rang. She looked at it – it was the outside line which came to her via her secretary. She picked it up.

“Yes, Helen?”

“I’ve got a Mr. Jim Hacker on the line – says he’s an old friend.”

She thought for a second.

“Oh, yes – put him through.”

A second’s pause and then,

“Jim, what do I owe this surprise to?”

“Anna, I’m up in town for the first time in ages and I thought it would be nice to see you. Would you be free for dinner this evening? Say eight at the Savoy?”

“I’d love to , Jim, but I’m a bit tied up to make it for eight. Would nine be OK with you?”

“Yes, fine. See you then. ’Bye.”

“Bye, Jim.”

She replaced the phone. Her contact had been using a simple code – knock eight hours off the time, and the Dorchester instead of the Savoy – and his name wasn’t really Jim Hacker. Just before one she buzzed her secretary.

“Helen, I’ve got to get out over lunch for a while. I’ll be back by two.”

“Right, ma’am.”

Anna Harrison left her office and caught a taxi. She was not in uniform so was just another anonymous, middle-aged woman as she entered the Dorchester a minute or two before one. She made her way to the dining room and was approached by the maitre ‘d.

“I’m lunching with Mr. Hacker.”

“Ah, yes, madam. Mr. Hacker told me he was awaiting a guest.”

He turned to a nearby waiter. “John, please show this lady to Mr. Hacker’s table.”

Anna followed the young man. As they approached a table in the far corner of the room, David Douglas rose to greet her.

“Jim,” she exclaimed, continuing the deception, “how are you?”

They kissed each other on the cheeks, then sat down. The hovering waiter asked for if they wished for the menu. Douglas looked enquiringly at Anna.

“Oh, I just want something light, please, Jim, An omelette fines herbes would be fine with just a glass of white.”

“Good idea, I’ll have the same,” he turned to the waiter, “omelette fines herbes twice and a small carafe of the medium house white, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

John, the waiter, went off with the order, reflecting to himself that the credit crunch was making cheapskates out of everybody.

As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Anna leant forward.

“Right, David, what’s up?”

“Well, I thought that I had better let you know that the police have been to see me about Riley.”

Anna hissed angrily through her teeth,

“Shit, I was worried about that. Who was it, a DCI, name of Inkerman?”

“That’s right. He had a woman DI with him as well, name of Lewis.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Well, I told them about the Harman report and warned them that it didn’t contain any names. I had to do that; they knew that I was ex-Army and that I had been in the military police. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to discover the Harman report – it is in the public domain, after all – and my connection with the committee, so if I hadn’t told them about it, it would have looked pretty odd.”

She nodded unhappily.

“I did my best to paint Riley as a true member of the IRA, that the only information he passed on was about Operation Achilles.-, although I didn’t use its name, of course. I also did my best to suggest that if his death had connections with Ulster it was more likely to the be the Loyalists after his blood than the Republicans. I must say, I wish to Hell that I had never moved to Guildford. Who could have expected something like this?”

81

She nodded sympathetically.

“Any idea how they got onto you?”

“One of the locals, a man called Govern, has a very good nose. He found O’Leary, who tried to fob him off and when that didn’t work, pointed him towards me.”

“So they know about O’Leary as well?”

“Not really. He also spun them a tale about Riley being ‘true to the cause’, but they have no idea of O’Leary’s real part in it all.”

Anna sat back as the waiter arrived with their wine and waited until he had poured both of them a glass and departed again.

She reflected bitterly on what was happening. It all went back to Ulster over twenty years previously.

She had been a DI at the time, very new in rank, sent over to look into the uneasy feeling that was abroad, that information was being leaked to loyalist terrorists by some of the security forces. She had masqueraded as a detective constable and wormed her way into the confidence of a number of police and army personnel. She had worked closely with Douglas who, like herself, had been posted in as a fresh face and therefore known to be untainted by anything that might be going on. Between them they had managed to establish who might, and who might not, be suspect and the result was two-pronged, the ‘Harman Report’, named after Superintendent Harman of the RUC who headed up the investigation, and ‘Operation Achilles’. The Harman Report was the public face of the work, now available to one and all under the Freedom of Information legislation. Achilles was the covert face, buried deep in Whitehall, which went far deeper into the matter. The early retirements had been the obvious outcome of their work, but there were other results as well, with more senior people being reassigned and subsequently finding that promotion was a thing of the past. The Northern Ireland Office hadn’t dared reveal the true extent of the problem which, largely due to the work of herself and Douglas, had been contained without becoming a major scandal, as might easily have been the case.

She wasn’t worried about the Guildford police getting wind of Achilles, although she was doubly grateful that all those years ago her boss had arranged for her to work not only at an assumed rank, but with an assumed name.

It was the greatest of bad luck that O’Leary and Douglas should both have gravitated to the Guildford area so many years later. O’Leary had been a useful contact back then, regarded by local IRA sources as a sympathiser, but in fact, a highly prized informer, playing a very dangerous game in passing information on to the security forces about IRA operations. In 1984, however, it had looked as though some of the locals were beginning to suspect O’Leary was not as sympathetic to their cause as he might have been and he had hurriedly left Ulster and come to England before the suspicions hardened to the point where he was marked for assassination. That, of course, pre-dated her own involvement in Northern Ireland and indeed Douglas’ as well, but the facts had been in the various files that they had both studied whilst there. Riley was another matter entirely. A genuine soldier of the IRA with much blood on his hands, when captured he had attempted to buy a lessened sentence by offering up a lot of information on his fellow terrorists, but had been unsuccessful in getting any but the slightest accommodation at the time – his hands were just too bloody. After a few years in prison, however, Riley had been approached by Anna herself, with an offer of early parole if he provided information.

He had eagerly accepted; had he not been released under the terms of the Good Friday agreement, he would have been released very soon afterwards anyway. The information he had provided had been very useful and it was to protect him from any consequences of that assistance that his file had been restricted. She now bitterly regretted placing a bar on the file; it had merely served to stir up interest.

She was also irritated that Riley had subsequently been in some sort of business on his own account using his bomb making skills.

All this, however, begged the question. How had this man Govern known of O’Leary on the first place? She posed the question to Douglas, who thought long and hard before speaking.

“I can only guess that O’Leary let something slip at some stage. He’s been over here a long time, he must have let his guard slip somehow. Whether it was to Govern alone, or whether more people know something, I have no way of knowing. I certainly didn’t want to arouse Govern’s curiosity by seeming interested.”

She nodded; it surely must have been something of that sort.

“And what about yourself?”

“That must have been pretty easy – I’m generally known to be ex-Army. Round here there would be any number of people who could have pointed him in the right direction to get a general picture of my career, including the fact that I spent quite a bit of time in Ulster.”

82

“Yes, I’m sure you are right - that would have been it. Keep me in touch, please, David. To be honest, I don’t see what we can do other then wait and see.”

They finished their food and wine and went their separate ways.

Jane and Govern met shortly after lunch. Once again it was by the riverside; Jane was idly feeding the ducks when Govern came up to her.

“OK, Inspector – you wanted to see me. Now what?”

“George, I know from my boss that he gave you a fairly hard time. I thought that it might be a good idea for us to get together again ASAP, because I don’t want you getting any wrong ideas. The DCI is one very tough cookie; if he decides that he doesn’t like you, no matter what the reason, believe you me, you have trouble coming.”

“But I’ve been helping you lot – why give me a hard time?”

“He can’t believe that you are being straight with him – and to be honest I think you must be holding something back. When you spoke to me, you gave me what you claimed was the word going about. I took that at face value and as a result the DCI isn’t happy with me either – that’s why that other woman was with him when he interviewed you instead of me. He reckons I’ve been too soft on you.

Now, George, the thing that is puzzling everybody is just how it is that you happen to know O’Leary and Douglas and their connection to Riley. Also – why did you feed me that line about you being in danger if you told me the names of your contacts. Now that they’ve been interviewed, we all think that’s a load of bull. It’s time to come clean, George. Either that or no more protection – quite the opposite.”

Govern seemed to retreat within himself. Looking at him, Jane thought to herself ‘this man really is frightened – why?’ He hesitated for what seemed a long time before talking.

“Inspector, O’Leary runs a betting shop. Douglas runs a night club. They know people, people know them. People talk to each other. I heard about both O’Leary and Douglas having a possible link with the troubles from several people. Those people know that I spoke with O’Leary and with Douglas as a result of them telling me that. Now they know that the two of them have been seen by the police only a day or two later. What do you reckon that they are thinking now? I told them that I was interested in Riley because one of the bent coppers I know had let slip that the guy shot wasn’t called Doherty at all, but Riley, and that I was interested in what more I might be able to find out in case there was anything in it for me. They’d take that to mean me perhaps finding out something through my bent coppers that would be useful to them – they’d scratched my back, they expect me to scratch theirs.”

“But what might that be? And while we are at it – who are these bent coppers telling you things?”

“About what might be useful – who knows? And the bent coppers – there aren’t any – at least not that I know. I made that up to give me an excuse for what I was asking about.”

Jane was beginning to find the whole thing less and less believable. Why should these mystery men bother themselves in the affairs of a dead man? Why should O’Leary and, much more particularly, Douglas, tell Govern anything? Then came Govern’s bombshell.

“The men I spoke with – there were two of them. They already knew Riley, but not as Riley, nor as Doherty. They knew him as Murphy. They recognised his picture in the papers and wanted to know what was going on. I don’t know this, mind you – and I don’t want to know, but I reckon that he had either done work for them or was going to do work for them. They know O’Leary and Douglas just because of the jobs they do, but I reckon that they knew the two of them had some connection with Northern Ireland and perhaps spoke with them.”

Jane sighed. This was getting worse by the minute.

“OK, George, who are these mysterious characters?”

“Dan and Billy Tanner.”

The Tanners! 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 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.

83

Since their release some five or six years earlier, they had apparently been going straight, although most police officers believed that they had simply become better at hiding their tracks. Certainly she could now understand Govern’s concern. For someone like him, getting on the wrong side of the Tanners simply did not bear thinking of.

None of this, however, explained Douglas. She could believe that O’Leary might have been loose-lipped at some time, but Douglas? A former military policeman – and by all accounts (she had done a little quiet digging of her own account) a pretty good one. Why should somebody like that talk? And, if Govern had any credibility at all, to somebody like the Tanners?

What else might there be here? She was very conscious of the errors she had been making recently and was determined not to add to them. She stared fixedly at Govern.

“George, you are still holding out on me. None of this makes much sense at all – vague hints, possible interests? Crap! Now if you don’t tell me everything you have on all of this, I’m washing my hands of you and the DCI can do his worst – and believe me, that is exactly what he will do. Your feet just won’t touch.”

Govern looked desperate.

“Inspector, I swear to you that I’m not holding back anything. I don’t know any more, truly.”

“Let’s go back a bit, George. Forget who is saying what, who wants to know what about what. Tell me everything you know about O’Leary and Douglas.”

He took a deep breath.

“O’Leary. He’s Irish, comes from Belfast. Came over here about 20 years ago or so. There were rumours at the time that he had got on the wrong side of people over there. Most reckoned that he had upset the IRA in some way, but nobody knew – and he himself sure wasn’t saying. It seemed a bit odd that he moved into running a betting shop down here – I understand that he ran one before that in London for a good few years, so why move? I never did find out, though.

“Douglas, now, he’s very different. He’s ex-Army – Guildford is an Army town, although not as much as it used to be. Finding out about him was a doddle. He’s an ex-redcap, officer, worked in Belfast about twenty years ago, retired about six or seven years ago – I could probably find out his paybook number of you wanted!”

“Why would somebody like Douglas be running a nightclub?”

“Why does anyone do anything? Do you know his club? The Marlborough?”

Jane shook her head.

“No, I’ve never heard of any trouble there, so nothing has come our way.”

“Well, it’s not the sort of place for a couple of hundred screaming kids to let their hair down in between drugs, or anything like that. It’s an expensive place, members only, gaming rooms, dining room, floor show – nothing sleazy or anything. The word is that although it is Douglas who runs it and holds the licence, he doesn’t own it – hardly surprising, because it must have cost a mint to set up.”

“OK – but you just said that it was the Tanners who pointed you at O’Leary and Douglas. How would they know about them?”

He shrugged.

“The Tanners have fingers in just about every pie south of the Thames and east of Bournemouth. They have people who know things, people who say things to them – just because they started out as thugs, don’t imagine that they aren’t bright – they are. When you first asked me to see what I could find out about Riley, some of the folk I spoke with passed the word back to them that I was looking. They must have already realised that the guy they knew as Murphy, who was in the papers as Doherty, was actually the same Riley I was asking about.”

“So what did they say to you?”

He shifted uneasily on his seat.

“Well, I didn’t actually talk to them face to face, you know. One of their boys told me that they had heard of my interest in Riley and that they wanted to know anything I found out.”

“Oh, so who was this ‘boy’ of theirs?”

“Guy called Bert Lombard. He runs that mini-cab business at Godalming. He gave me a bell, said the Tanners wanted to know anything I found out, and said that they had told him to pass on the names of O’Leary and Douglas as having Ulster connections.”

Jane’s brain was by now spinning so much that it threatened to escape into orbit. Everything seemed to be going round in aimless circles. Why would the Tanners, assuming that Govern was right and they had some sort of business with Riley, be interested in letting Govern ask around and report back, when 84

by all accounts they could just as easily have had the asking done by their own people. A chilling thought came to her.

“George, I’ve got a nasty thought in my mind now. Let’s suppose that the Tanners know that you and I have these little chats from time to time. Let’s suppose, just suppose, mind you, that they really want you to pass on anything that you learn from me to them. Now wouldn’t that be logical? You aren’t frightened of the Tanners because of us talking to Douglas and O’Leary – you’re worried that they might realise that you are talking to us about them.”

Govern’s complexion, already grey, took a turn for the worse. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Inspector, I swear to you that if they thought I was talking to you and passing on anything they wouldn’t want know, my life wouldn’t be worth tuppence. That’s why I want out of all this. You know what their reputation is like.”

“Yes, George, I do. So does every other copper in the south of England. So tell me, George, what do you think might happen if, after this little chat, I, or my DCI went to have a word with them?”

For a moment she thought that he might actually faint on front of her. With an obvious effort, he composed himself.

“You’d be signing my death warrant.”

“Well think on it, George. What can you tell me that might hold us back from talking to the Tanners?

How do I know they aren’t behind the shootings we’re investigating?”

Even as she said the words, Jane began to wonder if this might not be another possibility. Two gangsters notorious for their reluctance to leave witnesses. Govern thought that Riley had possibly done a job for them. They decide to silence him – and anyone else that he might have talked to?

Something else that seemed more likely than one of the farmers pulling the trigger over what had happened years ago.

If possible, Govern looked even more worried.

“Inspector, you got to believe me. If the Tanners had wanted to waste Riley, they’d have done it – so why would they want me asking about him after he was already dead? Don’t make any sense.”

Now that she had a second to think about it, Jane could see the logic in what he was saying. However, she saw no reason to let him off the hook too easily.

“Doesn’t it George? Perhaps they wanted to see if you could get any lead on how far we were getting in looking into things. In that case, it would suit them very well not to have anyone of theirs doing the asking. In other words, little old you.”

She really thought that Govern was going to break down and cry at any moment, as he chewed nervously on his bottom lip.

“Look, Inspector, I can’t think of anything that I know that’s going to help you against the Tanners.

You know what they are like – nobody ever testifies against them – sometimes ‘cos they won’t – but sometimes ‘cos they can’t!”

“Alright, George. Here’s a deal for you. Find out if Riley did do any work for the Tanners and let me know, and we won’t drop you in it.”

“But that’s no deal at all – the moment they find out I’m asking anything like that they’ll come down on me.”

“That’s your worry, George – you’ll just have to be super careful, won’t you? I’ll give you a week to get back to me.”

And with that, she got up and left.

Back at the station, she once more turned the whole case over in her mind. One point was paramount.

Regardless of who the killer was, disgruntled farmer, IRA assassin, or local gangster, he would have to have known that Collins and the others would be in that restaurant at that time. The only person, other than the restaurant staff and the diners themselves, they knew of who would have that information was Collins’ secretary. Or was it? Both Raymond and McNulty had said that they had simply told their respective secretaries that they were going to lunch with Collins, but hadn’t said where. Collins secretary had been adamant that she hadn’t told anyone about the lunch and that nobody had quizzed her about her boss’ whereabouts that Thursday lunch time. However, she realised that one possibly vital question had not been put to the woman. Did Collins ever lunch anywhere else? She picked up the phone.

Three minutes later she put it down again. Collins only ever had his business lunches at Mario’s. It was close enough to the office for him to walk there and thus not have to worry about drinking alcohol, it was reasonably priced and he liked the food and the service.

85

So, anyone knowing that piece of information would know where to find Collins whenever he arranged to have a business lunch.

So – the next question – had anyone queried with the secretaries of either Raymond or McNulty if their respective bosses were lunching with Collins?

She picked up the phone again. Ten minutes later, she had her answer. On the Monday before the shooting, an unidentified male caller had asked both women if their bosses were lunching with Collins. The question had been obliquely made, and the women left with the impression that the caller had been unable to contact Collins or his secretary to check who would be present. They had both assumed that the caller was going to be at the lunch himself.

That’s it!, she told herself triumphantly. Somebody was checking on the whereabouts of the three men, and that they would be together that Thursday lunch time. What about Riley, though? No way to check if the caller was also interested in him.

She turned to Cross.

“Dave, I think that we may have a lead. Somebody called the offices of both Raymond and McNulty on the Monday, checking to see if they were lunching on the Thursday with Collins. Can you check the phone records of all our suspects and see if they called these numbers on the Monday, please?”

She passed over the two office numbers and Cross got to work on the task straight away.

Thirty minutes later he came back to her.

“No luck on that, boss, none of our folk called those numbers from their land lines, but I think I’ve got something that might be a bit of help McNulty’s office has quite a sophisticated call logging system on the telephones so that they can apportion costs to work in hand for a specific client, even when somebody is dealing with an incoming call from that client. I’ve checked the numbers that called the office at around the right time. One of them is the golf club – so I checked their telephone records. A call went from the phone in the members bar to McNulty’s office at one-fifty that day and a call went to Raymond’s number five minutes later.”

“Well done, Dave! I’ll bet you any money you like that the caller was Balfour, and why should he do that if it wasn’t to set them up? We know he wasn’t the shooter himself – his alibi is cast-iron – but he would have had no problem in giving the word to whoever actually did do the shooting.”

“One question, boss – how can we prove it?”

Jane contemplated what Cross had said – it was a fair point.

“I don’t know – but it is interesting that if it was Balfour – and I’m sure that it was - he didn’t call Collins’ secretary.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was a councillor himself – he may well have thought that there was a chance that she would recognise his voice – it’s quite deep and distinctive.”

So, what now? She was reluctant to leap in at the deep end and go and face Balfour with this straight away – the question still needed to be asked, assuming he was setting the men up, who had he told of the assassination opportunity that would be presented to them on that Thursday lunchtime?

She wondered whether to update Inkerman, but a quick check discovered that the DCI was out of the office, so she left him an E-mail updating him and offering to come in over the weekend if he wished.

Otherwise, she suggested, it would be reasonable to leave things over until Monday morning.

She looked at her watch; it was getting on for six o’clock - what else could she usefully do that day?

She sat back in her chair and slowly reviewed every aspect of the case that she could bring to mind, jotting down rough notes as she did so. Thirty minutes hard thought brought nothing new to mind, but at least also failed to reveal any stones so far unturned, leaving aside the need to challenge Balfour.

She called her team together and brought them all up to date, then wished them good night and went home.

Inkerman had not been in the office because he was closeted with Graham, discussing the oddities surrounding the Riley case, and in particular the touchiness of the Met over it.

“So you see, sir, I don’t know just how far this affair might go. I think that Douglas, certainly, and O’Leary probably, know more than they have told us. Piecing together what we have to date, something happened in Ulster back in ’88 which involves Douglas and somebody senior from the Met

– possibly even that Chief Superintendent Harrison herself. Back then she would clearly have been a lot less senior. We know from Douglas that there were two DCs from the Met who seem to have escape any retribution, so may still be on the force – and despite Douglas’ assumption that all that would have blighted their prospects, he might not be right.”

86

“I wonder if there is any way of finding out names without the Met getting all uptight?” Graham mused.

“Well, we’ve checked the report that Douglas told us about – the Harman report. It doesn’t name anybody, using the excuse of security considerations. Folk are referred to as Mr. X, Inspector Y. and the like. The names of the committee are on the report, of course. It was headed up by Superintendent Harman of the RUC as it then was. The Army was represented by Major David Ross, there was a senior police officer from outside – ACC Johnson of the West Midlands, a second RUC officer – an Inspector Kearney, and finally a lawyer, a James Laughton, who was a solicitor in Belfast, from the firm of Gempsey, Laughton and Darcy. Douglas himself, then a lieutenant, clerked the committee.

“I’ve done a little digging – Ross died last year, but all the others are still alive, although all retired now.”

“ACC Johnson – what happened to him after the affair?”

“He eventually became Deputy Chief Constable of Merseyside; retired five years ago and now lives in Scotland.”

“I wonder if he would talk to us off the record?”

“An ex-DCC? Hardly seems likely, sir.”

“Hmmm, you’re probably right – what about the Inspector? Kearney, was it?”

“Yes. He only retired two years ago and oddly enough, he promptly moved to England.”

“Did he, indeed. I wonder why? Whereabouts, do you know?”

”Not all that far away – Bournemouth. He was a Superintendent when he retired.”

“I wonder if he would talk to us?”

“Well, I can’t see that we have anything to lose in trying. As he was a Super when he retired, do you think that as a matter of courtesy I ought to be involved when we see him?”

“I think that it would be a good idea, sir. Shall I try and fix it up?”

“Yes please, Inky. For once, my diary is reasonably free – I wonder if we could possibly make it for Monday? Nuisance about the week-end, but can’t be helped.”

Inkerman looked at his watch.

“I could always ring him now?”

“Ok, Inky – go ahead.”

Inkerman dialled the Bournemouth number he had been given. Perhaps half a dozen rings and someone picked it up at the other end. A woman spoke.

“Hallo?”

“Oh, hello – I was trying to reach Mr. Kearney – do I have the right number?”

“Oh yes, indeed. I’ll just call him.”

He heard the phone laid down on a table or the like and the woman calling in the background.

“Dougal! Phone!”

A minute or so passed and a man spoke at the other end.

“Kearny here – who wants me?”

“Good evening, sir. I am Detective Chief Inspector Inkerman of the Surrey Police. My chief, Superintendent Graham, and I would be grateful if you could spare us some time t talk about the Harman Report.”

“The Harman Report? But that’s years ago. What on earth can you want to know about it?”

“Well, sir, we are investigating a double murder up here and one of the victims was a man who seems to be been involved in some way – although we aren’t really sure – in the circumstances that lead to that report.”

There was a long pause at the other end.

“Chief Inspector, I don’t know if you are aware that there some aspects of that investigation which is still covered by the Official Secrets Act?”

“We had assumed that sir, but didn’t know for sure. Obviously, we would only expect to hear from you on anything not covered by the act.”

“Well, that seems fair enough – one problem though, my wife and I are leaving on Monday for Spain for a month or so in our cottage over there. If you need to talk to me, it’s going to have to be tomorrow.”

The call was on the speakerphone, so Graham had been able to hear every word. Inkerman looked quizzically at him and received a nod of confirmation.

“That would be very helpful, sir. What time would suit you?”

“Hmm, can we make it about noon?”

87

Another nod from Graham and Inkerman confirmed the time as suitable. Kearny made one further point.

“Just one thing. You mustn’t come in a marked car – I’ll tell you why when you are here.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll come in a plain car and neither of us will be in uniform. We’ll come by ourselves, no police driver.”

Kearny suddenly spoke again..

“Oh, should have asked – who is the murder victim?”

“A man called Liam Riley, sir.”

“Riley? That piece of shite? Good riddance to him. See you tomorrow then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

Inkerman returned to his office and found, and read, Jane’s E-mail. He decided that the matter could well wait until the Monday – if he hadn’t been going to Bournemouth with Graham the next day he might have called folk in on the Saturday morning, but calling them in for later would just mess up everyone’s weekend for something that could well wait.

He did, however, leave a message for the duty officer that he or Jane was to be called immediately, no matter where they might be, should Balfour’s name come to attention in any way over the weekend, no matter how apparently trivial.

As soon as she got home, Jane checked her E-mails and read , with approval, the message from Inkerman. After all, why muck up everyone’s weekend over it? Monday would be quite soon enough.

Chapter Seventeen: Third Weekend

True to his word, Inkerman brought his car to a halt outside Kearny’s address just before noon on the Saturday, and he and Graham walked up the front path of a detached, fairly large bungalow, between well-tended flowerbeds. Graham rang the doorbell and the door was opened by a tall, slim man in his fifties.

“Mr. Kearny? I’m DCI Inkerman, this is Superintendent Graham.”

“Come in, gentlemen, come it.”

Kearney led the way to a large lounge, the picture window of which overlooked a back garden boasting an expanse of immaculate lawn and, again, well tended flowerbeds.

Kearny invited them to sit, and as they did so Inkerman studied their host. Tall, six feet three or four, and slimly built, the ex-policeman had grey hair neatly trimmed and deep-set, very dark eyes. He looked fit, with no surplus flesh on his face, and had a tanned skin denoting much time spent out of doors.

“So, gentlemen, how can I help you?”

Graham opened the discussion.

“Well, Superintendent..”

Kearny raised his hand and stopped Graham before he could go on.

“Please, just mister. Nobody around here knows that I was once a policeman and I am anxious to keep it that way.”

“Why is that, Mr. Kearny?”

“The Troubles may be theoretically over, but the aftermath still lingers on. The IRA had a couple of attempts on my life back in the Belfast days, and although their leaders now profess to be good democrats and all that, not all the leopards in the pack have changed their spots. I left Belfast as soon as I retired and came to live here. As far as the locals are concerned I am a retired Naval officer and my cover is pretty good. Any normal level of digging will find me, of course, but what they will find is that one time Lieutenant Commander Kearny lives here, not a former copper. The cover is reasonably good – actually there really was a Lieutenant Commander Kearny. He is my brother, who now lives in Spain. We are, in fact, twins, so any digging will even come up with the right birth date and our initials are the same – D.J. Kearny, although he is Donald John and I am Dougal John. To be honest, I am a bit concerned that you found me so easily – how did you do it?”

Inkerman replied.

“The police pension records – they are pretty secure, so I don’t think that you need worry about outsiders being able to track you that way.”

88

Kearny nodded.

“That’s a relief. Anyway, enough about me – what do you need to know about the Belfast days and the Harman report?”

Graham took up the story again.

“We had a shooting in Guildford a couple of weeks ago. Two killed, two wounded. The dead men were a local councillor, Norman Collins, and a man calling himself Liam Doherty, whom we later identified through his fingerprints as Liam Riley. The wounded men were a local building contractor, John Raymond, and a solicitor, Thomas McNulty. So far, we haven’t identified the motive for the shooting, but we have a couple of alternatives. One, it might be a revenge crime by one or more former local farmers who suffered considerably financial hardship because of Collins. Two, it might be connected to Riley’s past in some way – possibly by his former comrades because they may have found out that he became an informer, or possibly by Loyalists because of his former success as an IRA member. We have tried to find out more about Riley, but the file on him is not very forthcoming

– much of it is blocked by the Met Special Branch. To be honest, whether finding out more about Riley will help our investigation, we don’t know – but until we do know more, we can’t be sure.”

Kearny leaned back in his chair.

“I see your problem. Well, as you doubtless know, the Harman Report was a white-wash. The work we undertook uncovered a number of people who were giving information to the Loyalist terrorists, although we didn’t get enough concrete evidence to justify a court case – and in any case the powers-that-be were anxious to avoid a scandal if at all possible. The evidence that Riley gave us was largely responsible for us identifying the bad apples, but it would never had stood up in court.”

“Who were the bad apples?”

“Basically there were four. Two Army officers, an RUC Chief Inspector and a Detective Constable on secondment from the Met.”

Inkerman pricked up his ears.

“Only one DC? We were told that there were two.”

“Well, Riley named two, but one of them was actually working the investigation by letting the others think that she was part of the ring. In fact, she wasn’t even a DC, but a Detective Inspector using an assume name and rank.”

Inkerman put two and two together.

“I suppose that was DI Anna Harrison?”

“Yes, that’s right. Last I heard, she was still in the Met and doing quite well.”

“Yes, she is now a Chief Super in Special Branch. What about the others?”

“The Army officers were a Major Harry Collett of the Paras and a Captain James Davies of the Royal Engineers. Both were posted back to the mainland and persuaded that the Army no longer had a use for them. They both resigned their commissions within the year.

“The RUC man was Chief Inspector John Fitzgerald. He also was persuaded to resign soon afterwards.

The Met officer was DC Sam Rogers. He left the police, again quite soon afterwards. To be honest with you, I can’t see that any of this is likely to have any bearing on your case. None of those people have any real grudge against Riley – well, OK, his evidence uncovered them, but they were on borrowed time anyway, and it wasn’t Riley who controlled what happened to them afterwards, but their own superiors. Why should they have enough motive to go after him after all this time?”

That, reflected Inkerman glumly, seemed a very reasonable point. He had one last question.

“DI Harrison, sir, what name did she use?”

“She called herself DC Anna Sawyer, but that is a totally fake identity, of course.”

Graham drew things to a close.

“Well, many thanks for your time Mr. Kearny. I hope we haven’t taken up too much of it.”

“Not at all, Superintendent, a pleasure meeting you both.”

As they drove away, Graham and Inkerman reflected that, whilst interesting, what they had learned had little or no relevance to their inquiries. They had found out why Chief Superintendent Harrison had restricted access to Riley’s file, but they had assumed that reason already. The names Kearny had given them would have to be followed up, but the odds against anything useful resulting were astronomic.

And, as far as the case was concerned, that was it for the weekend.

89

Chapter Eighteen: Third Monday

The Monday morning briefing was a hive of activity. The names that Inkerman and Graham had received from Kearney had to be followed up, and that task went to Shirley and her team. Of more probable interest to the case, the possible link between Balfour and what had happened, also needed to be investigated.

Inkerman decided to delegate the task to Jane whilst he devoted himself to the inevitable backlog of paperwork which had accumulated over the weekend, together with one or two items of general administration that he had put to one side for too long.

Jane went into a huddle with her team.

“The problem that I can foresee,” she said, “is that even if we can prove that Balfour was after details of Collins’ whereabouts, how can we prove what he then did with the information once he had it? Of one thing we can be absolutely certain – he didn’t do the shooting himself.”

“He must have used a mobile.” said Clarke. “We’ve been all over his land line records and there are no calls from him to any of our possible suspects. We’ve also checked the records of all the others and there are no calls from any of them to him. Indeed, apart from calls within the Calley and Daniels families, which can hardly be claimed to be suspicious, none of the suspects called any of the others on a land line.”

“What about E-mail?” Cross said.

Taylor answered.

“All of them have computers – but if they have any sense they won’t have used E-mail. Surely everyone with any savvy on computer matters is going to realise that if we were to impound a computer we could almost certainly recover anything that had been deleted – including E-mails.”

“Anyway,” said Jane, “we haven’t got anything like enough on anybody at this stage to impound computers.” But I wonder, she asked herself, if Lucy Crane could hack into any of the suspects’

machines? She decided not to suggest it to her friend – it would be clearly illegal at this stage.

So it all boils down to mobiles.” Clarke declared.

“Or a public phone box,” observed Cross.

This gets worse, thought Jane. How on earth can we make any progress? Clearly Balfour must be talked to again, but how could it be done in such a way as to yield anything useful? Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Alan,” she said, “you and I will go and talk to Balfour and see how he explains those calls to the offices of Raymond and McNulty, but first we need to try and establish that he really was at the golf club that day at that time. Right idiots we’ll look if he somehow has another cast-iron alibi.”

She paused for thought. Balfour was at least an acquaintance of Chief Superintendent Halliday, the Divisional Commander. It would be politic to let him know what she was going to do, in case Balfour tried to pull strings. She went to Inkerman’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come in – oh, it’s you Jane, what is it?”

“I’m going to need to talk to Balfour pretty soon, sir, but as he is a golfing acquaintance of the Chief Super, should we warn Mr. Halliday?”

“Yes, best to do so – I’ll give him a bell.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How are you going to tackle it, Jane?”

“First thing is to try and be sure he was at the club at the time in question. Then just try and rattle him.”

Inkerman nodded; he couldn’t really think of anything else to be tried.

“Good luck!”

“Thanks, I think we’ll need it!”

She returned to the main office.

“Alan – get in touch with the golf club – we need to try and establish whether Balfour was there at the relevant time. See who we need to talk to.”

The result of Taylor’s telephoning was that some fifty minutes later they were being shown into the office of the club secretary. The secretary, Major Dennis Cartwright (Retd.) was a man of about sixty, good looking in a rather 1950s fashion. Indeed, Jane told herself, he looked rather like a more slightly built, less full in the face, Cary Grant. At his invitation they took chairs and accepted his offer of coffee, which appeared a few moments later, served by a tall, slim young man of Mediterranean appearance. Jane’s assumption as to his origins was confirmed when Cartwright thanked him.

90

“Thank you, Miguel. If anyone needs me, please tell them that I will be tied up for a while.”

He turned to Jane with a positively avuncular smile.

“Now, Inspector, how can I help you?”

Jane, who had half expected to be addressed as ‘my dear’ smiled back.

“Well, Major, I want to try and ascertain, in strict confidence, whether a particular member was present in the club around one o’clock on Monday a fortnight ago.”

Cartwright leaned back slightly in his chair.

“I can’t promise that we can demonstrate it, Inspector, but I will certainly try. As this is confidential perhaps, before asking the name of the member concerned, I should outline how we may be able to help.

“If the member played on the course that day, it will be recorded in the greens book. The way we work membership here is that our annual subscription is perhaps rather lower than some clubs with our level of facilities, but we charge members for actually playing on the course. We don’t ask members to pay on a daily basis or the like; instead we send out monthly accounts. The greens book will show if the member, let’s call him X, played that day. It will also show the time he was scheduled to tee-off – the course is a popular one and members often need to book their games in advance, so most of them automatically book rather than risk disappointment. It will also show who he played with, whether another member or members, or a guest or guests. If he played with other members it will also indicate if each of them will pay individually, or whether one of them is acting as host to the other or others. It won’t show the time he actually finished playing, but an average round here takes about three and a quarter hours. It is very unlikely that anyone would complete the course in much less than three hours, and just about impossible unless he teed off as the first game of the day to avoid being held up by slower players already on the course. That could be as early as seven thirty in the summer, although not before nine thirty at this time of year.

“That’s not the only record we have which might be helpful. As you saw, we have a dining room here which is pretty popular. It is for members and their guests only and here, if a member chooses, he can have the cost of any refreshments added to his monthly account rather than paying on the spot.

Similarly, members can choose to have drinks at the bar, and any bar snacks they may fancy, added to their account – or they can, if they prefer, pay on the spot.

“So, as you can see, if the member in whom you are interested was here that day, there is a good chance that we can demonstrate the fact. Perhaps, if I may make a suggestion, and again bearing in mind your comment about confidentiality, the best way to start would be simply for me to show you the greens book and we can then take it from there?”

“That would be most helpful, Major – thank you.”

Cartwright left the office, returning less than a minute later with a large, green bound ledger under his arm. He laid it down on his desk and opened it for Jane to inspect.

She looked down the list of names; she didn’t have to look far. The very first game, teeing off at nine thirty that Monday was Harold Balfour playing as one of a group of four. The other names meant nothing to her, but she noticed that Balfour’s name had a red capital ‘H’ beside it.

“Does the ‘H’ denote host?” she asked.

“It does indeed. Does it tell you what you want?”

“Partially. Look, Major, I am sure that you have long experience of keeping things under your hat, so I must ask you to do the same once more. The member I am interested in is Harold Balfour, and I see from this that he started playing with three other people at nine thirty that day.”

“Harold? Right. What else do you need to know?”

“What I really need to know is if he made two telephone calls from the bar here at around two o’clock

– in fact we think the calls were at one fifty and one fifty five.”

“Ah, that, I am afraid isn’t so easy – the bar and the dining room have different arrangements. If you want to make a call from the dining room the waiter brings a phone trolley to your table and the cost is added to your meal bill. The bar phone, I am afraid, is just an ordinary coin in the slot affair.”

Just my luck, thought Jane despondently. She looked at the greens book again.

“Mr. Balfour’s guests – do you know them?”

Cartwright perused the entry thoughtfully.

“Messrs. Ball, Gregory and Thoms. I know David Thoms – he’s a retired solicitor, and although not a member here, he does play here several times a month as a guest – usually of Harold, but not always.

The other two, I am afraid, mean nothing.”

“Is it possible to tell if they dined after their game?”

91

“Well, I can certainly check if Harold did, and whether he dined alone or with anybody. Bear with me for a moment.”

He disappeared again, and once again reappeared quickly.

“The dining room book shows that Harold dined with three guests. The guests aren’t named, but it seems quite possible, I would assume, that they were his golfing companions.”

“Is it possible that the barman that day might have noticed Mr. Balfour in the bar, either by himself or in company?”

“We can always ask – on Mondays Miguel, who brought our coffee in, is on duty from nine thirty until three, so he would have been in the bar at the relevant time. There are always two barmen on duty over the lunch time period – twelve until three – but off hand I don’t know who the other one would have been. I would like to make one point, however. Miguel is a very good barman – friendly to his customers, with a good memory for faces, names and preferences, but I have no way of knowing how discreet he might be if questioned about the movements of members by the police. Also, lunchtimes are pretty busy here. He might well remember if Harold Balfour was in the bar a fortnight ago, but to ask if he noticed if he used the phone – I should imagine it to be unlikely.”

Jane thought hard. To question the barman about the movements of one of the members was likely to lead to her enquiries becoming general knowledge. She instinctively trusted Cartwright to keep quiet, but a young Spanish barman? She tended to agree with Cartwright’s view on the matter.

“I think that you are right, Major. No point. I’ll follow up with Mr. Balfour’s guests of that day. I don’t suppose the club would have any addresses or telephone numbers?”

Cartwright shook his head regretfully.

“I’m afraid not, Inspector, but I’m pretty sure that David Thoms lives in Cranleigh, so he should be fairly easy to find.”

“Thanks, I’m sure we’ll find him.”

Cartwright had one parting word.

“You know, Inspector, I do hope that whatever you feel Harold Balfour has got mixed up in, that you are wrong about him. I’ve known him for quite a few years, and he’s been a member here since before I arrived, which is nearly ten years now. He’s popular with other members – he was Club Captain back in 1998 – that’s an honorary position, voted for by the members. You can only hold it once, and it’s only for a year, but it does show the esteem in which a member is held.”

Whilst Taylor drive them away from the club, Jane used her mobile to track down David Thoms. As Cartwright had thought, he lived in Cranleigh and half an hour later they were being ushered into an expensively furnished lounge looking out onto the village green.

David Thoms proved to be a short man, hardly any taller than Jane herself, with an energetic air to him. Despite his retired status he was dressed in a well-cut dark blue suit with an impeccably knotted tie in deep damson red providing contrast both to the suit and a snowy white shirt. Keen blue eyes, deeply set in a sun-tanned face, regarded them closely.

“Welcome, Inspector, Constable – please sit you down.”

They complied and the little man continued in the same brisk tone.

“So, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Thoms, we need to trace the movements on Mr. Balfour the Monday before last – a fortnight ago.”

“H’mm – two weeks ago you say? Let me think – of course, we played golf at his club. A foursome –

Harold, myself, Johnnie Ball and Tim Gregory. Had lunch afterwards in the club dining room – and a couple of drinks in the bar to wash it all down. Will that do?”

“Was Mr. Balfour with you all the time?”

“Just about, so far as I recall. We all visited the Gents at some stage if I remember correctly – oh, and Harold made a phone call – you pass the bar’s pay phone on your way to the toilets and I saw him talking on the phone as I went past.”

Bingo! Jane crowed silently. We’ve got him at the right place at about the right time and definitely using a phone.

“But tell me, Inspector, what is all this about.”

“Mr. Thoms, as a solicitor, you will understand that I can’t reveal over-much about an ongoing investigation, but we are hoping that Mr. Balfour will be able to help us with our enquiries into a serious case that we are involved in.”

A slight frown furrowed Thoms’ brow.

92

“That sounds serious to me, Inspector. Are you saying that I might be called as a witness over what happened that lunch time?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Thoms. One thing, though. Do you know how I can get in touch with Mr.

Balfour’s other guests, Mr. Gregory and Mr. Ball?”

Thoms reached inside his jacket and withdrew a mobile phone. Thumbing through the menus, he read out addresses and telephone numbers for both men.

“Thank you, sir. What can you tell me about them?”

“Well, I’ve played golf with them as Harold’s guests a few times over the last couple of years. They are both retired, like me. Johnnie Ball was a quantity surveyor, worked for the County Council. Tim Gregory worked in banking, manager of a branch in Farnham.”

“Thanks very much for your help, sir.”

And with that they left Thoms to ponder on just what was going on.

By the end of the day they had also seen Gregory and Ball, who reinforced what they had already been told. Ball had also seen Balfour on the phone (‘Thank you, Lord, for weak bladders in old men’ Jane offered up as a prayer of thanks) so she felt that she now had enough on to tackle Balfour himself.

However, not today, she decided. There was always the chance that one of the three to whom she had spoken would feel obliged to tell Balfour what had happened, despite her having asked them to keep quiet. If they did, fine, let him stew in his own juice overnight.

Whilst Jane had been following up her element of the investigation, Shirley Lewis and her team had been tracking down, and speaking on the phone to, the men identified to Graham by ex-Superintendent Kearney. The two Army officers, Major Harry Collett and Captain James Davies were the easiest, both to find and to talk to.

Collett, now sixty-one years old, had joined a transport company run by his elder brother, George.

George Collett had retired in 2006 and Harry now ran the company. Based in Birmingham, it was a medium sized concern, with just under a hundred employees and forty lorries of varying sizes.

When spoken to by Shirley, he vehemently denied any wrong doing in his Ulster days. He was, he claimed, sacrificed to save the faces of others who had tacitly approved the passing of information about the IRA to Loyalist terrorists. The evidence against him, again according to him, was trumped up, but he had been told that if he didn’t resign the evidence was strong enough to put him in prison.

“Who actually told you that. Major?” Shirley asked.

“That rat Ross. Him and his side-kick Douglas sat there all po-faced telling me I had two choices –

prison or civvy street. It didn’t take me long to make my mind up, I can tell you. And, in the end, I’ve done better than I would have if I’d stayed in the Army.”

“What can you tell me about Liam Riley?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Riley? Oh yes, I remember Riley. According to Ross. Riley was a double agent. Supposedly true blue IRA – perhaps I should say true red – but passing on gen to the police and the Army. According to Ross it was Riley’s evidence that was some of the most damning against me. I never met the man, and knowing Ross I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was all made up anyway. Now Riley was certainly a genuine IRA man and a known killer, but somehow his word was good enough for Ross and the rest of them.”

“Did you know Riley is dead?”

“Dead? No, I didn’t. Is that what all this is about? Somebody topped him?”

“He was shot dead here in Guildford just under a fortnight ago.”

“Good. One less of the bastards. Oh, don’t tell me that you think I had anything to do with it?”

“I don’t know, Major. Did you? And where were you on Thursday the 26th March?”

“No I didn’t, and as to where I was, I was where I am every working day, here in my office – about a dozen or more people can vouch for the fact that I was here from eight in the morning until knocking off time, which for me is usually around seven.”

“Well, I think that’s it. Thank you for your time, Major.”

One time Captain James Davies, Royal Engineers, was now plain Mr. Davies, working in the NHS as an administrator at a hospital in Newcastle. He refused to discuss the matter over the phone in his office, but agreed to phone back so that he could talk in private. This he duly did; like Collett, he claimed that he was the fall guy behind whom more senior people had hidden. Again like Collett, faced with the choice of prison or resignation of his commission, he had taken the latter course.

93

“Mr. Davies, what can you tell me about Liam Riley?”

“According to Major Ross, it was Riley’s testimony that could put me inside, but that he, Ross, would prefer it if I simply quit the Army. He told me that if it all came to trial, not only would I go to prison, which he said didn’t bother him one way or the other, but Riley’s usefulness as an informer would be lost. I never actually met Riley, and seeing as how I understand that he ended up in prison himself, I often wondered how much truth there was in what Ross told me – probably not much, I reckon.”

“Do you know that Riley is dead?”

“No, I didn’t – I’ve never heard about him for years, although I did see the sod was released under the Good Friday rubbish – you could say that I had a personal interest in the fact. Is the fact that he’s dead why you are talking to me?”

“Yes it is, Mr. Davies. Riley was murdered nearly a fortnight ago. Can you tell me, please, what your movements were on Thursday the 26th of March?”

“Thursday before last? Working. My secretary and a number of other people can confirm that – let me think. Yes, we had a meeting of our finance group that afternoon – started straight after lunch, finished around six. So Riley has been killed, has he – can’t say I’m sorry.”

“I can understand why you might feel that way, Mr. Davies.”

“I doubt that you can, Inspector. I liked the Army – it suited me and until that affair blew up I was doing well. By now I could be a retired Colonel with a good pension, instead of a bloody pen-pusher.”

“Well, thank you anyway, Mr. Davies.”

One time Detective Constable Sam Rogers of the Metropolitan Police was more difficult to track down. Now living in Braintree in Essex, he was a long-distance lorry driver. His company told Clarke that Rogers was on a job with a circular route and would not be back at the depot until the following day, but that as his route passed near to his home he would almost certainly go home at the end of the working day, returning with his lorry the following afternoon after making his final deliveries. When phoned, his wife could not be certain when he would be home, but promised to get him to phone back if he got home before nine that day, or alternatively phone in the next morning.

In the meantime, former Chief Inspector Fitzgerald of the then RUC had been contacted at his home in the little village of Ballintoy, on Ulster’s northern coastline. Clarke spoke to him in the first instance.

“Mr. Fitzgerald? I am Detective Sergeant Clarke of the Surrey Police. We’d like to talk to you about the Harman report back in the 80’s.”

“Oh, and why would that be, Sergeant?”

“Well, we have already spoken with a number of people who were involved as it seems that it may have some bearing on a murder case we are investigating here.”

“But why speak to me? It was all a very long time ago and I don’t particularly wish to be reminded of it.”

“Well, sir, it would be easier to talk over the phone rather than have to send officers over to Ireland to interview you.”

“Is that a threat, sergeant?”

“No, sir, of course not. But we do need to talk to you.”

“Who’s in charge of all this?”

“Detective Inspector Lewis is in charge of this aspect, sir.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Actually, Inspector Lewis is a female officer, sir.”

“Then I’ll speak to her, man!”

“Hold the line, please.”

Clarke made his way to Shirley’s office and walked through the open door.

“Got an awkward one here, boss – the ex-RUC guy. Insists on talking to someone in charge.”

“OK, Skull, put him through.”

Clarke returned to his own desk and effected the transfer. Shirley picked up the phone as it rang.

“DI Lewis.”

“Inspector, Fitzgerald here – what is all this about?”

“I think that my sergeant has already told you that. Mr. Fitzgerald. We would like to talk to you about the events and people surrounding the Harman report because it seems to have a bearing on a current murder investigation.”

“But that was all twenty years ago!”

94

“I do realise that, Mr. Fitzgerald. Believe me, I am not given to wasting my time on irrelevancies.

Until I have finished my investigation into the Harman element, I cannot tell how much of a bearing it may have. Now, sir, do you wish to cooperate with me?”

There was a pause, during which she was sure that Fitzgerald was trying to decide whether to continue being awkward or not. As matters stood he had no idea just what was wanted of him; had she been in his shoes she would have wanted to know. Evidently, when he at last spoke, he reached had reached the same conclusion.

“Very well, it still sounds a waste of time, but what do you want to know?”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. Really, I want to know as much as possible about the investigation at that time. Now, I understand that you decided to leave the RUC as a result of that investigation. The information that I have indicates that you were suspected of passing on information about IRA members to Loyalist terrorists, information which may well have resulted in murders.”

“It was trumped up. There was a general feeling at the time that the best way to deal with the two sets of terrorists was to try and set them up against each other. That bit wasn’t hard – it fact it was bloody easy – they hated each other anyway. The difficult part was to get information to the right people at the right time so that only the scum killed each other and as far as possible normal folk didn’t get caught up in it. It was well above my level and I never knew how it was achieved, but my involvement in some cases made it easy for me to be fingered as a possible source of information. When the political thinking changed – politicians scared of getting caught up in it all – the emphasis changed and talking to terrorists became an absolute no-no. That was a fucking laugh in itself – the Home Office was actually talking to the IRA at the time! That was when I discovered that I had been hung out to dry by that bastard Harman. Nothing I could do about it. Go quietly or go nosily – in which case it would be noisily to jail.”

“So what can you tell me about Liam Riley?”

“That swine? Him it was that they were saying would finger me as an informant to the Loyalists which he claimed to know because one of the men I was supposed to have spoken with was actually an IRA double. No way was I going to be able to disprove that.”

“And the others involved? Major Collett, Captain Davies, DCs Rogers and Sawyer?”

“Collett I never liked – stuck up prig, looked down his nose at the RUC. Can’t say I was sorry that he got the push as well. Davies – he was alright. Worked hard, but he was in Collett’s pocket all the time so I suppose when Collett was set up, Davies had to go as well. The two Met coppers – Rogers was a good lad, hard working but made the mistake of showing up Harman himself as being a bit dubious –

so had to go. The woman – right little cow. She was into everything, a right brown-noser. It was no surprise to learn later that she was a plant – did you know that?”

“Yes I did – but I didn’t know if you did.”

“Of course I did,” came the scornful reply, “I sussed her out before it became generally know – and she wasn’t a DC – she was a DI using a false name.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald, that’s all been very helpful.”

Shirley put down the phone and thought about what she had been told. All those – all those so far, she corrected herself, there was still Rogers to be spoken with – questioned claimed to have been set up.

Nothing unusual in that, but somehow she was inclined to believe them.

She looked at her watch; nearly nine o’clock. She hadn’t realised that it was so late, although she had noticed her team going home a little earlier.

The telephone rang.

“DI Lewis.”

“Hello, this is Sam Rogers. My wife tells me that someone from the police was trying to reach me earlier.”

“Mr. Rogers, thanks for phoning. Yes, we wanted to talk to you about the Harman report back in your Northern Ireland days.”

“That was a long time ago, Inspector. Also, it was all a bit complex. Look, I’ve just got in and I’m pretty bushed. Tomorrow I’ve got a delivery almost on your doorstep. Suppose I come it and see you –

would that be OK?”

Shirley had to admit that she was pretty tired herself. Continuing on the morrow would be a blessing.

“That would be fine, Mr. Rogers. What sort of time?”

“Any time after eight – my load needs to be delivered by seven-thirty and it’s only about five minutes away from you.”

“I’ll be here from about seven-thirty, so just ask for me at the desk – Inspector Lewis.”

95

“Right you are, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Rogers.”

Chapter Nineteen: Third Tuesday

Shirley was at her desk a little after seven twenty that morning and just after eight the desk rang through. A Mr. Rogers had arrived to see her. A few minutes later she was greeting a short, cheerful looking man in his early fifties. The hand she shook was calloused and the grip clearly powerful if its owner wished it to be, but she was subjected to only a gentle pressure.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Rogers, please sit you down.”

Rogers took the proffered chair and smiled at her, an infectious grin of a smile, which she found herself unconsciously echoing.

Rogers seated himself and she examined him. Below average height, but sturdily built with no trace of fat on him, he had sandy hair starting to turn grey and green eyes. His features where weather-beaten; had she not known that he drove lorries for a living she might have imagined him a sailor or the like.

“Right, Inspector – you said you wanted to known about the Harman report.” She nodded her agreement. “Well, it was a bit of a dog’s dinner to be honest. At the time the various paramilitaries were at each other’s throats and the police and the Army were seen as fair game by both sides, although the general impression most people had at the time was that the Republicans were the main threat to the security forces. That was true to a degree, but only to a degree, and that was one of the reasons why some folk in the security forces started to feed information to some of the Loyalist people. The thinking went, even if nobody could come out and say it, that they, the Loyalists, were really on the same side as the Army and police if only they could be made to see it. Nobody wanted the IRA and their offshoots to win, and if a bit of a blind eye turned, and a surreptitious helping hand offered, to the Loyalists helped to defeat the IRA, than that was really a rather good thing. It also persuaded most, not all, mind you, but most, of the Loyalists to leave us alone. In return Loyalist action against Republicans tended to be less enthusiastically followed up than the reverse.

“This was all pretty cosy for awhile – if you could call anything that went on there and then cosy – but then the politicians decided that trying to defeat the IRA on the streets was never going to e successful.

It was already twenty years since the troubles had flared up again and there was no end in sight. So, behind the scenes, people from the Home Office and the Northern Ireland Office started to talk with elements of the IRA – the so-called ‘moderates’. It quickly became apparent that the favoured treatment the Loyalists were getting was common knowledge to the IRA and one of their demands was that it must stop. It’s important to get the chronology of all this.

“As you know, the Harman Report came out on September ’88. The work on it started in December 87. Superintendent Harman, who headed up the committee was, we all felt, appointed on the old adage of ‘set a thief to catch a thief’. He had been one of the supporters of the idea of feeding information to the Loyalists, but at his seniority had managed to keep clear of actual involvement and could be

‘proved’ to be unaffected by it. Also, he was felt to be too senior to be allowed to be implicated.

“The set-up of the committee included, naturally enough, the RUC and the Army. There was also a police officer from the UK mainland – ACC Johnson. He was included because by then it was claimed that there were two mainland officers involved – Anna Sawyer and myself. This was, in fact, another sop to the IRA and another level of smokescreen.”

Shirley interrupted Rogers’ narrative.

“That has always puzzled me – what were a couple of Metropolitan Police DCs doing on the scene?”

“Well we went over with the DCI, of course.”

Shirley frowned in puzzlement.

“What DCI? The only Chief Inspector I’ve come across is Fitzgerald – and he was RUC Uniform.”

It was Rogers’ turn to look puzzled.

“You mean you don’t know of DCI Haigh?”

She shook her head.

96

“Ah, that explains why you were puzzled. When the idea of the investigation first started to formulate, it seemed a good idea to have a reasonably senior officer who had nothing to do with Ulster involved.

DCI Haigh was from the Met, he was well thought of and seemed a good choice, so he was seconded across. He wanted his own foot soldiers with him to maintain the impression of non-involvement, so Anna and I were attached to him. We’d only been over there a few weeks, however, when he suffered a heart attack. It wasn’t fatal and eventually he made a full recovery, but at the time, of course, that finished his participation. By then, though, the form the job was going to take had become clearer and nobody saw any point in having another senior officer supplied for window dressing, so he wasn’t replaced. On the other hand, Anna and I had already made ourselves useful, so it was agreed that we should stay on as general dogsbodies.”

So that explained something that Shirley had found very puzzling – the presence of the two ‘DCs’ –

bearing in mind that ‘Sawyer’ was actually DI Anna Harrison.

“So how come the two of you seem to have been tarred with the same brush as the others? You weren’t there long enough for it to be credible, surely?”

“More window dressing. The more people identified as tainted, the more believable it was to the IRA, and don’t forget – they were the intended audience. Now, I think that the two soldiers and Mr.

Fitzgerald were treated pretty shabbily, but for Anna and I it didn’t matter at all. Anna – you know that she wasn’t really DC Anna Sawyer but actually DI Anna Harrison?” Shirley nodded, “had no problems. Sawyer disappeared off the face of the earth, Harrison re-emerged. End of story. I’d already intimated that I wasn’t really happy in the police – and this exercise in cynicism confirmed my feelings – so I agreed to have my name linked in – no skin off my nose, as I already had a new job lined up with a security company in Glasgow – far away from all of what was going on. In the event, I didn’t settle there either, so after about eighteen months I quit and moved back down south. That’s when I met my wife – she’s a teacher – and I decided that something that kept me away from the problems of other people would be ideal. At the same time my mother died and I inherited what had been my parents’ house. It was bigger than we needed – we’ve never had any children, so I sold it and invested the proceeds in a couple of rental properties which have given us a steady little income ever since. At a pinch we could both stop work, but Liz enjoys her work and I find driving around quite relaxing. I know it wouldn’t suit a lot of people, but it does for me.”

“Now, back to the committee; just as it was setting up its smoke and mirrors exercise, a swoop on an IRA cell netted, amongst others, Liam Riley. He was eager to inform on his former mates for a reduced sentence and a deal was struck. No reduced sentence up front – it would have been too suspicious – but an undertaking that he would have early parole. That undertaking was broken, however. He had expected that ‘early’ meant about four to five years. In fact he stayed inside until released under the terms of the Good Friday agreement.”

Shirley found her head spinning with Rogers’ story. The magnitude of the cover-up and the cynicism of some of those involved was very disturbing. What had she found herself in the middle of? What, if anything, had all this to do with their murder case?

“Mr. Rogers, thanks for coming in. You have given me a lot to think about. To be honest, the more I hear about what happened over there, the less I think that it has anything to do with what I’m working on, but it does raise some questions.”

Rogers looked at her steadily.

“Inspector, would you mind if I gave you some advice?”

“I’ll always listen to advice.”

“Don’t go digging into Harman. It has a lot of political overtones. Some of the relatively junior politicians and civil servants involved at the time are still around and a lot more senior. They won’t thank anyone for muddying the water after all this time.”

“Thanks, I’ll certainly bear that in mind.”

As Rogers left her office, she sat and contemplated what he had told her. Where would this lead them if they tried to follow it through? Slowly she got to her feet and went to see Inkerman.

Inkerman looked up as she entered.

“How did it go, Shirley?”

“Worrying, sir. The Harman report is even more of a whitewash than we thought. The Army guys seem to have been set up, as does Fitzgerald. Rogers and Harrison were part of the set-up. Harrison we know is now a Chief Super. Rogers was already firm in his decision to leave the police and work in 97

something else. It was clearly politically motivated, and the politicians who encouraged it are still around, only more senior now than they were then. If we try to dig into it – and I can’t see where and how we would start, nor on what grounds, I just don’t know where we would end up. The really worrying thing is that it seems – if what I’ve been told can be believed, the object was effectively to buy off the IRA and persuade them that it would be worth their while to listen to the peace proposals. OK, it took some years before we got to the Good Friday agreement, but it could be seen as having been a worthwhile exercise in lessening the violence over there. What are we going to achieve if we do dig?”

Inkerman sat back in his chair and thought deeply. He didn’t like what he was hearing; it offended his sense of justice, but he could not fault Shirley’s summation.

“I agree with you, Shirley. I’ll let Mr. Graham know, but I’ll say to him that I would be against trying to get involved any more. I can’t see that the Harman exercise has any bearing on the murders the other week, and that’s what we will need to be concentrating on.”

Shirley nodded her agreement.

“Where does that leave me, sir? If we don’t carry on with this aspect, is there anything left for me and my team? I can’t believe that Riley’s death has anything to do with the Harman stuff, so that just leaves what Jane is doing.”

“Yes, you’re right on that. What else do you have on your plate? There is that fraud case we put on the back burner – perhaps it is time to bring that back to number one for you again. Certainly, now that we are going to leave the Harman aspect there is no need for both teams to be on it.”

“Well, we had to leave that for this, but it will be easy to pick up again, and I reckon we have a good chance on cleaning it up.”

“OK, Shirley. I don’t suppose anyone else will say this, but you and your troops did a good job on this.

No criticism of you that we can’t realistically take it any further forward. You got to the essence of it all very quickly and very thoroughly. Thank you – and pass my thanks on to the troops.”

Ten minutes later, Inkerman was closeted with Graham, who quickly came to the same conclusion as his subordinate.

“It grates, Inky, it really, really grates, but I can’t see what we can be expected to do about it all. All that happened over in Belfast can’t be seen as within our jurisdiction, not by the wildest stretch of the imagination. If we were to try and push it, it would end up with the Northern Ireland people or just perhaps some governmental task force. I agree with you- we have a murder to solve and the Harman episode is irrelevant. I’ll let the ACC know, but I’m sure that he will agree with us – no further action.”

Ten minutes later Inkerman had Jane and Shirley in his office, passing on the news.

“So, Jane,” he summed up, “all back on your plate. When are you going to talk to Balfour?”

“Later today, sir. I’m going to do my best to squeeze him. What we have is pretty circumstantial, but I’m convinced by it, and I intend to make him realise that I am.”

“OK, go for it. Right, thanks to you both.”

The two women left his office with very differing mindsets. Jane was very pleased to have Shirley out of her hair. This should have been her investigation from the start. Although she had thought that Riley’s IRA past would have had a bearing, this was clearly not the case, so she could buckle down to her now preferred assumption – Balfour had passed on information to the Gortons and that one of them – given the physical description, presumably Mrs. Gorton – had actually pulled the trigger.

Shirley, on the other hand, was quietly fuming that what could have been a case of enormous significance, impinging on high levels in government, was just far too dangerous to pursue, and outwith their sphere of activity in any case.

There was, of course, one possible thread still emanating from the Harman stuff – the Tanner brothers and their possible tie-in with Riley. If Jane could get something on those two it would be a real feather in her cap, but the first priority was clearly the murders themselves. So, next call, Balfour. As she had used Alan Taylor as her associate on all her interviews so far, she decided that it was time for a change. She didn’t want Alan feeling slighted, so she decided on another task for him, so she called him into her office rather than briefing him in the man room.

“Alan, as you know the case is now wholly back with us – the Northern Ireland side is a red herring.

However, there is still the fact that Govern mentioned that the Tanner brothers might have had some sort of link with Riley. If we can pin something on those two bastards it will be a real plus for all of us.

98

I want you to dig into every aspect of the two of them that you can think of. What I am looking for is some sort of link to Riley, either direct or indirect. Riley was an explosives expert. Any recent use of bombs or incendiaries that might link to the Tanners – that sort of thing. OK?”

“Sure, boss, I’ll start digging.”

She had decided to take Clarke with her to interview Balfour, but before she could collect him and leave, Dave Cross came into her office.

“Boss, I’ve got a bit more on that sale of the Gorton land. You remember Gorton used the firm of Davis & Gregory in Woking?”

She nodded her head in agreement.

“Well, I’ve only just managed to track down the guy who actually dealt with the sale – he’d been away on a few days holiday and nobody else could find out the details of the transaction. Now, although nothing in the paperwork mentioned anybody we are interested in, this guy – his name’s Alan Moss –

spoke with Gorton on the question of land valuation – and he remembers Gorton telling him that he had had the land valued by a local surveyor, a George Forde, who was recommended to him by –

guess who? McNulty!”

Jane sat up in her chair.

“What? McNulty never mentioned anything like that, nor did Gorton himself – and it gives Gorton another reason to be unhappy. This Forde may be all above board, but the fact that McNulty was involved...”

Her voice tailed off as she thought through the ramifications.

“Did Moss know what the valuation was based on?”

“Yes, he was told that it was agricultural value.”

Jane thought about it.

“Remind me – when was the land actually sold? And when was that planning application from that Winchester firm – the one that wasn’t proceeded with?”

“No, I thought of that, boss. Gorton sold up in December 2001. That application didn’t go in until 2007 – 15th of April it was dated. But,” his voice rose in excitement, “I did some digging into the firm

– and Forde works for them!”

Jane looked at him in amazement.

“So as long ago as 2001, right after the foot and mouth, Gorton gets a valuation from someone whose company later puts in an application. But hang on, the timing surely doesn’t work. How could Forde, or anyone else, know that six years after he valued the Gorton land, it would receive planning approval making it worth millions?”

“I looked into that as well, boss. Back in 1998 the County Council issued what was then their latest County Development Plan – they do one every few years. That one identified the area in which Gorton’s land lay as being for agricultural use only – that’s how Gorton was convinced that that was all his land was worth. What I’ll wager he wasn’t shown was one of the later amendments, one that was issued in early 2001, which identified that area as one that the council would be willing to consider for re-classification if a convincing development could be shown to be possible there. Forde, and for that matter McNulty, should have known about it, but clearly Gorton didn’t. SSF would have known about it when they bought the Gorton land. OK, it wasn’t certain that permission would be given, but it must have seemed a pretty good bet – and so it proved.”

“But we couldn’t find any link between Denbigh and Sons in Winchester and anyone involved round here. And the new application is from Raymond’s company. Why should Denbigh and Sons lose interest?”

“Well, boss, I can’t be sure, but I think that it might be a matter of family interest.”

“Eh?”

“Remember McNulty’s brother-in-law, David Calder?”

“Vaguely – but we’ve never spoken to him.”

“No, but although it was this chap Alan Moss at Davis & Gregory who actually handled the Gorton sale, Calder also works there, and he’s a good bit senior to Moss. He could well have known all about it, perhaps even had an input. And not only that – Calder has a second brother-in-law apart from McNulty – and that brother-in-law is George Forde.””

Jane put her head in her hands.

“Why can’t we have something simple to solve? You know, like sorting out the Middle East? Let me make sure that I got all this straight in my mind.

99

“2001 – Collins’ committee ruins Gorton senior. Gorton junior and his wife already live in their own place, which before Gorton senior went broke and to jail, they had intended to add to the father’s place and run as one, even though they weren’t contiguous. Gorton senior goes to jail. Gorton junior and his wife decide to sell up. They get the place valued by George Forde, who works for Denbigh and Sons, a building company based in Winchester. It isn’t a chance usage though – Forde is recommended to Gorton by McNulty, or so the solicitor Alan Moss tells us. Forde, and for that matter McNulty should, almost certainly would, have known that Gorton’s land, whilst only of agricultural value at the time, could well become much more valuable in the not too distant future. So, at least professional incompetence, more likely fraud.

“Next step is that in 2007 Denbigh and Sons put in a planning application on the land, an application which establishes its greater value. For some reason they don’t pursue it, but two years later Raymond submits a similar application. By now it is quite possible that Leonard Gorton realises that he has been swindled, at least in his eyes even if perhaps not legally.

“We have a cosy little circle of McNulty, Calder, Forde and later Raymond all standing to do very well out of all this. If the owner of the paddock adjoining what was Leonard Gorton’s land can be persuaded to sell, the whole thing becomes even more valuable. Attempts have been made to get him to sell – what’s his name, again?”

“Roger Hall.”

“Oh yes, I remember. The written offers were sent by Riley, using the name Murphy. They were turned down. The most recent letter to Hall was, when?”

“16th March – just ten days before the killings. Hall answered by return, not only saying no, but telling

‘Murphy’ to stop bothering him as he intended to see out his days in what had been the home of his late wife and himself.”

“So, ten days after that we have Riley in Mario’s. His car is parked nearby and in the boot he has a pistol and a phosphorous grenade. I can’t believe he carried those around for the fun of it. The gun wasn’t for immediate self-protection – not locked away in the boot. Chances are that Mr. Hall was due a nasty visit in the near future, but before that can happen, our gunman appears, boom!, boom!, and no more Riley nor Collins.

“Yes, I think that I have it straight now – you haven’t got any more twists to it, have you, Dave?”

“No boss, that’s the lot.”

“So, that leads us straight back to who pulled the trigger and how did they know how, when and where to find Collins and company. To my mind we have ruled out everyone, barring some mister X lurking in the woodwork, except Mrs. Gorton pulling the trigger and Balfour providing the information. Right, Skull and I are off to talk with Balfour.”

Thirty minutes later, she and Clarke were facing Harold Balfour in his living room. He seemed unperturbed by their unannounced appearance, but Jane intended that that state of affairs would be short lived.

“Thank you for seeing us like this Mr. Balfour. I want to ask you about the phone calls you made to the offices of John Raymond and Thomas McNulty at lunch time on Monday the 23rd March this year.”

He blinked in surprise. Clarke, watching like a hawk, was satisfied that he had seen a flicker of guilt cross the man’s face.

“I am sorry, but I don’t understand. That’s the Monday before the shootings, isn’t it?”

“That is correct.”

“Well, I’m afraid that you have your facts wrong. That day I played golf in the morning with some friends and we also had lunch together.”

“I know that, Mr. Balfour. I also know that you used the phone in the club bar and that calls were made from that phone to both offices at the time that you were seen using it. The fact of the calls is proved by the phone company’s records; your use of it is attested to by witnesses.”

Then they must be wrong – perhaps they mistook someone else for me.”

“I’m afraid not – the witnesses know you very well and are happy to swear on oath that you used that phone.”

“Oh, wait a minute, I think I called for a cab – yes that must be it.”

“And at what time would that have been?”

“When we finished lunch, about two fifteen or so.”

100

“That’s odd. According to the phone company the only calls made on that phone between midday and three thirty were the two you made to the offices of Messrs. Raymond and McNulty.”

Balfour was sweating now, and flustered.

“Then I must be getting the days mixed up – I play there quite a lot, you know.”

“Yes, I do know. You played there the previous Friday, when you with another club member, a Mr.

Collyer, played against two other members, a Mr. and Mrs. Jervis . However, that game was in the afternoon; you didn’t tee-off until three thirty, so I don’t see how you could confuse those two occasions, do you? Oh, and by the way, you hadn’t played in the morning there since early February.

Your next game there was the day of the shootings in Guildford when you played with Mr. Mortimer against Mr. McLean and my Divisional Commander, Chief Superintendent Halliday. I’ve checked with the Chief Superintendent. He is quite positive that at no time that day did any of you use the phone in the bar.”

Balfour’s face had acquired a grey pallor and a haunted expression.

Jane pressed on.

“There is another point to mention. You know how when you phone companies you often get that message that calls may be recorded for training purposes? Well, you would have heard that message when you phoned the McNulty office. You really should have heeded the warning, you know. Voice analysis software is very good nowadays – virtually as good as fingerprints. So you see, Mr. Balfour –

I know that you made those calls. I also know their purpose.”

She looked at him steadily. Clarke also studied Balfour closely; the man was coming apart in front of their eyes.

“Well, Mr. Balfour, why don’t you tell us all about it? Oh, and we also know about the threatening letters to Councillor Collins just after your wife died.”

Balfour buried his face in his hands for perhaps thirty seconds. When he looked up his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“It was all because of Brenda, you know. When Collins did his level best to ruin us, the worry of it prayed on her mind. She was already ill, and that hastened her end, I know it did. Yes, I sent those letters, but I didn’t do anything about it. I’m too much of a coward, I suppose. Collins was evil, you know, pure evil. Poor Brenda was a victim of him just as much as was Simon Daniels. He just about murdered them, you know, by his actions. Nathaniel Gorton he accused of infecting his own herd –

anyone who knew Nathaniel knew how ludicrous was such an accusation. Collins deserved what he got.”

“And the others, Mr. Balfour?”

“Perhaps they weren’t as bad, but they came in with him afterwards. McNulty and that brother-in-law of his tricked Leonard Gorton into selling his land for a fraction of what it was worth, but I only discovered that two years ago when that planning application went in and I realised what had happened.”

“What did you do with the mobile after you phoned the Gortons?”

“I threw it away.”

“Whereabouts?”

“In the river by the Yvonne Arnaud theatre.”

“Harold Balfour, I am arresting you as an accessory to the murder of Norman Collins and Liam Riley, and as an accessory to the attempted murder of John Raymond and Thomas McNulty. DS Clarke, read Mr. Balfour his rights, please.”

Once Clarke had complied they led Balfour to their car.

An hour later, with the duty solicitor at his side, he repeated his confession to Inkerman and Jane, and with further questioning, amplified it. He confirmed that when he had learned of the way in which Leonard Gorton had been tricked over the sale of his land, he had travelled to Wales and sought out the Gortons. Once there, and once they had been appraised of the way in which they had been cheated, the three of them hatched their plan. Gorton kept careful track of Collins’ routine, slowly building up a picture of the pattern of movement which might make him vulnerable. It had taken many months to establish a feasible plan, one which would, so they thought, not leave any of them open to suspicion.

They had assumed that the sheer logistics of getting from Wales to Surrey to carry out such a crime would prevent the police from even beginning to realise the truth. There had been several dummy runs, with one or other of the Gortons taking the rehearsal role of ‘assassin’, until they had established routes both to and from the selected murder scene which would neutralise the threat of CCTV and 101

other cameras such as traffic monitors. Those dummy runs had been undertaken in hired cars, paid for by Balfour. They had not finally decided whether Leonard or Julie Gorton would carry out the killing until the actual week of the shooting. Balfour had telephoned Wales on the Monday evening, reporting that Collins and his colleagues would be at Mario’s that Thursday. This was the fourth time he had passed on such a message, but for a variety of reasons neither of the Gortons had been able to take advantage of the earlier chances. This time, however, things worked out perfectly. The previously arranged visit of the feed man gave Leonard an unshakeable alibi, and the WI sale of work provided a reasonable one for Julie. They also did not think that a woman could possibly be suspected of such a violent crime. Her method had been simple. The motorcycle bought from Carlisle the previous December was secured in a sheep transporter van hired for the purpose and the van driven to a secluded lay-by north of Guildford. There, Julie had donned her motorcycling leathers and crash helmet with its all important dark visor and ridden to Mario’s. Once she reached it, it was the work of only a moment or two to park it, walk into the restaurant, shoot her victims and make her escape. At the final moment, however, her nerve had partially failed her and she had failed to kill Raymond and McNulty.

As they left the interview room Inkerman instructed Jane to get her team onto finding out details of the hired van.

Chapter Twenty: Third Wednesday

Whilst Balfour was being interviewed on the Tuesday, Jane had ordered a dragging of the river near to the Yvonne Arnaud theatre. A favourite spot for locals and tourists, she had no real hope of Balfour’s mobile being found, but luck was with her and early Wednesday morning, amongst an assorted collection of detritus, there was indeed a mobile phone which, once dried out, proved to be that used by Balfour. It was still showing the calls log, both incoming and outgoing. At last she could actually prove that the Gortons and Balfour had been in communication.

The Gortons were already under loose surveillance by the local police, acting in cooperation following a request from Surrey. So far, they had given no indication of realising that they were under suspicion.

The previous evening, Jane had discussed the situation with Inkerman who had already agreed that the time had come to arrest the Gortons. At first Inkerman had been of the opinion that they should simply ask the local police to pick them up and send a van to collect them, but Jane had persuaded him that the forensic examination of the Gorton’s farm was vital and should be carried out by their own people, rather than relying on another force who, even with the best will in the world, might not attaché the same urgency and determination to the case.

As a result, it would be the next day, Thursday, three weeks to the day after the shootings, before Jane would lead a Surrey team into Wales, liaise with the locals and bring the Gortons back to Guildford, leaving the forensic team behind to go over the entire farm with a fine toothcomb.

In the meantime, there was still the question of what, if anything, was to be done about the fraud perpetrated by Collins and his associates.

Inkerman took Jane with him to discuss the matter with Graham. His own feeling was that there was little that could be done, but he was dissatisfied at simply walking away from the problem. The fact that they could do nothing about the machinations surrounding the Harman report was bad enough, but at least that was clearly outside their jurisdiction. This, however, was wholly contained within Surrey.

Surrey residents had suffered, other Surrey residents were responsible.

After a detailed discussion on the facts of the matter, Graham leant back in his chair and surveyed his two subordinates.

“If Collins were still alive, I would have no doubt that we should pursue this. As it is, with him dead, what can we bring against the two survivors? Criminal conspiracy to commit fraud, to my mind – but something that will be extremely difficult to prove. What evidence do we have that we could before a jury? Jane?”

Aware that she was on the spot, that Graham had asked her before Inkerman so that she had no opportunity to hide behind the opinion of her boss, Jane drew a deep breath before speaking.

“Sir, we have no really hard evidence. As you say, were Collins still alive it would be a different matter. The only sufferers of the work of Collins, McNulty and Raymond, are the Gortons – and 102

having them as witnesses doesn’t appeal to me at all. The Daniels family and the Calleys, the Littlebrooks, Kirby and Balfour – they all suffered, but as a result of Collins and his committee, not the other two, who didn’t become involved, as far as we can discover, until later. Certainly Raymond had no involvement at the time of the foot and mouth swindle; he was working for his father back then. It’s possible that his father might have known what was going on, might have been expecting work to come the company’s way as a result – but proving it? I can’t see it unless we interview Raymond senior and get a confession – but a confession to what? A chance to win a building project which became available as a result of Collins’ committee?

“No, sir, much as I hate it, I don’t think we have a chance of making any sort of a strong case against McNulty nor against Raymond.”

“And what about this possible tie-up between Riley and the Tanners which Govern mentioned?”

“Well, sir, with Riley dead, again, what chance do we have? I don’t think for a moment that the Tanners would be stupid enough to use Riley in a manner which would leave any fingers pointing back at them.”

As she finished speaking, Jane started to worry about how negative she had sounded. Would Graham think that she was trying to duck out of the extra work of trying to pin down Raymond and McNulty.

Or the Tanners?

Graham’s next address was to Inkerman.

“What do you feel, Inky?”

“I think that Jane is right. Much as it goes against the grain, I don’t see what we can realistically hope to achieve in going after McNulty and Raymond, nor against the Tanners. We need to concentrate on the killings and make sure that we have a good case there. There is just one aspect of that that I still feel uneasy about.”

Jane pricked up her ears, wondering what Inkerman was about to say.

“It’s the death of Riley in that restaurant. We reckon we know that he was there because the other three had agreed that he should scare off Roger Hall. But did our killer, or for that matter Balfour, know about that? If they didn’t was Riley just unlucky? Wrong place, wrong time? Or did they know about him? I can see that we may never find out, but I would dearly like to know.”

Graham nodded.

“Me too. Perhaps we will find out when we talk to the Gortons. When are they being arrested?”

“Tomorrow morning. Jane will take the team, liaise with the locals, and bring the Gortons back here.

Our forensic team will stay there and go through everything.”

Graham turned to Jane.

“Make sure that it all goes smoothly, won’t you? Don’t forget that these are killers. You taking an armed unit?”

“Yes sir, but as back-up. If they are first on the scene, given the sprawling nature of the place, there is the danger that one or other of the Gortons might not be in the house, even though we are going in early, and might take aggressive action; we know that there is at least one shotgun in the house. After all, they are farmers – always the chance that something or other might have one of them away from the house at almost any time. We are going in at six – it will still be dark, of course, but I daren’t leave it any later.”

Graham nodded in approval.

“Right, Inky, Jane, thanks for your time.”

Back in Inkerman’s office, Jane went through the arrangements of the morrow one more time. She and the Surrey team would travel to Wales that evening, meet up with the local force’s representatives, go through the plan and then launch to operation at six in the morning. It would still be dark at that time which worried her, but as she had said in Graham’s office, she dare not leave the arrest any later. It was a quiet arrest that she wanted, not a shoot-out. The possibility of one of the Gortons might, for example, have been disturbed by a fox and be wandering around with a shotgun, was one she wanted to avoid at all costs.

At four o’clock that afternoon she assembled her team. In addition to herself, she was taking Clarke and Cross, leaving Taylor to mind the shop and in particular to keep trying to track down the hired van that Balfour claimed had been used to transport the motorbike. There was also the forensic team of four officers, and the firearms team, also four strong. They travelled in a convoy of five vehicles, all 103

unmarked, four cars and the forensic team’s van. When the arrests had been made the forensic team would remain, the others return, with the two Gortons being transported in separate cars.

It was just before eight that the convoy reached the police station at Porthmadog. There they met their liaison officers, a DI Ieuan Evans (‘No relation to the Rugby player’ was his next sentence as he introduced himself) and DS Tom Phillips. They went over Jane’s plan with her and within thirty minutes all was agreed.

Chapter Twenty-One: Fourth Thursday

The cars rolled to a stop in the road, a hundred yards short of the entrance to the Gorton farm.

Jane got out, stretching her limbs in the cold, dark morning air, her breath condensing in a cloud in front of her face.

Clarke, Cross, the two Welshmen and the firearms team gathered round her. As previously agreed, the van containing the forensic team were quarter of a mile away, ready to come when summoned. From where they were the farmhouse was invisible behind a barn. One of the firearm team, near invisible in his black uniform and helmet, cautiously made his way along the track from the road to the farmyard until he could see the house itself. Jane had told him not to use his radio to report unless something needed urgent action so she waited on tenterhooks for several minutes before he returned,

“There are lights on in the house, upstairs and down.”

Jane swore under her breath; she had hoped that they would be able to take the Gortons whilst still in bed, but now Plan B would have to be put into effect.

“OK,” she said to the assembled officers, “Plan Bravo.”

The firearms team split up. Two men vanished into the darkness to work their way round behind the house in case either or both of the Gortons tried to escape that way. The other two, Jane, Clarke and Cross crept cautiously up the track until they were at the start of the yard, but with the bulk of the barn still hiding them from the house itself.

Signalling the others to remain hidden, Jane very slowly eased herself round the corner of the barn until she could see the house itself. She was now facing the front of the house. From her earlier visit she knew that the lighted window to the right of the door as she faced it was the large kitchen in which the Gortons had spoken to her. The lit window on the upper storey must be a bedroom, but even as she watched, its light went out. She was about to ease back to her companions when the front door opened and Leonard Gorton came out and started to walk straight towards her. Clearly he was making for the barn, the door of which was perhaps ten feet to her right. Somehow he was going to have to be arrested without making enough noise to alert his wife.

She stepped back behind the corner. It was still full dark, so she had to hiss the information in a fierce whisper.

“Gorton is on his way to the barn. Wait until he is inside, then rush him – and keep him quiet!”

Totally unaware that five police officers were within a few yards of him, Leonard Gorton pulled barn the sliding door to the barn, which screeched noisily on its runners. He threw the light switch and started to make his way to the tractor he used for taking foodstuff for the animals up onto the hill. As he reached it, he was suddenly over-whelmed by a rush of bodies; somebody grasped him from behind in a bear hug and pulled him off his feet. The two of them went down together, the other’s weight driving the breath from Gorton’s body. Even as Gorton and Cross, for he was the bear-hugger, went to ground, Jane, followed by the two armed officers, was racing across the yard.

They burst through the front door. At their entrance, Julie Gorton turned in astonishment.

“Armed police,” one of the black clad figures shouted, “get down, on your knees! Do it! Do it NOW!”

104

In a state of total bewilderment, she obeyed. The man advanced on her, huge and menacing, his weapon trained on her face.

“Keep looking at me!” He shouted; she was too frightened to do anything else, only vaguely aware of a second uniformed policeman and a woman in plain clothes also in the room.

In a daze she obeyed without resistance as the second uniformed officer pulled her hands behind her back and handcuffed them together. She was pulled to her feet and, again in a daze, vaguely heard the woman tell her that she was under arrest for murder, and heard her rights being explained to her.

Quarter of an hour later, the police convoy, minus the forensic van, was on its way again and Jane had reported by phone to Inkerman of the successful conclusion of the operation.

She left behind her a team of four forensic specialists who started by examining the farm hose, then moved onto the barn and other outbuildings. It was slow, painstaking work, but by eleven o’clock their preliminary examination of the house had yielded nothing, and the barn looked no more promising.

Sarah Cunningham, the team leader, had five years experience in her trade and, at twenty nine years of age, already had a good reputation amongst her colleagues. Like the rest of her team, although employed by the police, she was a civilian, with no powers of arrest, which was one of the reasons for their van being kept back for the arrest operation. Now, however, the scene was theirs.

Sarah had spent over fifteen minutes on her hands and knees on the unforgiving concrete floor of the barn, and decided that she simply had to stretch her legs and backbone. Careful to place her feet only in areas already checked, she made her way outside, and walked back and forth for a minute or two. She was about to go back in and resume her task when her eye was caught by the large, smelly compost heap at the far side of the barn. She started to think:

‘now, where might I think something might be safe from prying eyes and nosy people?’

She walked back to the van and extracted a metal detector. Carrying it over to the malodorous pile, she carefully scanned the surface. Immediately she was rewarded; the headphones emitted a high pitched whine, indicating metal beneath the surface. She laid the detector aside and carefully investigated the heap, using a rake conveniently to hand.

Buried about a foot below the reeking surface she discovered something solid, wrapped in several layers of heavy gauge polythene sheeting. Carefully she unwrapped it and found herself looking at a pump action shot gun with a shortened barrel. The odds that this was not the murder weapon were, she felt, infinitesimal.

She placed the weapon in a large evidence bag, then took off her latex gloves and used her mobile phone to call Jane.

Jane, not long returned from driving back with the Gortons, was at her desk arranging her thought for the upcoming interviews when the phone rang.

“DI Lawson.”

“Jane, Sarah Cunningham. I’ve found something you need to know about straight away. It’s a pump action shotgun, buried in a dung heap. I think that it is almost certainly the murder weapon. It’s a Remington 870 pump, short barrel, looks like a five or six round magazine, currently unloaded.”

“Marvellous! Now I’ve got something concrete at last. Keep digging, won’t you. How is the rest of the search going?”

“Bugger all so far, but it’s early days.”

“Thanks again, Sarah. I’ll send a courier for it so the lab can get started right away on trying to match it to the empty shells found at the scene. Bye.”

Jane sat back. At last! Something truly concrete. She hurried into Inkerman’s office and passed on the good news.

105

“And I’ve sent a courier for it so that it can be checked against the empty cases left at the murders.”

“Good work, Jane. Now, I think that it is time for a preliminary chat with the Gortons, don’t you?”

“Have they had solicitors appointed, sir?”

“Yes, will you do the arranging, please. After lunch will be fine.”

It was just after two o’clock that Jane and Inkerman sat down in the interview room opposite Leonard Gorton and the duty solicitor.

Inkerman explained to the prisoner that everything in the room was being videoed and that two tape recordings would be made of the interview, one of which would be handed to his solicitor at the end of the proceedings. When asked if he understood what had been said to him, Gorton nodded dully. Jane looked at him; the man looked a wreck, projecting an air of total defeat. She switched on the dual tape recorder and spoke towards the microphone.

“Recording of an interview at Guildford Police Station on Thursday, at fourteen oh five on the 16th April 2009. Present are..” she pointed at Gorton,

“Leonard Gorton.”

She pointed to the solicitor.

“Charles Enwright, solicitor for Mr. Gorton.”

“Harold Inkerman, Detective Chief Inspector, Surrey Constabulary.”

“And Detective Inspector Jane Lawson, Surrey Constabulary.”

Inkerman opened the proceedings.

“Mr. Gorton, you have been charged that on or about the 26th March 2009 in Mario’s Restaurant, Gainsborough Road, Guildford, you were involved as an accessory in the murder of Norman Collins and Liam Riley, also known as Liam Murphy, and the attempted murder of John Raymond and Thomas McNulty. Do you understand the charge laid against you?”

Gorton, his eyes downcast, shook his head.

“Mr. Gorton, would you answer for the tape, please?”

The man looked up.

“No, I don’t understand – I were home in Wales all that day and you know it.”

“Mr. Gorton, you are at this time being charged as an accessory. That means that you did not have to be present at the crime but that your actions materially contributed to its perpetration.

Now do you understand?”

He shrugged.

“I suppose so – but I wasn’t there and I did nothing.”

At the same time, two hundred and sixty miles away, Peter Griffin, one of Sarah Cunningham’s forensic team, made the next vital discovery. The team had broken for a quick sandwich lunch and, feeling the need to exercise his legs, he set off up the hill to the bothy that was visible about half a mile away. The door was locked, unusual in itself for such a building, which was only a shelter for shepherds caught out in bad weather, and he looked in through the grubby window. Inside he could see the shape of something draped in canvas sheeting.

He examined the lock – a simple padlock, the hasp was screwed to the ancient wood of the door frame and a good wrench had the door open. He pulled back the canvas and found himself looking at a motorbike. He took out his notebook and checked the machine’s registration. Yes, this was the bike caught on CCTV after the shooting. He hurried back down the hill.

Inkerman leaned forward slightly, willing Gorton to look at him, and reluctantly the man raised in his eyes to meet his.

“Mr. Gorton, do you own a shotgun?”

106

“Yes, I showed it to her,” he indicated Jane, “when she came to the farm.”

“You showed it to Inspector Lawson when she called to interview you and your wife?”

Yes, that’s right.”

“What sort of gun is it?”

“Double barrel BSA. And I’ve got a licence for it, have had for donkey’s years. I’m a farmer, course I’ve got a shotgun.”

“And that is your only shotgun?”

“Yes.”

“I want to be absolutely clear about this, Mr. Gorton. The BSA double barrelled shotgun is the only shotgun you own?”

Enwright broke in.

“I think Mr. Gorton has already made that clear, Chief Inspector.”

“Thank you, Mr. Enwright, but I would like us all to be absolutely clear that Mr. Gorton owns just the one weapon. Mr. Gorton, what about your wife. Does she own a shotgun?”

“No, why should she want one?”

“So the BSA is the only shotgun we can expect to find on your premises?”

Gorton started to look uneasy. Ah, thought Jane, the penny is beginning to drop. Inkerman continued.

“So, how do you account for the discovery on your property of a Remington Model 870 pump action twelve bore shotgun?”

“You lot must have planted it.”

“So you deny any knowledge of the weapon, Mr. Gorton?”

“Yes.”

“So if we find the fingerprints of your wife and yourself on it, you will not be able to explain how they came it be there?”

“I told you – it ain’t mine.”

“Perhaps that is true, Mr. Gorton. Perhaps you do not legally own it. But the fact remains – it has been found on your property and you and your wife both had access to it.”

“I tell you, it’s been planted.”

It was at that point that Jane felt her mobile phone, pressed against her thigh in the pocket of her jeans, begin to vibrate. She slipped it out, keeping it below the level of the table and took a surreptitious look at the display. It was Sarah Cunningham calling. She turned to Inkerman.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, please sir? This is very urgent.”

Inkerman leaned towards the machine, glancing at the wall clock for the official time as he did so.

“Interview suspended at fourteen nineteen. Inspector Lawson leaves the room.”

As soon as she was out of the door, Jane phoned Sarah back.

“Sarah, Jane. What have you got for me?”

“The motorbike – registration matches – H499XSB, Honda CD250.”

Hurriedly, Jane checked her own notebook, just in case. The numbers tallied.

“Great – I owe you.”

She scribbled the salient facts on a sheet of paper and re-entered the interview room.

Inkerman checked the clock and re-started the recorder.

“Interview recommenced at fourteen twenty-three. Inspector Lawson enters the room.”

She pushed her piece of paper across to Inkerman, who read it carefully, allowing a smile to play across his lips.

“Thank you, Inspector. Tell me, please, Mr. Gorton, do you own a motorcycle?”

“No.”

“So what is your explanation for a Honda CB250 motorcycle, registration H499XSB, being found on your premises. Before you answer, I should warn you that it is the machine identified on CCTV as being ridden by the murderer.”

Gorton sat mute.

107

“Mr. Gorton?”

“Someone must have put it there.”

“Really? Our officers found it in a locked building. They also found the key to that building on a bunch of keys hanging on the wall of your kitchen.”

Gorton looked around him desperately. He had never expected it all to come to this, and he wanted to shout out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. Instead, he contented himself with a sullen,

“No comment.”

“Mr. Gorton, I think that is all I wish to ask you this afternoon. You will, of course, be questioned further in due course, and as you have already been charged that questioning may take place at any time. In such questioning you will, of course, have the right to legal representation. I am terminating the interview now, but I will leave you and Mr. Enwright here until he is ready to leave. Thank you, Mr. Enwright. Interview terminated at,” he looked at the clock, “fourteen thirty five.”

He reached over and switched the machine off, extracted both tapes, handed one to Enwright, who placed it in his briefcase, and handed the other to Jane, who placed it in an evidence bag which she sealed and which both she and Inkerman then signed.

Five minutes later they were back in Inkerman’s office.

“Well, Jane, what do you think?”

“I can’t see any jury in their right mind failing to convict him at least as an accessory, and with any luck as a fully culpable partner.”

“Me too. The real problem is going to be proving Mrs. G pulled the trigger. I know her alibi isn’t very strong, but a determined brief will make a lot of it.”

“On that, sir, the DI I met in Wales, Ieuan Evans, who makes a point of being no relation to the Rugby player of the same name, has agreed to do some checking for us. That WI sale of work started at eleven in the morning and went on until nine at night. Quite a lot of folk attended by the standards of the place, but in truth it was less than a hundred people at a guess. Ieuan is having as many of the WI members and other likely attenders spoken to in the hopes that we can get some feeling for just when, and for how long, Julie Gorton was there.”

“Good. Now, if there is sufficient doubt over her movements to make a conviction difficult, what then?”

“Well, we have Balfour’s statement that it was her.”

“Yes, but again, if her alibi can stand up at all, that statement is useless. We’ll just be told that Balfour is wrong; misleading us either through ignorance or malice. Breaking that alibi really is vital. Any news on the hired van, by the way?”

“Not yet, sir. Alan has checked every listed vehicle hire company within fifty miles of the Gortons without success; now he is widening the search to one hundred miles.”

“Well, let’s hope that he can come up with something.” He looked at his watch.

“Right, Mrs. G in half an hour?”

“Yes sir. It’s all laid on.”

She made her way back to her own office. No sooner had she sat down than her mobile, now on ring tone, rang again. Once more it was Sarah Cunningham.

“Jane, something more for you. You remember that the cartridges which killed the victims were unusual, that they contained fewer, but much bigger, pellets than usual?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ve found a box of just such cartridges hidden in the barn. It was a box of twenty-five shells. Eight are missing. The box has good some good prints on it and it has the sticker from the shop that sold it on it. These really aren’t terribly clever people, are they?”

No, reflected Jane, they aren’t – but I suppose you could regard them as driven people, driven too far by what had happened to them. She found to her surprise that she felt almost sorry for them.

108

“Thanks, Sarah. Would you mind getting in touch with Ieuan Evans for me and asking him if he could get someone to check with the shop to see if they can remember who bought that box?”

“OK – will do. Bye.”

Thirty minutes later, she and Inkerman started to interview Julie Gorton, who was accompanied by another duty solicitor, David Fellowes. After the initial introductions and explanations were completed for the tape, Inkerman started the questioning.

“Mrs. Gorton, please tell us what your movements were on Thursday, the 26th of March 2009.”

“I got up at me normal time – around six. I did some washing, then Leonard came back from feeding the stock and we had breakfast. I washed up, then I got myself ready for the WI where we had a sale of work. I had my lunch there – a sandwich and a cuppa. I chatted to one or two people, then I took over one of the stalls at seven. I left just before nine. And that’s it.”

“So at no time did you leave the village?”

“No, how could I – just told you.”

“Can you ride a motorcycle?”

“No, never learned – I can drive a car or a tractor, mind you.”

“Do you own a shotgun?”

“No, Leonard does, mind. Had it for years, being a farmer he needs one.”

“How many guns does he own?”

“Just the one – old double barrel.”

“No other gun?”

“No, just the shotgun.”

“So, how come our officers found a pump action Remington shotgun on your premises?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know – it’s not ours. Someone must have dumped it on us for some reason.”

“Why should anyone do that?”

“How should I know? If you ever find them you can ask them.”

“let’s talk about motorcycles again. You say that you can’t ride one. So who rides the Honda we found in your bothy?”

“Not us. We don’t have a bike, wouldn’t want one – what use would it be to us?”

“So, let me make sure that I have this correct. Neither you nor Mr. Gorton own a Honda CB250, registration H499XSB?”

“No.”

“Yet it was found in your bothy. How do you explain that?”

“Someone must have left it there – probably the same person as left the shotgun in the compost.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that the motorcycle was locked inside the bothy, covered in canvas, and the key to the bothy was found in the bunch of keys hanging on the wall in your kitchen?”

“I dunno – perhaps Leonard locked the door without realising someone had dumped it in there

– especially if it was covered over.”

“I suppose that could be a possibility, but when we spoke to him he denied all knowledge of how the bike got there and made no mention of locking the door. Oh, another thing – how do you know that the shotgun was found in the compost heap? I didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, you did. Must have.”

“No, Mrs. Gorton. If you like we can replay the tape for you – or perhaps Mr. Fellowes might confirm whether or not he heard me mention where the gun was found.”

Fellowes spoke for the first time.

“Chief Inspector, I wonder if I might have a few words in private with my client.”

109

“Of course, Mr. Fellowes. Inspector Lawson and I will be in the next room and the constable will be outside the door. Please let him know when you are ready for us again.”

Inkerman looked at the clock and spoke to the tape machine.

“Interview suspended at sixteen twenty three. DCI Inkerman and DI Lawson leave the room.”

Ten minutes later they were called back in. Fellowes, looking decidedly unhappy, waited until the tapes were running once more and then spoke.

“Chief Inspector, I have spoken with my client and she wishes to state that she has nothing further to say in this matter. She is aware that her silence may be construed to her disadvantage in court, but that is her decision.”

Inkerman checked with Julie Gorton that she determined to maintain silence from that point on and warned her that she would certainly be questioned further in the future. Then he switched off the tapes, once again handing one to the solicitor whilst Jane bagged the other.

Inkerman and Jane reviewed this latest development in his office.

“Well, I think that we are very nearly there, Jane. Mrs. Gorton’s refusal to talk, if she persists with it, is going to be seen as a piece of self-incrimination, although even now I would like more. I don’t know what she and her brief may come up with at trial time, but a lot of what we have can still be queried. How are we are getting more?”

“We are waiting for fingerprints on the bike and the shotgun and the box of cartridges. Alan is still trying to find were they hired their van from. Although we have Balfour’s phone, we haven’t found one at the Gortons. If we can close all those down, everything becomes much stronger.”

Inkerman nodded.

“OK, nothing more we can do at the moment.”

As Jane got back to her team, before she could enter her office she was intercepted by Taylor.

“Good news, boss. I’ve traced the van. They hired it from a company in Shrewsbury. Hired it on Tuesday the 24th, returned it on the Saturday. It was a small van for transporting livestock

– it would hold no more than a dozen sheep, but easily big enough to take the bike. The chap I spoke to remembers it particularly on two counts – it was surprisingly clean when they returned it – although folk are supposed to clean the vans out before they return them, he nearly always has to hose them down, and they tried to pay in cash, but he wouldn’t have it unless they paid a big deposit – five grand he asked for – also in cash. They arranged the hire over the phone, then the two of them turned up in a Land Rover and the woman drove the van away, whilst the man took off in the Land Rover. So, he’s got name, address, the lot.”

“Does he know how far the van was driven?”

“Oh yes – and that’s a problem. They didn’t put a lot of miles on it. If they had just used it to get to Guildford, you would expect the mileage to be something like six hundred and eighty to seven hundred miles – hundred and sixty to pick up and return the van, five hundred and twenty or so for Guildford and back, They actually drove it about two hundred and seventy miles.”

Jane wondered about the low mileage. Then a thought hit her.

“Alan, I’ve got a hunch that they wanted their hiring that van to be remembered. What sort of idiot would leave that sort of track if they didn’t? Now, a van for transporting livestock. They kept it for the Friday after they had used it to get Mrs, G and the bike to Guildford on the Thursday. Is there a sheep market or something like that somewhere within, say, fifty or sixty miles of them? I can see them smugly admitting to hiring the van and then showing a legitimate use of it on the Wednesday or the Friday, or both.”

“I’ll get on it, boss. But what about the low mileage?”

“I reckon that they turned the reading back on it – it isn’t difficult – kids have been doing it on nicked motors for decades. It is a problem, though, unless we can show that must have happened.”

110

She looked at her watch. Still only five o’clock. Still, she decided, it had been a long day. Sod it, she was off home.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Fourth Friday.

By mid-afternoon more things were falling into place. Fingerprints belonging to both of the Gortons had been found on the shotgun, the box of shotgun cartridges and the motorbike. All three items had been the subject of a cleaning operation, but the couple had gravely underestimated the thoroughness of Sarah Cunningham and her forensic team in finding prints in the most obscure places. The best news, however, came from Alan Taylor. Determined to find some evidence that the hired van had been driven far farther than the mileage reading indicated, he had determined that it would have had to stop at least twice for diesel fuel. The odds were that as she would have been on a tight schedule, Julie Gorton would have had to fill up at a motorway service station, and Alan had struck lucky. She had made the stupid mistake of paying with a credit card at the filling station on the M40 near Oxford. By itself that was not significant – the fuel could have been claimed as being for the Land Rover, although that would have been at variance with her claiming the WI sale as her alibi, but the filling station had a highly sophisticated cash register system which logged the sale of fuel against not just the time, date and card number, as would any system, but was also linked to a number plate recognition system, so although the registration number of the van did not appear on Julie’s receipt, it did on the records of the filling station. On her way to Guildford she had filled the van’s tank at ten forty-five, giving her ample time to be in place to carry out the shootings.

It got even better; the filling station was equipped with CCTV and with its very up-to-date equipment retained the images of customers at the cash desk for a month before wiping and recording over them. The manager promised Alan that the relevant footage would be retained and given to the traffic policeman he dispatched the moment he heard the good news.

When Jane updated Inkerman he was understandably delighted. The case was getting better almost by the hour.

“I think we just about have this wrapped up,” he enthused, “we can place Mrs. G in the van and heading in the right direction at the right time. We have fingerprints on the bike, the weapon, the box of shells. We have Balfour’s confession. We have a motive for the Gortons –

they see themselves as cheated, and also reckon Collins was responsible for Gorton senior’s premature death. For Balfour we have a motive, again, of blaming Collins for premature death

– that of his wife. The only thing that we don’t know is if they knew about Riley, or if he was just unlucky enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Any chance of proving that they tampered with the milometer in the van, rather than leaving the jury to believe our assumption?”

“Not that we can see, sir. Dave spoke with our motor experts and they reckoned it would just about be impossible to prove. Apparently it often happens that when a mileage reading is turned back, it results in the numbers on the readout not lining up quite properly in the future, but even if this van showed that characteristic, you couldn’t claim that fiddling with it was the only way it could have happened.”

“What about keeping the van for those days – any sign that they used it as a smokescreen?”

“Alan Taylor is checking all the local sheep markets to see if the Gortons turned up at any of them on the Wednesday or the Friday – those are the only days they could have done it on –

they picked the van up quite late on Tuesday and gave it back early Saturday.”

“I think that the time has come to have another talk with Balfour. I’d like to see if we can’t squeeze a bit more out of him. Set it up, will you, Jane?”

“OK, sir.”

111

Jane returned to her office, but before she started to arrange the interview with Balfour, she checked her E-mails. One from ballistics contained further good news. The shotgun recovered from the Gortons’ farm was an old one, thirty years old or more. It had been much used, with the result that the firing pin was considerably worn. As a result, the indentation it left on the base of a cartridge as it was fired was, under a microscopic examination, quite distinctive.

Ballistics had no doubt that the empty cartridge cases recovered from the crime scene had been fired from the Gortons’ gun. All was falling very neatly into place. She made the necessary arrangements for the Balfour interview, then told Inkerman about the ballistic report.

“Better and better,” was his comment. “Right, let’s get onto Balfour’s case.”

Ten minutes later they were facing Balfour and his solicitor, Kenneth Irvine. After explaining that use of the tape recorder and making the taped introductions, Inkerman looked at Balfour for a long moment before continuing.

“Mr. Balfour, I want you to be perfectly clear about something. Nobody will, indeed nobody can, offer you a ‘deal’. We don’t work that way, nor should we. However, it is an evident fact that people who plead guilty to a charge, and who cooperate fully with the police and the courts, are likely to receive less harsh penalties than those who do not.

“Now, I want you to consider the current situation. The Gortons are going to go to prison, make no mistake about that. Mrs. Gorton will be convicted of pre-meditated murder and will receive the mandatory life sentence. As I am sure you are aware, what that actually means in practice is that she is likely, given good behaviour , to be free again in around ten years time, perhaps even a little less. The situation of Mr. Gorton is a little different, He did not pull the trigger. He did, however, participate fully in the planning of the shootings. I expect that he will be found equally culpable with his wife and they will receive the same sentence. Again, that means about ten years for him. There is a chance that he will only be found guilty of being an accessory to the shootings, both before and after the fact. In that case he is most likely to get ten to twelve years – he’ll probably be out in five or six.

“Whatever sentences they receive, they have one thing in their favour. They are relatively young. Leonard Gorton is thirty-nine. Julie Gorton is thirty-six. At the worst they will both be in their forties, or in Leonard’s case perhaps very early fifties when they are freed.

“Now let us look at your situation. You are sixty-eight. If you are imprisoned as an accessory and receive the maximum sentence for that you could be inside for six or seven years. If the court were to find that the three of you formed an equally culpable partnership, you would be about eighty before you are free again – should you live that long.

“Mr. Balfour, you are facing the very real possibility of spending the rest of your life in prison. On the other hand, with a guilty plea and full cooperation, you might – but I must emphasise the word might – be out in about three years. That, I would suggest to you is an infinitely preferable alternative. What are your views on the matter?”

Jane examined Balfour closely. When she had first met him he was an energetic, self-possessed man, on whose shoulders his sixty-eight years weighed only lightly. Now he looked old and beaten; very old and very beaten. His once healthy complexion had taken on an unhealthy pallor and his eyes larked their one time sparkle.

It was some moments before he spoke.

“It all seems so unfair. Those men – they were the real criminals, not Leonard, Julie and me.

Why should they have got away with ruining people?”

“Mr. Balfour, that is, I am afraid, beside the point. Only in the gravest emergency of self-defence can anybody be justified in killing another person. That simply does not apply here, as I am sure that you realise. Now, what do you feel about what I have said?”

He shrugged helplessly.

“I will plead guilty as an accessory.”

Inkerman looked at Irvine. The solicitor, who up to that point had not spoken other than to say his name for the tape recorder, stirred uneasily in his chair.

112

“Chief Inspector, I would like a few moments in private with my client.”

“Certainly, Mr. Irvine. The constable here,” Inkerman indicated the uniformed constable guarding the door, “will station himself outside the door. Let him know when you want us to return.” He checked the clock. “Interview suspended at seventeen forty-five.”

Ten minutes later they were recalled. Irvine simply confirmed that he had fully discussed matters with his client and in consequence Balfour would plead guilty if charged as an accessory to the shootings. If he were to be charged with murder as equally culpable with the actual killer, he would plead not guilty.

Back in the main office, Inkerman and Jane updated the team.

“That’s great!” enthused Clarke, “But what about the Gortons? Any chance of them pleading guilty as well – it would save a hell of a lot of time for everyone.”

It was Inkerman who responded.

“Well, I can’t honestly see any brief being able to make much of their defence – unless they plead insanity, because what they did was pretty bloody stupid. We can put Balfour up as a prosecution witness, which means that they would have to claim that he was lying – when we have his phone to support his claim of numerous telephone discussions with him. They would have to claim the gun and the motorbike were planted, together with the key to the bothy.

They would have to explain away the stop for fuel on the M40 and the funny mileage reading on the van when they returned it. There are their fingerprints on the gun, the box of cartridges and the motorbike. No, they haven’t a leg to stand on. Well done, all of you.”

Alan Taylor spoke up.

“One last thing, sir. Whilst you and DI Lawson were doing the interviews, I tracked down that the Gortons did use the van to transport three sheep to a market. It was on the Friday at Aberystwyth, round trip of one hundred and sixty miles – so add that to the journey to and from Shrewsbury and you get around two hundred and forty – just a bit short of the two seventy the van’s reading showed.”

“So, they were trying to use it to reinforce their alibis. Well done, Alan.”

Dave Cross also chimed in.

“Not quite the last thing – the CCTV footage from the filling station has arrived. Do you want to look at it?”

“Yes, let’s.”

A few minutes later they were watching a quite high quality piece of CCTV footage which showed a tall, slim figure wearing a flat cap pulled well down, pay for fuel.

“H’mmm,” Inkerman mused, “just as well we have plenty of other stuff. By itself I’d be hard put to be convinced that was necessarily Julie Gorton.”

There were murmurs of agreement all round.

“Right, everyone. Good work all round. I’m sure that all three will be convicted,” he looked at his watch, “just about five, I reckon everybody has earned an early night.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Epilogue

Jane got to her feet, stretched, and walked from the courthouse. The verdict was in and sentence passed. Balfour, as expected, had pleaded guilty to being an accessory, and at his trial, three weeks previously, he had been sentenced to six years; with good behaviour he should be out in three, even perhaps a little less.

The Gortons, on the other hand, had both pleaded not guilty. It had been to no avail; a succession of defence protestation about planted evidence, mistaken identity, falsified record keeping by the police, errors in the filling stations records had, metaphorically speaking, been laughed out of court. The jury had taken under half an hour to return their verdict. Both were found guilty of forming a culpable partnership to commit murder. Both were sentenced to life, 113

the mandatory sentence for murder, although as Jane well knew, ‘life’ in this context was unlikely to mean more than ten years.

It was now late September, just six months since the killings had taken place. She still harboured a grievance, as she knew did Inkerman, that they had been unable to do anything about the cover-up that had taken place in Ulster twenty years earlier. She would have been unhappy that Raymond and McNulty have escaped relatively scot-free with the profits of their fraudulent operation, although the wounds they had received at Mario’s that day were perhaps some punishment, but for the news that, just the previous week, the planning application had been turned down. Perhaps the absence of the late Norman Collins on the planning committee had been the catalyst; perhaps the other councillors, having got wind of what had happened, would have rejected it anyway. Who could say?

And of course, there was still the shadow of the Tanners – had they really been involved at all, or was it a figment of George Govern’s imagination? She turned for home.

114

Table of Contents

Chapter Two: Friday

Chapter Three: Saturday

Chapter Five: Monday

Chapter Six: Tuesday

Chapter Seven: Wednesday

Chapter Eight: Second Thursday

Chapter Nine: Second Friday

Chapter Ten: Second Weekend

Chapter Eleven: Second Monday

Chapter Twelve: Second Tuesday

Chapter Fifteen: Third Thursday

Chapter Seventeen: Third Weekend

Chapter Nineteen: Third Tuesday

Chapter Twenty: Third Wednesday

Chapter Twenty-One: Fourth Thursday

Chapter Twenty-Three: Epilogue