Gone Too Soon Read online

  ‘Tch. You have no idea.’

  ‘And she was just your little not-even-proper sister.’

  Crossley-Holland made a face, shook her head.

  ‘I’ll bet you were annoyed when she pinched your boyfriend. Was that what sealed her fate, eh?’ Moran thumped himself into the chair and looked her directly in the eye. ‘Was that when you decided to get rid of her?’

  ‘No evidence.’ Crossley-Holland glanced at her watch. ‘Which means I’m out of here in twenty-three hours or so.’

  ‘Ninety-five, actually, if I suspect you’re involved in a murder. Which, by the way, I do.’ Moran hardened his tone. ‘And as I said before, it’d better not be two murders, or my earlier guarantee holds good, do you understand me?’

  Crossley-Holland was back at the nail, worrying it.

  Moran continued. ‘I’d say the best part of four days is plenty for my team to find evidence. They’re good. Very good. And people like you, clever as you might be – well, you make mistakes, Gill, don’t you?’

  A knock. Moran went to the door. ‘What is it, DC Swinhoe?’

  ‘You said you were interruptable, guv. Our friend Jimmy from Goring told us he was waiting on his mate – guy by the name of Aaron Povey, small-time crook. He never showed up – and apparently he never not shows.’

  ‘Got an address?’

  ‘Eldon Terrace.’

  ‘What, again?’

  Swinhoe winced. ‘I know. But there’s more, guv. A vehicle break-in report just came in. Eldon Square.’ The DC licked dry lips. ‘Guv, it’s Tess’ car. Uniform are on their way.’

  ‘All right. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Keep at Jimmy. And keep me informed.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Crossley-Holland’s body language had changed subtly. Moran sensed her confidence ebbing; he knew the signs. He sat down and faced her again, prepared to launch an assault on what he considered her major weakness: pride.

  ‘Well, you really messed this up big time, didn’t you, Gill?’ Moran ticked off the failures on his fingers. ‘One, Michelle’s burial was witnessed. Two, your fixer’s sidekick had his own agenda and exposed the whole shebang straight away. And three, the fixer himself has just overstepped his mark by abducting a police officer. Bad idea. We don’t take kindly to such behaviour. Your professional organisation sounds like a bunch of amateurs to me.’

  He waited a bit, let her digest his summary. ‘What’s your role in all this, Gill? Financier? Facilitator?’

  She was looking past him, over his shoulder. Zoning out.

  ‘All right. I’ll let you mull things over. In the meantime, I’m going to have a chat with someone a little more vocal, someone who’s a touch more inclined to let things out of the bag. And you won’t be in his good books right now, Gill, I’m pretty sure. I bet he’ll have a lot to say about you, will young Gruffydd. I wonder how much he knows?’

  ‘I’ll be wanting a solicitor.’

  ‘Yes, you will indeed.’

  Moran left her. He leaned on the corridor wall and exhaled a long, weary, sigh. His watch told him it was fifteen minutes to midnight. He walked quickly through the open plan, picking up snippets as he went. No news yet from George or Bola, confirmation that Gruffydd wasn’t at home. ANPR tracked the biker along the Oxford Road but had drawn a blank near Richfield Avenue – some issue with the cameras.

  Moran sat at his desk. Where would a frightened man go? Where would he take refuge? Moran drummed his fingers. The solution came to him in an instant. Gruffydd would go to ground in the most logical place. Somewhere familiar.

  Somewhere synonymous with safety and shelter.

  One word.

  Sanctuary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Fastest briefing ever,’ Moran told the tired and drawn faces assembled in the IR. ‘Here’s where we are. DC Martin has, in all likelihood, been abducted; compromised, probably, in some way. DCs Collingworth and Swinhoe have been interviewing a suspect found lurking in the Goring Cemetery. Name of Jimmy Muldoon. Small-timer. His buddy was a no show. We have an address.’ To Collingworth and Swinhoe: ‘Time to go, you two.’

  The two officers departed.

  ‘I also have one Gill Crossley-Holland in custody, adoptive sister to Michelle. She knows it all but isn’t forthcoming. Yet. I say ‘yet’, because DCs McConnell and Odunsi are about to bring in Gruffydd the Grave, as he’s known. He’s an ex-member of Butterfield’s band and big anti-Nedwell grudge-carrier. He raised the alarm, discovered Michelle’s burial.’ Moran made quotation marks in the air with his fingers at the word ‘discovered’. ‘We’ll get to Crossley-Holland through Gruffydd, but someone else may be interested in making sure that doesn’t happen, so we’re taking precautions.’

  A hand was up, someone at the back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do we have any idea where to find Gruffydd?’

  Moran nodded. ‘Gruffydd’s gone to ground, as DCs McConnell and Odunsi have already ascertained, but I’m pretty sure I know where. I’ve ordered up a response unit to accompany said officers on this particular show.’ Moran looked at the wall clock. ‘They’ll be in situ, St Swithun’s church at twelve-forty-five.

  ‘We now know that DC Martin came in very early this morning, probably directly from the Royal Berkshire Hospital. She attempted to ID a suspect – based on a photograph which had come into her possession by means unknown, but conceivably via Mr Erjon, who we are reliably informed spoke with DC Martin in the early hours of this morning.’ Moran paused briefly. ‘Traffic have just notified us that DC Martin’s car has been spotted in Eldon Square. Forensics are on their way, as will I be when I get a chance. And before you ask, no, there’s no sign of Tess.’

  Another hand went up. ‘The ANPR trace on Tess’ vehicle shows that she left Reading via Caversham Bridge around seven this morning, guv. Turned onto Oxford Road. Cameras picked her up again near Wallingford, and then on the Oxford ring road. Looks like she was heading for Oxford HQ.’

  Moran nodded. ‘Probably to make an enquiry after drawing a blank on the recog software. There’s a team there run by an old colleague of mine with a very special set of talents.’

  ‘Super-recognisers.’ A comment from the floor.

  ‘Exactly so.’ Moran nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve done your homework, DC Stiles.’

  The female DC flushed.

  Moran went on quickly. ‘Can’t get hold of anyone on the team to confirm DC Martin’s intentions – they have their own priorities right now – but we have to assume she came out with a name, and probably an address. Hopefully DCI Kellaway will return my call in the morning, but by then I sincerely hope we’ll be better informed, hopefully by DC Martin herself. In the meantime, I’m ninety-nine percent sure Tess was given the Eldon Terrace address. Mr Aaron Povey will hopefully tell us more in due course.

  In the meantime, carry on with your current tasks. If anyone wants me, I’ll be winding up the interview with Gill Crossley-Holland, then heading for Eldon Square. That’s all.’

  Moran returned to his office feeling a good deal less confident than he hoped he had sounded during the briefing. His answerphone showed seven missed calls. At least half of these would be from DCS Higginson asking for an update. Moran briefly closed his eyes. He wasn’t the praying type but if there was a time for such a thing it would be now. The likes of Ilhir Erjon didn’t play games. They saw themselves as untouchable, gods of terror. A verse from the Bible drifted unbidden into Moran’s mind – something about gods and men, he couldn’t recall the stanza precisely. Maybe it was time for him to get better acquainted with the Almighty, because right now he needed all the help he could get.

  A hiss of air, as before.

  Tess froze.

  Something scraping.

  A click.

  The sound of breathing, even and steady.

  ‘My apologies,’ the familiar voice said. ‘I wanted to spend more time in your company. But it seems my employers have other ideas. I must leave you for a little longer.’


  ‘I can manage.’

  A pause, and a soft laugh. ‘I do believe you can.’

  ‘You’re running out of time,’ Tess croaked. ‘You think you’ll never be caught. But you will be.’

  A chair leg creaked. A settling sound. Tess imagined him sitting with one leg crossed over another. Comfortable. Confident. There was silence for a moment before he replied. ‘Ah, time. The most precious commodity. But we do not know how much we have. A year? Ten? A day, or maybe just an hour? And what is time, after all? It cannot be bottled, cannot be earned, cannot be seen, nor can it be felt. It is here, it is then. It is before. It will be after.’

  ‘I’ll give you about an hour before you’re banged up and yelling for a solicitor.’

  A longer pause this time, then:

  ‘You are not taking me seriously, DC Martin.’

  ‘Should I?’ Tess’ heart thumped. No way would she give him the satisfaction of knowing how scared she was.

  The chair groaned as the weight upon it was removed. Tess heard his footsteps click to the right. Something fell to the floor. Then he was beside her, his voice a whisper in her ear. ‘Very well. I will not leave you blind.’

  Tess felt his fingers on her blindfold, loosening the knot. The blindfold fell away and she blinked in the harsh light of a single fluorescent strip. The room was long and low-ceilinged. At its far end a single door, padded, bolted top and bottom. Beside her, a table with a water jug, one glass. To her right, sitting quietly, eyes fully open and head slightly to one side, as though concentrating on some unheard conversation, was the Sun journalist, Tracey Jones.

  ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘She is comfortable. Empty.’

  ‘Empty? What do you mea–’

  Now she saw the syringe, the empty vial, discarded beneath Jones’ table.

  ‘She is at peace.’

  ‘You’ve drugged her?’ Tess looked into the blank eyes, saw nothing but emptiness.

  He shrugged. ‘Calmed, perhaps – or maybe unburdened is better. Forgive me, but my English is a little rusty. You see, DC Martin, I take my assignments seriously. I do not like to be disturbed in my work. I do not like to be spied upon. I do not like people asking questions. I do not like to be followed. Ah, but let me just look at you.’

  His eyes drank her in, top to bottom, almost as though he were seeing a loved one for the first time in many years.

  She whispered through parched lips, ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  He shook his head, whispered, ‘Never.’ Smiled.

  Tess shut her eyes.

  She heard the double clack of withdrawn bolts, a thump as the heavy door slid open, a waft of fresher air. Then the faint sound of her captor softly whistling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  St Swithun’s Road was quiet. Too quiet. George was trying to put Tess to the back of his mind, concentrate on the job in hand; it wasn’t easy.

  She’ll be fine. All will be well…

  He surveyed his surroundings. The church itself was in darkness, no external spotlights to illuminate the steeple, no guiding lights for a desperate man seeking sanctuary. Because, by now, George McConnell reckoned, that’s what Gruffydd would have become. He’d know he’d overstepped his mark, would be fully aware of the price he had to pay.

  George hefted the bunch of keys Sandra Lockhart had given him. The verger was standing at a prescribed distance by the lych gate, arms folded, wearing an expression of barely contained excitement.

  Bola Odunsi joined him at the entrance. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘She gave him access a couple of hours ago, so he’s still in there. Got to be. I mean, where else would he go?’

  ‘Want to send in Barraclough’s mob?’

  ‘Not yet. Let’s do this nice and gently.’

  ‘Might be armed. Scared too,’ Bola said. ‘Bad combination.’

  ‘We’re not Erjon. As long as we make that clear, he’ll be all right.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I hope.’

  ‘And what if Erjon shows while we’re inside?’

  ‘That’s why Barraclough’s shooters stay outside.’

  ‘Fair play.’ Bola shrugged. ‘Let’s do it.’

  George spoke into his radio. ‘Gaining entry. Stand by.’

  ‘Roger that,’ a crackly response from Barraclough’s team.

  The door swung open. George stepped into the cloister, Bola close behind. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Right,’ Bola whispered. ‘The main body of the church is to the right.’

  ‘Great turn of phrase,’ George whispered back. ‘Inspires confidence.’

  ‘Let him know who we are,’ Bola hissed. ‘In case he decides to have a pop at us.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ George played the torch beam along the cloister. ‘Gruffydd? Armed police. Show yourself. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.’

  Silence.

  George felt the space open up around him, shone his torch up and around the nave, into the chancel.

  ‘How about switching on the lights?’ Bola suggested.

  ‘Bad idea.’ George walked on a few paces. ‘Come on, Gruffydd. Show yourself.’

  A faint movement, higher up maybe? A flutter…

  ‘The bell tower?’ Bola’s eyes were directed upward. ‘Naw, it’s bats, or pigeons.’

  ‘You think? People do climb, in extremis.’ George shook his head. ‘Very common… always up. Never understood that.’

  ‘Nearer to God?’

  ‘Ha ha. Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe it is just bats – or–’

  Bola’s voice cut off as something barged into him, something fast and heavy. George swore, dropped the torch, waded in. ‘Enough, Gruffydd. Back off…’

  But Gruffydd was a strong man, a strong frightened man. George hauled on his collar but the blows kept raining down on Bola, whose arms were raised in a defensive cross above him. ‘I said, enough!’. George heaved again and Gruffydd jabbed with his elbow, lost his centre of balance, rolled onto his back, legs kicking. Bola righted himself and between them they pulled the Welshman to his feet, Bola applying an armlock for good measure.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Gruffydd panted. ‘I’m all right here. Safe, see?’

  ‘But you’re not, are you?’ George said. ‘You think Erjon has religious inclinations? You’re a lot more stupid than I thought. And, frankly, that’s very stupid.’

  ‘You can’t arrest me. No proof.’ Gruffydd bared his teeth.

  ‘We’ll get plenty of that later, don’t fret,’ George said. ‘And you’ll be a lot safer with us.’

  Bola pushed him forward. ‘Move.’

  ‘I’m not going out there, no way.’ Gruffydd pushed back.

  ‘We have an armed response unit outside. It’s OK. Get going.’

  George took one arm, Bola the other, frogmarched the gravedigger along the cloister to the entrance. Gruffydd made his displeasure known, swearing, yelling.

  ‘Enough!’ Bola wrenched his arm.

  ‘Coming out,’ George spoke into his radio. ‘Stand down.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Barraclough’s matter-of-fact reply came back instantly.

  George ducked Gruffydd’s head under the doorframe.

  They stepped onto the path. George felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable. If anyone was–

  Something’s wrong…

  He raised his hand. ‘Wait.’

  ‘What? What is it?’ Bola was still breathing heavily after Gruffydd’s assault.

  ‘Not sure. I just–’

  The sound of the shot came to George’s ears as a sudden disturbance in the air, a soft puff. He felt Gruffydd’s body jerk as the bullet propelled him backwards, smashing the gravedigger against the cloister exterior. The Welshman sank slowly to the ground, leaving a red trail on the toughened glass. Bola was still hanging onto him, trying to pull him up.

  For a moment George was too stunned to react. Barraclough’s voice crackled through the radio speaker. ‘Get down. Dow
n.’

  George grabbed Bola’s coat, pulled him to the gravel. ‘Leave him. He’s done.’ They both sprawled onto the path. George felt small stones rip his knees as they crawled for cover.

  Thirty seconds passed. No further shots.

  Another thirty.

  Barraclough’s team fanned out, made a thorough search of the area. It didn’t take them long. Three, maybe four minutes; they were trained for precisely this eventuality.

  But there was nothing to find.

  The ghost had vanished into the night.

  Moran replaced the receiver, sat back; a moment of disorientation washed over him, a gentle wave of disbelief. Bad had just clicked over to worse on his progress indicator. George’s shocked voice was still ringing in his ears.

  Killed instantly.

  It could have been worse

  He held his head in his hands, massaged his forehead.

  But not much…

  Someone at the door. It half-opened.

  ‘Push hard. It’s broken,’ Moran said.

  DC Collingworth came in, Swinhoe just behind.

  ‘Come in, come in both – and give me some good news. Please.’

  ‘No sign of Povey, guv. He’s not there. Place is a tip. But we did find this in his front room.’ He held something up. Moran tried to focus on it. A pad. A post-it pad.

  ‘It has Tess’ writing on it, guv,’ Swinhoe piped up. ‘She was there.’

  ‘What about her car?’ Moran massaged his forehead. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing useful yet, guv.’ Swinhoe chewed on her top lip. ‘Side window’s broken. No sign of her.’

  ‘Right. Get a search out for Povey. All his known haunts, buddies, drinking dens, whatever.’

  ‘Done that, guv,’ Collingworth said.

  ‘Of course you have.’ Moran stood, grimaced at the stiffness in his knee. ‘In which case, I’ll pop in to see young Jimmy myself. Twist his arm a little harder. What room’s he in?’

  ‘Number four, guv,’ Swinhoe said. ‘He’s happy enough to–’

  ‘Want me to sit in, guv?’ Collingworth interrupted.