Gone Too Soon Page 20

  ‘I think I can manage, DC Collingworth. Go and harass forensics. If that car has anything to say, I want to hear it, soon as, got that?’

  ‘Sure.’ Collingworth went for the door but Moran was there before him, blocking it.

  ‘Yes, guv, I think you meant?’ Moran inclined his head expectantly.

  Swinhoe hovered in the background, chewed her lip.

  ‘Yes. Guv.’ Collingworth spaced the words just a little too far apart for Moran’s liking.

  ‘You’d better be thorough, DC Collingworth,’ he told the young detective. ‘Or it’s not just DC McConnell you’ll be answering to.’

  Collingworth nodded stiffly.

  Moran moved aside.

  Behind him he heard Swinhoe mutter, ‘Twat.’

  Moran almost smiled, then he remembered George’s call. He retrieved his stick, not because he felt the need of it, just that he wanted to wield something, have something in his hand to heft. It made him feel better, somehow.

  ‘Right, DC Swinhoe,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Jimmy, is it?’ Moran sat down, propped his stick against the table.

  Jimmy Muldoon licked his lips, looked at the stick, then back to Moran. His eyes found DC Swinhoe, held her gaze. His thoughts were written all over his forehead.

  Maybe she’ll be sympathetic. Not like the old guy with the stick.

  ‘So, it’s grave robbery, is it, Jimmy?’ Moran began. ‘That’s what’s paying the bills these days?’

  ‘It were Aaron’s idea.’ Jimmy Muldoon sniffed. ‘We don’t do it much, just sometimes, like.’

  ‘When there’s a nice juicy burial, eh? When someone with a bit of dosh shuffles off?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘And where might we find the boss? Where might Aaron be tonight?’

  Another shrug. ‘I dunno. He were supposed ter meet me, at St Thomas’. But he never turned up.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Moran said. ‘Good prospect was it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘New burial?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Some phillin, philonthr–’

  ‘Philanthropist,’ Moran smiled benevolently.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Loads of money. Jewellery and so forth.’

  ‘Probably, yeah.’

  ‘So what’s with Aaron’s no-show?’

  ‘I dunno. He were real keen, like.’

  ‘I want to talk about the other grave. St Swithun’s.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘That. I want you to tell me what you saw. Everything.’

  Jimmy swallowed. ‘I don’t want ter get in worse trouble.’

  ‘It’s fine, Jimmy.’ DC Swinhoe’s voice was all calm and ease. ‘We just need to know who was there, what you saw. What you thought was going on, OK?’

  ‘Yeah. All right, then.’ Jimmy pushed a hank of greasy hair away from his forehead.

  They listened.

  When Jimmy had finished, Moran asked, ‘And the car?’

  ‘It were a posh one, silver.’

  ‘Merc?’

  ‘Naw. Summat else. Like a Merc, but–’

  ‘Lexus?’ Swinhoe prompted.

  ‘Yeah. Could be.’

  ‘Details?’

  Jimmy took a breath. ‘Well, Aaron got me to get the reg, didn’t ‘e?’

  Moran’s heart leaped. ‘You have the registration?’

  ‘Gave it to Aaron, didn’t I?’

  ‘You don’t remember it?’ Moran’s hope sank without trace.

  ‘It ‘ad an eighteen in it, that’s all.’

  ‘An eighteen.’

  ‘Nothing in the house, guv. We checked.’ Swinhoe shook her head. ‘But maybe ANPR?’ The DC’s eyes were bright.

  ‘Yes. Go. DC Swinhoe is leaving the room,’ Moran told the recorder.

  ‘I didn’t mean no ‘arm,’ Jimmy was saying. ‘I mean, it wasn’t like she needed it any more.’

  ‘You’re talking about the ring?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that right now, Jimmy. I want to know exactly what you saw. Tell me again.’

  ‘I told you already. Anyhow, I ain’t no grass.’

  Moran leaned in. ‘Jimmy, you’ll be a lot closer to the grass unless you tell me everything.’

  Jimmy paused for a few seconds. Then:

  ‘All right. Like I said, two guys, is all. Big guy, smaller guy.’

  ‘Tell me about the big guy.’

  ‘Didn’t see much. He were tall. Pretty strong, between ‘em, carrying the box wiv ‘er body, like.’

  ‘So you’re saying that Michelle LaCroix was already in the coffin as they carried it to the grave?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  So not killed on the spot, then. Buried alive, the drugs probably administered beforehand. Moran wondered where and how they’d set the wheels in motion. ‘Anything you remember about the tall guy, Jimmy? Anything at all?’

  Jimmy’s eyes darted this way and that, as if he feared he might be overheard. Force of habit, Moran said to himself. For people like Jimmy, furtive wasn’t just a necessity, it was a way of life.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Moran said.

  ‘‘E moved like a ballet dancer, is all,’ Jimmy said eventually. ‘‘E were quiet, didn’t make a noise when ‘e moved, not like the other ‘un. ‘E were crashin’ abaht like a bloody elephant.’

  ‘And they drove away together?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Direction?’

  ‘Turned right onto the Tilehurst Road.’

  ‘Towards town?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Got the ‘ell out of there,’ Jimmy shivered involuntarily. ‘It were all wrong, what had ‘appened. There was summit about it, gave me the creeps, y’know? Aaron was the same. We just wanted out, know what I mean?’

  Swinhoe’s head appeared round the door, her expression flat. ‘Guv?’

  Moran hit pause, went out.

  ‘ANPR no show so far, guv.’ The disappointment on her face was plain to see.

  ‘Stick with it. Any Lexus, anywhere in the area that night needs a follow-up. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ Swinhoe hurried off.

  Moran paced the corridor. What now? Nothing yet from Collingworth and forensics. The longer this went on, the less likely a favourable outcome. He looked at his watch, made a decision.

  If you want something done, Brendan, my lad, you know what to do…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Sit down, take it steady,’ George advised. ‘You’ve had a shock.’

  Sandra Lockhart perched on the edge of her armchair. Her house was two doors along from St Swithun’s, and as the ARU had secured the area – albeit a bit bloody late – George had deemed it appropriate to escort the verger home. Bola was out there somewhere, searching for clues, tracks, anything to indicate where the shot had been taken. But Erjon was probably miles away by now, and with two uniforms front and rear, and one of Barraclough’s heavies patrolling nearby, George felt safe enough.

  ‘And so have you,’ Lockhart said. ‘Good grief, I mean, what if he had fired again? He could have killed both–’

  ‘All right, Ms Lockhart. Best not dwell on it.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ She got up and went through to the kitchen of her modest semi. ‘Can I get you one, DC McConnell?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but–’

  ‘Oh, go on. Don’t give me that on duty business. Purely medicinal.’

  George wavered. What harm? God knows he’d had a shock, right enough. He’d nearly had his head blown off. A wee thimbleful wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘Well, I–’

  ‘Here you are.’ Lockhart reappeared carrying two tumblers of amber liquid.

  George took the proffered glass, set it down on an occasional table. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Here’s to – oh, I don’t know. Life.’ Lockhart downed the whiskey in one. She shook her head. ‘Oh, that’s better. Tha
t poor man. I mean, I never really warmed to him, but still–’

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions, Ms Lockhart.’ George left the tumbler where it was. ‘About what happened tonight.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Naturally. You must.’

  George cleared his throat. ‘So, did Gruffydd call round? I mean did he come here, or find you in the church, or–?’

  ‘Yes. He came straight in. I was finishing off some paperwork in the office. Saints preserve us, it’s endless, you’ve no idea. The buzzer went, and there he was. Scared stiff. I’ve never seen him like it. Ever.’ Lockhart was gazing into the distance, reliving the moment. She refocused on George. ‘But you haven’t touched your drink.’

  ‘Presently,’ George said. ‘So what happened? Did you ask him what was wrong?’

  ‘Good grief, no. I didn’t have to. He was quite insistent about what he wanted. Two things. First, to stay in the church overnight.’

  ‘And second?’

  ‘Well, that was the thing. He wanted to tell all.’

  ‘All? How do you mean?’

  ‘He wanted to make his confession.’

  The car was taped off, still in the space Tess had chosen earlier. Glass fragments from the smashed window glittered as headlight beams from passing traffic criss-crossed the square. Moran showed his ID to the uniform and ducked under the tape. Two forensics were still at it – one beneath the car, one in the back seat, dusting, scraping.

  ‘Nothing?’

  The officer in the rear seat lifted his head. ‘Sorry sir, nothing terribly useful, I’m afraid. DC Martin’s prints are everywhere, of course. Something heavy was used to smash the glass – whatever it was, there’s no sign. DC Martin’s handbag was on the passenger seat. I’ve bagged it. Nothing helpful inside, though.’

  ‘OK, thanks. D’you mind if I–?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  Moran played his pocket torch beam across the front seat, the floor. Tess was a resourceful officer; she’d proved that time and time again. But something as full-on as this didn’t leave you much time to react, let alone leave clues. He opened the glove box, shone the beam around. Log book. Fuel receipts.

  Come on, Tess. What happened here?

  Moran scraped a few glass fragments from the driver’s seat, sat down. So, she’d got hold of a photo, made the ID. Found Povey. Back to the car, and then what?

  Erjon.

  Or maybe a moment to think, to consolidate. What did she get out of Povey? What did she want to get out of Povey?

  Moran watched the lights flicker past on the London Road. Taxis, a lorry. Rush hour still a couple of hours away. He tried to put himself in Tess’ shoes. She’d been given Povey’s photo. Had to be from Erjon, a still from the original stolen CCTV footage. She’d been tasked. Find this man for me, or else. Or else … what? A threat, then, and a heavy one at that.

  More scraping and rustling from the rear. The back door opened and the forensics guy got out, struck up a conversation with the officer underneath. Moran filtered them out.

  Tess was unmarried, no kids. No boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend, maybe. No shortage of admirers. George. But family? Parents? Ah, elderly parents, he recalled. One of them, the mother, maybe, was unwell – some heart condition? But how would Erjon have known that? No information is safe these days. GP records, social media, anything could be hacked – except maybe the police network, that was harder. Hence Erjon’s need for an insider, someone to find the guys who’d witnessed his crime: Aaron Povey and young Jimmy Muldoon.

  But then what? Tess finds her man. Next job, pass on the info as requested. Unless…

  Unless she’d decided to call it in. Unless she’d grilled Povey for details, built up a picture of Erjon, maybe traced him via the car reg, tried to turn the tables?

  But Erjon, being the pro that he was, anticipated Tess’ move. Got to her first.

  Question was, how long a gap between Tess leaving Povey’s house and Erjon’s arrival at the scene? A few minutes? Half an hour?

  Enough time to make a backup, just in case…

  That’s the kind of officer Tess was. Shaken, yes, damaged, certainly. But resourceful, always.

  Moran flicked his torch on again. Checked above the sun visor, under the seat.

  Come on, Tess…

  The forensics officer stuck his head in the side window gap. ‘ETA for tow truck five minutes, sir. We’re pretty much done here.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Just give me a minute, would you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The look said it all. What are you going to find that we haven’t?

  Side pocket.

  Nothing.

  Hand brake recess.

  Nothing.

  Moran clicked the torch off.

  Well, you tried.

  The rumble of a powerful engine, headlights approaching from Eldon Road. The tow truck.

  Moran reached for the door handle.

  Wait.

  Tess’s car wasn’t fitted with a radio. No CD player, either. Just one of those dummy plastic plates where the radio should be.

  Moran fished out a penknife, selected the flattest blade, slipped it under the plastic and prised gently.

  It came away easily.

  He clicked on the torch, played the beam over the plastic strip.

  His heart sang.

  A car registration number, written in lipstick.

  The tow truck was lining up, clanking and revving. Moran got out.

  The forensics guy raised his eyebrows. ‘Found something?’

  Moran held up the plastic strip. ‘Girls and makeup, son. There’s a thousand uses.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Confession? As in, confession?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lockhart said. ‘He wanted to tell me everything, he wanted absolution.’

  George shivered. Gruffydd must have had some kind of premonition. There was going to be hell to pay for this later. What would Moran say? What would he do?

  The tumbler drew his eye again. The light from a nearby standard lamp had caught the surface of the liquid, deepening its tone. Just a finger of Scotch, that’s all. Scarcely enough to dirty the glass. With an effort he tore his gaze away, refocused on the verger.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘You must know that I can’t reveal anything he told me.’ Lockhart spread her hands apologetically.

  George blinked. Had he heard correctly? ‘What? Why on earth not?’

  ‘The seal of confession,’ Lockhart explained. ‘We’re not in a position to divulge information revealed within the context of a confessional.’

  George bristled. ‘A man’s just been shot in cold blood. One of our officers – a good friend of mine as it happens – is missing. I need to know what he told you.’

  Patterns of blue light flashed across the ceiling. A siren wailed, stopped abruptly. Reinforcements; the search for Erjon was scaling up.

  ‘My hands are tied, DC McConnell.’ Lockhart folded her arms. ‘I’ll need to talk to the bishop.’ She looked at her watch. ‘But you wouldn’t want me waking his eminence up at this ungodly hour, would you?’

  ‘I don’t care if you have to wake the bloody Pope,’ George said. ‘I need to know, is that clear?’

  ‘Well really, there’s no need–’

  ‘I’ll book you for obstructing the course of justice – you, the bishop, the entire Anglican board of directors if I have to,’ George told her.

  Lockhart sighed, clasped her crucifix pendant. ‘We don’t have a board of directors. But under the circumstances, I suppose I can give you a flavour of what Gruffydd said.’

  ‘Well, thank you. That’s very obliging.’

  ‘He didn’t give me all the details, just the salient points. I must say, I’m still in shock from his revelations, let alone what happened afterwards. I–’

  ‘Please, Ms Lockhart. Time is moving on.’ George drummed his fingers on the chair arm.

  More blue lights, movement outside – St Swithun’s Road was
alive with police activity. By now they’d have road blocks prohibiting M4 access, access into Reading, access anywhere, pretty much.

  Lockhart’s attention was diverted momentarily by the commotion, but George’s impatient tapping reeled her back in. ‘Yes, yes. I understand,’ she said. ‘Well, he’d got himself mixed up in something sordid, the foolish man. He was offered a great deal of money to hide that poor girl’s body. And to think, he was the one who came to me, told me what he’d found? Now why would he–?’

  ‘Best leave the whys and wherefores to us, Ms Lockhart.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I think I need another drink. Excuse me a moment.’

  George drew on unguessed reserves of patience as Lockhart disappeared into the kitchen to recharge her glass. He was suddenly aware that his hands were trembling. He made fists of them, willed them to be still. He had to get something concrete out of Lockhart to present to the guv. Something that would lead them to Erjon, and to Tess.

  Lockhart came back into the room, took a deep draught of her Scotch. ‘Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes. So, Gruffydd was told to prepare the ground, so to speak. He was told to rendezvous at a certain time and place–’

  ‘Details?’

  Lockhart set her tumbler down, hesitated, looked down at her hands, toyed with her ring.

  ‘Details,’ George repeated, firmly.

  ‘Oh, what’s the use? It’ll all come out anyway now, won’t it?’

  ‘It will.’

  Another sigh. ‘He was told to go to a residential home, where he would be given instructions.’

  ‘A residential home? An old people’s home, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. One of those nice ones. For the well-to-do.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Pangbourne.’

  George’s ears pricked up. Pangbourne. Guv’s neck of the woods.

  ‘Address?’

  Lockhart frowned. ‘He did tell me the number. Wait, it’ll come to me.’

  George tapped, waited. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Tracker, probably.

  ‘Number three,’ Lockhart said. ‘That’s right. Number three, Orion Court. He said he’d thought the number three significant – because of the constellation.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘The constellation of Orion,’ Lockhart said. ‘Orion’s Belt. It’s also known as the Three Sisters. Gruffydd is – was–’ here Lockhart’s voice faltered a little, ‘–was keen on astronomy as well as music. You knew he was a musician? Awful noise, I thought…’