A Reason to Kill (23 page)

‘And? That differs from a body how?'

Rina sighed. ‘Tim darling, people finding bodies usually scream and run away. They don't bend down to pick bits up. You can rely upon members of the public not to go on prodding when they find someone dead; you can't rely on them not to grab the object and wave it excitedly in the air when they find a murder weapon.'

‘Unless it's a gun,' Tim said. ‘Most people are a bit iffy about guns.'

‘True,' she conceded.

‘Or a bloody knife. Or a hand grenade or a mine or a—'

‘Tim, I get the point.'

‘And as we don't know what we're looking for anyway, how's anyone going to know that it's the murder weapon to get excited about?' When Rina said nothing he asked, ‘Why do you have walking sticks anyway? You must have a dozen in that stand in the hall but you've never used any of them.'

‘I'm preparing for eventual old age,' Rina growled.

‘And if you think this is a waste of effort, which you obviously do, then why are we here?'

‘Because, Tim,' Rina said heavily, ‘when things are going on, I like to know
what
is going on, and the best way of doing that is to get involved.'

The word went out that tea was available at the portable catering station that had arrived with the mobile incident room and that their section of the search team was welcome to imbibe.

Tim sipped his tea thoughtfully, gazing out, not over the waste ground and the rows of searchers, but instead towards the old airfield and the remnants of a building just glimpsed over the high hedge.

‘What was that place?' he asked.

Rina followed his gaze. ‘There's a public footpath that runs around the perimeter and then hooks back round to the coastal path,' she said. ‘Local tradition has it that the airfield was built in the Second World War, but I've heard tell it was earlier. There used to be a big estate. Grand house, the works. Owned by the DeBarrs.'

‘Oh, like the hotel at Marlborough Head?' Tim grimaced, recalling the kids' party he had so recently endured.

‘Yes, but the DeBarrs don't own that now either. In fact the last of them is old Nick who runs the filling station just down from the hotel. You know the one?'

Tim nodded, then brushed back the heavy lock of black hair that fell into his eyes.

‘Anyway, as I was saying, they owned the airfield before the war, sold it off to the MOD, and after the war it was sold again. Some sort of private consortium. Folded about fifteen years ago after several changes of owner. Shame really.'

Tim wandered over to where the hedge gave way to a five-bar gate beside which a green sign indicated the footpath Rina had mentioned. He stared long and hard at the dilapidated old building, complete with modest control tower that still dominated the flattened landscape and a sudden thought occurred to him. One, he suddenly realized, that had been forming since the previous evening when Mac had told them about the missing boys.

‘If I was a thirteen-year-old boy and I needed a place to hide for a while, where would I go?' he said.

Rina's bright blue eyes demanded an explanation. ‘You think they've come back to Frantham?'

‘I do. Better to hide out in a place you know and in a place you know no one bothers with than to try to find a new place in a strange country.'

Rina snorted. ‘Dorchester is hardly foreign fields,' she said. ‘They both go to school there.'

‘They catch the bus here. Bus drops them at school gates. Picks them up from same. Drops them home.'

‘All right,' she conceded. ‘You have a point. But over there, in the tower?' She frowned, wriggled her shoulders irritably. ‘They'd see us coming a mile off.'

‘True, so we have to be seen to go somewhere else. If they are there, they'll be watching to see what's going on, which means they're looking this way. How about if we pick up the cliff path and come back in through the other way?'

‘It'll take an age,' Rina objected. ‘Tim, at times you're far too subtle.' Hitching up her skirts she mounted the stile and jumped down on the other side. ‘Better to try the direct approach. They see us and make a run for it, we'll spot them and if, as I suspect, there's no one there, then we won't have wasted half a day on a nature ramble.'

‘How much do you want to bet?' Tim challenged. ‘Look, hang on.' He took their cups back to the catering van and bought two bottles of pop and some chocolate and biscuits, then he ran to catch up with Rina. ‘Best to come bearing gifts.'

Rina rolled her eyes.

George was never quite sure what it was that made him just sit still and watch as these two strangers headed in the direction of their hiding place. At first it was disbelief: they couldn't be coming here. The amount of dust that had settled on the ground floor told him that no one
ever
came here. Then it was curiosity: a short old woman and a tall man whose long strides had him loping ahead of her. Every three paces or so he stopped to wait for her to catch up. George thought it looked like someone with a large, over-energetic but patient dog out for a walk.

As they drew closer he began to panic, then panic was replaced by resignation. If he'd wanted to run, he should have got a move on long before. He looked across the room to where Paul lay sleeping once again, then got up and tiptoed over to his friend. Paul didn't stir, even when he touched his hand.

George went to the stairs and descended halfway, listening. Maybe they'd pass by. If they did, should he run after them, pretend he was just out bird-watching or something? He could at least ask what was going on.

He heard voices, a man and a woman. They sounded OK, he thought. Happy, chatty, like they were making fun of each other but in a friendly way. Hesitantly, George descended the rest of the way.

He heard the sound of feet on broken glass as they came close to the door and the scuffing of gravel. Then the door swung wide and the woman entered first.

‘George Parker, I presume,' the woman said. She extended a gloved hand in his direction and, bemused but operating on auto-pilot, George shook it. His eyes, however, were fixed on what the man was carrying.

‘Here you go,' the man said. ‘Your friend upstairs, is he?' He handed George the drink and then dug in his pocket for the biscuits and chocolate. ‘All they had in the catering van,' he explained. ‘I understand they'll be doing bacon batches and such like later on.'

Bacon rolls. George felt himself grow faint at the thought. The fish and chips of the night before seemed an eternity ago.

‘He's not right,' George said. ‘Paul, he's been acting funny and he just keeps wanting to sleep.'

Rina clasped him lightly on the shoulder and headed for the stairs. George and Tim followed her. She knelt beside the other boy and shook him gently, calling his name. Paul opened his eyes and then yelped in panic.

‘It's all right,' Rina told him. ‘No one will hurt you. Your mum and dad are worried sick, but it's all going to be all right now.'

He shook his head, dark eyes cold with fear. ‘He'll get me,' Paul said. ‘He said. He said he'd kill me and he'd hurt me mam too. He said …'

Rina was shaking her grey head. ‘If you mean Mark Dowling,' she said, ‘he's in no position either to issue threats or to carry them through.'

‘You see!' George was triumphant. ‘I told you they arrested him, didn't I? That's right, isn't it? We saw the police cars round his house.'

He watched as this woman called Rina, who he recognized vaguely because she'd visited Mrs Freer, and this strange tall man, exchanged a glance.

‘It was a bit late for that,' Rina said. ‘Someone killed him, I'm afraid. That's what the police were doing there.'

George supposed he should feel shocked at the news but somehow he just couldn't. Relief flooded him, just like the moment of pure exultation had earlier that morning, only the relief seemed just a bit more permanent. The man called Tim had laid out the pop and biscuits and chocolate and even Paul was enlivened enough by the news that he ate and drank. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks. The threat – that awful, overwhelming, immediate threat – had been lifted and George could tell that Paul wasn't even thinking about the rest of the stuff. About the breaking and entering and the gun and then going back with Mark Dowling and watching the old woman die.

He hoped so much that Paul would have at least a bit of time before the rest of that stuff all descended on him and he had to be afraid of it again. He needed a break, some time out, a little bit of a reprieve.

Rina answered George's questions as best she could and then she reminded them both that people were seriously worried about them, that they had parents who'd been going frantic all night. Tim produced his mobile phone and called someone called Mac who Rina explained was a policeman.

George almost stopped listening after that. What Rina had said about parents reminded him of his dad and that he was back and that he had troubles of his own that he'd now have to deal with.

‘OK,' Tim said. ‘Mac's been called away somewhere but DI Eden and someone called Andy are on their way. You know who that is, Rina?'

She nodded. ‘You'll be fine with them,' she told George.

‘But anyway.' Tim withdrew a small card from the pocket of his coat and then wrote a name on the back and placed it in Paul's hand. ‘Tell them you want to talk to this man. D.I. McGregor. You can trust him, George, Paul. He knows what's happened and he'll do everything he can to help you both through this. You understand?'

George nodded and leaned over to look at the card. Paul was twisting it in his hands as though not sure what to do with it. George saw the name and little advert on the other side to the scribbled name. ‘You're a magician?'

‘I sure am.' Tim grinned. A second card had suddenly appeared in his hand though George had not seen him move. It was dog-eared and just a little bit creased. He handed it to George. ‘Marvello at your service,' he said, with a little bow and a wolfish smile.

George did his best to smile back but the weight of worry was bearing down upon him again. He slid the card into the pocket of his coat. ‘Thanks,' he said, wishing that magic tricks and escapology extended to situations like this.

M
ac had been called from the scene by his opposite number, an Inspector Kendal from Dorchester HQ. Kendal told him that they had an address for Edward Parker, George's father.

‘That was quick.'

Kendal laughed. ‘We try. No, we've known about him for a while now. Moved down here from Manchester four months ago; our colleagues up there gave us the tip off. Mr Parker has some interesting associates.'

He gave Mac the address of Parker's flat and told him he'd meet him there.

Edward Parker's flat looked surprisingly expensive, Mac thought as he pulled up outside the modern and purpose-built block. It was part of one of those mews complex things that seemed to be so popular these days and which, frankly, Mac hated passionately. To him they were the architectural equivalent of fast-food restaurants; identical countrywide and making absolutely no concession to local character.

He nodded to the man in the rather good grey suit leaning against a rather battered Ford Mondeo. ‘DI Kendal?'

‘Nice to meet you.' They shook hands and Kendal indicated the suit. ‘Court this morning. Got to look the part.'

Mac laughed. ‘It's a bit posh, this,' he said. ‘Must have come into money. Renting, is he?'

‘Nope, he bought it. Cash. Reckons it was a private loan. From a friend.'

‘A friend?'

Kendal nodded. ‘I'll fill you in properly back at the station. Let's just say that Parker's friends accept payment in kind and charge a considerable amount of interest.'

The flat was on the third floor. Entry to the building was controlled by an intercom and buzzer. To Mac's mild surprise, Kendal announced himself and was buzzed through without comment. ‘He knows you then?' Mac said as they got into the lift.

Kendal nodded. ‘We've had our conversations. Thing is, Parker reckons he's well out of our reach. We've nothing on him yet, and his friends are as slippery as a net full of eels.'

‘What are we talking here? Organized crime? Drugs?'

Kendal shrugged. ‘Drugs, yes, but that's not the main game. Identity theft, computer scams. Techie stuff.'

‘Sounds a bit smart for Edward Parker.'

‘I don't think he's employed for his brains. Thing is, we're not sure just who is employing him or exactly what for. These past months, apart from two visits to Manchester and another to, we think, London, he's been a model citizen. Shopped at the local supermarket, joined the video store, worked out at the gym. And it might be pure coincidence that his little trips have coincided with two dead and one left in a vegetative state.'

The lift doors opened. ‘I've been told to share what we've got with you. We didn't know the family were here when Parker arrived. If we had, we'd have disclosed, but the funny thing is, this is the first slip up he's made, trying to make contact with the boy. I can't think his so-called friends would be impressed.'

‘Unless,' Mac said, ‘they found his family for him and brought him here because of it.'

Kendal shrugged and led the way along the plush landing. He pressed the bell and Edward Parker opened the door.

A few minutes later, Mac sat in the leather wing chair to which Parker had directed him and observed the man. He was clean shaven, with cared-for skin which drew attention to the scar on his lower jaw. It travelled down on to his neck. Thinning hair was cut short but stylishly. Clothes that Mac guessed he'd never afford on
his
salary. He glanced around the flat at the thick carpet, the rather tasteless but expensive leather suite, and mentally compared it to the house Parker's family inhabited.