Bad Blood (22 page)

Hardin cleared his throat, as if about to say something, but a sideways glance from Heldon had him searching the tabletop instead of opening his mouth. Ford had cocked his head to one side and was scratching his chin. Downside wrote something on the pad in front of him. Heldon waited.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Savage said. ‘I’m sure.’

No one said anything. Downside scribbled another note and showed it to Ford, who nodded. Heldon continued to hold her gaze, looking down her pointed nose like a soldier sights down a gun barrel. Downside pushed the pad over in front of her and she glanced down and then shuffled her own papers.

‘Good. We will be making our final report next week and I will be liaising with the HR department to see whether you would benefit from additional training. Apart from that, I can tell you we will be recommending that no further action be taken. The incident will, however, remain on your file.’ Heldon smiled, bloodless lips pressing together. ‘For future reference, you’ll understand?’

Riley had expected them back soon, but most of Monday had passed with no sign. He spent the time looking for some way to break out of the stable, but other than the fact that the door frame was a bit rickety, the place seemed secure. There was nothing to use as a weapon either and the chance of being able to overpower anyone with the injuries he had was minimal.

Monday early evening and the door opened. Budgeon and the stick insect with the white face.

‘Stuey an’ me,’ Budgeon said as they came into the stable. ‘We’ve just got a couple of questions. Shouldn’t take long and then you can get back to your beauty sleep.’

‘Beauty sleep,’ Stuey said. ‘Funny, Ricky. Funny.’

‘See?’ Budgeon turned to Stuey. ‘Stuey’s in a good place right now. Be nice to keep it that way.’

Riley said nothing as Stuey lifted his hands and showed the pickaxe handle.

‘Hope you’re not going to make it too difficult,’ Budgeon continued. ‘Only we’re not much in the mood for that, are we, Stuey?’

‘No, Ricky. Not in the mood.’

‘So you simply need to tell us the date, time and method and then everything will be fine.’

The two men moved into the stable and pulled the door shut behind them. Stuey patted the axe handle.

Riley wasn’t a soldier, hadn’t been trained in resisting interrogation, but he knew a couple of things: First, if he was going to lie he’d need to make them beat the lies out of him. He had to take some more pain to convince them he was telling the truth. Second, he’d have to tell the truth eventually, but once he had he was history. He needed to postpone that moment for as long as possible.

‘Date, time and method of what?’ Riley said.

‘Now who’s being funny?’ Budgeon raised a hand to his head and rubbed a spot above his right eye. ‘Stuey?’

‘Nice one, Ricky,’ Stuey said, grinning. ‘Leave him to me.’

Stuey stumbled through the straw towards Riley. He held the pickaxe handle up as if it were a baseball bat. Riley backed up into a corner, figuring there’d be less room for Stuey to get a full swing at him.

Stuey shook his head and then the end of the handle was coming in fast, jabbed in like a sword rather than swung, avoiding Riley’s arms which had been held at his sides. The blow caught Riley in the face, glancing off his left cheek. He raised his hands too late and then Stuey pulled the handle away, sweeping it down to crack Riley on the knee. He collapsed on the ground and groaned, hearing Stuey fling the bat away and move in closer.

‘Darius,’ Budgeon said. ‘Before I get riled just tell me the truth.’

‘I don’t know,’ Riley said. ‘We didn’t have the exact route or time. We were still waiting on the intelligence.’

‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’ Budgeon nodded at Stuey.

Riley could do no more than bring his arms up to protect his head as Stuey began to kick and then punch him. The pain from his collarbone was excruciating, and a flush of nausea swept over him as he fought to stay conscious. Then Stuey was moving out of the way and Budgeon took his place. Thick hands reached in and grasped his neck, squeezing hard and shaking at the same time. Spittle dripped from Budgeon’s face as he shouted down at Riley.

‘Tell me you bloody fucker! Tell me where the drugs are!’

Riley saw Budgeon’s face revolve and distort as he struggled to breath. Chubby fingers pressed in on his windpipe and he gulped and tried to suck in air.

Nothing.

His lungs wouldn’t fill, Budgeon’s grip was too much. He closed his eyes, felt his body go limp. So much for the acting. This was it. Game over. A rushing sound filled his ears and then he had the sensation of falling. He opened his eyes to see Budgeon far in the distance, all grin and round face, chubby arms reaching down to snuff the final breath out of him.

‘Ricky,’ Stuey said from miles away. ‘He’s going. Let him talk.’

Budgeon gave Riley a final shake and then let go. Riley slumped in the straw. He sucked in air. Saw the stable resolve itself and Budgeon stand up and walk back to Stuey.

‘Darius?’ Budgeon said, panting hard. ‘When you’re ready.’

Riley didn’t move. He let the oxygen revive him and then he waited as long as he dared. Stuey muttered something and retrieved the pickaxe handle.

‘It’s a boat,’ Riley said, feeling the pain in his jaw as he spoke. ‘Pretty sure next Monday’s the day. Most likely the evening.’

‘“Pretty sure” and “most likely” won’t cut it,’ Budgeon said. ‘I like to back sure-fire winners.’

‘That’s the best I can fucking do, OK?’ Riley shook his head and was about to say something when he felt the nausea return. He rolled onto his front and retched into the straw, hearing Budgeon and Stuey muttering to each other. The room span again, darkness sweeping in. When he came round a minute or so later the two men had gone.

Marsh Mills, Plymouth. Monday 21st January. 5.51 p.m.

The day could have been worse, Savage thought. Much worse. True, she had perjured herself in front of ACC Heldon, a woman who wouldn’t hesitate to bring the axe down if she discovered the truth, but at least she
hadn’t
discovered the truth.

Buoyed by the marginal victory, Savage went to the supermarket on the way home to get something special for a cosy night in with Pete. She was halfway down the wine aisle in Sainsburys, looking at an Argentinian Malbec and wondering if the ‘special offer’ label on the bottle meant it was crap or if the store were simply being generous, when her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number but the young voice sounded distinctive.

‘Is that the cop woman?’

‘Vanessa?’

‘Don’t try and make me tell you anything that I don’t want to because I won’t. No one else is to know about this either.’

‘OK,’ Savage said, at the same time wondering how she would be able to keep Vanessa out of her records should the girl come up with something useful. ‘When and where do you want to meet?’

‘Now. Why do you think I’m ringing?’

Savage heard Vanessa mutter a distant ‘bloody hell, stupid thick bitch’ and she smiled to herself at the girl’s childhood logic. She had the same desire for instant gratification as Jamie. Then again, Jamie was only six years old. ‘Now’ didn’t suit her though.

‘Can we do this tomorrow, Vanessa?’

‘It’s now or we’re done. Comprendez fucking vous?’

Savage wondered where Vanessa had picked up the phrase, certainly not at school. ‘OK. Now. Where?’

‘Meet me next to the giant prawn thing down in the Barbican in an hour. And don’t bring anyone else or I’ll scram.’

‘OK, I’ll—’

She’d gone. Savage sensed Vanessa had enjoyed the call. All of a sudden the girl was important, not just a cog in somebody else’s big machine.

Savage dialled home to explain she’d be late, and when Pete protested she reminded him he had missed around fifteen years of evening meals and said she would be as quick as possible. Next she phoned Enders and told him to rustle up a couple of people and send them down to the Barbican. Finally, she finished the shopping, drove back into the centre of town and parked in a small car park on Vauxhall Street. From there it was a short walk to the Barbican.

Early evening in January and the quayside cafes and bars were quiet. Later, even with the cold and it being a Monday, people would be wandering the cobbled streets, searching for drink, sex, someone to fight with, or all three.

Savage walked past the bars and continued down towards the Mayflower Steps where the giant prawn stood atop its white tower. Silhouetted against the city glow, the thing resembled an alien life form descending to earth. Leaning against a wall nearby, a girl in a very short skirt gazed out across the inky water to where the Mountbatten ferry glided up to the Barbican landing stage. What a thing to be wearing in the middle of January, Savage thought. Then the girl turned round and Savage realised it was DC Calter.

Calter walked across the cobbles and peered down into the Barbican, checking her watch and muttering something under her breath. Then she took a mobile from her bag and started texting. The whole time she didn’t catch Savage’s eye once, even though she came within a few feet of her.

Savage’s phone rang.

‘Stay on the line and start walking up to the Hoe.’ It was Vanessa. ‘I am watching and if I spot anyone following or if you hang up I’m gone.’

Savage turned away from the prawn sculpture and began to walk up the gentle rise away from the bright lights of the Barbican, all the while keeping the phone to her ear. Plenty of people were walking along the road so she didn’t think Vanessa would be able to spot Calter or anyone else present, as long as they were careful.

She’d gone a hundred yards or so when Vanessa began shouting in her ear.

‘The ferry. Run for the ferry!’

To her left, a road led down to a car park. At the far end of the car park the Barbican landing stage jutted out into the water. The Mountbatten ferry she had noticed arriving earlier lay alongside the landing stage and now the skipper gave a ‘parp’ of his horn, signalling his intention to leave for the short journey across the Plym. The last of the passengers stepped off the boarding ramp and down into the boat. Savage sprinted down the road to the car park, waving her hands to attract the attention of the crew. He’d already cast off the warps but the helmsman was using the engine to hold the boat against the quay. Savage ran along the boarding ramp and the crew held out his hand.

‘Steady, my lover,’ he shouted to her. ‘No need to run.’

Savage walked the last few paces and stepped down into the boat. She sat down and glanced up to see Calter staring over the car park wall talking into her phone. Now she met her eyes and the DC nodded and turned away. The boat went astern and then powered forwards, turning to aim for Mountbatten on the other side of the estuary. She dared not look back to discover what Calter was up to. Hopefully she would think of something, but the distance was three or four miles by land round to Mountbatten and it would be thirty minutes before the ferry returned and set off once again.

The ferry took only five minutes to reach the landing station on the other side and as always Savage marvelled at the boat-handling of the skipper as he pulled alongside the jetty and used the prop wash to move the vessel into position. The boat kissed the pontoon with a touch as light as a feather falling to the ground.

She still had the phone to her ear, but Vanessa didn’t speak until Savage went up the walkway and stepped on to land proper.

‘Turn right and head for the end of the breakwater,’ Vanessa said.

In front of Savage the lights of the Mountbatten Hotel looked more inviting than the walk along the path which led to the breakwater. A few smokers sat outside, and inside, at a table next to a window, a family tucked into an evening meal. The smoke from the glowing cigarettes of the alfresco drinkers spiralled upwards into a sky where stars were beginning to twinkle. A number of people strolled back and forth on the path which led to the breakwater, their winding route lit by a handful of streetlights. On the breakwater itself – a three-hundred metre long by fifteen metre wide strip of concrete atop a mass of ballast – Savage spotted the lights of several fisherman. The seaward side was always a popular spot and the council had gone so far as to put stainless steel bait-cutting blocks atop the seawall. The presence of the fishermen reassured Savage; nothing much could happen out here with them around.

As she neared the end of the breakwater she searched around for Vanessa. Aside from the fishermen, a couple walking hand-in-hand back towards the landward end seemed to be the only people around. At the tip of the breakwater stood a small tower known as the Plymouth Yacht Club Start Box. On race days yacht club officials directed events from the room at the top. Stairs ran up and round both sides and Savage assumed that the girl was hiding somewhere behind the tower.

‘Where are you?’ she hissed into the phone.

Nothing.

She approached the stairs on one side of the box and climbed up. At the top, a man in a long raincoat stood holding a slim bag, his thin shape dark against the sky. There was no sign of Vanessa. Savage moved away and once more spoke into her phone. Still nothing. Then a click and dead air.

‘DI Savage.’

Savage whirled round. The man had turned from the railings. Close-cropped grey hair framed a bony face. The slit of a smile forming as he moved forward. The face appeared familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

‘Something to show you.’ The man put his bag down on the top step and unzipped it. Inside was a laptop. He flicked up the lid and the computer woke from its sleep. A finger on the trackpad and a video window sprung open.

Savage looked around. Two fishermen were chatting not more than thirty metres down the seawall, the dull glow of a torch as one showed another his collection of lures, the sparking of a match as cigarettes were shared.

‘Who are you?’ Savage said as she leant in towards the screen where shaky footage from a mobile or home video had begun to play.

‘Never mind. Just watch.’

The screen showed a night-time scene, but the picture was poor. In the centre a flicker of flame came from the middle of something large, black and shiny. In the background, piercing beams from a car’s headlights illuminated the area. The camera operator had steadied now and Savage gasped when she realised what it was she was watching; the black, shiny object was Matthew Harrison’s upside down Shogun. And the figure standing next to the wreckage was her. Now she could hear the soundtrack too, the voices indistinct, but a two-way conversation was definitely going on. At one point Harrison’s voice rang out, a plea for help. Savage watched herself in horror as she walked away from the wreckage and vanished behind the glare of the headlights.