Blood Falls (35 page)

It wasn’t until the traffic began edging forward that he spotted the paramedics working on someone at the side of the road. A cluster of civilians stood nearby, one of them being comforted, sobbing and gesturing while a uniformed officer tried to get information from her.

A couple more cars got past, and Joe saw a bicycle lying on the verge, the rear wheel mangled out of shape. The casualty was a young boy, a teenager. One of the paramedics had placed an oxygen mask over his face. Someone else was holding his hand.

Joe shivered. As a child he had been knocked down by a car. He still dreamed about it occasionally, saw himself lying there while the newly qualified doctor who’d happened to be passing saved his life.

The car ahead pulled away, but for a moment Joe was back in the Shell Cavern, cold and disorientated, trapped; someone crying out in the darkness …

Then he was past the scene, and thinking of the missing women:
Kamila, Alise, the girl Diana had mentioned; others, possibly, over the years.

Joe knew that seaside communities were a magnet for runaways, partly for the seasonal employment opportunities, as well as for the anonymity inherent in towns whose populations swelled with tourists. From his own experience, Joe felt there was another reason, too: the melancholy pull of the sea itself.

The official figures were extraordinary: over two hundred thousand people went missing every year in the UK. Even with ninety-nine per cent of cases resolved swiftly, that still left a couple of thousand people who vanished into thin air, year after year. Joe, like many police officers, had always believed a significant number were murder victims whose bodies were never found – and their killers never caught.

That was the key point here. And from what Joe had seen, some kind of conspiracy was certainly feasible, perhaps using Derek Cadwell to dispose of the bodies. But Joe also knew that conspiracies were inherently unstable. People got scared. They made mistakes, spoke out of turn. They were prey to blackmail and extortion. For Leon to be getting away with it for so long he’d have to be very careful, or very lucky, or both.

With that thought came an image, an idea; it floated through Joe’s mind but stayed tantalisingly out of reach. He was still chasing it into the shadows when he reached the big stone house and parked under the car port. Kestle signed him off for the day, then told him to be here an hour earlier tomorrow.

‘You’ve got deliveries in Glastonbury.’

‘Okay,’ Joe said, careful to conceal his excitement. Glastonbury was only twenty or thirty miles south of Bristol. Touching distance.

Cadwell turned up at five. He didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, despite the anxious glances Fenton kept casting in Leon’s direction.

An afternoon nap hadn’t done much to improve Leon’s state of mind. Sitting in the office with Fenton, Cadwell and Glenn, toying
with the CCTV feed on his laptop, he could feel the distant pulse of another migraine, like a storm gathering over the horizon. He wasn’t sure now if he could trust any of them.

Even Glenn had a question mark over him. He’d done plenty of building work for them both over the years. Fenton in particular had wanted Glenn to remodel his entire house, despite spending most of his time here.

‘It’s essential to get this right,’ Fenton kept saying. ‘We mustn’t overplay our hand the way Victor did. Equally, we mustn’t fail to exploit the full potential of this opportunity.’

‘Got to be worth a million or two,’ Glenn said. ‘The Mortons are loaded, I take it?’

‘Not officially,’ Fenton said. ‘They have a network of shell companies. Perfectly adequate,’ he said with a sneer, ‘but not as sophisticated as our own set-up.’

‘That won’t stop them from treating us like yokels,’ Leon said.

‘All the more reason to present ourselves as professionals. Ambitious, not greedy.’

‘Rather than just cash,’ Cadwell interjected, ‘what about going for a stake in their operation?’

From the exaggerated way that Fenton was nodding, Leon guessed they had discussed it in advance. He gave a thin smile as Fenton said: ‘It’s an option to explore, from a tactical viewpoint if nothing else.’

‘How do you mean?’ Leon asked.

‘If they baulk at paying out so much cash, we suggest an equity deal. Suddenly our original request doesn’t seem so unreasonable.’

‘I like that,’ Cadwell agreed, wagging a finger. ‘That could work very nicely.’

Leon had to choke down a sarcastic comment. Glenn, who looked every bit as bored with it all as Leon, scratched his head and said, ‘So who’s going tomorrow?’

‘Me, you and Clive,’ Leon said. ‘We need some muscle with us as well.’

‘Not Reece,’ Fenton said. ‘He flies off the handle at the slightest provocation.’

‘Could show them we mean business …’

Fenton shook his head. Leon sensed that Cadwell agreed but had suddenly gone shy.

‘It’s your decision, obviously,’ Fenton said. ‘But Morton, by all accounts, is a volatile individual. The last thing we want is an all-out war because Reece didn’t like the way someone was looking at him.’

‘And they probably will try to intimidate us,’ Glenn added.

‘Maybe Bruce, then.’ Leon winced at a spasm of pain. Shut his eyes.

‘Sore head?’ Glenn enquired.

‘Migraine.’

‘Another one already?’ Fenton said.

Cadwell tutted. ‘You ought to go to the doctor.’

‘One day.’ Leon spat the words out. All this fucking advice, he’d never really seen it for what it was: manipulation. Pushing and pulling and nudging him into the position that suited them best.

He willed the pain away. Opened his eyes to find Joe Carter, caught on CCTV as he parked the van.

‘Keeping him busy?’ he asked Glenn, who nodded, still sulking over this morning’s confrontation.

Leon switched cameras, followed Joe into the house and studied him carefully as he talked to Kestle. At least Joe’s body language was relaxed: that was one good thing.

He didn’t have a clue, Leon thought.

Sixty-Three

ON TUESDAY JOE
woke to light but steady rain. Once again, he came down to find Diana already busy in the kitchen. Only a week and they were settling into a routine.

Last night he had told her that he would probably revert to his original plan and leave at the end of the week. Diana had dismissed his fear of reprisals. ‘They wouldn’t be that stupid.’

‘Has Glenn been in touch since Sunday?’

‘He keeps calling and texting.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve ignored every one of them so far.’

With no sign of the rain letting up, she insisted on driving him to Leon’s. He was wearing the jacket he’d bought in Bristol, and for good measure he had the cap with him as well: a disguise for his return to Lindsey Bevan’s.

Kestle had his paperwork ready. There was no sign of Pam – or anyone else, for that matter. ‘They’re out today. Big meeting somewhere.’ Then he clammed up, perhaps aware that he’d said more than was advisable to a colleague who was still far from trusted.

Before Joe left, Kestle popped into the comms room, came out with a newspaper and offered it to Joe, who shook his head.

‘Not to my taste, thanks.’

‘Leon’s orders.’ Kestle slapped it into his hand. ‘Everyone gets a copy.’

* * *

One of Leon’s cast-iron rules was that any vehicle he travelled in wasn’t to exceed the speed limit, particularly outside of their local area. It was because of something he’d been told about Al Capone, how after years of criminal activity he’d finally gone down for tax evasion. Same with keeping the fleet roadworthy, properly taxed and insured.

‘If they can’t get you on the big things,’ he’d been warned, ‘they’ll be just as happy to get you on the little things. All they need is a way in.’

Today, with Bruce behind the wheel of a brand-new Range Rover, there was a constant danger that Leon’s rule would be broken. He got tired of reminding him to slow down, and the others got tired of hearing it.

‘I don’t reckon you should worry, not now.’ Glenn was on the back seat, next to Fenton. He tapped the newspaper spread out over his knees. ‘If the cops pull us over, you just have to show ’em this. You’d get away with anything.’

Leon snorted, trying not to show how pleased he was. Since receiving an advance copy of the article on Sunday, he’d already memorised the key phrases.

The town that puts ‘Broken Britain’ to shame
: he liked that.

He’s an unlikely-looking saviour
, the article began, then spoiled it with a snooty put-down of his dress sense before going on to say:
but this rough-and-ready bruiser from the wilds of Cornwall could teach us all a lesson about the creation of a safe, family-friendly society
.

There was a giddy atmosphere as they pored over the article, reading sections aloud to each other and mildly taking the piss out of the photos. Leon thought they were superb: a nice big portrait of him out on the veranda, and then the photo-op from last week, cropped to show just Leon, some mayor in a dodgy toupee, and the chief constable.

Glenn quoted the caption beneath the portrait. ‘
Leon Race: A shining example of the Big Society at work
.’

Leon scoffed. ‘Don’t have a clue what that means.’

‘I could explain, but it’s horribly dull and a lot of nonsense,’ Fenton said.

‘Services coming up,’ Bruce announced.

‘Hope you got a pen on you,’ Glenn said.

‘What?’

‘For the autographs.’

‘Ha, ha.’ Leon made a play at leaning into the back and swatting Glenn, but they could all tell he was delighted by the idea.

Joe decided it was a good omen that Leon was away from Trelennan. With any luck he’d sneak over to Bristol for a couple of hours and no one would be any the wiser.

After loading up at the depot in Glastonbury, he studied the delivery route and decided to make the detour from his fourth call of the day, in Trowbridge. He was thrilled by the prospect of regaining his possessions; being able to make plans for the future.

Tonight, when he saw Ellie, he would have to tell her that he was leaving soon. Not without regrets, because there was no denying the attraction he felt towards her. But he was never going to be settling down to a life of domestic bliss in Trelennan, not least because – as Ellie had pointed out – at heart he was still married.

And he wasn’t a delivery driver. He wasn’t a painter and decorator, a hotel porter, a farm worker, or any of the other roles that had sustained him over the past few years.

He was a police officer. A detective. An undercover cop. He was a man who had flourished in a world of lies and deception. That was why he had gone to work for Leon Race. That was why he continued to pursue the mystery of Alise’s disappearance. A sucker for lost causes, perhaps.

Because he was a lost cause himself
…

His phone buzzed. He was on the A303, doing a steady forty in a line of traffic stuck behind an Eddie Stobart truck. He glanced at the
display. An unfamiliar number, from a landline. The area code was 01503. Not Trelennan.

There was a junction coming up, bordered by a wide grass verge. Joe swung the van off the main road and bumped up onto the grass, fumbling with the phone before he lost the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Joe? Is that you?’

The voice was female, but low-pitched, guttural, as though the caller had a bad throat infection. He wouldn’t have identified her, had it not been for the accent.

‘Alise?’

Sixty-Four

SILENCE
.

‘Alise?’ he said again. ‘Are you there?’

What he’d taken for the buzz of static was her breathing, close to the mouthpiece.

‘Joe. Will you help me?’

‘Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’ He was trying not to sound exasperated, but a hint of irritation must have shown. She gave a sob.

‘They take my phone. I had your number in my head, but I could not call. I was in hospital until last night.’

‘Hospital? What happened?’

Another sob. ‘It was Leon. Leon tried to kill me.’

The meeting wasn’t until two, but Leon had insisted on an early start. The migraine had receded overnight and he didn’t want to give it any reason to come storming back. That meant a nice steady journey. No stress.

That was the key thing today. The newspaper article had lifted his spirits, and after a greasy, overpriced breakfast he settled back and let the motion of the car lull him into a pleasant state of semi-consciousness.

As they skirted around Reading the rain petered out and the clouds
thinned to a pale grey membrane stretched across the sky. Leon roused himself, sat up straight and had a few gulps of water from the bottle that Glenn carried.

Time to focus. Like an actor, Leon had to think himself into the part he was playing. The main thing to remember, he told himself, was that he held the winning hand.

The hotel was set in acres of manicured grounds, complete with its own golf course. It was accessed via a private road, lined with mature trees ablaze with autumn colours. Leon wasn’t normally one for nature, but even he was impressed by the dazzling reds and golds.

The lawns were like the baize on a snooker table. In the distance he spotted little white carts trundling back and forth, golfers in their ridiculous costumes ambling across the greens.

The hotel itself was like a palace from a fairy tale, a sprawling white building with towers and turrets galore. Bruce parked as close to the entrance as he could get. Leon opened his door and stepped down onto the gravel. The air was rich with wood smoke, but what it truly reeked of was money.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Leon took against the place at once.

At Fenton’s suggestion, to save them from rushing back, they’d booked rooms at another hotel nearby. Once the deal was concluded they could retire for a celebratory dinner. The champagne would be waiting on ice when they checked in.

Leon wasn’t fussed either way about that, but he was glad they’d chosen another hotel. He hadn’t even set foot inside this place and already he was eager to get away.