Justice for the Damned (26 page)

To the left of the road, closely clustered trees overhung a two and a half metre high wire fence. To the right, a tall yew hedge sculpted into battlements presumably marked the boundary of Southview’s garden, although it was impossible to be certain, since the house itself was lost in the mist. Jim pulled over and killed his lights. He didn’t want to risk getting any closer before he’d had a chance to have a good look at the lie of the land. A couple of hundred metres back, where there was no fence, he’d noticed a gap in the trees. The lane was too narrow to turn, so he reversed along the road and into the gap. Muddy wheel-ruts led to a small clearing where several trees had been cut down and stacked. He parked behind a log pile that concealed him from the road, and settled in to wait for the weather to clear.

Tiredness pressed down on Jim like a heavy blanket. He lowered his window, partly to try and stave it off with fresh air, but also so that he could hear any comings and goings on the road. Even so, and even though he kept telling himself not to think about her, his mind soon drifted into daydreams of Margaret. He missed everything about her – her face, her conversation, her laugh, her smell, even her nagging. But most of all he missed the way she gave him perspective, the way she enabled him to compartmentalise the sordid mess that was the world he came into contact with daily. She hadn’t even had to say anything. A simple touch from her had been enough to drive out the images that haunted his nights. He could still remember her hands against his skin, soft and warm. But the memory was fading, like a photograph left out in the sun. Soon there would be nothing left of it. And the idea of facing life without even that to cling to was almost as terrifying as the images themselves.

The sound of an approaching vehicle brought Jim’s attention back to the present. Deadened by the mist, it reached him faintly from the opposite direction to where he’d come. He jumped out of the car, clambered up the log pile and peered over the top. But the mist was still too thick to see anything. The sound of the engine lessened. His straining ears caught a low metallic squeal – perhaps of ill-oiled gate hinges – followed by the unmistakable crunch of tyres on gravel. Was it Forester returning home? he wondered. And if so, where had he been? Jim was still turning the questions over in his mind when he heard a second vehicle. The engine’s growl was deeper, suggestive of something larger. Maybe a van or a four-by-four. The noise suddenly died away. But this time there was no metallic squeal or crunch of gravel. Someone was sitting outside Southview, motionless in the mist. Were they keeping tabs on Forester? Were they watching out for anyone else who might be watching the house? Or was there some innocent reason for their being there? There was only one way to find out.

Jim descended the log pile and headed towards where he thought the second vehicle had stopped. He paused upon reaching the wire fence and eyed it uncertainly. In his younger days he would have scaled it with ease. Nowadays the prospect was as daunting as climbing a mountain. But if he remained outside the fence the risk of being spotted by someone coming along the road was too great, so he hooked his fingers into the wire. Sweat popped out on his body as he hauled himself upwards. With a grunt, he flopped over the fence, lost his grip and dropped heavily to the ground. A small explosion seemed to go off inside his left knee. He collapsed onto his back and lay gasping, clutching his knee and chest, not sure which hurt more. After several minutes, his breathing returned to something like normal and the pain eased off. Grabbing the fence again, he pulled himself upright. As he stepped away from it, more explosions lanced through his leg. He gritted his teeth, holding in a groan. The pain was intense, but he could walk.

‘Just what I fucking need,’ he muttered under his breath.

Keeping within sight of the road, Jim picked a path through the undergrowth of bracken and bramble. He passed a padlocked gate. He guessed it wasn’t the gate he’d heard opening, as it led onto a dirt, not gravel, track. He flinched as a pheasant rocketed up into the leaf canopy. His hand went to his chest again, where his heart thudded a worrying staccato. He leant against a tree, waiting for it to calm down. His ears pricked at the crunch of gravel. The sound was closer than before and made by feet not tyres. Then came the metallic squeak. He pressed himself flat against the tree, peeking around it. Edward Forester materialised through the mist, walking as if in a rush to get somewhere. He was dressed like a country gent in green wellingtons, brown corduroys and a waxed jacket. In one hand he held a walking stick, in the other a lead attached to a grey wolfhound. Jim jerked back fully out of view as the dog suddenly pulled towards his hiding place.

‘What is it, Conall? What’s the matter, boy?’ Forester asked in a voice full of a strange urgency. The dog barked and another pheasant burst from the undergrowth.

Jim expelled a small sound of relief as the pair continued on their way. But his relief was only fleeting. Forester was heading in the direction of the gap in the trees. If he saw the car, Jim would have to act fast. The most important thing was that Forester wasn’t allowed to get warning to whoever else might be watching his house. Although just how the hell he was going to get back over the fence and tackle a grown man and a twelve-stone dog in his condition was another matter entirely. Grimacing, he limped after the politician with as much stealth as he could muster. Another little breath of relief left him when Forester stopped at the padlocked gate. He unlocked it, stepped through and snapped the padlock back into place, before letting the wolfhound off its lead. Conall bounded away into the trees on the opposite side of the track, barking and scattering more pheasants.

Forester followed the track, walking like a man on a mission. The mist didn’t penetrate far into the woods. Even so, Jim struggled to hobble along fast enough to keep the politician in view. The sound of the wolfhound crashing through the undergrowth had faded away into the distance. He flicked open his telescopic baton in case it returned and picked up on his scent. The baton’s cylindrical shaft was slim and lightweight, but a whack from its solid steel tip would be enough to make the dog think twice about attacking him.

Jim arrived at a clearing, in which stood some kind of bunker. Forester was already closing its iron door behind himself. There was the sound of a heavy lock sliding into place. With uneasy eyes, Jim took in the squat concrete structure. The place looked like an old bomb shelter. But it obviously wasn’t being used as such any more. So what was it being used for? A face came into his mind – an angular, scarred face. Bryan Reynolds. Was it possible? Was Reynolds being held in there? His instincts told him it was more than possible. It was probable.

Bent low like a soldier, Jim advanced towards the bunker. He checked to see if there were any windows at its rear. As he’d expected, there were none. The only apertures were several small air vents at ground level. He checked out the iron door. It was sealed as securely as a safe. It would take explosives to open it.

Another even more disturbing possibility occurred to Jim. What if Melinda, or some other missing prostitute, was in there? Maybe Forester was torturing them, even killing them, right this moment? If that was the case, he had to be stopped – now! Jim took out his phone, his features riven with uncertainty. What if he was wrong? If he called in reinforcements only to discover there was nothing incriminating in the bunker, the game would be up. He’d have no choice but to tell Garrett everything. Even worse, Forester would remain free. No, he had to be certain. But the thought of what that certainty might cost someone was enough to draw deep lines in his face.

Jim retreated to the cover of the trees and dropped to his haunches. There was no tiredness now. The pain in his knee and the tension in his mind warded it off more effectively than any amount of caffeine or sugar. From somewhere in the distance beyond the bunker came the deep, throaty bark of the wolfhound.

You’re a copper. That means Melinda’s your problem. And if you don’t see that, you’re in the wrong line of work.
No matter how hard he tried, Reece couldn’t stop Jim’s words from going round in his head. His dad had once told him how he’d felt ‘called’ to be a cop. Reece had never felt that calling. He’d become a copper for two reasons: partly because he knew it would make his mum proud; but mainly to prove to his dad that he could do the job. He’d made detective inspector in half the time it had taken his dad. The day he got his DI’s badge had been the most triumphant of his life. But looking back on it now, he wondered whether that was the moment the rot set in. He’d achieved what he wanted. He’d shown the old bastard that not only could he do the job, but he could do it better than him. After that, the daily grind of being a copper – the frustration, the danger, the sense of never quite being in control – had quickly started to get to him. Even so, he’d never seriously questioned whether he was cut out for the job. Until now.

Jim Monahan had shrugged off a heart attack to chase down a suspect. The guy was clearly obsessed. Possibly even a little unhinged. And yet in his presence Reece had felt a sting of shame sharper even than the first time he’d pocketed dirty money. Jim’s words had brought home to him just how petty his triumph over his father had been. Even more distressingly, they made him realise how little he understood about what it really meant to be a copper. He understood one thing, though – to give up searching for Melinda was to prove beyond doubt that he wasn’t fit to wear the same badge Jim did.

Reece took out his police ID. He stared at it a long moment, brows rutted, eyes seeming to search for something. Then he thrust it back into his pocket and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go out for a while, Dad.’

Frank turned to his son. ‘Do you have to?’

Reece looked back at him, speechless. His dad had never said such a thing to him before. He’d always made it plain he was glad to see the back of him. More surprising yet was the concern he saw in his dad’s eyes. Silence and anger, those were the only ways the bastard ever usually expressed himself. Bitter experience had taught Reece how to deal with that side of him – either stay well out of his way, or if that wasn’t possible, do whatever he said. His thoughts returned to the hospital. What had the doctor said that had exposed this new facet of his dad’s personality? Once again, there was only one answer he could think of, and it was almost enough to make him sit back down. But if he did that he knew he’d never be able to get Jim’s words out of his head – at least not until he handed his badge in.

Frank repeated his question, and this time Reece replied, ‘Yes, I have to.’

‘Then be careful.’ Frank grinned as if to make light of his concern. ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

That was too much for Reece. He left the house, tears pressing against the backs of his eyes. He didn’t let them out. Tears were a sign of weakness. His dad had taught him that. When Reece had learnt his mum was dead, he’d felt like his insides were being put through a mangle. But no tears had come. So he was damned if he was going to cry for his drunken, wife-beating father. As he shoved the car into gear, an angry thought welled up inside him:
Even if the bastard is dying, he’s got no right to suddenly start caring, to try and make me feel something more for him.
‘No fucking right at all,’ he muttered, his voice a sharp rasp.

With a wrench, Reece turned his thoughts to the matter at hand. Like his father had said, he needed to be careful. The last thing he wanted was for word of what he was doing to get back to Doug or, God forbid, DCI Garrett. If he turned up any concrete evidence that Melinda’s disappearance was connected to Freddie Harding – and given the limited investigative moves he could make that seemed unlikely – he’d have to bite the bullet and fess up to his partner. But otherwise, he would treat this simply as a run-of-the-mill missing person’s case.

Reece traversed the city centre to Wicker, a busy thoroughfare of local shops, pubs and takeaways. He parked in the shadow of a railway bridge that arched over the road. Making his way around the back of a shop, he climbed a dingy flight of stairs and knocked on a door. After a long moment, Wayne opened it. The pimp’s face looked as if it had been used as a football. There were butterfly stiches over his eyebrows. His right arm was in a sling. The bruised pouches of his eyes widened at Reece. He recoiled from the door, almost falling over as he grabbed for a baseball bat. Reece was on him in a heartbeat, wrenching the bat from his grasp. Wayne groaned as Reece pinned him against a wall.

‘I don’t want trouble,’ said Reece.

Wayne glared doubtfully at him. ‘So what do you want?’

‘Just to take a look around.’

‘Then you’ll leave me alone?’

Reece nodded.

‘Alright, look all you fucking want.’

Reece let go of Wayne. He kept hold of the bat, though. There was no sense putting temptation in front of such a vindictive bastard. The flat was a poky place with a shabbily furnished living room, a tiny kitchen, an even smaller bathroom and one bedroom. Reece checked out the bedroom first. There was an unmade double bed strewn with Wayne’s clothes. A joint smouldered in an ashtray on a bedside table. One wall was fitted with a mirrored wardrobe. Reece slid the wardrobe open. A selection of barely there dresses hung on the rail above several pairs of high-heeled shoes.

‘Are these Melinda’s?’ asked Reece.

‘Well they’re not fucking mine.’ Wayne pointed at a bin liner in one corner. ‘The rest of her crap is in there.’

Reece looked in the bin liner. It contained various bits of makeup and some skimpy underwear. Not much to show for a life. ‘I’m taking this.’

‘Go ahead. What do I give a fuck?’ As Reece resumed his search, Wayne added, ‘You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing else of Melinda’s here.’

Reece’s phone rang. ‘Shit,’ he muttered when he saw it was Doug calling. He briefly considered not answering, but he knew Doug wouldn’t bother him unless it was urgent. He walked quickly from the flat, putting the phone to his ear. ‘What’s up?’