Relentless: A Novel Read online

  ‘Have you got the university victim’s name?’

  She told him, but he didn’t recognize it.

  ‘How long have you been here, Nicki?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Since five thirty, but you’re the first people to show up.’

  ‘This is actually our second time here,’ said PC Coombs. ‘We got called out to a burglary here earlier on this afternoon. It was an anonymous tip-off on a nine-nine-nine. The caller said the burglar was still inside. When we got here, we clambered over that gate and took a look, but it was a false alarm. We were here within fifteen minutes and there were no signs of forced entry, and all the doors and windows were shut and locked.’

  ‘And no witnesses saw anything suspicious?’

  He shook his head. ‘We did a door-to-door on the neighbouring properties and no-one saw anything.’

  Bolt and Mo exchanged glances. What all these events meant, and what they had to do with the suicide of the Lord Chief Justice, was anyone’s guess. But there was a single, loose link connecting them, and that link was the Merons. The wife might be missing, but the husband was in custody. They needed to speak to him.

  Nicki Leverett gave them the number of the station where he was being held and Mo stepped away to call the CID there to make sure they held on to him.

  Less than a minute later, as Coombs was telling Bolt about his desire to join Special Branch and hunt down terrorists, Mo came striding back, his phone still glued to his ear. The expression on his face was grim.

  ‘Bad news, boss,’ he said. ‘They’ve only gone and released him.’

  13

  When it was obvious I wasn’t going to tell my interrogators any more, they reluctantly brought the interview to a halt. They gave me ten minutes alone with Douglas McFee, who said he’d do his utmost to get me released because of the obvious lack of evidence linking me to Vanessa’s murder. He looked like he actually meant it too – not least, I was sure, because then he could go home. After that, the two detectives came back and led me down to the cellblock, where I was given an empty cell at the end.

  ‘You’re going to have a bit of time to think now,’ said Caplin, holding open the metal door. His expression remained wearily sympathetic. ‘I want you to use it to decide whether there’s anything more you want to tell us about this case, because if you’re holding anything back, it’ll be a lot better for you if we hear it from your lips rather than having to find it out for ourselves. Do you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ I said, and turned away as the cell door was shut behind me and the key turned in the lock.

  It was a small room, ten by ten feet, with a single barred window high up on the dull grey wall, and a strip light overhead. A cast-iron cot screwed into the floor was the only furniture. A yellow plastic sheet covered the mattress, and it made an unpleasant crinkling sound when I went over and lay on it. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what was happening to me. I knew that Kathy couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder, not least because I’d run into the man who must have been the killer, and he was a lot bigger and stronger than my wife. Not that I would have thought her capable of it anyway. She was too good a person for that. I mean, she gave money every month to Great Ormond Street Children’s hospital; she bought the Big Issue from homeless people; she wept when she saw footage of famine victims on television; and, being a political person, she railed against the government corruption and Western double standards that brought such situations about. She was, I would swear on my own life, not a killer. But that still didn’t explain what her fingerprints were doing on the murder weapon. Nor did it explain where she was now and why she hadn’t been answering her mobile for the last four hours.

  It struck me then that I could easily find out whether Jack was dead. It would only take a quick word with Caplin and Sullivan; they’d be able to make the necessary enquiries. But if he was dead and the call he’d made to me came to light, then I might find myself in more trouble. It seemed a lot better simply to keep my mouth shut and my head down, and hope they let me go. Then I might be able to find out what the hell was happening out there, and also how a pair of my gloves that I hadn’t worn for at least two winters had ended up at the scene, which was something else I couldn’t for the life of me explain.

  I’d lied about the gloves, telling the police I’d never seen them before, and as I lay on that bed I wondered how on earth they’d got there. I also wondered whether I really knew Kathy. I’d always thought so, but now, after the events of this afternoon, I was feeling a lot less sure. Maybe she had some sort of secret life. Maybe Vanessa had actually converted her to lesbianism, and the two of them had been having a relationship. Kathy certainly worked long hours and was away from the house almost as much as I was, so there would have been an opportunity. But once again, that didn’t explain what a man in a balaclava had been doing waiting for me at the library, and it didn’t throw any light on why Jack had called me for the first time in years, and why somebody had murdered him as we spoke.

  When I thought of it like that, it all seemed so bizarre as to be almost laughable, but the throbbing of the cuts to my face and arm brought back to me the seriousness of what was happening. A man had tried to kill me today. On top of this, two people I knew had died violent deaths in separate incidents, and it looked like me, Kathy, or both of us were being set up for at least one of them.

  I realized that up until now I’d never really appreciated life because it had always been nicely set out for me. I had two beautiful, healthy children, a pretty, good-hearted wife, a nice house and a well-paid job that wasn’t exactly backbreaking. Yet I couldn’t remember the last time I’d woken up in the morning and thought of myself as truly happy. Life could always be better – that had been my underlying feeling. I could earn more money; I could have more free time; I could be thinner, better looking, more desirable to women. Never once had it crossed my mind that, as well as being better, life could also be a lot worse. And now, lying here with my wife missing, my house burgled and a murder charge for a crime I didn’t commit hanging over my head, I’d learned to appreciate it all only after it was too late.

  The key turned in the lock and I sat up on the bed in a sudden movement that made my vision turn fuzzy. It cleared as the door opened and Douglas McFee came into the room, battered briefcase in hand, a big smile on his round face.

  ‘I’ve good news, Tom,’ he announced chirpily, the word ‘news’ seeming to last for ever.

  ‘You’ve located Kathy?’ I’d asked McFee to try her mobile for me again and, although reluctant, he’d promised to do so.

  The smile disappeared as he approached the bed, stopping a few feet away. ‘I’m afraid not. But it’s something you’ll be pleased with anyway. The police have decided to see sense and release you on bail. They may want to question you again so have asked you to remain at your current address for the time being. And you’re to tell them if your wife makes contact. I know that sounds hard, but it’ll be for the best. If she is innocent of any crime – and, of course, I’m sure she is – then it’s best that she comes forward to clear her name.’

  ‘What’s the time?’ I asked him, not bothering to reiterate Kathy’s innocence. I could tell he hadn’t bothered to phone her either, the cheap bastard.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Five to eight.’

  So, where did I go now? Kathy was nowhere to be found, my children were with my mother-in-law, and my house felt pretty much out of bounds. It didn’t leave a lot of places. I felt like I needed a drink. Maybe a couple. There are few things that beat the consumption of alcohol in a crisis.

  I got to my feet and followed McFee out of the cell and through the corridors into the station’s main reception area. It was a small, drab space dotted with posters warning potential criminals of the supposedly dire consequences of their wrongdoing. Along the length of one wall were bulletproof Perspex screens behind which the police dealt with their customers. The latest,
two rat-faced teenagers in the delinquent’s uniform of big trainers, baggy jeans and hoodies, were being booked in by the same custody sergeant who’d dealt with me nearly three hours earlier. Their expressions were boredly defiant. Unlike me when I’d been brought in, there was no fear on their faces either.

  A younger copper appeared on the other side of the screen and took me to one of the other windows, where I was booked out. In the background, the phone was ringing. No-one made any move to answer it.

  ‘Thanks for your co-operation, sir,’ said the young copper as he got me to sign for the bag containing my possessions. He sounded so chirpy I thought he was going to add a ‘Don’t go being a stranger now’, but somehow he managed to resist it.

  I grunted something in reply, and asked if there was any chance of a lift over to the university to pick up my car.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re rather short-staffed tonight, sir. We can call you a taxi if you like.’

  The old saying that there was never a copper around when you needed one rang truer than ever. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I could probably do with the walk.’

  I gathered my stuff together, turned on my mobile and walked out of the double doors with Douglas McFee in tow. When we were on the steps, he handed me one of his business cards and told me to call him if the police needed to question me again. ‘I’d offer you a lift, but . . .’ he added.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m expected home. Graham’s cooked a special meal. Sea bream baked in rock salt, which won’t keep, and the university’s in the wrong direction. Take care, Mr Meron.’ With that, he gave me a comradely pat on the arm and hurried off down the steps, making me feel more like a leper than ever.

  I followed him down, and walked through the car park to the gate, imagining him and Graham munching away on a huge wet fish in their cosy parlour. For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I pictured McFee wearing a pair of clogs and a well-worn smoking jacket.

  I was also thinking that as well as a drink I was going to buy a pack of cigarettes and have my first smoke in almost ten years. My mood was beginning to change from terrified and confused to why-the-hell-not mode. But as I reached the gate, I heard someone shouting my name. I turned round and saw McFee standing by his car with his keys in his hand, waving over in my direction. It was him doing the shouting. Then I saw why. He wanted me to stop. Not, I suspect, because he’d had a change of heart and wanted to give me a lift, or offer me a fish supper. More likely it was because two uniformed officers were hurrying down the steps in my direction, looking very much like they wanted to speak to me.

  My first thought was that they’d finally located Kathy, and I was already preparing to walk back to them, when a second thought crossed my mind. What if whoever was trying to set me, or her, up had planted further evidence, giving them a fresh opportunity to do what they’d wanted to do these last three hours, and charge me with a killing I’d had nothing to do with?

  I had twenty yards on them, and I made a snap decision.

  Run.

  I turned and charged through the open gates and out onto the high street, where evening revellers were just beginning to gather. Dusk was turning to darkness, and I welcomed it. I didn’t look round, but I knew they were coming after me. One group of blokes in their twenties clustered outside a pub gave a cheer as I came hurtling past, and people stepped out of my path. Without warning, I did a jackknife turn and sprinted across the road, causing at least one car to brake suddenly. This time it didn’t hit me, thank God, and I kept going, darting up a side street, then up another, now finding myself in a plush-looking residential area of whitewashed Georgian townhouses. My lungs hurt; my cuts hurt; pretty much every part of me hurt. This really was turning into a bad day.

  I must have run two or three hundred yards when finally I slowed, and looked back. The street behind me was empty. Panting with exhaustion, I stopped and leaned against a low garden wall. Inside the house beyond I could see two middle-aged couples in the front room eating dinner. One of the men was filling glasses with a bottle of red wine. He was laughing at something, and I saw that the others were laughing too. Without a care in the world. I was only five yards from them yet they didn’t even look my way.

  And because I was taking the time to feel sorry for myself, I only vaguely heard the car as it came down the street and pulled up beside me. I thought about taking off again, but knew that there was no way I was going to outrun them, even if I had any strength left. I’d done too much running for one day, and it was clear that they were suddenly very keen to re-interview me.

  So I turned round, ready to tell them that I wasn’t going to say a word until they provided a better lawyer than Douglas McFee. But, of course, I never got the chance. A blurred figure in a cap was coming straight at me, taking up my whole field of vision, and before I could react or even get a glimpse of his face, he punched me once, very hard, in the stomach. As I doubled over, he grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me onto the back seat of a car, squeezing in behind and slamming the door shut behind him. There was a second man in the driver’s seat. He was also wearing a cap, and without a word he pulled away from the kerb.

  I tried to look at the man next to me, but now I could see that he had a black pistol with a short barrel in one gloved hand. He pushed it against my temple, forcing my head against the window, and for an awful, bowel-loosening second I thought he was going to pull the trigger. Then he spoke.

  ‘When I pull the gun away, you’re going to lean over and put your head between your legs and keep it there,’ he said evenly. ‘If you try to look at either me or my colleague, then before the end of the night you’re going to die. Do you understand?’

  I told him I did.

  ‘Good.’ He removed the gun and I did exactly as I was told, instinctively closing my eyes. A second later, I felt a blanket being flung over my head and upper body. ‘As long as you tell us everything we want to hear, you’ll be free in a couple of hours.’

  His words were meant to be encouraging, but since I still didn’t have a clue what it was they wanted, they weren’t.

  14

  Bolt cursed when he heard they’d released Meron. ‘I thought he was being held on a murder charge.’

  Mo shrugged. ‘They said there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him.’

  ‘How long ago did they let him go? Do you know?’

  Mo asked the question into the phone. ‘Literally just now,’ he told Bolt. ‘A couple of minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell them to see if they can see him anywhere. And if they can, get them to arrest him again. It’s essential we talk to this guy.’

  Calmly, Mo relayed the information into the phone, and waited while the officer he was speaking to reacted to it. A few seconds passed, then it was Mo’s turn to curse. ‘Are you sure? In that case, can you get some people out there looking for him? Sure, I know you’ve got resource problems. We’ve all got them.’ He pulled a face at Bolt and made the universal hand gesture to illustrate his opinion of the person at the other end of the line. ‘Well, if you can do something . . . Sure, sure . . . Thanks.’ He flicked the end call button on the phone and put it back in his jeans pocket.

  ‘He’s gone?’

  Mo sighed. ‘Yeah, he’s gone. They went out after him but he ran, and now they’re saying they haven’t got enough people on duty to try to locate him.’

  They were still standing on the Merons’ driveway with PCs Coombs and Leverett, and Bolt turned to them now. ‘If Mr Meron turns up here, can you call us on this number?’ He handed out business cards with his mobile number on them to the two officers. ‘Have you got a photo of him anywhere?’

  ‘The people over the road have,’ said PC Leverett.

  ‘Well, maybe they can let us have one.’

  The people over the road were a vaguely harassed couple called the Hendersons whose two young boys were charging about like wild animals, refusing to go to bed. Both Martin and Suzette Henderson described the M
erons as a perfectly ordinary, friendly couple who they couldn’t imagine getting involved in crime of any sort. Martin managed to find them a photo of the two of them taken at a barbecue the previous summer held in honour of their youngest son’s birthday.

  The photo seemed to reflect the Hendersons’ description. The Merons were indeed an ordinary-looking, if quite photogenic, pair in their mid-thirties, both smiling at the camera in front of a bright yellow and orange bouncy castle. He had his arm round her, and was holding a can of Fosters in his spare hand, while she had hold of a glass of red wine. They didn’t look like the sort of people who got mixed up with murder, but that didn’t mean that they hadn’t. As a young PC, Bolt remembered arresting a sweet-looking white-haired old lady of seventy-two who attended church every Sunday without fail, and was known as Nan by the neighbourhood children, to whom she would often distribute sweets. She’d even offered him a cup of tea after he and his colleagues had turned up to take her away for burying a meat cleaver in the back of her husband’s head, almost killing him. It turned out that she had an unusually high sex drive, and the husband had been refusing to service her needs. Things had got out of hand, and she’d lost her rag, something which under questioning she’d put down to a build-up of nervous tension caused by a lack of orgasms. It takes all sorts, Bolt reflected.

  As the two NCS men were leaving, Martin Henderson came out after them.

  ‘I don’t want to make a big issue of this,’ he said quietly, as they stopped to hear what he had to say, ‘because it may not mean anything, and I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bolt.

  Henderson sighed. ‘It’s just that things have been a bit strange with Tom and Kathy lately. I’ve seen him driving out late at night, then coming back in the early hours, and she’s been around a lot less than usual.’ He paused. ‘There’s also been fights. Big screaming matches, and they’ve never had them before. One time, Tom was even walking round with a black eye.’