Born in a Burial Gown (34 page)

Fluke was surprised. It could have been anyone with clearance which meant every officer and half the civilian staff. The head of IT? ‘Are we sure, Longy? You can’t accuse civilians of anything without their unions getting involved.’ It was a constant gripe of police officers everywhere that their police staff colleagues had the protection of their union in work matter whereas the police themselves were banned from joining one.

‘Yeah. No doubt. He tried to hide it. Used different machines and changed his password enough times to try and confuse it, but it’s him.’

‘When?’

‘Three times in total. Once was a PNC check. Diamond’s not on so he logged out straight away. Went to a different machine and logged back in. Checked SLEUTH, but there’s hardly any intelligence on him. Lots on the rest of the family but Kenneth Diamond seems clean.’

‘And the last time?’ Fluke asked. He suspected he knew the answer.

‘It was the day before she made the rape allegation, boss.’

So, she’d someone on the inside, someone who could check a potential mark for her, make sure the police wouldn’t be able to identify him before she had a chance to get paid. Once the target was identified, Fluke assumed she’d go to work, research him and prepare. One final check of the system to make sure nothing had changed, and she’d go for it. Careful. Clever.

It got her killed.

‘For Cross to find out who the target was in Cumbria though, he’d have to find out who’s being searching for names without getting results. Can we check that?’

‘Already on it, boss. That’ll take a while though. I’ll have to write a programme to search. It probably won’t be a Cumbrian. I assume he has a contact in the police somewhere. It’d be a bit of a coincidence if it was Cumbria.’

Fluke agreed it was unlikely. ‘I want a name though, Longy. Whoever it was caused all this carnage, he said. ‘We got an address for Tait? I may go out now.’

Tait’s address was suspicious enough. Bassenthwaite Village. Picture perfect. Unspoiled. Sitting at the eastern end of Bassenthwaite Lake, it was out of the price range of the average working man unless you were lucky enough to inherit property there.

‘Anything I need to know about him, Longy? I’ve never met him.’

‘Nothing I can see, boss. He’s not been here that long. He may not be in; the system has him on leave this week.’

‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘I may have a run across and see the bastard anyway. It’s only an hour away.’

When Fluke had finished with him, he’d make sure that he was implicated in the murder of Diamond and Farrar. It happened from time to time that unauthorised searches of databases took place. Police officers had been sacked for checking out their daughter’s new boyfriends or potential next-door neighbours when they moved house. They’d been stupid. Tait’s unauthorised use was different. It was criminal. ‘What’s he look like, is there a photo?’

‘No, no photo. Spoke to someone in the department. He’s in a wheelchair. Some spinal injury.’

Fluke had no qualms about treating a wheelchair-bound man as harshly as an able-bodied person. One of the most dangerous sex offenders he’d ever met was in a wheelchair.

‘Right, I’m setting off now. I’ll ring the duty officer with an update. He’ll probably deny the whole thing anyway. If I nick him, I’ll send for a van,’ he said.

‘You sure, boss? Have you seen the weather? It’s going to turn bad and they’re not good roads out there.’

He looked out of his kitchen window and thought it should probably wait until the morning. Tait didn’t know they were onto him as far as he knew.

He looked at the pasta congealing in the pan.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I’m going.’

***

It was a foul night. Cold, dark and spitting. Heavy clouds grumbled overhead in anticipation of the storm they were readying to unleash. A Cumbrian winter living up to its reputation.

After ten minutes, the light rain had turned into a monsoon, each raindrop exploding on the road ahead of him like small grenades. Fluke knew he should really turn round, the hidden dips and bends, dangerous enough in good light and fine weather, were making driving treacherous. He also knew that if the rain stayed like this there would be a fair chance the road would flood. He thought about Samantha, lying in a grave of wet mud and clay. She may have been ruining lives but no one deserved to die like that. He set his windscreen wipers to double speed, gripped the steering wheel harder and drove on.

The weather was making other road users drive slowly and Fluke impatiently sat behind an old Volvo until he saw the signs for Keswick. He drove through the town, deserted in the downpour, and took the Bassenthwaite road. Visibility was down to ten yards.

After a few miles, a flash of lightening highlighted Binsey, one of the smaller and less well-known fells, and he knew the Bassenthwaite turn off was less than half a mile ahead of him. Fluke slowed and turned right.

As he drove up the narrow, twisting lane that lead to Bassenthwaite Village, his double beam picked up a sign for a Christian retreat, a sign warning drivers to watch out for red squirrels and a bicycle with a wicker basket leaning against a wooden fence. The trees were so close and the road so narrow that they formed a canopy. During summer it would be like driving through a magical green tunnel. In winter, the entwined leafless branches gave Fluke the impression he was driving into some monstrous funnel-web spider’s trap. It looked a scene from a Tim Burton film and although his heater was turned up to twenty-eight degrees, he shivered.

The trees thinned within half a mile and his BMW’s bright halogen bulbs highlighted one of most picturesque villages in Cumbria. Despite the weather, it looked like a scene from a postcard, a scene unchanged for hundreds of years. If McNab’s Pinegrove represented the desperation in Cumbria, Bassenthwaite represented the charm. It was a village unspoiled by tourism. It didn’t really have streets in the traditional sense; it was more a collection of whitewashed cottages that just happened to occupy the same beautiful landscape.

Sitting at the edge of Bassenthwaite Lake and nestling under the shadow of the imposing Skiddaw, Fluke couldn’t think of a place he’d like to live more but he knew the property prices were always going to be out of his reach. He could save for a hundred years and never be able to afford to live there. Properties were rarely put up for sale, houses and farms passed down the generations, families unwilling to take the inflated prices they could get in favour of staying. Fluke knew he earned more than Tait and wondered how he could afford to live there.

He looked at his phone, and the directions Jiao-long had texted him. Fluke had to drive through the village for a hundred yards, and Tait’s house would be on the left, on its own. It wasn’t a well-lit village, most of the old Cumbrian villages weren’t, but after a couple of wrong turns, Fluke eventually found it.

It was set back from the road and sat at the end of a drive that Fluke estimated was about sixty yards long. Few houses in Bassenthwaite had numbers and Tait’s was no exception. Two large pillars, hewn from slate, flanked either side of the entrance, remnants of what would have been an impressive gate. On one of them, ‘The Lodge’ was engraved, the letters filled with whitewash to highlight them.

Fluke had planned to park at the side of the road and walk up the drive, but with the rain still hammering down, he drove up the inclined drive and parked right outside Tait’s front door. He turned off the engine but left the headlights on while he surveyed his surroundings. It was a cottage in every sense. Single-storey with a whitewashed, ivy-covered front. Big wooden door and a front garden that would undoubtedly be full of flowers later in the year. There was one other car in the drive. Fluke looked for a bell and couldn’t find one, so he used the large brass door knocker. The wind made it impossible to hear if anyone was coming so he was surprised when the door opened immediately and warm light spilled out into the cold winter darkness.

He stared.

Gibson Tait wasn’t what Fluke had expected.

Despite being confined to a wheelchair, Fluke could see Tait was in better shape than he was. He tried not to have preconceptions of what people should look like but when Fluke heard head of IT, he expected an older version of Samantha’s neighbour William. Tait looked as if he should be hosting a survival programme on TV rather than working in an office.

He had dark hair and dark eyes and, despite the chair, probably had no problems attracting women. Or men, if that was his thing. He was wearing typical Cumbrian fare; checked shirt and strong denim trousers. He looked at Fluke with mild curiosity. There was certainly no panic. He smiled encouragingly.

Fluke introduced himself and showed his warrant card and badge. Tait invited him in. There was still nothing more than curiosity on his face.

The second thing he noticed was that being confined to a wheelchair in the cottage had its advantages. Fluke guessed the cottage was at least two hundred years old. Standing, Tait would have been taller than Fluke, and the cottage had the low ceilings and doors favoured by previous generations who had been statistically shorter in stature. He had to duck through a doorway as he followed Tait into the kitchen. It was small but surprisingly modern and Tait asked him if he wanted a coffee. Fluke was going to say it was too late, but having one would give him an excuse to stay a bit longer if he needed to.

‘Yes, please, Mr Tait. Black.’

‘Please call me Gibson, or Gibb, Inspector. I’ll fire up the machine,’ he said, as he filled up an expensive-looking pod-style maker, and slotted in an espresso. It was soon spitting it out and the room filled with the aroma of fresh coffee as the cup filled. He topped it up with hot water from the kettle and handed it to Fluke. He slotted in another pod and repeated the process.

‘There’s a pitcher of fresh cream in the fridge. You sure I can’t tempt you?’ he said, wheeling himself across the kitchen.

Fluke declined and Tait opened the fridge door, stretched up and took a small ceramic jug from the shelf. He poured a liberal amount into his mug and took an appreciative sip. He gestured to Fluke to take a seat at the small breakfast bar.

Fluke placed his steaming mug on a coaster and asked, ‘Mr Tait, do you know why I’m here?’ It was an informal interview but Tait could end up on the wrong end of a conspiracy to murder charge. Fluke wasn’t going to use first names just yet. He might have to arrest him later.

He took another sip of his coffee before answering. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Inspector.’

Fluke couldn’t quite place his accent. It was English but not Cumbrian. ‘How long have you worked in Cumbria, Mr Tait?’

Again, he paused. Had another drink. Completely calm. ‘I’ve been here just over six months. I was working in Sussex for the council before that, sorting out their waste management software on a freelance basis. Although I’m in the chair most of the time, I wanted to live somewhere with fresh air and mountains. This job came up. I applied and was appointed. Didn’t hurt I was in this,’ he said, pointing at the wheelchair.

Fluke paused. He knew the force had disability recruitment targets the same way they had ethnicity targets. He’d never given it a lot of thought before. ‘Can I ask why you have to use it?’

‘I was injured playing rugby at school when I was fourteen. An incomplete spinal cord injury. Anterior cord syndrome is the formal condition.’

Fluke looked at him, nonplussed.

‘It means I have some feeling below the injury, but I’m paralysed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Fluke said. Tait didn’t seem bothered by his intrusive questions on a Saturday night.

‘I try to keep myself as fit as I can.’ There was no trace of bitterness or anger in the matter-of-fact way he said it. ‘I tried out for the British wheelchair rugby team for the 2012 Paralympics but couldn’t get the sponsorship. Trained every day for three years but all the money goes to wounded veterans these days,’ he said. ‘Quite right too,’ he added.

Despite himself, Fluke was warming to Tait. He wondered if his corruption was motivated by money and whether it was to get enough together for the 2016 games in Rio. Fluke had never had a grand dream like that and didn’t know what he’d do to realise one if he did.

As he picked his coffee back up, it dawned on Fluke that the previous year he’d broken the law to stay in the police. His reasons looked petty in comparison to Tait’s. He was going to take responsibility for his crime after the case but, for Tait, it would be that night.

‘What’s this about, Inspector?’

‘I’m sorry to ask you this but we’ve traced an unauthorised use of PNC to you. A name was checked. Twice and once on SLEUTH. That person’s now dead. Murdered.’

That’s got his attention
, Fluke thought. Visits from FMIT late at night weren’t the norm. He imagined that as soon as he identified himself as someone who wasn’t in PSD, Tait had relaxed slightly.

‘When?’ he asked. He was watchful but didn’t look worried, and that worried Fluke.

‘I can’t remember the exact dates. Twice, a month or so ago. The other time a few days ago. The woman you passed them to is dead.’ Fluke decided enough was enough. He knew he had him, time to stop playing nice. He put down his cup. ‘And you, Mr Tait, are well and truly in the shit. You decide if you sink or swim in it, and you decide right now. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll do my best to keep a conspiracy charge off the table.’

Fluke thought there was surprise in Tait’s expression, but the fear he’d been expecting still wasn’t there. If it was, he was hiding it well.

‘I’m assuming this last date wasn’t when I was on leave? I’ve been off for nearly a week. Spine tingles I call them. The doctors call them something else. Something to do with the electric impulses. I prefer to use leave to manage my disability, rather than go on the sick.’

‘The dates match,’ Fluke said, hoping Jiao-long had triple-checked. That’s all Fenton would need to suspend him, wrongful harassment of a disabled man.