Chasing Innocence (30 page)

Boer lightly patted a palm on the arm of his chair. ‘Have you checked out Brian’s ex-girlfriend?’

Ferreira paused, wary at Boer’s switch. ‘Don’t you want to know what we have on Ali?’

‘No,’ Boer said. ‘Tell me about the ex first.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. She’s my next stop. From her interview yesterday you’d think Brian Dunstan was the salt of the earth. Although obviously he fell short somewhere along the line, since they separated earlier in the year.’

‘If it was Brian that fell short,’ he added.

‘That was my assumption, Fran. What’re you thinking?’

‘That you should stop those damn assumptions of yours.’

‘That’s rich,’ she retorted, ‘coming from someone who had Sarah down as innocent based on her husband’s statement and a pretty face.’ Which came out a lot harsher than she intended.

‘There’s no assumption, Helen, as you well know. Just conclusions based on known facts. I’m not going to waste time trying to make Sarah a suspect, any more than I am Ali.’

She was surprised. ‘Ignore Ali? He’s genuinely one of the few who could have given Andrea up.’

Boer shook his head. ‘Not ignore, process. Focus on the investigation as a whole and not dwell on hunches and assumptions like you intend doing with Ali.’

‘Fran!’ A scowl shaped her features. ‘You know what I dug up on him. The mother was right. Ali has a finger in just about every pie, prostitution and porn to name just two. Kidnapping and extortion is not a great leap.’

He managed a wan smile. ‘Helen, you’re such a bloody Catholic sometimes. Is he under investigation for any of those or ever been charged?’

She raised her shoulders in a half shrug. ‘You know the answer to that but he is being investigated by the Inland Revenue for tax evasion and fraud.’

‘But not for prostitution or for contributing to our flourishing porn industry?’

She shifted in the chair and the wicker protested. ‘No.’

‘So does the leap from tax evasion to child kidnapping seem just as likely?’

‘That’s mean, Fran, I’m just trying to work an angle here.’

He stared at her over his cup, swilled a mouthful and swallowed. ‘So start focusing on what is important, Helen. Check him out, sure. Just don’t waste time searching for detail that isn’t there. Not until what you have pulls you in that direction. Hunches are for mystics and amateurs. You’ll end up missing the important detail.’

She waited on him to continue but he just looked patiently at her.

‘And the important detail, oh wise one?’

‘I keep telling you. Why did the girl hide that number?’

‘Girls love their secrets, Fran, you always say that.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘If I knew any more I’d tell you. From what I know I only see innocent intent in her having Ali’s number. So why hide it?’

‘All sorts of reasons.’ Ferreira smoothed an invisible crease from her trousers. ‘Maybe you should be thinking about why she was hiding the number of a man being investigated for tax fraud. A pretty white girl will fetch a packet for anyone who can get her out of the country. These are difficult times, people do the weirdest things.’

‘They do and you may be right,’ he conceded. ‘I’m just asking you not to get sidetracked and lose sight of the facts. Find a link to Ali and prove me wrong but don’t get lost trying to find it.’

Her dark eyes gleamed. ‘Lose sight of the facts Fran, a good Catholic girl like me?’

‘For that reason especially, Helen.’

They smiled at each other and the weight lifted from them both.

‘You’re just frustrated because you’re ill. I forgive your grouchiness.’

‘Why, thank you,’ he replied.

They sat in silence while she drank her cappuccino, savouring the smooth taste while her eyes roamed across the bookcases. She tossed the empty cup into the bin.

‘I always wondered, why does a man who doesn’t believe in God have so many books on religion?’

He followed her gaze. ‘That just occurred to you now?’

‘Well, no,’ she answered. ‘I often think about it, I just never got round to asking.’

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Just because I don’t believe in a God doesn’t mean I didn’t spend a great deal of time looking.’

‘And in all that looking you never saw God in anything?

‘Of course I did, there’s a lot to wonder at. We look around and we all see the same beauty, Helen. You see it as a consequence of divine intent, I see the product of time and chance.’

She studied him as she thought about his words. There was something final in his tone. She saw now the man and not the aura of the detective she practically idolised. His hands were so thin, his body so frail, his skin grey. It looked like he had aged years in just one night. She could not recall seeing him this ill even when he was being treated. ‘You aren’t going to die on me are you? I’m counting on you at least till the end of the case.’

He smiled and lied, ‘Not yet, Helen.’

‘Good,’ she grinned back at him, ‘although I’d quite like to see your face when you do find yourself in heaven.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘I might descend.’ He patted the arm of his chair again. ‘What time do you have to be in make-up?’

She pulled a face. ‘Eleven.’

‘Where?’

‘Town hall, in Reading.’

‘Nice suit.’

‘Thanks. It didn’t look this blue at five am. What’s worrying you, Fran?’

He lied again, ‘Nothing.’

‘Something is, do you want me to call the doctor?’

‘No, that’s not it.’

‘What then?’

‘Nothing really. You know how I get if I’m housebound.’

‘I do. And don’t you worry about me and my assumptions, you’re ingrained upon my psyche, Fran. You always eventually lead me to unemotional assessment in the end. And if you’re worried about my star turn on TV, then don’t. I’ve already been issued with instructions to only speak when spoken to.’ She looked over at the case file. ‘Hope you haven’t been going through that all night!’

‘Nope,’ he answered honestly, glad they were off the subject of gods and death.‘Did you get a look at the diary?’

‘Did you?’ she answered.

‘Barry rattled off the highlights after we covered the CCTV. Said it was remarkable for the fact there was absolutely no detail on her time in Hambury at all.’

Ferreira nodded. ‘That’s about the extent of it. They have a psychologist going over the detail but there’s barely a word on her visits, save for a record she was here.’

‘Poor kid. She knew her dad would get into trouble if anyone read what actually happens when she’s here.’

‘Either way, Fran, I can’t see this ending well for Brian Dunstan, can you?’

‘Nope. Although I doubt Dunstan’s worried about social services right now, just his daughter’s future.’

‘Which is slipping away from us, especially today.’ The frustration lay heavy in her voice.

‘Yes.’ Boer rapped his fingers thoughtfully against the case file. ‘I can’t imagine Simon would have used the address in Cleethorpes unless he thought it safe. How safe we will know when we talk to the letting agency. On the off chance I requested Lincolnshire send a list of all the 999 calls made through Saturday and Sunday. The station rang to say that arrived. There were over three thousand hoax and silent calls in Cleethorpes and Grimsby alone. I got the station to check the address against the list, but there was no match. Unless we get more data to cross-reference, the list is useless.’

The wicker creaked as Ferreira shifted to the edge of the chair. ‘You’re more productive than me even when you’re housebound. Can I get you anything before I go?’

‘I’d die for some marmite on toast?’

‘Sure.’ She paused at the door. ‘Is that wise?’

‘It could swing either way.’ He winked at her.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Adam stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, examining his collection of bruises. There were several across his ribs and back, ranging in tone from yellow to purple, the same across his thighs and shoulders. A dark horizontal bruise under each eye made him look like a skinny American Footballer. His body ached painfully. Mentally he was still in shock, reeling from the belief he would die on the beach at the hands of the two blond men.

For all these emotions his overriding sense was of relief. He was alive and looking at his reflection. The bruises would heal. His skin would soon return to an expanse of smooth skin. He had seen Brian’s burns that morning.

After checking in the night before, Brian had directed him to the room and then immediately went in search of the night porter. The first Adam knew he was back in the room was when he woke to daylight and the sound of the shower. Then Brian had stepped from the bathroom.

No amount of imagining could have prepared him for what he saw. Brian’s left shoulder across to and down his right arm, his entire back down to the base of his spine, down and around to his right thigh, looked like it had been flayed, covered in lumpy red flesh with occasional patches of melted skin in a hardened sheen. It looked plastic but was not. It was so disfigured Adam had to swallow rising bile to stop from being sick.

Brian looked back at him as he pulled his clothes from the radiator, instructed him to stay put and then left. That had been an hour ago.

Adam waited, alternating his attention between the view over an industrial park and the clock beneath the TV glowing green. It was 8:26, the sounds of the hotel were of the morning, doors slamming, guests leaving and cleaners moving from room to room.

He flinched at a sound outside and the click of the lock, and then Brian swept in. He emptied two bags onto the bed. Two sets of jeans, T-shirts and underwear, two lightweight jackets. He immediately started tugging free the tags, then threw him something small that landed heavily on the spare bed.

‘What’s that?’ Adam reached forward and picked it up.

‘What’s it look like?’

He weighed it in his hand. It was about the size of his phone but heavier and narrower. A solid moulded handle that curved neatly in his palm, a thick length of metal embedded within. A button sat beneath his thumb which he pressed. The blade sprung free, full of menace.

‘What would I use this for?’

Brian stripped off his clothes and pulled on a fresh set of jeans. ‘From the look of you this morning some last line of defence might be in order.’

‘But how, how would I use it?’

‘Hopefully you don’t. It’s the very last thing you want to use. You’ll know if the time comes. Keep it stashed. If you have to, go for calves or thighs or arms. Just punch it in there. Don’t go face to face with anyone. If they’re half decent they’ll take you out in a beat, then they might get a mind to stab you back.’

Adam felt a little indignant at the dismissive summary of his capabilities, as accurate as they were. He carefully folded the blade back into the handle, not sure where to put it. He dropped it onto the bed.

‘What about the car?’

The keys landed on the bed beside the knife. ‘You won’t be needing those. Hope you took out the comprehensive cover.’

Adam groaned. ‘What did they do?’

‘No idea. It’s gone. Couldn’t find it anywhere on the promenade.’ Brian pulled on one of the jackets, tested it across his shoulders and shrugged it off, reaching for the other one. ‘I had a chat with the porter last night. Grimsby has a football club.’

Adam faintly recalled this but struggled to understand Brian’s point.

‘Three lions?’ Brian prompted.

‘They have three lions in their logo?’

Brian shook his head. ‘Grimsby and Cleethorpes are part of the same sprawl. Cleethorpes is prettier, Grimsby’s industrial. It was the biggest fishing port in the UK until Iceland took back their chunk of the North Sea. The fishing industry died but there was still demand, so the Icelandic fleets used the facilities here. Now Grimsby’s full of international businesses with a strong Nordic twist.’

‘You mean the logo on Simon’s T-shirt was three fish, not three lions?’

Brian smiled in return and Adam pulled the remaining clothes off the bed and put them on, working the logic. His logo analysis had been laborious, getting as far as international and top tier teams. Grimsby had not been one of them.

Brian had more to say. ‘So we’ve got a Nordic influence and our blond Americans. Which is bollucks I’d say. I met a Swedish guy while I was seconded to the UN, had the damnest American accent. Reckoned he got it from watching American TV, it’s all they ever watch.’

Adam mentally flicked through the inconsequential detail he had seen on his computer the night before. ‘Simon is self-employed. Before that he only worked for one other company; Thompson Deep Sea. I assumed it was a family business.’

Brian moved his change and pocket junk from his old jeans to the new. ‘So we could see whether Thompson Deep Sea became Nordic Deep Sea or something. They might have offices here, they might know Simon. Do you think that’s something you could do if we found you a computer?’

‘Possibly. It would be a case of searching the net and hoping the data is already out there. I don’t have access to that kind of information at work.’

Brian blinked back at him. ‘You eat yet?’

The last thing on Adam’s mind was eating, the thought of it made him queasy. He answered with a shake of his head.

‘Good,’ Brian stated. ‘The porter saved us two full English and a large pot of hot coffee.’

FIFTY-EIGHT

Internet cafés were scarce in both Grimsby and Cleethorpes. They eventually found a book store with a hand-written sign in the window, with an ancient computer set at the back in the Children’s section. Accessing the internet required feeding coins into a box bolted beneath the desk, which left little room for Adam’s legs.

He started by checking the news sites for updates on the Andrea story. Most had been rewritten with additional speculation, the main event was the midday press conference. He then researched Thompson Deep Sea and cross referenced the results with Simon Thompson. The only information he found was a minimal website with a single picture advertising a trawler for hire. Squinting at the image, he read the name on the bow,
Cutting Blue
. There was a UK email address in the boat’s name but all the other links on the page were dead ends. He fired off an email but it was returned almost immediately as undeliverable.