Deep Shelter (23 page)

The only problem with the location of Hill View House was that you were on a near-vertical incline. But you had a view over the village and could see moonlight on the thin river at the bottom. Belsey imagined his suspect enjoying this, lording it over the little houses. Plotting and planning. He climbed over the fence and walked to the crest of the hill. It was windy. You could see what might have been Tilherst to the west. You could just make out the lights of the M4. The hill continued in a long ridge to the east, a plateau of rocky ground with heather and gorse clinging on. Hard digging. No obvious burial plots.

Belsey felt very distinctly that he was a long way from where he should be.

He walked back to the cottage. A place to retreat as you start your campaign. To keep police at bay as you prepare the game for them. He watched car headlights turn onto the track, moving through the pines to the gate. By the time he was back at the house the owner was climbing out of a mud-spattered Volvo. Caroline Mitchell wore green corduroy trousers, and a waxed jacket; she had blonde-grey hair, glasses on a chain. She looked aghast already.

“What’s he done?” she said.

“He’s in some trouble. What do you remember about him?”

“Nothing. I thought it was slightly strange, a man here on his own. That’s all.”

Belsey ushered her inside. Everything was a little tense with the guests there; drama wasn’t part of the holiday they’d been sold.

“How did he contact you?” Belsey asked.

“He called one day, said he was in the area and he’d seen one of my adverts in the village. He enquired about renting the cottage. It was just what he needed.”

“For what?”

“To get some peace and quiet. Seclusion.”

“Why did he want seclusion?”

“To work, he said.”

“What did his work involve?”

“I don’t know. Research, he said. He told me he’d be popping to London regularly, not to worry if he was away for a few days. I said I wouldn’t be interfering. Better things to do than nose.”

“But you took a look. A man here on his own, you’d swing by, check the place was OK.”

“Yes,” she conceded. “I had a look in, once. The place was full of papers.”

“What sort of papers?”

“Work papers. Photocopies.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Of whatever he was researching, I suppose. The papers were everywhere. Photocopies, letters, maps. You couldn’t see the carpet. It was a bloody mess.”

“Do you have any address for him? Contact details?”

She fished a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. She needn’t have bothered: “Mr. Ferryman, 12 Jigsaw Lane. London.”

“I don’t suppose he used a cheque or bank card?”

“No. He paid up front. In cash.”

“What a surprise.”

Belsey sat down on a low sofa by the cold fireplace. The other three remained standing as if they were visiting him and he was unwell.

“The metal in the bathroom is rusted,” Belsey said.

“I saw. Never used to be like that.”

“Not before Mr. Ferryman’s stay.”

“No. What’s it from?”

“Did he leave any rubbish? Empties? Packets or bottles?”

“A few bits and pieces.”

“Was there icing sugar?”

“Yes!” Now the owner of the cottage looked impressed.

“Vaseline? Bleach bottles? Vinegar?”

“Bleach, yes. Maybe vinegar. I didn’t itemise it all. How do you know?”

“Do you still have that rubbish?”

“It was collected this morning.”

Belsey pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and returned to the bathroom. He ran a finger along the shower head and down the pipes, then sat on the edge of the bath. So Ferryman wanted to show Belsey his lab. The rust was from exposure to chemical reactions, fast oxidisation he’d only ever seen in less cosy places stocking more martyr videos. Experiments in bomb making. Maybe there was one going off in London now. Maybe that was the punchline. When he looked up there were three faces at the doorway, peering in.

“Are we safe?” the male guest asked.

“I have no idea. Where can I get signal?”

“Up the hill,” the landlady said. She pointed him back to the garden. Belsey went downstairs, through the garden and over the fence, wondering whether to give a heads-up to the local police first or call Counter Terrorism and introduce them to Ferryman. Or perhaps just disappear, dive into the inviting and infrequently lit night of Wiltshire. He got two bars on his phone. He’d got twelve missed calls.

Seven from Kirsty Craik, five from Hampstead CID. Craik hadn’t left a message. The station had: “Call now.”

He tried Craik’s phone and it went to voicemail. He was about to dial the station when his phone rang. Trapping.

“Nick, where are you?”

“Why?”

“Are you with Sergeant Craik?”

“No. Why?”

“She’s gone missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re cutting out.”

“I can hear you.”

“No one . . . where she is.”

“When did anyone last hear from her?”

“Nick? . . . phone . . .”

BELSEY TOLD CAROLINE MITCHELL AND HER GUESTS
he’d be in touch. He cut back across dark fields, stuck his sirens on as soon as he hit the motorway. He got a signal the moment Piltbury’s rocky hillside left his rear-view mirror. Trapping answered in the CID office.

“Nick, where are you?”

“Coming back to London from Wiltshire. When was Sergeant Craik last seen?”

“We’re not sure. She was in the office briefly. We’re getting all the information we can.”

“Has anyone checked her home? The suspect knows where she lives. He broke into her car and saw post addressed to her.”

“There’s no one there. No indication she went home.”

Belsey was out of Wiltshire in half an hour. He coaxed the Skoda to one hundred and twenty on the M4, mind already searching London. Last missed call from Craik was 11:42 p.m. He tried to imagine Ferryman plucking her off the street. Not a woman who’d go without a fight. Could he have lured her somewhere? Would she have gone back down into the tunnels? She’d have told someone she was going. The west of the city closed around him. He was in the centre at 2:15 a.m., Hampstead five minutes later.

The CID office was on edge but they hadn’t called in other units yet. Reports were coming in from patrol cars: “No sign of her . . .”

Rosen said: “Northwood’s upstairs. He’s worried.”

“About time.”

“Wants to know what you know—about these tunnels, this suspect you were chasing.”

“Where was Sergeant Craik last seen?”

“She was here, Nick. She got some kind of tip-off about Jemma Stevens.”

“Saying what?”

“Someone knew where she was.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Kirsty legged it. No sign of her Mondeo.”

“The Mondeo was broken into. It had a smashed window. She wouldn’t have been using it.”

No one had checked what vehicle she was actually driving. Craik hadn’t signed anything out. Belsey called the duty Sergeant downstairs and told him to see if any CID pool cars were missing. He called back a moment later and said the Mazda estate was gone. Belsey checked traffic reports. Then he called the control room at the borough headquarters in Holborn. The Mazda would have Automatic Vehicle Location installed. Holborn said they’d establish its whereabouts and get back to him asap.

He called the storeroom. Craik had taken a new battery pack for a Taser at 10:15 p.m., not long after he’d left her.

Trapping entered the office holding a coffee, looking at Belsey with uncharacteristic alarm.

“Nick, you know Northwood’s upstairs . . .”

“The man we’re looking for was in Piltbury, Wiltshire, between the twenty-fourth of May and the seventh of June.” Belsey gave the cottage address. “He was making bombs. I still don’t have a name for him. Calls himself Ferryman. He’s the one who dropped off the package of hair on Tuesday night. He hasn’t come out of nowhere. Who the fuck is he?”

Belsey looked on his desk for a message from Craik. He couldn’t see one. He checked emails. Nothing. He went into Craik’s office and searched the place. On top of a messy pile of papers was an unopened envelope from Costa Coffee, labelled:
CCTV footage from 210 Haverstock Hill Store
. It had a disk inside. He pocketed it fast. There was nothing else connected to the investigation. So she’d got a tip-off and not written it down? Told no one?

Holborn control room called back.

“The Mazda you were asking about is on Amhurst Terrace, by Hackney Downs. It was involved in an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is the driver OK?”

“I couldn’t tell you. All I know is the car’s there now.”

Rosen interrupted. “Nick, Northwood.”

Belsey ran up to the meeting room. Northwood was sitting at a large, bare conference table, looking hot and uncomfortable. A thinner man in a grey suit sat beside him. Belsey didn’t recognise the thin man. He looked like Homicide Unit. He had greasy lead-coloured hair swept over his scalp. The room was stuffy.

“We’ve been trying to get in contact with you,” Northwood said.

“I was out of signal.”

“Do you have any idea where Sergeant Craik might be?”

“The car she was driving is in Hackney. There was an accident of some kind.”

“What was she doing there?”

“She was responding to a call, a tip-off. I don’t know any more than that.”

“How do you know it’s there?” Northwood asked.

“A bit of detective work.” Belsey felt his teeth grit. Time was being wasted.

“When were you last with her?” Northwood persisted.

“Last night, in the office.”

“How long have you known Sergeant Craik?” the thin man asked. He spoke languidly. There was something malnourished about him; chinless and disinfected.

“I mentored her a few years ago. I think we should check the Hackney location.”

“What have your movements been over the last two hours?” he asked. Belsey gathered himself. He’d spent three days braced for accusations and now he’d been caught off guard.

“I’ve been to Piltbury,” he said. “In Wiltshire.”

They looked at him more intently now. No one moved, yet the physical relationship between the three men shifted. Belsey checked the pair for kit: no cuffs, no radios. He doubted either of them had made a physical arrest in the last twenty years.

“Why were you in Wiltshire?” the man continued.

“The suspect was renting a cottage in Piltbury.” The man’s nostrils flared as he breathed in this information.

“What suspect?”

“I don’t have a name yet.”

“But you know where he takes his holidays.”

“We haven’t been introduced,” Belsey said.

“This is Detective Inspector Gary Finch,” Northwood said. “Answer his questions.”

Finch’s eyes were flat. He stared at Belsey and didn’t blink. Well I never, Belsey thought. DI Gary Finch—the investigating officer on the Powell hit-and-run. The man who had swept Powell’s death under the carpet. He wasn’t Collision Investigation, that much was clear.

“What have you done with her?” Belsey said. He felt the muscles in his hands tense. Finch looked curious and amused. Belsey stopped himself walking over to the man and grabbing him.

“What have
I
done with her?”

“Yes.”

Finch stonewalled: “Can you explain what this was doing in your hotel room?” He loitered on the word “hotel.” Then he reached beneath the table and produced a plastic evidence bag containing Craik’s bloodstained blouse. It had been stained in the course of her Tuesday-night foray underground, but that wasn’t what the blood seemed to say right now. Belsey felt something heavy heading towards him fast. It involved two tight, elegantly interlinked homicide cases with himself at the centre. “Her clothes were in your hotel room.”

“Yes.”

“Could you explain how that came to be?”

“She took them off there. Did you have a warrant to go into my room?”

“Yes,” Finch said.

Belsey knew what was coming. He saw himself sat in custody, staring at the cell graffiti and translating each minute into Ferryman’s escape.

“You were seen with her last night, involved in some kind of disagreement.”

“Were we?”

“In her office. Was it about Jemma Stevens?”

“What makes you say that?”

For his final trick the man produced Jemma Stevens’ purse. What a hand, Belsey thought. What a flush. He wanted to clap.

“OK. You win. There’s some documents I think you’re going to want. Maybe that will help.” Finch gave a slight nod. Northwood turned between them, confused.

“If her life is in danger,” Finch said, “I think that’s the best thing you could do. To step away from anything inappropriate.”

“I need to cooperate to ensure her safety, you’re saying.”

“I’m saying it would be wise if everyone did what they could to resolve this situation as quickly as possible.”

Belsey nodded.

“I’m going to be deeply appropriate,” he said. “All the way. I’ll get those papers. Then I want legal representation. One moment, gentlemen.”

He went down to the main office before they could protest, scooped up his bag and stepped onto the fire escape. The sky was edging indigo. He paused for a fraction of a second and felt himself signing a confession. Then he felt the clock ticking and went down to his car.

THREE A.M. MISSION INTO HACKNEY. IT HAD BEEN A
while. Through Canonbury, descending east, gentility loosening into the low-rise clutter of Kingsland Road. Hackney was oblivious to the night, grocers and kebab shops sailing neon-bright through the small hours. Insomniac as ever.

Finch, he thought. What grim crevice had he flown from? A well-connected one, it seemed. Belsey heard his own name on the police-band radio. “Arrest on sight.”

He sped deeper into Shacklewell. Past the Nando’s, onto Shacklewell Lane; past the mosque. Amhurst Terrace was dark and narrow, lights flashing at the far end: yellow recovery vehicle lights, blue police lights, no ambulance. The road was residential until the houses ran out; then you were heading for locked gates, an industrial estate, Hackney Downs. Black tarmac shimmered with petrol.