Identity Crisis (2 page)

‘The other big problem that springs to mind is communication. One visit a month and a few phone calls, isn’t exactly conducive to the success of the operation.’

‘That’s why I need you to get something for me.’ He told the visitor what he had in mind.

‘How can I do that? I can get it, that’s no problem. But how do I deliver it?’

The prisoner’s voice was barely above a whisper by now. ‘You need to find someone who’s due for sentencing soon. Promise you’ll pay their wife’s rent or mortgage for six months, a year even. Tell them if, and when, I get it I’ll authorize payment.’

‘What if you don’t get it? What if they’re caught?’

‘They won’t get caught, I’ll see to that. Nor will they refuse – if they know what’s good for them.’

‘This could take some time.’

The prisoner glanced at his surroundings. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of that, haven’t I? A lifetime of it.’

‘What do I do about money? This is going to cost to set up and I’m not exactly rolling in it.’

‘Go see my accountant. He’ll be expecting someone to contact him. Mention my name.’

‘Is that all?’

‘He’ll ask you for a password.’

‘And the answer?’

‘Tell him, Kosovo 1996.’

The visitor smiled. ‘I might have guessed it would be something like that. Is there anything else I should know?’

‘Only a warning. Watch out for the police. Don’t fall into the trap of underestimating your enemy. I did, and that’s why I’m here. One sniff of their activity and I’ll want to know as a matter of urgency. Especially if it’s a bloke called Nash. He’s the bastard who put me away and crippled me into the bargain. That’s a score
still to be settled.’

The rest of the hour-long visit was spent in planning. Even then, the time was too short. But then, they had lots to discuss.

Eddie Michaels was a career criminal. As such, it was hardly a prosperous career. If the police were to set up a squad to deal with disorganised crime, Eddie would have been one of their prime targets. A succession of bungled burglaries, slipshod shoplifting, luckless larceny and failed felonies had resulted in several custodial sentences.

As he stood in the dock aware that another enforced absence from hearth and home awaited him, Eddie’s main concern was for his partner Rosie and their large brood of offspring. Eddie wasn’t getting any younger and his prospects weren’t getting any brighter. He knew, sooner or later, he’d have to throw in the towel and try to earn an honest living. That looked like being later rather than sooner, given the sour-faced judge who’d been allotted his trial. From what Eddie had seen of the miserable old bastard, he reckoned he’d dish out the maximum sentence. His only cheering thought was that they’d dispensed with the death penalty.

Eddie hadn’t anything put aside for a rainy day and it looked as if it was about to start pouring down any minute. Nor would Rosie be able to supplement the meagre amount the state allowed convicts’ wives during their incarceration. In the past, she’d been able to draw a reasonable income by entertaining a select clientele who would pay handsomely to share what was Eddie’s by right. However, her looks were fading and her figure now distorted by repeated childbirth so that was no longer an option.

In the sparsely populated spectators’ gallery, one of the few attending the session studied the defendant, oblivious to the progress of the trial. The small, fat, balding felon would be ideal for his purpose, he decided. In fact, he’d already made a tentative approach to the man’s partner.

Jerry Freeman, following instructions, had been visiting the court on and off for a few weeks before settling on Michaels to undertake the task. He had already rejected a number of
candidates, whose unreliability was evident by their manner. Their unsuitability was down to a number of causes, either their offences being drug-fuelled, or down to personality disorders. Eddie Michaels was, strange though it seemed, a much more stable character, albeit a loser.

He glanced to the left, where Rosie was seated with two of the oldest of her brood. He wondered idly how many of them were Eddie’s, and if Eddie knew, or cared. Given Rosie’s former profession it seemed unlikely that Eddie could claim parentage for all of them. He smiled to himself as he recalled the opening of his conversation with Rosie. She’d been under the misapprehension that he had a totally different proposition in mind. However, once he made his intentions known, her enthusiasm was undoubted. Likewise, he felt sure of her ability to persuade Eddie to do the right thing.

For the man about to be convicted, a few hours’ discomfort was a small price to pay in return for payment of their rent for a year, together with a small allowance to secure Eddie’s silence and a bonus for the successful delivery of the mobile phone. As long as the prison authorities didn’t suspect anything and carry out a rectal examination, all would be well.

He caught Rosie’s eye and nodded. She smiled brightly at the man who’d made her the offer. She made a slight upward gesture with one thumb. That was it then: it was all systems go.

It was February, nearing the half-term break. DS Mironova entered Mike Nash’s office late on Wednesday afternoon. She stared at the floor, then at her boss. ‘You’re not bored by any chance, are you?’ She transferred her gaze back to the DI.

Nash smiled. ‘However did you guess?’

Clara indicated the dozen or so paper aeroplanes scattered around the carpet. ‘Deduction, I’m a detective, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘I’ve almost forgotten I’m one myself,’ Nash grumbled. ‘I’m thinking of going out and committing a crime just so I’ve something to detect.’

‘Nothing to distract you? No eager women falling at your feet?

No little assignations to look forward to?’

Nash winced. ‘Don’t remind me. Things are that bad I nearly asked you out.’

‘Thanks for the compliment. Put so flatteringly; it would have been difficult to turn you down. You’re so out of practice you’re even losing your natural charm. No numbers in your little black book? Better buy yourself a computer and try one of those online dating agencies. I understand there are some that specialize in the over forties.’

‘Now that’s below the belt. Anyway, was there a reason for you disturbing me when I’m so busy, or have you just come in to be impertinent?’

‘I wanted to ask if you’d anything for me to do. You’re not the only one who’s bored. Viv’s been monopolizing the computer most of the day. I’ve just found out he’s playing sudoku online. That’s how slow things are.’

‘Things might get a bit busier for you from tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten I’m taking Daniel to France. We’re leaving tonight, so I’ll be away until Monday.’

Clara smiled, Nash the devoted parent was still a novel idea to her. Over the preceding months she had grown fond of Daniel, having on numerous occasions had to act as babysitter or to collect the boy from After-school club, or the registered child minder Nash had selected, as he struggled to fit in his parental duties with that of a full-time police officer. On occasion, the strain had shown, and Clara was aware that part of Nash’s concern was the imperfection of the arrangements and the effect they might have on Daniel. Although Clara had no great love for the concept of boarding schools, Nash’s plan to send Daniel to his old school as soon as the boy was old enough, seemed to her the only solution. ‘No, I’ve not forgotten. Is he looking forward to the trip?’

‘Mixed feelings, I’d say. It must be difficult for a youngster. First, his mother died, then he was brought to a strange country to live with a father he’d never met, only heard of. I think the saving grace was that Monique told Daniel before she died that she wanted him to come and live with me and get to know me. Apparently, she used to talk about me a lot. Quite honestly, I’m
astonished he’s settled as well as he has. I just hope he doesn’t grow to resent me. Just as he’s settling in and getting accustomed to his new life and different surroundings, off he goes, back to France and what must be painful memories.’

Clara hid a smile. Although Nash couldn’t see it, to even a casual observer it was obvious that the boy adored his father. Clara certainly wasn’t about to tell Nash that. ‘Are you sure it’s the right thing to do?’

‘Yes and no. To be honest, Clara, I’m learning as I go along. But I promised his great aunt I’d take Daniel to stay with her for the two weeks of half-term. She’s far from well, and I think she’s scared if she doesn’t see him this time there might not be another chance. I can’t deny her that, or Daniel either. He may not be looking forward to it at present, but if he didn’t go and anything happened he’d feel rotten about it later.’

‘Have you checked the ferry sailings? In view of the weather, I mean?’

Nash grimaced. ‘They’re all right, as far as I know. The south coast seems to have escaped the brunt of the gales. The worst part might be the drive down.’

‘One good thing, this weather seems to have kept all the villains indoors. In their own doors, I mean. I’ve not known it as quiet as this for a long time. I even had Tom Pratt asking me if there was any filing to do. He’s bored stiff with no paperwork to deal with.’

Nash winced. ‘I thought you’d know by now, Clara, not to tempt fate like that.’

Mironova threw up her hands. ‘I know, I know,’ she mocked him. ‘Sod’s Law and all that. Listen, why don’t you get yourself off now? Before the phone rings, I mean.’

‘I think I will. Even if it does ring, it’ll probably only be the chief. She promised to let me know when she’s heard who our new superintendent is going to be, but she thought it would be more likely next week rather than this.’

The weather throughout February had been wilder than for many years. Heavy rain, brought sweeping in from the Atlantic by storm-to-gale force winds, lashed the north of England for much of the month.

The last Thursday in February was no exception. As night fell, the wind picked up. On the outskirts of Helmsdale in Wintersett village, close to the edge of Helm Woods, the small cottage, sturdily built though it was, received a continuous battering from the wind and lashing rain. The only occupant was watching television. At the window behind her, she could hear the leaves and branches of the ivy tapping and scraping against the glass. She felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck. She cast an involuntary glance backwards, towards the window, but could see little but the raindrops on the panes. On the TV, the forecaster was promising gales. No kidding, she thought. She began to relax, laughing a little at her fears. It had all been her imagination. She was sure of that now.

Again the tapping sound. Again the wind howling through the nearby trees. She stirred, she wished Brian were here. Normally, being alone didn’t worry her but tonight, things were different. Tonight, for some reason, she felt − not afraid − but unsettled.

She got up and went into the kitchen. She hated cooking for one. She wondered fleetingly if Brian would phone, then dismissed the idea: he was on a golfing holiday. That would be his excuse. Not that he actually made excuses. Not anymore, obviously didn’t think it was necessary. She wondered again about these frequent jaunts of his. Was he really that keen on golf? Not that she cared. She preferred it when he wasn’t there. And
that said more about the state of their marriage than anything. She knew she’d leave him if she’d anywhere to go, any money of her own. But he made sure that wasn’t feasible. What was it they called people like that? A control freak − that was it. These days they were like two strangers sharing the same house.

She stopped torturing herself and tried to concentrate. Her back was to the kitchen window. That gave her no chance to see the face peering in. Nor did she hear any sound the watcher might have made. The howling wind saw to that. The figure remained, watching, impassive, until she moved. Half a turn was enough.

She wasn’t sure why she looked out of the window. There was nothing to see. The night was pitch-black. She gave a shrug that was as much mental as physical, and turned back to her ingredients. Immediately her back was turned, the face reappeared. Watching: watching and waiting.

She felt restless and decided to delay preparing her meal until after the programme she wanted to watch on television. She poured herself a glass of red wine, returned to the lounge and settled down to watch her favourite soap. The familiar theme tune was just ending when the phone rang. She muttered something impolite and got up to answer it. She was halfway across the room when the ringing stopped. Whoever had been calling had changed their mind. Either that or it was a wrong number.

The wind was picking up, getting ever stronger. Now it was collecting small bits of debris, hurling them against the cottage walls, the doors, the windows. That must account for the new sounds she could hear. Mustn’t it? Or was it something else? Something more sinister.

Stop it, she told herself severely. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Then she heard it again, a squeaking sound. It came from the back of the house. It could be the sound of ivy against the kitchen window or a hinge creaking. That was it, surely. It couldn’t be anything else. Could it? She ought to go and check, but dare not. Fear was beginning to take over: irrational, but undeniable. It held her in the chair, unwilling to move.

All her senses were at fever pitch. Her ears strained for any sound that might not be connected to the storm. Was it her
imagination, or did it seem a little colder in the room? Had a door been opened letting in the cooler air? There! What was that? A footstep? Something moving outside? Or inside? She became aware she was gripping the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the lounge door as fear escalated. She glanced down; saw the knuckles white with stress. This is ridiculous, she told herself.

She looked back at the door. Fear turned to terror. The handle was moving. The door opened. As she saw the figure standing in the doorway, her terror multiplied. She screamed. ‘Who are you?’ she screamed and screamed again.

Nash glanced across at his companion. The boy was small, fair, almost angelically so, with blue eyes. Anyone seeing them together couldn’t doubt their relationship. Many had commented on the fact but Nash himself couldn’t see it. To him, Daniel was so much like his mother, although time was beginning to blur Monique’s memory. When he’d mentioned this to Mironova, he’d been taken aback by her laughter. ‘Nonsense, Mike,’ she’d told him briskly. ‘Daniel is like a miniature version of you. Hair, eyes, shape of face, that’s only part of it. He’s even picking up your mannerisms.’

‘Such as?’ Nash was intrigued. Like everyone else, he wasn’t aware he had any.

‘Staring off into the distance as if you’re not listening, when in fact you’re picking up every word, is one. Tilting your head slightly when you’re puzzling something out is another.’

Nash recognized that one. Not from himself, but from his son.

He looked at the clock. ‘Time to go, Daniel,’ he told him gently.

The boy looked up from the book he’d been pretending to read. The antics of the mouse and the Gruffalo were fun, but not at the moment. ‘Must we, Papa?’

‘You know we must,’ Nash’s voice was quietly firm. ‘I promised tante Mirabelle you could spend this holiday with her. Remember? She’s not well, and she’s old. You wouldn’t want to deny her the chance of seeing you, would you?’

France, the place of his birth and his home for all his life until his Mama had died, suddenly seemed a long way away, alien
almost. ‘No, Papa, but I don’t want … I mean … it’s a long time.’

‘A fortnight will soon pass when you get there. Don’t forget, I’ll be taking you there and coming to bring you home again.’

Daniel got to his feet and looked round the room. His new home, the home he’d shared with his papa for the last few months had come to mean a lot to the child. ‘Come on, son.’ Nash stretched out his hand. Daniel held it tightly, his small fingers gripping those of his father. ‘You’re sure you’ve got everything?’

Daniel nodded, too choked-up to speak. His small suitcase was already in the back of Papa’s new car. One of the first things Nash had done after Daniel’s arrival was to sell his motorbike, his beloved Road Rocket. In its place in the garage was a Range Rover. The car had become important to the small boy. He felt sure his papa had bought the car solely for his benefit.

He cast a wistful glance back at the flat as they drove away. It was all right Papa saying it would soon pass, but two weeks seemed an awfully long time to the six-year-old.

Friday is the worst day of the week on the roads. Especially if your journey is a long one. Everyone wants to get away, to get home for the weekend, to get to that last business appointment, to get to the supermarket, to get to school and pick up the children. The main roads and motorways are clogged with heavy goods vehicles and a host of others whose journey must be completed before close of business on Friday evening.

That is without taking the weather into account. If the weather is good, Friday is still a difficult day to travel. If it’s bad, Friday on the roads is a nightmare. For Doctor Johana Grey, travelling from Cornwall to North Yorkshire, all these elements combined to make her journey close to impossible. There may be worse routes to contemplate taking on such a day, but off the cuff, Jo couldn’t think of one. She was miserably reminded of the punch line to an old joke, ‘If you’re heading for Yorkshire, I wouldn’t start from here.’

However, she had no choice in the matter. Free time was hardly in plenteous supply. It never is when you start a new job. The problem with taking up a new position late in the year is that
everyone else has already booked their holidays, so you have to fit your own in as and when you can. She could have pulled rank, but that was not her way.

By the time she reached the Midlands, Jo had already been on the road for over five hours. The traffic bulletins were warning of a host of problems ahead but there was no way she could avoid these. The westerly gales that had struck that morning had brought with them prolonged torrential rain. Flooded roads had already caused her a couple of detours. Now, with no sign of the rain slackening, let alone ceasing, and the wind, to the dismay of the forecasters, strengthening rather than abating, the rest of her journey looked like prolonging her frustration.

She pulled into a motorway service area, as much for a rest as the coffee. As she waited for the drink to cool to a point where it didn’t strip the skin from the roof of her mouth, she took the opportunity to phone her sister. There was no response from the landline. Jo frowned, Vanda was aware that she would be en route, why was she not answering the phone? She glanced at her watch. Perhaps Vanda had gone into Helmsdale. Good Buys supermarket was one of Vanda’s favourite haunts. Maybe she’d gone there to stock up for their girlie weekend.

Not that this was the only reason for the visit, in fact, it wasn’t even the main one. Jo had arranged it earlier in the week. It would give her chance to collect the personal possessions she’d left with Vanda following her transfer a few months back. Even then, she wouldn’t have made the journey if Vanda’s husband had been at home. But that was only because Jo detested him.

She tried Vanda’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. Jo’s frown deepened. That was unusual. No, she corrected herself, not unusual, more like unheard of. Although she was over thirty, Vanda had embraced mobile phone technology with all the eagerness of a teenager. Jo settled for leaving a message. She returned to her coffee, which was by now approaching drinkable temperature. As she was sipping cautiously at it, she reflected on the message telling Vanda about the delays, warning her that she would phone again when she got nearer. She did a quick mental calculation and reckoned she would probably reach one of the
service areas around Sheffield somewhere close to 7 p.m.

Unfortunately, her sums did not allow for the carnage the weather was about to cause on the motorway ahead and it was past 8.30 p.m. before she pulled into the service area south of Sheffield. By then Jo was unutterably weary as she reached for her mobile. All tiredness fell away however, when she again failed to get a response.

It was at this point that the concern turned into heightening anxiety. Where was she? Was she ill? Worse still, had she suffered some form of accident? Jo thought about Vanda’s house. Its location, in the centre of woodland was remote, too remote for someone who might be in difficulty. Suppose the gales had brought one of those massive trees down on the house. She thrust that thought firmly away. Undeterred, it returned. She tried to recall how close the trees were to the house. Too close, she felt sure. A hundred nightmare scenarios flashed through her mind. Ignoring her own weariness, she buckled her seat belt and turned the ignition.

As she drove, her thoughts centred on the possible reasons for Vanda failing to answer. If the power was out, the phones wouldn’t work. And if Vanda had been without power, she’d have no means of charging her mobile. Even if it was charged, the nearest cell might have had its mast damaged. All logical reasons, all perfectly feasible. None of them easing her anxiety in the slightest.

As she approached Netherdale at the gateway to the dale, a series of bright flashing red and blue lights warned her of yet another incident. A tree was blocking the road.

‘I’m afraid this road will be closed for several hours,’ the police officer told her. ‘Your only alternative is to turn round, go back to the last junction and take the Bishopton road. That is, if you want to reach Helmsdale before morning.’

‘I’m actually heading for Wintersett,’ she told him. ‘Have you any idea how conditions are the other side of Helmsdale?’

The officer scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know about that, not for certain,’ he told her apologetically. ‘My information is a couple of hours out-of-date and, the way the weather is, things
are changing almost minute to minute. I’m not sure if Winter Bridge is passable. The Helm is running about five metres higher than normal in places. If that’s the case, all the low-lying ground near Winter Bridge could be under several feet of water by now.’

‘I shall have to risk it. I’ve driven all the way from Cornwall and I must get to my sister’s house tonight, somehow or other.’

Jo watched sympathetically as the officer fought his way to the next vehicle in the waiting queue, staggering as each fresh gust blew him off course. She put the Mercedes into gear and swung into an adjacent gateway leading to a farmer’s field, before turning to head back for the Bishopton junction.

She reached Helmsdale without further mishap, although several times she had to inch her way through puddles that threatened to meet in the centre of the country road. On two occasions, her headlights failed to pick up the danger in time and the steering wheel bucked and twisted in her hand, almost breaking free as the Mercedes ploughed into the floodwater at too high a speed.

She pressed on, switching the radio on, partly for comfort, but mainly to try to catch local news and traffic information. She blessed her own laxity. She had not retuned the set following her move to Cornwall, and Shire FM was still one of her pre-set stations. She was in time to catch the eleven o’clock news. The bulletin contained little else but reports of the great storm and its effects nationwide. From the local section of the bulletin, she learned that the River Helm had indeed burst its banks as the traffic officer had predicted, but that it had happened further downstream. The overspill had flooded a wide area of farmland and threatened homes in three or four villages. Although Jo felt momentary sympathy for those affected, she was thankful that the incident had relieved the pressure on Winter Bridge and the surrounding land.