Requiem Mass (36 page)

He was acutely conscious that he could be talking to the killer rather than a potential witness, so he played down the connections, repeating nothing that hadn’t already been mentioned in the press. ‘All the evidence so far points to Rowland – I can’t tell you more until I know who you are and why you’re being so evasive.’

‘I’m sorry but I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. At the least I could lose my job for this. But it was your description of the women. We all discussed it and the other two were determined to keep quiet but I decided I couldn’t have another death on my conscience. I have enough of those as it is. I’ve got kids, you see – about the same age as that woman’s. It brings matters very close.’

‘Tell me your name, and those of the other two. How do you know Vic and why have you decided to talk to me now?’

‘My name’s Jim Bayliss, but I’d prefer you not to use it. My rank’s an irrelevance. Vic and I were in the same unit before he left. We were also mates, which makes this hard. But Vic is not a murderer, not by nature. He’s ill, very sick and he needs help. Seeing you on TV I decided he probably stood more chance if he was found by you than by anybody else – and I think he needs to be found soon for everyone’s sake.’

‘Right. I’ll need to see you, interview you. I must know everything you know about Vic and what’s going on. When can we meet? I’ll come to wherever you say.’

‘Won’t the phone do? I’m not sure we should meet.’

‘Listen, it’s gone three in the morning. I’m standing in an open kiosk and it’s starting to rain. I know you must be nearby and I need to meet you. For all I know you could be Rowland, or a hoaxer, or a member of the press. I can’t base the rest of my investigation on one suspect phone call.’ There was a short pause. Fenwick could feel the man weighing up the odds.

‘OK, we’ll meet. Wait, don’t say
anything
, just listen.’ The man’s tone grew more insistent. ‘You might be being watched. Don’t scoff, you don’t know these people. Just in case they are following you, I want you to play to the gallery. In a minute, I want you to act as if I were refusing to meet you or to say anything. We can see each other tomorrow, first thing, 0630 hours. Do you know Beckett’s Farm, out near Cuckfield? Good. I’m calling from the phone box in the lane opposite. I can see a barn to the right as I look at it, near the road. It’s big enough to drive a car into and it’s screened from the main farm building. I’ll meet you there. Needless to say, come alone. I’ll leave you to do your Olivier now. Good night, Fenwick.’

The line went dead. Fenwick felt a fool standing there, pretending to listen and an even bigger fool about the charade he then kept up for several minutes before slamming the phone down and storming off to his car. It was nearly 3.30 in the morning but he needed to call Cooper. Hazarding a guess that he would have gone home after interviewing the man in Watford, however late, he rang the number from his car.

‘Cooper?’

‘Uh?’

‘It’s Fenwick. I need to see you. Meet me at my house in half an hour.’

He let himself into the still house quietly. By the time Cooper arrived he had showered, shaved and changed. A full grill of sausage, bacon and tomato was sizzling gently, a frying pan stood ready for the eggs and a warm dinner plate groaned under a mound of white and brown toast.

The mixed aromas of strong fresh coffee, hickory smoke, and sage and onion made Cooper’s mouth water as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. His stomach was wide awake. He eyed the DCI suspiciously. He doubted the man had slept, yet he was clear-eyed and looking at least ten years younger.

‘I thought we’d need a good breakfast, a farmer’s breakfast, before we start the day. I suspect it’s going to be a long one.’

‘You’re on to something.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I think so. Yes, I think I am, if we’re lucky. Come with me.’

He left the grill gently bubbling and took Cooper into the downstairs shower room. The sergeant regarded him with grave concern.

Behind the camouflaging rush of the shower he relayed, word for word his conversation with Bayliss. It took a matter of minutes only but by the end of it Cooper was pink and damp inside his summer-weight tweed.

‘It could be a hoax, of course, but I don’t think so. Anyway we’ll find out in a couple of hours. We’re meeting at 6.30. He want’s me to go alone …’

‘You’re not going to, surely?’

‘Of course not. We’re going to leave a note at the station with the duty sergeant and you’re going to come with me – stay under cover and make sure the station knows exactly where we are. If I’m not out of the barn within fifteen minutes you’re to ring for backup.
Don’t
come in on your own. And make sure we get fingerprints from the phone box. Now, I need to know what happened in Watford. Is it innocuous enough to tell me over breakfast?’

Cooper thought and then nodded – there was only so much steam a man could take.

‘Lenny Dilks was in the army, with Rowland, in the Fusiliers. He now acts as a gamekeeper at a commercial shoot. He remembers Rowland from then, remembers him because he says he was an exceptional soldier with an excellent reputation. Dilks was a young lad, only eighteen, and he clearly hero-worshipped the man. He didn’t have a bad word to say for him and was keen to see us to “set the record straight.”’

‘So no rumours, dark stories about him?’

‘None. The opposite. Apparently Rowland was decorated while Dilks was serving under him. He saved the life of someone when they were on a training exercise. The man fell from a mountain in Snowdonia and the weather turned, preventing a full search. Rowland carried on looking in sub-zero temperatures and found him – carried him back. To hear Dilks speak you’d think it was a one-man rescue mission.’

‘So what happened to our hero then?’

‘Apparently he was commended later, for bravery in the Gulf. Dilks was cagey on the details. After that he was posted from the regiment. Dilks doesn’t know where but knew he’d gone for selection to the SAS.’

‘So a decorated war hero who maybe joined the SAS. That could start to explain some of the reticence and concern, but the SAS isn’t a secret society, for God’s sake!’

Over strong coffee, they outlined plans for a purely fictitious day. Both felt stupid and out of place but they persisted long enough to excuse the early start. Much of the discussion was rooted in truth anyway, as both men had growing concerns, for different reasons, about Octavia Anderson’s disappearance.

It was just after five o’clock when Fenwick closed the door carefully behind Cooper and prepared to leave the house. He wanted to check out the site of the meeting before six and make sure that Cooper was well concealed. As he picked up his car keys he heard a whisper from the top of the stairs behind him.

‘Daddy, where’re you going?’

All he could see of Bess was two brown shins and the frilly hem of her nightie. He crept back to the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at her.

‘I’m going to work. What are you doing out of bed? Go on, back upstairs with you!’

‘But it’s early and I heard talking.’

Fenwick ran up the tread lightly and scooped her up in his arms. Her hands immediately clasped his neck in a hug and he had to prise them away as he tucked her up in bed. She looked up at him with huge solemn eyes.

‘I don’t like this, Daddy. I’m frightened.’

‘My big girl? Frightened? No you’re not. Snuggle down now.’ He was acutely conscious of the minutes ticking away and his desire to arrive at the barn early. He had almost reached the door when she sat up in bed again.

‘Daddy! Don’t do anything dangerous! I love you!’

He dashed back and kissed her once more, confused by her insight and worried by her warning.

* * *

Fenwick pulled his car into the barn out of sight of both road and farm. He completed a detailed and methodical search, checking potential exits in case he needed to leave in a hurry. It was a rickety, rectangular structure twenty-four feet by thirty-six with a stack of old straw bales in the far right corner and a wide, open entrance.

He had satisfied himself that he knew all there was to know about the building, and was returning to his car, when he sensed a change in the atmosphere behind him, emanating from the back of the barn. There had been no noise, just a thickening in the air that suggested he was not alone. He became intensely conscious of the vulnerability of his spine; the exposed gap between his shoulder blades itched. He had no weapon of any kind; there was a tyre lever in the boot but that was half a dozen paces away.

For a split second he saw again the wound in Katherine Johnstone’s throat and remembered their speculations about the weapon that could inflict such an injury. He started walking casually towards his car.

‘That’s probably far enough, Chief Inspector.’ The voice was less cultured than it had sounded on the phone but was just as deep. Fenwick turned around slowly, consciously working on an expression of confidence. The man was standing about four yards away. He was just under six foot, stocky, deep-chested with a baked-in tan that suggested recent, extensive work out of doors. His hair was a mass of grizzled grey-brown curls, too old for the square face of hard, flat angles. Fenwick put him in his thirties but he could have been younger – the grey was deceptive. He held a handgun in his left hand which he used to motion Fenwick away from the car.

‘Some identification, please, Chief Inspector.’

‘I must ask the same of you.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out his warrant card.

‘Throw it over.’

‘No. You should know better than that. You can read it from where you are.’ Fenwick extended his hand toward the gunman
who stepped forward to study more closely. He was now less than nine feet away.

‘All right.’

‘Now you, Mr Bayliss, if you don’t mind.’ His dry, official tone made Bayliss smile as he put his gun away. He passed over ID and driving licence which bore the name James Aubrey Bayliss.

‘Are you on your own?’

‘In here, yes. My sergeant’s outside. You don’t need to worry, I wasn’t followed but I’ve made sure a few of my people know where I am and why.’

‘You’re early.’

‘So are you.’

The two men appraised each other in silence. Bayliss was shorter than Fenwick but solid and fit enough to go fifteen rounds with someone much larger. He was alert, no longer overtly threatening, but Fenwick was sure his hand would find the gun again before he could reach him. Even without it, he was at a disadvantage.

‘You said you could tell me about Victor Rowland.’

‘Yes, we worked together for a while.’

‘In the SAS?’

Bayliss shook his head then shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘Why did you decide to see me?’

‘I need to tell you that I think you’re bloody right to be looking for Vic but I had to see you first.’

‘How can seeing me make a difference?’

‘I had to see whether you were up to it.’ He paused, his stare intent on Fenwick. ‘I think you are. It’s hard to say. I would have known immediately if you weren’t. But I think you could do it. I bloody hope so.’

‘Why such drama? This might be a tough case but I don’t see it as impossible.’

‘Then you’re fucking stupid and that could be fatal. I mean that. For you to imagine that this was just another case – Jesus! Vic Rowland is, was, a very special soldier. You’ve got to start thinking differently. He was a cut above. Right from the start,
he was singled out because of his ability. Trained, tested and proved himself time and again.’

The man was talking in short half-sentences, reluctant to say anything one minute, gabbling away the next. Fenwick kept quiet, letting him go on in his own way. He described Rowland’s gift for languages, his strength and how he kept himself in peak condition. What distinguished Vic was his fuck-you mental attitude.

‘But you’ve got to understand that he was able to keep his emotions under complete control, to focus on what he had to do completely, whatever the circumstances.’ Bayliss walked over to the car and leant heavily on the boot.

‘You make him sound like some character from a Schwarzenegger movie!’

‘Listen, Fenwick, I knew him, off and on, for about fifteen years, and I
never
saw him out of control. He just didn’t have the emotions the rest of us had, or if he did he wasn’t bothered by them. And Vic was a fucking star with potential. He was the man that was rolled out to impress the bloody politicians. He was known in very high places.’

‘You make him sound a hero.’

‘Do I? That’s not what I meant at all. He was one of us. Special but no more nor less heroic. I think the difference with him was his emotions; he was so bloody balanced and controlled.’

‘What about women? Are you saying he was celibate?’

‘Get real! He wasn’t married, didn’t have a regular girlfriend. He needed sex but it was just something else physical that he enjoyed, nothing more.’

‘So we are up against a highly efficient, clever and fit man. From what you’ve said, someone that has killed in the past?’

‘You make it sound so bloody dry, Fenwick. Christ, all of that’s true but you still haven’t grasped
him
. I genuinely don’t think he has
any
memories of the people he’s killed; they were just part of a problem to be solved. And he never failed, however shitty the assignment.’

‘I see.’

‘I haven’t finished yet. I’ve just described the mate I worked with for years. I trusted him absolutely. I was the closest thing he had to a good friend.’

‘And you’re betraying him now? Or are you setting me up?’

Bayliss stared into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused, a deep frown line between them.

‘I hope to God I’m not, Fenwick.’ He turned to the detective and drew in his gaze. His concentrated stare was so powerful Fenwick could imagine cross-hairs neatly targeted on his forehead. ‘I think you’re his only hope. You see, the bloke I’ve just described to you doesn’t really exist any more.’

Fenwick’s mouth twisted in disbelief.

‘No. Believe me. It started last November. We’d had a particularly tough series of assignments throughout the year and we were all fucking exhausted. Post, letters from home had been stacked up waiting for us in …’ he hesitated, ‘it’s irrelevant where. Vic rarely received letters – he didn’t seem to have relatives or close friends. On the day we got back though, he had several. I can remember them well. I used to take the stamps back for my boy so all my mates gave me their envelopes. Vic had three; two letters and a large brown envelope that had been under-stamped. They’d all been sent from Sydney.’