Beneath the Bleeding (38 page)

‘You’re lucky you’ve got someone to remind,’ Paula said. ‘I’ve got to the point where sex feels like a past-life experience.’

‘You need to get out more. Find some gorgeous girl who’ll bring a smile to your chops.’ Chris steered a path through the drinkers milling around on the paved area beyond the tables, waiting for seats to be vacated.

That is so going to happen in this job,’ Paula said. ‘Every time I get a night off, all I want to do is sleep.’

They walked through the doors. It was almost as thronged inside, but much noisier because of the slate floors and low ceiling. ‘Speaking of which…’ Chris said. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

‘Better,’ Paula said curtly, head down as she rooted in her bag for the photo of Jack Anderson.

‘Glad to hear it.’ Chris turned and gave Paula’s
elbow a squeeze. ‘For what it’s worth, doll, I think you’re doing brilliant.’

They made it to the bar, where three bar staff and a waitress struggled to keep pace with orders for drinks and food. Chris flashed her warrant card at one of the barmen who laughed out loud and said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding. Come back in an hour when the rush has died down.’

Normally, her eagerness to get the job done would have made her remonstrate with the barman. But the sun was shining and they’d both seen too much unpleasantness in the past twenty-four hours. So much death had reminded Chris that there were times when it was important to pause and smell the flowers. So she smiled. ‘In that case, we’ll have two pints of lager shandy.’

Nursing their drinks, they found a stretch of wall facing the canal and sat companionably in the sunshine, talking in circles about the poisonings and the bombing. Gradually the crowds began to thin as people finished their drinks and headed off to make the most of the sunshine. ‘If we were on the TV, this would be the point where one of us had a penetrating insight that solved the whole case,’ Chris said, staring placidly out over the canal, where a brightly painted holiday rental narrow boat was negotiating the first of the three locks leading into the basin.

‘If we were on the TV, you’d never have bought the drinks,’ Paula pointed out. That would have been my job as the trusty but stupid sidekick.’

‘Damn, I knew I was doing something wrong.’ Reluctantly, Chris pushed herself upright. ‘Better get some work done, hadn’t we?’

There were no longer jostling crowds at the bar waiting for service. The barman saw them approach and came round the end of the bar to greet them. He looked like a student eking out his grant, his long black fringe and his wispy goatee supposedly marking him out as artistic and sensitive. He needed all the help he could get on that score, given his burly frame and budding beer gut. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ he said, a Welsh accent now apparent. ‘Sorry about earlier, but it gets mobbed on a Sunday lunchtime, and we can’t afford to let up. We’ve got this deal: if you don’t get your food within twenty minutes of ordering it, you don’t pay for it.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘And it comes out of our wages.’ He led them to a recently vacated table in the far corner and sat down. ‘I’m Will Stevens,’ he said. ‘I work weekends.’

They introduced themselves and Chris said, ‘Were you on yesterday lunchtime?’

Stevens nodded, twisting a chunk of his fringe round his finger. ‘Yeah. It’s not quite so crazy on a Saturday. What’s all this about, then?’

Paula spread a selection of photos on the table. ‘Do you recognize any of these men as having been in here yesterday?’

He pointed straight at the photo of Jack Anderson. ‘Him.’ Light dawned on his face. ‘He was drinking with that bloke that died after the bombing yesterday. What was his name…it’ll come to me, we were watching it this morning when we were setting up, and I went, “He was in here yesterday, I served him.” Cross, that was it. Sounds like he was a real hero yesterday.’ He paused. ‘Didn’t they say something about him being a copper before he retired?’

‘That’s right. So, he met this man-’ she pointed to the photo of Anderson ‘-in here? Lunchtime?’

‘That’s right. Cross, he was here first. He had a pint of something, I don’t remember what. Then this younger bloke, he arrived. They acted like they knew each other. He had a glass of house red. I wasn’t really paying attention to them, we were too busy. Next time I looked, they were gone.’ He tapped the photo of Jake. ‘I’ve seen him in here before. He’ll meet people in here, they’ll have one drink, then they’ll all go off together. Always the same routine. He never eats in here. I think it’s just a handy place to meet up with people. He probably lives local.’

‘I don’t suppose you know his name?’

Stevens nodded, his smile as smug as the party child who’s won Pass the Parcel. ‘I do. It’s Jake.’

‘You’re sure it’s Jake? Not Jack?’ Paula asked.

‘Jake. That’s what your Mr Cross called him. Definitely Jake.’

‘And they didn’t eat here?’

He shook his head. ‘No way. Just the one drink, then they were offski.’

Chris stood up. ‘Thanks, Mr Stevens. You’ve been very helpful.’

He looked up at them, beaming. ‘Is there a reward, then?’

There was a camaraderie among geeks that transcended other differences. Carol may have formally assigned Chris Devine to liaise with the CTC, but Stacey had already built her own connections. One of the many things beloved of geeks is back doors into other people’s systems, and Stacey had an admirable collection. When
it came to swap-shop time, she always had something to trade. It didn’t hurt either that, in geek terms, she was the Mona Lisa.

She’d bonded over Aziz’s laptop with the CTC’s main geek, a rotund twenty-something with a skanky ponytail and an inadequate concept of personal hygiene. What Gerry lacked in personal charm, he made up for in his knowledge of systems and his willingness to deal. In exchange for a back door into a confidential social security database, he’d given her HM Customs and Revenue, probably the only major government access she didn’t already have. They were both well aware that what they were doing was illegal, but each was confident of their ability to stay out of jail. They were, after all, the only people in their organizations qualified to catch themselves.

Stacey hadn’t expected to need the new access quite so soon. But when Carol told her to start looking for a Jake Andrews living in central Bradfield, and Chris called to confirm that Jake Andrews and Jack Anderson were one and the same, she was pleased at the chance to play with her new toy.

What she was not pleased about was that Jake Andrews was as much an invisible man as Jack Anderson. At least there had been trace evidence of Anderson until three years before. But Jake Andrews, resident of Bradfield, had left not even a smudge on the official records. The violence of her reaction surprised Stacey herself. She’d been so sure she would be able to provide the crucial information with her unique systems access. But cyberspace had let her down. Some small-time killer had evaded her electronic spider’s web.

As pissed off as she’d ever been, Stacey marched into Carol’s office. Her boss looked up from the pile of witness statements CTC had asked her team to check. ‘Any luck?’ Carol asked.

‘He’s not on any of the records I can access. No phone. No mobile phone. No council tax. No National Insurance or tax ID. No TV licence. No car registered in his name. No passport or driving licence. No credit history. Mr Nobody, that’s who he is.’ She knew she sounded like a small child but she didn’t care.

Carol leaned back in her chair, linking her hands behind her head in a stretch. ‘I didn’t really expect you to find anything,’ she said. ‘But we had to look. If he went to all the trouble of killing off Jack Anderson, I didn’t think he’d be so obvious as to step straight into another documented ID. What’s your take on it?’

‘I think there’s a third ID,’ Stacey said. ‘He’ll have all his official stuff under that ID. He’ll use Jack Anderson when he’s luring people who might have known him at school, and Jake Andrews for anything else. And ID number three is the one that has left traces.’

‘And that’s the one we know nothing about,’ Carol sighed, getting up and walking round her desk.

‘I think it’s a fair bet he’s used the same initials,’ Stacey said. ‘It’s classic scammer behaviour. Strange but true.’

‘That’s not much use, is it? It’s not going to take us anywhere. It’s about as much use as Chris and Paula’s barman, the one who wanted a reward for overhearing a first name.’

Stacey shook her head. ‘Actually, it’s not useless. I have some pretty sophisticated search software. I built it myself. It might just get us somewhere.’

Carol looked faintly worried. It was a look Stacey was used to from her boss. ‘I sometimes think you really shouldn’t tell me all the things you can do, Stacey. OK, get cracking. Do what you can. We need to find this guy.’ She stepped out into the squad room behind Stacey. ‘Paula,’ she called. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

The nurse bustled in with Tony’s chart and his medication, still emanating an aura of deep disapproval. ‘Oh good, you’re still here,’ she said.

He looked up from the laptop screen. ‘And there was me thinking this was a hospital, not a prison.’

‘You’re here for a reason,’ the nurse said. ‘Look at the oedema in that leg. You’re not supposed to go gallivanting when the mood takes you.’

‘The physio said I should get dressed and move around today,’ he said, obediently taking the pills and swallowing them with a glass of water.

‘She didn’t say you should leave the building,’ the nurse said severely, sticking a thermometer in his mouth and taking his pulse. ‘Please don’t disappear again, Tony. We were worried. We were afraid you’d fallen somewhere you couldn’t attract attention.’ She whipped the thermometer out. ‘You’re lucky you’re not in a worse state.’

‘Can I go off the ward if I tell you where I am?’ he said meekly. Not that he had any plans to move; his energy levels were too depleted for another adventure like this morning’s.

‘As long as you don’t leave the building,’ the nurse said sternly. ‘You’re very lucky we don’t have matrons these days. My auntie was one, you know. She’d have strung you up by your naughty bits.’ She was halfway to the door when she paused. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Your mum stopped by earlier. She wasn’t very pleased either.’

Tony felt a weight come down on him. ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

‘She said she’d try and come by later this afternoon. Make sure you’re here, now.’

Left to himself, Tony made a fist and punched the mattress. He really didn’t want the distraction his mother would bring in her wake. He was operating well below his normal level and he needed all the acuity he could summon to focus on the bombing and the poisonings. In spite of the promise he’d made to the nurse, he thought he might be making another bid for freedom that afternoon.

But for now, he could restore his energy levels by lying here, doing nothing more strenuous than reading. He’d gone back to the blog Sanjar had taken him to. Reading through all Yousef Aziz’s posts had been fascinating. Here was a young man, intelligent but not articulate enough always to express himself clearly. Quite a few of his posts were made in response to people who had misunderstood a previous point because he hadn’t managed entirely to say what he meant.

The overall picture Tony formed was of someone who was frustrated at the inability of people to coexist peacefully. Aziz respected other people’s views; why couldn’t everyone see that was the sensible way to
live? Why did some people seem to have such a big investment in conflict?

On his first pass through the posts, nothing struck Tony. But when he re-read the earlier posts with the later ones still fresh in his mind, he sensed something different. He went back and forth a few times, almost at random. He was right. There was something going on there. Something that chimed with what Sanjar had told him. Now he was definitely going to have to make a break for it.

It took more than a major bomb attack to stop premiership football. So Paula discovered when she turned up on Steve Mottishead’s doorstep to talk about the old school mate whose photo he’d sent to the police. ‘I’m watching the game,’ he said petulantly. ‘It’s Chelsea v Arsenal. I told you all I know about Jack Anderson when I spoke to you before.’

‘We can talk while you watch, can’t we?’ Paula smiled sweetly.

‘I suppose,’ he said, grudgingly holding the door open and letting her in. Steve Mottishead’s house was a former council property on the edge of Downton. The rooms were on the small side, but the house butted on to the golf course that formed the natural boundary between Moortop and Downton so the views from the through lounge he led her into were spectacular.

Paula was the only one interested in the view, however. Sprawled on the sofa in front of a vast TV were two other men who were definitely brothers under the skin. All three wore England shirts, tracksuit bottoms and big fat trainers. Each clutched a can
of Stella Artois and the air was thick with cigarette smoke.
This sporting life,
Paula thought, picking her way across extended legs to the far end of the room where there was a rickety dining table and four spindly chairs.

‘I’ll need binoculars to see the game from here,’ Mottishead complained, scratching his belly as he sat on a chair Paula would have sworn couldn’t take his weight. He plonked his can on the table and took his cigarettes from his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to have a beer while you’re working?’ He lit up, making Paula long for one herself. But she tried not to smoke during interviews, even when the punter did. She worried it could make her look weak and dependent.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m surprised the game’s on after yesterday,’ Paula said.

‘It’s football, love,’ one of the others said. ‘Spirit of the Blitz. What made this country great. Two minutes’ silence then the show must go on. No fucking Paki bomber’s going to put a stop to our national game.’

‘He doesn’t mean it like that,’ Mottishead said. ‘It’s just that we’re all upset about what happened yesterday. We were there, like.’

‘Yeah, we were,’ his mouthy mate said. ‘So why aren’t you out there finding that bastard bomber’s mates instead of bothering Stevie?’