Authors: Angie Smith
Wednesday 6
th
June –
Thursday 7
th
June.
Pauline winced as the nurse
carefully bandaged over the sutures in the neck wound. Simonstone and Inwood
were with her and she looked across at them. “I know what you are going to say:
I shouldn’t have been down by the lake.”
“The important thing is you’re alright. We thought
you’d been shot. Thankfully it’s just a deep flesh wound, caused by a fragment
of wood. The bullet hit the tree.”
She knew Simonstone’s words were meant to reassure
her, but nevertheless she shuddered. “Any news from the farmhouse?”
“Jonathan and the protection officers went after the
gunman, but he’d disappeared into the woods. The police have closed the area
down; they’re searching with the helicopter and the thermal imaging camera.”
“Thanks for bringing me to A&E.”
Simonstone smiled. “You don’t need to thank us; it’s
part of our job. We decided it would be quicker than waiting for the paramedics
to arrive, and then for the ambulance.”
“What now?” Pauline asked, clearly still in shock.
“Do you want to go back to the farmhouse, or is
there somewhere else you’d rather be?”
She sighed, desperately trying to keep her emotions
in check. “It was stupid of me not to stay in the areas around the farmhouse,
but I wanted to have some time alone and Jonathan suggested I go down to the
lake. He said he’d keep watch.” Tears trickled down her face. “I was thinking
about Gerrard and it nearly got me killed.”
“For what it’s worth,” Inwood said, “I don’t think
the gunman wanted to kill you. He had clear sight, you were sitting still and
yet he hit the tree eighteen inches above and to the right of your head. From
what I understand the killer’s meticulous and precise.”
Simonstone was nodding.
“What has Jonathan said?”
“He would like you to go back to the farmhouse and
not stray away from the buildings.”
Pauline touched the bandage. Her neck was swollen
and felt sore and quite stiff. “Okay, but I don’t understand - if he could have
killed me, why he chose not to.”
“Neither do I; but let’s make sure we don’t give him
another opportunity.”
Thursday 7
th
June.
It had been late on Wednesday
evening when Foster received the call about the attempt on Pauline’s life. At
that time the police were still searching the area looking for the assailant,
and therefore he asked for regular updates. He telephoned McLean to inform him
of developments, and asked about Barnes. McLean provided a brief appraisal of
how she’d sounded when he’d called at her flat. He mentioned her concerns about
phone monitoring and being followed. He also notified Foster about the dossier
— which detailed her latest findings — and her specific wish that Hilton Dudley
should not know its origin. Foster had listened intently and due to the
possibility of him being called out to Hawes during the night he’d instructed
McLean to intercept the document, and after reading it to telephone him with an
update. Notwithstanding this, regular updates from Hawes had become increasingly
despondent and by 2.00 a.m. the possibility that the attacker had escaped became
a reality. Foster agreed to visit the crime scene at first light, and interview
Pauline.
He looked at his watch. It was 6.00 a.m.; he could
be at the farmhouse by around 8.30. Hopefully McLean would intercept the
dossier sometime before 10 while the morning post was being sorted in the mail
room. Ideally he would prefer to receive the update while at the farmhouse,
where if necessary he could speak to both Pauline and Plant about its contents.
However, traffic on the motorway was particularly
heavy and there were numerous times when he was slowing to a standstill and
then crawling for several miles before speeding up again, only to repeat the
experience a few miles further on. Consequently it was 9.20 a.m. when he
finally pulled up at the farmhouse gates and was allowed in by the guard.
He was met by Plant and taken to the lake. He first
viewed the willow tree where Pauline had been sitting, then walked over to the
woodland and looked at the actual spot where the gunman was positioned when he
fired the shot.
“He had a clear view from here,” Foster observed,
looking over at the tree.
“I think the dog unsettled him; he panicked and
thankfully he missed.”
“Umm,” Foster mumbled, unconvinced. “Could we go and
speak to Mrs Crean?”
He was taken up to the farmhouse and shown into the
sitting room where Pauline was convalescing, sipping tea and nibbling at some
toast. Foster introduced himself and was invited to be seated. He started by
asking how she was feeling.
“Shocked, sore and confused,” she replied.
“To be expected,” Foster acknowledged.
“Where’s Sergeant Barnes?” she asked.
He explained about the sick leave.
She looked at Plant who’d squatted on the pouffe
near her. “Was Maria asking too many awkward questions?”
“How would I know?” Plant responded, looking somewhat
perturbed by the question.
Foster hesitated. He knew Woods’ thoughts on Plant,
and he could see why his Superintendent disliked him. Nevertheless, he decided
to wait for McLean’s update before tackling him. “Mrs Crean, could you explain
what happened yesterday evening?”
She insisted he call her Pauline, and then she ran
through the events, Plant chipping in with odd details and information about
the fruitless search for the gunman. “What I’m confused about is why he didn’t
kill me; it wasn’t as though I was a moving target. I was sitting thinking.”
“Isambard spooked him,” offered Plant.
Foster frowned.
“One of the dogs,” Pauline clarified.
Foster looked at Plant. “I understand you’re staying
here with Mrs Crean until the killer’s been apprehended.”
Plant nodded.
Foster intended asking if he carried a licensed
firearm, but he felt the mobile vibrating in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll
need to take this outside.”
Plant sprang to his feet, opened the French doors
and motioned that he should step out onto the sun-terrace.
“Hello, Pete,” Foster said, as he wandered out of
Plant’s earshot.
McLean gave a detailed résumé of the dossier, while
Foster wrote down the salient points in his notebook.
“Aye, I’ve checked what details I can. They stack up
with what Maria’s said; she’s done a canny job.”
“Thanks, Pete. Make sure Dudley doesn’t see it.”
“Aye, I will. He’s out again, no doubt at the
Hepworth receiving his latest instructions.”
“When I get back I’ll need to have a chat with his
boss.”
Foster ended the call and went back inside. “Now, Mr
Plant,” he said sitting. “What can you tell me about Geoffrey Drummond?”
Plant frowned. “Never heard of him.”
Foster gave him a derisory look. “Never heard of him.
Umm… Well, what can you tell me about the deaths of Rose and Philip Mathewson
and their teenage children?”
Plant shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing.”
“They worked for Gerrard’s development company,”
Pauline said.
Foster nodded, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on
Plant. “So you won’t know Geoffrey Drummond was Rose Mathewson’s first child.”
“I told you I’d never heard of Drummond, so how
would I possibly know who his mother was?”
“But you definitely know Freddy Williams.”
Plant squirmed. “Err, I think I’ll need to speak to
my superior.”
“The one who informed me the killer was Freddy
Williams, but failed to mention he’d worked for the Intelligence Service and
was actually Geoffrey Drummond, who I’m assuming was quite peeved at all his
family being murdered to prevent the Russians maintaining a hold over the
European energy market?”
“That’s classified information! We shouldn’t even be
discussing it. How did you get hold of it?”
“Not from the SIS, that’s for sure.”
Pauline, who’d been sitting quietly, spoke. “You
told me your superior was F-B. . .”
“Faulkner-Brown,” Foster confirmed.
“Was it Freddy William’s photograph you showed me?”
she asked. “You said you didn’t have a name, and you’d pass it on to the police.
Did you?”
Foster shook his head.
“I can’t comment on any of this,” Plant muttered.
“We’ve obtained our own photograph of Williams at a
business function with Gerrard in Russia.”
She scowled at Plant. “You said you’d make sure they
got the picture.”
“The opportunity didn’t arise.”
“What’s going on, Jonathan?” she asked, looking
concerned.
This time Foster jumped in and explained about
Gerrard’s Russian involvement, the connection to Williams and the suggestion that
the two had formulated a plan to murder eight people.
“Where does Jonathan fit into all this?”
Foster looked at Plant. “Shall I explain, or would
you prefer to?”
“Don’t say another word - unless you have absolute
proof you can substantiate what you say.”
Foster smiled. “I don’t need to say anything; your
reaction is proof enough for me.”
“Jonathan, either you tell me what’s going on, or
you get out of my life for good.”
“Ball’s in your court, Mr Plant,” Foster said
calmly.
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything, until I’ve
spoken to my superior.”
“You admitted you thought I was in danger because of
you.” She paused. “I’m not the one at risk of being killed; it’s you, isn’t it?
That’s why I wasn’t killed last night; it was a warning to you. Think about it.
If Gerrard conspired with Williams to murder eight people and I was one of
them, why would I be at risk because of you?” She turned to Foster. “Am I on
the right lines?”
“That’s what we think. We believe Mr Plant is in
danger because of actions he undertook which impacted on Williams.”
She spun to face Plant. “You murdered the Mathewson
family,” she snarled.
Plant stood. “This is not open to discussion.” He
glared at Foster. “You need to speak to my superior before things get out of
hand.”
“I intend to.” Foster stood. “I’ll let myself out.
I’m sure you’ve a great deal to discuss.”
“I’ll show you to the door,” Pauline said rising.
She went outside with Foster and over to his car.
“What should I do?”
Foster sighed. “There’s still the possibility you
are at risk because Gerrard discovered your adultery. Therefore, until we are
absolutely sure you’re not, either you accept police protection or continue
with your own. I intend meeting with Mr Plant’s superior and agreeing a way
forward. Until I’ve done that, if I were you I wouldn’t make any hasty
decisions.” He said goodbye, got in the car and headed to the gates.
Pauline went straight back to
Plant who was speaking on his phone. When she appeared he stepped outside and
continued the discussion out of earshot. She waited patiently, carefully
forming the words she would use. Finally, after fifteen minutes he re-entered
the room. He didn’t say anything; she surmised he awaited an explosion of
anger.
“Did you murder the Mathewson family?” she asked,
quietly.
He shook his head. “No, I definitely did not, but
that’s what Freddy Williams believes and that’s why I’m in danger.”
“So why did you say I was at risk because of you?”
He sighed deep and long. “I assumed he’d try to do
to me what he wrongly thought I’d done to him; murder the ones he loved.”
“Why didn’t you say this to Foster?”
“I shouldn’t be saying it to anyone, but I figure if
I don’t tell you some of the facts we’re finished, and I don’t want that to
happen.”
“What can you, or, more to the point, what are you
prepared to tell me?”
“Foster’s right about Gerrard’s Russian involvement
and the realisation that if the project succeeded they would strengthen their
hold on the energy market. But the Mathewson family were killed in a boating
accident. There was a gas leak and a spark; it was a tragic accident. Williams
put two and two together and came up with five, blaming me for the deaths.”
“Did he also work for the Foreign Office in the so-called
Diplomatic Service?”
“I can’t say anything about that, but the connection
between him and Rose Mathewson wasn’t discovered until after the boating
accident. He’d been adopted by his mother’s parents and retained their name.
Obviously he’d been using a false identity when working in Russia.”
“You are so plausible, but why didn’t you pass the
photo on to the police? Surely the sooner they knew who they were after the
better.”