Authors: Quintin Jardine
Four cars were parked on the grass on the other side of the water. A Suzuki Vitara stood off to the right, not far from a battered Austin Maestro. Ariadne Tucker's Mazda sat away to the left against a fence, drawn up as if in a rank behind a silver Renault. Beyond the two vehicles was a wide thatched cottage, with two attic windows, built in yellow Cotswold stone. A vine grew around and over the door. Arrow guessed that in the summer, it might bear blue clematis flowers.
Two chimney stacks rose up from the roof, and from each one, thick black smoke spiralled, as if from fires newly lit in cold hearths. He smiled quietly to himself and made his way, slowly and idly, back to the Peugeot.
`They're here,' he said, as he climbed in. 'It looks as if he beat her to it , although not by much. Two fires kindled; that's their smoke climbing.' He pointed above the hedgerow which bounded the parking place. 'One in the living room, one in the bedroom, I'd guess.
His car's parked outside, and hers is behind it, jamming it in.'
`Should we do a DVLC check on the other car?' asked Donaldson.
Ì couldn't see the number. Anyway, what's the point?' He paused, and looked at his companions. 'Okay, policemen. What do we do? Go straight in, or give them half an hour, just for devilment, and catch them on the job?'
`We've done all we've been ordered to do so far, and it seems as if we've got a result,' said the DCI. 'Before we do anything else, I'd better call Andy Martin and take orders from him . . . But I'm like you. I can't wait to catch the Widow Noble sharing her grief!'
EIGHTY
The Lakeland mountains loomed high around Seatoller, as Andy Martin, Sammy Pye and John Swift sat in their car. Despite Arrow's assumption at the briefing the evening before, they were a long way from the seaside.
Sawyer's home was in a village in the heart of the Lake District, past the southern tip of Derwent Water, overlooked by Great Gable and Glaramara, and beyond by towering Scafell Pike. The house was built of dark stone, almost the colour of the slate which formed its roof. It was an unimpressive rectangular villa, with a large garage outbuilding set well back from the road.
Martin checked his watch, and looked behind him. In the back seat, beside Swift, sat a Superintendent from the Cumbrian Force. The very sight of his thick serge uniform made the Scot begin to itch. For a few months, earlier that year, he had worn something similar, and had hated every moment of it.
Ìt's nine o'clock,' he said. 'Ready to go?'
Superintendent Hawes nodded. 'Yes.' He waved a piece of paper in the air. 'I've got the warrant.'
Òkay, on you go, Sammy.'
Detective Constable Pye slipped the idling Mondeo into gear and drove straight into and up the broad driveway of the villa. He noticed as he passed the sign at the gate that it was named
Aspatria
. A second vehicle carrying five uniformed officers, a Sergeant and four Constables, followed behind him. The car wheels crunching through the grey gravel path announced their arrival.
Chief Superintendent Martin stepped out of the front seat, with his Cumbrian colleague by his side, and pulled the handle of what he took for the doorbell. A boom sounded inside the house.
The woman who opened the door was in her early thirties. She was wearing a white top and a red skirt, to which a small child clung. 'Mrs Sawyer?' enquired Superintendent Hawes. She nodded, her eyes widening with fear as she saw the uniform and the men beyond.
Ìs your husband at home?'
`Yes, he is!' The man's voice came from behind them, aggressively. They turned and saw him there, in the centre of the drive, wiping grubby hands on his overalls. He was of medium height, but strongly built, with greasy black hair. He looked to be around five years older than his wife. The gravel scrunched under his Timberland boots as he advanced towards them, purposefully.
`Mr Sawyer, I am Superintendent Hawes, from Carlisle,' began the uniformed officer. 'I have a warrant, granted by a magistrate, to search these premises. My colleagues here, Chief Superintendent Martin and DC Pye, are from Edinburgh and Mr Swift is from London. Mr Martin will explain the circumstances.'
`Search warrant?' Bryn Sawyer boomed. 'I thought you'd be here sooner or later, but to come ready armed with a search warrant, that's a bit heavy-handed. I think I'll call my lawyer.'
Ì've got no objection to that,' said Andy Martin. 'In fact, I'd advise it. So call him by all means. We'll proceed with our search right away, but if you wish, I'll hold my questions until he arrives.'
Sawyer shook his head. 'No, let's hear what you've got to say first. It isn't as if I've got anything to hide.'
'But you were expecting us?'
`Yes, after that letter of mine to Davey, I suppose I was. Look, come on in here. Marian, take the kid out of the way, for God's sake.' He led the way into the house, and into a study, off the hall. Martin and Swift followed, while Hawes instructed his officers on the procedure of the search.
`That letter,' said the Chief Superintendent. 'Just bloody stupid, or a genuine threat, warning of consequences for Davey: which was it?'
`Come on,' said Sawyer, concern showing through his belligerence for the first time.
'Where was the threat?'
`You warned him that if your company had to go into liquidation, he'd be punished. Now you've got a Receiver in and Davey's dead'
`Yes, but hold on a minute. He's an administrative Receiver, and I asked for him. I'm trying to recapitalise and restructure the business, to give me time to find new markets for our technology. As it is, I think I may have cracked it. I had a phone call from the MOD
yesterday. Apparently Reaper bit the dust with Davey.'
`Who bit the dust himself,' said Martin evenly, 'as your letter promised, four days after your Receiver moved in. Surely in those circumstances, you have to expect us to take your threat just a wee bit bloody seriously.'
He sat on the edge of Sawyer's desk. 'Let me ask you something. What did you feel when you knew that Davey was dead?'
The man looked up at him, and smiled savagely. 'Immense satisfaction; he said. Suddenly, guilt came into his face as if he had willed it there. 'Sorrow for the other people on board,'
he added, 'but sheer delight that he had bought it. That bastard set out to ruin me, and my family. All his experts, every one of them, said to me, "Congratulations, Bryn, the Breakspear missile is world-beater," then he turns round and gives the contract to a piece of shit that couldn't hit a London bus. Let me ask you something, gentlemen. Don't you think the man was corrupt?'
`We know he was,' said Swift, `. . . now. But what the hell difference does that make? If every businessman who loses on a contract killed the guy who awarded it to someone else, we'd bloody soon run out of purchasers.'
Sawyer shook his black, tousled head. 'Just hold on a minute. I said I was glad the shit was dead. I didn't admit to killing him.'
`But you do admit to threatening to kill him, in that letter: said Martin.
`No, I said I'd punish him. I meant that if it came to it I was going to expose him in the media, or something.'
`That's a bit tame for a man like you, isn't it? I mean, your business is making complex weapons of destruction. The one that killed Davey was a pretty simple device. And in the process you do have access to explosives, don't you?' The man nodded, slowly.
`Mr Sawyer, where were you on Thursday of last week, and last Friday morning?'
For the first time there was silence. 'Come on,' said Martin, ìt'll be checkable. And until you answer, I'm not going to let you see your wife, so you can cook up an alibi.'
Ì was in London,' he said reluctantly, with resignation. `Doing what?'
Ì had a meeting last Thursday evening with the Australian Military attaché. They're shopping for missiles. It turned into dinner and went on till midnight. Next morning I got up and went home.'
`Which hotel were you in?'
‘The Rubens, between Victoria Station and Buckingham Palace.'
That's one more link in the chain of evidence. We've got motive, threat, access to weapons technology and hardware. Now you tell us that you were in the vicinity when the crime was committed. Be reasonable, Mr Sawyer; try to see where I'm coming from.'
Sawyer flared at him. 'I'll tell you where you can go, as well.'
Martin smiled. Ì'm sorry, I won't be going anywhere until you can persuade me that you didn't kill Colin Davey, or that you couldn't have had anything to do with his death.'
`How can I do that when you've made up your mind already?' `No, I haven't, sir. I—' He broke off, as Sammy Pye's sombre face appeared in the doorway.
`Mr Martin,' said the young DC. 'We've found some things. They're out here.'
Òkay, Sammy.' He stood up from the desk. 'Mr Sawyer, you'd better come too.'
Pye led them in single file, through the hallway, out of the house and round into the vast garage building; or rather into what was in part a garage.
The greater area was set up as a workshop; a very specialist workshop. In the corner there was a small forge, with an anvil beside it, and hammers hanging on a rack. Not far away stood an oxyacetylene cylinder, a mask, and cutting gear. In the centre of the area was a workbench, on which were stacked several sheets of stainless steel. Scraps of metal lay all around the floor.
Now if you'll follow me again, please, sir,' said Pye. He led Martin back out of the workshop and into the house, Sawyer, Swift and Superintendent Hawes following behind.
When we arrived, sir, I couldn't help noticing the skirt that Mrs Sawyer was wearing. It's leather, and it's virtually the same colour as the stuff on the box that Mr Skinner recovered on Friday. So while the lads were searching the garage building I had a look around in here.'
He led the way up a narrow stairway which led off the back of the hall. This could have been the maid's quarters, once upon a time,' said Martin, as they climbed.
`But not now, sir,' said Pye. 'In here.' He led the way into a small room, with a wide double window which overlooked the gardens to the rear of the house. Before it stood a wide table, with a heavy-duty sewing machine positioned at one end. The rest of the table was covered with thread spools and paper patterns, some of which were weighted down by a large pair of black scissors. To the right of the table there was a big divided stable-style door. Pye opened the upper half, to reveal a deep-shelved cupboard, packed with bolts of material. He reached in and removed one, unrolling it and holding it up for Martin and the others to see.
It was bright red leather.
Martin stared at the material, then at Sawyer. 'Jesus Christ,' he whispered, to no one. 'The man's made his own Red Box!'
In the dead silence, his mobile telephone rang.
EIGHTY-ONE
‘Yes, sir, I'll call you back as soon as we've got something to report.'
Donaldson switched off his phone. 'The Chief Super says we should go in. He's in the middle of his search just now, at the Sawyer bloke's place. He didn't go into detail, Adam, but he said to tell you that he's going to be busy there for a while.'
Ìs he, indeed? Well, let's go and find out if we've got a couple of rival candidates in here.'
The trio climbed out of the car, and set off round the corner of the hedgerow. They skirted the pond on the narrow side and headed directly for the cottage, past the two cars.
`Lieutenant Richards's father must have left him a few quid as well as the cottage,' said Donaldson. 'That's a top-of-the-range Laguna.'
The wooden garden gate creaked slightly as Arrow opened it, but otherwise they approached the old house silently. There was no bell, only a huge, old-fashioned, blue-painted knocker. The little soldier seized it and rapped, as loudly as he could, once, twice, three times. They stood there for almost a minute, listening for sounds within, but hearing none.
`D'you think they might have gone for a walk while I was Phoning Andy?' whispered Donaldson.
Arrow grinned at him, almost impishly. 'What would your priorities be in this situation?'
He reached for the knocker again, but as he did so, the door opened. Ariadne Tucker QC
stood there, holding it slightly ajar. Her pink satin robe was tied tight around her waist, but still she held it closed at the neck, with her left hand. Tigger the cat rubbed itself luxuriantly against her bare ankles. She looked at Mcllhenney, who was slightly flushed with embarrassment, then at Donaldson, and finally down at Arrow.
She looked surprised, but a long way short of alarmed. 'Oh dear,' she said at last, in her long slow barrister's tone. 'This is very difficult. I think you'd better come in.'
She turned and walked back into the cottage, with the cat padding along behind her. The front door led directly into a huge room, with plastered, painted walls and a shiny rug-strewn stone floor. There was a huge fireplace set in the gable wall, filled with blazing logs. Facing it, a staircase led up to the attic.
She walked over to it and put her foot on the first step. `Darling,' she called out, 'I think you'd better come down. Some gentlemen are here to see us. Oh, and do put something on!'
The soldier and the policemen stood awkwardly in front of the hearth and waited.
Ì'll make some tea,' said Ariadne brightly.
Ì'd rather you stayed here, ma'am,' said Arrow.
`No, Captain, I think tea would be a good idea.' She turned and disappeared through a door in the far corner of the room. As the door closed behind her, Tigger ran across the floor and up the staircase. Arrow made as if to follow it, but stopped with his foot on the bottom step.
He called up into the attic. 'As the lady said . . . would you come down, please, Sir Stewart.'
Upstairs, a few seconds later, a door creaked. Slowly, and with as much dignity as he could maintain, Sir Stewart Morelli descended, his face a strange mixture of outrage and apprehension. He wore cavalry-twill trousers with a check Viyella shirt, but he was barefoot.
`How did you know?' Donaldson asked the soldier, incredulously.
Ìt was something Ariadne said, the first time we saw her. She mentioned my Army background, before I came to this job. She said that Maurice had told her, but he couldn't have. Nor could Colin Davey, even. In Whitehall, access to my file is restricted to Morelli and the Chief of Staff, and that old bugger doesn't gossip.'