Troubled Waters (13 page)

‘After that game today I deserve another. I’m not driving, because my wife is coming to pick me up. Same again?’ he asks, standing up and making his way to the bar.

‘A small one for me. Alas I am driving.’

Over the next drink, I enquire about the disappearance of Barry Milton and Hans Johansen.

‘Nothing so far,’ Bill begins. ‘We have notified all appropriate organisations in the UK, plus Interpol and Europol, the new EU agency, but so far no information has been forthcoming.’

‘What’s the difference between Interpol and Europol?’

‘OK, I’ll try and make it brief.
Interpol is the world’s largest international police organization, with a hundred and ninety member countries
. Europol is the European Union’s law enforcement agency, and its role is more of information gathering.’

‘Do we need both?’ I enquire. ‘Is there not an overlap?’

‘I’m sure there is,’ he agrees. ‘But wouldn’t you expect an empire-building outfit like the EU to be doing its own thing?’

‘Silly question,’ I nod. ‘By the way, Carl Benson asked me to call in at FrackUK on my way back on Friday; he was in a right panic about the disappearance of Johansen and the missing cash. He broke down, in fact – it was quite embarrassing.’

‘How did it end up, then?’

‘I gave him advice as to what to do – damage limitation, you could say – but I’ve not heard from him since.’

‘Could be good new or bad news,’ Bill observes wryly.

The bar now filling up with the final competitors, I finish my drink and leave Bill to bask in his glory – and hopefully receive a medal.

‘We must meet up next week for another update,’ Bill finishes.

‘Agreed,’ I confirm as I wave and make my way out through the growing crowd of thirsty golfers.

When Thursday morning comes, I’m not at my best. A meeting with my bank manager is scheduled for 10:30. Over breakfast of porridge, microwaved for exactly three and a half minutes, with added fresh black grapes, I ring Amelia at Enodo to remind her I will not be in the office this morning.

‘Oh,’ she utters in surprise, indicating that this is in fact news rather than a reminder. ‘I wasn’t aware.’

‘Sorry, it must have slipped my mind,’ I apologise. ‘Such an exciting event, you see.’

‘Forgiven. Nothing to worry about – only bills in the post.’

As always, driving the Saab improves my mood. Parking up at Crewe, I board a non-stopping train to Manchester Piccadilly, and walk over to Spinningfields for the meeting.

The bank manager orders coffee and biscuits, and we engage in small talk. I throw in the news about Enodo having a job advising about fracking, and I of course avoid any mention of missing cash and the possibility of not getting paid. I don’t mention my involvement in the murder of Marian Clowes after her fateful birthday bash at the Lowry Hotel.

Still awaiting coffee, he continues. ‘Bad news about that girl murdered at the Lowry here,’ he says, gesturing to his right to signify how close the hotel is. ‘Chucked in the river, wasn’t she? Or did it happen in the hotel? I think I saw two different reports.’

Unsure whether to comment here, I think about the extra loan facility I need and spin it a bit. ‘Well, we are involved – not directly, you understand – but Amelia, my partner in Enodo, is friends with one of the murdered girl’s colleagues. It turns out that the murdered girl was a member of a group that protests against fracking, so the two are linked in that respect. The true facts of the case are that the attack took place outside the hotel on the pathway alongside the river, and she was then chucked over the railings into the Irwell, as you said. The other report was a misunderstanding.’

His eyes widen at these revelations. ‘So you’re kind of advising and liaising with the police and all that?’

‘To a degree, that’s correct,’ I say with a nod of my head and raised eyebrows.

The coffee and biscuits arrive before I can dig myself into a hole, and we move onto the more serious but boring business of an increased overdraft.

It turns out better than I could have hoped: the manager is impressed, and I secure an additional three thousand pounds overdraft on the strength of it.

I leave the bank in a buoyant mood, but before heading back to Piccadilly station, I’m inexplicably drawn in the opposite direction towards the river. I stop on the Manchester side of the Spinningfields Bridge, and stare over at the Lowry Hotel.

A number of thoughts come into play about that fateful night. One important one: why did Marian choose to walk along the river bank, when she could have taken the easier and much brighter route over the bridge, past this very spot, through Spinningfields, turned left onto Deansgate and then a straighter and equally well-lit route to Victoria train station? I consider this for a moment; there would be precious little difference in the distance. Maybe we will never know. I turn, and still deep in thought begin to walk slowly back towards Piccadilly.

My mobile phone rings. I’m expecting it to be Benson to advise me about his problems at FrackUK, which would be on my route back, but it’s Bill Lambert.

‘Hi, where are you?’ he enquires.

‘In Manchester at the moment,’ I answer. ‘Just been meeting my bank manager. He’s never a cheerful soul, certainly not when he’s lecturing me on austerity, but at least I got my overdraft increased.’

‘I know the feeling,’ he empathises. ‘We’ve just had some reports in that you would be keen to know about, if you want to drop by.’

‘Yeah, sure. Give me an hour. The area around Victoria is a building site at the moment.’ Surprisingly enough, I make the journey in only forty minutes.

‘You made good time,’ Lambert remarks as I am ushered into his office by Detective Maurice Evans.

There is a report on the desk, which is obviously taking centre stage.

‘I thought we’d better share this information with you pronto,’ he begins. ‘We’ve had several reports in from Interpol and Europol about both our disappearing felons – mostly possible sightings that cannot be corroborated at this stage. However, this one,’ he holds it up to stress the point, ‘is fact. It confirms that one Hans Johansen arrived at London Heathrow airport this morning on a British Airways flight from Oslo.’

I am stumped, and pause to try and make sense of this information before I speak. ‘I don’t get it. Why would he come back to the UK so soon? Or why even at all?’

‘We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that,’ Evans states.

‘Well, unless there was unfinished business…’ I volunteer.

‘Umm,’ Lambert ponders, as both policemen absent-mindedly scratch their chins.

Nothing more of import is discussed, and I leave them going over their various reports.

I ponder this information all the way back on the metro into town. I leave the tram, but before checking the information board for trains to Stockport, I ring Amelia for an update.

‘Afternoon. Must have been a long meeting at the bank,’ she observes. ‘Or did he stump up a lunch for you?’

‘I should be so lucky! No, Bill Lambert phoned me as I was leaving. He had some reports to discuss – the strangest one being that Hans Johansen is back, spotted at Heathrow yesterday. He got off a flight from Oslo.’

‘That’s weird,’ she agrees.

‘Yes, but we can’t come up with a why as yet.’

‘There’s nothing urgent here, so what are you going to do?’

‘I think I’ll ring Carl Benson while I’m close by, see if he has any news yet. If not, I’ll head off home early.’

I make the call, and am put through to his PA, who informs me that he’s out of the office for the rest of the day. I consider asking if there has been an American visitor, but think better of it. He’ll call as soon as he feels able, won’t he?

I check the information board, and there’s a non-stopper leaving in five minutes. I’ll be home in an hour.

As I park up the Saab, a shocked Cyril spots me and asks, ‘You’re early! Haven’t sacked yourself, have you?’

‘Not that lucky,’ I reply as we fall in step together. ‘I was in Manchester, and the office is quiet this afternoon so there didn’t seem much point going back in.’

‘Don’t have that luxury in my job,’ he moans.

‘It’s a tough life,’ I agree, stepping up my pace to avoid further conversation. Once inside I shrug off my jacket and discard my shoes, then set off to the kitchen. I’m about to pour an early Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic when the blinking red light of the answerphone catches my eye. I’m delighted to hear the voice of Wendy Davenport, letting me know she is in Manchester for the weekend and asking to meet. Involuntarily checking the mirror, the grinning face of a Cheshire cat is looking back at me. I instantly reach for the handset to call her back, then check myself. ‘Slow down, mate,’ I say out loud. ‘Get yourself a drink and think a bit more first.’

I sit down, and sipping my gin I watch the news for all of ten minutes. Wendy picks up after two rings.

‘Hello! I’m so glad you called back so soon. I must apologise for running out on you last time, but after my Uncle Jack’s funeral I was in a bad place and needed space. I am very fond of you, and felt it was too early to burden you with my troubles.’

Bloody hell, where’s the Hollywood script when you need it
, I think. ‘It wouldn’t have been a burden at all, and if I’m honest my feelings are way beyond fond,’ I manage to say.

‘Ooh! I am blushing now. I can’t wait to see you.’

‘When are you arriving?’

‘I’m travelling up tomorrow, and the train is due in Piccadilly at quarter to nine in the evening.’

‘I’ll be there to meet you,’ I promise.

‘How romantic,’ she answers slowly.

Trying not to overdo it, I ask, ‘what else have you got planned?’

‘I have to see my daughter, of course, but she does know about you, and she will have her own timetable, so I will be a free agent for a fair amount of time.’

‘Wonderful! I’ll be waiting at the station tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. I’ll see you then, bye.’

Replacing the phone, I almost think I imagined the whole conversation, and I’m still daydreaming when my mobile rings. It’s Amelia.

‘Hi, it’s me. Where are you?’

‘I’m at home just about to eat. Why, where are you?’

‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘What?’

‘I’m outside the gym with Sophia and Suzy. They’re back from a few days in the Algarve, Portugal, where Carlo Peroni, Sophia’s father, has a place in Lagos.’

I’m becoming more exasperated. ‘Yes, well?’

‘She reckons she saw Barry Milton.’

I feel like I’ve been head-butted again, and sit down in shock. ‘Are you sure? I mean, is she sure?’

‘She did work for him for a long time, so she should know.’

‘Look, why don’t you come over here? Give me a few minutes to think. Maybe I’ll call Lambert; he would have a police contact in the Algarve.’

I hear Amelia get the OK from Sophia and Shelia, before replying, ‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

Tidying up, I ponder the best move. I decide I should ring Lambert. Before making the call, I grab a cookie and put the kettle on. Fortunately Lambert is working late.

‘Lambert,’ a gruff voice announces.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I apologise.

‘No, go on. I’m reading the latest on the body in the Irwell case. We’re still not getting very far, that’s the problem.’

‘I may be able to give you a lead on it, then.’ I pass on my conversation with Amelia.

‘That could be a real breakthrough if we could haul him in. They’re on their way over now, you say?’

‘Be here anytime now,’ I confirm.

‘I’m going to be here another hour, so call me back as soon as.’

‘Will do. In fact, I can hear them now. Speak shortly.’

‘You were quick,’ I say, pouring coffee as we sit, conference-like, around the farmhouse kitchen table.

‘No traffic at this time of night,’ Amelia remarks.

‘So let’s hear the story,’ I say, addressing the girls.

Suzy takes the lead. ‘You know Sophia has been a bit down? Well, her father said why the two of us don’t get away for a few days at his place, basically.’ She glances at Sophia, who takes over.

‘We were strolling around the marina, looking at the boats, and over a glass of wine we got to imagining what it would be like to have one, as you do. There are several brokerages around the marina, so we thought we would check out the adverts in the windows. You can clearly see into the office area, people at desks and so on. And lo and behold, in one of them who do we see, sat there bold as brass? Barry Milton chatting up some unwary punter. He’s changed his appearance as much as he can – shorter hair and grown a beard – but it was him alright.’

‘How sure can be you be?’ I ask. ‘A hundred per cent?’

There is a flicker of doubt from Sophia as she glances at Suzy for reassurance.

Suzy steps in. ‘I’d say ninety-five per cent.’

Sophia nods. ‘Yes, definitely.’

‘What do you think he’s doing? Did you go in?’

‘No, of course not,’ Suzy replies. ‘He knows us, remember?’ Sophia agrees.

Stupid question, I reflect.

‘There was a sign on his desk saying
Consultant
,’ Sophia adds.

‘That’s pretty conclusive, I’d say,’ Amelia offers.

‘It certainly is,’ I confirm, wondering whether to ring Lambert now, whilst the girls are still here, or wait. I can’t just chuck them out, though.

‘I’m going to ring Lambert, see if he wants a word with you,’ I announce.

They all stare back at me. ‘It’s OK,’ Suzy says, and Sophia nods.

My call is answered by Detective Sergeant Evans. ‘I’ll pass you over.’

‘Didn’t waste your time,’ Lambert says as he comes on the line.

‘No need. They are very confident – ninety-five per cent sure, despite a haircut and new beard as disguise. They are still here, if you want a word.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve been chewing it over with Evans while we’ve been waiting for you to call us back. I don’t want him to get away again, obviously, and contacting the Portuguese police could take too much time, and we could lose him. So we plan to fly over and arrest him, but the problem is we have never actually seen him face-to-face, and photographs taken some time ago can be misleading, especially if he can produce convincing ID. It would help if you could come with us.’

This is really coming out of the blue. ‘Right,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘I have been upfront and personal with the man, as they say, and would certainly recognise him again, beard or no beard.’

‘Good, that’s sorted, then. Meet us at the airport. We’ve already booked three seats on the 07:35 Monarch flight to Faro in the morning. We’ll meet you at the check-in desk.’