Dead of Night Page 2

  Under a jacket similar to the one Grace had been wearing, she wore the uniform of the theatre staff: black skirt and waistcoat and a grey blouse with name badge pinned above the breast pocket, though not bearing Pippa’s name. That had been touch and go. Taking her friend’s name, as well as her identity, had clearly felt that bit too uncomfortable, like stepping over a line. They’d had enough trouble persuading the theatre to produce a duplicate badge; apparently that in itself contravened normal procedure. Mariner had been forced to point out, with great restraint as he saw it, that there was little that was ‘normal’ about any of this. In the end the FLO had managed to smooth the way. ‘It’s just the kind of detail that can make all the difference,’ she’d said, encouragingly. And when Symphony Hall capitulated, Pippa had followed suit, showing the kind of mature grace that in a few short days they had come to expect from her.

  So this was it.

  ‘All ready, Pippa?’ Mariner asked gently, suppressing his own ripple of anticipation.

  The eighteen-year-old pulled her face up into something resembling a smile and nodded her head. The FLO squeezed her arm in a gesture of solidarity, then Pippa was on her own, smoothing down her skirt before standing straight, shoulders back. Mariner pushed open the door and they emerged into the glare of TV lighting. But for once there was no clamorous surge forward. In its place there was an unnerving, respectful silence, broken only by the whispering ricochet of camera shutters, whose operators looked on from a distance. It gave Mariner the creeps. Beyond the journalists the buzz got louder, as the swell of punters began spilling out from the auditorium. Some turned and others stopped to look at what the fuss was in this corner of the atrium. ‘Right,’ Mariner prompted. ‘Let’s go.’ And Pippa stepped out into the mêlée, like a princess leading her bizarre entourage.

  In other circumstances, a reconstruction would command universal attention, but Broad Street was as Broad Street is on a Saturday night: the youth of the city out on the lash. Many of the pedestrians too well-oiled to even give them a second glance. It was why, if this worked, it would be a miracle. From those who did notice the spectacle, Mariner overheard a gamut of reactions:

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Is it someone famous?’

  ‘Must be that girl.’

  That girl. Already the name was beginning to fade from public consciousness and it was hard not to take it personally. It wasn’t easy. There had been doubts and mixed messages about Grace from the get-go. She was a bubbly, friendly girl, strong-willed and assertive, who knew her own mind. And therein lay an element of doubt. Councillor Bob Clifton was a man with a legendary volatile nature and quick temper. He would have said he did not suffer fools. The alternative view presented a man intolerant of opposing views, to the point of bullying fellow council members. He had been a controversial appointment as leader, but was well supported as a tough politician who would make the hard decisions at a time of austerity, when bankruptcy for the city was a distant but real threat.

  Significant to Mariner was the kind of personality that might have caused Grace to disappear of her own accord, to escape from her domineering father. Or it could be that Councillor Clifton knew rather more about what had happened to his daughter than he was admitting. Both had to be considered along with other more traditional lines of inquiry. But if they were to pursue either of those they needed to be founded on something more substantial than a feeling that Clifton was a ruthless bastard. He, along with most of the extended family, were alibied for the time when Grace vanished by her older sister’s engagement celebration at the Masonic Lodge on the Hagley Road. It wouldn’t have been easy for, say, Grace’s father or brother to slip away unnoticed, but nor was it impossible. If nothing else, the reconstruction might provide some badly needed traction in a case that could potentially slide away from them.

  In theory the wide media coverage, including the sight of a similar-looking girl walking the same route, would provide enough of a context to trigger a memory, however vague, of something or someone that had been witnessed. But that was on the understanding that Grace had been taken. Mariner equally saw it as another step towards ruling out that particular possibility.

  Outside Symphony Hall Pippa led the procession on the pre-arranged route, turning left across the Plaza between the war memorial and the new library with its purple-lit curlicued exterior. They continued across the wide footbridge and through the undercover complex of Paradise Forum, one of the places in the city where the homeless were beginning to re-appear and find refuge. Into Victoria Square they passed the back of the Town Hall, which was even now disgorging its own concert-goers. Two ends of the social spectrum within the space of a few short metres.

  From here the route was, in part, guesswork, as Grace would have had a number of alternatives open to her. It was impossible to cover them all, so the route selected for the reconstruction was the most direct: down the relatively quiet Hill Street, past the drop-off for New Street station, across the four-lane ringway and into the top of Hurst Street to the Arcadian, Chinatown and the gay quarter. The walk-through took less than half an hour, at the end of which Mariner read the usual prepared statement to the press, requesting information from the public. He deftly fielded the inevitable questions that, at the moment, he had no answers for, then an astute hack observed: ‘Up until now, you’ve been asking Grace herself to get in touch. Does this reconstruction signal that things have changed?’

  Mariner hesitated, torn between telling the truth – that this enactment was mostly a sop to Councillor Clifton – and being professionally discreet. From the corner of his eye he saw the ACC’s shoulders stiffen in anticipation. ‘It just means that we are keeping all options and lines of enquiry open,’ Mariner said.

  Superintendent Sharp stepped forward. ‘Thank you for your time and co-operation this evening,’ she cut in, and suddenly the press attention was on her, allowing Mariner to slink away to the sidelines.

  Jesson stood a little way off and Mariner went to join her for a moment. ‘Tactfully done,’ she said. Diminutive alongside Mariner, she shared Superintendent Sharp’s liking for trouser suits, but where Sharp’s hung loosely on her willowy frame, Jesson’s was tight around her full bust and hips. Tonight her dark brown hair was tucked up into a French pleat and she wore plain gold stud earrings.

  Ideally Mariner would have liked to stick around, but after a brief conversation with her that reassured him she had things under control, it felt acceptable for him to leave. In the background he heard Sharp reiterating the need for anyone with information, however insignificant it may seem, to come forward. The footage would be shown tonight and tomorrow across the news channels, and during the week on Crime Watch. The uniformed police presence in the area tonight would remain high, with regular officers and PCSOs continuing to distribute leaflets bearing Grace’s photo and talking to anyone and everyone in the hope that they might just encounter that one individual who, maybe without even knowing it, might be able to help.

  Mariner was glad to get back to the solitude of his car. Exiting the city centre the traffic was light, predominantly black cabs and minicabs heading in both directions. Idling at the traffic lights along the new Selly Oak bypass, he made a quick hands-free call to the taxi firm he regularly used for Mercy’s lift home. As the adrenalin rush of the last few hours began to flatten into a blanket of fatigue, his gaze was drawn towards the face of Old Joe, the Chamberlain tower clock, which seemed to be suspended in mid-air over the old part of the university. For a second or two he tuned out of his surroundings, but was shocked back to the here and now by an apparition bearing down on him from out of the night sky. Black and menacing, powerful floodlights beamed out from its underbelly as it moved towards him. Mariner didn’t believe in UFOs but in that moment he was seized by a fear of something he didn’t understand, until the pulsating roar of the twin T55 turboshaft engines filled the car and he saw the two sets of rotor blades chopping through the sodium-pale sky.

  Chi
nook helicopters had become an increasingly common sight over the south of the city in the last couple of years, bringing in wounded personnel from Afghanistan. At the start of the war each casualty had merited a national news item, but now the steady flow went virtually unnoticed by all but those directly involved. The traffic lights switched to green and Mariner moved off, tracking the aircraft’s grim progress towards the three illuminated drums of the Queen Elizabeth hospital, where it would be met by another team of professionals whose jobs would last well into the night.

  Dee Henderson gazed down at the patient lying motionless in the bed, the rhythmic pips and bleeps and the hiss of the ventilator beating out its musical tattoo. She knew that he was a young man, though it wasn’t immediately obvious beneath all the tubes, dressings and wiring. There had been little change in Private Lomax’s condition since he’d been admitted two weeks ago to the critical care ward, but to Dee’s trained and experienced eye, there were beginning to be some subtle indications that he might regain consciousness quite soon.

  ‘Hey you, time you knocked off.’ Ellen Kingsley pushed open the door, tapping an imaginary wristwatch. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone to get the impression that you’re dedicated to the job or something.’ Of a similar age to Dee, and a consultant, Ellen far outranked Dee in medical terms, but they couldn’t afford to stand on ceremony here.

  Dee returned the smile. ‘Yeah, couldn’t have that, could we? I thought I heard the chopper a minute ago. Do you want me to go down?’

  ‘You’ve got good ears,’ said Kingsley.

  Too heavy for the hospital’s Air Ambulance helipad, the Chinooks were forced to land on playing fields to the rear of the hospital, which meant having a team of medics on hand to assist with the transfer across to the main building.

  She shook her head. ‘No, you’re fine. They’ve got enough hands down there tonight, and I understood this one’s straight in for emergency surgery, so we won’t be needed for a few hours yet. You get yourself off home. Is Paddy picking you up?’

  ‘He hasn’t texted me yet to say that he is.’ Dee sighed. ‘Should have stuck at it, shouldn’t I?’ She was end-of-the-week tired and finishing the late shift was one of the few times when she really wished she had persisted with learning to drive. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried, but after taking her test six times and failing each time on an entirely different transgression, she’d decided that it was never going to happen. ‘Might be useful tonight though,’ she said. ‘Charlie Flint, you know, the comedian? He’s coming to the Town Hall next month. I want to book tickets for Paddy’s birthday. I can see if the box office is still open and save on the booking fee.’ She dipped her head towards the unshaven figure lightly snoring on the plastic chair beside Private Lomax’s bed. ‘That’s what I call dedication,’ she said to Ellen. ‘How on earth can he sleep, chin folded over on his chest like that?’

  ‘Anywhere will do when you’re that knackered,’ Ellen said, with a wry smile. ‘I remember it from when I was a junior. Gets to be a way of life.’ The memory made her smile, as she walked around to the other side of Lomax’s bed and placed her hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. He opened his eyes, instantly alert. ‘Come on,’ Ellen said to him. ‘Nothing’s going to happen here in the next few hours. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’

  ‘You can walk me out,’ Dee said to him. She turned back to Dr Kingsley. ‘I’m for my comfy bed then. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Mariner drew into the service road at the back of his remote canal-side cottage to find it in darkness but for the glow of the TV screen from a ground-floor window. Letting himself in, he called out a greeting before switching on the living room light. Mercy roused herself, blinking, from where she’d clearly dozed off on the sofa, and Jamie, at the other end of the room stood up, his attention still riveted to his iPad on the table. A dark stain was spreading down the front of his trousers, from crotch to knee.

  ‘Jamie!’ Mariner reprimanded him wearily.

  Jamie shifted his weight from one foot to the other, refusing to look up. He knew this wasn’t good.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mercy, struggling to her feet. ‘That must have only just happened. Shall I get him cleaned up?’

  A car horn tooted outside. ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll see to him, your taxi’s here.’ He took some banknotes out of his wallet. ‘This is what I owe you for this week, and I’ll let you know about next week, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Tom,’ said Mercy, putting on her coat. ‘I’ll see you soon, Jamie. You have a nice weekend.’

  ‘You too,’ said Mariner. He saw her out to the waiting car.

  ‘I think my Carlton might be coming over tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘That will be nice,’ said Mariner. The only person Mercy ever talked about was Carlton, a male of indeterminate age, who seemed to drift in and out of her life depending on his need for money and Mercy’s laundry services. For a while Mariner hadn’t been clear whether Carlton was a son, partner or other, but recently Mercy had taken to referring to him as a ‘boy’, as in ‘he’s a good boy’ so Mariner had to conclude that it was the first of these. In his experience a mother who routinely thus described her son, generally did so out of misplaced loyalty and a need to convince herself. Mariner was beginning to draw his own conclusions about Carlton. It didn’t help that a couple of weeks ago he’d been late home after interviewing a remand prisoner out at Long Lartin. When he’d explained his delay, Mercy’s face had lit up with recognition. ‘Ah, I know that place,’ she’d said. ‘My Carlton told me about it.’ As Mariner closed the door on her he heard the distant sound of emergency sirens.

  THREE

  Dominique lay in bed with Animal pressed up underneath her chin, comforted by the soft towelling body and the smell that was mostly like Mum’s perfume. This was her worst time of the week, but she couldn’t tell Mum that. On the ceiling she could see the shadows made by the night light: grey squares and oblongs that looked to her like a whole other city, where there might be little people going about their lives too. Outside the flat she could hear muffled voices and sometimes the banging of a door nearby and she didn’t know if it was a TV or if it was the man and woman who lived next door having a row.

  It still felt funny to Dominique, being in this little box up in the sky with other people all around them in their little boxes too, like the little green boxes that her school shoes came in, stacked up one on top of the other in the shoe shop. In London they’d had their own proper house squashed in between other houses, in a crooked line stretching along the street and up the hill. Not that it was really their house, Papa said. They had to pay money to borrow it off the landlord. Here in Birmingham, Mum said they borrowed this flat off the council, so they paid money to them. And now that there wasn’t Dad’s car mechanic wages coming in, Mum went to work in the day when Dominique was at school, and on Fridays and Saturdays she had to go to work at night too, while Dominique was in bed, so that they could pay all the bills and buy the food.

  Dominique didn’t tell Mum, but she liked the landlord’s house better. They had friends in the street and because Papa lived with them, he could stay at home with Dominique while Mum went out to work. Mum wouldn’t have agreed; she said they were better off on their own. One day they had just packed up their things and left. They went to stay with Auntie in London first, but Auntie’s family was big and her house was cramped, so after a few days, just Mum and her had caught the coach to Birmingham to make a fresh start. It had sounded lovely and sunshiney with a big blue sky, but it hadn’t been much like that yet. It had been mostly cold, grey and wet and they knew hardly anyone, so sometimes it was lonely.

  Dominique tried hard to be brave when she was in the flat on her own. Mum said there was nothing to be scared of; the door was locked on the latch, so no one could get in, but if she needed to, Dominique would be able to get out. Mum didn’t say why Dominique might want to go out of the flat at night, and she couldn’t imagine ever wanting
to do that. The noises in the street far below were scary: men shouting and big dogs barking. It was much safer in here. Every Friday and Saturday night Dominique thought she could never go to sleep but she always did, and by the morning, like magic, Mum would be back, sleeping in her own bed, as if she’d never been gone. Dominique’s favourite thing ever was creeping into Mum’s room on Saturday and Sunday morning, trying hard not to wake her up, and getting into the nice warm bed beside her to snuggle up; just her, and Mum and Animal. Thinking of that made her feel much better.

  Millie Khatoon’s head lolled forward, jolting her awake as she sat in the armchair of the spare bedroom. She had never felt so tired in her life. After years of all-night ops and twelve-hour shifts she had a growing sense that this tiny armful would be what would finish her off. Nothing had prepared her for the sheer relentlessness of motherhood and she was exhausted. On the fringes of her consciousness, she became aware of a distant, undulating scream, its volume gradually increasing. It was joined by the jarring clash of another. Standing up, she went to the window, carefully cradling her infant son to keep him latched on to her breast. Not that Haroon was likely to let go: born hungry, the midwife had said; like father like son. Millie craned her neck to see to the end of the street, and just about glimpsed the tell-tale flicker of blue lights as two, maybe even three, emergency vehicles flashed past and hurtled out of sight. She felt a sharp but unmistakable twinge of longing, imagining the adrenaline-fuelled banter going on inside those cars.

  Much as she loved her baby, Millie was astounded to find just how much she missed the whole camaraderie of CID, especially those sudden bursts of activity when they were on a shout. Without the sense of belonging that came with being part of a unit, both relied and reliant upon, she felt cast adrift. So far motherhood was proving to be a largely solitary experience. She had Suli of course, but he was out at work all day and ever since they had moved to this neighbourhood, and up until only weeks before Haroon was born, Millie had worked too. As a Detective Constable hers had never been the most sociable of hours, and admitting to being a police officer rarely paved the way to instant friendship, so the only people she knew on more than just nodding terms were the immediate next-door neighbours, a retired couple on one side and a family with three teenaged kids on the other. It was a long time since she’d needed to establish a social circle and she’d forgotten how hard it could be. She hadn’t been naive enough to expect to fall into one straight away of course, but neither had she envisaged that it would be this slow. She missed her colleagues. Tony Knox had been to visit a couple of times, but the boss had remained strangely distant and Millie didn’t really understand why.