Gone to Ground (30 page)

When finally they were ushered in, the ACG shook Rastrick's hand, greeted Will with a nod, and told the pair of them to sit.

A heavy-chested man in his fifties, graying hair brushed neatly into place. Were it not for his uniform, Will thought, he could have been the CEO of some company quoted on the stock exchange, anything from biscuits to ball bearings.

"I've read these reports I asked for," the AGG said, indicating the files on his desk, "and it's difficult to tell which of you's got your head jammed further up your own arse."

Rastrick coughed; Will examined the floor close to his feet.

"Straightforward enough case, this, Malcolm, I'd have thought. High-profile. One student dead and another injured, one of our own in hospital, sort of thing that has the media blowing a gasket. What it needs, tact, organization, a pair of safe hands, which is supposed to be you, and suddenly you turn into something out of the bloody
Sweeney.
Too much time watching reruns on Men and sodding Motors. That kid, that youth, what in God's name did you think you were playing at? A wonder you didn't hit him round the head with a couple of telephone directories while you were at it. Just for old time's sake. Threaten to wire up his sweaty little bollocks."

Rastrick seemed to have given himself over to a careful examination of the cracks in the ceiling.

"Jesus, Malcolm," the AGG continued, "this is the twenty-first fucking century, or haven't you heard? The age of accountability. I can't take a piss while I'm wearing this uniform, without measuring the content and the duration to ensure they're in line with some Home Office directive. Can't drop a fart with the wind in the wrong direction, for fear of abusing someone's Human fucking Rights. And if we want to squeeze the truth out of some miserable scrote, we don't have the wherewithal to ship him off to Egypt or fucking Albania and get someone else to do our dirty work for us. No. We're responsible. I'm responsible. You get some kid in a room on his own, no witnesses, no legal fucking representation, and come on like it's Guantanamo fucking Bay and it's okay for you to be a law unto yourself, leaving me carrying the fucking can and trying to excusing the fucking inexcusable. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Rastrick's normally dolorous face looked more so than usual, his complexion more ashen.

"Yes? Just yes? No smart comebacks, no pithy one-liners, no excuses?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Because if you ever put me in that position again, I will personally hang you out to dry. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

With a grunt, the AGC slid Will's file across the desk and glanced at the notes he'd written on the first page of the report; only then did he look at Will carefully for the first time.

"Now, Grayson—bit of a cowboy, we know that, least you like to think you are. Out on the streets, knocking on doors, anything rather than do what I'm doing, sitting behind a desk and taking some fucking responsibility." He jabbed a finger in Will's direction. "Just as well, son, because carry on the way you are now, the nearest you're going to get to a desk like this is where you are now, waiting for a reprimand. Fuck this up, this enquiry, and you'll be on the streets, all right, you'll be back in uniform; you'll be going into schools giving little kids lectures on road fucking safety, that's what you'll be doing."

Will said nothing.

The AGG flipped open the file. "Howard Prince, you think there's a link between him and Bryan's murder?"

"I think it's a possibility, yes, sir."

"Because he was apparently seen hanging around outside Bryan's house? God, man, what does that prove?"

"In itself, nothing, sir. And I certainly wouldn't want to rely on that witness in court. But he does seem to be almost paranoid about anyone looking into his affairs. And we know he warned Bryan off..."

"Long step between there and having him murdered."

"Yes, sir, I know, but there's also evidence that suggests he's not above using force when he feels it necessary. Making threats. Various kinds of intimidation. Not Prince directly, but a lot of it pointing in his direction. I'm going back through the files now."

"And this McGormick..."

"McKusick, sir."

"This McKusick you wasted several hundred police hours investigating, the boyfriend, he's all squeaky clean you've decided?"

"It looks that way, sir."

"Bit of a waste of time, then. Time and resources."

"McKusick was a viable suspect..."

"But not to the exclusion of all others."

"Sir?"

"Prince, why wasn't he investigated sooner?"

"We did speak to him, sir. Quite early on."

"And he pulled the wool over your eyes."

A denial formed in Will's mind, but he choked it off.

"The thing about doing your own legwork," the AGG said, "conducting your own interrogations, there's no one else to point a finger at when you come a fucking cropper." He tapped his fingers briskly down on top of the file. "Now you've got your feet wet, you'd best follow this through. Notts force, they're giving you all the cooperation you need?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Keep in contact with Malcolm here about this other business. You and Moyles, you're in touch with this fellow from Hate Grimes?"

"Parsons. Yes, sir."

"Right." The AGG leaned back in his executive chair. "Bugger off, the pair of you. Just heed what I've said. And Grayson, I'd step carefully with Prince if I were you—a few friends in high places, I'd not be surprised."

Both men got to their feet.

"Your DS," the AGG said. "Walker. She's out of any danger, I take it? Making a good recovery?"

"Discharged from hospital any day, sir," Will said.

"Excellent."

Enid barely glanced up as they entered the outer office, a three-colour spreadsheet filling the screen of her computer. Rastrick blew her a kiss in passing, but if she noticed she gave no sign.

"GOT A MINUTE?" RASTRICK SAID.

Will looked up from his desk and read the grin of satisfaction, writ large on the detective superintendent's sallow face.

"Take a look at this."

This
was a length of wood, enclosed in a plastic evidence bag and tagged.

"One of the divers," Rastrick said, "pulled it out of the Gam. Couple of hundred metres or so along from the bridge. Best bet, one of the gang running off that way took it so far and then chucked it in."

The wood was almost as long as a man's arm and splintered across the top, where a section had broken off; the width, tapering slightly, was such that it could be held firmly in a man's hand. Tape, fraying and discoloured, was attached to one end.

"What do you reckon?" Will said. "Hockey stick?"

Rastrick shrugged. "Lacking the business end? Could be."

"Or that Irish game."

"Hurley?"

"Hurley, hurling, something like that."

"Hurled into the river, that's for sure."

"Could have been in there a while," Will said.

"That it could. Then again, it could be what fitted out that poor bastard with a requiem mass."

Will lifted it with one hand, feeling the weight, the heft; he imagined the impact it would have had if swung, full force, against someone's ribs; brought down from a height against someone's head.

"Any chance of prints from this?" Will asked, doubtfully.

"Some."

"They'll not have been washed away?"

"Sending it along to the Fingerprint Office first thing. Have to wait and see." Rastrick perched his angular frame on the edge of Will's desk. "Time the tide turned our way, don't you think?"

Less than an hour later, Will was heading for alien turf. Well, perhaps alien was putting it a bit strong. But Nottingham was where the bulk of Howard Prince's activities were centred, so that was where he needed to be. Earlier that morning, he'd had a meeting with Lynn Kellogg, from the Force Grime Directorate, the Notts equivalent of the Major Investigation Team to which he himself belonged.

Neat and business-like in a black roll-neck sweater and matching skirt, Kellogg had listened as Will outlined his reasons for looking into Prince's background.

"A lot of supposition and not much substance," she said when he'd finished.

Will nodded. "At the moment, it's all we have. But I'm confident we'll find more."

"And the reason you're here to see me—it's Prince's business dealings, primarily?"

"For now, yes."

"You think that's what he's protecting, not his family?"

Will smiled. "It has to be a possibility."

"It's scrabbling in the dark, you know that, don't you?"

"I know."

Kellogg wrote a name and contact details in the leather-bound notebook on her desk, tore out the page and handed it across. "Terry Challoner, that's who you should talk to. Till he took retirement six months ago, he was number two in the Fraud Squad. If there was anything other than squeaky clean about Prince's dealings, chances are he'd have known about it. I'll give him a call, tell him you'll be in touch."

"Thanks." Folding the sheet of paper, Will slipped it down into his inside pocket.

"Need anything else, let me know. I'll see what I can do. And good luck."

Terry Challoner was cheery and precise in his instructions. "Notts Police HQ., you know where that is, I dare say? Take the main road from there north toward Mansfield. Carry on till you come to a big roundabout and fork right onto the A614, the Doncaster road. About four miles along there you'll see a sign that says burial ground, pointing off to the right. That'll take you on to Salterford Lane. Go along there just above half a mile—you'll have gone past the burial ground itself—Tithe Green, that's what it's called—and just after a rise, you'll see a track leading off to the left. Quite a sharp turn. Couple of hundred yards along there you'll see a couple of old farm workers' cottages on the right-hand side. We're in the first one of those. Black and white collie comes running out and tries to have your balls for breakfast, you know you're in the right place."

The wind was blowing quite strongly as Will drove, and clouds, varying in shade from off-white to battlefield gray, scudded fast across the open sky. Fields to either side showed the first signs of early growth, hedgerows thickening to green. A Range Rover accelerated onto his shoulder, anxious to pass. When last he'd spoken to Lorraine, she'd told him of her appointment with the manager at the university admissions office, and he'd felt bad at not being able to share her excitement.

He saw the sign for the burial ground with plenty of time, slowed to a standstill so that a tractor traveling in the opposite direction could pass, and turned into the lane. Classic FM was playing low on his car radio, some tinkly piano music or other. Handel, he thought the presenter might have said.

There were several cars in the parking area alongside the burial ground, small knots of people standing between them, some waiting silently, others turned inward in conversation; behind them a path led toward what Will assumed were the graves, marked by small splashes of flowers. A tall woman in a black cape stood among them, bare headed, staring at the sky.

He missed the turning into the farm track and had to continue along the lane for a good half a mile before finding space enough to reverse and try again. When he was in sight of the cottages, the collie came running toward him and crouched, splay-footed, in his path, head back, barking. Having stopped, Will released the hand brake and continued slowly forward, the dog now running from one side of the car to the other, jumping up at the windows and showing its teeth.

No chance, Will thought, of anyone taking Terry Challoner by surprise.

Challoner himself was standing in the front garden of the cottage as Will drew up: dark green waxed jacket, open neck check shirt, muddied brown cords, Wellington boots. A word to the dog to be quiet was all that was needed.

He took Will's hand in a hearty grip. "Found your way, then?"

"More or less."

"Long as you don't turn off too soon, down to Tithe Green." Challoner laughed. "Worse places to fetch up, mind you, when the time comes. Crematorium somewhere, soulless bloody places, like something on one of these industrial estates, most of 'em. Pumping out more smoke into the bloody ozone. Down there, a few years on and you're just so much mulch." He laughed again. "Pushing up daisies, isn't that what they used to say? Well, down there it's true. Fertilizer, that's what you become. And none of this religious hocus-pocus, neither. Just a wicker coffin, that or cardboard, someone says a few words and then them as wants sling down a bit of earth. I've got mine booked, I tell you. Booked and paid for."

"Bit premature?" Will said.

Challoner shook his head. "Get it settled. Then it's done. Two hundred and fifty quid for a prepaid plot; another hundred or so to have the grave dug and then filled in again. I've even splashed out another seventy to have a tree planted up on the hill there..." He turned toward the dog. "Something for him to piss against when I'm gone."

Will was looking back at the cottage with its white walls and faded green trim, its neighbour almost identical, the line between the gardens marked with a low fence of looped iron.

"You live here alone?" Will asked.

"Aside from the dog? Aye. Wife died just over a year back. Bastard cancer. Ate her away from the inside in less time'n it took one of her grandkids to grow inside the bloody womb."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, well..." Challoner shook his head. "We'd had our eye on this place for a few years, somewhere to retire when I jacked it all in. Never thought I'd be up here on me own. You don't. Not when you've been together as long as we had. But there you are..."

He started to walk back toward the cottage and Will walked with him. "You like it here, though?" Will said. "You'd not sooner be back in the city?"

Challoner stopped short of the door. "You know what I did? The day I retired? Took all my suits, shirts, ties, all the stuff I'd worn every day of my working life, built a bonfire out back and burned the bloody lot. Ashes. This is what I wear now, this and an old sweater full of holes. I doubt I've set foot back in Nottingham more than once since the turn of the year."