The Catch (11 page)

Gordon Blake hadn’t yet said a word, but Stemper could hear him breathing: a faint nasal purr that would irritate if Stemper gave it too much thought.

‘Intriguing,’ he said, when Patricia’s account was complete. ‘As you’ve suggested, a lot rests on whether it was deliberate or accidental.’

‘What’s your gut feeling there?’

Stemper picked up the box of space marines and idly turned it in his hand as he considered his reply.

‘I think there’s every chance that last night’s event is entirely unrelated to your own arrangement.’

Patricia made a noise in her throat. ‘I don’t know if that’s better or worse.’

‘Better, surely? And remember, this is nothing more than first instincts. A cold reading.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’d also say that your chap is probably adequate to the task, as it stands.’

‘You think so?’ A note of disappointment: she didn’t rate Jerry Conlon. She wanted Stemper.

‘My services are available if required. For now, there’s one thing you should consider.’

‘Go on.’

Stemper tipped up the box of space marines: the next project on his list. Jacob liked to participate where he was able, so Stemper would cut the plastic parts from the sprue, using an extremely sharp craft knife, and glue the models together. Jacob, if supervised, could be trusted to spray the undercoat.

‘Put yourself in the mind of the culprit. After such an event there’s inevitably a period of denial, of doubt, particularly if it was unintentional. He or she will have woken this morning and thought:
Did it really happen?
’

‘Yes,’ Patricia murmured. ‘I can see that.’

‘Through the course of the day, that sense of unreality will intensify. There will be an irresistible urge to know for sure.’

‘A return to the scene of the crime?’

‘It’s a cliché precisely because of its strong basis in reality.’

‘But it was last night. We’re probably too late.’

‘Not necessarily. You said the authorities are present?’

‘Yes.’

‘Certainly when Je— when our friend was there,’ Gordon added, in a tone of breathless excitement. Stemper pictured him, sitting with both hands pressed between his legs, his knees swinging open and shut like saloon doors in a gale.

‘I imagine they’ll be there for some hours. But once the body’s removed, and a thorough search completed, they’ll leave the scene unguarded.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’ This time Gordon was subdued, as though reeling from Patricia’s disapproval.

‘Tell your friend to find a suitably discreet location with a clear view of the road. Somewhere he can hide for several hours. If they come back, it’ll be before three a.m. He should note the registration of every vehicle that passes twice or more, or anyone who slows down to look.’

Gordon said, ‘But don’t crime scenes always attract, what do they call it, “rubberneckers”?’

‘Yes. And among the rubberneckers, you’ll often find the perpetrator.’ He added, ‘Regarding the numbers, I do have a database chap if you need one, though for DVLA records it does tend to be quite pricey.’

‘Thank you, but we have our own contacts,’ Patricia said.

‘Of course. Well, do let me know if I can be of any more help. A pleasure to talk to you again.’

Stemper put the phone down, thinking:
They will need my help
. Especially if their only assistance was coming from a phlegmy old reprobate like Jerry Conlon ...

He pushed the chair back on its castors, crossed his arms on the desk and lowered his head until his chin rested on his forearm. Now he was at eye level with the Changeling. It glared at him with a righteous fury, daring him to do what he did best: fight fire with fire.

****

Footsteps clattered on the stairs. Stemper checked his surroundings – the desk, the floor, the laptop screen – then relaxed. A quick double knock and the door burst open. Against the rules, but Stemper had a smile prepared.

Jacob bowled into the room. His face lit up. ‘Ah, you painted it! Amazing!’

Stemper gave a modest nod. The boy ran towards him, arms up as if seeking a hug, then dropped them at the last second. He stood over the model, close enough for Stemper to taste the heat and sweat pumping from him. His blond hair was wet and spiky. There were grass stains on his school polo shirt.

‘Can I touch it?’

‘Not just yet.’ Stemper noticed a small twig matted in the boy’s hair. ‘You look hot and bothered.’

‘Went to the park on the way home. Nathan was there, and Mattie Clark. We were fighting and stuff. Doing karate.’

‘Sounds like fun.’ Stemper thought about reaching over and plucking the twig out, but while he was deliberating he heard movement on the landing.

‘Jacob! I’ve told you not to disturb Mr Hopper.’

‘But he’s finished the Changeling for me!’

Stemper swivelled the chair towards the doorway. Debbie Winwood was the epitome of a gently disapproving mum, arms folded across her breasts, love and tolerance in her eyes. She flashed Stemper a knowing look.

‘You’re very lucky, Jacob. Have you thanked him?’

‘Thank you,’ Jacob said dutifully, then went back up a gear: ‘Can we do the marines now?’

‘You’ve got homework tonight.’

The boy groaned. His fingers were fluttering above the Changeling, desperate to hold it. Debbie lingered in the doorway, needing to establish control over her son but respectful of Stemper’s territory.

He picked up the box of space marines. ‘I tell you what, Jacob. I’ll prep them tonight, and then maybe you can do the base coat tomorrow.’

‘Yeah! Will you help me with them?’

‘If I can. I might have to go away for a few days.’

Debbie’s ears pricked up. ‘On business?’

Stemper nodded. ‘There’s the possibility of a new contract.’

‘Oh. Long-term, do you think?’

He saw the worry in her face. Over the past two months the rent he’d paid and the help he’d offered around the house had made him virtually indispensable. Everything had gone beautifully to plan.

He said, ‘Not necessarily. I should know more later this week.’

She nodded, then winced as an elbow bumped her arm: her daughter, Brooke, cradling an open laptop and trying to slither past with her back to the room.

‘Be more careful.’

‘
Sor
-ry.’

‘Come and see the Changeling!’ Jacob cried. ‘It’s all painted.’

Brooke turned just long enough to pull a face, her tongue bulging against her lower lip: as if Jacob was insane to think a thirteen-year-old girl would be interested in anything that excited a nine-year-old boy. Like,
why
?

The dynamics of family life enthralled Stemper. His expression conveyed that, whilst he wasn’t taking sides, he understood her attitude entirely. Brooke saw it but maintained the sneer. She spent a lot of time monitoring Stemper in her peripheral vision; rarely if ever did she look him directly in the eye.

‘Right, Jacob,’ Debbie said. ‘You need to get out of that filthy uniform. And Mr Hopper needs peace and quiet.’

Reluctantly, the boy traipsed out, and Debbie offered another apologetic smile.

‘I’ve put the kettle on. Do you want ...?’

‘Not right now. Thank you.’

Stemper waited until the door had closed, then turned the chair back towards the desk.
Peace and quiet
, he thought.
Or confusion and havoc
.

He knew which he preferred.

When they told him the plan it was clear that Jerry wasn’t impressed, though he wouldn’t actually come out and say it.

He arrived half an hour after the conversation with Stemper, while the Blakes were still hyper – or rather, Patricia was hyper and Gordon was surging in and out of her slipstream. Gordon didn’t appreciate how much it had affected them until he caught the look that Jerry gave Patricia. Ravenous but wary, as though a voice in his head was telling him to be careful what he wished for.

Gordon couldn’t help smacking his lips together, relishing the surprise they had in store for him.

Patricia, who favoured directness, had said, ‘I don’t care how tedious it is for him. If he’d kept a closer watch on O’Brien, we wouldn’t be in this position.’

That wasn’t necessarily true, although Gordon didn’t say so. ‘Can we trust him to get this right?’ he asked.

‘Frankly, who knows? Are you volunteering in his place?’

And he’d laughed. ‘No, not me, darling. I get far too fidgety, don’t I?’

****

Conlon arrived in his rented VW Golf. His own car was some kind of absurd vintage Cadillac, restored at great expense over a period of many years. As to why Jerry had bothered, Gordon had no idea. A big flash car was about as foolish a choice of vehicle as you could imagine for a man in Jerry’s current role of low-key, unobtrusive gofer. The Blakes had duly insisted on more anonymous transport.

Nudging sixty but looking a decade older, Jerry Conlon seemed to believe he was entitled to a perpetual mid-life crisis, as if an early brush with the rock-and-roll business had endowed him with the gift of immortality.

He was painfully thin, except for a roll of flab around his middle that resembled a bicycle inner tube. He wore tight jeans, leather coats and bootlace ties. Permanently unshaven, his uneven white stubble was more Steptoe than Bruce Willis, and his curly grey hair was stained an unappealing nicotine yellow. With his sunken cheeks and wheezy south London voice, he could have been an escapee from a 1950s sanatorium.

In the living room, over a pot of Earl Grey, he updated them on his progress. ‘I managed to blag a chat with this barmaid. Traci, with an “i”. She’s about twenty. A fat, rough-looking bird. Supposed to be a goth, but take it from me, she ain’t the real deal.’

Gordon snorted. Another of Jerry’s delusions was that he had his finger on the pulse of youth culture. For a man who looked like his own pulse was thready at best, Gordon thought he’d be wiser to concentrate on a lifestyle more befitting his age.

‘What did she tell you, Jerry?’ Patricia said.

Conlon gave his nose a savage rub with the side of his hand. ‘It is O’Brien. Dead as a doornail when the farmer found him this morning.’

A moment of glum silence. They had known all day, but the news sank deeper now.

‘And we’re in the clear as regards your contact with Hank?’ Patricia asked.

‘Totally. I only ever used the mobile you gave me. I assume it’s untraceable?’

Patricia nodded. ‘What about the house? The laptop?’

‘No chance. The fuzz were still there.’ Anticipating their displeasure, he raised a hand. ‘But I got another snippet in the pub. Turns out Hank met up with some bird.’

‘A woman?’ Patricia said. She and Gordon exchanged a glance: just as they had speculated.

‘Yeah. Dunno if it was a date or what, but it didn’t go well. Traci said they had a row. O’Brien pushed the girl over, then these blokes went wading in.’

‘Who?’ Patricia barked.

‘Just two blokes that were in there drinking. They broke up the fight, and O’Brien scarpered.’

Patricia seemed poised to speak, but in fact she was just drawing in a long, slow breath. Gordon knew it as an
uh-oh
breath.

‘Did you get any information about them?’ she demanded, splaying her hand and ticking off each point on a different finger. ‘Their ages. Their descriptions. What they said. What they did. What sort of
car
they drove.’

Jerry shrivelled under the onslaught. ‘Hey, it was hard enough getting that. The pub was heaving, and the fuzz were in and out all the time. This was a hit-and-run, remember? If they clock me taking too much interest, what do you think they’re gonna do?’

‘Hmm.’ The look Patricia gave him made it apparent that she took a dim view of his excuses.

‘I suppose we have a bit more to go on,’ Gordon said.

Patricia, still studying Jerry, said: ‘Which brings us to your next task ...’

****

Once they had explained it, Jerry took a noisy gulp of tea and sighed. ‘So I’m camping out for the night, basically?’

‘Till three a.m.,’ Patricia said. ‘Just make sure you’re not seen. I trust there are suitable places to hide?’

‘Only in a field, or up a fu— up a tree.’

Savouring the misery on Jerry’s face, Gordon said, ‘A touch of good fortune tonight and the mystery will be solved.’

‘And what if nobody shows up?’

Patricia said, ‘We’ll reassess tomorrow. Gordon and I have already discussed how we can enhance the team.’

Jerry looked indignant. ‘You mean get outside help? Like who?’

‘Stemper.’

‘Shit.’ Jerry swore with such comic timing that it should have provoked a smile, but Gordon didn’t feel like smiling. His own reaction, safely internalised, had been much the same.

Patricia was affronted. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing. It’s your decision, I suppose.’ Unconsciously, Jerry was shaking his head, but Patricia didn’t seem to notice.

‘You’re quite correct, Jerry. It
is
my decision.’

Dan was in the pub by ten to six, having fled the shop and jumped on the first bus that came along.

In the final hour of trading Hayley had begun chatting brightly about a wedding fair taking place this Sunday, at a hotel near Crawley. It was the sort of thing he’d struggle to be enthusiastic about at the best of times; right now even a lukewarm interest was beyond him.

‘I know it’s not likely to be relevant for years yet.’ Here she’d left a pause, during which he was probably expected to contradict her. ‘Mum’s keen to come, but she won’t if you’d prefer it to be just the two of us.’

Dan had shrugged. ‘No, let her go with you if she wants.’ Then one of the other assistants had interrupted with a question about wireless routers, and Dan gave a silent blessing for his lucky escape.