The Silent Room (3 page)

‘I’m not, guv. And I have nothing to add to the statement I already gave.’

‘You deny any wrongdoing?’

‘Yes. So, unless you have proof that I aided an escape, I have work to do.’ Ryan climbed down. It would be unwise to put her back up. ‘Listen, I don’t want to be a pain in the arse. I realize yours is a difficult job but, throughout his interrogation, Jack Fenwick protested his innocence. Ever considered the notion that he might be telling the truth?’

‘Not for a millisecond,’ Maguire answered for her. ‘We have forensic evidence.’

‘A plant maybe?’

Maguire wasn’t finished. ‘Maybe we’ll catch you out too.’

‘That would be difficult, given that I’m squeaky clean.’

‘Don’t smart-mouth me.’

‘Or what?’

‘Oi, you two, cut it out!’ O’Neil’s eyes flashed a warning to them both, eventually coming to rest on Ryan. ‘I’ll ask you again, Detective. Do you know anything about those firearms, Fenwick’s involvement in concealing them, or who might be responsible for helping him escape from custody?’

‘No, guv. My DI plays by the rulebook.’

‘Shame you don’t.’ Maguire couldn’t help himself.

Ryan repeated that he didn’t believe Jack Fenwick had done anything wrong. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s as straight as they come.’

Maguire gestured for him to stand.

Ryan got to his feet. Instinctively, he knew what was coming. Maguire had waited a long time for this moment. He’d want to make the most of it, not let it pass without a fanfare. More worried about the safety of his friend and colleague than the trouble he was in personally, Ryan wondered if he might convince O’Neil to take him on. Allow him to aid her investigation. With his knowledge of Jack and his close contacts, he might be of use to her. Putting it to her in as few words as he could, he told her she’d have more success working with him than without.

‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this and find my DI as much as you do.’

‘No chance,’ Maguire said. ‘In fact, you know what? You weren’t where you should’ve been this afternoon. You’d buggered off for some spurious personal reason. Now you’ll have to face the consequences. You’re suspended.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘I just gave you the grounds.’ Victorious, Maguire began to count on his fingers. ‘Neglect of duty; inappropriate use of a police vehicle—’

‘You forgot theft of diesel,’ Ryan mimicked his tone.

‘You’re quite the comedian.’ Maguire was almost smirking. ‘We’ll get round to that too . . . eventually.’

Ryan stared him down. ‘That’s the best you can do? It’s bollocks, Maguire. You know it and so do I. I covered the expenses. Check the logbook.’

‘I will, except it might take a while. Right now I’m busy.’

‘What is this? Payback for being passed over for Special Branch, or something more personal perhaps?’ Ryan enjoyed taking him down a peg. ‘I won’t spell it out with your guv’nor here. That wouldn’t be fair. Unless . . . yeah, that must be it: you’re afraid I might get to the truth before you do. I guarantee it.’

‘No.’ O’Neil was all over him. ‘You’ll do no such thing. From this point on you are suspended. You will not involve yourself in this matter in any way. Failure to comply will only land you in more bother. If you have
anything
to say to me, say it. We don’t need you on duty in order to follow it up. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Crystal,’ Ryan said.

Maguire stuck his hand out. ‘Warrant card.’

Ryan wanted to punch his lights out. His eyes found the floor instead. He took a moment to regain his composure. The outcome of the interview was even worse than he’d imagined. When he raised his head, O’Neil looked decidedly uncomfortable. Unlike the goon sitting beside her, she took no pleasure in seeing an officer of his calibre hand over his most prized possession. Taking his warrant card from his breast pocket, he presented, or rather threw it down. It landed with a solid thump on the desk. Skidding over the polished surface, it tipped over the edge into Maguire’s lap, wiping the sneer off his face.

‘Close the door on your way out,’ he said.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, Ryan told O’Neil that he had every confidence in her ability, and Maguire that he was making a big mistake. With his head held high, he walked out, leaving his office door wide open in his wake. Without access to the station, he was screwed.

4

Grace Ellis turned on the TV. She was bored. She’d been bored since 20 December 2010, the day she retired. A succession of displacement activities, some paid, some voluntary, had kept her interest for a while, the pick of which was Foreign Office courier, a job that had taken her all over the world. Even with the perks of diplomatic status, within a year the novelty had worn off, so exhausting was the travelling. To get over it, she’d spent the past month chilling with a mate in Sainte-Maxime, a few kilometres from St Tropez, enjoying glorious weather, fine wine and brilliant company, with a view to moving there. But she’d returned to the UK, unsettled, with little appetite for life in the slow lane.

Emigration simply didn’t appeal.

Although undeniably at a loose end, she was nowhere near ready to sit on her arse and get fat. With no firm plans for her evening, beyond shoving on the washing machine and necking a bottle of red, she flicked through the TV channels until she happened upon the theme tune for the local news. On camera, the ITV News presenter, Ian Payne, gave the headlines, listing them in order of priority.

Thinking she’d misheard, Grace turned up the volume.

The news anchor’s expression darkened as he returned to the day’s top story. ‘And in news just in, a disgraced Northumbria detective has escaped from a prison van in a daring hijack in broad daylight. The police officer was arrested and suspended from duty in September following allegations of possession of firearms without a licence and misconduct in public office. We’re going live to the scene, where our correspondent Helen Ford has the details. Helen, what can you tell us?’

On screen, the image switched to an outside location where Ford was standing by in the dark. ‘The former Special Branch officer was en route from Newcastle Crown Court to Durham prison following an unsuccessful bail hearing. The security van was hijacked on the main road you see behind me, an audacious attack that has shocked this rural community.’ She gestured over her shoulder, telling viewers that the road had been cordoned off and would remain so for some time. ‘Prior to his arrest, DI Jack Fenwick was a decorated policeman, trusted by his superiors and assigned to highly sensitive cases, including counter terrorism. As recently as three years ago he’d been tasked with monitoring subversive organizations operating within our force area.’

Lighter fuel ignited with a mini-explosion. Grace pulled the flame towards her, lit a cigarette and threw the pack on the coffee table, eyes glued to the TV as the report cut back to the studio, the focus of her attention an image of Jack Fenwick that had just uploaded on the left-hand side of the screen. His face seemed to get larger the more she looked at it.

‘Do we know what the detective had been working on?’ Payne asked.

Ford glanced at her notes. ‘We have no specific details on that. According to his solicitor, Paul Godfrey, the officer has always protested his innocence and denied all charges. Today’s events, however, seem to support the contention that he may be involved with some pretty heavy people.’

Bullshit.

Adrenalin rushed through Grace’s veins, transporting her back in time. Her living room walls seemed to expand and disappear until all that was left was her armchair and the TV. In her mind, she’d just pulled on a uniform. Whatever had happened during her holiday in France, she was certain of one thing: wherever ITV were getting their information, it was wrong. Working with Jack in the Serious Incident Squad had been a blast, every shift exciting, every tour of duty better than the one before. He was her protégé, his promotion to Special Branch after she’d left the force well deserved. A more decent guy you couldn’t wish to meet. The press had a duty to report the facts, of course, but they had no right to imply any more than that, or sully a fine officer’s reputation.

Taking another hit of nicotine, Grace checked her watch. Six-forty. She picked up the phone, dialling a number she’d committed to memory years ago. It was answered on the fourth ring, no greeting given, just a patient and weighty silence from the man on the other end.

Same ol’ Newman.

‘Fancy coming out to play?’ she asked. ‘I need your help, Frank.’

‘Hello, Grace.’

‘Listen to this.’ Putting the phone on speaker, she turned up the TV.

In the studio, Payne continued, ‘What do we know of the hijackers?’

Ford reappeared on screen. ‘I’ve spoken to one witness who confirms that there were two men, both armed. They drove away at high speed in a silver Audi – registration NB59 HFT Police are keen to trace the getaway vehicle as well as the detective who fled the scene . . .’

Grace pulled the phone towards her. ‘Did you get that?’

‘Yeah,’ Newman said. ‘Sounds serious.’

‘It is.’ A number plate flashed up on screen. ‘Hold on a second.’

Grace scribbled down the registration as the presenter carried on, placing great emphasis on the distress caused to two security guards who were helping police with their enquiries. Not for the first time was she regretting her decision to retire. She’d enjoyed every minute of her job, but then the organization changed beyond all recognition. It became so diluted she couldn’t stomach it any more.

Until today.

Now she had a burning desire to take positive action. She’d do anything –
anything
– to throw her life into reverse and carry on working. ‘The guy that was sprung used to be one of mine,’ she said, back on the phone, heart beating too fast, imagination in overdrive. ‘What you heard just now is crap.’

‘Sounds like you rate him.’

‘I do. You going to help me out or not?’

‘Not. I’m otherwise engaged.’

‘Doing what?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Sorry I troubled you.’

Stubbing her fag in the ashtray sending a chimney of smoke upwards, Grace was kicking herself for having pried. Frank was a man of few words. She’d not seen him for almost four years. He could be doing anything – with anyone – a fact that was as heartbreaking as it was annoying. In other circumstances, things could’ve been so different between them but, for now, their conversation was over. Hanging up, she screamed at the TV in frustration. She could’ve played that better. Should have. She sat back in her armchair, piles of unwashed clothes on the utility room floor forgotten, her French vacation a distant memory. Jack Fenwick desperately needed help. If Newman wouldn’t lend a hand, another of her former devotees, DS Matthew Ryan, would.

5

Ryan drove home to Embleton Bay through the arse-end of the rush hour with the intention of calling on Caroline, a plan that quickly faded as he passed the signpost for Alnwick on the way to the coast. If he couldn’t share his split with Roz with his sister, he sure as hell couldn’t face the prospect of telling her he’d been suspended from Special Branch. She’d blame herself for getting him into trouble when it wasn’t her fault.

Best not go there.

Since the death of their mother at the end of June, Ryan had worked out an arrangement with his boss; in exchange for working out of hours, without claiming overtime, he could piss off during the day to sort Caroline out. Now he came to think of it, the idea had come from Jack. That was the kind of compassionate guy he was. He didn’t seem to care that it would leave him short-handed.

Quite the opposite: anyone would think he wanted rid
of him.

Ryan hadn’t bothered mentioning this private pact to O’Neil. What was the point? He didn’t have it in writing and it would merely act as another black mark against his DI. A spirit of cooperation didn’t exist when complaints were on the table.

The miles flew by and he was home in no time. He drove past his house and round the back to the courtyard parking area. Not another car in sight. Most of the properties in Dunstan Steads were holiday lets. Second homes converted from old farm buildings. The tranquillity of the place was the perfect antidote to a hectic life as a serving police officer. A short stroll across the golf course and he was on the beach.

Bliss.

Through force of habit, not need, he locked the car.

Opening the gate, he crossed the yard and let himself into a hallway that doubled as a dining room, anger over his suspension boiling in his gut, an emotion he had no time to indulge. If he was going to help Jack, he needed to focus. He may be locked out of the station –
any
police station – but Maguire couldn’t take away his ability to investigate a crime or keep his promise to Hilary. With or without the power his warrant card afforded him, Ryan was determined to find out what was going on.

But where to start?

Stripping off, he took a shower, purging himself of O’Neil’s warning that he should stay the hell away from the case or face the consequences. He dressed in jeans, an old sweater and leather jacket – his dad’s; a throwback from his drug squad days. It was falling to bits, but Ryan didn’t care. He’d worn it since he’d grown into it twenty years ago. The image of his old man with it on was the only one he had.

Leaving the house, he returned to his Land Rover Discovery and got in. The interior of the British four-wheel-drive utility vehicle smelled permanently of Caroline’s dog. The car was old and rusting but it suited his personality and lifestyle perfectly. He was an off-road kind of guy – another thing Roz hated about him.

South of Stannington village, Ryan took the slip road – signposted Blagdon – then turned right over the bypass on to the Berwick Hill Road. The radio was full of the hijack, the weather doing its utmost to persuade him to put off ’til morning. He ploughed on regardless. It was too risky to be seen near the crime scene and too late in the day to talk to Jack’s solicitor.
Hilary
– he’d begin with her.