Written in Blood (38 page)

‘All over. We did regular tours in Northern Ireland, Germany and of course we’re the Queen’s ceremonial regiment. ’

‘So he’d know London well.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Why did he leave?’

‘I don’t recall a specific reason. A lot left after Tumbledown.’

‘He was in the Falklands?’

‘Oh yes. McCrae could have made a career of the army, but he got out after eight years. He’d served his time. Possibly in the end he was frustrated that promotion didn’t come soon enough.’

‘And why was that?’

‘There was a question mark over his literacy and numeracy skills. But to be brutally frank, the men didn’t much like him either, so he wasn’t what you’d call leadership material. He was a loner and I think his colleagues found it hard to completely trust him. Outwardly he could be very charming, but he had an unholy temper, and there was something unpredictable about him, verging on the schizophrenic, although he passed all his psych tests. There were never any explicit disciplinary issues but I always had an impression that he didn’t like taking orders. And he had a massive chip on his shoulder about the fact that he was adopted. He was convinced that it put him at a disadvantage. ’

So Kenneth McCrae was finding more reasons to be angry with the world.

Coleman faxed through the photograph to Granville Lane with instructions that it should be released to the press immediately in the hope that somebody, somewhere would recognise it. But he was well aware of how much time that would take, when time was a commodity in short supply. It was now more than forty-eight hours since Mariner had disappeared. A picture meant that they could put out a TV appeal for both Mariner and McCrae, but it wasn’t hopeful.

Andy Tyrell offered to drive them up to the caravan Clive McCrae had mentioned. Loch Cree was a bleak place, the van parked on its shingle shore alongside the oily water and partly concealed by woodland. Green streaks of mildew down the white panelling helped the caravan to blend into the landscape and looking in through the grimy window revealed no sign of recent habitation. The door was fixed with a rusting, heavy-duty padlock and moss sprouted around the rubber seal. It hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. There was nothing more they could do here.

They were cutting it fine for the flight back so, thanking Tyrell, Coleman and Knox headed back to the airport. In his haste Knox took a wrong turning, driving several miles before realising his mistake. Consulting the map they were making their way back to the main road when Coleman, in the passenger seat, shouted ‘Stop!’ and Knox screeched to a halt in front of a splintered wooden sign. They’d found Keepers Cottage.

‘You sure we’ve got time for this, Boss?’ Knox asked.

‘We’ll make time.’

The building itself lay at the end of a half-mile track, making Knox wish they’d hired a four-wheel-drive. When the track became impassable, fifty yards short, he killed the engine and they got out to have a closer look. The dwelling was derelict, as Tyrell had said, with four ground-floor rooms beneath a rotting roof, mottled with gaping holes. No electricity, bathroom or running water, just a stone sink in the kitchen, a galvanised metal bath hanging up and a stand-pipe in the yard. A foul-smelling outhouse had a broad wooden bench along one side with holes cut in it that had served as the toilet. Rusty animal traps lay lethally around.

‘Christ Almighty,’ said Knox. ‘They lived here in the sixties and seventies, but this is what you’d expect of a third world country.’

‘What’s that noise?’ Coleman said. They were standing in the yard Knox listened. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘It came from that shed, like a moaning sound.’

But the door to the hut was firmly locked, withstanding Knox’s efforts to open it.

‘Anyone there?’ he shouted, but got only silence in return.

‘Break it down,’ said Coleman, hope beginning to rise. Knox heaved his shoulder against the door and it gave way almost immediately, splintering in several places. It opened onto a dark stone cave, completely empty. At that moment the wind gusted, the timbers of the low roof emitting the keening sound that Coleman had heard before.

‘Fuck,’ he said, under his breath.

Knox shivered. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘It’s hopeless,’ said Coleman. He was knocking back complimentary peanuts on the flight back to Birmingham, while Knox sat rigid beside him. ‘McCrae could be anywhere and we still don’t even know who we’re looking for.’

‘We’ve got the photo,’ Knox said, forcing himself to engage. ‘The DI had a feeling that someone was after him. Someone must have seen McCrae.’

‘If he hasn’t drastically changed his appearance,’ Coleman said. ‘His CO said that McCrae was good at undercover work. He’ll have had good training. He’s someone who stays in the shadows. And he could have just gone to ground. If he’s already taken care of Tom—’ Coleman broke off, with a humourless laugh. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how we always use such soft euphemistic phrases? If he has and Tom’s . . . well . . . then McCrae could just drop out of sight and we’ll never find him.’

‘But I still don’t get it,’ Knox said, jerked by a spasm of fear as the plane juddered through a patch of turbulence. ‘Why the DI?’

‘McCrae must see him as a rival. They’re both the illegitimate sons of a Ryland. Clive told us how much Kenneth resented him, that hatred has simply been transferred to Tom. If Tom is right about McCrae, he murdered his birth mother in cold blood. And I’d lay odds that Angus McCrae’s death wasn’t an accident, either. We’re not dealing with a rational individual here. Clive McCrae spoke about his brother’s bitterness and anger. Who else is left for him to vent that rage on? And if Mariner has already figured out what we now know, he poses a direct threat to McCrae. It’s not looking good.’ It was the understatement of the century.

 

 

From Birmingham Airport, Coleman returned to Granville Lane to co-ordinate the search while Knox went straight to see Anna.

‘I’ve been throwing up,’ she admitted. But Knox could say nothing to reassure her. He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man hanging around at all?’

‘No.’

‘Has Tom talked about meeting anyone new recently? He might not even know who it is.’

‘I can’t think of anyone.’

‘Anything out of the ordinary happened?’ Anna pulled a face, as they both instantly thought of St Martin’s. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’

‘Tom has rented rooms at the cottage,’ she said suddenly. ‘You know, the ones you and Jenny had.’

In a different age, thought Knox. ‘Who’s his lodger?’

‘A guy called Bill Dyson.’

‘When did he move in?’

‘Just before Christmas. But according to Tom he’s never there.’

Knox reined in a ripple of anticipation, remaining outwardly calm. ‘What do you know about him?’

‘Not much. He’s from up north somewhere, and he sells burglar alarms.’

He was working in security,
Clive McCrae had said.

Knox had assumed as a security guard, but Christ, it could be him. ‘You’ve never met him?’ Knox asked.

‘No, but the letting agent has.’

As it was, they didn’t have to find Roy Shipley to show him the photograph. He’d already seen the appeal on the local news and had contacted Granville Lane. ‘The man you’re looking for with Mr Mariner is the one who’s renting rooms in his house.’

‘Kenneth McCrae?’

‘He doesn’t call himself that, I know him as Bill Dyson, and his hair is longer than in your picture, but it’s him all right.’

‘Could you come in to the station?’

When he arrived, Shipley was shown up to Coleman’s office, where Knox waited impatiently.

‘I don’t understand,’ Shipley said. ‘Dyson gave me references, showed me pictures of his family—’

‘He made it up,’ Coleman said, simply. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about him?’

‘His car. He drives an Audi estate, silver grey, and he ran a burglar alarm business called Apex Security. I have his card.’ Shipley produced the business card from his wallet. ‘I rang the number before I came here, just to make sure I wasn’t making some terrible mistake. Mr McCrae hasn’t worked there for years. And he didn’t own the business, he was a sales rep. According to them, not even a particularly good one.’

‘Thank you, Mr Shipley,’ Coleman said, reassuringly. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

They were just in time to get out an appeal for the silver Audi on the local early evening news, and meanwhile Knox joined the team that was searching Mariner’s house, the last place they could be certain that he’d been.

‘We’ve found some blood spatters,’ a SOCO showed him the dark brown stains on the step by the front door.

‘He’d cut his hand,’ Knox said, at the same time knowing that the cut had long healed.

Other forensics officers were going over every inch of the house, every nook and cranny brightly lit with spotlights and Knox had to step around them. Apart from that, the place looked perfectly normal, the post even neatly arranged on the hall table. Breaking into the second floor flat they’d found it empty, the only thing Dyson had left were drawings and a couple of books about the canal. ‘It’s as if he’s never been here,’ said Knox, but he arranged for SOCO to sweep it anyway.

 

 

The call came in shortly after the news item, a sighting of Dyson’s car parked only streets away from Mariner’s home. Coleman spoke to the caller, a resident living nearby. ‘Is it still there?’ he asked.

‘I can see it from where I’m standing, under the street light,’ the man told him.

‘You’re sure it’s the same vehicle?’

‘I noted the registration the first time I saw it, in case I was going to have to report it as abandoned, but then it went. A couple of days later it came back again.’

 

Knox met Jack Coleman and a couple of uniformed officers down there. The car was parked within walking distance of Mariner’s house. ‘Meaning that there were times when Dyson could have been there without wanting anyone to know,’ Coleman said. ‘Stalking Mariner from there would be a piece of cake, and Mariner would have had no idea it was happening.’

Breaking into the vehicle they found a folder in the glove compartment and examination in the beam of the powerful torch revealed printouts of an Earls Court hotel, a list of numbers; Mariner’s mobile, Anna’s number and the invitation to Jack Coleman’s retirement. There was a sheaf of newspaper cuttings about the Rylands and the press photo of Mariner emerging from the bombing, along with features from previous years, including the arrest of the teacher Brian Goodway for the murders of Ricky Skeet and Yasmin Akhtar. It was the information McCrae had used to find Mariner in the first place.

‘But where the hell is McCrae now?’ Knox demanded, looking around him as if the man might suddenly emerge from the shadows.

‘He must have another vehicle, or he’s hired something,’ Coleman surmised.

‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’

‘Maybe that doesn’t matter, because he’s long gone by now. And he has no idea that we’re onto him. Get uniform to take his photograph around local car hire firms. Get people at home if needed.’

‘And what about DI Mariner?’

It was the question they’d both been avoiding. If McCrae had made his escape, he’d be unlikely to encumber himself with a prisoner.

‘He needs Mariner silenced,’ said Coleman, calmly. ‘He has no reason to keep him alive.’

‘But if he’s not in the house, or here in the car, where is he?’

‘We know that Mariner came back to the house yesterday afternoon. If McCrae was lying in wait, where would be the easiest place to dispose of a body in the immediate vicinity?’ Like clockwork they both turned in the direction of the canal. ‘We need to get some divers down here. And make sure Anna stays away. She mustn’t know.’

 

Tony Knox was becoming a liability, Coleman realised. It was close to midnight and they were both on the freezing canalside under a dome of floodlights, watching and waiting as the small team of divers began their gruesome task. Periodically, Knox leaned over, yelling orders, even though he wasn’t in charge. Only a matter of time before either he fell into the icy water, or got punched in the face by an exasperated diver.

Coleman walked over to him. ‘Why don’t you go inside and check on forensics. Phone the labs and see if they’ve come up with anything. You’re not helping here.’

For a moment Coleman thought Knox was going to put up a fight, but after a moment’s hesitation the constable did as instructed.

 

Inside Mariner’s house, Knox used his mobile to put a call through to the labs. He tried the vehicle workshop first, but it was too soon for any fingerprints.

‘We’ve found something of interest though.’