Blood Money (17 page)

But Mariner wasn’t convinced. Klinnemann’s eyes looked too clear. Underneath the façade he was too alert. He needed a little prod. He caught Tunstall’s eye and she gave him the go ahead. ‘Did you know that your stepmother was lecturing in Birmingham last Friday?’ he asked.

Klinnemann’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s not my stepmother she’s my dad’s tart. And frankly I’m not interested in what the bitch gets up to.’

Charming. ‘Have you passed on information to anyone about where Emma O’Brien would be?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll need the address of this party and a list of the names of anyone who may have seen you there.’

‘Names? Man, what sort of parties do you go to?’

A knock on the door interrupted them and the duty sergeant invited Tunstall and Mariner outside. One of the detectives interviewing another of the detainees had made a breakthrough. ‘They’ve been up to no good, but it wasn’t exactly what we hoped. Tessa Caldwell has admitted to being in Great Yarmouth for the last five days.’

‘That’s not a crime is it?’ said Mariner.

‘It’s what they were doing there, sir,’ the sergeant continued patiently. ‘They went with the sole purpose of vandalising the greyhound racing track. They stayed at a nearby caravan park, booking in on Friday afternoon at around the time Jessica was abducted. The park owner has confirmed it. We think they spent Friday night doing reconnaissance before attacking the track in the early hours of Sunday morning.’

‘Can we prove that Paul Klinnemann was with them?’

Eventually they did, through CCTV footage retrieved from the caravan park. Klinnemann and his friends could be charged with criminal damage, but they were nowhere near Jack and the Beanstalk nursery on that Friday afternoon. It didn’t rule out the animal rights angle entirely, but now they were left with no suspects.

 

Before returning to Birmingham, Mariner and Tony Knox went to visit the Klinnemanns. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Mariner felt a compulsion to see them in their natural environment. They lived in a village in the flat countryside outside the city, in the kind of chocolate-box stone cottage that must have cost a small fortune. Inside was a cosy domestic scene, Emma O’Brien playing on the carpet with her daughter and Peter Klinnemann hovering over them, the attentive father. Knox immediately squatted down beside the baby and began playing with her, while Mariner stayed at a safe distance. ‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘She seems fine.’ Emma O’Brien seemed amazed. ‘Absolutely no ill effects that we can see. Thank you so much for everything you did.’

‘We’ll continue to follow all lines of enquiry,’ Mariner assured them. ‘It’s important that we find out who was responsible.’

‘But surely there’s no need.’ Emma O’Brien exchanged a glance with her partner. ‘We have Jessica back and she really seems none the worse for her ordeal. We don’t want to take up any more of your time. You must have other more important things to do.’

‘It remains that a criminal offence has been committed,’ Mariner reminded her, a little taken aback by the response. ‘It’s still our job to find out who it was and how exactly it happened.’

‘No really. We insist, don’t we, Peter?’ She looked to Klinnemann for support. ‘We don’t want to bring charges or anything. This was probably a cry for help by some desperate woman, and the last thing we would want to do is make life worse for her.’

Mariner didn’t like to point out that all the evidence was to the contrary, but he was tired and it seemed a futile argument to have when everything had worked out as it had. Instead he said: ‘There was the note, remember? It would be a mistake to become complacent.’

‘We’ve made a decision about that.’ Emma O’Brien smiled triumphantly. ‘Peter is going to look for another job.’ Klinnemann didn’t look altogether thrilled about it ‘Well, if anything turns up, we’ll be in touch,’ Mariner said. It was time to go.

‘Christ, how’s Mary Klinnemann going feel when she hears about that?’ Mariner said, when they were safely in the car and driving away. ‘She’d been pressuring him for years to leave his job.’

‘It makes it pretty obvious who he thinks is responsible, with or without the help of his son.’

 

Mariner and Knox arrived back in the Granville Lane incident room to heroes’ welcomes and celebrations. DCI Sharp had ordered in cases of beer and made a short speech of congratulation. But the overwhelming feeling was one of relief. They had been so very lucky. Mariner helped himself to a beer and made the effort to join in though he was itching to go.

‘Wasn’t there something about annual leave before all this started?’ DCI Sharp came over to where he lingered on the periphery.

‘The paperwork won’t do itself, ma’am.’

‘Oh I’m sure I can get off my pedestal for a few days to help with that. Go on, clear off.’

As always after a case as intense as this one had been, exhaustion overtook Mariner on the short drive home. Part of him hoped that Anna might be out, but her car was there on the drive when he pulled in. Ominously there were a couple of packed bags sitting in the hall too, but Mariner chose to ignore them. He found Anna out in the garden doing some early autumn pruning, tidying up the garden in preparation for the new residents, but she came into the kitchen as soon as she saw him. Pulling off her gardening gloves she came over and wrapped her arms around him.

‘I heard the news,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well done you.’

Mariner picked a tiny twig out of her hair. She smelled lightly of damp soil and the outdoors. ‘Didn’t have much to do with me as it turned out. We were blessed with some excellent luck.’

‘Nobody cares about that, so take the credit. You got her back safe, that’s the most important thing. Her parents must be ecstatic.’

‘It was an emotional reunion.’

‘I’ll bet. And now you’re on holiday?’ She was wondering about the paperwork. Mariner squeezed her tighter. ‘I’m on holiday. The boss practically threw me out.’

‘That’s fantastic. I told Becks we’d be down first thing in the morning.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Mariner took a step back, holding her at arm’s length.

‘Well we’ve already missed three days and I’m going nuts here. Look at me - I’m tending the garden of a house I’m about to leave.’

‘Anna, I haven’t had any sleep for three nights. I feel like a zombie. I couldn’t possibly drive—’

‘You won’t have to. I’ll drive and you can sleep.’

Mariner shook his head. ‘I need my bed, for more than just a few hours. And you know what it’s like after something like this. I need a bit of down time. I can’t face meeting a whole bunch of new people straightaway. I’d make a very poor impression. But listen, if you’ve told Becky we’re going, why don’t you go on ahead and I’ll join you in a couple of days? Some time on my own is probably the best thing for everyone.’

‘I wanted us to go together,’ she said, mildly.

‘I know, but I’m sure they’ll understand. It’s not as if they won’t know what kind of a weekend I’ve had, is it?’

‘I suppose I could go down tomorrow and call in and see Jamie on the way.’ She was coming round. That was easier than he’d expected.

‘Good idea. And now I need a shower.’

‘Hm, me too.’

‘Well that sounds like a very agreeable start to my holiday.’

But when it came to it Mariner was too tired to do anything but fall into bed and a deep and catatonic sleep. When he woke the following day it was late morning and Anna had gone.

Feeling jet-lagged, Mariner got up and simply savoured the quiet, but after a while the euphoria of the previous day began to wear off and niggling doubts began to encroach on his thoughts. There were too many loose ends, something about the case that they’d all missed, and he was certain would come back to haunt them. Who the hell had been responsible, and if that really was just a warning, what else were they in for? And while the investigation had provided a useful distraction from it, Mariner was suddenly aware that Kenneth McCrae’s trial date now loomed large, with only a few days’ holiday in between then and now. Slowly and by stealth Mariner felt a melancholy creeping over him, the inevitable anticlimax that followed a weekend of high stress. He dealt with it in the best way he knew, by retrieving his walking boots from the garage. It was a grey and drizzly afternoon, but this was the only way to spend it.

 

Tony Knox arrived home expecting to be greeted by the usual noisy flurry of paws and fur. Instead all he got was empty silence. Then he saw the note by the phone.
Mr Knox, I’ve took Nelson home to my house, from Michael
.

Knox crossed the road to a semi that was a mirror image of his own and rang the bell. Michael’s mum came to the door. Jean, if he remembered rightly, though they’d never formally been introduced. The puzzled look of partial recognition when she opened the door made him feel marginally better about his own cloudy memory.

‘Tony Knox,’ he reminded her, turning to indicate his house across the road. ‘I think you’ve got my dog?’

‘Oh, of course, Tony. I’m sorry.’ She was younger than he’d thought from a distance, early forties probably, her hair cut boyishly short and turning prematurely grey.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s Jean isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I hope you don’t mind Michael bringing Nelson over here. It seemed a shame to shut him back in the house when he could be running free in the garden. Michael’s getting quite attached to him and he can be very persuasive.’

‘No, it’s great. Thanks.’

‘They’re in the garden. Why don’t you come through?’

Knox followed her along the hall and into the kitchen, and couldn’t help noticing the muddy paw prints on the otherwise pristine tiled floor. ‘It’s good of you to do this,’ he said.

‘Not at all. Michael loves it. He’s wanted a dog for years, but I’ve always used the working mother excuse. This arrangement is perfect. It takes the heat off me.’

Through the window they could see the lad kicking a ball about and Nelson chasing after it, barking with excitement. It made Knox feel knackered just watching them.

‘He’s a lovely animal,’ Jean said.

‘Quite an aristocrat, too,’ Knox told her. ‘He used to belong to Sir Anthony Ryland.’

‘The MP who—? You knew him?’

‘Friend of a friend,’ said Knox. It was too long a story for now.

A pine table in the centre of the kitchen was piled high with stacks of exercise books, alongside them a bottle and glass of white wine. Jean saw Knox take in the wine. ‘Something to get me through the marking,’ she said, smiling. ‘Year nine essays are a challenge to anyone’s staying power. Would you like a glass, or a beer perhaps?’ She misread Knox’s hesitation. ‘Sorry, you’re tired of course. You’ll want to get back. Shaun worked nights. I know what it’s like.’

‘No, it’s just that I’m keeping you from your work,’ Knox said, indicating the books. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’

‘Oh, interruptions are wonderful, believe me.’ She spoke with feeling. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to get it out of the way, but I’m really not in the right frame of mind this evening.’

‘Well if you’re sure, a beer would go down well. Although I might not be the best of company,’ Knox admitted.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but for me these days, any company is good company. Pull up a pew.’

While Knox sat at the table, she fetched a bottle of German lager and a bottle opener. ‘I’ll let you do the honours. I was always hopeless with those things.’ She watched as Knox expertly flipped off the lid. ‘I heard on the news that the baby’s been found. That’s fantastic.’

‘It’s a relief,’ said Knox, truthfully.

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘It’s been a long week.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’ll settle for a takeaway tonight.’

‘Could you eat some chicken casserole? We had a lot left over.’

Hearing the words made Knox salivate, but manners prevailed. ‘I couldn’t—’

‘Honestly, I’ve got a freezer full too, so it’ll only go to waste. Shaun had a hearty appetite and I can’t seem to get the hang of cooking for just the two of us, somehow.’

So it was a serious offer. ‘All right then. Thanks.’ Knox watched as she retrieved an earthenware casserole dish from the fridge and transferred it to the microwave, putting a plate to warm in the oven. Nice figure, in jeans and a plain white T shirt. Knox became aware of how he must look in a shirt that was three days old. ‘Is there somewhere I can just er, wash my hands?’ he asked, pushing back his chair.

‘Sure. There’s a cloakroom just by the front door where you came in.’

In the tiny washroom Knox washed his hands and face, which woke him up a bit but made not a scrap of difference to his appearance. ‘You still look like shite,’ he told his reflection.

‘You’re a teacher then,’ Knox said, settling himself back at the kitchen table, now with a place setting for one.

‘Only part-time, up at Kingsmead Comp. I’m not sure that it does much for Michael’s street-cred having his mum at the school, but it’s a stop-gap until something else comes along.’ The microwave pinged and she tipped steaming meat and vegetables on to the plate, passing it to Knox along with cutlery. It smelt delicious and Knox tucked in.

‘What subject?’ he asked.

‘Maths and physics.’

‘Wow.’

‘Why are men always surprised by that? And you, I know, are a detective,’ she confirmed. ‘Mrs Burrows at number forty-three filled me in. Actually she probably let slip more about your personal life than you would have liked, too. But don’t worry, I’m the soul of discretion.’

Knox demolished the food within minutes. ‘I can’t tell you how good this is after three days of butties and take-aways. ’

She laughed. ‘It’s nice to get some appreciation. Ten-year-old boys tend not to notice the difference between one meal and the next.’

‘How long have you been—?’