Java Spider (6 page)

Sandra had been eight when he moved out, her face
a
tight button of bewilderment. And now she was fifteen, on the pill and doing drugs like every other teenager in the nineteen nineties. On the back seat he’d brought a horror pack. Police photos to show her. Morgue shots of dead junkies.

He turned into the crescent and found a parking space two doors from the house, recognisable by its peeling front door and the old bath left in the garden by a lodger who’d done Lindy a plumbing job in lieu of rent.

He switched off the engine, then his mobile phone rang.

‘Fuck!’ He reached into his briefcase. ‘Yes?’

‘Nick? Chris here. In the Ops Room. Where are you?’

‘Wembley.’

‘Right …’ Hesitation in the voice. ‘Summat’s come up. We need you in.’

‘Chris I can’t. Not today. I told you why on Friday. In the pub.’

‘Sorry. Boss’s orders. He needs someone and you’re it.’

‘Look, at least give me a couple of hours.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Fuck you, Chris!’

‘It’s tough at the top, chum. Here in half an hour?’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

The Security Group Operations Room on the sixteenth floor of Scotland Yard’s Westminster headquarters was the combined nerve centre for Special Branch and the Anti-Terrorist Branch, a long, narrow room full of VDUs, with a panoramic view across northwest London.

On the back wall behind the duty sergeant’s desk
hung
the roster list known as the ‘chuff board’, so called because when a policeman got a day off he was ‘chuffed’. This being a Sunday, the list of those off duty should have been long, but following the City bomb, the surveillance net had been widened. Manpower was stretched.

Four men were in the Ops Room when Randall walked in. Two looked up and nodded. Chris, the duty sergeant, studied his watch pointedly. Just thirty-five minutes since he’d rung.

‘What kept you?’ he needled.

‘Fuck off.’ Randall wasn’t in the mood.

‘Look, sorry to drag you in, mate,’ Chris said, softening. ‘I did try to tell him. He’s waiting for you.’ He pointed to the SIO’s office at the far end, separated by a glass partition.

The senior investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Terry Mostyn, was an old hand from the Irish Squad with a face like a large, lumpy potato and the look of a man who’d just emerged from under a car. He saw Nick coming and opened the door.

‘Sorry, ’bout this, old son,’ he mumbled. Mostyn was from Birmingham and sounded it. ‘I know today was sacred. Your kid, isn’t it?’

‘Yes sir. My daughter Sandra. Only see her once a month.’

‘Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. We’re down to the sodding bone.’

‘So, what’s up, sir?’

‘I’m taking you off the Revenue Men. For the time being, anyway.’

Nick gulped. Didn’t make sense. He knew as much about the case as anybody.

‘I’ve no alternative, son. I need someone experienced. There’s a government minister gone missing.’ Mostyn handed him a single sheet of typed paper.

Randall read the name Stephen Bowen.

‘Number two at the Foreign Office,’ Mostyn droned on. ‘Should’ve been in Warwickshire at the weekend but never turned up. Spent last week in Indonesia – that arms deal?’

Randall nodded, scanning the biog while listening. ‘I know the one you mean.’ The protesters he’d photographed at Downing Street.

‘At the end of his official visit, he took a few days leave, saying he’d travel back Friday. No one’s sure if he did. Could be woman trouble. Could be money. The Right Honourable Gentleman’s second home is a casino apparently.’

‘Sounds a natural for high office …’ Randall quipped.

‘The Foreign Office lost track of him, so Downing Street’s got the jitters. We’re being asked to start the ball rolling in case he’s still missing tomorrow morning, but to keep it discreet. The media’s been sniffing around apparently; the PM’s spin doctor has told them it’s just domestic.’

‘Want me to go to his flat?’

‘Yes. In case it’s something simple like he got back from the far east and collapsed with food poisoning. I’ve spoken to his wife. She’s agreed we can break in if we have to but she thinks there’s a neighbour with a key. Just a quick look, right? No turning the place over. Not yet.’

Wesley Street, Westminster was less than five minutes away. A light drizzle fell as Randall crossed the road from where he’d parked.

Mansion flats. Nineteenth-century. Four storeys, with iron grilles on the windows. Most of the apartments would be homes for MPs, their occupants increasingly
concerned
the Revenue Men might turn their attention to
them
.

He studied the bell-pushes. Eight flats with a common entrance. He pressed the one marked Bowen in case the man was up there watching ‘Rugby Special’.

No response. He glanced along the street. Two men in a car watching him, newspaper snappers on a stake-out. The tabloids had another victim in their sights.

He was about to check if there was a bell for a caretaker when he heard the lock click. As the door swung open, a small terrier sprang at him, yapping.

Its owner was female, late seventies and expensively preserved. She tugged on the leash. ‘I’m
so
sorry.’

‘Quite all right,’ Nick smiled reassuringly.

‘Were you coming in?’ She stood to one side, then looked at him with suspicion. ‘Who did you want?’

‘Mr Bowen.’

‘Oh … I don’t think he’s in. I’m next door you see. I heard his bell just a moment ago. It’s been going on and off all afternoon.’

‘That was me. Just now anyway. Tell me, is there a caretaker for these flats?’

‘Yes, but today’s Sunday so he’s not here.’

‘Madam, I’m a police officer.’ He turned his back towards the press photographers and showed her his warrant card. ‘Can we step inside a moment?’

She wound the dog’s lead round her wrist, then put on half-moon glasses to check his ID.

‘Do you by any chance have a key to his flat?’ he asked. ‘It’s because of the bombs. We’re checking the homes of MPs who’ve been away for a few days. Just in case … you know?’

She looked a little doubtful but led the way to the second floor, dragging her protesting animal. She went into her own flat briefly and re-emerged with a key.

Inside Bowen’s flat, the first door was the kitchen.
Next
, a small bathroom. At the end of the hall a living room on the left and bedroom on the right. Bed made. All neat and tidy.

‘Everything all right?’ the woman called from the stairwell.

‘So far, yes.’

The living room was chintzy sofas, and repro antiques. No bodies on the floor, no sign of trouble. On a rosewood card table by the door, a fax and answerphone. He touched the replay. A woman’s voice, decidedly ‘county’, was coldly telling him to ring. The wife probably. Then a second message which caught his interest.

‘
Greenfield here, Mr Bowen. Ringing at four thirty on Saturday
.’

The voice sounded north London Jewish.

‘
I know you’ve been away this week, but I need to remind you that you’ve missed your payment deadline again. This really can’t go on. I don’t want to go public, but you’re forcing my hand, Mr Bowen. We’re not a charity. We’ve got to have our money. I’d be obliged if you’d call me first thing Monday. Please don’t make me have to ring you at the House or the Foreign Office
.’

Money problems it was, then. Pity. Sex would have been more interesting.

One more message from the wife, concerned this time rather than angry. Then two from lobby journalists asking Bowen to call. Randall spooled back the tape and played it again, taking a verbatim note.

As he reappeared at the front door, the woman looked relieved his arms weren’t full of stolen silver.

‘Thanks for your help, ma’am. Everything’s in order.’

Out in the street he was eyed with curiosity by the snappers. Back in his car he called DCI Mostyn’s direct line on his mobile and told him what he’d learned.

‘Well that’s something,’ the Midlander mumbled. ‘Gives us somewhere to start if he’s not turned up by
tomorrow
morning. Better get yourself back in here and draw up an action plan.’

Nick checked his watch. A quarter to five. He could see this dragging on all evening.

He dialled his home in Wimbledon. The voice that answered sounded sleepy.

‘It’s me, Debs. Were you snoozing?’

‘Mmm … Just a little lie down.’ They’d been living together for the past two years. Debbie worked in personnel at a local police station. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve been caught for duty.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Always a little suspicious of him when he went to his ex-wife’s house. ‘How was Sandra?’

‘Never saw her. They rang when I was parking. Had to phone the house from the car to say I couldn’t make it.’

‘Oh no … So when are you coming home?’ Her voice sounded flat.

‘No idea, chuck. You know what it’s like.’

‘No peace for the wicked, eh?’

‘Something like that. See you later. OK?’

‘OK.’

He rang off and turned on the ignition.

Debbie was a divorcee too. No kids though. She was good for him. Easy-going like himself, never nagging about where they were heading as a couple, never getting into a paddy over anything. Above all, she let him be himself. Women sucked blood, given half a chance, and he wasn’t a willing donor.

M4 motorway

16.55 hrs

Traffic on the motorway into London was dense with country-weekenders returning home. Charlotte had spoken little on the long, fast drive from Devon. She hated her personal life being newsroom gossip, particularly when the man in question wasn’t going to last.

They’d passed the airport and were approaching Chiswick when the pager went off again. A message to call the editor on his direct line. She used Jeremy’s carphone.

‘Ted! Hi. It’s Charlotte here.’

‘
Great, girl. Where are you?
’

‘West London.’

‘
Ah … Sorry, girl. Think I’ve dragged you back unnecessarily
.’

‘Oh. Bowen’s turned up?’

‘
Not exactly … Just had my arm wrenched up between my shoulder blades, that’s all. Downing Street’s been on to all the editors. TV and press. They’re saying it’s a storm in a teacup. Marital hiccup. Asking us to leave him and his missus in peace so they can sort it out
.’

‘Leave Bowen in peace? So they know where he is, then?’

‘
That’s the implication. Not said in so many words. Anyway I’ve talked with the competition and we’ve agreed to give them the benefit of the doubt – until tomorrow anyway
.’

‘I see. So you don’t want me in?’

‘
No. We don’t need Jeremy either. Will you tell him?
’

‘Umm … yes I will.’

‘
Sorry to spoil your er … cosy weekend together
.’

Charlotte could see his smirk as clearly as if it were a video phone. She took a deep breath, counted to three, then replied.

‘We were visiting my parents, actually, Ted. My dad’s dying. He’s got a brain tumour.’

‘
Oh fuck! You serious?
’

‘Yes. Unfortunately. Jeremy was good enough to drive me down.’

Silence for a few seconds.

‘
I see. I’m sorry, girl. Very sorry
.’

‘But that’s private, Ted, about my dad. Don’t want everyone knowing about
that
too.’

‘
Point taken. Lips sealed. Now, Mandy tells me you’re on the breakfast shift tomorrow
.’

‘That’s right. In at 4 a.m.’

‘
Perfick. If there’s an early break on Bowen, you can get stuck straight in
.’

‘No problem. See you tomorrow, then.’

She clicked the phone back in its holder.

‘The flap’s over?’ Jeremy checked.

‘For now. Sankey’s running scared. You know what he’s like. Desperate for the Channel to appear respectable so the licence’ll be renewed. And everyone in the media’s scared of what’ll be in the government’s new Privacy Bill. So – good behaviour all round.’

She turned to look at him. Straight, fair hair, green eyes, fancy driving gloves, leather steering wheel, compass on the windscreen – he just wasn’t her type. But he meant well. And he’d been kind. But it was time to ditch him before he thought he owned her. The trick was to do it kindly. She reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder.

‘Will you drop me at my place?’

‘Drop you?’ He half-turned, eyebrow raised.

‘Yes. I’ve got to be up again at three. And I want to be on my own for a while. You understand.’

He had the bruised look of a child parted from his teddy.

‘Fine.’ He shrugged.

‘But thank you for driving me to Devon. You’ve been sweet. You really have.’

Sweet. Jeremy winced.

Three

Monday 03.30 hrs

CHARLIE WAS STILL
half-asleep as she fell into the back of the minicab, tugging at the hem of her short skirt. She was dressed in a red two-piece under her open fawn coat. The smell of the car’s air-freshener reminded her of public lavatories.

‘Early start then?’ the driver asked, ogling her in the mirror. She’d always suspected there was something seriously wrong with men who spent their nights driving.

‘Gosh! So it is,’ she replied, pretending she’d only just noticed the time. The driver crunched the gear and shot off.

She’d heard the radio news at three. Of Stephen Bowen there’d been no mention. Probably turned up late last night with his tail between his legs. Or whatever.

The empty streets were bathed in sodium light. She liked the feeling of Londoners sleeping peacefully all around her while she set off to bring them up to date with the world when they awoke. But above all she liked the clear roads. Within fifteen minutes they were at Wendover Street. Tucked to one side of the News Channel entrance was the long sausage of the down-and-out in his sleeping bag.

The newsroom on the first floor was open-plan with a low ceiling, cream walls and small work-spaces cluttered by screens and keyboards. A dozen or so bodies at work,
most
having been on all night, looking forward by now to the end of their shift.