Kill Call (43 page)

Cooper was glad to see they were walking back towards the house now. His hair was sticking to his head, and the water was running down his neck.

‘Do you know Michael Clay, Mr Massey?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Les Clay’s son.’

Massey shook his head. ‘I’ve heard his name mentioned. I never met him.’

Cooper watched him for a moment. It sounded like the truth. And Peter Massey just didn’t seem like a man who could tell a lie so convincingly.

‘What about Patrick Rawson? Do you know him?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Michael Clay’s business partner.’

‘Wasn’t that the man who died up the way there? You asked me about him before.’

‘So I did.’

Cooper showed him the photograph of Rawson. But Massey shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen him.’

‘You’ve never done anything with the old bunker.’

‘It was lucky there was no aircraft recognition post here. Some of them were snapped up by mobile telephone people, so they could put masts up. This one wasn’t of interest to anybody, so they just gave the site back to the landowner.’

‘Your father?’

‘Yes. It’s been abandoned since 1968, you know. It always flooded badly, and my dad said it was too dangerous to go down. So we locked it up and let the cows graze over it. When we had cows, that is.’ Massey gave him an odd look, curiously hopeful, almost plaintive. ‘Why? Did you want to have a look what it’s like inside an ROC post?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve seen one.’

‘And you’re sure that Mr Massey was telling the truth when he said he’d never met Michael Clay?’ asked Fry when he phoned her.

‘Yes. I’m certain of it. He never batted an eyelid. Besides …’

‘What?’

‘Well, if there’s a family feud involved here, I’m just not seeing it, Diane. Les Clay and Peter Massey were the two men who might have been considered responsible for Jimmy Hind’s death in 1968. But Clay died years ago, leaving Massey as the last man standing, so to speak. And Jimmy Hind doesn’t have any family still around to worry about it.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean. There’s no logic in it. No logic that would make Michael Clay either an obvious target as a victim, or a man looking for revenge either. Neither scenario fits.’

‘And yet …’ said Cooper. ‘There’s still something I’m missing.’

‘So what next?’ asked Fry.

Now it was Cooper’s turn to look at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get myself a new cat.’

Cooper had never actually had to choose a cat for himself before. There had been plenty of them around the farm over the years, of course, but they’d just sort of appeared under their own initiative, and the main problem had been controlling their numbers.

At Welbeck Street, he’d inherited Randy with the flat, courtesy of Mrs Shelley, who encouraged strays without any favour or distinction. Judging from Randy’s battered looks, there certainly hadn’t been any selection process based on cuteness, or the potential for posing as a cover model for calendars and birthday cards.

There were all kinds of animals at the Fox Lane Sanctuary – dogs and cats, of course, a few horses and donkeys, even a pig and a couple of sheep. He was surprised to find an injured owl in an aviary, its feathers ruffled miserably, a broken wing hanging at an unnatural angle. It was a tawny, just like the one he’d heard calling again last night. It had woken him in the early hours of the morning with its hunting cry, a sound that would strike fear into some helpless prey.

Cooper stopped in front of a loose box, eyeing an old horse who stared straight back at him unblinkingly.

‘Hello. What’s your name?’

He glanced aside to look at a notice on the wall next to the loose box. It said: ‘This horse has been ill-treated. Watch her – she bites.’

Cooper had been warned just in time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an enormous set of teeth flashing towards him. He jerked his head back instinctively. What had happened to the animal in the past that it would lunge at a complete stranger the moment his attention was distracted?

Ah, well. That wasn’t what he was here for. He made his way to the cattery, which was at the back of the sanctuary: a couple of low buildings with concrete walkways.

When he got there, Cooper hesitated. So how, exactly, did you go about choosing a cat? How on earth did you make a judgement when you were faced with rows and rows of felines in mesh cages? All of them were animals who’d been abandoned or mistreated in some way. All of them deserving of a good home.

It wasn’t like buying a car, when you could look at the mileage, check under the bonnet, sit in the driving seat and try out the controls. He hadn’t even thought about what colour of cat he’d like, which was the first question that Claire had asked him when he told her. Did it matter whether it was a tabby, a tortoiseshell or a ginger tom? It was the personality that mattered, the question of whether you were compatible. And you wouldn’t discover that with a cat until you’d worked on the relationship for a while.

So standing here in the animal rescue centre, being asked to make a choice, seemed suddenly too daunting. It was an impossible challenge, surely?

But, in the end, it proved to be very simple. The question was resolved for Cooper beyond doubt by the time he got halfway down the first row of cages. There, he found a small, furry bundle clinging to the mesh, two bright green eyes fixed determinedly on his, and a tiny paw reaching desperately for his sleeve until claws hooked in and drew him closer. He barely noticed the colour of the fur in the intensity of the moment of communication. A pink mouth opened in an almost silent cry as the young cat spoke to him.

And somehow, Cooper knew exactly what he was being told. He didn’t have to choose a cat, after all. His cat had chosen him.

Dorothy Shelley was waiting for him when he arrived home in Welbeck Street. Cooper never really understood how his landlady knew everything that was going on. But he certainly wasn’t going to be able to keep a new cat secret from her. He could see her grey-haired figure in a faded blue cardigan, hovering by the window of number 6 as he pulled his Toyota towards the kerb.

‘She’s lovely,’ said Mrs Shelley, peering into the pet carrier before Cooper even got to the door of his flat. ‘She is a “she”, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, this time,’ said Cooper, with a laugh. He remembered that his landlady had not been too expert at assessing the gender of a cat in the past.

‘Have you decided what you’re going to call her?’

He looked at the bright green eyes, huge and anxious, set in a face marked with perfect tabby tiger stripes.

‘Not yet. It’s going to take some thinking about.’

As he went inside his flat, Cooper reflected that he might have to take some time over that decision. It wasn’t something to be rushed into. A name had to match a personality. And you didn’t really understand another person’s character until you’d got to know them properly. Sometimes, you could know a person for quite a while, and never understand them at all.

40

Monday

Fry didn’t know why she had such a bad feeling as she walked up to Superintendent Branagh’s office first thing on Monday morning. Often, an urgent summons meant you were in trouble, but she was confident that she hadn’t put a foot wrong this week. She had obtained a good result, hadn’t she?

So it ought to be good news – a commendation, or a bit of praise, at least. It had been known, even from Branagh. Perhaps she was going to apologize for having been wrong about Fry’s record. That would be a turn-up for the books, all right. Like Count Dracula turning vegetarian.

Fry entered the corridor from the top of the stairs and saw the superintendent’s office door ahead. Actually, praise from Branagh was definitely her due. She should go in expecting it as her right, not nervously approaching the feet of an angry god.

But, no matter how she rationalized it, she still had a bad feeling.

‘Come in,’ called Branagh at her knock.

Fry entered cautiously, and glanced around the room. She realized straight away that she’d been right to be uneasy. The atmosphere in the superintendent’s office was tense, the silence that met her arrival too unnatural. Branagh’s two visitors were immediately recognizable as police officers, though they wore civilian clothes. Detectives, then? Were they from another division, or headquarters staff? Strange that they didn’t look familiar, either the man or the younger woman who now stood to greet her.

‘DS Fry. Thank you for coming up to see us.’

‘Sir.’

Fry held out her hand automatically to take his, feeling in no doubt from the start that she was addressing a more senior officer. He wasn’t much above her own age, his hair just starting to recede a little from his forehead, grey eyes observing her sharply from behind tiny, frameless glasses.

Then he smiled, and Fry hesitated, wanting to let her hand drop, but feeling it still clutched awkwardly in his.

‘It’s been a long time, Diane,’ he said.

And then she recognized him. They’d been in uniform on the same shift years ago, but he’d got his stripes really early. Too early, some had said. But he’d been ambitious, with the right mix of ambition and ability that got you noticed in the force. Blake – that was his name. Gareth Blake. He’d matured now, dressed better and went to a decent hairdresser. He still reeked of ambition, though.

Fry realized that he was staring at her, that smile still lingering on his face, a bit uncertainly now. She looked from Blake to the woman, and back again.

‘So,’ said Fry, ‘I don’t suppose this is a social call. What exactly can I do to help Birmingham CID?’

Blake introduced the woman with him as Rachel Murchison. She was smartly dressed in a black suit and a white blouse, dark hair tied neatly back, all businesslike and self-confident. Fry cautiously shook hands, wondering why the woman was studying her so closely. She could sense that Branagh was watching her too, from behind her desk. She couldn’t still smell of horse shit, surely? She’d showered three or four times since then, and thrown everything into the wash.

‘Rachel is a specialist counsellor who works with us sometimes,’ said Blake.

So she’d been wrong, then. Not a police officer. Too smartly dressed, perhaps – that should have been the giveaway. The woman was a professional, though. It was that guarded watchfulness that had given Fry a misleading impression.

‘What sort of counsellor?’ she asked.

Blake and Murchison exchanged glances. ‘We can go into that shortly, Diane. There’s a bit of explanation to do first.’

‘So what section are you working in these days, Gareth?’

Fry could hear her voice rising, already developing that strident tone she tried so hard to avoid. Blake raised a placatory hand.

‘Let’s take things one step at a time.’

But Fry shook her head. ‘Tell me what section you’re working in.’

Branagh looked about to interrupt, but changed her mind. Fry waited, her face set in a grim line.

Blake sighed. ‘Cold case rape enquiries.’

Gavin Murfin dipped his fingers into a paper bag for an Eccles cake he’d bought on the way into work. At least some things were back to normal, thought Cooper. Murfin had explained that he couldn’t keep the diet up. Not even with all the talk about horse-meat pies.

‘You know what?’ said Murfin, after he’d listened to Cooper talk about 1968 and the Royal Observer Corps. ‘We’ve still got one of those here.’

‘One of what?’

‘One of those … what did you call them? Carrier control points. This is where the four-minute warning came through. I remember my old sergeant showing me the equipment when I was a probationer here.’

‘And it’s still here?’

‘Right here, in the station. It’s up in the store rooms somewhere. There’s a siren up there, too. Nobody has even tested it for a long time, so far as I know.’

‘I had no idea, Gavin. Do you think we’ll get a look at it?’

‘Leave it to me.’

Murfin wandered off and came back a few minutes later with a key he’d obtained from an admin office somewhere in the building. Used his charm, presumably. He waved the key at Cooper.

‘Security clearance.’

In the base of the receiver was a small drawer containing instructions on testing, battery replacement and fault reporting, as well as how to respond to the types of message that might come through. Attack Warning Red, imminent danger of an attack. Fallout Warning Black, danger of fallout. And Attack Message White, the all-clear.

‘I don’t suppose it was ever used, except for testing.’

‘They had exercises regularly,’ said Cooper. ‘Everyone felt they had to be prepared. Or so I’m told. The ROC posts weren’t closed until 1991, after the collapse of the Soviet Union.’ He looked at Murfin. ‘Do you remember that, Gavin? You’re older than me.’

‘Are you kidding? Well, I suppose I was around in 1991, but I was more interested in Silence of the Lambs and Terminator II.’

‘I was into Sonic the Hedgehog.’

‘You’re such a baby.’

Cooper tried to imagine the awful piercing wail of the siren. The sound that had never been heard for real in the Cold War.

‘So what would you do, then?’ said Murfin suddenly.

‘What? Do when?’

‘In those last few minutes. If you knew that you had just four minutes to live, like.’

‘Blimey, I don’t know. It isn’t much time to do anything really, is it?’

‘No, you’re right. Nothing worthwhile.’ Murfin laughed. ‘It makes a joke out of all those “fifty things to do before you die” features in the papers, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Murfin thought for a moment. ‘You could pray, I suppose,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know you were religious, Gavin.’

‘Well, of course I’m not now. But if I knew I only had four minutes left to live, I might want to … you know, cover my options.’

‘I see.’

‘You could get quite a few “Our Fathers” in, couldn’t you? In four minutes.’

Cooper laughed. ‘I’m sure you could. But just one might be better, Gavin, if you could get the right amount of sincerity into it.’

‘Right.’

‘Or, instead of praying,’ said Murfin, ‘you could just do something you’d always really, really wanted to do, all your life, and never got the chance.’