Night Vision (14 page)

‘Sounds like a good scheme.'

‘It is. It works. We've got the lowest recidivism rate of any prison in our category. Our inspection was outstanding.' He was clearly proud of that. Alec could understand why. It was a rare thing to be part of a success story in the prison system.

Alec pointed at a row of tall stalks. The freckled faced prisoner was working close to them. ‘Is that sweetcorn? We tried growing that last year, didn't get a damned thing.'

He began to walk towards the rows, and the prison officer fell into step. ‘Last year was cold and wet; we lost half our crop even here where we've got shelter. We're lucky; this patch is south facing, so we get the sun coming round the back of the trees most of the day. Over that way it's a bit overshadowed, but the fruit trees do all right. We've also got a special bit of fertilizer for the corn, isn't that right, Griffin?'

So the man's name was Griffin. Good. That narrowed things down a bit. ‘What's that then?'

‘Pig shit,' Griffin said. He regarded Alec warily. ‘From the farm next door.'

‘We rot it down, add it to the compost, and see that over there?' The officer pointed at a row of tall green plants Alec did not recognize. ‘That's comfrey, that is. Helps the compost to rot faster, release all its nutrients better. I didn't believe it at first, but one of the old boys from the village told me about it, and I got Griffin here to look it up on the Internet.'

Alec glanced back towards where he'd left the car. He was unsurprised to see Michelle Sanders now standing next to it.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Looks like the boss wants another word.'

He could feel them watching him as he returned to the vehicle. Michelle was incandescent; only the awareness of the many eyes of the work crew watching kept her temper in check.

‘What the
hell
do you think you're doing?'

‘Picking up some tips on growing sweetcorn,' Alec said. ‘Thanks for your time, Michelle. It's been a pleasure.'

She'll be on the phone to Eddison before I'm through the gate, he thought as he drove down the rest of the gravel road. He'd gone too far, he knew that. Eddison would be as furious as the governor, if not more so, and if Alec's hold on his position in the investigation had been stretched before, it was going to be broken, or close to, now.

He found it hard to care. Alec had never been one for games. He'd known many officers who had played politics, jockeyed for position, taken every opportunity for advancement they could. Made their own chances. Alec had never been one of them. He took pride in his work, but more and more he'd come to realize it did not define him.

Not sure what impulse drove him, he pulled on to the side of the road about a mile from the prison and dialled the number Griffin had dropped. No one picked up the phone; it rang out into empty space.

TWELVE

C
lara Thompson and her family lived in an end terrace that had been extended to the side at some time in the seventies. The red-brick and picture window of the added lounge sat at odds with the Victorian formality, as did the fact that the older section of their home still celebrated its period features. So did the seventies bit, Munroe supposed, with its feature fireplace, complete with stone cladding.

This was evidently a family space. Kids' toys and books vied for space with a large television and two massive sofas. He had caught a glimpse of the original living room – front parlour, as his nan used to call it – on the way in. That was obviously more of an adult space: restrained furnishings and a very good hi-fi system. He hadn't spotted the make. Clara had shut the door defensively when she'd seen him looking.

‘I've told you all I know.' Neil Robinson's sister had been alone when Munroe and Eddison arrived. She'd phoned her husband, and he was, apparently, on his way. She lifted her chin defiantly, back rigid and upright, not an easy posture on a sofa that was designed for lounging.

Munroe lounged, leaning back, relaxed and putting forth the impression that he could sit there all day if he had to. Eddison sat as neatly as it was possible to do at the other end of the large settee. Munroe could see he felt ill at ease. Eddison, bulky and tall, was not made for lounging.

‘I don't think you
have
told us all you know,' Munroe said. Last time they had been here she had given them tea, opened biscuits. There had been no such offer this time. ‘The letter you had from Neil, telling you to contact Jamie Dale, what did you do with it?'

‘There was no letter.'

‘Well, last time we talked you couldn't recall if it had been a letter or a phone call. I'm betting on a letter, and I'm betting you've still got it?'

‘There was no letter. He phoned and told me to get in touch with her.'

‘And tell her what? Oh, hi, Miss Dale, my brother, the convicted conman, he thinks he might have a story for you? Yeah, right, that's really how it was.'

He let the silence build. Most people, in Munroe's experience, folded; they had to fill the silence with sound. Any sound. And usually out of the resultant waffle something useful emerged.

Clara wasn't going to be one of them.

‘What are you afraid of, Clara?' Eddison asked her quietly.

‘Who said I'm afraid?'

‘You did.'

A puzzled look, a swift denial. ‘Look, I've told you all I know, and I'd like you to leave.'

‘After we came all this way?' Munroe looked hurt.

‘That was your choice, not mine.'

‘So what did he tell you to tell Jamie Dale? What hooked her in, Clara?'

That look again. She wasn't going to bite. Neither was she going to give him some story that could be broken or disproved.

‘Whatever you say, say nothing,' Munroe said softly. ‘Is that it, Clara? You and that husband of yours, you've decided just say nothing and it'll all go away?'

A little tic at the corner of her mouth told him he was spot on.

‘Well, you see, you're wrong, Clara, because we'll just come back and ask again, and if we don't come back then others will and they might not ask so nicely.'

Another little tic – more of a flinch this time.

Munroe stopped lounging and leaned forward. ‘Someone has been here already, haven't they, Clara? Someone who wasn't nearly as nice or as understanding as we've been. Someone that scared you?'

‘I'd like you to go now. Please.' She stood and pointed theatrically at the door.

Neither man moved.

Slowly, her hand dropped back to her side, and she lowered herself back on to the seat. ‘Please, just go.'

‘This husband of yours is taking a long time to get here, isn't he?'

‘He'll be here.'

Eddison glanced at his watch. ‘What time do you pick the kids up from school?'

A flash of anger this time. ‘Leave my kids out of it.'

‘Oh, we will,' Munroe told her. ‘But others might not be so willing to. You know that, don't you, Clara? My guess is you've already found that out.'

She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze. Her lips trembled, and she moistened them with a quick, nervous flick of her tongue.

‘Who's been to see you, Clara? We can protect you. Look after you and that husband of yours and those pretty kids.'

Eddison glanced again at his watch. ‘How long did you say he'd be, Clara? It isn't nice, is it, him leaving all this to you. A man should be here with his wife at a time like this.'

‘I don't need him here.' Vehement, furious.

‘Just as well,' Munroe said, ‘Because my guess is you didn't get through to anyone when you made that “phone call” just now. He's long gone, isn't he, Clara? He's been frightened off, hasn't he? Left you here with the kids to deal with whatever storm is coming.'

‘It isn't like that.'

‘No?' Munroe let the question hang, and then again allowed the silence to build. She was breaking, he could see that. One more push.

‘It must be hard to feel you can't protect your kids,' Eddison said. He sounded so sad, so sympathetic that Munroe almost wondered if he meant it.

‘I can protect them. My kids are safe!'

‘Gone with their dad, have they? They've left you too, have they? Well, I think you're right to get them out of the way, but I mean, can you really trust their dad to look after them? I mean, not exactly hero material, is he?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Well, running out on you when the first sign of trouble comes along. Leaving you to fend for yourself here.'

‘Maybe she thinks if she stays they'll leave her family alone,' Eddison proposed. ‘Maybe she thinks they'll stop looking.'

Clara was shrinking into herself now, diminishing. Munroe knew she was on the point of total collapse. She stood up again, facing them down though he could see her entire body was trembling.

‘What did they do to him, Clara? What did they threaten to do to your kids? Are you sure they're safe? We know you're a good mother, we know you'd do anything to protect them, and they are beautiful kids, Clara, it would be such a tragedy if anything were to—'

‘Get the fuck out of here. Just get the fuck out!' She flew at Eddison, grabbing at his hair, scratching at his face, kicking out at him as he stood up and captured her hands, holding them both easily in one of his own. ‘Just get the fuck away from here.'

‘Or what, Clara?' Munroe, sitting back now, observed the scene. ‘Besides, you've told us nothing. You can always try and convince whoever's threatening you that you told us nothing. Of course, they may not believe you.'

He paused. She had ceased to struggle now, but Eddison still held on to her wrists. A slow trickle of blood from beside his eye showed that Clara had scored one point against him.

‘How convincing do you think you can be? I mean to say,
we're
constrained by the law, I suppose, but other people might not have those checks and balances.' He paused again. ‘But I think you already know that, don't you?'

Again, the silence. Few people, Munroe thought, really appreciate the power of silence.

Clara had begun to cry.

Munroe nodded at Eddison, who released her hands.

‘We'll be off then, Clara,' Munroe said.

‘What?'

‘Well, seeing as how you don't want to tell us anything.' He took a business card from his pocket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. ‘Just in case you change your mind,' he said and followed Eddison out of the door.

They had parked the car just down the road. Eddison slipped into the passenger seat and withdrew a little black box from the glove compartment, then inserted what looked like a Bluetooth device into his ear.

‘Where did you position them?'

‘One in the living room, one in the hall near the phone.' He flipped the box open, revealing a small screen. ‘She's dialling out.'

‘Put it on speaker.'

Clara's voice, the distress evident, filled the car.

‘The police were here . . . No, of course I didn't, but Paul, what am I supposed to do? I can't . . . Yes, I know, but . . . Paul, I can't cope with this, I can't. Please, I need help with this.
Please
, Paul!'

‘He's rung off,' Eddison said.

‘Think he's got the kids with him?'

‘I bloody hope so.' He took the earpiece out and replaced it with his mobile phone. Dialled. ‘Right,' he said. ‘I need you to run a number for me, get me an address. Ready?'

He relayed the phone number Clara had called, reading it from the screen of the little black PDA. ‘Quick as you can. Any news on that other number?' He listened and then hung up.

‘Well?'

‘The office is still unoccupied, no one near or by for the past week, though the landlord says the rent is paid up for the next three months. It's listed as an import-export business, dealing in fine arts. The phone's rung a couple of times, but no action otherwise.'

‘So why would anyone give the number to Alec?'

‘Why not? Given the choice of him or you, I'd have gone for Alec.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. But why give it to anyone? What's the link?'

Eddison's phone rang. It was Michelle Sanders, trying for the third time to get hold of him. Eddison listened. ‘I'll deal with him,' he said. ‘Michelle, listen to me, I'll sort it out.'

‘What?' Munroe asked when Eddison slid the phone back into his pocket.

‘Our friend Alec Friedman,' Eddison said. ‘That is a man who just doesn't know what's good for his health.'

THIRTEEN

I
t was mid afternoon by the time Naomi and Harry had finished at the police station and returned to an anxious Mari and Patrick. Mari, by some miracle, had slowed the progress of lunch, and only the carrots had been overcooked. Mari fussed over Naomi, and Napoleon, sensing that all was not well, pressed his big head against her leg and snuffled till she took adequate notice of him.

‘I'm all right,' she said for the umpteenth time. ‘Harry, I'm really sorry to have put you through that.'

‘That poor, poor woman,' Harry said softly.

‘Sit,' Mari told him. ‘Eat. We'll all feel better with some food inside us.'

They made a deliberate effort to turn the conversation to other things. The exhibition, the trip to America, university, but the memory of the phone call draped like a pall across the room. She had tried to get hold of Alec, but he wasn't answering his phone and she felt very much alone despite the wonderful company.

As the meal drew to a close and Mari served the apple pie, Naomi said what had been on her mind for the past hours. ‘I'm worried,' she said. ‘Scared I've brought this all down on your heads. Whoever is doing this, they had a hand in killing Jamie, and probably Neil Robinson too. I don't want any of you involved in this.'