Night Vision (23 page)

Christopher had arranged it, of course, the original setting-up of that list. The careful selection of its members. He knew that if there was ever a vacuum, someone or something would move to fill it, and that someone might not be so easily controlled.

Of course, things had moved on since then, but some of the old guard still remained. Some dinosaurs to pick off the mammals. And he had liked Jamie. Loved her spirit and her idealism and her energy.

She should have kept to the brief.

The film she had been making, the issues raised, Gregory could have given his wholehearted support to that – and he had. Getting her the introductions she required, even going with her to the homeless shelters in the UK and in the states and even in Moscow, where his fluency in the language had saved them a great deal of time and trouble.

Then, in Seattle, she had been introduced to a young soldier, a young marine who had told her about the game, and that had been that.

Gregory wasn't sure how he felt about the use of drones to carry bombs.

‘But it saves lives, doesn't it?' Jamie had asked him.

‘Does it? Or does it kill those who might not have died?'

‘What do you mean?'

At the time he would not be drawn, but when Jamie came back she had filled in the gaps for herself.

‘They call it Bugsplat,' she said. ‘They treat it like a video game. I mean, not all of them, but some – and that's bad enough. They seem separate from it, like they're bombing little video people, not real live human beings.'

‘That's always been the way of things,' Gregory had told her. ‘You shut yourself off, keep it separate. Bomber pilots couldn't think of all the deaths they would cause. If you fire a missile, you don't know what it will take out. Even if you shoot a gun you can't be sure.'

‘I know.' She had shrugged and smiled at him. ‘But it seems like – I don't know, maybe every generation has its own version of night vision.'

‘Night vision?' A little bell had rung in Gregory's brain. Something he had read about? Heard about?

‘The new generation of drones. That's what the software is going to be called. It's deliberately been set up so it looks like game play, and that's what it will be called. The official line is that's so it's easier for kids who've grown up with computer games to assimilate the information in the training programmes, but . . . I don't know, it all feels like it's designed to separate them even more from the real blood and guts of it all.'

‘Where did you hear about this?'

She frowned, then giggled and refilled the glass of wine she had only half drunk. ‘It's a British company,' she said. ‘I heard the name mentioned, and I did a bit of digging. Lots of palms being greased, Joshua. Lots of people going to make lots of money out of this one.'

Gregory closed his eyes and enjoyed the memory of Jamie, sitting on his boat, drinking his wine. It was the last time he could remember her being really happy.

‘Don't push too hard,' he told her. ‘Jamie, when there's big money involved there are big people.'

She had grinned that wonderful mischievous smile of hers. ‘That's what I'm counting on,' she said. ‘Pulitzer Prize, here I come.

And then she had discovered just what she was really up against and just how viciously big men protected their big money, and ultimately, she had died for that.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
he same night the
Jeannie
slipped her moorings and headed out to sea, Naomi and Alec headed into Wales and found a dog-friendly place to stay for the night. Harry and Patrick went north, depositing Mari at her sister's, and then, the house only being very small, finding their own place for the night in one of the big chain hotels.

Eddison had arrived an hour or so after Alec had departed and was far from happy to find that he had gone, even less sanguine to find that Alec's phone was not only off, but unobtainable.

Monroe wasn't quite sure why his boss was so riled. But he had other things on his mind.

‘Why dump Freddie Gains here?' he wondered. ‘Why kill him, for that matter? What did Freddie Gains ever know that was worth a damn?'

‘Why assume that's why he was killed?' Eddison returned.

‘Because they tortured him before they killed him. Why torture someone unless they know something?'

News came in the night that Christopher had died. Gregory knew his last protection had gone. ‘I'm sorry,' the nurse told him. ‘He went peacefully in the end.'

Gregory thanked her, and then removed the SIM card from his phone and threw it overboard before replacing it with another from his stock.

The night sky was the deepest of blues now, studded with little points of light. ‘Goodbye old man,' Gregory said, and then went below.

Patrick had packed all of Jamie's cards and letters into a box and had brought them along. It seemed wrong to have left them back at home somehow. He and Harry had spread them out open on the bed. Patrick sat cross legged, leaning against the headboard. Harry had brought a chair and placed it at the side. Both cradled mugs of too-hot tea.

‘Just Christmas and Birthday cards,' Harry said. The early ones had been filled with little notes and random chat, but as Jamie had become more established the notes had become shorter and the chat a little less informative. It happened, Harry thought, rejoicing again that Patrick had chosen to go to university but still live at home. He wasn't ready to be alone.

Patrick frowned. He picked up the last Christmas card again and looked more closely at Jamie's last address. The office owned by Madigor that she'd been using as a drop box.
Keep this safe
, the message said.
So you can contact me
.

Keep this safe, Patrick thought. It seemed oddly emphatic.

‘What the link was between Jamie and this criminal on the loose, I can't guess,' Harry mused.

‘Maybe he isn't?'

‘Isn't what?'

‘A criminal. Maybe he's, I don't know, been framed.'

‘Seems unlikely,' Harry said.

Patrick shrugged. ‘I don't know, Dad, but think about it, if you wanted to blow something up and also commit murder and you didn't actually plan on getting caught, then surely you wouldn't use your own truck. I mean, think about it, it's not exactly the ideal getaway vehicle, is it?'

‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it is odd. Maybe they were making a statement?'

‘The email address is weird too.'

‘Email?'

‘Yeah, she sent them an email address too. Didn't you see?'

‘No, sorry, I didn't notice. Why?'

‘Well, when I first glanced at it I thought it was Jamie1948 at hotmail dot com.'

‘I see,' Harry said doubtfully.

‘But it's not. It's jeannie1948 at hotmail dot com. I mean, most people, if they're not making up something silly, use some variation on their own name, don't they?'

‘I suppose so. Maybe it was the email at the office she had her letters sent to.'

‘Maybe.' Patrick stretched and began to gather the cards together. In his opinion, Jamie had good taste when it came to cards. Quite a lot were famous paintings, but there were others that featured artists he didn't know. He would have to do a search, see what other work they'd done.

He packed them back in the box and switched the television on. ‘OK if we watch for a while?'

‘Why not?' Harry said. ‘Though I expect I'll fall asleep.'

‘What's new?' Patrick grinned at his father. ‘I'll text Alec, make sure everything's OK. We'll need to get some more credit tomorrow, just to be sure.'

He paused and looked back at the box of cards, frowning.

‘What?' Harry said.

‘I don't know, just the feeling I'm missing something really obvious. It'll come to me, I expect.'

Harry nodded and went to have a shower. When he returned it was Patrick who had fallen asleep in front of the television.

Harry stood, looking down at his sleeping son. He loved Patrick so much that sometimes the power of the emotion was like a physical pain in his chest.

In the pocket of his jacket was the business card Munroe had given him that day at Jamie Dale's funeral. Call me, he had said. Harry had the strangest feeling that the evil twin, as Munroe had described it, would probably be making that call.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
he day started with news that the pale-blue saloon had been found. The car that had conveyed Travers' would-be killer from the motel to the lorry park. It had, as predicted, been burned out, but part of the number plate was still readable, and the owner was known to the police. The car had been reported stolen the day after Travers had been attacked, but Eddison smelt a rat.

‘Got a record of petty theft and a string of driving offences,' Munroe told him. ‘Nothing major, but—'

‘Bring him in then,' Eddison said. ‘We'll head back this morning. I doubt there's more to be gained from stopping here; let the locals sort it out.'

Munroe couldn't fault the logic of that, but was slightly surprised by Eddison's sudden eagerness to depart.

Parks met them as they arrived. Tony Marsh was in Interview Room One, refusing to say anything to anyone till he had legal advice.

‘And is that imminent?' Munroe asked.

‘It'll be a while. Duty solicitor's en route, but there are two in front of Marsh wanting attention.'

‘Let him sweat then,' Eddison said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Lunchtime news,' he said.

‘You expecting something new?' Munroe asked.

Eddison didn't reply.

The bulletin started with breaking news and a picture and a name. ‘Joshua Penbury, also known as Gregory Meehan and Anthony Sharp. A wanted suspect in the motorway bombing, and also implicated in the murders of journalist Jamie Dale and convicted conman Neil Robinson, and the attempted murder of DI Nicholas Travers . . .'

Eddison looked pleased. Munroe was aghast. He exchanged a glance with Parks. ‘When did this happen?' Parks wanted to know.

‘I authorized it first thing. We've got enough to bring him in.'

‘You're making it sound like it's all done and dusted. For all we know this Joshua Penbury could be lying somewhere with his head bashed in while someone else runs off with his truck.'

‘No, he's our man.'

‘You don't know that,' Munroe protested. ‘Where did the intel on his aliases come from? And where did you get the picture? We searched right through his place, not a sign of a photograph.'

‘That's not a photograph,' Parks said. ‘It's a composite. It's just been digitized to make it look right.'

Eddison nodded, satisfied. ‘And a good job they've done too.'

‘But you must have started with something. Where did you get his picture from?'

‘Army ID,' Eddison said.

‘And you didn't think to mention any of this?'

‘I'm mentioning it now.'

‘Gregory,' Munroe said. ‘That was the name Travers gave us. You led me to believe it meant nothing.'

‘I had to be sure.'

‘And what made you sure?' Munroe demanded. ‘Eddison, you're moving far too fast on this. It's all supposition. A house of cards. What if the whole damn lot comes crashing down?'

‘It won't,' Eddison said. ‘I know this man. I know what he's capable of. He's the one.'

‘You know him?' Parks was just as bemused now. ‘Boss, I don't get it. If you'd got all this intel then why not—'

‘You questioning me, Parks? Right, we've got a suspect to interrogate. Interview Room One, was it?'

‘Duty solicitor isn't here yet.'

‘Then bloody well find him and bring him to the party. We've got a killer to catch, public opinion to placate.'

Parks and Munroe exchanged another glance when Eddison had marched off. ‘What the hell is going on here?' Parks asked.

‘Fucked if I know,' Munroe said. ‘Parks, see if you can round up the brief and get him in with this Marsh character before the boss decides he's starting without him. Sit in, OK?'

‘OK, but what will you be doing?'

‘Digging,' Munroe said. ‘And I think I'll start with a visit to friend Travers.'

Parks nodded. ‘There's something else,' he said. ‘It's been bothering me since we visited the prison.'

‘Why has no one been and talked to this Griffin character that gave our Alec the phone number?' Munroe guessed.

‘Yes, frankly.'

‘Why indeed. Right, let's see if we can get ourselves a warrant. I doubt Michelle Sanders will let me in on spec.'

‘How are you going to do that?'

‘Trust me. There are ways and means. Meantime, keep an eye on things with this Marsh. I don't know what's got into our DI Eddison, but I don't like it one little bit.'

Patrick had woken knowing what was wrong with the cards. It was that last one Alec and Naomi had received, and in this instance it had nothing specific to do with what Jamie might have written.

He laid them out on the bed, face up.

‘See,' he said.

‘See what?'

‘The pictures. What do you notice? Most people buy similar cards all the time. Friends often insult one another. Gran likes soppy and sentimental, so we buy her soppy and sentimental. Jamie liked art, and I guess she knew Alec and Naomi did too.'

Harry nodded. ‘And. Ah, I see. This card. This last one. It stands out from the rest because it's different.' He picked it up and looked closely. ‘I think this is what they call three-D découpage,' he said.

‘Well, listen to you!'

‘Of course, this is a commercially produced card, but your cousin Laurie is into all this card-making stuff, isn't she? You buy all these shapes on sheets and cut them out and then stick them on to cards with this sticky-pad stuff.' He prodded at the twin reindeer fastened to the card by what he referred to as the sticky-pad stuff and sent a little rain of glitter down on to the bed.