No Going Back (9 page)

‘What does your father do?'

Katya's eyes flickered up and away. She shrugged. ‘I don't know. He left us when Elena was a baby. Will you really help me?'

‘If I can, but you should really go to the police. They could do much more than me.'

‘No!' Her reply was sharp and immediate, and she backed away a step or two, apparently afraid that Daniel was about to try and capture her and deliver her to the authorities himself. ‘You can't tell them!'

‘It's all right. Calm down. I won't do anything you don't want me to, but please believe me, it would be the best thing to do.'

‘No. There would be trouble. You must promise you won't tell.'

‘Trouble for your father, yes, but not for you,' Daniel assured her. ‘You've done nothing wrong.'

She shook her head. ‘You don't understand. We don't have our papers – he took them.'

‘What papers?'

‘Our passports.'

‘But if you're not trying to leave the country, you don't need them,' Daniel pointed out.

‘Please – you don't understand . . . He'll find out and I'll never see Elena again.'

She looked on the verge of bolting and he made a swift decision.

‘All right. I'll do what I can and we won't tell the police unless you say so, OK?'

Before she could answer, a stentorian voice sounded from the doorway of the pub. ‘Are you still here?'

‘Just going.' Daniel raised a hand, seeing Katya shrink back against the side of the lorry, even though she hadn't been in the landlord's line of sight.

The man had the look of someone who was prepared to wait, so Daniel turned to the girl. ‘I have to move the lorry. Will you get in?'

Apparently Katya wasn't yet ready to trust him that far, or maybe it was the dog she didn't trust, for again came the small shake of her head.

‘OK. Go back to Hilary's. I'll let her know you're coming and I'll come there myself as soon as I can. This evening, maybe.'

‘She won't be mad at me?'

‘She'll be fine. Trust me.'

Under the publican's glare, Daniel started the lorry and, with a cheery wave of his hand, vacated the car park. Almost immediately his mobile began vibrating, and as soon as he was able, he pulled over to the side of the road and answered it.

It was Bowden, at first concerned that his driver had had an accident or a breakdown, and then rather less than happy when Daniel admitted that he had taken time out for non-TFS business.

‘I've had Sedgefield Poultry Farm bending my bloody ear for the past hour, wanting to know where the hell you've got to, and I had to make up some story about a breakdown. Now I've just had a call from the kennels, worried that they won't have enough food for this evening, and you're off playing at being a bloody detective! I know you were worried about the girl, Daniel, but not on my time, OK?'

‘Yeah, sorry, Boss. Won't happen again.'

Would
Katya go to Hilary's? he wondered, lending half an ear to Bowden. Or would her distrust get the better of her again?

‘So where are you now?' the TFS boss demanded.

‘Just leaving Goats Tor,' Daniel said, seeing a man looking over his garden wall two or three houses along the road and recognizing the upright figure of Major Clapford. He was regarding the idling lorry with disfavour.

‘Bloody miles away!' Bowden said disgustedly. ‘Well, you'd better cut along to the kennels first, then. It's closer to where you are than the chicken farm. I'll ring them and let them know you're on your way. Be there in what? Half an hour?'

‘Yeah, no problem.'

Daniel had cause to regret his easy confidence fifteen minutes later when he glanced in his door mirror and saw a police car hovering near the offside rear corner of the lorry, its lights flashing an unmistakable request for him to pull over.

‘Oh bloody hell!' Daniel grumbled, seeking out a pull-in large enough to accommodate the HGV and hoping against hope that the patrol car had spotted a faulty light or something of the sort. He had no anxieties that there was anything seriously wrong with the lorry – Bowden was meticulous in the upkeep of his small fleet – but even an impromptu spot check would take time and would almost certainly include a check on his own details.

As he drew in to the side, the patrol car passed him and stopped, nose-in to the hedge, effectively blocking any attempt on his part to leave, unless he took the car with him. Daniel frowned. That was overkill, he felt. Sighing deeply, he climbed down from the cab and awaited developments.

There were two officers: one young, keen, eyes darting everywhere, the other overweight and fiftyish. The older one looked world-weary and was probably counting the days to retirement, Daniel guessed, watching him approach with a splay-footed, heel-scraping walk, shrugging himself into his fluorescent jacket as he did so.

‘Thank you for stopping,' he said, coming to a halt in front of Daniel. ‘Sergeant Naylor.'

‘And?' Daniel asked, looking enquiringly after the younger officer, who'd gone on a tour of inspection around the lorry.

‘Oh, Constable Innes. And you are?'

‘Daniel Whelan. Is there a problem with the lorry?'

‘Do you have your driver's licence with you, Mr Whelan?'

Daniel took his wallet from an inside pocket, found the plastic card and handed it over. The sergeant squinted at it and then took a pair of glasses from his pocket and put them on – a little self-consciously, Daniel thought, as though they were new to him. His eyes sorted he inspected the licence, looking at Daniel to check the likeness.

‘Are you the owner of the vehicle?'

‘No. It's owned by TFS. I'm employed as a driver. Is there a problem with the lorry?' he repeated.

‘Er, no, that's just routine.' Naylor handed his licence back and then took off his cap to scratch his balding head. ‘Actually, we're investigating a complaint by a member of the public concerning an alleged assault on a young woman. This person has identified you as the alleged attacker, Mr Whelan.'

‘By name?'

‘Er, no, but he observed you getting into this lorry.'

Major Clapford. Damn the man!

‘Is that your dog?' Naylor asked, gesturing up at the cab window.

Taz was staring down at them, quite plainly excited by the uniforms and the association with his past working life.

‘Yes, it is. Look, your informant misunderstood what he was seeing. The girl is a friend of mine. We'd had a bit of a tiff – you know how it is – and I was trying to calm her down. I've spoken to her since and we've sorted it all out. Everything's fine.'

‘I'm afraid that's not quite the story that we were told, Mr Whelan. The gentleman says you pulled her from her horse and she was screaming for help. When he tried to lend assistance, however, you turned on him with some violence. It's a very serious allegation, and I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to accompany us to the station while we look into it.'

Daniel rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Please, Sergeant. There's truly nothing to look into. Major Clapford – I assume he's your informant – has blown it all way out of proportion. The girl is fine. I told you, we've talked it over.'

‘So I assume you'd be happy for us to talk to her as well. And her name is . . . ?' He waited, pen poised.

From the start of the conversation Daniel had been anticipating that very question, and knew that with his refusal to answer it, his fate would be sealed.

‘I'm sorry, I can't tell you. I'm not going to drag her into all this.'

‘I'm afraid you have little choice.'

Daniel shook his head. ‘No, I'm sorry.'

‘Then
I'm
sorry, but I shall have to insist that you come down to the station.' He looked up questioningly as PC Innes appeared, having circumnavigated the lorry.

The younger man shook his slightly gingery head. ‘Everything appears to be in order.'

Daniel fancied he looked disappointed.

‘Right. Well, Mr Whelan will be coming with us,' Naylor said.

Daniel didn't argue. If he kicked up, they'd formally arrest him. All he'd accomplish would be to put their backs up and make them sure he had something to hide. As indeed he did, he reflected soberly.

‘I'll need to phone my boss first,' he told Naylor. ‘He won't want the lorry sat here all afternoon.'

‘You can phone him from the station.'

‘I'll phone him now.' Daniel got his phone out. It was a call he didn't relish, following as closely as it did on the last one.

‘No one's going to nick it with that dog in there,' the sergeant reasoned.

‘I'm not leaving him here for hours, and anyway, he can't guard the trailer if he's in the cab,' Daniel pointed out. ‘Besides, we've got customers waiting and I'm late already. I hope this isn't going to take long.'

He knew, even as he said it, that it was a forlorn hope. They would be in no hurry. His irate employer and customers meant nothing to them.

‘No reason it should, if you cooperate.'

Daniel keyed in Bowden's number.

Yelverton Police Station was more of a police house than a station, and the interview room might well have started life as a broom cupboard, Daniel thought, as he squeezed into a seat at the small wooden table. Lit by a single strip light and one high barred window in the end wall, it had discoloured cream walls and quarry tiles on the floor. It was a world away from its counterpart at Bristol Met.

At the back of the station, adjacent to a tarmac parking area, was a small wooden tool shed that was currently doing duty as a kennel for Taz.

The interview progressed satisfactorily to begin with, Daniel repeating his story of tempers flaring between friends and pointing out that in the absence of the alleged victim bent on pressing charges, they really hadn't got a case.

Ah, but Major Clapford might yet decide to press charges in relation to the assault on himself, Daniel was told.

‘Oh, I don't imagine he'll do that,' he replied confidently. ‘I think any jury would consider that taking a walking stick away from a man who is repeatedly using it to hit you is totally justifiable self-defence, don't you?'

‘You're saying
he
hit
you
?' Naylor sounded uncertain for the first time that afternoon.

‘At least half a dozen times, and I'm sure I've got the bruises to prove it.' His right elbow was indeed quite tender.

‘He didn't tell us that.'

‘Well, there's a surprise.'

‘Were there any witnesses who could back your story up?'

Briefly Daniel thought of Hilary, but he didn't want to drag her into the affair if he could help it.

‘Not that I know of,' he said.

‘Would you mind if we took a look at the alleged injuries?'

Daniel did mind, but if it meant he'd get away sooner, it was a sacrifice worth making.

‘I suppose so,' he said reluctantly, beginning to push up the right sleeve of his jumper.

The bruise on his elbow didn't let him down. Clapford's stick had caught an especially sensitive spot and the joint sported an egg-like swelling of impressive and colourful dimensions. Even Daniel was impressed: he didn't normally bruise easily and it was better than he could have hoped for.

There was a lengthy delay while Naylor called the police surgeon, who inspected the bruise, pronounced it recent and took a photograph for good measure.

‘Are there any others?'

Daniel shrugged. ‘One or two maybe, but that's the worst.' After a decade of tough policing his torso bore many scars that he didn't want to have to explain.

‘A bruise on the elbow can be caused in a number of ways,' the surgeon observed. ‘Multiple contusions, however, are a lot more interesting.'

‘But I don't want to take this any further,' Daniel told him.

Just then they were interrupted by a WPC.

‘Can I have a word, sir?' Although she addressed her request to Naylor, her eyes lingered on Daniel, and he remembered her as being behind the desk when he had been brought in. She'd given him a long look then too, but although he didn't kid himself that her interest was of a flattering nature, he'd searched his memory and couldn't recall having met her before.

When Naylor returned, Daniel could tell at once, just by the look on his face, that he was big with news.

‘Well, well, Mr Whelan. You are a man of surprises, aren't you?' he declared.

Daniel's heart sank. It looked as though, somehow, the sergeant had found out about his past.

By the time Daniel finally emerged from the police station it was gone six o'clock and dark. He turned the collar of his leather jacket against the brisk northeasterly that had sprung up during his stay and followed PC Innes round to the back of the building to collect Taz, using his phone's index to dial his boss as he did so.

Bowden answered immediately.

‘Fred . . . Look, I'm afraid I'm still in Yelverton. They've only just finished with me.'

‘Are you all right? Not in any trouble, I mean?' Bowden sounded a lot calmer than he had earlier, for which Daniel was relieved.

‘No, we got it all sorted out. What happened about the lorry?'

‘I called Figgy in and he's finished your round for you, but he hasn't washed the lorry, so there's that to do.'

‘No problem.'

‘Had to promise him time and a half, so you owe us both. He's left my old pick-up in the lay-by with the keys under the bonnet, so if you could cut along there and bring it back – unless you've got anything else planned, that is?'

‘Yeah, sure,' Daniel said, ignoring the sarcastic postscript. ‘OK. See you later.' He slipped the catch on the tool-shed door and caught Taz's collar as he pushed forward, tail waving wildly, ecstatic to see him after too many hours spent alone.