Relentless (7 page)

They'd done everything professionally, but with the cool, distant
air of men who were never going to be convinced by the
pained, unimaginative pleas of their suspects. I'd demanded my
one phone call and had been taken to a phone in one of the
corridors, where the black officer waited while once again I tried
Kathy's mobile, and once again it went to message. I'd left
another, explaining my predicament and begging her to get in
touch as soon as possible.
I'd also demanded a lawyer. Politely but firmly. I was
beginning to get angry now. I was still scared, of course, both
for myself and Kathy. But I was also extremely pissed off that
I was being held against my will for something I hadn't done,
and with no-one showing the slightest sign of listening to my
story, or of letting me know anything concerning the fate of
my wife.
'Do you have one, or would you like us to call someone?' the
custody sergeant had asked wearily.
Had he asked me that question at any time in the last twelve
years up to three hours earlier, I would have said Jack Calley,
and I would have been sure that he'd sort things out for me. Jack
was like that. He inspired confidence. For the first time in a long
time I needed him, and I was too late.
'I haven't got anyone. I need you to call a lawyer.'
The custody sergeant had nodded and said he'd make the
necessary arrangements.
In the meantime I was taken by my two arresting officers
down to one of the interview rooms, and here I was now - half
an hour, an hour later, it was impossible to tell for sure - waiting
and wondering whether my wife, the mother of my children,
was still alive, or whether I was to be accused of her murder.
Wondering too why Jack Calley had phoned me, and why

eo
he'd been attacked and probably murdered before the call was
completed. And why a man in a balaclava had attacked me with
a bloodstained knife in the politics department of the university
where my wife worked.
The door to the interview room opened and a pleasant
looking fat man of about fifty with shoulder-length grey hair that
was so thick it could have contained buried treasure came into
the room. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a navy-blue
pinstripe suit, complete with a waistcoat that stretched and
strained over his ample belly, and a smile that was the first I'd
seen in a while. His features were soft, his face curiously
owl-like, and in one dainty hand that had clearly never been
sullied by manual work, he carried a battered leather briefcase
which looked as if a pack of dogs had been at it. He banged it
down on the table and thrust out a hand.

'Mr Meron,' he said in a lilting Scottish baritone that could
have used a bigger audience, peering at me over his glasses. 'I'm
Douglas McFee, the duty solicitor. I understand you requested
my help.'
I stood up and took the proffered hand, surprised that the
palm was lined with sweat. 'Thank you for coming. I think I'm
going to need it.'
Douglas McFee smiled again and sat down opposite me. He
put the briefcase on the floor and placed his elbows on the table
and his hands together, as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers
stroking his bottom lip. His expression was surprisingly intense,
; et at the same time it remained amiable.
; 'Now,' he continued, 'why don't you tell me how you came to
be arrested running down the street very close to a murder
scene, distressed and bleeding from several cuts?'
'Before I tell you anything, can you tell me if my wife's OK? If

she's the person I'm meant to have murdered . . .' I trailed off,
not sure what else to say.
He gave me a sympathetic smile. The sight of it made me want
to weep. Did someone at last believe me? 'I think I can put your
mind at rest there,' he said.
I felt a rush of relief. 'Really? It's not her?'
He shook his head. 'No, the woman the police suspect you
murdered is not your wife. Her name is, or more accurately was,
Vanessa Blake.'
Relief was now mixed with shock. 'Vanessa?'
'You know her?'
'Yes, I do. She's a politics lecturer at the university. Like
Kathy, my wife. She's been there for years.'
I'd never liked Vanessa. She was a couple of years younger
than Kathy, attractive in a very severe way, and unequivocally
gay. She didn't like men and made no secret of the fact, and I'd
often thought she'd tried to turn my wife against me. In fact, I
think she'd had a thing for Kathy. And now she was dead. But
I didn't really have time to think about her passing. I was too
relieved for that.
McFee inclined his head solemnly as he delivered the bad
news, recounting it like a particularly enjoyable ghost story. 'Her
body was discovered by a student in an adjoining room to the
library where you encountered the masked man who attacked
you with the knife. She'd been stabbed repeatedly. The student
was naturally very shocked, but she was able to call the police.
This must have been only minutes after you left the building
because it was officers responding to that initial emergency call
who arrested you.'
I put my head in my hands and took several deep breaths
before re-emerging. The wound on my jawline suddenly started

throbbing. 'Thank God Kathy's all right. It's terrible about
Vanessa, she was a good person, but I'm glad it was her and not
Kathy. I know that sounds terrible, but you know what I mean?
Are you married, Mr McFee?'
'I have a long-term partner so, yes, I understand what you're
saying.'
'Jesus, I've been so scared.'
'That's the good news,' said McFee, who had a habit of
speaking very slowly, 'if good news it can be called.'
I stiffened. 'There's bad news?'
'Unfortunately, there is. The murder weapon, a filleting knife
with a six-inch blade, was recovered at the scene.'
I was finding it difficult to breathe. 'And?'
'And I've just been informed that your wife's fingerprints
were recovered from the handle.'

8

Bolt knew that neither he nor Mo was welcome at the Jack Calley crime scene. DCI Lambden made an effort to be polite after
all, there were some tenuofls links between the NCS case
;and his own, so he had to at least accept the presence of two

men from that investigation - but it was obvious to all concerned
that it was, indeed, an effort. Lambden didn't see where the
"torture angle fitted in either and was initially dismissive of it as a
iact«r in the murder of Jack Calley. 'We don't know that it's got

T

anything to do with anything,' he said carefully. 'It might be that
he burned himself by mistake. It's too early to jump to any
conclusions.'
In Bolt's mind, there were two reasons for Lambden's
reticence. One, the DCI was a bit of a plodder and had been
caught out by the violence of this case. The second was professional
rivalry. Bolt, this NCS big boy, had waltzed in, been on
the scene for five minutes, and had made a potentially major
discovery. And like most people, Lambden didn't like it.
Fair enough. Bolt could see his point. He wouldn't have much
liked it either.
'My guess,' he told Lambden and the other assembled officers,
'is that we'll find evidence in the house that he was tortured. The
marks on his wrists suggest he was tied up recently. The suspects
overpowered him inside the house and then subjected him to
some sort of torture, presumably to get information. He escaped,
they chased him up here, and, because they were unable to
continue the interrogation out in the open, they finished him
off.'
'And if he was tortured, what do you think it has to do with
your case?'
This was a good question, and one that Bolt had been thinking
about ever since he'd got up here. 'Maybe nothing, but we have
to remember he was the solicitor of the Lord Chief Justice, who
committed suicide in unusual circumstances less than forty-eight
hours ago. Now, suddenly, he's been killed by at least two men
and it looks like a professional job. This wasn't a robbery, we
can be sure of that, and it's very unlikely to be a case of
mistaken identity. The killers spent time with this man; they
knew who he was. Which means he was targeted specifically. It
may well be he's got lots of enemies, I don't know. Like you, I

know nothing about him, but I don't like the timing, coming so
close after our man's topped himself.'
Lambden didn't say anything for a moment, then nodded
slowly. 'We're going to be checking Calley's background and
movements very thoroughly, and obviously we'll let you know
our findings if there's any relevance to your own investigation.'
He turned to one of the other overalled officers. 'Do you want
to empty his pockets, Bill? Put everything in an evidence bag.'
Bill, an older detective with a bushy moustache, did as instructed
while Lambden turned back to Bolt. 'Is there anything else you
need to see?' he asked.
'We'd like to take a look in the house if we can.'
The DCI didn't look too pleased at this, but knew better than
to make a fuss. 'Of course, but please don't get in the way of my
men down there.'
Bolt didn't rise to the bait. 'We'll be on our best behaviour,'
he said.
As he turned to head back to the house, he saw Mo watching
Bill intently as he emptied the front pockets of Jack Calley's
jeans. Bill removed a credit card wallet, a set of keys, a crumpled
ten-pound note and some loose change.
'Did you find a mobile near the body, sir?' Mo asked
Lambden.
The DCI shook his head. 'There wasn't one here. If it's not in
his pockets, I'm sure it'll be back at the house.'
'It'll be very useful to find out who he's been calling these past
few days,' said Mo, with as much as diplomacy as he could
muster, 'and who's been calling him.'
'We'll be dealing with that in due course.' I Once the two NCS men were on the way back to the house,
Mo gave a concise description of DCI Keith Lambden. 'The guy

has no vision,' he said. And then, as an afterthought, 'He's also a
stuck-up arsehole.'
Bolt sighed in agreement. 'There's never any shortage of
them. I reckon we need to take matters into our hands and get
on to Jean.'
DC Jean Riley was the youngest of Bolt's team at only twenty
four, and his most recent recruit. She had excellent contacts with
the liaison people at the UK's various phone companies and
network providers, and was therefore always given the task of
chasing up the phone records of suspects. She'd been supplied
with the dead judge's landline and mobile numbers earlier
that morning and told to get details of the calls logged to and
from them. However, because their team was small, she'd also
had to travel to Suffolk to interview the politician's sister, so it
wasn't a surprise that she hadn't come back to him yet. The
events here, however, meant that she was now going to have to
redouble her efforts. Phone records can be difficult to get hold
of. They take time and, thanks to Britain's Data Protection Act,
they usually involve paperwork and high-level authorization.
But in reality, if you're willing to push hard enough, you can
usually get results.
Bolt pulled out his mobile and called Jean's number.
She answered on the second ring. 'How's everything going,
sir?'
'We've had a few developments,' he said, telling her what had
happened to Calley. 'Where are you now?'
'Back at HQ. I didn't get much out of our victim's sister in
Lowestoft. She was quite a friendly old girl, married with four
grown-up kids, but she only saw him once a year at Christmas,
and it doesn't sound like she was very close to him. She said he
was a bit pompous.'

'That doesn't surprise me. He always seemed it on the telly.
Any joy on the phone records?'
'I've got them here in front of me,' she said. 'Landline and
mobile. He seemed to mainly use the landline. I've been going
through them for the last twenty minutes and there doesn't seem
to be anything untoward.'
'How about calls to or from Jack Calley?'
'Hold on a minute, let me have a look.' Bolt waited a few
moments while she checked. She hummed a tune - it sounded
vaguely like 'Diamonds are Forever' - while she worked. 'There
are three calls to the Renfrew, Calley and Partners office
number made from the landline in the last six weeks. Two were
about ten minutes long, the last one four minutes nine seconds.
Made on Monday afternoon.'
'Nothing untoward there. What about the mobile?'
'I'm checking again, but...' She paused. 'No, nothing.'
So, there was no hurried series of calls between the Lord
Chief Justice and his solicitor, no lengthy conversations. Bolt should have been pleased as it supported his theory that the
politician had committed suicide. If this was so, he could go
home, get his takeaway, crack open a nice bottle of Shiraz and
settle down to watch the great Miss Marple at work. See how it
was really done. Yet he was oddly disappointed. Two killers had
i brutally murdered a young man in the prime of his life. The
lyoung man in question might have been a lawyer (a profession
IJor the most part made up of conmen and charlatans, in Bolt's ©pinion), but that wasn't the point. The type of person who can
Jfetorture a man and then string him up to die deserves to be put
liway for life, and Bolt wasn't entirely sure that DCI Keith
I Lambden was the best person to make this state of affairs come [about.

'Can you do me a favour, Jean?' he asked.
'Of course, sir. What is it?'
'Can you get the records for Calley's office and home numbers,
and his mobile?'
'Have you got his mobile number?'
'Not yet, but you can get hold of it, can't you?'
'If it's registered in his name, yes, but it'll take a while.'
For the first time, he thought he detected disappointment in
her voice. He knew she had a boyfriend, a guy her own age
in the civil service, and wondered if they had plans tonight.
Probably, and he doubted if they involved watching Miss
Marple. He thought about letting it go. Jean was a good,
enthusiastic worker and he didn't want to take advantage, but he
also wanted answers and it was still only twenty to six. If she
worked fast, she could still get a good night out.
'If you can see what you can do, that'd be great.'
'Do you think there's a link between our case and this, then?'
'If there is, I want to make sure we find it,' he said, and hung
up.
By now, they were back at the front of the house. More
police vehicles had arrived, including a dog unit which would
be used to ascertain what route the killers had used in making
their escape - something Bolt hadn't asked about. The tracks on
the path had all been going up so it seemed likely that they'd
fled into the woodland after finishing off Calley. The front
door of the dead lawyer's house was guarded by a uniformed copper, and SOCO officers moved in and out of it, carrying their
paraphernalia.
They showed their warrant cards to the uniform and stepped
inside.
The interior of Jack Calley's place was less spacious than