A Question Of Identity Part 33

The message came back to Serrailler. 'No matches.'

Keyes had been removed from the system. He no longer existed. He had a new ident.i.ty.

Apart from Keyes himself, only one organisation knew what that ident.i.ty was.

Simon made another phone call. It was answered by a woman. She gave no name, only said, 'Floor Five.'

When he repeated his details and enquiry, he was transferred.

An anonymous voice said, 'Forty-four.'

'This is DCS Simon Serrailler of Lafferton Police. I am SIO on a murder inquiry, two separate incidents, two victims. The MO indicates close similarities with murders committed in Yorks.h.i.+re in 2001. Alan Frederick Keyes was arrested and charged but acquitted on trial. I've reason to suppose that Keyes now has a new police ID and this is a formal request for information about that.'

'Forty-four' whoever he was had not interrupted Simon, nor given his name. Now he said, 'Let me have your details again, please.'

Serrailler gave him his full name, rank and number, contact details. 'Can I stress the urgency of this? We've got two dead women. I don't want any more, as I'm sure you'll appreciate.'

'Everything is logged. Someone will get back to you.'

The man in the small anonymous-looking office closed down the file he had been working on and opened a new one, as a sub-file to 'Jogging Sparrow', and reported the call in detail. He then closed the file, and put through an internal request on the closed network for a check on Serrailler, and a second, for full info, via HOLMES, on the Lafferton murders. Both were headed 'Priority'.

He then accessed 'Jogging Sparrow' and began to read up details of the three Yorks.h.i.+re murders. By the time the HOLMES report came through, he had the full picture in his head. He then read the details about the ongoing Lafferton cases.

He accessed 'Jogging Sparrow' again, after inputting the two pa.s.swords, and immediately being given two new ones, for use the next time, via the computer.

It was like opening a box within a box within a box, each with a different key. A lot of people would have found the process, and the information in the file, beyond exciting. But police officers who worked in this section were not easily excited. That was one of the reasons they were picked and why the work suited them.

The screen opened up for the third time. In front of him were the full details of a man who had once been Alan Frederick Keyes. This was his new biography, details of his invented past, parents, birth date and place, his national insurance number, pa.s.sport and driving licence, his school examinations record, dental and medical info whatever anyone could ever want to know.

The officer read it all through carefully again, memorising what he needed. On a separate sub-file were details of the 'contact' originally in charge of Keyes. That member of CID had retired. Keyes had been a.s.signed to a new police 'contact', whose details were on the next page. They had not changed for the last four years.

The officer wrote down a name and a mobile number, closed and locked the file. The next time he logged on, he would enter the new pa.s.swords, for one-time-only use.

He filled in a further report, on a closed file, and sent it through to his boss. Then he switched off his computer and locked the system, closed and locked his office door, and went down to the canteen.

Fifty-two.

HE'D BEEN A night man for as many years as he could remember, starting when he was a miner on s.h.i.+fts. Always preferred the nights. When the pit closed and he eventually got another job it was as a night.w.a.tchman. So he thought it must be in his nature. Maybe he'd been born at night? He never knew his mother after the age of five, so he couldn't ask, but he had a feeling. Everything seemed to fit him at night, everything seemed to work better. He could hear more keenly, see further, and he had a sense of things happening, round the corner, on the other side of a wall or a patch of shrub.

The man from the paper had dropped a copy off at the shack, and n.o.bby had read what had been written. It included a nice bit about him at nights. 'n.o.bby Parks likes to look out for other people,' it said, 'especially when they're sound asleep. He keeps an eye open. Many a burglar has been deterred, noticing n.o.bby wandering down the street at two in the morning. And when there was a late-night ram raid on a jeweller's in Lafferton's small exclusive shopping area, the Lanes, n.o.bby was around. "I was handy," he says, "I saw what happened and gave them some useful bits of information."'

He had folded the paper up carefully and put it not among the piles of others but in the top drawer of the old sideboard, where he kept essentials his reading gla.s.ses, his out-of-date pa.s.sport, his pension book. A photo of himself in pit gear, coming off the very last s.h.i.+ft the day it closed for good. The collar and lead from a dog he'd once had.

Now, he had been twice round the perimeter of the Hill, gone in and out of the maze of streets called the Apostles, down the Lanes once or twice. He'd stood in the square watching the last taxi driver give up and set off for home, pressed back into a doorway when a group of drunken lads started a punch-up and the police sirens came wailing down. It was milder now, the sky cloudy but there was no rain and the towpath and verges were drying up a bit. He went down to what he called the Jesus Bus, by the printworks, got hot chocolate and a slice of cake, and had a chat to the lads, who knew better than to try and preach to him. Anyway, he'd told them he was a fully paid-up Christian who didn't hold with church. After that, they'd given up.

It was gone three when he finally made his way home. He was pleasantly tired. He'd have a brew, a roll-up and the last couple of chocolate Bourbons before getting into bed like a mouse into a deep nest, and sleeping the sleep of the just.

No one about. He didn't need any sort of torch or light to show his way. He knew every inch of this towpath. He heard a rat plop into the ca.n.a.l water, just under the bridge, saw a car go over, lights sweeping across the arch of bricks and away.

A hundred yards to home. He might read the article in the paper again before he went to sleep.

Fifty yards. The old lean-to against the warehouses was in deep shadow. The door was loose on its hinge and in a wind swung and creaked so much that sometimes n.o.bby had to get up and shut it and hold the broken padlock with a piece of stick. But tonight, it was still. The ca.n.a.l water was like gla.s.s. The air was moist and heavy.

The lean-to door was open but he didn't look closely enough to see a shadow within the shadows, or sense the slight flicker of movement.

He pushed open the shack door and went in. He switched on his torch and went to the paraffin stove. Lit it. Lit the paraffin lamp. Put the torch back on the shelf, his coat and boots by the door. Then he made a brew. Rolled a cigarette, and sat back in the wicker chair, enjoying the peace and quiet.

For a moment, something seemed wrong. Something was slightly different. He looked round. But the shadows of the lamp didn't reach the corners of the shack and he couldn't see anything unusual near to hand.

He sat thinking. Pleased with himself. Pleased with events.

It was another roll-up and twenty minutes before he got up, went outside to the dense patch of weeds and peed into them.

It had begun to drizzle a little.

He looked round but the cloud cover was too heavy for him to see anything. Even the movement of shadow on shadow over by the old lean-to.

He went back inside, latched the door, half undressed, into his long johns, jumper, socks. Got into his nest of bedding and old coats, turned on his side and pulled them up almost over his head.

Slept.

Fifteen minutes later, the darkness, silence and stillness were disturbed by a single figure, moving swiftly. A small flicker. A flare. A carefully aimed lob. The flaming ball of material hit the wooden shack roof, swift as a falling star. Seconds later, the whole place was an inferno. The shadows were broken again for a split second as someone ran, along the towpath, under the bridge, across the waste ground and away.

n.o.bby Parks's shack blazed like a tinderbox throwing flames high into the night sky.

Stupid. Stupid. f.u.c.king stupid. You never do that. You know it and you always knew it. You plan, you work it out, for weeks, months maybe, and that's part of the whole thing. Part of the pleasure. You never let a single thing happen without a plan and you have backups to your plan, and you have an abort to your plan.

Bad enough having one f.u.c.k-up. You could have waited. You weren't sure she'd seen you, but you panicked. You never, ever panicked before. The reason it went wrong before was down to bad luck. Simple. Not you making a mistake, not the cops being clever. Bad luck.

But now?

This is not what you do. Not part of the game at all. s.h.i.+t, what kind of a bloke would torch an old dosser's shack with him in it, out of panic?

He didn't deserve that. Even if he had seen something. Heard something. Knew something.

Yes, but if he had. If he did.

You can't take that chance.

And how else was I supposed to shut him up? Tell me that.

Fifty-three.

'WHAT ARE WE reading this time? I'm so behind.'

'The Great Gatsby.'

'Yes, I remember now. I read it donkey's years ago, but I haven't had a chance to read it again. I'd better not come.'

'Judith! You missed last time. It's in the bookshop tonight as well. Emma gets agitated if people miss. She's having a tough time keeping an independent bookshop open . . . come on. You can just listen and if you start now you can get a couple of chapters under your belt.'

I have got to get to the bottom of this, Cat thought, putting the phone down. Something is wrong, I have no idea what, but Judith is not herself and she won't talk to me.

Her stepmother had made one excuse after another for not coming to the book group, to Sam's matches, Hannah's play, lunch with Cat at Steeleye's. Enough.

She sat at the kitchen table reading the paper over her coffee, a fifteen-minute break before going back to her desk and working through more papers, trying to firm up some of her ideas for the PhD. She had taken Wookie for a long walk and the house was quiet apart from the distant churning of the was.h.i.+ng machine.

But she could not get Judith out of her mind, and if it was not Judith, Sam and Hannah probed their way in. Simon had told her briefly about his conversation with Sam and indicated that he thought things would now improve. Certainly Sam was behaving better, was less inclined to sneer at Hannah, grunt at Cat and slouch off to his room rather than give any help. Hannah was still wary, and tried not to be on her own in a room with him.

It was not the ideal setting in which family life could thrive.

But Molly had emailed a couple of days before to say that she was coming down to see the medical school about taking her finals or possibly repeating her last year altogether. She asked if she could stay a night or two at the farmhouse.

Cat was delighted. Molly sounded steadier and more optimistic in her email. If she had made enough improvement, there was no doubt in Cat's mind that she ought to finish her qualifications and it would be good to have her about the house again. But she knew how careful the med school would be. PTSD did not vanish in a hurry. They had to be sure that Molly could cope, for their sake but most of all for her own.

Wookie pattered after her into the study and turned round and round on his bed, which was in a patch of winter sunlight, before finally settling into a satisfactory nest and looking at Cat with one eye. After a moment, sensing in some way that he was there, Mephisto strolled through the door and climbed in beside the terrier. There was barely room and the cat overlapped the bed with his huge fluffy tail and forepaws, but his head rested on Wookie, without any protest from the dog. Both slept.

Silke came at half past six. At ten to seven, Cat phoned Judith.

'Are you ready? We can both park outside Si's and walk through if you like.'

There was a pause. 'Darling, I can't my car seems to have something wrong with it.'

'What sort of thing?'

'Making a sort of grinding noise. I don't want to risk being stranded.'

'Use Dad's.'

'Heavens, you know what he's like about anyone else driving his precious car. No, I'll '

'Right.' Cat said. She clicked off.

Twenty minutes later she was driving up to Hallam House. She waited a moment.

The lights were on in the back rooms and one on the upstairs landing but the kitchen was in darkness.

She did not get out of her car, just hooted loudly. Nothing. Hooted again.

A light went on in the hall but no one came to the door.

Cat rang Judith on the mobile.

'h.e.l.lo? Oh . . .'

'I'm outside,' Cat said. 'Waiting.'

'Oh Lord, you shouldn't . . . you're going to have to go on without me, I can't '

'I am staying put here until you come out, wearing your coat and carrying your copy of The Great Gatsby.'

She sat back and put on the radio, to hear the beginning of Front Row. They were into the third item, about an Eric Ravilious exhibition, before Judith came out of the front door. She had on her coat, carried her bag, and had a scarf pulled up round her neck and covering her chin.

'Dentist . . . root ca.n.a.l. I daren't let the cold air onto it.'

The air was much milder after the weeks of sub-zero. Cat looked at Judith carefully for a moment, then set off. They talked about her PhD on the way, the options, the areas of particular interest she had narrowed down to, how long it was going to take her and what it might lead to at the end of it all.

'You're looking forward to it, aren't you?'

'Yes. Nervous though. A PhD is a big step from a short course. What happened to your thoughts on doing an Open University degree by the way?'

'That's all they are. Thoughts. I don't think I could do it.'

'Why not? People of ninety do degrees.'

'Nothing to do with age. Just commitment. And your father isn't keen.'

'Now that doesn't sound like you.'

There was a difficult silence. Cat had deliberately arrived early for just this eventuality. They were in the centre of town now, but she pulled up in an empty side street and switched off the engine.

Judith looked out of the window.

'If you want to talk and not go to the book group you know that's absolutely fine. We can go and get something to eat or '

'No.'

'I'm concerned. You know I am.'

'It's all fine, darling. We'd better get a move on.'

There were ten members of the book group but they rarely had a full house. Tonight, eight sat round the front of Emma's bookshop. The idea was that although the Lanes were quiet at night, people still went through, and the bar on the corner and the bra.s.serie were open until eleven, so lights on and a group sitting talking in the shop full of books attracted attention.