Last Gasp (21 page)

Carver shook his head. He couldn’t blame The Duke for being
sceptical.

'It was dark John. Once I gave the abort there were a lot of
people running about. You’ve been there. You know how it is.'

It was The Duke’s turn to nod. 'But the way it went down, it
sounds almost like he knew you were coming before you did.'

'That’s the bit I don’t understand. It was almost like he
was monitoring us, rather than the other way round.'

'Any theories?'

'None that make any sense.'

For several minutes they considered the ‘what-ifs’ and
‘maybes’. It led nowhere. The Duke changed tack.

'So Gary was right after all.' He sounded almost
disappointed.

'Looks that way.'

'You’ve still got doubts?'

Carver hesitated, knowing how it would sound. 'There’re
things I can’t put together yet.' He told The Duke of his concerns.

'Maybe things won’t fall into place until he’s caught,' The
Duke offered.

'Maybe.'

Carver lapsed into silence, deciding. The idea had come
during the night but until his spat with Shepherd, he hadn’t been sure. He was
now. He pitched it.

'Look John, everything’s going to focus on Cosworth now.'

'So?'

'So why don’t I take the Holland end of things? We need to
find the Mertens girl, the one in Cosworth’s photos. Whatever she says is going
to be relevant, one way or another. Any trial judge will want to know we’ve
tried, at the very least.'

He waited, letting The Duke think on it. The girl’s story
could be an important link in the evidence chain. On the other hand, the
defence might seek to use her to confuse the jury. Either way they needed to
know. He saw The Duke’s eyes narrow.

'If we find Cosworth while you’re away, Gary would have to
take the lead. Even when you got back, it would stay with him.'

For the first time, Carver let his weariness show. 'It
doesn’t matter. I just want to know how it all fits. And now we know it’s
Cosworth, Gary will be like a fox down a hole, especially if I’m not around.
It’s probably what’s needed.'

Carver could see that The Duke was in two minds. But he was
reluctant to go against his deputy.

'Okay. If that’s what you want.'

The Duke rose to leave, just as a knock came on the door. It
opened and Alec poked his head around.

‘Something interesting,’ he said.

They beckoned him in.

He approached the desk. He was carrying his mobile and he placed
it down. It was showing a photograph. Carver and The Duke both leaned in to peer
at the picture of a flat, black object, similar to a mobile, but with a smaller
screen. Then they turned questioning looks back at the D.S.

‘When we were searching for Cosworth, I did the first floor
bedrooms.’

Carver nodded. Their first action after rescuing Megan, had
been to search the house, top to bottom. He’d half-expected they would find
Cosworth hiding in a cupboard or under a bed.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I saw this on a dresser in the middle spare bedroom, the
one directly beneath the attic we had planned to use. I wasn’t sure what it
was, so I snapped it.

‘And?’

‘I’ve just shown it to one of the surveillance team. He says
he thinks it’s a blocker.’

‘What sort of blocker?’ The Duke said.

‘One that stops wireless signals.’

Carver stared at him. For
several seconds he said nothing, letting the implications of Alec’s news
settle. ‘You’re right. That is interesting.’

Carver lay in bed, cursing himself.
It was two in the morning.

The evening had started well enough. Rosanna had baked some
sea bass, and looked ready to forget about the previous night and morning. But
she took the news about him going to Holland badly. He’d feared she would.

'Why you? Why can’t someone else go?'

His explanation - that the enquiry was sensitive and needed
someone senior - hadn’t sounded convincing, even to him. And though he thought
about telling her the truth - not just about Shepherd - he’d chickened out, not
sure how she would react.

So dinner had become a sullen, silent affair. She picked at
her fish, waiting for him to offer something that would explain his recent
behaviour. Why he’d stopped confiding in her. Where he was at night. Something
other than the obvious. For his part, he kept getting to the point of saying
something, then backed off. He wasn’t sure why. After dinner she drifted off
upstairs, leaving him staring into his wine.

Now, as his arm stretched out, confirming the emptiness next
to him, he admonished himself - again. Of course he’d
wanted
to tell her
everything. He wanted to be able to say that it was all in the past, that he
was over it. But somewhere deep down was the feeling, the fear that it
wasn’t
in the past. That he
wasn’t
over it. And as he dwelt on it, the
inevitable happened.

He tried to stop himself, but the draw was too strong.

Suddenly he was standing in the doorway to Megan Crane’s
Playroom, looking at her, bound to the post, helpless. And as the memory
flooded back, he screwed himself into a ball, and turned his face to the
pillow.

Carver arrived at Jess’s flat on the
Saturday morning just as Megan Crane was making ready to leave. It was the
first time he’d seen her since they’d nearly lost her. He hadn’t been avoiding,
it was just that he’d spent most of the past two days accounting for what
happened. It seemed everyone wanted to know how Chaperone had come so close to
disaster, how Cosworth had managed to get away. The Duke, the ACC, the Force’s
Solicitors, they all wanted to hear it first-hand, as well as demanding, a copy
of the file report he was trying to work on between phone calls, ‘ASAP.’

He still wasn’t sure why Megan had stayed another night on
top of the two she’d already spent at Jess’s. He knew she’d been back to The
Poplars a couple of times in the interim, but only to pick up clothes, it
seemed. The round-the-clock police guard on the Poplars had been organised and
ready since the afternoon after. Carver only learned Megan still wasn’t back
staying there when the team sent to watch over her rang to enquire when she would
be home. A phone call to Jess told him. ‘She’s still a little shaken. Another
night here and she’ll be fine.’

Carver was surprised. Okay, she’d been through a frightening
experience. But from what he’d come to know of Megan Crane, he wouldn’t expect
she would need three days to get over it.

There was a moment’s awkwardness when Jess left them alone
while she retired to her bedroom to take an, ‘urgent’, call on her mobile. Jess
had told him several times that Megan wasn’t blaming him. or anyone for what
happened. She’d even acknowledged to Jess that she was partially to blame for
not letting them use video. It wasn’t how Carver saw it.

He sought to cover his embarrassment be asking how she was.

'Much better now, thanks. Jess has been a great help. No
news yet I assume?'

He shook his head. 'Don’t worry. We’ll find him.'

'I’m not worried. Just curious.'

'You and me both.'

In the silence that followed, he thought about apologising,
but remembered his conversation with the woman from the Force Solicitor’s
Office. ‘I’d suggest you be careful about saying anything to her that may infer
acceptance of liability.’ Carver expected he would hear soon if she’d lodged a
complaint over the way he’d framed his response.

'There’s a team on your house,' he told her. 'I’ll let them
know you’re on your way back. Don’t worry, they won’t intrude any more than
necessary.'

She didn’t argue. 'Thanks Jamie.' Then surprised him again
by giving him a chaste hug as she left. As Jess walked her down to the front
door, he made the call, then waited for Jess to return. He’d seen her face when
she came out of the bedroom, and was concerned enough to ask if she was
alright.

Her response, 'A bit tired is all,' wasn’t convincing.

He probed. 'How’s Martin? When’s he due back?'

Her pained expression told him that, responsible for the
Cosworth debacle or not, his instincts were still working.

 'Want to talk about it?' He remembered Megan extended stay.
'Or have you already done that?'

With a sigh, she dropped into the couch before shaking her
head, answering another unspoken question. She gave him a long look, as if
debating whether to unburden herself. Then she gave a, what-the-hell, sort of
shrug.

'Martin rang me last night. He was due back this weekend but
said there’d been a problem and he was having to stay out another couple of
weeks.' Carver waited, saying nothing. 'He was ringing from his hotel room.' He
waited some more. 'I heard someone in the background.'

Oh-oh.

Her eyes glistened as she said, 'I heard him “shush” her.'

Carver said, ‘Oh dear,' then realised how inadequate it was.
He tried bolstering her by offering alternative explanations. But he knew he
was wasting his time, deceiving her in a way she didn’t deserve. 'I’m sorry,
Jess.'

She shook her head again. 'There were some things we were
going to have to sort out anyway when he got back. Now there’s only one.' She
turned to the kitchen. 'Coffee?'

He nodded.

When she returned she seemed brighter. He briefed her about
how he wanted her to play things during his absence. It was her turn to read
between the lines.

'You told me most of this the last time we spoke. Why are
you here when you’ve got a plane to catch?'

He gave her a long look, then told her about his spat with
Shepherd. Not all of it, but enough.

'You need to know, Jess. Just be careful of him. And I need
someone to watch my back while I’m away’.

What she did next took him by surprise. She pressed her hand
over his. 'You can rely on me.'

He looked up. She was staring at him. 'I know.'

For the next few seconds they communicated their
understanding of each other’s problems. In her case, Martin. In his, Rosanna,
Shepherd - and other things.

About to leave, he hesitated.

She saw it. 'What?’

If you feel like you need to talk to someone… about Martin,
and such.’

‘Yes?’

‘Rosanna’s on her own. I think you’d find her…
understanding.’

'Oh.’ She looked surprised. ‘Okay.’

Minutes later, driving away, Carver wondered if he’d just
made a big mistake.

The two doors were separated by a
strip of wall, two bricks wide. In the dim glow of the bare bulb overhead, the
flaking paintwork still showed traces of their original olive green. On a hook
set in the mortar between the bricks were two mortise keys. Old and rusted,
they bore plastic fobs, one yellow, one red. The yellow one bore a black, ‘L’,
the other, ‘R’.

Megan Crane was staring at the left-hand door as if she had
x-ray vision and were seeing through to the room beyond. Her jaw was working
from side-to-side, the red lips set in as thin a line as they were capable of
making. She had been like that for several minutes. Eventually, she reached up
and took the key with the yellow fob, inserted it in the lock and turned it.
The click of the mechanism echoed in the confined space. Grasping the knob, she
opened the door a fraction, held it there a second, then pushed it hard so it
flew open and banged against the dividing wall.

The room within was pitch black, the light from the bulb
barely penetrating. She felt a cool draught as the air from within mingled with
that outside. The stale smell carried on it contained a trace of something akin
to ammonia. She ignored it, used to it. Reaching round to her left, her fingers
groped over the rough surface until they found a square of smooth plastic. She
flicked the switch in its centre. A strip light hanging on chains in the middle
of the room flickered, buzzed and clicked, before flooding the room with a
cold, white light.

The walls were mainly bare brick now, though some areas
still showed the original reddy-brown brick-paint that had once covered them.
The room itself was simply furnished. In the far corner was a toilet, a sink
and, next to it, a plain wooden table. In the middle of the floor, was an iron
bed with a bare mattress. On it, a figure - a man - lay spread-eagled, wrists
and ankles shackled to the corners. A grey, wool blanket covered his torso down
to his knees. His head was sheathed in a leather hood. A cloth gag was stuffed
in his mouth, held in place by a leather strap. Some light must have penetrated
through because as Megan stepped forward, the man responded, pulling at his
shackles and grunting through his gag. The bed springs creaked, loudly.

Megan stood just inside the doorway for several seconds,
before approaching to stand looking down at him. Reaching out, she took hold of
the blanket and, in one swift motion, flung it away. The man jerked, as if he
had been struck with a crop. It brought a half-smile to Megan’s lips. Bending
down, she undid the hood’s buckles and slipped it off.

The strip-light was directly above. He squinted in pain,
turning his head from side to side as he pulled at his shackles. Eventually,
slowly, as his eyes adjusted, his struggles calmed and he became still, though
breathing heavily, cheeks blowing in and out. He gazed up at her, still
squinting until eventually his eyes focused enough for him to realise who -
what - he was seeing. He froze, and stopped struggling.

Through all this Megan Cane stood, still and silent. After a
further minute’s silence, she lowered herself to sit next to him on the bed.
Reaching over, she brushed a stray lock of hair back off his forehead, the way
a mother might tend a sick child. And in a voice that was similarly soothing,
she said, ‘Now then William Cosworth, you and I have a lot to talk about.’

Carver was snaking his way towards
Schiphol Airport’s passport control when his mobile rang. Checking the screen,
he saw it was Jess.

‘I’ve just landed. What’s up?’

‘Alec’s just rung me. Thought you’d want to know. They’ve
found Cosworth’s last girlfriend, the one called Petra. He and Gary are with
her now. Apparently she’s saying some interesting things about her ex.’

‘About the murders?’

‘She’s not fingering him for them, yet. But she’s confirming
he’s big into SM and gets off on frightening women. He likes the rough stuff.
Used to slap her around a lot. She’s got a habit and only put up with it ‘cause
he kept her supplied.’

‘So why’d she leave?’

‘It’s not clear yet if she did, or whether he kicked her
out. Bit of both maybe.’

‘Okay. Let me know if she comes up with anything
interesting.’

‘She has mentioned one thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘It seems he’s obsessed with taking a particular photograph.
Something he calls, ‘The Perfect Picture’. She says she doesn’t know what it
is, but it’s definitely fetish. He keeps trying it on different models, but
reckons he hasn’t found the right one yet.’

‘Dead models or live ones?’

‘She’s not said.’

‘Hmm... Did he try it on her?’

‘No. She’s too skinny, apparently. Seems he likes curvy
women.’

Jesus Christ.
‘Well that would cover our victims, I
suppose?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.’ About to ring off, she
added, ‘And Jamie?’

‘What?’

‘Behave yourself. You know what they say about Amsterdam?’

‘What’s that?’

But she was gone.

He put his phone away just as he reached the control booths.
He looked for the line with mostly UK Passports and a minute later was nodded
through. On the other side he scouted around. Over by the exit from the baggage
area, under the ‘Nothing To Declare’ sign, a shaven-headed man in a dark suit was
waving. Carver headed over. As he neared, the man thrust out a hand which
Carver took. It felt like a vice. The man followed it up with an amiable hug.

‘Good to see you again, Jamie. Good flight?’

‘Not bad, Erik. Nice to see you to. Thanks for meeting me.’

‘Better than sitting round a couple of days while you try
and find your way out, I thought.’

‘As I remember, it was you went missing at Heathrow that
time.’

‘That was because of the shit way you English run your
airports. Here, we don’t have those problems.’

‘Right. Well let’s see how long it takes you to get us to a
decent bar. I need a drink.’

‘Don’t worry, our table is already booked.

Taking Carver’s carry-case, Erik Van-Tulp, Head of the Vice
Division of the
Politie Amsterdam
, marched them to the nearest exit onto
the Plaza. His car was right outside, parked on the yellow-hash markings. A
young woman in the bright green uniform of the Airport Police was making sure
it wasn’t about to be towed away. As they got in, Erik called to her in Dutch
and winked. Carver thought the smile she flashed back was more than a simple,
‘Thank you,’ from Erik would have warranted.

The Dutchman checked once over his shoulder, then swung out
to join the never-ending stream of traffic, ignoring the loud horn blast
behind. Carver settled back. The guidebooks put the city thirty minutes away by
car. Remembering Erik’s driving and disdain for parking restrictions, he
expected he would have a glass in his hand sooner than that. Over the next few
minutes the man Carver had first met on a European Crime Investigators’ Course
several years before took a series of calls on his mobile whilst also
concentrating on getting them out onto the A4 without hitting anything. Carver
used the time to reflect on Jess’s call. Something she’d said had resonated
with him, but he wasn’t sure what. He groped for it, running back over the
brief conversation. Then it came. Cosworth’s obsession.
‘The Perfect
Picture.’
Now where had he heard that phrase before? As he mused on it, his
thoughts returned to where they’d been as his plane had landed.

He had no idea how long he’d be away. He hoped it wouldn’t
be more than a couple of days. There was stuff he needed to sort out. His first
priority was Rosanna. When she’d dropped him off at the airport, he’d tried to
reassure her, telling her that things would be coming to an end soon, that once
he was back and Cosworth was in custody things would be as they had been. She
made out like she believed him, though he knew better. As he’d waited in the
departure lounge, staring into his Macallan, he’d made a decision. As soon as
work and her engagements allowed for it, he would take her away somewhere. They
needed to spend time together without the telephone ringing, without him having
to leap out of bed in the middle of the night to attend some bizarre murder
scene. ‘And fuck Shepherd to,’ he murmured as his thoughts turned to the man
who, next to Cosworth, was troubling him most.

As if Rosanna, Cosworth and Shepherd weren’t enough, he was
also starting to wonder about Jess. Nothing to do with her boyfriend problem.
He’d seen signs before that. A subtle change in attitude, small alterations in
her routines. It used to be she’d tell him her plans for what was left of the evening
as they finished work; ‘Meeting the girls.’ ‘Speaking to my mum.’ ‘Catching up
on Eastenders.’ She’d stopped doing that recently. It bothered him. An enquiry
like Kerry could suck you in before you know it, especially if you were new at
it. If anyone could testify to that, it was him. His concerns had crystallised
when he’d bumped into Megan at her flat. He hoped to God he was wrong, that it
wouldn’t happen to her the way it had him. He’d seen them growing close the
past few weeks. And Jess’s trouble was, she was so assured of herself she
wouldn’t even see the danger. What made it worse was the suspicion that he’d
actually seen signs weeks ago and ignored them. Maybe even encouraged it,
knowing they needed Megan Crane and that if one of them could get close it
would work in their favour. He hoped he hadn’t miscalculated. He was still
thinking on it when Erik finally put his phone away and turned to him.

‘So then, Jamie. Tell me all about this strange case you are
involved in. But first, I need to know. Are you and the beautiful Rosanna
still…? He cast a leery glance at Carver. ‘Or has she dumped you? In which case
I will need her address so I can show her what it is like to be with a real
man.’

Carver shook his head. Someone listening might have assumed
Erik was taking the piss, the way policemen do. He knew better. Erik was
married to a stunningly beautiful architect named Vanessa. She’d accompanied
Erik on his last trip to the UK. The four of them had gone out together for a
meal. The head cold that had been ruining Rosanna’s sleep for more than a week
gave them a genuine excuse to turn down the other couple’s invitation to return
to their hotel room, ‘for a nightcap.’ Carver had heard Erik speak of how he
and Vanessa had an ‘open’ marriage. Carver still sometimes wondered where the
‘nightcap’ might have led.

Without turning to look at the man he was hoping would help
him find the woman he was looking for, Carver said, ‘Piss off and just drive.’