Missing Letters

Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

David Carter

TrackerDog Media

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

30. Chapter Thirty

31. Chapter Thirty-One

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

33. Chapter Thirty-Three

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

40. Chapter Forty

41. Chapter Forty-One

42. Chapter Forty-Two

43. Chapter Forty-Three

44. Chapter Forty-Four

45. Chapter Forty-Five

46. Chapter Forty-Six

47. Chapter Forty-Seven

48. Chapter Forty-Eight

49. Chapter Forty-Nine

50. Chapter Fifty

51. Chapter Fifty-One

52. Chapter Fifty-Two

53. Chapter Fifty-Three

54. Chapter Fifty-Four

55. Chapter Fifty-Five

56. Chapter Fifty-Six

57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

60. Chapter Sixty

61. Chapter Sixty-One

62. Chapter Sixty-Two

63. Chapter Sixty-Three

64. Chapter Sixty-Four

65. Chapter Sixty-Five

66. Chapter Sixty-Six

67. Chapter Sixty-Seven

68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

69. Chapter Sixty-Nine

70. Chapter Seventy

71. Chapter Seventy-One

72. Chapter Seventy-Two

73. Chapter Seventy-Three

74. Chapter Seventy-Four

75. Chapter Seventy-Five

76. Chapter Seventy-Six

77. Chapter Seventy-Seven

78. Chapter Seventy-Eight

79. Chapter Seventy-Nine

80. Chapter Eighty

81. Chapter Eighty-One

82. Chapter Eighty-Two

83. Chapter Eighty-Three

84. Chapter Eighty-Four

85. Chapter Eighty-Five

Author's Notes

Afterword

Also by

Missing Letters

Featuring Inspector Walter Darriteau

© Copyright David Carter 2025

ISBN on paperback: 979-8282453850

Follow David on Twitter @TheBookBloke

www.davidcarterbooks.co.uk

The right of David Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

In Memoriam

Frank Moore

1915-1988.

Frank served in the Cheshire Regiment

throughout World War II

including being taken as a POW

at Tobruk, Libya.

Chapter one

Pamela Grayson glanced up at the big office clock. Coming up half-past seven in the evening and she was almost finished.

She stared round at the other desks, all vacant and cold, the technology off; surfaces spotless after the cleaners had done their thing. Everyone was in a hurry to get away. Friday night, and who wouldn’t want to paint the town red on a Friday after a stressful week? Let their hair down a little, not that Pam had much of it, hers being red and super-short.

Perhaps she was too conscientious. Gavin always told her that, until they had the blazing row that brought their six-month relationship crashing down. She missed him. Of course she did, especially the ferocious sex, but as her mother reminded her, there were plenty of men in the world. Just look around, darling. The damned place is full of them! Pamela had always been a looker in more ways than one.

She logged off her computer. Wrote a quick note for the boss on a piece of headed paper: The COLONIAL COFFEE COMPANY, maybe not a politically correct name, but it had been established for seventy years and no one was about to change it. She set the note on his desk: All figs up to date. Good luck with that, grabbed her bag, let herself out, locked up, and headed for the lift.

A minute later, she pushed the main door downstairs open and stepped out of Saint James Chambers, Castle Street, Liverpool 2, into bright summer light, and headed for the twenty-four-hour multi-storey. For one moment she considered dropping down into Cam’s basement wine bar but remembered the growing number of penalty points on her driving licence, and knew she must head home, a driving ban out of the question.

Home, twenty-eight miles south to her beloved apartment in Chester. She could do it in less than half an hour, providing the tunnels weren’t snarled up, scooting down the M53, sometimes at 85mph, wary of traffic cops, in her 1600cc Cerisa, all petrol and proud of it, for she couldn’t be doing with running out of electricity, limping into a charging site, only to find it packed and queueing, or worse still, out of order, as had happened to Gav on more than one occasion.

Her flat was on the ground floor, not the swishest block in the city, but not the worst either. Cuppin Street, Regiment House, near the racecourse, sold as being a desirable city-centre apartment and no one would disagree with that.

To one side of the building, ten allocated parking places, strictly one per flat, as she glanced at the gold-plated Festina watch Gav bought for her fortieth birthday. It kept cracking time, showing three minutes past eight. Not bad, not a record, but more than decent.

She stepped out of the car into a balmy July evening. It had been scorching all day, hence the short skirt and loose blouse. Who cared if unkind souls muttered she shouldn’t wear skimpy garb at her age? They could go to hell. She could see herself wearing miniskirts into her sixties or seventies, even be buried in one. Had any undertaker ever seen a dead woman in a coffin, smirking, wearing a tight black leather mini? It remained one of her many ambitions.

She laughed at the thought as she approached the main entrance, grabbed her keys from her purple bag, and a moment later, was inside, in the cool, turning right along a wide corridor, betraying the building to be a repurposed office block, boasting high ceilings and ultra-thick walls.

A second later, she turned her door key, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Chapter two

Pamela Grayson was not alone. She had an uninvited guest, skulking in the second bedroom, a room kitted out as part office and part junk room, where a man was going through her things.

It had been easier than expected, getting in, but he had been planning and preparing the home invasion for weeks.

At the rear, the flat featured a balcony on the ground floor, which seemed pointless, looking out over a compact stripy lawn. a double-glazed timber door giving access. A dinky jemmy forced the door with minimal effort, noise and damage, as the intruder gained entry to a sizeable sitting room, everything modern, neat, and in its place, the man relieved to hear no alarm mating-call bleating across the city.

Soon after, the grey man in grey T-shirt and grey leisure pants; heard the front door open and someone enter the flat. How dare they interrupt his business? A moment later, he heard someone in the kitchen, filling the kettle, switching it on, before going to the sitting room to fire up the decent flat screen TV, seeking news channels.

He stood still and awaited developments. Perhaps if she settled down in front of the TV with a tea and biscuit, he could creep down the hall and leave through the front door. But what if it was locked? He would have to search for a key.

A phone rang, an old-fashioned ringtone on a new-fashioned phone. The interruption could prove a good thing, or bad.

The grey man listened through the ajar door.

He heard the woman say, ‘Hi, Mike, I just got in.’

The home invader could not hear the reply zipping into Pam’s ear.

‘I didn’t want you to think we don’t appreciate your hard work. It isn’t everyone who would stay late.’

‘Not a problem.’

It was nice to be appreciated, and she wondered if it might be reflected in her pay packet.

‘Anything else, Mike?’

‘The accountants? The new bloke appointed to oversee the company restructuring.’

‘You mean the bald weed in glasses?’

‘That’s the fella. I don’t seem to have his number.’

‘Kevin, isn’t it? No, Keith… Keith Williams.’

‘That’s him. Would you have it?’

‘Not in my phone, but I think it is in my office, just a tick, and by the way, before I forget, I’ve heard stuff about Keith Williams.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘I know he comes across as an inoffensive nerd, but Danielle told me he wields a great deal of soft power.’

‘Soft power?’

‘Yes. Not to be underestimated, Mike. Danielle said he has a reputation for being ruthless, cost-cutting his speciality; removing anyone who gets in his way.’

Mike scoffed. ‘Really? Not sure I’d describe that as soft. No matter, he won’t remove me; I can assure you of that. I am not going anywhere. I’ll speak to Danielle on Monday, and thanks for the heads-up. The number?’

‘Oh yeah, just a sec, I’ll get it.’

She jumped up and headed towards her home office.

The grey man had visited the front door to find his worst fears. The door locked with no obvious key, as he crept back to the office in time to hear the end of the conversation. She was speaking on the move, coming his way. He positioned himself behind the half-open office door, hiding, tensed, and ready.

Her feet echoed on the timber hall floor, coming closer. No way out. She would see him. Be able to identify him, and he couldn’t tolerate that.

A moment later, she strolled into the room without a care in the world, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the small desk. The grey man didn’t delay. He took one large stride towards her to thrust his impressive bare-armed bicep around her neck, hard up against her chin, rendering her speechless. A flexing of the arm, squeezing hard, dragging her back until she was flat against his chest. A steady increase of pressure until damage was done, a snapped bone, the hyoid, the only bone in the human body not connected to any other.

Pam’s eyes rolled as she fought for breath that never came.

In the melee, her phone fell to the grey carpet.

She tried one last shout but expelled nothing but a primeval grunt.

‘Pam! Pamela? Are you okay?’ said Mike, straining to hear anything other than scuffling sounds.

The grey man glared down at the phone, holding the woman stock still like a lion suffocating a wildebeest. He stamped on the phone, crushing it, silencing it forever.

In his Southport home, Mike Davies, Colonial Coffee MD, stared at his mobile and called out again. No reply. He cut off and rang Pam’s number.

We cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message.

What the hell was happening? Mike turned away and went to the kitchen to speak to his wife.

In the flat, forty-seven miles south, the grey man frogmarched her to the bedroom. Inside, a double bed, huge padded headboard, beige silky throw, enormous mirror fixed on the far wall, black bedside lights, smart, sexy, warm and inviting, as he picked her up and threw her on the bed, face down. Jumped on top of her, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing registered.

She’d vacated the building and vacated the world. He unzipped the short skirt and dragged it off. The underwear followed, tossed on the skirt in an untidy heap on the floor before the mirror. He shook his head and took a breath. It hadn’t gone to plan. He’d have to make the best of it; as he always did. It was time to go.

Chapter three

In Walter Darriteau’s absence, (he was living it up in Hong Kong with the crazy Oriental woman, Marina Moo), Sergeant Karen Greenwood, and DC Darren Gibbons were working late, attempting to find the final piece of a jigsaw to put the Claude Mainstone case to bed.

The figures were colossal, running into millions, but Mainstone had always been a slippery character, wrapping himself in countless layers of red herrings and diversionary tactics.

Cheshire police had never been closer to nailing the man, though being close and flattening him were two different things. All they needed was the one damning piece of evidence to confirm his guilt in a Crown Court, but until it appeared, or they discovered it, they were as far away as ever. In all the time Karen had been a detective, there was little doubt the Claude Mainstone investigation was the most frustrating, and that frustration showed on their faces.

Her phone rang.

She adored phone calls, for she imagined it might bring the last piece into play.

A man said, ‘I wonder if you can help me.’

‘Tell me what you want and I will give you an answer.’

‘My name is Mike Davies, and a few minutes ago I was speaking to my chief bookkeeper. She lives in Chester. Pamela Grayson is her name.’

‘And?’

‘She was in mid-sentence, about to give me a phone number I’m after, when the conversation abruptly ended.’

‘Perhaps the connection failed.’

‘No, I could still hear stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘It’s hard to explain, sort of a grunt, or a wail, with ongoing scuffling sounds.’

‘You think she might have been attacked?’

‘I can’t get the thought out of my head. I live in Southport, a fair way off, or I would pop round myself.’

‘Did you ring back?’

‘I did. Usual thing. Your call cannot be taken, blah blah.’

‘Can you give me her number and address?’

Mike Davies recited the details.

Karen tried the number with the same result.

‘Okay, we were just about to finish, and it’s only five minutes away. We’ll call there on our way home.’

‘That would be great.’

‘Give me your number and address, Mr Davies.’

He coughed it up, and she wrote it down.

‘Either I or Pamela Grayson, will ring you later.’

‘Thanks for your help. What’s your name?’

Karen gave the details, and the call ended.

‘Trouble, Sarge?’ said Darren.

‘Maybe, maybe not. I need you to come with me on a short trip.’

Two minutes later, they left the station, bound for Regiment House.

Less than ten minutes elapsed before the unmarked Cheshire Police BMW 5 series pulled into Cuppin Street, Darren driving, Karen thinking about the phone call. A one-way street, parking spaces for residents on the right side, all full. No spare spaces, not an uncommon problem, as he bumped the car up on a double yellow-lined pavement.

A moment later, they were at the main entrance. It was locked. Most security conscious blocks had locking main doors. Karen thought of trying various buttons while hoping someone would come home or come out and open up, but changed her mind, saying, ‘Let’s try round the back. Mr Davies said it was ground floor,’ and they headed left to the small, crammed car park, as Darren speculated: ‘He seems well acquainted with her flat.’

‘Flat or woman?’

‘Maybe both.’

In the right corner of the parking area, a tall wrought iron pedestrian gate gave access to a small unexpected lawn at the rear. The gate wasn’t locked. They both thought the same thing. Why put sturdy locks on front doors, but damn all on the back?

He opened the gate with a greasy squeak, and they trudged round the corner, following the building to the right, scooting along a gravel path, their feet scrunching their progress, as they arrived at the first ground floor balcony.

A middle-aged couple looked up, busy relaxing, surprised by strangers, enjoying drinks and smoked salmon sandwiches while reading fat newspapers in the summer sunshine. Karen introduced herself, flashed ID, and told them she was looking for Flat 4.

The bloke pointed to the next balcony along, as his wife said, ‘We’ve only just come out. There is nothing wrong, is there? Pamela alright?’

‘I hope so,’ and they left them to their disturbed evening before they could fire more probing questions.

The balcony was part tubular steel, part glass, enclosing a small paved patio, with a diddy three-foot-high door on the near side. Darren opened it and went through, Karen close behind.

‘Gloves on,’ she said, and they gloved up.

The timber patio entrance door was shut but bore marks of a break-in or attempted attack, a small piece of broken varnished timber lying on the patio slabs.

Karen knew better than to touch it, and said, ‘I don’t like that.’

‘Me neither,’ as Darren grabbed the edge of the door with his nails to ease it open.

Unusually, the door opened outwards. It came open with no resistance, and a moment later they were inside, taking in a spacious modern and tidy room, the TV off with no sign of struggle or strife.

Karen shouted, ‘Pamela? Pamela Grayson, it’s the police. Are you okay?’

They didn’t expect a reply and didn’t get one, as they exchanged a look and went into the kitchen. All tidy there too, no dirty dishes in the sink, no open wine bottle standing ready, the cooker cold and clean and hadn’t been used in a while, with zero fresh aromas of tasty evening meals being prepared. Karen thought nothing had been cooked or eaten since breakfast. She went to the black kettle. Warm, and that changed everything, as she nodded at Darren. Either Pamela had come home to put the kettle on, or someone else helped themselves to a brew.

They went looking for the bedrooms.

At the first one, the door was closed. Karen called out again before opening the door. No reply. She depressed the handle and eased it open.

‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘stay there, don’t come in,’ as she hastened to the half-naked woman on the bed, lying face down, to check for a pulse.

Darren stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, snapping pics on his mobile before a team of eager people visited and changed everything.

She glanced back at him and shook her head.

‘Shit!’ he said. ‘What’s happened here?’

‘Theft, maybe?’ said Karen, producing her phone.

‘Or an opportunistic rape?’

‘Could be. All options are open. The doc will rule on that. Poor girl. Who would do such a thing?’

They both knew there were thousands of people out there capable of raping and killing.

Mrs Joan West answered after three rings.

‘What’s up, Karen?’ speaking while chewing chicken breast. ‘Don’t tell me. You found the piece of killer evidence to nail Claude Mainstone?’

‘Not quite, ma’am,’ and she told her what they had found.

Mrs West swore, something of a rarity, and said, ‘Oh, my Lord. You’ve ordered others to join you?’

‘Not yet, do that in a sec, thought you’d better know first.’

‘Good thinking.’

Chief Superintendent Joan West thought about it. With any other sergeant, she would have been there like a shot, but Karen Greenwood was no ordinary officer, and long overdue a promotion. ‘You want me to come down?’

‘Not necessary. I can handle it, ma’am, so long as you stay available.’

‘We are not going anywhere. I’ll be here. Get onto the doc, forensics, the usual mob, and keep me updated.’

Karen said she would, as Mrs West asked how they had discovered the tragic situation.

‘Mike Davies, her boss, rang. Said their phone conversation was interrupted.’

‘Mmm, maybe he’s covering his tracks or muddying the waters. He’s the first place to look. Know where he lives?’

‘Southport, ma’am. I’m thinking of visiting as soon as we have finished here.’

‘Not a bad idea. You might pick up a lead, and if nothing else, it could reveal some background information. That should keep us going until forensics do their stuff and tell us who we are looking for. First thoughts, it screams of office romance, mistress business going horribly wrong.’

‘Could be. Anything is possible. Leave it with me,’ and the call ended, an irritating interruption to put Mrs West off what remained of her dinner.

Karen told Darren to ring Martin Kane and get him on site. After that, look for keys and phones, and tell Martin to glove up before he gets here. I’ll ring the doc and Jo-Tap, and once they are on site, we are Southport bound.

‘Fair enough. I haven’t been there in ages.’

‘It’s not a holiday day out, Darren.’

‘I know,’ he said, returning to the kitchen, firing up his phone, his mind skating ahead into improbable scenarios to explain what had happened.

Chapter four

The Cathay Pacific Airbus 350-1000 arrived at Hong Kong International at twenty-five to eight in the morning, twenty minutes early, pushed on by the Jet Stream. Wings built in Chester, carrying them halfway round the globe, fourteen hours non-stop.

The young businesswoman on the inside by the window was in a hurry to disembark, and Walter and Marina stood out to enable her to get moving. She smiled at Walter. He smiled back and helped her with her bag, and she was away.

Following an earlier light meal, they enjoyed a second sleep and were gearing up to go. Fifteen minutes later they were off, and another forty-five minutes spent clearing customs without a problem, pretty good, and so much for Mrs West’s warning the local authorities would be interested in him, for he had made no secret he was a British police detective.

The taxis came frequent and fast, and another fifteen minutes elapsed before they piled their things into the rear of a Toyota Avensis Estate.

‘Great Eastern ’Otel,’ Marina said in English, ‘Belcher Park,’ and the cab driver nodded and the car surged away.

Walter glanced at her and said, ‘You stayed there before?’

‘Yeah, two times, no three.’

He sat back and took in the scene. Bright blue sky, amazing buildings, vehicles flying every which way, cars, taxis, lorries, double-decker buses reminding him of London, and all driving on the left side of the road. How did that work, seeing as Big Boss China next door drove everywhere on the right? Some place there must be a swap-over flyover underpass to switch the traffic.

It made sense Hong Kong driving on the left, a relic of the colonial past, but he wondered how long it would remain. Though thinking about it, and the fast-flowing traffic system in a confined built-up space, it would be an expensive nightmare to change over.

Forty-five minutes later, the cab swept along Shing Sai Road and pulled into the high-rise Great Eastern Hotel. Marina paid the guy, plus a decent tip, and they stood out into a pleasant 24 degrees C, as Walter sniffed the wind to pick up the salty, oily aroma of the nearby harbour.

‘Come!’ she said, and she pulled her wheeled bag towards the main entrance, with Walter following, tugging a borrowed contraption from Karen, the damned thing developing a squeaky wheel.

Two hours after landing, they were waiting in the Great Eastern to check in. A small queue in front, quickly dealt with by smart, young, smiling faces, and in the next minute Walter and Marina were in the lift, rocketing up, seeking level fourteen, and room 420.

She swiped the card, and the door opened. Walter held it for her and she swept in, Walter following, dumping his bag outside the spacious bathroom on the right.

The room was big, cream and beige, with a huge bed pushed in against the right wall at a right-angle. A super-king, or even bigger, if such a thing existed, though he couldn’t help noticing it was the only bed in the place.

No matter, the view demanded he strode to the wide window to take in the breathtaking scene. He could see for miles, as sunshine bounced on the blue water, ferries and commercial craft coming and going, bigger vessels moored further out in the harbour.

‘Wow,’ he said, ‘some view.’

She joined him, stared out, and said, ‘Never tire of it. Best view in the world,’ and right there he could not argue.

He turned about and said, ‘Can’t help noticing there is only one bed.’

‘Ah,’ she said, staring at it as if she had only just noticed. ‘That bother you?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘We do what we did at home when I was a gel. Need ’nother throw, countergane, as you say.’

‘Counterpane,’ he said.

‘S’wot I said,’ and she went in search of one and he didn’t fancy her chances. Against the odds, she found one, folded up on the top shelf in one wardrobe.

A moment later, she dragged off the massive duvet, and set it to one side, unfolded the fresh counterpane, dropping it on the carpet, before rolling it into a ginormous sausage like a Cuban cigar.

She glanced at him, standing there, watching, and said, ‘You unpack your things while I fix bed.’

He was too engrossed in watching her.

She went to the four fat pillows and parted them, before dragging one end of the sausage onto the bed, sliding the end into the gap between the pillows until it rested against the high headboard. She patted the sausage into place as if it were a favourite pet, until it sat like a mini prison wall, dead straight down the centre of the bed, flopping over the end.

‘Our own 38th parallel,’ she said, a word she struggled to enunciate. ‘Like two Koreas. You north, nearside, I south, far side, and nothing ever cwoss the border. You get me?’

He nodded and said, ‘Sure.’

‘Good!’ she said. ‘Plenty room both sides. You not squashed. Happy now?’

‘Yeah, I am, so long as you are.’

‘I always happy. No point in being anything else. Unpack, while I ring HKPF. Find out when we see Mickey.’

The Hong Kong Police Force, no longer the Royal Hong Kong, for things had changed as the locals moved with the times. He went to his bag and unzipped, as Marina spoke to the central police switchboard, alternating speaking in Cantonese and English, demanding to know when she could see her husband, Mickey Moo.

Walter remained silent. He gathered the call didn’t go well, despite not understanding most of it. She banged the phone down and cursed under her breath, as Walter gave her a moment before saying, ‘How did you get on?’

‘Shit!’ she said, before adding, ‘four clock tomorrow afternoon, not a minute before,’ as she grabbed her bag, unzipped and unpacked.

He didn’t know what to say and left her to speak again.

‘You wanna go out?’

‘It would be a wasted opportunity if we didn’t.’

‘Okay. I freshen up and change, and then we go,’ and she grabbed fresh clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

Walter finished unpacking and took out his Canon PowerShot camera. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t expensive, but Walter liked it. Simple to use, producing a decent pic. He went to the window and gawped out again, before snapping pics left, right and centre. He’d bought a new memory card, capable of taking 250 shots, and right there, he imagined he could fill it.

Minutes later she came out, small red skirt, thin white blouse, brushed hair, fresh lipstick, nothing on her legs, other than a new pair of trainers. Good for walking, he imagined.

‘Use it!’ she ordered, pointing to the bathroom, and he was in no mood to argue.

He grabbed a clean shirt and toilet bag, went in, and pushed the door shut, to be met with a strong aroma of minty toothpaste. Decent idea. He repeated the exercise, rolled on underarm, dabbed a little aftershave, changed his shirt, and was ready to go.

She studied him, nodded approval, and said, ‘Come on, much to see.’

Chapter five

Karen and Darren sat in the car outside Regiment House, leaving Martin Kane, forensics, and the doc inside.

She took out her mobile and rang Mike Davies.

‘We need to come and see you in less than an hour. You about?’

‘Sure. How’s Pam?’

‘We’ll talk about that when we see you.’

The man wanted to hear more, but she shut him down, saying, ‘Give me your address again?’

‘Rookery Road,’ he said. ‘House called Holllinshead. Half way down on the right.’

She sensed he wanted to ask more questions, but said, ‘On our way!’ and cut off.

Ten minutes later, they joined the M53, a fast flowing six-lane highway taking them all the way to the northern of the two Mersey Tunnels.

It was still light as they popped out on the Liverpool side to join Scottie Road, heading north on the remaining eighteen miles to the house, a journey Darren would accomplish in thirty minutes.

Hollinshead, an impressive property, not the biggest or most expensive on the street, but big enough. Red brick to the ground floor, cream rendering to the first, an attached garage to the right, with decent sized grounds, maybe built in the twenties or thirties, with plenty of work done on it since. Few modern homes would come with so much ground, which made it all the more desirable. A high-range silver Lexus executive saloon sat on the drive. Not new, but not old either.

The last of the light was fading through high wispy clouds to the west as Darren and Karen hustled to the front door for Darren to ring the bell.

Mike came to the door, smiled at them, and ushered them into the wide hall.

‘This is my wife,’ he said, ‘Deirdre,’ her coiffeured blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, as she smiled at them and pointed through the house to a large sitting room at the rear. ‘We can’t wait to find out what the mystery is.’

Darren assessed them around fifty, fragrant, fit, flashing well-manicured teeth, moving gracefully via toned figures, a smart couple determined not to lose their looks and youthful energy. He could imagine them bounding round the nearby tennis courts with their pals, or skiing in season, and cycling anytime, and he hoped he would inhabit such a lifestyle with a similar woman when he doubled his age.

The visitors accepted the offered comfy chairs and sat down, as Mike said, ‘Please don’t keep us in suspense any longer. How is Pam?’

Darren looked at Karen as if he didn’t fancy it, and she was ready, bobbed her head, and said, ‘When we arrived at Pamela Grayson’s flat, we discovered the rear patio door had been forced.’

‘I knew it!’ said Mike. ‘Trouble!’

‘Go on,’ said Deirdre.

‘There is no easy way to say this, but in the main bedroom we found the body of a woman. She has not yet been formally identified, so we cannot say with certainty it is Pamela.’

‘Murdered, you think?’ asked Mike.

Darren said, ‘Looked like foul play; let’s leave it at that until we know more.’

Karen said, ‘Were you here all evening, Mr Davies?’

‘He was!’ snapped Deirdre, baulking at the prickly question.

‘Can you tell us about Pamela’s family and friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, that kind of thing?’

Mike answered. ‘Well, it was common knowledge she broke up with her bloke a while back. Gavin, I think his name was.’

‘Gavin, who?’ said Darren, taking notes.

Davies shook his head and said, ‘No idea.’

Karen asked, ‘What was her position in the business?’

‘Senior bookkeeper. She looks after most of the figures before the accountants get their grubby mitts on them.’

‘And she was working late?’

‘She was. I needed figures completing for the accountants on Monday.’

‘And you left her alone in the office?’

Deirdre stepped in.

‘That makes it sound like Mike is a terrible boss; and he is anything but.’

‘No,’ said Karen, ‘we are just trying to build up a picture of what was happening in the time leading up to the break-in at her flat.’

‘It’s true. I left her there. But she volunteered for the work, and we always look after our employees.’

There was a moment for thought before Darren said, ‘Relatives?’

‘I’m not sure she had many, or even any,’ said Mike. ‘Parents dead, I am fairly sure of that, and she was an only child; and with no kids, she could have been lonely.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Deirdre.

Karen said, ‘Have either of you been to the flat?’

‘Certainly not!’ said Mike, only to be corrected.

‘Yes, we have, darling,’ said Deirdre. ‘Don’t you remember? We were down in Chester one Saturday about a year ago to look at a painting. That picture over there,’ and she pointed across to a Lake District scene featuring an ancient stone bridge spanning a narrow gushing river.

‘Oh, yes, sorry that slipped my mind, and I remember now, Gavin was there that day.’

‘What was he like?’ asked Karen.

‘Big bloke,’ said Deirdre. ‘Strong, short, dark hair, blue eyes. I remember that.’

Mike said with a grin, ‘That almost sounds like you fancied him.’

‘I did not! Don’t be daft.’

Darren said, ‘Any idea what he did for a living, or where we might find him?’

They both shook heads and muttered they didn’t.

Karen said, ‘We will need someone to identify the body. Would you do that? It would be a great help.’

‘Not my favourite chore, but if it helps, I suppose I will,’ he said, glancing at Deirdre, as if for approval.

‘I’ll come with you, darling, even if I don’t go inside.’

He nodded and hoped they had finished, but Darren said, ‘The business? How is it doing?’

‘Good,’ said Mike, exchanging a cold look with his wife, before adding, ‘you know how it is. Things go in cycles, sometimes up, sometimes down. It’s a rare enterprise that only ever sees its graphs zooming upward.’

‘And things are down at the moment?’ said Karen, sensing tension between them, and the determination not to talk of negative things.

‘I can’t say this has been our best year.’

‘Hence the extra work for the bookkeeper for the finance people?’

He nodded, and Deirdre added, ‘They, the accountants, can be a pain in the you-know-what. It’s a cross all business owners have to bear.’

Karen said, ‘We will need to quiz the staff on Monday.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘It is. They might know more about Pamela’s personal life, not least who the mysterious Gavin is.’

Mike wobbled his head and said, ‘Okay. Do what you have to do.’

Darren said, ‘The body is in the morgue at Chester Hospital. When could you come down?’

‘We’ll come tomorrow,’ said Deirdre, ‘soon as poss, the least she deserves.’

‘Right,’ said Karen, standing up. ‘I think that is it for tonight. Thank you for your time and your help.’

Mike added, ‘We are only doing what anyone would do.’

They said goodnight, and three minutes later Darren drove away from Rookery Road.

It was finally dark, as they headed south down the A565, dual carriageway in places, single in others, heading for Liverpool and the tunnels, and Chester beyond.

‘Well?’ said Darren. ‘What did you make of that?’

‘On the face of it, everything seemed fine and rosy, but scratch the surface and I’m not so sure.’

‘Agreed. I would not be surprised if Mike visited Chester a great deal more than he should.’

‘Could be, and by himself.’

Darren grinned and said, ‘As the Guv always says, adultery is not a crime.’

‘No, but sometimes it’s a signpost to trouble and strife. More to the point, how is the coffee company doing? I’ll get Jenny on that straight away.’

‘They more or less admitted things were bad.’

‘True, but there’s bad, and there’s catastrophic. For example, could the house be on the line? Could their upper middle-class luxury lifestyle be at risk? If so, people backed into tight corners can do unpredictable and reckless things.’

‘Food for thought, sarge.’

‘It is, but we have shed no light on why Pam was killed.’

‘It could be a disturbed burglar losing his temper, strangling the woman, maybe after carrying out an opportunistic rape.’

‘We don’t know there has been a rape, though we soon will. I’ll ring Mrs West and update her. Saturday tomorrow, and anyone thinking they were getting the day off can think again.’

‘I’ve got a cricket match.’

‘Not any more, all hands on deck.’

Darren sighed and said, ‘So, who’s the prime suspect? The burglar cum potential rapist, or the missing Gavin?’

‘It could be the same person. It’s top priority to find Gavin, and get hold of the forensic report. That should point us in the right direction. If we can show he was in the flat tonight, we are half way there*.’

Chapter six

Marina Moo took Walter to nearby Belcher Park, bordering the picturesque harbour. She suggested he took her picture against the green backdrop, and Walter did as asked, discovering she was quite a poser.

Running from location to location, sitting on stone seats, grinning at the camera, turning serious and moody, pining for her arrested husband, as Walter played along, her hands up, hands and arms out, behind her back, pointing at the camera, in front of her eyes, grinning face, pouting expression, a stern look like a teenager, and before he knew it, he had taken forty pics. He’d have to watch it or he’d run out of ammo and might need to search for another memory card.

It wasn’t long before he was aiming back into the harbour, snapping the ferries and ships of all different sizes and nationalities. They walked towards the centre of the city, hugging the harbour side.

A working harbour, not just a tourist site. Lines of smaller lorries lined up next to the sea, perhaps waiting to be called forward, or ordered somewhere to collect another load. A couple of hours flew by, as she pointed out places of interest before the need for coffee and a snack arrived.

‘I take you somewhere tourists never go.’

‘I’m up for that,’ and they crossed the harbour-hugging highway and ventured further into the city.

The minutes and hours flew by, before jet lag kicked in, yawning began, and tired legs and aching heads persuaded them it was time to return to base for some rest.

Back in the room, they flopped on the bed and both were asleep within ten minutes. Three hours passed, and they were still sleeping, her dreaming of dead parents, and Mickey Moo, slipping into the room, discovering her sharing a bed with a fat foreigner, and Mick going crazy.

Walter’s dreams were more basic. Marina Moo, scaling the bed border, whispering in his ear, ‘Come on, Walter, you know you want to.’

‘No, we mustn’t. You’re married. What would Mickey think?’

A further hour slipped by before someone gripped Walter’s upper arm, speaking in local-man English, ‘Wake up! Wake up, Mr Darriteau. We need to speak.’

Was it part of the dream? He thought so, but the man pinched his bare arm so hard it produced an instant bruise, and true dreams don’t leave bruises. His eyes remained shut, travelling in the weird and brief state between sound sleep and waking, when the brain was confused, as it sorted mixed-up thoughts and events into sensible order. He sat up and scratched his head.

‘Come on, Mr Darriteau,’ said the nearest guy. ‘We have questions.’

His eyes opened to see four local police officers, all young, male, slim, fit, bright-eyed, and staring at him. They looked similar age and build, all in light blue shirts, navy trousers, wearing baseball type caps with a crest on the front. No obvious weapons on display, though that didn’t mean they didn’t carry, for at least two boasted bulges in a trouser pocket.

To Walter’s left side; the bed was empty, with no sign of Mrs Moo.

‘Get up and get dressed,’ ordered the head guy, a note of impatience entering his voice.

It was only then, Walter remembered he had stripped down to his underwear when flopping into bed.

‘And you are?’ he said, fixing the pincher with a quizzical eye.

‘In Hong Kong, we ask the questions. I won’t tell you again. Get up and get dressed, or we will take you away as you are.’

Away? Away where, though he didn’t say.

‘Where is Marina Moo?’

‘I told you; we ask the questions. Everything covered back at base.’

Walter eased from the bed, found his trousers and shirt, and headed for the bathroom.

‘Dress here!’

Walter looked at the slight guy and nodded.

Had they taken Marina away, or had she gone out? He guessed he would soon know.

Once dressed, two of them approached Walter, dragged his hands behind his back, and clipped on cuffs.

‘Come on! That’s not necessary.’

‘We decide what is necessary. Do you have any medication?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Good, we ready, off we go,’ and one guy opened the door as two more held his arms behind his back and in the next minute they were in the corridor, seeking elevators.

Three old locals loitered there with luggage. Maybe tourists from the mainland, imagined Walter. They looked at him as if he were a foreign devil serial killer, his half-smile ignored. The leading officer spoke, saying the law took preference on the upcoming lift. They nodded, used to taking second place in many things, and a minute later, four officers and Walter entered the lift. The doors swished shut, and fast falling began.

Outside the main entrance, a modern Mercedes Sprinter van waited, with another similar officer standing by. The van painted white top and bottom with a thick red horizontal stripe along the centre, with a single white word in English painted on the side: POLICE. Known locally as Jam Sandwiches, after the British who had introduced them decades before. The vehicle model might change, the brand and nickname never did.

The doors were opened. One restraining officer jumped in, dragging Walter after him, another followed, with the head man and the driver climbing in the front. In the next second, the vehicle started, and they headed off, back into town, heading for the Won Chai district, travelling in silence.

It didn’t take long, before the Merc made a right turn, other vehicles keeping well out of the way, heading for the interestingly named No 1 Arsenal Street, and a massive collection of four high-rise buildings, all part of the same complex making up the Hong Kong Police Force HQ.

The van went into the heart of the complex, to the rear of the third building, and seconds later, it stopped close to a wide glass double door. Walter had seen nothing like it. Total power concentrated in one place. The men jumped out, dragging Walter with them, and moments later, they approached the automatic doors, and he was inside and bundled across a stark foyer into another lift, zooming upwards, not stopping until the orange indicator showed 33.

The lift stopped, the doors opened, they turned right along a blue and cream corridor, opening the fifth room along on the right, and going in. A decent-sized space, maybe fourteen feet by fourteen. In the centre, a big plain metal-legged table fixed to the floor, small chairs, big protected barred window, looking out over an internal light-well. The handcuffs were removed, and Walter ordered to sit, his left wrist handcuffed to a table leg.

The men went to the door, didn’t speak, went outside, and locked up.

He stared round the room. Lots of technology fixed to the right wall, well out of reach. Video, audio, a large flat screen monitor to the right of that, and heaven knows what else, all top-of-the-range gear, wireless and modern, boasting prominent Japanese makers’ names.

On the opposite wall, a large rectangular two-way mirror, the kind of thing seen in law enforcement agencies across the world, where watchers monitor the prisoner, with no chance of Walter seeing anything happening on the far side.

He sat back in the chair, debating how long they would be, pondering where Mrs Moo was, and wondering what the hell they wanted? The minutes passed, five, ten, twenty of the damned things, and no one came. He was sleepy, it was warm, and he could easily fall asleep, but thought better of it. They might consider him disrespectful if they returned to find him snoring. The minutes rolled on.

Back in the hotel, his possessions were seized, including his camera and large and impressive watch. He imagined he could tell the time without it and guessed it was an hour since they dumped him. They had better return soon, for he needed the bathroom.

Chapter seven

If Karen imagined she would be handed the Pamela Grayson murder inquiry, she was set straight when Mrs West revealed Chief Inspector Alex Foggon would be leading.

A quiet Shropshire man, in Chester seven years without making much of an impression, his method of working was diametrically opposite to Walter’s. Where Walter wanted to see every crime scene and every witness for himself, even when that was not possible, Foggon was content to delegate, holding what he called all the strings close to his chest at HQ, where he could evaluate the information, before making quick decisions. There were more ways to skin a cat, a favourite slogan of his.

Priority number one was to identify the unknown and missing Gavin, and everyone must play their part. Priority number two was to research The Colonial Coffee Company, meaning Mike and Deirdre Davies, and Jenny was put on figures, with Martin Kane diving into their background.

It was the easier task, and one that produced interesting answers within an hour. The previous year, Colonial lost a whopping £333,000 on a massive turnover of just over five million, an enormous loss for any business, but one that could imperil a small to medium-sized company.

The two main shareholders were Mike and Deirdre Davies. He owned 75% of the company; she owned 15%, with the balance of 10% split between another five people, meaning Mike and Deirdre would have to finance all losses, and introduce additional capital to keep the business afloat. Existing hefty bank borrowing guaranteed by mortgaging the fancy house in Rookery Road, enough to bring copious sleepless nights to any sane person’s brain.

The Davies couple arrived in Chester to ID Pamela’s body, Mike confirming it was Pamela lying there, a dismissive look on her face. If he was upset about it, the morgue staff reported he didn’t show it. No tears, or a parting kiss for an ex-lover.

Foggon delegated Karen to visit Liverpool first thing Monday morning to interview the staff, and she wasted no time in grabbing Jenny to accompany her, as Darren and Kate went to the Regiment House flat, seeking clues on Gavin’s identity and whereabouts. The forensic people had finished and were back at the lab, working on numerous threads to push the inquiry forward.

There were two trains of thought on gathering evidence on falling-out partners, lovers, and splitting couples. The first, the rejected one, whichever that was, would keep every object, photograph, memory, and gift close to their breast, as treasured artefacts, perhaps in the hope they could contribute to bringing back the missing one, the other half of a twinned broken heart.

The second choice, the complete opposite. Every photo, memory, gift, left behind clothing, to be removed and annihilated, almost as an act of revenge. Love letters, emails, texts, all ordered to trash, as if that purging would pave the way for a fresh future, and a new and better partner to enter the spurned one’s life.

That appeared to be the case with Pamela Grayson, for they did not find a single item relating to Gavin Doe. Nothing. No photos, indeed, in a fat photograph album they found two pages ripped out and removed, and another four blank spaces where photos once paraded, all supporting the theory Pamela had done everything to rid herself of cold and cutting memories slithering through her sorrowful brain.

Could it be she went too far? Perhaps Gavin came round to find his photos removed and destroyed, his abandoned coat and trousers shredded with her sharp scissors and dumped in the rubbish. His precious gifts and jewellery missing, obvious by their absence, made worse when on the spur of the moment, she said she never valued them, handing everything to a local charity shop, where they might do more good than they had done for her.

It was as if she had set out to obliterate every sign, mark, or memory of the man, and she succeeded. Neither Darren nor Kate were surprised, for being rejected by a loved one was one of the worst things any human could suffer, other than death or physical attack. When they left the flat, they had satisfied themselves no memory or mark of the man, or any signpost to who or where he was, existed there.

On Monday morning, Karen and Jenny left Chester at twenty past eight, determined to get to Colonial as the staff were beginning their day, Karen eschewing tradition by driving, when usually the senior officer sat back as the junior drove, such was her love of cars.

They parked in an underground car park in Rumford Place, a short dead-end street going nowhere but below ground, and a moment later were back out in the morning sunlight, hustling past the closed down basement club on the left side, crossing Chapel Street, scooting by the Town Hall, over Dale Street, seeking Saint James Chambers, Castle Street.

They didn’t know what they expected, but four rooms on the third floor, with a small old-fashioned lift, was not it. They counted six people, including the Davies couple, phones ringing after the weekend, with Mike and Deirdre settled in the best room at the front, overlooking the wide city street.

The women officers went inside and sat down, declined offered coffee, disappointing the Davies pair, for they were always eager to impress visitors with their unique products.

Jenny started the ball rolling by quizzing them on figures.

They were expecting it, for Deirdre, who oversaw the accounts along with Pamela, answered the questions head-on. Yes, we made a mistake last year, and hold up our hands to that. Mike sold Brazilian coffee short just before the rains came, the heaviest storms witnessed in years. Perhaps another indicator of climate change, but it sent the market into a ferment, and coffee prices soared. No one wanted to be short of Brazilian coffee in a bull run, but that happened, and Mike got us out of it as best he could. We lost half a million pounds on that, and we won’t do it again. Sometimes commodity markets could be unforgiving. We mitigated losses by good trading elsewhere, but we had to let four good people go, and thanks to that prompt action, we are back on an even keel.

After thinking about Pamela and Gavin over the weekend, they had come up with nothing new on him or his whereabouts, and questioning of the other four began. The first three had little to add, other than to let slip they were looking for jobs elsewhere in case the worst came to the worst, for they knew the business was buckling, and despite the Davies’s reassurances, they had mortgages to pay, and couldn’t afford to be made redundant.

The last girl, Connie Kirkham, was different. A smiling chatterbox, who kept her ear to the ground and was always willing to talk about anything, especially to women police detectives. How she envied them in their exciting jobs, while she moved paper round desks all day, in between fielding angry calls from customers whose deliveries hadn’t arrived. Another failure because Colonial didn’t possess the stock, as she invented excuses, and yes, she admitted she sometimes told customers lies. If the Davies pair encouraged her fibs to buy precious time, Connie was too good-hearted or concerned for her own future to say.

‘Look!’ said Connie, ‘last year, everyone was under massive stress. It was little wonder we spent so many long lunch hours in the crazy Rumba Club. It’s amazing what a double gin and tonic can do, albeit only for a few hours.’

‘The Rumba Club?’ said Karen.

‘Yeah. Don’t you know about the Rumba?’

Karen and Jenny shared a look, and both shook heads as Karen said, ‘Not a thing. We don’t come this way often.’

Connie took a breath as if it were a long story, sat back in her seat, and began.

‘The Rumba Club was a short-lived whirlwind of a place that had people flocking from across the city, lunchtimes only, and it brought laffs and relaxation into so many people’s lives, some who desperately needed it, if only for a few months, and a few brief hours every day. I’m shocked you don’t know about it. It became famous, or infamous, covered in the scandal rags and on local TV.’

Jenny said, ‘Where is it?’

‘In Rumford Place, in a big basement.’

Karen said, ‘I think we passed it on the way here. Did you go there?’

‘We all went there, Pamela included, and it was the only time I ever met Gavin.’

‘You saw Gavin there?’ said Jenny.

‘Of course. She was so in love with him and adored showing him off. Everyone could see that, her hanging off his arm and every word. I had never seen her like that before, and I never saw her like it again.’

Karen said, ‘I think you’d better tell us all you know about Pam and Gav and the Rumba, and don’t miss anything out.’

‘Sure! If it helps. Here goes,’ and she slurped from a small bottle of water, grinned, and began again.

Chapter eight

In Hong Kong, high in police headquarters, the door was unlocked and opened, and three men entered the room to find Walter secured to the table, two in HKPF uniform, plus an older man smartly dressed in a decent suit, shirt, and tie, all three carrying iPads, the senior uniform with a black briefcase.

Before they spoke, Walter said, ‘I need the bathroom.’

A brief conversation in Chinese followed before he was uncuffed and the two uniformed guys took him out and along the corridor to the conveniences. Neither they nor Walter spoke when they were out, and a couple of minutes later, they were settled back in the room.

Walter wasn’t re-tethered to the table and viewed that as a positive.

Technology activated, video and audio rolled.

They were all seated, and the senior uniform began.

‘I am Joe Yee, Senior Inspector of Police in the Hong Kong Island National Security Department.’

Walter clocked the two pips and a bar on his shoulder.

‘Also in attendance is Sergeant Ray Lang,’ three tiny stripes on his shoulder, the same sergeant insignia in countless agencies across the world, ‘and Mr Fang, here to monitor proceedings,’ the besuited man.

Mr Fang nodded and Walter wondered who he was, and who he answered to. The leading uniform asked his first question.

‘Please state your full name and date of birth?’

‘Walter Darriteau,’ he had a middle name, it was a surprise, but wasn’t inclined to use it, as he rushed on to recite the numbers giving his date of birth.

‘Please tell us your reason for travelling to Hong Kong?’

Walter sat back, folded his arms, and launched into an answer, trying to keep it brief, hoping for an early discharge.

‘A friend of mine, Mrs Marina Moo, has a husband here, and he is in some kind of trouble, and she asked me to accompany her to check he was alright.’

Joe Yee said, ‘She’s not a friend. She’s your fuck buddy! An ageing Hong Kong whore. Let’s be open and honest about things. What do you think Mr Moo would make of it?’

‘She is not my girlfriend.’

‘The two of you were sharing a bed!’

‘Only because there was a mix-up on the rooms. We booked a twin.’

‘Untrue! Mrs Moo specifically booked one room with a single super-king bed.’

Walter thought about that and took a moment to reply.

‘Well, whatever. We are not lovers, that’s all I know, hence the border she made and placed down the centre of the bed.’

‘Have you any idea how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘It might sound ridiculous, but it is true.’

‘You have no authority here. Did you think you could come and interfere with the due process of Hong Kong law as if it were 1997?’

‘Certainly not. I had no intention of carrying out any inquiries. I haven’t spoken to a soul since being here, other than the taxi driver, and hotel and restaurant staff.’

‘Plenty of opportunities there to spread discord and lies, I’d have thought.’

‘Untrue, never happened,’ said Walter, reminding himself to stay calm and not allow them to drag him into non-existent confused situations.

‘Back in the UK, what is your job?’

‘I am an Inspector in The Cheshire Police.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I spend my time attempting to apprehend criminals.’

‘And now you are overseas, you have moved on to being a spy.’

Walter grinned and shook his head before saying, ‘No, certainly not. At home, we have just finished a big murder case, working extra long hours, you know what it’s like, and I needed a break, and I wanted a holiday. So, I am here to support Marina, and here to see the sights, relax and wind down.’

‘A good cover, I grant you, but we think you work for MI6, now known as SIS.’

‘No, I have never worked for MI6 or SIS.’

‘Tell us again, what is your business here?’

‘I told you. I am here to support Mrs Moo in her time of trouble. Bring her here and she will confirm it.’

‘She has said nothing of the sort.’

Walter didn’t reply.

Joe Yee, Senior Inspector of Police, bent down and opened the briefcase, took out a Canon camera, and set it on the table.

‘Is this yours?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘It is yours, and we will look at the pictures,’ and they all turned and glanced up at the big screen.

Countless photographs of a happy-looking Marina Moo larking around like a teenager in Belcher Park, before they reached photos of the harbour, and the countless craft criss-crossing the bay, ferries, cargo vessels, even the occasional traditional restored and highly prized junk.

‘You took these pictures?’

‘I did. All of them. When I get home, I will sort out the best ones and get them framed. Do you like them?’

The question went unanswered.

‘These photographs prove you are a spy. You came here under a silly pretence and while here, you took photographs of the latest PLAN ships, a vital part of the People’s Liberation Army Navy.’

Army navy seemed a strange combination of words, as Walter said, ‘I didn’t take any pictures of navy ships.’

‘Don’t be stupid! You think we not see? Look! Don’t treat us as fools. In the background, I magnify,’ and distant shadows of tiny ships were circled and enlarged, bringing them into focus, dragging them forward, before enlarging again, until they looked huge, the superstructure detail clear for all to see. ‘You photographed new PLAN ships, two frigates, and a destroyer. One, the latest Chinese design, bristling with modern technology. Will you admit that?’

‘I admit nothing. I didn’t even know they were there.’

‘Don’t be naïve!’

An interesting choice of word, the same word Mrs West used about him travelling to HK.

Yee spoke again.

‘Are you aware the Chinese PLAN navy is the biggest navy on earth?’

‘I was not. I thought the American was.’

‘Not any longer,’ said Yee, unable to hide a triumphant smile. ‘We believe you work for SIS, and you are part of AUKUS? Will you admit that?’

Walter knew what AUKUS was, a recent military alliance between Australia, the UK, and the US, to counter Chinese and maybe Russian expansion in the Pacific. It centred around providing Australia with nuclear-powered submarines, some built in Britain. It interested him, but he was not connected to it; and didn’t know anyone who was.

‘I am a detective working on domestic cases occurring only within the UK. I have never worked abroad, and never will. I am as far away from AUKUS as it is possible to be. If there were any navy ships in the distant background, that is coincidental. I didn’t see them. If they were present, I couldn’t know if they were Chinese at that distance. They could be from the navies of any country. American, even.’

Yee scoffed and said, ‘No American navy ships have visited Hong Kong since 2019! Not welcome here. You know this! Your defence is feeble, and you are not helping yourself.’

‘May I make a phone call?’

‘No, you may not.’

‘I would like you to contact the British Embassy and tell them I am being held here.’

‘What you would like and what you get are two different animals.’

‘What is it you want to know?’

‘The truth, and nothing but the truth.’

‘I have not told a single lie. I am a British police officer. I have made no attempt to hide it, and I am assuming, just like you, we are encouraged not to lie.’

‘We are not satisfied. Inquiries are ongoing. For now, you will be taken downstairs and placed in a cell, and while you are there, I respectfully suggest you think on your predicament. When you have done so, ring for me, but don’t waste my time with further lies. We are not to be taken for fools.’

Yee nodded at the second uniform. He made a call, and less than five minutes later, two guards arrived in the room to handcuff Walter, before taking him to the lifts without another word being spoken.

Two minutes passed, and they were back at ground level, but the lift kept on descending. Basement level 1, basement 2, basement 3, and basement 4, before the lift stopped. Few buildings had four basements to Walter’s knowledge, and who knew, there might have been more.

They escorted him out into a wide corridor and turned right. It was grey and colder down there, with an unusual smell, a mixture of oil, cheap takeaways, sweat, and fading memories of a recent paint job.

Along the corridor on each side were what looked like reinforced cell doors, all solid and closed, with no windows or bars, other than a rectangular observation opening at eye level, maybe a foot by eighteen inches. No sign-writing other than stark Arabic numerals.

All the apertures were closed. He couldn’t see in, and anyone inside could not see out. It was silent, no shouting, yelling, or talking, or obvious violence going on. Maybe the cells were empty, which seemed unlikely in the massive city, or perhaps any inhabitants knew better than to yell.

They stopped at Cell 21 on the right side. One guard opened up, and they all went in. The second guard pointed to a large, circular white button to the right of the door.

‘When you are ready to confess your sins, ring the buzzer.’

‘I haven’t committed any sins, leastways not recently, and never in Hong Kong.’

‘You have. You know it, and we know it.’

The handcuffs were removed and taken away, as Walter was ordered to the far end, as one guard said, ‘Shouting and yelling is not permitted. Every instance of bawling adds a month to whatever sentence you receive. It isn’t advisable. You will remain here until you have more to say,’ and in the next second, the guards left him alone, the door banged shut.

Walter went to it and listened, heard nothing, turned about and studied his temporary new home.

In the far-left corner was an open white lavatory, no seat on the porcelain, or any obvious paper. Two feet to the right of the bowl was a tiny sink with a single tap he discovered dispensed cold water. There were no towels and no soap.

They once provided small bars of pink aromatic soap, but desperate prisoners took to eating them, getting sick, hoping to be removed to the infirmary. One patient absconded and soap was banished for ever.

On the right wall was a built-in bench with a navy blue plastic fitted mattress, the same the world over. He went to it and sniffed, happy to find it clean and dry. The only other objects, a single neon light above, housed in reinforced casing, and the white buzzer.

Buried below the earth, there was no window, and a solitary door he could never open. He couldn’t be sure what time it was, and he was not looking forward to being plunged into darkness when the neon snapped off.

He wondered if he would be fed and watered, and when. There would come a time when he would ring the buzzer. Everyone did, but he would keep them waiting awhile, as he lay down and thought things through. Or maybe they would come for him, after fabricating further nonsense evidence to prove his heinous crimes.

Where was Mrs Moo? Could she be sharing a cell on the floor, even next door or opposite? Or was she released and free to see her husband? If he had to bet, he’d plump for her being close by, or perhaps females were held on a different level. That would make sense.

He lay down, closed his eyes, as time drifted slowly by. He estimated three hours elapsed, time enough to think about pressing the button, but the decision was made for him when the door was thrown open, and two different guards dragged him out.

Chapter nine

Karen and Jenny stared across the desk and nodded at the cheerful and chatty Connie Kirkham.

She took her cue and said, ‘The Rumba Club had always been a sleepy place where no one under forty ever went. Tell you the truth, I think the place was dying on its feet.’

‘What changed?’ said Karen.

‘Three old blokes owned it, all over sixty by the look of them, and I don’t know whether they had a heart-to-heart and someone asked what is it people want? Sex, came back the answer, I’m imagining, and they hooked up to the idea big time.’

‘They turned it into a knocking shop?’ asked Jenny.

‘Not quite, but well on the way.’

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

‘It was over the August Bank Holiday weekend. Signs went up saying closed for renovation, and when it opened, boy, it opened with a bang.’

Karen and Jenny shared a look and a smile, as Connie continued.

‘I reckon it was their last shot at making something of it before they retired and settled back into sleepy suburbia. We never went there back then, but stories about it flashed round the city like wildfire.’

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

‘Strippers! Well, not quite. Pole dancing girls. Yeah, I know it’s tacky and old hat, but I am talking about slap bang in the centre of the business district, in the middle of a business day. You get the picture, umpteen upper class business types, company owners, and that includes women. Somehow, the new performers, let’s call them that, appealed as much to the women as the blokes. They seemed to have a morbid fascination with them, a little like women getting a laugh out of drag queens, far more women there than men. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it was my birthday, September 10th, and someone suggested going to the Rumba for a few lunchtime drinks, to see what the fuss was about.’

‘And did you?’ said Jenny.

‘We did, and boy oh boy, the place was rammed. I mean packed to the rafters at just after noon. Unheard of. Men of all ages, from nineteen to ninety, and gangs of thirsty girls and women reminiscent of hen parties in Benidorm, all there for a damned good laugh, as the bar takings skyrocketed. I’ve never seen so many staff working behind the bar at that hour.’

‘Tell us about the dancers?’ said Karen.

Connie nodded and continued. ‘A small circular stage in the centre of the room, with three women in skimpy costumes cavorting around about a yard or two away from where others were sitting, trying to eat their basic meals. Honestly, the whole place was a throwback to an earlier time. The lunch menu was old hat. Cottage Pie, Ribs, and Burger and Chips and that was it. They didn’t even serve pizza. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Basic food, plenty of drink, thumping music, smiles on faces, and semi naked voluptuous women. If you were ever under the weather or depressed, an hour in the Rumba at lunch time could sort that. The atmosphere was amazing, perhaps because everyone had just stepped out of work, and knew they would have to go back in another hour, and everyone was determined to make the most of every minute.’

‘Did the men make passes at the dancers?’ asked Jenny.

‘What do you think? You know what men are like, especially after a few drinks, though the owners said it was against the rules. Personally, I didn’t see the attraction of seeing a fat backside dangling upside down, gyrating against a chrome pole while I was trying to eat burger and chips, but each to their own. Lots of others did.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, within days of opening, the place gained a huge following, and someone must have sold the story to the press. Even the local TV station showed up to film, closing in on some of the older men’s faces, gurning and grinning like imbeciles. God, there must have been some fractious conversations in suburban households when bored stay-at-home wives saw their aging husbands on TV, leering at women, acting like naughty teenagers, as if they had never seen a backside before.’

Karen said, ‘It sounds like something from a different age.’

‘You’re right. It was. I have thought about it since, and tried to figure out what the attraction was.’

‘And did you come up with any conclusions?’ asked Jenny.

‘No, not really. It was just a fleeting moment when everyone wanted to have fun at a time of day when fun was never there, and be seen to be having fun, and if it was out of place in business land, with everyone dressed in business gear, then bugger it, so be it. The packed place soon took on a smell of its own. I can tell you that.’

Jenny wasn’t sure whether to ask the question, but did.

‘What kind of smell?’

‘Stale beer, spilt cheap Spanish wine, sweat, and other things I wouldn’t care to imagine.’

Karen said, ‘Did Pamela Grayson go?’

‘She did, with her buzz-cut hair, strawberry blonde back then, and I am not proud to say, we drank more than was good for us, all downed in less than an hour, and I am sure Mike and Deirdre must have noticed. I reckon they laughed it off as some kind of letting our hair down, not surprising in stressful times. Honestly, we knew the business was sinking, or might go bust any day, and we didn’t know if we’d have a job the following week.’

Karen said, ‘It reminds me of the band playing as the Titanic went down.’

‘You’re dead right. Someone else said the same thing.’

‘So, why did the place close?’ asked Jenny.

‘Ah, that is a sorry tale,’ and Connie shook her head. ‘Several of the big local employers who will remain nameless, grew to dislike their staff coming back inebriated, loudmouthed and lairy. A few of them banned staff from going, though that was borderline illegal. But a local solicitor issued the proverbial straw that broke the Rumba’s back. He was rumoured to be acting for several local employers, instructed to look into the background of the place, and he discovered the owners did not have the relevant licences to operate the place. Bob’s your uncle, the local authorities were informed, a closure notice served, and a few days later, when people went down there for a bawdy rowdy lunchtime session, they found it shuttered and barred with a simple letter taped on the door: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.’

‘And Gavin? Did he ever show his face?’ asked Karen.

‘He did. Just the once, on my birthday.’

‘Describe him?’ said Jenny.

‘In a word, a hunk. Tall, dark, neat short hair, blue eyes. Put it this way, I would have done, and I reckon 95% of the women in the place would have done too, given the chance.’

‘How long before Pamela and Gavin broke up?’ asked Karen.

‘A few weeks. Not long.’

Jenny said, ‘Do you know why?’

‘Yeah. She came in and I could tell she was real upset about something the moment I saw her. She said he’d been horrible to her.’

‘What did he say?’

Connie sighed, before adding, ‘It was about her hair, of all things.’

‘What about it?’ said Jenny.

‘She fancied a change. Strawberry blonde out, and in came the bright red look. I mean, it wasn’t ginger, but bright red, like a cherry. I don’t know what went on, or what was said, but I do know women don’t like their hair being criticised, especially a new style or colour.’

Everyone could agree with that.

‘When he first saw it, he said: I hate your hair. Just like that. Actually used the word “hate”. She was so upset, furious, I think is the word, and she said she didn’t give a flying eff-word what he thought about it, and he wasn’t a guy to back down from any argument, and it just exploded from there. She stormed off in one direction, he in the other, and both seethed about it at home for almost a week, each thinking the other would call, but neither did. He wouldn’t find it hard to land another partner, but she did. She was heart-broken, and told me two weeks later she gathered his things in the flat, including an expensive electric shaver, and the presents he gave her, plus bits and bobs of clothing, and anything that stirred memories, and she threw everything in a black bin bag, and one night ambled down to the Grosvenor Bridge and tossed the bag off at midnight. She told me she watched it sink below the surface, never to be seen again.’

Karen said, ‘Think carefully before you answer. Do you think Gavin, whatever his name is, could have killed Pamela?’

‘I don’t know. I have thought about it a bit. On the spur of the moment in the heat of a furious argument, I guess he could have done. He was big enough and powerful enough to do the deed, that’s for sure, but to look at him and be with him, he never gave the impression he was violent. He came across as gentle and mild-mannered, the perfect man, and she said he never hit her or mistreated her. Rough sex, yes, she loved all that. They both did, but never anything more, or so I believed. She was real happy most of the time, and loved him to bits, and I believe he loved her, which made it all the more peculiar it crashed down as it did.’

‘Someone killed her,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes, they did.’

‘And no one knew what he did for a living?’ said Karen.

‘What do you mean?’

‘No one seems to know what he did for a living.’

‘First I’ve heard of it; I knew.’

Karen and Jenny exchanged an excited look before Karen issued the question.

‘Well? What was his job?’

‘He worked in the salt mines. I thought everyone knew that.’

Chapter ten

In Hong Kong, the same three men in the same interview room were waiting to interrogate Walter. It didn’t stop them insisting he was manacled to the table.

Recording technology activated, and questioning resumed, as the senior uniform kicked things off.

‘Have you anything you wish to say?’

‘Yes, I am an innocent man, and I insist I am allowed a phone call to the British Embassy.’

‘No, and no. You answer our questions and you might get dinner. Fail to answer, and you go hungry.’

Walter sat back and went to fold his arms, forgetting for a second he could not. They thought it amusing, sharing a sly grin.

‘You are a spy gathering intelligence on Chinese warships. We already have adequate proof. It is on your camera; your fingerprints all over it, photographs you admit you took.’

‘They are tourist snaps.’

‘They are not! This is espionage! Look!’ he said, pointing to the big screen.

Another shot of a warship appeared, the ship looking sinister and hostile, close enough to make out sailors on the bridge.

‘This is a new ship! You came here for this! You cannot deny. It is on your camera.’

‘You are manipulating circumstances to suit your agenda.’

Yee sat back and scoffed at the effrontery, shared a look with the civvy guy, Mr Fang, and scowled before saying, ‘We have more proof of your guilt.’

Walter shook his head and tried a grin. ‘What kind of proof? Show me!’

‘Phone calls made by you.’

‘I haven’t made a single phone call since I arrived in Hong Kong.’

‘Not in Hong Kong. Phone calls you made in Chester.’

Walter thought about that before saying in a slow drawl, ‘You have been bugging my phones at home?’

Yee couldn’t resist a triumphant look slithering across his face before he said, ‘The MSS is the best security organisation in the world. I thought you would have known that.’

Walter knew the Chinese Ministry of State Security to be a well-funded and efficient security agency. Common belief was it resembled a cross between the FBI and CIA, with a free hand to operate across borders anywhere in the world, to do anything for the good of Greater China. He studied such agencies, always had, not because it was a work matter, but because since he was a boy they fascinated him. The good thing was, the revelation enabled him to attack.

‘If you are telling me you have bugged my phones in England, hacking into Cheshire Police’s phone network, you have committed a serious breach of international law, and those who carried it out will be tracked down, extradited, and punished.’

Yee laughed and said, ‘You are in no position to make meaningless threats.’

Walter hadn’t finished.

‘Furthermore, if you organised and allowed this illegal spying, international warrants for your personal arrest could and will be issued, whether I am held in custody or not.’

‘You don’t scare us. It is you who are in the wrong, not our officers carrying out operations across the globe, to ensure China remains safe. Play the first call!’

Uniform number two, Ray Lang, set the technology moving via an instruction from his tablet, the volume turned up for maximum effect.

Walter’s unmistakable voice filled the room.

It seemed surreal, his voice saying, ‘Do you think I should take my camera?’

Mrs Moo replied, ‘Is it a good one?’

‘Yes, it is getting a little old, but takes great pictures, and has a zoom-in function.’

‘You take camera. You take many pictures. I good model. You take lots of pic of me. I print out. Give photo to Mickey Moo. He like that.’

‘Not just photos of you, Marina.’

‘No, course not. I know you go there to take the views. Your special shots. You have your ways. Fill the camera, fill your album. You not be disappointed.’

Yee sat back as if he had proved his case.

Walter’s brain ran into overdrive. It had to be Chin! The little man in the Blue Lantern, sometimes the maitre’d. He was their agent, recording Marina’s conversations. Walter never liked him and was not surprised.

‘What does that prove? Nothing at all.’

The man in civvies hadn’t spoken much, a man Walter imagined an MSS operative, said, ‘She says to you, she knows you are going there to take your special shots. You have your ways. Proof if proof be needed. Hidden within so-called innocent tourist pics, with lots of the whore larking in the park, but sleeping within, hiding in plain sight, secret spying pictures, taken by you, of sensitive military targets, passed to MI6 and on to CIA. We are not stupid and we are not fools. We know you British, because over many years, we learn the hard way. Yankee lapdog, you their streetwalker. You give them everything in the hope they send something back, but they are not stupid, and you get nothing.’

‘I am sure if the Americans wanted to take pictures of Chinese ships, they could point a camera out of the American Embassy window on the top floor with a high-powered lens and click away, and far better photographs than I could ever take.’

It was a fair point, and for a moment seemed to set them back, and as they remained silent, Walter jumped into the void.

‘And by the way, Marina Moo is not a whore.’

The three of them shared a look, and one let go a curt, disdainful laugh.

‘You not think?’ said Yee. ‘Play the next call!’

A fresh voice appeared among them, coming in after Mrs Moo’s seductive tones.

She said, ‘What time are you coming?’

An Englishman answered, ‘I am just finishing up here. I’ll be with you just after eleven.’

Walter had never heard the voice before, but believed the speaker to be the late philandering Barnabus Reynolds.

‘I am going to give you a night to remember.’

She giggled and said, ‘Hope so.’

The officers listened intently, the second uniform, throat dry and mouth wide open, as Barney went into great detail about what he intended doing. Crude wasn’t the word for it, and Walter would admit it made uncomfortable listening.

When the conversation paused, the civvy guy bawled, ‘You still think Marina Moo is not a whore?’

Walter said, ‘All said in playful fun, adult humour between consenting adults. I’d wager you have done the same thing.’

‘No, never! Not like that! You wrong. Disgusting! Play more.’

There wasn’t much more, just Barney saying, ‘I’ll bring the straps,’ and the call ended.

‘All very interesting,’ said Walter. ‘You have proved beyond doubt you can intercept private phone calls on the other side of the planet, calls that have damn all to do with spying and espionage. If you have nothing better, I insist I am granted a lawyer to speak to our embassy.’

Yee said, ‘That will not happen until we are satisfied. In a moment, you will be returned to your cell for the night. In the morning, you will have one last chance to come clean, as you say, to set the record straight, to confess your crimes, and if you do not, you will be charged with spying. You may be interested to know a typical sentence for such breaches of the law is thirty years in prison. In your case, that would mean you dying in custody. You have a great deal to think about because your future depends on it.’

Walter brushed it off and kept his cool, as Yee ordered him unmanacled and taken away.

An hour after being dumped back in the silent cell, the door window opened, a bowl of food and a bottle of water passed through in silence, before the aperture was banged shut.

Walter grabbed the meal and sat on the bench. It looked okay and smelt good, and he was ravenous, but basic would have best described it.

Lots of noodles with occasional pieces of barely cooked spring onion, red and green peppers, and it was piping hot, though his kind hosts had not provided anything to eat with. He set it to one side for a minute to cool, as he sipped the water, thinking of Marina Moo, and where she was. Could she be under interrogation too?

The light snapped off; the cell plunged into total darkness.

More mind games, or just coincidence? He had no idea, not that it mattered. Walter knew where his mouth was and could eat in the dark. He recalled his childhood, taking forbidden snacks to bed, eating in darkness beneath the blankets, trying not to leave telltale crumbs, for his aunt would always spot them. He guessed it was around ten at night, though he could have been way out.

Walter thought on his day, his mind returning to the recorded calls at Mrs Moo’s. He tried to remember if he had ever said anything awkward or incriminating. He was sure he hadn’t, though in the circumstances, any mind could play tricks, and his inquisitors were not beyond editing words, his or hers, or anyone else’s.

It grew colder, and he countered it by hugging himself, letting out an occasional burp, the conversation between her and Barnabus forcing its way back into his brain. How could it not? It wasn’t a call anyone would find easy to forget.

When sleep came, it brought dreams into the darkness. Nightmares; the men returning to his cell, six of them, holding him down, slapping his face, administering a lethal injection to his neck, laughing uncontrollably, one of them yelling: A present from your whore, Marina Moo, followed by forced inane laughter, crunching into his head, echoing through the dark cell, shattering his brain.

A long time later, the neon light flashed, buzzed, and went on, and in sixty seconds, he was wide awake.

Chapter eleven

Icy rain sheeted down as the convoy of twenty Bedford MWD General Service military trucks pulled in at Canada Dock on the banks of the River Mersey.

Crammed in the back of every vehicle were thirty men, most of them shivering, for they were wearing desert uniform, carrying their gear, the trucks overloaded, but it was wartime, and so far, a losing war.

The sergeant-major first to alight, moustache bristling, as he ordered his men off the trucks and into the cargo sheds, out of the rain. A vessel on the crammed river sounded its foghorn, as black and silver smoke billowed towards the berths. Fifteen minutes later, the men were lined up in threes, seven hundred and fifty souls, average age, twenty-five, some as young as nineteen, others pushing fifty, with thirty officers and twelve sergeants to keep them in order. The Sixth Battalion, Cheshire Regiment, known by all as the Cheshires, drawn from across the county and beyond.

In the corner of the warehouse, an Aggie Weston Tea Bar, staffed by four local women, two young and interesting, two old and tired and missing their husbands and beds.

An aroma of stewed tea and fresh buns drifted across to the men as they stared over at the talent. Leo Moorland, the babe of the bunch at nineteen, tried a smile at one of the lookers, and she almost smiled back.

Harry Worthington, almost thirty, clocked the fleeting exchange, and said, ‘Don’t know what you are hoping for, son, but if you haven’t popped your cork b’now, it could be too late. This time tomorrow you’ll be on the high seas, and in a few weeks, you could be six feet under.’

‘Don’t be morbid! God loves a trier, Harry, and so do the ladies.’

‘Oh yeah, and you’d know about that would you?’

‘I’ve had my moments.’

‘Yeah, and I’ll bet they were fleeting, you going off bang before she had even started.’

The senior sergeant-major yelled for their attention. Some men had taken the chance to fire up a dog-end.

‘Over there, my petals,’ pointing, ‘is your afternoon refreshment. Tea and buns. There is one bun per man. Anyone caught with a second will get my size eleven boot up their jacksie. The ladies have been working hard to keep you fed and watered. You will treat them with respect. They are not your playthings or surrogate mothers. Disgusting talk will result in castration. Make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sarge!’

He looked round and took a breath. ‘Battalion! By the right, approach the buns!’

Fat, well-worn rectangular silver platters loaded with buns appeared on the left side of the long counter. To the right, several steaming tea urns hissed. A vast quantity of hefty white mugs waited, manufactured in not far away Stoke-on-Trent, built to last, they said, and woe betide anyone who dropped or broke one.

Leo couldn’t get to the counter fast enough, not that he was hungry or thirsty, as he jostled others out of the way to make sure the young, dark-haired one served him.

‘What’s your name, bonnie lass?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘I am. Leo Moorland at your service.’

She giggled and said, ‘Bit young, ain’t you?’

‘I’m old enough for you, girl.’

‘Really? I doubt that.’

He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t short, and he wasn’t wide or skinny, but there was something about him, and she liked his neat-cut dark brown hair and hazel eyes, for they carried an innocence most of the older ones had lost.

It wasn’t a hard decision to answer. ‘Bertha, if you must know.’

‘Bertha, what?’

‘Bertha Williams.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Bertha Williams. Fancy going out for a drink tonight?’

She giggled and said, ‘Oh yeah, right. In case you haven’t noticed there is a war on, and a frigging big ship over there,’ nodding to wide and open sliding doors, the rain sheeting down at an angle, with a speckled white hull beyond, ‘and when you’ve had your scran, you, my friend, will go aboard for a big sail-sail.’

‘It’s all one big adventure in life, bonnie lass. Will you write to me, Bertha?’

She pulled a face and said, ‘Have you any idea how many blokes ask me to write to them?’

‘I’m sure a lot, and that’s down to your natural beauty,’ trying another full-on smile.

One of the older women spotted Bertha’s slight blush, as did Leo, before the old girl said, ‘Come on, Berth, you’re holding everyone up.’

Leo sensed something special and opened his wallet. Bertha watched him entranced, unable to look anywhere else. He flicked the wallet open to reveal two black and white photos of pretty women, one on either side of the crease, one older, the other, young, coquettish, and pretty.

‘Oh, aye, your girlfriend, is it, or one of your conquests? You naughty boy.’

‘Nah, get out of it. That’s my sister, Sandra. She’s only sixteen, and the other one’s my ma.’

‘You’re a silver-tongued sod, aren’t you?’

Leo nodded and took out a tiny note. He’d made six copies for just such an opportunity, as he handed over a sliver of paper. Four brief lines. His name, his street, located over in Rock Ferry on the far side of the cold, wide river, in the county of Cheshire.

A furious sergeant bounded over.

‘What the hell is going on? What’s the bloody hold up?’

Harry Worthington said, ‘Baby Leo’s in love again, sarge.’

Leo grabbed his currant bun and mug of cha before they were lost to another starving soldier.

‘Love, my backside,’ said the sarge, spinning the kid round and pushing him away so hard he almost fell on his face. ‘Get the hell out of it!’

A moment later, Leo ambled away, but not before glancing over his shoulder to see Bertha Williams serving others, note still in hand, grinning at him, as she tucked it in her pinafore pocket.

Two hours later, the men were called to attention, forming up in lines of three, preparing to board the vessel. Leo glanced back for a last peek at the tea bar and the girl. It was closed, everyone gone, and in another hour the entire battalion was aboard the ship, scrambling for a berth.

Chapter twelve

Karen and Jenny stared across at Connie Kirkham as Karen said, ‘Gavin Doe worked in the Cheshire salt industry?’

‘So Pamela said.’

‘Doing what?’

Connie sighed and shook her head.

‘And you don’t know who he worked for?’ asked Jenny.

‘Correct. I would have told you if I did.’

Karen said, ‘Thanks Connie, you’ve been a great help. If you think of anything else, ring me anytime?’ and she passed over a card.

She took it and looked at it and thought it would be cool going round issuing cards with your contact details on. What a great job.

Karen moved away and rang HQ, hoping to speak to Martin Kane, but Chief Inspector Alex Foggon took her call.

‘What have you got, Greenwood?’ he said in his soft rural voice.

She told him about Gavin working in the county’s salt industry, and suggested asking all companies for a list of employees, insisting the request was not to be broadcast, in case Gavin heard about it and fled.

He thought it an OK idea and gave the job to DCs Ricky Greaves and Shirley Woodruff, before he said, ‘Have you spoken to the Davies pair again?’

‘We have. They had nothing fresh.’

‘Before you leave, get hold of Mike Davies again, and best do it alone. Ask him to confirm he never visited Pamela’s flat by himself.’

‘He’s already said he didn’t.’

‘I know, but ask him again. He might reflect on his answer and change his mind. Come to think of it, ask him if he will provide a DNA sample to rule him out.’

‘Will do. We hope to leave in twenty minutes.’

‘Good, see you soon. We should have the forensics report and the PM by then. Anything else?’

‘One thing. Connie Kirkham, Pamela’s best mate, confirmed Gavin’s description.’

‘She met him?’

‘She did, but only once.’

‘Did she add anything new?’

‘Not really. She put us onto the salt business connection.’

‘Remind me of Gavin’s description.’

‘Tall, hunk, short dark hair, bright blue eyes.’

‘And how many does that rule out?’

‘More than three-quarters of all men, I’d say.’

‘Still a sizeable chunk to target.’

‘True, be back soon,’ and the call ended.

If Mike Davies was surprised or irritated by being asked to provide DNA, he didn’t show it. He knew it was routine practice, if the TV cop shows were to be believed. If they came back for fingerprints, he might be more concerned.  

The post-mortem on Pamela Grayson revealed two things of interest. The hyoid bone in the throat was snapped, typical of a strangling, and Pam had not been sexually assaulted, which begged the question why was it staged as if she had?

DC Darren Gibbons, never short of cutting suggestions, said, ‘Maybe the attacker is gay, yet wanted others to believe he was straight.’

DCI Foggon looked at him and said, ‘He would have known that pretence would not stand up to scientific investigation.’

Darren didn’t have an answer, and sat back and fell silent.

The forensics report also produced interesting facts. Large numbers of grey fibres in two different shades, typical of fibres found in cheap T-shirts and leisure trousers, suggesting the killer wore such garb.

Also found throughout the flat were numerous fingerprints, male and female, and work was ongoing to check if any were hiding in the fingerprint database. No foreign DNA found on the body, though the search for it had only just begun, suggesting if it were there, it would be in tiny amounts, and thus the searching would take days or weeks, as attention turned to the salt works lead.

Salt had been mined and processed in Cheshire since Roman times, two millennia before, though evidence suggested local salt processing went back much further. The salt deposits from long-ago dried-up salty lakes centred around four towns in the middle of the county, running roughly north to south, Northwich, Winsford, Middlewich, and Nantwich, all rural towns with similar histories and populations.

Still a viable industry in the twenty-first century, and lists of companies involved in the sector were being compiled, with each business contacted to provide a list of employees, men and women, to muddy the waters, without mentioning why, and reminding everyone the request was confidential and not to be broadcast.

It seemed a simple task. Get the lists. Check the names. Isolate the Gavins, assuming there were some, and look into their background. It shouldn’t take long, and everyone was hopeful.

DCI Foggon remained confident he could wrap things up. It would be great if he could do it before Walter Darriteau returned from his strange trip to Hong Kong. Alan was senior to Walter, yet felt everyone thought it the other way round, even the boss, Mrs West, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t irk him.   

Chapter thirteen

Walter sat up and scratched his scalp. Fierce neon light woke him. He had no idea of the time. It was hard to track time slippage when one was asleep.

If he had to guess, he would estimate two or three in the morning. He staggered across to the toilet and took a wee. The second he had finished, the door was flung open and two uniforms strode in.

One said, ‘Hold out hands!’

Walter knew the drill, struggling with a yawn, manacled and taken away to the lifts.

He’d try his luck. ‘Have you got the time, pal?’

It was as if they hadn’t heard. Walter let it go. The lift zipped to the 33rd floor, and minutes later he was back in the same room, the lights blazing, darkness forcing its way in through a light-well window. The door opened and the same three strode in.

Walter nodded a hello and asked the time.

Sergeant Ray Lang ordered the cuffs removed, and the guards complied before slipping from the room.

Everyone sat down. Mr Yee took a breath and said, ‘We have taken advice.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘There could be a deal on the table.’

‘Go on. I’m listening.’

‘You either accept the terms, with no amendments, or you will be charged with spying for the British government, with all that entails.’

‘I’m still listening.’

Yee scratched the side of his forehead as if unconvinced of his case, exchanged a look with the others, before saying, ‘You will confess to the crimes…’

Walter scoffed.

‘Wait! I have not finished. Listen, or you regret it. You will confess to your crimes, but because of your compliance and repentance, your case will not go to court. Once done, you will be free to travel home on the first available flight… on condition you work for us.’

Walter tugged his ear, giving himself a few seconds. He wanted to tell them to go to hell, but thought better than to jump in. Could it be he could pretend to work for them, while using it as a lever to escape? Once home, he’d tell the authorities everything. Right there, he said, ‘It’s a major decision.’

‘Not really,’ said a smirking Yee. ‘Most people, when faced with a decision between being terminated, or carrying out occasional tasks, would opt for the latter.’

‘And,’ said the MSS man, ‘there would be a little money in it for you.’

‘How much?’ barked an intrigued Walter.

‘Two thousand pounds per month, forever.’

Walter exaggerated a scoff and said, ‘Chickenfeed!’

Mr Yee pulled a face and said, ‘£24,000 a year, tax free, not so bad, and there might be additional bonuses depending on results.’

Walter joined the face-pulling competition, his bottom lip out, head wobbling, as he said, ‘I need time to think.’

Yee said, ‘You don’t have much.’

‘I can’t make such an important decision when I am half asleep. I need time.’

The interrogators shared looks and the civvy man nodded, before Yee said, ‘First thing in the morning, you tell. Your choice: go to court on spying charges, facing thirty years in prison, or working for us in secret on minor duties. If you opt for the trial, the offer lapses and will never be repeated. If you cooperate, you are free and go home tomorrow. Never forget, this is your one chance at guaranteed freedom.’

‘Understood. Can you tell me the time?’

‘Of course,’ said Yee, glancing at his silver Seiko watch. ‘It is twenty-five minutes to four,’ adding, ‘in the morning.’

About what Walter thought. The conversation ceased and guards were summoned. Walter was handcuffed and removed, and three minutes later, he was back in the cell. One minute passed before the light went off and he was tossed back into the land of permanent blackness, not a shred of light anywhere, cocooning him in a thick and cold black cloak as if he were inside a giant black beetle, the creature pondering on whether to eat the irritant, or spit it out for the maggots.

In Chester, 6,106 miles away, Mrs West enjoyed her tea. A small heat-proof green teapot, an I LOVE CHESTER China mug, plus a mismatched tiddly milk jug, brought from home as its brethren were broken when her husband experienced a bad day on the dishes.

Milk first, the brewed tea carefully added, no sign of sugar, and she was ready to go. Too hot to drink, she’d give it a minute. The wall-mounted slimline television was on, tuned to the news channel she preferred, sound muted, but as she waited for the tea, she edged up the volume.

The pretty girl with the thick black curls on duty said, ‘We are just getting a breaking story. Stand by, give me five seconds…’

Mrs West loved the excitement of breaking stories. In her mind she imagined, or hoped, it might involve the reprehensible Claude Mainstone. A slim fit-looking bloke appeared on screen, an international reporter, no obvious mic in hand, standing before a modern building, golden lettering in English and Chinese above the man’s head, the main word being COURT.

‘Yes, Monica,’ he said, ‘we have just had it confirmed. A British man has been charged here in the courthouse within the last hour, with spying for the British government.’

How interesting, Mrs West whispered to no one, sipping fine Indian tea. Walter would be fascinated when he heard.

‘The man,’ the reporter continued, ‘has been named as Mr Walter Darriteau, believed to be a detective in the Cheshire Police Force.’

Mrs West’s mouth fell open, ejecting a mouthful of warm tea onto her blotter. She cursed and grabbed tissues from the box sitting on her desk to mop up the mess, as Martin Kane tapped on her door.

‘Come,’ she said, soaking up muck.

He stepped inside and said, ‘One of the Guv’s best snouts has just rung to say he has heard Inspector Darriteau has been arrested in Hong Kong. It’s probably nothing, ma’am, but I thought you’d better know.’

She nodded at the screen. The coverage had moved onto something else, pending more news on the breaking story.

‘Just been on,’ she said, phone in hand, trying to make a call. ‘Must be one almighty balls-up by someone.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll leave it with you.’

Mrs West tried to get through to the Chief Constable. A moment later, he came on the line.

‘Joan, what can I do for you?’

‘Have you heard the news?’

‘No. Been busy, head down in the furrow. You know how it is, Joan. The diligent ploughman always clears the most land. What’s happening?’

She shared the news Walter had been arrested and charged in Hong Kong on spying charges. The line went dead for a moment as he processed the intel.

‘If that is true, it must have been an horrific mistake by someone.’

‘Just what I thought.’

In those few seconds, the CC formed new thoughts and not altogether positive ones.

‘I did tell you, Joan, it was dicey for him to travel to Hong Kong. An accident waiting to happen.’

‘I know, and I made it quite clear to Walter it was no ordinary trip. Not a relaxing holiday, and it seems I, or rather, you and me both, read the runes better than Mr Darriteau.’

‘Do you want me to ring the FCDO?’

She took a moment to remember what the FCDO was. So many acronyms. He must have guessed at her hesitation in answering and elaborated.

‘The Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office. They look after embassies and consulates throughout the world. We need to get a local man on it… or woman. I know someone there, Rex, from Rugby School. Best pal of mine. He was posted to HK for a while, and knows the place like the back of his hand. He’ll jump on it pronto-pronto until we find out what is going on.’

‘That would be wonderful, sir, thank you,’ and the feisty phone call ended.

The news channel returned to their big breaking story, and it seemed they were the only ones who had it. The same guy back on the screen, a dashing individual, thought Mrs W, relishing in his exclusivity.

‘Yes, Monica, I can confirm the man is Inspector Walter Darriteau, normally employed as a plainclothes detective inspector working out of Chester. If there is any truth in these activities and allegations, we can only speculate who he might have been working for. I can also confirm…’ and he glanced round at a small crowd who had gathered to see what was happening, as if they might steal his scoop, ‘my contact in the local government has confirmed the charge of spying, if found guilty, carries a maximum sentence of thirty years behind bars, with a big chunk, hard labour.’

Thirty years behind bars, four words to chill anyone’s spine, with visiting rights curtailed and cancelled.

‘Don’t be absurd!’ she said to no one, the seriousness of the position hitting home.

Smirky Johnny Hunk on the screen, she couldn’t remember his name, spoke again.

‘We are speculating, but there has been a stream of new Chinese Navy warships in the harbour in recent days, though the British and Americans must know about them. Really, Monica, this has all the hallmarks of an old-hat story from the original Cold War, as we wait for the authorities to make public what evidence they have. Perhaps it is an opportunistic seizure for our man to be used as a pawn in some kind of exchange barter deal, and there is no shortage of Chinese spies in custody in the UK and USA who might come into the equation. Whatever it is, this story is bound to run and run. Follow our rolling news service for the latest developments only on this channel. That’s it for now, Connell Capstick, UK World News, Hong Kong.’

Mrs West sat back and thought about it. Was it possible Walter had been working for another agency beyond her knowledge? She would be furious with both Walter and any secretive employer if it proved the case. It had all the makings of destroying the trust she had in him.

And what was Madam Marina Moo’s role in the business? She was no shrinking violet, or without scandal, and come to think of it, where was she at that precise moment? All sparky questions spreading through her brain like a rampant virus, when she shouldn’t be getting side-tracked from the major murder inquiry on her desk.

Her phone rang and she snapped it up, hoping for positive news.         

Chapter fourteen

The SS Harlech Castle sailed out of Liverpool on the evening tide, all 750 men of the 6th Battalion, Cheshire Regiment aboard, scrabbling around to find a bunk or hammock.

Leo and Harry settled on the first and second tier of hastily made triple bunks, with Colin Catterall on the top. For many, the adventure of a lifetime, for few outside the officer class had ever ventured beyond the shores of Blighty.

On the pinnacle bunk, Colin settled down to read a grubby Agatha Christie paperback, as young Leo from far below said, ‘Where do you think we are going, chaps?’

Harry scoffed and said, ‘What are we wearing, kiddo?’

‘Summer gear, desert stuff.’

‘And there’s your answer to your daft question.’

Leo felt rebuked and a little silly, knowing Harry was right.

Colin at the top said, ‘The question is not where are we going, but which way we get there?’

‘I’m not with you,’ said Harry.

‘We are headed for the desert, right? Egypt, I’d bet anyone a pound on that, if I had one. But will it be a dash through the sub-infested Med, taking a big chance, if you ask me, or the long haul south around the continent of Africa? It might be safer that way, but I reckon it could be further, and take longer to arrive.’

‘You good at geography?’ asked Leo.

‘Best subject at school, not that it did me any good.’

Harry said, ‘Which way would you go, Catts?’

‘Round the Cape, every time. Might even make a stop or two along the way, and that would be nice, half-naked native girls, know what I mean?’ and he shook his head, not that the others saw it, before saying, ‘my cousin in the RN told me the Med is a graveyard. Some of the Malta convoys were shot up so bad, only an occasional ship made it through, and besides, Castle Line’s principal route is and always has been to South Africa, so that makes sense, but beware boys, there are subs in the South Atlantic too. ’

Leo said, ‘Thanks for the scary input, Catterall.’

‘Only saying it as it is.’

During the following week, lined paper and pencils were issued for those who wanted to write home, for letters could be dropped off at Durban, and if they hadn’t made a will, it would be a good time to do so. Those interested should see the chapo or the priest.

They were reminded they must not mention where they were, where they had been, where they were heading, what they had seen, what ship they were on, or any other ships in the convoy. In short, nothing of their trip. Anyone breaking the rules would be for the high jump, and such letters were likely to be destroyed.

Leo grabbed some paper and wrote two more letters. He had written eight, three to his mother and family in Rock Ferry, and five to Bertha Williams. The correspondence hadn’t gone anywhere, hidden deep in his kit bag under the bunk.

‘You writing home again?’ asked Harry.

‘I am, but not just home. Some are for Bertha.’

‘That lass who served you tea at Liverpool?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Do you know her address?’

‘I do not.’

‘In that case, flower, where the hell are you going to send them?’

Leo passed a sealed envelope up to Harry. He took it and glanced at the address. Leo was a neat writer, but there was about as much chance of it being delivered as a whale leaping out of the ocean to land on the deck.

Miss Bertha Williams,

Care of Aggie Weston’s Tea Bar,

Canada Dock,

Liverpool, Lancashire, England.

‘That will never find her! They won’t still be there. Anyway, she might be in the army by now. Hanging round the Canada Dock, she won’t be.’

‘You never know! If it’s meant to be, she’ll get them. The thing that worries me is how much it’s going to cost? Eight letters, ten or more by the time I have finished, I’m not sure I’ll have enough money.’

‘Easy answer to that, petal. Put all your ma’s in one envelope, and all the girl’s in another. That way, you’re only sending two.’

‘Oh yeah, good idea. I hadn’t thought of that. You writing anything, Harry?’

‘Nope, there’s no one at home waiting for letters from me.’

‘No one will have him,’ muttered Catterall from the top bunk, breaking off from the third Agatha Christie he’d read on the trip.

A thoughtful silence descended on the bunks as the idea of being alone settled on the men, before Leo said, ‘In that case, Harry, we will have to find you someone. Who knows? Maybe there might be a juicy businessman’s daughter in Durban waiting to be swept off her feet.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Harry under his breath, as the sarge reappeared, barking more orders about something and nothing.

When he had gone, Leo said, ‘Redhead, blonde, or brunette, Harry?’

Leo’s youthful mischief and inbred happiness brought a smile to all who heard.

‘Blonde! Every time.’

‘And a blonde you shall have, Harry, my boy. Stick with me, sunshine, I’ll fix you up. You see if I don’t.’

The sergeant-major interrupted their discussion, ordering the men downstairs to the canteen to form a queue for dinner, mince and onions with carrots and mashed potatoes. Not bad, all things considered, and every plate was cleaned, though speculation about the mince went on for an hour after someone joked they’d seen donkey carcasses being loaded.

Soon after leaving Liverpool, the Harlech Castle had rendezvoused off Anglesey with a small convoy coming down from Glasgow. Five mixed merchantmen, one particularly slow, meaning all vessels would have to reduce speed to the slowcoach, little over ten knots, making them more vulnerable, and all protected by two RN warships, a Javelin Class destroyer, HMS Jersey, and the smaller Kingfisher Class single funnelled HMS Kittiwake, whose main weaponry was depth charges.

Either way, the men were delighted to see them when the grey dawn broke over the sea, no land in sight, as they rolled and barrelled their way south.

They never saw Gibraltar, and didn’t go near the Med, keeping westerly out of sight of land and Nazi spotters, as they trudged southward in soaring temperatures. Days later, first thing one morning, the RSM strode in and ordered everyone to attention.

‘We are Army, we are proud to be Army, but we are on the high seas, and must respect our brothers in the merchant marine, and all their ancient, and frankly, silly traditions.’

Maybe it was to keep boredom at bay, but a big performance was made of crossing the line. None of the squaddies had ever made it south of the equator before, and King Neptune’s trial and punishment just about remained on the right side of bullying, as everyone was stripped, belittled, and ducked in seawater.

Days later, speculation mounted at the thought of a stop and shore run at magical Cape Town, a chance for the vessel to take on supplies, and the men to let their hair down, maybe for the last time. Despite trying to keep morbid thoughts from their mind, everyone imagined it could be curtains, at least for some of them.

At the far southern tip of the vast continent, the convoy slithered to port, turning left, sailing eastwards, the coast a distant shadow, tantalizingly close, but out of reach. HMS Jersey remained on station solo, the Kittiwake heading into Walvis Bay for urgent repairs. If the German subs were skulking below, they didn’t strike. Maybe they had run out of torpedoes, and everyone was relieved at that.

The day they sailed past Cape Town was bright and sunny, the sea flat and calm, as everyone gathered on the port side to glimpse Table Mountain. For most, it would be the only time they would see it, and the disappointment at learning they would not stop was huge, as a gloomy pall descended on the ship.

The following day they turned left again, north, into the blistering Indian Ocean, the gloomy and doomy feeling only lifted when it was announced the convoy would berth in Durban on South Africa’s east coast, for fuel and supplies, taking on cargo, while carrying out essential maintenance.

The good news was, everyone would be granted two days’ shore leave, providing they had behaved themselves on the almost 7,000-mile trip down from Liverpool, thirty rolling days none of them would ever forget.

Chapter fifteen

No one knew for sure how many people worked in the salt industry in Cheshire. Were drivers carrying out occasional deliveries to be included? Or men in busy, bitter winter times, when additional staff were drafted in. Were they potential suspects?

Ricky and Shirley did a good job producing a list of 419 men between eighteen and sixty-eight, the women discarded, and the checking for Gavins was almost complete. So far, not a single one.

Chief Inspector Alex Foggon became irritable, and he wasn’t an irritable person. Mrs West mirrored that irritability, demanded progress, wondering why it was taking so long.

Karen and Jenny returned for the update meet, as Ricky took delight in revealing there were no traceable Gavins on any payroll they had unearthed.

DCI Foggon said, ‘Middle names, have you checked that?’

Shirley and Rick shared a look that told everyone no one had mentioned anything about middle names. Rick tried to muddy the issue by saying some lists didn’t include a middle initial, but it was a basic mistake, and a costly one.  

Foggon glanced at Mrs West, saw her disappointed face, and said, ‘You’ll have to check them again. Martin, Jenny, Darren, and Kate, you can pitch in,’ as Karen volunteered to supervise and help, as Foggon nodded her on.

It took five hours, precious time wasted in the hunt for Pamela Grayson’s killer, but at ten minutes to four, among the last names to be double-checked, Jenny unearthed a runner.

‘Alan GAVIN Chalgrove,’ she shouted out, as Karen and Foggon closed on her desk to see.

Foggon said, ‘Name and address?’

‘Ashbourne Avenue, Nantwich, which, unless I am much mistaken, is on one of the many new housing estates on the west side of the town.’

Foggon glanced at Karen and said, ‘You up to bringing him in?’

‘Sure. Be delighted.’

‘Take Darren with you. He can take a taser in case he cuts up rough.’

‘Decent idea, though Darren rarely needs tasers or anything else.’

‘That’s as maybe, but remember the description, tall, hunky, and fit, and that screams aggro to me if the guy took it into his head he didn’t fancy coming.’

‘Gotcha. I’ll ring you as soon as we get there.’

Ten minutes later, Karen and Darren left the station in an unmarked Volvo, Darren driving, as they hit the busy eastbound A51, dual-carriageway conspicuous by its absence.

Jenny was right about the house being newbuild, a small red brick detached house with a neat garden, pre-planted by the look of it, as Darren and Karen hustled up the short grey flagged path.

A white doorbell to the right of a bright red plastic and half-glazed front door. It worked well. They heard it echoing through the house, but no one came, and there was no car on the small driveway to the right side.

They returned to the car to wait, as Karen rang Foggon with an update.

‘He could still be at work, doing his salty things, you reckon?’ said Darren.

‘Looks that way, unless he stopped off at a decent country pub on the way home. There are tons of those about the lanes and byways of Cheshire.’

‘He’s a naughty boy if he’s drinking and driving.’

‘He’s an ultra-naughty boy if he’s murdered his girlfriend, even if it was in a fit of pique.’

‘You think that’s what he’s done, sarge?’

‘Maybe, though Connie Kirkham said she didn’t get the impression he had a temper.’

‘Anyone can get a temper in a fierce argument.’

Karen said, ‘True, though thinking about it, the murder scene didn’t look to me like a former partner’s work. Naked from the waist down, does that strike you as the action of a former lover?’

Darren exhaled and shook his head, saying, ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. Anything’s possible. Tonight, he might have a hot date, perhaps gone straight to his woman’s place to get ready.’  

‘All possible, Darren. I wonder what he does at his salty job?’

‘No idea. We didn’t get that info. Let’s hope he’s not a bad-tempered truck driver looking for trouble.’

‘I am sure you could handle that. Taser to the ready?’

‘On standby, sarge,’ tapping his belt. ‘I hope he will not be long, I’m getting hungry,’ and as if the fates were listening, a modern dark grey Skoda saloon cruised into the single parking space at the far side of the house, a single man onboard.

‘Eh up, action stations,’ said Darren, as they jumped out of the Volvo.

They reached the front gate at the same time, the guy swinging his keys and staring at strangers. Connie’s description was spot on. Tall, wide, blue-eyed and handsome, looking like the hero in countless series of books and films featuring men bounding round the country setting wrongs right, dispensing justice wherever he felt it necessary, a modern-day Robin Hood, Hereward the Wake, or William Tell-type character.

Darren stared at the guy, trying hard not to look aggressive, tensing his muscles without thinking about it, realising it would be the barney of all barnies if he kicked off, as the guy stopped two yards from them and said, ‘Can I help you?’

Karen flashed ID and said, ‘Mr Alan Gavin Chalgrove?’

‘That’s me. What’s up?’

‘We need you to come with us to answer a few questions.’

‘What about?’

‘Pamela Grayson.’

‘What about Pam? She okay, is she?’

He didn’t know, or if he did, he was acting well.

‘I am sorry to tell you, she’s dead. Her body found in suspicious circumstances.’

It stopped him in his tracks.

‘Dead? How? When? I can’t take this in.’

Darren said, ‘We would appreciate you assisting us with our enquiries.’

‘Sure, pal. Anything you say. Not a problem,’ eyeing the officer up, a muscled specimen, but losing out on height and reach if it ever came to fisticuffs. Not that Gavin was a renowned fighting man, though they didn’t know that. Most times in strife-filled situations, appearance alone was way more than enough to tempt aggressors to back off, and that had been the case since Gavin was fifteen. He preferred to think of himself as a lover, not a fighter, though he knew he had the tools to deal with anything that came.

Karen pointed to the red door and said, ‘Mind if we step inside a moment?’

‘No, be my guest, I have nothing to hide,’ as he went to the door, slipped in the key, opened up, and in the next second, they were standing together in the small, modern front room.

Karen said, ‘Do you possess any grey tracksuit bottoms and a grey T-shirt?’

He pulled a face, waggled his head, and said, ‘Somewhere, maybe. Who doesn’t these days? Though I don’t use them much, only to go swimming at the Well Lane Leisure Centre.’

‘We’d like to take them if you don’t mind?’

‘Not a prob. They are upstairs. I’ll get them.’

Karen nodded and told Darren to accompany the man.

As they ascended the stairs, Gavin said, ‘What happened to her? How did she die?’

Darren knew, but wasn’t about to make a simple mistake by revealing anything. ‘No idea, mate. That’s what we are looking into. Anything you can tell us might help.’

‘Sure, whatever.’

They found the clothing in a bedroom chest of drawers, neatly folded and stored, smelling recently washed, as Darren grabbed them and slipped them in an evidence bag. Had Gavin rushed back from the Chester flat and washed them a couple of times to destroy any potential evidence, or was he house-proud and tidy?

‘Do your own washing, do you?’ asked Darren.

‘No, not many single blokes do. Mothers are there to do such things, and I am happy to say my mum is still around and capable, and she loves doing it, and long may it continue.’

Darren grinned at the thought.

Gavin said, ‘Your mum still going?’

‘She is, and I know what you mean.’

Downstairs in the front room, Karen examined photographs on the wall. Gavin with an older grey-haired lady, pound to a penny the mother, a decent resemblance between them, two separate pictures of her, with another photo of him standing tall, his arm around a dark-haired girl on either side, both pretty and looking alike, and one last photo of the late Pamela Grayson, no one else in the shot, short hair standing out, strawberry blonde. Maybe that was how he liked to remember her, as Karen recalled Connie telling her he went berserk when Pam displayed the wild red hair for the first time.

If he killed Pam, would he keep her picture on his wall, sharing his evenings, looking down on him at all hours? He might, if he was being clever and had thought it through.

The chunky boys came back into the room. It was amazing how much they filled it, both smelling of man, not BO, just a slight whiff of needing a shower after a long and hard day, Darren carrying a bundle of grey clothing.

Gavin read her mind, saying, ‘I could do with a shower. First thing I normally do when I get in.’

‘You’re fine,’ she said, adding, ‘I have been admiring your photos. Your mum, is it?’

‘Yep, that’s her, Queen of the castle, Queen of the Chalgroves. We all kowtow down to her.’

‘And these two. Sisters, are they?’

‘Fleur and Sin, short for Cinnamon, but she revels in living in Sin.’

‘And this one’s Pamela,’ said Karen, pointing, ‘unless I am much mistaken?’

‘It is. Before she changed her hair colour to the bright red.’

‘We heard you didn’t like it.’

He thought about that, and the way the woman officer said it, as if building some kind of case.

‘I didn’t kill her because she had red hair, if that’s what you think.’

‘No, I am sure you didn’t. Right, ready for the off?’

‘I am. Let’s get this done. How long will we be?’

‘Hard to say. Don’t worry; I’ll arrange for someone to bring you back.’

Not if you crack up and confess, big boy, Darren thought, and in the next second, they were outside, Gavin locking up, as they jumped in the Volvo, Gavin in the back, Darren driving, heading hard north-west, as the last of the daylight slipped away towards Ruthin and Llangollen over in Wales.

On the journey, Gavin said, ‘Who would kill Pam? Any ideas?’

The officers didn’t answer, as Karen spouted routine answers to regular questions. ‘We are looking at all possibilities. You can be sure of that.’

Darren, waiting at a country crossroads, said, ‘Why do you use Gavin and not Alan?’

‘Always preferred it. Bit different, I suppose,’ and after that they drove in silence, until they were back in the city, heading down the ramp into the dinginess of the underground car park, before grabbing a lift upstairs. A minute later, Alan Gavin Chalgrove was alone in an interview room, pondering on what was to come, with Mrs West and DCI Alex Foggon studying him through the glass, asking the others how things went, and did the suspect say anything?

The clothing was rushed to the lab, though no one expected much from it, as Jenny and Martin were updated and prepped with fresh questions. They would kick things off, with everyone else standing by, looking to pick holes in the questions, and the answers.

Foggon hoped they would have to look anywhere else, not least because they didn’t have anyone else in the frame. Mrs West reserved judgment, liking the look of the bloke, and looking forward to seeing him squirm, if they progressed that far.

The door opened and Jenny and Martin strode in to caution the interviewee, asking if he would like a solicitor present.

He declined, saying, ‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’

Martin booted up the technology, audio and visual, as Jenny sent the first question winging across the table like an arrow containing a vital message.   

Chapter sixteen

In England, new video footage hit the ten o’clock news. Walter Darriteau escorted out of court, hands handcuffed behind his back, a face like thunder, two uniformed officers leading him away to dump in the back of a black BMW 5 series.

The ubiquitous BMW 5, used by law enforcement officers across the globe. Fast, reliable, solid, and expensive, but when the government was paying, only the best was good enough. As he was being taken to the car, a small crowd formed, curious passers-by, and an enlarging press pack, as questions were shouted.

‘Are you guilty, Inspector?’

‘Are you a spy, Mr Darriteau?’

‘Did you get your secrets away before you were arrested?’

‘How do you view the prospect of thirty years in prison?’

He didn’t utter a word.

The car zipped away, heading back to police HQ and his cell well below ground level. The guards didn’t speak, and neither did Walter, as he sat back and wondered how long it would be before anyone came from the embassy.

Hours earlier, back in Chester, Mrs West took the expected call from her chief constable. His contact, Rex, assured her he had been in touch with their people in Hong Kong and a team was on standby to go in and speak to Walter as soon as the holding authorities granted permission.

Written permission had not been received, they said, coming from the higher-ups, and reading between the lines, everyone knew they were stalling, something they were famous for, and excellent at. They would allow access when they were ready, and not before. The British diplomats protested, but they could protest all they liked. Hong Kong people, Chinese people, would grant access when they were good and ready, and not before.

Walter was bundled back to his underground cell, and the door banged shut. He lay on the bed and thought about things. Where was Marina Moo? Her name was not mentioned at the preliminary hearing, and neither was that of her in-custody husband, Mickey.    

He thought back to his morning meeting with Yee & Co. They made it clear they expected him to accept their terms, indeed they had everything ready. His new email contact up and running. In the intervening hours, they had built a character as his first point of contact. They had invented a new girlfriend for him, not that Walter knew anything about that.

Miles younger than him, thirty-eight, pretty in a tarty sort of way, lipstick, painted nails, perfume, tight waist, wonderful hair, a former prostitute, though Walter didn’t need to know that; before she was persuaded into government service. It wasn’t ideal work for the phantom lady, but when the big bosses came calling, she embraced their ideas with the keenness of an Olympic athlete.

They had set up the bank standing order, they had long known Walter’s account details, and there was little a good hacker couldn’t provide. When he inexplicably refused to cooperate, they cancelled the payment.

No matter, it was their first throw of the dice. There was time to change the stubborn man’s mind. In the meantime, their new female recruit, an agent with as much or as little humanity as any computerised pop star avatar, could remain asleep, deep in the depths of a secret government computer, awaiting the call to jump into action and serve the cause.

Artificial Intelligence produced ten amazing photographs of their new recruit, unmistakably oriental, huge colour pictures going up round the wall in a top secret office, where the operatives could stare at her, get to know her better, before she was unleashed on the world. So powerful an image, several of the younger men dreamt about her, fantasised about her, and one or two of the older ones, too, testament to how well they had done their work.

For the moment, the pouting, seductive Chelsea Wang would remain in cold storage, awaiting her call. Chelsea, one of the most popular names for girls in Hong Kong in 2025, for many preferred to be tagged that way, rather than traditional Cantonese names.

It was considered slick, hip, and sexy, carrying the barest hint of rebellion or protest against the government, though no one would utter such a scandalous thought. Chloe, Ellie, Haley, even Charlotte were right up there in the most popular names table. Though they settled on Chelsea, for she was sexy; and capable of bending any man to her will, and what security agency could ever wish for a more willing and able agent?

In time, when Chelsea Wang popped out of the vast computer, full backstory in place, born on midsummer’s day, dysfunctional family, ran away from home at fifteen, met an older wealthier man, married him, killed him, inherited his estate, drank too much, lost all her money at the Happy Valley racetrack, forcing her to take on clients, another job she was good at, and only when she was released, would her masters and handlers discover if their latest creation would be the success they craved.

Walter knew nothing of Chelsea as he scratched his neck and turned over. He was growing hungry and hoped a meal was simmering on a stove somewhere close-by. He thought back to the fractious meeting with Yee.

They were furious when he told them he could not agree to their terms. When it came to it, he could not confess to crimes he had not committed. That was it. An easy decision. No second thoughts, and no going back.

They attempted to change his mind, which reeked of how desperate they were, but Walter dug in his chunky size ten heels and confirmed his decision.

Out of character, Yee went off on one.

‘You think we are joking?’ he bawled. ‘You think we are not serious? You think you are safe? You make big mistake! You’ve chosen the wrong road. You are heading for…’ and he slashed his index finger across his throat in case Walter hadn’t bought into the picture. ‘You think we are scared to execute you? You are nothing! Chemical poison fed into a canula in your arm. You last thirty seconds. Forty, if you are lucky, your usable organs ripped out and sold, the remnants of your body tossed in an incinerator. You gone in an hour of blazing fire and bwimstone. No one knows where you have gone, and no one cares. You will be forgotten in a day. No headstone, ashes dumped in the harbour, nothing remains. Your life, worthless. You think you are clever, but you are stupid. The drunkard floundering about the city streets at all hours with an addled brain, the hopeless addict, the man everyone pities and looks down on. That’s you! Wandering and lost, when we offer you an opportunity, a chance of useful life. You spit in our eyes, and you reap the fire. We are done with you! We tried our best. You’ve turned into a fat lump of pig meat, ’cept pig meat has a use. You are going to be roasted, and sooner than you think, British arsehole!’

Yee went red in the face. He exchanged eye contact with the man in civvies, who returned a benign look that told him he had said enough, perhaps even crossed the line. Not that it mattered, for in the next moment, all three scowled and left the room.

Two guards arrived within twenty seconds, and handcuffed the difficult prisoner, to take him down to his cold home in the modern and escape-proof dungeon.

Walter lay back on the bench and closed his eyes. The phrase: a fat lump of pig meat returned to his mind, and for whatever reason, he thought it funny. He laughed aloud, his amusement echoing around the cell until a guard banged on the door, demanding silence.

If Walter wanted to laugh, he would.

The image of it made him hungry again, roasting pork, and he thought of his childhood and early teens. His late Aunt Mimosa produced a fantastic Sunday roast pork lunch. Crackling to test the teeth, well-cooked juicy meat, apple sauce, roast potatoes, and her own special take on cauliflower cheese. Not to everyone’s taste, though Walter grew to like it.

She knew it was special and adored showing it off to the neighbours; the aroma filling the block, and she would take turns in inviting them in. After they had been once, if a second invitation was forthcoming, no one ever refused, and there was rarely a space around the rectangular table, as they all squeezed into her compact Brixton flat. Wonderful days, superb food, safe and happy round the table, with laughter aplenty to warm their souls, as Walter grew hungrier by the moment.

An hour later, his window to the world opened. Food at last; and he was ready for it. But it wasn’t food. A mean-looking guard he hadn’t seen before.

He stared through at Walter and barked, ‘Come here, closer to the door!’

Walter stood up and obeyed, not wanting to give them any reason to withhold his dinner.

‘Pay attention, Darriteau. In ten minutes, you will have a visitor. I will remain present. You will afford her every respect. If you don’t, I will taser you between the eyes. Make myself clear?’

‘You do. I always behave with the ladies. What’s her name?’

‘I don’t know, and even if I did, you would be the last person I would tell.’

Walter pulled a face and nodded.

‘Sit down on your bench and do not move until I return!’

The man watched the prisoner until he was seated. He nodded his satisfaction, banged the window shut, and the room and corridor fell silent.

They couldn’t stop him thinking. A woman? That was a bonus. But who? Someone from the embassy, perhaps, an allocated local lawyer, or could it be Marina Moo? Out campaigning for not one but two men in her life, both behind bars. That would be interesting. He would like to see and hear her again.

A strange thought struck him. Perhaps being incarcerated encouraged weird thoughts. Surely they hadn’t flown Mrs West six thousand miles to see him. He respected the woman, even considered her a kind of friend, but it wasn’t Joan West he hoped to see peering through his window, asking what the hell he had done.

Ten minutes ticked by; they were sticklers on time and accuracy; when he heard the door being opened. The same man stood in the doorway, glaring at Walter as if he were the devil incarnate, speaking two words: ‘Stay seated!’

Walter looked up and did as he was told. He sniffed the air, hoping for Marina’s perfume, but there was nothing.

Chapter seventeen

In 1941, the Harlech Castle berthed at Durban on another blistering day, coming up noon, a Wednesday, with everyone aboard excited, if apprehensive.

The ship slipped alongside behind an old troop ship trudging across from New Zealand, the S.S. Wellington. Give the South African locals their due; they came out in force to welcome the new arrivals.

A band played loud jazz on the quay far below, as a pretty blonde girl wearing a flowing white dress sang the hits of the day, as the soldiers crowded on the port side, smiling down, offering advice, asking for a date, or a song request, with one or two overstepping the mark, before the sarge cuffed them about their new ultra-short haircuts.

‘There you are, Harry,’ said Leo, ‘the blonde of your dreams, down there and waiting.’

‘True, boy. The only trouble is, there will be a queue a thousand strong before I get down there.’

Not that it mattered, for no one could disembark for at least two hours, and by then, the pretty chanteuse had moved on to serenade another ship, a packed Aussie liner needing a paint after it traipsed across the Indian Ocean from Perth.

Leo, Harry, Catts, Norman Burriton, Johnny Kingston, Donald Grayson, and Robert Bob Frost were among the lucky first allocation streaming ashore, as they scampered down the gangplank, looking for girls, mischief, booze and excitement. Catts later went off on his own somewhere, as he often did.

Six hours absence only, not a moment longer, as they were warned of three things: one, sexual diseases could and would kill, and sooner than you think. Leave the whores alone or risk paying a big and painful price. Chance would be a fine thing. Two: the Aussies and New Zealanders were valued allies, destined to fight alongside us, and any inter-nation scrapping was out of the question and would incur the stiffest penalties. Three: anyone returning incapable through drink would be fined two weeks’ pay and thrown in the ship’s hold to sober up. When they recovered, they would be summoned before an officers’ court and told their disobedience was recorded, and it could lead to serious ramifications, though the monetary fine was the big stinger everyone loathed.

The last voice they heard as they hustled down the gangplank was the gruff sergeant yelling for them to return as smart as they had left. Remember the warnings and behave.

Four miles to the city from the docks, and learning of it, the men griped and groaned and debated on hiking in, when a British Army lorry pulled up and turned round in a dust cloud, a scouser squaddie yelling through the open window, ‘Youse lot want a lift to town?’

‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ said Norman. ‘We come halfway round the world from Liverpool only to find the scousers are already here.’

Leo looked up at the guy and said, ‘Ignore him. Yeah, thanks, we want the town.’

‘Hop on and we’ll get you sorted.’

The lorry dropped them outside the main railway station, an impressive four-storey red and cream building, palm trees swaying in the balmy breeze, as Scouse left them with parting words. ‘We run a service back to the quay every half hour until it grows dark,’ as the blokes made a thumbs-up and wandered away.

Jeez, it was hot, walking producing a heavy sweat and a desire to wet the whistle. They came to a scruffy bar and were debating about going inside, when two startled black blokes hustled out, stared at the troopers, as one said, ‘Blacks only!’ and pointed across the road, saying to look for the Red Lion.

They found the Lion but encountered more hostility. Outside, a British Redcap military policeman. He looked at the white-skinned new arrivals and sneered, saying, ‘No admittance. Officers only.’

Leo chanced his arm. ‘We are desperate for a drink, mate. Where do you recommend?’

‘I am not your mate! And neither am I a bloody tourist guide. Bugger off before I put you on a charge.’

The men slunk away, Harry Worthington saying, ‘Not exactly friendly, was he?’

Ten minutes later, they found a pub and went inside. The only drinkers were Kiwis, maybe eight of them, with a single world-weary barman wearing a grubby white apron, with not a girl or woman in sight. Harry glanced round and saw five of the Cheshires had made it, as he ordered five cold beers.

The barman nodded and said, ‘We sell nothing but cold beer,’ as he set them up and took the English money. He wasn’t proud. If it was spendable, he’d take it.

The Kiwis were not seeking trouble, and that suited Harry and the gang, and before long they were mingling and chatting, comparing the standard of troopship, onboard food, and sharing gossip and rumour as to where they were heading, though they all thought they knew.

Port Tewfik, on the southern end of the Suez Canal, the red-hot favourite, and that meant an early rendezvous with Rommel and his mob, meeting the feared Afrika Korps head-on. They tried not to think of it, bought more beer, and gossiped about where the girls were.

Leo asked the barman where the local post office was, and the guy, speaking from the side of his mouth, gave instructions, saying it was only two minutes away. Leo thanked him and bounded off, desperate to post his dozen letters bundled into two envelopes.

He was back within ten minutes, his letters obvious by their absence.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Harry.

‘Posting my mail.’

‘You should have posted them on board, you chump.’

‘I know, but I thought it might be quicker if I posted it here. It cost me a small fortune, but at least I know they are on their way.’

‘Yeah, but you have no idea how far they might get.’

‘They’ll be fine, and the women will love the foreign stamps.’

‘Mail ships get sunk too, you know,’ said one, which didn’t improve Leo’s mood.

Drinking continued, and drinking time was wasted time and wasted time always flew by, and it wasn’t long before someone shouted, ‘Hey, lads, we only have forty minutes to get back to the ship. If we miss the lorry, we’ll be scuppered.’

Everyone hated the advice but knew it was true. Glasses were emptied, as they said cheerio to their new mates, who weren’t bothered what time they returned. Ten minutes later, the Cheshires were happy to see Catterall waiting, as the army truck reappeared. They piled aboard, several breaking into song.

Everyone fell silent when Colin Catterall began singing, for he could hold a tune. Al Bowlly, his big favourite. Most of the Cheshire musos thought him the best, and they all agreed he could knock the American crooners into a cocked hat.

He launched into “Love Is the Sweetest Thing”, and it wasn’t long before everyone was transported home, to loved ones far away, as Leo glanced at Harry, and saw teardrops ambling down his weathered face. Leo thought of saying something, a tiny tease, but refrained, not wanting to spoil the moment.

Music could do that like nothing else, as the 1930s Cheshire-built Foden diesel truck groaned and braked and bucked and came to a standstill in another cloud of dust before the Harlech Castle, the ship busy taking on supplies.

They thanked Scouse for the ride, and hustled up the gangplank, back on board with four minutes to spare, all vowing on the next leave they would be better prepared, after they picked the brains of the others who couldn’t have fared any worse.

Day one in sunny, dusty Durban, over and done, a scouting mission. They’d do much better next time.

Chapter eighteen

In the Chester police station, the questioning of Alan Gavin Chalgrove began, Jenny leading; Martin Kane in support.

‘When was the last time you saw Pamela Grayson?’

‘I’m not sure of the day. I’ve been trying to obliterate it from my mind.’

Martin said, ‘Where were you?’

‘In her flat in Cuppin Street.’

Jenny looked him in the eye and said, ‘Was it a violent meeting?’

Gavin rubbed his eyelid and said, ‘No, not really. Just tense and to the point, as if neither of us wanted to be there.’

‘Did you hit her?’

‘No, certainly not. I never hit Pam.’

‘But you hit other women?’ said Martin.

‘No, I did not and do not, and that is not what I meant.’

‘Take us back to that night,’ said Jenny, ‘to the tense meeting. Tell us what was said and what happened?’

Gavin sat back in his seat and sighed.

‘We were going round in circles, repeating the same things.’

‘Like the fact you hated her hair.’

‘I did not like her hair; that is true. Hair is important to me. It either excites me or it doesn’t, and that red abomination turned me right off from the moment I saw it. It had the effect of making me want to flee the building, and that is not a good vibe for any satisfactory relationship.’

‘So, you told her to change it?’

‘I asked her to change it, but she refused. It was her hair and she would wear it as she damn well pleased, and if I didn’t like it, I could go to hell.’

Martin repeated, ‘She said you could go to hell?’

‘She did. Pam was a fiery woman. To begin with, it was one of the things I liked about her.’

Jenny said, ‘I put it to you, you had a fearful argument about her appearance. She told you to go to hell, and you lost your temper and attacked her.’

‘I did not attack her. I said, as calmly as I could, if things had come to this, it might be better if we called it a day.’

‘You threatened to break it off?’

‘I did. Things could not go on as they were. It had reached the stage where I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her, and that couldn’t be right.’

‘You stormed out in a huff. That how it came to a head?’ said Martin.

Jenny added, ‘You stormed out after attacking her. Isn’t that what happened?’

‘I stormed out, yes! Because she was becoming unbearable, and when she was like that, I didn’t like her.’

Jenny said, ‘It’s possible it went that way, but I believe you went there more recently to seek revenge. I think it was you who dumped her, not the other way round, because you found someone new. You went to the flat to find no one in because she was working late. You let yourself in, knowing the back way was best, the door not so solid. You forced it open and waited for her return. When she arrived after working late, you imagined she was living it up with her boss, enjoying drinks and maybe more, before setting off for home. If you weren’t angry already, you were furious by then, because you thought she was canoodling with the boss, and the thought of it stoked your fury.’

Gavin let go a disdainful laugh, and said, ‘That’s rubbish, total conjecture. I have never been in Pam’s flat since the blazing argument, and she was fine when I left. She was back at work long before she was killed.’

‘You would say that,’ said Martin, ‘but I think our scenario is more likely. You are a powerful man, Mr Chalgrove, used to getting your own way, and when she spurned you, because that is the truth of it, she dumped you, and your ego and boiling temper forced you to going back.’

‘That’s nonsense! Ask anyone, and they will tell you I am not a man hiding a fiery temper.’

‘No?’ said Jenny, ‘maybe not, but it even surprised you when the brewing temper burst into the open. You attacked her, throttled her, and dragged her to the bedroom, where you ripped off her underwear, maybe to have your wicked way with her one last time, though for whatever reason you changed your mind. Perhaps you were worried about leaving fresh DNA traces. Or did someone come to the door, alerted by the heated argument? Is that what happened, Gavin? You were disturbed in your business, and made a run for it, out via the back door, where no one saw you hopping over the back fence to disappear into the night.’

‘It never happened. You are making it up to fit the facts. Facts I didn’t even know about. I am telling the truth. Our last quarrel was the last time I saw or spoke to Pamela Grayson, and if someone murdered her, you need to look for him, or her.’

‘Very convenient,’ said Martin.

‘You attacked her,’ insisted Jenny, ‘but haven’t the courage to admit it.’

‘I did not attack her. If you must know, and I didn’t want to mention this, she attacked me!’

The four people watching through the glass exchanged looks. That was new.

‘She attacked you?’ repeated Jenny.

‘She did.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? I said I hated her hair. She said I could go to hell. I said it was time to call it a day, and she said...’

Gavin stopped, sitting back, pondering on his words.

‘Go on, Mr Chalgrove. She said what?’

‘She said she would kill me, rather than let me leave.’

‘Pamela threatened to kill you?’

‘She did.’

‘So how come it’s her in a freezing filing cabinet in the hospital morgue and not you?’

‘Her death was on a different day and in different circumstances, as I have explained.’

Jenny said, ‘You said she attacked you. In what form did that take? A punch, a slap, she tried to scratch your eyes out, what?’

‘You didn’t know Pamela. She possessed a vicious temper. Most of the time, she hid it, bottled it up, controlled it, but when it burst out, she blew up like a volcano. If she couldn’t get her own way, if she couldn’t have what she wanted, she turned into a fearsome creature. You had to be there to see it, and it wasn’t the first time. Even the sex could be violent, and that was not my doing, I assure you. I’m a gentle lover; ask my former girlfriends. I’ll give you a list if you want, and none of them will say we had a violent relationship. With Pamela, everything was different. To begin with, I thought it quite interesting, exciting even, but it was never enough for her, and it always had to be more than the previous time.’

‘The violence, you mean?’

‘Correct, and it was another of the things we argued over. She wanted me to be rougher, and I did not. It’s the opposite for me, and in the end, those critical differences were fatal to our relationship.’

‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Jenny. ‘She wanted you to be more passionate, more assertive, but you refused, and she lost her temper saying you were not a real man, not up to the job, and you lost it, hit her, and everything spiralled from there.’

‘You’re not listening! She didn’t want me to be more passionate. She wanted me to be more violent, and when I refused and wanted no part of it, she came at me like a starving cheetah.’

‘Go on.’

Gavin sighed and said, ‘I’d seen her lose her temper before, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. She flipped and was out of control. I’m a big guy and I thought I could handle a slender woman, but she morphed into something else. A whirlwind doesn’t say the half of it, and I’m not too proud to say she terrified me when she was like that. Soon after, on that last night, she produced the knife. I had no idea she was armed, and I realised things were getting out of hand, and I needed to get out of there.’

‘She pulled a knife on you?’

‘She did, as God is my witness.’

‘What kind of knife?’

‘There’s a knife block in her kitchen, five knives graded in size. I think it was the second smallest, but by hell, it was sharp.’

‘She stabbed you?’ said Martin.

‘She did.’

‘Where?’ said Jenny.

‘On the thigh.’

‘Show us?’

Gavin nodded and stood up, undid his trousers, displaying black skin-tight shorts-type underwear, pants he eased up enough to show his left thigh. White skin punctured by a three-inch cut, deep too, healing but obvious, showing six clear stitches.

‘Where was it treated?’ said Martin.

‘The Countess. There was blood everywhere. If you look hard enough, I reckon you will find my blood spilled and splashed in the flat.’

‘We want a sample.’

‘No problem.’

‘Did you report the incident?’ asked Jenny.

‘I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by it. It seemed the last act in our tempestuous relationship, bringing down the curtain, so to speak. All I wanted was a quiet life with a loving woman, but what I got was an out-of-control and terrifying demon, and I could never live with that.’

‘Did the hospital report it to the police?’ said Jenny.

‘No idea. You would have to ask them, but as no one contacted me, I assume not.’

Martin said, ‘They must have asked how it happened?’

‘They did. I told a wee fib, and I’m not proud of it, but it was to protect Pam.’

‘Go on.’

‘I said I’d cut it on one of the salt-cutting machines at work. They seemed to accept that, and maybe they were too busy, sewed me up, moved on to the next injury, and forgot about it.’

Jenny looked across at the man and wondered if he was telling the truth, or could he be a practised liar?

‘Pull your trousers up, Mr Chalgrove,’ and Gavin did.

There were a lot more questions they planned to ask, but the revelation he had been stabbed took the wind out of their sails, and Jenny said they would take a break, and left him alone.

Outside, they sought advice from DCI Foggon and Chief Super Mrs West. They said as it was getting late, they should release the man, pending further inquiries, and first thing in the morning Karen should ring Connie Kirkham and others, and ask if they knew Pamela possessed a temper that could lead to violence.

Martin and Jenny nodded and made to leave, as Mrs West said, ‘And take him up on his offer of a list of former squeezes. He can go when we have that.’

Jenny bobbed her head and said, ‘Karen promised we would take him back to Nantwich, ma’am.’

‘Fair enough. Get one of the traffic guys to do it, and well done, Jen. You extracted new information, and that’s always a plus, even if it wasn’t what we expected.’

Mrs West looked at Foggon and said, ‘What do you think, Alex? Is he telling the truth?’

‘I believe him, ma’am.’

‘You would, you’re a man!’

Chapter nineteen

In the Hong Kong basement cell, a slender, attractive local woman strolled in. No ordinary girl, an inspector in the Hong Kong Police Force, looking smart, wearing number two uniform. Short-sleeved white shirt, two pips on the epaulette, navy tie and trousers, smart, confident, and in control.

‘Hello, Guv,’ she said, as Walter stood, to be reprimanded by the jailer.

She turned to the guard and said, ‘Leave us.’

‘But, ma’am?’

‘I said leave us!’

The guy looked unhappy, went outside, and pulled the door to.

‘Only two pips?’ Walter said. ‘I imagined you might have added at least another by now.’

She smiled a gentle smile and said, ‘Competition is ferocious. I’m studying hard for chief inspector, but it’s hard going.’

‘Stick at it. You’ll get there.’

‘Come, let’s sit,’ she said, and they sat together on the bench.

The sight of her perked him up, as he said, ‘Well, well, well. Jun Woo, I never expected to see you.’

‘Why not? Have you forgotten this is my hometown? I was born here and I’ll die here. I’ve travelled the world and there is nowhere I’d rather be. Great climate, spectacular scenery, lovely people, for the most part, and an exciting environment where every day is different. Why would I ever wish to be anywhere else?’

He smiled and said, ‘When you put it like that. How did you know I was in Hong Kong?’

‘Everyone knows you are here. It’s the hot topic of conversation. You’re big news. They were all amazed when I said I knew you.’

He thought back to those all too brief but happy days when she came out of nowhere, courageously operating under cover, suffering as a modern day slave with her companions, almost single-handedly bringing down the twelfth apostle people-smuggling ring, a factory sized enterprise, discovered and crushed on the biggest industrial estate at Ellesmere Port.

‘So?’ he said, ‘is this a social call, or are you on official business?’

‘If I am honest, a bit of each. I wondered if there was anything you needed.’

Before he answered, Walter lowered his voice and said, ‘Are we being recorded?’

She gave him a look, telling him not to ask stupid questions, before saying, ‘Whisper and we should be okay.’

‘Well, to answer your question, there are only two things I need.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something decent to eat. I’m famished.’

‘I think that could be arranged. And second?’

‘A plane ticket to Manchester.’

‘Ah,’ she said, smiling again. ‘That might be more tricky.’

‘I thought so.’

She lowered her voice further, moved closer to him, and said, ‘I’ve had a look at the file. You are in deep trouble, Guv. Perhaps more than you realise. Conservatives are in charge now, and they are always in the mood to make examples of anyone refusing to bend to their will. You must not give them any excuse to show how powerful and determined they can be.’

‘They are accusing me of something I did not do, Jun, and I cannot confess to that.’

She thought about it for a moment before saying, ‘Discretion is always the better part of valour, as true today as it ever was. The fact is; they have enough evidence to convict you of spying.’

‘They have no evidence at all!’

‘In their eyes, they do, Guv, and the thing is, if the case goes to trial, you can be certain before you set foot in the court, the matter will have been decided.’

‘I thought it was a fair and honest jury trial here.’

‘Don’t be naïve. It will be on the face of it. Seven jurors will decide your fate, but the men; and I am guessing it will be weighted towards men, will all be, what she we say? Pulling for the home team, and the same result as the prosecutor.’

‘So much for the free and fair legal service and system you inherited.’

‘That’s almost thirty years ago, Guv, and things change.’

‘Tell me this, Jun, is that what the people want, deep in their hearts?’

She looked concerned and thought hard on her words. ‘We have a divided society, like many places, and with each passing year, it’s likely more people will approve, though no one knows for sure. But that is not the point. I have come to give you some advice as a friend, and not a police officer. You must tread carefully. There is a genuine prospect of life imprisonment with hard labour, or…’ though she struggled to complete the sentence, unwilling to speculate on anything worse.

Walter jumped in. ‘I understand the death penalty was abolished here in 1993, and the last one carried out, death by hanging, took place in 1996, and that, under the British.’

‘Congratulations, you are well informed, but I should never have expected otherwise. But remember this, there is no abolition in China, and it is only a short drive away.’

‘Are you telling me they could take me across the border?’

‘All chips are in play, Guv. Anything is possible. They rule absolutely, accountable to no one but their cronies. All I am saying is; rule nothing out. There are no certainties.’

‘That’s encouraging news you bring me, Jun. Thanks,’ as he let go a brief, cold smile. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure, fire away.’

‘I came with Marina Moo, but I have heard nothing from her or about her. When I ask, they ignore me. Is she okay?’

‘Your girlfriend, is it?’ Jun said with a cute smile.

‘No, her husband is back here on fraud charges. She needed someone to help with interviews, that kind of thing.’

‘The authorities would not take kindly to any intervention, no matter how small, by a British police officer. You must see that.’

Not for the first time, she sounded like Mrs West.

Walter said, ‘She needed a friend, Jun. Nothing more.’

Jun nodded and said, ‘She’s out on bail, confined to the hotel, and there are worse places to be. Her phone removed; not allowed to make calls. Later, she could be included in any indictments you may face, or they could decide to let her slip away, being a local, while they concentrate on you.’

‘And her husband, Mickey?’

‘Charged with tax evasion. If he’s guilty, and I think he is, the sentence will reflect the amount of money he embezzled. If you want me to guess, I would say, don’t expect to see him on the streets anytime soon.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘Thanks for coming… and for the updates.’

‘You were good to me, made me feel welcome. Reinforced in my mind what was right, and what was wrong. I enjoyed my brief time in England, well, at least after you freed everyone. You’re a good man. That is obvious to everyone who works with you, but you must be careful. This is not England. You are playing with fire, Guv.’

‘Well, first off, I did nothing on that case. It was you who went undercover, and you who risked your life, before escaping and finding your way to us. You slapped it on the plate in front of our faces. All we did was jump in the car with you to bust everything wide open. None of my doing, Jun. It was all on you, and frankly, I don’t think they promoted or valued you enough.’

Jun pulled a face and said, ‘Women always need to work twice as hard as men to attain the same recognition. Sadly, that’s the same the world over, and we are no different. How are they all back in Chester?’

‘Pretty much the same. Darren is still annoying everyone, telling the same woeful jokes, but he’s good-hearted and hard-working.’

‘Oh yes, Darren. How could I forget? And Karen, is she still with you?’

‘She is; working hard. I’ll miss her when she moves on. Like you, she’s struggling with the Inspector exams, but she’ll get there. Later this year, perhaps.’

‘She deserves it. She made me feel so welcome. Best one there, in my humble opinion, present company excepted. Is she married?’

‘No, changed blokes once or twice since you were there, though the current one seems a genuine runner in the sweepstake. And you, Jun, any news on that front?’

He detected the slightest colouring entering her pale face, before she said, ‘I have met a chap I like, though I don’t wish to get my hopes up. Every time I do, I am disappointed, and each time it hurts a little more, but he seems serious, so I guess that is something. We have our dreams, but dreams often vanish in the most puzzling ways.’

‘Is he on the force?’

‘He is. Same rank, same station. We help each other with exams and stuff, and it works pretty well. He’s a great help to me, I’ll give him that.’

‘Has he asked you to marry him?’

‘He has,’ which brought another warm smile, ‘and it was such a surprise. I thought my chest might explode; it was so unexpected.’

‘Did you say yes?’

‘Not yet, but I will; if he behaves himself. His name is Theo, a local boy from an excellent family, and believe it or not, Theo is the most popular boy’s name here in Hong Kong.’

‘I can believe it. It kind of fits. Good luck with it. I hope you have a happy future.’

‘Thanks. If it happens, I’ll save a wedding invite for you.’

‘An interesting thought in the circumstances.’

‘Were you working for MI6, Guv? You can tell me. It won’t go any further.’

An uncomfortable question issued out of the blue. Not that it was difficult for him to answer, but because it was a reminder she was a serving Hong Kong police officer, perhaps working for intelligence, as she once did before, and the question was, had she been prompted to ask it, for it was easy to imagine she had.

‘Course not! I’m surprised you asked.’

‘Sorry, Guv, I had to. I should have known better. Is there anything else you want to ask me while I am here?’

‘Probably a million things once you step out through that door, but right now, I can’t think of anything. Thanks for coming to see me. It’s been a tonic to see you again.’

‘Okay,’ she said, standing and patting him on the shoulder. ‘Is it all right if I come again?’

‘Please do, I’d love it. Anytime you want.’

She bobbed her head and eased the door open. It wasn’t locked. He heard her tell the guard the prisoner was hungry and deserved a decent feed. The guard replied he had not received any instruction to feed the man.

The last thing Walter heard was Jun saying, ‘I am ordering you to feed him now. Is that clear?’

‘Of course, ma’am, yes,’ as the door was slammed shut, painting a picture in Walter’s mind of the bloke wandering off with his tail between his legs, muttering to himself he couldn’t please two masters, or one master and one mistress.

An hour later, a decent chicken and rice effort rolled up, as Walter wolfed it down while thinking of her visit. He’d love to know if it was a social call, as she painted it, while all the while thinking she was on duty, investigating his case, attempting to put further evidence and thoughts on her superior’s desk.

Policing could be a filthy business, especially when one officer was investigating another, doubly difficult if they were friends, and before he fell asleep, he was none the wiser as to his predicament, and what he should do next.

The next time he woke, it was pitch dark. He had no idea what time it was, or even what day. They were playing mind games again, known for it, and he knew it, and he must not let it bother him.

Would they feed him that day? Would they allow a visit from a Brit? Would he be taken back to the interview room or the court, or might they smuggle him across the border into China? He had never been there, as he lay back in the darkness and tried to think of nicer things, though they were in short supply, and he couldn’t even improve matters by returning to sleep.            

Chapter twenty

The first indications the Harlech Castle was making ready to sail came early in the morning when the huge coal-fueled engines were stoked up.

The ship vibrated, waking the squaddies from their restless sleep. Catterall went topside to stare over the rail and down at the quay, where the sun hadn’t yet burnt off the thin grey cloud.

On the jetty, a gang of local men, supervised by a mouthy white foreman, ordered them about, as if they hadn’t swept the sleep from their eyes. Ropes were loosened and fingers pointed. In the next second, Catterall witnessed the first of two gangplanks being hauled up in the silence of an African morning. It clattered and banged as if it didn’t wish to move.

Above and behind him on the bridge, he saw white-shirted officers paying close attention, signalling to the workmen on the quay. The second gangplank was removed from the ship and tugged back onto the jetty. The New Zealand steamer had gone, the captain and officers eager to get into the fight.

Two minutes later, the liner shivered as if it had been woken against its will. Catterall could empathize with that. Two tugboats came out of nowhere, fore and aft, and introduced muscle, and in the next second, the gap between the side of the ship and the jetty increased from one foot to two, to three and four. There was no doubt they were getting underway, leaving sunny Durban.

He rushed back to the sleeping quarters and yelled, ‘We are leaving! We are underway.’

‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ said a sleepy Harry Worthington.

‘What happened to our second day’s leave?’ moaned Leo, thinking of Bertha and his letters.

A sergeant-major overheard and said, ‘All leave is cancelled! There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed. If you didn’t get what you were looking for in Durban, you have missed your chance. Listen up. If you are not yet up and dressed, get up now! All troops to assemble topside in ten minutes. Slackers will be disciplined.’

‘It isn’t fair,’ moaned Leo. ‘I was looking forward to going ashore.’

The Harlech Castle slipped down the narrow channel like a trout with an over-active tail, midway between the Bluff and the Point, eased on by the tugs, and with one last shove, they sent the Castle on its way, heading for the open sea of the blue Indian Ocean, heading north for Port Tewfik and the Suez Canal, five and a half thousand miles distant.

The Harlech Castle was on her own, taking its chances, no Royal Navy outriders to ward off starving submarines, no merchantmen colleagues, but no slowcoaches to delay them.

They would average eighteen knots, depending on wind and sea state, in the dash north as fast as possible, attempting to outrun any hostile forces lying in wait below. They would know their destination, and their departure time, for there was no shortage of German sympathisers and spies in southern Africa, monitoring the busy port of Durban.

The captain knew it and demanded every ounce of horsepower from the sweating and irritable chief engineer down below.

The sea state on the open ocean was calm, the sun breaking through, and there would be no seasickness that day, as the captain studied his charts and addressed the navigator. ‘ETA, Basil?’

He was busy scribbling pencil numbers on his pad before giving an answer.

‘Twelve days, sir.’

The captain grimaced and said, ‘Tell the chief I want it done in eleven. These boys are needed at the front. If we don’t get a move on, it could be too late.’

‘He won’t be happy, sir.’

‘I don’t give a bucking blackcurrant tart whether he is happy or not. A target’s a target. It’s not unachievable. Tell him a bottle of scotch will make its way down below if we make it.’

The navigator grinned and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

If there was one thing capable of conjuring up an early arrival, an unopened bottle of Scotch whisky was as good a bribe as any.

The troops settled back into their old routine. Cleaning equipment, the foot-sloggers doting on their Enfield .303 rifles as if a favourite pet, as an hour of live-firing exercises began over the side.

The gunnery crews were back before blackboards and diagrams, revising their sums, calculating range, angles, wind-speed and direction, until they knew the numbers by heart, and some, a small number, were looking forward to collecting their new artillery in Egypt.

Some men had seen live action, most before returning from Dunkirk, but none of Harry, Leo, Colin Catterall, Bob Frost, Norman Burriton, Donald Grayson, or Johnny Kingston had ever been in the heat of battle, except on Salisbury Plain, which didn’t count, for they didn’t have Rommel’s experienced Afrika Korps lobbing ordnance at them.

A scary prospect, though they tried not to think about it, hoping it would be the other bloke who bought it, and not them. They reassured themselves they’d be alright, though as they steamed north, ever closer to Egypt and the fierce fighting, where hundreds, nay thousands of brave boys were losing their lives, the thought of a premature death loomed larger.

The officers knew it, everyone did, and tried to lighten the mood, playing games, allowing official larking around, arranging regiment boxing matches, having a party on the day they rec-crossed the line into the northern hemisphere off Jubbada Hoose in Somaliland, a milestone reminding them they were getting closer to the canal, and the vicious fighting that would cull a number of the Cheshire soldiers from the earth.

The officers would be busy writing tricky letters home, and not to their own family. Additional writing paper was issued, and everyone prayed it would not be needed.

Those in charge debated if the men were ready. Were men ever ready to go into the front line, or the meat-grinder, as some called it, where death and destruction was the order of the day? Of course they were not ready. How could anyone be ready for that?

One thing was evident; it would sort out the men from the boys. That was the funny thing about live-firing warfare. Until it happened, no one could predict who could cope with it, and who would buckle. Often, the quiet and supposed weakest links rose to the challenge, while braggarts and bluster merchants were the first to crumble. Maybe they used bluster to cloak their fears of being found out, or of being injured and mutilated, or worse.

No one could blame them. Incoming artillery shells could shred heavy metal guns as if they were made of paper, blowing them into a thousand pieces. Imagine what they could do to the soft tissue human beings lugged around, with a weaker outer skin than a ripe melon.

During the night, the thought of setting foot in war-torn North Africa brought vivid nightmares to some. Tormented yelling swept through the deck, disturbing the peace, unsettling light sleepers, exhausting minds and bodies. For many, the beginning of the trip started within those restless hours.

Chapter twenty-one

First job in the morning, in the Chester station, Karen rang Connie Kirkham at the Colonial Coffee Company in Liverpool.

She came on the line, sounding as upbeat and cheerful as ever.

‘We have spoken to Gavin Chalgrove, that’s his surname.’

‘Oh, aye? Now you come to mention it, I recall the name. What did he say?’

‘He was helpful, and you were right. He is a handsome hunk, and he told us one or two interesting things.’

‘Like what?’

‘He said the rough sex was Pam’s idea. I wondered if you could confirm that.’

‘Fellahs, eh? They always say that.’

‘The thing is, he came across as telling the truth.’

‘Possible, I suppose. He is believable, but no one ever really knows anyone, do they?’

‘He also said Pam could be violent.’

‘Violent? No, I can’t believe that.’

‘He told us Pam stabbed him. Did you ever see her with a knife?’

‘Pam? No! Course not. If she stabbed him, where’s the wound?’

‘He dropped his pants and showed us.’

‘You kidding?’

‘Nope, big healing scar on his thigh.’

‘Bloody hell, but if she did, isn’t that reason for him to attack her?’

‘Maybe, but he said because of that, and the silly argument over her hair, he baled out, and insists he never saw her again. Did Pam ever mention it?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Okay, Connie. Thanks. You’ve been helpful. Just one other thing, you wouldn’t have any idea who else might have attacked her? Spurned boyfriends, or girlfriends come to that.’

‘Funny you should say that, for she did admire attractive women.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, if we were in the Rumba Club and a fantastic shapely girl with tumbling hair got up to dance, she would sometimes say: what I’d give to look like that? But I never thought it was any more.’

‘And men friends?’

‘Can’t think of anyone. If I do, I’ll let you know,’ and the conversation ended.

Karen called Darren over and told him to go back to Regiment House. ‘Take Kate with you, and call at the flat next door, the one with the couple lounging on the balcony. Did they ever see anyone coming or going in the back way, a big man like Gavin Chalgrove, for example, and if you can get the man by himself, ask if he ever went into Pam’s flat? Maybe the killer is there, hiding in plain sight. Be tactful, but pump them both for background information. They just might know something.’

‘Okey-doke, we will be off in five.’

Mrs West arrived on the scene, carrying a photocopied sheet, as she took a breath and said, ‘When we asked Mr Chalgrove to produce a list of former squeezes, were we expecting this?’

‘What is it, ma’am?’ asked Karen.

‘His list! Look at it!’ and she tossed a copy on the desk.

Karen scanned the names, counting.

‘Twenty-three! All with phone numbers. He’s been a busy boy, though I’m not surprised.’

‘No, I agree, and look at his cheeky comment at the foot.’

Karen’s eyes switched to the end of the page, and Gavin’s scrawly writing: I’m sure there’s more, but I can’t recall them off the top of my head. I’ll have another think and let you know.

Mrs West said, ‘What’s it like to be so popular?’ as the mobile in her skirt pocket rumbled. She took it out and answered, listening to a hasty message. It wasn’t a long call and in the next second it ended as Mrs West looked down at Karen and said, ‘No sign of blood on the grey clothing, and no trace of Pamela’s DNA.’

‘No surprise. We didn’t expect it.’

‘Okay, you get on and quiz the lady friends. Was he violent? Why did they break up? Could he have killed Pamela? Did they know Pam? Ever meet her? And if it wasn’t Gavin, would they have any idea who our killer might be?’

‘On it, ma’am.’

‘I’m beginning to think the murderer has not yet featured in our passion play.’

Karen said, ‘Hate to say, but I agree. Any news on the Guv?’

‘Not yet. It’s an almighty muck-up. I am sure there is an innocent explanation. I can’t see Walter being involved in spying, can you?’

Karen pulled a face that said she thought it possible.

‘You think he might?’

‘Not really, but as he is fond of saying; rule nothing out.’

‘The embassy people are working hard. They seem to think the authorities there are looking to do prisoner swaps, and Walter D would be an ideal person to nab to offer back.’

‘Let’s hope so, and soon. The quicker he’s free, the better.’

‘I warned him not to go, but he wouldn’t have it, blundering over there with that mad woman,’ and Mrs West snorted and strode back to her office.

Chapter twenty-two

A week after Jun Woo’s surprise visit, Walter Darriteau went on trial, charged with spying. Jun hadn’t returned to see him, and that disappointed Walter, as since his arrest, hers was the only friendly face he had seen.

He took a ride in another black BMW to the High Court of Hong Kong Building at 38 Queensway, Admiralty, a high rise, though nowhere near as tall as its neighbours.

The trial was scheduled to start at eleven o’clock. They were on site for ten, led to a private office on the third floor, to find two British and one local man waiting for him. One from the British Embassy, the second an appointed defence barrister, Christopher Armstrong, along with his clerk, Tommy Ching.

Christopher said, ‘We haven’t long, Mr Darriteau. No time to lose. Tell us all you know about this sorry business?’

‘Is this all the time we get to prepare my defence?’

‘It is.’

‘Is that normal?’

‘No, it isn’t. You seem to have upset the locals. They are in a big hurry about something. I’ll protest, of course, though I doubt the judge will listen.’

Walter shook his head and told them everything he knew. A ten-year-old camera, snapping countless tourist shots, and a recorded phone call from back in England, the words being twisted into something they were not, and that was it.

Chris said, ‘In the background of some photos were images of the latest Chinese warships. That right?’

‘Apparently so, but I didn’t know that. They were tiny, almost unseen, to the naked eye. Only when they were magnified umpteen times did the ships become visible, and even then, anyone with a quality camera could have taken far better shots than I. The vessels were there for all to see. There was no secrecy about it.’

‘Did you discuss with Mrs Moo taking photographs of Chinese ships?’

‘No, certainly not. You can ask her.’

‘We can’t today. She’s otherwise engaged.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The trial of her husband, Mickey Moo, on tax fraud charges, is in session three floors up. She is called as a witness. We can only subpoena her when and if that trial is over.’

‘Oh, brilliant. I am being framed, and I have no idea why. Nothing makes sense.’

‘I agree. It’s odd, to say the least, but it is what it is, and we must make the best of it.’

Walter shook his head as Christopher the barrister said, ‘Tell us about your companion, Marina Moo?’

He did. Everything he knew. A friend in need, he insisted, nothing more.

‘Is she your girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘But you were sharing a bed?’

‘Only because of an honest mix-up on the rooms.’

‘They won’t accept that. Prepare yourself for tricky and probing personal questions.’

Walter sighed and said, ‘I feel like I am slipping into quicksand with the safety rope well out of reach.’

Christopher tried a smile that didn’t work, and said, ‘Chin up, old boy, you’re no longer alone.’

The diplomat wallah nodded and added his support, though it sounded shallow and pathetic.

Three floors up, Mickey Moo stood in the dock. Marina Moo not in court, fretting in a witness room along the corridor, waiting to be called.

Mickey charged with tax fraud to the tune of £40,000, around 400,000 Hong Kong Dollars, which sounded so much worse.

It related to a restaurant Mickey and Marina owned, though her name was not on the lease, deeds, or documentation. They sold the restaurant, making a £160,000 profit, meaning Mickey was liable for a £40,000 capital gains tax. But before it was paid, or the local tax authorities could intervene, Mickey Moo transferred the assets out of Hong Kong to the UK, and left the territory for Britain to buy the Blue Lantern restaurant on Parkgate promenade.

Marina insisted her name went on the lease and all legal documents for the Lantern, resulting in her control of the business when he was extradited to HK. It was a clear-cut case of tax evasion, and Mickey was savvy enough to hold up his hand, plead guilty, apologise, and throw himself on the mercy of the court.

In theory, the case should have lasted a day, but legal people, being legal people, dragged it out to three days, for three days’ fees were a vast improvement on one.

In the consultation room downstairs, the public address in the corner burst into life, the announcement in English and Chinese: The trial of Mr Walter Darriteau will begin in ten minutes. All interested parties must assemble in the courtroom immediately if you have not already done so.

Two seconds later, the door opened, and the same two guards took hold of Walter’s wrists and eased him from the room, along the corridor to the court, and into the raised dock in the corner. A smart modern courtroom, everything fitted out in light-coloured teak, with lots of state-of-the-art technology sprinkled throughout the room.

The court was filling fast. Packed press and media benches, for the trial had generated enormous interest across Hong Kong, Greater China, the United States, and Britain. So many hacks and reporters had appeared in the territory, there was no room for them in the court. They were forced to assemble outside, waiting for news and further sightings of the accused.

All the press people inside were locals from Hong Kong or China, and all were convinced of the accused’s guilt.

The jury of seven, Jun Woo had been right, were all men, and they sat opposite Walter on the far side of the room, and stared at him from the first minute till last, as if instructed to do so, as if their combined stare-power might unearth vital information, and prove beyond doubt the guilty and out-of-condition man was a foreign spy.

They saw it as their patriotic duty to deal with him, for the authorities would never have wasted so much time and money if he were innocent, as claimed.

The court usher ordered all to stand. The judge, a short skinny individual of indeterminate age, entered the room accompanied by two outriders, heading for their place on the high and long bench set to Walter’s right.

Walter scanned the room. The gallery facing the judge was reserved for the public. He studied the faces for friendly eyes, but there were none, no Marina Moo or Jun Woo, no Mrs West or Karen G. He didn’t expect to see them, but it still came as a disappointment. He couldn’t know Mrs West had considered attending but was persuaded not to in case she was called as a witness, and heaven knows where that might have led.

The judge looked down at the prosecutor and defence barrister and called them forward, asking if they were ready.

‘No, Your Honour, we are not,’ pleaded Christopher. ‘The time allowed to prepare a defence has been hopelessly inadequate.’

The judge sighed, as if annoyed about something more than being harangued, and said, ‘Your objection is noted, Mr Armstrong, but regardless, I think we should begin. There are people here who have come from across the world to witness proceedings, and I don’t think we should disappoint them. Let’s make a start, and if it becomes obvious you are struggling, we can look at it again. As you know, trials here can be conducted in Chinese or English, and the defence has the choice. Would I be right in imagining you have chosen English?’

‘Correct, Your Honour.’

‘Excellent. Let’s get started.’

‘But, Your Honour, we have not had sufficient time…’

‘I have made my ruling, Mr Armstrong. The trial is now in session, the prosecution to open, I believe,’ and he nodded his man on, and various props already set up to show photographs on a big screen on the side wall were checked and made ready.             

The trial, which might have lasted eight weeks at the Old Bailey in London, was rushed through in two days. All relevant evidence broadcast, magnified, and heard. The defence had no credible explanation for the obvious gathering of military intelligence, and for many, the case was proven beyond doubt.

The jury of seven staring and scary guys was sent out. It didn’t surprise anyone they were back in less than half an hour. In Hong Kong, time was money like nowhere else.

The usher addressed the foreman and asked if they had reached a verdict.

‘We have.’

‘And is that a unanimous decision?’

‘It is.’

‘And how do you find the accused on the charge of spying? Innocent or guilty?’

‘Guilty!’

A rumble of subdued chatter waved through the court, but not much, as everyone had been warned about yelling and screaming, and when people in Hong Kong courts were told to behave, most times they did.

A slight pause before the judge said, ‘I have to say I agree wholeheartedly with the jury and the verdict. The photographs taken by the accused were on his camera, and he admitted in countless previous interviews he took the pictures and had no explanation for it, other than the feeble excuse it was all a coincidence and a mistake. We are not stupid in Hong Kong. I mean, look at the photographs!’ and all eyes turned to the vast pictures magnified a hundred times, beaming down from the big screen on the wall, scrolling through, showing the latest Chinese warships bristling with modern weapons and technology. ‘You will note, he didn’t take any photographs of tankers or container ships. No, he took more than twenty-five pictures of military vessels carrying top-secret equipment, and that is damning.’

The judge paused and stared round the packed and enrapt room. He had thought long and hard on the sentence, making sure he discussed it with his superiors beforehand. It was always his intention to give the man twenty-five years, and that would almost certainly see him out, including the first ten in hard labour. He would do well to survive that.

However, all judges had received recent communiqués stating sentences for convicted criminals in Hong Kong should be severe to deter the rise in rape, murder, violence, gang warfare, smuggling, fraud, and all other serious offences, including espionage and spying.

Based on that, he bumped it to thirty, hoping his superiors would approve. It was a pity the death penalty no longer ran in Hong Kong because if it had, he would have enjoyed issuing it.

Over the border in China, countless opinion polls showed continued and strong public support for the death penalty, which encouraged the government to execute more people than the rest of the world put together. The actual figures remained a state secret, though best guess estimates put it between 2,500 and 7,500 legal killings every year.  

Just as the judge was about to deliver the sentence, a door at the far right was flung open. Everyone stared at the commotion as a man on vital business rushed in. Walter estimated him to be mid-thirties, well-dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, shiny shoes, perfect dark hair, hard-parted on the left, a man boasting darting eyes, as he hurried across towards the bench.

The judge looked at the stranger and said, ‘What is it? Who are you? Who gave you the authority to interrupt my court?’

Frantic whispering followed between judge and newcomer, an animated conversation lasting two minutes before it stopped as abruptly as it began. The judge sat back, stared round the expectant court, nodded at all present, and considered delivering his valediction.

Chapter twenty-three

The Harlech Castle arrived at Port Tewfik at the southern end of the Suez Canal in eleven days, urged on by a following wind, the brisk Kusi breeze off the Kenyan coast, and an ocean determined to see them arrive on time.

The chief engineer won his bet, and an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker was delivered below. Tewfik was busy. The Cheshire boys counted five merchantmen, all disgorging men and materiel, British, Australian, New Zealanders, and South African.

Those on the Harlech Castle had to wait for a suitable berth, and weary men to assist in the unloading. As they waited, the SS Franconia showed up, a single funnelled Cunard liner, in her monotone war colours; the red funnel no more, fresh in from India, carrying a thousand Indian troops.

Five hours after arrival, unloading of the Harlech Castle began. A long line of beige Foden trucks showed up, the troops keen to get moving.

‘Leave nothing behind!’ ordered the RSM, as the boys made their way towards the metal staircase. ‘You will not be coming back.’

Some thought it portentous. They all hoped to return, though maybe not on the grand old Harlech.

The trucks were soon crammed, everyone eager to get going.

The trip was rocky, dusty, uncomfortable, and seemed never-ending as Catterall stared at the sergeant and said, ‘Any idea where we are going, sarge?’

‘I do not, and even if I did, I would not tell you. Careless talk costs lives, Catterall, you know that.’

‘Is it okay if I smoke?’

‘If you must adopt that filthy habit. It’s your insides you are burning out, not mine.’

Everyone knew the sarge had a bug in his bonnet about smoking, though it made no sense, for everyone knew burning tobacco cleaned out tubes, and a minute later, all the men were smoking, as they pondered what lay ahead.

The road was decent; and well signposted, and most paid attention. CAIRO, the repeated name, 90 miles, straight west on a busy road, jam-packed trucks heading one way, empties coming back. A sight to see, and Harry Worthington regretted not bringing his Kodak box camera, though he doubted the sarge would let him use it.

The question on everyone’s lips: were they to be based near Cairo, and would they get a spot of leave? Maybe they could get into town to check out the fleshpots, for tales of such places were legendary, or would they continue further west? Every mile they travelled, one mile closer to the fighting, and the possibility of casualties.

They didn’t stop at Cairo, the sense of disappointment palpable, but circled the city to the north, urged on by locals in flowing white, waving them away as if they were late for a family wedding. ‘On you go! On you go!’

Colin Catterall said to anyone who would listen, ever eager to display his geographic knowledge, ‘Maybe we are going to Giza. I have always wanted to see the pyramids.’

‘That would be great, Catts,’ said Leo, thinking ahead to having his photo taken with his mates, the pyramids as the backdrop. The girls at home would love that.

They didn’t go to Giza, but switched north, as they watched for signposts and mile markers, and there they were. ALEXANDRIA, 130 Miles, and another long four-hour trip.

‘Big navy base,’ said Harry. ‘Who knows, we might board another ship.’

‘Doubt it,’ said Catterall, ‘we are here to fight, not to cruise.’

Another two hours passed and Leo stood up, rubbing his backside, saying, ‘I’ve lost all feeling in my backside. How much longer?’

The sarge said, ‘We will get there when we get there. Not a minute sooner or a minute later, so sit down, wrap up, shut your eyes, and think of wondrous things.’

Leo did, and though he started thinking of his mother and sister, it wasn’t long before his thoughts settled on Bertha Williams and her cheeky smile; and where his letters had travelled, and where she was, and what she was doing.

Norman Burriton finished his ciggie and tossed the butt out of the lorry, saying, ‘I am famished. When do we eat?’

Donald Grayson looked at him and said, ‘You are always hungry. I don’t know where you put it. There’s nothing of you.’

‘That’s because I’m wiry, and I expend more energy than most.’

Johnny Kingston joined in.

‘Energy? You? On what?’

Norman scowled and said, ‘On everything I do.’

The sun slipped lower in the sky and soon after, a dusty dusk set in. It would be dark by half-past five. The trucks lit up, unconcerned about German or Italian fighters. Perhaps they were still too far east, but it wasn’t long before they killed the lamps, as they bounced along in the dark, the only light to be seen, muffled on oncoming vehicles.

Johnny Kingston said, ‘You reckon there will be a red light zone in Alex, Catterall?’

‘Course there is. Stands to reason. Lots of rampant blokes, and the local bints will know there is business to be had. It’s party time for them, and for us; if we get there.’

‘Is that all you can think about, dipping your wick?’ said the sarge, ‘when we are experiencing historic days. Look around you. These are the times you will tell your grandkids about, not a backstreet brothel that will do you more harm than good. You won’t even get to see her face.’

Donald Grayson smirked and said, ‘It’s not her face I am interested in, and it might be our last opportunity.’

A sobering thought; and one that brought a cold silence back into the bucking truck. An hour later, they came to a fork in the road. Right for Alex, left for Abu Mina Camp.

Two MPs on traffic duty, swinging portable lamps, pointing repeatedly towards the camp. All the trucks obeyed and swerved left, heading for home, and a bed of some kind, a good feed, with hopes of decent latrines, and maybe some mail.

Chapter twenty-four

Penrod and Delta Spennithorne were the middle-aged folks who enjoyed their ground-floor balcony to the full.

Sunning themselves, as Delta explained they were attracted to each other because of their unusual names, which was a new one on Darren, but if that was what turned them on, so be it. They said they had never seen anyone skulking round the back, looking to force their way into Pamela’s flat, though they had an idea who they were talking about.

‘Bit of a hunk, isn’t he?’ said Delta, winking at Kate. ‘Pam’s former bloke. I spoke to him a couple of times.’

‘Did you?’ said Penrod. ‘You never told me.’

‘Oh, come off it, Pen. I don’t tell you every time I speak to someone. It was nothing, and anyway, he came across as the perfect gentleman, but then he would, wouldn’t he, if he were after something?’

‘And was he?’ asked Kate, ‘after something?’

‘Men like him are always after something, darling. If you haven’t learnt that, you need to buck up,’ a stinging rebuke that hurt Kate more than she showed.

Delta spoke again. ‘Come to think of it, I might have a photo of us all together. I’ll nip inside and see if I can find it.’

‘You never said,’ said Pen, watching his wife disappear indoors, not hearing her riposte.

‘You never remember anything, and you’re in the damn photo.’

Darren and Penrod shared a look, as Darren eased him to one side.

‘Did you ever go into Pamela’s flat when there were just the two of you there?’

‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Are you hinting at what I think you are hinting at?’

‘Not hinting at anything. Just a straightforward question. Were you ever alone with her?’

‘The answer is no, and neither did Pamela and I ever get it together, if that sets your mind at rest. Delta is more than enough woman for me.’

Right on cue Delta returned, brandishing a small square pic of the four of them in the back, standing in the middle of the small lawn, drinks in hand, looking merry, both men with arms around their woman, Gavin looking huge and happy against the others.

‘I remember it now,’ said Penrod, tapping his forehead with his palm. ‘Forget my own name sometimes.’

Darren said, ‘Who took this?’

‘My sister,’ said Delta.

Penrod said, ‘Sometimes Delta spends more time with her sister than she does with me.’

‘Mind if we borrow this?’

Delta replied. ‘Not at all, though I’d like it back.’

Darren nodded and said they would copy it and return the original.

Neither of the Spennithornes had anything relevant to add, and a few minutes later, Darren and Kate headed back to the station.

On the short walk, Kate said, ‘He had a roving eye.’

‘I noticed, checking you out, and if he was that way inclined, I could see him making a play for Pamela when the wife was at her sister’s.’

‘Yes, and maybe Pam regretted it, nipped it in the bud, and he got angry, lost his temper, and attacked her.’

‘All possible, though we have zero evidence to support it.’

‘Worth mentioning to Karen and DCI Foggon, though.’

‘For sure. Penrod is not a big guy, but a wiry individual, and I’d wager fit for his age, capable of overpowering Pam if the feeling took him.’

‘Agreed. I’d favour him over Gavin. You ever wanted to be called Penrod?’

‘Certainly not. Never heard the name before, and I don’t think I will ever hear it again. Bit of a Nancy moniker, if you ask me.’

Kate grinned and hurried on, keen to get back to see what was happening, for she knew a full update meet was due to begin.

They arrived in time to find Karen talking about Gavin’s former girlfriends. She had so far spoken to eighteen of them, the other five not yet contacted.

After some cajoling and burying of vanity, they all said the same thing. Gavin finished with them, not the other way round, and most would have taken him back, given the chance. He was a gentle giant, but firm and strong, and sometimes he didn’t know his own strength, but he was tender, unless they wanted it otherwise.

Not one thought they were ever in any danger, or that he was capable of murder, but as some said, who knows? Belying his build and looks, he was something of a mummy’s boy, and as one of them added, were mummy’s boys more or less likely to be murderers? An interesting question; and one Karen asked Kate to check the stats when she had the time.

Gavin’s photo remained on the murder board, though his place in the limelight was fading.

Before that, Kate’s first job was to have the foursome photo enlarged. It went on the board, as the assembled crowd were introduced to Delta and Penrod Spennithorne.

DCI Foggon said, ‘What do we know about these people?’

Darren shook his head and said, ‘Nothing so far. They are not known to us.’

‘Okay, you two get on that as soon as we have finished. Deep dive into their history, dig up everything you can.’

Mrs West took the group-think in a different direction. ‘Who is Gavin’s new squeeze?’

No one knew; as she made another comment. ‘Don’t forget Mike Davies.’

Mike Davies, Gavin Chalgrove, or Penrod Spennithorne? Right there, none of them stood out as the killer, but any of them could have been, or was it someone else? They needed a break. Maybe Spennithorne’s background checks would produce it, though no one was confident.

If it were none of them, they were back to square one, seeking someone new, an opportunistic killer, a burglary gone wrong, or maybe a former lover, and perhaps somewhere in there lay the truth.

If Pamela Grayson was an habitual violent woman, perhaps there had been other instances of it in her past. Had she attacked anyone else? If so, how many and who? She didn’t appear to be a woman with many friends, wedded as she was to the Colonial Coffee Company, and it was there in the figure of Connie Kirkham where the best opportunity lay in discovering more about Pamela Grayson’s background and past.

Karen volunteered for the job and was given it. She and Jenny would pay another visit to Saint James Chambers in Liverpool on the hunt for new leads. In the meantime, Kate checked again on Pam’s history. Was she known to the police?         

Chapter twenty-five

In the Hong Kong courtroom, the busy man left as fast as he had arrived, not looking at the crowd. For a moment, the judge seemed lost for words, before gathering himself to speak.

The usher called for silence and the judge addressed the court.

‘You might be disappointed to learn the proceedings today have been stopped.’

A rumble of discontent waved through the room like a Mexican wave about to begin.

‘There is nothing to be done about it. A greater authority than I, has intervened. I have received fresh instructions from on high,’ and he glanced across at Walter and continued, ‘you, Mr Darriteau; were found guilty in a fair and just manner, but I cannot at this stage issue a fair and just punishment.’

A louder rumble barrelled its way up towards the judge, as someone shouted, ‘The foreigner is guilty!’

‘Silence!’ bawled the usher, before turning and looking up at the judge.

Both men wanted to get out of there as fast as possible and called for the guards.

The judge said, ‘Handcuff the prisoner and return him to the consultation room.’

Both the defence barrister and prosecutor jumped to their feet, arms out, pleading, ‘What is going on, Your Honour?’

‘I have made my ruling. The trial is discontinued. It is beyond my control. Proceedings are abandoned for the day. Clear the court!’

Walter was handcuffed and led away.

Two minutes later, he was back in the waiting room, sitting at a table, the armed guards standing against one wall, monitoring him, awaiting fresh instructions. Christopher Armstrong and his men arrived in a hurry.

Walter stood and said, ‘What is happening?’

Armstrong shrugged and said, ‘No idea. I wish I knew. We have never seen anything like it.’

Walter said, ‘Could it be good news?’

Chris rippled his eyebrows and said, ‘Who knows? Maybe a prisoner exchange has been arranged. We did mention the possibility.’

‘Can’t come soon enough,’ said Walter, sitting back down. ‘What now?’

The embassy wallah spoke.

‘All we can do is wait. We will give them twenty minutes and see what transpires. Nothing by then, and I’ll go hunting.’

Christopher stared at him and said, ‘Why wait? I’m sure Walter would appreciate early clarity, and so would I.’

‘Correct,’ said Walter.

The embassy guy stood up, brushed himself down, and headed outside, leaving one parting comment. ‘If they are looking for a fight, I’m going to give them one,’ which sounded pointless bravado to Walter and Chris, as they looked at each other, and settled down and hoped for the best.

Half an hour dragged by, and the embassy guy did not return.

The next time the door opened, two different guards entered the room. They hurried to their brothers, where frantic whispering took place. One of the originals bobbed his head, stared at Walter and Chris, and said, ‘These two officers will take the prisoner away.’

‘Where to?’ snapped Chris.

‘I cannot say. I don’t know.’

‘What the hell is going on?’ said Walter.

The new guards wasted no time in taking hold of Walter’s arms to lead him to the door.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ said Chris, as the two originals placed themselves between the prisoner’s legal team, as Walter was removed.

The door was opened, and the accused bundled out.

Christopher ran to the door to see Walter being led down the corridor; Chris shouting after him, ‘I’ll be straight on it, Walter. They won’t get away with this. Stay strong. I’ll ask to see you before the day is out.’

They took Walter downstairs and bundled him into another BMW 5, a broad driver wearing dark shades in situ, the engine idling, the two new guards on either side of him in the back, as the car zipped away amongst a halo of flashing cameras, bawled questions, boos, jeers, and howls of derision.

Twenty seconds later, the car zipped away on the busy fast-flowing city highway, as Walter said, ‘Where are we going?’

They were not returning to the main police station, but heading in the opposite direction. The guards did not reply, and for a second, he wondered if they spoke English. Walter monitored the bi-lingual traffic signs and didn’t like what he saw.    

Earlier, at the Mickey Moo fraud trial, the jury verdict arrived. Another guilty decision, and this time the sentence would be heard. Marina Moo wasn’t in the room. It seemed someone was keen to keep her out of it. Michael Moo received ten years, a just punishment, said the female judge, and an adequate deterrent to anyone who might be tempted to follow the same path.

Hong Kong boasted a whopping twenty-nine prisons, though they insisted in calling them correctional facilities, and the largest one would swallow Mickey Moo before the day was out.

Marina was told of the sentence and granted a ten-minute visitor meet, before her husband was rushed away. She knew it would be tricky because she had no intention of waiting for him, and meant to tell him so. Things hadn’t been great between them for more than a year and he couldn’t be surprised.

On seeing him, Mickey jumped in first with his input.

‘Look, Marina, I wanted to tell you this before, but since I have been back in Hong Kong, I have met someone else. I know it will come as a surprise, and I’m so sorry, but my lawyers are preparing divorce papers. Don’t be upset. You’re an attractive woman, and will soon find someone new, and it’s better for both of us this way.’

Marina hid her relief well, sniffling into her handkerchief.

‘You sure, darling? I would have waited.’

‘No, it’s best this way. Forgive me, and think of me sometimes.’

‘I will, Mickey, of course I will. You take good care of yourself,’ and a minute later, she left the room before he changed his mind.

The ubiquitous guards waited to inform her she was confined to the hotel, and it was more than their job was worth to let her run free. They took her downstairs and back to the Great Eastern, where they reminded the security staff she must not leave the building; placing the onus on them to make sure she remained onsite. Perhaps they didn’t know how cunning Marina Moo could be.

She was desperate to know what happened at Walter’s trial and used one of her two principal weapons, bribery.

A decent slug slipped to a poorly paid hotel porter, and he agreed to meet her in the basement garage. The moment he arrived, they jumped into his compact Toyota, Marina crouching in the footwell of the passenger seat. Two minutes later, they zoomed back towards the court in time to see a big black BMW ease its way out through a growing and hostile crowd.

Marina buzzed down her window and caught a fleeting glimpse of Walter on the back seat between two guards. She called his name, but in the rowdy melee, angry people shouting insults at the guilty foreigner, whipped up by the media, he didn’t hear her, staring ahead as if in a trance.

‘Follow that car!’ yelled Marina.

‘Not a chance! More than my job’s worth. More than my life’s worth. Only an idiot or a triad operator would follow a car like that,’ and he turned the Toyota round, and sped back towards the hotel before their absence was noticed.

As they approached the Great Eastern, he ordered her out of sight. Thirty seconds later, the little hatchback slipped below into the dingy underground car park, identical to all such places across the globe, grey, dry, cold, stained and sterile.

Another minute passed, and she was back in her room, where he ordered her to remain, or he would report her to security. After he’d gone, she lay on the bed, the rolled-up border dividing the territory still in place, as she cursed her minder, though at least she had an idea of what happened to Walter. The question was, where were they taking him, and when would she see him again?      

Chapter twenty-six

There had been an Egyptian military camp at Abu Mina for over fifteen years, but it was small and little used.

The British found it, commandeered it, and expanded it beyond recognition to accommodate the continuing influx of men and materiel to support the war effort against the advancing German and Italian troops.

The camp comprised four basic single-storey block-built buildings, the first shared between officers and admin, an overwhelmed canteen, a tiny hospital that became a damaged-body feeding station for the larger medical facilities at Alexandria and Cairo, and an army general store.

All around, on sloping sandy ground, the camp transformed into a bustling city, hundreds of large canvas tents, each capable of sleeping twenty men. The tents had changed little since being used in the Boer Wars forty years before; many of them Boer war survivors.

Each tent boasted a low-powered oil lamp over the entrance flap with a similar light inside. A handful of officers knew the camp accommodated 25,000 men and growing fast, backed up by a handful of women nurses and admin support staff.

The personnel turnaround at Abu Mina was terrific, typically seven days maximum, from arrival to dispatch to the war zones in the west.

After the hard and rocky ride from Port Tewfik via Cairo, all the men were relieved to get off the trucks to stretch their legs, and grab a smoke, as they assembled in lines of five. They watched the incoming sergeant-majors meet with their on-site colleagues, as accommodation was allocated, and men marched away in the darkness to their new quarters.

As they banged along, canvas mess halls were pointed out, two of them, growing by the month, and not far away, the latrine blocks, though everyone recognised them long before seeing them. In the tents, each man grabbed a berth on skinny double bunks, before being ordered to the canteen for supper. Powdered scrambled eggs, chips, and two bangers out of a massive tin.

It wasn’t great, but filling, and when men were hungry, they would eat anything. Harry Worthington noticed regulars were begging the cooks for empty sausage tins to take away. Leo heard them too, and said aloud, ‘Why would anyone want an empty tin can?’

A veteran of six days overheard and said, ‘Some blokes prefer not to dump in public. You know, fill an empty sausage tin with your own, and bury it or chuck it away. The RSMs don’t like it, but I’ve seen some of them doing the same.’

‘Bit dangerous, ain’t it?’ said a grinning Leo. ‘Some of those tin tops are razor sharp.’

‘You pays your money and takes your choice. It was never my preference, and you are right, there have been accidents.’

After the meal, it was back to the tent, lights out at ten, with a warning reveille would be at five-thirty, and be ready for a busy day ahead.

The gobby sergeant said, ‘You have lots to learn, my darlings, and precious little time to do it. Think of it as your wedding night, and you, untouched nervous lovelies, so soak up everything you are told, for you sure as hell will need to. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.’

The first night in Abu Mina camp, a place no one liked, though one they would come to reminisce fondly over when they were further west, facing Rommel’s howitzers.

Everyone was exhausted and desperate for sleep, maybe over-tired, for they talked in low voices for longer than they should, speculating on what lay ahead, before switching to thinking and dreaming of home, wondering when and where they would receive the first mail from blighty since leaving Liverpool, and what news those precious letters might bring.

Had the bombing grown worse? Was the house still standing? Was everyone okay? Still alive? That was the thing about modern warfare. It no longer concerned just the men on the frontline. Fast planes and bombs brought it into everyone’s home. Families were no longer safe in their own parlours. It beggared belief how the world had sunk to such an evil place in such a short time.

Chapter twenty-seven

The deep dive into Penrod and Delta Spennithorne’s background proved more interesting than any of them imagined.

He and Delta ran a property agency, Cheshire Rentals and Management, struggling to gain traction when they launched the business twenty-five years before, but once they shifted the snowball over a couple of times, it picked up momentum. After two years hard graft on minimal pay, they knew they had made the right decision, and doubled-down on their ambition.

It was the first time they made a decent profit, and all projections showed results going only one way, and it wasn’t long before they found it necessary to spend money on allowable assets to keep the taxman at bay.

They married in 2001 after meeting at a millennium booze-up party, intrigued by the other’s names, infatuated from day one, hormones flying, fancying the other like crazy, launching into the affair of their lives, and marrying soon after.

Jenny Thompson, researching their background, didn’t know much of that, just the bare bones, though it was what came before on Penrod’s side that caught the eye.

He had been something of a wild child, boasting a substantial criminal record, first arrested aged nineteen for street-fighting and football hooliganism. Fined £200 and bound over to keep the peace, a peace he broke within two months after another violent affray, seeing him arrested again.

The judge, mindful of overloading prisons, gave him a stern warning, ordered an ankle tag for three months, fined him again, £500 this time, and made it clear: any further violent offences to come before the court, and Penrod would experience the inside of a local prison.

It seemed the penny dropped, for he was not recorded in trouble again for another eighteen months, but was then arrested alongside five others for fighting in the streets. He broke an opposition supporter’s nose, before spying another bluenose fan lying dazed on the ground. Penrod dashed in and stamped the stricken youth on the head.

All the scrappers witnessed it, though none would report it, for grassing wasn’t done. The appalling assault was witnessed by a young PC who made it his business to arrest the perpetrator, not that Penrod Spennithorne went quietly, his strength belying his slim, wiry frame, his arms whirling like an out-of-control windmill.

Soon after, PC Harry Jardine spoke admirably in court, and the judge, glancing at Penrod’s recent atrocious history of violence, had no hesitation in sentencing him to thirty months in prison, adding: you could have killed that young man, and if such a tragedy had occurred, you would not be going to prison for thirty months, but thirty years. Make myself clear?

Penrod nodded at the judge, and maybe something changed in his mind, or if it didn’t, it would soon after when he found himself incarcerated in the Dana, an archaic Victorian establishment in nearby Shrewsbury, a hellhole of a place closed in 2013. It was converted into a living museum, with tourist day visits featuring lock-ins and bawled threats, all part of the terrifying experience. Always busy; the kids loved it amidst much screamed laughter, the adults, not so much.

Jenny did the maths. Penrod was released for good behaviour after serving two years, and married three years later, as Jen wondered if he had been honest with his new wife. Did he tell her of his violent and incarcerated past? Or maybe he waited a while into the happy marriage before revealing his dark secrets. Or could it be Delta remained blissfully ignorant of her husband’s history and prison record?

That would be discussed when he was questioned. She grabbed a printout and headed to Mrs West’s office where she knew a conflab was in session involving Mrs West, DCI Foggon, and Karen Greenwood.

The door was closed. Jenny tapped on it hard enough to be noticed.

Those inside paused their discussion, as Mrs West said, ‘Come!’

Jenny opened up and went inside.

‘What is it, Jennifer?’

‘Penrod Spennithorne has form, ma’am.’

‘Really? Tell us more.’

‘GBH; served two years in the Dana.’

Karen said, ‘Did he? I thought there was something strange about him, a man hiding dark secrets. It stuck out a mile.’

‘When did he come out?’ asked Foggon.

‘A good while ago, sir. 1998, and soon after, it seems he met Delta, and they married in 2001.’

Mrs West said, ‘I thought we said neither had a criminal record?’

‘We did, ma’am. I can’t imagine how it was missed. It was there for all to see.’

There was a pause as everyone gauged the icy look on Mrs West’s face.

Alex Foggon broke the spell when he said, ‘I think we need to speak to Penrod and Delta. The names sound like something out of the Round Table.’

‘We do,’ said Mrs West. ‘Do we know where they are?’

Jenny said, ‘They run a property agents, Cheshire Rentals.’

‘I know it,’ said Mrs West, ‘it’s local, here in the city, Northgate Street, I think. Decent business, from what I recall.’

‘You are right, ma’am. ‘

‘Nice and handy for an easy apprehend. Right, you, Darren, Martin and Kate. Get down there and bring them in. Make sure they are in separate cars. If one or either are out on a call, find out where they are and fetch them. Clear?’

‘Perfectly, ma’am.’

‘Well done, Jen.’

Jenny smiled and bobbed her head, glanced down at them, turned about, and left to assemble her party.

‘She’s a bright one,’ said Foggon.

‘She is,’ said Mrs West, ‘and why I am keen to keep her,’ though Mrs West was uncomfortable discussing anyone’s promotion prospects, or lack of them, in front of Karen, and shut down the thread by saying, ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a couple of calls to make.’

Karen and Foggon took the hint, upped and left.

Chapter twenty-eight

The black BMW 5 bullied its way through the packed Hong Kong traffic as if the general populace knew it was best not to interfere.

Walter studied every road sign, all of them in Chinese and English. He asked the guards again where they were heading, but they did not reply.

It seemed there were no quiet roads in Hong Kong, but they came to a less busy area. A new sign appeared on the road direction boards. HZMB. Walter thought he knew what it meant and hoped he was wrong. They were heading for the mega bridge development, a monster construction leading to mainland China.

He had been reading about it in the Cathay Pacific magazine he found on the plane, and it was an extraordinary development. The longest manmade sea crossing in the world, combined with a 7km tunnel, HZMB, meant Hong Kong Zhuhai-Macao Bridge. Unless they pulled off soon, they were taking him out of Hong Kong and into the bosom of the beast, and what would happen there, and when would he get out?

Traffic on the gargantuan bridge was light; in some places, non-existent. Someone had splurged billions of dollars, or yuan, on a vanity project, and it seemed many had chosen not to use it. Reputations would be damaged. Promotions delayed, and explanations demanded. Walter could imagine that, and more, though it was not for him to worry about because he had massive problems of his own.

Back in Hong Kong, in the Great Eastern Hotel, Marina Moo tried to doze, though sleeping was not on the agenda. What should she do? If they agreed, she wanted to fly back to Manchester. She’d sorted her business with Mickey, or he had sorted it for her, and she was grateful for that, but could she leave without Walter?

She felt guilty, for it was her idea for him to accompany her. He wouldn’t be there but for her, and where had they taken him, and how long would it be before they granted him permission to leave? It could be days, weeks, months or years, and she could not wait. What an unholy mess.

Marina jumped from the bed, went to the window, and stared out at the view. It was true; from there, she could see for miles. She thought about him and wondered where he was, scuttling about out there, wondering where he was heading, not that she could do anything about it, as she came to a tough decision.

She would attempt one last time to contact the police and ask if he could accompany her back to England; and if not, she would return to Manchester, permissions allowing. Marina had a business to run, and it wouldn’t look after itself.

If there was no prospect of Walter being freed, and they permitted it, she would fly back on the first available flight, stopping en route, or not. She turned back towards the bed, and as she did, a friendly knock came to the door.

She stopped and thought and crept towards it. Who could it be? The porter? The cops? Even Walter? How great that would be.

‘Who is it?’

‘A friend.’

Marina could sure do with one, and opened the door an inch, but it wasn’t a friend. Another local police officer, a neat young woman she had never seen before.

‘What do you want?’ snapped Marina, staring at the figure of authority.

‘I know Walter, I’m trying to help,’ a kind enough reply to persuade Marina to open the door and usher her in.

The smart woman entered the room and accepted the offered seat in the corner. Marina, hands on hips, looked down at the stranger, and said, ‘How do you know Walter?’

In the black BMW, amongst sparse traffic, the car zoomed through a seven-kilometre tunnel, before rising again onto another section of bridge.

Ten minutes later, more road signs told him the news he feared. ZHUHAI, 15K. Another bustling Chinese city like so many others, and it wasn’t long before the car was at the border, facing twenty-five vehicle checkpoints, all with their little frontier poles, no queue before any of them, the vast majority of checkpoints unwanted, unmanned, and unused.

‘I protest!’ said Walter.

‘Shut up, fat man!’ snarled the guard to his left, ‘or we will toss you off the first available high bridge.’

If nothing else, it revealed they understood English.

Walter sat back and fell silent as they were waved through the checkpoint. In the next minute, they changed from driving on the left to the right, zooming onward, ducking under countless road signs, some bi-lingual, but most, Chinese only.

Where were they going, and why? And what did they want? And most urgent of all, what did they plan to do with him? Walter shivered and stared through the window, as Mrs West’s piercing voice flitted into his head.

‘Don’t be naïve, Walter!’

There was no answer to that. As so often the case, she had been right.

Chapter twenty-nine

Getting up at five-thirty after a night spent in nervous conversation was beyond hard.

The sergeants yelled, as sleepy men stumbled around in the dark, for it wouldn’t get light till seven, as they went about shaving and brushing teeth; before being marched to the canteen for a cooked breakfast.

Everyone ate everything, fried spam and sausages with fresh bread, for one never knew when they might eat again.

At half-past seven, with the sun peeping over the horizon, a convoy of trucks arrived, and the men piled aboard for a thirty-minute trip south into an area of scrubby flatland desert.

A sight to behold met them. A hundred new 25-pounder field guns, lined up as if appearing by magic, along with matching Morris CDSW tractor units, a powerful 3.5 litre six-wheeler beast to haul the guns anywhere. British built equipment all the men knew and were comfortable with. It could have been worse. Earlier battalions were allocated outdated guns returned from the trenches after World War I.

The Cheshires lined up as a sarge arrived, staring at his clipboard, determined to match four-man gun crews to the kit. He demanded hush, yelling, ‘I’ll tell you this once. Pay attention!’

‘Unit 001,’ pointing to the front mudguard and the freshly painted white number, ‘manned by Simpson, Henderson, Whitely, and Grahame.’

The four lucky fellas grinned at each other and moaned at their compatriots, for a good moan early in the morning was to be expected.

‘Well, don’t just stand there like useless tossers, get over there and meet your bitch!’

The men grinned and hurried to the metal, Simpson telling everyone he would drive.

The sarge yelled again, his northern voice echoing across the open ground.

‘Unit 002 manned by Burriton, Frost, Grayson, and Fenton.’

It seemed a decent crew. Johnny Fenton had won many gunnery competitions, and most would have wanted him on their team. They didn’t wait to be bawled out; running to their kit to give it the once-over.

‘Unit 003, that’s yours, Moorland, Worthington, Catterall, and Kingston.’

Leo was delighted. One of the few teenagers; paired with his mates, though whether they were as pleased to be matched with the kid from Rock Ferry was another matter. An officer arrived to inspect the allocated crews before pointing south, a mile away, to a line of red flags in the sand and gravel.

‘Get over there. Line up twenty yards apart, and prepare for firing. The gunnery officers will show you your targets. In the back of the Morris, you will find ten rounds. If your performance is good enough, you pass and return to Abu Mina. If you don’t, you stay here for as long as it takes. Make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the men, as they ran over and climbed aboard, Catterall insisting he was driving.

‘I wanted to drive,’ said Leo.

‘Not enough experience,’ said Harry Worthington, as he sat alongside Colin, with Leo and Johnny Kingston riding shotgun behind.

Leo was not about to let it go.

‘If I’m not getting any experience behind the wheel here, when will I get it?’

It was a fair point, but one they would not debate. Catterall started the engine, said, ‘Hold tight!’ and set the Morris rumbling across the stony ground in hot pursuit of the first two.

At the firing line, they saw the targets two hundred yards away, a mixture of old Italian metal, blitzed several times but perfect for their needs.

The gunnery officer briefed the first group as they prepared to fire. It wasn’t difficult. Level ground, stationary vehicles, no air attack or incoming fire, targets not far away, and negligible stress.

The first group did well, scoring three direct hits, and the gunnery officer grinned and ordered them away. Group two, with hotshot Fenton aboard, did better, with four direct hits. The gunnery officer complimented them and signed them off.

Leo thought the noise terrific, forgetting to plug his ears, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. He had visited Salisbury Plain several times conducting live fire exercises, and nothing but the fast-rising temperature was new to him.

They didn’t do as well, the disappointment showing on their faces. One direct hit, and several near-misses, but the gunnery officer, conscious of not wasting time and ammunition, scowled, and told them they would have to improve, but passed them, and ordered them away.

As they fled, Catterall said, ‘That was shite!’

‘I didn’t think it was bad for a first attempt,’ said Harry.

‘It was rubbish,’ insisted Catts, and no one would argue.

If it came to a close encounter shoot-out with the krauts, they all guessed they would lose, and that brought things into perspective. ‘We’ll do better next time,’ said Johnny Kingston.

‘Course we will,’ added Leo. ‘Give it time and we’ll beat Fenton and anyone else.’

‘Time is one thing we don’t have!’ said Colin Catts. ‘We are entering a never never-land and one thing we cannot do is muck up. You don’t get a second chance. We must be ruthless. It’s kill or be killed, and I’m not ready to be tossed into a cheap timber box,’ a comment to reinforce what a dire and dangerous business they had entered.

On the bumpy trip back, Leo said, ‘I wonder if any mail has come.’

‘You and your bloody mail,’ said Catterall. ‘Give it a rest.’

Harry said, ‘There will be nothing yet. Don’t get your hopes up, kid. We are thousands of miles from home. It’s not as if the postie can jump on his bike and drop the mail off every morning. It could take weeks or even months; and don’t forget, if it’s coming by air, all it takes is one lucky Luftwaffe shot, and down she goes into the sea, obliterating everything.’

‘Or not come at all,’ said Johnny Kingston, and that brought a quiet and depressing mood into the Morris, as they bucked and banged along a non-existent road, heading north to where they hoped Abu Mina would be.

Chapter thirty

Naz Macbeth sat back in a rented house in Port Sunlight on the Wirral. To be accurate, it was his mother’s home, but she was sick, staying in an Eastham nursing home, temporarily, they said, which he hoped to be true because the fees were ridiculous.

The kitchen clock and grey morning light told him it was ten past eight in the morning as he scrolled through his tablet, searching social media, taking his news that way, instantly updated, cost-free, and, if he looked hard enough, devoid of the overwhelming power of the mainstream media. He’d fallen out of love with media giants, believing they could no longer be trusted, and he wasn’t alone in that.

On his personal feed, a police interview came up, streaming loud, repeated for those who missed it the previous afternoon. A quiet, well-spoken gent, one would never believe he was a Detective Chief Inspector, appealing for information regarding a murder in Chester, when one Pamela Grayson was discovered dead on her bed.

‘Wow!’ said Naz aloud, standing, tablet in hand.

‘Did you know Pam?’ said the DCI. ‘Have you ever visited her flat in Cuppin Street?’

‘I might have done,’ a throwaway remark issued with a crooked smirk.

‘If you did, we would like to hear from you. Please get in touch. You may possess a vital piece of the jigsaw without realising it. If you knew her, or if you went to her flat in the past two years, we would like to eliminate you from our inquiries. Nothing to fear. We are filling in the background to help us track down a killer. Please get in touch. The incident room number is scrolling below.’

‘Wow,’ Naz said again to no one. If ever a person possessed a split personality, it was her.

He met her in a Chester nightclub. She was alone, they both were, and it was unusual for women or men to attend alone. Kindred spirits, she said, and she was right. But by hell, the butter wouldn’t melt. The sweet, easy-going nature she portrayed could be switched off at a moment’s notice, though that didn’t appear for at least a fortnight.

Before that, they lurched into a passionate affair, with the passion word to the fore. By heck, she was energetic in the bedroom, and every other damned place, with “demanding” being her middle name.

‘If you can’t keep up, boy, you’re out!’ was a phrase she wasn’t slow in using, and he was no boy, being thirty-nine.

If she endured a bad day at work, and there were plenty, she was real hard to live with, and that was putting it mildly. One day she was great to be with, the next, misery personified, argumentative, aggressive, and cold, and he wasn’t sure he could cope with that.

He quizzed her about work, but she shut him down, saying, ‘That’s none of your damned business!’ though an hour later she’d begin talking about it, and her bosses, Mike and Deirdre Davies.

Naz imagined Mike was pestering her for favours, and she didn’t deny it, but a little later, he wondered if it could be the other way round. Maybe it was she who wanted him, and Mike didn’t want to know. No one enjoyed being spurned. Unrequited love could be hellish. Everyone knew that.

Whenever he asked about it, she changed the subject, running in the bedroom, slipping off her dress, yelling through, ‘Are you coming or are you going?’

For the moment he was coming, but soon after, perhaps seven or ten days later, she complicated matters when she attacked him for the first time.

He’d always thought there was violence in her, though he had no evidence of it. Just a crazy notion that crawled through his brain, as a sense of uneasiness and dissatisfaction brewed, with no concrete evidence, until the evening she poked him.

Two fingers, index and first finger, left-handed, fingers splayed to give an accurate measurement between the eyes. Being poked in the eye was never fun, but with two fingers, it was agonising and astonishing. Who would do that to their partner, or anyone else?

Neither was it a mild poke, but a full-on jab, making his eyes water, his heart race, enough to impair his vision.

‘Why the hell did you do that?’ he yelled.

‘You deserved it for being horrible, and if you don’t behave yourself, you’ll get it again!’

He found it hard to come to terms with, and it brought into question whether he wanted to see her again.

Twenty minutes later, she said, ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ standing beside him, pulling the shirt up out of his trousers, slipping her hand up his back to massage his shoulder blades with her long, slender, and cold fingers.

‘You know you love it, Macbeth,’ she whispered, ‘I know you inside out,’ and it wasn’t long before the kissing began.

She had always been the best kisser, bar none, and he capitulated, as the clothes came off.

The next morning, his eyes were red and watering. One had regained normal vision, the other still showed him blurry pictures, and he wondered if she had inflicted permanent damage.

Over the breakfast toast, he said, ‘Don’t you ever poke me in the eye again.’

‘Oh, yeah, and what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’ll finish with you, that’s what, but not before I give you a damned good thrashing.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘I mean it, Grayson. I can’t be living with a crazy.’

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘Don’t be angry. Come round tonight and I’ll make it up.’

As usual, she won the day, and he visited that night, only to find her out, or not answering. If being treated in such a way was making up to him, she had failed.

When he spoke to her the following night, she said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘It was Mike. He is such a demanding boss. Kept me working all hours, and I didn’t get home till gone eleven.’

‘You could have rung. You have a mobile. It would have taken one minute.’

‘Sorry, lover, but as I say, Mike is as he is. Maybe I need to get a different job, and here in Chester would be good.’

It was the most sensible thing she had said in weeks, though as the days dragged by, she made no effort to change employer.

The second attack brought the walls down on their relationship, resulting in him having to visit the hospital to have a broken finger set in a lollipop stick splint. Later that evening, he rang to tell her it was over.

‘You don’t decide when it’s over, Macbeth. Only I can do that.’

‘It’s over, Pam. Just accept it, and take some well-meant advice. You need two things. One: get professional help with anger management, and when you have, find yourself someone new.’

If he thought she would slip quietly into the night, he was in for a rough ride. She took to ringing him at all hours of the day and night, bombarding him with text messages and emails before she moved on to making dozens of calls to home-delivery hot meal providers. One night alone, she sent eight meals round at half-hourly intervals, ordering the food in his name, using his credit card, details she had copied one day when he was in the shower, causing chaos and upset.

If that wasn’t enough, she topped it by splashing his mother’s obituary in the local newspapers, using his credit card. Big and expensive ads, not classified, an act of sheer evil, he thought, and the final nail in the coffin. His mother was improving and hoped to be home within a fortnight.

It took the Pam storm a month to blow out, a hurtful hurricane the likes of which Naz Macbeth had never encountered before, or ever imagined in the darkest recesses of his mind.

His social media feed told him Pamela was dead. Should he contact the police? Thinking about it, he wasn’t surprised. If she attacked him, both mentally and physically, it figured she attacked others, and maybe the next guy wasn’t as patient or forgiving, and in a fit of temper and vengeance, slew her.

No man enjoyed being assaulted, or they were mighty strange if they did, and all men might counter that violence with hostility of their own, perhaps sufficient to kill.

It made sense. He could picture it in his eye, or at least in his good eye. The second was improving but still had a way to go. Imagining the scene in her flat, when she couldn’t have her own way over a tiny thing, for it seemed anything could set her off, with dire consequences.

The question was: should he tell the police what he knew, for he had a lot he could say? Or, steer clear, for everyone heard stories of people being fitted up with serious charges when facts were manipulated to fit the crime.

If they were under pressure to produce results, as they would be, was everyone in the police straight and true? Past events suggested otherwise. If there was a rotten apple within the Cheshire Force, who knows where it might lead?

Did he need the hassle and mind games of being dragged into a nerve-shredding drama? Most men would run a mile. He shook his head and reminded himself he had been fortunate, lured into a spiky relationship, and had no wish to revisit or be reminded of it, though he knew it would nag away at his conscientious brain until someone was arrested, charged, and convicted.

Perhaps it was the demanding boss.

How had that played out? The bloke tried it on. She said a definite no, reinforcing it with a physical attack, and he flipped and killed her. Or might it have been the other way round?

She demanded more time and more attention, threatening to tell Deirdre of the dreadful things he did to her after hours, driving him into a corner where there was no escape, until he saw the only way to solve the matter was to be rid of her for good. That sounded plausible and possible.

It could have been either, or neither. He’d sleep on it and hope an early arrest followed. Besides, he was busier than ever, booked up twice a week for the next four weeks, and needed to buy some new clothes, for weddings were expensive days, and heavy on the nerves.

He shook his head and attempted to clear his brain, but it was not for cleaning. He had been rid of her for more than a year, yet there she was, inveigling her way back into his life, even though she was dead, bothering his brain, causing ongoing stress, and he wondered again who murdered her, because the truth was, and he would not share the fact with another, he had thought of doing the same, several times.

Everything between them had been complicated, and even in death, it remained so. Despite everything, long after they separated, he thought of her, especially at night; missing her and wanting her, before he made an idiotic mistake.

Long after they had broken up, one Friday, he rang her again.

Chapter thirty-one

In Marina Moo’s room in the Great Eastern, Inspector Jun Woo sat by the window and said, ‘Do you mind sitting on the bed? You are unnerving me, standing over me like that.’

Marina made her way to the bed, sat down, and repeated, ‘How do you know Walter?’

Jun told her of the modern slavery case, where she had infiltrated a human smuggling gang, starting in Hong Kong, ending up in the giant warehouse in Ellesmere Port, where hundreds of bought, stolen, and kidnapped Chinese girls worked round the clock, in slavery, on electronics parts and products. No leave, no money, plenty of abuse, and no possibility of being released.

Jun escaped by folding herself into a box, going out with a delivery, to make her way to Chester, where she met and worked with Walter to bring the entire operation crashing down.

‘I know what Walter is like,’ said Jun. ‘He is a good man, hard-working and honest, but what is he doing here? And why photograph ships in the harbour? You must admit, it looks bad.’

Marina thought about it and said, ‘You’re a cop, working for them. How could I trust you?’

‘Have you any better ideas?’

Right there, she didn’t. She’d run with Jun until her actions told her different because she had nothing better.

Marina said, ‘Where is Walter now?’

‘I believe they’ve taken him to China.’

‘China! They can’t do that.’

‘Trust me, they can. I have tried to speak up for him, but I need more information, something to get me in there.’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything that could help, something to prove his innocence.’

Marina looked puzzled, desperate to provide the woman cop with something fresh, but there was nothing.

‘He is innocent. What can I do? What can I say? I have nothing. I have told the truth.’

‘Think, Marina, think, or he will never be free.’

‘If I knew anything, I would say. I would tell, but I can only repeat what happened.’

‘Go on. Tell me again.’

Marina sighed, looked close to tears, and started again.

‘We came here for my husband, Mickey. We needed to sort out his case. If he released, we go home, but he not. Ten years, he get; and I can’t wait that long. We divorce. He happy. He met someone new. All good, all sorted, and I free.’

Jun glanced at the enormous bed, the only one there, before saying, ‘Are you Walter’s girlfriend?’

‘No!’

‘Only the one bed, Marina. They think you are a conniving couple.’

‘We not!’

‘So, why did you book a double room?’

A shred of guilt crossed Marina’s face before she swept it away through willpower. ‘I don’t know! Maybe I hope we might. I took a chance. I…’

Jun interrupted.

‘You set things up for him to make a move?’

Marina exhaled and was about to admit it, though couldn’t. Too much lost face.

‘It up to him. He not make a pass. He had his chance. But that not important. He still could. He had lots on his mind. He not understand how things work. I feel guilty bringing him. It was my idea. It all on me. We must get him out.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘No! Course not. But, one day, I could.’

Jun thought about it and wondered if Marina understood the gravity of Walter’s situation and if she didn’t, it was time to make it clear.

‘In China, they proclaim they execute all convicted spies. Anyone betraying the motherland. No messing. No exceptions.’

‘I know! I not stupid. I read the papers. He’s been tried here. No execution here. They can’t.’

‘I think that’s why they moved him to China. Don’t you see? His trial here has been cancelled and expunged from the records. Eradicated from the system as if it never happened. He will face a fresh trial over there, and we all know show trials are fixed in advance.’

‘They can’t! It not right. Walter a good man, everyone knows.’

‘I know. That’s why I am here, but I need something from you to help me convince the authorities he’s not a spy, and no danger to them.’

For a moment Jun thought Marina might cry. The woman smacked the bed, shook her head, and went to speak, but nothing came.

When anyone found themselves in the middle of a nightmare, the best thing to do was wake up, for the dark pictures would fizzle to nothing. But how do you wake from a living nightmare, where the pictures surround you, infiltrate every cell of your brain? Confusing you, accusing you, belittling you? Convincing everyone you were wrong, and they were right.

She felt as if locked in a suit of steel armour with no way out; the jailer tossing away the key. The flap clanked down over the face, obliterating light, air, and sound, sealing everything in, every thought, every drop of hope, where desperation, depression, and hopelessness reign.

‘You must help,’ repeated Jun.

A solitary tear meandered down Marina’s pretty face.

‘I know, Jun. But how?’

‘Think, woman. Think!’             

Chapter thirty-two

In the baking Egyptian desert, the Cheshires undertook a week-long intensive training exercise. It wasn’t long enough, but no one could deny how much improvement they made.

Ammunition, stores and supplies were loaded onto the chunky Morris, a sure sign they were about to move, and on an early Monday morning, the gun crews moved out in convoys of ten, in case of air attack. It was better to lose ten than a hundred.

The convoy hugged the coastal route, the only usable road, and the further west they travelled, the more damage they saw. Blown up tanks and trucks pushed off the road, bent and wrecked guns pulled by Morris vehicles like theirs, and that brought it home to everyone.

Away to the right, the blue Mediterranean always there, looking inviting, and an hour later, they came across a wrecked Spitfire, its back broken, the tail almost vertical, and everyone wondered if the pilot escaped. Less than a mile further on, the books were balanced when not one but two dead Heinkels appeared, one on either side of the road, the first with an obvious hastily dug grave close by, topped by a makeshift wooden cross.

Another young man who would never see his homeland again, another family with horrendous grief to live through, and the realisation they would never see or hear their son or husband or brother again.

Perhaps the dead man was the life and soul of the party, or could he have been a dour and miserable character? It didn’t matter. It made no difference. Death made no distinction. All were there to be culled in equal measure.

One Heinkel, a still-smoking wreck, the other, salvageable, until passing British troops damaged it beyond use, in case the area fell into enemy hands. Flying planes became more obvious. Spits and Hurricanes coming up behind, zipping across Egypt, a few brand new, but most refuelled and patched up to return to the fray, protecting and stiffening the front line.

The Morris engines chugged on, always heading westward, closing on the enemy, passing occasional road signs for Libya, two hundred miles ahead.

Now and then, a small town or village appeared, some with palm trees, others without; hugging the coast road, basic low-rise white buildings, most of the locals staying put, for where else could they go? Besides, there were opportunities to trade with the foreigners who invaded their land, regardless of who they were or what language they spoke.

Dates, figs, and occasional whiffy fish were offered for sale to any pausing vehicle, and in one rough village, a grey-bearded man, looking eighty, attempted to sell his dog and his daughter in that order, with little success.

After passing through another small settlement, they had their first encounter with the enemy. A lone Junkers JU87 Stuka dive bomber came out of the sun, buzzing like a demented giant bumblebee. Moments later, they heard anti-aircraft guns opening up a mile to the south, giving the Stuka something to think about. Harry Worthington spotted the plane falling into a dive run.

Catterall saw it too and yelled, ‘Everyone out!’ and they jumped off and dived for cover in lower scrubby ground to the south side of the dusty road.

A minute later, the plane dropped two bombs before sweeping around in a circle, coming back to strafe with its wing-mounted machine guns. The bombs exploded on the Med side of the road, one forty yards from the traffic, the other closer, perhaps thirty yards from their precious Morris, too close for comfort.

Another scorching day punctuated by violence and terrific explosions sufficient to make Leo imagine his young bones shuddered, the blast something else, as stinking black smoke swirled away. A new experience, though the desert sand soaked up some of the blast; lessening the damage. The strafing bullets zipped above their heads and thudded into the desert twenty yards beyond, before the plane wheeled away to the west, heading back to its home airfield.

They searched the skies for further aircraft, but none, hostile or friendly, appeared, as Catterall was the first to stand and jog back to the vehicle to check for damage.

Luckily, none of the guns or vehicles were hit, the well-built equipment withstanding the blast, and afterwards, most of the men felt better, as if they had passed their first initiation into live warfare.

They were soon back underway, pushing westward, as the light faded and died in quick time. Less than an hour ticked by before they arrived at a temporary holding station, MPs waving them off the road, to be fed and watered, before receiving fresh orders.

Chapter thirty-three

The interviewing of the Spennithornes began within ten minutes of them arriving in the station, Jenny and Martin leading the questioning.

Penrod was first up, and Jenny was straight in there.

‘You have been in trouble for violent offences more than once. Not only that, you served time in the Dana for violence.’

Penrod exhaled and shook his head before saying, ‘That was more than twenty years ago when I was a kid. I served my time, got myself back into decent employment, grew up, met Delta, got married, started a successful business, and I have never been in trouble since, not so much as a parking ticket.’

‘That’s as maybe, but you have been in court more than once for inflicting violence. The last time, you stamped on a young man’s head, and but for the grace of God, you could have killed him.’

Martin added, ‘It demonstrates there is violence in you, Mr Spennithorne.’

Penrod shook his head and sighed. ‘As I said, it was a quarter of a century ago. I served my time, paid my debt, wrote a letter of apology to the guy, and all I want now, all we want, is to get on with running our growing business.’

Martin said, ‘Do your clients know you have been in prison?’

A look of surprise crossed Penrod’s face before he answered.

‘I shouldn’t think so. Why would they?’

Jenny said, ‘The people whose houses you manage, whose money you handle, do you think they are entitled to know of your violent and criminal past?’

‘That is both mean and mean-spirited. We do a great job at Cheshire Rentals. Everyone says so. We’ve won countless awards, run an honest business, and are well-liked.’

Martin said, ‘Let’s talk about Pamela Grayson.’

‘Fine. Let’s get it done. I’m here to help.’

‘I put it to you, you fancied her. You were looking for a kinky thing on the side, especially when your wife was away. The sisters even went abroad together, didn’t they, and that must have annoyed you?’

‘Or maybe it didn’t,’ added Jenny, ‘as it gave you the chance to pay a call on Pam, a free run to get your foot in the door, a hangdog look on your face, saying Delta was away and you felt lonely and fancied feminine company. Is that how it started, Penrod?’

The man grinned and said, ‘Was Pam kinky? I didn’t know that. As for the rest of it, you are spouting pure fiction without a shred of proof.’

Martin looked at Jenny and said, ‘I can see him going into Pam’s flat, and making a pass at her. It’s written all over his face.’

‘So can I,’ added Jen, ‘and perhaps Pam encouraged him at first. After all, she’d lost her man and was ready for a little titillation on the side. You knew that, stepped in, and took your chance.’

Penrod shook his head.

Martin continued. ‘So, here’s the picture, you grab her and kissing begins, and maybe she responds a tad, before remembering you are married, living along the corridor, and that could be too close and too nasty, and she pulled away and told you to leave.’

‘Didn’t happen. You’re miles off beam.’

‘Are we?’ said Martin. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you didn’t get out, did you?’ said Jenny, keen to keep the thread moving. ‘Your ardour was up, encouraged by her kissing you back, and you wanted more.’

‘Much more,’ added Martin. ‘You are getting on a bit, but you are still slim and fit. Go to the gym, do you?’

‘We both attend the gym. We like to keep trim.’

‘Of course you do. Fit people like extra sex, so they say. Care to comment?’

Penrod remained silent.

Jenny started again. ‘Does Delta know about your violent past, and the fact you have been in prison?’

Martin added, ‘And does she know you like to proposition women, even close neighbours?’

‘No, she does not know I have been in prison, and I want it to remain that way, and for the record, I don’t proposition women.’

Martin and Jenny shared a look before Martin said, ‘We might have a problem with keeping things secret. It seems to me it’s bound to come out when we talk to Delta in the next hour because it is part of our inquiry.’

Penrod looked suitably shamed before saying, ‘Don’t do that. It isn’t relevant.’

‘We’ll think about it.’

‘You don’t have children?’ said Jenny.

‘No, not that it has anything to do with you. Right from the off, neither of us wanted them.’

‘Why?’

‘They get in the way of life. We are ambitious and there’s no room or time for kids.’

‘Bit selfish, isn’t it?’ said Martin. ‘What if we all did that?’

‘Well, it’s obvious we don’t all do that because the world is buckling under the weight of too many people and too many unwanted kids, meaning too many mouths to feed. The number of people starving to death goes up every year. Look at it this way: we are doing our bit to make sure things don’t get worse. We should be applauded, not vilified.’

Jenny said, ‘Does Delta agree?’

‘Of course she agrees. Delta has her own mind, I can tell you that.’

Jenny said, ‘I am sure we will discover that when we speak to her. Though I don’t suppose she is going to be thrilled when it comes out about your hidden past.’

‘I told you, I don’t want you to tell her! It isn’t relevant. Look, if you wreck my marriage for no reason, I’ll…’

Penrod stopped, thinking on his words.

‘Go on,’ said Martin, ‘pray continue, because that sounded like an incoming threat, and this is no place for threats.’

‘Not a threat, exactly. I was going to say, I shall consider consulting my solicitor to see if there were grounds to sue.’

‘Sue?’ said Jenny. ‘What, sue the police? Sue us? What was it you had in mind?’

Pen sat back in his chair and sighed, before saying, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I got carried away.’

‘Carried away, eh?’ said Jen. ‘You get carried away quite a bit, don’t you, Mr Spennithorne?’

‘Yes,’ continued Martin. ‘He does. Carried away when he stamped on that youth’s head, and we believe he got carried away when he kissed Pamela. She kissed him back, only to change her mind, and you got carried away again and forced yourself on her, didn’t you, before dragging her to the bedroom where we later found her dead. Isn’t that what happened, Penrod?’

‘No, it isn’t. I didn’t kill her. I know what prison is like, and I love my free life too much to go back inside.’

Martin scratched his chin, as Jenny thought of another probing question, though before she issued it, Penrod said, ‘Look! If I tell you something, tell you the whole truth of what happened with Pamela, can you see your way to not telling Delta about the prison thing?’

The possibility of new information excited the officers, for it sounded as if he was close to confessing.

Jenny said, ‘That depends on what you say.’

The man exhaled, sat back, and said, ‘In the middle of a Saturday afternoon, I tapped on her door. Delta was in Malaga. You were right about that. Pam opened up, saw me there, and I don’t know which of us looked more miserable.’

‘Go on.’

‘She said: you look like I feel, Pen. Wanna coffee?’

‘And you went in?’ said Martin.

‘Yes, I went in, and that was nothing unusual.’

‘You had been in her flat before, alone with Pam?’ asked Jenny.

‘Yes, a handful of times. But nothing ever happened. We just talked. She was pining for Gavin, and I…’

‘You were looking for something on the side?’ said Martin.

‘I don’t know what I was looking for, a sympathetic ear, maybe.’

Jenny said, ‘What happened? And leave nothing out.’

Outside, Delta was concerned at the time she was being kept waiting. What were they talking about? She needed to get away. Later on, she had an appointment with a married couple, reputed to be the largest joint landlords in Chester.

They’d been in the game since buy-to-let started in 1989, and it was common knowledge they bought two or three properties on every new development within fifteen miles of Chester Cross.

Rumours said they owned 600 properties, all of them bought new, off-plan. The latest grapevine news said they were thinking of retiring and moving semi-permanently to their palace of a place on English-speaking Malta.

That meant they were seeking an efficient agent to manage their portfolio in their absence. Delta couldn’t stop herself doing a little mental arithmetic. 600 houses, average monthly rental, a grand a pop, for ease of calculation, it would be more, meaning a monthly rental take of £600,000, the agent’s initial slice being 10%, £60,000 a month. Not bad! Bloody Good! Times twelve, giving an annual revenue of a cool £720,000, flooding into Cheshire Rentals bulging coffers.

That was before additional fees, maintenance costs, gas and electricity checks, insurance sell-ons, processing fees, property inspections, etc. Delta would push the extras for all it was worth, meaning almost a million quid diving straight to the bottom line. The ideal client, the perfect contract, and she was keen as hell to land it. Why were they taking so long? Come on! Come on! A young officer strolled by.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘do you know how much longer they will be? I have an urgent appointment and must get away.’

He looked at her as if she were touched.

‘It’s a murder inquiry, madam. It will take as long as it takes. If I were you, I’d cancel any further appointments you have for the rest of the day, and maybe tomorrow as well.’

‘I can’t. You’ve removed my phone.’

‘In that case, I can’t help you,’ and he scooted away, not waiting for a reply.

In the interview room, Penrod started up again.

‘Pam had a way of standing super close to people, invading one’s space, in modern parlance. For any woman to stand so close, almost touching, and she did it every time, any guy is going to think she is interested.’

‘Go on,’ said Jennifer.

‘She sports bright red hair, super-short as you know, and that day she’d complimented it with scarlet lippy and red nails, almost as if she had been sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror, doing herself up as if she might have a hot date. We knew she had broken up with Gavin, and we thought there was no one else in her life, because we never saw anyone new coming and going.’

‘Go on,’ said Martin, ‘and get to the crux of it.’

‘Well, she smiled at me, and I smiled back, and before I knew it, I bent and kissed her. We didn’t have to move closer. She was right there, within kissing distance, waiting for me, or so I thought.’

‘But she wasn’t waiting for you, was she?’ said Jen.

‘That’s the thing; she was, to begin with, and I’m not messing.’

‘Go on,’ said Martin.

‘The next thing is, we were necking like crazy, tongues like a pair of mating pythons, tugging each other close, I’m massaging her pert bum, and she’s clutching my buttocks as if she wanted to keep them as souvenirs.’

Jenny said, ‘Is that when you marched her to the bedroom?’

‘No! I never took her to the bedroom. I have never been in that room.’

‘So, what happened?’ said Martin.

‘By then I was hyper-excited; know what I mean, and she was too, I could tell, and I was up for more, lots more, and she was too, when she switched off and stopped, saying: we mustn’t, Pen. Think of Delta. She’d be mortified.’

‘Where were you at this point?’ asked Jenny.

‘Where we started. In the middle of the lounge.’

‘And what happened next?’

‘She’d taken the wind out of my sails, but I know when a woman is saying no, and I stopped, and we fell apart, looking embarrassed, as you would, as she said: it might be better if you left.’

‘And you are saying you left the flat, and Pamela Grayson was alive and well?’

‘Of course she was alive and well, and besides, it was weeks before she met her terrible end.’

Martin and Jenny shared a look, as if to say it was a good time for a break.

Jenny said, ‘Okay, Mr Spennithorne, we are taking a break, but you are not free to leave because we may need to talk to you again after we have spoken to Delta.’

‘Okay, whatever, but you won’t mention the prison thing?’

‘No promises, Penrod. The conversation goes where it goes.’

‘Oh, eh? Come on. You said…’

Jenny shut that down.

‘We made no promises, Mr Spennithorne. None whatsoever.’

‘You rats!’

‘Be careful what you say!’ snapped Martin, giving him a look, as Penrod was taken away, never once in Delta’s sight, and dumped in a private room, pending the outcome of the interview with his wife.     

Chapter thirty-four

The black BMW motored on, Walter in the back between two sullen guards, the show-off of a driver imagining he was featuring in a Quentin Tarantino movie, the expensive shades hiding his ego and smirk.

Walter noticed they were approaching Zhuhai, and he wondered what kind of place it was. On another day, in different company, he would look forward to exploring the city, seeing everything it offered, sampling the cuisine, listening to the people, smiling at anyone he thought might return the gesture.

At the last main motorway junction for the city, the car veered off to the right. Walter guessed a ring road, and he was right, for the busy traffic all went round in a vast circle, bypassing the city and everything it offered.

Minutes later, they returned to driving onward, Walter figuring heading north-west, though on busy and complex roads, it was easy to become disorientated. They crossed a major railway line; he counted six tracks, with several red and white high-speed electrified expresses dashing left to right and right to left.

Beyond, the road signs told him they were heading for Kaiping, another place he had never heard of or visited.

Again, they would not set eyes on the city’s attractions, for the vehicle took a sudden turnoff on the right. A secure road only admitting authorised traffic, top grade passes needed, and maybe a mile ahead, on a long straight stretch, his destination came into view.

Spread out before them like a grey slash on the green countryside, a low-rise building, harsh on the eye, square turrets spaced along the top, resembling a gigantic historical fortress from the Persian Wars from millennia before.

They approached the first of several checkpoints, their identification flashed to ever-eager security personnel. Those onboard must have been important, for the car rushed through with zero delay, as they grew closer to the hard-faced and ugly edifice.

Ahead, Walter noted a wide entrance, protected by two metal reinforced silver-coloured gates, tall and wide, and above the gates on the concrete fascia, set between two turrets, huge Chinese written characters were splashed in red. Beneath them, as an afterthought, a handful of black letters against a gold background, announced in English: Provincial Number 9 Top Security Prison.

The gates opened. The car schmoozed through, slipping inside as if to be swallowed by a gigantic whale, all those aboard disappearing without so much as a burp, into the heart of the beast.

Walter glanced back and saw the gates closing behind them, and seconds later the car swept round in a circle to the right and pulled up outside a spotless single door. It opened and three uniformed men spilled out, trying and failing to walk in step, succeeding in looking fierce.

They stopped beside the car, the lead man shouting and bawling, the other two sullen and silent. The leader yanked the door open and the onboard guards ushered Walter out into sunshine and a balmy breeze.

More shouted conversation followed between the Hong Kong guards and the locals. Keys to the cuffs were exchanged, tablets studied, amid much nodding, as if the cargo had been inspected, checked, verified and delivered, and the Hong Kongers seemed relieved to be rid of him as they jumped back in the car without a word.

Mr Cool, still in shades, started the Beemer, turned round, and pointed it towards the gates. Walter never saw it leaving, for he was bundled into the building, pushed along a long corridor, before being dumped and locked in a small square room.

Inside, a bare table, four utilitarian metal piping chairs, a sturdy framed window opposite housing tiny panes of toughened glass, not affording sufficient room to climb through if the glass was shattered.

High on the right wall, a recent picture of the Chinese president perched above a two-way mirror. Walter imagined several sets of eyes on the far side, watching his every move. Not that there was a lot to see. He sat down and closed his eyes to doze. If they wanted to introduce a waiting game, two could play at that.

He didn’t know the time, but could guess, and calculated it was a full hour before anyone returned. When they did, three slim men entered the room, all portraying sombre faces, one he had met before.                

Chapter thirty-five

In the baking desert, the recently arrived Cheshires joined the main British and Allied force.

Daily shelling and bombing became the norm. Unlucky blokes perished, though to begin with, casualties were light, as everyone waited for the long-forecast big push east by Rommel and his battle-hardened troops. Days later, across the front, fierce fighting broke out. It began with a night-time barrage.

On the Allied side, over six hundred guns lit up the night sky, constant flashes continuing for hours. A vast amount of outgoing fire, more than matched by incoming.

The noise was deafening. Everyone petrified, trying not to show it, imagining the next incoming shell might blow them to kingdom come. In brief breaks in firing, too many injured men called for their mothers before growing silent, succumbing to their wounds.

For many, it seemed as if the night would never end. For all the men fighting, it would be the longest night of their lives.

At first light, a scene of devastation came into focus, leaving little time to wash, rest, shave, feed, or sleep.

Everyone needed a break, an interlude that never came. The ongoing battle took a turn for the worse. German sappers laid a smokescreen across extensive areas of the front-line. The Allies knew what to expect, but knowing and dealing with fast-moving tactics were different animals.

Colin Catterall was the first to hear the rumble of approaching panzers. A moment later, he could smell them.

‘Tanks!’ he yelled, as every gun remaining in service was primed and ready for another incoming onslaught.

All of Unit 003, Leo Moorland, Harry Worthington, Colin Catterall, and Johnny Kingston survived the night, both the men and field gun, though they had run out of ammunition. Colin sent Harry and Johnny to the nearby ammunition depot in search of fresh ordnance, but on arriving, found it burning and destroyed.

Unit 002 fared worse and was out of action. No ammo, a jammed and damaged gun. Norman Burriton looked okay, Bob Frost boasted a hastily bandaged and still bleeding forearm, Donald Grayson and John Fenton escaping injury.

The order to retreat, described as a tactical withdrawal, didn’t arrive a moment too soon. The onrushing Afrika Korps would be on them in less than ten minutes.

Things went from bad to worse. Unit 003’s Morris engine, a model of reliability, refused to start. They rushed over to Unit 002, hoping to cadge a lift, but in the chaos and confusion, it rushed away towards the crammed highway, hoping to join the flight east. They didn’t get far.

Minutes later, no one at Unit 002 heard or saw the shell that smashed into the engine and exploded. They were lucky. A small and lightweight projectile, and though it destroyed the engine, the men ducking down remained alive, though Bob Frost was nearing the end of his tether, the constant pain and bleeding from his arm causing great concern.

A breathless Catterall arrived on the scene, Leo, Harry, and Johnny Kingston in close pursuit. Catts brandished a German officer’s Luger pistol, a weapon he liberated two nights before when he and John crept out under the cover of darkness on a reconnaissance mission, to find the man dead on the ground.

Colin took a liking to the weapon, though knew it had a short shelf-life, only five bullets remaining. They found the Unit 002 boys to discover one injured and three shaken, blackened, and disorientated.

In the wider battle, all was chaos. Planes flashed overhead, bouts of airborne cannon and machine gun fire zipped through the sky, bombs dropped in haphazard patterns, more in hope than expectancy, as the tactical picture on the ground moved faster than anyone expected.

‘What now?’ said a breathless Norman through tired eyes and a dusty throat, his arms out wide, his eyes red and sore.

A moment later, enemy rifle and machine gun fire crackled through the early morning sunshine. Leo glanced over his shoulder. Within the drifting smoke, he saw helmeted infantry troops approaching, two hundred yards distant.

‘We need cover,’ said Colin, an obvious comment, and easier to say than accomplish.

They ran away as fast as they could, going north east, seeking a building or wrecked transport, or any kind of ridge to get out of the line of fire. They were lucky. The onrushing, well-briefed Germans were seeking more productive kills than loose men running. Tanks and trucks, and maybe an abandoned plane, the prized targets, especially if they captured a high-ranking army officer or flier.

In their long shorts and heavy ankle boots, the fatigued British gun crews kept on running, though they knew not where. Leo’s heart raced faster than it had during the fearsome night. He was younger and quicker than the others, and it was he who stumbled across their salvation.

A wadi appeared in the nick of time.

A dried-up wadi, a riverbed only bearing water when the unreliable rains came. He didn’t know it, but Leo’s wadi hadn’t seen a drop of water in ten years. Ten feet deep, with a gentle stony slope down to the dried-up riverbed.

He jumped in, out of sight, turned and stared back for the others, yelling, ‘Here, fellas! Here!’

In the confusion and noise, they couldn’t hear him. Leo took a risk, reached up again, waved and shouted. Colin heard and nodded and pointed at Leo, but Colin wasn’t alone in receiving the signal.

A German officer’s keen eye, attracted by the jerky movement, pounced. He didn’t waste a moment in calling up two infantrymen, and the three set off in pursuit of fleeing Tommies. A minute later, the eight gunnery crew of Units 002 and 003 were below ground level, lying low, taking a breather and a last look back.

‘Now what?’ said Leo.

Colin said, ‘We follow the wadi north towards the Med. All rivers make for the sea, even dried-up ones. With a bit of luck, we’ll find our lads.’

The dusty and dead wadi did not run straight. It did what all rivers do. Forever curling one way and the other, meaning the distance the men travelled might be twice as far, but at least they were out of sight.

Boulders and jagged rocks littered the riverbed, brought down by biblical floods from decades or even centuries before. It was hard going in an unforgiving land under the baking sun, and harder still when Bob Frost said, ‘I can’t go much further.’

‘We must keep moving,’ insisted Colin. ‘It won’t be long before they despatch search parties seeking stragglers.’

He wasn’t to know a party of three hunters were on their trail, entering the wadi, spurred on when spotting fresh footsteps in the sand, taking care not to rush ahead, for they imagined the escapees were armed.

Donald Grayson said, ‘Anyone any idea where this leads?’

Harry nodded and said, ‘I’m pretty sure it runs down towards Tobruk on the coast, and if TB hasn’t fallen, we could pick up transport there, or even a ship.’

A ship? It sounded wonderful, and none of them had anything better.

In a brief lull in the fighting, Leo heard the indistinguishable sound of men’s dull voices floating through the baking air, emanating from where they had been.

‘You go on,’ whispered Catts. ‘I’ll stay with Donald and Bob and see if I can ward them off,’ waving his gun as if to increase his bravado, and their chances.

The others nodded, happy to be away, and Leo, Harry, Johnny Kingston, Norman Burriton, and John Fenton crept away, attempting to combine speed with stealth, creeping through the rough, stony, and sheltered terrain.

Bob Frost looked at Catts and pleaded, ‘I need to rest. You go on.’

Donald Grayson glanced at Colin and nodded agreement.

‘No!’ said Catterall, ‘not yet. Shush! Get down! I can see something.’

Donald and Bob flattened their bodies against the sand and stones, as Colin pointed the Luger, took aim, and fired. The look on his face told the others he’d scored. An instant later, they heard a man yell out.

‘I hit him, I hit him!’ glee dripping from Colin’s impressed face and voice.

Colin was right. He had hit the target, but the bullet bounced off the metal gun barrel, kicking the gun from the soldier’s hand, the shock knocking him from his feet. Another shot rang out. A rifle shot fired by an experienced infantryman who rarely missed, a hot bullet forcing its way through the warming air, heading for the enemy.

Less than a second later, it tore through Colin’s throat, throwing him on his back, wreaking catastrophic damage and copious blood loss. Scarlet flooded onto the wadi floor, staining the sand; red liquid pounced on within the hour by a myriad of hungry desert insects, seeking an unexpected bonus. There would be no more singing.

‘Shit!’ said Bob Frost, shaking his head, close to tears, as Donald went to find Colin dead.

‘He’s gone,’ said Donald, grabbing the Luger.

A solitary, violent death under the blazing sun. A killing no detective would ever investigate, and a death deemed legal under international law. A violent, filthy, pitiful death, and one Colin Catterall and his family did not deserve. In brutal modern warfare, it was to be expected. The norm. Kill or be killed. No quarter asked, or given. No crime committed. No punishment available, and no retribution.

In time, a name on a memorial, and a marble cross standing proud in the earth, if he was lucky.

Fifty yards along the wadi, the escaping five paused and stared back.

‘Gunshot,’ whispered Harry.

‘Yeah, but whose?’ said Johnny Kingston.

Leo said, ‘Shall we go back and see?’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ said Fenton. ‘What are we going to do? Spit at them?’

Harry said, ‘I reckon it’s Catts firing, doing a Catts last stand type of thing. He always fancied himself as Colonel Custer, keeping the savages at bay for us to escape. Come on! Let’s not disappoint him. Keep moving.’

Another shot rang out, and another, though at the distance it was impossible to tell if it was pistol or rifle fire, or who fired it.

Heavy guns opened up again, the dominating sound, and too close for comfort, vibrations rumbling through the scrubby ground like an impending earthquake, as every pebble and rock rumbled in protest.

The worrying sound of blanket shellfire put extra zip into the men’s heels, as they worked their way north through the curling, inhospitable wadi, hoping to put distance between them and their pursuers, dreaming of Tobruk, and refreshed comrades, eager and willing to sweep them back to Cairo, to freedom, a hot dinner, and a comfortable bed.

The dried and dead wadi, a hideous place none of them would ever forget, a fortunate geographic feature, a curling slash in a desert landscape, a riverbed to save the lives of those fortunate enough to see another day.

Chapter thirty-six

In the hours following Penrod’s failed attempt at seducing Pamela Grayson, he didn’t go straight home, but walked down beside the river to clear his head.

As ever, it was busy, though some people stared at him as they passed by. On the way back to the flat, he stopped at the newsagents to buy the evening paper.

Wes Clayton took a second glance at Penrod’s face, and said, ‘Been having an exciting afternoon with Mrs Spenny?’

Penrod looked at him and said, ‘Chance would be a fine thing. She’s in Spain.’

‘Really?’ said Wes, grinning. ‘I won’t ask who the lucky girl is then.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your face, man, it’s covered in scarlet.’

Penrod cursed, took out his handkerchief and began rubbing, before grabbing his change and hurrying away.

Wes’s voice assailed his ears. ‘Your secret is safe with me, Pen, you naughty man,’ followed by a rough laugh.

As he walked home, the rubbing of his lips and cheeks continued, staining the handkerchief, and long before he entered Regiment House, he dropped the grubby hanky in a public litter bin.

In the police station, when questioning of Delta Spennithorne began, Jenny led the way.

‘On the fateful day Pamela Grayson was murdered, where were you?’

‘Time of day?’

‘Noon till midnight.’

‘Gosh, that’s a wide time-span. Let me think. Ah yes, I remember, I had an appointment to see a lady in Llangollen. She’s considering renting out her house for the winter six months, going to her chalet in Andalucia. Gracious lady, grand house, higher ground, river views, great rental. The kind of place we seek.’

‘What time did you get back?’ asked Martin.

‘Just after three. With clients like that, we spend as much time with them as they want, though we are careful not to overstay our welcome. Some people like to gossip, others prefer us in and out as fast as poss.’

‘And three till six?’ said Jen.

‘Catching up on admin. Like all businesses, there is more paperwork to wade through than ever.’

Martin said, ‘While you were away, where would Penrod be?’

‘Well, if I was out, he would be in. We like to keep one of us in the office at all times, and we did that day. But he went out about twenty minutes after I returned,’ and Delta pulled a sour face before continuing. ‘Property inspections with tenant in situ. Our least favourite job, but someone has to do it. We don’t enjoy it, the tenants don’t like it, and when the landlord receives the report in the post, most times they won’t like it either because they often bring news of maintenance jobs, and that means expense.’

‘Do you know how many he did that afternoon?’

‘Three, I think, yes, three. I remember seeing the written reports he wrote going to the owners in the mail the following day.’

‘Just to be clear, neither of you returned to Regiment House during the day?’

‘I know I didn’t, but Pen could have nipped back for a moment. You’d have to ask him. If he did, he didn’t mention it. Look, I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to get me to say Penrod was at the flats when Pam was killed, but I can’t because I don’t know. He told me he wasn’t, and I believe him. Penrod is an honest man. He never tells lies.’

Jenny said, ‘Really? How well do you know your husband, Mrs Spennithorne?’

‘Very well indeed, about as well as any woman can know a man. All his good points, and the bad. His wonderful qualities, and his failings. We all have those, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ said Martin, glancing at Jenny to see if she wanted to take it further.

She did, saying, ‘So, if we told you, in his background, Penrod has a history of violence, you would be surprised?’

‘Ah, I see you are barking up the wrong tree again. If you mean the football hooligan nonsense of his youth, leading, sadly, to time spent in the hellhole that was the Dana, of course I know about that.’

‘Oh?’ said Martin. ‘Who told you?’

‘I am not wet behind the ears, DC Kane, and before I married Pen, I carried out checks of my own. The internet was in its infancy back then, but thankfully, my sister worked for the Chester Chronicle, and she searched their database, and hey ho, out popped two articles featuring none other than my Penrod. Guilty as charged, going to prison, serving his time, released for good behaviour, note, and do you know something? It didn’t make him less attractive, it made him more so. Don’t you know most girls are fascinated by the ever so slightly bad boy? They are a challenge, changing them, taming them, bringing them into line, that kind of thing. Who on earth would want to live with a dull man with no history and nothing about them? Not me, for sure. Penrod has always held my interest, and do you know something? I think he always will. Anything else you want to know?’

Jenny said, ‘What we would like to know, Mrs Spennithorne, is who killed Pamela Grayson?’

‘Wouldn’t we all, darling? But it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Penrod.’

‘You sure about that?’ said Martin.

‘One hundred per cent. He couldn’t kill a wasp. He’s a lover, not a killer. Is there anything else because I have urgent work to attend to?’

‘Not right now, but we want another word with Penrod, and then you can go.’

In the incident room, two of DCI Foggon’s favourite officers returned with triumphant looks on their faces, one carrying a large but narrow box, the kind of thing shirts used to arrive in. They had returned to Pamela’s flat, going through her possessions, looking for the golden nugget, maybe a hidden love letter or card from someone they hadn’t yet identified or located. Anything they might have missed.

Foggon said, ‘What have you two been up to? I can see you have turned up something. What’s in the box?’

‘Cards and letters,’ said the first guy.

The second officer said, ‘Hidden on the top of the tall wardrobe, pushed right to the back so no one could see.’

‘Have you looked at them?’

‘Briefly, boss, and we think we have struck gold.’

Karen, alerted by the palpable sense of excitement, wandered over to see.

The guy with the box opened the end and tipped the letters and cards on the desk.

‘Look at this one. It’s a Christmas card.’

The decent handwritten inscription said: To my darling Pamela from Naz, with all my love, with five kisses to back it up.

Foggon said, ‘Who the hell is Naz?’

‘Nailed on former boyfriend,’ said one guy, grinning. ‘Pakistani perhaps, or an Arab.’

Karen said, ‘They don’t celebrate Christmas, though some of them send cards, though usually those awful Winter Holiday things.’

‘Yeah,’ said Foggon, ‘or Mr Frosty ones. What else have you got?’

‘A couple of cards from Gavin, as you might expect, though they don’t tell us anything new, and a bit of a surprise, a birthday card from Penrod, just him, no mention of Delta, and there’s another interesting one.’

‘Go on,’ said Foggon.

‘Two cards and two letters from a so far unknown man by the name of Tony Tisbury.’

‘Is there an address?’ said Foggon.

‘There is, boss.’

‘But no address for the Naz character?’

‘Correct.’

‘Right, you two, find out all you can about this Tisbury character, starting with: is he known to us? I want to know everything about him, and while you do that, I’m taking this stuff to show Mrs West, and we will see where it takes us,’ and he shared a look with Karen and said, ‘Progress at last.’

Back in the interview room, Penrod answered their questions in an identical manner to Delta.

Jenny said, ‘Did you return to Regiment House at any time that day? Answer carefully, for you had the opportunity.’

‘I did not. I was snowed under and stayed at work till eight to get finished.’

They couldn’t place him at the flats and were beginning to think he neither went there, nor killed Pam.

In a break in questioning, Pen said, ‘You didn’t tell Delta, did you, about my earlier indiscretions?’

Martin grinned and said, ‘We didn’t need to. She already knew.’

Penrod’s mouth gaped before he said, ‘You serious?’

Jenny nodded.

‘How?’

‘You better ask her.’

‘Blimey O’Riley, I have been worrying about her discovering I’m a former jailbird for twenty-five years, and now you tell me she knew all along.’

‘Yep,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe you should be more trusting. Your wife is more sensible than you think. You can go, Mr Spennithorne, but don’t leave town without letting us know.’

‘No chance of that. We are far too busy, and thanks,’ and he jumped up, eager to get moving, and the questioned and relieved couple were released back into the world.

Chapter thirty-seven

In China, in the secret top-security prison, the Chinese interrogators sat down, ensured audio and video recording machines were working, before beginning.

Walter looked at them. Two he had not met before, the other, the mysterious Mr Fang who had been with him every step of the way.

‘We meet again,’ said Walter, glancing at Fang, a man Walter thought was a Chinese security agent, and maybe a high-ranking one.

Fang kicked things off.

‘We are under considerable pressure to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Good. I agree with that. Let’s get on with it. How about a visit from a British official?’

‘Later!’ snapped one of the strangers.

Walter looked at them and waited.

Fang said, ‘The bogus trial you experienced in Hong Kong has been ruled null and void and expunged from the records.’

It didn’t surprise Walter, but he would not let them off lightly.

‘How can that be? It wasn’t bogus. It was a perfectly legal trial in a separate jurisdiction. Don’t you see what this will look like to the outside world? You are fiddling things until you get the result you want.’

‘We are not overly concerned with the outside world, Mr Darriteau. This is China where only Chinese law runs, and as for the correct result, you seem to forget you were found guilty of spying for the British government.’

‘A trumped-up charge and you know it.’

Mr Fang shook his head and said, ‘The previous trial is to be forgotten. You have a clean slate, a blank sheet of paper, and in two days, you will undergo a new, fresh trial here in China, within these walls.’

‘It’s only right and proper,’ said the second stranger, his English good, with a slight American accent. Walter wondered at his background. Maybe he had once been a sleeper agent in the USA. He spoke again. ‘You are charged with spying against the interests of China, and it makes sense for you to be charged and tried here in a Chinese Court.’

‘And will I be afforded a credible defence?’

‘Of course. This is the twenty-first century. We are not barbarians.’

Walter said, ‘I get a defence lawyer who speaks good English?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ said Fang, ‘though being in China, the trial will take place in Chinese. But don’t worry, full translation facilities will be available.’

‘It looks and sounds like a rigged deal.’

Fang grinned and said, ‘I have noticed that about the English, not that you are 100% English, but you and they are always suspicious and pessimistic. The trial will be carried out according to law. You have no fears on that score.’

‘Two days doesn’t give me long.’

‘Time aplenty. After all, what else have you to do?’

‘When will I see my defence lawyer?’

‘Later today.’

‘And an embassy official?’

Fang and his colleagues shared looks as Fang scratched his scalp, before saying, ‘As soon as we can get one here, though don’t count on it. Let’s move onto more pressing things. Let’s discuss the future, and what is best for you.’

The idea they would talk seriously about what was best for Walter was laughable, and he would not move on until he received some assurances.

‘Do they know at home I am here in China?’

Mr Fang blew out hard and grimaced and said, ‘Not for us to decide. People high above our standing, rank and influence make that decision. That not true?’ he asked, glancing at his colleagues.

They nodded and mumbled agreement.

‘You know how it is, Walter,’ said Fang, ‘the higher-ups, sitting in ivory towers make the big decisions in secret, with us minions, you and I and my colleagues down here,’ setting his hand at desk level. ‘We have to accept it and make the best of it. I am sure it is the same in the UK. But I think you are diverting our attention from the most important factors.’

‘Which are?’

‘Well, the first has got to be your safety. That is paramount. I am sure you are aware, here in China, the ultimate deterrent to stopping serious criminality is the death penalty. You need to think about that. It’s an important point, and one you would do well not to ignore.’

Walter didn’t ignore it. He just didn’t believe it.

Chapter thirty-eight

After the exchange of fire, a German officer and two infantrymen crept through the wadi to find a British soldier lying dead. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

The man who fired at them paid a heavy price, half his throat missing, a look of startled terror on his face. If the German sniper felt any pity or remorse, he didn’t show it. Later, he’d carve another tiny notch on his rifle, the sixteenth.

Nearby, they found a second body. Another Tommy, a bleeding wound on his forearm, though that hadn’t killed him. The wound wasn’t bleeding any longer. In the centre of his forehead, a single blood-framed hole, the fatal wound.

The officer crouched down to find two brass bullet casings. He picked them up and held them to the sun. On the outside of the circular base, a tiny imprint showed the bullets were manufactured in his home town of Essen. He showed them to the sniper.

He studied them, pulled a face, and said, ‘Looks like we were not the first to get here.’

The officer agreed, as he fiddled with his baggy beige cap, his dusty goggles on top of his head, before he said, ‘If you fire again, make sure the target is an enemy.’

The sniper glanced at his officer and said, ‘Jawohl, Oberleutnant.’

They searched the dead men to find wallets and ID. The officer slipped them in his bulky front lower pockets along with the spent bullet cases, as he peered back at the ground to see countless footprints scurrying away north. As the officer turned away, one infantryman tugged off a couple of gold rings from the dead men’s fingers and slipped them in his pocket.

‘Come,’ the officer said. ‘They can’t have got far,’ and a moment later, the pursuit continued.

The Tommies, with no injured members to slow them down, made better progress. They ran to live. Oncoming hunger pangs spurred them, fearing the prospect of spending an unknown number of years in a German POW camp.

Ten minutes later, rounding another turning in the creek, they came across two Cheshire Regiment boys, lying back in the shade without a care in the world, taking a rest, drinking water from a canvas canteen as if they had just knocked off. It was hard to tell who was the more surprised.

‘Give us a drink?’ begged Leo, holding out his hand.

The guy didn’t get up, but handed the kid his precious water.

‘What’s happening?’ said Harry. ‘What are you doing here?’

The strangers shared a look before the second one said, ‘We guessed it was the safest place. We thought we’d wait for the battle to blow over, and make our way back after nightfall.’

Seemed a reasonable answer, but John Fenton was naturally suspicious, saying, ‘Show us your dog-tags.’

The first one said, ‘Who are you to be asking?’

Neither of them stood up.

‘Come on,’ said Harry. ‘It’s a reasonable request. We want reassurance you are who you say you are.’

Outnumbered five to two, they caved in and flashed their tags.

‘They are real,’ said Norman Burriton. ‘You can’t be too careful.’

Further back in the wadi, it didn’t take the three chasing Germans long to catch up with the dawdling Donald Grayson. He had no burning desire to meet the others, not wanting to explain what happened to Colin Catts and Bob Frost, and was feeling isolated and confused.

Something made him stop. He paused a second and stared back, not that he could see much, for he’d rounded a sharp bend, the jutting out bank obstructing his line of sight.

Donald thought he heard men moving fast, coming closer, and whoever they were, he didn’t fancy his chances. He possessed one gun and three bullets against the might of the Afrika Korps. Donald was no hero, brandishing a recently fired German weapon, and they might not approve.

He crouched down, gouged a hole in the sand, enlarged it with his boot, dropped the Luger in, and covered it, stamping it down, before sprinkling gravel over the hole.

Not a moment too soon. Three Germans crept round the corner, two infantrymen and an officer, weapons drawn, loaded, targeted him.

The leading man, the officer, shouted in perfect English, ‘Stand still. Hands up!’

Donald Grayson thrust his hands in the air and yelled, ‘Don’t shoot! Unarmed man.’

The Oberleutnant nodded his men forward.

A moment later they were on the Tommy, searching him, finding ID, listening to his explanation why he was there. The German officer spoke impeccable English, saying he was educated at Manchester University, while the infantry guys didn’t understand a word.

The officer said, ‘Where are the others?’

‘What others? I’m on my own.’

The Oberleutnant didn’t believe him, and on the spur of the moment, made a quick decision. He ordered one of his men, the ring thief, to take Grayson back to German lines, where he would be dumped in a holding POW pen, before being moved to a different location. The officer issued his last order in English and German, so there could be no confusion.

‘If he tries to escape, shoot him!’

Donald was grateful for the clarification, shook his head, and said, ‘You’re all right, guvnor, the game’s up for me.’

A moment later, they parted, two heading back to German lines, the two hungry hunters on the move again, eager to bag more rabbits.

Up ahead, Harry and Leo were eager to get moving, glancing back in case more Germans appeared. The strangers agreed and got up, ready to move.

As they stood, they revealed two leather satchels. Everyone saw them. Mail bags, and the men, mail clerks, dispatch blokes, out on delivery. Glorified postmen distributing precious mail from home, a daily delivery in the desert. You couldn’t make it up. Most of the post had been distributed before all hell broke loose.

They’d arrived from Cairo early in the morning before daybreak on a Morris fifteen-hundredweight truck, carrying nothing but letters and packets. Everyone knew an army fought on its stomach; and its mail.

Batches of correspondence were not given out individually; but left with officers and sergeants to distribute when the fighting died down. They explained the remaining letters belonged to various members of the Cheshires sixth battalion.

‘That’s us!’ said Johnny Kingston.

‘A million to one chance,’ added John Fenton.

Maybe not quite those odds, but damn close.

‘Deal with the mail later!’ said Harry, ‘or we’ll be caught with our pants down scanning letters as Jerry creeps up behind.’

It made sense to get moving, and they did, as Leo went to the nearest mail guy and said, ‘Do you know if there’s anything for Leo Moorland?’

‘No idea, mate. I’ll tell you when we stop.’

But it never happened.

Further along the wadi, closer to Tobruk, the German front-line had bulged out as front-lines sometimes do. A group of ten German infantry had pushed ahead as far as their officer required, and they were ordered to take cover in the wadi and hold it until reinforcements arrived.

The Jerries, glad of the break, sat around, eating biscuits and sucking on the last of a fresh supply of oranges their stores department had liberated back at Benghazi. Minutes later, they detected men moving and talking in the wadi, approaching from the south, and went on full alert, rifles grabbed, primed and ready.

The British ambled into a trap. Perhaps their guard was down after the thought of mail, stumbling straight into alert Germans. One of the Jerries panicked and got off a warning shot, but missed as seven unarmed Tommies turned and fled back the way they came. South of them, the Oberleutnant and his man detected a commotion, heard the rifle shot, and lay in wait. A minute later, seven unarmed British soldiers scurried into view, trapped like rats in a barn by hungry terriers.

The two armed Germans stood out, pointing loaded weapons, the officer saying, ‘Stop! Stand still and you won’t get hurt. If you run, I shall shoot you dead! For you, the war is over.’

Three running German infantrymen appeared behind the Tommies, spotted the officer and deferred, awaiting orders. They searched the British, seeking weapons, but none were found. The interesting satchels were confiscated, for it was amazing what intelligence could be gleaned from personal letters and documents.

Leo stepped towards the officer and said, ‘Can we have our mail, sir? It will mean nothing to you. I haven’t received any letters since leaving England. Go on, be a sport.’

The Oberleutnant shook his head. ‘Sorry, no can do. Your mail is now my mail,’ and he smirked and looked at his men and said, ‘Take them back to the pound. If anyone attempts to escape, you have my permission to shoot them,’ words repeated in English.

Leo cursed, before saying, ‘I knew we should have opened those bloody letters when we had the chance!’

The officer started at Leo and said, ‘Watch your language, boy! What would your mother say?’ and minutes later, the prisoners were marched away into the care of the Afrika Korps, heading for a prisoner of war camp. The only remaining question being, where would it be, and for how long?

Chapter thirty-nine

It didn’t take long before the investigating team on Pamela Grayson’s murder came up with information on Tony Tisbury.

A married man, one young child, no known criminal record, residing in a red brick newish semi-detached property in Shotton Lane, Shotton, just over the river and the Welsh border in Flintshire. The road followed a gentle incline away from the main drag, featuring mixed housing, including a sizeable reclaimed plot, ready for fresh development.

Karen and Darren took the job of finding Tony and set off for the house, arriving just after four. The property was neat and tidy, a small front garden with a chunky multi-coloured children’s ride-on car abandoned in the middle of the lawn, a small driveway set to one side that would struggle to hold two cars.

The officers shared a look as they went to the door for Darren to ring the bell. A moment later, a small boy opened up, maybe seven or eight, and he wasn’t alone. A mid-thirties woman came down the hall, seeing strangers, and wondering who they were and what they wanted.

Darren looked at the chewing-gum woman and said, ‘Hello, we are police officers. Nothing to worry about. We’d like a quick word with Tony. Is he about?’

The chewing never stopped as she said, ‘Shouldn’t you have ID or summat?’

The lad looked up and said, ‘Are you from the police?’

‘Yes,’ said Darren, showing the kid his ID before flashing it at the woman.

She pulled a face and said, ‘What do you want?’

Karen said, ‘We’d like a quick word with him. Nothing to worry about. Is he in or is he at work?’

The chewer didn’t answer but nodded, adding, ‘He works at the aircraft factory at Broughton.’

Darren said, ‘What time does he get home?’

‘’Bout half five, most days.’

‘Are you his wife?’ asked Karen.

She squealed with laughter enough for the kid to glance up at her and join in the merriment.

‘Good God, no. No Fear. I’m Shirley’s sister. Shirl works in the supermarket. She gets back around six. I look after the kid and peel the spuds or put the pasta on for tea.’

‘And what’s your name?’ asked Darren, peering into her dark eyes.

‘Meryl,’ she said, ‘Meryl Evans.’

He was a cute, fit bloke, neat short hair, seemed like he could look after himself, and anyone else. He could look after her if he wanted, though she guessed he wouldn’t be short of offers.

Karen and Darren shared another look and said, ‘Okay, thanks for your help, we’ll pop back later,’ but not before the lad said, ‘Have you gorra gun?’

‘No,’ said Darren, grinning down at the lad, for who knew? In another fifteen years, he might be a suitable recruit. ‘We don’t carry guns.’

The kid looked disappointed but would not let it go.

‘Only when you are chasing bad men?’

‘That’s right,’ said Karen. ‘Not needed today.’

The kid’s face creased as if he were thinking of dark things, before he said, ‘Are there any bad men living round here?’

Karen smiled and said, ‘Not that we know of, and even if there were, we would find them, wouldn’t we?’

The kid nodded and grinned and said, ’Hope so, Mrs,’ as Darren grinned at Meryl and said, ‘We’ll pop back later.’

She wasn’t about to let them go without trying.

‘You can come in and wait and I’ll make you a coffee if you like.’

‘Yeah!’ said the lad, grinning at his aunt and Darren. ‘Come in and tell me cop stories.’

Karen and Darren thought about it, and though she would have preferred to wait in the BMW, maybe there might be some mileage in staying inside. Who knew what the chewing machine might let slip, or even the lad?

Did Meryl know Pamela Grayson? Had Tony ever mentioned her? Anything was possible. Was Tony a lady’s man? It looked that way. Darren guessed Meryl would know things. Tony might even have made a pass at her, for blokes with a big eye for the ladies often made a pass at anything in a skirt, and if Meryl wasn’t the most attractive woman Darren had ever seen, she wasn’t bad. He’d been out with a lot worse.

‘Okay,’ said Karen, ‘if it’s no trouble.’

‘Course not,’ said Meryl, ‘no trouble at all,’ chewing paused a second before it started again with greater vigour, as Karen went in, and Darren squeezed past Meryl who could have stood a little further back against the narrow hall wall.

In the next moment, they were gathered in the small kitchen diner at the back, Karen and Darren sitting at a compact yellow table, as Meryl set the kettle boiling.

‘Go on!’ said the grinning boy, Gareth, though he preferred Gaz.

‘Well, Gaz,’ said Darren. ‘Did you hear about the case of the escaped gorilla?’

The lad’s eyes widened as he shook his head.

‘Gary, he was called.’

Gaz laughed and said, ‘Gary the gorilla.’

Darren nodded and grinned and continued.

‘One late summer afternoon, he broke out of Chester Zoo.’

‘Like breaking out of prison, you mean?’

‘That’s right, and we searched high and low for him. But could we find him? Could we heck.’

‘He might have jumped on a bus.’

‘No money to buy a ticket.’

‘No, I wouldn’t like to have been on the bus if he had. Did you find him?’

‘Well, a couple of hours later, a report came in about trouble in a local convenience store.’

Gaz nodded hard and said, ‘He was in there, eating the sweets. I can see it now!’

‘Pretty much, but it wasn’t sweets he was after.’

‘Crisps?’

Darren shook his head and said, ‘What is the first thing you’d want to buy and eat on a hot summer evening?’

‘Ice cream!’

‘Correct, young man. We’ll make a detective of you yet. He’d taken a liking to choc ices and was eating one after another until he could eat no more, and you know what happens when you eat too much ice cream?’

‘He was sick!’

‘He was, you’re right, and take it from me, gorilla sick stinks!’

‘Stinks!’ repeated Gaz. ‘Stinks! Did you have to clean it up?’

‘Thank goodness, no. Not my job.’

‘Did he get charged for stealing?’

‘Nope, but a week later, back at the zoo, a letter turned up addressed to Gary the Gorilla, Chester Zoo, containing a written warning that if he ever did it again, he’d have to attend court, and if found guilty, they would send him to prison, and I wonder what the other prisoners would have made of that.’

Gaz’s imagination didn’t stretch that far, as he demanded another story, something Darren wasn’t short of, as the women exchanged grinned looks. Darren launched into the tale of the headless man seen wandering along the Nantwich Road at midnight.

‘A ghost!’ said the kid.

‘I hope so. I wouldn’t like to have seen a real man carrying his own head under his arm, would you?’ an image to tempt the boy into squeals of laughter.

Tony Tisbury let himself into the house at a quarter to six. Shirley Tisbury arrived two minutes later, something Karen and Darren would have preferred didn’t happen.

‘What’s this about?’ said Tony, glancing from the guy to the woman and back at dopey Meryl, who should never have let them in.

Darren told them they were police officers.

Gaz said, ‘Dad, did you know about the gorilla who ate all the ice cream?’

‘Not now, son. Take him upstairs, Shirl, while I see to these people. And you, Meryl, why don’t you buzz off and we will speak again tomorrow?’ He eased her towards the front door, much to her disappointment.

‘Me money?’ she said, hand out, chewing intensity increasing.

‘Oh, yeah,’ and he opened his wallet and slipped her a twenty before nodding her away.

She said, ‘Tah,’ slipped it in her jeans, looked back at Darren waiting in the hall, and said, ‘it’s been nice meeting you. Maybe see you again sometime?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Darren, giving her a smile to take away, and a second later Meryl had gone.

In the quiet kitchen, Tony kicked off.

‘You have no right forcing yourself into my house when I was not here.’

‘We didn’t force ourselves in,’ said Karen, meeting fire with fire. ‘We were invited in for a coffee.’

‘She’s a stupid bitch, that one. Where’s your ID? You could be anyone. We are always hearing stories of people getting into houses under false pretences.’

The officers flashed ID as Karen said, ‘Mr Tisbury, we can do this here, or we can do it down at the station. I don’t mind which.’

‘No, you’re alright. Let’s get it done. What is it you want?’

‘Tell us about Pamela Grayson,’ said Darren.

‘Oh, that. Not much to tell.’

‘We think there is, Mr Tisbury,’ said Karen. ‘Off you go, and leave nothing out.’

Chapter forty

Most experts agreed China carried out more human executions than the rest of the world put together, though in a bad year, Iran could run them close.

Some poor unfortunates ended their days by shooting, though the majority by lethal injection. Both China and some states in the USA favoured lethal injection, with Amnesty International reporting three chemicals being used.

Sodium pentotal as an anaesthetic, pancuronuim bromide to paralyse the convicted, and potassium chloride to stop the heart. A nightmare to put an end to all nightmares.

It sounded clean and final, but reports of agonising deaths lasting half an hour were not uncommon. Walter, an aficionado on law enforcement techniques and punishments across the globe, didn’t need to be reminded of it.

But reminded of it, he was by Mr Fang and his two cohorts, who spelt it out in some detail. It was the fate Walter was staring at unless he confessed, and the outcome the prosecutor would demand in the high-powered low-profile trial planned for two days hence.

Walter also knew in Chinese courts, the successful prosecution rate on serious crime hovered in the late nineties. In other words, by the time the case hit the courtroom in 99 per cent of cases, a guilty verdict had already been reached.

It wasn’t a great outlook, and as Mr Fang reminded him, it was best to negotiate a deal before setting foot in the court.

‘It’s your best hope,’ pressed Fang. ‘You are clearly guilty. I have followed the case from the outset. The evidence is there for all to see. The pictures are on your camera, photographs taken by you. Be sensible, man, don’t be a martyr. Take a deal while it is on the table.’

Walter thought about it and asked him to spell out any proposed deal, and Fang did.

‘I am sure you possess an excellent memory. Most police officers do. But if you want me to repeat it, I will. It is simple. We want you to become an MSS operative. In total secrecy, of course. At some point in the future, you will be required to carry out occasional tasks. Nothing major, I hasten to add. Nothing like killing someone, if that is what you think.’

One of the strangers butted in, much to Mr Fang’s annoyance, and said, ‘We have others who do that,’ a comment to elicit a withering look from Mr Fang, an image to tell him to shut up.

After a suitable pause, Fang continued, ‘No, Walter, it will be small things. I think you will be surprised at how innocuous the task or tasks are. Not forgetting the regular stipend you will receive, not massive, I grant you, but we could all do with a little extra money in the pocket.’

‘And I would have to plead guilty?’

‘Of course. You are guilty. I don’t see the problem.’

Walter exhaled and thought about it before saying, ‘I need more time to make such an important decision, and I must speak with my lawyer.’

Fang exchanged a glance with his comrades and they nodded back before Fang said, ‘Makes sense. Okay, we will leave it with you, with a promise you will be introduced to your lawyer the moment he arrives from Shanghai.’

Walter surprised them with his next question.

‘How is Marina Moo?’

They exchanged embarrassed looks before Fang said, ‘We continue to monitor Mrs Moo, both her activities and her behaviour, though in truth, we imagine you know far more about the lady than we do. Anything fresh to tell us in that direction?’

‘No. Certainly not! How could I? Being stuck in here, after you illegally dragged me across an internationally recognised border.’

Walter’s words stung Fang.

‘Hong Kong is part of China, period! And it is about time you British recognised the fact. It’s time for you to let it go. You have no influence here, and were always here illegally, and now the territory has returned to its rightful owners, the Motherland, just as Taiwan will be soon.’

Walter couldn’t resist a grin before saying, ‘The Americans might have something to say about that.’

The stranger butted in.

‘Fuck the Americans! We are not frightened of them.’

The comment seemed to encapsulate a punctuation mark, defining the end of the meeting. Walter thought of saying: maybe you should be; but restrained himself.

The three men left without another word, locking him in, as Walter thought of Marina again. They hadn’t told him anything new. He didn’t know if she was in custody, or had been charged with any offence, or even if she was still in Hong Kong. For all he knew, she might be back in the Blue Lantern in Parkgate, eyeing up the customers, relieving them of plenty pounds, as she would say, giving the men marks out of ten on her sexometer rating, while awarding the women similar marks on her slapability exchange, ten for the ones she would most like to slap.

What a strange and outspoken woman she was, though undeniably enticing, and as he thought of that, the idea returned to him that maybe she too was an MSS operative, and had used her charms to entice him to the Far East. It was her idea for him to come. He didn’t believe it, but couldn’t rule it out.

He sat and pondered on events, as time flew by, the big hand on his imaginary watch, twirling round three complete revolutions, before someone unlocked the door.

A super-slim, short, balding Chinese gentleman wearing John Lennon spectacles, a modern black briefcase hooked on his puny arm, hustled into the room and sat down. He stared across at Walter, wondering if he could persuade the foreigner of the merits of joining their club.

Chapter forty-one

In the World War II desert campaign, Leo Moorland, Harry Worthington and the rest were taken to a holding camp well behind enemy lines.

They were fed biscuits and tea, captured British provisions snaffled when the Afrika Korps moved forward, overrunning supply dumps, threatening to swallow Egypt whole.

It wasn’t a big camp, around 180 British men, no officers, no sergeants, and it wasn’t long before Leo, Harry, and John Fenton came across Donald Grayson. He broke the stunning news Colin Catterall was no more; shot in the throat by advancing enemy infantry.

It was hard to accept. Yes, they knew they were in a war zone, and casualties were to be expected, but Colin was one of their own, in many ways a leader when the sergeants and officers were absent.

Donald tried to lighten the load, saying, ‘Catts went down fighting. He shot one of theirs. He knew the Luger would come in useful. It was his heroism that enabled the rest of us to escape. Deserves a medal, if you ask me.’

John Fenton asked the question several were thinking.

‘And Bob Frost? What happened to him?’

‘In the melee, when the shooting was going on, I saw my chance and slipped away. Bob’s about somewhere. I had no choice. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in here.’

Harry said, ‘He’s not. I’ve checked.’

‘Well, good luck to him wherever he is. Maybe he made it back to our blokes. Let’s hope so.’

‘He was wounded. He could barely move.’

‘Yeah, I know. But he’s tough. You know Bob. He’s still out there, I reckon, creeping back bit by bit, moving at night. It could take him a week to get away.’

It was possible, but unlikely.

They stayed in the expanding camp for ten days, the food becoming less with each passing day. On the eleventh morning, a different German officer arrived with news, carrying a clipboard and an old British briefcase. He called the men to him and addressed them.

‘This afternoon, you will be taken on trucks down to Tobruk port, where you will board a German Navy ship. Don’t ask me where it is bound because I don’t know.’

John Fenton asked about Catterall and Frost.

The German looked uncomfortable and consulted his clipboard.

‘Catterall was shot dead after he fired on our soldiers. We are entitled to defend ourselves.’

‘Was he given a decent burial?’

‘I don’t have that information.’

‘And Bob Frost?’

The Jerry officer squirmed, seeking solace in his notes, before saying, ‘I am sorry to tell you, we found another body with that ID. I have nothing further to add. It’s a sad fact, our two nations are at war. You are doing everything to kill us, and we are doing the same to you. It seems Mr Frost was another regrettable casualty.’

‘It stinks!’ said Fenton. ‘Who killed him and why?’

‘I don’t know, and I agree. This war stinks, but don’t quote me. Look on the bright side. I have some good news for you. In this bag there are fifty letters. They are of no use to us. Here, take them with you on your trip,’ and he offered the bag to Fenton.

He took it before saying, ‘The men need feeding.’

‘You are right. Hundreds of thousands of men are involved in this theatre, and every one of them needs feeding twice a day. It’s a mammoth task, and a difficult one to accomplish. I can assure you, you will receive your fair share of rations as and when we come across them. In the meantime, just like us, you will have to wait. Perhaps you might get lucky on the ship. I’ve heard great tales of decent food being served. That is all,’ and he turned about, ignored a barrage of shouted questions, and made for the barbed-wire gate to be let out by two armed soldiers.

The British watched him jump in a staff car and motor away in a cloud of dust.

Everyone crowded round Fenton, hoping for mail. He opened the bag to distribute, but before he could, eager hands grabbed and tugged the letters, regardless of who they were for.

‘Careful!’ said Fenton, ‘you’ll ruin them.’

The men were not in the mood to be careful, though somehow, the letters reached their man, and Leo Moorland was chuffed to discover he had five. The most post any man received that day.

‘Jammy sod!’ said Harry, as Leo grinned and hurried away to find a quiet spot to squat and devour the news from home.

Nothing arrived for Catterall or Bob Frost, or if it did, it wasn’t produced.

Leo’s five letters came from two different people, two written in his mother’s untidy scrawl, and three by an altogether different hand. They were sent to his family home in Trinity Street, Rock Ferry, before being redirected overseas.

Neat backward sloping handwriting, each envelope bearing a single mauve stamp featuring the King’s head. They were not from his sister, Sandra, that was certain, for she hated writing, and wasn’t much good at it.

He sniffed them, imagining exotic perfume, and hoped they were from Bertha; the young woman he knew for half an hour in the sheds at Canada Dock, Liverpool. Could it be on such a flimsy acquaintance she had written three times? He couldn’t imagine who else they might be from, but reserved judgment for he had several scatty aunts, and it was possible one of them, feeling sorry for him, decided to write. Supporting our boys, literally on the front-line.

All the envelopes had been opened, the contents read and devoured, and stamped several times by German military censors, both on the envelope and on each sheet inside. Leo thought they had no business reading his mail. Perhaps they had received more, and kept them for reasons unknown.

He studied the envelope, not wanting to be disappointed. There were more hand stamps on it than enough, British and German. The postmark, BIRKENHEAD, with a clear date he worked out to be four days after they sailed from Liverpool.

Leo eased open the first cream envelope and teased out two sheets of folded unlined writing paper. You could always tell a good letter-writer. They didn’t need damned lines to write on. Seconds later, he discovered the letter was from Bertha.

Thank the Lord!

His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he struggled to gulp a breath.

Another hurdle reared up. Would she say she was spoken for, seeing someone, or would she think he was too young for her and wasting his time? Surely she couldn’t do that after all the long nights he had thought about her. With trepidation, he began reading.

She lived in Tranmere, only five minutes from his place, at the top of the hill from the football ground. So close, he might have seen her before without realising.

Dear Leo, it said… Dear Leo, as his eyes rushed across her wonderful words.

Chapter forty-two

Tony Tisbury glanced at the ceiling as if imagining his wife was up there listening, before he looked at Darren and Karen and began talking.

‘I knew Pamela for a short while. It was all over, done and dusted in less than a month.’

Karen said, ‘Where did you first meet?’

‘In a city pub. She was alone, and I felt sorry for her. She said her mates had just left, but I don’t think there were any mates.’

‘You had an affair?’ asked Darren.

‘Yeah, you could say that, though it was more like a series of one-night stands,’ and he lowered his voice and glanced back at the ceiling.

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

‘There’s not much to tell. It was just sex. She wanted it and I was happy to oblige.’

‘You do that a lot, do you?’ said Karen. ‘Go round the city obliging lonely women?’

‘You make me sound cheap,’ he said with a smirk.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Oh, let me see,’ scratching the back of his neck. ‘Months ago. I can’t remember the date.’

‘It wasn’t months ago!’ said Darren.

‘Trust me, it seems like it.’

Karen said, ‘Were you ever violent towards her?’

It was a loaded question and meant to be.

‘No, never! I admit I have a hot temper. Anyone will tell you that. It comes with the sandy hair and fair, freckly skin, but I have never been violent with any woman other than in play.’

‘Only in play,’ Karen repeated the words. ‘Sometimes violence in play morphs into more serious physical violence. Is that what happened?’

‘No, certainly not. She liked it rough. She said that from the outset, but what can you do?’

Darren said, ‘Did you visit her at her flat?’

‘I did.’

‘How many times?’

Tony shook his head, grimaced, and said, ‘Not sure, three or four.’

Karen said, ‘I reckon it was twice that.’

‘Yes,’ said Darren, ‘I agree, sarge, and each time it grew more ferocious.’

‘Look mate, I was there. You were not. I know what happened, you don’t, and if you think I was violent towards her, you are barking up the wrong tree.’

‘You mean she was violent to you?’ said Karen.

‘She damned well was, and in the end, it was the reason I stopped seeing her, and that drove her nuts. Couldn’t stand rejection, that one. A woman scorned, and all that, but it had to be done.’

Karen said, ‘What form did the violence take?’

‘Always something different. She had an imagination, did Pamela Grayson.’

‘Go on, be more specific.’

‘You want all the lurid details?’

‘We do. You know she is dead?’

‘Yes, I read about it online. I was sorry to hear it, but not surprised.’

‘We appealed for people who knew her to come forward. You didn’t do that, did you, Tony?’ said Karen, watching his face for telltale signs of guilt.

‘No, I didn’t, and I regret that, but it could have been awkward with the wife. You know how it is.’

‘That is why we want to know what went on, because in the unholy mess somewhere may lie a clue to who killed her.’

Tony nodded and said, ‘Yeah, I understand.’

‘Continue,’ said Karen. ‘What happened?’

He sighed and wanted it over before Shirley returned, lowered his voice, and said, ‘She handcuffed me to the bed. I mean manacled me, and it was impossible to break free. I told her I’d call out for help if she went too far, and she laughed. She said she’d put an end to that, the shouting. She produced a handkerchief, spat on it, rolled it into a hard ball, and forced it into my mouth, before using brown parcel tape to keep it in place. I couldn’t utter a word, not a thing, and struggled to breathe.’

‘Was that it?’ said Karen.

‘No, that was the start.’

‘Go on,’ said Darren.

‘You’re enjoying this.’

‘No,’ said Darren, ‘we are not enjoying it, but someone was.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me. I’d never come across anything like it.’

‘We are waiting,’ said Karen.

‘She took her clothes off.’

‘Go on,’ said Darren.

‘And put on a pair of red stilettos. Fancy things, but hurtful.’

‘And?’ said Karen.

‘She hopped on the bed, stood tall, and walked up and down on my chest and stomach like a catwalk model, swinging her arms grinning and giggling, up and down and round and round, and up and down again.’

‘That must have hurt?’

‘Hurt? It was bloody agony. For a moment, I thought she might pierce my chest cavity.’

‘It must have left dreadful marks,’ said Darren.

‘It did, dozens of them, and they took weeks to heal.’

‘How did you explain that?’

‘With difficulty. Shirley is not stupid. I said the first thing that came into my head. I play a bit of rugby, and I told her we’d played Shrewsbury Baptists. Everyone knows Shrewsbury Baptists are the dirtiest team in the league. I told her their forwards were renowned for their finger gouging, especially in the scrums, and I play hooker, in the thick of it.’

‘And she believed you?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so. She kissed them better, I know that.’

‘Was that it?’ said Karen. ‘The fashion show over, and she let you go?’

‘No, it was the beginning.’

‘Go on,’ said Darren.

Tony grimaced and wanted to banish such thoughts from his mixed-up brain before saying, ‘She produced candles.’

‘Candles?’ said Darren.

‘And lit them. Those big fat things you see in church, except they were black. I’d never seen black candles before, and I never want to see them again.’

‘And?’ said Karen.

‘One in either hand, flames going strong, held them above me to let the molten wax drip over my body, starting with the face and working down. She thought it funny and laughed like a blocked drain. I didn’t know till then how disturbed she was. She should have been in an institution. The woman needed serious treatment.’

Tony sniffed and looked away before Darren brought him back to the moment.

‘Go on, Mr Tisbury. We are almost done.’

‘Look! I am not going into any further details, except to say, molten wax on the testicles is not to be recommended, and when I was eventually free, it took ages to peel off. The skin was burnt, and it was then I discovered I was bleeding from the welts and wounds on my chest and stomach.’

‘She let you go?’ said Karen.

‘She did. The cuff keys were in the bedside table. Heaven knows who she had used them on before, or after.’

Darren said, ‘What happened next?’

‘Not much. The mixed-up bitch wanted me to screw her when I was bleeding and burnt. I told her no chance and said it was over. I couldn’t handle that caper, and I reckon on another day she might have killed me. I saw the wicked glint in her eye, and I knew she was capable of it.’

Darren and Karen shared another look as she said, ‘Just to be clear, Mr Tisbury, and no lies, please. Where were you on the Friday evening Pamela Grayson was killed?’

Darren added the date.

Tony scratched his upper lip and thought about it and said, ‘I remember now. It was the big awards night dinner dance at the rugby club. All the wives and girlfriends were there. Shirley was looking forward to it. She’s a cracking dancer and always lets her hair down. She’s a bit of a flirt when she’s had a few drinks. We left here at half seven, took a taxi, the local Shotton Shootin’ Cabs, you can check, and we didn’t get back till well after midnight, about half one, and I’ll be honest, we were both half-cut.’

For clarification, Karen said, ‘You mean you were both drunk?’

‘We were merry. Put it that way.’

‘So, you’d have a solid alibi?’

‘Indeed, thank goodness, only about two hundred strong.’

‘Don’t look so smug,’ said Darren.

‘One last question,’ said Karen.

‘Oh, aye? Fire away.’

‘Did she mention anyone else? Another man? Anyone who might have hurt her? Anyone who inflicted violence, maybe to set her off on that road? Anyone she grew to hate or loathe; or anyone who hated and loathed her back. In short, someone who might have murdered Ms Grayson?’

‘That’s a hard question to answer. I knew she had a lot of men friends, and sometimes she told me snippets and other times she’d bottle things up, though to be truthful, and I know this sounds cold, I was only interested in one thing. All her past baggage and any happy future she imagined we might share didn’t interest me, and I think she knew it. But now you mention it, there was one guy she spoke of with greater venom than most. I only remember because he had an unusual name.’

‘Go on,’ said Karen.

‘Naz, it was Naz.’

Darren and Karen shared a look before he said, ‘What Naz, as in Nazim, an Asian name, Pakistani maybe, or Arabic?’

‘No, you couldn’t be more wrong, just the opposite. Short for Nazareth. The place where the Jesus bloke’s parents left to travel to Bethlehem to give birth to the Son of God; if you believe that stuff. Pam’s former lover was called Nazareth.’

Darren pulled a face. The second time, the name had cropped up. Karen knew they were on to something and said, ‘One question.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘When she let you go, what happened?’

‘I told you, I hustled round looking for my clothes, got dressed, told her it had been nice knowing her, but it had run its course and it was best if we didn’t meet again, and I left while I was still in one piece.’

‘How did she take it?’

‘Badly. She said men who left her travelled a rocky road.’

‘What did she mean?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think she was trying to mess with my mind. It was one of her specialities. There is no doubting that, and I guessed it wouldn’t be the last I’d hear from her.’

‘And is that how it turned out? She pestered you?’

‘No, thank God, and I was surprised.’

Karen said, ‘One last question, and be accurate. How long was this before Pamela was murdered?’

‘Not long, a few weeks.’

The kitchen door opened and Shirley Tisbury wandered in, saying, ‘How’s it going, folks? What’s the mystery?’

‘No mystery, darling, just something that happened at the rugby dinner. I have cleared it up, and the officers are about to leave.’

‘That’s good, darling, always best to help the police,’ as she looked at Karen for confirmation, and she said, ‘Mr Tisbury has been helpful. We’ll leave you to have your dinner in peace,’ and the officers made their way through to the front door.

Young Gareth, watching from the top of the stairs, saw the officers and his mum gathered by the front door, and shouted down, ‘Go get the bad men!’

Darren turned and grinned up at him.

‘That’s the idea, kid. You have a great weekend, and no fighting,’ and Shirley nodded, let them out, and closed the door.

The moment they had gone, she turned about and stormed down the hall, yelling, ‘What the bloody hell have you been up to now? Don’t answer that, you bastard, because I know well enough. You’ve been dangling your dick in public again, propositioning all and sundry. You’ll never change, Tony Tisbury. I don’t know why I put up with you!’

Outside, Darren made his way back to the car. Karen paused at the door. Sometimes one learned things after leaving, and often more illuminating than anything said before.

She heard every bellowed word; and considered Tony got off lightly.

Gareth, watching from the top of the stairs, watched Karen through the clouded glass. He thought it sneaky, her not leaving; and he wondered if he should tell mum, or maybe he’d keep it a secret because adults were strange. They did weird things, and sometimes it was best not to interfere.

Chapter forty-three

Walter’s newly appointed lawyer’s name was Joe, though he never discovered if that was the legal man’s real name or a pseudonym.

He tried a grin at Walter, and speaking in rickety English, said, ‘You guilty or innocent?’

Walter fought to keep calm as he said, ‘I am innocent. 100%.’

‘Okay. You pwoove to me you are innocent.’

‘I can’t. It’s not possible to prove innocence. Only possible to prove guilt.’

‘Not here in China. They think you guilty. I think you guilty, and if you are innocent, you must pwoove it.’

Walter sighed and said, ‘What kind of defence lawyer are you?’

‘I good defence lawyer. Defend all the time. I paid big bucks to be here. They not do that if I no good. Everyone knows I am the best. Always show up. Never miss. Well paid. Good rep… rep… well thought of.’

‘Okay, Joe. Tell me how many cases you have won?’

The man sighed, shook his head, and averted his eyes, before saying, ‘None… yet, and if I am honest, I don’t think you are going to break the losing streak.’

Walter sat back and joined his hands behind his head. Joe thought it disrespectful and indicated it through his body language. Walter bobbed his head and sat up straight, wondering if there was any point in continuing, but what was the alternative?

‘When is the trial?’

‘Two days.’

‘What time?’

‘Ten in the morning.’

‘How long will it last?’

‘As it is, not long. Maybe an hour.’

‘An hour? You kidding me? And the probable sentence?’

‘I think you know it could be death, but you also know you can change that. It down to you. I cannot recommend enough you change test… how you say, test…?’

Walter helped him out. He so wanted to say testicles, but said, ‘Testimony.’

‘That right. That the one. You change?’

‘I am not confessing to crimes I did not commit. You are supposed to defend me and explain that to the court.’

‘I not say that to the judge. She one fiery woman. Best not to rile her.’

‘It’s a woman judge?’

‘It is. Mrs Ida Ming. She one tough cookie, as you say,’ and Joe shook his head and looked beaten at the thought.

A two-minute silence followed before Walter said, ‘I think, Joe, you are wasting your time here, and mine too, so the best thing you can do is pack up and leave.’

‘I not go! No chance. I paid for two hours and two hours you get.’

‘That’s fine by me, but do me a favour and keep quiet while I figure out how to win this case.’

Joe watched the foreigner sit back in his chair and close his eyes.

‘You go to sleep in front of me!’

‘No, I am thinking, puzzling my way out of this conundrum.’

‘Conun… what?’

‘Forget it,’ as Walter opened one eye and stared across at his so-called lawyer like a hungry Komodo dragon, noting there wasn’t much meat on the prey.

‘You crazy man. Death wish. Hopeless case. They all say you mad, and you damn well are.’

‘Quiet, Joe. You are interrupting my train of thought.’

The sprite of a man opened his case when he should have been closing it, took out a word puzzle book and diverted his attention to the quiz, trying hard not to think about his wife spending money they did not have.

Walter possessed a long-time interest in history. Everyone’s history, every country, every race, for it all fitted together like one gigantic jigsaw of the history of humankind.

Tudor times fascinated him, and he had been reading an amazing book about the Court of Henry the Eighth. In his hurry to leave the house and meet with Marina, he left the darned book on the coffee table. He had intended finishing it on the plane. No matter, he had read 90% and knew the rest.

There was something magical about Sir Thomas More. A giant of Tudor times. A man faced with the choice of recanting his beliefs, his Catholic religion, and supporting the Act of Succession, or refusing and facing execution. His large family begged him to do so. Just say it, Thomas, they said, even if you don’t mean it. You will still be alive. We will have you, and the family will not become destitute.

He didn’t, and couldn’t, told them so, and went to his premature death.

Thomas More was tried for treason before a big show-trial. When it came to the jury deciding his fate, they found him guilty in less than fifteen minutes.

He was sentenced to being hung, taken down before he was dead, to have his innards drawn out, so he could watch the procedure, before his body was quartered. It was common for the four pieces to be impaled on the city gates, north, south, east and west, the standard sentence for treason back then.

The king, who liked More, granted him a big favour, commuting the sentence to decapitation. Thomas More was beheaded in public on Tuesday, the 6th of July, 1535.

Walter would never have the effrontery or barefaced cheek to compare himself to Sir Thomas More, a titanic figure in Tudor history. Yet there were similarities between the cases.

Walter was facing the death penalty, and had been told by his oppressors he would be spared if he confessed his sins, while agreeing to carry out occasional tasks. It went against everything he stood for. Thomas More enjoyed a large, loving family who relied on him for everything. Walter had no one to worry about except himself.

If Sir Thomas could do such a courageous thing, why could Walter not do the same? Sometimes in life, when challenges came and questions were asked, one had to stand up for what was right. If he faltered, he would be the one to live with the guilt forever, and he didn’t think he could do that.

Like Sir Thomas, he would plead not guilty, and place himself at the mercy of Mrs Ida Ming, renowned killer of men and women. He had enjoyed a good life, believing he would leave the world in a better state than he found it, and not everyone could say that.

His principles were not up for debate. He had not committed the crime of spying, and he would not stand up in any court anywhere in the world, and admit to it. Period, as Mr Fang might have said.

Joe put his word puzzle book back in his case, and glanced at his Chinese made digital watch. He had been in the room for two hours and six minutes, serving his client well, fulfilling his commitment. He pulled out a prepared document confirming the fact and skimmed it across the table.

‘I’m done,’ he said. ‘I finished here. Sign the paper confirming you happy with my service.’

Walter picked up three stapled pages, fully in Chinese. It could have said anything, even a false confession. He slipped it back across the table, saying, ‘I am not signing. I can’t read it.’

Joe looked suitably furious, grabbed the papers, signed it himself, slapped it in his briefcase, and banged it shut.

‘You bad ass man! Evil, evil, evil. I hope you burn in hell, and you will.’

‘Thank you for your help and support,’ said Walter, ‘you’ve been amazing,’ though it was doubtful Joe heard, for he was already halfway through the door, banging it shut behind him, yelling at a guard to lock the idiot inside.

Nothing else happened after that, no dinner, no visitors, until he guessed it was around 10pm. The door opened and two sentries grabbed his elbows and dragged him away to a small cell where he found a rock-hard bench with a small bottle of water and a clear plastic bag of Chinese mixed boiled sweets. What were they trying to do? Kill him through the world’s most prolific medical affliction, tooth decay?

Walter sucked away the green ones. He always liked the green sweets best, lay down and thought of the strangest things, when an hour later, the light popped out, the darkness making it easier to imagine himself enjoying the happiest of times, with wonderful people, in his go-to happy place.

Chapter forty-four

Leo Moorland read every word in the three letters he received from Bertha Williams, and then read them again.

He was fortunate to open them in the order they were intended, and it was clear she had written before receiving anything from him. The first was surprisingly formal. In his mind, and his letters to her, he had moved on from that stage.

She said countless blokes had asked her to write to them, but he was the only one who had prepared a cute little note bearing his contact details, and that spoke volumes. She told him where she lived with her mother and brother, while dad was away on an unspecified aircraft carrier. Bertha didn’t know where, and even if she did, she would not say.

In the second letter, her writing style was less formal, and she seemed more interested in him, asking if he was okay and enjoying the service life overseas. I’ll bet you are seeing exciting scenes, she said, visiting exotic places, bringing back memories into Leo’s mind of crossing the equator, and the fabulous girl in white serenading them on the quayside at Durban. He so wanted to tell her about that, but knew he must not. No information about where they had been and what they had seen must ever be revealed.

By the third letter, she said she was hoping to get into the armed forces. Like dad, Navy her preference, the WRENS, but Bertha said they were a snooty lot, and the woman she saw told her not to get her hopes up, and tried to divert her attention to the land army.

Working in the fields, pulling up turnips, parsnips, and swedes in North Wales all day? I ask you. That is the last thing I want, and I’ve always hated bloody swedes. Anyway, Leo, I am now hoping to get into the WAAFS. I can see myself doing that, and I’m going for a formal interview on Saturday morning in India Buildings, Liverpool, so wish me well.

At the end of the third letter, she seemed dispirited. Where are your letters to me, Mr Moorland? Have you written? If you have, I haven’t received a sausage. Perhaps you have lost interest. Maybe your little notes were given out all over, and you are overrun with letters, love letters, even, from blonde bombshells looking like Hollywood damsels. I could see that happening.

I’ve devised a simple system. Last night I was lying in bed, and the thought came to me all my letters might not get through. So, to check, at the end of each one you will find little marks, tiny Roman numerals if you like, III, on this one to show it is the third. Look out for that, chum. And perhaps you could do the same on yours; assuming you can be bothered to write.

So come on, young Leo, seeing as I know you are younger than me, just a titchy bit, but younger nonetheless. (Tee hee!) Get your damned pen out and write back. If you don’t… and she left the sentence unfinished.

A while later, she started writing again, saying, sorry; I wasn’t thinking. Here I am, imagining you fighting in the jungle, or the desert, or in the Greek mountains, or somewhere worse, being shot at by Germans and Italians, maybe lying injured, starving, perhaps captured, God forbid, and the last thing you will want is to think of little old me. I am sure you have more important things on your mind, but if you ever get this letter, please do your best to reply. You’d better, after all the letters I have written to you! Wish me luck with the RAFFERS on Saturday. I have a good feeling about this.

Stay safe, keep your head down, behave yourself, and no visits to houses of ill-repute, wherever you may be. You don’t want to bring something horrid back with you. Yuck! You know what foreigners are like.

It’s almost eleven, and I am whacked, and I am going to bed. Nighty night, Leo Moorland, and there it ended, after she signed her name with a flourish, with just one, though one was enough. A kiss! A tiny little x, the first one, and after that, at the foot of the page, three scrawled marks not looking like numbers of any description, proving he had missed none of her letters in the past, confirming the Germans had kept none, at least till now.

He hadn’t finished reading a moment too soon. A noisy convoy of German lorries pulled up outside the camp, and aggressive armed soldiers jumped out, waving rifles, yelling: RAUS! RAUS!

Get in the trucks, and no one argued. Half an hour later, they were on their way, throwing up a huge sand cloud across the desert, an obvious signal to allied fliers, and if they spotted German trucks full of men, they were not to know who those men were, and wouldn’t hesitate to attack. Being killed by one’s own bombs must be the worst way to die in war, a thought Leo wasn’t alone in thinking.

An hour passed, they crested a low hill, and the blue Med came into sight, Tobruk harbour laid out before them. Not a busy port, just the one vessel berthed, an ancient tub with a single tall and slim yellow funnel, slightly swept back, set behind the main mast. No one had thought to paint it grey. The trucks rumbled into town, through the narrow dusty streets, to form a queue on the quayside.

Leo and his mates in the second lorry, sniffed the air, taking in the identical aroma of ports the world over. Oil, ozone, fish, and filthy, rotting rope. When they pulled past the ancient ship, they spotted her name painted on the stern.

“Dinkelsbühl”, which meant nothing to anyone. Several squaddies imagined Catts might have known the ship was named after a picture postcard half-timbered town in Franconia, down Bavaria way.

Some of the wiser heads estimated the vessel to be barely a thousand tons, not much more than a minnow, a ship that had spent its forty years tramping round Northern Europe and Scandinavia, surviving World War One. Built in the early part of the century at Wilhelmshaven, 75 miles west of Hamburg, Tobruk being the furthest it had ever wandered from home waters. The SS Dinkelsbühl, their new home for how long they could not guess.

In the sweltering afternoon, the sound of aircraft interrupted the busy scene on the quay. Everyone stared skywards, thinking they should run for cover. Their German minders didn’t and kept the men standing in the open.

Out of the sun, a British plane soared down. Everyone watched a single bomb detach from the undercarriage, before the plane, not waiting to hang around to witness the damage, wheeled away to the east, a German fighter on its tail, firing machine guns with little effect, as the German chaser broke off and swept away west, both planes fresh of ammunition and bombs, and perilously close to running out of juice.

The solitary projectile came out of the sky to say hello, and everyone rushed away, seeking shelter in an open-doored shed. Leo stood inside by the entrance, head and eyes still in sunshine, watching the bomb screaming from the sky, landing in blue water beyond the ship. It exploded, sending a plume of water higher than Nelson’s Column.

An older bloke grabbed his arm and tugged him inside, out of the blast that rushed through the shed, rumbling as it went. Dust and muck toppled from the ancient roof, coating their heads, and for a moment some thought the roof might collapse.

A second later, German soldiers were back on the quay, yelling: RAUS! RAUS! as everyone crept out to see the ship unmolested. The British brushed their naked, dusty hair with their palms, their steel helmets confiscated for reasons unknown. Minutes later, they formed into long lines, four abreast, readying to board the undisturbed old girl, unruffled in the baking sunshine.

The usual cargo for the Dinkelsbühl was coal, timber, building supplies, and fertiliser, explaining how dirty and smelly it was, but that day its cargo was man power. All three holds empty and wide-open to the sun, with two ladders down into each. The prisoners ordered down there, some pushed in if they hesitated, crowding into what seemed like baking ovens.

In each hold they found ten empty metal buckets, and a single coopered barrel containing rancid water. Fetid or not, thirsty men set about it, and it wasn’t long before the barrel was empty.

The ship made ready to sail, smoke drifting from the tall stack, the ship’s body vibrating, as mooring ropes were detached, and with one mighty effort, the ancient ship juddered and slipped away from the quay, turning to port to head out of Tobruk, and away from the North African coast.

Just before sundown, a crew member visited each hold to toss down ten dry black loaves before removing the ladders. The troops squabbled over the rye bread as if they were diamonds, before two of the bigger lads demanded order, and the loaves were divided to ensure everyone received something.

Half an hour later, on the high seas, stars coming visible in the sky, the hold covers were rolled closed, the men incarcerated in darkness, trying to find a place to lie down and sleep on the dank and uncomfortable metal floor. It resembled an oven during the day, but became a refrigerator, as men crowded together to keep warm.

Leo closed his eyes and thought of Bertha Williams, hundreds, nay thousands of miles away, going over her letters in his mind, for he knew them by heart.

He wondered how she got on with her interview with the WAAFS, the women’s RAF. It would have happened days or weeks before. It was hard to keep track of time, and he wondered if he would ever receive further news. He couldn’t wait for number IIII to arrive, and he wondered where his letters to her had reached.

He hoped in her hand, his words inside her head, thinking about him, as he thought of her, as he promised himself, and her, he would write again at the first opportunity. All he needed was a pen or pencil, with paper and envelope, and somewhere secure to post it.

An age later, he stopped thinking of Bertha as the men discussed where they were heading. The south of France, some said, or maybe they hoped, or Italy the favourites, though they were wrong.

They were heading the shortest route across the Med, and that would dump them in Greece, and the question was, where would they be taken after that, and with what aim? Most didn’t care, so long as they were fed and watered, and a supply of decent tobacco wouldn’t go amiss.

Someone took the conversation into the world of mythical Red Cross Parcels. Everyone knew they existed, but none of the Cheshires had seen one. Speculation was rife as to what they might contain. Tinned ham and corned beef, fruit cakes and fags, Scottish Shortbread, the preferred treats, with sugared almonds and Clarnico peppermint creams, plus chocolate, even though it would melt at the hint of a blazing sun, not forgetting a gorgeous half bottle of port to finish.

Everyone’s mouth went dry at the painted pictures, and discussing luxuries made things worse, until someone called out, ‘Shut your mouth, Grayson, or you’ll get my fist in it.’

It signalled time for sleeping, and less than twenty minutes later, rhythmic, masculine snoring echoed through their metal tomb.

Chapter forty-five

As Darren drove the car back towards the station, Karen said, ‘What did you make of that?’

‘Tony Tisbury is an idiot, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.’

‘I thought the same, but it could be dangerous to rule him out. He admitted he had been in Pam’s flat, and their relationship was a violent one. Something could have happened that went catastrophically wrong, as he embroidered a story to fit.’

‘The most interesting thing he said was Pam was involved with a bloke called Nazareth. ’

‘Yes, the same name Foggon’s boys found on the cards. First job when we get back; check on Nazareths.’

A minute later, Darren said, ‘Are you ever surprised at the squalid sleaze we unearth?’

‘Rarely. When dealing with the dregs of society, what do you expect?’

He thought about it and said, ‘My problem is I can never tell who the dregs are.’

Karen sniffed a laugh and said, ‘It’s the perennial problem, and it’s often the ones you least expect. Put it this way: you get better at it the longer you serve. Treating everyone with the same suspicion works for me.’

He wanted to answer but had nothing worthwhile, and contented himself with shaking his head, as his mind turned back to the Meryl girl.

The following morning, the day began with an update meet on the Pamela Grayson inquiry. High on the murder board, four men featured; five if you included the unknown or unidentified man.

Mike Davies, Gavin Chalgrove, Penrod Spennithorne, Tony Tisbury, and a blank face, labelled Nazareth.

Despite their best efforts, they could not identify anyone in the region bearing that Christian name, but they found nine with the surname, and ongoing inquiries were in hand. Mrs West, growing more irritable by the day at the slow progress, demanded they examined the five on the board again, culling one straight away.

‘Mike Davies is in the clear. He spoke to us from Southport around the time of the murder, and that proves he could not have been in Chester.’

Karen nodded, demoted his picture, and began with Gavin Chalgrove. They had found nothing to say he had visited Pam’s flat after they had broken up. He insisted he had never returned, and they couldn’t prove otherwise.

As for the Penrod character, he admitted he tried it on with Pam, and to an extent his interest was reciprocated; before Pam turned cold. It didn’t stop him sending her a Christmas card, as if he were keeping the prospect warm. The man had form for violence, had served prison time for it, though it was a quarter of a century before.

Mrs West said, ‘As far as I can see, he does not have a cast-iron alibi, and until he does, he remains a person of interest.’

No one would argue.

Karen continued.

‘Tony Tisbury possesses a solid alibi. He was at a rugby club dance, but he confirmed Pamela had a proclivity towards violence, a habit that doomed any relationship between them. According to Tony, she wanted to continue their liaison, but he was terrified of what she might do, and he ran a mile.’

‘Carry on,’ said Mrs West.

Karen nodded and continued, eager to get finished.

‘Tony told us Nazareth is definitely Christian, not Pakistani or Arabic, as we first thought, though as you know, we are wading through various characters bearing the surname.’

‘And no one with the Christian name?’ said Mrs West.

‘So far, no.’

She looked at Karen and said, ‘Ring the Connie Kirkham girl and ask if the name means anything to her.’

Karen said she would, as Mrs West moved on.

‘So, to sum up, our killer could be Nazareth, Penrod, Chalgrove, or someone else, as yet unidentified.’

‘Correct,’ said DCI Foggon who had been quiet to that point. ‘To me, it’s one of the three,’ which Mrs West thought a superfluous comment.

To date, she had not thought of what Walter would have made of the inquiry, though right there, she wondered where he would have taken the case. In a different direction, that was for sure, but where? It would have been nice if she could pick up the phone and ask him. It felt as if he were dead, a thought that made her shiver.

Maybe it was a selfish view, with the man fighting spying charges in the Far East, allegations that could lead to a lifetime of incarceration. A surreal thought, as if it were a bad dream, and it reminded her she must speak to the CC and ask if there was any news from Hong Kong.

Why the hell had Walter gone there against her advice, and what had happened to Marina Moo? It looked like the Moo woman had side-stepped charges, so where was she, and what was she doing? Was it possible she had abandoned Walter and returned to England?

Two minutes later, Mrs West rang the Blue Lantern and asked to speak to Mrs Moo.

An abrupt-voiced man answered, speaking with a jabbering Chinese accent, ‘Out of country!’

‘When is she due back?’

‘No idea. She not say. Who is this?’

‘Thanks for your help,’ and Mrs West disconnected.

At the same moment, Nazareth Macbeth was on the highway, motoring north towards Wrexham. He had a business call and was hopeful of a big sale. Machinery manufacturing his main line of business, and modern machinery was complicated and expensive, and that meant a decent commission, providing he landed a sale.

He still had the wedding business side-hustle going on because he enjoyed it, and it brought fringe benefits. He’d fallen into it by accident. A long-time friend asked him to be his best man. Naz said it would cost him, more of a joke than anything, but the guy said he was desperate and would pay him two hundred quid.

It went well. Naz enjoyed the day, made some tax-free money, and copped off with the senior bridesmaid. Not long after, he researched the possibility of selling his best man service on Bookface. He didn’t expect much to come of it, but a steady stream of enquiries and bookings came his way. Before he knew it, it was making as much as his regular job, tax free, and he’d keep doing it so long as he enjoyed it. Midweek weddings? No problem, he’d take a day’s paid leave.

A perfect scenario to meet women. Perhaps it was the drink that made them amenable, or the thought of seeing their friend or sister, happily wedded, and heading for a night of unbridled bliss. Maybe jealousy played its part. Either way, it sparked something in them, and in turn, their interest in the handsome clean-cut, and available best man sparked something in Nazareth, and he wasn’t about to let any opportunity slip by.

Back on the day job, Green Dragon Ales his target, a Mr Colin Prosser, the head buyer. Wrexham had always been a brewing hotbed, going back centuries, and long may it continue.

As he drove, his mind demanded a return to Pamela Grayson. His hand still hadn’t healed from her stamping on it with her stilettos. What a mad mixed-up bitch she was, though undeniably exciting. He could barely believe it, but he missed his unpredictable lover and their outrageous trysts.

He thought he might attend her funeral. It would be interesting to see who showed up, though one hadn’t yet been arranged. No doubt the police were jealously guarding the body until someone was charged with the heinous deed, and while she remained in custody, their pointy-heads could always return for a second or third examination when fresh evidence needed corroborating.

He glanced through the car window at the sunshine streaking through the trees far below to the left. How lush they looked, in their prime, high summer at its best, the sunshine picking out dozens of shades of green.

What a beautiful road the A483 was, criss-crossing the River Dee far below, the water dashing and rumbling over the rapids, the car scooting across several high bridges, among spectacular wooded scenery he never grew tired of. Pam loved it too, always said how surprised she was on the rare occasion he took her back to his place in Oswestry. He divided his time between his flat and his mother’s home in Port Sunlight, entertaining in both, though decided it was best to play away from home, rather than invite unstable characters into his territory. After a while he didn’t invite Pam back, and any fireworks went off bang at her flat, for one could not be too careful.

He’d taken to dreaming of the woman; the visions returning to the same event, her stamping on him, the gleaming stiletto jamming down from on high, piercing his eyes, for she had a thing about eyes, blinding him. In the air-conned car, he blinked, shivered and shrugged, and guided the executive saloon off the main road, turning east into the recently upgraded City of Wrexham, one of the last tasks and awards the old Queen approved before her sudden death, promoting the town in more ways than one.

Five minutes later, he slipped into the private car park at Green Dragon Ales, reminding himself he was seeing a Colin Prosser, as he said aloud, ‘I want a decent order from you, Col.’

Time would tell. Maybe Colin might even need a best man. Stranger things had happened.         

Chapter forty-six

Walter’s trial day came round quicker than he would have liked. At half-past nine, his cell door opened.

Two sentries stared in and nodded him out. Walter was surprised to see Mr Fang there. Walter said, ‘Couldn’t keep away?’

‘It’s my duty to be here, and I’m still hopeful you will see sense and save yourself. ‘

‘Let’s see what happens. You never know, perhaps the court will recognise the flimsiest of cases, acquit me, and rightfully so. A pleasant drive back to Hong Kong, and who knows, later today, I might be relaxing on the plane, scooting back to Britain.’

Fang pulled a face and said, ‘Million to one chance.’

The guards grabbed Walter’s elbows and took him through several security doors and barred sections before they arrived at an external door leading to a vast, internal courtyard.

In the middle of the yard, a long-wheelbase white van sat in the sunshine. There were no numbers or writing on the sides. It could have been one of the millions of similar vans tradespeople used in the UK.

Walter knew what it was. He didn’t need the three people arriving on the scene to tell him. An execution wagon.

A slight, young local man, shaven headed, wearing a cheap blue working man’s jacket and trousers, was led towards the van with two guards in attendance.

One soldier held the prisoner by the back of the neck, forcing his head down, pushing the victim towards the van. The second sentry, loaded pistol in hand, went on ahead and opened the rear doors. Walter and his crew moved away and he could not see inside, but he knew the setup.

He had studied an exclusive exposé by the Sun newspaper in London not long before. Within the vehicle, a leather bench, where the convicted would be strapped down, and without delay, the first of three injections administered.

The guards guided Walter away, heading for a door on the far side of the courtyard.

‘What’s going on there?’ he said, nodding back.

Fang inhaled hard through his nose, and said, ‘Chinese justice in action, and before you bleeding heart, western liberals complain, that twenty-year-old man has been an active criminal since he was ten. Three months ago, high on drugs, he murdered eight tiny children in a kindergarten on a sunny Saturday morning. The world will be a better place without the likes of him.’

Walter shook his head and said, ‘Was that staged for my benefit?’

‘No! Certainly not. Would you like to go back and witness his last breath?’

‘No! I have no desire to see that.’

‘If I were you, Mr Darriteau, I would worry about your own fate. In another hour, that young man’s body will be incinerated in the onsite crematorium,’ and Walter glanced at a tall thin metal chimney poking up and beyond the main building.

Wispy grey and black smoke oozed from the top, growing blacker with each passing second, before drifting away across nearby countryside on the balmy breeze. Before anyone was burnt, essential organs would be harvested.

The back of the van slammed shut, and Walter saw the courtyard devoid of humans. His leading guard opened a wide door in the concrete walled building, and in the next second, the four of them were inside, veering left, following copious signs. None in English.

Thirty seconds later, they passed through a swinging double two-way door and found themselves inside the court. Walter glanced round. One high and long bench opposite on the far side, no one there, with two lower rectangular tables set before it. Walter guessed defence on the left, prosecution to the right.

Sitting at the low defence bench nearest to him, slow Joe stood up and turned to face him. The man tried a hopeless smile, as the spy was pushed down into an adjoining seat.

‘You again?’ said Walter, glancing at him.

‘Sure, it’s me. I wouldn’t miss it for the moon. You still pleading innocence.’

‘I am innocent. What else would I plead?’

‘You a stubborn ass. I give you that.’

A commotion came from the rear. The swinging doors opening and closing, causing a draught, as the four-person prosecution team entered the court, energy bursting out of them.

Walter glanced back to size them up. All young and super-smart, two men and two women, identically dressed. Black suits, white shirts, red ties, shiny shoes fresh from the box, the team carrying stuffed briefcases and an entitled expression.

One woman looked him in the eye, and for a second he thought he detected a fleeting moment of pity, before she glanced away and sat with her gang.

On the left side of the court, two reporters perched in a high box, eager and waiting to get started. One from a nearer Shanghai TV station, the other the national broadcaster in Beijing, charged with reporting the case to the eager home audience, while shaping the coverage for international observers and subscribers.

The only other person in the room was Mr Fang, who sat behind Walter, as the guards took up station outside to prevent any breakout.

Fang reached forward and tapped Walter on the shoulder and said, ‘It isn’t too late to change your mind.’

‘It is.’

At the far left of the high bench was a single door. It opened with a slight bang, and a youngish woman dressed in a black gown strode in, followed by an older circular woman, also in black. The third, an older man, bringing up the rear, paused and closed the door behind him.

Everyone in attendance jumped to their feet in deference, including Walter. They gawped at the woman in the centre, wondering what kind of mood she was in. There was no point in antagonising a trio of powerful judges sitting above them, there to decide Walter’s fate.

The older man raised his voice and spoke in Chinese, ‘Court is in session.’

Everyone sat down.

Joe whispered the translation in Walter’s ear, ‘Court in session. Good to go. The fun starts here. We have to earn our corn somewhere.’

Walter stared up, keen not to miss a thing. Behind Judge Ida Ming, high on the back wall, a large colour photograph of the president gazed benignly down, as if he were there in person, dispensing justice through his appointed officers.

The judge glared down at the prisoner and asked if he was the accused, a Mr Walter Darriteau.

Joe said he was and translated for Walter.

He nodded and said, ‘I gathered that much.’

‘You need to stand.’

Walter stood.

Ida Ming barked at him with no shred of warmth, compassion, or neutrality in her harsh words.

Joe whispered, ‘She asks how you plead?’

Walter nodded again and said through a clear deep voice, ‘Not guilty, Judge,’ his voice echoing through the courtroom, the male judge leaning closer to translate his words.

Ida stared at Walter as if sucking a lemon, as if imagining he was disrespecting her court, speaking in a foreign language. She turned to her colleagues for a brief exchange, and in the next moment, glared at the prim and proper prosecution team, and nodded them on, barking a single word command Walter guessed was, ‘Begin!’

Seconds later, the trial of the British national, Walter Darriteau, on egregious spying charges, opened. Twelve minutes past ten, and the judge had a packed and busy day ahead.

Chapter forty-seven

The SS Dinkelsbühl took thirty-three hours to cross the Mediterranean from Tobruk to Kalamata in Greece, not that any of the Cheshires on board knew where they were.

A chunk of the trip completed under the cover of darkness, helping to avoid detection, and it was dark again by the time they berthed in the port on the southern tip of the Peloponnisos peninsula.

The hold covers were hauled back, the crew inserted ladders, and four accompanying German soldiers ordered them out. The sleepy-eyed British formed up under the stars on the deserted quayside. Requests for food and water were met with collective shrugs, with someone saying in broken English, ‘Soon, soon!’

Minutes later, they were on the move, marching to the railhead less than a mile away. There had been a railway terminal in Kalamata for longer than anyone could remember, though it only went to Athens.

Trudging through narrow, deserted streets, some adventurous men thought of escaping. Wiser heads cooled tempers and ambition, saying, ‘Don’t be stupid? Where would you go? They would gun you down before you made fifty yards.’

A sobering prospect, and none took a chance.

In the darkness, a commandeered stationary Hellenic Railways train came into view, the smoking chimney, unique smell, and sound, as an over-enthusiastic driver tooted the whistle.

One minute later, the British enjoyed a first close-up of the impressive locomotive, nothing like they had seen before, perhaps built in Germany, with ten enclosed goods trucks strung out behind. Requests for information where they were heading were met with more shrugs and shakes of the head.

Large sliding doors stood open; the prisoners encouraged to climb inside. The troops pleaded again for food and water, and were told supplies were onboard, tempting the men to scramble in, to find three wooden crates of oranges in each truck, supplies designed to feed and slake thirst in one.

It wasn’t much, but better than nothing. The trucks were half full when the doors were slammed shut, and minutes later, with one last toot, the engine snorted and lugged the train away, heading east towards the metropolis.

Progress was sluggish, comfort obvious by its absence, as the men found a place to settle down and rest, no one daring to talk of luscious food, with one creepy bloke telling stories of his string of licentious girlfriends. There was always one, and it passed the time, as his catalogue of unbelievable affairs unfurled late into the early hours of the morning, before the rocking motion tempted them into uncomfortable sleep.

In the morning, they didn’t stop at Athens, not that they saw much, squinting through tiny gaps in ill-fitted timbers. After Athens, they turned north west, and then due north, heading for Macedonia and Serbia beyond, before linking up with the main European rail networks.

Sometimes single-track, other times double, and stops were frequent and lengthy, most times not in stations, but waiting on sidings and special passing places for passenger and troop expresses to rush through.

In the quarter light, Leo took out his letters and read them again, wondering and pondering where Bertha Williams might be at that moment, and what she would make of him being trucked through the Greek mountains.

Harry Worthington saw him reading and said, ‘What does she say?’

‘Not much. Where she lives, about her family. Her dad’s on an aircraft carrier, that kind of thing.’

‘No names, no places?’

‘No! None at all. She’s not stupid.’

‘Can I read them?’

The request took Leo by surprise. He wouldn’t want to read other bloke’s letters and didn’t think Harry should read his.

He pulled a face and said, ‘I don’t think so, Harry. She wouldn’t like it.’

‘Why? Are they filthy?’ a question issued with an exhausted smirk.

‘Certainly not!’ and afterwards, Harry regretted asking.

It took two days to reach Belgrade, stop starting all the way, where the train shunted into a remote siding. Dark again when the doors were slid open, the men ordered out to see cooks standing behind floodlit trestle-tables, with more supervising soldiers from local units on hand.

Steaming vegetable soup bubbled away in vast metal cooking pots, yellow flashes of sweetcorn, as the men realised how hungry and thirsty they were, as they lined up, and waited their turn. Each man received a large white bread bun and a big metal pint-sized mug of soup, as they squatted on the ground and ate and drank until everything had vanished.

Norman Burriton, sitting close by, spotted an escapee hiding in an undergrowth of weeds beside the rusty track. A clean, undamaged oval potato, dropped by someone, waiting for rodents to arrive and eat. He picked it up, kept it to himself, and chomped a chunk as if eating an apple.

The crunching caught everyone’s attention.

‘What are you eating, Norm?’ asked John Fenton.

‘A spud. A raw spud, and it’s bloody awful, but filling.’

‘You lucky bugger,’ said Johnny Kingston, and the unexpected find tempted others to look, though nothing was found.

Harry Worthington supplemented his diet by eating the dandelion leaves he spotted within the weeds. When he was a boy, back when food was always scarce, his dad used to eat them in their small back garden. Said they were like lettuce, though they were not, far too bitter, but neither were they poisonous, and Harry continued eating. An hour later, they were marched to open latrines and encouraged to perform, and everyone took the opportunity.

Donald Grayson said, ‘First time I’ve crapped under the stars,’ grinning at the others.

‘Is it?’ said John Fenton. ‘I’m surprised. Not for me. Many a time on Salisbury Plain I’ve left a steaming calling card,’ an image to provoke shaking heads and a change in conversation.

Another hour passed before being ordered back in the trucks, and ten minutes later, the train chugged and banged and started again, continuing north for Hungary and Budapest, the hot topic of conversation being their ultimate destination.

‘Germany!’ said Harry Worthington without a shred of doubt, ‘and that’s the last place I want to go. We’ll be hated there, and no one will help us.’

There was a decent pause before Donald said, ‘Switzerland would be nice.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said John Fenton. ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance of that.’

‘Why not? We are POWs. Switzerland is a neutral country. Germany won’t want to feed us. It makes sense. I can see the Jerries doing that, dumping us across the border.’

‘Why would they send British troops back to Blighty via Switzy to fight against them? It makes no sense. We are not going to Switzerland. You can get that idea out of your head,’ said Johnny. ‘If I had to guess, I agree with Harry. I fear it’s Germany, unless we escape before then.’

An enticing thought; and one they had not given sufficient consideration. If anyone wanted it, the stopping places would bring the best opportunities, but the old problem remained. Where would they go? They were dressed in British army desert gear, didn’t possess a single banknote or coin between them, and often didn’t know what country they were in, and that was before one considered the business of enemy troops shooting to kill.

Anyone thinking of escaping had huge decisions to make, and for most, the odds were too much against.

Chapter forty-eight

The buyer at Green Dragon Ales, Colin Prosser, resembled a startled elk on the day his antlers dropped off. Tapering swarthy face, large dark, darting eyes, a wide twitchy nose, and over-large nipping teeth, chattering on display.

Not an easy man to warm to; or a pushover when it came to landing a deal. It seemed he found making decisions a task beyond difficult; returning time and again to reference how much better an offer Naz’s competitor had tendered.

Naz didn’t believe him, and the proof of his doubt arrived when Colin snorted he would have to give the matter careful consideration, before replying in writing, something he promised to do within the week.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he would not need a best man, if the copious framed photographs spread across his desk with an overspill atop the metal filing cabinet, featuring Colin and his fattening wife, fawning over four little elks.

It wasn’t an altogether wasted day, but neither was it as productive as Naz hoped. No matter, it gave him thinking time on his way back south on the same pretty road. His mind wandered, pondering on the late, lamented Pamela Grayson and the memorable times they spent together. Naz recalled the last time he spoke to her when he rang one Friday evening.

In the main Chester police station, no one with a Christian name of Nazareth showed up, and worse still, all the surname Nazareths had been eliminated, too old, too young, too far away, or too well-alibied. Karen sighed and told Gibbons to ring Tony Tisbury again to clarify the name, but Shirley’s sister, Meryl, answered.

‘It’s DC Darren Gibbons,’ he said. ‘We came to see you the other day.’

‘I remember you, the good-looking one,’ she said in her best come-on voice.

‘I remember you, too. Now listen, Meryl Evans, is Tony about?’

‘At work. What do you expect?’

‘Do you have a phone number I could get him on?’

‘No, they don’t allow phone calls during work hours.’

It made sense. If he was working on a busy production line making aircraft wings, Darren could imagine an upset foreman if everything came to a standstill because Tony had another personal call.

‘What do you want, anyhow?’ she said. ‘Maybe I can help. I know things, and I’m not stupid.’

‘What things?’

‘Ah, that would be telling.’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Listen mate, if I tell you secrets, what do I get out of it?’

‘You’d have the feeling of helping the law.’

‘Hah!’ she scoffed. ‘You’d have to do much better than that.’

‘Okay, come on, what did you have in mind?’

‘Well, you could buy me a steak and chips and a bottle of wine. That would be a start, and don’t they say wine loosens the tongue?’

Darren thought about it for a second. Did she know anything, or was she just angling for a date? There was only one way to find out, fix a meet.

On the spur of the moment, he said, ‘Okay, I’ll meet you outside Bestdas in Shotton at eight. Keep it to yourself, and don’t be late.’

‘Ooh, hark at you, coming over all bossy.’

‘Behave yourself. Will you be there or not?’

‘Don’t fret. I’ll be there.’

‘Good! Don’t be late,’ and Darren cut off.

He glanced round the incident room, seeking Karen to tell her, but she had nipped out, chasing a dead-end lead with Jenny. Darren thought about it for a second and decided not to say anything. He’d buy the girl a drink and a steak. If he discovered something, he’d come back and tell the sarge, and if Meryl didn’t produce, he’d bin her and forget it.

Darren rolled up outside Bestdas in Shotton at two minutes past eight. Meryl Evans loitered inside the wide automatic doors, chatting to a hunky security guard. Darren set his palm on the horn, attracting everyone’s attention, including Meryl, who glanced at him through the glass, before saying goodbye to her mate.

In the next second, she was in the car, saying, ‘Hallelujah. A man who is on time.’

‘I’m a copper, and in our job, punctuality is not only valued, it’s imperative.’

‘Where are we going?’ she said, settling in, pinching a glimpse of him to remind her how smart he was.

‘I know a place up towards Holywell.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘How’s Tony and Shirley?’

‘Bickering.’

‘Not a surprise. Do they argue often?’

‘More than their fair share. Young Gareth doesn’t like it.’

‘I can imagine.’

They headed back to the main road and turned left, going north, tracking the coast road, enjoying the views and the late daylight.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off to the left and headed into the low hills. Another ten minutes, and he eased the car into a small car park to the side of The Druid & the King, a pub restaurant hotel place taking money from tourists who flocked to Holywell.

St Winefride’s Well, and the holy water reputed to cure countless ailments, visited by royalty, and everyone else, the water so good and so famous they named the town after it.  

Meryl noted they provided rooms and for one crazy moment imagined he had booked one. A bit forward, perhaps, but so what? If he played his cards right, and the wine was good, he might get lucky, though she’d keep that to herself. Two minutes flew by, and he shepherded her inside to be greeted by a smart slim guy who showed them to a quiet table in the corner.

‘It’s nice here,’ she said, getting comfortable, grabbing the big menu, clocking the prices, trying not to look surprised, hoping the copper would foot the bill, for she couldn’t.

She let him order. Prawn cocktails, medium cooked sirloin steaks, chips and veg, with, if they were still hungry, the promise of chocolate gateau to follow, plus a bottle of Beaujolais she couldn’t wait to get into. Popular and predictable fare, but decent. It had worked for Darren before.

He’d get a couple of wines down her before the important questions began. In the meantime, he encouraged her to talk about Tony, not that she needed much persuading or alcohol, for Meryl was a born chatterbox.

She thought they made a perfect couple, Tone and Shirl, though he was a flighty bugger, her words, before adding, ‘Mind you, my sister Shirley likes to dance with every man in the place at the rugby dinners, though the difference is, she just dances. He makes passes and asks for dates.’

Darren asked, ‘Has he ever made a pass at you?’

Meryl wasn’t surprised at the question, saying, ‘Once or twice, but only when he was bladdered, and I knew he wasn’t serious.’

‘Does he mention his floozies?’

‘Yeah, sometimes. I think he likes to brag about them. Makes him feel good, the great lover, that kind of nonsense.’

‘Did he ever mention Pamela Grayson?’

‘I think he did, yeah. Was she the crazy cow with the short hair and long pointy heels?’

‘That’s the one. What did he say?’

‘He said she was as batty as hell; but as exciting as fuck.’

Darren grimaced and shook his head. ‘Don’t keep using the F word!’

‘Sorry,’ she said, sitting back, taking a moment to slurp red wine, before grinning and saying, ‘I didn’t realise it was against the law,’ though she quite enjoyed the mini-reprimand.

Darren thought it interesting, though he had learnt nothing new, and she needed to earn the price of her dinner.

‘Did he say anything else about Pamela?’

‘I’m just trying to think,’ rubbing her forehead. ‘She’s the one who’s dead, right?’

‘She is.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Correct.’

A penny clunked into the basement of Meryl’s brain.

‘You don’t think Tone did it, do you?’

‘We considered it, but the man has a couple of hundred solid alibis, so he is out of it. What I’d like to know is, did Tony ever mention any love rivals? Any other men?’

‘He might have done. He gossips, almost as much as me, and when we get going, we talk and talk.’

‘Did he ever mention a bloke called Nazareth?’

‘An unusual name, right? Now you mention it, I think he did, though only once. I think that’s why I remembered. It’s unusual. You don’t see many Nazareths about, do you?’

‘I’ve never met one,’ said Darren.

Meryl paused before adding, ‘Travelling sales guy, wasn’t he?’

‘Was he?’ said Darren, getting interested.

‘I don’t know. I might be getting confused, but if it’s the same bloke, I think that’s what he said he did.’

‘In what line of business?’

‘Ooh, search me. I haven’t a clue. You mind if we talk about something else?’

‘Sure. What do you want to talk about?’

She grinned across the table, sipped wine, and said, ‘Are you married? Spoken for, engaged, divorced, what?’

‘None of those.’

She smiled again. The wine was working, as she said, ‘Footloose and fancy free. Playing the field? A different girl in every town?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Why would that be?’

Meryl sighed and grinned and said, ‘There are loads of hot bitches round here who would like to hook up with you,’ stopping herself adding: including me.

‘Good to know,’ he said, fancying a strong drink, resisting the temptation, as he caught the eye of a tall waitress and ordered a sparkling water.

He looked back at Meryl. She thought he was going to ask more about her, but he didn’t.

The copper said, ‘This Nazareth guy?’

‘What about him?’ keeping the disappointment from her voice.

‘Did Tony ever mention a surname?’

‘Why don’t you ask Tone?’

‘We have.’

‘Perhaps he never knew it. I don’t remember him mentioning one to me.’

Darren nodded and tried not to look disappointed.

Meryl said, ‘Wanna come back to my flat later?’

‘I’ll certainly take you back to your flat.’

‘Will you come in for a nightcap?’

‘We’ll see how we feel when we get there.’

She thought he liked to keep her guessing, keeping her on her toes, playing hard to get, and it worked. The more she talked to him, the more she drank, the more she liked him, and she didn’t want to be disappointed.      

Chapter forty-nine

In a Chinese top security courtroom, it appeared the young woman prosecutor was the leader of her gang, as she bounced to her feet.

She smiled at the judge, glanced down at her papers, before beginning a long and pointed diatribe, occasionally lapsing into screeches, detailing the appalling crimes the accused had committed.

Joe tried hard to translate through his fifth form English, though it was clear he could not keep up. Walter stretched his arms in frustration, catching the tubby judge’s eye. She stared at him, grimaced, shook her head, and nodded the young woman on.

Pictures were displayed on a big screen showing Chinese warships in Hong Kong harbour, which to Walter’s eyes proved nothing, but in theirs, confirmed his guilt beyond doubt.

His camera, his fingerprints all over it, including on the main shutter button on the top right. He was a serving British police officer, didn’t dispute it, no doubt seconded to MI6 on a secret mission to visit China to collect military intelligence. Who knew what damage he might have done if he had been allowed to roam free through the territory for another week? How could the man have the nerve to come before them and insist he was innocent?

It was an affront to their intelligence. It would have been better for him to have adopted a contrite attitude, plead guilty, and take his punishment like a man, which most certainly would have been lesser. He might have got away with twenty year’s hard labour.

The previous trial in Hong Kong went unmentioned, and neither were the activities or whereabouts of Marina Moo, or if it was, it passed Walter by. Slow Joe gave up translating long before the end.

Walter hoped Jun Woo might put in an appearance, to plead his innocence, or ignorance of what he had done, or at least to testify to his good character, but nothing like it happened.

As forecast, the charade of a trial was over in half an hour. Ida Ming issued a shrieked, rambling summoning up, taking it in turns to glare down at Walter, and smile across at the pretty prosecutor, a charismatic woman for whom a brilliant future was forecast.

The judge imagined the girl to be in the pay of the local governor, and maybe his bed, and it would be wise to butter her up. It would be easy and perhaps expected to write fulsome praise on her conduct, and the manner she had brought the case to a satisfactory conclusion. In future, Ida Ming would keep a close eye on her.

After the judge finished her pathetic attempt at state bullying, she stood, as did her cohorts, and fled through the same door they entered.

Joe looked at Walter and said, ‘All done. Gone to consider verdicts. Brace yourself.’

Walter thought of not replying but found himself saying, ‘I gathered that.’

They were away fifteen minutes, bustling back into the court to take their places. Everyone stood up, and everyone sat down to stare at Ida Ming as if their fate depended on her words. She’d cooled down, re-gathering her composure, as if someone had taken her to one side to remind her to be more statesmanlike, stateswomanlike, or statesjudgelike.

Speaking slowly gave Joe the chance to translate.

‘There can be only one sentence for such heinous crimes directed against the Chinese state and the Chinese people. It is a great pity he allowed himself to be hoodwinked by his wicked masters to come here. The British government is culpable at least as much as this man seated before us today. I pronounce the sentence of death by lethal injection.’

‘Death by lethal injection,’ repeated Joe, unable to control a grin.

‘Great,’ said Walter. ‘When?’

‘She coming to that,’ said a breathless Joe.

For Joe, another successful and high-profile defence trial over, and another decent payday. His wife would be pleased. She’d better be grateful.

‘Two days. The day after tomorrow. Ten in the morning. You have two days to live.’

If it was meant to shock Walter, it didn’t.

The judge praised the diligent work of the defence and prosecuting teams, and said she would see them all again in an hour. She nodded down and stood up, not making eye contact with the convicted spy, and the three of them turned to their right, and hustled away towards the door and out of sight.

Mr Fang just had time to say, ‘I don’t think it is yet too late, Mr Darriteau. If you change your mind, send me a message and I’ll plead with the judge, telling her you have repented. I’m not saying she will agree, but it’s worth a shot. Take my advice. Don’t leave it too long.’

Walter didn’t answer. His guards were back, handcuffing him behind his back. Convicted criminals were always handcuffed wherever they went, especially one of such importance as an international spy.

Joe didn’t speak, and neither did Mr Fang, as Walter was led from the court. The prosecutor didn’t look at the spy either. He was finished. Yesterday’s man. It was none of her business. If she thought he might have been innocent, she didn’t show it. Another big green tick on her record, and it wasn’t her fault a foreign government sent an ill-prepared agent into their territory to wreak havoc. In the end, the man received his just deserts.

They packed away their things and left the court to update their files for the next business on the agenda, and the next criminal. A corruption case, an altogether more difficult assignment, for dealing with corruption and the corrupt was fraught with danger. Who did the accused know, and how embedded were they in society? Who benefited from the corruption?

It was her least favourite type of case, and one her patron had prompted her over. She would have to tread carefully, for to not do so would risk her reputation being tarnished. The last thing she needed was the all-pervading stench of corruption seeping onto her record like the stink of a rotting dog in the gutter.

The only people left in the courtroom, the two reporters, busy polishing and massaging their stories. It wasn’t difficult, but it was essential their accounts ran in parallel. When they had done, they exchanged laptops and read the other’s take on things.

Both were happy. A couple of minor corrections and refinements before they did a high-five no one ever saw. The stories were ready to be zipped through the airwaves, where their editors would amend them before passing the results to the twenty-four-hour party people to see, and approve, or otherwise.

So far, it had been a good morning. It needed to stay that way.

Chapter fifty

The train rumbled on, running more often at night than during the day. Stop starting all the way, sometimes to provide the men with the bare minimum of food, other stops to change drivers or sentries.

Northward it chugged, through Hungary, passing Budapest, crossing the Danube, continuing on, the men weary, bored, and hungry. Outside, languages changed, borders hopped, different uniforms appeared, and it always grew colder.

Through stricken Czechoslovakia, where the wise guys onboard, who possessed a trace of central European geography, expected the train to veer westward into Germany, but it did not.

Another border, another conquered country, a different difficult language, and they found themselves in Poland. Something new happened. The last three times they stopped, two rear wagons were culled. Down to eight, down to six, then four. It seemed the men, whatever their future task or destination, were not bound for the same place, but were being spread out across the new German Empire.

Peering through the side of the slow-moving wagon, they spied burnt out Polish military vehicles. Most had been there a while, judging by the weed growth encircling them. Soon after, two downed old and useless Polish Air Force planes, broken beyond repair, reminding everyone of similar sights in the desert, left far behind.

Another stop, another insufficient feed, black bread, skinny soup, tainted sausage, and two more trucks uncoupled and jettisoned, losing eighty more of their comrades. On they travelled, into a rural district where peasants went about their business using horses and carts on unmade up roads, little more than puddle-strewn tracks, resembling something from England fifty years before.

The following morning, the train clanked and banged to a standstill, the loco wheezing and puffing its cheeks as if to say, ‘Thank heavens for that. We have arrived, and not before time.’

A chilly morning to catch on the back of the throat, bright and dry. Peering through the cracks, a spinney, low growth, unhealthy looking trees, restricting their view, with on the opposite side, a line of filthy rolling stock, cold and dormant.

The next sound they heard was a horse blowing out in protest, followed by a whinny and a hefty stamp.

‘Where are we?’ asked Donald Grayson.

‘I’m pretty sure it’s Poland,’ said John Fenton.

Leo added, ‘Wherever it is, it’s bloody freezing,’ swinging his arms and hugging his shoulders.

Men’s voices travelled through the thin air and floated into the wagon. A mixture of German and one other, probably Polish, though it was hard to tell. In the next second, the doors were unlocked and slid open. Watery sunlight flooded in. The men shielded their eyes, getting used to the light, reminding Leo in reverse of entering the old Ritz cinema on Claughton Road in Birkenhead.

The obligatory RAUS! RAUS! bellowed, and the men stumbled out and down onto thin ballast. More shouting and pointing, before they were herded towards the engine. The train disgorged the last forty men, all Cheshire boys, wondering what the hell they were doing there, and where they were going.

One bold bloke caught the eye of the German soldiers and gesticulated towards his mouth, said, ‘Food! Eat! We must eat. Starve! Starve!’

One kraut shook his head and pointed forward to the end of the railway line, past rudimentary buffers, to a small area of hard standing, not tarmac or cement, but compressed gravel.

Waiting on the gravel was a large wooden cart, its sides splayed wide, resembling a model for the Haywain oil painting.

Readying to pull the cart, two mismatched heavy horses, one brown, the other black, the black beast the bigger, kicking the gravel with its white-socked feet. Sitting on the front of the wagon, a solitary man dressed in thick coloured clothing, brown trousers, an open dirty green coat, red neckerchief, with a grubby black cap at a jaunty angle.

Jan, his deep-lined face sporting grey hair poking from beneath the crumpled cap, suggesting he was sixty-five. Jan Bosko was forty-three. A quiet soul wearing a silver cross round his neck, a man who spoke nothing but rural Polish, a Pole determined to survive whatever the world threw at him, and in the early 1940s, that could be tough. He was a born survivor, always had been, quiet and compliant, and not about to change his ways.

He had little idea where England was, and no idea what the sons from that faraway country were doing in his backyard. It made no sense.

The Germans ordered the trudging men to stop, went to the front of the line, and counted out the first twenty, before beckoning them on the wagon.

The shivering English stared at the soldiers and back at the wagon as if to say: is that the best you’ve got? The German, growing impatient, wondered if all English were dumb, and barked in their faces.

Harry Worthington said, ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ and led the way in clambering aboard, finding a decent spot close to the driver. Everyone followed, for it was better than being shot or smacked on the head with a rifle butt. The first of the Germans came round to the front by the horses and spoke to the driver in fluent Polish, impressing the men. The German and Pole nodded in unison, the local shook the reins, and addressed his horses in a kind and understanding way, giddy up in Polish, which sounded decent. A man who understood horses, powerful creatures, preferring gentle encouragement to outright yelling.

The beasts replied in their unique way. One kicked the ground, snorting, the other deposited a pile of steaming muck on the gravel, as the two-horsepower vehicle strained and creaked, the heavy cartwheels shuddered and turned. In the next second, the wagon was underway. Soon off the hard-standing, back on a mud spattered track that seemed its natural home, heading to who knows where?

John Fenton said, ‘I don’t know how far we are going, but at this rate, it could be nightfall before we arrive.’

Leo tried to engage the driver in conversation, but he looked at the kid, who resembled his eldest son, blinked, stared at the youth through a benign face and rheumy eyes, before shaking his head as if to say: I don’t understand. Harry estimated they were doing 3 mph, a slow walking pace, on flat ground. What would happen when they came to the green hills on the horizon?

A minute later, Johnny Kingston said, ‘You realise we’ve left the Germans behind? There’s nothing to stop us jumping off and running.’

They looked round and considered things as they studied the countryside. No fences or walls on either side of the track, damp scrubland everywhere, boulders peeping through, with no crops growing anywhere. Maybe the land was spent and useless, or polluted, or perhaps the locals had so much of it they didn’t need to utilise substandard grazing.

No livestock, not a horse, sheep, cow, pig or goat, and it wasn’t hard to imagine the mighty Wehrmacht rushing through. Their catering boys behind, catching and butchering everything in their path to feed a rumbling hungry army, as conquering armies have done throughout history.

Nor a building in sight on either side, or up ahead.

John Fenton said what several of them thought.

‘Great idea, Johnny, running off. Where the hell would you go, and how would you feed yourself?’

‘Well,’ he said, looking put-out, ‘at least we’d be free!’

Harry Worthington put his sixpenny worth into the conversation. ‘You take your chance if you like, but I think the reason there are no sentries is because there is nowhere to go, and I reckon it gets perishing at night. You wouldn’t last a day. We are better staying where we are until we see what lies ahead.’

‘What might lie ahead,’ said Johnny, ‘is we could be lined up against a wall and shot. Have you thought of that? Maybe that is why we have been spread out. A little killing here, a little murdering there, and no one notices, or makes a fuss.’

Leo grimaced before staring at his elders. ‘They wouldn’t do that, would they?’

‘Course not!’ said Harry, ‘Geneva Convention,’ but the unsettling thought was there, and who knew what went on in wartime? Regardless, no one jumped off.

The wagon crawled along, the horses happy in their work, chuntering to each other, the work easier once the wheels were underway and moving. Lugging twenty-one men and a heavy cart was nothing. Half an hour later, they came to a makeshift war memorial on the right side of the lane.

A fat tree stump the dominant feature, perhaps eight feet tall, with ten or fifteen wooden crosses set around, some bearing handwriting, others blank. Once, months before, some brave or stupid people covered it with red and white Polish flags, but they were ripped down and burnt, with black swastikas splashed over the stump and larger crosses.

As they rolled by, Jan the driver never once took his eyes off the memorial, crossing himself at first sight, and again at the last, as they rolled on beneath vast blue skies. Crosses and makeshift burial sites were nothing new to the Cheshires, and they bowed their heads in silence and nodded towards their resting brothers-in-arms.

Jan noted and appreciated their silence and respect and thought of the departed. Many in happier, carefree days, he knew. Some he’d grown up with and played with as children.

They never went close to the hills, veering away to the right, keeping to the track, north again, the hill country far to the rear. The countryside never changed, other than the boulders became more frequent and heavier, with less greenery. On a rickety wooden bridge, they crossed a reed-lined slow-moving muddy river, the horses unsure of it, and relieved to be across.

Soon after, the animals picked up the pace, a sure sign they were heading home, knowing there would be decent feed as reward, and sure enough, a building, the first they had seen, came into view. The men spotted a tall red brick chimney, belching smoke, with a collection of ramshackle wooden and grey-rendered buildings clustered around the base.

As they grew closer, they saw three similar wagons in a line, horses at the ready, standing waiting, with scruffy men and women loading heavy sacks on the flat timber carts.

‘Do you see what I see?’ said a wide-eyed John Fenton.

‘I do,’ answered Harry Burriton, ‘Women! They might need a good scrub, but hell’s teeth, they look damned fine to me.’

Why wouldn’t they? They were the first European women they had seen, other than an occasional glimpse through the sides of the moving railway truck, since they left Cairo, and one thing was obvious; several of them ceased working and stared back at the approaching ill-dressed men, fleeting smiles on several feminine faces.

Leo sensed the mood and said, ‘We’ll find you a pretty blonde yet, Harry.’

He laughed aloud.

An old foreman clocked the loaders taking an unauthorised break. He barked at them in rough Polish to put their backs into it, and without exception, they returned to work.

Minutes later, Jan’s wagon pulled to a standstill behind the others, the horses calling, the loading all but finished. Soon after, the Cheshires watched the loaders being paid off with a handful of coins, before being ordered away. The local men and women shook their heads and nodded, and made their way round to the rear of the complex, but not before some women glanced back.

Decent young men were in short supply, and they were all desperate to be married, for their men were either dead, disappeared, conscripted into work gangs, or in prison, leaving only immature teenagers and the tired over fifties still around.

The only fit, young, and handsome men were German, and to dally with them was fraught with danger. People had been killed for less.

A gang of fit and keen strangers showing up was bound to be the talk of the village when they returned to their homes and inns fifteen kilometres distant. A long walk to work, and a good way home, but for once, it might prove worth the effort.

The English sat and waited and stared round, the only sound, pigeons cooing, the men muttering about what they should do. Jan remained silent. The troopers thought of jumping down when the door to the nearest timber building jerked open.

A man stepped out, a bloke in a hurry, a striking figure hustling towards them, a determined look on his face. A natural leader of men, with dozens of orders brewing in his mind. If ever a surreal sight came into view, it was there before them in the Polish afternoon sunshine, in occupied Europe. A British army sergeant-major, in full uniform, his baton cuddling into his left armpit, moustache bristling, as he hastened towards the creaking cart.

‘Well? Don’t just sit there like a bunch of fairies in the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. Get your hairy backsides off that contraption and line up!’

All the more unreal, for the bawled orders flooding from his red-lipped mouth and face projected a broad southern Irish brogue.

‘Let me introduce myself. I am Sergeant-Major Michael O’Brian, and I am your fairy godmother. Get yourselves in front of me before I eat you for my dinner!’

The men shared a look, smirked, grinned, and jumped down, one or two taking the time to touch Jan’s sleeve to thank him for delivering them, as people used to do with bus drivers dropping commuters at Woodside Ferry, Birkenhead, to get the boat across the Mersey.

The sarge yelled again. Laying down laws, telling them where they would sleep, advising them they would be fed at six o’clock and not before and not after, as he impressed on them not to think of laying a single greasy finger on the local wenches.

‘I will tell you once and once only, neither the local men, such as they are, or the occupying forces, will tolerate that. You get me? The last idiot who tried his luck lost his member in a fight. Sliced clean off. Make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sarge.’

‘Right! Get inside and we’ll sort you out with warmer clothing, because wearing shorts and short-sleeved shirts in these parts will get your knackers frozen off. Follow me, ninnies!’

Thinking of warmer clothing and the prospect of food, the men would have followed Michael O’Brian anywhere, as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Jan watched them disappear inside, content to be alone, before guiding the wagon and horses round the back to the stable, a feed, and a well-earned rest.

Chapter fifty-one

Late on a Friday night, weeks before Pamela Grayson met her untimely end, she lounged in her flat, wondering why she was alone on a Friday, a night reserved for excitement and fun.

There were several blokes she might entertain, but they hadn’t rung, and there was no way she would ring them. She knew they would reappear. It was only a matter of time. They always did, and when they did, she would gain retribution by hurting them, making her point, mentally or physically. Punishing them for ignoring her.

At five minutes past midnight, her mobile rang. She snatched it up and stared. The Nazareth creep, the Macbeth fool who imagined he could finish with her. She’d give him a hard time.

‘Hello,’ he said, not bothering to introduce himself.

‘Who is this?’

‘You know who it is.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Come on, Pam. Stop being a jerk.’

‘I don’t think I know you. Do you specialise in ringing single women late at night?’

‘Perhaps I should ring someone else.’

‘No! Come to think of it, I do remember you, though it was ages ago.’

‘Not so long.’

She sighed with gusto and said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I wondered how you were. I wondered if you were married. I suppose I was wondering if you were on your own, and if so, if you’d like company.’

Pam was desperate for company but wouldn’t say.

‘You take a lot for granted.’

‘I’m not taking anything for granted. It was an off-the-cuff idea. You always said you preferred spontaneous to pre-planned.’

That was true. Spur-of-the-moment trumped boring routine every time.

‘When?’

‘I could be there in an hour.’

Pamela sighed, looking at her digital clock on the modern mantelpiece to see ten past midnight.

‘I suppose I could keep my eyes open that long.’

‘You’d better. If I drive up there and you don’t answer, I’ll wake the entire block until you do.’

‘Is that your token effort at being masterful?’

‘I’ll give you masterful when I get there.’

‘Hah! Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Right! I’ll be there for one. Don’t fall asleep and don’t get drunk.’

She was about to say: I’ll do what I like but the creep had cut off. For a moment she thought of ringing back, but didn’t want to scare him off. He had his good points. Handsome, for one, though he knew it and stood before the mirror, preening himself longer than she did. Good car, decent job, perfect teeth, wonderful hair, good in bed, decent all rounder, though he was a pushover, always asking permission. Not in Gavin’s class, that was certain.

She’d give him hell when he showed up. If he thought he could mess with her, he was in for a surprise. She wasn’t any man’s pushover, and revelled in reinforcing the point.

Down in Oswestry, Nazareth was having second thoughts. Making late night calls to ex’s was mired in danger. He tried hard not to do it, but didn’t have the heart or courage to ring and cancel, nor the nerve not to go.

He ambled into the bathroom, grabbed his electric razor and zipped it across his rugged face. Once done, he rolled deodorant, splashed loads of aftershave, threw on a pair of new black trousers and a blue silk open-necked shirt.

Grabbed his wallet and keys, didn’t bother about contraception. He left that to her. She could throw the dice if she wanted, checked himself over in the mirror, and let himself out. Five minutes later, he was back on the A483, motoring north, headlights full on, little traffic, crossing the bridges, knowing the trees were sleeping to his left, swaying in the breeze, the only hint of them, swirling black shadows, as foxes and badgers dashed about, tickling their roots.

He drove past pheasant corner, where one could always see copious pheasants, alive and dead, and sure enough a moment later, a foolish young male bird ambled across the road in front of him to meet its maker in one squishy second. Naz did not witness it, but felt the bump as it went down beneath his whirling wheels. Road-kill, food for the corvid family, or the foxes, if they were hungry or brave enough to venture onto the busy highway.

‘Sorry, bird!’ he said, a grin on his face, followed by juvenile laughter.

He entered the Chester outskirts at ten to one. Despite the hour, the city on a Friday night was busy. Flipping Friday and the weekend’s here, or words to that effect. Taxis rushed about as if confused, their busiest night of the week, and sales had to be grabbed when people had money to spend.

Girls in short skimpy dresses, some screaming with laughter, others unsteady on their feet, copious shouting and bawling, some through scouse accents, plus cockneys, up from the big smoke for a hen weekend, determined to have an unforgettable time.

Nazareth thought of taking a chance and parking close to Regiment House, but changed his mind. If city yellow lines were splashed on the road, parking was hazardous, and he didn’t want to return to find his precious car kidnapped and taken away, pending a hefty ransom being paid.

He slipped it in the 24-hour multi-story. Gee whizz it was expensive, and hurried away, heading for Pamela Grayson, wondering at his reception, imagining what he would do to her. He owed her a good disciplining after all those unwanted meals and obituary announcements she bought on his credit card. He couldn’t let that go.

Outside her building, there was no one about. A couple of streets away, several drunks were bawling nonsense. He went to the main entrance and buzzed her bell. True to form, she kept him waiting. His mouth went dry. Come on Grayson, you know you want to.

He pictured the pair of them, sitting in the Storeyhouse Theatre, a sense of excitement running through his brain, as they waited for the curtain to rise, pondering on the play. Comedy, tragedy, or romcom? Knowing Pam, a chunk of all three.

The outside door grunted and sprang open. He stepped inside and made his way down the corridor towards her door. It was open, shuddering in a slight breeze. No sign of her. He went inside and closed the door behind him.

Chapter fifty-two

Walter lay on his back in the small cell, wondering if the custom of condemned-to-death prisoners receiving their favourite last meal ran in China.

He hoped so, for the paucity and quality of the grub was something to behold. Not that it mattered, and besides, he could do with losing a few pounds. Even without exercise, they were rolling off.

He thought again of Sir Thomas More. What a Trojan he was. A man faced with being hung, drawn and quartered, and yet he never yielded.

Sir Thomas was incarcerated in the Tower for a year before being executed, whereas Walter only had two days before his planned murder. No one knew what transpired at Sir Thomas’s trial, for no records survive. Walter rolled onto his side and tried to sleep, though did he want to spend most of his last precious hours sleeping?

He thought of Marina Moo, and everyone back in Chester, and wondered how they were doing, and were they aware of his fate?

He couldn’t know urgent diplomatic measures were underway. Chris Armstrong, his barrister from the failed Hong Kong trial, pursued the Chief Executive of the Hong Kong Executive Council with all the vigour he possessed. Persistence paid off, and he was granted an interview.

Chris demanded to know the whereabouts of Walter Darriteau.

The executive shifted in his seat, looked uncomfortable, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘You must know! He was in your care. Where is he?’

‘I do not know where he is right now.’

‘Has he been murdered?’

The man wobbled his head as if to say: anything’s possible.

‘He’s in China, isn’t he?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘If he has been moved to China, that is an illegal and irresponsible act.’

‘I think you will find we decide what is legal in Hong Kong, and what is not.’

‘I warn you, sir, I am holding you personally responsible for the safety of an innocent British citizen. If any harm comes to Walter, I shall apply for your extradition as a party to murder.’

The man’s expression did not change, nor did his disposition, as he said, ‘I think this is a good moment to close,’ and he upped and left.

Chris raced straight to the British Embassy to update them, saying the man as good as admitted Mr Darriteau was in China for further interrogation. Chris insisted there wasn’t a moment to lose. ‘We must demand a diplomatic meeting at the highest level.’

The proposal was flashed to Britain. The powers there considered it and agreed. The Chinese ambassador was summoned to the Foreign Office in London, where pointed questions were asked, and assurances sought.

The man clearly knew more than he was letting on, saying he would consult with his superiors and come back. He was reminded again of how urgent it was. In the time it took to get back to the Chinese Embassy, news of a Press Release being issued in Beijing hit the airwaves.

QUOTE – Following a second trial in China, a British man, Walter Darriteau, a serving British police officer seconded to MI6 (SIS), has been found guilty of spying on Chinese military assets. Caught red-handed with incriminating photographs in his camera. According to law, Mr Darriteau has been sentenced to death, as is mandatory with foreign spies. – UNQUOTE.

No questions were allowed, and no additional information released regarding when the sentence might be carried out. The Foreign Office informed the Home Office, and minutes later, a call from the Home Secretary’s senior assistant fired into the Chester police station.

Mrs West took the call.

‘Have you heard the news, Chief Superintendent?’

‘What news?’

‘Then you haven’t. We have just heard that following a fresh trial in China, Mr Darriteau has been found guilty of spying on Chinese military assets, and sentenced to death.’

It was the most surreal moment in Mrs West’s life. She struggled for breath. Her brain heard the words but couldn’t compute the meaning. A cold sweat rippled across her back, before she said, ‘You cannot be serious.’

‘I am afraid I am.’

‘They can’t do that. They mustn’t. Surely, every measure must be taken to stop them.’

‘I can assure you, Chief Super, we are doing everything in our power. The Prime Minister has spoken to the American President to ask if there is anything he can do.’

‘Walter is not a spy!’

‘I know that, and you know that, but it seems the Chinese think he is. They seem hell bent on making an example of him. We can’t figure it out. There must be more to this than meets the eye.’

Mrs West thought about it for a second before saying, ‘When?’

‘When, what?’

‘When could it happen?’

‘They haven’t said, but in matters like this, they rarely muck around. Within a week, is my best guess.’

‘Oh, dear God. So, what happens next?’

‘Everything that could be done is being done. The thing is, this news is going to be across the airwaves in seconds. It is important you gather your staff and tell them before they hear it elsewhere.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll do that now, and you’ll keep me informed?’

‘I will.’

Mrs West stood up and went outside. Everyone was beavering away with no sign of catastrophic news. She told them to stop what they were doing, leave the phones, and gather round. Everyone looked at everyone else as if desperate to know what was going on. Nothing like it had happened before.

When she had everyone’s attention, she broke the news.

‘In China, our dear colleague, Walter D, has been sentenced to death for spying.’

It was the most bone-chilling sentence she would ever utter, and it stunned the crowd into silence, before Karen, firing up her mobile, said, ‘You cannot be serious!’

‘I regret to say I am. Everything possible is being done. I wanted you to know before hearing it elsewhere. Less than two minutes ago, I received a call from the Home Office confirming the trial outcome and sentence.’

‘Stinking barbarians!’ said Darren, shaking his head.

Karen said, ‘The news is out. It’s breaking across the news channels.’

Mrs West turned on the big flat screen and the first thing they saw was Walter’s angry Chinese mug-shot face, a black-and-white photograph, filling the screen.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s a nightmare. They wouldn’t kill the Guv, would they?’

No one had an adequate answer.

Mrs West said, ‘Right now, you must get back to work. You are bound to be besieged with calls. Walter is well-known in these parts. It will create a storm of interest. Please answer all calls and inquiries with a simple fact. You do not have any information and refer everyone to the press office. Do not get involved in gossipy calls, question-and-answer sessions, or any speculation. Keep calls brief and shut them down. You know nothing and say nothing. If you add anything, outside forces could twist it. Anyone who asks, point them to the press office. Is that clear?’

Some of them mumbled yes’s, others nodded as their minds raced ahead to what it could be like, or would be like, without him.

‘Back to work,’ she insisted. ‘We are being tested and we must pass with flying colours.’

5,725 miles away in China, Walter’s evening meal arrived. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t great. He assumed it lacked sufficient calories, but that was the thing about food. Without sustenance, even the most basic fare tasted like a banquet.

He tried to open a conversation with the deliverer, but was wasting his time. The man not only didn’t speak a word of English, he was mute, selected for the job to curtail unvetted chatter.

Walter did not send for Mr Fang. It never entered his mind to do so.

He didn’t imagine he would gain much rest that night, but around ten o’clock, surprised himself by falling into a deep and satisfying sleep. Why wouldn’t he? He had no work or personal worries to interrupt his sleeping patterns, except one, and through sheer willpower, he set the hideousness to one side, and slept for eight and a half hours.

Early the next day, the mute man returned with a breakfast of deep fried dough sticks and a pancake. Good, they were, and he could have eaten more. The mug of dish-watery Chinese tea could have done with a bit of lifting, but it would keep him alive for a while longer. Serving the tea, Walter imagined the mute man half smiled, though it could have been a nervous tic.

Chapter fifty-three

Back in the early forties, on a bright Wirral morning, a BSA 250cc motorbike pulled up outside the Moorland family terraced home in Trinity Street, Rock Ferry.

The rider, in his fifties, deemed too old to serve in the armed forces, put his red bike on the stand, and retrieved the telegram from his leather pouch. Not for nothing were dispatch riders known as angels of death.

He went to the door and banged the polished brass knocker. On the still morning, the echo crashed through the neighbourhood. A minute later, through the coloured glass, he saw someone approaching the door.

It wasn’t a great job delivering telegrams. A smart lady, maybe forty years old, opened up and saw the man there in his dispatch rider uniform.

‘Oh no!’ she said, her clenched fist going to her pretty mouth.

He handed her the small telegram envelope, saying, ‘It might be nothing. I’ll wait for you to open it, in case there is a reply.’

She looked at him, her hands shaking, her heart thrashing faster than ever before. He watched her long nails rip it open, the message inside folded in four. Mrs Moorland opened it and read the content in silence.

It was addressed to her:

WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU, YOUR SON HAS BEEN MISSING SINCE THE 23RD OF THIS MONTH. HE MAY HAVE BEEN TAKEN PRISONER. AS SOON AS WE HAVE FURTHER INFORMATION WE WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN.

It came from the War Office, referred to the Cheshire Regiment, and was sent and delivered by the GPO.

The kindly man looked into her face. There was no crying or wailing, but that didn’t tell him much. Everyone reacted differently. The colour drained from her face, though the shaking ceased.

‘Any reply?’

She looked at him again before saying, ‘Missing. He’s missing. I suppose it could have been worse.’

He tried a supportive smile and said, ‘Chin up, that’s the spirit. If I had a hot dinner every time someone missing turns up, I’d be as fat as Chipperfield’s big top.’

‘Hope so,’ she said, turning about, thanking him, appreciating his concern, and in the next second she closed the door, as he hurried back to his bike, thinking of the next delivery three roads down.

A thousand miles away in Silesia, Poland, the Cheshire men and Sergeant-Major Michael O’Brian shared an indoor question-and-answer session. They wanted to know about Michael’s history, and how he came to be there, in uniform, free and unsupervised, looking after British POWs.

‘I can see I’ll get no peace until I tell you everything, so I will. I entered this world in 1895. Yes, I know it sounds eons ago, born into a dysfunctional Cork family. Father, a drunkard, the extensive family scraping by, doing anything to earn an honest penny, and sometimes not so honest.

‘I didn’t know what I wanted in life, but I knew I didn’t want that. When I was nineteen, I signed up for the British army. It wasn’t unusual. Tens of thousands of Irish did, regular food, regular pay, and a year later, the King and his minions decided I’d be better off on the Western Front. I was one of the lucky ones; saw it all the way through without a scratch, and picked up a handful of medals.

‘When the war ended in late ’18, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The army was all I knew. My superior officer suggested I didn’t leave and stay in the service. I hadn’t thought that a possibility, but it was, and I did.

‘Twenty years later, I was still there when round two with the Krauts broke out. Our regiment was one of the first posted to France, close to the Belgian border. The B.E.F. as it was known, ran into early trouble in several places, blitzkrieg, the culprit, something none of us had seen before.

‘One moment, we thought we were fine and dandy, the next, surrounded, and before we knew it, we were bundled onto trains and sent east into eastern Germany, and after their success against the Poles, further east into Silesia.’

John Fenton asked, ‘How come they left you alone, looking after this place?’

‘I conned them.’

‘How?’

‘I told them I wasn’t British, but an officer of the Irish Free State, a republican, and I wasn’t lying about that. I am a staunch republican and proud of it, and if I am still taking the King’s shilling, it’s the least I deserve. They didn’t believe me at first, but found a German officer who knew Ireland well, holidayed in Cork, and we talked about pubs we knew, and fishing, and how we both hated the English, and he said he would do what he could. The next thing I knew, they posted me here to look after you lot. Someone has to do it. So listen up and I’ll tell you what you must do.’

‘You don’t expect us to work?’ said Johnny Kingston.

‘It’s your choice. You either work here and enjoy certain freedoms, or I transfer you to the nearest POW camp, Stalag V111A, where you are not allowed out. If you take my advice, anyone with any sense will opt to work.’

‘Which entails?’ asked Harry.

‘This is a salt mine. It goes down four levels. There are two permanent Polish workers, not including the kitchen staff. I’ll tell you about them later. The Poles are okay, but suspicious of strangers and who can blame them? We have quotas to meet. 200 sacks of salt every week. If we don’t produce it, questions are asked, and changes will be made. Take my advice, keep your heads down, mine the salt, hit the targets, see the war out, and with a bit of luck, you’ll be left alone.’

‘Luck of the Irish, eh?’ said Harry.

‘Something like that.’

‘Can I ask a question?’ said Leo.

‘Course you can. You have the same rights as everyone else.’

‘Do you get a mail delivery?’

‘Funny you should say that. We do, and we are due a delivery tomorrow. I hope so, because I am waiting for a letter from my woman.’

‘Are we allowed to write back?’

‘You are; a maximum of one per week, outbound. But you can receive as many as you are lucky to get. If you write, see if you can scrounge some goodies, though I know things are just as tough at home. Every little helps. Anything received is shared by all.’

‘Don’t suppose you have any writing paper?’

‘I have, though it is as thin as tissue.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Leo. ‘So long as I can write on it. And envelopes?’

‘Yes, those too.’

‘How does it work?’ said John Fenton. ‘Where does the mail go?’

‘All via Switzerland. They oversee it. It works for both parties. The Jerries have plenty of people in British camps. All things considered, it’s a decent service, though it can take an age.’

Leo said, ‘I wonder how they get the mail from Switzy to Blighty?’

‘Diplomatic bag, I think, though it might be better not to ask too many questions. Right! Work schedules. The mine works from seven till six every day of the week, including Sundays. Each man gets one day off on a staggered basis. Everyone works six days. If you think that is beyond you, or you object, say now, and I’ll get you transferred to the Stalag.’

No one wanted that.

‘Good! You have made the right choice.’

‘Now, on to dinner. I have something special for you tonight. Lamb stew and potatoes, and don’t ask me where I got it. I have my sources, ways and means, goes back to my training as a kid. We may have been poor, but we never starved.’

The thought of home-cooked lamb stew and potatoes sounded like a feast, as Michael O’Brian had one further thing to say.

‘Two young Polish lads prepare the meals. They are, what shall we say, disturbed, not quite with it. Hyperactive one minute, dead to the world the next. But they do the jobs no one else wants. In the old days, they might have been described as village idiots. The Germans were going to liquidate them. They have no time for such people. I told them they might prove useful, and they shrugged their shoulders and said you can have them, and they are still here. I want to make one thing crystal clear. If I catch any man belittling them, teasing them, mimicking them, or showing any lack of respect, the offender will get my boot up their jacksie before I kick them all the way to the Stalag. That clear?’

Everyone nodded, and the meeting was over. An internal door opened and the aroma of thick lamb stew and mashed potatoes flooded in. One of the young lads entered the room, grinned at everyone, speaking unintelligible nonsense, as he pointed back to the door. He had trouble keeping his head still.

Michael O’Brian said, ‘This is Conrad. His mate’s name is Jerzy. Jerzy is the opposite to Con, withdrawn most of the time. You’ll see. Now you know. I like them, and I expect you to like them too. He says dinner is ready. You are lucky people. Let’s eat.’

If the meals provided were anywhere near as good as they smelt, everyone would love them to bits.

The dinner was marvellous, the best since they left Durban, and afterwards they were shown the crammed obligatory narrow double-bunks, and told reveille would be at six. By 9pm, everyone settled down to sleep after an exhausting day.

They were woken at five to six, washed in cold water, and ate the only breakfast of a soft biscuit and a hot drink made from local herbs, tasting better than it looked. The work clothes were navy blue, thick, second or third hand, and warm. Jacket and trousers with a rough grey woollen jumper. Their army boots would suffice.

Leo was balloted to receive the day off. He was chuffed, and hung around by the outside door, waiting for the drizzle to ease, and the mail delivery to arrive.

At eight o’clock, the outside workers turned up. A ragtag band of five women and four aging men. Twenty minutes later, sacks of salt began loading on two waiting wagons, the leading cart with Jan sitting up front. Leo watched them working in the rain until it went off and the sun came out. The women must have been strong because they seemed to handle the sacks better than the men.

He went out and wandered over for a closer look. The eldest woman, a weary-looking thirty-five-year-old, stopped working. When she noticed the foreman absent, she approached Leo. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

‘You want woman? You have me,’ and without warning, kissed him hard on the lips.

Leo pulled away, blushed, and wiped his mouth.

‘I make you happy. It be good.’

Leo shook his head. The woman grinned again and said, ‘You mine now. Make babies. I fix.’

The sergeant-major came outside, yelling, ‘What the hell is going on?’

The Polish foreman heard the commotion, reappeared, and joined in the shouting. The woman grinned at Leo before returning to the waiting sacks, as the sarge pulled the kid away.

‘What did I tell you? No fraternising with the womenfolk. That could get you in deep trouble.’

‘Not my doing, sarge.’

The Irishman went to speak when they were interrupted by the sound of an approaching rider.

A moment later, a small man on a big horse appeared from behind the mine. The rider paused close by the sergeant and handed down a leather saddle-bag. Michael O’Brian grabbed it, undid the straps, removed a fat handful of mail, and returned the bag. Leo guessed around sixty envelopes.

The rider gawped down, pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, anything to go back? Michael read the body language and said, ‘Nothing!’ and the man nodded, turned the horse about, and rode away.

‘I didn’t expect a horse,’ said Leo.

‘Cheaper to run, and he was lucky to keep her. If the Jerries had seen the beast, they would have taken her, maybe for meat, maybe for labour. I’m not sure how the mail would get delivered if the horses disappeared.’

‘Anything for me?’ said Leo, eyeing the letters in the sarge’s huge hand.

‘No idea. I’ll take them in and sort them. With you being off, you’ll be the first to know.’

Leo received the most mail that day. Eight letters in total. Only Donald Grayson received more than one. Michael O’Brian got nothing, a result to cast him into a black-dog mood that would last until the next delivery.

Leo went outside and avoided the big woman. She stared across at him and blew a kiss. He ignored her and sought solitude, ambling out of sight to find a smooth boulder to sit on in the cold sunshine and open his precious post.

Chapter fifty-four

Pamela Grayson appeared at the end of the hall with no smile and no words. Nazareth attempted to kiss her.

She brushed him off, an expected move, as he grabbed her wrist and tried again. Pamela turned her head away, wriggled free, and hustled through to the sitting room.

Naz followed, eager to play the game, for Pam was into playing games. She was sitting in the middle of the sofa, her legs crossed, the short skirt showing more than it should, as she stared up at him and said, ‘I suppose you want a drink?’

‘Okay, if you’re offering.’

‘I’m not offering. There’s an open bottle on the worktop. Fetch it yourself.’

He pulled a face and went to the kitchen to find an open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a third of it missing.

Thirty seconds later he was back, a large glass of white in his hand, saying, ‘Did you want one? You didn’t say.’

‘I don’t. I don’t need wine to get high.’

He sipped wine and sat next to her, easing her along the sofa to make room as the conversation flowed, each sentence more fractious than the last, stretching into tricky territory like an elastic band being slow-jerked to destruction. She kicked things on, accusing him of a lack of commitment. He countered: Time and again, you messed me around. You put ads in the paper saying my mother was dead! You said I was a permanent disappointment! You ordered me fifty frigging meals, using my damned credit card!

She was the first to stand. He stood too. Slurped wine. Set the glass down. Feisty chat and glaring eyes about to explode into an outright fearsome argument. Voices grew louder and raised again. The old thick walls of Regiment House came into their own, enclosing the pent up spite and yelling within, and no one in the block heard a thing.

Pam issued the first blow, slapping him across his supercilious face. He retaliated. What was good for the goose, slapping her cheek, the sound of male hand on female face echoing through the room.

She spat out a word he never used and sent a double-pronged missile his way. Long slender fingers reinforced with fresh plastic red nails, sharpened and dangerous, zeroing in on his astonished face, aiming for the control points, his glaring eyes.

Naz saw them coming, half expecting fresh weaponry, ensuring the iron dome defence of the back of his hand deployed with a second to spare, as the red-tipped missiles landed, deflected to cut his hand, producing a breathless yelp, and a look of triumph on her reddening face. If those spikes had penetrated the intended target, they could have blinded him.

The blood was up. She tried again.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ he said, going in low, charging her like a bull, as her next salvo parted his thick hair.

Naz’s arms encircled her waist and heaved her high. She had forgotten how strong he was, lifting her, turning her, carrying her towards the bedroom, where he threw her on the bed, and undid his shirt.

Pam woke at four o’clock in the morning. The whole block was sleeping in unison, breathing in and out, letting out a collective sigh, not snoring, just heavy synchronised satisfied breaths. She glanced across at him. He was out of it, zonko, the man would sleep for hours.

She slipped from the bed, found her robe and his trousers, and took them through to the kitchen to inspect her war wounds. Love bites in the expected places. A tingling cheek, still throbbing from his hard-struck palm, aching bones, and a reddened backside.

She took comfort in knowing his damage was worse. He probably didn’t know he had a real shiner in his left eye, a cut lip where she bit him, and several other gashes and bruises, and it was nothing he didn’t deserve. Naz was a pussy and always had been, and she determined it would be the last time she saw the cretin. He would never be invited over her threshold again.

In his trouser pocket, she found his wallet and phone. He always carried a decent wad of money, and nothing had changed. She counted it. Three hundred quid. What would a whore charge? Perhaps a flat hundred, if he was lucky, and he was getting a good deal. If he treated her like a whore, phoning out of the blue as if ordering special services at odd hours, visiting at short notice, he could pay her like a whore. She culled off a hundred in twenties, rolled up her immoral earnings and tucked the swag in the pastel-blue tea-bag container.

Next up: the phone. Long ago, he told her his password number. The year of his birth, the dimwit. He would never forget that, and neither did she. It worked first time.

There they were. All his pathetic messages to various whores.

‘You know I love you, Debby. Can we meet again on Friday?’

‘Shirley, why can’t it be like it was before?’

‘Suzy, I know I have asked you this before, but why don’t we get married?’

Pathetic! He was pathetic, and it was still a long time till breakfast.

She returned to the bed, slipping in beneath the skimpy summer covers, ensuring she didn’t touch him, and within twenty minutes she was asleep.

Pamela woke again at just after eight, made coffee and toast as she waited for the goon to stir. He didn’t come round until nine, staggering half naked into the kitchen seeking his trousers.

‘Seen my kecks, babe?’

‘Don’t ask me. It was you who was intent on rearranging the flat.’

He found them in the sitting room before making his way to the bathroom, where he inspected his face.

‘What the hell?’ as his hand went to a blackened eye and cut lower lip. ‘What have you done, you crazy bitch?’

She grinned and cackled, her shoulders shaking in pleasure.

‘What’s that, lover? What’s up?’

‘I’ve got a wedding this afternoon and they won’t fancy me in the wedding photos looking like I’ve been ten rounds with Tyson Fury.’

She couldn’t remove the smile from her face, saying, ‘Serves you right. You shouldn’t be so heavy-handed. Do you know, Naz, you are the only man in God’s creation who attends one or two weddings every goddamned week, but never gets married? I think the girls are telling you something. You’re alright to play with, but totally useless as a potential husband. It won’t be long before you are reduced to paying for women, if you don’t already. Would you like a piece of toast?’

‘I don’t want toast, and I haven’t noticed many men lining up to sweep you down the aisle.’

A cutting remark, and it worked, shutting her up for some minutes.

Naz returned from the bathroom seeking his shirt. Jeez, there were slit-cuts below his right nipple as if done with a paring knife, though he knew the sharpened nails were the culprit. The cuts bled early, but the wounds had turned dark brown, the blood hardening to heal.

He looked across at her and said, ‘I don’t know why you have to be so violent.’

‘Hah! That’s good, coming from you.’

He brushed his hair with his fingers, found his slip-on shoes, checked his wallet, phone, and keys, before making his way down the hall to the door. She followed him, eager to see him out. Naz took a pace towards her to attempt a parting kiss. She shrugged him off as if dealing with an annoying wasp.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, reaching up to open the door. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

She didn’t reply except under her breath, ‘Don’t bother.’

Two Fridays hence, someone entered her flat and murdered Pamela Grayson, and no one other than the killer knew who was responsible. The killer hoped it would remain that way for the rest of their life.

Twenty per cent of murders in the UK went unsolved, a one in five chance of getting away with it. Not a great stat so far as the murderer was concerned, but large enough to hide within. With careful planning and studying crime solving techniques, those miserable odds could be shifted a tad.

Chapter fifty-five

After breakfasting in his cell, Walter lay back on the bench and thought on his predicament. He’d enjoyed some outside help. During the night, Sir Thomas More visited.

It would have been fanciful to consider it a vision, more a dream, and that was no surprise, seeing as he had been thinking of the man for days. Vision, dream, or over-active imagination, who knew?

Stay strong, Walter, said the apparition. Stick to your principles. Don’t bend to their wicked ways. You are right. You didn’t commit the crimes they allege. It’s a weak man who bends when the wind gusts.

It was nothing Walter didn’t know already, but it was good to hear.

Nothing much else happened till around lunchtime. Foolishly, he imagined a banquet meal arriving, but when the cell door opened, he found two local men waiting, one big, one small. The gents boasted rudimentary English, grinning and beckoning him out of the cell into the corridor.

They eased him against the far wall and began photographing him with their phones. Height, width, front, back, sides, every goddamned angle. They conversed in Chinese, seemed happy with their pictures, eased him back into the cell, made sure the lock had clicked shut, and disappeared down the corridor, their feet echoing in the cold and sterile space as they departed.

Walter returned to his bench and lay down to think. It was a while before it came to him. Big and little were part of the execution squad, measuring him up, ensuring the straps would be large and strong enough to cope with the hefty fellow. He’d be the biggest criminal they had ever dealt with, and they didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

What sort of person did that job? Tying someone down and injecting them with chemicals, knowing they were injecting death? He imagined them after a busy day, perhaps expelling three or four human beings from this world; when they travelled home to be greeted by a smiley wife.

‘Had a good day at work, dear?’

‘Oh yeah, just the three today. Two went easy. The other bastard fought like hell.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Important day, darling, the big fellow. The foreigner. The filthy spy. We are all looking forward to that.’

‘Well done, lover. Think of the bonus money. I found a beautiful duck in the market for dinner. I think you’ll like it.’

‘Excellent. I thought I could smell roasting duck. I’ll just get changed. I won’t be long.’

Walter scoffed and turned over, pondering and wondering if he would get fed. Come to think of it, what damage he could do to a well-roasted duck.

Another two hours crawled by, as crazy thoughts rushed through his mind before he came to some unsettling conclusions.

First, he wasn’t as strong-willed or as courageous as Sir Thomas More. It unnerved him, the discovery of his cowardice. Second, he didn’t want to die. Not yet. He was nowhere near ready. There was so much he still had to do, and if there was a way out, no matter how difficult, demeaning, or disappointing it might be, he must take it.

He rose from the bench and called for the guard. A different man came, a sullen individual, boasting a smattering of English.

‘What is it?’ he said, annoyed after being disturbed from watching English football on his tablet. ‘You’ll be fed in an hour. You will just have to wait.’

‘No, it’s not food. I want to speak to Mr Fang. It’s important.’

‘Isn’t it always? I’ll see what I can do, but it won’t be easy.’

‘Thanks, it’s important.’

‘So you said.’

Just over an hour later, he was visited again, the mute food man.

Noodles with farmed rabbit. It was amazing how good rabbit could be.

‘Mr Fang?’ said Walter. ‘Where is Mr Fang?’

Mr Mute looked at him pityingly and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: no idea what you are talking about, as he closed the cell door and sloped away.

Walter ate the dinner, though his appetite had waned.

Four long hours drifted by, precious time close to being his last, when the cell door opened again, and Mr Fang strolled in, a mock look of annoyance on his face.

‘What is it? You have disturbed my evening with my beautiful wife and daughters.’

‘Sorry, but I need to talk.’

‘I thought you might.’ He leant back against the cell door, grinned down, and said, ‘Well, I’m here, and I am waiting.’

‘Is a deal still on the table?’

‘It might be. First, I’ll have to contact the judge to set aside the execution, and I warn you, she is not the easiest person to get hold of. If we are successful, we can move on to the MSS.’

‘Would you try? I am ready to talk.’

‘Okay, though you have left it late.’

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘So I see. Leave it with me,’ and Mr Fang went out, and the door slammed shut.

Walter calculated he was away another three hours. Then he returned alone, his face difficult to read.

‘The judge was furious at being interrupted, especially so late. She had exciting business on the go and was minded to leave things as they were. She said you were a devious foreign devil, into playing games.’

Walter didn’t comment.

Mr Fang continued. ‘I persuaded her to set aside the execution order for forty-eight hours, not a minute longer, providing you sign your employment contract with the MSS within that time.’

‘How does that work?’

‘At six in the morning, we will fly you to Beijing, where you will be taken to an MSS briefing base. You’ll be told what we want and what we need. It will all be in the contract. Don’t worry; it will be in perfect English. If you sign, you will be briefed, flown to Hong Kong, and released. If you don’t, you return here for execution. No negotiation, no debating the terms, no prevarication, nothing. This is your one deal. Understand?’

‘I do. What is the time?’

Fang flicked his wrist and said, ‘Ten past midnight. You’d better get some sleep.’

Walter lay back down, his mind in turmoil.

Fang went to leave but paused. ‘May I give you a piece of advice?’

Walter nodded him on.

‘If this goes through, don’t even think of rushing back to the UK to spill everything you know to MI6 or anyone else. If you don’t honour the agreed terms at any point in the future, the death sentence will be reinstated. We have contacts everywhere and agents across the globe. If you cross us, we will kill you. Nothing is more certain. Make myself clear?’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Get some sleep.’

The next morning, Fang and two guards opened his cell door at a quarter to six. Walter was as ready as he could be, his grubby clothing needing a wash.

‘I need the bathroom.’

‘No time. You can do that on the plane.’

Outside, it was still dark; though the closeness in the air persisted. They bundled him into the back of another BMW, a guard on either side, with Fang and a different driver in the front.

Despite the hour, traffic was building. Fang ordered the driver to light up. Blue lights flashed across the front grille and below the back window. and any traffic blocking their way stopped or scooted to one side.

Walter estimated they drove for an hour before coming to an airport protected by a high metal fence topped with razor wire. The main entrance defended by another border type setup, with two uniformed men standing before the car, hands high, palms shown.

The car stopped, and the windows buzzed down. The border police stared into the vehicle, checking out the infamous foreign spy, before exchanging stern words with the civilian guy, Fang. They understood he was not to be messed with and waved the car through.

It headed for a Chinese designed twin-engine executive jet, idling on the far side of the aerodrome. The engines ran smooth, eager to get away, as the car approached the aircraft and stopped close by. The plane door opened, and a four-step automatic staircase eased down. Fang ordered everyone out.

The guards, not taking chances, tugged Walter to the plane, and in the next second, he stepped up and went inside, glad to be away.

A smart woman dressed in red-skirt, jacket, hat, shoes and matching nails welcomed him aboard in perfect English through gleaming teeth. She showed him to one of the eight luxurious beige seats, bending over him to connect his seatbelt.

She smelt wonderful. French perfume, Walter guessed, though it could have been a Chinese smell-a-like. He stank and knew it, and she’d get him to the bathroom as soon as they were airborne.

Mr Fang sat beside Walter, with another civilian guy already aboard who looked at Walter but didn’t speak. The young woman went to the external door to ensure it was correctly closed. The engines revved higher, and the plane moved into position, readying to take off.

In the next second, the pilots in their enclosed cabin eased on the power. The jet screamed and accelerated down the runway like an out-of-control racing car, before taking flight, zipping up at a steeper angle than any civilian airliner, the passengers thrust back into their seats, taking their breath away, especially in Walter’s case, who had experienced nothing like it.

When the plane evened out, Fang invited Walter to the rear bathroom to wash, shave, and change. ‘There are fresh clothes in there, Mr Darriteau. I’ll be disappointed if they don’t fit.’

The three watched him enter the twee bathroom and heard the door being locked. He was in there for an hour; so long, they began to worry. The girl asked if she should check he was okay, but Fang shook his head.

Then he came out, unable to contain a grin, looking a new man and ten years younger. The girl smiled at him and the men watched on, impressed at the transformation, as Walter retook his seat.

‘Breakfast?’ said Fang.

‘Please,’ said Walter, and Fang nodded at the girl and said, ‘Nora, give Walter whatever he wants.’

‘Steamed buns with a duck stuffing?’ she suggested, beckoning to a small fixed table to one side.

‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Walter, licking his lips.

‘Stay seated, I’ll bring it over,’ and she did, leaning over him, setting them on a tray on his lap. She still smelt wonderful, and so did he.

Walter had to restrain himself from eating too much, chasing it with lashings of perfect coffee, and just as he finished, Chinese voices echoed through the intercom. Fang translated.

‘We are approaching Beijing. Seatbelts on before we begin the descent.’

Not long after, they were down. A smooth landing, as Fang glanced at his watch and looked at Walter. ‘One hour and thirty-five minutes, and that is quick.’

‘And comfortable,’ added Walter.

‘Indeed.’

He thanked Nora as she slipped a ribboned packet of sweets into his hand as a memento of the trip. In the next minute, they were on the tarmac. Walter shivered, for it was ten degrees colder, glad to climb into another BMW with guards flanking him, and without delay, the car zipped down the runway, passing fighter jets lined up to their left. Walter counted forty-eight gleaming beasts, primed and ready to tackle any foe.

If only he had a camera, he could have taken some interesting shots. Clearly a military air station, not a passenger plane anywhere, other than the private jet readying to take off again to who knows where?

They left the airbase and drove away through bleak countryside, before heading back into suburbia, continuing on for an hour, the traffic growing by the kilometre, as Walter guessed they were closing on the capital city. Long before they hit the massive conurbation, the car pulled off to the left, through more sentry posts, to a modern single storey brick-built complex, passing countless signs in Chinese which meant nothing to him.

‘We’ve arrived?’ asked Walter.

Fang nodded and said, ‘Yes. MSS number 98. This is where you will be briefed, instructed, and trained. Don’t worry; it will only take a day. If all goes well, you will be back in Hong Kong before midnight.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait to get home.’

Yes, thought Fang, though he didn’t speak again.

Before they set the man running, the spy must convince everyone he was worth the time and trouble they had gone to recruit him. The Darriteau man hadn’t yet passed his tests. Be interesting to see how he shaped up, and how devious a character he could be.

Chapter fifty-six

A week after the first telegram arrived at the Moorland household, another delivery showed up. A different driver in a hurry to complete his round.

Mrs Moorland opened the door. He thrust the telegram into her hand and hurried away with a nod and a grunt, not waiting for her to open it.

It came straight to the point:

Message begins -

WE ARE PLEASED TO INFORM YOU WE HAVE RECEIVED CONFIRMATION YOUR SON, LEO MOORLAND, IS ALIVE AND IN GERMAN CAPTIVITY. WE DO NOT HAVE A WHEREABOUTS BUT YOU CAN WRITE TO HIM AT THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS: YOUR SON’S NAME, HIS ARMY NUMBER, FOLLOWED BY: THE INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS, BOX 2000, GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. WE SHALL FORWARD ANY FURTHER INFORMATION AS WE GET IT – Message ends.

Mrs Moorland let out a sigh of relief and later that night, wrote to her husband, advising him of Leo’s fate.

On the other side of Victoria Park, over the following week, five letters arrived addressed to Miss Bertha Williams, all handwritten in Leo’s neat style, but Bertha couldn’t read them because she wasn’t there.

Away in the RAF, better known as the WAAFS, the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, embarking on provisional training. Bertha was five weeks into her ten weeks’ intensive programme, and could still fail, and like the others, was on tenterhooks, worrying about her future.

She was ordered to attend Bridgnorth RAF station in Shropshire, which was fortunate, as it was not far away in the adjoining county, a couple of hour’s drive or a short rail trip, bombing permitting.

A busy base, though the only RAF training facility in Britain without a runway. It didn’t matter. It was always hectic, with its own hospital and full training and comprehensive facilities. The base catered for men and women in separate areas, plus random army units, with casualties coming and going.

The WAAF training was varied and comprehensive, but included parachute packing, codes and ciphering, operational plotting rooms, managing barrage balloons, and basic aircraft maintenance. Every day was different and there was much to learn, not forgetting the marching, saluting, and cleaning business.

Bertha took to the service like an eaglet to the air. Her dad was a qualified engineer working well below deck in aircraft carriers, and maybe the engineering lifestyle ran in the Williams family.

Women could not serve on the front line, nor fly aircraft, though as the need for pilots became desperate, it would not be long before rules were relaxed, and a number of women pilots flew solo, delivering different planes to frontline air stations. In her quiet moments, Bertha dreamt of such things.

Every Saturday night at the Bridgnorth base, a dance took place, packed to the rafters, featuring a decent amateur RAF band. The outnumbered WAAFS in huge demand as dance partners, and men being men, some pushed their luck and tried it on.

Everyone knew the WAAF officers kept a stern eye on things, ensuring their charges were safe and back in their Nissen hut dormitories, no men permitted, well before lights out.

Bertha, with her growing and flowing thick black hair, in great demand, and would dance the night away with a string of ardent pursuers, some handsome, others pug ugly, and she would be lying if one or two didn’t catch her eye.

One chap in particular, Harry Boland, from Gloucester, forced his way into her mind, with his sparkling blue eyes and perfect skin. So many of them suffered from brutal acne, but Harry had the face and complexion of a Greek God.

She had almost given up on Leo Moorland, the young man who promised to write, the same man she had written numerous letters without a damned reply, and if that was all he thought of her, he could go to hell.

Harry Boland was definite marriage material, and no mistake. Who wouldn’t want to wake up next to him every morning? though she knew he would be in great demand, and worried she wasn’t good enough.

Bertha’s mother knew her daughter wrote to a young man, without receiving replies, and guessed the skinny letters arriving from overseas were from him. All the envelopes had been opened and inspected, and opened and inspected again, and she was dying to know what they said.

She sympathised with Bertha, and there was nothing wrong with a good dose of romance, something they were all starved of because of the war, the bombing, absentees, and countless casualties reported in the newspapers, everyone living with the fact, home and abroad, knowing the next day could be their last.

She needed to tell Bertha and quick, but that was easier said than done. There wasn’t a telephone in the Williams household, nor in the Moorland house, either. Phones in houses in working-class districts were a rarity in the early forties.

The doctor would have one, the district nurse, and uppity business people, the banks, the local pubs might, and politicians, businesses and council offices, and the over-busy undertakers, but phones were not for the likes of us, thought Mrs Williams.

An in-demand public phone sat on the wall in the Liberal Club just up the road at the top of Victoria Park, and that evening she set off to visit, armed with a good supply of copper and silver coins.

It was quite a palaver getting through. Even before picking up the phone, she couldn’t miss the big notice on the wall in capital letters, yelling:

ARE YOU SURE YOUR CALL IS ESSENTIAL? BE AWARE IN TIMES OF WAR, URGENT CALLS ARE OFTEN NECESSARY. IF YOU MUST MAKE A CALL, MAKE IT BRIEF, AND BE CONSIDERATE TO OTHERS. THEIR CALL MAY BE MORE VITAL THAN YOURS. REMEMBER, CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. THIS PHONE IS NOT TO BE USED FOR TRIVIAL GOSSIP. DO NOT CLOG UP THE LINES! THINK BEFORE YOU DIAL! – Signed, The POSTMASTER GENERAL.

Mrs Williams thought about it for a moment and said aloud, ‘It’s not gossip, and it is necessary. The poor girl has been at her wit’s end.’

Before she could get on the machine, a drip of a young man hogged the phone, a kid about eighteen, professing his undying love for his girl, Anita, asking when he could come round again, for it had been so wonderful last time, and he couldn’t wait to see her. It seemed his Anita was not as smitten, and shrugged him off with frosty words, before setting the phone down.

The look on the youth’s face was something to behold, as he stared at Mrs Williams, and for a moment she thought he might burst into tears. Poor love. He gathered himself, banged the phone down so hard she feared he might have broken it.

The young man turned the Liberal Club air black and blue, stared at her with murder in his eyes, and stormed past her and out through the door, where the England footballer, Pongo Waring, was once famous for sitting on the same steps, wearing an England cap, drinking pints of ale, regaling everyone with amazing stories.

She glared at the phone and the big black rectangular box affixed to the wall, narrow width and very tall, with its gleaming Button A and Button B. Why did they have to make everything so complicated?

Her sister had explained what she must do, and Mrs Williams placed ample coins on the little metal shelf, readying herself, hoping not to get too het up. Next to the shelf were three slots, each marked in silver-coloured relief letters: Pennies, sixpences, shillings. She slipped in six separate copper pennies. It was a long distance call. They clanked down inside and she picked up the phone.

She squinted at the number her sister had written on a tiny piece of paper and dialled through shaking fingers. It seemed to take an age, the dial going round, purring like next door’s tomcat.

Her call was answered straight away by a young woman in a hurry.

‘RAF Bridgnorth!’

‘Oh hello, I would like to speak to Cadet Bertha Williams.’

‘I can’t hear you, caller. You must press button A to be heard!’

Mrs Williams cursed a word her husband sometimes used, and she never did, apologised to no one, pressed the damned A button, and the coins banged further down, before she repeated her question.

The operator said, ‘What is the nature of your call? These phones are not to be used for gossip or trite matters. May I remind you, we accept urgent business only?’

‘It is not a trite matter!’ said Mrs Williams, realising she was close to losing her temper, before she told a little fib. A white lie? A yellow lie? Some kind of coloured lie, not really a fib. ‘I have just received news the Germans have taken my daughter’s fiancé prisoner, and Bertha must be told.’

‘I see. Fair enough. Give me the name again.’

‘Bertha Williams… cadet Bertha Williams.’

‘I got it, the one with the swirling black hair.’

‘That’s her!’ said Mrs Williams, her face lighting up. ‘You know her?’ bringing a modicum of relaxation into her voice and body.

‘I do. Hold the line. I will try and find out where she is. It may take a minute or two. If the pips go, you must insert more money.’

‘Oh, right. Thanks.’

Not long after, the pips went, not once but twice, before the operator returned, as the pile of coins shrank.

An eternity later, Bertha came on the line.

‘Oh, Bertha, is that you?’

‘Course it is, mum, who did you think it was? There’s nothing wrong, is there? It’s not about dad, is it? Please don’t tell me it’s about dad. One hears so many nasty rumours and terrible stories as to what is going on out there.’

‘No! It’s not about your father, you loon. It’s your boy, Leo, isn’t it? Letters have arrived, five of the blessed things!’

‘Really? How do you know they are from him?’

Before she could answer, more pips interrupted.

‘You’ll have to put more money in, mum,’ pleaded Bertha. It would be hell if she was cut off. ‘If you don’t, I can’t hear you.’

The last coins went in, and the connection returned.

Mrs Williams said in a rush, ‘Who else could they be from? They must be from him!’

‘You haven’t read them, have you?’

‘Of course not! I assume they are private.’

‘Have you got them with you?’

‘No, I didn’t think to bring them.’

‘I must see them, mum, and I can’t get home. Can you pack them in one envelope and post them?’

‘Sure, girl, I’ll post them tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, mum, you’re a honey.’

‘How are you, anyway, dear? I miss you so much.’

‘I miss you too…’ and the bloody pips went again. The coins had vanished, and that was the end of that.

Mrs Williams copied the youth in sending the air blue. She sighed and wiped a tear from her eye. Ah well, it could have been worse. At least she managed to speak to her only daughter. A moment later, she gathered herself and her thoughts, grabbed her few things, and made her way to the door.

Outside, it was growing dark. A full moon lit up the distant river below with Liverpool beyond. A bomber’s moon, they called it. Silver barrage balloons flew high, picked out in the moonlight, with the shadowy figure of the half-complete red stone cathedral standing proud on higher ground, resembling a bulky Norman fortress. Please no air-raids tonight, she pleaded, please, please, please. Give us a break. She sloped down the steps and made her way home, wondering if she had a decent big envelope.

Then she remembered the house insurance policy arrived in a foolscap reinforced brown thing earlier in the week, the policy reminding her extra premiums must be paid within thirty days to cover bomb damage, as if she didn’t have enough to worry about. She would repurpose the envelope, tape a piece of white paper over their address, and add Bertha’s down in Shropshire.

Later that evening, in the WAAFS’ mess, where the girls would gather at the day’s end to swap gossip, cigarettes and crushes, the exhausted switchboard operator came off shift, and wandered up to the counter to order a mug of tea.

Spying her pal, she went over and said aloud, ‘Well, my my, if it isn’t the dark-haired girl with the dark, dark secrets.’

Bertha pulled a face and looked at her through a quizzical expression.

‘Come on,’ said the switcher girl, ‘you can tell us. Is it true your fiancé, no less, yes, girls, did you hear that? Her fiancé has been captured by the krauts, and is now a POW?’

‘Did you listen to my call?’

‘No, I did not, but I heard the reason for it. Your POW fiancé, that was the words your mother used, and the sole reason for the call. So come on, spill the beans, Williams. How long have you been engaged, and how long has this been going on? We want to know all the gossip, don’t we girls?’

The others crowded round with jolly faces, to nod and egg Bertha on to tell them more.

Bertha swigged tepid cocoa, pondering on her words, before saying, ‘He’s not exactly my fiancé, but he is something special.’

‘Really? And does the gorgeous Mr Boland know about this?’

‘No, and I don’t want you to tell him!’

‘My lips are sealed, if that’s what you want,’ but everyone else heard, and it was only a matter of time before it echoed back to Harry B’s cute ears, especially if another was sweet on him, and that was odds on.

Just before lights out, Bertha wrote Leo another letter.

My mother has just told me five letters arrived from overseas. I am not certain they are from you, but I assume they are. I can’t read them yet because I am away in the WAAFS. Yes, really, I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow. Time is short. I am down in Bridgnorth in Shropshire, but enough about me. I hope you are keeping well and are getting enough to eat. I will try to scrimp any buckshee rations and send them off. I’ve missed letters from you, Mr Moorland. I thought you no longer wished to hear from me, so I am quite excited. You are not wounded, are you? I hope not. No vital pieces missing, I trust. That would be a disaster, tee hee! I’ll write again tomorrow, (and then she remembered her daffy mother hadn’t given her the address, and it would be at least two days before it arrived in Bridgnorth. No matter, it would give her plenty of time to write more.)

Write again soon, Leo. I look forward to reading your letters and hearing all your news.

Lots of love,

Bertha, WAAF Number 683652!

xx

She remembered to mark it with untidy, tiny slashes at the foot, and wondered if he looked out for such things.

Bertha pondered on where he was, and what he was doing, and how it had happened, being taken prisoner. She guessed he was a competitive guy, and imagined it must have been pretty awful to be captured, wounded pride and maybe his body, which increased the thinking he might have been injured, shot, or shell damaged, and that could be horrendous, and before she fell down into the darkest, deepest of sleeps, she pictured him with horrific injuries, the poor boy disfigured, needing round-the-clock care. How wicked the young mind could be, and how evil was this terrible war, an unparalleled event, destroying happiness wherever it went.

At the last dance, one oik, holding her too tight and too close; said he was convinced the war would continue for at least ten years and added he was not confident we would win. What an appalling thought. What would the world look like if Germany won? Them being here, goose-stepping, ruling the roost? Ordering everyone about, harassing the girls, and in such circumstances, would Leo ever return?

Bertha ordered the grubby dancer not to be so defeatist, and slithered away from his greasy arms, but what if he was right? Ten years would take everyone into the nineteen-fifties, with no sign of Leo, and everyone being ten years older, and ten years more worn out, with ten long years wasted, unless she did something about it, and she could.

Leo was not the only yacht on the pond.

Loads to think about, and not all of it fine and dandy. She would wait for the letters and see what he said, because there was nothing else she could do. How she hoped in there somewhere would be an ounce of hope, goodness, and optimism.

Hope and optimism, commodities in short supply. You couldn’t buy them with all the money in the world, and it was up to positive people like her to provide it. That would be nice. She would try her best. A smile and a comforting word, plus an additional kiss at the foot of all future letters.

She wondered if he would notice, but remembered he was a man, so probably not.

Chapter fifty-seven

DC Darren Gibbons drove Meryl Evans back to her flat. On the trip back from Holywell, hiccups set in.

‘Sorry,’ she said, grinning, close to a full-on giggle, before another hiccup echoed through the car.

Back at Shotton, he paused outside her council flat. Nearby, ten cars of varying vintage and condition were lined up and sleeping.

‘Are you coming in?’ she said. Hic, hic, hiccup, grinning across the cabin, and jeez, he looked lush.

He had thought he might, but the hiccups, inane laughter, and limited conversation swayed him against the idea. Not to mention he would be breaking rules if he slept with a witness in a murder case.

‘Thanks, Meryl. I’ve enjoyed the evening but I have to be up early,’ and he nodded and left it at that without even a goodnight kiss.

She looked crestfallen, and said, ‘Give me a ring sometime, Darren. I’d love to go out again.’

He beckoned her away with a nod, a grin, and no words, and she ambled home to a lonely flat, her footsteps slow and sad, pondering on what might have been.

The following morning, an overdue update meet on the Pamela Grayson murder inquiry began early. The same suspects in the frame, photos in pride of place atop the murder board. Gavin Chalgrove, Penrod Spennithorne, and the mysterious Nazareth, and it was Naz they spoke about first.

DCI Alex Foggon opened with, ‘Have we identified this man?’

‘Not yet,’ said Karen, ‘nor do we know what he does for a living or where he lives.’

Darren jumped in. ‘He’s a travelling salesman.’

‘Eh?’ said Karen. ‘In what line of business?’

‘No idea.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Foggon.

‘I went to see Meryl Evans last night. She told me he was in sales, but she had nothing else to add.’

Mrs West said, ‘Why did you go and see her, Gibbons?’

‘I thought she might have more to tell, but I was wrong.’

Karen said, ‘Nice of you to mention it.’

‘I was just about to, sarge.’

‘Was that the only reason you went?’ asked Karen.

‘Course it was, sarge. Give me some credit.’

Mrs West fixed him with her steely eyes and said, ‘You are not getting involved with that girl, are you, Gibbons?’

‘I am not, ma’am, no.’

‘I hope not. It is interesting Nazareth is a travelling salesman, but I don’t see it takes us any further. Did Connie Kirkham have anything new to add?’

Karen shook her head and said, ‘Nothing fresh, ma’am.’

Mrs West was not about to let it go. ‘What is the motive for this murder?’

Foggon said, ‘Other than jealous partners, we don’t have one.’

‘But what if it’s nothing to do with former partners?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know! But I know we need to look elsewhere.’ She glanced round the team to see if everyone was paying attention until her gaze settled on Martin Kane. ‘Martin! Can you spare some time?’

‘Sure, ma’am.’

‘Get on that thought right away. Deep dive into Pamela Grayson’s past. Maybe there is something hiding there we are unaware of. Could someone from her past possess a motive to kill her?’

‘I’ll start now.’

She grunted a yes, nodded, and addressed them all.

‘Anyone got anything new? Come on team, we need a break.’

Everyone looked at everyone else and shook their heads.

‘It isn’t good enough,’ said Mrs West. ‘We are missing something, no doubt staring us in the face. Go back to the beginning and double-check every fact and figure, and pin down a motive.’

No one wanted that, but it seemed the only open avenue.

Foggon picked up the gauntlet, saying, ‘We double down on travelling salesmen.’

‘How?’ said Gibbons. ‘Where do we start?’

‘Easy,’ said Foggon. ‘Make a list of two hundred companies we think run a team of travellers, say within fifty miles, and we ring their HR departments and ask if they have anyone on the road by the name of Nazareth. First name or second, could be either, and when we strike gold, we remind them this is a confidential inquiry, and they are not to tell their Nazareth of our interest.’

It sounded simple, and a hell of a lot of work, but no one had anything better, as Darren thought about getting the best team onboard to begin. Before he could share his thoughts, DCI Foggon spoke again.

‘And if that doesn’t produce a break, look at the next two hundred businesses.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mrs West, eager to see some action. ‘Get on it right away!’

Foggon and Karen got together and began roping in as many bodies as possible to allocate tasks.

Only after they had finished discussing the murder inquiry did someone mention Walter, Jenny asking if there was any news from the Far East.

‘Nothing fresh,’ said Mrs West, ‘I am assured the embassy and the government are doing everything possible. As soon as I hear anything, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, we keep everything crossed.’

No one added a word.

Mrs West clapped her hands and chivvied them into action, before turning away towards her office, intent on ringing the contacts she had made in the Foreign Office, seeking news, and praying it would be good.

Chapter fifty-eight

In the Chinese Ministry of State Security briefing base set on the outskirts of Beijing, Mr Fang took Walter to a square room maybe fifteen feet by fifteen.

Like military establishments the world over, it was utilitarian. The military did not approve of expensive frippery. Any spare cash went on firepower. They sat round a plain blue metal framed table, waiting for another man to join them.

Five minutes later, and a tall thin guy entered, carrying a black briefcase. He looked at Fang and Walter as the two men got to their feet. Fang introduced them, Walter Darriteau, a police officer from England, and Colonel Chen, a man Fang was clearly subservient to.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ said Chen in perfect English, sitting down and pointing to the chairs.

A moment later, they were all seated, waiting for Chen to begin.

He looked at Walter and said, ‘I believe you have decided to join us?’

It wasn’t how Walter would have phrased it, but he would not make an issue over terminology. Chen waited for the foreigner to speak. Walter thought he’d better say something and said, ‘I am interested in hearing what you have to say.’

It was what Chen wanted to hear, and he nodded and opened the briefcase to produce a two-page contract of employment.

‘This is the agreement we have drawn up. It is non-negotiable. You either sign or you don’t. I am sure Fang has briefed you on what will happen if you refuse.’

‘He has.’

‘Good. Here it is. It’s in English, read it, and sign it,’ and he slid the contract across the table.

Walter tugged it in. One fancy red and black letter-heading: The MINISTRY of STATE SECURITY, with a new fangled MSS logo in the top right corner.

Employee: Mr Walter Surprise Darriteau, with his correct place and date of birth. They had sure done their homework. Walter’s postal address, also perfect down to the postcode, home phone number, and mobile, followed by his email address.

As Walter read, Chen and Fang stood up and went to the window. Fang opened it, took out a pack of American cigarettes, and offered one to Chen.

He accepted and in the next second they were puffing away, blowing surplus smoke out the window, eyeing a troop of scantily clad women recruits, doing their exercises. Chen and Fang spoke in hushed tones, Walter keeping one eye on them while reading, guessing they were discussing the prettiest girl mixed in with would the British officer sign?

Walter’s bank details were spot on, sort code and account number correct. Where did they get this stuff? He thought back and couldn’t think of anywhere other than outright hacking.

Remuneration: £2,000.00 per month, payable on the first of the month. The money would come from a company called Broadland Consulting PLC, and they would leave it to Walter to explain away the deposits to the taxman in any way he thought appropriate.

Two thousand quid a month to betray one’s country. A piffling amount. He’d refuse it, though he knew he was in no position to haggle over numbers.

Work Schedule: The required workload would be light and varied. Weeks, months, or even years might pass without being contacted. However, when called on, he must fulfil any delegated duties quickly and efficiently. Failure to complete any task would result in the contract being declared void, and he would be in default, knowing the consequences it would bring.

Contact: His only contact with the MSS would be via a single agent until he was informed otherwise. The agent’s name, Chelsea Wang. She would contact him by email. Her email address: ChelseaWang98@gotmail.com. Make sure your devices know this is not a spam address. You must check your messages at least twice a day. If you are contacted, you must reply without delay. Feeble excuses, not acceptable.

Chen finished his cigarette and tossed the fag-end out the window, shouting an endearment at a passing girl. She ran off without a reply. Fang uttered a comment sounding to Walter like: stupid girl, or stuck-up bitch. Fang smoked his cigarette down to the filter tip before tossing his after Chen’s.

They chatted in whispers, sounding to Walter like enquiries after family members, or maybe how successful he had been with a new mistress, serving on the force beneath him, in more ways than one; useless chatter, followed by silly grins and understated laughter.

Two paragraphs followed, reinforcing the concept of total security and secrecy, a bond never to be broken. By signing the contract, he was guaranteeing he would keep all knowledge of the arrangement secret forever. Walter reached the end of the document.

There were boxes there for him and Colonel Chen to sign, with another box for Fang to witness, the form resembling a tax return.

Chen closed the window, and the men returned to the table.

Chen said, ‘You haven’t signed.’

Walter forced a grin and said, ‘Neither have you.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have one or two questions. Nothing to be changed, just some advice from your side.’

‘Go on,’ said Chen. ‘Make it quick. I have a busy day.’

‘This Chelsea Wang. Do I get to meet her?’

‘It’s possible. That is for her to decide. If she asks you to meet, you go without delay. That clear?’

‘How will I recognise her?’

He dived back in the case, brought out two A5 colour photographs, and slipped them across the table.

Walter picked up and studied the pictures. Such a beauty. Chinese, maybe twenty-five, dressed in western garb, a minxy look on her face.

‘Pretty,’ said Walter.

‘Yes, she is. A big upgrade on the Moo woman.’

Walter didn’t comment.

Fang said, ‘She’s not for you. Keep your hands off. She’s your boss.’

Chen produced a quality ball-pen and slipped it across the table.

‘It’s time. Sign, or…’

Walter exhaled and thought about it. It seemed surreal. They were asking him to sign an agreement as if it were a lease on a flat or a car, when it was a lease on his life. But what was the alternative? He believed they would carry out the threat. If he signed and they let him leave for Britain, he would have the chance at life, and an opportunity to seek a way out. What else could he do?

He sighed and said, ‘I don’t need or want the money. Please keep it. Give it to a children’s charity.’

Chen looked across the desk through stony dark eyes.

‘The money is part of the contract. You cannot refuse. If you do, the contract is void.’

Walter understood why. It gave them more proof he was their man. The more payments oozing into his bank account, the harder it would be to protest innocence.

Chen spoke again. ‘Just so as you know, a press conference will be held as you arrive back in HK. They will say after further investigations, you were found not guilty of any charge. It had all been an error caused by an over-imaginative local officer. The man has since been disciplined. You will stick to that line. Do not mention anything about the death penalty, or being here. Not ever. That clear?’

Walter nodded and grunted a yes.

Fang looked at him, tapped Walter’s forearm, and said, ‘It’s time.’

Walter sighed and picked up the pen. What would Sir Thomas More have said and done? Walter knew the answer. He would have passed the pen back to Chen saying: this is yours, I believe. Walter wished to keep his head.

More’s, after removal, was parboiled, stuck on a stake, and set on the city gates.

Not for the first time, Walter realised he didn’t possess Sir Thomas’s courage or beliefs. He shivered, picked up the pen, and signed, saying, ‘Is this my copy?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Chen. ‘It stays in Beijing, locked in the vault.’

‘And the photos?’

Walter saw Chen and Fang swap a look before Chen said, ‘You keep them. Look after them, and look after her.’

The meeting was over. His original clothes, pressed and cleaned, were returned in a smart case, along with his watch, refreshed wallet, and passport.

Chen said, ‘You have a seat booked on the four o’clock shuttle back to Hong Kong. Come on, there’s no time to lose.’

Fang escorted him to the airport to see him on the plane. During the three hour forty minute flight, Walter pondered on what he had done. Some might say he had committed treason. Others would say he did the only thing possible. The big question would arise when and if they asked him to act. He pondered on what that might be. Almost certainly a low-risk task to begin with to see how he performed. Perhaps about police staffing numbers and weaponry available, though he couldn’t imagine how such information could be useful.

No, it would be the second task that would be the tester, but what? Walter considered everything and came up with the European Airbuses, wings built on the outskirts of Chester. That was his best guess. They might want confidential information. They had been trying to break into the worldwide civilian airliner business for years. Come to think of it, were they not sitting on their new Comac C19?

He glanced round. It looked and smelt new, like having a new car, and it was decent, so long as it didn’t fall out of the sky. It never had, so far, and he hoped the record continued. Amazing where the stressed brain travelled. Beside him sat another well-dressed young Chinese woman, looking a little like Chelsea Wang. For a moment he thought it was her, but she kept herself to herself, busy reading an American romcom paperback.

Three hours later, he was in Hong Kong, scrambling for a taxi to take him to the Great Eastern. It was warm and humid, just as he liked it, as the taxi zoomed to the hotel. He wondered if Marina Moo would still be there. Walter hoped so. He wanted a word with her.

Chapter fifty-nine

Mrs Williams posted Leo ’s letters at ten the next morning. Bertha received them at nine the following day on her way to a boring lesson on oiling war plane engines.

Afterwards, she hurried to a cubicle in the toilets, sat down, and opened them. He was a nice writer with a pleasant way about his words. Reading between the lines, he was trying to be braver than he was, but he wasn’t alone.

The letters were written before he was taken prisoner, and still contained his youthful spirit of optimism and adventure. Stories of crossing the equator sounded so exciting, and the other fellows, some wonderful blokes, others objectionable idiots, but wasn’t that the way of things? Get twenty men in a room and some you’d want to know, and others you’d ignore.

‘The food here is okay, and I hope you are all getting enough to eat. I do hope you’ll write,’ he said. ‘I’d give a million pounds to hear from you. And there’s something I want to ask. All the blokes, or at least the ones with wives and girlfriends, not both at the same time, obviously, all of them have photos of their lady back in Blighty, and all I’ve got is pictures of mum and my sister, lovely though they are, it’s not the same. If you write again, will you send me a photo of yourself, Bertha? I’ll look after it, I promise, keep it close, so I can show my photos when the others are flashing theirs. I feel left out, and I don’t want to be left out of anything.’

Funny he should mention that. When she went for her initial WAAF interview, she knew she would need a photograph, and the only ones she had were tiny from mum’s titchy Kodak.

On hearing about it, mum slipped her a pound note. Heaven knows where she got it or how she could spare it, and Bertha said she couldn’t accept anything from the house-keeping money, but mum insisted, saying she should go to Blair & Sons in Hamilton Square, Birkenhead. Years before, they had produced mum and dad’s wedding pictures, and Blair was decent, and charged fair prices.

On her next day off from the tea bar caper, Bertha jumped on the nine o’clock blue double-decker number 10 bus for the town. It seemed to go all round the world, but eventually dropped her outside Hamilton Square underground station. From there, a short walk past the impressive blackened Town Hall.

Hanging on black-painted railings, a square polished brass sign directed her to Blair & Sons’ basement studio. She skipped down the steps, pushed the door, and went in. A bell above her head announced her arrival.

A smell of chemicals and stationery assailed her nose as she looked round. Three old desks pushed together, with a young woman sitting at one, copying figures into a chunky green ledger. An older woman there, too, standing, middle-aged, a sour look on her face, wearing an old beige coat. She stared at Bertha, though didn’t speak.

The young one looked at the stranger and said, ‘Need photos?’

Bertha nodded.

‘Wedding or Forces?’

‘Forces.’

‘Lucky you. Which one?’

‘WAAFS.’

‘How I envy you.’

‘Why don’t you join-up?’

She pursed her lips, shook her head, and said, ‘Dad won’t let me.’

The older woman said, ‘I must be off,’ and made her way to the door and disappeared.

Bertha said, ‘Your mum?’

‘Oh no. That’s Mrs McGonagle. Between you and me and the gatepost, she’s a little cranky.’

‘In what way?’

The young woman sighed and said, ‘It’s a bit of a story.’

Bertha loved stories and said, ‘I’m in no rush.’

‘I feel so sorry for her. She has or had two men in her life. Her husband, George, and her son, Philip. George was killed at Dunkirk, and Phil lost his life when HMS Hood blew up. In the space of a few weeks, her family vanished, and she’s never been the same since.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Yes, well, she doted on young Philip. He was only eighteen. Now she goes round dishing out white feathers by the bucket load. Heaven knows where she gets them.’

‘What? You mean to people who won’t serve?’

‘Yes, anyone she thinks might be a coward, shirker, or not doing their bit. She often gets it wrong, giving them to essential shipyard workers, off-duty constables, that kind of thing. She’d have given one to you until she heard you were signing up.’

‘Dear oh dear. What is the world coming to?’

‘I think she has gone in the head, but never mind her. Let’s get you sorted.’

A door on the far side of the room opened and a skinny man entered the room. Pound to a penny, Mr Blair, judging by their similarity.

Before Bertha could speak, the girl looked at her father and said, ‘This young lady needs photos before joining-up,’ emphasising the joining-up words. ‘WAAFS, it is,’ adding lucky her under her breath.

Mr Blair noted she was a fetching young woman and said the same thing he always did. ‘We are very busy at the moment, but maybe I could fit you in. When do you need them by?’

‘As soon as possible,’ the same answer every time.

She might be fun to work with. ‘Take off your raincoat and leave it with Jennifer.’

Bertha did, as both father and daughter examined the stranger again, pretty, and in her prime.

‘Single photo or a collection of ten?’

Bertha hadn’t thought of that. All she wanted was a suitable photo for the WAAFERS.

Mr Blair sensed the hesitation was down to price, for many of them struggled to spare the pennies. He pushed matters forward by saying, ‘Five shillings for a single shot, black and white, of course, two prints, one large, one small, or a portfolio of ten different pics I could do for…’ and he paused as if calculating figures when he knew them by heart, ‘eighteen shillings and sixpence.’

Bertha hadn’t considered ordering a collection, but the banknote was burning a hole in her little black purse. At least if there were ten, she could select the best one. With only one, if she did not like it, she was stuck.

‘The portfolio. I’d like the portfolio.’

‘Good for you! Pay Jennifer, she will give you a receipt, leave your raincoat with her, and come on through. Oh, just one thing, no refunds afterwards. You pay your money and you get your photographs.’

There had been an outbreak of people coming back, demanding refunds, complaining the photos were not up to scratch when they were. Too many people wanted something for nothing and he put it down to the war. Scrambled their brains, he reckoned, when a shortage of cash was more likely.

‘I understand,’ bringing out her purse and producing the precious pound.

‘Good. Come in when you are ready,’ and he disappeared through the same door.

Bertha looked at Jennifer and said, ‘Does he do nice photos?’

‘I think so. You’ll see soon enough,’ hiding the pound in a black cashbox, pushing the one and six change across the desk with a still wet written receipt.

The one and a tanner change went back in the purse, as Jennifer nodded to the door and said, ‘Off you go. He won’t bite.’

Bertha opened the door, went in, closed the door behind her, and found herself in a narrow corridor running right to left, two doors facing, the same chemical smell stronger there. Both doors were open as Mr Blair called from the left room, ‘I’m in here. Come through.’

She went inside to see a leather chair similar to the ones in the hairdressers or dentists, black and chrome, capable of spinning round and rising or falling. On the right wall, from floor to ceiling, three huge side by side black and white understated photographs stared out. The left one, a seascape with tiny Hilbre island in the distance, a calm day, the sea full but flat. The centre, a rural rocky landscape with Thor’s Rock at Thurstaston Hill, while the right image featured palm trees resembling something from the South Sea Islands.

Up against the left outside wall in front of the tall window was a long bench, overloaded with equipment. Several large lamps and lights filled the room, with three tripods, topped with expensive looking cameras. He sure had all the gear.

‘Standing or sitting?’

‘I hadn’t thought.’

‘I know, seeing as you have opted for the collection, a wise choice, why not have five of each?’

‘Whatever you think best.’

He beckoned her to the seat, and she sat down. He raised and turned it a tad and looked into her face.

‘You are an attractive young woman, if I may say, but the hair…’ and he left the thought echoing through the room.

‘What is wrong with my hair?’

‘Oh, nothing, my dear. Don’t get me wrong. It’s an impressive collection,’ a weird phrase thought Bertha, as Mr Blair spoke again. ‘It does somewhat overshadow your face, overbearing, cloaking your beauty, when your phizog should be the centre of attention.’

The confused expression on her face encouraged an explanation.

‘Look, on the sitting shots, why don’t we take three with your hair down, and two with your hair up?’

‘Alright, whatever you think best.’

He nodded and smiled, and went to the top drawer in the bench to grab a large pink comb with matching soft brush, items Bertha imagined he had borrowed or whizzed from Jennifer. He went behind her, saying, ‘Is it okay if I brush and comb your locks?’

She hadn’t expected that, and she’d be lying if she didn’t think it weird, but said, ‘Alright, go ahead.’

Mr Blair set about sweeping her hair back off her delicate ears and milky white face, combing and brushing. He was gentle, touching and shaping with his palm, taking his time, saying little while working.

Bertha could never remember a man combing or brushing her hair before. Once finished, he gave her the hand mirror. She glanced at her image. It took her breath away. She had combed her hair that way before, but only mucking about in her bedroom, never feeling confident or comfortable going out like it. But the way he styled it was so different, sensational, as the lurid Sunday papers might say.

‘You approve?’

‘I do. I love it.’

‘Excellent. You look like a Russian Countess, or maybe Aphrodite herself.’

Bertha didn’t know who Aphrodite was, perhaps a silent movie star, but it sounded exciting.

‘Let’s take two as you are, and three with your hair down.’

‘No, three like this; and two down.’

He smiled again and said, ‘As you wish. It is your portfolio. Let’s begin.’

He started snapping, encouraging her to relax, some in the chair and others before the wall murals, with her hair up. Then brushed her locks as it was before, tumbling down over her shoulders. It was fun because he made her feel special, taking a full hour to finish.

‘When will they be ready?’

‘I could do them for 4pm today. Would that suit?’

‘That would be wonderful, I’ll come back,’ and a moment later she was out, exchanging smiles with Jennifer, before leaving, dancing up the steps to look for a suitable blue bus to take her home.

She returned at five to four, excited to see the photos.

Mr Blair wasn’t there. Gone to Saint Catherine’s hospital to photograph a batch of war-wounded for the Birkenhead News who had arrived at the weekend.

Jennifer said, ‘Are you excited?’

‘I am. Tingling!’

‘They’re great. You won’t be disappointed,’ and Jennifer pulled a desk drawer open, took out a large unsealed manila envelope, and handed it across.

Bertha opened it and slid out a medium-sized maroon album.

Worrying if she had enough money, she said, ‘Any charge for the book?’

‘No, all included.’

It had a lovely feel to it, Blair & Sons gold logo in the bottom right corner, making it look special. She leafed through the pages and the photos to find them everything she hoped for.

‘Superb,’ she said, tucking the album under her arm. ‘Thanks for everything.’

Jennifer smiled and said, ‘Good luck with the WAAFS, and look out for white-feather McGonagle.’

‘Oh, gosh, I’d forgotten about her.’     

At the WAAFS interview, they kept two photographs. Her dad received another, and of the remaining seven, she chose her favourite smaller one with her hair up for Leo. It went in her next letter, and she hoped he would like it. He’d be mad not to.

Chapter sixty

In the Great Eastern Hotel, Walter strolled to reception and caught the eye of a smart young man, keen to help.

‘Is Marina Moo still staying here?’

‘She is, in fact, I think I saw her going to dinner.’

‘Which restaurant?’

‘The Golden Peacock, sir,’ pointing the way.

‘Could I ask you to look after this for five minutes?’ pointing to his case.

‘Of course,’ and the young man came round and took it behind the counter for safe-keeping.

Walter thanked him and set off for the Peacock.

He went in and stared round. Marina was sitting by the window, views paramount from there across the harbour. She ignored the vista and stared across the table at a stranger. Who was he? Walter closed on them, though she still didn’t see him until he stood beside the table.

‘Walter! Where have you been? Are you alright? Have you been in China? Have you seen Jun Woo?’

‘Whoa-wo, one question at a time, and perhaps introductions are needed?’

She bobbed her head and smiled across at her companion and said, ‘This is Max Chow. Old friend of mine. We’ve known each other since kids. Childhood sweethearts, you might say.’

Max stood up, offering his hand.

Walter took it and shook it, saying, ‘Any friend of Marina is a friend of mine.’

Max sat down as Walter switched his attention to Marina.

‘I could do with some shut-eye. Been a tiring few days. Is it okay if I…’ and he beckoned to the ceiling.

For a moment, Marina was stumped for words as she looked at Max and said, ‘Oh, I, err…’

Walter got the message. ‘Not a problem. I’ll see if they have a spare single. I am looking for a flight home as soon as poss.’

Marina nodded and paused before saying, ‘I’m going to stay on a few days.’

‘Yes, fine,’ said Walter. ‘Nice to have met you,’ and he nodded at Max, and hustled away towards reception.

The same guy was waiting for him. ‘Everything okay, Mr Darriteau? We have been worried about you.’

‘Yes, I think so. I could do with a single room for one or maybe two nights.’

The chap studied his computer, came up with a price with not too much of a sting, and Walter paid the bill in cash.

Fifteen minutes later, he was washed and in bed, pulling over the curtains as daylight dwindled away to nothing.

Despite the nervous energy spent in China, and a lack of sleep, he found slumber hard to find. What was going on downstairs? How had Marina Moo and Max Chow hooked up, and where was that leading? Judging by her eyes, she was smitten, while Chow’s took on an excited glint. Was it possible to hate someone you had known for fifty seconds?

Walter’s heart raced, and he knew it was bad for him, but calming down and forgetting things was difficult. It was midnight before he found sleep, cursing his luck, and the day, and the damned MSS.

The phone on the bedside table rang at eight in the morning. He hadn’t ordered a wake-up call and wondered who it was.

Super efficient reception, female this time, said, ‘We have a call for you, Mr Darriteau, from the UK.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ said Walter, squinting at the phone, trying to wake his brain.

‘Walter! Is that you? You are a hard man to pin down.’

Jeez! Mrs West’s piercing voice burrowed into his ear.

‘Yes, ma’am, it is I. What time is it there? Must be around eleven last night.’

‘Bugger the time! How are you? We have been so worried. What’s been going on?’

‘About what?’

‘We heard you had been sentenced to death!’

Walter sat up and managed a convincing scoff, before saying, ‘All a misunderstanding. Cleared up now.’

‘Thank the Lord. So long as you are alright. When are you coming home?’

‘I’m trying to get a flight tomorrow; or today, as it is now.’

‘And how is the Moo woman?’

‘On cloud nine, by the look of her.’

Mrs West laughed and said, ‘You haven’t proposed, have you?’

‘Certainly not! Though looking at her face, someone might have done.’

‘Who?’

‘Childhood sweetheart showed up.’

‘Oh! Awkward. Never mind. You knew she was a crazy woman.’

Walter tried to change the subject.

‘How did you know I was free?’

‘It’s all over the news and TV. A press conference in Beijing, it’s everywhere, blamed it on an over zealous Hong Kong officer. You are famous, man.’

‘I have no wish to be famous. I hate it. How’s work? Keeping busy?’

She sighed, the exhalation coming through loud and clear from the other side of the planet, as she said, ‘We have a murder inquiry that gets more complicated by the week and we can’t nail it. I’ll tell you about it when you are back, though I suppose after your nightmare trip, you will need a holiday to get over it.’

‘No, on the contrary. I can’t wait to get back in harness.’

‘Oh good. I am glad to hear it. I’ll leave you to your day. So pleased you are well. Looking forward to seeing you, Walter, we all are.’

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘Yes, quite,’ and she cut off.

A good murder inquiry? That sounded like the price of the hotel and travel worth the money on its own. Who killed who, and why? How did they do it? Not lethal injection, that would be too much of a coincidence. Holidays and trips abroad were great, but they couldn’t hold a candle to your own home, your own bed, and a juicy murder.

Hunger pains hit hard. He rolled out of bed heading for the shower, picturing his plate overflowing with a Full Hong Kong. They did a great breakfast, and the territory had always been famous for copying western products. Recreating a Full English breakfast was nothing.

Half an hour later, he bought a local English language newspaper at reception and hustled into the restaurant. Before opening the paper, two youngsters came across to his table, armed with a pen and autograph book.

‘May we have your autograph please?’ said the sweet girl, braver and more forward than her younger brother looking on, his forehead creasing beneath his immaculate parted short hair.

‘Who do you think I am?’

The boy jumped on that.

‘You’re Mr Dratto… the famous spy!’

Walter couldn’t keep a grin from his face, as he took the pen and book and wrote: Even spies need their breakfast. Enjoy your day, followed by a long swirly signature, as he returned the pen and book. They took it, looked at it, thanked him, and beetled away, as Walter shook the newspaper hard to stare at the front page.

He was looking back. Heaven knows where they found the picture. The headline blared: BRITISH POLICE OFFICER DODGES DEATH PENALTY. BEIJING BLAMES HONG KONG OFFICERS. Further down the page amongst the small print, a Hong Kong Council spokesman reported an apology was due.

‘I should think so,’ said Walter, pouring his tea.

Only when he read more did he realise the muted apology was not for him, but for Beijing, for embarrassing them.

‘You couldn’t make it up,’ said Walter to no one, as his sizzling breakfast arrived, and damned good it looked and smelt.

Chapter sixty-one

Walter’sluck was in. He found a single seat on an overnight non-stop flight back to Manchester and wasn’t sorry to leave the territory behind. Touchdown in the UK: 8.32 am.

It dropped him on the Lancashire Cheshire border, nine miles from the centre of the city. It took him an hour to disembark, locate his wheeled bag, and clear customs. As he waited, he remembered the photos inside of Chelsea Wang. He didn’t want to get any more involved in that nonsense, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

Walter strolled through customs, trying, like everyone else, to look innocent. No smuggler here, your honour, as beady-eyed officers looked on, examining everyone, seeking to pull out nervous individuals who might carry contraband.

He had a bad record passing through customs. Maybe they thought his added bulky figure, he preferred stocky, might set off confused thinking. Perhaps they imagined he possessed more places to conceal contraband. Or maybe it was his skin colour.

He possessed Jamaican heritage and was proud of it, and Customs knew plenty of drugs arrived from Jamaica, a regular run, though none via Hong Kong. Most times when stopped, flashing police ID did the trick, and he was sent on his way, though not always. Had serving officers ever been caught drug smuggling through a major airport? A good question.

Either way, the watchers thought him good, intercepting a sweaty white guy in front of him to have his luggage opened, as Walter sauntered by, looking forward to getting home, and a long sleep in his own bed.

Free, free at last, as he cleared customs and thought ahead to jumping the shuttle bus to Piccadilly station to board a stopping train to Chester, though his optimism was short-lived.

Two be-suited gents stopped him, flashing discreet ID hidden within palms, asking him, cajoling, ordering him to take a ride with them into the city. It wasn’t all bad. It was where he wanted to go. A tall, broad fellow, the younger of the two, looked like he could handle himself, definite muscle guy, possibly armed, while the older man wore a checked tweed suit with matching flat cap.

Once in the Audi, the older tweedy guy drove, with Walter and the minder in the back. Conversation minimal, as Walter asked a couple of dull questions, the driver answered. ‘We’ll go over everything when we arrive.’

They pulled up at the Manchester MediaCity complex, a modern development filling up fast, hustled inside, jumped in a vacant lift, and sped to the sixteenth floor. A moment later they faced a pair of double doors, frosted glass, a gold sign above saying Curtis, Harrison, & Hawkes – Business Consultants.

A four digit key number required. The bigger man pumping in the code, the smaller guy pushing open the door, and they trooped inside.

Ahead, a straight reception desk with a young man and young woman gawping at big screens. They nodded a greeting at the new arrivals, as the man in the hat said, ‘Follow me,’ and they swept through a large open plan office with fifteen or twenty smart young things on phones, or hypnotised by screens.

At the far side, floor-to-ceiling windows let in heaps of light. They went through a door on the left into an enormous private office, eighteen feet by eighteen, where they sat down. A minute later, another young bloke tapped on the door and entered bearing a large glass coffee pot, steaming and good to go, three mugs, biscuits absent. Maybe another cost audit underway.

The young big guy plonked himself behind the enormous desk, with check-hat sitting to one side close to Walter, as everyone settled in. The younger one said, ‘Welcome home, Inspector Darriteau. A close-run thing for a second. You need to tell us what went on? In your own time. This meeting is being recorded.’

Walter knew and understood there would be some kind of debrief session, though he hoped it wouldn’t have come so soon.

‘Well,’ said Walter, setting his thoughts in order. ‘A lot has happened since I left.’

‘Course it has, old man,’ said the cap chap. ‘You take your time. We have all day. Start at the beginning. Run us through everything you have seen and heard and said, and we’ll take it from there.’

The younger man behind the desk sat back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head, and kicked his shiny black Northampton made Loakes shoes onto the desk, confirming he was the senior bloke, crossing his feet at the ankles, displaying golden socks. Walter took a breath and began his crazy tale.

Chapter sixty-two

Leo Moorland was always thrilled to receive a letter from Bertha Williams. The latest batch arrived in freezing Silesia in the depth of winter.

Labouring underground round the clock in a salt mine was like working in a freezer. Men went to work knowing the harder they toiled, the warmer they would be, but afterwards, they cooled down fast, and the feeble clothing and minimal heat in the dorm barely kept them alive. Men were falling ill, praying for spring.

He lay on his bunk and opened his letters. He couldn’t express how much they meant to him, how they brightened his life, and his spirits. Leo monitored the scratches she wrote at the foot of her letters and did the same thing back. Occasionally, those precious marks would be blanked out by a suspicious censor, convinced it was some kind of wartime code. It was code, but not in the way they imagined.

Weeks and months between correspondence created difficulties. A letter posted in Cheshire, headed for London, where it might be intercepted, opened, and censored, because it was heading for Switzerland and enemy territory beyond. It could take months, letters going either way, and it was difficult to maintain continuity when one was reading and talking about events occurring months before.

Once in Switzerland, mail would cross the border into Germany, to be pounced on, opened again, read and re-read, seeking morsels of intel the Abwehr might use, the missives pored over, before being forwarded to the recipient. It wasn’t unusual for letters to arrive with squares cut out, though who cut them went unknown.

He opened the latest letter, hoping for good news. Before unfolding three sheets of tissue-thin paper, a black-and-white photograph fell into his hand. At last, an amazing photo, something he could kiss goodnight, a picture to show his friends and comrades, an image he could fantasise over, and fall in love with.

Until he saw the desecration.

In Leo’s confined world, the human body needed six things to survive. Food, drink, warmth, fortitude, hope, and love, love being top dog, none of which he possessed in abundance. Like everyone else, he survived on scraps. He glanced at the photograph again.

Bertha, his Bertha, looking from right to left, her hair up and it sure suited her. He had never seen her like that. Leo imagined she looked like a ballet dancer or a Greek goddess, her lips not too thin and not too full, just as he remembered from the brief minutes he had shared in her company.

Kissable lips, perfect bright teeth, and they were a rarity; and unbelievable eyes that captivated him, and yet, where were the eyes? Mutilated, obliterated to the point of being unseen. Sacrilege! How could anyone do that? Who had perpetrated the sin, and where had the scuffing been done?

He glanced at the skinny envelope. It had been opened and sealed and opened again at least twice, and maybe more. There were so many hand stamps it was impossible to tell who the culprit was.

The GPO in London, the all powerful General Post Office, no doubt looking for vital military secrets being exported, when there was no such thing. Could an over-zealous operative have considered it essential to desecrate her face to that degree, and if so, why?

More markings in Geneva, Switzerland, in German. Who was to say they hadn’t gawped inside? Could they resist? Seeking heaven knows what, though POWs were assured the Swiss had no interest in content, or the time and resources to monitor it. They weren’t at war. In the modern age, they never were. They possessed all the time in the world, knowing they could work in peace, with never a bomb whistling down through their cool, clear skies onto their unprotected heads.

After that, by German security, to hell with the Geneva Convention, ransacking mail, seeking secrets, building pictures of senders, recording details of regular recipients, convincing themselves they were onto a phantom spy network.

Could a jealous German censor have seen Bertha’s beautiful face and eyes and thought it necessary to violate them, annihilating them, rendering the face unrecognisable, damaged and ugly? Why would anyone do that? What was the point? Gouging eyes from the image was the worst thing they could have done, as if those beautiful eyes carried hidden meanings. Leo struggled to explain it. It upset him, and it wasn’t a photo he could share.

He was limited on the number of letters he could write, something he explained to Bertha, and hoped she understood. Instead of writing countless brief letters, he saved everything he had until he wrote ten or twelve pages, twenty-two on one occasion, hoping he didn’t bore her, or drive her to distraction. He tried not to sound needy and remain positive, but as the war dragged on, into and through 1942, towards another new year, everything became more difficult. Less food, less writing materials, less news, and less hope.

One good thing, the Americans were in, not before time, and hopefully it would make a difference. It would all end one day, wouldn’t it?

Bertha adored his letters. Everything about them, and the longer the better. When she heard of the photo’s fate, she was furious and chose another. On the reverse she wrote in capital letters: Whoever you are, wherever you are, DO NOT defile my face again. Thank you!

The optimism of the young, as if a German military censor would take any notice of a deranged English tart. It marked the recipient out for added attention.

I wish I could be with you, Leo, she wrote, to see you again, and long for the day when you will hold me in your arms. I have so many things I want to say, but can’t, and so many things I want to do and achieve. Stay well, Mr Moorland, and remain positive. This is most important, for I detect a whiff of sadness in the last letter, something I have not seen before. It worried me, and I don’t wish to see it again. I know you are a fighter. It shines clear in everything you have written, and everything you say. I have sent you another parcel. Not so much this time. Food is tighter here. Tinned sardines, spam, and something called pangolin tails. Good luck with that! I didn’t fancy them! Oh, and some Woodbines, though I don’t smoke, for I have never believed it sensible or healthy to inhale smoke-ridden fumes.

Maybe you should think about that. Perhaps you could swap them for something nice. Hope you like the photo. If they interfere with it again, I shall make an official complaint. The uncivilised blighters! These things cost money.

All my love from drizzly Tranmere.

PS: On my last leave, I walked past your house to imagine you upstairs, throwing up the sash-window to stick your head out and call down to me. Something fruity, no doubt, or cheeky, knowing you. Your shirt-sleeves rolled up and when you saw me there, you bolted down the stairs to throw the door open. I stood and stared at your damned blue door for a good five minutes, but no one came, leaving me to hurry away, terrible thoughts swirling through my silly head. Doesn’t this war play woeful tricks on the brain? Do you find that?

She stopped through tiredness and lack of time, for she was working round the clock, but the following day had a half day off; and spent the first hour writing.

I didn’t tell you; I have a new job. I can’t tell you about it for obvious reasons except to say we all wanted to be plotters when we were at you-know-where, and now I am. I have been moved south, I can’t say where, and it is exciting and enjoyable, but nerve-wracking and tiring. No one wants to make a silly mistake that could cost one of our brave boys their life. The thing is, anyone could, if they were exhausted. It’s so upsetting to hear and see such terrible things. I hope you can imagine. I am sure you can after what you have seen and the things you have been through.

Keep your pecker up, boy. I am relying on you. We are all doing everything we can to win this bloody thing. The sacrifices being made are unbelievable. I wish you could see. Everyone pulling together, and on a bright sunlit day, we will prevail. In the end, rightness always wins. Is there a word called “rightness”? I have no idea. There is now, and I am too tired to check.

I’ll write again soon.

All my love, Bertha, followed by a stream of kisses, maintaining the policy of one extra in every letter, plus the obligatory scratches.

She shook her head and wrote the address on the airmail envelope, pondering on where it would travel before arriving in faraway Poland.

Lying back on her bed, for a moment she thought of Harry Boland. What a cad he was. Cad number one! After one weekend when he gave her a damned good kissing, they came out of nowhere like a German fighter pouncing out of the sun, bang-bang-bang, and he had always been a hot kisser. The next time she saw him, she would admit, if only to herself, she was looking forward to it, when he casually mentioned they couldn’t meet again because he was getting engaged. There were no words to describe it, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he was marrying Glenda Fender, who happened to be his commanding officer.

Bertha imagined Glenda ordering Harry around the parade ground in the afternoon, and the large bedroom she possessed in a rented detached cottage in the Shropshire hills, in the evening. Everyone knew Glenda was a driven woman, grabbing whatever she wanted, and most times, she succeeded.

The RAF put an end to that malarkey, knowingly or otherwise, when he was posted to freezing Peterhead in the far north of Scotland. In her more fiery moments, Bertha imagined him suffering frostbite in the nether regions, and good riddance. That would put a block on their activities.

Over in Silesia, the well-built Polish woman who, for a short while, had the hots for Leo, had moved on. It happened in the middle of a spring morning. A fit Harry Worthington strolled out of the mine, one large hessian sack of salt resting by his neck, his sleeves rolled high to his shoulder, muscles gleaming in the watery sunlight, glistening sweat dribbling down his forehead and cheeks.

She was loading a cart, and spotted him, and something went ping! A mutual sensation. Most of the British workers dumped the sacks on the ground and scurried away. It wasn’t their job to load the wagon. But this one, the red-headed man, exchanged eye contact with her. Same height, similar build, identical eyes, same availability and wanting, a perfect match, as he said, ‘Where do you want it, darling? On the wagon?’

She didn’t understand much English, but knew what he meant.

‘Tak!’ she said in Polish, and Harry grinned at her, something he had always had difficulty with, smiling at women, but with Kasia, everything was different. He threw it on the cart as if it were a brown paper bag of sweeties, before jumping up to make sure it was beside the others, neat and tidy, ready for the next.

As he jumped down, she closed on him to reach out to feel his rock-hard bicep. A moment later, she said in broken English, ‘You mine now. You spoken for.’ The look on her face said it all.

He would never argue. It was the best day of his life. He had never been spoken for before, and he liked it. A second later, the foreman reappeared, yelling. Harry and Kasia exchanged a longing look before he sauntered back into the mine to fetch more salt. She watched him stroll away, on cloud nine, both pondering on how wonderful life could be.

Bertha’s next letter brought with it heavy tears.

News came of the aircraft carrier, HMS Eagle’s demise, when endeavouring to re-supply Malta, torpedoed in the Mediterranean by U73. She went down in minutes. Around 150 men lost, over 900 saved.

Most of the perished worked below decks, stokers, artificers, and engineers, including Johnny Williams, Bertha’s beloved daddy. His body never found, Bertha’s fine photograph sleeping in his royal blue sweat-stained shirt pocket, caressing his heart, accompanying him on his journey to the great beyond.                  

Chapter sixty-three

It was gone half-past three before Walter was released from MediaCity to grab a cab to Piccadilly station.

It was decent timing. He arrived at four, a train due out at ten past. He bought a ticket and joined a long queue for Chester. Minutes later, he settled by the window, his bag beneath the seat, as he closed his eyes and blocked out the world.

If fellow passengers thought him sleeping, they couldn’t be more wrong. He recalled the interminable questions fired at him by his inquisitors. If they once thought he was lying or not being straight, they never said, though their body language spoke volumes. It was their job. Believe nothing and assume there was more to unravel.

Walter hated it, being on the wrong end of questioning. He took his time answering. They fired questions all the faster, hoping for inconsistencies, holes in the narrative they could challenge.

They surprised him by not searching his bag. In their shoes, he would have done. Not that he had anything dodgy, except perhaps the pictures of Chelsea Wang. What would they have made of them, and his feeble reasons for bringing them home? Come to think of it, how would he have answered? What are these pictures? Who is this woman? Surely not an off-the-shelf bride, Mr Darriteau? You’re not into that game, are you? She’s far too young for you. It didn’t bear thinking about.

A light lunch of roast beef salad rolls and more coffee appeared, giving them the chance to prolong the questioning. No breaks, no let-up. They seemed obsessed with the MSS, which was no surprise. No doubt they saw them as the coming opposition, and any tiny morsel of intel unearthed might prove invaluable.

It wasn’t every day they could interrogate one of ours who had been interrogated and threatened by some of theirs, the MSS, in Beijing. Assuming Darriteau was still one of ours, and not turned, as they feared, working for a new master. He wasn’t born in the UK, so no one could be surprised.

Afterwards, Walter imagined a recording being forwarded to a higher-up in London for their perusal and reassessment, and he wondered what they would make of it. No matter. What was done was done. He didn’t feel the need to tell them about the “contract”, or explain why he had signed the damned thing.

Wouldn’t they have done the same? He knew it could come back to bite, but he would deal with that when it arrived. In the meantime, he was desperate to get back to work, to see them all again, and afterwards, speak to Marina Moo when she arrived home.

All too soon, an announcement echoed through the carriage. Chester next stop, don’t forget to take your bags. He made ready, buttoning his jacket. A warm sunny day in England, perishing cold after the warmth and humidity of Hong Kong and most of China.

The train slid into the station. It seemed half of those onboard were alighting. He let one or two eager movers go before him, for they seemed in a real hurry. Walter glanced at his watch. Three minutes late. No one could complain at that.

A minute later, he was out of the station seeking a cab. One rolled up before him, the driver reading his body language. A solitary man with no one in the world to collect him. Half an hour later he was home, breathing a sigh of relief, making tea, changing into casual clothes, unpacking his bag, grabbing the mail, taking the photographs into the front room to sit and pore over, as he sipped excellent tea.

If nothing else, if she made contact, he would have the opportunity of shopping a spy to the authorities. Surely there would be some kudos in that. It would give the clever dicks, big and little, over in Manchester, something to think about. They were nowhere near as intelligent as they imagined. Walter could teach them a thing or two. One day, he might do that.

Their lack of success might bring a reprimand for not extracting more from the Darriteau character, a man whose records reported he harboured a rebellious streak, hence his lack of promotion. He thought of Chelsea Wang, and wondered where she was, and where she lived. Walter didn’t imagine it was local. He’d run checks and see what turned up. Could she and Marina Moo be acquainted? Stranger things had happened. Maybe they were together at that very moment, scheming and duplicitous.

He thought of ringing work to say he would be back in the morning, but didn’t. He hated fuss, and would get up early and arrive before anyone else.

The last thought to rumble through his head related to Sir Thomas More, a man who could not and would not yield under the harshest of questioning. Walter had undergone enough questions to last a lifetime, both theirs and ours, equally persistent and uncomfortable, and he wanted no more of it. Yet the fact remained, if he had followed Sir Thomas’s entreaty not to yield, later that day, he would have been put to death.

That was enough! Thinking about it and all it entailed. Would they or wouldn’t they have executed him? He never wished to test it. If he had to guess, he would plump for yes, and that was all the justification he needed. That was an end to it, and he switched off and thought of positive things. More important matters. Nicer things, far more important.

Their trip hadn’t ended well. In his mind he saw the pair of them, returning home together, Marina’s arm through his, thanking him for accompanying her halfway round the world, for no one else would have bothered.

He liked her, more than liked, and even before they left England, the thought of marrying the woman had invaded his head. Why not? She was beautiful, sexy, feisty and intelligent. So what if her English was unusual, sometimes needing a code breaker to translate what she said.

Yes, she would be demanding, but there was something exciting about a demanding woman. Far better that than the other way round. He could do demanding, too.

Lying alone in the Chinese prison brought many things into focus. He didn’t want to grow old and alone with few friends, and just his memories to keep him warm at night. He knew what he wanted, and in so many ways, Marina Moo fitted the bill.

In his cell, where no one visited for hours, he could see where he had gone wrong and how he could fix it. When the moment was right, maybe on the aircraft zipping home, he might pop the question. No doubt it would astonish her, and he hoped it would be an exciting surprise, one she would jump at. He daydreamed about acquiring an engagement ring. She had small hands and slim fingers, and any ring must fit.

Everything turned out well, until he was introduced to Max Chow, and the revelation he was her childhood sweetheart, with worse news to come. She would not be travelling home for a while, preferring to remain in his company. If anything kept Walter awake that night, it would be him, Max Chow, and him alone.

Chapter sixty-four

Leo kept returning to Bertha’s last letter, bearing the news her father had been lost in the Med. She must have been heartbroken, judging by the many tales she told of growing up with her beloved dad.

No proper funeral, either, with Mr Williams’ body never surfacing. Food for the fishes, it didn’t bear thinking about. A beloved member of the family vanishing into the ether, with no chance of a formal goodbye. Months later, they held a memorial service at the local church, though it wasn’t the same. Another casualty of the damned war, with no sign it would end anytime soon.

It was a challenge writing to her, showing sympathy, whilst knowing the mere mention of him would bring it all back. Leo said the right things, but knew there were no words to make the hurt disappear.

It wasn’t all dreary news. She sent him a replacement photograph, and it was fabulous, a professional shot, and one he couldn’t wait to show his comrades. He told her of Harry and Kasia, now secretly engaged. If and when the allies won the war, they would travel to Chester, marry, and make their home in England. If the Germans won, that didn’t bear thinking about. Would everyone ever be free to do as they pleased? It seemed unlikely. The allies must win. Nothing less would do. As for the letters, their secret system of marking mail worked well. Remarkably, there had been no missing letters, not one, not yet, and how amazing was that?

Soon after, the Germans arrested the older cart-driver, Jan, alleging he was smuggling food to partisans in the Pripet Marshes. He was a popular figure, and the locals tried hard to find him, without success. He was never seen again. Leo thought of telling Bertha the story, but didn’t. She had enough miserable news to deal with.

In her next letter she wrote: Mum is putting a brave face on things, though I worry she is bottling everything up inside. I try to keep an eye on her, but it’s hard when I am hundreds of miles away.

This might make you laugh, Leo. We laugh at different things in wartime, have you noticed? There’s a disturbed woman, a Mrs McGonagle, going round handing out white feathers, willy-nilly. There have been so many complaints the police sergeant paid her a visit and demanded she stop. Read her the riot act, they say. Anymore of it and he threatened to put her behind bars.

She lost her son and husband to the war, so there’s nothing funny about it. Despite the warning, she won’t stop. Don’t wars do the cruellest things? I don’t think life will ever return to normal, do you?

Write again soon. I so look forward to hearing from you, even more now, for no letters will ever come from dearest dad again. I look for his neat writing in the mail, knowing nothing will arrive, hoping for a miracle.

Keep well and eat well, and stay fit, and pray we meet again soon. Time is slipping by, and ever so slowly we sense we are getting on top of the Hun. Yes, we know they are stubborn and will fight to the bitter end, but if you imagine it as an arm wrestling competition, their collective limb is weakening and half way down. That’s how I feel, anyway.

Write as soon as you can. You can be sure I shall write again before you know it. Keep your pecker up. I’m waiting for you!

All my love,

Bertha.

With more kisses on parade than he knew what to do with. Maybe he might share some with his pals.

The warning bell screeched. Night-flying raiders on the way, scattering their fiendish bombs. She wiped a tear from her eye, dressed in a minute, hurried outside, and hustled after the others. Plotting, plotting, plotting, wondering how long they would be on duty, hoping to keep her eyes open, saying silent prayers for the boys going up to meet the savages, hoping our angels would defeat their demons, all ours to return in one piece.

She had applied for flying lessons and was waiting to hear. How wonderful would that be? In her mind she imagined herself flying solo along the south coast beaches, patrolling the fields and villages, country pubs, village schools, thatched cottages, teams of horses tugging the ploughs far below, turning the land from green to brown, monitoring the aerodromes and radar towers, protecting the nation, downing the Hun, making everyone proud. Why couldn’t that happen? God loves a trier.

Chapter sixty-five

Walter woke early, bounced out of bed, a rarity, washed, shaved, and dressed. Made toast and coffee and was ready, striding down the street for the bus stop.

Despite the early hour, three hardy folks were waiting. He didn’t know them, but they knew him. They nodded, and he nodded back.

As planned, he was first in the office, other than bored, yawning night staff who couldn’t wait to get home. He glanced at his watch. 7.38. He took his place, fired up the computer, and scanned through the overnight crime reports.

Word had gone round it was possible he might appear in the morning. At ten to eight, Karen hustled in, bringing forth an avalanche of staff as everyone traipsed in behind her. Mrs West, Chief Inspector Alex Foggon, Darren, Martin, Jenny, Kate, Ricky, Shirley, and the rest, all taking a moment to come over and grin at him and pat him on the back.

Walter knew it would be impossible to keep a sense of jubilation, celebration, and even admiration from the morning, and he embraced it, hoping a short sharp acknowledgment might be enough to see it off.

For three days, the case of the Chester police detective made the news across the world. It made him famous, not something he ever desired, but something he had no control over.

‘We thought we’d lost you,’ said Darren. ‘Kaput! Tell you the truth, Guv, these people…’ pointing round the room. ‘These opportunistic buggers were making plans to move up a place on the greasy pole. Know what I mean?’ and he winked at Walter, ‘Not me, guv. I’m happy in my station.’

‘Just as well,’ said Mrs West, under her breath.

Darren hadn’t finished. ‘Was it scary, Guv, being sentenced to death? How would they have done it, you reckon? Shot at dawn? Hung, drawn, and quartered? Did you have a preference?’

‘I’d rather not think about it, Darren, thank you.’

‘Was it just a ruse, guv?’ asked Martin.

‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem that way at the time.’

The jocularity had gone on long enough, and Mrs West brought it to an abrupt end.

‘Walter! My office!’ she said, exaggerating the command, unable to keep a tiny grin forcing its way onto her pale face.

‘Sure,’ he said, standing up, relieved, and following her like a naughty schoolboy, thankful to be away from the nonsense.

He sat in front of her and she nodded across at him.

‘Good to have you back.’

‘Great to be back. Sometimes I wondered if this day would ever come.’

She enquired about his health and fitness to resume work straight away. If he preferred a week or even two off, she would understand. He thanked her but insisted he couldn’t wait to get back in the swing of things.

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’

‘What’s happening? Anything interesting?’

She sighed and said, ‘As I mentioned, we have a murder, and it’s been dragging on, and I hate it, and I want you to take over as SIO.’

‘Isn’t Alex Foggon SIO?’

‘He isn’t anymore, and besides, he has the Claude Mainstone case to sort out, and he’s good at that.’

‘That old thing rumbling on?’

‘Yes, and a damned distraction it is, but it’s the murder that keeps me awake at night.’

‘Give me the details.’

She sat back and took a breath before launching into her unique summary.

‘Pamela Grayson, late thirties, found murdered in her own bedroom here in Chester. I thought it was an open and shut case. But it seems to have developed down several levels. We’ve had five prime suspects, or at least people we were interested in. Mike Davies, though I ruled him out, Penrod Spennithorne, yes, I know, a silly name, Gavin Chalgrove, those two are still live leads and running, Tony Tisbury, with his tons of alibis, though he is a slippery fish and still a runner. Plus, a new one by the name of Nazareth, another unusual name. He’s not known to us. We haven’t been able to track him down, but are getting closer. Not forgetting any other unknowns.’

Walter asked if any motive had been established.

‘Negative. Pamela had umpteen boyfriends, so we have been concentrating on that. It seems she had a penchant for violence, and that put off at least one and maybe more of her men friends. The best and only motive we have is revenge by a discarded lover. Martin is working on motive, delving into Pam’s past, but so far he’s unearthed nothing of substance.’

Walter grunted and nodded for her to continue.

‘Karen can complete the details. She has been great in your absence, by the way, but like the rest of us, she needs a fresh eye to look at everything again, and that is where you come in.’

Walter had a thousand questions, but he’d save them for Karen.

Mrs West said, ‘Before you go, have you seen this?’

She passed over her quality broadsheet, the page open to the main daily cartoon. Walter took the paper and stared at the image. A man, unmistakeably him, seated in a rickety chair in the lower left corner of the picture. Over his shoulder, a frayed and drooping union flag on a small flagpole, a look of defiance on the man’s face.

Facing Walter’s caricature, taking up most of the right side of the cartoon, an eastern giant, resembling a figure from Chinese mythology, a star on his breast pocket, staring down at the little man in the feeble chair, waving a bedraggled flag. On the giant’s face, a benign look resembling a dog lover about to pat the poodle on the head.

In the top left corner was a dream sequence, featuring, and Lord knows how they latched onto the thought, Sir Thomas More. Speech or thought bubbles curled down towards the seated man, saying: Don’t give up. Never surrender. Principles matter. Stick to your guns. Courage and faith. The short, sweet text beneath the cartoon read: Typical Brit, never Frit!

Mrs West said, ‘Did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams you would feature in cartoons in the national press?’

‘I think you know the answer to that.’

‘True, see Karen. She will have more to tell. Get your heads together and kick butt. This Hong Kong business will keep the pressure off my shoulders, but only for a few days. After that, the powers that be will return, desperate for a murder clear-up job.’

‘Sure,’ said Walter. ‘I get you. I’m looking forward to it,’ and he stood and made his way towards the door.

He couldn’t leave without Mrs West making a final comment.

‘Come and see me later with an update, and you can tell me what happened to the mad Moo. Oh, and Walter, you can also tell me about the things you didn’t share with the Manchester mob. Knowing you, there will be a few tickles of truth in there you kept to yourself.’

‘Ma’am,’ he said, desperate to be out of there.

Fancy her knowing about Manchester. Mind you, thinking about it, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Outside, Karen invited him to a private room. Not that she had anything vital to impart. She told him about Connie Kirkham, and visiting Mike and Deirdre Davies at home, and the Penrod couple living a couple of doors down in the apartment block. The trip to Nantwich to collect Gavin Chalgrove, and his revelations and thoughts into the violence and disturbing traits the late Pamela Grayson harboured, odd behaviour confirmed by Tony Tisbury.

Walter said, ‘Any thoughts on who the killer is?’

‘I’ll reserve judgement on that until we track down and interrogate the Nazareth character. He’s a travelling salesman; though we don’t know in which field.’

She glanced at Walter, hoping he might throw in some pearls of wisdom, thinking he looked drawn. He guessed what she was thinking before she said, ‘Any initial thoughts, Guv?’

Walter admired her optimism. ‘Yes, I have one idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Let’s call a press conference for tomorrow. You and I up front and central, pleading for fresh information on this Nazareth guy and anything else. We tell the viewers we need their help. This is their opportunity to help keep our citizens safe by providing the tools to arrest the killer. Everyone, and I mean everyone, can help.’

Karen jerked her head up and down before saying, ‘Knowing your detestation of such things, that is the last thing I thought you would say.’

‘It’s true, I don’t enjoy such occasions, but with the worldwide publicity my recent adventures have drawn, imagine how much coverage and publicity we might get, not only here, but across the country and beyond. That has to be worth something. The head count of viewers on the other side of the screen will be massive. If ever an appeal is going to work, this is it.’

‘Hadn’t thought of that. But, yes, I agree, and it might work.’

‘Of course it will work. When we are finished, I’ll ask Mrs West to organise it with the TV company. Anything else?’

‘How’s Mrs Moo?’

‘No idea. She is still in Hong Kong.’

‘Any regrets?’

‘About going, you mean?’

Karen nodded.

‘No, not really. Put it this way. I know a lot more about the world and how it works than I did before.’

She bobbed her head and looked at him again before saying, ‘It’s great to have you back.’

‘It’s great to be back. There was a time when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Brings home how lucky we are. Martin’s on motive?’

‘He is.’

‘Send him in, I want a word, and after that, I’d better speak to Alex Foggon, my superior officer, to check he’s alright with things.’

‘He’s okay, is Alex, if a little…’ and she paused, seeking the right word that never came.

Walter had several apposite suggestions, though kept them to himself.

Karen stood up, smiled down, and left. The thought of Walter being executed, one too dreadful to contemplate.

Martin had nothing fresh, other than to say he was tracking down Pamela’s forebears. There were few of them and proving elusive.

‘Keep at it, Martin. It’s not a waste of time.’

‘Okay, Guv, sure.’

Walter sat and had a think. Twenty minutes’ worth, which was a decent chunk, before getting up and letting himself out.

He found Alex Foggon and asked for a quick word. The man looked happy enough and said, ‘Sure.’

‘Mrs West asked me to take over as SIO on the Grayson case.’

‘Yes, she mentioned it. I don’t have a problem with that. I’ve had my go, and it’s still unsolved. At the end of the day, Walter, you are the murder man. As you know, I’m more into fraud and robbery.’

‘Claude Mainstone?’

‘The same. One of my team has opened a new line of inquiry into Mainstone’s activities, and I want to follow it up.’

‘Great. Just wanted to know you were okay with me being SIO.’

‘No problem, Walter. You crack on. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

‘There was one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘If you had to nail your colours to the mast, on whom would you stick your pin?’

He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Ah, I am not so good at sticking pins until I have sufficient intel to justify it.’

‘No preference at all?’

‘Not really. One day I think it is Chalgrove, the next Spennithorne, and the next day someone else jumps into the frame.’

‘Okay, I’ve got the picture. Thanks for your support, Alex.’

‘No problem. One thing I do know, we are always better when working as a close-knit team.’

Walter nodded and left him to it. He hadn’t expected anything else. Alex was a good belt and braces officer, but shelling out opinions or theories was never his strong point.

Walter visited Mrs West and proposed a news conference for the following day. Like Karen, she was amazed, but saw the merit in it.

‘Can’t wait,’ she said. ‘I’ll draft in additional officers because call numbers will skyrocket.’

‘I hope so. Just as long as we unearth a nugget or two pointing to the killer. I know little about this guy, this killer, but the little I have seen, I don’t like.’

She raised her eyebrows and said, ‘You sure it is a guy?’

‘You will know, ma’am, men commit 93% of all murders in the UK. That’s a weighty stat. Yes, it could be a woman, but I doubt it. It reeks of a man who enjoys his power over women, a vigorous man. Maybe we should look at gym monsters, for I understand Pam Grayson was a strong person, so perhaps she defied the killer in a way he had never been challenged before, and he could not cope with it.’

‘Sounds plausible, Walter. Your job is to produce proof.’

‘That’s the aim of the game. Do not pass go without proof,’ and he left with a grin.

Outside, Jenny came over, loaded with coffee.

‘Wanna coffee, guv? I know, a stupid question. I brought you one, anyway.’

‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’

‘Great to have you back.’

‘It’s great to be back. Don’t tell anyone, but I missed you all. Who’s the murderer, Jenny?’

‘Spennithorne, Guv. He lives next door. He fancied her like hell, tried it on, sent her birthday cards from himself, not from him and his wife. I reckon Pam sent him packing, and he didn’t like it. He ticks the boxes, and Guv, I don’t know if you know, he’s got convictions for GBH, and served time for it. Nearly killed someone. A violent streak never goes away in my book. I think the answer is close to home, very close, the bloke living next door.’

‘Thanks, sounds plausible. I’ll look at it again. Why has he not been brought in for questioning?’

‘He has. Lack of proof, Guv. Nothing concrete points to him being the killer.’

‘Except female intuition?’

‘Yeah, there is that. Anyway, that’s where my ten quid is sitting in the sweepstake.’

‘We are not on that kick again?’

‘Course we are. Darren’s all over it.’

‘I could have guessed.’

She grinned down at him, shook her head, and beetled off to take another gander at Spennithorne’s criminal record.

Chapter sixty-six

Winters in Silesia could be brutal. Poorly fed, clothed and weakened souls were most at risk, along with the children and elderly, dying by the thousand. The small group of British had been on site for over three years.

Spring still some way off, with night-time temperatures plunging way below zero. Everything came to a standstill, except the fighting.

Sergeant-Major Michael O’Brian was the first to hear the distant boom of artillery. He had always been a light sleeper and was expecting them, only not so soon. In the quarter-light, he glanced at his old but reliable wristwatch. Almost seven in the morning, he tumbled from the narrow hay mattress and scratched his scalp.

Leo was next to wake. He imagined the rumbling to be thunder, or a dream. The sergeant-major was standing, looking for his clothes, keen to get dressed, every winter morning like waking inside a refrigerator.

Leo’s keen ears listened hard. No let up in the distant sound of explosions. He slipped from the bed and drew on his thick trousers, and went to the sarge. ‘What is it? A German counter-attack?’

‘Could be, but my money is on the Red Army, flexing their muscles, getting closer, eager to sweep through Poland and into Germany. Get dressed, get all the men up and packed. We are leaving today.’

‘Where to?’

‘Where do you think?’

Leo yelled, ‘Up, everyone! The Russians are coming.’

A minute later the dorm was a picture of sleepy men, dressing in a hurry, packing their few possessions in home-made cloth kitbags, asking questions, eating what little food the salt mine shacks still possessed.

Five minutes later, someone went outside, before running back, shouting, ‘The Poles have gone! Nowhere to be seen. Horses, carts, everything!’

Twenty minutes after that, the delivery man on the same high horse showed up, the clattering horse’s hooves audible over the excited chatter. Leo ran out to meet him. They had become friends. Leo taught him basic English in exchange for uncensored local news and gossip.

‘Last delivery,’ he said, handing down a clutch of mail. ‘The Bosch are pulling back. Nowhere to be seen. Take advice from a man who knows. You need to be gone.’

‘I’ve two letters to go,’ said Leo. ‘Can you hang on and I’ll fetch them?’

The man shook his head. ‘No collection, no deliveries. Civilisation buggered!’ One of the more colourful words Leo taught him.

The sarge joined the conversation. ‘How far away are they?’

‘Maybe twenty kilometres.’

‘How long before they are here?’

‘Depends on the Bosch. How hard they fight,’ and he shook his head and stared into the distance at the sound of guns. ‘Best guess, later today.’

Harry Worthington said, ‘Kasia? Where is Kasia?’

The man atop the horse shook his head and shrugged.

‘But we are getting married.’

‘Not today, you’re not.’

Leo and several men reached up and grasped his outstretched hand, thanking him for every delivery, bringing in occasional goodies, dropping off and collecting precious mail. He nodded a final time and said, ‘Good luck. God be with you. One thing we must do. Survive. Important. Tell the children everything. No one must forget,’ and he tried a hopeless smile, turned the horse about, and galloped behind the salt mine and disappeared..

‘What about Kasia?’ repeated Harry. ‘I can’t leave her. She’s everything to me.’

Michael O’Brian said, ‘Get everything packed. Leave nothing behind. We won’t come back. We’re heading for the Stalag. If there’s one place we will be safe, it is there.’

It made sense. Better than huddling in the building, for it was bound to attract cannon fire, or stumbling around the desolate countryside at the mercy of snipers and trigger-happy infantry. Those men would take no chances, shoot first and ask questions later, and who could blame them?

At nine, they were ready to move. Leo and Michael went through the building with a keen eye. No food or drink, no supplies of any kind remaining, or any letters. The last mail passed out, Leo receiving three letters he jammed in his inside pocket as they made ready.

A minute later, between the rumble of faraway explosions, they heard footsteps from beyond the mine.

‘Take cover,’ whispered the sarge, ‘could be a German scout,’ and they made for a nearby collection of boulders.

The sound of footsteps grew closer. In the next second, a scruffy figure trudged around the side of the mine, dressed in an over-large threadbare coat, carrying a circular bundle containing precious possessions.

‘Kasia!’ yelled Harry, jumping out and running across to her. ‘You came!’

‘Course I come. You my man. We marry.’

‘We will! But not today.’

The sergeant-major shook his head and said, ‘She can’t come. Against regulations.’

‘If she’s not coming, I’m not going!’ said Harry, glaring at the Irishman.

Leo added, ‘I’ll stay with Harry and Kas if need be.’

‘On your head be it,’ said the sarge. ‘We must get away,’ and the rag-tag band headed out, not east towards the Russians, or west towards the Germans, but south towards the Stalag POW camp, hoping it would still be there, wondering at the reception they would receive, Harry, Kasia, and Leo tagging on the rear.

Chapter sixty-seven

The Press Conference went better than anyone expected. Amber Horridge, the new press officer, renowned for not taking any nonsense, set the tone.

‘Pay attention. This conference is about one thing and one thing only. The despicable murder of Pamela Grayson. Do not waste your time and ours by asking the inspector about anything else. If you do, you will divert attention away from where it should be. Questions not relating to the murder will be ignored, and the questioner removed. I hope that is clear.’

The reporters glanced at each other as if to say chance would be a fine thing. The reason we are here, darling, is to find out what went on in Hong Kong and China.

Amber introduced the two officers, the new SIO, the now infamous Inspector Walter Darriteau, and Sergeant Karen Greenwood. They came in, looking smart; dressed in civvies to take their place on the raised platform. Amber Horridge hovered behind, tablet in hand, as she stared out at the packed throng of reporters, camera and recording people, and a sprinkling of senior police officers keen to witness the event.

Walter held up his sizeable hand. The room fell silent. Everyone stared at him, or at her, for she was worth the admission money, not that they had paid to get in. The main man glanced down at printed notes and began.

‘We are here today because we need your help. Help in solving a vicious murder. Help in putting behind bars the person, almost certainly a man, who committed this foul crime, and help to keep the public safe,’ and he waved round at the assembled faces, ‘you, good people, to keep you safe from anything like it happening again.’

Someone coughed aloud. Horridge gave him a look to freeze whisky.

‘On a Friday night, in her own apartment in Cuppin Street, Chester, a single lady living alone, was brutally murdered.’ Walter gave the date. He looked straight into the camera. ‘Where were you on that night? Were you in Chester? Maybe driving in the Cuppin Street area, perhaps looking for a parking space. Have you got dashcam? If so, we need it.’

He paused and stared at the reporters, scribbling and recording his every word.

‘Do you or did you know Pamela Grayson? If so, we need to talk. If you knew her, where did you meet, and do you know anyone she was involved with? Let us know. If they are innocent of any involvement, we will eliminate them from our enquiries. There is no doubt about that. Someone must know the person who entered her apartment and killed her. Were you walking around the city on that pleasant summer evening, or later that night? Perhaps you strolled down Cuppin Street, maybe you were going to the pub, or you had just come out. If so, did you see anything suspicious, anything odd that caught your eye? Anyone acting strangely, perhaps a well-built man, flaunting his biceps on a humid night. You might have thought something was odd, but soon forgot about it. Today is about reawakening strange and unusual memories.’

Someone at the back tried to ask a question.

‘Not now!’ snapped Horridge, staring at the usurper. ‘Later! You are here to listen.’

It was like being back at school, even Walter thought so. Mrs Summers regaling the class, everyone remaining silent, and it worked back then, and it worked right there. A look, a stare, and a stern word.

‘In a moment,’ said Walter, ‘I will hand you over to Sergeant Karen Greenwood,’ an imperceptible nod to his left. ‘Karen has been on this case longer than I, from the first day, the first second, when we became aware of trouble in Cuppin Street. She knows more about this case than anyone alive, except the killer. Karen has interviewed countless people, taken a hundred statements, visited numerous locations, and listened to dozens of potential witnesses. She is an excellent detective, but despite all the valiant effort, all the graft and expertise, we need your help. If you know anything, no matter how tiny a fact or idea it may be, it is time for you to step up to the plate. Tell us, tell us, for if you don’t, this killer, this murderer, this sad individual, could strike again. And think about it this way. This person, this man, could be in need of help, just as we are now. Are you harbouring him? Are you shielding someone who may have let slip, maybe late at night, perhaps in the pub after a few drinks, something that caught your ear, a snippet that didn’t make sense? A fact that later sat in your head, simmering, making you wonder what he said, or meant. If that is familiar, we want to know, and you must tell us.’

The cougher returned, sounding like someone sending answers in code to a stumped contestant in a TV quiz show. Horridge gave him the full-on glare, and he took out his handkerchief and looked away.

Walter ignored everything; never referring to his printed notes.

‘I am a man who suffers nightmares. That is nothing new. They have always been there. Lately, they have become worse,’ a comment to bring forward stifled soft laughs. ‘But my current recurring nightmare is what happens if we fail. If we don’t catch this individual, and if he kills again. I dream and worry about victims. It could be anyone. Your sister, your mother, your daughter or niece, or maybe a valued friend or colleague at work, as happened with Pam Grayson.

‘None of us want to be here again in a week or a month, repeating this exercise because we didn’t put an end to it. As I said, we need you. We need your help. We want you on the side of right. If you don’t offer it, or share what you know, I don’t know how you could live with yourself. There comes a time in everyone’s life when we have to man up, woman up, and do the right thing. Don’t be found wanting. We are relying on you. We cannot do everything by ourselves. Now is the time to step forward. Down below…’ and he pointed to where he imagined the number might be, ‘is a strap line with the incident room telephone number. You can ring that number anytime. It doesn’t matter how late it is, we are not going home. Please call. If you want to speak to me, you can, but do not waste our valuable time with nonsense or lies. Wasting police time is a serious criminal offence, and we are extremely busy right now, working round the clock to prevent anything like this happening again.

‘Right, that is enough from me. Take it away, Sergeant,’ and he took a breath and a sip of water and handed her the metaphorical baton.

All eyes shifted to the blonde. The bloke might have been a half-decent speaker, but the girl possessed the looks.

‘Thank you, Inspector. I won’t keep you long,’ she said, glancing round the room, recognising a sprinkling of interested faces.

‘I never knew Pamela Grayson, though after all the time I have spent investigating her life, I feel I have always known her. Did you know Pamela, or Pam’s family? If you did, I want to talk to you. She had a small family and very few close friends. Where was she brought up? What kind of child was she? Where did she go to school? None of those questions have been adequately answered. Did she go to college or uni, and if so, where? Did you study with her? And if you did, do you remember any hostility between Pamela and another? Could that have resurfaced years later? Sometimes people harbour grudges for decades before doing something about it. Could that be the case? We know some answers, but not enough of them.

‘As the inspector said, the phone number is there for you. It’s right before your eyes. It’s an easy number to remember. Sometimes it’s a hard thing to do to pick up the phone. We are going to solve this crime. We are going to apprehend this killer, no matter how long it takes, but for all our sakes, wouldn’t it be best to do it now, today, before another family is put through the hell of losing a loved one years before their time. If you possess the power to stop this, you must exercise it. You must get in touch. I am working 24/7, we all are. Don’t let us down. Call us, call me on the number below,’ and she recited the digits again in rhyming style, hoping it might worm into an appropriate brain, a number never to be forgotten, or denied. A number to be used, a number like no other.

She paused and let her words sink in, before beckoning to Walter, ‘I know you want a final word.’

‘Thank you, Karen. Yes, I have some final thoughts.’

He glared into the polished lens, took a breath and said, ‘I know you are watching. I would watch if I were in your shoes. Do the right thing. Give yourself up. You and I both know you need help. Counselling, mental health help. You will never find peace of mind until you talk to a qualified person, someone who can help you, and the only way to do that is by coming forward and talking. Talking to me.

‘We know what you have done. You know what you have done. We all know what you have done, and none of us want it to happen again. It is time to show courage and prove you are not a hopeless case. Trust me; you do not want this on your mind for the rest of your days. If you do, you will never enjoy a peaceful day or night again. You are carrying a monstrous burden, I know that, but the heavy load can be lifted, and you could do that today. Do the right thing. Ring the number, chum. You will never regret it.’

Walter glanced to his left and caught Amber Horridge’s eye.

One reporter, the over-officious zealot from satellite television with the mean brown eyes, called out, ‘What happened in China, Inspector?’

‘No!’ yelled Amber, staring at the pillock.

Walter bobbed his head, stood up and answered, ‘I had rabbit chow mein for dinner, and very good it was,’ a flippant remark he hoped wouldn’t ruin things, and one to produce more stifled laughs.

Questions were not invited. A minute later, Walter and Karen left. Five minutes after that, they were in the car, driving away from the TV studio, Karen booting the BMW back to base.

She said, ‘I think it went well.’

‘Time will tell.’

‘Do you really suffer from nightmares?’

‘Of course. Don’t you? I thought everyone in CID had them.’

‘No,’ she said, a softer tone coming into her voice, a tickly grin forming around the edges of her mouth. ‘My dreams are more, what shall we say… on the fruity side.’

‘Fruity?’ said Walter, grinning, as she sped onto the motorway. ‘What? Apples and pears, bananas and peaches?’

‘Not quite. You know what I mean?’

‘Sexy, you mean?’

‘Something like that,’ she said with a laugh.

‘Care to share?’

‘No, I would not!’

‘You brought it up.’

‘Only telling the truth, Guv.’

There was a decent pause before he said, ‘I thought you were very good.’

‘Thanks. I could hardly not be, after your introduction. Excellent detective, I think you said.’

‘Only telling it as it is.’

‘You were great too, by the way.’

‘Tah. I went off message, but hopefully no one noticed. The challenge now is to tell the difference between the time-wasters, outright nutters, and maybe, just maybe, the real thing.’

‘Do you think the killer will call?’

‘No, not really. In fact, I’d put that at a fifty to one chance. But I’ll bet he was watching, and I can’t help imagining what he is thinking right now.’

‘Wish we knew. The team is trained and ready, no doubt taking calls as we speak.’

Walter grunted and sat back in his seat, thinking of vacating the world for a twenty-minute think-up, though before he did, he said, ‘Mrs West arranged for the broadcast to be repeated at 6.30 and 10.30 tonight for those coming home from work, so there will be no let-up.’

Karen lightened the mood.

‘And you enjoyed the rabbit?’

‘I did. Love rabbits, me, speak later,’ and he closed his eyes, switched off, and left the car behind.

Chapter sixty-eight

Grey Gables Nursing Home in Egerton Park, close to Rock Ferry on the Wirral, was oddly named.

The three gables were not grey but black, and the Victorian fascia was red brick. When built in the mid 1800s, it housed six wonderful town houses set over three floors. Four levels, if you included the high-ceilinged basements, rooms where the soil had been dug out around the windows to afford good natural light.

On the day the building was completed, they were snapped up by wealthy merchants, shippers and bankers, active on the Wirral bank of the Mersey River. All the families employed servants, hidden in the roof or banned to the basement, each clan running several maids, and the wealthier of them, a butler.

Over time, the area grew dirtier through prolific coal fires and factory chimneys, and those same wealthy people moved further out for the fresher air of Heswall, Caldy, Willaston, West Kirby, and down to Chester. Some of the houses were converted into flats, bedsits, and even HMOs, houses of multiple occupancy, and all suffered from a chronic lack of maintenance. Half the block stood empty. Vandals, squatters, and rodents moved in, and a campaign to flatten the site was mooted until The Cherished Care Company PLC stepped in with an offer to buy everything.

The council agreed, glad to be rid of the problem. The remaining freeholders jumped aboard, and the deal went through unopposed. Cherished Care, based down in Whitchurch, planned to level the site and build anew from the ground upwards, but when the owner, seventy-nine-year-old Mr Harold Crump saw the building, with its surviving Victorian fixtures and fittings, he fell in love with it, and approved a top-to-toe revamp, no expense spared.

He came to regret it, the romantic idea of bringing it back from the brink, but lived long enough to see it finished, when the Grey Gables Nursing Home opened in 2010.

When full, eighty ageing souls lived out their last breathless days in comfort. Most times, it remained full, and when news broke of an unexpected vacancy, empty rooms were snapped up. The home catered for patients with dementia or Alzheimer’s on the top floor, good lifts always available, with the first floor housing residents aged seventy to one hundred and five, the lucky first floor brigade retaining their mental capacity.

In one of the communal lounges, at lunchtime, the television was on, an antique buying and selling programme. Everyone loved it, for they enjoyed making bets on which team prevailed. If Ritchie LeFette, Senior Care Assistant, had a pound for every time he heard someone say “my mother had one of those”, he’d be a wealthy man.

The home tried to interest the residents in other things than television, but any attempt at switching off the antiques prog was bound to fail. Residents grumbled: we are paying a fortune to live here, and if we want to watch daytime TV, we damn well will! If we can’t watch TV with our lunch at our time of life, when can we? The antiques programme stayed on, as did the sweepstakes accompanying it.

Bertha Cody adored the programme, never missed, and yes, it brought back memories from long ago, and at one hundred and five, believed to be the oldest lady on the Wirral peninsula, she had a great deal more memories to sift through.

Everyone considered Bertha the matriarch of the establishment. I wonder what Bertha would think about that, or has anyone asked Bertha about this? Still as sharp as a tack, despite swallowing a cornucopia of daily medication, bringing on sleep in regular doses, and when Bertha slept, she made a good job of it. Everyone knew the time she’d settle down for a doze, and everyone was aware of the hour she would wake up again.

A second childhood, they called it, sleeping like a baby, waking up hungry and thirsty, crying out, needing the loo, and making sure everyone knew it.

After the antiques fire sale, a special announcement came on. A police appeal for help on a murder they could not solve. It captured the attention. Everyone enjoyed a good murder. Romance and murders always in great demand. Twelve residents tuned in for the press conference, with three care assistants sitting by in case of need, including Ritchie LeFette. Bertha cleaned her glasses and asked to be pushed closer to the enormous screen.

Pictures pulsed in from the TV company. Lots of cameras and reporters, a hush of eager conversation and anticipation, before an officious woman with a clipboard, no, not a clipboard, the modern replacement, a computer tablet, took the stage to bark out rules of engagement.

In the next second, two police officers entered from the left to take their seats. A chunky black guy, greying, getting on a bit, though not enough to be offered a room at Grey Gables. Give it a decade and he might be ready. The other, a slim and pretty blonde, oozing confidence, reminding many of a granddaughter or grandniece. The kind of girl everyone would like to know, and adore having as a regular visitor.

The man spoke. He had a fine deep voice, good diction, easy on the ear, a voice anyone could enjoy. He’d be great on TV food adverts. Some viewers were yapping meaningless tosh about knitting. Bertha heard it and issued a snappy: ‘Shush! I’m listening!’

People at the back exchanged glances, and the room fell quiet, other than the soothing voice seeping into the room, discussing murder, pleading for help in solving the crime. The dead woman, Pamela Grayson, the task? Do you or did you know her?

She was only thirty-nine, and most in Grey Gables wouldn’t know anyone of that age other than blood relatives and the staff. And yet there was something familiar about the name, and when something jammed in Bertha’s brain she couldn’t explain, she would dwell on it, treating it as a challenge, as she attempted to solve the puzzle.

After ten minutes, she said aloud, ‘I think I know her,’ though her colleagues paid scant attention. It produced chuckles and merriment and anything that did that was welcome.

Ritchie said, ‘You always say you remember things, Bertha, but nine times out of ten, you don’t. You are just getting confused. It’s only natural at your age.’

‘I am not!’ she insisted, her bottom teeth loosening and almost toppling onto the carpet in front of everyone, and she would hate that.

Sadly, Ritchie’s comment was partly true. She could not bring to mind why the name rang a bell, but she hadn’t given up. Bertha never gave up on anything, her lifelong determination the main reason she had lived so long, that, and the nightly tot of whisky she enjoyed before settling down for the night. It must be malt, and it must be Scottish, and hang the expense. She could not take it with her.

‘I remember that woman,’ she repeated, as Ritchie wheeled her back to her room. ‘You see if I don’t.’

‘Have a nice rest, dear,’ said a passing spring chicken of eighty-six, glad to be rid of Bertha for a few hours, leaving her to rule the roost. ‘Now, where were we with the knitting before being interrupted?’

Thirty miles away, Nazareth Macbeth caught the broadcast at the 6.30 showing, as he devoured a curry ready meal. He could fancy the sergeant, though he guessed there would be a queue.

Yes, I know, or knew, Pamela Grayson, he said aloud, and no, I will not be getting in touch. Too much hassle for zero reward. If they wanted to talk to him, they would have to find him first. He changed channel, and how great it would be if he could change his life with such ease.

Bertha Cody woke up at half-past four in the afternoon, ready for a cup of tea and a wheeling to her bathroom. Ritchie volunteered to take her and she couldn’t object. She had no reason to. He wiped her bottom most days, and once she’d crossed that Rubicon, letting him push her round was nothing. She quite liked him. There were plenty worse, though sometimes he didn’t listen to what she had to say.

‘That woman,’ she said.

‘Which woman?’ said Ritchie, wondering who Bertha’s latest spat was with.

‘The one on the TV! The murdered one.’

‘Oh, her. What about her?’

‘I knew her. Or I knew the family.’

‘Nice girl, was she?’

‘No idea! Don’t be stupid. I never met her, but I want you to ring the number. I jotted it down.’

‘I can’t ring and say you once knew the family. That will not solve a murder.’

‘It might do! You don’t know! Here, take the number.’

He let her slip a crumpled note into his hand as he tried to change the subject, saying, ‘Looking forward to dinner?’

‘Not really. What is it?’

‘Mince and potatoes.’

‘Shit! I hate mince and potatoes,’ though the aroma of decent gravy flowing from the dining room when he later pushed her that way, persuaded her to try some.

‘And stop swearing, Bertha, it’s unbecoming of a lady of your age.’

She thought of telling him to piss off, but stopped herself, as she took her place amongst the others in well-defined ranks, similar to expectant lines in the dogs’ home at feeding time. The plates came in, the dinners set down, silence descended, suckety-munchity, suckety-munchity, as worn gnashers made a token effort. Come to think of it, the salivating faces bore a distinct resemblance to hungry terriers, all twitching heads and jealous, darting eyes.

Ritchie slipped the message in his overalls, forgot it was there, and that night, his purple outfit went in the washing machine to revolve a hot hundred times, the note sucked to oblivion. He didn’t think about it again, and neither did Bertha, until the next time the antiques sweepstakes filled the screen.

Chapter sixty-nine

The next morning, the idea the press conference had gone well dissipated, for results were disappointing.

Not so much the quantity of calls, but the quality of leads. A promising one came in from Waverton. Walter and Karen zipped down there in twenty minutes. A lonely middle-aged woman backtracked on what she told officers. She knew the dead woman, and she knew the killer. It turned out she didn’t. The acquaintances only lived in her mind.

After another antiques programme, amongst the dross calls, Darren took one from Grey Gables Nursing Home up at Rock Ferry. The guy, a Ritchie LeFette, told him they had a resident who said she knew the Grayson family. Trouble was, she was well over a hundred, slept a lot, and had a history of making accusations against various organisations, and he admitted she was confused. He had only rung because she insisted he did so, and ended the call with, ‘She’s probably wrong, but I thought you’d better know.’

Ritchie returned to Bertha and mumbled something about they would look at it, but it could take time, for they had hundreds of leads to investigate.

Walter and Karen returned from Waverton in silence and sat down, negative looks on faces.

‘No good?’ said Jenny.

‘Hopeless!’ said Walter.

‘Scatterbrain,’ said Karen, shaking her head.

‘Anything fresh here?’ said Walter.

No one had anything positive to add, as Darren jumped into the silence. ‘A care worker rang from Rock Ferry. Said he had a confused woman there, well over a hundred, and the old girl says she once knew a family called Grayson.’

They weren’t about to rush off on another wasted trip. How many people in the north-west once knew a family called Grayson? Must run into thousands. Okay, it wasn’t a common name, but common enough. The phones kept ringing, and the team hoped within those calls the sunshine of hope would alight on the one genuine nugget they needed.

Yawning and tiredness set in at nine at night. Within the exhaustion, mistakes could occur. They couldn’t afford a casual error through lack of concentration. Both Walter and Mrs West knew it and fought against it.

The late shift arrived to be briefed, Mrs West reminding them to stay awake and not miss a thing. They promised they would, though working through the night brought a slowdown in calls and the diligence with which they were analysed and logged.

At ten, the daytime team went off shift to scamper home for a hurried meal and welcoming beds, Walter the last to go. On the way to the bus station, he passed a regular cab rank. If he just missed a bus, he’d have an hour wait, and he couldn’t have that. He knocked on the cab window. The guy buzzed it open.

Walter said, ‘Looking for business?’

‘Sure. Jump in.’

Walter settled in the back and was about to give his address, but found himself saying, ‘Would you know where Grey Gables Nursing Home is up at Rock Ferry?’

‘I do. Big old rambling place, but inside it’s fab.’

‘Can you take me there?’

‘My pleasure. Have you a relative staying?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

The cabby was hoping for more scintillating conversation, though nothing came as the big guy eased back in his seat and closed his eyes and ears. Just so long as he didn’t fall asleep, as happened sometimes. Maybe he had been drinking, though there was no alcoholic aroma.

The roads were growing quiet and just over twenty minutes later, the big Skoda cab pulled into the main Grey Gables’ car park. Despite the hour, plenty of dozing vehicles there, Walter guessing they were the staff’s, with lots of lights on inside.

He paid the cabby, added a decent tip, and strolled towards the impressive door, an original hardwood beast capable of lasting another hundred years. A security light flashed on above his head, beams of white light reflecting from the red door. Locked solid, sensible at that hour.

To the right of the door was an intercom with a white button. He pressed the circle. It vibrated on his finger as he fought to contain a yawn. Inside, an Indian nurse by the name of Lovely heard it and ran to the reception desk and pressed another button. ‘Hello, who is this?’

Walter introduced himself and said he was responding to a call from a Ritchie LeFette.

‘Okay, just a minute. He’s still here. I’ll come and get you.’

Good to her word, she was there within the minute.

Lovely possessed a glorious smile and amazing teeth, resembling an advert for the local dental practice. Welcoming, too.

‘Come in. Ritchie’s upstairs. I’ll fetch him down,’ as they returned to the reception desk where she made a call. She smiled at Walter again and said, ‘He’s coming now. He won’t be a min.’

Walter kicked his heels and stared round. The cabby was right, a topnotch place smelling of flowers and quality food.

Ritchie LeFette resembled a younger version of Walter, thirty years younger. He strolled across reception, his face lit up on seeing the man. He knew of Walter, many people did, and in the next second, they shook hands. Walter clocked his name tag. Ritchie LeFette – Senior Health Care Assistant. Not a dogsbody, nor a qualified nurse.

Ritchie pointed to the stairs and said, ‘Would you like to come up?’

‘Sure, lead the way.’

They made their way upstairs, Walter glad it wasn’t any further. LeFette took him to a small rectangular supervisor’s room, as Ritchie sat behind the desk with Walter opposite, before Ritchie kicked things off.

‘It’s a bit embarrassing.’

‘What is?’

‘Bertha, Bertha Cody. She’s one hundred and five, oldest surviving woman on the Wirral, they say, and of course she is getting a little confused.’

‘Dementia?’

‘No, nothing like that. She’s as bright as a button. Just age, I reckon.’

‘What did she say when she heard the appeal?’

‘She said she knew the family, though it kept coming and going. I don’t think she ever knew the dead woman. Nothing like that.’

‘Okay,’ said Walter, ‘to save time, can we see her now? If she’s got nothing, I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. Just a quick case of actioning every lead. If we mark it as a no go, that’s fine.’

‘That’s the problem, Inspector. She’s asleep.’

‘Can’t you wake her up?’

‘Not a chance. It would be like trying to wake a drugged elephant. She’s on a cocktail of powerful drugs. They keep her alive, but they zonk her out.’

‘Are you saying it will be the morning before she’s awake?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ and Ritchie flicked a look at his impressive watch. ‘She will wake between one and two, regular as clockwork. If I had to guess, it will be one thirty. Would you care to wait?’

‘Yes, now I’m here, I think I will.’

‘Like a coffee, and maybe something to eat?’

Walter nodded and said, ‘What have you got?’

‘Not much, a cheese sandwich, but the cheese is good. Wensleydale with cranberries and a good coffee to keep you awake.’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Ritchie bobbed his head and said, ‘I’ll fix it. Do you play chess?’

‘Badly.’

‘Snap, so do I.’

He pulled open a lower drawer in the desk to produce a pine wooden box containing the pieces, plus a board, swept everything on the desk to one side, and placed it ready. ‘I’ll get the refreshments and you set it up, and while we play, I’ll tell you about Bertha.’

Then he was gone, as Walter unfolded the battlefield to place the armies on the squares. Ritchie wasn’t away long, coming back with a rectangular tray, two plates of thick-cut sandwiches, two mugs, and a cafetiere of steaming coffee. They tossed for white or black, Walter lost, and Ritchie swished the board around.

‘Bertha Cody?’ Walter said.

Ritchie nodded and said at her age, she was treated as the matriarch of the home. Okay, she could be annoying, but who wasn’t? He had little to say on whether Bertha knew anything further, and after that, they discussed their shared heritage.

Both from Jamaica, and both sports nuts. Ritchie said when he was young, there were three things he desperately wanted to be. Any of them would have done. Opening the batting for the West Indies cricket team. Playing major league baseball in the States, or imitating the success of Bob Marley. Even playing and singing in a tribute band would have done, though the idea was scuppered when everyone said he had a voice like a donkey with bellyache.

‘When you are young, you have hopeless dreams, and how many of us ever reach them? Here I am, fifteen years later, and all I do is wash faces and bodies, clean bottoms and dribbling mouths, and listen to the stuff that tumbles from their minds. It’s as if they feel the need to tell everyone everything they have seen and done a hundred times before it is too late. It can be depressing, Walter, I don’t mind telling you, but you have to keep on keeping on, don’t you? Smile again, and face a new day.’

‘Is it too late to change course?’

‘It is for me. I’m studying hard. I hope to gain full nursing qualifications, and after that, the sky is the limit. I may stay here, or I might look for a job in the Florida sunshine where the pay is three times higher. One way or another, I will better myself. I am nailed to the caring profession, and I have challenged myself to see how far I can go.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘You stick at it. You’ll make a fine nurse.’

They finished the last of the super sandwiches, supped the coffee to death, before the chess game fell down into a boring stalemate. Walter glanced at his watch. Five minutes to one. ‘The bewitching hour cometh.’

‘It does. In fifteen minutes, I will pop down and see how she is.’

‘I could do with the facilities,’ said Walter, standing up.

Ritchie could have guessed, and should have offered, as he took him outside and showed him the way, three doors along.

Minutes later, back in the office, Walter made conversation, saying, ‘The nurse Lovely lives up to her name.’

LeFette grinned. ‘She does, Inspector. Don’t tell anyone, but I am sweet on her. I’ve asked her to the movies on our night off. She hasn’t said yes, but I think she will.’

Walter stood and said, ‘You keep at it. Persistence lands the big fish,’ a strange phrase, thought Ritchie as he flicked his wrist, checked the time, and said, ‘I’ll go and see how she is. If she’s awake, she’ll need the bathroom and a little smartening up. It might take fifteen minutes to bring her round. You wait here. I’ll be back when she is ready.’

‘Fine,’ said Walter, sitting down again, studying the board to see if he had missed anything. He felt as if he were waiting to see the old Queen. Vitally important, she must look her best before anyone saw her, and there was nothing wrong in that.

Would Bertha have anything interesting to say? He’d be disappointed if she didn’t. It hadn’t all been a waste of time, as Lovely stopped by the open door. ‘Everything alright?’ she said, smiling down, peering in.

‘Yes, I think so. Are you okay?’

‘I’m great, never been better. I love it here.’

Walter asked about Bertha Cody, but Lovely did not know her well, her duties almost all taking place on the ground floor. Seeing visitors in, seeing visitors out, entertaining potential new clients, trying to sell the home’s services, though that wasn’t difficult because vacant rooms in Grey Gables were sought after and fought over.

‘People book way in advance,’ she said with another amazing smile. ‘You’d be surprised. Can I put you down, Inspector?’

It put a dampener on things. One moment, he imagined he was doing okay. The next she revealed she thought him almost ready for a place in the system.

Five minutes later, Ritchie returned. Walter saw the way they looked at each other. Ritchie would be okay there. Lovely said, ‘Nice meeting you,’ and she hurried away, as Ritchie said, ‘Madam is now awake and ready to receive late-night visitors. Tell you the truth, she is excited about meeting you.’

I hope it’s worth it, Walter thought, but said, ‘And I, her,’ hoping against hope his time hadn’t been wasted.

Ritchie led the way down a purple and green decorated corridor, passing many numbered rooms until they stopped at 42. He glanced at Walter and said, ‘I’ll knock and go in. Wait here a mo, I’ll give you a shout,’ and he disappeared inside.

Chapter seventy

Ritchie was in Bertha’s room five minutes. Walter heard muffled conversation inside. The door opened and Ritchie beckoned him in.

He had never met anyone aged one hundred and five, and at that age, she was entitled to look old. Old but dignified, sitting up straight in bed, packs of pillows behind her neck and back. Thin to the point of emaciation, her hair white as snow, sitting on her shoulders, a dash of pink lipstick on her wrinkled mouth.

She tried a smile at the big man loitering in the doorway, saying with a croaky voice, ‘Come in, I won’t bite. Take a seat.’

The men exchanged a glance. Ritchie bobbed his head in encouragement as Walter sat down.

‘Come closer,’ she said, ‘so I can see you.’

Walter stood, picked up the chair and placed it nearer to the bed.

‘That’s better.’

She shifted her hazy gaze to Ritchie, waved a dismissive hand and said, ‘You can go, Ritchie, we have business to discuss.’

He had thought he might loiter and listen, but the queen of Grey Gables dismissed him and he wasn’t about to argue. After he’d gone, she said, ‘Nice boy, though forgetful. He gets confused sometimes, but he can be a hoot.’

Walter nodded and brought the conversation back on track.

‘He says you know or knew Pamela Grayson?’

‘No, I never met the woman.’

‘But you knew the family?’

‘No, not really.’

Walter thought it could be another dead end.

‘It’s a long story. Do you mind if we start at the beginning?’

‘Be my guest. It’s usually the best place. Is it okay if I record the conversation? My memory is not as good as it once was.’

She grinned and said, ‘You want to watch that. It could be early onset. You might end up in here with me,’ and she let go a girlish giggle.

Walter grinned a laughed response, produced his phone, and repeated the question. ‘Okay if I record?’

‘If you want. I have never been recorded before. Another first in my long life.’

Walter set the phone going and placed it on the side of the bed.

‘The war,’ she said. ‘The damned war.’ She clarified in case he wasn’t good on wars. ‘World War II. I was waiting and hoping to go in the WAAFS, working in Aggie Weston’s tea bars on the Liverpool docks, serving all sorts. Dockers, stevedores, counter-offs, lorry drivers, layabouts, troops coming and going, navy wallahs, and they were the cheekiest and the most handsome. They carried a devil-may-care attitude we found endearing. They knew what they were heading into every time they sailed out of the Mersey, damned subs, sneaking around beneath them, blowing up ships, sending tens of thousands of men to their doom, but they never let it affect them. I don’t think anyone had any idea how many ships and people we lost in the early years of the war. Catastrophic, it was. Blown up, shot to bits, sunk, drowned, perished. Still don’t, if you ask me.’

‘And you met a handsome sailor and kept in touch?’

‘No, that’s the funny thing. I dreamt of meeting an attractive navy man like my dad, but it was an army boy who took my eye. From the Cheshire Regiment, a smart lot, but shivering in their summer clothes, on a cold, wet and windy day. I remember it well, dank and drizzly.’

‘Don’t tell me. Was it a Mr Grayson?’

‘No, silly, nothing like that. You are going too fast. Let me tell you how it was.’

‘Sorry, please do. Carry on.’

She took a breath and said, ‘His name was Leo, Leo Moorland, and the funny thing was he wasn’t anything remarkable. He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t broad, and he definitely didn’t look like a Hollywood film star, but there was something indefinable about him. I think it was his youth-like cheek. He was a year younger than me, the youngest there, with his twinkling eyes. I will remember how those eyes shone on that first day until I meet my maker.’

She paused for a moment, miles and miles and years and years away.

‘Go on,’ urged Walter.

She returned to the present. ‘Do you know what he did?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘He gave me a pre-prepared note. He had made a supply of them.’

‘Saying?’

‘His full name and address. He lived here in Rock Ferry, just up the road. Can you believe it?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, eager to relay her words. ‘He asked me to write to him, bold as brass, and me, a complete stranger. It was almost an order, the cheeky monkey. Lots of blokes begged me to write, but none of them did it like Leo. I knew from that moment I would. I think I wrote my first letter within the week. I didn’t even need a stamp. We lived in Tranmere, a few minutes away, so I saved the postage, and wandered down to their house and slipped it through the door. To tell the truth, I was being nosy. I wanted to see what kind of place he lived in. Bigger terrace it was, well kept, on the other side of Victoria Park, nicely painted, looking cheerful, as I imagined him in there.’

‘Did he write back?’

‘Eventually, though it was weeks later. I had no idea where he was, but later I discovered he sailed all the way round Africa to get into the desert to fight against that horror, Rommel.’

‘Erwin Rommel,’ said Walter. ‘The best German general, they say.’

‘That’s him! How did you know?’

‘Lots of men collect and read war history books, Bertha. It isn’t unusual.’

She nodded again and said, ‘I guess,’ as if she had lost her thread.

Walter prompted her, ‘And he survived the war?’

‘By the skin of his teeth! Captured he was, at Tobruk. They took him across the Mediterranean Sea in a smelly tub, locked below deck, attacked by the RAF, Leo said, until they landed in Greece.’

‘And after that?’

‘Dragged him all the way to Silesia, that’s in Poland, and put him to work in the freezing cold in the salt mines. The swine. He said they stayed on that damned train for a week with little to eat or drink. It was the start of three and a half years captivity, minimal rations, always cold, and it took it out of them. My Leo was only a slight fellow, and it didn’t do him any good. It was long after the war before he put on any decent weight, and the nightmares, well, they persisted until his death. Dreadful they were. He would wake at night, shouting and bawling, dripping in sweat. Wars play hell with any man, or woman, come to that.’

‘And you and Leo kept on writing?’

‘We did. Delivery became slower, with him in enemy hands. He was a wonderful writer, and I looked forward to and loved his letters to bits, but sometimes a month or two would drift by, blank times when I would doubt him, with never a word. I kept all his letters. I still have them, little treasures they are, here, locked in a case in the wardrobe. I can’t imagine being parted from them. I think they will accompany me into the big fire. He told me he kept all mine, but one day towards the end of the war, a small detachment of German troops visited the salt mine and searched everything, looking for weapons and explosives. They thought it was a resistance hotbed, but they were wrong. He had a hiding place in a false back to one of the dorm cupboards, but they found it. Leo later said someone betrayed them, perhaps for a handful of decent food or a pack of fags. Either way, my letters to him went missing. They seized them, and Leo never saw them again. He was mortified, and told me my letters were the only thing that kept him going. When he was lonely or down, he’d get them out and read them again. When I showed him all of his, he was so upset he couldn’t produce mine, he broke down. I think he felt ashamed, I guess he imagined I thought he had thrown them away or burnt them, though I never thought that. I knew how precious they were to him, just as his were to me.’

‘I understand. Your letters helped to see him through.’

Bertha smiled at the big man. He was easy to talk to, his voice to die for, and he looked better than on the telly. She felt she could tell him anything, and she would say more. She harboured secrets, as so many abandoned young women did during the war, though nothing too scandalous or dreadful. For a moment, she looked guilty as those memories returned.

‘When you are twenty, with everything going on, you know what I mean, three and a half years feels like a lifetime. There were so many days when I wondered if I would ever see him again, whether he would survive, and even if he did, when we met, would I like him, and would he like me? People grow out of things, don’t they? People change.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘I reckon he was looking forward to that day more than any other day in his life.’

She smiled at the thought. ‘Perhaps you are right, I hope so, but in the meantime, I got into the WAAFS, chuffed to bits I was, because many didn’t. I was transferred south as a plotter, doing hectic work, up all hours monitoring the blighters coming over, dropping their stinking bombs, getting our aircrew into the air as quick as possible, making certain they showed up in the right place, protecting our boys as best we could.’

Her rheumy eyes moistened as she shook her head and began again.

‘There was one chap I was keen on. So good looking. He could have had any of us. Harry Boland, his name, came from a flash house down in Gloucester. Not that I ever saw it. He liked me too, I know that, and if nothing else, he was good to practise on,’ and she giggled again. ‘Oh, listen to me, only kissing, I can assure you, nothing more, other than heavy cuddles, and just when I thought he would ask me to marry him, he announced in such a cold way he was marrying none other than the senior WAAF officer, a ridiculous woman by the name of Glenda Fender. She adored ordering people round, and later I imagined Harry must enjoy being told what to do. I’ll be honest with you, Inspector, I lost sleep worrying about it, writing and telling Leo if I had become engaged to Harry. I imagined he would have been mortified. Living in captivity with all the privations they suffered, I think it would have knocked the stuffing out of him. Harry Boland did me a big favour when he turned me down. Though I admit it was hard pretending I wasn’t upset, as if I didn’t care, because I did. It took me months to banish him from my mind, but these things have a habit of blowing through, don’t they? Especially when you are young. Plenty more fish in the sea, my mother used to say, or pilots in the sky, in my case.’

Walter folded his arms, and she imagined he was becoming weary.

‘Oh, listen to me, I must be boring the pants off you. I admit, I can be a chatterbox.’

‘Not at all,’ said Walter. ‘I’m enjoying your story. Take your time. Tell it as it is. I am in no hurry.’

Walter’s desire to yawn disappeared.

‘Are you married, Inspector?’

‘No, no one would have me,’ and for an instant Marina Moo forced her way into his head, and he wondered where she was and who she was with, and what they were doing.

‘I don’t believe that, not for a moment. Want me to fix you up? There are lots of available women coming and going through this place, and some of them are ravishing,’ and she laughed at the thought.

‘Thanks, but I like to plough my own furrow.’

‘I’ll bet you do. Can I tell you about what happened when Leo came home?’

‘Sure. I’d love to hear.’

She smacked her lips and began again. ‘It was the most nervous and exciting day of my life, well, maybe other than our wedding night, when we went to Barmouth on our honeymoon. Jeez, that’s a long way to go in an old and rickety charabanc, but that is another story you don’t want to hear.’

‘Go on. Tell me about Leo.’

‘Well, he endured a hellish journey getting to Silesia, and an even worse one getting back. Truck, train, though the railway lines were often bent and buckled beyond use, so they had to keep getting off and walking along the broken rails until they came to another piece of useable track. Then a plane dumped them at a Hampshire airport in the New Forest, and another long overnight rail journey to Chester. Yes, it was right here in Chester,’ raising her hand in that general direction, ‘where I hoped to set eyes on him for the first time in almost four years, and only the second time I had ever met the bloke. I was so het up that day, dressed in my WAAF uniform, waiting at the main Chester station with hundreds of others, wives, girlfriends, and nervous mothers who had imagined countless times they would never see their precious sons again. All of us hoping and praying the train would arrive and set our menfolk down as if by magic.’

‘Go on,’ whispered Walter.

‘Several young women couldn’t contain themselves and ran to the end of the platform, gazing down the line, hoping to get the first glimpse of the puffing Billy steam loco hauling them home. They gave the first hint they were coming. Those girls shrieked with joy. I’ll admit I thought of joining them, as their voices zipped back: It’s coming! The train! It’s coming. They are here! and they ran back, faces flushed, adjusting their Sunday best clothing to look as good as they could. The train came to a standstill with a hefty clank, a major wheeze, and an explosion of steam above our heads. The carriage doors were flung open, the crowd cheered, people were crying, and men stepped down. They didn’t look well. None of them did. Hundreds of men on that train, crammed in like sardines, and some of us started calling out names. Gerry Wishart, Micky Snape, and all the rest. It still fills me up to think about it eighty years later. Memories like that never fade with age, they grow stronger, and always will.’

‘Was Leo on the train?’

She sniffed away a tear, unable to speak, before bobbing her head.

Chapter seventy-one

Bertha Cody glanced round for a drink of water and a paper handkerchief. She took a sip, blew her nose, eased back into the pillows and looked across at the patient man.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I am going to have to take a nap.’

‘Oh,’ he said, trying not to sound impatient. ‘Do you want me to come back in the morning?’

‘No, nothing like that. Just a quick catnap. I’ll be back with you in twenty minutes, thirty at most. Why don’t you go and see Ritchie? Get him to make you some tea and come back in half an hour.’

Walter stood up, grabbed the phone, paused it, and said, ‘It’s a date. Be back in thirty. Pleasant dreams,’ and he left her to it, not hearing her response.

‘It’s not that kind of sleep, Inspector.’

He found Ritchie in the same room, playing another game of chess against himself. Walter volunteered to take black, and they began.

‘She’s having a catnap,’ said Walter. ‘Says she will be awake in half an hour, though I doubt she will stir before breakfast.’

‘No!’ insisted Ritchie. ‘She does that all the time. If she says she will be awake, take it from me, she will. How are you getting on?’

‘Slowly but surely.’

‘What does she say about Pamela Grayson?’

‘Nothing, we haven’t reached that part yet.’

‘Blimey, you must have the patience of a saint.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Fancy another coffee and another buttie?’

‘You got it,’ and Ritchie left him to it.

More coffee and sandwiches downed, with Ritchie gaining the upper hand in the war on the board, Walter flicked his wrist and saw he had been away for thirty-three minutes.

‘More than half an hour. I’d better check on her.’

Ritchie wasn’t disappointed. It gave him time to study his endgame, as he said, ‘Call me if you need me,’ and Walter left him to it.

He tapped on Bertha’s door.

‘Come in.’

He went in, closed the door, and sat down, started the phone and set it on the bed. He glanced across at her. She looked better, refreshed lipstick, more erect in the bed.

She sighed and said, ‘I realise you want to know about the Grayson connection, but I must tell the story as it happened.’

‘I understand, and I told you. I am in no hurry.’

‘Very well. When I set eyes on Leo, it was only the second time I had seen him, I was shocked. To begin with, I didn’t recognise him. He was never a well-built man, but he had lost so much weight. His hair, which before was neat and modern, was dishevelled, cut, but not by anyone who knew what they were doing, and his sparkling eyes had dulled and retreated a touch into his head. I felt so sorry for him. Right there, he looked a beaten man, though when he saw me sporting my new uniform, his eyes reignited as he strode over and gave me the biggest hug any girl is entitled to.’

Walter nodded and said, ‘It must have been amazing.’

‘It was. You are right. Well, to cut a long story short, we had to get used to each other, and we did. All the returnees were awarded six weeks’ leave, told to go home, take it easy, eat as much food as rationing allowed, and recuperate. We had that time to work things out, and we did. I grabbed compassionate leave, and after that we met every day. Two days before he was due to go back, he asked me to marry him. I confess I had doubts, but by then he looked better. A decent haircut, regular if limited food; the sparkle in his eyes returning, and I said yes, and never once regretted it.’

‘And you married?’

‘Not straight away. He received his papers, ordering him back to base, this time to Donnington near Stafford, which was not too bad, not so far away, but you won’t believe what they told him when he arrived.’

‘I can’t imagine. Go on.’

‘They said the returnees had enjoyed a long enough break. They were back as regular soldiers, put on added rations to build them up, and though the war with Germany was over and won, the damned Japs were still fighting. The officers made it clear, once they were deemed fit and ready for service, Leo and the Cheshire Regiment would be shipped to the Far East to fight the blinking Japs. What a nightmare. Quite unbelievable.’

‘I can’t imagine how you must have felt.’

‘Yes, I’d just got him back, only to lose him again.’

Walter sat back in his chair and scratched his bristly chin.

‘How did that turn out?’

‘They put them on manoeuvres, retraining on the latest field guns, and word came down they would leave for India in two weeks. Later he told me the plan was to go up through eastern India, to chase the Japs out of Indo-China. Leo was dreading it, I can tell you. I think he thought he had been lucky to make it through the first round, and didn’t fancy fighting in the jungle.’

‘I can understand. So, what happened?’

‘The Americans happened. They sorted it out once and for all. Dropped those atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It must have been beyond terrible for the poor people there, but think how many of our good boys would have been lost if the war in the Far East had dragged on? It doesn’t bear thinking about. We didn’t start it, remember? So, to cut a long story short, to everyone’s huge relief, the plan to ship the Cheshires east was binned, and a month later, Leo Moorland and I married, and I became Mrs Moorland, and it was the happiest day of my life.’

‘I’m pleased for you. And the Grayson connection?’

‘I’m coming to that. I know I have dallied, but we are nearly there,’ and she paused to think on her words, shuffling fading memories into the correct order to tell the police officer the little she knew.

She took a good breath and said, ‘You must understand, Leo was never the same when he came home. Oh, with better food and lots of training and good healthy fresh air, he improved on the outside, though inside, things were different. He struggled to sleep, and over time the nightmares grew worse.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not long after, he developed type one diabetes, and was invalided out. The doctors said the cold and hard time he faced in Poland brought it on. I can’t comment on that. I am not a doctor, but he found a job delivering groceries from an old grey van throughout the Wirral and down to Chester. He didn’t enjoy it, but it brought in a regular wage, meagre though it was. We were happy enough with our two boys, Archie and Johnny, though sad to say, they are both long gone. Archie in a motorbike accident, and John suffered a fatal heart attack in 1990 within months of each other. John never looked after his diet, became overweight and paid the price. I warned him enough times.’

Bertha yawned, and it teased a yawn from Walter. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to four in the morning. Still dark out.

He said, ‘Would you like to call it a day? Have a good rest and take it up again tomorrow?’

‘No, I’d rather keep going. Put it to bed, so to speak. So long as you are good to continue?’

‘I’ll listen for as long as you keep talking.’

She smiled, happy at his answer, and began again.

‘When men come back from war, often, they don’t talk about their experiences. Leo was the same. He always changed the subject when he was asked about it, even his boys, who were desperate to know everything their dad had seen and done. You know what boys are like? Adore war, the perishers.’

‘That’s normal.’

‘That’s as maybe, but his wartime experiences insisted on bubbling to the surface, revealing themselves in terrible dreams, and as Leo became sick through diabetes and one or two other things, I think he realised he would never live to see old age. In his unguarded moments he began revealing snippets, sometimes happy to tell me, other times regretting trawling up such tragic thoughts.’

Bertha went quiet and pursed her lips as if those memories haunting her husband inflicted pain.

Walter gave her a moment before saying, ‘Can you share what he said?’

‘I don’t want to! But I will, because if I don’t tell you, I will never tell anyone, and those memories, awful as they are, will be forgotten and buried forever. I reckon Leo deserves to have his war memories remembered.’

‘If you are sure.’

‘I am sure. I don’t know everything, only by piecing the fragments together can I tell you as much as I can. It began in the desert campaign. To be honest, I think it was an ongoing thing, a personal dispute between two men that first broke out soon after they sailed from Canada Dock in Liverpool.’

Bertha looked across at him and the tiny skinny phone on her blanket, recording everything they said. She recalled massive tape-recorders from the sixties, and the boys recording the top twenty on Pick of the Pops on Sunday afternoon, Alan Freeman’s slick voice bringing the latest hits into every home for free. She glanced at the phone. It seemed amazing the sliver-like machine could record everything they said.

‘The dispute rumbled on, persuading many to be in one camp or the other. People took sides, Leo said, and I couldn’t tell who was on which side, but I know the two main protagonists were Robert, Bob, Frost, and Donald Grayson.’

‘Related to Pamela?’

‘I think so, grandad, going on the arithmetic.’

‘Can you tell me more?’

‘I can. Robert Frost lost his life in the desert in 1941, shortly before Leo and his mates were captured. Years later, just before he died, Leo told me, Robert was not killed by Germans, but murdered by one of our own.’

‘You mean, Donald Grayson?’

‘I think so, yes. You will need to check. I don’t know if you can, but I hope it helps. It’s beyond terrible what happened to that young woman in her own flat, but there’s a reason for it. It isn’t a random killing. I’m convinced of that.’

‘Thanks, Bertha, let’s leave it there, and maybe have one last chat tomorrow.’

‘As you wish. I am amazed you have stayed awake as long as you have.’

‘Good stories and good books always keep me awake.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they do.’

Chapter seventy-two

Walter went to the small window. He glanced at his watch. Five in the morning, dawn breaking. The room looked out over the combined rear garden, the dawn chorus in full swing.

Low streaks of golden yellow light bathed the trees. Recently planted silver birch, a lone surviving towering monkey puzzle tree from when the houses were built. A curling narrow gravel path weaved through the trees and borders, a sensory garden, ample seats dotted around, a fine place to sit and think and remember.

Walter said, ‘What a beautiful garden,’ and he turned back to Bertha Cody.

She had slipped a little down the bed, her breathing long and slow, and he guessed she would not wake for hours. A framed photo on the wall caught his eye. A professional black-and-white picture of her in her prime, in RAF uniform, thick black hair caressing her shoulders. Next to the photo, four World War II be-ribboned medals, plus another awarded by Kent County Council, the dedication saying: A little something for protecting the people of Kent.

Time to go. He let himself out and closed the door.

Downstairs, Ritchie and Lovely were standing by the reception desk, talking in whispers, their faces lit up and happy.

Ritchie tore his eyes from the girl and said, ‘How did you get on?’

‘Pretty good. She’s asleep. I’ll try and call back this afternoon.’

‘Want us to order a cab?’

‘That would be great,’ and Lovely jumped on the phone, a cab company number stuck on the rear of the desk, after the medical centre and pharmacy, the most oft used number.

It took a while in coming, but at that hour, what did anyone expect? Walter used the time to wander round the spacious reception area. He stopped by a large framed photograph of the founder and owner, Mr Harold Crump, a potted history of the man and the building beneath.

Once in the cab, Walter thought of going home. He desperately needed sleep, but went to the station. 6am. First of the day mob in. He sent copies of the audio file to Karen, Martin, and Mrs West, and left a note on Martin’s desk.

Listen to the file. You’re the army expert. Get hold of the service records for Leo Moorland. He’s Bertha’s first husband, Donald Grayson, and Robert (Bob) Frost. All served in the Cheshire Regiment during the war and both were captured at or near Tobruk, around 1941.

On Mrs West’s desk, he left another note.

Been up all night chatting with Bertha Cody, Mrs Moorland, as was. It seems there was bad blood concerning the Grayson and Frost families going back several generations. Martin is digging into army history. Be back later.

He let himself out and strolled across the city to the bus station to jump the first bus out, taking him to the end of his road. A beautiful summer morning, not a cloud in the sky, sparse early traffic buzzing round like eager bees, a good day to be alive. For most of the trip, he was the only passenger. Fifteen minutes later, he let himself into his home. All quiet, the air cool and still. He heaved himself up the stairs, undressed to zero, and fell into his large comfortable bed.

If the blackbirds, song thrushes, a solitary robin, and three squabbling magpies imagined they could keep him awake, they were kidding themselves.

He came round at half-past one and felt much better. Washed and changed and slipped on a crisp clean shirt, a different tie, jacket and trouser combo. He didn’t feel hungry. Maybe the double helping of Wensleydale sandwiches had done their thing. But he made a thick slice of toast anyway, and a pot of tea, before ordering another cab to take him back to Rock Ferry.

On the way he stopped off at Bestdas and bought the biggest bunch of supermarket flowers they produced, along with a thick bar of milk chocolate, and a Thank-You card that every time it opened, said aloud, ‘Thanks a Lot! Thanks a Lot!’ He thought it funny the first time, though its attraction soon palled.

At Grey Gables, the front door was unlocked, and he went through to the cavernous hall. Busy in there, nurses and care workers, a doctor or two, with another assistant showing prospective clients around, all strangers to him.

‘Oh yes,’ he heard the sales lady say, ‘there are always three choices of dinner. No expense spared,’ the words floating across the room. Lucky them.

A different girl womanned the reception desk, Filipina, or similar. Walter told her who he was, flashed ID in support, said he spoke with Bertha Cody the previous night, and had a few more questions.

She looked stern and went on the phone. For a moment, he wondered if Bertha had passed away. But no, thank goodness, the pretty face brightened and said, ‘Yes, she will see you in ten minutes, but you can’t take the flowers up.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Flowers are no longer welcomed in hospitals or nursing homes. They can spread disease and create more work for hard-pressed nursing staff. I’ll get a vase if you like, and we could set them up on that fine table over there, close to the founder’s photo.’

‘Okay, seems a decent compromise, but can I at least take them up to show Bertha?’

The girl grimaced and said, ‘Okay, if you must. You’ll get me shot. Please make sure you bring them down again.’

He smiled, nodded, and kicked his heels, waiting to be summoned upstairs; and right on time she gave him the go-ahead.

Walter flashed a smile and headed for the lift, remembering how taxing the stairs were. As he ascended, he thought of Ritchie and Lovely, and wondered where they were. Maybe they were curled up together. Ritchie might have got lucky. But if they were dog-tired, as he guessed they were, there could be comfort and pleasure in sleeping with someone you cared for, even if it didn’t go any further.

He knocked on Bertha’s door. She called him in. He went inside. There was no one else there. More pink lipstick and someone had brushed her wispy hair.

‘I bought you these,’ he said, flourishing the bouquet. ‘A little thank you. I had to smuggle them past the flower police.’

She giggled and said, ‘Not allowed in the rooms anymore.’

‘So I believe. They are going in a large cut-glass vase the kind lady produced. Oh, and this…’ handing over the chunk of choc.

‘Ooh, great, they will all want to know me now.’

‘I am sure they want to know you anyway.’

She didn’t reply.

‘And this,’ handing her the sealed card, Walter’s scrawled BERTHA on the front in big letters.

‘Not sure what I’ve done to deserve this,’ as she looked happy and opened the card.

‘Thanks a Lot! Thanks a Lot! Thanks a Lot!’

She couldn’t stop opening it, grinning and giggling every time.

‘No one’s brought me stuff in twenty years. I only have the one grandchild, and he is, what shall we say, not interested. I think I embarrass him. I could see it in his eyes on the one occasion he deigned to visit.’

‘More fool him.’

Walter pulled the chair closer to the bed, produced his phone and set it to record.

‘I have one or two more questions, if that is okay?’

‘After bringing me this booty, I can hardly say no. Go on, ask away.’

Walter paused before saying, ‘Did Leo mention anything about the comrades he was captured with?’

‘Yes, though I’m not sure I can remember them.’

‘Will you try?’

She scrunched up her lined face.

‘Harry Worthington. I remember that name. I think he married a Polish girl. That’s why I remember.’

‘Did this Harry return to Poland after the war?’

‘No, I think he smuggled her out with him. I can’t imagine how. Can’t remember any others.’

Walter nodded encouragement and said, ‘Do you remember anything else about the day he was caught?’

She exhaled hard and long and glanced over his shoulder at the window, before saying, ‘Now you are asking. It was in some kind of gully in the sand, a dried-up river, I think he said. The Germans chased them down the gully, boxed them in at both ends, and there was no escape. If there was any way of getting out, Leo would have found it. He was never a man to submit to anything without a fight.’

‘Sounds horrific. Anything else?’

She scratched her pallid cheek and said, ‘Now you mention it, there was something. Leo told me one of their troop acquired a German pistol. A Luger, I think he said. He didn’t know where it came from, but a long time later, Grayson mentioned he made a mistake in burying it. That’s all I remember.’

Walter said another thank you, and pointing to the flowers, said, ‘I’d better take those downstairs. They will be there for you whenever you want to see them.’

‘Yes,’ she said, knowing she never visited the ground floor. She would lose the flowers just like she had lost everything else.

He glanced back at the framed picture and said, ‘I love your medals.’

‘Thanks. Leo did that for me. They didn’t mean much to me at the time, but now, they mean everything. I’m proud of what we did. Every single one of us. We were a great generation. I’m leaving them to my grandson. Maybe they might wake him from his torpor. Just hope he doesn’t flog them for a few quid.’

‘And you were quite a stunner, weren’t you? No wonder half the Cheshire Regiment wanted you to write.’

‘Kind of you to say, Inspector, but the truth is, we are all beautiful when we are young.’

Before he slipped away, he watched her tearing into the chocolate, as she asked if he would consider visiting again. She never received visitors and so enjoyed talking to him.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I can do that,’ as he clutched the bouquet and stood in the doorway.

‘Anything else I can bring?’

A naughty look crossed her face.

‘A small bottle of whisky would be nice. Scotch!’

He smiled and winked and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ and then he was gone.

Chapter seventy-three

It was gone four o’clock by the time Walter returned to the station. He went straight through to see Mrs West.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Not bad. Bertha doesn’t remember much more, and that’s no surprise, seeing as it was over eighty years ago, but she gave me another name, one Harry Worthington.’

‘All grist to the mill. Do you believe Pamela’s murder has something to do with what went on in the desert all those years ago?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am, but it’s possible. Have we got anything better?’

He almost said have you got anything better, but stopped himself.

‘Okay, well done. Go and see Martin. I think he’s made progress.’

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ and he stood up and hustled out to quiz Martin.

Before Marty could speak, Walter said, ‘I have another name for you. Harry Worthington. Same regiment, same battalion, same incident. He was captured along with the others. He met a Polish girl while in captivity and brought her back to England. Married her, I think, so there could be descendants in the mix if we need more people to quiz.’

‘Excellent. I am building up a Cheshire Regiment 6th Battalion family tree, plus progeny. Makes interesting reading.’

‘Good man, crack on, and come and see me when you are done.’

Martin nodded and got his head down, as Walter returned to his place to find Karen gazing across the desks.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d eloped with Mrs Moo.’

‘Don’t be daft. Been a bit hectic. Did you get the audio file?’

‘I did. Makes interesting listening.’

Walter took a breath and said, ‘There’s something in it, I’m sure.’

At half-past five, Martin came over.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘wanna come over to my place and see where we are? Every time I build family trees, I need a bigger piece of paper, and I am going to have to do it again. I wouldn’t mind, but none of these people have produced more than two kids. Imagine how it would look if they had five or six. It’s amazing how quick the diagram fans out.’

‘Always the way,’ said Walter, standing and following him back to Martin and Jenny’s space, Karen tagging along, eager to be involved.

They stared down at the boxes and connecting lines, as Martin said, ‘Where do you want to start?’

Walter answered. ‘The Moorland mob might be a good place.’

‘Fair enough,’ and Martin pointed with his clear ruler to the top of the page. They all gazed at the tree, falling down from Leo and Bertha, via Archie and Johnny, both dead, to Richard Moorland, Johnny’s son, as far as they knew, still alive, aged forty-eight.

Karen said, ‘1990 was a dreadful year for the family. Both boys dying.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Walter. ‘Archie in a motorbike accident on the Barmouth road, and Johnny suffering a heart attack through over-eating, according to Bertha.’

Darren and Kate monitored the busy ensemble and wandered over, keen to listen. Two minutes later, Ricky Greaves and Shirley Woodruff came in after checking on an independent garage who’d been accused of clocking cars. They muscled in too, eager to hear what was going down.

Walter pointed to the Grayson tree and said, ‘Donald Grayson was serving in the desert in World War II. Bertha said Leo told her from the off, Grayson had a running feud with Bob Frost,’ pointing to the Frost tree. ‘Much later, just before a group of British soldiers were captured near Tobruk, the ill-feeling or outright hatred between Frost and Grayson blew up again. Grayson, Leo Moorland and others were taken prisoner by the Jerries. We know nothing more, except Bob Frost was injured and later reported dead, aged twenty-eight.’

Martin nodded and said, ‘The Army confirmed Robert Frost died on the same day the others were taken into captivity.’

Darren said, ‘Anyone could have killed him. There was a massive war going on.’

‘That is correct, Darren,’ said Walter, ‘but Bertha is pointing us towards the killing being carried out by one of ours. She said Leo intimated as much.’

A couple of minutes earlier, Mrs West left her office and sidled up to listen. She studied Martin’s neat work, and pointing down, said, ‘According to your diagram, Christian Frost is forty-nine, and has two boys of his own.’

Martin said, ‘Correct, ma’am, but they are only eighteen and fourteen.’

Walter said, ‘Old enough to kill, as we have seen all too often lately.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Mrs West. ‘In that case, bring in the three Frost males. Make sure they do not speak to each other, and when they are here, ask if they have an alibi for the night of the murder.’

Walter understood the urgency, but if it were up to him, he would have preferred to look into their background before leaping in, but it was her decision, and if she wanted to go full-on aggressive-mode he would run with it.

Jenny’s brow creased as she looked round the table and said, ‘Do we believe one of the Frost men, or one man and two teens, have committed murder in revenge for something shady done to one of their forebears, eighty-five years ago. Does that sound credible?’

‘Unlikely, but possible,’ said Walter. ‘And remember, we have not pinned down a decent prime suspect, and that could be because we have been looking in the wrong place.’

‘And the wrong century,’ added Darren.

Mrs West said, ‘And that, children, is why we are going to bring the Frosty people in. Grill them, grill them hard, and if they do not possess a cast-iron alibi for Pam’s murder, we will get a search warrant and turn over their house like it has never been cleaned before.’

Ricky Greaves said, ‘Where do they live?’

‘Saltney,’ said Martin, ‘they have always lived in the area.’

Mrs West flicked her wrist and said, ‘Right! It’s half-past six. Perfect timing. Dinner time. They should all be there. Three cars, Darren and Kate in one, Ricky and Shirley in another, and Martin and Jenny the third.’

‘One’s under age,’ said Walter.

‘I’m aware of that. Correct procedures will be followed. You get away and bring them in while we work out who is interviewing who.’

Jenny said, ‘And if they ask why they are being apprehended?’

Mrs West frowned before saying, ‘We need their help on a serious matter, and leave it at that. All must be cautioned before questioning begins. Everybody clear? Any questions?’

There were none, and ten minutes later, three unmarked cars left for Saltney, hoping to find a murderer, or murderers with their guards down, eating their evening chow.

Karen sat back and sighed.

‘What’s up, kid?’ said Walter.

‘This smells like a wild turkey chase. Do you really think anyone would risk their entire future freedom and happiness for a murder that may or may not have occurred eighty-five years ago?’

‘It’s been done for less, Greenwood, and as ma’am said, do we have anything better? The answer is no. Bertha seems convinced of skulduggery, and thank heavens she is still alive or we would never have got this far.’

‘Bertha Williams is one hundred and five, and no doubt confused to the point of being on the border of doodle-alley.’

‘No, she may be old, but I thought she came across as a credible witness. She sleeps a lot, that is true, but her thought processes are that of a woman thirty years younger.’

Karen smiled and said, ‘I’ll bet you a whopping twenty pound note none of the Frost family is charged with Pamela’s murder.’

‘And I am in a good mood today, thankful to be alive, and I am going to take that bet. Write it in the book and make sure it’s in code. We wouldn’t want certain people getting hold of that nugget during any court case.’

‘There isn’t going to be a court case, Guv, featuring the Frosts.’

‘Time, as they say, will tell. I think you are wrong.’

Chapter seventy-four

On the day Pamela Grayson was murdered, late evening, two men in an aging saloon approached Cuppin Street in Chester, a narrow one-way road, an estate agent on the left, a modern bar opposite.

Warm and humid, the day had been sunny and hot, and the aircon in the car was playing up. The older man, sweating, the younger guy driving, keeping his cool.

‘Bloody aircon,’ whinged the older one, ‘always lets you down when you need it.’

‘You should get a new car.’

A great idea, with no explanation of how to pay for it.

Further down the street, on the right side, well-established red brick houses, parking spaces, residents only, all pointing the same way, and all taken. On the opposite side, yellow park-here-at-your-peril double lines.

They cruised along, dead slow, a 20 mph max limit sign on the left, passing Regiment House, also on the left. At the far end, the tarmac bent right, with on the left, a rear entrance for judges and barristers to the modern Magistrates’ Court. A boxy brick building neither of them were strangers to. They turned left to stop at traffic lights, readying to go left again onto the main road.

A moment later they passed the front of the Courthouse, the name yelling out in big red letters as if a warning, an impressive Royal Coat of Arms above. On to another set of traffic lights and another roundabout, as the older man said, ‘Go round again.’

They stayed left and re-entered Cuppin Street. Up ahead, people were moving among the parked vehicles. The driver stopped, allowing not one but two cars at the front to move away, maybe going out together for a super summer sexy social occasion. The driver slipped the car into the vacant spaces and killed the engine. A perfect spot with a great view of Regiment House, maybe thirty yards ahead.

The older man said, ‘What now?’

‘We do what we came to do.’

‘It’s easy for you to say.’

‘If you won’t, I will.’

The older man grunted and thought about getting out of the car.

An approaching male walker caught their eye, dressed in casual grey, coming up Cuppin Street, checking the road was clear before skipping across.

‘Who’s this bloke?’ said the older one.

‘No idea. Looks like he’s borrowed your wardrobe,’ and the young one snorted. The older man squirmed, a mean look on his face. The stranger came on and turned right, entering the small car park. In the saloon, the young one leant hard right to get a better view. The older guy couldn’t see the stranger and said, ‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Through the gate, round the back of the building.’

‘Perhaps he lives there. We’ll give him five minutes.’

It made sense. The bloke looked like he could handle himself and the last thing they needed was a hostile getting in the way. Twenty minutes slipped by, and the stranger did not reappear.

The young guy said, ‘It’s time.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Want me to do it?’

‘No,’ and the older one in the passenger seat made ready to step out.

The young one, growing impatient, said, ‘Are we wasting our time?’

‘No! I’m going!’ and he jumped out of the car, crossed the road, and walked down towards the front entrance, readying to ring the bell.

The young guy watched him go, circular sweat stains under the T-shirt armpits. At the door, a long-haired woman stepped out. They exchanged nervous smiles. The woman held the door open. The man nodded a thank you and went inside, and she left. The door sprang closed, and the woman hustled away.

The young driver remained alert. Five minutes passed when he clocked a large dark executive saloon schmoozing down the street in the late evening sunshine. One lone male occupant, clean-cut guy, late thirties, early forties, his best guess, and he wondered who he was and what he was about. Perhaps he was calling on a lover, or picking someone up. Perhaps he was a copper.

The flash car crawled down the street and the young guy made a mental note of the registration. He had a thing for numbers. A hopeless pupil at school, failed everything, except maths. Minutes evaporated before the same car with the same driver circled by again. What was he doing?

It slowed and stopped by the Regiment House car park. The stranger gawped to the left, studying the cars, checking who was home, not noticing the young driver sitting, waiting and watching. The exec car moved off, and he didn’t see it again.

The waiting driver wondered what was happening inside. Another five minutes slipped by before the older guy was spat out through the main front door. He hurried back towards the car, serious face, arms swinging, and in the next second, jumped in.

‘What happened?’

‘The woman saw me. Too risky.’

‘And?’

The older guy shook his head and remained silent.

‘Bloody useless!' muttered the young one. ‘I'm going,' and he jumped out.

The older one watched him stride across the road to cut through the car park. A second later, he was out of sight, around the back of the flats.

Ten minutes dragged by. Nothing happened. The older guy glanced in the nearside wing mirror. A car approached from behind. A neat Cayton Cerisa, one woman up, ultra short hair, pale skin, the person they wanted to see.

She eased past and turned left into the crammed car park, sliding into her designated space. Anyone daring to park there risked their vehicle being seized, with a monumental fine and costs to dissuade trespassers and chancers.

Another ten minutes crawled away. It seemed like an hour before the young guy reappeared, a grave look on his face as he hustled across the road. He opened the car door, jumped in, started the engine, and drove away in a heavy silence.

‘Well?' said the older one.

‘Shit! I'm not talking about i t!'

Minutes after they had gone, the executive car with the executive guy, dressed in the grey casual gear he preferred, returned. Spotted the empty parking space and grabbed it before anyone else. Engine off, brain on, for he guessed it would be confrontational. With Pam, it always was.

Chapter seventy-five

The Frost family sat down for dinner every night at a quarter to seven. Christian, Sheena, and the boys, Jimmy and Jacob.

They enjoyed old-fashioned food, cocking a snook at the batty healthy foody lobby. Egg, bacon, chips, sausage, and beans, most of it straight from the frying pan, and never mention cholesterol.

Sheena grabbed a Black Forest Gateau in Bestdas using her regular-customer free coupons. On the square box, in black letters, it said: serves eight. She cut it in four and minutes later the gateau ceased to exist.

Five minutes after that, the doorbell rang.

Chris said, ‘Who the hell’s that?’

Sheena pulled a face. ‘I’m not expecting anyone,’ glancing at the boys, both displaying practised teenage shrugs.

‘Don’t get up, I’ll go!’ said Sheena, shaking her head.

A moment later, she opened the front door to see not three, four or five, but six young people gathered there, wearing casual, three women, three men, resembling religious nut jobs. The lead bloke, the tallest and widest, introduced them. Damned police officers, seeking Christian, Jimmy, and Jacob.

Christian heard the kerfuffle in the hall and joined his wife. Darren smirked at him and said, ‘Hello, Mr Frost, remember me? DC Darren Gibbons. We need you and the boys to accompany us to the station to answer a few questions.’

‘What about?’

‘All will be revealed back at base.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

Martin answered. ‘No, not yet, but you could be if you refuse to come.’

Sheena said, ‘Do you have to take the young one? He’s only twelve.’

Jenny smiled at Sheena and said, ‘Mrs Frost, Jacob is fourteen, and yes, he needs to come.’

Chris said, ‘I wanna call my brief.’

‘You can do that at the station,’ said Martin, and the three Frost males were escorted from the house along with their collective indigestion, to be dumped in separate cars. Darren noticed the older boy had widened and grown taller and would be a handful in a fight.

On the way out, Chris glanced at Sheena and said, ‘See if you can get hold of Mel Miller. His number’s in the diary.’

Melvin Miller, the Chester solicitor infamous for representing more local criminals and villains than anyone else; and well known to the officers. As they trooped towards the cars, Chris shouted, ‘Tell them nothing, boys!’ and seconds later they were all seated, heading into town, leaving Sheena panicking, seeking Melvin Miller’s number.

An hour later, after all three had been cautioned, the questioning began. First, the patriarch, the argumentative Christian Frost, a man with a long record of minor misdemeanours. Repeated minor offences could make a major in many an officer’s eye.

Jenny and Martin were chuffed to lead the case. Martin switched on the technology and recited the day, date, and time, but before the officers spoke, Chris attempted to seize the initiative.

‘I’m not saying a word until my brief is here.’

Jenny said, ‘I heard that from the desk sergeant, and he is endeavouring to locate Mr Miller. He will be here as soon as he can.’

‘In the meantime,’ said Martin, ‘we will outline what we are looking into.’

‘No comment.’

‘We don’t need you to comment, Mr Frost,’ said Jenny, ‘we need you to listen, because we thought you would like to know what we are inquiring into, seeing as it is a serious matter, and affects your family.’

Chris sat back in his seat, pulled a face, exhaled hard, and said, ‘I suppose so. You can say what the hell you want. I can’t stop you.’

Jenny said, ‘Excellent. I will begin. We are examining a death that occurred in the desert over eighty years ago, when a British serviceman, an army gunner serving in the Cheshire Regiment, one Robert Frost, was reported dead in suspicious circumstances.’

Chris’s mouth fell open. ‘Eh? Really? About time you buggers showed some interest. You’re only eighty-five years too late! And by the way, he was known as Bob Frost, always Bob.’

Jenny nodded and made a note.

‘I’m an army man,’ said Martin, ‘served eight years, and we would like to know what happened to your granddad.’

‘Well, I don’t know a lot, but…’ and he remembered he had vowed to remain silent, and retreated into his shell.

‘Come now,’ said Jenny. ‘Surely you would like to assist in investigating what happened back in those troubled times. He was your granddad, after all.’

‘Troubled times! Troubled times? Is that what you call it? Every man and woman of service age called up to fight on the frontline, except those in reserved occupations. No one had any choice or any say in the matter. You received a letter. You had to go, and if you didn’t or went on the run, they’d send the bastard Red Caps after you,’ and he scowled and shook his head.

‘The country was fighting for its existence,’ said Martin. ‘You must see that.’

‘I know, I understand, but they could have called for volunteers like they did in the first big bang. People would have rallied to the colours; that’s certain. From what I know, Granddad Bob was one of the first to put his boots on.’

‘That wouldn’t have been enough,’ said Martin.

‘That’s your opinion. I think you are wrong… again.’

Jenny said, ‘What can you tell us about Bob Frost’s death?’

‘Not much. I wasn’t there.’

‘But you have some knowledge about it, don’t you?’

He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and said, ‘No comment.’

Martin said, ‘What can you tell us about Donald Grayson?’

‘Nothing! Never heard the name. No comment.’

‘Alright,’ said Jenny, ‘Let’s bring things up to date. Where were you on the night Pamela Grayson was murdered here in Chester?’

Martin recited the date, adding between 7pm and midnight.

‘Ah, I see! You have no interest in looking into what happened to my granddad. You were using that for your own ends; and now you are looking for a mug to pin the death on because you can’t find the killer.’

‘So, where were you?’

‘No comment, no comment, no comment!’

Melvin Miller didn’t turn up, too busy with his secretary, and Chris Frost said nothing further, and they swapped him for the eldest son, Jimmy. He confirmed his name and date of birth, and before Jenny finished her first question, Jimmy said, ‘No comment!’

Martin laughed and said, ‘Who do you think you are, Reggie Kray?’

‘Reggie who?’

‘An infamous gangster, but we will pass on that. Do you know anything about your great-grandfather’s death?’

‘I know a lot about it!’

‘Like what?’

‘The Jerries didn’t kill him. You know that and we know that. Everyone knew it. One of our blokes did.’

Jenny said, ‘How do you know?’

Jimmy shifted in his seat before saying, ‘Stories passed down. We don’t forget. Why do you want to know?’

‘We think it has something to do with an ongoing inquiry.’

‘Yeah? And what would that be?’

‘What do you know about Pamela Grayson?’

‘Oh, I see. I was a bit slow, wasn’t I? All you are trying to do is lure me into a crock o’shit. Crooked bastards! I am not saying anything. Where is Mel Miller, anyway? I need him here to ward off you evil buggers.’

They took a break, and the officers met for an update. Walter asked about the Frosts’ cars.

Jenny said, ‘I’ve got that. A ten-year-old saloon, and a small sporty hatchback. I have the numbers.’

Walter looked at Darren and said, ‘You and Kate, get on CCTV and see if you can spot either vehicle out and about in the city on the fateful night.’

‘Sure,’ said Darren, and he and Kate took details from Jen and made their way to their work-stations.

Anyone under seventeen in Britain interviewed by police had the right for a parent or adult to be present. Jacob, well educated in such matters, knew it and demanded his mother be brought to the station. His request was denied. Instead, a duty solicitor was rustled up, a conscientious middle-aged Welsh woman, Phyllis Evans.

Before the interview began, she whispered in Jacob’s ear, advising him to say nothing. No comment or no reply would suffice.

‘I know. I’m not stupid!’

He stuck to the script and said nothing.

They recalled young Jimmy Frost and offered him the services of the duty-sol.

‘Where’s Mel?’

‘He can’t be located.’

‘He’s probably whoring,’ said the teenager. ‘He’s known for it, the lech.’

Jenny said, ‘The Toyota Yaris, is it your mum’s car?’

‘Course not. It’s mine.’

Martin asked, ‘Do you have a driving licence?’

The kid shifted in his seat and said, ‘Course I have.’

‘A full driving licence?’

‘Well, no, not yet, but I will have. I’m a better driver than her, and the old man, come to that.’

Jenny said, ‘Where were you on the night Pamela was murdered?’

‘You asked me that before, and the answer is the same. No comment.’

It took Darren and Kate less than half an hour to come up with city-centre pics of the old saloon cruising round, circling the Magistrates’ Court. Video revealed eighteen-year-old Jimmy Frost driving, with his father at his side. Further footage showed the car entering Cuppin Street shortly before Pamela was killed.

Mrs West turned bullish. ‘It’s them, isn’t it? Too much of a coincidence. There they are, right by the building where Pamela met her end, at the correct time, and the kid’s driving without a licence.’

Walter said, ‘He had a qualified adult with him.’

‘No L-plates!’ she said.

‘True, though no doubt they will say they fell off. We need more to prove guilt.’

‘They have motive! They are avenging their grandfather. They were there at the correct time and place. The forensics people must nail it. A fingerprint or DNA in her flat, and the job is done.’

‘Agreed,’ said Walter. ‘Take their prints if we haven’t already, and get DNA and send them to Jo-Tap for matches.’

‘One thing?’ said Jenny.

‘What, Jen?’ asked Mrs West.

‘Is it the father or the son?’

‘The father. Surely it must be the father,’ said Mrs West.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Walter. ‘Either way, prints or DNA will point to the killer.’

Jo-Tap went to work, seeking corroboration, as Jacob, the youngest, was taken home to his mother. Christian and James Frost would remain in custody for as long as possible, including an overnight stay.

Chapter seventy-six

At half-past eight, Walter left the station. There was nothing more he could do there. He didn’t go home, but took a cab to Bestdas to buy a half bottle of Bell’s whisky.

He kept the cab on standby and zoomed up to Grey Gables. As before, the main door was locked. Walter buzzed the intercom. Lovely answered and in the next minute, he was inside. The flowers looked fantastic in the cut-glass vase, illuminated by a ceiling spotlight.

‘How are you?’ asked Lovely.

‘I’m great, and you?’

‘The same. Really good. Ritchie should be in the usual place if you want to go up,’ and Walter thanked her and took the lift. Lovely was right. He was in the small office, books and ledgers pushed to one side as he figured out a massive chess attack.

On seeing Walter, his eyes lit up. Anyone who could play chess to a decent standard was okay in Ritchie’s eyes. ‘Fancy a game?’

‘Maybe a quick one later. Is Bertha likely to be awake?’

‘I think she is. Go down and give it a try.’

Walter nodded and set off for room 42, where he tapped on the door.

‘Come in! You will anyway.’

She sounded miffed over something. Walter went in to see Bertha propped up in the bed.

‘Oh sorry, Inspector, I thought it was the buggers back with another needle. My poor arms resemble a pair of sieves. Now then, what can I do for you?’

He closed on the bed and produced the half bottle of scotch from his summer jacket and slipped it into her hand.

‘Ooh, you naughty man… but I love you,’ and the golden liquid disappeared beneath the covers.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing. Nowt, as you northerners say. A fair trade, you give me information and I repay the debt.’

She bobbed her head and said, ‘Suits me. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve thought of something else.’

‘About the war?’

‘Yes.’

Walter made himself comfortable and waited for Bertha.

‘There was another man whose name came back to me last night. Norman Burriton. The family came from Hoole, I remember that. An okay type of fella, but moody. You know the thing, one day he could be all over you, and the next, he might not speak at all. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he was there all the way with my Leo, Donald Grayson, and the rest. Captured in the same gully and taken to Poland. Just thought you’d like to know.’

‘I do, thanks. Did he have family?’

‘He did, but not till after the war. A single boy he doted over, Nicholas. Born in the fifties, but I don’t know any more about him. Like all the others, Norman Burriton is dead. I met him once or twice at frequent regimental reunions, and boy, they could smoke and drink. Drowning out fearful memories, I suppose. He was okay, a take him or leave him kind of bloke.’

‘I’ll check his records.’

She sighed aloud, and her eyelids fluttered. Walter took the hint, leaving her with a last comment.

‘Don’t let on I’m a booze smuggler.’

She didn’t answer, as Walter left her alone and returned to Ritchie. They played one game, another ending in stalemate, confirming how closely matched they were. Ritchie caught Walter yawning several times and said, ‘I think you need your bed, man,’ and Walter agreed.

Ten minutes later he was aboard another cab, heading home for a quick microwaved ready meal, two cans of stout, and bed.

In the morning, with everyone gathered round before questioning resumed, Walter said, ‘We’ve another name to add to the family trees.’

Darren looked at Martin and said, ‘You’re gonna need a bigger sheet,’ as Martin said, ‘Who?’

‘Norman Burriton, there in the desert, taken prisoner, and transported to Poland with Moorland, Grayson, Worthington and the rest. Had a son, Nicholas, born in the fifties.’

Mrs West said, ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I went to see Bertha Cody. She remembered him well. Said he blew hot and cold. One day friendly, the next standoffish.’

‘Plenty of those about,’ said Mrs West.

‘I’ll get on it,’ said Martin, and five minutes later, questioning of Christian Frost resumed, everyone understanding they were on the clock. Either they charged or released him, and no one wanted that.

Mrs West and Walter agreed they needed to go in hard. Show the suspects video of them outside the property at the exact time when Pamela was murdered. Why were they there? What was their purpose? They had no business in Cuppin Street, other than nefarious.

While that happened, they waited and hoped for a call from Jo-Tap, promising dab matches and DNA, and they couldn’t come soon enough.

Christian wasn’t impressed with the video, explaining it away by saying his son needed additional driving lessons before he took his test in a month’s time. Just coincidence Jimmy drove down that road on that sunny evening.

The youth had an opportunity to confirm it later, but refused, reverting to no comment, thinking it clever and cunning. He wouldn’t admit it, but he enjoyed being the centre of attention. The coppers were useless. Everyone knew that, and he was in no hurry to leave, for he was gaining a belated education. They would kick him out soon enough, for they didn’t have any solid evidence for murder.

It was only when they told him his father was likely to be charged with murder, an act of revenge for the strange killing of Christian’s grandfather, Jimmy was jolted into thinking the unthinkable.

The kid yawned and said, ‘That night, there were other dodgy blokes about. At least two, I saw. You should be looking at them. It seems Pamela had a heap of admirers, or enemies. God knows what she did to provoke it.’

Jenny said, ‘Go on. You can’t leave it there.’

Jimmy shook his head, thinking about it, before saying, ‘Alright. I don’t see any harm in telling you something, but just this once, mind. Just this once.’

Chapter seventy-seven

Jenny and Martin stared across the table at young Jimmy Frost and waited a second for him to speak. He hesitated, and they thought he might change his mind.

The kid wobbled his head and said, ‘I clocked a geezer in an executive car coming round as if he was looking for someone, or an address.’

Jenny said, ‘How many times did you see him?’

‘Two or three.’

Martin said, ‘What was he driving?’

‘German thing, darkish, BMW, Audi maybe, possibly a Merc.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Jenny said, ‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not well. Short hair, maybe late thirties, early forties, his clothing out of sight below the window line.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘I didn’t see anyone else.’

‘You think he was looking for Pamela Grayson?’

‘Why not?’

‘Did the driver stop and get out?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Go back a pace,’ said Martin. ‘If you saw this man drive round two or three times, you must have been stationery.’

Jimmy realised he had made an error. There was a reason criminals no commented. It spared them from stupid errors, and he tried hard not to let it show. ‘Yes, you’re right. We stopped for a few minutes. Dad gave me a talking to, boning up on street signs.’

‘Your father was still in the car?’

‘He was.’

‘Did he ever get out?’

Jimmy paused, blinking increased, crooked thoughts rushing through his teenage head, trying to make everything fit, reinforcing their innocence, before he lied, and the officers knew it. ‘No, he never got out.’

Martin pounced. ‘He got out, didn’t he?’

Jimmy went red in the face, not a blush, but anger rising within him.

‘Look! I am trying to help you here, not dump dad in it.’

Jenny said, ‘Where’s the help?’

‘I’m coming to that. The man in the flash motor. I can give you the car number.’

Martin said, ‘You wrote it down?’

Jimmy shook his head, back to enjoying being the centre of attention.

Jenny said, ‘How come you remember it?’

‘Easy. I was crap at school. I mean, really crap. Hated the teachers, hated the lessons, didn’t like the other pupils much, and I often didn’t go.’

‘But numbers? You like numbers?’ said Jenny.

Jimmy nodded. ‘I love numbers. It’s always been the same. I only have to see one and I remember it forever. I don’t need to write them down. I was great at maths, but the teachers had already written me off as a numbskull. Is that the word? It wasn’t me who was thick, it was them. They never once noticed I had talent, so I kept it to myself.’

Martin said, ‘What was the number?’

Jimmy repeated it with zero hesitation.

In the room next door, Walter and Mrs West said the same thing at the same moment. ‘Check it!’

Darren jumped all over that. Minutes later, they had a name and address. Nazareth Macbeth, 17 Holbeach House, Oswestry, Shropshire, the car, an eighteen-month-old silver Audi A5.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Mrs West. ‘About bloody time. Darren! Get down to Oswestry and collect the gentleman and bring him to me. If he doesn’t want to come, or offers any resistance, arrest him in connection with the murder of Pamela Grayson, and take Kate with you.’

‘My pleasure,’ and he hurried away to collect his oppo before scooting off in a smart, unmarked Volvo.

Mrs West said, ‘Progress at last.’

‘Looks like it,’ said Walter, turning to look through the glass at young Jimmy Frost. ‘So, we think Christian Frost got out of the car, and if he did, what was he doing? Did he go into the building, and if so, did he kill Pamela? Don’t forget, he has motive, odd though it is. What motive does the Nazareth character possess?’

‘That is yet to be clarified, and we are going to do precisely that.’

In the interview room, Martin looked at Jimmy and said, ‘What happened next?’

‘Not much. I learnt my stopping distances, easy peasy, numbers you see, and dad seemed happy and told me to shift, and I drove us home.’

Jenny said, ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Think carefully before you answer.’

He hesitated, images turning over in his head, and the officers knew it.

‘Well?’ said Martin. ‘What?’

‘We saw another bloke.’

‘Another man?’ said Jenny. ‘What man? Describe him.’

‘Big fella. Casual gear, on foot. He came up Cuppin Street towards us.’

‘Where’d he go?’ asked Martin.

‘Into the small car park, through the gate and round the back. We had a laugh about it.’

Martin said, ‘What was funny?’

‘He was wearing the same clobber as my dad. I told him he must have broken into ours and stolen it. Seemed funny at the time.’

Jenny said, ‘Describe him.’

‘I told you. Big fella, muscly, you know, fat biceps, looked like a gym dim to me.’

‘Hair colour?’ asked Martin.

‘Dark, from what I remember.’

Jenny said, ‘Is that it?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Coffee would be better.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Martin told the machine the interview was suspended. When they returned twenty minutes later, Jimmy Frost had been substituted for his father Christian, the steam coming off him like an enraged bull.

Chapter seventy-eight

During the break, Walter ambled away to the tech den, seeking Halli, generally accepted to be the best mind they had in his murky field.

The skinny bloke looked up from his computer and stared through dirty lenses at the main man.

‘Ah, the wanderer returneth, bringing quizzes, judging by the brown envelope he carries.’

‘Yes,’ said Walter, opening the unsealed top. ‘I need tech expertise.’

‘That’s why I am paid the big bucks. What have you got?’

‘What can you tell me about this girl?’ handing over the larger of two colour photos.

Halli smiled and said, ‘Ah, paintbox girl, a real looker. You haven’t fallen in love with her, have you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Just as well, because she doesn’t exist.’

‘It looks an actual photo to me.’

‘That’s because it’s a composite picture of other young women.’

‘AI?’

‘Correct.’

‘How does that work?’

‘Do you know what the most popular present for teenagers is today?’

‘I am sure you are going to tell me.’

‘The latest AI program. You can get a decent one for fifty bucks, and they are improving every day.’

‘And this was made using AI?’

‘It was.’ Halli noted the puzzled look on Walter’s face and said, ‘Look, Mr Darriteau, this results from someone typing in their requirement, i.e. produce a photograph of a pretty young sexy Chinese girl dressed in modern clothing, wearing a short skirt.’

‘Where does it come from?’

‘They steal it.’

‘From where?’

Halli sighed. It always amazed him senior officers possessed so little understanding of AI, and what it could do. He’d think about having a word with Mrs West. Essential training needed across the board.

‘As soon as the request is received, the software scours the net for just such a person. They might grab five hundred, a thousand images, or more, then dump them all in the paint can, give it a good stir, and hey ho, on demand, out pops the result. There you have it, your paintbox girl. I am simplifying things.’

‘To be clear, this person does not exist?’

‘No, she does not. It is created from an amalgam of hundreds of real people, and almost all the photographs stolen are copyrighted. The AI companies sell the results, insisting they created the image. The copyright holders say they own the rights to the original photographs, and the AI tech giant stole their intellectual property. As it stands, the copyright owner gets nothing, while the AI behemoth hoovers up the cash.’

‘So, you believe her nose might have come from one photograph, her hair from another, clothes from another, and so on?’

‘Yes, in effect, though by the time it is well stirred, you wouldn’t be able to recognise any part of her from the original stolen images. Before releasing it to the world, the computer examines it and touches it up, so to speak, rounding off edges, making sure everything matches, and the final product is as good as it can be. Sometimes they get it wrong. I have seen lots of girls with three fingers or six toes. It’s done in minutes, seconds, even. The customer gets their pretty sexy Chinese girl, and if they are unhappy with the result, they type in: longer hair, shorter skirt, fuller lips, bigger eyes, whatever turns them on, and a different photo pops out. There is no end to the number of images it could produce.’

‘Okay, thanks. I thought it was something like that,’ said Walter, returning the photos to the envelope. ‘Keep this to yourself. Just something I am working on.’

‘Your secrets are safe with me. I hope you are not too disappointed.’

‘No, not at all,’ and Walter nodded and left for his work-station to slip the envelope in the drawer.

When Darren and Kate arrived at the Oswestry flat, they found Nazareth Macbeth enjoying a break and a coffee. He demanded to know what they wanted, but Darren told him it would be revealed back at the station. Naz wasn’t so easily silenced.

‘This is about Pamela Grayson, isn’t it?’

Kate said, ‘What made you say that?’

‘I can’t imagine you could be interested in anything else.’

Darren shut the conversation down, and it wasn’t long before they were back on the road, heading for Chester.

In their absence, Jenny and Martin tried to extract more from Christian Frost, without success.

Nazareth Macbeth, next in the spotlight. He confirmed Pam Grayson possessed a violent streak, and in the end it was the single reason they broke up. The problem was, she wasn’t an easy woman to leave. She made it difficult by harassing him, and he found it impossible to get her out of his mind, because he had fallen in love with her, and no matter what she did or said, he couldn’t stay away. It was as if she had planted a force within him, demanding he returned to her.

He admitted he went to Chester the night she was murdered because he was desperate to see her again, but when he arrived, had second thoughts about getting out of the car and knocking on her door. He couldn’t cope with the idea she might be entertaining another. It seemed likely, because Pam adored male company, and there was never a shortage of volunteers.

The officers had no proof he left the car, though he could have parked somewhere close, and walked back.

Mrs West grew impatient and went ahead with a quick ID parade, conducted through the glass to protect the witness’s identity. Young Jimmy Frost had no hesitation in confirming Nazareth Macbeth was the man he saw circling. The three suspects were placed in locked rooms, as a quick update meet began.

The team reviewed everything, trying to fit uncooperative pieces together, imagining complicated scenarios, a sure sign they hadn’t worked things out. No one wanted to admit they had failed to build a decent case, and it took longer than it should to conclude. Hours passed and nothing concrete changed. Mrs West looked at Walter and asked his view.

‘It could be any of them, ma’am, or indeed, the well-built pedestrian we have yet to ID. Either way, we don’t have anywhere near enough to charge anyone.’

He said what they all knew, and it was getting late. Mrs West shook her head, harrumphed, and released them all, pending further enquiries.

Christian Frost made a fuss about it, saying they could expect an official complaint coming in via Melvin Miller, the still absent solicitor. Nazareth Macbeth was more circumspect, saying he hoped they caught the killer soon, repeating it wasn’t him, and he slipped away before they asked him further demeaning questions about his relationship with Pam.

Everyone went home, frustrated and annoyed, for a decent dinner, a strong drink for those who partook, and a damned good night’s sleep.

Chapter seventy-nine

At half-past ten that night, with the late TV news progs showing the latest worldwide selection of catastrophes, Walter set the remains of his late dinner down. He burped, said excuse me, and sipped stout.

The mobile in his trousers rang. He took it out and saw it was Marina Moo. ‘Ah, you’re back?’ he said, glad she had called.

‘Yes, been home two days. Busy sorting things out.’

‘How is the Blue Lantern?’

‘Not bad. Lee okay. He did good.’

‘So, Mrs Moo, what can I do for you?’

‘I wanted to thank you for accompanying me to Hong Kong. No one else would have done that. You kind man, and I sorry for what happened.’

He had come uncomfortably close to being put to death through a stupid combination of circumstances, and could never envisage travelling that way again.

Marina said, ‘Anyway, you always welcome to come for din. Why don’t you come one night this week?’

It wasn’t the worst invite, as he said, ‘I might do that,’ and then she ruined everything by saying, ‘Max Chow is here. He has asked me to marry him. I said yes. We both know we should have done it when we were young. Mickey Moo got in the way. He forceful man, persuaded me to marry him. As soon as divorce done, we marry here in Chester. I wanted you to be first to know. You get an invite, Walter. Anyway, come down to Parkgate one night for din, and this time I pay.’

Walter congratulated her and said he would, though he knew he would not visit the Lantern again, or attend any hastily arranged wedding. Neither had anything further to say, and the call ended.

Yet another hopeless idea that invaded his head, scuppered and sunk in a second. How could he have been so naïve? He squished open another can of stout and vowed to put the episode behind him. Plenty more fish in the sea. Another curvy woman on the morning bus had caught his eye. Didn’t flourish a wedding band either, and she might be worth investigating.

The following day, another bright one; produced two promising new leads. Amazing what a good night’s sleep could do. The first came via DC Ricky Greaves. He had been given the task of tracing the Burriton section on Martin’s family trees.

Norman’s only child, Nicholas, born in 1959, died in 2022, aged 63, the death certificate saying Cerebro-vascular Accident, Peripheral Vascular Disease, which Ricky understood to be a brain haemorrhage or stroke.

Nicholas also produced a single child, Nigel, maintaining the Burriton tradition of N letter Christian names, the son born in 1987. Better than that, Ricky found an address confirming Nigel lived alone in a twenties semi in Tarporley, eleven miles east of Chester, twenty-five minutes away, quicker if Karen pushed it.

Rick spoke to Nigel. He planned to stay in all day to look after his Koi carp, and would welcome visitors, though he could not imagine what it was about. He ended the conversation with, ‘I have paid my TV licence and my taxes, and I never write hurty words on social media.’

Ricky shared the cold dismissive laughter, rang off, and gave Walter the address.

He jumped at the chance of visiting the sunny countryside and prepped Karen to have a car ready. Before they left, he updated Mrs West. She wished them well, and minutes later, Karen connected with the A51, a road to take them straight there.

As they swept along, she said, ‘And the reason we are going to see Nigel Burriton?’

‘To find out if his granddad told him anything about what went on in the desert.’

‘Couldn’t that have been done on the phone?’

‘Maybe, but would you rather be here with me, out in the sunshine, or staring at screens all day, overhearing Darren’s inane jokes?’

‘If you put it that way,’ and she smiled across at him.

A pleasant Edwardian house, semi-detached, red brick, impressive shared central chunky chimney stack, small garden at the front, with an extensive garden to the rear, as they soon discovered.

Nigel Burriton came to the door, greeted them with a smile, and invited them in. They followed him along the hall into a rear dining room where the single window had been replaced with a new set of French doors. They were flung open, and the sun shone in.

‘Would you like coffee?’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

Walter suspected he had made it especially and didn’t wish to disappoint.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’d love one.’

Karen said no thanks; she didn’t drink coffee, but accepted the offered orange juice.

‘Go outside. I’ll be with you in a tick.’

They wandered into the rear sunshine, onto a glorious large patio boasting several luxurious garden chairs, with a matching grey and white coffee table.

Beyond the patio, a raised oval brick-built fish pond, maybe twenty feet across, and within the deep pond, forever circling, seeking stricken insects or the feed Nigel tossed them twice a day, were a dozen Koi carp. No ordinary specimens, each one at least two feet long, broad and chunky, like mini submarines, in a variety of colours, not averse to sticking their mouths out of the water, eyeing the visitors, hoping for morsels, looking content in their immaculate domain.

‘Wow,’ said Karen, ‘there are fishponds, and then there is this.’

‘Yes; and they are worth a few bob. I’m surprised there is no netting.’

Nigel came out bearing a tray of coffee, orange juice, and a plate of mixed biscuits to place on the table. He heard the comment about netting and said, ‘They have reached the stage where they can fend for themselves. Believe it or not, I came out first thing one morning to see a heron in distress over the pond. TC, Titan Carp, yes, I give them names, clamped his mouth over the heron’s leg, and was threatening to drag it under to drown the predator. Only when I rushed over did the fish let go and the bird struggled to fly away. It’s never been back since.’

‘Foxes?’ said Karen.

‘Yes, they sniff around, but the fishes are almost as big as they are and they don’t bother my boys.’

‘Cats?’ said Walter.

‘The occasional one stops by. He comes, looks and admires, but realises he is outgunned and switches to chasing mice.’

‘What about two-legged thieves? Carp that size must be worth a ton of money.’

‘Yes, sadly, that is more likely, but I am a light sleeper, have good CCTV, so I think it keeps them away. Come and sit down, have your drinks, and tell me what I can do for you. Help yourself to biscuits.’

Everyone sat down. Karen didn’t eat. Walter did.

Between sips of coffee, he said, ‘We are looking into a suspicious death that occurred in the desert campaign during World War II. We understand your granddad, Norman, was one of those present, and we are hoping he mentioned something about it.’

‘Ah yes, I see. I am aware of the rumour of skulduggery. My dad never spoke of it, but when I was alone with granddad, sometimes he talked about the war years. It wasn’t the best part of his life, being taken prisoner, hauled across Europe, starved, and worked half to death. I am amazed as many survived as they did. I was eleven when he died in 1998, and of course, like most boys, I was interested in everything he had to say. It sounded so exciting.’

Karen watched him as he spoke. What was he, around forty, though despite being decent looking, slim and clean-cut, he spoke and acted like an older man, and there didn’t seem to be any partner or spouse on the scene.

Walter said, ‘Did he mention anything about the death of one of his comrades, a Mr Robert Bob Frost?’

Nigel sat back, sipped coffee, sighed, and said, ‘Sorry, I don’t remember. He may have done, but it’s long gone.’

‘Pity,’ said Karen.

‘Why are you interested?’

‘Good question,’ said Walter. ‘The granddaughter of Donald Grayson, he was also in the desert, was murdered recently, and odd though it sounds, it could be connected with something that happened out there.’

‘Oh, gosh. How odd.’

Karen said, ‘I don’t suppose you have any old paperwork of your granddad’s?’

He didn’t need to think. ‘I do. Lots of it upstairs. A case full of stuff I found in dad’s house, but it’s mainly old family birth and death certificates, school exam results, that kind of thing. As far as I remember, nothing about the war. Maybe the odd letter confirming the medals he received, but Dad, in his wisdom, or lack of it, sold them off to buy a new telly, which seemed a daft thing to do. I wish they were decorating my wall.’

Walter said, ‘Could you check, or could we look in the case?’

‘Don’t see why not. I’ve nothing to hide. I’ll go and see. I may be a while. Help yourself to coffee and biscuits. I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ and he went inside and disappeared.

Karen said, ‘Interesting man.’

‘Yes, and he’s interested in you.’

‘What!’

‘You heard me. He likes you.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Did you not see the way he looked at you?’

‘Bat shit bonkers, you are mate. He’s way too old for me, and besides, I’m spoken for, in case you have forgotten.’

‘Doesn’t alter the fact he likes you, and it’s Guv, not mate.’

‘Sorry, Guv, no disrespect.’

Nigel Burriton was right. He was away ages, and they wondered if he had done a runner out the front door. Worse still, when he reappeared, he didn’t bring the case, just an old crumpled and skinny notebook.

‘Sorry to keep you. No, there’s nothing other than this,’ and he sat down and opened it.

An unusual size, old imperial measurement item, larger than A5, smaller than A4, creased, beige cover with a black ink name written on the top, smudged lettering: Norman Burriton.

Below that, in the centre of the front cover, was a sizeable black printed crown with the words: FORCES NOTEBOOK.

‘Could it be a diary?’ asked Karen, Walter’s silly words buzzing round her brain; the man fancied her.

‘No, it’s not a diary, more a notebook of casual jottings. I don’t think it was compiled during the war but sometime afterwards, written in fading pencil,’ and he showed them the basic handwriting. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of most of it. Like a gander?’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, ‘we would,’ and Nigel passed it over.

Chapter eighty

Walter scanned the fading text. Nigel Burriton was right. The notes were haphazard and difficult to read. Norman wasn’t a great writer, most of it reflecting his thoughts, along with other overheard snippets.

Norman said Moorland could irritate, but was only nineteen. Some liked him, others he rubbed up the wrong way without realising. Bob Frost was okay. Take him or leave him, wrong to speak ill of the dead, though the friction he had with Grayson annoyed the others. Everyone looked up to Catterall. Talented singer, and a man who took it on himself to look after the rest. The pencil writing faded, as if the lead was running out. From then on, much of it was down to interpretation as opposed to actual facts.

Norman wrote: Long after the war, at one of the regular piss-ups, Grayson and I were sitting in the corner yapping. He was half-cut as he often was, as we reminisced about those dreadful days out in the heat. He turned to me and whispered something. Harry Worthington was shouting at the time and I wasn’t sure what Grayson said, but it sounded like, “I killed the runt”, though in the faded and scruffy writing, Walter thought the R might have been a C. It was hard to tell. I may have misheard, but later, when he was two sheets-to-the-wind, I heard him mumbling before he passed out. As God is my witness, and I couldn’t swear to the accuracy, but I believe he said, “I had the last laugh, shot the bugger in the face”. He was probably talking nonsense, all bravado and bragging. He was known for it, spouting bilge, and I wouldn’t have bothered writing it down, but for the fact, it was so startling.

I liked Colin Catts, shot dead in the wadi, though he was a man of secrets. I remember when he told me about… and at that point, fading conquered the readable lettering. Whatever Catts told him was lost in the past, unless the tech boys could resurrect it.

Walter looked at Nigel and said, ‘Can I borrow this? I can’t make some of it out, but the pointy heads might bring more of it back.’

‘Sure, take it, though you must return it.’

‘I will. You can be sure of that.’

After almost two hours at the house, gossiping and idling in the sunshine, Karen drove them back to Chester, Walter flipping over the pages, trying hard not to erase anymore of the faded writing. The crumpled notebook went to the tech boys with a mission to save everything they could read, and restore the rest.

Two hours later, Walter received a call from a young woman who gave her name as Geraldine Colbert. She asked if the police were still looking into the Grayson murder, and were they still interested in Gavin Chalgrove?

Walter said yes to both, expecting her to confirm Chalgrove was a gentle giant, but she didn’t. She said, ‘The man tried to throttle me. He’d done it before, and the odd thing was on both occasions there was a full moon. I thought nothing of it, but seeing as this is rumbling on, I thought you’d like to know.’

Walter took her contact details and asked if she could come in to make a statement.

‘Sure,’ she said, and agreed to visit the following afternoon.

He looked across at Karen and said, ‘Didn’t you say all Gavin Chalgrove’s women said he was a gentle man? Wouldn’t hurt a fly?’

‘I did. Everyone. Not a hint of violence.’

‘Not anymore,’ and he told her about the call.

‘That’s odd, and he would fit the description Jimmy and Christian Frost gave of the pedestrian walking in Cuppin Street.’

‘Correct.’

Darren walked past, clutching papers. Walter collared him and asked him to check on the state of the moon on the night of the murder. Darren nodded and zipped off to find out.

Karen said, ‘You believe the moon can affect criminal minds?’

‘I’m not ruling it out. It’s not called lunar for nothing.’

Since ancient times, people believed bad things happened on full moons. There was no doubt crime increased on such nights, but after extensive research, criminal experts believed it was because lawbreakers had more light to operate in. Some evidence suggested depression was more widespread, suicide rates ticked higher, but with no noticeable increase in the murder rate.

Darren came back. ‘Yep, you are right, Guv, a full moon on that night, though I’d better qualify that because the murder happened during daylight hours when any on-show moon would have been dim, at best.’

Walter thanked him, and Darren scarpered. Walter quizzed Karen on Gavin Chalgrove, saying, ‘You met the man. Were you convinced of his innocence?’

‘Not to begin with. He’s an imposing bloke, and likeable, but after twenty women confirmed he was not only gentle, but never once raised a hand to them, we thought that was good enough to rule him out.’

‘I wonder. Maybe we ought to visit Geraldine Colbert sooner rather than later.’

‘Suits me. Where does she live?’

‘Warrior Close, Saighton.’

‘I know it. There’s a lot of newbuild round there. Affordable homes, that kind of thing.’

‘Affordable is a moot point. We’ll leave at half five in case she’s at work.’

The tech boys understood the urgency in revealing the notebook’s secrets and produced results within two hours. To save them explaining their discoveries, a printed typescript came back with the book. Not that there was much of it. They confirmed the C word was used, and expanded on Norman’s thoughts on Catterall.

Norman wrote: I remember when he told me of his tryst with the singer we saw on the quayside at Durban. Spanish, she was. Her voice and style beguiled Catterall, enough for him to track her down to a basement city club. She sang three numbers and gave the floor to budding singers. Colin never needed to be asked twice. If he was smitten with her, she reciprocated when she heard his dulcet tones, and it wasn’t long before they were duetting to great acclaim.

Plenty of booze and smoochie numbers followed, when they were interrupted by a black girl singer with an amazing voice, taking to the small stage. Yes, it was illegal her being there, but she had built a following and blind eyes were turned.

Catts said the blonde took him by the hand and out the back to a grubby room that doubled as dressing-room and stockroom. With booze being there, it was protected and lockable. She produced a key. They went inside, and frantic kissing began.

Outside, the impromptu concert hotted up. Loud cheering resonated through the old building, the walls vibrating. Maybe it tempted Catterall to sing, launching into: “Lady of Spain I adore you, lift up your frock and I’ll explore you”. He often did.

He was a powerful man, scooping her up and onto a bench. Catts reported she said, ‘You’d better get on with it… there’s a war on.’

Norman wrote: I believed him. Catterall had all the equipment. I’d seen him in action before. It was the voice. Did it every time. Most of the lads were jealous of Catterall over something, and his death was a great loss.

Norman’s words switched back to Grayson. The tech boys revealed another four sentences through the impressions the pencil lead had made on the War Department paper decades before. Dainty indentations, but recoverable.

I think I always knew Grayson was a loose cannon. After his strange confessions, I made sure I was never alone with him. If he could kill Bob in cold blood, perhaps he possessed thoughts to cull others. I wouldn’t have been surprised, and made sure it wasn’t me.

-ENDS.

It seemed any doubt about how Bob Frost died had been removed. Donald Grayson killed him. How the Frost family came to know about it was never explained, though it was a fair guess it happened during other drunken reunions, Grayson dropping more hints as to what went on.

Reunions were hives of gossip, intrigue, and spilled secrets. Grayson showed he couldn’t keep his, and maybe he wallowed in the notoriety of the others knowing what he had done. No evidence, no criminal case, never a prosecution, and Donald Grayson, aged seventy-six from Bache, died in 1996, escaping accountability. He wasn’t alone in that.

It made some kind of sense for other members of the Frost family to seek retribution. Maybe there had been earlier attempts to square the book. Walter would not have been surprised. That wasn’t the point. The point was, the Frost family possessed a solid motive, regardless of how long ago the death occurred. What motive did Chalgrove or Macbeth have, other than being spurned? Walter had a sudden urge to meet Chalgrove, to question him, and after that, put him in an ID parade for the Frost pair to see. In the meantime, they had a date with Geraldine Colbert.

Her twee modern house was the middle one in a block of five new homes, each with two parking spaces to the front, zero front garden, piddling effort at the back. Red brick, white windows, tiled roofs, warm and comfortable places, but not the house to raise a large family. A Ford Fiesta sat in one bay, as Karen eased the BMW in the other. Walter went to the door and poked the bell. The door opened a moment later.

Geraldine Colbert, just home from work, earning a living as an insurance clerk in the city. Blonde hair, enjoying the attractions of make-up and paint. She invited them in, saying it would save her a job the next day. Said she shared the house with her sister, who wouldn’t be back till eight.

On one wall of the small sitting room was an overlarge shelving unit, books and CDs aplenty, and three framed photos of family members, a box of paper tissues, and a smart Japanese digital clock, yelling 18.14 in blue digits.

With her permission, Karen set her phone recording. Geraldine gave her head a shake and her hair bounced. She confirmed she and Gavin shared a three-month fling, until she ended it, saying he had joined his hands around her throat on two occasions, both on full moon nights, and Geraldine said she was terrified he was going to strangle her. She told him the next morning she didn’t see any future in it, and asked him not to call again. Geraldine said he wasn’t in the slightest upset, and if that was all she meant to him, she was better off out of it. A new bloke in her life now, painter and decorator named Brian, an all round better bet as husband material.

Karen asked, ‘Did Gavin ever hit you?’

‘No, nothing like that. He never hit me. I can handle the odd smack, but throttling was something else. I told you, he scared me. I reckon he wanted to kill someone, and I didn’t want it to be me. Looks like I was right. Poor Pamela, how awful.’

Geraldine had nothing else to add, and said she would call into the station to make an official statement, saying, she would be delighted to be called to any trial as a witness, for oddballs like him needed to be locked away for a long time, where the moon couldn’t get at him.

Five minutes later, Karen drove Walter back to the station. She said, ‘Well, Guv, what did you make of that?’

‘I am not sure I believed her.’

‘Glad you said that, because neither did I.’

‘Didn’t you say Pamela had a close friend at work?’

‘I did. Connie Kirkham.’

‘Ring her in the morning. Ask if she knows anything about our Geraldine. Did you see the books on the shelves?’

‘What about them?’

‘Fell into two distinct genres. One, true crime murders and police procedurals, and the other, witchcraft.’

‘Really? I didn’t pick that up. Be interesting to see what Gavin has to say.’

‘Yes. I think it is long overdue I met him, and soon. This business is coming to the boil.’

Chapter eighty-one

Getting all the actors in the play into the right places and at the right time was a hellish task, akin to a bus company riddled by strikes for weeks, needing the buses and drivers in the correct locations to begin a sensible service.

Somehow, the team managed it. In the house, Gavin Chalgrove, Nazareth Macbeth, Penrod Spennithorne, Chris and Jimmy Frost, and all were annoyed and upset at being dragged away from their essential daily tasks. Even the hard-to-find solicitor, Melvin Miller, showed up, eager to set any wrongs right. The station was getting full.

DC Shirley Woodruff located a new witness, Ann A’Court, and she was added to the mix. Ann, a resident on the first floor in Regiment House, was the woman exiting the main entrance as Chris Frost went inside.

That evening, she was late for work and in a hurry, and chided herself afterwards for letting Christian into the building. They had been warned enough times about doing that. Ann was the first witness of the day at the first ID parade, and she wanted it over.

She knew Pam and liked her, and it was all a matter of making things right. The man on the other side of the glass was definitely the bloke she passed entering the building, and Mrs West became more confident. The Frost men admitted they had been in the vicinity shortly before Pam’s murder, and now a solid witness confirmed seeing Christian entering the building. Why did he go inside?

Mrs West believed they had enough evidence to show the Frost guys were culpable, and was angling to have papers prepared and sent to the CPS, though she was in a minority.

Darren Gibbons produced CCTV, proving Nazareth Macbeth was also in the vicinity, though he had already admitted he was there. The car with Naz aboard circled the area four times around the time when Pamela was believed to have been slain. Despite his protestations, he remained an active player.

The next ID parades saw Gavin Chalgrove on display amongst six similar well built individuals, all looking nervous and guilty. Both Christian and Jimmy Frost identified Gavin Chalgrove as the man they saw walking up Cuppin Street before he disappeared round the back of the flats. True, the Frosts could have been thinking on their feet, intent on pointing blame at others.

‘If they are guilty, they would say that,’ shrilled Mrs West.

Walter met Gavin and liked the man from the off, though was savvy enough to realise the most effective conmen and crooks were the ones easy to like. Likeability, an important weapon in any criminal’s armoury. People believed nice people. Chalgrove had questions to answer. Were you in Cuppin Street that night? Two witnesses say you were. What have you to say about that? Were you there or weren’t you, and if so, why?

Gavin Chalgrove had never no commented throughout the entire business, though he was mighty close. He shook his head, about to deny it, when he realised he might open a can of unravellable worms.

Karen spoke to Connie Kirkham again. When she was told Geraldine Colbert said Gavin Chalgrove tried to strangle her, Connie came out with a one-word reply: Bullshit!

‘You know she is a trainee witch?’ said Connie. ‘Gavin mentioned it to Pam. If you ask me, Geraldine was always seeking an outlandish sect to get involved in, to make herself more important, infamous, and relevant, than she was in her damned boring insurance job. Gavin told Pam he couldn’t cope with Geraldine blowing hot and cold, and her constant weirdness and whingeing, and like many of his conquests, he waved her goodbye and moved on to someone new.’

Walter stared the big man in the eye and said, ‘Come on, Gavin, why were you there?’

There was something powerful in the way the detective spoke, as if defying him to lie.

‘Why do you think?’

‘I don’t know. That is why I am asking.’

Gavin sighed and said, ‘No matter how I tried to eradicate her from my mind, she was always present, perched on my shoulder, in my head, as if conducting the orchestra, scolding uncooperative elements, urging people to do as she commanded.’

They had heard similar phrases before.

Karen said, ‘You were still in love with her?’

It wasn’t something he was comfortable admitting, for he felt it made him look weak and pathetic, but he didn’t want to lie and replied in a soft voice, ‘I suppose I was, yes. I wanted to check she was alright.’

Walter said, ‘When you went round the rear of the block. What did you do, and where did you go?’

‘I went to her small patio and tapped on the glass.’

Karen said, ‘You didn’t notice her car was missing?’

‘I did, but I knew she had trouble with it, and I imagined it was in the garage awaiting a part.’

An unlikely reply, thought both officers, though he hadn’t needed to think about it, so maybe it was true. Walter persisted. ‘She did not answer, did she?’

‘She didn’t. I didn’t know whether she was inside, or hadn’t yet returned.’

Walter asked, ‘Did you see anyone else?’

‘Not a soul.’

Karen said, ‘Where did you go next? You didn’t come back out the front.’

‘No, I went out the back way. There’s a narrow path going down towards the church on Grosvenor Street. I scooted down there to the car park where I left my car, climbed in, and took a moment for thought. Even considered going back, but gave myself a good talking to, started the car, and went home. It was a relief. I wasn’t in any state of mind to have another confrontation. I just wanted to see her, to put my mind at rest.’

Walter and Karen nodded to each other as Karen said, ‘You’ll be returned to the cell while we check your story.’

‘Fine, I didn’t expect anything else.’

After he had gone, Walter said, ‘Did you know about a back way out?’

‘I did not.’

‘Ask Darren if he does, and if he doesn’t, tell him to get over there and photograph the pathway, if such a thing exists.’

Karen said, ‘Sure, Guv,’ and she hustled away to see Gibbons.

In another part of the theatre, other actors were at work, Jenny and Martin interviewing Nazareth Macbeth. They had been instructed to go in hard, and they did.

Jenny said, ‘You have admitted you were in Cuppin Street on the evening Pam was murdered, and we have a witness to prove it. You went there to kill Pamela Grayson, didn’t you?’

‘I did not go there for that. I went there hoping to see her.’

‘You had a solid motive!’ said Martin.

‘What motive?’

Jenny shot back, ‘Well, for one, you imagined if you banished her from this world, you would rid her from your mind. You couldn’t cope with her in there, could you? Wriggling around 24/7, laughing at you, belittling you, reminding you of how superior she was. You were obsessed with her, Nazareth, weren’t you?’

Before he could reply, Martin boosted the attack.

‘She ran up substantial debts on your credit card. Display ads in newspapers cost big bucks, plus all those meals the companies would never believe you didn’t order. It must have run into thousands. We reckon at least two grand.’

Nazareth smiled and said, ‘You are forgetting the lilies.’

‘What lilies?’ snapped Jenny.

‘She sent me twenty big bunches of lilies. The traditional flowers of sympathy for the bereaved, only I’d lost no one. Have you any idea how expensive lilies are? When I totted it up, she had spent £3,650 on my card, the crazy bitch, and now she’s gone I don’t suppose I will get any of it back.’

Jenny said, ‘You had motive in spades, didn’t you?’

‘I never stepped out of the car that night. You have no CCTV or witnesses to suggest I did, because I did not. I don’t give a bloody toss about motives, because the fact remains, I didn’t kill Pamela Grayson, as I suspect, deep down, you know.’

‘Watch your language,’ said Martin, as they suspended the interview and left him alone to stew while they sought advice.

The morning after Pamela’s murder, Jimmy and Christian Frost jumped in the kid’s Toyota Yaris and drove along the North Wales coast. The reason for the trip, two-fold.

First, to give Jimmy more driving practice, sharpening his skills for his forthcoming test, and second, to share thoughts and information about what they had seen and done the previous night. It had been the worst night of their lives, or the best, depending how much they thought about it.

The Frost family had long planned to take revenge on the Grayson people for killing one of their own. So what if more than eighty years had slipped by? Time meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. It could not be left as it was. The honour of the family was at stake. In the future, how could they look Jimmy and Jacob’s children in the eye, and say: Yeah, boys, we knew what happened to Bob, but we didn’t have the courage or bottle to do anything about it. An eye for an eye was as appropriate and powerful as ever.

They paused at Talacre, an old-fashioned holiday place, caravans aplenty, left the car, and walked through the dunes to the wide sandy beach. Away to the left, the Point of Ayr Lighthouse stood proud. Another balmy, breezy day, the swell on the muddy water picking up, blowing cobwebs, bad memories, and ill-thoughts to oblivion. They strolled along the foreshore to clear their heads. Two off-the-lead dogs came to investigate. Christian snarled at them. The hounds growled back and ran away.

He looked round. No one close by, and said, ‘If we get roped into this, we need a solid plan.’

‘You worry too much, dad.’

‘Someone has to, and don’t breathe a word of this to your mother.’

‘I’m not stupid!’

‘We must get our stories straight. It’s important we are batting off the same mark. No discrepancies, you follow? When asked, we no comment to everything until we see what they have, and only then do we elaborate, and only along agreed lines.’

‘I can do that.’

‘The critical thing is, we never deviate from the plan. If one of us is saying one thing and the other something different, we’ll crash and burn.’

‘I know what I’m doing. Saying less is the best option.’

‘Okay, son, I’ll recap what I know, and when I’m done, you repeat your side. Leave nothing out, even the smallest details, for they could be important.’

‘I will. The coppers don’t worry me.’

Chris sniffed and nodded and said, ‘Okay, this is how it happened,’ and the conspirators polished their stories.

Chapter eighty-two

DCI Alex Foggon was jubilant. His boys succeeded in turning one of Claude Mainstone’s closest colleagues.

The man would spill his secrets in exchange for swerving him from prosecution. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. Mrs West was pleased to hear it, though queried the thought of giving the defector a clear run. In any event, her mind was fixed on a bigger prize.

Karen glanced across the desk at a thoughtful Walter. She jolted him from his daydreaming by saying, ‘Getting ready to pay out on my bet?’

It brought a smile to his face as he said, ‘Don’t get cocky, Greenwood. As far as I know, the Frosts have not been charged with any offence.’

Karen grinned and said, ‘Only a matter of time.’

As he often did, Darren overheard and couldn’t keep out of it.

‘If there is any money to be won, I reckon it should be donated to the police benevolent fund,’ winking in their general direction.

‘Good idea, Darren,’ said Walter.

Karen said, ‘No way, gentleman, and as for you, Darren, when did you ever donate to anything?’

‘Always a first time, sarge, always a first time,’ and he scuttled away before becoming more involved.

In Grey Gables nursing home, Bertha Cody endured a restless night. It wasn’t like her. She slept a great deal, but restlessness wasn’t normal.

She was thinking of the past. What else was there when you were a hundred and five? The day she met Barry Cody, her second husband. A Saturday morning in the church hall, a flea market, Barry standing behind his small stall, attempting to flog collectables no one wanted.

He’d seen Bertha before and liked her, and his mate said she was a widow and maybe in need of company. Bertha never thought she would marry again, but living alone was hellish and Barry was a decent man, and no one else put themselves forward. He was a smoker, a habit Bertha detested, and she accepted his wedding proposal on condition he quit.

He agreed. It was an easy thing to say, but hard to achieve, and though he said he’d finished with the weed, he never did, and died of lung cancer five years later. After that, Bertha was done with men. She liked them, but not enough to take one home.

She thought back to the love of her life, and his letters. They often brought her to tears. The last batch of three arrived towards the end of the war when it became real she might see Leo again.

He wrote: I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to seeing you, though I worry you will not like me. I am not the innocent and optimistic young bloke I was back in 1941. I have seen death, and stared it in the eye.

It wasn’t like him to be negative, and she sat down and wrote back, suspecting the letter may never be delivered. With Europe in turmoil, crashing and burning to ruins, how could a normal mail delivery continue?

Harry Worthington’s Kasia had a stroke of luck. She had second cousins living close to the Stalag. She went to them and explained she planned to marry an Englishman in the local POW camp. They laughed and told her she was crazy, but summoning up the spirit of the time, supported her, allowing her to sleep in a draughty outhouse where, at night, their dogs cuddled up against her to keep warm.

Everyone knew the Russians were coming, and all were apprehensive, especially the women. Kasia visited the camp often, where Harry would wait by the wire. A day later, overnight, the last guards disappeared. The gates were flung open but no prisoner left. The POWs figured they were safer inside than going on the run, and they were right.

Harry acquired a grubby worn army greatcoat after a man died of exhaustion and excitement, and told her to wear it when she returned to the camp the next day. She’d be staying, he had fixed it, and she did. Another day went by before Russian troops appeared, making a show of how they freed the British. For one night only they pitched camp, and an unforgettable party ensued.

The Russians produced powerful vodka and everyone got stinking drunk, while the British shared the last Red Cross parcels. The Russians were amazed to see and share real coffee, American chocolate, British cigarettes, and tins of bully beef. It seemed British prisoners were better supplied than they were.

Harry cut Kasia’s hair super short, and issued her with fake ID in the name of Karl Daniels, rank of private, cook by trade. They kept her out of sight, and a day later, the Russians left as abruptly as they arrived, chasing the Germans west.

Before they rolled away, they took a roll-call of everyone there, and issued vague instructions of how and where the British must get to for repatriation, and a day later, the men gathered their few things together, and strolled out of the Stalag, never to return.

Like much of Europe, they were on the move, happy to be free, anxious for the future, possessing minimal rations. Once eaten, they would be at the mercy of whoever was in charge of the regions they traversed. They might get fed, and they might not, and the odds weren’t great.

Chapter eighty-three

In the police station, Walter and Karen took another shot at Penrod Spennithorne without success. He had nothing to add, and neither did they.

He admitted he delivered birthday and Christmas cards to Pam’s flat, pointedly from him alone, but it seemed Pamela wasn’t interested. Could it have been sufficient motive for Penrod to force himself on her? If true, they had zero evidence to support the theory.

An outright confession to murder in any murder inquiry was always a major fork in the road, and surprising though it was, at half-past three in the afternoon, with everyone remaining in the copshop, Chris Frost asked to see Inspector Darriteau.

Walter went without delay and was surprised to hear the man admitting to the murder of Pamela Grayson, insisting it was an act of revenge. He had nothing personal against the woman, and afterwards regretted the killing.

Melvin Miller was obvious by his absence. Something had gone awry again between the Frost men and their legal advisor, enough for Christian to sack him. The solicitor was last seen scurrying through the building, muttering aloud: some people can’t see when others are trying to help! Some people have no class.

Walter demanded Christian put his confession in writing. The man said he wasn’t a great writer but would do his best, and half an hour later, a short, to-the-point statement was handed to the inspector.

Chris said he’d strangled her. That much had leaked into the public domain. When asked about how and when he had entered her flat, Chris retreated to his no comment firewall, sat back and said nothing further. Mrs West was cock-a-hoop. It was only as she expected. It had just taken longer to arrive. At half-past four, an update meet began.

Darren confirmed a narrow and weathered timber gate existed in the rear tall garden fence leading to a pathway running down towards the church. Hidden behind a thickening stand of bamboo, and in the heat of a murder inquiry, no one had checked the boundaries. If nothing else, it gave Chalgrove an out as to where he had gone after being seen going round the back.

If Christian Frost imagined his confession to murder would take the heat off his fit and broadening son, he was mistaken. It had the opposite effect, and Mrs West was the first to highlight it.

‘It’s crystal clear to me,’ she said. ‘Christian and James Frost went to Regiment House that evening, intent on murdering Ms Grayson. They were both responsible for the death, regardless of who squeezed the neck. Equal culpability. Nothing less. The youth drove his father there, knowing what was about to happen. The evidence is mounting. Both men were seen in their car in the street at the correct time, and admitted being there. Ann A’Court identified Christian going into the building only feet from where Pamela met her end, and to top it off, Christian has confessed in writing to the murder.’

There was no doubt about the next step. Papers were prepared for the Crown Prosecution Service, with both men on the indictment. They would decide if they had enough to proceed.

As always, they were well aware time was a crucial factor. They made it top priority, debated the outcome for two hours before responding. A green light. In their view, the confession critical, and both men should be charged with murder. It made no difference one was eighteen, the motive clear, revenge for the killing of one of their family, albeit eighty-five years before.

Young Jimmy was the first to be brought before the sergeant to be charged with murder. When asked if he had anything to say, the big teen smirked at the fattening officer and reverted to no comment. The sergeant nodded him away, and the accused was escorted back to his cell.

Next up was the man himself, Christian. When charged with Pam’s murder he remained sullen and silent, but when told he was being charged along with his son, James, he switched to being Mr Permanently Annoyed. He kicked off, red in the face, spittle flying, fists up, yelling at everyone, enough for added stocky figures to appear to dampen the hullabaloo, and curtail brewing violence.

It didn’t stop Chris yelling, ‘You’re making a big mistake! I did it! I did it! It had nothing to do with our Jimmy! Come on guys; be sensible. It was me and me alone! He’s a kid.’

The sarge scratched his ear and said, ‘The CPS thinks otherwise. They have approved the charge of murder, and you are both on the ticket. Take my advice, Mr Frost. The best thing you can do is kiss and make up with Melvin Miller.’

‘Over my dead body!’ and he lost it again, taking a swing at the nearest officer. The man ducked, and the blow missed, as Chris shouted they were a shower of pernicious bastards, a big word for him, pernicious, followed by another stream of abuse, questioning everyone’s parentage.

It took six officers to manhandle a spitting, biting, and struggling Chris Frost away, only able to move him when his feet were clear of the floor.

Nazareth Macbeth, Gavin Chalgrove, Penrod Spennithorne, and Ann A’Court were sent home, with a thank you in Ann’s case. The Frosts had been charged, the police not looking for anyone else.

Mrs West was elated. Karen was pretty happy, too. Walter more circumspect, realising the hard work began there, as they attempted to build a watertight case to send the Frosts away forever. Charging one thing, convicting a different matter.

Within hours, the Frosts reconciled with Melvin, and he was there at the Magistrates’ Court when they ruled the case must go up to the Crown Court. The earliest date proceedings could begin would be nine months down the line, running into another new year. Because of the seriousness of the charge, both were remanded in custody, bail out of the question.

Stressed Melvin, and the appointed defence barrister, struggled to put together a decent defence, as young Jimmy insisted he carried out the killing alone, and his father was innocent, while Frost senior repeated the exact opposite.

Two days later, after work, Walter took a cab to Bestdas. He bought another brick of choc, plus three women’s magazines, a crossword book, and jumped back in the cab for Grey Gables.

Lovely looked more lovely than ever, though the vased flowers had died and gone to compost. Ritchie wasn’t there, his day off, and but for Ritchie’s interest in the woman, Walter might have made a move and asked her to dinner, regardless of the thirty-year age difference. She could only say no, and he had made a fool of himself countless times before. Once more wouldn’t make much difference.

Perhaps Lovely sensed it coming. She waved Walter up to see Bertha, made her excuses and disappeared, saying she had urgent work to complete. Walter took the lift and a moment later was on the first floor to find no one in the corridor, the small office door closed as he went and tapped on door 42.

‘Come in!’ growled Bertha.

He went in, grabbed a chair, pulled it closer to the bed, and placed his wares at her side.

‘What’s all this?’

‘Your rewards.’

‘Hang on a minute. What have I done to deserve such riches?’

‘You helped me solve the case. It was you who put us onto the Norman Burriton family, and from there we tracked down his grandson. He produced an old grubby notebook, though much of the pencil writing had vanished. Using the marvels of modern science, the tech boys resurrected unseen script. In it, Donald Grayson confessed to murdering Bob Frost in the desert, and it would seem Pam Grayson paid the price, killed in revenge by Bob’s heirs. We have charged two men with her murder, and it’s all down to you.’

‘Really? I am glad. When’s the trial?’

‘Begins in nine months.’

‘Oh, dear. At my age, one counts the future in hours and days, and maybe weeks. But months, well, they may as well be centuries away. I doubt I shall see it.’

‘Oh yes, you will. I have good vibes about this. See it as a challenge. You’ll be there. I have every confidence.’

She shook her head and said, ‘You’re a mad man, and now you have all the answers I suppose I will never see you again.’

‘Oh, no. I said I would visit, and visit I will. They don’t call me Barnacle Darriteau for nothing. Once I latch onto something, I am renowned for never letting go.’

Bertha giggled, her first genuine laugh in days. ‘You are a hoot, and guess what?’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m dog tired, and I’m falling asleep. See you when I see you,’ and her eyelids fluttered, the shrivelled fingers around the chocolate loosened, as it fell from her grasp, and she was gone.

Walter stood up and looked at her, checking the bellows were still working. All well, still there, pumping away, and now she had something to cling to, she might live to see justice served.

He left her to it, the only person alive who knew the feuding pair, and headed downstairs, intent on exchanging smiles with the lovely Lovely. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was for the best.

He felt like a walk and headed down towards Bebington station to stretch his legs and check on train times. At that hour it would be a skimpy service, and his luck was in, a train due in ten minutes. He bought a ticket from the automatic vendor and waited alone on the platform. Less than half an hour later, he was back in Chester, seeking another cab to take him on the short ride home.

Another night spent alone, another blessed ready meal, Jalfrezi chicken curry, hot in more ways than one. Indigestion for pudding, but that couldn’t be helped.

He played with his mobile, seeking murder cases and crimes from across the globe. Walter would never stop doing that, as his email pinged. He took a quick look, thinking it would be spam. It wasn’t, or maybe it was. He recognised the sender, but then again, he didn’t.

Message incoming from ChelseaWang98@gotmail.com. That was all he needed. The phantom menace. His tired eyes scanned the words.

Hello Walter,

Just checking in to let you know I am here and busy working. Don’t worry, I have nothing for you yet, but one day I will, and you will be the first to know.

Keep well and keep reading.

Regards,

Chelsea.

An inconsequential email from someone who didn’t exist. How crazy could the world become? The question was, where had it originated, and who sent it? He thought of getting Halli on it, but did he want him involved?

Perhaps the MSS were just letting him know he wasn’t forgotten, or maybe they were trying to get under his skin, setting him on edge, playing mind games. If they were, they would have to do better than that. He sent it to trash and hoped they would forget him.

Chapter eighty-four

Three weeks after the CPS approved the arrest of the Frost men, Walter received a surprise telephone call from Melvin Miller.

Mel said, ‘Hope you don’t mind me calling.’

‘I’ll talk to anyone, but you know I cannot discuss the case.’

Melvin ignored the thought and said, ‘I wondered if you would care to have lunch, say, 12.30 tomorrow.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘There’s something I want to talk about.’

‘Can’t you tell me now?’

‘No, I’d prefer it in person.’

‘But why me?’

‘Oh, come on, Walter. Don’t be modest. Everyone knows you are the power behind the throne.’

Power behind the throne, an interesting phrase. There was a power behind the throne in the Chester central police station, in front of the throne, and on the damned throne, and it most certainly was not Walter Darriteau.

‘There is only one throne power here, and she is never behind it, but always plonked hard upon it, centre stage.’

Melvin laughed and said, ‘Whatever, have it your own way, but will you come? It’s important.’

‘Where did you have in mind?’

‘The Lemon Tree.’

Walter pulled an impressed face. Expensive there, not the kind of place Walter patronised.

‘I’ll be there, Melvin, but don’t forget, I cannot discuss the case.’

Walter arrived at half-past twelve. Melvin was already inside, halfway through his first glass, and came out to drag him in.

Mel pointed to a vacant table in the corner and said, ‘My regular place over there. Lead the way,’ and seconds later they sat down and stared across at one another.

He looked tanned, as if he had been away in Madeira, or perhaps he had succumbed to the tanning parlour. A smart young waiter appeared; green pants, white shirt, green Dicky bow, to take their order.

Melvin said, ‘Steak and chips and a bottle of chardonnay.’

Walter said, ‘Same, minus the wine.’

Melvin sighed and put his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, before sitting back and saying, ‘This is strictly off the record. Agreed?’

‘Sure, it never happened.’

‘We have a problem, Mr Darriteau.’

‘Have we? And I thought everything was hunky-dory.’

‘Look, Walter, if I may call you that, I know we are on different sides of the fence, but just for once, we need to be on the same page.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, Melvin.’

‘As you know, over the years, I have represented umpteen people. Some were guilty and duly convicted, others guilty, and I got them off. Sorry, but that is my job. Some innocent, yet were found guilty, not a great result for anyone, and yes, other innocent ones we managed against the odds to get acquitted.’

‘And your point is?’

‘This case has given me more sleepless nights than enough.’

‘You know I can’t discuss it, Melvin.’

‘Look. Here’s the truth. Chris Frost thought his son did it and took the rap to protect him. A stupid thing to do, but understandable.’

The meals arrived. Big white plates, big ticket price, tiny lunch looking lost in the centre. The steaks, circular, trimmed to perfection, not much bigger than an old half-crown coin, an inch thick. The art déco chips, perfect rectangular shape, sharp angles, each one trimmed to the exact identical size, seven centimetres long, one and a half centimetres wide and high, all three of them, two placed parallel, the third sitting on top at a jaunty angle. Crowning the food, the floral collection, three different blooms, blue borage, orange nasturtium, and red impatiens, the presentation finished with dashes of red wine jus around the plate.

Melvin paused and photographed his lunch to post on Bookface. Walter ate his; every damned thing, taking a chance, including the floribunda.

After a decent taste, Melvin set down his cutlery and said, ‘This case is like no other. Hear me out, Walter. There are things you need to know.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Off the record, I can confirm both my clients went to the flat with murder in mind.’

Walter pulled a face and said, ‘Pity I am not recording this.’

‘Let me finish. The first one went in and bottled it. He couldn’t do the deed. Afterwards, they sat in the car and chatted for twenty minutes.’

Walter said, ‘And then the second one went in and murdered Ms Grayson. I don’t need to know which one, Melvin, or which order. They are both guilty and they will both go down.’

‘No, Walter. Don’t you see? By the time the second one went in, someone else, a third party, had been there before him. Pamela was already dead, the patio door left swinging. My client went in, saw what had happened, panicked, took some pics, and fled back to the car.’

‘And how do you know this?’

‘Because they told me all the details.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then. Persistent career criminals have to be believed because they say so. We are innocent, Guv. Come on, Melvin, give me a break.’

‘They are innocent, Walter, and don’t you see what it means? The guilty one, the murderer, is still out there. My clients will be convicted. You will imagine the case is closed and stop investigating. Meanwhile, the killer is running free to kill again. Is that what you want?’

‘Evidence, Melvin. I need evidence.’

Melvin thought about it, masticating on best beef fillet. It was decent, what there was of it, as he set his cutlery down, and said, ‘The lad went in second. He had never seen a dead body before. To say he was shocked would be an understatement. He took several shots of the body. You know what the young are like. Photograph everything that moves, or doesn’t move, as in this case. Don’t worry, they haven’t gone anywhere, the pics, nor will they. You will have them all just as soon as you tell us you are reopening the case. Pamela Grayson was a fit woman in her prime. I don’t believe the lad could have overpowered and killed her.’

‘Really? I think you need to clean your spectacles. Jimmy’s a powerful growing colt, and no mistake.’

‘He didn’t do it, Walter, and if you don’t look elsewhere, this is going to be the worse miscarriage of justice either of us has ever seen.’

Back in the station, Karen said, ‘Well? What did he want?’

‘Pleading his clients’ innocence.’

She scoffed and said, ‘No surprise there.’

‘No, though one or two things made me think.’

‘Oh? Like what?’

‘I need to talk with Mrs West.’

‘You know she’s off for two days. 25th wedding anniversary job, I think it is.’

‘Yes, I know. The thing is, if it’s not the Frost boys, Chalgrove needs looking at again.’

Darren overheard and wandered over to say, ‘Do you know what I thought odd about the Chalgrove character?’

‘What, Darren?’ said Karen.

‘Well, he’s a big strong bloke, no one would mess with him. Nice little house, no shortage of cash, girlfriends coming out of his ears, so many he doesn’t know what to do with, but behind it all, he’s a big fat mummy’s boy. She still does his washing and irons his shirts.’

‘That right?’ said Walter.

Karen said, ‘It is. Her picture is on his living room wall.’

‘Nothing unusual about that,’ said Walter.

‘No, not in itself,’ said Darren. ‘But there was something in the way he spoke about her, almost as if they shared a dark secret.’

‘Not sure I picked that vibe up,’ said Karen.

‘It’s hard to describe, but it struck me as odd.’

Walter scratched his chin and said, ‘Has she been interviewed?’

Karen said, ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then it’s time she was. I’d like to meet her, like today, like now. Do we have her address?’

‘I have it somewhere, Guv,’ said Darren. ‘I’ll dig it out.’

Gavin Chalgrove had become active again, hunting for a new squeeze. He re-visited Nantwich swimming baths, preferring the indoor version. He had used it before to make new acquaintances, happy to flaunt his impressive physique.

Within five minutes of being in the water, a young woman caught his eye. No bathing cap, red hair plastered to her head. He detested red hair and recalled it was the catalyst for busting up with fiery Pam.

Yet he liked this kid and tried a grin. She flashed a come-on smile if ever he had seen one, a pulsing beam of green-eyed light. Four fast 25 metre lengths later, him chasing her; before she made for the corner at the shallow end and climbed out. He did too, following, in time to see her vanishing into the segregated changing rooms.

She possessed smooth porcelain white skin, not uncommon in redheads, skin he would like to kiss. He went and changed, all the while thinking about her, combed his damp hair, rolled his shirt sleeves up to show off his muscles, and left the dressing-room. His luck was in. She came out a minute later and saw him loitering, a man with the power to take her breath away.

As she approached, he said, ‘Enjoy that?’

‘I did. Always do. I haven’t seen you here before.’

‘I used to come often, but haven’t been in ages.’

‘You should.’

He invited her for a coffee, or something stronger. She accepted. She looked so young, maybe even nineteen, though she was twenty-nine, not a frown line anywhere, still way younger than him. She had tired of young and skinny unreliable blokes, and wanted someone more substantial.

The officers left the station for Hollyhock cottage, Audlem Road, close to the centre of Nantwich. They found it easy enough, a red brick two bedroom semi, 30s design and build, desirable, though on a busy road. They were lucky, Mrs Chalgrove was in, and came to the door.

Karen did the introductions, and the lady invited them in. As they walked through to the rear kitchen dining room, they found an erect ironing board with plenty of ironing done, but still a heap to finish. Mrs C closed the door to banish the draught, as Karen said, ‘Gavin’s?’ pointing at the pressed clothes.

‘Yes, how did you guess? Pull out a dining chair and take a seat. Would you like tea?’

Walter said, ‘We’re okay, thanks, just had one.’

The officers sat down. She turned the hissing iron off and said, ‘Actually, I have been expecting you.’

‘Oh?’ said Walter.

‘Yes, well, with the murder case and all, and Pamela Grayson being Gavin’s girlfriend at one time, I was certain you’d come and ask me things.’

‘What kind of things?’ asked Karen.

‘Oh well, you know. What he was like, and everything, growing up and that. But now you have two men for the crime, I assumed you didn’t need anything from me.’

Walter said, ‘And if the men were innocent, would that make a difference?’

‘Of course. A whole new ball game. Are they innocent?’

Karen said, ‘They have not yet been convicted. All options are open until they are.’

Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘Why don’t you tell us about Gavin, Mrs Chalgrove? We’d love to know all about him.’

Chapter eighty-five

Gavin Chalgrove and Angelica Carr shared a quick coffee, and arranged to swim and drink again, and after that, became friends, exchanging phone numbers, email addresses, and social media handles.

Two nights later, she plucked up the courage to ring him. He was going to ring her later that night, though didn’t say. On her call, he asked her to dinner. Nothing swanky, somewhere cool. Something told him she thought he was too old, but if she did, she hid it well. They agreed to meet in town two days later. Jumping in a stranger’s car was still a way off.

She looked forward to the dinner date, thrilled enough to buy a new outfit. For his part, he’d get a haircut and splash the expensive aftershave, using the evenings leading up to the date, to stay home and prepare his things, asking his mother to wash and iron his best shirt.

In her cute home, Mrs Chalgrove looked at the officers and said, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Anything you think we ought to know,’ said Walter.

She exhaled hard, came to the table, pulled out another chair, and sat down.

‘It’s beyond hard for any mother to talk about their son in any negative or derogatory way.’

‘We all have our downsides,’ said Walter.

‘True, and my Gavin possesses a dreadful one.’

Karen said, ‘And what might that be?’

‘I thought you knew about this?’

‘About what?’ said Walter.

‘The way the moon affects him, of course. He calls it his little moon-madness. It isn’t his fault. He does his best. He’s a good boy.’

‘Go on,’ said Walter.

She paused a moment for thought before saying, ‘I know him better than anyone. I’ve always known about his illness. He is a different man under a full moon. It has always been the case. As a child, we kept him in and put him to bed early, thickening the curtains with blankets. It ran in the family, you see, an unusual condition bequeathed to him by his father, and his father before that.’

Gavin sat alone and thought about his approaching date and cursed his carelessness. He should have realised. He always tracked the days and nights to stay indoors, and noted the clear ones when he was fine to go out. In his excitement and desire, he lost track.

There was nothing for it. He must cancel. Angelica seemed a sensible kid. He hoped she would understand. It was only a case of moving it back two days, nothing more. He rang his angel.

She answered fast, sounding happy and optimistic, but the happiness and optimism vanished in a bad-tempered flash. He wanted to cancel. The mean bastard! She had lost count of the number of times and quantity of men who messed her around, stood her up, cancelled dates, annoying her beyond belief, always wanting to rearrange things for their benefit, and never hers.

Her heart rate scooted higher. She felt the red mist descending. The red-haired temper complex broke out. She spoke without thinking. In similar circumstances, she often did, and most times to her detriment.

‘We made a date! I stick to my arrangements. If you can’t do the same, if you can’t demonstrate one ounce of reliability, you can sod off! I will be there tomorrow night, waiting. If you don’t show, I never want to see or hear from you again!’ and without waiting for a reply, she cut him off.

Moments later, the cursing in her flat was something to behold. Most of the neighbours heard, and it wasn’t the first time.

Mrs Chalgrove sighed and said, ‘Tomorrow’s a full moon. He’s arranged a date. I washed and ironed his best shirt. In his excitement, he forgot to consult the calendar. The last thing I said to him this morning was it might be better to cancel and stay in tomorrow.’

Walter said, ‘Do you know who his date is?’

‘No, he keeps them secret. I think he worries I might rush in and spoil things.’

Karen said, ‘Is he likely to harm the girl?’

She sat back, grimaced, shook her head and said, ‘I don’t know! Anything’s possible. I don’t think so. He’s alright if he stays indoors.’

The forecast was for clear skies, no rain, a perfect night for a romantic stroll down by the river under the moonlight. Except for Gavin, it wasn’t. All his life, he had tried to deal with it. Forcing himself outside, repeating the overwhelming feelings he experienced and fought against, assuring himself they were nothing more but tricks on the brain.

Hiding within his head, out of sight, they might have been, but overwhelmingly powerful, changing him into a different being, producing alternate thought processes, a metamorphosis like no other. If it were cloudy, he was fine. A small number of people understood the condition; others sniggered and scoffed at the silliness. It only happened on the one day when the moon was full… until the next time.

Walter looked at Mrs Chalgrove and said, ‘We need to find him. We must stop the date.’

Karen asked, ‘Where does he usually entertain his ladies?’

‘That’s the thing. He always takes them somewhere different. He must know every restaurant and bar within twenty miles. It could be anywhere.’

They heard a sound from the hall. Someone had let themselves in. Mrs Chalgrove pulled a face, went to speak, but remained silent.

A familiar man’s voice echoed through the house.

‘Hi, mumsie!’ he called. ‘I can’t stay long. I only have one bag of washing.’

He opened the kitchen door and stepped inside. The smiling, carefree look on his face vanished in an instant as he took in the scene. Coppers, the pair of them. What did they want? As if he didn’t know.

He set the Bestdas bag overflowing with washing down. He only ever wore anything once without a wash. Why not, when he had a mother keen and able to wash every goddamned thing? It kept her busy. What were ageing mothers for?

He glanced at the three sitting faces before saying, ‘You haven’t told them anything, have you, mumsie?’

‘We were just talking about you, dear. You and Pamela, and your new date.’

Karen said, ‘What’s her name, Gavin?’

He ignored the question and said, ‘I didn’t kill Pamela, if that’s what you think. Two men have been charged with the murder. It couldn’t have been me. They are the guilty ones. Even the police believe me, because it wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me. You know what happens on a full moon, mum. Someone else takes over my mind. Someone evil. I can’t be held accountable for that. I didn’t do it,’ and he glared at Walter and said, ‘Your job is to arrest the evil one. Why don’t you do that for once? Sort it out, get it straight, and give me some peace,’ and he glanced across at his late father’s stern face, glaring from the wall. The man who had bequeathed him a lifetime of trouble and angst.

It began long ago on that first occasion involving Susan Vairs when they were both six. It came out of nowhere. Winter time it was, dark afternoons, clear skies, sparkling stars on display, and an overpowering moon shining directly into his eyes, searing into his brain, the first time he was fully touched.

He remembered little of it. She was walking away from the primary school gates, carrying her little brown plastic briefcase. Swinging it as she went, joyful, looking forward to getting home to play with Pepe, her adorable miniature brown poodle. The other boys told him what happened.

He launched an assault on the innocent girl. Running after her, thrusting his right arm around her tiny neck, jerking her back towards him, the stunned girl crying out. It was as well the other boys were there. They intervened and dragged him off, some thinking it was all in play, a typical kiddy rough and tumble.

Susan wriggled free and ran home in floods of tears, the shrieking interrupting her mother, busy darning. Susan had no idea who attacked her, and was terrified beyond anything she had experienced before. Afterwards, she wouldn’t leave the house for a month. A minor hullabaloo followed the assault, but the private school would do anything to avoid adverse publicity, and hid behind the veil of not knowing who perpetrated the vile attack. They placated the Vairs family with a free term, zero fees, and Mr Vairs, ever a skinflint, jumped at the chance, banked the money, and advised his daughter to be more careful in future.

Gavin stared into his own father’s eyes. Gav blamed him for all the ills and great unhappiness to befall him. The lies and deceit, the covering up, the denial, the shame and opprobrium that came his way. It was all father’s fault.

Gavin loved women and girls. He always had, and devoted his life to loving them. Even the pristine Susan Vairs. She was the first one to steal his heart. As he stared into his dad’s dead eyes, he fell into a semi-trancelike state. The other three sat in silence and studied him, determined not to break the spell.

Gavin thought about Susan Vairs, and all those who followed. The sweet ones, the jolly jestresses, the desirable creatures, and yes, even the violent ones, and there had been more than enough of those.

It was as if they had clubbed together to remind him of the last occasion he visited Pamela’s flat, the night he flipped, big style. He thought he would be fine. A long summer evening before the moon sailed high, but no. His mind became bedazzled, moon madness setting in, foreign forces occupying his head. That horrendous evening when he broke into her flat, there, to strangle the life out of Ms Pamela Grayson. She wasn’t the only one with violence embedded inside her complicated body. In that, they were well-matched.

Afterwards, he scurried away towards the church, head down, eyes diverted, determined not to catch the eye of the cruel orb above. It was easy to put behind him, because he was not responsible. The police agreed. They were right. They set him free. It was someone else.

Angelica Carr went on her date. As the moon shone down from high above, she didn’t know how lucky she was. He didn’t show. The creep. Deep down, she had prepared herself to be disappointed. In the end, men always disappointed her, and she wondered if she was alone in that.

It seemed he took a rain check on their date, and prayed she understood.

In Hollyhock Cottage, Walter broke the spell.

‘Come along, Gavin, we need you to come with us,’ and he nodded to Karen. She slipped the cuffs on his impressive wrists and snapped them shut before he realised what had happened.

He peered across at his mother.

‘You will come and see me, mum, won’t you? I couldn’t do it by myself.’

‘Of course I will, darling. Your old mum will never let you down, you know that.’

Gavin bobbed his head, smiled at Karen, and let her lead him from the house. He would never have admitted it to a soul, but he enjoyed being led away in cold metal handcuffs, by her.

Two days later, Mrs West returned from their 25th wedding anniversary celebrations, amazed to find a new man in the cells about to be charged with Pamela Grayson’s murder. How had that happened? She did well to contain her fury, though she had never been an angry woman, and always kept control of herself, heeding Walter’s words.

‘It’s best we get the right man, ma’am.’

The Frost men were warned as to their future conduct before being released. All charges dropped. The police knew full well how close Chris and Jimmy Frost came to murdering an innocent Chester woman, and if they stepped anywhere close to the line again, they would feel the full force of the law stamping on their neck.

Walter didn’t look forward to it, but found a quiet moment to ring Melvin Miller.

It wasn’t an apology, and it wasn’t a thank you, just a setting things straight conversation that concluded with Melvin saying, ‘Come on, Walter, the least I deserve is a splendid lunch.’

Against his better judgement, Walter agreed, adding, ‘On one condition, Melvin. Not the Lemon Tree.’

The man cackled a laugh and said, ‘Whatever you say, my son. You’re paying the bill, you choose the turf.’

Author's Notes

Thank you for buying my book and I hope you enjoyed it. It is worth reminding everyone this is a work of fiction, especially with regard to what happened in the desert in World War II.

In the last book, “Crying Roses”, at the end, I asked a quiz question. Here comes the answer, (spoiler coming up, if you don’t want to know, look away now!)

The question was, excluding Shakespeare and the Bible, who is the only writer to have sold over two billion books? The answer is Agatha Christie, whose stories continue to sell like crazy almost fifty years after her death in 1976. Not to mention new film and TV adaptations of her work. I wonder what she would have made of ebooks and the like? I think she would have been fascinated, and they might have inspired her to write even more.

Her 66 detective novels and 15 short story collections will keep the interest going for a long while yet.

Hopefully, there will be an all new Walter Darriteau book for 2026. Look out for that. In the meantime, I will leave you with some information about Mr Frank Moore and indeed Mr Colin Adshead, whose tales and stories inspired the World War II segment in this book.

Keep well, keep smiling, and keep out of mischief!

David.

Frank Moore, 1915-1988.

I was lucky to have enjoyed numerous chats with Frank about his World War II adventures. Many Armed Forces personnel returning from war, men and women alike, were reluctant to speak about their experiences.

Frank wasn’t like that at all. Get a malt whisky down him and ask about his army days, and he would smile and start talking, and boy, could he talk, often standing to act out certain scenes to ensure his captive audience understood the picture.

During World War II, he was captured close to Tobruk, taken prisoner in a dried up wadi by a Luger brandishing German officer. The German guy actually said, “For you the war is over”, a line repeated in dozens of war films since. The man spoke impeccable English, having been educated at Manchester University.

After capture, Frank and his comrades were transported across the Med to Greece, and then trucked by rail all the way north to Silesia in Poland. There, he was put to work in the salt mines, against the Geneva Convention, and there he stayed until the war approached its end.

I asked him if he ever tried to escape, amazed to hear there were no fences, no armed guards, and no walls to climb. He looked at me askance and said, “Where would you go? There was nowhere you could go. We had no money and little food. What was the point?”

The mines were set in a remote rural area, the few locals remaining, half starved and could not spare food for escapees. No transport out, often perishing cold, and he wouldn’t have lasted more than a day or two. Frank, like most others, kept his head down, did as little work as possible, survival the sole objective, steeling himself to see out the war, and who could blame him?

Once back in England, after a short break, he was recalled and couldn’t believe his ears when the Cheshire Regiment were told they must prepare to be shipped to the Far East to help topple the Japanese. He said his mother was distraught, thinking she had just got him back, only to lose him again. What a sigh of relief they must have issued when that proved unnecessary, thanks to the Americans.

Soon after the war, he developed Type One diabetes, having to inject himself twice a day, a condition his doctor said was brought on by the harsh conditions in the mines, insufficient food and a lack of warm clothing.

Sometimes he would forget to inject, with frightening consequences, as happened when we were driving back from a holiday in the Cotswolds. He fell unconscious on the back seat, heading into a coma. We pulled the car into a church car park, only for a Jobsworth bloke to come rushing over, saying, ‘You can’t park there, you can’t park there! This is private land!’

I won’t repeat the reply the gentleman received.

After several gentle slaps across the face, as raspberry jam and orange juice were forced down his throat, twenty minutes later he was as right as rain, grinning and laughing about it as if it were nothing.  

Not that diabetes slowed him down, for he always enjoyed a glass of whisky and a good ice cream. Anyway, Frank, thanks for the reminiscences, some of which I have borrowed here. I think he would have enjoyed the read, and told me a dozen more tales besides.

Here is Frank, on the right, pictured with Uncle Colin, photographed in the late sixties in the back garden of Colin’s house in Prestatyn, North Wales, admiring the beginnings of Colin’s windmill. He said, when finished, it would power the entire house with free electricity. A little ahead of his time, methinks.

Colin and Frank

And mentioning Colin, I must add an instance he was involved in. During the early part of the war, he was serving his time in the Cammell Laird shipyard on the River Mersey, along with his two brothers, working all hours, building much-needed warships for the Royal Navy. He would have been around twenty by then.

Later, walking in Birkenhead, looking for a bus home to Greasby, a woman approached him and, without any conversation, thrust a white feather into his palm, before scurrying away. I can’t imagine what thoughts rushed through his head, anger for one, I suspect, but I know by the time he arrived home to tell his mother, she later said he was terribly upset. She reassured him the woman was nothing but ignorant! I would like to have been a fly on the wall listening to that conversation.

As soon as he could, he joined the Merchant Marine, serving initially on ocean-going tugs, but had a terrible time of it, unable to come to terms with severe seasickness, bobbing up and down on the Atlantic. I believe he transferred to larger steamers after that, possibly with the Elders & Fyffes Line, where his father served, criss-crossing the Atlantic, ferrying vital supplies, zig-zagging the U-Boats.

What an heroic generation they were, and what stories they could tell. We owe them so much, and they must never be forgotten.

Frank Moore and Colin Adshead. Not sure if the windmill ever generated much electricity, lost in the mists of time, that one. What I would give to talk to them again today.                 

DC.

Also by David Carter:

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Books

The Murder Diaries – Seven Times Over

The Sound of Sirens

The Twelfth Apostle

Kissing a Killer

The Legal & the Illicit

Five Dead Rooks

Old Cold Bones

Falling

The Death Broker

The Missing Man

The Final Door – Part One

The Final Door – Part Two

The Evil Man – Part One

The Evil Man – Part Two

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set One

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set Two

The Inspector Walter Darriteau Box Set Three

Crying Roses

Missing Letters

The Meredith Hawkes Books

Don't Forget to Breathe

Running Forever

Other Stories

The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

Drift and Badger and the Search for Uncle Mo

State Sponsored Terror

Grist Vergette's Curious Clock

Down into the Darkness

The Inconvenient Unborn

The Bunny and the Bear

The Bookshop by the Moscow River