Fatal Crossing Page 24

  She could hear happy voices and a dog barking in the background.

  ‘Hello, Nora, darling,’ Trine said. She sounded rushed.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Listen, Johannes and the kids have just come back from Sweden. Please could we talk tonight?’ she asked. And then, after a short pause: ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. Everything is fine. Have a nice time,’ Nora said quietly, and rang off.

  She raised the cup to her lips and swallowed the rest of her tea in one big gulp, before she realised that it was still hot and she had scalded the roof of her mouth. She wanted to cry.

  Nora gazed across the harbour in the hope of finding something to distract her from thoughts of Andreas and his rural copper picking china patterns for their wedding list.

  Late afternoon was approaching and the trawlers returned to the harbour for the night. Nora counted four on the horizon and two that had docked while she had been busy feeling sorry for herself. She pulled herself together, put on her coat and walked the short stretch down to the harbour.

  The man from earlier was on the deck smoking, and when Nora caught his eye, he nodded imperceptibly to his left where a man in his early thirties was mooring a small trawler. His hair was blond and curly, almost spiky, and his facial expression permanently frozen somewhere between sceptical and suspicious.

  She walked right up to the trawler. The big white letters spelling out Norma were peeling off and by the looks of it, the trawler itself had given up long ago, but its owner had decided to wring a few last trips out of the wreck before the inevitable breaker's yard.

  The man looked up at Nora. ‘Can I help you?’ he said in a tone of voice that pretty much suggested it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Nora wondered for a split second how best to approach the situation. ‘I’m looking for Arthur Thompson.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hesitated. ‘It's in connection with a project. Do you know where I can find him?’

  The man straightened up and, for the first time, looked directly at her. ‘A project about what?’

  ‘I’m investigating historical events, something that happened in Waybridge years ago,’ she said, balancing on a thin line between truth and misrepresentation.

  The man was unimpressed. He leaned against the wheelhouse, searched his pockets for a packet of Marlboro, lit a cigarette and blew out the first plume of smoke in a long column. ‘A project about what?’

  ‘It might be easier if I speak to Mr Thompson. Then perhaps I can explain what it's about. Do you know where he is or where I can find him?’

  The man said that he might know.

  ‘Any money in it?’

  Nora shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Then why would I help you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  To her astonishment he broke into a grin, which took even him by surprise. ‘Good answer. My dad is a right chatterbox. And he loves nothing more than going on about the old days. Are you a historian? If so, you’ve stumbled across a goldmine. Funny, he can’t remember what happened last week, but if you ask him about when he was a kid or a young lad, his memory is as sharp as a pin.’

  Nora returned his smile. ‘Where can I find your dad?’

  Thompson Jr checked his watch. ‘You won’t manage it today. He lives at Cedar Residence over in Farthington, and I know they put the old folks to bed around seven p.m.,’ he said. ‘But I believe visiting hours are from ten tomorrow morning, so you’ll be able to talk to him then.’

  ‘Cedar Residence?’ Nora was taken aback.

  The last time she had been there, she had managed to get herself thrown out, but now she had a valid reason to go back and possibly find out if William Hickley's mother lived there and where the suitcase with the pictures might have come from.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Nora said, then she remembered that they hadn’t been introduced. ‘By the way, I’m Nora Sand.’

  ‘Sounds almost like Norma. Tell my dad Dennis sends his best, and that we’ll be round tomorrow to pick him up for lunch. He's bound to forget it right away, but at least he has been told,’ he said, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the harbour basin.

  Nora turned around and walked back to the car. She stuck her hand in her pocket and took out her mobile. Two missed calls. One from a British number she didn’t recognise and one from the Crayfish. No one else had called her.

  So Andreas had already given up. Just like the last time.

  She entered the cheery captain's fish and chips, and ordered a small portion of cod with fat, golden chips, and a bright green dollop of mushy peas.

  The first few years Nora had lived in the UK, she had failed to understand the British love of this simple dish. Why would anyone get so excited over something that was ultimately a fish fillet with potatoes? If you absolutely had to have fast food, then why not an American hotdog, a Mexican tortilla or a juicy cheeseburger?

  However, one day on a job in Dover, the local chippy had been the one place that was open for lunch, and she had been forced to capitulate. She was hooked from the first bite. White, flaky fish hidden under crisp, golden batter, the sweet taste of mushy peas and feather-light chips sprinkled with vinegar and dipped in sharp tartar sauce with chopped capers was as inspired as it was obvious, once you had tried it.

  Nora sat down at a table with her chips, which were served in a red plastic basket, and a piece of cod that tasted as if it had been pulled from the sea that same morning.

  She tried forcing herself to enjoy the meal, really taste it, but soon her hand was going back and forth on autopilot and she munched and swallowed while staring into the distance. Andreas and PC Perfect. Perhaps she only had herself to blame. Maybe she shouldn’t have let him disappear out of her life back then. But would it have made any difference?

  She pulled herself together and decided to think about something else. All she was doing was picking at a scab. She shook her head in despair at herself and was knocking back her Coke Light when her mobile vibrated in her pocket again. She took the call, grateful for any distraction. It was Spencer.

  ‘Miss Sand,’ he said with something Nora thought sounded like relief in his voice.

  ‘Yes?’ she said coolly.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a small seaside town in the south of England. Why?’

  ‘I would like you to return to London and report to me at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I can’t just drop everything and come running to you. It's a Saturday and I happen to be on a job, just so you know it —’

  Spencer cut her off: ‘Hix escaped from Wolf Hall last night. Is that a good enough reason?’

  Nora pushed aside the remains of her meal. The nausea came back and she struggled to suppress it as her panic surged.

  ‘The chances of him wanting to find you, or being able to, are probably miniscule. But we can’t be too careful. He's on the run and likely to be desperate.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told sooner?’

  ‘The prison only discovered that he was missing an hour ago. Officers are looking for him all over the country, and I’ve tried calling you ever since we were told.’

  ‘Mobile coverage here is appalling. What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know the details, but when the guards opened the door to his cell this morning, Jimmy Archer was lying on the bed in his underwear, sobbing his heart out. Hix was long gone in Archer's uniform and with his ID ... and, as you’ve already worked out, his mobile.’

  ‘How could it happen?’ Nora heard her own voice turn into a squeak.

  ‘Now that's something Multicorp, the American company that runs Wolf Hall, will have to explain to the Justice Secretary. Fortunately, it's not my problem,’ Spencer said, sounding steely. ‘If you can’t get to us, then contact the local police where you are. I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to you. We don’t know if your visit somehow prompted Hix to escape,’ he added.

  Nora gulp
ed.

  ‘I want you to understand what we’re dealing with here,’ he continued, ‘and so I’ve spoken to Amy Brooks in New Zealand. It was her investigation that uncovered Malcolm and Ralph Bennett,’ he explained.

  Nora vaguely recalled a particularly gruesome case involving two brothers at a remote farm in northern Australia. The Bennett brothers had tricked backpackers into visiting the family farm where they raped them, robbed them, and afterwards marinated and grilled them on a specially constructed, oversized barbecue in their backyard. Cold sweat gathered on her forehead.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘She has looked at Hickley's case file, and I also sent her descriptions of some of the missing girls. Brooks is certain: Hix isn’t working alone. He has a fan, an accomplice, someone who either tries to emulate him or is under his direct order. This accomplice is either repeating events leading up to the time Hix was arrested, finishing his work, or — possibly even worse — trying to outdo his so-called achievements.’

  ‘But —’ Nora tried to object.

  ‘Please let me finish. Brooks also discussed the case with a couple of her colleagues at the FBI in Quantico. They share her view. Even Tom Johnson has had a look at the file.’

  Nora noticed how Spencer uttered the name Tom Johnson in the same tone of voice as Pete when he said Lionel Messi. She could only assume that anyone who mattered in criminal psychology would know who Tom Johnson was.

  ‘There's a broad consensus that Hix must be in contact with this person. It's the only conclusion that makes any sense. Everything suggests that this person helped him escape, and whether this person is a friend or an enemy, it's likely to be the first place Hix will go. So I’m not all that worried that Hix might be coming after you. He doesn’t know where you are, and he has bigger problems right now in that he's wanted across the UK,’ Spencer argued.

  Nora told herself to listen to Spencer's logic, but when she reached for her can of Coke, her hand was shaking.

  ‘Personally I think we need to check out his visitors. I’m guessing that one of them — possibly without knowing it — smuggled letters back and forth between Hix and his disciple. Perhaps the pictures in the suitcase were meant to have been smuggled into him in prison,’ Spencer ventured.

  ‘But they search you very thoroughly before you’re even let into a prison,’ Nora objected.

  ‘Miss Sand. I’m sure you’re aware that a number of British prisoners have a drug problem?’

  Nora confirmed it.

  ‘How do you think the drugs get in? There's a weak link in any system. Always. It's a fact, and it's those very weaknesses that, in a strange way, cause a prison to operate like a coherent organism. But that's a subject for another day.’

  ‘But,’ Nora objected again, ‘I thought only his family ever visited? His mother ... and his sister. By the way, are you sure he even has a sister?’

  For once Spencer sounded taken aback. ‘Someone is already checking up on his visitors, but as long as an inmate gives consent in writing that he's willing to receive visits from someone, and that this person has no criminal record, the authorities don’t usually get involved in the inmate's family situation.’

  ‘I don’t think he has a sister,’ Nora stated.

  ‘We’ll have to see. It’ll take a while to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Hmm. What about his mother?’

  ‘We’ll send somebody to his mother's last known address to check on her. She hasn’t been terribly cooperative in the past, but perhaps we can put pressure on her and make her tell us who visits him, and about his circle of acquaintances in general. That is, if she knows,’ Spencer said.

  ‘What about Archer? Could he be the accomplice?’ Nora suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so. In my opinion he's too stupid to appeal to Hix in any way. But Millhouse is interviewing him as we speak.’

  After a short pause she could hear how his voice became even more grave. ‘Miss Sand. I’m aware that you’re a reporter and you’re free to act as you wish. I’m also aware that you have the right to investigate anything you like within the law. I completely respect that you have professional principles —’

  ‘I’m sensing a but —’ Nora dared to interject.

  ‘But,’ Spencer ploughed on regardless, ‘what I want to stress is that Hix, and possibly his partner, have demonstrated that they’re unpredictable and have no scruples. They’re ready to strike again. Something drove Hix to risk everything and escape from prison. I would feel better knowing you have protection. What about the Danish officer you were working with?’

  ‘Sadly he's not available this weekend,’ she said grimly.

  Spencer sighed. ‘All right. But avoid isolated locations and call the local police and explain the situation to them. I’ll get back to you if I hear any news of Hix,’ he promised.

  Back in the car she made sure to lock the doors. She could feel paranoia nibble at the fringes of her mind. But surely it was only her mind playing tricks on her. Hix couldn’t possibly know where she was. How could he work out that she was in a car park behind a fish and chip shop? Besides, he probably had enough on his plate, hiding from the police who were looking for him high and low. If she stayed in public areas with plenty of people around, she would be safe.

  Just to be sure, Nora took out her mobile and called Summers’ direct line. It rang seven times before she gave up and started the car. She would try her again later.

  29

  On leaving the harbour she spotted a sign advertising cheap rooms and Sunday lunch, and pulled into the car park of the Seahorse Hotel, which looked more than usually run-down. The paint on the window frames was peeling, and the door stuck, but to Nora's relief they did have a vacant room.

  The receptionist could be any age between fifty and seventy. Her silver hair was put up in a bun, and her face deeply lined by decades of salty winds.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘We don’t usually have any vacancies during the season, but we had a Belgian couple who were arguing so loudly that several of the other guests complained. I was actually on the verge of having a word with them myself. However, just this morning they too seemed to have had enough and they left two days earlier than expected! You’re not from Belgium by any chance, are you?’

  Nora confirmed that she wasn’t, and added that neither did she have a male companion to have loud rows with.

  ‘That's excellent,’ the woman said, reading the Visa card Nora had left on the counter. ‘Miss Sand. My name is Mrs Morris. May I take the liberty of asking you what brings you to Waybridge alone? Business?’

  ‘In a way,’ Nora said evasively. Many people bridled if you told them up front that you were a reporter. Others had a misguided belief from the London tabloids that every single utterance was worth its weight in gold, and demanded money for an ordinary interview.

  Mrs Morris looked at her expectantly.

  ‘I write a bit about —’ she managed to say before she was interrupted.

  ‘Oh! A writer. How wonderful. Mr Morris will be so happy to hear that we have a writer staying at the hotel. He was a poet himself in his younger years, before he became a postmaster,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t write fiction,’ Nora said, in accordance with the truth, but Mrs Morris didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘You just call me Edna,’ she chirped as she practically danced out into a back room. ‘Let me just put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea. How exciting. A writer among us.’

  Nora gave up trying to correct the misunderstanding.

  ‘So what do you write about?’ Edna shouted over what sounded like a rumbling electric kettle.

  ‘Crime,’ Nora said.

  ‘Oh, then you’ve come to the right place,’ she said as she returned with a tray of clattering cups, saucers, and a chipped sugar bowl. ‘Everyone thinks British provincial towns are sleepy, but it's pure Midsomer Murders here,’ she said with a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘Is that right,’ Nora said in
a neutral voice. And that was all it took before her new friend launched into an account of local history that would make guides in the London Dungeons’ Cabinet of Horror pale with envy under their greasepaint.

  First there was the story about a pirate ship that drifted ashore in 1654 with a dead crew and a captain who had gone berserk with his sword, and had stood alone and blood-soaked on the bridge, screaming curses at the beach.

  Then there was the story of the plague ravaging Waybridge, and the local clergyman who decided that the only way to avoid the infection and appease God was to burn down the church. With the congregation inside.

  As her tea grew cold and Nora got restless and started glancing at her watch, Edna worked her way to the current century.

  ‘Yes. And then of course there was the Hix case. That was gruesome,’ her hostess sighed.

  Nora pricked up her ears. Edna raised the teapot and shook it.

  ‘Oh, dear. We seem to have run out of tea. I’d better make another pot if we’re to have that story. It's a long one. Perhaps we should wait until Mr Morris comes back from the whist club?’

  Nora was tempted to shake her. ‘I think I’ve had enough tea for one evening. But the story about Hix sounds exciting. Wasn’t he the one who killed young women ... now where was it?’

  And that was all it took to get Edna to sit down, lower her voice and whisper the gory details, which Nora already knew from her research.

  Nora let her tell her story about the discovery Jean Eastman's body in the boot of Hix's car, Hix's escape and ultimate imprisonment, as well as the attempt to uncover where the tongues in the jar came from.

  ‘Mr Morris said that they searched Underwood for months. They dug holes and they brought in sniffer dogs, so no one could go shooting there all autumn. But they never ever found any remains of those girls,’ Edna said with a shudder.

  ‘What about his family?’ Nora asked eagerly.

  Edna offered up a resigned shrug. ‘It's a shameful story. I never could stand his mother. She was several years above me when I started school. Us little ones were scared of Vanessa.’