The Lost

Chapter 13

Jonah groaned, covering his eyes with an arm. Christ, how much had he had to drink? It was a long time since he could remember feeling this hung-over. His mouth was so dry it hurt. But then so did everything else. It won’t get any better lying here. Gingerly sitting up, he paused to let the throbbing in his head subside, then swung his legs from the bed. He sat there on its edge for a while, putting off the moment when he’d have to stand. When he reached out for his crutches, he realised they weren’t in their normal place. He looked around until he saw them lying on the floor near the doorway. The sight brought no corresponding memory of leaving them there.

Pushing himself up by the bedside table, he hopped over to retrieve the crutches. He went into the bathroom, took a couple of paracetamol and drank two glasses of water. His body was crying out for a bacon sandwich, but Jonah tightened his resolve and worked out for the best part of an hour: physio routine first, before running through the limited exercises he could manage with his bad knee. It made his head hurt even more, but gradually that began to ease as he warmed up. Hangover or not, he could feel how much more he was able to do even than the week before as his strength and stamina returned.

The workout left him sweating and breathless but more like himself. He felt better still after a hot shower. He’d nowhere to be that morning, so after drinking a glass of orange juice straight off, he indulged his hangover with grilled bacon, poached eggs on toast and black coffee.

Nursing a second coffee, he reflected that the only thing he’d gained from an evening in Wilkes’s company was that crutches and alcohol were an even worse combination than he’d thought. He’d learned nothing more about Gavin. Wilkes had spent most of the night reminiscing over war stories from his time in the force. But Jonah had the feeling that there was still something he’d been holding back, something that cut deeper even than the suspension. And talking to Wilkes had painted a compelling picture of the pressure Gavin must have been under in his last days and weeks. At least now he better understood Fletcher’s cracks about his track record and judgement. He just had to decide what it meant.

And what to do about it.

A chime from his phone announced a text, pulling him from his thoughts.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Miles and his wife Penny ran an informal support group for parents who had lost a child. Their definition of ‘lost’ was wide-ranging, encompassing anything from bereavement and disappearance to estrangement. Their own daughter, an only child, had died twenty-odd years before, and helping others had been their way of coping. Jonah’s attendance had petered out as the years went by, but Miles had always been on the end of a phone, prepared to talk or — more often — just listen.

Jonah’s guilt grew as he realised how long it had been since he’d last called them. It must be over a year. Nearer two, be honest. He didn’t even know if the support group was still active. They’d both be pushing seventy now, perhaps older. And Miles was a voracious devourer of news, so he’d have seen Jonah’s name mentioned in reports and would have known he was injured. You should have let them know you were all right, not made them have to ask. They deserve better than that.

Resolving to set that straight now, he started to call Miles. The harsh driing of the doorbell interrupted him before he could. He quickly texted I’m fine. Will call, then reached for his crutches. The doorbell rang again.

‘All right, I’m coming!’ he called.

He thumped irritably down the hallway and put his eye to the spyhole. Distorted by the convex lens, a gargoyle face stared back at him. Jonah rested his head against the door. Great. Straightening, he opened it.

Fletcher and Bennet stood in the corridor, coats damp from the rain.

‘Can we come in?’

Jonah moved back to let them inside. He could barely wait to close the door behind them before he asked.

‘Have you found Stokes?’

‘Love a cup, thanks,’ Fletcher said, going without invitation into the kitchen. By the time Jonah followed them in he was already pulling out a chair at the table, his mac hanging on him like a loose sail. ‘Two sugars in mine.’

Bennet’s face remained impassive. She took the chair next to the DI.

‘Just tell me, have you found him?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

The DI sat down and made himself comfortable. ‘Talking’ll be a lot easier if you stick the kettle on.’

Jonah stayed where he was. ‘Just tell me why you’re here.’

Fletcher nodded to Bennet. ‘Show him.’

The policewoman produced a thin folder and took out several large, glossy photographs. She leafed through them, removing two and setting them on the table so Jonah could see.

‘This is one of the surveillance photos we found on McKinney’s computer, with part of it enlarged,’ she said, sitting back. ‘It was taken two weeks before he died, according to the date on the file. There were a lot more like it, but you get the gist.’

The main photograph was full colour. It showed the bar of a pub, glasses and bottles lined up behind it against a long, ornate mirror. Several people stood or sat on tall stools at the bar, but only one of them jumped out at Jonah. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved skull, wearing a denim jacket. He was hunched over the bar, his back to the camera, apparently staring into his drink. Visible above his jacket collar, the black lines of a spider-web tattoo covered the back of his neck. The enlargement was of the mirror behind the bar, in which the reflection of the man’s face was clearly visible. Sullen and heavy-boned, with a thin-lipped gash of a mouth and deep-set eyes.

Owen Stokes.

Jonah gave a start as Bennet’s phone suddenly rang. She glanced at it, then turned to Fletcher.

‘I should get this.’

She went out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. Fletcher regarded Jonah sourly.

‘If you’re not going to make a drink then for God’s sake sit down, Colley. You’re getting on my nerves standing there.’

Jonah considered standing anyway, decided that would be childish, and sat down. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘Let’s call it context. Your friend McKinney was following Stokes prior to your little party at Slaughter Quay.’ Fletcher paused to give him a questioning look. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve anything else to share about that?’

‘I’ve already told you what I know.’

Fletcher nodded, as though that was what he’d expected. Taking two more photographs from the folder, he slid them across the table and sat back without comment. These were black-and-white stills from street CCTV footage. Both appeared to have been taken at night on the same stretch of empty road, though the vantage points suggested they were from different cameras. The quality was poor, the images grained and blurry, but Jonah recognised the figure in them as Owen Stokes. He was wearing what looked like the same denim jacket and jeans as before, this time with a dark baseball cap jammed down onto the shaved skull. One of the stills had caught him heading towards a camera, while in the other shot he was striding away. His shoulders were hunched and he walked with his head down, so the cap’s peak obscured his face. But in trying to shield his features he’d exposed the back of his neck. Above the turned-up jacket collar, the radiating lines of the spider-web tattoo were clearly visible.

‘OK, it’s Stokes again.’ Jonah set the photographs down and shrugged. ‘I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking at.’

Fletcher reached across and tapped the date and time stamp on one of the photographs. ‘They were taken in Ealing around eleven-thirty p.m., give or take, the night before McKinney died. Not far from his flat.’

Jonah felt his flesh crawl. ‘Stokes knew where he lived?’

‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’ Fletcher’s eye had started watering. He took a tissue from his pocket and began to dry it. ‘You know he wasn’t living at home anymore, then?’

‘Only since yesterday.’ Jonah was still trying to take in this new revelation. ‘So Stokes knew Gavin was watching him?’

‘Either that or he was making a social call. Popping round for a cup of sugar, like mates do.’

Jonah looked up from the photograph. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’ Fletcher gestured at the photographs. ‘These only show that McKinney and Stokes were aware of each other before that night at the warehouse. How and why is open to debate.’

‘No. There’s no way Gavin was working with Stokes. No way.’ Jonah shook his head, wanting to dislodge the thought before it took root. ‘Stokes must have realised he was being watched and followed Gavin back to his flat. If this shows anything it’s that the warehouse was probably a set-up. Stokes could have led him there deliberately.’

‘That’s one possibility.’

Something in Fletcher’s voice stifled Jonah’s protest. He watched as the DI took another photograph from the folder. It was from a street camera again, also taken at night. Stokes was the only subject in this as well, carrying a large holdall slung over one shoulder. But it was a different location, and Jonah stiffened when he recognised the modern houses in the middle-class street.

‘This is the road where Marie and Gavin live, but I don’t...’

He trailed off, a cold shock running through him when he saw the time and date stamp.

The previous afternoon.

‘It was taken around the same time as the house was burgled.’ Fletcher said. ‘Which probably explains the holdall he’s carrying. Although somehow I can’t see him going all that way just to nick a teenager’s laptop and games console.’

Jonah felt as though his mind had stalled. ‘Then what was he after?’

‘You tell me.’ Fletcher rocked his chair backwards, balancing it on two legs as he regarded Jonah.

‘How am I supposed to know?’

The chair banged down onto all four feet as Fletcher suddenly leaned forward. ‘Because you’re holding something back, Colley, it’s written all over you. Whatever McKinney was doing at that warehouse, whatever was going on with him and Owen Stokes, I don’t believe he’d have left you out of it until the last minute. Something happened you’re not telling me about.’

‘You’ve examined my phone, if I’d been in contact with—’

‘Stop pissing me about. First off we find out Owen Stokes was at the warehouse, and now it turns out he broke into McKinney’s house yesterday, looking for God knows what. And then there’s you, batting your eyes and pleading ignorance. So I’ll ask you one last time. What aren’t you telling me?’

The kitchen door opened as Bennet came back from her call. She glanced at them, registering the tension, but gave no other sign. Giving a minute shake of her head in answer to Fletcher’s questioning look, she resumed her place. The DI’s almost lipless mouth tightened, making Jonah think that whatever message had just passed between them, it couldn’t have been good news.

‘You’ve come just in time,’ Fletcher said to her. ‘I was explaining to Sergeant Colley how last chances work. And he was about to tell me what it is he’s been withholding from us all this time.’

‘Whatever it is, you need to ask yourself if it’s worse than multiple homicide,’ Bennet said, surprising him. ‘Because that’s what you’re implicated in. Your call, but if you don’t cooperate, you can say goodbye to your career. And that’s the best you can hope for.’

‘Then maybe I should get a lawyer,’ Jonah shot back, trying not to show the alarm he felt at her words. ‘And I’m sure the Police Federation would love to know one of their members was being threatened.’

‘No one’s threatening you, we’re just pointing out the alternatives. But I think you already know that.’

The policewoman’s relaxed assurance was more unsettling than her superior’s hostility, but Fletcher didn’t give Jonah a chance to respond.

‘You want to hide behind someone’s skirts, fine.’ The DI’s grin was hard, stretching the taut skin of his face. ‘Make a complaint, see where it gets you. Get someone to sit in and hold your hand if you like. You’re hiding something, Colley, so you can either tell us what it is voluntarily, or carry on like you are doing. And you’ve been on the job long enough that I shouldn’t have to spell out how that’s going to end.’

He didn’t. And although the DI’s attitude rankled, Jonah knew Fletcher was right. He was hiding something.

Just not what they thought.

‘OK, I didn’t just lose touch with Gavin McKinney,’ he told them, forcing out the words. ‘There’s a reason I hadn’t spoken to him for so long, but it’s nothing to do with any of this.’

Fletcher crossed his arms. ‘Go on.’

Even after ten years, Jonah still felt the old reluctance. Not that it mattered anymore, even to him. But silence could become a habit. Say it.

‘He slept with my wife.’