The Man on Hackpen Hill Page 13
‘If he’s still on site, we’ll find him,’ the director says. ‘If not, we’ll have a good photo.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Silas says, turning to Strover. ‘We also need a twenty-four-hour police guard outside Noah’s room,’ he says. At the moment, it’s being protected by one of the hospital’s security guards.
‘We run very rigorous checks on all our staff,’ the director says, sitting down in front of a computer at his desk with a reassuring sense of urgency. ‘He would have needed a security card to gain access to ICU – and we keep records of everyone who swipes in and out of every secure part of the hospital.’ He starts to type and a window of data opens up on his screen. Silas watches as his whole demeanour changes. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he says.
‘What doesn’t?’ Silas asks, glancing across at Strover.
‘Doesn’t make any sense at all,’ the director continues, to himself as much as to the others. ‘According to the security data, the consultant who checked on the patient was Dr Armitage. He’s one of our most respected doctors. There’s no way—’
‘And one of the most recognisable?’ Silas asks. ‘His face would be familiar to nurses?’
‘Of course, everyone knows Dr Armitage, why?’
‘Because the ICU nurse didn’t recognise him when he walked past.’
‘Dear God,’ the manager says, putting his head in his hands.
Silas closes his eyes. He’d feared as much. The director double-checks the data on his screen and then Strover’s phone rings.
‘That was the A & E registrar,’ she says to Silas, after taking the brief call. The one who hadn’t warmed to his brusque manner earlier. ‘He’s dug out the paperwork for the two people in the Range Rover who discharged themselves.’
‘And?’ Silas asks, impressed. Strover’s charm must have got her further with the registrar than he’d managed.
‘He says there’s a problem,’ Strover says, turning to the director. ‘Seems like the consultant who signed off their papers was the same Dr Armitage – except that it wasn’t his signature. Nothing like it, apparently. They’d also insisted that the ambulance took them to Swindon not Salisbury after the crash. The paramedics agreed, but it was an unusual request.’
Silas nods approval at Strover. She’s done well, established a connection between the fake doctor and the two people in the Range Rover. They’re not dealing with a few individuals here. It’s a well-organised network of people intent on shutting down anyone capable of spreading light on the crop circle deaths. He just wishes he knew why.
His own phone starts to ring as they leave the director’s office and head for the car park. It’s the Control Room.
‘Sir, we’ve just had a call from Crimestoppers – for the crop circle case.’
Silas stops in the corridor as a group of uniformed police officers come out of the lift. It’s about time they had a break.
‘Go on,’ he says, trying to disguise the eagerness in his voice as he signals for the uniforms to wait.
‘A member of the public rang up, said they knew the second victim, the female.’
‘Have we got a name?’ Silas asks. ‘For the victim?’ More officers stream down the corridor. It’s been a good response from uniform for once.
‘Erin. Echo. Romeo. India. November. No surname.’
‘And the caller’s name?’ Silas asks, more in hope than expectation. Crimestoppers makes a point of never asking for a name or the number of callers and conversations are not recorded. They are also scrambled to prevent the identification of numbers and callers being rung back.
‘I’m sorry, sir. No name for the caller. Just said the victim was a friend.’
43
Jim
Jim brings the car to a halt by the tennis courts above the beach in Swanage, opposite the house where he grew up. It’s empty now, been on the market for more than a year. The clay soil below the house dried up during a hot summer a few years back, creating cobwebs of alarming cracks inside. He’ll come back later, after he’s been to visit his dad, who now lives in a small modern apartment on the far side of the bay. It’s a ten-minute walk, a chance to order his thoughts after the drive. No one seems to have pursued him but he feels happier not leaving the car outside his dad’s new place, just in case.
One thing bothers him, though, as he cuts down to the beach and makes his way along the busy seafront. Why is the person who appears to be sending him messages doing it so publicly? And so morbidly? As far as he can tell, none of the crop circle victims has been identified yet, but Jim’s certain they will be connected in some way to Porton Down – victims, perhaps, of ongoing experiments at The Lab. In which case, the person must know what Jim’s up to, the evidence he’s been collating since returning from Harwell.
He walks on, scanning the holidaymakers as they spill out of the amusement arcade onto the crowded beach. No one he recognises. Swanage is in full summer holiday mode, the air filled with the smell of fried food and sun cream. The bay is buzzing with jet skis and sailing boats, the horizon littered with empty cruise ships, a legacy of Covid-19. To Jim’s right, above the seafront, a nodding T-Rex looks down on the holidaymakers. Jim stops to look and smiles. The scene is more surreal than usual, the dinosaur’s animated jaws seemingly singing along to a sea shanty blasting out from an adjacent pirate-themed golf park. Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum…
He starts to relax. No one’s followed him here. To his left, the beach is punctuated by a row of wooden groynes to prevent longshore drift – a local phenomenon that must have been studied by almost every geography field trip student in the country. The Punch and Judy tent draws people from far and wide too. Young children sit cross-legged on the sand, laughing as Punch attacks a crocodile with his slapstick. Behind them, families eat fish and chips on the wall as joggers zigzag through the crowds on the promenade.
It could have been a sad life but Jim was happy growing up here. An only child, he was self-contained, scouring the local shoreline for fossils, finding meaning in their shapes and patterns. The geometry of the Jurassic coast. And then there were his reptiles, a source of much joy at home – and of bullying at school, until he was big enough to look after himself. It was university life that he found more challenging.
Jim turns up from the waterfront and sees the block of apartments ahead. His dad downsized into one of them a year ago, just before his health started to deteriorate. It feels strange coming to his new home, an unfamiliar place in a town he knows so well. After the carer lets him in, he finds his dad staring out to sea in the front room. Tiny specks of dust circulate in the bright sunshine, moving around him like agitated atoms. He doesn’t turn when Jim enters the room, but that’s not unusual. He’s got dementia and has good days and bad days. Today is a bad day, according to his carer.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Jim says, as he kneels down in front of him and takes his wrinkled hand. His hair is thin and snow white and his whole body seems to have shrunk, as if it’s been washed at the wrong temperature. There’s no change in his dad’s expression, just a distant smile out to sea. Jim glances over at the carer for reassurance as his eyes well up. He’s used to seeing him in this state but it still shocks him every time.
‘How have you been?’ Jim asks, more in hope than expectation. No response. ‘The bay is busy but no sign of those nasty offshore powerboats you don’t like.’ Jim’s putting it mildly. Before his health deteriorated, his dad wrote angry letters to The Times, complaining about the noise pollution.
‘Do you want me to play the piano for you?’ Jim continues. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the carer nod enthusiastically at the door, arms folded across her formidable chest.
‘OK then,’ Jim says. ‘As it’s you.’
44
Bella
It’s an hour before the next train to London and Bella feels vulnerable on the deserted platform at Hungerford. Confused too. How did Erin, the one person she could be herself with, w
ho really understood her, end up dead on a hillside in Wiltshire? Why didn’t she do more, go to Oxford, demand to speak to Dr Haslam? Sometimes it feels as if she’s looking at her own life through a window, a witness rather than a participant. Not fully engaged.
She glances around the station. Could it be her next? She’s never been to Wiltshire before and the first time she visits, her best friend’s body is found in a nearby field. Who sent her that anonymous typed letter? She should have pushed Jim further about the connection between Porton Down and the crop circles, asked him who might have wanted them to meet in the pub.
Her hands are still shaking as she walks away from the station. It was a mistake to ring Crimestoppers. What if they do pass on her number to the police? They could establish her identity and location using the mobile phone network. Maybe she’s mistaken about Erin? There’s no proof it was her. Lots of people have bird tattoos. But she knows with sickening certainty that it’s Erin. No one else would have a tiny rook behind their ear. She just doesn’t understand how she came to be murdered.
Perhaps Erin was better than everyone thought and discharged herself from hospital? Dr Haslam stopped returning Bella’s calls because he was embarrassed. He didn’t know where Erin was and had failed in his duty of care. In which case, why didn’t Erin ring her as soon as she was out of hospital, reply to all her messages? Maybe her murderer met her in hospital? Or did she become desperate and take her own life? So many unanswered questions. All she knows is that her best friend was too young to die. Too funny. Too crazy.
She looks for a payphone on the high street in Hungerford and finds one outside a bookshop. It’s not safe to make calls on her mobile. She’s also unusually familiar with a payphone for someone in their twenties, as her old mobile is usually out of credit or charge. She calls her mum, a number she knows by heart, and inserts a pound coin. Annoyingly, it goes straight to answerphone.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ Bella says, glancing up and down the street again. ‘I need to talk. Can you leave a message on my mobile? I’ve had to turn it off but I’ll check it in a bit.’ She hesitates, wondering whether to say any more, suddenly overwhelmed by the news of her friend. ‘Please call me, Mum,’ she says, starting to cry. ‘I think Erin’s dead.’
Saying the words out loud shocks her all over again. She searches her bag, tears smudging her make-up, and finds another pound coin. It’s unlike her mum not to answer. At college, Bella might not have been in touch as much as she should, but she knew that she could ring her mum at any time of the day or night. That was the deal. She tries the landline and gets another answerphone. ‘Please, Mum, can you call me. Erin’s dead. Dr Haslam’s been lying to us. She wasn’t in hospital. Someone’s killed her. Where are you? I’m coming home.’
Bella backs away from the phone box, desperate to speak with her mum. She needs to get a grip, stay sharp. Checking around her, she’s about to step into the bookshop when she spots a police car at the top of the high street. Could the police have already established that she made the call from Hungerford train station? Bella retreats into the doorway of the bookshop like a hunted fox, eyes fixed on the police car, as it turns up the side road towards the station.
They know.
45
Jim
Jim walks over to the small piano in the corner of the front room and opens up the lid.
‘Are you ready?’ he asks, glancing across at his dad, who’s still staring out to sea. He follows his gaze. Can he see the chalk-white cliffs of the Isle of Wight in the distance, rising above the horizon like a giant breaking wave?
His dad used to play well himself and loves his music. It’s only when he stopped going to hear the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra on a Wednesday night in Poole that Jim knew his illness was serious. The annual series of concerts were an immutable part of Jim’s childhood. Stopping off for chips on the drive back afterwards, discussing the acoustics of the hall. After years of experimentation, his dad had settled on seat 27, row M as the best place to listen.
‘Then I’ll begin,’ Jim says.
For a moment, he thinks of playing one of the ‘Goldberg Variations’, but he knows what works best. The instrumental version of ‘Bring Me Sunshine’. On good days, his dad joins in, but he doubts he will today.
Slowly, he begins to play, stroking the keys with affection, fighting back the tears. And then he hears his dad start to sing along, faintly at first and then more confidently. Jim speeds up and he responds. Morecambe and Wise’s version used to drift up from downstairs when Jim was younger – along with his dad’s singing and laughing.
After he’s finished, Jim returns to his dad’s side and holds his hand again. This time he pats Jim’s fingers, a faint ripple of recognition, of affection, and turns to look at Jim with his tired, watery eyes. He’s aged again since Jim was last here, barely a month ago.
‘I’ve got to go away, Dad,’ Jim says. ‘I’m in trouble at work but it’s for a good cause. I just want you to know that.’
‘You always had a strong sense of right and wrong,’ his dad says, catching Jim off guard with the sudden clarity of his response. Jim glances over at the carer, who has remained at the door.
‘You’ve woken him up,’ she says, smiling.
‘Looks like it.’ Jim pauses. ‘Can we have a minute? On our own?’
‘Of course, sorry,’ she says, retreating to the kitchen. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
Jim turns again to his dad. ‘I need to tell the world what’s going on at The Lab. I was beginning to lose my nerve but someone on the inside has started to encourage me. Send me signs. I’ve got to do the right thing, Dad. You always taught me to do that, didn’t you?’
His dad nods, his eyes distant again. He used to be a lecturer at Southampton University’s department of engineering, specialising in acoustics. His mum, who had a history of mental illness, took her own life when Jim was two, leaving his dad to bring him up on his own. A tough call for anyone, but particularly for an older man. His dad had just celebrated his sixtieth birthday.
‘How’s work?’ his dad asks.
‘It’s good,’ Jim says, turning away. He’s lost him again. A tall ship cuts across the bay, its white canvas sails iridescent in the summer sunshine. A cargo ship from Jersey heads into Poole in the other direction.
‘I still blame myself – for what happened,’ his dad says.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jim says, patting his hand, pleased to have him back. His skin is like tracing paper, thin and transparent. ‘It wasn’t working out with my team leader at Porton so I put in for a secondment and got to do some amazing science at Harwell. It was tough at times but now I’m back at Porton and it’s all good.’
‘She was so pleased when you were born,’ his dad continues. ‘I thought it would change everything.’
Jim realises that he’s talking about his mum and her mental illness and not his own problems at work. He looks out of the window again and his heart nearly stops. A black Range Rover is crawling along the crowded seafront, towards the Pier car park, as if the driver is looking for someone. The bastards. He was being followed.
‘I have to go,’ Jim says, getting up from the chair, eyes still locked on the Range Rover.
‘So soon?’ his dad asks. Sometimes Jim wonders if he’s happier in his own world. When music brings him back to the present one, as it seems to do, his life is only open to disappointment.
‘I love you, Dad,’ Jim says, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. ‘I’ll come and visit you again soon, when all this is over. I promise.’
46
Bella
Bella hovers in the Hungerford Bookshop, trying to concentrate on the books laid out on the table. She picks one up, puts it down. Then another. Normally she would be in heaven. When Bella was younger, her mum used to take her to the library in Hackney, where she’d spend hours sitting on the floor reading children’s books. Her dad used to read to her all the time in Mombasa too, not just fairy tales but als
o poetry. It was he who had introduced her to Wordsworth, reading ‘We Are Seven’ to Helen at bedtime in a voice loud enough for Bella to hear.
‘Can I help?’ the woman behind the counter asks.
‘I was looking for a copy of Lyrical Ballads,’ Bella says, mentioning the first thing that pops into her head. She’d discussed her love of Wordsworth during her entrance interview at Oxford and his poetry was a favourite throughout her time at college. It made her feel closer to her dad.
The woman finds a copy and hands it to her, standing back, clearly concerned. Bella must look a fright. She takes the book and flicks through it, stopping at various poems, including ‘The Mad Mother’.
A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head, a dull, dull pain;
It’s no use. She can’t focus on anything. Putting the book down, she walks out of the shop and heads up towards the train station, hugging the brick wall of a pub, ready to turn away if the police car appears again.
The station is still deserted when she reaches it. She walks onto the platform and sits back down on the bench. If the police appear in the car park opposite, she can slip away down the path. Checking that she is still alone, she reassembles her phone and is about to look for messages from her mum when it rings. She almost drops the handset in fright. No caller ID. Is it her mum? Her number always shows up but she might be calling from someone else’s phone. Or is it the police? She lets it ring out. The phone pings with a message and she accesses her voicemail:
‘This is DC Strover from Swindon CID. I interviewed you last night at the Slaughtered Lamb pub. Could you give us a call back – something’s come up that you might be able to help us with.’
Bella listens, heart thumping, as Strover gives her mobile number. Something’s come up. Her call to Crimestoppers? Shit, she told Strover about Erin, just as the detective was leaving, how her mum had once beaten up her dad. A siren goes off, making her jump. It’s the level-crossing barriers, starting their shaky descent, but the sound takes her back to her first year at college, waking up in the middle of the night to the wail of a fire alarm.