The Darkness Within, page 8
Trudi blew out some smoke. ‘I think me and Charys might be splitting up.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think she’s seeing someone else. She hasn’t said anything, but she’s been behaving kinda weird lately – agreeing with everything I say, not being bothered about anything when I ask her something. Looking at her phone all the time.’ She took another drag on her ciggie. ‘You know, the little things that tell you something’s not right.’
Molly made a sympathetic noise. Trudi and Charys had been a couple for as long as she could remember. She couldn’t imagine them not being together. Some people just belonged in a relationship.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘You know you can always chat if you want to get anything off your chest.’ Someone else’s problems were a welcome distraction from her own, and she knew Trudi would do the same for her. ‘It could be you’re seeing things that aren’t there. I can’t say I know Charys all that well, but she’s never struck me as the sort to be unfaithful.’
Trudi shrugged. ‘Maybe. Then again, you just get a feeling, don’t you, when something isn’t working?’
Molly wasn’t sure what to say. She could never claim to be an expert on relationships. Before Jon, most of the men she’d dated had been self-obsessed and immature. Even Jon had his moments, but at least he was older. His age alone gave him an air of maturity, even if his behaviour sometimes didn’t. But she’d always known when a relationship was coming to an end. Trudi had a point about the signs being there, if you chose to look for them.
‘I saw this documentary on Channel 5 once,’ Trudi said. ‘There was this woman who’d been married to the same man for over forty years. Swore blind she knew him – knew everything about him. Then when he died, she discovered he had this whole other life. Another woman, kids. Another house. She’d been married for all that time and never had a clue. I mean, you’d have to be blind, wouldn’t you? Or very stupid.’
‘It’s not always that simple,’ Molly argued. ‘People can deliberately blind themselves to something if they don’t want to see it.’
‘But married all that time. She only found out the truth after he died.’ Trudi finished her cigarette then ground the butt under her heel. ‘Speaking of which, I see Denning’s gone off to speak to Buckfield’s ex-wife.’ She kicked the cigarette butt in the direction of a drain. ‘What’s your take on the whole Buckfield story? I still reckon it was some junkie, broke in, killed him for the hell of it.’
It was Molly’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s possible.’ She finished the remainder of the so-called coffee and scrunched the plastic cup in her hand. She’d drop it into a bin once they were back inside. ‘Denning seems to think it’s got something to do with Alfie Kane.’
‘Kane?’ Trudi’s voice rose half an octave.
Molly regretted saying anything as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Denning had specifically asked her to keep it to herself for now. ‘Look, forget I said anything. It’s just that he’s got me looking into the Security Direct warehouse robbery. He seems to think there’s a connection between that, Kane and Buckfield.’
Trudi opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and shook her head. ‘He’s not serious, is he? That was decades ago. How is that relevant to Buckfield?’
‘He worked the case.’
‘Half the flaming coppers in London worked that case. Even my dad was part of the team for a while.’
‘Six men went down for the robbery,’ Molly added, showing she’d done her homework. She’d been living in Sydney at the time, so it was all news to her. It may have made the papers in Australia; she really couldn’t remember. She’d had other things on her mind in 1996, like her parents splitting up. ‘Most of the gang were already known to the police,’ she continued. ‘But there’s no mention of Kane.’
‘Kane’s slippery, like an eel. There were always whispers he had a bent copper in the Met passing him info.’ Trudi looked at Molly, mouth falling open slightly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? The allegations about Buckfield – the ones Dave was being so cagey about? They’re to do with Alfie Kane?’
But Molly just shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Denning didn’t go into detail. He just said to look into Security Direct and see what I can find. I’ve looked, and so far I’ve found jack shit.’
‘They only recovered about a third of the stolen loot, so there’s a few million quid’s worth of gold bullion stashed out there somewhere.’
She threw Trudi a wry smile. ‘If you’re suggesting Buckfield had some of it hidden under his mattress, then I think you might be barking up the wrong lamppost.’
Trudi laughed. ‘Not Buckfield, maybe, but Kane.’ She lowered her voice a fraction. ‘You know he’s gone legit now. I mean no one really buys it, but he’s a proper respectable businessman these days. Does a lot for charity – hangs out with minor celebs and sports people. Shit no longer sticks to Alfie Kane.’
Molly knew of Alfie Kane by reputation. His youngest son, Gregor, had been arrested for drug dealing less than a year ago, and she’d been part of the CID team that helped put him away.
‘That’s assuming Kane was ever involved,’ Molly said. ‘He’s either very clever, or very lucky. Either way, the chances of finding anything to link him to Buckfield’s murder are somewhere between slim and anorexic.’ She shrugged and glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t help thinking Denning’s backing a loser with this one.’
Trudi punched the entry code into the panel beside the heavy steel door, and they headed back inside.
‘Do you want to tell him, or shall I?’
Molly pulled a face as the door shut behind them. ‘I might just let that one go. If it does all turn out to be a massive waste of time, it’s on his head, not mine.’
Chapter Sixteen
It was just after lunch when Denning arrived at the hospital. He purchased a cheese and tomato bagel from the Costa just off the hospital’s reception area and stuffed it into his jacket pocket to eat later. The grumbling in his stomach told him he wouldn’t manage to keep hunger at bay for too much longer, but lunch was probably going to have to be eaten on the hoof today.
Cairns had been moved out of intensive care and into a private room at the end of a corridor on the third floor.
‘He’s awake,’ one of the nurses told Denning. ‘We’ve given him strong painkillers, so he might be a bit woozy, but the doctor’s been round and says he’s otherwise OK.’ She fixed him with a stern look. ‘You can speak to him but not for too long.’
He gave a light tap on the door, and pushed it open.
Cairns was sitting up in bed. A fresh dressing had been applied to one side of his face. The remainder of his face was purple with bruises; his top lip was swollen and his left eye half closed. And these were just the injuries Denning could see. There were internal ones too, apparently – including broken ribs and damage to his liver. He’d taken quite a beating. And all for what? Hopefully Denning was about to find out.
Cairns glanced over at him, but didn’t acknowledge his presence for several seconds. ‘Dr Cairns,’ Denning said softly, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Denning. I’m with the Met’s Major Investigation Team. Would you be up for answering some questions about the assault you suffered yesterday?’
A faint groan came from the direction of Cairns’s bed. ‘Who called you in? I didn’t ask for you.’ His voice was croaky, as though it hurt to speak.
There was a plastic jug of water on the table beside the bed, along with two glasses. Denning poured some water into one of the glasses and pressed it into Cairns’s right hand. He took a couple of sips then placed the glass back on the table.
‘Thanks.’ He looked at Denning for a moment, then slid his eyes away. ‘I asked why you’re here?’
‘We were called to the scene yesterday, Dr Cairns.’ There were a couple of hard plastic chairs in the corner by the window, but Denning preferred to stand. ‘You were attacked outside your house. Do you feel up to talking me through what happened?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Perhaps you could try,’ Denning coaxed. The prospect of going back to McKenna empty-handed wasn’t something that appealed to him. Even if he could just conclusively draw a line under this, that would at least be something.
Cairns sighed and shook his head. ‘I’d just popped out to post a letter. I was about to go back into the house, when some bloke jumped me. After that, it’s all a blank.’
‘It was definitely a man?’
‘I imagine it was. I don’t reckon a bit of skirt did this, do you?’
‘Did you get a look at him?’
Another shake of the head. ‘No, I didn’t see anyone. It all happened very quickly.’
‘Did he say anything, either before or during the assault?’
‘Like I told you – I don’t remember.’
Denning looked at Cairns. His hair was greying, mostly around the temples, and was thinning on top, but there were flecks of dark brown still clearly visible. And although it was hard to see beyond the bruising and the gauze bandage dressing that covered so much of his face, David Cairns didn’t look like a man in his eighties. Denning would have put his age at around mid-sixties; late sixties at most. As he’d suspected, there was a noticeable discrepancy between the age listed on the Missing Person’s report and the age of the man currently lying in the hospital bed in front of him. There could be a perfectly innocent reason for this, so why did he feel it was somehow significant?
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm you?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’ Cairns’s brow wrinkled in concern. ‘You’re not suggesting this was deliberate, are you? It was a mugging, wasn’t it? Why would somebody…’ His gaze flitted to the door, then settled on Denning. ‘Why are you here if this was just a mugging? You said you were “Major Investigations”.’ He flicked another glance at the door. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘The assault on you was particularly violent, Dr Cairns. If you hadn’t survived, we’d now be investigating a murder.’
His words made Cairns wince. His battered face seemed to twist like a corkscrew. ‘Murder? Are you saying someone tried to kill me?’
‘It’s a possibility.’ He gave it a moment before he continued, trying to gauge Cairns’s reaction. ‘Has anyone threatened you recently? Or have you been aware of anyone watching you, or hanging round outside your house?’
‘No. No, nothing like that.’ He composed himself. ‘Look, I’m sure you’ve got this wrong. It was a mugging. Simple as that.’
‘Except you still had your phone and wallet when the local police found you.’
Cairns looked shocked. ‘Well, maybe someone scared them off.’
‘But not before they had a chance to give you a good going-over.’
Denning studied him. There was something in his face, and not just the bruising: confusion? Fear? It was hard to say for certain, but he had a feeling Cairns knew more about the attack than he was letting on. If he didn’t know who was responsible, Denning suspected he had an inkling as to why he had been attacked.
‘I don’t understand…’ Cairns was looking worried, but then quickly composed himself. ‘Look, whatever it was, I’m alright now. A few bruises and I’m a bit sore, but I’ll live. I’m sure you’ve got more important things on your plate than an attempted mugging.’
‘You had concussion, Dr Cairns. And internal bleeding. According to the paramedics who treated you, you’re lucky to be alive.’
‘I don’t care.’ He looked at Denning, his one good eye staring up at him from the bed. ‘I want you to drop this. I’m the victim here, and I’m asking you not to take this any further.’
‘You’ve been the victim of a serious assault. Surely you want us to catch the person responsible?’
Cairns turned his bruised and battered face away from Denning. There was a small speck of blood on the pillow, a little smudge of red set against the starched white material like an ugly blemish. ‘I’ve told you,’ Cairns said, ‘I’m fine now. I just want to forget about it.’ He was becoming agitated, raising his voice and rubbing his hand over his face. ‘I want you to go now. I don’t have to speak to you if I don’t want to. You said it yourself – I’m the victim here, not a suspect. You can’t speak to me if I don’t want you to.’
Denning had a feeling Cairns was about to press the buzzer by the bed to summon a nurse. It was unlikely he was going to make much progress with Cairns, so it was probably better to leave.
‘OK, Dr Cairns. If you don’t want to take things any further, that’s your decision. I can’t force you.’ He paused and waited until Cairns turned his head back to face him. ‘I just have a couple more questions before I go. Did you ever know a man called Frank Buckfield?’
For a moment, there was just the briefest flicker of something; not recognition perhaps, but something that suggested he’d heard the name before. Then he shook his head. ‘Who? No, I’ve never heard of him. Why?’
‘No reason. Just curious.’ He smiled at Cairns. ‘Finally, were you aware that you’re still officially listed as a missing person?’ If Denning was hoping his words would elicit some kind of reaction, he was disappointed.
‘Well, I’m obviously not missing any more,’ Cairns said. ‘Am I?’
And Denning couldn’t argue with that.
* * *
As Denning left the hospital, he suddenly remembered the cheese and tomato bagel in his jacket pocket. He reached into the pocket and touched it at the same time as his stomach gave another grumble.
There was a small seating area that bordered a neat gravelled garden not far from the hospital entrance. It was a mild spring day, with a nod of sun poking through the sporadic cloud cover, so he decided it might be nice to have his lunch outside.
He sat on a wooden bench and unwrapped the bagel.
Something wasn’t quite right about Cairns. It wasn’t that Denning was a snob, but Cairns hadn’t come across as he had expected a retired academic would. Educated, and articulate… Cairns hadn’t struck him as being either.
‘A bit of skirt…’
Perhaps he was being a snob. According to his parents, some of their colleagues could be surprisingly uncouth when the mood struck. Then there were the celebrity academics that fronted so many pseudo-intellectual programmes on TV these days: laddish, boorish and playing up for the cameras. Academics were probably no different to detectives: a disparate bunch whose personalities couldn’t be easily pigeonholed.
But there was something else that still bothered him.
The age discrepancy.
That could be easily explained: an overworked member of the Met’s support team hitting the wrong key when inputting the original data, for instance; an error sadly not as uncommon as it should be. He once knew of a suspect who’d escaped a murder conviction because an ‘o’ had been mistyped as a zero on an evidence sheet. Police support staff were as human as anyone when it came to making mistakes.
The bagel tasted bland: the bread was too chewy and the cheese had a decidedly plastic quality about it. Or perhaps he wasn’t as hungry as he’d thought. He forced himself to finish eating it though – anything to keep his stomach quiet – then tossed the cellophane wrapper in a bin beside the bench.
Something just didn’t feel right here. He had left a message with Cairns’s sister, but until she returned his call and cleared up the confusion surrounding the Missing Person’s report, his hands were tied.
He’d promised McKenna he’d walk away from this case if it turned out to be nothing more serious than an attempted mugging, and according to Cairns, that’s exactly what it was.
So why didn’t he believe him?
He took his phone from his pocket and called Molly. There was something he needed her to do.
Chapter Seventeen
Molly was shown into a cluttered office at the end of a long corridor. The plate on the door said Dr Helen Noonan: Senior Lecturer – School of History.
Dr Noonan was finishing a phone call when Molly entered. She smiled warmly and indicated for Molly to take a seat on one of the two chairs that sat at right angles to her desk. Helen Noonan was in her early sixties: charcoal grey hair swept back off her face, a fussy, flowery blouse, and piercing blue eyes that looked like they never missed a trick.
Denning had called asking her for a favour. There was something about David Cairns that didn’t add up: could she get a bit of background on him and try and fill in the blanks? He also asked that she keep it from Betty Taggart for the time being.
Intrigued, she’d headed over to Queen Mary University on Mile End Road. A quick google of the name ‘Dr David Cairns’ had led her to the university’s School of History, where he was listed as having once been on the teaching staff. She’d contacted the faculty administration office, and been put through to Dr Noonan. Noonan was a former colleague of Cairns and had agreed to spare her five minutes between tutorials.
The walls of the small office were lined with shelves, all of which overflowed with books: some looked new, while others looked like historical artefacts themselves. Molly had never seen the appeal of university herself: neither of her parents had been academically inclined, and she had always thought that three years of partying just to emerge with a load of debt and a piece of paper was probably not a productive use of her time.
‘I remember Dr Cairns well,’ Helen Noonan said before she’d even replaced the phone’s receiver. ‘It was over twenty years ago, and I hadn’t been here very long. He was a nice man who took the time to introduce me to the department and the disparate personalities who taught here at the time – a lot of whom had been here since the university was first established as the London Hospital Medical College in 1785. Or so it seemed at times.’ She gave a light, tinkly laugh. ‘My apologies – I shouldn’t be flippant. Being a history lecturer can feel like a way of life sometimes.’
