The Dark Horizon, page 23
They finished the remains of the pasta to the weather forecast. Another cold day was in prospect for Finale Friday, but at least the prognosis was no more snow. Dan’s phone rang once more.
‘You’d better answer it,’ Claire said, gathering the plates. ‘And a little tip - remember next time that different types of pasta take varying times to cook.’
Dan was already on the mobile. ‘Oh shit, I completely forgot with all that’s been going on,’ he apologised. ‘Yes, I do appreciate how important it is. I know I promised but I’m really tired and…’
He was interrupted by an agitated burble on the line. ‘Ok, I’ll check if I can pop out for a couple of hours.’
Dan looked to Claire, who raised her eyes to the heavens but nodded with the forbearance of angels. ‘This is the address,’ he told the phone. ‘I’ll see you there in quarter of an hour.’
A perfunctory attempt to help wash up was dismissed with a good-natured wave. ‘But just before you go,’ she said. ‘I need to knoware you ok?’
The answer came surprisingly easily, almost without thought. And perhaps that was the problem; he had been thinking too much and feeling too little.
‘I’m more than ok. I feel like… maybe that a very long hangover has finally lifted. It’s like this dense cloud has gone, as if the world’s come back to me.’
A beautiful smile was the response, a real lighthouse of its kind, and it was all that he needed. Dan kissed Claire, grabbed his coat and headed for the car.
‘And don’t you forget what we talked about earlier,’ she called after him. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 23
The house could have come from a factory line of featureless modernity; a new build semi in a neat suburban street. If it held a clue as to the identity of their quarry, there was no outward sign. Dan and El stood a little way along the road, just out of sight, studied what there was to see and planned their plan.
El had a tendency to regress to toddlerhood at times of excitement and tonight was ruefully no different. He grabbed the sleeve of Dan’s jacket and repeatedly shook it. ‘What we do, what we do? Come on, come on!’
‘Shh! I’m thinking. Or trying to.’
The house had a small drive. Upon it sat the car that had ended their chase through the streets of Plymouth in the early hours of this morning. Squared and immaculately shorn hedges bounded each side of the property. The curtains of the lounge were tightly closed but backlit, and there was a hint of light in an upstairs bedroom.
‘Come on!’ El babbled again. ‘He’s home, he’s in, he’s there.’
‘Brilliant observation, thank you. Now shush!’
A sulky lower lip protruded. ‘El’s only trying to help.’
‘Then El should try imitating a gatepost.’
‘What?’
‘Be perfectly still and utterly silent.’
Dan continued his study of the house. Only a few words they’d exchanged with the man who lived there. But his manner was educated, which suggested the daunting credentials of intelligence and principles. A straightforward knock on the door and question as to the whereabouts, and, more importantly, whoabouts, of the Cashman was unlikely to deliver the bounty.
‘Let’s have a look around the back,’ Dan suggested.
They found a narrow alley, lined with wooden fences and intermittent gates. It smelt of creosote. A tidy pile of recycling boxes stood at one end. The gate of number 44 was just a little too tall to see over.
‘Down you go,’ Dan told El.
‘I’m not a stepladder.’
‘How much do you want to find the Cashman?’
Even in the darkness of the alley, there was greed in the photographer’s eyes. ‘Lots, plenty, buckets and tonnes.’ He rubbed a hand over the camera dangling from his neck. ‘Snappy snappy makes El happy!’
‘Down you go, then.’
Reluctantly and inelegantly, El formed his bulk into a step and Dan levered himself up.
‘Ow! How much do you weigh?’ asked the makeshift platform.
‘Not as much as you. Now shush.’
A double glazed back door gave onto a small patio, occupied by a couple of stone statues of a cherubic nature. There were flowerbeds and a lawn, but nothing else of note. Here too, the curtains were tightly drawn.
‘What you got?’ El asked, as Dan hopped down.
‘Nothing.’
‘So what we gonna do?’
‘Good question.’
They walked back to the end of the alley. The cold had marshalled its forces and progressed from icy to bitter. Dan swung his arms in an ineffectual attempt to keep warm. El had no such needs; his fat reserves were of the whale genus and sufficient insulation against the spite of an English winter.
‘We gotta find him,’ El moaned. ‘Tomorrow’s the last chance. And I reckon that Italian and those others know where he’s gonna make a last stand. We gotta get him first.’
He rambled through a requiem that Dan had suffered twice tonight already. Earlier in the day El had been in the city centre, trying in vain to pick up any clues about who the Cashman may be. He’d bumped into the other paparazzi and they’d delighted in distributing more taunts.
‘Can’t find him, little fat man?’ the Italian said, in his fine English. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be clear tomorrow.’
‘And we’ll be splitting the reward,’ another added.
‘You know what he’s gonna do?’ El couldn’t help asking. But all he’d received in return were broad smiles.
A car swished past and turned onto a drive further up the road, the beams of lights clicking off.
‘They know,’ El mourned. ‘They’ve broken his code. They’re gonna clean up. I’m flat packed and washed out to sea. I’m more history than the dinosaurs. Hey, where you going?’
Dan had set off up the road towards number 44. ‘If all else fails, try the obvious.’
The bell produced the melodic ding dong so beloved of the English middle classes. In the opaque glass of the front door lights shifted and brightened.
‘He comes, he comes,’ El whispered, breathlessly.
The dark shape of a person approached, moving carefully. Dan put on his best smile and adjusted his satchel so it was close to the letterbox.
The door slipped open, but only a crack. ‘Roger,’ Dan exclaimed cheerily, as if to an old friend.
‘Who is it?’ asked a suspicious voice.
The man was peering around the door, blinking hard to see through the darkness. Dan manoeuvred his satchel a little further forwards, but the gap wasn’t quite sufficient.
‘Don’t say you don’t recognise me?’
The door edged further ajar. But still not quite enough.
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh Roger! I just can’t believe you don’t recognise me. Roger Franklin, really! And after, well…’
Dan let his voice tail off. And as so often, the bait of curiosity was too tempting. Now there was enough of a gap, but also recognition in the man’s face.
‘How did you find me…’ he began, before reconsidering and instead trying to shove the door shut. But the delay was just enough. Dan dropped his satchel into the wedge of space.
‘Clumsy me,’ he said, placing a foot on top of it.
‘I want to shut the door. Kindly move your bag.’
Dan craned his head for a fast reconnaissance. In the hallway he could see a sideboard set with some plates and a vase of flowers. In pride of place, at the very centre, stood a photograph of a woman. She was in her sixties, about the same age as Roger Franklin. Her expression wasn’t the forced smile of so many portraits, but filled with unmistakeable sorrow.
‘If you don’t move I shall call the police.’
‘Will you, Mr Franklin? And risk scandalising this lovely little neighbourhood? Becoming the talk of the street for months? Because then I’ll have no choice but to broadcast your role in the story of The Cashman.’
Now Franklin’s expression changed. And Dan continued working away at the weakness.
‘There’s no need for any of that, after all.’ He pointed towards the photo on the sideboard. ‘Not given what happened to Mrs Franklin – which is how you met the Cashman, I think? And why you’re helping with his plans.’
Franklin said nothing. But he’d stopped trying to push the door closed.
‘If we can just pop inside for a few minutes and have a chat, I think we’ll be able to work out something which will suit us all,’ Dan added. ‘Because if I’m right, it’s a story which very much needs telling.’
It was a plain little lounge, its uniformity interrupted only by a couple of old maps of Devon, which looked like originals. Dan and El sat on the sofa, Franklin in the armchair.
‘I fear you’re wasting your time,’ he told them. ‘I’ve made a promise and I have every intention of honouring it.’
Dan nodded. ‘I understand – and why it’s so important to you.’
His hair must once have been very fair, but now the lustre had faded and was a lank grey. Franklin sat upright, a tall and lean man who hadn’t filled out with the years, as was the curse of so many of his contemporaries.
There were three boxes beside the sofa, two filled with books, one ornaments. The room had that slight echo which said it was a little barer than would be homely.
‘I take it you haven’t lived here long, Mr Franklin?’ Dan ventured.
‘Just a few weeks. I moved after …’
Dan waited for the seconds of sensitivity to pass, before prompting, ‘And her name was?’
‘Louise.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
A silence took hold. A carriage clock on the television, which might as well have sported a tag saying retirement present, told of the time reaching eight. If they were to have any chance of finding the Cashman tonight rapid progress was required.
‘Can I ask about the maps?’ Dan ventured, just to have something to say. ‘They look fascinating.’
‘I used to be a geography lecturer. I’ve collected scores. I just don’t seem to have the heart to put the others up.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve lived in Devon all your life?’
‘Most of it, apart from when I went to college.’
‘And you were married for…’
‘Forty years. Well, almost forty.’
Franklin’s voice caught and he looked away.
‘Almost?’
‘Louise died ten days before our anniversary.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘Yes.’
‘And without wanting to upset you …’
‘It was cancer. Not sudden, but slow.’
‘She was treated at Tamarside Hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where you both met the Cashman?’
Franklin studied Dan, fingers on his chin, but didn’t find any threat in the question. ‘So, you think you know what this is all about?’
Dan managed a half smile. ‘Perhaps a reasonable idea. But I’d say there are still more questions than answers.’
They held a look, but Franklin was impassive and gave nothing away. Instead, he said, ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘How did you know I was a widower?’
‘It was this house,’ Dan replied. ‘It struck me as classic downsizing – or perhaps escaping a memory – or maybe both.’
Franklin nodded sadly. ‘You’re quite right. Look, I don’t want to be rude, but this is bringing back all sorts of memories and as I said…’
‘I appreciate you’ve made a promise,’ Dan interrupted. ‘And I can sense a man like you won’t break it. We’ll leave in a minute.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s part of a journalist’s job to know when to make a dignified retreat.’
Dan got up from the sofa, ignoring a horrified look from El.
‘There’s no point asking, because you won’t tell me who the Cashman is.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Or where to find him.’
‘Correct.’
‘Or where and when his last appearance will be, when it comes tomorrow?’
‘Also correct.’
‘But…’
‘But what?’
‘Louise was a member of Resurgam, wasn’t she? The terminal illness club at the hospital?’
‘She was.’
‘And she didn’t like the name being used for a skyscraper either, did she?’
The guess hit its target. A strange noise escaped the man. It was part sigh, part snort. ‘She hated it, as did I. She was a Plymothian through and through. She thought it a scandal that some ugly, unwanted building should bear that sacred name.’
‘So I wouldn’t be wrong in thinking Resurgam, and its opening tomorrow, has some significance in the Cashman’s plans?’
Franklin looked as if he was about to answer, then stopped. The kindling of emotion had revealed some of the story. But he was too in control to give away any more.
‘You must think what you wish. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…’
He led Dan and El towards the door. By the sideboard, Dan paused. The face in the photograph could have been staring at them, eyes sharp, even though the melancholy.
‘Louise looked a very fine woman.’
‘She was.’
‘This is all about Resurgam, isn’t it?’ Dan asked, quickly. ‘And maybe as the focus of some even bigger protest?’
‘Please, it’s time for you to go.’
‘But it is?’
Franklin opened the door. ‘You’re very shrewd. And I admire your tenacity. But…’
‘But what?’
A biting draft was blowing into the hallway. Dan and El stepped out into the night. The hedges were rustling, as though irritated at their presence.
In the doorway, Franklin stopped. ‘Without betraying any confidences, I can tell you this. However much you might think you know, you’ve still got one very big surprise to come.’
This was no time for a late night, but it can be the way of life to leave little choice. Dan sat on the end of the sofa, surrounded by his notes on all the Cashman’s appearances, and tried to work a way through the puzzle.
He closed his eyes and let the thoughts free. He and El had left Franklin’s house with the photographer so agitated it wouldn’t have been a surprise if he’d laid an egg.
‘What’d all that mean? What was he saying? What do you know? What’s happening?’ El repeated time and again.
‘We’re almost there,’ was the best reassurance Dan could offer. ‘I’m going home to do some more work on it. Tomorrow we’ll find the Cashman.’
‘Not tonight?’
‘That is part of the generally accepted definition of tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Still yes.’
‘You promise poor El?’
‘I think so. Or maybe hope is a better word. I reckon we’re close, but there are still a few missing links in the chain.’
Claire had a little surprise of her own to impart when Dan got back to the flat. She was returning to duty.
‘Mr Breen called,’ she said, referring to the chief inspector in her traditionally respectful way. ‘He needs every cop he can muster tomorrow. Given our conversation of earlier, I think we’ve sorted out what we needed to and I can go back to work?’
‘Uh huh,’ Dan replied, from amidst the jungle of his thought-trek.
‘So my sabbatical’s over and I’m on the Resurgam case – no doubt working with you.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You’re not really listening, are you?’
‘What?’
And so they sat, and she read, and he contemplated, ruminated and deliberated, pen working back and forth across the notepad. Rutherford lay at their feet, gentle music played on the stereo, and all was a picture of domestic contentment until just after half past eleven.
‘Shit!’ Dan yelled, making Claire drop her book and Rutherford sit up dozily and offer a half-hearted bark.
‘Oh no! No, no, no,’ he wailed, with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. ‘It can’t possibly be that simple, can it?’
THE BATTLE OF RESURGAM
SIX – THE INVASION
Now they came in numbers. Undeterred by the late January snow and the relentless cold, they travelled from across the nation to these few acres of land.
There were more of the professionals, some hitch hiking, others arriving in their battered minibuses and coaches. They, however, were relatively few compared to the swathes of those referred to as the general public.
They were summoned by the horror of what happened to a young woman. They had purpose in a collective mind and a statement to make.
It was less than an hour after Alice’s death that her photograph began to appear on tribute sites on the internet. Another hour and it was accompanied by scrolling pages of eulogies. The next hour saw her picture on the 24 hour TV channels and news websites, and the following day upon the front pages of the papers.
It mattered not the rights and wrongs of Alice’s story. That she was part of a protest, trespassing, and would not otherwise have suffered such an ending was forgotten. That there were evils and abuses on both sides was largely overlooked. Even the grievous wound inflicted upon PC Steve went mostly unreported.
The photograph was sufficient. The bright eyes and the blonde hair. The indescribable beauty of the sunshine of youth. The innocence lost to unfeeling concrete and steel. Alice was the fallen standard around which they gathered.
The police had suspicion of what was to come, and then warning. Brian Flood was called away from another fascinating Home Office conference, this time on Policing the Divide, an examination of the rationale and reasons for the criminalisation of the emerging underclass and a prognosis for the future of the concern.
Reports were coming in of a flux of people making their way towards Resurgam. Increasingly strident intelligence briefings indicated the next demonstration would be when the majority of the workforce clocked on, at half past seven tomorrow morning.
