BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Trail

  For Mum and Dad

  Exhibit RC/1, Coniston Missing Enquiry

  Contents

  By the Same Author

  Dedication

  Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  Lexicon

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  Supporters

  Copyright

  1

  At the Sycamore Road Apiary, a dozen beehives formed a horseshoe in the clearing of a small copse. A new patch of Himalayan balsam was already at waist height and would soon be in flower. Good for the bees.

  It was the first Sunday in May, and the start of the swarming season. The roof of Rick’s hive leant against the base and smoke billowed from his smoker. A trick to keep the bees down in the hive. It made his eyes water. Blinking, he prised loose another frame and lifted it up for inspection. There was a steady hum of activity. Over a thousand bees crawled around on each side. Some flew around his white smock and one or two buzzed his veil.

  He spotted a queen cup. The shape and size of half a finger, it hung off the bottom of the frame. He lifted the frame higher. The cup was still closed which meant the new queen was still developing. With thumb and forefinger he crushed it.

  He destroyed three more before replacing the dummy board and hive roof. There was no doubt about it: the colony wanted to swarm – would swarm – which meant he’d have to induce it. A process as simple as nuclear fusion.

  As he corked the smoker he saw another beekeeper approaching. Like Rick, they wore a white smock and veil and with the exception of one detail could have been any club member. Yellow washing up gloves. Rick picked up his gear and walked towards his boss. They met halfway and unzipped their veils.

  ‘Did you get a pass?’ said Rick.

  ‘She got out the wrong side,’ said Robbo. ‘She wants lunch at a pub, but it’s not good for my diet. Beer and a roast. Custard.’

  ‘You could skip dessert.’

  ‘How are your new bees?’

  ‘I need to split them,’ said Rick. The previous season his colony had lost their queen and been destroyed by laying workers. He stared into the horseshoe of hives. Squadrons of bees taking off and landing. Balsam swaying in the breeze.

  ‘I want to reopen the Coniston missing enquiry. Arrest Khetan.’

  ‘You do, do you?’

  The reply was inflected as a question, but Rick knew it was an answer. And not the one he was looking for.

  He pictured the long suspension bridge where he’d last seen Khetan. He saw the snowy mountains, the flapping prayer-flags. Heard the thunder of the river. Watched Khetan run.

  ‘You found Calix Coniston.’

  ‘I lost Khetan.’

  ‘You had other priorities.’

  ‘Three people died. There’s been muttering and I want to put things right.’

  The superintendent pinged off a Marigold and chucked it on the grass. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Nepal.’

  ‘I meant an address.’ The second glove followed the first. ‘Do you even know he’s in Nepal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Intel?’

  Rick shook his head.

  ‘He’ll have changed his name.’ Robbo scratched the tops of his hands which were red and puffy.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Jesus, Rick, have you got anything?’

  Rick had known his boss would take some persuading and he harnessed the strategy lesson from his SIO course. Body recovery, searches, arrests – everything needed a strategy. McTavish, the bald Scottish instructor, had finished by saying they could use it at home. Want wifie to wear a catsuit and smear honey on Saturday? Then Friday, take her out for dinner and invite her maw for Hogmanay.

  Rick never forgot strategy. Three points for Robbo: head, heart, and conscience.

  ‘It’s your fault.’ Point three.

  ‘My fault?’

  ‘You said not to flag him.’ Rick removed his leather gauntlets. Their biosecurity wasn’t as good, but they were less itchy.

  ‘Brigadier Coniston was a brave man and I owe him.’ Point two, heart – Robbo was no robot. During the hostage negotiation the soldier had volunteered to be exchanged for his son. ‘The brigadier’s death was my fault.’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Rick, several times. You’ve been debriefed by three senior officers. You’ve read the review document. Accept the criticisms, learn the learning points and move on.’

  Robbo picked up his rubber gloves. ‘In any case, it’s not a priority.’

  ‘Not a priority – conspiracy to kidnap and manslaughter times three? And that’s just by us.’

  ‘No.’ Robbo flapped his gloves hard against his leg, trying to turn them the right way around.

  ‘You know he’s the FBI’s Most Wanted in Southern Asia?’

  ‘It’s still no.’

  ‘They think he could be the next Bin Laden.’

  ‘Well, they can worry about that. You’ve got a lot else on your desk.’

  Only one prong of Rick’s strategy remained – head – the weakest. He’d been thinking about how to find and arrest Khetan for a year, but still had no big idea. No USP. The sticking point was the lack of an extradition treaty because even if he located Khetan he’d be unable to bring him to the UK.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve not mentioned an arrest plan.’

  ‘I’ve a few ideas.’

  Robbo held a glove up to his mouth. ‘Details?’ He blew into a finger. It popped out with a crack, leaving him red in the face.

  ‘Entice Khetan to the UK and arrest him on British soil.’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘Still being fine-tuned.’ Khetan would be suspicious of everything and everybody, so whatever Rick came up with had to be clever. Subtle, restrained, unremarkable. Adjectives were as far as he’d got.

  ‘There’s another problem which you’re avoiding. Do our courts even have jurisdiction?’

  Rick wanted to punch the air: not only was Robbo wavering, but the answer was positive. ‘They do.’ He paused for effect. McTavish would be proud of him. ‘Khetan’s a dual national – he was given British citizenship when working in London.’

  Robbo blew out the final two fingers on his glove. It induced a coughing fit and he bent over.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rick picked up the second Marigold and popped the fingers, one after the other. Like a kid with a cap-gun.

  Robbo stood up. ‘Bloody show off.’

  ‘Diet’s only half of it. Exercise—’

  ‘Dual citizenship still needs the CPS to be willing to prosecute – the deaths were all in Nepal.’

  ‘I’ve pushed it around with one of their senior lawyers and she says they will.’

  ‘In writing?’

  ‘No.’ Which wasn’t surprising as Louise was a friend and they’d been in the pub.

  Robbo puckered his lips and was silent.

  ‘Fuck, Robbo. If I was a violent no-neck like Harris or Khan, you’d say yes. You know you would.’

  ‘Maybe, but—’ The superintendent paused, looked round the apiary. ‘How’s your dad?’

  Rick shook his head. Stepped a few paces away, stepped back. ‘This has nothing to do with him.’

  ‘You are on the SMT’s watch list – you’re still seeing Emma. They – we – don’t want you to blow.’

  ‘She’s about to sign me off: I’ve only got one more session.’

  Rick held his boss’s stare.

  The superintendent picked up his washing up gloves. ‘If that’s true—’ He eased the gloves back onto his fingers. ‘Okay, Rick, here’s the deal: firstly, if you get CPS authority to prosecute in writing, and secondly, if you come up with a convincing arrest plan to lure Khetan to the UK, then, and only then, will I sanction reopening the file. Agreed?’

  Robbo had finished as he’d started: an answer masquerading as a question. But it was enough. Rick nodded. He’d have to manage the fallout later, but inside he was doing the waggle dance.

  On his way home, Rick stopped off at Three Views to see Dad. Reception was unstaffed and he walked towards the main recreation room. Singing leaked through the double doors. Taking a deep breath, he walked in.

  Around the piano in the corner, alongside the row of French doors, a group of white- and grey-haired residents were belting out ‘Jerusalem’. Dad, tall and thin, was obvious. He wore his old Arran jumper, and pale slacks which Rick hadn’t seen before. He was sin ging and smiling.

  Michael, one of the assistants, nodded at Rick and walked over.

  ‘Did you look it up?’

  Rick shook his head. He hoped someone like Michael would be around to care for him. He was young, kind, and at least looked interested in what was going on.

  ‘Your mum’s not coming as much. Once a week, sometimes not at all.’

  Rick frowned. He thought she’d been coming every other day. ‘What about Becky?’

  ‘Your sister? Every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork.’

  The hymn finished.

  ‘Go on,’ said Michael, his eyes ushering Rick forward.

  Rick walked towards the piano, tapped his dad on the shoulder.

  ‘Dad.’

  His dad turned to look at him, his face frowning. ‘Hello. Are you new here?’

  The piano restarted. Rick recognised the tune from school.

  ‘I danced in the morning . . .’ Two or three people started clapping. Dad, too. Rick had never seen him clap. He retreated back to Michael, with each step seeing Dad – on the touchline, winning the fathers’ race, fishing for crabs.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  Rick shook his head.

  He watched his dad singing and clapping. Then looked away and stared out of the glass doors. One day he would forget everything. Darkness, for ever.

  2

  After a month in Strangeways, Calix Coniston changed cells. Flanked by guards, he stood on the metal catwalk, holding his cardboard crate. The three men waited, Calix staring at the crate. There were air-holes in the sides, and in a former life it had held apples for a supermarket.

  The cell door jerked into life and rattled from right to left.

  Third time lucky?

  The first had been a drink-driver who’d killed an old man on a pedestrian crossing. A prison epiphany meant Kaiden was constantly praying and quoting the Bible. To be woken every day to Psalm 118, verse 24, ‘This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice’, had driven Calix nuts. Two weeks of that and then for a reason never explained, Calix had been moved to a different cell. Havel was a Slovakian lorry driver who’d been stopped at Dover with thirty-eight kilos of heroin hidden behind a false compartment. Didn’t speak a word of English. Hummed to himself at night and always on the bog.

  Or worse?

  Calix said a silent prayer, his stomach heaving. He never prayed, and he blamed Kaiden.

  The door juddered to a halt and he walked in. The cell smelt of cigarettes and pot noodle.

  As the door rattled shut a man stared down from the top bunk. He was mid-twenties, ginger-haired and freckly. The tattoo of a lion’s head dominated his bare torso. Thick red headphones were angled back on his head. He held a comic. Calix nodded a greeting, then glanced around. A plastic table and two chairs. On the table sat a small TV with the sound down low. Above it was a shelf, and the bog was in the corner. There wasn’t a mirror because it could be smashed and the shards used to wound, or kill.

  Three square metres. Every one identical, like bird boxes.

  Calix slid his cardboard crate onto the scratched and graffitied table. Inside was a spare set of clothes. Three books, his toothbrush, and last week’s paper. Resting on the clothes were clingfilmed sandwiches and a banana – changing cells meant he’d missed lunch. His gratitude was pathetic.

  The man on the top bunk put down his comic and swung his legs over the side. He was all muscles and tattoos. He pushed his headphones off. ‘Darren. From Oldham – Oldham Edge, the skinter side.’ He lit a roll-up, and the smell of fresh tobacco flooded the room. He stretched out a hand, the cigarette pinched as if it was a detonator.

  Calix took it and nodded his thanks. He inhaled and passed it back.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Darren flipped his legs back onto the bunk and picked up his comic.

  Calix looked at the two plastic chairs. The back was missing on one, and the arms flopped down on the other. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Which one?’ Darren chuckled into his roll-up and shook his head. ‘Either fucking one.’

  Calix sat down alongside the TV and peeled the banana. Next to him, images flickered and voices merged. A drip fell from a corner of the ceiling, onto a wet patch on the floor. The cave in Nepal. Held hostage with Barney and Spencer, feeling cold. Scared. Having to take charge, act for the three of them.

  He finished the banana and pushed the skin onto the table. He wondered if he should say something, but Darren was looking at his comic. On the cover a black-hooded figure waved a chainsaw.

  After eating the sandwiches Calix still felt hungry. He walked over to the bunks and slipped off his shoes. The black elasticated plimsolls were the same as the ones he’d worn at primary school. He was twenty-four years old, and he’d got nowhere. He clambered across the stained mattress and lay down.

  Above Calix’s ceiling of graffiti and old chewing gum and less than an arm’s length away, Darren muttered to himself as he tried to read his comic. Calix had taught Havel a few words of English, and could help Darren, too. He closed his eyes.

  Darren jumped down onto the floor, wobbling the bunks. ‘What you in for?’ He paused. ‘Oi, fuck-face.’

  Calix opened his eyes. ‘You heard of Special K?’

  ‘For fuck! Makes you want to piss and see shit that’s not there.’

  Calix snickered gently. ‘No, not ketamine. Hant Khetan – he’s wanted by the FBI.’

  ‘Course I heard of him.’

  ‘I worked with him,’ said Calix. ‘For him,’ he corrected himself.

  Darren whistled. ‘You some sort of caped crusader?’

  Calix scratched his neck and looked away. He’d been duped by Khetan. But he didn’t say that. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

  Darren shuffled across to the table and rummaged in the crate. Calix stood up. He was six foot two. Taller. Darren placed a finger on his chest and pushed.

  Calix sat back down on the bunk and watched Darren empty the crate onto the floor. Two photos flew up, floated down and skidded away. Darren picked them up and studied them. The first was of Calix’s old man in uniform, and the second his parents on an anniversary, smiling. Before.

  ‘Was them it?’

  Calix nodded and took back the pictures. He gathered his things. He put everything back in the crate, checked the photo of Megan was still there, and toe-poked the crate under his bunk. Darren leant back against the wall. A guard walked past and the metal floors reverberated. ‘How long you looking at, Capeman?’

  ‘Brief says two to nine.’

  Darren grunted, eyes on the TV.

  Calix found a drink carton amongst his things. He poked in the straw and lay back on the bunk. He read some of the graffiti. Prisoner BN 89511 would dress up as the governor’s wife. He felt sorry for prisoner GH 53976. He drank some of the juice. Two years would be okay: time spent on remand and early release meant he’d not have long to do. Three would be bearable, four hard, and anything longer, obscene. Eight or nine would mean ticking 30–35 in the exit questionnaire. He couldn’t stay behind bars that long.

  He put the empty carton down on the floor and fingered the photos out of the crate. The one of his parents was torn. Asking the guards for tape was as pointless as asking for a bicycle or a hedgehog. Or a bicycle for a hedgehog. He brushed away hairs, checked the sticky on the back and pressed them to the wall.

  Resting his head on the lumpy pillow, he stared at his old man staring back. His pristine white gloves, his sparkling buttons and braid. His old man had wanted him to be a soldier, like father like son. He turned to Megan – she was sitting at her desk, the two of them had been talking late into the night. She looked sad, as if she also was disappointed in him.

  Calix rolled over, picked at his fingernails. Every second he remained aware what Darren was doing. Maybe he should have offered him his lunch.

  On the wing a prisoner started singing. ‘There was ten German bombers in the air, there was ten German bombers in the air.’ More prisoners joined in, coining the pipes in accompaniment. ‘And the RAF shot one down. The RAF from England shot one down. Shot one down.’

  It could have been much, much worse: bruises and boredom, but nothing broken and no trips to the infirmary. Calix remained on the fence about his third cellmate. Darren was moody and violent, but could be amusing, and stuck up for Calix outside the cell.

  Two things alleviated the monotony. The first was Prison Skool. Subjects included chivs, laundry, disguise, anti-forensic. Two months after being incarcerated, he’d found out he shared a cell with one of the teachers.

 

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