‘You’re telling me you didn’t?’
‘I’m telling you it’s none of your business.’
He let the silence sit between them for a moment, then mentioned that he had the letters.
‘What letters?’ She failed to stop a spot of colour appearing on either cheek.
‘The letters you sent him. Imogen Vernal found them and hung on to them.’ He waited for her to take this in. ‘You’re telling me you never loved him?’
She squeezed shut her eyes, then blinked them open again. ‘I’m telling you it’s ancient history – and also none of your business. You’re a Complaints officer. This is not a Complaints matter.’
‘You’re right. Maybe I should just hand everything over to CID…’
‘Don’t be crass.’
Fox waited a beat before continuing. ‘There was a cop called Gavin Willis. He led the inquiry – such as it was – when Vernal died. But you’d vanished by then.’
‘Special Branch didn’t want me sticking around – the questions could have been awkward. Besides, the DHC had scattered…’
‘So you said. For some reason, Willis held on to Vernal’s car.’
Her eyes widened a little. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘I’m not sure. One thing I do know: he was selling guns to groups like the DHC. Specifically to a man called “Hawkeye”.’ Fox handed her the photograph. She took her time studying it.
‘I haven’t seen this in years.’
‘The man you’ve linked arms with?’ Fox prompted.
‘Hawkeye, yes. He looks a bit awkward, doesn’t he? The arm thing would have been my idea. He wasn’t much of one for socialising… or for the ladies. Never went to the pub after meetings – most people, that was what they looked forward to: not the political theory but the booze-up.’
‘After Vernal’s death, you never spoke to any of them again?’
She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, as if suddenly chilled. ‘I was another person,’ she stated quietly.
‘How do you think Francis Vernal died?’
‘I think he shot himself.’
‘Why?’
‘The drink, his marriage, the fear of discovery. He knew we were monitoring him.’
‘The two of you didn’t argue that night?’
‘Not really. I think it annoyed him that all I ever wanted to talk about was the group. He said it was a madness in me.’ She unfolded her arms, and studied the photograph again.
‘He never twigged you were undercover?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If he had…?’
‘It might have led him to do something, I suppose.’
‘Did you ever see a gun in his car?’
‘Doesn’t mean one wasn’t there.’
‘That’s a no, then?’ Fox paused for a moment. ‘DCI Jackson doesn’t know?’
‘About Francis and me?’ She considered this. ‘I don’t think so. Why should he?’
‘He’s been digging in the files.’
‘Why?’
‘Wondering why I was interested. He told me something…’
‘What?’
‘The agents tailing Francis Vernal took a look at him after the crash.’ Fox was studying her reaction. ‘He was still alive. No head shot at that point.’
‘What did they do?’ The blood had drained from her face. Her voice was pitched just above a whisper.
‘If Jackson’s to be believed, they didn’t kill him. They just walked away and left him there. No call to the emergency services. Nothing.’
She seemed to wrap her arms more closely around herself. ‘That’s awful,’ she said.
‘I’m glad we agree.’
There was silence in the room for almost a full minute.
‘They could have shot him,’ Alison Pears eventually conceded. ‘Shot him and taken the money.’
‘They could,’ Fox agreed. ‘Tell me, was Vernal really just a job to you?’
Her look hardened a little. ‘How often do I need to say it? That’s something I’m not willing to discuss.’
‘It might be the one thing I can take back to Charles Mangold for him to give to the widow.’
‘I think this has gone far enough.’
‘Alan Carter really never contacted you? Never connected you to Alice Watts?’
‘I’ve already told you, Inspector – you’re the first.’ She stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. Reluctantly, Fox got to his feet. ‘I need to know how far you’re going to take this,’ she asked.
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘It would put my mind at rest,’ she persevered. ‘There’s a job I should be focusing on.’
He nodded his understanding. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ He was holding out his hand for the photograph.
‘I’d like to keep it,’ she said.
Fox kept his hand held out. Her phone rang and she answered it, relinquishing the photo at the same time. ‘Speak to me,’ she said. As she listened, Fox watched her turn into a Chief Constable again. It was as if her talk with him had been slotted into a filing cabinet somewhere.
‘No,’ she was stating, ‘Govan can’t bloody well have them. They’re my suspects.’
Govan: the high-security police station in Glasgow. It was where terrorist suspects usually ended up, but Pears was fighting her corner. As the argument continued, Fox realised she craved the media attention because it gave her the chance to shine. What was it her husband had said? Something about her ‘needing’ this case. By the time she ended the call, she had made her determination clear to the other participant. She looked at Fox, and he knew what she was telling him: I’m a fighter. I’m used to winning. Just remember that… He nodded and opened the door for her. She marched out ahead of him, making for the stairs again. Stephen Pears was watching TV, but rose to greet Fox.
‘Everything cleared up?’ he asked, watching his wife disappear from view.
‘I’m fairly satisfied,’ Fox decided to answer. He noted that Andrew Watson seemed to have left. The lights by the tennis court had been switched off.
‘A case of mistaken identity, then,’ the financier was stating.
‘It happens,’ Fox concurred.
Pears patted him on the back and said he would show him out. ‘In fact, it’s such a lovely evening, I might take Max for a walk.’
‘Thank you again, Mr Pears,’ Fox said, shaking the man’s hand. Pears applied his free hand to Fox’s wrist.
‘Sorry again about your father. I hope he’s all right.’ He paused, still grasping Fox’s wrist. ‘And if you ever need anything, Inspector …’
Fox could see he meant nothing by it – it was just something the self-made millionaire had grown used to saying. But he thanked him again anyway.
Jude was asleep on her chair. The nurse said she hadn’t moved from the spot.
‘We told her to go stretch her legs, but she wouldn’t. I brought her tea and biscuits but she left them.’
They were standing at the nurses’ station, keeping their voices low. Almost all the patients were asleep. ‘My dad’s not woken up?’ Fox asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘What about the scan?’
‘CT’s a bit backed up. It’ll be tomorrow now.’
‘What’s the drip for?’ Fox nodded towards the tube inserted into his father’s arm.
‘Need to keep his fluids up,’ the nurse explained. ‘Do you want to rouse your sister, or will I do it?’
