Nowhere To Hide

‘I suppose,’ Hodder said, doubtfully. He looked around at the sweep of the hillside, the drop to the road behind them. ‘Impressive views, if you like that kind of thing.’ His tone implied that he didn’t include himself in that category.

‘You can see a long way. That’s what would have appealed to Kenning. He could see the bastards coming.’

‘He didn’t, though, did he?’ Hodder had regained his breath and drawn level with Brennan.

‘We all have to sleep sometime.’

‘That the place?’ Hodder gestured towards the white-rendered cottage another half mile or so ahead of them.

‘Don’t see any other candidates, do you?’ As far as Brennan could see, there was nothing else for miles. Just bare open moorland stretching off to the horizon. Apart from the single-track road where they’d left the car, there was no other sign of human habitation. The perfect hideaway – or not, as it turned out, but as good as Kenning was likely to find.

‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’ Brennan began to trudge slowly up the footpath towards the cottage, Hodder following a few feet behind. As they drew closer, he caught sight of a black-clad figure, pacing alongside the cottage. Brennan glanced at his watch. They were fifteen minutes late. Wakefield was, as always, on time.

They walked the last few hundred yards to the gate. The path continued on over the next hilltop. Probably a few walkers made their way up here, but not many.

By the time they reached the cottage, Wakefield had come forward to greet them. He was finishing off a cigarette, tossing the butt with practised nonchalance into the overgrown garden.

‘You want to be careful,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll have the whole place up in smoke.’

Wakefield smiled, as at a well-rehearsed witticism. ‘Rain we’ve had up here, you couldn’t cause a fire with a fucking flamethrower.’ He regarded Brennan for a moment. ‘How you doing, Jack?’

Brennan shrugged. ‘Not so bad. Considering.’

‘Considering. Not dead yet, then?’

‘That’s probably disappointed a few people.’

‘I imagine.’ Wakefield pulled out his packet of cigarettes, waving it towards Brennan and Hodder, who both shook their heads. He was a tall thin man, with swept-back grey hair and sallow skin. He was probably forty or so, but looked older. ‘There’s still a few of us on your side.’

‘Didn’t see many putting their heads above the battlements. Present company excepted.’

‘Not everyone’s as dumb as I am. But there are a few who think you’ve been treated shittily.’

‘That’s a great consolation,’ Brennan said.

Wakefield waved his lit cigarette towards Hodder. ‘Didn’t know it was “bring your kid to work” day.’

Brennan glanced round at Hodder. ‘Pure jealousy. When you’re a decrepit old has-been like Rog, the only pleasure you’ve got left is taking the piss out of the younger generation.’ He ushered Hodder forward. ‘Andy Hodder, a very capable officer despite his tender years. Roger Wakefield, a crap old copper, for all his decades of experience.’

Wakefield laughed and shook Hodder’s hands. ‘If you’re coping with Jack Brennan, you must have something about you. He’s got many good qualities, but not being a pain in the backside isn’t one of them.’ Wakefield turned back towards Brennan. ‘Okay, Jack, you’ve dragged me up here to the arse-end of nowhere to open up for you. What’s this about exactly?’

‘Wild goose chase, probably. But since I’m kicking my heels over in the ivory towers, I thought I should come and see where Kenning met his unfortunate end.’

‘Why the sudden interest in Kenning? It’s not like there’s any great mystery about his killing.’

‘Except that you don’t actually know who killed him.

‘No, and I don’t suppose we ever will. I think I’ll learn to live with that.’ Wakefield was fumbling in his pocket for the keys to the cottage. ‘He was a grass. He was living on borrowed time. He got taken out. Simple as that.’

‘So who took him out?’

‘Buggers he put behind bars,’ Wakefield said. ‘But we’ll never prove it. It was a pro job, and a good one.’ He led them to the door of the cottage and, after trying a couple of the keys on the chain, found the one that fitted the front door. He unlocked the door and led them inside.

‘Who’s the cottage belong to?’ Hodder said from behind. ‘The Force?’

‘Funded from the witness protection programme’, Wakefield said. ‘We’d think about selling it but no one would want to buy up here. Keep it for the next daft bugger who blows the whistle.’

‘Take it you’ve had the place cleaned up?’ Brennan asked. The front door led straight into the living room of the cottage, a dark shabby-looking room with a worn sofa, two armchairs and, at the far end, a folding wooden table and a couple of chairs. Brennan walked over and peered at a dark stain on the dull mauve carpet. ‘This where it happened?’

Wakefield nodded. There was still a faint scent of blood in the air, just detectable through the pervading stench of bleach and disinfectant. ‘Yeah, you can see the bullet mark in the plaster behind. Best we can judge from the ballistics, the gunman was actually seated on the sofa.’

‘Doesn’t pay to exert yourself,’ Brennan commented. ‘What’s that mean, then? Someone he knew?’

‘You fishing, Jack? See what you can pump out of an old mate?’

‘You know me better, Rog. If I want to know something, I just blurt it out.’

‘True enough. Go on, then. Blurt.’

Brennan ignored him and moved to stand by the sofa, looking across to the stained carpet. He squatted for a moment, envisaging the passage of the bullet through the air. ‘What weapon?’

‘Nine mil. We think a Glock 17.’

Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Police weapon?’

Wakefield laughed. ‘Yeah, we use them. Not one of ours, though. Plenty out there.’

‘You’ve not found the gun?’

‘Like I said, Jack, this was a pro job. He’d have taken the bullet with him if he could. He barely left a trace. Some scraps of DNA, but nothing that matches.’ He paused, then smiled across at Hodder who was standing awkwardly by the open front door. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m doing all the talking, son?’

Brennan rose and moved to stand beside Hodder at the front door, peering at the lock. ‘Decent seven-lever deadlock,’ he commented. ‘Lockable bolts. Kenning cared about his security. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? So how’d the killer get in?’

‘Back door, we think,’ Wakefield said. ‘Security not quite as tight there. Pretty expert entry, though. Like I say, a pro.’

‘No alarm system?’

‘No. You know, I sometimes think that, if we want people to grass, we should look after them a bit better after they’ve done it. Just my opinion, you understand. Views expressed don’t necessarily represent those of the management.’ He pulled open the door that led out into the narrow hallway. ‘Grand tour?’

‘Might as well now we’ve paid.’ Brennan and Hodder followed Wakefield into the tiny kitchen at the rear of the house. It had been thoroughly cleaned, along with the rest of the house, but still carried a dingy air, the afternoon sunlight barely penetrating the grimy windows.

‘Dream kitchen.’ Wakefield pointed towards the back door. The lock had been replaced, but the splintered wood alongside it indicated that the door had been jemmied open. ‘How he got in. Not subtle, but skilfully done. Minimum damage, minimum noise.’

‘Not all that secure, though.’

‘Once they found out where he was, it would take more than a few locks to keep them out. And if they couldn’t get in, they’d just torch the place. Maybe Kenning wanted an exit route.’

Brennan surveyed the small kitchen. ‘Christ, what a fucking life. Stuck in this dump. Not even a sheep for company. Knowing they’re out there somewhere, waiting to track you down. Jesus.’

‘His lucky day when the mystery assassin turned up. Least he had a bit of company.’ Wakefield watched as Brennan prodded the doorframe. ‘Okay, Jack, I’ve been very patient. Now cough up. Why the interest in Kenning? He’s not the right league for your lot.’

‘Not my lot,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘I’m only on secondment. I’m one of you.’

‘Not most people’s opinion,’ Wakefield said. ‘And I’m starting to have my doubts.’

Brennan glanced across at Hodder, as if he were about to make the young man complicit in some illicit action. ‘I can trust you, Rog,’ he said. ‘Not to shoot your mouth off, I mean. Not just yet.’

‘Depends what you’re going to say.’

‘Nothing very significant. But I get the impression that communications between my bosses and yours aren’t as transparent as they might be. Don’t want to step on any more toes than I can help, just at the moment.’

‘Bit late for that, mate. But okay, if you’re in the shit, at least try to tread water.’

‘I’ve been asked to look at a series of killings. Kenning’s one of them.’

‘But your lot haven’t told our lot.’

‘Above my pay grade. But my boss has asked me to collate the evidence. Guy called Hugh Salter. You know him?’

‘By reputation. DS in the Met, before he went over to your lot. He was involved in that corruption case last year, wasn’t he? Jeff Kerridge and all that. On the rise, from what I hear.’

‘Yeah. We already had a chat about the ironies of the situation.’ Brennan looked across at Hodder again. ‘Sorry if I’m talking out of school, Andy. Just trying to be straight with Rog here.’

Hodder looked slightly surprised at being consulted. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Wouldn’t trust Salter any further than I could throw him.’

‘No way to talk about your elders and betters,’ Brennan said. ‘Interesting you think that, though.’

‘He got me tangled up in that Kerridge business,’ Hodder said. ‘Had me tailing one of our undercover officers, Marie Donovan. I went along with it because – well, because he was senior to me, I suppose. I thought he’d got it officially sanctioned, but he was off on his own. He covered for me, but mainly because he had to make his own story hang together. Didn’t feel right, though. Still doesn’t.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘I don’t know. The whole thing with Kerridge. Salter came out of it looking good. But there was something not right about it.’ He shook his head, as if dealing with a subject beyond his comprehension.

Wakefield had been watching this dialogue with some interest. ‘So what’s Salter’s interest in Kenning? The guy grassed on a small-time drug ring.’

‘Salter reckons it wasn’t all that small-time. That it was part of Kerridge’s empire. And that Kenning was taken out by Pete Boyle, the guy who’s trying to become the new Kerridge.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ Wakefield said. ‘Boyle marking his territory? Tomcat pissing up the wall sort of stuff?’

‘Warning off the competition. Yeah.’

‘So what’s your role in all this?’

‘Evidence officer. They’re still trying to build a case against Boyle. Some days I just think he’s come up with half-arsed task to keep me out of trouble. Then I think maybe he’s using me. If anything comes of it, he can claim the glory. If it goes tits up or if you lot get arsey, he can always just blame me.’

‘The perfect scapegoat,’ Wakefield agreed. ‘So what do you reckon? Does Salter’s theory have legs?’

‘It’s not completely off the wall. Three incidents of small-timers killed by oddly professional murderers. Look at this one. You might expect Kenning to be taken out eventually, but a pro hit seems more than he merited.’

‘Maybe,’ Wakefield agreed. ‘Though God knows you can’t always fathom the logic of these people. These other cases, they look like pros too?’

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