‘I’m guessing you’re recruiting for them too?’ he asks, trying to bury his revulsion, the shame of it all. ‘Drug mules. Schoolkids.’
‘Jake tell you that?’
‘He put two and two together.’
‘They didn’t like him asking questions at the pub.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. The Bluebell. I need your help.’
It’s a long shot, but Silas can see a way of playing Conor back into the organised crime gang. If he can discover more about the night Kate’s drink was spiked – who ordered it to be done – he might be able to help bring down the entire county lines network and expose any links it has with the modern slavery gang in Swindon that was recently sentenced. His boss won’t like it, but this is personal now. He also wants to know who sent Jake the CCTV footage.
‘Help you?’ Conor says. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because then I can help you,’ Silas says, turning to face him.
Once the drugs network has been disbanded, Silas can make an argument for Conor, cite the assistance he’s given the police, the mitigating circumstances. Would that really work? Or is he deluding himself?
‘I’m off,’ Conor says, gathering up a small rucksack and brushing past him out of the hut door into the evening light.
‘I just need to know who gave the order to target Kate, the super recogniser who worked for me,’ Silas says, calling after Conor as he heads off into the sunshine. ‘And find out who sent the CCTV footage of her drink being spiked at the Bluebell.’
He follows Conor out of the hut, but Conor is already ten yards away, striding across the open grass. A startled pheasant crows in the distance.
‘The CCTV footage was sent to Jake, the guy whose boat you torched,’ Silas calls after him. ‘Someone might know that the pub cameras were hacked.’
Conor is not interested. Silas scans the forest, as if searching for something else to say, but he knows there’s only one thing that will get his son’s attention.
‘I’ll make an effort with Mum,’ he shouts, his voice echoing through the trees. Are they mocking the hollowness of his words?
Conor is thirty yards away now. He stops and turns.
‘We’ll try to sort things out,’ Silas continues, eyes locked on Conor’s across the long grass. ‘Maybe get some counselling. I promise.’
64
Kate
Rob was being a little disingenuous when he said there were a few things in the fridge for supper. Like he’d said there were a few clothes in the bedroom wardrobe. Kate’s just finished an exquisite crayfish salad, moist and meaty. He knows it’s her favourite seafood. Readymade, of course. Rob is a hopeless cook, buys all his meals from a high-end delivery service. There was a bottle of Sancerre too and she treated herself to a glass. What the hell. She’s not meant to drink, but tonight feels different, as if she’s turned a corner.
Ajay couldn’t stay long, but they talked some more about Capgras and he didn’t rule out that Kate might be suffering from it. In fact, the more they chatted, the more he seemed to entertain the possibility, particularly once they’d worked out that she only ever thinks Rob’s a double when he’s to her left. Weird. The whole auditory cortex thing also fits with her experience of talking to Rob on the phone and feeling fine. Ajay gave her a coping strategy too: if she should find herself again thinking that Rob is a double, she should close her eyes and listen to Rob’s voice. It might encourage the brain to re-establish the neural pathways that link his face to the person she knows.
After Ajay left, telling her that she could call him any time of day or night, she went up to the terrace and did some sketches, inspired by the sight of her work on the walls downstairs, and for once the pencil flowed and she’s reasonably happy with the results. Big harsh skylines, void of all people. If she starts to paint portraits again, she wants the landscape to be more prominent, to interact more with her subject, hint at the insignificance of humankind. She also keeps thinking about the man she spotted in the station shelter. DI Hart sent her a text earlier, confirming it was his son and that he’d met up with him. He just wanted to say thanks – and to congratulate her on her ‘dirty field spot’. The old skills are definitely back.
Her only problem is Jake. He’s been trying to call her all evening and she hasn’t answered. She will always love Jake, but they’ve both moved on. She doesn’t want him to think there’s any chance they might get back together again. It’s not fair on him. He’s been texting her too, but she hasn’t read any of his messages and she’s now turned her phone off. Rob called again on the landline a few minutes ago, confirming that he’ll be back by 11 p.m.
So she’s got a few hours to herself in town. There’s a Tate Late at Tate Modern tonight. She will head over there for a bit and then be back in time for Rob’s return. She’s told herself to stop worrying so much about Rob and his past, the photo by the bed. What does it matter which wrist he wore his watch on when he was younger? His taste in coffee? What side of the bloody bed he sleeps on? She’s also come up with a plan for when he arrives, based on Ajay’s advice. Something to stop Capgras in its tracks.
She checks herself in Rob’s bedroom mirror, applying some carmine lipstick. There’s a lot of male grooming stuff here and in the bathroom. She likes a man who takes care of himself – it’s still quite a novelty for her. It’s all in the hands, the cuticles. Rob’s are manicured, as unlike Jake’s oil-stained, nail-bitten fingers as you could get.
She glances around the bedroom, checking that everything is ready for later. This is where she’s going to be with him tonight. And she feels good about it, confident. She deserves all this, a clean start, her new man. A lucky break. Go for the money, girl, as Bex said. And why not? Her ridiculously comfortable new life is just a happy consequence of their relationship, not the reason for it.
She skips and twirls across the vast living area in one of the Ghost dresses Rob bought her. It’s a while since she’s dressed up to go out for the evening. Scooping up her shoulder bag, she reaches for the front door handle and pulls.
It doesn’t open.
She’s always had a thing about these sorts of doors, the ones that require you to press a release button before you can open it. She sees a button on the wall to her right, shakes her head at Rob’s obsession with security, and presses it. There’s a satisfying click and she pulls on the door handle again. It still doesn’t open.
She presses the release and tries the handle several more times before admitting defeat. God, she hates technology sometimes. There must be something obvious she’s missing. She closes her eyes, opens them again, imagines that she’s an intelligent person walking up to the door for the first time. Look around, press release, pull on door handle. Nothing doing.
Two minutes later, she’s back in the bedroom, talking on the landline to a receptionist who is trying to connect her to Rob.
‘It’s me, sorry to disturb,’ she says.
‘You OK?’ Rob asks. It sounds like him. ‘Thought you were going out.’
‘That’s the problem. I can’t open the door.’