Sing Like A Canary E-Book

Isobel Blackthorn

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Retired police officer Marjorie Pierce is on her way to Lanzarote to track down her old informer, Billy McKenzie. Billy ended Marjorie's career, and she needs an explanation; an apology.

Present and past soon collide when gangsters Eric and Mick Maloney turn up on the island with revenge in their veins, and Marjorie has to race against the clock to get to Billy before the brothers.

But who is complicit and who can be trusted... and who really betrayed Marjorie all those years ago?

A multi-layered mystery packed with suspense, Sing Like A Canary is the fifth book in Isobel Blackthorn's Canary Islands Mysteries Series, and can be enjoyed as a standalone even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

SING LIKE A CANARY

CANARY ISLANDS MYSTERIES BOOK 5

ISOBEL BLACKTHORN

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Isobel Blackthorn

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to my mother and all retired police officers who worked hard to keep us safe.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My eternal gratitude to my mother Margaret Rodgers. This book could not have been written without her. My heartfelt thanks to Miika Hannila and the team at Next Chapter Publishing.

Parts of this story are loosely based on real events. All of the characters are completely made up.

1

PLAYA BLANCA, LANZAROTE, THURSDAY 14 MARCH 2019

I had no idea why I lied about my name. I had never, ever, not once in all of my sixty-seven years given a false name. Why start? A reflex? I realised with sudden force that now could well be the time to lie about who I was. There was a pretence to maintain. Even on this far-flung rock of an island. I had to remind myself of that. I could be too honest.

My eyes had already taken in his signature on the letter. It was unmistakable even after forty years.

Edwin Banks.

Billy Mackenzie had practised that signature over and over in the days leading up to his departure. I’d watched him do it. He wrote in large childlike alphabet letters, the sort you would expect from a kid in Grade One – I hadn’t liked to ask if he was at best semi-literate, I’d just assumed it watching his cack-handed efforts – and for the fun of it he’d come up with a way of making the E much larger than the rather large B and underscoring his new name with a pronounced zigzag trailing under the S.

And there it was, the signature of Edwin Banks plain as day beside the stranger’s fingertips, the letter itself splayed out on the café table, its corners lifting thanks to the sea breeze.

I’d always enjoyed keen eyesight. Ever since I was a child my eyes would home in on little bits of evidence – the shoelace of Carl Fisher’s school shoes in the bushes where Fiona Macintyre was molested, the missing tooth of Wendy Fraser in the gravel edging the school driveway after her skirmish with notorious school bully Sharon Weare – and it was this natural talent that had led me to join the constabulary. You’d make a great detective, my mother had said, which was a progressive thing to tell a daughter in the 1960s. I had a habit of finding myself in the right place at the right time, too, and I had a good nose for sniffing out clues. You’re a natural, Marjorie Pierce. Isn’t that what they’d said, back in the days of my police training. It was 1977 by the time I joined the force at the tender age of twenty-four, and indeed they had. That was what they’d said when they weren’t being lewd.

On that warm afternoon in March, I had gone for a drive down to the island’s southern coast to meet up with an old colleague. He was on holiday here and had managed to get a message through to me when I was back in England that he had some information about Billy. Once I’d arrived on the island, we arranged to meet. But he didn’t show. On my way back to my car, I was passing a café near the ferry port when hunger grabbed a hold. It was lunchtime and the café’s outdoor area was crowded with holidaymakers, and I was forced to head for the only table with a vacant chair. I didn’t want to have to share a table with anyone, but the woman seated with her back to a potted succulent looked harmless enough.

And there the woman sat, her mature and stately visage replete with wavy grey hair framed by the plant’s fleshy leaves as she pored over a letter from Billy Mackenzie née Edwin Banks. He was writing to his son Alvaro. Dear Alvaro. That was all I was able to read. That and the date. 1989. To have continued would have appeared rude and inappropriate. Besides, a waiter came with the woman’s coffee, and I’d had no choice but to accept the proffered menu as I sat down. The woman then tucked away her letter and held out her hand and introduced herself. And I, Marjorie Pierce, had said Edna Banks. Edna, Edwin, it was as though I had temporarily fallen under some sort of hypnotic spell. Either that or I’d had a brain freeze. Why not say my real name? And if I felt I had to lie, why then choose a name almost identical to the fake name of the individual I had come to find? Clumsy. Not one of my sharp-witted moments. Truth is, the woman’s unexpected hospitality had left me momentarily flustered. The curse of ageing.

At least Clarissa had no idea I had seen, let alone recognised that signature. She thought it was pure coincidence that my name was so similar, and her face filled with astonishment.

What were the chances?

‘Banks is a common enough name,’ I said.

Even so, I suspected the similarity was the sole reason Clarissa had shown a good deal of enthusiasm for exchanging contact details. Perhaps she thought I was this Edwin’s sister and was trying to hide it. Still, when Clarissa said she was on her way back to Fuerteventura and she would look me up next time she was on the island, I, Marjorie now née Edna, decided it unlikely I would ever encounter the woman again.

I thought I had hidden my own astonishment well. A different sort of astonishment, founded on the presence of that letter. What were the chances? I kept coming back to that. What was Clarissa doing with that letter anyway? Then I realised Alvaro’s death had been all over the newspapers. And the articles had mentioned an Englishwoman who had managed to escape a heinous ordeal at Villa Winter, thought to be a secret Nazi base on Fuerteventura.

My memory was hazy when it came to that Englishwoman’s name. An inner voice prevented me from simply asking Clarissa if she was that very woman. In her shoes, if it was her, I would not want to be probed. Do as you would be done by. Isn’t that what they say. At any rate, I gave her the privacy she no doubt craved. Which meant I was forced to make chitchat for the duration of my ham sandwich and orange juice, chitchat in which I managed to divulge far too much to cover my inner embarrassment at calling myself Edna Banks. Then there was my eagerness to find out what I could about the Villa Winter case. The combination had thrown me off-kilter. Fortress Marjorie had let down the drawbridge.

Making a bad situation even worse, Clarissa seemed to have a knack for loosening tongues. It had a lot to do with her own divulgences and how she had come to Lanzarote on a day trip to visit a prisoner. How he’d been wrongly convicted of murder. Poor sod, but it happens. In the telling, she’d created common ground. It felt natural letting her know I was a retired copper who back in the day had been instrumental in nailing a notorious London gang. A gang rightly convicted, no mistake there. I’d even told my new acquaintance I had come to the island to settle a score with an expatriate criminal. Sounded like bragging when I thought back on it later. Would Clarissa put the two together, the gang and the man? Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing to link any of what I’d said to Billy Mackenzie.

After some brief observations about the weather – there’d been one mother of a dust storm a couple of days before I arrived – I promised to keep in touch, paid, and left.

There was a newsagent on the next corner. I wended my way past the usual tat and cheap novels on display at the entrance and browsed the newspaper rack inside. I didn’t need to search hard to find what I was looking for. Clarissa Wilkinson’s name and photo were on the front page of a local newssheet. I bought the newssheet and headed back to my car.

The drive to the holiday let was, for the island, a long one. I had the aircon on full blast, and I had to concentrate the whole way, not accustomed to driving on the other side of the road.

The eastern portion of the island was mostly given over to tourist resort towns and the traffic was steady. A stretch of dual carriageway circumnavigated the capital Arrecife and then there was a string of roundabouts heading out through the wealthier suburban enclave of Tahiche. After that, the traffic thinned a little, the main road continuing on to Teguise and the central towns, the turnoff, which I took, coursing along a coastal plain beside steep-sided hills. The lure of the north, with dramatic landscapes further on and several renowned tourist sites, meant there wasn’t that much of a let up in the traffic. Here, the drive was complicated by the cyclists, loads of them, and there wasn’t enough road width for them and us, causing no end of tailbacks and risk-taking by irate drivers. Once I’d turned off onto the old road to my village, the traffic thinned to near zero and I relaxed.

Not being one for the tourist enclaves, I had rented a detached house on the eastern edge of the pretty village of Guatiza, on land backing on to Las Calderetas, a low sprawling volcano sheltering Guatiza from the east coast. There were volcanoes everywhere you looked on this island but the ones in the north were a lot older. The locale was known for its prickly pear farms – cultivated for cochineal traditionally, and also for cactus jam – and there were fields of cactus to either side of the house. I loved the area. The village was neat and tidy, the houses cuboid and white. The cacti – lending a permanent green to a bone-dry landscape – contained by low dry-stone walls. The house I had rented was a new build constructed in the traditional fashion and very well maintained by its German owner who had been more than happy to let me lease the place for three weeks at a reduced rate because there was one of me.

There was another reason I’d picked Guatiza. Billy would have holed up somewhere remote but accessible. Not for him the wilderness, the cliffs, the churning ocean. He had a horror of heights, having once been suspended upside down from the roof of a high-rise housing block. The price you pay for the people you choose to mix with. Which had ruled out all of the Canary Islands bar Fuerteventura and Lanzarote when he was choosing where to run to, where to hide. I had joked with him at the time that La Gomera would be his best pick. Near vertical cliffs and ravines, no beaches to speak of – at least not the sort sporting swathes of white sand – the island rising up out of the ocean like a raised scab. They’d managed to flatten a portion of land near the coast for a runway. The island was favoured by the Germans, there were almost no English there, and the guidebook talked of some interesting cave dwellings. An ideal location to disappear to as no one who knew Billy would ever think he would pick such a place. He was having none of it. I had him rubbing his palms on his trouser legs in the imagining. Hilarious.

Neither of us had heard of any of the islands other than Tenerife before studying the map. He’d vetoed Fuerteventura – even though it looked much flatter than most of the other islands – saying it sounded like a total backwater, which it was in 1980, according to Let’s Go. As for Lanzarote, which became his choice after he’d eliminated all the others, there were not that many places on the island off the beaten track that were not half-buried in a lava flow. The island was barren and exposed – you could be seen for miles practically anywhere – and a foreigner had little choice but to mingle a little. In 1980, lone foreigners outside the tourist areas and the capital would have been known individually by the locals. I did alert him to that, but he didn’t listen.

After studying maps and descriptions of the island when I was planning my trip last week, I had taken a punt that Billy would have headed north, away from the tourism in the south, but still within easy range of shops and banks in the capital Arrecife. Even back when Billy had come here, the pocket of land at the beginning of the island’s northern tip – where the island narrowed to just a few kilometres wide, ending abruptly on the west coast in a dramatic cliff – boasted a small German enclave in the village of Mala and a nudist colony at nearby Charco del Palo. The Germans had established themselves as had the nudists, and both groups would have suited Billy as neither would have taken the slightest bit of interest in a scrawny, bearded weasel of a Brit.

2

OLD SALT WORKS, LOS COCOTEROS, LANZAROTE, THURSDAY 14 MARCH 2019

Billy yawned over his toast. He took another slurp of coffee, hoping to shake off the tiredness. He’d had a rough night, a rarity for him. He hadn’t had a disturbed night’s sleep in decades.

He’d got off to sleep fine, but he awoke in the small hours from a nightmare. He never had nightmares. And this one had him sweating. As the various disconnected elements of the dream had presented themselves in his half-awake awareness, he’d hunkered down beneath the covers, spooked. His hearing had grown sharp. A distant knock and he was convinced he had an intruder. He got out of bed and crept through the house in the dark, checking every door and window. He even checked in the cupboards. On his return, his dog Patch looked up at him from her bed in the corner of his bedroom, cocking her head to one side. It was only her nonplussed expression that caused him to get back into bed, reassured there was no intruder. It had all been a dream, first one faceless guy after him with a gun, then another with a knife. He’d escaped being shot, and narrowly avoided having his throat slit, and he’d woken up as he was hiding, terrified, in some property’s cistern, convinced he was about to drown. He had a horror of drowning. Only equalled by his fear of heights.

The nightmare was cinematic, vivid, blood-curdling and all too real. If he hadn’t known better, he would have treated it as a premonition.

But a dream was just a dream, only a dream.

A dream that, even in the clear light of morning, had left him rattled.

Forty years had passed since he’d had to think about the likelihood of his own violent death. Forty years of relative tranquillity. What had triggered that nightmare? Nothing, as far as he could tell. It was that nothing that instilled him with unease.

Patch sat dutifully by his side as he ate. The toast had gone limp and the coffee tepid. He took another bite and washed it down. Then he took his plate and cup to the sink before putting a handful of dog biscuits in Patch’s bowl. She always ate second. Patch knew her place.

He’d found her in a pound five years back and trained her well. She was a pint-sized Labrador-dominant mongrel, black and tan with one floppy and one pointy ear, and a large white patch over her left eye. She looked odd and none of the rescue-dog browsers had wanted her at the pound, mostly on account of her eye patch. Their loss. His gain. She had turned out to be his ideal companion. And after he lost Natasha last year, that dog had been a huge comfort to him.

He went and slipped on the flip flops he wore outside, and she came trotting over.

It was still early, but the wind was up. In the cool of the shade cast by the house, he took in the expanse of white-painted concrete that had taken on a yellowish-brown patina. Dust. He’d been putting off the task for days. As he surveyed the obvious, he had to lecture himself into action. No one else was going to come along with a yard broom. Natasha would have had a fit seeing it in such a state. All that dust, tracking into the house, making more work, for her. The grit underfoot wasn’t that pleasant either, especially for Patch.

In the end, he did it for Patch.

It took him the next half hour, sweeping and hosing. Patch sat in the shade and watched.

He should have gotten houseproud in his old age. Not that he was old. Seventy-five wasn’t old, was it? Or maybe it was. His back thought it was. As did his knees and his hips. He wasn’t the agile man he once was. But he ignored the twinges. Doctors were expensive, he had no private health cover, and he was hardly going to announce his whereabouts to the British government and claim free health care under the reciprocal agreement with Spain. He couldn’t claim the aged pension for the same reason. He would rather rot on Lanzarote than be one of those poor bleeders who disappeared shortly after their arrival back in the motherland, or one of those crims arrested on their hospital bed back in London twenty or thirty years after the fact. Eyes never stopped watching. The mind once crossed never forgot. A bunch of elephants with very long memories. You couldn’t escape it. If Billy had known in the 1970s what he’d come to know as he aged and aged some more, he would have chosen a different path. A straight and narrow path. Stuck with his legitimate job as a milkman and nothing more. Would that even have been possible? Probably not. Not for the likes of Billy Mackenzie.

Still, he thought, leaning his arms on his broom and looking around at his handiwork, he’d done all right for himself on this desert island.

The patio was large and skirted by a concrete-block wall about two metres high, rendered and painted white, marking the perimeter of his property. Entry was via a pair of rusted metal gates positioned in the southern wall. The solid panels matched the height of the walls, with a decorative metal grille in the form of a cactus inserted in the centre of the left gate at about eye level. In the north-western corner of the patio was a garage, also built of concrete blocks, rendered, and painted the same. Everything was rendered. Everything was white. So much white. Reflected the heat but hard on the eyes. That starkness was broken up by three raised beds fringed with basalt boulders, containing a cactus, a palm tree, and a drago tree. He could see the mountains and the volcanoes above the patio wall to the west. In all, the property was private, sheltered, and very pleasant.

An unexpected noise, a rustle maybe, and he was instantly alert. He cautioned Patch to stay and went over to the gates and peered warily through the decorative grille. Maybe it was nothing, but he opened the gates and stepped outside. He scanned up and down the length of wall that stretched all the way down to the cliff. There really was nothing. Even so, he remained wary.

As he lifted his gaze, he spotted his neighbour or rather his neighbour’s hat – a white bucket hat hiding his near-bald head – poking up above his own patio wall. A loud woof followed by a faint, ‘What is it, Penny?’ and the neighbour Tom looked over, and, seeing Billy outside his gates, he waved. Billy was forced to wave back, which he did as he closed his gates, hoping to make it clear the brief encounter was not a signal to visit. Billy didn’t much like Tom, and Patch didn’t much like Penny, a barely trained pure-bred Weimaraner.

Billy knew Tom could no longer see him, but he felt the man’s eyes on his back anyway. He deposited his broom and dustpan in the garage and went inside with Patch, embracing the ambient feel, the cool, the absence of wind.

The house was more than adequate for the needs of a family – it had five large bedrooms – which was why Billy was able to devote one of the bedrooms to his jigsaws.

Forty years incognito on a desert island? A man needed a hobby. Jigsaws were time-consuming, soothing, and suited the solitary life.

Some he’d had framed – a still life, a castle, a map of the world. He only did two-thousand-piece puzzles and in that dedicated puzzle room, he had four on the go at once. He found it relaxing. He’d become something of a collector, too, favouring the most difficult puzzles, the rarities, the relics. As long as they had all their pieces.

He eyed the castle puzzle nearest the window and spotted a portion of the crenelations in among the masonry pieces lying outside the frame. The piece fit. He looked for more pieces and found three. After that run of luck, nothing.

He went over to the window and gazed out at the deep blue ocean. He was listless. The dream still lingered in the recesses of his mind. Then there was Natasha. The constant gnawing heartache of missing her. And, lodged smack in the middle of his mind, there was something else he did not want to think about. Another death. Alvaro. His son.

He left the puzzle room and wandered back through the house. The living room was spacious and peaceful. Something about the dim interior facing the brilliance outside. Glass sliding doors looked out over the ocean beneath a deep open porch. Close to the house was a swimming pool. Billy kept the cover on unless he wanted to use it. He had never felt entitled to such luxury. A large home with a pool and a stunning ocean view – who would have thought? Although life here wasn’t all sunshine and daffodils. You can be lonely in paradise, that much he knew all too well as he went over and drank in the ocean blue, one loss compounding another until he didn’t know how to position himself mentally. The avoidance was draining.

Patch came and pressed her nose against the glass then looked up at him expectantly. He slid open the door.

The land sloped down to the low basalt cliff. Billy had landscaped the slope into a series of low terraces that he’d planted up with groundcovers and succulents. The perimeter walls reduced in height by shallow increments, the rear wall only a metre high. Down there at the property’s coastal edge, Billy saw no point in attempting any sort of beautification. The trade wind was too strong, the salty air too harsh and corrosive, and the only plants that would survive the exposure were euphorbias which tended to look scrappy unless watered and cared for, and he couldn’t be bothered trudging down there with a watering can. Or so he told himself. Truth was, at that end of the property he was visible, much too visible to anyone wandering along the cliff path or in a boat out at sea. Someone with binoculars maybe. And then there was his only neighbour, Tom, who was something of a busybody.

Billy pretty much left the bottom of the land for Patch. He went down every couple of days to collect her poo. When he did, he wore dark sunglasses and a hat. She made her way down there now as he watched, pausing to sniff this and that, and trotting along happily. There was nothing to harm her in his walled yard, but he stayed outside anyway, on guard with the morning sun on his face and the ocean breeze blowing back his hair, pressing his T-shirt to his chest.

The peace didn’t last long. Something had disturbed Tom’s dog Penny. A visitor? A bird? Billy was hardly going to stand on a chair and peer over the wall to find out. Penny was apt to bark at anything for no reason. The very worst kind of guard dog. A hound, really. That breed was a hunting dog. Patch didn’t issue a reciprocal bark. She was the quietest dog he had ever come across, too quiet maybe. If there had been an intruder, would she have barked then? Or cowered?

Penny’s barking stopped as abruptly as it began. Something and nothing then.

Tom’s property was of a similar size to Billy’s and a good fifty metres away to the south. They shared that small stretch of rocky headland, Billy’s property situated above a small bay to the north. There was a beach of sorts down in the bay, although that, too, was rocky and no good for swimming. On the other side of the bay were the salt flats of Los Cocoteros. There were a few farms in the hinterland between the coast and the volcano. Not much went on in the fields. Billy had hardly ever encountered those farmers. The area was as remote as you could get while remaining in easy reach of everywhere. Access was via a gravel no-through road. Even in the height of the tourist season very rarely did a car come by. The location might not suit many but it suited Billy down to the ground.

Billy considered his neighbour Tom an interloper. Billy had got there first. He’d met with a stroke of good fortune in the first week of his new life on the island back in 1980, when he’d sat propping up the bar of a nightclub in the then tiny but burgeoning resort town of Puerto del Carmen. He was on the hunt for real estate, and he found himself sitting next to a down-on-his-luck Swede desperate to sell his half-built house after his daughter had died and his wife had left him. A chance encounter. They moved to a table and agreed a fair price over a bottle of Tequila. Billy went to inspect the place the next day. Torbjorn fell over himself with gratitude, it being near impossible to sell anything half-built. And, of course, there was no estate agent taking a cut. The guy even left Billy five pallets of concrete blocks and the phone numbers of a few expatriate tradespeople. Billy soon learned the local building ways that majored in rustic and cheap, and in basalt and concrete. Little to no wood. To build, you needed muscle more than skill and back then, Billy had plenty.

Good fortune had shone on Billy as he slid into his new life after witness protection. He’d even left his old London life with what amounted to a tidy sum in Spain. An only child, he’d inherited his parents’ – originally his maternal grandparents’ – large semi-detached house in a sought-after part of Plumstead in London’s southeast. A recent property boom thanks to Margaret Thatcher encouraging a council-house selloff meant he then sold his family home for over forty-thousand pounds. In pesetas, that was an enormous amount. He was able to pay Torbjorn in cash and, aiming to capitalise on the looming tourism boom, for the next decade he bought, renovated, and on-sold properties for a healthy profit and ended up with a good bank balance. Eventually he held on to three properties to rent out as holiday lets. He’d been living off the income those properties generated ever since. Living in hiding meant he never wanted anyone to know anything about him. To that end, he paid his cleaner Maria a generous rate in return for her silence. And his booking agent Marisol was the soul of discretion.

There was a period early in his home renovations phase when he was forced to get by on his savings, a period in which he got involved in another sort of business. Observing Patch sniffing about down at the bottom of the terraces, he fought against remembering that time. Up until Natasha’s death, he had never thought about the early 1980s. He had just about erased all that from his mind. Sealed it off. Now cracks appeared. Maybe that dream was not a harbinger but an echo of a memory.

The ocean, shimmering a deep sapphire, rose and fell on the swell. It was mid-March, and the morning sun began baking the rock that was Lanzarote. Patch came trotting up the path and he ushered her inside and closed the sliding door on the freshening wind.

Patch went to her water bowl and Billy headed to his home gym for a workout. Usually he played music – Billy Joel was his favourite – but the nightmare had left him disconcerted for no good reason and he needed silence. To hear. It was Thursday and on Thursdays he did a much longer gym session and focused on his upper body. It was a lengthy routine, but he had nothing else on. And for the whole of that time, he listened and listened hard for any out-of-the-ordinary sounds.

Over the decades he had become a creature of habit. More so since he’d lost Natasha. Acclimatising himself to his life of solitude, he’d carved up his week and allotted different activities for each day. On Mondays he cleaned the house, did the washing, and went grocery shopping. Tuesdays he drove to Arrecife for lunch. Wednesdays and Saturdays were golf days. Fridays he did nothing. Sundays he drove to a village market or to some other tourist location just because he could. At home he had his jigsaws and his gym room and Patch.

Two hours of punishing lateral raises and shoulder presses and bench presses later, he spent fifteen minutes stretching and then took a much-needed shower.

With Patch pitter patting behind him on the terracotta-tiled floor, he went to the kitchen and made one of his deluxe coffees from the organic coffee beans he ordered in from Colombia and ground himself. The local coffee was bitter and tasteless by comparison. He took his coffee and his book – he was reading Talking to GOATs by Jim Gray and finding it entertaining enough – out to the front patio where, over by the drago tree in the corner beside the house, shielded from the sun and wind, he’d built a seating area from concrete blocks comprising a corner seat, a low table and two more seats to complete the setting. The table and seats he’d rendered and painted white as was the custom. He’d had a bunch of foam seat pads made. Natasha had covered the seat pads in brightly coloured fabric and decorated the setting with an array of cushions. It was comfortable if a bit dated. The whole place had a vintage 1970s feel, the result, obviously, of its age.

He was four pages into the chapter on Tiger Woods when he heard a car engine in the distance. He paused and looked up, waiting. The sound grew closer. Patch looked up as well, a sure indication that the car was heading their way. He left his book, face down on his seat, and went over to the gates. He watched through the grille as a white Mazda drove past Tom’s, kicking up dust in its wake. He waited. There was a brief moment of stillness while the engine idled. The tourists, they had to be tourists, had reached the road’s end. Then, as anticipated, the engine revved a few times then issued a steady thrum. On its way by, the car moved at a crawl. The driver was male and young, as was the female passenger. They were craning their necks looking every which way, pointing, and stabbing the air. Seemed to be having an argument. Typical tourists. No doubt lost. He wasn’t about to open the gates and help with directions. Satisfied they presented no danger, he left them to it and went back to his coffee and his book.

What mattered to Billy Mackenzie each and every day even after forty years in hiding was not only not being seen much but not being recognised ever. Sometimes he missed the old days, the action, the thrills. But he’d learned to keep his head down after those escapades on the island early on had nearly landed him in a lot of trouble. If wistful thoughts crept in, thoughts of a life that was anything other than humdrum, he reminded himself that he was more than lucky to be alive – in fact, it was something of a miracle.

He took a gulp of his coffee and settled back with Tiger Woods.

It wasn’t until lunchtime that his thoughts touched on what he’d been trying to avoid all morning. Something about the slice of beetroot that shot of out the side of his sandwich as he cut it in half. Truth be known, he’d been avoiding the same thoughts all week.

Alvaro was dead.

That was bad enough.

But Alvaro was not only dead. He’d been murdered.

Which came as no surprise. But when he dwelt on it, he was catapulted back to his old life in London, to his other kids, the ones he’d had to leave behind. And to Marjorie, who’d made it all happen and saved his life.

3

ON THE BEAT, SOUTHEAST LONDON, JANUARY 1979

Either nothing happens or all hell breaks loose. That was how it was in uniform, and I’d never much liked it. From the moment I joined the force in 1977 I held on tight to my wish to get out of uniform and into plain clothes. The CID was where I belonged. I, Marjorie Pierce, was a detective through and through. Even though I was only twenty-four and it could hardly be said that I knew my own mind, I was emphatic about what I didn’t want, and that helped shape my future.

Walking the beat was not for me. The night shift was not for me either, mostly thanks to my neighbour, a stay-at-home mum who insisted on playing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ loud, over and over again while hubby was at work – maybe it was the only song that got her child off to sleep, but I could hear it through the party wall and it had the opposite effect on me.

One morning, after an especially tiring Friday night shift, I was kept awake by the same neighbours digging up a tree in their front garden. I relocated to the back bedroom only to be disturbed again when the neighbours brought the tree around the back for replanting.

Then there were the door-to-door salesmen who rang the doorbell at any hour of the day, and, in summer, when the wind direction was just right, the smell of fish and chips from the café down the street wafting in through an open window.

The last straw came when I was driving around in a panda car one Sunday afternoon. The light was getting low, and I wasn’t expecting anything to happen when someone jumped out into the road, waving for me to stop. ‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ the distressed woman cried. She pointed at a shop. She was frantic. I walked in to find a middle-aged man standing there blackened from head to foot and missing the front of his shirt. His eyebrows and the front of his hair were singed. He was still standing, I had no idea how, and he seemed in shock. Although it was only me who was shaking. I could scarcely look at him and the stench of singed hair and flesh made me reel.

You needed to be prepared for such events. Able to steel yourself. And it was down to me as the officer in attendance to take down all the details. Making matters worse, it was my first major incident. I could scarcely hold my notebook steady enough to write down what the man said in response to my questions.

He’d been using a crowbar to dig a hole in the pavement outside and he’d hit the main electricity line, sending 240 Volts through him.

The woman hovered near the shop entrance, making me self-conscious. I turned to her and said, ‘Did you call an ambulance?’

Before she answered we heard the siren. The woman hurried out of the shop, leaving me alone with the singed man who had started to whimper and looked about to buckle. I had never been more relieved to see a paramedic. I stood back and waited until they’d loaded the man in the ambulance. It was as the ambulance was driving off that I realised I had no idea how to get to the hospital they were taking the singed man to, and I had to head to the nearest police station and suffer the humiliation of asking for directions. The whole experience left me keen as mustard to get off the beat and into the Criminal Investigation Department (CID), where, I thought, detectives would spend their days sleuthing. They were not first responders dealing with varying degrees of carnage.

A week later, I had to return to Hendon for my final exams. It was while I was there that my sergeant saw an advert for the CID. He knew how eager I was, and he managed to delay the deadline for applications a whole week to give me time to apply. When I discovered what he had done, my faith in the constabulary rocketed. I felt a profound sense of belonging. I was cared for. The other officers looked out for me. Sure, I had to tolerate their smutty camaraderie, but they meant well.

Back at the station after my exams, I was determined to put in a good application. I took advice from the detectives upstairs when it came to composing the details. The next week I was interviewed by a panel of five. Once I got news I was accepted, the on-the-job training began. I was posted to Woolwich and became a rookie sleuth. Not that I did much sleuthing. I tagged along to interviews both in the station and out and about. I observed the admin involved in the job. I listened and absorbed. I did a little detecting of my own, mostly low-key crimes committed by third-rate criminals. Nothing violent, nothing organised, nothing that put my life in danger. Yet again, I felt cared for and protected, affirming I was in the right job with a promising, life-long career ahead of me.

REGIONAL CRIME SQUAD, GREENWICH AREA, 1979

I was only at Woolwich six months when out of the blue I got phoned up on a Friday afternoon with an offer I couldn’t refuse. I was to join the Regional Crime Squad set up to nab a notorious London gang. I was to start with the squad the following Monday.

I found out later that I had two people to thank for my rapid ascent to the squad: a superintendent and a typist. Although it wasn’t so much an ascent as a couple of sideways steps from uniformed copper to trainee detective to a constable-level member of a major crime squad. But this was a role I relished. To be part of a team nailing a notorious criminal gang known for violence and murder.

What luck!

Really, it wasn’t luck at all; it was my gender.

When the squad was formed, Detective Superintendent Drinkwater asked the local squad members if they knew of anyone suitable for an obs assignment in a block of flats. Had to be female because women didn’t stand out as coppers and the flats in question housed the rough and ready, the sorts of residents who would spot a male copper at a hundred paces. The team already had three women for the obs and needed a fourth. A typist who had already been seconded to the squad from my old station put my name forward. When DS Drinkwater heard the name Marjorie Pierce, he remembered me. He’d been on my interview board when I applied to join the CID. He had also been in charge when I’d been assigned to two autopsies, one a nine-month-old baby, the other a twenty-year-old male. He saw how I handled those autopsies. I’d had a little more experience by then. And knowing I was not dealing with a living subject like the singed man but a cadaver, meant I didn’t faint, and I didn’t throw up. I didn’t even quiver, let alone blink or look away. DS Drinkwater had no idea that after I left that day, I took off to the Shooter’s Hill nick to tuck into a liver and bacon lunch, but if he had, it would have helped clinch things, no doubt. Funny how dead bodies never fazed me.

That weekend I celebrated with a couple of work buddies over a few pints and a curry at the Taj Mahal. On Sunday I didn’t care when my neighbour turned the volume up on ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. I drowned out her Simon and Garfunkel with my vacuum cleaner. I couldn’t settle to much, so I used the surplus energy to spring clean the house.

When I joined the force, I bought a mid-terrace house in Welling thanks to my savings and a small loan from my parents which paid for the deposit. The house was narrow and the party walls thin, but it was mine, if mainly also the bank’s. Home ownership was something my parents, a fireman and a teacher, were emphatic about. The Pierces were all about social betterment. They didn’t much like the area I had chosen to buy into, but my budget meant choice was limited. Besides, the house was conveniently situated a stone’s throw from the main drag, a dead straight Roman road taking me all the way to Blackheath. From there it was about a mile to Greenwich, which meant I could be at the headquarters of the squad in under half an hour.

Or so I thought.

That first Monday, I got caught in a traffic jam thanks to the bottleneck on the approach to the Blackwall Tunnel and arrived twenty minutes late. Not off to a good start. I bolted into the station and rushed up the stairs to where I was told the offices of the squad were situated. Bright red and panting, I walked in on a meeting being held in a cramped and smoky room filled with men sitting on chairs, on desks, or standing. The room went silent as the door swung shut behind me.

‘Sorry I’m late, sir,’ I said to DS Drinkwater who was standing in front of the others.

‘Traffic jam?’ he asked.

Someone laughed.

‘There’s always a traffic jam around here, love,’ said a guy seated at the front.

The man sitting beside him gave up his seat and joined the others at the back. I quickly saw that the men outnumbered the women six to one.

‘Maybe leave a bit earlier next time.’

DS Drinkwater – a tall and imposing man with strong features and a commanding voice – caught my eye and gave me a friendly wink. I discovered I wasn’t overly late when he carried on explaining to the room why Operation Rancho had been formed.

We’d all heard of the Rotherhithe Tunnel job. A bunch of armed robbers had held up an armoured security van and made off with over a million pounds. It was the same gang, DS Drinkwater said, that had held up another security van in Deptford last year. Word had it they were planning another job.

The squad had been formed thanks to information received from one of the gang’s hired help, now a guest of Her Majesty’s Service doing a long stretch for money laundering. Most in the room were from local divisions – five sergeants each with his own constable, plus the four women on the obs. Others had been seconded from Essex, Thames Valley, West Midlands and as far away as Yorkshire. Those seconded from elsewhere were only on the squad for six months. There was even someone from Scotland Yard’s secret service.

The detectives in the room listened with varying degrees of interest – it was same old same old to them – but I was almost on the edge of my seat. Even if all I got to do was sharpen pencils and make the tea, I was thrilled to be part of this squad.

The meeting didn’t last long. I had no idea what each detective was assigned to do, but I guessed that was none of my business. DS Drinkwater signalled to us women to wait. He left the room and the men all wandered off. Then Detective Inspector Brace came over. I’d met him once before. A charmer of a man sporting a moustache and long sideburns. Garbed that morning in a leather jacket over a wide-collar body shirt and flared trousers, he looked like he’d stepped out of Starsky and Hutch. I hadn’t expected plain clothes to appear so fancy. Us women all paid attention as he spoke.

‘There’s a block of flats in Bow overlooking a car yard on the other side of the A12. Your job is to photograph all who come and chat with this geezer.' He handed me a photograph. I took in the tall, square-jawed beefcake of a man bursting out of a shabby brown suit and handed the photo to the woman on my left who had a quick look and passed it on.

‘Fred Timms of Timm’s Cars,’ Brace said. ‘He was the getaway driver for the tunnel job.’

‘A fairly unmistakable character, that one,’ I said.

‘You could say that.’

There was a ripple of laughter. The inspector talked us through the essentials. We were to work in pairs and take shifts. When we saw a car going into Timm’s yard, we were to take a photo of the car and the registration number. We were to photograph anyone seen talking with Timms. We were told to keep no records, only the photos. A photographer was coming in to show us the tricks of the camera. With a quick sweep of our faces to make sure we all understood, he left us to get to know one another.

‘I’m Liz,’ said the woman beside me. ‘You must be Marj.’

Marjorie, I thought, but I wasn’t going to correct her. Everyone on the force called me Marj.

‘And this is Marion and Julie.’

The two women smiled a hello. Liz explained she was paired with me on the morning shift. She was a good-looking woman who chose trousers over skirts and had a close-cut hairstyle that lent an androgynous aspect to her appearance. I liked her. She seemed unpretentious and friendly. We went down to the canteen for a cup of tea, leaving the other two women to their own devices.

The following morning, Liz and I met at the station and took her car over the river to Bow. The council flat was situated upstairs at the end of the building closest to the main road. Access to the estate was off a side street. There was a parking area out the front.

It was the sort of housing estate my parents brought me up to be wary of. They never wanted me to have anything to do with the school kids who came off of the council housing estates in my area, not because they had anything against people living in that sort of accommodation per se, just that they were dead set keen that I would aim for better things. They didn’t want other influences affecting my decisions growing up. I didn’t want my parents’ negative judgements. Which meant I kept my school friends at school and socialised with my home friends at home. It was a form of compartmentalising which would later stand me in good stead when I met Jess.