65. The Fifth Rook
Liam secured Spate in the rear of the squad car. He was sobbing now. Sally waited by the passenger side door, oblivious to the rain, calling the arrest in to Rye. Liam passed by, resting one hand momentarily on her shoulder.
"Thank you," he said.
Sally nodded. "You've done it for me."
They climbed in. Sally finished filling DI Gemmell in as Liam pulled away. She noticed his hands were trembling again.
They drove. Rye was 40 minutes away, a box on wheels pushing through a gray world of water. Each lost in their own thoughts, unable to talk because of Spate in the back. She saw that look in his eyes again. The chaos inside. The animal.
But it had retreated. He'd pulled it back. That had to count for something.
Her thoughts spiraled back to Spate's first admission. That Reg had hired a hitman. A friend, someone he trusted, someone he'd known for decades.
The fifth Rook, confirmed. But who?
The coast road past Lydd was wild with the storm. The Channel raged at the beach like a wild animal and the road was underwater in places, shingle encroaching as the cuspate foreland shifted. Tiny specks of gravel fired up from the wheels and hit the chassis, pinging sharply.
Sally's phone rang.
DCI Mayhew. She answered.
"DCI."
"Officer Rogers." Mayhew's tone was flat. "You're bringing in Gerald Spate. Do you think he's the killer?"
"He confessed to child trafficking in the 90s," Sally said, the words coming out numbly.
"He said Richter witnessed it, and Reginald Rook paid a hitman to take him out.
The cockle shells were an attempt to deflect blame onto Arthur Bledd.
We believe Arthur Bledd has been this hitman's patsy twice. Now, most likely, he's dead."
The line was silent.
"Is there any evidence other than this confession?"
"Not yet."
"And was there coercion?"
Sally looked at Liam. He looked back, as if he understood the question she now faced. This was the line. The moment of spin, the same moment Liam had faced after she'd hit Roarke Rook with her Mustang.
"It was chaotic, ma'am," she answered. "The storm.
Spate was in his hot tub, and his generator started acting up.
His porch tarpaulin ripped off in the wind.
He got spooked and ran. His holiday park's a lake now, with all the rain, and he was almost swimming while we tried to get him out of the cold.
" She let a beat pass. None of that was exactly a lie. "It wasn't ideal conditions."
A moment of silence ticked by, filled by the frenzied swinging of the windshield wipers.
"But was there coercion?"
Sally took the leap. "Not that I saw, ma'am."
"Very well. We'll be ready for him. And Rogers?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good work."
The line died. Those words rang in Sally's ears. Not really praise, nor absolution. Maybe just recognition of a result. She looked at Liam and he looked back. Behind them, Spate continued to sob.
"Never again," Sally said softly.
Liam looked away.
She couldn't leave it like that, though. That kind of loyalty could easily morph into corruption. It was the kind of thing she'd wanted to get away from, coming here to join the NCA.
"I'm serious, Liam. Never again. For either of us."
He looked at her again, and for a moment she glimpsed the fear in his eyes. She knew exactly what that felt like.
Then he nodded.
That silent promise hung between them for the rest of the journey, breathing softly in the car. It felt like a return to who they both should be.
Rye came on them slow, a grim specter of black and gray, all the details washed out by the storm. Occasional faces loomed from beneath wide umbrellas on the sidewalk.
Outside Rye station, the media gaggle had taken on the appearance of a rained-off festival, with even more tents, marquees and awnings pressing up to the road. Journalists clustered under cover, shouting their pieces to camera while the wind buffeted them.
Liam glided through and into the lot. The rear doors opened as they parked and a bevy of officers came to meet them. DI Gemmell, Sergeant Simms, DCI Mayhew. The DCI delivered Spate the caution once more then ferried him head down into the station.
Sally glanced left as she entered. Tania Brown was there at the end of the lot, looking back at her.
Back in the station, it felt strange to be engulfed within a building, after the Dymchurch storm. Walls, floor, ceiling, people, lights. Every step she took dripped and squelched. She looked back. She and Liam were leaving a glistening trail behind them.
"Showers," said a voice from ahead. She looked up and a surprised smile cracked her stiff face.
"John."
Logan smiled back, but concern was etched in his features. "Sally. Liam. Here I am again. Any injuries?"
Sally was surprised how glad she was to see him. "I think not. Just wet."
"You're both shaking." He placed his palm across Sally's forehead, and she felt the strange urge to lean into the touch. "And freezing. Showers, new kit, I'll source it. That goes for both of you."
Liam grunted and walked past. Sally remained, looking up at Logan.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," he said.
She looked both ways. The corridor was empty, and that was all she needed. She reached out and put one hand on his chest. He was warm, firm, solid, and that heat radiated up her arm. The closeness. He looked at her hand, then at her.
"OK, so that's question one answered," he said.
She let go and smiled. "What's question two?"
"Uh." His cheeks colored. "Dinner, I guess? Tonight?"
She laughed. "Yeah. OK. Once we catch this killer."
"Once you catch the killer. Of course."
She brushed past him, leaving him standing in the hall. She had no idea where that had come from, but it felt good.
Back in the bullpen the mood was somber. Officers huddled around whiteboards as if for warmth, others conducted hushed interviews at crowded desks. A single CTSFO officer stood at the door to the lobby, cradling a tactical black rifle.
To her surprise, ex-DI Jack Mercer was there too, like a calm island sitting at a desk across from PC Hawlin. Sally walked over and Hawlin looked up.
"Officer Rogers," he said.
Mercer looked up. There was a strain in his face that hadn't been there before, despite the calm he projected.
"Jack," Sally said. "Did they call you in?"
He stood, every bit the gentleman, and shook her hand.
"Good to see you, Sally. And yes, Gloria asked me – sorry, DCI Mayhew asked me to come in and consult on the original case.
Signed in, vetted, badged, the whole performance.
I'm on the HOLMES account as a legacy adviser, read-only.
" He smiled. "They let me look at anything 30 years old and nothing since. "
Sally nodded. This whole case seemed to be drifting deeper into the past. "OK. Well, you may have heard we've arrested Gerald Spate. He was never a suspect, right? Certainly never charged."
"You're quite right." He gestured to the seat next to Hawlin, and they both sat.
"Coffee, ma'am?" Hawlin asked.
"Please. Thank you, Rick."
Hawlin departed. Mercer sighed. "Never a suspect," he repeated. "No formal interview, either. But we did look at him. I had a feeling, but then…" he sighed and trailed off, like this was all sand slipping through his fingers. "Everything moved on. They both had strong alibis."
"Both Rook and Spate. That pub in Lydd, the Conundrum?"
His eyes showed his gratitude; not outright stating that he'd been there himself. "That's right."
"But you liked him for something?"
"Who knows, now?" Mercer's eyes seemed to glaze slightly, like he was drifting back into the past. "I've got a lot of regrets for those days. If it turns out he really was involved, that's going to be hard to let go of."
He deflated slightly. Sally put her hand on his upper arm. "That case defeated everything the police, media and muckrakers threw against it. For decades, Jack. We're only making headway now with new evidence."
"Right," Mercer said. "This philosopher, Heraclitus?"
"That's the one. So, you're going to consult on Spate's interrogation?"
"I believe that's the plan. I already sat in on one with Roarke Rook, yesterday, at your DCI's request."
"With Roarke Rook?"
He shrugged. "I knew Reg reasonably well. I think she hoped my presence would knock him off his track."
"But it didn't?"
"No. I'm afraid he has Reginald's obstinacy."
Sally sat back. Her soaking clothes dripped on the floor. She needed to change, get warm, get moving. "Any avenue you're recommending with Spate? We got a lot out of him, but it's not admissible yet. We need evidence."
"I can already think of a dozen avenues she'll want to take her questioning. Rook had his hands in lots of pies, and Spate was right there with him. Hopefully one of them pans out."
Sally nodded. Hawlin returned with the coffee. She nodded her thanks and took a sip. It helped. It felt like, along with the storm dumping rain, they'd just been hit with a mountain of evidence. But what really mattered most?
Not charging Spate. Maybe he was an accomplice 30 years ago. What she needed now was the fifth Rook.
She refocused on Mercer. His own eyes had wandered, and she followed his gaze to the twin photographs pinned to the wall: her photograph from the Gaze, blurred with hundreds of dart holes; Emily Chakrati, her shrine of flowers now overflowing to the floor.
"It's never fair," Mercer said. "That she should die. That you should be vilified." He looked at her, eyes shining now. "I've always struggled with that. Why some are chosen, and some are not. Fate. Luck, really."
Sally didn't know what to say. It seemed like she was intruding on a private moment. But there was a question she wanted to ask.
"Just one thing, Jack. Do you have any idea who Reg Rook considered his closest, oldest friend? Someone he trusted implicitly?"
Mercer's head tilted slightly. "You think this person may have killed Tom Richter?"
"Maybe. And the recent deaths. We're calling him the 'fifth Rook'."