Main snatched up the phone, “This is John Main, Inspector. You have some news?”
“I think it might be better if I came round, sir. rather than talk on the telephone.”
“Very well Inspector. As soon as you like.”
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Main felt the excitement grow inside him. The police must have found the men. He was close to finding out what had happened to Simon. To fill in the time, he put his clothes back on and made some coffee, and he’d just finished a mouthful when the doorbell rang. It was Lenny.
“Sorry to bother you at this late hour sir but you did seem anxious to get any news at all about your son,” said the policeman.
“Absolutely Inspector. Have you found the men?”
The Inspector did not reply. Instead he opened his briefcase and took out a Manila Folder. The briefcase looked new; Main could smell the leather. Lenny flipped the file open. He selected a photograph from among the papers and asked, “Do you recognise this man sir?”
Main took the photograph and looked at the smiling man standing on a beach with a glass in his hand. He was holding it up to the camera as if to wish the photographer good health. “Yes Inspector, I do. This is one of the men from the pub the other night. One of the men I told you about.”
Main took another photograph from the folder and exchanged it with Main for the one he had. “And this man, sir?”
Main looked at the snap shot. It was a different size from the first one and seemed much older; it was dog-eared at the corners. It showed a tall man with his arm wrapped around a plumpish girl wearing a low cut blouse. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and she had a flower in her hair although the background suggested that they were still in the UK, possibly at some seaside resort — Blackpool or Brighton perhaps.
“Yes, him too,” said Main. “He’s the ring leader.”
The policeman exchanged photographs again with Main. This time for one of a young man in army uniform. He was standing at attention and Main thought his cap a little too large: it seemed to dwarf his face. The background suggested a military establishment. Possibly a passing-out day photograph, he thought. The face was a deal younger but Main recognised him as another of the men from the pub.
“He was one too, Inspector.”
“Perhaps you’d like to describe the fourth man to me sir,” said Lenny, taking back the photograph.
Main thought for a moment. “Let me see. Five ten, broad shouldered, red hair cropped very short, shaved round the ears. I think he wore a single gold earring. He was wearing a denim jacket and jeans when I saw him.”
Lenny nodded and said, “That’s the man sir.”
“Then you’ve caught them all?” asked Main.
“No sir,” said Lenny, “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to have to inform you that these four men all died in a car accident earlier today. We obtained the three photographs from their relatives. There was none available for the fourth man but your description fits the one we have.”
Main felt as if his world had just collapsed. “What kind of accident for God’s sake?”
“Their car went on fire sir. None of them got out. As far as we can tell no other vehicle was involved.”
Main shook his head as if doubting that fate could be so cruel. “But they were my only chance of finding Simon’s body,” he said in a despairing whisper.
He got up and walked to the window as if seeking distraction from the truth. After a few moments staring silently out into the blackness he turned round to face Lenny.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How could none of them get out? Cars don’t just burst into flames like that. If there’s an electrical fire, you smell burning, maybe see smoke. You stop the car and get out. You said yourself that there was no other car involved so it’s not as if the petrol tank was ruptured by impact. They were young, fit men for God’s sake, not paralysed cripples!”
“Our people are looking into that at the moment sir,” said Lenny. “It appears that the petrol tank in the car exploded for whatever reason. It was an old car; there may have been some kind of a leak and an electrical fault. Forensic will sort it out.”
Main remained silent for a moment before asking, “Will you be talking to the relatives about the men’s involvement in the disappearance of my son’s body?”
“Yes sir. Once they’ve had a chance to come to terms with the deaths.”
“How did you know these four were the men Inspector?” asked Main.
“I didn’t sir. One of my colleagues from Traffic left the men’s photographs on the desk for distribution to the press. It just struck me when I looked at them that they fitted the descriptions you gave me the other night.”
“That was quick of you Inspector. I’m grateful to you for telling me.”
“Not at all sir. I’ll be in touch if there’s any more news.”
Main showed Lenny out and closed the door behind him slowly and deliberately. He stood for a moment with his forehead resting against it and his fists clenched. His eyes were tightly closed. He tapped his head lightly and rhythmically off the door as he whispered, “Damn them to hell.”
Eleven
Around two in the morning the wind, which had been strengthening steadily for the past three hours, achieved true gale force status and drove rain horizontally into the windows of Lafferty’s bedroom with unrelenting zeal. He had been lying awake for some time so he couldn’t accuse the weather of having woken him but the sound of a storm at that hour did nothing to ease his troubled mind. He was about to get up and make tea when the phone started ringing. It startled him and he stared at it for a few moments as if it were an unwelcome intruder. There was always something unnerving about a phone call in the wee small hours. It couldn’t be a social call; it had to be bad news. The best he could hope for was a wrong number. He picked up the receiver, hoping he wouldn’t have to dress and go out into the rain.
“Have you heard? They’re all dead.”
The voice was male and sounded slurred as if its owner had been drinking. There was still a chance it was a wrong number.
“Who is this?” he asked.
There was a pause. “It’s me, John Main.”
Lafferty felt embarrassed at not having recognised him. “I’m sorry, John,” he said. “This line’s very bad. Who’s dead?”
“All of them, all four.”
It suddenly dawned on Lafferty who Main as talking about, and his throat tightened. He felt as if a steel band was slowly being applied around his chest. “The men from the cemetery?” he croaked.
“Dead,” repeated Main as if he could not believe it himself.
“How?”
“A fire. The police think the petrol tank in their car exploded. They all died.”
“I see.”
“Well I bloody don’t!” growled Main. “How could it happen? Sometimes I just don’t believe my bloody luck!”
“Maybe luck had nothing to do with it,” said Lafferty thinking out loud and then regretting it. Main was obviously very drunk and he didn’t want to discuss anything with him in this state.
“I don’t understand; what you mean?” slurred Main.
“Nothing,” said Lafferty flatly. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
He put the phone down to avoid any further discussion, hoping it would not ring again in a few moments. It didn’t. Lafferty was left with only the sound of the wind and the rain as it continued its unrelenting assault on the panes. Just what the hell was going on, he wondered. A knot of unease settled into his stomach. If Sarah Lasseter was right, John McKirrop had been murdered because of something he’d seen in the cemetery that night. She was also convinced that the killer had access to HTU. Now four other men who had been there were also dead. An accident? He found that hard to believe. But, if it was so important to someone to conceal what had happened in the cemetery that night, why had it taken them so long?