Free Relentless by Simon Kernick Page A

Jack Calley
helpless and screaming on it while his killers went to work, and
was inclined to agree.
    As they moved out of Calley's front door back into the open air,
Bolt's mobile rang again. It was Jean, and she wasn't hanging
about.
'I've got hold of the liaison officer at O2, dragged him away
from a corporate do at the football,' she said. 'O2 are Calley's
network provider, and he was making calls on his phone
today. Nine in all, to seven different numbers. The last one was
recorded only three hours ago, at one minute past three. It
lasted thirty-three seconds.'
'What about incoming?'
'The last incoming call was a lot earlier. One sixteen, and it
was from a Michael Calley, so I'm assuming a family member.'
'OK, that's fair enough. Can you tell me who the recipient of
Calley's last call was?'
'Yes, it was to a residential landline in the name of a Tom and
Katherine Meron.'
Bolt pulled a notebook from his pocket and wrote this information
down, taking Meron's number and address from Jean.
He told her she'd done a good job, and rang off.
    Mo lit a cigarette while Bolt filled him in on what Jean had
told him.
'Do we know anything about this guy Meron?' he asked when
Bolt had finished.
'Nothing at the moment.'
    'Do you think we should see what we can find out?'
Bolt looked at his watch. It was quarter past six, and there was
a chill in the air. The sky was overcast with dark clouds on the
horizon, and it looked like rain. At that moment, his apartment
in the heart of the city seemed like a very inviting place to be.
'Sure,' he said, letting curiosity get the better of him. 'Why
not?'
    10
    The door to the interview room opened and two men in dark
suits stepped inside, moving slowly like they were actors trying
to maximize the effect of their entrance. The older one, who was
mid-forties or thereabouts, with hair that was a mixture of red
and grey and a moustache that was just red, introduced himself
as DCI Rory Caplin. His colleague, DC Ben Sullivan, was a
taller, well-built man of about thirty with a neat head of short
black hair and a deliberately imposing manner. He looked at me
with barely concealed contempt, an expression that seemed to
come naturally to the cold, tight features of his meticulously
barbered face. There was, of course, no shaking of hands.
    By now, my lawyer, Douglas McFee, was sitting next to me,
and he gave the detectives the sort of friendly, paternal smile
that he'd been using on me all evening. I didn't feel this was a
very good sign. Whenever I see defence lawyers in interviews on
the TV they're invariably ruthlessly confrontational in their
dealings with the forces of law and order, not grinning at them.
Given my luck so far today, I suppose I should have been
thankful they didn't all jump up and high-five each other. DCI
Caplin gave McFee little more than a curt nod before pointing a
remote control at a tape machine built into the wall. A red light
came on and it immediately clicked into life.
'Interview of Thomas David Meron on suspicion of murder of
Vanessa Charlotte Blake,' said DCI Caplin in a surprisingly
soft Northern Irish accent, 'commencing six twenty-one p.m. on
Saturday May twenty-first.' He mentioned the names of the
other people present, then fixed me with a gaze that was in
equal parts sympathetic and untrusting. It was an impressive
combination. 'What were you doing at the university today?' he
asked me.
I didn't answer for a moment. I was still thinking about what
McFee had told me only a matter of minutes ago: that my wife's
fingerprints had been found on a knife used to murder one of
her colleagues. I didn't even know she'd ever been fingerprinted.
It was one more worrying thing to take in on a day that had been
full of them.
McFee nodded, to let me know I could answer the question,
and I told the truth: I'd been looking for my wife.
'Do you often go and see your wife at work?' It was DC
Sullivan speaking now. He leaned forward as he spoke, his
expression now mixing puzzlement with