‘You never mentioned that before. Where does she work?’
‘Birmingham.’
‘Oh, that’s really useful. When I’m reviewing the situation in Norfolk, I’ll bear in mind what your sister says about the market in the West Midlands.’
Waters went across to one of the old-fashioned whiteboards on a stand. In block capitals, someone had written Michael Wortley’s name in the centre, and a date – today’s date. Below that, the name of the street and the exact time one of those PCSOs had made the initial call.
Serena said, ‘Speaking as someone who actually got out of the building today, what do you reckon?’
The two of them had worked together for almost three years, and Serena didn’t need to explain what she meant – she wanted his thoughts about this new case directly and honestly, without any politics or personalities being involved. Waters didn’t hurry his answer.
‘Let’s see what the autopsy confirms. But if it is one or two stab wounds to the heart, that’s a pretty clinical way to murder a rough sleeper. We discussed this at the scene – you can’t do it with just any knife. Either our Mr Wortley was in the wrong place at the wrong time or there was an element of intention.’
‘Really? You think it was premeditated? A homeless guy?’
She had her jacket on, ready to go, but Serena couldn’t leave an idea like that nagging away at her until the morning. That’s one reason why she’s a good detective, he thought – she isn’t just lucky.
He said, consciously avoiding a direct answer, ‘So, then you come to motive. Violence among street people isn’t rare, we know that. It’s usually a few punches, or a head-butt or you get kicked if you go down. I expect some of them carry a blade of some sort for self-protection, but stabbing a man in the heart, with no other visible injuries? Nothing we picked up today suggests Michael Wortley was a threatening individual – in fact, we’ve got some evidence he was a victim of threats. So, where’s the motive for murder?’
Serena had walked across the room and now stood next to him, in front of the whiteboard. Waters said, ‘The DCI thinks it could be drug-related.’
She frowned and bit the inside of her cheek, something she did unconsciously when she was thinking hard. Then she said, ‘A homeless bloke? He’d never have enough dosh to make it worth their while. If he did, he wouldn’t be homeless.’
‘We don’t know that he was homeless. John was saying that not everyone out on the streets and begging has nowhere to live. He says some of them have rooms and pay rent – begging is their job.’
She said, ‘Doesn’t sound too bad. Cash in hand, no income tax, no National Insurance… But I’m not buying it. If it was premeditated, I can’t see it was a hit by any of the local gangs. Even though the Albanians do love their knives. They’re more likely to stab each other than their punters.’
Serena was voicing some of Waters’ own thoughts. The question of motive had, for him, been growing in significance as the day had gone on. It wasn’t surprising that Serena too had gone straight to it as a possible key to unlocking this latest case; they had both been taught by someone who said it often – find your motive and nine times out of ten you find your killer.
‘You might be right. One of the witnesses said he wasn’t involved. She said he was a drinker but not a drug user.’
Serena said, ‘Right. Was that the blind girl?’
It was Waters’ turn to frown but the explanation should have been obvious – Wilson and O’Leary had been entertaining the office when they arrived back in the middle of the afternoon. Mike Dunn had relayed it all to Serena – how the murder squad had been saved by a disabled girl and her guide dog. Apparently, O’Leary had said she was a looker, too, and then everyone had laughed at the unintentional joke.
After a moment, Waters said, ‘Well, O’Leary would say that, wouldn’t he? Where are you playing tonight?’
‘Here in Lake, at the club. It’s an eliminator for the county championship.’
‘Good luck, then. Will you be eliminating someone tonight?’
‘Should do. Anyway, I’m off, sir.’
He looked around and she smiled properly, something she didn’t do often enough. When Serena first arrived in Kings Lake Central she was the more experienced detective but she held no ill-will that Waters had been promoted ahead of her. And he had the feeling that any frustration she felt would be taken out on the squash opponent in about an hour’s time. County champion? Detective Chief Superintendent Allen would be delighted – think of the publicity and the photo-opportunities!
Waters wished her good luck again, and then he was alone in the office. At some point, Freeman and Greene would need to consider splitting the team into two shifts that overlapped to get better coverage, perhaps seven in the morning until three in the afternoon and ten until six. At least, that’s how he, Waters, would manage their limited manpower. He was done, but decided to check the new laptops were working. And then, while he was there, he took a few minutes to Google the deployment history of the Royal Anglian Regiment over the past decade.
Chapter Eight
Start as you mean to go on, she reminded herself, and we’re still very much in start mode. Too much time is wasted in briefings as soon as you allow peripheral conversations to spring up – only one voice at a time, and most of the time that needs to be the senior investigating officer’s voice.
The Tuesday morning briefing began at eight thirty precisely. Everyone who should be present was present and it finished at eight fifty-three. The final five minutes had been delivered by Tom Greene, who explained that they were not going to teach their grandmothers to suck eggs but the detectives in the room had come from five different teams across the county and even from outside it; they would all have their own ideas about how to write up an interview report and prepare witness statements for signature. He wanted a degree of standardisation, however, and that meant they might need to make some simple changes. Then Greene handed out specimen copies of each type of document and summarised key points about layout, style and economy. Freeman watched and didn’t see anyone taking this personally.
Denise Sterling had confirmed there was something to the story that Yusuf and Hasan Demir had had an altercation with Michael Wortley on Saturday the eighth, but there had been language issues, especially with Yusuf, and little had been established yesterday afternoon. John Murray pointed out it was funny how these language issues seemed to come and go with the non-indigenous populations, and there were one or two nods of agreement. Freeman had told them then they should fetch the two young men this morning, and interview them here in the station. In answer to a question from Clive Betts, she said, ‘Separate cars, marked ones if you can find any uniforms to help us out. Let’s make a bit of noise and see what turns up. We’re going to be short-handed but if one of them has to sit and sweat for a bit, that doesn’t bother me. They’ve had a night to forget what they heard each other say yesterday, so cracks might appear. Two other jobs today – we’re meeting an officer from the Royal Anglian Regiment at two this afternoon. This will be to confirm some identity and to find out when Wortley left and whether he used any of the Army’s support services when he did so. Also, the first CCTV is in and Tom is processing it, ready for us to start binge-watching.’
There were some mutterings and sour smiles, which she accepted with good grace – there are four hundred different formats in use, the cameras are never quite where you need them to be, they are never quite in focus and there is always too much of it. Hours and hours of sifting often lead to nothing worthwhile, and defence lawyers have a field day with whatever grains of evidence one finally managed to extract from the dross.
Freeman let it subside a little and said, ‘Tom and I have agreed that we’ll start off being very selective about our viewing. There’s a camera looking north along Eden Street which is run by the company that manages the Kingsgate shopping mall. It’ll only have a distant view of the spot where Michael Wortley was found but it might tell us
something. If it does, we’ll think about what else we need to see.
‘To summarise, then. We’re starting off with a nice quiet morning. A couple of interviews here in the station; Denise, go out with one of the cars, and get your betting shop man to review and sign what he told us about the argument involving Wortley on Saturday. See if he’s remembered any more details. When Yusuf and Hasan are here, Denise you take the lead on the interviews. Chris, if there’s time, chip in with that but I want you to go to Bury, so you’ll be leaving about one o’clock. Take someone with you. In between times, let’s write up yesterday’s interviews. Maya, can you sit in with DI Greene and see how we’re organising the CCTV database? Does anyone think they don’t have enough to do?’
Hasan Demir’s opening gambit was to explain that he knew his rights under the English law, that he didn’t have to answer any questions and that he was entitled to legal representation. The two detectives opposite him in the interview room exchanged bemused glances and then John Murray stifled a yawn before telling Waters that all the rain yesterday meant he’d probably have to cut his lawn again this year, after all. Waters said he didn’t have a lawn but he hoped to, if he managed to sell his flat and get a house.
Then Waters spent a few seconds reading through the notes in front of him on the desk as if they contained something of importance, and Hasan began to fidget a little. He had a thin, sharp face and dark, restless eyes that flitted constantly between the two police officers.
Eventually Waters said, ‘You can have someone with you if you want, Mr Demir. But you haven’t been cautioned, you are not under arrest and you’re not going to be charged with anything this morning.’
The relief in the young man’s smile was palpable, so much so that Murray was unable to resist saying, ‘Unless you tell us you killed Michael Wortley, Mr Demir.’
‘Who is Michael? Why you think I kill anyone? This is crazy!’
Murray said, ‘Michael Wortley is the name of the man who was found dead in the doorway opposite your cousin’s shop yesterday morning. You knew him, Mr Demir, and there are witnesses telling us you and your brother were arguing with him on Saturday afternoon. No one is accusing you of anything but you should tell us what happened on Saturday. That would be a good place to begin. What was the argument about?’
John Murray’s delivery was quietly measured, as it always was, and Waters reflected, as he watched Demir, that he had never heard Murray curse or raise his voice in anger. Even in those awful moments when they found Smith struggling with Paolo Harris, Murray’s great fist had struck down the would-be killer with a single blow in silence before its owner had turned to Waters and said just two words – ‘Ambulance, now.’
Hasan Demir was talking.
‘My cousin says this man is a dirty pig. He comes to the shop asking for this and that, hangs around in the doorways. No good for business. We work hard to build a business, then this man make the street no good, not a place for a business.’
Murray said, ‘Your cousin told you to get rid of him?’
Demir dodged that easily enough – ‘I never say this. Yusuf and me, we say we clean up the street a bit. We go out and tell him to piss off.’
There was a pause while Waters wrote a note and Hasan watched him. Then Waters said, ‘And when you told him this, he was in the doorway to the restaurant, across from Osman’s shop?’
‘No. I never say that neither. This man was outside, just outside our place. Sitting in the open with his stinking dog. My cousin say, who will walk past this to come for shave and massage? So we tell him to go.’
As Waters wrote this down, Murray said, ‘Did you tell him to go or to piss off?’
‘You think I remember all the words? You remember every word you say three days ago?’
Demir’s initial nervousness had been forgotten and there was challenge in the stare he gave to Murray – which was good. They were closer to the real Hasan Demir now.
Murray said, ‘Of course not…’
‘Nor me neither, we just-’
‘But I think I’d recall what I said in an argument in the street on a Saturday afternoon. Especially when the man I was arguing with was found dead forty-eight hours later.’
Waters said then, ‘And not just dead, Mr Demir. We believe he was murdered. On Eden Street some time on Sunday night, someone murdered Michael Wortley. His body was found a few yards away from where you and your brother threatened him on Saturday. I’m sure you can understand why we need to ask you these questions.’
‘Nobody say we threatened him! I not say this. You-’
‘That is why we want to know the words you used. The actual words. And we want to know whether you touched Michael Wortley. Did you push him around?’
Demir was becoming edgy again, and his voice betrayed it.
‘Who is saying we touched him? We never lay no finger on this piece of shit! We say you go, dirty up some other place.’
Waters glanced at his watch. If they were going to make the appointment with the major from the Royal Anglians, he needed to be on the road within an hour. Hasan Demir needed to be properly interviewed but nothing had been said so far to suggest he was anything other than what he appeared to be – brash, cocky, macho maybe, but not likely to have put a knife into the space between true ribs three and four with such precision. You must begin to trust your instincts in the end.
Waters said with deliberate patience, ‘All right, Mr Demir. Let’s have a fresh start. You say you did not threaten Mr Wortley. Good. Tell us then exactly what you did say to him, and what Yusuf said to him. Then tell us where you were between the hours of eight on Sunday evening and eight on Monday morning. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can get back to Eden Street.’
The road that heads south across Norfolk and then into Suffolk takes one through the Brecklands and Thetford Forest. The Brecks have a strange geography, unique in the British Isles – sandy, infertile soils and the lowest rainfall in the kingdom produce a distinctive landscape of heath and dry grassland, interspersed with birch woods and Scots pines. In prehistory, mankind made a living in these places, and the evidence remains to this day. The flints mined here have been found in all parts of Europe. In the early twentieth century, the vast plantations of conifers appeared, managed intensively for their timber, and the roads wind through these forests, crossing ancient tracks like Peddars Way, glimpsing through the trees ancient earthworks like Grimes Graves, traversing the shallow rivers at places lost in the mists of history, such as the ford that crosses the little river Thet. Even today, the Brecks are different enough to silence the traveller who passes through for the first time, and Detective Constable Serena Butler had said not a word for several minutes.
The satnav told Waters he was going to arrive at his destination four minutes late, and he edged his right foot down a little more on the straight sections of road – he didn’t like lateness and it seemed particularly inappropriate if one was going to meet the military. And Major Fogarty sounded very military when Waters called to confirm their meeting and introduce himself: ‘At the main gate, show your ID – don’t leave your vehicle. They’ll indicate to you where you can park. Wait there and I’ll come down to collect you myself. Will you be alone?’
No, Waters had said, explaining that a Detective Constable Serena Butler would be with him. There had been a moment of quiet and he realised that Fogarty was writing this down, but it felt like an added inconvenience that there were to be two police officers coming onto the base. Fogarty had said, ‘I’ll arrange clearance for her as well but you’ll both need full photo ID if you’re to progress beyond the gatehouse.’
‘It’s nice down here, isn’t it?’
Waters looked across at Serena and said, ‘Thetford Forest? A lot of people think so. It gets busy in the summer.’
‘First time I’ve been here.’
‘You should get out more. There’s more to Norfolk than the top half.’
‘Talking of which, are you getting out m
uch since Janey left?’
Not the sort of conversation one expects to be having with one’s junior officer, but the two of them had a history that went back before his promotion, and Serena had sound instincts when it came to approaching the line but not stepping over it.
‘Now and then. I spent a fair bit of time decorating the flat before I put it up for sale, to be honest.’
She looked at him.
‘You know much about decorating?’
Waters sensed danger and kept his eyes firmly on the road.
‘No. Complete beginner, making it up as I go along and Googling the rest.’
‘Only I was thinking about doing my place up. Just a coat of paint and that…’
‘What about Mike? He’s a man of the world. He must know how to handle a paintbrush.’
She sighed, and said, ‘No. We’re done.’
‘You’ve finally put him out of his misery?’
‘All his own fault. I told him from the start it wouldn’t get serious.’
‘For you.’
She shrugged, and he thought, was she always so hard, or was it what happened in her previous post, when the senior officer she was involved with had sacrificed her career for his own? Serena had re-joined the fifty percent – the proportion of police officers who seemed to have little prospect of combining their work with a stable, long-term relationship.
She said, ‘Anyway, you’ve been in the new squad for a day and half now. What do you think?’
‘I think I’ll give it to the end of the week before I make any big decisions.’
Looking at the satnav, he could see he had already made up two minutes. He pushed down a fraction more – Serena was unlikely to be a nervous passenger.
She said, ‘I spoke to Murray this morning, when he was telling me about Hasan Demir’s interview. I asked him what he thought.’
On Eden Street Page 7
