“Who is Mr Percival?” Greco asked her.
“Percival Webb, the owner. He and his son, Nathan, run the business. Well, Nathan is learning the ropes at present, he’s a little young to shoulder any big responsibilities. The business was started forty years ago by Mr Percival and his father. Once Nathan knows the score then Mr Percival will retire, I expect.”
“Was there an incident recently?” Quickenden asked, nodding at the office next door.
“The Roberts family, that wasn’t good,” Caroline Dulwich shook her head. “It had been a hard day, we were rushed off our feet and then in they came,” she pulled a face. “We have irate mothers and screaming kids all the time, but this was different, and Brenda should have seen that. The whole thing should have been handled differently.”
“What happened?”
“Well, nothing, and that was the problem — Brenda sent Mrs Roberts away with a flea in her ear. The woman swore blind she’d been in and booked a holiday for the lot of them to Torquay and paid a deposit. But there was nothing on the system. There were no more places either, the coach was full. With hindsight, it would have been better if Brenda had tried to compromise, offered them an alternative, but she didn’t. Brenda decided they’d need to write in and provide proof of the original booking before anything could be done.” Caroline Dulwich shrugged. “Brenda could be her own worst enemy at times. She had to get into an argument with the angry woman, didn’t she?” She sighed wearily.
“Was Brenda always confrontational?”
This didn’t match the ordinary, rather staid woman that Jack Dobson had described earlier.
“More often than not,” she replied soberly. “To be fair the Roberts are a difficult family. It comes with the poverty, the deprivation. They’d saved up and parted with good hard cash for the deposit and there was Brenda virtually telling them to get lost.”
“Thank you, Mrs Dulwich, you’ve been very helpful.” Greco smiled. “We’ll arrange for the other staff to be interviewed over the next couple of days,” he added. “If you could arrange a space, a small room somewhere, it’ll just take a few minutes of everyone’s time, nothing heavy,” he assured her.
“Revenge,” Quickenden suggested once they were outside, “the Roberts woman getting her own back and going too far?”
“That’s sounds a bit far-fetched, Sergeant. It was only a holiday booking, after all.”
“But you heard that woman, folk around here are quick to react, they get fired up.”
“No, the phone calls are a much better bet. If Brenda Hirst did have another man, we need to find him.”
“Or the man who rang her could have been a tradesman, but Caroline Dulwich and others have jumped to conclusions and think she has a lover,” Quickenden suggested. “But if Caroline Dulwich is right, then I’m surprised her husband has no idea, sir.”
“We don’t know that. We only know what he’s told us,” Greco pointed out.
“In any case, we need to speak to Jack Hirst again. He said she hardly went out. If she had another bloke on the go, when did she see him?”
“Good to see you getting your brain into gear, Sergeant,” Greco noted. “She went to knitting club. We will speak to Hirst again and we’ll check out the club too. She could have been using it as a cover. But we need to interview her colleagues and do some digging to make sure. If she was having an affair, then someone will know.”
“So, if she did have a fancy man, is he in the frame d’you reckon, sir?”
“At this point we’ve no way of knowing. I don’t think it’s wise to make any assumptions,” Greco said. “All we can say for sure is that she’s dead — murdered. Also that something happened to her between leaving the office at five on Saturday and her husband reporting her missing at seven thirty.”
“It’s not long, sir, is it? A couple of hours late, that’s all.”
“It’s long enough.”
“Her husband said she always went straight home. She’s a creature of habit, day after day everything follows the same routine.”
“Except for Saturday. Whatever happened to Brenda Hirst on Saturday was not routine.”
They walked along the High Street until they reached the travel agent that Brenda had visited on Saturday. Greco and Quickenden flashed their warrant cards. “We’re interested in this woman,” Greco told the assistant, showing her Brenda Hirst’s photo. “She may have been in here sometime on Saturday.”
“I know Brenda,” the young woman replied. “Her husband was in asking about her, but no, we didn’t see her, sorry.”
“Did you see her pass by, on her way home perhaps?” Quickenden asked.
“I can’t say. To be honest I don’t remember. There is CCTV along the street, you could look at that,” she suggested.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got someone on it.”
“Back to the nick, sir?” Quickenden said when they left.
Greco nodded.
* * *
DC Grace Harper had been looking at the CCTV from the High Street. She and Craig Merrick, another DC with the team, had been poring over it for what seemed hours. They saw Brenda Hirst leave work at lunchtime. Not terribly informative; all she did was pop along to a supermarket further up the street from Webb’s and return with two carrier bags. At five, the cameras caught her at the main entrance where she appeared to be waiting for someone.
“Sir!” Grace called, “this looks interesting.”
“She’s waiting — see there, now she’s waving. She’s looking across the street — a lift perhaps?”
“She walks home as a rule,” Quickenden reminded them.
“She does have two heavy-looking shopping bags. Speedy, someone might have offered her a ride home,” Grace suggested.
Greco had to admit it did look as if she was getting a lift. But with who? “First thing tomorrow we’ll speak to the staff at Webb’s. Grace, ring the office manager, Caroline Dulwich; make sure she’s set it up. She thinks Brenda had a man — check if anyone can add to that. Also check who was in there Saturday afternoon. For now go and talk to the shopworkers in that area, see what they remember. Get your hands on any other CCTV available and we’ll go from there.”
Greco went across to the incident board. He made several notes beside Brenda’s photo and then added the name, ‘Rose Donnelly.’
“She has been reported missing. The informant was a woman but she wouldn’t give a name,” Grace told him. “She has money, sir. Rose Donnelly recently inherited a small fortune. She lives alone, no husband, never married and no boyfriend as far as we can tell.”
“Does she work?”
“Not as far as we know, sir.”
“But you have her address?”
“Yes, she lives on the Link estate.”
“We’ll check it out, speak to the neighbours. She may simply have taken off to spend some of that money she’s come into, but we need to know.”
“Why? Is she part of this too?”
“I don’t know, Grace, but she is missing.”
“Stephen, can I have a word?” DCI Ron Green had come into the office and was staring at the board. He didn’t look happy; the frown lines across his forehead were even deeper than usual. If Greco had to describe the DCI he’d say that he looked ‘lived in,’ certainly his face did. He was in his fifties and looked every day of it. What was left of his hair was greying and cut very short. He wasn’t overweight but he did have the start of a paunch. The DCI himself put that down to too much beer.
“Brenda Hirst reported missing on Saturday, found murdered this morning on the canal bank.”
“Have you given any more thought to the case we discussed on Friday?” asked Green, beckoning him away from the others.
“It would be a major investigation,” Greco replied. “Currently our hands are tied with this.” He looked at the board. “A murder has to take precedence. Has the other case become urgent?”
“It’s causing me problems, yes,” Green grimaced. “I’ve had
orders from upstairs to get the Hussains banged to rights. They’ve gotten away with their scams for long enough and recently they’ve become far too blasé about it.”
“Does it have to be us?” Greco questioned. “What about the other teams in the station?”
“Like you, busy and up to their eyes in it. But I have to do something; we’re becoming a laughing stock. Most of Oldston is buying their cigarettes from one or other of their shops, not to mention the pubs.”
“A raid would sort it, uniform could do that. Confiscate the tobacco and arrest the owner.”
“We’ve tried that and got made to look a right lot of fools in court. Nazir Hussain, who owns the chain of small shops, is an old man but he has a clever team backing him up. He employs most of the other family members and they are sharp as razors, believe me. No — we need to catch them collecting the stuff from the docks.”
“With respect, sir, murder has to take precedence over tobacco smuggling.”
“I’m afraid it’s no longer simply tobacco they’re bringing into the country. Now they’ve moved into drugs too: heroin, crack, anything you care to mention. Members of that family make regular trips to Hull and Liverpool — several trips a week. They don’t go into the docks, instead they handle the transactions at the motorway services close by.”
“So why don’t we just nick them there? From what you say we could set things up and catch them red-handed.”
“It’d have to be a tight ship. Every time we’ve tried anything in the past they’ve got wind of it and we’ve been made to look silly.”
Stephen Greco folded his arms thoughtfully. “Someone passing on information — someone from the station?”
“Nothing proved,” Green added hastily. “But nonetheless the Hussains have an uncanny knack of staying one step ahead.”
“The family would need watching, sir. It would have to be a proper job. They’d need tailing day and night, and that will take manpower we haven’t got.”
Green nodded and left him to it. “Perhaps a visit to one or two of their shops,” he suggested on his way out, “on the pretext of warning about the illegal importation of cigarettes and alcohol. Let them know we haven’t forgotten about them.”
“I’ll give it some thought, sir.”
“Is that the dope and fags scam?” Quickenden asked, once the DCI had left the room. “I inquire because the Spinners was awash with the stuff over the weekend. You can get anything you want. One of the Hussain crew was practically handing round a menu.” He chuckled.
“So what did you do about it, Sergeant?” Greco looked at him, annoyed. “You didn’t buy any cigarettes off them, did you?” He was aware that his sergeant smoked.
“No, course not.”
But he sounded shifty. “So, what did you do?”
“I warned the landlord, sir. I told him straight that he’d lose his licence if he got caught.”
“But he did get caught, didn’t he, by you, you idiot!”
Greco shook his head and went to his desk to prepare for the team briefing he would hold shortly. He’d have to keep an eye on Quickenden. The DS obviously wasn’t sure on which side of the fence he belonged.
Chapter 4
“Sorry about the wait, Rose,” the man said, pulling away the blanket that covered her naked body. “I had to do Brenda first. I’m sure you understand. She’s been a right pain in the arse recently, heartless bitch. So I must admit I found doing her very satisfying indeed.”
The woman wriggled and tried to scream but she couldn’t. She was strapped down tight, lying on her back on a lumpy old sofa, and gagged. She felt sick. She was hungry and cold. The mad bastard hadn’t even given her a drink of water.
“Making you wait does have its advantages though, Rose. It gave me time to do my research. You want me to make this good, don’t you?” He smiled. “Of course it doesn’t help me being so ignorant about anatomy. If I knew that it’d give me more scope, but as it is I’m forced to research everything I want to do. I hate those huge medical textbooks, don’t you? All that jargon and those Latin names, confuses me no end. It’d help if I didn’t have a head full of fairies, wouldn’t it, Rose?” He laughed.
She mumbled incoherently behind the gag. Anatomy? Brenda? What in hell’s name was he talking about?
“There was a lot of blood when I did Brenda, Rose,” he told her, pulling a face. “It was her head. I hit her too hard, smashed her skull with a baseball bat, poor bitch.” He shuddered. “Cracked like an egg and bled like a pig she did.” He paused, closed his eyes and smiled. “But that’s all done with now. Brenda is no more and we can have some fun.”
Rose gave a strangled scream. She’d no idea who he was talking about or what was going on. Why was he telling her this, what did he expect her to do?
“You were always the one I really wanted, Rose. Brenda was a sort of practice run,” he admitted. “You do believe me, don’t you? You’ve been on my mind for a long time. The one thing I will say about Brenda, she had lovely brown eyes. When I took them out I placed them in a little jewellery box and put them in the fridge at home. Now they’ve taken on a delightful frosty glaze, I hope yours look as pretty.”
Rose bucked against the ties, but it was no use, she was strapped down tight. He was mad, he had to be. She’d no idea who he was talking about — Brenda, who was Brenda?
“To begin with, I wanted your heart. But I’ve decided hearts are out, too much blood. I want to, I really do. I want to look at your heart, Rose. I want to see if it’s as black as I suspect it is. But it would be risky. I’d only have to nick the aorta and it’d all go horribly wrong. You see I want you to stick around for a while. I want to see you suffer. I want that a lot, Rose,” he said, leaning in close and mouthing the words quietly. “But first I thought we could get to know each other. What d’you say?”
Rose was petrified. She was shaking so hard that her teeth were chattering. Her empty stomach was churning over as she felt his hands on her body. His fingers slowly traced two lines on her belly — one vertical, one horizontal.
“I’ve thought about this and I think I’ve worked it out.” He smiled down at her. “Evisceration is the way to go, plenty of guts but not much blood. I’ll take your bowel a bit at a time; ease it slowly from your body without cutting into it, a bit like a hernia. I’ve read that the bowel is yards long, Rose; imagine that. I might hang it up there from a hook,” he said, pointing to the sturdy metal beams supporting the ceiling. “You can lie here and watch your small intestine slowly shrivel. Fancy that, do you, Rose?”
* * *
The team sat around the table in the centre of the office. Greco had prepared a sheet for each of them containing the little information they had so far.
“Brenda Hirst, found dead on canal bank this morning. We have no motive for the killing,” he began. “According to her husband she led a simple, blameless life, but not according to her manager at Webb’s,” he told them, passing the sheets around. “According to her, Brenda was having an affair. So our first problem is that we’ve been given two entirely different pictures of her life. We need to know which is correct. If she was having an affair, we need to know who with. Grace, go back to Webb’s Travel and take statements from the staff. Ask if anyone knows or even suspects who the boyfriend is. Despite what Caroline Dulwich thinks, she might have confided in someone. Be honest with them — she was murdered, don’t dress it up, but don’t mention the eyes. Tell them it was a particularly nasty and violent end that she met.”
Grace had been taking notes, which was good, but on the other hand, she kept checking the office clock. It was three thirty — it would be the child. Greco knew that she sometimes had a problem with care. It was a shame. Without that burden, she’d have had the makings of a good detective. “Ask if anyone saw who she was waving to on Saturday after work. If it was a lift, did anyone see who picked her up?”
“Georgina, get onto Brenda Hirst’s service provider and ask for a list of calls made and recei
ved over the last fortnight. Craig, I want to know much more about Rose Donnelly’s life. Her friends, any family and where she spends her time. She’s missing, there may be nothing in it but the informant wouldn’t leave a name and that is always suspicious. She’s recently come into money. Who knew about it? When Georgina has the phone information, she’ll help you.”
He looked at Quickenden. He had his head in his palm and was smiling and tapping away — had he heard anything he’d said? Was he even interested?
“Sergeant, you’re with me,” he barked at him. For now he daren’t let him loose on his own. “We’ll revisit Jack Hirst and then the Duggan Centre. That pathologist must know something more by now.”
“What about the Hussains and the cigarette thing?” Quickenden asked.
“Drop that for now. We’ll look at it again when we’ve got more time. But if you see any sort of contraband or drugs changing hands in the pubs, you bring the perpetrators in — understand?”
Quickenden nodded.
“I’m sorry people but it’s going to be a late one. Arrange what you have to with your families and get something to eat. We’ll catch up with what we’ve got later.”
“Where to first, sir?” Quickenden asked.
“I knew you weren’t listening, Sergeant. Get your stuff, we’ll go and have another chat to Jack Hirst.”
* * *
“He’s not in, sir,” Quickenden said, rubbing his knuckles. “I’ve practically knocked the door down but no one’s answering.”
“I thought we were sending a PC round to stay with him.” Greco got on the phone and rang the nick. He was annoyed — why didn’t his colleagues do what he told them? He hadn’t wanted Hirst left alone, for valid reasons. He wasn’t completely satisfied that he’d had nothing to do with his wife’s murder for a start. “Apparently he cancelled, said he’d be fine.”
Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set Page 4
