Rickman frowned and his finger went to the scar that bisected his right eyebrow. ‘Witness Protection?’ he wondered, half to himself.
‘I don’t think so,’ Hart said.
Rickman focused on Hart, all attention.
‘Megan Ward was killed in a road accident in 1997, aged sixteen.’
‘Stolen identity?’ Rickman said, taking the report from her. ‘That’d rule out my theory.’ The Witness Protection Programme had no need to steal the identities of dead people: they could create new ones from scratch. ‘But let’s check, just to be sure.’
‘So what have we got on her?’ Foster asked.
‘The driving licence photo’s arrived,’ Rickman said, sifting through the drift of papers on his desk to find the A4 prints. He handed a copy to both Hart and Foster.
‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ Foster said.
‘It’s nothing like Sara’s sketch,’ Hart agreed.
‘Which means it’s probably useless for identification purposes.’ Rickman floated the sheet back onto the pile and sighed. ‘I’ve sent a copy to the local TV stations; it should make the lunchtime bulletins.’ He paused. ‘A bit of good news wouldn’t go amiss.’
Foster glanced quickly at Hart. ‘I had a preliminary meeting with that contact I mentioned.’
‘The one from Jago’s firm.’
His ‘meeting’ was a swift half at the Blue Bar in the Albert Dock before closing time. Enough to establish there was still enough attraction between them to go to the trouble and expense of dinner the following evening.
‘She reckons Jago’s client list reads like the court listings at the Old Bailey. There’s a few soap celebs for a bit of culture, but Jago’s clients are more Cat-A than A-list.’
‘So if Bentley has been bought off, it’s a lucky dip who’s paying the legal fees,’ Rickman said. ‘Can you arrange another meeting with this contact — see if you can find out more?’
‘See—’ Foster gave Hart a little nudge with his elbow. ‘“Meeting”. “Contact” . . . I ’m seeing her tonight.’
Rickman looked from Foster to Hart, taking in the situation. His phone rang and Hart and Foster stood to leave. Rickman held up a finger. He was smiling. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Mark.’ He hung up. ‘Mrs Langley has positively identified Bentley,’ he said.
* * *
DC Hart made herself a coffee when she returned to the office. The Incident Room was almost empty, most people having gone out on enquiries. Reid struggled with a report, sighing between short bursts of typing. Rob Voce sat at his desk near the high, letterbox windows, slogging wearily through the list of deaths on oil rigs. It was a job Hart did not envy, phoning bereaved women and asking personal questions about their families. Admittedly, the deaths went back between eight and ten years, but even after so much time it could stir up memories and emotions they thought they had laid to rest long ago.
She listened as she poured hot water on the coffee granules; his voice was low and gentle, his shoulders were hunched as though burdened by the weight of sadness he was causing.
Hart tightened the lid of the coffee jar and splashed some milk in the mug, passing Reid’s desk en route to her own. ‘Nescafé,’ she said. ‘You’ve spared no expense.’
‘The system isn’t fair, Nay—’ she raised her eyebrows and he added, ‘—omi — Na-omi,’ he repeated, and she smiled with little warmth. Reid knew full well of her aversion to any abbreviation of her name.
‘It’s even less fair than you think,’ she said.
He frowned — Reid still had the round face and ruddy complexion of a boy, and it brought out the worst in some of the older men.
Hart glanced over in the direction of the drinks tray. ‘Not even this lot can get through that much coffee in a day.’
The frown deepened, and then his face cleared and he flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Bastards!’
‘Don’t get mad,’ Hart said. ‘Get even.’ It took him a few moments to work out, then he smiled, went to the bin next to the clutter of mugs and used tea bags and dirty spoons, and retrieved the empty jar he had thrown away a short time earlier. He spooned enough for one cup of coffee into the empty jar and placed it on the tray, carrying the almost full jar back to his desk drawer.
Hart grinned. ‘Now you’re learning,’ she said.
She sat at her desk to prepare questions for Bentley’s interview — with Kieran Jago sitting in, it wouldn’t be wise to try to wing it. Tunstall had gone to pick up Jake Bentley at the gym where he worked. She estimated she had an hour, all told, allowing time for them to fetch Bentley and for Jago to cancel his other appointments and get to the station.
Bentley had obviously been well-rehearsed for the previous interview, but she remembered he’d been rattled when they told him they had a witness. Agreeing to the line-up would look good to a jury, and his objections on the tape — him being a familiar face in the street — were reasonable. So, either he was banking on the witness not being able to pick him out, or he thought Jago would argue that the identification parade was flawed. What depressed her was she thought he was right. Still, Mrs Langley had made a positive ID, no quibbles, which gave her something to work with at least.
The phone rang.
‘Raj Anwar, in reception, Naomi.’
‘What’s up, Raj?’ she asked, clamping the receiver to her ear with her left shoulder while she finished the sentence she was typing.
‘I’ve got Mrs Langley here — she says she’s a witness on the Sara Geddes investigation?’
‘Not my bag, Raj. She needs to talk to the Identification Officer.’
There was a pause while Anwar relayed the information to Mrs Langley, and Hart noticed Tunstall clumping into the room. She checked the digital clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor. It looked like she had less time than she had originally estimated. Tunstall shed his fleece on the nearest chair and shambled over to the drinks tray. Reid glanced at Hart, then picked up his own phone and began a murmured conversation with an imaginary caller.
Tunstall rattled through the crockery, looking for a clean mug, picked up the coffee jar and gave a grunt of surprise. He shook the jar, then turned, a look of bafflement on his face. Reid frowned in feigned concentration, making notes on a scrap of paper he quickly pulled towards himself.
Tunstall unscrewed the lid of the jar and exclaimed, ‘Blood and sand!’
She heard Reid’s innocent question: ‘Don’t tell me that jar’s run out already?’
Then Anwar was on the line again. ‘She says she can’t talk to the inspector — she has to talk to you.’
Anwar was a probationer and dealing with insistent callers was an acquired skill. Hart sighed and clicked the ‘save’ icon. ‘Put her on for a minute, will you?’
Mrs Langley’s tentative ‘Hello?’ dispelled any irritation she might have felt.
‘Mrs Langley, I’m not being difficult, but I explained — much as I’d like to — I can’t—’
‘But I have to talk to you, dear,’ Mrs Langley interrupted. ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.’ She sounded breathless and tearful.
Hart felt a thud of apprehension. ‘Couldn’t you explain to Inspector—’
‘No!’ The notion seemed to fill her with dismay. ‘Please, dear . . .’
Hell. This didn’t look good. ‘I’ll be right down,’ Hart said.
* * *
She took Mrs Langley into one of the interview rooms and seated her at the table. The woman sat pale and upright, her body turned a little to the right, as if this were a brief visit and she didn’t intend to stay. She was neatly dressed, her short hair combed back off a face free of make-up. She seemed nervous, and the vigour that Hart had seen in her on their first interview was gone — she looked frail and fearful.
‘Mrs Langley, are you all right?’ Hart asked.
Mrs Langley waved a hand in front of her face. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’ Hart was relieved to see a flash of the direct, robust woman sh
e had seen before. Mrs Langley let her hand fall into her lap and stared at it. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been rather foolish and now it’s troubling my conscience.’
Hart took her seat opposite and waited for Mrs Langley to continue. She fiddled with her handbag, placing it on the table and then on her lap, then replacing it on the table.
‘What exactly is it that’s troubling you?’ Hart asked at last.
The old woman sighed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest.’
‘You lied to the inspector?’
‘No — heavens, no — I wouldn’t lie to a policeman. Of course not. but I didn’t tell him—’ Mrs Langley didn’t seem the sort of woman who was naturally given to prevarication, but she was evidently finding it hard to say what was on her mind, and Hart had a sick foreboding.
‘It was so formal, you see — and he didn’t give me the chance . . .’ She placed her handbag on her lap again, holding it with both hands, like a protective barrier. ‘And I didn’t think I was allowed to answer anything but yes or no.’
‘Did you recognise the man or not?’ Hart asked.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Langley said. ‘But that’s the thing, you see. That’s what he asked, and sometimes it’s not as simple as that, is it?’
‘What isn’t, Mrs Langley? You’re not being very clear. Was the man you identified at the scene of the attack, or wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was. And as I told the inspector, I did recognise him from before.’
Hart’s stomach began to churn; she thought she knew what was coming.
‘But he wasn’t actually there when she fell. He went over to her afterwards.’
‘You saw her fall?’ Hart asked, pouncing on this new piece of information. ‘If you saw the actual attack—’
‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re muddling me!’ She gripped the handles of her handbag tightly, and her eyes were red with unshed tears.
‘I’m sorry.’ Hart raised both hands, palms up. ‘I’m just trying to understand. Take your time.’
Mrs Langley composed herself before going on. ‘I saw Sara on the ground, and then he — the man I identified — he went over and stood by her. He just stood there, looking . . . I kept thinking, “Why don’t you help her?” Then someone came out of one of the houses and shouted something. He ran off to his car and drove away.’
Shit. Just the way Bentley told it. Mrs Langley blinked anxiously at Hart, her story told, her duty done. Now she seemed to be waiting for Hart to fix the mess she had made.
Hart sighed. ‘Wait here, she said. ‘You’re going to have to make a statement to the Identification Officer.’
‘Where are you going?’ Mrs Langley asked, a quaver returning to her voice.
‘To call off an arrest,’ Hart said.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘All right,’ Foster said. ‘Who’s the joker?’ He held up a practically empty coffee jar. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
‘That’s it, Sarge,’ Tunstall said. ‘Last spoonful, new jar.’
‘Don’t be at it,’ Foster growled.
Tunstall and Reid looked at each other and Foster lost patience. ‘Look, lads. I’ve just spent fifty minutes with Kieran Jago, persuading him we aren’t harassing his client. Fifty minutes. During which he threatened me — that’s me, personally — with litigation for the “distress” caused to his client. And you know what kept me going? Kept me polite and pleasant all that time?’
‘No, Sarge,’ Tunstall said.
‘I was thinking, “Never mind, Lee, you can have a nice hot cup of coffee and a Jaffa cake when he’s gone, settle down for ten minutes and do the Sun crossword.”’
Tunstall listened avidly as if unsure how to respond, but eager to appease the sergeant.
‘In that fifty minutes, Mr Jago was clocking up serious money. Me, I’d have to work a full day to make my cash worth counting — a whole day with overtime. But when I stopped the clock on our little chat, I reckon Mr Jago had earned the best part of two hundred and fifty quid. Which, I have to admit, pissed me off a bit, especially when he was making out that I was the sleaze, trying to fit up his client for something he didn’t do. So. Whoever’s got the coffee better come up with it now, ’cos I need caffeine like a junkie needs his fix.’
He took a breath and looked at both Tunstall and Reid. It was a long speech, and Hart was inclined to applaud, but for once it seemed that Foster was in deadly earnest. She watched the two men, curious to see who would crack first. They made eye contact, and by some unspoken agreement, opened their desk drawers simultaneously and took out a nearly full jar of coffee. Tunstall hesitated, then reached in again and brought out a second jar.
‘Bloody infantile,’ Foster muttered, gesturing impatiently to Reid, who tossed the jar to him. He caught it neatly and spooned coffee into his mug. It carried the legend, “Plum Island Animal Disease Centre”, and had survived three years in two different police stations.
His pager beeped as he stirred milk into his drink. He checked it and went to the nearest phone. Hart heard Tunstall whisper to Reid, ‘Was there Jaffa cakes? ’Cos I didn’t get none.’
Foster keyed the number for the switchboard. ‘Lee Foster.’ He was in no mood for courtesies.
‘Got a call for you, Sarge.’ The line clicked and then there was a pause. ‘Look, if you got the wrong cop, don’t bother apologising, just do me a favour and hang up. If you’re selling something, do yourself a favour and hang up. If you’ve got something to say, say it — or HANG UP.’
‘My name is Megan Ward.’
Foster froze.
‘I believe you’ve been looking for me.’ The voice was warm and vibrant, a hint of the north in her accent.
Foster placed the spoon carefully on the tray and focused on the voice. ‘How do I know this isn’t a wind-up?’
‘I began lodging with Sara last October,’ she said. ‘I expect Sara told you I’m a journalist.’
‘And would she be right?’
‘That’s rather tricky of you, Sergeant Foster.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘You must have checked my . . . credentials by now.’ Foster didn’t reply and she continued. ‘It was a cover story.’
‘For?’
She remained silent and Foster said, ‘We’ve been concerned for your safety, Miss Ward.’
Hart’s head came up at the name and he mimed for a pen.
‘I’m safe and well,’ the voice said.
‘Can you say where?’
‘I could, but I choose not to. And I’d be grateful if you would stop showing my picture on TV.’
‘We don’t have power over the TV news,’ Foster said. ‘But I can make a request.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘If you feel threatened, we can offer you protection.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Forgive me. If I want your protection, I’ll . . .’ She stopped. When she began again, she sounded more subdued, perhaps even a little bitter. ‘I don’t want your protection.’
‘So, what do you want, Miss Ward?’ Foster asked.
‘To help.’
He jotted the two words onto the pad Hart had placed before him.
‘It would help if I knew your real name.’
Again he heard a soft chuckle, this time more genuinely amused. ‘Sorry.’
He wrote the words ‘No way’ on the notepad.
‘How exactly do you think you can help?’
‘I can give you the person responsible for Sara’s death.’
‘You witnessed the attack?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
He shook his head in response to Hart’s questioning look, then pulled the pad closer and wrote, ‘She’s angling for something’, and tilted it for Hart to read.
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
Hart picked up a spare pen and wrote, ‘The card?’
‘You have something of mine,’ the woman said.
Foster smiled, tapping the words Hart had just written. ‘We checked your computer drive. It self-destructed when
our techs tried to get into it.’
‘The equipment is replaceable,’ she said dismissively. ‘There was a shoebox.’
‘Full of junk.’
‘That depends on your perspective, Sergeant Foster. Do you have it?’
‘We’ve got it.’
Her voice was tightly controlled. ‘I’d like it back.’
Foster laughed. ‘I bet you would. And in exchange, you’ll give us this name?’
‘The name and proof.’ She paused. ‘This goes way back.’
Foster wrote the phrase down. ‘You’re gonna have to be more specific,’ he said, heavy on the phlegm: ‘What goes way back?’
‘The killings.’ She ended the word on a rising note and Foster caught a hint of vulnerability.
‘Is that why you go under a stolen identity?’
‘Borrowed,’ she said. ‘And Megan won’t miss it.’
‘Her parents might disagree.’
She didn’t answer immediately, and Foster thought maybe he had touched a nerve.
‘I’ll call to arrange a meeting-place,’ she said. ‘Be sure to have the box ready.’ She broke the connection and Foster immediately rang the switchboard to ask for her number.
‘Anything?’ Hart asked.
‘Number withheld,’ he said.
* * *
It was just after two p.m. and the Incident Room was filled to capacity. Rickman had called an emergency briefing, pulling officers off interviews, investigations of reported sightings of the attackers and leafleting of local garages to keep an eye out for a silver Audi TT 150 Roadster. Sara’s bosses at the courts were vociferous in their demands that progress be made; two DCs had spent the best part of three days talking to colleagues and police security at the QE II Buildings, and viewing CCTV footage in an attempt to rule out a link with court proceedings.
Most of the team had brought sandwiches and snacks to the briefing; a couple of men chomped slowly through pies and chips as Rickman talked them through the morning’s events. The room reeked of food and damp clothing: it had rained solidly for two hours and anyone on outside business had come in drenched.
The possibility that Megan might be alive sparked a lot of interest. This could be their first real break in the case, and the atmosphere, despite the damp and the cramped conditions, was upbeat — almost convivial.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 13
