Hart looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. ‘Wasn’t so long ago you were a chuffing woodentop yourself, Chris,’ she said.
Tunstall glared at her angrily, his jaw working, and Rickman stepped in. ‘It’s more likely Doran knew who he was looking for. Somehow, he knew what Megan looks like.’
‘He has been watching her place,’ someone offered.
‘Only after she cleared out,’ Hart said. ‘But we do know somebody who’s been hanging around for weeks, taking pictures.’
‘Bentley,’ Foster said. ‘We confiscated his photo album, but—’
‘It wouldn’t be hard to hide a few, and I expect Patrick Doran would pay good money for a snapshot of the woman who stole his cash and made him look an idiot.’
‘Bring Bentley in,’ Rickman said. ‘See if you can get anything out of him. If he has held back any of the photographs, he’s in breach of his bail conditions.’
‘It’s not going to help us with Doran though, is it, Boss?’ Garvey asked. ‘He’s never going to fall for a second attempted hand-over of the cash.’
Rickman tilted his head, recognising the truth of Garvey’s assessment. ‘We’ve got the money,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a record of Doran’s undisclosed earnings lifted from his own computer hard drive. The Inland Revenue is considering the evidence now — and we’re just waiting for the go-ahead on an arrest. But you’re right: it doesn’t help us with the Sara Geddes enquiry. So—’ He looked around at the team, rallying them. ‘We need new angles, new leads.’
Hart was first to respond. ‘What about Megan?’ she asked. ‘Why’s she so keen to talk to Doran?’ She kept her eyes on Foster, although the question was addressed to the entire team.
‘Doran was a bit of a scall in the eighties,’ Foster said, leaning off the wall. ‘Maybe he pissed her off.’
‘How? By nicking her Barbie doll? She’d barely out of nappies in the mid-eighties.’
He shrugged. ‘He did something to her family, then.’
‘But we don’t even know her real name, so tracing her family history is pretty much a non-starter,’ Hart said.
‘You’ve had a lot of contact with her, Lee,’ Rickman said. ‘Didn’t you get anything useful?’
Foster shook his head. ‘She’s slippery — and she’s really cheesed off.’
‘Can’t we put pressure on her?’ Hart asked. ‘She said she had more on Doran.’
‘You know what happens when you squeeze something slippery,’ Foster said. ‘It oozes right out of your grasp. Carrot and stick might work, though.’
‘Meaning?’ Rickman asked.
‘Are we charging her, or what?’
Rickman rubbed the scar that bisected his right eyebrow; he thought he saw where Foster was taking this. ‘Offer her a reprieve on the fraud charges if she’s forthcoming with her intel on Doran?’
‘She was really brassed off we wouldn’t let her make the meet,’ Foster said. ‘And her temper didn’t improve any when she heard Doran had wimped out.’ He rolled his eyes comically. ‘The language.’ He tutted prissily and a few people chuckled.
Rickman ignored the ham act — that was just Foster trying to raise morale, as he always did. ‘The Fraud Squad doesn’t seem to be in a mad rush to charge her,’ he said. ‘We could probably strike some kind of deal — imply that we’re doing her a favour.’ He smiled a little. ‘It’d be sort of poetic — conning her into giving us something for nothing. But I’d want something up front from her.’
Foster nodded, satisfied, and leaned back against the wall. ‘I can work on that.’
Hart shot him a disgusted look but remained silent.
The phone next to Garvey rang and he picked it up. ‘Sarge,’ he said. ‘Nolan.’ Nolan was baby-sitting Megan. ‘Says it won’t wait.’
Foster weaved through the obstacle course of tables and chairs, standing and seated officers, to get to the phone, while Rickman continued. ‘The oil rig accident,’ he said.
Rob Voce cleared his throat. ‘I’ve come to a dead end on that one, Boss,’ he said. ‘I just can’t find anyone who recognises the family in the photo.’ He had sent copies of Megan’s family grouping to Aberdeen and Dundee. ‘It happened too long ago—’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Half the rigs have been decommissioned—’
‘Find another way in,’ Rickman said. Voce looked ready to argue but Rickman forestalled him. ‘Reid will help you.’
Reid opened his eyes and jerked upright. ‘Ar ’ey, Boss — why me?’
‘Because of your charming phone manner,’ Rickman said. A few laughed — Reid’s ‘phone manner’ amounted to a slight slowing of his jack-hammer scouse delivery and curbing his more colourful turns of phrase.
‘Fresh eyes, new evidence,’ Rickman said, more seriously. ‘Talk to each other — you’re not in competition — this is a team exercise.’ He was aware that several of the team saw this as a career case, and that was fine, so long as it didn’t get in the way of the investigation. He saw a few exchanged glances, some a little shamefaced.
Foster hung up and Rickman said, ‘Lee, as soon as the briefing finishes, I want you and Naomi to go and talk to Megan.’
‘That could be a problem,’ Foster said. He looked dazed, even a little punch-drunk.
Rickman hadn’t time to frame a question before Foster added, ‘Megan’s disappeared.’
The Incident Room erupted into noise: exclamations of disbelief, questions as to how she got away, expressions of outrage and dismay.
‘All right.’ Rickman’s voice cut across the tumult of voices. The noise died down and he asked, ‘When and how?’
‘Twenty minutes ago. She used the fire escape from her bedroom.’
Jesus! Rickman would be asking the officer on duty why they allowed Megan unsupervised into a room with a way out, but for now, he had more practical considerations on his mind. ‘Get the sketch of her circulated to uniform division, together with her car make and number.’ Foster nodded. ‘Bring Bentley in, see if you can keep him clear of Jago for a bit — find out if he sold any photos to Doran.
‘Doran is still our prime suspect, so the rest of you will concentrate on him; talk to your contacts, informants, drinking buddies — anyone who might have a story to tell — if they knew him in the eighties, they might have something that would help us to identify Megan.’
He looked around the room; what he feared most was apathy — a conviction that no matter what they did, they couldn’t make a difference. He thought he had averted that possibility for the moment. He waited until they were all looking at him; he saw disappointment in the expressions of some, determination in others, but in all of them, he saw exhaustion.
‘We’re tired,’ he said. ‘All of us. Mistakes are made through tiredness. Now that could count against us, or we could make it work for us.’ He saw puzzlement register on a few faces. ‘If we’re tired, you can bet Doran is, too. We just have to be ready to catch him when he stumbles.’
* * *
Kieran Jago didn’t look like a lawyer. You might take him for a labourer or a club bouncer. His father had been both in the early years of their emigration from Ireland. Jago was tall and broad. He wore his sandy hair cropped close to his skull, he shaved every other day and only ever showed a faint glistening of brownish stubble, like a sprinkling of sugar on the russet-coloured skin of his face. His sharp green eyes missed nothing.
The desk sergeant had put him in one of the consulting rooms; they were more comfortably furnished than the interview rooms and did not contain audio equipment. Jago paced the small space impatiently, checking his watch every minute or two and occasionally tapping his breast pocket as if to check that his mobile phone was still safely in place.
Foster opened the door and he turned, instantly adopting his professional persona: calm, unsmiling and watchful.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Jago?’ Foster asked. He was wary after their first bruising encounter, but this time he had more ammunition, a strong case against Bentley and the possi
bility of a charge of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, so he could afford not to sound too deferential.
‘My client is missing.’
‘There’s a lot of that going around,’ Foster said, thinking could this day get any worse?
‘Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?’ There was the merest trace of Liverpool-Irish in his accent; years of university training and the services of a voice coach in the early days of his career had buffed his accent to a rich, mellow burr.
‘It’s kind of an “in” joke,’ Foster confided. He offered Jago a seat and the solicitor accepted, taking one of the pink upholstered chairs and placing it a couple of feet from the table. Foster took another and they sat at a slight angle to each other.
‘We would like to question your client on a matter related to Sara Geddes’s death.’
‘Specifically?’
‘Let’s talk about that in the interview room, eh?’ Foster had known men like Jago in the marines: they appeared calm, but they were on a slow burn, and when they blew, you’d better dive for cover — fast. You had to watch the eyes if you wanted early warning. Jago’s flashed green for danger. ‘Part of Bentley’s bail conditions was that he should sign in at the station desk every morning,’ Foster said, ‘so he’s got three hours before he’s in breach of that condition.’
‘I’ve told you, he’s gone — vanished.’
‘Then he’s in trouble.’
‘I think he is,’ Jago said, with a sincerity and concern that made Foster look at him again, surprised.
‘We’ve got officers out looking for him as we speak,’ Foster said. ‘We’ll see what they turn up.’ He was about to get up, but Jago stopped him. He sat forward in his chair, one finger raised, his attitude earnest, even eager.
‘I want to put in a missing person’s report.’
Foster laughed. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s really funny.’
Jago sat back in his chair, his eyes flashing a warning again. ‘I am registering a legitimate concern for my client. I expect you to act upon it.’
‘We don’t usually put out a missing person alert on an adult male with a criminal record who’s gone AWOL. Your client is facing further charges of stalking. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to work out why he’s gone.’
‘You’re saying you won’t look into it?’
‘Oh, we’ll look into it, all right — he’s an absconder — we always look into them.’ Jago shook his head angrily and Foster added, ‘He’s done a runner, Mr Jago. Get used to it.’
‘I can’t believe he’d do that.’
‘Are you disappointed in him Mr Jago?’ Foster couldn’t resist the sarcasm. ‘Oh, wait — you didn’t stand bail for him, did you?’ There was no bail set, and Foster knew it, but the question was enough to wind Jago up.
He sucked his teeth, staring Foster down. Foster held eye contact, wondering how far he could push it before Jago went over the edge.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Jago enunciated carefully, ‘because he has no reason to abscond. The complainant is dead.’
Foster felt a flare of anger. ‘“The complainant” has a name — it’s Sara Geddes. She was attacked outside her own home while your client looked on and did nothing. Which doesn’t look too good for him. And the fact he’s now done a bunk looks even worse.’
‘My client — whose name, by the way, is Jake Bentley — has been discounted as a suspect in the attack.’
Foster smiled. He’s trying to say they’re all just people — Sara Geddes, Jake Bentley, Patrick Doran as well, for all I know. ‘He’s done a bunk because he doesn’t want to face the stalking charge. I suspect he already knows why we want to question him on this other matter, an’ all. The CPS are willing to back us on this one.’ Jago seemed unmoved, and Foster eyed him curiously. ‘Are you gonna see it through to the end?’
‘Yes,’ Jago said, without hesitation. ‘I am.’
Foster lifted one shoulder. ‘Whoever’s paying your bills might not see it in the same light.’ Again, he saw subdued anger in the tense set of Jago’s jaw.
‘I told you — I’m working pro bono.’
‘If you say so. But who recommended Mr Bentley as a client?’
He didn’t answer the question, but Foster thought he saw a flicker of amusement in the lawyer’s eyes. ‘Mr Bentley is a man who’s been dealt a rough hand in life,’ Jago said after a moment or two. ‘I’d’ve thought you would have more sympathy.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that then?’ He expected Jago to start preaching the usual partisan doctrine of common experience, cultural heritage — Irish immigration, English repression, the dual religions of football and church — but Jago was a man of surprises.
‘I’m not talking about the Beatles, “Ferry ’Cross the Mersey” and all that me-eye.’ The Irish tones became masked by a sharper edge of Liverpool in his accent. ‘That cheery scouser crap is rooted in a mythical culture of a different millennium,’ he went on, emphasising each point with a jab of his finger. ‘I’m talking about Liverpool as it is now, in the twenty-first century: expansion, new money, Urban Splash, The Tate gallery, European Capital of Culture.’
‘Sorry, mate.’ Foster said, adopting a bored expression. ‘You lost me after “mythical”.’
Jago, in full flow, ignored the deliberate insult. ‘The city is experiencing a renaissance — an affluence it hasn’t seen in generations — a new confidence that should benefit all of its citizens—’
‘Are you thinking of getting into local politics?’ Foster interrupted. ‘I mean, is this your campaign speech or what?’
‘The point I’m making,’ Jago said, his voice icily calm, ‘is that with all this growth and development, you’d think there’d be enough to go around. But d’you know what Liverpool means to the people I represent? Not the celebrities and the football stars — the little people — people like Jake Bentley?’
‘I’ve got a horrible feeling you’re gonna tell me,’ Foster said.
Again, Jago ignored his needling tone. ‘Liverpool — their home, the place they were born, and where they’ll probably die — means dirt,’ he said, ‘poverty, drugs, street crime, burglary.’
‘And doing the odd freebie sets the world to rights, does it?’
Jago responded to the sneer in his voice. ‘I may be idealistic, Sergeant, but I’m not naïve: you don’t redress the balance with a few pro bono cases. But for each person I’ve helped I can at least say I did something — I didn’t sit back and say it’s all too much.’
‘You can’t justify theft and violence by bleating inequality,’ Foster said, feeling a fresh burst of anger. ‘I do this job every day. I deal with the “little people”, as you call them, every day. Victims of the Jake Bentleys of this world.’
They stared at each other for some moments with mutual dislike.
‘Are you going to instigate a missing person report?’ Jago demanded.
‘Talk to the desk sergeant,’ Foster said, getting up, ending the discussion. ‘He’ll take the details.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
It was a long and arduous day; frustrating and tiring. A community police foot patrol located Megan’s car parked in a back alley behind one of the new glass-and-steel office blocks at the back of Hatton Garden. Garvey and two others set up surveillance, waiting to pounce, should Megan appear.
When the owner finally showed up at six-thirty p.m., Garvey was at first incredulous, then furious, to see a man walk up to the car with self-conscious insouciance.
‘She’s only gone and sold it on, hasn’t she?’ he told Foster later. The proud new owner was an architect who was more than pleased at getting an Audi TT Roadster, barely eight weeks old and with under a thousand miles on the clock for six thousand pounds below showroom cost.
‘Any chance he’s connected to Megan?’ Foster asked.
‘He looks legit,’ Garvey said. ‘Got himself a bargain, though.’
‘How did he pay? We could maybe tr
ace a cheque.’
‘She was very specific,’ Garvey said. ‘Cash only.’
‘Is he mad or what? She could’ve stolen the car.’
Garvey shrugged. ‘She had all the documentation, and anyway, he said she seemed such a nice young woman.’ His tone conveyed astonishment and disgust at once. ‘She fed him some line about an ex-boyfriend showing up and wanting to whisk her off to Venice to live.’
‘I suppose they don’t have much use for cars there,’ Foster said, with a comical look. ‘I just can’t believe he fell for it.’
‘He said she seemed genuinely excited. He got swept up in it.’ Foster gave him a sceptical look and Garvey spread his hands. ‘She’s plausible,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Foster agreed. ‘That’s our Megan’s middle name.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Any sign she did actually go abroad?’
‘We’ve alerted airports and port authorities. All we can do is wait and see.’
The oil rig enquiries were stalled, too, after a promising start: two riggers who thought they might know the mystery family — but they couldn’t remember a name. They did give DC Voce the name of a man who was friendly with the family. Reid made the call and got an answerphone message. Further enquiries came up with the less-than-welcome news that their man was away on a camping holiday in Europe.
So the rollercoaster continued, the adrenaline highs and serotonin lows: lack of sleep was becoming a real problem for some of the team, Foster among them. He drove home, slamming through the gears, disgusted with the day and with himself for ever having liked Megan Ward. Hart was right: Megan was no more than a cheap hustler who got off on manipulating people. Sara Geddes had trusted her, had opened her heart and her home to her, and in all likelihood, she had been murdered because of Megan’s selfish need to get one over on the other poor sod. He didn’t believe it was about money — for Megan, it was about the thrill of the hunt: finding the mark, winning their trust, proving she was smarter and faster and more ruthless.
He knew that much of his bad mood was down to the hours he was working. Sleep — or the lack of it — was beginning to obsess him. He fantasised about it, imagining himself in bed, the alarm clock stuffed under shirts in the deepest drawer of his dresser. He could feel the texture of the sheets, the soft, dreamy give of the pillow as he lay his head on it. He had twice nodded off at his desk during the day and sounds and light were beginning to take on the heightened quality of a dream.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 25
