‘It’s been fifteen years,’ Foster said, doubtfully.
‘Depends how the evidence was collected and stored — we didn’t have the protocols then that we have now — but DNA is remarkably resilient,’ Mayle said, ‘and we can get a profile from a single cell using LCN. We stimulate the DNA present to replicate until we have enough to produce a DNA profile,’ he said, misreading Foster’s baffled look, but slowly, realisation seeped into his face, and he smiled. ‘And you really aren’t interested, are you?’
‘I’m interested,’ Foster said. ‘If it helps send Doran down, I’m interested.’
‘How long will it take? Rickman asked
‘If we find what we need . . . It’s a delicate process,’ Mayle admitted. ‘We would have to send the ligatures to the Forensic Science Service for analysis — it could take a while.’
Rickman looked around the room. They were tired, but hyped — he saw eyes dimmed by overwork and lack of sleep, those that weren’t glazed with exhaustion glittered with an unnatural, almost fevered, excitement. ‘If Megan’s story is true,’ he told them, ‘the whole nature of this investigation has changed. We could be in for the long haul.’ A few shoulders sagged.
‘Brace yourselves,’ he said, ‘But pace yourselves.’ He saw one or two nods; a few nervous glances from the younger members of the team. ‘We leave the Forensic Science Service to do their analysis. In the meantime, we investigate Doran — see if we can find any cracks in his defences. Then, if the forensic evidence corroborates Megan’s story, it’ll be just one more strand in the case against him.’
‘What d’you want us to do, Boss?’ Foster asked.
‘Circulate pictures of the items stolen from the Orrs’ house — antiques dealers, pawn shops, whatever. Talk to contacts — it could be someone who was unwilling to talk fifteen years ago is more inclined to help us now. Find out anything you can about Megan’s brother, Gareth. Talk to the investigating officers on the Orr murders — and I want to see the case file.’
‘Boss.’ Tunstall’s voice boomed out over the buzz of approval of this rallying speech. ‘I’ve been thinking, Boss,’ Tunstall said.
Reid jumped up and offered his place to Tunstall. ‘You have it, mate,’ he said, with fake concern. ‘You don’t want to overdo it.’
Tunstall glared at him. ‘You’re a cheeky perisher, Reidy.’
‘Let’s have your thoughts,’ Rickman said, deadpan over the muted jeers and laughter of the team.
Tunstall was nothing if not robust. ‘Megan says she wants justice for Sara.’ He said, tearing his attention with some reluctance from Reid, who had returned to his seat and was trying to control a fit of laughter. ‘Way I see it, Boss,’ Tunstall went on, doggedly, ‘this was never about Sara. It’s about revenge for her brother. I bet she’s been after Doran since she was a kid.’
‘Fair point,’ Foster said. ‘But Megan claims she was sent away during the trial. The first she heard about what he’d been banged up for was when her schoolmates started having a go at her in the playground.’
A fax machine whirred into life on the desk next to Hart and she angled her head, trying to read the text as it slid out from the rollers.
‘Megan and her mother moved away, and she says her mum never talked about her brother after that,’ Foster said.
‘Makes no odds when she decided to have a go,’ Garvey chipped in. ‘She’d want to get back at Doran sometime or other.’
‘She says she didn’t even know the name of his firm,’ Foster said. ‘He changed the name after the trial — mud sticks and all that.’
‘If that’s the case, why’d she come to Liverpool?’ Tunstall asked.
‘I dunno.’ Foster raised his voice a little, exasperated. ‘The vibrant night life? The footie? The fabulous waterfront? I can think of a million reasons.’
‘It’s a question worth examining,’ Rickman said. ‘We’ve no reason to believe she’s telling us the truth.’ Rickman thought he understood Megan’s desire for anonymity, but he wondered at the casual lies, the fabrication and sloughing off of identities. Perhaps it was about control: she wrote her own narrative and in doing so, rewrote her past.
‘She was setting Mrs Doran up for a two-hundred-pound eBay scam for nearly two weeks,’ Foster said, his impatience getting the better of him. ‘Why bother with two hundred quid, when she could have over a million? Fact is, Megan didn’t even know she was talking to Patrick Doran’s wife till Fay Doran mentioned his business in one of her emails.’
Rickman frowned. Could Foster hear himself? ‘Megan says’, ‘Megan didn’t know’? Defending her — speculating on her motivation?
‘But what makes you think Megan’s telling you the truth?’ Garvey insisted.
‘She’s lying.’
Everyone turned to Hart. She held the sheet of fax paper in her hand, and she looked almost as shell-shocked as Foster. ‘This fax is from HMP Manchester. Megan’s brother is alive. He’s currently doing a twenty-year term for the double murders of Mr and Mrs Orr.’
Foster frowned. His lips formed a question, but he didn’t utter it, and Rickman called the team to order to distract attention from his friend. ‘Ongoing matters,’ he said. ‘Bentley has gone to ground. He hasn’t reported for work, hasn’t been back to his flat. His car was found on the car park at King’s Dock — wheel-clamped. It’s been there for twenty-four hours or more. He hasn’t contacted his dear old mother and get this — she’s upset because they argued about some photos she picked up for him from the local chemist.’
It took a moment for the possible significance of this to sink in. Once it did, there was a mutter of interest from the team. First objective achieved. Foster had evidently been shaken by the revelation that Megan had lied to him, and Rickman owed him this and much more for the times his friend had covered for him. Now we just have to bag and tag Doran, he thought, and I’ll be happy.
‘Does she know what was on the pictures?’ Hart asked.
‘She says not, but I’d like someone to go and interview her. She hasn’t seen him since he called round to pick them up.’
Chapter Forty-one
Lee Foster clattered down the concrete stairs at the back of Edge Hill Police Station, with Rickman’s advice still ringing in his ears. ‘Don’t make the mistake of identifying too closely with Megan, just because you have some shared experiences.’
Too late for that. She’d played him like a fish on a line. It hurt his pride more than his feelings — or so he told himself. His first task of the day was to interview Bentley’s mother, but another took priority. He sat in his car and keyed the fast-dial for Megan’s mobile.
‘You’re a bloody liar, Megan — Ceri — whatever the hell your name is. You played me like one of your marks, and I—’ He stopped himself in time; and I believed in you. Is that what you were going to say? Bloody hell, Lee — how old are you?
There was a pause, then he heard Megan’s warm, slightly accented voice. ‘Good morning, Sergeant Foster.’
‘Don’t piss me about,’ he said. ‘You made me look like a tit. I can’t believe I defended you in front of my boss and thirty other officers.’
‘Including DC Hart, I take it?’
‘Hart?’ Foster raised his voice, but it was muffled by the car’s soundproofing. ‘What the hell has Hart got to do with it?’
Another pause, then she laughed softly. ‘Don’t be coy, Sergeant.’
He covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘Fuck,’ softly. Was it that obvious?
‘If you were a mark, I’d make you explain why you’re so upset — so I was sure what it is I need to defend or invent or deny. But you’re not a mark, and I’m not “playing” you,’ she said. ‘I’m assuming you’ve checked my story and found Gareth.’ She paused. ‘My brother is alive. But far from well. The last time I saw Gareth, he looked like an old man. He might not be dead yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’
‘It’s only a matter of time for all of us,’ Foster said. ‘Don’t try that d
ouble-speak with me. I was educated by Jesuits.’
‘Gareth has Hepatitis C,’ she said, her voice calm and clear. ‘His liver is swollen to twice it’s normal size. He’s dying.’
Foster took a couple of breaths. ‘If this is more of your crap—’
‘It’s a matter of medical record,’ she said. ‘He’s dying. But he’s been dead ever since they murdered that poor man and his wife. He—’
Foster interrupted before she could say any more. ‘Don’t bother getting all revved up for the big sob story,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve checked the facts.’ He broke the connection, fuming, partly swayed by the emotion in her voice and cursing himself for an idiot for having allowed her to get to him again. He made a quick call to the Incident Room and gave instructions, then turned the car out of the car park in the direction of Walton.
He recalled how lightly Megan had flattered and flirted, and how easily he had fallen for it, and he burned at the memory.
‘Bloody hell, Foster,’ he groaned, accelerating through the lights and almost hitting the back of a post office van, pulling in at a sub-post office. He braked hard, swerved and moved on.
The shops were just opening for business on Townsend Lane. A florist moved tiered stands onto the pavements and stacked them with buckets of flowers, grandstands of primary spring colours — irises, daffodils and tulips — others he couldn’t name. Tile shops and kitchen cabinet makers occupied premises that used to be tenanted by cut-price grocers and discount clothing stores — Cash for vouchers — on notices in their windows.
Foster had left Liverpool at sixteen and vowed never to return. That was in the eighties, when the Militant Tendency still had control of the city. Two major riots had ravaged Toxteth and unemployment was tearing down the very fabric of Merseyside’s economy.
He did come back, on compassionate leave, in ’ninety-seven, when his mother got sick for the last time. He left the marines and built a new career in the police. He told himself it was just for a year or two, until she was on her feet, but he had stayed on after she died. He found he liked the new clubs that had sprung up around the city — liked the buzz, the noise of building work a constant in the city centre. Surprised, also, to find that he liked the feel of solid ground; the river was close enough and wide enough so that he didn’t feel hemmed in, and the sense of belonging that had once been a burden came to be a comfort. Strange, now that he had no family ties in the city.
He drove past the narrow strip of garden, planted for the Victorian merchant house-owners on the edge of Newsham Park. Lawns and shrubberies acting as a fire-break between the wealthy middle-class homes and the smaller, more pinched properties on the other side of Sheil Road.
A few miles on, he drove down Priory Road, which separated Anfield Cemetery and Stanley Park. The wind was in the wrong direction today and the stench of the meat-rendering factory hung over the faded blue roof of the stands at Goodison.
He saw Kieran Jago’s logo on a shop sign between an empty shop-front and an estate agent’s office. Jago’s firm had thirty branches in all, with two or three solicitors acting out of each office, another fifteen at his headquarters in town; so, he asked himself again, why had Jago taken on Bentley — represented him personally? He understood why Bentley wanted Jago: he was the best, and everyone wanted the man himself. Scally car thieves or white-collar fat cats caught with their hands in the till, they all wanted Kieran Jago. But why would Jago be even remotely interested in pond life like Bentley?
Doran was the common factor. It was the only explanation that made sense. That being the case, why had Jago come to the police when Bentley disappeared? He seemed genuinely concerned for Bentley. And your judgement is really spot on right now, isn’t it, mate? he thought. Well, maybe it wasn’t, but there was no denying Jago had been quick off the mark. He must be used to his clients jumping bail from time to time — probably even had contingency plans to track them down before the cops cottoned on.
So, Foster thought, What makes this one so different? The man who was paying the bill, maybe? He imagined that Doran would be the first person Jago told about Bentley’s disappearance. Had Doran seemed less than heartbroken at the waste of his money? Jago, of all people, must have some idea just how far Doran would be willing to go to protect himself.
He scooted left on Queens Drive and found the sharp turn off the roundabout at Rice Lane. Concealed under the ugly concrete of the flyover, only locals, postal workers and cops knew this entrance into Walton Hall Park. So many parks. It hadn’t seemed so when he was a kid. The Liverpool he remembered, before his spell in care transported him to Woolton and the rustic setting of Black Wood, was grey and weary and dusty.
The Bentleys’ house stood mid-terrace in a row of modest Edwardian villas overlooking Walton Hall Park. It wouldn’t be long before spiralling prices and the chance to make a killing persuaded the owners to sell. Built solid and square, with open parkland to the rear, close to arterial roads and convenient to the city centre: they were fast becoming prime property — fortunes had been made on houses like this in recent years.
He pulled up outside a well-maintained house with a door so pristinely white it could only be uPVC. The front door opened almost as he rang the doorbell. Mrs Bentley was small and neat, a human reflection of the house in which she lived. Her hair, though grey, was styled into a fashionably short cut and she wore discreet make-up.
‘Have you found him?’ she asked, slightly breathless, as if she had run to the door.
‘Found who?’
The hint of anxiety was replaced by irritation. ‘You are the police, aren’t you?’
Foster caught a glimpse of steeliness that warned him that this was a woman not to be messed with; the kind of Liverpool matriarch that had fed and clothed their families by working two or three part-time jobs when their men could find none.
‘DS Lee Foster,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘No, I’m sorry Mrs Bentley, we haven’t found your son, yet.’
Something crumpled in the woman’s face. Her hand went to her mouth and she made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
‘Let’s go inside, love.’ The endearment broke protocols instructing respectful forms of address, but Foster knew she would respond.
She nodded, still with a hand to her face, and turned. He gave her time to collect herself, which she did by making tea and showing him through to the sitting-room at the back of the house. The back garden was tiny, walled in on three sides, no more than two strips of soil either side of a path to the back gate. But the borders were massed with lemony primroses and stiff spikes of plump grape hyacinths, tangled with the hairy stems of poster-red and violet-blue anemones. She had tubs and containers, window-boxes and hanging baskets in tiers of colour that reminded him of the florist’s shop on Townsend Lane.
‘How do you think I can help?’ she asked, placing a neatly laid tray of tea and biscuits on a table and handing him a cup. She seemed calmed by the ritual of preparation and caring for her guest.
‘The photos you mentioned,’ he said. ‘We talked to the chemist and he said Jake didn’t react well when he thought they’d lost them.’
She gave him a sharp look. ‘I haven’t got them, if that’s what you think.’
‘No,’ Foster said, quick to reassure her. ‘Of course not.’ He guessed that Mrs Bentley was like many of her class who had never done a dishonest thing in her life — and sensitive to even a whiff of suspicion.
‘I gave him the pictures as soon as he got here.’
‘And he was still . . . upset?’ What the pharmacist had said was that Bentley had been aggressive and threatening, but it wouldn’t help to tell Mrs Bentley that.
‘He said they were important.’
‘Did he say why?’ She seemed uncertain and he added gently, ‘You must be worried sick, him going off like this—’
‘That’s the point!’ she exclaimed. ‘He wouldn’t do that — he wouldn’t go off — not without telling me.�
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Foster nodded, sympathising. ‘That’s why we need to know more about the pictures.’
She nursed her cup, half-turned towards the window, watching the sun chase across the narrow strip of garden, lighting the flowers in a mosaic of colour. ‘He’s always been a solitary boy,’ she said. ‘Likes his privacy. That’s why he got upset over the pictures — he says an artist doesn’t share his work with anyone until it’s perfect.’
Foster guessed that Bentley hadn’t told his mother about his illegal activities with his ‘art’.
‘Is he any good?’ he asked.
‘Hard to say,’ she said, with the merest hint of annoyance at her son’s secrecy.
Foster grinned. ‘It’d drive me up the wall — I’d be sneaking a sly squint at them, given half the chance.’
Mrs Bentley stared at him for longer than was comfortable.
‘That’s why people don’t trust the police, Sergeant,’ she said with a look that put him in no doubt that his megawatt smile was wasted on her. ‘I cleaned empty offices stuffed with secrets for thirty years and never felt tempted.’
Foster left the house feeling like he had been hoisted physically from his chair by the scruff of his neck and booted out of the door.
He smiled walking back to his car, perversely cheered by the exchange. His mobile rang as he fired the ignition. It was the Incident Room. He listened in silence for a few moments, then pressed the ‘end call’ key and rang Megan.
‘You pass,’ he said. ‘This time. End-stage cirrhosis of the liver.’
‘I’m so pleased to set your mind at rest,’ she said, coolly, but she couldn’t disguise the slight edge of anger in her voice.
‘There I go again,’ Foster said, with sincere regret. ‘Putting my big foot in it. I didn’t know you two were close.’
‘I’ve only seen him twice since he was sent to prison, but we were. We were close,’ she repeated softly.
Foster made a mental note to find out exactly when she made the visits.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 29
