by Isaac, Jane;
‘So, where does that leave us?’
‘Sinead’s best friend is due back from Iceland tomorrow. We’re hoping she can give us a better insight into the victim.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘No. We’re still working through the results of the public appeal, waiting on forensic reports and checking CCTV.’
‘Right. I’ve spoken to intelligence, got them to reach out to their contacts in the field and they’ve come back with nothing, so we’re meeting with organised crime at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow in the conference room. Let’s see what they can tell us. Senior officers only.’
She watched him march across the incident room and let himself out. Although Jenkins had never been the sort for small talk, he was certainly more intense than usual. She had hoped a fresh case would help them resolve their differences and restore his faith in her. Now she was beginning to wonder.
The investigation snuck back into her mind: two boys and a factory. The set-up didn’t ring true. Every part of her body ached with fatigue. But before she could go home and get some much-needed rest she needed to go back to the beginning. To the scene of the crime.
CHAPTER 22
Night was drawing in, veiling the surroundings in a khaki dusk. Helen parked up outside Billings and cut the engine. Sinead’s abandoned car was found on the other side of town in Ashdown Lane and Helen was struck by the distance. Once again, she questioned, what brought the victim and the location of her death together?
The only connection to Billings they’d found so far was a visit Sinead and Blane made to the factory end of last year. Stranger attacks were rare, most people were killed by someone close to them, someone they knew. Blane had visited Billings, he knew the layout. Though he was at work from 10.30 a.m. on the day of the murder, his movements accounted for. Friends and family described them as a close family, there was nothing to suggest his involvement. And the nature of the attack didn’t follow the pattern of a domestic, which was usually spontaneous and carried out at home.
So, who brought Sinead here and why?
She climbed out of the car, lifted a takeaway coffee from the drinks holder and smiled at the burly uniformed officer guarding the property.
‘Evening, Gerard,’ she said as she approached. She’d been paired up with PC Gerard Board on a couple of night shifts during her early days in the force. Ten years later, his hair was greying, his girth widening, but the same toothy grin remained. Gerard was a career policeman, dependable. Nothing untoward would get past him. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Been better,’ he said.
She remembered guarding a crime scene herself as a rookie: a tedious task, the hours ticking by slowly. By the time relief arrived, she’d been gasping for a drink. She passed over the coffee. ‘You can’t have long to go until you retire.’
‘Two months, three weeks and five days.’
‘Not that you’re counting.’
He laughed.
‘How are the family?’
‘All good, thanks. My youngest graduates in the summer. She’s going to be a teacher.’
‘Just when you are about to retire. Nice timing.’
Another laugh. He thanked her for the coffee and peeled back the lid.
‘Any visitors?’ she asked, looking at the cobwebbed windows of the empty building beside him.
He shook his head. ‘The CSIs left shortly after seven. It’s been quiet since.’
The clouds were drawing in. With no electricity in the factory, visibility was already poor. She needed to get in there quickly if she wanted to take advantage of the ailing daylight. ‘I’m going to pop inside, take another look,’ she said.
He nodded and took a sip of coffee. ‘I’ll sign you in on the log.’
She took a moment to pull on a forensic suit and retrieve her torch, then made her way to reception. It was empty, apart from the forensic boards and a few yellow CSI markers. Her team had traced the keyholders, checked any visitors and were still tracking down all the ex-workers, but there was nothing so far to suggest the keys had been compromised.
Helen walked down the side of the building, past the fir trees and the metal fencing, marking the boundary to the unit next door, and around to the rear. Through the high picket fencing, she could see the Bracken Way down the hill, where the informant had been walking his dog on Wednesday night when he spotted the boys, running out of the unit.
She nudged open the door and climbed through the tape. The inside corridor was darker and she had to rely on her torchlight to guide her. On the main factory floor, the area brightened, courtesy of twilight streaming in from the high windows. Her nose twitched at that same musty smell. Coloured markers decorated the old oil drums at the far end, where the syringe had been found.
The lab found traces of heroin in the syringe, and although both boys denied it belonged to them, Connor’s mother had gasped when it was mentioned. Rhys’s mother had immediately pulled back his sleeves, checked his arms, much to the boy’s irritation. They seemed too young, and too lucid for that matter, to be dabbling with such a heavy drug at their age, but if the job had taught Helen anything, it was not to make assumptions. There was no intelligence on either of them, nothing to suggest they were linked with any of the drugs gangs, but it was still possible they’d obtained the heroin and picked the factory as somewhere quiet to experiment. Now their mothers were aware, she hoped they’d talk to their children, keep an eye on them.
Helen tried to imagine Sinead entering the factory with her killer. Did she walk through with a weapon at her back, or was she knocked out and carried? The blow to the side of her head indicated surprise. It would have taken a degree of strength for one person to carry Sinead unconscious. Unless, of course, they weren’t operating alone.
They’d had no leads back on the photo of the man withdrawing cash on Sinead’s card at the ATM. Not surprising really, given the scant description. Robberies were not uncommon in Hampton, especially in the less salubrious area of Weston, although she found it hard to believe anyone would risk transporting a victim to a derelict factory to beat and torture them for a measly two hundred and fifty pounds. No, there was more to this.
The question mark over an organised crime killing tormented her. She couldn’t deny there was family history between her and Chilli Franks. She could still remember her father arresting Franks for throwing acid in the face of one of his adversaries in the 1990s and Chilli’s threats to the Lavery family at the time. James called them ‘the shallow threats of a condemned man’. But when Helen faced him, twenty years later, it was obvious Chilli still harboured the same grudge.
Since his release from prison in 2004, Chilli outwardly appeared to clean up his act. He’d taken over the Black Cats nightclub, appeared to run a legitimate business and operate within the bounds of the law. Reams of intelligence suggested he was involved in horrific activities – maiming, killing, drugs deals, people trafficking – but ostensibly they seemed empty claims. They could never find enough evidence or witnesses to support the allegations and he’d managed to evade arrest. Until recently. She shuddered. He was undoubtedly one of the most dangerous criminals she’d ever put away and even though he was now in a police cell, under lock and key, he still managed to worm his way underneath her skin.
They’d had no luck tracing the handcuffs and the use of them continued to bother her. Was it some kind of sign? The idea that Sinead might have been killed as a result of her actions against gangland crime, however honourable, sickened her.
She wrestled with the notion, considering other organised killings she’d investigated: Kieran Harvey was sixteen when he was shot dead last year, his young body left beside the curb. Leon Stratton was seventeen when he was shot and left in similar circumstances. They were both connected to the East Side Boys, a local drugs gang, their bodies left in the road as a message.
Sinead’s body wasn’t left out, it was hidden away. Even her handbag and missing fingers were dumped unobtrusively. It didn’t make se
nse. In fact, there was a lot about Sinead’s murder that didn’t ring true, and it was risky to leave her corpse there. Even if they were planning to return and move her later, it didn’t explain why they’d chosen that particular location.
She climbed the stairs to the offices. From the volume of blood, Charles was pretty sure Sinead was killed where her body was found. The light was fading in the office area. Helen switched on her torch and weaved through the forensic markers.
The pungent smell of blood and faeces continued to clog the air. It would be a while before the trauma-scene cleaners could move in and eradicate the final remnants of Sinead O’Donnell.
She stared at the radiator.
The station techies found nothing of interest on her laptop. The CSIs recovered her overnight bag from her car boot. They knew Sinead had money worries, yet her lifestyle appeared to be clean-living and ordinary and, so far, they’d found nothing, not even an inkling of intelligence, to suggest she was involved in something untoward.
The single syringe found in the factory troubled her. They’d had no luck tracing the owner; the fingerprint bureau only managed to retrieve smudged prints, nothing distinct enough to analyse. But, if it didn’t belong to the boys, she couldn’t help wondering who it did belong to. The nature of the crime indicated a degree of planning: the murderer would have taken steps to visit the factory beforehand, check its layout. The user may have seen someone nearby, either on the day of the murder or earlier. The labs were yet to report back with the DNA search on the blood found in the syringe. She’d make it a priority to chase them again in the morning. Witness or suspect, she needed to speak to the user of that needle urgently.
CHAPTER 23
Early-morning sunlight streamed in through PC Mia Kestrel’s kitchen window, bouncing off the table’s thick veneer.
Helen eyed the unopened suitcase beside the washing machine. ‘What time did you get back?’ she asked.
‘About twenty minutes ago.’
Helen blew across the top of her coffee. ‘Thanks for seeing me so early.’ Mia lived on Helen’s way to work and she’d called by on the off-chance, relieved to see her car outside. A statement could be taken later.
‘It’s the least I can do.’ Mia cradled her mug with an empty stare. She looked younger than Sinead, closer to her early twenties, and there was a delicate prettiness to her features. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Sarge phoned me.’
‘He phoned you on holiday?’ Helen’s team had tried to contact Mia several times, to no avail.
‘Tried to. Left numerous messages. I picked up his voicemail with all the other messages on the way home. It was such a shock.’
‘It was. The force is offering counselling. I’m sure he’ll discuss that with you.’
‘It’s odd. You know, we see this all the time, people killed in road accidents, injured in fights; dead bodies. But when it’s someone you know… Well, it’s just so tragic. And sad.’ She met Helen’s gaze. ‘She was a great girl.’
‘Everyone’s said the same,’ Helen said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The drone of a car engine outside broke the silence in the room.
‘Do you know if Sinead was connected to Billings factory, or Keys Trading Estate where she was found?’
Mia shook her head. Her eyes welled with tears.
Softly, does it, Helen thought. According to colleagues, Mia was the closest officer on the team to Sinead and therefore their best chance of finding out more about her. She didn’t want her to clam up.
‘How did you meet Sinead?’ she asked.
‘I joined her shift from training. She was my mentor. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.’ A faraway look crept across her face. ‘Got my first body on day one, of all the days! Poor old dear had been dead a couple of weeks. Sinead was brilliant. Checked her over, called everyone out, contacted the relatives. She was so calm and capable. I remember thinking at the time, I want to be like her.’
Helen smiled kindly. Mia’s eagerness was exactly the kind of enthusiasm the job needed. ‘How long have you been in the force?’
‘A little over two years. Passed my probation in March.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. I had a few wobbles along the way, wasn’t sure if I was up for the job, but Sinead was great. She always found the funny side of every situation.’
Helen took a sip of her coffee. There were times when she hankered for the old days of walking the beat, responding to calls, the one-to-one contact with the public. Colleagues pulled together on the streets, and senior officers with their budgets, planning and strategy talk seemed a million miles away. ‘You must have spent a lot of time together.’
‘We were crewed up all of the time to begin with. Became quite close, I guess.’
‘Did you see her outside of work?’
‘Not a lot. She was busy with her family.’
‘Do you know her husband, Blane?’
‘He ran my officer safety training course earlier this year. I’ve only met him once outside work, in passing at the supermarket. Poor guy. He must be going through hell. And those little kids…’ Her shoulders drooped.
‘We’re trying to build up a picture of Sinead’s last week. Did she talk much about what she did in her spare time?’
‘I don’t think Sinead had a lot of spare time. I don’t know how she did it all, to be honest, a working mum, holding down a full-time job and supporting her own mother, especially with the hours we work on shift. She was always running around after the children: Ava went to dance, Thomas played football. I used to call her Wonder Woman.’ She swiped a tear from her cheek.
‘What did she talk about?’
‘Apart from work? The kids mostly. Sinead was never one for talking about herself, even during those long hours crewed up on night-shift.’
Helen paused. What was it about this woman that made her so private? ‘What about friends outside the force, mums from the school? Someone she might confide in?’
‘She didn’t mention anyone particularly. I know she wasn’t keen on the school gates, said it was too gossipy. She used to share a glass of wine with her neighbour. Yvette, I think her name was.’
‘Are you sure there’s no one else?’
Mia was quiet a moment. ‘Well…’
Helen angled her head. ‘What is it?’
‘I did babysit for her a couple of times when Blane was working. She said she was going to the nursing home, to see her mum. I know she wasn’t there because they called the landline one time.’
‘Did you confront her?’
‘I told her the home had phoned. She shrugged it off, said she was there. Called them incompetent, but…’
‘You think she was seeing somebody else.’
‘I don’t know. I do know she had another phone, a separate mobile. She kept it with her, in the side pocket of her handbag.’
‘We’ve recovered her handbag. There was no phone inside.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t ask her?’
‘It was none of my business. I might be wrong anyway. Like I said, she barely had time to breathe.’
Helen wracked her brains. Sinead’s call records had been checked. There weren’t any numbers they couldn’t account for. Another phone opened up a whole new lead.
Mia guessed her thoughts. ‘I do have her spare mobile number. She gave it to me once, when I was babysitting, and her usual phone was playing up. Was very particular about me keeping the details to myself.’ Mia scrolled through her phone and passed over the number.
Helen felt a frisson of excitement. ‘Thanks. That should really help.’
CHAPTER 24
A line of cars stretched out in front of Helen as she continued on to the station that morning. Before she’d left Mia’s, she’d called the number through to the incident room and requested an urgent trace on the numbers it had been used to call.
The car in front moved. She inched forwards. It was almost 7.30 a.m
. At this rate, she’d be lucky if she made Jenkins’s meeting with organised crime at 8.30. She tapped the steering wheel, then placed her phone piece on her ear and called Pemberton to check how things were going at the office.
Pemberton answered just before the voicemail clicked in and sounded harried. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I was about to ring you. We’ve retrieved the call records off that phone. It’s only been used to call one number.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve managed to identify the owner of the number.’
‘That was quick.’
‘The phone’s registered, it was a simple trace.’ There was a ring of excitement in his voice.
‘Who is it?’
‘Number’s registered to a Marek Kowalski. Lives in town.’
Wasn’t that the surname of Sinead’s mum’s carer at Bracken Hall? ‘Any relation to Natalia Kowalski?’ she asked.
‘Not sure. I still can’t reach Natalia. I’ve left her a voicemail to contact us. I have Marek’s address now, so I’m on my way out to see him.’
‘Are they known to us?’
‘No. No police record, no intelligence.’
Helen thanked Pemberton and ended the call, perplexed. Usually, if somebody had been trying to cover their tracks, they’d use a burner phone that was untraceable, not a registered phone where the owner’s details were recorded. Marek Kowalski hadn’t contacted them, regardless of the public appeals. Why?
Frustrated, she turned on the radio. The journalist was talking about how different councils approached household recycling. A man in a suit beside her climbed out of his car, approached the vehicle in front and bent down to talk to the driver.
She was in the middle of Roxten now, a run-down residential area of Hampton known locally as the Rabbit Warren, due to the number of alleys and back entrances that snaked through the estate. Many a time she’d ran up and down those alleys when she’d worked on incident response, hot on the tail of a shoplifter or burglar.
Black Cats, Chilli Franks’ nightclub, loomed on the next corner, a dark building with a pair of green cat’s eyes painted above the entrance. The metal Sytex screens covering the windows did nothing to lift its sinister appearance. Helen forced herself to look away. Wherever she went, there were hints of Franks’s legacy, little reminders of his presence.
