by Tony Kent
Six detectives sat between Levy, Hale and the files. Four men. Two women. All of them looked equally tired. It was not yet lunch, but for all of them it had already been a long day.
‘What was the filter?’ Levy asked, indicating the files. ‘How did you settle on these cases?’
‘We concentrated on crimes of extreme violence only.’ The reply came from one of the women. Detective Inspector Natasha Pickett. Ten years older than Levy. A talented but overstretched investigator, Pickett was no leader. Nonetheless she had earned Levy’s trust. ‘We just don’t have the manpower or the resources to review all of Longman’s cases. So we narrowed it down to those with defendants who have somehow shown themselves capable of the sort of violence that was done to him.’
Levy nodded. She was well used to working with limited resources; of the fifty officers who should have made up her MIT One, she had never had more than thirty at any one time. And that was just the easiest example of the underfunding that blighted every investigation.
It was for this reason that Levy had approved the plan to at first limit the investigation’s focus to Longman’s cases that featured ultra-violence. Such a focus would allow her to best deploy her limited manpower.
It had not worked as well as she had hoped; the large number of files still left was a disappointment.
‘There still seems a lot,’ Levy said. ‘How can we focus it further?’
‘We already have.’
This time one of the men answered. Detective Sergeant Pat Tucker. Another older officer, he was even more the stereotypical copper than Hale: tall, broad and carrying more than a little weight, he was an imposing figure on the streets. He continued.
‘We’ve removed completely every case where the defendant is dead or still in custody. That accounted for over half. These three tables are what’s left.’
Levy nodded again. She had hoped that the process would have narrowed the field more. Investigating the remaining files would still take thousands of man hours. Thousands of man hours she simply did not have.
‘Then we divided what was left into three categories,’ Tucker was still speaking. ‘One per table. The first table is for one-off offenders. Where violence is an anomaly on their record. The second table is for any offender released more than three years ago. On the basis that if they were looking for revenge they would be unlikely to wait so long, particularly with such an old victim who could easily have passed away in the meantime. And the third table is for cases of extreme violence, repeated offending and relatively recent release.’
‘So table three cases would be the priority, then,’ Levy said in frustrated agreement.
She considered the piles of paperwork in front of her. Sifting cases for prioritisation in this way was far from a perfect system. Ideally she wanted to go through all of them. But with an underfunded thirty-officer squad and a second serious murder to investigate alongside Longman’s, she really didn’t have the resources. Still, she knew where the blame would fall if the murderer did turn out to be on tables one or two. And so at the very least she wanted to review their filtering system; to check that the cases in those piles definitely deserved to be there.
‘OK, I agree with the approach,’ she announced. ‘It’s the best we can do with what we have. Before we start, though, I want to give the filter a test run. Make sure files are in the right categories. Everyone grab a file at random, three from table one and three from table two.’
She waited while all six officers did as instructed.
‘Tucker, who do you have?’
Pat Tucker opened the file he had taken from table one. At the front was a short set of notes. Not his handwriting. One of the others had reviewed the file. Tucker read the notes aloud.
‘Arthur Hart. Single count of murder. Domestic. Killed his wife when she threatened to leave him. Disposed of her body by dismemberment. The offence happened at the end of a long period of stress, both professional and personal. He was released two years ago after eighteen years in prison. Fifty-one years old when convicted. No history of violence prior. Positive progress in prison. Assessed as probably too old to have killed the victim the way Longman died. More importantly, he has shown no propensity for violence of any sort outside of his one offence.’
‘What was Longman’s involvement in the case?’ asked Hale.
‘Longman chaired the hearing that refused Hart’s appeal against his sentence.’
‘So he wasn’t the trial judge?’
‘No.’
Levy considered the facts. Everything she had heard supported the initial file assessment. Hart was not their man.
‘Agreed,’ Levy finally said. Turned to Pickett. ‘Natasha? What do you have?’
‘This one’s from table one,’ Pickett’s file was one she had assessed herself. ‘But it could also have been on table two.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Karl Hirst. One count of manslaughter. One count of GBH. Two counts of kidnap. One count of blackmail.’
‘Table one?’ Hale was already questioning the process. ‘It hardly sounds like violence was an anomaly with this guy.’
‘Except this violence was all on the same single occasion,’ Pickett explained. ‘Eighteen years ago. Hirst was twenty-eight and had no criminal history at all before his arrest. He kidnapped the two children of a local bank manager and threatened their lives to get access to the vault. The bank manager went to the police. Hirst got wind and carried out the threat. Killed the son, seriously injured the daughter. The prosecution couldn’t prove that the death of the son wasn’t accidental suffocation, so he was convicted of manslaughter rather than murder. Longman was the trial judge. Sentenced him to life with a minimum of fourteen to serve. Hirst was released after fourteen, almost to the day. That was just over three years ago.’
Levy thought through the facts. It still did not feel right.
‘Are you sure he really qualifies for table one?’ she asked. ‘The offence might be a one-off but it was no crime of passion. It suggests a capacity for cold violence, surely?’
‘Maybe, ma’am,’ Pickett replied. ‘But it’s still manslaughter, not murder. There’s nothing to say he meant to kill the boy, which means we can’t actually guarantee a one-off capacity for murder. Plus there’s his prison record, which is what convinced me he belongs on table one. In a nutshell, he was an exemplary prisoner. No violence. No insubordination. Nothing. He made parole on the first attempt with the full support of prison staff and psychologists. Everything points to one-off violence.’
Levy nodded again, lost in her own thoughts. Whatever Pickett said, the crimes still worried her. They involved planned and calculated violence. But the other factors did meet the sift criteria. A one-off episode of violence against forty-six years of peace.
Plus three years of freedom, Levy thought. Pickett didn’t concentrate on that, but waiting three years for revenge? Against an old man who wasn’t exactly hard to reach? If anything, that’s the better argument against Hirst.
It was the final point that called it. Levy had her misgivings, but no system was perfect.
‘OK,’ Levy finally said. ‘Put him back where you found him.’
She turned to the second female officer. Detective Constable Sally Ryan. Twenty-nine years of age, Ryan was Levy’s rising star.
‘What do you have, Sally?’
‘Nicola Allan, ma’am. Two counts of murder. Her husband and his mistress. A nasty one, too. She followed them to the second victim’s home. Waited for the lights to go out. Then she broke in and stabbed them both to death in their bed. By all accounts it was a bloodbath.’
Hale interrupted.
‘Which table is this one?’
‘Table two, sir. There was a history of violence here. Nothing so extreme. But she had attacked another woman in the street six years before, using her high-heeled shoe as a weapon. Cut the victim’s face wide open, leaving a deep nine-inch scar. She was sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment for that. Plus there
were incidents of attacks while in custody. So she doesn’t meet the criteria for table one.’
‘But she meets it for table two?’
‘And then some, sir. Longman was the trial judge. He gave Allan a life sentence with a minimum of eighteen years’ custody. Because of her behaviour inside – the violence against guards and prisoners – she ended up serving twenty-three. She was released aged fifty-two, and that was eleven years ago.’
‘So she could have taken whatever revenge it is she thinks she’s owed aged fifty-two, but waits until she’s sixty-three,’ Levy observed. ‘I think that makes table two a safe bet. And I doubt a woman in her sixties would be capable of physically lifting a body several feet off the floor and then crucifying him to a wall, no matter how old or frail he might have been.’
‘She could have had an accomplice?’ Hale offered.
‘But then why wait eleven years. If she has back-up then she doesn’t need to wait until Longman is weak. She’d have killed him much sooner.’
Hale hesitated for just a moment.
‘OK, I see the logic. But I don’t like this. We’re finding reasons not to investigate viable suspects. I’m worried we should be looking at some of these other people.’
‘I agree, and if it comes to it then we will. But for the moment we just need to find a way of prioritising the more likely suspects. The likes of Hirst and Allan aren’t off the hook. If the files on table three end up giving us nothing, we’ll go back to the others. But we don’t have anything like the resources to do them all at once, so for now we haven’t got a choice.’
Hale took a deep breath. Levy could tell that he had no argument left. He knew that she was correct.
‘OK,’ he finally said, passing the file back to Sally Ryan. ‘Then let’s put her back on two.’
Levy turned to her fourth team member to ask for his file, but was interrupted by a young officer who had approached from across the room.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry but there’s a call for you.’
Levy looked up. She was irritated that the process had been stalled just as it was starting to roll.
‘Take a message and tell them I’ll call back,’ she said, returning her attention to her team.
The officer seemed uncertain. Levy’s voice carried a natural authority when she wanted it.
‘The caller says that’s it’s very urgent, ma’am.’ The voice lacked confidence, but he continued nonetheless. ‘I really think you need to take the call.’
Levy looked up again. And this time she paid attention. It took her a few moments to place the young officer, until the name Ollie Cleary came to her. A new recruit to MIT One.
Levy turned back to her six-man team and to Hale.
‘Excuse me,’ she said as she rose to her feet and followed Cleary to the other side of the room, where the telephone was waiting.
‘This is Levy.’
‘Hi Joelle. This is Sarah Truman from ITN. We met at Phillip Longman’s home yesterday.’
‘Yes. I remember. What can I do for you, Miss Truman?’
‘I have some information for you, on the Longman case. I think whoever murdered him has killed again.’
TWENTY-TWO
Sarah looked at her watch: 3 p.m. The distance from Grays Inn Road in London to Mill Lane in Southwold was around 120 miles. A little over three hours, door to door. Sarah had arrived fifteen minutes earlier.
Levy and her team can’t be far behind, Sarah reasoned.
Alex Redwood had contacts in the Suffolk police. That much was clear. But Redwood was no longer a part of the story. Twenty minutes of enquiries had proved that the deceased Adam Blunt was the man Sarah had suspected. A well-known lawyer who had retired to Southwold over a year ago. His identity alone raised a likely connection to Longman; two retired lawyers, murdered in their homes within a forty-eight-hour time frame.
Any lingering doubt on that connection had then been erased by Sarah’s call to Michael.
Once the Blunt story merged with the Longman story, Redwood’s involvement was at an end. Sarah was the senior correspondent. That alone gave her precedence. She was also the more talented of the two reporters. The more well known. And by far James Elton’s preference.
There was only going to be one winner.
Nathan Benson had remained in the outside broadcast van. Sarah had not.
She lacked Redwood’s local resources. His informants within the local police. Sarah did not know how he had built those relationships. Bribes, perhaps. Or charm; he was a very good-looking man, Sarah had to acknowledge. And he was charismatic. At least until his true self broke through the veneer. It didn’t matter either way.
If Sarah was going to get more information, she would need to make some friends.
The local press were already on the scene. Television news and print media. Ten reporters, maybe more. Sarah did not count. They were huddled together outside of the police cordon. All were obviously well known to one another. And all were no doubt wondering why the national press – Sarah Truman, no less – had taken an interest in a local death.
Sarah approached the group, smiling broadly. Once again felt the ‘us and them’ divide. Once again she ignored it.
‘Perfect day for the beach, huh?’
The weather, Sarah thought. Guaranteed to get the Brits talking.
‘Too hot to be standing around here all day.’
The answer came from the closest reporter. A middle-aged man, slim and dressed for the cameras.
The main man around here, Sarah’s instincts told her.
‘Totally.’ Sarah slipped in an Americanism. One she never used. Designed to lower the local defences. ‘How long have you guys been here?’
‘Since 10 a.m., some of us.’
The answer came from a much younger man. Barely in his twenties, his unironed shirt and stained jeans indicated a newspaper reporter. Certainly not the clothes he would wear on-screen.
‘And I guess you’re one of the early risers, huh?’ Sarah turned her full attention onto the youngster and smiled wide. ‘Any news from inside since then?’
‘Not much,’ the print cub replied. ‘We know it’s a murder, obviously. And a few police have let it slip that it’s a bad one. But not a lot else.’
Sarah listened. She kept her smile throughout, then scanned the rest of the press when the youngster had finished speaking. The faces that looked back at her were now a little more open. More welcoming. None showed any disagreement with the young reporter’s assessment. It confirmed Sarah’s suspicions.
Redwood’s police source was not shared by others.
‘So no details released about the way this guy died?’
Sarah knew the details already, but it was the natural question. The others would wonder had she not asked it.
‘As Tony said, just that it’s real nasty.’ The answer came from the group leader. The middle-aged guy from local TV. Sarah turned back to him. ‘Not suitable for early evening news, anyway.’
That settled it. With the exception of Redwood, the press had been told next to nothing.
‘Then I guess we’re in for a wait,’ Sarah said, once again smiling as she spoke.
The charm offensive had had the desired effect. Sarah was a famous face – certainly in reporting circles – and celebrity came with expectations. People presumed aloofness and arrogance. When they instead found something more positive – more likeable – they were easily converted.
Sarah held out her right hand in the direction of the group’s leader.
‘By the way, I didn’t catch your name. Mine’s Sarah.’
Ten minutes passed, full of small talk and big tales. Typical of when reporters get together with nothing to do but wait. A pleasant way to pass the time, it got them through one of the downsides of the job.
Sarah was laughing hard at a joke that did not deserve it when something caught her eye. It was activity, close to the four outside broadcast vans parked on Mill Lane.
Her gaze slowl
y focused on her own ITN vehicle, which sat furthest back of the four vans. She watched as it began to reverse, creating a gap that widened as a second van – marked up as Anglian Regional News – reversed in the opposite direction.
The space created was large enough for a vehicle to access the police cordon. Which Sarah now realised was exactly as intended. A convoy of three – two cars and a van – drove towards the police tape. One word from the driver of the first car and the tape was lifted. The three vehicles drove under. Once through they parked in the spaces available.
Sarah watched as Joelle Levy stepped out of the first car. She was its only occupant. Levy looked around. She seemed to note the Detective Inspector from Suffolk’s own MIT. A man in his early fifties, balding and hiding it badly. Levy acknowledged him with a wave then glanced away before he could return the gesture. She seemed to be looking for something. For someone.
Finally her gaze fell on the press pack.
Sarah’s eyes met with Levy’s. The DCI gestured with her head, which Sarah took as an indication to move away from the other reporters. Further along the cordon. Sarah did as indicated. Levy did the same.
‘Thanks again for the tip,’ Levy said, once they were close enough to speak quietly.
Levy’s voice was low. The two women were yards from anyone else but still Levy was being careful. She indicated the local press.
‘You know any of them?’
‘For the past five minutes I do.’
‘Long enough to tell me how compromised my case is?’
‘They don’t know any details. Aside from working out that it’s a bad one.’
‘What about you? Are you going to report what you told me over the phone?’
‘Like you said yesterday. If I play ball you’ll thank me later, right?’
Levy smiled and nodded her head. It was all Sarah needed.
There was something about Levy that she trusted. Just an instinct. And one she might not usually follow. But today she was willing to go with her gut. Levy had given Sarah her word, and for Sarah that was enough.
