by John Barlow
As he spooned instant coffee into a rented mug, he tried to calculate how many meals he’d cooked here for more than one person since Sam had gone off to Edinburgh. The answer, he told himself with a bit of a smile, was zero.
Then his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and stared, his eyes taking longer than usual to register the information on the small screen.
It was her.
‘You didn’t strike me as a Facebook kind of person!’ she said as soon as he answered.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘What for?’
He wondered whether he should lie. But how could he?
‘I… don’t know. I was just…’
‘Looking me up. I was doing the same with you. You haven’t been in the news for a while, Detective Romano!’
‘I haven’t been on a high-profile case for a while.’
‘Well, you are now. Don’t forget, we still have to do that interview.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Great. Look, I better get to bed. I’ve got advanced Maths first thing in the morning. It was lovely to see you, Joe.’
‘Yes. It was. It really was. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’
He stood there, phone in his hand, as the swirling confusion in his brain began to lift. Or rather, there was now a semblance of clarity pushing through the drunkenness, as if he had two minds working in tandem: the yin and yang of the thoughtful drunk, or the Laurel and Hardy.
He made his coffee and went back to the living room, setting the mug down on the dining table in the corner. Then, reaching all the way across the table with an arm, he swept everything else – books, old newspapers, bills, a few new CDs that he hadn’t played yet – to the floor.
‘Right. Where the hell is it?’
He stopped, drank some coffee, then staggered off to search the house.
Five minutes later, the few cupboards that had anything in them had been ransacked, their contents now spilling out on the carpet, but haphazardly, as if a burglar had started the job then given up in disgust.
Back at the dining table, he unrolled it and admired the fine draughtsmanship. It was an architect’s plan: Maison Romano. The small farmhouse they’d bought in France had needed some minor structural adjustments. Jackie handled the building work, armed with a Collins French-English dictionary and only minimal French. The end result had been perfect. The conversion had even been featured in ARA-GB!, a magazine for British ex-pats in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region.
Now all that Joe was left with was half the cash value of the cottage, which wouldn’t buy much in the UK, and a very large piece of paper.
‘Right.’
He turned the metre-square plan over and flattened it down on its blank side. He got a pencil from a collection of about a dozen in an earthenware mug that sat on some bookshelves against the wall. Apart from a bottle of Courvoisier, a stack of CDs, and the pencils, the shelves were empty.
He wrote CRAIG SHAW in the centre-left of the enormous empty white space. To emphasize the point, he etched a box around the name in thick, uneven lines, snapping off the point of the pencil in the process.
Tossing it to the floor, he got another one from the mug and set to work. On the right-hand side of the paper he wrote JASON BEVERAGE. Then he stood up, took off his jacket and emptied the contents of its various pockets onto the table: his notebook, the print-outs that Leo Turner had given him, the folded Lobster Pot poster, a beermat from the Brown Cow, plus a few other bits and pieces that he’d accumulated over the last few days: a beermat from the Greyhound, a sachet of sugar from McDonald’s, a greasy serviette from goodness-knew-when, all the detritus of an incurable pocket-filler.
Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he made a start. At the bottom of the paper, in tiny handwriting, he drew up a list of everywhere he’d been since Thursday and every person he’d spoken to, plus every other name that had emerged during the inquiry. Then, using his notebook for reference, he wrote up his notes about every item on the list, ticking each one off as information was entered somewhere or other onto the massive sheet of paper.
An hour later and still he wasn’t done. More and more ideas were emerging, little boxes with new suggestions and ideas, most of them linked with lines and looping arrows to other names and locations… The mosaic of information around the English Patriot League became denser by the minute. Then he’d jump to somewhere else on the enormous sheet, adding a reference here, a question mark there. He made scrupulously detailed progress through his notebook, folding down the top corner of each page as its information was transferred to the plan, then doing the same with the bottom corner of each reverse page.
Cleckheaton Library came to occupy most of the upper right-hand quadrant of the plan: the snivelling, faux-radical librarian (bike? activism? current affiliations?), the pencils, the name of the retired local councillor he’d spoken to (political party? interest in crime? drugs?), the member of the group who’d attended a meeting of the Lobster Pot (Trevor; wife Elaine; stent out)… Lines went everywhere, up and down, sideways, each one sprouting boxes for further suggestions, unresolved questions, possible lines of enquiry.
The word CLECKHEATON was becoming a hub through which a great many disparate clusters of information were linked. Leo Turner had a whole section there, and Chris Saunders’ name was written directly below the word LIBRARY.
On he went, dragging information up from memory: the newspapers that Leo Turner read, the spiking of drinks in a Cleckheaton pub; one-sixty-six (Gwyn Merchant); Batley (Merchant, Rita, the Patriot League); Lisa (univ. fees, father, drugs)…
Finally, three or four broken pencils later, he stood up and admired his work.
‘Right, that’s a start.’
He rang Elland Road, knowing the duty data clerk wouldn’t be busy, not at this time of night.
‘Hi, Carol? It’s Joe Romano here… Yeah, working late! Listen, have you got much on over there? I need you to do a bit of digging.’
He read a list of names to her, confirmed the spellings and gave her whatever additional information he had on each one, speaking fast, tripping over his words as his confidence grew.
‘General background. Anything at all that sticks out. Work, life, arrests, convictions. In fact, anything at all.’
He ended the call. The dregs of his coffee were cold. He went through to the kitchen to make another cup. Waves of exhaustion overcame him now, and as the kettle boiled he forced himself to stay on his feet, knowing that if he sat down he’d fall asleep. He checked his phone. There were some photos that he hadn’t looked at yet. He vaguely remembered taking them, but by the time the water was boiling he still hadn’t worked out where the images were on his bloody iPhone.
He spooned sugar into the steaming mug and went back through to the living room. Finally, he found the photos, a series of images of what seemed to be text on blocks of vibrant colour. It took him a while to see that they were posters, the ones at Cleckheaton Library. Creative Writing Circle… Inviting You to a Baby Shower… Living with Bereavement.
He stared at the screen: Living with Bereavement. He flicked back through the others; forwards again; then back, straining hard to focus on the words of each image. What was it, what had he missed? His mind was closing down. It was late. A sip from his mug; there was no coffee in it, just water and sugar. Leaning back, he got the brandy from the bookshelf and filled the mug to the brim.
Monday
32
He eased himself down behind his desk at 9.30 a.m. There was not much going on in CID, but even so it was noticeably quiet. The support staff at the back were casting not-so-furtive glances in his direction, and he got the impression that they weren’t the only ones, although he kept his eyes fixed on the pile of documents in front of him, willing himself towards some kind of lucidity.
The previous hour had not been pleasant. He’d woken up, fully clothed, sprawled on the sofa in the living room. An empty mug and a bottle of Courvoisier were within easy reach on the floor
. The bottle, although somewhat depleted, was not empty. Small mercies.
He’d never been one to suffer headaches or particularly severe hangovers, so he got himself up without much trouble and made his way upstairs for a shower. He was weak and shaky, but none the worse for wear. With each step, though, the events of the previous night began to take shape in his mind.
By the time he felt the blast of scalding hot water on his naked body, the full horror of what he’d done hit him. After calling the data clerk last night, he’d retired to the sofa to wait. The brandy must have gone with him. The next thing he remembered was his phone ringing. By that stage he was drunk, half-asleep, and only passably articulate. Yet he’d managed to say the name Christine Saunders. He’d said it various times, confused, rambling, repeating himself. Anything they could get on Christine Saunders.
The data clerks had done their job well. On his desk now sat an impressive pile of printed material, organized into half a dozen thin bundles, each held together with a rubber band. All the individuals he was interested in, including Chris. He was dying for a coffee, but after all the work he’d caused, he thought he better make a start.
Before anything else, though, he logged onto his terminal and updated his movements for the last twenty-four hours: places he’d been, people he’d spoken to, every detail. The investigation hub was expanding by the minute. Even the log of entries was now too long to read in full. He scrolled down to the most recent additions. And there it was. Turner. They were already at his house.
He texted Rita. Got a moment?
As he waited for her reply, he read the entry. A full search of Turner’s home and his office premises had been ordered and approved. Turner himself was to be brought in for questioning. An 8 a.m. start.
His phone rang.
‘Rita. You have a main suspect!’
‘Yup. He’s here now. Waiting for his lawyer.’
‘Mmm. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? Already phoning for back-up?’
‘Lawyers always do.’
‘And you really have him down for double murder?’
‘Don’t have anybody else. Get a main. Go in hard. What can I do?’ She paused. ‘By the way, hope you don’t mind, I’ve asked your deputy to do us a favour.’
‘Gwyn? Haven’t seen him today yet.’
‘I asked him to start monitoring social media, see if the Patriot League lot are playing us. Like you said.’
He thought about it. About everything.
‘OK. I’ll check in with him. Have you made a statement about Turner?’
‘Jesus Christ, Joe! Aren’t you following this shit? Two down and counting. Not seen the papers today?’
‘Sorry, I’m… I’ve just been on something.’
‘Whatever. Let’s speak later, if the Twittersphere doesn’t get me first.’
She hung up.
He didn’t need to check Twitter. A minute on Google was all it took. The Graphite Assassin was everywhere. Mugshots of Shaw and Beverage on the front page of every online newspaper, plus a video of Rita outside Kirklees HQ, announcing that a man was being questioned in connection with the murders.
The case was national news, and he’d been too drunk or hung-over to notice. He sat there, closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady.
‘At last, you’re here!’
It was Gwyn Merchant’s voice. He took big, lunging steps across the floor towards Joe.
‘You seen this shit?’ he said, pulling up a chair. ‘Mega! Trending like a bugger. Got our own friggin’ hashtag, an’all. The business!’ He spun a phone in his fingers like a playing card. ‘You talked to the boss?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘We’ve got a team on it. That Patriot League member list? We reckon half a dozen of ’em are tweeting.’
‘How do you know it’s them? Don’t they use fake names?’
‘Some do. Some don’t. We’re looking at their tweet histories, matching up names, locations, stuff they’ve posted about in the past. Alex is on it, big time.’
‘Is he? Since when?’
‘Since now. Look at this shit!’ Merchant said, brandishing his phone with pure adolescent delight.
Joe read a tweet:
Police shld find who killed them scumbags + SHAKE HIS BLOODY HAND!!!! #graphiteassassin
And another:
It cost cops £££s to catch druggies + rapists, they get free defence lawyers (more £££s), then more taxpayer £££s to keep em in jail. #graphiteassassin done us all a favour!
‘And these are from members of the Patriot League?’
‘Some of ’em. It’s goin’ off big time about Turner. They’re on about police harassment, all that bollocks. Somebody’ll drop a nugget, though. Bound to. If these arseholes are involved, or if they know owt, it’ll come out in the end.’
‘Yeah. If.’
‘If what?’
‘If they had anything to do with it.’
Merchant sat back, put his phone on the desk between them, like a peace offering, or a challenge.
‘Leo Turner’s the main suspect, as of now. You been working on something better? That’s what I heard,’ he said, looking over at the data clerks.
Joe ignored it.
‘What if there are two killers?’ he said.
Merchant cocked his head, waited for Joe to continue.
‘Second one might be a different killer. Sees his chance, takes advantage. Same MO.’
‘Nah, the pencil thing wasn’t made public ’til after Beverage was dead.’
Joe shrugged.
A moment.
‘Bloody hell, Joe! You’re getting into some friggin’ choppy waters there, mate.’
‘Not many people knew about the pencil, not on Saturday.’
‘Like I said. Choppy waters. Your point?’
‘No point.’
‘Sounds like a point to me. Sounds like you reckon it might be police.’
‘Someone knew.’
‘You’re gonna need more than that to take it to the DPS.’
The operations room was now silent.
‘Who mentioned Professional Standards?’
Merchant held his gaze. Then he got up, grabbed his phone and leant in close.
‘I’ll tell you what, sarge,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘the shit you pulled last night, it should be you talking to Professional Standards. I’m off for a coffee.’
As Merchant disappeared, the room remained silent. Joe didn’t care. He’d got the response he wanted.
He returned to his monitor, scanned the story on the BBC website. A ninety-second video of Rita, plus a few paragraphs outlining the crimes. Below this was a summary of public opinion, citing various posts linked directly from Twitter. Modern journalism at its very best. He clicked over to the Yorkshire Post. At least they were actually reporting events in detail, he noted, as he began reading a long description of the background to the case.
Then his phone rang.
33
DCI Andy Mills looked up, saw Joe, waved at a chair in front of his desk.
‘Now then!’ he said, heaving in his seat.
‘Andy.’
‘Prepare for a bollocking, mes amis.’
‘Mon ami.’
‘Fuck off.’
It wasn’t said in anger. He looked tired and disappointed, like a parent who was about to reprimand a teenager but couldn’t really be bothered.
‘Right. We have a double murder on our hands. Serial killer if another body turns up. Did that slip your mind, y’know, while you were out wining and dining a witness?’
‘How did…’
Andy held up a hand, palm outwards.
‘Then you’re back home, off yer tits, middle of the night, asking Her Majesty’s Constabulary to use its considerable powers to dig up information on her.’
‘That…’
‘Shut it, you knobhead!’ He stared at his friend, eyes glazed. A pause. ‘Jesus Christ, you don’t know, do you
?’
‘The database stuff? Yes, I do. It’s not what it looks like.’
Andy shook his head until his flabby cheeks threatened to work themselves clean off his face. He grabbed a mobile phone from the desk and held it up.
‘Know what this is?’
Joe said nothing.
‘It’s our worst enemy. Look.’
He handed it over. There on the screen was the photo of Chris and Joe in the pub, heads touching, both of them grinning in an alcoholic semi-embrace, his eyes just a touch red.
‘Where did this come from?’ Joe asked as he read the Twitter post that accompanied it:
Detective Romano of #LeedsCID enjoying a drink tonight with unknown lady friend. He’s more handsome than you @SamRomanoLS12!!!!
‘Now look at the number of retweets, Joe.’
There were over a hundred. Joe passed the phone back, and tried to think. He couldn’t work it out.
‘Some girl called Gemma, ring any bells?’ Andy asked.
‘Oh God, she’s a friend of Sam’s.’
‘Is she now! Well, unless you’d forgotten, you’re the SIO on the Shaw murder. Your name’s been on the press releases, it’s public knowledge. Meanwhile, you’re out getting pissed a day after the second murder.’
‘But how did you see this?’
‘’Cos she’s bloody hashtagged us! The whole world’s seen it. I’ve just been on to the Yorkshire Post. Once it’s on their website, every bloody newsroom in the country’ll see it. Leeds detective investigates Graphite Assassin from a barstool. You dick!’
They both let the aggression disperse. From outside came the distant hammering of construction work. There was always building work going on at HQ, or nearby, a constant repetitive noise for all those with the luxury of an outside office.
‘This woman? Chris Saunders, right? She’s in the case file. Just tell me you’ve eliminated her. She’s not a witness, is she, Joe?’
‘I got pissed, but it was work. This is all…’
‘Sorry, Joe. Can’t listen to you. Not if she’s a witness.’
