‘We know this is painful for you, but we need to find Bryony,’ Hart said.
Mrs Lindermann turned, her eyes shimmering, mascara streaked down her face. ‘What can I do?’ She sounded close to despair.
‘Is there anywhere Davis would go? Anyone he would go to?’
‘I didn’t really know him — didn’t want to know him.’ Mrs Lindermann’s eyes darted from Hart to Foster, as if searching for something. ‘Oh . . .’
She took a couple of steps towards them and Hart leaned forward on the balls of her feet, willing Mrs Lindermann to remember.
‘The children’s home — Jasmine said he was always talking about his house parents. He might have—’ She broke off, seeing the disappointment in their faces. ‘But you’ve already spoken to them.’
‘They haven’t heard from him,’ Hart said, sick with regret.
‘Then I don’t know.’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘I don’t know where he’d go.’
‘It’s all right.’ Hart laid a calming hand on the woman’s shoulder, and this time she didn’t resist. ‘We have officers out, talking to his former associates,’ she explained, wishing they had more: more personnel, more information, more time.
Kim Lindermann took a deep breath, made an effort to regain control. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They would know.’ She searched Hart’s face, looking for an answer Hart didn’t have. ‘Even a man like Maitland would help, wouldn’t he? To protect a baby?’
Hart gave Foster a quick look. ‘Maitland?’ she said.
‘Rob Maitland. Mark works for him.’ Mrs Lindermann blinked. ‘I thought you knew.’
This was a breakthrough. ‘Jasmine told you?’ Hart asked.
She nodded.
‘You know Maitland?’ Foster asked.
‘What makes you think—’ Mrs Lindermann frowned, offended by the question.
‘Just the way you said, “Rob Maitland”, like you know him.’
She sighed, responding to the accusation in Foster’s tone. She went to one of the alcoves and plucked a couple of tissues from a box before answering. ‘I was a different person back then.’
‘We’re not judging you,’ Hart said, thankful that Foster maintained a tactful silence.
Mrs Lindermann nodded. ‘There is no such thing as dignity in addiction,’ she said. ‘I funded my habit in ways I’m not proud of.’ She wiped the mascara from under her eyes.
‘Maitland?’ Hart asked.
‘Why are you asking me this?’ she said. ‘It’s irrelevant. It’s history.’ Her voice rose in agitation. ‘This isn’t about me — it’s not about what might or might not have happened five years ago. Please. Find Bryony — find her safe.’
‘We will,’ Hart said, then, because there were no absolute certainties — not in this line of work — ‘We’ll try.’
‘It’d help us if we knew something about Jasmine’s movements before she was found.’ Hart was grateful that Foster had softened his tone.
‘I spoke to her at ten o’clock last night. She was—’ Mrs Lindermann broke off. ‘Stupid . . . I was going to say she was fine.’
‘No,’ Hart said. ‘It’s good to have that kind of detail. She didn’t seem anxious or distressed?’
‘She’d just finished decorating the sitting room — wanted me to help her pick out some cheap prints for the walls.’ Tears spilled unchecked down Mrs Lindermann’s face. ‘She seemed really happy.’
Hart handed her a fresh tissue and she took it with a grateful nod. ‘I was wondering . . .’ She hesitated, and Mrs Lindermann looked at her in question.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this,’ Hart spread her hands, knowing that this would hurt no matter how she said it. ‘We’ve identified Jasmine by her fingerprints, but it’s preferable — I mean we think it’s best — if someone formally identifies her. Someone who knew her.’ Someone who cared about her, she might have added.
Mrs Lindermann blanched. ‘Oh, God.’ Then she took a breath, steadying herself, and said, ‘Of course. Do you want me to come now?’ She looked around, as though mentally gathering her coat and her briefcase, preparing herself for the ordeal.
‘It’s all right,’ Hart said, painfully aware that the pathologist would not want a grieving friend at the mortuary spoiling his scientific objectivity prior to post-mortem, and anyway, nobody would be allowed near the body until all possible evidence had been gathered from it. ‘We’ll let you know when,’ she said.
Chapter 11
The drugs team was winding down for the night. DS Cass was there, together with a few of the hangers-on who hoped that proximity to him would give them the same air of swaggering insolence. A night shift of three sat at their desks, working their way through paperwork and polystyrene cartons of food. The air was thick with the smells of Chinese takeaways and McDonald’s burgers.
Conversation all but stopped as Hart walked in. Amused, she said, ‘Did I take a wrong turn — wander into a Sergio Leone Western?’
‘Don’t know who he is, but you must be lost, love.’ Cass was sitting with his back to her, a biscuit in his hand and his feet on his desk. His jacket was carefully draped over the back of his chair.
Did Cass really call me ‘love’?
Someone gave an embarrassed cough and came forward. Hart recognised the compact, square-built figure of Detective Inspector Larry Dwight. ‘Eight a.m. then, lads.’ He tried to make it sound like an instruction, but his tone was too apologetic.
Cass couldn’t resist the opportunity to ridicule his senior officer in front of a woman, and he called out, ‘Don’t be late!’
Dwight laughed weakly, his hand going to his hair. It had a toped appearance — the sandy curls tightly coiled and carefully clipped as though they had been trimmed all over with a pair of shears. He scuttled through the door, avoiding eye contact.
Cass shook his head. ‘Our leader.’ He smiled, trying to coerce Hart into unpleasant laughter. When she didn’t oblige, he said, ‘So what’re you doing so far from home, Naomi?’
‘She’s looking for a kettle, Sarge.’ More laughter.
‘A name has come up,’ she said. ‘Rob Maitland. I wondered if any of you had any insights.’
‘Rob Maitland. Hmm . . .’ He fixed her with his flat, grey eyes. Cass evidently hadn’t forgotten her rebuff. ‘See that computer? You’ve probably got one just like it on your desk — type in a name, it’ll give you the lowdown on any lowlife you’re interested in.’
There were a couple of muffled laughs, unpleasant, like kids during a classroom spat, as if they half-expected blood to be spilt. Hart said, ‘I thought it might save some time — we’re trying to find a missing baby.’
The reminder had a sobering effect on the team. Even Cass was stung, but she wouldn’t get their cooperation by alienating them further. She forced a smile, putting enough archness in her tone to make them laugh with her instead of at her. ‘And I heard you boys had digestive biscuits going begging.’
Cass laughed along with the rest, even waggled a finger at her as he offered her the packet. Then he placed the remains of his biscuit on the desk in front of him, brushed crumbs from his fingers and actually got to his feet. ‘What d’you want to know about Rob Maitland?’ he asked.
She nibbled on her biscuit. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Major player on the drugs scene. Involved in last night’s deal.’
‘Was he there?’
Cass smoothed his tie, dislodging a few errant crumbs. ‘We believe so.’
‘We’re getting info about a Mark Davis,’ Hart said. ‘Informant says he works for Maitland.’
Cass shrugged. ‘Pond life. On his way out — even before the raid went down.’ He pinched one nostril and sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand in a gesture characteristic of coke addicts. ‘Took his work home with him once too often.’
‘Is he violent?’
‘I never really thought about it — like I said, he’s pond life. Bottom feeder.’
‘We need to loca
te him,’ Hart said.
Cass spread his hands. ‘Wish I could help.’
‘Did Mark have any special friends he might go to?’
‘I had my sights set much higher, Naomi.’ He seemed irritated by her persistence.
‘Any chance I could have a word with Maitland?’
‘You’d have to speak to his secretary, love. We had to kick him.’ It seemed Cass had exhausted his reserves of professional courtesy.
‘You let him go?’ She had seen Maitland brought in for questioning only a few hours ago. If they had been forced to cut him loose so soon, he must have a rock-solid alibi.
‘What can I tell you? Shit happens.’
Hart’s head reeled. Maitland looked likely to get away with one of the biggest drugs deals in the history of the city.
‘We got the bulk of the drugs and the money, so I reckon we’re about even.’ Cass picked up his biscuit and began munching again.
Hart stared at him, thinking about the stolen bags and the fact that Maitland, having lost several millions in the debacle, would now only be hungrier and more dangerous.
* * *
The press of bodies in Rickman’s newly acquired Major Incident Room was a welcome sight. ‘Hello,’ Hart said. One of the new faces glanced up and waved. She was wearing a headset and taking notes. Hart’s eye lighted on the tea table. There was no sign of the kettle.
Tunstall came in, his tie loosened and a set of document wallets under his arm. ‘What’s with the sudden influx of personnel?’ Hart asked.
‘Civilian staff and PCs.’ Tunstall grinned. ‘The boss must’ve put a rocket under someone.’
Hart suspected that DCI Rickman’s imminent TV news interview was the rocket and the chief superintendent the ‘someone’ Tunstall referred to. The drugs raid had depleted resources alarmingly: half the force seemed to have been involved in some capacity the previous night, and those who weren’t enjoying a well-earned off-duty were answering questions about the way the raid had been botched. She thought it impolitic to comment, however, and quietly finished her half biscuit instead.
A TV had been set up in the corner of the room, and North West Newsbrief was showing. ‘When’s he on?’ Hart asked.
‘Just missed him,’ Tunstall said. ‘They showed a bit of the video clip. Already had a few calls in. Got a few names out of the house parents, an’ all.’ He handed Hart one of the folders and picked up his coffee mug. ‘Couple of pals of Mark Davis. Seems he didn’t have many friends at Black Wood. I’ve checked home addresses and printed off everything we’ve got on them.’
‘Arrest records?’ Hart asked.
‘No. T’other end of system.’ Distracted by something, Tunstall’s gaze flitted from the tea table to the clutter of desks around the room. ‘Where’s the—’ He did a 360-degree turn. ‘What’s happened to t’kettle?’
One of the telephonists tilted her headset microphone away from her mouth. ‘Health and Safety rep was in,’ she told them. ‘Something wrong with the wiring, he said.’
‘There’s nowt wrong with that kettle,’ Tunstall said, hotly. ‘It’s had engineer’s clearance not six weeks since. What’s this beggar look like?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Sorry, Chris. I was taking a call.’
‘Some light-fingered merchant from Cass’s crew, I’ll bet.’ He peeled off his jacket and flung it, one sleeve the wrong side out, onto his chair, then blundered through the door, almost barging into Foster.
‘What’s up with him?’ Foster asked, neatly sidestepping the big man.
‘He’s gone on a quest for a kettle.’ Hart indicated its absence with a lift of her chin.
Foster glanced in the direction of the tea table and rolled his eyes. ‘Nice to see him with a goal in life.’
‘He’s really miffed, Sarge.’
‘I’ll try not to upset him.’ He took in the new staff, making eye contact where possible. A few of the women smiled, and he beamed back. His dark brown hair was artfully ruffled and gelled, and he had the glowing look of a man who had just blown in from a bracing walk — they fell for it every time, despite Foster’s reputation as a notorious commitment-phobe. Perhaps that was it — the thrill of a challenge, reforming the womaniser. She wished them luck.
‘So,’ he said, oblivious of her scrutiny. ‘What’s new?’
Hart held on to the folder for the moment. ‘D’you know anything about Rob Maitland?’ she asked.
‘I know the history — but if you’re asking about Operation Snowplough, that’s on a need-to-know basis.’
‘The history, then,’ she said.
‘You’re thinking about what Kim Lindermann said?’
She nodded.
‘Okay, for what it’s worth, when he started out, Maitland’s firm was mostly into armed robbery. Then we got ourselves organised, set up Armed Response Units and started shooting back,’ he said. ‘Which is when Maitland switched to drugs in a big way.’
‘How come Snowplough can’t pin anything on him?’
‘He’s careful not to handle the goods. And he’s invested a lot in the last five years in legit businesses. He even got an MBA through the Open University—’
‘And found Business,’ Hart finished for him. ‘Like some people find God.’ A small frown creased her brow. ‘Seems he broke his own rule on handling the goods last night, though — if he really was there, I mean.’
Foster checked that the telephone operators were busy, then drew Hart a little further from them. ‘They got nothing on record, but their intelligence said he would be there to check the merchandise personally. And you didn’t get that from me.’
She nodded again. Foster’s in-house intelligence network, from her understanding of it, brought a whole new meaning to undercover investigation. ‘Think we need to talk to Maitland?’
‘What d’you think?’
‘Cass reckons Mark was on the way out,’ she said, reluctant to admit it, but DCI Rickman’s advice to prioritise was still ringing in her ears. ‘Maitland doesn’t trust him anymore.’
‘There you are, then. We’re tied up enough as it is. But if it makes you feel any better, we’ll talk to the boss man when we’ve cleared up a few other lines of inquiry. How’s that?’
In answer, she passed him the folder Tunstall had given her. The Shepherds came up with a couple of names,’ she said. ‘Pals of Mark Davis.’
‘Kate Nolan . . .’ he said, skimming the contents. ‘Rings a bell. But I don’t remember the other one. Worth having a chat, anyway.’ He slapped the folder against the side of his leg, impatient to be gone. ‘What’re we waiting for?’
‘Don’t you want to see if we get something useful from the hotline?’ Hart asked.
‘The temptation to stay has got much stronger since certain new arrivals . . .’ A few of the female telephonists looked up and he flashed them the smile. A couple of the more susceptible smiled back. ‘But if I have to sit here waiting for the phone to ring, I’ll start chewing the skirting boards,’ Foster said. This time his smile was genuine, more intimate, and Hart realised that revisiting his childhood landscape wasn’t proving easy for Lee Foster. A look passed between them, a moment of understanding, and she tried to frame the words that would shape and solidify her thoughts.
‘Bold as bloody brass!’ Tunstall shattered the moment, bursting through the door, furious but triumphant, kettle in hand. ‘Sat right in middle of room it was.’
Hart raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re sure it’s our kettle?’
‘’Course I’m bloody sure.’ He pronounced it shoo-er, and to prove his point, he tipped it upside down, spilling the last drops of water onto the carpet tiles.
‘“C. Tunstall” — look.’ His name had been inked in indelible marker on the base of the kettle.
‘And they just let you take it?’
‘Who’s gonna stop me?’ Gazing up at six foot four of towering indignation, Hart saw his point. ‘Thieving bloody sods,’ he finished.
That made three ‘bl
oodies’ in less than a minute. Tunstall really was miffed. Then, as if to prove her wrong, he beamed at them. ‘Now, who’s for a brew?’ he said.
Chapter 12
Thirty minutes later, Hart and Foster were seated in the kitchen of a well-kept Edwardian terrace off Aigburth Road.
Kate Nolan greeted them with caution at first. But as she handed back Foster’s his warrant card, she seemed to take in every feature, then reappraise, with light dancing in her eyes. She was in her early twenties, a brunette with a good figure and a direct manner. Foster felt her eyes stray to him again and again as she busied herself about her kitchen.
‘So,’ she said, setting coffee and biscuits in front of them, ‘What d’you want to know about Mark Davis?’
‘Have you heard from him recently?’ Hart asked.
‘We stayed in touch for about a year after we left care.’
There was something in her tone that made Foster ask, ‘What happened?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘He was mixing with a bad crowd.’
‘Bad crowd?’
‘Drugs, thieving.’
‘Did you know Mark well?’ Hart asked.
She laughed. ‘Well, yeah — we were there for ever, me and him.’
A flicker of doubt crossed Foster’s mind — why couldn’t he place her?
Kate gave him a shrewd look. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
He smiled, low wattage — this was a professional call. ‘I don’t usually forget a pretty face.’
Kate looked across at Hart, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Hasn’t changed, has he?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Hart said, with admirable diplomacy.
‘I had the biggest crush on you, Lee Foster,’ Kate said.
‘I’m sorry, Kate . . .’ Foster was completely at a loss.
‘I was the one with the dyed black hair and the eyebrow piercings.’
Foster laughed. ‘Goth Kate! You’ve certainly changed a bit, haven’t you, girl?’
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 9
