‘Do me a favour,’ he exclaimed. Hart fixed him with a beady eye and he sighed. ‘It’s safe, I promise.’
She pulled at the plug at the back of the kettle. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again. It was rock solid.
Tunstall grinned. ‘Now try the mains socket.’
The same thing, it wouldn’t move. ‘Chris,’ she said. ‘What . . .’
‘Superglue,’ he said, unable to contain himself any longer.
Hart blinked. ‘You superglued the plugs?’
He beamed at her. ‘Brilliant, i’n’t it?’
‘If Health and Safety get wind of this, they’ll scalp you!’
‘I said it were brilliant, I never said it were me,’ he said. ‘And if they do come after me, I shall invoke my right to silence.’
Hart laughed.
‘See,’ Tunstall said, puppyishly pleased to have made her laugh. ‘There’s nothing like a nice cuppa for giving you a proper slant on the day.’
* * *
‘You ready?’ Rickman asked.
Foster was in the process of jamming a set of box files between a cabinet and the wall. He straightened up, slapping the dust from his hands. ‘We’ve had a feng shui consultant in — like the look?’ He pronounced it ‘feng shoo-wee’, and he didn’t seem amused. ‘We’re gonna need more space — we haven’t even set up an Evidence Room yet, paperwork’s stacking up and the sodding drugs team’s bagged every storeroom, office and broom cupboard going.’
Rickman surveyed the room. There weren’t enough desks for all the new staff, they were still waiting on the delivery of extra filing cabinets, and he wasn’t sure they’d have room to house them, if they ever arrived. ‘Have a word with Larry Dwight.’
‘I did — when he finally showed his ugly mug. He’s been out since the morning briefing, “consulting with the local community”. When he come back, he said they couldn’t spare the space.’ Anger had a detrimental effect on Foster’s grammar.
Rickman raised an eyebrow. He knew Dwight to be a careerist and a political animal, which was fine by him, so long as he didn’t blow off the men and women in the field who did the practical job of policing. Especially not the men and women on Rickman’s team. ‘Where is he now?’ he asked.
Foster looked around distractedly for space to cram in a few more boxes. ‘I dunno. I’m just glad he’s not round here — I might not be responsible for me actions.’
* * *
Rickman found Detective Inspector Dwight in his office, on the phone. Dwight was wedged into a chair that was too narrow for him. His sandy hair, as always, was neatly clipped, and his desk, unlike Rickman’s, was clear of clutter, the surfaces looked freshly dusted. Rickman thought he could even smell a faint whiff of furniture polish. The rest of the room was just as neat.
Dwight held up one stubby finger, indicating that Rickman should wait, then he swung his chair around and continued his conversation with his back to Rickman. A moment later, Dwight laughed. ‘You’re kidding?’ he said, still chuckling. ‘Yeah — put him on — I’d like to hear this for myself.’
Rickman, however, did not. He took the phone out of Dwight’s unresisting fingers and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘He’ll call you back.’
‘What the hell?’
Rickman held up one finger while he replaced the receiver carefully in the cradle. ‘DS Foster requested storage space for my investigation.’
‘Oh,’ Dwight said, as though he had only just realised what this was about. ‘You know, I’d like to help — I really would — but . . .’ He spread his hands.
‘That’s all right,’ Rickman said, with a tight smile. ‘I don’t need your help. I just need a storeroom.’
Dwight shook his head with an exasperated little laugh. ‘Well, if you can suggest somewhere suitable . . .’
‘The one opposite the CID Room will do. And I’ll need an Evidence Room as well.’
Dwight looked a little queasy — perhaps it was the smell of furniture polish. ‘I’m investigating a drugs war,’ he said. ‘Operation Snowplough was an international inter-agency investigation — I have a truckload of paperwork—’
‘On the scale of things,’ Rickman interrupted, with a slight tilt of the head, ‘two murders and a suspicious death makes mine bigger than yours.’
Dwight huffed and puffed, but Rickman could see he was ready to cave in. The inspector chewed his lower lip for a moment. ‘You’ll have to talk to DS Cass. But he’s not going to like this.’
Rickman smiled: much of police work was about the balance of power — who had authority, who was prepared to use it — and that went as much for police officers as it did for criminals. Rickman knew that DI Dwight’s reluctance to help out was more about his reluctance to approach DS Cass than the usual problems of power play between two senior investigating officers.
‘Tell you what, Inspector,’ Rickman said. ‘You talk to Cass, and if he doesn’t like it, I’ll shoulder the burden of his disappointment.’
Dwight straightened up, recognising Rickman’s use of his rank for what it was — a reminder that Rickman was the senior officer. ‘But I was on my way out, sir,’ he protested.
‘Talk to Cass before you leave,’ Rickman said.
‘I have a meeting.’ Dwight was beginning to sound desperate.
‘So, the sooner you sort this out, the sooner you can be there.’
When Rickman met his gaze, Dwight looked away. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he murmured.
‘Fine. As long as I have two adequate storage facilities by noon.’
Chapter 29
Rickman had a tussle with a couple of chancers on the drugs team when he tried to book separate interview rooms for the Shepherds. It seemed that the disrespect for authority among Dwight’s crew was a malaise that threatened to spread beyond their own SIO. The station was busy with civilian traffic: a stretch limo filled with twenty-something women out on a hen night had pulled into the Royal Liverpool Hospital A&E at two a.m., just as Maitland’s street-corner pushers were being dumped by the opposition. The bride-to-be had broken her ankle in an accident involving eight gin mixers, a pair of five-inch stilettos and an undignified exit from a night club on a cobbled back street. The witnesses, now sober and regretting some part of the night before, were giving their statements.
Rickman agreed to a compromise: one interview room and one consultation room. The consultation rooms were designed to put prisoners at ease while they consulted with their legal representatives and were not set up with recording equipment, but Foster had managed to scrounge a recorder from Allerton station.
Rickman had chosen the unfamiliar and disorientating environment of the station, rather than going to the children’s home to interview the couple. An interview at the police station reinforced the seriousness of the situation. It also allowed him to split the house parents up. To get near the truth, Rickman would have to disrupt the almost psychic connection between Ed and Hilary Shepherd.
Rickman and Foster stood in the large foyer, beyond the station reception area. Red lights shone above three of the interview rooms and one of the consulting rooms, warning of interviews in progress. DC Hart kept herself at a distance, waiting outside the consulting room where she and Foster would conduct their interview with Hilary Shepherd.
Ed and Hilary had been fingerprinted — for elimination purposes, they had been told — and were already installed. Ed, being the more susceptible of the two in Rickman’s estimation, was in the more hostile setting of the interview room, going through the slow fermentation process that is so helpful in breaking down the resistance of interviewees.
‘Ready?’ Rickman asked.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Foster said. ‘I talked to Kate Nolan — she heard goings-on year round — and she was there for years. If this is what we think it is—’
‘It could involve a lot of children,’ Rickman finished. ‘I know.’ He saw anger and turmoil in his friend’s face and added, ‘If you don’t want to do this, Lee . . .’
A muscle jumped in Foster’s jaw. ‘Oh, I wanna do it all right.’
‘Naomi’s an experienced interviewer,’ Rickman said. ‘Let her take the lead.’
Foster looked over at Hart. She didn’t exactly avoid his gaze, but Rickman sensed a barrier between the two of them. He’d noticed a coolness earlier, during their management meeting, and Hart had been unusually reticent during their meeting to discuss interview strategy.
He lowered his voice. ‘Is everything okay between you two?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘That’s not an answer,’ Rickman said, injecting an edge to his tone.
Foster glanced again at Hart. ‘Truth is, she’s pissed off with me.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I don’t blame her.’
Foster might be insensitive and laddish, but he was also self-aware.
‘You could apologise.’
‘There are some things you can never take back.’
‘You’ll never know, unless you try.’
Foster remained silent.
‘Is this a problem?’
After a moment’s indecision, Foster said, ‘No. And you’re right — Naomi should lead.’ Rickman heard sick disappointment, as well as determination in Foster’s tone. This wouldn’t be an easy interview for Lee. He turned to the interview room, where Ed Shepherd was waiting.
‘Jeff!’
Rickman scanned the mass of faces beyond the reception desk. Detective Superintendent Cliff Maynard. His voice carried well, and a few heads turned. Maynard was buzzed through on the nod and he took in the three officers with a glance. ‘Before you make a start, I’d like a word.’
Rickman glanced at Foster, eyebrows raised in question.
‘Fine by me,’ Foster said. ‘Let them sweat a bit longer.’
Rickman and Maynard ducked into the small room that housed a microwave, a hot drinks machine and a sink. A couple of PCs sat huddled over biscuits and coffee.
‘Give us a minute, will you?’ Maynard said, in a tone that assumed compliance. Maynard had the deliberate manner of a cop with more than thirty years in the job, mainly in operational posts. He combed his hair in a side-parting, which dated him, but it was as thick and dark as in his Hendon training days.
‘You’re not thinking of letting Foster interview the children’s home couple?’ Maynard asked.
‘Hart is leading the interview with Mrs Shepherd,’ Rickman said. ‘But Foster’s knowledge of the home and of the two house parents is likely to prove invaluable.’
Maynard drew his eyebrows down in an expression of disapproval. ‘You must see how it looks, Jeff.’
‘No,’ Rickman said, feeling a rumble of resentment. ‘I don’t.’
‘Foster knows the Shepherds,’ Maynard said. ‘He knew Mark Davis. Now Davis is found dead in the grounds of his old home — and his former house parents are being interviewed about illegal adoptions.’
‘You’re talking like he’s involved in all this.’
‘I’m not suggesting he is, but the media will certainly smell a story — ask questions — and I needn’t tell you how damaging speculation can be.’
Rickman had personal experience of press ‘interest’, but he also knew how damaging in-house gossip could be to an officer’s reputation. ‘As far as Foster is concerned, there is no story.’
‘Then the press will create one,’ Maynard said.
‘I have every confidence in Detective Sergeant Foster’s integrity.’
‘Noted. But with Bryony dead, it won’t take long for the media to start looking for a scapegoat.’
Rickman deliberated. As a senior ranking officer, Maynard was well within his rights to insist that Foster be pulled off the interview team. What galled Rickman most was that the superintendent had a valid point.
‘All right,’ Rickman said. ‘I’ll reassign him.’
‘You have to see how this looks from a PR angle, Jeff. And I’m sorry to have to do this . . .’ Maynard’s conciliatory tone was a warning of worse to come. ‘But Foster should report immediately to DI Dwight to assist in the drugs inquiry.’
Rickman stared at him. ‘Foster is part of my team.’
‘Not anymore.’ Maynard’s manner switched from conciliatory to sharp in an instant.
‘Sir, I need every available officer.’
‘Foster is off the case,’ Maynard said. ‘It’s non-negotiable. He can hear it from me or he can hear it from you. Your choice.’
This was stand-off Rickman couldn’t win. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him wanting to fight. ‘One concession,’ he said.
Maynard inclined his head, indicating at least a willingness to listen.
‘Foster makes the move voluntarily.’
‘I’ve told you, Jeff—’
‘I know,’ Rickman interrupted. ‘Non-negotiable. I’ll persuade him.’
Maynard considered. Finally, he nodded. ‘Actually, that would look better all round. Responsible policing, sensitivity to public perceptions.’ The consummate politician, Maynard would already be rehearsing his press statement.
* * *
Rickman found Foster in the CID Room, working at one of the free desks. He was on his feet and heading for the door before Rickman could even speak.
‘Let’s get the show on the road, boss,’ he said, with a glance at his watch.
‘Not yet,’ Rickman said. ‘We need to talk.’
Foster gave Rickman a sardonic smile. ‘Is that a “This isn’t working, we need to cool it for a bit” kind of talk?’ Rickman made no comment. ‘What, no comeback?’ Foster said. ‘Bloody hell, it must be bad.’
Rickman fixed him with a look that left Foster in no doubt it was worse than he could imagine. ‘My office.’
Ten minutes later, Foster was still arguing. ‘What about you, Jeff? D’you think I’m bent?’
‘Nobody’s saying that, Lee.’
‘The super’s taking me off the case—’
‘He’s allowing you to make the move voluntarily — he wouldn’t do that if he thought you were in any way implicated.’
‘Don’t kid yourself.’ Foster paced the small floor area of Rickman’s office, his fists bunched. ‘He just thinks it’ll look better in the press.’
Rickman had to agree — Foster might not be subtle, but he understood police politics as well as anyone. ‘Well, at least it’ll make you look good.’
Foster stopped pacing and stared at him, and Rickman had to smile. Foster had reached the rank of sergeant and would rise no further precisely because he didn’t care about looking good — unless it involved his reflection in a mirror.
‘Okay,’ Rickman said. ‘Let me rephrase. If the press latch on to you as a liability, we’ve less chance of getting the public support we need. I know you want to nail this illegal adoption scam — so, what’s it to be?’
Foster stared at his feet, struggling with inner thoughts Rickman could only guess at. He shook his head, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t like this, Jeff,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it one little bit.’
They walked back to the CID Room together. ‘You might want to see what you can find out about Maitland’s relationship with Mark Davis, now you’ve got an in,’ Rickman suggested.
‘Top of my to-do list,’ Foster said, with heavy sarcasm.
Hart met them at the door of the murder Incident Room with a wodge of papers in her hand. ‘Mark Davis’s mobile phone records,’ she said. ‘I’ve marked up the recipients’ names next to the relevant numbers.’
Rickman glanced at the list and felt a tickle of excitement.
‘Are we doing this or not?’ Hart asked, eager for the off.
‘You are,’ Foster said, and she frowned.
‘Find an interview partner,’ Rickman said.
She looked quickly at Foster. ‘I thought we were—’
‘Me, I’m changing sides,’ Foster said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m going where careers are built and me
n walk bow-legged from all the testosterone floating around.’
This wasn’t humour, it was rage, but to her credit Hart didn’t respond to his crude attempt to needle her. Instead, Rickman read alarm and concern in her face. She had been there when the detective superintendent arrived, she was in the CID Room when Rickman called Foster out, and Hart was more than capable of drawing the obvious conclusions.
‘DS Foster has voluntarily withdrawn from this investigation,’ Rickman said, ‘because of the possibility of misperceptions among the press and media.’ He had spoken loud enough for a few heads to come up. Now he had their attention, he looked Foster in the eye. ‘I respect that decision.’ He glanced at Hart. ‘When you’re ready, DC Hart.’
He waited for her to go ahead of him. As she crossed the threshold, she glanced over at Foster like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.
He followed her through, but Foster checked him. ‘Boss—’
‘What?’
‘Don’t let Shepherd use his asthma to make you back off.’
‘Would he do that?’ Shepherd hadn’t struck Rickman as the manipulative type.
Foster sighed. ‘I don’t know what he’d do, Jeff — not anymore.’
Hart was waiting for Rickman in the corridor. ‘Sir, this is wrong,’ she said.
‘It’s out of my hands, Naomi.’
‘Foster is the best link we have with the children’s home. He knows Ed and Hilary Shepherd like family.’
A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘He’s not implicated.’
‘I know that.’
‘I’ve conducted God knows how many interviews with him,’ she insisted. ‘DS Foster has played it straight down the line.’
‘I know.’ Rickman’s eyes were hazel, but sometimes when he was angry they would spark amber. She caught a flash of amber now but pushed on.
‘Then why don’t you back him up?’ She raised her voice, and two civilian staff passing them turned to look. ‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘With my life,’ Rickman said quietly and emphatically.
Hart felt hot — fevered almost with lack of sleep and frustration and the injustice of it all. In a space of days, Foster had seen Davis — a boy he had tutored and mentored — first accused of murder and then found mutilated, the victim of a sadistic assault. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Foster felt some measure of responsibility. And as if this wasn’t enough, his faith in the people who had acted as his surrogate parents for the better part of his childhood had been shattered. Now Foster’s closest friend and ally was abandoning him — or so it seemed to Hart.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 19
