DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘They’re stringing him up like a sacrificial lamb,’ she exclaimed.

  Rickman took her by the elbow and steered her towards the fire escape. ‘We need to reassess interview strategy,’ he said, loud enough for the few people remaining in the corridor to hear. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Rickman’s height and unshowy physical strength had always been reassuring to her. Although she felt no personal threat, she could see now why the hard men showed Rickman a respect they rarely extended to others. He didn’t relax his hold on her until they were through the door and on the staircase.

  ‘First off,’ he said, ‘there is no “they”, DC Hart. That kind of thinking is the way to career suicide. Secondly, never question my motivation. I’m here to find Jasmine’s and Mark’s killer — I want to know who abandoned Bryony to die. I won’t give up until I know.’

  He held her in his gaze and Hart bowed her head, taking a few breaths before answering.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She was. Exhaustion and concern for Foster had made her push beyond the boundaries of acceptable professional conduct. ‘I didn’t mean any implication against you.’ She meant to stop at that point, but she found herself again staring into his face, the words tumbling out despite herself. ‘But the super taking Lee off the case like that — you must see how it looks.’

  ‘It looks like political manoeuvring — which is what it is,’ Rickman said. ‘And Chief Superintendent Maynard has a point: we can’t do our jobs if we’re wasting our energies fending off unwarranted criticism.’ He studied her for a few moments as if trying to make his mind up. ‘Whatever happened between you and Foster, make it up.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ How could he know that?

  ‘Foster has his faults, but he’s a good man, and he needs his friends right now.’

  ‘He’s a colleague,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t call him a—’

  ‘You should,’ Rickman interrupted. ‘He’s been a friend to you — whether you know it or not.’

  He looked into her eyes, and this time she thought she saw a shimmer of amusement lighting his solemn features. ‘Don’t waste your energies kicking against an open door, Naomi. And don’t fight battles you can’t win. If you’re in for the long game, you need to be more selective.’

  There were moments in her life that in retrospect Hart saw as milestones, nuggets of advice that, with time and use, would acquire the patina of wisdom. Often, she discounted them at the time, and it wasn’t until years later that she understood their importance. But this moment — these words — seemed already to gleam with the worth of precious metal. Rickman was offering her the hand of friendship and his protection in the competitive and often hostile world of policing. She tested her feelings. Did she feel patronised? No. Compromised? Certainly not.

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind, sir,’ she said.

  He kept his gaze on her a few seconds longer, until he was sure she was sincere, then he nodded. ‘Let’s go to work,’ he said.

  * * *

  Foster walked into the drugs team’s Major Incident Room and was greeted by DS Cass.

  ‘Come to join the big boys, have you?’ Cass said.

  ‘You look like you need all the help you can get,’ Foster said.

  Cass pointed to a desk in the far corner of the room, with a plastic tubular frame chair, facing the wall. No computer, no phone, just a large stack of A4 sheets placed tidily in the centre of the desk.

  ‘We’re running HOLMES 2 on this one,’ Cass said.

  ‘And?’ HOLMES, the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System, now in its second iteration, was used routinely in complex enquiries where a large number of leads was likely.

  Cass’s hand went to his trouser pocket and he withdrew his pot of lip balm. ‘I’m handling task allocations.’

  ‘Well, I hope you washed your hands.’

  Foster focused carefully on the little pot, enough to make Cass self-conscious. Cass stopped just short of flicking the lid off it, but held it, rotating it in his hand as he spoke. ‘There’s a few pended items — families away on half-term holiday and so on. You can have a crack at them, see if the contactees have become available.’

  ‘Contactees?’ Foster whipped out his notepad and pencil. ‘Can you spell that for me?’

  Cass glanced sideways. Most of the team were out on inquiries, but a few CID officers were dotted about the room, and Foster and Cass both knew that they would be listening to this particular head-to-head. ‘You’re not under Rickman’s protection now, Foster.’

  Foster laughed and a slow, dark blush spread up Cass’s neck. ‘I can take care of meself, thanks, Dan.’ The angry flush spread from Cass’s neck into his face. Result, Foster thought, smiling pleasantly. ‘There’s a few contactees you could help with, though.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Rob Maitland, for example.’

  Cass looked fractionally away, then back. ‘What about Maitland?’

  Interesting. Foster had half-expected Cass to turn and walk away. ‘He’s still on the loose,’ Foster said. ‘Why isn’t he banged up with the rest?’

  Cass gave him a flat, dead-eyed look. ‘He wasn’t at the bust.’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  Again, Foster saw a flicker as Cass looked away, then back. ‘He’s not on the video recordings, he wasn’t seen at the docks, and his solicitor has provided him with an alibi.’

  Foster nodded. ‘Question: why are scientists switching from rats to lawyers for experiments?’ He waited until he was sure he had an audience. ‘Answer: the lab technicians don’t get as attached to the lawyers. And there are some things a rat just won’t do.’

  The joke got a good response from all but Cass.

  Laughter, Foster thought, relaxing a little. The best medicine. I might even like working here.

  This time, Cass did use the balm.

  ‘My point being — Maitland is a known drug baron,’ Foster said. ‘Youse lot have been working on this, what — a year?’

  Cass’s mouth tightened and Foster said, ‘More?’

  ‘We tried to link Maitland’s assets to drugs money. It’s impossible — his accountant makes sure of that.’

  ‘Bernie Carter.’ Cass’s surprise at his knowing the name gave Foster another thrill of pure pleasure. ‘Sounds like old Bernie’s due an audit. Now, I know he wasn’t banged up as of Thursday, ’cos I met him at Maitland’s offices. So has he got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card an’ all?’

  Anger flared briefly in Cass’s eyes. ‘I interviewed him the night after the raid.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d already made a donation to the Police Benevolent Fund.’

  ‘Funny,’ Foster said.

  ‘He wasn’t joking.’ Cass opened his pot of lip balm, changed his mind and tightened the lid, slipping the pot back into his pocket. ‘The night of the bust, he was at a police fundraiser. He gave the after-dinner speech.’

  ‘Good alibi,’ Foster admitted. ‘But a bit too smart-arsed for his own good. I think I might go back and have a chat with Mr Carter.’

  ‘You can have a go,’ Cass said, with a shrug. ‘But you’d be wasting your time — if the taxman couldn’t trip him up, the likes of you’s got no chance.’

  Foster blinked. ‘The likes of me?’

  Cass shifted stance. ‘Us,’ he said. ‘I meant the likes of us.’

  Chapter 30

  A female DC was leaning against the back wall when Rickman entered the interview room. Rickman nodded and she took her seat. Shepherd sat at the other side of the table, hands clasped in front of him, emphasising the high, slightly hunched set of his shoulders, and Rickman had a twinge of worry.

  ‘You’ve seen the police surgeon?’ he asked. ‘He’s passed you as fit?’

  ‘I’ve run a children’s home for thirty years,’ Shepherd said. ‘I think I can answer a few questions without incident.’

  ‘And you have your meds?’

  In answer, Shepherd took out a blue inhaler and placed it on the table.
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  Rickman started the recorder.

  Shepherd looked uneasily at the machine. ‘I thought this was an informal chat.’

  ‘It just saves time on note-taking and ensures accuracy.’ Rickman smiled. ‘Do you mind?’

  Shepherd seemed unsure, but politeness and natural reserve prevented him from making a fuss, and he muttered a reluctant consent.

  Rickman introduced the constable, then reminded Mr Shepherd that he was not under arrest, nor was he obliged to answer any of the questions put to him, taking care to speak in a relaxed, conversational tone, as if continuing the reassurances of the informality of the interview. ‘Of course, if you would prefer to have a legal representative present, that’s your prerogative.’

  ‘Ask away,’ Shepherd said. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

  Rickman placed a fat buff folder in front of him. It was stamped with the Merseyside Police badge and labelled with Shepherd’s name, and beneath it ‘Black Wood Children’s Home’. No case number or dates, for now. If he’d asked for a glimpse at the contents, Mr Shepherd would have found mainly blank sheets of paper, but the advantage of a fat folder was the psychological expectation it set up in a suspect’s mind.

  ‘Did you see Mark Davis the night Jasmine Elliott died?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘No.’ Shepherd answered without hesitation.

  ‘Did you speak to him over the phone?’

  ‘No.’ Shepherd seemed less sure of himself this time. His gaze slipped away from Rickman’s and found the folder, lying between them. Rickman tapped it with his fingertip, and Shepherd licked his lips. He took a breath and seemed to hold it.

  ‘Are you all right to continue, Mr Shepherd?’ Rickman asked.

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘Have you any idea why Mark Davis was in the basement of the coach house?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or why he would be anywhere near Black Wood?’

  ‘No.’

  Rickman nodded. Now he had the denials he needed when he hit Shepherd with their latest discoveries, he changed tack. ‘Tell me what happened on Wednesday night.’

  ‘I don’t understand the question,’ Shepherd said. ‘Nothing happened. It was a normal night.’

  Rickman fixed Shepherd with a look, softened it with a smile. ‘Talk me through a normal night.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘“Normal” is perhaps not the word I was looking for. Since we had news of the closure, we’ve undergone a period of upheaval.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Rickman sympathised.

  ‘We spent most of the evening packing,’ Shepherd said. ‘Went to bed early.’

  ‘Did you maybe take a walk around the grounds, first?’

  ‘No.’

  Rickman frowned. ‘I’m a little confused, Mr Shepherd.’ He opened the folder, tilting it away from Shepherd to hide its contents, then slid a photograph from the stack of papers. ‘This is a photograph of the padlock used to secure the front door of the coach house.’ He riffled through the file contents again, taking his time to find the next image. ‘This is the back of the lock.’ He placed it side by side with the first. ‘See here? A fingerprint.’

  A momentary panic flitted across Shepherd’s face.

  Rickman placed a copy of the fingerprint on top of the two photographs of the lock. The date and location were documented, along with the name of the CSI who had recovered the print.

  Shepherd leaned back, as if trying to distance himself from it.

  ‘You remember we asked for your fingerprints — for elimination purposes?’

  Shepherd said nothing.

  Rickman placed a tenprint form next to the fingerprint from the scene. ‘Your fingerprints,’ he said. ‘See this print here?’ He pointed to the box labelled ‘Right fore’. ‘It’s a perfect match to the one found on the padlock.’

  Shepherd relaxed a little. Rickman let him.

  ‘I must have checked it the day before,’ Shepherd said. ‘The surveyor isn’t always as conscientious as he should be about security.’

  ‘The day before,’ Rickman repeated. ‘But definitely not Wednesday night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, now I’m even more confused,’ Rickman confessed. ‘The problem is, our forensic specialists say that the padlock had been wiped clean.’ He watched Shepherd try to think ahead of him. ‘Only your fingerprint was present.’ Rickman pointed to the photograph again. ‘See? Right there.’

  ‘The surveyor must have—’

  ‘He says he’s been handling that padlock for days and it’s never occurred to him to wipe it clean — I mean, it’s just not something you do, is it?’

  For a moment, Shepherd seemed at a loss. His colour was hectic, and he stared intently at his hands clasped in front of him, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, as though massaging a heart back to life.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, as though in a sudden flash of clarity. ‘I did do a quick check. With all the rush of moving out, I get confused over the days.’

  Rickman smiled and settled back in his chair. ‘Well, that would explain it,’ he said. Shepherd smiled back. He thought he was in the clear. ‘What did you see?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘See?’ Shepherd frowned. ‘Nothing. I just rattled the lock to make sure it was secure, then went back up to the house.’

  ‘That’s impossible, Mr Shepherd.’

  Shepherd gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I’m telling you—’

  Rickman leaned forward again, abruptly decreasing the space between them. ‘The lock was open. And since the only prints on it are yours, I’m thinking you opened it.’

  ‘No.’ Shepherd glanced at the DC, then beyond her to the door.

  Animal instinct — find an escape route when cornered. ‘If that was the case, you would have been the last to see Mark Davis alive. D’you know what that makes me think?’ Rickman let him sweat for a few seconds. ‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘What would you think?’

  ‘Wait.’ Shepherd pressed his hands to his temples. ‘I know it looks bad — and I’ll admit, I did see that the lock was open, but—’

  ‘Please — don’t tell me you didn’t go inside,’ Rickman warned.

  Shepherd took a few breaths, then picked up his inhaler, but seemed to change his mind and set it down on the table again.

  Rickman gave the table a sharp rap and Shepherd jerked convulsively. ‘Stop wasting my time, Mr Shepherd.’

  ‘I’m trying to remember!’ Shepherd’s shoulders were up and his breathing was becoming laboured. Time to ease off.

  Rickman leaned back in his chair. ‘Perhaps you should use that,’ he said. He waited while Shepherd took a hit from the inhaler and gave him time to calm down.

  ‘I was on my rounds,’ Shepherd said. ‘Force of habit, after thirty years.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Late — after eleven, I think. I saw the padlock was hanging loose on the hasp.’ Rickman nodded encouragement. ‘I went inside.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be pitch dark in there?’ Rickman asked. ‘Middle of the night, and all those shutters on the windows.’

  ‘I always carry a torch on my rounds. I saw there’d been another fall.’ His voice tightened. ‘The place was full of plaster and roof tiles. It looked like a roof collapse.’

  ‘You didn’t go downstairs, into the basement?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘The steps were shattered.’

  ‘You didn’t think that maybe someone had fallen when the steps disintegrated?’

  ‘I assumed they’d been destroyed by the weight of debris.’

  ‘Well, that’s plausible at least.’

  Rickman knew his choice of words would not be lost on Shepherd: innocent people made reasonable assumptions. Liars were plausible. But the look of offended pride on the man’s face angered him — Shepherd had no right to the benefit of the doubt. He hardened his voice just enough to expose the absurdity of Shepherd’s assumption. ‘I mean, who would have thought that a man would hide in a damp, d
ark basement with an infant barely a month old?’

  Shepherd’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  ‘Mr Shepherd?’

  ‘I wish I had thought. I wish I’d been more thorough — if I’d troubled to look more closely, I might have seen them. If I’d had the courage to venture further, I might have saved them. Don’t you think I know that?’

  Rickman didn’t answer, and Shepherd stared at him in anguish. Finally, he looked away. ‘I’ll live with the guilt for the rest of my life.’

  ‘You weren’t to know Davis was even in the grounds,’ Rickman said. ‘After all, he hadn’t contacted you . . .’

  ‘N-no.’

  Rickman, the DC — even Shepherd — heard the slight hesitation of speech, and Rickman pushed harder. ‘But why would Davis come to Black Wood and not phone you?’

  ‘Mark was a troubled young man,’ Shepherd said. ‘How could I know what was in his mind?’

  ‘Would you care to speculate?’

  Shepherd shot him a bitter look. ‘You seem to be doing very well on your own.’ It seemed that Shepherd was not going to fall for Rickman’s pretence at puzzled ingenuousness a second time.

  ‘Okay,’ Rickman said. ‘Since I’m doing so well — I’d speculate that Mark Davis did phone you that day.’

  Shepherd was not a stupid man: this time he didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he stared resentfully at the folder in Rickman’s hands.

  Rickman found the printouts he needed and placed them at the top of the stack. ‘This is a copy of Mark Davis’s mobile phone records. These are calls he made on Wednesday.’ He turned the folder so that Shepherd could read the list. ‘Highlighted in orange — six calls to your landline.’

  Shepherd stared at the sheet of paper.