‘We’d like to talk to your daughter.’
‘Sorry, love,’ the woman said. ‘She just went down the shops. She isn’t in any trouble, is she?’
‘No,’ Rickman said, with a smile of reassurance. ‘But she might be a witness.’
The woman nodded, absorbing this. ‘She shouldn’t be long.’ She peeped around the door, past Rickman and Hart, evidently worried about what the neighbours might think. ‘Why don’t yiz come in and have a cuppa?’
She showed them through to a small sitting room, crammed with ornaments and photographs. In the corner sat a box, piled with children’s toys.
‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Hart followed Mrs Rayder through the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Rickman approved — a lot could be discovered during idle chat — and it gave Hart the chance to check another area of the house.
He perused the photographs and found one of a younger Mrs Rayder with two white-haired girls, one aged about five, the other nearer ten years old, both pretty. In a silver frame on the TV stand, another picture. The younger girl looked about sixteen or seventeen, and her older sister in her twenties. Odd that Mrs Rayder hadn’t asked which daughter they wanted to speak to. He supposed the older girl had moved out of the family home — she seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
He turned as Hart and Mrs Rayder came into the room, Hart carrying a tray of tea things. ‘Which is Kelly?’ he asked, smiling.
Mrs Rayder stiffened. ‘What’s Kelly got to do with this?’
‘It’s Kelly we need to speak to, Mrs Rayder,’ Hart said, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the TV set.
Mrs Rayder put her hand to her mouth, and Rickman looked in consternation to Hart. The DC reached out, but Mrs Rayder waved her away. ‘I’m all right. It’s just — it’s a shock, that’s all.’ She eased into one of the armchairs and Hart handed her a mug of tea. Mrs Rayder took a sip or two, composing herself. ‘Kelly’s dead,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Rickman said. The pregnancy? Did something go wrong? He glanced at Hart. She looked horrified that she hadn’t thought to check with the registry office. ‘When did . . .’ He let his words trail off, giving Kelly’s mother the chance to explain.
‘She was in a car accident with her boyfriend, eighteen months ago.’
‘And the baby?’
‘She’d already give him up by then.’
‘Given him up?’ Rickman said.
‘To the adoption agency.’
‘Are you in touch with the adoptive parents?’ Rickman asked.
Mrs Rayder shook her head slowly, but not in answer to his question: her forehead crinkled and she seemed almost to be struggling against a physical pain. After a short while she gave a juddering sigh.
‘Do you have any way to contact them? A business card, maybe, or some documentation?’
‘Oh, no.’ She wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘Kelly was only fifteen when she got pregnant, she wasn’t really ready to be a mother — she never met the people who adopted him. They said it was best she didn’t have any contact. Too unsettling — for her and the baby.’ Rickman and Hart exchanged a look — this wasn’t standard operational practice for legitimate adoption services.
‘But you would want to know what happened to your grandson?’ Rickman said.
She became abashed. ‘Kelly wasn’t living at home then — there wasn’t nothing I could do.’ Her voice raised in her anxiety for them to understand. ‘She run off with that boyfriend of hers and I didn’t know where she was.’
‘But you knew she’d put her baby up for adoption.’
‘He rang me.’
‘The boyfriend made the arrangements?’ Rickman asked.
‘Craig Ely,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t let me talk to my own daughter. I’d’ve helped her — looked after the baby. She didn’t have to—’
‘Is Craig the boyfriend who was killed in the car crash?’ Rickman interrupted, and she nodded.
Both the potential witnesses were dead. Did the mother know what was going on? Had Kelly confided in her?
Rickman hesitated. How did you ask a mother if her daughter sold her baby? He decided there was no easy way. ‘Was Kelly given any money?’
‘They don’t give you money, do they?’ Mrs Rayder said. But he saw something cross her face — guilt? Or the memory perhaps of something she should have questioned but didn’t.
‘Do you remember if Kelly seemed flush for cash around then?’ Naomi asked. ‘Maybe she bought new clothes — or paid for a nice holiday in advance.’
Rickman saw Mrs Rayder’s eyes widen, just for a second, then she seemed to shut down.
‘Sorry, love,’ she said, without looking at Hart. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
Rickman left his card, and they walked back to their cars.
‘She didn’t know,’ Hart said.
‘She suspected,’ Rickman said. ‘There’s no record of Kelly’s baby at the General Register Office?’
‘Nothing under Rayder,’ Hart said. ‘I’ll check using the boyfriend’s surname, but . . .’ She shrugged.
‘I know,’ Rickman said. ‘If Kelly isn’t named in the records, it isn’t likely her boyfriend will be.’ He was still troubled by the photograph in the little sitting room. He felt sure he’s seen the older girl in the picture somewhere, but he couldn’t quite—
A woman turned the corner into the close. She carried a plastic carrier bag in each hand and chided a reluctant boy of about four years old, who dragged a few yards behind her. She froze, and Rickman felt his heart begin to thud in his chest. In her mid-twenties, she was overweight, fair-haired — and she was the very image of the CCTV screencap they’d got from Lime Street Station’s phone kiosks. He was looking into the face of the informant who had exposed Ed and Hilary Shepherd. A few years older than in the photo in the silver frame, a few stones heavier, maybe, but there was no doubt: this was ‘Melanie Townsend’, their mystery caller. She was Kelly’s older sister.
Rickman slipped his car keys back into his pocket and took a cautious step forward. ‘Melanie?’ he said.
She dropped the bags of shopping and bolted. Rickman ran after her. The child, shocked by his mother’s sudden action, stood still a moment, then began to bawl. Rickman heard Hart shout to Tunstall to take care of the boy, then her footsteps, following.
Melanie tired easily, almost collapsing at a lamppost fifty yards along the main road. She held onto it for support as she gasped and retched. Rickman stopped a few yards away and raised his arm to waist height, signalling Hart to stay back. The pavement was free of pedestrians, and although cars slowed and drivers ducked to check out the action through their side windows, nobody stopped.
‘I just want to talk, Melanie,’ Rickman called.
She wheezed a laugh. ‘Do I look soft?’
‘It doesn’t matter to us that Kelly was your sister. If the information you gave is good—’
‘It is,’ she took a whooping breath. ‘You arrested them two people, didn’t you?’
‘We haven’t charged anyone in connection with Jasmine Elliott’s death,’ he began. ‘That’s why we need you to speak out.’
‘Forget it.’ She took a few more seconds to catch her breath. ‘Youse lot won’t never sort this one out.’
‘You’d be turning your back on the reward money, Melanie.’
‘Not what you’d call cash in hand, is it?’ she said. ‘I could be old as me granny before I ever see a penny of it.’
‘Your evidence could—’
‘I said forget it.’
‘New trainers, Melanie?’ Hart asked. ‘Nice jacket, too — Canada Goose, isn’t it? I had my eye on it myself, last time I went shopping.’
Melanie looked warily from Hart to Rickman, and he began to understand.
‘Found someone else to put up the ten thousand pounds did you, Melanie?’ he asked.
She hawked and spat, still trembling from the exertion.
‘Tell u
s who approached you,’ Rickman said. ‘You could still do the right thing.’
‘I done the right thing. I kept my baby.’
Rickman heard the resentment in her voice, against her sister, the state, the boy who had knocked her up.
‘It must be tough,’ he said.
‘A room at my mum’s house, and seventy-four quid a week including child benefit — it’s a doddle, mate.’ The unfairness of her situation suddenly seemed too much for her, ‘She got a flat and a car,’ she blurted out. ‘Nice things, a boyfriend — everything.’
‘Your sister’s dead, Melanie.’
She gave a shrug, her expression sulky. ‘That’s not my fault.’
‘Her baby was adopted illegally,’ Rickman said. ‘Whoever offered you money is breaking the law.’
She curled her lip at him. ‘It’s always illegal when the likes of me gets to make a bit of cash.’
‘Take her in,’ Rickman said.
‘What? I haven’t done nothing!’
‘Caution her.’
Hart looked uncertain. ‘What am I arresting her for, boss?’
‘Blackmail, obstruction, perverting the course of justice — I don’t care, just get her out of my sight.’
‘I never blackmailed nobody,’ Melanie protested as Hart guided her back along the main road.
‘You got a better deal,’ Rickman said.
‘No.’ She twisted to look at him, but Hart had a tight grip on her arm. ‘You said that. I never.’
To collect the Crimestoppers reward Melanie would have to go to court. She’d probably persuaded herself that by taking money from the Shepherds she was sparing her mother, protecting the memory of her dead sister.
They turned into the quiet cul-de-sac. Mrs Rayder stood on her doorstep, the sobbing child in her arms. She stared at her daughter as though she barely recognised her.
‘Mum!’ Melanie shouted. ‘They’ve made a mistake!’
Mrs Rayder went inside and shut the front door.
Hart put the woman in the back seat of the car and turned to face Rickman. ‘She won’t talk, boss.’
Rickman didn’t doubt it. Any money the Shepherds — or one of their rich clients — had offered Melanie would depend on her keeping her mouth shut.
Chapter 34
Just before four p.m., DS Cass rapped a drum roll on the door frame of the commandeered conference room. ‘How’s it going at the call centre?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’re logging yourself out for them toilet breaks.’
Hart had a crick in her neck and cramps in her fingers from gripping the phone. Melanie — or Joanne Rayder, as they discovered was her real name — had been closeted with her solicitor for an hour. Hart was due to meet Kim Lindermann at the Royal Hospital mortuary at four thirty to formally identify Jasmine, and she had a gently throbbing headache.
‘Have you nothing better to do?’ she asked.
‘Ooh,’ he said. ‘Someone’s not taking their evening primrose oil.’
‘You’re pathetic, Cass.’ Hart didn’t even bother looking at him.
Cass looked to Tunstall for male support, but all he got was a stony look. He shrugged. ‘You’re wanted in the MIR in five.’
‘I assume you mean your MIR,’ Hart said.
‘Where else?’
‘Who’s calling the meeting?’ Hart asked. If this was one of Cass’s attempts to put his greasy mitts all over their investigation, she wasn’t about to encourage him.
‘Area Superintendent,’ he said.
There was no arguing with that. So, five minutes later, Hart walked into the drugs inquiry Major Incident Room. It was practically seething with bodies — seated, standing, leaning against the walls, perched on tables or draped over filing cabinets — there must have been fifty plainclothes and uniformed officers crammed into the space. Despite the blustering wind outside, the narrow letterbox windows provided insufficient through-put of air to clear the fug of fast-food smells and bad digestion.
DS Cass sat at the centre, feet apart, tie loosened, top button popped. ‘Well, I hope the boss shows his face for this one,’ he said. ‘Seeing as he hasn’t even put his head round the door all day.’
‘Where is he, anyway?’ somebody asked.
‘Hard to say.’ Cass paused in the act of applying fresh balm to his lips. ‘Between consultative panels and minority support groups, our leader’s hardly got time to keep the likes of you and me informed of his busy schedule.’ A few looks were exchanged, guilty enjoyment, sly amusement. After all, it was Cass doing the DI-bashing, not them.
Cass spotted Hart.
‘Naomi!’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Room for one over here.’ He had actually reserved a seat next to him. She made a diversion to the water cooler to give herself time to think. When she turned around, Cass’s gaze was still on her, sliding over her body like a slug trail.
Cass patted the seat next to him and Hart became aware that the others were watching for her response. There was a space in the far corner near the window, but she would have to walk past Cass, and in the crush, that meant stepping over his sprawled legs. Acceptance offered the unenticing prospect of DS Cass’s undivided attention, but refusal would look like weakness.
Sod it! She walked towards him and heard a twitter of excitement. Cass left his hand on the chair for longer than was decent, taking it away at the last moment. ‘I kept it warm for you.’
Hart’s stomach lurched, but she saw the challenge in his eyes and refused to back down. As she took her seat someone yelled, ‘You lose, Sarge!’
Hart guessed that they had laid bets on whether she would accept. She couldn’t decide if it made him more or less of a creep that he’d deliberately played up the sleaziness of his invitation.
He joined in with the laughter, showing his grey, strangely even teeth. ‘I’d pay youse lot twice over,’ he said. ‘I can’t help meself — I think I’m in lurrve.’ For one nauseating moment, she thought he was reaching to give his groin a tug, but his hand went into his jacket pocket instead, and he retrieved his little pot of lip balm. Hart looked away to spare herself the queasy spectacle of Cass reapplying the salve to his lips.
‘All right, Naomi?’ Foster had come into the room.
‘Fine, Sarge,’ Hart said. It was bad enough that she’d screwed up the previous day, and worse that she hadn’t been able to find a moment, or the right words, to apologise. The last thing she wanted was to look ineffectual in front of Lee Foster. She’d been on the force long enough and seen enough wind-ups to recognise this as a no-win situation. The best she could do was smile and ride it out.
* * *
Rickman arrived as Detective Superintendent Cliff Maynard and Detective Inspector Larry Dwight turned into the corridor.
‘Jeff,’ Maynard said. ‘A word, if I may?’
Rickman felt his stomach clench. ‘My Incident Room is free,’ he said, leading the way. Even the telephonists and civilian staff had been ordered to attend the joint briefing, and the room was empty. It was warm and stuffy, and the evidence of recent activity could be seen in abandoned paperwork — half-finished reports and jotted notes.
‘Sir,’ Rickman said, dreading what he would hear.
‘Joanne Rayder’s solicitor is threatening to bring Crimestoppers into disrepute,’ Maynard said.
‘We found Joanne — alias Melanie Townsend — by chance,’ Rickman said. ‘It had nothing to do with—’
‘I know, Jeff. But he’ll make a stink, and scores of other prosecutions could be brought into question. Worse, witnesses will be afraid to come forward in case they’re identified and arrested.’
‘That’s not how it happened.’
‘It doesn’t matter. All he has to say is his client was arrested after making a call to Crimestoppers, and I guarantee we’d lose a few dozen witnesses on current investigations.’ Maynard frowned. ‘You can’t win this one, Jeff.’
Rickman pushed his fingers through his hair. Wasn’t that why he had arrested her in the first place? Becaus
e this was one he couldn’t win — because he felt so maddeningly impotent?
He gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll arrange for her release after the briefing.’
‘I’m sorry, Jeff,’ Maynard said. ‘I’m as sick about it as you are.’
Rickman very much doubted it.
Maynard led the way into the Incident Room. A couple of tables had been set out under the whiteboard, and Rickman, Dwight and Maynard took their places, facing the mass of bodies.
Maynard’s eyes swept the room. The super might be more politician than practician in recent years, but Rickman had to respect his quiet authority. It affected even the most battle-hardened of the assembly, and the faint buzz of conversation was silenced.
‘You will all have heard about the murder of Michael Aldiss.’ His voice was sonorous and bore only the slightest hint of a local accent. ‘The Calls and Response department has been inundated ever since. Local and national media are baying for blood.’ The detective superintendent let his gaze flit from one to another.
Rickman took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to focus his mind on the briefing.
‘The victim isn’t some scallywag.’ Maynard didn’t say ‘scal’, as most would, but used the whole word. ‘Michael Aldiss is a recent graduate with a degree in Business Studies.
‘The only person remaining at the scene was Thomas Eames, an employee of Rob Maitland. He was injured and distressed — claimed he and young Aldiss had been set upon by “unknown attackers”. We’ve got the cars on the car park security video tapes — no clear image of the occupants — and the cars were found dumped and burnt out in Huyton an hour ago.’
‘Who interviewed Eames?’ Rickman asked.
‘That’d be me,’ Cass said.
It seemed odd to Rickman that Naomi Hart should sit next to Cass. The sergeant seemed pleased with himself, and with men like Cass, that usually involved getting one over on somebody else.
‘Did Eames know the attackers?’ Rickman asked.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 24
