by David Blake
‘Surprisingly enough, neither do I.’
‘You could’ve fooled me.’
Tanner drew in a calming breath. ‘Maybe you can start by telling me your name?’
‘I’ve already told one of your fellow officers.’
‘If you could tell me as well.’
‘Alex Barnes,’ the driver huffed.
‘And how did you find the body, Mr Barnes?’
‘I didn’t.’
Tanner blinked in surprise to glance quickly about. ‘I’m sorry, someone told me you did.’
‘I dropped her off back there. It was only when I looked in the mirror to pull away that I saw him.’
‘Saw who?’
‘The guy who attacked her.’
‘You mean, you saw the person who killed her?’
‘That’s right.’
Tanner tucked his ID away to begin scrabbling around for his notebook. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Well, when I say I saw him, I couldn’t see his face, exactly. He was wearing a raincoat with a large hood, and what with the weather and everything.’
‘But it was definitely a man?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Do you know for sure?’
‘Well, I suppose I couldn’t guarantee it.’
It was Tanner’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘OK, so…what happened then?’
‘I stopped the car and got out.’
‘And…?’
‘When I saw him trying to take her bag, I shouted at him. That’s when he saw me and ran off.’
‘Then you called the police?’
Barnes shook his head. ‘I went to see if Nicola was alright first. But when I saw the way her head was submerged under the water, and all the blood coming out the back of it…well, it was obvious enough that she wasn’t.’
Whilst he’d been talking, Tanner had been staring at him with his mouth hanging open. ‘I’m sorry, but am I to understand it that you knew the victim?’
The taxi driver shifted awkwardly in his seat, glancing away as he did.
‘Mr Barnes?’
More silence followed before the man finally turned to meet Tanner’s penetrating gaze. ‘I’d picked her up a couple of times before.’
‘I see. And is it normal for you to ask the names of your fare-paying passengers?’
‘Well, no, but…’
‘So…?’ Tanner continued. ‘How did you know her name?’
‘I’d seen her before, where she works.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘The same place I picked her up. The Riverside. She’s one of the dancers there.’
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
INFORMING THE TAXI driver that they’d need to arrange a time to collect a sample of his fingerprints and DNA, Tanner waved him off to hear the sound of Vicky’s voice calling out his name from somewhere behind him.
Turning his back to the wind to see her traipsing up the hill, her hands clutched at the edges of a beige hooded raincoat, he dug his own into his pockets to wait.
‘She’s another stripper,’ he eventually called out. ‘Nicola Bowell. Killed the same way as the other one.’
Vicky came to a breathless halt in front of him. ‘I know. I spoke to Johnstone on the way up. He asked me to tell you that they found a stamp on the back of her hand. Looks to be the same as the last one.’
‘OK, well that at least confirms what the guy who found her said; that she worked at the Riverside.’
‘So – it must be McMillan then?’
‘Unfortunately, I think this only goes to prove that it couldn’t have been him. She was only killed an hour ago. That’s assuming he’s still sitting in a holding cell back at the station?’
Vicky nodded. ‘His security guards haven’t moved either. Could he have used someone else?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose, but if he had, we’d need to reconsider his motive. I can understand why he’d feel it necessary to kill Claire Metcalf – for knowing about his involvement in Sir Michael’s murder – but I can’t see any reason for him thinking that this latest victim would have known anything about it.’
‘Unless Claire told her, of course, and McMillan somehow found out?’
Tanner considered that for a moment. ‘Maybe, but to be honest, it doesn’t seem very likely. One employee hearing from another that their boss may have had someone killed is hardly the sort of evidence that would be needed for a murder conviction. He’d have known that. Even if he was worried that she knew, I can’t believe he’d risk having her killed in the middle of a built-up residential area such as this with literally dozens of potential witnesses hiding behind an equal number of permanently twitching net curtains. Then there’s the question of her handbag, or at least the purse found lying beside it.’
‘What was that?’
‘Johnstone thinks someone had been through it, as if searching for something, and it wasn’t money, not with the amount of cash they found stuffed inside. If it was McMillan, or at least one of his associates, what would they have been looking for?’
Tanner took a moment to cast his eyes down the hill to see Nicola Bowell’s body being carefully lifted onto a stretcher.
‘If he didn’t kill this latest victim,’ Vicky began, following his gaze, ‘does that mean he didn’t murder Claire Metcalf either?’
‘I think that’s something we’re going to have to consider.’
‘And what about Sir Michael, and Toby Wallace? I mean, the only reason we thought it was him was because Claire Metcalf admitted to handcuffing Sir Michael to his bed, and that McMillan had told her to.’
‘And the fact that he was attempting to buy their nightclub for the paltry sum of a single pound coin, a deal that would have been worth millions had it gone through.’
‘So does that mean we’re back to looking for three people again? The person responsible for murdering Sir Michael and Wallace, someone else for killing Claire Metcalf and this latest victim, and the person responsible for sending out those blackmail letters?’
Tanner sighed quietly to himself. ‘I’d almost managed to forget about those.’
Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion roll over the top of him, he pulled back the sleeve of his coat to stare down at his watch. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing more we can do today, what little is left of it. I suggest we head home, get some sleep, and just hope that forensics comes up with something more tangible for us tomorrow.’
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Monday, 30th August
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as he drove cautiously through the savagely gusting wind and the seemingly never-ending torrential rain, Tanner remained desperately tired. Once again he’d hardly slept. The continuous knocking of his yacht against the patrol boats lashed to either side of his had seen to that. He hadn’t even had a chance to put a spacer between the mast and the main sail halyard, as he’d intended, the one slapping erratically against the other making even more noise than the previous night.
With his spirits buoyed somewhat by the sight of the nation’s bedraggled press, struggling against the elements to re-set their camera equipment in preparation for yet another day camped outside the station, they fell a moment later when he remembered what they’d be most likely to be filming later that evening; their one and only suspect being led out the front door by his no-doubt gloating solicitor.
Leaving his car in the furthest corner again, he flipped his hood over his head to step out, only to hear his phone ring from the hidden depths of his sailing jacket. Clawing it out to discover that it was Christine calling, he was about to duck back inside the car to answer it when he heard a vaguely familiar voice shouting out his name.
A quick glance over his Jag’s low sloping roof was enough to confirm who he’d thought it was; McMillan’s solicitor, charging over towards him, his bulging eyes glaring out from underneath a most inadequately sized umbrella.
With no choice but to leave the call unanswered, he tucked the phone back where he’d found it t
o zip up his jacket and close the door. ‘Mr Tree Crab, wasn’t it?’ he smirked, skirting around the back of his car to find out what was so important that it needed to be addressed in the middle of a carpark during a category three storm. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m just curious to know if you’re here to release my client?’
With Tanner’s attention being momentarily caught by a series of flashing lights erupting from the ever-curious pack of news-starved journalists, Tanner let out a world-weary sigh. ‘Don’t you think this could have waited until we’d at least made it inside the station?’
‘I don’t think this can wait a minute longer,’ the man continued, coming to an abrupt halt directly in front of Tanner, so blocking his way to the station’s entrance. ‘Since suspending your interview with my client yesterday evening we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you. Nor have we seen anyone else. We certainly haven’t had a glimpse of anything more in the form of evidence. That was nearly eleven hours ago. Since then he’s been forced to endure what I’m sure has been a most uncomfortable night inside one of your grubby little holding cells. So, unless you have something new to bring to the table, I ask again, are you here to release him?’
‘I think that’s going to depend on what’s come in overnight from our forensics department, something I’m not going to know until I have the chance to speak to my colleagues. So…if you’ll excuse me?’ Tanner continued, gesturing for the man to stand to one side.
The solicitor continued glowering at Tanner for a moment longer before finally stepping away. ‘You’re treading on very thin ice, detective inspector.’
‘I’d rather be on thin ice than perpetually stuck out in this bloody storm,’ Tanner muttered, nudging past the belligerent solicitor to make a beeline for the station’s entrance.
Reaching the glass door, Tanner heaved it open to throw himself inside, only to find McMillan’s heavy-set bodyguards glaring at him from what appeared to be the very same chairs he’d seen them slouched in the night before.
Shaking his head, he stepped over to where he could see the duty sergeant, DS Taylor, staring vacantly at a monitor behind the reception desk’s thick plastic security screen.
‘Have they been there all bloody night?’ he whispered, catching the man’s eye to gesture over at the men he was referring to.
‘Just about. One of them did step out for a while, but only to find them something to eat.’
Tanner fell momentarily silent as he watched Crabtree come crashing through the entrance to begin staring about.
‘And our prime suspect?’ he continued, in the same low conspiratorial tone. ‘He’s still here, I take it?’
‘I took him a coffee this morning.’
‘How’s he been?’
‘Quiet as a mouse.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’
Seeing Crabtree glare around at them to begin stomping his way over, Tanner glanced quickly down at his watch. ‘Is Forrester in?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And Vicky?’
‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘OK, good,’ Tanner replied, just in time before Crabtree barged past him to step up to the plastic screen.
‘I’d like to see my client, Mr McMillan,’ the solicitor demanded, deliberately ignoring Tanner to fix the duty sergeant’s eyes.
‘May I see some identification?’
‘I was here yesterday.’
‘Even so.’
The solicitor exhaled with frustrated annoyance as he delved into the black leather satchel he’d brought with him. ‘Here!’ he stated, holding up a laminated identity card attached to a pale blue lanyard. ‘Happy now?’
Taylor leaned forward to peer at it through the screen. ‘That’s fine, thank you. If you could follow me.’
‘I assume someone from your CID department will also be looking to speak with him, preferably to offer him a heartfelt apology for having put him through such a humiliating and totally unnecessary experience?’
‘Er…’ Taylor began, sending Tanner a questioning glance.
Tanner turned to face the solicitor in a bid to garner his attention. ‘As I attempted to explain to you outside, Mr Crabtree, I will need a moment to catch up with my colleagues before being able to make a decision as to how best to proceed.’
Crabtree turned to finally acknowledge Tanner’s presence. ‘You’d better hurry up, then, hadn’t you!’
Leaving the duty sergeant to usher the solicitor away, Tanner entered the main office to peel off his still dripping sailing jacket to hook over the back of his chair. Bypassing the kitchen, he headed for Vicky’s desk, where he could see her curly mop of dark red hair bobbing furtively up and down behind her monitor.
‘OK, so, where are we?’ he asked, arriving to find her biting down onto a large fluffy croissant.
‘Sorry,’ she spluttered, sending him an embarrassed glance as pastry flakes flew out from between her lips. ‘I didn’t have a chance to have breakfast.’
‘I haven’t even had a coffee yet,’ Tanner bemoaned, saving her blushes by glancing briefly away.
Swallowing hard, she dumped what was left of the croissant onto a napkin to reach instead for her mouse. ‘We’ve had a preliminary report through from Dr Johnstone, for last night’s victim.’
‘And?’
‘As we thought, her name’s Nicola Bowell. Local girl; an un-married twenty-three year old. Cause of death was a blow to the back of her head. Death occurred at around eleven o’clock last night.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Um…’ she replied, her eyes scanning over the document displayed on her monitor, ‘…he thinks she was probably killed with a hammer, possibly the same one used on Claire Metcalf…and that there were no signs of any recent sexual activity.’
‘Were anyone’s prints or DNA found on her?’
‘There’s no mention of any, but that’s probably not altogether surprising, given the weather conditions at the time.’
‘So, he’s basically saying there’s nothing there to give us a single clue as to who killed her.’
‘Apart from the murder weapon thought to be the same used on both women.’
‘Something we don’t have in our possession, making it impossible for us to know.’
‘That reminds me,’ Vicky continued, closing one file to open another. ‘I saw something in the forensics report about them finding some tools.’
Tanner pulled up a nearby chair. ‘Where abouts?’
‘At McMillan’s strip club. Here it is. Looks like they found quite a few, locked inside what was otherwise being used as a stationery cupboard.’
‘Could any be of potential interest to us?’
‘Um…’ she responded, her eyes drifting slowly down the list, ‘there’s a hammer.’
‘And look, a hacksaw as well,’ Tanner stated, leaning forward to place a finger on the screen at the very end of the list. ‘I don’t suppose either show signs of having any blood on them?’
