Between Two Evils

by Eva Dolan

  ‘You’ve got the post-mortem report, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Blunt force trauma,’ Ferreira said. ‘Lots of it.’

  ‘More than enough,’ Jenkins agreed. ‘But, sadly, very little in the way of wrestling in the lead-up, so we’ve managed to recover some fibres from his clothes, but I suspect they’re going to be from his lady friend’s clothing rather than the killer’s.’

  A tray of samples sat on the other work table, all bagged up and labelled in her careful handwriting.

  ‘Light pink cotton–linen blend on his T-shirt.’ She cocked her head. ‘Ninety-nine per cent chance that’s from womenswear.’

  ‘We’re not ruling her out as the killer,’ Ferreira said, leaning against the counter and shooting Zigic a meaningful look. ‘Portia Collingwood will be in later to give us fingerprints and a DNA sample.’

  ‘She’s cooperating then?’ Jenkins asked.

  ‘She’s worked out it’s the smart play.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got fingerprints on the wine glass and the pizza box,’ Jenkins told them. ‘DNA from the condom and the knickers, but if she’s not denying being there …’

  ‘Yep, not something we can use against her,’ Ferreira said. ‘We’ll ask for the pink knitwear though. If she wants to maintain the line that she left before he was killed, she’ll have to hand that over for analysis. Maybe we’ll find some blood on it.’

  ‘Any signs of a second visitor?’ Zigic asked.

  ‘We’ve got bloody footprints on the carpet and out into the hallway,’ Jenkins said, swiping through photos on her tablet to find the right ones. ‘Some effort was made to disguise them.’

  ‘But not to clean them up?’ Zigic studied the image she put in front of him, could see that it wouldn’t tell them anything solid.

  ‘No,’ Jenkins said. ‘It looks like the killer saw that they were tracking blood through the house and then maybe realised that their footprints could be incriminating, so they went back and swiped their foot over them until all we’re left with is these smears.’

  ‘Their shoes must have left some kind of pattern though,’ Ferreira said, reaching over Zigic’s arm to enlarge the photo. ‘Anything we can use for matching at all?’

  ‘Give me a little bit more time for that, okay? We’re not talking huge quantities of blood here. It was more from Ainsworth’s broken nose than from the head injury – he died too quickly to bleed much.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Jenkins went on. ‘After your killer did their cover-up job, we’ve got them wiping the rest of the blood off their shoes on a jute mat at the front door. We recovered some black flakes from it that are likely off the soles of the shoes.’ She kept talking as she went into her office and returned with a bottle of apple juice. ‘I’m really dehydrated, sorry. So, these flakes would suggest a shoe in not great condition or they wouldn’t have degraded like that at the first bit of scuffing.’

  Zigic nodded, wondering how useful that was. If the killer took Joshua Ainsworth’s devices and disposed of them, then the chances of recovering the shoes or clothing they wore were close to zero, he imagined.

  ‘We don’t have a foot size or anything?’ Ferreira asked.

  ‘No, we do.’ Jenkins took another sip of her drink. ‘Size nine. We found a fairly crisp print under Ainsworth’s leg that the killer missed.’

  ‘Burying the lede there, Kate,’ Ferreira grumbled.

  ‘That’s not the lede,’ she said, heading over to a wooden counter under the window where the blinds were drawn, blocking out the sun. Three of the fliers they’d recovered from Josh Ainsworth’s house were lined up there, the evidence of Kate’s attention still dusting them.

  Zigic felt his shoulders slump when he saw them. Was hoping for something more. Ferreira was leaning over them already, the excitement obvious on her face.

  ‘Okay,’ he asked, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘The only fingerprints we could find belonged to Ainsworth, okay?’ Jenkins told them. ‘Whoever made these up was scrupulous to keep themselves unidentifiable. We’ve got traces of chalk, so I’m guessing common or garden latex gloves, but … I got this.’

  She produced a plastic tube and Zigic peered at the contents; a very fine hair, barely three centimetres long, virtually translucent.

  ‘Peroxided to within an inch of its life,’ Jenkins said. ‘I can only assume that’s why they never saw it stuck in the fold of the flier.’

  ‘Damien Paggett,’ Ferreira said, relishing each syllable. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Helpful?’ Jenkins asked hopefully.

  ‘We’ll definitely be hitting them with this,’ Ferreira told her, but immediately her face dropped. ‘You can’t get DNA from that with the dye, can you?’

  ‘We might be able to, but it’ll take a bit more time and cost a bit more money.’ Jenkins looked to Zigic, knowing that budget would be a concern that fell squarely on his shoulders.

  ‘Let’s wait on that for now,’ he said.

  Ferreira let out a small huff.

  ‘It was inside a flier, Mel. It wasn’t in Josh Ainsworth’s dead mouth. I can’t justify expensive forensic procedures just to find out whether Damien Paggett was definitely responsible for sending him some offensive notes.’

  ‘Threatening notes,’ she said.

  ‘Insulting notes,’ he countered.

  Jenkins looked between the two of them, a trace of a smile on her face, and he felt how ridiculous this was, more like a negotiation with one of his boys rather than a discussion on a potential line of enquiry in a murder investigation. Wasn’t sure if that was his fault or Ferreira’s, or maybe it was just the long day spent arguing against each other’s theories that had finally reduced them to this.

  ‘I’ll send you everything I’ve got so far,’ Jenkins said, tactfully breaking into the moment. ‘Anything else you need, just give me a shout.’

  Zigic thanked her and they left, Ferreira going on ahead, the annoyance square across her shoulders and audible as she went, heavy-footed down the stairs. On the landing she stopped.

  ‘I think we should bring the Paggetts in,’ she said. ‘Put a scare into them.’

  ‘We don’t have anything on them,’ he told her, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Yes, the fliers are problematic but as Ainsworth didn’t make any kind of report about them, he clearly didn’t feel he was being harassed.’

  ‘He kept them, though. They were obviously a source of concern. And we know the Paggetts were hanging around in the village.’

  ‘We need more than that.’

  ‘And if I get more?’

  He sighed. ‘Then, yes, okay. But don’t start obsessing about them, please.’

  ‘They both have records for intimidation and trespass and criminal damage,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re the only people we’ve identified so far who have the kind of mindset that could ramp up to murder.’

  ‘Lots of people’s first crime is murder.’

  ‘No, the first crime we hear about is murder.’ She stood between him and the door, blocking his route to the office, not ready to give up yet. ‘You know as well as I do that violent behaviour doesn’t emerge out of nowhere; it’s built up to over years and the only reason anyone believes otherwise is because they don’t see all the shit we do.’

  Voices rose up the stairwell, footsteps underneath them.

  ‘The Paggetts have been engaging in criminal activity for over a decade,’ Ferreira insisted. ‘They have systematically targeted companies and groups and individuals who offend their sense of morality. Is it so unbelievable that the fliers they sent to Ainsworth were opening gambits in a longer game?’

  Two uniformed officers came up the stairs and Ferreira grudgingly stepped aside to let them through the door, stepped smartly back in front of it before Zigic could go through as well. She didn’t want to have this conversation in front of the rest of the team, he realised.

  ‘They’d been hanging around
Ainsworth’s house,’ she said. ‘We’ve got them down the end of Ruth Garner’s back garden. Doesn’t that concern you at all?’

  It did, but he was reluctant to admit that when she had such a fiery look in her eye.

  ‘Why do you think they were doing that?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Intimidation?’ she asked. ‘Worrying if it’s that, right? Scouting out their households for some reason? Even more worrying, given that we have a bludgeoned corpse on our hands. Or maybe they’re looking to move to a quieter village. Do we think that’s feasible?’

  ‘Mel –’

  ‘And weren’t they eager to distract us with another suspect?’

  ‘Mel – I already said, yes, alright? But don’t let yourself get derailed by this. We have enough else to do.’

  ‘I won’t get derailed,’ she said stiffly.

  He reached for the door and she moved away, heading back to the stairs they’d just come down.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked.

  ‘To see Kate.’

  ‘Do not tell her to run that test,’ he warned, trying to make it sound like a joke.

  ‘I need to sort out a time for drinks.’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Jesus, you don’t trust me at all, do you?’

  He didn’t. Not when she had the bit between her teeth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Zigic kept one eye on Ferreira’s desk as he got on with the paperwork that had accumulated during the day, waiting for her to come back up from forensics, sure he’d be able to read the guilt on her face if she did go ahead and order the test.

  Who arranged drinks in person rather than over text? She had a phone. Her calendar was on it.

  He took a sip of his coffee, recoiled when he realised it was actually tea. He’d been trying to cut down on caffeine but was hating every moment of it. There was something in the station’s pipes he was sure. Something that made the water taste faintly stale and metallic, left a nasty tang that only the strongest, blackest coffee could cover.

  When he glanced up from his screen a few minutes later, he saw DCS Riggott standing by Ainsworth’s board with Parr, absorbed in a conversation that was clearly unrelated to the case. Parr laughing at whatever Riggott was saying.

  Riggott’s presence always seemed to sharpen up activity on the floor. The youngest officers wanting to impress him, the longest-serving ones either traumatised by working under him or so thoroughly drilled by his management that the mere sound of his voice would send a bolt up their spine and kick them into a higher gear.

  Zigic felt it himself, a clench of muscle memory that went right back to his time as a newly minted detective constable under the then DI Riggott’s wing. He remembered the pride he’d felt when Riggott singled him out for some task on a case, how he’d wanted his approval more than that of any other DIs, how he’d work longer hours, go into more dangerous situations, all for the gift of Riggott’s brief and bluff approval.

  It had been Riggott who encouraged him to take the sergeant’s exam, who pushed him on to inspector level when he was just getting comfortable in that role, telling him he was too good to settle at some middling rank. Riggott who’d handed him the Hate Crimes Unit to manage. Insisting his ethnicity had nothing to do with the promotion, pointing out that a dozen other detective inspectors had applied, officers with similar backgrounds to his, ones prepared to move from the other end of the country to be involved in their pioneering experiment.

  A failed experiment, Zigic thought glumly.

  But Riggott had been supportive while it lasted, managed them with a light touch by his standards, trusting them to get the job done.

  Since they’d returned to CID, Riggott’s presence had become more overt and Zigic wasn’t sure if it had been always like this for the rest of the team or if it was something to do with Riggott’s impending retirement. As his career came to a close, he seemed to find himself drawn back to the floor more frequently, sitting in on briefings, dogging the footsteps of his DIs. More than once Zigic had come out of interview rooms to find Riggott had been watching on a monitor, wanting to offer tips on technique.

  It was retirement, he decided.

  It was only natural that an officer who’d sacrificed so much to the job couldn’t bring himself to let go.

  His age was beginning to show on him, decades of sixteen-hour days and sleepless nights, all the drinking and stress and the pincer of pressures that only increased as you moved up the ladder. Fifty-eight but he looked ten years older, the beginning of a stoop visible at his shoulders despite his expensive suit habit, the hint of a bald patch at the crown of his otherwise full head of grey hair. He’d always been slim but now he looked thin, the threat of power going out of his body, the suggestion of muscles wasting under that summer-weight wool tailoring.

  Zigic left his desk and went out onto the floor.

  Riggott and Parr were discussing golf, he quickly gathered, the bets they’d each been placing on the Women’s Open and how, miraculously, neither of them had lost money yet.

  ‘There you are, Ziggy.’ Riggott turned on his heel, spread his arms wide. ‘Thought your backside was welded to that chair.’ He pointed at Parr. ‘Swedish women for the team championships. Mark my words, that’s where the smart money’ll be laid.’

  Parr grinned at him. ‘I’ll take that tip. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Right, so, what’s going on with your dead one?’ Riggott asked, taking a step back as if he needed to do that to appreciate the scope of the board.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of leads but very little forensic evidence,’ Zigic said. ‘Prime suspect right now is the woman he spent the evening of his death with.’

  Riggott chucked his chin up at Portia Collingwood’s photograph. ‘Aye, she’s got trouble written all over her.’

  ‘We’re checking her alibi right now. Hers and her husband’s.’

  ‘The husband?’ Riggott’s thin grey eyebrows went up but his attention shifted swiftly to the Paggetts. ‘What about these two? Sure, they’re a rare-looking pair.’

  ‘They were harassing Josh Ainsworth in the months before his murder,’ Ferreira said, coming up behind Zigic. ‘And I ran into them in the shop opposite his house on the morning his body was discovered.’

  Zigic willed her away to her desk but she wasn’t going anywhere, not now Riggott’s gaze was fully turned onto her, his interest piqued.

  ‘Back to the scene of the crime, aye?’

  ‘Briefly, yeah. They did a runner as soon as we got near the protest though.’ She nodded towards the board. ‘They’re involved in the demonstration against Long Fleet Immigration Removal Centre.’

  Riggott’s face darkened.

  ‘We’ve got sightings of them near the homes of other Long Fleet staff members, too,’ Ferreira said quickly, seeing the wariness that entered Riggott’s eyes at the mention of the centre. She stood up straighter. ‘The Paggetts are career protestors. Direct action frequently tipping into outright criminality. Both have multiple convictions relating to their political activities.’

  ‘Anti-terror have anything on them?’ he asked Zigic.

  ‘Nothing that would suggest they’re capable of murder.’

  Ferreira shot him an angry look but this wasn’t the time to back her up. Riggott was getting nervous already.

  ‘These firebrands have alibis?’

  ‘We’re still running them down,’ Zigic told him, knowing it hadn’t been done yet but not about to admit it. ‘They gave us a dozen names though, so we’re expecting them to hold.’

  Riggott nodded. ‘So, the mistress is your most likely candidate.’

  ‘Still early days.’

  ‘Not that early, son.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Come and have a drink, tell me all about this Portia Collingwood.’

  Riggott walked away from the board without a backward glance and Zigic followed, giving Ferreira a helpless shrug as she glowered at him.

  They headed along the corridor and past t
he empty desk where Riggott’s PA had already left for the day. Gone six now and Zigic often wondered how the DCS managed to keep her busy for a full shift anyway. Just how much work could be involved in organising his meetings with the higher-ups and whatever local businesses and dignitaries came to him looking for support or reassurances or whatever was within his remit to bestow?

  A set of golf clubs sat in the corner of the office, so he guessed that had to be organised too.

  Riggott went to the shelf where his glory days were recorded in gilt frames and commendations, took a bottle of whiskey from the collection standing on a brass tray and a couple of lead crystal glasses. He didn’t offer, just poured Zigic a measure that was stiffer than he’d want in a spirit of his own choosing, let alone one he didn’t actually enjoy.

  ‘Now, what’s the situation with Long Fleet?’ Riggott asked, dispensing with any attempt at preamble.

  ‘They don’t want us in there,’ Zigic said. ‘They’ve been cooperative, up to a point, but I’m not sure how much further we could get if and when we need to talk to their staff again.’

  ‘Seems like your man had enough else around his arse.’

  ‘The protest isn’t something we can ignore.’ Zigic took a small sip of his whiskey. ‘Honestly, I’m not convinced anyone involved in it’s a genuine threat but …’

  ‘But Mel’s gotten all riled up about it.’

  ‘She’s being thorough,’ Zigic said carefully. ‘I think we all know this has got the potential to be a troublesome case and we need to work every angle.’

  ‘Troublesome, aye.’ Riggott swirled his drink around in the glass. ‘You always catch ’em, don’t you, Ziggy?’

  ‘It still looks personal to me.’

  ‘Ainsworth’s boss doesn’t think so,’ Riggott said. ‘And his bosses are shitting bricks over the negative publicity potential.’

  They’d been in touch then, Zigic thought. Securitect bringing their muscle to bear on Riggott or his superiors; the ones they were already in close contact with via the contracts they held with the local council and constabulary, the tenders they likely had ongoing to outsources services he could only guess at.