‘Sean, is there anything else you’d like to tell us?’
‘No.’
‘Anything else you’d like to change from your original statement?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Sean, I need to ask you something now, and I want you to think very, very carefully about your answer. Can you tell me anything about how Lisa died?’
‘No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘I just found her.’ He was frightened. With good cause. He had waited to call the police for over half an hour. He had taken items away from the crime scene, he had disturbed the crime scene, he had a volatile relationship with the victim. Janet thought they might be moving close to an arrest. She concluded the interview, but told Sean he would be expected to return to the station when requested as they would definitely need to talk to him again.
* * *
Gill had been observing the interview and told Janet she had already contacted Phil Sweet to secure the bins behind the parade of shops on Garrigan Street. ‘Not much of the parade left,’ Gill said. ‘There’s only a pound shop, an offie and a hairdresser’s still open.’
Pete had established that bin day was Thursday, which meant the rubbish would not have been collected since Sean left the things there on Monday. MIT were able to give Phil Sweet a list describing the carrier bags that Lisa was seen carrying on the various CCTV tapes.
In order to protect evidence and minimize the risk of cross-contamination the dumpsters would be removed wholesale to one of the forensic units where the search would be systematically documented.
18
RACHEL HADN’T SAID anything to Janet about visiting Rosie Vaughan. She’d only get her knuckles rapped, or maybe worse. Definitely worse if Janet snitched to Gill. They were pretty pally. Rachel got the impression they were mates outside of work.
Perhaps Sean wasn’t the link; she’d thought some more about Sean’s DNA not being a match and about Rosie’s reactions. It was Ryelands that was important. She read the report that Janet had put in after her visit there, turned to the final page, which she hadn’t bothered with before, just a list of extra bits of information. Among them the name of Lisa’s social worker, now retired. Martin Dalbeattie. Rachel felt her scalp tighten. Martin Dalbeattie had been Rosie’s social worker too. Available for background, Janet had noted, contact via Ryelands House. So he hadn’t died or gone off round the world. He could still be in Manchester.
Rachel picked up the phone and rang Ryelands. Marlene Potter answered.
‘DC Bailey, Manchester Metropolitan Police,’ Rachel said briskly, one eye on the door into the corridor in case anyone came in. ‘You spoke to my colleague yesterday.’
‘Janet, yes.’
‘She’s … Janet’s asked me to get contact details for Martin Dalbeattie. You thought he’d be happy to help if we needed him?’
‘Sure, give me a second.’
Rachel waited, her pulse too loud in her ears, tapping her pen on the desk until Marlene came back on. ‘It’s a Stalybridge number …’ and she reeled it off.
As Rachel repeated it, writing it down, Kevin walked in. He came over to her desk where she finished scribbling and ended the call. She turned the paper over.
‘Doing something you shouldn’t?’ he asked. ‘Personal call in work time?’ He was smirking like some big schoolboy.
‘Phone sex,’ Rachel said. ‘Helps pay the bills.’ Enjoying the way he blanched. ‘You ruined the moment.’
He began to laugh a little nervously.
She scooped up the note and her bag. ‘You think I’m kidding?’ she flung over her shoulder as she left. She went into the Ladies, where he wasn’t able to follow. Now she had to decide how to tackle Martin Dalbeattie.
Gill called them into the meeting room. Rachel made sure to be on time. Was Gill quick to forgive misdemeanours? Or one of those bosses who never let it go? Rachel felt disgruntled. It was she who’d cottoned on to the shopping in the first place. Yes they’d have got there eventually – well, soon as they did the CCTV trail – but Rachel had been thinking one step ahead and it had turned out to be a significant issue. Because Sean had stolen the clothes and the phone, and denied doing so for long enough.
‘CSM’s been on,’ Gill said, not looking very happy about it. ‘No bags, no phone. Whatever Sean Broughton did with them, he didn’t stick ’em in the bins as he claims.’
‘Why tell us he had?’ Rachel spoke out. ‘He must know we’d find out.’
Janet said, ‘He was winging it. He took the stuff but didn’t want to tell us where he’d left it, so he makes up a story.’
‘Arse over elbow. He cops for taking the stuff’ – Gill flung out one hand – ‘but tells porkies about disposal …’ she waved the other. ‘Isn’t taking it the bigger deal? Once he’s rolled over on that, why send us on a wild-goose chase?’
‘Because he’s hiding something else,’ Andy said, ‘at his place.’
‘Maybe he’s lying about the shopping because, wherever he dumped it, he dumped the knife, too,’ Rachel said.
‘Had crossed my mind,’ Gill remarked drily.
‘Can’t give us one without the other,’ said Janet.
‘On that …’ Kevin said.
‘Kevin,’ Gill said brightly, ‘you’re awake!’
Rachel smothered a laugh.
Kevin glowered. ‘We’ve extended the house-to-house and we have a sighting of Sean outside the school, heading downhill at three twenty.’
‘Reliable?’
‘Lollipop lady.’
‘I like it.’ Gill beamed. ‘So, perhaps he’s not lying about his time of arrival. Only what he did after.’
‘He’d have time to kill her, nip home and change, taking the shopping and the phone, and get back,’ said Lee.
‘Have we enough for an arrest?’ Janet said.
‘I’d say.’ Gill nodded. ‘I’ll talk to command. What are you getting from friends and associates?’
Mitch took the floor. ‘Pretty much tallies with what we’ve heard so far. Sean is regarded as the type of bloke who’ll get into a scrap, rise to the occasion, if she’s goading him – which is apparently how it went. Lisa was on the shorter fuse. But he’s not known for carrying a knife, or using one. Unlike Lisa’s mother, most people wouldn’t have thought him capable.’
‘We’re all capable,’ Gill said. ‘Have we spoken to the cousin – Benny?’
‘Says he and Sean were in the house that afternoon until three. At that time Benny left: he was helping another cousin lay carpets. His story checks out,’ Mitch told them. ‘Mind you, he might have been coached.’
Gill tilted her head, inviting him to elaborate. ‘He’s a bit slow,’ Mitch said.
‘OK, so Sean is alibied until three, seen outside the school at twenty past. He still had opportunity. And he’s a liar. I think he’s got a shock coming.’ Gill raised her arms like a conductor, hands splayed in invitation: ‘Carry on,’ she dismissed them.
At her desk, the phone was ringing and Rachel grabbed it, rattling off her name, still a flush of pride as she added, ‘MIT.’
What she heard at the other end of the line made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She went straight into Gill, who glared at her. ‘Knock first.’
‘Sorry, boss. Someone’s using Lisa’s phone.’
‘What!’
‘Telecoms just picked it up.’
‘Where?’
‘Piccadilly Gardens. Boss, can I—?’
Gill silenced her with a look.
‘Please?’
‘You’ve no idea what you’ll find. Where’s Janet?’
‘Prepping for Sean.’
‘Go on then, but not on your own.’
Rachel’s heart jumped. She nodded eagerly, her mouth dry.
19
MITCH DROVE WHILE Rachel kept an eye on the data from the telecoms officer who was monitoring the phone. ‘Still in the vicinity of Piccadilly Gardens,’ she relayed as they crossed the inner ring road. Traffic was busy in
town, but Mitch was a good driver, just pushy enough to make his way through the throng of buses and cars without taking risks. Rachel continue to navigate until they reached the large square and Mitch pulled into a bus-stop bay to park. ‘Still on the Piccadilly side.’
They got out and scanned the street. The wide pavement was busy with shoppers, hawkers flogging hats and brollies, tourists and paper-sellers, queues waiting for buses, a band of African drummers were working the gardens, the music carrying to where Rachel stood.
Rachel tried Lisa’s number and she and Mitch watched the passers-by to see if anyone chose that moment to answer their phone. Nothing. Plenty of people had their handsets glued to the side of their heads, but neither of them saw anyone answer a call – though someone did answer. ‘’Lo?’ a female voice. Rachel didn’t reply. Didn’t want to spook whoever had the phone before they had them in their sights. Rachel surveyed the nearby properties. A newsagent’s, a gaming parlour, a bank, a kebab shop.
‘Let’s start in there.’ She signalled to the gaming parlour. Somewhere to chuck good money after bad, as far as Rachel was concerned. Losers spending their benefits the same day they got them. The place was murky inside, impossible to tell whether it was day or night, the carpeted floor sticky underfoot. The clatter of slot machines and the clamour of sound effects from the games made it impossible to hear much else. Rachel, Mitch at her elbow, scoped the aisles. There was a mishmash of people, all ages, most down-at-heel. Some solos, others in couples or little groups. Rachel dialled the number again, heard the ringing sound in her ear and watched. She saw a girl respond. One of a trio at the end of the room round a fruit machine, tarted up as if for a night out: short skirts, low-cut tops, back-combed hair, thick glittery make-up. The slutty look. Never know it was winter. Two blondes, little and large, and a redhead. It was the big blonde that had moved.
‘Back wall,’ Rachel said to Mitch. ‘Watch her.’ Rachel saw the girl slide the phone open and glance at the display. Hesitate, scowling at the number, then answer. Her voice was guarded, ‘Yeah?’
‘Can I have a word?’ Rachel said over the phone, closing the distance between them.
‘Who is it?’ the blonde said, frowning with uncertainty.
‘DC Bailey,’ Rachel said as she reached the trio, closing her phone, ‘and DC Ian Mitchell, Manchester Metropolitan Police.’ She showed her warrant card.
‘I’m eighteen, for fuck’s sake,’ the girl said, thinking they were after her for playing the slots.
‘I don’t care,’ Rachel said. ‘Step this way.’
‘What the—?’ The girl was all bluster and outrage. Her friends, swapping sideways glances, uneasy.
‘We’ll talk outside,’ Rachel said, ‘in the car.’
‘What about?’ she said crossly. But she followed them.
Once in the car, Rachel noted her details and checked her record, which was clean. Watched an accordion player, an old woman with a face like leather, take a spot near the gaming parlour, set down a battered hat and begin to play.
‘Where did you get the phone, Bethany?’
The girl’s face fell. ‘The lying bastard,’ she said. ‘Is it stolen?’
‘Where did you get it?’
She paused a moment then sighed. ‘The Blue Dog.’
‘New Moston?’ Mitch asked.
It was a scuzzy little pub that closed every few months but never seemed to stay under.
‘This lad had them. He swore they weren’t nicked.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘How much did you pay?’ Rachel said.
‘Twenty.’
‘Worth, what – maybe one-fifty? And no bells rang? No big flashing warning signs?’ Rachel said sarcastically.
‘He said they were charity. You know, people upgrading, sending them in.’
‘I’m going to have to take the phone,’ Rachel said.
‘Oh, brilliant, that is,’ she said gloomily.
‘And I need a complete description of him. We’ll also be asking you to make a formal statement and you may be required to testify in court.’
‘It’s just a phone.’ She cramped her lips together. ‘Bastard.’
‘And then I’m going to have to ask you not to attempt to contact the person who sold you this. That clear?’
The girl nodded.
‘Have you deleted any information?’ Rachel said.
‘No, it was clear.’
‘Have you created a password or a pin?’
‘No. Just topped up the credit. Can I get that back?’
Rachel laughed, didn’t answer. ‘So, the bloke who sold you it – you know his name?’
She didn’t, but she gave them a good enough description, and the landlord of the Blue Dog, anxious to help and quick to point out that he knew nothing about any black-marketeering on his premises, supplied a name: Desmond Rattigan. Des the Rat. Who could normally be found in the betting shop on Rochdale Road when it was open.
The bookies exuded that particular mix of hope and despair common to such places and reflected in the décor: the bullet-proof glass and the industrial carpeting with its dubious stains vying with the glossy showcards of airbrushed horses and their riders, or the perfect curve of a football above an emerald pitch and the judicious placement of quotes from happy winners.
Like betting shops Rachel had seen before, the aim was to promote itself as a source of leisure not a place of addiction, but a quick look at the body language of the punters, the pent-up anticipation, the bitten-down nails, the isolation as they waited for the dice to roll or the race to end, told a different story. Rachel flashed back to an image of her own father, stub of pencil in one hand, fag in the other, poring over the sports pages. Preparing to go and spend yet more money they hadn’t got on some lively little filly in the 2.10 at Doncaster.
‘Give it to me,’ she’d said once. A week when he’d refused her money for a new sweater even when she thrust out her arms, showing how the sleeves wouldn’t cover her wrists any more. Him saying things were too tight. ‘I’ll put it towards a new jumper.’
He’d halted over his paper and looked at her, set his fag in the ashtray and risen to his feet. ‘What?’
She didn’t back down. ‘Your stake, give it me.’
He’d given her the back of his hand, sent her flying. Setting Dom off, only five and bawling the house down. Bringing Alison in from the kitchen to sort them out, placate their father, shoot Rachel a black look.
Mitch said, ‘Rattigan’s not here.’
No one fitting the description. ‘We could wait a bit? Or ask if he’s already been in?’
Right then the door swung open and in he walked, pegged them for police as soon as he laid eyes on them. Rachel saw him think about legging it, but Mitch had moved behind him, blocking the exit. Handy having someone Mitch’s size on your team. Ex-army and he had that confidence; no need for any macho stuff, from what Rachel had seen of him.
‘Desmond Rattigan,’ Rachel said, flipping her warrant card his way. ‘DC Bailey.’ The other punters put on a good show: pretended not to notice the exchange, though you could tell by the angling of heads, the cessation of movement, that they were all ear-wigging like mad. ‘Could you step outside with us?’
Rattigan didn’t ask why, just shrugged, affecting nonchalance, and did as she asked. They talked to him in the car. Rachel showed him Lisa’s phone in a clear exhibits bag. ‘You sold this phone last night in the Blue Dog. I want to know where you got it.’
‘I never seen it before,’ he said.
Like that, is it? ‘Try again, pal,’ Rachel said sharply, ‘or we could just nick you, take you down the station, search your address, look at building a case against you for handling stolen goods. What’s that these days, Mitch?’
‘Anything up to fourteen years. More, with aggravating circumstances.’
‘We got any aggravating circumstances?’ Rachel said.
‘Very aggravating.’ Mitch didn’t smile,
not so much as a twinkle in his eye or the hint of humour in his voice. That, coupled with the sheer size of the bloke, sent a clear message: Deep shit.
‘Where did you get the phone?’
Rattigan hesitated. Rachel felt her impatience growing until he spoke: ‘Lad came round floggin’ it. Didn’t know him. Said it was clean.’
‘You took him at his word? Bit risky, for a man in your line of work.’
‘He said his mate put him on to me, someone I know, so I thought he was OK.’
‘This mate have a name?’
‘Benny Broughton,’ he said.
Rachel felt her spine tingle. ‘And what was the lad who sold it to you called?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Describe him,’ she said.
‘Half-caste, twenties, bleached hair.’ He described Sean Broughton. ‘’S all I remember.’
‘He say why he was selling it?’
‘He said he’d found it.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Half seven.’
‘Yesterday,’ Rachel checked.
He nodded.
The day after the murder. ‘Did you check the phone out?’
‘Yeah, it was fine.’
‘Anything on it? Messages, contacts?’
‘Bit of credit, that was it.’
‘OK.’
‘Can I go then?’
‘No, sunshine, you come with us. We need a statement from you. Beats working, eh?’
He swore under his breath, but buckled up when she told him to and sat there letting out weary sighs at regular intervals as they returned to the nick.
20
THE ATMOSPHERE IN the room had changed up a gear with the developments and Rachel enjoyed being part of it. Mitch was recounting the scene in the gaming parlour when Gill returned, crackling with energy and barking instructions and questions. ‘Statement the girl now. Janet, how much more time to prep? Hold back on Benny Broughton till we’ve arrested Sean. We have the DNA profile through from traces on the body, matching Sean Broughton as anticipated – after all, he had slept with Lisa the previous night, and covered her with the duvet at the very least. Toxicology just in: heroin present, modest level, non fatal – suggests that Lisa partook shortly before her death.’
SB01 Dead to Me Page 11
