by Louise Voss
Patrick looked over to the young boy-band singer. He was staring at his phone again, probably flicking through his Twitter messages. As cool as any suspect Patrick had ever seen. He was either completely innocent, a brilliant actor . . . or a bona fide psychopath. Patrick certainly didn’t trust Mervyn Hammond and his psychometric testing. Patrick’s heartbeat increased. If Shawn was a psychopath, if he was a killer, this was going to be the news story of the year. It would overshadow every other story about celebrity crime. Bigger than Jimmy Savile or even Oscar Pistorius. If Shawn Barrett did it, a million teenage hearts would be broken.
‘Shawn, I need to ask you about your whereabouts on a couple of dates. First, the evening of Wednesday, fourth of February, and, second, Saturday, seventh of February, all day and evening.’
Shawn looked blank. He turned his head towards his manager, who produced a sheet of paper.
‘We knew you would ask that. On the fourth, which was two nights before OnT played Twickenham, Shawn was here, at home.’
‘On your own?’ Patrick asked, addressing the singer.
‘Yeah.’
‘Just chilling, I assume?’
Shawn cocked his head. ‘I guess. I was probably playing Minecraft. That’s how I relax when I’m not working.’
He really was only a kid, Patrick thought. ‘What about Saturday the seventh?’
Again, Rickard flapped his piece of paper. ‘Shawn was in the studio all afternoon until eight.’
‘Yeah, we were recording a track for a charity album, that’s right. For this place called St Mary’s Children’s Home.’
‘Lots of witnesses to that,’ Rickard said. ‘Then the band went for dinner, until about ten. Even more witnesses.’
‘And then I came home on my own.’
Patrick thought about it. Daniel Hamlet had been unable to give an exact time of death for Jess, but he had estimated it had been sometime during Saturday night. Which meant Shawn didn’t have an alibi for either murder.
‘Did anyone see you come home that night?’
‘Our driver dropped me off. And . . .’
‘What is it?’
Shawn flicked an anxious look towards his manager. ‘I’m not supposed . . . If this gets out . . .’
Rickard walked over to the couch and leant so Shawn could whisper in his ear. Patrick clenched his fists.
‘We can trust you to be discreet, can’t we?’ Rickard said.
‘This is a murder investigation. I agreed to come here, but if you want to head to the station now . . .’
‘All right, keep your hair on. Tell him, Shawn.’
The pop star looked both sheepish and proud. ‘Well, when I got home I sent a few messages to this girl I’ve been sort of seeing on Snapchat.’
‘Messages?’
He smiled wickedly, the first sign of being a red-blooded male Patrick had witnessed in the flesh. ‘Yeah. You know what Snapchat is?’
‘Of course.’ Wendy had explained it to him the day before. ‘The photos vanish almost immediately, don’t they?’
‘That’s right. Anyway, we exchanged a few pics and then . . . she came over.’
‘You mean it was like a booty call?’
Shawn looked at him blankly.
‘She came over for sex?’
The lupine grin returned. ‘Yeah. And she stayed all night.’
Patrick felt a terrible weariness come over him. Barrett had an alibi. And Patrick had no Plan B. ‘We’ll need to talk to her, get her to confirm this.’
Now Shawn looked worried. ‘Her boyfriend would go mental if he knew we were seeing each other.’ He named the well-known member of a girl band who was living with a Premiership footballer.
‘Lana Vincent,’ Patrick repeated. ‘We can talk to her discreetly. If she confirms what you’re saying, then . . .’
‘I’m off the hook.’
Patrick nodded reluctantly. This girl-band member was bound to confirm the alibi. Shawn wasn’t the killer. Carmella’s trip to Dublin had been a waste of time and they were no closer to knowing who had killed Rose and Jess. He wanted to punch the wall. But while he was here, he might as well see if he could get any useful information out of his former prime suspect.
‘Shawn,’ he said. ‘Did you ever meet Rose Sharp or Jess McMasters? Did you talk with them online? Ever Snapchat them?’
‘No! Listen, Detective, I honestly never met those girls. I swear. I love my fans. I wouldn’t hurt any of them.’
‘Except for Roisin McGreevy in Dublin?’
‘But she wanted me to do it. She liked it.’ Suddenly, he looked sheepish. ‘I just got carried away, that’s all . . . I didn’t mean to hurt her. I love women. I love my mum. If she found out about me and that girl . . . If she heard what you accused me of. Well, first of all she’d give me a good clout. And then she’d come after you.’
‘He’s not wrong,’ said Rickard. ‘Mrs Barrett is very . . . formidable.’
Patrick thought back to the exchange of messages Graham Burns had shown him. ‘This incident with Roisin. It wasn’t a one-off, was it? I have information about another young woman you took back to your hotel room after a concert at Wembley.’
Rickard jumped in. ‘Again, Detective – Shawn is a red-blooded male. All pop stars get women throwing themselves at them. It would be more unusual if he was celibate.’
Patrick clenched his jaw. Rickard was right. This was getting him nowhere. He decided to change tack.
‘If you love your fans so much, you obviously want us to catch the person who murdered them.’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Have you ever seen anyone suspicious hanging around? Anyone who seems to show an unhealthy interest in young women?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Surely you don’t think it’s someone associated with the band?’ Rickard said. ‘Do you want to know what I reckon?’
Patrick really didn’t, but let Rickard continue.
‘Well, I think we’re dealing with a Charles Manson type. Manson thought he heard messages in The Beatles’ songs, that whole “Helter Skelter” thing. I bet it’s something like that.’
Frustrated by this wasted trip, by the dead end he was staring at now it looked like Shawn Barrett was no longer a suspect, Patrick snapped, ‘How could anyone, crazy or not, hear messages in an OnTarget song? The lyrics are nothing but one cliché about love after another.’
Rickard shrugged. ‘Well, maybe that’s what it’s about. Love.’
Chapter 29
Day 9 – Winkler
Come on, then,’ Winkler said, ignoring the furious beeping from the Beamer he’d just cut up on the roundabout. ‘Describe your ideal woman.’
DS Gareth Batey squirmed in the passenger seat. Maybe he’s gay, Winkler thought. He’d never heard Gareth mention a girlfriend, and he blushed so easily. He glanced at the younger man as they pulled up at a red light. Regulation haircut, no jewellery or tattoos – unlike that poser Lennon – and nothing to suggest Gareth had any kind of life outside the Force. Married to the job; no time for a partner of any kind. Winkler had pretty much ignored Gareth throughout the three or four years they’d worked together. But DS Gareth Batey, Winkler realised, could be useful. His suppressed ambition, his longing to be recognised by the powers-that-be – that was the weak spot Winkler was ready to exploit.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘No, I just . . .’ Gareth laughed nervously. ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable, that’s all.’
Winkler slapped the other man’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not going to report you for political incorrectness. I’m not Lennon. It’s just a bit of banter to make the journey less boring.’ When Gareth didn’t immediately respond, Winkler said, ‘All right, let me tell you about my ideal woman.’
As he went on to detail the cup size and leg length and proclivities of his perfect bird, Winkler could tell that Gareth was desperate to join in. He just needed a little more coaxing.
‘Let me help you. Tell me what you think about Masiello.’
‘Carmella?’ Gareth seemed shocked. ‘But she’s, er, not heterosexual.’
Winkler spluttered with laughter. ‘I’m not saying your ideal woman has to actually let you shag her. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of chick you’re into. I know a lot of women who like men in uniform. I might be able to put a word in for you.’
‘But we’re plain clothes.’
Give me strength, Winkler thought. ‘So you don’t like Irish-Italian redheads, then?’
Gareth blushed.
‘What about blondes? Older blondes? Suzanne Laughland. Would you give her one?’
Gareth’s face went from candyfloss pink to fuchsia. ‘She’s our DCI,’ he spluttered.
‘That hasn’t stopped Lennon from, you know.’ He whistled.
Gareth stared at him as Winkler turned onto the industrial estate where the self-storage unit was based. ‘Patrick and Suzanne?’
‘Yeah, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? How else do you think he gets all the plum jobs? He makes Suzanne promise him all the cushiest assignments while he’s got her bent over her desk.’ Winkler was horrified to feel a twitch in his pants as he pictured this.
‘But Patrick’s married. And so’s the guv.’
Winkler laughed, focusing on the blackheads on Gareth’s nose to make his semi-retreat. ‘What planet did you beam down from, Batey? Firstly, Lennon’s wife’s a baby-battering loony who was locked up for nearly two years. You think our esteemed colleague restricted himself to bashing the bishop while the missus was in her padded cell? And have you ever seen Laughland’s husband? I haven’t. That picture on her desk was probably printed off the Internet. Fake husbands dot com.’
He spotted the yellow sign that told him they’d reached their destination and swerved in front of a lorry, eliciting another angry beep, into the car park.
As he unfastened his seatbelt he leant over conspiratorially. ‘Lennon’s not the man you think he is. Secrets and layers, that’s him. Always thinking strategically. The bloke should have been a politician. Not like me. I’m the kind of guy who’s straight down the line, who says it as I see it.’
He got out of the car, smiling to himself, not waiting for Gareth’s reaction.
‘Right,’ Winkler said, striding towards the building. ‘Let’s see what old Nancy left behind.’
Winkler had spoken to Nancy Marr’s son, George, the previous evening. George told him he was keeping his mother’s possessions in storage because he didn’t have room in his little flat. Mrs Marr’s house was still up for sale, but her son had been advised by the estate agent to move everything out. Winkler had already been through the old woman’s possessions once, when they were still in situ, but he hadn’t looked too closely. And now he was trying to prove that this case wasn’t connected to the OnTarget murders, he’d decided it was worth another look. He’d been round all the neighbours again and nobody had seen or heard anything. A couple of the neighbours hadn’t lived in the street when Nancy was murdered, and Winkler needed to follow that up, find out who had been there six months ago. But first, he was going to have a good sort through the old bird’s stuff.
Or, rather, he was going to watch Gareth do it. Winkler had a horror of touching stuff that had belonged to old people. He couldn’t bear the smell: boiled beef and mothballs and cat wee. The thought of their wrinkly hands fingering it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Gareth wouldn’t mind. This was the sort of stuff he excelled at.
George Marr had called ahead to let the storage centre know the police were coming. Winkler flashed his badge at the stocky black bloke at reception and made his way to the room where Nancy’s stuff was stored, Gareth trailing behind, checking his phone as he walked.
‘Anything interesting?’ Winkler asked. ‘Hot date?’
‘No. I’ve been waiting to hear back from Peter Bell about the key card that Rose Sharp’s murderer used to get into the hotel room.’
Winkler slowed his step. ‘And?’
‘Still nothing. It’s so frustrating.’
‘Never mind. Sounds like you’re doing a good job anyway, Gareth. Reckon you’ll make an excellent DI when the time comes.’
The look of pleasure that came onto Gareth’s face reminded Winkler of his mum’s cat when you stroked it. Poor old Gareth didn’t get stroked very often. Winkler turned away and smiled to himself.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, a moment later. ‘All Nancy Marr’s worldly goods. Better get started.’
Nancy’s possessions were collected into a dozen brown cardboard boxes, with ‘Small Box’, ‘Medium Box’ or ‘Big Box’ stamped on the side. George had stuck a handwritten label on each one. Winkler examined them in turn. ‘Kitchen stuff’. George had no doubt taken the best knives and any pots and pans that weren’t old and rusty. ‘Knick-knacks’, which was written on two of the boxes. Winkler remembered that Mrs Marr had a large collection of porcelain frogs and hedgehogs, along with a number of brass statuettes that gathered around the electric fire like little sentries. ‘Keepsakes’. ‘Personal items’. ‘Paperwork’. ‘Books and records’. ‘Misc.’.
‘Go through the paperwork first,’ Winkler said, taking a seat while Gareth crouched on the floor and removed a lid from a Medium Box.
‘What am I looking for?’
Winkler shrugged. ‘Anything interesting. Something that shows she was in debt or struggling to pay her bills. Letters from friends – maybe she wrote to one of her pals to say she was worried about someone lurking around. Maybe we’ll strike lucky and there’ll be a diary.’
As Gareth sorted through the papers, quickly glancing at each sheet before setting it aside, Winkler ate the chicken sandwich he’d brought with him.
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ he said with his mouth full.
‘What does?’ So far, all Gareth had found were lots of bills (all paid, no red ones), a pension book, a number of letters from twenty or thirty years ago and Nancy’s driving licence.
‘Well, it’s sad, to think about what gets left behind when someone dies. A load of junk, mostly. And ungrateful kids who just care about their inheritance, what there is of it. What impression did Nancy Marr make on the world? What was her legacy?’
Gareth looked up and Winkler held his eye.
‘That’s what’s important, isn’t it? Making the most of your life; making an impression. So that people remember you and care that you’re not around anymore.’
Gareth nodded thoughtfully, clearly thinking about his own legacy.
‘The really sad thing is that the person who Nancy Marr made the biggest impression on was the person who murdered her.’
After finding nothing among the paperwork, Gareth went through the keepsakes and then the personal items – framed family photographs, an engraved Bible, some very unattractive brooches. George had obviously appropriated any jewellery of value.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Gareth said, sitting back and rubbing his knees, which were dusty from the floor of the storage room.
‘I agree. But we might as well have a look through the last box, eh?’
Gareth pulled the lid off the large box marked ‘Misc.’. This one contained stuff that, as far as Winkler could see, should have been sent straight to the tip. A tatty-looking cuddly rabbit; a children’s book called Chips the Magic Hamster; an old hat; an ancient golliwog; and a teddy bear. Gareth pulled an A4 folder out of the box and some loose photos fluttered to the floor. Winkler picked one up. It had a date on the back: July 1967. Mrs Marr had her arms around a bloke with long hair and a big grin on his face. She’d been quite a looker in her day. Nice boobs.
He admired t
he photo as Gareth continued to look through the folder. He was lost in a reverie about the sixties, free love and hippie chicks when he heard Gareth saying, ‘Boss? Boss? Look at this.’
He held up a photograph, A4 sized. It was signed, ‘To Nancy. With all my best wishes, Mervyn Hammond xx’.
Winkler jumped off his seat and snatched the photo out of Gareth’s hand.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
Gareth’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘This is a connection to the other case. At last.’
‘Mervyn bloody Hammond. What’s she doing with a signed photo of him? Hey, what are you doing?’
‘Phoning DI Lennon.’
Winkler snatched the phone out of Gareth’s hand. ‘Wait a minute. Let’s think about this. Mervyn Hammond probably sends out hundreds of signed photos every year. I bet most of the people who like him are old ladies like Nancy.’ He tapped the photo. ‘I reckon this is a coincidence. It will just cause a distraction. And then who’ll get the blame if Lennon wastes days looking at Hammond, eh? It won’t be Patrick, and it sure as hell won’t be me.’
Gareth’s brow creased with doubt.
‘On the other hand, if Hammond has got something to do with it, who’ll get all the credit? Lennon. And while Suzanne and the press are – literally and metaphorically – sucking him off for being the big hero, do you think he’ll say, “Actually, it was all down to a bright young officer called Gareth Batey”? Will he hell.’
Gareth cringed at Winkler’s choice of words, but nodded. He was clearly torn. ‘So what do you think we should do?’
Winkler put his arm around Gareth’s shoulder. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you and me look into it, discreetly, and if we find any more evidence that points to Hammond, we’ll hand it over to Lennon; officially tie the two operations together, but make sure everyone knows it was your hard work that gave us a break. And if we don’t find anything, we won’t have wasted anyone’s time but our own. I mean, it’s not like we have any other hot leads to pursue on this side of the investigation. Make sense?’
