Secrets of Death

by Stephen Booth

  Hull said nothing, but stared back at her.

  ‘You worked together,’ said Fry with unusual patience.

  ‘Farrell was a salesman,’ said Hull reluctantly. He could see there was no point in denying it when the evidence was right in front of him. ‘I worked in the bodyshop. We didn’t mix.’

  ‘But you knew each other.’

  ‘If you like.’

  Cooper expected her to produce the photograph at that point, the one he’d found in Roger Farrell’s car. It was indisputable evidence that Hull and Farrell had been friendlier than Hull was suggesting. But she didn’t do that. She must be saving it, keeping her cards close to her chest to allow her suspect to show himself a liar.

  ‘So when did you last have contact with Roger Farrell?’ asked Fry instead.

  ‘You’ve asked me this before.’

  ‘I’m asking again.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you ever visited his address in Forest Fields?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘And where were you last night, Mr Hull?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘All night?’

  Hull couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘Weren’t you lot watching me, then?’

  ‘Why should we?’

  He sat back and folded his arms. ‘I told you – I have no idea what this is all about.’

  ‘It’s about the nature of your relationship with Roger Farrell,’ said Fry. ‘So what was it?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The solicitor cleared his throat and intervened.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Fry, could you clarify what exactly my client is accused of? It might help us to make progress.’

  ‘Accessory to murder,’ said Fry.

  Hull laid his hands on the table again. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re investigating a series of murders here in Nottingham. We have evidence that you were associated with Roger Farrell and that you were in the area at the time of at least one of the murders. I would be considering a charge of accessory to murder at least, if not conspiracy to murder.’

  Hull’s face flushed angrily and he turned to the solicitor. ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘Well, it depends on the nature of the evidence.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. They haven’t got anything.’

  Fry didn’t react, except with a small, confident smile. That seemed to unnerve Hull more than anything else.

  Cooper recalled his impression from the photograph of a physical resemblance between Roger Farrell and Simon Hull. He couldn’t see it now. People changed, of course. They moved on in their lives, headed in different directions. Inseparable friends could drift apart.

  Fry turned her head slightly towards him and Cooper understood the gesture. It was his invitation to come in. A switch of interviewer kept the suspect off balance.

  ‘So, Mr Hull,’ said Cooper, waiting for the man’s eyes to swivel his way, ‘what I’m wondering is this – which of you went around the Forest Road area asking questions about Roger Farrell? Was it you?’

  Hull hesitated for a second. ‘No comment.’

  That was interesting. Had he been on the verge of denying it for that second? Cooper pressed on quickly.

  ‘Or was it your friend Anwar Sharif? Was that his job?’

  But Hull shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Both of you, then?’

  ‘No comment.’

  To distract his attention, Cooper slid across the printouts Luke Irvine had produced from his online search for Secrets of Death.

  ‘Does the name of this website mean anything to you, Mr Hull?’ he asked.

  The solicitor leaned over to examine the printouts, then glanced at his client.

  ‘Is this—?’ began Hull. But the solicitor shook his head and Hull changed his mind. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Mr Hull, we believe you knew what Roger Farrell had been doing,’ said Fry. ‘You were aware that he was responsible for the murders of at least three young women. You found that out in some way, didn’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I wonder how you came by the information. It seems to me there aren’t many possibilities. Was it some bit of gossip you picked up when you were visiting prostitutes yourself, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Hull, going even redder.

  But Fry nodded thoughtfully. ‘It seems feasible to me. You might have heard something and put two and two together, worked out it was your old colleague they were talking about.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Fry, ‘I can only conclude that Roger Farrell told you himself.’

  That took even Cooper by surprise. He hadn’t considered that possibility. Had it come into Fry’s mind just now as she was speaking?

  Whatever the case, the comment seemed to have struck home. Simon Hull sat dumb, all the colour draining from his face. For a few seconds he was unable to control his reactions. His fists clenched spasmodically and he scowled at Fry, his expression a mixture of anger and fear.

  The solicitor looked alarmed too and stepped in to intervene.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Fry, I think I’d like to consult with my client.’

  Fry nodded calmly. ‘Interview suspended.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Cooper when they left the interview room. ‘Was there anything there, behind the “no comment”s?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Fry with a shrug.

  ‘But you definitely had a hit with your suggestion about Farrell telling them himself about his murders. That was inspired.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hull didn’t know how to answer that. You can push him on it later.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do.’

  Fry didn’t take compliments very well. She had never learned how to do it with any grace.

  ‘And I did wonder about the website stuff,’ she said. ‘He almost reacted to that.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too.’

  ‘It’s nice that we agree on something.’

  Cooper had never heard the word nice used in quite that way before. But this was Diane Fry. She could give anything a different meaning.

  ‘And maybe when I put it to him about one of them asking questions around Forest Road,’ said Cooper. ‘I had the feeling he considered trying to point the finger at Sharif on that one, when I gave him the opportunity. I’m hoping he’ll reflect on that.’

  ‘We’ll get more out of them,’ said Fry confidently.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘We picked them up separately and they’ve been kept apart since. One of them will let something slip eventually. I think we might be able to tie them in to some of the girls in the Forest Road area. I’m hoping a search of their properties will produce something useful in that respect.’

  ‘Tie them in how?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that Hull and Sharif may be running some of those girls themselves? Setting them up in suitable properties, distributing pay-as-you-go phones, arranging the clients? And taking a cut of the proceeds, of course.’

  ‘You didn’t mention that theory.’

  Fry shrugged. ‘It seemed a fairly obvious possibility.’

  Cooper forced himself to ignore her tone. Now wasn’t the time for being at loggerheads. They had to work together, as best they could.

  ‘Well, it would explain why they might have been trying to intimidate Farrell and scare him off without incriminating themselves,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it would. But it’s speculation at the moment. I’ll let you know what we turn up.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Cooper, ‘has Simon Hull’s vehicle been examined – the Jeep Grand Cherokee?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I’m wondering if there was any recent damage on it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The examiner would have mentioned it, if there was. Did you think there would be?’

  ‘It was just a possibility. I might not recogn
ise a make of vehicle as well as I think I do.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Cooper reminded himself that Simon Hull ran a garage and would have had plenty of time to carry out a few repairs and do a respray.

  He followed Fry along an unfamiliar corridor to the next interview room.

  ‘Diane,’ he said, ‘one more thing. The person who was asking questions about Farrell – are you sure it was Hull or Sharif?’

  ‘Our one willing witness isn’t good on description, as you might have gathered.’

  ‘What about getting her in to look at some photos, then?’

  Fry sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If she’ll come.’

  Before they moved on, Cooper called up Gavin Murfin.

  ‘Surveillance here,’ he answered.

  ‘What’s Anson Tate doing, Gavin?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s all quiet.’

  ‘All quiet’ was the surveillance equivalent of ‘no comment’. An accumulation of negatives might eventually lead to something positive. Or so it was hoped.

  ‘He’s still at home?’

  ‘He hasn’t budged. I’ve established which is his flat on the top floor and I’ve found a spot where I can see the window. He’s definitely there. He’s passed by the window a couple of times. I think he’s probably eating his dinner.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? I could chat to a couple of the other tenants, see what they know about him.’

  ‘No way,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I’m good at it,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s my job, don’t forget.’

  ‘It was your job. It didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘You can knock off,’ said Cooper. ‘He won’t be planning anything now.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get back to my car.’

  Murfin seemed to be breathing hard and Cooper pictured him labouring up Buxton Road, which was on a definite hill.

  ‘Then I might pop down to May’s Café for a pie and a cuppa before I go home,’ said Murfin.

  ‘But, Gavin—’

  He was too late. Murfin had gone. He would have to find out the bad news for himself about the loss of May’s Café.

  Anwar Sharif seemed much more composed than Simon Hull. In Interview Room 2, he sat looking relaxed with a bottle of water in his hand, chatting quietly to his solicitor. And this was his own legal representative, as Fry mentioned before they entered the room. Was Sharif the more organised of the two and perhaps the one with the money?

  From his photograph, he’d looked to be in his late thirties. But closer up, in the unflattering light of the interview room, Cooper thought he was probably the wrong side of forty. He was trying hard to look cool, with a neatly trimmed beard and gelled hair.

  ‘Mr Sharif, we’d like you to tell us about your relationship with Roger Farrell,’ began Fry without hesitation when the recording had started.

  Sharif put down his bottle and stared at her.

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  Cooper sighed inwardly. This one would be a hard nut to crack, even for Diane Fry. The only hope was that a search of their homes would produce something.

  That evening at home in Foolow, Cooper checked his mobile phone for messages, then the answering machine on his landline. Of course, there was no reason to think that she would have his home number. But she’d taken the trouble to get his mobile number, hadn’t she? So you never knew.

  His frustration was that he hadn’t asked for her number when they met at the Barrel Inn the night before last. All he had on his caller list was the number of the mortuary office and that was no use. Of course, he could be misleading himself. It might simply have been an informal meeting to talk about her study into suicides. Was that all they’d talked about? No, it wasn’t.

  Cooper fed the cat. That was one job he never missed. The cat flap had been installed and he could tell that Hopes had been out exploring the neighbourhood. When he arrived home, she’d been sitting on the adjoining wall between Tollhouse Cottage and the neighbours. And there had been another cat with her, a ginger-and-white tom. His cat was better at making friends than he was himself.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you next time,’ said Diane Fry. ‘Make it very soon, won’t you? And Zack – I can’t wait to see him walking.’

  Angie had everything packed ready to go. A bagful of used nappies had gone in the wheelie bin. The baby was asleep. The sun outside was shining. And Diane smiled.

  ‘Of course, Sis. I hope everything goes well.’

  The Renault hatchback turned in from Clifton Lane. The exhaust was a bit too loud, but Diane didn’t care. The man at the steering wheel nodded curtly to her, but didn’t get out. Angie waved and trotted to the car to begin loading everything. Zack went into the baby seat without stirring. Within a few minutes, they were ready to go.

  Diane waved them off until they’d disappeared. Then she heaved a deep sigh, went back into her apartment and poured herself a very large drink.

  27

  Day 7

  First thing that morning, Cooper had to brief his team and give them assignments. In the CID room he was met by a set of expectant faces.

  ‘Anson Tate,’ he said. ‘He was a journalist, wasn’t he?’ He looked to Carol Villiers, who always seemed to have that sort of detail at her fingertips.

  ‘Yes, he worked for one of the major regional newspaper publishers, but he was made redundant three or four years ago when they went through a phase of centralisation. Tate went freelance, but couldn’t make a living at it.’

  ‘What sort of stories did he cover as a freelance?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Cooper turned to Irvine. ‘Luke, see if you can find out, will you? Research Tate’s journalism background. A lot of stuff is online.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Look for any possible links. Did he do a feature at some time about suicide websites? Any stories about actual suicides? There may be some way that he came across the Secrets of Death site or the people operating it, and knows more about it than anyone else.’

  ‘It might take a while,’ said Irvine.

  ‘Just do what you can, will you?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  Cooper turned to Murfin.

  ‘Gavin, I want you back on surveillance at Tate’s flat. Keep me up to date on what he’s doing.’

  Murfin didn’t look pleased. ‘Couldn’t you just ask him to come in for a chat?’

  ‘I don’t want Tate slipping away from us. It’s possible he spotted you outside his flat yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I doubt it. I’m trained to blend in, like.’

  ‘Even so. I don’t want him doing anything stupid. He needs watching.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just do it, Gavin. You’re not here to ask questions.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Everyone turned then and stared at each other. Cooper knew they hardly ever heard him speak like that to one of his team. He didn’t have time to worry about it. Right now there was a horrible thought in his head that he wanted to concentrate on before it escaped him. He took no notice as Murfin slouched out of the room, grumbling quietly.

  ‘Tate could be crucial in making a case against the two suspects the Major Crime Unit have picked up,’ said Cooper. ‘He’s the only credible witness we may have at our disposal. Diane Fry and her colleagues in Nottingham need something concrete to put to Simon Hull and Anwar Sharif.’

  ‘Hull and Sharif?’ asked Dev Sharma in a puzzled tone.

  Cooper realised that not all his team were aware of the connection with EMSOU’s murder inquiry. He brought them up to speed as far as he could.

  ‘It puts a whole different light on Roger Farrell,’ said Irvine. ‘A pity we didn’t know about all this from the start.’

  ‘It couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘By the way, we’ve got some preliminary results from the la
ptop you recovered from Roger Farrell’s address,’ said Villiers, picking up a report from her desk.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  Cooper could at least breathe a sigh of relief that he’d made the decision to seize the laptop when he had. Otherwise, he felt sure it would be gone now. And the preliminary results had come through quickly, which was helpful.

  ‘Not really,’ said Villiers. ‘Unless you think no news is good news. The initial examination reveals no sign of involvement with a website called secretsofdeath.org. His browser history and email records contain no references to Secrets of Death or anything resembling it. They’ve drawn out a list of contacts from his address book, so we can have a trawl through those.’

  Villiers passed across a list and Cooper ran his eye down it without seeing any name he recognised.

  ‘But otherwise,’ said Villiers, ‘the forensic examiner says it appears to be a perfectly straightforward device for personal and business use. Farrell did his household accounts on a spreadsheet, wrote letters in MS Word, used online banking and watched films on Netflix. He liked obscure sci-fi movies, apparently.’

  Cooper put the list down, disappointed. ‘Ask them to keep trying.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Okay, there’s plenty to get on with. Let me know straight away if you turn up anything significant.’

  When the phone rang, Carol Villiers had news that took all Cooper’s attention.

  ‘They’ve found what?’ he said.

  ‘A burned-out car. It’s been identified as a black Land Rover Discovery.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On a track at the top of Sycamore Crescent,’ said Villiers. ‘That’s on the Woodlands Estate. Do you know it?’

  ‘Know it?’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve already been there once this week.’

  When Cooper arrived on the Woodlands Estate, the burned-out wreck was being winched on to a low-loader. He could see for himself that it had been a Land Rover Discovery. The shape was quite distinctive.

  The colour of it was less obvious. The blaze had stripped the paint off the bodywork, leaving bare, scorched metal. It had also melted the tyres, blown out the windows and consumed the interior, leaving just the metal seat frames. The doors, bonnet and boot had all been left open to allow the flames to spread. This was no simple engine fire. Large amounts of accelerant had been used to make sure the job was done properly.