‘We’ll speak to Tanya then,’ Simms said.
He shook his head. ‘She dropped off the radar. Humberside police don’t have a current address for her.’
Simms took out her phone and scrolled through the contacts.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Liz Dromer,’ she said. ‘She set up a drugs rehab programme in Hull after her son died of an overdose.’
She pressed the call button, and a second later someone picked up. ‘Hi, Liz,’ she said. ‘Kate Simms.’
A pause.
‘No, I’m in Manchester, now. All those stories you kept telling me about the friendliness of the northerners? I thought I’d come and see for myself.’ She listened a moment. ‘Ah, you know, work in progress. Listen, Liz – you with someone?’
It seemed she wasn’t, because seconds later, Kate was telling Liz Dromer about the three attacks in her area, and the possible link to a case she was working on. When she’d given the outline, she listened again, said, ‘No – I understand,’ gave Liz the girl’s name and disconnected.
‘She said she can’t promise anything, but she’ll ask around.’
‘So the Community Partnership work was good for something then?’
She took the jibe in good part. ‘I did get to know some good people,’ she conceded. ‘Liz being one of them.’
He nodded. ‘And what’s your work in progress?’
‘That was the private part of the conversation.’ It was a slap-down, but amber flashes of humour in the dark brown of her irises took some of the sting out of it.
She checked her watch and her shoulders sagged. ‘Half past ten – Kieran’ll be furious.’ She opened her bag to drop her phone into it, and it buzzed. She checked the caller ID. ‘Superintendent Tanford,’ she said.
26
Kate Simms braced herself, pressed ‘answer’, and with more enthusiasm than she felt, said, ‘Tanno, what can I do for you?’
‘You’ve got me on your caller ID,’ Superintendent Tanford said. ‘I’m flattered.’ She didn’t know what to say to that, and he went on, ‘Actually, Kate, I think maybe I can help you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Are you free to speak?’
She looked around the restaurant. It was beginning to empty, most people moving to the sofas and banquettes in the lounge area to take their coffee.
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
‘Your murder suspect.’
‘George Howard. What about him?’
‘We’ve had intel he’s supplying drugs.’
She frowned. ‘If he is, he’s not doing it from his business premises or his flat.’
Across the table from her, Fennimore raised his eyebrows. ‘Drugs?’ he mouthed. She nodded.
Tanford exhaled into the phone. ‘The search turned up nothing? You’re sure?’
‘All we found were some Viagra pills, a few tabs of E, a taster of cocaine – just enough for a few lines, not enough to charge him with supplying. No heroin.’
‘None at all, eh?’ Tanford made a sharp tsk sound. ‘This one is a cautious bastard, isn’t he?’
‘We are looking into the possibility he owns other properties in the area.’
‘Our intel was very specific about the address – his sauna. You’re telling me the sniffer dogs picked up no trace?’
Kate felt a pang of uncertainty. ‘POLSA advised against use of dogs.’ This was the Police Search Advisor, a trained specialist who advised on searches of crime scenes. ‘He said there was a risk of DNA transfer and hairs fouling up the trace evidence.’
‘There was nothing to stop you sending them in after the scientists finished up.’
‘We had no reason to suspect him of dealing,’ she said.
‘Your murder vic was shot full of smack – where’d you suppose that came from?’
She didn’t answer – she didn’t know where it had come from – but she’d discounted Howard because if he had been set up, it couldn’t have come from him. She’d been guilty of stupid, circular thinking every bit as sloppy as Superintendent Spry’s.
‘Look, Kate,’ Tanford said, ‘I don’t want to scare you, but ACC Gifford talks about your fuck-up at the National Crime Faculty like it happened last week. He’s just gagging for a chance to relegate you right back to your touchy-feely committee work in community partnerships.’
Fuck-up. So that’s how he saw it. And now she’d fucked up again.
Fennimore was trying to catch her eye, but she stared at the tabletop, face burning.
At the other end of the line, Tanford gave an irritated sigh. ‘It’s such a bloody shame – you’d make a good SIO, given half a chance.’ He paused, and she waited for the axe to fall on their mentor–mentee relationship. Eventually, he said, ‘Fuck it – why not? Listen, I want to help you out here, so why don’t you make the request?’
For a second, she was speechless – he was giving her the chance to call in the search team. Tanford was covering her back. ‘Well, that – uh …’ For the briefest moment she wondered what was in it for him, but she slapped that suspicious little gremlin down. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say you weren’t satisfied with some of the answers Howard was giving in interviews, you got suspicious. I don’t need to tell you how to bullshit, do I?’
‘Got an “A” for it on Board exam, sir,’ she said, deadpan, and heard an appreciative chuckle. ‘But what I meant was I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Don’t.’ She could hear the wince in his voice. ‘It’s not like this is entirely of your own making. You’re bound to make a couple of mistakes on your first solo major investigation. Learn from them – move on.’ He disconnected before she could embarrass them both by thanking him again.
Fennimore raised his eyebrows. ‘Good news, or bad?’
‘Bit of both, I think,’ she said, feeling slightly dazed.
Detective Superintendent Spry dropped by Kate Simms’s office at 6.15 a.m. The dogs turned up a cache of drugs hidden in a false joist under floorboards at George Howard’s flat. With it, a purse containing a photograph of a woman, a nipple stud and its stay, and a key ring with Yale door key, locker and two Chubb padlock keys. All of them had been wiped clean of fingerprints, but the CSIs caught a couple of partials off the key ring, sufficient for a match to the murder victim. There was no ID in the purse. The woman in the photograph was Slavic-featured, and had long, wavy brown hair and dark eyes – so, not their victim.
‘Couldn’t have worked out better for you, Kate.’ Spry rubbed his hands, smiling.
‘You think so, sir?’ The quantity of drugs was relatively small.
‘I know so.’ He looked sharp and rested, snappily dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and white shirt, fragrant with expensive aftershave.
Simms straightened her jacket, acutely aware that she was wearing the same suit and blouse that she’d worn the previous day, and was smelling more vagrant than fragrant.
‘A hundred grams of heroin,’ Spry said. ‘More than enough to charge Howard with possession with intent to supply.’ He cocked his head and looked at her through half-closed eyes. ‘What made you decide to go back with the sniffer dogs?’
‘Howard knows the two men he was drinking with the night of the murder – I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘I wondered if he was protecting a business connection he’d rather keep from the police – massage parlour, a constant stream of Eastern European girls – drugs seemed a good bet.’
He stared at her for a long time; Spry might be lazy, he might be coasting in his mind’s eye towards a gentle retirement on the slow waterways of the Cheshire plain, but he still had a cop’s instinct for bullshit.
‘Tanford seems to’ve taken a shine to you,’ he said, watching for her reaction.
Simms kept her expression carefully blank.
‘Play it clever,’ he said, ‘Tanford could do you some good with the likes of the ACC.’ He held her gaze a moment longer, letting her know that he knew she’d sold him a line, and that Superintendent
Tanford was tugging one end of it. He went to the door, but turned back, looking positively cheery.
‘You won’t be needing the incident room any more; that should free up at least a dozen staff.’ He raised his hand and was on his way down the corridor before she could reply. But Detective Superintendent Spry was not built for speed and she caught him easily.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I need my team at full strength – I have several lines of inquiry still running.’
He stopped and looked at her like she was a wilful but charming child. ‘I do hate to repeat myself, Kate,’ he said. ‘But you have enough on George Howard to charge him on several counts – his dental match to the bites, his DNA from the bites and under the victim’s fingernails. And now the drugs connection.’ He gave her an exasperated look. ‘What else could you possibly be looking for?’
‘I’m still waiting on evidence from the victim’s mobile phone number,’ she answered. ‘I’ve got people checking CCTV footage over a wider area of the city centre – searching for the BMW our victim was seen getting into on the night she died. And I’m waiting on forensic tests – I’ve asked for LTDNA on the perineal and teeth swabs. The evidence points to a second person being with her around the time she died.’
‘Another punter,’ he said firmly. ‘You know these girls have a high client turnover.’
‘It might be – but if it was her mysterious dinner partner …’
‘Why this constant need to complicate everything?’ Spry flushed, impatient. ‘The honest, straightforward, simple fact is – you already Have. Your. Man.’ He finished at shouting pitch, and Renwick, walking passed them in the corridor, shot her a sympathetic glance. Spry broke off, and stood for a few seconds, breathing through his nose, clearly trying to regain his composure.
‘The National Injuries Database came up with three other attacks,’ Simms said. ‘Women abducted and tortured in the same way as our murder victim. I want to establish if George Howard can be linked to them.’ It was partly true at least.
‘Look, Kate,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only game in town. I cannot justify a team of twenty staff – plus overtime payments – so you can tinker about, tying everything up in a nice silk bow.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘No, Kate,’ he said. ‘No. Do you know how many staff we’ve lost since 2010? A quarter of Manchester’s entire police force – half of those were frontline officers. The few we have left should be out doing police work, not faffing about with paperwork.’
Which was rich, coming from a man who spent entire weeks of time faffing about with paperwork.
‘I’d like my first major investigation to go the distance, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s no good me charging Howard if I can’t make it stick.’ It was an appeal to his professional vanity; it would not look good for Spry if she fouled up after such a promising start – he would be tainted by association.
Spry eyed her suspiciously. ‘All right, I’m listening.’ She took a breath, but he raised a finger in warning. ‘Just listening,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not saying I’ve changed my mind.’
She nodded. ‘If we knew who she had dinner with, it might help us to identify the victim and establish the course of events. Less wriggle room for Howard. If we can discover her name it might give us a direct link to Howard’s massage parlour.’ It might, but she wouldn’t bet on it. ‘At least let me get the IMEI number off the phone, see if we can recover her voicemail.’
He thought about it, standing in the corridor with her staff passing by either side of them. He was looking at her, but she could almost see the back-of-an-envelope calculation he was doing in his head.
‘All right, here’s what you do. Follow up on the phone. Call in the lab results, assess the evidence so far. Keep the HOLMES team while they get the database up to date. But chasing this phantom BMW is a waste of time, and why you’re still canvassing the saunas is beyond me. Anyone involved in either of those tasks can go back onto regular duties.’
‘Sir – I’d still be losing half my team.’
He waved away her objection. ‘Reality of post-recession policing, Simms – a lesson you had best learn sooner rather than later. Identify the victim,’ he went on. ‘Consolidate the case – but don’t spend money you don’t have on tests you don’t need, and do not go inventing non-existent leads.’
Simms watched him make his flat-footed way to the stairwell. As soon as he was out of sight she went to her office, closed the door and picked up the phone.
Fennimore was already up.
‘Well, don’t you sound annoyingly fresh and bright,’ she said.
‘Amazing the effect of a good night’s sleep,’ he said. ‘How did the search go?’
He listened without interrupting while she summarized the main points, including her conversation with Spry.
‘All of which sounds like good news,’ Fennimore said. ‘So why am I sensing doom?’
She raised her shoulders and let them fall. ‘I dunno, Nick – every time I find another kink in the course of the investigation, something pops up to whack it back into shape for me again. I hassle the dealers on the street and someone steps up and admits to tainting the deals. I rattle the sauna operators and suddenly Howard drops into my lap – courtesy of Crimestoppers, mind you, so I can’t check the source. I ask for additional tests on the swabs, and hey presto the victim’s belongings turn up in Howard’s flat, along with a nice little stash of heroin.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes, and criminals do sometimes get cocky,’ Fennimore said.
‘But it doesn’t make sense!’
‘Hey, I’m on your side,’ he said. ‘I’m just doing that thing I do.’
‘What,’ she said, ‘stating the bloody obvious?’
‘It’s sometimes the best way to reveal the obscure.’
‘Very gnomic,’ she said, knowing she sounded childish and sulky. He was playing devil’s advocate, she knew that. But she was hot and prickly and in need of a shower and breakfast and a few hours’ sleep. She closed her eyes, trying to find a point of equilibrium, but the room began to spin and she saw a vivid image of the murder victim, her face pulped to blood and raw flesh. Her eyes flew open again and she took a few breaths.
‘Okay.’ She tried to put her thoughts in order. ‘I checked with the FIDO for Cheetham Hill.’ Field intelligence development officers, or FIDOs, gathered basic intelligence on criminal activities in their local neighbourhood.
‘There hasn’t been so much as a whisper of George Howard being involved in drugs. Yet Howard – ex-government auditor, a man who pays his taxes because it’s the law – is now in the frame for possession with intent to supply a class A drug.’
‘He also runs a massage parlour, Kate – that’s not what you’d call a legitimate business.’ She heard the quizzical humour in his voice.
‘Sure,’ she admitted. ‘But Howard is too careful to make a basic error like this. He stays just within the boundaries that would make prosecution economically unviable for the CPS and he runs the business like it’s a bloody insurance office. He’s got his events schedule planned for the year, his pre-tax results all worked out – he’s even set up an online savings account labelled “tax fund”. Keeping a hundred grams of heroin on the premises isn’t cocky or careless, it’s stupid and lax, and in Howard’s book that would be really criminal.’
Fennimore was silent for a few moments. ‘Well, if he didn’t put it there … then someone else did.’
‘Well, duh!’ It was one of her teenage daughter’s phrases of the moment, and Simms instantly regretted it, but Fennimore went on as if he hadn’t heard:
‘They’re Howard’s drugs, or they aren’t his drugs – it’s as simple as that. The question is how to establish which is the correct proposition.’ He sounded intrigued, relishing the challenge.
‘How do we do that?’ she said.
‘We’ll need a detailed analysis of the heroin, obviously. DNA trace on the threads of the nipple stud bar. Since he unscrewed it
, rather than ripping it out, we won’t have blood all over the stud, so there might well be some good clean epithelia from his tongue or buccal cells from his lips in the screw threads.’
She took notes, grimacing slightly at the grosser details, but inwardly smiling. One of Fennimore’s best qualities was that he took every hypothesis seriously. He might tear it to shreds in the discussion that followed, but only in the interests of good forensic science.
‘The photo you found in the victim’s purse – is it professional, or a photo booth?’
The question stumped her for a moment. ‘I don’t know, let me think.’ She knew there had to be a good reason why he was asking, and she rubbed her forehead, trying to stimulate the brain cells into some kind of activity. It came to her slowly, out of a fog of tiredness. ‘Photo booth,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Photo booth pics are still tacky when they come out of the machine. If we’re lucky, the brown-haired beauty in the picture touched the edge of the print before it was dry, and you’ll get a nice partial at the very least.’
Simms emailed the lab to make the additional request, still cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear.
‘Anything else I can help with?’ Fennimore asked.
‘You couldn’t rustle up a few students to augment my team, could you?’
‘If you’re serious, Josh Brown has been agitating for more to do. I keep telling him he has a PhD thesis to work on, but I think he’s been bitten by the investigative bug.’
‘I’ll keep him in mind,’ she said. It wasn’t that she distrusted the student exactly, but he made her uneasy. He was hiding something, and until she knew what that was, she would never feel entirely comfortable with him.
Everyone Lies Page 20
