Small dry flakes of snow were falling thickly now, and she turned up her collar against the chill. A group of men blocked the pavement and, frowning, she moved to sidestep them.
One of them said, ‘That’s her,’ and she felt a stab of alarm. He held a Manchester Police warrant card in his hand. She recognized him vaguely as a DI she’d met before; he was saying something that didn’t make any sense. Two others of the group had stopped Nick Fennimore.
‘You are Kathryn Rebecca Simms,’ the DI repeated.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Look, what’s this about?’
‘Kathryn Rebecca Simms—’
She couldn’t work out why this idiot kept repeating her name. The two men with Fennimore were moving away and she called, ‘Nick.’ He didn’t turn. She reached in her bag for her own warrant card, but the DI seized her arm at the elbow and stripped her bag from her shoulder.
‘Hey!’ She jerked her arm free. ‘I’m police – my ID is in the bag.’
‘I know who you are, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m arresting you—’
‘What?’ She tried to listen, but the noise in her head was too loud, so she had to lip-read the rest.
‘… committing an indecent act in a public place—’
‘This is bullshit.’ She turned to walk away, but the second officer moved in. ‘It’s crazy.’
The DI caught her again and leaned in close. ‘Look, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to have to cuff you. But I will if I have to, okay?’
She glared at him, ready to do bloody murder, but there was no malice in his face – this was just a cop doing his job. Doing someone else’s dirty work, she thought with a hot surge of bitterness that almost blistered through her skin.
She nodded, breathing slow and deep. ‘All right, but you can let go of my arm.’
He held her gaze for a few moments longer, then she felt the pressure of his fingertips relax a little, and he released her, finishing the words of the caution. He gestured towards a waiting car – unmarked – a small mercy.
As they pulled away from the kerb, she glimpsed Nick Fennimore, his hair and shoulders flecked with snow. His expression was unreadable. Nick was so sensitive about his privacy since what happened to Rachel and Suzie; she couldn’t help wondering if he felt he hadn’t been roped in to this sorry mess against his better judgement.
Simms reported to Detective Superintendent Spry two hours later. The elevator doors opened directly onto an open-plan office and Simms drew a few stares immediately. She walked past desks and workstations and she could almost hear necks creaking as they craned to get a look at her.
Spry’s door flew open at her knock with such force it rattled the blinds on the windows. He snatched up a bundle of lab analysis requests from his in-tray and shoved them into her hands. With finger and thumb, he teased out a request for hair analysis on George Howard and laid it on top of the pile.
‘A new lab request,’ Spry said.
‘We’re looking for roofies,’ she said. ‘It might account for Howard’s amnesia.’
‘After I told you there would be no more lab requests.’
Like a magician doing a card trick, Spry found a second sheet and plucked it from the bundle in her hand. He was standing so close she could smell stale coffee on his breath. ‘Toxicology on the drugs seized during Operation Snowstorm,’ he said.
‘That isn’t a lab request,’ she said. ‘All I asked for was a printout of the existing report.’
‘Nevertheless, you contravened my specific and unequivocal orders to stop.’
‘No – I requested the Snowstorm toxicology a while ago.’ Her body was so tense her chest ached.
He stared at her as though she were a picture puzzle he couldn’t quite grasp. ‘Why exactly did you need them?’ he asked, in a tone that said whatever her answer was, it wouldn’t be good enough.
‘For comparison.’
‘You mean comparing your drugs deaths with a major drugs operation?’ He feigned surprise. ‘But why wasn’t I informed of this?’
‘Because I wasn’t sure if—’
He spoke over her. ‘Because, Chief Inspector, if you had told me, you knew damn well I would refer it to the Intelligence and Security Bureau. And you wanted all the credit for yourself.’
That part at least was true. She bowed her head.
‘When I received those, I called your office, but you weren’t in; I spoke to Renwick and discovered that George Howard is still in custody, that he still hasn’t been charged. Then I find out that you have been arrested – for indecency, of all things – and with whom?’ He picked up a photograph from his desk – Manchester Airport car park; Simms in the back of her car, topless, Fennimore stealing a peek. He held it in front of her face, his hand quivering with rage. ‘That train wreck of a man who was booted out of the Crime Faculty.’
She felt her cheeks flush hot with anger. ‘Fennimore has given me good advice—’
‘Irrelevant. In a criminal investigation, the source of information is just as important as the outcome, and so far as the ACC is concerned, Fennimore is tainted. Which means his advice, his lab analysis – anything he’s done for you in this investigation – is tainted.’
‘He’s one of the best forensic scientists in the UK—’
‘When his wife vanished, he as good as stole FSS resources in pursuit of his own private investigation, and he dragged you along for the ride. And now you invite him back into your life,’ he roared. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at? Are you actually suicidal?’ He stopped for a moment, breathing hard through his nose.
‘Who gave you the lab requests?’ she asked. ‘Who sent in the photographs?’
He stared at her, his forehead a deepening crimson, and she took the incriminating snapshot from his hand. ‘I’m guessing Crimestoppers. I mean, it’s been such a boon right from the start of this investigation, hasn’t it?’
He’d heard the sarcasm, but didn’t pull her up on it; in fact, he seemed wary.
She took the photograph from his hand. ‘This is bullshit. But you know that, sir, because the DI who arrested me was full of apologies when he let me go, and you would be top of his calls list as soon as I was out the door.’
He eyed her with dislike. ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’
‘I’ve every right to be,’ she said, grateful that he hadn’t heard the slight tremor in her voice.
He didn’t say anything, but his jaw clamped so tight she could hear his teeth grinding.
‘I’m guessing that the lab requests found their way into your inbox anonymously.’
He glared at her, and she held his gaze, daring him to tell her she was wrong. When she was sure he wouldn’t challenge her, she gave a curt nod of her head.
‘I did order the tests, and I did request the tox from Snowstorm. But you’ve got to ask yourself why someone would consider that a bad thing.’ She shrugged. ‘But since the intel was delivered anonymously we can’t exactly ask, can we, sir?’
Simms looked into his eyes, watching closely for his reaction, and thought she saw a shadow of uncertainty.
‘I’m being followed.’
‘You’re bloody paranoid.’ He spat the words.
‘The man who took this—’ she glanced at the photograph ‘—has been dogging my footsteps for days.’
He seemed appalled, but not out of concern her. All Spry wanted was a quiet life – a nice, tidy tie-up of a slightly perplexing case, and she had messed it all up. ‘What the hell have you stirred up, Simms?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘Give me a couple more days, I might have an answer.’
‘You are going home,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘If you send me home it’ll look like there’s something in this shit.’
‘Kate,’ Spry said, ‘you need to go home.’
It was the first time he’d used her given name in the entire interview, and she quailed inwardly, waiting for the hammer blow.
; ‘The photograph is splashed all over the local press.’
The room seemed to shift sideways. She bent forward to catch her breath, and discovered the photograph still in her hand.
‘And you still say I’m paranoid?’ She spun the image onto his desk.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You have the name of the victim. You have the perpetrator. That might be enough to bury this—’
‘Bury what?’ she said. ‘There is no case to answer.’
‘Maybe not, but you confused your priorities and you made bad choices – bringing Fennimore in, of all people.’
‘Without Fennimore’s advice, none of this would have been exposed.’
The look on his face said he fervently wished it hadn’t. ‘I want you to go home and think on the choices you’ve made. You ignored protocols, disobeyed direct instructions and orders, brought in someone the Assistant Chief would slap an ASBO on, if he could – you’re lucky he didn’t suspend you.’
Simms felt a spike of fear. Spry wouldn’t talk about suspension unless it was a real possibility. ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘I have work to do – we don’t have Marta’s full name yet, there are lines of inquiry I need to follow up.’
‘Which your team will do in your absence. The official line is, you’re exhausted, and you need a day or two at home with your family.’
He really seemed to think that they would get on with their investigation, and Humberside would look into the murder, and everything would be kept nice and simple and clean.
‘I believe there’s a link between Marta and the Hull murder victim.’
He huffed. ‘Well, you’re on your own there.’
Fear turned to anger. ‘Haven’t I been from the start of all this?’
He flushed darkly. ‘You forget yourself, Chief Inspector.’
‘To hell with it, I’m going to say it – there’s a serial abductor and rapist on the loose, who likes to torture his victims. Marta and the girl buried under the factory floor – they were probably murdered by the same man. Sir, I want it on record that I think this is the work of a serial killer.’
The silence roared in her ears. He looked embarrassed for her, and she became defensive.
‘It isn’t just me, sir. I spoke to the forensic psychologist – if you let me access my email—’
‘Stop!’ He raised a trembling finger. ‘That is enough. You will go home voluntarily, or you will go home under suspension.’
‘What?’ She stared at him, shocked.
‘Orders of the ACC.’ He seemed calmer, having the full force of ACC Gifford’s wrath to back him up. He went on, quietly and reasonably, ‘Meanwhile, I will ensure that George Howard is formally charged with Marta’s abduction, rape and murder.’
He waited until she was on her way out of the door, with every person in the main office straining to hear.
‘Oh, and, Kate,’ he said, ‘stay the hell away from Nick Fennimore.’
37
Simms stepped out of the building into darkness and a cold so intense it made her head ache. In the hours since her arrest, the sun had gone down, the temperature had dropped by another five degrees, and six inches of snow covered the ground. She had taken a side exit to the car park from habit, remembering too late that her car was still parked in the city centre. She cursed – she didn’t know the security codes for the doors, so the only way back in was by the front entrance, and there was bound to be media presence. But if she walked along the rear of the building and followed the road out, keeping to the far pavement, she might just slip past the gathered vultures unnoticed. She turned up the collar of her coat and began walking, her legs still weak from her confrontation with Spry. She felt dazed by the turn of events; not that she’d expected praise and a shiny new badge of acceptability, but this was a suspension in all but name.
She heard the dull thrum of a car engine and looked over her shoulder. A car rolled quietly over the compacted snow, headlights off, heading down the lane she was on. The car park’s security lighting gave an Irn Bru cast to the snowfall, but even reflected off the snow it wasn’t strong enough to see into the car. No headlights. Simms faced forward, the toes of her boots kicking up the powdery fall. She saw a gap between two parked cars and dodged into the next lane. The car accelerated, its wheels spinning in the snow.
Simms’s heart began to thud hard; she was twenty yards from the building, with at least another fifty to go before she reached the road, and not another soul in the car park. She hesitated, uncertain what to do next, and the car skidded around the end of the row, heading straight for her, juddered to a halt at an angle and stalled. The driver’s door opened and Simms braced herself for a fight.
A plump, pink-faced creature emerged, wearing a Fair Isle trapper hat with the earflaps down. It was DC Moran.
‘Jeez, Ella, don’t you know not to creep up on a woman in a deserted car park?’
‘Sorry, Boss,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to use the lights – there’s twenty-odd journos hanging around and I didn’t want to attract attention. I thought you might need a lift.’
Simms slid down as they passed the gaggle of reporters, trying to gain shelter from the snow in the overhang of the entrance, but Moran’s hat was a good decoy and nobody gave them a second look. They turned left onto the road and set off at a crawl over the fresh snowfall.
‘What did Spry tell you?’ Simms asked, when they were safely on the A56, heading for the city centre.
‘That you’re taking a few days’ leave. We’re to work on, and you’ll tie up any loose ends when you get back.’
‘I take it nobody’s falling for that?’
The detective’s forehead crinkled a moment. ‘There’s not that many of us still around,’ she said, neatly evading the question.
‘Has he charged Howard?’
‘He told DS Renwick to do it.’
It figured – Spry wouldn’t want his name anywhere near this, not with photographs of the lead investigator in her scanties circulating in the media. She cracked the window, suddenly needing more air.
Moran glanced at her, but didn’t comment. ‘Take a look in the glovebox,’ she said.
Simms flipped the compartment open; there were several precisely folded A4 sheets lying under a small LED torch and a Green Flag card. Nothing else – no sweet wrappers, tickets, receipts, pens or plastic carrier bags. She drew out the A4 sheets.
‘The calls list from Marta’s mobile,’ Moran said.
Simms stared at the printout in her hand. ‘How the hell did you get this?’
‘Service provider,’ she said, and Simms knew from the vague way she’d answered that she’d deliberately misunderstood. ‘The phone’s registered to Sally Hobbes.’
Simms turned to face her.
‘She’s ninety-six and lives in a nursing home – Alzheimer’s,’ Moran said.
Simms slumped in her seat. Why was she even bothering? Spry had taken charge of the investigation, Howard had been charged. It didn’t matter that the images of her with Fennimore were bogus – in Gifford’s eyes she was a liability, and he would not tolerate that. Humberside would deal with their body; she would establish Marta’s identity. If there was a link – and she was certain there was – nobody was interested. It could take days or weeks for the forensic evidence to come out, and even if it proved her right, Gifford would make damn sure someone else was tasked with the job. She ached with tiredness and was sick with worry about Kieran’s reaction to the photographs.
‘Boss?’ Moran said, and Simms realized that she had tuned her out. She stirred herself, breathing in the cold sharp air and making an effort for the young detective more than for herself.
‘Yeah. Yes, go ahead, Ella, I’m listening.’
‘One of the calls on the list was made a few minutes before the surveillance camera picked Marta up leaving the restaurant on the night of the murder.’
Simms snapped upright – Livebait restaurant was the last place Marta had been seen alive. ‘We need a reverse trace on a
ll these numbers. Prioritize the one Marta dialled from the restaurant; let me know as soon as you have it.’
‘Already got it.’
Simms shook her head. ‘How?’
‘Well …’ They pulled up at a set of lights and Moran tugged one of the earflaps of her hat. ‘The first bit of the number looked like a Firm’s mobile. So I called the switchboard and said someone had rung me, but they hadn’t left a message and I thought it might be urgent to the ongoing investigation.’ She swallowed. ‘It belongs to a DC Parrish; he’s on the Drugs Squad.’
Drugs Squad, Simms thought. Operation Snowstorm.
The lights changed; Moran drove on, Simms staring through the windscreen in stunned silence.
‘Talk to Sergeant Renwick, ask him to request the reverse traces on the other numbers.’
Moran threw her an anxious look and Simms said, ‘Ella, I know Renwick was on the Drugs Squad, but he’s okay.’
Moran didn’t answer.
‘What?’ Simms asked.
Moran pulled over to the kerbside, as if she didn’t trust herself to drive and tell Simms what she had to say. She left the engine running and folded her hands neatly in her lap. ‘I couldn’t understand why we hadn’t had the IMEI number for Marta’s phone,’ she said, ‘so I called the lab myself, said I was you.’ She glanced quickly into Simms’s face. ‘They told me they’d already sent the IMEI. I said, “When?” They said, “With the DNA results.”’
‘That was Tuesday,’ Simms said stupidly. She couldn’t process the information: two days ago, Renwick told her that the lab was backed up, hadn’t had a chance to try to retrieve the number, said he’d call them and give them a rollocking. She felt suddenly cold. Renwick had lied to her.
Moran spoke, eyes forward, her voice wobbling with nerves. ‘Boss, I don’t know what to do with this.’
In truth, neither did Simms. ‘Were there any voicemail messages on the phone?’
Moran nodded. ‘The service provider sent an MP3 file, but some of them are in a foreign language – Russian or something.’
‘Okay,’ Simms said. ‘We’ll need a translator – social services might be able to help.’
Everyone Lies Page 29
