by Mari Hannah
All eyes had followed her there.
Using her forefinger, she indicated various points on the map as she spoke. ‘As you can see, Marjorie Smith lives here on the western end of the small terrace, Barry Hall in the centre, Teresa and Jerry Dixon on the eastern end, closest to our crime scene. Hold that thought, guys. It may well be significant. It just so happens that the Dixons’ shed was broken into at some point between Monday, June twentieth – two days prior to Justine’s death – and Wednesday, June twenty-ninth when Dixon went out to mow his lawn and found the lock on the shed door broken. A pedal cycle and a wrench had been removed. He reported the theft at four p.m. that day.’
‘MO?’ Stone asked.
‘Unsophisticated: break lock, gain entry, steal from within.’
‘You think Justine saw something on her run and got whacked for it?’
‘I don’t know is the honest answer, but if that missing tool caused the injury to the back of her head, the offender may have used the pedal cycle to make a quick getaway.’
‘Sarge?’ Mitchell had his hand up.
Frankie’s nod was his cue to carry on.
‘The cyclist Mrs Smith caught a glimpse of at around the time of Justine’s death bothers me. She hadn’t mentioned it to Andrea when first questioned and was a bit vague when I pushed her on it. There’s some dispute over whether she saw it on the twenty-second or mistook the date. Because of that, I double-checked with every car driver approaching the humpback bridge from either direction.’
‘And?’
‘None of them saw a bike.’
‘That’s good to know. It could well be significant.’ Frankie addressed them all. ‘Look, there’s been a lot of rural crime lately, so I could be wrong. Assuming for one minute that I’m right about this, once the person responsible for assaulting Justine dragged her across the road and on to the bridge, he’d have been shitting himself, wouldn’t he? If I were him, I might have ridden off-road into the woods, dumped the bike and legged it cross-country. So maybe Marjorie wasn’t mistaken.’ Frankie caught Stone’s eye. ‘This is a new line of enquiry, boss. We need to get on top of it.’
‘Volunteers for working the weekend?’
Several hands shot up, Abott’s among them.
‘Dick, you know the score. First thing tomorrow morning, I want you out at those cottages. I want war and peace on this burglary. Re-interview all tenants, not only the Dixons. Find out if they saw or heard anyone lurking on or near their properties in the weeks prior to Justine’s death; we need details of that bike – make, model and distinguishing features. If Dixon has photographs, all the better. I want pictures, SOCO and detailed descriptions of the shed and its contents. If there’s anything else missing, let me know. Go to town on it. That’s your only reason for breathing tomorrow. Mitch, go with him and don’t come back empty-handed. Frankie, widen the search area for the murder weapon, the bike and Justine’s phone. I want it circulated force-wide with a warning marker: leave in situ/preserve for forensic examination/contact the incident room immediately.’
Detectives were already rising to their feet.
The team dispersed for the day.
49
Multiple messages poured in as Tim Parker finally dared to turn on his mobile phone: texts from Alex, Carole, James . . . and one or two from his Lloyds Bank manager, Arthur Conrad. Fuck him. Fuck ’em all. Carole was different. He’d just come from there. Where else would he turn at a time like this? She was loyal and made few demands. She knew how to enjoy herself and was about as far from Alex as it was possible to be. One drink had led to two . . . two to three . . . and, before he knew it, they were indulging in LSD at gone midnight.
Carole had begged him to stay over. As wasted as he undoubtedly was, Tim had to face Alex and find out what had been going on in his absence. He’d misjudged the acid, though. Thought he had time to get home before the full effects entered his system. He was tripping already, his head in a spin, his concentration draining away as he tried to keep his car on the road without drawing attention to his erratic driving, creating panic among other road users.
He needed a Traffic cop like a hole in the head.
That would please Alex.
Tim’s head was spinning. Why should he explain himself to her? He’d messed up. What of it? He wouldn’t beg forgiveness from her or anyone else. It was partly her fault that he was in this mess. The baby. It all started with his baby. Then there was Daniel . . . his failing business . . . and now Justine. It was all too much.
Tim wiped sweat from his brow, wondering what Stone and Oliver had told his wife. More importantly, what she’d told them. There was only one dead cert in play here: she’d be waiting up, wanting answers, demanding them.
Another pill . . .
Another swig of whisky.
Tim’s left hand was tingling.
Taking it from the steering wheel, he examined it closely. His wedding band shone, revolving like a lighthouse beacon around his finger, a beam of light so strong he was forced to look away. The road ahead morphed into a technicolour highway. Street lamps flashed by, headlights and taillights reflecting on the wet surface becoming brighter and more pronounced, a kaleidoscope of light trails shooting off in every direction.
Weird . . . but cool.
The dials on his dashboard danced like stars. His own personal universe. He felt bigger than ever before. The mini he was following suddenly blew up into a monster truck, and bigger still, until it blotted out the night sky. Seeing the giant vehicle, Tim had an urge to race it along the sparkly superhighway.
Pulling into the outside lane, he floored the accelerator, his speedometer climbing . . . sixty . . . seventy . . . eighty miles an hour. Unable to see properly, he felt the jolt of self-preservation, the possibility of insanity or death. Either was preferable to his current reality. He pulled hard on the steering wheel. Miscalculating the distance to the nearest lay-by, he hit the brakes with such force that the car skidded on wet tarmac, the vehicle glancing off the kerb at the back edge of the pull-in. The inertia threw him forward. His safety belt – the only thing preventing serious injury – almost snapped his collarbone.
He fumbled for the handle.
The door wouldn’t open. Pushing hard made no difference. His car was lodged against a rubbish bin as tall as a house. Slamming the vehicle into reverse, he backed up. Behind him, a horn screamed a warning that he’d overshot the broken white line. The rear of his motor was now on the main carriageway – half on, half of the road, at an angle – putting him in imminent danger from passing traffic. Approaching lights in his wing mirror were lightsabres reaching out to him, closing fast. He dropped his head on one side and stared at them.
He’d never seen anything so exquisite.
Another horn . . .
Yeah, yeah.
Selecting ‘Drive’ Tim pressed the accelerator. The car shot forward just in time. Somehow, he managed to manoeuvre the vehicle into a parallel position in the safety of the stopping area. He tried the door again. This time it worked. A gulp of fresh air . . .
Finally.
Stumbling out on to the grass, Tim bent double. He threw up so violently, vomit splashed on his shoes and strides, a pungent mixture of bile, alcohol and drugs. He reeked of the stuff but he was high and this crazy trip was brief respite from a horrible reality. His perfect life had fallen apart: his marriage, his company, his relationship with Daniel – Tim could no longer look the kid in the eye. Her perfect boy was all Alex could think of. What about his kid?
His poor, dead baby . . .
Tim wanted her. A child he could see daily. His own flesh and blood. And if he couldn’t have her, he wanted no one. A tear ran down his cheek, seeping into his mouth, warm and salty. Drugs were all well and good but what had begun as a daily pick-me-up had fast become an addiction. Even he had to admit that this was a trip too far.
<
br /> Tim wept.
He’d been out of control for weeks, heading for disaster. Tonight, by the skin of his teeth he’d managed to keep it together. Stone and Oliver’s presence at the airport was the last thing he needed. To call it a shock was a gross understatement. He had to admit, it had shaken him to the core. Embarrassing didn’t cover it . . .
Not even close.
Had he managed to hide his anxiety from the police, or was he kidding himself? He was sure he’d kept his cool but then, as now, his heartbeat had become irregular. That walk from Northern Command HQ to his vehicle was the longest he’d ever take with the heat of Oliver’s gaze bearing down on him from above.
Tim took a deep breath, his temperature rising, his most vital organ kicking a hole in his chest from the inside as he climbed into the car. His mobile was lying on the front passenger seat. He stared at the screen, his whole body shaking. It bleeped an incoming text from Alex, the fifth since he’d turned the phone back on. The words grew bigger and indistinct the more he looked at them. . .
The police were here.
Are you OK?
Call me.
A x
Five words was all he managed to type:
They think I killed Justine.
Did you?
Tim dropped the phone and held his head in his hands, elbows on the steering wheel, then sat up straight as more lights lit up the car. His eyes drifted to the roof of his vehicle, then to the rear-view mirror. A car had pulled up behind. No one exited the vehicle. The driver lit a cigarette and so did he. Was he under surveillance? Were they watching his every move? Oliver was right: he was paranoid. Had they let him go to see what he’d do next? What would he do next?
50
Saturday morning: 8 a.m. Stone had the SIO’s office to himself, an opportunity to carry out a mini-review of his case. He liked days like this, time to concentrate without the distractions and constant interruptions of his normal daily routine. Phones were never silent in a murder incident room but call-takers wouldn’t bother him today unless something vital came in. Then it would be game on, all systems go, calling staff back on duty if warranted.
Through his office door, David could see Frankie working away at her desk. When she’d stuck her head in earlier, she was a very different person from the one who’d left the night before. Fresh and well-rested. Her motivation was up and it showed. It was her commitment he valued most, that and a keen sense of justice, a drive to collar the bad guy and lay the victim to rest.
He felt it too.
Changing priorities were commonplace in any murder investigation. By their very nature, such cases were complex; it was often necessary to alter direction at a moment’s notice. Unravelling these appalling tragedies was challenging but also immensely satisfying. It’s what drew them both to the job, made them consider all the angles and kept them on their toes. Stone was hoping she was right about the burglary they had discussed last night. Time would tell if they would get a lead from it.
God knows, they could do with a break.
Sensing his gaze, Frankie stood up and approached his office door, checking her mobile as she walked, presumably for news. As she peered through the glass, he beckoned her in. ‘I’ve widened the search area,’ she said. ‘I bloody hope that the East Cottage break-in is connected, otherwise I’ll have blown a substantial amount of our budget on fresh air.’
‘It’s a chance I’m prepared to take,’ Stone said. ‘We need that murder weapon.’
‘Hopefully Dick and Mitch will have something for us later. It’s a bit early to expect anything yet. I’ll cross everything and leave you to it.’ She turned to leave.
He spoke as she opened the door. ‘Have you got a minute, Frank?’
‘Sure.’ She remained in the doorway.
‘Take a seat.’
‘I’m fine standing.’ She was staring at him, a little wary. When he failed to explain what he wanted, she closed the door and came closer, a concerned expression. ‘Am I in trouble?’
‘Why? Have you done something wrong?’
‘No, but you don’t look very happy.’ She bit the inside of her cheek, curiosity getting the better of her. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say that, whatever it is, it has Windy’s name written all over it. Parker is well connected. Don’t tell me his complaint reached the Chief already.’
Stone was shaking his head. ‘Even if it had, he hasn’t a leg to stand on. It won’t come to anything, I promise you. Any grievance will be written off . . . along with all your others.’
‘There aren’t that many.’ Frankie knew he was pulling her leg. ‘Besides, who’s counting? I have more commendations than reprimands and that’s good enough for me. A detective with no complaints isn’t trying hard enough, according to my old man. He should know. He had plenty. How about you?’
‘Only the one.’ Stone felt his stomach tighten. He hoped she wouldn’t ask about the investigation into his conduct. He’d spent the best part of a year trying to put it behind him. The fact that he’d been absolved of all responsibility didn’t make him feel any less of a disgrace. In his eyes, he was culpable. No matter how many times they said that he had nothing whatsoever to reproach himself for, he’d always be guilty. Preservation of life was the fundamental duty of any police officer.
‘From the look on your face, I’m guessing it was a full-on disciplinary matter,’ Frankie said. ‘What did you do? Lamp someone who didn’t like Ant and Dec?’
David’s grin never made it to his eyes.
Frankie bridled. ‘Do you and I have a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Do you?’
He knew what she meant. ‘No.’
‘Well, my bullshit detector just went off the scale.’ She sat down . . . it was time to get serious. ‘David, what is it? I get the impression that I’ve stepped in something very painful. Boss, we all have our demons. Is it something to do with your homecoming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get it off your chest. There’s no one around and we’re waiting on developments. I’m not being pushy, but if you feel the need to share, now’s as good a time as any.’
‘Drop it, Frank.’ Stone shifted focus. ‘We’re not waiting anyway. There’s been another armed robbery. Kelso this time. A hundred grand’s worth. Occupants tied and gagged. This organised crime needs sorting.’
‘Not our patch. Not our problem.’
‘Except Windy is offering cross-border cooperation.’
‘Wonder where he found that in the manual.’ Frankie turned to face him. ‘You’ll be OK. As acting SIO, he can hardly pull you off the job.’ The implication was clear. She looked crestfallen. She’d worked hard on the investigation and wouldn’t want to give it up before bringing about a resolution.
‘Don’t worry, Frank. You know too much about this case. You instigated the search for Daniel. To be honest, the explanation given for that bothers me. We have no idea if it is or was in some way connected to Justine’s death. I want you on it with me. You have local knowledge I may need to tap into.’
‘So does Dick. In case you haven’t noticed, Windy likes him.’
‘You’re my DS.’
‘And if Windy doesn’t play ball, I’ll be out on my ear.’
He knew she was right. ‘I’ll argue our case if and when that happens – I can be persuasive when I have to be. You want a drink?’
‘No, I’m good thanks. Any thoughts overnight?’
‘Plenty,’ he said.
‘You still want me to re-examine Hamilton’s alibi?’
‘I think so, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely. We know his vehicle pulled on to that garage forecourt in Gretna and that his credit card paid for the fuel.’
‘It’s definitely his van?’
Frankie nodded. ‘The time and date on the receipt match up too, bu
t I had a look at the CCTV. The blown-up image of who gets out isn’t great. Sharpe might have been happy to eliminate Hamilton but, I have to say, I’m not convinced.’ She pointed at his computer monitor. ‘I’d like your opinion, if you wouldn’t mind giving it the once-over.’
Stone logged on and brought up the image.
Seconds later, he looked up. ‘I agree, it’s not great quality. We – or should I say you – need eyes on Hamilton. We’re kicking our heels until Dick and Mitch return with the results of their enquiries. Find out where Hamilton is today. Carlisle is only sixty miles away. If he’s not there, Gretna isn’t that much further. You can be there and back by lunchtime and it means I’ll have more to throw at Windy, should he start making his mouth go.’
Frankie was already halfway to the door.
51
She left Northern Command HQ immediately, filling her police vehicle up before leaving North Tyneside. She took the A1 south, then turned right on the A69, the road that would take her west to Carlisle, a little over an hour’s journey. Gary Hamilton had done well for himself. He lived in an elegant Grade II listed house in Stanwix Village, north of the River Eden, less than a mile from Carlisle city centre.
Building work was obviously a lot more lucrative than policing.
According to his other half – a lovely woman who introduced herself as Lucy – Gary was working the weekend at the same Gretna address Frankie knew about, a renovation project that, as a sole trader, would take him months to complete.
Lucy tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Is this about the accident?’ she asked. ‘Gary told me all about it. Terrible business. I think he was quite shocked by it.’
Frankie wouldn’t collude with him by lying to her. ‘I need a quick word with him, that’s all.’ She looked up. There was not a cloud in the sky. ‘It’s a lovely day. I quite fancy a run up to Gretna. Saves me having to head to the station. I have something I need to show him.’ At least that part was true.
