‘Same man?’ Ruth asked.
‘Same sunglasses, same build, same hair. Yeah, could well be,’ Nick said.
‘On the afternoon that Rosie was taken, Kathy Wright wasn’t lying about her whereabouts because she was having an anonymous shag.’
‘She’s lying because she’s meeting one of Blake’s associates,’ Nick said, joining the dots.
‘Have we got the visitor records?’ Ruth asked.
‘Yeah, somewhere. Although it could well be a false ID,’ Nick said.
‘What about the recording of their conversation?’ Ruth asked.
‘Bollocks,’ Nick said. ‘It’s the day before we put the surveillance equipment into the tables.’
‘If we send it over to Merseyside Police, they might be able to ID him,’ Ruth suggested.
Nick was still looking at the still image on the screen. ‘Can you play the supermarket CCTV again, Boss?’
‘Yeah,’ Ruth said, intrigued by what Nick was thinking.
Clicking the iPad, she rewound the CCTV and played it again.
They watched the blurred images of Kathy Wright and the man talking in the car.
‘Can you zoom in a bit?’ Nick asked.
Clicking on the screen, Ruth clicked again. The image was bigger, but the resolution was poor.
Walking to the monitor, Nick looked closely and gestured to the image. ‘He’s pointing his finger at her. Can you play it again?’
They watched the CCTV again, now zoomed in. Nick was right – the man was jabbing his finger at Kathy Wright.
‘He’s threatening her. And this is a few hours before Rosie goes missing,’ Ruth said.
That makes sense, Ruth thought. Blake’s associate met Kathy Wright in the car park to give her a final warning. Play ball, and do as you’re told, or else.
Three hours later Rosie had been taken.
SIAN LOOKED AT HER watch as she and French walked into The Royal Oak pub in Capelulo. It was dark, old-fashioned and smelt of wood and beer. There were a few scattered customers at tables and two elderly men sitting at the bar nursing pints. They looked like men who did this all day, every day, Sian thought.
Carrying the emotional hangover of moving out of Ruth’s house, Sian was trying to keep preoccupied and busy. Having told Ruth that she needed time to think, the irony was that it was the last thing that she wanted to do. Her thoughts went to and fro like a frenetic game of tennis. She loved Ruth more than anyone she had ever met. She wanted them to share everything and to grow old together. But she feared Ruth would never get over what had happened to Sarah because there was no resolution. She didn’t blame her. How could she live properly with the knowledge that Sarah might still be out there? It was like living your life on pause. But that meant there was always a part of Ruth’s mind and heart somewhere else. Didn’t Sian owe it to herself to be with someone who could be entirely present?
Taking her warrant card from her pocket, Sian went over to the young female barmaid who was stacking glasses. She had a little name badge on her polo shirt: Seren.
‘Hi there, Seren. DC Hockney and DC French from Llancastell CID. We’re investigating the disappearance of Rosie Wright,’ Sian explained.
Seren – thick blonde hair in a ponytail, no make-up and fresh faced – nodded solemnly. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
‘Oh, yeah. Horrible,’ Seren said.
‘Do you know Rosie Wright?’ French asked, leaning slightly on the bar.
‘Not really. She was a couple of years below me at school. Then she went to the sixth form college,’ Seren said. ‘Her dad drinks in here.’
‘Could you tell us who was working here last Monday night?’ French asked as he pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen.
Seren thought for a moment as she wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘I was on. And so was Robbie?’
‘Robbie?’ Sian asked.
‘Robbie Milton. He starts at lunchtime today if you want to speak to him?’ Seren explained.
‘You had a band playing last Monday night, is that right?’ French asked.
‘Yeah. The Bombardiers. Out in the garden,’ Seren said as she pointed to a press clipping from a local paper that was up on the wall.
‘What time did they play?’ French asked.
‘Started at seven. Finished about nine, nine-thirty.’
Sian nodded, took out her phone and got a photograph of Martin Hancock up on the screen. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘Yeah. Martin,’ Seren said.
‘Was he here on Monday night?’ Sian asked.
‘Not sure. I think so,’ Seren said.
‘He’s a regular, is he?’
‘Yeah, a few times a week. Weekends, you know?’
‘Sian?’ French said, shooting Sian a meaningful look.
Sian followed his gaze up to the newspaper article that had been pinned to the wall. French went over close and pointed to the large photo of the Bombardiers that was central to the article.
‘What am I looking at?’ Sian said as she joined him.
French pointed to one of the wooden tables in the pub garden that were in the photo of the band. Sitting around one table were Steven Haddon, Jason Wright and Martin Hancock.
‘That all looks very cosy,’ French said sardonically.
‘Puts paid to the idea that Steven and Jason hardly know Martin Hancock, doesn’t it?’ Sian said before she turned to Seren. ‘Have you ever seen Jason Wright drinking with Martin Hancock?’
‘Yeah, all the time,’ Seren said as though this was a silly question. ‘This time of year, they sit at the far table out in the garden,’ Seren explained.
‘Can you tell me what time they all left the pub that night?’ French asked.
‘Quite early. Actually, it was about fifteen minutes after the band started to play. I assumed they didn’t like the band or thought it was too noisy, you know?’ Seren said.
‘So just after seven then?’ Sian asked.
‘Yeah. That sounds about right.’
Sian shot French a look – so where did they all go just after seven o’clock?
IT WAS NEARLY THREE by the time Ruth and Nick walked into Interview Room One. Both Kathy and Gareth Wright had been brought in for questioning under caution, but were being kept apart so the detectives could get the full story.
Kathy looked tired and drawn. Ruth wasn’t surprised. How would anyone sleep knowing their daughter was missing and fearing that Curtis Blake wanted you and your son dead?
Ruth sat down decisively. The hangover was gone and she was starting to get into her stride. She also wanted to know what the bloody hell Kathy Wright was playing at.
‘Kathy, I need to remind you that you are still under caution,’ Ruth said as she shuffled through her files.
Reaching into an envelope, Nick pulled out a still image from the CCTV they had seen at the staff security entrance at HMP Rhoswen.
‘For the purposes of the tape, this is item reference five-six-T-G-five. It is a still image from CCTV footage that we have obtained from HMP Rhoswen. It shows your son Gareth Wright arriving at the staff entrance to the prison. He hands you a small rucksack and you hand him an envelope,’ Nick stated.
‘So what? This has nothing to do with the fact that Rosie is still missing and you two clowns are doing fuck-all to find her. Don’t you get that?’ Kathy growled at them.
Her duty solicitor, a middle-aged man, balding, thickset, shifted and gave her a quick look as if to imply that she should tone it down a bit.
‘You know what I think? I think that Gareth was supplying you with drugs that you were distributing to your colleagues and Frank Cole. The rucksack that Gareth gave you had the drugs in. The envelope that you gave Gareth was his payment,’ Nick said.
‘Prove it,’ Kathy said.
‘Hold on a second, Kathy. Let me finish,’ Nick said sarcastically. ‘So, you and Gareth have a nice little family business going. It pays for the ten-thousand-pound car that your son drives aro
und in. You keep some of the money hidden around the house. And everything is hunky-dory until Curtis Blake arrives at Rhoswen. He wants to take over the drug and phone market in the prison. He puts Frank Cole into hospital. He intimidates you so that you now have to work for him. Maybe he threatens your family? You don’t want to work for Curtis Blake.’
Taking out another photo, Nick slides over an image from the supermarket car park. ‘For the purposes of the tape, I am showing the suspect item reference seven-eight-T-Y-five. You meet with his man on the day of Rosie’s disappearance and from what we can see, he clearly threatens you.’
‘You told me that this man’s name was Andy and you met him for anonymous sex on a website?’ Ruth asked.
‘Yeah?’ Kathy said. ‘That’s what happened.’
Ruth pulled out a photograph of the man, late-forties, shaved head, and showed it to her. ‘For the purposes of the tape, I am showing the suspect item reference nine-three-R-T-four. This is the man that you met in the car park and the man we can see in the CCTV.’
‘So what?’ Kathy said.
Ruth and Nick knew that they now had Kathy on the ropes. She was tired and frightened and not thinking clearly. Otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed with Ruth that the man in the photo was the man that she met.
‘Would it surprise you to know that the man in the photo is Tony Kelly, a well-known associate of Curtis Blake?’ Nick said.
‘No. I ... didn’t ... know who he was,’ Kathy stammered.
Ruth leaned forward and delivered Kathy her well-rehearsed, compassionate performance. ‘Kathy, did Tony Kelly threaten you or your family?’
Kathy had nowhere to go. Ruth could see that the walls were closing in on her and she was terrified. Eventually, Kathy looked at the floor and nodded.
‘Did Tony Kelly threaten to hurt Rosie, Kathy?’ Ruth asked again.
‘No, no. Not directly. He just said I needed to do what I was told or there would be major repercussions,’ Kathy said quietly. She started to tremble.
‘Did they take Rosie?’ Ruth asked.
‘I don’t know, I swear I don’t know. She’s my daughter and I just want her back,’ Kathy whimpered as she began to sob. It was all too much for her.
‘Did Rosie know what you and Gareth were doing?’ Nick asked.
‘No. How would she know?’
‘We have phone calls from Curtis Blake’s prison phone to a burner phone close to your house, Kathy?’
‘Blake just wanted to know when I was coming back to work. He said it was messing up his business ’cos he couldn’t get the drugs and phones into Rhoswen without me,’ Kathy said, wiping tears from her face and sniffing.
‘Did he mention the car bomb?’ Nick asked.
Kathy nodded, but she was now sobbing again. Ruth could see that she was breaking with the strain.
‘What did he say to you, Kathy?’ Ruth asked gently.
‘He said ... he’d ... he’d heard there had been a nasty accident outside my house. He said it was lucky that ... I didn’t get hurt.’
‘Are you willing to testify to any of this, Kathy?’ Ruth asked.
‘I can’t, can I?’
‘Why not?’
‘What, and go into witness protection? How’s that going work? Relocate to some shit hole in the Outer Hebrides. No thanks.’ Kathy wiped her eyes and nose with a tissue.
‘Reduced sentence?’ Nick said.
‘I wouldn’t make it as far as the court doors. You know that,’ Kathy said quietly as she looked down at the floor and shook her head.
Ruth shrugged and said, ‘You and Gareth are still both going to serve time. And that makes you vulnerable.’
Kathy looked at her. ‘I’ll just have to take my chances.’
Ruth waited for a few moments of silence to allow the tension to build again.
‘Kathy, you need to tell me what happened to Rosie. Where is she?’ Ruth said gently.
‘I swear I don’t know. I would give anything to see her and know she’s safe. She’s my little girl. I promise I don’t know where she is or what happened to her.’ Kathy’s shoulders began to judder as she sobbed again. ‘Rosie’s ... just my little girl.’
CHAPTER 21
Five days, fifteen hours
It had only taken Sian and French five minutes to drive up the hill to Bluebell Cottage where Martin Hancock lived. Sian wanted to know why he had lied about his whereabouts on the night of Rosie’s disappearance. It was a strange decision to claim that he had been at home all night because that gave him no witnesses to his alibi. Instead, Hancock had been at The Royal Oak pub. They had photographic proof that he had sat with Jason Wright and Steven Haddon. They would have provided a secure alibi for him. So why did he lie about his whereabouts? Where did they all go at seven o’clock when they left the pub?
A moment later, Hancock opened the door. He didn’t look particularly fazed to see them and ushered them both into the living room, where they sat on the immaculate blue sofa.
‘Mr Hancock, there are a couple of things that we would like to clarify with you as part of our investigation,’ Sian explained.
‘Fire away,’ Hancock said with a disarming smile. Sian really didn’t like him – there was something creepy about him. She knew that was hardly the basis for a conviction, but it was her copper’s instinct.
‘You told us you were here late afternoon and all evening last Monday,’ Sian said, reading from her notebook.
‘That’s right, I was,’ Hancock confirmed.
French frowned for effect, and then looked at his notebook. ‘Which is strange as the barmaid at The Royal Oak distinctly remembers you being in the garden with Jason Wright and Steven Haddon.’
‘Oh gosh. Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. I was at the pub for a while that evening,’ Hancock said in an unflustered way.
‘Why did you lie to us, Mr Hancock?’ French asked.
‘I didn’t lie. It was a genuine mistake. I just forgot,’ Hancock said with a shrug.
‘How well do you know Jason Wright?’ Sian asked.
‘Not that well. I see him at the pub. We have a chat.’
‘The staff at The Royal Oak seem to think that you spend a lot of time together at the pub. Is that right?’ French asked.
‘You seem to be making more of this than you need. I have a drink once in a while at the pub with Jason Wright. There’s no law against it. He’s a nice bloke, that’s it.’
‘What about Steven Haddon?’ Sian asked.
‘And sometimes I have a drink with Steven as well. I think you’ll find that having a drink and a chat with locals at the pub is very common in this country,’ Hancock said sarcastically.
‘What time did you leave The Royal Oak?’ French asked.
‘I have no idea. Not late, I don’t think,’ Hancock said.
‘The staff seem to think you left just after seven o’clock?’ Sian said.
‘That seems about right.’
‘And Jason and Steven stayed at the pub?’ Sian asked, seeing if Hancock would trip himself up with another lie.
‘No, I think they left about the same time as I did,’ Hancock said.
‘Where did you all go?’ French asked.
Hancock frowned – he clearly didn’t like the question. ‘We didn’t go anywhere. I went home. I assume that Jason and Steven did the same.’
Sian had been dying for a wee for about an hour. She would have waited but she also fancied a quick snoop around Hancock’s home. He was hiding something.
‘Mr Hancock, could I use your toilet for a second, please?’ Sian asked.
‘Yes, of course. Up the stairs and straight over,’ Hancock said.
Getting up, Sian felt the plush carpets under her shoes. The landing was bright with tasteful pieces of modern art on the walls. As she made her way to the bathroom, she saw the door to Hancock’s bedroom was ajar. Pushing it gently, the door opened a little more. It was exactly as she had expected. Clean, chic and impeccably tidy.
Her eye was drawn to the distressed wooden bedside table that had been painted eggshell blue. A photograph in a frame sat at its centre.
The photo was of a carefree sixteen-year-old girl in a T-shirt. She was beaming at the camera.
It was Rosie Wright.
HAVING ORGANISED FOR Kathy Wright to be taken back to Capelulo and kept in protective custody with armed officers, Ruth and Nick made their way to interview Gareth Wright.
When they entered the room, Gareth was in the middle of an animated conversation with his duty solicitor. It was clear Gareth Wright had been discussing a full confession with his solicitor. He was clearly terrified that Blake was going to have him killed and he was going to admit to everything.
Ruth got through the preliminaries quickly before the duty solicitor made it clear that Gareth was willing to cooperate in return for some kind of witness protection.
Ruth looked at Nick and then down at her notes.
‘Where’s your sister Rosie, Gareth?’ Ruth asked.
‘I don’t know. I swear down, I don’t know. I wish I did know ... Jesus, she’s my little sister ...’ Gareth looked a little teary and wiped his eye with the cuff of his jacket.
Ruth waited a moment. She needed to start asking questions about the stuff that Gareth was happy to talk about. Once he started to talk, maybe he would reveal more.
‘Gareth, is it correct that you supplied you mother with drugs and phones to be smuggled and sold in Rhoswen prison?’ Ruth asked.
‘Yeah ...’ Gareth said as he looked down at the floor and nodded.
‘What kinds of drugs did you smuggle in, Gareth?’ Nick asked.
‘Everything ... weed, cocaine, smack, spice. Whatever they needed. Sometimes there were special orders for prescription drugs. Benzos like diazepam, or sleepers.’
‘How many officers were helping your mother distribute these drugs?’ Ruth asked.
‘I don’t know. Three or four from what she said. I haven’t got any names though, except a bloke called Doug. That’s the only one she talked about,’ Gareth explained as he jigged his left leg nervously.
The Devil's Cliff Killings Page 20
