Brady had spent two hours interviewing her. He had needed to because he didn’t trust what she was telling him. In that time she never once wavered from her belief that this was all a mistake and that her fiancé was innocent. The problem Brady had was she really believed it. And she had the evidence to substantiate it. When Brady had asked about their six-month relationship, it was clear that to her Lee Harris was perfect – too perfect for Brady’s liking. They never argued; he had never raised his voice to her and definitely not his hand. They socialised with friends together. He even got on with her parents. When Brady had asked about his parents and family, Lisa Sanderson had in all innocence answered that he had none. That for whatever reason he didn’t talk about his past.
Brady had asked her about the three nights on which the victims were attacked – the three nights that Harris wasn’t working. Unfazed by the question, Lisa Sanderson had simply worked the dates back on her mobile phone. She had answers for every night in question. And she was convincing, because she was so transparent. There was nothing about her that told Brady she was lying. Her face blushed when Brady asked about their sex life, which was nothing to write home about. She described him as a gentle, considerate lover. Brady could tell that she meant it. She wasn’t just giving Brady some spiel that she had prepared in advance. This was heartfelt. According to her, Lee Harris wasn’t interested in anything that strayed from the missionary path. When Brady had mentioned sadism, Lisa Sanderson’s startled eyes had looked at Brady with a combination of horror and disgust that he could even suggest such a thing. Brady was bitterly convinced by her. Despite fighting it, he’d had no choice but to accept that Lisa Sanderson was telling the truth.
And this was before she delivered the coup de grâce.
She had remembered all three nights – in detail. But it was her alibi for the first night that had Brady foiled. It was physically impossible for Harris to be their man.
It had been two months ago, at the end of August. Harris had booked time off work. She remembered specifically because it had been a surprise: he had taken her to Paris for the weekend, where he’d proposed.
Brady had taken a moment in the interview room to compose himself after she had delivered this damning news. The possibility of Lee Harris being in Paris while simultaneously raping and mutilating Sarah Jeffries, the first victim, was nil.
The second night in question was Saturday, September 28th. Again Lisa Sanderson was unfazed. Harris had just moved into her rented accommodation that afternoon. She had smiled at Brady and confided that he had ‘pulled a sickie’ that night so they could celebrate their first night officially living together.
Brady had asked her if he left her at any point during the early hours of the Sunday morning. Her answer had been an empathic ‘no’. That they’d slept together. She went to sleep with him. And she woke up with him. It was the same story for all three nights.
The third time he’d missed work had been over a week ago – Friday, 18th October. She had been really ill with flu. He had been so concerned he’d rung in sick himself so he could look after her.
Again, according to Lisa Sanderson, Harris never left the flat.
What troubled Brady was the CCTV footage of Harris’ taxi early that Saturday morning when Harris was allegedly looking after her.
Brady had pulled no punches. He had told her that they had footage of her fiancé’s silver Passat pulling up to talk to the victim in the early hours of last Saturday morning shortly before she disappeared. Lisa Sanderson had reacted as Brady had expected. She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t believe him because Lee Harris had been in bed with her. Brady had asked if she had an explanation as to why Lee Harris’ car was caught on CCTV cameras in Whitley Bay. Her answer was simple – she didn’t know.
And the problem was, neither did Brady.
Lisa Sanderson was the perfect alibi. Looking at her, Brady knew no court in the land would convict Harris; not with his fiancée giving evidence that he had spent all three nights with her. And crucially, when the first victim had been attacked the suspect had been in Paris proposing.
‘And?’ Brady asked Amelia.
‘And what? Do you want me to say she was lying? That she is so infatuated by Lee Harris that she made the whole Paris scenario up?’ Amelia fired back. She shook her head. They were all feeling it. The frustration.
‘She’s not lying, Jack,’ Amelia added.
‘I know she’s not. That’s what I don’t understand,’ Brady said as he looked at her.
But Amelia had no answers for him. There were none.
‘You definitely verified the details she gave us on the Paris trip?’ Brady asked, turning to Conrad.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all too convenient. That the suspect just happened to be in a different country on the night of the first attack. It felt like a cover-up to him. But Lisa Sanderson was so damned convincing. And the evidence was indisputable. If Harris was in Paris on the night of the first attack it was impossible that he could be their suspect.
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad answered, unsure of why Brady was asking. He already knew the answer. ‘Lee Harris booked a weekend trip to Paris through Thomas Cook’s in Whitley Bay. Five thirty p.m. flight outbound on Friday, 30th August returning on Sunday, 1st September at seven p.m. that evening. Hotel was included in the package. I checked with the hotel in Paris and they definitely booked in.’
Brady nodded. He had heard it before but he’d been hoping there was something, anything to cast doubt on the alibi. But the only thing that didn’t work was Lee Harris as their suspect. It physically couldn’t be him. The question now was whether Harris was actually protecting the rapist? Because if Harris wasn’t driving his car the night of Chloe Winters’ attack, someone sure as hell was.
But who?
‘All right, so what are we left with?’ Brady asked.
‘Who was driving Lee Harris’ car?’ Conrad suggested.
‘Yeah . . .’ Brady muttered. ‘And so far, that’s all we’ve got on him. That he’s an accomplice.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not? You might have to face the reality.’
Brady swilled a mouthful of scotch around as he contemplated Amelia’s words. He swallowed it, savouring the numbing effect.
‘Meaning?’ he asked.
‘Just maybe Lee Harris is innocent—’
Brady’s face was enough to cut Amelia off.
She sighed, irritated. ‘Look, just hear me out. OK?’ She waited before continuing, just to make sure that Brady was going to give her a chance to speak.
‘Maybe he lent his car to a friend because he was looking after Lisa Sanderson on the Friday night? Remember she said she had to get an emergency doctor’s appointment on the Saturday because she was so ill?’ Amelia suggested. ‘Maybe this friend worked as a taxi driver that night earning some extra cash? I know there are rules and regulations but I’m sure this has been done before. Or maybe this friend was driving back from somewhere. We don’t know. What we do know is that Lee Harris couldn’t possibly have been driving that car.’
‘So, we’re looking for “a friend” of his now?’ Brady asked with an unmistakable edge to his voice. He couldn’t hide the fact that he was feeling more and more pissed off the longer the conversation went on.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not get rid of the gut feeling that Lee Harris was their man. There was something about him that Brady couldn’t shake. No matter how hard he tried. Even being faced with a watertight alibi made no difference. If anything, his gut feeling increased.
‘Well, you have nothing on Harris, Jack. I know you don’t want to hear it but it’s the truth. His girlfriend not only provided him with an irrefutable alibi for the night of the first rape, she even gave you the information to corroborate it. Which Conrad did,’ Amelia pointed out.
Conrad cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Kenny did the background check for me with the travel agents. I didn’t personally do it.’
Amelia flas
hed him a look of irritation. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you delegated the job or not, Conrad. I’m just establishing the facts.’
‘And the facts are crap!’ Brady muttered.
Nobody responded.
‘What about the fact that his face matches the photofit?’ Brady pointed out.
‘As did Jake Munroe’s and God knows half of the men in North Tyneside!’ Amelia protested. ‘It’s not a great image, Jack. It was based on the memories of three victims who were all blindfolded before they got a really good look at him. And who were all drunk. It’s difficult to remember things clearly when you’re drunk. Or at least as drunk as they were.’
‘What? So you’re saying it’s the victims’ fault that we’ve got a “one photofits all” image?’ Brady asked, in the mood for a fight.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Christ! I’m the last person to level that kind of accusation. You know my stance on rape. It doesn’t matter if a woman is lying flat-out drunk and naked on the ground in front of a man, it doesn’t give him the right to just take her. Regardless of the clothes she wears or the amount of alcohol she consumes, rape is rape.’
Brady took another drink. It wasn’t what he was implying but it wasn’t worth arguing the toss with Amelia over such a delicate subject.
‘Christ, Jack! My point was just this – if you tried hard enough you could even make DCI Gates fit that photo,’ Amelia explained as a way of calming the situation down. It was pointless them turning on one another because the day had not gone as they’d hoped.
Brady waited a moment. He thought it best to let the air settle before talking.
‘So, the upshot is that we interview Lee Harris in the morning and see what he has to say about the CCTV footage of his car driving up to the victim?’
It was all they had on him.
Amelia looked Brady directly in the eye.
‘I don’t think you have an alternative,’ she replied.
It wasn’t what Brady had wanted. He needed to hear her professional opinion about Lee Harris. He wanted to know that he wasn’t the only one struggling with the concept that in twelve hours’ time they could be releasing a serial rapist back onto the streets. Brady accepted Lee Harris had an alibi but he was sure that if he had the time he’d be able to unpick it. But he was running out of time. All he could do was see what tomorrow would bring. At least they had the CCTV footage, which meant Harris still had some explaining to do.
Chapter Thirty
Monday morning came round faster than Brady had anticipated – or wanted. One minute he was lying in bed unable to sleep. The next, his mobile phone was vibrating around on the bedside cabinet like a Mexican jumping bean.
He had forced himself to get up. He’d showered, dressed, smoked two cigarettes and drunk a strong black coffee in advance of the day ahead. Anything to keep him calm. But it had failed. As soon as he walked into the station he knew it was going to be a bad day. But he had no idea just how bad.
‘Brace yourself, bonnie lad,’ Turner greeted when Brady showed up at work.
He’d barely got a chance to get through the doors.
Turner was standing behind his reception desk waiting for Brady to turn up.
‘Good news I take it?’ Brady questioned with a playful look in his eye.
Whether Turner meant it or not, his troubled expression said it all.
‘What? It can’t be that bad can it? Don’t tell me I’ve been sacked but someone forgot to inform me?’ Brady said, still half-joking.
But he knew from Turner’s silence that now was not the time for messing around. Something was clearly worrying him.
‘Go on then. Put me out of my misery,’ Brady said, resigning himself.
‘Well . . . there’s no other way to say it, I suppose,’ Turner said as he raised his spidery white eyebrows at Brady. He took a moment to lick his pale, thin lips before continuing: ‘Gates has released Harris. He was let go last night.’
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
‘What? You’re fucking with me? Right?’ Brady spluttered, not believing what he was hearing.
Turner apologetically shook his scraggy head.
‘I wish I was, bonnie lad.’
‘On what grounds? I still had to interview him! I’m scheduled to interview him in half an hour!’ Brady said, staring at Turner in disbelief. For a brief moment he thought the old desk sergeant might have finally lost it.
‘It was down to Harris’ girlfriend. Seems her father plays golf at Tynemouth Golf Club with Gates. Small world, eh? Sanderson owns a large transport business. You see his name plastered over half the haulage trucks around here.’
Brady shook his head. Sanderson and his business were inconsequential. It was the action that Gates had taken that bothered Brady.
‘What the hell authority has some haulage owner got over Gates?’
‘Well, last night Lisa Sanderson and her father, accompanied by some top-notch solicitor from Newcastle, brought in the person who was driving Lee Harris’ car while he was off ill last Friday night. Seems he lent his car to another taxi driver. Their car had packed up suddenly so they borrowed Harris’ for the shift until they could get theirs back on the Saturday. So—’
‘Wait a minute!’ interrupted Brady. ‘Why the hell wasn’t I informed about all of this? Another suspect is brought in and I don’t hear about it?’
‘You’re arguing with the wrong person, Jack. I’m only warning you. That’s all,’ Turner pointed out.
‘Look . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s just . . .’ Brady shook his head. He didn’t mean to take his frustration out on Turner. It was just that the news had thrown him. No. It had more than thrown him, it had completely shaken him to his core. How could Gates just step in and take over his investigation? Brady couldn’t understand why Gates had failed to inform him of the night’s events without giving him a chance to have some input. He had worked on the case for two months now. Two, long, hard months, for Gates to just walk in at the eleventh hour and fuck everything up.
Brady took a deep breath while he tried to clear his head.
‘So why was I not informed?’
‘Because Sanderson specified that he wanted Gates to clean this mess up. That this was his future son-in-law they had in custody. And from all accounts you had nothing on him. He had rock solid alibis for all three nights.’
‘But what about this driver? Is he in custody? Has he even been questioned?’ Brady asked, not really believing that he was having to ask the desk sergeant what the fuck was going on with his own investigation.
‘She gave a statement. It was verified by East Central that she worked that night.’
‘She?’ Brady asked, unable to contain his surprise.
Turner nodded.
‘Yes. She looked like she was in her early fifties. Times are changing. In my day you would never have seen a woman taxi driver. Not working those late shifts and having to pick God only knows what kind of fares . . .’
But Brady wasn’t listening. He needed to talk to Conrad. But first he had a few choice words for Gates.
‘Jack? Did you hear me?’ Turner asked, concern etched all over his lined face.
‘Believe me, I heard you, Charlie,’ Brady acknowledged as he turned and headed for the door into the back of the station. ‘Is Conrad in?’
‘He’s spent the past hour pacing up and down waiting for you.’
‘So why the fuck didn’t he call me?’
‘Why do you think?’
Brady thought about it. Conrad didn’t want to be on the receiving end when Brady heard the news – understandably.
‘And Gates? Where is he?’ Brady asked.
‘His office. Wanted me to pass on the message that he wanted to see you as soon as you clocked in,’ Turner answered.
‘I bet he fucking did!’
‘Remember. You didn’t hear any of this from me, bonnie lad. OK?’
‘You know me better than that. Anyway, thanks.’
Brady knew that Turner would get it in the neck for simply looking out for him. He had no idea how Turner got hold of his information; for a copper soon to retire he still had his finger on the pulse. And Brady appreciated that, more than Turner would ever realise.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Sit down, Jack,’ Gates ordered. It was a polite but firm instruction.
‘I’d rather stand,’ Brady replied.
‘I mean it. Sit down,’ Gates repeated.
‘No thank you, sir,’ answered Brady.
Gates said nothing.
He leaned back in his chair and waited for Brady to speak.
Gates’s dark brown eyes were now fixed unnervingly on Brady. They betrayed the cold, detached intelligence of a man who would never allow himself to be compromised. The fact that Brady had just walked into his office unannounced or invited infuriated him. But this was DI Brady’s typical maverick style. For some reason he didn’t think that the rules of the job or the etiquette that came with his rank applied to him.
Brady waited for Gates to address him. He was dressed in his usual black uniform. Brady looked at the lines on Gates’s hard face, a testimony to his dedication to the job. His skin was covered in harsh, pitted acne scars, some partially hidden by a permanent five o’clock shadow, but there all the same.
Gates irritably pulled the cuffs of his expensive white shirt down past his black uniform, glaring at Brady while he waited for him to explain his intrusion. It didn’t happen. Brady stood perfectly still, hands clenched tight by his side with his eyes firmly fixed on Gates. He was intentionally not speaking for fear that what he wanted to say might have him thrown in the cells for a couple of hours to cool off. Or out on the streets with his P45 in his hand.
Minutes went by like this. Both at a stand-off. Brady had already decided he could spend all day eyeballing Gates until he got the apology and explanation he deserved. And he wanted Gates on his hands and knees when he said it.
It was Gates who finally broke the silence.
‘I take it you’ve heard, then?’
Blind Alley Page 20
