Forcing herself to look a lot calmer than she felt, she kicked off her hiking shoes, and smiled at Alex. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, walking past him to the kitchen. Cass berated herself silently, wondering how the past always seemed to dictate the present as she pushed open the heavy door to the homely room.
It was the very definition of a country kitchen. Yellow pine warmed the room naturally, from the cupboard doors to the table and chairs in front of the hall door and the large welsh dresser along the back wall. Cass had hung ivy pieces around the ceiling and tiles with various food related images adorned the walls behind the sink and stove. The floor was terracotta tile and added to the warmth of the room by appearance only – Cass shivered as the cold seeped through her socks, causing her toes to curl slightly.
She made a pot of coffee, breathing slowly to calm her shattered nerves, and handed Alex a steaming mug before sitting down beside him at the small table.
‘I mailed you the vehicle examiner report last night. The brakes were cut and the air bag was disengaged. The examiner has made mention that it’s only possible to do that by having access to the vehicle engine section. The killer had to have done it before Susan got in the vehicle.’
Alex nodded slowly. ‘I figured that might be the case. I’ve already got Charlie, one of the sergeants on my team, digging into her life. Told her to check into when the car last had any work done. Did we get anything back off the vehicle?’
Cass frowned and shook her head. ‘Nothing out of place. They’ve swabbed the blood, but it seems pretty obvious it belongs to Susan and not the killer. I’ll go over everything fully in the strategy meeting back at the office once it’s all been compiled, but there’s going to be very little we can do at this stage, forensically speaking.’
Alex nodded. He’d expected as much but was still disappointed. He had a lot of information to trawl through for the investigation, but forensics always progressed a case much quicker. He felt the coffee grow heavy in his stomach as he thought about the tasks ahead.
Pallion, Sunderland – 21 September
He made a sandwich and sat down at the kitchen table.
It had been there since he was a child, and the top had the look of well-worn mahogany, the varnish peeling in places. Some of his few fond memories involved this table; his mother peeling potatoes and singing to herself as he’d watched. It had been one of the rare moments of lucid normality. He’d learnt not to interrupt her, letting her peel until she finished singing. His father had also left her to it, sometimes passing his son a piece of bread to chew on while dinner was cooking.
He felt his expression harden. His father had been weak. Pandering to him like that.
Unfolding the newspaper, he ate some of the food as he read.
Front page news. As it should be.
He had always understood the need to stay ahead of the game. It wouldn’t do for them to find out who he was. After scanning the article to see if there was anything else he needed to know, he refolded the newspaper and placed it on top of the small pile beside the back door before he wandered into the living room and paused at his toolbox.
He slowly ran a hand along the side, feeling the rough paint brush against his slightly callused palm. He remembered the day his father died. That weak man who had provided for his wife and child all his life in a manner that was proper and correct, had died suddenly and in a most undignified way. Naked as the day he was born, in a bath full of cold water, the ruined electric radio submerged with him in the freezing water. It had been ruled an accidental death.
But he knew differently. It was most definitely not an accident.
The toolbox represented everything his father had not been. It was strong, logical, and practical. He’d found it in the garage among the items his mother had inherited from his grandparents.
And he’d claimed it as his own.
He had handled every item in the box, and added new tools as he came across them provided they were useful. His mother had always loved how strong his hands were. She had loved the wooden items he created, telling him over and over how he was such a good boy.
Even at forty she still thought I was a good boy. Stupid bitch couldn’t see past the nose on her face.
The sudden rage that flowed through him shocked him. Despite everything he felt he had put up with from his pathetic father and God-fearing mother, he had always been very good at holding his emotion in check, at least when he was with others.
His mother had never been subjected to the temper he knew lurked beneath the surface. She had attended her church and forced her godliness onto him and hadn’t once realised how condescending she’d always sounded to him. She genuinely believed that by ridding him of sins she’d raised him to be a good son and a good man. He grinned to himself, knowing it wasn’t entirely his mother’s fault that he wasn’t – she hadn’t known her son half as well as she’d thought she did. His life had never been about pleasing her. Ever since he was a child, he had known he was different. Everything he did was controlled, with the pros and cons measured up prior to him acting.
His penchant for working with wood had developed when he was a teenager. It had started as an escape – he could do odd jobs for the church and his mother would leave him alone, believing him to be doing ‘God’s work’. But he found he enjoyed the way the wood felt in his hands. He liked allowing it to develop and then seeing the finished article. He also enjoyed the way the wood withered and crackled when burnt. Many a time he had produced a masterpiece, just to sit and watch the flames take it. It was more to do with the control it gave him.
Precision and forward planning were how he had managed to do such a good job of killing Susan. He had checked the papers and listened to the news. The police knew it was murder. But he was confident they didn’t have a clue who was to blame.
Now, it was time for his research to begin in earnest. The old man was ripe for the picking. He was always on the same bench, the half-drunk bottle of cheap, white cider in his hand as he snored loudly or yelled random comments at people passing by. He had promised himself that his next show would be more spectacular after all. And he had every intention of fulfilling his promise.
Grabbing his sandwich and toolbox, he wandered out of the front door to his car.
Ryhope Police Station – 21 September
Cass looked up from her desk as Frank Reynolds knocked politely before entering. Aged in his forties with greying hair tidily swept back, he looked every bit the part in his blue police issue coveralls. Frank had been the handyman for the Ryhope station since well before Cass had started there. She had always found him a little lacking in personality, but he was reliable and always got the job done.
Today was no exception as Frank opened his mouth to speak.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Cass. I’ve had a look at your car. When I checked the connections, they were corroded. I think you’re probably going to need a new battery.’
He carefully placed her keys on her desk and stepped backwards.
‘Thanks, Frank. Much appreciated. I’ll sort something out.’
‘I’ve let the engine run for an hour or so on the jump cables, so you should have enough power to get to the shop for a new one. Skippers on the seafront is reasonable if you don’t have someone in mind. He’ll fit it for free too.’
‘I’ll do that. Thanks again, Frank,’ said Cass, turning her attention back to the screen.
Frank turned to leave, then paused and looked back.
‘You seem busy. Nothing too serious I hope,’
‘It was for the victim.’ Sighed Cass. ‘Murder enquiry,’ she added with a sweep of her hand over the untidy piles of paperwork she was attempting to compile on her desk.
‘If you’re busy I can pop out and get the new battery for you?’
‘Thanks for the offer but I can pass the seafront on my way home,’ said Cass, a little distracted as she shuffled a pile of papers, her brow furrowing in concentration as her train of thought returned to the i
nvestigation.
Taking the cue, Frank turned quietly and left the office.
Moments later, her mobile rang, the tone shattering the silence in the office.
‘Cass Hunt,’ she said into the microphone after swiping the screen to answer.
‘Cass? This is Barbara Whitstead of the Sunderland Echo. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Susan Mackintosh. I’m looking to quote the lead forensic examiner?’
Cass moved the phone away from her head for a moment, shocked at the call. She heard a faint hello and slowly placed it back to her ear.
‘How did you get this number, Barbara?’
‘Oh, I have my sources,’ said the reporter cryptically. ‘A quote please?’
‘No comment. And don’t call me again.’ Cass hung up quickly, taking a deep breath. She hated reporters; always there to twist words and print inaccuracies on cases. She was curious as to how Barbara had got her personal number though. She rarely gave it to anyone. It was on the force systems as her method of contact when out of work but no one in the force would give it out.
Chapter Six
Sunderland City Police Station – 21 September
‘What exactly are you saying? Because it sounds like you’re confirming that you’re cutting the CSIs by six and losing two CSMs – am I correct in thinking that?’
Cass had paled slightly, listening to Kevin clarify with the woman from HR. She hadn’t caught her name, but she really didn’t like her. The woman was completely lacking in empathy, sitting there telling them about massive jobs cuts with as much emotion as if she were telling the stock girl to order more pencils.
Kevin’s face was slowly turning a deep shade of red as he listened to her clipped reply.
‘Yes Kevin, that’s what I’m saying. It’s not just your department you know. The job cuts are happening force wide. You knew we had to cut costs, and this is the only way to do it, unfortunately.’
‘I don’t care what’s happening to other departments, I care what’s happening to my staff. It just isn’t plausible to cut the front-line forensic staff when we are already operating on reduced staffing levels due to sickness and natural wastage. Cut the vans, the equipment, hell cut the hours we work, but we cannot operate on fewer staff than we have now.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry but you’ll just have to learn to cope. The long and short of it is that CSIs do not count as front-line staff. I’m sure your DI can arrange something whereby the attendance criteria for jobs can be re-assessed so your staff don’t become overworked. We’ll have a look at redeploying them into alternate roles in the force if this is at all possible.’
‘Not front line? Redeploying into alternate roles? Where the hell’s the benefit in placing a fully forensic-trained, experienced member of staff into a job where they lose their skill set and the force lose their knowledge and availability to work?’ Kevin hit the desk with his fist in frustration.
‘Well what’s the selection process going to be based on? How is it possible to choose who will stay and who will go exactly?’ interrupted Cass, watching as the HR advisor’s cheeks flushed a deep pink at Kevin’s sharp tone. She placed a hand on his arm in an effort to placate him.
‘Your DI has the information on selection processes and I’m sure he ‘ll discuss this with you. I have another meeting to get to, so please excuse me.’
Cass and Kevin just stared as she got to her feet, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the room without a backwards glance.
‘Boss, tell me this isn’t happening and we are going to fight this. Losing staff is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard to date,’ said Kevin, looking over at DI Hartside who until now had been silent.
‘Kev, you need to take a breath and a step back. This has all come down from the powers that be. The cost reduction is government based, you know that, and Marilyn was right, it’s force wide. You need to know I fought this every step of the way. They wanted to cut ten CSIs, two CSMs, and the two supervisors. I personally compiled the figures that said the most we could lose was six and two.’ The DI’s voice had turned whiny as he tried his best to placate Kevin and the rest of the team.
Cass stared at the DI with disdain; Simon Hartside had never been what she considered a good choice as head for the department. He was a police officer, had never dealt with forensics, and had no idea what went on behind the scenes as he had been fast-tracked to inspector so had sat behind a desk for most of his career.
‘You compiled the figures based on what data?’ she asked, squeezing Kev’s arm slightly to still the volcano that was about to blow.
Simon stared at her, almost not comprehending for a moment. ‘Well, on the data from the Socard database naturally, the number of jobs attending offset by the time it took to deal with and the number of staff on duty at the time. It was all completely above board I assure you.’
‘Did you take into account travelling time, note writing time, meal breaks, and additional duties that aren’t required to be put onto Socard, such as putting exhibits through the property system, liaising with officers, and giving advice, keeping the vans maintained and what-not?’
Simon backtracked rapidly, his eyes starting to twitch a little. ‘Well all of that has an impact, naturally. There’s nothing set in stone numbers-wise at this stage. We still have to go into consultation with the union and come up with feasible losses in all areas of the force.’
‘You keep saying we. Just how involved are you in the force-wide cost-cutting, sir?’ asked Kevin.
‘Well erm, I’ve been asked to assist HR wherever possible in the dissemination of the information, especially to all areas of the crime department. Look, I have your interests at heart. This isn’t going to be easy for any of us. They are talking of dropping the DI wage bracket which will mean even I ‘ll be affected.’
‘You lose a couple of grand where the staff could lose their job. Yeah, I can see how badly that would affect you. I’ll be going to the union today, boss. This whole thing is a bloody farce.’
And with those parting comments, Kevin and Cass got up and left the room, leaving the DI shaking his head in apparent confusion.
Ryhope Police Station – 21 September
Cass was sitting in a world of her own, staring out of the window. Dark clouds scurried above shedding a dreary look on the normally pretty courtyard to the back of her office, and the rain began pelting the window in time with the pounding in her head.
She wasn’t a born worrier, but the thought of her job being at risk while having to inform the staff and try to maintain a modicum of positivity was weighing heavy on her mind. First on her list was Gregory Parker.
Cass picked up the phone and punched in his number from memory.
She could practically see him in front of her with his half-mast trousers as he pulled his cart round the golf course. Greg was just entering his second week of annual leave, and any spare moment he got was always spent playing.
She had just scheduled an emergency depot meeting to inform the rest of the on-duty staff, and letting Greg know by phone was only fair. One of the most experienced CSIs in the force area, Greg had been in the police for over twenty years. He’d seen people come and go and had dealt with more than his fair share of crap. One of the things Cass liked most about him was his direct attitude. He said it as it was. But that didn’t mean he’d take the job cuts in good form. He’d had a beef with the DI since he moved into the department and Cass wasn’t looking forward to telling him about the news.
She felt her breath catch a little as he answered.
‘Parker,’
‘Hey, Greg, it’s Cass. Sorry to bother you when you’re on annual leave but I just need to make you aware of a situation. Do you have a second to speak?’
‘Yeah sure, boss, what’s up?’
‘We’ve just had a meeting with DI Hartside and HR…’
Greg had remained silent throughout her explanation but now he let loose, and Cass moved the receiver from her ear a little.
<
br /> ‘You’re fucking kidding, boss. The twats are shafting us again! They’ve already screwed us with our shift allowance and call outs and now that wanker is doing it again. I seriously hope we’re going to fight this, Cass. Cutting the CSIs and CSMs is a ridiculous idea – we’re already operating on bare minimum. It’ll get to the point where everyone ends up off sick with exhaustion.’
‘I know how you feel, Greg. We’re standing together on this. We’re going to be looking at Hartside’s reports and the numbers. Nothing’s set in stone at this point – it’s a proposal. I’ll keep you updated though.’
‘Yeah, I know you will, boss. Thanks. I’ll see you in a week but ring me if anything changes in the meantime.’
Cass smiled a little as she hung up the phone, the mental image of Greg in half-masts now firmly implanted in her brain. Grabbing her paperwork, she headed into the other office to tell everyone else.
Chapter Seven
Ryhope Police Station – 22 September
Dave Jones shuffled his way down the corridor of the station, pushing a trolley which was rapidly becoming filled with bin bags. For a man in his forties, he moved like one nearing his sixties, due mainly to the pronounced limp. It was an old injury he had sustained when serving for the army: ‘Thanks for your service, son, now bugger off and join the real world.’
Dave had been cleaning at the Ryhope depot ever since. He’d seen people come and go, had his share of crap from management, knew every nook and cranny in the station almost as well as he knew his own home, and had made it his business to know everyone in the nick. He was nice enough to folks, most looked forward to a cuppa and a chat when they passed his office. Apparently, he made the best coffee in the whole of Sunderland and naturally the biscuits always helped seal friendships. If that’s what they could be called.
‘Hey, Dave. How’s things?’ Cass’s voice came from nowhere, interrupting his train of thought.
With Deadly Intent Page 6
