by Bill Rogers
‘And when will that be?’
‘By tomorrow morning at a push.’
‘Then you’d better push harder. And what am I supposed to tell the press in the meantime?’
‘That an officer is assisting the police with enquiries on matters unrelated to Operation Firethorn. An internal investigation has begun, led by Professional Standards Branch, and it is far too early to comment. Any speculation on the part of the press or media would be both unhelpful, and ill-advised. Future enquiries should be directed to the Press Office.’
Helen Gates nodded approvingly. ‘Don’t get too comfortable down there on The Quays,’ she said. ‘We could do with you back here on a permanent basis.’ She turned her attention to Gordon. ‘The second the forensics are back on Henshall I want to know. I don’t want to hear it from Professional Standards, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Gordon said.
‘As for Firethorn, I’ve arranged for the Operation Sumac deputy senior investigating officer to come up here to give you the benefit of her experience. She’ll be here a week from Thursday.’
Gordon frowned. ‘Is that really necessary, Ma’am? Can’t it wait for the next case review?’
‘No, Detective Inspector, it can’t wait. This is a linked series investigation. I’m just following the Association of Chief Police Officers guidance. Section 2.6.5 of the Murder Investigation Manual. I assumed that you were too.’
‘Sumac,’ he said, ignoring her barbed remark. ‘That the Ipswich murders?’
‘Correct. Since they bear a striking resemblance to ours, her input could be extremely valuable.’
‘If I remember correctly, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘they had over three hundred dedicated officers work that investigation. I have seventy, plus twenty civilians. And we’re liaising with twenty other forces. We are receiving over two hundred and fifty calls from the public every day, and that’s only going to escalate. I need more bodies, Ma’am.’
Gates’s eyes narrowed. ‘Point taken,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She started to leave, then turned in the doorway. ‘Don’t push your luck, Gordon,’ she said. ‘It’s running out.’
He waited for the door to close. ‘Luck,’ he said. ‘Since when did we get any of that?’
Jo shared his anger and frustration. The upper echelons spent more time pandering to the bean counters and the ACPO guidance than providing the tools to finish the job. Every investigation needed a little luck. Those involving serial predators needed a great deal more. Gordon had been doing everything by the book, and he was right: they needed more resources to work the detail, to mine the mass of information building up. Somewhere in there lay a nugget of gold that would give them their first real lead. Experience told her that even with the right resources it could take days or months to find it. That was where the luck came in. And somewhere out there was another victim, for whom time was running out.
Chapter 31
SATURDAY, 13TH MAY
Max hung his jacket on the coat stand that Dorsey had magicked up, and came to join Jo and Ram by the coffee machine. He held aloft two brown paper bags.
‘Breakfast’s up!’ he said. ‘Come and get it.’
‘Perfect timing,’ said Jo, handing him a mug of coffee.
‘Where’s Andy?’ he asked.
‘His wife gave him a three-line whip. She takes Oliver to chess club on Saturdays, so Andy has to ferry Harriet to football.’
‘That’s the price you pay for married life,’ said Ram. ‘Your life’s not your own. Unlike us lucky so-and-sos.’
Jo was no longer sure about that. Perhaps if she’d paid as much attention to her relationship with Abbie they’d still be together. And would it have been such a hardship having to take their children to sports clubs instead of working these insane hours?
‘What have you brought us?’ said Ram, seizing one of the bags.
‘Two bacon baps, one bacon and egg for me obviously, and three pains au chocolat.’
‘Do me a favour,’ said Jo. ‘Remind me to go to the gym this evening. If I hang around you two much longer, I’m going to end up looking like DCI Holmes.’
‘Speaking of whom,’ said Ram, ‘we’ve set up a video conference with him. We were just waiting for you to arrive. Let’s take this lot through to our MIR and get stuck in before he calls.’
‘Glad to see you lot are enjoying yourselves,’ Gordon grumbled. ‘Don’t mind me.’
Ram waved a half-eaten bacon bap. ‘We won’t.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Jo. ‘His mother’s just flown back home and he’s bingeing on everything she forbade him from eating.’
‘Next time get her to take him with her,’ Gordon retorted.
‘So where are we up to?’ Jo asked.
‘We’ve got the forensics results. Henshall’s rug had been regularly steam-cleaned, which in itself is suspicious, and that eliminated any possibility of extracting DNA. However, there were fibre residues – black denim, and faux fur – deep in the pile that are consistent with the clothes described by two of his alleged victims. They’ve also retrieved two strands of hair from the rear footwell carpet that match one of his accusers.’
‘He’s already explained that away,’ said Max, chewing fiercely. ‘He let them sit in the back of his car to shelter from the rain while he told them why they had to move on.’
Gordon attacked his chin. ‘I know. It’s a shame they had to move in on him straight away. If it hadn’t been for Firethorn, Professional Standards could have kept him under extended observation, and eventually had him bang to rights.’
‘What about Firethorn?’ Max asked. ‘Have they found any connection?’
Gordon shook his head despondently. ‘Sadly not. Save us a hell of a lot of trouble if they did. Forensic examination of his car, tablet, and desktop PC continues. Further analysis of his work diary eliminates him from two of the four Firethorn murders; he was on duty with a colleague when the first occurred, and on holiday in Spain when the second happened. We’re having those verified as I speak.’
‘So that just leaves the two most recent. Both in Manchester,’ Ram observed. ‘Where he’s alleged to have committed these other offences?’
‘That won’t make any difference,’ Jo pointed out. ‘If we’re saying the crime behaviour and the forensic evidence link all four to the same person, including the latest – where we know Henshall never left his house – then that eliminates him as our unsub.’
‘Unless he has an accomplice,’ said Max.
There was silence while they processed that.
‘That’s the kind of blue-sky thinking I can do without right now,’ said Gordon at last.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Jo told him. ‘Andy more or less ruled that out.’
Gordon scowled.
‘What was I saying about academics?’
‘What have Professional Standards decided?’ Jo asked.
‘They’ve spoken to the CPS. He’ll be suspended on full pay while they continue the investigation.’
‘That sounds as though they intend to prosecute.’
I agree,’ said Gordon. ‘Then it’ll come down to whom the jury believes. Your alleged three victims or DC Henshall.
‘In the meantime,’ he continued, ‘the mind-numbing sifting of witness statements, CCTV data, and responses from the public to the appeals for information continues. The only good news is that Helen Gates has been as good as her word. We’re being given a further sixty officers to help with all that. There’s no more room at Central Park, so they’re giving us a satellite MIR in Longsight nick.’
He paused theatrically. Jo sensed some bad news on its way.
‘Speaking of ACC Gates,’ he said, ‘she’s called a press conference for this afternoon to try and get them off our backs. She wants us there, Jo. You and me both. Bring your flak jacket.’
Chapter 32
It was standing room only in the Major Incident Room. There were even people in the corr
idor beyond the fire doors straining to see. To Jo’s dismay, Simon Levi, Deputy Director of the NCA Organised Crime Command, was here, deep in conversation with Helen Gates. He saw Jo, excused himself, and marched over.
‘Stuart,’ he said. ‘This is becoming a regular occurrence. One to which I am not looking forward.’
So why you and not Harry Stone? she was tempted to ask.
‘Have you any idea what the weekend train service is like from Euston to Manchester?’ he continued. ‘Diversions on the West Coast Main Line for track maintenance and repairs mean I’ll be lucky if I’m home this side of midnight. And for what? To cover your back, and to try to keep the Agency out of the headlines.’
Levi hadn’t been shy in coming forward at the end of each of the last two investigations, Jo remembered. He had bathed in her reflected limelight. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.
‘I’d be very happy to explain to the press the role that we in the BSU have been playing, sir,’ she said. ‘That is what the Assistant Chief Constable has asked me to do.’
Levi glared at her.
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ he hissed. ‘I’ve spoken to ACC Gates, and she agrees with me that a brief noncommittal statement from me will suffice. All you have to do, SI Stuart, is sit there trying to appear confident, and leave it all to me. Do you think you can manage that?’
Jo gave him the saccharine smile she reserved for arrogant and officious misogynists. She had learned a long time ago that it was a waste of time and energy making enemies of them. Besides, it was only a matter of time before he moved on and up, made a fatal error of judgement, and was quietly put out to pasture. Men like him always got their comeuppance in the end.
‘I’m sure I can manage that, Deputy Director,’ she replied.
The press officer called the meeting to order, and they took their seats. As soon as the usual ground rules had been laid, Helen Gates took the mic. ‘With reference to Operation Firethorn,’ she began, ‘I can confirm that a person has been assisting us with our enquiries. That person has been interviewed and is no longer a person of interest. The investigation is ongoing and I would like to take this opportunity to urge members of the public, many of whom have already provided us with information, to continue to do so.’
A forest of hands went up. Jo was surprised at how much more orderly the newshounds seemed to be compared with the previous occasions. She wondered if it was because there was a disproportionate representation of local and regional reporters, given it was a Saturday.
The first question, from the BBC North West correspondent, came as no surprise. ‘What about the police officer you arrested? Is he still a person of interest?’
‘A serving officer has been questioned in relation to wholly unrelated matters. He has been released without any charges having been brought.’
Yet, Jo said to herself.
A red-top newshound was straight in. ‘Is it true that this officer was a detective on the Firethorn investigation who was being questioned about his association with known prostitutes?’
Helen Gates managed to keep her composure, although the expressions on the faces of one or two of the others on the panel betrayed their disquiet. ‘I repeat,’ she said, ‘this officer was questioned in relation to other matters. He is not a person of interest in relation to Operation Firethorn.’
Next she selected a journalist from the Manchester Evening News. ‘Do you have any suspects at all?’
‘We are following a number of leads,’ Gates replied. ‘It would not be prudent for me to be specific about them at this stage of the investigation.’
The atmosphere that fell over the room told Jo she was not alone in interpreting that as a no.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Holmes is the senior investigating officer,’ said the reporter from BBC Radio Manchester. ‘Why isn’t he here to answer our questions, Assistant Chief Constable?’
Helen Gates visibly relaxed at having been let off the hook. ‘DCI Holmes is busy leading the investigation. It would not be an effective use of his time.’
‘Isn’t it time that someone of a much senior rank took over this investigation,’ someone called out, ‘given that it doesn’t appear to be getting anywhere?’
Jo had been expecting something like this, just not quite so soon.
‘I have complete confidence in DCI Holmes,’ said Gates, sounding ominously like the owner of a Premiership football team about to replace her manager. ‘He is supported by expertise from the National Crime Agency, and I have today drafted in a further sixty officers and ancillary staff to assist with the operation. I can also report that we have been liaising with Suffolk police, and a senior officer involved in the successful hunt for the killer of the five murdered Ipswich sex workers a decade ago will be coming to Manchester to give the benefit of her experience. I can assure you that we are leaving no stone unturned in our relentless pursuit of the person responsible for these murders.’
The Force press officer raised her handheld mic. ‘One last question,’ she said, pointing at a man two rows back.
Jo held her breath. It was Ginley again.
‘Is it true,’ he began, ‘that all of the victims had human hair stuffed in their mouths?’
Heads turned to look at Ginley and then at the stony-faced Assistant Chief Constable, momentarily stuck for a response.
‘I am unable to comment,’ she managed at last. ‘And any speculation around that could seriously jeopardise this investigation!’
There was a noisy buzz around the room as the reporters processed the implications. Jo could imagine the lurid headlines in tomorrow’s papers. Sunday of all days. No self-respecting editor was going to heed Helen Gates’s plea. Speculation would be beyond rife. It was going to be rampant.
‘I want to take this opportunity,’ she said, raising her voice above the hubbub, ‘to thank those members of the public who have already contacted us with information, and to urge anyone with any information whatsoever, however small they may imagine it to be, to ring one of the numbers on the screen behind me.’
No one was listening. Some had already left. Jo was wishing she could do the same. She slipped out into the corridor that led to the anteroom where the debriefing would be held.
Gates stormed into the room. Jo had never seen her so angry.
‘What a monumental cock-up!’ Gates declared. She looked around for someone to blame. In Gordon’s absence her eyes alighted on Jo.
‘Who was that?’ Gates fumed. ‘And how in God’s name did he know about the hair?’
‘Anthony Ginley, Ma’am,’ Jo replied. ‘Independent Press Consultants, UK Ltd. You may recall that he was a thorn in our side during Operation Juniper.’
Gates rolled her eyes. ‘I knew I’d seen him before. What’s he doing? Stalking you?’
‘No, Ma’am. As an investigative reporter I imagine he has an eye for a good story.’
‘So how the hell did he find out about the hair? Please don’t tell me we have another leak in FMIT. Or the Agency.’
‘Those working the investigation are aware of the consequences of that leaking out,’ Jo replied. ‘Furthermore, DCI Holmes has reminded everyone of the need for total secrecy on a regular basis. There is an alternative explanation, Ma’am.’
‘Which is?’
‘The security guard who discovered the body of Mandy Madden, the third victim. Ginley will almost certainly have also spoken to him, as well as those people who discovered the other victims. Unless he’s prepared to divulge his source, we’ll probably never know for sure.’
Gates seemed relieved that her own officers were not responsible, but she was far from finished. ‘And how do you suppose that other reporter became aware of the nature of the allegations against DC Henshall?’
‘All of the girls working the Manchester red-light districts will have known about it,’ Jo told her. ‘The press have been all over them since Mandy Madden’s body was found. And Ginley is usually several steps ahead
of the pack.’
‘So you’re saying they’re both down to bad luck?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Gates scowled. ‘Well, it’s about time our luck changed then.’
She turned her attention to Simon Levi, who had been doing his best to stay off her radar. ‘What we need is all the support we can get,’ she said. ‘I have just managed to find another sixty officers for Firethorn, Mr Levi. How about the NCA providing more resources?’
‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ he began.
Big mistake, thought Jo. She hates people using her first name in front of other members of her staff. Levi ploughed on, oblivious to the change in the ACC’s expression.
‘As I’ve already explained, our remit is serious organised crime. We are effectively lending you the services of the Behavioural Sciences Unit in this instance because of the serial nature of these offences and their expertise in that field. Contrary to popular belief we do not have the resources to otherwise supplement murder investigations involving regional police forces.’
Double whammy, Jo reflected. Overfamiliar and patronising.
‘Well, it seems to me,’ the ACC retorted, ‘that your BSU have been extremely lucky in relation to our two previous joint investigations. But two swallows do not a summer make! I suggest you give them a shake-up, just as I intend to do with my officers.’
She turned on her heel and left, followed by the rest of the panel and her coterie of press officers. Jo found herself alone with the Deputy Director. Here we go, she thought.
‘There is a view, Stuart,’ he said, ‘that the Behavioural Sciences Unit is an expensive resource that has failed to prove its usefulness. That is a view with which I heartily concur. I can’t speak for the Agency as a whole, but I can assure you that if Operation Firethorn is not resolved soon I shall do my damnedest to see that the northern unit is wound up. Do you understand?’
Jo did. What she didn’t understand, though, was where the hell their boss, Harry Stone, was when they needed him.
