by Bill Rogers
‘She started me on a benzodiazepine a few years ago,’ he said. ‘But you don’t need to check with her. I can show you my prescriptions.’
‘Or we could ask your wife,’ said Jo.
The panic deepened. ‘No! You don’t need to bother her.’
‘No bother,’ she said. ‘We can get the officers who are searching your house to ask her.’
He jerked upright as though struck by lightning. ‘Searching my house? What the hell for? Kerb-crawling you said, not robbery. Please don’t tell my wife,’ he said. ‘Please!’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Nick. ‘If you were just driving around.’
‘I was.’
‘There you go then. So, where exactly were you driving around between midnight and 2am?’
Hartley looked down at the table and tried to order his thoughts.
‘I left home about midnight,’ he said. ‘And then I drove up to Rochdale.’
‘That’s, what, twelve miles from your house?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Do you have many friends in Rochdale, Mr Hartley?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Is that a few or none at all?’
‘None at all.’
‘Acquaintances then?’
Hartley shook his head forlornly.
‘For the record please, Mr Hartley.’
‘No.’
‘Not even among the street walkers?’ said Jo.
If looks could kill, Hartley’s would have done. ‘No!’
‘So why did you spend an hour driving around those particular streets?’
Hartley shrugged unconvincingly. ‘No reason.’
‘How about Monday the 8th of May?’ said Nick.
‘Sorry?’
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘What for?’
Hartley looked doubly confused. ‘What?’ he said.
‘What are you apologising for, Mr Hartley?’
‘Nothing. I’m not apologising for anything.’ He looked from Nick to Jo and back again. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking. I wasn’t anywhere near Rochdale last week.’
‘We know that, Mr Hartley. What I’m asking is what you were doing driving around the Manchester Fairfield Street red-light district in the early hours of Monday the 8th of May.’
Whatever tenuous conviction he had harboured that he might bluff his way out of this evaporated before their eyes.
Nick smiled. ‘I see the penny has finally dropped,’ he said. ‘Five young women have been brutally murdered. Two of them within the past eight days. And you just happened to have been driving around the areas where those two young women were last seen. So if you’re still maintaining that you were not kerb-crawling on those occasions, then we’ll have no option but to rearrest you on suspicion of murder.’
Jo resisted the temptation to look at Nick. It wasn’t exactly what they had agreed. Neither the timing, this soon into the interview, nor the form of words. Not that it mattered. It appeared to have had the desired effect. Hartley grasped the edge of the table and tried to push himself away, as though attempting to distance himself from what he was hearing. He stared wide-eyed at Nick and then at Jo.
‘No! No!’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t believe that I’d actually kill someone.’
‘Why not?’ said Nick. ‘We don’t believe in coincidence. You were in the right place at the right time on both occasions. You clearly have unmet needs. In our experience that can drive a man to do crazy things.’
Hartley’s eyes sought out Jo’s. Help me, they said. She placed a hand on Nick’s sleeve, and leaned forward.
‘Jenson,’ she began, ‘this is your last opportunity to convince us that you are not the man who has been killing young women in red-light districts.’
They watched as his shoulders slumped and his resistance crumpled.
‘Alright,’ Hartley said. ‘I’ll tell you the truth.’
Chapter 44
‘I was looking for one girl in particular,’ he said. ‘I was one of her regulars whenever I went to Rochdale.’
‘Which was how often?’ said Nick.
‘When Manchester was being targeted by the police. Once a month or so.’
‘What is her name?’
‘I only knew her as Frankie.’
‘How many years have you been availing yourself of the services of street sex workers?’ asked Jo.
‘Since my wife and I stopped making love.’
Making love. The phrase sounded incongruous in the circumstances. He certainly wasn’t making love with Frankie and the other girls, Jo reflected. Maybe he had never gone beyond releasing an animal impulse. Perhaps that was why his wife had shut him out.
‘That doesn’t help us, Mr Hartley,’ said Nick.
‘Oh, er . . . about twelve years ago.’
He would have been thirty at the time. It hadn’t taken long for that side of the marriage to stall.
‘You’ve been cruising red-light districts for twelve years or so?’
Hartley nodded sheepishly.
‘For the tape please.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were driving around in the vicinity of Piccadilly station in Manchester, intent on soliciting sex, in the early hours of Monday, 8th May this year.’
‘Yes.’
‘And again in the early hours of this morning in the vicinity of Rochdale Metrolink station.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have been aware that the police were hunting a serial killer believed to be active in the region’s red-light districts.’
‘No.’
‘No? It was all over the papers, the television, social media. How could you not have known?’
‘No. What I meant is that I didn’t know about those other women. The first I knew about it was Tuesday before last, after that woman’s body was found near Piccadilly.’
‘Her name was Mandy,’ said Jo. ‘Mandy Madden.’
He nodded.
‘Yes. Mandy Madden.’
‘Had you ever had sex with her, Mr Hartley?’ There was no longer any point in using his given name. The familiarity had served its purpose.
He bowed his head. His voice was unsteady. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘A few years ago. But she wasn’t one of my regulars.’
‘Why was that?’
Hartley looked up and shrugged.
‘She just wasn’t. That one time she was just a . . .’ He saw the disgust on Jo’s face, and tailed off.
‘A what?’ said Nick. ‘Stopgap?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s not us you need to apologise to,’ said Jo. She glanced at her notes. ‘Even if we accept that when you were in Manchester last week you did not know about the previous attacks, you most certainly did when you set out for Rochdale on Sunday night. Isn’t that so?’
He nodded tentatively.
‘Yes.’
‘And when you arrived there, you must have noticed a large police presence.’
‘Not at first. It built up during the night.’
‘Yet you continued to drive around and around looking for your “regular”. What was her name again?’
‘Frankie.’
‘Your need must have been great to risk being stopped, and arrested,’ Nick observed.
‘I was only there for an hour or so,’ Hartley said. ‘And I was careful.’
‘Not careful enough, evidently.’
‘Would you like to help us catch this killer, Mr Hartley?’ said Jo.
Hartley’s eyes lit up. He seized this apparent lifeline. ‘Of course. I’ll do anything. Anything.’
‘Then perhaps you could cast your mind back to last night, when you were driving around Richard Street, High Level Street, Oldham Road, the A640, and the side streets that come off them.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Now, do you recall seeing anyone or any vehicle behaving in a suspicious manner?’
Hartley’s brow furrowed. But he was staring straight
back at her. Either he was preparing to lie or he wasn’t trying to remember.
‘No.’
‘Mr Hartley,’ she said, ‘this is really important. For you and for us. Please think again. Take as long as you need.’
This time his eyes went up to his left. Then down to the left and back up again. This was better. He was accessing his visual memory, and having an internal dialogue.
‘I do keep looking in my rear-view mirror,’ he said. ‘In case I’m being followed. So I see quite a lot.’
‘And?’ said Nick.
‘Well, there were a few other cars obviously doing what I was doing. Not as many as usual, but a few. But none of them did anything out of the ordinary. I saw a couple of them pick up girls.’
‘Can you describe the vehicles?’
‘One looked like a dark Mondeo. The other one I’m not sure. A Honda saloon maybe?’
‘Were either of those girls wearing a blue denim jacket, a matching short skirt, and dark brown knee-length boots?’
‘No.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I am. I’d passed them several times looking for Frankie. I took careful note in case—’
‘You needed a fallback?’ said Nick.
He nodded mournfully.
‘Anything else?’ asked Jo. ‘Anything at all out of the ordinary?’
‘I was coming to that,’ he said. ‘There was someone. Someone I saw in Manchester last week as well as last night.’
The two detectives glanced at each other. Now he had their attention.
‘Go on,’ said Jo.
‘There was this guy on a mountain bike,’ Hartley said. ‘At first I thought he was one of you.’
‘A policeman?’
‘Yes. He was dressed in black, on a mountain bike, wearing a cycle helmet, and one of those luminous jackets.’
‘So what made you decide that he wasn’t a police officer?’
‘The helmet was wrong.’
‘In what way?’
‘Normally they’re white-ribbed. This one was black. And it didn’t say POLICE in capital letters on the jacket.’
‘He could have been undercover,’ said Nick.
‘I suppose. But he didn’t really behave like one.’
‘How did he behave?’ said Jo.
‘Well, when I saw him in Manchester he was talking to one of the girls on Fallowfield Street.’
‘Can you describe her?’ said Jo.
Hartley shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It was under the railway arches. She was in shadow. He was between her and my car as I went past. Then I saw him a bit later as I was leaving, standing at the side of that old pub on Fairfield Street.’
‘The Star & Garter?’ asked Nick.
‘That’s the one.’
‘And what was he doing when you saw him that morning?’ Jo asked.
‘The first time I saw him was shortly after I got there. He was cycling slowly down Richard Street. Then about ten minutes later I saw him again walking his bike down Wood Street. The last time I saw him was about an hour later as I was leaving to go home. He was just sitting on his bike to the right of the railway station entrance. I wouldn’t have noticed but for my dipped headlights catching his fluorescent vest.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘About twenty to two.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I went straight home.’
The two detectives looked at each other. Hartley’s account fitted with what they’d seen on the CCTV. He seemed to be telling the truth. It wouldn’t take long to track his exact route home. Nick leaned across, and whispered in Jo’s ear. She nodded, and they had a brief conversation. Nick sat up straight.
‘Mr Hartley,’ he said, ‘we are going to release you on police bail, pending the results of the search of your house and effects, and the examination of your car. The Crown Prosecution Service will then be asked to decide whether you will be charged, and if so with what offence. In the meantime you must stay away from any places where street prostitution is habitually carried on. And I urge you, Mr Hartley, for your own sake, not to talk to anyone, other than a solicitor whom you choose to represent you, about the reasons why you have been detained and questioned. Do you understand?’
Relief flooded Hartley’s face. ‘Yes. Is my car here?’
‘I’m afraid not. It has been impounded, and is being forensically examined.’
‘How will I get home?’
‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll arrange for someone to drive you home.’
‘A police car?’
His relief was short-lived.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. I don’t want my wife to know.’
‘Don’t you think she might be curious about why your house is being searched?’
‘I’ll think of something to tell her.’
‘If I were you, Mr Hartley,’ said Jo, ‘I would tell her the truth. One way or another it’s going to come out. It always does.’
Chapter 45
‘I’ll drive him,’ Jo said.
‘Why would you want to do that?’ said Nick. ‘Leave it to Uniform.’
‘Because I want to make sure he gets the message about keeping his mouth shut. And I want to find out how the search of his home is coming on. They should be nearly finished by now.’
‘In which case I’ll tell Gordon where we’re up to,’ he said. ‘And I suggest we get CIS down to the Star & Garter. In case that cyclist left anything behind. A cigarette butt. Some chewing gum. A food wrapper. Anything.’
‘It’s been a week, Nick,’ she said. ‘There’ll be all sorts of stuff accumulated in that time.’
‘I know. But it’s worth a try.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, it’s not you or me who is going to have to sift through it all.’
‘Can you check what Duggie turns up in relation to Hartley from the CCTV footage from cameras south-west of the station?’ she said.
‘Sure. And if there is any evidence that he actually followed Genna Crowden, we’ll have him back in faster than a presidential tweet!’
‘I only meant for elimination purposes. You do know he’s not our man?’
‘Of course I do.’ He stared at her quizzically. ‘Is that the real reason why you’re babysitting him? Please tell me that you don’t feel sorry for him.’
Her expression hardened. ‘If you believe that, Nick, then you don’t know me at all. If it weren’t for men like Jenson Hartley, there wouldn’t be vulnerable women and young girls on the streets, and in brothels. And those five girls would still be alive.’
Hartley had been keen to talk, but Jo had blanked him. She was annoyed with herself, not least because Nick had been right. Part of her felt sorry for Hartley. Another part was thinking about her birth mother. And how men like Hartley had used and abused her.
By the time they reached the house, she had calmed down.
‘Oh God!’ said Hartley, staring disconsolately through the windscreen.
Jo followed his gaze. A short, shapely, raven-haired woman similar in age to her husband was standing beside the front door remonstrating with one of the search team. She turned as the two of them exited the car, and hurried down the path towards them.
‘What the hell have you done?’ the woman demanded.
Hartley cowered beside Jo despite his height and weight advantage.
‘Sam,’ he pleaded. ‘Can we do this inside?’
‘Want some privacy, do you?’ she shouted. ‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?’
She pointed at the houses on the opposite side of the road, and those flanking their own side. There were at least a dozen people watching from their windows and doorsteps.
‘Mrs Hartley,’ said Jo, ‘it really would be best if the two of you discussed this inside.’
‘Best for who?’ she demanded, switching her wrath to this interloper. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said. ‘I know your face. You’re that policewoman on the television.’
Jo saw the wife’s expression freeze and her hand move towards her mouth.
She swore beneath her breath, and hurried towards the house. Nick Carter had been right. She had been mistaken coming here. If Mrs Hartley had recognised her, and put two and two together, then so would some of the gawking neighbours. It was only a matter of time before one of them sent a tweet, or uploaded a video to a social media account and the whole world would know. Within the hour this place would be a media circus.
Jenson Hartley brushed past her. ‘Thanks for nothing!’ he said. ‘I’d have been better off locked up.’
He disappeared into the rear of the property.
Duggie Wallace came down the stairs. ‘Was that him?’ he asked. ‘The husband?’
‘Jenson Hartley,’ Jo told him.
‘Where’s he gone then? We need the screen passwords for his PC and tablet.’
‘He went that way,’ she told him. ‘Before you go, where are you up to?’
‘Just the garage, those passwords, and we’re out of here.’
She stepped back against the wall as Samantha Hartley brushed past in pursuit of her husband. Jo lowered her voice.
‘Anything sus?’
He shook his head.
‘Nothing obvious. The computer’s our best bet.’
Fifteen minutes later the vans were packed and they were sitting in the front of Jo’s Audi.
‘Did you get a look at the computer and the tablet?’ she asked.
‘Just a quickie,’ said Duggie. ‘Although I should really have just bagged it and waited for my forensic techies first.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘So? Are you going to keep me in suspense?’
‘I concentrated on his search history, and his downloads. There’s nothing so far that would suggest he’d been planning any of those attacks.’
‘Such as?’
‘Map searches. Using search engines to scope the area. Photos of likely attack or dump sites, that sort of thing. And there was one tenuous connection.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s a regular on adult sex sites, and he’s downloaded a tidy amount of porn.’
‘Hard or soft?’
‘Mainly soft.’
‘No snuff movies?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘Anything that suggests an obsession with hair? Women’s hair in particular?’
