by Bill Rogers
Duggie shook his head. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘he may have tried to permanently delete loads of stuff, so we won’t know till his caches have been restored.’
Both car windows were down. Despite the fact the front door was closed, they could still hear Mrs Hartley yelling at her husband.
‘Sounds a bit one-sided,’ Duggie observed.
‘What did you expect? They’d kiss and make up?’
‘It would have been a damn sight less embarrassing for both of them if she’d given him a chance to explain. Then they could’ve told the neighbours it was a case of mistaken identity.’
‘That option went south the minute I stepped out of this car,’ Jo said. ‘And it’s certainly too late now.’
She pointed to the rear-view mirror.
A motorcycle with two large panniers, its rider clad in black leathers and a matching helmet, had just turned into the avenue. Behind it was a mobile radio news van.
‘We’d better get out of here,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch up with you at the MIR when you’re done.’
She waited for him to exit the car and then executed a U-turn. Twenty-five yards before the end of the avenue two school children turned the corner, a boy and girl in their early teens. They looked like brother and sister. The boy was larking around, attempting to push his sister into a garden hedge. She wriggled free, stopped, and pointed past Jo’s car in the direction of the Hartley house. As she spoke, her brother followed her gaze. Their expressions morphed from confusion to concern. The two of them began to sprint, their bags bouncing awkwardly on their backs.
Jo shook her head. That was the trouble with investigations like this one. The backwash kept sucking innocent people in.
Chapter 46
‘Listen up!’
It was 7.30pm. The syndicate had gathered for the briefing. Every desk and chair was spoken for. Gordon, Nick, Max, and Jo stood by the progress board, facing the throng.
‘I’m going to ask named persons to give us an update,’ said Gordon. ‘I don’t want a peep from any of you while they’re doing so. Save your questions for the end. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Boss!’
‘Roger that, Boss!’
‘Good. I imagine you all want to know where we’re up to with the person who was brought in for questioning.’
He turned to Jo and handed her a remote for the whiteboard.
‘SI Stuart.’
Jo began by clicking the remote to reveal a head-and-shoulders mugshot. ‘Jenson Hartley,’ she said. ‘His name stays within these four walls until it becomes public knowledge.’
‘Which won’t be long,’ muttered a wag at the back.
‘DC Hulme!’ Gordon bellowed. ‘What did I tell you about no comments?’
‘Sorry, Boss.’
‘Do that again and you will be. Carry on, SI Stuart.’
‘Jenson Hartley has subsequently admitted to having been kerb-crawling around the Fairfield Street and Rochdale Metrolink station on the nights, and around the times, when Mandy Madden and Genna Crowden met their deaths. He also admitted having had sex with Mandy Madden on a previous occasion. We are still waiting for the results of forensic tests on his car, and items removed from his home and workplace. We’re also waiting for analysis of CCTV footage covering the last known sightings of Genna Crowden. We do know that he left both of the red-light districts before either Mandy Madden or Genna Crowden. That does not rule out the possibility that he may have doubled back. Initial indications suggest he is unlikely to be our unsub.’
She waited for the groans to subside. Her own disappointment far outmatched theirs.
‘I must stress, however, that he has not been eliminated from this investigation, although he has been released on police bail pending the results of those tests and further CCTV analysis.’
She handed the remote back to Gordon.
‘Thank you,’ said Gordon. ‘Mr Benson.’
The CSI team leader stepped up. ‘The latest information I have for you is that hairs and fibres retrieved from Mr Hartley’s car are being tested for matches with the clothing and DNA of all of the Operation Firethorn victims. Likewise, traces of semen found on the upholstery and front and rear carpets of his vehicle. His computer devices are undergoing forensic digital analysis. Nothing so far has been discovered that might link him directly or indirectly with any of the murders here in Manchester or in the Wigan division. The lack of significant trace evidence from any of the five crime scenes, including the most recent, suggests a perpetrator who is forensically aware.’
Another reason, Jo reflected, why Hartley was a most unlikely suspect. Andy had agreed. His observation of Hartley during the interview led him to conclude he was too weak, and pathetic to be capable of such organised planning, and such cold-blooded murders.
‘Next we’ll hear from SI Nailor,’ said Gordon.
Max still looked the worse for wear, Jo thought, and tired too, but his physique and rich baritone voice were sufficient to make his presence felt. ‘SI Stuart and I interviewed Genna Crowden’s mother. She was more concerned about herself than her daughter, however. The little she did tell us, together with door-to-door interviews with neighbours, rules out the likelihood that her killer was related to Genna Crowden or from the immediate neighbourhood. Nor was there any awareness that Genna suspected someone may have been watching or following her in the vicinity of her home in the days prior to her murder. Her partner, who is a long-distance lorry driver, was in Spain at the time of the attack. He has been informed of her death, and is on his way home.’
‘Before you get too despondent,’ said Gordon, ‘Mr Wallace has some better news for us.’ He handed the remote to Duggie Wallace.
The intelligence analyst clicked the remote and filled the whiteboard with a series of images. They showed a cyclist dressed in black, and sporting a hi-vis jacket with a mountain bike. The top-right-hand corner of the board showed an inset image of a map.
‘Thanks to the work of my colleague from the forensic digital media unit,’ he began, ‘we have been able to track this person following Genna Crowden last night from Rochdale to the estate on which she lived.’
A buzz of excitement fizzed around the room. People at the back craned forward to get a better look. Duggie traced the route that Genna and this unknown man had taken by highlighting each image in turn and using a moving red blob on the map to indicate its exact location.
‘We lost sight of him at this point,’ he said, ‘shortly before the two of them entered the estate on which Genna Crowden lived. However, we picked him up again here, on the estate itself, by the shopping precinct. If you look closely, you can just see Genna at the top of the screen. She is entering Ruskin Street, which leads to the A627M motorway footbridge. Here you can see the cyclist walking with his bike in the same direction. None of the cameras recorded either of them returning. It is reasonable to assume that he followed her over the footbridge and on to Cripplegate Lane, less than a quarter of a mile from where her body was discovered.’
Duggie handed back the remote to Gordon.
‘This man is now our primary suspect,’ said Gordon. ‘We need to find out who he is and if there have been any sightings of him in the vicinity of any of the other murders. Several of these images, together with descriptions, have been circulated to every front-line officer and detective in GMP. Are there any questions or observations?’
A hand went up. It was DC Hulme pushing his luck again.
‘For someone who is forensically aware, he doesn’t appear to be camera shy. Okay, so he’s got a tinted visor, but I thought that the infra-red cameras can see through that.’
‘They can indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘Show them, Duggie.’
He selected an image, and zoomed in. There were muted gasps. Several people swore. Underneath the visor the man was wearing a balaclava.
‘There is one thing we could do to help identify him against other images or live suspects,’ said Jo.
She felt everyone’s
eyes on her.
‘Go on,’ said Gordon.
‘These are still images,’ she said. ‘But they’ve been taken from video capture. In some of these images he is walking with his bike rather than riding it. We could commission a gait analysis.’
‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ said Gordon. ‘I can see a few blank faces out there, SI Stuart. You’d better explain.’
‘Forensic gait analysis examines a person’s stance, leg swing, step length, and stride length. Also time parameters, such as step time, stride time, cadence, and velocity. Add in the patterns of movement of the torso, head, and arms, and you have an extremely detailed analysis of how a person moves. Some experts claim that an individual’s gait is as unique as his or her fingerprints.’
‘Is this form of analysis accepted by the courts?’ someone asked.
‘Has been for over ten years,’ said Max. ‘I was involved in a number of convictions in the Met where gait analysis helped to convince the jury when we had no eyewitness identification.’
‘And we’ve used it extensively in FMIT for a number of years,’ said Gordon. ‘So those of you for whom this comes as a surprise had better wake up and smell the coffee!’
He looked at the clock on the back wall. ‘It’s an early start in the morning. I have no doubt that in addition to the backlog of information from members of the public, there’ll be a string of blokes in black Lycra on mountain bikes waiting to be eliminated. So I want everyone, apart from those like me who know they are working late, to go home now. No excuses. Just stop whatever you’re doing, and go.’
As the exodus began, he turned to Jo and Max.
‘That includes you two,’ he said. ‘Neither of you have had much sleep in over a week, and you, Max, look absolutely—’
Max held up his hand. ‘You don’t need to tell me. Jo already has.’
‘What about you, Gordon?’ Jo said. ‘You’ve had even less than us.’
‘I’m too old to need beauty sleep,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I won’t be able to rest until we’ve caught this bastard.’
‘That’s how I feel,’ she said. ‘And I don’t have a wife and children waiting for me.’
He nodded. ‘I know, Jo. But this is my case, and as far as Genna Crowden’s concerned, it’s less than twenty-four hours since she was killed. Tomorrow morning I’ll be the one that looks like Max and I’ll need the two of you, and Nick Carter, as fresh as daisies. So please go home. Both of you.’
‘You go, Jo,’ said Max. ‘I’ve a couple of calls to make, then I’ll be on my way too.’
Jo was walking across the foyer towards the exit when she heard someone call her name. She turned. One of the receptionists stood with a phone in his hand.
‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Holmes,’ he said. ‘He’d like a word with you.’
Chapter 47
Gordon held a printout in his right hand. Jo could tell from the grave expression on his face, and that of Max, that this was not good news.
‘Someone just texted this to one of our SMS-enabled public appeal lines,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
‘Me?’
He handed it to her.
‘See for yourself.’
Jo took the printout. Her pulse quickened as she began to read:
For the attention of Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart.
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
That plaits the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.
PS I love your new look, DI Stuart. I cannot wait to run my fingers through it!
‘I know this,’ said Jo. ‘It’s from Romeo and Juliet. Mercutio’s speech.’
She read the question on Gordon’s face.
‘I played Juliet at high school. And they took us to see it in Stratford-upon-Avon.’
‘What the hell does it mean?’
‘If I remember rightly, elflocks refers to a European folklore tale, where during the night imps, or fairies, knot or tangle the hair of sleeping humans and horses. This can only have come from someone with intimate knowledge of the killings.’
‘I agree,’ said Max. ‘And that stuff about foul sluttish hairs speaks volumes for how he regards his victims.’
‘He’s taunting us,’ said Jo. ‘Taunting me. How the hell does he know I’ve just changed my hairstyle? I wasn’t on Operation Firethorn when I had it done.’
‘He only had to google you,’ Max pointed out. ‘There must be loads of images of you out there from Operation Hound. And Operation Juniper.’
Max was right, of course. Not that it made her feel any better. All she could think about was the way in which, seven years ago, she had been stalked by her abductor. How just last year a serial rapist had sent flowers to her apartment. Now it was happening again. This time it was a serial killer.
‘Have you been able to trace the source?’ she asked.
‘Ram’s working on it,’ said Max. ‘But I wouldn’t hold out too much hope. Not given how careful the unsub’s been this far.’
‘At least he didn’t send it to the press,’ said Gordon. ‘We should be grateful for that.’
‘Grateful?’ said Jo. ‘I’ve become an object of desire for a madman who goes around strangling women, and I’m supposed to be grateful he hasn’t put it on social media? What if it was you or your wife? Would you be telling her she should be grateful?’
She thrust the printout against his chest, turned her back on them, and stormed from the room.
Chapter 48
Jo had tried everything.
Comfort food in the shape of a ready-meal chicken korma, and the best part of a bottle of red wine. Another four catch-up episodes of Coronation Street, a long hot shower, and a mug of camomile tea. Her mobile phone and her tablet were both switched off and on charge in the lounge. There was nothing to stop her from going to sleep. Apart from the enemy within.
There was a fine line, she learned during the counselling she received following the Bluebell Hollow incident, between uninvited voices, and your own. It was better to embrace internal dialogue than to allow more malevolent voices to emerge. Forty per cent of people heard voices at some time in their lives, she had been told. When her PTSD had been at its most extreme, her internal voice had belonged to her captor. Not simply in the form of flashbacks, but as though from the grave. These days it was her own voice that kept her awake.
Tonight the voice was telling her to take a long hard look at herself. To acknowledge how lonely her life had become since Abbie left. To recognise that it consisted of nothing but work, and sleep. And precious little of the latter. That it was devoid of any form of social activity or entertainment. That she had become friendless, sad, unloved, and unlovable.
‘I know!’ she found herself shouting. ‘Don’t you think I bloody well know?’
And then she began to cry.
When the tears finally dried up, Jo made herself two promises. When this investigation was over, she would take two weeks’ leave and have a proper holiday in the sun somewhere. Secondly, she was going to make a real effort to shift her mindset and at least admit the possibility of another romantic relationship. With that she turned over, and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was fast asleep.
Max placed the letter on the bedside table, kicked off his shoes, and lay back on the pillow. He had always known there was no going back. His wife would never forgive him for having exposed her brother Ben’s corruption and that of his tight-knit band of fellow police officers. Never mind that Max had risked his own career by warning Ben, and giving him the opportunity to put a stop to it. When it all came crashing down, Ben and the other four had lost their jobs and pensions and were handed a seven-year jail term apiece. Never mind their stupidity and greed; it was Max his wife had blamed. Blood had proved thicker than water and infinitely more important than the v
ows Penny had taken. The message was unequivocal. Family before justice, and duty. Ben was family; he was not. He would never be able to forgive her for that. Nor she him.
It only added insult to injury that she had been able to move on. Word was that she was seeing someone. Her brother’s defence counsel of all people, despite the lawyer’s ineptitude in advising Benny to plead not guilty having added at least three years to his sentence. The only upside was that once the private detective he had hired, a former colleague from the Metropolitan Police, had furnished the evidence of her adultery, it would mean a quicker and hassle-free divorce. At least there weren’t any children to worry about.
He, on the other hand, had not been able to move on. Moping around, drinking more heavily than usual, and putting on weight weren’t the worst of it. His work was suffering. This new job was supposed to be his salvation. A renaissance. He was supposed to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of his career. It wasn’t working out like that. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, making silly mistakes, and prone to childish outbursts of anger at the least provocation. The irony was that he had an MA in conflict resolution.
Harry had made it clear that time was running out. Max was on a final warning. This case was make or break. It didn’t help that he had got off to such a bad start with the Lancashire SIO leading Operation Gannet. Worse still that they’d now pulled the plug on NCA involvement. Now he had come to terms with playing second fiddle to Joanne Stuart. It didn’t seem to help that he really liked her. And she’d proved herself with both of her previous investigations, even if she had ridden roughshod over standard protocols. He smiled. It wasn’t as though he was averse to cutting corners himself.
He swung his legs off the bed, went over to the minibar, and took out the remaining bottle of beer. Then he lay back down on the bed, and picked up the remote. Maybe there were a couple of films on the pay-per-view that would blot this all out. For tonight at least.
Chapter 49
WEDNESDAY, 17TH MAY
