by Bill Rogers
‘Have you been interviewed before about this investigation, Sylvie?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ Sylvie replied.
She took a drink from the glass in her hand. When she put the glass down, an oily slick of clear liquid marked the original level. Neat gin, Jo decided.
‘Twice,’ she continued. ‘Once by a dick, once by a couple of plastic plods.’
Agata Kowalski frowned.
‘A detective and a pair of police community support officers,’ Jo explained. ‘Why didn’t you say anything to the officer who interviewed you?’
‘Because the guy on the bike was one of yours.’
‘One of ours? A police officer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he said so. He showed me his warrant card.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘That he was part of the team investigating the murders. He was a detective working undercover. He offered me an official GMP card with advice on.’
Could this really be a coincidence, Jo wondered? First DC Henshall, now this mysterious stranger, potentially the unsub. Had the killer observed Henshall coercing the street girls? Or could they possibly have been working together? That was a nightmare scenario she didn’t wish to contemplate.
‘How do you know the card was official?’ she asked Sylvie.
‘Because I’d already been given one the same.’ Sylvie rooted in her bag, and produced the card.
‘What else did he say?’
‘For a start he said he was working for you.’
Jo’s heart lurched.
‘Me?’
‘Yeah. SI Stuart.’ She looked at Agata. ‘That’s what you said her name was, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Agata.
‘There you go then. That’s what he said. “I’m working for SI Joanne Stuart. She’s in charge of the hunt for the Backstreet Barber. You may have seen her on the television.” ’
Agata lightly touched Jo’s arm with her hand. It felt like an instinctive, protective gesture.
‘What else did he say?’ asked Jo.
‘He asked if I’d seen anyone behaving suspiciously.’ She laughed. ‘I said, what, like every punter who comes down here?’
‘How did he respond to that?’
‘He laughed. Told me to take care. And then rode off towards the Green Quarter.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘It’s difficult. It was dark and he was wearing a cycle helmet.’
‘What else was he wearing?’
She turned her body towards them, and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration.
‘A black top, black trousers. Dark trainers. He had a rucksack on his back. Black.’
‘Any reflective patches like the ones our bike patrol officers wear?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t think that was suspicious?’
‘No. Like I said, he was undercover.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Hang on, are you saying he’s the killer? I was face-to-face with the killer?’
‘We don’t know that. I just need to eliminate him from our investigation. So, can you describe him? How tall was he, for example?’
She was now a lot more focused. ‘A couple of inches taller than me with my heels on.’
‘So about five six?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Was he white, black, Asian, mixed race?’
‘White.’
‘How old would you say he was?’
‘Older than me, younger than you.’
‘What would that make him? Late twenties, early thirties?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Did he have an accent?’
‘He sounded local. Definitely local.’
‘A Manchester accent?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I’m sure. Not rough though. A bit formal . . . like a policeman.’
‘Authoritative?’
Sylvie’s lips moved, as though she was committing the word to memory. She nodded.
‘Was there anything else you remember about him? Anything distinctive?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like his mannerisms?’
‘What’s them?’
‘How he used his hands when he spoke, for example.’
‘He didn’t. He just held on to the handlebars, apart from when he showed me his warrant card, and offered me that advice card.’
‘You mentioned that he laughed. How did that sound?’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘Like a laugh.’
‘How did he make you feel?’
‘Feel?’
‘Feel. Did he make you feel uneasy in any way? Suspicious or wary, for example?’
‘No. He seemed alright. He wasn’t as bossy and judgemental as most. I quite warmed to him.’
Jo remembered Andy’s sketchy profile of the unsub.
‘Would you say he made you feel comfortable?’ she asked.
She nodded.
‘That’s it, comfortable – that’s the word.’
Jo searched for one final meaningful question.
‘How do you know it was a warrant card?’ she said.
Her face became a sneer.
‘I’ve seen enough of them, haven’t I?’
‘Thank you,’ said Jo, closing her notebook. ‘You’ve been really helpful. If you see him again—’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll run like hell.’
‘And dial 999 straight away,’ said Jo. ‘No messing.’
Jo and Agata watched her leave.
So did a dozen pairs of greedy male eyes. Lust and disgust jostling for attention. To Jo she looked like another lost soul, rudderless on an unforgiving ocean. They drank their beers in silence.
‘For what it’s worth, the other girl on Cheetham Hill told me an identical story,’ said Agata at last. ‘Except for the part about working for you. Why would he risk exposing himself like that?’
‘Perhaps he was trying to establish himself as innocuous so that when he did strike it would take his victims by surprise. But I can guess what our psychologist will say.’
‘What?’
‘That it is all part of the game he is playing with them, and with us.’ She paused. ‘And with me. He’s feeding off the excitement that risk-taking brings. Taunting us.’
Agata thought about it. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So where did he get the GMP advice cards he was handing out?’
‘From his last two victims? I think we can assume they would have been given them like everyone else. And we didn’t find one in either of their handbags.’
‘Maybe he works for the printers.’
Jo shook her head.
‘Too much of a coincidence.’
They stared at each other, neither of them wanting to be the one to say it. The reporter gave in first.
‘Unless he works for the police.’
Jo was already ahead of her. Working through the arguments. It would explain a lot. How he was able to move freely around the red-light districts. How he would know which areas were being targeted for close surveillance, and which were not. The fact that most of his attacks had taken place at weekends, when the majority of detectives, and civilian staff would be off-duty. It was too awful to contemplate. But then so was most of what she did.
She drained her beer, crumpled the can and stood up.
‘I owe you,’ she said.
The reporter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jo,’ she said. ‘I’ll remind you.’
For the first time Jo noticed that each of Agata’s eyes was a slightly different shade of blue and there were tiny dimples in her cheeks.
Chapter 59
FRIDAY, 19TH MAY
Another fitful night.
On the edge of wakefulness, Jo sensed for the first time in months the flashbacks she had experienced after her abduction by the Bluebell Hollow killer pushing against the steel door of the men
tal vault into which she had consigned them. Just as the counsellor had taught her, she steadied her breathing, closed her eyes, and called up the memory palace she had created.
Step by step she climbed the imaginary stairs to the attic, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out the ribbon-wrapped box of treasured photographs that transported her to happier places, and happier times.
She woke at six, put on her kit, and tracksuit, and headed out. This was only her second time at the gym since the killings had begun. In those thirteen days another four girls had died. She vented on the grappling dummies her pent-up anger and frustration with a ferocity that left her physically exhausted yet mentally and emotionally invigorated.
It was seven forty-five when she arrived at The Quays. To her surprise Harry was already there.
‘I came up to Warrington yesterday,’ he said. ‘Stayed over at the pentahotel. Four-star luxury for sixty-five quid a night, including breakfast.’
He sounded cheerful. He didn’t look it.
‘I’m making myself a coffee,’ she told him. ‘But I’m guessing you won’t need one.’
‘You’re only on secondment,’ he replied. ‘I can always send you back.’
They sat with their drinks on one of the sofas in the breakout area. Unsurprisingly Harry looked tired and drawn. It was bad enough that his daughter suffered from schizophrenia. Worse still that she had been sectioned.
‘How is your daughter, Boss?’ she asked.
He blew distractedly across the surface of the mug.
‘She’s back home, and stable.’
‘Have you told her you’re planning to move up here?’
‘I had to before I put the house on the market.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘She seemed pleased. I think she knows that it’s a chance to make a clean break. So long as we’re living in the house where Marge and I raised her and where her mother died, it’s going to be a constant reminder. Her psychotherapist agrees. And to be honest I think it’s what I need too.’
‘How long do you think it’ll be before you move?’
‘A couple of months at the outside, according to the estate agents. The buy-to-let sharks are already circling.’
He smiled for the first time.
‘Looking on the bright side,’ he said, ‘I’m planning to downsize. With the difference in property values I’ll be set up for the rest of my life. I’ll be able to retire whenever I want.’
‘And we’ll get to see a lot more of you.’
He smiled again.
‘Be careful what you wish for. Speaking of which, I’ve managed to secure that drone team you asked for. They’ll be arriving in Manchester late this afternoon.’
‘Boss, that’s brilliant,’ she said.
‘They’ll be exclusive to Operation Firethorn until at least the end of next week. Try to catch this bastard before then, Jo. Simon Levi is giving me a hard time.’
He frowned.
‘You do know that he’s got the BSU in his firing line?’
‘He’s made a point of telling me twice since the operation began. He can’t really close us down, can he?’
‘Not by himself. But he’s got the bean counters on his side, so I wouldn’t discount it.’
‘I’m going to set up a video link to the incident room at Central Park,’ she told him. ‘DCI Holmes needs to know about the drone. He’ll have some ideas about where best to deploy it. Do you want to join me?’
‘Now you’re talking!’ said Gordon. ‘And I’ve got some good news for you.’
‘Go on,’ said Jo.
‘Given how high-profile Firethorn is, I managed to persuade ACC Gates to get the guy who did the original gait analysis to come in last night and work on those images from Middleton Junction. It’s a match! He claims it’s as unique as a fingerprint, and impossible to disguise. Having said which, convincing a jury of that will be another matter.’
‘It’s another piece in the jigsaw,’ Harry said. ‘A bloody important one.’
‘All I need,’ said Gordon, ‘is a suspect to compare it with. The same with the profile from the biometric analysis of him from a still shot taken from that camera. He’s five foot seven inches tall, well built, and an ectomorphic mesomorph, whatever that is.’
‘Muscular with a tendency to leanness,’ she told him. ‘What you’d call an athletic build.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘With size seven shoes. Which also fits with the footprint from the Middleton kill site.’
‘At least we know this is almost certainly our man,’ said Jo. ‘And if he’s using a bike or jogging, it would explain why we haven’t been able to spot him on the CCTV. He’ll have been able to avoid places where the cameras are, stay in the shadows, escape down ginnels, and along tracks. Just like the drug couriers do. Now we have the drone, we can track him. All we need is one sighting.’
‘Easier said than done when he’s moving around like he is,’ said Gordon. ‘What’s the range of that thing?’
‘If it’s the same as the one we used on Operation Juniper, just under two miles.’
He folded his arms and sat back.
‘That’s only enough to cover one red-light district at a time.’
‘We need to get word out there to all of the street workers that if they see a jogger or a cyclist matching his description they should not approach him or take him on if he approaches them, but instead they should ring or text us straight away.’
‘We’ve already pulled in a load of cyclists,’ Gordon pointed out. ‘Our unsub is probably aware of that.’ He sat bolt upright. ‘Odds-on that’s why he’s now masquerading as a jogger.’
Jo was sure Andy had already suggested that at their previous meeting at Central Park. Had Gordon been listening?
‘Then you still ask them for sightings of either, but prioritise the joggers,’ Harry suggested.
‘Max and I can help with that,’ said Jo. ‘And I can ask Selma Strangelove to spread the word.’
Harry stared at her.
‘You haven’t read my latest update on the shared drive, have you, Boss?’ she said.
‘It’s illegal to read and drive at the same time,’ he said. ‘I thought you knew that, SI Stuart.’
‘Fair enough, Boss,’ she said.
Then she told him her plan.
Chapter 60
‘What the hell are we doing here?’ asked Max.
It was a rhetorical question.
They were sitting in his car, parked halfway down Moston Lane. Three miles north-east of the city centre. Two miles south of the latest crime scene. Five miles south of the Trows Lane deposition site. If the unsub was moving back towards the city, this was the next most likely target area. It was either here or Failsworth. They were close enough for the SkyRanger team to move between them at one-hour intervals.
‘Are you going to finish that?’ she asked. ‘Because it’s making me feel sick.’
Max laughed. ‘That’ll be the kimchi,’ he said, shovelling a ball of glutinous rice into his mouth.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘Fermented vegetables. It’s brilliant. You should try some.’
Condensation from the two boxes of takeaway had all but obscured their view through the windscreen. Jo leaned forward and rubbed it with her glove. Sodium street lights fought the resultant smear.
‘I’d switch the engine on,’ Max said. ‘Give the aircon a blast. Only I don’t want to draw attention to us.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jo told him. ‘The smell’s already done that.’
He laughed again, dropped the fork into the box, and closed the lid. She took it from him, grabbed the other box from the dashboard, and opened her door.
‘Where are you going?’ Max asked.
‘To dump these in a wastepaper bin. It’s either that or you’ll have the sweet smell of vomit to deal with.’
Five yards in front of her, bolted into the pavement outside a takeaway was a metal bin. She turned up her
collar as she walked towards it. High pressure had settled over the country, giving the impression summer had come early. The night air felt chilly after the heat of the day.
Every third shopfront was an off-licence or takeaway. Here and there a charity shop or a betting shop broke the monotony. Hanging baskets and lamp-post banners provided by the council hinted that better times were coming. For Sale signs, and a crowded estate agent’s window suggested otherwise.
She was surprised by the number of people about. Presumably either without the inclination or the disposable income to spend their Saturday night in the city centre. The takeaways were busy. Here and there groups of youths had congregated, cans and bottles in hand, oblivious to the street alcohol ban. This place had a long way to go before it became the Didsbury of North Manchester.
When she climbed back in, the blowers were working flat out.
‘What kept you?’ Max asked.
An area car sped past towards Victoria Avenue, lights and siren assaulting the senses.
‘He’s not going to come here,’ she said. ‘I told Gordon that. It’s far too busy. There are cameras all along the main drag. And besides, there’s always a police presence.’
‘Why is that?’ Max said. ‘Manchester’s not exactly Detroit or St Louis.’
‘Maybe not. But in January alone there were forty-five recorded incidents of violence and sexual offences within a few hundred yards of this street. And that was a good month.’
‘Sounds like he’ll blend in then.’
‘I don’t think that’s how he’ll see it.’
Max turned to look at her. ‘Do you really think he’s going to go online and check out the latest crime stats before he decides where to strike next?’
‘People do that when they choose where they’re going to live. Why not where they’re going to commit a crime?’
‘Are you serious?’
She shrugged. ‘Just passing the time.’
‘It’s a thought, though,’ he said. ‘The GMP website uses cookies. There’ll be a log of everyone who uses it. We could ask them to draw up a list of users around the time of each of the murders. If the same computer crops up on more than one of those lists, it might be worth following up.’
Their radio crackled into life.
‘Sierra Romeo 1. We have a contact. Do you copy?’
