The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

‘We copy,’ said Jo, securing her seat belt. ‘Where?’

  ‘On grassland about a mile and a quarter to the east of you. Suspect is running due south towards Oldham Road. His coordinates are . . .’

  Jo punched them into the satnav as he read them out.

  ‘Fifty-three degrees, thirty minutes, thirty-seven seconds north, two degrees, ten minutes, twenty-one seconds west.’

  ‘Roger that, Sierra Romeo 1,’ she said. ‘We’re on our way.’

  Max was already pulling away from the kerb. Heads turned to watch as their blue lights strobed the shopfronts.

  ‘Straight on,’ she told him, toggling the screen to map view. ‘It’s on the other side of the railway. We’ll have to cross over and come back on ourselves. Closest we can get is down here, just off Oldham Road.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Two point one miles.’

  ‘Should we call for backup?’

  The tyres protested as he swerved right at the junction with Nuthurst Road, and put his foot down again. Jo clung for dear life to the grab handle.

  ‘Let’s make sure it is him first,’ she said. ‘So long as Sierra Romeo has eyes on him, there’s no need to panic.’

  Chapter 61

  Ninety miles an hour down Broadway.

  ‘You need to do a U-turn at the bottom,’ she told him.

  The lights were on red. The sign said no U-turns. Max ignored both. His brake turn would have done justice to a skid pan. He was about to accelerate away again when she yelled.

  ‘Stop! Pull in here.’

  A four-metre stretch of pavement had been dropped to permit access to a tarmacked lane with barrier gates across.

  ‘We’ll have to go on foot from here,’ she said. ‘He can’t be far away.’

  Max unclipped his safety belt. ‘Depends on how fast he’s been running.’

  ‘Sierra Romeo 1. Sitrep, please,’ said Jo, speaking into the radio.

  ‘Suspect is approaching a large property due south of him. A big house with what looks like tennis courts, and playing fields.’

  ‘Copy that,’ said Jo. ‘We are leaving the car now. Expect to see us approaching the house from the south.’

  She plugged her earphones in, and climbed out of the car.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ said Max as they squeezed around the post holding the barrier.

  ‘The Lancaster Club,’ she told him. ‘Home of Avro Football Club. Sports and social club for BAE Systems. The people who built the Lancaster bomber, the Avro Vulcan.’ They were jogging now, and she was pulling away from him. ‘There’s always been a Northern powerhouse,’ she told him. ‘It’s only you Southern Jessies that weren’t aware of the fact.’

  The lane became a broad drive that led to a three-storey Georgian mansion. Jo waited by the steps for him to catch up.

  ‘I told you to join a gym,’ she said.

  ‘I have,’ he panted. ‘Don’t have the time to go.’

  ‘Make time. Before it’s too late.’

  She clicked her radio, and whispered into the speaker. ‘Sierra Romeo. Sitrep please.’

  ‘Sierra Romeo. We have eyes on you,’ came the reply. ‘Suspect is at the back of the house, jogging west along the treeline that borders the playing fields.’

  ‘Roger that,’ she said.

  They jogged to the edge of the playing fields. They were huge. Big enough for at least four full-size football pitches.

  It was the first night of a full moon, less than one per cent of which was visible.

  ‘I don’t see him,’ whispered Max.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Jo. ‘If he’s wearing black and his hood’s up, he won’t show against those trees. But if Sierra Romeo says he’s still there, then he is.’

  ‘Assuming he’s following the treeline, we can cut him off if we head straight across these fields,’ said Max. ‘But what if he’s got a weapon beside those scissors?’

  ‘It’s a bit late for a risk assessment,’ she said as she began to run.

  It was just over two hundred yards to the far side. On damp grass, and in the dark, Jo covered it in just over thirty seconds. Max was some way behind her. She was concerned that the sound of his breathing would alert the suspect.

  ‘Sierra Romeo 1, sitrep,’ she whispered.

  ‘Suspect is closing in on you. If you can’t see him, you should at least be able to hear him.’

  They listened.

  Above the hum of traffic on Broadway there was another sound. A rhythmic scrunching sound. Coming closer.

  They unclipped their Maglites and waited.

  A dark, moving shape began to form.

  ‘Now!’ said Max.

  Twin beams of light pierced the night. The runner put a hand to his face, stumbled, and fell heavily.

  ‘Police!’ Jo and Max shouted in unison.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  ‘Show me your hands!’

  ‘Put them behind your head!’

  ‘Do it! Now!’

  They made him sit up.

  ‘You’ve done my fucking ankle!’ the runner complained. A youthful whining voice. A local accent.

  Max pulled off the suspect’s hood, revealing a callow youth in his late teens. He had a rucksack on his back.

  Jo held up her warrant card and shifted the beam of her torch so that he could see it.

  ‘My name is SI Stuart. My colleague is SI Nailor. Tell us your name please.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ the youth asked. A sure sign he was not a stranger to the law.

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘But you will be if you refuse to identify yourself. My guess is you’re on the system. In which case we’ll find out who you are sooner or later. Save us both time. Just answer the question.’

  He rubbed his right ankle while he thought about it. ‘Desmond Neeley.’

  ‘Where do you live, Mr Neeley?’

  He gave her an address. It sounded familiar.

  ‘Is that off Oldham Road?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Behind the Lamb.’

  The Lamb Inn. A small estate of back-to-back terraced houses Jo had been called to less than a year into the job. A particularly nasty domestic. The kind you didn’t forget.

  ‘Is that where you were headed?’

  ‘Yeah, till you busted my ankle.’

  ‘For the record,’ said Max, ‘nobody touched you. And if it was broken you wouldn’t be this lippy.’

  ‘Where were you coming from, Mr Neeley?’ said Jo.

  If he could have shrugged, he would have done.

  ‘Nowhere. Just out for a run.’

  ‘What’s in the rucksack?’

  His expression was a total giveaway. Anxiety overlaid with a veneer of innocence.

  ‘Nothin’.’

  Max lifted the rucksack by one of its straps.

  ‘Surprisingly heavy then,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t search me,’ he whined. ‘I’m just out for a run. You got no grounds.’

  ‘Ooh, I think we have,’ she said. ‘Out for a run in the dark dressed in black, wearing a hood, carrying an empty rucksack that weighs a ton. Doesn’t know where he’s coming from. Sounds to me like reasonable grounds to suspect burglary or street robbery. What do you think, SI Nailor?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Max. ‘Don’t worry, you’re entitled to a copy of the search record.’ He unzipped the backpack, lifted the flap, and shone his torch inside.

  ‘Laptop, tablet, two mobile phones,’ he said. ‘And that’s just for starters.’

  He dropped the flap and zipped it up again.

  ‘Desmond Neeley,’ said Jo, ‘I am arresting you under the Theft Act 1968 on suspicion of possessing stolen goods. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  He spat on the ground beside her feet.

  ‘What do you think? Pig!’

  Chapter 62
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br />   His mind was on SI Stuart. Joanne Stuart.

  He wondered what effect his message had had on her.

  Had she been puzzled? Intrigued? Or frightened?

  She didn’t look the type to easily frighten.

  But she had never had to deal with anyone like him before.

  He could tell she thought she was his nemesis.

  But she was wrong. He would be hers.

  One day soon they would meet. And when they did . . .

  He touched the locket around his neck.

  A woman turned on to the lane, and began to walk towards him.

  She looked perfect.

  He smiled. If only she knew how lucky she was.

  Tonight was about reconnaissance.

  He had not come prepared.

  He moved to the side of the lane, close to the bushes.

  Best not to spook her.

  Allochka saw him veer to the side, and slow his pace. A male. Medium height. Black hooded top and running pants. Just like she’d been told. An icy hand gripped her heart. There wasn’t time to go back. And he would know why if she did.

  Long blonde hair.

  Face moon-shaped.

  A pale orb against the night sky.

  He felt the heat in his groin.

  The pulse throbbing in his neck.

  Not tonight.

  Not prepared.

  She felt for the zip on her shoulder bag, and began to unfasten it. Slid her hand inside. The houses to her right were in darkness. To scream or not to scream? Wait, said the voice in her head. What if he’s just a jogger?

  The gap between them closed.

  Her eyes were deep in shadow.

  He smiled reassuringly.

  Her body shrank away from him.

  Her face was tight with fear.

  He saw her hand move within her bag.

  Knew that she was going to call for help.

  To ruin everything . . .

  She saw the smile freeze on his face, and his left shoulder drop as he began to move. She scrabbled for the rape alarm. Realised she would need both hands to pull the pin. She opened her mouth to scream.

  Chapter 63

  SATURDAY, 20TH MAY

  It was 4am by the time they had delivered Neeley to the custody officer, persuaded a night detective to accept the handover, and completed the stop and search record, and their arrest reports.

  It helped that Neeley had plenty of form. Over thirty previous offences as a juvenile. In the past five years he had graduated from a Secure Children’s Home to a Secure Training Centre via a Young Offender Institution. The last of which he had left less than a month ago.

  ‘We’ve already had two break-ins reported in New Moston,’ the night detective told them. ‘My guess is they’re down to Neeley. Stuff missing. I’ll get the day shift to pay a little call on his mum first thing, armed with a search warrant. Odds-on they’ll find items from priors he hasn’t been able to shift yet.’

  He grinned.

  ‘Best night’s work I haven’t had to do, thanks to you two. Any chance we can borrow your drone for a week or two?’

  ‘Is that actually possible?’ said Jo as they walked to the car park.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where you told him to stick his truncheon?’

  He chuckled. She’d never heard him chuckle before.

  ‘Judging from the look on his face, probably not.’

  ‘I checked with Sierra Romeo 1,’ she told him. ‘Not only have there been no sightings, but apparently as far as working girls are concerned it’s eerily quiet out there. Not just Moston and Fallowfield either. I spoke to the control room, and they confirmed that all of the red-light districts are quiet as the grave.’

  She stopped walking.

  ‘Did I just say that?’

  He stopped too.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Quiet as the grave. Hardly appropriate.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was trying to remember what sleep felt like. I don’t know about you but I’ve just done another eighteen hours without a wink.’

  They started walking again. Jo did a quick calculation. It was hard when you were this tired.

  ‘Wimp,’ she said. ‘I’ve done twenty, and counting. The good news is I’ve stood the UAV team down, and told them to check in with Gordon tomorrow evening about another night shift. He can decide where he’d like to deploy them.’

  Their cars were parked side by side.

  ‘What are you planning for tomorrow night?’ said Max, his hand on his door handle.

  ‘I’m not. I thought I’d see what time I wake up, have something to eat, and then check in.’

  He gave her a mock salute.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said.

  Chapter 64

  SUNDAY, 21ST MAY

  It was 1.45pm when Jo left the apartment. On her way to the car, she picked up a copy of each of the top-four-selling Sunday newspapers. Before she set off, she laid them on the passenger seat and checked them one by one.

  Double-page spreads were devoted to Firethorn in three, and there were three pages and an editorial lead in the fourth. All of them paraded so-called experts in criminology, the criminal mind, and the conduct of investigations into multiple homicide. As far as Jo could tell, none of them had offered to assist the investigation, and judging by their comments nothing they had to say would have made a blind bit of difference.

  Two of the papers were taking the opportunity to strengthen their ongoing campaign for tougher action by police and the Crown Prosecution Service, and for more draconian sentencing.

  One focused on arguments in favour of the legalisation of prostitution, and the decriminalisation of the possession and misuse of drugs, quoting examples from around the world. An even-handed milksop article designed not to upset any of their dwindling readership.

  The remaining paper was the only one to run pen portraits of the victims. And the only one to wonder what value, if any, the National Crime Agency was adding to the investigation, under a banner that read:

  Britain’s FBI? We don’t think so!

  Below the text was a photograph taken with a long lens showing Jo and Max walking towards their cars.

  She cursed, started the engine, and headed for the exit of the multistorey car park.

  She drove to The Quays; she needed to clear her in-tray, emails, and her mind without the distractions of the Major Incident Room at Central Park.

  The office felt like the Mary Celeste. Harry was in Warrington. Andy was at home with his family, and Ram was having a much-needed rest day. She put her bag down on the desk, and walked over to the windows looking out over the Huron Basin.

  It was a beautiful spring day. The Quays were crowded with people strolling in the afternoon sunshine. Couples hand in hand. Whole families, their children running excitedly ahead. Cyclists weaving perilously in and out of the throng. Canoeists on the water. She raised her eyes to where Beetham Tower, shining gold and silver, marked the bottom of Deansgate, and the start of the city centre. It was hard to believe that out there was a man with a trail of bodies behind him and only one thing on his mind.

  It felt as though the whole world was on her shoulders. She sat down at her desk and brought her computer to life.

  An hour and a half later she had emptied her in-tray, dealt with her emails, and made sure her log on the shared drive was up to date. She decided she had earned a coffee. She stood up and began to walk towards the machine.

  Her mobile phone rang.

  She turned and picked it up off the desk. It was Gordon.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘At The Quays. Why?’

  Jo didn’t need him to respond. The pause was answer enough.

  ‘He’s killed again?’ she said.

  ‘Possibly,’ Gordon replied. ‘Won’t know for sure till we’ve seen for ourselves. Maybe not even then.’

  Jo sensed that an explanation of exactly what he meant would have to wait.

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nbsp; ‘And Jo,’ he said, ‘there’s something else. Not to do with this one. To do with victim number six.’

  ‘Jacinta Quinn? What about her?’

  ‘Best I tell you face-to-face,’ he said.

  There was something about the way he said it that set her nerves on edge.

  ‘Where?’ she said.

  ‘Mitchell Street, Newton Heath. Off Briscoe Lane. Between the canal and the Medlock Valley Way.’

  She picked up her bag.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

  Chapter 65

  Jo counted a dozen uniformed officers keeping people back behind the crime scene tape. It looked as though the entire estate had turned out to gawp. At least there was no sign of the press. Not yet.

  Gordon was already there, leaning on his car as he struggled into his Tyvek all-in-one. Jo collected a new coverall from the loggist, and went to join to him.

  ‘It’s like the Rawtenstall Annual Fair!’ Gordon grumbled. ‘And where did all these kids come from? I thought they’d gone back to school.’

  ‘If you ask, they’ll say homeschooling. Avoids their parents being fined for truancy.’

  Gordon pulled the zip up to his neck. ‘I wish I’d known,’ he said. ‘Would have saved Marilyn and me a hell of a lot of grief and embarrassment.’

  ‘What did you mean by us not knowing if it was the unsub till we’d seen it for ourselves?’

  ‘None of what the first responder described matched up with the other crime scenes. Other than the fact that she’s a known sex worker.’

  They walked across the roughly tarmacked lane to the officer standing beside the start of the common approach path. Raised aluminium stepping plates snaked up a grass- and weed-covered bank and into bushes.

  ‘You’ll have to wait a moment I’m afraid,’ said the officer. ‘The crime scene manager is still recoding and retrieving evidence close to the focal point of the scene. As soon as he’s finished, they’ll lay the final plates and he’ll give us the okay.’

  Focal point. A CSI technical term. A neat way of avoiding mention of the body.

  Jo drew Gordon to one side.

  ‘Jacinta Quinn,’ she said. ‘What was it you couldn’t tell me over the phone?’