April called Lacey back, but this time it was the turn of the DJ’s mobile to go to voicemail. A minute later, April received a text from Lacey: Thanks for calling back. I’m on air until midnight so can speak to you after then. xx
April knew there had been more to the story. Now she couldn’t wait to hear Lacey’s unedited version of events.
But someone else was also keen to hear what Lacey had to say for herself, when they accessed April’s voicemail. Even after the ‘hacking scandal’ that forced the closure of the red-top tabloid News Of The World, listening into someone’s voicemails was still surprisingly easy as long as you had their mobile phone number and four-digit PIN code. Despite several warnings from Connor to change her voicemail PIN code, April had never got round of it, meaning it was still set to the factory default of ‘0000’.
Not knowing whether April had listened to Lacey’s message, the hacker deleted it and hung up. They needed an urgent plan of action before the DJ said too much.
75 #TheWholeTooth
Baby Angel @BabyAngel
Ask Tom O’Neill about Operation Molar.
Captain Sorrell stared at the DM from Baby Angel, but didn’t quite know what he was looking at. He DM’d back, Molar? and waited for a reply. None was forthcoming. As usual Sorrell hollered Haye into his office.
‘You know, there is a perfectly good intercom system, cap’n?’ Haye pointed out.
‘And why do I need an intercom when I can use my voice?’ Sorrell said by way of a rebuke, before adding, ‘Look at this.’ Sorrell swung his PC screen so Haye could see it.
‘Molar?’ Haye said thoughtfully. ‘I guess it must be a code for something.’
‘Well, I figured that out,’ Sorrell said impatiently.
‘I’ll call Tom O’Neill again and tell him to come in right away, cap’n.’
‘Yeah, but don’t say what it’s about. I want to see his reaction when I mention it. And this time he better not hold out on me.’
***
Lieutenant Haye showed Bryce’s deputy into Captain Sorrell’s office in silence, before the loyal detective took up his usual spot leaning on the wall by his master’s desk. Sorrell ignored his visitor as he continued to type at his PC, before hitting ‘Send’, leaning back in his chair and placing his reading glasses on top of his head. He studied Tom O’Neill down the end of his nose for what seemed an age, before saying the words, ‘Operation Molar.’
The colour drained from O’Neill’s face.
He had been sure he had thrown the captain enough dirt to keep them satisfied. But he’d been wrong. There were very few people who knew about the incident referred to as Operation Molar – a comical-sounding title that did nothing to reflect its serious nature. O’Neill tried to weigh up how much he could reveal without implicating himself. The captain seemed to see right through him.
‘This is the third time I’ve had to interview you, so before you think about spinning me some bullshit again, just think what a charge of withholding information from a homicide investigation will do for your chances of a green card.’
Tom O’Neill’s shoulders visibly sagged. He knew the game was up. He would still try to paint himself in the best possible light – after all, the only person who could dispute his version of events was dead. ‘There had been complaints about Bryce’s behaviour. Lots of complaints. One PR girl in particular alleged Bryce had bitten her. Fuck it, there was no “alleged” about it, he had bitten her bad. She looked like she’d been attacked by one of those devil dogs. Her ears, neck, breasts. Hell, he left one of her nipples practically hanging off.’ Tom shuddered at the thought.
‘Sick fuck,’ Haye said, speaking for the entire room.
‘The HR department had had to deal with many issues over the years at ABT News, but it’s fair to say this was the first time they’d handled a staff biting issue. Bryce’s defence was he had simply got carried away during sex. But her photographic evidence said otherwise. He had attacked her, plain and simple. He confided in me later he’d been off his head on crystal meth. He claimed he couldn’t remember a thing.’
‘Ain’t that always the case,’ Haye snorted in disbelief.
‘The girl threatened to go public unless Bryce was reprimanded, and he was… of sorts,’ Tom said, hoping his explanation would draw a line under the matter. He was wrong.
‘Of sorts?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Well, he was told in no uncertain terms that it must never happen again… but that was it, really. Business as usual. They got rid of the PR instead. Made her sign some waiver. Gave her some money, I don’t know. But she understandably felt short-changed. She was more than just another lover, she was living with him. When she was in hospital being stitched back together, Bryce had her things moved out of his flat. After that, she wanted revenge. Big time. She threatened to leak her photos online.’
‘So Bryce Horrigan made plans, didn’t he, O’Neill? What did he do?’ Sorrell demanded.
This was the area of the story O’Neill hadn’t planned to visit. But he was left with little choice.
‘He wanted her photographic evidence destroyed,’ Tom replied quietly.
‘Which you did for him?’ Sorrell asked, already knowing the answer.
O’Neill felt like the captain had slit his body down the middle and read his soul.
‘Yes,’ he replied shame-faced. ‘She had taken them on her iPhone. She showed them to me. I then deleted them when the opportunity arose. Without the photographs she still had her scarring, but much more difficult to prove was when they happened. But the iPhone pictures were stamped with time and place, showing she had taken them in Bryce’s apartment. In his bathroom, as it happens, when she cleaned herself up while Bryce slept off his meth high. No photos, no case,’ Tom concluded.
‘But that meant you needed to betray her trust?’ Sorrell said, hitting the mark yet again.
‘Yes,’ O’Neill replied softly, now staring at the floor. ‘And I’ve regretted it every day since. I was scared. Scared if this got out, Bryce would be sacked and I’d be out of a job.’
‘So you destroyed evidence of assault and battery, to cover your own ass?’ Sorrell said with disgust written all over his face.
‘I didn’t say I was proud of myself. But I was desperate,’ O’Neill protested.
‘And how did you manage to do it? How’d you get that close?’ Sorrell enquired.
‘It was sort of a date,’ O’Neill replied, again unable to make eye contact with the captain.
‘A date? Or “sort of” a date?’ Sorrell asked, his eyebrows arched in anticipation.
‘Bryce sent me to console her. He said it would be the perfect opportunity to destroy the photos. He even made me buy a new iPhone, to switch with hers. Just to make sure. She had this glittery phone case. So all I needed to do was put it on the new phone and take her old one. It was easy enough, as she kept crying all the time. She was a wreck, and no wonder after what he did to her. She even showed me the nipple that had been stitched back on. She said it made her look like the Bride of Frankenstein. That’s when she broke down again and went off to the bathroom to compose herself. I then switched phones and told her I had to leave on urgent business. You probably think I’m a total shit, don’t you?’
Both Captain Sorrell and lieutenant Haye stared at Tom O’Neill with empty expressions.
‘What’s her name?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Who?’ O’Neill said absent-mindedly.
‘The complainant. What’s her name?’
‘Hardie,’ O’Neill replied, ‘Chrissie Hardie.’
Captain Sorrell continued to stare in total silence. Eventually he lifted his pen and told O’Neill to spell her name, which he did.
‘Chrissie H-a-r-d-i-e,’ Sorrell repeated back before looking at the name he’d written in his notepad. ‘You sure?’ the captain asked, staring intently at O’
Neill again.
‘Of course. I’m unlikely to ever forget her, am I?’ O’Neill snorted.
Lieutenant Haye showed O’Neill the door, slamming it behind the Northern Irishman. He then turned to face his captain. ‘How come every time we speak to that lying fuck we get a different story? First he withholds the name of Geoffrey Schroeder, now this,’ Haye snarled.
‘That usually means we’re getting closer to the truth,’ the captain said, placing his reading glasses back on his nose. ‘And I like the truth, Haye.’
76 #Contact
Connor wasted no time following Schroeder, then sending him a direct message:
Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter
I’m a reporter from Scotland in Baltimore. I’m told you may be able to help me with info on Bryce Horrigan murder?
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
Who said I could help? The police?
Connor knew Schroeder would be twitchy as hell. He tried to reassure him as best he could.
Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter
Not police. A friend. I haven’t spoken to police – or anyone – about you.
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
You tell me who your friend is and we’ll talk. I’ll give you a story. Might not be what you want to hear though.
Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter
You know a reporter NEVER reveals their sources.
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
No name. No deal. No more contact until I know who your friend is. Don’t make it up, I’ll know.
Connor was perplexed. He hadn’t expected a response at all, never mind this one. Schroeder was behaving like a hunted animal, which he no doubt was. He even read Connor’s thoughts about making up the name of an imaginary friend.
‘You’re up to your tits in this,’ Connor thought out loud. But what difference would it make even if he did give him the name Tom O’Neill? They were from different worlds.
Connor was in a dilemma. He wanted to interview Schroeder so badly. He just knew he held the key to everything. Besides, until now, he had got next-to-nothing on this trip. But he couldn’t hand the name of a fellow journalist over to a suspected killer just for a story, could he?
Connor typed out another DM before looking at the screen for several minutes.
‘Fuck it,’ he said, and pressed ‘Send’.
Moments later he got the response:
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
Okay. Let’s talk.
Schroeder’s next tweet was a set of directions:
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
Head up state. I-83 to Maryland border. Turn off on Old York Road. 2nd left into industrial park. Alone.
He finished by sending an ominous warning:
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
I’ll be watching.
***
Geoffrey Schroeder searched for Tom O’Neill’s name on Twitter. It didn’t take him long to find the one he was looking for, with a profile that read, Derry dude, living in New York. Journalist, lover, not a fighter, and deputy to @BryceTripleB – my views are definitely not HIS.
Geoffrey scrolled through O’Neill’s timeline. He wasn’t as prolific at tweeting as Horrigan had been, but he was still a heavy user. Schroeder decided to abandon any plans to cross the Canadian border once and for all. There was a good chance he would never make it anyway.
Instead, he stared at O’Neill’s avatar picture and decided he needed to make his last stand in Maryland. And he would start with Connor Presley.
77 #TheDMs
Lieutenant Haye burst into Captain Sorrell’s office without knocking, which always meant he had urgent news.
‘Twitter just got back to me and it’s hot stuff. I mean really hot stuff – we’ve got all his direct messages AND the ones he deleted.’
Like many detectives, Haye wanted to boast about how clever he had been first, before getting to the point. ‘I remembered how this real slimeball football player was sending DMs to a girl I was dating. He’d met her at some function and looked her up afterwards on Twitter then began messaging her, asking for her cell number and a date,’ Haye explained.
‘I hope there’s a point to this story about your social life, Haye?’ Sorrell sighed.
‘Yeah, cap’n. Basically, every time he sent her a DM he would delete it in case his wife found out. Apparently, she was the suspicious kind.’
‘With good cause,’ Sorrell replied.
‘Anyway, I suspected Bryce Horrigan would have done the same with his more salacious DMs. And he did.’
‘Or his hacker did,’ Sorrell reminded Haye.
‘Correct. Some were deleted from his account after his death, but we’ve got them all back. Every single DM and it’s dirty stuff.’ Haye smiled – a little too admiringly for the captain’s liking. ‘Turns out he was a scratcher and biter.’
‘What?’ Sorrell said as if he was hearing things.
‘He liked to bite and scratch women during sex, just like Tom O’Neill said. Horrigan sent loads of apologies explaining he just got carried away and hoped their “markings” weren’t “too painful”,’ Haye said, before quickly tapping at his iPhone. ‘Get this, according to the Kama Sutra, there are eight different levels of biting. They range from “the hidden bite” to “the biting of the boar”. I’m guessing Horrigan was more the boar type.’
The captain shook his head in disbelief.
‘It gets better, cap’n, a lot better,’ Haye said with excitement rising in his voice. ‘Apparently, Horrigan came to Baltimore on a promise,’ the lieutenant said, now smirking like a school kid.
‘A promise of what?’ Sorrell asked.
‘A foursome!’ Haye beamed.
Sorrell instantly recalled the four filled but untouched champagne flutes at the crime scene.
Haye turned his iPhone screen to Sorrell. ‘Three women had been sending Bryce DM’s with nude photos, too – look!’
Haye opened up one of the pictures, forcing Sorrell to turn away in disgust. ‘Jeez, I’m not a gynaecologist, Haye.’
The lieutenant laughed at his boss’s discomfort. ‘That’s Chrissie Hardie. The other is Patricia Tolan and the third is a new name to us, one Lacey Lanning. Looks like she’s based in Scotland. Anyway, they all arranged a rendezvous with Horrigan for a dirty weekend in Baltimore.’
‘Was he really so shallow he would fly from Manhattan to Baltimore just for sex?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Cap’n, I have friends who would walk from New York for a handjob, never mind a foursome. But what I can’t figure out is, why Baltimore? Why not stay in New York?’
‘Because the killer has no connection with Baltimore. They do with New York,’ Sorrell said matter of factly. He studied the direct message exchanges before saying thoughtfully, ‘Looks like Bryce Horrigan invited his killer to his own party.’
78 #GoingCommando
‘Lieutenant Haye? It’s your friendly, blue-faced, kilt-wearing, Sassenach-hating, Scottish policeman – and yes I have gone cunting commando,’ Crosbie said from his office on the other side of the Atlantic.
‘Sounds like you’ve gone over the edge, if you ask me,’ Haye replied glibly.
‘Ha, knew you Yanks had a sense of humour. Everyone says Americans don’t do irony. But I always thought that was total horse cock. America has produced the best TV comedies of all time. The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Curb Your Enthusiasm, 30 Rock…’
Haye cut Crosbie off. ‘And Police Scotland clearly had a sense of humour hiring you. Did you have any luck with that cell phone number?’
‘Sorry, I’m such a digressing dickhead. I guess I’m just so excited speaking to a real-life Bawlmore detective. Tell me, is your job anything like The Wire?’ Crosbie asked hopefully.
‘Nope. The ce
ll phone, detective?’ Haye said, his voice rising.
‘There I go again. They don’t call me the “Off on a Tangent Twat” for nothing. I traced the number to a woman called Lacey Lanning. She’s a DJ based in Inverness. According to reports in the press, she was Bryce Horrigan’s former lover,’ Crosbie reported.
‘Small world. I’ve just been looking at an interesting picture of her.’
‘Was she in the nip?’ Crosbie asked enthusiastically.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The nip. The scud. Her birthday suit. Could you see her dirty pillows? What about her growler? Sorry, minge. What’s the American word again? Puss…’
‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Crosbie? Yes. She was naked, as it happens,’ Haye finally said, exasperated. ‘Her name has come up before; could you bring her in? There’re some questions we’d like you to ask…’
‘Now hold your plums,’ Crosbie interrupted with a terrible John Wayne impression, ‘Miss Lanning has gone missing. Disappeared last night shortly after finishing her show. Her car is still in the staff car park, so something’s not right.’
‘Shit,’ Haye cursed loudly.
‘Shit, indeed. Apparently she’s been having personal problems, but her disappearance is totally out of character. We could put out a nationwide appeal through the media if you’re that desperate?’
‘Yes, we are. Good idea, detective, thanks,’ Haye replied genuinely.
‘So is this what you’d call a “red ball” situation? Has the chief been breathing down your neck? Busting your ba…’
Haye’s moment of gratitude passed as he once again slammed the phone down on his Scottish counterpart. The lieutenant had serious doubts about DCI Crosbie’s sanity.
79 #CoopsConfession
‘I told you she had nothing,’ Colin Cooper said after being transferred through to Captain Sorrell’s office, ‘but the big-I-am Captain Sorrell wouldn’t listen.’
‘What is it, Colin? I’m busy.’ Sorrell wasn’t in the mood. He had got all he needed from the ex-detective.
DM for Murder Page 18
