‘We’d like to borrow this phone, if we may,’ Claire said. ‘It won’t take long, but will allow us to trace him.’
Angie looked outraged. ‘No, it’s not all right! Look, I’ve told you it’s not him. He’s in Madrid, you’ve got the wrong man. And this ridiculous suggestion that a man like this would choose, would even need to choose, a schoolgirl, as if he’s some kind of paedophile. Kyle could have any woman he chose, and he chose me.’ She tapped the middle of her chest. ‘Anyway, you said yourself you don’t even know what your suspect looks like.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You most certainly did.’ Ms Wright had worked herself up into quite a lather, and held out a well-manicured hand, as if Claire was going to return the phone.
‘Ms Wright, we do have a warrant. But it would be better if you cooperate. The phone can be back with you within an hour once we’ve extracted the data.’
‘So I’ve got no choice.’ She stood up, and ruffed out her hair.
Claire gave the nod to the female officer, who opened the door. ‘You’re free to leave, Ms Wright, but you cannot go home yet.’
‘Why?’
Claire looked at her watch. ‘Because fifteen minutes ago we obtained a warrant to search your house too. Officers will already have effected an entry, and will be searching for evidence. Anything taken will be receipted of course, and we will pay for any damage to locks.’
The woman stared at Claire for a long half minute. ‘You’re an ugly bitch. He wouldn’t even look at you.’
‘Given what he is capable of, that would be a huge relief,’ Claire said.
The female officer escorted Angie out, and returned with a cup of coffee for Claire. ‘Nasty piece of work, her,’ she said, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.
‘It’s understandable. We’ve just punctured her bubble of romantic perfection, so she’s hitting back. She put a brave face on it, but she knows we’re right.’
‘It’s not true, you know.’
Claire looked up from her paperwork. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got a lovely face. And you’re nice on the inside too. Just saying.’
Claire smiled. ‘Thank you.’
* * *
The pictures retrieved from Ellen Bramley’s phone were if anything poorer quality than those from Angie Wright’s. But as Claire Mulholland put them all up together on a screen, it became clear that Gabriel Hallam was Kyle Halliday. But Gary Harrison, Sam’s old ex, had only a partial resemblance to either of them.
‘Come and have a look at this, sir,’ she called to DCS Raj Otara as he walked past her in the incident room. She pointed out the resemblance and then added, ‘But Harrison looks like a brother or something. The teeth are completely different.’
Otara stroked his beard. ‘There’s a scar on the jawline of Hallam and Halliday, but not on Harrison.’
‘Do you think he’s had surgery?’ she asked. ‘Some kind of cosmetic procedure?’
‘If he has it’s pretty substantial, because the shape of his jaw is quite a lot more pronounced now.’
‘Or perhaps they really aren’t the same person?’ Claire asked.
‘No, I think they’re the same,’ Otara said.
‘There’s one person who will definitely be able to tell us, when she is better.’
‘Sam Gillard?’
‘Yes.’
That was the exact moment when Craig Gillard walked in. The detective chief inspector looked to have aged. His face was gaunt and an unruly stubble shadowed his features.
‘You look awful, Craig,’ Claire said. ‘How’s Sam?’
He blew a sigh. ‘She’s utterly traumatised. It’s going to be a long road back.’
‘Why are you even here?’ Otara asked. ‘You should be getting some sleep and looking after your wife.’
‘Sam’s parents arrived from Keswick this morning, and will be looking after her at our house. A caseworker from Victim Support has been assigned too. I’ve asked Rigby to put me back on the case, part-time, until we find Vanessa Perry. I’m hoping to persuade her that I have unique insight and information, so I’m going up to see her in a few minutes to see if she’ll relent.’
‘Craig,’ Claire said, with exasperation. ‘You only have one unique role that nobody else can do, and that’s looking after Sam and helping her recuperate. She’ll want you more than anybody. I think that’s what you should be concentrating on.’
Gillard thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket. ‘I will do that, but not until we have nailed Gary Harrison for good.’
‘So take a look, Craig,’ Otara said indicating the screen full of images of their suspect. ‘Tell me – is it the same guy?’
Gillard took a look and shrugged. ‘I wish I could tell you. I’ve never seen him face to face.’
* * *
DCS Raj Otara called an impromptu update for the incident room at midday. Only half the team were there, the rest being out in the field. Gillard, his request to go back on the case refused by the chief constable, had just departed to return to look after Sam. Claire Mulholland was there, along with DC Carl Hoskins and most of the NCA research crew.
‘Okay everyone, some great work has been done today. First, we discovered the whereabouts of Samantha Gillard, and rescued her.’ There was a round of applause across the room. ‘We have also identified the dark-haired woman recovered from the Warrior. She is Yvonne Fairfield, nineteen, missing for almost four years.’
Claire nodded. ‘It’s solved what for me was a very difficult and under-resourced case. I’m going to see her mother this afternoon, to break the news.’
Otara continued. ‘This is great news, but as you all know, we have more to do. DI Perry’s daughter Vanessa is still missing, and we are increasingly concerned for her safety. We haven’t yet managed to track down our suspect, although we have discovered a burned-out Range Rover near the village of Long Stainton, between Aldershot and Guildford.’
He turned to Research Intelligence Officer Sally Rickard. ‘Sally, how is the trace going?’
‘The phone we’re still on is the one Gabriel Hallam, a.k.a. Kyle Halliday, used to ring Elaine Bramley. It’s been off most of the time, but has lit a few cell towers going west past Aldershot. Clearly it is not in the same vehicle anymore, though the speed of movement shows that it is still in a vehicle of some sort. If we are lucky we may get an ANPR hit while the phone is still on, which might allow us to narrow down the range of possibilities.’
‘That’s good. We’ve also managed to get a proper mugshot from the DVLA of Kyle Halliday’s driving licence, which is still registered to the address in Fleet where apparently he no longer lives. Just to remind you we’re still under newspaper and press blackout.’
A phone rang on the edge of the incident room. Hoskins answered it, and began making notes. His alarmed tone was picked up by others sitting nearby, especially when he started looking around.
‘What is it?’ Otara asked.
‘Perry isn’t here, is he?’ Hoskins looked around the room.
‘No. He’s gone home to work on the Jane Morris case. I’ve sent a family liaison officer with him, in case of bad news.’
Hoskins nodded. ‘Good. Because they’ve just found a young woman’s body, near the village of Long Stainton.’
* * *
Detective Inspector John Perry arrived at the crime scene only a few minutes after CSI had erected the tent. The liaison officer had sensibly decided to come with him. Perry spotted the distinctive Tesla of Home Office forensic pathologist Dr David Delahaye, and managed to buttonhole the man himself as he emerged grim-faced from the tent, wearing a Tyvek suit and blue latex gloves.
‘Is it my daughter?’ Perry asked. ‘Is it Vanessa?’
A uniformed constable prevented Perry from following the pathologist back to his car, and seemed unaware that he was actually a detective, until the liaison woman explained. Perry’s eyes followed the pathologist as he rooted about in the boot of h
is car and returned with a black briefcase.
‘How old is your daughter?’ Delahaye asked, as he prepared to duck back into the small tent that had been set up at the edge of a hedge.
‘Seventeen,’ breathed Perry.
Delahaye permitted himself a small smile. ‘It’s not her, then. The victim is in her mid-twenties I would say.’
‘Thank God.’ It was only the intervention of the two uniformed officers that prevented Perry falling to his knees. The liaison officer put her arm around Perry, and led him to her car. He clung on to her like a child, sobbing with relief.
‘We’ll find her soon, John, don’t you worry.’
His next utterance, choked with tears, took her a while to understand. Five dead already. What chance does she have?
She shushed him, and stroked his back. Over his shoulder she could see a large red plastic suitcase being removed from the tent in a clear plastic bag.
Chapter Twenty-one
Two hours earlier
There was no satnav in the Fiat and Vanessa Perry wasn’t very good with maps. Two police cars screamed past her in the opposite direction just before she got to the turn-off for the village of Long Stainton. She had only gone a hundred yards down the narrow country lane when Kyle ducked out from behind a hedge and flagged her down. He pulled open the driver-side door and seized her by the hair, dragging her out. ‘Where have you been, you stupid bitch?’ He cuffed her round the head, three times: forehand backhand forehand. It made her ears ring. It was only the second time he had ever hit her, not counting when they had sex.
‘Ow, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.’ She fought back tears, not of pain, but of anxiety that having let him down, he might go off her.
‘Did you bring the petrol can?’
‘Yes, it’s in the boot. I filled it up yesterday.’
‘Get it.’ He dragged her out of the driver’s seat, and pushed her towards the back. ‘There’s matches and wadding – run to the Range Rover, it’s just a quarter of a mile on the right. Burn it. I’ll text you the rest of the instructions.’
Vanessa opened the boot and pulled out the canvas bag which contained all the arsonist’s tools she needed. She was just about to return to the passenger seat when Kyle said, ‘Close the boot, idiot.’
She did so, and she watched in amazement as Kyle reversed the Fiat, almost knocking her down. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a lift?’ she shouted through the open window, as she ran after the car. ‘My clothes are in there, in my bag.’
‘No time,’ he bellowed, pointing to his wristwatch. ‘Remember what I said? Make the rendezvous. Don’t put your phone on until eleven, understand? Don’t go home or contact anyone else.’
Vanessa blew him a kiss as he reversed away from her down the lane towards the main road. He didn’t see her, because he had his arm over the passenger seat, and was looking behind him.
‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘Looking forward to seeing you tonight.’
After the car had disappeared and its engine note dwindled to nothing, she shouldered the heavy canvas bag and turned on her heels, slogging down the lane away from the main road. Crows were cawing in the still-bare trees. It felt lonely here, and sad. A few hundred yards on, sure enough, the black Range Rover was there, in a muddy passing place on the quiet twisty lane. The car was unlocked, and the keys in the ignition. There was an enormous red plastic suitcase in the boot. He hadn’t mentioned that to her. Maybe it was something important that he had forgotten.
In the months that she had known this wonderful, exciting man, he had told her many tales of working for British military intelligence in Afghanistan. How there had been cover-ups of terrible crimes against civilians by American forces, crimes Kyle had witnessed, and that was why he now had to live under a pseudonym. The British government always did what it was told by the Americans, which is why the British police were after him. It had all made sense when he’d explained. Kyle had built this dossier on a datastick that he kept with him at all times in his silver briefcase. One day soon, when the data was complete, he would reveal it to WikiLeaks.
But things had gone wrong.
The German violinist girl had some vital information which he needed to prove his case, and had come all the way to Britain to give it to him, but at their rendezvous told him she had been poisoned at a London hotel. She gave him the information he needed but died in the back seat of the big green car. He took her body to his workshop under the arches.
Vanessa had found it all very difficult to believe, until he showed her the body in the freezer. She was stunned to see the poor poisoned woman. That’s when she knew Kyle couldn’t be lying. She had cried for the poor girl, living undercover as a musician, working for the underground opposition. Kyle had explained that he wanted to goad the authorities, to convince them Beatrice was still alive, which would force them to show their hand with a huge police operation. He had told Vanessa to expect the British state would kill more people, and try to blame it on him. The newspapers would be proof. In the end he was proved right. Kyle had such a difficult life to live. Even his partner, the awful Angie, didn’t know who he really was, and the terrible secrets he was holding.
Vanessa was very excited, even though she was dizzy from where he had hit her. She quickly realised it must just have been the stress of the situation. She could feel the big roll of cash in her pocket, all her savings that he had asked her to withdraw, because his accounts were being monitored. Once she had burned the car, all she had to do was find her way to Manchester Airport. He would meet her there, in departures by the Thai Airways desk, this evening for the 20.50 flight to Bangkok. It was so romantic. She had been so excited about this that she could hardly sleep.
The one thing he had not explained was how to burn a car.
She assumed that if she just sloshed the petrol around on the seats, and tossed in a match, that would do the trick. But what about the suitcase? If that was all his stuff for their trip, clothes he had forgotten in his haste, he would be furious if she set it on fire. She thought about messaging him, but remembered how angry he’d been before when she disobeyed him. She lifted the rear hatch and tried to open the case. It was locked, and there was also a surprisingly big padlock with a combination on it. Clearly there was something important in there, and there was no way he would want her to burn it. She tugged it towards the edge of the boot, and tried to lift it down. It must’ve weighed almost as much as she did, but she managed. Why didn’t it have wheels? Vanessa slid, pushed and shoved the case into the base of the hedge, next to the car. She covered it with a branch so it couldn’t be seen so easily, but then realised it might catch fire when she burnt the vehicle. What was she to do? She thought for a moment and then realised that driving the car a short way would avoid the problem. Then if Kyle needed the suitcase he could come back and pick it up. Although he had been so stressed with her, she thought he would be pleased that she had shown this piece of initiative. She climbed into the car, started the engine, and set off further down the lane. She found a layby midway between two bungalows. She leaned over to the passenger seat and unscrewed the can of petrol. The stink of the fuel filled her lungs, and she tipped it out onto the passenger seat. A sudden coldness on her thigh made her realise she had splashed her leggings. She would have to be really careful. Opening the door and easing her way out of the driver’s seat, she took the box of matches and a single match, holding it away from her, and struck it against the side of the box. It flared, and she immediately tossed it inside the vehicle.
It went up like a bomb, and the blast of heat forced her back.
She ran for twenty yards, then turned back to look. The Range Rover had been transformed into the biggest bonfire she had ever seen. She wasn’t sure which way the church was. Instead, she saw a footpath sign, and decided that this would be the best way to avoid being spotted. It looked like a sunny day, and the first rays that lit her face made her think of Bangkok, and the new life that awaited her there.
* * *
Melanie Perry pulled up at the traffic lights, revving the engine in her eagerness to get on the trail of the man she now hated. ‘You really thought you were going to get away with this, didn’t you?’ She didn’t normally talk to herself, but now she was shouting over Classic FM, which she had put on hoping it would calm her. ‘I trusted you, bastard. I gave you everything. I bailed you out with thousands that I could ill afford. When I think that I remortgaged my own house, sweet Jesus, what was I thinking? Now I don’t even know whether to believe that you really have a sick sister in Colorado with some expensive medical bills. But, Christ, didn’t I fall for it?’
She arrived at the head office of AWL Properties, a small modern office next to a car dealership on the edge of Woking. Kyle rented at least two if not more of the AWL properties. ‘Ah yes, Angie bloody Wright,’ Mel shouted at no one in particular. ‘I bet he fooled you too.’ It was a Sunday, and AWL’s office was closed, but the car showroom was just opening.
Mel had dressed up purely for this part of the operation, and marched into the showroom. A young man of perhaps twenty-five in a suit and slicked back hair offered her a broad grin as he came out to greet her. ‘Hello madam.’ His wholesome display of insincerity reminded her of Kyle, and for a moment she imagined whipping out the sushi knife, and neatly beheading him. She shocked herself with the lucidity of her imagination, the spray of red over the shiny bonnet of the white BMW he stood next to, his perfectly coiffed head bouncing and clattering to the floor. The chiselled features not his but Kyle’s.
‘You can save your patter. I’m Mel Perry, head of sales at AWL. I need the spare office keys, which I know you keep in that filing cabinet.’ She pointed behind him through the internal glass window into the dealership office. She remembered. It was almost exactly two years ago that Kyle had brought her there and tried exactly the same stunt one evening, in order to get in. Once they had managed to get into the AWL office, he tore her clothes off and they had had passionate, in fact almost unbelievable, sex on the client settee. He had grabbed her throat and told her that she had been too noisy. But with him she never knew how to be quiet.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 25
