by J. E. Mayhew
Blake watched Lex guide his son out of the police station. “Totally unlike me, I suspect, Mr Price,” he muttered to himself. “Totally unlike me.”
*****
As soon as DS Vikki Chinn had finished interviewing with DCI Blake, she headed for the psychologists Nicola Norton’s office in Heswall on the Deeside of the Wirral. Heswall was a small market town and wasn’t immune to the damage online shopping had inflicted on high streets everywhere. But whereas many town centres succumbed to tattoo parlours and pound shops, Vikki noticed a large number of eateries and coffee shops.
Norton’s office was above a shop selling second-hand mobile phones and other related technology near the bus depot in the centre of town. Vikki had trouble gaining access at first. She went into the shop and the woman behind the counter directed her round the back. A narrow staircase led up to a second floor and in the darkness above, Vikki could make out a door. As Vikki climbed the stairs, the door flew open and Nicola Norton loomed over her, coat on and bag over her shoulder. She gave a little yelp. “You scared me,” Nicola said.
“Sorry, madam,” Vikki said, showing her warrant card. “DS Vikki Chinn, we spoke on the phone the other day about Richard Ince. You were going to call me back.”
Nicola Norton put a hand to her head. “I’m so sorry. With all that’s going on, there’s a lot of upset at Pro-Vets and I’ve been working flat out. It just slipped my mind.”
Vikki nodded but didn’t move. “I understand Ms Norton. Is there any chance you could look now?”
“Y-yes, of course” Norton said, glancing at her watch. She turned back to the office, unlocking the door. The room inside was neat and tidy. Vikki supposed it had to be if she used it for consulting. This was Norton’s public face. Everything was painted a calming shade of pastel green. A couple of tall parlour palms stood in the corner, softening the sharp edges of a bookcase laden with volumes of books about psychology and self-improvement. There was a couch in the corner, and a leather armchair next to it. Norton sat behind her desk and Vikki noticed a number of framed certificates declaring the woman’s professional accomplishments.
“I was hoping you would have got back to me sooner about Richard Ince’s buddy, Ms Norton,” Vikki said. “An investigation as complex as this takes time and I really didn’t want to have to travel when I could be assessing evidence back at HQ.”
“I’m so, so sorry. You should have phoned me …”
“I did several times and left voice messages but you never got back to me.”
“Like I said, I’ve been busy,” Norton said, smiling apologetically. “Honestly, it’s been frantic at Pro-Vets. Everyone wants to talk and George has been surprisingly generous with my time.”
“Well, we’re here now, so, can you tell me who Richard Ince’s buddy was?”
Nicola Norton looked as though she was weighing up what to say next. “Look, my experience of working with the police hasn’t always been encouraging in the past,” she said. “Two years ago, I helped on a case involving a troubled ex-serviceman. It was a total mess and the young man ended up dead. So forgive me but I’m concerned about just bandying names about without considering my patients.”
Vikki pursed her lips for a moment. “Okay. I can understand that. What do you suggest? I really need to speak to this person.”
Norton thought for a second. “The man works in the Pro-Vets warehouse. He has a number of problems due to an acquired brain injury. One of them is he finds it hard to process what people are saying, he also has poor executive function…”
“Executive function?”
“Imagine you want a drink of tea. You know that first you have to get the mug from the cupboard, then you know you need to fill the kettle with water, then you know you have to switch the kettle on. There’s a whole chain of actions that lead to that drink being before you, right? He struggles with working out the steps needed to achieve the most basic tasks sometimes. It causes all kinds of problems for him.”
“Then we’d have to plan what we were going to ask carefully so he could process and answer effectively,” Vikki said. “You could help with that, couldn’t you? I don’t want to make this any more of an ordeal for him than it has to be.”
Norton looked uncomfortable. “There’s something else you should know. My client has always been… fragile. There had been concerns raised about him before he was injured.”
“What kind of concerns?”
“Trauma can do all kinds of things to the mind, Sergeant. He was having bad dreams, making strange accusations against senior officers. Claiming they were spying on him or that other colleagues were going through his belongings. The injury only seemed to heighten this paranoia.”
“Are you saying that this man is dangerous?”
“Not normally but he will be hard to interview. Have you ever heard of the Fregoli delusion, Sergeant? It’s a very rare disorder that means the sufferer has trouble distinguishing between faces. Part of the delusional thought leads them to believe that certain individuals can change appearance or disguise themselves.”
“So, as far as my client is concerned, I could be one of his friends…”
“Or enemies, out to get him. He had trouble with one particular NCO, a Corporal Graves. Witnesses suggest that Graves picked on my client when he was in the army. Graves was caught in the same IED explosion as him but didn’t survive. In his worst moments, my client thinks Graves is still alive and out to get him, changing his appearance to get at him. He’s on anti-psychotics but, trust me, approach my client in the wrong way and you’ll have big problems. His name is Terry White.”
*****
As plans went, Blake knew it was foolhardy. Ian Youde, the voice of reason, sat in his kitchen and shook his head, Charlie curled at his feet. It was the end of another long day and Blake had treated himself to a chicken jalfrezi from the Wirral Tandoori in Bromborough. He’d phoned Ian in advance and got his order of fish and chips from the chippy. Blake could have predicted that he wouldn’t be a fan of curries. Now they sat polishing off their respective meals, Blake sweating slightly and sipping a cold Cobra beer in an attempt to cool his mouth down.
“Is there someone in your department, anyone, you’ve really wanted to punch? Because you may as well do that before you launch into this stupid idea and lose your job, Will.”
“There are a few people I wouldn’t mind giving a good slap right now, Ian, but I need to talk to Laura and it seems like the safest way…”
“There isn’t a safest way,” Ian said. “If she’s shacked up with her ex, you can’t go muscling in, especially if the police are watching him. You shouldn’t even have told me.”
“What? You going to tell them all at your Bridge circle, Ian?” Blake said.
“I go down the Snooker club every now and then,” Ian said, sounding hurt. “I like my own company, it’s true but I do have friends other than you.”
“I know but you’re not a blabbermouth, are you? Anyway, it might just work and give me at least a chance to speak to her.”
“You don’t even know if she’s still practising as an animal psychologist, Will…”
Blake showed Youde a website on his phone. It showed Laura holding a small black dog and smiling confidently out of the screen. A banner said: ‘Paws for Thought’ and a subtitle declared that Laura Vexley was an ‘Animal Behaviour Saviour.’
“This is new,” Blake said. “It can only have gone up since she came back. There’s a number. All I need is an address she doesn’t know and a bogus pet with a behavioural problem and she’ll come round.”
“It’s creepy, Will,” Ian said. “She won’t be happy.”
“I can’t help that can I? Now all I need is for Jeff to let me use his house. Laura has never been there, so won’t recognise the address.”
“She’ll recognise your voice, surely,” Ian said.
“I have a secret weapon,” Blake said. “Madge at work.”
“I just hope you know what you’re doing,
Will,” Ian said. “This could all go tits up in an instant and then where will you be?”
Chapter 22
Asking DC Alex Manikas for life advice was probably a bad idea, Kinnear thought almost the moment he opened his mouth. Not that Manikas wasn’t experienced in some matters, just not the ones Kinnear was interested in. Alex would be the ideal mentor to someone who wanted to go out, get drunk and play the field but Kinnear was settled. So now, he felt foolish as he listened to Alex gush over all his excellent qualities.
“You’ll make a great dad, mate,” Alex said as they sat in the car before making their next call. “You’re patient, sensible…”
“Sensible? Boring you mean…”
“Parents are meant to be boring, aren’t they?”
“You aren’t helping, Alex. I just don’t know if I’m ready to take on such a responsibility yet. Chris and I are both so busy…”
“I thought you said he was going part time.”
“Well, yeah but I’m not. I won’t be there for her…”
Alex thought for a moment. “My dad built up a sign-writing and billboard business when I was growing up. He was mad busy and often came in after we’d gone to bed and was out before we woke up, but he was a good dad and he did his best for us. For what it’s worth, I reckon that’s all you can do, mate.”
Kinnear smiled, surprised by Manikas’ frankness. “Thanks. I need to think about it all.”
“Right now, we need to focus on the job. Although why we’re being sent to harass these poor people because some little racist scumbag points the finger to please his dad?” He looked at the stern front of the dilapidated house. It had once been a huge Victorian villa but had long been split into bedsits. “I can’t imagine this is how these poor buggers thought they’d be living when they ran for their lives from wherever they were.”
“There’s one guy of marginal interest to Counter Terrorism who lives there,” Kinnear said, glad to get back to talking about work. “We go wading in and we could push him over the edge. We could be recruiting sergeants for some nutjob terror group.”
“And what if he turns out not to have an alibi?” Manikas said. “We’ve got to check. We’ll just be polite, ask a few questions and then move on. If anything rouses our suspicions, we’ll get back-up.”
The front door of the house was open and they stepped into a hallway littered with flyers and unwanted post. As with many of these rented buildings owned by absentee landlords, it was unclear who was responsible for keeping communal areas clear. Similarly, the paintwork was battered by hundreds of people passing to and fro through the hall. “God, I’d hate to live in a place like this,” Kinnear muttered.
The stairs creaked as they made their way to the second floor and a red door with a number twelve on it. “I bet you someone’s raking money in off the council for housing these poor bastards,” Manikas said and knocked on the door.
There was a pause and some shuffling behind the door, then it opened. A young man with dark hair and a long beard looked nervously through the crack he’d opened. “Y-yes?”
Kinnear flashed his warrant card. “DC Kinnear, DC Manikas, Merseyside Police. Are we speaking to Jamal Al Hadid?”
The young man’s eyes hardened. “Yes. What do you want?
“No need to be alarmed, we just wanted to ask you a few questions. It’ll only take a couple of minutes. Really, it’s nothing.”
Jamal looked them up and down. “Very well, take your shoes off.”
Alex flashed Andrew a look of concern, but Kinnear slipped his shoes off without missing a beat. “Okay, Mr Al Hadid,” he said. “Can we come in?”
Jamal backed away from the door. “You will have to forgive us. We have very little space and trying to keep everywhere tidy and clean with the damp in this house is almost impossible.”
The room would have been a large bedroom at one time. Now it housed three beds, a sink had been plumbed in and next to that stood a small cooker. The smell of last night’s cooking filled the air but there was that musty undertone of a room that hasn’t been properly dry for many years. Clothes hung on a laundry rack, but Kinnear wondered if they ever dried. A few toys lay scattered on the floor. Kinnear and Manikas sat on a small sofa that filled one wall while Jamal perched on the end of his bed.
Manikas cleared his throat. “Can we ask Mr Al Hadid, where were you on the night of the 14th? Five days ago.”
Jamal Al Hadid stroked his beard and looked troubled. “I was here with my wife and daughter.”
“Can anyone else corroborate this?”
“I spoke to a number of residents here through the course of that evening. I also had to change a lightbulb for Mrs Kalil downstairs. That was around eleven fifteen. Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Kinnear said. “That’s why we were asking. Does the name Paul Travis mean anything to you?”
Jamal’s face fell. “Really? A man dies in Port Sunlight and you come to me?”
“So you’re aware of the investigation, sir?” Manikas said.
“I listen to the news and read the papers online. Why have you come to me of all the people in this house? You think I’m some kind of terrorist?”
“Not at all, Mr Al Hadid. We are just following up a lead…”
“I’m not stupid you know. Before I left Syria, I was a lawyer. This is because of Lex Price, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir,” Kinnear said, feeling himself flush red at the mention of Price’s name.
“I had an altercation with the man in Birkenhead. He was screaming racist abuse at my wife and daughter, so I stood up to him…”
“I believe Mr Price was bound over for that incident…” Manikas cut in.
“And I am branded as a trouble-maker. You think I’m a murderer because I protected my wife and child from that… monster?”
“Having seen Mr Price, I think you’re a very brave man, Mr Al Hadid,” Kinnear said, standing up. “We’re sorry to have troubled you.”
Caught off guard, Jamal Al Hadid blinked. “Thank you,” was all he could think to say. “You know, when I lived in Syria, I had a Mercedes, a wardrobe full of suits. My wife and daughter wanted for nothing. We fled in the clothes we were wearing. At the refugee camps we swapped our expensive, designer wear for warmer, secondhand things that didn’t really fit us. By the time we reached England, we were in rags with nothing. Now look at us. I deliver takeaways and do some voluntary work in a local charity shop. I’m grateful for the shelter this country has given us in one way, but you aren’t the first officers to visit me. I defend my family once and, whenever there is a hint of trouble, the police turn up. Sometimes I wonder if you bother people like Mr Price quite as much.”
“I hope we treat all citizens of this country without fear or favour, sir,” Kinnear said. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
Outside, Manikas blew out a long breath. “Do you get the feeling we’ve been led up a garden path?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, do you honestly think Bobby Price saw two Islamic extremists at the war memorial or did he make that up? If he did, who put him up to it? His bloody father must have known that Al Hadid would end up getting quizzed over it.”
Kinnear looked unconvinced. “He wouldn’t know that Jamal would specifically get a visit, but he probably guessed someone would. And why go to all that bother if you aren’t trying to hide something? Shall we go and report back to Blakey?”
*****
The counselling room at Pro-Vets was a small office really but instead of desks, it had comfy chairs, beanbags and walls painted in the same cool green as Nicola Norton’s office. Norton had offered to sit in with DS Vikki Chinn as a support to Terry White and Vikki could see no reason why not, as long as White was happy with the arrangement.
Terry White filled the armchair opposite Vikki, he was clearly a strong man but had lost a lot of his fitness and muscle tone. He wore a blue Pro-Vets overall, black boots a
nd a baseball cap. His round face looked calm and serene as he stared at Vikki. She could see the puckered skin at the side of his neck that grew into a large scar at the back of his head. Nicola Norton, sat in another of the chairs, dressed in a tailored black trouser suit.
“Terry, thank you for agreeing to talk to me today. My name is DS Vikki Chinn and I want to ask you a few questions about Richard Ince.”
Nicola put her hand up to stop Vikki saying anything else and they waited.
Finally, Terry nodded. “That’s okay. Ritchy’s gone. Taken from us.”
“I know, Terry. I’m sorry about that. Can you remember when you last saw him?”
Another long pause. “Yes.”
“When was that, Terry?”
“When was what?”
Vikki exchanged glances with Nicola who scribbled something down on a small white board. “This might help, Terry,” she said, showing him the board.
“We went to the pub the night before he was taken.”
“What do mean when you say he was taken?”
Terry looked up. “He killed himself because Graves took his body. He looked like Ritchy but he was Graves really. I could tell.”
Vikki bit her lip. “And how did that make you feel, Terry?”
“Scared. A bit angry. Graves shouldn’t do that. It’s not right. He needs stopping.”
“You do know that Graves is dead, Terry?” Vikki said.
A strange, tight smile spread across Terry White’s face and he shook his head. “How come I see him everywhere, then?”
“Where do you see him, Terry? Is he here right now?”
Terry looked closely at Vikki and then at Nicola Norton. “No. But I do see him. In the crowd, laughing at me…”
An awkward silence fell across the room. Vikki finally broke it with a cough. “On the night Richard Ince died. You said you went for a drink with him. What happened then? Where did you go?”
The seconds ticked away as Terry White frowned into the past, trying to fit together pieces of his fragmented memory. “We went to the pub and had a few drinks. I shouldn’t really. It messes with my medication. Then I went home,” he said at last. “Ritchy went up to his flat and Graves made him take heroin.”
