by Bill Rogers
The blood drained from his face.
‘When that other detective interviewed me, he said it was as a witness. He wanted to know if I’d seen anything suspicious when I was driving home. He didn’t say anything about me being a suspect.’
‘Neither did I,’ Jo said. ‘If we reach that stage, then I will have to caution you and continue this interview at a police station. In the meantime, this is an opportunity for you to assist my investigation and convince me otherwise.’
The panic returned.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he said.
‘So you’re ready to answer my questions?’
He glanced over his shoulder again. The woman in the study carrel was now wearing a pair of white earphones. He turned back.
‘So long as you keep your voice down.’
Jo pressed record, gave the date, time and place, her name and his, and began.
‘You work for Iskuros Security, Mr Northcote?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What does your work involve?’
‘I install and maintain alarms, CCTV, access keypad systems.’
‘Do you also respond to emergency call-outs?’
‘One week in four.’
‘It must be sensitive and confidential work requiring the highest levels of honesty and integrity?’
‘Yeah, it is.’
His smile was awkward, as though he sensed what was coming.
She smiled back.
‘I assume then that you told your employer about your convictions for public disorder and theft of a vehicle?’
He squirmed in his seat and struggled to reply.
‘Did you tell your employer about your criminal record, Mr Northcote?’
He shook his head, and mumbled. Jo pointed to the tablet on the table between them.
‘You’ll have to speak up.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t have to. It was spent.’
‘Your conviction was spent under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But security work is one area in which the Act does not apply in relation to spent offences. They must have told you that? Asked you to make a verbal disclosure?’
He shook his head.
‘I don’t remember that. Anyway, the Criminal Records Bureau check came back all clear, so I didn’t think it mattered. What would you have done?’
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.
‘How long have you been working for Iskuros Security?’
‘Seven and a half years.’
‘When did your work begin to take you on to university and college premises?’
Nathan Northcote looked genuinely surprised. Surely, she thought, he’s seen the news headlines even if he missed my public appeal on TV. And it must have been something his colleagues talked about at work? Yet he still hasn’t put two and two together?
‘Right from the start,’ he said. ‘My first job was installing keypads in a new student accommodation block in East Manchester.’
‘Do you do a lot of that?’
‘Sure. That, and access control and CCTV cameras in sensitive areas like science stock rooms, research facilities, places where radioactive materials are stored. It’s important work.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Jo paused. ‘Can I ask you more about the student accommodation? If you happen to be called to a particular Hall of Residence to sort out a problem, let’s say the intruder alarm is going and it won’t switch off, is there some kind of override code you use to reset it?’
He sat up and leaned forward. He seemed more relaxed now that he was talking about his work.
‘No, it wouldn’t keep on ringing. All of our alarms are programmed to reset after twenty minutes.’
‘But if there was a problem . . .’
‘I’d use our engineer code. Every company has its own engineer code that works on all of our common installations. So if we installed the system, we simply use our engineering code to get access to the control panel.’
‘What if it was an alarm belonging to another company?’
He grinned, and leaned towards her as though sharing a confidence.
‘Well, and this is a trade secret, all of us engineers get to know the codes all the other companies use.’
‘How do they get to know them?’
‘Either because they’ve moved between companies, or because they’ve gone self-employed. Whatever, we share them with each other. It makes our lives easier.’
‘So if an engineer were to use a code to disable an alarm, how would you know who had done it?’
‘You wouldn’t. You’d only know that it was someone who knew the engineer code.’
It sounded like all of a burglar’s Christmases coming at once, or a rapist’s for that matter.
‘On the other hand,’ Nathan Northcote continued, ‘if it were one of the residents using their electronic fob, then you’d know exactly whose fob it was because they’re individually programmed and recorded. You could even tell what time it was used.’
Jo paused while she made a written note. Although raising all sorts of questions in her mind, she could not see its relevance to Operation Juniper.
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
He sat back and crossed his arms.
‘Divorced. Why?’
‘How long have you been divorced?’
‘Three years, but I don’t see . . .’
‘Was it amicable, the divorce?’
‘We’re still speaking, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Any children?’
‘Two.’
‘Who has custody?’
‘She does, but I have visitation rights.’ His brow furrowed, and he clenched his fists where they nestled in the crook of his arms. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘what has this got to do with anything?’
‘Bear with me, Mr Northcote,’ Jo said. ‘I’m just trying to get a sense of your personal circumstances, and how that impacts on your movements. For elimination purposes.’
He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on his thighs. There were damp patches under his armpits.
‘Elimination?’
‘That’s right. The sooner we clear this up, the sooner you’ll be on your way. When do you get to see your children?’
‘It depends. Normally at weekends. I pick them up on a Friday night, and drop them back off at teatime on Saturday. Except when I’m on call.’
‘Do you keep a diary, Mr Northcote?’ she asked.
He frowned.
‘Who keeps a diary these days?’
‘Do you have a calendar you write your appointments on? Doctors, dentists, when you’ve agreed to pick up your kids?’
‘My former wife has one in her kitchen,’ he said. ‘I use this.’ He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, and held it up for her to see.
Jo paused the record button on her tablet, and opened the Word document containing the relevant dates of the abductions.
She pressed play.
‘I’m going to read you a series of dates,’ she said. ‘As I do so could you please find those dates on your phone, and show me any evidence you have that your children were staying with you that weekend.’
Three minutes later, Jo brought the interview to an end, and pressed stop.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I told you that if you cooperated we’d be finished in no time.’ She handed him one of her contact cards. ‘If you could just give me your ex-wife’s contact details, you can be on your way. You can write them on here.’
Nathan Northcote looked horrified.
‘My ex-wife? What are you going to tell her? I had a hell of a job getting her to agree to my visiting rights. If I can’t see my kids, I don’t know what . . .’
‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her the truth – that you’re a potential witness and you’ve been helping us with our enquiries. You’ve been very helpful.’
His relief was palpable. He wrote
on the card and handed it back to her. The two of them stood up.
‘What about my employers?’ he said. ‘You won’t have to say anything to them?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have any option. They have to know that you had that conviction.’
‘But it was spent! I’ll lose my job. What about the maintenance for my kids? I could still lose them!’
He sounded desperate. Jo’s conscience pricked her. This man had stayed out of trouble for twenty years. How would it affect his relationship with his kids? And how would he manage to pay their maintenance? Now that he’d admitted lying though, she had no option, she had a duty to report it. Maybe it wouldn’t mean him losing his job. Maybe they’d find him something else.
‘You don’t know how they’ll react,’ she said. ‘Maybe if you tell them that it was an honest mistake. You thought it was spent, and the CRB return confirmed it. You’ve just had it pointed out to you that they must have applied for the wrong form. I’m sure they’ll realise that it was as much their fault?’
‘Please,’ he said.
‘The best I can do,’ Jo told him, ‘is to give you the chance to tell them first. You’ve got twenty-four hours.’
Chapter 22
Max lowered the passenger-side window, raised his camera and took a series of covert shots.
Zachary Tobias, twenty-nine years of age, stood at the edge of the pavement outside the main doors. He stretched his arms, and puffed out his chest. Max guessed that it was for the benefit of the two female paramedics standing just yards away beside their ambulance.
At five feet eleven and with a powerful athletic build, Tobias approximated the physical unsub profile that the BSU team had compiled. Predominantly muscular, with an equal but minimal tendency towards fat or leanness, he was a true mesomorph. He worked out, and wanted everyone to know about it. Max could tell because Tobias had his leather biker jacket open to reveal a body-hugging white T-shirt, tight over bulging pecs and the ribbed outline of a serious six-pack.
Tobias began to cross the semicircular roadway in front of the entrance to Accident and Emergency. Black fitted leather trousers showed off firm glutes and toned quads as he strutted towards the car park. If first impressions counted, then he had blown it as far as Max was concerned.
The senior investigator placed the camera in the glove compartment and got out of the BMW. He waited until Tobias had almost reached his bike, locked up by the entrance to the car park, and then called out.
‘Zachary Tobias?’
The courier stared at Max with a mixture of suspicion and surprise. Max held up his warrant card.
‘Police,’ he said.
Experience had taught him that it paid not to elaborate. Then it was up to the person you wanted to interview to draw his or her own conclusions. More often than not it showed on their faces. Total surprise, for example, shock or anxiety. The latter was not uncommon, of course, and easily misinterpreted. It was surprising how many people associated the police with the imparting of bad news. You could always mitigate that impression with a smile and a neutral tone of voice. It was when they were not surprised that it was most telling.
Tobias’s face told a story. In the first few milliseconds, it registered surprise. This morphed into comprehension and concern, and finally a mask of uncomprehending innocence.
‘Officer,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’
Max stood his ground and waited. The courier walked towards him. He held a bottle of water in his left hand. Up close, Max could see beads of sweat on his forehead and a patch of damp in the centre of his chest. He was all of a twitch, as though his whole body had restless leg syndrome.
‘My name is Max Nailor,’ he said. ‘I’m a senior investigating officer with the National Crime Agency. I’d like a word with you about an ongoing investigation.’
The courier’s pupils dilated. Max knew that it was not because he was attracted to him, far more likely then that his brain was working overtime.
‘National Crime Agency? That’s Serious Crime, yeah?’
‘You’ve heard of us?’ said Max. ‘Very few people have.’
Tobias searched for the right response.
‘Must’ve seen it on TV. Crimewatch, yeah?’
‘You watch it a lot then? Why is that?’
More discomfort.
‘Cos it’s interestin’, yeah? And cos I get around a lot. Might see somefin’ worf reportin’, yeah?’ He unscrewed the top of the bottle, took a swig, and screwed the lid back on.
‘An honest and upright citizen,’ Max said, ‘in which case you won’t mind answering a few questions.’ He opened the rear passenger door. ‘It’ll be warmer and more comfortable in the car.’
Tobias took a step back.
‘What’s this about?’
‘In the car!’ said Max. ‘Please.’
Reluctantly, the courier ducked into the car and positioned himself in the centre of the rear seats, one leg in each footwell. Max closed the door and climbed into his own seat. Then he reached up to the rear-view mirror and pressed a button on the tiny black unit fixed beneath.
The courier leaned forward, one hand on the rear of each of the front seats.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘Sit back, Mr Tobias!’ Max told him. ‘Take your hands with you, and keep them where I can see them.’
He waited for the man to comply. Then he pointed to the box.
‘This is a dashcam. It records to the front and rear, including everything we say. It means I don’t have to take notes.’
Right on cue, the screen lit up. Two images appeared. The larger of the two showed the view through the windscreen. A smaller image, top right, captured the two of them. Max pressed a button and the interior view filled the screen. It showed the courier wiping his face with a handkerchief.
‘Do you really have no idea why we need to speak with you, Zachary?’ Max said, watching the screen for his response.
The courier shook his head, put the handkerchief on the seat beside him, and picked up his bottle of water.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’
He unscrewed the top and had another swig, not bothering to screw the lid back on.
‘Your employers didn’t tell you?’
‘My employers?’ Zachary Tobias looked genuinely surprised and sounded worried. ‘No, they didn’t. What’s it got to do wiv them?’
‘The reason I need a word with you, Mr Tobias,’ Max said, ‘is that your work has taken you to places from which students – female students that is – have been abducted, and seriously assaulted.’
The courier’s eyes widened. His mouth became an O.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘Them girls wot got raped, innit? You can’t fink I had anythin’ to do wiv that? No way, man! No way.’
‘So you know about these incidents?’
‘Course I do. All over the news, innit. Everyone’s talkin’ ’bout it, bruv.’
‘Everyone?’
‘At work. Down the gym. Everyone.’
‘So you’ll appreciate why we want to talk to anyone who regularly moves around the places where these young women live? People like you?’
‘S’pose.’ He took another drink. His arm shook as he did so.
‘Are you alright, Mr Tobias?’ Max asked.
The courier put the bottle down in a footwell, picked up his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘Yeah. It’s hot, innit?’ he said.
Max didn’t think so, and he wasn’t going to invite him to remove his jacket and get sweat all over the back of the seats.
‘In which case, let’s see if we can get this over with as quickly as possible, shall we?’
He waited for Tobias to nod.
‘Good. Let’s start with your work. Just remind me, what is it you do?’
‘I’m a courier. I deliver specialist supplies to hospitals, labs, medical schools and science parks. That kind of fing.’
‘What kind of
supplies?’
‘Scientific supplies. Medical products.’
‘Such as?’
‘Tissue samples, blood, radioactive products, chemicals. I just pick up a package and drop it off. I don’t have to know what’s in it.’
‘Is the bike yours?’
‘No, the firm provided it, with training in road safety, traffic regulations, spillage management, security, delivery arrangements, use of insulated transportation boxes. It’s specialist work, yeah?’
‘Do you ever drive another vehicle at work?’
‘Yeah. Sometimes I drive one of the vans. All depends on the size of the delivery. Why?’
‘Do you own a car, Zachary?’
He relaxed at the use of his given name, and placed a hand on the back of the front passenger seat.
‘Hand!’ Max warned.
The hand was quickly withdrawn. Zachary Tobias was twitching again and appeared to have forgotten the question.
‘Car,’ said Max. ‘Do you own one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What make is it?’
‘A Beamer.’
He was nervous, and evasive.
‘A BMW?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hatch, saloon or tourer?’
‘Saloon.’
Max was swiftly losing his patience.
‘Just tell me the registration,’ he said.
Max entered it into the on-board computer. The response was almost instantaneous. It was a four-door 2011 BMW 3-Series Saloon 330d M Sport. Registered owner and keeper Mr ZM Tobias. No outstanding warrants. Max switched back to the camera view.
‘Nice car. What did that set you back?’
The interviewee’s response was mumbled.
‘Say that again,’ said Max. ‘For me, and the camera.’
‘It was two years old. A bargain.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten grand.’
‘I bet it’s quick?’
‘Yeah. Nought to sixty in under six seconds.’
‘Top speed?’
‘Hundred and fifty-five mph.’
Max nodded.
‘That must cost you well over a grand for insurance?’
