by Cari Hunter
“Coppers,” Sanne said, uncertain which would cause the least offence.
The woman groaned and stuck her head into view. “You really got food?”
Sanne angled the light so she could see the woman. Barely out of her teens, she was scrawny and filthy, with skin broken down by drug abuse. Without speaking, Nelson opened his bag and held out a selection of everything he’d brought.
At the sound of packets tearing, the man also put in an appearance. Just as dishevelled as his partner, he was older, jaundiced, and definitely not Liam Burrows.
“Got any beer?” he asked around a mouthful of ham sandwich. Nelson threw Sanne an I told you so look as she offered the man a thick sweater instead.
“We’re looking for Liam Burrows,” she said, showing them a recent mugshot.
The woman gestured expansively with her Mars bar. “I seen him once or twice, but not in here.” She looked at the man, as if to check it was okay for her to act as an informant. He shrugged and bit into the second half of his sandwich. “Go past the Dickinson warehouse,” she told Sanne. “There’s a smaller one on the left.”
“It’s on the right,” the man said.
“Oh, yeah, on the right. Got blue boarding and one of those wavy roofs. I seen him go in there before.”
“Have you seen him recently?” Sanne asked.
The woman nodded and counted to five on her fingers. “Three days back.” She grinned in triumph, displaying blackened teeth.
“That’s great, thanks.” Sanne added gloves and hats to their new ensemble. “You two know there are shelters you can try, don’t you?”
The man nodded, and the woman ran an affectionate hand over his unshaven chin. “Most of them make us split up,” she said. “We like it fine in here.”
There wasn’t much Sanne could say to that, and in any case the couple were already tucking themselves back into their sleeping bags. She left more sandwiches by their feet and turned away.
“Each to their own,” Nelson said, but he sounded as troubled as she felt.
“Aye.” When she glanced back, the boxes had been swallowed up by the darkness. “There but by the grace, though, eh?”
Outside, the dawn was grey and watery, yet bright enough to make her shield her eyes, and Nelson spotted the Dickinson building before she did. They identified the other warehouse by its roof, its blue paintwork having peeled away to reveal the wooden slats beneath. The owner—or whoever utilised it illicitly—had nailed down the obvious access points with a fair amount of determination, and it was only by wading among the nettles at its rear that Sanne found a section of board that was wedged into place so as to appear fitted but that was loose enough to remove. She and Nelson had to light the way for each other to climb through, but once their vision had adjusted, the slivers of daylight piercing the cracked woodwork were enough to see by.
Sanne took a few cautious steps away from the wall and paused to take stock. The single-storey warehouse had an open-plan layout, the flooring so long neglected that it had reverted to hard-packed dirt. It was immediately apparent that someone was living there. To her left, run-off from the roof was dripping into a lop-sided bathtub, beside which a plastic mug and plate were stacked. An area in the right-hand corner showed recent signs of being used as a toilet, and ashes were still glowing in a central fire pit. Following the logical organisation of the space, she focused on the corner farthest from the toilet, where a double mattress lay swathed in blankets.
Nelson held up a single finger, indicating one body beneath the mound of bedding. She nodded, and they split, approaching from both sides and with as little noise as possible. They were less than five feet away when the blankets parted and a man launched himself forward like a sprinter off the blocks. He didn’t pause when he saw them, but aimed straight for Sanne, knocked her flying, and hurtled for the exit.
“What the—? Stop! Police!”
From her prone position, the sound of Nelson giving chase drowned out the rattle of the breath she was trying to pull into her lungs. She struggled to her hands and knees, intent on helping but managing only to lean there and wheeze. By the time her diaphragm stopped rebelling, two sets of footsteps—one pounding and one more of a scuffle—were heading toward her.
“San? You okay?” With his hand still wrapped in her assailant’s collar, Nelson knelt at her side, provoking a yelp of protest as the lad was dragged down with him.
She nodded and then remembered that actual speech would be more convincing.
“I’m fine,” she said, letting him pull her to her feet. Something in her left knee ached, and her palm had been sliced by a piece of glass, but overall it was her pride that had suffered the most damage.
“Look who I found.” Nelson jerked the cloth in his fist, encouraging the lad to lift his head.
“Oh. Hey, Liam.” Sanne waved the hand that wasn’t oozing blood.
Liam Burrows attempted to glare at her, but his deer-in-headlights countenance undermined the effect. He was smaller than she was, with the slight build and elfin features suggestive of foetal alcohol syndrome.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he muttered, his thick Yorkshire accent making his words run together like porridge. “I were just havin’ a kip.”
“You assaulted a police officer,” Nelson said.
“Didn’t know you was police.”
“You didn’t give us a chance to tell you.”
Leaving Nelson to debate the finer points of Liam’s behaviour, Sanne pulled on a pair of latex gloves and shook out his bedding, one stinking blanket at a time. A hairbrush, spare socks, a fork, and half a box of matches fell to the floor. None of the clothing she found bore any stains that looked like blood, and he didn’t appear to be in possession of a knife with a serrated three-inch blade. Running the length of his bed was a crude wooden shelf upon which he had laid out a porcelain dog, a postcard of Anfield stadium, and a chipped, obviously well-loved collection of Matchbox cars. She spun the wheels of a Porsche, attempting to reconcile the lad who had tried to make this place into a home with the one whose criminal record showed such a fondness for violence. Enlightenment proved elusive, however, so she set the car back in place and rejoined Nelson.
“Anything?” he asked.
Shaking her head, she turned to Liam. “Come in with us and answer some questions, and I’ll forget you knocked me on my arse.”
Liam stared at her, presumably working out the pros and cons. It took him a while. “So you’re not nicking me,” he said at length.
“No. We’ll question you under caution, but you’re not under arrest. ’Course, that could change if you don’t cooperate.” She took off her gloves, making sure that he saw the blood smeared across one of them.
He bit a piece of chapped skin off his lip. “Okay, I’ll come with you, miss.” He was already wearing multiple layers, but he grabbed his coat and shrugged into it.
“Have you had anything to eat today?” she asked, as they headed for the exit.
“Naw, not yet. I had a Pot Noodle day before yesterday.”
She handed him a sandwich, a bag of crisps, and a Twix, and his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said to Nelson. “I’m a soft touch.”
“A soft touch who’s up to date with her tetanus, I hope.” He lifted her hand to examine her palm.
She tolerated his scrutiny for a few seconds. “Now who’s being soft? It’s just a scratch.”
Walking beside her, Liam finished his sandwich and burped his appreciation. “’Scuse, miss,” he said around a mouthful of Twix.
Nelson shook his head in despair and delved into his bag. “Splendid, there’s two left for us. Cheese and pickle, or sausage and egg?” He held both sandwiches up to Sanne.
She laughed. “You even have to ask?”
“I was hoping you might’ve gone veggie overnight.”
“Fat chance of that, mate. We’re not all sandal-wearing, Guardian-reading, muesli-eating meat
-haters.”
“Damn,” he said with feeling, and relinquished the sausage and egg.
Chapter Ten
The EDSOP detectives worked a shift pattern that vaguely resembled a regular nine to five week, except that overtime was commonplace and paid back as days in lieu, rarely taken. Given the current caseload, Sanne wasn’t surprised to see Mike Hallet, George, and Fred at their desks at eight fifteen on a Saturday morning.
“Hey, San,” Fred called. “What the devil happened to you?”
“Nelson and I took a stroll down by the canal.” She rooted in her desk for her bag of toiletries, keen to rectify her “dragged through a hedge backward” look. “Ran into a suspect. Well, he ran into me. You know how it is.”
“Brute,” he said, coming across to survey the damage.
George followed swiftly on Fred’s heels, toting the first aid kit from the kitchen. “Aw, San, you’re only a little ’un.” Without waiting for her consent, he ushered her into his chair and doctored her palm with wipes, antiseptic cream, and a generous application of gauze. Aware that both men meant well, she suffered the attention without complaint, taking the opportunity to nosy through the photographs on George’s desk.
“This your vic?” she asked over the rip of Micropore tape.
“Yep.” Fred separated one of the images out for her. “Nasty, eh?”
The photo was a grisly shot taken at the initial crime scene of a young white male, his eyes half-lidded and clouded. Sequential photographs from the post mortem detailed six narrow stab wounds to his chest and abdomen. Sanne pulled up the first one again and studied his face.
“We’re still trying to ID him,” Fred said. “PM says he’s a chronic alcoholic, probably homeless, but his prints gave us nothing.”
“Huh,” she murmured, and then realised George had asked her a question. “Sorry, what?”
He tapped the bandage on her hand. “I said, ‘How’s that?’”
“Oh, it’s great. Thanks.” She indicated the photo. “Do you mind if I keep hold of this? Just for an hour or so.”
George frowned. “Why? Do you recognise him?”
“I’m not sure.” She pushed his chair back. “But I might know someone who does.”
Her intention to get cleaned up forgotten, she headed straight for Interview One, where Liam sat surrounded by sandwich packaging, his hands wrapped around a plastic cup of coffee. Nelson was leaning against the wall in front of him.
“Ready to get started?” Sanne slipped the photo beneath the file Nelson had left on the table, and they both took their seats.
“He declined legal representation in favour of a tuna butty,” Nelson murmured.
“Super.” She made the necessary introductions for the benefit of the recording and reminded Liam that he was being questioned under caution. “Liam, have you any idea why we’ve brought you in here today?”
He took a slurp of coffee, thoroughly at home with the proceedings. “’Cos of my mum? She’s always saying I’ve pinched stuff when I’ve not.”
“Okay, no, it’s got nothing to do with your mum. We wanted to talk to you about Andrew Culver.”
He gave her a blank look, his brow knotted, his tongue poking out. She knew foetal alcohol syndrome caused developmental delay, so she decided to keep things as simple as possible for him. She showed him the photograph they had issued to the media, not that the press had ever bothered to use it. Liam’s expression altered from confusion to concern, every step of his thought process clearly signposted.
“He started it,” he muttered into his cup.
“He started what?” Nelson—who could hear a pin drop across a footy field—asked, even as Sanne was still working out what Liam had said.
“At the Mish. He started the scrap. I were just minding my own, and he started it.”
“Andrew Culver was found murdered on Thursday, Liam,” Nelson said. “And we have two witnesses naming you as someone who might have wanted to hurt him.”
Liam’s mouth flapped open and closed again. In desperation, he looked from Nelson to Sanne, as if expecting her to assume the role of good cop. Instead, she swapped the image of Culver for two of his body.
“Did you do this, Liam?” she asked.
He shook his head, spraying spit onto the table. “No, miss, no! I didn’t even know he were dead!”
Unswayed by his vehemence, she continued to push. “One of those witnesses stated that you started the fight with Andrew, that you were banned from the Mission Cross as a result.”
“It weren’t my fault. He ripped me off on a bag. People always do it, ’cos they think I’m a retard.”
“So you got angry?” Nelson said.
“Yeah, I got angry. I punched his face in, and Mr. Horst chucked me out.” Liam’s nostrils flared as he spoke, and his fists were clenched on the table. “That were ages ago, though. Before Christmas.”
“When was the last time you saw Andrew?”
He grinned suddenly, unable to repress his triumph. “When he were on the floor, snivelling like a little girl.” Too late, he realised what he’d said and made a hasty clarification. “When I’d punched him! Because I never killed him!”
Despite his previous convictions and his history with the victim, Sanne believed him, and one glance at Nelson told her they were on the same page.
“Can you drive, Liam?” she asked, thinking of the van seen on Pellinore around the time of the murder.
He shook his head with obvious regret. “Couldn’t afford it, miss.”
“Do you remember where you were earlier this week? Between Monday and Thursday?”
The blank look was back in place. “Sort of.”
That was better than Sanne had expected. “Because it would really help you and us if we could piece that together. Anywhere you went, anyone who might have seen you. Could you try to write that down, if we get you another brew and something else to eat?”
He nodded, spurred on by the offer.
“One final thing,” she said, reaching for the photo she had taken from George’s file. “Do you recognise this man?”
His jaw tightened as he worked out what he was looking at. He was silent for a long moment.
“It’s Jonesy,” he said finally. “Marcus Jones. He used to go down the Mish, and I see him round the Bridge sometimes. He’s all right, is Jonesy. He buys me chips.” The tension in his jaw slackened into a tremor. “Is he dead too, miss?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so.” Sanne took the photo back. “How about I get you that brew and a pen and paper?”
Nelson followed her into the corridor, shutting the interview room door. “Dare I ask?” he said.
“Probably not.” She gave him the photo and paced across the corridor. “That’s the vic from Fred and George’s latest case. I thought I’d seen his face before, and Burrows just confirmed it. This lad was in the photograph Daniel Horst showed us at the Mission. Do you remember? The allotment one?”
“Oh, bloody hell. You’re thinking our case and this one are related?”
“I think it’s a possibility. There are obvious differences—weapon, location of the body, even location of the wounds—but the profile of the two vics is almost identical, and they were both in that photo, so they knew each other, and then there’s the severity of the violence…” She took a breath and committed herself. “Yes. I think we could be looking at the same perp for both murders.”
Nelson groaned, but his eyes were bright with excitement. “Reckon it might be Liam?” he asked, but he was testing her, playing devil’s advocate.
“I doubt it. He likes a good scrap, but nothing in his priors suggests he’s working his way up to multiple murder, and his reactions in there seemed solid. He might be useful as a witness, though, if he can draw up a list of mutual associates for Culver and Jones.”
Nelson held up a hand. “Easy there, tiger. Let’s take this one step at a time.”
Sanne could always count on Nelson for sensible advice. She leaned forward
and set her hands on her knees. She felt as if she’d run a marathon, her pulse going like the clappers and her head spinning.
“Shall we speak to George and Fred first?” she asked.
“Definitely. They might have a suspect in mind who’s entirely unconnected to Culver.”
“And if they don’t?”
Nelson slapped her on the back. “If they don’t, then you get to ruin the boss’s weekend.”
*
Fred and George, it transpired, had very little to go on, and Sanne’s tentative identification of their victim was greeted by a sloppy kiss on her cheek and the sharing out of a packet of Jaffa Cakes.
“It could just be a coincidence,” Sanne murmured. She nibbled the sponge around the edge of the cake, leaving the orange jelly centre until last. The photos from the two post mortems were spread across Fred’s desk, and Nelson and George were reading each other’s case files. She, meanwhile, was attempting to construct a timeline.
“Andrew Culver was last seen Monday morning. Time of death was tricky to pin down, but we think he may’ve been murdered that night or early on Tuesday. Nelson, what’s Jones’s estimated TOD?”
Nelson flicked back a couple of pages and scanned the PM report. “Approximately thirty-six hours prior to him being found, so”—he let out a low whistle—“Wednesday night. Crikey.”
“Two in three days,” George said. He usually felt the cold, but his jacket was already discarded over the back of his chair, and he began loosening his tie. “Bloody hell, it’s Saturday. Should we be expecting another body? Someone should tell the boss.”
“Whoa, hang on a second,” Sanne said. “Don’t we need more to go on before we contact the boss? I mean, if she was here then perhaps we could mention it, but it’s Saturday. We’d better be damn sure of our facts before we involve her.”
There were thoughtful nods from the three men, none of whom seemed keen to pick up the phone and make that call.
“So, we keep brainstorming,” Nelson said, his decisive tone a balm on Sanne’s fraying nerves. “Try to confirm the ID on the second vic, pin down anything that connects him to ours, identify common and uncommon features.”
