by Mark Roberts
‘I didn’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’ He sucked in the air and breathed out hard. ‘Because I was scared of that piece of information.’
‘I’ll be honest, Lucien,’ said Clay, locking eyes with him. ‘I really one hundred per cent don’t believe you. Convince me otherwise.’
‘The other names and addresses didn’t seem real. But that address is in my neighbourhood. I would have wanted to kill him with my bare hands but I knew I didn’t have the nerve and that would have made me like such a – a coward. I was too scared of doing. Young Offenders Institution? Do you know what happens to the likes of me in places like that?’
‘What do you mean the likes of me?’
In the silence that followed, confusion and sadness warred in his eyes.
‘I mean, I’m an attractive young man. Please don’t send me there.’
‘Where did you get this information?’ asked Hendricks. ‘Did you hack the Merseyside Constabulary computer?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Our IT person will be able to tell if you have been hacking us. Maybe you’d like to demonstrate a bit of goodwill and just tell us where you got this highly confidential information?’
‘People send me all kinds of information and tip-offs. Look, I feel sick.’ Lucien looked at his solicitor and social worker. ‘I feel really sick actually.’
‘Do you want to see the duty medic?’
‘No, when I say I’m sick, I’m sick at heart. Look at me. Physically, I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ He picked up the list of names and addresses, slammed it on the table and said, ‘I got it from a whistle-blowing site on the deep web. I’m telling the truth.’
‘You knew Steven Jamieson. You knew where he lived. Your outspoken views on paedophilia have made you and your website a global smash with other like-minded people. All we need now are results from the forensic lab placing you set-in-stone at 699 Mather Avenue. As soon as that evidence comes back, we’ll charge you with murder.’
Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Loads of other people say loads of shit about paedos on the internet!’
‘We know. You said it before. But who’s in here with us right now? You or loads of other people?’ said Hendricks.
‘You’re sixteen, Lucien,’ said Clay. ‘We know you didn’t commit this crime on your own. I’m starting to get a picture in my head. There are gaps but things are coming through loud and clear. You were working alongside an older woman, a blonde.’
‘A blonde?’
‘We found a blond hair at the Jamieson murder scene. Frances Jamieson was dark. So, yeah, an older blonde. Does she sound familiar? You found the target. She did the hard work, the torture, the murder. Were you there egging her on? I think so.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘What’s her name, Lucien?’
He spoke very quietly.
‘Pardon? I didn’t get that,’ said Clay.
‘No comment.’
Clay glanced at Lucien’s solicitor. ‘Before Sergeant Harris takes him back to his cell, can you explain to Lucien the need to cooperate. He’s sixteen. If he cooperates now and behaves well in jail, he could be out by the time he’s thirty-two. Paedophiles or no paedophiles: the judge won’t be bothered about the perversity of the victims’ human nature. What will bother the judge is the extremely pre-meditated nature of these murders, and the need to deter other like-minded people from following his reckless example. I’m saying he could be out at thirty-two. He could be a hell of a lot older. Anything, Lucien?’
He looked directly at Clay. ‘Yeah. Paedos fall into two categories. Did you know that?’
‘Go on?’
‘There are the physical ones who abuse young people’s bodies and then there’s the next type, the emotional paedos. They sidle up to young people, lull them into a false sense of confidence and then steal from their hearts. All that shit in the cell, Clay, about Caroline...’ His face was racked with rage and, for a moment, his voice deserted him. ‘You’re an emotional paedophile, Clay. You’re the worst kind of paedophile.’
77
6.15 pm
‘When are you coming home, Bob?’
His wife’s voice sounded hollow, as though the cancer in her body and the phone line had ganged up to rob her of her essence.
‘Bob, are you there?’
‘I’ll be home as soon as I can, Valerie.’
‘I got a nice surprise just now.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I got a lovely bouquet of flowers from Eve Clay.’
‘That’s nice.’
Her breathing became laboured and in the background he heard his mother-in-law say, ‘Don’t tire yourself out, Val. Here, let me take that from you.’
Rimmer looked out at the rising storm, saw dead leaves bullied by the wind into a haphazard downward spiral and saw an image of what it felt like to be him.
‘Robert, if you’re coming home, then come home...’ He heard her walking out of the bedroom he’d shared with his wife for over a decade, and her voice dropped. ‘...but don’t be getting her hopes up with phone calls. Why don’t you just apply for compassionate leave? Every good spouse under the sun would do...’
He placed the receiver down, wished he could swap places with his wife and said, ‘Go to hell!’
A phone rang. He followed the sound to Eve Clay’s desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Is that Barney Cole?’ A foreign accent, a man, far, far away.
‘Who am I speaking with?’
‘Sergeant Eduardo García, Puebla City police.’
‘Yes, it’s Barney Cole speaking.’
‘I have good news for you, Barney. The statue of the Weeping Child found at the scenes of the murders in Liverpool... I have a manufacturer, Sanchez Ceramics, a factory owner here in Puebla City.’
‘Let me get my pen,’ said Rimmer, remaining motionless and counting down seconds. ‘Go on, Eduardo.’
‘I got the manufacturer boss Sanchez to pull his sales manager from holiday. He wasn’t happy.’
García laughed and Rimmer echoed the noise, falsely.
‘They opened the office and the computer showed... this isn’t exactly usual... an export of a dozen statues of Weeping Children to an Englishwoman’s address in Liverpool.’
García’s voice blurred into background noise of people talking and moving around the office from which he was calling. Rimmer heard a name and an address in Liverpool but it sank in to the darkness inside him.
From the neck down, he was perfectly still, lost somewhere between the phone call and another wave of chaotic despair.
‘Are you still there?’ García raised his voice.
‘Yes, thank you for that.’
‘No problem. Keep me informed and good luck, Barney.’
‘Thanks.’
Silently the incident room door opened and Barney Cole entered without a sound. ‘Your help is much appreciated, Eduardo,’ said Rimmer, and hung up.
‘Hello, Bob.’
As he replaced the receiver, Rimmer looked towards the sound of Barney Cole’s voice. He had the sensation he’d just fallen from a cliff, and even though the voice was familiar and friendly, it sounded like a bomb going off.
‘Hello, Barney. Who’s been on to Eve?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who called Eve’s number just now?’ Cole smiled, but felt the first wave of a chilling sickness. ‘You just took a call on Eve’s phone. I do it all the time. You haven’t filled in the missed-caller pad on her desk.’
‘I was about to do that.’
‘I find it easier to do so when the call’s in progress, myself,’ said Cole.
Rimmer smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ve got a good memory for detail.’
Cole went to Clay’s phone and pressed recent calls. ‘0052 222 441 4327,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Eduardo García, Puebla City Police.’ Cole wrote the number quickly on Clay’s missed ca
ll pad. ‘What did he say?’
‘He called to tell Eve and you that he was still working on looking for the manufacturer of the Weeping Child statuettes found at the Wilson and Jamieson scenes.’
Cole sensed Rimmer moving away, heard him putting on his overcoat.
‘It was a holding call. He hasn’t forgotten about the request for help, but so far he just hasn’t got very far. That’s all.’
‘Thanks, Bob.’
Cole recognised the sickness that now gripped him. He had felt it before, years earlier, when he’d been a young police constable at Admiral Street police station and learned the unpalatable news that a popular and respected detective constable was in the pocket of a major drug dealer in Toxteth.
From the door, Rimmer said, ‘I’m going home to see my wife.’
‘I hope it goes well, Bob. We’re all rooting for you and Valerie and the kids...’ Cole looked at Rimmer and smiled.
Rimmer’s face collapsed. ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’
‘I’m not looking at you like anything.’
Rimmer turned and left and, as soon as the door closed after him, Cole picked up Clay’s receiver and dialled Eduardo García’s number.
Engaged.
He pressed redial and the ring tone sounded.
‘Eduardo García.’
‘Eduardo, it’s Barney Cole.’
‘But... we’ve just spoken. You have a question?’
There was a pause and Cole heard the steady beating of a ceiling fan, imagined the heat and fierce sunshine.
‘Can you run the information past me again?’
‘Surely. I’ve located a name and address for the exports of the Weeping Children statuettes from here to Liverpool in United Kingdom. Mrs J. Truman, 636 Rice Lane, Liverpool, L4 5AF.’
Cole wrote down Christine Green’s address. ‘That’s terrific news... Thank you, Eduardo. This is definitely the address the statuettes went to?’
‘I saw the details on Sanchez Ceramics’s computer.’
‘Can you dig again for me, Eduardo? I’d love some information like dates and method of payment.’
‘Sure. But don’t forget to invite me to your Christmas party in a couple of months.’ García laughed.
‘You’ll be the guest of honour. Eduardo, I’ve got to go. Thank you so much.’
78
6.15 pm
When he arrived at McDonald’s on Rice Lane, Stone took in the whole scene. A marked police car was parked on the pavement and a group of teenage boys and girls was gathered close to the two officers guarding the scene-of-crime tape that sectioned off the bins at the back of the restaurant.
A man in his forties stood by the tape looking as if he was in a living nightmare. Next to him, a teenage girl in a McDonald’s uniform chewed her right thumbnail.
‘Eh, mate,’ piped up a girl’s voice. ‘Is there a dead paedo in the bins or wha’?’
‘Back off!’ replied the older of the two constables.
Stone advanced on the group of teenagers and raised his voice: ‘Hey!’ He thrust his warrant card at them. ‘This is a crime scene. Scram or I’ll do you for Obstructing the Course of Justice. Who wants to be first?’
They moved back as one, turned and, as they ambled away, someone said, ‘Fucking police harassment.’
Stone eyeballed the retreating group and, taking a step forward, said, ‘Right!’ They ran, and Stone turned to look across Rice Lane at the cracked darkness of Christine Green’s door. Behind him a white Scientific Support vehicle mounted the pavement, Terry Mason at the wheel.
‘Thank you for getting here so quickly,’ said Stone to the constables, before approaching the man whose badge identified him as the restaurant manager. ‘Detective Sergeant Stone.’ He showed his warrant card to the man and the girl. ‘Adele?’ She nodded. ‘You did well not to touch the box, Adele.’
‘That was super smart,’ said Mason.
‘Well, there was blood on the coat,’ replied Adele.
‘Can you show us where you found it?’
They dipped under the scene-of-crime tape and walked around the back of the restaurant; Stone’s senses were overwhelmed with sour fat, dead meat and far too much refined sugar.
As Stone snapped on a pair of latex gloves, Adele pointed to an open cardboard box.
‘I came out back for a ciggie and when I saw it I was, like, dead curious. I saw blood on the coat and a laptop and a kid’s backpack and alarm bells started ringing in my head.’
Mason weighed up the box, the three layers of colour.
Red. Black. Sky blue.
A woollen coat. A laptop computer. A child’s backpack.
‘That’s the coat...’ Stone fell silent. ‘Adele, thank you so much. Can you go back across the scene-of-crime tape?’
‘Did I do good?’
‘Tell your manager you need five stars on your badge not just one.’
They watched her go.
‘It’s the coat Mary Behan saw Christine Green wearing all the time. Careless bitch, leaving it here.’
‘Clever cow,’ said Mason. ‘Not careless bitch. This neighbourhood’s packed full of kids, juniors, teenagers. This is McDonald’s, for God’s sake, a kid magnet. She was banking on one of them finding the box, taking the laptop and bag and ditching the coat for her. We’d never have found this if that had happened.’
‘That makes sense on one level,’ said Stone. ‘She’s got a very twitchy intelligence going on underneath that thick-as-shit exterior. What are you going to do, Terry?’
‘Get it into a stacker box from the back of the van and unpack it all back at the farm.’
As Mason went to collect the box, Stone looked at the locked teeth of the backpack’s zip. He imagined what might lie inside and, in spite of the cold wind that streamed through the space, smiled at the prospect of Christine Green being charged with two counts of murder and one of manslaughter before midnight.
79
7.15 pm
Cole knocked on the door of Interview Suite 2, heard Clay say, ‘Come in!’ and felt torn about whether to follow the simple instruction. Entering, he sensed Clay and Riley been locked deep in conversation.
‘I thought you were Sergeant Harris delivering Christine Green to us,’ said Clay.
Cole wished he could be Sergeant Harris if only for an hour.
‘Strategic chat?’ asked Cole.
‘You look like a man who’s won the lottery on the same day as he was diagnosed with a terminal illness,’ observed Riley.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ asked Cole, sitting across the table from them.
‘Good first,’ said Clay.
‘You’re not really going to need a strategy with Christine Green. You’re just going to hit her with this. Christine Green posing as a Mrs J. Truman purchased a dozen Weeping Child statuettes from a firm called Sanchez Ceramics in Puebla City, Mexico. They were posted to her home 636 Rice Lane, Liverpool 4. I’ve just spoken with Eduardo García from Puebla City Police.’
A smile crossed Clay’s face. ‘We’ll get her in here when Karl and Terry come back with her stash, confront her with García’s information and charge her with two counts of murder.’ Her smile faded at the bleak expression on Cole’s face and Clay wanted to know the bad news short and simple. ‘What’s up, Barney?’
‘Bob Rimmer’s our leak.’
‘Do you know if he’s in the building?’ asked Clay, the momentary lightness blasted clear out of her senses and replaced with the prospect of grim dealings ahead. ‘The no show from the CCTV from 689 Mather Avenue.’
‘His text said the Hursts’ system had a self-wiping facility,’ said Riley.
The room was filled with a painful silence.
‘All down the years, he’s been such a good lad,’ said Cole. ‘I don’t want this to be true.’
‘Just tell us,’ said Clay.
‘I went out of the incident room for a couple of minutes, leaving him on his own in there. When
I came back in, he was wrapped up in a phone call on the landline on your desk, Eve. I could have been a ghost. He claimed Ed García had called to let you know he was still tracking down the information about the Weeping Children statuettes. Then he left, said he was going home to his wife. I called García. He told me a completely different story, fingering Christine Green as Mrs J. Truman, purchaser of a dozen Weeping Children statuettes.’
‘Barney, will you call Professional Standards and ask them to... God! I can scarcely believe I’m saying this... go to Bob’s house and bring him in...’
Clay felt as if her head was about to split into two pieces and fall from her neck.
‘Only he won’t be going home,’ said Riley. ‘Home’s the last place he wants to be at the moment.’
‘Do we know where he does go? Who his civilian friends are?’ asked Clay.
Cole considered the man. ‘Before his wife got ill, he was always really friendly and outgoing but, at the same time, rather secretive about what his off-duty life was like. Most of us are.’
In the same moment, there was a knock on the door and Clay felt the buzz of an incoming text on her iPhone.
As Cole went to the door, Clay opened the text.
Eve, we’re back at Trinity Road with the haul from the back of McDonald’s Rice Lane. Karl.
Cole opened the door to Sergeant Harris and Christine Green.
‘Sorry about this, Sergeant Harris, but DS Stone’s just arrived back from Walton...’ Clay stood up and looked at Christine. ‘...with a very interesting box of goods. We’re going to have a look at what he’s brought back and then we’re going to have our interview with you.’
Christine shook her head. ‘You with your mind games and your lack of respect.’
‘Mind games? Lack of respect? Where’s your husband?’
‘What husband?’ She held out her left hand, showing a row of ringless fingers.
‘Where is he? I’d love to know.’
‘Are you simple?’
‘No. Sergeant Harris, would you take Mrs J. Truman back to her cell, please.’
80
