Kay slammed the refrigerator door. ‘All the more reason to find out who murdered him. Right, you take the bedroom while I continue in here. Let’s see if there’s anything that might help us.’
As Gavin passed, she began to pull out the drawers under the worktop. The top drawer was taken up by a selection of cutlery, while the next three contained a mixture of half used packets of batteries, a screwdriver set, pack of cards, and various plastic boxes that upon closer inspection contained a small sewing kit and shoe polishing items.
She turned her attention to the cupboards above the hob, and pushed back the collection of plates, coffee mugs and glassware.
Finding nothing, she turned and then crouched down to open the cupboard under the sink, and turned off the water supply.
After working her way through the expansive food cupboards, she moved to the living area.
She tutted under her breath at the state of the bookshelves and DVD collection. Plastic cases were balanced on each other in a haphazard way, and a discarded cigarette packet lay scrunched up next to a pile of books.
She began in the top left-hand corner of the bookshelves and began to flick through the pages of the novels one by one, in the hope that a receipt or a note might be discovered.
There was nothing.
She wandered through to the bedroom where Gavin crouched on his hands and knees, his head in the wardrobe.
‘Found anything?’
He extracted himself, and shook his head. ‘There are some boxes and things at the bottom here, but nothing of interest. Just old photo albums and magazines. Some old clothes – they look like they’ve been used for gardening or something.’ He straightened and gestured around the room. ‘Bed was made. Nothing underneath. I’ll check the bedside cabinet in a minute.’
‘All right, I’m going to see what’s in the bathroom.’
After opening the toilet cistern to make sure nothing untoward had been stowed within, Kay moved to the separate bathroom.
A shower rose hung over the bath, the controls for an electric pump fastened to the wall beneath it, while a plain white unit with a wide bowl on top of it had replaced the original sink unit during the landlord’s renovations.
Kay opened each drawer in the vanity unit, sifting through various packets of headache tablets and razor attachments, then slammed the last one shut in frustration.
Despite knowing who their victim was, they were still no closer to finding out why he died, or who had killed him.
‘Sarge?’
Gavin appeared at the door, a diary in his hand. ‘Found something. The afternoon Whiting was killed, he had an appointment with someone called Simon Ancaster in the afternoon. There’s a phone number, too.’
‘Right,’ said Kay. ‘Let’s see what Mr Ancaster has to say for himself, shall we?’
Twenty
A renewed energy filled the incident room when Kay and Gavin returned, the team galvanised now they had a name for their victim and could begin to piece together his background.
The stuffy atmosphere was filled with the aroma of print toner and burnt coffee as the investigating team pored over reports and other documentation, trying to piece together the case.
Kay peeled her jacket off her shoulders. The only problem with the centrally controlled heating system was it was temperamental. Some days, it could be freezing cold upstairs and on others like this, when it was packed to the rafters with a full investigation team, the air was static.
Barnes often complained how cold the interview rooms were by comparison, and Kay had told him hot air rose. His response was to make a remark about all the managers and chiefs on the top floor. Smiling at the memory, Kay placed her jacket on the back of her chair, knowing that within the hour the thermostat could reset to an Arctic blast and they’d all be huddled in their jackets trying to keep warm.
Carys had overcome her dismay at being left out of the search after discovering nothing had been found to advance the investigation, and seemed content to laugh and joke with Gavin while they made a round of tea in preparation for the afternoon briefing.
Kay smiled, typing up her notes into the case database and fielding a couple of urgent emails as she listened to their good-natured banter.
Running a murder investigation was stressful enough, without the team becoming fractious with each other.
She checked her watch. In an hour, the incident room would be emptying for the afternoon.
A thought had occurred to her earlier that day, and it was all she could do to try to concentrate on the investigation. Her conversation with Adam earlier in the week kept going round in her head. He was right, it would be a risk using one of the computers in the incident room to conduct her own research, but she couldn’t think of another way.
She leaned back in her chair and cast her eyes around the room at her colleagues. However much she enjoyed working with them, it scared her that one of them could be responsible for putting the blame on her for the missing evidence that had led to the Professional Standards investigation. She had been careful to ensure that she left nothing of a personal nature in her drawer at work. There was nothing in her locker, either. She hated not being able to trust anyone, but first and foremost she had to make sure she found out the truth, and that nothing could be used to compromise her career again.
At least DCI Larch had kept his distance for the remainder of the day. The less interaction she had to deal with, the less she felt she was being constantly judged. Whenever he was around, it was as if he were waiting for her to make a mistake so he could pounce.
Now that she had made up her mind though, impatience threatened common sense. It was so tempting to use the database now to research the old case, but there were too many people around. She wasn’t sure she could explain herself if one of them saw what she was doing. Yes, she had told Adam it was natural for her to want to know why she had been set up, and what had happened to the missing evidence, but she still didn’t want to have to explain herself to any of her colleagues.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
She jumped at the sound of Barnes’s voice over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘Yeah, you looked like you were deep in thought. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s okay. Nothing. Just trying to get my thoughts together in order to type up my report for today.’
‘Did you find out much at Whiting’s flat?’
‘Nothing at all really. I did get the impression that his sister was right, and he was trying to turn his life around again. The fridge was jam-packed with healthy food, and he had a set of weights in the living room. We didn’t find anything to suggest that he knew his killer, or why he was killed though. There were no drugs in the flat. Just some headache pills, so this isn’t looking like a drugs deal gone wrong or anything like that.’
‘And he wasn’t on the rehabilitation programme.’ Barnes sat down in his chair with a sigh as Carys and Gavin approached. ‘So, it doesn’t look like the two we interviewed about the programme are involved then.’
‘It’s something to do with the antidepressants though,’ said Kay. ‘It feels right, somehow.’
‘But apart from the drink driving course, we haven’t found anything to connect Lawrence to the other two,’ said Carys.
‘And we didn’t find any antidepressants at Whiting’s flat,’ added Gavin. ‘He might have been prescribed them once, but he’s not now.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, and it doesn’t make sense. Lucas managed to take some blood samples and his report states there’s traces of antidepressants in Whiting’s system, so where’s his supply?’
‘Do you think his killer removed them from the flat?’ said Carys.
‘Maybe. I’m waiting to speak with Lawrence’s GP,’ said Kay. ‘See if we can find out why he was put on antidepressants in the first place, and when his most recent prescription was. There has to be a link there somewhere.’
‘When are you going to see him?’
/>
‘His receptionist said he only works three days a week. We’ve missed him this afternoon, so I’m expecting him to call back the day after tomorrow.’
‘What about Whiting’s work history, or anything like that?’
‘He’s been out of work for a couple of months. He had a job stacking shelves at a builder’s merchants for about six months before that, but according to his sister when Lawrence’s depression and anxiety became too much, he couldn’t cope. It sounds like his employers tried to do what they could, but in the end they had to let him go. Maybe that gave him the incentive to try to work with his illness to improve his life? It’ll be interesting to see what his GP has to say, that’s for sure.’
Barnes jabbed his pen at Carys and Gavin. ‘It’d be a good idea if you two go and speak to his manager at the builder’s merchants tomorrow. Find out what sort of issues his depression caused, and whether something happened there that led to his murder.’
‘Will do,’ said Carys. ‘Are there any friends of his we can speak to as well?’
Kay shook her head. ‘According to his sister, a lot of his friends drifted away as his depression worsened. She wasn’t able to give us a list of anybody we could talk to, but Gavin’s trying to get hold of someone called Simon Ancaster, whose details we found in Whiting’s diary. In the meantime, if Lawrence’s employer has any other contacts we can speak to, then get a note of those while you’re there. We need all the help we can muster at the moment to get a breakthrough.’
She glanced over her shoulder as Sharp emerged from his office. ‘All right, let’s get the boss up to speed during this briefing, and then hopefully tomorrow we’ll have better luck.’
Twenty-One
He shoved his hands into the pockets of the light anorak, and eased his pace to what he hoped was a nonchalant stroll.
The man was several metres in front of him, completely unaware that he was being watched, and that every move he had made for the past month had been carefully observed and recorded.
Now, it was time for all his careful planning to be tested.
He had stayed up late the previous night, checking and rechecking his calculations. Once the sun had dipped over the trees at the back of the garden, he’d drawn the curtains so the neighbour couldn’t see through the window and wonder why he was working so late in the garage.
A calmness settled on him as he walked, his target’s form weaving between other pedestrians.
He had made the phone call earlier that morning. He had waited until the street outside had quietened, his neighbours disappearing off to work or to regular shopping trips. He knew the man didn’t leave his flat much, and that his day-to-day life probably revolved around watching the world go by his window. A phone call mid-morning would be unexpected.
His assumptions had been correct. The man had answered the phone, his voice cautious.
He explained to him that he would like to meet, that it had been too long since he had last been in touch.
The man had seemed wary at first, but had eventually agreed to meet later that day after he had explained why they should talk.
Now, he picked up his pace to keep the man in his sights.
His shoulder bumped against a woman laden with shopping bags, and he apologised in a low voice. She grumbled under her breath, but hurried past him after making eye contact, and he wondered what she saw there.
Did he look like a killer?
He suspected not. That’s what worked to his advantage.
He had been shocked by his appearance in the reflection of the window of the supermarket he’d passed earlier. He acknowledged that his project had become an obsession, but he hadn’t accounted for the effect it would have on his body.
He tried to remember when he had last eaten properly. These days, he seemed to sustain himself on a diet of coffee and the occasional drive-through meal. He had lost weight, of that he was sure. He didn’t own a set of bathroom scales but he’d had to cinch his belt an extra notch over the past couple of months, and his shirts seemed looser.
The calculations and plans that he’d worked on for weeks tumbled around in his thoughts. When he had first started, he had taken his notes with him. He’d been so afraid that he’d got his calculations wrong. He needn’t have worried. His mind was still sharp, and everything had gone to plan.
His confidence had grown with each completed project.
Until the last time.
The old paranoia had returned. He berated himself that his plans had been compromised. He had wanted to remain in control all the time; however, the police were now involved and that changed matters.
The man in front of him reached the pedestrian crossing, and he held back, not wanting to be seen. Not yet. He couldn’t reveal himself until the right moment. He turned, as if to read an advert displayed on the nearby bus shelter, and waited until he heard the familiar zap of the crossing lights.
He let the man cross ahead of him, and then followed him along the busy street. As they passed the post office, the man turned his attention to the bustling crowds on Wheeler Street, then decided to continue onwards.
He smiled. The man was predictable.
Before the phone call this morning, he had followed the man over the past few weeks. He had never been seen; he had been too careful. He couldn’t afford for the man to notice him, not yet, otherwise the whole plan could fall apart.
He hadn’t lied to him when he spoke to him this morning. It had been a long time since he had spoken with any of them. After everything that had happened, they had all drifted away. His fists clenched in his pockets.
After a few paces, his quarry turned right and continued walking along a narrow pedestrianised lane that spat them out next to the little theatre. The man checked the road left and right, and then jogged across and through the doors of a pub.
Satisfied his target was at their designated meeting place, he waited for a moment and leaned against the wall of the theatre. He glanced up at the sky. The county town hadn’t yet shrugged off the bitter chill of winter, and heavy clouds churned the sky grey. It was time to get inside, before it started to rain.
He pushed through the narrow double doors into the pub, and made his way over to the bar. He knew where the man sat, but he averted his gaze. He wanted to control the situation, and make the man come to him.
It was important.
‘What will you have?’
‘A half of bitter.’
He reached into his pocket for some loose change, and then heard a chair being pushed back across the parquet flooring.
He smiled.
This was going to be even easier than he thought.
Twenty-Two
Kay checked over her shoulder at the sound of voices, then relaxed as she realised the cleaners were working their way from room to room.
They wouldn’t touch anything in the incident room; each person was responsible for putting their wastepaper basket outside the door ready to be emptied, and anything of a confidential nature that wasn’t required for the case file would go into a confidential waste bin located outside Sharp’s office.
She reached out for the mug of coffee next to her, then recoiled as she realised the china was stone cold.
She pushed the coffee away and logged into the HOLMES2 database, before waiting as the server caught up with her fast keystrokes. Her eyes fell to the clock displayed in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. She didn’t want to be late; it was rare that she and Adam spent time together during the week, but it had been weeks since she’d got the office to herself, and she couldn’t access the database at home.
And she couldn’t take the risk during the day, not with so many people around.
She bit her lip. She didn’t doubt that she could trust the others on the team, but after the fallout following the Professional Standards investigation into missing evidence that had put a stop to her promotion to detective inspector, and the unspoken inferences that it was she who had lost that evidence o
n purpose, she wasn’t prepared to risk anyone else’s career.
Especially when she wasn’t sure who she could trust.
Not yet.
She’d had her innocence proven, but the rumours remained, and she was met with an air of distrust among many of her colleagues.
Eventually, the computer caught up with her keystrokes and opened up the file for the case she had been involved with.
Jozef “Joe” Demiri was one of the county’s most unsavoury characters. Kent Police had been monitoring his activities over the past couple of years, but to date had been unsuccessful in collating enough information to charge him.
Originally from Albania, he ran a network of lackeys and go-to men who carried out his work, ensuring that none of their criminal activities could be used against him. Kay and her colleagues, including DCI Larch, were convinced that Demiri was involved in both drugs and human trafficking but the people he employed were too terrified to speak, such was his reputation for violence against those that tried to cross him.
The south coast of Kent was beginning to get a reputation for people smuggling due to the lack of resources available to patrol the waters of the English Channel. The flat country and beaches around the old Cinque Ports provided ample opportunity for boats to enter the waters with their precious cargo.
It had been pure chance that led to the breakthrough they sought. A uniform patrol had pulled over a van belonging to one of Demiri’s men and during a search of the vehicle, a 9mm pistol had been discovered wrapped in an old sweatshirt and stuffed under the passenger seat.
The driver had been arrested, and Kay had been tasked with leading the investigation. It was meant to be the one that would lead to her promotion to detective inspector.
The suspect had refused to talk, but three sets of fingerprints had been taken from the weapon. One set belonged to their suspect, while the other two remained unknown, and Kay was determined to link the gun to Demiri.
Will to Live Page 8
