“I found them.” So much for preamble. Bev sat down. “Thing is,” Anna continued, “there’s boxes of the things. Wasn’t sure how far back you wanted to go.”
Neither was Bev. Her thinking was that Snow’s work had almost certainly played a part in landing him in the excrement. Odds were something he’d written had got him noticed. Or someone he’d interviewed had singled him out. Or she could be barking up the wrong redwood. She’d started scouring back copies of Snow’s greatest hits; the columns alone could take ages. Even then she’d only be covering what had appeared in print. What about the material that hadn’t made the cut? Detail that hadn’t seen the light of day? Which is where the shorthand came in. As in notebooks.
“How many you reckon are there?” Bev offered a pack of nuts.
“Cheers.” She tore the wrapper with her teeth. “Hundreds.”
“Oh joy.” Needed narrowing down. Wheat from chaff, sheep from goats and all that. “Any stories given him a load of grief this last year or so, say?”
“Not that I know of. I could ask round if you like.” She licked salt from her lips. “Don’t worry. Discretion’s my middle name.”
Bev tilted her glass. “Cheers.”
“Thought I’d bring you a dozen at a time? Not so obvious then. Not that Matt would notice.”
“Oh?” Bev tore her glance away from the in-house entertainment; a bare-chested Marc Bolan was now cavorting on the screens.
Anna took a sip of juice. “Apart from the fact he’s hardly ever in? I think he’s got enough playing on his mind.” Snippy for Anna.
“Like?” Bev asked.
She popped in a nut, chewed slowly. Thinking time? Wondering how far to go? “OK. Here’s the thing. I like the guy, right?” Nod from Bev. “But I’m not sure I know who he is any more. It’s like there’s two of them. One minute he’s Matt of old, the next he won’t give you the time of day. He’s pissing people off mightily. Going round the newsroom playing the big I am. Dropping hints about book deals, film rights.” She paused, tapped the side of her head. “I think he’s losing it.”
“As in crazy man?” The thought had crossed Bev’s mind a couple of times.
“As in I think he needs help.” The writer reached into her case. “This lot covers the last six months or so.”
“Appreciate it, Anna.” Bev took the first notebook, flicked through page after page of surprisingly neat squiggles. It could’ve been ancient hieroglyphics to Bev. Fortunately she wouldn’t be doing the deciphering.
“When you’ve finished, I’ll get the next lot.” Anna gathered the glasses. “Ready for another?”
And another. And another. Shoptalk segued into small talk, relaxed, easygoing. Drinkers and diners drifted in, as Bev and Anna touched on music, movies, books, holidays. The girl was good company. They only stopped to grab a menu, order food. Burger and fries for Bev, Caesar salad for Anna.
“God, I’d love a chip. I can’t touch greasy foods at the moment.” She pointed ruefully at her bump. Bev sucked hers in. Shame she’d didn’t have the same problem. In six months, she’d be the size of a housing estate. Bev reckoned Anna’s gesture was an unspoken no-pressure invitation to talk babies. So far, she’d studiously avoided the subject with everyone. But Anna was in the same antenatal boat. Duck the offer or dive in?
“When d’you stop being sick in the mornings?”
“Stop?” Anna smiled. “What’s that?” They swapped stories, shared fears, laughed a lot.
“Had any cravings yet?” Bev asked. She lusted after dark chocolate and cookie dough Häagen-Dazs but then she always had.
Anna pouted. “Does David Tennant count?”
“Who?”
“Doct...”
“Joke.” Bev flapped a hand.
Anna rolled her eyes. “What about you? Cravings?”
Unbidden Oz’s image popped into her head. “Nah. Bit early yet.” She blew her cheeks out on a sigh.
“Will you stop working?”
“God, no,” Bev said. “I’d go doolally. You?”
“Not an option.”
“How’s your partner feel about that?”
Anna dropped her gaze. “We don’t see each other any more.”
Foot. Mouth. Bev lifted a palm. “Sorry. No business a mine.”
“Don’t be.” She smiled. “I’ll manage. Great family. Good mates. What more does a girl want?”
Bev raised an eyebrow. “Doctor Who?”
WEDNESDAY
27
A squidgy blueberry muffin had taken squatter’s rights on Bev’s keyboard. Smiling, she closed the office door, strolled over for a closer look. The tiny flag stuck in the sponge read: Bite me. She shook her head, still smiling. Powell must be back in admin action. Must remember to collect her sweepstake winnings off Darren. Byford was in the building too; she’d spotted his Volvo in the car park.
Coat hung, bag slung, she took the weight off her feet, added avoirdupois with every mouth-watering calorie. Body must be telling her it needed blood sugar. Her brain certainly was. Last night’s Southern Comfort was this morning’s all-over ache. She made a mental note to knock the booze on the head. Bet Anna Kendall hadn’t woken with a mild hangover.
Matt Snow’s notebooks would soon be getting the treatment. Bev had detoured to the incident room, dropped them off with Caz Pemberton. Pembers had brilliant shorthand and was clued-up enough to know what to look for. Bev had again flicked through a few pages, apart from proper names it was still ancient Egyptian. She chucked the cake paper in the bin. Grimaced. It was a long shot anyway.
“Missed again, boss.” Mac hovered in the doorframe.
“Tyler,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever knock?”
He shrugged, sauntered in. “Take a look at this.” Handed her an overnight report.
Frown lines appeared as she read. “So?” Struck her as a bog standard mugging that went wrong. Or right. A passer-by gave chase. The attacker fled before too much damage to person, none to pocket.
“The victim,” Mac said.
She glanced at the paper in her hand. “Roger Doyle?”
“Rang the squad room this morning. Reckons he had a lucky escape. Thinks he might’ve been the Disposer’s next target.”
Bev scratched her neck. “Doyle’s a paedo?”
“Yeah. But he did the decent thing calling it in.”
For sure. If Doyle hadn’t put himself on the line, the crime wouldn’t get a second look. Street robberies were two a penny. An attempted mugging wouldn’t even have hit CID radar.
“Can he describe the attacker?” Bev asked.
“That’s what Flint wants to know.” He held her coat open.
The greying beard gave the lie to Roger Doyle’s coal black mullet. Bev reckoned it was a rug anyway. She didn’t give a toss if the hair was fake as long as his story stood up. Doyle examined their warrant cards closely, compared photos with faces. His was scarred by a jagged line running from the corner of the left eye. He handed back the IDs. “Can’t be too careful these days, can you?” The fat man’s smile revealed small crooked teeth.
Doyle’s huge buttocks swayed under baggy grey slacks as he led them down a narrow hall. The bungalow smelt of baking cakes and boot polish. Bev loosened her coat. The kitchen was too hot, could do with a window being opened. One pane was boarded up with wood, sunlight showed streaks of dirt on the others.
Doyle ran a damp cloth over a spotless work surface. “Please sit down.” There were two chairs round a pine table. Mac leaned against a wall. “I thought long and hard before dialling the number.” His hand was steady as he poured boiling water into a teapot.
“What tipped the balance, Mr Doyle?” Bev folded her arms. Darren New had run a record check, phoned details as they drove over. Hadn’t been easy listening. She felt uneasy now. It was difficult to marry the inoffensive-looking bloke making tea with a man who’d committed indecent acts against kids. Doyle had been sent down three times, seven years in total.
“I’ve paid my debt to society, sergeant. With interest. Justice executed inside was rougher than anything meted out by the court. Prisons are dangerous places for paedophiles.” He traced the scar, left them to draw their own conclusions. Bev doubted the gesture was unwitting. Without eye contact it was difficult to be sure. Doyle was doing anything to avoid looking her in the face.
“I’ve been punished enough. I’m dead as far as my family’s concerned. They cut me off completely after the first prison sentence. I’ve rebuilt my life. I have a reasonable job. The therapy’s ongoing. I know what I did was wrong. I’m sure it won’t happen again. As sure as I can be. But still I’m persecuted.” He flapped the cloth at the broken window. “Dog mess through the letterbox, hate mail, I live with it. I have to. But last night a man tried to kill me.”
That was well over the top. “Kill?”
“He had a hunting knife, sergeant.”
Eyes widened. Not seen that in the report. “Did you mention...?”
“I made light of it last night. Didn’t want any fuss. I told the officers I just wanted to get home. Forget about it. But I couldn’t.” Doyle was still rubbing at non-existent stains. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the men he’s killed, how many more victims there might be. He has to be stopped, sergeant.”
“How’d you know it was the Disposer?”
Doyle met her eyes for the first time. “Because he told me.”
Joshua Connolly was not helping police inquiries. The protester had been in custody at Highgate since Sunday night. He’d be enjoying the hospitality for at least another twenty-four hours. Magistrates had granted the extension so that Connolly could be questioned further about his part in the disturbance at Milton Place. In four sessions over two days, he’d shared not much more than his name with previous interlocutors. The interview baton was now with a suited-and-booted Byford. Baptism of fire on the first day back. Interview Room 1 was stuffy and smelly: stale sweat, cheesy socks. Byford loosened his tie a touch.
“Why did you join the protest, Mr Connolly?” The detective was up to speed. He’d studied reports of the incident, spoken to officers who’d attended, had a detailed briefing from Flint, plus Bev’s take on events. DS Frank Knox sitting alongside the guv would try to fill any gaps. Knox, a tall lanky redhead, had been one of the first on the scene.
Connolly’s open-mouthed yawn revealed several fillings and complete contempt for the proceedings. The twenty-nine-year-old had history. Checks revealed he’d been a student activist at Leeds, graduated to professional pain-in-the-arse-dom. Pro-environment and animal rights, he was against abortion and the Iraq war. He’d been filmed shouting his mouth off at rallies all over the country. Convictions included criminal damage and assault. He lived in housing association property in Kings Norton with a woman and two kids. Not a silent partner, she’d turned up twice at the nick, banging on about police brutality.
Maybe action man was getting bored, wanted to stir things a bit. He unfolded his rangy denim-clad frame from the metal chair, touched his trainer-encased toes a few times then sat cross-legged on the floor. Pink flesh was visible through raggedy holes in the knees of his jeans. Connolly ran derisory green eyes over Byford. “Not seen you before, old man.”
Byford shrugged a so-what? “What about Andrew Leach? Had you seen him before?”
He tossed a mousy fringe out of his eyes. “Who?”
“The man you were set on torching.”
Complacent shrug.
“Just offering him a light, were you?”
“Don’t smoke. Filthy habit.”
“Your prints on the Zippo.”
This part of the interview was academic in a way. Though Connolly had tried hiding his face under a scarf, they had enough forensic and photographic evidence to secure a conviction on the assault charge. Video footage had captured Connolly kicking Leach as he lay in the road. Fibres from Connolly’s clothing had been transferred to the victim’s. And vice versa. Connolly knew all this. Knew he’d go down for the attack. As to the charge of incitement... what the cops wanted to know was why Connolly had hijacked what had started out as a peaceful demonstration.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Byford said. “Why did you join the protest?”
He used a matchstick to pick his teeth. “You got kids, old man?”
Byford rolled his eyes. “Your point being?” As if he didn’t know.
“Kids need protecting.”
“Setting fire to a man will do that?” As if it was a serious question.
Knox snorted, folded his arms.
Connolly’s fringe flopped; this time he let it. “Scaring the shit out of him might.” It was the story he’d maintained throughout: fear not fire; he’d no intention of killing anyone.
“Got the wrong man though, didn’t you?”
“They’re all vermin.” He spat on the lino.
“Andrew Leach served nine months for fraud. Wipe that up. Now.” The order was softly spoken. It was Byford’s way. The lower the volume the more menace it held. Connolly picked up on it. Sullen-faced, he dug a crumpled tissue from his pocket and complied.
Byford rose crossed his hands behind his back, silently circuited Connolly a couple of times then, casually: “How did you meet him?”
Slight pause. Was it significant? “Who?”
“The killer.” The guv’s flared nostrils suggested a rank odour. “The maniac who calls himself the Disposer.” Not that there was proof of a connection. It was Byford’s gut instinct. Logic held that Sunday’s protest was a backlash to the saturation media coverage, the countless column inches and airtime devoted to the Disposer and his killing campaign. Had Connolly hopped on a bandwagon? Or was he co-driver of a battle-bus steered by the Disposer? Had they infiltrated the demo to distract attention? Was it an elaborate sleight of hand as a young man’s body was dumped in a filthy alley?
Connolly circled a finger at his temple. “Where’d you lose them?”
He meant marbles. Byford sighed. Wished he had a pound for every time he’d heard that one in an interview room. “Not very original, Mr Connolly. But you’re not, are you?” He perched on the desk, a size ten brogue swinging inches from Connolly’s flushed face.
“Meaning?”
“Work from a script, don’t you?” He quoted lines from the killer’s letter. “‘Our children need protecting. Paedophiles are vermin.’ Words courtesy of the Disposer. How did Mr Connolly put it, Frank?”
Knox chewed gum, stared at the protester. “‘Kids need protecting. They’re all vermin.’ Then he gobbed on the floor, sir.”
Close but no gold star. Byford tutted. “Not perfect then. Six out of ten? Are you a slow learner, Mr Connolly?”
Connolly was quick, but Knox was faster. By the time the protestor was on his feet, Knox was in his face, restraining Connolly’s clenched fists. Outwardly cool, Byford’s heart raced; he’d not seen that coming. Losing his touch or rusty technique after three months’ thumb-twiddling? “Bad move, Mr Connolly.” He pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Connolly slumped, arms folded, legs crossed. Byford hid his frustration. He’d got a rise out of the guy. So what? Most people thought paedophiles were vermin. Who didn’t think children needed protection? Fact that Connolly had used a similar form of words to the Disposer was proof of very little. His instinct still told him there was something more tangible.
“Todd Freeman. What do you know about him?”
“Another dead pervert.” Connolly sneered then clamped his lips. Too late. Byford pounced.
“Clairvoyant, are you?” The protester had been in a police cell since Sunday evening, room service didn’t include newspapers. “How do you know that?”
“I’m not deaf.”
It was just possible Connolly had heard about Freeman through the police grapevine, listened in on officers’ conversation. Byford observed Connolly closely. The man was aggressive, hot-headed and truculent, but the detective saw him as a minor player. He also thought it unl
ikely the Disposer was acting alone. But did that make Joshua Connolly his accomplice?
“How much is he paying you?”
“Put your rod away, Mr Policeman. I’m not biting.” The posture, the tone reinforced the words. Byford’s experience told him he’d lost Connolly; he’d get nothing more this session. The detective walked round the desk, gathered his papers. “I’m after bigger fish than you, son. You’re already in the net.”
28
“It’s a voice I’ll never forget.” Doyle had finally been persuaded to abandon the cleaning and park his bulk. His flabby thighs spread over the sides of the kitchen chair, podgy hands rested on the mound of his belly. Bev hid her distaste. For the second time in recent days she found the sympathy shop sold out. She didn’t give a sod about the voice.
“What about the face?” she asked. “Did you get a good look?” Bev studied Doyle’s as if it was an exam subject: the jagged scar, the full beard, pale watery gaze currently fixed on the shiny tabletop.
There was a rasping noise as he scratched the greying bristle. “I suppose he disguised it. But I’ll always remember the tone, the loathing, the hatred. Hissed in my ear.”
Yeah, yeah. “And the face?” She exchanged glances with Mac.
Doyle fingered the scar. “I am the Disposer and you’re going to die, fat man.”
Brimming tears finally skied down the slopes of his cheeks, his massive shoulders shook. Bev itched to shake the rest of him.
“The face, Mr Doyle. Can you give us a description?”
“It was all over so quickly...”
Her heart sank. The one person who’d been in spitting distance of the killer, and it looked as if he hadn’t got a clue.
He dashed moist cheeks with the heels of his hands. “But by God, I’ll give it my best shot.”
Late afternoon and Bev perched on the edge of her desk holding Roger Doyle’s best shot in both hands. As e-fits went, it wasn’t bad. The male subject couldn’t be taken for fifty per cent of the population as was sometimes the case. Nor did it appear to be the wild-eyed loony of an over-eager witness’s febrile imagination.
Bad Press Page 19
