by Scott Hunter
‘Not entirely.’ George let his breath out. ‘Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth. You were threatened. These guys made you create the audio, made it sound like Michelle’s death confession. You’re good. They must have known that. You did a great job. So what happened?’
‘I gave them the CD. They left. That’s the last I saw of them.’
‘The wrong CD,’ Bola said drily.
‘No. I gave them the finished product.’
‘We’ll come back to that. Why didn’t you think to warn Michelle? Or call the police?’ Bola raised his eyebrows.
‘They would have killed me. Burned down the studio.’ Nedwell was adamant. ‘No way was I saying anything.’
George waited a few moments, allowed Nedwell to sit back, shake his head, recover his composure.
‘You personally gave them the CD?’ Bola asked.
‘They collected it.’
‘Not what I asked.’ Bola shook his head.
‘I wasn’t there when they came,’ Nedwell admitted. ‘I left it for them to collect.’
‘So who was there?’
Long pause. Then, ‘Luca. He was finishing a mix.’
‘Thank you. In which case, we’ll be having a chat with Luca.’ Bola nodded. ‘When’s he due back at the studio?’
‘Nothing booked. I’ll give you his contact details.’ Nedwell looked relieved at the prospect of someone else taking the rap.
‘Couple of other wee problems to clear up, Mr Nedwell,’ George said. ‘Apart from the identity of these guys.’
‘What’s that?’
‘OK, here we go. For the benefit of the recording, I’m showing Mr Nedwell Item 33a.’ Bola retrieved a small plastic case from beneath his chair, opened it, withdrew a transparent plastic bag. There was something inside, pink, bloody. Bola dropped the bag on the table.
The finger was slightly curved, the nail still varnished bright pink. Nedwell look at it in horror, his face blanched.
‘Nice, eh? Found it in studio number four, in a microphone case.’ George said. ‘Now, what might Michelle LaCroix’s severed finger be doing on your premises, Mr Nedwell?’
‘I don’t know. I think I’m going to be sick.’ Nedwell dry-retched and both Bola and George pushed themselves back, out of reach.
‘Sick bag?’ George enquired.
‘I’m all right,’ Nedwell growled. ‘Put it away.’
‘You’re saying you don’t know how this item came to be on your premises, Mr Nedwell? For the recording, please?’
‘I. Don’t. Know.’
‘Let’s move on. For the benefit of the tape I’m showing Mr Nedwell Item 5b, a piece of jewellery also found this evening on the studio premises owned by same.’ George held the earring up for Nedwell’s inspection. ‘Is this yours, Mr Nedwell?’
‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’
‘Interesting,’ Bola said, ‘because it matches another earring found in Michelle LaCroix’s grave. Perfectly. These aren’t your commonplace market-stall items of jewellery, as you can see. They’re quite unique, wouldn’t you agree, DC McConnell?’
‘I would indeed, DC Odunsi.’
‘I’ve never seen them before,’ Nedwell hissed. ‘Ever.’
‘So what was it doing in your studio? Studio C, a rehearsal room, I believe?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that, Mr Nedwell,’ George said. ‘Because from where I’m sitting it looks like we have you bang to rights. All we need is to find a DNA match anywhere at the grave or on Michelle’s body and you’re looking at what? Twenty-five years, maybe longer?’
‘I reckon the CPS’d be pretty happy with what we have already,’ Bola said. ‘Number one, motive.’ He ticked the items off. ‘Number two, the audio, and numbers three and four, the earring and the finger rounding things off nicely.’
‘No jury is going to ignore that kind of hard evidence, Mr Nedwell.’ George raised his eyebrows. ‘So why don’t you tell us what really happened? Did you arrange to have Michelle LaCroix murdered? For money, maybe? And then rob her dead body?’
‘No. I told you. There were two of them. They let me know, in no uncertain terms, what would happen if I didn’t comply with their request. They’re the ones you should be after.’
‘But you can’t remember what they looked like.’
‘Like I said…’
‘Well, that’s not going to wash with any half-decent jury, is it Mr Nedwell?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘So you can’t give us much of a description, but you can remember what they said, and what they asked you to do.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bit odd, isn’t it?’ George looked at Bola, who turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded.
Nedwell was beginning to look desperate. ‘Look, I know it sounds weird. I can’t explain it. I just remember feeling very scared. These guys meant business. There was something about them. You don’t understand.’
‘No need to raise your voice, Mr Nedwell’, George said.
Nedwell held his head in his hands, made himself speak in a lower, more measured tone. ‘One was medium height, dark, always had his face half-covered by a scarf. Not English. The other … no, it’s no good, I can’t remember anything about him. Like I said, he waited outside, by the door.’
‘Tall, you say?’ George probed. ‘Come on, what else? Think, Mr Nedwell.’
‘All I can remember is the eyes. Deep, sunken eyes. The rest is a blank.’
George sat back in his chair. ‘All right, Mr Nedwell. We’re going to give you the opportunity to remember a little more. We’ll take a break. Interview paused at–’ George glanced at the wall clock, ‘–2.15am.’
Nedwell’s face fell. ‘Oh, come on, don’t bang me up. I swear to God I didn’t hurt that girl. Please.’
‘We’ll be back shortly, Mr Nedwell.’
‘What d’you reckon?’
‘He’s bricking it. Something’s scared him.’ Bola scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘We’ll get hold of this Luca character, see what he has to say. You reckon Nedwell’s just passing the buck?’
‘Open mind. We’ll see.’
Bola grunted. ‘Coffee time. Coming?’
‘Try stopping me.’ George was tired, very tired. He wanted to call Tess and find out what was going down in Goring, but Nedwell was the priority, so he pushed Tess to one side of his mind, to be dealt with later. If there was a later – this shift had morphed into two, somehow. They’d need to call it a day or he’d be fit for nothing tomorrow. Bola, however, seemed buoyant, tapping his feet to some silent rhythm, eyes alert, skin glowing. They waited while the coffee machine did its thing, creaking and hissing, slopping hot milk everywhere but the cup.
‘The earring. Planted?’ George retrieved the cup, sampled the contents, grimaced. At least it was hot. The usual mantra.
‘Could be. He’s putting on a good act, if it is an act.’
‘Tall man,’ George said. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘I know. I was thinking the same.’ Bola grabbed his coffee, spilled it on his hand, cursed, licked the burn.
‘And Nedwell can’t remember what he looks like.’ George walked slowly along the corridor, holding his coffee cup by its rim. ‘Then there’s Tess’ guy. Also tall, and for some reason she can’t describe him. And couldn’t detain him. More than coincidence, I’d say.’
‘Maybe. The guv clocked someone in the churchyard earlier today. Same description.’
‘Right. So we have to allow for the possibility that Nedwell’s telling the truth.’
Which means Tess is, too… George left the thought unspoken.
‘OK. I say we leave him to stew for a few hours,’ Bola said. ‘You look done in, George. Pick it up in the morning, yeah?’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, later this morning. A few hours might give him time to exercise his powers of recall.’
George thought about it, and fatigue won. ‘Sure. OK, let’s break the
good news.’
A grey, crepuscular light was beginning to ease the night into morning as Bola parked up in the small courtyard. He killed the engine, sat quietly for a moment. The stable flats were silent, but that was hardly surprising at this hour.
What you doin’, Bola?
He turned the key in the ignition, checked the rearview, began to reverse out of the parking space. Braked. Killed the engine again.
Nothing ventured…
He parked up a second time, locked the car, made straight for number seven, rang the bell. Somewhere inside, a dog’s muffled bark sounded once, twice, then was quiet.
The door opened after a minute or two. She looked good, even at this unearthly hour.
‘And what time do you call this? A girl needs her beauty sleep.’
‘I can make it up to you,’ Bola said.
Gill Crossley-Holland held the door open. ‘Well, how can I resist an offer like that? You’d better come in, Mr Police man.’
The hospital was suspended in its still, pre-dawn lull, all whispering workstations, dimmed lighting and quietly humming electronics. Tess felt her shoes squeak on the polished corridor floor as she followed signs to the High Dependency Unit. Her heart was in her mouth as each junction brought her closer to her destination. She’d sent Collingworth and the uniforms home. Nothing was going to happen at St Thomas’ tonight.
Nothing else…
She’d toyed with the idea of coming clean, telling Collingworth what had happened. But what good would that have done? Her nemesis would simply carry out his threat and her parents would become a target. She couldn’t let that happen.
A nurse passed her in the corridor, hurrying to complete some urgent task, her unvarnished face pale from lack of sleep, lips compressed in concern for some needy patient. Tess followed the ceiling signs as she’d done the previous night, turned left then right and found the door which led down the stairs to the first floor.
Charlie Pepper was here somewhere, lying in some dim side ward, sedated probably, out of the game. Tess felt a brief frisson of guilt as a thought passed through her mind.
Let’s see how you like it, Charlie Pepper…
No, that was wrong. Bad karma. Tess shook the thought away as she found the stairwell exit and emerged into yet another identical corridor. HDU straight ahead. She pressed the buzzer, gave her name. The door clicked. Up ahead she could see one of the uniforms, his body language a montage of fatigue, limbs draped across a plastic chair and a coffee held loosely in one hand. He stiffened as he saw her coming, half-rose to his feet.
‘It’s OK, relax. I’m just popping in for an update, constable.’
‘You missed all the fun,’ the policeman said. ‘He’s showing signs of recovery. They came and took him away half an hour ago.’
‘Took him away? Where?’
A shrug. ‘Not sure. All of a sudden there’s a cluster of medics around his bed, then a bunch of porters wheel him off for some kind of treatment. Something about his airway – I think there were issues retracting his ventilator.’
‘But he regained consciousness?’
‘Oh yeah. He’s one lucky guy. They didn’t think he’d make it this time yesterday.’
‘No. No, you’re right; they didn’t.’ Tess tried to reassemble her confused thoughts. What should she do? What would he do now that she was unable to carry out her task? ‘Where’s PC …’ Tess groped for the name ‘…Stringer?’
‘Gone with the patient. Should be back in a few hours, all being well. ‘Course they might move him to a ward if he’s stable.’
‘Yes. Thanks. Well, no point hanging around, I suppose.’ Tess willed the corners of her mouth to rise.
‘All right for some.’ The constable’s grin was a better effort. ‘See you.’
Tess retraced her footsteps, brain racing. She banged into the stairwell door, took the steps two at a time. Perhaps if she drove straight to her parents’ house, warned them, got them to safety … or maybe just wake the guv, tell him exactly what happened. No, too risky. She turned the corner to the second flight, put out her hand to push the door.
He was there, right next to it.
She froze, took an involuntary step back.
‘Change of plan.’ The man held out an envelope. His hat was angled forward, casting his face in shadow. ‘Take this. Find me an address. If you disclose information to any other party, I will know. And you will suffer.’
Tess mutely took the envelope.
She followed him into the corridor, tried to memorise any small detail about his gait, his clothing. He was carrying a small, battered leather bag. That accent … hard to place. ‘Wait. How will I know where to find you?’
He continued to walk away, but his voice carried in the hospital’s silent passageway. ‘I will find you.’
She watched him until he turned the corner and was gone.
The envelope was a heavy weight in her hand. She ripped it open, withdrew the contents. A photograph – CCTV footage. A man, at a counter. Across the counter, pawn-shop man, Mr Milton. The lucky guy.
She took out a second photograph, a close-up. The punter leaving the shop. The face was angled towards the camera. It wasn’t bad for CCTV, a little grainy, but good enough to run through the face-recognition software. Sure, the technology was viewed as unreliable – hit-or-miss-ware, George called it – but it was worth a shot.
More than worth it, as her parents’ wellbeing was at stake. But what if she drew a blank? No, no. Failure wasn’t an option.
Tess lingered in the corridor, turning over options in her mind. What about that team in Oxford, the super-recognisers? They’d had extraordinary success rates with facial recognition. Even the powers-that-be were coming round to the idea that these gifted individuals, an elite team, were fast becoming a major asset. The statistics proved it. Team members could retain details of a suspect’s face for months, even years, in the finest detail.
Tess made her way to the car park. Her clock told her it was five-fifteen. She could run the software before George and the rest arrived for the morning shift. After that, if she drew a blank, a phone call to the SRs. She gunned the engine, joined the sparse traffic on the London Road.
She glanced in the rearview. Her own face stared back – big bags under her eyes, pale face, mouth downturned with anxiety. Super-recognisers? God, she hardly recognised herself any more.
Charlie Pepper opened her eyes, groaned. Her mouth was dry and her head was throbbing like a malfunctioning piston engine. Her bladder was bursting. Toilet required, right now.
She sat up very slowly, reached for her water jug, poured half a glass with a shaky hand. Death warmed up. An old adage, but an accurate description of how she felt. The side ward was quiet, the lighting dimmed. Time? Time had stopped a while back. She’d better get with it. She found her watch in the cheap set of bedside drawers. Four thirty-five.
She eased herself round into a sitting position on the side of the bed, touched the floor with her bare feet. OK, getting better. She checked to make sure she wasn’t attached to anything. She was. Some contraption on wheels. She followed the tubes from her wrist and traced them to the sterile drip pouches on the wheeled stand by the bed. OK, seen this done. I can do it, too.
She stood and the room swam in and out of focus. She steadied herself against the wall. Her head cleared.
Let’s do this, Charlie.
She shuffled to the door, put her head out. No one at the nurses’ station. Probably having a natter in the kitchen, or dealing with bed pan requests. No bed pan for her, no way. Her dignity had already been severely challenged. Enough for one day. Which way? Aha–
She continued her shuffle towards the ward exit doors, in front of which an illuminated wall sign proclaimed her desired destination: Toilets.
Charlie concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.
Like a toddler learning to walk…
She glanced up after a moment to check her progress and caught sight of a
familiar face framed for a split second in the exit door window. Tess? Charlie tried to move faster but her body was having none of it. Oh well. Tess would have gone by now anyway, whatever she was doing, which was checking up on pawn-shop man, of course.
It took another three, maybe four minutes to deal with her bladder’s urgent requirements. When she exited the loo she couldn’t help casting a longing glance at the exit.
Come on, Charlie girl, just a quick peep. See what’s happening in the outside world.
She reached the exit door after a huge effort.
How am I going to get back?
She leaned on the door, nausea rising in her stomach.
Overdone it. Idiot.
She pressed her face to the glass, looked out. Tess was standing by the stairwell door. A tall man was walking away. Tess called after him, but Charlie couldn’t catch it. The man replied in a deep, oddly-accented voice. Again, Charlie couldn’t catch the words. She pulled back from the glass as he strode past her observation post without so much as a glance in her direction.
Oh god, it’s him. What on earth’s going on? Tess?
Charlie fumbled at the door handle, trying to open the ward door, but her fingers were clumsy. It wouldn’t budge. By the time she’d figured out that she had to press the plastic exit button to open the ward door, Tess had disappeared. Charlie leaned out, looked one way then the other. The corridor was empty.
‘Excuse me?’ A voice from behind. ‘Miss Pepper? What are you doin’? You should be in bed, my darlin’. Come, come. Take my arm, that’s right.’
Feeling like a scolded child, Charlie allowed the nurse to lead her back to the side ward, her mind turning over and over in a confused whirl.
‘Taken your tablets? No? What we going to do with you, eh?’
Charlie followed the nurse’s instructions. She rested her head on her pillows, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed. It was too much. The sedative kicked in and she felt herself drifting off into a world of clouds, corridors, tall men and, oddly, a roomful of nurses in bright red uniforms. Their faces were turned away, but on some unheard command they turned around as one, and she saw with a shock that they had no facial features, just empty spaces where noses, eyes and mouths should have been.
