Ian turned to his solicitor. “I don’t have to say anything, do I?”
“You don’t,” she confirmed.
He cleared his throat and turned back to DI Whaley.
“No comment.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rhodri shuffled in his chair as he waited for Adi Hanson to pick up the phone. He’d been up late last night, he had a new girlfriend and they’d been snuggled up – and the rest – in front of Netflix till one am. The thought of it made him glow inside and yawn simultaneously.
“Adi Hanson.”
Rhodri straightened in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Adi, it’s DC Hughes.”
“Rhodri. You’ll be wanting a progress report on the substance that killed Laurence Thomms.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself, mate.”
Adi laughed. “I’m not as slow as some people like to think.”
Rhodri frowned; slow wasn’t a word he’d have used to describe Adi.
“OK,” Adi said. “So they’ve analysed the residue we found on Laurence’s lips, as well as the contents of his stomach.”
Rhodri put his hand to his own stomach, which gurgled. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now he was glad of it.
“The stuff he was given was muck,” Adi said.
“Muck?”
“Dreadful stuff. If the drugs themselves hadn’t killed him, the crap they mixed in with it would.”
“Like what?”
Adi winced. “Chalk. A bit of washing powder. They used flu tablets as a base, then added all sorts of crap to them.” He pulled in a breath. “Jesus, Rhod. These bastards are going to kill the kids they push this stuff on with household cleaners, not with actual drugs.”
Rhodri nodded. “So does it help us identify where the ingredients came from?”
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t come from the university Chemistry labs, if that’s what you’ve been thinking. This isn’t Breaking Bad.”
Rhodri stifled a chuckle. He’d watched a couple of episodes in the hope it might teach him something about how Laurence had died. Instead it had just made him depressed.
“So we don’t need to search the Chemistry department for missing supplies?” he asked.
“You don’t. These are low-grade street drugs. Whoever forced them on Laurence got them from a shabby dealer somewhere. I suggest you talk to the Drugs team.”
“I will.” Rhodri had a mate in that squad: Detective Constable Arjun Metha.
“Good.”
“What about the DNA results?” Rhodri asked. “You know who it was scratched the inside of his mouth yet?”
“That won’t be with us for a few hours at least. You know what it’s like with DNA.”
“Yeah. OK, thanks, Adi.”
He hung up.
Connie looked up from her screen. “News?”
“Yeah. The crystal meth that killed Laurence was impure. Very impure. Adi says it came from the street, not from the Chemistry lab.”
“No surprise there.”
“No. Which means we’ve got to talk to the Drugs team before we can go any further.”
“Surely we need to start at the other end.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, instead of how they got the drugs: why they got them. Who’d have motive to kill him?”
“Becca. Half a dozen other women, by the sounds of it.”
She nodded. “Any of them could’ve bought street drugs.”
“We aren’t going to know till we get that DNA result,” Rhodri said.
Connie shook her head. “You think the boss is going to authorise getting DNA swabs from every student in the place?”
“Maybe every student living in Boulton Hall.”
“Maybe. But I think we need to work out who else had a reason to kill him. Find out which other women he attacked.”
“Any clues on social media?”
“Would you believe Laurence didn’t have a single social media account? No Twitter, no WhatsApp, no Snapchat.”
“Facebook?”
She wrinkled her nose. “The guy was nineteen. No he wasn’t on Facebook. And yes, I did check.”
“Maybe under a false name.”
“I can’t find anything on his laptop, or his phone. So I’m going to check Becca’s public social media. Then I’ll move on to Kayla and Lin. You never know.”
“Public? That’s not like you.” Connie had a reputation for breaking into suspects’ private social media accounts.
She frowned. “Feels too intrusive, right now.”
“The boss has been warning you off.”
“No. But I know what the sarge would say.” Connie dipped her head back down to focus on her screen.
Rhodri watched her for a few moments, then picked up the phone to call Arjun. All they had was illegal drugs in Laurence’s system, and a rape allegation. Maybe he wasn’t even murdered, Rhodri thought. Maybe they were all wasting their time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mo and Zoe stood outside Boulton Hall. Mo was still bristling from the call with the warden. The woman wasn’t taking this case as seriously as she should.
“Ready?” he said.
“You bet,” Zoe replied. She yanked open the door, eyes on the security office. Wondering if Jenks was on duty, no doubt.
The security office was empty. They passed it, heading for the apartment on the second floor allocated to Jenson Begg. Zoe’s phone rang.
“Shit,” she muttered. She shoved it to her ear.
“I’m about to go into an interview,” she said. Mo watched her, realising she was as riled up as he was.
Her expression dropped. “Sheila. Thanks.” She put a hand over the phone. “Sheila Griffin,” she whispered to him.
DS Sheila Griffin was an Organised Crime detective. She was working with them on Magpie.
Mo raised his eyebrows: news? Zoe shrugged and listened.
She nodded her head. “Uh-huh… OK… that’s good. I’ll be right there.” She closed her eyes briefly as she hung up.
“Sorry, mate. They’ve got a lead on the Magpie case. I need to go.”
“That’s great news.”
“I don’t like doing this without you, but we can’t leave Jenson Begg too long.”
“It’s alright, Zo. I’ll take this one. Just keep me posted, yeah?”
“I will.” Zoe and Mo had been working on the bombing case together since he’d rejoined her team a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to miss out.
Zoe placed a hand on his arm. “Good luck. Hopefully he’ll shine some light on what Laurence Thomms was really up to.”
Mo flashed his eyes in response: hope so.
Zoe headed outside, not pausing to suggest how Mo might get back to the office. They were only a mile away. He could walk.
He took a breath and flexed his shoulders. He needed to push all thoughts of what Zoe was doing from his mind and focus on this interview. He made for Jenson’s apartment, ignoring the student staring at him as he passed.
He knocked on the door to the apartment.
Silence.
Damn. He checked his watch: ten thirty-six. The man would be in class. Or whatever it was postgrads did.
The door flew open. “Kayla?… Oh.”
Mo held up his warrant card. “Jenson Begg?”
“Er, yeah.” The man wrinkled his nose. He was medium height, thin, with hair that looked like he’d just got out of bed. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. “That’s me.”
“I need to ask you a few questions about Laurence Thomms.”
The man glanced back into the flat. “Yeah. Course.” He stood back and let Mo pass.
Inside was a large room with high windows overlooking a football pitch. To say the place was untidy would be an understatement. It looked like no one had cleaned up for at least a year.
Jenson pushed in front of Mo, picking up discarded clothes and hurling them into a corner. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. Here.” He grabbed
a pile of books off a low, institutional chair, and pointed to the vacated space. “Take a seat.”
“Thanks.” Mo lowered himself into the chair. The room smelled of stale milk. He breathed through his mouth, eyeing the window. “Can you open a window, maybe?”
“OK. I’ll need to get dressed, though.”
“Be my guest.”
Jenson stared at Mo for a moment, then forced the window open with a hard push and disappeared through a door. A bedroom, Mo assumed. He could only imagine the state that would be in.
This room was littered with discarded takeaway cartons, food wrappers, clothes and Chemistry books. Another Chemistry student, he thought. Like Laurence and Becca.
He bent to peer under the desk in the opposite corner and pushed a dirty t-shirt aside with his foot to see what was hiding in amongst the mess. There was no evidence of drug-taking.
Jenson reemerged wearing a crumpled pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt with a Nike logo. “Sad news,” he said.
Mo nodded. “Did you know Laurence well?”
“I spoke to him a few times. But he… he kept himself to himself.”
So we’ve been told, Mo thought. “Do you know why?”
“I can hazard a guess.”
“What kind of guess?”
“You’ll know about the allegations Becca MacGuire made against him. We – that’s me and Doctor Edwards, the warden – we tried to keep it confidential. But you know what these places are like.”
“What are they like?”
“It’s a closed community. Secrets don’t stay that way for long.”
“So the rest of the students knew about the allegations?”
“Reckon so.”
“You know that for sure, or are you assuming?”
A flush rose up Jenson’s neck. “One or two of the girls told me they knew about it. They were worried.”
“Which girls?”
A frown. “Can’t remember. I tried to reassure them. The warden was investigating. If she’d upheld Becca’s complaint, he’d have been kicked out of the hall.”
“And the university?”
“That too, probably. Not good for your record, raping a fellow student.”
“Did you think of going to the police?”
“Becca made it clear she didn’t want me to.” A pause. “I respected her wishes.”
“If it had gone far enough for Laurence to get thrown out of Boulton Hall and off his course, surely the police should have been involved. We’re talking about an alleged crime here.”
Jenson shrugged. “The rule with the residential tutors is confidentiality. If Becca told me not to tell the police, that isn’t my place.”
“But you did tell the warden.”
“She said that was OK.”
Mo nodded. “Did the warden talk to you about her investigation?”
“Nah. Once I’d passed it to her, that was it.”
“But did you talk to Becca? Provide support?”
“I tried. She wasn’t too keen on the idea.”
“She came to you to report the rape in the first place, but then she didn’t want your support?”
Jenson tugged at his t-shirt. He shrugged. “Who knows what makes women act the way they do.” He grinned at Mo, who didn’t return the smile.
Mo wondered what kind of relationship this young man had with Becca. He was good-looking, in a slightly battered kind of way, and Mo could imagine the female students being attracted to him. He wondered whether Jenson took advantage of that.
“How well did you – do you – know Becca?”
Another shrug. “She’s one of my students. I invited her to my coffee morning in Fresher’s Week. After that I hardly saw her.”
“But she trusted you enough to come to you.”
“I’m a trustworthy kind of guy.”
Mo eyed him, trying not to show his irritation. “Jenson, when you opened the door to me, you said the name Kayla.”
“Did I?”
“You did. Is that Kayla Goode?”
“She’s one of my students.”
“You were expecting her?”
Jenson scratched his neck. “She’d asked if she could come and talk to me. I think she was pretty freaked out, finding Laurence like that.”
That made sense. “You were expecting her at around this time?” Mo glanced at the door.
Jenson tugged his t-shirt again. “She didn’t say a specific time. This morning. That’s all.”
“You often meet your students dressed in boxer shorts?”
“You caught me by surprise. I wasn’t doing anything illegal.”
“No.”
Jenson held Mo’s gaze. “Anyway, Kayla will be along soon. And I’ve got data to write up. Are we done here?”
“For now.” Mo stood up.
“Good.”
“Before I go… you’re a Chemistry student, right?”
“I’m doing a PhD on Perovskite Photocatalysis.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It’s related to solar cell technology. Solar power. Important work.”
“You know anything about how to make methamphetamine?”
Jenson pinched his nose. “Very different branch of Chemistry, mate.”
Mo said nothing. Jenson looked him up and down and laughed. “You think I’m cooking meth in this apartment?”
“I just asked if you knew anything about it.”
“You can search the place if you want. You won’t find anything.”
“It’s fine. Thanks for your time.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Sheila,” said Zoe. “Sorry I couldn’t get here quicker.”
“It’s fine,” said Sheila. “I hear you’re working on that death in Boulton Hall.”
“Nineteen-year old man. Allegations of rape against him.”
“Ouch. I’ll try not to keep you.”
They were in Sheila’s office in Lloyd House, two floors below the room where Zoe had been interviewed by Layla Kaur the night before. Two floors below where Carl worked. Zoe had been on alert since arriving in the car park, imagining how she’d react if she bumped into him in the lobby or a corridor or even the lift. She’d run through half a dozen possible meetings in her mind, and she still wasn’t sure if she was hoping to see him or not.
“So what you got?”
Sheila pointed at her computer monitor. “Interview with Ana-Maria Albescu.”
“She not back in Romania yet?”
“We had a word with the airline.”
“So you got her to talk.”
“To some extent. Watch this.”
Zoe grabbed a chair and pulled it to Sheila’s desk. The two women sat next to each other, eyes on the screen. The office held three other desks, all of which were empty.
“You in on your own today?”
“The others are out on a surveillance job. Sorry.”
“I’ll have to go to my DCI,” Zoe said. “But if Ana-Maria’s provided useful information, I’m sure I’ll be able to free up at least one of my team.”
“Good. Here.” Sheila clicked her mouse and the video started playing. Onscreen were Sheila and a male colleague, their backs to the camera, Ana-Maria opposite them, flanked by two women Zoe didn’t recognise.
“Two lawyers?”
“Lawyer and translator. Both appointed by us.”
Zoe nodded. So Ana-Maria wasn’t important enough for Trevor Hamm to send her a lawyer.
She leaned back and watched as Sheila led the introductions onscreen. Then she went into the questions.
“Ana-Maria, we have a photograph that was sent to you via Instagram on the day of the New Street bomb.” She pushed a photo across the table. “Do you recognise this?”
Ana-Maria waited for the translation then shrugged.
“It’s the woman who we believe set off the bomb.”
Ana-Maria’s gaze shot up to look at Sheila, then back down to her hands, which twisted on the surface of the
table. Zoe wondered how much English she understood.
“I understand that you’re scared,” Sheila said. “You were taken advantage of by some pretty scary men. But if you can help us establish that your friend was forced to do what she did by those men, it will be very helpful. You aren’t in any trouble, Ana-Maria. We’ll let you go once this is over.”
Ana-Maria looked at her translator, who spoke fast. As she listened, her eyes narrowed. She said something in Romanian.
“I do not know her name,” the interpreter said.
“We don’t need a name,” said Sheila. “But we do need to establish how the two of you knew each other.”
A pause for the translation.
“I prefer not to say.”
Onscreen, Sheila leaned forwards, her hands clasped on the table. Ana-Maria moved hers beneath the table. Next to Zoe, Sheila adopted the same position as in the recording, her hands on the desk.
“Like I say Ana-Maria, I understand that you’re scared. But if you can tell us what you know, we will be able to put these men in prison for a very long time. Much longer than if we prosecute them for human trafficking.”
As the interpreter spoke to Ana-Maria, the woman swallowed. She wiped under her eye.
Ana-Maria turned to Sheila. “I do not know name,” she said in English.
Sheila glanced at the interpreter then nodded. “But you knew this woman?”
Ana-Maria blinked back across the table at the DS. She put her hand to her mouth and pulled at her lips. “Yes,” she said as she pulled it away.
Onscreen, the DC next to Sheila shifted in his seat. Zoe could feel the tension emanating from the screen. “When was this?” she whispered.
“This morning,” Sheila said. “About an hour ago. I called you immediately.”
“Thanks.” Zoe rehearsed what she would say to Lesley. Was Ana-Maria going to provide the missing link? Given that Trevor Hamm had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth, would it make any difference? And would there be any chance of her appearing in court?
“How did you know her?” Sheila asked onscreen. Her voice was low.
“We… live together.”
“In the Hotel Belvista?” Zoe had found Ana-Maria there along with Sofia Pichler, Hamm’s girlfriend at the time, and other women who were being held there.
Deadly Reprisal (Detective Zoe Finch Book 5) Page 9
