by Steven Dunne
She shook her head in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I,’ replied Brook. He nodded to Noble who handed Yvette a photograph of the youth on the bridge.
‘This individual was watching us recover the body this morning. Could that be Russell?’
She stared down at it. ‘You’re kidding. He’s wearing a hoodie. He’s got sunglasses and a scarf over his face. How am I supposed to know if it’s Rusty at that distance?’
‘Okay. What about his build and body shape?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s possible. But kids wear such baggy clothing these days.’
‘Did Russell wear those clothes?’
She looked up at Brook. ‘I’m not sure.’ She peered at the picture again. ‘Why do you think it might be him?’
‘Because this person used a camcorder to film us recovering Wilson’s body,’ said Noble.
‘I see.’ She looked at the picture again. ‘I can’t tell. I’m sorry.’
Noble pulled his laptop from a case and loaded the CCTV film of the bridge. They watched in silence, Noble pointing to the unknown figure strolling into shot, Brook watching Yvette.
‘What about his mannerisms, his way of walking?’ asked Noble. Yvette didn’t reply.
Brook fancied there was the merest flicker of recognition but he couldn’t be certain.
‘I don’t know’, she said. ‘Maybe. I can’t be sure.’
Noble placed another picture in front of her. This time it was a grainier close-up of the camcorder. ‘Could that be your son’s camcorder?’
She stared, then nodded very slowly. ‘It’s possible. This morning, you say? Where is he now?’
‘We know from other CCTV that he had a bicycle. After leaving the bridge, he cycled east through the city, then along the bike path following the river, through Pride Park towards Borrowash. After that . . .’ Brook shrugged.
‘Does your son know anyone in Borrowash?’ asked Noble.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know Derby, Damen. I’ve never heard of Borrowash and I’m sure Rusty hasn’t either.’
‘And does your son own a bicycle?’ Brook went on.
‘He did. It was stolen.’
‘When?’
‘Six months ago – shortly after we moved here. Rusty went out on it and when he came back he didn’t have it. He said he lost it, but his T-shirt was torn. I guessed someone stole it from him.’
‘Did you report this?’
Her answer was a short sour laugh.
Noble placed another photograph in Yvette’s hands. ‘This is the best shot we’ve got. Is this your son’s bicycle?’
Yvette looked at the hooded cyclist riding his bike. ‘I can’t tell. Who remembers bicycles?’
‘Have you a record of the insurance claim?’ asked Brook patiently. ‘Maybe there’s a description of it from when you did remember his bicycle.’
Brook’s tone was unmistakable now and Yvette was taken aback. ‘We’d just arrived in Derby. We didn’t have insurance – I couldn’t afford it.’ She looked coldly at Brook. ‘I still can’t.’ The anger in her eyes was stark. ‘I thought you were my friend, Damen. Rusty is missing. He might be dead and you come in here asking about bicycles.’ She put her hands over her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Brook evenly. ‘We have a job to do.’
‘Then do it and get him back to me.’ She looked angrily at Brook, then across at Noble with a timorous smile. ‘I miss him so much.’
Brook said nothing for a while. Noble knew there were more questions to come – hard questions – but Brook knew this attractive woman better than he did, so Noble waited too.
‘Are we finished?’ asked Yvette, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
‘We’ve done some digging into your background – yours and Russell’s.’ Brook paused for a reaction.
‘I suppose that’s to be expected,’ she replied quietly.
‘Russell had a tough time of it, didn’t he?’ ventured Brook. ‘All those different schools, all those bullies . . .’
Yvette smiled sadly, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘He did. He was so vulnerable. He just didn’t know how to talk to people.’
‘The other kids called him names?’ asked Noble.
‘Yes. They called him a bastard and they told him I was a whore. They said he was an orphan because his dad didn’t want him.’ The tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘What happened when he was fifteen?’ asked Brook softly.
Yvette wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean something happened to him. He changed.’
Yvette’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. He stopped being a victim, Yvette.’
‘And started becoming the aggressor,’ chipped in Noble, pulling out the relevant documents. ‘Ruthin Road High School, Connor’s Quay College, Holywell College . . .’
‘Russell was excluded from all these schools and colleges for cyber-bullying. You came here for a clean break before Russell could exhaust all his chances. The move to Derby College was a last chance for Russell, wasn’t it?’ Eventually Yvette nodded. ‘So what happened?’
The tears welled again, accompanied by a bitter smile. ‘You’re right. He changed.’
‘How?’
‘Rusty just wouldn’t take it any more so he took a stand, he lashed out. It’s not his fault. He’s a good person. Why are you asking me all these questions? Why aren’t you finding my Rusty?’
‘Because maybe he’s tried to bully someone else, the wrong person, and they’ve taken matters into their own hands,’ said Noble. ‘Could that be possible?’
‘No. He stopped all that. I bought him the camcorder. He’s got a hobby now. He loves his films. He can spend a whole day filming and playing it back on his laptop. He doesn’t need to lash out any more.’
‘Do you think he might have filmed the wrong person, seen something he wasn’t supposed to see and got himself in trouble?’
‘I don’t know. He loved filming. And sometimes people would get angry when he stuck the camcorder in their faces.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘No. It was never anything serious. Just annoying.’
‘Until he filmed Becky Blake in her bedroom,’ said Brook. ‘I assume you watched the news.’
Yvette’s head dropped. ‘You don’t know that was him.’
‘Have you seen the film?’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone filmed Wilson jumping into the river as well,’ said Brook. ‘Someone with a camcorder.’
Yvette’s head shot up and a hand went to her mouth. ‘Was that shown on the website?’
‘Not yet. But you can see why we’d wonder how you knew we’d found a body.’
‘I told you,’ she mumbled. ‘Someone phoned me.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
Brook smiled. It unnerved even Noble. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘I don’t,’ she insisted.
‘What’s Len done to deserve this kind of loyalty?’ said Brook. Her eyes widened and her breathing shortened. ‘So it was Len who rang you.’
‘No, he didn’t ring me,’ she said defiantly. ‘Feel free to check my phone records.’ Then her face hardened. ‘And now I think you’d better leave.’
Brook pulled the BMW into the St Mary’s Wharf car park.
‘Shouldn’t we be going to talk to Len Poole?’ said Noble.
‘Not until we have some idea what’s between the two of them.’
‘You were right about Yvette Thomson,’ said Noble as they stepped out of the car. ‘She’s very attractive.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Actually, it may have been Alice Kennedy,’ said Noble. ‘But you’re not denying it.’
‘No. She’s very pretty,’ said Brook. They walked to the entrance and pressed their smartcards against the terminal. ‘Did you notice she seemed attracted to you?�
�
‘She’s got eyes, hasn’t she?’ Noble grinned.
Brook smiled but rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry to cast doubt on your many virtues, John, but I suspect she gives that impression to every man she meets.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Noble.
‘She was the same when I first met her. I think it’s to do with being an orphan. It’s about survival. You use what you have to get by.’
‘And she uses her looks.’ Noble shrugged, not totally convinced by the downgrading of his pin-up status. ‘You didn’t ask her about Wilson.’
‘It’ll keep. If Wilson called to see her after the assault on Kyle, we’ll find out about it soon enough.’
‘What makes you think Wilson went to see her?’
‘Because, like most of the species, he was attracted to her too. Yvette told me he was always calling round.’
‘You don’t think she had anything to do with his death?’
‘Not from the footage we saw or her reaction at the river,’ said Brook. ‘That’s why it’ll keep.’
Sergeant Hendrickson was at the duty desk. But for once, instead of marching hurriedly to the lifts, to Noble’s surprise, Brook ambled over to the counter.
‘Sergeant. Who was on duty this morning when the call came in about the body in the Derwent?’
Hendrickson didn’t answer or approach the counter to speak to Brook. Instead he turned, thin-lipped, towards Noble, who stood behind his DI. Noble made no attempt to fill the awkward silence and, absurdly, the three officers stood motionless, locked into their mute triangle for nearly a minute.
When Brook showed no signs of moving off, Hendrickson managed to croak out a hate-filled, ‘Sir?’
‘You heard me,’ snapped Brook. ‘Chop-chop.’
Hendrickson’s mouth fell open and he again sought Noble’s now amused eyes, this time with an expression that hovered between pain and incredulity.
‘We haven’t got all day, Sergeant,’ chipped in Noble.
In shock, Hendrickson approached the counter with the roster, opened it and moved a finger down the page. ‘Sergeant Grey.’
Brook smiled. ‘There. That wasn’t too hard, was it?’
Noble fought back the grin until they reached the Incident Room where Brook finally gave him the briefest glance of acknowledgement. DS Morton handed Noble a manila folder.
‘Leonard Poole was the Chief Pathologist for Derby Hospitals NHS Trust from 1999 to 2003,’ read Noble. ‘He retired and moved away the same year you moved to Derby.’
‘So he was in Derby for only four years.’
‘He may have worked in Derby for four years but he and his wife actually lived in Uttoxeter. When Len retired they sold up and moved back to Chester.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘That date, 2003 – sound familiar, John?’
Noble glanced up at Brook. A second later he rummaged around on his desk and located a piece of paper, holding it next to the report on Len Poole. ‘Yvette Thomson lived in Uttoxeter from 1999 to 2003.’
‘She did,’ said Brook, without surprise. ‘And I think I know where this is going.’
Noble’s voice picked up speed and volume. ‘He lived in Chester and was a pathologist for the old North Wales NHS Trust until 1998. He left Chester to work for the Shropshire County Primary Care Trust for a year . . .’ he looked up at Brook ‘. . . moving to Whitchurch. Yvette Thomson left Chester that same year and also moved to Whitchurch. A year later she moved to Uttoxeter – when Len moved there to take the job in Derby.’
‘And when Len retired and moved back to North Wales . . .’
‘She moved back there as well.’ Noble smiled with satisfaction. ‘You were right. They’ve known each other for years.’
‘Anything else?’
Noble read some more. ‘The bastard,’ he said on a reflex. ‘Sorry.’
‘What?’
‘He was Chairman of the Board of Trustees for St Asaph’s School for Boys and Girls from 1992 until he moved to Shropshire in 1998.’
‘He knew Yvette at the orphanage,’ said Brook softly.
‘Christ,’ said Noble. ‘She got pregnant at the orphanage, while Poole was on the Board. She was only fifteen.’
‘Older than many,’ said Brook, trying not to think of Terri, falling into the clutches of her stepfather, at the same age.
‘You think Russell Thomson could be Poole’s kid.’
‘It’s possible. Or at least it’s possible Poole thinks he is.’ Brook nodded at the folder. ‘Presumably Len and Yvette didn’t move to a new area on the same day.’
Noble scanned the documents. ‘Len moved first. Yvette Thomson followed a month or so later.’ He looked up at Brook. ‘So he sets himself up and sends for her. That explains the telly in her house.’
‘Telly?’
‘She had a brand new 3D-ready TV – thirty-two inches, by the look of it. Must be a thousand pounds’ worth of kit right there – and she reckoned she couldn’t afford insurance.’
‘A lot of money for a mature student who works as a barmaid,’ agreed Brook.
‘So Poole’s set her up in that house,’ said Noble. ‘He moves. She follows after Poole’s sorted out a place to live. No wonder she’s hardly worked a day in her life.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, John. When I saw them together there was a degree of hostility that didn’t feel right.’
Noble tapped a finger against his chin. ‘There would be hostility if she was blackmailing him. If Russell is Poole’s son, conceived when Yvette was a fourteenor fifteen-year-old orphan and while he was in a position of trust . . .’
‘. . . he pays up for maintenance or she goes to the authorities.’ Brook narrowed his eyes. ‘It makes sense except for one thing. He’s engaged to be married and Alice Kennedy lives round the corner from Yvette. If Yvette was his mistress, would Len really move her that close? Would he even be getting married? If Poole and Yvette are lovers, why not just move in with her? Apart from the age difference, no one would raise an eyebrow.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think Yvette’s dogging Len’s every move to make sure he keeps paying for his mistake.’
‘So she’s got her hooks into him and she’s not letting go,’ said Noble.
‘It would explain the envelope that Poole was carrying that night I saw him call round – and why he didn’t have it when he left.’
‘It was full of money,’ concluded Noble. ‘Which explains the new TV.’
‘But if Russell’s eighteen years old, presumably Len’s been giving her money on a regular basis for most of that time,’ said Brook.
‘Seems reasonable.’
‘Then why all the drama?’
‘What drama?’
‘You weren’t there, John. It didn’t feel like a routine visit. The way he banged on the door, Poole had an agenda. He was shouting at her for some reason.’ Brook thought for a moment before a look of enlightenment filled his face. ‘All these years . . .’ he said softly. He turned to Noble. ‘That wasn’t money in that envelope.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I had a word with Donald Crump this morning.’
Noble’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Really? You’re getting very brave all of a sudden, running around talking to colleagues on your own.’
Brook shrugged to accept the mocking. ‘Before I realised it must be Grey who tipped off Poole, I thought it might be Crump – he is one of the old guard.’
Noble raised an eyebrow. ‘Don can’t stand him.’
‘I know that now,’ conceded Brook. ‘But here’s the thing – Poole went to see him to ask him a favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘Crump told me Len wanted someone to run a DNA comparison for him. He wouldn’t give details until he’d agreed to do it.’
‘Don agreed to do it?’
‘No. He told Len to— go elsewhere.’
Noble laughed. ‘I’ll bet. But surely Len would’ve expected that react
ion, so why not get the test done elsewhere to start with?’
‘I suspect he didn’t want the results stored anywhere so he took a chance.’
‘Why would he worry?’ said Noble. ‘Those private firms are hysterical about client confidentiality. He must know that.’
‘Perhaps, but suspecting he’s the father of an illegitimate child born of an underage girl in his care might induce a little paranoia.’
‘I suppose. Do we know which firm he used?’
‘No idea. All these years. . . that’s what I heard Len shouting at Yvette.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning he got the results which told him Russell wasn’t his son.’
‘All these years. . . shelling out for a son who isn’t mine,’ finished Noble. ‘Makes some kind of sense. One thing doesn’t though.’
‘What?’
‘Scene of Crime went through Russell’s room with a finetooth comb and they didn’t find any DNA. Where did Poole get it?’
‘Well, Poole and Yvette have been living in close proximity for nineteen years. Maybe Len already had something of Russell’s with his DNA or . . .’ Brook smiled suddenly. ‘Toothbrush.’
‘Toothbrush?’ repeated Noble.
‘When I searched Yvette’s bathroom, there was one brand new toothbrush which belonged to her. Russell’s was missing.’
‘So Len stole it to get a sample.’
‘Why not? He was in the business. A toothbrush is the first thing a professional would go for.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ said Noble. ‘Maybe Poole’s got Russell locked up somewhere.’
Brook pulled a face. ‘Abduct him just to avoid a paternity?’
‘He’d go to prison if it came out,’ answered Noble.
‘And Adele and the others walk in so he takes them too? I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, it’s a stretch, but we should at least bring him in and ask him.’
Brook considered for a moment. ‘You’re right but we may have lost the element of surprise.’
‘Why?’
Brook looked at his watch. ‘We left Yvette’s house an hour ago. What’s the betting she rang him the moment we were out the door?’
‘Honestly, Inspector Brook, I can’t be sure.’ Alice Kennedy watched the CCTV images come to an end then peered back at the still photograph of the boy on the bridge. She looked haggard and had large bags under her eyes. ‘That’s definitely Kyle’s hooded top, but I can’t tell if it’s Kyle. This boy looks too tall and he doesn’t walk like Kyle.’
