by Rob Ashman
‘Did you escort him the whole time?’
‘No, that was the other odd thing. He kept wandering off. One minute I’d be talking to him and then I’d turn around and he’d be gone. I can remember thinking, ‘this guy is a waste of time.’ After you’ve done this job as long as I have you get a sense for these things.’
‘I’m sure you do. Did you have your keys on you at all time?’
‘I can’t be sure, sorry.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘Yes I think so, I’m pretty good with faces. He had a scar on his right cheek that he kept dabbing with a tissue.’
‘If we sat you with one of our e-fit team would you be able to describe him?’
‘Yes I would. Do you think he’s the guy who murdered that man in the bath?’
‘It’s too early to draw any conclusions at this stage. We are exploring a number of lines of inquiry, and this is one of them. Now tell me again about the phone.’
‘We have a process whereby we call customers on the day of the viewing to check they still intend to keep the appointment. You would not believe how often people don’t show up. This …’ Simmonds pointed at the diary sheet. ‘This is the number he gave me.’
‘And you called him on the day of the appointment?’
‘I did and he confirmed he would be there.’
‘You called this number and George Owens answered?’
‘He did and we agreed to meet at the allocated time.’
Kray got up from the table. ‘I will leave you with Detective Tavener. Thank you, Derek, you’ve been very helpful.’ She left the interview room and headed down one floor, clutching a copy of the appointments diary and the minutes. She marched up to a geeky-looking guy wearing glasses and sporting a comedy comb-over. He was barricaded into his desk by a wall of four computer screens.
‘Hi, are you Brian Taylor?’ Kray said as the man looked up.
‘Yeah, are you Roz Kray?’
Kray offered her hand. ‘Yes, we spoke on the phone.’
Taylor shook her hand and Kray handed over the diary entries. ‘That’s the number I told you about. Can you work some magic?’
‘I’ll have a go.’ He typed in the digits of the phone number and the screens lit up with information. ‘This number is registered to a pay-as-you-go handset on the O2 network.’
‘Could be a burner phone.’
‘Yes it could be, have you called it?’
‘No I didn’t want to alert the person who owns it.’
‘If it is a burner and the battery and sim card are removed I won’t be able to track it.’
‘It’s worth a try, our man is prone to making mistakes.’
Taylor dialled in the numbers and switched the screens to a different view. ‘If it connects we should be able to locate the position from the cell masts.’ He hit the final digit and put his handset on speaker phone. It gave a single ring.
‘The person you are calling is currently unavailable. Please try again later.’ The metallic voice of the service provider buzzed through the phone.
‘Nope, its dead.’
‘Bollocks,’ Kray said. ‘I thought it was too good to be true, thanks for trying.’
‘No problem.’ Taylor went back to playing with code while Kray skulked back to her office.
She got there to find Quade and Bagley already seated around her desk, not the reception committee she wanted to see.
‘Did we have a meeting?’ Kray asked knowing damned well they didn’t.
‘No, we came to see you. Dan has been filling me in on the latest victim. With the link between the murders now established I will oversee the joint investigation teams and Dan will be SIO,’ Quade announced.
‘Ma’am with all due respect I have more experience of running investigations that involve multiple murders. Don’t you think I should be SIO?’ Kray fixed Bagley with a stare.
‘Yes you do have the experience but not the seniority, and besides …’ Quade got up from her seat and hovered in the doorway. ‘Dan hasn’t applied for a job in CJU. I’ll get out of your hair, you two have a lot to talk about.’ She smiled at Kray and walked off.
Kray sat behind her desk and opened up her laptop. The silence between her and Bagley was deafening. She clicked on her crammed inbox and skipped through her e-mails, conscious she was pissing Bagley off big style. There was one that stood out from the pack.
Bloody hell, they don’t hang about.
‘How did you get on with the letting agent guy?’ Bagley was not about to endure the silent treatment a moment longer.
‘You didn’t tell me you hadn’t interviewed him.’
‘I asked him for his appointments diary, that’s all.’
‘If you had asked some basic questions he would have told you that he probably met the killer and showed him around the flat. He could have also given you the mobile number he used to confirm the appointment. Oh, and explained how the killer gained entry into the premises. It was not just about the appointments diary, Dan.’
‘Shit, what is he doing now?’
‘He’s with the e-fit team working up a composite picture.’
‘Have we—’
‘The phone is dead,’ Kray said anticipating the question. ‘It’s a shame.’
‘What is?’
‘If you had asked the questions in the first place you could have given the ACC the good news that we have new leads to follow.’ Kray could see the wheels in Bagley’s head turning over.
‘Yes maybe I’ll—’
Bagley was cut short by Tavener sticking his head around the door.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said.
‘That’s okay, I think Dan was just leaving.’
‘Roz, it looks like we need to narrow our search.’
The temptation to impart good news had indeed proved too much for Bagley, who couldn’t resist scuttling off to the top floor in search of Quade. Tavener and Kray sat in her office drinking coffee with the door closed.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘This job never gets any easier. What is it you want? Oh, and thanks for the coffee.’
‘While you’ve been otherwise engaged upsetting our new DCI, I’ve been busy.’ Tavener showed Kray a photograph of a black, calf high, military boot, with eight lace holes running along the instep and up the sides. ‘Behold the Spartan XTB.’
‘I prefer a bit of a heel,’ said Kray.
Tavener ignored the flippancy. ‘Forensics have analysed the footprints found at the flat where Hicks was murdered and the prints have a distinctive tread. This is the most likely candidate, in size nine.’
‘It looks like it could be service issue.’
‘It is, they can be bought online or in specialist shops. My second piece of news is …’ Tavener placed an electronic composite picture of a man’s face onto the table. ‘The woman from the e-fit team said Derek Simmonds was very particular and precise when relaying what George Owens looked like. In her opinion this is probably an accurate likeness.’ The oval face of a man stared up at Kray from the desk. He had dark floppy hair above narrow eyes, with a square jaw, an angular nose and a blemish on his right cheek. Kray picked up the image.
‘Should be a good likeness, you say? Only sometimes these things go horribly wrong.’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Okay … get it circulated. What did you tell me about having to narrow our search?’
‘I’ve trawled the Internet and can find nothing on Catherine Stubbs. Not in the press and no coverage on the local news. That makes her different from the other two murders. The killer knew where she lived, the crimes she had committed and the outcome of the sentencing. I think we are looking for someone who works in the courts, CPS or—’
‘Is a copper.’
31
I sit with my back against the wall, my head torch dancing across the faces opposite. My civvy clothes are folded neatly away and I’m dressed in my combat gear, ready to go. Three of the
pictures have red crosses drawn from corner to corner, a satisfying sight. I dig my spoon into the ration pack to extract the last of the pasta. To be honest, labelling it pasta should be against the trades description act. It could best be described as pasta-like, but it’s a million miles from the real thing. The burn of copious amounts of Tabasco sauce just about makes it edible.
I go through the same ritual every time. My preparation takes place in the penthouse suite of the Lakeland. It reminds me of Afghan but without the heat, even the dust tastes the same. It helps me get into the zone. I can hear Jono clear as a bell.
Time to deliver justice boys, time to deliver justice.
Cold anger builds in my gut as I stare at her face. Her blonde locks tumble across her shoulder with her thin lips slightly parted in a cracked half-smile. The scar on my cheek begins to itch, I dab it with the paprika-red headscarf. I get to my feet and read the details beneath the photograph. I don’t know why because I recite the punchline over and over before I go to sleep at night.
The woman was handed a six-month jail sentence, suspended for two years for sexually assaulting a child.
My kitbag is bursting at the seams, this one requires special attention to deliver suitable retribution. I close my eyes and think through what I am about to do, each action carefully planned and choreographed. I imagine the look on her face when I impale her with the baseball bat – a fitting end, I think.
I glance at the noose, dangling above the gap in the floor. The long shadow cast against the front wall is huge. It sits there motionless. Waiting.
Not tonight, I have things to do.
I pick up my bag and head back down the corridor to the stairwell. My boots echo against the confines of the hollow walls. I emerge into reception and squeeze through the gap in the brickwork. The night air greets me, pinching at my skin, my cheek goes crazy. The street lights bathe the surrounding area in an orange wash. I unlock my car and drive up the promenade. The place is deserted, save for the hardened dog walkers. I quickly turn off and head for the backstreets, avoiding the plethora of CCTV cameras.
My adrenaline is rocketing with every mile that passes.
Relax, it’s just another op.
I repeat the thought over and over but I’m struggling to maintain focus. Thirty minutes later I swing the nose of the car over to the kerb, fifty yards away in Meadow Drive sits her house; a respectable mid-terraced property, in a respectable area with respectable neighbours. But the occupant of number one-four-four is anything but respectable. She is a convicted sex offender who abused a twelve-year-old boy and is free as a bird because our justice system is designed to protect the perpetrators of crime, not the victims.
I walk past her house noting that the lounge and hall lights are on. I hang a right and after ten yards there is an alleyway running along the backs of the houses. Darkness envelops me as I lose the glow of the streetlights. High brick walls flank me on either side, punctuated by wooden doors leading to the gardens on the other side. I negotiate my way around the rubbish bins to reach the back of her house and, with a final check on my surroundings, I jump up to peer over the top of the wall. All is clear.
I throw the bag over the wall and heave myself after it, dropping to a crouch on the other side. A dog in a nearby garden begins to bark. I wait, allowing it to pass. She has her kitchen light on, I can see through the windows either side of the back door. The room is empty.
The dog finally falls silent.
I pick up the bag and crab my way to the back, keeping my eyes glued to the kitchen in case she puts in an appearance. All is quiet. I unzip the side pocket and remove a glass cutting tool. The diamond tip scores through the glass as I run it around the frame, the barking begins again.
Fucking dog!
I hear a door open a few houses along and a gruff voice cuts through night air. ‘Shut up, Cyril and get in here.’ After a few moments the door bangs shut.
Who the hell calls their dog Cyril?
I carry on scribing around the edge. After a while I replace the tool and stick a suction cup to the glass, one sharp strike and the pane will come away from the frame. The kitchen door opens and she walks in. I duck down, out of sight.
Shit, that was close. The fucking cup is stuck to the glass. Never mind if she comes out to investigate, it will save me having to break in.
I pull a telescopic mirror from the bag and ease it over the window ledge. She is putting the kettle on. I feel the adrenaline kick in again, the same tousled hair, the same thin smiling lips, my hands begin to tremble with anticipation.
It’s time to deliver justice.
A uniformed police officer follows her into the kitchen and removes his hat.
Fuck!
32
‘I thought it would help to provide people with a forty-five-minute orientation session before we went into the formal interview stage. CJU has a wide remit that not everyone in the force understands. We think that giving candidates a heads-up on what we are all about will make for a better selection process,’ said Brenda Tillerson, taking a seat at the conference table opposite Kray. The surprise email Kray had received while in the throes of pissing off Bagley had been from CJU inviting her along for a chat.
‘I have to admit I know some of what goes on here but not everything. An orientation session would be helpful.’ Kray sipped at her coffee while Tillerson powered up her laptop.
‘Let’s start with the people.’ An organisation diagram popped up on the large screen. ‘You can see we operate a tight ship, with spans of control which you guys at the sharp end might find surprising. I have five direct reports who cover the full gamut of the work we do.’
‘There was a time when we would have raised an eyebrow at a structure like that, Brenda, but those days are over. Operating short staffed is common place for us so I’m used to managing people who are spread thinly.’
‘Our staff have a primary role and a secondary role which they slip into when we need flexibility.’
I’m still rattled by that copper turning up at her house last night. I had expected that sooner or later Lancashire’s brightest and best would join the dots up but it was still a jolt to the system when it happened. I had geared myself up to killing the bitch and now it’s difficult to come down from such a high with no result.
She had made the officer a cup of tea and they stayed in the kitchen chatting for a good ten minutes. I have to admit to having a bit of a panic about the sucker attached to the pane of glass. Anyway, they failed to notice it and went back into the lounge where they must have had their drinks.
I suppose the copper wanted to know if she had noticed anything unusual in the last month or so, along with warning her to be extra vigilant. I craved putting a red X through the middle of her face, but it wasn’t to be.
I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on my work. The new circumstances don’t stop the mission, it simply moves it into the next phase. I didn’t come in to work early today. I needed an extra hour in bed.
I need something to take my mind off all that’s happened. I pull a file from my desk drawer, flip over the cover and scan the facing page.
Tillerson was breezing through her slide pack. ‘Like the rest of the force, we are under increasing pressure to reduce costs while increasing productivity. To address this, we have a series of improvement projects that will deliver us a benefit of two hundred and thirty thousand pounds by the end of the financial year. They are a mix of cost saving, waste reduction and performance improvement initiatives that have been suggested by the staff.’ Kray was impressed with Tillerson’s grasp of her brief, but then by her own admission she had become part of the furniture.
‘Do you have a headcount reduction target?’ asked Kray.
‘No as such, we have people who will retire this year and they won’t be replaced. Do you have any more questions or can I move on to one of my favourite topics, our drive to digitise what we do?’
‘No more questions, please move on.’
I forget all about last night and bury myself in the file. No matter how many times I read this it sets my adrenaline pumping. I clench my fist under the desk. This one is a charmer.
A twenty-eight-year-old woman with three counts of assault and two of causing an affray. She was cautioned for the offences and given a restraining order, which she persistently broke. She was arrested when she attacked a woman outside a nightclub, the assault was witnessed by an off-duty police officer who intervened to break up the fight. She smashed a bottle over his head, causing severe concussion and multiple lacerations to his face and neck. The officer spent several days in hospital recovering from the attack.
Jesus Christ!
‘We are literally drowning in paperwork, Roz,’ said Tillerson. ‘There is a major push by the CPS and the Courts to scan critical documents and where possible create them electronically to speed up the paper chase.’
‘That sounds like common sense.’
‘You would think so, but it is an initiative which has been going on for years with little progress. I’m afraid it is a massive lip-service project with precious little appetite to embrace such a change. Whoever takes on the role will be knee deep in treacle trying to play their part.’
‘We have our fair share of treacle at the sharp end, I’m used to that as well.’
‘Do you have any more questions, Roz?’
‘No, that was very informative, thank you.’
‘How about if we take a walk and meet a few people?’
‘That would be good.’
My blood is boiling.
She stood trial and gave the court a sob story about being two months pregnant. It’s the same fucking idiot judge who sat in the big chair on the Hick’s case. Every choked back tear, every watery-eyed apology - he lapped it up.
I remove my phone from my pocket and tap the details into a search engine. The third article down shows a photograph of her and a friend emerging from court. They are puffing away on cigarettes, both of them pointing at the camera and laughing their heads off. No wonder she is happy - Judge Fuckwit handed down a fourteen-months custodial sentence suspended for eighteen months, plus four hundred pounds costs. Which of course was on a payment plan.
