Tiger Blood (DS Webber Mystery Book 2)

by Penny Grubb

  From outside a car engine revved and Webber caught a glimpse of the patrol car as it vanished up the road.

  Melinda’s face lost all trace of good humour, but her tone remained level as she said into the phone, ‘Yes, he’s on his way back. I’ll tell him …’ and replaced the handset. She spun to face him and yelled, ‘I said how many times did you do it with that sanctimonious little cow?’

  As she strode back towards him, her face was blotched with all the anger she’d suppressed. It hit him. She’d been waiting for that car to leave so she could drop the pretence. Everything came at him at once. Farrar’s rage. Nothing to do with material witnesses … you didn’t want to … she made all the running … But it’s true, he wanted to say. I didn’t want to. She did make all the running. It was nothing … really nothing. I’d forgotten about it. This was nothing to do with the private investigator. It was Sergeant Suzie Harmer who’d just driven off.

  ‘How many!’

  ‘Once,’ he said and had to look away. It was the truth but he couldn’t meet her eye.

  Unexpectedly, she chuckled. He stared at her. ‘I guessed she wouldn’t stomach it twice. I told her we’d laughed about it.’

  Even from the knife edge, he wasn’t having Suzie Harmer take the credit. ‘I was drunk,’ he said. ‘Almost too drunk to … After that, I told her to piss off. I never went near her again, Mel, I swear. And she backed off.’

  ‘Backed off once she was sure she had what she wanted. You’re a fool, Martyn, but you’re not making a fool out of me. I’ll play charades with this marriage to make the Harmer bitch as uncomfortable as I can, and I’ll do it to keep John Farrar from getting you demoted because I’m not having Sam suffer financially for your stupidity.’

  ‘Sam’s not …’

  ‘Listen to me, Martyn.’ She jabbed her finger painfully into his chest. ‘If I leave, Sam comes with me. And if you leave, you leave without him.’ He flinched and had to brace himself not to lose his footing. Her finger dug in harder with each jab. Her voice rose. ‘I’m too bloody angry to think it through right now.’ And suddenly her eyes were wet, tears were falling down her cheeks. She shrieked a torrent of abuse at him through gulped back sobs.

  He tried to put his hands on to her arms, desperate to pull her close, to start to repair the damage he’d inflicted. She would calm down. It was only Suzie Harmer. No one had told her about anyone else. He’d play whatever part Mel asked of him. For a moment, it seemed that she might let him hold her. Then she pulled away.

  ‘You’ve to go back to work. I’ve to get Sam from play group. And we’re going to act round him like nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll stay now, Mel. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘You bloody won’t. You need to keep that job. John Farrar can’t kick you out for impregnating his favourite girl, and once he’s cooled down he’ll probably come round, but you’d better tread on egg shells until he does.’

  The astonishment must have been plain on his face. ‘You hadn’t got it, had you?’ She spat the words into his face. ‘You stupid shit! What did you think she was after, for fuck’s sake? She’s gay. And you’re almost old enough to be her father.’

  He felt shell-shocked, stunned like some stupid adolescent. Nothing lasting could have come from that sordid alcohol-fuelled episode.

  ‘I didn’t know she was gay. So Fiona …? The flatmate?’

  ‘Yes, Martyn. They’re a couple. They’ve been together for ages. You weren’t even first in line,’ Melinda mocked him, then paused. ‘That’s kid’s getting DNA tested before she gets a cent of our money.’

  ‘But why …?’ He didn’t know which question he was trying to ask.

  ‘They’ve been wanting a kid for ages. You know what a selfish bitch she is. Fiona’s no better. They wouldn’t settle for IVF or whatever, not when they could find some idiot to get good money out of. And you’re the one they hit the jackpot with. You’re the sperm donor. Congratulations, sucker.’ For a moment he thought she was going to laugh at him. If something would break the brittle shell, they’d be all right. They’d get past this.

  ‘I’m staying home today,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving you on your own after this.’

  She laughed, but it had a chill edge. ‘Yes, you are. You’re going right now to face a station full of gossips, people sniggering behind your back, and most of all you’re not going to give John Farrar any excuse to kick you out. He’ll cool off, but until he does, you lick all the boots you have to. If we have to shell out for bloody Harmer’s bastard kid, it’s going to be out of a Superintendent’s salary. You’re not going to short-change Sam.’

  He nodded, holding on to a serious expression but inside he felt elation bubble up. She was talking about facing this thing together, about the long term. She was going to stay. It was going to be rocky but it was going to be OK. And, as she was being business-like, he would be too. ‘On the phone just now you told John you’d tell me something.’

  ‘Oh … yes. He said he wanted the Tippet case sorted and you’d better be back to see to it.’

  Webber nodded, surprised. So Farrar was going to punish him by leaving him on the cold case. He had a fleeting moment of anxiety about the loose ends he’d left back at his own station, then he thought about Suzie Harmer, always one of Farrar’s favourites, though he’d never known why. He’d saved her life once after a knife attack. The invitation to a meal at her flat had supposedly been her thank you. He hadn’t wanted to go. It was Mel who’d said he should. The drink had flowed. Fiona, the monosyllabic flatmate, had looked daggers at him. No bloody wonder. But then she’d melted away.

  ‘She’s an ungrateful little cow,’ he burst out.

  Melinda drew in a breath. ‘Be that as it may,’ she said. ‘But she’s pregnant, so don’t go pushing her around like you did when you got here.’

  It was only with difficulty he recalled the rough gesture with which he’d shoved her aside. His focus had been to get to Mel. ‘She called me a pervert,’ he remembered.

  ‘That’s for coming home from her bed and telling me all about it.’

  ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because it makes a fool of her and less of a fool of me.’

  It was a weird conversation but at least they were talking. ‘What about me?’ he asked.

  And suddenly she was yelling again, calling him all kinds of fool, telling him he deserved it, that if it weren’t for Sam … Again he tried to catch her arms, to pull her to him, to let her pummel him if that’s what she needed to do. He saw the strike coming, but was half-hearted in raising his arm to fend her off. She had every right to want to hurt him. Cheap at the price if it was the way to save his marriage.

  Realisation came too late. His mind had separated Mrs Melinda Webber, who he desperately wanted to keep close, from PC Melinda Bryant who knew how to use her fists. He tried to duck out at the last moment, saw stars as her fist smacked into him. He fought to keep his feet, to keep his face turned away, to ward off a follow-up blow.

  And before he’d regained his equilibrium, she was gone, the door banging behind her. He knew better than to try to follow. His task now was to get his head together enough to drive back to the station, withstand whatever shit Farrar planned to throw at him, and pick up the loose ends of the Tippet case. Automatic anger at hours of unproductive boredom died as it was born. He realised it was exactly what he needed and hoped Farrar wouldn’t think it through too far. If he were pitched into a live investigation with all this in his head, Farrar would have him on capability grounds within five minutes. But as for using a few lab results to prove that two dead guys had killed another dead guy thirty years ago, he’d write all the reports that were asked of him. For once in his life he actively hoped that none of his enquiries would turn up anything of interest.

  CHAPTER 3

  With Mel’s words echoing in his head, Webber hurried back, half wondering if Farrar would be waiting to kick him out. He imagined having to face Mel with s
uspension or worse. If he were to say the wrong thing to Mel now – and the wrong thing might be anything at all – that would be the end of everything. He’d left her talking of the longer term. He had to consolidate this gently, step-by-step, until leaving him was no longer an option. It wasn’t so different from gradually pulling the rug from under a suspect. But key to his strategy was to avoid any mess-up at work that Farrar could bring to his door.

  He parked away from the station and took his phone from his pocket. With no idea how long Farrar intended to keep him locked down over here, he had to know what had happened to his own team after he’d been whipped away, if they’d unravelled that smash at the traffic lights.

  ‘Yes, we’re getting somewhere now.’ The voice was upbeat. ‘Wait till you see it. We … uh … Will you be back this morning?’

  Webber sighed. ‘No idea. Lap of the gods at present.’

  ‘Um … OK. Yeah, we’ve ID’d a guy from the CCTV.’ The ghost of a pause told Webber that there would be no more questions about his absence. The grapevine had done its work. ‘Tom Jenkinson,’ the voice went on. ‘Young guy from Scarborough. First year university student here in York. Not the brains behind it, but I’m thinking he’s been using his talents to supplement his student loan.’

  ‘A first year student?’ Webber didn’t like the idea of someone so young being able to manipulate traffic light systems. Once the pattern had begun to emerge, two theories vied for top spot; a rehearsal for something big or teenage testosterone getting out of hand. Last night, clearly before Suzie had broken her news, Webber had talked it through with Farrar.

  ‘What are we looking at, Martyn? Some bloody Italian Job setup?’

  He’d favoured the gang warfare theory himself. Youngsters earning their spurs by gridlocking the city streets. It fitted with that flare up of trouble a week ago. Reports were now being reassessed and collated to see what links emerged. Pattern or no pattern, he had no sense of a level of organisation underneath it to point to anything really big, nor could he think of a viable target.

  ‘When did you ID Jenkinson?’ he asked.

  ‘Just after you left.’

  ‘What have you got out of him?’

  ‘Nothing. We haven’t brought him in yet.’

  ‘Why not!’ Webber fought an urge to swear. His eye had barely left the ball and they were making decisions that made no sense.

  ‘We know where he is. He’s not going anywhere. Thing is, this boy’s had more cautions and interviews than most students get Big Macs. Record as long as your arm up to two years ago. All juvenile stuff. Kept his nose clean since then. But he knows how to keep his mouth shut and we need him talking. This isn’t his scam. It’s a million miles away from anything he’s ever been involved in.’

  ‘What turned him round?’ Webber asked, thinking of Jenkinson’s two-year clean record. ‘Or did he get clever and just stop getting caught?’

  ‘That’s the thing. You know that “Kids with Potential” initiative? Intensive mentoring took Jenkinson from no-hoper to university place. He was one of its success stories.’ There was a moment’s silence. Webber saw the images of chaotically angled vehicles, the distorted wreckage, the shock that overlay the aftermath as every witness swore blind their own lights had been green; and the miracle of the drivers who’d climbed out shaking but with only minor injuries. ‘Apparent success story,’ the voice amended. ‘Do you know Ayaan Ahmed, DC from Scarborough?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve worked with him.’

  ‘Well, he’s the one credited with turning Jenkinson round. We’re getting him over later today. See if he can guilt-trip Jenkinson into telling us everything.’

  Webber slowed his pace, keeping a row of houses between him and the station building. Once in sight of those windows, he mustn’t show any hesitation in his step.

  ‘How was it done? How sophisticated a scheme are we up against?’

  ‘No sign of any systems compromised that we can find. It’s looking more like sleight of hand than clever hacking.’

  Sleight of hand was teenage bravado, Webber thought, but if it turned out to be tampering smart enough to leave no trace, that would bolster Farrar’s worries about an Italian Job style felony in the making.

  He closed the call, took in a breath and lengthened his stride as he came within sight of the red brick and glass building. Farrar had said he’d to come back and sort out the Tippet case. It would be an effort to swallow his rising irritation. His mind should be on what was happening the other side of the city, not on some 30-year-old vehicle hauled from a lake, but with luck he’d wrap the thing up and be back with his team by lunchtime.

  The reception area was busy, no one reacted to his reappearance. Even upstairs in the big office his entrance caused no more than a couple of glances his way. Davis sat where Webber had last seen him, hunched over a stack of papers, alone.

  ‘What’s new?’ Webber asked as he pulled up a chair.

  Davis jumped slightly. Webber had the impression he’d been nodding off over the case file.

  ‘Oh … uh … yes. Mr Tippet’s still around. Works down the road. I’ve sent someone out to see him.’

  Webber nodded. ‘You on your own?’ he asked, and wasn’t surprised to hear that one of the DCs had already been grabbed for another job and the other would follow as soon as she returned from interviewing Tippet.

  ‘Have you come up with a way of checking for a body in that pit that won’t break the bank?’

  Davis shook his head. ‘Shame the commercial outfit didn’t do a more thorough job while it was down there. I bet they wish they had now. At least we’d know.’

  ‘Would they have had to take the car out before they stocked the lake?’

  ‘No idea. I don’t know anything about fishing.’

  Webber glanced at the man. ‘Well, look it up,’ he snapped, tipping his thumb at the computer terminal inches from Davis’s nose. ‘Or get on to the development company.’ He knew this wasn’t the time to make enemies of anyone, but Davis must have had the best part of half an hour with nothing to do. He could easily have mugged up on fishing lakes and old cars. Instead he’d chosen to take forty winks in the middle of a busy station.

  As Davis scrabbled through the paperwork and picked up the phone, a cold draught told Webber the door had opened behind him. It was the DC returning from her interview with Tippet. She looked briefly startled to see Webber sitting there. ‘Anything interesting?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, not a flicker. It took him a while to figure out what car I was talking about. Then he just said it wasn’t his. It’s the insurance company’s. He showed no concern at all.’

  ‘No big surprise there, but we need to …’

  The rush of air from the door slamming open made Davis juggle the handset and slap his palm flat on the file as the pages took flight. Farrar towered over them. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ His glare bored into Webber.

  Farrar’s sudden appearance had made him jump, but as he looked up, Webber knew this was staged. Farrar had waited for the DC to return to give him a bigger audience in front of whom to bawl the reprimand. Farrar hadn’t been able to maintain his anger at white heat, no matter that he’d probably wanted to. His rational self had moved on. Webber kept his expression neutral as he got to his feet to meet Farrar’s stare on the level.

  ‘You wanted the Tippet case sorting out,’ he said. He watched Farrar as he spoke. The Tippet case. It wasn’t the Tippet case. It had never been the Tippet case. But that was what Farrar had called it, once in his hearing and once to Mel.

  Farrar stared as though Webber had gone temporarily insane. ‘Yes, the Tippet case. Not this one. What’s this case to do with Tippet? Just because the man had his car stolen. I want a preliminary report in my inbox when I get back from lunch today.’

  Farrar turned on his heel and was gone.

  The DC stared intently at her shoes as though she’d spotted a poisonous snake coiled there. Davis eased his shoulders round and
spoke too loudly and with studied nonchalance into the phone. Farrar’s raised voice had caused a sudden lull into which heads turned from the far end of the big office.

  Webber kept his voice level. ‘Find out what else they got out of that pit before work stopped. No one’s talked to the divers who went down. If the car landed on the body, it’s unlikely they’ll have seen any sign of it, but check what they saw. Other than that, wait for the forensics.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ Her gaze shot up, met his and immediately dropped again.

  Farrar might have lost the white heat of anger, but he was still smarting over the upset to whatever plans he’d had. And he would have to account for his deployment of resources. All this garbage about old cases had to be more than a means to administer a good kicking. Another Tippet case? What were the chances? Farrar clearly didn’t like the guy, but Tippet had a clean slate. However, he’d promised Mel that he’d jump through whatever hoops Farrar put in front of him so he’d have to ask round and find out what other case Farrar had been nibbling at. The records guys would know. He turned his back on the two of them and headed for the door.

  * * *

  ‘He must mean this one. He asked about it this morning. That’s why I have it out.’

  Webber’s gaze rested on the slender file. ‘Did he look at anything in particular … say anything about it?’

  ‘He didn’t look at it all, just said he might need it later. I got it out after he’d gone. No one’s touched it in six months.’

  Webber took the folder with a word of thanks. It was thinner than the one he’d left with Davis. He was making for the door, when a familiar voice caught his ear and he ducked back inside to avoid Suzie Harmer who marched past oblivious to him, intent on berating the man scurrying behind her. He felt a surge of anger that he’d been reduced to ducking behind doors while she strode through the place as though she owned it. Not that she should be here at all; probably she’d been called across for her share in Farrar’s reprimand. They’d have to talk sometime soon, but he couldn’t face it today.