by Penny Grubb
Webber turned to Davis. ‘You had a text from Ayaan just as we got here. He sent me one too. Are they the same? Do you know what he means?’
Davis pulled out his phone and clicked through it. He shook his head. ‘I’d have to get the recording out. If he’s right, then …’
‘Check it later,’ Webber said. If Ahmed was right then it suggested that the traffic chaos had not been down to Boots Boy. It would leave the mystery man of the traffic lights business in limbo but made no difference to the case against Streetwise for murder.
He opened Melinda’s text. It said simply, I’ve left voicemail. Listen to it. You’ve 5 mins to let me know if there’s a problem.
He clicked to voicemail and put the phone to his ear. ‘I’ve had a message,’ said Melinda’s voice. ‘Joyce Yeatman. I need to follow it up while she’s still worried enough to come clean with me. Jess’ll pick Sam up from playschool but if I’m not back I need you to go and get him on your way home. I’ll probably be there, but just in case …’
Webber cursed under his breath; he didn’t want to be tied down just at the moment, not with news due to land about Jenkinson’s killer. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, couldn’t risk getting into a heated discussion with her for Farrar to walk in on. He’d play it by ear and like she said, she’d probably be back.
They sat in silence for a short while until Farrar strode in. Webber had expected to see a cup of coffee in the Chief Super’s hand but there was nothing.
‘All set?’ Farrar aimed the question at Davis.
Davis nodded.
Farrar reached forward to reconnect the call. It was the same group but this time the florid-faced man sat back and one of the women from the other side of the table spoke first.
‘Inspector Davis.’ Her voice was heavily accented. ‘These informations … these dates … they are accurate, yes?’
Farrar’s eyes narrowed. His glance speared into Davis who looked steadily at the screen, one of his hands resting on the case file in front of him. ‘Absolutely accurate, yes,’ he said with what Webber prayed wasn’t misplaced confidence.
‘Are you sure?’ The voice was smooth, the tone reminded Webber of a barrister leading a witness.
Davis hesitated, shot a puzzled glance at Webber and opened the file in front of him. ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said and recited the key dates again, holding the page up to the camera. Webber watched intently. What was the issue here? It occurred to him to wonder why on earth the florid-faced man had been upfront about their intention to use Jenkinson as a pawn to make sure of Streetwise’s scalp. Had positions been reversed he’d have played it differently.
The woman on the screen paused. Looks were exchanged around their table. ‘Well in that case,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid that you have been more help for us, than we for you about your Mr … uh … Streetwise … and Mr … Boots Boy …’
Webber saw Farrar’s lips purse in annoyance at this deference to their supposed inability to pronounce Scandinavian surnames. He let his gaze slip to the papers on the desk. This would be a good time to interject with the men’s real names but this was his first sight of them and as his eyes took in the unfamiliar character combinations he kept his mouth shut.
The woman sat back. Florid-face took the floor. ‘Indeed, you have provided us valuable corroboration,’ he said. ‘They were under very close surveillance throughout that time.’ He paused to shuffle through some papers. ‘I will provide a summary of our surveillance for the relevant period.’
Webber sat up aware of the heightened tension. For whatever reason they were going to hand over what they had. They would give up the killer. They weren’t going to fight for their bargaining chip. Had Farrar’s brief trip out of the room been to make a strategic call to someone? He clenched one of his fists as a prickle of anticipation touched his skin. The man was reciting their own chronology now. Boots Boy nowhere near; they knew that already … knew exactly when he and Tom had been seen together.
‘… and Streetwise …’ Webber found his stare locked on to a paper in the man’s hand. It gave a tantalising glimpse of a neat list. ‘We have him in York briefly on two occasions. The first was a wasted trip. The person he wished to see took some trouble to avoid him …’
That would please Ahmed, Webber thought, Jenkinson trying to keep a distance. A date was mentioned. Webber was aware of Davis scribbling it down. The chronology was clear in his head; that Thursday in late November was the day before Ahmed had interviewed Jenkinson in York. If only Jenkinson had gone straight to Ahmed or at least come clean in the interview. He glanced down at his phone on the desk remembering the text.
‘… it was an attempted contact from which we could make nothing …’ the voice went on, ‘but Streetwise returned some days later and this time he had his meeting. No one refuses him …’
He couldn’t read florid-face’s expression and wondered suddenly how close the surveillance team had been when Jenkinson had been killed. He thought of a concrete lorry backing down that rutted path, its reversing signal blaring out its presence to anyone within earshot. He was alive when the concrete went in. Had they watched without knowing what they were seeing? Had they been down to look after Streetwise left the site? Had they missed the opportunity to save Tom Jenkinson?
Another date was mentioned; a Tuesday at the beginning of December. Webber did the calculation in his head. Two days after Jenkinson’s body had been found. His thoughts stalled. That couldn’t be right. Had he miscalculated? He looked at Davis who was staring at the sheet of paper, his brow furrowed. What had the man said? … contact from which we could make nothing … What was that supposed to mean?
The voice went on, ‘Now as to the times on Inspector Davis’s summary when the unfortunate boy met his end …’ The man tapped his finger on a page, a copy of the one Davis had in his hand. ‘Streetwise was where he went immediately after his first trip to York. You will find him on the inventory of your Leeds and Bradford airport. He was in Germany doing deals.’
‘In Germany?’ Webber queried, exchanging a glance with Farrar.
‘Yes, his first trip to York made him late for his business dealings in Munich. He was in a bad temper. He went back to York as soon as he could. A brief visit. But no, at the time your young boy died, he was nowhere near. Whoever killed Tom Jenkinson, it wasn’t Streetwise. And we can be clear it wasn’t done at his order, not even for a nobody like Jenkinson. We know them well enough to be sure of that. It is one of the reasons we cannot snare them through third parties. They do their own dirty work.’
Webber stared. This couldn’t be true. They’d had it tied in tight. It had to be Streetwise. He thought about the suspects list, the single name, evaporating to nothing. What had the man said about a meeting two days after Jenkinson’s body was found?
‘The contact,’ he said. ‘The one you made nothing of … what was it about? Who was it?’
Florid-face turned to his colleague who glanced down at a file and shrugged. ‘As to what it was about, we assume drugs.’ She gave them a wintry smile. ‘We always assume drugs … but we found no link. She didn’t want to see him but no one refuses Streetwise. They met briefly that second occasion. He has not returned and she suffered no consequences for her earlier stubbornness. That in itself is something to be remarked, but we found nothing of interest on record about her. Her name is Stevenson. Edith Stevenson.’
Chapter 43
The call had ended. Webber saw the distorted reflections of their three faces in the now blank screen. They could have been sitting there for minutes or hours. After the volley of questions they’d fired at their Scandinavian colleagues, teasing out every last nuance, the silence felt somehow too loud to breach. When Davis spoke, it seemed wrong, as though he’d stolen a march on them. Webber listened to the DI tell Farrar about Ahmed’s text. And as soon as Farrar caught the sense of Davis’s words, he had him pull up the recording right there in front of them.
The screen gave a window on to the pa
st, showing Jenkinson alive, weaving more of a story than anyone there at the time had realised. Webber looked at the garish orange of the torn jacket.
Davis fast-forwarded it through the 20 minutes before Ahmed entered the room. Jenkinson looked as relaxed as Webber remembered, his form barely moving until the moment his head shot up as he recognised Ahmed. Webber strained to see every gesture, catch every trace but there was nothing to suggest the specific message Ahmed thought he’d heard. Maybe he should call him to get more detail. Whatever he thought he’d remembered, he might be able to point them to a particular stretch, to narrow the search. And it might be no more than wishful thinking on Ahmed’s part. He fingered his phone but said nothing, let it run further.
When it came, with hindsight to colour his interpretation, it was crystal clear.
Ahmed said, ‘Who is he, Tom?’
Jenkinson shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know, Mr Ahmed. Honest. I never met him, never saw him. I tried once … we had a go. Wouldn’t have gone that far if we’d thought he were Streetwise …’ the ghost of a pause as Jenkinson looked Ahmed in the eye, ‘but …’
The agenda behind his words was plain – now.
‘He was fishing!’ Farrar’s tone bordered indignation.
Webber nodded. ‘I guess if Ahmed already knew about Streetwise and Boots Boy, then Jenkinson had lost his route to big money. I think he was wavering anyway. If he’d seen any sign of recognition he’d have earned the brownie points and confessed to the contact.’
‘But we didn’t know,’ Davis said. ‘The name hadn’t cropped up at that point.’
Webber felt his jaw clench. The name had cropped up. An outside surveillance team had already clocked Jenkinson as a potential recruit for Streetwise, but they were chasing a bigger prize and hadn’t passed on what they knew. Jenkinson had seen that Ahmed knew nothing, none of them had known anything at that stage.
‘Edith Stevenson,’ he burst out. ‘How does she fit into this?’
‘Ayaan always had it that …’ Davis let the comment fade into an expression of puzzlement.
‘Who had it that what?’ Farrar’s hard stare bounced from one to the other of them. He wanted every detail.
Webber explained about the fuzzy image of the man/woman with the odd walk, the one who’d been with Jenkinson, and Ahmed’s dogged fixation on Stevenson as somehow involved. Davis, displaying a surprisingly deft touch with the networked systems, found and opened the analyst’s report on Farrar’s screen.
‘We went through it.’ Davis’s tone was uncertain as he looked from Webber to Farrar and back again. ‘It wasn’t her.’
Webber nodded. That was how he remembered it too. Definitely not her. But the report hadn’t said that. It had given numbers and stats. Definitely not was the interpretation they’d put on it.
While he and Davis struggled to pull a clear conclusion out of the morass of detail, Farrar was on the phone having the report’s author chased down. The voice that eventually came from Farrar’s speakerphone was relaxed. ‘Yes, of course I remember it, sir. Two recordings from DI Davis. What’s the problem?’
A few minutes into to a fierce grilling from Farrar, her relaxed tone had vanished, but Farrar couldn’t make her waver. And as she talked through the measurements she’d made, the analyses she’d done, Webber found himself convinced and saw that Farrar and Davis were too. The mystery person who had met Tom Jenkinson might have been either sex, the odd manner of the walk was close to identical in both samples, but the original CCTV was not Edith Stevenson.
‘Have we spoken to this Stevenson woman yet?’ Farrar asked.
Davis shook his head. ‘Ayaan Ahmed spoke to her on the phone briefly ten or eleven days ago. She wouldn’t see him. And when Suzie tried a week later, she pretended to be out. We haven’t had a reason to haul her in.’
‘We have now,’ said Webber, looking briefly to Farrar for endorsement which came in a curt nod. ‘I’m pretty sure they were planning another go at her this afternoon,’ he added as he pulled out his phone and clicked through for Ahmed’s number. The last thing he needed was Ahmed getting a hint that he’d been right about Stevenson’s involvement while he was alone with the woman.
From the echo of the speaker and buzz of engine noise, it was clear Ahmed was on the road. ‘Where are you?’ Webber asked. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to track down Tiffany Drake,’ Ahmed told them. ‘Suzie got me two possible addresses. She wasn’t at the first. I’m on my way to the second.’
‘Is Edith Stevenson one of them?’
‘No, but she’ll be next on my list only Suzie said to hold off until she’d got back to me. Turns out Stevenson and Tiffany have been in contact, exchanging emails. Suzie’s going to look through them.’
‘How’s she accessing these emails?’ The question came as a bark from Farrar.
‘Uh … her husband … he’s given her access.’ Webber heard Ahmed’s voice snap to attention as Farrar revealed his presence in the conversation.
‘Do you think she’s with Edith Stevenson?’ As Webber asked the question he exchanged a perplexed glance with Davis and before Ahmed could answer, he added, ‘Where’s Suzie and why the rush?’
‘Well … uh … no, Tiffany’s probably with the woman I’m going to see now. Suzie’s with Michael Drake … well, she was when I last spoke to her. We’ve nothing solid but … one or two things … we thought …’
‘Spit it out, Ayaan.’
‘We think it’s possible someone wants to harm Tiffany; that it could be tied up with the first Mrs Drake.’
Webber’s puzzlement deepened. He saw his concern reflected in Davis’s face. Farrar had narrowed his eyes. ‘And you think it could be Stevenson who wants to harm her?’
‘Possibly yes. If there’s a link with both wives then it has to be one of the surviving quintets or Brad Tippet. But we don’t think Tiffany’s with any of them now. That’s why I’m trying to find her. She’s not answering her phone and the friend isn’t either, but we think she’ll be there.’
Webber was aware of a reaction from Farrar as Brad Tippet’s name dropped out. ‘When you say remaining quintets, you mean Stevenson and Drake?’
‘And Kowalski.’
‘She’s been thousands of miles away.’
‘Well … um … has she? We’ve only her word for that.’
Webber opened his mouth to contradict Ahmed, then paused. He was sure they had more than Kowalski’s word, but without stopping to think it through he couldn’t be clear what they’d found themselves and what had come from Melinda. ‘Are you anywhere near Stevenson’s address now?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m heading for Melton on the outskirts of Hull.’
‘Ayaan,’ Davis broke into the conversation, ‘I want to know what’s happening. Call me when you get there, when you find her. And don’t go near Stevenson without my say-so, ok?’
As he ended the call, Webber turned to Farrar who fixed them both with a hard stare. ‘This is becoming a bit of a mess. Get it sorted. Keep me in the loop.’
As they hurried away from Farrar’s office, Webber said, ‘I don’t want Suzie Harmer anywhere near Stevenson either.’
Davis nodded. ‘I’ll send a couple of uniforms for Stevenson. Given her track record I don’t know that we’ll get her in voluntarily.’
Webber paused. He didn’t want the clock running on Edith Stevenson of all people. On the other hand, her name had cropped up in a context that couldn’t be ignored. And if Ahmed and Suzie were on to something it lent an air of urgency even if he couldn’t quite pin it down. ‘I want her in,’ he said, ‘even if we can’t keep her. Tell them to bring her in under caution if they can but if they have to arrest her, so be it. Only keep it low key. For now.’
He flicked through his phone for Suzie’s number. The ring tone sounded in his ear as they went down the stairs. As they reached the ground floor, Suzie’s voicemail cut in.
‘Call in for an update before you do anything else or go
anywhere. Neither you nor Ayaan are to tackle Stevenson,’ Webber said into the phone. ‘That’s on Suzie’s voicemail,’ he said to Davis, ‘but keep trying. I don’t want her or Ayaan anywhere near Stevenson now we have a link with Jenkinson.’
Davis nodded and was pulling out his phone as he peeled off to organise Edith Stevenson’s detention.
Webber pushed through the main door, the icy cold air making him shiver. He pulled his jacket tight around him, catching a glimpse of the wall clock as he did so. His gut told him this would be a long day. With a muffled curse he snatched out his phone again. It was over an hour since that text from Melinda but maybe he could catch her. The phone rang twice then went to voicemail. She’d red-buttoned him. He didn’t leave a message. Instead he flicked through for the number of her friend Jess.
‘Hello, Martyn Webber here.’ He could hear childish shrieks in the background – surely that was Sam shouting ‘Digger!’ and felt awkward. The last time he’d spoken to Jess had been with Melinda at his elbow making him apologise for his mistake when he hadn’t allowed her to collect Sam from playschool.
‘Yes … Hi.’ There was a hint of frost to her tone. ‘Mel said you might be coming for Sam. Any idea what time?’
‘That’s the thing. I’ve only just got Mel’s message. I don’t know that I’ll be able to. I might have to work late.’
A pause. ‘Well, will Mel be back? I can’t keep him beyond six. We’re going out and I can’t leave him with our baby-sitter. They don’t know each other.’
‘No, no of course not. I’m sure Mel will be back. Or I’ll be able to get away. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘As long as someone picks him up … uh …’
‘What is it?’
Another pause, then, ‘You know where she’s gone, don’t you? That woman left her a message, the one you mistook for me that time.’
‘Joyce Yeatman. Yes, that’s all I know. Mel left me voicemail. Why?’
‘I’m … it’s probably nothing … I was a bit worried. She doesn’t know her well, does she? Do you trust her, Joyce Yeatman, I mean? I’m not sure I do.’
