by Penny Grubb
Webber glanced at her but it wasn’t what she said that sent a tingle of ice through his core. Paymasters was a word that belonged with people like Streetwise and Boots Boy. And Streetwise had gone out of his way to meet Edith Stevenson.
‘Mel, listen to me. Wherever you are, get back to …’
Her voice cut across him. ‘Oh no! That isn’t …’ Her clear tones had become a low murmur. He heard shock and an element of fear. ‘Edith?’ It came over as a question, a whisper. Then suddenly it was a shout. ‘Edith! No! Shi–!’ The expletive cut off mid syllable.
‘Mel?’
The sounds from the phone were chaotic, as though she’d shoved the handset into a pocket full of crackly sweet wrappers and begun to sprint.
‘Mel!’ He shouted her name.
The crackling noise stopped, replaced by a gentle buzz. The sound of her breathing was gone. He heard the distant bark of a dog. After a volley of yaps it stopped, leaving birdsong the only sound that punctuated a low background hum.
Chapter 45
Ahmed eased his foot off the accelerator and stared round in perplexity. Don’t go to the bridge? Then where? He wasn’t even sure who he was looking for or why, just that he was being guided towards a mobile phone signal. Melinda Webber’s? Had he got that right? His mind had raced through scenarios. She’d walked out on her marriage – no great surprise there – and was heading to the Humber Bridge to end it all. But no, not Melinda Webber. She might take her husband there to throw him off but she wasn’t the self-harm type.
He stopped the car, keeping one eye on the mirror. It was a clearway and this wasn’t the moment to have to argue with Hull’s traffic division. ‘I’m going to give you my coordinates.’ He spoke into the phone, taking it from its cradle and clicking through for the app that would give him his exact location. ‘And you can tell me what direction I need to go.’
‘It’s not moved for a while now … uh …’ She lowered her voice. ‘What’s it all about? What’s happening?’
Ahmed blew out a sigh. ‘Don’t ask me. I was out looking for someone else. But it is Melinda Webber’s phone you’re tracking, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and he’s going frantic. Pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage. He was called downstairs just a minute ago, thank God. But it’s not just her, DI Davis has been hassling people on the phone. I can hear him arguing with someone now. He was on about someone called Joyce Yeatman. That mean anything to you?’
‘Yeah, she’s our case, not theirs. They’re supposed to be tying the noose tight round whoever killed Tom Jenkinson.’ Ahmed watched the sweep of the wide road up ahead. It curved to meet a landscaped roundabout on its way to the Humber Bridge, the route he’d thought he was taking.
‘There’s been a call about that from across town,’ the voice in his ear told him. ‘Something about someone called Emmett.’
Emmett? That was the kid Tom said he’d recruited for the traffic lights scam. ‘Emmett? What’s that about?’
‘Search me. It’s all chaos and raised voices here. I’m not asking questions. No one’s where they need to be. They want Webber and Davis back across town. Farrar’s gone off late to something he’s not allowed to be late for. Take my advice, don’t show your face till tomorrow.’
Ahmed smiled. That mirrored Suzie’s last message. Whether or not she found Stevenson in, she was going to string it out and go straight home. Had she said Stevenson? Whoever it was, she knew when trouble was brewing.
‘OK, so how close am I? Can you give me a compass bearing and a distance?’
‘Yes, you’re practically on the spot. Let’s see … from those coordinates you want to be … 142 degrees.’
‘OK, just a sec.’ Ahmed clicked his phone to compass mode and balanced it on his hand. He climbed out of his car and turned to look. He was in no man’s land here, stretches of rough farmland tracking the estuary, out of sight of the big trading parks, the edge-of-town supermarkets and big car dealers. The way she told him was at right angles to the road. A barbed wire fence marked the border between the wide grass verge and the mess of trees, bushes and scrubland beyond. ‘Distance?’
‘Bear in mind there’s a margin of error here, but round about 650 metres.’
That was the best part of half a mile. He looked out across the empty wasteland, then glanced up and down the road. A roundabout lay at either end of the dual carriageway, the major routes led on into Hull, onwards to the motorway or out across the bridge to Lincolnshire. He fought to orientate himself. He knew this area reasonably well.
‘There must be a road nearer than this,’ he said into the phone.
‘Yes, how about … there’s Ferriby Road, runs sort of parallel to where you are.’ Behind her words he could hear someone else. Her tone changed. She was no longer alone.
‘Got it,’ he said. He’d been momentarily confused by this featureless scrubland criss-crossed by roads but now it clicked into place. He had been here with Cari. 650 metres would take him right over that stretch of scrub, across the road at the other side and on into a woodland park. ‘It’s the Humber Bridge Country Park. He jumped into the car. ‘I know where to go but there’s no direct road. You’ll need to help me out again when I get there.’
The phone was back in its cradle; the line remained open as he sped towards the roundabout that would give him access to the network of smaller roads that embraced the park. ‘Um … was that Martyn Webber who came back just now?’
‘No,’ said Davis’s voice, ‘it was me. What is it?’
‘Who am I searching for? Is it Mrs Webber? And … uh … why? I mean I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking out for.’
‘It’s Mrs Webber’s phone we’re tracking,’ Davis told him. ‘Martyn talked to her on it less than 20 minutes ago, but she’s not answered it since.’ There was a pause. Ahmed could feel the tension. ‘There’s a possibility that she’s with Edith Stevenson.’
Edith Stevenson with Melinda Webber? But that was where Suzie was going. He felt his hands grip the wheel as he slowed to take the turn, then pushed the car forward, too fast for the narrower road.
‘Listen to me, Ayaan.’ Davis’s voice had hardened. ‘We found a possible link …’
‘Stevenson and Tom!’ he broke in.
Davis sighed. ‘It’s not the link you thought it was, Ayaan, and it’s not a definite link between them. It’s through a third party. But listen to me, if she’s there and you find them …’
‘Don’t worry,’ Ahmed said. ‘I’m not going to do anything stupid.’ He felt his mouth curve to a smile and hoped the tone of his voice didn’t give away the satisfaction he felt. ‘If she had anything to do with it, I’m not going to jeopardise a prosecution.’
‘And you might find nothing more than Melinda Webber off on a wild goose chase,’ Davis added, ‘but she seemed to think she had Stevenson in her sights.’
Ahmed’s thoughts stalled for a moment wondering how on earth Melinda Webber had got herself into the frame, but there had been a hard edge to Davis’s voice as though he’d been wondering just the same. Now wasn’t the time to ask those questions.
‘The CCTV footage?’ he murmured.
‘It wasn’t her. I had it analysed. You can consider the cost of that a black mark on your record. It wasn’t her. That’s not the link. It’s doubtful they ever met.’
Ahmed knew he wouldn’t get any more out of Davis, not just now. The car was no longer buffeted by the wind, he’d left the exposed scrubland behind and moved into the shelter of the wood at the south end of the park. He slowed and bumped the car up off the tarmac and on to the dirt track that led into the trees. Behind him the Humber sparkled as the breeze whipped the surface to a mass of tiny jewelled peaks. There was a proper car park not far along but he would have to drive round in a loop to get to it.
‘OK.’ He jumped out of the car, and checked his phone for his current position, reading the figures aloud. ‘Where do I go from here?’
‘83 degrees. 150 metre
s near enough.’
He looked at the terrain ahead trying to estimate the distance. It gave him a gentle incline for maybe 100 metres, and then rose sharply. He set off between the trees, his feet sinking into the leaf mould as though he was walking on a giant sponge. He had to reach out to the rough bark of the tree trunks to keep his footing. It was hard to stay on a straight line but he pinpointed a distant tree and tracked towards it.
‘Can’t be far off now,’ he said, hearing a slight breathlessness in his tone. It was hard going.
‘Is there anyone nearby?’ asked Davis.
‘No, not a soul, but who’d be out in this lot? It’s freezing. I can hear dogs barking in the distance. There are no proper paths here.’
‘Well, watch your back. Melinda Webber cut off mid call almost half an hour ago. Something startled her. Don’t know if she was attacked or if she dropped the phone, but if the latter she didn’t stop to pick it up. It’s on but it’s just ringing through to voicemail.’
The slope’s gradient increased. Every step was a struggle as the weight of his feet pushed aside the top coating leaving him to flounder on smooth mud. There was more of a breeze than he’d realised. The musty aroma of leaf mould rose as his feet sank into the mushy ground. Glancing behind him it was as though an invisible hand with a broom had swept the leaves back into place, all but obliterating his tracks. He stopped, breathing hard and holding on to a tree branch. ‘I can’t be far off. Give it another try.’
He heard the woman murmur something about margins. ‘I’m ringing her phone now, Ayaan,’ said Davis. ‘Stop and listen.’
He tried to stand motionless, but although the crunch of his footsteps had stopped, a thousand small beasts continued to forage, making what should have been a tranquil spot bustle with sound. Underlying it all was the continuous rustle of the wind through the trees, the taste of salt on the air from the estuary. No other sound. He pulled himself a few more steps up the hill and stopped again.
A bird in a tree somewhere above him chattered furiously. Up ahead, the breeze scythed through the fallen leaves leaving stragglers to eddy around and settle against the tree trunks. The terrain steepened. He moved forward, felt his calf muscles strain against the gradient. In a few more steps he’d be up against a miniature cliff face that reared out of the treeline.
The long mournful wail of an air horn from a tug boat on the Humber cut across the noises of the woodland. And as it died away a tiny sound crept into the mix, so fleeting he wasn’t sure he’d heard it.
‘Gone to voicemail,’ said Davis.
‘Ring it again,’ urged Ahmed. ‘I think I heard something.’
It was muffled, might have been distant traffic. He took two more steps up the incline, the crunch of his shoes on the soft ground smothered the noise, but no, it was there … louder … he scrambled further. It was unmistakeably a phone ringing. But where?
‘Mrs Webber?’ he called out feeling foolish. There was no one in sight. He had the wood to himself.
Any second now it was going to cut out again. His hand reached for the rough bark of a tall tree, and as he pulled himself up to move out from its shadow, the phone sang out clearly. He stared. It must be buried in the detritus of the woodland floor. Then he caught the gleam. An eerie light glowed from the leaf mould packed at the base of the trunk.
‘Got it!’ he screeched, diving to his knees, pulling on latex gloves and carefully easing it free.
‘Any sign of Melinda Webber?’ Davis was in his ear.
‘I’m halfway up a slope under the trees,’ he said. ‘The path’s way down below me. I’ve not seen anyone.’ He pulled in a breath, didn’t want Webber to be listening, wondered where he was. On his way here maybe? ‘I can’t see any disturbance on the ground, but it’s fairly easy to cover tracks on this terrain. It was in the curve of the roots at the bottom of a tree, tucked round the back. Looks like it was deliberately hidden.’
Chapter 46
Webber carried Sam across to the window feeling the boy’s fist clutch the back of his collar, a sure sign of insecurity in strange surroundings. There was no shortage of people ready to look after him, to allow Webber to get back upstairs to find out what had happened over in Hull, but Sam had clung tight, his face threatening to crumple. He wouldn’t be palmed off on to strangers in a place he didn’t know. Webber concentrated on breathing evenly as he pointed out to Sam the comings and goings outside the station. It was clear that his son had already picked up his worry. The child’s face was sombre, eyes big as he stared out from the security of his father’s hip. No smiles, no chatter. He’d only spoken once, saying ‘Mummy?’ as his gaze searched the crowd when Jess had handed him over. Now his head snapped round each time the door opened.
Webber was desperate to know what was happening upstairs but daren’t go up there. If Sam heard Melinda’s voice from the phone it might be enough to set him off.
He paced up and down by the window, murmuring to Sam, struggling to keep a lid on his frustration. This wasn’t what he’d envisaged. Sam had been into work before. He’d even stayed one time for half an hour while Melinda went off somewhere. He’d been no trouble at all, hadn’t clung to Webber or threatened screams if he tried to pass him on to someone else.
Now there was an added worry. There’d been a call and he needed to send Davis back across town, but was loathe to remove him from direct contact with Ahmed.
Emmett, the young girl who had been Tom Jenkinson’s contact, had turned up out of the blue offering information about the traffic scam. Feeling Sam’s grip tighten at the back of his collar it struck him that two children were obstructing a team of professional investigators. It shouldn’t happen.
Sam’s face turned to him, his brow creased to a frown. ‘Mummy?’
‘Mummy’s back soon,’ Webber reassured him. ‘You’ve been with Daddy at work before. It was fun.’ The way he remembered it he’d spent the entire 30 minutes on the phone while Sam played happily across the corridor surrounded by a willing crowd of volunteers. Of course it hadn’t been here. Different station, different set of people not all of whom were complete strangers, that was the difference.
The grip on his collar loosened. Sam’s attention was taken by someone flicking through a heap of files. They could go upstairs, stay at the edge of things. His arm began to ache. He reached behind his head to prise the tiny fingers free and shifted Sam to his other hip. Sam stared unsmiling into his face, then returned his attention to the bustle of the office around them. The small hand clamped into position again at the back of his neck. Who was he kidding? Sam already knew something was wrong. He couldn’t risk going back into the thick of it, but there had to be something he could do. He turned to a nearby terminal.
Ahmed and Suzie had been chasing a theory about Michael Drake’s wives, both wives. Webber sat down and logged into the system. Sam struggled to stand up on his knee so he could look over his father’s shoulder.
‘You keep an eye on things for me, Sam,’ Webber said.
‘Doy … oy …’ Sam murmured. His grip on Webber’s collar relaxed and he began to jig about.
Webber sighed. If Sam was going to settle enough to get boisterous but not enough to leave his father’s arms then he had the worst of all worlds. He pushed his chair back to keep the small flailing feet clear of the equipment. At least something or someone was holding Sam’s attention.
Was it going to turn out that Tippet’s accusations from all those years ago had foundation? Had Drake killed his wife? But why? Not for the insurance. It wasn’t clear he’d even known about the policy. Tippet had though, and Tippet must have collected a tidy sum himself when his own wife died years later. How closely had that been followed up?
Suzie had been looking out medical records for the first Mrs Drake, but he couldn’t see anything of note. He found himself checking the routes she’d used, making sure she hadn’t cut corners, but it was a mechanical move. He thought about how Tom Jenkinson’s interview had looked from the viewpoin
t of what he now knew. There were other recordings he wanted to revisit, Kowalski … Joyce Yeatman … Tippet … but he couldn’t work out how to get at them from here. Where was Davis when he needed him? Stevenson and Drake weren’t on record at all, but he wanted to listen to them too.
When he caught the reflection of Davis’s face in the monitor he found himself framing a request to dig out the recordings. Then his thoughts tumbled to a halt. Davis hadn’t appeared behind him by chance. He stared at the image, irrationally wanting to know the best or the worst before he turned to look. The DI’s expression was impassive. Sam’s fist tightened its grip.
Webber made himself breathe evenly. ‘I want Drake and Stevenson on record,’ he said without looking up. ‘We have Kowalski, Tippet and Yeatman.’
He saw Davis nod. ‘Stevenson might take a while, but we can get Drake in anytime.’ There was a pause. From the corner of his eye Webber could see that Sam had turned his head to gaze up at Davis. ‘We’ve found her phone,’ Davis said. ‘I think … it looks like she dropped it.’
Webber’s gaze snapped round to stare into the man’s eyes. He’d caught the ghost of a pause. Davis wasn’t convinced by dropped it. ‘Found the phone but not … her?’ He glanced at Sam not wanting to say Melinda’s name.
‘No, but there’s something kicking off at the bridge. Ayaan’s hot-footing it up there.’
‘How d’you mean, kicking off?’
‘We haven’t got a straight story yet, but you know when you were on the phone, she said that thing … I couldn’t make sense of it. Did she say papers or paymasters?’
‘I thought it was paymasters. I don’t know what she meant. Why?’
‘If she said she’d been on to the papers, then … I know it makes no sense but that’s what seems to be kicking off, some kind of media circus. They were only just picking it up in Hull when I talked to them. They’ll get right back to me.’ Davis spread his hands in a helpless shrug of apology for half a story.
Suddenly the decision was made. Webber didn’t try to analyse the thought processes that had brought him to it but he reached for the keyboard to shut down the systems he’d opened, then stood up.
