by Penny Grubb
‘That’s far too long ago, Superintendent. I’ve no idea who went where with who. It’ll have been some story Michael Drake told the police at the time. If you don’t know from your files then we’ll never know.’ A poor attempt at a laugh. ‘It was 40 years ago. Who keeps records for that long?’
You do, thought Webber, you’ve just told me so, and so do we; it’s all on file. But he said nothing. The change of tack to the insurance policy was just to plant something other than the car in Tippet’s mind. He didn’t want the man working to create a more credible scenario around the Ford Tempo’s spare keys because his answer had come without hesitation and with the ring of truth.
Could Suzie have gone after Tippet? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if he’d seen her, but he held back. There couldn’t have been anything in the current Mrs Drake’s emails that would have set Suzie onto Tippet.
He ended the call with no loose ends snipped off and even more flapping around him. Drake cut ties with the Tippets two years after Tina’s death. Had Tippet presented his ex-brother-in-law with a set of keys to his brand new car six years later? If so, it could only have been to set him up for the theft.
He thought about the overlapping tight-knit groups each riven with its own fights and jealousies. The splits when they’d happened had been deep and acrimonious; Brad from his father, Drake from the Tippets, Kowalski from the other quintets. Maybe Gary Yeatman too. In everything he’d read and heard it was Pamela Morgan, in person or in memory, who had held them together. Everyone loved Pamela. The only person he’d heard speak against her was Tiffany Drake who had never known her.
He glanced at the time. It crept closer to the mystery man’s alleged target for traffic chaos. Vehicles criss-crossed these cases as randomly as that makeshift game with Sam’s toy cars; a van concertinaed at a junction, shocked motorists babbling about green lights …Tippet’s Ford Tempo speeding away from the post office so soon after it had carried Robert Morgan’s body… a lorry, fat belly revolving to keep its concrete load from setting, reversing down the track to the walkway foundation, driven by Trent who would die later in his own car with tiny traces of the elaborate mechanism which had propelled it on its final journey … Gary Yeatman and the crash that had been flagged as driver suicide …
He thought about putting someone, already dead, behind the wheel of a car and sending them into a stream of fast-moving traffic. If traffic lights were being tampered with across the city, everyone would look the wrong way for the culprits and assume the wrong cause of death. It was fanciful. It wasn’t the way to do murder, even for a psychopath.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
‘This came through about the schoolgirl who went missing in Dorset.’
Webber took the scrap of paper, skimmed it, then stopped to pull in a breath before reading it through again. It had been a simple enough query – had any of Tilly Brown’s family returned to the York area – and it had generated a simple enough answer, but not the one he’d expected.
What had florid-face said? We have a tiger by the tail … Interesting he should have chosen that metaphor.
Then there’d been Davis about Michael Drake. If he’s guilty of anything it’s loyalty to a friend … whatever it is, I can’t prise it out of him.
Picking up the headphones, he switched to Kowalski’s recording … dragging the slider until he heard the break in her voice as she talked about Pamela’s overdose.
As it played, he clicked open the internet browser and typed in Charlie Sheen. More than 30 million hits … famous quotes … a list of films… The Execution of Private Slovik had been Sheen’s first big screen appearance, just as the obsessive Mr Tippet had told him. Kowalski’s words swam about his head as trivia from the world of celluloid stardom scrolled down the screen.
Tiger blood…
Webber was up out of his seat, tearing off the headphones, his stare raking the big office. Everyone was busy … it didn’t matter. He hadn’t a shred of evidence anyway, all he had was a sudden solid certainty that Suzie had been right.
Clamping his phone to his ear, he raced to the desk demanding either the keys to a car or someone to drive him.
Chapter 50
Ahmed glanced at Michael Drake dozing in the passenger seat. He looked old and drawn trapped in a second marriage that was sucking the life out of him. Tiffany was no better off. They’d forged this strange alliance for all the wrong reasons. Ahmed wondered why they hadn’t simply called it a day and parted company, but perhaps there was a financial angle. Michael had needed an injection of cash to break free from the Tippets. Tiffany had married him for financial security but maybe divorce would not provide enough for either of them. One way or another they would have to sort it out between them. His priority was to get his hands on the email that had sent Suzie to her next appointment.
It would have been quicker for him to mine Tiffany’s PC in situ, rather than cart it back to the station. But Drake was shattered. He hoped Tiffany would stay away at least until her husband had had a good night’s sleep.
As he pulled up outside the house he said, ‘I’ll be in and out as quick as I can … leave you to get some sleep, you look all in.’
‘I’m going to sit in my shed and relax,’ Drake said with a note of stubbornness. ‘I’m out of reach there and I’ve turned off my mobile. I’m not sure I could cope with the sound of a phone ringing again tonight … Your boss won’t be wanting to speak to me again today, will he?’
Ahmed noted the small catch in Drake’s voice. He was more upset than he’d let on. As he climbed out of the car he clicked his own phone to silent. ‘No, no. Don’t worry. I’ll be in and out in two minutes.’
Once inside, Drake ushered him into the sitting room. ‘I’ll go up and get everything for you.’
‘Let me come upstairs and help.’
‘No, I’d rather you didn’t. I’ve had people all over Tiff’s stuff. I feel bad about it. Sergeant Harmer meant well, I know, but it’s a matter of trust. You wait here.’ As Ahmed hesitated, Drake added firmly, ‘Really, Mr Ahmed, I appreciate your concern but I was very uncomfortable having Sergeant Harmer going through Tiff’s things.’
‘I didn’t think she had,’ said Ahmed. ‘I thought you’d done it.’
‘She insisted on trying to help. I’m afraid I got her making tea to get her out of the way. It isn’t that Tiff has anything to hide, well not that I know about.’ His face clouded. ‘But I know she’d hate it. She won’t let me near her stuff, so if she finds out that I let a stranger … Speaking of tea, maybe you could put the kettle on for me, it takes a while to heat up, and I’ll go and get what you need. At any rate, you won’t need me to search out that notebook again. I gave the passwords to Sergeant Harmer.’
‘It would be useful if you can put your hand on it.’ Ahmed kept his tone casual, his reassuring smile in place. Lack of passwords wouldn’t be an insurmountable problem, but would mean a delay.
He heard Michael’s footsteps plod up the stairs as he headed for the kitchen, keen to get a glimpse of the potting shed.
A tatty bit of a lean-to, that was how Davis had described it, and he couldn’t better the description. The door that led into it from the kitchen wasn’t robust. He suspected that Michael’s claim not to be able to hear the phone was a fabrication made up earlier in his marriage. He paused to make sure Michael wasn’t on his way down the stairs and then stepped inside the ramshackle add-on and eased open one of the cupboard doors. A half bottle of blended malt glinted at him from behind a plastic cup.
He returned to the kitchen where an old-style kettle with a whistle stood on the hob. He checked it for water and turned on the ring under it. It explained how Suzie had strung out the teamaking so long. So both she and Drake had used it as an excuse to keep out of each other’s way. With one ear trained on the muffled sounds from upstairs, he eased open the kitchen units one by one peering inside. All the usual things, a cutlery tray, stacks of plates and bowls, some ti
nned food and a few packets, the open ones sporting clothes pegs to keep them closed. There was nothing that Drake could turn into a quick snack, but maybe a hot drink was all he needed. He supposed the tea would be supplemented by the liquor in the lean-to. He clicked open the fridge, feeling his nose pinch in disgust at the sweetish smell that wafted out. Suzie had mentioned a bowl of meat on the top shelf. It was an unappetizing mass of raw liver.
The kettle gave a lacklustre rattle as though noticing the ring of heat beneath it for the first time. Ahmed walked to the foot of the stairs. ‘Everything OK, Michael?’
He heard a grunt and the padding of footsteps. Drake’s face peered down at him. ‘I’ve just mislaid the printout,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I put it back on the printer. Would you have a look, room behind you?’
Ahmed strode through, his gaze raking the printer and surrounding table on which rested a laptop. ‘No, there’s nothing here,’ he called back, ‘but isn’t this her computer?’
Drake managed a tired laugh. ‘That’s what Sergeant Harmer thought, but no, Tiff keeps hers upstairs.’
‘Michael, let me come up and help you. You’re exhausted.’
Drake’s raised hand signalled no. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it. I’ll have it for you in a moment. It has to be in here.’
Ahmed blew out a sigh and went back to the kitchen where the muted rattle from the kettle gave the promise of properly boiling water within the next ten minutes or so. Why on earth didn’t they get an electric one? He’d clicked on the light, but its anaemic bulb did little to dispel the gloom. Through the uncurtained windows he could see the edge of the lean-to, dark, gloomy and far too cold for an unwell man to sit in drinking alcohol. If he dozed he might succumb to hypothermia.
Footsteps from above and a muffled shout. ‘Got it!’
Spinning on his heel to head back through, all Ahmed’s attention was on the bend of the stairs. He was unprepared for the sudden raucous buzz of the doorbell which made him jump. He hurried out into the hallway as Drake made his way down the stairs, a bulky laptop computer in his arms, an A4 page lying on top.
Ahmed took it from him as Drake took a step towards the door saying, ‘Tiff’s got a key.’ He shot Ahmed a worried glance.
Ahmed took the point. If it was Tiffany she was about to walk in and see her computer in his arms. That would not only mean hell to pay for Michael Drake, it would put a block on finding the all-important email. He’d met Tiffany Drake. His mind raced to dredge up reasons to make her cooperate.
He tensed as Drake turned the lock and swung open the door, then felt his eyes widen in surprise. Outside, slightly breathless and with a uniformed officer at this shoulder, stood Martyn Webber.
Webber gave no apology or explanation for his sudden appearance. He pointed to the heap of leads, machinery and paper in Ahmed’s arms. ‘That the printout?’ Without waiting for an answer he reached forward to pluck it from the tangle of wires and ran his gaze down it, before passing it to the officer behind him. He indicated the computer. ‘Take that too and get them back to DI Davis. I’ll come back with Ayaan.’
‘I was just leaving,’ Ahmed said, nettled at Webber’s offhand tone.
Drake stood to one side clearly wanting to close the door against the cold evening air, but unable to while the two officers blocked the way. Webber signalled with a curt nod of his head that Ahmed was to hand over the machine.
As the computer was taken away Webber stepped into the hallway. Drake pushed the door closed murmuring, ‘Do come in, Superintendent,’ an edge to his voice, the comment aimed at Webber’s back.
It took a moment for Ahmed to catch on. Melinda Webber’s race to Hull. Of course, Webber wanted the full story from him before he went home and for some reason hadn’t wanted to wait until he returned to the station. That didn’t make it fair on Drake.
The three of them stood at the foot of the stairs. Webber looked appraisingly at Drake but spoke to Ahmed. ‘Your phone’s off, Ayaan.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I had it on silent.’ Ahmed pulled it out of his pocket and unmuted it, noting a missed call.
‘Was there anything else you wanted me for?’ Drake’s voice had lost much of its accommodating tone. Ahmed watched as the man’s stare bored into the side of Webber’s head. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Yes, a couple of things,’ said Webber still not looking at him.
Drake’s eye briefly caught Ahmed’s with a look of annoyance. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I’ve had enough for today. I must insist that you leave unless you’re going to arrest me for something.’
Webber glanced briefly at Ahmed, then turned a speculative eye on Drake. ‘Sorry Mr Drake, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’
Drake gave an uncertain laugh. ‘What do you mean? What for?’
Ahmed felt the tension like electricity across his skin. He felt as shocked as Drake looked, yet it didn’t seem real. It looked to him as though Webber was toying with the man, but why?
‘I intend to arrest you for murder, Mr Drake,’ Webber said, his tone mild.
Drake’s laugh this time held incredulity. He looked at Ahmed with a shake of his head as though to signal that Webber had gone mad. Then he raised his hands, a gesture of mock surrender and exasperation. ‘Well, go on,’ he said. ‘Surprise me. Whose murder?’
‘Mrs Pamela Morgan,’ said Webber. ‘21st of October, 2001.’
Chapter 51
Webber had expected a reaction but its intensity took him aback. The shock was real. Drake’s face drained of colour, making his skin translucent. In the gloom of the hallway he might have been a ghost about to dissolve to nothing. It was Ahmed who leapt forward to catch his arm as he stumbled. Webber knew he’d misjudged something … no time to puzzle it out … couldn’t let this turn into a total collapse. He moved forward to take the man’s other arm. Between them they steered Drake to an armchair. He slumped into it and put his head in his hands.
An eerie background shriek rose in volume to fill the air. ‘What the hell’s that?’
‘The kettle,’ said Ahmed. ‘I put it on so Michael could get himself a hot drink.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Webber. ‘Plenty of sugar.’
‘One sugar, thank you,’ snapped Drake glaring up at him.
‘OK, Mr Drake, just stay there and get your breath.’ Webber ushered Ahmed back towards the hallway. ‘For God’s sake shut that noise off and get him some tea.’
Ahmed leant close and lowered his voice. ‘Did he really kill her?’
Webber nodded.
‘How? Why?’
‘I don’t have all the answers,’ Webber murmured. ‘But he did it.’
‘Kowalski was right then?’
‘I don’t know that either yet. Now go and get that tea and get that blasted noise shut off.’
When Webber returned to sit on the settee, Drake’s head was back in his hands. Webber leant forward to hear what he was muttering to himself. As far as he could tell, Drake kept repeating the single word, ‘Pammy.’
He said nothing and waited for Ahmed to return with a steaming mug which he put into Drake’s hands. Drake gave Ahmed a brief glance and then raised the tea to his lips and sipped at it.
‘Feeling better, Mr Drake?’ Webber asked. ‘Up to answering a couple of questions?’
Ahmed, standing behind Drake’s chair looked disapproving.
Drake glared. ‘I thought I was under arrest.’
‘No,’ Webber said. ‘I’m going to arrest you but I haven’t yet.’
‘I have plenty of questions to ask, Superintendent, but I think I’ve done enough answering.’
‘Fair enough.’ Webber said. ‘But if you answer my questions I’ll think about answering yours.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a fair balance.’
‘It’s all that’s on offer.’ Webber let his voice harden, saw both Drake and Ahmed tense at the change in tone. ‘Off the record. You answer my questions and I’ll think about answering yours.
’
Drake hesitated, glanced round at Ahmed, clearly found no help there and turned his gaze back to Webber. ‘You’ll tell me about Pammy?’
Webber was silent for a moment and then said. ‘Probably.’
‘OK,’ said Drake. ‘Deal.’
Webber heaved an inward sigh of relief. Listening to the recording of Drake talking to Davis he’d been struck by an overwhelming impression of a man with secrets that he was desperate to offload. He thought it more than likely Drake could lead them to the long-ago murderers, the ones who buried the bodies or fed them to tigers, but that wasn’t his focus. There was a more recent nugget that Drake probably didn’t know he held. Suzie had found something that had set her on a collision course with the contemporary killers, the ones who left bodies inadequately covered by concrete or out in plain sight in their crumpled cars.
Gary Yeatman was the link that bridged the cases, somehow involved long ago and apparently killed in what became a rehearsal for the more recent crimes. He would have to tease the information out bit by painful bit and this might be the only opportunity he had. His opening gambit was to close the door on any more lies. ‘The John Brown you knew years ago,’ he said. ‘You told DI Davis about him.’ Drake nodded. ‘You didn’t remember him when you were here, you remembered the name when you were talking to DI Davis afterwards.’
‘It’s a common name,’ Drake said. ‘And it’s years ago.’
Webber could see Ahmed holding back a flood of questions. If his ploy worked, Ahmed would get all the answers he wanted.
Suzie had been right about this man’s wife. He didn’t know how or why but it hadn’t been a natural death any more than Gary Yeatman’s had been a suicide.
