Gallows Drop

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Does he have a lock-up?’ Hank was looking at Scotty.

  The officer shrugged. ‘Not to my knowledge, I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Do it now please,’ Kate said. As he stood up and left the incident room, she delivered the bad news. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t yet have any proof of what Gardner was wearing on the day of Alwinton Show. None of our prisoners’ phones were helpful in that respect.’

  A groan filled the room.

  Kate raised her hand to silence the team. ‘It’s not all bad. Beth’s claim that he photographed Elliott during the fight that took place afterwards is now proven. There are two photographs on his device showing Elliott alive and being held against his will. We can extrapolate the exact timing of the fight from those images.’

  Maxwell was trying to get her attention.

  ‘You have something important to add, Neil?’ He sometimes interrupted just to crack a joke and the DCI wasn’t having that.

  ‘The images your journalist friend sent over aren’t much use,’ he said. ‘I caught Elliott on one or two – and the back of you and Jo, if I’m not mistaken – but there’s not a single one of Gardner or his mates. I reckon they spent most of the day getting bladdered in the Rose and Thistle, just as he said. Area sent a PSO to find out.’

  ‘Don’t they have any real coppers?’ Hank was being sarcastic.

  Kate was still with Maxwell. ‘Try Alan Tailford again. He’s a “real” copper – at least he was before he retired. Helen said he had a new camera. Tell him I want sight of all the photographs he took. Although we haven’t yet nailed Gardner at the show, he freely admits to being there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  ‘I think we already did,’ Carmichael said. ‘The images you shared with me this morning are gold dust.’

  Grant hadn’t yet seen them. ‘They place his cronies at the scene?’

  ‘Of the fight, yes. All four of them,’ Kate said. ‘Faced with such hard evidence, I’m betting they’ll drop Gardner in it faster than Usain Bolt can run a hundred metres.’

  ‘He’ll say he didn’t take them,’ Robson offered.

  ‘He will, but they’re on his device and Beth Casey saw him take them. Who do you think a court will believe? And how else would she know of their existence? The chain of evidence is getting longer.’

  ‘Will she testify?’ Brown asked.

  ‘Damn right: she doesn’t like Gardner any more than we do and Elliott was her best friend.’

  ‘Are the images available to view?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Soon,’ Kate said. ‘They’re being examined, documented and copied as we speak. They’ll be displayed on the murder wall later this morning. I’m going to find those bloody boots if it kills me. Hank, come with me. I want to search his home myself. The rest of you, keep up the good work. We’re on the home straight. I can feel it.’

  ‘Gardner’s place has been boarded up, boss.’ Robbo again.

  ‘You forget,’ she grinned, ‘I have Hank the tank. Only joking. We’ll stop by the cells and get Gardner’s permission to search. If he won’t give it, we’ll tap the uniform inspector and get a PACE authority instead.’

  In the end, it wasn’t necessary. Gardner gave permission willingly, arrogantly even. That didn’t bode well. It made Kate think he’d got rid of any incriminating evidence or that she’d have to look very hard to find it. If he had killed Elliott Foster, it begged the question why he hadn’t deleted the photographic evidence too.

  Was he really that stupid?

  Kate and Hank left the station immediately, taking the short drive to Ashington. They rang ahead, asking council officials who’d made the house secure to meet them at the property and let them in. A painstaking search proved fruitless. They scoured every inch of the house: cupboards, the loft space, even under loose floorboards where Gardner normally kept his stash or hid his ill-gotten gains and other items he didn’t want the police to find.

  Ashington was a coalmining area that hadn’t changed in years. It was still possible to have an open fire in the town. In the living room, Kate got down on her hands and knees to examine the grate. It had been swept clean. Given the state of the rest of the shit-pit, that caused her to wonder why.

  She stood up, brushing soot from gloved fingers.

  The sight of dirt on her hands produced a sudden flashback: a BBQ in the rear yard of Jo’s Victorian terrace, her face smeared with charcoal dust after an abortive attempt to get it going. When they realized that the bag of briquettes was damp and wouldn’t catch fire even if they poured a gallon of lighter fuel over it, they binned the idea and went to the pub.

  Happy times.

  ‘Something I missed?’ Hank had seen the rueful expression on her face.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Want to swap jobs?’ Hank had been dragging out the contents of an old blanket chest that doubled as a coffee table in the centre of the room. He grimaced at the stuff he’d removed: items they might’ve expected to find beside Gardner’s bed, not in his living room. In among a pile of horse-racing magazines, there was hardcore porn, condoms and intimate lubricant. Worst of all, a vibrator in a smeared plastic bag and what looked suspiciously like used toilet roll.

  ‘Gross,’ Kate said.

  ‘Thank God for these.’ Hank pulled at the edge of the nitrile glove on his left hand, and let go, allowing the material to snap back into shape. It paid to be careful in their job. ‘Check out the sofa,’ he said. ‘He probably wanted to keep an eye on the telly while he was—’

  She raised her hand. ‘Too much information, Hank.’

  He chuckled.

  Kate didn’t. She’d already seen the state of the furniture and didn’t want to speculate on what had taken place on the sofa and with whom. She glanced through the kitchen to the rear door. One of the panes of glass was boarded up and there were massive bolts top and bottom. Her eyes were focused on the key in the lock, a novelty poker chip key ring hanging from it. She could feel the heat of Hank’s stare even though she was looking the other way.

  ‘I’ve seen that look before,’ he said. ‘What have you found?’

  Kate switched her attention to the soot on her gloves, then him. ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase. What do you think you’ve found?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure – have you checked the yard?’

  ‘No.’

  Kate stepped into the tiny kitchenette he’d already searched. Cupboard doors were hanging open. There wasn’t much in them: hardly any food, a few beer glasses she assumed had been nicked on account of the brewers’ labels etched on the side. Hank had been thorough, carrying out a meticulous search of every space big enough to hide a pair of boots. ‘Did you try the salad tray in the fridge, the freezer compartment?’

  ‘You need to ask?’

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘Why? You peckish? There’s a couple of beers and half a Chinese takeaway in there, if you fancy a snack.’

  ‘Think I’ll pass.’ She threw him a grin. ‘Feel free to help yourself though.’

  The soles of her shoes stuck to plastic lino as she approached the rear of the kitchen. She drew back the bolts on the door to the outside yard and turned a key.

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  She stepped out into a filthy yard, overflowing with empty wine bottles, beer crates and other paraphernalia, the remnants of a half-decent summer. In one corner of the rectangular space was a makeshift BBQ made from an old oil drum cut in half. If there was one thing she knew about offenders, they liked burgers and beer, at the same time if they could manage it. She peered into the drum, her hopes dying. Like the fire grate inside, it had also been swept clean . . . almost.

  Kate went back into the kitchen. ‘You got your penknife on you, Hank?’ He handed one over and she walked outside. Scraping ash from the very edges of the drum, taking as much care as an archaeologist might, she found what she was looking for. ‘Bingo!’ she whispered under her breath.

  53

  Midday.
Armed with photographs of Gardner’s yard, the BBQ drum and a close-up of her find – one tiny eyelet, burnt but otherwise intact – the Murder Investigation Team had cause for celebration. And it didn’t stop there. While Kate and Hank were searching Gardner’s house, luck had finally dealt them a good hand. Amid hundreds of images Alan Tailford had taken at the show were a few of Gardner in the beer garden of the Rose and Thistle wearing a pair of heavy-duty boots. At last, Kate was in a position to expose his lies.

  ‘There’s no arguing with hard evidence,’ DS Robson said.

  Brown was nodding. ‘You’d think shite would learn that if they lie to police, they have to be good at it. Not many are.’

  Morale was lifting, every detective thrilled to be one step closer to cracking the case. The MIR was filled with excited chatter: We have him bang to rights . . . well and truly sewn up . . . there’s still a way to go. This final remark came from Carmichael. It rang true for Kate. To some extent, it had been all too easy to pick out Gardner as the culprit. She still had no evidence to link him with the gibbet and was unable to say with any certainty that he was responsible for the death of Elliott Foster. Grievous bodily harm, yes. But did he actually string him up?

  Kate called out to Maxwell.

  The sound of his name made him sit up and take notice.

  ‘Get a blown-up image of the boots Gardner was wearing,’ Kate said. ‘Then source two identical pairs for me, please. I want you to set one pair on fire to replicate what happens to them. If I’m not wrong, the similarity will be startling. Keep the others and do it now.’ She shifted her gaze to Carmichael. ‘Lisa, get on to Gardner’s brief. Whatever else he’s dealing with, tell him I need him down here ASAP. I have to pop out for a short while. Text me as soon as he arrives. If he can’t make it, tell him he’ll have to send an associate. I want this case wrapped up.’

  ‘Need me along?’ asked Hank.

  ‘No, you take over. I have a personal matter to take care of.’

  The team appeared somewhat relieved. Hank too. More than that, he seemed pleased. Kate couldn’t fathom why. Then she realized that they had misread her, believing that she was going to see Jo. This was no time to make up the truth.

  ‘My father had a coronary,’ she explained. ‘He’s in hospital.’

  Hank’s mouth fell open. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Late Monday night.’

  ‘It’s Wednesday!’

  ‘I’m well aware of the day of the week, Hank. Don’t worry about him, or me. He’s getting the best of care. Fortunately, he’s in Wansbeck so I won’t be long. I want you primed and ready to go when I get back.’

  As she walked away, Hank yelled after her: ‘Give him my best.’

  Ed Daniels was awake when she arrived, propped up against a stack of pillows in bed. There was evidence that he’d been reading – a few newspapers scattered across the service tray that spanned his bed, a half-finished crossword puzzle – next to them, the remains of a cup of weak tea. A good sign that he was making progress.

  He was extremely pale, his eyes vacant.

  On the bedside cabinet, there was an untouched bowl of fresh fruit and a Get Well card, a hospital scene depicting a man in bed, a male doctor standing by his side, a stethoscope around his neck. The caption read: ‘Give it to me straight, doc, how long will my car have to spend in the hospital car park?’ It was a MATT card – Jo’s favourite – the product of award-winning cartoonist Matthew Pritchett MBE, who, if Kate remembered correctly, had studied at the School of Art in London and now worked for the Telegraph.

  If she’d sent one too, would her father crack a smile?

  He didn’t do that, or say hello.

  He didn’t do or say anything.

  Unable to summon up an appropriate emotion, Kate walked to the bottom of his bed and unhooked his medical chart – something she knew was guaranteed to annoy him. There was nothing written there that caused her undue concern. Without making any comment, she put it back, eyes firmly on her father.

  ‘You’re too early for visiting,’ he said.

  ‘Some people make allowances. They appreciate the demands of my job.’ She approached his bedside, leaned over and kissed his forehead gently. She could’ve sworn that he, if not recoiled, then tensed somewhat. She wondered why on earth she’d bothered leaving a major incident if nothing good was to come out of her visit.

  Must try harder.

  Prepared to meet him halfway, she made up her mind to keep it civil. To give him the opportunity, should he wish to take it, to heal the open wound that was the current state of their relationship before it was too late. Whatever he thought of her choice of profession and lifestyle, he was her father, ‘her dinosaur’, as Jo had put it.

  She tried for a smile that didn’t come off.

  This was so difficult.

  They had hardly spoken since he’d assisted her with a complex child murder case she’d been struggling with. She’d linked a set of plastic pearls from her victims to an Ashington miners’ welfare celebration around the time of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. He was a boy then, living in the town, set to become a miner himself. Despite their estranged relationship, he’d been a great help, revealing a family secret in the process – the death of his twin when they were four years old. Up to that point, Kate knew nothing of Mary. Her death had been a tragedy – an undetected hit-and-run – another black mark against the police, and her. Another secret . . .

  Maybe, as people, they weren’t so different.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘If that’s not a daft question.’

  ‘Hasn’t your girlfriend said?’ It was a definite dig.

  Why was he always so bloody judgemental? ‘I’ve been here too, Dad. Just not when you were awake.’

  ‘So I gather.’ He began smoothing his bedcovers. ‘She said she’d be in this morning.’

  ‘She has a name.’

  ‘Jo, I meant. I was expecting her.’

  ‘Ask yourself why she didn’t come.’ It was out of Kate’s mouth before she could stop herself. The guilt was there, as plain as day. He couldn’t hide it. She dropped the acid tone. ‘I want you to know it was her and not me who organized and paid for your private room. Be sure to thank her next time you see her.’

  ‘I will. She’s been very kind.’

  ‘She is very kind.’ Kate allowed the comment to sit with him a moment. She could feel the frost from ten feet away. She backed off, changing the subject. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him in his condition. ‘Being in Wansbeck must feel like coming home for you.’ She was referring to his mining heritage.

  He didn’t answer.

  On second thoughts, bringing it up wasn’t her best idea. Set against her passion to serve as a police officer, it was partly responsible for splitting them apart. There were other reasons too, a complete disregard for her circumstances being one. Was there anything they could talk about that wouldn’t instantly lead to a dead end?

  She sat down.

  The least he could do was acknowledge that it was difficult for her to be there. She’d spent many hours sitting by her mother’s deathbed, on behalf of both of them, waiting for her to die. Arranged the funeral. Given the eulogy. Actually turned up. He was too weak to face it. Hoping she’d never have to go through the experience again invoked a tremendous amount of sympathy for Beth Casey. Kate would do anything to take her pain away. They had much in common.

  Thinking about Beth brought to mind Atkins’ recent attack. The quandary over his future weighed heavily on her mind, as did the heart-to-heart she was determined to have with Hank. It was time to stop hiding. Time to reveal her true self.

  ‘Hank sends his regards,’ she said.

  ‘How is he?’

  At last, some interest.

  No matter what her father thought of her, he got on brilliantly with Hank and was profoundly distressed to learn that he’d been shot and wounded in Spain. She’d called her father from Cartagena to warn him before the new
s hit the media, to let him know she was safe in case he read anything more into it. He was grateful for that.

  A first.

  ‘He’s not 100 per cent but he’s getting there. I’ll tell him you were asking after him. Between the two of you, you’ll be the death of me.’ It was her way of letting him know that he meant something to her. Then he went and spoiled it by asking her to leave.

  54

  By the time Kate reached the office, Maxwell had sourced the boots. Without going into Newcastle, fifteen miles away, there were only so many places to buy footwear. He’d worked fast. These days he was so much more motivated, able to demonstrate his potential when he put his mind to it – a team player, almost.

  She commended his effort.

  ‘It’s time to talk interview strategy,’ she said, placing one pair of boots into an A3-sized brown envelope. ‘I have a plan. Hank will lead the interview. I’ll direct operations. Ordinarily, we’d ask you to stay away. No interruptions. Not this time. I want to drip-feed the fact that we are moving forward as the interview progresses. Otherwise, Gardner will see the whites of our eyes and think he can sit there all day and tell us nothing. I want him under pressure. I want to drill it into him that we’re not two daft coppers interviewing him, but a team of clever detectives squirrelling away in the background. It’s what’s going on behind the scenes that’ll scare him the most.’

  ‘I’m hurt.’ Hank feigned a dagger to the heart. ‘You never call me clever.’

  ‘I will . . . when you deserve it.’ Kate laughed.

  So did everyone else.

  She switched her attention to Carmichael. ‘Give Hank five minutes’ head start, Lisa. Then deliver Tailford’s photographs and leave the room. On my cue – I’ll text you – bring these in next.’ Kate handed her the new boots. ‘Wait for another cue and return with the remains of the burnt pair. This irrefutable evidence will rebut Gardner’s lies. Faced with the truth, he’ll have nowhere to go. When he runs out of excuses, maybe he’ll cough.’