Last Gasp
Page 4
A scornful look spread across her face. 'Hah. I don’t keep files on my friends. Or notes, or diaries, or anything else of that sort. I don’t think going away and coming back with a warrant would be very productive, do you?' As she taunted him his eyes narrowed and his lips merged into a single, straight line. 'Of course you could always try torturing me for the information.' Her lips curled into a wicked smile. 'The only trouble is, I might enjoy it.' She paused before adding, ‘So might you for that matter. Then where would we be?'
When he answered, Carver’s tone was more measured. But Jess could hear the suppressed anger.
'This isn’t a game, Ms Crane. We came here today to try to save lives, yours as well as others. We can’t force you to help us. But you might regret it if you don’t.'
To Jess’s surprise he started gathering his papers. Surely that’s not it?
'Think about it.' Rising from the sofa, he began to march towards the door.
Caught off guard - it was becoming a habit - Jess looked across at Megan Crane and wondered if what they had told her had frightened her in any way. If it had, it didn’t show. Her plucked and pencilled eyebrows were raised as if to say, Was there something? Jess held her gaze a few seconds to show that she was neither impressed nor intimidated – untrue on both counts - then stood up to follow after her boss, already at the front door.
As she headed after him down the drive, and for the second time that day, she could feel Megan Crane’s eyes burning into her back. So much so she had to fight against the urge to break into a sprint. It wasn't until she reached the iron gates she heard the front door slam behind.
Chapter 5
The Golf rocked and kicked as Carver threw it round the winding country road taking them back to the motorway. Jess hung onto the grab handle, casting uneasy glances in his direction. Carver was oblivious. At that moment he was consumed by a single train of thought.
You stupid, spineless bastard. You knew what you were walking into and you still let her get to you. You weak, useless, piece of-
'WHOA,' Jess cried, almost falling into his lap as the car hurtled around another bend. 'TAKE IT EASY.'
Glancing left, he saw the concern in her face. 'Sorry,' he murmured. Forcing himself to relax his grip on the wheel, he eased off the accelerator. The car slowed, and steadied.
'Thank you.'
But Carver didn’t hear it. He was already back in his silent world.
As much as anything, he was embarrassed. Okay, he hadn’t been looking forward to it, for reasons he’d barely let himself think about. But he should never have let her get to him the way he had. It was unprofessional. And if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to remain profession… Then he remembered Angie, and the thought withered.
A ‘School Ahead’ sign recalled Jess’s concerned look. He slowed again, and checked her out of the corner of his eye. But she was turned away, staring out of the window, ignoring him. Apart from her appeal to slow down she hadn’t said a word since they’d started back. She didn’t need to. He knew what she was thinking. He’d fucked-up. Big Style.
Jess had never felt as uncomfortable in Carver’s presence as she did right then. A flurry of questions swirled in her brain but each time she was about to say something, she found she couldn’t stop it sounding like, 'What the FUCK happened back there?'
One thing was certain. Whatever the problem was, it was of his making. Sure, Megan Crane was an unusual woman, and needed careful handling. Someone like her would be bound to be wary about getting involved with the police. But from what Jess had seen, there was nothing about her that couldn’t be overcome by a few well-chosen words. She couldn’t understand why they hadn’t come.
She had seen him in action and knew what he was capable of. Damn it, he had even used it on her a couple of times and, like a schoolgirl, she’d fallen for it. During that first after-work gathering in the Red Lion, she’d found herself opening up to him like she hadn’t with any man except her father, never mind one who was still all-but a stranger. She’d even told him things about herself she hadn’t told Martin yet.
But she had seen none of it used on Megan Crane. Not even a half-hearted attempt. She wondered if, deep down, he was some sort of closet puritan, but then dismissed the idea. Given what she knew of his past, that was hardly likely. It reaffirmed the thoughts she'd been having the past couple of weeks. Contrary to her early impressions - like the others who’d applied for the Operation Kerry Victim Analyst post, she’d read everything about him she could get her hands on before the interview - she was beginning to realise the man was a mass of contradictions.
Remembering the all but silent outward journey - she couldn’t bear the thought of a similar return - she stretched out a finger and pressed ‘play.’ The car filled with the sound of a woman’s voice, singing what sounded like some mournful, Spanish melody. This time she knew what it was. Fado he'd called it. Some sort of Portuguese folk music. An image of his flame-haired girlfriend, Rosanna, came to her. They’d met only once, but she wasn’t the sort you forget in a hurry. In places, the strangely-vibrant music reminded her of an old film her father used to enjoy re-watching every couple of years. What was it? The Thin Man? Third Man? Whatever, it fitted the mood.
It didn’t help it was Friday afternoon, the roads and Motorway full of POETS traffic. By the time they turned into Warrington Central’s crowded yard, Jess was ready to Piss Off Early herself, whatever day Tomorrow was, and looked forward to finding someone to talk to. As they climbed the back stairs to the CID suite in silence, she checked her watch. They would catch the end of week de-brief after all. Leaving that morning they’d prepped for a late return, imagining being ensconced with Megan Crane into the evening hours, going over things. So much for that idea.
At the door to his office, Jess didn’t stop but kept going towards the main office further along the corridor. About to turn in through the door she looked back. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in pockets, head down, staring at the floor. She barely recognised the man she had been working with the past six weeks. Then his head lifted and she saw the self-doubt in his eyes. But then, as if spurred by the look in her face, he seemed to remember who, what, he was. Taking a deep breath, he squared up, and suddenly he was back, ramrod-straight, shoulders broad. For the first time since they’d left The Poplars, he managed to string a sentence together.
'I guess that wasn’t one of our more productive days, was it?'
She shook her head. For a moment she thought he was going to invite her in to go over it. She was wrong.
'We’ll talk about it Monday,' he said. He tried to give something approaching a smile. 'Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. See you in de-brief.'
He turned into his office and the door closed. She remained staring that way for several seconds then, with a final shrug of her shoulders, headed for the Briefing Room.
As she approached, she heard the buzz of the assembled detectives and thought about how she would respond to the inevitable questions about their visit to see, The Woman. But as she walked in, her bright smile was in place, as always.
Chapter 6
Carver sat at his desk and cast his eyes over the mass of job sheets, folders and statements littering its surface. Some he’d left there that morning, others were new. Two items drew his eye.
Top of the pile was a yellow sticky-note. He recognised Alec Duncan's heavy scrawl. It read, 'Jackson rang. AGAIN!!! Wants you to RING HIM BACK!!!'
Carver sighed. The Scottish DS’s exclamation marks were becoming hard to ignore. But he wasn’t in the mood for reporters. Certainly not Jackson. Even now, years on, those who liked to make mischief still occasionally referenced the Sunday Times Magazine feature article he was yet to live down. It wasn’t that long ago some bastard even left a copy on his desk. If he’d known who, he’d have shoved it up their… He put Alec’s note to one side, but where he could see it.
The second item was a bright white envelope with clean, sharp
edges. Drawing it from the pile, he recognised the distinctive typescript showing his full name, title and station address. He tore it open, and digested the single page letter’s contents in one quick scan.
His appearance before the Promotion Interview Panel was set for 10.30am on the twenty sixth of the month following. He calculated. Four weeks yesterday. Wonderful.
He stared at it for several seconds, before letting it slip from his hands to float onto the desk. He turned his chair left ninety degrees so he faced the window that looked out onto the dull, grey-slate roof of what used to be the station’s grand Parade Room but had long since been converted into extra office space. Another time, Carver may have looked forward to it. Even allowing for the hiccup he would never be able to hide, the route mapped out for him years before by a certain Chief Officer to help chart his upward progress was still on track, more or less. But right now the timing couldn’t have been worse. It was nobody’s fault but his. When he’d applied for the Board appearance three months ago, it seemed like the right thing to do. He’d realised since how much his decision was influenced by those whose support he welcomed, but whose drip-drip encouragements had steered him down a route he wasn’t certain he was yet ready, even willing, to travel.
'If you're not careful, you'll miss the boat.'
'Superintendent by forty. That's the benchmark if you want to hit Chief Officer.'
'Now's the time. You're over what happened, and they only have to look at how you're running things here to see you're back on song.'
He turned to check the date on the letter again. Eight weeks was the widely-accepted minimum prep time for a, 'board' appearance. 'More like three months,' according to Richard Dunning, the most recent of his peers to have negotiated the process. Four-weeks-less-a-day when you’re helping to run a series-murder enquiry was laughably short.
‘Bollocks.'
For several seconds he let his mind roam, seeking an option that would enable him to give it a decent shot, whilst not detracting from his role as Deputy SIO to the largest investigation the force had seen in a generation. Eventually he realised. There wasn't one.
He checked his watch. Six minutes to debrief. After the afternoon’s shambles he needed to focus on the job in hand, not what may or may not happen four weeks from now.
Turning his chair a further ninety degrees, he faced the white board behind his desk. Its ink-scarred surface was all-but-hidden under a montage of felt-pen scribble, stick-its, photographs and papers held in place with magnets. It was his Personal Investigation Log and had grown over the fourteen months since Kerry Martin’s death. As often happened when he needed to focus, he found himself staring at one particular photograph. It showed Kerry on her knees, bound to a post by ropes wound round her upper body, waist and thighs, her ankles crossed and tied behind. Her arms were extended out in front, tied at wrist and elbow. Her palms and fingers were pressed and super-glued together. As many commented at the time, apart from the lingerie, heels and black silk ribbon wound tightly around her throat, she might have been praying - hence the media’s ‘Worshipper’ Tag. Three others had followed Kerry since, though he hadn’t felt compelled to add their photos. There was no need. Scattered across the board, almost randomly it seemed, were circled question marks, reminding him of the scale of the task they still faced. Apart from making him forget about board appearances, they also made him aware of how much tighter the knot in his stomach had grown since that morning. At that moment, an image of Megan Crane, as she had appeared in her kitchen doorway, glossy and perfect, ambushed him. He tried pushing it aside but quickly realised, he needed help.
'Fuck it.'
Rising from the chair, he snatched up the briefing-file that was ever-present on the side of his desk, and headed out.
Chapter 7
As usual on a Friday, the briefing room was fuller than other days. Everyone liked to make a special effort to be present for the SIO's weekly, 'State Of The Enquiry' address. As Carver entered at the back, a big man with close-cropped greying hair rose to his feet from the middle of the three chairs set out at the front. At once, a wave of silence washed over the assembled throng, cutting through the jokey-chatter.
Detective Superintendent John 'The Duke' Morrison was dressed, impeccably as always, in his trademark shiny-grey suit. Seeing his deputy coming through, Operation Kerry's Senior Investigating Officer pulled himself up to his full six-feet-five.
'Right Ladies and Gents. Let’s make a start.'
Behind, in the chair to The Duke’s right, a slim, dapperly-dressed younger man came upright and alert as if he thought that by doing so he was setting an example to the rest of the audience. As Carver took the left-hand chair, he glanced across only to find the other man waiting for it. As their eyes met, the younger man sent over a wink and grin that said, I’ve had a great day. How was yours? Carver held his gaze, but kept his expression neutral. Whatever his thoughts about his fellow Assistant SIO, he was obliged, in public at least, to treat DCI Gary Shepherd as his equal. Turning away, Carver gave his attention to the figure in front. Having gained everyone’s attention, The Duke was taking a moment to scan faces. Carver knew he would be noting absentees to mention to him after, along with the superfluous request that Carver update them as soon as the opportunity presented.
As he stared at the broad expanse of back, Carver noted, as always, the ease with which the man in overall charge of the Kerry Investigation asserted his authority. It wasn’t just to do with his size. Though his nickname, ‘The Duke’, referenced the birth surname name he shared with the old cowboy-actor, John Wayne, as well as his rolling gait, his record as an investigator was known to all. Eventually his gaze settled on a paunchy, middle-aged man, halfway down on the left. Back to the wall, he was drinking from his favourite Celtic mug.
'Alec, perhaps you can start by tell us where we are up to with the silver Astra?'
Detective Sergeant Alec Duncan spluttered a mouthful of tea back into the mug and muttered under his breath. Though the Glaswegian's oath carried to those nearby, they stifled their amusement, wary about getting marked as, ‘next’. The former Lothian Police detective from long before Police Scotland days reached behind for a sheaf of papers on the windowsill. Coming as straight as his paunch allowed, he began speaking in his distinctive burr.
'Reet Guv’nor. For those who missed it, werr’ talkin’ aboot the silver Astra that were seen outside Jeannette Fairhaven’s house an' which featured in the Crimewatch recon. We’ve traced it back to a bloke called Hamilton, from Ormskirk who works on a North Sea gas rig. On Monday, Geoff Conway and I will be….'
As the old-sweat DS set about describing the process through which he and his partner hoped to finally eliminate the vehicle that had been the cause of so much speculation and, they all suspected, wasted effort, Carver began to relax. He was grateful for the opportunity to focus on, 'normal stuff'. While he wasn’t expecting anything dramatic – if there had been any developments it would have been clear the moment they arrived back - he prided himself on keeping up with all aspects of the investigation. Senior to Shepherd in several ways, he was the enquiry’s ‘Designated Deputy’. As such he saw it as his responsibility to spot the often-camouflaged links between lines of enquiry. Experience taught him that if he didn’t, there was a good chance no one else would.
For the next thirty minutes, The Duke went from team to team, eliciting updates, posing questions. Carver listened mainly in silence though now and again, he would raise a question or zero in on a particular point. On these occasions The Duke always checked back with him - 'Okay Jamie?' - before moving on. Sometimes the reason behind Carver’s query was obvious, as often, not. One by one, the various lines of enquiry were covered.
The white nylon rope used in the last three killings?
'It’s made for B&Q. You can get it in any of over 300 branches anywhere in the country.'
The smartly-dressed man seen in the vicinity of Tracy Wilcox’s home near the time of her murder?
The efforts to verify the alibis given by Trevor Hargreaves, the Salford University Rapist released on license the month before the killings began?
'His solicitor-girlfriend has confirmed he was on holiday with her in Ibiza the week Anna Davis was killed. We think she’s telling the truth this time.'
And so on.
Most of it was routine, though Carver sat up when The Duke turned to the team whose task it was to follow up on the ‘Blonde Hairs’ link. Of all the outstanding enquiries and potential leads, it was the one they all knew could yield the break-through they longed for. Barry Swift, the DS running the team rose to his feet. Even before he opened his mouth, his low-key body-language told Carver all he needed to know.
‘Not much to add since last time, I’m afraid, boss. The DNA has come back on the two blond women we traced last week and who were known to be past friends of Tracy Wilcox and Kerry Martin. They don’t match the hairs from the scenes and they’re both alibied to the hilt for the dates in question. We’ve still got another name to follow up on. She’s a girl Kerry used to knock around with, but we think it was before she got into the S-and-M stuff. Don’t hold your breath.’
The Duke nodded his thanks, but remained up-beat. ‘Okay Barry. But let’s all stay focused on this. The blond hairs are still the only common link between the scenes. They belong to someone. Remember that everyone when you’re knocking on doors.’
At the back of the room, a DC, Jack Rowe, spoke up. ‘Any further thoughts on whether this blond whoever she is, is a suspect or just someone who happens to have known each of the victims and visited their playrooms, dungeons, or whatever?’
Carver came upright, nodded to The Duke. Since the link came to light after the second murder, he’d been monitoring progress almost daily. The Duke nodded back.