by Chris Simms
‘Have you been working all this time? Are you coming through?’
He finished the milk, placed the glass in the sink and bowed his head. Her concern was like being wrapped in cloth. He wanted to rip it aside so he could breathe.
‘Sean, are you coming in here?’
He stood in the living room doorway. She was in her armchair, walking frame beside it. The telly’s electric glow tinged the side of her face pale blue. Some sci-fi film she couldn’t possibly have been watching. How long had she been asleep? ‘I think I’ll just head up to bed. Knackered.’
Her hand brushed at the arm of the sofa. A silent entreaty to sit. ‘It’s been busy, then? What did they have you doing?’
‘Yeah, really busy. Actually, I need to be back in early.’
‘They are going at it, then. How did it go with your DCI? You had that chat, didn’t you?’
‘No, I didn’t get the chance.’
Disapproval twisted her mouth. ‘You did ask to speak with him, though?’
Here we go, he thought. Time for my telling off. ‘It’s a triple-murder investigation. A detective’s been—’
‘Triple? There’s been another?’
He was determined to finish. ‘A detective’s been seriously injured. The man we want is … out there. No one knows where. What makes you think Ransford has any time for me?’
‘Don’t undervalue yourself, Sean. You are a member of that team—’
He slapped the door frame with his palm. ‘I am not a member of that team! I’m a new detective constable who’s come in and first day on the job – first day – I’ve apparently stood by as my colleague had a sharpened screwdriver shoved in and out of his neck. I’m not a member of that team. I sit in a cramped corner, facing an empty desk and I go over old bank statements because they don’t trust me and when I go to the canteen I get cryptic comments about some newspaper story and the only person prepared to talk to me is this Romanian woman who acts like she’s …’ he waved a hand, ‘I don’t know, an aunt or something.’
Janet’s mouth was hanging open.
Sean turned round and walked towards the stairs. ‘I’m off to bed.’
He stood in the middle of his bedroom and deep breathed. In and out, in and out. Little by little, the tingling in his shoulders dissipated into his arms. After a few more slow exhalations it felt like the tips of his fingers were touching lemonade. The problem, he said to himself for the thousandth time, is that she never lets up. It’s like having a thirteen-stone conscience strapped to your back.
He opened his eyes.
A silhouette of a wolf, caught on a crest of the Siberian steppe, a blood moon behind it. One day, he said to himself, eyes on the National Geographic poster he’d bought as a teenager. He kept up to date on the cost of an escorted tour, staying in a yurt and driving skidoos each day through the wilderness, a local ranger leading you across the paw-punctured snow the pack had left in its wake.
One day, he’d do it. One day.
His mind was still thrumming with what he’d said to her. But guilt was beginning to seed itself. He knew that it would grow during the night. And by morning, it would have smothered any anger that might have remained.
TWELVE
She was at the kitchen table, toast and a pot of tea beside her, iPad propped against a pile of cookery books. Her chin lifted and he saw the cautious look in her eyes. Partly expectant, partly hesitant. Who would speak first?
But as soon as he’d woken, the recollection of what he’d said had made his toes squirm beneath the duvet. ‘Mum, sorry about last night. What I said came out …’
‘That’s fine,’ she cut in, her face immediately softening. ‘It was late and you were tired. Me? I need to not be so … you know. Pushy.’
He smiled briefly before reaching for the loaf of bread beside the toaster.
‘Tea?’
He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Just got time for a quick cup.’
The radio was on low. BBC Radio Manchester, as usual.
‘There’s nothing about a third murder,’ Janet stated. Her forefinger dabbed the iPad’s screen. ‘Or on here.’
‘No – not yet, anyway.’
‘But it’s linked to the first two?’
‘Exactly the same.’
As he filled a mug and carried it back over to the toaster, Janet tracked him. ‘Another female?’
‘Yes. Early twenties, working in an Audi call centre.’
‘Here in Manchester?’
He nodded, stirring as he did so.
‘Three victims. Why isn’t the prime suspect’s face, what’s his name, Cahill? Why isn’t it plastered all over the news?’
‘They want to have him in custody first, retain control of the situation.’
Janet scowled. ‘Retain control of the— what is policing coming to? Jesus.’
The toaster clicked. ‘He can’t have got far. He fled the scene with nothing on him. Someone is sheltering him, and with all the resources now being chucked at it …’
‘Is anyone asking why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why did he do it? Kill three women like that.’
‘The prime suspect’s motivation?’
‘Sean, you’re not on a training course. Just, why did Cahill do it? Keep it simple.’
‘They’re still trying to work it out.’ He smeared marmalade across both slices and took a huge bite out of one.
She waited while he chewed.
‘He was involved in crash-for-cash scams, some of them with the help of the first victim. Number two worked as a solicitor and had been on duty once when he’d been arrested, number three was in car sales. That’s the line of reasoning.’
Janet’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Anything to suggest the three victims knew each other?’
‘Not yet.’
She said nothing.
Sean added some cold water to his tea, gulped it back and lifted up the other piece of toast. ‘I’ll eat this on the way in. You’ll be OK?’
‘Of course. I’ve got an afternoon shift.’
‘This customer survey thing?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Still making you hand out forms on buses?’
‘Who knows? Could be trams today, if I’m lucky.’ She gave him a wink.
‘Well, I think it’s out of order, forcing you to—’
‘No one’s forced me. I volunteered. I quite like it, actually. And besides, there’s a section in the survey on ease of access for less able-bodied people: nothing like first-hand experience.’
‘Let me know what food we need – I’ll do a supermarket run at some point this weekend. And I’ll push a vacuum round, too. I know it’s overdue.’
‘Why don’t we do an internet order for the food? Now you’re so busy—’
‘They always muck-up something. I’d prefer to do it myself.’
He leaned down and, as he kissed her cheek, she raised a hand to the side of his face. ‘Last night, you said that you were—’
‘I was angry. Tired-angry. Trangy.’ He straightened up. ‘It’s just because I’m new. The rest of the team aren’t really ignoring—’
‘But you said something about a newspaper.’
‘Oh, that. There’s this DS. He obviously took a shine to Mark Wheeler. I’m definitely not his friend.’
‘But what was it about a newspaper?’
‘Don’t know. I think he was trying to make some kind of hint. The page had a report about a cabinet minister. She’d done something to get in trouble.’
‘What was her name?’
‘The one who always wears those big dangly earrings. Her.’
Janet gave a mystified shake of her head as she reached for the teapot. ‘Ring me, will you? If you know what time you’ll be back.’
‘Will do.’
He was almost at the front door when she called again. ‘And Sean, don’t leave it any longer: sort out a minute to clear things up with DCI—’
; He banged the door shut behind him.
Janet waited a few seconds then reached for her iPad and opened a search window. She knew exactly which cabinet minister who Sean had tried to describe. Ursula Fitzgibbon, safe seat in North London, Minister for Arts and Culture and married to a ridiculously wealthy fund manager.
A quick search of her name immediately brought up the news story.
Before entering politics, Ursula had set up WellSpring, an organization that helped production companies source private funding for film projects. Her son, Sebastian, a recent graduate with no industry experience, had just been appointed as WellSpring’s new managing director.
Slowly, Janet raised a hand to her mouth and stared in horror at the wall.
THIRTEEN
A succession of notes filled the tram carriage. Some bitch had set her handset’s ring volume far too high.
‘Hello?’
The woman’s voice was tight with anger.
‘Yes, this is Heather Knight. You’ve only just arrived? Even though you said you’d be there by ten fifteen? And it’s now … That’s right, ten forty. Jesus Christ, first the cab company, now you. Where am I? On my way back to the office. I gave up waiting.’
He crept his gaze along, as if studying the row of advertisements above the windows. Save on travel insurance. Learn a new language. Relieve feminine itching. There she was, not five metres away. He focused on the window, studying her reflection in it.
Platinum hair in a side parting, not long enough to touch her collar. Eyebrows two immaculate arches. Lipstick that turned her mouth into a slash of red. A business suit. A brash obnoxious woman in a business suit. He hoped he’d be able to make this one writhe.
She jutted her chin out in preparation to speak.
‘That car was serviced two days ago. Two bloody days! Something about a fault with the ABS system. Oh, right, yes.’ A mocking tone entered her voice. ‘Just drive the thing with a message like that on the screen. Unbelievable. So that’s the official advice of your dealership? I bet BMW would be interested to hear that.’
Her free hand was grasping a ceiling rail. Oyster-coloured nails rose and fell, each one making a plastic tick.
‘OK … hold it right there. This is what you’re going to do. I left the key with the man in the Portakabin thing. Can you see it? Good. You’re going to retrieve the key from him and you’re going to sort that car out. Then, once it’s working properly, you’re going to deliver it to my home address, before Sunday evening. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll be reviewing our entire fleet agreement with you.’
He edged closer, while removing a small notebook from his pocket. Once it was open, he pursed his lips, as if attempting to recall something of significance.
‘Please,’ she interrupted, ‘don’t adopt a tone that implies you’re doing a favour for me. No, it’s gun-metal grey. The six series, over on the right? Well done! Sorry? You don’t have that to hand?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, have you got a pen? That’s something. It’s number sixteen, Kersal Mews, Didsbury. Yes, Knight, with a K. Correct.’
Thank you, he thought, jotting her address down on the page. Thank you so much.
‘Yes, this number is fine. Good bye.’
As soon as she ended the call, her phone rang again.
‘Hello, you.’ Her voice still held a trace of irritation. ‘No, I just finished dealing with a stupid man from the garage.’ She breathed deeply. ‘Imbeciles. Taking the piss – or trying to. I’ll tell you when you get back. You’re where? In a toilet? Why are you in a toilet? What about the ones who need to ring their wife or kids?’ She smiled wearily. ‘I don’t know. Silly boys and their stag-do rules. And you’ve got two more days of this? Poor little muffin, you’re going be in a right state. OK. No, I finish at lunch. A bath and then season two of The Crimson Rose. At least half of it. Easily! Only seven episodes, about fifty minutes each. Can’t bloody wait. OK. Tell Andy I said hi – oh, yes, maybe not then. Right. Just try not to, at least? Bye then. You, too. Bye.’
He slipped his notebook back in his pocket and glanced at her reflection. I’ll see you shortly, muffin.
FOURTEEN
Sean straightened his legs under the desk. Then, pretending to stretch his arms, glanced over his shoulder. The office manager was sitting with Maggie James, the lady who led up the CSWs.
Sean looked to where the rest of the team were sitting. One of the girls who’d started the same day as him was already in. He tried to remember her name. Something to do with a month. March or May. Stacey May?
She glanced up at that exact moment and caught him staring. Shit! He held up a hand and she sent back a quick, tight smile. Now, he asked himself, what do you do? Go over and talk? Yes, you should go over and talk. But what will you say? He closed down the conversation in his head and wandered over before any more doubts could set in. ‘Is it Stacey?’
Her frown caused a double-wrinkle to form across the bridge of her nose. Am image flashed: him kissing it. ‘Katie.’
Idiot, he thought, rolling his eyes in apology. ‘Right, Katie. I’m Sean.’
‘I know.’
Her answer was oddly abrupt. She seemed uncomfortable and he remembered the way she’d blushed when introduced to the team. ‘How are you finding things so far?’
She spread both hands above the sheets of paper covering her desk. ‘Busy.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Her eyes dropped momentarily to a particular printout.
‘Well … I’ll leave you to it.’ He was about to step back when a voice spoke behind him. ‘Were you after Inspector Troughton?’
He turned. Maggie James was walking past.
‘He’s now free.’
‘Great, cheers.’ He looked back at Katie. ‘See you later.’
Another brief smile.
‘Morning, Inspector. I wanted you to know I’ve gone through those last six transactions on Francesca Pinto’s financial records. They all correspond to legitimate companies.’
‘Record updated on the system?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Give me a few minutes to sort this lot and have a word with the allocator. Grab yourself a coffee or something.’
‘No problem. Do you want one?’
Troughton held a finger to a full cup.
Sean had set off for the doors when the inspector spoke again. ‘Oh, DC Blake?’
He retraced his steps. ‘Sir?’
‘A message came over from the ICU.’ A biro waggled in his hand. ‘Bit awkward, this – but best not to pay any more visits. I’m sure you understand.’
Sean blinked. ‘I thought, with it being so late, no family members would—’
‘Not a problem. Perfectly understandable.’
‘Thing is, sir, Mark Wheeler’s dad, he’s been wrongly led to believe that—’ Troughton’s phone began to ring.
Sean tried starting again. ‘I tried to explain that—’
But the office manager had already picked up the receiver. ‘Inspector Troughton speaking. No need, sir, I can get that for you.’
His seat swivelled round and Sean was left looking at the man’s back.
The coffee counter in the canteen had closed at noon. Sean checked his watch. Missed it by nine minutes. He altered direction for the vending machines, checking his pocket for change.
A few seconds later, a spindle of brown liquid descended into a plastic cup. The machine said its coffee was freshly ground. It was certainly making enough noise, he thought, for that to be true.
On the table beside him was a copy of yesterday’s paper. Someone had almost managed to complete the crossword. He lifted it up and studied the gaps.
Wood carving implement. Four letters, second being a D.
Heaven. Eight letters, starting with a V, second to last letter an L.
Sorrow. Three letters, last one an E.
French river. Five letters, middle one an I.
Fierce growling. Eight letters, second one an N, third one an A.
> He mentally jotted in the answers. Adze. Valhalla. Woe. Seine. Snarling. Thanks, Mum, he said to himself, thinking of the countless times she’d got him to sit with her at the kitchen table, newspaper open on the puzzles page.
He remembered the comment DS Fuller had made the day before. What the hell was going on with that? Who you know, he’d said. Sean opened out the pages and started trying to find the story.
He’d reached page nine when he heard a muffled shout of delight. He cocked his head. More voices were joining in, now accompanied by clapping. Someone let out a whoop.
He jogged out of the canteen and down the corridor. When he pushed open the doors of the incident room, everyone was on their feet. People were high-fiving each other. Ransford was in the centre of the room, punching the air.
Sean called to the nearest officer. The man’s face was beaming.
‘Cahill! The fucker’s just been caught.’
FIFTEEN
For a while, he toyed with the idea of mocking up a label that featured a BMW logo. After all, that’s who she thought she was dealing with. On reflection, he decided it could lead to her asking questions. And that would mean a delay on the doorstep. It was the only time in the process where he was vulnerable.
Where targets lived had to meet selection criteria just as strict as the targets themselves.
Women: crass, inconsiderate, high-handed, haughty or generally insolent.
The entrances to where they lived: modest.
He was amused by the contrast.
Front doors that were discreet. Hidden from view. Not making a statement. He looked for a high hedge, a large tree, a wooden fence: anything that served to obscure interaction and conceal the moment the electric charge was delivered.
Ironically, that was exactly the case with the cottage where Katherine Harpham lived. Two years ago, he’d been there along with other academy staff. It had been a beautiful summer evening and he could still picture the rose bushes that lined her front path. A deep porch with a tiled roof. She’d been in a cotton dress and sandals, hair hanging down, full of smiles. The hall carpet was, if he remembered rightly, an oatmeal brown. Thick, too. Enough to reduce the impact of landing on it with your muscles in a full rictus spasm.
