by Chris Simms
‘What the fuck’s this?’ Cahill rubbed a hand along his jaw and gestured at Sean.
McMillan made a show of looking confused. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why’s he here?’
‘DC Blake is part of the investigating team,’ McMillan replied. ‘Now, Mr Cahill, if we can return to the incident. You stated that you dropped from the window onto the trampoline below, and, before you—’
Cahill leaned forward to better address Sean. ‘Keep sitting there, like a big man. Stare all you fucking want.’
Sean inclined his head the tiniest fraction in reply. Thanks, I will.
Cahill sat back in the chair, and as he did so, the short chain attached to the cuff around his wrist made a slinking sound.
McMillan suddenly seemed to be engrossed by the sheet of paper before her. The solicitor was frowning. As the silence stretched out, Sean willed himself to not look at the man’s hand. At the fingers that had gripped the sharpened screwdriver. The droplets of Mark Wheeler’s blood that had slewed off.
Cahill made a snorting noise, eyes drawn back to Sean’s.
Sean felt blood rising to his face. Do not look away. Keep eye contact.
‘I seen you, dickhead,’ Cahill sneered. ‘You weren’t the big man back there, were you? You little fucking—’
‘Ian?’ His solicitor placed a hand on Cahill’s forearm. ‘Stop speaking, Ian. DI McMillan, who is this colleague?’
She didn’t appear to hear the solicitor’s question. ‘Ah, yes. You were grappled to the ground by an unknown assailant and so struck out blindly in self-defence.’
Ignoring McMillan, Cahill shook the chain connecting him to the table, ‘You wouldn’t be fucking looking at me like that, if this was off.’
‘DI McMillan,’ the solicitor warned.
‘As soon as you were able,’ McMillan’s voice was growing louder, ‘you got to your feet and, in fear of your life, ran for the gate.’
The solicitor sat forward. ‘I asked you who this officer—’
‘You are nothing.’ Cahill spat. ‘You are fucking nothing!’
‘Mr Cahill,’ McMillan said, ‘you stated that you had no opportunity to identify anyone as being a police officer. Isn’t that right?’
‘Do not answer that question,’ the solicitor cut in.
‘However,’ McMillan glanced at Sean, ‘my colleague – who you have obviously recognized – was wearing items that clearly identified him as a—’
The solicitor started waving his hands above the table. ‘No, no, no, no, no – my client will not be answering any—’
The door banged loudly and Ransford stepped inside. Sean saw the solicitor’s head turn and used the opportunity to seek out Cahill’s eyes. He gave the other man the hint of a smile as he stood. Got you, you bastard.
As he passed his senior officer, Ransford gave a cough. ‘Mr Cahill, now we’ve established that what you’ve told us so far is a pack of lies, I have some photos I’d like you to look at.’
By the time Sean had let himself into the adjoining observation galley, DCI Ransford had laid out photographs of all three murder victims. At least six other officers were already in the narrow half-lit space.
‘Nice going, Detective,’ someone murmured.
‘You play poker?’ another voice asked. ‘Because you bloody should.’
On the other side of the glass, Ransford continued to speak. ‘… found dead in her home on Hurst Walk, Gorton.’ His hand moved to the next image. ‘Francesca Pinto, a twenty-nine-year-old solicitor who once acted on your behalf. Found dead in her home off Napier Court, Deansgate.’ His fingers tapped the final image. ‘And Victoria Walker, age twenty-one, of Urmston. She was found dead in her home on Pinner Street.’
Cahill’s head was jerking about now. His face shone with sweat.
‘DCI Ransford,’ the solicitor’s voice wobbled. ‘What is the relevance to my client—’
‘The last two women had been murdered in exactly the same way as Pamela Flood.’ Ransford was speaking directly at Cahill. ‘Both of them had willingly let someone into their home, as had Pamela. Someone all of them most likely knew.’
Cahill twisted towards his solicitor. ‘This is pure shite. I tell you, there is no fucking—’
‘Say nothing else!’ The solicitor pointed weakly at the photos. ‘My client has nothing further to say. I want this interview terminated and I want to know exactly what he’s being charged with!’
Ransford suddenly smiled. ‘Well, let’s not rush this. A magistrate has granted me an extension for questioning your client. Plenty of time to uncover what’s really been going on here. Right now, Mr Cahill, I have dozens of detectives combing every aspect of these three women’s lives. And deaths.’
‘I’ve never seen them two,’ Cahill spluttered. ‘And I didn’t kill Pam. This is pure fucking—’
His solicitor raised a hand. ‘Enough!’
In the observation room, Sean realized his face was nearly touching the glass. Remembering he wasn’t alone, he turned self-consciously to the shadowy audience beside him. ‘Good to see the piece of shit finally crack.’
TWENTY-ONE
He decided to chance it and drive Heather Knight’s BMW into Kersal Mews’ parking area. The gamble paid off: whoever owned the white Range Rover had now moved it. As he pulled into her space, he imagined what might have been said if she’d caught the owner. Another thought occurred. What if that person had been staying in Heather Knight’s flat? Maybe they were both going at it when he’d tried calling earlier. Yeah, she was probably into all sorts of stuff. Martin said she was a ball-breaker. Probably a dominatrix. What if she answered the door in black leather and fishnet tights? Invited him in for so kindly bringing her car back …
As he crossed the courtyard, he let the fantasy play out. By the time he pressed the doorbell, he was spread-eagled on black satin sheets, looking up at her as she slowly … still no answer. Fucking bitch.
Martin had tried her phone a couple more times either side of lunch. He’d said that, if she still didn’t answer her door, he was to just post the key through her letterbox with a note saying where the vehicle was.
He rang the bell again, just to be sure. A minute ticked slowly by. Right, that’s it then. He extracted a biro and note pad from the side pocket of his cargo trousers and wrote a message to say the car was in her slot. Dropping to one knee, he raised the flap of her letterbox.
Everything appeared exactly as it had earlier: all the doors were shut except the one to the right. By angling his head at the far end of the rectangular opening, he was able to partly see into what must be her front room.
She was bloody in there!
He could just make out the ends of her feet. She must be sitting down, in an armchair or on a sofa. He could even see the fingers of one hand draped over an armrest. What the fuck was her problem? Was she deaf?
‘Hello? It’s Gleesons – I’ve got your car. Miss Knight, can you hear me?’
She stayed perfectly still. Too still. For the first time, he felt a trace of uneasiness. Something wasn’t right. Straightening up, he reached for his phone.
‘Martin? Yeah, I’m here. Thing is, I can see her. Well, I can see her feet. Sitting in the front room. She could be wearing headphones. I thought if you try her phone again, it’ll cut off any track she’s listening to. OK, will do.’
He crouched down, phone still held to his ear. A few seconds later, the now familiar ringtone started to repeat.
‘Yeah, I can hear it. No, she’s not moving. I think something’s wrong with her.’
Ransford looked at his watch. Ten to four. Tina Small – Head of Media Relations – was leaning against the doorjamb of his office. As usual, her attention was on her phone. He watched her for a moment, marvelling at how fast her fingers worked. Then he checked the statement another time. ‘Right. Being questioned in connection with their murders, it will have to be. And, as it’s an on-going investigation, I can’t elaborate further.’ He sighed. Out
in the incident room, nothing much was happening. No hand shooting up, no cry of triumph. Nothing.
Preliminary forensics had failed to find anything to suggest Cahill had been in Victoria Walker’s flat. Same story for Francesca Pinto, and a team had spent two days in her home, going over it properly. No doubt the bloke was forensically aware – he’d been arrested enough times to have built up an understanding of how to avoid leaving any incriminating evidence. But to not leave a single trace of anything? Ransford tried to push the doubts from his mind.
‘Shall we head down?’ Tina said, glancing up from her screen.
He reached for the statement, fingers hovering above it. If only they’d found a phone call or text. Under section 18 of PACE, all other properties connected to Cahill had been entered and searched. Even residences he was known to only occasionally visit. Plenty had been found on his on-going crash-for-cash scam, but nothing to do with Pinto or Walker.
‘DCI Ransford?’
He blinked. ‘Sorry. Yes, let’s get going.’
‘Miss Heather Knight?’ The police constable waited a moment, then lowered the flap of the letterbox. He looked up at an older, larger colleague and shook his head.
Now standing a few metres back, the garage delivery driver’s eyes gleamed with interest.
The older officer put his hands on his hips and regarded the window of the front room. ‘What do you reckon? This or the door?’
His colleague shrugged. ‘Less mess if it’s the door?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. And I’m not climbing through a window frame of broken glass. Have a check, then.’
The younger officer grasped the door knob and gave it a shake. Then he held a palm to the upper part of the door and tested it. Pressing the toe of one boot against the lower corner, he repeated the move. ‘Just one lock engaged at the midpoint, here.’
‘No bolts drawn?’
‘Nope.’
‘And that’s a Yale?’
‘It is.’
‘Want to do the honours?’
He glanced over to the patrol car parked on the road. ‘We’re not using a hooly bar?’
‘No need. Not for a single Yale.’
‘You’ve done it before.’
‘Come on. Good a time as any to break your duck.’
‘OK.’ He flexed his knees a couple of times. ‘Here, then? On the keyhole?’
‘That’s right. But before you enter the property, it would be a good idea to do something else.’
The younger officer frowned. ‘Something else?’
His colleague lifted a hand and waggled his fingers.
‘Oh. Gloves.’
‘Correct.’
They both pulled on pale blue latex gloves.
‘Use your heel. It’s all in the heel.’
The younger officer took a step back and drew in a breath. Then he lifted a knee and kicked out, both elbows jabbing back with the effort.
The door flew open.
‘Ten out of ten,’ the older officer announced. ‘After you.’
The younger one stepped cautiously into the hallway. ‘Miss Knight? Police. Can you hear me?’
The older officer held a finger to the garage employee. ‘Come nowhere near this door, understood?’
He nodded.
The older officer spoke to his colleague’s back as he stepped inside. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’
‘Oh Jesus, oh—’
The younger officer was retreating from the doorway of the front room, a forearm pressed against his mouth. His cheeks bulged out then in.
‘If you’re going to spew, do it outside!’ The older officer pulled him out the way and peered into the room beyond. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Ransford stepped up to the lectern. The whiteboard behind him was illuminated by the logo of Greater Manchester Police. Before him stood a group of ten or so journalists. Tina Small watched from the side of the room, eyes checking the feeds of her phone every few seconds.
‘I have a statement,’ Ransford announced, ‘in relation to the attack on a detective constable last Thursday and in relation to the murders of three women in the Manchester area. I can take questions at the end, but this investigation is on-going, so my responses will be limited in light of that fact.’
He placed a hand on either side of the lectern. During his recent training course with Tina, she’d encouraged him to do this. According to her, it imparted an impression of authority and confidence.
Someone’s phone went off. In the periphery of his vision, he registered Tina turning away as she took the call. He scanned the printed statement, trying to refind his place.
‘Late yesterday morning, a thirty-seven-year-old man was arrested in the Middleton area of Manchester. This man was being sought for the attack on a detective constable that is now being treated as attempted murder. The officer in question is still in a critical condition as a result of the injuries he sustained. In addition to—’
His speech ground to a halt as Tina stepped up onto the small dais.
The first thing she did was turn the microphone off. She then ushered him a couple of steps towards the back wall and whispered into his ear. ‘Do not give any reaction to what I’m about to say, other than to nod. Another body has just been found.’
Ransford said nothing for a second. ‘Where?’
‘In Didsbury. She was killed very recently.’
‘How recently?’
‘After the arrest of Ian Cahill.’
TWENTY-TWO
He removed his shoes while standing on the rubber mat just inside his front door.
His slippers were aligned neatly on the carpet just beyond it. After stepping into them, he turned round, picked up his shoes and placed them on the wooden rack behind the door. Further in the house, a clock ticked.
On the lower shelf were his Karrimor hiking shoes. He had visited a massive sports outlet on the edge of the city centre the previous year. Once there, tempted by the loudly marked special offers, he had purchased a pair of Hi-Tec ones. It was a decision he immediately regretted. The level of workmanship was, in his opinion, shoddy. It had been the impulsiveness of the purchase that riled him most as he’d dropped them into the collection container for a charity. He’d then driven to the specialist hiking shop on a side road in the unfashionable town of Hyde that he’d frequented for years. There, he’d invested in a proper pair.
A single black-and-white photo dominated the hall area. It was of his grandfather, Frederick. He was in his army uniform, and it had been taken two days before he’d set off for France. Two months later, he was dead. Pulverized into the Passchendaele mud.
The dining room table doubled as his study. His computer and printer were located on a desk in the same corner. A filing cabinet was positioned beside it and above that was a small shelving unit. Most of it was taken up by instruction manuals and technical guides.
The dining room table was never actually used for meals. Not since Mother had passed. Since then, no one had been invited into the house. The large expanse of wood made a good area for marking assignments. Plenty of room to arrange the students’ papers into a production line with himself – green biro in hand – at the midpoint.
Above the computer was a magnetic noticeboard. As he sat down, he studied the timetable at its centre. It was for the previous academic year, but experience had taught him dates for training days rarely varied.
Last year, Monday the nineteenth had been allocated. In previous years, that had entailed toe-curling away-days. Team exercises to build rapport among the college’s beleaguered teaching resource. Forced cheer and manufactured camaraderie. Fortunately, budgetary restrictions had put a stop to such nonsense. More recently, staff members were encouraged to arrange their own Continued Professional Development activities. He bet that, for most, it consisted of a day at home, lounging about and doing nothing.
He brought the computer to life. His employment had been officially terminated several weeks ago. He wondered if the IT
department had already disabled his access to the system. Logic and prudence dictated that they should have. But he knew the department to be so slow, he suspected them of recalcitrance.
Opening the staff area resulted in the usual login screen. He tried his username and password.
Invalid. Please see your administrator.
Well, well, they had actually performed their duties with a degree of efficiency. He opened the college’s main site. From the tabs that ran along the top of the screen, he selected academic calendar. At the side of the page, he selected the year view.
A spreadsheet design appeared, days and weeks colour coded into squares and strips. As he thought, the third Monday of the month had been set aside for staff training. He knew that Katherine – or Kat as she liked to call herself when dealing with students – was an ardent believer in the power of social media. The college corridors were festooned with posters so brightly coloured, they smacked of desperation.
Would students please like this or follow that?
No wonder they were always stuck to their bloody phones. He selected the Principal’s Message from the home page. There were her banal words telling prospective students that, if they believed in themselves and reached higher, they could be the best.
At the bottom of her message was a series of icons. The blue bird thing would, he guessed, be where her latest witterings could be viewed. He clicked on it.
There was her thumbnail photo, grinning inanely out at him. He studied the clumsy frames of her retro glasses. Her splayed fringe that hung so low her eyebrows were obscured. The ridiculous bun arrangement on the top of her head and the long tresses of hair that fringed her chubby face.
He scanned through her latest comments. There was bound to be something; she was unable to maintain any kind of silence for long, in the real world or the virtual. To do so required a degree of dignity. A measure of sagacity. Qualities she didn’t possess.
Three things about the abuse that followed the incident in his classroom surprised him.
First, was how fast it began. That, he came to learn, was the power of social media. Messages to the academy’s Facebook page, comments to its Twitter account, emails to his work address. The flood of vitriol was beyond belief.
