The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘I’m not going to speculate about whether DS Harris had prior knowledge of his son’s suspected involvement in this case. That would be a waste of my time and yours. If evidence comes to light, and we will actively be looking for such evidence, Martin Harris will be subject to due process like anyone else.

  ‘This is an unpleasant situation for us all. It’s easy to feel undermined, to lose heart. We’re not going to do that because we have a job to finish and you are a bloody good team. Look at what we’ve achieved: Dale Harris and Oliver Poole are here in custody, awaiting interview. Later today I’m confident we’ll be able to match their DNA profiles to our scene of crime. Look at what else we have. Four witnesses, who will help give us a narrative for the events of Friday night. Candida Gallego, sexually assaulted by Dale Harris in the Cavalier, Mahmoud Bishaar, who witnessed the murder itself, Louise Hill, who saw the men arguing and told us about the blood on Dale Harris’s shirt sleeve, and Feroz Hassan, who had the men in his cab, where they left traces of Allie Kennaway’s blood. On top of all that we have substantial forensic evidence from the scene that perfectly fits our eyewitness account. This is the home run,’ she said. ‘And I’m asking you all for a final push.’

  Donna lifted up the photograph of Allie Kennaway. ‘This is why we’re here and I believe we’re so close to establishing who killed this young woman. Focus on that. Continue to work as meticulously and with as much energy as you have been so far, and continue to share information. Check and double-check evidence as it comes in. I know you’re as committed to solving this murder as I am. If mistakes have been made, I have to hold my hands up and take the fall.’ She saw glances of sympathy and felt a softening in the air. ‘But I’m not going to let that distract me now, and neither should you. From here on in, everything will be handled in an exemplary fashion. Our work will be irreproachable. Please don’t discuss the situation with anyone outside the room.’ There were nods of agreement. ‘And I promise to inform you all as soon as we know anything more about how things stand. Thank you.’

  Her phone rang as she walked to her office.

  ‘DI Bell,’ she answered.

  ‘Sergeant Williams here, ma’am.’ Donna waited for him to say more, wondering if it related to their arrests. ‘I’m ringing as a matter of courtesy, ma’am. We’re about to announce the identity of the victim in yesterday’s road-traffic incident, involving Mr Bell.’

  Shit. She hadn’t recognized Williams’s name.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The deceased was Aaron Drummond, aged twenty-eight. Customer service assistant. Mr Drummond was married with two young children.’

  Oh, God. Donna closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘Will you be seeing your husband?’

  Do I have to do everything? It was all too much. The case, the kids, Jim’s trouble. This dead man and his children. His poor children. His wife.

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ she said.

  Visiting was eleven to midday. She’d arrive at half eleven, get someone to drive her, save time trying to park, and if she spent twenty minutes with Jim, she could be back to resume interviews by just after twelve.

  She rang down to the custody suite. ‘Where are we up to with lawyers for Dale Harris and Oliver Poole?’

  ‘We’ve Thomas McKinney on his way for Dale Harris.’ One of the city’s biggest defence lawyers. Martin must have arranged that. She’d go to someone like him if one of her kids was in Dale’s position. She tried to imagine it: Rob or Lewis in a cell, blood on their hands. What would she do if one of hers had hurt someone, killed someone? She couldn’t imagine hiding it, lying. Had Martin felt any qualms when he learnt his son was responsible? Had he hesitated at all before choosing to corrupt the investigation?

  ‘Oliver Poole has requested a duty solicitor, who is meeting with him now.’

  ‘I’ll start with him, then. No time to waste. Inform Poole and his solicitor that we’re conducting an initial interview soon as they’re ready.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Knocking at her door. She looked up to see the chief constable.

  Astonished, she got to her feet. ‘Sir? Come in.’ She was flustered, her breath catching.

  ‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘But I wanted a word. This business with DS Harris, the arrest of his son.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Is it going to be a problem for us?’ Any warmth in his manner had evaporated. He regarded her steadily.

  Well, what do you think? She wanted to defend herself, defend the team and their work, but it would be wrong to pretend things weren’t close to disastrous. ‘I don’t know, sir. DS Harris alleges he was completely in the dark about his son’s potential involvement, and he stepped down straight away. Professional Standards have been informed. I imagine they will want to audit his input.’ At the very least.

  ‘You check his work on the case so far. I want to know where we stand before they descend on us.’

  Donna thought about the missing tape from Fredo’s. What had Martin put in his notebook about that? Accusing Jade of losing it was obviously a fit-up. And Jade had talked about irregularities – plural. What else was there?

  God, he had fooled Donna so comprehensively. Sure, Martin had a reputation for a quick temper, for being a little heavy at times, jumping in. There’d been the odd fist-fight after a boozy night with the lads. The sort of night that Donna avoided or, if she had to show her face, left before it got raucous. Common enough for some coppers, handy with their fists. And that quality, the physical bravado, had served him well as a bobby, when he was facing real danger. When he piled in and disarmed a gangster with a handgun, or wrested a knife off a scally. Two awards for bravery. But beyond that there had never been any gossip that Donna had heard. No whispers about violence in the marriage, no whiff of dodgy dealings or unsavoury connections.

  The chief constable said, ‘I must ask whether you feel your existing relationship with DS Harris might impede any such assessment as regards impartiality and so on.’

  Her stomach clenched, her jaw too. The slimy bastard.

  ‘Our existing relationship is a professional one, sir. And I have no reservations about my ability to be impartial. I hope you don’t.’

  He didn’t reply, just gave a nod, then said, ‘And your husband? With this workload, if we need to bring someone in to take the reins . . .’

  ‘Thank you, sir. No, sir. I can manage.’ No way were they going to take this off her. Not now. This was her investigation, her team, what was left of it. And she would see it through to the end. Bitter or sweet.

  * * *

  Oliver Poole looked younger than his eighteen years, puppy fat in his face, though he was six feet tall. She’d put him at sixteen if she had to guess. He seemed withdrawn, hunched over and staring at the table, avoiding eye contact. Terrified, probably. He’d never been in trouble before, and now here he was, accused of the most serious of crimes and not allowed any contact with his family or friends. His solicitor and Donna were the only people he’d speak to in the immediate future. Donna had to make him feel safe, feel listened to. She had to get him to trust her, at least enough to tell her the truth.

  She ran through his rights for him, ensured he understood his situation and the grounds on which he was being questioned. The duty solicitor, Jeremy Chortle, whom Donna knew from previous interviews, sat with pen poised ready to make notes. Beside Donna, DC Thwaite did the same, a record of the session to accompany the video-recording already rolling.

  ‘Can you tell me where you were last Friday evening, Oliver?’ Donna said.

  ‘In town.’ He spoke quietly. She could barely see his face, head bent so low she was looking at the crown of his head, his ginger hair cropped close and bristly.

  ‘When did you get to town?’

  ‘Around half eight.’

  It was important to lead up to the event slowly or he might shut down altogether. Few peopl
e who killed were undamaged, emotionally and mentally, by the act. And for someone so young it would be even worse.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘A Cuban restaurant on Peter Street,’ he said.

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘Dale and Foz and Seggie,’ he said. The fact he was answering questions and wasn’t choosing to say, ‘No comment,’ gave her hope that they could make significant progress with him.

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘We went to the Cavalier.’

  ‘All of you?’

  ‘Just me and Dale.’

  ‘What happened to the others?’

  ‘There was a private party on. Seggie’s brother got them on the guest list but he couldn’t get us two on.’

  ‘How long were you in the Cavalier?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know when you left?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where did you go when you left?’ she said.

  ‘Nowhere. We just walked around for a bit.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just around. Deansgate and that.’ He began to tremble, the whole of his frame shaking, muscles twitching. He knew what was coming.

  She tried to calm him. ‘Thank you. Do you remember anything about the Cavalier?’

  ‘Not really.’ No mention of the harassment of Candida Gallego. Hiding it? Or oblivious? Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a bit of everyday sexual assault.

  ‘You were drinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you have to drink?’ she said.

  ‘Cider.’ Back in fashion. You could get dozens of different flavours now.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two rounds, I think.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’ The shaking had subsided.

  ‘Did you take any drugs?’

  He hesitated. She stayed silent. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually.

  ‘What did you take?’

  ‘Some C.’ A quick glance up at her, anxiety in his light brown eyes.

  ‘Cocaine?’ she said, matter-of-fact.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So, you’ve told me that you were in the Cavalier and you had some cider to drink, you took some cocaine, and when you left you wandered around town near Deansgate. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was circling closer to the crime, hoping he wouldn’t freeze up or break down. ‘Thank you. At that point what was your state of mind, your capability, given the substances you’d taken?’

  ‘Pretty much out of it,’ he said, sounding ashamed.

  ‘OK. Now I want to ask you about an incident that happened at around eleven fifteen that night, on Spring Gate Fold, a small side street off New Mill Street.’

  He trembled again, his breath audible, harsh and quick.

  ‘That was the site of an attack on a young transgender woman called Allie Kennaway. I think you know something about that. I think you can help us. What can you tell me, Oliver?’

  A drop of fluid landed on the table, then another. Was he crying?

  ‘Oliver, can you look at me, please?’

  He lifted his head. He was pale but dripping with sweat.

  ‘Would you like a drink of water?’ Donna asked him.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She signalled to DC Thwaite to fetch one. When the officer returned, Oliver took the paper cone and drained it.

  ‘You were there at Spring Gate Fold, weren’t you?’ Donna said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Whoa! It was a significant admission. She’d anticipated denials, an instinctive twisting and turning while she steadily worked on him, laying out the evidence they had, tying the noose tighter, but he was pliant, cooperative. Perhaps he was sickened, sorry for what he’d done. Wanted to make amends by finally taking responsibility.

  ‘Was Dale Harris with you?’ Donna said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a picture of Allie Kennaway,’ Donna said, placing the photograph they were using for the investigation on the desk, facing Oliver. ‘Did you see her there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Almost a whisper.

  ‘Can you tell me where she was when you first saw her?’

  ‘There, in the alley.’

  ‘In Spring Gate Fold?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Had you seen her before that?’ Donna asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was already there when you and Dale reached Spring Gate Fold?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you go to Spring Gate Fold?’ Donna said.

  ‘We heard someone calling for help.’

  Donna’s back stiffened. ‘You heard someone calling for help. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where were you when you heard someone calling?’

  ‘New Mill Street.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Nowhere, really. We just didn’t want to go home yet.’

  ‘So you heard calling, someone in trouble. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ He wiped his sleeve over his face, mopping at the sweat.

  ‘And what did you find when you got there?’

  ‘This bloke – he was after her, you know. He was trying to rape her. She was screaming and we tried to get him off.’

  Oh, God. ‘You and Dale?’

  ‘Yes. And he knocked her down and he pulled out a knife.’

  ‘OK. Can you describe this man?’

  ‘He was black, like, African.’

  Oh, Christ. He was blaming Bishaar. Donna felt tension lock across her shoulders. Her heart jumped. ‘How old?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How tall?’

  ‘Smaller than me, I reckon, maybe five seven or five eight.’

  ‘What else can you remember about him? What was he wearing?’

  ‘One of those shirts without a collar and trousers, like cargos, khaki.’

  All the details were consistent. Too consistent. Too easily recalled.

  ‘And you say he drew a knife?’

  ‘Yes. One of those big hunter’s knives. He said he was going to kill us. Then he grabbed me and held the knife to my neck. He told Dale to kick him.’

  ‘Kick Allie Kennaway?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was she at that point?’ Donna said.

  ‘Still on the floor. Not moving.’

  ‘What did Dale do?’

  Oliver shook his head, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘What did Dale do?’ Donna said again, keeping her voice level.

  ‘He kicked him.’

  ‘He kicked Allie Kennaway?’

  ‘Yes.’ Half the time he referred to Allie as ‘her’ and the rest as ‘him’.

  ‘Where did he kick her?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why aren’t you sure?’

  ‘I didn’t see it all. It was mental. The black guy had a knife at my throat. I was trying not to get cut. He kept shouting, “Again! Again!” and Dale had to do what he said.’

  ‘How many times did Dale kick her?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  Oliver’s head was down again. He didn’t reply. She repeated the question.

  ‘He made me kick her as well. He still had the knife. I couldn’t do anything.’

  If this was true, if any word of this was true, why would Bishaar call 999?

  ‘Did you kick her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He walked me over there, he had the knife on me.’

  ‘How many times did you kick her?’

  ‘Two or three.’

  ‘And after that what happened?’

  ‘He said we’d killed her. And he said if we spoke to the police or anyone else he’d come and find us. He said he was a child soldier. He’d been a child soldier in Africa and there was a gang of them here. They’d hunt us down and torture us. He said t
hat they’d – that – that . . .’

  ‘Take your time,’ she said, as he stumbled over his words.

  ‘He said they’d cut out our tongues and cut off our pricks and then skin us until we bled to death.’

  Child soldier? Torture? Jesus.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He told us to go home. And never to say anything.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Donna said.

  ‘We got a cab and we went home. We tried to cover it up.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We got rid of our clothes and our phones. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We were scared.’

  Maybe, but not of child soldiers and torture. Scared of being caught, of being found out. Scared of what they’d done. Oliver’s story was a load of bollocks. But it fitted the crime scene. It fitted the evidence, if you twisted it far enough.

  Evidence Martin Harris had been privy to. She was convinced beyond any doubt now that Martin Harris was up to his neck in it. It sickened her.

  Donna decided not to challenge Oliver yet. Let him think she’d swallowed the story of the ‘bogeyman’ who ‘made me do it’. And see what Dale Harris’s version of events was. Then she’d find a way to undermine their devious little plan.

  ‘That’s been very helpful,’ she said. ‘A couple more questions before we take a break.’

  Oliver looked across at her, eyes guarded, breathing still uneven.

  ‘When you first saw Allie Kennaway, did you know she was transgender?’

  ‘What?’ Was he playing for time?

  ‘When you first saw Allie Kennaway, did you know she was transgender?’ Donna said.

  ‘No. I thought she was just a normal girl.’

  ‘So when did you realize that she was a transgender woman?’

  He didn’t reply at first. He blinked and licked his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was it when you kicked her?’

  ‘No. After. When it came on the news.’

  ‘OK. And did you or Dale tell anyone else about this?’ Like Martin?

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Did anyone find out?’

  ‘Just you,’ Oliver said. His tawny eyes drilled by fear.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jade