George took his time getting the account. But he rushed over the end. He had the detail he needed; he didn’t want to interrupt in case there was something significant, but there was no need to labour the painful bits. George was well aware that he’d have to sit Stan down to go through it all again on video. For now, at least, he had been tortured enough.
When Stan was finished, George left him in the living room. Paul was still with him. George felt bad about that. He could only imagine the atmosphere in there.
Now he walked back past the lounge. Ali led him out through the front door and into the fresh air. To see the scene from outside meant walking the long way round. The back door was completely off-limits. Ali pulled her mask away. George did the same. They walked up the side of the house, stopping just a few metres away from where they had started. Ali’s attention was fixed on the rutted ground.
‘So those are the tracks I mentioned. I got a good lift from those. They will go off for analysis, but I can tell you from experience that they are from something four-by-foury. The tyres in general are wider than a normal car and the treads are too far apart. They’re from a 4x4, but something with proper off-road tyres on.’
George was careful to step where Ali had. He could see clear tracks, a tread mark with tyre knuckles pressed into the mud. He could also see where the tracks slipped, as if a car had skidded close to the kitchen door. It fitted exactly with Stan’s account.
‘So not your Chelsea Tractor type.’
‘Exactly. Maybe even a farm vehicle, like a proper Landy. That sort of thing.’
George nodded. Land Rovers were the vehicle of choice for a lot of farmers. ‘And the analysis, will that be more exact?’ he said.
‘Well . . . yes and no. It will usually give you the make of the tyre, sometimes we can do wear analysis too. Of the tyre, that is. That can be useful if you have something to compare it to. It’s like a footprint for tyres — each one has a unique wear pattern.’
‘But we need something to compare it to.’
‘Exactly. And the sooner the better. As for our victim, the wound and the positioning of Mrs Wingmore is consistent with a single gunshot wound to the stomach. The size of the wound puts the weapon at around five metres away from the victim — possibly a little closer. Judging by the splatter and her position, it would put our shooter outside of the house when the trigger was pulled. We’ll be able to do a little bit more on the slab with the wound. With gunshots we can often tell about angles and trajectory, but shotgun wounds are harder. Her wound is basically a clump of mess. A more clinical weapon would have a far more obvious entry and exit route. I’ve measured the wound front and back, and it’s level enough for me to suggest that the attacker fired from the hip. But that’s not going to appear written up formally in any report. And it won’t appear in any court papers. They may have just aimed blindly at the doorway, but that’s for the investigation to decide.’
‘The levels?’
‘Yeah, put very simple, if the wound is higher at the front than the back the round would have been fired downwards. That’s consistent with a rifle held into the shoulder and aimed — looking down a sight. If it’s lower at the front than the back then it’s fired from the floor and if it’s level — as in this case — then it’s likely to have been from the hip.’
‘Sounds logical.’
‘It is. Whether that’s helpful or not is another question. I’ve seen it become significant in self-defence cases. One offender I remember claiming he fired blindly from the floor because he was getting a kicking. I showed very easily that that was utterly impossible. I could show he had aimed with a high velocity rifle butted up against his shoulder. It was fifty-fifty to that point — but he got twenty-five years.’
‘That sort of result would do me here,’ George said. ‘This scene may not be in our favour though. To prove murder, we’d have to prove intent. I’d rather you said our killer was aiming.’
‘Shooting at a doorway where you know people are stood . . . that’s not enough these days.’ And a shotgun spreads out. It covers a big area. From this range you can’t miss and any centre-mass wounds will always be fatal.’
‘It’s enough for me, Ali. A jury is an unpredictable animal, though. You get our shooter in his best suit saying he was chased and he panicked and fired a warning shot from the hip? I’ve seen it work.’
‘UK justice at its finest.’
‘We need to prove what we know is all — and beyond reasonable doubt. Anything else you can tell me?’
‘The scene will take a couple of days, George. It’s just me for now and I don’t see me getting any help soon. It’ll take hours just to pick up all the shot and wadding. I will give you the full report as soon as I can. Janice may give us some more when she is laid out in the morgue, but I’m not sure what else she knows. I think she was stood at her kitchen door when a shotgun round was fired into the home, through her. If that’s consistent with what our friend in the living room has said then I can say I know how she died. His account also gives us the why and the when.’
‘So we’re just missing out on the who.’
‘Indeed. The best bit. I’ll do what I can with that. The log said there were four offenders and we know they entered the home. There aren’t any foot impressions that I can see — I’ve had the UV out, and there were no obvious prints. But I’ll do a proper dust and sweep again. I’ll get a search team through for a fingertip search too. If a hair, a flake of skin or so much as a bogey has fallen off one of them I want it found. We need to get lucky. But, then, don’t we always need a bit of luck?’
‘We do. And if karma’s a thing then lady luck will be with us on this one. These were decent people woken up from their beds.’
‘Seems that way, George. You need anything more from me?’
‘Don’t think so. I have every faith. I’m genuinely surprised you’re bothering with the search team — like you would miss anything!’
‘I know, right! It’s protocol. I had this tutor at uni — a forensic scientist and a right perv, he was. I always turned the UV on his crotch by accident — that sort, you know? Anyway he always advocated as many initial searches as possible when everyone else was saying to be aware of keeping your scene as sterile as possible. He had this saying: every torch casts a different shadow. I thought yeah, whatever, but he’s right you know. I’ll never forget that.’
‘He definitely stole that from somewhere!’
‘You’re probably right. I still like it though. We all see the world ever so slightly differently, George. That includes a crime scene.’
‘This just got a little deep for me. I’d better let you get back to casting your shadows.’
‘I’ll call you with anything really important.’
‘I know you will. In the meantime, I will lean on the boss and see if I can’t get you some help up here. This is a big job on your own.’
Ali smiled. Her mouth was covered again by a new mask ripped from its packaging, but George could see the twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘Keeps me busy up here, George. Sometimes it’s nice to just be left alone, you know.’
George suddenly felt his phone buzzing but knew there was no way he would reach it in time through a layer of clothing and a forensic suit. ‘I certainly do,’ he said. He walked round to the front of the house where Paul stepped out to meet him.
‘Sorry about that, Paul. I didn’t want to leave you alone with Stan but until Tim gets here one of us will need to stay with him.’
‘I spoke to Tim on the phone. He can’t do it, George. He’s got leave booked and he’s going away in a few days. He said he could do the next couple of days but I told him not to worry. I didn’t think you would want him to come in only to be swapped out.’
‘Shit!’ George said. Paul was right, the whole idea of having a FLO was to build a relationship with the witness, to get right under his skin, to become trusted. That needed someone who could be there for as long as it took — no interruptions. ‘You
’re right, Paul. We need someone who can be in right from the start and keep it up. Someone Stan will trust.’
Paul bit down on his bottom lip. ‘I don’t really know who’s on the list anymore. It’s a shame, George — Tim would have been perfect.’
‘He would. I need someone just like him, someone who is good at listening, who comes across as supportive and trustworthy, but who also understands investigations. Now . . . where could I find someone like that?’ George lingered on Paul.
It took Paul a couple of seconds to cotton on. ‘Oh no! No way, George!’
‘Mate, I can’t think of anyone better. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I honestly wouldn’t have even bothered Tim — you’re perfect!’
‘No, George. I can’t do it. You have to do the course and get signed off — it’s a big job, you can’t just play at it.’
‘You’ll do it right, Paul, I know you will! And don’t you worry about courses and all the rest. You have every attribute in spades. And, right now, Whittaker would be more than happy for us to take the initiative. I reckon he’s about to have a shortage, don’t you?’
‘George, come on! I don’t know what I’m doing. Really.’
‘None of us do! Look after Stan. Be here with him at some point every day, help him get over this shit state of affairs and find out anything you can from him that might help. You’ve worked with enough FLOs. You know what they can do.’
‘Yeah, but Stan! George, he’s been smashed to pieces. He’s like Humpty Dumpty in there.’
‘And you are all the king’s men, Paul. I can think of no one better.’
George could feel his phone start vibrating again. ‘I got to get this,’ he said.
Paul called after him: ‘You realise that all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again, right?’
George moved the phone away from his mouth. ‘Then be better, Paul. I believe in you!’
Chapter 9
Jenny still wore the same white top, the sleeves pulled up over her wound, the material frayed, singed and stained with dry blood. Her jeans were scuffed at the knees from climbing the wall and she was caught by a stab of pain in her ribs as she turned to where Anne called out to her in the kitchen. Jenny had gone to her room to tie her hair back and freshen up with some borrowed toiletries.
‘Are you in pain?’
‘I bumped my side. I think it’s just bruised is all.’
‘You really are in the wars, love, aren’t you? You make sure they take you to get checked out at the hospital.’
‘I will do. It could be worse.’ Jenny hesitated. She thought about Joseph again, about what had happened to him, about how he hadn’t stood a chance. He’d been a sitting duck. He’d had been a good man too; they’d had their problems, but he was not the type to run away when she fell pregnant and she didn’t run when he moved them across the country using hotels that accepted cash only. If she was honest with herself, she had known that he was involved with something from the start, but she had convinced herself it wouldn’t affect her. Now she wished she had asked more questions. Then at least she might have more of an idea of just how deep it ran, how much danger she was really in.
‘Are you sure this is the right thing to do?’ Jenny said.
‘What else can you do, love? You got to put your faith in the police. There’s no one else who can help you. You can’t stay hidden in the loft forever, can you? Just think, you could be holding your little girl within the hour.’
‘I just can’t face stepping out there. Maybe they could come here?’
Anne shook her head. ‘Some of the other residents are starting to get back. I can’t have police attention here and I reckon there will be a lot of it when they work out who you are. I’ve had it before. There was just a door knock about a car accident out the front — some two-minute conversation with a bloke in uniform. Before I knew it I had three empty rooms. The government gives me a decent grant for every one of them. That grant scarpers when they do.’
‘Okay.’ Jenny was aware she didn’t sound sure. She wasn’t sure; there was nothing she could do to hide it.
‘Don’t worry. Look, I’ll drop you right at the door. I’ll come in with you. There won’t be a problem. Who would do anything to you walking into a police station?’
‘These people, Anne . . . broad daylight . . . people around — it didn’t seem to matter to them. I know what will happen, we’ll go in and they’ll sit me down to wait out front. Anyone could be coming in and out. It takes a second, Anne. I’ve seen that.’
‘I’ll tell you what . . .’ Anne clicked her fingers. ‘We’ll call ahead. Tell them we’re on our way down and that we want someone waiting or we’re not coming at all. It was 1-0-1, right? The number?’
‘1-0-1, yeah. Okay, that sounds good.’ Jenny sucked in a lungful of air. She knew this had to happen. Anne was right: she couldn’t hide in the loft forever and she had to see Isobel. She just didn’t want to feel scared any more. Surely at the police station she wouldn’t have to.
Anne gestured at some folded clothes that were stacked on the table. ‘I had a family here, they upped and left a while ago, they left a lot of their belongings. It happens a lot. The wife was about your size. I fished out some bits. They look clean to me. I figured you could do with a change.’ Anne was looking her up and down. Jenny could hardly disagree. ‘You know . . . before we go outside. I know you don’t want to be drawing attention to yourself right now do you, love?’
‘I guess you’re right.’ The new clothes were a slim-fitting pair of black jeans, a long-sleeved red top and a zip-up black gilet with front pockets and a grey hood. What she really wanted was a change of underwear — some of her own underwear. That would have to wait. ‘Thanks, Anne . . . you know . . . for everything.’
Anne nodded. She had her phone to her ear already. Jenny took the hint and moved to the back of the kitchen to get changed. Jenny could still hear Anne on the phone.
‘Hello, I’m ringing to let you know that I am bringing the girl down to the police station — the girl who ran away from the shooting yesterday.’
Jenny bit down on her lip; said out loud, the description made it sound like someone else.
‘In Dover.’ Anne rolled her eyes at Jenny. ‘No, I won’t be giving any details about me — no, you don’t need to know who I am. I will be dropping her down in ten minutes but we will only come in if there is someone there to meet us. This girl has had quite a time of it, she needs to be safe.’ Anne frowned into the phone, she made a gesture that suggested someone was typing. ‘No, you don’t need my address. We are coming to you. Look, we are on our way. Have someone meet us, okay?’ Anne pressed to end the call. She spoke to Jenny, ‘Honestly, they want to know the ins and outs of a duck’s arse! Why can’t they just listen and do their job?’
Anne was still holding the phone. It rang almost immediately. She scowled at it then lifted it to her ear.
‘Hello . . . Oh, Jesus! What is the matter with you people? You need what? How does that keep us safe? Fine, look, I will be in a blue Fiat, I will pull up outside and I would like a police officer to come out and meet us. If you can’t assure me of that then I won’t be coming down. Yes, yes, I understand that. I agree we need to get her safe, that’s why I am doing what I can.’ Anne sighed, and shook her head.
Jenny felt nervous all of a sudden, she tried not to think too far ahead. She just needed to get into a car, the station was just a few minutes away and the police would be waiting to meet her. They had her daughter; they would be reunited. And they would be safe.
‘I’m not telling you that,’ Anne snapped down the phone. ‘I said that already. We are ten minutes away and we will be coming from the sea side of the town. That’s all you need to know, thank you for your help. Goodbye!’
Anne was off the phone. ‘Well, the police have finally agreed to our terms!’ Anne chuckled playfully. ‘Let’s get you safe, love.’
Jenny’s new clothes were a good eno
ugh fit. The jeans were a little tight and they rubbed against her grazed knee, but she was barely aware of the discomfort. Other residents were coming in as they left through the communal front door. Jenny kept her head bent. The same car that had had its bonnet up the previous day still seemed to be the centre of two men’s attention despite the persistent rain. They leaned over the engine with hoods pulled over their heads. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to the woman skulking in the passenger seat of the old, blue Fiat. The car started at the second attempt, it coughed a little and Anne wiped at the condensation on the windscreen with her sleeve.
‘She’s an old bird — needs a few minutes to warm up. Just like her mother.’ Anne played with the heating controls. The fan was loud, and the noise filled the cabin. Jenny was glad of the layer of moisture and condensation, she felt concealed. Safer. The car bounced a little as it pulled away. The traffic was constant and slow moving. They had to turn left into a two-lane, one-way system and a roundabout was upon them immediately. Anne went all the way around it and, as they headed back towards the town of Dover, Jenny was on the side nearer to the sea. She peered out over the dull, grey waters that seemed to mirror the sky exactly. Just a few days earlier, on a far sunnier day, they had walked as a family along the promenade and been to all the seafront attractions. Both Jenny and Joseph loved the sea air and panoramic views. Isobel had slept soundly — she was such a content little girl. Jenny had thought at the time that they all seemed to be content for once, that maybe their life together would start settling down soon. Joseph had promised it often enough, he had even agreed to them looking for somewhere to rent more permanently in the area. Only a week had gone by since then, but it felt like a lifetime ago.
THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 7
