by Ian Robinson
‘So, if it isn’t linked to any police control room, how will it help me?’ she questioned.
‘Simple. If we go out on a job and I get called away–’
‘As you usually do,’ she interjected.
‘Yeah, yeah. Well, all I have to do is call this phone and the line goes live. I can hear everything being said and if needs be co-ordinate the cavalry or make an assessment, you’ll be fine. Either way, if chummy picks it up it looks like a dead phone, like you assumed, so what do you reckon? Will you accept the gift and think about taking it out when we’re together?’
Harris slid the phone back across the table to Nash who placed it in her coat pocket along with two other phones that operated normally. Anyone watching would have thought it a strange transaction but it wouldn’t do their reputation any harm if a criminal had observed them.
‘I’ve taped the number on the back of the cavalry phone. Remove it before you carry it. Give the number to any other female on your team, as I know I’d be punching above my weight with you,’ Harris said with a smirk.
‘I’m sure your wife would be overjoyed with me facilitating that,’ Nash replied.
Harris rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue in his cheek as he checked his watch.
‘I’ve gotta shoot but please consider meeting our man in the phone shop again. This job’s working out to be bigger than anyone expected and it would help me out too,’ Harris said before he downed his coffee and got up to leave.
‘I’ve got these,’ he said as he saw Nash produce a twenty-pound note from her purse.
Nash nodded her thanks knowing full well Harris would claim it all back on expenses.
She watched him leave. Not out of affection, but to ensure he wasn’t being followed. She continued as far as her eyes would allow through the main window from where they’d been sitting. She felt the phones in her coat and rolled one around her fingers. She picked up her work phone and called DS Matthews.
‘Anything back from billing on the victims’ phones?’ she asked.
‘I’ll check, just wait a mo.’
Nash waited while her ear filled with the rustle of paper and the bang of desk drawers. Finally, Matthews came back on.
‘Yes, we do. Shall I leave it on your desk?’
‘Give it to Moretti. I’ll see him later and go through it with him, cheers,’ she said.
She hung up and gathered herself together to leave. Before doing so she messaged Moretti: “Free to meet in next hour?”
She waited, then a reply came through.
Yes. I’m with Owen and have the papers. See you at usual place?
“Great,” she replied as she left one cafe and headed for another.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The sun graced Nash’s face as she strolled towards the Tate Modern.
She’d made use of the Tate Modern as a DC when out getting statements or on lab runs when Lambeth was the Met’s home for forensics. As a UC, she’d always come here before a meet if she was leaving straight from the police station in order to relax and desensitise from policing before she had to change role to whatever act was required. Today was different. Her timing was impeccable as Moretti was parking the car he’d arrived in, and placing a police vehicle logbook in the window. Nash joined him and they entered the building together.
They found a quiet table in the restaurant area, ordered a bottle of water and sat back.
‘So, have you had any chance to look at the phone data? I appreciate that may be a tall ask,’ she said as she poured Moretti some water from the recyclable glass bottle before supplying her own glass.
‘I haven’t, but I did catch five minutes with Owen. He said he’d scanned through them and there was nothing obvious screaming from the pages. He’s still got his team looking at where Melissa’s personal phone was purchased. Her work mobile was ordered through her company from a high street phone provider,’ Moretti said.
He took a sip of water and wished it was a Stella Artois. He passed Nash a photocopy of the data.
‘This is phone data from Melissa’s personal phone,’ he said.
Nash took it and started reading down the list of numbers.
‘You’re right, there isn’t much here at all. I recognise the contact details for her parents and – here – the number that was being used by Buchanan. It was on the business card he used.’ She pointed to the number and showed Moretti on his copy.
‘So he’d contacted her two days before she died, at 6:15 p.m. The call was brief so it could’ve been to arrange a meeting or confirming one?’ Nash questioned.
She looked up at Moretti who was engrossed in his own sheet. She was thinking why DS Matthews hadn’t picked up on it, but she put it down to human error due to the long hours they’d endured.
‘Could be. If it was Buchanan who killed her, he’s not interested in calling to confirm she’s in as he’d only have had a mobile number and she could’ve been anywhere,’ Nash said, rattling a Bic biro between her teeth. She stopped as she could see Moretti was getting annoyed at the sound and continued.
‘We do know the location where the call was made from though. This is the cell site data from Buchanan’s phone that was found on him when he was nicked,’ Moretti said as he handed her another sheet of paper.
Nash glanced down the sheet and looked up at him.
‘If I’m reading this right then the phone triangulation puts the call coming from a mast closest to Buchanan’s girlfriend’s address. How far is that from Melissa’s flat?’ Nash asked.
Moretti brought up Google Maps and checked the address and the route by car.
‘By motorbike he could easily be there within ten minutes,’ he said.
Nash considered the information before commenting. Whether this was relevant or not was too early to say and Buchanan wasn’t going to be explaining much more to them anyway.
‘So he wasn’t that far from the victim’s block, and we know where his phone was when the call to the victim was made two days prior to her death. Let’s get JJ over to the girlfriend’s flat and see what she has to say. Get him to put some pressure on to establish Buchanan’s movements. I’m aware she was spoken to on the night of his arrest but this is new information. She may choose to help now the dust has settled and he’s out of her flat. She didn’t seem too upset at his arrest from what I heard,’ Nash said.
Moretti made a note in his daybook as Nash continued.
‘Jonesy tried to have a month’s worth of CCTV footage recovered from the block’s hard drive to see if he could ascertain if Buchanan had been working there as he’d said. Unfortunately, the hard drive was too corrupted the further back it went. It’s un-viewable in terms of quality. He’s searched through what he can but he’s not hopeful. The concierge is non-committal as to whether he’d seen Buchanan on any occasion in the block. Jonesy showed him the image from the website and the concierge wasn’t forthcoming. I don’t understand how a block with residents who clearly have money wouldn’t be concerned that the CCTV for the building was crap and the concierge was as useful as a cardboard cut-out!’
Moretti nodded in agreement.
‘So where do we go from here, DI Nash?’
‘Is it down to the lake I fear…?’
‘Very good. I never had you down as a Haircut One Hundred fan?’
‘There’s so much you don’t know about me, DS Moretti… so much you don’t know,’ Nash joked. ‘Any news from Buchanan’s solicitor?’
‘Only asking when we plan to let him out and when he can get his property back. She either believes he’s innocent or she’s incredibly naive. My money is on the former. Our evidence is weak, Pip. We only have the evidence on Buchanan’s boot and some phone data that only amounts to where his phone was at the time a call was made to Melissa Phelps. We can’t say for certain it was Buchanan that made the call despite having no reason to believe it wasn’t him. He clearly prized his phone, as he was reluctant to give it up on arrest. Owen plans to get a DC on his team
to work on the numbers shown in the log and ascertain whom they belong to. He felt, from your call, you wanted to see the data sooner rather than later.’
Nash shrugged by way of reply. Moretti broke her thoughts.
‘Buchanan’s provided an explanation as to why he was at the flat. There’s evidence that recent tiling work has been done in the bathroom. Work he intimated he’d done and was seeking payment for. He’s either being very clever and targeted two women who needed bathroom work doing or he’s telling the truth,’ he said to Nash, who leaned back and rubbed her temples as she considered Moretti’s reasoning.
‘Possibly. At present he’s all we’ve got. He could be telling us the truth, or his solicitor has prepped him on the statement and answers he should give with the knowledge of what a forensic scientist would look for in the circumstances. She could’ve provided him with ideas as to why he’d have been in her bathroom and how he was likely to react once he’d realised this was the case,’ Nash replied.
Her phone rang. She answered and the dulcet tones of the Silverfox rang in her ears.
‘Pip, I have something for you,’ he said.
Nash covered the mouthpiece with a cupped hand.
‘Is it our murder weapon with a suspect and a taped confession that will stand up in court?’ she said.
The Silverfox chuckled. ‘I thought you already had that?’
Nash heard him laughing down the phone before he recovered and continued.
‘Sadly not, but we’ve had information about a lockup used by your man Buchanan. I’ll message the address and pass everything else to Owen, DS Matthews, I mean.’
Nash motioned for Moretti to pass her some paper.
‘Go on,’ she said, and wrote down the address on a napkin as Moretti refused to tear a page out of his book.
‘What am I likely to find there?’ Nash enquired, with a note of caution to her voice.
‘Nothing that would cause you extra work, so I’m told, but obviously my individual hasn’t been in there, they’ve just heard he has access to it.’
‘Access?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, does he own it, rent it, or is he squatting?’ Nash probed.
‘Let’s just say my friendly is satisfied that he is the sole user,’ the Silverfox stated.
‘Thank you. I will get on it,’ Nash said and terminated the call.
Moretti put his empty glass down on the table.
‘Our invaluable source unit?’ Moretti said.
‘The very same. We have a lockup Buchanan uses. Cancel that JJ visit to the girlfriend for now. We’ll wait until the lockup has been searched and reassess,’ Nash said.
Moretti hadn’t made contact with JJ so all was good. They finished up and after a coffee they left and returned to the car.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The lockup was a single garage in a long block. Its up and over door was newly fitted and looked to be part of a planned refit by the council. Buchanan’s girlfriend, Tiffany, stood with Moretti, Nash and JJ. She’d sniffed on being passed the search warrant and handed over a set of new keys on a wire ring to JJ. She followed them down to the block where she pointed out her garage door that JJ opened.
‘You’ve obviously got fuck all better to do than harass my partner and me while a lunatic is out killing women,’ Tiffany drawled in her North London twang.
Nash ignored her and concentrated on JJ.
Tiffany refused to enter the garage and insisted she remained outside to smoke. Nash nodded at Moretti who got the picture he should join her, while Nash, JJ, and DC Mellor from the outside enquiry team conducted a search of the garage.
At the back of the garage was an old freshly painted Honda 250cc, with a metal rear rack and panniers attached to the sides by bungee cords. Perched on top of the rack was a crash helmet. The helmet was similar in appearance to the one on the CCTV.
Once they’d set the search parameters in their heads, they doubled up their barrier gloves, put on forensic oversuits, and began the task required. JJ started with the outside frame of the garage door as he began the search. It was imperative they were thorough. After a short duration he arrived at the Honda. It was balanced on its central stand. He dipped into a crouch as he visually examined the bike. The fuel cap was a temporary replacement that just pulled out, and as he released it, he could see the petrol sloshed in the tank via his torch and the smell confirmed it was fuel. He plugged the tank and continued to search the rest of the frame and engine until he finally came to the seat and panniers.
The panniers were a plastic set that draped over the metal-tubed frame of the rack. They were secured to the rack by a new bungee cord. JJ raised the pannier lid and directed the torchlight inside and moved the beam in a figure of eight.
‘Whoa,’ he announced.
Everyone stopped. They looked over to where JJ stood. Mellor peered over JJ’s hunched shoulders. He stuck his head over the pannier behind the torch JJ held. Mellor looked back at Nash who was at the entrance to the garage.
‘What is it?’ Nash enquired.
JJ took out his mobile phone and snapped an image using the phone’s flash and the torch Mellor now held for him to illuminate the pannier’s dark interior. He looked at the capture while he walked over to where Nash was standing. Moretti kept Tiffany distracted as best he could, but JJ’s reaction hadn’t been lost on her.
Nash stared at the screen then expanded it with her thumb and index finger. The pixels knitted together to show a roll of duct tape, a short length of rope, a balaclava, leather gloves and a Stanley knife with the blade exposed.
Nash leaned into JJ’s neck.
‘Get Yvonne down here,’ she said. ‘I want the bike lifted and brought in. I’ve not known many handymen who travel with that kind of kit in their panniers. I’ve seen this kind of get-up on a previous rape investigation where the offender had a happy bag – his words, not mine. I’d put money on that lot being a kit to facilitate rape. We need to know if it’s been used and on whom.’
She looked back at where Tiffany was standing and approached her. Moretti waited.
‘Do you use that garage?’ Nash asked.
Tiffany stood with a cigarette held high between her index and middle fingers. Her nails were speckled with chipped pink nail varnish. Smoke drifted by her right ear and weaved through her matted blonde hair as the breeze caught the vapours of death. She made a pathetic attempt to look beyond Moretti to where JJ now stood. Tiffany’s head rolled on her neck as though she was acting the part of a drugged swan in a badly funded play.
‘What would I use the place for? I ain’t got a motor… he used it for his work stuff and to store his bike. There are thieves about or didn’t ya know?’
‘Who do you mean by he?’ Nash asked.
‘My fella, the one you lot nicked and the reason why you’re here.’
‘Anyone else have access to it?’ Nash asked.
‘Not that I know of. What he does with it is his business and nothing to do with me,’ Tiffany replied, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs before expelling it over her shoulder through chapped, rouged lips.
Nash looked back at the garage then back to Tiffany.
‘Do you know why he ran from police?’ Nash asked.
‘Yeah, he’s wanted. You lot must know about that by now,’ Tiffany replied.
‘What did he tell you he was wanted for?’ Nash probed.
‘He said he’d been nicked for theft and not gone back on bail,’ Tiffany explained with an apathetic drone that was supposed to convey an air of confidence as she nibbled on her bottom lip.
There was hesitancy in her voice. Hesitancy Nash had heard many times before.
‘He lied to you, Tiffany. He’s wanted for rape. Rape of a seventeen-year-old girl. A rape at knifepoint,’ Nash said, and paused to let the message sink in.
Tiffany’s eyes darted from Nash to Moretti as she sought clarification of what she’d just heard. Neither d
etective spoke the words of reassurance she desired. Her volatile reaction said it all.
‘You’re fucking lying. He’d never do anything like that. He ain’t like that. He just goes out to work then comes home,’ she said.
She blinked rapidly in an attempt to dispel her tears. Tears that now flowed down her pockmarked cheeks. She sniffed and rubbed her face with her arm. Nash motioned to JJ to hand her his phone, which he did. Nash found the photo of the pannier’s contents and turned the screen towards Tiffany.
‘I’m not in the habit of lying to people, Tiffany,’ Nash said. ‘This is what’s in the pannier. There’s nothing there that reassures me he’s being truthful. Does that look like what you’d expect him to use at work?’
Tiffany looked at the image, her eyes in a thousand-yard stare. Nash waited. The pain of broken trust needed to reveal itself mercilessly.
Tiffany attempted to avert her eyes, but she couldn’t. All she could do was stare. Her legs wobbled and her body shivered. Nash sensed she was about to drop and took hold of her arms. Her tears fell along with inconsolable sobs of grief. Grief at the deception she’d lived under, and the myth of the decent human being she thought Buchanan was. All her dreams of a settled life with the man she’d trusted and loved shattered. Tiffany sniffed, then spat the contents that had entered her throat into the concrete rain gulley.
‘It probably ain’t his,’ she said. ‘He must’ve been looking after it for a mate. Means nothing. I’ve got shit to be getting on with so drop the keys back once you’re done destroying my life.’
Tiffany threw her cigarette butt down and ground it in with a brief twist of her Converse. As she walked away her shoulders juddered with every heavy step she took.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
