There was no time to overthink things and maybe that was a good thing. A remand file had to be done – despite what the public thought, the charging of an individual was only the start of the long, arduous task necessary to secure a conviction. A meeting with uniform supervision was required. It was highly likely that there would be a lot of public interest in Myers’ appearance at court, as well as from the media.
In addition, she pondered, if the plan was to wake Wilkie up from his induced coma tomorrow morning, she didn’t want him to be without support, so she needed to arrange a visiting rota for his colleagues, together with a reminder to Wilkie not to overdo it. Fran needed continued support and security at the hospital had to remain constant.
The next call that came into the office was from Neal Rylatt and was more than welcome. There was an unusual quickness in his delivery. ‘I’m at Forensics. They tell me that the shoe seen in the picture at the graveyard and the one in the kiosk at Hartshead are an exact match.’
Charley was cautious. ‘How’s that?’
‘Two of the holes on the brogue near the outer edge are split, forming one.’
Thoughtful, she put the phone down. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed out loud.
‘Wow?’ said Annie, standing in the doorway, papers in her hand. ‘Not a word I’ve heard you use before.’ She moved further into the office.
‘Sit down,’ said Charley.
Without taking her eyes off Charley’s face, Annie sat down on the edge of the chair in front of her desk. ‘News? We know who the accomplice is?’
‘Well, no, not exactly, but when we find his shoes we will.’
‘Come again,’ Annie said with a frown.
‘The evidence I have just been given must be kept tight, only shared with the few.’
Charley finished her tasteless microwave dinner for one, put the washing machine on, poured herself a large glass of red wine and ran a bath, throwing in a lavender bomb that had been her Secret Santa Christmas present the previous year. She wondered what Wilkie Connor could have told her – and would hopefully still be able to tell her, when she could finally talk to him – about Eddie’s death.
There was something about soaking in a bath that allowed you to totally relax. Peace and quiet at last, she thought: everything still. Her bed beckoned and she set her alarm clock for five forty-five: she would do the morning briefing before going to the Magistrates’ Court.
Prior to the arrival of the team at the incident room, Charley read over the remand file for Myers. She was satisfied that all the evidence had been identified and that the reasons for the remand were clear. The CPS should have no concerns, but, of course, if they did, she would be there to answer any questions.
When DS Mike Blake arrived, they discussed the areas of the investigation they would highlight during the briefing. Mike was to remain in the incident room whilst Charley was at the court hearing.
The briefing was an overview of the events and findings thus far. ‘I want to reinforce that any intelligence discussed about this investigation stays within this room. Whilst we have one person involved charged with two murders, another remains outstanding and just as responsible. Whoever that is, they are the one who has knowledge of the crime scenes that hasn’t yet been released to the media, and that is how I want it to remain. Thank you for the good work so far, but this is no time to drop your guard; remember, there is work yet to do to secure the conviction of those involved.’
Briefing over, Charley headed for the Magistrates’ Court in the knowledge that other plain clothes officers would be in attendance, scouring the room for something, anything and anyone, that might be of special interest to them, although they were unsure precisely what they were looking for. Their intention was to update the files and record faces for future investigation. Would Myers’ partner-in-crime be amongst the crowd? This was a possibility that couldn’t be overlooked and an opportunity that couldn’t be missed by the investigators.
On the stroke of ten, Charley climbed the handful of stone steps to the court building. Inside, a dozen or more rose before her. Those wishing to attend the hearing filled the foyer and lined the stairs. Jostled along by the crowd and wheezing with exertion and apprehension, she reached the top of the stairs in record time. Offered the opportunity to go down several well-signposted corridors she was ultimately carried along on the wave of people turning left into a narrowing, chair-lined entrance lobby before they all came to an abrupt stop. The listing posted outside courtroom four read ‘R v. Myers’.
Squashed between several sweaty bodies, she looked around at the assembled crowd. Some had heads raised high, looking quite ready for and capable of violent retribution; others chattered away in a frenzy of morbid excitement.
Emerging into the relative glare of the court, Charley stepped to one side, swiftly finding a viewing spot along the back wall of the room, from where she was aware that at the end of the hearing she’d be able to make a swift exit.
Head down, Myers still towered silently above his guardians. When he finally looked up, Charley saw his eyes protruding wildly as he glanced nervously around, scanning the packed room as if perhaps seeking an ally. His stares, to those who caught his gaze, appeared angry. There was a low muttering and whimpering from family and friends of the deceased who had arrived early and found a seat. There was shuffling as the crowd complied with the order to honour the entering magistrates. The courtroom fell as silent as a morgue when the three magistrates entered the room.
Forehead glistening with sweat, his fists clenched tightly, Myers waited, then remained standing when the audience sat. He stared straight ahead, as though permanently paralysed.
Charley took a moment to survey all around her. Standing a good foot taller than the rest, Danny Ray was easily identifiable amongst the rest of media, but he wasn’t close enough to her to speak to, and she had no intention of hanging around after the hearing. Photographers and camera crews were barred from entering the courtroom in the United Kingdom. ‘Illegal since 1925 per code 41 of the Criminal Justice Act and the Contempt of Court Act,’ she found herself regurgitating the information from her detective training days. It steadied her nerves.
Solomon Myers spoke only to confirm his name. The prosecutor stood, shuffled his papers, narrowed his eyes and proceeded to outline the facts of the case and the reasons for remand. Mr Michael Parish from Booth & Co, on behalf of Mr Myers, stated his client’s denial of the charges against him, but assured the magistrates that he would co-operate fully with any restrictions they wished to place upon him, should they decide to grant bail.
The magistrates retired to chambers, but returned almost immediately. Myers was ordered to stand. The chair of the magistrates spoke.
‘Our opinion is that this is a case which ought to be decided by a jury. You will be remanded in custody to face trial by the crown court.’
Solomon Myers smirked at the clean-cut, chiselled-faced magistrate before he was taken away. Amid the hustle and bustle that followed, Charley was out of the door and down the stairs posthaste.
From the courthouse she drove to the hospital to see if the medics would let her see Wilkie. The positive news that greeted her was that he was off the ventilator, breathing normally and they were expecting him to wake at any minute.
As if on cue, as she stood at the doorway of the sun-kissed room, Wilkie Connor’s eyes flinched, flickered and finally opened. From the look on his face it seemed that the window he was looking at suddenly opened up a world of shimmering blue skies. Wilkie turned his head to look at the ceiling. He lifted a finger, then two. A slight tear trickled from his eye and down his broad nose, but when he opened his mouth to speak, there were no words. For a moment he looked puzzled, licked his dry lips, swallowed and tried again. Fran Connor tightly gripped the arms of her wheelchair. Leaning forward she spoke to him reassuringly. Her face flushed, her eyes bright and eager, she reached out and softly touched the crisp, white pillowcase, just in time to catch the tear that continued i
ts journey down the side of her husband’s face. Charley couldn’t help feeling as if she was imposing on their moment, and was quite unprepared for a twinge of envy for the love between them.
She very quietly slipped back into the corridor. A young man was watching the scene through the tilted slats of the Venetian blind. Charley gave him a tired smile, followed by a long outward breath. ‘Thank God,’ she said.
‘You believe in God, Detective Inspector Mann?’ he said, with a nod of his head, and a pursing of lips. ‘That’s good!’
Charley frowned. ‘Hey, what’s that supposed to…?’ she said to his retreating back as his white coat billowed out behind him. She caught up with him at the nurses’ station, clipboard in one hand and coffee in the other. ‘Come on, tell me. What did you mean by that?’
‘All I’m saying is, if you do have a God, keep praying. He’s a long way to go yet.’
Marty nodded at Charley as she hurried through the enquiry office. She pushed the door open harder than she intended and let it slam behind her. The drunk who was sleeping it off on the bench lifted his head, scowled and lay down again on grubby hands that were clasped together, as if in prayer. Marty chuckled.
‘It’s true what your dad used to say, you could wake the dead.’ She twisted her mouth in a smile. ‘I wish. I’d give my right arm to see my folks again.’
‘I know you would,’ he said kindly.
DS Mike Blake was sitting at his desk in the incident room when she walked in, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the knot of his tie pulled down a couple of inches.
‘How’s Wilkie?’ he asked.
‘He’s awake.’ Charley was quick to reply. ‘Any information on the person in Myers’ flat, or who owns it? Because I get the feeling there’s someone out there who is quite happy for Myers to take the rap.’
‘I agree. Myers might have the physical strength, but, like we’ve said before, I don’t think he has either the knowledge or the intelligence to commit the crime alone. Someone has tried to confuse us from the very start by throwing everything into the mix. Could it really be a serving cop? Much as it goes against the grain to say it, it has to be, doesn’t it?’
Frown lines wrinkled Charley’s forehead; her gaze fixed on the detective sergeant. ‘Well, whoever it is, Mike, we’ll find them. He might be trying to wrongfoot us, but the shoes he’s wearing might just be his downfall. What worries me is that they might end up being disposed of before we get to him and it’s about all we have…’
Charley flicked the lights on in her office. A square, yellow Post-it note from Connie was stuck to the computer. It said, ‘Danny Ray wants to speak to you regarding DC Wilkie Connor. He’s asking for your help to do a human-interest story which, he suggests, may bring any reluctant witnesses forward.’
Charley squared her shoulders, screwed the note up and aimed it at the bin.
Connie stood in the doorway. ‘Steady on!’ she said, sliding into a chair opposite her. ‘Are you going to meet with him?’
Charley nodded. ‘Tell him I’ll do it.’
Connie smiled. ‘Good.’
‘But only in the company of Detective Sergeant Mike Blake and in an interview room at the station,’ she said.
An hour later, Danny Ray was at the front desk. Mike went ahead to greet him and escort him into the adjoining room.
Charley braced herself, her palms sweating. She would hear him out, listen to this idea of his and, if what he suggested might help the investigation, she would gush over his plans as much as any other and lay on the charm as thick as his use of aftershave.
When she walked into the interview room, Danny smiled at her a little too brightly. Had he thought she would refuse? Her greeting was a non-committal nod. She was glad to see from his fidgeting that he appeared to be as uncomfortable as she felt. Hesitantly he half-stood and leaned in to take her hand and her stomach knotted up. Mike remained seated, apparently not seeing the awkwardness.
The journalist and the detective sergeant seemed to be comfortable with each other. Danny picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. It was black; she’d remembered it was how he liked it – black and sweet. His notepad and pen lay between them on the table. Formalities over, Danny shuffled in his seat, blinked and she knew he was about to go into the dark side, just like all reporters do when they smell the blood in the water otherwise known as ‘the story’.
‘You do know,’ he paused for effect, ‘Wilkie Connor is in serious debt, don’t you? And I don’t mean for a couple of hundred pounds,’ he said.
It was Mike’s turn to shuffle in his seat, looking at Danny as if he no longer found the journalist likeable.
Charley said nothing, so Danny continued. ‘We think we know someone, don’t we? I know I do it all the time. Then they do something out of the ordinary and we’re surprised. It’s very naïve.’ Danny’s eyes moved from one detective to the other and settled on Charley. ‘You know as well as I do that there are many sides to a person, and people interpret the actions of others in different ways…’ His eyes bore into hers as he paused again, then turned to Mike. His voice remained flat. ‘I’m not saying he deserved what he got, but some folk, when upset, are not forgiving. I thought it might help to get some facts, just in case…’
Charley’s lips formed a straight, narrow line and she stood up like a military officer ready to march. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but I have no desire to discuss my detective constable’s private life.’ A quick glance at her watch produced a grimace. ‘If that’s all you want to talk about, then you’re wasting your time and ours.’
Danny raised his hand in an apology. ‘I’m sorry. What can you tell me about Wilkie Connor’s condition?’
Charley sat back down. ‘I can tell you he’s been taken off his ventilator and he’s breathing on his own, but nothing else is assured at this moment in time.’
The journalist sat perfectly still. ‘Have you been able to talk to him?’ he asked, as he prepared to write the answer in his book.
‘He was only taken off the ventilator today and, as far as I know, he hasn’t spoken to anyone yet.’
His pen hovered above the paper. ‘Any update you can share on the offending vehicle or driver?’
‘No,’ said Mike. Danny’s eyes looked up to meet Mike’s. ‘But what we do know is that it was a deliberate act,’ said the detective sergeant.
Danny’s eyebrows rose. ‘You do? And I can say that?’
Mike nodded.
‘Let me assure you, he wouldn’t be telling you that if it wasn’t the case,’ said Charley.
Danny’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, one corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. ‘Thanks. It’s a big ask I know, but do you have a picture of Wilkie that you can give me? One that his family are happy for me to use? Or even better, could we get one of him in his hospital bed?’
Mike looked sideways to Charley for a response. When none was forthcoming, the journalist continued, his voice hopeful, appealing. ‘That sort of picture always gets a good response from our readers. They pull at the heartstrings.’
Hearing the cliché come out of his mouth, and seeing the detective inspector’s reaction, Danny looked a little embarrassed. ‘Obviously, it would be a tasteful picture of him in his hospital bed…’ he added.
Mike’s brow was furrowed. ‘We don’t have a picture that has been approved by the family.’
Charley shook her head. ‘No. And, personally, I don’t think taking a photograph of him looking vulnerable in a hospital bed would be appropriate. When he is able to speak to us, we will ask him if it is something he would like to do for you. The decision will be his. I’ll ask Connie to let you know if that’s the case.’
‘I just thought…’ When Danny saw Charley clench her fist, he stopped. ‘I understand,’ he said eventually, unsmiling and with a nod of his head. But then, with renewed vigour, and adopting a different tone of voice, he continued. ‘Can you tell me anything about the officer’s backgroun
d?’
Charley went doggedly on, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I believe Connie has already sent this out on a press release?’
Danny’s chin dropped to his chest and he shook his head. ‘I’ve got all the regular stuff.’ He looked up and pulled a face. ‘No more tit-bits for the local rag?’
Charley shook her head unbelievingly and Mike followed her lead, his face serious.
‘OK, then. Moving on,’ Danny said as, head down, he checked his notes. He was sweating and Charley felt a quiet satisfaction at how distressed he looked. ‘Any motives to suggest that this was a reprisal attack?’
‘We are keeping an open mind and all available resources are currently making enquiries into his attempted murder.’ Charley stood, a tight-lipped smile on her face. ‘And if you’ll excuse us now, we have to get back. As you can appreciate, we have a lot of work to do.’
Mike stood and shook Danny’s hand. Charley was away out of the door. When Mike joined her, she was speaking to Marty in the front office. ‘There’s something about that man,’ Mike said, as his eyes followed Danny’s exit from the building.
Marty nodded his head. ‘I guess he’s just got a job to do, like us. I’ve met worse.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Charley said.
Payback Page 22
