Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Any ID on them?’

  ‘No. But I know them.’

  Sam waited.

  ‘Davy Swan and Jimmy Marshall.’

  Sam pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up. She leaned against the windowsill and stared outside.

  She knew them, too. Marshall and Swan, heavies for hire: with links to various crime families and loyal only to cash.

  ‘Write up what you’ve just told me, Sam told the uniform. ‘Put it in an Officer’s Report…’

  She paused.

  ‘Danny… Danny Unsworth Ma’am.’

  ‘Okay Danny. Write it all up. Put it in an email to me. And thanks for letting me know. I appreciate you taking the time to wait outside my office.’

  She followed him out and watched him stride away. ‘Good work Danny,’ she shouted down the corridor, knowing others would hear. ‘Well done.’

  Sam walked back to her desk and dropped into her seat.

  Three deaths in one night, each trying to lead the police down the suicide route.

  She was already convinced Scott Green hadn’t deliberately thrown himself under a double-decker, but Swan and Marshall?

  She couldn’t see them agreeing to meet their maker in a suicide pact.

  And whilst the gentlemen may have been many things, Sam strongly suspected homosexual was not one of them.

  Add those three deaths to the five at Malvern Close and this was the kind of carnage that made Seaton St George sound like Al Capone’s blood-drenched Chicago.

  And what about Bill Redwood, the yachtsman whose death was on the front page of the Seaton Post?

  Mick ‘Never’ Wright had written it off as a suicide but was that another lazy mistake.

  Sam was on information overload.

  She needed tea.

  She needed cigarettes.

  She needed a box of new detectives.

  Only two of those, she already knew, would be easy to find.

  Chapter 20

  Sam pulled up outside the outer cordon, anxious to revisit the scene before the briefing.

  The bodies were gone, shipped off to the morgue, but the tents were still there.

  She stood, hands in pockets, the eerie silence broken by the call of a distant fog horn, and thought about the dead.

  What a waste of life and for what?

  It wasn’t the first time she had asked the same question and it wouldn’t be the last, but this was the job she’d chosen. Nobody forced her to take it.

  Over the years she had taken part in multi-agency exercises where responses to major incidents from terror attacks to chemical plant explosions were put to the test.

  But last night had not been an exercise. Last night was real, a human tragedy the victims’ families would never get over. Whatever the police had done yesterday, however well they would have scored if the horror had been just a make-believe test, none of it had helped the dead.

  Sam shuddered. Was the smell of gunpowder trapped in the damp mist or was it still sliding through her memory?

  The media would be all over the story, desperate for angles beyond the plain facts, happy to pick away at the police response, drum up a debate on gun crime, and ask why no agency had spotted Zac Williams as a slaughter risk.

  Sam knew plenty of that journalism was legitimate – in truth important –but the media was a double-edged sword every SIO knew could land a fatal blow to the most promising career.

  It never took long for the police to go from heroes to villains.

  There would ultimately be an investigation by the IPCC but for now she retained primacy. Sam wouldn’t be judged on last night but her starring role in the spotlight started now. Screw up and she would be the one dodging the blade.

  Sam watched a young police officer, clipboard in hand, get out of a marked car.

  ‘Morning Steph,’ Sam said. ‘You just got here?’

  Stephanie Crosby, 25 years old, four years in the Job, had a bright smile that still couldn’t light her tired eyes.

  ‘No Boss, I’ve been here all night. Volunteered for overtime. My relief is on the way now.’

  For the past few months Sam had been mentoring Steph Crosby, a promising officer who was now in the CID ‘waiting room’. She had passed the interview but a start date to move out of uniform was still to be announced. Like a good quality sponge, she seemed to soak everything up.

  ‘Hope you kept warm?’

  Steph grinned and ran her fingers through her brown curls. ‘Good heater in the car.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Anything unusual to report.’

  She had chosen the word deliberately again. ‘Unusual’ was always preferred to ‘suspicious’ when the request was general not specific. The words meant very different things, even if in the end one could be the other.

  ‘Very quiet. Street empty. The residents aren’t back yet. SOCO want to finish in the tents. They’ve been here since five.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam noted the brevity with a nod of approval. ‘Anybody in the house?’

  Steph glanced at the clipboard. ‘Julie Trescothick went in at 5.15. Just her in at the minute.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The girl next door.’

  ‘Tara Paxman?’ Sam said, interest piqued.

  ‘Well that’s the name on the PNC for that car.’

  Steph nodded towards the VW Polo on the street.

  ‘She approached me last night and asked if she could go out. I didn’t think I could stop her.’

  ‘You couldn’t, not really,’ Sam said. ‘She’s entitled to go out. How long was she gone?’

  Steph looked at her board again.

  ‘Just over two hours.’

  Fine drizzle had come out to play with the mist. Sam pulled up the hood of her berry-coloured Berghaus jacket.

  ‘Did she say anything when she got back?’

  Steph shook her head.

  ‘I didn’t know whether to let her in but as it was over and she’d never been evacuated I just thought…’

  ‘No problem,’ Sam read relief in Steph Crosby’s eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She thanked me,’ Steph said. ‘Then a couple of hours later her uncle came to check on her. I didn’t stop him because I was worried about her welfare, you know being the only one in the street, what with all these people killed. He wasn’t in long.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sam smiled. ‘Sound logic.’

  Not that I would have let him in...

  ‘You get a name?’

  Steph dropped her gaze to the pavement, stomach suddenly rolling in the same direction.

  ‘No.’

  Maybe I haven’t mentored her enough. Getting his name is pretty basic.

  Sam quashed the urge to show her sudden anger and disappointment.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Thanks for everything you did last night.’

  Steph looked up, her crimson cheeks a rosy glow on a canvas of dank grey.

  ‘Not sure I’m allowed to do this,’ she said, ‘but I did get a photo of him on my mobile.’

  That’s more like it!

  ‘Let me worry about the legalities of covert photographs’, Sam told her. ‘Text it to me.’

  Chapter 21

  Sam approached the house and heard her mobile ping as she pushed open the front door. Steph’s text.

  ‘Julie?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ Julie Trescothick shouted.

  Sam walked in. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Morning. Getting there. I’ve concentrated outside so we can let the residents back from the hall. There’s a shitstorm going on down there.’

  ‘I bet there is but don’t be rushed by whoever is in charge of sorting it. Any problems, tell them to ring me. We only get one chance at this and you know my saying, the crime scene is like a book…’

  ‘But if you destroy the pages you can’t read the book.’

  They both laughed.

  Sam walked back to the wall and looked again at the mass shooting reports.

  ‘The
y’re all American,’ Julie said. ‘I know we don’t have many but why not use British examples?’

  Sam re-read each one in turn.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this all night. The one thing these have in common is that the shooters are young and they all died at the scene.’

  She read another paragraph and backed away before turning to face Julie.

  ‘The likes of Dunblane was beyond awful but…I can’t remember his name, not that that bastard is worth remembering…but he was in his forties. The Cumbria shooter was in his fifties. These are much younger. That’s the best reason I can come up with. The ones on the wall were all committed by young people.’

  ‘Like our man.’

  ‘Yes. But why put these up?’ Sam turned back to the wall. ‘To motivate himself? Were these his heroes? Showing him how to get his fifteen seconds of fame?’

  She concentrated on another few lines.

  ‘And when did he put them up? Did he know Marcus was coming?’

  She turned away from the wall, nipped her nose between finger and thumb.

  ‘It’s all too neat. It’s like he’s speaking to us. Here’s my motivation. Now you all know why I did it.’

  ‘Or at least that’s what he wants us to think?’ Ed appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Morning Snore-man,’ Sam said, immediately regretting the slip.

  She flushed and felt Julie’s eyes bore through her like a laser.

  ‘Slept like a top,’ Ed said without missing a beat.

  ‘I said to Sue the worst thing she could ever have told you was that I snore. The whole office takes the piss out of me now.’

  It was a pretty good lie on the hoof. Time and tongue wagging would tell whether Julie had bitten.

  Ed walked to the wall and read the cuttings.

  ‘I’ve just been saying it’s too neat,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll get a team to visit Williams’ family, see if he talked about being suicidal. Seems all the rage in sunny Seaton St George.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Ed asked.

  Sam brought him up to speed on Davy Swan and Jimmy Marshall.

  ‘Trousers down? Forget it! Jimmy’s never out of the pubs chasing lasses who like a bad boy and Davy Swan would smack a, a -’

  ‘Gay’s the word you’re looking for,’ Sam stepped in before Ed said something he might regret.

  Julie was a great CSI but Sam had no idea how she would react to one of Ed’s verbal throwbacks. Not everyone had declared war on snowflakes, the nanny state and anybody who could spell avocado.

  ‘Gay,’ Ed said. ‘He’d smack them for standing too close, tell them he didn’t want to catch something.’

  ‘Hard to believe that kind of attitude still lives and breathes’ Sam said, shaking her head.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Julie looked at Ed as she spoke. ‘My brother’s gay.’

  Relief spread through Sam like cool breeze.

  Oh shit that was close…

  ‘Jim Melia’s s going to be a busy boy today,’ she said, happy to step onto safer ground. ‘He’s got enough to bite a bloody big hole in the major incident budget.

  He’s had a quick look at them. Marshall’s had a bash on the head which someone’s generously closed up with the office stapler. Not the neatest of jobs.’

  ‘Beats spending God knows how long in A and E,’ Ed said. ‘The waiting time’s ridiculous. Four-hour targets? Accident and Emergency? More like Accident and Eternity.’

  Sam and Julie exchanged a look. Even at this time Ed could summon a rant.

  Sam checked they were clear to go upstairs, asked Julie to let her know if she found Williams’ mobile or any glue, and set off with Ed in tow.

  The torch she had borrowed from Julie was in her right hand.

  ‘Still hearing noises?’ Ed said, following her out of the kitchen.

  ‘First I want to see if there’s a printer. There’s not one down here. And yeah, I want to check the loft. What was Tara’s problem with letting me look last night?’

  A search for a printer in the two bedrooms drew a blank.

  ‘So the cuttings were ready before the shooting started,’ Sam said. ‘Goes to the pre-planning I was talking about.’

  On the landing Ed stretched to open the loft hatch, relieved to see a ladder.

  ‘Smashing,’ he grinned. ‘I’m too old to be throwing you up there on my shoulders.’

  Sam flicked on the torch and said, ‘I’ll take a look.’

  ‘You sure?’ Ed’s voice teasing.

  Before she could stop herself, Sam took the bait. ‘What, I’m a scared girlie now am I?’

  She climbed the aluminium ladder, poked her head into the loft and shone the beam in a slow semi-circle.

  The loft had no dividing wall and was almost empty. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Get a SOCO with a camera up here straight away Ed,’ Sam shouted, feet disappearing into the loft.

  She shone the beam into the far corner, the corner that was part of Tara’s home.

  Caught in the light and the drifting motes of dust it looked macabre.

  Sam popped her head back through the hatch.

  ‘There’s another white rabbit suit up here.’

  Chapter 22

  The Man didn’t bother with breakfast, didn’t want to give the staff the opportunity to remember him. He’d seen the receptionist last night, Eastern European, pleasant enough, but even less interested in him than he was in her.

  He’d kept his head down, hadn’t bothered looking for infra-red eyes; he knew CCTV was everywhere.

  The reception had been soulless – polished surfaces and fake smiles – and despite the queue, quieter than a sea-front library in a wild winter storm.

  He’d stared at the glossy black floor tiles as he waited in line with singles on business, couples on a city break, all happy to get to their rooms without interacting with others.

  No different to pubs in London he had thought. Try to strike up a conversation down there and they looked at you as if you were on day release from an institution.

  He’d hoped she’d check him in quickly and she did. He’d paid cash, used a false name and was another forgotten face as soon as he took his key card.

  Now he stepped out of the hushed foyer into the narrow, quiet Tudor street, adjusted the collar of his coat, pulled the peak of his flat cap towards his eyes and walked slower than a traffic warden.

  He headed across Lendal Bridge towards the railway station. He was in no particular hurry. He stopped to admire the pleasure craft moored below, stared fondly at The Maltings pub.

  He unwrapped some spearmint gum and chewed slowly as he recalled days gone, days when The Maltings was always the first watering hole on day trips to York. He remembered it as the Lendal Bridge Inn, before the name change in 1992 when Bass Brewery sold it.

  He continued over the bridge, towards his train, and rang Tara.

  Answerphone.

  He rang again.

  ‘Hello.’

  Her voice was throaty.

  ‘Woke you up have I?’

  ‘No, I’m up.’

  Liar.

  ‘You okay.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right. Bin the SIM card on that phone. Hang on...’

  He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket. On it was a list of handwritten three-digit numbers.

  ‘Use the other SIM I gave you. The number should end in 257.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And do it now. I don’t want you forgetting.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  He glanced again at the paper.

  ‘The next number I’ll be calling from ends in 683. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, but who else will be ringing. You’re the only one who knows the 257 number.’

  He had to admit she was sharp, but he had learned she was inherently lazy, and lazy always led to catastrophe.

  ‘Nothing to report?’ he asked.

  ‘No. All quiet. The police are still next door.’

/>   He ended the call, removed the SIM and wrapped it in the warm pliable gum he slipped from his mouth before dropping it in the next bin.

  In Malvern Crescent, Tara was already back in her bed.

  ‘Right,’ Sam barked. ‘Next door. Tara bloody Paxman’s coming down the nick. Julie have your people wait until we get her before they start taking photographs in the loft. I don’t want her tipping off.’

  Had Sam banged any harder on the front door her fist would have gone through it.

  Tara eventually appeared, looking crumpled in a white knee-length vest-top, wind-tunnel hair, and suitcases under her eyes.

  ‘Alright, alright. Keep your hair on,’ she moaned. ‘In case you don’t remember there was hell on here last night.’

  ‘There’s even more hell today young lady,’ Sam snapped, pushing past her and stomping into the front room.

  ‘You can’t just walk in here!’ Tara shouted, spinning around to hustle after Sam.

  Ed, grinning, idled after them, hands in pockets, looking forward to watching what was about to unfold.

  The women faced each other in the sitting room like street cats with a score to settle.

  ‘Sue me,’ Sam said, finger pointing like a rapier ready for the kill thrust. ‘Get dressed. Now. You’re coming with us.’

  ‘I’m fuckin’ going nowhere,’ Tara snapped her hands on her hips, ‘except back to bed.’

  ‘In that case I’m arresting you –’

  Tara shot forwards, the silver crucifix banging against her chest, words flying on wings of spit.

  ‘Arresting me?’ she screamed. ‘What the fuck for? Living next door to a psychopath? Since when was that a crime?’

  Sam leaned in towards Tara until their noses were almost touching. ‘How about murder?’

  Tara stepped back, words still piggy-backing on those wings, hands back on hips. ‘You’re fuckin’ joking?’

  Sam wiped the wetness on her cheek with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, and kept it together.

  ‘What I know is that a person in a white rabbit suit was shooting people last night.’

  ‘No shit Sherlock!’ Tara shouted. ‘Your lot shot the rabbit.’

  Ed, grin still in place, leaned against the doorframe and waited for the punch line.