‘First time I’ve heard a police interview room called convivial,’ Sam said. ‘So…she’s not your niece then?’
‘Chief Inspector, we both know that the young girl is a commodity…’
Stephenson paused.
Sam said nothing, fighting the urge to leap up and slap his ashen face.
‘…for lonely men whose wives have…what’s the words I’m looking for?…lost interest.’
Sam stared at him. Crank up his embarrassment. Let him fill in the silence and see if discloses more than he intended. It was a useful tactic, one that police and TV interviewers alike had used for years.
‘So, I went that night, after calling first to make sure it was convenient, to… how shall I put it?…have a mutually beneficial liaison.’
Sam leaned across the desk.
‘You get a shag and she earns a few quid.’
Lester Stephenson shuffled in his seat. ‘I’m not sure I would put it quite as coarsely as that Chief Inspector.’
Sam spat her words at Stephenson.
‘You call a young woman a commodity in one breath and me coarse the next. Hypocrite. Now what the fuck do you want?’
Stephenson recoiled in the chair. ‘Only to save you and your men time.’
Sam pushed her shoulders closer towards him, maintained the anger.
‘We’re a modern service now Mr Stephenson, and guess what, we even have women working as senior police officers,’ Sam said. ‘Not where you think a woman belongs?’
Stephenson removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with the handkerchief.
‘A slip of the tongue, chief inspector. I meant no slight.’
Sam leaned back, hands behind her head, voice softer.
‘You’re here so that we don’t visit you at home. Might take some explaining to your wife. Remind me why you were at Malvern Close?’
‘I’ve just told you. Sex. Nothing else.’
‘Why did you lie to the police officer at the scene?’
‘I said the first thing that came into my head.’
‘And that was the only reason you called around?’
‘Yes.’
Sam dropped her hands onto the table and pushed against it, simultaneously forcing the chair backwards. The sudden movement and the high-pitched grating noise of metal legs against wooden floor caused Stephenson’s creases to leap and hit the underside of the table.
‘Then I thank you for coming in. You are free to leave.’
Stephenson stood up. ‘Thank you for your understanding chief inspector.’
She opened the door and waited for him to make a move towards the threshold before blocking his exit with her arm.
‘One more thing.’
She leaned into his ear.
‘I find out you’re lying, discover you went there to pass on a message, your wife won’t have to slice your balls off. I’ll gift wrap them for her and send them recorded delivery.’
She dropped her arm, flashed her teeth. ’Have a pleasant evening.’
‘Imagine driving up here every bloody day,’ Bev was navigating the challenging twists and turns of Kirkstone Pass, a sub-conscious reflex throwing her foot off the accelerator whenever a set of headlights came towards her.
They had both wilted under a heavy dose of cabin fever, an overwhelming urge to escape the bedroom and the incessant whirring of the tape machine.
Bev was never a one for walking if there was an alternative. It was why she loved holidaying in America: straight, wide roads, no roundabouts and drive-thru ATMs.
The hotel owner had suggested a drive into Ambleside.
‘If he’d told us the road was like this I wouldn’t have bothered,’ Bev said, head shaking from side to side, the car in second gear, dry-stone walls closing in on them at every turn. ‘Light me a cigarette please.’
Tara handed her a Players Crushball. ‘Look at that. A pub. Right up here. Can we go in?’
Bev glanced to her left, saw the pub.
‘Why not.’
She swung into the car park on the right, cigarette clamped between her teeth, pleased to be off the torturous road, a view confirmed when she saw the sign. The descent into Ambleside was called ‘The Struggle.’
No shit Sherlock…
Tara had hopped from the car and rushed across the road, casting an admiring glance at a black VW Golf at the top of the car park. Now she was pointing at the sign above the door to the Kirkstone Inn.
‘Look at that,’ she shouted as Bev walked towards her. ‘Been here since 1496. Imagine that. Imagine all the people who’ve walked through these doors.’
Bev blew smoke out in front of her.
‘Let’s hope they were happier out here than I am, otherwise there’s going to be some pretty pissed-off ghosts wandering about.’
Bev finished the cigarette, stubbed it against the wall and put it in the bin.
‘You’re not interested in history then Bev?’
‘I’m only interested in the here and now, and right now, I would rather be in the office arse deep in paperwork than here.’
‘Charming,’ Tara sounded hurt.
‘Nothing to do with you. It’s this place. The Lakes. Middle of nowhere. More life in a tramp’s vest. I guess I’m just a townie at heart. I don’t get what all the fuss is about.’
They stepped inside.
‘To think,’ Tara said, ‘this was built when Henry VII was on the throne.’
Bev glanced at the beamed ceiling, ordered the drinks and sat down on a red upholstered chair close to the blazing fire leaving Tara talking history with the barmaid.
The ice rattled in the balloon-shaped ‘copa’. Bev preferred highball glasses. More gin, less ice, minimal tonic. These days, though, it was all high-stemmed styles where the drink never seemed quite right.
She took a sip, more tonic than gin, and checked her mobile, smiling at the signal.
She typed ‘all done here’ and pressed send.
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Ring when you get a chance
She finished her drink, dragged Tara away from her local history lesson, and drove them back to the White Lion.
One large glass of white wine later she was standing outside the pub. Tara had gone to the room to read her Wainwright book.
Bev called Sam.
‘Like I said in the text, we’re all done here. Nothing more to get out of her. How’s things at your end?’
‘Moving slow but steady. Tara still okay to be left alone tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, she’s looking forward to it. Got her nose in guide books and her mouth around that Kendall Mint Cake stuff. Seems quite taken with the place.’
Bev sparked a cigarette.
‘It is beautiful,’ Sam said.
‘A matter of opinion,’ Bev said, remembering the wall-lined turns of The Struggle. ‘Any thoughts where we’ll put her on Wednesday.’
‘Somewhere that’s easily accessible,’ Sam had the question on her endless list. ‘We’ll need her close once we make arrests.’
Bev blew out smoke slowly.
‘You’re making the arrests on her say-so?’
‘It’s not just her is it?’ Sam said. ‘She’s saying it’s down to Harry Pullman and if his DNA’s inside the suit we’ve got to lift him.’
‘Suppose so,’ Bev said. ‘Where will we put her when it’s all sorted?’
‘Long-term? It’s something we can discuss with her. Has she said anything to you about her future?’
‘I think she wants to move on with her life and she definitely loves it over here. Maybe somewhere rural will appeal.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sam said. ‘Before you leave, ask her again about Lester Stephenson. He came in to see me. My big question is this…did he go to her for sex or did he pass a message?’
Chapter 45
Sam walked along to the office of the Director of Intelligence and had a forty-minute conference behind closed doors with the Detective Superintendent.
Paul Adams’ cousin, Rob Conlon, a member of a regional team assigned to the Protected Persons Service under the umbrella of the National Crime Agency, had been interviewed.
He denied passing information onto Paul about Harry Pullman’s whereabouts but his interrogators were far from convinced he was telling the truth. The feeling was that any information passed would have been the result of family loyalty and naivety. A search of Conlon’s home and bank accounts had not revealed any cash piles or unusual payments.
He didn’t believe his Paul was corrupt, but admitted that even as a child Paul was manipulative and always got his way.
Conlon had not yet been suspended but that was under review.
Sam walked along the deserted corridors, pondering the information. When she reached her office, she closed the door and kicked off her shoes.
She leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. If Paul was the one who always got his own way how had he been so easily manipulated by Tara?
Was it really so easy to lead men by their balls to their death? Did Paul’s brains drop below his waist as soon as a pretty girl threw herself at him?
Sam stood up and paced the floor in her bare feet.
Tara was an itch she couldn’t scratch, the itch in the middle of your shoulders that you just can’t reach. Something wasn’t quite right with her. Something was missing.
Sam rubbed her face with both hands, hoping to conjure up a piece of the jigsaw.
She considered what Tara had told Bev about her childhood. Was that a true account or a sob story designed to get sympathy and lower Bev’s guard?
They had, so far, been unable to trace Tara’s mother.
Had Tara really been coerced and threatened into meeting Paul then finally luring him to her house that night? How long had the second rabbit suit been in her loft?
Was Tara a pawn or a player?
Investigations were always more difficult when you questioned the honesty of the witnesses, but Sam rarely took anything at face value. Tara Paxman was no different.
Tuesday 3rd November
‘Bev, its Ed.’
She always ignored ‘unknown number’ calls but had answered this time without thinking, mind elsewhere as she contemplated her great escape from The Lakes and a possible meet with Ranjit Singh.
‘Hang on.’
Scrambled eggs abandoned, she rushed outside.
How can you love this place when it’s permanently pissing down?
Legs quick-marching, she scrunched her shoulders against the rain and hurried towards the deserted car park where there was no chance of being overheard.
‘Jesus Ed, you okay? What’s happening?
‘I’m fine. Listen I haven’t got long. I’m going away for a while but I need someone I can trust.’
‘What do you need?’ Bev panted, lungs losing the battle with the car park’s uphill access road.
‘Keep an eye on Sam. She’s under a huge amount of pressure and I’m not there to help shoulder the burden.’
Bev stood under a tree, seeking shelter. A couple of hikers walked past her on the other side of the road, laden down with waterproofs, rucksacks and walking sticks.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, shaking her head, wondering why anyone in their right mind would walk anywhere in this weather. ‘But I don’t know if she’ll listen to me.’
‘Just ask her how she’s doing. Be her sounding board. Take her out for a drink.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Tonight?’
Bev watched the walkers, heads down, heavy drops of water falling from the hoods of their brightly coloured jackets.
Mad as trout…
‘Can’t tonight. Got a date.’
‘Toyboy?’
‘Something like that.’
Bev wondered where the walkers would be tonight. She hoped she’d be in a warm pub deciding whether to invite Ranjit Singh back to her house.
‘What about Tara?’
‘We’ll leave her here tonight. Move her tomorrow.’
‘You still leaving her alone?’
Won’t do her any harm. She gets plenty of company normally. Hopefully, tonight, it’s my turn. That’ll make a pleasant change.
‘She’ll be fine for one night.’
‘Look I have to go, and Bev.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t mention this call to anyone.’
Inspector Josh Appleton was in the office at eight, back in the car within fifteen minutes. He wasn’t hanging around for Chris Priest. He knew the superintendent would block his proposed course of action.
He checked his bloodshot eyes in the interior mirror; Inspector Mick Wright’s collection of red wine had taken a hammering last night. So had his Jura whisky.
Appleton burped stale Scotch fumes against the windscreen.
He turned on the engine, opened the window and drove off.
Last night’s conversation had been all about that bent bastard Whelan and the self-righteous, know-it-all Sam ‘Nosey’ Parker.
Booze flowing, they had grudgingly agreed they would ‘give her one’ but that she needed shoving off her perch.
Appleton said it was simple. Bring down Whelan and Parker would fall too. The more he had drank the more he saw Mick Wright as the victim. The death of that sailor? Anybody could have made the same mistake Mick had made. As for Taffy Green, even if someone was running at the same time he ran in front of the bus, it didn’t mean Taffy was running away from them. And who was to say Taffy Green couldn’t write? He could have conned the police for years.
By the time Appleton pulled up outside Ed Whelan’s house he was raging.
Nice house, nice village. Here Appleton was, an Inspector who worked the hard yards and he could never afford this. How could Whelan? The answer was obvious.
Bent bastard.
He slammed the car door, marched up the drive, and hammered on the front door. He ignored the bell. He wanted to feel his fist hitting something.
‘Mrs Whelan?’
Sue Whelan had opened the door in lime green joggers and white t-shirt, hair uncombed, no make-up.
‘Yes.’
He flashed his warrant card. ‘Inspector Appleton.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Can I come in.’
He moved towards the door.
Sue half closed it, wedged her foot against the bottom.
‘Is it about my husband?’
‘Yes. Can I come in?’
‘I don’t know where he is and I don’t particularly care. Check Parker’s house. He seems to spend more time there with that fawning slut these days.’
She slammed the door.
Appleton stared at it, grinning.
Well, well, well. From the horse’s mouth.
Juggling car keys and mobile he hit the remote, then called Mick Wright.
‘Can you speak? Listen.’
He ducked into the car.
‘I’ve just been to Whelan’s house. His wife thinks he’s shagging Parker.’
‘Jackpot.’
‘I promise you Mick I’m going to nail the fucking pair of them.’
Twenty minutes later he walked into Chris Priest’s office.
‘Can I have a word?’
Priest looked up from his computer.
‘I’ve just been to Whelan’s house.’
There was a steaming mug of tea on Priest’s desk. He wouldn’t have been out of his seat any quicker if he had spilt the lot over his crotch.
‘What the hell for?’
‘Even his wife thinks he’s shagging Parker. So much for tittle-tattle.’
Priest got his emotions back under control and sat down.
‘So they’re having an affair?’ Won’t be the first. Not exactly against regulations, unless they’ve been doing it in the office and you can prove it.’
Appleton bent over, put the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned in towards his boss, the whisky fumes making Priest w
ince.
‘No, it’s not against regulations, but it tells us why she’s been protecting him.’
‘Get out of my face. You smell like a fuckin’ brewery.’
Appleton took three small backward steps and spoke again.
‘There’s more. After the stuff in the Post last night I’ve asked around about that corruption inquiry…’
‘Enough!’ Priest put his hand up, palm facing Appleton like a traffic cop ordering a driver to stop. ‘Don’t get involved with bitter and twisted retired cops with a score to settle. You’ll end up running off at a tangent and making yourself look like a prat.’
Priest drank from the mug.
Appleton waited.
‘Leave this investigation for another couple of days. I’m warning you.’
‘But…’
‘No ‘buts’ Josh. If I hear of you doing anything on this investigation you’ll be out on your ear before you know what’s hit you. Understand?’
Appleton’s face reddened: hangover plus unfair bollocking equaled rage. He wasn’t finished yet.
‘Did you consider Whelan swapping the negotiator call-out might not have been a coincidence. He swaps and just happens to be the Number 1 when the wild west comes to town.’
‘I’m warning you,’ Priest snapped. ‘There are things happening in the background on a need to know basis. You don’t need to know, so at the risk of repeating myself, back off.’
‘But…’
‘Drop it Josh. And leave that corruption inquiry where it needs to be left. In the past.’
Chapter 46
Ed ended the call with Bev and tapped out a text.
She’s in the White Lion, Patterdale. Will be alone this evening. Moved tomorrow. Tonight’s your only chance.
He didn’t know who would receive the message. Even if he was at his desk with all the force’s investigative tools at his disposal, he would struggle to get a lead on what would undoubtedly be an unregistered phone.
But the number had informed him of payment into the correct account, the deposit confirmed by the bank.
£10,000.
Not £11,000.
Lies That Blind Page 25
