Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  DC Branwell raised an arm.

  “Yes, Greg?”

  “Didn’t you say that Mrs Thornbury only got a brief look at this man?” He checked his notebook. “She was leaving the park at the time and only glanced at him a couple of times. Isn’t that right?”

  “True, and I put that to her, but she says she’s very good at remembering faces. She works part-time as a receptionist for a firm of lawyers in Leatherhead, and she says she got the job after a three-month trial, mainly because of her ability to remember clients’ names and faces. It seems it makes them feel important if they’re welcomed by name each time they visit the company.”

  “Okay,” Harry said. “Good point though, Greg. Any other questions for George?”

  Owen Bradley raised his arm. “Just one, sir. Could DC Clancy share with the group the special skills he used in order to quack the case?”

  Harry held up his arms to silence the jeers and groans. “I would have thought, with over thirty-six hours to prepare, you could have come up with something better than that, Bradley. And another thing – where’s my bacon butty?”

  “I fed it to the ducks, sir. I thought they deserved it.”

  This time Harry joined in the laughter.

  “Okay, okay, enough,” he said. “Let’s remember why we’re here.” He turned to Amy. “Over to you, Doc.”

  Amy stepped to the front.

  “Good morning, everybody. I’ll run through the points quickly – not in any order of importance – and answer any questions as we go along.” She opened her notebook. “We established the body ID from fingerprint records. There was no chance of a facial match but just about enough left of his finger ends to get prints off them. He’d been shot in the back of the head – like the other four. The only difference – we’re sure this was a contact shot from the burns around the point of entry. At this stage we estimate the time of death was between fifty and eighty hours before he was found on Saturday; so that would be sometime from four am Wednesday to ten am Thursday last week. We should be able to narrow that down with further testing, but that could take a day or two.”

  She turned to Harry.

  “Shall I carry on with the CSIU report?”

  Harry nodded.

  “From an examination of the ground near the body, it seems likely that the victim knelt down close to the lake and then shuffled forward right up to the edge of the bank. It’s certain that he was shot whilst in that position, which would explain why his feet were still on the bank.

  “The two men – assuming the killer is a man, even though it may not be the one the mother saw – must have pushed their way through the thick undergrowth at the back of the lake to get there. But here’s an interesting thing – it appears that the killer led the way. Our initial assumption was that he must have forced the victim to walk in front before getting him to kneel down to shoot him. But fibres and bits of fabric caught on the thorns along where they had passed indicate otherwise. In three places, bits from both the victim’s jacket and a cashmere coat were caught on the same thorn, but with the cashmere underneath.”

  Amy paused as if to allow time for the enormity of the revelation to sink in. She was greeted with a collective expression of mute confusion.

  “That was my reaction at first,” Harry said, “until Rory Jarvis explained. If you get two pieces of fabric on the same thorn, one very clearly under the other, the one on top will be from the second person passing that way.”

  “Any questions so far?” Amy said.

  Greg raised his hand. “Is it possible the victim had the gun initially and forced the other guy to walk in front – like he was going to kill him? Then the cashmere guy somehow managed to get the gun off him?”

  “Possible,” Harry put in, “but unlikely. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere along where they walked.” He looked round the group. “Any other questions for George or Doc White? No? Right, now for the big finish. Take it away, Amy.”

  “As Rory Jarvis told DI Waters at the scene, normally the chances of finding the bullet would have been small. But we reckoned without the ducks again. Another one of the team found a dead duck, totally submerged, close to the front of the lake. The duck had a bullet in its side – a 9mm from the same gun that killed the four users in Woking and Cobham. I think we can assume it was the bullet that killed Sammo. The duck would have died instantly where it was hit, so, assuming it hadn’t been moved, and from the angle between the entry and exit wounds in the victim’s head, it’s possible to establish Sammo’s exact position when he was shot. He was kneeling down, but in an upright position – not leaning forward.”

  The group erupted into a babble of conversations and some laughter.

  “And, if that wasn’t a lucky break…” Harry said.

  “Not for the duck; poor little thing.” DC Gordon’s comment was loud enough for all to hear and made with such genuine, heart-felt sadness that the room became instantly hushed, many looking embarrassed and awkward. Harry broke the uneasy silence.

  “Quite right, Beth. But if it helps us get this bastard then it won’t have died in vain. Let’s make sure it didn’t.” He looked round at the circle of serious faces. “So what next? Thoughts, anyone?”

  “Well I guess we can safely delete Sammo from our list of suspects,” George said.

  “I thought Sammo was our list of suspects,” Alice Grantham said.

  “Not so,” Harry jumped in. “We were clear that until proved otherwise, Sammo and the killer were two different people. This has just confirmed that hypothesis, so we’re no further back or – unfortunately – further forward. Any other ideas?”

  “Well, do we think the guy who met Sammo before is the one who killed him?” It was DC Crusoe putting the question. “Like the sarge said, their meeting could just have been Sammo picking up supplies.”

  “Although, from Mrs T’s description, he did sound like a cashmere sort of person,” said Owen, looking across at Amy.

  “I believe the material is top quality stuff,” she said. “Not the usual gear you wear for picking blackberries or similar. He should be easy to pick up on CCTV if there are any cameras near the park.”

  “There aren’t, unfortunately,” said George. “The park itself and the road alongside is a real surveillance blind spot. We could look for cars parked in the nearby streets on the day of the first sighting and on Wednesday and Thursday last week. It could yield some registrations to check.”

  “Let’s do that,” Harry said, “and see if we can spot Mr Cashmere getting in or out of one. Right,” he continued, pacing up and down in front of the team, “we start over again, I’m afraid, showing people pictures – this time of our mysterious park attendant. Let’s trawl the CCTV footage around the stations again, like George said, and in the streets near Middleton Green. And, of course, see if we can match him to anyone we’ve already got on file. I’m making a statement about Sammo on local TV at eleven-thirty at which time I’ll also be sharing this same picture with viewers.

  “Then we wait for Lois Dearing to call.”

  *

  The first thought that struck the duty sergeant, seated behind his security window looking onto the reception area at Guildford New Station, was how little the girl standing in front of him was wearing. Her purple shorts were not much more than bikini bottoms and her strapless white lace top was high and brief enough to give a tantalising view of both the top and bottom of her small but well-rounded breasts. Her only other visible item of clothing was a pair of purple leather lace-up wedge boots. Her delicate features, in a heart-shaped face below a mass of spiky purple-and-white streaked hair, were devoid of make-up and close to perfection.

  Her voice was a gentle tingle when she spoke.

  “I’d like to see Chief Superintendent John Mackay, please.”

  The two young male constables sea
ted at desks behind the sergeant looked up and across at the visitor. Both were quickly on their feet and crowding round him.

  “Okay, Sarge,” said one, his eyes fixed on the girl, “must be time for your break. I’ll take over from here.”

  “Hold on,” said the other. “I’ve done sod-all this morning. Leave this to me. Time I got my finger out…”

  “You’ll both sit down,” the sergeant said, to no effect. He turned back to the girl.

  “Sorry about that. Your name please?”

  “Catrina Thompson.”

  “And you say you want to see…”

  “But that’s not your real name, is it?” the first PC said.

  “Yes, that’s my real name.”

  “Okay, then. I mean, that’s not your only name?”

  The girl sighed.

  “Look, what’s going on?” the sergeant said. “Stay out of this Bradshaw – and you, Simpkiss. I am sure this young lady knows her own name…”

  “Lilli Bo-Peep. Right?” Bradshaw said.

  The girl sighed again, but smiled this time.

  “I’m Catrina Thompson. I’m only Lilli Bo-Peep about two percent of the time – I worked it out.”

  “Look, would somebody mind telling me…” the sergeant asked.

  “Sarge, this young lady is a singer – a great singer, in my opinion,” Simpkiss said. “And when she’s on stage – and apparently only when she’s on stage – she’s Lilli Bo-Peep.”

  “He’s right, sergeant,” she said, “and thank you for the compliment.” She nodded to Simpkiss. “But, as I said, I’m Catrina Thompson right now and I really need to see Mr Mackay.”

  The other people waiting in reception were now all showing an interest in the new arrival and her unveiled identity. The sergeant turned to Bradshaw.

  “Okay, you’ve got your wish; take over the desk. Miss Thompson, would you like to go through there.” He indicated a door leading off the area then disappeared for a few moments to open it from the other side letting her through into a small room with four upholstered dining-style chairs arranged two on each side of a rectangular table.

  “Now, Miss Thompson,” he said, when they were seated, facing each other across the table, “I’m Sergeant Gerry Masters; I’m afraid the Chief Superintendent isn’t at the station today until later, and anyway, he wouldn’t normally be the first person you would get to see. Even for a celebrity like you.” He gave her a big smile. “Lilli Bo-Peep, eh. Well, assuming you’re not here to report some lost sheep, if you tell me what it’s about, I’ll get someone else to see you.”

  She smiled, then hesitated, looking down and twisting her hands together. The sergeant picked up on her nervousness.

  “Look, take your time; there’s no hurry.”

  She looked up and into his eyes, as if assessing whether she could trust him with her information.

  “It’s just that… Well, if what I say gets back to a certain person…” her voice broke a little as the fear surfaced, “… it would be really bad for me. It could be anyway, but…”

  “So could you just tell me what it’s about without mentioning this person’s name?”

  She paused for a moment.

  “It’s to do with Jack Tomlinson-Brown.”

  The sergeant’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “About his death, do you mean?”

  “No, about his conviction. Something was missed. It might not be important, but…”

  Gerry held up his hand to call a halt for now.

  “I think I’d better get someone else for you to speak to,” he said. “I’ll only be a few minutes, but I’m going to ask Constable Simpkiss to sit with you and get you a drink if you want one. Are you okay with that? I’ll tell him not to drool too much, but it seems he’s a big fan.”

  She laughed. “No that’s fine. He can tell me how good I am again.”

  *

  Jo picked up the phone.

  “Ma’am, DC Grantham here. I’ve got Sergeant Masters on the line wanting to speak to you.”

  “Okay, thanks, Alice – put him through. Hi, Gerry. What’s new?”

  “Well, ma’am, I’ve got a young lady here – Catrina Thompson. She says she’s got information about the Tomlinson-Brown kid’s conviction. About something that was missed.”

  Jo’s stomach gave a little flip. “She needs to speak to Harry Waters.”

  “I know that, ma’am. That’s who I was trying to contact, but I believe he’s talking to the Press and won’t be available for a while.”

  “Can you ask her to wait?”

  “I could, but she seems very nervous – frightened even. I’m just concerned that if she can’t see someone right away, she might change her mind about telling us anything.”

  “Okay, Gerry. It should really be somebody from Harry’s team, but DS Belmont’s not here either.”

  “The thing is she’s asked to see the chief. No disrespect to the DCs but – again – she might change her mind if it isn’t a senior officer.”

  Jo thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll come along and bring DC Grantham with me. Where is she?”

  “Interview Room A off reception.”

  “Are there recorders in there?”

  “There will be by the time you get there.”

  *

  They found Catrina and Liam Simpkiss drinking coffee and clearly enjoying each others’ company. Gerry set up the recorders then he and Liam left, the latter with a backward glance and a wide smile to the singer. Jo introduced herself and DC Grantham, telling the singer how much of a fan she was and asking about future dates. Catrina mentioned the forthcoming tour and by the time they got down to business, she seemed relaxed and talkative.

  “I’m afraid Detective Inspector Harry Waters, who was the investigating officer on Jack and Jason’s case, is not available,” Jo told her, “but DC Grantham was part of his team. Would you mind if we recorded this so that DI Waters can pick up on what you have to tell us?”

  “Of course not, no problem,” Catrina answered, smiling. “I’m used to making recordings.”

  “Just as long as we don’t have any copyright issues when we’ve finished,” Jo smiled. “Right, let’s make a start; you just say what you came to say; and we’ll chip in if we need to.”

  “Okay.”

  Jo switched on the two recorders.

  “Recording of an interview in Room A, GNS Reception, on Monday, 14th September. Present, Miss Catrina Thompson, DI Jo Cottrell and DC Alice Grantham. For the record, Miss Thompson came in voluntarily at her own instigation with information relating to the case of Jack Tomlinson-Brown and Jason Midanda. Interview started at eleven-oh-five am.”

  She nodded for Catrina to proceed.

  “I’m not sure whether this is relevant or not, and I’ve not only just thought about it but – well – I’ve only recently got up the courage to tell someone. My manager – agent – call him what you like – is a guy called Mickey Kadawe.” Jo felt another flip. “He arranged for me – and The Rams – that’s my backing group – they’re called Abattoir Ratts when they play on their own – play completely different stuff. Rams one minute, Ratts the next. They take a load of shit from the other heavies for that…”

  “I can imagine…”

  “Sorry, I’m wandering…”

  “No, that’s okay,” Jo said. “Go on.”

  “Well, he’d arranged for us to provide the music at Jack and Katey’s party. On the night, everybody was checked in through the gates by the on-site security guys when they arrived. They took everyone’s name, description, time they arrived and such. Except for Mickey; he was in the back of one of our vans hidden under the equipment. He swore us to secrecy and threatened us with God knows what if we gave him away – then or afterwards. He�
��s a real vicious bastard – I tell you, if he ever finds out I came here I don’t know what…”

  Her voice broke as the fear returned.

  “Go on, Catrina. It’ll be okay.” Jo was almost beside herself with anticipation. “Presumably he told you why he was doing this?”

  “Yes, he said he suspected Jack was dealing drugs – you know, the hard stuff. And Mickey was worried that would put the heat on his place – given that Jack spent a lot of time there. He said he was going to check out the house and grounds. So while we were setting up, he sneaked off to look around – and we didn’t see him again that night. I guess that in itself isn’t surprising; I mean, he wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “What do you think Mickey meant about putting the heat on his place?”

  “I know what he meant. Mickey’s a legit trader now, but he does other stuff as well. Some of the bad shit he reckoned Jack was doing. Can I say something off the record?” She pointed with her two index fingers to the recorders.

  “Sure,” Jo said. “Recording interrupted at eleven-fifteen am.” She paused the machines.

  “He gets that stuff for me from time-to-time, and for the rest of his artists. It’s a way to keep us quiet and – well – loyal to him, I suppose. We couldn’t get it anywhere else at what he charges us for it and we get a regular supply and pay for it through a cut in our earnings.”

  “Right,” Jo said. “Actually, we’d have been okay to record that, Catrina. Using the stuff isn’t illegal any more. You’re not breaking any law.”

  “I know, but I don’t want the wrong publicity. I’m the squeaky-clean, innocent, little nursery-rhyme girl. I’m supposed to be different. And I am… most of the time, but I just need a little boost every so often.”

  “Sure, I understand. So, are we ready to go again?” She placed her fingers over the pause buttons. Catrina nodded. Jo started the recorders.

  “Recording re-commenced at eleven-nineteen. Catrina, why are you telling us this now?”