‘Look, can you just pick her up from school and take her to my mum’s? I’ll call later,’ she said, facing the window.
‘Yeah, you too,’ she said, with less stress in her voice.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Six-year-old has developed sickness and diarrhoea in the half hour since I dropped her off.’
‘Yep, been there many years ago,’ Bryant sympathised.
She reached for her diary looking genuinely concerned. ‘Sorry, did I miss?…’
‘No, Mrs Wilson, we just happened by for a quick word.’
She looked relieved.
‘Okay, but please call me Vanessa. Now, how may I help you?’ she asked, finally sitting down.
They had caught this woman at the end of the day and now at the start of the day. Right now the hair was held back tightly, the make-up was flawless and there were no telltale crease marks across her midriff.
‘Mrs… sorry, Vanessa, are you aware that Gordon Cordell’s eldest son was brought here late last night?’
‘Saul?’ she asked.
‘You know him?’ Kim asked, surprised.
She nodded. ‘Vaguely. He’s been to the odd function with his father. He’s a surgeon too. I’ve not yet had chance to read the nightlies. What’s wrong with him?’
Kim guessed that the nightlies was some kind of overnight briefing. ‘Car crash on the motorway last night. He’s in ICU, in an induced coma. It was pretty bad,’ Kim said. ‘It was nothing short of a miracle he survived, and no one expected him to live through the extraction from his vehicle.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘I must go down and see him. That poor family.’
‘Yes,’ Kim agreed. ‘But we’re back because of something you said yesterday when we mentioned complaints against Doctor Cordell. You said something about it being the other way round.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just an internal matter.’
‘Let us be the judge of that, please, Vanessa. It might be important.’
‘Okay, Doctor Cordell made a complaint against a member of cleaning staff, Angelo Mancini, who has been a cleaner here for eleven years. Doctor Cordell caught him attempting to steal equipment from Theatre 3, I should add allegedly, and reported him for attempted theft.’
‘To you?’
Vanessa shook her head. ‘No, he went directly to the police, but I assured them I would deal with it. So, it’s now an internal investigation with a disciplinary hearing at the end of this week.’ She paused. ‘You don’t think?…’ She clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness… no… it couldn’t… he wouldn’t…’
‘What?’ Kim asked, as she could see the sums being done in the woman’s head.
‘Mr Mancini didn’t react well to being suspended from duty. He promised he would “get” Cordell and he would “get him good”, but I’m sure he didn’t mean anything…’
Kim felt the excitement churn at her stomach.
‘Vanessa, I think you’d better let us have Angelo Mancini’s address.’
Thirty-Six
Stacey stepped out of the taxi outside Emma Weston’s house. She didn’t feel the teenager had been truthful with her the day before but there was no point trying to speak to her again until she had something to ask. She hadn’t got a particularly good vibe from the mother either.
She had returned wondering if the neighbours had seen or heard anything. She looked up and down the street but no property looked exceptionally inviting.
She thought about the house that had a nice Volvo parked the day before. They were directly opposite. She crossed the road and began walking and then stopped before she got there, right next to a white transit van.
She looked at the property. Dishwater-grey net curtains hung at the upstairs window with a dark-coloured roller blind behind. Four slabs with huge gaps in between formed a makeshift path to the front door over a quagmire of grass tufts and mud.
She took long steps and hit the glass in the absence of a knocker. A few cigarette butts were piling up beneath the front room window.
There was no answer and no movement. She knocked again. Harder. It definitely looked as though the white transit belonged to this house. There had to be someone home.
She heard the sound of cursing, and footsteps thundering down the stairs.
‘What the fucking?…’
The man’s words stopped dead as he laid eyes on her.
Stacey was aware that the bearded bear of a man was hardly dressed and was covered only in a black tee shirt and a pair of yellow shorts. Bird tattoos covered his meaty arms.
‘Sir, I’m really sorry to disturb you but is that a dashcam in your transit?’
‘That’d be funny if I hadn’t just worked a bloody long night shift. Now, what the?…’
His words trailed away as she held up her identification.
‘I ain’t broke no laws,’ he protested, shaking his head. ‘Little bastards keep slashing my tyres, and you lot won’t do anything without evidence.’
‘Sir, you’re not in any trouble. I’ll start again. I’m Detective Constable Stacey Wood investigating the case of a missing fifteen-year-old girl and I’d really like your help.’
Sleep-deprived or not she saw the anger seep out of him. He scratched at a spot on his chest that was just to the right of a toothpaste stain.
‘Well, put like that, how can I refuse?’ he said, standing aside.
Stacey stepped into a dated residence full of swirls and twirls but much tidier than she’d expected. There was no television or radio playing and that was because this was his night time.
‘Sir, was your van parked there on Sunday night?’
‘For a while, why?’
‘Could I see the footage?’ she asked.
‘It’s not Emma Weston who’s gone cos I saw her this morning,’ he said, reaching for his phone from the telephone table in the hall.
‘No, her friend, Jessie, blonde, pretty, fifteen years old.’
‘I think I know who you mean,’ he said, pressing an app on his phone. He tapped in the details surprisingly quickly with his meaty fingers.
The screen sprang into life. He passed her the phone. ‘Here, have a look while I go and put some clothes on.’
‘Not on my account,’ she said, appreciating the offer. ‘I’ll let you get back to bed as soon as I can.’
She keyed in the date she wanted and entered ‘10.30’ but the screen came back blank. She rolled backwards until she caught a movement. She stopped it and watched. A few people walked past. Three kids on bikes rode up and down the pavement a couple of times, and a small Jack Russell terrier appeared from nowhere, took a dump and disappeared again. She kept watching, and at 8.35 p.m. both girls exited Emma Weston’s house. The footage caught them walking down the path talking animatedly. Emma was waving her hands around in what looked like frustration. Jessie seemed to be walking away.
Stacey couldn’t take her eyes off Jessie, seeing her in the flesh instead of staring at her photo. Just as her mother described, wearing black leggings, a long tee shirt and a denim jacket.
Emma stopped walking at the end of the path, and they faced each other. Emma was still gesticulating, and Jessie crossed her arms. Then for a few seconds neither of them seemed to speak. Stacey half expected them to begin that game of tic-tac-toe, a staple of the playground, then Jessie said something. Emma’s right hand came up and slapped Jessie round the face.
‘She’s a feisty one,’ said the guy from behind her. For a big guy she hadn’t heard him approach.
Stacey continued to watch and could feel the stunned silence that fell between the two friends as though neither could believe what had just happened.
Suddenly, Jessie turned and started to walk away. Emma began to follow when the screen suddenly went blank.
‘What happened?’ Stacey asked, wanting to watch the soap opera continue before her.
‘I switched it off cos I was on my way out. I went to work.’
<
br /> ‘And you never saw either of them when you left?’
He shook his head, slowly.
‘No, officer, I never saw a thing.’
Thirty-Seven
Kim realised that there were very few cases she worked that didn’t bring her back to Hollytree in some form or another.
Any concessions to spring disappeared as they drove on to the sprawling estate, as though nothing would dare to burgeon in this place.
Kim had visited many council estates where efforts had been made in the planning stages to inject some colour with occasional flower beds, borders or trees, patches of grass to soften the landscape.
Not Hollytree.
The view was harsh and functional, formed of concrete, tarmac and paving slabs. There were no front gardens, just identical maisonette blocks circling the thirteen-storey tower blocks at the centre.
Bryant parked next to the bins at the side of a maisonette block sporting a giant spray-painted penis.
As they got out of the car a hunched, hooded youth passed them, flicked a cigarette end on the ground close to Bryant’s feet and snorted derisively.
‘Original,’ Kim observed as the youth turned and spat to his left.
‘Bloody trilobites,’ Bryant said, shaking his head.
‘Huh?’ Kim asked.
‘Trilobites, otherwise known as Dudley Locust, inhabited the borough way before humans. Often compared to the woodlouse. Died out about 400 million years ago when the coal swamps were formed, though I reckon a few got left behind.’
As the kid turned and gave them the finger, Kim had no choice but to agree with her colleague.
‘Second one along,’ Bryant said, as they both swatted the air around their faces as a few bluebottles left the overflowing bins and headed straight for them.
They dodged a pushchair and two bikes to get to the target property. Loud music met their ears as they knocked the door.
Another door opened to the left and a young woman stepped out, already snarling.
‘If he answers the door tell him to turn that fucking racket down. I’ve got kids in ’ere,’ she roared.
Who can probably hold their own in the noise department, Kim thought, if their mother’s volume level was anything to go by. Proving her point, a piercing squeal travelled through the open door.
‘We’ll advise him,’ Bryant said, knocking again.
She folded her arms across a vest top.
‘You’ll need to knock harder than that. He’ll think it’s me and just ignore yer.’
Bryant thanked her and knocked again.
The woman shook her head and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.
‘Okay, let’s thunder it,’ Kim said, realising the neighbour was right.
They both knocked at the same time continuously. The music stopped, but they did not until the door opened.
The man before her was younger than she’d expected. In his mid-twenties, the tee shirt he wore displayed rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders with black hair tied back in a ponytail.
His battle-ready face creased in confusion. Kim guessed he was primed ready to give his neighbour a mouthful.
Bryant held up his identification.
He looked to his right. ‘I thought it was the biatch from next door,’ he said.
‘Mr Mancini?’ Kim asked.
He nodded as his frown deepened.
‘Angelo Mancini?’ she checked.
He shook his head. ‘Giovanni. It’s my dad you want. He’s in bed.’
Not asleep, Kim thought, with the volume of that music.
He turned and called his father from the bottom of the stairs.
Angelo appeared and headed down the stairs as Giovanni ushered them in. Suddenly all four of them were in the dark, cramped hallway.
‘Please come through,’ Angelo said, heading into a small lounge just past the kitchen. Kim detected a faint trace of accent in the older man but nothing in his son, which told her they’d lived in the UK for a long time.
As she followed him into the lounge Kim noted this was a man’s space only. The area was tidy and free of clutter and ornaments. She couldn’t count the burn circles on the coffee table caused by hot mugs being placed straight onto the wood. A car magazine and a fitness leaflet lay on the arms of two sofas both pointing at the television. The music centre sat on a glass table against the wall adjoining the neighbour’s property. A variety of remote controls took centre stage on a sideboard beside an incongruously placed pot plant with a busy pink flower.
Kim took a moment to appraise the two men who had sat on opposite sofas leaving herself and Bryant no choice but to sit beside either one of them. Looking at them both she could easily visualise what Giovanni might look like later in life. Both blessed with olive complexions and dark eyes beneath generous eyebrows, the similarities seemed to end there. Angelo’s dark hair was cut short with an unruly wave at the centre of his forehead. His son was a good foot taller with added muscle.
‘How may we help you?’ Mr Mancini senior asked.
‘We’re here about Doctor Gordon Cordell. We understand there was some kind of incident between the two of you.’
His face tightened but he shook his head. ‘It’s in the past, officer,’ he said. ‘The man is dead.’
‘Yes, he is,’ Kim said. ‘But we need to understand what happened. He reported you to the police?’
Younger Mancini had sat forward, his elbows on his knees. He awaited his father’s response.
Angelo nodded. ‘He did but it’s over now. It was a misunderstanding.’
Kim felt her frustration begin to grow.
‘But it’s not over, is it?’ she pushed. ‘We understand that the OMD, Vanessa Wilson, called off the police investigation, but you still have a case to answer internally.’
‘My dad is not a thief,’ Giovanni said, angrily.
Kim acknowledged his statement in defence of his father. It was to be expected.
‘Doctor Cordell accused you of stealing hospital equipment?’ she said, returning her attention to the older man.
Angelo nodded. ‘It will be all over when I have my meeting. I will clear it all away,’ he said, wringing his hands.
‘You seem very sure of yourself, Mr Mancini,’ she said.
‘Because they cannot find me guilty,’ he said, simply.
‘You mean because the only witness is dead?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because I didn’t do it.’
Kim paused. Either this man was stupid, naive or overconfident. Maybe he’d watched too many episodes of Law & Order and believed that his declaration of ‘I didn’t do it’ would suffice.
She could visit every prison in the UK and hear that same proclamation from ninety per cent of the population.
‘My colleagues know I didn’t do it,’ he said, nodding towards the sad excuse for a plant on the sideboard. ‘And have said they will speak up for me.’
Kim opened her mouth to explain that unless they were right there when it happened testaments to his good character would do him very little good indeed.
She was prevented from speaking as Giovanni reached to the side of the chair and pulled out a pair of long-lipped Reeboks.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for work.’
‘That’s fine, we only need your father,’ she explained, turning back to Mancini senior.
‘Mr Mancini, where were you on Monday evening at around 6 p.m.?’ she asked.
‘Don’t answer, Dad,’ Giovanni said, standing up.
‘I have nothing to hide. I was here, watching TV,’ he answered.
‘And I was here with him,’ Giovanni added.
Kim wondered if there was any way they could prove or disprove that fact.
‘And why would you ask him that?’ Giovanni cried. ‘Look at the size of him to that fat bastard.’
Kim ignored the younger man. ‘Mr Mancini, we understand that you threatened Doctor Cordell. You told him you’d get him good. Is
that correct?’
Giovanni moved towards his father. Bryant stood and blocked him.
‘Easy, son. Let your dad answer the question if he wants to.’
Angelo slowly began to nod his head.
‘I said it, but I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…’
His words trailed away as he decided not to clarify.
‘What did you mean?’ Kim asked, already forming an arrest warrant in her head.
‘Tell ’em, Dad,’ Giovanni said.
Angelo shook his head. ‘They cannot find me guilty if I didn’t do it,’ he repeated.
Kim briefly wondered if he meant theft or murder. Or both.
‘Why won’t you tell them?’ Giovanni said, holding his hands up to Bryant to signal he did not need to be held back.
‘The man is dead. His family…’
‘What about his family?’ Kim asked sharply. The man’s son was in hospital fighting for his life.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It helps no one.’
‘Why are you doing this, Dad?’ Giovanni raged. ‘He was a selfish, arrogant bastard who cared for no one but himself. He insulted you, humiliated you in front of everyone, reported you to the police, almost lost you your job, your reputation, and yet you refuse to tell them. I’m glad the bastard is dead after what—’
‘Look, both of you,’ Kim said sharply. ‘I’m gonna be honest. Doctor Cordell was brutally murdered by someone who was raging, and although he wasn’t a very personable kind of guy, I only have one person who issued him with a direct threat.’
She could see the fear in the old man’s eyes but he shook his head.
‘For fuck’s sake, Dad,’ Giovanni cried.
Kim stood and reached for her back pocket.
‘Okay, Mr Mancini, you leave me with no choice…’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, looking to the hand he was expecting to hold cuffs.
Oldest trick in the book.
She sat back down.
He sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what really happened.’
Thirty-Eight
Stacey was waiting outside Cornbow High School when the dinner bell rang at 12.30 p.m.
Fatal Promise: A totally gripping and heart-stopping serial-killer thriller Page 11
