‘Or we could sit in the office eating Penn’s cakes all morning while we wait for Mancini’s brief,’ she replied.
‘Yeah, what’s with that?’ Bryant asked.
‘Don’t know,’ she said and just managed to stop herself from adding ‘and don’t care’ suddenly aware of how childish that would sound.
‘They’re pretty good, though,’ Bryant said.
Kim ignored the frisson of irritation that niggled her.
‘There’s something here, Bryant, I can feel it,’ she said as he parked behind Mitch’s van, which was this side of the cordon tape strung between two wheelie bins with a constable standing at the midway point. Groups of neighbours stood smoking, drinking and pointing at the Mancini home.
She did a quick assessment of the scene before her and frowned.
‘I tell you what’s not here. And that’s Mancini senior,’ Bryant said.
‘Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that and I reckon we’ll get him later. His disciplinary is due at three this afternoon and I’m sure he’ll be turning up for that.’
‘Despite everything that’s happened?’
She nodded. ‘If Mancini junior has done this in some twisted revenge for the sullying of his father’s good name, then senior will be there. And if it’s nothing to do with it, he’ll be there.’
Bryant made no move to get out of the car.
‘What’s up?’ she asked with her palm on the door handle.
‘Remember how the SIO of the Yorkshire Ripper case became fixated on letters and recorded messages from Wearside Jack while the real killer continued to murder more victims?’
She frowned, unsure of his point.
‘Bryant, I’m following the bloody evidence,’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you want me to do, ignore the fact that our guy had motive, opportunity and means and that forensically we can tie his boots to the first victim? Jesus, give the prosecutor the day off and I’ll try this one myself.’ She paused and tried to swallow her annoyance. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you doubting direct evidence?’
‘Nat Mansell said something about making a choice. What did she mean?’
Kim shrugged. ‘To have an affair with a married man, to back up a false accusation of theft, what she had for breakfast. How the hell should I know?’
‘You always tell me that everything means something, so don’t you want to know?’ he asked.
‘Not at the expense of ignoring forensic evidence that’s got Mancini’s name all over it.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ he said, finally getting out of the car.
‘Yeah, I probably am,’ she snapped, stung by his doubt. What the hell did he want her to do, walk into Woody’s office and declare she had chosen to ignore all the evidence because it was making too much sense and was too tidy? She realised that she had added those last two words herself. Bryant hadn’t said that. But it was what he had meant. He’d either put the thought into her head or brought her own thoughts to the fore, and right now she wasn’t sure which. Yeah, she really needed Woody questioning her sanity the week he was deciding if she was capable of doing her job.
Fucking Bryant and his earworms, she cursed, as she paused at the front door of the property.
She hesitated as she approached the property. ‘Sergeant?’ she asked an officer giving instructions to two constables.
‘Marm?’ he responded, surprised.
‘If you’ve not instructed one of these officers to pair up with the guy on the cordon then do it right now. No one stands on Hollytree alone,’ she said, brushing past him.
His expression of understanding assured her it would be done.
Mitch met them at the kitchen door with two pairs of blue slippers.
‘Anything yet?’ she asked, bending down to put them on.
‘Done a cursory glance of all the rooms but focussing on the bedroom for any clothing and the kitchen for missing knives to start,’ he explained. ‘And other than a sizeable collection of soft porn, nothing to report as yet.’
She swallowed her disappointment.
‘Mind if we take a look around?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Yeah but just looky no touchy, Inspector,’ he said.
‘Got it,’ she said, heading to the living room.
She stood in the middle of the space and looked around. The room didn’t allow for much furniture. The sofas were back against the wall and one coffee table in the centre was in reach of them both. Other than the music centre and the television there was little else present, or of interest. The ugly weed had drooped and shrivelled on the sideboard.
She moved to the doorway of the poky bathroom. A narrow shower cubicle jutted out on her left. A toilet and sink lined the far wall with a waste basket in between.
She opened the shower door and peered inside.
‘Guv, you know—’
‘Clean,’ she observed, closing the cubicle. ‘Too bloody clean. Two men live here,’ she observed. ‘And judging by his room Giovanni isn’t the house-proud type.’
‘One of them cleans for a living,’ Bryant argued.
‘Yeah, exactly, how many cop shows you watch in your spare time?’ she asked, moving further into the room that only had space for one.
She looked around and almost gagged. ‘Yeah, tell your theory to the toilet pan,’ she said, looking away.
She opened the small cabinet above the sink by reaching to the top of the mirrored doors and pulling them open avoiding the bottom rim, which would have been more commonly used. She found the usual toiletries: toothbrushes, two different toothpastes, shaving paraphernalia and soap. She closed it again and glanced down at the waste bin, half-full of a few wrappers and lumps of toilet roll.
She glanced back at Bryant who was not so secretly checking his watch.
‘Okay, Bryant, I heard you loud and—’
She stopped speaking when her phone began to ring.
‘Penn,’ she answered.
‘Mancini’s brief just arrived, boss.’
‘On our way,’ she said and ended the call.
She stood in the hallway and opened her mouth to concede defeat when something lower down in the wire waste basket caught her eye.
She frowned and took a step back. She squatted down to get a better look at the inch of blue latex amongst the white crumpled tissue.
‘Call Mitch,’ Kim said, not taking her eyes from it in case it disappeared.
Bryant called, and Mitch appeared almost instantly.
‘Yo,’ he said, coming into view.
‘You say you’ve been in here?’ she asked, straightening.
‘Only a cursory glance from the doorway for signs of anything— Ooh, I see,’ he said, following her pointed finger.
‘Lou,’ he called. ‘Bags.’
It was a small property and Lou appeared promptly with a clutch of evidence bags.
Lou regarded her expectantly, and she stepped back into the hallway.
Mitch nodded at him. He opened an evidence bag as Mitch began to pick out the wadded tissue and drop each piece of rubbish into the evidence bag, exposing more of the blue latex.
Eventually Mitch reached it and held it up for them both to see.
It was clearly a latex surgical glove and it was stained red with blood,
She turned to her colleague. ‘So, what do you reckon, Bryant. You think we should ignore that?’
Eighty-Six
Stacey stood in the same spot that she’d stood the other day and looked up and down the street.
Despite what they’d learned about Jessie’s health and the coincidences surrounding her brother, Stacey still hadn’t been able to rid herself of the image of the girls arguing and Emma slapping Jessie. The girl had form for violence and she’d also had her best friend’s mobile phone, in bits, hidden in a speaker. And that had nothing to do with Munchausen by proxy.
And Emma’s mother – so desperate to keep her daughter quiet. Stacey remembered the previous day when she’d found
the phone in the speaker. The woman’s face had registered surprise, anger and then surprise again.
Stacey knew something had happened here on Sunday night, and she knew that somehow both Emma and her mother were involved; but she needed to see if either of them had exhibited any strange behaviour following Jessie’s disappearance.
She looked around the street and spotted the white transit van and she knew exactly where she needed to go.
Eighty-Seven
‘And that’s where we are, sir,’ Kim said, having relayed recent developments to her boss.
‘So, we have fibres that match Cordell to his lover’s mother, we have a boot print that matches Mancini’s shoes, a bloodstained surgical glove at the Mancini residence and you’re waiting for a match on the hair found at the first scene and the blood found on the glove?’
She nodded.
‘You can categorically tie him forensically to the murder of the doctor but you’re on shaky ground with the rest. I’m guessing those fibres are pretty common.’
She nodded. ‘Supplied to the hospital and about a thousand other outlets. Unless we find the actual cleaning cloth they came from we’re not going to be able to use them.’
‘You still feel it’s the same killer for all four victims, even Saul Cordell?’
She thought for a moment before nodding. ‘His accident is too coincidental for my liking,’ she said.
‘So, are you going to charge Mancini with the murder of Gordon Cordell?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got Penn on standby to start the CPS workup?’
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked.
‘A confession,’ she answered, honestly. ‘I want another crack at him. I want him to tell me face to face that he killed all four of them.’
‘Okay,’ he said, nodding. ‘Shake the tree and see what falls out, but don’t shake it too hard.’
She understood. He had a lawyer and she was on her best behaviour. If this went to court it would not fail on a technicality.
‘Hey, Stone, it’s Friday,’ he said, meaningfully, as she approached the door.
Yes, she knew. ‘And it will be on your desk by the end of the day. As requested.’
That she had no idea what Ted’s report would say, she chose not to mention.
‘That’s not coming from the morgue, I assume?’ he said, with amusement in his voice, referring to her leg X-rays.
Her hand hovered over the door handle.
She turned, surprising her boss. Normally, she couldn’t get out of his office fast enough once he’d finished with her.
‘Sir, Bryant thinks this case is just a bit too tidy.’
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘And your gut says?’
‘I’ve learned over the years to trust Bryant.’
‘And I’ve learned over the years to trust your gut,’ he answered.
Which was a great vote of confidence. If only she could work out what it was trying to say.
Eighty-Eight
‘Oh Jesus, not you again,’ said van man as he opened the door. ‘Are you like one of those recurring nightmares, cos you do realise it’s the middle of—’
‘Sir, I apologise for disturbing your sleep again but I really need your help. It’s important.’
She really wouldn’t have bothered him again if it wasn’t urgent. She remembered all too clearly her night shifts as a constable. Starting work when everyone else was celebrating another work day completed. Dealing with the night-time problems like drunks, vagrants, assaults. Fighting off the 3 a.m. slump and then taking the work-fuelled adrenaline home with no method of release before crawling between the sheets. Some of her colleagues had enjoyed a beer or two before laying down their heads, but alcohol at 7 a.m. was not a habit she wanted or needed.
Day sleeping had not suited her one little bit, and although her mum and dad had tried to keep the noise down they couldn’t prevent real life from happening. The blackout blind in her room had helped to fool her brain into sleep mode, but the laughter of the kids walking to school, the traffic and the postman had not been quite so obliging.
‘I really am sorry,’ she repeated, meaning it.
He rubbed a big, meaty hand all over his head as though rubbing away the sleep fog and stepped aside.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Stacey followed.
‘May I have another look at?…’
‘Here,’ he said, plucking the phone from beside his keys on the telephone table.
‘Password is “bigboy”, one word,’ he said, heading towards the kitchen.
‘Sir, you really shouldn’t just give out…’
‘You’re the police,’ he reminded her.
He had a point.
She keyed in his password and fired up the CCTV app.
The screen was frozen on the last image recorded. She pressed the view option and keyed in Monday’s date at 8 a.m.; Stacey knew there was nothing further for Sunday night because bigboy had gone to work his night shift and the dashcam had been switched off and removed.
‘What time do you get home?’ Stacey asked as he returned with a pint glass of some kind of weak cordial.
‘Seven thirty,’ he replied.
Stacey keyed in ‘7.35’ and hit play.
The van had been parked in a different place in the street giving her a different angle from the footage she’d viewed the other day.
All she could see was the end of the path and a corner of the Weston’s garden.
From the corner of her eye she saw bigboy’s head loll back against the top of the sofa.
‘I really am sorry about…’
‘’S all right,’ he said, drowsily. ‘Just hope it helps.’
She offered him an appreciative smile and turned her attention back to the screen as a pair of legs appeared on the path. Judging by the thick tights and navy skirt, it was Emma, leaving for school. Earlier than Stacey would have expected but maybe she had errands to run.
She continued watching unsure what she was hoping to find, but thinking that surely Emma or her mother would exhibit some kind of changed behaviour if they’d been involved in the disappearance of Jessie Ryan the night before?
Footage of the two of them carrying black bags filled with God knows what had already occurred to her.
A soft snore sounded from the man on the sofa as Stacey saw the same pair of legs return to the house. Emma had been gone for twenty minutes.
At 8.35 Emma’s legs appeared again and turned the other way out of the gate.
At 9.10 Mrs Weston, dressed in light blue jeans, headed down the path and out of sight. Damn this partial view. If Snoring Beauty had parked just a few feet back she’d have had a much better line of sight.
Twenty minutes later Mrs Weston returned to the property for a total of fifteen minutes before leaving again.
Stacey sat back and tried to analyse the behaviour.
It was the morning after Jessie’s disappearance, following a physical fight with the daughter. They had both left the house, returned and then left again within an hour.
It was like they were checking on something.
‘Hang on one minute,’ she said.
‘What, what?…’
‘Not you,’ she reassured the half-asleep man.
She keyed in each morning at ‘7.30’ and the van had been parked in a slightly different place every time bigboy had returned from work.
She then checked each evening at around ‘7 p.m.’ before the van was moved again to take its owner to work.
‘Oh, my lord,’ she breathed, as she saw what had been staring her in the face all the time.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ she said, standing and handing the man his phone.
‘Did it help at all?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘Oh, bigboy, you really have no idea,’ she said, gratefully.
He closed the door behind her, and with trepidation she crossed the road and headed to the bottom of the street. She hesitated for a second as her hand curled around
the door handle of the caravan.
Her hair stood on end as a hand covered hers and a voice spoke into her ear.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
Eighty-Nine
‘You are joking me?’ Kim asked, incredulously.
Giovanni Mancini shook his head.
‘You got the shoes from Lost and Found? At the hospital?’ she said, staring at a smug-looking Giovanni Mancini, who hadn’t spoken a word since his brief had arrived. But just as he was better prepared, so was she after taking a call from Mitch while Mancini and his solicitor had concocted their defence strategy. This new information would keep for now and would be better served to take him by surprise later.
Kim had groaned inwardly when she’d heard his brief was Norbert Flowers. Habitually he advised his clients to respond with the two-word phrase Kim would like struck from the dictionary.
‘No comment,’ Giovanni said, proving that the slimy solicitor hadn’t changed his tactics one bit.
‘My client states he got them Tuesday morning,’ Norbert said, blinking rapidly.
‘But why didn’t he say this when I asked him earlier?’ Kim probed.
‘Because he thought it would get him into trouble.’
‘Yeah cos taking lost property sure trumps murder,’ she observed.
‘My client was concerned about losing his job. Lost property doesn’t always make it through the official channels. He heard about them and managed to obtain them before they entered the logging system of thirty days at which point they can be redistributed.’
‘So, basically he’s saying he…’
‘Apparently it happens all the time and my client is not the only one to take advantage of—’
‘I’m sorry but I don’t believe you,’ she said, addressing the suspect and not his mouthpiece.
‘But on to the next point, Mr Mancini, would you like to explain why there’s a surgical glove in your bathroom waste bin at home?’
He didn’t look particularly surprised as he shrugged.
‘Care to answer the question, sir?’
Fatal Promise: A totally gripping and heart-stopping serial-killer thriller Page 23
