The Cuckoo is a Pretty Bird

by L M Krier

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Right, Ronnie, you know me well enough already, but for the recording, I’m PC Higgins and this is ...’ he turned to the young probationer sitting next to him, trying not to dwell on the fact that she looked younger than his own daughter. ‘Can you give your name?’

  ‘PC Papadopoulos.’

  Higgins was glad he was able to leave it to her to pronounce. He was never sure how many syllables there were. He’d been heartily relieved when she’d invited him to shorten her first name, Eulalia, to just Lia. He could cope with that.

  ‘Okay, then, Ronnie ...’

  The solicitor she’d asked for had arrived. A duty solicitor, and a new one. Keen. Eager to make his mark. Definitely trying to establish his Alpha male status from the start.

  ‘Officer, as a courtesy, please address my client by her correct name. She’s already given it for the tape.’

  ‘All right, Zofia, let me ask you ...’

  The scowling young woman interrupted him this time. ‘Not my first name. We’re not mates or nothing. You wouldn’t like me calling you Dick, would you? Dick.’ She put heavy emphasis on it.

  ‘Let’s get on, shall we? What were you doing at the building where you were arrested?’

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Who do you know who lives in that building?’

  ‘No comment.’

  It was exactly what Dick Higgins and Virgil had been expecting when they’d discussed how the interview should go. Virgil was in another room, watching over the monitors. He could talk to Higgins through his earpiece.

  ‘Tell her we have all the camera footage for the building, so we’re going through it to see how many times she’s visited, especially in the last week,’ he told him.

  ‘You clearly do know someone who lives there. An officer witnessed you knocking at the door of a flat on the first floor and calling out a name. Why did you run off when the officer tried to speak to you?’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Some big black bloke built like a brick shithouse tries to grab hold of me and you wonder why I legged it? I didn’t know he were a pig.’

  Her solicitor leaned closer to her and spoke quietly, cautioning her to stick to ‘no comment’ answers for now.

  ‘The thing is, Zofia, we have camera footage not just from the building but the surrounding area as well. You’re clearly in the habit of visiting the occupant of one of the flats. We just need to know about your connection to that person. You might be able to clear yourself of a potentially much more serious crime than assaulting a police officer. Although that charge will stand.’

  ‘Exactly what are you accusing my client of, officer?’

  ‘As you’ve been told, Zofia has been arrested for assault on a police officer. I’m trying to establish, Zofia, what you were doing in that building.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We could be in for a long session, Dick,’ Virgil said dryly through the earpiece.

  ‘Have you seen the news today, Zofia?’ Higgins asked her.

  The suspicious death had made all the local press and media and had even had a brief mention on the national news.

  She scowled at him. ‘I don’t watch that shit. Too depressing.’

  ‘So you’re not aware that a body was found in the flat where you were knocking at the door?’

  She couldn’t disguise her reaction to the news. Unless she was an outstanding actor, she clearly wasn’t aware. In an involuntary movement, her body straightened up slightly. Her eyes widened. Subtle indicators not lost on someone of PC Higgins’ experience.

  ‘What does that have to do with my client? I’ve only been told about the police assault,’ the solicitor cut in. ‘If you have something else, I need to be informed so I can properly advise her.’

  ‘Mr Denby,’ Higgins explained patiently, ‘Zofia was seen knocking on the door of a flat in which there had been a suspicious death, and calling the occupant by name. You can see why we would want to speak to her in that connection, surely?’

  ‘I need time to take further instruction from my client. This interview was supposed to be about the alleged assault on a police officer.’

  ‘It still is, Mr Denby. The purpose of my questioning is to establish why your client was at the flat in the first place, and why she was apparently so keen to avoid the police.’

  Denby opened his mouth to speak again but Higgins went on, ‘But I’m quite happy for you to take a break for more instruction now. You can use this room. I’ll make sure the recording equipment is turned off to give you some privacy, and I’ll see if I can arrange a cuppa for you both.

  ‘Interview suspended. PC Higgins and …’ the probationer again obligingly supplied her name for him, ‘leaving the room.’

  He left them to it and went to find Virgil.

  ‘She didn’t know about the body, did she?’ Virgil asked him by way of greeting. ‘The neighbour who reported it said she could smell something when the door was ajar. Perhaps it wasn’t that strong if it was shut.’

  ‘I’d bet my miserly pension on her not knowing. Like I said, I’ve known Ronnie a while. Arrested her a couple of times. Interviewed her a few times. That was news to her, I’d swear to it. But now I’m going to have to leave you to it, Virgil. Contrary to rumour, us Woodentops do have our own crimes to tackle and there aren’t enough of us to do that properly.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Dick, I appreciate your help. I need to start going over all the camera footage to see exactly when we can place Ronnie in the building. I’m hoping to get Jezza to talk to her next, if she’s finished phoning round to find out more about the victim.’

  Dick Higgins laughed at that. ‘Ronnie versus young Jezza? Now that I would pay money to watch, and I’ve no idea which way I’d place my bet.’

  ‘Ricky, is it? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Darling, from Stockport police. This is DS Hallam. Is it all right if we ask you some questions, please?’

  The teenage boy, who was still half-dressed despite the time, corrected him swiftly.

  ‘Rick. No one calls me Ricky, not since junior school. Except him.’ He lifted a scornful chin in his father’s direction as he spoke.

  ‘Sorry. Rick. Do you visit your father here often?’

  He shrugged and headed for the kettle. ‘Most weekends. A lot of the school holidays. And whenever my darling mother feels like dumping me while she goes off somewhere.’

  ‘And where’s home when you’re not here?’

  ‘Cheadle Hulme. But her bloke doesn’t trust me enough to let me stay in his house when they go away. I’m a teenager, so clearly I must be dangerous and certainly not to be trusted in his posh property.’

  ‘Do you have friends here? People you see when you’re staying with your father? Maybe someone who lives in the building, or friends who visit them here?’

  Rick finished making his drink, threw the spoon towards the sink, which it missed, and turned to face Ted. ‘No, no and no. It was three questions, wasn’t it? I lost track.’

  ‘You don’t have any contact with any other young people who live in the block or any who visit here?’ Ted pressed him.

  Rick Boyle leaned against the nearest worktop and eyed Ted appraisingly. He didn’t seem in the least intimidated by being questioned by a senior police officer.

  ‘Do all adults make assumptions? I’m a teenager so by definition I must know every other teen who comes into the building?’

  ‘I apologise if that’s how it came across,’ Ted told him, to his apparent surprise. ‘It wasn’t my intention. It’s just that, with the cameras here, you must at least occasionally see people coming into the building. I wonder, in that case, if you’d ever seen anyone you know.’

  ‘Still no. Despite what the Aged Parent might tell you, I’m the studious type. He just hears the noise in my room. He doesn’t understand that my generation can multi-task. I’m studying while I listen to music, even if it is a bit loud. I’m trying
to get my grades up to study Law at Uni.’

  ‘I know you work hard,’ his father told him. ‘He’s a bright lad, inspector, does very well at school.’

  ‘You made a judgement,’ Rick told Ted dismissively. ‘So did I. I saw a procession of knuckle-draggers coming and going, making a lot of noise, and decided we might not have a lot in common. So I avoid them like the plague. And I haven’t seen anyone I recognise, looking at the monitors. I try not to go out when I hear them around. I’m not the bravest of souls.’

  ‘A bit different on the inside, eh, boss?’ Mike Hallam remarked when he and Ted had taken a first detailed look round the interior of Abigail’s flat after talking to Boyle and his son. It was easier to get a good look at the place, now the body had been recovered and CSI had packed up for the weekend. They clearly had a lot of work still to do but it was the usual problem of resources and available time. The smell was strong but windows must have been opened at some point as it was marginally better than it had been.

  ‘I’ve seen squats in better condition,’ Ted agreed. ‘And it looks as if quite a few people have been crashing here, at least from time to time. It will be interesting to see what shows up from the security cameras. I think we’re going to have a lot of people to trace and interview, once CSI has finished with all the fingerprinting.’

  Ted and Mike had shoe covers and gloves on while they picked carefully over anything they could see. The drugs which had been found had gone off for testing for identification and valuation purposes. A sniffer dog had been used to make sure any and all stashes were found.

  The flat had two bedrooms. One was clearly Abigail’s own room, although from the bedclothes and a couple of sleeping bags scattered about, it looked as if she didn’t always have it to herself. What was evidently a guest room also showed signs of multiple occupancy. Both rooms were in a state of squalid disorder.

  ‘No computer anywhere. Is Abigail computer literate?’ Mike asked.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. She clearly has an iPhone to FaceTime her mother. There’s a lot about Abigail we don’t yet know and we need to find out, before we go much further. We don’t know her literacy abilities, for one thing. It would be helpful, from a communication point of view, if we knew if she can read and write, and to what degree. We might not always have the right level of Makaton interpreter available.’

  ‘I’ll get on to that once we’re back in the office, boss.’

  Ted was looking thoughtfully at one of the few areas of the room which was not covered in sleeping equipment or detritus. He moved carefully towards it, studying the floor intently, then looked across at the bed, with its rumpled and stained sheets. He moved all round the clear space, looking from the floor towards the bed. Then he spoke to Mike.

  ‘What do you make of this, Mike? These marks on the carpet.’

  Mike went to stand next to the boss; to look at what he had spotted. Three distinct indentations on a carpet which, although stained and filthy, was clearly good quality and not all that old.

  ‘A piece of furniture that’s been moved?’ he suggested. ‘Although it’s a funny place to put something like a side table. A bit in the way there.’

  Then he looked again, as Ted had done, from the marks to the bed.

  ‘Shit,’ he said half under his breath. ‘A camera tripod. You’re thinking some kind of porn filming or something, then?’

  ‘It must be my suspicious policeman's brain but that’s the first thing which came to my mind. I’m open to other suggestions, though. More innocent ones, if you can think of any.’

  ‘I must be the same because at the moment, I can’t think of an explanation I like any better. Could that explain Abigail’s pregnancy, and the fact that she didn’t seem to know about it?’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She may not have been involved. It could be others who’ve been using her flat for some kind of filming, perhaps when she’s been out.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mike said with feeling. ‘She’s such an easy target. So vulnerable. I hope Virgil can get something out of that girl we arrested. If we at least knew who and what we were dealing with, we could make a start at rounding up some likely names.

  ‘With an indication of possible filming, and a dead body in the kitchen, you don’t think we’re talking about those snuff films, do you? Or is that too wild a leap?’

  ‘I’m not dismissing anything until we get further evidence. The post-mortem is likely to be the most important step next, I think. Then we should at least know if the death was murder or some sort of an accident. Or even self-defence.

  ‘We’re going to need access to Abigail’s financial stuff at some point, I suspect,’ Ted went on, opening drawers of a dressing table, leafing carefully through the contents. ‘There’s a strong possibility, if this is cuckooing, that they’ve been fleecing her for all she’s worth. Which would seem to be quite a lot.’

  ‘How can the parents leave her on her own like this, boss? They must know she’s not coping. When did they last come here, for god’s sake? Look at the state of it. It’s not got like this in just a week or two. That poor young woman. What must she have been going through?’

  Ted was only half listening to his rhetorical questions. He’d pulled out a sheaf of papers from a drawer and was carefully looking through them. Words, often misspelt, in a large and childish hand. Brightly coloured hearts, crudely scribbled, and large X’s, probably intended to show kisses.

  ‘Well, this would appear to show us two things. Firstly it would seem that Abigail can write, although her spelling isn’t good. And secondly, she seems to be in love with someone called Data. Whoever he, or she, might be.’

  Four months earlier

  ‘We need some quality, Igor. The pond life we have now are all right for street corner selling. But they’re never going to be able to get into the places we need for them to shift the good stuff. That’s why we’re out here talent-spotting. Again.

  ‘The new supply line’s all set up and it’s watertight. Squeaky clean. We’re good to go. We just need the right front man. Or woman, of course. I’m not sexist.

  ‘But where do they hang out? Some days, I despair of finding exactly what I’m looking for.’

  The man in the back seat of the parked black vehicle was scanning the road intently. Occasionally he ordered the man in the driver’s seat to start shooting with the expensive camera in his hands.

  ‘Now that, Igor,’ he said reflectively, after a long period of sitting in silence, ‘that is what I’m talking about.’

  His eyes were locked onto a young man walking down the road towards them, seemingly unaware of their presence. He walked with his head high, a spring in his stride. Light brown skin, jet black hair. A certain arrogance in the way he carried himself.

  The driver panned the camera to follow him. The man in the back seat swivelled round to keep him in sight.

  ‘Oh my god, look at that arse. He’s perfection, Igor. The camera will love him. Find him for me. Get one of the pond life to reel him in. I don’t care how you do it, but he’s the one I want.’

  ‘Yes, Mister Big.’

  ‘What’s happenin’, man? Did you get inside?’

  The new arrival stopped next to the park bench. The speaker was sitting on the back of it, feet on the seat, thumbs working the keypad of his mobile.

  ‘No way. The feds were there. Well, one of them was a short bloke, didn’t look much like one. But the bloke he was with was one, for sure. He had one of them badge things round his neck. Anyway, I could smell pig, even from where I was.’

  ‘So where the fuck is Latte? And where’s the fat slag? Why’s she not letting anyone in? The Big Man is having a fucking meltdown. If we don’t get the stuff out of there and soon, we’re going to have to get out of here, bro. Before they come looking for us.’

  The second youth was looking round him. ‘Where’s the others?’

  ‘They’ll be here.’

  ‘Has Data still got that trace on the fat
slag’s phone? At least if we knew where she was we could try to find her.’

  The first boy was looking along the path now. ‘Here they come. We might get some answers.’

  Four figures were striding towards them. They looked to be all around late teens. Two girls, two boys. They came to a halt next to the bench. No greetings were exchanged.

  ‘Have you heard?’ one of the boys began, before anyone had chance to speak. ‘I saw it on the news. There’s been a body found. In the flats. Where the fat slag lives.’

  ‘Was it her?’ the first youth asked.

  ‘Dunno, they’ve not said. But where the fuck is she, and where’s Latte? And Ronnie?’

  ‘You still got that trace on the slag, Data?’

  One of the two male youths who’d just arrived had his mobile phone in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen.

  ‘Yeah, it shows her being some place called Over Pee-over, wherever the fuck that is. I’m just looking.’ He consulted the screen again, then looked back up. ‘Some posh place out in Cheshire. What the fuck’s she doing there? She’s been inside the flat all week, even if she wouldn’t open the door, the stupid bitch.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not her?’ one of the girls suggested. ‘Maybe someone nicked her phone. Maybe Latte did and he’s done a runner. He was always flaky. Ready to leg it.’

  ‘Maybe the two of them have gone together, and taken all the gear with them,’ the other female said.

  ‘So who’s the body?’ the second youth asked. ‘I couldn’t get near. The feds are there.’

  ‘And Ronnie’s not turned up to say how she got on. Maybe the feds got her. So how the fuck are we going to get inside the place to get the stuff back, before the Big Man comes looking for us?’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Right, for the recording, I’m DC Vine. How would you like me to address you? As Zofia or Miss Wieczorek?’

  The name tripped effortlessly off Jezza’s tongue. As soon as she knew she was going to be taking over the interview, she’d done her homework online. She had a good ear for words, accents and pronunciation from her drama training. It came in useful.