by Bill Rogers
‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘If you like, I’ll make you both a drink while you’re at it?’
It was okay to let a witness or a victim make you a drink, but definitely not a potential suspect. That’s what Caton had taught her. More as a matter of principle than anything else, he’d told her, unless of course the perpetrator’s MO was poisoning. Which in this case, she reminded herself, it was.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said.
He rolled sideways off the beanbag and stood up. ‘Then do you mind if I get myself one?’
‘Feel free,’ she replied. ‘It’s your house.’
He smiled thinly. ‘How very ironic,’ he said.
Chapter 53
‘You know what we’re looking for,’ said Jo, slipping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘If you find anything, don’t touch, just give me a shout.’
They started in the lounge. Jo concentrated on the books, checking titles and leafing through the pages. There was nothing that related to guns or poisons, although there were a number of crime, thriller, and mystery novels, and one on forensics. Nothing out of keeping with the job he did.
She checked the understairs storage cupboard and found a typical urban bicycle, in black, with flat handlebars and eight gears, together with a vacuum cleaner and a row of three hooks, on one of which hung a red-and-black windcheater.
They moved upstairs. On the landing was a pull-down ladder leading up into the loft space. She decided to leave that till last. There were two bedrooms. Jo pointed to the smaller of the two. ‘You take that one,’ she said.
The master bedroom was not much bigger. Twelve foot long by eleven foot wide, it held a standard double bed, a chest of drawers, a pine wardrobe, and a radiator. On a bedside table lay a Kindle, an alarm clock and a lamp. There were framed football prints on the wall and a framed university degree. A UPVC double-glazed window looked out onto the street below. The bed was unmade. Jo lifted the sheets and the pillows. She peered under the bed and then rooted through the chest of drawers. In the wardrobe hung a blue suit, a donkey jacket, and a smart black leather jacket. On the rail below were a number of jeans and chinos. On the bottom were two stacks of shoe boxes. She pulled them out and examined them. They contained shoes and sneakers. She put them back and went out onto the landing.
‘Anything?’
Carly shook her head. ‘It’s just a spare room. A bed and storage.’
The fully tiled bathroom held a panel bath with a shower over it, a vanity handbasin, a low-level WC, and a heated towel rail. Jo tried the panel on the side of the bath. It was firmly in place and the seal did not appear to have been tampered with. She lifted the top of the WC cistern. There was nothing concealed inside.
Carly was waiting at the foot of the pull-down ladder.
‘D’you want to go first, Ma’am?’ she said.
‘Feel free,’ said Jo. She waited till Carly was halfway up, then added, ‘There could be anything up there. Spiders, rats, a snake.’
The DC looked over her shoulder and poked her tongue out. ‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.
The compact loft had been converted into a study fourteen feet long and twelve feet wide, with Velux windows front and back. A desk, five feet long, had been placed under the rear window. It held a MacBook Pro laptop, an HP printer, and all the usual accessories. The lighting came from a desk lamp and three LED spotlights fitted to the ceiling. Both sets of eaves had been boxed in to provide storage.
Jo lifted the lid of the laptop and pressed the space bar. To her surprise, the screen lit up. There was no password requirement. ‘That’s a bonus,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll have a little look at this while you check under the eaves.’
She sat down and began by clicking the Finder icon and entering the word ‘ricin’ in the search bar. There were no results. She tried again with ‘air rifle’. This time there were seven. They all seemed to have the same source PDF. She opened the document. It appeared to be a teen fiction story by an author whose name she didn’t recognise about a boy who lived on a farm in Somerset. She brought up the search results in a side panel and read through them. They all appeared innocuous. She made a note of the title and author, closed the document, and searched for recent files instead. Again, there was nothing that caught her eye.
Now she searched the browser history. Most of it seemed to be connected with his work. There were a lot of Google and Wikipedia searches for definitions and dictionary entries. He also seemed to have a passion for American country music. She heard footsteps on the staircase.
‘Are you alright up there?’ he shouted.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ she shouted back. ‘Nearly finished.’
Jo hurriedly exited the programs and the screen, closed the laptop, and stood up. She could hear him climbing the ladder. She pretended to be staring out of the window onto the street. His head appeared at the top of the steps.
‘Find what you were looking for?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘Which is good news for you.’
He grinned. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘You haven’t,’ she said. ‘Eliminating people is every bit as important as finding the perpetrator. If we can’t show that we’ve done that, it may cost us a conviction.’
‘Glad to have been of service then,’ he said.
‘Do you keep a diary?’ she asked.
‘I do, as a matter of fact. I have to. With so many different jobs and all the deadlines, if I didn’t I’d be in a right mess.’
‘Can you show me?’
‘Sure. It’s right there on my laptop.’
Jo kicked herself mentally for not having spotted it.
He climbed the remaining couple of steps, opened his laptop and then his diary. If he’d noticed anything suspicious he didn’t show it. Although Jo knew that he’d soon find out when he opened Recent Files and saw the one she’d opened at the top of the list.
‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘What dates are you interested in?’
Jo opened her own tablet and pulled up the table DC Hulme had compiled, listing all the key dates and times relating to the four attacks. As far as she could tell he had an alibi for none of them. In every case he was working from home which, given the nature of his work, was not in itself suspicious. She took a photograph of each of the relevant pages of his diary. If it came to it, analysis of his laptop would show if it had been active at the times shown. Unless, of course, he’d reset the time.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Have you finished, DC Whittle?’
Carly crawled out from the eaves, stood up and dusted down her knees, ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she said.
‘Sorry about that,’ he told her. ‘It’s a mess, I know. And it’s hardly something I’m likely to clean.’
‘It’s fine,’ she replied, although she didn’t sound it. ‘All part of the job.’
‘Are you still in contact with your father, Darren?’ said Jo.
‘No.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Apart from cards at Christmas and on my birthday. And they’re usually a couple of days late.’
‘You have his address then?’
‘Sure.’
He opened the letters folder on his laptop, found the address and pressed print. Jo was impressed by how quickly it appeared. He handed it to her.
‘Is that it then?’
‘There’s just one last thing,’ she said. ‘I’d like to have a look out back.’
It was a typical and unremarkable backyard of a terraced house. Stone flags, four walls, and a gate to the alley that ran between the two rows of back-to-back houses. The former outside loo was long gone and had not been replaced with a shed. Jo walked to the gate, opened it and looked out. There was nothing of note, except that tall wrought-iron gates had been installed at both ends of the alley. She assumed these would be locked at night, but the residents would have keys. She closed the yard gate and scanned the back of Darren’s house and those of his neighbours for CCTV cameras. There were none. She wen
t back inside the kitchen.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘We’re done here. Thank you for your time, Darren. And for being so cooperative.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
As they walked to the car he called after them. ‘That woman . . . Helen Rand . . .’
‘Heather,’ said Jo.
‘I hope she’ll be alright.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ said Jo.
She and Carly got in the car and waited until he’d closed the door.
‘What do you think?’ said Jo.
‘He seemed plausible enough,’ said Carly. ‘I liked him.’ She blushed. ‘Not in that way, obviously. For a start he’s way too young and secondly I doubt my husband would approve.’
‘I didn’t realise you were married,’ said Jo. ‘You never seem in a hurry to get home.’
‘That’s because he’s a fireman. He’s been on nights. Next week will be a different matter. He’ll have a few days off, then he’s on days.’
‘In that case,’ said Jo, ‘you won’t mind being a bit late tonight.’
‘No. Why?’
Jo held up the address. ‘Because we’re going to pay a call on Mr Clements senior.’
Carly looked back at the house. ‘I was wondering, Ma’am. How likely is that? Him never having heard her name. Not when the police came. Not even when his parents were shouting at each other.’
‘Maybe he had his headphones on, like she said?’
‘Maybe. When you told him she was going to live, I thought he seemed relieved? Like anyone would be.’
‘I agree,’ said Jo. ‘He comes across like an open book.’
Carly grinned. ‘Very appropriate for a copywriter.’
Jo was already calling Nick Carter. He answered after only two rings.
‘Jo,’ he said. ‘At last.’
‘I want you to check if there are any vehicles registered or insured in the name of Darren Clements – either as owner or keeper.’ She gave his date of birth and address.
‘Will do,’ said Nick. ‘Are you coming straight back?’
‘No, we’re off to North Yorkshire, to interview the father.’
‘That’s a bugger,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve just had ACC Gates in here with steam coming out of her nostrils. She wanted to know what’s going on, where you were, and why your phone was turned off .’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘The truth. That you were questioning potential suspects.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘That you’d better have read them their bloody rights. And, as soon as you broke cover, to tell you to ring her.’
‘Good job you haven’t heard from me then,’ said Jo as she started the engine.
Chapter 54
They chased the storm across the Pennines. Swollen streams, replenishing drought-starved reservoirs, cascaded down the hillsides. The windshield wipers fought a valiant battle against the spray from passing vehicles. When the screenwash finally gave out, Jo pulled in to the services at Hartshead Moor. While she topped up the Audi, Carly went to buy them lunch.
Jo got back in the car and checked her phone. There were two missed calls. One from ACC Gates and one from Carter. He had also sent her a text. Short and to the point.
No vehicle of any kind registered, taxed, or insured to that name or address.
She decided to leave the phone on, because not to have done so would have been regarded as highly suspicious and meant that she risked missing important calls. From Max, for instance.
Melissa still preyed on her mind. Not least because the abduction was almost certainly connected with Operation Alecto. Max and the AKEU team would be doing everything possible to find her, but Jo couldn’t help imagining how it must be for that twelve-year-old child. Alone, confused, terrified. Held prisoner in some dark, dilapidated, rat-infested building. Hoping for the best. Fearing the worst.
In Jo’s case, it had been a forty-minute ride into the forest and a further fifteen bargaining for her life. It had taken her months to get over it. And she was a grown woman. A professional, trained in hostage negotiation. What chance did Melissa have of ever recovering from this? Assuming she was found alive.
The passenger door opened. Carly climbed in and handed Jo a paper bag. ‘I got you a baguette,’ she said. ‘Breakfast egg and avocado. And a single-shot latte, like you asked.’
‘Cheers,’ said Jo. She opened the bag and took out a smart black beaker with a ceramic lid. There was a band around the middle proclaiming SAVE THE PLANET. ‘What’s this?’
Carly grinned and held up a matching one in green. ‘They were on special offer. They’re reusable. The beaker’s bamboo. When you decide to replace it you just crush it, pour boiling water on it and put it in the green bin. The lid goes in the recycling bin. What d’you think?’
‘Didn’t they have any other colours?’
‘I thought you’d appreciate black, Ma’am,’ said Carly. ‘What with it matching the NCA logo.’ She took a bite out of her burrito. ‘I could always go back and get you a pink one.’
Jo bit back the smile, put the beaker in the central cup holder and reached for her baguette.
‘Don’t push it, DC Whittle,’ she said.
‘This doesn’t look right?’ said Carly.
Jo had pulled up on a deserted road a mile and a half outside the town of Malton in the Yorkshire Wolds. Neatly trimmed hedges, interspersed with trees, bordered fields of grass. There were no houses to be seen. Jo pointed to the text on the satnav screen:
You have reached your destination.
‘It must be around here somewhere.’
‘What about the farmhouse and stables we passed a third of a mile back?’ said Carly. ‘We could ask there.’
They retraced their steps. The farmhouse in question looked more like a stately home to Jo. Or a small estate. The size of three detached houses, it had clearly been modernised. There were three other dwellings, essentially cottages, and over to the right she counted two dozen stables. She drove up the drive and stopped at the first of the cottages. Before she’d even had a chance to unbuckle her seat belt a man emerged from the cottage, bent down and peered in. She lowered the window.
‘’Ow do?’ he said. ‘You look lost. Can I ’elp?’
‘We’re hoping you can tell us where we’ll find James Clements?’ she said.
He cocked his head sideways a little so that he could see Carly Whittle in the passenger seat.
‘Who wants to know?’
Jo reached for her bag so that she could show him her ID. Carly beat her to it.
‘Police,’ she declared, leaning forward and showing him her warrant.
‘Police,’ he repeated slowly. ‘What’s Jimmy gone and done?’
‘I didn’t say he’d done anything,’ said Jo. ‘Only that we would like to speak with him.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Only we’ve got a bit of a soft spot for Jimmy. He’s had a raw deal, tha’ knows?’
‘We do,’ said Jo.
He nodded. ‘Good. Only we get some queer folk pitching up here from time to time. An’ you can’t be too careful. Not when it comes to racehorses. Lot of money ridin’ on them, if you know what I mean?’
‘So,’ said Jo, ‘can you tell me where we’ll find him?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I can that. He works on the gallops and he lives on ’em too. You can turn yer car round by the big house and then turn right at the end of the drive. The gallops are half a mile on yer left. Follow the lane and you’ll come to a small red-brick cottage with a wooden porch.’
He looked at his watch. ‘He’s normally there this time o’t day. If not, he’ll be on’t gallops.’
‘Thank you,’ Jo said.
He nodded and stepped back from the car.
‘Go gently with him,’ he said.
Chapter 55
The cottage was exactly as described. Faded white paint on the wooden porch
and window frames was flaking off in places and the grass surrounding the building was overgrown. At first sight one might think it abandoned, but for the trail of grey smoke curling up from the single chimney. On either side of the lane stood a pair of sturdy posts in need of a gate.
Jo knocked on the front door three times with the iron fox-head knocker. The sound echoed inside. She tried again. This time there was another noise from within. It sounded like a child softly crying.
‘What the hell is that?’ said Carly.
Jo peered through the window on her right. Logs smouldered in the grate of an open fire, surrounded by an ancient fireguard. The two armchairs on either side were empty. The only door she could see was shut. Carly was looking through the matching window on the left.
‘Anything?’ said Jo.
Carly stood up and shook her head.
‘Nope. Just a wooden table with a pile of clothes on it and a clothes horse.’
‘You go that way,’ said Jo. ‘I’ll meet you round the back.’
She followed the stone-flagged path to a high wooden gate that opened into a fenced backyard. Five large turkeys advanced menacingly towards her, fanning their tails and gobbling manically. She hurriedly closed the gate and backed along the cottage wall towards the rear door. Carly Whittle appeared around the opposite corner.
‘You’re alright, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘They’re harmless. If they start pecking at you, shout at them and wave your arms.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Jo replied. The long curved beaks and tiny jet-black eyes imbued the birds with a strange malevolence.
‘Shoo!’ shouted Carly, advancing on them with a hoe she’d found propped up against the wall. The turkeys scattered, complaining as they went. ‘They’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Persistent little buggers. But at least they’re not geese – then we would have a fight on our hands.’
Jo’s heart stopped racing. ‘How come you know all this?’ she asked.
Carly put the hoe down and grinned. ‘Grandad had a smallholding in Urmston. A bit like this, but three times the size.’
Jo rubbed the grime from the only window with the back of her sleeve. It was a country cottage kitchen that had failed to move with the times. In the centre of the quarry-tiled floor stood a wooden table with a butcher’s block and wooden chairs set around it. Behind it loomed a wall-to-ceiling stained pine dresser, with open shelves and cupboards beneath. On the left, a black kitchen range. On the opposite wall, a large brick fireplace containing an unlit wood burner. There was no sign of a child.
