by A D FOX
‘How did that make you feel?’ asked Michaels.
Finley frowned harder still. His mouth settled into a thin line and he breathed hard through his nostrils. ‘Not happy,’ he said, at length.
‘Can you tell me what you were doing last Friday, Finley?’ said Kate. ‘After 8pm?’
Finley looked confused for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘I was at home. I had my dinner at six and then watched TV with Mum and Dad. I went to bed at ten and I listened to Josh until I got sleepy. Then I got up at midnight, because I’d set my alarm, so I could have a shower and look nice and go and take Josh his jumper.’
‘Did you go out on your own?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes. I took the car,’ said Finley. ‘I’m allowed to drive the car. I’m a good driver.’
‘Are you sure it was that late?’ asked Michaels. ‘Are you sure you didn’t go out a bit earlier and then meet Josh later on?’
‘I am sure,’ said Finley. ‘Why would I go out earlier?’
‘Finley, did you meet Dave Perry first - before you met Josh?’ Kate asked.
‘No!’ Finley seemed to cotton on, at last, to what they were driving at. ‘Wait! Do you think I killed him?’
Kate said: ‘For the benefit of the tape, DC Michaels is showing Finley Warner a metal tin.’
Michaels held out the tin, in its clear plastic bag. ‘Do you recognise this tin, Finley?’ he asked.
Finley nodded.
‘Finley Warner is nodding,’ said Kate, feeling a sudden droop of tiredness coming over her. She really hated where this was going.
‘What is it?’ asked Michaels.
‘It’s one of the tins I used to put cake in,’ he said.
‘Are you sure it’s yours?’ said Michaels.
‘Yes. There’s a dent in the corner. I did that when I dropped a bottle of HP sauce on it.’
‘Finley - can you explain how it came to be on the roof of Salisbury Broadcasting House today?’ asked Kate.
Finley considered. ‘I expect someone took it up there,’ he said.
‘Did you go up there?’ asked Michaels.
‘Yes,’ said Finley.
18
Rob Larkhill gazed across the newsroom and let out a long sigh. It was quiet at last. Empty. Only the drivetime team were still in. Mike Tierney still had half an hour left on air, straining to sound normal when he was handling fall-out from Dave Perry while simultaneously holding back the most shocking story the drivetime audience might ever have heard - that a second well-loved presenter had been murdered.
Rob knew it was hopeless, trying to hold off telling their listeners about Sheila. It was only a matter of hours at best. The news was probably already trickling out to the staff. He was pretty sure Malcolm had said nothing - he was a solid guy; very dependable - but the building was full of journos for god’s sake. They were never going to miss the sudden switch of police activity to the roof of SBH without asking a few questions. Initially most of them had assumed it was part of the ongoing Dave Perry inquiry, but by the time he’d gone down to reception and cleared all the fans out of it - taking the Book of Condolence outside and getting one of the receptionists to oversee the dwindling queue in the chill November air while the revolving door was locked - questions were being asked and glances exchanged. More so when he’d asked all the freelancers and non-rostered staff to go home but keep their mobiles on, because the police would want to ask them further questions over the next day or two.
He’d spoken to DS Sparrow, while they were still up on the roof, asking whether he should keep everyone in the building like something out of an Agatha Christie whodunnit. He was very relieved when she’d said: ‘It’s been at least two hours since Sheila died; I think that ship has sailed. We will, of course, want to interview everyone - but practically speaking it’ll be tomorrow now. Please make it clear to everyone that failure to make themselves available again tomorrow will suggest they may have something to hide.’
‘Do I have to tell them about this?’ he asked, trying not to look across at the body.
‘That’s your call,’ said Sparrow. ‘But I would be getting advice from further up the line now, if I were you. This has escalated from a one-off killing now. Before, Dave Perry’s place of work might not have been relevant - but now it’s seems clearly related to BBC Radio Wessex. I’ll be speaking to our own media liaison officer in the next hour.’
‘Oh god,’ he whimpered. ‘Are you putting out a press release?’
She looked tired, leaning against the doorway to the stairwell as her colleagues moved like solemn bees around the roof. ‘I doubt we’ll put anything out before late morning tomorrow. There’s too much to do - and Sheila’s next of kin will have to be informed. Of course, if it gets out anyway, we’ll have to make some kind of statement to the press. You should know all about that.’ She gave him a shrewd look.
It seemed her priority now, thanks to that biscuit tin, was to speak to Finley Warner, and then to start with the staff again, first thing tomorrow. He’d had to pass on all their addresses and contact details; it looked like the police might be going to their homes this time. Rob shivered. Talking to Finley first was what he’d thought they’d do. Finley was clearly an obsessive and an obvious suspect. Hopefully he was already under arrest.
English Regions was sending down a PR person first thing tomorrow, to help him manage all the fallout. Thank god. He didn’t want to handle this all on his own anymore. Being managing editor of a radio station was always a stressful thing; like being the dad of a talented but highly strung family. To make good radio seven days a week out of an array of needy, complicated presenters and producers, well - you did what you had to.
With most of his staff cleared he had finally been able, in the early evening, to get Malcolm to temporarily switch off all of the remaining employee’s ID access codes to the side corridor and reception, so they could bring Sheila’s body down to be taken away for the pathologist to examine without anyone else stumbling on the grim procession. He’d taken the precaution of sending the receptionists home early beforehand too. Outside, the fan queue had dried up and the rival media had gone. There was nobody to peek in and see the zipped-up body bag going through on a stretcher and down through engineering to the garage where a discreet ambulance waited. He’d stood by the old radio car, watching. It all seemed so surreal. Like in a TV crime drama. The pathologist guy was even called De'ath. Seriously.
If you’d told him, this time last week, that he’d be managing such an almighty clusterfuck, he would have found it very hard to believe. He kept seeing Sheila’s face, warm and alive in Studio A - and then cold and dead on the roof. Jesus. If only he never had to look at another reel of gaffer tape again.
He had contacted only a handful of staff to warn them about what was coming; Mike and Lewis - just in case anything got out while they were still on air, and James and Gemma, preparing them for yet another presenter in the breakfast hot seat, then Jack and Spencer, to tell them that Jack would handle mid-morning alone and Spencer would step in to breakfast. They were all staggered at the news of Sheila’s death, but also very professional about stepping up and handling the output.
‘We won’t run anything about Sheila until we absolutely have to… when it gets out to other media,’ Rob had told each of them. ‘Her next of kin haven’t been informed yet - the police are trying to track down her daughter in Australia. They say they won’t put out any statements until late morning at the earliest… but I will be monitoring the news through the night, just in case it gets out. Promise me you will keep this to yourself.’ They all had.
When it was time to see Mike and Lewis off, he patted their shoulders as they walked to the staff exit door. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Be glad you’re on drive. If it gets out overnight it’ll be Spencer handling the worst of it tomorrow morning.’
‘Which of us is going to be next?’ gulped Mike, looking sweaty and ill, while Lewis stared through to the carpet of floral tributes on the
steps and shook his head.
‘Nobody else from Radio Wessex is going to die,’ said Rob. ‘The police are going to find this killer. Soon. I’m sure of it.’
When they’d gone there was nobody else in the building. It was calm and serene; the empty newsroom bathed in the silvery light from the BBC News 24 feed monitor, which ran constantly, day and night. Josh wasn’t coming in. Rob had called him to say that they would stay with the English regions opt tonight, letting a Manchester-based overnight presenter take the strain, to save him from more Dave Perry outpourings. He didn’t tell Josh about Sheila; everyone would find out soon enough. In many ways it was good for Josh to keep his distance from all of this. When Rob gave him the breakfast slot, as he’d been wanting to do for some time, it would be good for Josh to go in as a fresh face and voice - unconnected with all the wreckage across the airwaves this week.
Rob rubbed his face and sank into a chair by an empty desk to watch the news feeds. Who would be a radio station manager?
19
‘He’s good for it,’ said Michaels, standing at the window of CID and watching Finley walk out across the lamplit car park with his mum.
‘Hmmm,’ said Kate, gathering her jacket and bag.
‘He couldn’t look either of us in the eye when he talked about Dave Perry. Did you see that?’
‘I’d say he’s on the autistic spectrum,’ said Conrad Temple, who had observed the interview through a two-way mirror. He gathered his own coat and bag a couple of desks away. ‘You can’t read too much into that eye contact thing.’
Michaels snorted. ‘Yeah… well, that’s what everyone says, isn’t it, when they’re being weird? Oh… I’m on the spectrum… I can’t help myself. It’s a great get-out. No - it’s him. We should have kept him in.’
Kate yawned, too tired to manage Michaels and his narrow world view. ‘We didn’t have enough on him,’ she said. ‘You know that. Stop being a twat and go home. We’ve got another early start. Team briefing and press strategy at six-thirty.’
Finley had readily admitted to going up on the roof of the radio station. He’d described the transmitter in great detail, proud to have been able to see it, on a recent tour, with half a dozen other listeners. He hadn’t, he said, been in the station earlier that day. He had come to the front steps and left some flowers when he heard the news about Dave Perry (even though Perry had been unpleasant about him) but he didn’t have time to wait in the queue for the book of condolence - he had errands to do for his mum.
Kate, on a fresh tack, had asked him what he thought about Sheila Bartley.
‘She’s a regional radio treasure,’ he said, clearly reciting from her biog on the BBC Radio Wessex website ‘She’s worked there for 43 years. She’s got a cat called Dinky and her daughter lives in Australia. She likes Cherry Bakewells.’
Michaels had been ready to spring her death on their interviewee, but she’d wound up the interview before he could. She couldn’t see the sense in it - not yet. Once it was out there, maybe. Tomorrow. Kapoor was working through the media strategy with Lucy, their press liaison officer, right now.
‘You wait and see if I’m not right,’ Michaels was muttering now, watching their suspect amble back across the front car park and around the corner.
‘You’re tired, Ben,’ she said. ‘Go home.’
He stomped off, giving Temple a baleful look.
‘What do you think?’ Kate asked the crim psych.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Not convinced but… I wouldn’t rule him out either. Is anyone going to collect all the offerings on the steps? And the book of condolence? Our guy is probably lapping up all the drama - he might have brought flowers today, or signed that book. I’d like to get a graphologist to take a look at all the handwriting in the book and on the cards.’
Kate nodded. ‘Good thinking. The manager is going to camp out at the station all night, apparently. He’s hoping the news won’t get out before the breakfast show. Can’t say I blame him - what a shitshow to manage in front of a live audience! Kapoor says he won’t do the media briefing before midday; cut the guy a little slack. Anyway… I’ll get uniformed to go down and collect all the flowers and cards and the book. You can frolic through them to your heart’s content in the morning. Or overnight if it takes your fancy. Me… I’ve got to fill in the policy book and then I’ve got to go home and get some sleep.’
She ran downstairs to the parade room and found a couple of uniforms willing to collect the listeners’ offerings from the station steps. ‘You could check in on the manager too,’ she told them. ‘He could probably do with it, poor sod.’ They agreed and headed out immediately. She wished she could post them there all night - in theory they should be up on that roof for a good 24 hours longer, guarding the scene, but there just wasn’t the manpower available right now. She’d had to make do with cordoning it off thoroughly with crime scene tape; trusting she would know if it had been tampered with. It was far from ideal, but the station was undermanned. Their new DCI was not due to arrive until February. As it was, Kate was unofficially acting DI these days. She hoped to be the actual DI if all went well in the next few months. Kapoor had suggested she take the inspector’s exam last year and she was due to complete the second part in a few weeks and then… she might get that promotion.
So filling out the policy book wasn’t something she was going to cut corners on, no matter how weary she was. She spent a couple of hours explaining all that had occurred so far and the thought processes behind the decisions they’d made across the past day and a half. The interview with Gemma Henshall had been enlightening. The tech guys had found the text that had been sent and deleted. They’d sent her home soon after, looking baffled and freaked out. It could all have been an act, but Kate wasn’t convinced Gemma was a contender for their murderer. Even if she’d gone loco on Dave when he’d tried it on once too often, Kate really couldn’t picture her doing the same to Sheila. She mustn’t rule it out, though. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered a clever female killer.
It was gone ten-thirty when Kate finally walked to her car and paused by the driver side door, key fob in hand. BBC Radio Wessex was a ten-minute walk from here, across the lower end of the town centre. Her brain felt clogged with the day’s events; a tangled mess. She needed to freshen it up a bit. A night of quality sleep would help but she knew herself too well. Going home, stuffing a convenience meal and going to bed wouldn’t work well for her. She would lie awake, dog tired but unable to switch off. There would be more plasticine action.
She needed a bit of a walk to cool her brain and she felt the urge, now, to take a look at the radio station building by night. The cold air was pleasant on her face as she walked along the flagstone pavements. She could feel her feverish thoughts cooling and relaxing. If she’d had her gear with her she would have been quite tempted to go for a run around Guildhall Square; she hadn’t run for weeks.
But her townie boots and a brisk walk would have to do. She pulled a woolly scarf from her satchel, wrapped it around her neck and headed through the heart of the small cathedral city, past late night diners and boozers heading home, couples stepping out of restaurants and pubs, and knots of teenagers lurking around the Odeon. Within a few minutes she was at the quieter side of the city centre and within sight of Salisbury Broadcasting House. As she approached she could see the two uniformed officers had indeed gathered up all the listeners’ cards and flowers; the steps were empty. She hoped the listeners wouldn’t get upset about it, but what could she do? It was only logical to check through potential evidence. She turned down a side alley towards the BBC staff car park at the rear of the building. The wide sweep of dark tarmac was protected by high iron gates, and bathed in soft security lighting. She could buzz through from here and Larkhill would no doubt pick up on the newsroom intercom.
Go home, Kate, she told herself. She turned around and walked back up towards the main road, but, before she got there, she noticed a bin, surrounded by a t
hicket of low bushes. They’d learned the city centre bins were emptied daily, before nine - this was the main reason she’d not pursued searching for the biscuit tin that Josh Carnegy had dumped on the way home. But this one looked full to overflowing. She wondered if it had been emptied in the last couple of days. Go HOME, Kate! But no… it could still be in there after all. Their refuse collection intel could be faulty… or there might be staff shortages at the depot.
She dug a pair of latex gloves from her satchel and let out a sharp exhalation as she realised that, yes, she really was going to do this. Why can’t you just ask one of the PCs? her sensible voice demanded. What are you UP to, Kate?
It was probably all for nothing, anyway, but she held her breath and wrestled the bin open. It wasn’t easy. Designed to be too much trouble for drunken teens to mess with, the entire outer cylinder had to be lifted off to access the bin bag liner and its contents. It was heavy and awkward but she was determined and a minute later the black plastic carapace was on its side in the shrubs and she was pulling the bag out and tipping out its contents. It could have been worse - most of it was fast food packaging and dribbly cartons of fruit juice or cola. She upended the bag fully, shaking out some promising weight at the base.
And there it was. A Marks & Spencer shortbread tin, right at the bottom. She picked it up and found a damp, ketchup-smeared publicity postcard of Josh Carnegy taped to the lid. She gave it a shake and something thudded around inside. Prising off the lid, she found a dozen flapjacks. Bingo.
She fished one of her larger evidence bags from her satchel and put the tin inside it. Then, in a moment of social conscience, she put all the rubbish back in the bag, returned the bag to its inner cylinder and then put the heavy plastic covering on top. Panting from the effort, she looked around, half expecting to find a couple of her uniformed colleagues standing and staring at her with amused bafflement. Or maybe someone else. But nobody was around. It was just her, a bin, and a tin of flapjacks. Oh, the glamour, Kate Sparrow. This is what you signed up for!