“A drug dealer?” Rocco suggested. “They tend to have a dedicated phone.”
“For all their deals though, not just for a couple,” corrected Imogen.
“Give it some thought. It might lead somewhere.”
At that moment Ruth joined them. Calladine looked up and smiled; she was looking decidedly perky.
“Okay?”
“Just perfect,” she replied. “Can I say something, sir?” Calladine stood aside and waved her to the front of the room.
“I’ve got some news,” she said to the three of them. “We’ve spoken to family already so you lot are next on the list.” She paused and looked round at Calladine. “Jake and I are having a baby. I’m late for work because we’ve been for the first scan.”
Calladine smiled as the team gave a huge cheer and Rocco whistled. Imogen rushed over to give her a hug.
“It’s great news!” he said.
“Do you have a piccy?” asked Imogen.
“Yes, here.” And she passed her the image.
“Do you know what it is?” asked Calladine.
“Don’t be daft — it’s far too early. Perhaps next time.”
Calladine looked at the grainy black-and-white picture and, try as he might, he couldn’t see a baby.
“Have I missed much?”
“A visit from DI Greco,” Calladine said, pulling a face, “that and another body in Oldston. And it’s one of ours — a tarot card was left at the scene.”
“Do we have a name?”
“We have nothing. Greco is reluctant to share. But in any event there was no ID on him, only a phone.”
* * *
Harriet let herself into Lessing’s house. The place was cold and still. As she stood in the hallway she couldn’t hear a sound, not even a whimper. He was either dead or unconscious.
She made her way carefully down the stone staircase to the cellar where she’d left him to rot. The first thing that struck her was the smell of damp. A sickly, cloying coldness mixed with mould made her wrinkle her nose and cover her mouth with her hand.
“Gordon!” she called out. “Can you hear me?”
She could see him lying in the middle of the stone floor where she’d left him. For several seconds he was still, but then he twitched. He must have the constitution of an ox! He’d heard her and was moving his tied hands feebly in the air above him.
This was Harriet’s opportunity to ask him about the children. She strode towards the crumpled heap and yanked the scarf from his face.
“Where have you taken them, Gordon, the two little girls?”
His legs were bleeding and from the way they were lying, it was obvious they were broken.
“Harriet,” he whispered. “Help . . . me, please, for pity’s sake . . .”
“No — not until you tell me what you’ve done with them.”
He moaned again and shut his eyes.
“They’re gone. You can’t help them but you can help me . . .”
Harriet delivered a sharp kick to his right calf and he shrieked in agony. “You’re a bastard, a cruel wicked bastard, Gordon Lessing. You’ll get no help from me until you tell me. I know you find them and that Yuri takes them. Yuri’s dead now. So don’t get any ideas that he’ll come and help you.”
She kicked him again, and this time he didn’t even have the strength to scream. She felt nothing — no remorse, no pity. Why was that? This wasn’t who she was!
Because you hate him, because where he’s concerned, you’re beyond pity.
“Show me some mercy — please,” he groaned. “I was married to your sister . . .” He surprised her then by weeping, the tears running in dirty streaks down his fat face. “Loosen my hands . . . please, please . . . help me. I’m in agony. You can’t imagine the pain.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Gordon. I can imagine it very well. I have terminal cancer, remember? You’ll get nothing from me until I find those children. And what about Sybil? You killed her, you scum. You showed Sybil no mercy at all. My poor sister died in agony because of what you did. You left her alone, injured, to die of cold. So tell me Gordon, why should I help you?”
“If I die then so will those girls.” A hard edge crept into his voice. “Without me, they’ll never be found. Think of that, Harriet. It’s not just me you’re condemning to a long, painful death. You will have their blood on your hands too because you could have saved them.”
Harriet was torn. She wanted to help the children, of course she did; none of this had anything to do with them. “I want you to die like she did. I want you to suffer like Sybil. There is no help, no one is coming, so you might as well give up and tell me what you know.”
“Free me first — get me some help — an ambulance — then I’ll tell you.”
Harriet didn’t trust him. Despite his injuries, if she freed him she was risking her own safety. If she got him some help he still might not talk — why should he? He’d be incriminating himself in a dreadful crime. She had to think.
“By now the police will know all about Yuri.” That was what she hoped anyway. “They’ll work things out, they have experts.”
“You can’t be sure though, can you? Yuri’s a shadow, he doesn’t exist. The police won’t get anywhere.”
A shadow — an illegal immigrant, she surmised. He’d be lying in the morgue: this week’s big mystery. She heard Lessing groan. He wasn’t going to help her. She gave him another sharp kick and he lost consciousness again.
Harriet looked around in the gloom of the cellar. She needed something . . . she had to make this end but not too quickly. She wouldn’t be coming here again; she was too ill. It was time for him to go for good. He was bleeding and in pain but if by chance someone came down here, a cleaner or even Jane then he might still be found.
She had her stick with her. This wasn’t how she’d wanted him to die, but there was no choice. Exposing the blade, Harriet placed it over where she thought his heart would be. “Goodbye, Gordon,” she said to the unconscious man. “You are lucky, this will be quick and it’s more than you deserve.”
One long, steady push and the blade slid into his flesh. It went in between two ribs and he was dead in seconds. His shameful life was finally done with.
There was just one job left to do. Harriet took the card from her pocket and placed it on a dry patch of floor at the back of Lessing’s head. The Ten of Swords. The meaning was unmistakable. The card depicted multiple swords piercing a bleeding heart.
First Jayden North and now Lessing. It had been a busy morning and Harriet was exhausted — exhausted and very ill. The pain was getting worse. Deep in the very centre of her body, the pain radiated out to every inch of her frail form and she was beginning to feel as if she was being slowly crucified. She knew that very soon the cancer would suck the life from her and she’d be gone. It was time to stop for now; she must rest.
Harriet dragged her weary body back to the car. Before she went home she’d stop off at Nesta’s house and give her the tickets. The exhibition was today — Nesta’s birthday.
It had all been too much for her, all her strength was gone but the problem of what to do about the children wouldn’t let her rest. Harriet went home and put herself to bed, but sleep eluded her.
She had to get Lessing’s phone to the police. She was no expert; all she could see were texts and photos but the police had people who’d know how to examine it properly. How to do it?
Harriet couldn’t take it into the police station herself because of the cameras. Posting the thing would take too long, and it might lie in a pile of unopened mail for several days, days that the little girls didn’t have.
The best bet was to leave it somewhere safe and call the police anonymously. She’d make it clear that the phone was valuable evidence in the missing children case — they wouldn’t ignore that, surely?
Harriet took her medication and drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, it was early afternoon. The sleep had done her good, but better than that
, she had a plan.
She’d go to the supermarket, the large one off the bypass. She’d call the police from Lessing’s mobile and then leave it in a trolley locked in one of those booths where you can leave your shopping while you eat in the café.
Perfect. All she had to do was ensure that the cameras didn’t catch her. But did it really matter if they did? Even if she was caught red-handed what could the law do to her? All along, that had been the beauty of her plan. Her illness — terminal — granted her impunity. Harriet’s spirits rose.
* * *
Since today was a Friday the supermarket was extra busy — and full of stupid people. They got in her way with their kids and their insistence on stopping mid-aisle to chat. Harriet cursed audibly to herself as she negotiated the gossiping shoppers and picked a few items from the shelves. She bought cheap stuff. She was going to have to pay for these, but she wouldn’t be taking them home.
She wore a hat with a brim that she’d pulled down over her forehead. That and her coat collar turned up would hide her face from the cameras. But Harriet was also aware that she must be running out of time. Her luck had to run out at some stage, surely? She’d miss it — the excitement, the planning and, most of all, the climax of the murder itself. It was so addictive, and part of her never wanted it to end.
When she had a few items in the trolley she made for a quiet corner of the store. The area displaying kitchen goods was mostly empty, and she didn’t want to be overheard. Harriet took the phone from her pocket and tapped in the number for Oldston Police Station. She’d thought about this carefully and chosen Oldston rather than Leesdon because she’d read that it was Oldston which was handling the missing girls case.
“Don’t speak. Just listen,” she growled when someone answered. “A phone, in a trolley in booth twelve at the Leesdon Supermarket — there’s information there that will help you find the girls.”
There. She’d told them. The police had what they needed now. It shouldn’t take them long to find it. Harriet headed over to park her trolley. She placed the phone under a loaf of bread, pushed the trolley into booth twelve, locked the door and made for the exit. She decided to go home and listen to the local news on the radio. It was done.
Chapter 18
“Inspector!” Julian called out as Calladine entered the incident room. “Sorry to disturb but I think you’ll want to hear this.”
The forensic scientist approached Calladine with a smile on his face. He obviously had something positive to tell them.
“Some news you will undoubtedly find interesting.”
Calladine looked up at him — he was actually grinning, and that didn’t often happen with Julian.
“There’s been a tip-off. I’m not sure how involved you are with the missing children case but Oldston police received a call about half an hour ago. The caller told them to go to the supermarket — the one off the bypass — and they’d find a phone.”
“DI Greco will have your balls for this.” Calladine raised his eyebrows. “He was here today and he made it quite plain whose case it was.”
“That’s as may be, but this does concern you. Oldston outsource all their forensics; they use a provider, the Duggan Centre on the outskirts of Manchester. An old university pal from there has just given me the heads up that DNA found on the phone matches a trace on the tarot card found with the unidentified body in Oldston.”
“Could the dead man have touched the card?”
“He could have,” Julian agreed. “But the DNA is also a match for what we’ve collected — from the hair, the beaker and the other cards. There is no mistake.”
Calladine was more than surprised. The murders and the missing kids — linked?
“Are you sure, Julian? There’s no chance of cross-contamination?”
“Certainly not, Inspector. The phone was never in my lab.”
“And you’re positive it belonged to someone involved with the disappearances?”
“Yes, Inspector. It was used to call only a very few numbers — one of them is that of a known trafficker who vice have been watching for some time.”
So their killer had a hand in taking the kids. But that didn’t sound like a person on a mission of vengeance. He looked around at the others; they were silent, thoughtful. The same questions were obviously filling their heads.
“But we still don’t have a match on the database — not for your killer or the other DNA evidence we found.”
“Anyone got any ideas?” His own mind was racing.
“I’ve had to give this information to DI Greco; he is the SIO — so you’ll be hearing all this from him too.”
“I doubt that, Julian. DI Greco doesn’t like to share. But thanks for the information. When I figure out what to do with it we might get somewhere.”
“I’ve compiled this.” Julian offered him a sheet of A4. “It’s a list of calls made and received from the supermarket phone. Greco’s lot have already checked and the phone is a “pay as you go.” It’s never been registered so he’s no idea who it belonged to. But they do need topping up . . .” He winked.
“And the dead man’s phone was used to call the phone found in the supermarket?”
Julian nodded.
“Thanks. We owe you — at least it’s something.”
When Julian had left, he turned to his team. “We also have the ticket numbers, remember? That art exhibition is today at the community centre. Rocco, get a uniform to check the guests. If they are presented I want to know at once.”
“Julian’s right, those phones do need topping up,” Imogen offered. “I’ll check and see if the owner ever paid for one with a debit or credit card. Very often people buy credit when they’re doing the weekly shop.”
“They wouldn’t be so careless, surely?”
“It’s something to try.” Imogen shrugged.
She had a point. Calladine watched as the DC got up and made for her desk. Extracting this sort of information was Imogen’s forte. “You do realise that DI Greco will be making exactly the same checks, don’t you?” Ruth reminded him. “He’s a good cop and he’ll be on it right away.”
“So what are you saying? That we should give up, hand the lot over to him and go put our feet up?”
“No, of course not, but if the two of you got your heads together and came to some agreement, the case might be solved a lot sooner.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It’ll end with our team doing all the legwork and Greco making the arrest we’ve worked for. So for now we’ll leave DI bloody Greco to work things out for himself.”
“It’ll end badly, you know. You’ll end up rowing, either with Greco or with Long, because once our acting DCI gets wind of this he’ll be on at you to cooperate.”
“And I will,” Calladine allowed coolly. “But in my own way, and not until I’m ready. But for now, until Imogen comes up with something, we go over everything we’ve got — every last detail — and we keep the tickets thing under wraps.”
“Does Long know about the tickets?”
“I gave him a very short report the other day, Ruth. If he deigned to read it then yes, he does.”
“Then he could have given that information to Greco already.”
“I don’t think so, because if he had, the brilliant detective would be in our faces as we speak.”
“Sir!” a triumphant Imogen called out. “He did top up with his debit card. Two weeks ago at a supermarket in Oldston. I’ve got his name and address — he’s local too.”
Just the break they needed.
“Check if he’s got form, Imogen, anything — even a parking ticket.”
“No, sir, there’s nothing on him,” she confirmed within minutes. “But he does own a black van and that partial number we’ve got fits.”
Bingo!
It appeared that Gordon Lessing had only once paid for a mobile phone top-up using his card. But that was all it had taken to identify him. Calladine decided that both Ruth and Imogen should go with him to th
e address. The young DC deserved to be in on the collar. She’d had the bright idea in the first place and then found the information in record time.
“Where locally?”
“Those houses along Thunder Lane.”
“Expensive.”
“Yes, but we’ve a shrewd idea how he made his money now, haven’t we, sir?” was Ruth’s comment. “People like that deserve all that’s coming to them. I hope the bastard rots in hell.”
Calladine shot her a look. The case was getting to her which was rare. It involved missing children. She was pregnant, emotional — perhaps she should stay here.
“Stake out the community centre if you want, Ruth — me and Imogen can do this,” he suggested.
“No way. I know what you’re thinking, Tom, but you’re wrong. I have a job to do and that’s what’s going to happen.”
* * *
They went in Calladine’s car. No one said much on the short journey to Thunder Lane. Calladine was lost in his thoughts and Ruth was keeping her own counsel.
“Looks like you were right, sir, reeks of money round here,” Imogen remarked as they pulled up outside the imposing property. “These go for a small fortune I’ll bet.”
“How do we play it?” Ruth asked.
“I think we’ll knock on the front door, Ruth with me. Imogen, make your way around that path and watch the back.”
“I just hope he doesn’t produce any sort of weapon, sir. We’re hardly mob-handed, are we?”
“You okay with this?” He nodded at Ruth’s belly. “Perhaps you would have been better keeping an eye on the exhibition after all.”
“Don’t you even try, Tom,” she warned him. “I’m perfectly fit and up to the job. Trust me, I’ll let you know when I’m not, and keep your voice down. Imogen’s only feet away and I don’t want the team thinking I’ve turned into some sort of softie overnight.”
Seemed he couldn’t do anything right.
The two detectives made their way to the front door and rang the bell. The curtains were open in the downstairs windows and everything looked neat and tidy inside. But there was no answer. Ruth went to the garage and peered through the window. A large saloon car was parked inside, so if Lessing was out then he was on foot.
Bayliss & Calladine Box Set Page 50