“Nice one Bill!” said Kenyon.
“Yes. Good shout Pete. This is all down to Bill’s suggestion in the first place,” said Worthington. “I think we should make a big point of that.” Chapman’s regular partner was keen to remind the team that this was Chapman’s finest hour in recent times.
“Okay, well let’s not start wanking each other off just yet.” Said Chapman, typically deflecting the well-deserved praise.
“To cut a long story short,” said Rudovsky, regaining some authority, “the Corsa driver is this person.” She pulled out a photograph of a fair-haired lady. “Thirty-two-year-old Lindsey Nolan.” Rudovsky pinned the photo up on the wall and wrote the lady’s name beneath. “She recently split from this man.” Another photograph was held up. “Thirty-seven-year-old Billy Nolan. His address is number eleven, Worsley Road, Swinton. Can anybody tell me how this address is significant?”
Once again Grant held her hand aloft.
“Go on Helen.”
“That CCTV photo of the attacker…”
“This one?” asked Rudovsky, touching the grainy image which showed the attacker heading up the East Lancs Road on his bicycle in the minutes following the attack.
“Yes, that image was captured close to the junction for Worsley Road.”
“Once again, top marks Helen. Now I’m sure we can all agree that as things currently stand, this man is our prime suspect.”
The chattering started again, along with encouraging and positive noises from the detectives.
“We now need to plan our arrest. Obviously, we’re going to need extra operational support, and we’re going to need Miller and Saunders on this as well.”
“Where are they, anyway?” asked Kenyon.
“Tameside, working on the arson job. They’re interviewing a person of interest. But I’ve asked for an urgent meeting and one of them will be coming back shortly. The biggest question mark which remains is regarding this person.” Rudovsky patted the photograph of Lindsey Nolan. “I want to know why she hasn’t made contact with the police, bearing in mind that the biggest news story in this area has been the brutal murder of her new boyfriend.”
It was a good question, and all of the detectives agreed that it was extremely odd.
“What’s her new address?” asked Chapman.
“She moved into a rented flat in Boothstown a couple of months ago, a couple of miles away from her former home in Swinton, and an equal distance from Hartley’s address in Monton. I don’t want us going round there until we’ve got Billy Nolan locked up in police custody, just in case we give the game away too early and it all starts going tits up.”
“Makes sense,” said Kenyon, nodding.
“Any ideas on how we want to proceed with the interview with Billy Nolan?” Rudovsky was standing by her giant notepad on the A Frame, a fresh sheet of A1 paper was waiting for some ink.
“Well, if I was doing the…” Chapman had been the first to speak but Rudovsky cut him off.
“You are doing it, Bill.”
“Oh. Right. Nice one.” Chapman was wearing a very rare smile.
“Go on,” said Rudovsky, pleased to see that Chapman was one-hundred per-cent engaged in his work. It had been a long time in coming.
“Well, I think I’d present a half-story interview. I’d act stupid, asking him about his wife’s car and his car, try and torture him emotionally, asking things like ‘why do you think your wife was visiting Francis Street, does she have any family or friends there, what was her reason for going there so often.’ I think that will make his fuse blow.”
“Yeah, that’s incredibly cruel Bill. I like it.”
“Then, I’d try and make it out as though his wife is the prime-suspect, try and gauge his reaction to that. I think it would be best to encourage him to think that we haven’t got a fucking clue what we are doing, then give him a bit of thinking time in his cell to reflect on the clues we have slipped him. Then, a few hours later, present an alternative version of events and watch his little world cave in.”
“Excellent, Bill. Anybody else?”
DC Peter Kenyon waved his hand before speaking. “Well I think we should really concentrate our efforts on finding some evidence that places him at the crime scene. That would be the ace card. What have we got along those lines?”
Chapman replied. “That’s proving to be a problem in all honesty. There’s nothing forensic at all. There’s a CCTV camera on the side of The Park Inn pub in Monton, which is next door to the entrance to Eccles Field. I’ve been back through it for the date of the murder. We’ve got hundreds of people coming and going, dog-walkers, cyclists, kids, mums with prams. We’ve got every face, but nobody fitting the attacker’s physical profile and nobody with that bike.” Chapman pointed up to the black and white photo on the wall.
“What about at the other end?” It was DC Helen Grant who raised the question.
Chapman and Rudovsky both looked a little stumped, but Grant continued.
“We know that his address is in Swinton, and that he went back that way on his bike. It stands to reason that he will have passed the same CCTV cameras in Swinton on his way to the crime scene.”
“He didn’t go that way, the whole day was checked on the East Lancs camera that he appeared on. Which was done when we found the images of him coming back.” Chapman looked a bit irritated by the suggestion that he’d been looking at the wrong camera. He was more irritated that Grant was right. It was stupid to check the camera next to the entrance of the field when it was already established that Graham Hartley’s attacker was from the opposite side of the field.
“Should we check that again?” asked Rudovsky. “I don’t think it can do any harm, Bill.”
A sudden frostiness filled the air. Rudovsky sensed it quicker than anybody else and went for damage-limitation. The last thing she needed was to piss on Chapman’s chips when he’d come up trumps.
“Who checked that CCTV on the East Lancs in the first place?” She asked the question, fully aware that it had been DC Worthington.
“Me, Sarge.”
“Well, sorry Mike, but can I ask Bill to give it the once over?”
“What.. you…”
“Just in case, mate. We all know how easy it is to miss something when we’re staring at CCTV footage all day.”
Worthington looked a bit put-out by the suggestion that he’d screwed up. But Rudovsky wasn’t too fussed about that, her overriding priority was to try and keep Chapman on side.
“Come on Mike, we’re on the verge of nailing this. Nobody is going to take the piss out of you for missing a lone cyclist, before we even knew we were looking for one! Suck it up, butter-cup. Bill, can you give that another pair of eyes please?”
“Yes, no problem Sarge.”
“Brilliant. Okay, finally, back to the Park Inn at Monton. I’ll bet any money that Nolan has gone that way on foot at some point, after parking his car up nearby. We need to go through the Park Inn footage for each day that Nolan’s car was seen in the area. I’ll bet you all a sloppy Guiseppe that he walks past there. If we have his face, plus the CCTV on the East Lancs before and after… well, we’ve got the evil fucker bang to rights. Agreed?”
The DCs all nodded and looked enthused by the simple tasks they had to carry out. The conclusion to this grizzly case suddenly felt very close.
Chapter Fifteen
Miller and Saunders were at Tameside police station, preparing to question Lewis Braithwaite, the 20-year-old who had been identified by his grandmother, who’d contacted the police after hearing his voice on the regional news.
Lewis had spent the night in the cells in Ashton. It had been a long and very scary night for the young man, his first experience of police custody. The noise in the cell-wing had scared him half to death, the shouting, the aggression, the kicking and punching of doors, accompanied by the constant comings-and-goings of custody officers clanging open the steel hatches and the slamming of the solid doors had left him in a const
ant state of panic and anxiety. And that was before he could even consider the gravity of being arrested on suspicion of murder.
When Miller arrived on the detention wing to collect the young man from his cell, he saw a very frightened and vulnerable kid, a far-cry from the angry, cocky young adult who had been trying to give him lip in his mother’s house some twelve or so hours earlier. This morning, Lewis Braithwaite looked like he was about to cry.
“Morning Lewis.” Said Miller, in a warm and friendly manner. “How was your stay?”
Lewis looked broken.
“God, it wasn’t that bad was it? Mind you, I’ve seen some of the Trip Advisor reviews for this place. Apparently the breakfast leaves a lot to be desired!”
“Good one.” Said Lewis, looking down at his bare feet on the cold mezzanine floor.
“Right, anyway, it’s interview time. Follow me please.” Miller set off walking and sensed that his prisoner was following behind. “I’ve been looking at your police records, Lewis.”
“I’ve not got any!” Said Lewis, in a voice which was severely lacking in confidence.
“I know! That was a big surprise to me. Usually, people have a bit of a journey through the police computer before they arrive at the destination you have. Normally starts out with anti-social behaviour, then affray, then drunken-disorderly or drug possession, intent to supply. That sort of thing.” Miller was talking very casually, an old trick of trying to affect his prisoner’s state of mind before they reach the interview room.
“Seriously, how can I prove I’m not involved with a murder? This is absolutely fucking insane.”
Miller stopped and turned around to face Lewis. The youngster stopped walking and looked pleadingly into the face of the detective. “Well if that’s what you want, I’m here to make it happen. You go in that interview room, and you answer all my questions. If you are not involved, you’ll be out of here in a couple of hours.”
Lewis nodded. He understood.
“Come on, nearly there. Where are your socks?” asked Miller as he held open a door onto the corridor.
“I don’t wear them.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not cool.”
“Well, I’m no fashion victim mate, but I can assure you that wearing a fresh pair of socks every morning will help stop your feet stinking of parmesan cheese.”
“My feet don’t smell…”
“They do. Just saying. I’m going to ask the Sergeant for a pair of socks before we go in that interview room. Otherwise, I’ll be confessing to murder, just to get away from you!”
Lewis looked down at his feet. He couldn’t smell anything.
Miller held open the interview room door. Saunders was sitting inside, looking at his phone. “Detective Inspector, just watch him a minute, I’m going to find a pair of socks.” Miller turned back to Lewis. “Stay here a sec. Have you got a girlfriend?”
Lewis looked confused by the question. “No, I… I used…we split up.”
“How long were you going out?”
“About six months.”
“What’s her name?”
“What… Chardonnay Shufflebottom. Why?”
“Nowt. Have you not had a girlfriend since?”
“Nah.” Lewis looked to the floor again.
“Since you stopped wearing socks?” Miller was smiling but Lewis’ eyes were still fixed on his pale size nines. “You’ll never get a lass when you’ve got smelly feet. They’re not into all that. Wait here, I’ll go and fetch you some socks.”
“Get him a bottle of Dettol as well, Sir.” Shouted Saunders as Miller walked along the corridor. The DCI laughed loudly.
The lad’s feet didn’t even smell. Not noticeably, anyway. This was all a load of bollocks to figure out the suspect’s attitude, his body language, his voice patterns when he was talking about real-life issues. It would prove useful later, to judge when he was being genuine, and when he wasn’t.
“Fucking Norah! They are worse than a dead body’s!” Saunders swept his hand in front of his nose as he appeared in the doorway and stood next to the suspect.
Lewis was feeling embarrassed and a little confused. He was supposed to be here for murdering someone, and the police were just banging on about how bad his feet smelled. It seemed weird.
“Don’t worry. He’ll find you some socks. I bet he’ll come back with two gas masks as well!” Saunders laughed to himself. “So, where are you from, Denton?”
“Yeah.”
“Whereabouts.”
“Near Egerton Park. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know Denton. You had those two kids who threatened to blow up the school there didn’t you?”
“Oh, fucking hell yeah, I remember that. It was Audenshaw High School, and they were going to blow up the shopping precinct as well. I was only a kid then.”
“Yes, it will be about ten years ago. I worked on the case.”
“Really? No way.”
“It’s stunning around there though, isn’t it? Beautiful place.”
“Where. Denton?”
“Oh, no. I’m getting mixed up with the Cotswolds. Sorry.”
Miller came bounding along the corridor clutching a fresh pair of socks.
“Where did you get them from, Sir?” asked Saunders as Miller handed the socks to Lewis.
“In the spare sock cupboard, where do you think? Right, let’s get cracking.”
Miller talked for a few minutes about the legal stuff while Lewis Braithwaite put the socks on, unaware that they’d just come from the DCI’s car boot. Miller always had an overnight bag packed away in the boot ready for the unexpected all-nighters.
“Okay, so, Lewis, do you know why you’re here?”
Lewis looked straight at Miller and his eyes were filling up. He looked extremely scared and immature.
“You said suspicion of murder. But that’s all I know…”
“You seemed quite shocked by that, when I came round your house last night.”
“Yeah, well, obviously. Because I’ve not fucking killed anyone.”
“Lewis, to be clear, this is relating to the deaths of three people. It’s triple-murder that we’re talking about. What do you know about it?”
Lewis’ eyes were streaming with tears and his nose was snotting. He wiped it all away with the back of his sleeve.
“Is it to do with that fire the other night?” He was trembling.
“Yes Lewis. Two little kids and their dad were killed in that fire.”
The youth put his arms on the table-top and buried his head into them. He was sobbing heavily, the sound was genuine and his shoulders were heaving. He was obviously very upset and both Miller and Saunders offered him some encouraging words. After a minute, Lewis took the tissues that Saunders was holding out and cleaned his face up.
“In your own time, mate,” said Miller softly.
“What?”
“What can you tell us about the fire?”
“Just a sec, right, why am I being arrested for it? It was fuck all to do with me!” The tears were coming back, and it didn’t look like they were tears of self-pity. Lewis was genuinely upset about the fire. A haunted, jaded look had aged him dramatically. His eyes looked hollow and his sadness was unmistakable.
“You’re here because of the phone call you made. We’ve had five calls identifying you as the person making the telephone call to the fire service.”
“Yeah, it was me. I’m not denying it. But I didn’t do anything. I just saw the fire, ran over…” He broke down again. “…I wanted to help. But I couldn’t get near the place, windows were blowing out. I could…” He hunched over the table-top again. “I could hear them screaming, begging me to help them.”
Once again, Miller and Saunders had to sit and wait. This lad had been through a major ordeal. They just needed to know what he was doing in this remote part of Denton at one o’clock in the morning. They waited until Lewis had composed himself.
“Remember what I sai
d Lewis, tell me the truth and you’ll be out of here in no time.”
“I am.”
“Okay, well, I appreciate that. And I can see that you’re struggling with what you saw. Now let me make it a bit easier for you, okay?”
“How?”
“Well, in the time you’ve been here, our detectives have managed to track your movements on the CCTV cameras around the M60 and M67 motorway junction. They capture you walking up towards Denton from the direction of Sainsburys. Then, you were captured on a town-centre camera situated on the junction of Seymour Street and Hyde Road. These images show you walking in the direction of your home, before suddenly turning and sprinting in the opposite direction towards the fire. One minute later, we see you running back and going into the phone box outside the church.”
“So that proves I didn’t do it.”
“Correct. But it doesn’t prove anything else. We can eliminate you as a suspect in relation to starting the fire…”
“Yeah?” Lewis’ eyes were now showing some signs of hope.
“But for all we know, you were just a look-out for the person who did start it.” Miller looked on sympathetically as Lewis began to cry once again.
“I fuckin… I swear down. I wasn’t a…”
“What were you doing there at that time Lewis?” Saunders had asked the question, and his tone had become a little harsher.
“I was just… I was coming home. I’d been out.”
“Where had you been?”
“Just mooching about.”
Miller looked disappointed in Lewis’ rather vague explanation of what he’d been doing in the area at the time an arsonist had killed three people and severely injured a fourth. He took a photograph out of the file on the table-top.
“Is this your bag, Lewis?”
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