“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Said Kenyon, laughing at the same joke.
DC Grant wasn’t joining in with the conversation. She had a serious look on her face as she walked over to the letterbox and looked inside. There was a pile of mail on the doormat. Suddenly, she pulled her head back as a toxic smell pinched her nostrils.
“Fuck!” she said as she recoiled from the door.
“What?” asked Rudovsky.
“She is in there. But judging by the smell, she’s not alive.”
Rudovsky stepped across to the letterbox and lifted it, she crouched down to take a sniff and pulled her head away quickly.
“Shit!” Rudovsky retched. It was a completely involuntary reaction to the odour which had hit her nostrils, so strongly that it stung.
“Is it bad?” asked Kenyon, stepping over towards the door.
Grant nodded, grateful that she had not taken as much of a deep inhalation as her DS had.
Rudovsky was taking deep breaths and trying to calm her smell senses down. Eventually she spoke, her eyes still watery from the retching. “Yeah. It’s about as bad as it gets Pete. It’s the raw sewage and boiled egg smell of several weeks of decomposition.”
“It’s a good reason to explain why Lindsey hasn’t been in touch about her relationship with Hartley,” said Grant.
Rudovsky took her phone out of her pocket and dialled DCS Dixon.
“Come on, come on,” she said as the phone rang and rang.
“Who you phoning?” asked Kenyon.
“Dixon.”
Kenyon raised an eyebrow before nodding as he remembered that Miller and Saunders were on another job. “He’ll have gone home now. He only works Dolly Parton hours.”
“Fuck’s sake!” Rudovsky hesitated, wondering if she should phone Miller, or Saunders, or either. She didn’t want to make it look like she couldn’t cope or make decisions. Her finger was hovering above Miller’s number.
“What you thinking about, Jo?” asked Kenyon, who had been Rudovsky’s regular partner for the past six years, before she’d got her promotion.
Rudovsky looked at him. “I’m just thinking… Miller and Saunders are up to their necks in it with that arson job. I’m just not sure I should disturb them.”
“Well it’s your call. But it’s a major development, it’s not like you’re bothering them because you can’t find the stapler.”
“I agree with Pete, Sarge.” Said Grant. “They’re not going to mind you phoning about this, and after all, you tried Dixon first.”
Rudovsky nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll ring Saunders. Come on, let’s get in the car in case we’re overheard.” The three SCIU detectives walked back around to the front of the building and sat in Rudovsky’s car as her call connected.
“Sir, hi, yes, sorry to bother you… I know you’re busy. I tried Dixon first but he’s gone home. There’s been a development.”
“What’s up, Jo? Are you okay? You sound proper stressed out.”
“Yeah, well I am actually. We’re at Lindsey Nolan’s house. She’s not been seen for a few weeks and there’s a very unpleasant smell coming from her flat.”
“Shit.”
“Smells worse than that.”
“Right. Miller’s in with the DCI from Tameside at the minute. I think you should… what’s the address again?”
“Boothstown.”
“That falls under Salford, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s slap-bang on the border with Wigan division but I’m pretty sure it’s within Salford’s division.”
“Okay, tell you what to do, ring Salford’s Inspector and explain the situation. It’s going to have to be investigated by them, Dixon wants this all tidied up by tomorrow. And that’s not going to happen now.”
“What, not necessarily, Sir.”
“What do you mean, Jo?”
“Well, it looks pretty obvious what’s happened here, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think?”
“Yes, totally. He’s killed her lover, then he’s come round here to tell her all about it, then killed her. That’s my theory, and I’m one-hundred-per-cent on it. And I’ve not stepped foot inside and seen the murder scene yet.”
“It’s plausible. But the SOCO investigations at the property are going to take a good bit of time up. There’s no way you’ll be in a position to charge Nolan tomorrow, which was your original plan. This development changes everything.”
“Well, I’m snookered then aren’t I?”
“It looks that way Jo. But anyway, stay there, phone Salford and explain your suspicions and get the Inspector to log the job as a potential murder scene and then they’ll automatically have the ownership of the job, that will cover your arse. There’s nothing to stop you hanging around and seeing what you can find out.”
“We’re still going to be taken off it.”
“Not necessarily. As soon as Miller comes back I’ll update him and get him to give you a call.”
“Right, cheers. How’s yours going, anyway?”
“Yes, looking quite positive on this one, got a tasty lead so, looking good.”
“Right. Okay, cheers Sir, speak later.”
Rudovsky ended the call and looked through her phone contacts, selecting DTY INSP SLFRD. The call connected a couple of seconds later and Rudovsky explained the situation.
“Okay, that’s on a priority one, we won’t need a warrant to force entry due to your suspicions that a serious incident has taken place. I’ll await further information from my officers and proceed from that point.”
“Thanks, but I can assure you, you might as well ring the pathologist as well.”
“Thank you DS Rudovsky, I take on board your comments. I suspect my officers will be with you presently.”
Rudovsky hung up and looked at her colleagues. “Shit. This suddenly got a lot darker, didn’t it?”
Kenyon and Grant nodded and a heavy silence suddenly descended on the car. The mood was low, this conclusion had never been considered by any of them, the plan had been to try and frighten Lindsey with the threat of criminal charges and then bargain with her to become the star witness in her ex-husband’s murder trial.
But judging by the unmistakable smell of human decomposition which was wafting from the young woman’s letterbox, that idea was finished. It was depressing for all three of the detectives to consider how much they had misjudged Lindsey’s motives and in turn, how they had automatically assumed her guilt, when all the while she had been a victim of this psychotic bastard herself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kevin Howarth parked his car at the end of the road, making sure to lock it. This was a dodgy-looking area, the actual road itself didn’t even exist, it was just a long, dusty, pot-hole ridden dirt-path covered in old rags, rubbish and oil-spills. It was as though the authorities had forgotten this place existed. This neglected old road was the polar-opposite of Britain’s Best Kept Village and could easily be a strong contender for Britain’s Shittiest Shit-Hole.
Both sides of the dirt-track road had huge scrap-yards running along as far as the eye could see, hidden by collapsing concrete panel walls which were daubed in graffiti and topped with barbed wire. Shitty old bangers littered both sides of the road, waiting to be taken inside one of the yards and stacked on top of all the other battered old motors.
Big Fat Kev had decided he was going to visit all of the scrap-yards, rather than heading straight into the one that DI Saunders had phoned him about. He knew how these little places worked, he was well aware that all the scrap yard owners talked to one other so Kev had reached the conclusion that he’d appear a bit more genuine if he started looking around all of them. He wrote a list of bits that he was looking for, just in case he was asked. His list included an X-Type gear knob, which DI Saunders had requested.
As he entered the first scrap yard, he was approached immediately by a rough-looking, filthy mechanic in his early 30’s.
“Alright mate, what are you
after?” He asked, holding a massive spanner by his side.
“Oh a few bits mate. Got any MG ZR’s in?”
“Yeah, there’s one on the second row, a red one, about half-way down. Go and have a look. Don’t start climbing on anything though, you fat fucker!” A wave of loud laughter came from the small office behind where the mechanic stood. Kev smiled, mostly out of embarrassment and headed off in the direction he’d been pointed.
He pretended to look at the cars and spent a minute or two looking at the ZR, looking for a part that it definitely didn’t have, to avoid any aggro on the way out. He felt nervous as he walked back towards the office, his nervousness manifested itself into a little trip as he neared the office. There was more laughter from inside. Kev hated these kinds of places, the rules of normal civilisation didn’t exist down these dodgy back-streets, a fact made clear by the staff smoking indoors, sitting beneath porno-mag pages which had been pinned up on the walls inside the little office. He was glad to be out of there as he stepped out onto the third-world road and headed on towards the next scrap-yard.
He wasn’t challenged at this one, he just walked straight in and started looking around the cars. He was working out that he only had another one of these to look around before he arrived at the one that DI Saunders had asked him to have a look around. All this for fifty quid, he thought as he finished his charade of walking around the piles of knackered old cars in the second scrap yard. He managed to leave without anybody quizzing him, which he was pleased about.
The third scrap yard felt a bit more hostile as he approached. There was a group of four young lads wearing mechanics overalls, all standing by the gates.
“What you after mate?”
“What you looking for?”
The young lads looked as though they were desperate for something to do, so Kev decided to recall the most obscure vehicle he’d thought of on the way here, just to avoid stepping another foot in the yard.
“Alright, I’m after a two-litre diesel engine for a Sherpa minibus, 1988 model.”
The young lads laughed loudly.
“Nah mate, no minibuses here. You’ll be lucky getting anything from the last century in here mate!” said the most sensible looking one.
“Alright lads, well, thanks anyway.”
“You’d be better off looking on eBay mate.” Said another lad. They looked quite intimidating, but they were alright really, Kev had been pleased to discover.
“Yes, I have, nowt doing. Someone said there was one in one of these yards. You don’t know which one, do you?”
“Nah mate, nothing that old down here.”
“Alright, well thanks anyway.”
As Kev walked slowly away from the young lads, he realised that he was now finally arriving at the yard that Saunders wanted him to look at. He felt his nerves kick in as he reminded himself of the vehicle that he needed to find. There was extra money, Saunders had said, if he managed to get a photo of the Zafira, and the VIN number from the windscreen. But he’d been warned to be very discreet about it and make sure that nobody from the scrap-yard was aware of what he was doing. “Don’t take any risks!” Had been Saunders advice.
Kev walked into the yard, it was identical to the others, a thick, oily residue covered the mud-tracks of the ground. Inside the compound, the cars were stacked four or five high, models of every colour with their wheels, doors, bonnets and windscreens missing. Kev had hoped to get straight in, as he had at the second scrap-yard. As he side-stepped the office and approached the first row of cars, he began to relax a little. He began walking around, conscious of some loud talking in the portacabin office just behind him. He heard the phone ring, it was wired up to a Tannoy system and he felt a huge sense of relief when he heard it ring off, and a voice in the office started talking on the phone. The accent sounded Russian, or Eastern European. Kev felt the pressure mounting and decided to just walk around the yard, find this Zafira, if it was here, and then get the fuck away from this horrible, scary, shit-hole of a place.
On the third row of cars, Kev found what he was looking for. It was a dark silver Zafira, all the doors were off, but it was still easy to see that it was the car that DI Saunders was interested in. Kev continued walking around, looking to see if there were any other Zafiras in, and also to see if he was being followed by any of the staff. There wasn’t any other Zafiras, and he wasn’t being followed, he had the place to himself. He decided to head back to the third row, grab a photo of the car that he’d been sent here to locate, and then get as far away as he could from here. Kev took his phone out of his pocket, activated the camera and pointed it in the direction of a completely different car, ensuring that the Zafira was in the corner of the shot, but not so that it was obvious if anybody saw him and asked to see the photo. Kev’s paranoia was overwhelming him and his hands were shaking slightly as he held his phone up, trying to be as discreet as possible. He took two quick photos, switched off the camera and put it back into his pocket, before heading back towards the gates.
“What you looking for?” asked a big bald guy, standing by the office door. Kev felt his adrenaline kick in.
“Oh, nowt.”
“Well what ya doing then?” The man looked like a body-builder and he had an intimidating stare. He didn’t seem like a particularly pleasant character.
“Oh, er, well I’m after a gear-knob for a Jag. X type.” Kev felt that his voice had sounded nervous.
“No, not here. Go to eBay to buy.”
“Yes, I’ll try on there. Thanks.”
The big man just turned and stepped back into the office and said something in a foreign language to somebody else. Kev didn’t understand the language, but he knew instinctively that it was the foreign equivalent of “stupid fat fuck.” Kev began walking, trying hard not to make it look as though he was in a hurry. But he was in a hurry. He just wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible, then get these photos sent over to DI Saunders and hopefully, he wouldn’t hear anything else from the dibble for another six months, at least.
*****
Saunders was busy working on his laptop in DCI Katy Green’s office when he heard his phone ping in his pocket.
“Okay, here we go,” said Saunders to Miller as he opened up the text message from Big Fat Kev.
“Has he got anything?”
“Yeah, wait a sec. Two photos, the Zafira is still there, and look, so are the pissing number-plates.” Saunders passed his phone across to Miller, the look of frustration was unmistakable.
“What the hell?”
“That is definitely the right number-plate, isn’t it?” asked Saunders, his voice giving away the sinking feeling that he was experiencing.
“Let me check.” Miller grabbed his file off the desk and leafed through the pages until he found the intelligence file that DCI Green’s team had built up with information concerning the car on the M60 motorway at the time of the fire. He found the photograph of the vehicle, taken from CCTV stills on the motorway. “Here we go, the reg was ML09 AHW.”
“Bingo. There you go, the registration plates are still on the scrap car in the scrap yard. They didn’t take the plates off the real car, because they are clearly still attached. This lead has just come to a dead-end.” Saunders looked gutted. Miller, on the other hand looked confused. Neither spoke for several minutes as they thought about the next line of enquiry.
“Thing is though…”
Saunders looked across at his boss. He was encouraged that Miller wasn’t finished with this.
“What?”
“Well, the fact that this car, used for such an horrific crime, was parked on the motorway with fake plates on has never made sense to me. I didn’t think that whoever was responsible would be stupid enough to take some plates off a similar looking vehicle that’s been scrapped. That detail has never added up.”
“I agree. Go on.”
“So, we need to know how they found a similar vehicle’s registration plates and managed to get some pl
ates cloned within 24 hours of the Zafira being stolen. The Zafira in the scrap yard was logged down as scrapped on the DVLA computer in August. That’s three months its been off the road. How did the arsonists find the registration plate for a similar looking vehicle, which they obviously assumed was still on the road?” Miller was staring hard at the file on his lap. Saunders was listening intently, trying to think of possibilities.
“Speak to the owner of the stolen Zafira. Ask him a few questions about the car, where it used to be parked, what it was used for, did anybody else drive it, who knew where it had been parked when it was stolen, all that kind of stuff. I strongly suspect that there’s a connection there somewhere. There’s more to this Keith, I can feel it.”
“I feel the same. Something’s just not right.”
“I’m not letting it go just yet, there are too many questions and not enough answers.”
It went quiet again as the two detectives thought about this strange situation. Saunders disrupted the silence.
“I’ve just had a thought.”
“What?”
“Well, we know that the stolen Zafira had the fake plates on it when it was parked on the motorway?”
“Yes, and that they were still on when the car went through Woodley, Katy’s officers have found a clip on the traffic monitoring cameras.”
“And just after this, it was burnt out, not far away.”
“Yes. I know.”
“But do we know if the plates were still present on the vehicle when it was burnt out?”
“No, I don’t know. There’s not usually much left of a car after it’s been burnt-out though, other than the metal carcass, is there?”
“I disagree. Thinking back to my time on the beat in Salford, we were called out to burnt-out cars every day. Joy-riders would rally the tits off them all night and then torch them when they’d run out of fuel in order to destroy any evidence of them touching it.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well nine times out of ten, the number plates survived, that’s how we identified the vehicles and reported the outcome to the owner. So, I’m just thinking that there is a strong possibility that these plates might have survived the fire and if they did, there might be some evidence to be gathered. Any idea if the plates are still on it?”
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