‘Come in.’ Rickman’s voice sounded strong and confident and she was encouraged. DS Foster hadn’t been exaggerating — some of the gossip made Rickman out to be a gibbering wreck.
She stepped inside, followed by Foster. The DCI’s office was only marginally larger than the sergeant’s, but it did have the benefit of a window, admitting the mingled sounds of afternoon traffic and the shouts and laughter of children playing on the yard of the day care centre nearby. Rickman rolled up some blueprints he had spread out on his desk and straightened up. His height was emphasised by the cramped conditions. His chestnut-brown hair looked slightly ruffled, as though he’d been running his fingers through it as he worked, and it was a little shorter than she recalled. It made him look vulnerable, despite his size.
‘Sir.’ Hart’s stance and tone were formal and respectful.
Rickman leaned across his desk and offered his hand. ‘Good to see you again, Naomi. You did some excellent work on the investigation last autumn.’
Hart smiled, surprised he had remembered — there must have been fifty or more officers working that investigation. She was equally surprised that he’d mentioned the case at all, given its terrible outcome for him. He looked well, perhaps a touch thinner than when she had last seen him in November of the previous year, but that was understandable. The weight loss emphasised the sharp angles of his features and this, together with the warm hazel of his eyes, gave him a foreign, almost aristocratic look. He was a bit too bashed about for her taste, though: the bad set of his nose, and the many nicks and scars on his face detracted from the Germanic nobility of his appearance.
‘Sit down,’ Rickman said. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got.’
Hart took the chair nearest the window, the cool, scented gusts on the back of her neck a welcome respite from the recycled fug of the building’s air conditioning. Foster took up position by the filing cabinet, to her right and slightly behind her.
‘I did an internet search,’ Hart said. ‘The only Megan Ward I found is a film star — and definitely not our Megan.’ They had divided the work between them, Hart on the computer, Foster working the phone. ‘Then I tried individual newspapers and Lexis-Nexis — her by-line — doesn’t appear anywhere.’
‘So,’ Rickman said. ‘Not a journalist.’
Hart shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be her first big story — regional papers don’t always allow cub reporters a by-line. But she did give Sara Geddes the impression that she was established as a freelancer.’
‘I’ve had no luck, either,’ Foster said. ‘The DVLA gave me an address for a Megan Ward in Norwich. I faxed them Sara’s sketch. The landlord says it could be her, but she moved out six months ago. No forwarding address.’
‘What about her car?’ Rickman asked.
‘The DVLA are gonna get back to me.’
‘If she hasn’t changed the details on her driving licence, she probably gave her old address anyway,’ Hart said.
Rickman nodded. ‘But at least we’d have a make, model and ID number to look for.’
‘Could we put Sara’s sketch out on the regional news?’ Hart asked.
Rickman tilted his head. ‘What if she doesn’t want to be found? She’s a right to her privacy and she’s done nothing illegal.’
‘Do we know that?’ Hart asked. The exchange felt like an interview: both men sizing her up, judging her reaction to Rickman, seeing if they could work with her, and Hart was determined to make an impression.
‘I checked,’ Foster said. ‘No previous form.’
‘Okay.’ Rickman folded his arms. ‘My turn. Inspector Norton has concluded his investigation into the alleged stalking incident—’
His phone rang, interrupting him. Rickman picked up and spoke a few words to the caller, then looked up at Hart and Foster. ‘You should hear this,’ he said. ‘Hold on, Tony, I’ve got Lee Foster and Naomi Hart with me now. I’m putting you on speaker phone. Tony Mayle,’ Rickman told them. Mayle was a senior investigator and crime scene coordinator with the Scientific Support Unit. ‘You’re on, Tony,’ he said.
‘I’ve just heard from Technical Support,’ Mayle’s voice sounded grainy and muffled. ‘The data on Miss Ward’s computer is corrupted.’
Hart and Foster stared in horror at the machine. ‘No way!’ Hart burst out. ‘We followed their instructions to the letter.’
‘Hold on.’ Mayle was an ex-cop; he knew how procedural cock-ups were viewed from both sides of the divide. Right now, he sounded conciliatory. ‘It’s nothing you did or did not do. We think there was some sort of logic bomb embedded in the hard drive.’
Foster looked at Hart, his eyebrows raised.
‘Don’t look at me, Sarge,’ she said. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
‘It’s a programme,’ Mayle explained. ‘Very difficult to detect. Computers have an internal clock, if the system isn’t accessed within a set time by the designated user, the logic bomb is triggered, destroying or overwriting all data.’
Foster gave a low whistle. ‘She wrecked her own computer?’
‘It may have been set up to protect sensitive data,’ Mayle said. ‘If you can’t get to your machine — say it’s stolen — the data’s protected.’
‘It’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you back up your files regularly,’ Mayle said.
‘So, she could have hidden files somewhere?’
‘It’s possible.’
Hart shook her head. ‘We searched the place top to bottom.’
‘She could have taken the backups with her,’ Mayle said.
‘Are you sure she planted this logic bomb?’ Hart asked. ‘She thought someone had hacked into her system.’
‘Then they could just as easily have planted it.’
‘Is there any way of checking?’ Rickman asked.
They heard a long sigh at the other end of the line. ‘There’s bugger-all left to check, Jeff. A few fragments, maybe, in amongst the alphabet soup the bomb made of the files. But we’d have to find them first, and that could take months.’
‘Not worth it,’ Rickman said. ‘Thanks, Tony.’ He broke the connection. ‘Other lines of enquiry?’ he asked.
‘Her manuals and paperbacks,’ Hart said, feeling limp and disappointed. The computer equipment represented their best source of information about Megan, now all they had were a few dusty books. ‘Oh,’ she added, suddenly remembering. ‘And her box of treasures.’
‘Mementoes,’ Foster explained. ‘Miss Geddes says Megan was in care for a while. Didn’t she say something about Megan’s dad working on the oil rigs? I could check that out.’
Rickman lifted his chin. ‘It might give us a family address, relatives, friends.’ He paused a moment. ‘But this is looking more like she walked away of her own accord: she lied about being a journo — which removes one major risk factor. Give it another day or two, then we shelve this one.’
‘What about the stalker, sir?’ Hart asked.
‘Oh,’ Rickman said. ‘I was about to tell you before Tony Mayle phoned. Inspector Norton has concluded there was no complaint. There’s no record of a complaint being made in Megan’s name: no report reference, nothing logged with Calls and Response. And this is the clincher — there is no DC Frinton in Merseyside Police.’
‘She made him up?’ Hart said.
‘Who d’you mean — Megan or Sara Geddes?’ Foster asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ Hart was stupefied; Sara had seemed so plausible, but if DC Frinton was a fabrication, maybe the stalker was — maybe Sara had even dreamed up Megan. ‘But I’ll find out,’ she said, a flush of anger rising into her face. ‘I’ll catch her before she leaves court.’
* * *
Foster lingered after Hart had gone.
Rickman stared at the door, as if he could see her walking down the corridor. ‘What d’you think?’ he asked.
Foster lifted one shoulder. ‘I think Sara’s a few cards short of the full deck.’
‘Don’t be
obtuse, Lee,’ Rickman said. ‘You know damn well who I mean.’
‘Naomi,’ Foster said, folding his arms.
Rickman’s career had looked shaky since last autumn. At first, it didn’t matter. At first, the major challenge was simply to get through each day. Now, he found it mattered a lot. His first major investigation in four months could make or break him. Which meant he needed people around him he could trust.
‘She’s listened to the Chinese whispers like everyone else,’ Foster said. ‘But she respects you and she liked working with you last time.’
‘I take it you didn’t tell her I’m only covering for DCI Hinchcliffe’s absence?’
Foster looked vague. ‘It didn’t come up.’
Rickman smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He could always rely on Foster to play a close hand.
‘You’re the boss, Jeff,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If I was the boss, I’d never explain myself.’
Which was one reason why Foster would never rise above the rank of sergeant. There were compensatory aspects to his character, however, as Rickman had discovered over and over in the last year. Up until the events of the previous autumn they shared an office for two years and had known each other for a while longer than that. It had taken him all that time to even begin to understand the true nature of Lee Foster, and even now, Rickman knew that this understanding was imperfect.
‘When are you expecting the family?’ Foster asked.
Rickman’s heart gave a little jump. He had lived for twenty-five years with no family, and the discovery that he had a sister-in-law and two nephews was recent enough for it still to sneak up on him and poke him in the ribs if he wasn’t ready for it.
‘I’m picking Tanya and the boys up from the airport at six,’ Rickman said.
‘They staying long?’
‘Three weeks — right through the Easter holidays.’
‘They finish early — Liverpool schools are still in.’
‘Advantages of a private education,’ Rickman said. ‘They’re staying with me.’ This represented a step forward, a development of trust and affection between them.
‘Cosy.’ Foster said, with a big, vulpine grin. ‘You be sure and give Tanya a big kiss from me.’
Rickman shot him a warning look.
‘You’re not telling me you haven’t noticed what a cracker she is.’
Rickman’s gaze did not waver and Foster, embarrassed, slapped both knees with his palms and got hurriedly to his feet. ‘Reckon I’ll hit the phones, Boss — can’t leave it all to Naomi, can I?’
Chapter Seven
The afternoon session was drawing to a close as Naomi Hart drove into the car park adjacent to Chavasse Park. The road surface was rough limestone hardcore and her tyres slewed a little as she made the turn too fast. She ran for the courts as a passing cloud cast a shadow over the building, staining the maroon concrete the colour of blood.
‘Bugger,’ she muttered, feeling the first drops of icy rain on her face. She had hoped to avoid a drenching from the frequent showers that gusted across the Mersey. A two-hundred-yard sprint left her only slightly breathless and she pushed through the revolving doors into the foyer as the first wave of court rooms was beginning to empty. She checked her watch: three forty-five — early adjournments and Pleas and Directions hearings, given their next court date and then dismissed. She hurried through the security checks, scanning the faces beyond the barrier; a reflex after ten years in the job. She saw relief on some, anger and disappointment on others; grief, too. The smokers moved with grim purpose towards the exit leading to the cold windswept plaza of Derby Square, anxious for their first hit of nicotine in hours.
Hart showed her warrant card at the enquiries desk and asked where Sara Geddes might be. She was in luck: the court was still in session. She slipped into one of the bench seats to the left of the court room, quickly locating Sara, sitting with her back to the judge, at one of the desks below the bench. The corridors and waiting areas were drab brown, and many of the courts shabby, the fold-down seats grey and threadbare, but this court had been refurbished with bright, honeyed wood and pink upholstery.
The defendant sat fidgeting in the dock at right angles to the viewing gallery, uncomfortable in a suit and tie. The jury shot furtive glances in his direction as the prosecution barrister gently questioned the key witness, a girl of no more than eighteen years. The left side of the girl’s face was badly scarred, a lightning-bolt of livid tissue traced a line from her eye socket to the edge of her upper lip. The skin around it looked raised, almost quilted by the injury. The jury found it harder still to look at her than at the restless boy, tugging at his collar.
Sara looked all business; she was dressed soberly in a dark suit and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Without the softening layers of blonde hair over her cheekbones, her jaw looked even more determined, perhaps even masculine. Over the suit she wore a black robe and clerical collar. There was a severity in her court persona that had been absent when Hart had first met her.
She saw Hart and her eyes widened. She lifted her chin in silent question and Hart shook her head. No news. Sara glanced at her watch and Hart saw a flush of impatience rise into the woman’s face. By the time the prosecution had finished his examination of the witness and the judge had dismissed her for the day, Sara was visibly quivering. Another five minutes was taken up with decisions about running order for the next day, the recall of witnesses not yet examined and a stern admonition from the judge to members of the jury not to speak of what they had seen or heard to anyone but fellow jurors.
The court was finally adjourned at ten past four and Sara could barely contain herself long enough for the judge to leave the room before hurrying over to DC Hart.
‘Has something happened?’ she demanded, two bands of high colour staining her cheeks.
‘Have you spoken to Inspector Norton?’ Hart said in answer.
‘I’ve been in court all afternoon.’
Hart deliberated: it wasn’t really her place to give this news, but she was here now, and she wanted answers. ‘Megan didn’t lodge a complaint of stalking,’ she said.
Sara stared at her. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Is it?’ Hart looked into Sara’s face, trying to detect any hint of dissembling.
‘A man was watching Megan,’ Sara insisted. ‘He was watching the house for days. She saw him — I saw him.’
‘Did you?’
‘What the hell are you implying?’
A couple of heads turned; Hart returned their stares calmly and when they looked away, she studied Sara with the same composure. The anger seemed real, but anger, Hart knew, was often used as a cover for guilt.
‘No complaint was ever made,’ she repeated, coolly assessing the court clerk. ‘And DC Frinton?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Doesn’t exist.’
Sara opened her mouth then shut it again. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, after a few moments of dumbstruck silence. ‘Megan said she had spoken to Detective Constable Frinton. She said he promised to look into it. She even had his card.’
‘Did you see it?’
Sara frowned, not understanding.
‘DC Frinton’s card — did Megan show it to you?’
‘No . . .’ Sara said slowly. ‘But she told me—’
‘Did you see her make the call?’
The court was almost empty, now. Only an usher and a junior barrister remained, sorting through paperwork in preparation for the next day. He studiously avoided looking at them, but Hart felt him listening with breathless intensity.
‘I—’ Sara frowned, her gaze seeking that spot just to the left of her field of vision where images and memories seemed to come to life for her. ‘No,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘No, I didn’t stand over her and watch her make the call.’
Hart still could not gauge if Sara was the liar or if she had been lied to by Megan.
‘Why would she lie to me?’ Sara asked, as if Hart had spoken her thoughts. ‘She’s in troub
le. I know it. Megan wouldn’t just leave without telling me.’
‘You said yourself, she never stayed anywhere for long,’ Hart suggested.
‘Because of her work — she had to go where the stories took her.’
‘What stories?’
Sara was about to respond impatiently, but she checked herself, sensing that there was more.
‘Did you ever read any of Megan’s articles?’ Hart pushed, delivering this new deception before Sara had recovered from the last. She was trying to get a reaction, but all she read on Sara’s face was confusion and worry.
‘What are you saying?’ Sara’s said.
‘That Megan Ward never wrote a news story in her life.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ The exclamation contained an implied question: Isn’t it?
‘I searched the internet,’ Hart said. ‘Undercover reporters might need to keep a low profile, but Megan is invisible.’
A door opened at the back of the court room and a second usher called Sara’s name.
‘Coming,’ she said without turning, her voice, normally so strong and vibrant, sounded small and shocked. Half a minute passed, and she seemed to be fighting with her emotions. ‘Something is badly wrong,’ she said at last. ‘If Megan lied to me there has to be a good reason. We’re friends. We—’ She looked away for a moment, as if trying to find something she had misplaced. ‘We trust each other.’
Hart had come to the court furious at the thought that Sara might have played her for a fool, but she saw that Megan’s lack of trust, and her lies, had wounded Sara. She looked bewildered and hurt.
Sara’s eyes drifted back to her face. ‘You think she lied to me for the hell of it?’
Hart held her gaze.
Sara shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. She didn’t — she wouldn’t lie to me.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because she told me things she had never told anyone before.’ She paused, and her expression softened a little. ‘We talked once about childhood fantasies — you know the sort of thing — little girls dreaming of being film stars or dancers or models.’
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 4