SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Piece of advice from someone who knows?’ she said.

  He narrowed his eyes, expecting a sudden switcheroo; Megan doing what she did best, confirming your expectations, then knocking them down: How could you even think Naomi would be interested? But she didn’t. She didn’t switch positions or make fun of him. She remained serious.

  ‘Secrets aren’t a good basis for a relationship,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘Sure you do.’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘I wasn’t wrong about you, was I?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You were in care.’

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

  She held his gaze for a moment. ‘That other stuff I promised you on Doran? Tell your techies to check out the smartchip on my bogus card,’ she said.

  ‘The credit card — we checked that.’

  She shook her head. ‘Tell them to look underneath the smart chip. You’ll find a SIM card for a mobile phone. In the address book, they’ll find a list of PO boxes. Each box has a CD-ROM with some info about Doran’s activities — the heists, the time sheets, dates, maps — even the names of the crew. Someone will be willing to talk.’

  ‘He had them on his computer?’

  She shook her head. ‘Doran’s too smart. He emailed his security guy and the crew with times and dates.’

  ‘Warrender . . .’ Foster said, almost to himself.

  ‘Doran wiped his emails,’ Megan explained, ‘but deleted files are easy enough to find if you know where to look. John Warrender didn’t even bother to delete his emails. Maybe he planned to use them as his insurance policy against the vagaries of the employment market. But my guess is he was just sloppy.’

  She smiled and Foster understood. Warrender was as much to blame for the death of the jeweller and his wife as Doran and her brother had been. And now he would pay.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling a little stunned.

  ‘It should make up for the car,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yeah . . .’ He smiled at the thought. ‘Why now? I mean, you’ve been giving us the run-around on this stuff from the start — we weren’t even convinced you had anything.’

  ‘Rule number one for the scammer: keep ’em guessing. Like you said, a case like this, it’s the accumulation of evidence — now you’ve accumulated some more.’ She waited a moment, then added, ‘And you did save me.’ She held his gaze, her eyes dancing with humour.

  ‘Beat it,’ he said, grinning. ‘Before I cuff you and take you in.’

  She opened the car door, still smiling, but he put a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘Don’t forget this.’ He offered her the picture, Sara’s sketch of her.

  ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘As a memento.’

  ‘I can get a copy,’ Foster said, still holding the pencil sketch out to her. ‘You should have it. We took your other stuff back as evidence.’ He meant the shoebox. She had left it behind when she disappeared from the flat in Rodney Street.

  ‘Take it,’ he insisted. ‘It’ll remind you who you are.’

  She took it from him, then kissed him on the lips, slipping her hand behind his head. He nearly caved in at that touch, breathing her scent and feeling the warmth of her hand on his neck. She drew back, her eyes searching his.

  ‘Pity,’ she said, as if she had found an answer in the taste of his lips.

  He watched her tuck the picture carefully inside her jacket and zip it up, then she walked away into a dampness that was more mist than rain. He waited until she had turned the corner and was gone from his sight before reaching for the radio receiver.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The team had been debriefed at eleven p.m. and sent home for a few hours’ sleep. Fraud squad officers raided Doran’s offices and home at around midnight, taking away computers, bank records, and whole filing cabinets of paperwork. By morning, some of it had already begun to corroborate Megan Ward’s claims.

  Detective Sergeant Lee Foster stood in front of DCI Rickman’s desk, to all appearances contrite and subdued. It was seven-thirty a.m. and the morning briefing was due to begin at eight.

  Rickman stared at Foster and shook his head. ‘I won’t waste my breath going over the lunacy of what you did.’ He had already had a long and angry conversation with Foster about the risks he had exposed himself to.

  At the time, Foster had countered that Megan would probably be dead, if he hadn’t. ‘Look on the bright side,’ he said. ‘Doran’s not gonna worm his way out of the charge of attempted murder on a police officer.’

  Rickman eyed his friend, furious at what he’d done, and what could have happened, yet, even more infuriatingly, he could understand it. Understanding Foster’s actions confused the issue. This should be a straightforward matter of discipline; Foster had breached it and should be held to account. But it was also a matter of conscience and emotional attachment, promises made and broken. And the common bond between Foster and Megan, which Rickman, even with his desperate childhood and the secrets it imposed on his relationships, could only understand imperfectly.

  ‘You let her go, Lee,’ he said at last.

  ‘She hadn’t done anything wrong.’

  Rickman laughed, angrily. ‘She’s a thief, a con artist and a hacker — how’s that for starters?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Foster at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable. ‘She was the victim. She risked her life to get that confession out of Doran. What was I supposed to do, tell her “Ta, very much, and by the way, you’re nicked”?’

  ‘It’s not your job to decide the rights and wrongs.’

  ‘I know,’ Foster said, avoiding his eye.

  Rickman took a breath and let it go. ‘There’ll be an investigation,’ he said. ‘Out of authority — Manchester CID has already been mentioned.’

  Foster nodded.

  ‘You disobeyed a direct order.’

  Foster looked up quickly. ‘I don’t expect you to lie for me.’

  Rickman held his gaze. There was no suggestion of accusation in Foster’s clear blue eyes, no hint of a favour owed, yet Rickman knew that the sergeant had done far more for him in the past. He had risked career and even liberty to ensure that Grace’s murder did not go unpunished.

  ‘I asked you to organise backup surveillance,’ he said. ‘That’s the truth — they needn’t know any more than that.’

  Another nod. ‘Thanks, Jeff.’

  ‘But you should not have been in the car alone.’

  ‘Not enough officers available with surveillance training,’ Foster said.

  ‘And,’ Rickman went on, ‘you should not have used your own car.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ Foster said. ‘Never enough firm’s cars to go around when you need them.’

  Rickman paused. He had primed Foster on the most pressing issues, as the ACC had voiced them to him, but the next point was far more tricky. ‘You’ll have to explain how Megan got away.’

  Foster’s eyes glazed and he staggered a little. Rickman began to get up, but the sergeant waved him away. He touched his fingertips to his forehead lightly. ‘I think I might’ve had a touch of concussion,’ he said. ‘I was pretty shook up in the car chase.’

  ‘You’re nothing if not resourceful,’ Rickman said, acidly.

  ‘Case of having to, way I was brought up,’ Foster said.

  A sharp rap at the door preceded Hart’s entrance. Rickman suppressed an impulse to bawl her out for not waiting: it wasn’t something he usually insisted on, and his irritation was with Foster, not Hart.

  ‘Sorry, Boss,’ she said, apparently sensing his displeasure, nevertheless. ‘I found this in my stack of phone messages.’ She held up a pink slip. ‘It’s from a Doctor Pickering — she’s a consultant psychiatrist at the Royal.’ She tried not to glance at Foster. ‘Said it was urgent. She left a mobile number, so I called her. She has a patient named Nathan Wilde. He works for Doran — as a computer whiz.’

  Rickman felt the st
irrings of excitement.

  ‘He says he’s got info relevant to the Sara Geddes murder investigation.’

  Rickman hardly dared ask: psychiatric unit, claims to have information regarding a murder — was this just another crank? But the psychiatrist would be more than capable of judging if the claim was genuine, surely? He asked the question.

  ‘Why didn’t he come forward earlier? It’s been nearly two weeks.’

  ‘He’s been off his head on drugs. Amphetamine psychosis, according to the psych — but he’s been asking to talk to someone about the murder for days, and they finally realised he wasn’t hallucinating or whatever.’

  ‘Is he confessing to Sara Geddes’s murder?’

  ‘No, he says he gave Doran an address — Sara’s address, as it turns out. Doran sent some heavies to “deal” with Warlock. He was quite specific about the name.’

  Rickman exhaled in a rush of excitement — they might even get Doran on Sara’s murder. For a moment, he thought they had lost that chance. Then another depressing thought hit him. ‘CPS won’t wear it,’ he said. ‘A witness out of his mind on drugs . . .’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hart said. ‘But Warlock hasn’t been mentioned on the news reports. And Wilde says he can give us the names of the men Doran sent out to take care of Megan.’

  Rickman smiled. ‘Lee — get over to the hospital and take a statement,’ he said. ‘I want those men brought in — see if they’ll talk.’

  ‘Looks like we’re not gonna need Jake Bentley, after all,’ Foster said.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

  Hart shook her head. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘What about the post office boxes listed on the SIM card?’

  ‘Just like she said,’ Foster put in. ‘Names, dates, stolen route lists, maps, the lot.’

  ‘We’ve got him.’ Nobody spoke for a few seconds, but the excitement in the air was palpable. ‘Fetch Doran,’ Rickman said. ‘Take him to Interview Room One — I’ll take this myself. Hart — you can sit in.’ Foster was about to protest, but Rickman interrupted. ‘He tried to shoot you, Lee — I don’t want you anywhere near this.’

  Foster conceded reluctantly. ‘Can I at least bring him up from the cells? I want to look the murdering bastard in the eye.’

  Rickman nodded. ‘But go carefully.’ He picked up the phone and called Kieran Jago to let him know that his client was about to be interviewed.

  * * *

  Foster and Hart walked down the concrete fire escape in silence, their footsteps echoing up the stairwell.

  ‘I understand you being pissed off with me,’ Foster said.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Well say something, even if it’s only to call me a wanker.’

  ‘Did you let her go?’ She didn’t look at him.

  ‘She got away,’ he said, carefully.

  ‘Did you let her go?’ she repeated.

  Foster remembered what Megan had said about relationships needing to be founded on honesty.

  He sighed. ‘I let her go. But we’ve got enough evidence to put Doran away for life,’ he added.

  ‘So it was a trade-off?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  They had reached the bottom of the stairs and Hart put her hand out to open the fire door.

  ‘She wanted me to go with her.’ Foster kept his head down. He didn’t want to see what was in Hart’s face, right now.

  Hart let her hand fall. She was silent a moment or two, then she asked quietly, ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Complicated,’ she said. ‘Fine.’ She walked on through the door, putting distance between them.

  He followed her. ‘Woah — wait up. I’d like to explain — to try, anyhow.’ The idea terrified him, and he hoped it didn’t show.

  She turned back to him, but only for a second. ‘There’s really no need.’

  He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed. Maybe there were too many secrets between them. And anyway, he had never mastered the art of confession.

  They had arrived at the custody suite.

  ‘When’s his brief due to arrive?’ Foster asked. The custody sergeant was Phil Fordham, an officer of thirty-plus years’ experience. He was bald and slight, but he had a black belt in Aikido, and had single-handedly put down more drunks and druggies with a side-step and an arm-lock than most men twice his size.

  ‘Depends who he appoints,’ Fordham said.

  Before Foster had time to frame a question, the sergeant went on, ‘DCI Rickman’s just been on the blower. Mr Jago has withdrawn his services.’ His expression did not change, but Foster sensed he was having a rollicking good laugh at Doran’s expense.

  ‘I’ll go and tell him the good news, shall I?’ Foster said.

  DC Hart signed Doran out, while the custody assistant, a civilian, opened his cell door. Doran had washed and shaved, and his black hair was slicked back, still wet. The custody assistant handed Doran his shoelaces and tie and they gave him time to get himself together.

  ‘Is Jago here, yet?’ he asked, threading laces through the eyelets of his shoes, and addressing the assistant like he was one of his employees at morning roll-call. He gave no indication that he recognised Foster.

  Foster said, ‘I’m afraid Mr Jago has declined.’

  Doran looked up at him, surprised and Foster said, ‘We can ask the duty solicitor to sit in, if you like.’ He saw Doran thinking through the implications as he finished tying his shoelaces: Jago refusing to represent him looked bad — it looked like he thought Doran was guilty. Worse than that, guilty or innocent, it looked like he suspected Doran was not going to walk away from this — even with the best legal representation. As he looked at Doran, Foster wondered, too, if the solicitor’s fears for Jake Bentley had consolidated into a firm belief that Doran was responsible for his client’s disappearance.

  * * *

  Doran was uncooperative. He agreed to be questioned without a solicitor present, but Rickman was sure this was only so that he could gauge exactly how much they knew, ready to build a plan of attack. He answered ‘No comment’ thirty-five times during the course of a twenty-minute interview.

  ‘We are about to take a statement from an employee of yours.’ Rickman thought he saw a momentary jolt of alarm flash across Doran’s face. He thinks Warrender is cutting a deal. Rickman might exploit that lack of trust later. ‘Nathan Wilde says you sent men to Sara Geddes’s house.’

  ‘He’s a headcase.’

  ‘He was,’ Rickman said, calmly. ‘But now he’s making a lot of sense.’

  ‘A headcase and a druggie.’

  ‘Mr Doran,’ Rickman knew there was nothing to be gained from pursuing this line: Wilde was likely to be deemed unreliable. The real promise lay in what they could get out of Doran’s heavies — if they could trace them. ‘The Fraud Squad is sifting through your records, as we speak. We have specialists working on data extracted from your computer network at various times over a considerable period of time.’ Doran paled slightly at this. ‘This data implicates you in a number of armed robberies. Now, you are already charged with assault with a deadly weapon, and two counts of attempted murder, so, it would be in your interests to cooperate.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Doran said. ‘Did I miss the question? I might’ve nodded off.’

  Rickman gritted his teeth and reminded himself that they hadn’t expected a confession, but since they already had one recorded on Megan’s website, they didn’t really need it. He debated whether to tell Doran and decided against it — he wanted to be sure that Technical Support had extracted everything they needed — the last two weeks had shown him just how easy it was to tamper with computer data, and he didn’t want Doran’s computer technicians having a go at Megan’s site.

  ‘Tell me about Jake Bentley,’ Rickman said.

  Doran watched him coolly, his blue eyes showing no flicker of recognition. ‘Who?’

  �
�He was coming to you for an interview,’ Rickman said, risking the bluff — Bentley’s mother hadn’t known who her son had arranged to meet the night he disappeared.

  ‘Bentley?’ Doran frowned. ‘Like the car? Never heard of him.’

  ‘Why did Megan give you money?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe she likes me. I’m a likeable guy.’

  ‘I believe she was returning money from your illegal operations.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Doran said, with a tight smile. ‘My business is legit.’

  ‘Mr Doran, we counted the money in the sports bags we found inside your car. There was one million pounds of real money, and another two million in counterfeit.’

  Doran blinked. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, widened a little.

  ‘The counterfeits were pretty obvious — they looked like they’d been done on a laser printer. Probably just there to add weight to the bags and pass cursory inspection in poor light.’

  Doran looked grey — physically ill; he loosened his tie and leaned his elbows on the table.

  ‘A million?’ he said. The plea in his voice unmistakable: this had hit him hard.

  There was more, Rickman thought. Jesus, how much did she get away with?

  ‘A million . . .’ he repeated.

  * * *

  Foster arrived back at the station with Nathan Wilde’s statement shortly after. He was favourably impressed with the systems analyst and had passed on the names for other members of the team to check. Rickman gave him a run-down of his interview with Doran, and Foster asked, ‘Just how much d’you think she got?’

  ‘From the look on his face?’ Rickman said. ‘She’s bled him dry.’

  ‘There was a million in the two bags we found in Doran’s car. There’s another one and a quarter million from the initial sum she turned over to us,’ Foster reminded him. ‘It’s not a bad haul.’

  ‘It’s nowhere near what Doran was expecting. I thought he was having a heart attack, Lee.’

  Foster whistled. ‘But if she’s got so much already, I’m wondering why was she so desperate to take a look at that Visa card?’

  Rickman’s pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘Oh, hell . . . Did we miss an account?’