by Isaac, Jane;
Blane implied Sinead was popular, but he couldn’t provide specifics of close relationships, apart from her mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s. Her neighbour, Yvette, said they were close and claimed Sinead didn’t like to talk about herself. They’d checked with the hotel and Sinead had booked a single room on the yoga retreat; she appeared to have been planning to go alone. Was she genuinely private or was there someone else in her life, someone she didn’t want anyone to know about?
She turned a few more pages, the sadness of the sentiments, one after another, inducing a wave of déjà vu. Barely eight weeks earlier, she’d stood here, in the same spot, scribbling a message for another officer. One that had been very dear to her. A pain seared her chest as she recalled the expression on Dean’s face shortly before he died. The sadness, the horror.
Helen pushed the image into the shadows of her mind and turned to a clean page. It was difficult enough to think of a fresh message for a retirement or a get well soon card circulating the office, but near on impossible not to repeat the feelings already expressed here, especially when she didn’t know the victim personally. Eventually, she thanked Sinead for her commitment, her service and sent heartfelt wishes to the family, cursing herself for the bland comment. She then simply signed her name. No need for rank. This was a sentiment, a passing of thoughts from one cop to another.
She closed the book and moved out into the corridor. Sinead’s seven-year service had been concentrated on the incident response team in the northern area. Most cops moved around the force and tried other departments to develop new skills. Some took their detective exams, sought promotion or specialised in areas like child protection or community policing. Sinead had never left response. Was that because she enjoyed it so much? Or because the hours fitted around Blane and childcare? Perhaps there was another reason?
She reached the stairs and spotted the familiar gait of Dick Osborne, the training sergeant and Blane’s boss. She quickened her step to catch him up.
‘How are you doing, Dick?’ she asked when she reached him.
‘A lot better than Blane this morning.’ A broad Glaswegian drawl coated his words. ‘I hear you’re heading the inquiry.’
Helen nodded.
‘Dreadful affair. Poor Sinead. Only met her a few times, but she was a great lass.’
Helen recollected the scant details in her personal file. The commendations, the lack of complaints. ‘That’s what I’m hearing. How is Blane coping?’
‘I’ve just been out to see him. Poor bastard’s in shock. Understandably so. He kept asking if there was any news.’ He raised an enquiring brow.
‘It’s early days,’ Helen said. ‘You know what’s it like, Dick. Lots to follow up.’
He’d done a stint in homicide before Helen joined, he knew the score.
‘How long’s Blane been with you in training?’ Helen asked, motioning for him to walk with her.
‘Must be… almost six months now. Came to us from the management of serious offenders unit.’
‘I understand the family have been through a difficult time recently.’
‘Yeah. Ageing parents, bless them. It’s coming to us all. Can’t fault him at work though, he hasn’t taken a single sick day. Even took on some of the admin when we lost our support worker. Bloody good job he does too, he’s a whizz on a computer. Used to be a digital media investigator. The guys tease him for being a perfectionist, but that’s no bad thing in training, not in my book.’
‘The family problems must have put a strain on their relationship,’ Helen said, moving the conversation back on track.
‘I wouldn’t know. I heard them on the phone occasionally. Seemed okay.’
‘Is he well enough to receive visitors? I’d like to update him myself later, if you think he’s up to it?’
They were at the top of the stairs now. Dick reached out, touched her arm. ‘I think he’d really appreciate that.’
***
Helen re-entered the incident room and immediately spotted four extra faces. Jenkins’s concession to her request for more staff was to borrow a handful of civilians from the control room. They’d arrived during her absence and it was a relief to see they were already stuck in, headsets on, scribbling notes. Hardly throwing resources but, with the recent cuts, she was grateful for whatever she could get. She made a mental note to welcome them personally later.
Other officers tapped at keys or had their heads buried in paperwork, beavering away, undeterred by the odd empty chair scattered around the room. As soon as the photos of the kids were released to the press, she’d had to make some changes. Her team were called in last night having already completed a day shift. Many of them had worked over twenty-four hours with only a short break. No one could sustain that level of energy. Mistakes would be made and that was the last thing they needed, especially with the investigation under the media microscope. So, with a heavy heart, she’d sent some of them home for a few hours to get some rest. For the next few days her staff would work shifts around the clock.
She found herself beside the coffee machine and was about to help herself to a drink when the door pushed open. A whoosh of air flew into the room as Pemberton entered. He looked distracted.
‘Something happened?’ Helen asked.
‘We’ve just taken a call from a woman in Weston who claims they found a handbag dumped in her mother’s wheelie bin. When they opened it to see who it belonged to, they found severed fingers inside.’
CHAPTER 15
Crabtree Rise was a pretty row of terraced cottages accessed via a paved pathway off Weston High Street.
‘These little places were built in the early 1900s to house workers from Denton’s, the nearby clothing factory,’ Pemberton said as they turned off the main drag. ‘Factory’s long gone, of course, but they’re a throwback to the old days.’
‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ Helen said. For a man who’d only spent his married life in the county, Pemberton was astonishingly knowledgeable about it. Though she couldn’t deny the cottages were very quaint with their white-washed frontage and latticed windows. Most incongruous with the apartment buildings and houses that had shot up around them during the 1970s, when the council extended the suburb to take on London overspill.
Lilian Cooper’s cottage was three doors up from the main road and overlooked a small pocket park opposite. Variegated ivy snaked around its windows.
The front door was answered by a woman who looked to be in her early sixties with short dark hair, streaked with grey, and a fair complexion. A paisley scarf was draped over a white T-shirt, which hung loose over a pair of navy trousers.
‘Trudy Cooper?’ Helen checked, guessing this was the daughter that contacted them and not the owner of the cottage, who’d she been told was in her nineties. When the woman nodded, Helen lifted her badge and introduced them both.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Trudy said. ‘It’s given us quite a shock. Go on through.’ She directed them into a sitting room that ran the length of the property. It was surprisingly bright and airy, the wonky walls were painted a soft cream and, with the exposed ceiling beams and a sofa arranged in front of a wood burner at one end, and a small round table and chairs at the other, it had a cosy feel to it. An elderly woman was resting back on a reclining chair beside the window.
‘Lilian Cooper?’ Helen said and introduced them again.
The woman’s face crumpled. She looked at her daughter.
‘You’ll have to speak up,’ Trudy said. ‘I’m afraid Mum’s partially deaf.’
She looked at her mother and gave a sharp nod. The woman appeared to fiddle with the top of her ear.
‘Can you hear us better now?’ Trudy asked.
She nodded.
‘She hates turning up her hearing aid,’ Trudy said. ‘It picks up loads of background noise. Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’
Helen declined the drinks and introduced herself to the old woman again. ‘I understand you’ve found a han
dbag,’ she said to them both.
‘Yes,’ Trudy said. ‘I found it this morning. It’s in the kitchen.’ She beckoned them to follow her into a tidy box kitchen that overlooked a yard at the rear. The three of them shuffled in together, instantly filling the area. ‘I haven’t said much to Mum,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I don’t want her upset.’ She pointed to a black handbag with gold looped handles on the surface beside the kettle. ‘I thought someone had been mugged at first and the handbag discarded afterwards. Until I opened it up.’
Helen retrieved a pair of rubber gloves from her pocket, snapped them over her hands and turned the handbag so the opening faced away from Trudy, who’d stayed at the door, keeping her distance. Although the woman knew what was inside, there was no need to traumatise her further by showing her again.
She nudged it open. A packet of tissues sat next to a lipstick and a hairbrush with a few strands of dark hair woven into the bristles. She gently pushed them aside to reveal a blue fingernail, attached to a greying finger stub. Helen felt her stomach turn. Three further finger stubs were at the bottom of the bag, scabby blood and bone matter protruding from their ends, amongst a handful of discarded parking tickets and receipts. She pulled out a black leather purse.
Loose change jangled about. Inside was a safety pin mixed with various coins. In the side pocket, there was a photo of two young children, sitting on a double swing, their heads tipped back in joyous laughter. She opened the purse out and immediately faced an array of store and loyalty cards. At the top was a credit card. Helen slid it out and ran a finger over the embossed letters: Mrs Sinead O’Donnell.
Pemberton had his notebook out now and was scratching down the details. ‘Have you removed anything?’ he asked Trudy.
‘No. Not at all. I looked inside to check who it belonged to. I was thinking of contacting the owner. And that’s when I saw—’ She paused. ‘I didn’t even get as far as the purse. What does it mean?’
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Helen said. The severing of Sinead’s fingers hadn’t been released publicly and if the woman was telling the truth, she wouldn’t be aware of who it belonged to. ‘You did the right thing to call us.’ She pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket and carefully dropped the handbag containing all the items inside.
‘What time did you find it?’ Pemberton asked.
‘Um, I’d just got back from the hospital this morning. It must have been around half ten.’ She turned to Helen. ‘Mum went in to have her cataracts removed on Wednesday. There were some complications and they had to keep her in overnight. The council empty the general waste wheelie bins on a Wednesday. We’re required to take them down to the main road, so I put it out before we left yesterday. I didn’t bring it in until we arrived back this morning. And the alley at the back was in such a mess – empty crisp packets, chip wrappers – I had a bit of a tidy-up for Mum as I brought it in and that’s when I noticed the bag lying in the bottom of the bin.’
Helen looked out of the kitchen window. A blue Audi filled the small back yard. ‘Where’s the bin stored?’ she asked.
Trudy motioned for them to follow her out and down the side of the car. The wheelie bin was stationed in the corner beside the back alley. There was no fence, no garden to mark the yard boundary.
‘This is the back entrance to all the houses,’ Pemberton checked.
‘Yes. We generally use this entrance instead of the front. I can get the car up here and bring Mum to the door. She can’t walk far these days.’
‘She does well to still be at home in her nineties.’
‘I know.’ Trudy rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve been trying to get her to move in with us for about the last ten years. She won’t have any it.’ She looked back at the rear of the cottage. ‘She’s lived here for over forty years. Can’t blame her really.’
‘Where was the wheelie bin when you found it this morning?’ Helen asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Where do you put it out for collection?’
‘Oh, down the bottom.’ She walked them past the back entrances of the other cottages and onto the main road. A car whizzed past, and then another. A waitress milled about, serving customers sitting outside a café opposite; a suited man exited the newsagents beside it. It was incredible how quiet the cottage was, tucked away in its side passage, away from the hustle and bustle.
Trudy stood next to a pitted stone wall that marked the barrier between the footpath and the last dwelling of Crabtree Rise. ‘We line the wheelie bins up against this wall. They’re generally emptied early afternoon and I call around and bring Mum’s back up first thing the next morning. As I say, I was a bit later this time.’
Helen could hear Pemberton in the background, explaining they’d have to cordon off the area and remove the bin for forensic examination. Her gaze rested on a cash machine, sandwiched between a launderette and a French delicatessen, fifty yards up the road. The ATM where Sinead’s card had been used. Weston was the closest residential area to Keys Trading Estate. She estimated it taking around fifteen minutes to walk here from Billings. She pulled out her phone, took photos of the street and the area where the bin had been. If their suspect was walking in this direction, there were a plethora of side roads nearby for someone to slip into. She made a mental note to get her team to concentrate on camera footage from the shops and cafés along this route to see if they could get a clearer image.
‘I need to ask you and your mum to keep this discovery to yourself,’ Helen said, re-joining the conversation.
‘Of course.’ The woman paled. ‘You don’t think Mum’s in any danger, do you?’
‘I’ve no reason to think that,’ Helen said gently. ‘More than likely this was a random drop.’
Helen was torn. She wanted to get back to the station, book in the bag for urgent examination, but the woman was clearly in shock.
‘Why don’t we have that cup of tea now?’ she said.
***
Twenty minutes later, with an officer in place, guarding the bin and scene until the CSIs arrived, they climbed back into their car. After a cup of tea, some reassurances and light conversation, Trudy Cooper was visibly calmer. Helen was confident the woman would stay with her mother until the bin had been examined and pretty sure she would keep the incident to herself.
She stared out of the window while Pemberton took a phone call. The discovery of the handbag was unsettling, not least because Sinead’s credit card was still in there, as well as the card used at the ATM. Which meant the killer had the bag on his person when he withdrew the cash, then carefully replaced the card in the purse and the purse in the bag. It seemed odd behaviour, to carry the bag around with them, especially one that looked fairly unique with the gold handles. They wanted to ensure the bag was correctly identified and connected to Sinead.
They wanted it to be found.
‘Get the team to look out for anyone carrying a handbag of this description, man or woman, within an hour either side of 6.33 p.m., when the money was withdrawn,’ she said to Pemberton when he ended his call.
He nodded. ‘That was the station,’ he said, dropping his phone into his pocket and retrieving the car keys.
‘Any news on the cameras at Cross Keys roundabout?’
‘Looks like it’s a no-go. The CCTV’s been pointed away from the estate since the factories emptied. I guess they think the other routes are more pressing.’
‘What about security firms visiting the empty units? They must have some kind of occupiers’ liability.’
‘When Spencer contacted the developers, they said the security contract lapsed. They’re struggling for cash.’
Helen sighed.
‘The CSIs are still at the factory,’ Pemberton continued. ‘No sign of the murder weapon yet.’
‘What about the keyholders?’
‘There are only two. Neither had any connection to Sinead, both were at home with their families. Now it’s a case of working our way through previous occupiers and their staff.’
‘Have our guys finished speaking with Sinead’s colleagues?’
‘They’re still interviewing, everyone is pretty shaken. Sinead was the longest-serving officer on their team.’
‘And?’
‘She was popular, capable, funny. Rarely saw them outside work though. Too busy with family.’
‘What about her recent cases?’ Helen asked. ‘Any difficult customers?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Pemberton said. ‘According to her sergeant, Sinead was one of the few coppers popular with the crims. Known for her fair treatment. Apparently, he talked about a pub brawl they attended last Sunday evening. She managed to sort it all out, placate the complainant, without making an arrest.’
‘Could they at least provide her movements this week?’
‘Her last shift finished on Monday evening. Nobody’s seen or heard from her since.’
Helen rolled her eyes.
‘There was one officer missing, on annual leave. A PC Mia Kestrel. They’re crewed up a lot.’
‘Great, where is she now?’
‘A city in northern Iceland. I couldn’t make out the name, they’re going to send over the details. We’ve tried her mobile, the signal’s iffy. She’s on holiday with her mother, flies back in the morning.’
CHAPTER 16
Blane O’Donnell peered around the edge of his front room curtain at the members of the press, assembled at the bottom of the driveway. The first hacks were there at 7 a.m., even before he’d spoken to his children. Then, as the day progressed, he’d watched their numbers multiply.
He’d never done homicide, but he’d worked more than his fair share of cases over the years and delivered numerous death messages, witnessing first-hand families swamped in grief. It was the rough end of the job. Some cases stayed with him, tragic cases like the toddler who accidentally swallowed a balloon and choked to death. Others he managed to push away into the dark corners of his mind. Empathise and support, remain detached. That’s what his police training required. A difficult balance to strike.