by Isaac, Jane;
‘You look beat,’ Helen said eventually.
As if her cue, her mother yawned. ‘Yes. I won’t be late to bed tonight. There was a crash on the M6 coming back, took us an hour to navigate around it.’
‘Ouch! Never mind, Matthew will be driving next year. He’ll be able to share.’
‘Lord, don’t remind me.’ She chuckled. The plates chinked together as she started to gather them up.
‘Leave those, Mum. I’ll sort them out. Won’t take a minute.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ She stood with a slight wobble and giggled. ‘I think the wine has gone to my head.’
Helen laughed and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You off early in the morning?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Okay, don’t disturb us, will you? I’m looking forward to a lie-in.’
Helen watched her mother totter off through the door at the side of the kitchen, up to her flat, and continued clearing the table.
It was nearly 9.30 p.m. when she finished loading the dishwasher. She reached into her bag for her laptop, opened it up and waited for the screen to light, her mind switching back to the case.
They’d identified a target. The public appeal had gone out to the newspapers, the online sites, and his name would be mentioned on the radio as a person of interest. If Gordon was their offender, then he’d been in Hampton within the last few days. Somebody must have seen him.
As she started writing her daily report, she was reminded of Jenkins’s absence earlier. He rarely read her updates, although he moaned like hell if they weren’t on his desk first thing in the morning, preferring to be informed of developments personally. When they’d brought Blane in, she’d tried to call him, left several voicemails. In fact, when she thought about it, he seemed to have disappeared after their chat about Yvette Edwards that morning.
It was hard to believe, with the rumour mill as it was in the police, he wouldn’t have heard about Blane, and he certainly didn’t know about the DNA results and their pursuance of Gordon Turner. His absence left her with a sense of foreboding. He’d been more intense than usual on this case. The stakes were high, the pressure coming from all directions: the press, the family, senior officers, not to mention the public and, of course, colleagues in the police. Surely, he wasn’t looking to sideline her. He’d tried it before, bringing in a senior officer ‘to assist’ when the results didn’t come fast enough for his liking on her first case last year. Thankfully, they’d wrapped it up before additional help was needed, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again. His lack of faith in her was irritating.
She tapped away at her report, reflecting back on the change of direction. Gordon Turner was a man that liked to watch his victims suffer; the syringe connected him to the factory. Blane commented on Gordon’s interest in Sinead, an interest that appeared to have developed into a fixation. But she couldn’t understand why, after such careful planning, he’d be shoddy enough to leave Sinead there, and why he didn’t remove the syringe. Had he planned to come back later and clean up? It seemed a risk.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, she’d had to contend with Blane’s own efforts at investigating his wife’s death. They’d had to drive him to a station in neighbouring Leicester to be interviewed, to ensure the custody staff didn’t know him, and when they’d read out his bail conditions earlier, reiterating he wasn’t to go within two hundred yards of Connor’s and Rhys’s addresses he’d leant across, touched her forearm and asked her to apologise to the boys and their families. ‘I never intended to frighten them,’ he’d said, his face full of remorse.
What was left of the afternoon was spent in damage limitation, desperately trying to placate the boys’ mothers and assure them of their safety. Rhys’s mother was stern but accepting. Connor’s mother had taken a lot more persuading.
Helen typed the last words, clicked send and massaged her lower back.
Tomorrow, she not only had to track down a killer, she also had to investigate how Blane obtained the boys’ personal details and face the prospect of a leak in her team, the very idea of which left a sour taste in her mouth.
***
Blane O’Donnell watched the patrol car pull out of his driveway, closed the door and leant up against the cold plastic. The last twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind, an aberration. How had it come to this?
The house was quiet and still; his family tucked up in their beds, sleeping.
All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to protect his family. Raise his children in a loving and supportive home. A modest dream, now shattered.
A few days ago, they were a family of four, working through their problems with their elderly relatives, pulling together, a bright future in front of them. Today, he’d been suspended from his job and charged with common assault and harassment. He’d become obsessed, allowing his need for information surrounding Sinead to take over. Now, he’d not only lost his wife, but his livelihood was also threatened. And it was all his fault.
Bedsprings creaked above. He pulled himself forward, the bruises on his calf screaming in protest as he shuffled into the kitchen. Tears sprang from his eyes. Wretched, thick tears. He rested his elbows on the table, dropping his head to his hands. Time passed slowly. Eventually, as his tears eased, he lifted his head and caught sight of the silver necklace, still sitting on the edge of the window ledge. He hadn’t mentioned the necklace to the police. He needed to deal with it. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER 45
Helen traipsed up the back stairs of the station the following morning. All night, the possibility of a mole in her camp had played on her mind. Everyone was aware of the umbrella of confidentiality in this case, it was baffling to think someone would jeopardise their position on the team by sharing details with the victim’s husband, even if he was a fellow cop. On the other hand, she couldn’t see how Blane had managed to access such sensitive information without help.
In the incident room, she was surprised to find Pemberton hunched over his computer, Dark sat beside him, Spencer on the next desk, all tapping away. It wasn’t yet 7 a.m.
‘Morning, ma’am.’ Pemberton shut down his laptop as she approached. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.
Helen declined. ‘Has anyone seen the super?’
Heads shook. She moved into her office, dropped her bag behind her desk and looked out warily at her team, then closed the blind, shutting off her view into the incident room. Was this how it was going to be now, looking at every member of her staff, questioning their loyalty? It couldn’t be Pemberton, he’d saved her life on the last case, gone out on a limb. No, she was pretty sure she could trust him. And Dark and Spencer were her best investigators. But the others? What would they have to gain? She placed her head in her hands. These were people she worked closely with, day in, day out. She spent more time with them than her family.
The sour taste in her mouth spread across her tongue. Jenkins’s continued absence irritated her. She was thinking about heading up to his office when a single knock at the door was followed by Spencer entering. He looked excited.
‘What is it, Steve?’
‘One of the incident response officers from core shift three has just phoned. Reckons he knows our ATM guy.’
‘And he’s only just realised?’
‘His shift only returned from their rest days this morning. He took his wife away to Bruges for their anniversary, hadn’t seen the news coverage. Apparently, he picked up a Sean Marshall on Wednesday morning for trying to pinch batteries from the Co-op. To coin the officer’s description, Marshall was as “high as a kite”. He had to let him sleep it off in the cell before the doctor cleared him for questioning. He remembers it specifically because he only managed to charge him before his shift finished at 6 p.m. and he wanted to leave on time because he had an early flight the next morning.’
‘So, the offender was banged up all day?’
‘Yup.’
She sat back in her chair. If he was in police cu
stody, he couldn’t be their killer. ‘Are you sure he’s got the right guy?’
‘He reckons so. Says he’s always hanging around in that same Adidas hoody. He’s bringing him in now.’
***
Helen stared into sable eyes of Sean Marshall. The response officer wasn’t wrong about the clothing. He wore a black Adidas top today with the same white lines running down the sleeves and, from the pungent smell in the room, she suspected it was the same one he’d worn at the ATM on Wednesday, when he’d withdrawn money using Sinead’s card. They’d arrested him for using a stolen bank card and spent another half an hour at the station, waiting for the duty solicitor to arrive. By the time they were ready, she’d lost all patience and decided she was interviewing herself. It felt disloyal to her team, but if there was a mole out there somewhere, feeding information back, then she’d make sure she was at the heart of the investigation from now on.
She ignored his solicitor when she marched into the room and worked through the formalities quickly. Marshall hadn’t come forward, despite the public appeals, and he’d been identified with Sinead’s bank card. When she asked him about his movements on Wednesday evening, after he left the police station, he shrugged and said he couldn’t remember. And the way he slouched with his head to one side, arm over the back of his chair, did nothing to curb her annoyance.
Helen opened a buff file and laid out the still of Marshall at the ATM. The date and time were clearly marked at the bottom.
Marshall looked at his solicitor and shrugged again.
‘Do you know where this was taken?’ Helen asked.
He made great play of examining the photo. ‘Looks like I’m withdrawing money. I guess it would be a cashpoint.’
‘Which one?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘It’s the cashpoint on Weston High Street,’ Helen said.
‘So, I live around the corner. That don’t mean a thing.’
‘Whose account were you withdrawing money from?’ she asked.
‘No idea.’
‘What do you mean, no idea?’
‘Well, a fella stopped me like, and asked if I could get him two hundred and fifty quid out with the card.’
‘Why do you think he asked you, instead of doing it himself?’
‘I dunno. Suppose he didn’t want to be on your camera.’ He widened his eyes.
His attitude was starting to rankle. ‘This is serious, Mr Marshall. Do you know who this card belonged to?’
He shook his head.
‘You don’t remember the name on the card?’
‘No.’
‘This card was owned by Sinead O’Donnell. She was brutally murdered on Wednesday.’
‘The dead cop.’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘I don’t know nothing ’bout that. Look, I was helping out a mate. He offered to pay me twenty quid.’
Pemberton looked up from his notes beside him. ‘And the rest.’
‘What your mate’s name?’ Helen said.
‘Don’t know. Haven’t seen him before.’
‘I thought you said he was a mate.’
‘We’re all mates on the street. Help each other out. Not that you guys’d know.’
Helen clenched her teeth. The constable that brought him in said Marshall was registered at an address in Weston, but could often be found sleeping off a trip under the railway bridge in town. ‘What did he look like?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘The guy who asked you to withdraw the cash.’
‘I dunno. Errm. Tall, stocky.’
‘Is that it?’
‘He had a hood pulled right down over his face, I remember now.’
‘Oh, come on, Sean. You must have seen more than that. What was he wearing?’
‘I dunno. I’d not long since shot up. Wasn’t paying attention.’
‘So, you make a habit of withdrawing cash from strangers using stolen cards, do you?’
‘I didn’t know it was stolen.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t look at the name on the card?’
‘No, I didn’t. Like I said, I was helping out a mate.’
Helen retrieved a photo of Gordon Turner from the file. ‘Is this the man who approached you?’
Marshall stared at the photo for several seconds, then met her gaze. ‘No idea.’
Helen cussed inwardly. The ATM linked Marshall with Sinead’s card, but he was nowhere near the scene of the murder in the daytime because he was in a police cell. He couldn’t have a better alibi. She was about to call for a break, rethink, when he tapped the edge of the photo with a grubby finger. ‘I do know where this guy’s been staying though.’
Helen stilled. ‘You know him?’
‘I wouldn’t say I know him. He’s hooked onto the hard stuff.’
‘Not like you?’ Pemberton said.
‘Nah. I’m a social user.’
‘So, where does he live?’ She pushed the photo further towards him.
Marshall sat back in his chair and eyed her a moment. ‘What am I getting out of this?’
‘A cup of tea and a lift home, if you’re lucky. Now what’s his address?’
CHAPTER 46
Helen spotted the squat as soon as they turned off Birch Road into Groves End, a road of Victorian terraces with front doors that led directly onto the pavement. The Sytex screens covering the windows and doors of their target, number 72a, glistened in the afternoon sunshine.
At the rear of the terrace was a single lane leading to narrow back yards and it was here that Marshall said the squatters were entering the flat and where Helen now stood, surrounded by a tactical support team. White paint flaked off an ill-fitting wooden gate, warped with years of rain.
‘Handy place for a den,’ Pemberton whispered beside her. And he was right. It was within walking distance from the shops, cafés and banks on Weston High Street. It was also near Lilian Cooper’s home, where Sinead’s bag had been dumped, and less than five minutes from the ATM where her card was used.
After deploying two officers to watch the front, she signalled for the others to creep across the paved yard and watched the officer in front check the Sytex around the back door. His colleague stood beside him, the battering ram in his hand, in case they needed to force entry. The sheet wobbled as he touched it. He slid it aside to expose a missing bottom windowpane beside the back door – the squatters’ access point – and called out, announcing their arrival, followed by, ‘Anyone home?’
When there was no answer on his second call, he turned. Helen gave him the nod and he climbed through the gap. Colleagues crawled in behind him.
Within seconds, they were teeming out again.
‘Well?’ Helen asked. She was in the yard now, her coverall itching against her skin. ‘Is he not there?’
‘Oh, he’s there all right. Well, what’s left of him.’
***
A thick smell of singed cloth and must filled the air as Helen climbed into the squat. She entered a small galley-style kitchen with a scuffed floor and cheap laminated cupboards. Empty milk cartons and egg boxes were discarded across surfaces marked with coffee stains that had yellowed with age. A lone kettle stood on the side, beside a sink full of dirty mugs and plates. Flies buzzed around an overflowing black bin liner in the corner.
The hallway was a small passage. A grubby toilet, seat up, was visible through an open door to the right, the main living area to the left. The end was blocked off. Access from the front door, it seemed, led to the flat upstairs.
Helen wandered into the sitting room, an open space that ran the length of the house. She pulled out her torch and illuminated the area in a tunnel of light. A blackened piece of foil crunched under her feet on the bare concrete flooring.
There were no sofas or settees, no table and chairs. Instead, three single mattresses were laid on the floor, one against each wall. Used needles littered the floor. In the middle, the concrete was singed and blackened where it looked like someone had lit a fire. More
empty milk cartons, egg boxes and chocolate bar wrappers piled in the corner.
Spoons, pieces of foil and candles were strewn about the floor.
Every time Helen entered a drugs den it saddened her. Heroin was such a cruel drug. So much so that the body craved it at the expense of every other routine habit and the addict’s whole being, whole focus, concentrated on how to get their next fix. They existed on cheap food, like milk and eggs, and sold anything and everything to fund their habit. It was a pitiful existence.
At the end of the room, beneath the window, a body lay on a dirty mattress. His bare torso was partially covered by a grubby orange blanket. His right arm was exposed, a needle still injected into the vein. With his eyes closed, head turned to the side, Gordon Turner could have been mistaken for being heavily under the influence, or sleeping, if it wasn’t for the grey tinge to his skin, the bluish lips.
Helen instinctively bent down and checked the pulse on his neck. His skin was stone cold through her rubber gloves.
‘I doubt we’ll be seeing any of his housemates anytime soon,’ Pemberton said, eyeing the empty mattresses.
Helen glanced at an upturned blue bottle on the window ledge. Coincidences rarely happened in law enforcement, especially on a homicide case, yet over the past few days they’d lost Sinead’s neighbour, a possible witness, to suicide and now they were looking at the corpse of their prime suspect.
‘It seems a bit convenient, don’t you think?’ Helen said to Pemberton.
‘Has all the markings of an overdose.’ Pemberton crouched down, ran his torch over the dead man’s arm. ‘No obvious defensive bruising. Doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle.’ He pulled back the blanket. ‘Well, what do you know,’ he said, fishing something out of Turner’s pocket. ‘We’ve got a phone, at least.’