by Isaac, Jane;
‘Bag it up,’ Helen said. ‘We’ll take it back with us, get it examined.’
CHAPTER 47
Helen combed her hair back from her face with her fingers. Pemberton and she were in her office, scrolling through endless names and times on the internal audit sheet, which listed all those who’d accessed the homicide systems, looking for something unusual. She should delegate this task, there wasn’t time to look now. But the burning desire to crush the question hanging over a potential leak in her team was all-encompassing. Teamwork existed on trust and the very idea that one of her people had betrayed that trust was like a fishbone lodged in the back of her throat. So, with her team co-ordinating the search of Gordon Turner’s home and the station techies retrieving the details off his phone, she’d spent the past hour wading through names.
She was about to suggest coffee when Pemberton looked up. ‘Who’s Stephen Rotherham?’ he said, his face grim.
Helen paused. ‘Well, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a PC Rotherham on the core training team. Why?’
‘I think we have our culprit.’
‘What?’
‘Stephen Rotherham. Accessed our systems at 2.20 p.m. on Friday.’ He pushed out a long sigh. ‘We’ll need to get it checked, of course, but it’s a breach. Especially since Blane worked in training and was in the office on Friday afternoon.’
Helen slumped in her chair. Everyone who accessed the homicide network had their own unique entry codes. ‘How the hell did Rotherham manage to get access to our system?’
‘I’m not sure. We need to refer this to Professional Standards for investigation.’
She rubbed her forehead, the idea of coffee no longer palatable. ‘Blane called into the office on Friday. Can you remember what time it was?’
‘Early afternoon.’
‘So, the timing could fit.’
‘These aren’t his login details. Perhaps he used Stephen’s,’ Pemberton suggested. ‘We’d have to assume Stephen was in on it, everybody is supposed to log out of the computer when they leave their desk.’
Helen closed her eyes. When she’d worked in CID, a fellow detective, Louise Fleming, had been accused of looking up a new boyfriend on the PNC. She’d been dismissed and the day the allegation broke she was accompanied out of the office and suspended until a full investigation into her actions had been completed. Helen never saw her again, but she’d never forget Louise’s flaming cheeks, her shameful face. The idea of putting a fellow colleague through that, especially when she didn’t know whether or not they were guilty, sent a chill down her spine. But they couldn’t afford to ignore it either. If Rotherham was their leak, he could be feeding back information right now.
‘At least it doesn’t look like it’s someone on our team,’ Pemberton said.
Helen nodded, her relief coloured by the grim reality of what the situation presented.
She gave a sigh, reached over and grabbed the phone. Shopping a colleague, whatever the intention, was never pleasant.
***
While Helen reported the security breach, Pemberton chased up Gordon Turner’s phone with the station techies and he’d now returned with a bunch of photos, which he laid out across his desk.
‘These were all taken at various times over the past four months,’ he said.
‘That was quick,’ Helen said. ‘The phone wasn’t locked or coded?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Odd. You’d think he’d want to protect these from prying eyes, especially when he was high.’
‘He lived in a squat with nowhere to hide. Anything precious, he’d keep with him.’
Helen ran her gaze over the photos. Sinead at the supermarket, with Ava sitting in the trolley; her standing outside the school gates, coat buttoned up to her chin, waiting for her children; at the park, pushing Thomas on the swing; climbing out of a police car in uniform. There were a mixture of distance shots and close-ups, although some of the closeups held the blur of a hurried zoom lens. In every one Sinead was occupied elsewhere or looking away. She clearly had no idea she was being photographed.
‘It looks like he’s been watching her for a while,’ Helen said. ‘Do we have the exact dates each of these were taken?’
‘Not at the moment, I asked them to print them out urgently. It wouldn’t be difficult to check back on the phone and find out the specifics. And that’s not all.’ Pemberton grabbed his laptop and indicated for her to follow him into her office, where he inserted a memory stick and clicked a key. The screen turned black.
Within seconds, the screen crackled and cleared. The lens was focused on something green and rough. As it panned out, she could see it was corded carpet. It caught the arm of a chair, the edge of a desk, blurring slightly as it moved around.
It was the offices in Billings factory.
The lens halted on a woman leaning her back against a radiator.
A cloth was tied around her mouth, her hair hung limp, the curls jiggling on her shoulders as she shook her head, short sharp jerks.
‘Oh my God!’ Helen’s throat constricted as the camera zoomed in on Sinead’s terrified face. ‘He filmed her?’ The muted sound only added to the sinister backdrop.
‘The whole bloody thing.’ Pemberton gave a sombre nod.
Helen had seen many gruesome sights during her career in the police, but this was probably the most harrowing. She flinched as a gloved hand burnt the insides of Sinead’s arms, one after another. Flinched again as Sinead jumped. Moments later, the camera focused in on her severed fingers across the floor. It was brutal. When the footage ended, she felt both nauseous and angry in equal measures.
Pemberton closed the laptop to a heavy silence.
‘Any evidence he made contact with her before the attack?’ Helen asked eventually, trying to supress the anger burning within her. It was barbaric to think someone could do this.
‘That’s the strange part,’ Pemberton replied. ‘There are no contacts on his phone, no evidence of calls made, or texts to anyone. No downloaded apps or links to social media.’
‘Are you saying he kept this phone as a camera?’
‘It looks that way. There’s a couple of early shots on there, of his old flat. The High Street. Nothing much. It’s mostly Sinead.’
‘This isn’t the number the landlord gave us, is it?’
‘No. We’ve already got billing on that number. He hasn’t used it in a month or so. Maybe he threw it away, his brother did say he’d grown paranoid and thought someone was after him.’
‘If these photos were taken over the past four months, his call records for the old phone showed he was using that to make calls over the same period. I don’t understand. Why keep a separate phone for photos and film?’
‘Maybe the camera wasn’t working on the other one. Or maybe he wanted to keep them separate.’
‘Hmm. What about Sinead’s phone?’
‘No sign of it at his address.’
When Helen spoke, her tone was low, almost as if she was speaking to herself. ‘If he fixated on Sinead, stalked her and killed her, as this evidence might suggest, why would he record this on a phone, and keep that phone on his person?’
‘As a keepsake maybe? It’s well known some killers keep trophies. And we know he filmed his other victim while she suffered.’
CHAPTER 48
Helen sat at her desk and looked out into the incident room, her gaze falling on the photo of Sinead before she died. The vital young woman, the capable cop.
It seemed unbelievable she’d be taken in by a man of Gordon Turner’s calibre, a heroin addict, no matter what stories he constructed or how manipulative he was. Even if he had cleaned up, surely she’d be suspicious? Which meant if he did pick her up in the country lane, he’d probably hit her over the head and dazed her. But there was no blood at the scene, no sign of an altercation.
She clicked her pen on and off, on and off.
They still had to establish how Gordon Turner died, and why. But there was
something else bothering her.
She pulled a blank sheet of A4 from the side of her desk and wrote down six words: who, what, how, when, where, why – the key questions for a senior investigating officer to answer in order to solve a homicide case. Usually, these were the questions asked at the beginning of a case and when these components were unravelled, the motive came to light. And it was the motive for Sinead’s murder she couldn’t decode.
Sinead ultimately died from a severed carotid artery at Billings factory on Wednesday afternoon; the pathologist confirmed she died on site. Her handbag was found dumped close to Turner’s flat. On his phone was a file of photos and footage of Sinead, clearly taken over a prolonged period, some as long as four months ago. Blane had been his case officer and intimated that Turner had shown an interest in Sinead. An interest he’d shrugged off as manipulation by an ex-offender.
They were aware Turner stalked his victims before he struck.
The bag with Sinead’s finger stubs was dumped close to his squat. The ATM used to withdraw cash on her card was nearby too and the close proximity bothered Helen. If he had taken the trouble to kill Sinead, play out his fantasy, surely he’d be more likely to dump her possessions on the other side of town, away from where he was staying. And who was the man who ordered Sean Marshall to withdraw money from Sinead’s card at the ATM?
What really bothered her was the change in MO. Turner’s previous attacks were sexually motivated. He wound cling film around the face of his last victim and filmed her suffocating. He’d tried the same with the sex worker. He’d filmed the attack on Sinead and this time he was recording gratuitous violence. There was no plastic wrap at the scene, no evidence of sexual assault.
***
Pemberton walked up Nigel Turner’s drive towards his car. Delivering news of a death was never easy and this one was particularly tricky.
Until they knew more, they’d treat Gordon Turner’s death as ‘unexplained’. There was nothing to suggest it was suspicious, but nothing to suggest it was intentional either. On face value, it appeared to be an overdose and in view of Gordon’s recent medical history and his addiction to heroin, it was possible he’d administered it himself, either purposely or by accident. In view of the other circumstances surrounding the case and Sinead’s murder, they couldn’t be sure. He’d ordered Spencer to stay with the body until the pathologist had done his initial assessment and it was removed to the mortuary, and then arranged for an officer to guard the premises until the CSIs finished their sweep. Uniform had started house-to-house nearby. They now had to dig further into Gordon Turner’s background, to establish exactly what had happened.
He was climbing into his car when his mobile rang. The caller ID was unknown.
‘Acting DI Pemberton.’
‘Hi. My name’s Angela Ingram. You left some messages for me.’
Pemberton thought hard. It was the ex-girlfriend of Blane O’Donnell who hadn’t responded to his messages. With the recent discovery, it didn’t seem quite so important now. ‘Thanks for coming back to me,’ he said. ‘I understand you were in a relationship with Blane O’Donnell. I’m working through details for a case and wanted to check some dates with you.’
‘Okay. I don’t want to talk on the phone. Are you free to meet?’
The woman’s chipped tone threw Pemberton. She sounded hurried. ‘I can be. I thought you lived in France?’
‘I do. I’m in Hampton at the moment. I arrived this morning. Can you meet me?’
‘You’re welcome to come to the station,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I could find us a room.’
‘I can’t do that. Do you know Hayes, the coffee house on High Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you outside there in half an hour. I’ll be wearing a denim jacket and sunglasses. Please come on your own. If I see anyone else, I’ll leave.’
She called off, leaving Pemberton staring at the phone, nonplussed. He’d left three messages over the past few days, which she’d seemingly ignored. Now she was in Hampton, she wanted to meet urgently. And why alone?
He inserted his key and turned over the engine. It wouldn’t be much of a detour to stop off at Hayes on the way back to the station.
CHAPTER 49
Jenkins was winding up a telephone call when Helen entered his office. He waved her in and gestured for her to sit as he placed the receiver in its cradle.
The way his jacket was tossed to the side of the desk was incongruous with the fastidiously neat piles of paperwork.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
Helen eyed him warily. ‘I’m fine. Did you get my email?’
‘Yes.’ He squared his hands on the desk. ‘That’s bad news about Blane. Won’t do the force PR any good at all. How are the young boys holding up?’
He’d not only received her report, he’d read it. Yet he hadn’t returned any of her calls. ‘They’re doing all right. I’ve spoken to the parents, explained the bail conditions.’
‘Good. I’ve talked to Professional Standards. They’ve suspended PC Rotherham pending an investigation.’ He looked down at his hands a split second and when he raised his gaze, his face was grave. ‘Helen, are you sure there are no other leaks within the team? Only, after the initial problems, the chief constable is jumpy.’
Helen took a breath. The people on her team were like family, it was bad enough that she’d questioned their integrity in the past twenty-four hours. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Good. Well, we’ll see how the investigation pans out. The IOPC have been in touch too. They have your statement and will be looking at the evidence this week to decide whether or not an inquiry is warranted.’
Helen thanked him. ‘We found Gordon Turner’s body this afternoon. On the face of it, it looks like an overdose, but I do have concerns. I tried to call—’
He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, I’ve been detained. Why don’t you fill me in first?’
The lack of explanation for his absence made her uneasy. What was going on? She gave him an update of the investigation since yesterday lunchtime. He listened carefully to the details about Gordon Turner.
‘I’ve written up my initial report and emailed a copy to the chief constable,’ Helen said. ‘But—’ She was interrupted by his phone ringing.
‘I’ll just get this.’
She watched him grab the receiver, his eyes darting about as he answered the questions with one-word answers. She couldn’t determine who he was talking to, or what the conversation was about. It seemed to go on forever.
‘Okay, please continue,’ Jenkins said, before he’d had chance to replace the receiver in its cradle. The fact that he didn’t mention who he was talking to was disconcerting.
Helen talked him through the issues with Gordon Turner. ‘It seems odd he would leave evidence on his own doorstep,’ she said. ‘He left a syringe behind in the factory too. Surely, he’d realise we’d trace his DNA.’
‘Perhaps he was high when he left the syringe behind.’
‘And why torture her to such lengths?’ she continued. ‘He clearly has a penchant for cling film, his previous attacks were about a warped sense of control. Sinead was beaten.’
‘He’d twisted the facts in his mind. His prison governor said he had a major dislike of police. When he discovered Sinead was a cop, perhaps he decided to make her pay for his treatment.’
‘I’m not sure, sir. The man who withdrew cash using Sinead’s card didn’t recognise Turner.’
‘By his own admission, he himself was high. He’d be an unreliable witness if he did recognise someone.’ He raised his tone a notch. ‘Come on, Helen, photos and footage were found on Turner’s phone. He burnt Sinead in the same place as his last victim. The syringe puts him at the factory.’
‘I still think there might be more to this. It all seems too… convenient. And Turner was last seen by his case officer talking to one of the Gladstone brothers, who we suspect are rebuilding Chilli Franks’s network.
We know Sinead had money problems. It’s possible he was working with them, collecting debts. Or perhaps they set him up.’
‘It’s possible,’ Jenkins repeated. ‘I take it you don’t have any evidence to back this up?’
Helen sighed inwardly. ‘I’ve contacted Inspector Burns in organised crime. He’s looking into any association between the Gladstones and Turner.’
‘Okay, let’s see what he comes up with. In the meantime, we run with what we have.’
‘But—’
You’re questioning the evidence, Helen,’ he cut in. ‘It’s one of the things that makes you such a good detective. Don’t overthink it.’
His words knocked her off balance, such was the rarity of praise from Jenkins, and she couldn’t help wondering what effected this sudden change in his mood.
‘We’ve plenty of time to establish the answers to these questions, if indeed there are any. In the meantime, we need to allay the fears of the public and the press. And let Blane know we’ve tracked Turner down.’
Helen tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Okay, I’ll go out and speak with Blane.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t. That was the chief on the phone. The press office is organising a conference for the major news channels in less than an hour. You’re to be there as the senior investigating officer in the case. Chief constable’s orders. He wants a united approach.’
‘Someone needs to alert the family before the media. Blane’s police. He’d usually be told by a senior officer.’
‘He should have thought of that before he harassed a couple of kids. You need to delegate this one, Helen. Send Dark. She doesn’t know him personally and she’s a trained liaison officer. She can look after any welfare issues, point him in the direction of counselling and support.’ He didn’t wait for her agreement. ‘Right, while you’re here, there’s something else I’d like you to take a look at.’
He moved his jacket, rootled through a pile of papers on the side of his desk, pulled out a sheet of A4 and handed it over.