Trudi said, ‘If she was dressed for a night out, then I’d say she was meeting either a good friend, or a bloke.’
‘Doesn’t mean it was her killer though,’ Ryan said.
‘Maybe not,’ said Denning, ‘but if she was meeting someone, we need to find them. Let’s speak to local bars and clubs, check their CCTV if necessary. Dave, I’m putting you and Ryan onto that. Get the uniforms to help you. Whatever Leanne Wyatt was doing and whoever she was doing it with, we need that information. I want a clear picture of her movements that night right up until she was last seen alive.’
Dave Kinsella guffawed into his coffee mug, ‘Of course, we could always just cut to the chase and arrest Gregor Kane.’
There was a murmur of laughter from the group. Denning ignored both the comment and its reaction.
He glanced over in the direction of Betty Taggart’s office. He was sure he could feel her watching him from behind the dusty blinds.
Chapter Eleven
Café Alberto could be found in a side street off the Charing Cross end of the Strand. It was quiet at that time of the day, except for a group of foreign students who sat near the entrance, staring at a map of London on a tablet, the remains of a leisurely breakfast scattered across their table. A flurry of commuters hurried by, their faces fixed on the ground beneath them, while trains rumbled noisily in and out of the nearby station.
Molly ordered a latte from the barista who stood smiling and eager behind the polished chrome and glass counter, and headed to one of the pavement tables outside.
She needed a cigarette.
It was early, but the sun was already high in the sky and the day showed all the signs of being another scorcher.
She was removing the cellophane wrapper from a new packet of Silk Cut when a tall, thin woman dressed in black, with magenta hair, and wearing a pair of expensive shades, suddenly appeared in front of her. She looked like a skinny man in drag.
‘Molly…?’ The woman removed her shades and eyed Molly quizzically, like a panther assessing a trapped fawn.
Molly blinked for a moment. ‘Yes.’
The stranger sat down opposite her. ‘Magda Kilbride.’ She thrust a hand in Molly’s direction.
Molly noticed her red-varnished nails and a silver thumb ring as she returned the handshake.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Molly asked.
‘Americano, no milk,’ she barked at the barista who’d just brought out Molly’s latte.
Magda Kilbride wore black Levis, a black silk blouse, and a stylish man’s jacket with a silver Celtic dagger brooch pinned to the left breast. Despite the sun, her face was deathly pale, devoid of make-up except for a splash of crimson lippy slashed across her narrow lips like a cut.
Molly offered her a cigarette, but Magda shook her head. Placing a bulky Prada handbag on the table, she removed a slim, black Samsung recorder from the depths of its interior. She put the recorder on the table and switched it on.
‘I’d rather you didn’t record this,’ Molly said.
‘Don’t worry, DS Fisher, I’m happy to keep this strictly off the record. For now.’ Her accent was polished, but with a hint of long-buried Mancunian.
Molly resisted the obvious temptation to ask how Magda had discovered she was a police officer, especially as she’d purposefully kept that piece of information to herself. She knew from Jon how journalists had the uncanny knack of uncovering truths people preferred to keep hidden.
Molly lit her Silk Cut and tried to keep her hand from shaking. She watched as Magda sat back on her chair, either deliberately trying to make herself look more relaxed or because she wanted to dodge Molly’s cigarette smoke.
Magda fixed Molly with a hard stare.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me.’ Molly took a sip of her milky coffee, placing the cup back on the saucer with a slight clatter.
‘Your email was pretty vague, but I have to admit I was intrigued.’
‘Well, I was intrigued by your article on Anthony Ferguson. I thought it might be useful if we spoke to one another.’
Magda’s thin, rouged lips snaked into a smile. ‘The Bermondsey Ripper. I suspect a man came up with that particular sobriquet. They tend to have unoriginal minds, don’t you think?’ She cocked her head in Molly’s direction. ‘I take it our little tête-à-tête isn’t in any official capacity.’
Molly glanced at the miniature recorder sitting on the table between them, like a spectre at the feast. If she listened carefully she was sure she could hear it whirring. A serving police officer talking to a journalist about a case, even a long-dead one, was a potentially sackable offence. If her governor found out, she’d have to be a contortionist to wriggle her way out of the trouble she’d be in. She reached over and switched off the recorder.
‘No, this isn’t official,’ she said. ‘And I still don’t want our conversation recorded.’ She looked at Magda, willing the journalist to challenge her.
Magda continued to stare at Molly for a few moments. The barista returned with her coffee and placed it on the table. Magda’s gaze remained fixed on Molly. Her eyes were dark and unfriendly, just like Anthony Ferguson’s, and for the briefest of seconds, Molly wondered if they could be related. Eventually Magda spoke. ‘You say this isn’t official. Why, then, are you asking about a case from twelve years ago? I would have thought you had better things to do with your time.’
It was a good question. Molly had tried to think up a credible lie on the way there, but she suspected Magda Kilbride’s bullshitometer was finely tuned.
‘It’s just possible there could have been a miscarriage of justice,’ Molly said, sticking to a half truth and hoping it would pass muster. ‘I’ve come into some information that, if true, would at the very least raise some serious questions about Ferguson’s conviction.’
‘Then tell your bosses.’
‘I can’t go to a senior officer without something concrete, that’s why it has to stay unofficial at this stage.’
Magda’s poker face remained impassive. ‘Why come to me?’
‘Your article implied that there may have been doubts about the case. Doubts that were never made public at the time.’
Magda let out a raucous laugh that lay somewhere between a donkey’s bray and a witch’s cackle. ‘Are you asking me if there could have been a police cock-up over a serious murder inquiry, DS Fisher? That’s quite an allegation.’
Molly wondered if Magda Kilbride was playing her. It was just possible she knew jack shit about Anthony Ferguson’s conviction, and the article had been nothing more than her casting a stone into the ocean to see how far the ripples spread. But there was something about Magda that made Molly want to take her seriously. She was being played, Molly was sure of that, but only in as much as Magda wanted to get more information out of Molly than she was willing to offer up in return. It was a game Magda Kilbride had clearly played before.
‘No. I just want to know if you can tell me anything that might help.’
‘Ken Walters,’ said Magda, ‘the detective who investigated the Ripper murders. He retired shortly after the case went to trial, pensioned off early, or so the rumours went. The official reason is because the case had left him “emotionally scarred”.’ She mimed quotation marks around the last two words.
‘The unofficial reason…?’
Magda traced a manicured finger round the rim of her coffee cup. There was a bright red stain where her brutal lipstick had left its mark on the china. ‘Unofficially, it was rumoured that he had expressed concerns about the way the case was handled. Concerns which were ignored at the time, by both his senior officers and by the prosecution team at Ferguson’s trial. It was all hushed up, naturally. Your lot are proven experts when it comes to burying your own shit in the sand.’
‘What kind of concerns?’
Magda shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘You’d best talk to Walters about that.’
Molly made a mental note of the name: Ken Walters should be
easy enough to trace, even if he was now retired.
‘How did you get to hear about this?’
Again that laugh, perhaps leaning more towards a cackle than a bray this time. ‘Let’s just say you’re not the first detective sergeant I’ve shared an early morning coffee with.’
‘You must have believed there was something in those rumours; why else would you write that story?’ She looked at Magda, gazing into those dark, soulless eyes. ‘Do you think Anthony Ferguson is innocent?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what you want to believe. If this mysterious information that’s suddenly come your way has any credibility, then sure, go for it. Fight for the poor bastard’s innocence.’ She offered Molly her wiry smile again. ‘I’m happy to come along for the ride. It’ll make a great story if nothing else.’
Molly finished her cigarette and ground the stub into an ashtray. She took another sip of her latte; it was still warm, just. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything useful?’
Magda toyed with her coffee cup. ‘Speak to Walters,’ she said. She lifted the cup to her ruby lips as though to drink it, then changed her mind. Placing the cup back on the saucer, she looked Molly in the eye and said, ‘Does Jon know about any of this?’
Molly tried to hide her surprise. ‘Jon…?’
Magda smiled again. ‘I did a stint on the London Echo, yonks ago. Your boyfriend was quite the grande fromage back then. What’s he up to these days?’
The foreign students ambled out of the café and blinked into the sun. One of them said something Molly didn’t understand, then they headed off in the direction of Embankment tube station.
‘Jon’s writing a book.’ She just about managed to keep her voice even. ‘Should I mention you to him?’
Another gurgling laugh. ‘If you like, though I doubt he’d remember me. It was a very long time ago.’ She took a card out of her jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of Molly. ‘Get in touch after you’ve spoken to Walters. You never know, he might say something that jogs my memory.’ She put the mini recorder back into the cavernous void of her handbag and got to her feet. ‘Cheers for the coffee. We’ll be in touch.’ She swung the massive bag onto her skinny shoulder, placed the shades back over her morbid eyes and walked off towards the Strand. A minute later she’d disappeared into the throng of commuters pouring out of Charing Cross station to become just another anonymous face in the crowd.
Molly picked up the card. Staring at it, she debated whether to keep it or tear it up and drop it in the ashtray. Magda Kilbride hadn’t been able to tell her much, and she had definitely been holding something back. Then there was the mention of Jon. A pointed mention, aimed, she was sure, to provoke a reaction. And she suspected her face had betrayed exactly the kind of reaction Magda had been hoping for.
After a moment she slipped the card into the top pocket of her shirt. Despite the heat, she felt a sudden chill: she had a horrible feeling she hadn’t heard the last of Magda Kilbride.
Chapter Twelve
Daryl Bailey was about to head to the gym when Denning and Neeraj knocked on the door of his substantial semi-detached house in one of north Finchley’s leafier streets.
‘Can I help you?’ he enquired, a harassed look on his face; a sports bag slung over his shoulder.
Denning flashed his ID, followed, a moment later, by Neeraj.
‘Daryl Bailey?’
Bailey nodded, eyes jumping from one copper to the other in quick succession.
‘Can we have a word with you about Leanne Wyatt?’ Denning asked.
Bailey gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve got a squash game booked in a half an hour. Is there any chance you could come back later?’
Denning stood on the doorstep, trying hard to smile. ‘No, Mr Bailey. I’m afraid we can’t come back later. We’re investigating a murder.’
Reluctantly, the door swung open to reveal a smart tiled hallway, with a set of deeply carpeted stairs heading to the first floor.
Bailey showed them into a large but characterless sitting room. The room was painted in shades of cream and pale grey, and decorated with modern, tasteless furniture. An enormous television clung to the wall above the space where the fireplace would once have been. Denning guessed Bailey lived alone.
They sat on an uncomfortable metal-framed sofa, their knees almost touching their chins. Bailey sat opposite them on an egg-shaped swivel chair.
Neeraj was looking round the room with a mixture of awe and envy. The walls were awash with photographs of Bailey in his football kit; mementos of the glory days. A small, silver trophy sat on a table in the corner by the large bay window.
‘Should I offer you tea or coffee, or something?’ Bailey was making an effort to appear at ease with the situation; trying hard to suggest that a visit from the police was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome.
Denning shook his head. ‘I think it might be better if we get straight to the point, Mr Bailey.’
Daryl Bailey was in his late thirties, but could have passed for younger in a good light. His dark blond hair was just starting to thin on top, but he was still in good shape, no doubt helped by those regular exertions on the squash court.
‘I believe you used to be a professional footballer,’ said Denning. ‘What do you do now?’
Bailey’s mouth hung open for a moment before he spoke, as though he was trying to work out the significance of the question. ‘I’m a coach for a couple of local youth clubs,’ he said after a pause. ‘I also do a bit of teaching at a secondary school in Hackney. PE mostly.’ He looked from Denning to Neeraj. ‘It pays the bills.’
‘Did you know Leanne Wyatt?’ Denning asked.
Bailey shifted awkwardly on his chair. ‘She was a pupil at the school where I teach. At least she used to be. She left around five years ago.’
‘Which school was that?
Another pause. ‘Dalston Academy on Queensland Road. I only taught her briefly. I mostly take the boys for sport and PE, but when one of the female PE teachers was on maternity leave, they didn’t replace her, so everyone had to just muck in.’
‘So your relationship with Leanne was purely professional…?’ Denning let the question hang in the ether.
‘Of course. What are you implying?’
‘We’re not implying anything, Mr Bailey. Leanne Wyatt has been murdered and your name came up during the course of our investigation, that’s all.’
Bailey looked at Denning; a slight twitch briefly flickered on his left eyelid. ‘Who gave you my name?’ He looked indignant. ‘Look, Leanne was a pupil at a school I teach at. One of thousands over the years. Are you speaking to anyone else from the school?’
‘Not at this stage. Are you suggesting we should?’
‘No. Why would I?’ Another momentary twitch. ‘What exactly is this about? Are you implying I had something to do with Leanne’s death? Because if you are, then that’s nonsense. I hadn’t seen her for over a year.’
‘I thought you said she left school five years ago.’
‘Sorry?’ He rubbed a hand over his forehead, a quick, almost unconscious movement. ‘Yes. But I bumped into her just over a year ago.’ Bailey looked over at Neeraj, who was scribbling notes in a pad. ‘She called round to ask the deputy head for a reference and I saw her in her in the corridor. I asked her what she was doing and she said something about having just applied for a job in a hairdresser’s. To be honest, I was on my way to a class and I didn’t take too much notice of her.’
‘Did you know she had a son?’
‘A son? No, of course not. Why would I? I hardly knew the girl.’
‘Why did you leave professional football, Mr Bailey?’
‘Are you kidding me? Do you know anything about the game? Once you hit thirty you’re already on your way out. I was lucky to last as long as I did. Look, I know what you’re both thinking, but I’m happy with my life now. I don’t miss the game, at least not at that level. I enjoy teaching kids. The next generation of
England stars are out there somewhere, and with a bit of luck I can help find some of them. That’s a hundred times more rewarding than being paid an inflated salary for kicking a ball round a football stadium.’
It sounded convincing, but Denning wondered if Bailey was trying to persuade himself as much as them. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t anything to do with an allegation of inappropriate behaviour that was made against you?’
Bailey stared at both men in silence for a moment before eventually dropping his gaze. ‘That’s crap.’
‘Is it?’ Denning refused to let it drop.
‘I’ve never done anything “inappropriate” in my life. You can check police records if you don’t believe me.’
The denial was so fulsome it defied challenge. Denning suspected Bailey knew they had no proof of any allegations; at this stage all they had was an unfounded rumour that possibly couldn’t even be substantiated at all.
‘We’ll certainly be checking, Mr Bailey,’ Denning informed him. ‘In the meantime, is there anything else you can tell us about your relationship with Leanne?’
‘I didn’t have any sort of relationship with Leanne. I taught her a few times, apart from that I hardly even spoke to the girl.’ He made a point of looking at his watch: a chunky Rolex, no doubt a souvenir from the good old days when money came all too easily. ‘Unless you have any more dumb questions, I really do have to go.’
‘Before you do, can you tell us where you were on Monday evening?’
Bailey momentarily opened and closed his mouth, like a sea lion awaiting a dead fish. ‘I was at home watching television.’ He glared at Denning. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any witnesses.’
Denning smiled and said they’d be in touch if they had any more questions. Bailey showed them out.
* * *
Back in the car, Neeraj turned to Denning, ‘Did you see those photographs on Bailey’s wall?’
Denning pulled the Ford Focus onto Finchley Road, and headed south in the direction of Dalston. ‘You were impressed with Daryl Bailey then?’
Know No Evil Page 6