She stopped the finger drumming and leant forward in her chair. ‘There is another possibility…’ She waited until she had his full attention. ‘Someone else is involved. Someone other than Gregor Kane and Daryl Bailey. Someone we don’t yet know about.’
This wasn’t something Denning wanted to hear. He could feel the vein in his temple throb again, a pulsating beat like a metronome that seemed to get louder with each beat.
Chapter Nineteen
The bar was busy with after-work drinkers but Molly found a table at the back near the toilets. A few minutes later Trudi sat down opposite her, dumping her handbag and sunglasses on an empty chair.
‘Bacardi and Diet Pepsi, as requested.’ Molly pushed the drink across the table towards Trudi, then took a long, welcome sip of her pint.
‘Cheers. Good day?’ asked Trudi.
She told Trudi about her visit to Adam Sloane and her frustration about the lack of progress with the case. ‘Gregor Kane’s luck has to run out at some point,’ she concluded.
Trudi knocked back her Bacardi. ‘You’ve got that right. He’s a prick. And it’s possible he might have more than just your little drug victim on his conscience, assuming he’s got one.’
Molly wrinkled her brow. ‘Really?’
Trudi twitched and shuffled in her seat. She finished the rest of her drink in one eager gulp, then swirled the melting ice cubes round the bottom of the glass. ‘I needed that. Cheers, babe.’ She tipped her empty glass in Molly’s direction. ‘Do you want another?’
Molly nodded at her nearly-full pint of Kronenbourg. ‘I think I’m probably fine for now, but thanks anyway.’
Trudi headed to the bar and returned a few minutes later with another Bacardi and Diet Pepsi and half-pint of Kronenbourg, which she placed in front of Molly. ‘You can top it up when it runs low,’ she said, nodding at Molly’s pint.
Trudi started talking about her girlfriend, who, according to Trudi, was seeing another woman. This didn’t seem to be based on anything other than rampant paranoia on Trudi’s part, but Molly smiled supportively when she felt Trudi needed it. She was curious about Trudi’s reference to Gregor Kane… She could wait and choose the right time, or she could just cut to the chase and jump straight in with it. She decided on the latter approach.
‘What did you mean about Gregor Kane having more on his conscience than Adam Sloane?’
Trudi placed her drink on the table and rubbed a hand through her blonde bob. ‘Sorry. Forget I said anything. Me and my big gob: I’ll get meself hung one of these bleedin’ days.’
‘Is it something to do with the murder inquiry? Leanne Wyatt? Is Gregor Kane a suspect?’
An awkward silence followed. Trudi looked like she wanted to change the subject. Eventually she said, ‘Gregor Kane knew Leanne Wyatt. He is a suspect, but – and swear you’ll keep this under your hat – it now looks like someone else could be in the frame.’ She took another sip of her drink, and then wiped a thin sliver of sweat from her top lip. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, at least not while the case is still ongoing. Denning’s got us running round like blue-arsed flies chasing up some dodgy bloke who knew Leanne. He reckons he’s a more credible candidate than Kane. Personally, I’m not so sure, but you know me: I turn up, smile, do the job, and keep me mouth shut.’
Molly chewed her bottom lip. ‘You think Kane did it?’
‘He’s certainly capable.’
She thought about this before she answered. Gregor Kane would have been a child twelve years ago, which would rule him out of being the Bermondsey Ripper, but she couldn’t voice that thought aloud to Trudi. Her brain was whirring. If Kane was a suspect, then this could be a way into MIT for her. ‘Why the cross carved into the victim’s forehead? That has to mean something.’
Trudi offered a casual shrug. ‘Who knows? Something drugs-related, maybe. Perhaps she threatened to grass on him and this was a warning to others not to try the same.’
After a pause, Molly asked, ‘Who’s the new suspect?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that, Moll. Betty Taggart will have my tits in the mincer if it gets out that I’ve been chatting to someone about the case who isn’t on the team.’
‘I can help you, though, if Gregor Kane is involved. I’ve been watching the guy for the best part of a month. I know things about him that might be useful to the case.’
Trudi stared at her Bacardi for what felt like a lifetime. ‘I dunno, Moll. Like I said, Denning’s chasing his tail with this other suspect. There’s even CCTV footage of this guy with the victim, well, as good as. Kane could be out of the running by now for all we know.’
‘Is Kane still officially a suspect? As far as Denning’s concerned?’
‘Until he’s formally ruled out, then yes, he’s still a suspect.’
‘Maybe I should speak to Denning?’
Trudi nodded. ‘I’m still not sure. You just said you didn’t think Kane did it. Besides, Denning would want to know how you heard about Kane’s involvement, and if it gets back that it was me who told you…’
‘I can keep your name out of it. I know Broomfield had a meeting with Betty Taggart today. I could ask him what it was about. It’s more than likely got something to do with the murder investigation. It would be too much of a coincidence it was about anything else.’
Trudi drained her glass. ‘Let me have a word with Denning. I can suggest he speaks to you, then take it from there.’ She a paused for a moment and looked at her phone. ‘Look, I’ll speak to Denning tomorrow. I have to go now. I said I’d do some shopping for my old mum after work.’
She waved her hand and smiled at Molly, slung her handbag over her shoulder, put her sunglasses in her top pocket, and headed towards the door.
Molly watched Trudi thread her way through the crowded bar and out onto the street, attracting second glances from men as she weaved past them. She was on the point of finishing her pint and starting on the half when she noticed something on the floor. She bent down to pick it up and realised it was Magda Kilbride’s business card. It must have fallen out of her bag when she took her purse out to buy the drinks. As she put the card back in her bag, she remembered there was something she needed to speak to Jon about.
Chapter Twenty
Jon was watching television when Molly got back. He was wearing his dressing gown and his faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt with the rip in the neck. An open can of Stella sat on the floor by his feet.
‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘Interesting.’ She headed into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She wasn’t in the mood for cooking, and there was little chance of Jon offering. She removed the takeaway pizza menu from the fridge door and wandered back into the living room.
‘Dinner,’ she said, tossing the takeaway menu at Jon. He gazed at it half-heartedly before chucking it onto the coffee table.
‘I’m not hungry. Order whatever you want for yourself and I’ll have what you don’t eat.’
She took her mobile phone out of her bag, selected the number for the local pizza restaurant and ordered a twelve-inch meat feast. It would be there in ten minutes.
‘I spoke to Kenneth Walters today,’ she said.
‘Who?’ Jon seemed half asleep. She worried that he was now smoking so much dope it was causing his brain to atrophy. Then she thought about Adam Sloane lying in his hospital bed, only being kept alive by machinery and maternal will power, if anyone could describe that as being alive…
‘He’s the detective who investigated the Bermondsey Ripper case,’ she said. ‘He’s retired now, but still as sharp as a tack.’
‘Not this again.’ Jon slumped back into the old leather armchair that faced the telly. He was watching a documentary about the Rolling Stones on one of the satellite channels, but with the sound tuned down low, as though he was only half interested. ‘I thought you’d have got this out of your system by now.’
She sat down on the chaise longue, shoving a pile o
f dusty magazines onto the floor. The room smelled fustier than usual: stale tobacco mingled with marijuana, mixed with stale sweat; only this time she couldn’t be bothered to open a window. ‘Jon, I think it’s possible they could have got it wrong about Ferguson.’
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’
‘No.’ She sighed. ‘It would be nice if you could back me up on this. Offer me a bit of support, like you used to.’ She thought back to when they’d first got together. He’d bumped into her coming back from the beer tent at a music festival in Brighton, causing her to spill her drink down her front. He’d apologised and insisted on buying her another, and then another. They’d spent the rest of the night chatting, discovering they shared a passion for hard rock and left-wing values. She’d barely clocked the age difference at first, and even when she did it hadn’t mattered. Within a week they were officially a couple. Within a year they were living together. Whatever else they agreed or disagreed on, Jon had always been there for her. He’d encouraged her to apply for CID and had supported her ambition to join MIT, or so she’d thought. But things had changed after he’d lost his job. Now he no longer had his own career, and his own purpose in life, it was almost as though he resented her having one.
‘Look, I’m just saying be careful.’ He drank some more Stella, swilling the liquid round in the can to gauge how much was left. ‘You go poking around into a possible hornets’ nest from years back and suggest that the Met could have fucked up on a major murder inquiry, then what? It’s not exactly going to help your long-term career plans, is it?’
Molly bit her tongue. ‘Maybe, but the very least you could do is take me seriously.’
Jon switched off the television. ‘OK. What did this geezer have to say?’
‘Ferguson had an alibi for one of the murders. I’ve checked it out.’ She told him about Derek Rodman and the straggly loose ends that had been left untidied by the original investigation.
‘Granted, it sounds like there might have been some shortcomings during the investigation into Ferguson, but I imagine that’s par for the course on a major murder inquiry. This still sounds pretty tenuous. What have you got to go on? Ferguson had a dodgy alibi, and you think that proves he’s innocent. The alibi was dismissed in court, you said so yourself. Then some half-baked theory about this poor cow in Haggerston Park having a cross carved on her forehead. It could have been anything. And let’s just say you are right, what then? What exactly do you plan to do with this information?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ She was unwilling to get into a fight, but she was determined to stand her ground and not be readily dismissed. ‘But there’s clearly something dodgy about the investigation into Ferguson. A cover-up maybe? I don’t know yet.’ She thought back to Ken Walters. He seemed decent, honest; not the sort of detective to knowingly go along with a miscarriage of justice. But it was possible she had read him wrong.
She looked over at Jon; he finished his can of Stella, scrunched the can in his fist, and threw it in the overflowing waste-paper bin beside the fireplace. ‘I’m worried that you’re going to get yourself into trouble over this.’ He sighed. ‘This isn’t even your investigation. I know you want to join MIT, but chasing shadows that probably aren’t even there isn’t the best way to go about it. My advice, for what it’s worth, leave well alone. This could backfire and bite you on the backside big time.’
She picked at a loose thread on her blouse. She tried to snap it off, but instead the thread grew longer until she ended up biting it off with her teeth. ‘I also spoke with an old friend of yours.’ She watched his face twitch with interest. ‘Magda Kilbride. She’s got her doubts too.’
If Molly had expected a flicker of recognition from Jon, then she was disappointed. ‘Who the fuck is Magda Kilbride?’ he asked.
‘She says she worked with you at the Echo a few years back.’ Molly described Magda, the dyed-red hair, the boots and the attitude.
Jon half smiled as a distant memory seemed to gestate in his brain. ‘Oh, you mean Mags. I remember Mags.’ He nodded slowly to himself, then after a moment said, ‘but she was bonkers. You really can’t take anything she says seriously. She was always chasing her tail to get a story. That was when she wasn’t making stuff up.’
‘We had a good chat.’ Molly tried not to sound defensive. ‘She’s an interesting character. I liked her.’
‘Yes, I remember Mags,’ he repeated, still smiling to himself, before adding, ‘You know you can’t trust her.’
Molly still wasn’t convinced she could – or even should – trust Magda Kilbride, but Jon’s reaction seemed harsh. Mags hadn’t said anything to suggest there had been any animosity between them. She wondered if there was something else at play: professional jealousy perhaps, or something more…
‘An interesting character,’ said Jon. ‘Yes, that’s certainly one way of describing Mags Kilbride.’
* * *
Sarah was out when Denning returned home. He vaguely remembered her saying something about going to a leaving do for someone after work. She’d even asked him if he wanted to come along.
He always struggled to get on with Sarah’s work colleagues: hedge-fund managers and investment bankers whose conversation revolved around second homes, skiing holidays and the tax breaks available for private health care. He tried hard to avoid using the word ‘wankers’ whenever he thought of them.
He thought back to his conversation with Claire that afternoon. She was right about him having no say in how she led her life now, even though they would always share a constant bond through Jake. But what if Claire were ready to move on; move on and take Jake with her? He was with Sarah now and, he kept reminding himself, they were happy.
He looked over at the picture of Jake and felt a sense of doors closing.
Chapter Twenty-One
Denning called a briefing for 9 a.m. the next morning.
Progress was too slow for his liking. It wouldn’t be long before the media would be snapping at their heels, salivating for something more substantial than a few discarded scraps. And then there was Betty Taggart. He knew she’d be watching events unfold from behind the dusty venetian blinds in her cramped and sweaty office.
Trudi Bell kicked things off. ‘It seems you were right about Leanne keeping herself to herself. She rarely posted on Facebook or Twitter, and didn’t do Instagram or Snapchat, or any of the half dozen other social media sites that have popped up over the past few years. Her last post on Facebook was just over two weeks ago: a picture of her and Charlie at the beach in Margate, taken by her mum. It’s got half a dozen likes. Apart from that, there are a couple of emails to various former school friends where she mentions that she was seeing someone, but she doesn’t say who. One of her friends asked if she was still seeing Gregor Kane, to which she replied “sometimes”. There’s nothing else worth noting, and no mention at all of Daryl Bailey. Of course,’ she added, ‘it would help if we had her mobile phone.’
‘Any luck there?’ Denning asked.
‘Her service provider reckons it’s probably switched off as it’s not transmitting a pulse,’ said Ryan. ‘However, they’ve said that the last known location they have is somewhere around the Highgate/Crouch End area, as was picked up by their mast on Highgate Hill. They can’t be more specific than that unfortunately.’
‘That’s where the taxi driver says he dropped them off,’ Neeraj offered.’
Denning nodded. ‘In which case we talk to him again, and find out exactly where he dropped them off. We now know we’re looking in the right areas, but we still need to narrow it down further.’
‘What about Kane? Is he still in the frame for this?’ It was Dave Kinsella, leaning back in his chair, a cup of Costa coffee in his hand, a light dabbling of sweat on his moustache.
‘He was never out of it as far as I’m concerned,’ Denning said. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Trudi Bell briefly raise her hand, then lower it again. ‘However, Kane’s alibi checks out. CCTV footage con
firms he was at the Cat in the Hat on the night in question. Witnesses, including the door staff, claim he arrived around 9 p.m. and left after 1 a.m. the following morning. We know Leanne was still alive at 9 p.m., so, for the time being, Kane’s in the clear.’
‘He could have left unobserved,’ Ryan suggested. ‘Nipped out a fire exit for instance.’
‘Agreed, it’s possible, which is why his name stays up there for now. But let’s focus on Bailey for the moment.’ He pointed to Bailey’s photo on the whiteboard. ‘Ryan, any joy at the Fleur de Lys with Bailey’s photo?’
‘The manager couldn’t say for certain. One of the women who was working that night says she thought he looked like the bloke who was with Leanne on the night in question, but she couldn’t swear to it.’
Denning nodded. ‘OK. Deep, what about the former Mrs Bailey? Have we had any luck tracking her down?’
‘Seems she remarried and moved to Canada about eight years ago,’ Neeraj said. ‘I’ve spoken to the Canadian police to see if we can get any contact details for her, but nothing so far.’
‘Well, give them time, Deep. They are eight hours behind us.’ There was a spluttering of suppressed laughter from the team. Denning patted the air with his hands and the laughter fizzled away to nothing. ‘OK, everyone, can we have some quiet.’ He held up a brown manila folder. ‘We’ve now got the forensics report through. As expected, it confirms what we already suspected, that our victim was killed elsewhere, then dumped in Haggerston Park sometime in the early hours of Monday morning. Also, there’s a surprising lack of DNA, which suggests our killer is either very thorough or very lucky. Unfortunately, it means we have even less to work with than we’d hoped. We need to find the murder location. With a bit of luck, our killer’s left DNA there.’ He looked over to Neeraj. ‘Deep, you and I are going to have another word with the taxi driver. Let’s put a rocket up his backside until he tells us where he really did drop them off that night. Until we hear otherwise, he was the last person to see Leanne alive, so that makes him our best witness.’
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