‘There’s no CCTV at the back of the restaurant,’ Neeraj said. ‘There’s some in the restaurant itself, and covering the staff entrance at the rear, but it doesn’t cover the car park. We’re checking the CCTV from the main road, but it’s going to take time.’
‘OK. We keep going over the CCTV footage. If Tanya shows up, then there’s a strong chance her killer will be there too.’ Denning noticed Dave Kinsella looking twitchy. ‘Dave, is there something you want to add?’
‘Where does this leave us with the Leanne Wyatt investigation? Are we putting it on the back-burner to focus on Tanya Russell, or does finding her killer remain a priority?’
‘Both cases are being treated as a priority, Dave. Irrespective of whether or not there’s a connection.’
There was another ripple of murmured chatter from the group. Denning understood their frustration at the slow progress. He understood it and took full responsibility for it. ‘Look, I know it’s frustrating. We have two suspects and no evidence to connect either one to Leanne’s murder. But we will find Leanne Wyatt’s killer, just as we’ll get whoever did this to Tanya Russell.’
‘And just how close are we to getting anyone for Leanne Wyatt?’ Kinsella asked. ‘Or even to finding out exactly where she was killed?’
Denning looked at Leanne’s photograph on the whiteboard. Her innocent smile made her look much younger than twenty-one. ‘Our taxi driver swears he dropped them off at the junction of Highgate Road and Hadley Drive in north London.’ He pointed at the map on one of the whiteboards. ‘We need to get uniform out knocking on doors in that whole area, and have a look at any CCTV.’
‘We’ve been down there already,’ Neeraj argued. ‘We didn’t get anything last time.’
‘We focused on Hadley Drive last time, Deep, because that’s where we thought the taxi dropped them off. We need to cover a wider area now. Speak to anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious on the night in question.’
Denning was on the point of adding something further, when he spotted DCI McKenna’s office door opening. McKenna marched over to the front of the room and nodded at Denning. ‘Sorry to interrupt guys, but I thought you might like to know: CID have got Gregor Kane downstairs. They’re charging him with manslaughter. Apparently he wants to talk to someone about Leanne Wyatt’s murder.’
Chapter Thirty
Kane was being questioned in Interview Room One on the ground floor. Denning was asked by a uniformed officer to wait in the corridor whilst he notified the detectives that he wanted a word. A few moments later the door to Interview Room One opened and a man and woman approached him.
‘DI Denning?’ the man asked, extending his hand in Denning’s direction. ‘I’m DI Broomfield, this is Detective Sergeant Fisher.’ He indicated the short, mousy-blonde woman standing on his right.
Denning shook their hands. ‘What’s he said so far?’
‘Nothing more than a stream of “no comments”,’ Broomfield said. ‘But the interesting thing is that his father has refused to appoint the usual family solicitor, Tom Gracey from Gracey & Co. He’s the smooth-tongued bastard we usually deal with whenever Kane’s been pulled in. This time round he’s been appointed a duty solicitor, but apart from advising Kane to say nothing until we produce any hardcore evidence, she’s done very little.’
‘What evidence have you got?’
‘A written statement from a friend of the victim claiming Kane sold him the gear. We’ve got a warrant to search the Kane residence in Chigwell, but as you can imagine, Alfie Kane is kicking up a stink.’
‘Why did he refuse to send the family solicitor?’
Broomfield shrugged. ‘It seems daddy Kane has a thing about drugs. I mean he’s quite happy to burn someone’s house down, or kneecap their dog if they cross him, but even he appears to draw a line at selling dodgy gear to kids. I imagine Gracey is round at Château Kane now, trying to make life as difficult as possible for our team.’
Denning tried not to laugh. It would be ironic if Gregor Kane were to be brought down by his own father. ‘So what’s the story with him and Leanne Wyatt?’
This time it was DS Fisher’s turn to pipe up. ‘He claims he was with her the night she was killed. He says he has information that might be useful to your murder inquiry.’
‘Looks like he wants to do some kind of deal,’ said Broomfield. ‘He knows we really want him to name the big boys: whoever it is who’s supplying him so we can set Trident on them. If he plays ball, he’ll talk, he might need some inducement.’ He smiled at Denning. ‘You may well be that inducement.’
Denning scratched his chin. ‘Do you think he’s genuine? I don’t want to waste my time with that little twat if all he wants to do is play silly sods.’
‘We know he’s connected to Leanne Wyatt, and we know you still haven’t got anyone for her murder, so it might be worth a try.’ It was Fisher again. There was a hint of impertinence in her tone, and Denning wondered how come she knew so much about the Leanne Wyatt case, but he decided to let it lie.
‘He’s facing a manslaughter charge and his daddy’s dropped him in the shitter. He’s desperate,’ Broomfield said. ‘DS Fisher’s right: if he knows anything about her murder, now’s the time he’s going to play his hand.’
Denning nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
Broomfield paused before letting him pass. ‘There’s just one thing.’ He looked at Denning; his stony face easing itself into a slow smile. ‘DS Fisher would like to sit in on the interview.’
‘Leanne Wyatt’s murder is an MIT matter. You can finish interviewing Kane after I’ve spoken to him.’
Broomfield’s expression softened slightly. ‘I appreciate it’s slightly irregular, but it was DS Fisher who got us Kane, after months of little or no progress. The slippery bastard was always one step ahead of us. She’s a good officer: she wants to work in MIT. As a favour, would you let her sit in on the interview? She won’t speak, just observe.’
He wasn’t happy. This went beyond impertinence and bordered on being unprofessional. But he got the distinct impression Broomfield was implacable. DS Fisher stood next to him, a defiant look in her eyes.
‘OK,’ he said after a moment. ‘But she keeps her mouth shut.’
* * *
Kane had lost the swagger which had been so on display at their previous meeting. He sat back on the creaky plastic chair with his arms folded defiantly in front of him, but the posture looked more defensive than anything else, as though he was trying to protect himself. He looked up at Denning as soon as he walked into to the interview room and Denning thought he saw the briefest traces of a smirk on his face.
Denning sat down opposite Kane, Fisher sat beside him. Fisher clicked the tape recorder back on and they both gave their names, Denning adding that he was from the murder squad.
‘You have some information about the murder of Leanne Wyatt?’ Denning said. ‘Care to share it?’
Kane looked at his solicitor, a bored-looking woman in her late twenties with neatly ironed hair and a face like a smacked backside. ‘Before I say anything, I want some assurance it’ll be taken into account with this bollocks charge of manslaughter.’ The diamond stud in his ear flashed as it caught the light.
‘I advise you to say nothing until the police can provide proper evidence to—’ his solicitor started to say.
‘Shut it!’ Kane barked. She immediately fell silent.
Kane looked uncharacteristically worried. The smirk that had greeted their arrival had quickly disappeared. Denning suspected that without the protection of his father, he was nothing more than a little boy lost in a world of grown-ups.
Kane’s solicitor rolled her eyes and looked at the tape machine, pursing her lips together and slightly grinding her teeth.
‘Well, go on,’ Kane said. He was staring directly at Denning, exuding faux arrogance like a bad smell.
‘That’ll be up to CID,’ Denning told him. ‘It’s their case, not mine.’
‘Then no deal,
’ said Kane.
‘If you know anything that helps us catch Leanne’s killer, then it will go in your favour, Gregor.’ It was Fisher this time; so much for agreeing to keep quiet.
Denning shot her a look. However, he knew there was little he could say to challenge her: the manslaughter charge was their call, not his.
‘I promise you anything you can tell us about Leanne Wyatt will help your case,’ she continued.
Denning bristled at the mention of ‘us’: Leanne Wyatt was nothing to do with Fisher or her chums in CID. He was beginning to regret agreeing to let her sit on the interview.
Kane looked at Fisher, then turned and looked at Denning. Just for a second Denning thought he saw something pass across Kane’s face that might have been fear, or at least the realisation that there was a good chance he was heading for jail. Kane wasn’t an idiot; he knew the minute he was off the scene some other lowlife would fill the void. Even a short spell inside would see his reputation dented and his patch taken over by a rival. He could fight his way back in, of course; he was Alfie Kane’s boy and that carried some clout. But was it worth the aggro… Would Kane be willing to take the risk?
‘All right,’ Kane said, after a gap. ‘Here’s how it is: if I tell you what I know about the night Leanne was killed, you agree to drop the manslaughter charge, and forget any thought about doing me for dealing.’
‘That’s not up to me, Gregor,’ Denning said. ‘I can’t promise you anything. But if you do know something, it really is in your best interests to tell us now. If we later find out you deliberately withheld information, it won’t look good for you.’ Denning could see Kane’s solicitor pursing her lips together even tighter; there was a danger she was going to explode any minute. She opened her mouth for a brief second, then closed it again before any words had the chance to escape.
A heavy sigh ruffled the solicitor’s papers on the table. Kane unfolded his arms and sat forward on his chair. ‘All right, I met Leanne that night, just before I went to the club. She wanted to buy some gear, just some uppers. She told me she was meeting someone. She thought he was going to finish with her. She was pretty cut up about it. She’d been feeling shit. She said she wanted something to give her a lift, so I sold her a bit of whizz.’
Denning waited for him to finish. ‘Is that—’
‘Did she say who the date was with?’ Fisher asked, before Denning had a chance to finish what he was saying.
Kane rubbed his hands over his face in a swift move. ‘She gave me some tosh about wanting to get back with me. She kept reminding me that Charlie was my kid. I told her to piss off. I didn’t want anything to do with her or him. I’ve only got her word that Charlie’s mine.’
‘When was this?’ Denning asked.
He shrugged. ‘Just before I went to the club. About nine-ish, maybe slightly before.’
Denning leaned in closer. He could smell Kane’s aftershave: something expensive, naturally, though somehow it smelt a little sickly, like it had been mixed with something toxic. ‘Did she tell you anything about the man she was planning to meet?’
He looked up at the two detectives. ‘Yeah. She said it was Daryl Bailey.’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Claire phoned,’ Sarah said, as soon as Denning entered the flat. ‘Apparently her new man friend wants to take her and Jake to Paris for a few days next week. She didn’t think you’d mind as you’re so busy working this case.’
There was an open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the dining table and the smell of Moroccan chicken wafted from the kitchen area. Sarah was sitting on one of the sofas, listening to Classic FM and sipping a glass of Sauvignon.
He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the dining chairs.
‘When did she phone?’
‘About half an hour ago. I told her you’d be back in a bit if she wanted to speak to you herself.’
Denning knew Claire would have found it easier to talk to Sarah. Although the two women were hardly friends, Claire knew there was less chance of Sarah being confrontational when it came to Jake.
He tried not to let his annoyance show. He wanted to see Jake. He wanted to go somewhere normal as a father and son; remind himself that there was a life beyond ongoing murder inquiries. But it looked like family time was a luxury he was going to have to defer for the foreseeable. It was fair enough that Claire wanted to spent time with Jake and her new man, but Denning couldn’t escape the feeling that Alan Marsden was taking over his role as a father to Jake, and there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it.
He remembered the name of Marsden’s company and made a mental note to call round the next day. It was time he had a chat with the man who now seemed to be part of his extended family, whether he liked it or not.
* * *
Molly closed the front door behind her. She was mentally and physical shattered, and wanted nothing more taxing than a large glass of Shiraz and a takeaway.
She shouted for Jon but no answer came.
Heading into the living room, she flopped down into Jon’s old leather armchair that faced the telly, and kicked off her shoes. A heavy fug of heat clung to every corner of the room, but she couldn’t be bothered opening the French windows.
It had been a hectic day.
In the end, despite his hollow attempt at doing a deal, they had charged Gregor Kane with manslaughter as well as supplying a Class A drug. He’d refused to say who’d supplied him with the gear; name whoever it was who was higher up the chain of command. Understandable. If he’d grassed, it wouldn’t matter who his father was, he’d end up yet another grim statistic in the London drug gang wars. It was likely he would be looking at seven years, out in four, assuming a jury could be persuaded of his guilt – and that couldn’t be taken for granted.
She had wanted to talk to DI Denning after the interview, ask him what bearing Kane’s information would have on the murder investigation into Leanne Wyatt, but Denning had retreated back upstairs the minute the interview was over without even acknowledging her presence.
Trudi had been right about Denning being attractive, in an ageing boy-band member kind of way, but there was a hint of arrogance about him. She’d got the impression he’d resented her presence during the interview, and not because it wasn’t standard procedure but because she was a DS with regular CID rather than one of the sexy players from MIT. But then, maybe she’d imagined it. He was clearly under pressure, maybe her presence had added to that pressure.
She knew she should probably have kept her mouth shut during the interview with Kane, but she felt connected to the murder case; she couldn’t just sit back and say nothing. Denning had evidently not mentioned her outburst to Broomfield. She had fully expected an official reprimand: a summons to Broomfield’s office followed by a dressing-down, but none had come.
She wasn’t even sure Kane’s information, assuming he was telling the truth, amounted to anything useful; a random name, possibly uttered to keep his own out the frame. There was something familiar about the name Daryl Bailey but she struggled to put a face to it. Perhaps she’d do an internet search after dinner, or maybe Jon would know.
Jon…
Her mind turned to Magda Kilbride. Molly knew she should mentally delete everything Mags had told her. She suspected Mags was someone who took pleasure in watching others squirm, like a scrawny cat playing with an injured bird. But somehow, deep down, she just couldn’t dismiss what Mags had said quite as readily as she’d like to.
There was so much of Jon’s life that remained a mystery to her. She knew he had a history before they’d met; they both had. She knew about the previous marriages, all of which had ended in divorce. She knew he could behave like an idiot when it came to women, and could be impetuous and silly and totally dick-led at times. But even so, she didn’t recognise the picture of her boyfriend that Mags had so vividly painted.
Molly wanted to get up, go to the kitchen and open some wine; dig out her phone and call for a Chinese, or
an Indian or anything that didn’t involve having to stand in front of a stove in this inexorable heat, but her feet felt like lead weights embedded in quicksand.
She heard the key scraping in the lock on the front door. After a moment Jon appeared in the living room, carrying two Tesco’s bags full of food. A couple of bottles of wine poked out the top of one of the bags.
‘All right,’ he said, seemingly surprised to see her. ‘When did you get back?’
‘About five minutes ago,’ she replied.
He headed into the kitchen with the groceries and she heard the clink of wine bottles being taken out of the carrier bags and placed on the worktop.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Jon shouted from the kitchen.
She told him she’d like a glass of wine. She could hear him clattering around in the kitchen; opening wine, pouring out two glasses. A few minutes later he entered the living room and handed Molly a glass of red wine. He placed the other glass on the coffee table and sat down on the ancient chaise longue.
‘Another bitch of a day, huh?’ he asked.
Molly took a sip of wine. She wanted to ask him about Mags, but instead she said, ‘Do you know the name Daryl Bailey?’
‘The footballer?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘I’m not sure he’s done anything.’ Her big toe toyed with the rim of her left shoe. ‘His name came up today.’ She paused. ‘Does he still play football?’
‘Nah, retired years ago. He was… well, let’s just say he had a bit of a reputation. Why?’
Know No Evil Page 14