Know No Evil

by Hampton Graeme

  After a moment Denning became aware that McKenna had stopped talking and it was his was his turn to speak. Two unsolved murders… Like he needed reminding. ‘If we believe what Kane says about Bailey, than that as good as put him in the frame,’ he said. ‘Of course, Kane could be lying, but Bailey’s looking tasty for this. I think we need to bring him in, officially.’

  McKenna nodded. ‘And what about Tony, sorry, Tanya Russell? Are we making any progress there?’

  Denning thought back to Marsden’s glass-topped desk. OK, he liked a tidy desk himself, but Marsden was taking it to an extreme: nobody’s desk was ever that tidy, not if they actually used it to do any work… ‘My money’s on a hate crime,’ he said after a second. ‘We need to keep checking CCTV in the area. We know Tanya Russell used dating sites. Forensics are going over her laptop to see if there’s anything useful there, but I can’t help thinking this was simply a random attack on someone who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘You don’t think this is down to some hairy-arsed bastard she met online who freaked out the moment he discovered his date for the night came with a bit more than he bargained for?’

  Denning shook his head. ‘According to her daughter, the men who met her through the websites she used knew Tanya was a crossdresser so it’s not like it would have come as a shock to anyone she met.’

  The finger-drumming stopped. ‘Two murders, Matt. Both in the space of a week. We don’t want to look like we’re on the back foot here.’ Again the gimlet stare: not at him, but through him. ‘I’ll talk to the media on this, Matt. Due to the… sensitive nature of the situation, we need to tread carefully. We’ll have the LGBT brigade over us like a nasty rash if we fuck this up. Any flack, best it comes my way.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll handle the situation with kid gloves.’ Although said with sincerity, he couldn’t help feeling it came across as sarcastic. The comment was lost on McKenna, whose eyes remained fixed on his.

  The implicit threat hung heavy in the tepid air: the clock was ticking and it was down to him to unravel this mess. He just wished he had something concrete to offer.

  He left her office and returned to his desk, an unnerving sense of foreboding nagging away at him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mags was sitting at an outside table overlooking the river, scrolling through something on her phone. She glanced up when she saw Molly approach, threw the phone down on the table and sat back on her chair, cocking her head at Molly in a gesture that was one part greeting and two parts threat.

  ‘This is becoming a bit of a habit, DS Fisher. Anyone would think we enjoyed each other’s company.’

  Molly sat down opposite Mags, dumping her bag on the table, like it was some kind of impromptu barrier. ‘I need to ask you about Daryl Bailey,’ she said. ‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds about him and a teenage girl. Do you know if there’s any truth to the rumour?’

  There was the briefest flicker from Mags: nothing more than a twitch of an eyebrow and a tiny pulse momentarily beating in her cheek, but enough to let Molly know she had pricked her interest.

  They’d arranged to meet in the same bar as before. This time it was quieter; the lunchtime crowd had dispersed and the evening drinkers were yet to arrive. The Thames offered up a welcome breeze as the sun bounced off its shimmering surface. Molly had thought about apologising to Mags for how their meeting had ended last time but she knew the words would choke in her throat. Besides, she suspected Magda Kilbride had the hide of a rhinoceros.

  Mags cocked her head to one side. ‘So, Daryl Bailey’s being flagged up on the radar now? Interesting.’ She screwed her eyes into narrow slits. ‘But you don’t really think he’s the Bermondsey Ripper, do you?’ She smiled at Molly. ‘Or maybe you do…? Professional footballer by day, serial killer by night. Stranger things have happened.’

  Molly chose to ignore her sarcasm. ‘I only need to know if there’s any truth in the rumour that Bailey had a fling with an underage girl. And if so, why it was never reported to the police.’

  Mags was drinking mineral water again, and Molly wondered if she had a drink problem. She’d bought herself a half pint of Kronenbourg, but hadn’t felt the urge to offer Mags a drink: she didn’t want either of them to pretend this was in any way a social meet.

  She placed the glass back on the table. ‘What does Jon have to say about this? Is he still humouring you, or has he told you you’re on to a loser here?’

  ‘Let’s keep Jon out of this.’

  She laughed. ‘So he has told you you’re wasting your time. I thought he would.’

  Molly could feel her shoulders tighten. She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, massaging away the tension. ‘I’m not interested in playing your silly games, Mags. I just need to know about Daryl Bailey. For the record, Jon and I are rock solid. I’m sorry if that pisses you off, but I really couldn’t give a shit. He ditched you and moved on, now get over it.’

  She circled the glass with her finger, slowly and with a sense of purpose. Then it stopped. ‘It’s lies,’ she said after a moment. Mags pushed her sunglasses off her forehead and onto her face, pressing them against the bridge of her nose with her middle finger. ‘The girl as good as admitted she’d made it up. She’d met Bailey at some charity football gig; he’d flirted with her, he admitted that, but he didn’t take it any further. Daryl Bailey might be a sleazebag, but he’s not a paedophile. At least not as far as I know.’

  ‘What happened, exactly?’

  Mags shrugged indifferently. ‘The girl went to the press, not us, one of the nationals, but it did the rounds: we got to hear about it. I looked into it to see if it was worth wasting shoe leather on, but it was a non-story. The girl claimed she’d slept with Bailey. She was fifteen, and to be fair, she looked it. Bailey was contacted, naturally, but he denied everything, initially saying he’d never even met the girl. She came back with proof they had met: it seemed someone had taken a photo of them flirting at the charity match. Bailey then claimed the girl had approached him asking for money, he’d told her to go fuck herself, or words to that effect, and she’d cried rape. Just as it all looked like it was going to turn nasty, his club got involved and threatened us all with libel if anyone ran the story. Naturally, there wasn’t any proof of an affair, just her word against his, so we had to back down.’

  ‘Why weren’t the police informed of all this?’

  There was a cynical laugh from Mags. ‘Get real. This kind of thing goes on all the time. If a celebrity ran to you lot every time someone tried to blackmail them they’d have no time for anything else. Besides, I suspect neither Bailey nor his club wanted the publicity. If you keep things off the record, you can generally keep a lid on it; but the minute you lot get involved there isn’t a hope in hell of keeping it under wraps.’

  ‘I meant why did the paper not report this to the police as soon as the girl made the accusation? There could have been some truth in the claim.’

  Mags twisted her mouth into a tight smile. ‘You know how it works: the victim has to make it official. Besides, I believe someone did suggest she went to the police: just to give the story a splattering of credibility if nothing else. She refused. Or was talked out of it.’

  Molly wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. The bold assumption from everyone concerned that a young girl had lied, rather than giving her the benefit of the doubt rankled with her. She knew people made up lies for all sorts of reasons, financial gain being a big incentive. When she’d first joined the police she’d been told to keep an open mind about everything: the guilty were not always guilty, and victims were not always innocent. But still, this stank of something rotten. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mags jumped in before the words had a chance to come out…

  ‘I don’t need a lecture on morality, not from you or anyone. That’s not my responsibility and you’re not dumb enough to believe it is. The girl learned a useful lesson about life, Bailey dodged a bullet
. Everything was kept out the press, more or less.’

  ‘But the rumours persisted? Bailey’s club sacked him. They must have suspected something had gone on.’

  ‘Bailey had earned himself a reputation over the years. OK, so it goes with the game: egos need feeding, and there are plenty of desperate people out there to feed them. But Bailey was always high maintenance, and his philandering and near brushes with scandal, real or otherwise, began to impact on his game. That was the real reason his club dropped him; not because of his wandering dick but because he stopped scoring goals.’

  Molly finished her drink. ‘Something tells me there’s more to it than what you’ve just told me.’

  Mags shook her head. ‘Like I said, you don’t seriously think Daryl Bailey was the Bermondsey Ripper, do you? I mean it’s just possible someone might have spotted a high-profile figure like Bailey acting suspiciously at the time. Trust me: even if you lot didn’t, my lot would have been all over it like a nasty rash.’

  Molly didn’t think Bailey was the Ripper; she wasn’t stupid. But if Bailey had killed Leanne Wyatt, then it would prove she was wrong about there being a link between Leanne’s murder and the Ripper’s killings. She wanted to be a hundred per cent sure of her facts before she approached Denning in any official capacity. ‘OK, so Bailey wasn’t the Bermondsey Ripper, but there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  Mags shrugged again. ‘Believe what you like. You seem to do that anyway.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Mags’ thin ruby lips tilted upwards in a twisted parody of a smile. She leaned in closer. ‘I told you the truth about Jon and you chose not to believe me. He fed you a ton of shite about his past, about him and me, and you decided you were going to buy it, because I imagine it’s easier than accepting the alternative: that the man you live with is an unstable liar. You’re happy to believe the crap about Daryl Bailey, but not your own boyfriend. But that’s your problem, not mine.’

  Molly had had enough. ‘I told you I didn’t want to talk about Jon, but you seem obsessed. If you continue with your lies about my boyfriend, I’ll have you charged with harassment.’

  Again, that raucous laugh that bordered on something feral. ‘A threat! Really? Why can’t you accept I’m simply trying to do you a favour here? OK, I’m not one for sisterly solidarity, but even I don’t like to see another woman being taken for a mug.’

  ‘I’m not interested any more, Magda. I’m happy to leave you to wallow in your own little vat of poison.’ She stood up and turned to walk away.

  ‘OK, but before you go, perhaps you can tell me one thing? Something that’s been bugging me since you first got in touch asking unofficial questions about a decade-old murder inquiry.’ She looked at Molly, waiting for a reaction. ‘Why are you really so interested in Anthony Ferguson?’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Bailey sat opposite them with a pathetic look nailed to his face like a wet flannel. His solicitor sat beside him, piercing blue eyes bouncing from Bailey to Denning to McKenna, then back to Bailey.

  The solicitor was a young man, not more than early thirties: he was blond and tanned, and spoke with a Home Counties accent. He wore a stylish silk tie with swirly patterns on it and sharp grey suit that didn’t look like it had ever hung on a department store rail. He gave his name as James Collins from Grammond and Harvey solicitors, and had insisted from the off that the police had no case against his client. Denning guessed he charged more per hour than a teacher earned in a day.

  Bailey had said very little. A string of denials harmonised with Collins’ continued insistence that there was no evidence to support the allegation that his client was in any way responsible for the murder of Leanne Wyatt. Denning was slowly coming to the realisation that there was probably more than a grain of truth in that.

  What evidence they had was circumstantial: the figure on the CCTV footage from outside the Fleur de Lys bore a faint resemblance to Bailey but, even though the images had been digitally enhanced, it was still impossible to tell for certain that it was Daryl Bailey who’d left the bar with Leanne Wyatt that night. Bailey still had no alibi for the time Leanne was believed to have been killed, but as his solicitor wasn’t shy to point out, he wouldn’t need one if he hadn’t done anything wrong. As if to support this, Trudi Bell had informed Denning that the allegations about Bailey and an underage girl had come to nothing. It seemed that even what little they had on Bailey was slipping like sand through their fingers.

  Denning sat opposite Bailey, McKenna was on his right. She’d told Denning she was going to sit in on the interview and it wasn’t as if he could have refused. She sat so close that he could feel her perfume burning a hole in his sinuses.

  ‘My client has told you all he knows,’ Collins argued. ‘He’s admitted to having had an affair with Leanne Wyatt. The relationship started after she’d left school and not whilst she was still a pupil at Dalston Academy, as has been alleged. They had been in a casual relationship off and on for just under a year. Miss Wyatt was also seeing someone else during this relationship, though she informed my client the relationship with this individual was, and I quote “pretty much finished”. Mr Bailey agreed to meet with Miss Wyatt on the evening of the 23rd in order to tell her their relationship was now over as he suspected she was still involved with this other individual, despite her claims to the contrary. He left the Fleur de Lys bar at approximately 9:30 p.m. on the evening in question. Miss Wyatt was still alive when he left, and CCTV in the bar should have been able to confirm that. The bar manager has admitted that the bar was busy that evening, and he can’t confirm whether the man he saw talking to Leanne Wyatt after 9:30 p.m. was Mr Bailey, or someone else. He claims he simply assumed it was the same man. Mr Bailey did not hear about Miss Wyatt’s tragic death until the following afternoon, when Detective Inspector Denning and Detective Sergeant Neeraj informed him that she had been murdered. He admits he initially panicked and lied about his relationship with Leanne, but subsequently acknowledged this.’ Collins was clearly reading from a prepared script. When he’d finished, he sat up straight, closed the folder on the table in front of him, and locked eyes with Denning. ‘There is no proof, no probative evidence that links Mr Bailey to the murder of Leanne Wyatt. My client should be free to leave.’

  ‘Why did you lie to DI Denning and DS Neeraj when they first spoke to you, Mr Bailey?’ McKenna asked. There was a slight edge to her voice and Denning wondered if she’d locked horns with James Collins on a previous occasion.

  ‘I have already explained that, DCI McKenna: my client panicked. He realised the kind of assumptions your officers would make if he admitted he’d been in a relationship with Miss Wyatt.’

  ‘And what would that assumption be, Mr Collins?’ McKenna was cool and steady in her questioning, but Denning suspected she was fighting back the temptation to reach over the metal table and stub out a cheroot on Collins’s forehead.

  Collins sighed. He and Bailey exchanged glances, but Bailey’s gaze dropped to the floor as soon as Denning looked at him. ‘A teacher in a relationship with a former pupil: society likes to make judgements, DCI McKenna. I expect the police are no different.’

  Bailey sat there like a chastened child on the naughty step. No doubt Collins had told him to keep schtum and speak only when spoken to. The tactic seemed to be working.

  Denning decided it was time he contributed something to the conversation, reminding himself that this was his gig and not McKenna’s. ‘I suspect your moral reticence stems more from guilt than concern at society’s censure, Mr Bailey, but the fact is you lied to us. You deliberately withheld important information at a time when it was vital we were in possession of all the facts. Your lies could have jeopardised our investigation.’

  Bailey didn’t reply. Denning thought if he looked any more sheepish he would actually start baaing. It was down to Collins to offer comment: ‘You are very welcome to charge my client with wasting police time, inspector, but equally, my cl
ient is well within his rights to bring a charge of wrongful arrest and police harassment against the Met, and I would say, he would probably have a very strong case.’ He fixed his gaze on Denning. ‘It’s up to you, inspector.’

  Denning was conscious of McKenna sitting next to him: the stale whiff of cheroot and the faint aroma of Glenmorangie assailing his nostrils. They would have to let Bailey walk. They didn’t have enough charge him, and everybody in the room knew it.

  He was just about to tell Collins his client was free to leave when Bailey suddenly piped up: ‘It’s all my fault. I’m to blame for what happened.’ His outburst earned him a stern look form Collins but he continued unabated. ‘We’d argued that night, at the bar. She didn’t want to end things, claimed she loved me. She insisted it was over between her and Gregor Kane. She told me she hated him. She seemed different: like she was agitated, wired…’ He shook his head. ‘She even used her little boy against me, saying Charlie saw me as a dad. I said I didn’t want that: I wasn’t going to play daddy to someone else’s kid.’ He looked at his solicitor, who gave a sharp shake of his head in the hope of preventing his client from saying anything potentially incriminating. Bailey ignored him and continued. ‘Leanne was just too clingy. She wanted a father for her child, and I don’t blame her for that. But the truth is I was only looking for a bit of fun. Girls like Leanne… It’s not as if they’re for keeps.’

  * * *

  McKenna caught up with Denning by the lift. ‘Well, that was a load of old wank.’

  Denning pressed the button to summon the lift. ‘We had to let him go. We had nothing on him and that super smooth solicitor knew it.’

  ‘So we had one suspect and now we’ve let him walk out of here. It doesn’t look great, does it?’

  The lift doors slid open and they both got in. As soon as the doors closed Denning felt a sudden tightness in his chest: McKenna’s fiery breath, exacerbated by the lack of air in the claustrophobic space. ‘We’ve examined every area of Leanne Wyatt’s private life. She had no enemies that we know of, and the only people in her life that might have had any motive for wishing her harm either have a solid alibi or there’s insufficient evidence to convict them. We’re running out of options.’