Finishing his drink, Gates took his laptop, opened it and turned on the power. A website appeared on the screen and he started to type.
Time for one last fishing trip.
NICK GOT TO THE MARMALADE Café half an hour early. It was somewhere to unwind outside of his house and somewhere that didn’t serve alcohol. The café was a bit of a find, he thought. It was cosy and modern with its painted wooden tables, blackboards with menus and its olive-and-brown colour scheme. Hipster chic, they called it. Fiona Pearson would like it here. It was definitely more Chester than Llancastell.
Nick checked his phone but there was nothing to suggest that Amanda wasn’t going to meet him there. He had decided anyway. He would listen and support her in her early recovery. Even though he was only a few months sober, Nick had been around enough to know what to suggest to remain sober. His problem in the past had always been not doing what he was told to do or not asking for help. That Amanda had texted him when she needed support was a good sign that she didn’t have an ego like his, which had told him that he could get sober on his own. It never worked. It was the basics of Steps One, Two and Three.
As he waited, Nick ran through what he had learnt about Harvey Pearson’s murder so far. The scars and the troubled times at boarding school. His recent interest in looking back at those days and contacting an old schoolmate. The chance sighting of an old teacher whom he had said he would gladly kill. How did that fit in with his murder on Snowdon? It was the only thing in Harvey’s life that seemed out of the ordinary. His murder had been deliberate and targeted, but who had a motive to kill him? Unless it was a random act of violence? But they were rare and the strangulation after the fall suggested it was personal.
Just as Nick finished his black Americano, the door opened and Amanda walked in. She wore a camel-coloured overcoat, her hair was tied into a ponytail and as Nick looked her up and down, he could see she was wearing smart high heels.
She looked around for a moment, spotted him and then smiled. Her eyes twinkled in the soft lights. Oh God, this is never going to work. She was stunning and his pulse was quickening. How was he meant to keep this platonic?
‘Nick. Thanks for this,’ she said as she unwrapped her long scarf and took off her coat.
Nick got up and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘No problem. Come and sit down. What do you want?’
‘Oh, if they do a herbal tea, I’ll have camomile,’ she said.
‘Living the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, eh?’ Nick said sardonically as he went over to the counter. ‘Cake?’ he asked. Amanda didn’t look like she ate cake.
She just smiled and shook her head as she settled herself at the table.
For the next half an hour, Amanda told Nick her history of drinking. Binge drinking at university like everyone else. It was when the stress of being on the Child Protection team got too much that she started to drink every day. A bottle of wine a night turned into two. The hangovers got worse and the goalposts continually moved. She would engineer her work so she could legitimately drink at lunchtime. And she wasn’t sure when she crossed the line, but soon she was having a glass of wine before work. And that turned into vodka in her handbag and nipping to the toilet at work. She loved her job and didn’t want to get sacked. But she wasn’t sure how to stop drinking and stay stopped.
Nick reassured her that he had heard this progression many times in AA meetings. It was a progressive illness and there was no way back to safe drinking. It never got better. She needed to come to meetings and listen, to start with. Talk to other alkies and get advice. He could help her.
They got another drink and Amanda went outside for a cigarette.
When she returned, she sat and put her hand on Nick’s arm. ‘It’s such a relief to get all that off my chest.’
Despite the clanging of alarm bells in his head, Nick put his hand on hers for a moment. ‘Talking about how you feel and what you’re thinking makes all the difference. And this is from me, a rugby-loving Welshman.’
She laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you. You’re easy to talk to and you’re really open about yourself. It’s a breath of fresh air as most blokes I know are dishonest, arrogant wankers.’
Nick smiled. ‘Hey, get off that fence and say what you really feel.’
Amanda laughed again, leaned in a little and whispered. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’
‘What’s that?’ Nick asked quietly. Even her whisper was sexy, for God’s sake!
‘No, doesn’t matter.’ Amanda moved back a little.
‘Go on.’ Unless his imagination was playing tricks on him, there was growing sexual tension in the air.
‘Well ... when I normally sit chatting to someone like this, I’ve had a drink. Well, more than one drink. It feels different because I’m sober.’
‘Good different, or bad different?’ Nick felt his willpower being pulled back and forth in his head like a frantic game of baseline tennis.
‘I don’t know. When you’ve had a drink, you say stuff because you feel disinhibited. You care less. You know what I mean?’ Amanda looked directly into Nick’s eyes and his whole body fizzled for a second.
‘I think so. I suppose it depends on what you want to say?’ Nick smirked. He knew that they were playing a little game of poker. And rather than folding, he was now in the game and raising the stakes.
‘It’s embarrassing.’ Amanda continued to look at him. ‘Come on, Nick, you know what I mean?’
Nick sat back for a moment and took a breath. The air was crackling with it.
Amanda picked up her phone and looked over at him. ‘Pick up your phone.’
Nick picked up the phone and frowned. What was she doing now? ‘Why?’
‘I think I can replicate the effect of booze.’ Amanda smiled and tapped at her phone.
‘Are you texting me?’ Nick laughed.
‘No.’ Amanda giggled, looking at her phone and continuing to tap.
Nick’s screen flashed with a text message:
I know what you said the other day. But I think we really connect. And I’ve fancied you for the last three years. There. I’ve said it. Now I feel very stupid!! xx
Nick read it. It was out in the open now. This was not good.
‘I think I’ll go outside for a cigarette. Then I can go home and feel embarrassed for the rest of the evening.’
As Amanda got up and started to wrap the scarf around her neck, Nick stood up beside her and took her hand. He put his arm around her waist, pulled her close and looked at her.
Amanda smiled. ‘Maybe the cigarette can wait?’
Nick kissed her, soft at first, and then building as they pulled each other close. He could feel the contours of her body pushed against his.
After a minute, they stopped and looked at each other. Nick had played his hand and now all bets were off.
‘You know, I only live five minutes’ walk from here,’ Amanda sighed. ‘I’m just saying, in case you want to walk me home, like a gentleman.’
They held hands as they walked along the high street. Christmas decorations and lights hung across the street in a magical criss-cross. Even though there were doubts in his mind, Nick couldn’t remember the last time he felt this happy.
Ten minutes later, Amanda had led Nick into her flat and then into her bedroom. They kissed and giggled.
They made love with an intensity that Nick forgot he had. He hadn’t been with a woman sober for many years. It felt electric and alive. His skin tingled all over. They both climaxed within minutes and then lay breathing deeply in the darkness.
‘MISTLETOE AND HOLLY’ by Frank Sinatra was playing from somewhere inside Ruth’s home. It was dark and cold outside, but the fire was glowing orange with coal. Ruth and Sian were cuddling in the kitchen as Ella walked in.
‘Oh God, get a room!’ Ella exclaimed, hiding her eyes in feigned horror.
‘We’ve got a room, thank you.’ Ruth smiled as she went and switched on the dishwasher.
Sian
moved over to the fridge to get some wine and pour them drinks.
Ruth put her arm around Ella’s shoulder and escorted her towards the living room.
‘Come on, mush, I need to show you these flats I found for you online,’ Ruth said.
The living room was in virtual darkness. The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner but didn’t have any presents under it. Ruth could smell the waft of pine from the tree. It was a long way from the small artificial Woolworth’s tree they’d had in their flat in Battersea when she was a child.
‘Very subtle, Mum,’ Ella said.
Ruth could tell she was annoyed as they sat down but Ruth grabbed her laptop anyway.
‘You know I love having you here ...’ Ruth began. Maybe it wasn’t the most sensitive way to have approached the topic, but Ella couldn’t stay there for ever.
‘But you’re just going to show me some flats that I can rent before you pack my bags and shove me out of the door,’ Ella said.
For a moment, Ruth thought Ella was joking. Then she saw the look on her face.
‘It’s fine. Sorry. We’ll do it another time, darling,’ Ruth said as she closed the laptop and put it down.
‘No, no. Show me. If I get my skates on, I could be out before Christmas,’ Ella snapped. Ruth had definitely touched a nerve.
‘I thought you wanted your own place and to be independent?’ Ruth asked.
‘I’m pretty sure you said, “Stay as long as you want,” when I moved in. But that’s fine,’ Ella growled.
‘Come on. Do you really want to live with two boring old lesbians?’ Ruth said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Oi, I heard that,’ Sian said coming into the room with glasses of wine. She put them down and retrieved her phone from her pocket.
Ella stood up and said, ‘I’m getting used to you being emotionally unavailable to me. It’s what I expect.’
‘Ella ...’ Ruth said. Ow. That hurt. Mainly because it had been true for the past few years. Ruth felt overwhelmed with guilt.
Ella left the room and went upstairs. Ruth decided to leave her for a few minutes to calm down before going to apologise.
Sian was still staring at her phone and typing away.
‘Kids are great,’ Ruth said sardonically.
‘Eh?’ Sian wasn’t listening. She was completely absorbed by whatever she was doing on her phone.
Ruth gave her a quizzical look. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Work stuff.’ Sian was preoccupied looking at the screen.
‘Are you going to elaborate?’ Ruth asked, annoyed that she was being cryptic.
‘Fishing. I’m doing some online fishing,’ Sian explained.
Then the penny dropped.
‘Your U’veGotMale account?’ Ruth asked. Sian had filled her in earlier on the online profile and trap that had been set.
‘Exactly. And I think I’m about to get a bite.’ Sian sat up and pulled a surprised face. ‘Shit!’
‘Be careful. We don’t know who this person is,’ Ruth said in a worried tone. She immediately felt protective towards Sian.
‘Bingo!’ Sian said, ignoring her.
‘Are you listening to me?’ Ruth asked.
‘No.’
Ruth was now darkly fascinated. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re on.’ Sian tapped her screen excitedly. ‘I’m talking to NightPorter and he wants to meet me for a drink tomorrow lunchtime.’
CHAPTER 11
The morning briefing had started late because Drake was late. Ruth noticed that he seemed preoccupied as he came in and put his folders down next to her. It wasn’t like him. Drake was always calm and focussed.
‘Everything all right, boss?’ Ruth asked in a hushed voice.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Drake replied, but she wasn’t convinced. ‘Do you want to start us off, Ruth?’
Pointing to the scene boards, Ruth said, ‘Morning, everyone. If we can get started, please ... We know that Stefan Olsen met an unknown man in Bar Lounge in Bala. He disappeared that night. His DNA has now been found along with that of two other males in the blocked sewer in Pentredwr. So we know he was murdered. And we think it is likely that the man he met that night murdered him and disposed of his remains at the Gateses’ house in Pentredwr.’
‘What about access to the house?’ Drake asked.
‘We don’t know if or how the killer had access to number four Abbey Terrace. We don’t know if the owner, Andy Gates’ – Ruth pointed to a photo of Gates on the board – ‘had any involvement in Stefan’s or anyone else’s murder. Stefan Olsen used a dating site, U’veGotMale, to meet the man, whom we only know as NightPorter ... Sian?’
Sian looked at her notes for a moment. ‘We set up a fake account on U’veGotMale, replicating a lot of the details of Stefan Olsen’s dating profile. Last night, at 9 p.m., someone contacted my fake account calling himself NightPorter. After an initial conversation, NightPorter agreed to meet me for a lunchtime drink at Bar One Hundred in Llancastell.’
‘Why have we chosen Bar One Hundred?’ Drake asked.
‘It’s well positioned for this type of undercover operation. The bar has only one way out. It is open plan with no back or side rooms,’ Ruth explained.
‘Nick will act as our date for the operation,’ Drake explained.
Sian smirked for a moment and Nick gave her a withering look. ‘Sian, if you say anything, I will swing for you.’
Sian held up her hands in an innocent gesture. ‘This is serious, Nick. I wouldn’t make a joke.’
‘Nick has had nothing to do with the Stefan Olsen case nor the remains at Abbey Terrace. There’s nothing to suggest that NightPorter will be able to identify Nick as a police officer,’ Ruth explained.
‘Plus, Nick has a certain quality that makes him the perfect choice for a gay blind date,’ Sian joked.
Ruth wasn’t sure what she made of the casual homophobia that passed for acceptable ‘banter’ in CID. She was a gay woman in a gay relationship. However, any preachy political correctness would be greeted negatively. It wasn’t her style anyway.
There was laughter and Nick gave Sian the finger.
‘Struck a nerve, have I, Nick?’ Sian quipped.
Nick gestured to Merringer who was sitting close by. ‘It’s not like we’re spoilt for choice in here. If Luke turned up, the suspect would take one look and run away.’
Merringer gave Nick the wanker hand gesture and there was more laughter.
‘All right, everyone,’ Drake said, trying to get them to focus.
Ruth smiled. Black humour really was the only way to get through the day sometimes.
‘Nick will wear a wire, and as soon as the man identifies himself as NightPorter, we’ll move in and arrest him,’ Ruth explained.
Ruth knew that the use of any evidence gained in these types of ‘sting’ operations had been rendered untrustworthy ever since the Met tried to entrap Colin Stagg into admitting to the stabbing of Rachel Nickell on Wimbledon Common in 1992. The evidence obtained by an undercover female police officer was thrown out of Stagg’s trial at the Old Bailey in 1994 as the judge deemed that it had been gained by complete deception and coercion and therefore had no place in any criminal trial.
So, Nick could ask the man they knew to be NightPorter if he had murdered three men. NightPorter could admit that he had. However, because of the nature of the undercover operation and how the confession had been acquired, it would be regarded as unsafe and not admissible in a criminal trial. It was easier to get the suspect into custody and question him so that everything was above board.
‘Thank you, everyone. I want you all to be very careful today.’ Drake called a halt to that morning’s briefing and his tone was serious. ‘And Nick. First sign of anything you’re not comfortable with, you call for back-up. This man, whoever he is, has killed at least three people. I don’t want anyone to take any risks. Clear?’
Ruth could see that everyone was starting to get nervous and the tension was growing in th
e room.
Nick nodded. ‘Yes, boss. Let’s get the bastard.’
BEFORE GATES GOT TO Bar One Hundred, he had stopped at another pub along the way for some Dutch courage. The Red Lion was so old that his grandfather used to drink there. It was old-fashioned, basic and full of regulars and drunks. Some office workers in red Santa hats were playing darts noisily and shouting.
Gates stood at the bar, drinking whisky and hoping that no one would recognise him. He knew that was silly. He hadn’t been in the pub for nearly twenty years. It was just his paranoia. Even so, he was convinced the couple in the corner were talking and laughing about him. He turned his back and faced the bar. That would show them that he wasn’t scared. That’s what he did at school when he was bullied.
Then his thoughts turned to his grandfather, or Taid Lane as he called him. Alfie Lane, once a chief petty officer in the Royal Navy. He had been proud of his taid. He was the only person in his family he could ever talk to and also the only male influence in his life. His father had left the family home when Gates was only three so he couldn’t remember him. No one ever saw Gates’s father again. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth. And so Gates tried not to remember the father who had abandoned him.
What Gates liked to remember was sitting and bouncing on his taid’s big, broad shoulders as they went down country lanes. Often, they went off in their own little world, playing on beaches and skimming stones. His taid used to find lost golf balls when they cut across the fairways of the local golf course. Then, to his delight, his taid would cut them open with a knife, unwind the rubber into a long strand and fish out the bag of liquid rubber at its centre. It felt like magic.
And then one sunny, peaceful Sunday morning, Taid Lane had dropped dead in front of Gates in the living room of his cottage. Gates was only eight. He sat with his taid’s body on the floor, holding his hand and stroking his hair, listening to the birds chirping, until his mother came to pick him up in the evening. There was no phone and he was miles from home, and he didn’t want to leave his taid’s side.
The Dee Valley Killings Page 8