As she crossed over the A35 on the edge of the town, her phone rang: Dennis.
She hit hands free. “How’d you get on then?”
“Hello to you, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t do pleasantries.”
“Doesn’t hurt to be polite,” he said.
She gritted her teeth. Dennis had his foibles. He liked things done the old-fashioned way, the polite way. But he was taking it too far.
“Just tell me how it went,” she told him.
“We spoke to all three partners,” he said. “Nevin, Cross and Short.”
At the mention of Elsa’s name, Lesley’s foot went to the brake pedal. A car honked its horn behind her. She looked in the mirror and waved in apology.
“Wait a moment, Dennis.” She pulled over. When she was parked in a lay-by, she grabbed the phone. “Tell me what they said.”
“Not much boss. Nevin insisted that the Steven Leonard case was nothing to do with Ameena, he said it was him.”
“But Bournemouth told you...”
“He says Bournemouth were wrong.”
“Why would they be wrong?” she asked. “And then there’s the court record.”
“He’s insistent that it was his case, not hers. He says the court record was wrong because Bournemouth got it wrong.”
“But you said you spoke to one of your old colleagues.”
“DS Biggins. He told me he dealt with Ameena Khan personally.”
“So why would Harry Nevin lie about it?” she asked. “He’s a senior partner in a major local law firm. Why would he lie to make us think that he was dealing with a minor possession with intent to supply case?”
“I don’t know, boss,” said Dennis. “But I think we should follow it up.”
“I agree. Where are you now?”
“Just outside Bournemouth. On our way back to the office. Johnny’s driving, I can’t be doing with hands-free.”
Lesley smiled. “Get digging when you’re back. Call ahead to Mike and Tina and tell them to make a start.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m on my way to the forensics lab. They should have the enhanced photos for us. Maybe the DNA.” She started the car.
“There was something else,” Dennis added.
Lesley turned the car off. “Yes?”
“Ameena Khan’s PA,” Dennis said. “The one who grabbed you in the street yesterday. She’s on sick leave.”
“She didn’t seem very sick to me.”
“Aurelia Cross told us she’d gone off sick. Apparently she’s very ill and we should leave her alone.”
“Mmm,” said Lesley. “That sounds more than a coincidence to me.” She pictured the look on the young woman’s face when she’d grabbed her in the street. She’d been scared. Maybe she was right to be.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Gail could email her those photos. “I’ll follow it up. You go back to the office, look into the Steven Leonard case. I’ll track down Sam.”
“Sam?” Dennis asked.
“The PA,” she told him. “She’s got a name.”
“Of course.” Dennis hung up.
She dialled again. “Mike,” she said, “Have you got me that address yet?”
Chapter Eighteen
Tina stiffened as the sarge and Johnny arrived back in the office.
She preferred it when they were out, feeling more comfortable in Mike’s company. Mike didn’t look at her like she was an imposter. To be fair, Johnny didn’t do it all the time, only when the sarge was with him. Johnny was like a different person when DS Frampton was in the room. But she could tell the DS didn’t approve of her. He didn’t like having a PC in the team. Either that, or he wasn’t good at working with women.
Mike put down his phone. “How’d you get on?”
Dennis’s glance flicked from Mike to Tina. “Not too well.”
He sat down at his chair and turned on his computer. Mike watched him, waiting for more information. Tina slumped in her chair. She was getting used to this. As soon as she left the room, they would be swapping stories, updating each other on the case. But as far as the DS was concerned, she didn’t need to be involved.
Johnny gave her a wink. “Everything OK back here?”
She smiled in response. “All fine.”
Mike had wheeled his chair towards Johnny. He spoke to his colleague in a low voice. Tina sighed and went back to her computer.
She wouldn’t let this get to her. She would prove that she could do this job, that she was a worthy member of the team. She didn’t know if they were being like this because of her uniform or because of her sex. Either way, the only way through it was to knuckle down and get on with the job.
Major Crimes had never had a PC on the team. And if the sarge had his way, she wouldn’t last. But she liked working for the DCI. She enjoyed getting stuck into cases like this. She wanted to keep this job, and she didn’t want to ruffle any feathers.
She went back to the Steven Leonard file. The man had a string of previous offences: possession, burglary, minor assault, low-level but persistent. He’d had a number of suspended sentences, spent most of his adult life with a collar around his ankle. Before that, there had been two stays in youth detention centres. His first drugs arrest had been at the age of sixteen. His employer was recorded as the responsible adult, it seemed his parents were out of the picture.
The employer was a man called Arthur Kelvin. Tina knew that name.
She checked further into the files. The business Leonard had been working in was Hamworthy Scrap Metal. She’d visited it a couple of times when she was in uniform. CID suspected it was a front for a money laundering operation. But as far as she knew, they’d never made anything stick.
If Steven Leonard had that many prior offences to his name, how had he got such a light sentence for possession with intent to supply? None of it made sense. Unless it had something to do with his employer.
She looked past her screen. “Sarge?”
The sarge looked up. “Yes, Tina?” His voice made her think of a bored schoolteacher humouring the slowest member of the class.
She swallowed. “I think you might want to look at this.”
He stood up and strolled around her desk, making it clear he wasn’t in a hurry. She pointed at the screen. “Steven Leonard’s first offence was when he was sixteen, Sarge. He was working for Hamworthy Scrap Metal at the time. Arthur Kelvin acted as his responsible adult in the police interviews.”
Dennis frowned. “Have you spoken to the DCI about this?”
“I’ve only just spotted it.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll tell her if she needs to know.”
“Of course.”
He returned to his desk.
“Do you think here might be a—?” she asked, flinching when he cut her off.
“I doubt that it’s relevant, Tina.”
“But if there’s a link to the—”
“Leave it, Constable,” he said. “We need to focus on the law firm. This isn’t connected.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sam Chaston, Ameena’s PA, lived in a narrow terraced house in Springbourne, a suburb east of the centre of Bournemouth.
Lesley parked her car outside and surveyed the street. It was quiet at this time of day, the only movement a woman walking towards a small row of shops at the far end.
She surveyed Sam’s house. No sign of life. The curtains in the front window were closed and the front door was firmly shut.
She started up the path, checking the neighbours’ houses for movement, and knocked on the door. After a few moments, it opened a crack, the chain still fastened. Lesley held up her ID.
“Sam Chaston? I’m DCI Clarke, we spoke yesterday.”
Sam shook her head.
Lesley put her hand on the door. “Can I come in, please?”
Sam looked past Lesley into the street. “What’s this about?”
“It’s abo
ut what you were so eager to talk to me about yesterday.”
Sam’s eyes roamed Lesley’s face. “You can’t stay long.” She unlatched the chain and opened the door, her movements clumsy. She stood in the doorway, looking at Lesley like she expected her to bite. Her eyes were wide and her skin flushed.
Lesley gave her a smile. She looked the younger woman up and down. Sam was wearing a purple suit and a smart white blouse. She was fully made up and her hair was neat.
“You don’t look sick,” Lesley said.
“Sorry?”
“Your employers told us you were off sick.”
“Oh, no, it’s just that with Ameena dead, there’s not really anything for me to do.”
Lesley frowned. That wasn’t what they’d been told.
“Please,” she said, “I’m sure you’d rather we have this conversation inside.”
Sam peered over Lesley’s shoulder, looking across the street. “It’s not a good time,” she said.
“You seemed anxious to talk to me yesterday, what’s changed?” Lesley looked past the woman into the hallway. A collapsed push chair leaned against a wall and toys were scattered at the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve got a kiddie?”
Sam nodded. “Daughter. She’s at nursery.”
“Just the one?” Lesley asked.
Sam nodded.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” said Sam. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem nervous.”
“I can’t jeopardise my job,” Sam said. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Have you been threatened by someone? Someone from your firm?”
“No, of course not.” Sam’s gaze flicked over Lesley’s shoulder again. Her jaw slackened.
She grabbed the door and pushed it towards Lesley.
“Please, I need you to leave.”
Lesley looked round.
A brown Fiesta had parked behind her car and a man was getting out. He had long greasy hair and the kind of face that would make any woman run the other way. His car had long scratches down the side. This wasn’t the smartest of locations, but he still didn’t fit. She doubted very much that he lived here.
She turned back to Sam. “Is he here for you?”
The door was closed.
Lesley’s shoulders dropped. She turned and walked towards the man. As she approached, he frowned at her and turned away. He scrambled into the car and drove off.
Lesley stood on the pavement, watching the car disappear. What the hell was going on?
Chapter Twenty
Gail was working through Google satellite views of the crime scene when her phone rang. She grabbed it, her eyes still on her computer screen.
“Hi Gail, it’s Sunil.”
Sunil Chaudhary was a member of the digital forensics team. Gail had sent him the photos from Ameena’s camera in the hope he could enhance them. In particular, the photo of the hand.
“Have you got anything for me?” she asked.
“Good news,” he replied.
She leaned back in her chair, signalling to Brett who was at the desk behind her. “Go on,” she said to Sunil.
“I’m confident it’s a man’s hand. The proportions of the fingers, the thickness of the knuckles, and the ring looks like a man’s ring.”
She sat up. “What ring?”
“It’s indistinct in silhouette, but when you enhance the photo and improve the lighting, he’s definitely wearing a ring.”
“What kind of ring?” she asked. Brett pushed his chair over to her desk. His eyes explored her face.
“It’s a signet ring,” Sunil said. “Square. Silver, possibly white gold. I reckon it’s silver judging by the scratches on it.”
“Any engraving? Any distinctive marks?”
“Can’t see any, sorry. Just a ring.”
“What finger is it on?” she asked.
“His ring finger.”
“Which hand is it?”
She hadn’t been able to tell from the original version of the photo. It was either a right hand taken from the back or a left hand taken from the palm.
“It’s his right hand,” Sunil said, “which means it’s probably not a wedding ring.”
“In that case, you can make out the square of the signet ring?”
“I certainly can,” came the reply. “It should be in your inbox right now.”
She opened the email from Sunil. Sure enough, there was an enhanced version of the photograph of the man’s hand, the ring clear. It was silver with a squared-off top, and a few scratches on the side. There was an engraving but she couldn’t make out the details.
She peered at Brett. “Look familiar to you?”
He shook his head, staring at her screen.
“Thanks Sunil,” she said. “I owe you one.”
“You can buy me a drink next time we’re in the pub,” he replied.
“I’ll do that.”
She turned to Brett. “We need to track this down, find where it came from.”
“It could have come from anywhere,” he said. “It’s just a ring.”
She shook her head. “It’s chunky, looks expensive. Depending on what it’s made of…”
“A ring like that is silver,” Brett said, cocking his head. “It costs what, a hundred, couple of hundred quid? Not that expensive.”
Gail raised an eyebrow. “D’you buy yourself a lot of expensive jewellery?”
He laughed. “No.”
“OK,” she said, “We’ll give it to the investigating team. See if they can track down the jewellers.”
“Do you want me to look at jewellers instead?” Brett asked.
“No, it’s their job.”
“It might be local,” he said. “I’ve got a mate who…”
“Brett,” she told him. “It’s not our job to track down jewellers. You carry on with what you’re doing. I’ll call Lesley.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Lesley hammered on the door to Sam’s house. “Sam, let me in! Who was that man?”
“Go away,” came Sam’s voice. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Sam, please. Who is he? Why are you scared of him?”
“Your lot must have told them. They know.”
Lesley looked back in the direction the man had driven off in. She could have followed him, but she had photos of his car – and number plate.
She flipped open the letterbox and peered through. She could see Sam’s feet at the bottom of the stairs. “I know you’re scared, Sam, but I’m here to help. If you think of anything, if you want to talk to me, call me. You’ve got my mobile number.”
“Go away.”
Lesley sighed. She let the letterbox fall and walked back to her car. She still needed to go to Dorchester, to the forensics lab. She gripped the steering wheel as she drove, her jaw clenched.
She tried calling Dennis but his line was engaged. Damn. What’s he doing?
She had photos on her phone. The car, the man, the number plates. Assuming the car belonged to him, and those plates weren’t false, they’d track him down.
She dialled again; Mike this time.
“Hello, boss.”
“Mike, I’m sending you some photos. I want you to identify this man.”
“What man?”
“I just went to Sam Chaston’s house and this man turned up while I was there. I’m certain she was scared of him. I’m wondering if he was sent to threaten her.”
“By the law firm?”
“I don’t know. But whoever he is, we need his identity.”
“No problem, boss. Send them over.”
“I’ll email them to you now.”
She checked her rear-view mirror and indicated to pull over. She was on a dual carriageway, a parking spot just ahead. She stopped the car and pulled her phone out of its holder. Moments later, she’d fired off an email to Mike with the photos attached.
She was about to drive off when the phone rang. The number was wi
thheld.
She picked up. “Mike, you got them?”
“Who’s Mike?”
Shit. She knew that voice.
She started the ignition and pulled away. “Terry, I’m working.”
“We need to talk, Lesley,” her husband said.
“I just told you, I’m working. I’m on a murder case, and I’m driving too.”
“You’re on hands-free. It’s never stopped you before.”
“Have you called just to criticise me, or have you got something to say?”
The last time Lesley had spoken to Terry in person had been when she’d gone home for a surprise visit. She’d had a meeting in Birmingham and had decided to go home the night before. She’d walked into the house and found his mistress standing in the kitchen.
“What is it then?” she snapped, speeding up.
“I was a shit, sorry.”
She barked out a laugh. “What d’you want, Terry?”
“I think we should talk calmly. One human being to another. Not through lawyers.”
Now she knew why he was calling.
“You’ve seen the letter,” she said. “From my solicitor.”
She’d hired a man called Christopher Draper, a friend of Elsa. Elsa said he was a respected family lawyer and would be able to get her what she was due.
“That’s not why I’m calling,” Terry said.
“Bullshit,” Lesley replied. “You think you’re going to lose the house. You think you’re going to lose custody of Sharon. She told me you’ve been fighting.”
“That’s none of your—”
“I’m her mum, Terry. I need to know if you’ve been getting at her.”
“You’re two hundred fucking miles away,” he said.
“A hundred and forty miles to be precise, and she’s been down here every weekend. Clearly she doesn’t want to spend time with you and your fancy woman.”
“She’s not my fancy woman,” he said. “Her name’s Julieta.”
Lesley gripped the steering wheel. She should slow down. She should stop the car.
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