SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS

by M. G. Cole

“Well, it was just a matter of time…”

  “And since this morning they have wised up to the arrest of your Romanian. I wonder how they learned about that?”

  “There are no leaks in my team,” he replied defensively. “Maybe if his solicitor thought a bit of press noise would help his client…?”

  “Hardly. With people’s current attitudes, they’ll have judged him guilty already. And you’ve just told me he isn’t guilty.”

  “Not of murder at least. Maybe accessory, I don’t–”

  “You don’t know. Exactly.” They stopped at the door to the boardroom. Drury’s face softened as she looked him up and down, and her voice hushed. “David, listen. I went out to bat for you when you said you were ready to come back. You answer to me, but I have to answer to others, and blindly throwing resources at a case that, frankly, isn’t even half-formed, doesn’t look good for me.”

  “No case is half-formed, even when it’s cracked. You know that. It’s always a race to tie-up loose ends.”

  “But that’s all you have. Loose ends. A suspect in custody who couldn’t have killed the girl and a circumstantial suspect. Your evidence is so thin, even that wet-fish of a solicitor the trucker is using, could punch through it.”

  She placed her hand on the door handle to open it, then paused. She closed her eyes and reluctantly said. “I’ll find fifty officers for the search. As for Thorpe, until you bring me something damming, you’ll have to follow in his shadow yourself.”

  10

  Peter Thorpe enjoyed his day off work by having a lie-in. His apartment was on the second floor of the newly built luxury Victoria Apartments, opposite the modernistic Curious Brewery and a stone’s throw away from Ashford International station.

  Garrick sat in his Land Rover, shivering as the snow fell harder. He’d parked on George Street and had a clear view of the apartment complex’s entrance. He’d come alone in order to maximise his team’s efforts to search for the phone. All the gains they’d made with fifty new bodies were rapidly being undermined by the weather forecast’s warning of another Beast from the East blizzard.

  Thorpe’s car was still in the private car park, a brand new sporty black Audi A1 Vorsprung. A vehicle that was well above Garrick’s price point, and one that should be out of reach for a cook in a service station. The apartment was certainly beyond his scope, yet record showed that he’d bought it five months ago. Not bad for a recently divorced man on a salary that barely scraped minimum wage. Of course, these were all circumstantial clues pointing to ill-gotten gains. Garrick just hoped that he hadn’t had a lottery windfall, or a recently deceased rich uncle who had paid for it all.

  He occasionally had to turn the ignition on so that the window wipers could flick snow away. A task they struggled to do each time. He hated surveillance work, considering it a massive time drain. He preferred to let the junior officers do it. For them it was a novelty to sit and do nothing – and be paid for it. He’d considered deploying PC Wilkes, but had a change of heart the more he thought about it. It was the obvious lie Peter Thorpe had told him that rankled. By not coming up with an excuse to cover his minute conversation, he had exposed a chink in his statement. Garrick knew what would come next, Thorpe’s casual deflection that he has casually asked her where she was from, then promptly forgot such an innocent trade of civility. That was exactly why Garrick needed something a little more solid before they arrested him.

  An hour into the operation and Garrick’s teeth were chattering. The snow was sticking to the pavement and the road he was parked on, while the gritted main road remained clear for now. He read a text from Chib. The last signals from the girl’s phone indicated it hadn’t moved for a day before the battery died, and more detailed analysis positioned it on the north side of the motorway, somewhere on the steep Castle Hill, a mile from where her body had been found.

  Reclining his seat a little, so he could still see the apartment entrance as he looked at his phone, he impulsively checked his HeartFelt app and felt a thrill to see that Wendy had replied, suggesting a drink Saturday early evening. He replied, admiring the fact she’d suggested a perfectly safe time meet – then rapidly deleted the message when he thought that made him sound like a psychopath. The app allowed people to mention their jobs, but Garrick had left it blank, under his sister’s advice, because she thought telling people he was a copper would put them off. Scrolling through Wendy’s profile again, he noticed she hadn’t mentioned her occupation either. Well, they could surprise each other.

  All he needed to do now was find somewhere impressive to meet up. Not having much of social life, he resorted to Google to find the best places for a Saturday early evening bite on the Kent Downs. He was on his fourth TripAdvisor review when he caught movement from the apartment block.

  Peter Thorpe emerged, zipping up his waist-length jacket as he was struck by the chill air. He quickly walked onto George Street and headed to the junction opposite the Curious Brewery. As he did so, he put on a dark grey trapper’s hat that covered his ears. Thorpe exited his car and followed from the other side of the road. By the time Thorpe was crossing Victoria Road, he was on his phone and only paying attention to hurrying between traffic.

  Garrick followed close behind, confident that the snow would obscure his face if Thorpe glanced around. He walked over Beaver Road Bridge, crossing the rail track as a Eurostar thundered past on its way to London St Pancras. He could hear snatches of anger from Thorpe, but the words were lost in the wind. He showed no signs of concern that he was being followed, probably convinced that he had hoodwinked the detective. Good, the more arrogant he was, the more likely he was to make a mistake.

  Over the bridge, the wind whipped the snow in eddies across a busy junction that led to the station entrance to the right, continued out of town ahead, or towards Ashford’s main shops to the left. Thorpe stopped at a pedestrian crossing, still on his phone, then crossed straight ahead to the entrance of Ashford College on the corner.

  He put his phone away as a figure stepped out of the college lobby and walked towards him with angry gesticulations. The teenager, his skin scarred with acne, was likewise putting his own phone away, and now they stood on the corner openly arguing. That posed a problem for Garrick. He couldn’t realistically get close by crossing the road, nor could he simply loiter where he was, as that would look too suspicious.

  He took his phone out and set up the camera, which wasn’t easy with numb fingers. He had left the house ill-prepared for the weather and was now suffering the consequences. He pretended to write an email while discreetly taking several pictures. Then switched to video and hit record. Putting his phone to his ear, he looked as if he was on a call, while he could only hope that he was pointing the camera in the right direction.

  The argument continued. Garrick impulsively crossed the road away from them, and towards the train station just as the pedestrian light turned green. On the other side he saw the teenager had started walking away, then stopped and dragged himself back into the argument. The other side of the street gave Garrick a good vantage point, and he circled around towards a pizza shop a little further up, perfectly poised to snag the student population – just as the teenager again stormed away from the argument, towards the town centre, and away from Garrick. Thorpe hurried after him, still shouting. Garrick darted back across the main road just as the lights changed and traffic inched forward. In his haste, he slipped on the sludge on the road, forcing a bus to hit its brakes. The driver gesturing and silently swearing at Garrick. The move had brought Garrick almost full circle at the junction, but at least on the same side of the road as Thorpe.

  His targets quickened their pace, passing several large semi-detached houses that had been converted into offices, their front driveways providing parking spaces: a solicitor, a dentist, and an account, before finally stepping into the driveway outside a dry cleaner.

  The student had stopped at a battered red Honda hatchback and was stabbing a finger accusingly at Thorpe
. Then the teenager unlocked the back of the hatchback, revealing a cardboard box with several white packages, the size of sugar bags, bound in clear plastic.

  Garrick’s heart pounded. It had to be drugs, but if he’d made a mistake and this was some awful cookery exchange, then he knew he may lose the chance to collar his suspect forever. He had to act now.

  He ran forward, his hand searching for his police ID he usually kept in his wallet pocket.

  “Police! You’re under arrest!”

  The student moves like greased lightning. His eyes widened, and he snarled at Thorpe.

  “You bastard!” With that, he threw himself headlong through the hedge dividing the next property.

  Peter Thorpe instantly recognised Garrick. He raised his hands, then some inner demon seized control, and he sprinted out of the carpark. Garrick sprang in pursuit as Thorpe ran across Elwick Road, his feet skidding as he tried to avoid a taxi honking its horn as he cut across its path. Luckily, the road was a semi-pedestrianised area limiting speeds to 20mph. Thorpe bounced off the bonnet as continued across the road.

  Garrick’s arms pumped as he pursued him in what he considered was the most unspectacular chase in police history. Reaching the other side of the street, Thorpe slipped on the fresh snow – and Garrick cannoned into him. Both men slammed bodily into the narrow truck of a tree, one of many lining the side of the road. Thorpe dropped to the floor, Garrick pining him down, and the snow that had been clinging to the boughs of the tree, falling on them both.

  “You’re nicked, Thorpe!”

  “Okay! Okay!” he panted, evidently physically broken by the tiny jaunt across the street. Unlike the movies, Garrick didn’t carry handcuffs with him, so, keeping Thorpe pinned in the snow with one knee, he had to phone for assistance. By the time a marked car arrived, Garrick couldn’t feel his toes, and judged it to be the most awkward arrest of his career. Still, with very little effort, he had got the bastard.

  Very few cases had ever resolved so easily.

  11

  It turned out not to be so easy after all.

  Unlike his partner in crime, Peter Thorpe was talking from the moment the recording started in the station, only pausing twenty minutes later when his solicitor arrived to warn him not to say anything.

  “I think we’re beyond that,” Garrick said. “Your client is a delightfully chatty chap. It seems he has a lot he wants to get off his chest, isn’t that right, Peter?”

  “Those drugs weren’t mine. I’m just a middleman.”

  Garrick guessed Thorpe was unaware that they’d already made the connection between him and Mircea, or that the Romanian had been arrested. The phone records showed that the two men hadn’t communicated since that night. For now, his ignorance served Garrick well.

  “A well-paid middleman.”

  “Honest, I haven’t been doing this for long. It’s addictive, y’know.”

  “You’re a user?”

  Thorpe was offended. “No! Do I look like an idiot? I meant the money. The money is addictive.”

  Since he was being so open, Garrick ordered a coffee and jam doughnut for the man, and sat back as he crammed it in his mouth and continued his unprompted confession.

  “He brought the stuff over and had his little network dropping it off locally. Kent east was my patch. But, like I said, none of this was my idea.”

  Garrick dripped the pressure on him. “Really? It feels to me like you’re top dog. I’ve seen your car. I’ve seen your apartment. All very nice. You’re a smart man, you can obviously handle an operation of this size.”

  Thorpe held up his hands in panic. “No, no, no! I swear I’m just a fixer.” Garrick smiled inwardly; keep talking you idiot. “Last year I was approached by this trucker. A Romanian fella. I was going through my divorce and was broke. I suppose he heard me bitching about it all to Shelia.” He hesitated. “We were seeing each other for a bit. But when this started up I had to dump her. I didn’t think she could keep her mouth shut.” He had the grace to look genuinely upset about that. Then he sipped his coffee and continued, his hands wrapped around the cup for warmth.

  “He told me about this network he had across the country that bought cocaine from him. Just a few of people, but his bloke in the southeast had gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “I didn’t ask. Probably moved somewhere nicer.” He shrugged. “It was a small operation, we’re not talking Breaking Bad and kneecapping people here. He said he had a method of bringing drugs over that couldn’t be detected. Reckon he had the risky bit, and all I had to do was get it out there. Like I said, I was broke and desperate and, even after the first conversation I could see I could be easily making thirty, forty grand every couple of months. I couldn’t earn that in four years! Who could resist that?”

  Garrick nodded in understanding. A small gesture that kept Thorpe talking, while it didn’t register on the recorded interview as any kind of endorsement.

  “I had the chance to sell to a few drivers who wanted a little pick-me-up, but it was hardly Al Capone money. So I started recruiting people who could help me push it out wider. Noel–”

  “The student who did the runner?” The local force was combing the streets for him, and Garrick was confident that he’d be arrested before the end of the day.

  “Yeah, him. He delivered pizzas to pay for his student loan, and was plugged into the college network, so he was perfect. When he came onboard, I really started to shift the stuff, y’know.”

  “So you built up a network of kids who could sell it for you.”

  Thorpe nodded, but kept his gaze on his drink. Garrick let the silence build. Each passing moment made Thorpe increasingly restless.

  “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I think my client has confessed everything,” the solicitor interjected.

  “Your client appreciates that everything he admits now will help the juries give him leniency when he’s sentenced.” Garrick kept addressing the solicitor, but his words were designed to prickle Thorpe. “He’s clever. He knows trafficking class-A drugs carries weighty sentences. But there are worse crimes…”

  The solicitor gave a curt snort and addressed his client. “Peter, you don’t have to say any more. You’ve said everything you need to, and our friend DCI Garrick is now attempting to get into your head.”

  “That’s an offensive accusation,” Garrick snapped back.

  “Would you perhaps like a solicitor of your own? I can recommend a few.”

  The snooty remark inflamed Garrick. Well, if this pompous windbag wanted to raise the stakes...

  He placed the picture of Jane Doe on the table, this one taken from the restaurant footage.

  “What’s her name?”

  Peter Thorpe transformed from a resigned slump to being suddenly alert. He looked between Garrick and the picture several times. This time he was in no hurry to answer.

  “I don’t know. I told you this already.”

  “Mister Thorpe…” began the lawyer.

  Garrick waved him into silence. “We have already spoken about her, haven’t we, Peter? I just want you to refresh my memory.”

  Thorpe’s tone changed, his words coming as clipped sentences. “She came into the restaurant. She was hungry. I took pity on her and gave her some leftovers.”

  “You said she was a prostitute?”

  “Maybe, yeah. I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Oh. Okay. Only we have footage of her leaving a lorry before coming in and ordering food.”

  “We get girls coming in and out occasionally.” Thorpe shrugged, his eyes fixed on the picture.

  “I remember you telling me. I remember you refused her money and gave her something hot. I thought it was quite a generous thing for anybody to do. But what did you talk about? You surely must have asked her name, or where she was from? You couldn’t have just given her something to eat and walked away.”

  “It was a busy night. The end of one, y’know. We had a lot of clea
ning up to do. There’s no time to sit and chat to anyone. Even the regulars. I gave her the food and got on with stuff. When I looked over again, she’d gone.”

  “Without saying thank you?”

  “She never said a word.”

  “Okay. That confirms what you told me at the restaurant, and I just wanted to check.” He dragged the picture back, but stopped halfway, making sure Thorpe could still see it. “Only, maybe you can help me with this one. The camera inside the restaurant shows you taking the food to her. But you were there for a good minute. And from what I can see, there are no other customers in that corner. Nothing for you to clean up or sort out. It’s just a nice minute when you talk to her, away from everybody else. Unless, of course, you are going to tell me you stood in silence and watched a young, frightened, girl eat. I mean, could you imagine how creepy that sounds?”

  Thorpe lifted his gaze to meet the detective’s. “Maybe, I forgot. Maybe, I asked a few things, but she didn’t tell me anything that I remember.”

  Garrick nodded and let time stretch a little longer before dropping his bombshell. “So she didn’t tell you what she’d been doing with Mircea Secareanu in his truck, for the last forty minutes?”

  Thorpe’s poker face was extemporary, it was only betrayed by the low huskiness of his reply. “W-who…?”

  “Mircea Secareanu.” Garrick feigned surprised. “Oh, don’t you know? Your Romanian business partner. He’s downstairs in a cell. We brought him in yesterday. He said so many interesting things.”

  “Mr Thorpe,” the solicitor wearily chimed in. “Please remember, you are not obliged to say anything.”

  Garrick wagged a finger at the solicitor. “He’s quite right. You’re not. Which is fine, because Mircea told us plenty already.”

  “Like what?”

  “You. Him. Her.” He pushed the photo back towards Thorpe, then leaned back in his seat and waited.

  “I don’t know her name.” He caught Garrick’s eye. “Not her real name. Least I don’t think so. I called her Jamal, and she said he’d come over from Iraq. Her English was good, she could have been from anywhere, she looked half-caste to me.”