Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  Abby made polite conversation as Scott drove. She skirted around the issue, but talked about the case, the motives of the killer, as well as general stuff about what the kids were up to. A part of her wanted to scream and find a quiet corner to have a meltdown. The other half dogged her like a regimental sergeant major, screaming at her, “Pull yourself together you ’orrible little shit. If you want to cry, join the brownies.”

  A strong wind whipped around them as they stepped out of the car. Abby’s hair flew off in all directions, much to her annoyance. At this time of the morning, very few people were about. Dogs ran up and down the beach, tentatively dipping their feet in the water. Their owners watched from afar, wrapped up warmly, hands stuffed in their pockets, and collars up braced against the wind.

  The Seven Sisters chalk cliffs to the east of Seaford rose up from the sea. The brilliance of the white chalk face was offset by the murkiness of the sea below, and the rich greenery above. It was hard not to make a comparison with the White Cliffs of Dover. It had been a while since Scott had been here, but seeing those cliffs again reminded him of the joy of walking along the cliff paths towards Eastbourne.

  Scott scanned the beach huts as he walked into the wind. Abby’s face painted a picture as she grimaced, pulling her arms in closer to her sides. She shivered and cursed the cold.

  Seagulls floated overhead, their squawking drifting in the wind as it changed direction.

  Each beach hut had its own individual character, their owners stamping their own mark with stripes and an array of blues, greens, whites and browns.

  “Do you know these things go for twenty grand and more?”

  “You’re kidding?” said Abby. “My bathroom is bigger than most of these and doesn’t cost twenty grand.”

  Scott stopped by the one he’d been searching for. “Popular, apparently. There are waiting lists to buy beach huts. They’re in demand.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t catch me in one. Spiders, webs, and let’s not forget the cold.” She shuddered at the thought.

  “Well, you’re about to go in one.”

  The door was missing its padlock as Scott reached for the handle. Looking back over his shoulder, he noticed Abby had her baton drawn. Abby, ever prepared, Scott mused.

  The overwhelming smell of whiskey hit his nostrils the moment he stepped inside. Light from the window illuminated the interior. Scott’s eyes were drawn to the crumpled figure of Ashman hunched up on the floor in the corner beneath the window. He muttered as he looked up at his visitors. A hollow, glazed expression greeted them.

  “What are you doing here, Samuel?” asked Scott, leaning down by his side. The closer he got, the more overpowering the smell.

  “I’vveee nothing lefttt,” he slurred. “She’s gone.”

  Samuel stared ahead, scared and alone. His eyes fixed wide. Pulling his knees in to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins, he looked like a lost schoolboy.

  “Abby, go along to the café hut and grab a strong black coffee.”

  Around them lay empty beer cans and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, Tesco’s own.

  “They’re commiinngg for me nextttt.”

  “Who is Samuel? Who is?”

  Samuel repeated himself.

  “Samuel, who is coming? We can protect you.”

  Ashman’s brow furrowed as he looked towards Scott. His head lolled in a lazy, uncontrolled manner. “If you found meee, then they’ll find meee.”

  Abby returned a few minutes later with three steaming styrofoam cups of coffee, their aroma doing little to mask the overpowering smell of cheap booze.

  “Get this down you,” said Scott, grabbing Ashman’s hand and forcing the cup in to it.

  “Who’s coming to find you? McCormick?”

  The name sparked a fear response in Ashman as he attempted to take in the surroundings of his hut.

  “I know about the flash drive Samuel. I know you were investigating McCormick. What did you find? Is this all about McCormick?”

  Scott and Abby stayed with Ashman for the next hour before he sobered up. Abby had called in their location and asked for a local unit to meet them there.

  Ashman revealed details of his investigations. He’d been looking at McCormick’s involvement with the Albanians. It was a slow and tedious process getting Ashman to make much sense.

  “The files have everything I have on McCormick,” Ashman added, drawing his hands down his face.

  “McCormick must have known you were investigating him?”

  Ashman nodded. “He knew all right. I’ve had a few menacing phone calls. Not from McCormick himself, but from his associates. They’ve tried to warn me off in the past.”

  “What did they say?”

  Ashman shrugged and shook his head in despair. “Nothing specific. Something like I’m poking my nose into things that don’t concern me. And if I valued my legs, then I should look elsewhere.”

  “What about Amy Harp? Did you ever come across her during your investigations?”

  Ashman pulled the corners of his mouth down. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Do you think she has something to do with McCormick?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Scott. “You and I need to talk more. But not here. My primary concern is your safety, and I can’t guarantee that if you’re sitting here in a glorified shed, looking out to sea. I will arrange for you to stay in a local hotel. It will be nothing fancy. But the fewer people that know you’re there, the safer for you.”

  Whilst Ashman was en route to Brighton, Abby had called ahead to arrange for Ashman to be put up somewhere.

  He smiled to himself, slouched down low in the driver’s seat. He watched through his black Luger DG military-grade binoculars. The police officers had been at the beach hut for some time, but had found Ashman.

  He dropped his binoculars in the passenger seat and dropped to the side, as the squad car cruised past him in the opposite direction, with Ashman in the back. He already knew Ashman was here. The exercise had been to see how quickly Baker had found him.

  He started his car and did a U-turn back towards Brighton. He kept his distance from the patrol car in front as he sent a text.

  You took your time, but at least you found him.

  31

  Scott felt like throwing his phone into the sea after he read the incoming text message. He swore and cursed, as he took a few steps in each direction, scanning the surroundings for any sign of someone watching them. Other than a few dog walkers, a few joggers and a coach party of pensioners disembarking, he couldn’t see anyone on a phone, yet alone watching them.

  “The fucker is toying with us.”

  Abby had called control, to inform the police squad car that they may have a tail, and to be vigilant. They were to head straight to Brighton nick and hold Ashman there until further notice.

  Back at the station, a PCSO kept Ashman company in the canteen, whilst they arranged accommodation. Scott had popped in to make sure everything was okay before returning to this office.

  Scott strummed his fingers on his desk frustrated with the lack of progress in the case. He thought about McCormick as the potential killer, but doubted it very much. For a start, the man was on the doorstep of being sixty and had too much to lose.

  Then of course there was Quinn’s investigation. The Met must have some juicy intel on McCormick to mount such an expensive operation. If he only had a way of finding out what they had on him, it could shed light on his wider network of connections.

  Scott picked up his mobile and punched in Quinn’s number.

  The team huddled around the incident board. Various conversations bubbled in the background as to Ashman’s state when Scott and Abby had found him.

  “Where do we go from here, Guv?” asked Helen.

  Scott took a sip of coffee as he contemplated the next move. Pirouettes of steam wafted from his mug, dancing and evaporating in the air as he stepped back from the incident board and looked
at the evidence. “Our focus has to be on looking at a connection between Ashman and Amy. Two sole survivors, from two families, linked in some way. We need to find that link. We have to keep looking into their backgrounds until we find something. I will check up on Amy soon, so I hope she can tell us more.”

  “We’ve been over that ground already, Guv, and there’s nothing we’ve discovered to link the two.”

  Helen had a point. The team had been working on finding a connection with little luck. They had looked into friends, family, personal lives, professional lives, and had drawn a blank.

  “We’re missing something. Swap all the evidence amongst yourselves. Perhaps a fresh set of eyes might uncover the link. Go through every witness statement and every note. Reread them, reassess them, and look at the evidence from every conceivable angle. To a certain extent we are running blind due to the lack of forensic evidence.”

  “What about Ainscough, Guv?” Helen asked. “Is he still a person of interest?”

  “He is. I will speak to him at some point. In the meantime, I’m letting him sweat it out. If there’s one thing solicitors and lawyers hate, it’s being kept in the dark. He’ll be sitting in his office now wondering whether we are digging up more dirt on him. That will make him feel uneasy, and I’m hoping he’ll be more cooperative, or he’ll make a mistake.”

  “Guv, going back to the prowler in the back garden, I’ve looked into the possibilities of getting the black-and-white image enhanced. The high-tech team doesn’t think they can do much with it. They’re still working on it. The quality of the initial image has a significant part to play in what they are able to work with. Fingers crossed they come back with something.”

  Scott had everything crossed. “Come to think of it Raj, spread the net further. We know that some of the residents have CCTV. Extend your search for additional video footage by checking the connecting and surrounding streets. It doesn’t have to be far. But whoever is in that image, had to have entered the street from either end. So it’s possible they may have parked in an adjoining street and made their way on foot for the rest.”

  “Take a couple of uniforms with you when you do the door to door to save some time.”

  “And you don’t think this is random?” asked Helen.

  Scott’s face tightened as if he’d eaten something sour. “After Janet Ashman’s death, it was semi-plausible. We could have run with that theme of plausibility after the Harps were murdered. But when Amy’s parents were killed, I think the idea became a non-runner.”

  Mike confirmed that all three victims had died through blood loss, and that all three victims had had their eyes removed in a similar fashion to the first case. Cara had pointed out that all three victims had red abrasions and bruising to their ankles and wrists, from where they had been tied to the chairs.

  Scott was just about to continue, when the doors to the CID floor opened. Meadows strutted through, followed by a visitor. The team exchanged glances of surprise as Meadows joined Scott at the front, the new stranger in tow.

  “Sir.”

  “Carry on, Scott.”

  “Team, I want to introduce you to Detective Inspector Andy Quinn. Inspector, would you like to chip in?”

  Quinn nodded. “Thank you, Scott.” His firm tone also contained an undercurrent of formality and authority. “I’m Detective Inspector Andy Quinn from SCD7 of the Metropolitan Police. Scott and I have spoken a few times, and he’s invited me in to update you on what we are doing.” He explained that he was part of a joint task force initiative. “We are running a covert surveillance operation with the approval of your Chief Constable, and our target is Ryan McCormick.”

  A buzz rippled around the room. The investigation had gone from being drawn out, tedious and time-consuming, to high-octane energy as Quinn announced their strategy.

  Mike crossed his arms and locked eyes on Quinn. “How does this work? You’re running covert ops on McCormick, and we are investigating him in connection with a series of multiple murders. What happens if we find the connection? Does our investigation take precedence over your op?”

  Meadows interjected, “Mike, I’m sure we can come to an agreement that allows us to both continue with our investigations.”

  Quinn nodded before explaining to the team his group had been running surveillance on McCormick for the past few days, all part of the intelligence they had gathered on their suspect for the past two years. They had trailed him across the country, the US, Spain and Belgium. Quinn pointed out that a crucial part of their investigation included looking at McCormick’s involvement in the trafficking of humans, and drugs.

  “The information that Detective Inspector Quinn is divulging here remains within this room, understood? This is highly classified, and we are privileged to be working alongside him and his team.”

  Scott didn’t agree with Meadows’s assessment. It wasn’t a privileged position, nor were they going to be working alongside Quinn’s team. “This is why we have been asked to scale back our investigations into McCormick.”

  Mike and Raj fired a few questions at Quinn, who displayed the tenacity and skill of a centre forward, as he ducked and weaved around the questions, leaving them none the wiser. If Quinn wanted to make allies, he had failed, as Meadows intervened and jostled Quinn back to his office.

  “Is he for real?” Mike asked, pointing towards the door.

  Scott rolled his eyes. “As far as Quinn is concerned, we are scaling back our investigations into McCormick. As far as the team is concerned, we’re not. We’ve got information that he doesn’t know about. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Scott reached for his file. “The high-tech unit accessed the files on the flash drive I recovered from Ashman’s property. Many of the files relate to random investigations that Ashman had been conducting, or had conducted in the past. We need to focus on anything related to McCormick. Several of the files contain substantial details on McCormick’s dealings. I’ve printed them all off,” said Scott, waving around a few sheets of paper.

  “I need you all to take some of these files and go through them with a fine-tooth comb. For any names that come up, I want you to crossmatch them with the names we have on the whiteboard. There must be a lead that gives us the break. Find that connection between Amy Harp and Samuel Ashman.”

  32

  Ashman had been placed in a small bed and breakfast off the Hove seafront. It was discreet enough to avoid Ashman being spotted, and adequate enough for his needs.

  Scott rapped on the door and announced himself before waiting a few moments. Ashman answered looking tired and haggard. His stubble grew longer by the day, his hair more dishevelled, and a change of clothes was long overdue. He stood to one side as Scott walked in.

  “I’ve brought us some dinner,” offered Scott, as he waved a pizza box under Ashman’s nose. “And before you say no, you need food, not drink. It’s a meat feast; I hope you’re not a vegetarian?”

  “I’d much rather have a drink to be honest,” groaned Ashman, running his hand through his stubble.

  “It will not happen, Samuel.” Scott rested the pizza box on a small coffee table to one corner of the room. Pulling back the lid, the smell of a freshly baked, cheesy, spicy pizza filled the room. “You need to get your hands on one of these warm babies. A soft, warm slice of pure heaven.” Scott’s eyes widened as he licked his lips.

  A low rumble came from deep within Ashman’s stomach. It was the first time he’d thought of food all day.

  “You need to sink your teeth into the gooey, doughy, thick-crust pizza. How can you resist the round, red little pepperonis taunting you?” Scott gave a valiant effort to tempt Ashman. It appeared to work as Ashman succumbed and shuffled over to the table.

  “It’s not much, but you should be safe and comfortable here,” said Scott, looking around the room. It carried the basics. A single bed, a small table in the corner, a kettle, two mugs plus accessories. To the right of the room was a small en-suite bathroom. Scott ha
d informed the owners to dial 999 if they noticed any strangers acting suspiciously outside. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t justify the cost of having a uniformed presence at the B & B until the threat had been assessed further.

  Scott smiled to himself as he made them both a coffee. Ashman munched on a slice, much to Scott’s relief.

  “We’ve accessed the files that I found on your flash drive. I’ve got the team poring over the documents as we speak. Whilst I’m here, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been able to find out about McCormick?”

  “He runs a tight ship, and controls the business from within the four walls of his mansion. My guess is that he can talk to anyone around the world from a secure location without being compromised. Some time ago, I staked out his property. I’ll tell you something, hardly anyone comes and goes. I saw two or three cars come and go all day, most days. Mind numbingly boring to be honest.”

  “What about his security detail? Do you know much about that side of it?”

  Ashman shook his head. “From what I can gather, he’s got an outer ring of protection who guard the gate and perimeter. Then he’s got a second smaller security detail that are with him. The usual stuff, two bodyguards, and the driver.”

  “Yes, I noticed.” Scott thought about the hulk he’d met at the gate.

  “They’re all ex-military. Mainly ex-paras and marines. Hard as nails and paid handsomely. He takes no shit from them, either. In fact, from what I can gather, no one would dare to put a foot out of line and cross McCormick.”

  “What would happen if someone did?”

  Ashman scratched the growth on his face and licked his dry lips, desperate for a drink. “Chances are you’d never see them again. They might end up buried in a landfill, or dumped out to sea. By the time they’re washed up again, they’ve been half-eaten by sea life.”