Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  “Accountants? Lawyers?”

  “Family, friends of the family, all vetted. The accountant is a bloke who works on his own. I guess the fewer that know his business, the better. The lawyers are just down the road, Winstanley and Partners. He wouldn’t sit in the same room as someone if they hadn’t been vetted.”

  Scott grinned. “I’m honoured.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything at Winstanley. As you’ll see from my notes, he uses them for his commercial transactions. He’s adamant about being legit. I heard he uses some shady firm of lawyers in London for some of his dirty work. I don’t know the name of the firm, mind you.”

  Scott left Ashman to rest. Ashman appeared to be coping better, albeit under the influence of alcohol. However, Scott walked away with a much better understanding of McCormick’s operations, and suspected that Quinn wouldn’t have been as generous with his information.

  33

  He knew it was early since light struggled to get past the cracks in the blinds. The drum of rain on the windowpane stirred him into moving as he threw his hand down on the alarm clock. At this time of the morning his neurones weren’t firing too well.

  The street outside was as dark as some old-school black-and-white movie. As he closed his eyes, he felt the heady pull of his dreams, beckoning him back to play. Like a little child at the swings who’d been told it was home time, he turned and begrudgingly flicked on the light.

  His early morning jog was hard. The last few days had challenged him mentally and physically. But he needed the free feeling of running along the seafront. He wanted to hear the sound of the waves crashing over the pebbly beach, and feel the invigorating breeze massage his face. It was like pressing the reset button. All the pressure and stress of his job and life appeared to melt away.

  He had returned home, showered, grabbed a quick coffee and toast before kissing Cara, who continued to sleep. Exercise calmed and relaxed him. Seeing Cara had the same intoxicating effect. He left a handwritten note on the pillow beside her before kissing her once more and leaving.

  He’d been in the office for an hour going through the updates on his case file when his phone rang. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was him.

  “Detective Inspector Baker.”

  “Baker, Baker, Baker. You need to stop being so hard on yourself. I get the impression you’re going round in circles.” Scott strained to hear the muffled voice.

  “Enlighten me?”

  “I may as well be walking alongside you. You see, I know everything you do. I know where you’re keeping Ashman. I know you’ve been snooping around Ashman’s place, and I’ve seen the press article that Manning put out. Between the pair of you, you’re making me out as some sick fucking animal.”

  “This is all your doing. You are the one who sent Manning to Ashman’s house. You wanted him to go to press. If you wanted this to go public, then why haven’t you got the balls to tell me why you’re doing it? You think we’re incompetent and never going to catch you, so what have you got to lose?”

  The voice stayed controlled and measured. “It’s unlikely that you will find me until I’m ready to be found. Sometimes I have been less than a hundred yards away from you and you still haven’t seen me. So yes, I would agree with your assessment. You are fucking incompetent.” Scott remembered that Manning said he would print in a few days. He’d not seen the article, and could only imagine what it had said to incense the man.

  Scott needed to push him hard. “Tell me what this is all about? Why did you target Ashman and Amy Harp? What have they done that’s so bad?”

  The voice didn’t answer, the lengthy pause testing Scott. “It doesn’t matter since it will all be over soon. You haven’t got a fucking clue, and you never will. Every person remembers some moment in their life where they witnessed some injustice, big or small, and looked away because the consequences of getting involved seemed too intimidating. But there’s a limit to the amount of inhumanity that each individual can tolerate…and I crossed that line.”

  Scott pushed further. “What happened?”

  “It’s too late, Inspector. The damage is done. What happens if you want to make peace? You don’t talk to your friends do you?”

  Scott’s mind crunched the man’s words. Was it cryptic? Were messages hidden in his words? He needed to keep him talking.

  “I’m sorry; I’m lost. What are you hoping to achieve by this killing spree? All I can see are a trail of bodies and devastated survivors.”

  The line remained silent, with just the faintest hint of the caller’s breath. Scott focussed on any background noises he could identify. Then he heard it, ever so faintly.

  “What is your connection with McCormick? Are you McCormick? Or do you work for him?”

  The muffled voice laughed. “Keep guessing, mate. Do yourself a favour, Inspector. When the shit hits the fan, make sure you’re not in the firing line.”

  The line went dead. Scott stared at his phone, willing it to come on again as if by magic. Something in those last few words bothered him.

  For the next fifteen minutes Scott replayed the recording on a loop, analysing and cross-analysing every word. It will all be over soon. Firing line. What does he have planned? He needed the recording analysed.

  Scott’s initial thoughts focussed on the safety of the survivors, Amy Harp and Samuel Ashman. Questions raced around his mind like busy bees in a hive. Are they survivors? Are they going to be the last to die as some form of symbolic gesture, or did the lunatic spare their lives for reasons unknown? He needed to make decisions fast, and towards the top of the list was whether Harp and Ashman needed police protection as there was a considerable risk to life. He’d discuss the risk assessment with Meadows.

  34

  Scott started the briefing having come straight from Meadows’s office. He updated the team on the call he’d received, and the decision to put Ashman and Amy into police protection.

  A risk assessment on both victims deemed they were medium to high risk. The calls Scott had received from the mysterious caller, had made no reference to the survivors being in danger. Scott rationalised with Meadows that there was an ulterior motive for both survivors being left.

  Scott took a moment to replay the conversation from his phone. The team listened in silence, exchanging the odd pensive look. Scott could see each member of the team silently picking apart the caller’s words.

  “Those words were very deliberate. They were cryptic. So, I need you to go back over our notes on the system, and Ashman’s notes, and look for anything that suggests or implies any form of miscarriage of justice, prejudices or wrongdoings.”

  “By who?”

  “Anyone, Mike. He’s not happy with something that happened in his life, and has either been on the receiving end of some injustice, or has witnessed it.”

  “You said he sounded pissed off at this mention of McCormick’s name?”

  Scott nodded. “He became agitated at the mention of his name. There has to be a connection there somewhere, and it’s something we’re either not seeing, or not aware of. Go back over everything we pulled up on McCormick and cross-reference him in any way you can. Look at past acquaintances, past misdemeanours, his criminal connections both here and abroad.”

  “What about his team?” asked Helen.

  “I was just about to come on to that,” Scott continued. “Pull the files on all his employees, past and present. Find out how he attained them. The chances are there are specialist security agencies that focus on supplying security personnel, bodyguards, and ex-forces to their clients.”

  Abby chipped in. “We must have missed something. We can look again at schools, clubs, places of birth, even parental connections.”

  It wasn’t uncommon to review evidence, witness statements, and background searches multiple times. Despite it being tedious, he found that as a case progressed, random facts and insignificant pieces of information gathered earlier could turn
an investigation as more details came to light.

  “Just remember to keep your enquiries discreet. We don’t want to piss off our favourite Met police officer.”

  The team did well to stifle a ripple of laughter. However, Mike appeared to be an exception to the rule. “Sod that, Guv. I’d love to rattle his cage. They seem to think they can ride roughshod over everyone else. I’m all for cooperation, but they always seem to think they are better than everyone else.”

  Scott wagged his finger in Mike’s direction. “You piss them off, and you’re on your own. How did you get on with the CCTV from near the library?”

  The corners of Mike’s mouth turned down in disappointment. “There wasn’t much for me to go on, Guv. The only stores that had CCTV were the opticians and a ladies clothing shop. We’ve been trawling through the footage, and picked up an image of a man walking past. He had a hoodie up, so it doesn’t give us much to go on, other than a general outline of his build and appearance.”

  “Okay, Mike. Circulate the image anyway. Abby and I will see Amy later on. In the meantime, let’s get to work.”

  “Sir, have you got a moment?”

  Meadows waved Scott in just as he was finishing up a call and pointed towards the seat opposite.

  Scott listened in on the final few moments of the call. He couldn’t help but notice how Meadows had a habit of licking his bottom lip as he listened to the caller’s voice. Whether it was a habit born out of impatience, or something else, Scott wasn’t sure. But whatever the root cause, he looked inappropriate, as Scott held back a laugh.

  “What can I do for you, Scott?”

  Scott updated Meadows on the latest call he’d had from the suspect. He pointed out how the caller’s tone changed at the mention of McCormick, and the resulting efforts the team were putting into uncovering as much as they could on McCormick.

  “How long do you think the Met operation will last?”

  Meadows grimaced. He dropped his head to one side and tapped his pen on the table as he considered the question. “Your guess is as good as mine, Scott. I suspect the answer to that is above our pay grades.”

  It was debatable whether Meadows was being truthful or not. Scott fished further. “They don’t seem to make much progress?”

  “Well, you know as much as I do. And the truth be told, I doubt they are being transparent with the information they are sharing.”

  “Do you think they’ve got an undercover officer in McCormick’s team?”

  “Possibly. It would explain why they are parked outside. Perhaps, they are being fed information from someone within. And if they are, then they’re waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”

  Scott thought about updating Meadows on Abby’s state of mind, and her decision to leave the job, but chose otherwise. The last thing he wanted was Abby under further scrutiny.

  Scott collapsed in his chair and sifted through his emails. He stopped at a record relating to the case file on Amy Harp’s parents. The forensic team had a small breakthrough whilst analysing their clothes and their bedding.

  He sat bolt upright in his chair and leant in closer. A hint of excitement burned inside him like an ember. Forensic scientists had identified one hair fibre, and clothing fibres that were not linked to the scene. The forensic team had conducted painstaking cross-reference analysis with every single item of clothing in the house. The results were conclusive. No match.

  Hairs on the back of Scott’s neck bristled. The next stage of forensic analysis involved getting a DNA profile from hair fibre and referencing it against a DNA database.

  It was a breakthrough. However, it would only prove useful if a complete or partial match was found on the database. The notes on the system confirmed that the results would be updated within twenty-four hours.

  “Guv, have you seen this?” Raj asked, as he strode in, waving something in his hand.

  Scott took it and scanned the details, his eyes narrowing. He felt the anger building inside him like two tectonic plates rubbing together beneath the earth’s surface.

  “I don’t fucking believe it.”

  35

  “Where’s Manning?” Scott demanded as he stormed towards reception of The Argus newspaper.

  The receptionist recoiled in her chair. “Excuse me, sir. There’s no need for that tone.”

  “I’ll give you any bloody tone I choose.” Scott thrust his warrant card in her direction and watched her eyes scan his details. “I won’t ask again. Where is he?”

  The woman, in her mid-twenties, ran a hand through her dark brown hair, as her lips mouthed the words like a goldfish in a bowl. She glanced around the reception, hoping for a friendly face to come to her rescue. She was alone. “He’s…he’s out. At Starbucks around the corner.”

  Scott turned on his heel, not waiting another second and stormed out of the building.

  He walked as fast as he could up Manchester Street.

  At this time of the afternoon, Starbucks buzzed with customers. Mums with prams clogged up the walkways, camping for hours with just a latte each, enjoying adult company, whilst their babies slept. Scott noticed a few people tapping away on their laptops, with headphones in ears. Towards the furthest corner, Scott spotted Manning and weaved his way through the tables.

  Manning saw him approaching and offered the smallest of wry smiles.

  Scott planted both hands on the table and whispered through gritted teeth. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I think that’s easy enough to see. I’m having a coffee, Inspector. Can I buy you one?” Manning offered, as he flicked through online news sites on his iPad.

  Scott pulled the paper from his pocket and thrust it in Manning’s face. “This.”

  Manning nodded once in acknowledgement. “I told you I would print it. The town has a right to know.”

  “I asked you to give me some time. And in return I said you could have the exclusive story once we wrapped up the case.”

  “Well, you didn’t phrase it that way. But I said I’d give you some time. That time is up. I wasn’t about to sit on the scoop of the year and watch someone from the national press get a sniff of this and beat us to the punch.”

  “If you think I will do you any favours after this, you can think again, you cretin.”

  “I can see you’ve been to police charm school, Inspector. It’s called freedom of the press. I can explain it to you,” Manning scoffed.

  Scott shook his head, the muscles in his jaws flexing. “I could have had you arrested for illegal breaking and entering of Ashman’s house.”

  “You can’t prove that, Inspector. In my defence, I was checking up on a trusted colleague. And when I arrived there, I found that someone had broken into his house. I was inside checking to make sure that Samuel hadn’t come to harm.”

  “Trusted? You’ve had nothing from him in months, you said so yourself. Besides, why print something that is incorrect. You’ve got a misinterpretation of the facts. You’re pissing off the killer, and considering his propensity to kill, you’ve put yourself in danger by publishing this.”

  Manning fell silent for a few moments as Scott’s words hit him one after another like a volley of punches from a heavyweight boxer. The colour drained from his face, and he shifted in his seat. “Why?”

  “Why? Because he called me. And he’s one pissed off killer who doesn’t like how he’s been portrayed in your article.”

  “He called you, Inspector? You’re just saying that to frighten me.”

  “I don’t need to say anything, Manning. You’ve already said everything. And I would be anxious if I was sitting in your shoes right now.”

  “What…what did he say?”

  Scott outlined the bare-bones of the conversation. He left out the finer points, but made sure he highlighted just how angry and frustrated the killer sounded. He went on to point out how the killer seemed to know Ashman’s movements, and those of the police.

  “He knows my movements, and I’m a po
lice officer who’s been trained in surveillance and counter-surveillance. Yet he’s still one step ahead of me. This is one very dangerous individual and poses a serious threat to those who piss him off…namely you!”

  An uneasy silence crackled between the two men as Scott’s words drifted and rattled around Manning’s mind. He rubbed a finger over his lips, casting his eye beyond Scott and out on to the street. “What should I do? I mean, I need police protection, right?”

  A hint of fear laced Manning’s voice, as he looked towards Scott for reassurance.

  “No chance. Next time you want to print something or you get some new information, I suggest you call me first. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll have you arrested for withholding information and impeding a criminal investigation. And I don’t rate your chances of surviving in a cell, do you?”

  Scott raised a brow before he turned and walked out. Manning didn’t see the smirk on Scott’s face.

  36

  “You shot off in a hurry?” Abby pulled the seat across the table from Scott in the hospital coffee shop and took a sip of her latte.

  Scott gave her an account of his abrasive meeting with Manning over the article his publication had released. Abby couldn’t help but offer a wry smile as she listened to a blow-by-blow account.

  “I bet you he was shitting himself at the end?”

  “Well, so would you if you’d fucked off the killer in the way Manning had. I told him to run everything by me before he published anything to do with our case. He ignored my advice and thought he knew better. That they have made up a hotchpotch personality and character profile and dumped that in the article hasn’t helped their cause.”