by Jay Nadal
“Do you think Manning will be a target?”
Scott shook his head. He couldn’t see how Manning would be connected to the case to deserve the treatment that Ashman and Amy had received. Manning didn’t fit into the network of connections they had identified, but he wasn’t to know that. As far as Scott was concerned, the veiled suggestion that he could be in danger would go a long way towards shutting the man’s mouth.
The pair made their way to Amy’s room. A uniformed officer sat slumped in a chair by her front door, staring at his phone, looking bored. He bolted upright and swayed from foot to foot when Scott and Abby approached.
“Sir,” the constable replied in a hurry, his eyes darting between the two officers.
“Constable, I know that sitting here for the whole of your shift isn’t what you signed up for. Believe it or not, I don’t blame you for looking bored as shit. Why don’t you stretch your legs?”
The constable didn’t need asking twice, as he hurried away, desperate to get the blood flowing in his legs once again.
Dr McAllister opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. “Inspector, Sergeant.”
“How is she getting on?”
McAllister pulled a face as if to suggest that he wasn’t happy with his patient being disturbed. “She is in a bad way. Extreme psychological trauma, fluctuating changes in blood pressure and panic attacks. And that’s just for starters. She’s declined any further medication to help the rest.”
“She knows about her parents now?”
“She does. Amy has taken it badly. I think it’s more a case of more tragic news on top of what she has already experienced. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet that she’s lost her parents. She’s traumatised from the loss of her immediate family.”
Scott couldn’t imagine how Amy must be feeling. To have lost her husband, children and now her parents in such a brutal way must have devastated her emotionally and psychologically. He thought back to how he had felt when he had lost his family, and that dark period in his life that followed for what seemed months. He had given up on life, and didn’t want to continue. He imagined that Amy may be experiencing similar thoughts.
McAllister continued, “She’s experiencing common symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, and survivor’s guilt. Both are intertwined. When you add the grief cycle into the mix, which can naturally take up to two years to come to terms with, I would say that she is in a very fragile position. Continued psychological assessments will help us build a better picture of her state of mind.”
“Well, we will do our best to not distress her any further. We’ve had some significant developments in our investigations, and so it’s crucial we speak to her.”
McAllister rubbed his chin. “I appreciate that, Inspector. But before we go in, let me clarify that should Mrs Harp become distressed, then I will ask you to leave. Okay?”
Scott agreed and followed McAllister into the darkened room.
A small bedside light offered the only illumination and cast eerie shadows on the walls. The small, clinical room lacked any semblance of warmth.
Amy looked gaunt, a shadow of the person who Scott had seen in so many photos. Her mousey brown hair was greasy and lank. Her deep forehead was furrowed with strong worry lines, and her thin, bony fingers gripped the top of her bed sheet tucked beneath her chin. Scott noticed her nails bleeding from where she had bitten them, and how her bony shoulders looked more like those on someone with anorexia.
Abby curled up her nose at the smell that lingered in the air. A mixture of urine and vomit twisted her stomach and made her want to leave.
Amy looked at the two officers, her eyes latching on to them, but her stare remained cold and distant. Her expression fixed, she showed no reaction to their arrival.
Scott thought about addressing her as Mrs Harp, but decided against it, thinking it may upset her. “Amy, I know this is a difficult time for you, but we need your help, and would like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay?”
There was an uncomfortable silence, as if Scott and Amy were a million miles apart, and she was waiting for his words to travel across the continuum of time and space. She finally bobbed her head once, as her eyes settled on Abby, as if analysing her.
“Have you or your family had any problems recently?”
Amy shook her head.
“Have you or your family had a run-in, or an argument with anyone?”
“No.”
Scott opened the brown Manila folder he had brought with him. “I will show you a picture. It’s nothing bad, it’s just a picture of someone else in a similar situation.” He lifted out a picture of Ashman and held it up for Amy to see. “Do you recognise him? His name is Samuel Ashman. He is an investigative journalist. He’s suffered a similar loss to yourself.”
Amy’s eyes glared at the picture with the same vacant look. She shook her head.
“I know this is difficult for you, but I would appreciate you thinking long and hard about this. In a personal or professional capacity, have you had dealings with any journalist?”
Amy’s eyes hadn’t moved from staring at Ashman’s picture. Scott noticed the slightest twitch in her eyelids as she concentrated on Ashman’s facial features. Scott sensed that Amy had recognised Ashman’s face, or something about his name.
In the slightest of voices, more befitting to a child, she spoke in a flat monotone. “I’ve…come across the odd journalist who’s been researching stories about cancer treatments. But I don’t recognise him. Perhaps the name. But certainly not the face in that picture.”
Scott held up another picture of Ashman in a photograph taken of him and his wife. “This is Samuel Ashman’s wife, Janet. She has been murdered. We believe by the same person.”
“How can you be sure?”
Scott and Abby exchanged the briefest of glances. They knew it would be in Amy’s best interests to not know the full details, or circumstances of the murder. “The case of her death and that of your family carry similarities.” Scott took another picture from his folder and held it up for Amy to see. “How about this man? Do you recognise him?”
Amy’s eyes widened slightly, before narrowing, as she concentrated on the image. “Perhaps? The eyes look familiar, and the shape of the mouth. Who is he?”
“His name is Ryan McCormick.”
“Does he go by another name?”
The question surprised Scott, as he looked towards McAllister, seeking confirmation it was okay to continue. McAllister nodded.
“His nickname is Irish Mick.”
Amy took a sharp intake of breath, tilted her head up towards the ceiling and closed her eyes tight. She ground her teeth as the muscles in her jaw flexed. She shook her head.
Scott was about to push further, knowing he had hit upon something. But thought against it.
“She recognised McCormick.”
Scott agreed. “I wanted to push further. The way she reacted made me think that any more questions would have pushed over the edge. The last thing I want is McAllister stopping us from seeing her.”
Whilst Scott had been asking Amy about Ryan McCormick, he had noticed how her eyes had flicked up to the top left of her visual field, a sure sign that she remembered a picture or recalled a scene she had witnessed. That her eyes hovered over to the left on more than one occasion suggested that she recalled both memories and conversations she had seen or heard.
“We need to talk to her again.”
“I know, Guv. But I think we must do it in stages. In the meantime, get the team to cross-reference their backgrounds. Find out if their paths crossed at any point, work or personal. And whilst you’re at it, see if we can get younger pictures of McCormick. I think they would be good to show to Amy on our next visit. She may have known him at some point in the past. I’m convinced she knows Ryan McCormick.”
37
Scott updated the incident board whilst the team gathered round. They looked tired and weary. To pep them up, Raj did the o
ne thing he knew would bring them back to life. He’d popped over the road to grab them all a fresh cream doughnut.
“My God, this is amazing and going straight to my thighs,” said Helen.
“One will not hurt,” replied Mike.
“Yes, but it’s a slippery slope. One doughnut, a few biscuits, then a bar of chocolate. They all add up.”
“They already have,” Mike added, pointing to his ever-growing waistline.
“But it’s worse for women. It goes straight to our bums and thighs. Next it will be my chin,” Helen stressed. “And then it will be my cheeks. I’ll grow bingo wings, and before you know it, I’ll be having regular weigh-ins at a Weight Watchers club in front of random strangers.” She shuddered at the thought.
Mike rolled his eyes at what he thought was a typical female response. “You’ve got as much chance of putting on weight, as I have of winning slimmer of the year.”
“I have to agree with you there, Mike,” Scott added. “Back to business, kids. Where are we with updates?”
Helen wiped her fingers with a paper napkin before starting. “I’ve been looking for any connections between Amy, Ashman and McCormick, but so far I’ve drawn a blank.”
Scott wasn’t surprised. He’d looked at his own notebook just a few moments before starting the meeting, and it contained nothing more than the names of the victims and the survivors. He’d added tenuous pencil lines between them, and plenty of question marks, but nothing more. He’d underlined Amy Harp and Samuel Ashman several times. They were key. Amy had recognised McCormick, so he’d drawn a red line between McCormick and Amy.
“But I have been talking to the NCA, and we’ve identified two similar cases from the past. The first involved a male, aged thirty-two from Rossington near Doncaster. Suicide, according to the coroner’s findings. The second, looks more promising. The deceased was Darren Golding, a former Sussex Constabulary officer, from Croydon, South London.”
Scott noted Golding’s name on the board, before prompting Helen to continue.
“Golding died eight months ago, aged seventy-two. He had twenty-five years’ service and retired early due to arthritis. He was getting on, and from all accounts, didn’t go out much due to ill health. No weapons were found, or any instruments that would match the wounds, and no sign of forced entry.”
“Similar MO?” Scott asked.
Helen confirmed Scott’s question. Golding’s eyes had been removed, and he had a large penetrative cut across the full width of his abdomen. She handed out copies of the crime scene photos.
The hallmarks of the case were identical. An elderly man sat on a chair, his hands tied behind his back with a black cable tie. Streaks of dried blood zigzagged down his face, together with what appeared to be heavy facial bruising. Golding wore his pyjamas.
“Any witnesses?” Raj asked.
“Not as far as I’m aware. There were no witnesses. His neighbours heard nothing, nor did they see anyone coming or going. But that wasn’t uncommon. Residents questioned said he was a bit of a loner. And other than the odd visit from social services, he didn’t seem to have any visitors or family who came by.”
A ripple of excitement rattled through Scott as he added the extra details to the incident board. The fact that Golding was an ex-Sussex police officer, and appeared to have sustained the same injuries was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
“That’s great work, Helen. Cross-reference Golding with McCormick and get the contact details of the SIO on Golding’s case. Call ahead, and tell them we’ll be there within the hour.” Scott turned to Raj saying, “I want the post-mortem and coroner’s report, and the force’s personnel files, along with all the cases that he’s been involved with. I’ll call you from Croydon later.”
Raj nodded, already turning in his chair to punch away on his computer.
“In the meantime, keep going through Ashman’s reports, his articles and anything else that he’s produced. Look for Golding’s name. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something there. I know it.”
Detective Sergeant Andy Barton greeted Scott and Abby as they arrived at Addington police station to the east of Croydon. It was a non-descript brown two-storey building tucked down a side street and overlooking a park. He showed them to a meeting room where the three of them sat round a small table.
Scott put Barton in his mid-to-late thirties. He had a round face, with a few days of designer stubble, short, brown hair gelled down, with a side parting. He was dressed in a white open-neck shirt, and dark blue jeans.
“How can I help, Sir? I understand from the call you wanted to talk about the Darren Golding case?”
“I appreciate you taking the time to see us, Andy. The Golding case carries a similar MO to the current cases that we’re working on.”
Barton nodded. “Yes, I heard about them. Horrific. The only difference I can tell between my case and yours is that we had no witnesses or survivors.”
“Yes and no. Amy Harp’s parents were killed, with no witnesses to that double murder.”
“We didn’t get far with the Golding case. There was no forensic evidence. And with no sign of a break-in, we can only assume that whoever committed the offence was known to Golding. Nothing was damaged. There appeared to be no signs of a struggle. Then again he was elderly, and wouldn’t have put up much of a fight anyway. We searched his property from top to bottom and found nothing that could have been a murder weapon.”
Abby continued making notes as Scott digested the information. “What about Golding’s background. Did anything get flagged up from his police career?”
Barton offered a quick shake of his head. “We did the usual and contacted his former colleagues and the different stations where he worked. Several of his closest colleagues have since passed away, others emigrated not long after retirement to sunnier climes, Spain and Florida being the most popular destinations.”
He picked up the case file and flicked through it, looking for further information that would help Scott. Barton handed Scott photos of Golding in his uniform. “He appeared to be liked by most of his colleagues. There was the odd comment about being sexist, and rough with handling suspects. But from what I can gather that wasn’t uncommon back then. He spent the last few years on the job alongside PC Will Anderson. They got paired up most of the time.”
“Did you track Anderson down?”
“We did, Sir.”
“And?”
“Let’s say he wasn’t particularly complimentary about Golding. Going back to what I said a moment ago, he recalled Golding being an aggressive bastard. That’s how he labelled Golding. It was a case of act first, think later.”
“Anything pop out of interest?”
“I got the impression that back then the force was a different animal to how it is now. He was a bit heavy-handed, took the odd bribe here and there in return for turning a blind eye, and gave suspects a hard time to force a confession out of them, that type of thing.”
Scott strummed his fingers on the desk as he thought about how Golding could be connected to the present.
They thanked Barton for his help and promised to keep him updated with any further developments.
Scott and Abby discussed the meeting as they made their way back down the A23 towards Brighton. The similarities in all the cases meant that someone or something underpinned them all.
Abby was certain it was some kind of revenge, but she wasn’t sure why. But whatever it was, Scott believed it was linked to something from the past. He phoned through to Raj and told him to get everything he could on Will Anderson.
Raj updated Scott to let him know the fibre and hair analysis from the final crime scene had drawn a blank. Scott needed to push ahead and lean on Ashman and Amy. Being the only survivors, they were his best chance of cracking the case. Before heading home for the evening, Scott decided that they should pay a quick visit to Ashman. He had a hunch.
Ashman stumbled around the living room, scratching his beard, an
d rubbing his stomach. He wasn’t hungry, he needed a drink. “How long do I have to stay here?” he asked.
“As long as necessary. It’s for your own safety and protection.” Scott had been met at the safe house by one officer charged with keeping an eye on Ashman. He had already warned Scott before going in that Ashman had been drinking for the past few hours and had demanded that the officer fetch him more booze.
Abby walked around the lounge and through to the kitchen, running her finger along the work surfaces and inspecting them for dust. As safe houses go, it was functional but basic. They were picked in locations where they wouldn’t stand out, nestled deep within a residential neighbourhood, or set in remote locations, or by the coast.
“Besides, we’re making good progress on your case, and there have been some recent developments.”
“Developments?” Ashman slumped into one armchair and picked up an empty beer can, shaking it to see if any contents remained.
Scott couldn’t blame him for drinking. The man had little else. He was in mourning, having witnessed the most hideous of crimes committed in front of his eyes, and now was under police protection that limited his movements. How could Scott criticise or lecture him?
Scott opened his folder and pulled out a picture. “Do you recognise this man?”
Ashman gave the picture a cursory glance, attempting to focus. “Should I?”
Scott then handed Ashman a second picture of Golding in his police uniform. The difference between the two photos was significant. Golding in his uniform, stood tall and proud, with his chest puffed out, and the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. He looked the consummate professional. The other picture of Golding was taken just a few months prior to his death. He looked frail, and his jowls sagged. His shoulders were rounded and pulled forward, and he was leaning on a walking stick.
Ashman scratched his beard again, something he did whenever he was thinking.
“Yeah, I remember him. He was a right wanker. He loved himself too much, and bent the rules on more than one occasion.”