Footsteps wandered in, and I found myself staring at Mills’s shoes.
“Alright, sir?”
“Pictures fell down the back,” I muttered.
Mills knelt down, fishing his torch from his pocket and shone the light underneath the drawers. The photos we had found were down there, as well as some other various crap he must have forgotten about, covered in dust. A few pens and pencils, some scraps of paper and another photograph.
“Can you reach?” I asked Mills, looking down at his long arms.
“I can try,” he muttered, handing me the torch and shuffling back until he lay on his stomach, reaching his arm out under the drawers with a grimace on his face. “If I touch a spider, I’m out of here.”
“Noted.”
He fumbled around, pulling out a few things, then we’d look again with the torch, and he went back under, his whole arm underneath, shoulder pressed up against the bottom door.
“Got it,” he muttered, pulling his arm back and clambering to his knees. He brushed the dust off his sleeve as I examined our loot.
We had our two photographs, but there was another one of a man and a boy standing out in a field. Mills bent closer and tapped their faces.
“Dominic and Keith?” he asked.
“Must be. He left it here,” I mused, looking back at the drawers.
“He probably forgot that it was back there,” Mills said. “It’s not in a frame or anything.”
“No,” I agreed, pocketing all the photos and uncrumpling the paper he had forgotten down there too.
“Anything good?”
“Map of the moors,” I said, slowly rising to my feet. Mills reached forward, a hand under my elbow to help me up, and I spread the map over the top of the drawers.
“This is where Julia was found,” I said, tapping a mark on the map. The location was circled in thin red ink. The rest of the junk was useless, a shopping list and what looked like work from his old job. We took what was useful and made our way out of the flat, pulling the door shut behind us.
“You think it’s worth getting in touch with the owners of the building?” Mills asked as we headed down the stairs.
“Might be. But I doubt they could tell us much about him.”
“He could have left a forwarding address,” Mills said hopefully.
“He could have done, but I don’t think he did,” I answered.
Mills thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Fair point. Back to the drawing board then?”
“Looks like it,” I said with a sigh.
We walked out of the building, into the growing dark of the evening, towards Mills’s car, and my phone started to ring. I pulled it from my pocket and answered when I saw Harris’s name on the screen.
“Sergeant,” I greeted her. “All well?”
“I’d say so,” she replied cheerily. “Some familiar faces showed up at long last. I’ve made a few arrests.”
I grinned. “Brilliant news.”
“Certainly is. Look, I’m bringing them into the station now to question them, but once I’ve finished with them, I thought you might want to have a word with one or two. See if they can fill in some of your gaps.”
“That we would, Harris, thank you. We’re on our way back to the station ourselves.”
She paused for a moment. “Didn’t you go home?”
“See you soon, Harris,” I said, hanging up a moment later and turning to where Mills waited, hovering by his car door.
“Harris,” I told him as we climbed in. “She’s made a few arrests, and we can speak to some of them once she’s done with them. See what they know.”
Mills smiled as he started the engine and pulled away from the flats. “Good news at last. What about us? Shall we run that photo through facial recognition and see what we get?”
“Worth a shot. However, he does look young here. Must have been taken before the custody battle.”
“He held onto it, though,” Mills remarked as we drove back to the station. “So, he clearly still loved his dad.”
“Loved him enough to replicate his still of murder all the way down to the marks on the feet,” I muttered. “Most dads just take their kids bowling or something.” Not that I would know. The closest I had to a father figure was my grandad, and he hated bowling with an amusing amount of passion. Preferred fishing.
“Did he learn it from him then, though, or after he died? Did some digging, maybe found some of his dad’s old records or something and just figured it out from there?”
“Who knows? The best we can do is find him, then find whoever killed Hana Miyara.”
“Not him?” Mills asked.
“No,” I shook my head. “He planned this whole thing out perfectly. Why ruin it by butchering that poor girl in the park? It makes no sense.”
Mills hummed thoughtfully, and we sat in quiet the rest of the way, both of us wondering over the case. It was hard to know quite how it all came together. Was Julia killed by the gang or not, and why the hell would someone kill her otherwise? The lack of answers was close to driving me insane, and Mills seemed to pick up on this, speeding up along the streets until we reached the station, swinging into the car park.
We climbed from the car and headed inside, up the stairs with as much speed as my body was currently capable of, and into the office. Fry wasn’t here, still off with Harris, but she’d left a cup behind on my desk.
“Did you go to the café?” I asked, pulling out the photographs from my pocket.
“Proper coffee was needed,” Mills answered.
“See Billie?”
“I did. She’s staying home tonight,” he added.
I nodded. That was a small bit of relief. I doubted she was in any trouble, but it was better to know that she was safe at home rather than doubting through the possibilities. “She said she wants to come and see you as well. When you’re rested.”
Which is what I was supposed to be doing.
A hard knock rattled the door, and Sharp strode in, her eyes fixed on me. She looked me over from head to toe.
“You look a little better.”
“The magic of a shower and a shave.”
“And clean clothes,” she added. “Where did you two skip off to? Fry told me you found our man.”
“Keith Rosewall,” Mills filled her in. “Son of Dominic Haspel, his mother took sole custody of him when he was a boy.”
Sharp nodded slowly. “No sign of him, though?”
“His flat was emptied,” I said. “Cleared out. We have a few photographs that he left behind and a map of the moors with a mark over the spot where Julia Brook was murdered. We’re going to run the photo through facial recognition and see if anything comes up, but it’s an old picture.”
“The other photographs?”
“Two of them,” Mills said, handing them over. “One taken about twenty years ago, we think by Haspel, the other one more recent. Both of the Medina’s, the couple that Harris had been monitoring.”
“She’s brought them in,” Sharp said, handing the photos back. “I tell you, if we can wrap up a double homicide, a twenty-year-old cold case and one of the biggest county lines gangs, we’ll be sailing happy, boys. HQ won’t know what’s hit them.”
“Let’s hope we can pull it off,” I said, sitting down at the computer and scanning in the photo.
“I’m staying here late to help Harris wrap this up, so I’ll be around,” Sharp told us. “Inform me of any updates, will you?”
“Certainly will, ma’am,” I said, my attention mostly focused on my computer screen.
She nodded once and walked away. Mills dragged his chair around and sat beside me, leaning on the desk with his chin in his hands as the software started getting to work.
“Maybe he’s grown up to look like his dad,” Mills offered.
“Maybe,” I replied.
“Either way, sir,” Mills said, turning to look at me properly. “Dominic Haspel. You found him.”
I hadn’t thou
ght of that. I sat back, my arms folded. Dominic Haspel. The man who had killed those four women all those years ago. I didn’t feel like a huge victory, not when he was already dead and we hadn’t found him so much as stumbled upon him, but it was something. Put the case to rest after all those years. I felt the slightest weight leave me. From my shoulders, my head, my heart? I wasn’t sure, but it lifted all the same, and it could for the families of those girls as well. It was all we could offer them, after all.
The office door opened again, and Fry walked in, holding an ice pack to her head, but she smiled when she saw us.
“Any joy?” She asked.
“A little,” I replied. “What happened to your face?”
She gently removed the ice pack, revealing a nasty cut on her brow, a dark bruise forming around her eye. The cut was bleeding, and she grabbed a few tissues from Mills’s desk to staunch it.
“One of them didn’t want to get arrested,” she said, walking over to look at what we were doing. “Gave me a knock.”
“Christ, Leila,” Mills said, staring up at her. She waved a hand.
“I got him. It’s fine.”
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked, about to rise from his chair.
“No, I’m supposed to stay up and awake until Dr Crowe sees me. Her orders. I promise not to bleed on either of you,” she added with a smile.
“You can join us staring at this screen then, if you like,” I said. “We’re running a photograph we found from Rosewall’s flat through facial recognition.”
Fry nodded, picking up the photo. “You should take it to the boys we arrested, see if they know him.”
“Is Harris ready for us?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at her.
“Probably. You know Harris, she doesn’t tarry. I’ll stay here,” she said, nodding to the screen. “Tell you if we get a match.”
“Thanks, Fry,” I said, standing up and patting her on the shoulder.
Mills stood up a little more slowly, looking at her face with a frown. “Take it easy,” he said, slowly walking away from her and over to me.
I snatched the photograph, and we strode down to the interview rooms, where Harris loitered in the hallway, practically glowing with pride.
“I owe you,” she said, striding towards us and throwing an arm around us each. “Got this bastard of a case pulled together at last.”
“Happy to help,” I said, patting her on the back. She pulled away, still beaming, so much so it looked as though her face would break in two.
“Right then, follow me,” she said. “I’ve got one of the lads here for you, think he might be a good one. Name’s Tim Winkle. He’s been around for a while. Should know who Haspel is and should be skittish enough to tell you.” She pushed the door open. “Winkle, this is DCI Thatcher and Sergeant Mills. They’d like to talk to you about a double homicide.”
Tim Winkle was a tall, skinny man with wrists that looked like they could slip right out of the handcuffs he was in. A mop of mousy brown hair grew across his head, the fluorescent light making his brown eyes watery.
“Hello, Mr Winkle,” I said as I said down.
“I’ve never killed anyone,” he said quickly.
“Good to know. But perhaps you know someone who has,” I said, sliding the photograph towards him. I tapped on the older man. “You know who this is?”
“Dom,” he answered, his voice shaky. “Dominic Haspel.” There was an edge to his voice, bitter and unfriendly.
“How did you know him, Mr Winkle?”
“Used to do some work for us,” he said. “Till we realised what else he did.”
“You mean murder?” I asked.
He nodded. “Bosses said to leave it. So, we left it,” he shrugged a skinny shoulder. “Only then they gave him a job he didn’t want to do, so they threatened to out him to the coppers.”
“I doubt he liked that,” I mused.
Winkle’s face contorted. “Killed the boss’s girl,” he spat.
Mills sat forward. “Killed her girl?”
“The daughter,” he said. “None of us knew who she was till she was dead.”
I thought about the first four killings, the large gap that came in between Monika Borowiec and Clare Manston. The pause, the lull, the style with which Clare had been killed. One last hurrah, one last warning.
“Clare Manston,” I said slowly. Winkle nodded.
“Had her father’s name.”
“What was her mother’s name?” I asked.
Winkle shook his head.
One of the bosses, one the ones who slipped through the woodwork all those years ago. I thought back to the names Harris had thrown our way.
“Biel?” I asked, watching the change in his face, the blink of surprise that confirmed my suspicion. So, they threatened to out Haspel, so he killed her daughter.
“What happened then?” Mills asked.
Winkle shrugged. “Got rid of him.”
“What about him?” I asked, pushing the photo closer. “Haspel had a son. Ever meet him?”
Winkle shook his head but leant closer to the photo, a slight frown between his eyes.
“You recognise him?” Mills asked. “Imagine him older.”
Winkle blinked a few times, then tapped the photo. “It’s that bloke from the restaurant,” he said. “One who trekked the mud in.”
“The one who liked the waitress?” I asked.
Winkle nodded, reaching up to scratch his chin. “Don’t know him,” he said, and I believed him. But that was him. Now we just needed to find someone who did know him.
Someone knocked on the door, and Fry stuck her head in.
“We’ve got a match.”
I turned to Mills, and with a nod from me, he was on his feet, pushing his way out the door. I turned back to Winkle and folded my hands on the table.
“Let’s go from the start, shall we?”
Twenty-Six
Mills
I followed Fry from the interview room and back into our office where Lena now stood, a first aid kit by her side. She frowned at us as we walked in, and Fry left me to go to the computer, sitting herself down so that Crowe could attend to her head.
“Think you might get a little scar here, love,” Lena said as she patched Fry together.
Fry herself didn’t look too bothered by that, her eyes on me as I walked to Thatcher’s desk and looked down at the screen. A match indeed. I printed off the more recent photographs and stood there for a while.
Someone must have seen him; he couldn’t have been a ghost. Her family, curiously peeking out from the curtains to see the man she was with, or Eljas, passing by the restaurant at some point and seeing him in the window.
I grabbed my phone and found the family’s number, giving them a quick call.
“Hello,” the father answered.
“Mr Brook, it’s Detective Sergeant Mills here,” I said, grabbing my coat. “I wondered if I would be able to come round and ask you all another question.”
“Certainly, we’re all in,” he said. “I’ll get Lisa over.”
“Thank you, Mr Brook. See you shortly.” I hung up, then found the next number and called it, hoping he wasn’t working.
“Sergeant Mills?” Eljas answered, apparently having saved my number, good lad.
“Mr Pentti. Would you be able to meet me at Julia’s house? I have something I want to run past you all, and it would be easier to do it in one go.”
“I— Sure. Now?”
“If you can.”
“I’ll head off now, then,” he said.
“Thank you, Eljas. See you.” I put my phone down and pulled my coat on.
“Where are you off to now?” Lena asked, sticking a plaster on Fry’s face.
“Going to show them his photograph, see if there’s any recognition at all.” I grabbed the picture from the printer. “Let Thatcher know for me once he’s done?” I asked Fry.
She nodded, wincing slightly as Lena touched her face. “Will do.
”
“Cheers,” I called over my shoulder, already striding from the room and jogging to the stairs, down and out of the station and into the car, not giving myself too much to think and doubt.
People weren’t invisible. They didn’t come into your life, your daughter’s life, your sister’s life, without something. People were nosy by nature, and I couldn’t believe that not a single one of them had ever seen this man, at least not from afar. Maybe they just needed reminding of his appearance.
I remembered the way to the house well enough and made it across the city in no time. Another car was outside, and as I climbed out, the driver’s door opened. Eljas appeared, looking a bit sheepish, still in his work clothes.
“I thought I’d better wait for you,” he said, dusting some soil from his trousers.
I nodded and walked up to the front door. Eljas looked mildly uncomfortable, the way you would be seeing your ex-girlfriend’s family, but he looked right here, the house with its garden, him with his grubby clothes. I rang the doorbell, unsurprised that it opened quickly, and Mrs Brook nodded to me. She clocked Eljas over my shoulder and blinked with surprise.
“Eljas!”
“Hello, Mrs Brook.”
She shook her head and stepped back. “Come in, both of you. Thank you for the flowers you sent, Eljas,” she said. “Her favourites.”
Eljas nodded. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Brook.”
Her face softened, and she walked towards him, pulling him in for a swift hug. “Me too, darling. This way, you two,” she said, pulling away, dabbing her eyes and leading us into the living room.
Mr Brook was in his armchair, the baby on his knee. Lisa sat on the sofa; her hands intertwined with those of the man I took to be her husband.
“Sergeant,” Mr Brook nodded, “and Eljas. My boy, hello.”
“I’m sorry to intrude on you again,” I said, taking a seat beside Eljas. “I hope this will be the last time.”
“Can I get you some tea?” Mrs Brook asked, hovering by the door.
“No, thank you. I don’t plan to take up too much of your time.”
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 21