“How can we help?” Mr Brook asked.
“We’ve had a development regarding Julia,” I said. “And we believe we have found the man she was seeing. We’ve got a photograph of him that I want to show you, and I was wondering if his face might jog any memories of yours.” I pulled the printed picture from my pocket and laid it flat on the coffee table.
The family all leant forward, leaning over it.
“He looks old,” Lisa muttered. “Older than Julia, anyway.”
I nodded. “We wondered if that might be part of the reason she kept him from you all.”
“We wouldn’t have cared,” Mrs Brook sighed, staring at the photo. “I don’t recognise him at all.” She shook her head. “Not one bit.”
“Nor I,” Lisa’s husband said, sitting back. Lisa also shook her head, and I turned to Eljas, who was frowning at the man’s face.
“Ever see him in the restaurant?” I asked.
Eljas reached up, scratching his neck. “Maybe. He looks sort of familiar. I’d have only seen him through the window, though.”
My hope started to fizzle out, and I looked to Mr Brook. He was looking at the photo with a blank expression, then he rose to his feet, handed the baby to her father, and walked over to the desk.
“He was in the car,” he said as he pulled the drawer open.
“The car?” I asked, confused.
Mrs Brook turned to me. “There was a car parked down at the end of the road a few times,” she clarified. “My husband worries about things like that. Strange cars turning up and hanging around.”
He used to pick her up from the end of the road.
“And you recognise this man from the car?”
Mr Brook nodded, still rifling through the desk drawers for something. “Saw him through the windscreen,” he said, pulling out a notebook. “I made a note. Orange four by four. Dacia. The licence plate.” He handed me the notepad. “Just in case.”
I took the pad, a sense of victory filling me up. “You’re sure it was him?” I asked, tapping the photo.
“He never forgets a face,” Mrs Brook said fondly as he sat back down.
“Like a pigeon,” Lisa said.
“The car was parked down the road?” I asked.
He nodded. “Was just at the end at first, then it was round the corner. Only saw it a few times.”
I doubted that he would have lingered, especially once he knew he’d been seen there.
“Is it his car?” Lisa asked, nodding to the photo.
“He’d have picked her up in it,” Eljas said, rubbing his face. “Did no one ever check the car out when she left?”
“Never followed her down the street to do it,” Lisa said. “But we’d have noticed if he parked outside.”
“He would have counted on that,” I assured her. “He knew how to stay out of sight.”
I took a picture of the page Mr Brook had given me and sent it to Fry, asking her to run the plate and see what we got.
“Who is he?” Eljas asked, still studying the photo.
“We don’t know much about him yet,” I said, not really wanting to get into the full ‘his father was a murderer’ story with them. “At the moment, our priority is finding him.”
“Did he kill the other girl?” Lisa asked. “I read about her in the paper.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss much of that with you,” I said.
“Of course not,” Mrs Brook replied. “Was there anything else we could help you with?”
“We understand that Julia had a badger pin she was rather fond of,” I said, watching as they all nodded in unison. “I was wondering if it was here in the house?”
Mrs Brook frowned. “No, she always had it on her.”
“You don’t have it?” Eljas asked, turning to me.
“Not yet. But we’ll find it,” I said, rising from the sofa. “And I’ll get it back to you.”
“Thank you,” Mrs Brook said.
“I’ll get out of your way now.” I moved towards the door. “And we’ll be in touch shortly. Thank you,” I added to Mr Brook, who was now preoccupied once more with his granddaughter.
“I’ll go too,” Eljas said.
“No, no.” Mrs Brook waved her hand at him. “Stay if you can, Eljas.”
“Stay,” Lisa added. “We’ve not seen you for so long.”
Eljas paused, then nodded and relaxed back into the sofa. I smiled slightly and walked to the front door, followed by Mrs Brook, who let me out.
“I suppose my husband’s nervous behaviour is in our favour,” she said.
“Very much so. Thank you for your time, Mrs Brook. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Sergeant,” she nodded, seeing me out the front door, which she then quietly closed.
I crossed the street, slid back into the car, and pulled my phone from my pocket. We had a car, that was something, the very one he would have picked Julia up in. Maybe her pin was in there, her phone too. That would be more than evidence to see him put away. But not for Hana Miyara. Her killer was somebody else, playing by a different set of rules. I wondered if Thatcher was having any more luck there if our new friend Winkle had something of interest to share.
My phone started ringing, Fry’s name flashing up, and I answered quickly, almost dropping my phone.
“Mills,” I answered.
“I ran the licence plate, sir. Registered to Keith Rosewall. I’ve managed to track it to a car park outwards Stockton. Near the forest.”
“Brilliant, thanks, Fry. Any word on Thatcher?”
“He’s just finished up in the interview room,” she said, her voice going faint. There was a rustle on the other end of the phone, then Thatcher’s gruff voice spoke up.
“Mills? You got a car?”
“I do. Mr Brook saw it hanging it around at the end of the street a few times and took the plate down, just in case. Said he recognised Rosewall as the driver.”
“Out towards Stockton, is it?”
“For the time being,” I replied. “How’d it go with Winkle?”
“Grim,” he said in a dour voice. “I’ll fill you in later. Head out to the location,” he told me. “I’ll try to intercept you.”
“You can’t drive,” I reminded him. Another pause, quiet murmuring.
“Fry will drive.”
“She doesn’t have a concussion?” I asked, thinking about the nasty cut on her head.
“Nope. Crowe’s given her the all-clear. We’ll meet you there. Get a sight on him but hold off on engaging until we arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you there, Mills,” he said, hanging up on me a second later. I quickly yanked my seatbelt into place and started the engine.
I pulled away from the kerb, my phone propped up in the cupholder, the Bluetooth connected in case anybody called, and set off towards Stockton, winding along the roads in the growing dark. That wasn’t good. The last thing we needed was to be hunting a man through the forest in pitch black. At least we wouldn’t be heading into the moors themselves.
Still, a hundred fears bubbled into my head. What if he was deep in the forest? What if we go there and the car has been abandoned? I shook my head, trying to make myself focus on the now. We had a car, we had a location, and, if luck was on our side, we’d have our killer before the night was out.
I was glad to know that Thatcher and Fry would meet me there, and I meant to follow his orders and stay away, but nor was I about to let the man slip through my fingers, only vanish for twenty years like his father had. No doubt he’d be following his father’s footsteps on that part of the plan as well. As I left the city, I turned my headlights on, navigating the countryside road out towards the village. I’d never been out there myself, knew little of it, bar the forest. There was a golf club as well, I think, there usually was.
I slowed down as I hit the long road up towards the forest, opting to park outside the pub and make my way to the forest on foot. There was a public car park for dog walkers and r
amblers to use, a rickety old CCTV camera in place, probably there to stop fly-tippers or litterers. I was grateful for it, though. As I got nearer, squinting in the dark, I spotted a car shining towards the back of the muddy lot.
An orange car, just as Mr Brook had said. It was dark, with no sign of anybody in the vehicle, but I still kept my distance, not wanting to shine my torch directly on it just in case. I pulled my phone out and held it as I walked, trying to look like any other person finding their way in the evening, sticking close to the edge of the car park as I walked. The light was just enough, and with the streetlight on the road in the distance, I could just make out the licence plate on the car. It was his. Keith Rosewall.
But the car was empty. I looked to the forest across the way with a grimace. There was no way we could find him in there at this time of day, and if we waited for morning, he’d likely be gone by then.
Damn it.
I checked the time. It would be another ten minutes or so until Thatcher arrived, and by then, there’d be even less light to work with. I grit my teeth, determined to see this through, pulled my torch from my pocket, and started walking towards the tree line and the dark woods that lay beyond.
Twenty-Seven
Thatcher
I sat across the table after Mills slipped out with Fry, studying Mr Winkle.
“You said that Dominic Haspel was got rid of,” I reminded him. “How?”
He just lifted his eyes to mine, a sheepish look on his face.
“He was killed?”
A soft nod.
“By whom?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But his son knew,” I said. “And he came back and killed Julia Brook. What about Hana Miyara? What did she do?”
Winkle looked down guiltily. “They were worried,” he said quietly. “You were getting close, and they wanted to throw you off.”
“So, they killed her, hoping we’d leave you all alone?”
Another nod.
“Do you know who killed Hana Miyara?” I asked him slowly.
Winkle swallowed loudly, his eyes shifting nervously from my face to the door, the window, and down to his lap.
“I do.”
“A name would be useful, Mr Winkle.”
He breathed in and out slowly. “Rory.”
“Rory Bond?” The name from Harris’s notes came easily to mind.
Winkle nodded. “They’ll come for me for that,” he said.
“You’ve been very cooperative, Mr Winkle. I’m sure we can work something out.” I rose from the desk and walked to the door, pausing. “Do you know why he chose Julia?”
Winkle shrugged again, his shoulders bony underneath his jumper. “She liked her.”
“Who did?”
“Medina.”
I nodded and left the room. Leaving Winkle to Harris, I wandered back to the office. It was as I thought it was, Julia was close enough that Keith Rosewall targeted her, and they had Hana Miyara killed to throw us away from them. And it almost worked. There was a moment where we doubted the restaurant’s involvement in the whole thing. They’d killed his dad, so he’d gone after them. Somehow. What had Julia told him about them? What was his next play?
I walked into the office, sticking the photograph to the middle boards. There was no sign of Mills, only Fry, speaking on the phone, a plaster on her forehead.
“He’s just finished up in the interview room,” she was saying, turning to look at me. She lowered the phone from her face and walked over. “Mills had me run a car belonging to Rosewall.” She held the phone out.
Another lead, good work. I wondered where he was but left it, for now, taking the phone from Fry and holding it to my head.
“Mills? You got a car?”
“I do,” he answered. “Mr Brook saw it hanging it around at the end of the street a few times and took the plate down, just in case. Said he recognised Rosewall as the driver.” I walked over to the computer Fry had commandeered and looked at the screen.
“Out towards Stockton, is it?” I asked, noting the location of the car.
“For the time being. How’d it go with Winkle?” he asked. Fry was leaning against the desk, listening with her face turned to the window.
“Grim. I’ll fill you in later.” We had more important fish to fry right now. “Head out to the location. I’ll try to intercept you.”
There was a little pause, then Mills hesitantly said, “You can’t drive.”
Damn it. I looked at our constable, and she nodded once. “Fry will drive.”
“She doesn’t have a concussion?” he asked, his voice full of worry.
Fry shook her head, tapped the plaster, and gave me a thumbs up.
“Nope. Crowe’s given her the all-clear. We’ll meet you there. Get a sight on him but hold off on engaging until we arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you there, Mills,” I said, hanging up and handing Fry her phone. “You’re good?”
“All good. Bit of a headache and scar, but I’ll be fine. I always seemed to get knocked on the head,” she muttered, pulling her coat on.
“So long as it stays on, you’re all good,” I replied, walking from the office.
“That’s the sort of thing my dad would say,” she remarked, walking alongside me. We headed downstairs and out to her car, much tidier than Mills’s ever was. She had a large blanket spread over the back seat, a set up on the seat belt to strap her dog in neatly.
“How is the dog?” I asked as she started the engine, the sat nav tuned to the location of Rosewall’s car.
“Better,” she said, “thank God. You think Mills will wait for us?” She sounded doubtful.
“I’d like to think he would, but if he needs to move, he will. We don’t want to lose him,” I added darkly, thinking of the last time a killer slipped through my fingers.
“Did Harris’s guy give you anything?” she asked, her eyes focused on the road.
“Surprisingly helpful. They had one of theirs kill Hana Miyara to keep us from looking too closely. It would have worked if they hadn’t got it all wrong.”
Fry grimaced, wincing with the movement. “Bastards. All the girl did was go into the wrong restaurant for her dinner.” Her voice was darkened, her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“At least we have him,” I said.
Rory Bond had been one of the people Harris picked up tonight, and we’d be able to pin him down and lock him up. A small piece of good news for Hana’s father, the only good news we could ever offer. But it was better than nothing, better than twenty years of wondering and hoping, stewing in the past. This time would be different. I was determined about that.
Fry knew the roads well, and soon enough, we were out towards the village, and she spotted Mills’s car parked by the pub, pulling in beside it.
“He must have continued on foot,” I said as we climbed out, torches in hand. It was getting darker by the minute, any longer as we’d be scuttering about in the pitch black. Fry fell into step beside me as we walked along the road to the car park that sat on the edge of the forest. The light of Fry’s torch brushed over the one car parked there, the orange four by four we were after. It was dark, nobody sitting inside. And no sign of Mills.
“Call him?” Fry asked.
I nodded, and as she dug her phone out, I wandered over to the car itself. I wondered if he was leaving it here, abandoning it for a new one, or if he planned on coming back. Though I imagined that at this point in time, all of his carefully laid plans were out the window, his end results, whatever that had been, to begin with, were gone in the wind.
I reached for the passenger door, trying the handle, and just like with his flat, the door opened for me. I turned the torch on and shone it inside the vehicle, over the back seats and the floors. It had been cleaned, and recently, it smelt like a new car. But there were too many scratches on the car for it to be new. I reached it, popped open the glove compartment, and felt around inside.
<
br /> Something sharp stabbed my hand, and I winced, pulling my hand free. A pin was stuck into my palm, and I carefully dislodged it, turning it over and shining the torch on it.
Julia’s pin. I pocketed it, not bothering with an evidence bag since it now had my blood on it anyway, and besides, I didn’t really want to waste too much time dithering about with plastic bags in a dark car park.
I walked back over to Fry, her voice low as she spoke to Mills. She looked up at me as I joined her.
“I’m passing you to him,” she said, handing me her phone.
“Isaac?” I spoke.
“Sir. I’m about a mile in,” he whispered. “And I think I’ve spotted him. I’ve got a light in the tree line, which looks like a little camp set up.”
“Stay put,” I said. “We’ll come around, come in from the other side.”
“Yes, sir,” he hissed.
“Mile north?” I asked.
“Northeast.”
I hung up and handed Fry her phone. “How do you like the woods, Fry?” I asked, grabbing my torch and pulling my baton from my pocket, extending it out.
“During the day, very lovely. In the dark, less so,” she said. I nodded, looking out towards the forest.
“You stay here, Fry. In case he comes out this way,” I said. She nodded and drifted back towards the car, and I set off alone, my boots snapping the small twigs on the forest floor.
There was a trail, handily placed, heading northeast as Mills had said, so I stuck to it, not needing to get lost in here and walked on, leaving Fry to hold up at the carpark.
What a pair we made, me with my cracked ribs that I was working hard to ignore, her with her battered head and cut eyebrow. At least Mills was in full working condition, able to run if need be.
I walked in silence, the only sounds around being the snap of twigs and leaves, the hooting of owls and other things that lived at night coming out. The light from my torch shined on the trees surrounding me, pulling out dark shadows and strange shapes. I turned it straight ahead, following the path, until another light cut across, glinting. I dropped my torch and turned towards the bouncing light. Mills. I looked ahead to where a dimmer light shone, a lantern hanging from a branch, and a little tent huddled in the darkness.
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 22