Dark Truths

by A. J. Cross

  Watts slow-nodded. ‘It would. What happened?’

  ‘Broughton came flying out of his house, mouthing off. I grabbed him, pushed him against his car. He called the police. They came. Questioned us both. I was cautioned for laying my hands on him. That’s all it was.’

  Watts had seen it on the PNC. ‘Was it reported in the papers?’

  ‘No, but everybody round here knew about it. They’d seen the build-up of months of aggravation from Broughton. Most of them supported me in what I did.’

  ‘What did you know about Broughton?’

  Winter gave it some thought. ‘I heard talk about his revamping houses, charging clients way over the top. I also heard a rumour that he had some kind of “business interests” in Spain. We all know what that means.’

  ‘Do we?’

  Winter gave Watts a look. ‘Come on. He was into something over there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of theories: drug-running, money laundering, maybe both.’

  ‘Anything to back that up?’

  ‘Common sense.’

  ‘Can you think of any other reason why somebody might have wanted to harm Broughton?’

  Winter stared at him. ‘Isn’t what I’ve said enough?’

  Watts looked back at Winter’s house. Beyond the businessman gloss, he guessed that Winter was a thug, although he could see some justification in his complaints about Broughton. Watts finished what he was writing, looked at the last few words: suspects Broughton was involved with drugs and/or money laundering. Snapping his notebook closed, he looked at the house again. Had Broughton been involved with drugs? Was he caught in the eye of some illegal storm which was about to break and wreck whatever he was into? Or, had Winter lost his rag and got rid of Broughton, the irritant, for good? If he had, where was the tie-in with Zoe Roberts and the other victims? He started the engine and pulled away. Drugs had already figured in the investigation. If that’s where this case was heading, each of the victims needed a second look. Prostitution and drugs. The quick surge of optimism at the two linked activities vanished. Justin Rhodes. Clean-cut. Liked by his boss. Loved by his family. How did he fit into that scenario? ‘Good luck to whoever comes to sort this lot out,’ he murmured, checked the next address on his itinerary, drove a short distance down the long road and pulled in again.

  Watts was back inside the BMW, jabbing the air con. He’d never had much time for people who held on to grudges and Penny Ainsworth, the woman he’d just talked to, was a past master. He looked at the dashboard clock. He’d listened to a solid twenty minutes of diatribe against Daniel Broughton and the men he’d sent to remodel her garden close on fifteen years ago. The only person she’d had a positive word for was Marjorie whatsit, Edward Arnold’s girlfriend. Arnold himself had come in for his share of criticism: too talkative. This from Ainsworth who seldom paused to draw breath. He started his vehicle, looked up to see Ainsworth still at her door, smiling and waving. He bared his teeth at her and pulled away.

  Tired, fed up, Judd closed a file, pushed it away and reached for another. She’d gone through four now and found nothing new or potentially interesting. She looked up as the door opened. ‘Hey, Jonesy. You’re a stranger.’

  ‘I’m on my way to the scene but there’s something for you, Chlo.’ He waved a tip sheet at her.

  She went to him, took it, read it. ‘You spoke to this woman?’

  ‘Yes. She said that she and Zoe Roberts worked for the same agency.’

  ‘Agency?’ She shook her head. ‘Roberts was a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what she said. She ended the call before giving her contact details but I retrieved her number.’

  Judd looked at the slip. ‘Nobody at the legal practice where Zoe worked mentioned a Vivian Smith and nobody’s said anything about any agency work.’ Jones left and she reached for the phone, listened to the number ringing out as Watts then Traynor came into the room. She waved the tip sheet, switched to speakerphone.

  ‘Hello?’ said a female voice. Judd did a quick thumbs-up. ‘Am I speaking to Vivian Smith?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Police Constable Chloe Judd, calling from headquarters in Harborne, Miss Smith. I have a note of a call you made to the Zoe Roberts murder tip line a short while ago.’ She looked up. Her colleagues’ eyes were fixed on her. ‘According to the information you gave, you were a work colleague of Zoe Roberts.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Some details about the nature of that work?’ She waited. ‘Ms Smith?’

  ‘I’d rather not get into this.’

  Judd frowned into the phone. ‘Ms Smith, you phoned headquarters because you thought you could help. We need your help. You told the officer that you worked for an agency, that Zoe Roberts worked for the same agency. Is that correct?’

  Smith’s words surged across the room. ‘All I did was deal with the bookings. Keep the diary organized. I didn’t know this Zoe Roberts. I never met her. I can’t tell you anything about her.’

  ‘Can you confirm the nature of the agency, please?’

  ‘It was a service agency.’

  Judd looked up at Watts. ‘Can you describe the nature of those services?’

  ‘Escort. If there was anything illegal going on, I never saw it. I was told that all the escorts were over eighteen. She was one of them.’

  ‘Miss Smith, we would really appreciate talking to you in person—’

  ‘Like I said, I’d rather not be involved.’

  ‘All we want from you is what you know about Zoe Roberts’ work for the agency. We can come to wherever you are or, if you prefer, you can come here to headquarters.’ Silence. ‘How about tomorrow morning at eight thirty?’ Judd frowned at the receiver, replaced it. ‘She hung up.’

  Watts looked at Traynor. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Confirmation of Roberts having another source of income has to be good for our case, if what the woman said is reliable. It fits with what Christian Roberts said about her appearing to have more money than he anticipated. Her family never mentioned it. Maybe they didn’t know.’

  ‘Get anything from Paul Clarke?’ Watts asked.

  ‘Clarke is a potentially dangerous mix of hubris, resentment and personal inadequacy. When he worked at the newspaper, he must have hated seeing Justin Rhodes progress, whilst his own career was going nowhere. I would anticipate that in a situation where Clarke is face-to-face with his own inadequacies, he has the potential for violence. I think he needs a closer look.’

  Watts got up, went to the board, pulled information on to it. ‘What you’ve said is just what I want to hear. I’m moving this case forward while it’s still mine.’ He pointed to the short list of names he’d written that morning. ‘Edward Arnold. Paul Clarke. David Winter and Richard Nilsen. As of now, they’re our persons of interest.’

  Traynor shook his head. ‘I hear what you’re saying but we don’t have enough evidence to raise them to POI.’

  Watts walked away from the board. ‘I’ll find more. No way am I waiting around to be side-lined on this case, any case, after thirty years’ service.’ He looked at Judd. ‘Give us a minute, will you?’ She headed for the door. It closed on her. Watts had come to a decision. He looked at Traynor. ‘I know you’re interested in that whole area around Blackfoot and we both know why. I’ve given it some thought, Will, but while I’m still running this investigation, there’ll be no searches for victims of cases from other jurisdictions. We maintain our focus on the victims we’ve already got.’ He waited out the silence.

  Traynor looked at him. ‘Your internalized map of the UK has Birmingham in huge capitals at its centre, every other city labelled “Somewhere Else”.’ He stood, headed for the door, Watts’ voice following him.

  ‘As long as you keep searching, Will, you’ll never have a life!’ He watched the door close then dialled reception to let them know that a Vivian Smith was expected at headquarters at eight thirty the following
morning.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Thursday 25 August. Eleven a.m.

  Watts and Judd had spent several hours poring through files, searching for anything that had been missed, anything to progress the persons of interest to suspects. A database search had confirmed that only Winter had previous, for his assault of Broughton.

  ‘Winter and Broughton still interest me,’ said Watts. ‘I’ll get on to the Spanish police. See if they’ve ever had cause to investigate either of them.’

  Judd was looking at the Vivian Smith tip sheet. ‘I wonder why she didn’t come?’

  ‘People get cold feet. Change their minds.’ He headed for the door as Traynor came into the office. ‘Vivian Smith, the escort agency worker, was a no-show, but I’ll check with reception.’

  ‘She probably had mixed feelings about it when she rang,’ said Traynor.

  Judd frowned. ‘So, why bother ringing at all?’

  ‘Escort agencies are a policing grey area. Some are above board, others not. It’s possible she had doubts about the one she worked for.’ He took clipped-together sheets from his backpack. ‘I’ve got some reading to catch up on.’ He leafed through them, pointing to one. ‘You spoke to Alec Prentiss. Was he any help?’

  Judd rolled her eyes. ‘If you want my honest opinion, he’s an idiot.’

  Watts was back, holding several A4s. ‘Have a look at these.’ He laid them on the table. They stared down at the black-grey image of a dark-haired, fortyish woman, her hand extended to one of headquarters’ main doors, her face tilted upwards, captured by headquarters’ CCTV system. ‘I had officers check the list of names who were due in by appointment. The only female expected was Smith at eight thirty. She was the only no-show.’

  Judd pointed at the time printed at the lower edge of the copy image, her face animated. ‘Eight twenty-six! She did come, but only as far as the door.’ Judd frowned at the image, half-listening to Watts on the phone, enunciating his words.

  After several minutes, he ended the call. ‘No investigations of any kind by Spanish police of David Winter or Daniel Broughton. I’ll release a short statement to the press that we have a possible escort link in the case.’

  He looked across at Traynor. ‘From tomorrow I’ll start running this investigation on the basis that there’s zero links among the victims, that we’ve got a random killer and I’ll be requesting Arnold, Clarke and Winter come in for formal interviews.’

  Traynor returned unread papers to his backpack. ‘In which case, you’ll be going in the wrong direction. Nothing about this case is random. The key to it is where they were found. That’s the link. The area has been searched but not in the necessary depth.’

  Hearing this, Watts knew that what he’d said to him the previous day had had no impact. Nothing would. ‘Traynor, I decide the direction of this investigation because it’s my neck that’s on the line. You know as well as I do the hours this team and the specialist officers have spent at that scene. Forensics is still there, although not for much longer. Whether I take this case to its conclusion or they replace me, I know it’s a mess but it’s my mess and I’ll do whatever it takes to sort it while I still can.’ He looked down at the thick files on the table. ‘This case isn’t going down into the basement. Not while I’m in charge of it.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday 26 August. Ten a.m.

  ‘Sarge?’ Watts looked up at a uniformed youth, his arms full of the morning’s newspapers. ‘The chief told me to bring these to you. He said to read them.’

  ‘I’m busy. Drop them on the …’ He reached for the topmost one bearing a huge, black headline:

  REMAINS OF THREE OTHER VICTIMS AT BLACKFOOT TRAIL!

  Judd looked at it, eyes widening. Throwing it aside, Watts stared down at the one beneath it and the one beneath that. The door opened and Traynor came inside. Watts pointed. ‘We’ve got a bloody leak!’

  An officer appeared at the door. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a woman in reception asking for you. She won’t give her name.’

  Watts was on his feet. ‘That’ll be Vivian Smith, having second thoughts.’ He and Traynor headed for the door. Judd made to follow them. ‘Stay there.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ She watched them leave, waited, then followed. Coming into Reception, she stopped. Alec Prentiss was standing at the main doors, his eyes fixed on his mother who was facing Watts, her voice shaking with anger.

  ‘We heard it on the early news. How dare you release information about my daughter, saying she had a connection to some escort agency!’

  Watts shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what was said—’

  Her hand shot up, made sharp contact with his face. ‘And that’s for not telling us that our daughter was killed by some sick serial killer!’ She spun from him, headed for the door and out, shaking off her son’s hand. With a quick glance at Watts, he followed her.

  Watts, Traynor and Judd returned to the office where Watts sat, a red welt visible on his face. Judd looked across at him. ‘I think Mother Prentiss reacted like she did because she already had an idea Zoe was up to something.’ She paused. ‘Zoe Roberts was getting on a bit, so it’s possible she was just an escort, a sophisticated date for some businessman who’d just hit the city.’ Watts slowly turned to her. She bit her lip. ‘Arrived in the city.’

  ‘Judd, the worst bit of what you just said was your definition of thirty as “getting on”.’

  Traynor looked at him. ‘Roberts definitely fits the theory that these victims were each involved in behaviours which might have attracted disapproval.’

  ‘Rhodes wasn’t,’ said Watts flatly. ‘You said once that without full inclusion, there is no theory.’

  The door opened. One of the officers from Reception came inside waving envelopes, with a quick glance at Watts’ face. ‘Post, Sarge.’

  Judd took it from him, brought it to the table, began opening an envelope. Watts checked his watch. ‘I’ve called a briefing. Traynor, I want you to share your information and ideas about Paul Clarke.’

  Judd’s eyes were fixed on the single A4 in her hand. Her eyes moved slowly to Traynor. ‘Sarge, you have to see this.’

  Watts looked at it, took it from her. It wasn’t a letter. Less than a dozen words. He reached into his pocket, pulled out latex gloves. ‘Envelope. Where is it?’ She lifted it from the bin by a corner, handed it to him. Traynor came and stood next to them. Watts caught his arm as he reached for it. ‘No. We all know the zero value of anonymous communications.’

  Traynor’s eyes locked on his. ‘My wife’s name is on it!’

  Watts placed it on the table. Traynor stared down at the line of black capitalized characters:

  DEATH SCORE ONE PLUS CLAIRE TRAYNOR EQUALS TWO.

  It was Traynor who broke the silence. ‘Whoever sent this is saying he killed my wife. It’s confirmation that she and our cases are linked.’

  Watts put his hand on Traynor’s arm, lowered his voice. ‘All it’s telling us is that whoever sent it reads newspapers and knows you’re working on this case. He’s seen you on the news, knows what happened to your family. Whoever he is, he wants to mess with your head.’ Traynor stared at it. ‘It’s not what you think, Will. This is from some unemployable no-hoper who drives a ten-year-old rent-a-wreck, saw your picture in the papers and has decided he doesn’t like you.’ He pointed at the communication. ‘Trust me, it’s got nothing to do with what happened to your wife. This is from an idiot who wants to play games.’ Traynor was still staring at it, his hair and forehead damp. Watts clicked his fingers. ‘The newspapers, where are they?’

  Judd lifted them from one of the chairs. ‘Here, Sarge.’

  He took them, held one up, then another. ‘Look, Will. He knows nothing. He hadn’t seen the news when he sent that. He didn’t know how many victims there are. He’s nobody’s killer.’ Traynor stood, unmoved. Watts turned to Judd, held out the latex glove. ‘Take the sheet and the envelope to forensics fo
r processing. Request photocopies. Oh, and while you’re up there, tell the team that the briefing is cancelled.’ Judd returned with the photocopies. Watts sent Traynor a covert glance. He still had the miles-off look on his face.

  Traynor broke the silence. ‘When we talked about the possibility of our victims being featured in the press, I told you that Claire also featured in an article in the Oxford newspapers. So did I. I was asked for my theories about the York homicide. Claire was still alive at the time.’ He looked up at Watts, his face parchment. ‘I brought Claire to her killer’s attention.’

  ‘No. There’s only one person responsible for what happened to your wife, and that’s whoever killed her and you know it because you’re a scientist, a rational thinker.’

  Traynor stared at him. ‘If there’s even a chance that reports in newspapers are what fuels him …’

  Watts shook his head. ‘You’re responding exactly as he wants. Yes, it was a shock to read that note, but you know as well as any of us that anonymous communications are irrelevant until there’s reason to think otherwise. This one is worthless. It’s not going to impact this investigation and neither am I going to make public that all it takes to be victimized by this killer is a mention in some newspaper report. There’s two million people in this city, a good proportion of them already in fear of an unseen killer who’s decided to come out of the woodwork during one of the hottest summers any of us can remember. Don’t let whoever sent it mess with you, Will.’

  Traynor reached for his backpack, walked to the door and out.

  ‘Should we stop him leaving, Sarge?’

  ‘How do you propose we do that?’

  ‘Do you think he’s OK?’

  ‘No.’ He sat on the edge of the table, eyeing the information on the board.

  Judd waited. ‘You don’t believe that note.’