“I’m asking you that, Andrew, because we have reason to believe Ralph Kennedy did not commit those murders,” I said as I leaned in closer to him.
“Really?” he stammered. “Why?”
“New witnesses have come forward,” I said. “In light of the recent cop killings and the shared similarities with the Kennedy case.”
“I don’t know anyone,” he protested. “What similarities?”
I picked up the pen and made a note on the blank paper.
“That’s strange,” I said. “Because your mate Grant Gibson gave us a name. He said this person was probably the culprit of the recent murders, too.”
Cooper tore his nail away, and I saw it began to bleed.
“Can you guess who it was?” I asked.
He shook his head miserably.
“It was you, Andrew,” I said. “Why do you think he’d say that?”
Cooper wiped his eyes.
“I don’t know,” the young man protested feebly. “He’s making shit up.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked with skepticism.
“To protect himself,” Cooper suggested.
“Protect himself from what?” I asked again.
“You should have heard Grant banging on after Ralph was killed!” Cooper replied. “He always said Ralph deserved vengeance, and the cops shouldn’t get away with prisoners dying.”
He shot me a nervous look.
“He said you’re all filthy pigs,” Andrew whispered.
“Filthy?” I repeated. “You’re sure he said that?”
“Don’t blame me,” he wailed and put his hands up in surrender. “I don’t think that, I’m just telling you what he said.”
“If he really thinks that, why would he make a deal with us?” I asked.
“What?” the dark-haired man asked and wiped his nose. “What deal?”
“He offered us evidence against you, Andrew,” I repeated. “In exchange for a favour.”
“But there is no evidence!” Cooper protested.
“Then why would he say there is?” I said as I shrugged.
Andrew buried his face into his palms and began to cry in gasping, pitiful sobs. Tears splashed heavily on the table as Andrew heaved. I tapped my pen on the desk as though impatient. There was a knock at the door, and Andrew cringed as if afraid to find out what came next.
“Come in,” I called.
Harding stood in the doorway with a very serious expression on her face.
“DCI Thorne,” the brunette announced. “You’re needed urgently.”
I shot her an angry look and shook my head.
“It can’t wait,” she persisted.
I clicked the pen a final time in agitation and threw it onto the table.
“I wouldn’t touch that file if I were you, Andrew,” I warned him as I stood. “They’re watching.”
“For the record,” I called out. “DCI Thorne is leaving the room.”
Cooper sobbed louder into his hands as I stepped out of the room.
“What is it?” I hissed to her as I closed the door.
My partner folded her arms and glared at me.
“I think we’re crossing a line,” she warned.
“Me, you mean,” I deadpanned.
“Yes,” she said. “You.”
“I’m cracking him, Harding,” I protested. “It’s working.”
I could hear Cooper crying through the crack of the door, like a sad wind passing through a long tunnel.
“But at what expense?” she asked. “This isn't ethical.”
“Just because he’s crying doesn’t mean I’m abusing him,” I pointed out. “Do you know how many suspects have turned on the waterworks before? Just to get attention? What if he’s playing us? Don’t fall for such a stupid trick.”
“Sir, you saw his face!” the brunette exclaimed. “He’s not playing.”
“Look, Harding,” I said. “There are times when instinct takes over protocol. You haven’t been doing this long enough to understand that yet.”
“But what would Gibson or Cooper even have to gain from killing the officers who put their friend into jail?” she asked in protest. “It’s not like they were childhood best friends.”
I shrugged, because I knew the two cases were tied to each other. I wasn’t wrong about that.
“People have killed for less,” I reminded the DS. “People have killed over a perceived slight in the street.”
“I think we’re pushing him too hard, sir,” Harding insisted.
“Hang on,” I sighed.
I opened the door again and peered inside. Andrew was breathing quickly and emitting soft moans as he rocked back and forth. His cheeks were wiped of colour, and his eyes were firmly shut.
“Are you alright?” Harding asked him.
“I’m sorry,” he panted as he opened his eyes. “I know you said not to, but I wanted to see my file, and then--”
Cooper held up his bleeding index finger.
“Papercut,” he groaned.
“You’re afraid of blood?” she asked.
I shook my head. Unbelievable.
Andrew merely moaned again as his eyes took in the papercut once again.
“Do you really think he could have cleaned up a puddle of blood?” Harding whispered and cocked her head skeptically.
“That’s nowhere near enough to rule him out,” I murmured to Harding. “It could be a ruse.”
“Andrew,” I called out. “Where were you on the morning of Sunday the 3rd, and the night of Monday the 4th?”
Cooper wiped the injured finger on his trousers and retched slightly. His eyes were wet with tears.
“I was at my girlfriend’s house,” he sniffed.
“The whole time?” I asked.
“All weekend till this morning,” he agreed.
“I need her name and contact details,” I told him. “Can you write it on that bit of paper in front you?”
He gingerly picked up the pen and did so. When I tried to take the paper, he hung on to the slip a little too long, as though he didn’t want to hand it over. I walked back to Harding and handed her the paper.
“Right, get on it and verify their alibis,” I said. “Talk to the parents, talk to the girlfriend. Look up their records. Talk to any neighbours and get verified eye witnesses. I’m not going to stop prodding this guy until we’ve got all that.”
Harding gazed back at me defiantly. Then a nervous voice jittered behind me.
“DCI Thorne?” the voice asked.
I whirled round. It was a small, baby-cheeked officer with too much hair gel. I glared at him.
“What?” I snapped.
“Sorry to bother you, erm…” his voice trailed off.
“Spit it out,” I said.
“It’s just there’s a man in Reception demanding to speak to the SIO in charge of this case,” the PC said. “He won’t leave. We need you to come down.”
Chapter 12
The man stood next to the front desk. People glanced at him curiously as they passed, and the receptionist, the troublesome woman from the previous day, had one eye on his figure, and the other on her phone in front. He stood quietly, hands in his pockets, and looked as though he had all the time in the world to wait. I couldn’t associate that man with the agitated person the PC had described so nervously.
He had a scratchy stubble and an overgrown mustache. His hair was greasy, but he looked uncomfortable in his sloppiness like he wasn’t used to it. I wasn’t an expert in fashion, but I recognised that his clothes were old, threadbare even, his white shirt dyed with patches of pink, as though carelessly thrown in with a coloured wash.
Then, our eyes met, and he zeroed in on me. His face was as smooth and shallow as glass. There was something in his features I recognised, but I couldn’t quite place how.
“Wait here,” I muttered to Harding.
She started to protest, and I held up a hand to cut her off. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew that this
man was there for me, and me alone. He wouldn’t talk with anyone else around, and I was certain that I needed to hear what he had to say.
I walked up to him until we were face-to-face, and I could smell the stale stench of his unwashed clothes.
“I’m DCI Thorne,” I told him.
“You’re leading the murder inquiry?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Enquiries,” I corrected him. “And yes. Do you have any information for me?”
“I don’t believe you,” he said and looked me up and down.
“Believe it,” I sighed.
“You don’t look like you’re in charge,” he scoffed.
“Only fake leaders have to prove it to people,” I pointed out, but I took out my DCI credentials anyway.
The man bent down, read the badge carefully, and then nodded.
“I’m told you’re insisting on speaking to me,” I said. “What’s the urgency?”
“It’s you who should be speaking to me, DCI,” he chided.
I swallowed an exasperated sigh and wondered why the PCs hadn’t asked him to leave and come back at a more convenient time. That strange need to hear what he had to say feeling had evaporated, and all I could think about was the suspect back in the interrogation room.
“Sir, I have a murder investigation to lead,” I replied. “I am extremely busy.”
His expression crackled with sudden anger as he pointed a finger at me.
“Your arrogance is astounding,” he said. “I’m the only person who can help, and here you are trying to dismiss me.”
“How can you help?” I asked.
I looked at him more closely as I tried to figure out why he looked familiar. He was very average-looking, with NHS branded glasses, slightly mismatched features, and a stern, serious face. He looked like an ordnance surveyor or an IT technician who worked next door. He could have slotted into any bland, desk-based job.
“I have important and extremely time-sensitive information on your case,” the man told me.
I heard a little cough and looked to see that the receptionist had glanced surreptitiously at us as she filled in a calendar. I had a feeling she was listening to every word.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He shook his head as though I’d disappointed him.
“I can’t tell you that,” the man said.
I had worked a lot of cases where members of the public often tried to slot themselves into the investigation. It gave them an illicit thrill to offer up fake information, or in some cases, confess to a crime they’d never committed. I usually charged them with wasting police time.
“Why can’t you tell me?” I sighed.
“It’s not relevant,” he replied.
I looked over my shoulder at DS Harding, and I beckoned her to join us, but the man didn’t seem to register her presence.
“We can’t sit down with you until we know your name,” I said. “It’s just not done that way. You can appreciate that, surely?”
“You don’t understand!” he shouted as he wrung his hands in the air.
His voice had grown louder, and I willed for him to be quiet because people were looking at us.
“I did it,” he said. “I killed those two officers, and a third person will die soon if you don’t listen to me.”
The receptionist squeaked loudly. I glanced at my brunette partner and motioned that she should remove the woman. Harding tugged the woman away from the desk and whispered a warning.
“You killed them?” I clarified as I stared at the man.
I felt as though time had slowed, and the people passing by were frozen in place. I swear I could hear their breathing, their lips moistening as their mouths opened, and I registered the heat of their body temperatures. Then, as though a finger had been clicked, the world resumed as normal.
“Yes,” the man replied in a casual, pleased voice, as though I’d finally solved a problem he’d set for me.
“What were their names?” I asked.
Harding re-joined us, and she stood a little behind me, her face next to my shoulder.
“The first was Chief Constable Brown,” the man replied. “He was the hardest to overcome. He almost broke my wrist. It still hurts.”
He held up his wrist, and he pouted like a child. I saw that skin was red and a small lump had formed over the joint.
I sucked in my breath as I stared at the wrist. Could this really be the face I’d been hunting for the last two days? His words cut me like a knife, not just splitting my skin, but slicing me in two. I could feel the pain right in my kneecaps.
“How did you kill him?” I asked.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” he chided.
“Surely you don’t expect us to take your confession at face value?” I asked. “Without your name or even any evidence.”
He rubbed the crusts of sleep from his eyes.
“The man you suspected was the third victim,” he said, though his tone was reluctant. “Was false. You were wrong to think that. There was no note found on his body.”
I grabbed Harding’s elbow and pulled her away.
“Call the hospital, and ask if the doctors have found anything on Madden,” I whispered. “Threaten them all with arrest if you have to.”
Harding nodded and started to walk away, but I grabbed her elbow again.
“Wait!” I hissed and put my face close to hers. “Don’t stop for anyone. Don’t answer any questions. And have someone move Grant into a cell.”
She nodded solemnly, turned on her heels, and ran down the corridor.
“Okay,” I said to the man. “You win. You have my attention. Is that what you want?”
He shook his head again.“I’m not playing, DCI Thorne,” he insisted.
“It seems like it,” I said. “With your cryptic clues and guessing games.”
He shrugged his shoulders limply and wiped some dirt from one of his sleeves. He looked around the lobby, and I tried not to let my impatience show.
“It’s not my time I’m trying to preserve, Mr. Thorne, it’s yours,” he said. “I stopped caring about my time a long while ago.”
As I glimpsed the yellowed edges of his teeth, I remembered the ash mark in Brown’s car.
“Do you smoke?” I asked.
“When I’m stressed,” he shrugged.
Stressed. As though murdering Brown was akin to a last-minute deadline, or moving house. But I knew I’d been right that Brown hadn’t smoked a cigarette, and I was glad that there was something of him I could hang onto.
“If I let you any further into this building, I’ll need to take your fingerprints,” I said to the man.
“Absolutely not,” he stressed. “I don’t want to be in any system.”
“It’s going to happen,” I warned him. “It’s just a case of when.”
The man glanced back at the door as though tempted to flee and then took a step backwards.
“Sir,” I said as I moved with him. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. You’ve just confessed, in a room full of witnesses, to two murders, and to planning a third murder. You’re not leaving this building.”
“You police officers are ridiculous,” the man sneered. “You only think in black and white. You don’t see the complexities in between.”
“Is that why you killed them?” I asked. “Because you don’t like police officers?”
“I’m not a petty man,” he sighed in reply. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
The guy talked as casually as if we were discussing a problem at work. Was he delusional? It didn’t need to take a genius to read the press coverage, linger at a crime scene, guess that the kills were linked, and assume more bodies would pile up. But to state that I’d been wrong about the identity of a third victim? Did that mean he’d been following us this whole time?
DS Harding re-appeared at my side, shook her head, and I didn’t need her to explain further. The strange man was corre
ct that no note had been found on Madden’s body.
“I need you to come with me,” I stated.
“No,” he replied and smiled in confidence.
I could tell he thought he had all the power, and my entire body felt clenched in anger. I stepped closer so that my face was inches from his.
“If you don’t come willingly, I will fucking drag you in,” I whispered, my tone laced with quiet menace.
He hesitated.
“Don’t believe me?” I continued. “I’ve got two complaints of physical violence under my belt. And they’ve never pulled me up on it.”
He winced like a kicked dog which told me that he didn’t know I was lying, so he hadn’t done his research on me that thoroughly.
I chanced a look at Harding. She had moved away and was staring at the wall above my head.
“Fine,” the man muttered as he tucked his hands under his armpits sullenly.
I couldn’t figure this man out. One minute he was acting like a stern, impatient professor, and the next minute, he was little better than a bratty child.
I led him into the station. Luckily, only the receptionist had actually heard his confession, and the crowd in the reception area barely noticed when we walked away. Only the woman behind the desk stared after us with dinner-plate wide eyes, and I wondered how long it would take her to get on the phone.
But as we took the man into the processing room for detainees, we attracted the stares of the cops. Although Clarke hadn’t officially announced I was leading the case, or that there was even a case at all, a lot of officers in CID had guessed what I was doing. If I was escorting a person into processing, it meant that person was a possible suspect. They all watched him with disdain as hatred quivered in their faces.
“You could just tell us your name now,” I said to the man as we stood next to a computer and a large white table. “We’ll find out very soon.”
He shrugged and said nothing. He was determined to play this game for as long as he could, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
Harding put on a pair of blue gloves, placed a ten print card into a frame, and then locked it in place. She beckoned the man closer, but he refused to move forward.
“I need the thumb of your right hand,” she explained.
He hesitated, so I cleared my throat in warning. The man glanced back at me, noted my expression, and finally obeyed Harding’s request.
Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 24