Fowler gave her a condescending smile.
‘Come on, Inspector. Everybody watches crime dramas these days. I could see from the angle of the body that the chances of him being still alive were very slim. I’ve found dead bodies before. There was no point me charging in and messing up anything that might be of use to yourselves.’
Arrogant, Kate thought. ‘Even if it might have saved a life?’
‘As I said, I checked from the bridge, where I had a clearer view. In my opinion, the boy was dead and there wasn’t much to be gained by me trampling a potential crime scene.’
‘What made you think it was a crime scene? The boy could have fallen by accident.’
That supercilious smile again which made Kate want to slap him.
‘DI Fletcher, I was helping to search for Aleah Reese and I was aware of the search for Callum Goodwin. The Reese girl didn’t die by accident and, I assume, this little boy is probably the victim of the same disturbed individual. There was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at the body of Callum Goodwin.’
‘Where were you last night?’ Kate asked abruptly, hoping to wrong-foot him.
‘I took part in a pool competition and then I was at home, by myself. As I’ve already explained to one of your detective constables.’
‘And you arrived on site here at what time?’
‘Just before 7am.’
Kate nodded.
‘I’m not the person you’re looking for, DI Fletcher. I can see that you don’t like me very much and, I admit, my proximity to both crime scenes may seem suspicious but neither fact makes me a murderer. I’m willing to cooperate in any way I can. Take my DNA and fingerprints if you wish – neither is on any database – and use them to eliminate me.’
Kate wondered if she had been mistaken about his attitude. Was his apparent arrogance just confidence? He seemed very sure of himself which meant that he was either very clever or completely innocent. Part of Kate hoped that it was the former – at least that would give them a viable suspect after the case against Craig Reese had collapsed.
‘Does the name Tracy Moore mean anything to you?’
Fowler’s eyes flicked left and right as he thought.
‘Nope,’ he said, pursing his lips to add an air of finality to his answer.
‘How about Paul Hirst?’
Fowler shook his head. ‘Never heard of him either.’
Kate pushed her chair back, satisfied that there was nothing else to be gained from the interview.
‘We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else, Mr Fowler.’
He gave her a broad grin.
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Kate knew that Raymond would be keen to see her when she got back to Doncaster. It wasn’t a meeting that she was looking forward to as she knew that he wanted progress and he’d be pissed off with her for letting Craig Reese go yesterday. He was a good boss, fair, but he could be like a terrier with a bone when he got an idea fixed in his head. At least he’d spared her the trauma of having to inform the Goodwin’s about the body – he’d sent a couple of uniforms round to talk to the FLO who’d have the dubious honour of that task. As she climbed the stairs to the incident room, Kate ran all the developments through her head. There was quite a lot to report but, in terms of progress towards finding a viable suspect, there was nothing. She only hoped that Cooper had made some progress with the van index number or the family histories of Tracy Moore and Paul Hirst.
She could see through the glass top of his office door that Raymond was on the phone so she quickly ducked off to the side of the room where she wouldn’t be in his immediate field of vision. Sliding into the seat next to Sam Cooper she made a finger-on-lips hushing gesture to the DC. Cooper smiled and passed Kate a pile of papers.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked.
‘Some of the research I’ve been doing. I think I’ve found your link between Hirst and Tracy Moore.’
Kate scanned through the thin pile of printouts – birth and marriage certificates and Paul Hirst’s death certificate.
‘Who’s Barbara Wilkinson?’
‘Barbara Wilkinson is Tracy Moore’s mother. She divorced Tracy’s father not long after their daughter was born and changed her name back to her maiden name. Tracy kept her dad’s name though – maybe he insisted. It wasn’t as easy for divorced women back then.’
Kate glanced at the date of the marriage certificate – July 1967. Tracy had been born in February 1968. She didn’t need a degree in further maths to work out the reason for the marriage. The divorce papers had been finalised in June 1969. At least one party had discovered that marriage wasn’t all it had been cracked up to be.
‘So where does Paul Hirst come in?’
Cooper took the pile of papers and shuffled them until a different marriage certificate was on top. Barbara Wilkinson and Paul Hirst had married at the end of 1969.
‘Christ, she didn’t waste much time. Any kids with Hirst?’
Cooper did another quick shuffle.
‘A son. Ian Andrew. Born August 1970.’
‘So, she was still living in Thorpe. Two kids by two different husbands. Tracy dies in 1975, then what?’
Cooper shrugged. ‘I can’t find her after that. Not yet anyway.’
Ian Hirst. He was the link. Half-brother to Tracy and son of Paul. Could he be the person they were looking for? Two deaths, ten years apart, his half-sister and his father. Had he come back for some sort of twisted revenge? And why now?
‘What about this son? Ian. Where’s he?’
Cooper shook her head. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ve got twenty-one Ian-Hirst’s on the electoral register. I’m going to ring round and see if any of them is our man. Starting with the local area and working out.’
‘Get some help. Barratt should be on his way back and Hollis won’t be long. You should be able to break the back of it in an hour or so with their help.’
Kate glanced at Ian Hirst’s birth certificate again and was struck by the date. He was only a few months younger than her sister. An August birthday would have placed him in the same year at school. Karen might have the answer. Kate checked her watch. It was about half past six in India – not an awful time to try to get hold of her – but she might still be away on a trek. She decided that she’d email later when she’d had time to think about how to approach her sister. Karen might give them the break that they’d been hoping for. At least she had something positive to tell Raymond when he opened the office door and summoned her in like an executioner beckoning her towards the scaffold.
2015
The rest of Kate’s day hadn’t gone well. Raymond wasn’t impressed with her theory about Ian Hirst and he dismissed the keyring as coincidence. He suggested that the next actions should be involving the mysterious yellow van and running more background on Craig Reese and his known associates. He was starting to look at the smuggling ring as a possible reason for the abduction and murder of Aleah. Perhaps Reese had cheated somebody and they wanted to teach him a lesson?
Kate knew that her suggestions were a little outlandish and unsubstantiated but she was convinced that she was looking in the right place. She just couldn’t convince her boss.
When she got back to her desk Cooper had printed out a list of NE55 index numbers – over four thousand of them. She and Barratt were combing through the list; Barratt working down a sheet with a ruler, trying to find the ones that had been allocated to commercial vehicles. Neither looked happy when she approached.
‘Needle in a haystack?’
Cooper nodded. ‘We’ve got forty-four NE55 numbers registered to vans.’
‘Okay. How about a different approach? The man who gave the statement thought that it was an AA van. If he’s right then the fleet operator will have a record of it. They can’t have registered many vans on that plate. It might narrow down the field quite a bit.’
‘But it’s already been sold on.’ Barratt protested. ‘How will that help? There’s no Ian H
irst connected to any of these vehicles, Cooper did a search. We can’t find the man so we’re trying to find the van.’
‘Did you search with the AA as the registered keeper?’
‘Yep. No go. They must register the mechanic or driver as the registered keeper. The AA will be the owner and there’s no search parameter for that.’
Kate nodded. She hadn’t expected that would work, as most companies listed the main user of a vehicle as the ‘keeper’ unless the car was part of a pool.
‘Okay. So, let’s find out who’s in charge of the AA fleet and find out what happens to their vans when they’re no longer used. They might use a particular auction mart or reseller.’
Barratt was already on the phone, one step ahead as though he’d seen where her thought process was taking them.
‘No luck,’ he said, a few minutes later. ‘They put me through to the north-east manager, which is where the van would have been registered, but the fleet manager isn’t there. He’ll be back after the weekend.’
‘Shit. Where’s Hollis?’ she asked, noticing that the DC was conspicuous by his absence.
‘Following up on Fowler, as per the DCI’s instructions. O’Connor’s still with Reese. Apparently, he’s still claiming that the booze and fags were for personal use.’
So, Raymond had gone over her head and sent Hollis out on what was, in her opinion, a wild goose chase. So much for having faith in her.
‘Great. Right, let’s get back to these records.’
She’d sent her team home at six and left the station herself less than an hour later. Hollis hadn’t reappeared and she suspected that he’d be embarrassed at allowing Raymond to use him to get at her. Not that Kate blamed him. He couldn’t resist the DCI’s direct orders any more than she could – not if he wanted to keep his job. She’d caught up briefly with O’Connor. Reese was still, in the DS’s words, ‘shut up tighter than a camel’s arse in a sandstorm’ but O’Connor was convinced that he could get him to talk. His phone records had been requested and the network provider had been unusually helpful, promising them by the next morning. At least somebody was making progress.
As she drove back to her flat, Kate mulled over what she needed to ask her sister. On the surface, it seemed straightforward. Did she remember Ian Hirst? But the subject was fraught with difficulties. Getting Karen to talk about that period of her past was like trying to entice a stray dog to take a treat. Kate knew that she’d have to be gentle and circumspect; Karen hated to talk about being at school during the strike and the bullying that she’d faced – possibly at the hands of people that Kate needed to find out about. It had got worse after the incident with Rob Loach and the note. More subtle, but more insidious. Her sister’s attendance record was dreadful and her list of fake illnesses had become increasingly imaginative. The time difference between the UK and India didn’t help either. India was five-and-a-half hours ahead which meant that when Kate pulled up outside her flat, Karen was probably already in bed. She could send a list of questions and hope that Karen felt able to answer them in detail when she finally checked her messages.
Just as she closed the door behind her, Kate had another thought. Karen wasn’t her only potential source of information. Drew Rigby said that he’d been in the same year as her sister. He might remember Ian Hirst. She took her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her text messages until she found the conversation she’d had with Rigby a few days ago. She typed quickly, keeping her question brief and to the point.
Do you remember an Ian Hirst in your year at school?
She hit send and threw the phone onto the sofa as she passed the door to the living room. Even if Rigby said no, she still had Karen.
She’d just opened a tin of soup when she heard her text alert sound. Dashing into the living room, she grabbed her phone hoping that it was somebody, anybody, with a break in the case. It was Rigby.
Can’t remember anybody by that name. Any more info?
Kate sighed. She hadn’t really expected much, it was thirty years ago after all, but she’d hoped that she might be able to spark Rigby’s memory. She was just about to text back when her phone started ringing. It was Rigby.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Is this a bad time?’
‘No, it’s fine. What’s up?’
‘I was just wondering if you could tell me anything else about this Ian Hirst. Something that might jog my memory. There were over two hundred people in my year at school. The only person called Hirst that I can think of was a Sheffield Wednesday footballer.’
Kate thought for a few seconds. She doubted that Rigby would have any more information and she got a sense that he was just trying to insinuate himself into the case. But what if she was wrong? Could she afford to ignore a potential lead?
‘Okay. There are a couple of things. Firstly–’
‘Hang on,’ Rigby interrupted. ‘Are you in Donny?’
‘Yes,’ Kate said, unwilling to let him know that she was at home.
‘So am I. And I’m off duty. How about we do this over a pizza or a beer? We might get a chance to reminisce a bit as well. I’d love to know more about how your sister’s doing.’
It didn’t feel quite right; Rigby was a PCSO and his suggestion felt a bit like a date. As though he could read her mind, he said, ‘I know how that sounded but I’m not asking you out or anything. You probably have plans anyway. I just thought, if we could bat a few ideas about, something might jog my memory. You can pay for your own food and drink. In fact, you can pay for mine if you want.’
Despite her misgivings, Kate smiled at his attempt at a joke.
‘Okay. Do you know the Black Swan?’
‘Just off the Market Place? I’ve been in a couple of times.’
‘Let’s meet there in half an hour. Okay?’
Rigby agreed and Kate went back to the kitchen to pour her soup into a Tupperware tub and put it in the fridge. At least she might get a decent meal out of the meeting.
Kate decided to walk from her flat, taking advantage of the last hour or so of daylight, and she reached the town centre earlier than planned. The streets were fairly quiet, a few smokers outside pubs and a knot of teenagers outside the McDonald’s near the Frenchgate Centre. The shopping centre had been a place of pilgrimage when she was a teenager – weekends spent wandering the ‘Arndale’, as it had been, were a rite of passage. Now the steel and glass curves bore little resemblance to the 1960s concrete-and-glass monstrosity of her childhood.
The Black Swan wasn’t one of Kate’s favourite pubs in Doncaster – she wasn’t a big fan of chain establishments – but it had a reputation for decent, if generic, food and it was fairly central. She pushed open the door and scanned the barn-like room to see if Rigby had already arrived. There was no sign of him so Kate made her way over to the bar and ordered a small glass of red wine. She felt like she deserved a drink but she didn’t want to risk too much alcohol on an empty stomach.
‘Hi, you’re early,’ a voice said from behind her just as she put the glass to her lips. She turned to see Rigby grinning at her. ‘That’ll save me the expense of buying you a drink.’
‘I’ll get you one,’ Kate said. ‘I’m the one who’s dragged you here to see if you have any information.’
Rigby shrugged amenably and asked for a pint of bitter. They stood in silence waiting for his drink to arrive and Kate wondered what they would find to talk about other than the case.
‘So, two Thorpe Comp survivors,’ Rigby began, taking a gulp of his bitter. ‘Shall we find a quiet corner and swap war stories?’ Kate followed him to a corner table flanked on one side by a wooden partition, creating an impression of privacy. She slid onto the bench seat and Rigby pulled out a stool to perch opposite.
‘Eating?’ he asked, grabbing a menu from the pile on the table.
Kate nodded. ‘I’m starved. I was about to eat when you rang.’
‘Oh. What did I save you from? Can’t imagine you have time for C
ordon Bleu.’
‘Tomato soup,’ Kate admitted.
‘I was going to order a pizza. Looks like we’ve rescued each other from poor culinary choices. What do you fancy?’
Kate skimmed the menu. It was mostly traditional pub fare with the addition of ‘homemade’ burgers.
‘Burger for me,’ she announced. ‘The works.’
Rigby nodded his agreement.
‘I’ll order. Okay if I run up a tab? We can split it later?’
Without waiting for her consent, he stalked over to the bar allowing Kate time to study him from behind. And what a pleasant behind it was. He moved gracefully like a dancer or a boxer and his tight jeans and white T-shirt clung to his muscled body, showing off a toned back and legs.
‘Stop it,’ Kate whispered to herself. She was his superior, she shouldn’t be looking at him that way. But there was something attractive about the contrast between his blue eyes and dark hair and he certainly knew how to make the most of his assets.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Rigby announced as he sat back down. He’d bought another round of drinks even though Kate’s first one was still nearly full and his pint glass still had a few mouthfuls left in it.
‘I asked the barman what you were drinking. Shiraz?’ He slid the glass over to stand next to the one that she’d barely touched and Kate knew that she wouldn’t be finishing both. There was something about Rigby’s self-assurance that put her on edge despite his good looks and she didn’t want to let her guard down around him.
‘So, what’s it like being back?’ he asked. ‘I hated it when I first got out of the army. Didn’t want to be back. I did security for a big factory in Sheffield for a few years but they went bust so I applied to be a PCSO.’
He didn’t seem to notice that he’d not given her a chance to answer his question as he rambled on about his experiences in the army and what had brought him back ‘home’. Which didn’t seem to be very much. As Kate listened she noticed that Rigby was keen to slag off South Yorkshire but he hadn’t given a reason for his return.
The Kate Fletcher Series Page 17