“Why won’t you give us a chance? I’m a decent woman, Michael, a nice woman.” She laughed. “Really, I am.”
Michael unlatched the gate.
“They hurt us both when they locked me up, but there’s no need to stay apart now. Don’t you get it?”
* * *
He dropped his fingerprint kit on the floor and turned a full three-sixty. It was a small room; enough space for a single bed, a wardrobe that was slowly collapsing sideways, and a chest of drawers that looked like a stutter of misaligned carpentry. To the side of the bed was a tall, slim window. The dirty net curtains over it swayed in a breeze that whistled through the ill-fitting sash window frame. Eddie took a peek outside to the back yard: an empty washing line and a gate hanging off its hinges. Sad.
Then there was the kitchenette. A single countertop with a stainless sink and a cupboard beneath it.
He sighed. There were few places in here with surfaces good enough for a fingerprint examination, and even fewer that would still hold Tony’s marks. Either Jess would have touched them since and obliterated them, or she would have cleaned.
There was only one place that Eddie could think of that might still have Tony’s fingerprints.
* * *
Michael closed the gate and turned to walk up the path, without even a backwards glance.
“No one has given me a chance,” she said. “Everyone has been awful to me, Michael. Everyone,” she called. “It’s about time someone… you… It’s about time you gave me a chance!” She clutched the gate. “Michael, you will hear me. I just want to talk. Come back.”
He closed the house door behind him, and Jess’s voice cracked.
“Michael. Please!”
She gripped the gate, hands white, nails digging into the wet wood. She shook it and felt a scream brewing in the blackest part of her guts. Someone touched her on the shoulder and she spun around. It was the old man from the bus shelter. “Are you alright, love?”
She snarled at him. “Fuck off and mind your own business, granddad. Interfering bastard!” Jessica let the rain wash her tears down her face, and she walked away, her hands curled into claws, muttering to herself as she sobbed.
On the journey home, she clawed at her face – physically and emotionally. She wanted to pull her eyes out – she didn’t want to see her son walking away any more. She wanted them to be together, forever. And that he’d chosen Valentine over her… it was killing her to think of it. Killing her.
She stood on the doorstep, trying to get the key in the lock, but her hands were shaking and her heart was collapsing so violently that she thought she wouldn’t even make it inside before she fell over dead of a broken heart. How she hated what they’d done to her; the whole world was taking it in turns to kick a fallen woman.
Eventually, she got the door open, then kicked it shut behind her. Still sobbing, she walked up the hallway.
* * *
The bathroom was tiny, barely enough room for a man to stand without tipping into the bath or scraping along the wall to reach the toilet. He pulled the light cord and saw what he was up against.
The toilet was very old, a monstrosity made of green porcelain. The perfect place to throw up in, Eddie thought. But the toilet seat was in good order. A stack of cleaning fluids and bleach lined up next to the toilet rolls on the edge of the bath said she’d tried to do the best with what she had, and that added to the picture of Jess in Eddie’s mind; how she soldiered on regardless of the shit that life threw her way.
Eddie unlatched his kit and took a moment to listen to the noises of the house before he became absorbed in the examination. Satisfied that he was alone and wouldn’t be disturbed by the junkies next door, he lifted the toilet seat and charged the brush with a little aluminium powder. And then he held his breath and powdered the underside of the seat.
Amid the yellow stains that dotted the surface, a set of four fingerprints came up almost instantly. There were many more too, overlapping, some smearing others, some obliterating others. But Eddie was happy; there were four very good marks. He wasted no time. He prepared an acetate, then tore off a length of rubber lifting tape and gently rolled it onto the marks.
They peeled off almost perfectly, as though it were rigged as a practical examination. Getting results this good was a rarity.
They’d soon know who Tony was.
He rolled the lifted tape onto a small rectangle of clear acetate and filed it away inside his jacket pocket, put away the brush, the tape and the powder, and latched his kit box. The front door slammed shut.
He froze. Jaw hanging open.
Eddie put the seat down, yanked the light switch, and returned to the bedsit in a panic, listening to Jess’s footsteps along the hall outside.
* * *
Jess closed the bedsit door behind her. Even though her nose was blocked with tears, she could still smell them, those men who’d visited her this morning. Eddie, his name was; she could smell his aftershave as though he were still in the room.
A gust of wind whistled through the window and the net curtain billowed. Through it she saw a tall man walking away with a briefcase in his hand.
Chapter Sixty
Eddie parked outside the fingerprint bureau at Bishopgarth in Wakefield. He left the engine running and tapped on the fourth window from the right. It opened and a hand reached out. “You know I could get disciplined for doing this, Eddie?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“The mortgage company took it.”
“Look, I just need a name. Afterwards you can throw this away, no one’s the wiser.”
“You owe me big time.”
“I will be forever in your debt.” Eddie laughed.
“Does that mean you’ve no intention of paying me?” Leo laughed and poked his head out.
“Seriously,” Eddie said, “thanks—”
“Whoa, boy. Let’s not get too serious, okay? It’s just a name. Gimme a day or two, eh?”
“You’re a hero, Leo.” Eddie climbed back into the van. “Let DI Benson know if you get a hit.”
“Bottle of Glenfiddich wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I won’t forget.” Eddie waved and drove away, leaving Leo shaking his head.
* * *
Eddie swapped his van for the Discovery and pulled up outside his dad’s old house. His heart sank to see Wendy’s Audi already there. He wondered how long she could get away with parking it here in this insalubrious Leeds neighbourhood before the wheels and satnav were stolen. He shrugged; maybe the local youths would think it belonged to a drugs baron and leave it well alone.
He didn’t cut the engine at first, just sat there wondering how to play it. How far had she got her talons into him, exactly?
Eddie’s mind shot forward at a thousand miles an hour. He saw a train of events that began from this very spot, from this impending meeting. He saw Charles becoming indignant; he saw Wendy holding Charles’s arm, supporting her man and encouraging him to cut ties with his wayward son, and not listen to anything more from him. He saw Charles moving out, back into his own home, but with her giving the orders. She’d make sure Eddie stayed away.
And he could see Charles and Wendy married inside six months, a rewritten will, and a fatal coronary within a year. That would be as much nagging as one man like Charles could stand.
That would be goodbye. Eddie’s eyes flickered as he suddenly realised he was thinking about Miss Moneypenny. He also realised his mouth was open in shock.
He shut off the motor, climbed out, and approached the front door. He knocked, thinking it the right thing to do, despite having his own key. He had hoped that Troy would answer the door. Of course Wendy would be angry that he’d been using Charles’s house as lodgings for some junkie, but better that, Eddie thought, than having the junkie running riot somewhere.
That Eddie had spent considerable time and money repairing the house ought to count for something, anyway. Shouldn’t it?
The hin
ges creaked and Eddie looked at Charles’s eyes, hooded by folds of skin that had been taut only last week. “You’ve aged by about ten years,” he said quietly. He peered over Charles’s shoulders but didn’t see her anywhere. “Dad, don’t let her—”
“Well! If it isn’t the silent property developer! Come in, come in.”
Eddie looked at Charles as he stepped aside.
“I see how it is now,” Wendy snapped. “Getting this place ready to sell from under your own father’s feet! You are a callous, greedy boy.”
Eddie looked across at her. “Wendy, shut up. I was doing this for you, Dad, should you ever…”
“Should I ever decide to move out?”
“Well—”
“You only had to say, Eddie,” said Charles. “I would have gone. I didn’t want to outstay my welcome.”
“No, no. You misunderstand, Dad. I never—”
Wendy interrupted. “Really? It’s quite plain, Eddie. It’s lucky I was here to pick up the pieces. When a son abandons his father—”
“Last chance to shut your mouth before I shut it for you, okay?”
Wendy gasped.
“Eddie,” said Charles. “No need for all this. We’ll call it quits, son. Thanks for doing the house up – I appreciate it – and thanks for letting me stay with you. I enjoyed our time together. But now,” he said, “I think we’d better go our separate ways. What do you think?”
“What do I think? Dad, she’s poison. Walk away while you still can.”
Charles shook his head. “Out you go. Go on, please. Let’s not have a scene.”
“Dad? You’re not serious?” His earlier vision was working out just right.
“And don’t think we haven’t noticed you’re back on the booze!” Wendy shouted as the door started to close.
Eddie was confused for a moment, but then he realised what had happened. He stopped the door closing, said, “Dad, let me in. Two minutes.” Eddie didn’t give negotiation a chance. He pushed the front door open and walked past them both and into the back room, into the parlour.
On the dining table was the bottle of Courvoisier. And even from here, with the daylight coming through the window beyond, he could see it was now only half full. “It’s my challenge. You need to get your own.”
Next to the bottle was a plain white mug with dregs of brandy in the bottom, and next to it a dinner plate. On the dinner plate were a dozen cigarette ends, some foil gum wraps, and two tiny plastic bags. Eddie picked them up and saw the residue of white powder inside them.
He dropped them, closed his eyes. “Oh you fucking idiot, Troy.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Benson looked around the CSI office, at the empty desks, all the monitors showing the West Yorkshire Police screensavers. No one was there to get angry at them. The whole place seemed like a waste of electricity. He knocked on Eddie’s door, and then corrected himself; Nicki’s door. He would have to get used to that. There was nothing he could do to change things – so he might as well stop thrashing against the system and learn to live with it.
Nicki was sitting at her desk, a pen and a sheet of paper with what looked like lists of names before her. She looked up, smiled, and went back to her list.
Benson coughed. “The coat,” he said. “The one at Bolton’s scene.”
Nicki put down her pen and looked up at him. “What about it?”
“Did you submit it for DNA analysis?”
She nodded. “Yes, and the knife we found in the pocket, actually.” She sighed. “If you’d checked the computer you’d find out when I did it.”
“Never was very good with technology,” Benson said.
She smiled politely at him, picked up her pen. But Benson didn’t leave. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“I was chatting with Collins. He said you’d know who hung that coat up on the stand at the far end of the kitchen.”
“He did?”
“Said it was on show to everyone in that scene.”
“So what does it matter who put it there?”
Benson leaned against the door frame. “The owner of the coat says it was stolen from her. And there’s now a chance that Bolton’s killer was a male.”
Nicki swivelled her chair, confusion on her face. “If we’ve traced the owner of the coat, why have I spent eight-hundred pounds having it examined—”
“On priority, I hope.”
“On priority, yes. Again, the computer—”
“Again, I don’t do computers if there’s a person around. Okay?”
She offered a patronising smile.
“Who put that coat there, Nicki?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Nicki’s eyes roamed as though looking around the office for the answer. “I have no idea. And I don’t think he knows, actually. It’s of no relevance.”
“Really?”
“So Bolton will have put it there, I suppose.” The shrug said she didn’t know, but was settling for any answer just to get rid of Benson. “He’s trying to make me look bad, Inspector Benson. Don’t pay him any attention.”
Benson nodded. She was full of shit. He left the office just as Weismann entered.
* * *
“He’s a very stubborn man.”
“Who? My dad?”
“No, not… Well, yes, him too. He gets an idea in his head and listens to no one who might have a different opinion.” Weismann looked across the van at her. “It’s no way to run a department, Nicki. No one says he has to make it a democracy, but it shouldn’t be an autocracy either – that’s when errors creep in, working practices suffer—”
“So tell him, not me.”
“He won’t listen to me. You try it.” Weismann took a deep breath and stared forward, trying to weave a way through this minefield without becoming another victim. “The last thing he needs,” he continued, “is ‘yes’ people. If Collins was right about one thing, it’s that. It’s a very unhealthy thing, surrounding yourself with people who agree with you.”
Nicki snatched a glance at him, her eyebrows raised.
He sighed. “I’ve tried!”
“So who’s stubborn?”
“What?”
“You were saying. He’s stubborn.”
“Oh. Collins.”
“Stubborn? I thought he bowed out quite elegantly under the circumstances, actually. He could have kicked up more of a stink. But I suppose he would have faced disciplinary proceedings for the things that went on in that office.”
“So you said.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”
And yes, there was a ‘but’. Yet he felt disinclined to share it with her. Nicki was in the middle of pulling CSIs from division to float the office until a more permanent solution could be found, but it would be a week before anyone took up residence in the office. If the whole thing had been handled with a little more finesse then none of this nastiness need have happened, and people wouldn’t have walked out. Forensic operations wouldn’t be suffering. The office would still be viable.
And they were suffering. Substantially. And that’s where Weismann was feeling the pressure – he was head of CSI and he was feeling the pressure from above and from below.
For a moment, he reflected on his own words – was he a ‘yes’ man? Surely, if he’d had more strength, he could have prevented this idiocy in the first place? But, when you accept a favour from your boss, such as being made Head of CSI, it becomes much more difficult to protest about doing something similar for his daughter.
Weismann sighed; it was a horrible situation, and he didn’t feel at all proud of himself right now. He looked across at Nicki, but knew she didn’t feel anything other than victorious, which was a shame.
She’d even tried to talk her way out of coming to this scene, but she couldn’t. She was it; there was no one else they could send.
It was as though Collins had known all along that the series of deaths wasn’t at an end yet, and now h
e was standing by watching the entire department fall flat on its face. But if that happened, it wouldn’t just be something funny for him to laugh at, it wouldn’t just be a lesson well learned for Crawford or even for him; it would be an internal affairs matter that would drag on for months; it would be interviews in front of the senior leadership team. And it would mean justifying their actions; how they ousted Jeffery, how they reacted to Eddie Collins’s handling of his office, and how they reacted after he – possibly with just cause – relinquished control as requested, and then walked out of the office, followed by all of his staff.
No one had seen that one coming.
There was something about Collins that Weismann hated – he thought it was his arrogance, his lack of humility. And yet, regrettably, there was something about Collins that he respected.
Nicki pulled up in the middle of the road. Across it were two strips of blue and white scene tape. There were vans and police cars parked all over the place.
“So what’s the ‘but’?” she said.
“Ah, yes. The ‘but’ is that you might have bitten off more than the pair of you can chew.”
She pulled the handbrake on, cut the engine and stared at him, as though he’d just become her new best enemy. She pouted, eyes half shut, arms folded, like a teenager waiting for words of wisdom from a parent who really should have known better than to challenge her.
Weismann turned slightly in his seat, rubbed a hand down his chin, and took a breath. He nodded towards the house with the PCSO standing outside. “This is where your decision and your father’s decision will either bear fruit or will knock you off your pedestal.”
“Pedestal?”
“Listen! This is the sharp end, Nicki. This is the only thing of importance in your life right now; not the office, not Eddie Collins, not impressing your father.”
“I don’t—”
“Shut up. Please.”
The pout grew an inch and she stared forward, chastened.
“This is a murder scene, Nicki. Forget your pride and your vanity. This absolutely has to be a perfect examination without anyone hand-holding you. People are relying on you to get it right.”
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 23