“How sure are you that this piece of shit is the killer?”
“I love how you hit the fucking nail on the head dead centre every time, Kenny. That’s the very question I’ve been asking ever since I got here.”
“Well?”
“Ninety percent?”
Kenny took a big breath. “So there’s ten percent says you should warn Jeffery that he’s on a hit list.”
“I suppose so, but…”
“Don’t take the chance, Eddie.”
Benson’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Where’s the ten percent, Eddie? I thought we’d scored the full ton with this one.”
Eddie beckoned him in. “If you were going to slash his wrist like that, where would you stand?”
They all looked at the clean shadow.
“Precisely,” Eddie said.
“That it?”
Eddie and Kenny looked at Benson. “It’s enough to make me nervous,” Eddie said.
“Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
Benson nodded. He looked from Eddie to Kenny, and back again. “Tell him.”
“What’s all this stuff?” Kenny indicated the contents of the rucksack laid out on brown paper.
On it were a pair of Nike Cortez trainers. But they weren’t like normal trainers. These had slits cut into the sides of the shoes, just above the dense rubber tread of the sole. Through these slits was threaded a belt, one on each shoe: black leather, brass buckle. The belts were shortened so they’d buckle up around someone’s feet rather than their waist.
“Odds-on those are the trainers that left those marks at Bolton’s scene,” said Eddie.
“And Sidmouth’s scene. They’re blood-spattered.”
Eddie looked at the trainers as though trying to see inside them. He got on his knees, took out his torch. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
Eddie pointed the torch inside the right shoe, moving the belt aside so Benson and Kenny could see a little more clearly.
“What am I looking at?” asked Benson.
“There, see the blood on the edge of the slit on the inside surface?”
“What about it?”
“We need to swab it,” said Kenny. “Whoever made these slits cut themselves.”
“Or,” Eddie said, “we could check Tony’s hands now; see if there are any cuts.” He looked at Benson.
Benson shrugged. “When have you ever needed my agreement to do something? Just take a look.”
Eddie looked at Kenny. “Shall we?”
“Won’t be easy, Eddie. His hands are covered in blood.”
“Let’s take a look, eh?”
They spent a full ten minutes inspecting Tony’s hands, the drying blood flaking from his skin as they flexed it. They discovered no cuts at all. Of course, the pathologist would have a better look once all the blood had been washed away. “Might want to ask Prof Steele to pay special attention.”
“I will,” Benson said. “What was the deal with Ripley’s coat at Bolton’s scene? You never did get around to telling me, and Nicki couldn’t tell me.”
“It’s a psychological stamp I put on that scene, really. If this man mountain here” —he nodded towards Tony— “asked you to hang up his wet coat – a coat three yards too small for him – would you? No, because you wouldn’t allow this man mountain inside your fucking house, never mind letting him make himself at home in your kitchen.”
“But how do you know that Bolton hung up the coat?”
“No Nike Cortez approaching the coat hooks. No Cortez after the breakfast bar.”
“Ah,” said Kenny, “but he might have taken those contraptions off, and taken off his own shoes, and walked over there in his socks.”
“He might have. But he didn’t. He’s not thinking about the footwear database. And if he was, then he’s beaten us, because we don’t have a sock database.”
“Still at ninety percent?” Benson asked.
Kenny looked dubious. “But he was thinking about the footwear database – he made these, didn’t he?”
Eddie conceded the point. “Yep. If, on the other hand, a good-looking woman asked to use your phone or whatever, and you’re a randy old goat like Bolton, you’d have her in there and partly undressed quicker than anyone could say sex scandal. That’s what made me think the Bolton murder was initially done by Jessica, not him. But Kenny’s right: Tony could’ve killed him, and hung up the coat to make it look like she’d been in there. Add that to the Cortez footprints, and any investigator would think she was responsible. And she did say he’d stolen her coat.”
“And the knife?”
Eddie crouched, picked up the slender knife. It had Messermeister Park Plaza etched into the blade. “How much are these?”
Kenny shrugged.
Benson said, “I bet you wouldn’t see any change from a hundred and fifty quid.”
“For one fucking knife?”
“The point is,” Eddie said, “you don’t see many of them around – but Bolton had some in his kitchen. Chances are this belongs in his knife block.”
“Looking more and more like he’s your man, Eddie,” said Kenny.
Eddie thought about it. Everything pointed to Tony. The only thing that didn’t was the leaking tyre, the clean shadow next to the chair. He stared at it.
Kenny followed his gaze. “Could the shadow have been caused by him, and then he moved his foot to where it is now before he died?”
Eddie winked. “Before he died? Not after?”
“Smartarse.”
“Can’t tell,” Eddie said. “He has blood spatter on the uppers of both shoes anyway.”
Benson sighed.
“Okay,” Eddie said. “I’m happy he’s our man.”
“Really?”
Eddie nodded, hands on his hips, and bit his lower lip. “Yep. He’s good for Marchant, Bolton, and Sidmouth.”
“And you’re happy he tried to frame Jessy Ripley for all of them?”
Eddie turned to face him.
“Well?”
Eddie nodded.
“If that’s the case, you don’t need to tell Jeff he was on some stupid fucking list. Thing like that can send a man insane.” Benson turned to leave.
“Why didn’t he kill Jeffery?” Kenny asked.
“Kenny. Stop it with the questions. Especially the ones I can’t answer.”
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going to go and tell Jessy,” said Benson, pulling a Mars bar from his pocket.
Eddie made a ‘stop’ gesture. “You can’t do that; we haven’t finished our investigation yet.”
“You said it yourself: how soul-destroying it is, not knowing.”
“I said that?”
“I don’t give a shit whether you did or not. I’m going to tell her.”
“Let me come,” Eddie said.
Benson paused, then nodded. “Okay. Why?”
“I want to see her face.”
That made Benson squint. And it made Kenny ask, “So you’re not finishing this scene then, Eddie?”
Eddie grinned. “I’d rather shit on my hands and clap. He’s all yours.”
Chapter Eighty-Four
Benson switched the hands-free phone off. Weismann had given his blessing for him to speak with Jessica, relieved that they’d found the serial killer that had made Leeds jumpy for the better part of two weeks.
He had enquired after Eddie, and Eddie had spoken for himself that he was still alive. Just.
Benson rolled the car to a gentle stop outside Jess’s flat and turned the engine off. “Please leave the talking to me, okay?”
“Never crossed my mind to do anything else.”
Benson stared at him. “Lying bastard. What’s bothering you?”
Eddie sighed, looked front. He licked his lips and lied, “I think you’re rushing this. I think you should take your time – wrap up Tony’s scene, and wrap up Sidmouth’s too.”
“Is
that still going?”
“Course it is. They’re not ten-minute jobs, Tom. I have people there fingerprinting right now.”
Benson rubbed his chin. “Tony went in there and killed Sidmouth and his mother, and I’ll bet you twenty quid he never touched a thing in that house. Not one thing.”
Eddie nodded. “Agreed. Got to do it, though—”
“I know you’ve got to do it; I’m just saying, that’s all.”
“But what’s your rush? Why don’t you wait till we’ve wrapped the scenes up before you go and tell her that her boyfriend’s topped himself?”
“I thought you said you were a hundred percent with Tony’s scene?”
“I am.”
“So what’s the problem? I’d rather put her mind at rest. I remember you saying how scared of life she was. And if I can put those fears aside for her, then maybe she won’t be so scared any more. And that’s a good thing. Isn’t it? Well? If she’s not scared any more, she might open up about Tony’s involvement with the Marchant killing. We could use some help, you know.”
Eddie reached for the door handle.
* * *
Benson knocked and moments later the door opened.
Her eyes were red and she looked withered, aged by worry.
Eddie’s mouth opened, and he found himself staring at her.
“Hi, Jess. Can we come in, love?”
She nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Eddie saw the shock in Benson’s eyes.
“See?” said Benson. “That’s why I had to let her know now.”
Eddie followed Benson inside, closing the door behind him.
The door to her bedsit was open, and they entered quietly. “You okay, love?” Benson said.
She sat motionless on the bed, next to the bedside cabinet. Eddie stood, thumbs hooked into his jeans; he tried to be relaxed but couldn’t help staring at her, amazed at how much more fragile she looked than the last time he’d seen her.
“What can I do for you?” Her voice was a whisper; something delicate, vulnerable.
Benson cleared his throat. “I just wanted to let you know that we’ve found Tony Longbottom.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and she seemed to curl inwards as though subconsciously protecting herself from him. She took a breath and said, “You got him? Has he been arrested?”
Eddie felt satisfied with her reaction.
“He won’t be bothering you any more. I’m afraid I have some bad news, Jessy.”
She bit her top lip, brought her hands up to her face.
“Tony is dead, love.”
A whimper.
Benson stood, reached out to her, but seemed afraid to go too close. “We found him a few hours ago in his house. It looks like he took his own life.”
She looked at him, her hands fell away, and her face twisted into confusion before she asked, “He had a house? I thought he was homeless.”
“No… He had a house.” Benson moved closer to her, put his hand on her shoulder. Eddie stepped sideways so he could still watch her.
“He killed himself?”
“I can’t say anything further on that just now, but it seems he did, yes.”
“Why? Did he leave a note or anything?”
Eddie stood by the sink and watched her, and he could see her chin beginning to wobble, see her eyes filling up. No one was that good an actress. She was genuinely relieved, and the realisation that Tony wouldn’t interfere with her any further signalled the collapse of a self-preservation wall; it was like watching the outside world crashing back into a life she’d sealed herself away from.
Eddie sniffed the air, and found himself looking into the sink. A white cup with the dregs of a green fluid drying in the bottom. Green?
He looked back at Jessica. He noticed her eyes too, how – through the new tears – they flitted to a Morrisons carrier bag next to the wardrobe, time and again. Eddie wanted to look in there. It was like an itch, it was like the leaking tyre, a slow hiss constantly in his range of hearing. His imagination told him there was a pair of bloodstained jeans inside that she hadn’t had the time to dispose of yet.
The blood on those jeans belonged to Tony.
This was half of that last ten percent.
Eddie’s heart clattered. There wouldn’t be another chance.
“Mind if I look in the bag?”
Jessica looked at Eddie over Benson’s shoulder. Benson turned, then he too saw the bag.
“Why?” she said.
Eddie shrugged. “It’s just my job. I’m a nosey bastard.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
That made Eddie prickle with wonder. “Take me a minute, that’s all.”
“Eddie,” Benson warned.
“It won’t take me—”
“No, please.”
Eddie snatched the bag and Benson stood before him, gritting his teeth. He stared into Eddie’s eyes. He whispered, “We don’t have a warrant for any of this shit. We’re not here to do any of this shit. Apologise to the lady and put the bag down.”
Last chance.
Eddie looked at Benson, looked at Jessica, and then the bag. He nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” As he went to put the bag back, he opened it and tipped the contents across the bed.
“Eddie!”
She screamed at the sight of the blood.
Eddie’s eyes lit up and he grinned.
But it was short-lived. The blood was on a pair of pants, and more on some jeans.
Jess barged him aside and scooped them back into the bag, sobbing.
Eddie put his hands out, “Sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry, sorry—”
“Get out, Eddie!”
Eddie looked at Benson.
Benson snarled. “I said get out.”
He went to touch Jess, to apologise again, when she turned on him. “Leave me alone, you fucking creep!”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Get out!”
Eddie grew hostile. “I just need to know—”
“Collins! Out! Now!”
Eddie grabbed her arm. “Show me your trainers.”
Jessica turned and slapped him across the face; and then she pushed him, and he instinctively grabbed her and she fell with him, both of them falling into Benson as they hit the floor. Eddie thought of the knife under her mattress – where was it? But all he saw as he went down was the fingers of her left hand. Just the fingers. And the sticking plaster wrapped around the little finger.
She hurriedly prised herself off him, straightening her clothes hastily as she stood, sweeping her hair behind her ears. “Get the fuck out of my house,” she panted.
Eddie pulled himself up using the chair by the door, hands out, palming away her anger. “I’m going,” he said. “I’m sorry—”
“And if you ever come in here to do any fingerprinting while I’m out again, I will have you prosecuted for burglary.”
“What?”
“I found your powder under the toilet seat.”
Eddie gritted his teeth.
“Now get out.”
He looked at Benson, who looked away – no support there – and then back at Jessica. As he left, he saw it. Just the briefest flicker of a smile.
Smug.
* * *
Eddie smoked his second cigarette leaning against Benson’s car, tapping his foot, waiting for him, as a light rain fell. And when Benson did emerge and walked down the steps towards him, all he said was, “Think yourself lucky she isn’t pressing charges.”
“Look, I have my—”
“No. You look, Collins. Is Tony guilty of these murders or not?”
“I… Well, of course.”
“Eddie?”
“Yes. He is.”
“Then what the fuck are you playing at? I’m basing my decisions on the shit coming out of your mouth. I’m trusting you. You can’t go pointing the finger at Tony, and then change your fucking mind. Forensics rule this case. You can’t—”
“I know.” He st
ared at Benson over the top of the car. And he flicked away his cigarette, and set off walking. “I know,” he said.
“Eddie?”
Eddie waved and carried on walking.
He walked the four miles from Jess’s bedsit to MCU in just over an hour, and by the time the gates rumbled open to let a car out, and Eddie walked in, he was wet through, and more confused than ever by what circled his mind. It hadn’t stopped raining for the whole journey. And he’d loved it.
Tony was a definite for Marchant’s murder – they had the CCTV of him acquiring the axe.
He was ninety percent for Bolton’s murder. He’d gone to Jessica’s bedsit and stolen her jacket and a knife, and he’d planted them at Bolton’s scene in the kitchen, on the coat hook right at the back of the kitchen where they found no footwear marks. Tony had killed Bolton, then taken off his belted Cortez trainers and his own shoes, and gone and hung the coat up, pinning the murder on Jess.
But then there was Sidmouth.
He was the odd one out. He was nothing to do with Jessica’s past. He was to do with Jessica’s present. And judging by what they found in his bedroom, it wasn’t a long stretch of the imagination to work out that he’d been taking advantage of Jess, and she’d got a little bit pissed off at him.
Tony had known the police would suspect him of abuse, and would automatically think a client – Jessica – had killed him. Tony was a very clever man.
Eddie might have been happy with that conclusion if it wasn’t for that smug smile. She should have been in tears still, but she’d smiled instead. Had the tears prior to that little tussle been just good acting as well?
That and the clean shadow made up the whole ten percent.
And he hated indecision. He liked black and white; mistrusted grey.
Eddie stopped outside the glass doors of the reception foyer. They’d become dirty again. He knew Moneypenny would be in there, and he felt awkward enough without adding to it. He wanted to see Sid, though; he wanted to know how Tom and Jerry were doing with the fingerprinting at Sidmouth’s scene.
He took a deep breath and turned around. It would all wait. For now, he was overflowing with work, and everything to do with it. And as he walked to his car, fishing the keys out of his pocket, he began to think about Nicki again, and about Troy, and about how trying to do the right thing always caused so much pain. And really, it wasn’t even trying to do the right thing, it was just trying to look out for people – in this case, Troy.
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 33