by Mark Dawson
York pushed down until the bolt gun was inches away from Atticus’s forehead.
“Mack!”
He tried to push York’s arm away, but he didn’t have the strength. York’s eyes bulged, and a line of spittle dribbled down from the corner of his mouth and landed on Atticus’s chin.
“Mack!”
He heard something—the crackle of static—and York spasmed and then went limp. Atticus bucked his hips and shrugged the older man off, then staggered to his feet. Mack was holding a black and yellow device in her hand: a stun gun.
“Where did you get that?”
“In his truck.”
York was still twitching helplessly. Atticus flipped him over, put his knee between his shoulder blades and pressed down with all his weight.
Mack helped hold him down. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re making a habit of this,” she said.
“Of what?”
“Me saving your arse.”
She gave Atticus the stun gun and went to check Jessica.
“Is she okay?” he called over.
“She’s breathing.”
Mack was loosening the rope around her wrists when they both heard a desperate voice from the open trapdoor.
“Help!”
Mack tossed the rope over to Atticus. “Who’s down there?”
“Molly York,” came the weak reply. “Please—help me!”
“Hold on,” Mack said.
York had begun to struggle beneath Atticus’s weight. “Get off me.”
Atticus pressed the prongs of the stun gun against York’s bare neck and pulled the trigger. York gasped and stiffened once more. Atticus took the opportunity to tie the rope around his right wrist and then his left, pulling the knots tight, and then, just because he could, shocked him for a third time.
Mack knelt down next to Jessica. “You okay?”
The blood was still running from her nose. She nodded weakly.
“What’s down there?”
“A space. Not big.”
Atticus stood, picked up the torch and aimed the beam down into the maw of the pit. He saw walls that had been braced with wooden planks and a rough dirt floor that glittered as the light reflected in puddles of water. There were two people below: Jordan Lamb lay on his back, face up, lifeless; Molly York stared up at him, her eyes blinking in the glare from the torch.
Part VIII
Monday
74
Jessica Edwards was wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee from a paper cup when Atticus found her. She was in an empty interview room on the ground floor of the building. A WPC had just delivered the coffee, and Atticus waited for her to step outside before he put his head through the door. “Morning.”
Jessica looked up at him and smiled wanly. Her face was pinched and pale, and she looked exhausted. There was a nasty bruise on the side of her face from where York had struck her. She glanced down at her watch. “So it is. I’ve completely lost track of the time.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore. And done in.”
Atticus took his hip flask out of his pocket and held it up. “Want a nip of this?”
She held the cup out for him. “Yes, please.”
He unscrewed the lid of the flask and poured a generous measure into the muddy brown coffee. He held up the flask once he was done. “Cheers.”
She raised the cup in reciprocation of his salute and took a long draught, exhaling with satisfaction as she set it down again. “I needed that.”
Atticus took a sip himself, then screwed the lid back on the flask and stood it on the table between them. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just shaken up.”
“What happened?”
Jessica recounted her misfortunes from the previous day, explaining how she had gone to York’s house to pick up her warrant card and how Shayden Mullins had called her while she was there and explained why Molly had run away from home. She said that she had heard the girl’s ringtone coming from her father’s pocket, and how—realising that his crime was exposed—York had attacked her.
“Did you speak to Molly when you were down there with her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That her father put her in the cellar when they got back from London. She says she saw him kill someone else and Jordan Lamb.”
“And that’s why she ran?”
“Yes. She’s terrified of him. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Not yet. She’s still with the doctor. And I wanted to check you were okay first.”
Jessica took another sip, then held out her cup again and gestured to the flask. “I’ll be even better with another of those.”
Atticus poured out another shot.
“Do you believe Molly?” she asked him.
“I do. I think her father was being blackmailed.”
“And the blackmailer…?”
“Was the man she saw being murdered.”
“What a mess,” Jessica said.
“That’s one way to describe it.” He held up the flask. “One for the road?”
“Go on, then.”
He poured a third measure, screwed the lid back on and dropped the flask into his pocket. “I’d better go and see if I’m needed. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Can you ask them to send someone down to take my statement?”
“My guess is that they’ll do it in the morning.”
“I’m not waiting here. I need to get some sleep.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I’m too tired to drive home. Plus…” She held up her empty cup. “A hotel, I suppose.”
“Crash at mine,” he suggested. “My dog’s there, but he’ll just make a fuss of you and then curl up and go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m going to be here all night. It’s not a problem.”
He took out his keys and gave them to her.
“Remember how to get there?”
“I do,” she said. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry about how I behaved before,” Atticus said. “You’re right. I was out of order.”
“Forget it,” she said.
“Leave the keys with my upstairs neighbour if I’m not back in time.”
“I will.” She got up, came to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Goodbye, Atticus.”
75
Atticus took the lift to the third floor and crossed over to the MIR. The room was busy, with most of the team called in. The kettle had been boiled, and chipped mugs of strong coffee had been handed out. Mack was at the front of the room, watching a video that Mike Lewis was playing on his phone. The video finished, and she looked up and noticed Atticus. He gave her a nod; she reciprocated and then called the room to order.
Detective Inspector Best handed a mug of coffee to Atticus.
“Well done,” he said. “Mack told me you worked it out.”
Atticus nodded; Robbie Best had never been his biggest fan at the nick—not that any of them had been—and he couldn’t recall receiving praise from him before.
“Quieten down, everyone,” Mack said again. “Take your seats. We’ve got a lot to get through, and the custody clock is ticking.”
They all did as she asked and settled down around the table. Atticus took out his flask and poured a measure of the whisky into his mug. He took a long sip, appreciating the heat of the alcohol. He was tired, too, and had been getting by on adrenaline for too long.
Mack quickly updated the detectives on the events of the last few hours and said that they had James York and Colonel Richard Miller in the cells downstairs. Molly York was also waiting to be questioned so that they could have a formal record of what she said her father had been doing.
“We’ve got twenty-four hours before we need to think about charging or applying for an extension, and there’s still a lot we don’t kno
w.” She pointed to Atticus. “Do you want to run through it?”
Atticus cleared his throat, collected the mugshots of York and Miller and the historic mugshot of Burns that he had pulled from his file and stood up. “I’ll start with what we do know,” he said, taking the mugshots of Burns and Miller and pinning them to the wall. “One: we know that Alfred Burns was blackmailing Miller with evidence that he was involved in the murder of two locals in Londonderry in the early eighties. Two: we know that Burns was killed. Three: we know that Burns’s body was buried in a graveyard with the bodies of five teenage girls.” Atticus took the photograph of James York and pinned it next to the other two. “Four: we know that this man, James York, was an acquaintance of both Burns and Miller during their time in Northern Ireland, and that all three settled in the area after leaving the army. Five: we know that York’s daughter has named him as Burns’s killer. Six: we know that York paid me to find his daughter and then, once I’d located her and reunited them, imprisoned her in a cellar underneath the floor of his barn. Seven: we know that York murdered a local lad in an attempt to make it appear that his daughter had run off with him. Finally, eight: we know that York attacked and imprisoned a Metropolitan Police officer after she found out that he had been lying about his daughter.”
Robbie Best raised a hand. “That’s a good start. What are we missing?”
“We know Burns had form for child porn. Young girls. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to suggest that he’s connected to the girls who were buried at Imber. But who killed them? Burns on his own? Or were Miller and York involved? We know that Burns was blackmailing Miller. Was he blackmailing York, too? If not, why did York kill him?”
“What about Miller?” Patterson said.
“Mike Lewis has a team at his house now. He’s searching it.”
Best shook his head. “Are we really ready to accuse an MP of murder?”
“We had more than enough to arrest him for what he said happened in Londonderry,” Mack said, taking over. “This though, with Burns and York? We don’t have enough for that.”
“Yet,” Atticus qualified. He sat back down. “I’d start with York’s daughter. Find out what was going on in that house. Fill in as many gaps as you can with what she can tell us, and then take that to her father. Tell him that she’s cooperating, then let him know that we’ve arrested Miller, too, and tell him that the colonel’s going to talk. Then you take what York says and go to Miller. Make the colonel think that York is putting the knife into him. Turn each against the other—if you play it right, you get them to incriminate themselves and you find out whether anyone else was involved.”
Mack finished up, deputing Robbie Best to lead the search of York’s property. Best picked the officers who would assist and left the room. Atticus waited where he was until Mack came over and sat down on the edge of the table next to him.
“You know you can’t interview them,” she said. “It’s got to be a detective.”
“I know. But I can still help. Speak to Molly first. She’s not a suspect. I can sit in on that.”
“You can.”
“And then set me up in a room where I can watch the live feed of the interviews. Do York first and then finish with Miller. Come and see me after each. I’ll tell you what I think, the areas where you need more, different directions you can take. We’ll set them at each other’s throats and bag them both.”
76
Molly was waiting for them in the interview room that was decorated specifically for young or vulnerable witnesses. There was a sofa with brightly patterned cushions and two matching chairs facing it, and the walls were painted a gentle eggshell blue rather than the utilitarian shades that were found in the rest of the station. The girl had been joined by an appropriate adult, a woman whom Atticus recognised as a social worker who was called to the station when children needed to be interviewed. She sat on the other end of the sofa from Molly. Molly had been given a cup of coffee and a bar of chocolate from the vending machine at the end of the hall. She had a blanket around her shoulders and was staring dumbly into her drink.
“Molly,” Mack said, smiling, “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Mackenzie Jones, but you can call me Mack if you like.”
The girl looked up from the coffee. She was pale and had red rings around her eyes. There was a purple bruise across the right-hand side of her forehead and lurid abrasions around her wrists from where the rope her father had used to secure her had chafed against her skin.
“I’m in charge of the investigation that has led to the arrest of your father tonight,” Mack said. “This is Mr. Priest. He helped find you in London.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Atticus said. “I had no idea why your father wanted you back so badly. I’m afraid he fooled me.”
“He does that,” she said, her voice flat and emotionless and heavy with fatigue.
Mack and Atticus took the empty seats facing the sofa. Mack told Molly that she was going to record their conversation; the girl did not object. They started by asking her what had happened to her. She answered with the same lack of emotion, confirming everything that Jessica had recounted about her own conversations with the girl while they were both trapped in the cellar. Mack steered the conversation skilfully, building rapport and then gently prompting her with questions that enabled them to construct a picture of what life had been like for her with her father.
“You said you saw him murder someone,” Mack said. “Is that right?”
She nodded.
“And that’s why you ran away?”
“He realised I knew. I was frightened of what he would do to me.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Molly nodded and took a sip of her coffee. She swallowed, then paused before beginning to speak. She told them that her father had been arguing with another man, and that, although she was too far away to hear, she thought that it was about money. She told them about the bolt gun that her father had used, and how she could still hear the noise that it had made as the trigger was pulled.
“Could you describe the man who was killed?”
“He was around the same age as my dad. He walked with a limp.”
Mack had a folder on her lap. She opened it, took out the file picture of Alfred Burns and handed it to Molly.
“Is this him?”
She looked at the photograph and gave a little shrug. “They weren’t that close to me.”
“But it could be him?”
“It could be.”
Mack reached back into the folder and took out the photograph of Richard Miller that was on his website. She gave it to Molly.
“Have you ever seen this man before?”
She stared at it and gave a hopeless shrug. “No.”
“Take another look,” Atticus urged.
She did as he asked, exhaled and then shook her head again.
“Try to remember.”
Molly blinked back sudden tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t…”
Atticus ground his teeth in frustration. Mack glared at him and then turned to smile at the girl. “It’s fine, Molly.”
“It’s one in the morning,” the social worker said. “I think Molly’s tired. Perhaps this could wait until the morning?”
“That’s a great idea,” Mack said. She reached out and laid a hand on the girl’s knee. “You’ve done amazingly well. Thank you.”
77
Mack led the way down to the interview suites where James York and Richard Miller were waiting. There were four rooms dedicated to that purpose at the station; York was waiting in room one, and Miller was in room three. Mack pointed to room four, and Atticus went inside. One of the civilians who managed the tech was setting up the monitor that Atticus had requested.
“You’re good to go,” the woman said, stepping aside.
Atticus looked at the screen. There were two cameras in the corners of room one, and the feeds from both were displayed on the monitor. James York was sitting down with his soli
citor next to him. The chairs on the opposite side of the table were empty. Atticus sat down. There was a pad of paper on the table, and he took out a pen and laid it across the first page.
Mack pointed to the screen. “What do you think of him?”
“He’s a good liar. He pulled the wool over my eyes. He won’t be a pushover.”
“No,” she said. “But we’ve got a lot of evidence against him.”
Atticus laid his finger over the lawyer. “What about him?”
“Sam Aikenhead,” she said. “He works for Corbetts.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He only joined a month ago. Came down from London. I had him representing a burglar I had in. He’s all right.”
“This is a bit more than burglary.”
Atticus watched the screen. York and his solicitor were talking.
“Who’s doing the interview with you?”
“Nigel,” she said.
Atticus would have preferred to be in there himself, but, knowing that was impossible, he agreed with the choice. DS Archer was an imposing man, and he had a knack of looking at a suspect and inspiring fear. Having him in the room would be a good way of distracting from the fact that, beneath Mack’s affability, she was as sharp as a needle.
“I’d better get to it,” she said.
“I’ll text you if there’s anything I think you need to know.”
“Fine. I can always step out for five minutes.” She clapped her hands. “Right, then. Wish me luck.”
Atticus settled down, removed the cap from the pen and jotted down a few of the points that would need to be covered. He watched as Mack and Archer came inside and sat down opposite York and his solicitor. There was a microphone on the table next to a bottle of water and two cups of instant coffee from the machine in the corridor. The mic was switched on, and Atticus heard the scrape of the chairs as the two detectives arranged themselves.
“Good evening, Mr. York,” she said.