by Dan Laughey
Jake crossed his arms, Sant interpreting the gesture as self-defence. ‘To be more accurate, Inspector, she was arguing with me. You see, Chloe was jealous of her mother.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Yes, because… well, it’s not something I’m proud of, but Vanessa and I, we got along well – very well, if you know what I mean.’
Barely able to disguise his surprise, Sant kicked himself for not knowing sooner. ‘Are you confessing to an affair with Vanessa Lee?’
Jake bit his lip again. ‘It was nothing serious, just a bit of fun. She needed a shoulder to cry on, and soon after she needed a hug, then a kiss, and then things went… further.’
‘You had sexual intercourse with Vanessa?’ Holdsworth probed.
‘I shagged her, yes.’
‘Just the once?’
Jake counted on the fingers of one hand, then two. ‘Quite often.’
‘You’ve no inhibitions have you, Mr Downing?’ said Sant.
‘It’s not in my character. I say it how it is. Honesty is the best policy. I’m sure you’d agree, officers.’
Sant refrained from more banter. ‘So you had sex with her quite often. More than a bit of fun, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Okay, so she needed comforting a few times.’ Sant’s stare forced the man to reflect on what he’d said. ‘More than a few times.’
‘And your idea of comforting her was screwing her.’
Jake got to his feet, a blackbird on the garden fence piping up in unison against the dim crescent moon. ‘Hang on a minute! Vanessa made the first move, not me.’
‘Did Chloe know you were screwing her mother?’
For the first time the youngster looked palpably shaken, a boxer on the ropes. He shook his head, gave a slight nod, shook it again, then simply let it drop to his knees as he fell back into the aluminium chair.
Sant waited. The front was finally cracking. It was only a matter of time before it opened up. ‘Would you mind if we continued our conversation inside, somewhere warm – and private?’
Jake nodded and led them through French windows into a small living room reeking of nicotine and beef chilli. Talk of drinks was long forgotten as they sank down into prehistoric sofa chairs devoid of padding. Jake’s embarrassment at his sudden outpouring of grief was plain to see. Sant had been oblivious to it, but now he reckoned that nonchalant swagger had concealed a lot of agony.
‘All I know,’ he continued, ‘is that Chloe and her mother… they didn’t get along. Whether because of me, I couldn’t tell you. They weren’t like an ordinary mother and daughter. They were always fighting.’
‘Physically fighting?’
‘As near as damn it. They hated each other. Well, Chloe hated Vanessa. I’m not sure if the hatred was mutual.’
Holdsworth was filling her notebook fast. ‘There was a chance, was there not, of Chloe discerning your affair with her mother?’
Jake rubbed his tired eyes. ‘You’re probably right. She probably did know. I never told her. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her… or her mother.’
Tell that to their faces, Sant said to himself.
‘Could Vanessa have told her daughter about the affair?’ asked Holdsworth.
Jake hesitated for several moments, then said: ‘I doubt it. What mother in her right mind would do such a thing?’
Sant could think of a few mothers he’d stumbled upon – heroin addicts – who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the prospect.
‘Anyway, even if Chloe did know of the affair,’ Jake went on, ‘she had no bones about me crossing paths with her mother.’ He cast a wary glance at Sant. ‘I mean, quite out of the blue, on the night of my birthday party – well, Vanessa was there as well as Chloe.’
This was news to the two detectives.
‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ said Sant, trying not to sound hostile any longer. The young man was weakening fast. No need to throw big punches – a few soft jabs should do it.
Tears welled up in Jake’s eyes. He turned away, stifling a sob. ‘It must’ve skipped my mind. I didn’t think it was important. It was a shock, to be honest. I mean, Chloe and Vanessa arriving together. I… didn’t know what to expect.’
‘Had Vanessa been to your place before?’
‘Once or twice, but not to Chloe’s knowledge.’
‘So you had sex with Vanessa at your place?’
‘As I said, once or twice.’
‘Where else did you have sex?’
‘Mostly at her house.’
‘In Seacroft?’
Jake nodded. ‘A dump of a place, but what can you expect of the biggest council estate in Europe? Someone told me that about Seacroft – is it true?’
Sant wasn’t in the mood to stamp on the snobbery rearing up in defence of Jake’s troubled ego. Instead, the inspector gave a show of authority by hauling himself up from the depths of his sagging chair and wandering around the room, trying to keep his shoes free of dirt from the filthy carpet some landlord or other had stapled down half a century ago.
‘Don’t you realise how this relationship of yours with Vanessa Lee sheds new light on our investigation into Chloe?’
‘How so, Inspector?’ Jake was back in self-defence mode, biting his lip like a naughty schoolboy staring detention in the face.
‘A motive, Mr Downing. The fact you were in bed with her mother gives Chloe an obvious motive for the disappearing act.’
‘But she didn’t go missing until September. By then, Vanessa was long gone. I mean, she’d been away on her travels for a month or more.’
Sant waited for Jake to make eye contact. It took a while but eventually the two locked stares, one weary, the other inquisitive. ‘Are you certain she went travelling, Mr Downing?’
‘Why wouldn’t she have? She’d talked about it for ages. Wanted to see the world.’
‘So she told you she was going away?’
‘Yes, absolutely. She even messaged me. Afterwards.’
‘After what?
‘My party.’
‘You still have it?’
‘I think so.’ He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Samsung the size of a small TV, brushing his fingers expertly across its screen as if the phone was an extension of his self. ‘Here it is – plain as day!’
Sant took the phone and read the message, Holdsworth craning her neck for a view.
HI JAKE – IM LEAVING TMRW ON WORLD TOUR AS PLANNED!! TAKE CARE I WONT B BACK TILL WINTER LOOK AFTER CLO FOR ME SHES AWKWARD BUT SHES A GOOD GIRL ALL THE SAME LUV V XXXX
The message was dated 27th July at 22.37 followed by the number of the transmitting phone.
‘Are you sure this text was sent from Vanessa’s phone?’ said Holdsworth.
Jake paused for thought. ‘Well, no as a matter of fact. I didn’t have her number stored in my phone, for obvious reasons. I suppose you guys can cross-reference with your records.’
Sant nodded unconvincingly, matters of technology not being his department. Fortunately, Holdsworth had the relevant data stored in her tablet. She showed him discreetly. The number matched the one they had.
‘Did she message you often?’
‘This was the first time.’
‘And she hasn’t since?’
‘No. Chloe told me Vanessa wanted to forget herself on some tropical beach complete with cocktail bar and sun recliners.’
‘You must’ve been upset at such a sudden departure. Or did it make your life less complicated?’ asked Holdsworth.
‘A bit of both. I’ve missed Vanessa more than I’ve missed Chloe – best sex ever.’
‘And has Vanessa been in touch with her daughter since she went away?’
‘I wouldn’t know – I’ve not seen Chloe since the party either.’
Sant checked his notes. ‘Chloe was last seen by her flatmates on the 9th of September. You’re sure you didn’t see her even in passing, around that time?’
‘Certain of it. And I didn’t go looking
for her if that’s what you think. Our paths wouldn’t usually cross anyway. We live in different places and I’m studying architecture, which is nowhere near the History and Politics building.’
It was time for Sant to play the trump card. ‘What about Oliver Mosley?’
‘Who?’ Jake answered without hesitation, no flicker of recognition crossing his face.
‘Also known as Owen Madeley? A friend of Chloe’s – a very close friend.’
He shook his head but did not answer, a whiff of nerves troubling his manner all of a sudden. It was textbook tension, thought Sant. Straight out of Capstick’s beloved books on body language.
‘Come on, Mr Downing! Surely you keep up with the gossip; with who screws who after you’ve bolted the stable?’
‘There you go again, Inspector. Don’t imagine for one second you can abuse me and then expect me to roll over. If I need to call on the services of my solicitor – a proper solicitor, not one of your police pawns – I’m only too ready to. Our conversation, if that’s what you call it, ends here, as does my hospitality.’
Fine hospitality, Sant mused. He wanted to wrap things up anyway, mission accomplished for now. ‘One last request, Mr Downing: do you have any idea where Chloe has disappeared to, and with whom?’
The young man shook his downturned head, his eyes wet with emotion. ‘It doesn’t make sense at all,’ he muttered. Then he started sobbing. Holdsworth rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, silently acknowledging her partner’s tough-cop tactics.
While he didn’t like the man one iota, Sant had to agree – nothing made sense. Except one thing. Jake’s tear-stained face was a façade. A dented façade, for sure, but a façade nonetheless, hiding something sinister beneath.
It was late and Sant was getting tired. Holdsworth dropped him off on the Headrow, a short walk from his apartment, and he was heading in that direction when his phone beeped. It was Mia texting him. She was in the library (where else?) and had discovered something on the microfiche. Not for the first time, he mused.
He crawled up the hill towards the Parkinson Building, its phallic campanile glowing in white splendour like a beacon guiding the scholarly souls below. He stopped at a convenience store to buy two hot chocolates, then realised his error. Trying to smuggle steaming cups of cocoa into a library flanked with learned literature would be no small feat. Luckily, Mia was there to meet him as he clambered up the Parkinson steps.
They drank the cocoa in haste before she held out her petite hand and guided him to the library entrance, scanning her card and hurrying him through the retracting gates, the two of them brushing one another in a sort of fleeting embrace.
These brief physical encounters must have meant little to her, but the thrill they gave Sant was intense. Any amount of contact with the warm flesh of a pretty woman was enough to send him into raptures. It must be psychological, he thought privately: consider me over-sexed and under-loved.
‘Here it is,’ she gasped, switching on the microfiche reader to illuminate the section of the Yorkshire Post newspaper reel she’d been reading. ‘In October 1983 Police Constable Jack Patel – the same officer a year later who chased the gunman who shot dead Sergeant Gray and wounded PC Tanner – got caught up in an altercation whilst keeping order at a National Front rally outside Kirkgate Market. It says here: “A small group of NF activists leafleting Saturday shoppers started chanting WHITE POWER and DEATH TO JEWS. Malaysian-born PC Patel confronted the group and its chief, Mr Joseph Chesterton, who was heard to remark: Inferior wogs like yourself do not understand the principle of free speech”.’
‘Pleasant guy,’ joked Sant.
Mia nodded. ‘And it emerges in later reports that Chesterton was no ordinary racist thug but a senior NF ringleader and former chairman of the party, renowned for his anti-Semitism. He advocated arson attacks on synagogues and always carried a copy of Mein Kampf. He even organised street parties on Hitler’s birthday.’
‘No disguising his fascist persuasions.’
‘Chesterton also claimed that racism was a science, not a crime, and that violence towards foreigners was a natural right for whites. This explains his links to violent terrorist groups abroad, including the Armed Revolutionary Nuclei in Italy responsible for the murders of thirty-three people in the late seventies.’
‘Did Patel bring charges against him?’
She nodded again. ‘A subsequent report states he was fined fifty pounds by Leeds magistrates for using insulting words and behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace. Chesterton then hired a top lawyer and appealed the verdict at Leeds Crown Court, but lost the appeal. The judge found in favour of PC Patel and praised him for showing restraint under the circumstances.’
‘I wonder if this Chesterton is still alive and kicking.’
‘With a vengeance – he joined the British National Party after the NF folded and later became an MEP in Brussels, representing Yorkshire and the Humber.’
Sant clapped his hands. ‘You’re certainly fluent, Sherlock. Is this your chosen specialised subject?’
Mia giggled. ‘You sound like Magnus Magnusson.’
‘Surely you can’t remember Mastermind?’
‘No, but I’ve seen it on Youtube.’
He was reminded of Capstick’s secret online Dallas infatuation as he smiled at her, milking those emerald-green eyes and smooth chin.
‘You’ve got a knack for research, but I don’t see how this Chesterton fracas relates to later events. After all, PC Patel was a marginal figure in the 1984 police shootings, just passing by Leeds Parish Church that morning when he heard gunfire. Only at that point did he become embroiled in chasing the gunman and his accomplice.’
She gave him a playful shove. ‘You think I’m just another pie-in-the-sky amateur sleuth, but if racism or racist crimes had anything to do with the shootings of Gray and Tanner, then maybe Patel’s role in prosecuting Chesterton somehow contributed to what happened.’
He thought hard for a moment. ‘You mean, Patel wasn’t just passing by. He was actually the intended target of a bullet to the head?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘But how come Gray and Tanner were shot, not Patel?’
‘Maybe they got caught in the trap by chance.’
Sant shook his head. ‘Nice theory, Sherlock, but a bit contrived.’
‘Even so, the timeline fits,’ said Mia, her green eyes determined. ‘Chesterton’s failed crown court appeal immediately preceded the October ‘84 shootings.’
Not wishing to discourage her, he said: ‘There may be something in your theory yet. But sleuthing aside, may I appeal to your psychology expertise over a bite of supper?’
They agreed on Spanish tapas, though Sant suspected the usual bite-size medley wouldn’t sate his appetite for long. Conveniently, the guitar-walled restaurant – the only one still open at that late hour – offered partitioned tables ideal for discreet conversation. As the Shiraz started to flow, Sant began to explain.
‘This Patel character, as you can imagine, is someone we’ve tried to trace. All we know is he left the police a few years after the shootings to return home to Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Why don’t you put a call out to the Malaysian authorities?’ said Mia as she refilled their glasses.
‘We’ve tried but we’re not holding our breath. And my superiors would refuse to fly a couple of detectives out there. Resource implications and all that.’
‘What about the officer injured in the shootings – Tanner?’
‘You’ve read my mind,’ he grinned. ‘It’s likely former PC Frank Tanner is still alive and living locally. He’s Leeds born and bred so I expect he still lives here. However, no identity-match has been made yet which means he changed his name after retiring from the police. Do victims of trauma often change their names?’
Mia drank the burgundy wine deeply before saying: ‘Not necessarily. Each victim recovers differently. He will possess little memory-recall of that 1984 shooti
ng, though his short-term and longer-term memory may be unaffected. If you’d permit me to hazard a guess’ – he nodded his consent – ‘I’d say Tanner has situation-specific psychogenic amnesia.’
‘What’s that in plain English?’
She giggled. ‘Psychology jargon for memory loss caused by a traumatic experience. It’s a grey area, but some psychologists believe a certain event occurring in someone’s life-course – an unpleasant event like a serious injury – alters the brain in such a way that memories aren’t stored properly. That is, they’re not stored in a retrievable way like most memories.’
Sant laughed. ‘My mind is bamboozled already.’
‘Tell me about it! After a few more of these,’ she slurred as she raised her glass, ‘I’ll be hard-pressed to remember anything myself, never mind retrograde psychogenic amnesia.’
Their food arrived and they ate hungrily. More was soon required. Sant ordered five extra dishes and another bottle of red. Then he steered the talk back to psychology.
‘Tanner’s testimony during the 1988 trial of the gunman Humphreys and his accomplice Shaw suggests he recalled some things but not others.’
‘That’s typical,’ said Mia, ‘but memory loss is recoverable, even after many years. Various techniques can be tried out. My favoured approach is priming.’
‘Your chosen specialist subject, Sherlock.’
‘It goes like this,’ she said as she poured more Shiraz. ‘Priming is a memory effect in which a stimulus ‘A’ – a present-day experience – triggers the brain to recall a stimulus ‘B’ associated with a past event. Take music. Music has really salient priming effects. A radio DJ plays a song from your youth, triggering your senses in such a way that you remember the things you were doing when you first heard it.’
Sant chewed and nodded at the same time. ‘The Smiths reminds me of wet days reading comics in bed.’
She giggled. ‘Surely there was more to your youth than comic books.’
‘Who says my youth is spent?’
‘You’re only as young as you feel,’ she smiled, blowing a lock of hair out of her eye.
‘I like your style, young lady.’ He piled up the empty plates on his side of the table, noticing guiltily the few plates on the other side. ‘So this priming thing – you could try it on Tanner when we track him down?’