by Dan Laughey
Everyone assumed wrong.
It was the aftermath that switched you off; made you cold, ill at ease, sick to the stomach.
Six weeks had gone by. Your hospital bed was still warm.
But you aren’t in it…
DCI Lotherton invites you back to Millgarth HQ. Seventy detectives in the CID office. Waiting for you.
I’d better get this right, you tell yourself.
They fling their questions. What did the gunman look like? How old? Hair colour? Eyes? Skin?
Questions you’ve heard before. In hospital. As soon as they’d operated, removed the bullet, drugged you with painkillers.
Lotherton crosses his arms. He doesn’t look convinced. Puts you to the test. Picks out a few detectives. Tells them to stand up. Asks you to guess their ages.
You do pretty well. Just one officer proves tricky. A lot older than he looks. Everyone says the same.
Then Lotherton pulls up his sleeves. Another test.
Does anyone in the room resemble the gunman?
You skim the faces of Leeds CID. Look long and hard. One or two have a similar build. But no-one mirrors the picture in your mind. That hazy picture.
You turn to Lotherton. Try to make eye contact. You feel uncomfortable. Claustrophobic. You need air.
Can I be excused, sir?
The chief inspector nods, and you’re out of the door.
But not for long. There’s work to be done. You are needed. In the public service.
…WHAT MORE…
In the public eye. You’re a media darling. Interviews on TV and radio. You’re offered big money for after-dinner speeches at posh hotels. Companies want you to be the star guest at their Christmas dos. Charities want you to be their patron. Schools plead with you to inspire their young.
You hate it all. You’re not the glamorous type.
You want out. You tell Lotherton. Your wish will be granted, he promises.
Soon.
First you must catch the assailant. You and everyone else.
You are shown ten thousand photographs of potential suspects. Men of the underworld. Armed robbers. Irishmen. Terrorists. Millionaires.
Not one of them looks right.
Years later – after they’ve got their man – you’re told he was there. On file. You missed him. Why? You had no answer.
They showed you the photo you missed. Big-shouldered man. Middle-aged. Stocky. Flat cap. You fixated on that image. But it meant nothing to you.
After the photo binge you join surveillance operations and attend briefings. If there are no grounds to arrest suspects, you’re sent out to observe them.
You’re a spy. Your name is Bond. James Bond.
In between times you consult the Home Office ballistics men. The gun report sounded tinny, you tell them. For the umpteenth time.
They show you dozens of revolvers sourced from one hundred and thirty gun dealers supplied by two importers. Two hundred and fifty thousand .38 wadcutter bullets were made of the type that hit you; that hit poor George.
…IN THE NAME OF LOVE…
The identity parades come calling. Two brothers – local troublemakers – are rounded up. Prime suspects. Lotherton is sure they did it. They’re lined up with five or six others. You walk down the line, stare into each man’s face.
You fail to pick them out. Lotherton is irate.
They give you the look. You’re a trauma case. Brain dead. Better off if you’d gone down with George that day.
DOA.
Next you’re on a trip to Dublin. Jennifer Guinness kidnapped. A ruthless villain called Tom Kelly is wanted for questioning over a jewellery robbery in Bradford in 1982. The Irish authorities aren’t budging. They want Kelly, too, and the last thing they want is West Yorkshire Police fucking things up for them.
The months go by. All seems lost.
Until the breakthrough.
A wounded man is being held by Cleveland and Durham Police following an armed robbery at a supermarket. Name: Martin Humphreys.
…IN THE NAME…
You are driven at top speed to Stockton-on-Tees. By the time you arrive Humphreys is on a mortuary slab.
You look him in the face. The dead face.
Then you look at his physique. Guess his height. His weight.
The right build. But the wrong face. You feel bad. Awful. You can’t make a connection.
Much to your astonishment, the deceased and his firearm are later linked to your shooting; to the shooting of poor George. They said rigor mortis was the reason you couldn’t identify him. You shook your head.
Rigidity changes a person’s features, you told them. It doesn’t fashion a whole new face.
So now they’ve got their man.
You want out. You tell Lotherton. Your wish will be granted, he promises.
Soon.
First you must catch the accomplice. You and everyone else.
They interview anyone they can find with ties to Humphreys. Deals are struck. Where no deals appear likely, thugs are brought in. Charges laid.
Then they find his ex. She won’t speak. She’s uncooperative.
They make the usual threats. Carry out one or two. Shackles to ankles. Arms twisted. To show they mean business.
Two days go by. Eventually she breaks down. Tells them lots of things. Gives them a name.
…OF LOVE…
A few weeks later they arrest Alfred Shaw. He confesses in the back of a police car. Swears he’d no idea that Humphreys would pull the trigger… on you; on poor George.
Before the court case – you recall the moment vividly – Lotherton calls you in. Asks you to try and identify Shaw.
You’re puzzled.
They have the confession already, don’t they?
Lotherton doesn’t reply.
They open the cell door. You look him in the face.
The cell door closes. Faces fixed on you.
You recognise him? He the man?
Lotherton calls you to his office.
I take it we’ve struck gold?
You don’t know what to say.
Say something, Frank?
I don’t know, sir. As I’ve said before, sir, I never saw the second man. His back was turned to me… the whole time.
The chief inspector stares at you. Right through you. Fishing the depths of your mind. Your brain-dead mind.
Then he nods. There’s a glimmer of approval in his eyes. A smile forms. Then it widens. His false teeth are beaming, too.
Leave it in our hands, Frank. You can rest now. And so can poor George.
The trial lasts an eternity. You sit in the gallery, hating every minute. Thank God you weren’t required to testify.
Finally the verdict is read out. Shaw is done for. The next day brings sentencing. Seven years imprisonment for conspiracy to commit robbery on the 31st of October 1984.
The murder charge was dropped – regrettably.
Sergeant George Gray is awarded the Queen’s Commendation for Brave Conduct posthumously. Police Constable Jack Patel receives the same award.
…WHAT MORE…
The judge showers the police with praise. Yes, it took two and half years or more, but eventually they got a result; and charged hundreds of criminals for serious offences in the meantime.
Great work, officers. The underworld is banished! Never mind the taxpayers. You’re worth every penny!
Then the judge addresses you; commends you.
Despite the fact that you were fading into unconsciousness, you still had the presence of mind to warn and assist your colleagues. Your devotion to duty was quite outstanding.
No medal.
You want out. You tell Lotherton. Your wish is granted.
Third time lucky.
It was over then. But it’s not now.
Flat Cap.
Someone needs to act.
…IN THE NAME OF LOVE?
That someone, FAT, is you.
‘Close the door behind you, Capstick.’
Capstick gave a wave of consolation to the disgruntled maid and shut her out – without a tip.
‘What is the meaning of this… breaking and entering?’
The young woman’s expression was somewhere between annoyance and fright, and there was a trace of humiliation on her flushed cheeks.
Sant switched on the kettle by the TV, slouched on the leather davenport, admired the room. It was big; big enough for two rooms, maybe three. It was more like a studio apartment, lavishly furnished with oak framed watercolours, designer furniture, soft-pile carpet. The velvet-textured wallpaper just smacked of extravagance. The view from the bay window out towards the old Penny Bank and the financial quarter was equally agreeable.
‘Congratulations,’ he announced.
‘Whatever for?’
‘As missing persons go, Miss Lee, you’ve taken some finding.’ He turned to his partner. ‘Search the place, Capstick.’
She glared at him warily. ‘What makes you think I’m missing?’
Sant felt a sudden pang of resentment. ‘Spare me the innocent look, Miss Lee. You’re twenty years of age. You disappeared two months ago without an inkling of where you were going. Your name and face are known across the land. Or would you care to dispute these facts?’
She didn’t answer with words, just fell backwards onto her queen-size four-poster and broke down.
Capstick gave the all-clear signal – no-one was hiding in the shower – and then pointed to the mobile phone in his hand. Mouthed the words ‘forty-nine pounds’ and indicated the balance on the tiny screen. Here was the same phone Capstick had seen Mosley topping up to the tune of fifty quid a few days earlier.
Sant got up and paced around the room. He knew from recent experience with poor Mia that what he really should be doing at this juncture was calling in extra officers, not to mention a counsellor specialising in missing persons. The alternative option was to arrest Chloe on suspicion of her mother’s murder and accompany her to the nearest police station.
But the right way to do things and what Sant wanted to do were not in harmony. So many loose leads needed tying together. Any bureaucratic distractions now would slam the brakes on hard-earned progress.
He watched as Capstick poured hot water over barista-style instant coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the room. The weeping and sobbing reached a crescendo and slowly dissipated. Then Chloe reluctantly sat up on the bed, palms flat to the mattress to anchor her limp frame.
‘Let’s start again. I’m Detective Inspector Sant. May I call you Chloe?’
She didn’t answer, her body still shaking with emotion, the hotel-issue dressing gown wrapped tight around her chest.
‘Detective Constable Capstick and I won’t keep you long, Chloe, and we’ve no intention of taking you anywhere. You are safe here and we are happy for you to stay. Is that clear?’
She opened her tearful eyes a fraction and nodded once. Capstick offered her coffee. She shook her head and reached for the mineral water on her bedside cabinet.
‘You’ve been missing for nine weeks – you know that, we know that. You must have a compelling reason. What and who are you hiding from?’
Her thin rouge lips parted slightly. After several moments she mumbled: ‘I can’t… tell you. I mustn’t…’
Sant dragged a leather pouffe to a spot close to Chloe without invading her space, and perched below her level.
‘Chloe, we mean you no harm. You’ve done nothing wrong.’ Capstick scratched his head and threw Sant a confused look. ‘We’d just like your help in getting to the bottom of these… difficulties you’ve faced.’
She clenched her hands to her mouth as if praying for forgiveness: ‘It’s no good – nothing good can come from… anything.’
‘But you’re a good person, Chloe, and DC Capstick and I are good people too. Bad people are out there and it’s our job to bring them to justice. You can help us do that.’
She paused for thought, a little calmer now. ‘I need time. I’m confused. It’s been… hard.’
‘I understand, Chloe, and in twenty minutes or so we will leave you in peace.’ Capstick scratched his head again. ‘We want you to come to us in your own time, when you’re ready. Is that not the case, DC Capstick?’
‘For sure, sir,’ his partner replied, though he was by no means sure.
‘And until you’re ready to talk, all we’d like to do is keep an eye on you.’ She nodded, still tense but more composed now. ‘Who murdered your mother, Chloe?’ She feigned surprise, unsettled by the unexpected question. ‘You know your mother is dead, Chloe, so who killed her?’
‘I…. I’m not sure.’
‘Who do you suspect?’
She shrugged and sobbed a little more.
‘Okay, let’s leave that question for now. Next question: where’s the video, Chloe?’
This time her surprise was real, her mouth wide open.
‘How do you… what do you mean?’
Sant decided to take a gamble. ‘We believe you have a video showing the shooting of two police officers in 1984.’ Her cold glare told him the gamble had paid off. ‘It was a film made by your childhood friend and neighbour Sheila Morrison – you might have known her by the name Susan Smith – and it explains why you disappeared. It’s important for us to see that video, Chloe. You want good detectives like us to act on what it contains.’
She stood up from the bed and walked slowly towards the window. ‘I don’t know where… it’s lost.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded unconvincingly.
‘Tell me about it. I believe Sheila and her journalist colleague at the time, Neil Rothwell, filmed Sergeant Gray and PC Tanner being gunned down by the same man. I asked Rothwell. He didn’t know who the gunman was. He thinks Sheila did. Who is he, Chloe?’
‘I haven’t seen the… film.’
Sant barely believed her and yearned to probe further, but he didn’t want to push his luck with the vulnerable individual in his sights.
‘Okay, next question. Who is your friend? We know his name is Oliver Mosley. We know where he lives and what he does. How are you two related?’
She hesitated, averting her eyes from his gaze, then said: ‘We’re… partners.’
‘And he shares the same interests as you; wants the same outcome to this torrid affair?’
She nodded again, this time more assertively.
‘Does he pay for this room?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said vaguely, once again diving into her shell.
Sant preferred not to dwell, so he kept going. ‘You knew Liam Dryden, didn’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘Detective Sergeant Dryden – you know, one of the bus victims.’ She put hand to chin as if trying to recall the name. ‘He was slayed in cold blood, Chloe, along with six other passengers, two of whom you also knew: Kate Andrews and Callum Willis. Good friends of yours.’
‘They were so brave. Why did I – ?’ New tears trickled down her ivory face, Capstick belatedly offering her tissues.
‘Why did you get Kate and Callum involved?’
The floodgates were now open, drowning out the mumblings. The inspector considered the matter before launching into a bout of intuition.
‘Let me say what I think happened, Chloe, but tell me if I’m wrong. If you don’t, I’ll assume I’m right.’ He peered into those piercing black eyes, making contact for the first time. ‘So here goes… on the evening of the 24th of July you were at a party hosted by Jake Downing at his former Moorland Avenue, Hyde Park home. Your mother was there, too. You knew she was having a fling with Jake and maybe you weren’t bothered. After all, this Oliver Mosley is twice the man. But a sudden turn of events during that party threw your world into chaos. Someone at the party mistakes you for your mum, corners her in a quiet place, then viciously bludgeons her.’
She was now longer crying. She was listening, her eyes direct, absorbed.