“You?” Thompson said eventually, “I never had you pegged for a rat.”
“I didn’t know she was a journo,” Bridge said, “it was a woman I’d been seeing for a few weeks, that’s all. She never told me she worked for the Herald. I’m sorry.”
“The damage has been done,” Smith said, “those vultures would have found out everything anyway.”
“Smith’s right,” Brownhill said, “what matters now is finding this serial killer before he strikes again and we need to get through the internal investigation with our sanity intact.”
“Will you stop agreeing with me,” Smith said, “it’s starting to freak me out.”
“We’re all going to be interrogated,” Brownhill ignored Smith’s comment, “if that’s the correct word to use. We have nothing to hide.”
“Except the bit about the newspaper,” Thompson said.
“We don’t need to mention that,” Brownhill said, “Baldwin has been instructed to do the same. It’s not going to be pleasant but we’ll get through it. Right now, we have more urgent matters to attend to. Let’s find this bastard.”
Bridge felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“There’s a rat in the kitchen,” Thompson started to sing, “what are we going to do?”
“Thompson,” Brownhill glared at him, “that’s not helping anybody.”
“Well,” Thompson said, “I hate rats.”
“Thompson,” Smith said, “Bridge was following his balls at the time and in my book, that means he’s forgiven. You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have a sex drive.”
Bridge started to laugh.
“That’s enough,” Brownhill said, “this meeting’s over. Don’t forget what I said. Now, get out there and do something useful.”
FIFTY SIX
Walter Ingram
Smith parked his car next to the circus tent and got out. He was surprised that the tent was still there. There was no reason for it to be still up; the Moreno circus was finished in York.
“We’re going to get Alberto Moreno to tell us about his brother,” Smith said.
“I tried to tell you that,” Whitton said, “this Yorick mystery is right at the heart of all this. I’m sure of it.”
“Did you know about Bridge and this woman from the Herald?” Smith asked as they walked round the back of the tent to the staff accommodation.
“I saw them,” Whitton said, “I saw Bridge arguing with her after the mob went berserk here. I told him not to tell anybody about it. Stupid fool. He should have listened to me. I’m surprised you went so easy on him.”
“I’m not finished with Rupert Bridge yet,” Smith said with a wry smile on his face.
“Rupert?” Whitton said, “Is his name Rupert?”
“I know,” Smith said, “it suits him doesn’t it?”
Alberto Moreno was sitting outside his caravan with Valerie and Charlie Small. They all looked up when Smith and Whitton approached. None of them looked too pleased.
“Detectives,” Alberto stood up, “I thought you’d have exhausted things here. There’s nothing more to tell.”
“We’re far from finished,” Smith said, “I thought you’d have packed up and left after what happened.”
“Packed up to go where?” Alberto said, “The final shows have been cancelled. News spreads quickly these days. We’re not welcome anywhere anymore so we might as well stay here until I decide what we’re going to do.”
“Can we have a word in private?” Smith said.
“I have no secrets from Valerie and Charlie,” Alberto said, “the circus is one big family but you probably wouldn’t understand that.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Whitton said, “to talk about family. When was the last time you saw your brother?”
“Brother?” Alberto seemed angry, “Jimmy is dead. You should know all about that.”
“We’re not talking about Jimmy Mr Moreno,” Whitton said, “we want to know about Yorick.”
Alberto appeared to freeze at the mention of his brother’s name. He looked across at Valerie.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “they made me tell them.”
“Perhaps you and Charlie should check on Bruce,” Alberto said, “he’s not quite out of the woods yet.”
“Yorick ceased to exist a very long time ago,” Alberto said when Valerie and Charlie had gone, “I don’t know what he has got to do with any of this.”
“So you did have a brother named Yorick?” Whitton said.
“Like I said,” Alberto said, “it was a very long time ago.”
“What happened to him?” Smith said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alberto said, “it’s in the past.”
Smith was starting to get irritated.
“You’re going to tell us about it whether you like it or not,” he said, “we’re in the middle of a murder investigation. Three children are dead. We can keep this casual or we can drag you down to the station and do it the unpleasant way. It’s your choice.”
“In that case,” Alberto said, “you leave me no choice detective sergeant. I can also play hardball if I have to. I don’t know if you’re familiar with a man by the name of Walter Ingram. He is a very good friend of mine and he happens to be one of the shrewdest lawyers out there. He can be a real nasty piece of work when he wants to be.”
“What are you talking about?” Smith said.
“My brother died in police custody,” Alberto said, “Walter Ingram will see to it that this whole business is a long drawn out and unpleasant affair. Jimmy went with you voluntarily I believe?”
“That’s right,” Smith said.
“And you had no reason to hold him?”
“Our DI made the decision to keep him in for further questioning,” Smith did not like the direction the conversation was heading.
“Then my good friend Walter is going to make your DI’s life hell. Unless…”
“Unless what?” Smith said, “Are you threatening us?”
“Unless you refrain from this tiresome harassment,” Alberto said, “I’m getting sick of it.”
“Why don’t you want to talk about Yorick?” Whitton said, “What happened to him?”
“Do I need to phone Walter?” Alberto took out his phone.
“That won’t be necessary,” Smith stood up, “we won’t take up any more of your time Mr Moreno. Not now anyway.”
He looked at Whitton.
“Let’s go,” he said, “I knew this Yorick business was a complete waste of time.”
FIFTY SEVEN
Harrogate
“I can’t believe you let him bully you like that,” Whitton said, “you’re getting soft.”
“I’m growing up,” Smith turned onto the main road and headed back towards the city, “two years ago I would have dragged his arse out of there without any regard for the consequences.”
“So this is the new you?”
“Alberto was right,” Smith said, “we didn’t really have enough evidence to warrant holding Jimmy any longer. The DI made a bad call; she could be in serious trouble.”
“So what now?” Whitton said, “I still think this Yorick character is important.”
“So do I,” Smith said, “but we don’t actually need Alberto Moreno to help us to find out what happened do we?”
“We don’t?”
“Use your head Whitton,” Smith said, “he has to be on the system somewhere. He must have been born somewhere, lived somewhere and for once we have luck on our side.”
“How do you mean?”
“Think Whitton,” Smith said, “how many people do you think there are with the name Yorick Moreno?”
“You have changed,” Whitton said, “but then again you’re still the same.”
“Very deep Whitton.”
“Where are we going?” Whitton said.
“Births and deaths,” Smith said, “that’s always a good place to start.
Smith parked in the long stay c
ar park across the road from the city council offices.
“Do you think they’ll be able to help?” Whitton said.
“They’ve always been pretty helpful in the past,” Smith said.
They crossed the road and went through the revolving doors into the council building. Smith walked up to the front desk. An old man with a lazy eye was arguing with a Pakistani woman.
“I still need your birth certificate,” his voice sounded weary.
“I wasn’t born here,” the woman said, “I keep telling you that. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I’m sorry Ma’am,” the man said, “in order for you to apply for benefits, you need to get onto the system. I’ve given you a list of the documents you need.”
The woman threw her arms in the air and walked away from the counter.
“How can I help you?” The man said with a smile.
Smith was taken aback.
He must have a thick skin, he thought.
“Police,” Smith said, “I’m DS Smith and my colleague is DC Whitton. We need to find out the whereabouts of somebody.”
The man eyed Smith with suspicion.
“Do you have any ID?” He asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Smith said, “it sort of melted when my house blew up but DC Whitton has hers.”
Whitton took out her ID and showed it to the man.
“Second floor,” he said, “speak to Lorraine. She deals with this kind of thing.”
“Thank you,” Smith said.
They took the lift to the second floor and emerged onto a very modern office room that seemed oddly deserted. Smith looked around the room. He spotted a middle aged woman behind one of the desks. She was eating a sandwich.
“Good morning,” Smith said, “I’m looking for Lorraine.”
The woman swallowed her sandwich so fast she almost choked on it.
“You’ve found her,” she looked Smith up and down, “but I think you’ve come to the wrong place. Social security is on the ground floor.”
“Do I look that needy?” Smith smiled at her.
Whitton could not hold back a chuckle.
“We’re from the police,” Smith said, “we’re trying to locate the whereabouts of a man. I believe you’re the person to speak to?”
“Take a seat,” Lorraine said.
Smith and Whitton sat in front of the desk.
“ID please,” Lorraine said.
Whitton took out her ID and showed it to her.
Smith realized he really had to get his ID sorted out as soon as possible.
“I lost mine,” he said, “but you can phone the switchboard at the station if you want. They’ll confirm who I am.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lorraine made a note of Whitton’s ID number.
“Ok,” she pressed a few keys on the keyboard, “who is it you’re looking for?”
“Yorick Moreno,” Smith and Whitton said in unison.
“Yorick?” Lorraine said, “As in Hamlet?”
“That’s right,” Smith said.
He spelled out the name ‘Moreno’.
“Nope,” Lorraine said, “he’s not registered here.”
“Are you sure?” Smith said.
“He’s not on here.”
“Thank you for your time,” Smith stood up.
“Hold your horses,” Lorraine said, “I haven’t finished looking yet. He’s not registered in York, that’s all. Let’s try Yorkshire next and if that draws a blank we can look nationwide. This new programme is great; all the counties are linked up now. Now, I’m sure there can’t be too many Yorick Morenos walking around.”
Smith and Whitton waited in silence while Lorraine went through the motions.
“I was right,” Lorraine said after a few seconds, “there aren’t many people by the name of Yorick Moreno out there. There’s only one. This has to be your man. Yorick Moreno. Born in Birmingham in 1960.”
Smith’s heart started to beat faster.
“Parents Ingrid and Hans Moreno,” Lorraine continued, “Danish nationals. Funny, Moreno doesn’t sound very Danish does it?”
“Do you have any information on where Yorick might be now?” Whitton said.
“Let’s have a look shall we,” Lorraine scrolled down the screen.
“That’s odd,” she said, “it seems he ceased to exist five years ago.”
“Dead?” Smith said.
“It doesn’t say,” Lorraine said, “there’s no record of him after 2005. He seems to have vanished into thin air. His last known residence was the Rydale psychiatric facility in Harrogate.”
FIFTY EIGHT
Outburst
There was an eerie silence in the station when Smith and Whitton walked in just after midday. Baldwin was at the front desk as usual. She had a grave expression on her face.
“What’s going on?” Smith asked her.
“The internal investigation has started,” Baldwin said, “Brownhill is in there now. I’m next in line. I’m absolutely terrified.”
“Don’t worry,” Whitton said, “we did nothing wrong. What can they do?”
“We keep our stories simple,” Smith said, “Jimmy Moreno showed no indication that he was suicidal. How were we to know he would hang himself? We’re not psychiatrists.”
Brownhill walked down the corridor towards them. She looked exhausted.
“You can go through now,” she said to Baldwin.
Baldwin left her desk and walked towards the interview rooms.
“How did it go?” Smith said to Brownhill.
“Not good,” the DI replied, “those robots are vicious. All they want to do is cover their own arses. The police department’s I mean.”
“But we didn’t do anything wrong,” Whitton said.
“Apparently we did,” Brownhill said, “I can’t talk here. I need a strong cup of coffee.”
Smith sat opposite Brownhill in the seat by the window in the canteen. Whitton sat next to him.
“What did you mean when you said we did something wrong?” Smith said.
“I was the officer in charge,” Brownhill sipped at her coffee, “I was the one who decided to keep Moreno here for further questioning. Apparently he was here longer than necessary.”
“Longer than necessary?” Smith repeated, “he was the number one suspect in a murder investigation. Any half decent detective would have done exactly the same.”
“They don’t look at it that way,” Brownhill said, “they look at the legal aspect. The evidence we had on Moreno was weak. So weak in fact that he should have been released after the initial interview.”
“That’s what his brother said,” Whitton said.
“What do you mean?” Brownhill said.
“Alberto Moreno threatened us,” Whitton said, “he said if we didn’t leave this business with his brother Yorick alone, he would crush us with some fancy lawyer he knows.”
“We didn’t leave it alone though,” Smith said.
“Please tell me you didn’t upset Alberto Moreno,” Brownhill said, “we don’t need a civil suit on top of this.”
“Oh we left Alberto alone,” Smith said, “but we did some digging on our own. Yorick Moreno was last seen in Harrogate five years ago.”
“He was in a mental institution,” Whitton added.
“What happened after that?” Brownhill said.
“Nobody knows,” Smith said, “he disappeared off the radar. We need to find out what happened at Rydale psychiatric hospital.”
“Not today,” Brownhill said, “this internal investigation is going to drag on for a while. I could be facing a disciplinary for this. I could even be suspended from duty.”
For the first time since Smith had met this strange woman, he detected a weakness; a slight crack in her armour.
She is almost human after all, he thought.
Baldwin came in and sat down next to Whitton. She looked relieved.
“It looks like I’m off the hook,” she said, “
they’re not holding me responsible.”
“No,” Brownhill said, “they’re holding me responsible.”
“They want to speak to you next sir,” Baldwin said to Smith.
Smith stood up and marched out of the canteen.
The two men who sat in interview room four instantly reminded Smith of German secret service agents. One was small with a permanent scowl on his face and the other was gangly with a moronic grin.
Good cop, bad cop, Smith thought.
“Sit down,” the short one said, “this shouldn’t take long.”
Smith sat down.
“Shouldn’t I have a union rep here with me?” Smith asked.
“No,” the tall man said.
From his name badge, Smith ascertained his name was Gregory James.
“That won’t be necessary,” James said.
“This is merely a preliminary investigation,” the short man added.
“What the hell is there to investigate?” Smith said, “This whole thing was unfortunate but I don’t see why we have to go through all this. We do have other, more pressing matters to work on. There’s a killer out there.”
“Unfortunate?” James said, “You call it an unfortunate matter? A man hanged himself while he was in police custody. He shouldn’t have even been in custody.”
“He was the main suspect in a double murder investigation,” Smith said, “two children were dead. Doesn’t that make any difference to you?”
“No,” James said, “it doesn’t.”
Bad cop, Smith thought.
“I believe you weren’t present when the incident occurred?” the short man said.
“No,” Smith said, “I wasn’t. I was busy getting my head bashed in while I was trying to do my fucking job.”
“DS Smith,” James said, “may I remind you that this interview is being recorded. That kind of outburst is not going to do you any favours.”
Smith took a deep breath and sat further back in his chair.
“Have we calmed down now?” James said.
Smith glared at him.
“You have nothing to worry about,” the short man said, “the well being of Jimmy Moreno was not your responsibility. We’re just trying to get a bigger picture of what exactly happened. It looks as if it’s DI Brownhill who will be taking the fall for this one.”
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