Everyone Lies

by D. , Garrett, A.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Fennimore said, reading from the journal. ‘Rob said, “I can guarantee continuity of supply.”’

  ‘By recycling seized drugs.’ Simms checked her wing mirror and moved off into the traffic.

  ‘See something?’ Fennimore asked.

  ‘No, doesn’t mean they’re not watching though.’ She squinted across at the journal. ‘Why d’you think she wrote it in English? Why not Latvian?’

  ‘Good question.’ He thought about it for a minute. ‘Insurance maybe? If anything happened to her, she knew that eventually her lockers would be emptied, and this would come to light – she wanted whoever found it to know exactly what they had.’

  He continued turning the pages, trying to absorb the sheer volume of names, dates, delivery points. ‘She’s listed car and van registration numbers, addresses.’ He flipped to the next page and recoiled. ‘Jeez—’

  Simms glanced across. ‘Yeesh,’ she said, flinching as he had. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Our man “Bug”, apparently,’ he said, reading the inscription. Marta had conveyed suppressed rage in the muscles and tendons snaking up the thug’s arms and twisting around his neck like vines. His eyes bulged as if he was half-mad.

  ‘Bug is a “Mixer”,’ Marta wrote, ‘which means he mixes heroin with powders so it goes further. Three women do the labour. He makes sure they follow the recipe.’

  Fennimore glanced at Simms. ‘We have his address.’ He grinned. ‘She’s even described the security at his flat.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s a sketch of Rob in there?’ Simms said.

  She was joking, but Fennimore riffled through the pages anyway. He found a photograph slipped into the back cover, held in place by the notebook’s elasticated strap.

  It looked like a home print, on semi-glossy paper; a dark-haired man of about forty. Taken side on, standing in a dingy-looking corridor, he was extending a hand to someone standing the other side of a doorway. The image was slightly grainy, as if it had been taken without a flash. He flipped the photograph over; it was labelled ‘Rob’. Under that, a combination of numbers and letters: 1211<4-19. The puzzle-solver in him automatically began trying to work out what it meant.

  ‘Fennimore, are you still with me?’

  ‘Hm?’ he said, reluctant to drag his mind away from the puzzle. ‘Yes, still here,’ he said. ‘And there’s no sketch, I’m afraid. But will a photograph do?’

  ‘What? Well, show it to me!’

  He held up the image for her to see.

  ‘Nick,’ she said, gripping the steering wheel as though her world had slipped sideways and she needed something to hold on to. ‘That’s Superintendent Tanford.’

  Three cars back in the line of traffic, two men watched DCI Simms and Professor Fennimore. Their boss was not pleased when they told him about the removal of items from Manchester Metropolitan University. He ordered the driver to continue tailing the Mondeo, and sent the other back to demand a list of the items, a copy of the receipt – any damn thing that would tell them exactly what Kate Simms had found.

  ‘Marta’s injuries, the torture – it was Rob,’ Simms said. ‘And Rob is Tanford, which means that Rika and Candice and … oh, shit—’

  ‘What?’ Fennimore asked.

  She fished her mobile out of her handbag and passed it to him. ‘Call Parrish,’ she said. ‘Switch it to speaker.’

  As he scrolled down her contacts list, she talked:

  ‘The women in Hull – Tanya Repton and the other women – the murder victim we found under the factory.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s all him, Nick. It’s Tanford.’

  DC Parrish answered, and she said, ‘Listen, I need to know where Tanford was before he came to Manchester.’

  ‘Somewhere in the north-east, I think,’ Parrish said.

  Simms looked at Fennimore. The north-east – Hull, Newcastle – the other victims.

  ‘I can find out the details,’ Parrish said. ‘I’m at HQ now.’

  ‘No, Parrish,’ she said, ‘tell me you didn’t go back to the Drugs Squad.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been careful.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Simms took a breath and held it. ‘I want you back to the hotel,’ she said. ‘Immediately.’

  She cut the connection and rubbed her palm over her forehead.

  The traffic inched forward. She stared through the windscreen for a full minute before she said, ‘Tanford a murderer. Tell me I’m not going crazy.’

  Fennimore scratched his cheek. ‘The evidence is starting to look strong.’ She began to protest, but he held up his hand. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, Kate – it’s strong, but still deniable.’

  She pinched her lower lip between her finger and thumb and he could see her wondering if she should call her friend in Hull, see if she could persuade Tanya Repton to look at Tanford in a line-up.

  ‘We still have the DNA results from the nipple stud to come,’ he went on. ‘But even if Tanford’s DNA is found on it – well, it’s not unknown for police officers to use the services of prostitutes – he could admit to that, which would make the evidence of no value against the more serious charges.’

  ‘What about the drugs recycling,’ she said. ‘Surely, with what’s in Marta’s notes, we can get him on that?’

  He nodded slowly, working it through in his mind. ‘He’d have a harder job explaining that away. He was running the show – he’s supposed to supervise its destruction. And Marta’s pen drive might give us something more concrete. If we can link him to the throwdown on Marta’s calls log, it would be evidence of a stronger liaison. There might even be texts and voicemail messages, but, honestly, Kate, he’d have to be stupid or monumentally arrogant to have kept the phone.’

  ‘The text,’ she said. ‘The one Marta sent to Parrish.’

  ‘She named the brothers but not Rob.’

  ‘Are you telling me this is hopeless, Nick?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Marta was a registered informant, and from what DC Parrish has said, her intel was good, so anything incriminating in the diary and on the pen drive might be enough. Tanford is bound to have at least one legit cell phone, and cell site analysis placing him with the Henrys would add weight to the other evidence. It might even put him with the body at the dump site. And we still might get fibres, hairs – even fingerprints – from the wrappings on the body in Hull.’

  ‘But I can’t afford to wait for cell site, or for Hull to finish their work on the trace.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed.

  As they sneaked through the lights on amber, Simms came to a decision. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m going to present the case to Detective Superintendent Spry and the ACC.’

  ‘You’re taking this to Gifford?’

  ‘Gifford and Spry are singing in two-part harmony – to convince one, I need to convince them both,’ she said.

  He gazed at her in frank admiration.

  ‘What?’ He could see her nerves were running very close to the surface, right now.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Drop me at the hotel, I’ll get everything in order – you’re going to need it.’

  44

  Detective Superintendent Tanford closed his office door and made a call. He used the throwdown and made a mental note to change the SIM card before the day was out.

  ‘You need to step outside your office – outside the frigging building,’ he growled.

  ‘What the fuck you on about?’ It was Sol.

  ‘Just do like I say, then call me back – not from your car – you need to be out in the open.’

  Two minutes later, he got the call.

  ‘We missed something,’ Tanford said. ‘Something big.’

  The silence at the other end of the line told him he’d better explain.

  ‘Marta backed up her data. She hid a notebook and pen drive in a locker at the university.’

  Sol chuckled. ‘She told me the student get-up was a disguise.’

  ‘I’m glad you can see the funny s
ide. You know what the big belly laugh is? Simms has got both.’

  ‘What’s on the flash drive, Rob?’ The easy affability was gone.

  Tanford didn’t answer.

  ‘You don’t know? So, maybe it’s nothing incriminating – it could be essays and that.’

  ‘Did you ever run counter-surveillance in your office?’ Tanford asked.

  ‘What for? We never talked about important stuff in front of her, or anyone else. Only you, Rob.’ The softness of his tone sounded like a threat.

  ‘She had audio and visual of you and Frank. On the phone, arranging deliveries.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Audio and visual.’

  ‘No fucking chance,’ he repeated, his voice hard.

  ‘Wake up, Sol. You used it yourself, on Dip – did you think it only worked one way?’

  ‘No – fuck, no!’ Sol’s breathing stuttered down the line.

  ‘Sol,’ he said. ‘Hey! You need to focus. We need that evidence off Simms.’

  Sol snorted. ‘Simms is your problem, mate. You’ve got men tailing her – send them in.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘What d’you think? Arrest her.’

  ‘They can’t, not without cause.’

  Sol barked a laugh. ‘You’re joking me?’

  ‘Look, this isn’t some street hooker we’re talking about. She’s a Detective Chief Inspector. The media are already screaming conspiracy over the surveillance pictures we leaked yesterday.’

  ‘All right, you can’t arrest her – just fucking take it. Tell them to stop the car and take the evidence.’

  ‘You think I can just tell them to hijack a senior officer and steal evidence in a major investigation?’

  ‘Why not? They work for you, don’t they?’

  ‘The two lads I’ve got on her think they’re surveilling a bent cop,’ Tanford said, keeping it pleasant, because he needed these morons and, worse still, he owed them.

  ‘Tell them Simms is about to destroy evidence.’

  ‘If they take the evidence away from her, it’s got to be logged.’

  Sol spluttered an oath. ‘Do I have to give you a step-by-step idiot’s guide? Tell them to bring the evidence to you.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Sol.’

  ‘I don’t fucking care how it works – we need that evidence.’

  He’d hardly raised his voice, but Tanford knew Sol was close to ignition point. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s under pressure, let’s not lose our heads over it.’

  Someone knocked at Tanford’s door. He ignored it. The door opened a crack and a female clerk peeked around the edge.

  He screamed, ‘OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!’

  The door swung closed hastily, leaving the blinds shivering from the shock. He snorted air like an enraged bull.

  Sol carried on as if nothing had happened. ‘Send your goons in. Arrest her, do whatever’s necessary.’

  ‘They won’t do it,’ Tanford said through clenched teeth. ‘Not without good cause.’

  ‘So give them cause – pay ’em.’

  ‘These men can’t be bought,’ Tanford said.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Sol said it in the same slightly pained way a polite person might say, ‘Oh, come now.’

  ‘Rob, mate,’ he went on, ‘everybody can be bought. You just got to find the right currency.’

  Traffic was snarled all the way to the hotel, so Fennimore took over driving while Kate Simms phoned Spry and arranged to meet with him and Assistant Chief Constable Gifford in an hour. Gifford warned her that Chief Constable Enderby would also be present.

  ‘It seems Gifford intends to bury me once and for all,’ she said.

  ‘I know Enderby,’ Fennimore said. ‘Worked with him on a cold case in 2002, when he was still just a working stiff. He’s a good man.’

  She didn’t comment – in her years as a police officer, the male perspective on what constituted a ‘good man’ never quite squared up with the female perspective.

  ‘You want me to speak to him?’ Fennimore ventured.

  ‘No,’ Simms said. ‘Thanks, but no.’ They were crawling along at walking pace, the roads clogged with football supporters on the way to a derby match between Man U and Man City; the homeward surge of commuters added to the congestion. A journey that should have taken ten minutes had already run to thirty.

  Her phone vibrated in her sweaty hand, the chime alerting her that she had received an email to her personal account. She frowned; the subject line read, ‘Warning: hard Candy can choke.’ There was an attachment, marked urgent.

  Puzzled, she opened it. She recognized Candice Watson immediately. She had a leather strap around her neck, and she was being choked to death.

  Kate gave a muted cry and Fennimore glanced at her. ‘You okay?’

  Her phone jingled again. Another email, no subject line this time. She opened the image.

  It was her daughter, Becky, drinking coffee with school friends in a café. For five full seconds her heart stopped. A clawing sensation tore through her chest and a sound that didn’t belong to her came out of her throat.

  Fennimore looked at the image on the screen and across to her, a look of incomprehension on his face. She fumbled the window open and sucked in biting cold air.

  Her phone rang. She almost dropped it, trying to answer.

  ‘Becky?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ The voice was a man’s, disguised by some kind of distorter. ‘But the man who took the photograph is within arm’s reach of her.’

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ she said, hearing the panic in her voice.

  Fennimore responded to it; his head snapped left, his eyes bright with alarm. ‘Speakerphone,’ he mouthed.

  She switched to speakerphone. Don’t beg, she thought.Don’t – it will only make it worse.

  ‘You have nothing to gain by hurting her.’ The tremor in her voice was still there, but she thought she had control of it.

  ‘You’re right,’ the voice said. ‘But I will hurt her if you don’t do exactly what I say. Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take the next right. Drop Fennimore on Whitworth Street first chance you get.’

  She glanced wildly behind them.

  ‘Yes,’ the voice said, ‘you are being watched – so I will know if you try to make a copy or retain any of the evidence, or use your phone to alert anyone.’

  Fennimore changed lanes and turned right at the Palace Theatre. Whitworth Street was narrow and, either side of them, the six-storey Victorian red-brick buildings crowded to the edge of the kerb, creating a false twilight.

  ‘What do you want?’ Simms said.

  ‘You know what I want.’

  She stared silently at the phone in her hand, her whole body shaking.

  ‘You have thirty seconds to decide, then my man will make his move. If she resists, he will shoot. If she doesn’t, well, Becky’s a nice-looking girl, so I might find a good use for her …’

  She saw Fennimore’s hands tighten on the wheel. Simms knew those words would feel like an ice pick in his brain, but she didn’t care about Fennimore – or, God forgive her, Suzie – because this was Becky, this was her daughter, they had her daughter.

  The man’s reasonable, implacable tone spoke over the screaming in her head: ‘Do what I say, or you will never see your daughter alive again.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right, I’m doing it, okay?’ Then, to Fennimore: ‘Pull over – you have to get out.’

  Fennimore braked sharply, squeezing the car into a narrow gap between a van and a Renault Espace.

  He snatched the phone from her hand and switched it to mute.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said.

  In the background, the man continued giving instructions, telling her to take the right fork onto Fairfield and keep driving until he gave her further instructions.

  ‘Where is she?’ Fennimore demanded.

  She re
ached for the phone, but he grabbed her hand and held it tight. ‘It looks like a café,’ he said. ‘Kate, tell me where Becky meets her friends after school.’

  Something seemed to tear loose under her heart. ‘I can’t Nick. Please, give me the phone.’

  ‘Listen to me. They’ll take her anyway.’ She looked in his eyes and saw a wild fervour in them.

  The voice on the phone demanded to know if she understood the instructions.

  Kate struggled to be free of him, but he held her fast. ‘This isn’t Suzie,’ she screamed. ‘You can’t save her – now give me the fucking phone!’

  He recoiled like she’d slapped him, but he did not relax his hold on her one millimetre.

  ‘They’ll take her,’ he said again, a strange blue light in his eyes. ‘And they’ll keep her until they’re sure you don’t pose a threat to them any more. And then they’ll kill her. Because by then she will know too much.’

  Something lodged at the base of her throat and, for a second, she couldn’t breathe. He was telling the truth, she knew it, and Becky was lost to her.

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Starbucks,’ she said. ‘Near St Ann’s Church. Go left at the next turning.’

  ‘Delay them,’ he said, ‘as much as you dare.’

  He was out of the car and running as she switched the phone mic back on.

  45

  ‘Tattoos on criminals are as good as a bar code.’

  CHIEF INSPECTOR DAVE GRIFFIN

  Fennimore ran past Manchester College, heading towards the city centre. These quieter side streets had not been gritted and he slithered and slipped every few steps, until he gave up on the pavement and took to the roadway. There was nothing but offices and a few seedy pubs on this stretch – no sign of a taxi. He reached a main road and looked right and left. No signs, no directions. He stopped a woman.

  ‘St Ann’s,’ he gasped. ‘Which way?’

  She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, hurrying on. He turned to a group of people waiting to cross to the north. ‘St Ann’s,’ he said. ‘The church?’