Thirty minutes later, Kate Simms was standing in Chief Constable Enderby’s office with DCI John Ingrams, the man in charge of the Myers investigation. They listened to a précis of her conversation with Nick Fennimore, Enderby sombre and heavy-browed, Ingrams with a growing look of amused surprise on his face.
‘You’re saying the Myers abductions were a decoy?’ DCI Ingrams was tall and lean, maybe fifty years old, grey-suited, the kind of man who shaved his head rather than be accused of trying to hide his baldness. ‘A … what … A distraction crime to stop Fennimore investigating Mitchell’s miscarriage of justice?’
‘A ploy,’ Simms said. ‘To keep Professor Fennimore from reviewing the evidence.’
Ingrams shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense – all he did was draw attention to himself.’
‘Tremain knew he could get away with Julia Myers’s murder, but Kelli Rees was one of his earlier victims,’ Simms said. ‘He made a mistake – left a bread trail back to his real identity. He was safe while Mitchell’s conviction held, because the evidence he planted stayed buried. But as soon as Fennimore talked about Gail Hammond in his lecture, Tremain knew he was in danger. And when Fennimore agreed to review the Mitchell MOJ …’ She shrugged. ‘Let’s just say Tremain couldn’t afford to let Fennimore do that.’
Ingrams slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and laughed softly. ‘Well, Kate. You seem to think Fennimore is some kind of deductive genius.’
‘He has his faults,’ she said lightly. ‘But it doesn’t matter what I think – the evidence speaks for itself.’
Ingrams began to argue, but Enderby intervened. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it does.’
He might not like it, but Ingrams was a political animal; he knew when to back down. He frowned, gave a tentative nod. ‘All right. But I don’t see how it helps us to find Tremain or Lauren.’
He was right. They had an identity but nothing to point them towards a location.
‘What about the palynologist – did she find anything useful?’ Simms asked.
Ingrams glanced at Enderby for approval before he replied: ‘Concrete dust and cotton plant pollen under Mrs Myers’s fingernails and in her nasal passages, together with two kinds of mould spores which suggest that she was being held in an old mill or warehouse.’
‘Oh,’ Simms said, disappointed.
‘Yes,’ Ingrams said, with equal lack of enthusiasm.
In the mid-nineteenth century, Manchester was ‘Cottonopolis’ – the commercial and manufacturing hub for the British cotton trade. At its peak, there were over a hundred cotton mills spread out across the city. After the Second World War, most had fallen derelict and although some had been redeveloped, searching the remaining ruins would be a monumental task.
‘How many are we looking at?’ she asked.
‘Thirty plus,’ Ingrams said. ‘But that’s just the mills – if you take into account the warehouses that served them …’ He shrugged.
‘You’ve spoken to Professor Varley about a geographic profile?’
Ingrams seemed offended by the question, but after another silent exchange between the two men, he said: ‘Varley recommended starting from Tremain’s current address and working outward in a spiral. As Tremain is new to Manchester, the professor thinks he will be working within a small area he’s familiar with.’
‘Any suggestions welcome, Kate,’ Enderby said.
Ingrams’s eyes widened. ‘Sir—’
‘DCI Simms gave us the link between the victims,’ Enderby cut in. ‘Her intervention identified a survivor. That survivor provided us with a description that helped us to identify Tremain. And now it looks like she’s just given us a link back to Fennimore’s case.’
‘Actually, sir, I had some help,’ Simms said, thinking now was the time to give Diane credit for her work.
‘It’s all right,’ Enderby said. ‘I know your tattooed friend had a hand in it.’
Simms caught a twinkle in his eye and the ghost of a smile played around his mouth.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Ideas …?’
‘Work with what we have,’ she said. ‘Tremain’s identity. If he rented space—’
‘If he did,’ Ingram interrupted. ‘We’re checking his credit cards, of course, but the chances are he just broke in to wherever he held them.’
‘But if he did rent a building, he’s not the kind of man you would forget easily,’ Simms said. ‘And now we’ve got photos of him …’
‘If it makes you happy, I’ll send teams out to commercial property agents,’ Ingrams said with a sigh.
‘We should go to TV and social media, too.’
Ingrams scoffed. ‘And drive him down a rabbit-hole?’
‘Tremain doesn’t know we’re looking for him. He murdered Lazko to try to get the Mitchell case files because he thinks we don’t know who he is, and he wants to keep it that way. If Lauren is still alive, we should use the photos.’ She recalled the look of desperate hope on Fennimore’s face as she echoed his words: ‘He has no reason to kill Lauren if he knows we’re searching for him.’
After a moment’s thought, Enderby said, ‘I agree. Where are the Mitchell case files now – do we need to look at protecting Professor Fennimore?’
She hesitated.
‘Kate?’
‘Not Fennimore,’ she said. ‘His Ph.D. student – Nick sent Josh Brown ahead to Aberdeen to move the files from his apartment to somewhere safe.’
‘Can you contact him?’ Enderby asked.
She tried Josh’s number. ‘No reply.’
‘You think Tremain would go after the files?’
‘I’d bet a month’s salary on it.’
Enderby turned to Ingrams. ‘Then the sooner we get TV and media announcements out, the better.’
Ingrams dialled through to his team manager, while Simms put in a call to Fennimore.
‘I can’t get through to Josh,’ she said, without preamble.
‘He ditched his phone,’ Fennimore replied. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’ll let you know.’ She disconnected and scrolled through her contacts list to find Donal McLeish, the detective sergeant at Police Scotland she’d asked to check Fennimore’s apartment.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Kate – I was about to call you. Fennimore’s flat is a wreck.’
‘Any signs of struggle?’ she asked.
‘No – but you said Fennimore was in Essex, so …’
She took a breath and let it go. ‘Josh Brown was supposed to call in and pick up some files for Professor Fennimore. He’s not answering his mobile,’ she added, not entirely truthfully, but she couldn’t risk Josh’s protected witness status getting out to the wrong people.
‘Got an address?’ McLeish asked. ‘I could send out a couple of uniforms.’
She called Fennimore and got straight back to McLeish.
‘Oh, wait a minute,’ he said. ‘A call came in a short time ago – there was a hit and run RTC on that street.’
Road Traffic Collision. ‘Anyone hurt?’ she said, hearing the tension in her voice.
‘It was a fender-bender,’ he said. ‘The driver who remained at the scene was shaken up – it wasn’t Josh, I’m afraid. Two other cars drove off at speed. We’re on the lookout.’
He hung up, having promised to get back to her when they had checked Josh’s flat.
Simms stared at her phone. When she looked up, Enderby was watching her.
‘Kate, if you’re holding something back,’ he said, ‘you need to think again.’
How much to tell, how much to withhold?
‘I’m not withholding,’ she said. ‘I just need to talk to Fennimore first.’
Ingrams spread his hands, appealing to Enderby. ‘What the hell does she thinks she’s playing at?’
Simms ignored Ingrams, focusing instead on the chief constable. ‘All I need is five minutes, sir.’
Enderby looked grave, but after a long half-minute, he said, ‘All right. Five minutes, no more.’
S
he stepped outside the office, closed the door, fast-dialled Fennimore’s number and laid out the situation for him. He listened in silence, but she could imagine what he felt.
‘What can I do?’ he said.
‘Tell me everything you know about Josh.’
40
Lauren Myers dipped the corner of her blanket into the small puddle of water remaining in the bottle and sucked it. She was hot and cold at the same time and she had a pain in her back and legs. A while ago – she couldn’t remember how long – she’d eaten some of the mashed-up biscuits the rats had left, but she sicked everything back up and now her tummy hurt, too. Her mummy’s handbag lay on the floor nearby and she crawled to it, groaning at the shivery pains it sent down her legs and up into her head. The bag smelled of Mummy’s perfume and it made her feel better, like Mummy was near.
She hugged the leather to her, comforted by the scent, and tried to sing ‘Hush, Little Baby’ again, but her voice came out as a croak. It made her think of the princess in the film who could scream so high all the rats in the kingdom ran away. She heard a high squeak, but couldn’t see past the fog in her eyes and the mud-coloured dark around her. She wished the sun would come inside. It was horrible being in a place that was always night, but never bedtime. It made her feel tired and sleepy. Her eyes began to close.
A scratchy sound close by made her start up. Two points of light flickered a foot away from her face. A rat by the water bottle. She tried to shoo it way, but it just sat up taller and watched her. She wanted to scream like the princess, but was too tired. The rat covered its mouth to hide a snigger.
‘Don’t laugh. Naught—y,’ she said, but her voice had no strength and her head seemed to beat so it felt like her heart had jumped up into her brain. The darkness turned red, curling in from the sides.
‘Naughty r—’ The red turned black and everything stopped.
41
Aberdeen, Thursday, Early Evening
‘You’re really screwed, you know that?’ Josh said.
‘You’re the one in trouble, dickhead.’ The man’s accent, like his own, was pure Essex. Josh checked the rear-view mirror; the man’s face was masked, but the crazed look in his eyes said it would be suicide to argue.
‘Drive,’ the man said.
‘Where d’you want to go?’
‘You know what I want.’
The case files. ‘Just tell me where the girl is, I’ll give you everything you need.’
The man tightened his grip.
Josh brought both hands to his throat, gouging his own flesh in his scramble to ease the pressure. Abruptly, the man released the noose, just enough for Josh to take a gulp of air. He coughed and retched.
The man dragged him back against the headrest by his hair. ‘You don’t get to call the shots,’ he said.
Josh whooped, gulping down more air.
‘Are we clear?’
Josh nodded.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Okay,’ Josh choked. ‘But ease off. It’s not gonna do either of us any good if I pass out, is it?’
The car had stalled and Josh leaned forward to turn the ignition key. He glanced again in the rear-view, past his attacker. The BMW hadn’t moved; it idled on the street, thirty feet behind them. There were definitely three people in the car; he recognized his eldest brother, Greg, in the driver’s seat, his cousin Mikey next to him. The third person remained hidden.
They were in a built-up area and Josh reasoned that Greg wouldn’t move in while there were so many witnesses.
He had stashed the files at a self-storage facility in Muggiemoss, about fifteen minutes’ drive from the city. He headed that way with no real plan in mind – except to stay alive until he saw an opportunity to act. Josh could see the BMW’s day-beams glowing like a hunting animal’s some way behind them, but he slowed his breathing and tried not to think too hard about the choice that lay ahead – between the noose and the gun.
Crossing the Great Northern Road, the urban sprawl of modern tenement buildings and commercial units dropped away at a stroke and from the railway bridge, wooded hills and farmland filled the landscape across the River Don.
Behind him, the BMW swung wide and Josh tightened his grip on the wheel, ready for impact. The road curved sharp left and he accelerated. They kept pace – into the path of an oncoming lorry. Horns blared and the Beamer tucked in fast.
‘What the f—?’ the man muttered.
Josh kept going. To their left, he saw an industrial estate of low-rise buildings: car sales and furniture repairs; pipe components and sub-sea technology businesses – local needs and oil industry requisites living side by side in what had long been the oil capital of Europe. A left at the next roundabout would take him to Muggiemoss industrial estate and the storage unit, but his family would be on them as soon as he stopped, and they would be armed. He would die, his freak-show attacker would die and Lauren Myers would never be found.
He indicated left, positioning himself to take the turn, but at the last second, swung hard right, accelerating, squeezing past a van taking the next exit, heading across the River Don towards Peterhead and Fraserburgh. The man lurched sideways and Josh heard a satisfying crack as his head hit the side window. The van driver swerved, sounding the horn; the vehicle tipped on to two wheels for a fraction of a second, then slewed sideways into the oncoming lane. Josh reached up and flung the zip tie away, but the man was on him in a second, his long, sinewy forearm locking around Josh’s throat. Josh hit the brakes and the man’s head made contact with the headrest, whipping back hard as Josh accelerated again. He fell backward, cursing, arms and legs flailing like an upturned spider.
Cars coming in the other direction slowed, giving Josh fifty yards of clear roadway. He blasted into it, overtaking a line of seven vehicles, leaving a cacophony of squealing tyres and angry horn blasts in his wake, but the Beamer kept coming, headlights blazing, horn blaring.
The abductor came at him again and Josh held him off with one hand.
‘Listen to me!’ he yelled. ‘The men in the BMW are my family. They’re here to kill me and they will kill anyone who gets in their way. So if you want to live – sit the fuck back.’
The man threw a terrified glance over his shoulder as the black BMW filled the rear-view mirror. The A90 curved eastward at this point, heading back towards Aberdeen and a cluster of housing estates where Josh might lose the BMW. His best chance was to loop back to the city, run his car into a police patrol car, if he had to.
He aimed for the next roundabout at sixty miles an hour, side by side with the BMW, Mikey grinning at him from the passenger seat.
He almost made it. Then the Beamer clipped the wing of his car, sending it off to the left, into the exit lane of the first turning. It slid anticlockwise, the rear wing connecting with a lamp post, then Josh hit the accelerator again, fishtailing down a country lane, past stone cottages and patches of woodland. A mile or so on, the trees thinned either side of the road and the vista opened up to hayfields and a slope down to the river. The BMW screamed alongside and Josh felt a sickening shove, heard the groan of metal on metal, as the car veered towards the wire fence.
His abductor screamed.
Josh jerked the wheel, forcing the BMW right. It braked sharply, dropping back as a tractor came at them. Across the next junction, trees crowded the left side of the road again. This was not good – he had to find a way back to the city. The trees vanished, replaced by scrubby grazing and low stone walls on either side. They flew over undulations in the road, grounding at the dips. Up ahead a left turn with an in-out track and a flat patch of grass. It looked like a private road, but if he could use it to turn—
He wrenched the wheel left then hard right, using the grass skid to enhance the turn, feeling the wheels spin under him. The BMW kept coming. He accelerated out of the turn, hit a mound in the grass triangle and felt the front of the car lift. His passenger screamed again. Josh saw blue sky, white tree bark – then nothing.
He came to with his ears booming. The car was on its side and all he could see through his window was a muddy bank, clumps of grass and fragments of grey stone. He leaned off the steering wheel and the booming sound in his ears stopped abruptly.
He groaned at the pain in his ribs and reached for the door handle; couldn’t work out why it wouldn’t open, then realized he was stupidly trying to force the door open against a solid bank of mud and turf. He blinked, couldn’t see straight, but he knew he had to get out of there, fast. He eased his left leg over the gear stick and squirmed sideways against gravity to manoeuvre himself into the passenger seat. Behind him, his abductor moaned and one large hand flopped through the gap between the seats. Josh tried to locate the handle through a fog of blurred vision. It opened as he reached for it, and he fell forward.
A cheery voice that was not his brother’s said, ‘Wakey-wakey, boys. Time to die.’
Two strong pairs of hands grasped him by the shoulders and heaved him out on to the roadside. They forced him to his knees and Josh felt a wave of dizziness. His head lolled back and he was squinting into the face of his eldest brother.
‘Hello, Sean,’ Greg said.
He blinked and finally his brother came into focus. The years hadn’t treated him kindly; at thirty-eight, Greg’s face was deep-lined and as grey as the stone that lay smashed on the roadway around them.
A second later, the black-clad form landed face-down on the tarmac next to him.
‘Who’s the gimp?’ the second voice asked. Cousin Mikey – had to be – Mikey had always considered himself the joker of the family.
‘We haven’t been introduced,’ Josh said, clamping his jaw tight to stop his teeth chattering.
Greg leaned forward and ripped off the mask, and the man whimpered.
‘Wouldn’t’ve thought he was your type, Sean,’ Greg said.
‘He’s a sadistic killer,’ Josh said.
Mikey clapped his hands, laughing. ‘You have changed, Sean.’
Josh tried to turn his head to get a look at the third member of the team, but Mikey slapped the back of his head, sending a new shockwave through his skull.
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