by Mari Hannah
Lucy held on to the door. ‘I’ll call and let him know you’re on your way.’
‘No, please,’ Frankie said. ‘Don’t put yourself out if he’s busy. There’s no point interrupting him twice.’
Lucy wasn’t buying it. Frankie had no way of knowing if she’d call Hamilton to tip him off and had no power to stop her. Who could blame her? She was probably beside herself, wondering what had really brought the police to her door and exactly how her bloke was involved.
As she left Carlisle, heading north, Frankie thought about the interview with Tim Parker and his threat to contact the Chief Constable or, God forbid, the IPCC, an option he might well choose if there was even a remote possibility of damages. She wasn’t overly concerned. She was well within her rights to retain Parker’s DNA and fingerprints. Even so, it was good to know that Stone had her back when complaints were on the table.
Thinking of him made Frankie sad. Whatever was bothering him, whatever disaster had befallen him in London, her boss wasn’t ready to disclose it yet. Perhaps, like her, he never would be. Some things were too painful to repeat, even verbally among close colleagues. She had the distinct feeling his bête noire was one of them.
The northbound M6 was busy.
Frankie turned on the radio for the ten o’clock news. Police and marshals were gearing up for a mass demonstration march in London against Britain leaving the EU. The word Brexit made her shiver. She switched channels. The reception wasn’t great so she selected ‘media’ to access her most recent playlist. The rest of her journey was a blur.
Gretna wasn’t the most picturesque Scottish border town Frankie had ever seen, but she wasn’t stopping long. She was keen to find out if Dick and Mitch had made any progress with the burglary of Dixon’s shed, near her crime scene. The renovation project Hamilton was working on was a two-storey Victorian villa with a large front garden. The house was clad in scaffolding and a rubbish chute led from an upstairs window into a skip below. The windows were open and she could hear music playing. A blue van was parked on the driveway, white lettering on the side: Hamilton Building Services – Domestic and Commercial – ihandson.com – a family business.
‘Can I help you?’
Frankie turned to the voice. A man was sitting on the wall to her left, covered in white dust: jeans, no shirt, tight pecs, a six pack. Frankie tried her best not to take an interest. It wasn’t his well-developed physique but the dangerous-looking hammer dangling from his leather tool belt that had drawn her attention.
It wasn’t a wrench but as good as.
‘Gary Hamilton?’
‘Who’s asking?’ The man stood up, took a last drag of a cigarette, flicking it away as he walked towards her in the sunshine, his body glistening with sweat.
Frankie held up ID. ‘DS Oliver. Nice to meet you finally.’
‘A bit off your patch, aren’t you?’
‘I made a special trip.’
‘I thought we’d cleared the matter up.’
‘I have one or two more questions.’
‘Would this not do?’ Hamilton pulled out his phone and held it up. ‘How did you know I was here?’ If his attitude was anything to go by, Lucy hadn’t called or had failed to get through. From the look on his face, he’d made the jump before Frankie had time to answer.
‘Your lass is under the impression that you were a witness to an RTA,’ she said. ‘I wonder where she got that idea?’
‘You said—’
‘Relax, Gary.’ Frankie held up a hand. ‘I don’t break promises. I didn’t enlighten her, and I won’t, unless I’m forced to. So, now we’ve established that I’m trustworthy, let’s see if you can say the same. Are we OK to have a chat?’
‘Fire away.’
‘My SIO is entirely satisfied that your van entered the Gulf petrol station at the time you indicated. He’s even happy that a credit card registered in your name paid for the fuel. We’re less sure about this . . .’ She reached into her bag, pulled out an A4-sized photograph and held it up. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. ‘It’s a grainy image, it has to be said. Is it you?’
Hamilton took it from her. His untroubled expression morphed into one of horror. Either that or he deserved a BAFTA. He raised his eyes slowly, the realisation dawning.
His alibi was in the wind.
‘I swear to you that this is a genuine mistake,’ he said. ‘Look, I can explain. I saw the receipt and assumed—’
‘Who is it, Gary?’
‘My brother, but I wasn’t trying it on—’
‘Is that him?’ Frankie pointed toward the house. Someone was clashing about inside, clouds of dust pouring from an upstairs window. ‘I’d like a word with him, if I may.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I think you already know it is.’
Hamilton sighed. Joining forefinger and thumb, he stuck both digits in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. A head wearing a reflective hard hat popped out from the top-floor window, another ashen face, a protective mask hanging loose around his neck.
‘Ian, get down here!’
Moments later, the lad emerged from the front door, the same stamp as Gary, if a little younger. Similar in build with hands the size of shovels. Leaving his hard hat on the front porch, he walked towards them, stuffing rigger gloves inside his utility belt, pushing safety goggles on top of short-cropped hair, the only part of him free of plaster dust that made Frankie think of Stone’s missing ceiling.
Before the builder reached them, Frankie gave Gary Hamilton some friendly advice. ‘Do yourself a favour and keep it shut. Leave this to me.’
‘Something I can help you with?’ the lad approaching said.
‘I’m DS Oliver, Northumbria Police. And you are?’
‘Ian . . . Hamilton.’ He stuck his hand out. Realising how dirty it was, he withdrew it, wiping it on his jeans. His hands were full of callouses, fingernails bitten to the quick.
Frankie pointed at the vehicle on the driveway. ‘Do you ever fill this van up with diesel, Mr Hamilton?’
‘Aye, occasionally.’
‘When was the last time you did that?’
He glanced at his brother. ‘Dunno. A week, maybe.’
‘Did you pay by card or cash?’
‘Card. We have an account there.’
‘We?’ Frankie kept her focus on Ian but felt Gary’s head go down.
Ian waved a forefinger between himself and his brother. ‘Me and him.’
Frankie showed him the photo she’d just shown his brother. ‘Can you tell me who this is?’
‘It’s me.’ No hesitation.
Taking a crumpled pack of Marlboro from his pocket, he lit one and offered them around. Gary accepted. Frankie declined.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ she asked.
Ian spoke with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Positive.’
‘Am I to assume that you’re in business together?’ They both had to think about that one. ‘No? OK, maybe I got that wrong.’ Frankie moved on. ‘Is this the only vehicle you have?’
‘No.’ Gary Hamilton knew what was coming. ‘Our other van is in the body shop. Bit of a prang on the roundabout. An old lady leaving the Gateway shopping centre shot out of there like Lewis Bloody Hamilton – no relation, more’s the pity – took out my wing mirror and put a nasty dent in the side.’
He volunteered the registration.
Frankie wrote it down and turned to face his brother. ‘Ian, you’ve been a great help. I won’t keep you any longer. I just need another word with Gary before I leave. Would you mind?’ She waited for him to move away before turning to face her witness. ‘You told me that you were working alone on Wednesday, the twenty-second of June. That’s not true, is it?’
He shook his head.
‘Well, if I
an was with you that day, why the hell didn’t you say so? I’m curious to know why you didn’t give yourself an alibi when you could’ve done. Or was your brother grafting his arse off here while you were sixty miles down the road in Northumberland doing away with Justine Segal?’
52
The journey to North Tyneside was interesting. As Frankie crossed the Scottish border into Cumbria, her mobile rang. Dick and Mitch had returned to Northern Command HQ with news that Stone couldn’t wait to deliver. Frankie’s easy-going DI was suddenly on fire. ‘Strangest burglary they’ve ever come across, apparently. There was some expensive kit in that shed, including a lawnmower worth over a grand: brand-new, motorised, a starter key left in the ignition, the whole works. Dick said he’d have given his right arm for it.’
‘Not a random burglary then?’
‘Not a chance. Our offender wasn’t after what he could get, Frank. He was after that bike and a wrench.’
‘Which begs the question, was he local?’
‘That’s what Dick said. He reckons whoever took the bike knew it was there. The shed was locked but they had no trouble getting in. The lock was still attached to the hasp. The wood was old, the door easily kicked in. Jerry Dixon supplied us with the bike guarantee, so we have make, model and serial number, should we ever find it—’
‘We’ll find it, David. Even If I have to look for it myself.’
‘Dixon is meticulous about putting his tools where they belong. He’s got one of those shadow boards with shapes cut out. Every damn tool was there except the wrench.’
Frankie braked as a slow-moving tractor emerged from a field on her left. She pulled out into the climbing lane that allowed eastbound vehicles to overtake on the hill. The A69 might be the major route linking north-east to north-west – or in her case, the other way around – but it could be a bummer if you wanted to get somewhere in a hurry.
‘Did they get a photographic record of the shadow board?’ she asked.
‘Yup. They were very thorough.’
‘We need to get it to the pathologist and try to source the exact same tool.’
‘It’s already on my desk,’ Stone said. ‘Dick’s idea. Mitch did the legwork.’
‘Did they question Marjorie Smith?’
‘Relax, Frankie. They questioned everyone. It was a great idea to catch them on a Saturday morning. All four tenants were in. None of them saw or heard anything suspicious in the last month, but Marjorie had a good think and is adamant she got the day right regarding the bike. She saw the jogger first, then the cyclist.’
‘How come she’s so sure?’
‘She remembered wondering why people run when they can ride.’
‘You can see her point. It’s hard work. Did the lads ask about direction of travel?’
‘Mitch said she got a bit muddled at that point. First, she said it was heading away from the crime scene, then changed her mind. That’s the only thing she’s unsure of. Either way, the person could easily have diverted into the woods as you suggested last night. The rider was wearing Lycra and a dark baseball cap. The bike was moving too fast to establish gender.’
‘What self-respecting burglar would turn up at a target property without a vehicle in which to transport his stash?’ It was a rhetorical question from Frankie. ‘The area is off the beaten track, not a major route. It’s not likely that our man woke up after a night on the hoy and needed to get home, is it? Nor is Scots Gap a place you’d visit without a reason to.’
‘Unless Justine arranged to meet someone, either at the house or along the road and it went horribly wrong. Although, you’d expect him to have wheels if that were the case, and we didn’t find any abandoned cars.’
‘Exactly. Public transport is dire in the sticks.’ Frankie wound her window down, rested her arm on the sill and slowed down, frustrated with her lack of progress. ‘Private transport sucks too sometimes. I’m stuck in traffic a mile long with some bugger up front doing forty in a sixty limit. WHY?’
‘There’s no rush to get back, Frank. Enjoy the sunshine.’
‘Doesn’t look like I have a choice,’ she moaned.
David chuckled. ‘How did you get on with Hamilton?’
‘It was worth the trip. There are two Hamiltons, not one. Gary took over his father’s business when he died. He has a younger brother on benefits who, as far as I can tell, is as fit as a flea.’
‘He’s working for Gary under the radar?’
‘Yup. The black economy is alive and well in Gretna it seems. I showed them the photograph independently. They both coughed that it was Ian straight away. Gary swears he wasn’t trying to mislead us and that the mix-up was genuine.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Not a word. He claims that when he saw his vehicle registration on CCTV, he assumed it was him. He’s too sharp for that. I think the daft sod found that receipt and saw a way of covering his arse without dropping his brother in it with the social. He might be capable of bending the truth but, if you’re asking if he killed Justine, I’d have to say no.’
‘That’s good enough for me, Frank.’
‘Yeah, well we’re running out of suspects.’
‘Or homing in. Cup half-full, Frankie.’
‘That’s another way of looking at it.’ Traffic was moving again. ‘Any news from the search team?’
‘Not yet. I hate to say it, but they’re not hopeful. Dick reckons that bike and the wrench will be in Bolam Lake.’
‘I agree. We need to drag it.’
‘We can’t afford that.’
‘Who said anything about money? Leave it with me, boss. I’ll make some enquiries.’
‘Into what?’
Frankie was the one with all the contacts locally. She’d been in the job long enough to know that when budgets were tight there were ways of getting what you wanted without it costing the earth. It was a question of utilising her connections, tapping into them. If she was good at one thing it was currying favours from those she’d assisted in the past. There were alternatives to explore. A means of expediting matters to her advantage.
She could do this . . .
‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘You do nothing without prior consultation, is that clear? I can’t have you swanning off and trashing the SIO’s budget.’
‘I thought you were the SIO—’
‘Don’t split hairs.’
‘There’s no point being SIO unless you act like one, David.’ Frankie grinned. ‘Hello? David, are you there? Reception is really bad . . . I’m losing you.’
‘Pull the other one, Frank. I’ve used that one too. It won’t wash.’
She cut him off.
53
Stone looked up as Frankie entered the incident room two hours later with a grin as wide as the Tyne. Worrying. He was almost frightened to ask what had taken her so long. The word scheming sprang to mind. On the one hand, he didn’t want to know. On the other, he was desperate to find out where she’d been – who with – and how many she’d roped into her plans.
She took off her jacket and sat down. ‘You will not believe what just happened.’
‘We already don’t,’ Stone said.
Frankie placed a hand on her chest, feigning innocence. ‘I’m crushed that you think so little of me.’
Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘Where have you been, Frank?’
Dick and Mitch were all ears. Whatever Frankie had been up to, they knew she wouldn’t have been wasting her time.
‘Where?’ Stone asked again.
‘A short detour through the Tyne Tunnel to Jarrow. Don’t panic, I paid the toll with my own pocket money. It won’t come out of your precious budget. I know how stretched you are.’
‘Get on with it then.’
‘The Marine Unit have a new intake. Th
ey want to do a training exercise and they’d like to do it at Bolam Lake. They want me to assist as pretendy SIO and issue instructions. Isn’t that exciting? It means I get to play for half a day, if that’s OK with you?’ She was looking directly at David. ‘What’s more, they’d like to start this afternoon.’
Dick was shaking his head, a big smile. ‘How the hell did you manage to swing that?’
‘I told them the boss just returned from the Met and that he’s a keen Sunderland supporter. Couldn’t stay away apparently—’
‘What?!’ Stone almost choked on his coffee.
‘The sergeant is a Wearsider. I had to tell him something! You’ve got a friend for life there, boss.’
Bolam Lake Country Park was beautiful, a tranquil nature trail in the heart of Northumberland’s stunning countryside, an area teeming with wildlife that had open woodland and grassland on which to picnic. The destination was loved by walkers, anglers and families alike. Frankie’s favourite was Pheasant Field where her parents used to take her as a kid. She arrived at the lake before the Marine Unit’s underwater search team, a chance to look around and plan her operation. The lake itself was bordered on two sides by unnamed minor roads. She drove the route. There was little traffic and a few places where a car might stop unnoticed. She pulled into West Wood car park, noting the lack of CCTV, then did the same at the main car park at Boathouse Wood.
Abandoning her wheels there, she set off on foot.
The lake was only three-quarters of a mile long. She walked the circular path, anticlockwise, recceing every possible location where a vehicle could park close to the water’s edge. In the end, she decided that a savvy killer wouldn’t choose one of three public car parks where they might be recognised or seen acting suspiciously by a canny eyewitness. By the time she’d completed the circuit, her Marine Unit colleagues were unloading their kit from their cargo van: Sergeant Stan Burnett, seven of his officers and one technician.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ Frankie said. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘Happy to help.’ Burnett’s Wearside accent was strong. ‘Have you had long enough to formulate a plan?’