by Lisa Hartley
‘Okay – I’ll grab a cup of coffee and get back to it.’
‘Thank you.’ Knight called after her. He turned back to Bishop and said: ‘Let’s bring him in.’
21
DC Varcoe approached Bishop, who was pacing the incident room floor, waiting for the message to say that Donald Woffenden had arrived in the interview room. Bishop didn’t see her, almost knocked her over as she turned at speed.
‘Sorry, Anna, bit distracted. What have you got?’ In her excitement, she’d forgotten where Varcoe had been.
‘Steve Kent didn’t go to school with Craig Pollard, I spoke to that teacher, checked the records, it was pretty clear that wasn’t our link, so I went to the Pollard’s house again. Reception was a bit less frosty this time, I was even offered a cup of tea. I persuaded Mrs Pollard to get a few old photos out, Craig in the football team, Craig in the pub pool team before he was old enough to drink, all that sort of thing, but no luck. However,’ she looked pleased with herself, ‘Mr Pollard gave me the name of the bloke who used to run the youth club Craig went to for a while – before he got chucked out, anyway. I found him, retired now, and guess what, he remembers Craig Pollard and Steve Kent being mates. Seems they met at the club, Kent lived out of town. He gave me a few more names, too, I’m going to run them through the computer now, see what falls out.’
‘Good work, Anna, let me know how it goes please. Sounds like you’ve got the Pollards wrapped around your little finger now then?’
Varcoe smiled over her shoulder as she made for the door.
‘Not sure about that, but they’ve definitely calmed down a bit.’
Bishop heard a mobile ringing and in the hubbub of the incident room it was a few seconds before she realised it was hers. She managed to get it to her ear before the voicemail cut in.
‘Catherine Bishop.’
‘It’s DS Etheridge here from West Yorkshire?’ Male, gruff voice, didn’t really want to be making the call.
‘Oh, right, hello.’
‘You wanted us to find the sister of a victim for you, break the news?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘Well, we’ve done that. She wants to talk to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She says she’s got some information she wants to share with whoever’s investigating her brother’s death, and that’s not us, so she won’t talk.’
‘But … ’
‘I know, but that’s the way it is.’ Etheridge interrupted. ‘Do you want her details?’
‘Go on then.’ Bishop stepped quickly to a nearby desk, fumbling for a pen and scrap of paper. She scribbled down the information and Etheridge was gone.
‘What a charming man.’ Bishop said in a posh voice to herself. Receiving the call had reminded her that she hadn’t replied to Louise’s text message and that she had better do it now while her phone was still in her hand and she had a spare few seconds. She typedCase moving, could be very late, will keep u posted C x She took a deep breath and put the phone away.
I wonder if she ever smiles properly? Knight thought, nodding firmly at whatever Superintendent Stringer had just said about the fast approaching press conference.
‘So this Mr Woffenden is on his way in?’ asked Kendrick.
‘Should arrive any minute.’
‘Can I just be sure I understand why we want to speak to him?’ Stringer took a sip of water from a crystal tumbler that sat by her elbow. ‘Our witness saw Woffenden in the house she was kept prisoner in, and we therefore think there may be a motive for him to kill Steven Kent?’
‘At this stage, we just want to find out what he knows. We want to know about the brothel he was allegedly involved with, not to mention the people trafficking, prostitution … ’ Knight shrugged.
‘According to Intelligence, he’s been a person of interest for quite some time.’
‘That’s right.’
The phone by Stringer’s perfectly manicured hand rang, and she lifted the receiver to her ear.
‘Thank you.’ she said, and replaced the receiver looking at Knight. ‘Mr Woffenden is downstairs.’
Knight met Bishop in the dimly lit corridor of the interview suite, though Bishop had always thought suite quite a flattering term for the straggle of grim little rooms.
‘He’s in Two.’ she said to Knight. ‘Milica Zukic had a look at him through the two way mirror, she’s sure it’s him. He’s not too happy to be here.’
Knight opened the door.
‘Finally. Are you going to tell me what the fuck I’m doing here, or do I have to guess?’
Woffenden stared aggressively at them as they took their seats. Bishop started the recording, stated her name and rank and the date and time. Knight confirmed his own identity, Woffenden shuffling in his seat impatiently before grudgingly saying his name.
‘So what’s this about?’
Knight leant back in his chair, calm and relaxed.
‘Mr Woffenden, do you know a man called Steven Kent?’
Woffenden glared.
‘Kent? No. Is that it? You could have phoned and asked me that.’
‘What about a woman called Ivona?’
‘Called what? What are you on about?’
‘Ivona. A woman. Do you know of any women called Ivona?’
‘No I bloody don’t. What is this?’
‘It’s known as an interview, Mr Woffenden. Looking at your record, I can see you’ve sat through several in the past, I’m surprised you don’t recognise the experience.’
Woffenden sat back, mirroring Knight.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘aren’t you clever?’ He smiled to himself.
‘I’ll ask you again. Do you know Steven Kent, or a woman called Ivona?’
‘And I’ll tell you again, no I fucking don’t.’
‘Didn’t you want legal representation, Mr Woffenden?’
‘You what? Why should I? I know I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Bishop stared at Woffenden, a horrible realisation dawning. She opened the file she held on her lap, discreetly examining the mugshot of Woffenden. Oh, shit she thought.
‘Mr Woffenden,’ she said. ‘Do you have any tattoos?’
‘Tattoos? No, no way. Not a fan of needles. My twin brother’s got a few, a huge one his chest,’ Bishop winced, ‘but not me. I was ill a lot as a young lad, had no end of blood taken, put me right off. You going to tell me what that has to do with anything?’ Knight looked like he wanted to ask the same question. Bishop sighed, told the tape recorder the interview was stopped and the time, and led a bewildered Knight out of the room. In the corridor, she stabbed at the mugshot with her finger.
‘Look, you can see the top of a tattoo here, where his shirt collar starts. We’ve got the wrong man, we need his brother.’
Knight groaned as realisation dawned.
‘How the hell have we managed that?’
Bishop shook her head.
‘It’s my fault, I should have checked.’
‘How were you supposed to know he had a twin brother? What are the odds? We can’t blame Milica, she wasn’t to know either, or Claire Weyton, come to that.’
‘I doubt the DCI and the Super will see it like that.’
‘Looks like the Mr Woffenden we have through there has done his brother a big favour then.’
‘Seems so.’
They went back in, resumed the interview for the tape.
‘So where’s your brother?’ Knight said.
Woffenden grinned.
‘You mean Ron? No idea, mate, I’ve not seen him for weeks. I’ve been minding his flat for him, and when your brave boys in blue came looking for Mr Woffenden, I naturally did what any good citizen would, and came quietly.’
22
Ron Woffenden rubbed his eyes. It had been a long drive, not wholly unexpected, but still sooner than they’d thought. At least he could lay low here for a while. It was the usual sort of place, terraced house in a run down street, an area where n
o one made eye contact or spoke to each other. Perfect. Don had done him a big favour, but he’d have to stay away from his brother now, out of contact for a while. He still wasn’t sure how they’d got onto him so quickly, maybe the tip off about the raid had been accurate after all. No one had believed it, but they’d moved on anyway, always plenty more houses to go to and it didn’t take long for the punters to realise you were there. Lucky that Don knew next to nothing about his brother’s work really.
If Kendrick had been annoyed the previous day, it was nothing compared to the ranting he treated Knight and Bishop to when he heard about Woffenden. He stormed around his office, smashing his fist into his palm, reminding Knight of John Cleese playing Basil Fawlty.
‘What were we playing at? How the bloody hell are the Superintendent and I supposed to explain this one at the press conference which, if I could remind you, is in less than an hour? Do you want to see us chewed up and spat out in the morning papers? We shouldn’t have gone haring after Woffenden to bring him in, we should have been cautious, watched him, the whole lot of them will have disappeared for good, Ron, all his mates and the poor cows that slave for them. How the hell are we going to get to them now?’
Bishop bit her lip. Knight kept his eyes on the desktop. Their silence infuriated Kendrick.
‘Do either of you give a toss about this?’
‘We still have Milica Zukic.’ Knight said.
‘And what bloody use is she now, the poor lass? She led us straight to Woffenden, and what happened?’
‘The killer of Steven Kent, who may or not be linked to Ron Woffenden, doesn’t know that the passenger in the back of Kent’s van didn’t actually see the murder. We could use that to our advantage in the press conference, not mention Woffenden at all. There’s no reason anyone should know about it.’ Knight spoke calmly.
Kendrick sat behind his desk, his fury finally exhausted.
‘Go on.’
‘We know Pollard and Kent were mates when they were younger, we don’t know of any link between Pollard and Zukic, Pollard and Woffenden or Ivona or this house Zukic was held in. That could be because there isn’t a link. Kent may have done some delivering for the people Woffenden and Ivona are involved with, and no more.’
‘So at the press conference … ’
‘At the press conference, we say we have a person helping us with enquiries who was a passenger in the vehicle Kent was travelling in shortly before his death. It was DS Bishop’s suggestion.’
‘Put the wind up the killer?’
‘Something like that. We wanted Woffenden brought in because he was a link to Kent, but he’s also part of this trafficking gang and the sooner we speak to him the better. That’s not to say finding Woffenden will bring us any closer to whoever killed Pollard and Kent. I think we’re agreed that the same person killed them both?’
‘The message seems to confirm that.’ said Bishop.
‘Or someone wants us to think it’s the same person.’ Kendrick said quickly.
‘The two messages were identical though.’
‘The fact is, we just don’t know. I’ll speak to the Super about all this, see how she wants to play it. You two better get out of here, before she comes for a quiet word with you as well.’
Kendrick turned pointedly to his computer screen.
Back in the CID room, Bishop threw herself into her chair.
‘Was there any need for that? It’s not like we brought in the wrong bloke on purpose.’
Knight found himself a seat.
‘He’s right though, Woffenden will have gone to ground, along with all his mates.’
‘What are we going to do with the other Mr Woffenden?’
Shaking his head, Knight sighed.
‘Kick his arse out of here I suppose. We won’t get away with charging him for anything.’
‘Smug bastard, I’m sure he enjoyed stringing us along.’
‘No doubt. We need to find somewhere safe for Milica Zukic too, especially if she’s mentioned in the press conference.’
With a grin, Bishop said ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of inviting her to stay with you as well, sir?’
‘No more spare rooms, Sergeant. Unless you’re not coming back tonight?’
Bishop blushed, the first time Knight had seen her even remotely embarrassed.
‘Not sure, have to see how it goes. I need to tell you about the call I had from West Yorkshire … ’
23
Anna Varcoe reached for her coffee, took a sip, scowled, had a quick check around and spat the cold liquid back into the cup.
‘I saw that.’ said Bishop from the other side of the room. She got up from her chair, stood beside Varcoe. ‘Any luck?’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare, Sarge. This investigation is like unravelling wool – just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you find more knots.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Bishop said with feeling. ‘Fancy a trip to Leeds?’
Varcoe looked up.
‘Leeds? Why?’
‘A little bird there has told us she has some information. Come on, get your bag.’
Varcoe got to her feet, picked up her jacket.
‘A little bird? Who do you mean?’
‘Steven Kent’s sister. Come on, last one to the car park can drive.’
Knight stood at the back of the press conference watching Stringer’s face growing redder by the second. He was pleased he wasn’t sitting at the highly polished wooden desk at the front of the room, where DCI Kendrick was attempting to reassure the assembled journalists, and in particular local reporter Helen Bridges, that bringing the murderer of Craig Pollard to justice had always been a priority, and that it hadn’t taken a second murder to force them to take Pollard’s death seriously.
‘So you do admit there’s a link between the two cases?’ Bridges said.
‘We can’t comment.’ Kendrick folded his arms, remembered it made him seem defensive and uncrossed them.
‘Come on, Chief Inspector, two men, both with their heads beaten in, their bodies found a couple of days apart? Did Pollard and Kent know each other? Should young men in the area be worried? Can you confirm you’re investigating both deaths simultaneously?’
Kendrick cast a panicked look at Stringer, who cleared her throat.
‘No comment.’
Bridges gave a scornful laugh.
‘Are you actually going to tell us anything, Superintendent, or should we just all leave now? Your statement gave us nothing.’
Kendrick leant forward.
‘We can tell you that we have a possible witness to the Steven Kent murder and that person is helping us with our enquiries.’
‘Man, woman, what did they see?’ Bridges was up out of her chair again.
‘No further comments about the witness.’ Stringer said firmly. Bridges looked outraged.
‘You can’t just say you have a witness and leave it at that.’
‘We can, Ms Bridges, and we have.’
Bridges continued to splutter, and a young man stood up.
‘Superintendent Stringer, would it be fair to say that at this point in time you have no idea who killed Craig Pollard or Steven Kent?’
Stringer took a deep breath.
‘It would be fair to say our investigations are ongoing in both cases. That’s all everyone, thank you.’
She stood quickly and began making her way towards the end of the table and escape. The media liaison officer looked shell shocked. Knight thought it would be a good idea to make himself scarce and headed back to his office.
Jodie Kent’s house was warm and clean, modern and bright, as was Kent herself, or would have been, had it not been for the news of her brother’s death. She welcomed them in, apologised for the mess though there was none, and offered tea or coffee. She was pale, grief plainly visible on her face, but she managed a smile as she handed them their drinks. They went through to the living room where a toddler was playing with a brightly coloured toy ki
tchen. Varcoe smiled down at him, and was rewarded with a grin.
‘He’s gorgeous.’ she told Kent.
‘Thank you. He’s almost walking, we’ve got to watch him every minute.’
‘Firstly, Ms Kent, please allow me to say how sorry we are for your loss.’ said Bishop formally. She hated these occasions, always uncomfortably aware how trite every condolence could sound when you had never met the victim.
Kent bowed her head.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘call me Jodie.’
‘Thank you, Jodie. DS Etheridge from your local station called to say you had some information you wanted to share with the officers investigating your brother’s death. Is that correct?’
Kent nodded.
‘I didn’t want to tell Etheridge, the woman that came with him to tell us about Steve was nice, but he was a … pig.’ she said, glancing at her son.
‘I see. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, don’t you apologise for him, you don’t even work with him, do you? You’re from Lincolnshire. I grew up in Northolme, came here to university and met Mark, never moved back.’
‘Were you close to Steve?’ asked Bishop gently.
‘I’d say so. He’s … he was a few years younger, we used to fight when we were little, like you do, but as we got older we got on fine. He used to call in if he was out this way with a delivery, stayed over occasionally … my partner’s a paramedic, works long hours like yourselves, so I was glad of the company if Mark was working. After Mum and Dad were killed, Steve and I were each other’s only family. He loved Toby,’ the child looked up and smiled, recognising his name, ‘and he and Mark always got on well, we all used to watch football and have a few beers.’
‘Your brother worked as a courier?’
Kent nodded, shifting anxiously in her chair. Here we go thought Bishop.
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk about.’
‘Steve’s job?’
‘He called here one night, it was about seven o’clock. I asked him if he wanted tea, wanted to stay, and he did. We’d eaten, we were sitting in here watching the TV when Steve’s mobile rang. He got a strange look on his face, like he felt guilty or was worried. He took the phone out of his pocket, and I could see it wasn’t his usual mobile. He had a fancy one, all singing, all dancing, but this one was really plain and simple. He listened to whoever was ringing, didn’t say a word, not hello or goodbye or anything. He put the phone away and sort of slumped down in the chair. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but it seemed really odd to me. I asked if it was work, and he mumbled, I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and then he changed the subject. I thought it was weird, and I mentioned it to Mark when he came home, but we didn’t worry too much, it was just strange. A few weeks later, Steve was staying again, and I could tell he was worried. He was quiet, snappy, not himself.’