‘Should be. I see it’s your post-duty week.’
‘I’m coming up in the world.’
‘How’s your case going?’
‘Post Mortem is later today. Hoping to wrap it up after that. Feel sorry for the kid. By all accounts, he was spending all his cash month to month on designer gear and online video game subscriptions. Only managed to trace one real-life friend in the end. High Tech didn’t find anything untoward on his computer. Plenty of legal porn, free cam sites and the like, but nothing illegal.’ Joel continued on his post round, dropping paperwork onto nearby desks. ‘How’s the studying coming along?’
She saved her entry. ‘Nothing’s sinking in. Can’t believe it’s next week already.’
‘You going to the Q and A session on Tuesday? May clear things up a little.
‘I’m going to try and make it.’ She opened the envelope and turned past the technical information and on to the text messages. The outgoing messages were listed first, followed by all the incoming ones. Making sense of the conversation was a case of finding the correct date and time and flicking back and forth between the relevant pages.
She scanned the page for the first instance of ‘Eamon’. His mobile number was 07709 382 950. The conversation started three weeks ago. Eamon had sent the first text at 23:36. Loved tonight. So unexpected. We should do it again? Hargreaves sent a reply minutes later: Yes! I’d like that. The texts continued the following day. They talked about the weather, plans for the weekend and their Breaking Bad addiction. On the following page, Eamon made a suggestion for their second date. Day trip to London? Or should we stay the night? X. Hargreaves promptly suggested the whole weekend.
The mood turned following their weekend away, starting with Hargreaves apologising:
‘I’m sorry. I know you said you didn’t want to see me again, but I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t what it looked like.’
‘You’re nothing more than trash. Don’t contact me again. I told you what I’ve been through. I trusted you Sheila and you go off with someone else?’
‘I didn’t do anything. I’ve not exactly had a great run of relationships either. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just leave me the fuck alone.’
The conversation went dead for a couple of days before starting back up again with an apology, this time from Eamon:
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said the other day. Seeing you talking to someone else upset me. Pick up the phone?’
‘Sure. Call in half an hour. I’m at mum’s and you know what she’s like.’
‘You’ve got a crazy mum and I’ve got a crazy ex! Ha! What a pair. :) Okay. Half an hour.’
The rest of the week was amicable, with both sending messages to each other that wouldn’t look out of place in a blossoming relationship. Eamon’s mood swings dictated the tone of the conversation, going from a needy moodiness to blissful affection all the way to the intensely sexual. Sheila didn’t encourage his sexual messages, and after sending a few, he seemed to get bored and move on. When the following weekend hit, Eamon launched another bitter argument:
‘Why don’t you want to see me all of a sudden? Is it about the other weekend? Had a better offer, have you, you fucking bitch?’
‘No! That was nothing, you know that. It’s just you know what mum’s like. I want to see you, I do, but whilst I’m living here I can’t. She watches me constantly.’
‘Bullshit. You’re an adult, stop making fucking excuses. Just tell me you don’t want me. I get it.’
‘It’ s not. Let’s talk. We’re not going to solve this by text.’
‘I’ve fucking had enough. I’m sick of people taking advantage of me. If you don’t leave me alone I swear I’ll fucking kill you. You know who my friends are.’
Sarah scanned down to Eamon’s next text. Sheila’s relationship with him was clearly volatile; rosy affection quivering under a steel hammer. It wasn’t long before an apology came and it was all forgotten:
‘I’m sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to say those things. I trust you but it’s hard for me. With you, it’s all so different and, if I’m honest, that frightens me a little. Can we try again?’
‘Things have to change. You can’t keep being this way. It scares me and that’s something I don’t need.’
‘I’ll change, Sheila. I promise. Let’s meet again soon?’
‘Just a local night out this time. I’m not going all the way to London for you to scream at me in the middle of a wine bar.’
‘Anything. I just want to see you.’
The messages on the day of her death suggested Sheila’s patience hadn’t paid off. The evening started off positive: 16:45: ‘Just checked in. Can’t wait to see you.’ And 19:30: ‘Cab’s just coming, call in a sec. X’. The next incoming message was from ‘Home’:
‘Where are you? Get back here. Your father’s worried sick. You didn’t tell us you were going out. Pick up the phone and get back here now.’
It sounded like a mother scolding her teenage daughter, not a forty-four-year-old woman. Her conversations with Eamon had been peppered with references to her home life. For whatever reason she was living at home, it was clear she wanted to leave. Something she never got a chance to do. Just before Sheila had arrived back at the hotel, Eamon sent three panicked apologies, without reply:
‘Don’t listen to her, she’s talking shit. She’s bad news.’
‘Pick up! I’m sorry. I’m an arsehole, I know, just talk to me.’
‘Seriously, pick up. It’s important. It’s not about us, we’re done I get that, pick up the phone.’
That was the last text she received. Sarah went back to the call register page. Sheila made two outgoing calls on the day she died, one to Quick Cabs and one to Eamon shortly after. She’d received over forty calls from Eamon, most of them unanswered, and four from Home. Sarah married up the dates of the text messages and the amount of times Eamon called her and he was certainly persistent. After each argument, Sheila received calls well into double figures, most of which she didn’t answer.
Tracing Eamon was the next step. She put the report to one side and logged into the Intel system. Complex Intel system interrogation was done by the intelligence hub, but simple phone, address and person searches only took a few clicks once her lethargic computer got around to booting up the program. Within a few seconds, she had a result. His number appeared on the system once—Eamon had called for police assistance back in June. Reading the call report, it appeared the call connected, a female voice gave the address, then the line went dead. The call taker mentioned hearing a man shouting in the background. By the time the officers arrived, there was a lone female at the premises with a young boy of around four years old. There was no sign of any aggressor, she didn’t want to make any allegations and refused to provide her details or the other parties, so the matter was closed.
She called Dales. ‘Sarge, I’ve got a hit for Eamon. From the phone report, he and Sheila were in a turbulent relationship. He threatened her a few times, even threatened to kill her. He was definitely with her on the night she died. Free for a quick drive out?’
‘I’ll be up in the office in five. Where are we heading?’
‘12 Tower Road.’
‘Rhystown? We’re certainly living it up this week.’
Ten
If Osbasten was Mavenswood’s delinquent little sister, Rhystown was its distant, affluent uncle. Dales drove the Getz through empty roads with one hand on the wheel and the other shielding him from the autumnal afternoon sun. Rhystown high street had something for everyone: everyone with the money to spend on life’s little trinkets. Beautiful clothes and designer cupcakes; gold-trimmed kettles and crockery fit for kings. It was all housed in period buildings with modern shop fronts.
Tower Road reeked of money. It wasn’t used to authority. The people here were their own authority; success in their fields had put them above the law, the taxman, God. Dales found a parking space and pulled the Get
z in between two black Mercedes.
‘I hope the old girl doesn’t get used to this kind of company,’ he said, patting the bonnet. ‘We’ll have her back between a clapped-out Focus and that Fiesta with the wheel missing in no time.’
Sarah opened the gate to number 12. She rang the doorbell. No response. The bin had been put out and there was a Peppa Pig doll on the windowsill, just in front of the closed curtains. Someone lived here and they either had children or very strange taste in television. She rang again and a scruffy-haired woman with eyeshadow-covered cheeks appeared at the window.
‘What?’ She rubbed her eyes and pushed her blonde bangs hair away from her face.
‘Sally-Anne Moretti?’ shouted Dales in surprise.
‘What do you lot want?’
Children’s toys covered the lounge floor. Plastic action figures, plush cuddly animals, rattles, books that made noises and Play-Doh shaped into a variety of unrecognisable things. The black glossy fixtures and black leather sofas gave it a cold, technical feel. The white rocking-cot in the corner had an iPad Mini attached to it, the pram in the hallway could have been designed by Bentley and the clothes in the laundry pile were a child’s size, but in an adult’s price range.
‘How old’s the little one?’ Sarah was curious from what age it was appropriate to have an iPad screen inches from a child’s face.
‘What’s it to you?’ It was going to be one of those discussions.
‘Why all the hostility?’ Dales had some connection with her. Sarah figured this discussion was best left to him. ‘You’re not on our books anymore.’
‘I wasn’t ever on your books. Last time we met, you had my arm twisted up and my face on the floor. What do you expect, a hug and a kiss? What are you doing here at this hour?’ She wrapped her black and white leopard print dressing gown tightly around her as if she was shivering, but Sarah recognised it as more a sign of nerves.
Dales looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three. We just want to talk about something. How long you been shacked up here?’
‘Six months.’
‘Nice place.’
‘What you saying?’
‘I’m saying that just shy of ten years ago you were on a street corner in Osbasten with crack up your nose and a cock in your hand. Now you’re in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in the county.’ Dales was no Joel Johnson, but he had a charm all of his own.
‘I don’t do that anymore. I’ve got a child now. No crack, no booze. Got this on inheritance.’ She gave Sarah a dirty look.
‘Still knocking around with Dibbles?’
‘Dibbles is a tosser. Always has been. I ain’t got nothing to do with him.’
‘Who lived here before you?’
‘No idea. What’s this about, Steve?’ First-name terms. First-name terms were reserved for the old hands, the career crooks. People didn’t call coppers by their first names after being tackled to the floor just the once.
‘We’re looking for someone, Sally. Who else lives here?’
‘Just my four-year-old, who’s upstairs trying to sleep.’
Sarah looked around. No men’s clothes hung on the line or any other indicator a man was living there.
‘Sally, a body was found at the Oxlaine. Before they died, they received numerous calls from a number linked to this address. We’re trying to trace whoever made those calls.’
‘A body? I didn’t have anything to do with a murder.’ Moretti shook. ‘I’m not good with things like this.’ She sat on the black leather sofa, leant back for a second, before quickly standing up again. ‘I didn’t make any calls overnight.’
‘Working, were you?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Just thought you might be a nurse.’ Dales didn’t know when to stop. Sarah gave him a nod, politely suggesting he stay quiet.
Moretti stuck her middle finger up at him. ‘I ain’t no nurse. Look, you can check my phone if you want. There’s nothing on there.’
‘Sally-Anne, it’s important you tell us if anyone else is living here with you.’ Sarah had to reason with her. They had no warrant and all it’d take for them to have to leave was Sally-Anne’s say-so. She was convinced the phone was here. Sally-Anne had been living here at the time the call was made and the call taker heard a male voice in the background.
‘Look, no one else lives here.’
‘How about ex-boyfriends? Anyone in the past six months?’
Moretti momentarily dropped her gaze. ‘What’s that got to with it?’ Moretti sat on her sofa, rummaged through her handbag on the floor and produced a white iPhone. ‘Here, you can look through this all you want. You’re not taking it though. I know what you lot are like, I’ll never see it again.’
Sarah sat next to her. Sally-Anne unlocked it, swiped to the calls log and held it up for Sarah to see. It was full of numbers, but nothing from Eamon, and nothing at all over the past few days.
‘What’s the number?’
‘07709 001 442.’ She showed the handset’s number at the top of her contacts page.
Dales leant his notebook on top of the large plasma TV. ‘Read it out, I’ll jot it down.’
‘Careful on the telly, I just replaced it.’
‘Couldn’t have been cheap?’ Dales flicked the corner of the plastic screen protector.
‘Having a four-year-old boy who likes to throw things gets expensive.’
‘Know anyone called Eamon?’ Sarah watched for a reaction.
‘Eamon? No. Is that who was murdered?’ Nothing.
‘Sally-Anne, no one has been murdered. A woman committed suicide at the Oxlaine Hotel. Someone was desperately trying to get hold of her that night. Maybe she reached out to them and they were trying to help. Whatever the situation, we want to trace that person to see if they can help piece together her final movements. That number called for police assistance from this address. If you know anything, anything at all, it’s important you tell us.’
‘Who killed themselves?’
‘A lady called Sheila Hargreaves.’
‘Nope. Not ringing any bells with me.’
‘Sally-Anne Moretti.’ Dales sat in the driver’s seat, having no intention of going anywhere before he’d reminisced. ‘Hayward loved her. She used to catch him eyeing her up all the time, dirty bastard, although you can hardly blame him.’
‘Seemed to know you quite well, Steve? All a bit familiar back then, was it?’
‘It was. We knew our crooks. They weren’t just faces on a briefing room noticeboard that we rounded up, processed and sent to court for a slap on the wrist; they were people. We had to know them. Gathering intelligence didn’t mean sitting in the office trawling computer systems. We didn’t find out about neighbourhoods and crack houses from Google Street View. We were in amongst it. We knew our villains and they knew us.
‘Sally-Anne was a mixed up kid. She’d been thrown around from foster family to care home her whole life. Social Services struggled to find her a permanent place; no one wanted a girl with an attitude problem. That, in there, was far calmer than I ever saw her in her youth. She ended up on the streets, being knocked around by a drug dealer called Dibbles. He’s a nasty piece of work. Peddled his poison and used people’s addictions to do his dirty work. Don’t hear much from him now, but he was a big player over in Osbasten back then. Got her hooked on crack, then forced her to turn tricks to satisfy her habit.’
‘It must have been some inheritance to buy her this place.’ Sarah was in awe of the properties on Tower Road. She wondered how much a house on a road like this cost, but promptly chased the thought away knowing they would never be in her price range.
‘Her folks didn’t have a pot to piss in. She hasn’t inherited a damn thing. And she hasn’t turned her life around either, she just conceals it better. She may not be on streets, but you can bet she’s still on the game. Think she’s linked to the suicide?’
‘There’s more going on here. She was a little too eager to show us her phone. She k
new it wasn’t the one we were looking for.’
‘I’d say she’s a possible match for the hooded woman.’
‘Skinny, white, with big boobs? We’re in Rhystown, you could round up half the women here on that description. One of Eamon’s last texts said She’s talking shit. She’s bad news. It’s possible Sheila was seeing Eamon and Moretti went to the Oxlaine to confront her,’ said Sarah, although she had made the same observation as soon as Sally-Anne opened the door. ‘I’m betting she knows who Eamon is and is protecting him for a reason. I want to go back with a warrant and turn the place upside down, take a look upstairs for any sign of a man living there and be sure that phone isn’t there. Do you think Manford would sign it up?’
‘I think we can convince him.’
Sarah dumped her bag in the hallway and slumped on the sofa. They’d decided to start a little early tomorrow and hit 12 Tower Road first thing. She needed to study for the exam and get an early night, but wanted to clear the air with Mark first. Talking openly had always got them through their problems and it’d get them through this one too. Finding the time to talk had become harder and harder. Heather texted saying she’d bring the twins round at seven. She’d taken them out for pizza and warned Sarah they may be a little hyper from one trip too many to the Ice Cream Factory. Sarah ordered her a bouquet of tulips from her phone to thank her. Just one of many overdue signs of appreciation she needed to make.
Mark came home at six thirty wearing his grey suit and blue shirt, suggesting he’d had a day of meetings. He opted for a suit if he was meeting clients or potential investors; otherwise it was chinos and polo shirts. Sarah greeted him in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and an apology.
‘An apology normally means I won’t do it again, but you know I can’t guarantee that. I promise to give earlier notice and I can promise I won’t forget to arrange a sitter again. I’m still angry at myself for that one. I tried getting hold of Heather, but she didn’t pick up. This job is going to keep me at work long hours. It’ll settle down once the exam’s done and I’ve completed this fast track programme. Things will slow down; we’ll have more time together, together with the girls.’ The speech hadn’t come out as refined as she’d rehearsed on the way home. Running through lines whilst waiting for the lights to change hadn’t prepared her for the disappointed look on her husband’s face. Anger would have been easier to handle.
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