The Sister

by China, Max

  Tanner took his camera out. "Would you mind if I take a shot of that for the book?" He pointed to the champions photograph.

  "Put that thing away will you, here take it." He handed the photograph to Tanner. "Let me have it back when you've finished."

  Holding the photograph in his hands, he was unsure if it was in his imagination, but he caught the faintest whiff, the smell of horses and saddles, which reminded him of the tack room, at the riding school he used to go to as a boy. "Thanks," he said. "Oh and one other thing . . . I'd love to talk to the Boiler man, do you think that would be possible?" He looked hopeful. It did not last long.

  "You'll be lucky; he don't talk much to his own kind; he's got four words - yes, no and fuck off - keeps himself to himself . . . besides he is a real traveller, don't stay long in any place. Only time you ever see him, is when he wants to be seen, usually when there's a big fight with money involved."

  "So you don't know where he lives?"

  "No, I don't…" His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why would you be asking me that?"

  "I'm sorry," Tanner said quickly. "I was only thinking about the interview…"

  "Lets get one thing straight, Mr Quinn, book or no book, if you want to keep that head of yours on your shoulders, you won't go turning up anywhere without me, or my say so, do you know what I mean?"

  For a split second, he thought the old man saw right through him. He fixed on his best poker face and replied, "I wouldn't dream of it. Look, can I get to see an actual fight?"

  "For the book? We'll see… Leave your number, Mr Quinn,

  and I'll call you."

  On arriving home that night, he scanned the photograph and emailed a copy to Kennedy.

  Kennedy examined the copy of the photograph closely. Going over the faces with a magnifying glass for a second time, he located the suspect quite quickly. It's him. I know it!

  A friend of his was working on the national database of mug shots that would soon be available to police forces all over the country, and although it was getting late, he phoned him.

  "Malcolm, it's John Kennedy here … yes … yes, I'm fine and you? . . . Good, listen I have an old photograph here, I'm trying to track . . . Yes, I know that, but I wondered if I send it, you could…Well, call it an experiment then. It's just that I'm trying to tie up a cold case…You will? Great, give me your email address…Okay, got that. Yeah, we must get together sometime…Yes, I know; it has been a while. Let me know how you get on … yeah thanks. Bye."

  Chapter 65

  Monday 5th March 2007

  Tanner entered Kennedy's office just as the DCI flipped his mobile closed.

  "Got a new phone, sir?"

  "No, it isn't new, it's my personal one," he said as he drained the last of his tea. Tendrils of steam continued to rise from the empty cup.

  How does he manage to drink it when it's that hot? Tanner wondered.

  "I'm needed in the cells. Wait here, I'll be two minutes," he said and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He seemed distracted.

  "Shall I come back in a minute?" he said.

  "No - wait, just give me a couple of minutes, get Theresa to bring you some tea," he called back as he left.

  Stepping from the DCI's office, he caught her eye and beckoned her over. As she approached, she looked at him inquisitively.

  "What's up, John?" she said.

  "Nothing, just wondered if you wouldn't mind making me a tea?"

  "Of course not, what about the chief," she said, barely able to suppress a grin, "would he like another one?"

  Recognising that she had adopted his own derogatory term for the DCI, he grinned widely in return. "Well, he didn't ask, but you'd better get him one, or he'll only complain," he said.

  "Okay, I'm on it," she said laughing.

  As she walked off, he watched the sway of her behind almost all the way to the tea station; where she turned and caught him looking.

  Quickly retreating into Kennedy's office, he sat down. He didn't see the smile that spread over her face as she filled the kettle.

  Expecting Kennedy to return at any moment, he looked all round his office, and then his attention settled on the DCI's out-tray, where a folded up copy of the Sun lay. The headline caught his eye. 25-Year-Old Ilford Woman Raped At Home. Police Seek Gas Mask Attacker. It featured so prominently; he wondered if it was what he had summoned him for.

  Who told the papers about the gasmask, Tanner? He imagined him tapping the offending word with his forefinger, and he would feel defensive, speculating. With everyone sworn to secrecy, sir - it would have to be the victim.

  The empty seat behind the desk remained as he left it; pushed back, spun halfway round, abandoned in a hurry. Years of use had moulded the back of it into an imprint of Kennedy's posture. When he goes, the first thing I get rid of is that chair, he assured himself.

  He sighed involuntarily, flipped his pocket book open and began reviewing the notes he'd made the day before.

  He rubbed his tired eyes, hoping to rejuvenate them, but only succeeded in blurring his vision. What he needed was a good night's sleep, and he had a feeling he might not be getting one of those for quite some time.

  This rape had jumped the queue, and he was only too aware that he still had to trace Martin Shaw. He wondered what had happened in the cells, to warrant the DCI going down there with such apparent urgency.

  Finished with his notes, he bookmarked the first page with a pen clipped over it and then shut the pad.

  His fingertips drummed on the edge of the desk; he was becoming impatient now. Pulling up his sleeve, he looked at his watch. Is he ever coming back from those cells?

  The door behind him was open a crack; the bustling sounds of the busy office came through, it seemed there was a spate of telephone calls, most of them had been answered, but a couple of phones rang on insistently - there weren't enough people to answer all the calls. Just to be helpful he considered going out and answering a few calls himself; he would rather be doing something other than wasting time as he waited for the chief's return. He slipped into a kind of non-thinking abstraction.

  Theresa appeared, entering backwards with a cup in both hands, she turned and handed him one before putting the other on the desk.

  "He still not back?"

  "No, but he said he would only be a couple of minutes." He shrugged. Now they were alone together in Kennedy's office, awkwardness descended on them, blanking them off from one another. It made for a difficult, stilted conversation, knowing he might walk in at any moment.

  She broke first. "I must get on . . ."

  "Yeah sure, I . . . thanks for the tea."

  "You're welcome," she said.

  At the door, she hesitated.

  "Does the chief seem okay to you?"

  "Grumpy as ever . . ." He grinned. She half smiled back.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, it's probably nothing. He just seems on edge lately. Or is it just me?"

  The door opened suddenly; she snatched her hand away from the handle and jumped back.

  "Excuse me; I'm not interrupting anything am I?" Kennedy shot her a look as if she'd betrayed him; and burned Tanner with a harsh glare.

  She saw it and quickly fumbled an explanation. "I had my hand on the handle, sir, when you pushed it . . . that's why I jumped away." It made her sound guilty.

  "Theresa?"

  She stopped dead in the doorway, her body language defensive. She did not turn.

  "You don't have to call me, sir," he smiled, but it looked forced. He went round the desk, spinning the chair to face forwards before sitting down.

  "That was a waste of time. Some nutter claiming to be the Midnight Man, he was as thick as two short planks. I invented a raid and questioned him about it, and he confessed! Right, now where were we?"

  Tanner thought about what she had said . . . the DCI did seem on edge, and what he'd just told him sounded implausible, there was something wrong. He knew better than to ask what it was
when Kennedy was in this sort of mood. The last thing he needed was to have his balls chewed off. "I came in to tell you about the interview I had with the victim at the hospital last night," he said. A small but involuntary cough escaped his lips; he caught it in his cupped right hand, then took a sip of tea. "Right, sir, what we have so far. I managed to speak to the victim, Natasha Stone, last night. She'd only just moved to that address; she inherited the property from her grandmother. She used to go and stay there most weekends to keep her company, so there was a lot of her stuff already there. Anyway, she moved in straight away, pretty much as soon as her granny died."

  "I don't need her life story. Let's move it on a bit shall we?" he sighed.

  "It's all kind of relevant, sir."

  "All right, but let's just speed it up, shall we?"

  Before continuing, he cleared his throat and took a further sip of tea. "She'd gone to bed just before midnight, Saturday. She reckoned she'd only been asleep a few minutes, when she was woken; she thinks he whispered something to her, but she couldn't recall exactly. She said it might have been her name?" He wasn't actually reading from his notes; he used them more as an aid to his memory; he turned onto the next page. "When she switched on the light, she saw the intruder was wearing a gas mask. She said she was paralysed with fear. Before she had a chance to recover her senses, he pinned her down and pushed something over her nose and mouth."

  Kennedy jotted down notes of his own, and he looked up at this point, perhaps at the increasing level of drama in Tanner's voice.

  "She's a school laboratory technician, and she says she recognised the smell straight away - it was chloroform," he said, pausing as he finished his tea.

  "Chloroform? That isn't used anymore. No one's used that in this country for years. I thought it was banned." Kennedy scribbled more notes. "We need to get someone onto to that. Is it still available and do you need a licence?"

  "Already done, sir, we had a stroke of luck, because when we started talking about it, she told me one of her colleagues was caught making it at the school, and they suspended him immediately. His name is Adam…" The surname eluded him; he started snapping his fingers, "You know like the park… "

  Clearly enjoying his subordinate's rare moment of fallibility, he prompted him unhelpfully. "Which park – Hyde park, Valentine's park, come on, Tanner, get with it!"

  Heat flushed under his collar, as he ran his finger down the page. "There it is… Bletchley, Adam Bletchley."

  Kennedy remained impassive and thoughtful. "Has anyone managed to speak to this . . . Bletchley?" He analysed the smug look on Tanner's face. "You moved quickly on this one did you?" he said, a tight smile on his lips.

  "Yes, as soon as Natasha gave us a name. His landlady said he left to go out last night and didn't come back. Apparently, he does that quite a lot, staying out until morning. He's a night fisherman, sir."

  He raised an eyebrow at him. "It's a good excuse to be out all night, I suppose. He fits the bill. Let's have him in for questioning."

  "We're out looking for him, even as we speak, sir."

  The dryness in his throat wasn't just from talking; he was nervous too. Something about the whole business was disturbing him, and he guessed it disturbed Kennedy, too. He tilted his empty cup; and pulled a face at the thought of drinking the last cold drop.

  Kennedy finished his tea and buzzed Theresa to ask for another. Want another tea? He mouthed. Tanner nodded.

  "Tanner would like another tea, and while you're making him one, could you make one for me?" Although he winked at him as he said it, his humour was just not funny, especially with him hoping to improve his chances with her. It sounded like Kennedy knew and was goading him on purpose.

  "Oh, I've got to admit, sir that was very funny coming from you. You don't really think she'll believe it was me asking for another tea, do you?" His cheeks flushed.

  "What are you going on about, Tanner?"

  "You, sir," he said angrily. "I'm going on about the way you treat women as lesser beings. Like they're just there to serve you…"

  "Tanner, I was joking!" Kennedy looked indignant; his expression darkened. "How dare you presume to judge me – is this because you're jealous? That she does what I tell her and not you?"

  Back footed, Tanner snorted. "What…? Of course not! I ask her."

  The DCI stared at him; the heat of anger suddenly replaced by cold resignation. "I knew it; you're shagging her, aren't you?"

  "Come on, sir, that's out of order!" he said, not quite knowing what else to say.

  Kennedy then changed tack so fast; he left Tanner with his mouth agape. "Did we get anything else from the victim?"

  Tanner wet his finger and rifled through his notes quickly. "We did indeed." He scanned for the right page and then began again. "She had a few problems initially with Bletchley, started straight away really. The usual sort of thing, he was a bit creepy and overfriendly, but she dismissed that as him being shy, and overcompensating for it. Little by little he wears her down, and she ends up going out with him a couple of times."

  There was a knock at the door behind him.

  "Ah, that'll be our tea, get that for me, would you?"

  He opened the door; Theresa brought in a tray this time, with biscuits, two mugs of tea, a couple of sugar sachets and a teaspoon. She set the tray down and slipped away without looking at him. He hoped she hadn't heard what Kennedy said.

  The more Tanner saw her around, the more he liked her. Isn't it funny? When you think someone is unavailable, you don't give her a second thought, but since she became available…Off duty he thought of little else, he'd started thinking about her in quiet moments. Lately, he'd been thinking about her at work too. She was always so neat and well presented; her full-bodied dark auburn hair not quite touching the shoulders, bouncing as she walked. She had an appealing way about her, kindly, with bright cornflower blue eyes and a vague smile that was never far away from her lips.

  Kennedy caught him watching her go out the door and scowled at him, making no secret of his disapproval.

  Tanner began to think the chief might be a little jealous.

  Kennedy stirred in his sugar first, before taking the spoon in his mouth, drawing it out between pressed lips, sucking it dry. "Sugar?" he said and offered him the spoon.

  Tanner declined, deciding he would have it without. He tried a sip. It was too hot. Putting the cup down, he continued, "She said looking back; she shouldn't have done it, but then hindsight is a wonderful thing. He charmed her from the start; she said he seemed too good to be true. Whatever she thought, he said he was thinking too. Whenever she spoke, he would say 'I was about to say that. Oh, that's just like me - I'm like that!'

  Kennedy had sat forward and placed his elbows on the desk; for a second Tanner thought he did it because he was interested. Then he put his forehead down on top of the blotter and folded his hands at the back of his head.

  He paused and stared at him with disbelief. "Sir?"

  Suddenly Kennedy's mobile vibrated and spun around, causing the surface of the teas to ripple. He snapped it up and opened it.

  "I'm going to have to take that. Give me a minute will you, Tanner?"

  "Sure," he said.

  The moment Tanner closed the door behind him, he answered it.

  Outside Kennedy's office, he debated whether to wait or not as he leaned on the wall next to the door. Something was definitely going on. The chief never usually booted him out while he was on the telephone. The call was on his personal phone again; he hoped his mother was okay.

  He stood and watched Theresa over on the other side of the office, on the telephone, writing things down. "Yes, okay . . . got that," she said into the receiver and then looked up from her desk at him and feigned a yawn, flapping her hand in front of her mouth as she did so.

  His eyebrows jerked up involuntarily at her; she mirrored him, and he looked away quickly, aware that if anyone noticed the little exchange, the jungle drums would rumble, and the gossip
would begin.

  He continued with the notes, reading them whilst outside, leaning against Kennedy's wall. He didn't know what was up with him, but there was no way he'd sit through and listen to the entire transcript. He decided to condense the story for the DCI's benefit.

  At the hospital the day before, when the nurse showed them down to her room, Natasha Stone was sitting in a chair beside her bed. The bed was unmade. She'd clearly just risen from it. He introduced himself and the WPC with him. He asked if she felt able to answer a few questions. She was located in a side room all to herself. She looked weary and hollow eyed, she fiddled nervously with the belt of her dressing gown, winding it round her fingers tightly, as if to tie her hands, to stifle the story they might tell.