Splinter in the Blood

by Ashley Dyer

  But it seemed Rollinson wasn’t in the mood to be cooperative; he thrust the photo back into Ruth’s hand. “You’re better at faces than me, Jaz,” he said.

  “Kara Grogan—the one that died,” Mrs. Hart said.

  “The one that was murdered,” Ruth corrected.

  Mrs. Hart reacted to the harshness in Ruth’s tone with a melting look of sympathy, but Rollinson stiffened.

  “Give us another squint at that,” he said.

  She handed over the photograph again, and as he stared at the image she saw him consciously relax every muscle that had tensed at the word “murder.” That in itself told her something: she just wasn’t sure what.

  “Aye,” he said after a few seconds. “I do remember.”

  “I told the sergeant you’d had to put her out of the theater, on account of the electromagnetic interference,” Mrs. Hart added, reminding him of the script they’d no doubt agreed to. “You wanted to know what time that’d be—is that right, Sergeant?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ruth kept her eyes on Rollinson.

  “Just before the interval,” he said. “Eight thirty, eight forty-five—summat like that. She was very understanding. Nice lass—terrible what happened to her.”

  “That’s not what the video says.”

  “What video would that be?”

  “The one that ended up on YouTube.” Ruth took out her phone. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on the electromagnetic interference.”

  “Oh, you’re funny,” Rollinson said. His jaw was tight enough to crack a molar. “You should be on telly, you’re that funny.”

  Ruth had the video ready to play, and while Rollinson viewed it, she said, “That’s Kara. Recognize her now?”

  His eyes darkened.

  “Doesn’t look to me like she’s being ‘understanding,’ Mr. Rollinson,” she said, glancing at the action on-screen. “In fact, she looks frightened.”

  He chuckled, which wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

  “All right, I overreacted,” he said. “I’m under a lot of pressure at a group reading—audience expectations, Jasmine relying on me to pick up the cues and pass them on without breaking her concentration. I realized I’d gone a bit over the top, apologized to the girl. Refunded the price of her ticket. Even gave her one of Jasmine’s cards—she said she wanted a private reading.”

  “About what?”

  “Didn’t ask,” he said, cockiness firmly back in place now. “Didn’t like to pry.”

  Ruth turned to Mrs. Hart.

  “Did she come and see you?”

  The woman glanced quickly at Rollinson—looking for cues, no doubt. Ruth would be sure to separate them as soon as they came to the station for interview the next day. She tilted her head, waiting for an answer.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Hart said. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with . . .”

  “Her disappearance? Why would you think that, Mrs. Hart?”

  She flushed. “I thought—I mean, didn’t you say she disappeared that night?”

  “No,” Ruth said. “I didn’t.” Though she found it interesting that the psychic had made that assumption. “Now, can you answer the question?”

  “No. No—she never did call.”

  “It’s not unusual,” Rollinson said, settling comfortably again into his role as Jasmine Hart’s facilitator. “Folk get cold feet, change their minds.”

  “So,” Ruth said, returning her attention to him. “Which way did she head?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Into town, toward the docks?”

  “We had a reading on,” he said. “I didn’t hang about.”

  The doorman let her out of the building at ten thirty, and Ruth stood on the step for a few minutes, watching the traffic pass. The flow went in pulses, owing to a set of traffic lights thirty yards down the road. Twice in five minutes a queue of stationary vehicles built up in front of the theater. If Rollinson was telling the truth about throwing Kara out at around eight thirty, it would put the student on Hanover Street at a time when traffic was even heavier as people headed into the city for a night out. There were two pubs almost opposite the theater and a bar restaurant next door—surely someone would have seen Rollinson manhandling Kara out of the theater? Admittedly it was a while ago, and minor scuffles in the city center at that time of night weren’t exactly rare, but it might be worth canvassing for witnesses. They should track down the person who had posted the video online, too.

  The way home for Kara would be up the hill toward the cathedrals, the obvious route being Wood Street or Fleet Street—either of which would have taken her past bars, restaurants, and clubs. More canvassing to do. But home was no haven for Kara, and from what her housemates had said, she’d become pretty much unreadable in the weeks prior to her abduction. Wouldn’t she want to walk off her agitation after her set-to with Rollinson, rather than risk showing any signs of weakness back at her digs?

  Ruth turned right out of the theater into School Lane as a fine rain began to fall. The lane at this end was barely wide enough for single-file traffic, and there were double yellows all the way. It widened at Bluecoat Chambers, but that section was pedestrianized, with vehicle access controlled by rising bollards.

  She pulled up the hood of her parka jacket and walked past the Old Post Office pub. The city center had undergone a major redevelopment in 2008, but the Old Post Office had survived unchanged. It squatted opposite the sheer brick face of the Quaker Meeting House. At the end of the pub, the road took a sharp right into an alley. The building opposite was occupied by Primark, its corners protected by zinc plating, its high walls topped with razor wire.

  Ruth walked on, and discovered a set of delivery bays on the left. The filthy alley continued right, looping back on itself till it wound up on Hanover Street, only a few yards along from the theater entrance. There was no reason why Kara would come this way—more likely she would keep to the relatively well-lit lane, heading down to Paradise Street.

  Retracing her steps, she rounded the corner of the alley as a figure loomed out of the darkness. A man. She sidestepped, but he reached out to grab her arm. Ruth swept her right arm up to bat the hand away, simultaneously stepping forward, straight-arming him with her left, striking his chest hard with the heel of her left hand. He stumbled back two paces, twisted his ankle in a pothole, and went down, bouncing off a wheelie bin on the way.

  “Bloody hell, Sergeant!” It was Lyall Gaines.

  “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” Ruth demanded, still on the balls of her feet, adrenaline fizzing in her veins.

  “I wanted to make sure you got out of there in one piece,” he said, picking dirt from his skinned palms. “It seems my concern was misplaced.”

  Another man rounded the corner and Ruth turned to face him, keeping one eye on Gaines. “Police!” she yelled. “Stay back!”

  The man held up his hands. “I work in the pub,” he said. “Seen you were having some bother—come to see if you needed help.”

  The walls on both corners were windowless, but Ruth glanced up and spotted a security camera attached to the side of the pub. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “I can see that.” The man chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  She hauled Gaines to his feet, walked him to the end of the alley, and pointed him in the direction of Hanover Street.

  “Go home,” she said. “Do what we’re paying you to do. Follow me again, next time, I won’t be so gentle.”

  Ruth waited until he’d limped around the corner and disappeared from sight before she turned to gaze thoughtfully at the camera dome attached to the pub wall. School Lane reverted to open vehicle access and widened at the far end, with parking as well as passing places for delivery trucks, so it was just possible that Kara had been picked up by her abductor at that end of the lane. Walking the length of it from Hanover Street to Paradise Street, a distance of around 3
50 yards, she counted twelve CCTV cameras. Smiling, she fast-dialed the CSM, John Hughes. If Kara had been abducted on this street, it was almost certainly on camera.

  Chapter 35

  Day 10

  At six a.m. the next day, Ruth Lake was staring at the postmortem photograph of Kara Grogan. The close-up focused on a detail of one of the tattoos. It looked a lot like the Celtic knot etched on Harry Rollinson’s signet ring. She needed to talk to Gaines, but not until he’d sent in his report. A man like that would always try to take the upper hand if he snouted a weakness in the opposition. A quick browse through her favored sources on symbolism confirmed what Gaines had already said—that the symbol often had a protective role. But she also found references to “clarity,” “understanding,” “longevity.” It appeared these mythologies could be used to say just about anything you wanted them to.

  Frustrated, she gave up and went to shower. By the time she’d finished, Gaines’s report had arrived in her inbox with a formal note: “Report on symbolism in victim tattoos, per your request.”

  It rehashed what they had discussed over the phone: the symbols in his view were protective icons. There was no mention of her own suggestion that the tattoos might hint at secrets the victims had kept from those close to them. She didn’t mind that—better that she had time to work on her theory.

  Right now, she had Kara hiding the truth about her big film break and her fear of performing, Tali Tredwin’s secret eating disorder, and Jo Raincliffe’s lies that she was teaching at night school when she was making a good living from stripping. It was a start, but Ruth would need a lot more than that to argue the case.

  She typed a reply to Gaines, thanking him for the report, and adding a request for his thoughts on the Celtic knot on the face of Rollinson’s signet ring.

  By seven, she was dressed and ready to go, a cup of tea in one hand and a round of toast in the other. She turned on the radio for the breakfast news as she boxed up the case files and snapped her laptop closed.

  The reporter recited the morning litany of unrest in the Middle East, government reassurances on the economy, and councils rebelling against underfunding. The sport report would be up next. As she reached for the off switch, the presenter said: “We’re just receiving news that police investigating the murder of Merseyside businesswoman Adela Faraday have arrested a thirty-seven-year-old man at the Aintree Neurosciences Centre. The man remains at the hospital under police guard. Merseyside Police have declined to comment, but we are expecting a press briefing in the next hour. Stay tuned for regular updates.”

  Her hand trembled as she flicked the off switch. Who else could it be but Carver?

  DC Ivey’s phone went straight to voice mail. She closed the call and rang John Hughes.

  “I just heard it on the news,” he said, before she had the chance to speak.

  “Can you find out what’s going on?”

  “I’ll make a few inquiries, get back to you,” he said. “Oh—and you might want to draft in a few uniforms to work on that CCTV footage you asked for—there’s going to be a lot of it.”

  Her heart sank for a moment—if Hughes thought that would be a big job, how much more work would it be tracking Kara’s movements if she’d actually made it out of School Lane? She shook the gloom off. This was an opportunity: she would get the job done.

  But first, she needed to see Greg Carver.

  She made it to the hospital in under thirty minutes, traffic being light. The staff were quick to buzz her in, for once, and Ruth was greeted by the sour-faced nurse who had given her a hard time over her late call to the unit two nights before.

  “This isn’t necessary,” she said.

  Ruth followed her line of sight to the police constable guarding Carver’s door. “I know. How is he?”

  The nurse frowned. “Not great.”

  Ruth took a moment to use the antiseptic gel dispenser, sizing the young constable up as she rubbed her hands. He was in his early twenties, soft featured, half asleep, slumped in his seat; the newspaper he was reading covered his lap like a rug.

  She went straight to Carver’s door, feeling the nurse’s eyes at her back.

  The constable jerked upright. “Excuse me,” he said.

  She gripped the door handle and turned it.

  He stood, cascading the newssheets to the floor. “Hey!”

  Behind her, the nurse shushed, and he raised both hands, apologizing, then resumed in a whisper, “What are you doing?”

  “Visiting my friend,” Ruth answered, keeping her voice low and reasonable.

  “He’s not allowed visitors.”

  “Oh,” she said, still pleasant. “Doctor’s orders?”

  “It’s a police matter.”

  She looked around her. “But this is a hospital.”

  “Look, madam, he’s under arrest.”

  “My understanding is he was released on court bail,” she said. John Hughes had gotten back to her with some useful information on the drive over. “Which means he’s not in custody. Under the terms of the Bail Act 1976, he’s free to see who he likes—provided that doesn’t breach the conditions of his bail.” She paused, looked into his face. “Do you happen to know the conditions of his bail, Constable?”

  The young officer blinked rapidly, but before he could gather his wits to speak, she launched a new attack.

  “Of course, under the terms of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, any person arrested may not be held under police detention for more than twenty-four hours without being charged. So it’s fairly important that we’re clear on whether Detective Chief Inspector Carver is detained pending further inquiries, under arrest, or has been released on bail. Because if he’s still under arrest, and he hasn’t been charged, the PACE clock is ticking.”

  The constable drew himself to his full height and attempted a sneer. “What are you, then, his lawyer?” he said.

  She took out her warrant card and held it next to her face so he could get a good look. “Like I said—he’s a friend.”

  “Oh.” He flushed. “Sorry, Sarge. He was released on bail, but I’m under orders not to let anyone except medical staff past.”

  She pinned him with a look. “Check the bail conditions,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

  He hesitated and she tapped her watch. “Tick tock, Constable.”

  He looked torn. “You know I can’t use mobile or radio comms in here,” he said, sounding injured.

  The nurse appeared at his elbow. “You can use the landline at the nurses’ station,” she said.

  “I think I’ll just stay here till my shift changeover,” he said, eyeing them both as if he suspected them of collusion.

  “Your call,” Ruth said. “But I’m clocking every minute you refuse me access, which will mean a minute less of interview time for the grown-ups when they come to ask their questions.”

  He stood square in front of her, but his feet were angled at forty-five degrees the other way: in his head, he was already halfway over to the nurses’ station.

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the room behind her. “And if he gets it into his head to sue, it could kick up a shit storm that will follow you like a bad smell for the next ten years of your career.”

  He sucked his teeth, keeping his eyes on Ruth, but after a few seconds his shoulders drooped a fraction. “Where’s that phone?” he said.

  Carver was sitting in the armchair. He looked up when she came in, and Ruth saw pain and disbelief in his eyes.

  “We need to make this fast,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ve got.”

  “DCI Jansen made the arrest,” he said. “He said they found evidence of me in Adela’s flat.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “On a toothbrush, hairs in the plughole.”

  “Did they take buccal swabs, fingerprints?” she asked. The arrest would have given police the right to take a confirmatory DNA sample from Carver.

  He nodded. “Both. There was a fi
ngerprint on a whisky glass.”

  He stared at his hands, turning them over as if he didn’t recognize them. “How did they get my DNA?” he said, half to himself.

  Carver had refused to give a voluntary sample for comparison earlier in the investigation, and Ruth thought he meant that.

  “There was plenty of DNA to be had in your flat,” she said, picturing the armchair, soaked with his blood. “CSIs collected samples. And as soon as you were linked to Adela Faraday, your shooting and Adela’s became a joint investigation. Didn’t they explain this to you?”

  “Ruth, I’ve had a knock on the head, but I still know the rules of evidence,” he said with some of his old fire. “What I don’t know is how my DNA was in Adela Faraday’s flat in the first place. I was never there.”

  She raised an eyebrow, and Carver said, “I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

  “How can you be sure? You’ve admitted you can’t remember what happened after Adela kicked you out of her hotel room that night.”

  “I didn’t know who Adela Faraday was, much less where she lived—how would I even find her?”

  “You argue, she throws you out, you hang around the bar getting drunker and meaner. You see her leave, follow her home . . .”

  He shook his head. “No. No . . .”

  “There are hours unaccounted for on your timeline.”

  “I know,” he said. “But look—those flashbacks I told you about? I keep having them. I’m in my sitting room. There’s a figure—a shadow—”

  “I told you, that was me,” she said.

  “Just consider it seriously for a moment,” he said. “What if someone else was in the room? What if it was someone else who held a gun on me, shot me?”

  “Then I destroyed evidence that might have led them to the shooter,” she said. She was tormented by the thought; but even more by the possibility that Carver had shot Adela and then turned the gun on himself.

  “Where’s the gun?” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.