Devil in the Detail

by A. J. Cross

  Presley took another hit to the shoulder.

  ‘Word is, you’ve been spreading rumours that you know who did the “Toyota job”. He saw Presley’s eyes widen. ‘And now you’re going to tell me what you know.’

  Getting a virulent look from his aunt, Presley gave Watts his full attention. ‘I never started that rumour, honest! I heard it and repeated it. That’s all I did.’

  ‘In that case, it’ll be dead easy to tell me exactly who and what this rumour was about.’

  Presley’s face slammed shut. ‘I don’t know anything. Like I said, all I did was repeat it … I don’t even remember what it was about.’

  Watts walked slowly towards him. ‘Ah, Presley, lad. Let’s keep it real, shall we? I want details. Now.’

  Watts and Lettie fixed him with direct looks.

  Presley’s eyes darted away. ‘It was about some bloke who knew the gun that was used to shoot that bloke and the woman.’

  Watts’ head tightened at Lettie’s shriek. ‘And?’

  ‘And, nothing. That’s all I remember. You asked. I’ve told you. That’s it.’

  Watts took a few paces from him, turned. ‘Know what happens when rumours get listened to then passed on, Presley?’ He waited out the short silence. ‘No? Then, I’ll tell you. They get added to. A word here. An action there.’

  Light on his feet, he was across the room looking down at Presley, who wasn’t happy with the proximity.

  He gave his aunt a nervous glance. ‘All I did was add a name then passed it on.’

  ‘Look at me, lad!’ Watts held the youth’s gaze. ‘Whose name did you add?’

  ‘It was like, a joke, right? He didn’t do it. He didn’t do anything!’

  ‘Problem is, Presley, I don’t know that. Name.’

  ‘My uncle. Huey Whyte.’

  Watts got in front of Presley as Lettie flew at him, shrieking, ‘You bloody fool!’

  ‘Time you were at school, lad.’

  He watched Presley disappear upstairs then turned his attention on Lettie. ‘Where’s Huey?’

  ‘You can go—’

  ‘Tell me and I’ll see if I can make it go easy on your nephew if we find that your brother Huey’s up to his neck in this shooting.’

  She sent him a malevolent look, the fight suddenly leaving her. ‘He stays here sometimes but I haven’t seen him much lately. I know one place he sometimes stays.’

  Watts left the building, Lettie’s wrath still in his ears. He took out his phone, rang Brophy and told him about the visit. ‘Huey Whyte had a bit of a rep for guns and drugs a decade or so back, so I’m leery of sending unarmed officers to search for him at the address his sister says he sometimes uses, but it needs checking. If Whyte is there, we’ll need to consider an armed response—’

  He moved the phone away from his ear as Brophy erupted.

  Back at headquarters, he found Judd in his office. Taking out his notebook, he opened it and placed it next to her. She looked down at the neat writing, then grinned up at him.

  ‘Finally! A lead.’

  ‘Possibly …’

  They looked up as the door opened and a tall, blond-haired, twenty-something male in a leather jacket, jeans and boots leant inside the room.

  ‘Hi, Bernie. Or, should that be, ‘Detective Inspector Ber-nard Watts?’

  Judd watched as Watts slowly headed towards him, his arms stretched wide.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe it. Are you a sight for sore eyes!’ He grasped the visitor’s upper arms. ‘Where’d you get these shoulders?’

  The man laughed and clapped Watts on the back. ‘It’s great to see you, Bernie. How’s things?’

  ‘Good, good. Come on in, Jules.’ He pointed across the room. ‘This is PC Chloe Judd. Judd, this is’ – he grinned – ‘Doctor Julian Devenish. We used to work together when this room was the Unsolved Crime Unit. He was a skinny student back then. One of Kate Hanson’s.’

  Judd watched the visitor remove his jacket, absorbing the lean, wiry physique, the attractive, open face, the white, even teeth, the curve of his mouth, the—

  ‘Hi, Chloe. How’s it going for you?’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘Take my word for it, Judd is usually your chatty type.’ Watts pointed to a place high on one wall. ‘Remember that from one of our earliest cold cases?’

  Devenish looked to where he was pointing at black, scripted words and read them aloud,

  ‘“Let justice roll down”.’ He shook his head and looked at Watts. ‘I remember. I learned such a lot here. They were great days. I hear you’re heading a major investigation as SIO. Congratulations.’

  ‘They’re all upstairs in the incident room, the squad room as was. We’ve got a double shooting. William Traynor the criminologist is working on it with us. You know him?’

  Devenish nodded. ‘By professional reputation, yes. He’s very highly regarded.’

  ‘I’ll get some coffee going—’

  ‘I’ll do it!’

  Judd was already halfway to the kettle, Devenish following. ‘Can I give you a hand, Chloe?’

  Surprised by Judd’s keenness to get coffee going, Watts watched, picking up unexpected hints of shyness, very contrary to the confidence she routinely showed around the male officers here. They returned to the table with mugs of coffee. Watts reached for one, his attention on Devenish.

  ‘Last I heard you were lecturing in Manchester and “helping police with their enquiries”.’

  Devenish’s quick grin faded. ‘For the last six months, I’ve been assisting the force there with a series of disappearances.’ Seeing Watts waiting, he added, ‘The so-called “Phantom”.’

  ‘Wow,’ Judd breathed.

  ‘The name comes courtesy of some tabloid hack, but it about sums up what he is.’

  Judd gazed at him. ‘I’ve seen it reported on the news. I can’t believe you’re actually part of that. What are you doing?’

  ‘Chloe Judd is back in the room,’ observed Watts.

  Devenish swallowed some coffee. ‘Evaluating witness statements, such as they are. Trying to construct a suspect profile from next to nothing.’

  ‘It sounds dead exciting.’

  With a glance at Watts, he smiled at her. ‘I’m not so sure it feels like that, Chloe. The pressure’s relentless. I’m here because I requested a few days’ break. To get away from it.’

  Watts was recalling the spindly eighteen-year-old cutting his forensic teeth on cases in this very room, now seeing how much that youngster and time had moved on. Devenish must be, what, twenty-five now? ‘The investigation isn’t progressing?’

  Devenish shook his head. ‘It’s a huge, dedicated team but, just within these walls, it’s overwhelmed by what’s happening up there. Five disappearances during the last two years.’

  ‘No leads?’

  ‘Nothing. It took months for the police to decide they were even connected. Three of them were students, all females in their twenties. The media is going nuts, as is the general population and all we’ve got is a single, possible sighting of a dark-haired male moving along the same road as one of the victims. That’s it. It’s like being inside a pressure cooker, trying to make progress yet nothing solid to work with.’

  Watts gave him a closer look, now seeing evidence of what he was hearing on the young face. ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Ten days, max, after which I’d like to just get back to my lecturing job, but that won’t happen. My assisting the investigation brings the university’s psychology department a lot of research kudos. So, I’ll be back in the boiler room. At least, that’s how it feels.’ He raised his coffee mug to Watts. ‘I was sorry to hear Maurice Gander died. He was a good guy.’ He sipped. ‘It’s great being down here, touching base with everybody who’s still around.’

  ‘Make the most of your time here. Don’t let Manchester work you into the ground.’

  Devenish grinned across at him. ‘Same old Bernard. You don’t know how good it feels being
here, even for a few days.’

  ‘You’re here to relax?’

  ‘That was the plan, but I dropped into the university earlier and the head of psychology practically begged me to do some emergency lecturing to cover staff on sick leave. I said yes. It’s just a few hours with the undergrads and a real déjà vu for me. I love Birmingham’s campus. Manchester feels like it’s under siege. The Ripper Inquiry still casts a shadow, all these years later.’

  ‘I bet it does,’ murmured Watts.

  Judd’s eyes were fixed on Devenish. ‘No leads at all? No forensics?’

  Watts sighed. ‘Whatever he knows, he probably won’t tell you.’

  Judd gave him a look. ‘This is officer to officer.’

  She caught Devenish smiling at her. Her face heated up.

  He was looking serious again. ‘No witnesses to those five abductions. Nothing seen, beyond that one possible sighting. Nothing heard.’

  ‘Sounds like a right headache,’ said Watts. ‘Any theories?’

  ‘No.’ He stood. ‘Look, I know you’ve got problems of your own, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Keep in touch while you’re down here,’ said Watts. ‘We can always use fresh ideas.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe.’

  ‘Got somewhere to stay while you’re here?’

  ‘An apartment in Edgbaston which belongs to my dad.’

  Judd watched as he stood and reached for his jacket.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ He smiled, then raised his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Chloe.’ To Watts: ‘Is Dr Chong in? I’d like to say a quick hello.’

  ‘She is, and if you didn’t, she wouldn’t be too pleased.’

  They watched him leave. Judd looked across at Watts. ‘He’s staying with his father?’

  ‘No. Far as I know, his father lives in Canada. He owns property all over the—’

  The phone rang. It was Brophy asking if Huey Whyte had been located. ‘Not yet, sir. No sign of him.’

  ‘As soon as he is, let me know. The firearms unit is on standby.’

  Watts brought Judd up to speed on the details relating to Presley Henry and his customizing of an inner-city rumour about his uncle Huey Whyte being involved in the Lawrence shooting.

  Judd nodded. ‘I heard talk in the incident room about Whyte having form for guns in the past.’

  ‘He was never specifically tied to any offence. He’s too slippery. We won’t know how useful the lead is till we find him.’ He reached for the phone again. ‘I’ve got Jones and a couple of officers who know the area out looking for him, talking to the locals. Just two things would improve my view of this investigation. One, finding Whyte in the next twenty-four, and two, Traynor getting information from Molly Lawrence which produces a real lead on who shot her and her husband. Is that too much to—?’

  The phone rang again. He reached for it. ‘Yeah? And?’ He ended the call.

  ‘No progress on Whyte. Whereabouts still unknown.’

  8.30 p.m.

  ‘Bye, Dad! See you later!’

  The few words brought Traynor to his feet, took him to the window of his study as the front door banged shut. His breathing under control, he watched his daughter reverse her car out of the drive, saw her wave, tracked her car’s rear lights as they disappeared from view, his hand still raised.

  He returned to his desk. She had a right to a carefree life. Months ago, such an everyday occurrence would have sent his control plummeting, intrusive thoughts, flashbacks filling his head. Things were different now. He was in control. He had stopped taking his medication. He was going it alone; he had a new life, not one riven with fear and heartache. Whenever stressors arose, he closed down his thinking. It was working for him.

  He refocused on the notes he had made during his first brief meeting with Molly Lawrence, heard her voice speak the words inside his head. Her demeanour had been much as he’d anticipated. A mix of shock and frozen disbelief. What he had also anticipated was some recall of what had occurred, brief, chaotic, yet containing details which could assist him and the investigation to construct an image of the male who had invaded their car and shot them in cold blood. Within a minute of meeting her he had known it was too much to hope for. He read for the sixth time what she’d told him, her fear evident in every word. She had closed right down as soon as she got to the point where she and her husband entered Forge Street. There was so much detail he didn’t have. What had led to them stopping in that place? What had their attacker looked like? Sounded like? Had he coldly shot them? Or, was it precipitated by some word, some action? And finally, was it possible that they knew him?

  In the pool of light from the desk lamp, he tracked her few words. There was no reference to the actual shooting. Traynor suspected it was Mike Lawrence who was shot first: he would have been viewed by their attacker as the source of most potential threat. The emergency recording indicated that Molly Lawrence had seen her husband mortally wounded. If that was the sequence, the gunman had then turned his gun on her. She had survived. A witness. He adjusted the files on his desk, squared his notes with its edge. He needed to know more not only about this man who had fired those shots, but also the Lawrences. And right there was a problem. He had no knowledge at all of the people Mike and Molly Lawrence were, prior to this event. He knew nothing of their personalities, how they might respond under duress. She was now the key witness in this homicide. Except for the killer, she was the sole witness as far as they knew. He had to talk to her again as soon as it could be arranged. Until then, whoever had shot them would remain a shadow man.

  His eyes fixed on his notes and he asked himself what conclusion he might have come to on motive if neither of the Lawrences had survived. The single word surfaced. One he had first heard from Dr Chong when they were inside the Forensic Test Area. Execution. He had expressed his view on it and another possible motive for the shootings. Watts had rejected both. Now, more personality and behavioural descriptors relating to an individual likely to commit such an act flooded Traynor’s head, beginning with behavioural problems in early childhood, a history of irritability and aggression expressed via physical assaults on others. Antisocial. Remorseless. Exploitative. He looked across to the detailed notes he’d made of the November carjacking cases, pulled them towards him, read the brief descriptions provided by the victims of that quick-moving, athletic, confident attacker who had spoken to his one unanticipated male victim: ‘You’re asking to get robbed, you twat!’ Local accent. Young voice. A dude, according to that victim.

  He returned to his notes on the Lawrence shootings. Assisting police investigations was a key part of his professional life. It was demanding work over which he took significant pains for two reasons. One, he was expected to provide sound psychological theory as a guide for investigative officers, and two, he never wanted to be the criminologist whose theory later proved to be wrong and sent an investigation off track. When he saw Molly Lawrence again, he wanted more detail from her. He also needed to know about her as a person. He emailed his brief report of the meeting to Watts. Reaching for the desk lamp, he switched it off, anticipating he would wake as he usually did at around four thirty, five a.m.

  He needed sleep.

  9 p.m.

  Watts thrust his hands inside his coat pockets, feeling the urgency in the scene he was watching, wishing it was happening much later tonight. Later increased the surprise factor, the likelihood of a sleep-fuddled suspect. He watched officers move soundlessly towards the house, their vehicles parked many metres away. Intelligence said Huey Whyte was inside. Stealth was all. He watched two officers silently take up position either side of the front door. Nobody moved. Beside the door, one of them raised his hand, pointed at the officer holding a metal ram and shouted.

  ‘Police! Come to your door, Mr Whyte, now!’

  After several seconds an upstairs window opened, a head appeared, then as quickly disappeared.

  ‘Huey Whyte!’

  A voice drifted down to them. ‘What’s
going on?’

  ‘Come to your front door, now!’

  ‘You fuck off, now!’

  A hand appeared. The window slammed shut.

  Watts saw a nod pass between the officers at the door, watched as he marked passing seconds on his fingers, three-two-one.

  The ram struck the door.

  They were inside, feet pounding over fragmented wood, Watts hearing repeated shouts of, ‘Show yourself!’ followed by ‘Clear!’ as they went from room to room and upstairs. He held his breath.

  ‘On-the-floor-on-the-floor, now!’

  Watts breathed again, watching officers reappear, step through the wreckage of Whyte’s front door, two of them holding his arms, his wrists cuffed, his head held down.

  ‘What’s this about? I haven’t done nothing! And who’s gonna pay for this fucking mess!’

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday 13 December. 7 a.m.

  Brophy was pacing Watts’ office. ‘I assume your eyes are on the clock? Why hasn’t he been interviewed yet?’

  ‘When he was brought in, Mr Whyte complained of stress and chest pains. I got a medic to examine him. Whyte’s brief then demanded he be given some rest time. His interview is scheduled for seven fifteen.’

  ‘Any evidential link to the Lawrence case? Any guns in his house?’

  ‘Zero weapons. Some cannabis. That’s it.’

  Brophy frowned at the clock again. ‘This is Whyte manoeuvring a delay. He knows how long we can keep him here.’ He looked at Watts. ‘Is the cannabis any help?’

  ‘Doubt it. Personal use quantity.’

  The phone rang. Watts reached for it, listened. ‘Has he been fed and watered? Has his brief come back?’ He nodded. ‘I’m coming down.’ He looked at Brophy. ‘He’s ready.’

  Brophy headed for the door. ‘Is Judd in? Have her on the interview with you. I’ve got Tally Ho’s report on her. She’s impressed the instructors and since her involvement in the case in the summer, the chief constable knows her name.’

  Huey Whyte was sitting on his lower spine, arms folded, his eyes intermittently on Watts. To Watts, he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Ditto, his legal representative.