by A. J. Cross
‘I’ll ask you again. Do you own a gun?’
Whyte smirked. ‘No.’
‘Intel says you had one.’
‘Did I?’
Watts glanced at Judd. She opened the plastic box sitting on the table, removed the lid, tilted the box towards Whyte. Watts’ eyes fixed on him. ‘Now showing Mr Whyte a Baikal Model IZH 798 which is known to have been linked to him in the past. What do you say, Mr Whyte?’
Whyte shrugged. ‘Never laid eyes on it before.’
‘It was used in a 2007 drugs-related incident involving the wounding of one of your associates.’
‘Got some proof of that? Or that it was even mine?’
‘Use drugs back then, did you, Huey?’
Whyte grinned, unperturbed. ‘Do ducks swim?’
‘What about now?’
Humming to himself, Whyte slowly, casually, removed his jacket, revealing a short-sleeved T-shirt. He raised both arms, linked his hands behind his head. ‘What do you think?’
Watts gave the arms scant attention. ‘That proves nothing.’
Whyte flashed Judd a wide grin. ‘Far as I’m going with a lady present.’ She glared at him. He let his arms drop. ‘Look, apart from a bit of weed which you know about, I don’t do anything else. Haven’t for years. It’s a mug’s game.’ His brief scribbled words.
‘You deny all knowledge of this gun?’
‘I do.’
‘Rumour has it that you’re responsible for the recent shooting of two people.’ More scribbling.
Whyte stared at him. ‘Yeah? Says who?’
‘Like I said, a rumour, which is going a long way to convincing us you were involved.’ Watts’ eyes were fixed on Whyte. Getting nothing, he went further. ‘This rumour was added to by somebody who knows you.’ Watts waited, guessing at the thinking now starting up behind Whyte’s eyes. ‘Got a name yet, Huey?’
‘As soon as I get out of here, I’ll make it my business to find one.’ He looked up at Watts, grinned at his brief. ‘I might even give it to you.’
‘Very generous, but we’ve got it already.’
Whyte stared at him. ‘Who?’
Watts sat back, his eyes on Whyte’s face. ‘A young chap who says he didn’t start the rumour. That it was on the street and he just repeated it, customized it with your name.’
‘Who?’
Watts leant towards Whyte, his eyes fixed on his face. ‘The thing is, Huey, we’d be reluctant to divulge the name if we thought there was any risk of … let’s say, repercussions.’ He paused. ‘Family important to you, Huey?’
At the change of direction, Whyte’s eyes flicked from Watts to Judd and back. ‘What you talkin’ ’bout, man? Nobody in my family would rumour me. We’re tight.’ He raised his hand, made a fist. ‘Like this.’
Watts sent him a mild look. ‘That’s the impression I got from Lettie.’
Whyte’s eyes fixed on Watts who was seeing light dawn. ‘You saying that little bastard, Presley, dropped me in it? Wait till I get hold of the little fucker, I’ll—’
‘You do,’ said Watts, pointing at his face, ‘and I’ll be back for you.’ He gazed at him. ‘Plus, you’d have to get past Lettie first. Fancy your chances, do you?’
Whyte shrugged. ‘I’ve got an idea how this rumouring come about. Presley’s father is long gone. Presley plays up the family link to me. He hears about that shooting, right? You know the area. It’s one big rumour mill. He thinks he’ll make what he’s heard his own, by adding my name.’ He sat forward. ‘I’ll tell you about our Presley. He fancies he’s a dude but the bottom line is, he’s a sixth form kid with a future if he sticks at his books.’ He eyed Watts. ‘Don’t fuck it up for him,’ He glanced at Judd. ‘Excuse me.’ To Watts, he added, ‘He’s a young idiot who’d like to have a rep, some cred. In reality, he doesn’t do nothing but his college stuff.’ He glared at Watts. ‘You hearing me?’
‘The gun, Huey.’
‘I know nothing about any gun. Got enough to charge me?’
Whyte had been released. Watts and Judd went to the observation room where Traynor and Brophy were watching the recorded interview, Brophy fuming.
‘There.’ He pointed at Whyte’s grinning face. ‘See that? See how laid back he is? He knows his way around a police interview. His dismissive attitude is telling me we can’t rule him out of involvement in the Lawrence shooting. As far as I’m concerned, the least of his involvement is supplying that gun.’
‘He could be laid back because he knows he has nothing to worry about,’ said Traynor. ‘Because he had no direct involvement.’
Watts stared at the screen. ‘Whyte’s got a lifetime of evading us. What we need is something specific about the Lawrence shootings which points directly to him. Which we haven’t got.’ He turned away, went to the door, tracked by Brophy.
‘Where are you going?’ Brophy asked.
‘To see some people I know around that neighbourhood.’
SIXTEEN
Friday 14 December. 12 p.m.
Seeing Traynor heading into headquarters, Watts caught up with him. ‘Morning, Traynor. Made any plans to see Molly Lawrence again?’
‘I’m in regular contact with hospital staff. They know I want to see her again as soon as possible, but their priority right now is her physical recovery.’ They came into the office.
‘I’ll get on to them,’ said Watts. ‘They need to know that there’s other priorities to think about.’
‘Hello, Chloe.’ Judd sent Traynor a wide grin, eyeing Watts who was looking riled.
‘I get that it can’t be rushed, Traynor, but it needs to happen soon.’
‘I’m aware of that. I hear you made an arrest.’
Watts shrugged. ‘Huey Whyte. A lot of good it did us. We couldn’t hold him on what we’ve got and after hours of me yacking around the area where he lives, I’ve got nothing that points to him as the shooter. But I’m not giving up on him. Judd’s emailed you the details.’
Traynor took out his phone, read it.
Watts continued, ‘One of my contacts very reluctantly confirmed hearing the rumour about Whyte and also identified Whyte’s nephew Presley as the one who dropped Whyte’s name into it. Apart from that, nobody’s keen to talk because it’s about guns. By the way, Julian Devenish, forensic psychologist and ex-colleague of mine, is back in Birmingham for a few days and he might be willing to make a contribution to the Lawrence investigation. You OK with that, Traynor?’
‘Not a problem. We could use the help.’
‘Good. Two more “psychological” eyes on this case has to be a plus. Getting back to Molly Lawrence, I understand your concerns about her, but I’m now in that very rare position of agreeing with Brophy on this one. We need her talking, now.’
‘It has to come from Mrs Lawrence herself. It could be counter-productive, and potentially bad for her, to push for information.’
Watts held up his homicide file. ‘See how thin this is? It represents what we’ve got from this full-scale investigation to date. I hear what you’re saying and I’m sympathetic towards her for what she’s suffered, is suffering, but I’m not allowing anything to go on hold in this investigation. We have to have what she knows.’
Traynor calmly regarded him. ‘In which case, I leave it to you to take responsibility for talking to her at a time of your choosing.’
Judd turned to Watts. ‘That’s an idea, Sarge! When you do, I want to be there—’
‘Zip it!’ He stared at Traynor. ‘You’re the one with the expertise. If she’s as emotionally dodgy as you say, it has to be you.’
The phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Yes?’ He listened, eyeing Traynor across the table. ‘Thanks for letting us know.’ He put down the phone. ‘That was the hospital. Molly Lawrence discharged herself at eleven this morning and her mother took her home. As SIO, I’m saying it’s over to you.’
As Traynor, then Watts, left, Judd reached for the homicide file. Sarge was right. It was thin. Most of it made up of
questions with very few answers.
‘Hi, Chloe. You look engrossed.’ She looked up.
‘Hi, Dr Devenish.’
He came and leant against the table next to where she was sitting, smiled down at her. ‘You know, whenever I’m addressed like that, which is rare, by the way, I tend to think that the person saying it isn’t too keen on me.’
She looked away, flustered. ‘No, no, it isn’t, I don’t—’
He grinned. ‘I’m joking. I’ve just been in the incident room. It’s full of long faces. I’m guessing there’s still a lack of progress.’
She pointed to the file in front of her. ‘Sarge is trying to pressure Dr Traynor into speeding up his interviewing of Molly Lawrence. Will is more or less refusing.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m with Will on that. It’s often what happens in large investigations: two professionals go head-to-head, each with his own perspective.’
She watched as he stood, the words out of her mouth almost before she heard them. ‘How about some coffee? Or juice? … Sorry, there isn’t any juice … Coffee?’
‘I’d love some, but Brophy is expecting me. He’s going to instruct me on any role I might have here over the next few days’ – he grinned – ‘to which I shall listen with close attention while thinking about when I can next take you up on that offer of coffee.’ He raised his hand. ‘See you soon, Chloe.’
Fixing her attention on the file, hearing the door close, she cursed herself, unable to recall anyone, any man, with Julian Devenish’s ability to turn her into a stuttering idiot.
On his journey to the Lawrence house, following a brief telephone conversation with Mrs Monroe, Traynor’s thoughts were on the next hour. Watts was right from his police perspective: they needed all the information Molly Lawrence had to offer. Traynor’s job was to assist her to do that but without causing her further emotional damage.
Parking his car, he approached the house, acknowledging the chilled-looking police officer standing next to the front door. It was opened by Mrs Monroe. She led him to a sitting room with offers of tea or coffee. ‘I’m making one for the officer outside.’
‘Thank you, no. We’re very grateful to Molly for her willingness to talk again.’
‘I wanted her to stay in the hospital. They were so good to her there, but she insisted on being allowed home and they gave into her. From the little she’s said to me, I think she trusts you, Dr Traynor.’
‘Since I saw her, has she spoken to you at all about what happened?’
‘Not a word. I’m hoping that now she’s home she’ll feel more relaxed.’ She looked around the pleasant, well-furnished room. ‘The problem I see is that this was their home, hers and Mike’s. How she feels being back here, I don’t know. She hasn’t said.’ She pointed to a photograph on a nearby table. ‘That’s them on their wedding day. I want to put it away but I know I can’t do that.’
Traynor went to it. ‘May I?’
She nodded.
He reached for it, absorbing Mike Lawrence’s dark good looks, Molly in her white, low-cut dress, a mist of fine veiling around her shoulders, her face open, smiling.
‘Hello, Dr Traynor.’
Carefully setting down the photograph, he looked up at her. She was dressed in a soft pink sweater and jeans, looking somewhat thinner than when he last saw her.
‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me again.’
‘Please, it’s Molly. Have a seat.’ To her mother, she said, ‘I’ll be fine.’
Mrs Monroe left the room. Traynor’s optimism rose slightly. She looked frail, yet the few words and her general demeanour suggested an assurance he hadn’t observed in the distressed woman he’d met at the hospital. Her next words confirmed his thinking.
‘I’m glad you’re here. Glad for another opportunity to talk.’ Her deep blue eyes regarded him. ‘I have to face up to what’s happened. Talk about it. Help the police. I won’t allow whoever did this to us to cause me to sink into …’ She looked away. ‘I have to get a grip, move on with my life. I owe it to Mike.’ She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘Ask me whatever questions you like. I’ll do my best to answer them.’
‘How about you tell me whatever you recall?’
She stared at him for several seconds. ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean … I don’t know where to start.’ She looked away to the window. ‘I told you that Mike and I went to the hospital … and from there we visited his parents … left there, drove into the city, had dinner …’ Her gaze was fixed straight ahead. ‘The traffic was really heavy. Lots of road closures. We got lost. Mike was getting angry. Not angry. He was concerned for me. I was tired and he wanted to get me home as soon as he could and …’ She stopped, drew breath. ‘Everything changed. Everything got … difficult.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth.
‘There’s no rush, Molly,’ said Traynor quietly. ‘Tell me how things got difficult.’
She squeezed closed her eyes. ‘We didn’t know where we were and suddenly there was a sign, an arrow. Mike followed it. To get away from the traffic, get us home … And then, we were in this horrible place. A street.’ Her eyes moved to Traynor. ‘We must have taken a wrong turn. It was so dark. No lights. I said to Mike to drive, get us away. He didn’t.’
Traynor asked quietly, ‘Why didn’t he drive away, Molly?’
‘There was something not right with the car. When we got into it after leaving the restaurant, I noticed that the interior light wasn’t working. As we drove, the engine sounded … odd. I asked Mike what was wrong. I’d driven it the day before without any problem.’ She looked up at Traynor. ‘Have you seen that place? The place where it happened?’
‘Yes.’
She gripped her upper arms. ‘We were halfway along it when Mike pulled over and stopped the car.’ She hung her head. There was another lengthy pause. ‘Mike started revving the engine. It sounded OK, but then …’ The knuckles of her hands showed white. ‘There was a movement outside the car. A shadow. At Mike’s window. Before we had a chance to think, to do anything, it moved to my side. One of the rear doors opened.’ Her eyes were stark now in her pale face.
‘You’re in control here, Molly. You can stop whenever you wish.’
‘He had a gun,’ she whispered. ‘I’d never seen a real gun. He pointed it at Mike.’ She stared ahead, transfixed.
‘Why did he point the gun at Mike?’
She turned to him. ‘Mike put his hands up.’ She slowly raised both her hands. ‘Like this.’
‘What happened next?’
There was a brief silence, then: ‘He said something to Mike. Ordered him to “sit tight”, or words like that. He said not to look at him, then pointed the gun at me. “Hand me your valuables. Put them inside your bag. Give it to me.”.’
‘Where was your handbag, Molly?’
‘By my feet.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I did as he said. Mike passed his phone, watch and wedding ring to me and I put them in the bag with my jewellery, then passed it to him, “nice and slow”, as he asked.’ Her voice dropped. Her eyes were fixed somewhere beyond Traynor. ‘We both had platinum wedding rings. My engagement ring was also platinum with a single square-cut diamond, one carat. My earrings matched it. It all went into the handbag. It was Gucci, blue, black, not new, but … I loved it.’
‘Can you say anything about the man?’
‘I don’t … It’s all confused. Big. Heavy build …’ Her voice rose. ‘I can’t remember any more … except that the next thing that happened is I came to and … realized I was hurt.’
‘It’s OK, Molly,’ said Traynor, his voice low.
He put his notes to one side, glanced at the information he had brought with him, the list of items stolen from her and her husband, wanting something fact-based to ask her. ‘Were you wearing a watch?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t know what happened to it. It was a present from Mike. I slipped it off into my coat pocket. I haven’t seen it sinc
e. I was really frightened when the man got inside the car but suddenly, I was really angry as well. Mike and I worked hard for everything we had. The watch was the last thing I took off. I decided that I wasn’t going to let him have it, nor my phone. It was like a silent protest. I told him I didn’t have a watch or a phone. He was really edgy.’ Tears spilled from her eyes. ‘And now I know how stupid I was to say it. I hadn’t realized what he was capable of doing.’ Her head dipped. ‘It makes no difference now, does it?’
‘Did he touch your watch?’
‘What? No, no. He didn’t even see me slip it off and put it in my pocket where my phone was. My coat has really long sleeves. I was just praying it didn’t ring.’
‘You’ve described this man as big with a heavy build. Can you say anything more about him?’ Seeing her uncertainty, he added, ‘His appearance? His voice? His accent? Whether you detected any kind of scent about him?’
‘I … his voice was deep. Rough-sounding … I smelled body odour … and most of his face was covered.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was there anything about him, anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant, that reminded you of someone you had seen before?’
She stared at him. ‘You mean … someone we recognized? No. It’s not possible. I can’t answer for Mike, but … Dr Traynor, I don’t feel very well.’
He stood. ‘Can I get you anything. Let your mother know?’
‘No, I don’t want her worried any more than she is.’ She stood, a little unsteady.
He offered his arm to her, aware that he had pushed the questioning further than he had intended. She took it, held on to it, walked with him to the door. ‘I hope I haven’t disappointed you again?’
‘This isn’t to do with how I receive what you tell me, Molly. My aim is simple: to hear whatever you recall.’
Traynor drove to his university in the middle of the city, into the secure parking and took the lift to one of the lecture rooms. He found his students waiting for him. Apologizing for his lateness, he began his two-hour lecture.