The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

  Henshall stared defiantly at DCI Ince. ‘It looks like my rug,’ he said.

  ‘I think we can safely say that it is your rug,’ Ince replied, ‘given that it was hidden in the boot of your car.’

  ‘It was not hidden,’ Henshall replied. His knuckles were white, betraying the struggle he was having to hold back his anger. ‘I always store it on top of the spare wheel.’

  ‘What do you use it for?’ Ince asked.

  ‘To kneel on if I have to change a tyre. To put over the seats if I have to arrest someone who’s covered in puke or blood.’

  He folded his arms again, and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You know how it is. Then again, maybe you two have forgotten.’

  Ince shuffled the photos together, and placed them in the file. He leaned across to the console, his finger on the switch. ‘This interview terminated at 11.27am.’ He eased his chair back. ‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am going to recommend that during the ongoing investigation of these allegations DC Henshall is reassigned to an administrative role entirely outside of the Force Major Incident Team.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ said the Federation rep. ‘These are after all only allegations. What you’re proposing will make it look as though you’ve already decided DC Henshall is guilty.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the solicitor. ‘My client has not been charged. He has answered all of your questions. And as I understand it, you have no compelling evidence to support these fabrications.’

  ‘My recommendation stands,’ said Ince.

  He stood up.

  ‘Further to which, I have to warn DC Henshall not to make any attempt to approach any of these three women or any of their known associates in any way. Including through third parties. To do so will be regarded as an attempt to subvert this investigation.’

  Henshall stared at Jo. A look so cold and malignant that just for a moment she wondered if they had got it wrong. That he might indeed be the man they were looking for.

  Chapter 28

  Jo stepped out of the lift. Max was striding towards her across the atrium.

  ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

  ‘Henshall denied everything. He’ll be transferred to a desk job with CID pending the analysis of his work diary, car log, and phone locations against the relevant dates of the alleged assaults and the results of the forensics on his car and the rug we found in the boot.’

  ‘The one the girls described?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘You say he’s as good as admitted they sat in the car but claims nothing ever happened? His word against theirs.’

  ‘Three against one.’

  ‘Sex workers versus officer of the law,’ Max said. ‘It’ll come down to the judge’s summing-up, and the make-up of the jury. Assuming the CPS have the balls to pursue it.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘It’s a pity Public Standards Branch had their hand forced. A couple of weeks’ surveillance may well have caught him in the act.’

  ‘They didn’t have a choice,’ Max reminded her. ‘Two murders in seven days, four in total. Henshall had to be eliminated as the unsub.’

  ‘I know it sounds absurd,’ Jo said, ‘but I’m still not sure about him.’ She shook her head to chase the doubt away. ‘So, what did you find out about the latest victim?’

  ‘It’s an all too familiar tale,’ Max said. ‘Two friends lured over here with promises. End up in an anything-but-safe house near King’s Cross. Passports and ID confiscated. Beaten, raped, and moved to a nearby brothel.’

  ‘How did they end up here?’

  ‘Lucky escape. Hitched a lift. Found sanctuary over a Hungarian supermarket. Owner treated them like his own daughters. Tried to get them off the game. Even offered them jobs.’

  ‘Couldn’t match what they were getting?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s taken it badly. Promised to identify the body when he sobers up. His daughter is coming with him.’

  ‘What about the victim’s friend?’

  ‘Natalia? No hide nor hair of her since she left. Not even a phone call or a text.’

  ‘What about social media? Facebook, Snapchat, WhatsApp, Instagram.’

  ‘Neither of them had any accounts set up. Probably scared witless it would enable the men who enslaved them to track them down.’

  ‘What if they did it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It wouldn’t explain the MO. The same person who murdered the others killed Flora. Besides, there’s no evidence any of the other Firethorn victims were connected to London or to sex trafficking.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we’ll be expected to eliminate that possibility. More time-wasting.’

  ‘Not if it means we get those bastards too. I’ve just spoken to Harry Stone and he’s promised to see if he can get the Agency team running an operation on sex trafficking into North London to see if they can identify the gang that held those girls.’

  ‘How was he, Harry?’

  ‘A bit distracted I thought. He warned me to not get diverted by the Public Standards investigation. He wants me back on Firethorn ASAP.’

  ‘Good advice,’ said Max.

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m off to brief DCI Holmes. Are you back on the case?’

  ‘Almost,’ she said. ‘I promised DCI Ince I’d speak to Henshall’s ex-wife. Find out if she knew about his nefarious activities. If that was the reason she left him.’

  He pressed the lift button.

  ‘Speed the plough,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never understood what that’s supposed to mean.’

  The doors opened. Max stepped inside, and turned to face her.

  ‘Good luck, or lift the sod and start again,’ he said. ‘Take your pick.’

  As Jo swung out of the car park, a dozen cameramen and reporters pressed forward. In front of one of the Fujitsu buildings, two TV cameramen stepped into the road. Those on the nearside pavement jostled dangerously, risking sending someone stumbling beneath her wheels. She took the crown of the road, cursing as a series of flashes imprinted jagged ghosts upon her retina. On the other side of the roundabout a smaller media scrum had assembled outside the Force headquarters building. She imagined the heated conversations up on the Fourth Floor, and thanked God that their ire would inevitably be directed in Gordon’s direction. But it was only a matter of time before some of it washed her way.

  She sighed with relief as she entered the underpass, and switched on the radio. Willie Nelson was singing On the Road Again. Jo identified with the sentiments behind the lyrics, except that in her case it was because sitting alone in the car was one of the only opportunities for quality thinking time. That and the feeling of being in control. Of heading somewhere even if the investigation was not.

  Jo knew that one of the things her colleagues past and present admired about her was the impression she gave of being on top of things. Of being able to stay positive and focused no matter what. If only they knew.

  Just because it didn’t show, that didn’t mean she was immune to feelings of self-doubt. That she wasn’t angered by senseless cruelty and deeply affected by the suffering it inflicted on others. She felt impotent and frustrated. Hedged in by policies and procedures. Perhaps that was why she took the risks on the job that she did. Why she loved her sessions of Krav Maga. What was it Rule Three said? You will never ever win a defensive fight. But first they had to identify their enemy.

  She turned up the volume, and eased her foot down on the accelerator.

  Chapter 29

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Denise Henshall had clearly got the better deal in the divorce. This was a five-bedroomed Edwardian semi-detached house in affluent Heaton Moor. Easily close to £700,000. Not quite Didsbury but getting there. Jo and Abbie had talked about this area as a possible next step. Five or so years down the line. That conversation seemed a lifetime ago now.

  ‘You didn’t ask to see m
y ID,’ Jo said as she followed her into the open-plan kitchen-diner.

  ‘No need,’ she replied. ‘I know who you are. I saw you on television last week. Appealing for information. The three murdered women. Is that why you’re here?’

  Jo had not anticipated this. It was almost as though Henshall’s wife had been expecting her.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.

  The former Mrs Henshall pulled two stools out from beneath a marble-topped island, placed one beside Jo, and sat down on the other one. ‘No reason,’ she said. ‘I just wondered.’

  Jo didn’t believe her but she decided to let it ride. She sat down, and placed her tablet on the island.

  ‘What do I call you?’ Jo asked. ‘Mrs Henshall?’

  ‘Murray,’ she replied. ‘I’ve reverted to my maiden name. But please call me Denise. Miss sounds like a school teacher.’

  ‘It’s about your former husband, Denise.’

  Denise Murray searched Jo’s face for a clue. Her own remained deadpan.

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘What makes you think he’s done something?’

  ‘Why else would you be here?’

  It was a fair question.

  ‘Has something happened to him?’ she continued.

  It sounded to Jo as though Denise was simply curious rather than concerned.

  ‘Nothing has happened to DC Henshall,’ she replied. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t disclose the nature of this inquiry. I was just hoping I could ask you a few questions about your husband. About your life together.’

  The former Mrs Henshall folded her legs, entwined her fingers, and leaned on the marble-top with her elbows.

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’ she asked.

  ‘From when you first met.’

  ‘He wasn’t in the police at the time. He was a member of staff and a trainer in a health club I joined. He became my personal trainer. He was fit, attentive, kind. He had a great sense of humour. We liked the same music, the same films, the same TV shows. I fancied him that very first training session I had with him. We dated for just under a year, and then we got married.’

  Denise’s face clouded over. ‘My mum liked him, but my dad said he was a wrong ’un.’ She sighed. ‘He’s a good judge of character, my dad. I should’ve listened to him.’

  ‘When did he join the police?’

  The cloud darkened. ‘A year after we got married. That was when it began to fall apart.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, like I was jealous or something, but suddenly I came second to the job. He loved the police. Everything about it. It made him feel important.’ She thought about it. ‘Powerful if you like. Then there was the social side. The camaraderie. The drinking culture. He really bought into that. I went to a couple of events with him early on, at the police club. An engagement party. A German beer and brass night featuring the Greater Manchester Police Band. He made himself the centre of attention. The joker of the party. Only I could see what his so-called mates were really thinking: What a prat. Only he couldn’t see it. Not at first.’ She paused. ‘I think it slowly dawned on him.’

  Jo recognised the pattern. There was something about the nature of the work that had that effect on people with certain personalities, most often the outwardly self-confident overcompensating for a serious lack of self-esteem. It wasn’t just the police. It happened in the other services too. These were the people you didn’t want handling guns on the front line.

  ‘I wondered,’ Jo said, ‘if you could tell me why the two of you decided to get divorced.’

  Denise shook her head. ‘We didn’t, I did. It was my decision.’

  ‘He didn’t want you to leave?’

  ‘He didn’t have a choice. And before you go running to conclusions, there wasn’t anybody else. There is now, but not then. I didn’t meet my current partner until Morton and I had been eight months divorced.’

  ‘Why didn’t he have a choice?’

  Denise hesitated, sat back, and folded her arms. ‘Because I told him that if he didn’t give me an uncontested divorce, I’d report him to his boss.’

  ‘For what?’

  Another pause. ‘Domestic abuse.’

  ‘Physical or emotional?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jo said.

  ‘Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. Well, not directly anyway.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘When it did finally dawn on him that he was less the joker and more the joke, his mood changed. He began drinking at home. Solitary drinking. When he was drunk, he got angry. When he was angry, he’d lash out. Oh, he was always apologetic afterwards. Pleading, crying, saying it wasn’t him, it was the booze. It was stress at work. He blamed everything and everyone but himself. I gave him three chances, then I handed him the ultimatum. I went to stay with my sister while he made up his mind.’

  ‘How did he seem between then and when the divorce came through?’

  Denise shrugged. ‘I didn’t see much of him other than at the solicitor’s. He’d cut down on his drinking I think. He put a brave face on it, but I could see he was depressed. Ironically, after the divorce I heard he’d cheered up. Stopped drinking altogether. Made detective.’ She frowned. ‘Maybe it was my fault all along.’

  ‘Never think that,’ said Jo. ‘It’s what abusers always want you to believe.’

  Denise Murray looked down at her hands. ‘He wasn’t always an abuser.’

  She stood, and pushed her stool back under the lip of the island. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I need to get moving. I have to be at work in twenty minutes.’

  ‘What is it you do?’

  ‘I’m a staff nurse. At the Royal.’

  Just as Abbie had been. It was a painful reminder.

  ‘One last question,’ Jo said. ‘Did you ever suspect your husband might have been seeing other women?’

  Denise Murray sighed, and placed one hand on the island. ‘There we have it,’ she said. ‘The final question is always the most important.’

  Jo waited.

  ‘And the answer is?’

  ‘There were things that made me wonder.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘About a year before we broke up he became impatient with the way we made love. And the frequency.’

  ‘In what way impatient?’

  ‘Let’s say he wanted it to be more adventurous.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘No. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that. And if that was what he wanted, he should have married a porn star.’ She smiled at the memory.

  ‘How did he respond?’ Jo asked.

  ‘He sulked. Became morose. When we did have sex, he was rougher. I started fabricating headaches. He stopped asking. The well dried up.’

  ‘You said signs. What were the other ones?’

  Denise shrugged. ‘Nothing concrete. I sneaked a look at his mobile phone from time to time. No suspicious texts or names in his contacts. The same on the computer. He tended to wipe his search history, but when he did forget I could see there were porn sites he frequented. I’m afraid I accepted that as the inevitable consequence of our not having sex. To be honest, I was relieved it wasn’t another woman. I saw that as a greater betrayal.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Jo asked.

  ‘The occasional whiff of cheap perfume on his clothes. A smear of lipstick on a shirt collar. But we were already sleeping in separate rooms by then.’

  She stood up straight, and checked her watch.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I really do have to go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jo as she followed her into the hallway. ‘You’ve been really helpful.’

  Denise Murray opened the door, and stepped back to let Jo pass. ‘If it is about those women,’ she said, ‘you can rule Morton out. He only hit me because he was angry with himself. And he never really hurt me. Not badly. He isn’t a murderer. He isn�
��t man enough.’

  Jo thought she was probably right, but for all the wrong reasons. ‘Thanks again,’ she said.

  Jo was at the gate when Denise Murray called after her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I didn’t offer you a drink. That was rude of me.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jo told her. ‘It wasn’t a social call.’

  Chapter 30

  TUESDAY, 9TH MAY

  It was 8am and the Central Park Major Incident Room was a hive of activity. Jo looked around for somewhere to put her bag down.

  ‘Is it my imagination,’ she said, ‘or have you squeezed more desks in here?’

  ‘More bodies,’ DS Carter replied. ‘People are having to share workstations. It’s not gone down well, but we needed the manpower.’

  ‘None of them are women then?’

  He grinned.

  ‘You spent too long working with DCI Caton.’

  ‘How is he getting on at the College of Policing?’ she asked. ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘His secondment finishes at the end of the month. He can’t wait to get back. He’s missing Kate, and the baby.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘He’s missing me too apparently.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said Gordon entering the room with Max.

  Helen Gates pushed past them both and stormed into the MRI. ‘The press and social media know that a police officer was arrested and questioned in connection with the murders,’ she said. ‘DC Henshall’s house is under siege. I’ve had to send uniformed officers out there to get them to back off. The Chief Constable wants to call a press conference to calm things down. I need chapter and verse on Henshall. Is he in the frame or not? And if so, what the hell is he in the frame for?’

  ‘We’ve ruled him out of Operation Firethorn,’ Gordon told her. ‘He was at work on at least two of the occasions when murders were committed. And there’s no evidence to link him with any of them. Not unless you consider a predilection for prostitutes as evidence.’

  ‘What about the allegations?’

  ‘He’s still in the frame for those, Ma’am,’ Jo told her. ‘We’ll know more when we have the results of the forensic analysis of his car, and items taken from the house.’