by Bill Rogers
Tompkins looked up at the sky. Jo followed her gaze. Dawn was breaking, the first golden rays of the sun painting the underbelly of a light grey sheet of cloud moving towards them from the Pennines.
‘There are showers on the way,’ Tompkins observed. She turned to Benson. ‘It would help if you could erect a tent to preserve the scene. Unless you’re prepared to brave Mr Flatman’s ire.’
The detectives left them to it, and headed for the concrete apron of a driveway opposite.
‘What’s this place?’ Jo asked, pointing to the black-and-white property behind them, partly obscured by trees and bushes.
‘It’s a registered childminder’s house,’ Nick told her. ‘This’ll be a nasty shock for the mums and toddlers when they arrive.’
‘There’s a cattery about a hundred and thirty yards further down the lane,’ said Gordon. ‘A car body repairer beyond that, and then a big private house. After that, it’s a dead end, unless you happen to be on foot or going to one of the lodges.’
‘Lodges?’ said Jo.
‘There are six of them. They belong to a local angling society. It was an angler who found her. He’s currently sat in a van where the cordon starts. He was in too much of a state to make any sense. Should have calmed down by now though. Why don’t you go see what he can tell you while Nick and I sort out the wider search team, and brief the officers who are going to conduct the door-to-door enquiries?’
‘What will you do, Andy?’ she asked.
‘Have a mooch around, see what else I can pick up that might be relevant, and then go back and mend a few bridges before Rachel sets off for school with the children. Then I’ll head to The Quays and update my crime behaviour analysis.’
‘I can save you some time with that,’ said Gordon.
Andy raised his eyebrows.
‘Go on.’
‘Based on his behaviour to date, I think we can safely assume that our unsub is a nutter. A sad, sick, evil, miserable nutter!’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector,’ said Andy. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘That wasn’t fair,’ said Jo as they watched the psychologist walk off down the lane towards the cattery.
‘Maybe not,’ Gordon replied. ‘But if your colleague doesn’t pull his finger out, and come up with something we can use, this bastard is going to end up making Jack the Ripper look like Mickey Mouse.’
Chapter 39
‘I nearly missed her.’
In his mid-sixties, Jo guessed. It was hard to tell because his face was white and drawn with the shock of it all. The angler took a deep breath.
‘It was the arm hanging over the side that caught my attention. But for that, I’d never have seen her.’
There had been the prospect, Jo realised, that a young child jostled around in the back of a 4x4 on the way to the childminder’s house would have been the first to do so instead. In the Transporter’s wing mirror she spotted Max walking towards them.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ Jo said to the angler, winding down the window.
‘Did you get my message, Max?’
‘Eventually,’ he said, stooping to her level. ‘Sorry I missed your call. My phone was on silent. So, what are we looking at?’
‘See for yourself,’ she told him. ‘Up ahead. You can’t miss it. I’ll be here when you get back.’
Max nodded, and set off. There was something about the way he was moving – head down, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets – that bothered her. This wasn’t the usual energetic Max, keen to get stuck in. She worried that she had no idea what was troubling him. She wound the window up, and turned back to the witness.
‘Sorry about that, Mr Henderson. You were saying you nearly missed seeing the victim.’
‘I wish I had. I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head.’
‘You will. Not immediately. But you will. Someone from Victim Care will be along shortly. They’ll give you the name and contact details of a counsellor. Promise me that you’ll follow it up.’
Henderson nodded. ‘I will. Like I was saying, I was on my way to the John Player Lodge. It’s stocked with tench, roach, rudd, and perch. Plus a few barbel and chub.’
It was like a foreign language to Jo. ‘No trout then?’
‘There’s a separate lodge for trout. But I don’t do fly fishing.’
Jo was out of her depth. ‘What time did you start fishing?’
‘Three o’clock this morning.’
At least an hour after the killer had struck if Dr Tompkins was right.
‘And you walked from where?’
‘From the main road. I left my car on the dirt track opposite the car dealer’s. I didn’t want to risk the water keeper recording my licence plate.’
‘What time did you park up, and start walking to the lodge?’
‘About quarter to three?’
Still too late to have seen the killer leaving.
‘Is it usual to fish during the night?’
‘Late evening, and early morning,’ he said. ‘That’s when they like to feed. Besides . . .’ He tailed off nervously.
‘Go on.’
He shifted in his seat.
‘The fact is I’ve got an Environment Agency rod licence, but I’m not a member of the society that owns these lodges. There’s less chance of being caught by a water keeper if you’re away by five thirty. Nobody has to know, do they?’
‘Not if you don’t tell them. But you might want to keep your head down when you leave. The press will be waiting at the end of the lane. We would prefer that you didn’t speak to them.’
‘Thanks.’ His relief was palpable.
‘Did you see anyone at all from the time you left your car until the time you discovered the body?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. When you’re worried someone might catch you fishing without permission, you’re permanently on the lookout for other people.’
‘Did you see anything at all suspicious?’
‘Like what?’
‘A vehicle parked near the entrance to this lane or on it.’
‘No. I’d have noticed for the same reason as before.’
He saw the disappointment on her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Henderson said. ‘Not been much use, have I?’
‘On the contrary,’ Jo replied, ‘you chose to report what you found, and wait for us to arrive. Given the circumstances you could have decided to tell no one, and get the hell out of here.’
‘I nearly did,’ he admitted. ‘Then I asked myself what the police would think if someone had noticed my car. Maybe even recorded the licence number.’
Henderson had a point.
Through the windscreen, Jo could see Max walking back towards them.
‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘Someone will be along to take a formal statement. Make sure you ask for the details of that counselling service before you leave.’
She opened the door, and jumped on to the lane. Max joined her. They walked in silence side by side towards the cordon. She looked up at his rugged face. He looked half asleep. There were dark semicircles beneath his eyes, and a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
‘Are you alright, Max?’ Jo asked. ‘You look dreadful.’
‘Thanks for that,’ he replied. ‘I had a late night.’
‘Should you be driving?’
‘Should you?’
‘As it happens, I had an early night. You, on the other hand . . .’
He shrugged. ‘Who’s to know?’
‘They will if they breathalyse you.’
‘They’ll need due cause to stop me. I won’t give them one.’
‘How about driving without due attention?’
‘That’s never going to happen.’
She lowered her voice.
‘Seriously, Max, I’m worried about you. You’ve been doing so well. You don’t want to blow it now.’
He grimaced.
‘N
ow you’re beginning to sound like my ex. And seriously, Jo, how many of this lot do you think are still over the limit from a Sunday-night session? You know how it is. None of us count on being dragged out in the early hours like this. It’s an occupational hazard.’
He was right of course. When the call came in the early hours, your first thought wasn’t to wonder if you should call a taxi.
‘Gordon is expecting the Home Office pathologist any time now,’ he said. ‘He wondered if you and I might visit the victim’s house. It’s on the estate.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That we would.’
‘Why don’t we go in mine?’ she said. ‘It’s only a spit away. I’ll drop you back here when we’re done. With any luck you’ll be sober by then.’
‘I am sober.’
‘And pigs’ll fly.’
‘You’d better not let any of this lot hear you,’ he said, nodding towards the uniformed officers manning the cordon. ‘You’ll get us both arrested.’
Chapter 40
‘What is this place?’ Max asked.
Jo had just turned off a dual carriageway a mile or so from the crime scene, and was taking them into the heart of the estate.
‘It was built by German prisoners of war in 1945,’ she told him, ‘on a wave of optimism for the future. About nine thousand souls lived here to start with. Now it’s nearer six and a half thousand, mainly older tenants living on state pensions. The young ones without kids tend to live in the flats. Then there are vulnerable young parents on benefit. Unemployment is double the national average.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ he said. ‘The rich are getting richer, and the poor end up in places like this.’
‘There’s a scheme to turn it around,’ she said. ‘But they need to get a grip on drugs and crime first.’
‘Looks like some decent public facilities wouldn’t go amiss,’ he observed.
‘Do you remember Waterloo Road?’ she asked. ‘The one about a comprehensive school turning into a virtual war zone? The first seven series were filmed here. Then the council decided to close and demolish the school. Where do you think they moved the filming to?’
‘Eton?’
‘May as well have done. They moved into a former academy school in Greenock, in Scotland, and miraculously turned Waterloo Road into a fee-paying independent school.’
‘A case of art not imitating life.’
‘Except there was a silver lining here. The kids from the high school moved to a new one on the other side of Queensway that’s giving them a much better chance in life.’
‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav intoned.
‘Really?’ said Max, staring out of the window.
They had arrived at a large grassy roundabout with a tree in the centre. To the left was a crescent-shaped precinct of shops with metal shutters. To the right was a triple-width three-storey block of flats.
‘My money’s on the flats,’ said Jo, circumnavigating the roundabout. She pulled into a bus stop lay-by in front of the flats.
‘No glass on the bus shelter,’ Max observed as he unbuckled his seat belt. ‘And there are as many CCTV cameras on poles as there are lamp posts. That tells you something. Make sure you lock your car.’
Jo tried the left-hand entrance first. Max headed for the other one.
‘Flats 1 to 9,’ she called across to him. ‘Hers is Number 14. It must be one of yours.’
‘It is.’ He rang the buzzer on the box set into the panel beside the glazed door.
‘Who is it?’ asked a heavily congested female voice. She sounded a great deal older than the victim.
‘This is the police,’ said Max.
He turned to Jo, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m not going to say National Crime Agency, am I? It’d probably give her a heart attack.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s about Genna,’ he said.
The woman cursed and then cleared her throat. ‘Don’t tell me. She’s gone and got herself arrested.’
‘Actually, no she hasn’t. Who is it I’m speaking to?’
‘I’m her mother. And if she hasn’t been arrested, why are you here?’
‘If you let us in, Mrs Crowden,’ said Jo, ‘we’ll tell you.’
‘Bloody hell! Sent you mob-handed, have they? Well, I can’t come down, so you’ll have to come up. We’re on the third floor.’
There was a long buzzing sound. The door opened inwards.
Jo and Max climbed two flights of stairs and found themselves outside a solid door inset with a spyhole and letterbox. Jo rang the doorbell. Nobody came.
‘I think I can hear someone shouting,’ Jo said.
Max knelt, and put his ear to the letterbox. ‘She says she can’t come to the door but there’s a key behind the letterbox.’
‘Watch out for DIY anti-burglary measures,’ said Jo, recalling a colleague who’d sliced a finger to the bone on an artfully placed razor blade behind a drug dealer’s door in Benchill.
Max gingerly inserted two fingers, felt around, and withdrew a length of string, on the end of which was a Yale key. He stood up. ‘Not so much prevention as invitation.’
He inserted the key, and opened the door. Jo followed him down a narrow hallway that led to an open-plan lounge, kitchen, and diner.
Mrs Crowden lay on a large double sofa bed that had been placed in a corner facing an outsize wall-mounted television screen. Beside the bed was a mobile electric hoist, the reason for which was self-evident. At somewhere around five feet five inches tall, and pushing two hundred and ninety pounds, the victim’s mother was morbidly obese.
On the wall to her left was an intercom for the front door of the flats. In her right hand she held a television remote control. From a cord around her neck hung a Careline fob. A bedside table held a water jug, and a tray piled high with empty plates and food wrappers.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘What’s she gone an’ done this time?’
‘Is there anyone else in the flat, Mrs Crowden?’ Jo asked.
‘Does it look like it?’
‘We wouldn’t know without searching the other rooms,’ said Max. ‘So please just answer the question.’
She gave him a withering look.
‘No, there bloody well isn’t. It’s just me and Genna. She’s my carer. And for your information I’m starving and I’m desperate for a wee. So the sooner you tell me what the hell’s going on, and get her back here, the better.’
Max and Jo exchanged looks.
‘Is there a neighbour who could come over and sit with you?’ said Jo.
‘Not one I’d trust not to run off with the housekeeping.’ Even as she spoke, the import of what she had just been asked began to dawn on her.
‘Now you’re scaring me,’ Mrs Crowden said. She let go of the remote control, placed both hands on the bed, tried to lever herself up, failed, and fell back against the pile of pillows.
Jo took a chair from the dining table, brushed it clean with her sleeve, and set it beside the bed. Max took another, and sat it beside her.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Crowden,’ she said. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid that the body of a young woman has been found in the vicinity of Trows Lane. We have reason to believe it may be your daughter, Genna.’
Mrs Crowden’s brow furrowed. Her mouth fell open, multiplying the rings of flesh beneath her jaw. She stared at the ceiling.
Jo and Max waited for the reality of what they had told her to sink in. For her to burst into tears. To wail, to scream, to do something.
Jo glanced at Max. He shrugged. When she finally did respond, it took them both by surprise.
‘What am I supposed to do now?’ Mrs Crowden moaned. ‘Who’s gonna look after me?’ Her fingers plucked at the covers. ‘The stupid cow. I warned her over and over again.’
She turned her head and stared at Jo. ‘Trows Lane?’ she said. ‘What the hell was she doing down there?’
‘That’s what we were hoping you might be able to tell us, Mrs Crowden,’ said Jo.
But Mrs Crowden wasn’t listening. Instead she fumbled for the Careline fob that had got lost among the folds of her bosom, and pressed it between forefinger and thumb. There was a loud insistent beeping noise. ‘And who’s gonna pay for the funeral? I certainly can’t.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Crowden,’ said Max. ‘I doubt the coroner will be releasing your daughter’s body any time soon. You’ll have plenty of time to save up.’
Jo jabbed him with her elbow.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘That was cruel,’ she whispered. ‘Can’t you see she’s in shock?’
She need not have bothered. Genna’s mother was listening to a disembodied voice emanating from a speaker somewhere in the hallway.
‘Mrs Crowden? Is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Crowden. My name is Margaret. Would you prefer me to call you Gladys?’
‘Mrs is fine!’
‘And how can I help you today, Mrs Crowden?’
‘My stupid daughter’s gone and got herself killed, and I need someone to come and look after me. For a start I need a wee, and something to eat.’
There was a stunned silence at the end of the line.
‘I bet that’s not on their checklist,’ said Max quietly so that only Jo could hear.
‘Is there someone there with you now, Mrs Crowden?’ The voice from the speaker was clutching at straws.
Mrs Crowden looked across at Jo and Max. ‘There’s a couple of dozy police officers,’ she said. ‘Some use they’ll be.’
‘Police officers? So you won’t need us to call the emergency services.’
Jo had had enough of this. ‘Margaret,’ she said, ‘my name is Joanne Stuart, with the National Crime Agency. I think that what Mrs Crowden needs is someone from social services who knows her situation and can arrange an urgent package of support for her. Can you assist with that?’
‘Absolutely.’ She sounded mightily relieved. ‘I have the emergency contact details on Mrs Crowden’s file, and I’ll do that immediately.’
Gladys Crowden turned her head to look at Jo. ‘Not so dozy after all,’ she said.