by Bill Rogers
Jo watched for Beck’s reaction.
‘For the record,’ she said, ‘DCI Holmes is showing Mr Beck Item of Evidence FT718/5, a forensic report on a sample taken from the clothing of one Allochka Burgos, a woman whom we believe to have been murdered at some time between 11pm and 2am on Sunday, 21st of May 2017. This sample matches a sample of blood provided this morning by Mr Beck, and more importantly, his DNA.’
She thought she detected a flicker of surprise in Beck’s eyes, though his expression remained impassive, which of itself was a giveaway.
‘DCI Holmes is also showing Mr Beck Item of Evidence FT718/6. This is a forensic report on a sample of soil taken from the sole of a pair of running shoes found in his possession during the search of his narrowboat. This sample has been matched to a sample of soil taken from the floor of the cabin of his boat, Item of Evidence FT718/11, and to soil from the deposition site of the body of Allochka Burgos. Finally, my colleague is showing Mr Beck Item of Evidence FT718/5. This is a forensic analysis of the right shoe of the same pair of trainers. This analysis matches a footprint recovered from the scene of yet another murder. That of one Jacinta Quinn. This evidence places you, Mr Beck, at the scene of not one but two murders. How do you respond to that?’
Beck stared back at her with barely disguised anger. His solicitor, in his turn, stared at his client.
‘I am advising my client not to say anything at this point.’
‘I have no idea how any of this could possibly have turned up where you say it did,’ said Beck. ‘I can only assume you planted it. I wouldn’t blame you, with all the world’s eyes on you, all the pressure from your bosses and the politicians. You must have been desperate to charge someone, anyone.’
‘Let me help you with this,’ said Gordon. ‘We found a bloodstained slash in a black jogging top discovered in a washing bag on your boat. When you were admitted to hospital last night, the preliminary examination revealed a matching day-old two-inch-long gash on your upper right arm. Our belief is you caught your arm on one of the bushes, probably a blackthorn, on Newton Heath as you dragged the lifeless body of Allochka Burgos to the spot where you left it. We have also requested forensic palynology examination of samples of pollen from clothing and surfaces on the narrowboat on which you have been staying to match against samples from all of the crime scenes that are part of this investigation.’
He slowly gathered up the evidence bags, and placed them in the box file.
‘Why did you kill these women?’ said Jo.
‘Was it because your mother was a sex worker?’ Gordon asked.
Beck’s face suffused with rage and contempt. For the first time Jo saw the devil within.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Gordon. ‘Let me guess. No Comment? Not that it matters.’ He turned to Beck’s solicitor. ‘Mr Fredericks, you can have an hour with your client, after which we will formally charge him with the murders of Allochka Burgos, and Jacinta Quinn. You can expect further charges in connection with the murders of Jade Scott, Kelly Carver, Mandy Madden, Flora Novak, and Genna Crowden. This interview is terminated at 13.27 on the 23rd of May 2017.’
Gordon picked up the box, pushed back his chair, and stood up.
‘Come on, Jo,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here. The stench is killing me.’
‘You go,’ Jo told him. ‘There are a couple of questions I would like to ask Mr Beck off the record.’
Chapter 79
‘You do realise,’ said Beck’s solicitor when the door had closed behind Gordon, ‘that nothing my client may say in answer to your questions will be admissible in court.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Jo replied, ‘since your client is still under caution, and is being questioned by a police officer. However, given that none of this is being recorded, it would only count as hearsay.’
‘Then why bother?’ asked Beck. He seemed to have recovered his composure. His eyes bored into hers. She could tell she had piqued his curiosity.
‘Because there are several things I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Let’s call it tying up loose ends.’
‘Don’t you mean split ends?’ he said.
Jo ignored the taunt.
‘The strands of hair we recovered from one of your victims,’ she said. ‘How did they come to include some of mine?’
His eyes widened, his forehead creased, and his jaw dropped just enough for his lips to part. It was a classic surprise response.
‘How intriguing,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps the killer has been stalking you. Perhaps he has been inside your . . .’
The pause was imperceptible, but enough to tell her that he had no idea where she lived.
‘. . . bedroom.’
Jo had her answer. It had been a coincidence after all.
‘Moving on,’ she said. ‘That quote you sent me from Twelfth Night . . .’
‘From Ro . . .’ he began, stopping when he saw the smile forming on her face.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You’re right. From Romeo and Juliet. Is that how you saw yourself? A mischievous spirit? The fairies’ midwife? Except you brought not life but death?’
His face had become a mask of indifference.
‘Or was it your mother’s foul, sluttish hairs that you were—?’
The mask slipped. Beck gripped the table and pushed himself to his feet. His eyes blazed, and the veins in his neck pulsed violently.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted his solicitor. ‘I think you should go now, before I report you.’
Behind her, Jo heard the constable standing beside the door step forward to restrain Beck. She put her hand out to stay him.
‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘I’m finished here.’
As she began to leave, Beck called her back.
‘Wait!’ he said. ‘I want to know how you felt when you got that text. The one the killer sent. And those strands of your hair. How did it feel to know you were being hunted? That it was only a matter of time before you became the killer’s victim? Admit it. You were terrified.’
Jo spun round to face him.
‘You never got near me,’ she said. ‘Not physically or emotionally. It was obvious from the start you were a coward. Someone who made up for his own inadequacies by preying on the weak and vulnerable. I wonder how you’ll survive in prison for the rest of your life.’
She turned away again and headed for the door. As the officer opened it for her, she stopped, and looked back at Beck.
‘I tell a lie,’ she said. ‘You did get close to me, although you never knew it.’
His brow furrowed.
‘You’re wondering about those strands of my hair,’ she said. ‘Do you remember colliding with someone three weeks ago in the doorway of Salon Rico Romano?’
His eyes widened. Comprehension flooded his face.
‘I can see you do,’ she said. ‘Well that was me. And those strands of hair are what led me back to Rico’s and then to you. Ironic, don’t you think?’
She watched his expression change. She took no pleasure in the way in which his anger and contempt for her seemed reluctantly to give way to self-reproach.
It had never been about him or her.
It was always about the victims.
Chapter 80
‘How did you know his mother was a sex worker?’ asked Jo.
Gordon grinned. ‘I didn’t. But you did say her husband told you she used to go out all night with other men. And that they showed her a good time.’
‘Perhaps she was,’ said Andy. ‘You certainly touched a nerve. And it would explain his motivation. A love-hate relationship with his mother. But we may never know. Though I can’t help wishing you’d given him a chance to respond.’
‘Whatever the explanation, nothing can excuse what he did,’ said Jo. ‘It isn’t a question of mad or bad – he’s both.’
‘My hunch is he isn’t going to give us excuses or explanations,’ said Andy. ‘He’ll be one of those serial killers who paints himself as an
enigma. The likelihood is that ninety per cent of his brain is simply wired up wrong.’
‘We won’t be calling you as a prosecution witness then,’ said Gordon.
‘Why not?’
‘Because going down that road gives him a defence that’ll see him in a cushy psychiatric facility, where you and your pals will be able to add him to your research portfolio until either some quack decides he’s cured and it’s safe to rejoin the community or he escapes.’
‘That’s never going to happen,’ Andy replied. ‘Pleading insanity will mean admitting he wasn’t in control. You’ve already seen how he intends to do this. He’ll try to bluff it out. Maintain his innocence. Cast himself as a victim of police corruption. That way he’ll never have to show remorse. He’ll be found guilty, and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.’
‘ACC Gates wants a press conference,’ said Gordon, ‘as soon as we have word from the CPS that we can go ahead and charge him. She’s invited your boss to front it with her, Jo. A perfect example of interagency cooperation, she said. She wants us both to be there.’
‘Count me out,’ said Jo. ‘Tell her I’ve got delayed shock.’
‘Tell her yourself!’
Helen Gates was standing in the doorway. Harry Stone was by her side.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jo said. ‘But I’m exhausted. I’d prefer to not have to do this.’
‘There are lots of things in this life we’d prefer not to have to do,’ Gates replied. ‘But with responsibility comes duty.’
‘It would be good for the Agency if you were there, Jo,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be required to speak.’
It didn’t sound as though she had a choice.
Jo was waiting to enter the conference room when someone touched her lightly on the arm. It was Agata Kowalski.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ said Jo. ‘I wanted to thank you. But can it wait till afterwards? We’re about to go on.’
‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ said Agata, ‘but before you do there’s something I think you should know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve had a text from one of my sources. He says that GMP have just found a body.’
Jo’s heart lurched. Her head was spinning. Did he have a partner? Was this a copycat?
Agata saw her confusion. ‘It’s not a girl,’ she said. ‘It’s Jenson Hartley. He has been found hanging from a tree in Wythenshawe Park.’ She pointed to the assembled reporters. ‘I thought you should know before this lot start asking questions.’
A rush of conflicting emotions hit Jo like a punch in the solar plexus, sucking the air from her lungs. She gripped the doorjamb. Two hours ago she had been congratulating herself on the part she had played in catching the unsub and feeling relieved that no more young women would die. Now all she felt was an overwhelming sense of sadness for Hartley, his wife, and children.
Chapter 81
‘This was a good choice,’ said Agata. Her smile lit up her face. ‘Great food, great atmosphere. How did you manage to book a banquette?’
‘I’m a regular,’ Jo told her. ‘I told them I wanted somewhere a bit private. I know Firethorn is already yesterday’s news, at least until the trial starts, but the notoriety was getting to me. There’s only so much backslapping and handshaking you can take. That’s when they’re not avoiding me because of what happened to Henshall, and to Jenson Hartley.’
Agata put down her knife, and placed a hand on Jo’s.
‘DC Henshall chose to abuse his position. He chose to coerce those women into having sex with him. Effectively to rape them. He deserves whatever’s coming. As for Jenson Hartley, it wasn’t your decision to charge him. And no one could have foreseen he might kill himself. Not even his wife. None of it was your fault. You were simply doing your job.’
Simply doing your job. How many times had Jo told herself that? How many times had she heard those words from someone else? Each time the logic had been inescapable. Why, then, did they never make her feel any better?
Her phone told her she had been sent a text.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Agata. ‘It might be important.’
Jo checked. Her heart flipped. Abbie wanted her to call her. It was urgent.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I do need to respond to this. I’ll only be a moment.’
The loos were deserted. Jo walked over to the washbasins, and stared at her reflection in the mirrors. She hesitated. Firethorn had been all-consuming. She had pushed Abbie to the back of her mind. Now here she was again, bringing with her that familiar sense of dread.
She made the call.
‘Jo,’ said Abbie. ‘Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. Especially with . . . you know.’
‘The investigation? Operation Firethorn. You’ve been following it?’
‘It’s been hard to avoid.’
A trace of bitterness clung to the words like a whiff of slurry on an autumn wind.
‘Every time we switched on the TV or checked the news.’
We. Was that James the sperm donor or Sally, his sister? Jo bit her lip. You had your chance, she told herself.
‘Look, Jo,’ Abbie said, her tone now businesslike, ‘there’s no other way to say this. I need to move on. So do you. I’d like us to get on with the dissolution of our civil partnership.’
It hit Jo like a tsunami. Rearing up as the sentence unfolded, then smashing down to envelop her. She clung to a basin, fighting back the panic.
‘Jo? Are you still there?’
Just a hint of concern, nothing more.
Jo took a few deep breaths.
‘What’s the hurry, Abbie?’ she asked.
Silence.
Now it was Abbie stalling for time.
‘I’m pregnant.’
The phone slipped from Jo’s grasp. She tried to catch it as it bounced on the side of the sink and on to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, and took another deep breath before she responded.
‘I’m happy for you,’ she said. ‘It was what you wanted.’
‘It wasn’t all I wanted.’
‘I know.’
‘Being in a civil partnership when I give birth will complicate matters.’
‘We wouldn’t want that, would we?’
Jo reproached herself. It wasn’t like her to be so hurtful. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was unfair.’
‘Forget it,’ Abbie replied, but her voce was brittle. ‘I understand this is hard for you. For both of us.’
The toilet door opened. Agata entered.
‘Jo, are you okay?’ she asked. ‘I was worried about you.’
Jo placed her hand over the receiver.
‘I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.’
‘Sorry,’ Agata mouthed. She left.
‘You have someone with you?’ said Abbie.
Less a question, more an accusation. Not that hard then, since you’ve already moved on.
‘She’s a reporter,’ Jo explained. ‘We’re discussing a case, that’s all.’
She realised she sounded desperate to explain it away, and to convince herself as much as Abbie, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
‘Right,’ Abbie replied.
The silence swelled until it became intolerable. Abbie was the first to bridge the widening gulf between them.
‘I think we should apply for a separation order. You know, to kick-start everything.’
Jo’s head began to throb. She kneaded her temple with the knuckle of her free hand.
‘What would be the point? We’ve already been apart for seven months. You can file a dissolution petition in another twenty weeks.’
‘You’ve been counting then?’
‘Now who’s being unfair?’ Jo replied. ‘I can’t take this right now. Just do whatever you want, Abbie. Send me the form and I’ll sign it.’
‘Right, I will then.’
‘Right.’
Silence.
‘Bye then,’ sai
d Abbie.
‘Bye,’ said Jo.
But Abbie had gone.
No ‘laters’ this time.
Jo splashed her face with cold water, dabbed it dry, and looked in the mirror. The face that stared back made her heart lurch with sadness. She forced herself to smile, rearranged her hair with her fingertips, and opened the door.
Across the room Agata sat staring out of the window. Backlit in profile by a street lamp, the reporter looked like an angel. She turned, saw Jo watching her, and smiled. Jo took a deep breath, walked over to the table, and slid into her seat.
‘I’m back,’ she said.
Author’s Note
Those readers who have read any of my previous titles will be aware that for reasons of authenticity all of my novels are set in real time in and around the city of Manchester. The Tangled Lock originally began shortly before, and ended in, what would have been the aftermath of the horrific events of Monday, 22nd May 2017. You will appreciate why I immediately revised the timeline, such that it now ends on the afternoon immediately prior to that event and shortly before the equally appalling events of Saturday, 3rd June, in Borough Market, London, the city where I was born and raised.
Those events reminded me that life can be far stranger, and crueller, than fiction, and that a minority of people are capable of acts of inhumanity beyond our comprehension. However, the overwhelming and uplifting response to that tragic event from the residents of Manchester and the wider region also affirmed that the vast majority of people are kind, brave, and compassionate. That good will always triumph over evil. Having lived in Greater Manchester for over fifty years, and worked for the city for eighteen of those years, I was unsurprised by the response of my fellow citizens.
Manchester is a diverse community which over the centuries has opened its arms to those fleeing famine and poverty, war, and genocide. It is renowned for its sense of community, its civic pride, its solidarity, spirit of independence, generosity, and self-deprecating humour. All of those qualities stood it in good stead in the face of the events of 22nd May this year. I could not be prouder of Manchester and am honoured to consider myself an adopted Mancunian.