He stood for another five minutes. The footsteps stopped, the resulting silence only broken by the sound of Elliott’s breathing, deep breathing bordering on hyperventilating. He could picture him, his back to the door where Ed had deliberately positioned him.
Too many young cops gave no thought to the seating arrangements in an interview room. It was the first opportunity to try to secure a small advantage, like keeping suspects out of eye line of solicitors. When they’re under pressure they’ll forget to turn around, forcing the lawyer to either say instructions out loud, not just shake their head, or say nothing at all. By sitting them in a corner you can give the impression you’re encroaching on their personal space. The tactics had to be subtle, not overtly oppressive or intimidating.
Elliott was a witness, for the time being at least, but Ed didn’t want to waste time getting to the truth.
Back in the late 70s when he’d joined the police for the first time, his old Detective Inspector was always telling him: ‘Crack the witnesses son and after that the suspects will be easy.’
It was a lesson Ed had never forgotten... get every last piece of information from the witness in the first interview, make sure there were no holes in what they were saying, no details omitted, and your case would improve in strength.
Conversely, witnesses who were forever altering their story were weakening your case. Taking three or four witness statements from the same individual because they forgot to mention something – either through a genuine failure to remember, selective memory, or worse, the cop forgot to ask - gave the impression the investigators were trying to strengthen their case, when in reality the information was there from the outset.
Ed burst through the door. The table jumped as Elliott’s thighs hit its underside.
‘You alright?’ Ed said, walking around him and sitting opposite.
‘Yeah… No. Not really… I can’t believe Jack’s dead. Another one in the river.’
‘You okay to talk to me? I just want to ask some questions about your movements yesterday?’
Elliott pulled his chair closer to the table and sat upright, looking like a young graduate going for an interview. ‘Yeah.’
‘Just talk me through yesterday then, from when you went out. I’m not interested in what you did from when you got up.’
‘Simple really,’ Elliott said. ‘We all went out together. Jack and the lads you’ve brought down here. We just went to the Jolly Roger. Got there just after 12. Watched the match. Stayed there until after nine. We all left together... well, Glen and Jack followed a couple of minutes after we left. They said they were going for another drink. The rest of us got a kebab and shared a taxi home. That was it until you came.’
Ed watched his tongue circle the walls of his mouth.
‘What were you drinking?’
He looked away from Ed and stared at the wall.
‘Lager. We were taking it steady. Probably had about four pints all day.’
‘Now answer that question while you’re looking at me.’
‘Four pints... ’
‘Elliott, the Jolly Roger’s got more cameras than you can shake a stick at. Right now you’re not in any trouble, but if you lie to me then I begin to think maybe you have something to hide.’
He leaned across the desk.
‘If you want, I can pop along to the Jolly Roger and watch their CCTV while you sit here. Your choice. Now, what were you drinking?’
Elliott took a deep breath.
‘Lager and shot chasers all day. By half nine I was wrecked. We all were, but as I said, Glen and Jack stayed out.’
‘Talking of out, in the house you said you were in the Jolly Roger until you were thrown out. What did you mean?’
Elliott looked away again and stared in silence at the wall.
‘Elliott, I’ll just go and see Steve Donnelly, the boss. He’ll tell me because he won’t have been anywhere near as pissed as you lot were.’
‘The bouncers told us we had to leave,’ Elliott said quietly. ‘I don’t know why. Maybe because we were pissed. I can’t really remember. I know they wanted us out though.’
He looked away.
Ed said: ‘Go on.’
‘Jack told them to make him. He was being a bit of an arse.’
Elliott told Ed, to the best of his recollection, what happened in the Jolly Roger with the door supervisors.
‘Did he just fall in then?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know yet,’ Ed said.
‘What then? Murdered?’
Ed pushed his chair backwards, stood up, placed his hands on the desk and leaned in towards Elliott, who shrank in his seat, pushing himself against the wall. Ed closed the gap between them until he could feel Elliott’s breath on his chin.
‘Let’s not go jumping to conclusions, Elliott. I don’t want to see any ridiculous theories appearing on social media. Catch my drift?’
Chapter Six
Ed was back at Headquarters. The students all gave the same version... Jack having an argument with the two doormen, picking up a pint glass and throwing the remnants of a drink over the taller one. Two went home with Elliott. Glen said he had another drink with Jack. He couldn’t remember where, and he couldn’t remember getting home.
Ed rang the Jolly Roger.
‘Steve… Ed Whelan. Sorry to bother you. I know you’ll be busy with the football being on the box. Keep this to yourself for now but a student was found dead in the river in the early hours.’
‘Another one? I don’t think I’ve ever fallen when I’ve been lashed.’
‘Looks like he was one of a group of five,’ Ed said. ‘Spent a lot of time in your place yesterday. Ended up getting thrown out.’
‘Could be anyone Ed. Saturday night, students and ejections. Goes hand in hand.’
‘One of this lot threw a drink over your youngest bouncer.’
‘Dickheads,’ Steve said. ‘I remember them. All had the same T-shirts on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know when you see lads and lasses on stag and hen weekends, all wearing the same T-shirts. That’s what this lot were wearing. I’ve seen them wearing the shirts before. Yesterday was pale blue but I’ve seen them wearing red ones, yellow, green. Same logo though.’
‘Which is?’
‘They call themselves Mortimers. There’s a big cartoon of a mouse on their shirts.’
‘Mortimer? Mouse? What, like Mickey Mouse?’
‘It’s a cartoon mouse, but it’s not Mickey,’ Steve told him. ‘Mortimer is printed above the mouse. Underneath, in copperplate writing, it says, ‘If you love the mouse, chase the pussy’. They’re a bunch of knobs, Ed, but there’s thousands like them.’
‘Can I pop round?’ Ed asked. ‘Look at the CCTV?’
‘Yeah, come whenever you like. At least today it’s just the football. You’ll not be deafened by the music like last time.’
‘True. Cheers Steve.’
‘Steve who?’ Sam said, walking into the HOLMES room, the smell of a freshly smoked cigarette on her breath.
‘Donnelly. Licensee of the Jolly Roger. Jack Goddard and his mates were in there last night. Got asked to leave by the doormen. Jack refused. Threw a drink over one of bouncers. I’m going to have a look at CCTV.’
‘Might be interesting,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll come with you. If nothing else I get to meet another licensee.’
‘He’s alright…I’ve told Bev to get the files on the other students who fell into the river. We need them sharpish. You’re going to get asked about them tomorrow at the press conference.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Sam said. ‘Make sure Bev gets the names of Aisha’s friends as well. I’m still keen to revisit them. I’ve just had 20 minutes with Jack’s parents and the Family Liaison Officer.’
Ed nodded. Nothing needed to be said.
Sam sat down. ‘Never gets any easier does it? I get sick of meeting nice, decent people in tragic circumstances, people just going about their
daily lives, not bothering anyone. Then they get dropped the worst bombshell. Lives turned upside down in an instant. They’ve got a thousand questions and I don’t even have a dozen answers.’
Ed watched her and listened. He knew when she needed to ventilate. All Senior Investigating Officers did. She pushed herself hard, always insisting on meeting the grieving family members.
‘You know,’ she said. ‘I look at them and I know life will never be the same for them. They’ll never get over it. They may learn to live with it. I’ve seen too many of them over the years. They’re shells, existing in the same world but not living the same life. Last night it changed forever for them.’
She spun the chair and looked away.
Ed needed a distraction.
‘Did you happen to look at Jack Goddard’s T-shirt?’
Sam tilted her head backwards and pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘No…Should I have done?’ she asked, slowly turning to face him.
Ed told her about the shirts the group apparently wore.
‘Okay. A few early decisions for the Policy File,’ she said.
Sam, like all SIOs, documented every decision she made in relation to the investigation in a bound book called a Policy File. She would record the time and date of the decision and her reasons for making it. More importantly, she would record what other options she’d considered and why those options were dismissed.
‘Firstly, let’s put it on HOLMES,’ she said. ‘No need to call everybody out now. Sort it tomorrow.’
Sam was acutely aware that HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was labour intensive, which was why the decision to utilise it was never taken lightly.
‘The so-called police intelligence system?’
They both laughed; contrary to many police dramas, HOLMES is not a police intelligence system. Once a major investigation is completed, the system is mothballed until its use is again authorised.
Sam rattled off the lines of inquiry she’d identified outside the mortuary, Ed scribbling them down in an A4 pad.
‘Finally,’ Sam said. ‘Ian Robinson, the POLSA, is calling out a search team. He’ll arrange the search along the tow path.’
The Jolly Roger was full... Sunday-morning footballers together with lunchtime drinkers, all watching the match on Sky Sports. A couple of groups of young women stood chatting, not interested in the latest offering from the Premier League.
Steve Donnelly rushed across the room to meet them, or to be precise, waddled as fast as his splayed feet and huge beer belly would allow him.
‘Ed,’ he said.
Ed shook his hand, and then turned to Sam.
‘This is DCI Sam Parker,’ Ed said.
‘Hello,’ Steve said, offering a sweaty palm to Sam. ‘DCI eh?’
He turned to Ed.
‘They’re getting younger by the day. And more attractive.’
‘And more aware of sexual harassment,’ Sam said evenly.
Steve looked at the floor, his face red.
‘You want to look at the CCTV?’ he muttered.
Ed smiled at Steve’s embarrassment and Sam’s quick put-down.
‘Yes please,’ Ed said.
Sam shook her head as she followed them – the Elvis hair, the black shirt and black trousers, the huge silver buckle on the belt, a 50s throwback and a ridiculous look for a town-centre licensee.
The only part of the Jolly Roger that was not covered by CCTV was the toilets. Other than that, the system had 100% coverage, which from an investigative point of view was fantastic. Whether the civil liberties brigade and the left-wing students agreed was highly doubtful, although the Mortimers were so hammered they probably never noticed the little infra-red lights.
They all concentrated on the images. Identifying Jack Goddard and his group was easy as they were in the pub so early.
‘I see what you mean about their shirts,’ Sam said.
‘Pathetic,’ Steve scowled.
He fast-forwarded the machines until it was almost 9pm. Jack, Elliott, Glen and the other two, could be seen staggering around, chatting to girls who weren’t interested.
None of the watching trio needed to be lip-readers to understand the redhead’s simple dismissal.
‘Stop the tape,’ Sam said, pointing at the screen. ‘Look at that group, those five girls with the redhead in it.’
She moved towards the screen.
‘That girl with her back to the camera.’ She pointed her out. ‘Red top, black shorts, silver boots. Wasn’t that what Alex O’Connell was wearing?’
Ed nodded. ‘The girl who found Jack’s body.’
‘I knew getting around the shifts, reminding uniform what we needed in statements would pay off.’
‘Always get them to describe their own clothing,’ Ed said.
‘Exactly.’ Sam looked at Steve. ‘Thanks. Can we continue?’
They watched the two doormen approach the Mortimers, watched Jack adopt an aggressive stance, and watched the tall young bouncer lean in and speak to him. Glen Jones remained with Jack while Elliott and the other two backed off. Jack picked up a pint glass and threw half a pint of beer over the tall bouncer.
‘He’s very calm, the young one,’ Ed said.
‘Cool as a cucumber,’ Steve said. ‘Thirty-odd years in this game and he’s the most frightening I’ve seen. Not massive, certainly not aggressive, just controlled. Frightens the shit,’ he glanced at Sam, ‘sorry, life, out of me. He can apparently handle himself, not that I’ve seen him. It’s what you hear, some sort of martial arts champion.’
‘We’ll need names and addresses,’ Ed said. ‘I’ll need to speak to them both. Replay that bit Steve.’
He moved closer to the screen and watched the confrontation again.
‘The older bouncer? Is that Billy Wilson?’
‘Yeah. Been at it for almost as long as I have.’
‘Well I am impressed. Back in the day the Billy I knew would have levelled Jack for that performance. Is he going soft?’
‘Times change Ed,’ Steve said. ‘They’re licensed now. Cameras everywhere. Not as easy to give someone a kicking as it was years ago. Give them a kicking these days and it’s on somebody’s mobile, Fight Night on YouTube starring a doorman near you.’
‘Times might change but the Billy Wilsons of this world don’t,’ Ed said, standing straight. ‘They just become more careful.’
‘So who’s Billy Wilson?’ Sam asked, settling herself into the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford Focus.
‘He’s been around for years. Father did the doors. The whole family are fighters... him, his dad, and his six brothers. None of them have convictions for dishonesty, just violence. The plastic gangsters have hired them as enforcers over the years.’
‘Capable of attacking someone with a hammer?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ed said. ‘Especially if he’s dwelt on it, had a drink, popped a couple of pills. He’d see it as an affront, a liberty, someone challenging the Wilsons. Forget the fact the beer was thrown over the younger one, Wilson was there. He’d see it as an attack on him.’
‘What about the younger one, this Tom King?’ Sam said.
‘Never heard of him,’ Ed shrugged. ‘Steve sounded impressed.’
‘That’ll be Steve the overweight-Elvis-impersonating-misogynist?’
Sam put a cigarette between her lips, searched her trouser pockets for her lighter, and spoke through the corner of her mouth.
‘Terrified more like,’ she inhaled. ’Let’s do some background checks on the pair of them. And let’s call on Alex O’Connell. Tell her it’s a follow-up visit, we’re just checking if she’s alright.’
Ed turned his head, eyes off the road and glanced at Sam.
‘Her statement’s all about finding Jack Goddard’s body,’ Sam said. ‘It starts about five minutes before the discovery. We never asked her where she was before. In fairness, I didn’t expect the young cop who took the statement to do that. But if it is her in that group in
the Jolly Roger, her mate is telling the lads to do one.’
‘The issue being, did anything else happen between them?’ Ed asked.
‘Exactly. Elliott and two of his mates went home in a taxi after getting their kebabs. Jack and Glen didn’t. It opens up all sorts of scenarios. Potentially we have a witness who is involved in an argument with Jack and then contacts us saying she’s found a body.’
Chapter Seven
‘I’ll just give Monica Teal a quick call before we go in, bring her up to speed,’ Sam said, as Ed pulled up outside Alex O’Connell’s apartment block.
Ed got out of the car, arched his back, stretched, and waited for Sam to update the Assistant Chief Constable.
The apartment block was modern: communal glass entrance leading to a terracotta-tile floor and a concierge desk, two large pots containing green ferns either side of the glass doors.
‘Jesus, I didn’t live like this at Durham when I was at university,’ Sam said, getting out of the car. ‘Concierge on the desk, secure underground car park, balconies.’
‘Can’t see you in a hovel.’
They walked across the visitors’ car park.
‘It was clean enough but nothing like this,’ Sam said. ‘This isn’t normal student accommodation I can assure you.’
Ed pulled a face. ‘Student loans, live the high life, live for the day.’
Alex O’Connell buzzed them in and they took the lift to the 14th floor. There wasn’t a 15th.
‘Penthouse,’ Ed said.
‘Told you this wasn’t a typical student.’
‘Hi, come in.’ Alex was a 22-year-old second-year student. She was tall, elegant, and graceful with long ink-black hair that had a hint of blue swaying in unison with her slender hips.
The focal point of the room was a huge abstract painting, the eggshell pastel-coloured walls and cream, linen sofas the perfect foil for its vibrant colours and broad-brush strokes.
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