‘Paul, any chance of a cuppa?’ Sam called out. ‘Do one for Ed, plenty of sugar.’
Ed loosened his tie. ‘So who is coming out of the club?’
‘Tom King,’ Sam said. ‘So much for him going home after work.’
‘He must have gone home and come back out,’ Ed told her. ‘He was too sure the taxi driver would alibi him.’
Paul appeared with the tea. ‘The kettle had just boiled.’
Ed had just put shaking fingers around the mug when he fell from his chair, the steaming tea hitting the floor a fraction before he did.
Paul dropped to his knees and was rolling Ed away from the tea before Sam and Bev were out of their seats. Ed was out cold as Paul struggled to move him into the recovery position.
Bev ran to the toilets, returning with dampened toilet paper she used to mop Ed’s brow and face.
Slowly he began to come round and Sam helped Paul lift him so he was sitting with his back against the wall.
‘Take it easy, Ed,’ Sam said. ‘You passed out.’
Ed’s speech was slurred, his eyes fighting to focus.
‘No idea what happened there. Sorry…Thanks,’ he mumbled.
‘You need a doctor,’ Sam told him. ‘Bev, can you call?’
Ed slowly shook his head and began to clamber to his feet.
‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine. Maybe something I’ve eaten. More embarrassed than anything.’
Sam pressed him but Ed, sounding more like himself as the minutes passed, was adamant.
The compromise was Paul driving him home.
‘I’ll ring you later,’ Sam said, still shaken. ‘And don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. Get some rest. Play it by ear. And I still think you need a doctor.’
Ed managed a weak smile. ‘I’ll be okay.’
When Paul and Ed, still unsteady, had left, Bev shook her head.
‘None of us are getting any younger, and we still push ourselves,’ she said. ‘This is a young person’s game, Sam. Me and Ed, we’re not in our 30s any more. Long hours. Constant pressure. It’s no wonder he flaked out.’
Sam nodded, wondering if she was pushing her team too hard.
‘Let’s see how he is tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Tell everybody to knock off early tonight, get a flyer. Paul’s done the interview strategies for Tracey, Alex and Charlotte. We’ll get them in tomorrow, and I want Tom King bringing in as well. That should do for tomorrow. Hopefully by Saturday tea-time the lab will have the DNA results on the blood.’
‘Okay,’ Bev said, ‘And Sam, don’t just preach to us. Look after yourself. How your brain doesn’t go pop... ’
Sam’s eyes were dull with fatigue but she couldn’t switch off.
‘You know the most interesting thing I learnt today, Bev?’ Sam said. ‘The real leader of the Mortimers is Elliott Prince.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sam eyed the microwave glumly and searched the freezer. There was a pasta dish she might eat later but for now, the lunchtime curry would do. She went to the wine chiller, selected a 2010 Albert Grivault, and popped the cork on the bottle of white burgundy.
She had spoken to Sue Whelan before she left the office. Ed was sleeping.
She kicked off her shoes, walked into the sitting room and sat down.
Elliott Prince was a conundrum, identified by Ed as the weak link but who had nonetheless thrown paint through a police station window. He was a frightened young man when he brought them the picture of Jamie Telford, then played down taking photographs of sleeping girls. He was also the student who named all the dead in the river as wearing the ‘slags and beer’ T-shirts.
Sam tilted her glass, looked at the clarity of the wine, took a long sniff, swirled her glass, and sniffed again. Elliott Prince was bothering her. What was that film? The weak member of the gang, a man with a limp, turned out to be the leader... convincingly lied his way through a police interview. What was it called?
‘The Usual Suspects’, Sam said aloud, remembering Kevin Spacey’s turn as the bad guy, Keyser Söze.
Sam leaned back, closed her eyes. Was Elliott Prince their own Keyser Söze? She laughed. Bev was right. They were all in danger of cracking up. She took a sip of burgundy.
Friday 18th April 2014
As soon as she walked into the building, one of the detectives from the Intelligence Cell appeared behind her.
‘Boss, I’ve got the text traffic between Tracey Davies, Charlotte Swains, and Alex O’Connell.’
Sam stopped. ‘Anything useful?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Bring your stuff up to my office.’
Sitting at the desk, she laid out the analytical chart. A series of boxes contained a typed message then the name of the sender.
‘This lot is just for the night of Jack Goddard’s murder, the Saturday through until Sunday,’ the detective told her.
Sam read the messages, most of them none evidential but short snaps of conversations giving a glimpse into the lives of young female students. The messages after 9pm caused Sam to sit up.
9.16pm. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Some cheeky twat wearing those T-shirts walked up to me in the pub and asked for a shag
9.30pm. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Bouncer threw him out after he threw pint over him I hope he beats the shit out of him
9.50pm. Amber University. To Tracey Davies. See where he goes. Might be able to get something later.
‘Do we know who this Amber University is?’ Sam asked.
The detective shook his head: ‘No. She’s listed in all three phones as Amber University, same number. We’re getting a subscriber check done.’
Sam already knew exactly who she was.
10.20pm. Alex O’Connell. To Tracey Davies. Are you two in Rendezvous
10.20pm. Alex O’Connell. To Charlotte Swains. Are you two in Rendezvous
10.35pm. Tracey Davies. To Alexander O’Connell. Yes and so are the wankers.
‘No messages from Charlotte?’ Sam asked
‘Not yet,’ the detective told her. ‘Later though.’
12.33am. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Tossers in Rendezvous.
12.38am. Amber University. To Tracey Davies. Do what you can
03.35am. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Me and Charlotte just left. Not alone.
03.36am. Amber University. To Tracey Davies. Where’s Alex.
03.37am. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Still in club.
03.37am. Amber University. To Tracey Davies. Are they pissed?
03.38am. Tracey Davies. To Amber University. Mortal
03.44am. Alex O’Connell. To Charlotte Swains. You ok.
03.44am. Alex O’Connell. To Tracey Davies. You ok.
03.46am. Tracey Davies. To Alex O’Connell. Yes.
‘Is that the lot?’ said Sam, looking up.
‘Yes.’
‘Any pictures?’
‘Just the usual rubbish they all seem to take,’ the detective said. ‘Nothing of interest to us.’
Sam was disappointed. Those conversations could be about anyone, anywhere. They could deny all the messages were about Jack Goddard.
The detective spoke again. ‘We’ve also triangulated the phones. Tracey’s and Charlotte’s are by the tow path. Alex O’Connell’s phone’s in the town centre.’
Sam stood up, slowly. ‘Wow. Good work.’
‘Cheers Boss.’
Ed called Sam as he left the house and she told him about yesterday’s conversation with Luke Wylam.
He felt better after a decent night’s sleep, but passing out for the first time in his life worried him. Why had that happened? Sue told him to take things easy, have a few days off, make an appointment with the doctor. She wasn’t happy he was going into work on Good Friday but he had too much on his plate. He’d get around to the doctor eventually.
Ed knocked on Tom King’s door. All the curtains were closed but as he knocked louder, he heard the footsteps thud down the stairs.
‘Can I come in, Tom?’
His white boxers looked new, the green T-shirt creased.
‘What now? I was working late last night. I should still be in bed. It’s Friday, a bank holiday, and I’ve got a busy night ahead in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Ed slapped down the attitude.
‘If you prefer, we can do this down the nick and you won’t be anywhere near work tonight,’ he said. ‘You can have bed and breakfast on the Queen and catch up on your beauty sleep. Now, can I come in?’
Tom King turned around, leaving the door to the bungalow open. Ed followed and sat down in the large lounge.
‘Nice place.’
‘It’s mum’s,’ Tom told him. ‘Once I got out of care, we used the money from the house, our house, you know, the house where it happened. It was sold when I was a kid. Mum wanted a bungalow for when she gets out. I printed the photos off for her. She liked it and I bought it. But I’m sure you’re not here to talk about my mum’s bungalow.’
He sat down.
‘Tom, look, if it’s any consolation I... ’
‘It’s not,’ Tom stopped him.
He was sitting on the edge of the settee, back straight, his muscular defined arms flexing slightly.
Ed stretched his legs and leaned back into the armchair.
‘What I mean is I knew your mother, and... ’
Tom jumped in again. ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. He beat us up all the time. You’d know that if you knew my mum. I was 12 when she killed him. But we used to talk, me and mum. We couldn’t understand how he never got charged. He’d get arrested sometimes, but not often. Even then he’d be out next morning.’
Ed sat up. Domestic violence had always been difficult for the police. There always seemed to be a new initiative... zero tolerance... changing the name to domestic abuse… a recognition women didn’t need to be physically beaten to suffer. Women’s groups were quick to point the finger and Ed felt the police could do better.
‘I’ve been to too many so-called domestic murders over the years,’ he told Tom. ‘We should be more proactive when women tell us they don’t want to continue proceedings.’
Tom’s face flushed.
‘My mother never asked to drop the charges and she ended up with a simple choice – kill or be killed. My father once said he had immunity. If she didn’t behave herself, he’d beat her to a pulp and nothing would happen to him.’
Ed stared at the young man. Tom King was getting ready to deliver some sort of punch-line.
‘My father was a police informant and it didn’t matter how much he beat me and mum, he was looked after. Well, whoever was looking after him didn’t count on my mother crushing his fucking head with a spade.’
Ed didn’t move, watching Tom’s eyes mist.
‘Their precious information was more important than my mother’s health.’
His shoulders suddenly heaved and his voice, fighting to keep the sobs in the pit of his stomach, sounded like it was at the end of a bad mobile phone connection. ‘Never mind her happiness.’
Ed stayed silent and motionless. He would wait, let the young man compose himself.
Tom lifted his T-shirt and rubbed his eyes and nose.
‘Sorry. You still haven’t said why you’re here.’
‘I want your work shoes.’
‘You what?’
‘I want your shoes,’ Ed told him. ‘Take them away for tests. If there’s nothing on them, you can have them back.’
‘And if there is something on them?’
Ed’s voice was calm. ‘You might be in the shit.’
Tom sat back and looked around the room.
‘Well you can’t have them then.’
‘Then I’ll arrest you on suspicion of assault, search your house under Section 18 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and take your shoes,’ Ed said. ‘If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Either way, I’m not walking out of this bungalow without checking every pair of shoes here.’
‘What, so you just took his shoes?’ Sam said.
Ed was in her office, washing down two paracetamol with a mouthful of lukewarm tea.
‘Luke Wylam doesn’t want to make a complaint, according to you,’ he said. ‘Besides, he wasn’t bleeding. All we’ve got on Tom up to now is the fact that on the night Jack Goddard was killed he lied about being at home. Let’s see if Jack’s blood’s on his shoes.’
Sam nodded. They’d both worked on investigations where offenders had burned their clothing. Those who were clever, who knew they may have been captured on CCTV, even bought identical clothes to those that they’d burned so they could give the new ones to the police. But many criminals forgot about burning their shoes – thought a polish, or a wash in the case of trainers, would do. Sam and Ed had come through with some great results where tiny amounts of blood had been trapped behind the eyelets.
‘Didn’t he ask why you wanted them?’
‘I told him it was about an assault,’ Ed said. ‘He didn’t bat an eyelid. If I’m honest, I don’t think it’s anything to do with him.’
‘Why?’
‘He thinks the world of his mother,’ Ed said. ‘He’s sorted the purchase of a really nice bungalow. Well kept. The lawn was immaculate. She’s serving time for murder, but she’ll be out in a couple of years. Would he really risk serious time because some arsehole was rude to women? He might not like bad manners... who does? But would he sacrifice his liberty for some shit-bag? I don’t think he would. If we find Goddard’s blood on his shoes, we can go and get him and we’ll have a bit more to talk about than the fact he was seen coming out of a club when he said he was tucked up.’
Two hours later, Sam picked up the office phone and punched the numbers.
‘Darius, it’s Sam…’
Christ, I must get this phone cleaned before I catch something.
‘Fine thanks. Tonight, from about 5.30pm, we’ll be in Aisha’s street, doing door to door… Yeah, we want to do it again to see if anyone remembers anything… I’m just trying to jog people’s memory.’
She waved Ed into her office, jammed the phone between her ear and shoulder, held her arms out in front of her and rotated her hands as if she was steering a car.
Ed nodded.
‘I’m going to put a Fiesta, identical colour to Sukhvinder’s, at the top of the street. It’s just been confirmed we’ve borrowed one. If Aisha did run away with Sukhi, then it’s inconceivable he didn’t use his car. He might not have driven to her door, but he must have driven where she would at least have seen him.’ Sam paused then spoke again.
‘Course you can take photographs,’ she said. ‘We want maximum publicity. It’s all about trying to find Aisha… you’re right, I don’t know which end of the street he would have parked, so every 20 minutes I’ll have a police officer drive it to the opposite end.’
Ed smiled. Genius. Much better than leaving it parked up. If Aisha’s family had anything to do with her disappearance, if they knew Sukhi had a car, this would make them very uncomfortable. Every resident in that street would grasp Sam’s tenacity; every resident would see that car.
‘Yeah,’ Sam continued. ‘Peter Hunt from the press office is chasing up the local TV. I think they’ll send a crew... good visuals, a car like the boyfriend’s and a dozen uniforms knocking on doors... that’ll be great, see you there…I’ll be there, of course, and so will Ed.’
She replaced the receiver.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Ed said.
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
One of the detectives from the Intelligence Cell appeared at the door.
‘Boss, we’ve got the subscriber check through.’ He said. ‘Amber University is Amber Dalton. We’re just waiting to see what we can get from her phone.’
Sam closed her eyes for a moment before she spoke again.
‘While you’re on, check the Facebook accounts of
all the girls,’ she said. ‘Any joy with Mortimers and their accounts?”
‘Still ongoing,’ the detective told her. ‘Open source Internet examinations can take a bit of time boss.’
Once the detective had left, Sam brought Ed up to speed.
‘So the big news of the morning,’ she said. ‘Tracey and Charlotte’s phones are on the tow path, Alex’s is in the town and also out and about is Amber’s.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I’m sick of chasing these two,’ Bev said, as she drove out of HQ. ‘All day yesterday on and off looking for them and back out this morning. It’s not as if we’ve got nothing better to do. It’s their mate who’s been killed, Telford who had his picture taken.’
Paul Adams was trying to turn Bev’s rant into white noise when he suddenly sat bolt upright.
‘Quick, pull into the bus lane,’ he shouted. ‘There’s Jones!’
Glen Jones was walking among the few pedestrians.
Paul flung the door open and was running before the car stopped.
‘Glen.’ Paul had his hand on Jones’s shoulder before the student had turned around. ‘We need a word. You’ve been telling porkies and we’re not happy about it.’
‘What are you on about?’ Jones spluttered, taking half a step away.
‘Get in the car,’ Paul ordered. ‘We’ll sort this out it in private, away from the street and law-abiding citizens’ phone cameras.’
He ushered Jones towards the kerb, pushed down on his shoulder and shoved him into the back seat. Bev activated the child locks and pulled swiftly away when Paul jumped in.
Jones was agitated, squirming around on the back seat and trying to maintain an air of aggression. The timidity in his shaky voice showed he was failing miserably.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 46