Catherine peered through the hatch in the door of the cell she’d led Milica Zukic to earlier, feeling a little uncomfortable about doing so. Zukic hadn’t been arrested and there was no real suspicion that she had done anything wrong other than believing the words of a relative she should have been able to trust. Zukic lay on the blue plastic-covered mattress on her side, face to the wall, head pillowed on her arm. The custody sergeant opened the cell door, and Catherine entered, closely followed by the interpreter, Dr Whelan, who had volunteered to spend the rest of the day working on his laptop in the station canteen in case his services were required again. From the jam on his jacket it also looked to Catherine as if he’d found the time to sample a couple of doughnuts while he was there; she’d fallen foul of their explosions herself more than once. Zukic sat up, startled, then turned so she sat on the bunk and smiled warily at them. She looked exhausted, thin and very young.
Catherine held up the sheaf of photocopies she carried, and said to Whelan: ‘Please can you tell Milica I need her to look at these photographs and tell me if she recognises anyone? I might have more photos later for her to look at too.’
Whelan nodded eagerly and approached Zukic, smiling and waving his hands as he spoke. Zukic listened, head tilted to the left, and then replied. Whelan turned back to Catherine.
‘She said that’s fine, she just wants to help. She wants to know what will happen to her,’ he said.
Catherine tried to add reassurance to the smile she offered Zukic. ‘I honestly don’t know, I’m afraid.’
Whelan spoke again to Zukic, who smiled thinly back at Catherine and stood up.
‘Do you want her to look at the pictures here, or…?’ Whelan asked.
‘I think we need a little more room,’ said Catherine, glancing around the tiny cell. They always gave her the creeps. She led Whelan and Zukic back through to the main station, then to a small room that was usually a place for visiting solicitors to wait. Zukic dropped into a chair, looking expectantly at Catherine, who took the seat opposite. She held up the first mugshot: a balding, obese man who glared fiercely at the camera. Zukic shook her head. This went on for some time. Catherine had only four photos left, when the one she held up to Zukic caused the young woman to stare, face paling. She leant towards Catherine, holding out her hand to take the paper. Catherine handed it to her, and she gazed at it, visibly distressed. Catherine waited expectantly, and Zukic spoke, her voice low and panicked. Catherine didn’t need Whelan to translate the word “Vuk”. Elated, she checked her notes. The man was Donald Woffenden, fifty-one. He lived about twenty miles from Northolme. Don then, not Ron. This seemed far too good to be true. She asked Whelan to check that Zukic was sure, that this was definitely the man she called the Vuk, the man who she had met on her first full day in Britain, who had transported her to the house she had been forced to stay in. Zukic was emphatic, vehement almost – this was the man. Catherine leapt out of her chair, stuck her head out into the corridor and grabbed the nearest person, asking him to track down DI Knight. She quickly showed her remaining photos to Zukic, but again, more apologetic headshakes. Catherine didn’t mind; she had her golden egg. Knight appeared, expression confused.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Milica has just confirmed this,’ Catherine waved the picture in Knight’s face, ‘is the man she told us about, the Vuk.’
Knight grabbed the photo, studied it. ‘She’s sure?’
‘Positive. She’s certain.’
They both spun around as footsteps hurried down the corridor towards them. It was Claire Weyton, a sheet of paper in her hand, her expression eager.
‘Sergeant Bishop? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I’ve found something. The man you called Ron? There’s a Don Woffenden who we suspect of being involved in that kind of activity – we’ve not been able to really get anything on him as yet, but…’ She glanced from Catherine to Knight and paused as realisation dawned. ‘Oh. You already know, don’t you?’
‘Only just,’ Catherine reassured her. ‘Milica Zukic recognised him from a mugshot. I was going to come straight down to let you know.’
‘Do you want me to keep looking?’ Weyton asked them.
‘Please, for now,’ Knight said. ‘Catherine will let you know if we get useful information from Woffenden – it might take a while to find him.’
Claire smiled. ‘Okay – I’ll grab a cup of coffee and get back to it.’
‘Thank you,’ Knight called after her. He turned back to Catherine and said: ‘Let’s bring him in.’
Chapter 21
DC Varcoe approached Catherine, who was pacing the incident room floor, waiting for the message to say that Donald Woffenden had arrived in the interview room. Catherine didn’t see her, almost knocked her over as she turned at speed.
‘Sorry, Anna, bit distracted. What have you got?’ In her excitement, she’d forgotten where Varcoe had been.
‘Steve Kent didn’t go to school with Craig Pollard. I spoke to that teacher, checked the records, and it was pretty clear that wasn’t our link, so I went to the Pollard’s house again. Reception was a bit less frosty this time. I was even offered a cup of tea. I persuaded Mrs Pollard to get a few old photos out: Craig in the football team, Craig in the pub pool team before he was old enough to drink, all that sort of thing, but no luck. However,’ she looked pleased with herself, ‘Mr Pollard gave me the name of the bloke who used to run the youth club Craig went to for a while – before he got chucked out, anyway. I found him, retired now, and guess what, he remembers Craig Pollard and Steve Kent being mates. Seems they met at the club. Kent lived out of town. He gave me a few more names, too; I’m going to run them through the computer now, see what falls out.’
‘Good work, Anna. Let me know how it goes, please. Sounds like you’ve got the Pollards wrapped around your little finger now then?’
Varcoe smiled over her shoulder as she made for the door. ‘Not sure about that, but they’ve definitely calmed down a bit.’
Catherine heard a mobile ringing in the hubbub of the incident room, and it was a few seconds before she realised it was hers. She managed to get it to her ear before the voicemail cut in.
‘Catherine Bishop.’
‘It’s DS Etheridge here from West Yorkshire?’ Male, gruff voice, didn’t really want to be making the call.
Catherine screwed up her face. ‘Oh, right, hello.’
‘You wanted us to find the sister of a victim for you, break the news?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘Well, we’ve done that. She wants to talk to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She says she’s got some information she wants to share with whoever’s investigating her brother’s death, and that’s not us, so she won’t talk.’
‘But—’
‘I know, but that’s the way it is,’ Etheridge interrupted. ‘Do you want her details?’
‘Go on then.’ Catherine stepped quickly to a nearby desk, fumbling for a pen and scrap of paper. She scribbled down the information, and Etheridge was gone.
‘What a charming man,’ Catherine said in a posh voice to herself. Receiving the call had reminded her that she hadn’t replied to Louise’s text message and that she had better do it now while her phone was still in her hand and she had a spare few seconds. She typed:
Case moving, could be very late, will keep u posted C x
She took a deep breath and put the phone away.
* * *
I wonder if she ever smiles properly? Knight thought, nodding firmly at whatever Superintendent Stringer had just said about the fast-approaching press conference.
‘And this Mr Woffenden is on his way in?’ asked Kendrick.
‘Should arrive any minute,’ Knight confirmed.
‘Can I just be sure I understand why we want to speak to him?’ Stringer took a sip of water from a crystal tumbler that sat by her elbow. ‘Our witness saw Woffenden in the house she was kept prisoner i
n, and we therefore think there may be a motive for him to kill Steven Kent?’
‘At this stage, we just want to find out what he knows. We want to know about the brothel he was allegedly involved with, not to mention the people trafficking, prostitution…’ Knight shrugged.
‘According to Intelligence, he’s been a person of interest for quite some time.’
Knight nodded. ‘That’s right.’
The phone by Stringer’s perfectly manicured hand rang, and she lifted the receiver to her ear.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and replaced the receiver, looking at Knight. ‘Mr Woffenden is downstairs.’
* * *
Knight met Catherine in the dimly lit corridor of the interview suite, though Catherine had always thought “suite” quite a flattering term for the straggle of grim little rooms.
‘He’s in Two,’ she said to Knight. ‘Milica Zukic had a look at him through the two-way mirror, and she’s still sure it’s him. He’s not too happy to be here.’
Knight opened the door.
‘Finally. Are you going to tell me what the fuck I’m doing here, or do I have to guess?’
Woffenden stared aggressively at them as they took their seats. Catherine started the recording, stated her name and rank and the date and time. Knight confirmed his own identity, Woffenden shuffling in his seat impatiently before grudgingly saying his name.
‘What’s this about?’
Knight leant back in his chair, calm and relaxed. ‘Mr Woffenden, do you know a man called Steven Kent?’
Woffenden glared. ‘Kent? No. Is that it? You could have phoned and asked me that.’
Knight ignored the comment. ‘What about a woman called Ivona?’
‘Called what? What are you on about?’
‘Ivona. A woman. Do you know of any women called Ivona?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. What is this?’
‘It’s known as an interview, Mr Woffenden. Looking at your record, I can see you’ve sat through several in the past. I’m surprised you don’t recognise the experience.’
Woffenden sat back, mirroring Knight. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘aren’t you clever?’ He smiled to himself.
‘I’ll ask you again. Do you know Steven Kent, or a woman called Ivona?’
‘And I’ll tell you again, no I fucking don’t.’
‘Didn’t you want legal representation, Mr Woffenden?’
‘You what? Why should I? I know I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Catherine stared at Woffenden, a horrible realisation dawning. She opened the file she held on her lap, discreetly examining the mugshot of Woffenden. Oh, shit, she thought.
‘Mr Woffenden,’ she said. ‘Do you have any tattoos?’
‘Tattoos? No, no way. Not a fan of needles. My twin brother’s got a few, there’s huge one his chest, but not me. I was ill a lot as a young lad, had no end of blood taken; put me right off. You going to tell me what that has to do with anything?’
Knight looked like he wanted to ask the same question. Catherine sighed, told the tape recorder the interview was stopped and the time, and led a bewildered Knight out of the room. In the corridor, she stabbed at the mugshot with her finger.
‘Look, you can see the top of a tattoo here, where his shirt collar starts. We’ve got the wrong man. We need his brother.’
Knight groaned as realisation dawned. ‘How the hell have we managed that?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘It’s my fault, I should have checked,’ she said.
‘How were you supposed to know he had a twin brother? What are the odds? We can’t blame Milica, she wasn’t to know either, or Claire Weyton, come to that.’
Catherine scowled. ‘I doubt the DCI and the Super will see it like that.’
‘Looks like the Mr Woffenden we have through there has done his brother a big favour then.’
‘Seems so.’
They went back in, resumed the interview for the tape.
‘Where’s your brother?’ Knight said.
Woffenden grinned. ‘You mean Ron? No idea, mate, I’ve not seen him for weeks. I’ve been minding his flat for him, and when your brave boys in blue came looking for Mr Woffenden, I naturally did what any good citizen would, and came quietly.’
Chapter 22
Ron Woffenden rubbed his eyes. It had been a long drive, not wholly unexpected, but still sooner than they’d thought. At least he could lay low here for a while. It was the usual sort of place: a terraced house on a run-down street, an area where no one made eye contact or spoke to each other. Perfect. Don had done him a big favour, but he’d have to stay away from his brother now, out of contact for a while. He still wasn’t sure how they’d got onto him so quickly; maybe the tip-off about the raid had been accurate after all. No one had believed it, but they’d moved on anyway. Always plenty more houses to go to, and it didn’t take long for the punters to realise you were there. Lucky that Don knew next to nothing about his brother’s work really.
* * *
If Kendrick had been annoyed the previous day, it was nothing compared to the ranting he treated Knight and Catherine to when he heard about Woffenden. He stormed around his office, smashing his fist into his palm, reminding Knight of John Cleese playing Basil Fawlty.
‘What were we playing at? How the bloody hell are the Superintendent and I supposed to explain this one at the press conference which, if I could remind you, is in less than an hour? Do you want to see us chewed up and spat out in the morning papers? We shouldn’t have gone haring after Woffenden to bring him in. We should have been cautious, watched him. The whole lot of them will have disappeared for good now: Ron, all his mates and the poor cows that slave for them. How the hell are we going to get to them now?’
Catherine bit her lip. Knight kept his eyes on the desktop. Their silence infuriated Kendrick.
‘Do either of you give a toss about this?’ he demanded.
‘We still have Milica Zukic,’ Knight said.
‘And what bloody use is she now, the poor lass? She led us straight to Woffenden, and what happened?’
‘The killer of Steven Kent, who may or not be linked to Ron Woffenden, doesn’t know that the passenger in the back of Kent’s van didn’t actually see the murder. We could use that to our advantage in the press conference, not mention Woffenden at all. There’s no reason anyone should know about it.’ Knight spoke calmly.
Kendrick sat behind his desk, his fury finally exhausted. ‘Go on.’
‘We know Pollard and Kent were mates when they were younger. We don’t know of any link between Pollard and Zukic, Pollard and Woffenden or Ivona and this house Zukic was held in. That could be because there isn’t a link. Kent may have done some delivering for the people Woffenden and Ivona are involved with, and no more,’ Knight said.
‘And at the press conference…’ Kendrick waited.
‘At the press conference, we say we have a person helping us with enquiries who was a passenger in the vehicle Kent was travelling in shortly before his death. It was DS Bishop’s suggestion.’
Kendrick pinched his lower lip, thinking about it. ‘We try to put the wind up the killer?’
‘Something like that,’ Knight said. ‘We wanted Woffenden brought in because he was a link to Kent, but he’s also part of this trafficking gang, and the sooner we speak to him the better. That’s not to say finding Woffenden will bring us any closer to whoever killed Pollard and Kent. I think we’re agreed that the same person killed them both?’
‘The message seems to confirm that,’ said Catherine.
‘Or someone wants us to think it’s the same person,’ Kendrick said quickly.
‘The two messages were identical though,’ Catherine reminded him.
‘The fact is, we just don’t know. I’ll speak to the Super about all this, see how she wants to play it. You two better get out of here, before she comes for a quiet word with you as well.’
Kendrick turned pointedly to his computer screen.
* * *
Back in the CID room, Catherine threw herself into her chair. ‘Was there any need for that? It’s not like we brought in the wrong bloke on purpose.’
Knight found himself a seat. ‘He’s right though. Woffenden will have gone to ground, along with all his mates.’
‘What are we going to do with the other Mr Woffenden?’
Shaking his head, Knight sighed. ‘Kick his arse out of here I suppose,’ he said. ‘We won’t get away with charging him for anything.’
Catherine scowled. ‘Smug bastard. I’m sure he enjoyed stringing us along.’
‘No doubt. We need to find somewhere safe for Milica Zukic too, especially if she’s mentioned in the press conference.’
With a grin, Catherine said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of inviting her to stay with you as well, sir?’
‘No more spare rooms, Sergeant. Unless you’re not coming back tonight?’
Catherine blushed, the first time Knight had seen her even remotely embarrassed. ‘Not sure, have to see how it goes. I need to tell you about the call I had from West Yorkshire…’
Chapter 23
Anna Varcoe reached for her coffee, took a sip, screwed up her face, had a quick check around and spat the cold liquid back into the cup.
‘I saw that,’ said Catherine from the other side of the room. She got up from her chair, moved to stand beside Varcoe. ‘Any luck?’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare, Sarge. This investigation is like unravelling wool – just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you find more knots.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Catherine said with feeling. ‘Fancy a trip to Leeds?’
Varcoe looked up. ‘Leeds? Why?’
‘A little bird there has told us she has some information. Come on, get your bag.’
Varcoe got to her feet, picked up her jacket. ‘A little bird? Who do you mean?’
‘Steven Kent’s sister. Last one to the car park can drive.’
On Laughton Moor Page 13