by Bill Rogers
‘Which you collected where?’
‘Round the back of the Old Smithfield Market.’
Somewhere else to check for CCTV.
‘The notes he gave you,’ Jo said. ‘Have you got any of them left?’
He shook his head again and shone the torch on the two bags.
‘I’ve got a fiver I was given as change, and a pocketful of coins,’ he said.
None of which would have on them the DNA of either the boy or the person who had set it all up.
‘I’ll need a statement, Barry,’ she said. ‘Is that your real name? McGinty?’
‘Didn’t I fall into a fortune and buy myself a goat?’
‘That was Patrick McGinty,’ Jo told him.
‘Well, there you go,’ he said, without a trace of an Irish accent. ‘We must both have been labouring under a misapprehension.’
‘I can have a word with the GMP Neighbourhood Policing Team,’ she said. ‘Get you housed?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I tried that. They told me I had to stop drinking. Then what would I do?’
‘You should get that cough seen to, Barry.’
He shook his head slowly from side to side.
‘Too late for that, Miss Stuart. Far too late.’
His voice was charged with resignation, but as it echoed around the arches it sounded mournful, almost ghostlike. He bent and picked up his bag. Jo reached inside her elasticated trousers and pulled out her wallet. She had come prepared to buy his information if necessary. She removed a twenty pound note and held it out.
‘I can’t force you to spend this on food, Barry,’ she said, ‘but I hope you do.’
‘I’m not a grass,’ he said. ‘In a former existence I used to be a chartered accountant. I told you what you wanted to know because I’m a concerned citizen.’
She smiled.
‘Call this a Christmas present.’
He put the bag back down, took the note, folded it, and placed it in the pocket of his raincoat.
‘Thank you, Miss Stuart,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘I’m only sorry that I cannot reciprocate.’ He held up the bag and jiggled it. ‘Unless you’d like a can or two?’
‘No thank you, Barry,’ she said. ‘You take care, and have a good Christmas.’
‘Fear not.’ He raised his torch and twirled it around like a fire stick. ‘I have a reservation booked with the Mustard Tree charity. Turkey and all the trimmings.’
As Jo walked off, he called after her, ‘Happy Christmas to you, Joanne Stuart!’
The effort set him off coughing again. The echoes followed her out on to Trinity Way where the driving rain merged with her tears, eventually washing them away. She reached her car, climbed in and sank back into her seat, heedless of the water from her clothes seeping into the upholstery. She had, she realised, been crying not just for Barry, but for those seven girls and their families, for herself, for memories of Christmas past, and in dread of the Christmas yet to come.
Chapter 42
Ram saw her enter the room, and came across to meet her.
‘I haven’t managed to find out a thing about the whereabouts of Ginley or Malacott on Saturday night and Sunday morning,’ he said. ‘The only way to do that is by asking them. And that’s going to alert them to the fact that we still regard them as suspects.’
‘Ram,’ she said. ‘Can I take my coat off first, please?’
His face fell. Jo instantly regretted taking her frustration out on him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I’ll fix us both a coffee. Give you a chance to catch your breath.’
She hung up her coat, put her tablet on the desk and logged on to her computer. There were twenty new emails since she had cleared her inbox over breakfast back at the apartment. She was halfway through them when Ram returned with the coffee. He placed hers on the Stockport FC beer mat, pulled up a chair and sat down beside her.
‘Where is everybody?’ she asked.
‘Andy’s coming in as far as I know.’ He pointed to the wall clock. ‘But it’s early yet. Harry’s in Warrington. Dizzy’s taken a half-day off to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. Max is over at the Central Park incident room bringing them up to date on your visit to the North East.’
‘Oh, God!’ she said, reaching for the phone. ‘I knew there was something I had to do – thanks for reminding me.’
‘You’d better make it fast,’ Ram told her. ‘That Skype interview you asked me to set up is in twenty minutes.’
The Operation Juniper office manager took the call.
‘Ged,’ said Jo, ‘it’s me, Joanne Stuart – can you put DI Sarsfield or SI Nailor on, please? It’s urgent.’
‘They’re both here,’ Ged replied. ‘Do you have a preference?’
‘Whoever has a speakerphone. I’d like them both to hear this.’
‘That’ll be DI Sarsfield, Ma’am. They’re both in his office.’
It took less than two minutes for Jo to update them on the events of the night before.
‘Are you alright, Jo?’ Max asked.
Her initial response was to wonder if he’d appreciate her asking him the same question had the tables been turned, but it was quickly cancelled out by her surprise that he genuinely cared.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘The reason I rang was that there’s still an outside chance that we may be able to track down the sender. I need someone to get round to the florists and see if they still have any of the banknotes that were used to purchase the flowers. And someone else to check the city centre CCTV on Great Northern Square either side of three pm. It should be easy to spot McGinty, and the youth following him. See if they can get a decent image of the youth.’
‘I’ll take the florist,’ Max volunteered, ‘then I’ll head back to the Quays.’
‘And I’ll have one of our expert identifiers get to work on the CCTV,’ said Sarsfield. He hesitated. ‘What do you think about our setting up an observation on your apartment building?’
‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘I appreciate your concern, but whoever set this up is far too clever to fall for that. I don’t see it as a genuine threat. More an attempt to divert us from the investigation.’
‘I agree,’ said Max. ‘Besides, whoever it is would be a fool to take you on.’
She was still smiling as she put the phone down.
‘Ram, this Skype interview,’ she said. ‘How long have I got?’
‘Sixteen minutes. Christchurch is twelve hours ahead of Manchester. It’ll be eight thirty in the evening there. I’ll set it up in our incident room, then you can play it on as many monitors as you want.’
‘I don’t want her thinking it’s a peep show,’ Jo told him. ‘This has to be just her and me.’
He nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll feed it into here, then there need be no one else in with you.’
‘While I’m in here, I’d like you to keep digging into Malacott’s time at university. What did he get up to? What he did in his spare time? Did he have any particular mates?’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I will know it when I see it.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Now, if you sit here, Ma’am, you’ll find it’s all ready to go. I’ve set up the connection. All you have to do is click the blue video icon when you’re ready. I set it recording in the office. Mr Swift has arrived, so he can watch it live.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘And I keep telling you, Ram, you can skip the Ma’am.’
He grinned, pistol-pointed at her with both hands, and made like a rapper.
‘You’re a poet, and you don’t know it.’
Jo picked up a pad of Post-it notes and threw them at him. They bounced harmlessly off the back of the door. She turned back to the monitor, took a deep breath, let it out and began to count the seconds down.
Chapter 43
In her mid-thirties, Amanda Malacott shared her bro
ther’s oval face and pale blue eyes, but there the likeness ended. She had neither his cleft chin nor his brown hair, and certainly not his brash confidence. What she did possess was a striking physical resemblance to the unsub’s prey. Elfin-like, she sat awkwardly on her chair, staring nervously at the screen. Her face, devoid of make-up, looked one-dimensional and pale against the deep-red, pageboy haircut. Jo felt an instinctive sense of compassion for this woman.
‘My name is Joanne Stuart,’ she said. ‘I’m with the UK National Crime Agency. I’m now showing you my warrant card.’
She held it up for the webcam. In the box in the bottom corner of the screen, Jo saw her ID magnified as Amanda Malacott zoomed in on the image. Jo nodded her approval. Sensible or cautious, either way it meant that she was nobody’s fool.
‘And you are Amanda Frances Malacott?’
A slight nod of the head. ‘As was,’ the woman replied in a steady voice. ‘I’m now Amanda Kelly.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m married.’
It almost sounded as though she was surprised by her current status.
Jo smiled and softened her tone. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way, Amanda,’ she said. ‘And I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you agreed to speak with me. Oh, and is it alright if I call you Amanda?’
Another nod, the hint of a smile, but no reply. Jo would have expected her to be asking what this was all about. She had explicitly asked Ram not to tell her in case it frightened her away. Jo’s hunch now was that she already knew.
‘You can call me Jo. I’d like your permission to record this interview. Then I won’t have to take any notes. There is no one else in the room. And I promise not to use the recording outside this building without contacting you first. Is that alright, Amanda?’
Another nod.
‘Yes.’
Behind Amanda, Jo could make out a dressing table and closed curtains with a maple-leaf print.
‘Are you alone, Amanda?’ she asked. ‘Or is someone there with you?’
‘I’m alone.’
‘Are you in your own house, Amanda?’
A shake of the head, a hint of concern.
‘No, I’m at a friend’s.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Jo, immediately computing the reasons why she had chosen not to do this in the comfort of her own home. There could be a perfectly understandable explanation, such as them not having broadband. On the other hand . . .
‘This is about my brother, isn’t it?’
Brother, not Sam.
‘Yes, Amanda, it is.’
Another nod. This time her voice had a tremor to it. ‘What has he done?’
‘We don’t know that he’s done anything, Amanda. He’s one of a number of people who have come to our attention in relation to a current investigation. He’s what we term a person of interest, that’s all. I’m hoping that you may be able to shed some light on his early years so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’
‘Or otherwise.’
‘Yes, or otherwise.’
Amanda flicked the fringe of her hair in an unconscious gesture, and eased herself a little further from the screen.
‘This current investigation,’ she said, ‘is it to do with girls?’
Jo felt her pulse quicken. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it involves young women, rather than girls.’
‘And are we talking serious incidents?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we are. But I’m not able to give you details at this stage. Not until after we’ve completed this interview.’
To do so would leave Jo open to accusations of leading the witness, and run the risk of compromising her evidence.
Amanda leaned forward again. Her face filled the screen. Her eyes searched for an answer.
‘Murder?’
Jo was rocked by the implications, and by the matter-of-fact tone in which it had been said.
‘Not murder,’ Jo said, ‘not yet.’
Amanda sat back in her chair and folded her arms.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.
‘Whatever you feel may be relevant,’ said Jo. ‘In your own time. There’s no rush. Take as long as you need, Amanda.’
Jo watched as she stood up and adjusted something on her chair. I was right, she thought. She’s sitting on a cushion. I need to ask her how tall she is. But not yet. Let her tell it her way. She hoped that Andy had arrived. She wanted him to be able to see it live. Amanda sat down again. She placed her hands out of sight on her lap, composed herself and looked up.
Chapter 44
‘It was just before my tenth birthday,’ Amanda began. ‘He was fifteen. Our father walked out that summer; he never came back. Our mother was really unhappy. I realise now that she was suffering from clinical depression. She cried a lot, except when she took to her bed, which was most of the time. My brother looked after both of us. He took me to school and picked me up. He made most of the meals. He did most of the shopping. He had two part-time jobs: a paper round and helping a gardener on our estate. He used to give me weekly pocket money.’
She smiled despondently and looked down.
‘We became very close. I needed him; I think he needed me too.’
She raised her head again and stared at the top of the screen, as though gazing into the distance.
‘Around Christmas time our mother seemed to recover, at least enough to start going out again with some of her friends. She let him babysit me whenever she went out.’
She paused. Jo was worried that she might not be able to continue. But then she blinked and carried on.
‘That was when it began. I remember the first time. “Let’s play a game,” he said. “This one is called My Little Pony. It’s how everyone finds out about sex. Lots of brothers and sisters do it if they really love each other, but because it’s a secret no one will tell you about it. Trust me, you’re really going to enjoy it. But don’t tell anyone or we’ll both get into big trouble. You do love me, don’t you?”
‘He started stroking my hair and calling me his beautiful princess. He said my hair was like a pony’s mane.’
Amanda raised her hand to her hair and plucked at it self-consciously.
‘It wasn’t always this colour. I started dyeing it when I met my husband, Jed. Just before I came out here with him.’ She paused. ‘It used to be blonde and long – right down to my shoulders.’
She lowered her head. There was an even longer pause. Jo held her breath and waited. After what seemed an age, Amanda raised her head and looked directly at the camera. Her voice when she spoke had a harder, bitter, less self-pitying edge.
‘Afterwards, he gave me some chocolate buttons.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t eat chocolate now, it makes me vomit. He said that I was all grown-up now: a proper young woman. That he would never hurt me. It would get easier, he said.’
She spat the words out. ‘ “You’ll come to enjoy it. I promise.” ’
She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘He had no idea.’
This time the silence stretched on and on. Jo felt she had no option but to intervene.
‘How long did it continue?’ she asked.
Amanda’s pupils dilated and she blinked twice as though emerging from a dream.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
‘I was asking how long it went on for?’
‘Oh, about three years,’ she said. ‘He went off to university. While he was away, I started pulling my hair out in my sleep. The school were concerned. They told my mother she should take me to our GP. My mother thought it was alopecia – the GP put her straight. He arranged for me to see a child psychologist.’
She shook her head at some distant memory.
‘She didn’t have a clue. She just assumed that it must be because I was missing my father.’
‘And you didn’t tell her the truth?’
‘I didn’t think she’d believe me. And even if she did, I kn
ew by then that it was wrong what he’d been doing. What he’d made me do. I knew that they’d take him away. And I thought everyone would blame me – that our mother would blame me. That’s what he told me when he came home at the end of the first term and found out I was seeing the psychologist. I could tell that he was frightened. Scared stiff. I told him that if he ever touched me again I would tell her.’
That thin smile appeared again.
‘He never did. And we never spoke of it again.’
Suddenly her face disappeared as she stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I need a drink of water.’
Before Jo had time to respond, Amanda had left the room. Jo waited impatiently, praying that she would return. Even if she didn’t, if the interview was over, there was enough to justify a concerted push on Sam Malacott. Jo was more concerned, however, about Amanda. It was important that she finished telling her story. Important for her. She need not have worried. A hand appeared, carrying a glass of water. The rest of Amanda followed as she eased herself into her seat.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. She seemed different somehow: more at ease, more confident.
‘Don’t be,’ said Jo. ‘You’re doing fine.’
Amanda put the glass down.
‘Where was I?’ she said.
‘Neither of you ever spoke of it again. You were, what, fourteen or fifteen? He was back from university.’
Amanda nodded.
‘I stopped pulling out my hair and started sleeping properly. My grades picked up. I stopped seeing the psychologist. But I was lonely. I hadn’t really made any friends all the time I was at high school – I was frightened to let anyone get close. And I couldn’t have brought any of them home for a sleepover, could I.’
She looked up, seeking agreement. Jo nodded.
‘You didn’t want to put them in jeopardy.’
Amanda nodded and repeated the word, savouring it.
‘Jeopardy. That’s a good word for it.’
She picked up the glass, took a drink and put it back down.
‘I got the A-Level grades I needed for university, but I didn’t have the confidence to apply. That’s something else he robbed me of.’