Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  ‘Sit down, please, Wendy.’

  She sat down at the kitchen table and watched Julia stir her sugarless tea. She noted the dark circles under the eyes, no doubt a result of working late last night. She envied the way Julia could always look so chic in spite of her long straight hair and never going to the hairdresser. And the way she could wear the plainest dress as though it came from those catwalks on the telly.

  At last Julia looked up. The skin was taut across her high cheek bones and her big blue eyes wide open, almost as though she was purposely removing all emotion from her face. ‘I’m worried, Wendy,’ she said. ‘Crime is increasing in Wilmslow. Houses like ours the target. Youngsters on drugs looking for small, expensive items. Money. Jewellery.’

  Wendy nodded. Poor Julia. Obviously upset, but it was impossible to tell what she was really thinking. A strange woman. So cool. But then, in her job she must be able to keep a straight face, even though she dealt with things far worse than dead dogs. She remembered the day Julia got married to Mister Simon. The reception was here at Hillside House, when Mr and Mrs Grant were still alive, flowers everywhere, a big marquee in the garden. Not once did she see Julia touch Simon’s hand. Or kiss him, not even when they were dancing. She was like that with Nicky too.

  Julia put down her cup and took a deep breath. ‘So from now on, Wendy,’ she said, slowly like, as though she had all the time in the world yet wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say, ‘we must all take extra precautions.’

  Wendy nodded. She could see Julia wasn’t finished, and it was obvious she needed to talk. So she poured another cup of tea while she waited for her to carry on. She wanted Julia to feel she was here for her because there didn’t seem to be anyone else she could talk to so openly, except perhaps the superintendent.

  ‘You see, that break-in has brought home to me how vulnerable we all are,’ Julia said at last. ‘Nicky will have to be guarded even more carefully than she is now.’

  ‘But Julia, she’s never out on her own.’

  Julia shook her head. ‘No, Wendy,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean that. I mean we must never take our eyes off her. Not for a single moment.’

  Wendy stared at her. ‘I can understand you being worried. But when she’s not at school I’m always with her. Nothing will ever happen to Nicky. I can promise that.’

  But Julia wasn’t listening. ‘We can’t afford to take any chances. From now on we’ll keep the gate closed, the outside doors locked. Nicky must never, never be out of your sight.’

  Wendy gulped. ‘But she’s never on her own as it is.’

  ‘I know, Wendy.’ Julia’s voice softened and for a moment she actually smiled. ‘But there’ve been some dreadful incidents recently. I’ve written to Miss Haydock about extra precautions at the school.’ She pointed to a sealed white envelope on the table.

  Wendy squinted at Julia. The kids at St Mary’s were never allowed out of the grounds. And with that new high fence, all this seemed a bit over the top. Duke’s death was a tragedy, but this was not like Julia at all.

  ‘And if you go shopping, please don’t leave Nicky in the car. I want you with her every moment. I want you to hold her hand.’

  Wendy felt a surge of pity for her employer. She had everything that money could buy, yet this one break-in seemed to have got to her in a big way.

  But who was she to argue? A little extra care and attention wouldn’t be any hardship, though she wasn’t sure it was a very healthy move. Children needed some space of their own. That’s what Julia had always said in the past, and one day, if she was lucky, that’s what Wendy would like for her children too.

  ‘Nicky’s dressed and ready to go,’ Julia said. ‘She’s upstairs with Duchess.’ It seemed as though she was trying hard to smile, sort of forced, like everything else about her this morning. ‘But don’t drop her off too early. And park your car as near the gates as possible. And walk with her until you hand her over to one of the teachers.’

  ‘Sure. Don’t you worry. Anybody touches her they won’t know what hit them. I don’t have a black belt for nothing, you know.’

  Wendy couldn’t believe she’d actually said that. Her black belt status had never been discussed before but she’d always known instinctively that Julia felt her precious only daughter was in the best possible hands. So why not rub it in, if it helped to make Julia feel safer.

  She reached over the table and pressed her hand on Julia’s. For a moment she thought she saw a tear in the corner of her eye, but she must have been mistaken. Julia Grant wasn’t the crying kind. She was as tough as they make them, like she had an invisible shield to hide her feelings.

  ‘I’m thinking of doing that self-protection class at the fitness club you told me about,’ Julia said as she stood up to go. ‘Oh, and Wendy, you might wait outside the school for a few minutes after you’ve dropped her off. Just to make sure she’s safe.’

  Wendy watched the kitchen door swing backwards and forwards on its springs. She couldn’t bear the thought of a life like Julia’s. On her own. Scared stiff. Bringing up her kid without a father.

  As soon as she heard the front door close she reached for the phone. She might catch Alan before he went out on his first plumbing calls, and then on the way back from dropping Nicky off she’d pop into Boots for the pregnancy test. Just to make absolutely sure.

  - 32 -

  Paul looked up from his Monday morning pile of mail. Most force problems were well sifted before they reached his desk but he still needed to know about them. And operational planning and policy decisions were not things that could be hurried.

  ‘Sit down, Kevin. The trace on Julia Grant’s phone. Anything come up yet?’

  ‘Nothing, boss. You’ll be the first to know. But shouldn’t we cover her office phones as well?’

  ‘Smith knows there’d be her PA to go through first so he’s more likely to try her home number. There’s nothing private about that. She dishes out cards to every blasted criminal she sees. Besides, she’s hardly ever in the office.’

  ‘And her mobile?’

  ‘Too often switched off. And for some reason she doesn’t make it public.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  Keeping his promise to Julia, Paul had decided to keep to himself the details of Julia’s phone call on Saturday night. Normally he would relay such information to Kevin who would plan his strategy accordingly. While acknowledging her request that no one else should be told in view of the potential danger to Nicky if indiscriminate vigilance were openly exercised, in the light of Avril’s murder he hoped to intensify the hunt for Smith and step up discreet protection for Julia, although it was difficult to know what more to do without her permission. Several times he’d been on the point of organising her phone to be tapped, but each time something held him back.

  He’d been shocked by her revelations. The audacity of the man incensed him. To twist the likes of Joe Sagoe round his little finger not only to fix his escape but also to track every detail of Julia’s life. To have entered her home undetected, shot her dog and then demanded two-fifty grand or he’d harm Nicky. That made his blood boil.

  ‘By the way, boss, Sagoe swears he wasn’t driving the van. They were wearing masks so the witness could have been mistaken. Unfortunately he’s not the only grossly fat man in Manchester.’

  ‘Damn.’ Paul rattled his fingers on the desk. ‘What about prints?’

  ‘Gloves.’

  ‘Of course.’ Paul’s lip curled with rage.

  ‘Sagoe’s still in custody at Greenheys, boss. Can’t hold him any longer without a charge. Says it was coincidence Smith was near his house when Avril was shot. Says he hadn’t been home for days. Could be true. But he’s always a tough nut to crack. Never says a word.’

  ‘Well, if we don’t get a confession today, we can always pick him up again. Tell me as soon as you hear anything.’

  Just then Paul’s phone rang. ‘I’ll get back to you later, Kev.’

  Kevin walked to the d
oor. ‘I’ll be at the incident room, boss.’

  Paul nodded then picked up the receiver.

  ‘Morning, Sir.’ It was Ann Forrest’s voice, secretary to Bill Brownlow, Assistant Chief Constable, Crime. His immediate boss.

  ‘Morning, Ann.’

  ‘He wants to see you, Sir. Can you come up?’

  Paul looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. Strange. His regular meetings with the ACC were always at nine.

  He groaned at his overflowing in-basket, then drained the last drop of cold coffee, wondering what was on Bill Brownlow’s mind. He knew the ACC well and had an uncomfortable gut feeling of what it might be about.

  He made for the stairs. Walking to the top floor would be good exercise and also give him a chance to formulate his reply to his boss.

  The door to Ann’s outer office was wide open, as usual. She smiled. ‘Go on in and take a seat. He’s on the phone, but won’t be long.’

  Paul dropped his shoulders, knocked gently and walked in.

  - 33 -

  The Assistant Chief Constable motioned Paul to sit down. He was still on the phone, his back to the window, his face in darkness. Paul always felt at a disadvantage coming into this office with the glare of the light, and sometimes the sun, full in his face.

  Through the window he could see Old Trafford cricket ground, the distinctive redbrick pavilion, the immaculate oval surrounded by tiered stands. Beyond it lay the vast suburban criss-cross of Stretford and Sale, with Cheshire’s emerald green hills rolling into the distance.

  He glanced at the ACC’s solemn face, the astute brown eyes, the broad intelligent forehead. The experienced cop with a good dry sense of humour.

  The ACC put down the phone. ‘How are things, Paul?’

  ‘Not bad, Sir.’

  ‘Anything further on Smith?’

  ‘No joy yet. But it’s early days.’

  Bill Brownlow pursed his lips. Like everyone else in the force it was obvious he was not only saddened by Avril’s death, he was enraged.

  Paul ran his forefinger under his collar. ‘But if I’ve got nothing in forty-eight hours, Sir, I’ll begin to worry.’

  The ACC looked long and hard at Paul. In that instant Paul knew he’d been right. Bill Brownlow knew about Julia.

  ‘Paul, I hear whispers that your involvement with this is more than professional. Are the whispers correct?’

  Paul looked straight into Bill Brownlow’s eyes. He had always appreciated the direct approach. It was the method he himself employed. However, he didn’t run murders any more. Normally he wouldn’t be dealing with such a case. His job entailed decision making and co-ordinating at a high level and was mostly administrative. He had two detective superintendents reporting to him. As detective chief super in charge of operations, his was essentially the watching brief, unless something catastrophic happened. On the big scale, Smith’s escape and the murder of a police officer were hardly in the catastrophic category. Prisoners did sometimes escape, and sadly officers were vulnerable to attack, but clearly Bill would know that as far as Paul was concerned personally, Smith’s threat to Julia and his killing of Avril had put this case well and truly in the catastrophic category.

  ‘Yes, Sir. They are.’

  It never ceased to amaze Paul how everybody else always seemed to know more about your private life than you did. Until this weekend he had never formulated his relationship with Julia, had never considered her his woman. From the start he’d known there were too many professional variances, although she attracted him more than any woman ever had.

  ‘What is the position, Paul?’

  ‘Well, first of all, Sir, if I’m involved with a case in which Mrs Grant also has an interest, then my dealings with her are at a professional level.’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’ The lines on Bill Brownlow’s forehead deepened. ‘But you work on opposite sides of the fence, Paul.’

  ‘Not really. I’m doing my job, she’s doing hers. She’s very good at her job and I have a great deal of respect for her, although I can’t say the same for all the criminal solicitors I know. But at the end of the day we both want to see justice done.’

  Put on the spot like this, he was surprising even himself with his impromptu appraisal of his friendship with Julia.

  ‘Yes, but there’s a difference, Paul, isn’t there? Say you have a man you consider guilty of an offence. You’ve put together evidence and the Crown Prosecution Service has decided there’s a case to answer. Mrs Grant might be representing that man, and it’s up to her to see if she can get her client off. However, my question was not in fact relating to your professional relationship with Mrs Grant, as I’m sure you realise.’ His eyebrows lifted, indicating that it was now over to Paul.

  Paul cleared his throat and did his best to relax the muscles in his neck. ‘I’ve known Mrs Grant for some years, Sir, but our - our relationship, as you refer to it, is by no means consolidated.’

  ‘I presume you mean that your intentions are serious but that Mrs Grant’s are not.’

  The ACC was a shrewd man. He didn’t miss much. ‘That’s about it, Sir. She’s ─ ’

  ‘Playing hard to get?’ A touch of a smile softened one side of Bill Brownlow’s face.

  This whole conversation was putting ideas into Paul’s head. Wasn’t it about time he made a positive move to put their friendship on a more intimate level?

  ‘Not exactly. I see her often. We have outings together. Concerts, picnics with her daughter. If I could, I’d . . . well . . .’

  Paul thought his boss was going to finish this sentence for him too, but instead Bill Brownlow brushed his moustache with his fingers and straightened his face. ‘What I have to consider now, Paul, is whether someone else should take over the major responsibility for the recapture of this man. It could go back to Kevin Moorsley.’

  Paul was pleased he had his reply on the tip of his tongue. ‘Sir, it still is Kevin’s case. But I know this man Smith. I’ve been involved with him for years and I’m not going to let him slip through the net again. And even though I am emotionally involved, to a limited degree, I would ask for the opportunity to continue on the case.’

  ‘Emotions are very powerful things, Paul. You’re angry about Avril Scott. You’re concerned about the safety of Mrs Grant, doubled the surveillance on her home, put a trace on her phones. We don’t know what will happen next. You might have to do certain other things that could be hurtful to her. It’s difficult to make professional decisions during a time of emotional stress.’

  ‘I know that, Sir.’ The ACC didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘Say for instance, Paul, that someone dear to you has been murdered and I’m in charge of the case. It could be that the suspect wouldn’t be treated as fairly as he might be, because my strong emotions would be involved in the decision making.’ He paused, lowering his head but keeping his gaze fixed on Paul. ‘Have you made professional decisions regarding Mrs Grant only because they were necessary?’

  Paul felt his anger rising. ‘Yes, of course they were necessary. We have a duty to protect the public.’

  ‘Or did you make them because you were being over protective towards her? The two things could clash, you know. I’m not saying they do. But they could. And your concern could become greater as Smith becomes more desperate. We both know you make decisions to protect what is most important to you. And they might not always be the right decisions as far as your job is concerned.’

  Paul drew himself up in his chair. ‘It’s unthinkable that I would let my involvement impair my professional judgment, Sir.’

  ‘Okay, Paul. I accept that. Carry on with the case.’ He leaned towards Paul. ‘But, I’m relying on your professional ability and judgment. You’ll know when you’re getting too involved. And that is the time you’ll come and see me.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We understand one another, Paul?’

  He had a sudden image of Julia. Her flowing blonde hair, her smile. Her intense blue eyes.
Her calm well-modulated voice with its velvety tones. Her vulnerability in spite of that tough outer facade . . .

  ‘Right on the line, Sir.’

  Paul walked slowly down the stairs to his office. He sat down at his desk and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He needed to see Julia. She was the number one known contact. He wondered fleetingly whether Bill Brownlow had been right, whether his obsessive concern for Julia was potentially obstructive. He knew only too well that it was the classic conflict the ACC had alluded to. It was important to recapture Smith without delay, but equally important to him that Julia and Nicky were not exposed to danger. Especially now, with all the added complications.

  He picked up his phone and dialled Julia’s number at Lloyd Grant.

  - 34 -

  Julia rested her elbows on her desk, her head in her hands. A quarter of a million pounds was a huge amount of money. Money she didn’t have. She reminded herself that there were only two ways she could try to raise it, a bank loan or the money held in trust for Nicky. Both had little chance of success.

  John Cartwright had been bank manager to the Grant family for many years, but getting a further loan on top of the massive one she’d recently raised when they opened another Lloyd Grant branch in Longsight, would be a tricky one. No amount of Cartwright’s smarmy charm could mask the fact that he was bound by rules and regulations, and yet Julia with her faith in human nature couldn’t help hoping their long association just might dip the weights in her direction.

  She dialled his number. ‘I’m afraid he’s not in yet,’ his secretary said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she replied. ‘And very urgent. A matter of ─ I mean, could you please ask him to ring me as soon as he arrives.’