by Lisa Cutts
‘Now you mention it, fella, it must have been a bloke in the car.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Sophia smirk at the suspect calling him fella. Tom had bigger issues than what the prisoner was calling him. He needed details. They helped detect murders and put those responsible inside.
‘Tell me about him,’ said Tom.
He watched Leon as he put the paper cup down and screwed his eyes shut.
‘He was driving slowly, it’s why I remember the car now, though it’s the first time I’ve thought about it.’ He paused and opened his eyes. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I followed Mr Woodville and I know that it’s not right what I did, but driving past a bloke’s flat one time, that’s not a crime, is it?’
Leon put the question to no one in particular and the only response he got from Tom was a shrug. He didn’t want to interrupt his prisoner.
‘I can’t help you any more than that. I felt uneasy being there, watching him, like I was doing something wrong. I didn’t take a lot of notice of anyone else because I needed to get away to meet Toby.’
He threw himself back in his seat, tiredness showing in the dark rings under his eyes, now with a gentle crease around them as a smile played over his mouth.
He didn’t strike Tom as being particularly intelligent, although he had to admit he was getting to like him. He hadn’t given them any cause for trouble and had walked into the police station of his own accord. And now he was here, wearing himself out trying to help them find the identity of Woodville’s killer.
Perhaps it was too good to be true. Tom had seen The Usual Suspects.
He couldn’t argue with the CCTV from the number 72 bus, something they might not have got round to looking at for some time if it hadn’t been for Leon. Eventually, someone would have viewed it along with about two hundred hours of other footage, and that might have taken weeks depending on what other murders, kidnaps and stabbings had come their way, constantly pulling staff in a myriad of directions. Leon’s arrest had saved them days: something he would never know.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the car or driver?’ said Tom. He was aware that Sophia had sat forward in her seat, a sign that she was ready with her mop-up questions when Tom had asked his last.
‘No, no, fella,’ he said with a shake of his head, jowl wobbling. ‘I’m sorry. That’s it from me. If I could think of anything else, I promise I’d tell you. I wouldn’t have come in here and fed you half a story about Mr Woodville and the threats I made. I wasn’t going to mention the night he died, but now I have, I’ve let you have the lot. I’m certainly not someone who’d jump straight on the nines and call you lot if there’s a problem but now I’m here, why would I hold back?’ He shrugged, his ears disappearing under his enormous shoulders, neck nestled in his chest.
Sophia moved into Leon’s eyeline and tilted her head to one side.
‘Leon,’ she said, ‘other than when you saw Albert Woodville on Friday the fifth of November, the day he died, when was the last time you saw him?’
It was a flash of his eyes to the empty paper cup in front of him and a rapid licking of his lips that Tom took in.
‘Saw Mr Woodville?’ Leon said, voice dropping a level. ‘Blimey, I’m not too sure of the date. Toby saw him in town before I did, and be clear on this, he had nothing to do with what I’m telling you I did. I, I suppose I saw him in town a week or so after Toby warned me that he was about and that was what started the whole thing off. As I said before, it was seeing him wandering around, seeming not to have a care in the world.’
‘What was he doing that last time?’
Another ear-swallowing shrug.
‘Nothing really, love. He was walking around the shops. Hang on …’
A frown so deep engulfed Leon’s forehead it was more trench than lines.
‘Of course, of bloody course. That was the start of it.’
He pointed his index finger at her.
‘He was carrying a Toys ’R’ Us bag. I can’t believe I’d forgotten that either. The dirty, dirty fucker. Oh sorry, sweetheart.’
Sophia waved away his apology.
‘That’s why I followed him. He went to a café and ordered a drink. I went inside and asked for a sandwich, not really knowing if I’d get it and finish it before he left. Obviously, judging from the size of me, eating it in one mouthful wasn’t too much of a challenge but I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for it to arrive. Anyway, I thought I’d leave it to chance and besides, that’s not important. I got the grub, and he was still sitting there.
‘That was when I started to wonder what I was doing. I suppose I wanted him to see me and recognize me. Perhaps if he’d have come over and chatted, explained, apologized for the crappy way he treated me, I might even have felt differently. I would never have forgiven him but it might have made things a bit better. Oh, I don’t know.’
He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table.
‘I thought of moving away to another part of the country. I didn’t do anything wrong though, did I? I didn’t suffer as badly as some of the kids at the home, and there have been other places he was messing around with children, so I read in the paper. That particular time I saw him in town and he went to the café, I remember it was a cold day. For October, the weather was really on the turn. In my line of work, you’re always on the lookout for rain and when it freezes it cracks the skin on your hands.’
He held out his massive hands to demonstrate what that looked like. Both detectives stared pointlessly at his palms.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘what I’m saying is that it was cold that day. Two men came into the café. I was sitting at the back and there wasn’t much room. People taking a break from the cold. They’d warned there’d be a frost and I keep an eye on the weather. Have to, you see. It’s important for our job.
‘The two who came in couldn’t sit at the back. I’d taken the last table. There seemed to be a bit of a problem between them and one wanted to go out again, but the other insisted they stay. I couldn’t hear, only see. They were standing between me and Mr Woodville. It’s the only reason, I think, that I noticed them.’
He paused, his face strained.
‘Maybe it’s because I’ve not let myself think about it,’ he said. ‘I waited until Mr Woodville was ready to leave, made sure I’d paid my bill so I didn’t draw attention to myself and the fact I was about to follow him, when the two blokes made towards the door as if they were leaving too.’
From the expression that Leon was sporting, he thought that a revelation. Tom wasn’t so sure.
Just as Tom was about to break the bad news to him that two men walking out of a café weeks before Woodville’s murder wasn’t necessarily relevant, Leon gave the best bit of information to date.
‘The thing was, a woman walked past the café with two young kids, a boy and a girl, I think, and Mr Woodville rushed out. The two men in the café looked so worried. One of them went to the toilet downstairs and it was only a couple of seconds before the other one joined him. It made me think that they knew the woman but didn’t want her to recognize them. I’m not sure if it’s important but I thought I should tell you.’
Both Sophia and Tom maintained the Home Office-approved po-faced expression on being given the best bit of news so far.
‘It’s possibly important, Leon,’ said Tom. ‘Leave it with us and we’ll look into it.’
Inside his heart was singing.
Chapter 61
One thing was for sure, Hazel was glad that her first shift back in Major Crime was over. She was tired and it had been a long day. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she was able to relax.
She was pleased to be home and to have the time to appreciate simpler everyday things, such as opening her front door and a seeing a pile of letters lying on the doormat. They were real, tangible things that had been posted through the letterbox by a real person.
And there was something in there that she had been hoping for.
Kicking off her shoes and picking up the post in almost one motion, she forced the front door closed with one of her stockinged feet and sat on the bottom stair, mail on her lap. She ripped open the envelope in question and scanned the letter.
Hazel had waited for some time now for a building quote for an outside kennel. She had enough money saved for a modest run in the garden, but had held out for the right person, and the right price, so that she’d get exactly what she needed for overnight emergencies.
Despite the preoccupations of the day, there had been a small part of her brain set aside to fret about what it was going to cost her to give dogs a temporary home when their owners were fleeing from domestic violence.
She didn’t want to dwell on the real reason why it was such a relief to see that she could afford the kennel, which was that dog fostering was a way of putting her mind at ease over the death of Vanessa Meaden.
She crumpled the letter in her hands, held it to her chest, head bent.
The ferocity of her sobbing surprised her. By the time she’d sat listening to her own heart breaking for what seemed to be an eternity, she felt worn out, but a little less angry at herself or the world.
There was nothing she could do about Vanessa’s death; and she couldn’t prevent Vanessa’s husband – who by now must have served his time for killing his wife – from finding another victim of domestic abuse. But what she could do was play her tiny part in helping other women, other families escape from a dangerous and volatile home life.
And if she took pleasure from that, and from canine company, surely everyone benefited.
Chapter 62
The day had been a strange one for Dave Lyle.
Now he sat in his lounge, lights off, television on mute, third can of lager in his hand. He popped the top and guzzled almost half of the drink in one chug.
All his motives for visiting Millie were valid, he felt. He cared for her and she had been through a horrible ordeal, but he would be kidding himself if he didn’t admit that part of the reason he had gone to see her was to establish exactly how vulnerable she was. Finding out about her boyfriend’s sexual offending, and then his murder, had indeed weakened her resolve. The last thing he wanted was any more harm to come to her, although he couldn’t deny the feelings he still had for her.
It made him feel as though he too was a sexual predator but he had always admired her from afar, a little afraid of her rejecting him. He had hung back for far too long and when Clive came along, he knew that he had missed his chance. Begrudgingly, Dave had really taken to Clive. He had been that sort of person. Even if Dave had been seeking out reasons not to like him, he would have been hard pushed to find one.
Then there was the Ian factor.
Ever since they had met and become friends at school decades ago, they had looked out for each other. There had been something a little reckless about Ian, not that Dave was able to define it at the age of eleven when they were thrown together in the first year of their secondary school. It was a place that had seemed very daunting at the time, although they would never have admitted it then, not even to each other.
They had kept an eye out for one another, but as the years went by it was usually Dave who was reining in Ian, and the favour wasn’t often returned.
The pattern of his friend’s behaviour had become as familiar to him as the taste of the lager that was hitting the back of his throat now, although it was doing nothing to take away the memory of the day’s events. The look on Ian’s face that he had seen today in Millie’s kitchen, he had seen countless times before. No one single act or comment appeared to spark the reaction, and Ian had explained that even he couldn’t put his finger on what it was that made him feel so exposed and raw, and then angry and resentful.
That look was Dave’s cue to help out his oldest and best friend who had always been there for him.
He shook the lager can from side to side, found it was empty and contemplated the walk to the fridge to get another. On the short distance to the kitchen, he smiled as he remembered the open-ended flight he had booked a few years back for Ian so that he could get away to Crete and try a new way of life, even if for only a few months. It had cost Dave his own holiday money, but that was what friends did for each other. It wasn’t in his nature to turn his back on a friend in his hour of need.
Chapter 63
Tuesday 9 November
A very bleary-eyed Harry Powell opened that morning’s briefing with a rapid check around the room of who had turned up. He knew that Sophia and Tom had finished late and probably got no more than three hours’ sleep each, but both looked very good on it, and Pierre and Hazel had returned from Sussex much earlier than expected, via Charles Culverton. He was pleased to see that Gabrielle had taken his advice and was nowhere to be seen.
He still made a mental note to get someone to call her as he didn’t want her to forget she was part of the team and think she was out of their thoughts as soon as she was absent.
‘Morning,’ he said at the same moment he realized he didn’t have enough staff. One was on maternity leave and the flexible working arrangements meant that two of his DCs didn’t work on Tuesdays. He would have to ask DS Sandra Beckinsale to rustle up more officers, although heaven knew from where.
‘A fair bit happened yesterday after our midday get-together. Some of you know what Leon Edwards told us about the car and two men acting oddly in the café. It may be relevant, it may not be. Someone get the CCTV from the town centre. Often they keep it for a month or so, so we may still be in luck.
‘The car from outside the Co-op is a silver Renault Clio from the looks of it and we’ve got a partial registration of EA52. Intel have run some checks overnight and whittled it down to a list of several thousand, merely hundreds in and around East Rise. We’ll start local and widen it as we go. There are obvious links to Sussex on this investigation so we’re getting some assistance from them too. Any Clios with the same partial registration as our vehicle are a priority and the analyst has been tasked with putting together a chart, updating it as we get the results.’
He paused to scan his investigation team. Some were writing, most were looking at him, awaiting his orders. He had been in their position many years ago, sitting in the briefing room, wondering what the day would bring, guessing what role they would be given, and some keener to stay on well beyond their eight-hour shift than others.
‘Any questions so far?’
Silence. A few shakes of the head.
‘OK, good,’ he said. ‘There are several lines of enquiry that Sandra will be allocating today. Any links between the Clio and the mystery café men will be, in police speak, a right fucking touch.
‘In the meantime, I’ve listened to all that Tom and Sophia have told me about Leon Edwards. The upshot being the absence of a feel for him as Woodville’s murderer. However, he hasn’t given a plausible account for why he was following him and why he was outside his flat on the night he died. His mate in all this, despite Edwards’s insistence he was alone on Friday evening, is Toby Carvell. We know that later on Friday evening the two of them were together. This plus Carvell being one of Woodville’s original victims – who the jury chose not to believe – leaves only one option.’
Harry took a breath, and said, ‘I’ve raised Toby Carvell to suspect status. He needs to be arrested on suspicion of Albert Woodville’s murder and then we go back and visit the other remaining victims of sexual abuse from the 1990s.’
He looked at Hazel. ‘I know that you and Pierre started this yesterday. I’ll have to leave the rest to you as I’ve got no other staff. I’m ruling nothing out, including the possibility that even those who saw Woodville convicted for what he did to them might still have some sort of grudge as regards his further offending and what they perceive as leniency by the courts.’
‘Actually,’ Hazel said, ‘apart from Carvell, who’s getting arrested, we’v
e seen one. One’s dead and so that only leaves two. One of them was a not guilty against Woodville, the other a guilty.’
Harry thought about it for a couple of seconds and then said, ‘There’s a chance that one of the five of them, including Toby Carvell, had something to do with our victim’s death. We still need to make sure that Rochelle Harbour is dead. That’ll make us look bloody stupid if she’s alive and killed him. Let’s see what they’ve all got to say unless you get any strong feelings otherwise. Anyone got anything else they want to bring up?’
Harry went around the room asking each member of his staff, including police officers, civilian investigators and the HOLMES staff and typists. He listened to suggestions, complaints about not having enough resources and pleas from those in charge of the tea fund for everyone to pay their subs, and then the room was suddenly empty except for him and Barbara Venice.
‘How’s tricks, Babs?’ he said.
‘I remember all five of them, you know. It was my one and only brush with sexual abuse of children at ground level. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to deal with but I did my best, despite it not ending in a conviction for everyone involved.’
‘Think through our legal system,’ said Harry. ‘There’s a murder, the police are called. Trained crime scene investigators turn up, gather the evidence, send it to a lab where scientists in sterile conditions work away and return their findings to the police. The investigators, in the meantime, gather the evidence with their years of experience and detective training, liaise with the Crown Prosecution Service and fully qualified barristers who’ve cut their teeth on thefts, assaults and robberies, and then what happens? We take twelve random people off the street, say “have a look at this” and they say guilty or not guilty.’
‘Do you have a better system, Harry?’
‘Not one that the civil liberties people would let me get away with. Listen, my point is that you can’t predict or legislate for what untrained, random strangers are going to do. We’ll never know why the jury didn’t return a guilty verdict for Toby Carvell or—’ Harry hesitated. ‘Shit, I’m embarrassed. I can’t remember who the other person was the jury didn’t convict against.’