‘No. I’m just presenting you with the facts.’
‘So why did you tell Cedar House he might be?’ He was definitely turning puce now.
‘I didn’t tell them that. I just presented the facts to them as well, because it might be connected to their investigation. Surely they need to be notified of anything connected to Whitlock?’
‘They’ve got their hands full as it is. Another one of the Pacific Square firefighters was murdered overnight.’
‘Jesus,’ said Godden, genuinely surprised.
‘Something’s going on, Mike. I don’t what it is yet, but the wheels of something are turning. Have you seen Jimmy, by the way? He hasn’t come in and he’s not answering his phone.’
‘No, but he was coughing and sneezing all day yesterday. Probably a summer cold.’
‘Fuck’s sake. If he’s not coming in, he needs to pick up the phone and—’ Warrender was interrupted by a ping from his computer signalling the arrival of an email. As he always did mid-flow, he cast an eye across it in case it was something important. Now it was his turn to look surprised, and this time Godden knew exactly why.
‘Someone’s given up Raymond Spinney?’
Finn was looking out of the incident room window, with his phone tight to his ear. He hadn’t particularly warmed to Andy Warrender the first time they’d spoken, and the sense of a well-meaning blunderer was only intensifying. The sound of elation in the man’s voice was only matched by Finn’s own natural caution.
‘I’ve just been sent an anonymous email. You ever heard of Sandbury?’
‘It’s in Kent, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah – a small village, south of Ashford. The email claims that’s where he’s been hiding out. He’s been using the alias George Caldwell, and apparently even runs a small business out there.’
‘That’s all you’ve got? Just a tip-off?’
‘No, more than that. There’s a time stamped photograph attached, taken the day before yesterday. It’s from Sandbury railway station’s CCTV camera – it’s blurry, but it’s a good enough ID for me. There’s also a sample of his handwriting, an invoice from Caldwell’s business. It’s a perfect match with the samples we’ve got on file for Spinney.’
‘And you’re tracing the email?’
‘Obviously, but I’m not expecting to get much back. Anyone with the balls to do this isn’t going to want to be found. I’ve contacted Kent Police and they’re preparing a raid.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as; they’re just getting their ducks in a row. If it is Spinney, then they don’t want him slipping away. Christ alone knows what kind of protection he’s got.’
If there were bent cops on the payroll, thought Finn, this would soon prove it. He wondered what the betting was that Kent Police would find nothing through the raid. He took stock, focusing on a shaft of sunlight coming through the window and watching the dust particles dancing in it. Something about all of this felt off.
‘Don’t you think this is all a bit convenient? All of a sudden some evidence appears implying Whitlock might have returned from the dead, then twenty-four hours later someone gift-wraps you the location of one of the most wanted men in the country?’
‘What have you found on Whitlock?’ said Warrender. He sounded irritated, unhappy at having his big breakthrough questioned.
‘We’ve only just started looking into it. When he died he was identified by his dental records. So the question is – did someone get to the forensic dentist? We’re getting hold of the original documentation and will take it from there. But I’ve got to say, I’m more interested in why someone might want us to think Erik Whitlock survived – and why they’re chucking it into the mix now.’
‘I’m going to need to interview Martin Walker and Stuart Portbury. I need to know what they know,’ said Warrender.
‘No,’ replied Finn instantly.
‘What do you mean “no”? You should have interviewed them days ago.’
‘We did,’ replied Finn testily. ‘Is there reason to believe the members of that fire crew came into some money? Yes. But right now I’m more interested in keeping them alive. A secondary investigation can wait until we’ve caught the psycho who’s trying to kill them.’
‘Oh fuck off,’ said Warrender with pure frustration.
‘Pardon?’ said Finn. There was another long pause, and when Warrender spoke again, it was with audible restraint.
‘I have to focus on Spinney. If there’s any chance of getting him into an interview room, I have to take it. You’ve got your investigation and I’ve got mine. If there’s anything you need to know I’ll be in touch – all I ask is the same courtesy back. And I am going to need to sit in a room with Portbury and Walker, sooner rather than later.’
‘Sure, but I need you to back off until the killer’s caught.’
‘And what if you don’t catch him – what if he kills both of them first? Where does that leave me?’
‘They’re both under round-the-clock surveillance. They’re going nowhere, and we aren’t going to let anyone hurt them. Once we’ve caught the killer, then you can have them. With any luck, you’ll have Spinney soon and then the threat will be off the table anyway.’
Finn could understand why the other man was so on edge. After being the butt of so many jokes for so long, Warrender needed this. Hanging up the phone, he turned and found Paulsen patiently waiting for him.
‘I’ve just been talking to Erik Whitlock’s widow,’ she said.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Only that she might be able to help us with a live investigation. She’s happy to come in and speak to me.’
‘Good. Does she still have her husband’s remains?’
‘I thought I’d work up to that one . . .’ said Paulsen.
That was going to be a conversation, thought Finn. Someone’s ashes couldn’t be reliably DNA-tested. But if the recovered dental remains were still intact they could be re-examined. If it could be proved they were definitely Whitlock’s, then it would end speculation about a resurrection once and for all.
‘It’s in someone’s interest to start a rumour that Whitlock’s still alive, so let’s knock that firmly on the head before it gains any more traction. When she comes in, tell her we’re going to need her husband’s teeth back.’ He said it as deadpan as he could manage.
Paulsen gave him a look which said ‘are you sure?’ and just for once, he didn’t blame her.
Chapter 46
Erik Whitlock’s widow, as it turned out, was quite beautiful. The dark-haired woman in her forties waiting at the front desk looked anything but the stereotype of a gangster’s moll. She presented more like a high-powered businesswoman. Her elfin features belied a hard pair of eyes though. She looked like someone well versed in keeping secrets, thought Paulsen.
‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Whitlock. I’m sorry it was at such short notice; I hope it’s not been too much of an inconvenience.’
‘I don’t use that name any more,’ she said, as Paulsen led her down one of the station’s long antiseptic corridors. Mattie guided her to the soft interview room. A more relaxed and comfortable environment, it was normally a place where children or vulnerable people were taken to be gently questioned.
‘So how can I help you?’ the former Mrs Whitlock asked, with little warmth. She clearly wanted to get whatever this was over with as fast as possible. Paulsen could see it was going to be difficult. The barriers were up, but there was something about this woman which also made her feel sympathetic too. She sensed beneath the hard exterior was someone who’d suffered, and that was a combination she understood only too well.
‘Someone appears to have gained access to information only your husband would have had any knowledge of. Has anything irregular occurred in the last few weeks or months? Has someone unexpected made any kind of contact with you, for example?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’ Again, the same dismissive tone.
‘Perhap
s an email, or an unusual phone call?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Can I ask if you’ve stayed in touch with any of your husband’s friends or business associates?’
The ghost of a smile crossed the woman’s features.
‘Business associates? No. I can’t say I was in touch with any of them when he was alive.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way to ask this question, so I’m just going to ask it. Has anything occurred in the last five years that’s ever made you question whether your husband might still be alive?’
There were any number of ways the woman might have reacted. She could have screamed, got angry, laughed, or even just walked out. She did none of those things. Instead she frowned and rolled her head for a moment. Paulsen persisted. ‘We think it’s possible someone might be trying to suggest he is. I can only imagine how distasteful you find that. We just want to put a stop to it.’
‘And how exactly do you intend to do that?’
‘We’d like to re-examine his dental remains – if you still have them?’
The woman arched an eyebrow; Paulsen wasn’t sure if it was in surprise or disgust.
‘You doubt the findings of the original examination?’
‘We want to be sure they weren’t falsified.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t have them. What was left of Erik was scattered on a beach in South Africa a long time ago.’ Paulsen tried to conceal her disappointment, and the woman looked faintly amused. ‘There is something I will tell you though. Whether it will help or not, I don’t know. For the past eighteen months, on the first of every month I’ve received a package through my letterbox. It must be delivered by hand overnight, but I’ve never seen anyone. There’s no postage on it. It’s quite anonymous and I genuinely can’t tell you where it comes from or who’s sending it. There’s cash inside – you’ll forgive me if I don’t tell you how much. It’s enabled me to live without worry. Why am I telling you? Because as far as I’m aware no crime is being committed.’
‘That might be a premature assumption . . . but you think that it might be Erik that’s sending you this money?’ said Paulsen.
‘I’m under no illusion of what kind of man my husband was, or of what circles he mixed in. I know that I loved him, and that he loved me. Do I find it conceivable that he might have made a provision for me in the event of his death? Yes, I do. Do I think it’s possible his death might have been staged? As I say, I know what kind of world he operated in – and what he might have needed to do to protect me. What you have to understand, DC Paulsen, is that to me he’s like Schrödinger’s cat in that burning building. Both alive and dead at the same time, and I’m quite comfortable with that.’ She smiled and kept her eyes locked on Paulsen’s, and it felt oddly as if they’d reached an understanding of sorts.
Martin Walker poured the tea from the pot and then peered into his cup suspiciously.
‘Sorry, love, should have let this steep a bit longer. I hate pissy tea.’
‘I don’t care about the fucking tea,’ snapped Christine. It wasn’t her language that surprised him, but her tone; the terror he could hear behind it. The mantelpiece clock seemed to be ticking louder than Big Ben.
‘What’s the matter, love?’
‘I’m scared, Marty.’
‘There’s no need to be.’
He went over to the window and peered through the curtain. DCs Claire Lowton and Dave McGilligott were still sat in the car parked on the other side of the road. He’d taken them a flask of tea earlier, and apart from a few requests to use the toilet it was easy to forget they were there. Walker found them a reassurance even if his wife didn’t. The police seemed more concerned with protecting them than questioning him again, and for that he was grateful.
‘Are you sure you don’t want some tea? It’ll do you good.’
‘I’d rather talk. It’s time you told me the truth about a few things, Martin.’
‘Such as?’
‘All of it . . . starting with this.’ She motioned at the room, the house that surrounded them. ‘I’ve always left the financial side of things to you, but I know your pension’s not that great. How did we afford all this? The chairlift, the ramps, the Harley Street consultants; it must have cost tens of thousands?’
‘You don’t need to worry about it.’
‘Martin – please. People have died. There’s so much you’re keeping from me.’
‘For your own good,’ he snapped.
The words were followed by a long silence. It was the first time he’d actually acknowledged that truth.
‘Why does someone want to kill you? You stole money, didn’t you? And now whoever you took it from wants it back?’
She’d hit the nail on the head, and now he was trying to understand just why he was so reluctant to tell her. If there was anyone who deserved to know, it was her, but he couldn’t do it. And deep down he did know why. To admit what they’d done made him a different man, a common thief. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look her in the eye again once the confession was made.
‘I think we may need to move away for a while,’ he said.
She put her hand to her mouth and from across the room he saw a silent tear slowly roll down her cheek.
Stuart Portbury looked more irritated than anything, thought Finn. Like he’d been told the afternoon forecast was for showers. He was sat opposite the former firefighter in his modest living room in Greenwich. Finn wanted to check for himself how Portbury was bearing up after the double whammy of Maddox’s death and the decision to deploy round-the-clock protection. He was also the only other member of the fire crew he hadn’t met for himself. Like the others, something wasn’t quite right, even if he couldn’t put his finger on it. Portbury seemed more put out by the surveillance units outside than the death of another former colleague.
‘Does it have to be twenty-four seven? Really?’
‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘I honestly don’t think I’m in any danger.’
‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but if I was in your shoes I’d be worried,’ said Finn.
‘I understand why you’re saying that, but do you know how many firefighters attended Pacific Square? It’s in three figures. Are you telling me they’re all in the cross hairs of this psycho?’
‘No. But we have reason to believe that your old crew are.’
‘We’ve already been through this. I told your colleague – I didn’t even go in the damn building. I certainly didn’t take any money. You must have been through my accounts by now?’
‘Whether you did or didn’t take any money is irrelevant. What matters is whether someone else thinks you did . . .’ Finn let it hang there as Portbury caught on.
‘Until we catch them there’s a very clear threat to your life. You won’t notice the officers going about their work, but they’ll be there if you need them. And you might just end up very grateful for that.’
‘And how am I supposed to do my job? What kind of tradesman turns up with a police detachment in tow?’
Did this man need to be taken to the morgue to see the barbecued remains of his ex-colleagues? Finn almost said it out loud.
‘It might be an idea to forget about work until this is sorted out.’
Portbury sighed.
‘And how do I earn a living in the meantime?’
‘I’m sorry, I really am. But we can’t just ignore it. We have a duty of care.’
‘Duty of care . . .’ Portbury repeated the words slowly as if hearing them for the first time. ‘Now there’s a phrase.’
Chapter 47
DC Susie Gyimah hadn’t slept well. She blamed the foxes who’d been shagging, fighting or whatever it was they did at three a.m. to make such a godawful noise. Now, at her desk trying to focus, she was paying for it. She quickly stifled another yawn as she saw Mike Godden making his way over. She wasn’t his biggest fan; the arrogant bugger could use some manners
frankly. He treated DCs and PCs like something he’d stepped in, then smarmed up to Warrender like they were joined at the hip. He was a lazy sod as well; always getting other people to do his legwork for him. She’d also seen him get just a bit too friendly in the bar with some of the younger female officers. Something smelt bad there, and she tried to avoid him where possible. Not today it seemed.
‘Alright, Suze,’ he said, flashing an irritating smile.
‘Sarge.’
‘What are you cooped up in here working on then?’
She tried to remember the last time he’d made small talk with her and couldn’t. As a rule, he bantered with the boys and ignored the girls – in the office at least. Jim Farmer was his normal stooge, which was a shame because if you got Jim on his own he was a decent bloke. Godden seemed odd this morning, almost skittish. He normally swaggered through CID.
‘Paperwork. I’ve got a shitload from yesterday which I haven’t caught up on.’
‘Well, that’s one thing about the job that doesn’t change. I don’t want to sound like your grandad, but you lot have it easy. When I started out, we were using typewriters. The day they invented the word processor I nearly cried.’ She squeezed out a tight smile. This wasn’t just small talk; it was painful small talk.
‘Since you’re down here, sarge, don’t suppose you want to confirm the rumours, do you?’
‘What rumours would they be then? I’m not really up on who’s shagging who around here these days.’
‘People are saying you’ve found the Handyman? That’s the word in CID, that your governor’s received a tip-off.’
He grinned wolfishly back at her.
‘I can’t confirm or deny a thing but watch this space – it could be an interesting day.’
Now he genuinely did have her interest. Most of the rank and file at Chapel Row found Warrender’s team as big a joke as the rest of the world. But catching the paparazzi’s favourite bogeyman would be one way to shut the critics up. She could only imagine what state that idiot Warrender was in up there.
The Burning Men Page 22