Hunter's Chase

by Val Penny

  “I'm just curious, Rache,” Jane said. “Arjun Mansoor was adamant he had mistakenly reported his car stolen. Yet its front bumper and bonnet were dented when John and I saw it. I want to know how well Mansoor and Edna Hope know each other. Colin, John, see if you can find out for me, will you? I know Mansoor runs Ian Thomson's place, but how close is he with Edna? You have good contacts, and you always look natural in a pub, John.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Fuck off, Sarge.” John Hamilton smiled as they left to start the job.

  Jane started making a grid charting all the details they had so far. She was a stickler for detail. Diagrams were her way of sorting information into a clear format.

  ***

  Hunter gave Mel the task of checking the statement given to her by Jamie, the statement given by Sir Peter and the CSI report. He told her that he needed her comments on the comparisons for 8 o'clock the following morning.

  “I'm off now, Mel. See you tomorrow.”

  “So early? That's unusual. What is taking you away tonight, sir?”

  Hunter winked.

  Mel gathered the reports together, along with a mug of camomile tea, a chocolate biscuit and a fluorescent green highlighter. She planned to settle down to read all three documents before marking up any discrepancies. She soon realised that she did not have enough hands to carry everything. No contest, the biscuit went into her mouth. Her lips were covered with melted chocolate by the time she sat down at her desk.

  Bear caught her eye and she grinned at him, licking her lips slowly, meaningfully. He pulled his eyes away. Mel giggled and her dark curls bounced up and down. Bear looked back and shook his head at her before they both got back to work.

  Mel licked her fingers before she started on with the business in hand. She decided to read all the documents through once first, and then study them more closely, only attacking them with the green ink on the second reading. It was not the most exciting task she had ever been set, but it did allow her mind to wander a little and think about what she would wear for Tim and Sophie's housewarming party at the weekend. She smiled. She and Bear always enjoyed a night out, especially with Rache and Jane.

  Mel started with Jamie’s statement, for two reasons: firstly, it was the one she was most familiar with, but secondly, she believed what Jamie had told them. She knew that Jamie was a toe-rag. His family were a bad lot. His father was doing a stretch inside right now for robbery with violence, his mother was a lazy bitch, and, according to Jamie, his uncle Billy was running some kind of extortion racket, even on his own family. Mel shook her head, what chance did the kid have? And what chance would Billy have had, anyway?

  “I would love to be a fly on the wall when Ian Thomson finds out about that,” Mel muttered. “I'm also sure the lovely Edna was not aware of the charges Billy was making to her kin. She would have exploded. Family is all to the Thomsons, as far as I can tell.”

  “What are you saying, Mel?” Bear asked.

  “Maybe Billy was lucky that car had killed him. It might be less painful than getting caught between his wife and her brother.”

  “Hmm. That's a theory.”

  Next, Mel moved on to read the CSI statement. A little frown crossed her face as she read the comments about the desk where Jamie found the money. Strange. She thought back to the meeting with Jamie. He had been so adamant that the cocaine was not his and that it was not something he dabbled in. Mel had believed the boy, but there was no suggestion of traces of cocaine in Sir Peter's house.

  The CSI had found no evidence of cocaine in their examination of the desk. Of course, they had been concerned with what was taken, not what might have been there; also, the cocaine was still sealed in its pouches and wrapped up in the money. Maybe there truly was no trace of it around the drawer.

  Jamie's fingerprints were not on the pouches. Mel was glad about that. He was a thief, but she had never thought of Jamie as a drug dealer. Of course, his silk gloves might have helped him with that too.

  Mel moved on to Sir Peter’s statement. This was much longer than Jamie’s, and included the preliminary list of the things he had noticed were missing after the break-in. He needed a complete list for insurance purposes. He was at pains to repeat that this list was just his initial findings. It did not include cocaine. It did include expensive Peploe paintings, jewellery, watches, ornaments and an amount of cash which was considerably in excess of what had been found on Jamie.

  Mel smiled to herself. She was pretty sure that Jamie had never even been in the same room as those paintings either. Sir Peter himself said he had interrupted Jamie in his office.

  Her tea was finished. Mel had highlighted the reports, but as she had still not decided on her outfit for the party, she took a break to refill her mug and ponder this most serious issue. Maybe she would wear her red dress.

  Back at her desk with more tea, the truth about ownership of the cocaine was still unclear from her notes. She sat down to revise her perusal of the CSI report. She read it through and confirmed it contained no mention of white powder, cocaine or anything like that. Mel chewed her pen. She stared out of the window and began mulling ideas over in her head again.

  She stood up from her chair and went to find Jane. Jane had been to Sir Peter's home. Mel wanted to sound her out and run her thoughts by the DS. The cocaine was still in its sealed pouches. It was wrapped up in a wad of notes, a greater or smaller amount depending on whom you believed. Maybe there was no evidence of the drugs to be found. How could Jamie prove his innocence? Well, relating to the cocaine anyway. Mel did not like loose ends and she knew Jane did not like them either.

  One loose end was sorted, though. She would wear her new little navy number and dancing shoes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hunter and Tim went to pick up Joe. Tim knew what Joe looked like. They both knew what he smelt like. If the man's wife was dead, and his daughter was critically injured, experience taught Hunter that guilt was usually close to home. Closest to home was Joe.

  There was no reply to the door. The neighbour across the hall suggested they try the pub.

  “Bennett's on Morningside Road.”

  “What time is he usually there?” Tim asked.

  “When it's open,” said the old woman as she closed her door.

  “No love lost there, by the sound of it,” Tim said to Hunter.

  “I don't blame her, do you?” said Hunter as he led the way back to the door of the apartment building. He and Tim walked around the corner to Bennett's pub.

  “You able to come to my flat-warming, Boss?” Tim asked. “The whole team is invited.”

  “Sorry, lad. I'm washing my hair.” Hunter smiled. Maybe young Myerscough wasn't as bad as his father. He was smart enough to invite everybody, Hunter thought. And he's not playing favourites, even though he knew not everybody could or would be able to go.

  Tim nodded his acknowledgement of Hunter's reply. “Well, you'll be welcome if your hair dries in time, Sir.”

  As soon as Tim and Hunter walked into the pub, Tim immediately recognised Joe in the corner playing dominoes for beer. He nodded over in that direction to Hunter and they went over to Joe. Tim thought Joe was wearing the same clothes as the first time they had met.

  “Hello, Mr Johnson,” Tim said.

  “How'd you know ma name?” Joe played on without looking up. “You psychotic or what?”

  “We met when you came into the police station,” Tim answered. “You reported the disappearance of your wife and mentioned your daughter to me, do you remember? I'm certainly not psychotic. Or even psychic.”

  “Police? Feckin' police. You all look the same. Ah know nought about police. Anyway, they've both left me.” Joe still did not look up. “Left me all a-fucking-lone. That's all there is to say about them.”

  “Joseph Johnson, we need to ask you a few questions. Perhaps doing that at the police station will mean you give us the courtesy of your attention.” Hunter Wilson pulled Joe to a stand. Tim could see that Hunter imme
diately regretted touching the filthy coat with his ungloved hand.

  “Ah naw! I'm going to win, this time. Leave me be.”

  “Sorry, Joe,” Hunter said. “It's time up for you today.”

  Joe grumbled all the way to the car. Hunter drove, leaving Tim sitting with Joe again, this time in the back seat. Tim opened the car window. He caught Hunter's grinning face in the rear view mirror. The DI winked. Tim grimaced.

  Joe was sitting in the same interview room as last time. It was clear that he had no recollection of it. Hunter sat opposite him this time. He was not offered tea. Tim stood beside the door trying not to breathe deeply.

  “Who's this, Joe?” Hunter asked softly, showing Joe a police artist's picture of the corpse on the golf course. “Do you know her?”

  Joe squinted at the picture. Tim looked at the Detective Inspector's expressionless face.

  “Who's this?” Joe pulled the picture towards him and screwed up his face. “I don't have my specs with me.”

  The drawing had been digitally enhanced, but it was still not a photograph. Even the photo of the dead woman, although clear, did not flatter her, poor soul.

  With only a moment's hesitation, Joe went on, “It almost looks like Mary-Ann. It couldn't be Mary-Ann, though. This wifey looks dead. Could it be Mary-Ann, son? Where is she?”

  “I need you to tell me, Joe,” Hunter said. “Is it Mary-Ann? What happened to her, Joe? You tell me.”

  Hunter tried showing him another photograph of Mary-Ann, this time as she’d looked in the ground. The man winced, then held his head in his hands. He shook his head in confusion. He squinted again at the pictures.

  “This looks like ma Mary-Ann, son. My wife. She left me but I still love her. Why did she leave me? Where'd she go? Have you found her? She said some terrible things. You know, son? She said wee Annie's having a baby and that Annie was not my girl.” Joe looked miserable. “Why would she say that? I love our lassie. She's always been a daddy's girl all her life. Why did Mary-Ann say she's not mine? Why now? How could it be?”

  Hunter said nothing. He wanted Joe to talk. He waited until Joe composed himself and he stopped crying. Tim adjusted his body to lean on his other leg. Hunter caught his eye and frowned. He did not want movement, sounds, or anything else that might cause Joe to be distracted.

  He showed Joe the photo of Annie. Joe gasped. He sobbed.

  “Do you know this young woman, Joe?” Hunter asked softly.

  Joe nodded but said nothing. He sniffed and wailed loudly. His laid his head on his arm, his shoulders shaking with grief.

  Hunter nodded at Tim, who left the room and went to get tea.

  When Tim came back into the room, Joe sat quietly. He stared at the photos. Tim handed a tea to Joe, gave a black coffee to Hunter and kept the other tea for himself. Hunter nodded his thanks. Joe sat rocking to and fro, clasping the cardboard cup without seeming to realise where it had come from.

  Hunter looked at the grubby little man and let the silence in the room lie as he sipped his coffee.

  “The muck out of the machine is truly dreadful. I'm sorry, Mr Johnson.” Hunter shook his head slowly. “Joe, tell me what happened to Mary-Ann. How did she die? Joe, what did you do to her? ”

  Joe's jaw dropped. “Me?” Joe seemed to be completely bemused. He stared at the DI as if he were from a different planet.

  Hunter sat, silent, still. He waited for a reply. He had time to wait. After a long time Joe spoke again.

  “Do to her? Nothing. I did nothing, I swear. And I don' know where she is or what happened or anything. If you're saying any different, you're mad and I'll say no more till I get a brief.” Joe crossed his arms like a little boy in a huff, picked up his tea and drank.

  Hunter sighed. “Mr Johnson, do you want to have a solicitor present? I am not accusing you of anything, but I am investigating incidents of serious violence against two women. This has resulted in the death of one woman and the severe injury of the other. I showed you their pictures. You indicated that you know them as your wife and your daughter. I would have thought you might want to help me.”

  “No I don't need a brief, son. I'm telling you, that's Mary-Ann.” He pointed to the picture of the woman found dead in the golf course. “And that's my lassie.” Joe pointed to the picture of Coma Mum. “That's my Annie. She's a good girl. I told you.”

  “I'm sure she is, Joe. So, you do not want a solicitor?”

  The little man shook his head.

  “Okay. Let's start with Mary-Ann, Joe. Who is she?”

  “Sir, can I have a word? Just before we go any further?”

  Hunter shot a furious look at Tim and paused the interview. “Myerscough?” He barked at the DC as he closed the interview room door.

  “I don't know if you want me to stay in this interview. Mary-Ann Johnson worked for my dad. She was his cleaner. I know her, er, knew her. She worked for us for years. I met Annie too, although only once or twice in passing, years ago, when she was a little girl and had a day off school. She sometimes came around with her mother when Mary-Ann was cleaning for us. Dad heard rumours that Mary-Ann was expecting before she married, but I don't know. I was just a kid. I never met Joe before the other day, so I didn't immediately connect her with Joe. You understand?”

  Hunter nodded and dismissed Tim. He called upstairs and John Hamilton came down to join him. He was chewing a Mars Bar when he answered the phone, but managed to have swallowed the lot before he joined the interview a few minutes later, Fanta can in hand.

  “Sorry about that, Mr Johnson. DC Myersough has been called away. I am joined by DC Hamilton. Now, Mr Johnson, for the benefit of DC Hamilton, do you want a solicitor to be present? If you do not have one, a solicitor can be appointed for you.”

  “Myerscough?” Joe said slowly. “Is that the big blond lad's name? His dad's a toff; Mary-Ann works for him. Years she's worked for him. More since his wife died. Sad that was. Cancer.” Joe paused. He looked around again, almost as if he had just regained consciousness. “What? Solicitor? No. Don't bother. They're more crooked than most cops. No offence.”

  “None taken.” Hunter smiled over at John. “So, about Mary-Ann, Joe. Who is Mary-Ann? Tell us about the last time you saw her? When was that?”

  “What? My wife. I told you already, Mary-Ann is my own wee wife.” Joe smiled. “I love my Mary-Ann. But by God she got me riled. You should have heard her. Pure wicked the things she was saying. Pure wicked. We had a fight. She said Annie's not my girl, that I'm not her real dad. And Annie's expecting by that lanky lad Frankie Hope. It couldn't be worse.” Joe looked ashamed. “I maybe did give Mary-Ann a slap or two, lad. Might have been more, but she ran away. She always does.”

  Joe burped. Oh God, his breath smelt awful. Hunter's nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “Always? Okay, Joe. So it's happened more than once. So when did you last see Mary-Ann?”

  The interview continued until John Hamilton's stomach started to rumble, but Hunter learned enough to start putting together the pieces of the end of Mary-Ann's life. She had run blindly from the flat that she and Annie shared with Joe.

  “Where did Mary-Ann usually run to? Does she have family?”

  “Naw. She'd keep on running until I stopped. Never did look round properly as she ran across roads. Maybe a car hit her. Then she'd die,” Joe slurred.

  “Interesting, did you see that happen?”

  “Naw! Don't be daft!”

  “If it did, the driver probably panicked and dumped her in the first bit of rough ground he came to,” John mused.

  “That ties with what Joe said and with the evidence David and Meera had found,” Hunter said. ”The only thing that doesn't lie straight is the shallow grave dug out for Mary-Ann. That is not the action of someone who is panicking.” He turned to Joe. “Mr Johnson, if this woman is Mary-Ann, she is dead. She was found buried on land belonging to Merchant Golf Course. Did you kill her, Joe?”

  Hunter did not hear the end of his own question,
because Joe screamed.

  Hunter sent the tapes of the meeting with Joe to be transcribed, and consigned Joe to a weekend in the cells. He did not believe Joe had intentionally killed Mary-Ann, but if he were held, even on a stretched drunk and disorderly charge, he would be easy to find when Hunter needed him.

  Hunter suggested to the uniforms on duty that, for their own comfort, they might give Joe access to the showers. Also, if they took his clothes on the grounds that there might be useful evidence on them, he could be given alternative clean clothing and socks to wear out of lost property. For the sake of those around him, his own clothes could be bagged, to reduce the odour. Joe would smell better, and with a decent meal inside him Hunter guessed the man would feel better too. It was a win-win situation as far as he could see, even if Joe would be unlikely to agree when he sobered up.

  John Hamilton gave Hunter information on the stolen car.

  “It looks like Monday morning's briefing might be interesting, John, but right now, I plan to take the rest of the evening off.”

  “Lucky you, Sir. Enjoy.”

  Hunter left the station and made his way to meet Meera. He quickly checked his mobile and was pleased to have a voicemail from her. The pleasure did not last long.

  “Sorry, Hunter, I will have to take a rain check on the drink. My sister's baby-sitter has called off sick and I have to sit in with her kids. Sorry. See you soon.”

  Hunter cursed under his breath and wheeled the car round towards The Persevere Bar for a couple of pints with the boys in the darts team. As he walked into the bar he heard a familiar voice.

  “Oh, and one for Clouseau there, Tracey.”

  Hunter smiled, waved and joined the boys at the bar. After a couple of pints he meandered home for a long hot shower and a microwave meal for one.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sophie liked going out on Fridays, but on Saturdays she preferred to host. It gave her time to wind down and tidy up after a busy week. The law firm she worked with might bear her family name, but her father made sure that this had never meant she could work fewer hours or avoid unpopular work. This was why she and Tim had chosen Saturday for their flat-warming party.