by Lisa Cutts
The Rumblys were a different tale. I started with Niall. He was thirty-three years old and his record showed that he’d been in prison three times. He was currently serving a sentence in Mill End prison. He at least had a rock-solid alibi for Hudson’s shooting. Before I had a chance to look up Leonard Rumbly, and aware of the time slipping away before the briefing started, I locked the computer, made myself a cup of tea and got ready to leave. Wingsy rushed through the door just as I was about to set off for the conference room. I left him shouting about the traffic being a nightmare and there being nowhere to park because the car park was full of Murder Squad vehicles from Serious Crime.
I felt a bit jittery about seeing some of the team again. The last time I’d seen some of them I’d been in hospital, out of it on all sorts of drugs. I didn’t even recall some of them visiting me, but whenever I woke up there was a card, note or present from someone new.
Outside the conference room door, holding my notebook in the crook of my arm, my mug of builder’s tea clamped in my hand, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. For a second I stood in the doorway, casting an eye over those in the room. A few looked up from around the table that could easily seat forty people. It was half-full.
‘Nina,’ said Pierre Rainer, a DC I had worked with on Operation Guard, ‘you’re looking well.’ He got up from the far side of the table to weave around the others, who were making no attempt to get out of his way as they swapped notes and last-minute details. Pierre reached me and hugged me. ‘Hear you’ve been getting involved again,’ he said into my ear as we embraced.
‘You know me,’ I said, pulling away but leaving my free hand on his arm, ‘I can’t help it. And thanks for dropping my wine glass round.’
I followed him back around the table to sit next to him, making my way past Mark Russell and saying hi to him and a few others I knew. Wingsy bowled through the door seconds ahead of DI Clint Stirling and a woman in a striped navy suit.
A hush fell upon the room. The woman accompanying Clint smiled as she looked around at us, and took a seat at the top of the table. Clint sat on her right. I allowed myself a smile at the thought of him being her right-hand man. Wingsy was sitting opposite me and, as I scanned the room, he scowled at me. He probably wondered why I was smiling. I decided that after the meeting I would tell him it was because his flies were undone.
‘Welcome, everyone,’ said the woman. ‘Thank you for coming to the first full briefing of Operation Magpie. Yeah, I do know that they’re a bad omen but that’s what we got when we rang the control room.’ Operation names were given alphabetically, but more than one was always allocated for each letter of the alphabet. It made me wonder how many other operations there had been since I’d been on Operation Guard last year. There had to have been a lot of shootings, stabbings, rapes and kidnaps to go from multiple Gs to Ms.
‘Most of us know each other,’ she continued, ‘but if we can go around the room and everyone give their name, rank and where they work, that will be a useful start.’ She paused and then said, ‘I’m Janice Freeman, the Serious Crime Directorate DCI. I’m the senior investigating officer for Op Magpie but I’m grateful for any help the local borough commander has been able to provide as, in addition to the shooting, we’re running a number of investigations unrelated to this incident, including two rapes, a stabbing and a murder. I’ve run out of staff again.’
A quick glance around the room at those assembled told me that Janice Freeman was not a woman to be easily hoodwinked, and I doubted much got past her. I thought that we’d probably get on, but I’d see how things went.
Clint then took his cue to introduce himself as the area on-call DI, then each member of the enquiry team assembled in the room took their turn to say their part. As my own got closer and closer, I weighed up whether I should tell everyone that I’d been on the receiving end of a good hiding from our victim. A lot of those in the room probably knew anyway. I decided to play it down.
‘I’m Detective Constable Nina Foster. I’ve recently joined the area’s Cold Case team. I have previously had dealings with Patrick Hudson when he was arrested for the attempted murder of his wife, Annie, and for assault on police.’ I was looking directly at Janice Freeman as I said these words, but noticed that Clint was leaning on his elbows, staring directly at me. I cast my eyes straight down when I finished talking.
Soon we got down to the business of who might have shot Patrick Hudson. Officers and investigators threw in all the information that had been amassed about him and his movements since he’d been released from prison three days before. In that short space of time, he seemed to have been nowhere but a local pub, a corner shop for a few essentials and to see his probation officer. His mobile phone was still at the hostel where he had been staying, and there had been no movement that day in his very paltry bank account. Patrick Hudson had, for his seventy-two hours of freedom, lived a seemingly rehabilitated life. Until, that was, he was shot.
‘Mark,’ said DCI Freeman, ‘you’ve made the most recent contact with the hospital. What did they have to say?’
Mark cleared his throat and glanced down at one of a number of pieces of paper he had laid out in front of him. ‘The hospital ward has changed the code word again, by the way,’ he said, looking back up at those in the room. ‘If you want to make contact with them, come and see me for it or check on HOLMES. They won’t give you the time of day without it. The sister there is one scary woman.’ He glanced back down at his notes. ‘OK, our victim is still critical. The hospital staff have been as helpful as they can, but we’re some way off being able to speak to him, even if he does wake up – and they don’t think that’s likely. The scary sister, Ellen Trimble, told me I can talk to the staff there, but she wouldn’t give any estimates on when or if we can talk to Hudson. He’s had no visitors apart from police officers.
‘Patrick Hudson’s gunshot injuries are two entry wounds to his back, one entry wound to the left of his torso, one entry wound to the right of his torso, one entry wound on his right thigh and one entry wound to his right lower arm plus one exit wound at this point. Oh, and the strain on his heart is still a worry for the hospital.’
It wasn’t a worry to me. I hoped the bastard would die. I lost myself momentarily, thinking how the only violent encounter I’d had with him meant my shoulder still ached in cold weather, and then I realised I hadn’t been paying attention. Sarah Mitchell, the DC from Prison Intelligence, was giving the run-down on the information they’d managed to cobble together about Hudson’s time inside, especially that spent in HMP Mill End with Niall Rumbly.
‘Patrick Hudson and Niall Rumbly were sharing a cell for two months prior to Hudson’s release. Rumbly was given six months for an assault on a doorman at the Roundabout nightclub. He’s serving three months after pleading guilty to an unprovoked attack and by all accounts keeps his head down and is to be released in a couple of weeks’ time. The prison has no record of any altercations between them. They seemed to get on, or certainly had no problems that were brought to the prison officers’ attention.’
‘Hudson have any visitors in the last twelve months of his stretch?’ asked Clint.
‘Only one,’ said Sarah. ‘His eldest son, Richard.’
Not that I hadn’t been paying attention, but this was like a slap around the face. Annie’s two boys, Richard and Lewis, had disowned their father the day he tried to kill their mother.
Sarah ran her finger along the lines of her notes to ensure she was looking at the correct line before reading out, ‘28th March. That was the day Richard visited his father.’
‘Right, OK. Thanks, Sarah,’ said the SIO. ‘We’ll sort out who sees him after the briefing. If you’ve nothing else about Mill End prison, I think that will bring us nicely on to Pensworth prison. Nina?’
All eyes were on me now. I didn’t need to look down at my notes; I knew what I was going to say. The conversation with Joe Bring was etched on my mind. Even the testicle-fondling part.
> ‘Due to a Cold Case investigation into a train crash in 1964, I went to see Joe Bring about some information. His father was the lorry driver whose truck caused the accident. Joe told me that his father, now deceased, might have caused the collision on purpose. Joe’s dad had a mounting gambling debt and the person he owed it to was Leonard Rumbly.’
I paused at this point and went tactical.
‘Joe’s son’s friend died of a heroin overdose recently. Joe is desperate to stop his own son going the same way and wants to assist in any way he can to prosecute Rumbly, as he thinks he’s behind the area’s heroin supply.’
‘How reliable is Bring?’ asked Freeman.
‘Strangely enough, ma’am, I’ve never known him lie. He’s just about the worst shoplifter and thief, but he always admits whatever he’s done when he’s caught. And he gets caught. A lot.’
A couple of the others around the room nodded in agreement. Seemed as if Joe had been dealt with by a fair few of us.
‘Right, in that case I want whatever you can get me on every member of the Rumbly family,’ said the DCI. ‘We’ll start with Leonard, although he’s no doubt getting on a bit now. I want a full intelligence profile on every one of them and an officer assigned to each of them. Sounds like this will be our first priority. We need to establish drugs links. People do not get shot numerous times for a bit of personal gear. My guess – and that’s all it is as the moment – is that Patrick Hudson got involved in something that was way bigger than he was used to, and the risk of shooting him and leaving him for dead was lower than the risk of leaving him alive to talk.’
12
By the time the briefing was finished I was glad to get out. It had been the longest I’d sat still for ages. I was a fidget at the best of times, but, following months off work, sitting in an uncomfortable chair for an hour and a half was excruciating. Having said my bit, I fully expected to be sent back to the confines of Cold Case and for that to be the end of it.
As I reached the door, however, Clint called me back to the table. He and Janice Freeman both regarded me with neutral faces. I stood mutely in front of them, waiting for them to speak. Clint pushed out a chair in my direction. Why couldn’t anyone simply ask me to sit down?
Taking a seat, I waited until the noise behind me died down and the room emptied. It was going to be one of those conversations.
‘Nina…’ began Clint, touching his left earlobe. From our terrible dates years earlier, I knew he did this when he was nervous. ‘DI Ian Hammond has told me that you’re to be left on Cold Case to help out with the ’64 train accident.’ He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘The thing is…’
He looked to Freeman for help. She left him to it.
‘Joe Bring will talk to you,’ Clint continued. ‘Has he got a thing about you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been on some pretty shit dates in my life, but never with the likes of Joe.’
That seemed to take the smug look off his face.
Freeman said, ‘Nina, we’d like you to work with us for a short while. You’d be mostly office-bound, but the rest of Serious Crime who’ve worked with you before hold you in high regard. What you’d be doing would be the Cold Case side of things, but focusing on where they cross over into our investigation, with some office research and paperwork looking into the Rumblys. It wouldn’t have anything to do directly with Patrick Hudson. Anything you’re not happy to be dealing with, we would take from you. What do you think?’
‘Why not?’ I said. It wasn’t as if I had any option. Apart from feeling pleased that I’d been asked to join the team, I was a police officer. I did what I was told. Sometimes I was told what to do by brilliant leaders and supervisors who inspired; sometimes it was by total dickheads.
I had made my mind up that Janice fell into the former category.
13
I finished speaking to the DCI and Clint and went to look for Wingsy. Failing to find him, I phoned him.
‘Alright, duchess,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the car park. We’re back on house-to-house for the shooting for the rest of the day.’
I made my way to the yard, preparing myself. So much for being office-bound for a few days. I enjoyed house-to-house, to be honest. Although it did mean knocking on doors and asking the same questions over and over, of everyone within a set parameter around a crime scene that was decided by the senior investigating officer, it meant that you got to meet normal members of the public. All too often, in police enquiries, officers met either criminals or victims. Both could be equally difficult. But with something like a shooting people usually wanted to help, and it meant taking time to chat to the public and reassure those living near by.
By the time I found him, Wingsy had the rest of our day planned out. I didn’t mind. I was in one of those moods where I needed to be told what to do. It didn’t necessarily mean I was going to do it; I just couldn’t make a decision for myself.
He’d found us a car to use. Vehicles were a bit thin on the ground at the best of times in a police station, but with a Category A shooting – no immediate suspects and no one in custody – they were particularly difficult to come by. We met in the yard and proceeded to clear out the empty wrappers, drinks bottles and receipts before driving to the nearest petrol station to fill up the car’s empty diesel tank. Glancing at the log book, I saw that the last person to use it had been Jim Sullivan.
Wingsy saw me looking at the mileage book and leant over to examine the force number and name.
‘I see Spunk Bubble can’t even fill a car with fuel. He’s such a chopper,’ he said.
‘I know, mate. Where to first?’
‘There were a couple of houses where we got no reply when we went out yesterday and it needs completing as soon as. It may be a late one, ’cos if these are people who are at work or school we may need to be on duty much later than five pm.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Bill’s back on lates and I could do with the overtime.’
I sifted through the paperwork as Wingsy drove towards the crime scene. ‘I’m a bit out of sorts now,’ I said, trying to grasp what I was expected to do. ‘Stuff with Annie has thrown me a bit. What are the house-to-house enquiry parameters?’
‘Well,’ said Wingsy, pulling up at the traffic lights on the town’s ring road, ‘the premises to be seen are over a large area but the main addresses are on the road in and out of the industrial estate. Oh, and the tower block behind it.’
‘And let me guess,’ I said with a sinking feeling, ‘you and I have been given James Knoxley House?’
‘You guessed it, sweetheart.’ He grinned at me. ‘Got your stab-proof?’
A couple of minutes later we pulled into one of the county’s most run-down high-rise blocks. Fifteen storeys of concrete depression stood all alone against the skyline. Saddest of all was that sprinkled around at ground level were old people’s retirement bungalows. All were immaculate and the occupants never caused any grief to each other or anyone else. Their punishment for getting old was for someone to think it was a good idea to build fifteen floors of flats feet from their property and fill them with the kinds of people you’d cross the road to avoid. On a positive note, a lot of the old folk were deaf, so they couldn’t hear the sound of breaking glass coming from their undesirable neighbours.
We parked away from the block, alongside two other unmarked police cars we recognised, and set off towards the entrance to the flats. It started to rain just as we reached the entry panel. The architect’s idea had been that you buzzed the number corresponding to the flat you wanted and the occupant let you in – or declined to, if they didn’t like the look of you. Fortunately for us in the downpour, the residents of James Knoxley House had taken time out of their day to smash the living daylights out of the security system and smear some very unpleasant substances across the buttons. Getting in was therefore just a case of pushing the door.
We climbed the stairs, the unmistakable stench of urine reaching our nostrils as we ne
ared the landing. I was glad we hadn’t taken the lift; heaven only knew what that smelt like. From the top of the first flight of stairs, I could hear a familiar voice. It was Jim Sullivan, talking to someone on the next floor up.
Wingsy and I needed to speak to someone on the first floor who hadn’t been at home when the first house-to-house enquiries were carried out. We were making our way along the balcony to the flat when something about the tone of Jim’s voice changed. It had an urgency to it. I couldn’t make out the words, but from the intonation it was clear he needed assistance. Then I heard shouts. Both Wingsy and I turned a hundred and eighty degrees and ran up the next flight of stairs to our colleague.
Wingsy was faster than me and was just in front, slightly blocking my view. I saw him reach inside his jacket and pull out his asp, so I realised it was serious, then my Airwave confirmed that Jim had pressed the panic button on his radio set. I could hear the control room mustering immediate response. Whatever I thought of him, Jim wouldn’t do that lightly – and Wingsy wouldn’t have pulled out his asp unless he was prepared to use it. An asp was an extendable piece of metal. A potentially lethal piece of metal.
As I ran behind Wingsy, I saw that Jim was on the floor at the open door of a flat and another person was on top of him. I knew Wingsy wouldn’t rack his asp for fear of extending it straight into my face, so I pulled out my own and opened it. The sound of our running footsteps, police radios and shouting gave the man with his hands around our colleague’s throat a few seconds to react. He looked up in our direction and made a run for it towards the nearest exit – straight towards us. Wingsy, slightly taken by surprise, tried to grab him but missed and was moving too fast to stop. By the time Wingsy got to Jim’s prostrate body, the man legging it away from our assaulted colleague was level with me. I had half a second to think how I was going to stop his escape.