Tiger Blood (DS Webber Mystery Book 2)

by Penny Grubb

  The traffic was moving properly now, a glimpse of sunlight lighting the sky ahead. Ahmed looked at Suzie as he asked, ‘Why are you so mad at Melinda Webber?’

  ‘Who’s mad?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘She’s always had it easy because she has some hotshot barrister for a father, plays golf with all the bigwigs. And look at the way she’s been talking to our witnesses all over the place.’

  ‘Only Joyce Yeatman,’ Ahmed said. ‘She knows the woman. That’s not a crime.’ He flicked on the indicator, aware that Suzie had tossed her head in a petulant gesture. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, borrowing a little of the goading tactics he suffered at the hands of Cari’s cousins, ‘I can see why she’d be mad at you, but why should you have it in for her?’

  When silence met his remark, he gave her a quick look, worried he might have stepped across a line. Then she laughed. He saw genuine amusement on her face as she looked back at him. ‘Welcome to real life, Ayaan. That’s how it works.’

  He swung the car into Edith Stevenson’s road. ‘It’s just along here.’

  ‘Pull up short, don’t forewarn her.’

  They both got out of the car but he held back as Suzie marched up to Edith Stevenson’s front door and knocked sharply on the wooden panel. He cast a glance up and over the front of the house. Its tall stone façade looked somehow greyer than its neighbours, no splash of colour to relieve the rain-soaked masonry. His concentration focused on the windows, especially those that overlooked the door; he stared unblinking determined not to miss anything. After a while, Suzie knocked again, harder. She lifted the flap of the letterbox and shouted through.

  Her voice generated a response but not from Stevenson’s house. Ahmed caught the flash of movement from next-door. A woman emerged on to the step and peered round at Suzie who smiled across at her. ‘I’m looking for Edith Stevenson.’

  Ahmed watched the woman’s gaze rake Suzie from head to toe. Curiosity, he judged, not suspicion. ‘You’ve missed her. She went out a while ago.’

  ‘Do you know where or how long she’ll be?’

  The woman shook her head. Ahmed saw Suzie hesitate weighing up whether or not to divulge her identity. Sometimes it loosened tongues; sometimes it caused unnecessary friction.

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Suzie raised her hand in acknowledgement and turned towards the road. She didn’t stop or look at Ahmed, just hissed ‘Back off,’ as she strode past him.

  He climbed behind the wheel as she slid into the passenger side. ‘Reverse out,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a crescent. We can go right round.’

  ‘Reverse out,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t go past the house.’

  ‘You think she’s in there?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t see anyone though. Did you?’

  He shook his head as he twisted in the seat to drive the car backwards around the curve of the road. Once confident he was out of sight of both houses, he stopped then drove forwards a short way deliberately spinning the wheels on the gravel and dead leaves in the gutter. It left them at a slight angle to the pavement where he knocked the lever into neutral and played with the accelerator, mimicking a car going up through the gears as it drove away. He thought it would sound convincing enough to anyone struggling to listen through the rain and gusts of winter wind. As he let the revs die to nothing, he clicked the key to turn off the engine and they both climbed out strolling towards the curve in the road.

  ‘There,’ hissed Suzie, her tone triumphant. ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’

  Instinctively they drew back and watched, Ahmed straining to catch the detail from the figure up ahead. Certainly she’d come out of Stevenson’s house. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. They had no recent pictures of Edith Stevenson.

  They watched the woman who might be Edith Stevenson rummage in her handbag and then hold out a set of keys. A small silver car responded with a flash of its lights.

  ‘D’you want to stop her?’ Ahmed said.

  ‘No, let’s see where she’s off to.’

  They ran back to the car. Ahmed listened to be sure the other car had set off before he keyed the engine to life. ‘She’s going round the crescent,’ he told Suzie as he wrestled the steering wheel to execute an efficient three-point turn. ‘We’ll catch her at the other end.’

  He nudged the car out into the main road, eyes straining ahead to watch for a vehicle leaving the far exit of the crescent.

  ‘Shit, she’s coming this way,’ snapped Suzie. ‘Don’t want to be too obvious about this. No, it’s OK … she’s going the other way.’

  Ahmed watched Edith Stevenson make a meal of detouring around a parked car before she joined the main road in an unnecessarily wide arc. It looked like her mind wasn’t on her driving. Traffic on the main road was perfect; enough to keep them out of her line of sight but not enough to swallow her up. In this weather they were invisible behind her.

  ‘She’s turning right up ahead,’ Suzie warned him.

  The traffic queue slowed giving them an unimpeded view of her car as it snaked around the entrance lanes to a supermarket car park. By the time they reached the junction, she was out of sight and a dozen or more cars had gone in behind her. ‘See if you can spot where she went,’ he said. ‘Towards the main entrance by the look of it.’

  ‘She’ll not get a place near the door in this weather,’ Suzie commented, then, ‘Oh yes, she will. She’s going in the disabled bays. Is she disabled? Right then. Park up and let’s grab a word while there are people around. She hates being the centre of attention. I’m sure I’ve read that in one of the old reports. We might bounce her into something.’

  ‘OK, I …’ Ahmed stared across the car roofs towards the reserved parking bays. Her figure was indistinct in the haze and milling crowds, but …

  The blare of a car horn jerked him from his reverie. They were blocking the lane. He turned the car towards the supermarket’s wide entrance, nudging it along behind rows of parked cars then swinging it to a standstill across one of the yellow grids that denoted special parking.

  ‘What are you doing, Ayaan?’

  ‘I want her on camera when she comes back out,’ he said. ‘Did you see her when she got out of the car?’

  ‘No,’ said Suzie. ‘I’m surprised you could. Why, what was she doing?’

  He felt building excitement in the prickle across his skin. ‘The way she walked,’ he told her.

  Suzie looked blank. ‘You mean she’s putting on a limp to justify the parking? I saw her walk to her car in the crescent. She looked normal enough there.’

  Ahmed thought back. Had she looked normal enough? ‘We might not have noticed,’ he said. ‘She was digging in her bag for her keys and whatnot.’

  ‘Noticed what? Why? What’s …? Oh … there she is. She wasn’t in there long. One bottle of Bells whisky and a newspaper.’

  ‘Look how she walks.’ Ahmed heard the low almost reverent tone in which the words emerged from his mouth. He hadn’t been sure. It had been no more than a glimpse through a crowd. Suzie looked puzzled. He’d tell her on the way back. She wouldn’t see the significance. She hadn’t spent the hours he had poring over fuzzy CCTV images from a case he wasn’t supposed to touch.

  Chapter 31

  Ahmed stretched his legs under the desk, easing closer to the heat of the radiator. His right foot felt damp. He wasn’t sure if he’d trodden in too deep a puddle or if his boot was leaking. It was an unwanted distraction as he stared at DI Davis leaning his elbow on the top of a filing cabinet as their footage played out in front of him. Suzie had disappointed him with her reaction, saying that Edith Stevenson was putting on a limp to justify a brief spell in a disabled parking bay; that it was his imagination to make more of it. But she’d agreed to put it to Davis. And she must be able to see it now. Davis was playing both sequences together. Ahmed peered across at the grainy image of the mystery man … person … they’d clocked near Tom’s flat.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He couldn’t hold back the question.

  S
uzie shot him a shut-up look. Davis said nothing as he watched the sequence to its end. When he turned, Ahmed tensed, on edge to hear what he would say. His gaze met Ahmed’s; nothing to read in his expression. Instead of speaking he reached for the machine and set both sequences to replay. Ahmed watched intently. The grainy image with its weird offkilter walk. The bulk was different but that could be down to clothes. The walk was Edith Stevenson’s. He’d known it the moment he’d glimpsed her entering the supermarket, and was thankful he’d had the means to film her coming out.

  ‘She didn’t walk like that in the crescent,’ Suzie had said, but as he’d pointed out, they’d been holding back, peering through vegetation, and she’d been digging about in her bag as she took the few steps across the road.

  ‘We didn’t notice. She wasn’t walking upright. We weren’t looking out for it.’

  All three of them focussed on the moving figures, one fuzzy, one sharp as they played out. Davis clicked the mouse, leaving two frozen images on the screen. ‘I wish that original had enhanced better.’ He turned to Ahmed. ‘What do you think now you’ve seen both tapes side by side?’

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ He didn’t even try to suppress the excitement in his tone.

  Suzie still didn’t look convinced, but that must be for show. She had to be convinced now she’d seen this.

  ‘Heard the voices on tape?’ Davis said.

  ‘Voices?’ Ahmed struggled for context. ‘Uh … no. What voices?’

  He didn’t know they’d found any recordings of anything. Must be something from Tom’s flat. Davis was still watching him, that bland expression on his face, as though he wasn’t really paying attention. It was an expression Ahmed had learnt to mistrust. He braced himself; some sort of reprimand was on its way. So far he’d been the subject of no more than a couple of hard stares when he’d admitted the extent of his familiarity with the Jenkinson CCTV footage.

  Leaving the images frozen, Davis moved to another machine and tapped at the keyboard. Ahmed began to move to get a view of what he was doing, but retreated under a narrow-eyed glare. Suzie leant forward to look over Davis’s shoulder. ‘Oh, those,’ she said and turned away.

  Ahmed shot her a glance. She’d known about this. Why hadn’t she told him?

  ‘Listen to this, Ayaan,’ said Davis. ‘Can you make out the words?’

  The crackle from the speakers was over before he’d properly set himself to listen.

  ‘I’ll play it again. It’s barely a couple of seconds.’

  This time he heard something behind the buzz of static. He shook his head. Davis replayed it. Concentrating hard he could almost feel the shape of a brief burst of speech, but couldn’t begin to guess at the words.

  ‘Sound analysts can do a lot these days,’ Davis commented, ‘separating sounds, getting rid of background stuff, all that. Listen to this version. Listen for “post office raid”.’

  Ahmed leant in as Davis clicked the mouse.

  … post office raid …

  ‘Yes, got it.’ The audio still crackled but whatever Davis or his analysts had done had stripped the disguise from it. The words were plain. Post office raid. He thought back to Larry Scott in Dorset and the conversation the old man had overheard all those years ago. Had there been a recording? Where was this from? What was it to do with Tom’s mystery man? ‘What … who is it?’

  Suzie swung round and flounced to the far side of the room, pulling something from a desk and slamming the drawer with unnecessary force. He gave her a quick glance. This wasn’t like her, but he thought he understood. Whatever he’d found, she thought it would end in him being taken away from her enquiry and set to work on Tom’s murder. That would be fine by him.

  ‘Now listen to this one,’ Davis leant in to the keyboard again. He ignored Suzie’s sulking. ‘Put it back, Ron. Or is it Dan? What do you think?’

  Put it back, Ron …

  ‘Ron, for sure.’ Ahmed frowned. The short burst of speech was overlain with the same hard crackle of static but there was no ambiguity.

  ‘And now here’s the facer.’ Again Davis leant over the keyboard. Suzie wandered over, treating the DI to a glare. ‘This is supposed to be the same voice, but is it?’ Davis said. ‘It says “It’s John Bingham”. Listen carefully.’

  It’s John Bingham …

  Ahmed tipped his head, unsure. ‘I can hear the words, but … who’s John Bingham?’

  Davis reached forward and logged out the machine. He gave Suzie a smug smile to which she responded by putting out her tongue. Ahmed stared from one to the other of them. ‘Tell him,’ Davis said to Suzie

  ‘Richard John Bingham.’ She sighed. ‘Seventh Earl of Lucan, murdered a young woman in 1974 then disappeared off the face of the earth. Probably dead by now.’

  ‘But what’s it all about?’ said Ahmed. ‘Where has it all come from? Voices from beyond the grave?’

  Davis laughed. ‘Spot on. That’s exactly where it came from. Some psychic con merchant, couple of years ago.’

  Suzie shot an annoyed look at Davis and said, ‘It’s all the same audio, Ayaan. He was playing the same recording over and over. When no one tells you what to hear, you hear nothing. When you’re told it says post office, that’s what you hear. Lord Lucan … aliens from Mars … whatever.’

  Davis walked back to tap the screen where Edith Stevenson’s frozen form stood upright by her car in a strangely unrealistic pose. ‘There are good reasons for keeping people off cases where they have an emotional involvement. You’re seeing what you want to see … making links that aren’t there. You’re snatching at straws because you want Jenkinson’s killer found and nicked. It’s understandable but it’s unfortunate that the cases have run so close together geographically. Just remember they’re 30 years apart. And keep your head straight.’

  Ahmed realised his mouth had dropped open as he stared from one to the other of them. ‘Then you didn’t think …?’

  Davis’s gaze followed his to the screen. ‘No, I didn’t. If I worked at it, I could convince myself of a resemblance, but it’s not the same person … Ayaan.’ There was an unaccustomed sharpness in Davis’s tone as he spoke his name. Ahmed’s gaze snapped up to meet the DI’s. ‘Don’t meddle. You saw what you wanted to see.’ With that he left the room.

  But I didn’t, Ahmed wanted to say to Davis’s retreating back. I wasn’t even thinking about Tom. ‘You saw the similarity, didn’t you?’ he appealed to Suzie.

  She shook her head. ‘You heard the words, didn’t you? Lord Lucan … post office raids? He didn’t have to make such a meal of it but he’s right.’

  ‘If I hadn’t known Tom, he’d have taken me seriously.’

  Suzie gave him a despairing look. ‘Ayaan, he did take you seriously. He ran that footage several times through. If it helps, I can see where you’re coming from with the walk, but it’s not the same person. Look at it again if you must, really look this time. But then leave it alone. We have work to do.’

  So she had seen it. And they couldn’t possibly say it wasn’t the same person. The figure scurrying down the road by Tom’s flat had obviously taken the trouble to disguise herself. For a while he and Suzie stared at each other, then he allowed his gaze to drop. Hanging over his head was the unspoken threat to his proposed move to York if he should step out of line. Next to that was a debt he owed not just to Tom Jenkinson but to all the young kids who might be mentored out of a life of crime. He must pretend to have accepted Davis’s verdict, but he wasn’t going to leave it there.

  Chapter 32

  Jack Meyer’s interview that morning had taken shape in Webber’s memory as an oasis of ordered calm in an irritating mish-mash of a day. He should have debriefed Ahmed and Suzie hours ago, but told himself he didn’t know they were in. It wasn’t an easy pretence to uphold, even in his own head, as Ahmed’s excited tones drifted down the corridor. He ducked into his office, went to close the door then thought better of it. It was less of an annoyance having a stream of people kn
ocking at an open door than a closed one.

  Slumping into his chair he clicked on his email letting out a sigh of exasperation as the new mails began to download. 64! Who in hell had time to write 64 emails since he’d last checked? He skimmed the headers.

  Nothing from Farrar or anyone else who warranted immediate attention. One from Melinda, subject ‘DON’T FORGET!!’ One from a coroner’s office, subject ‘Yeatman’. That would be the report on Gary Yeatman’s death. There might be information here that he could use to divert Mel. He had to find something. The conversation with Jack Meyer played in his head. Another quick look at the list half expecting to see the name Kowalski, but it wasn’t there. He’d toyed with setting Melinda on to China Kowalski as a way of keeping her out of the path of the live enquiry, but that had been his intention with Tilly Brown.

  He clicked on Melinda’s email. No detail, just an admonition not to forget the shopping task she’d given him.

  ‘You’re over that way anyway,’ she’d told him this morning. ‘Pick it up on your way home.’

  He no idea what it was … something to do with Christmas. But she hadn’t relied on the detail staying in his head. She’d written it all down and shoved a note in his jacket pocket. He would make the effort because he wanted to be in her good books this evening; wanted her receptive to backing off from both Tilly Brown and Joyce Yeatman. There was a well of relief inside him that he’d conducted the interview with Meyer. Suzie would have made a meal of Mel’s contribution. Her name couldn’t stay out of it altogether but he could minimise her involvement now, gloss over it as the enquiry moved on until it no longer had a bearing.

  Melinda was out this afternoon at some toddler-related do with Sam. If he could slip away early, he could be back before her, scrutinize those boards of hers. He needed to know if she’d been holding out on him and now he had Jack Meyer’s insights he’d be able to decipher her shorthand. Joyce had lied to Mel about her husband’s death, hadn’t told her it was suicide, and as far as Webber knew Mel hadn’t challenged the woman about it. There would be something in that to drive a wedge between them. He glanced at the time then towards the corridor. Things had quietened, the day was running down.