by Penny Grubb
The search for Suzie would continue from across town until he was back at his desk tomorrow. Ahmed was still in the big office in animated conversation with two colleagues but the place was closing around them, lights going off. If anything happened overnight he’d hear about it. He’d have a clearer head for having a break. But he still couldn’t quite make the move to shut down the systems, pick up his coat. There had to be just one more thing he could do before he left. Again he looked across to where the trio of officers stood in a huddle. Something stopped him walking across to join them despite a growing need within him to talk things through.
As he reached for his phone to call Melinda to tell her he was finally on his way, he paused, then sat back down. It struck him that it was Mel he wanted to talk to. It felt like a revelation, though why it should be such a surprise he didn’t know. These last few weeks, talking through cases without holding back, discussing ideas with her had become more than a distraction from Suzie Harmer. And now that Suzie was centre stage once more for very different reasons, it was Mel he wanted to turn to.
The only light outside was the dim glow from the car park. His thoughts meandered to Drake, tucked up in a cell, maybe sleeping – was he really so laid back about it all? Was it just an elaborate act? He’d watched him on the CCTV walking across the carpark next to Davis; those weird flapping rags. Did he wear them just to annoy Tiffany? Was Drake as indifferent as he seemed? Before he’d been taken away from his house he’d asked if they would light the stove for the central heating in case his wife came back; that same central heating system the woman in charge of the search team had later wanted to light to warm the house. In saying yes, Webber had annoyed her by telling her to do what she was trained to do, stressing the need to empty it out and search it first because Drake’s apparent concern for his wife’s well-being jarred with the snide remarks about her that he’d tossed into the mix as he’d pulled off the ragged trousers.
He clicked his home number into the handset. The phone rang only once before it was picked up. His smile and greeting stalled. It wasn’t Melinda’s voice that answered him. In the second it took to identify who it was – the female half of the middle-aged couple who lived two doors away – he failed to remember a name. ‘Hello, it’s Martyn. Is Mel there?’
‘Melinda’s just popped out,’ she told him. ‘I’m minding Sam.’
It annoyed him that she wasn’t there, but it wasn’t unusual for this woman to pop in so Mel could nip down to the shop. ‘Tell her I’m on my way back. Is Sam OK?’
‘I’ve not heard a murmur from him.’
As he turned, pocketing his phone, Ahmed was in the doorway, coat in hand. ‘I’m off now …’ His body language said that he too was reluctant to make the move. ‘I … uh … I’m sorry about that CCTV. I was certain it was Edith Stevenson.’
Webber shrugged. ‘Even the analyst noted the similarities. Michael Drake told me everything and nothing, you know. He wanted to boast but he’s not ready to confess. He told me it was Stevenson who stayed behind in York fabricating the alibi the night Robert Morgan died. I suspect that’s true.’
Webber felt frustration at how unprepared he’d been. He’d known Drake was in the middle of it but had been so fixated on getting to the house he hadn’t thought about hidden recording devices. Even if he had, he’d never have kitted himself out with anything sophisticated enough to withstand the frisking Drake had given him. And if Ahmed had left the house before he arrived, Drake would have disappeared.
‘I’d like to listen to Drake again,’ he said.
Ahmed looked taken aback. ‘What, now?’
‘No, not Davis’s interview. I meant my off the record chat.’
‘So did I.’
Webber stared. ‘But …’
‘I … uh … I recorded it.’ Ahmed looked worried. ‘I thought that’s what you wanted me to do. I left my phone in the room. I haven’t had time to upload it yet and I don’t know how clear it’ll be. I shoved it down the side of the armchair.’
Webber felt a grin spread across his face. ‘Ayaan, you just wiped the slate clean for that CCTV.’ As he said the words, an atom of doubt crept in. But no, the analyst knew her job. With sudden decision he tossed his coat over the chair, pointed at the computer screen and said, ‘Get me those images up on here, the images we had analysed.’
It was clear to Webber that Ahmed was watching him as much as the footage that he must know backwards by now; the mystery figure caught fleetingly on camera meeting Jenkinson.
‘Just look at that,’ Webber said, a sense of astonishment creeping over him. He glanced at Ahmed to share the moment of triumph but Ahmed’s brow was furrowed. He hadn’t clocked it yet. Ah, but he hadn’t seen the rest of it. ‘Now look at this.’
He led Ahmed to the big office, clicked on the overhead lights and retrieved the car park camera images.
‘He didn’t know there was a camera round the back,’ he said as they watched Drake and Davis stride side by side towards the corner of the building. ‘The moment he thinks he’s under surveillance, he slows to a hobble. Doesn’t want us to see what he’s wearing.’
‘He’s wearing rags,’ said Ahmed.
‘No, he isn’t,’ Webber said. ‘It’s some kind of theatrical stunt, a costume made to be seen in motion – acrobats use them and dancers. The dusk exaggerates the effect but look how his legs vanish. Imagine if he didn’t have that big coat on, he’d be more a ghost than a man. That’s why he crept at snail’s pace along the front. He didn’t want the effect showing on our cameras.’
Ahmed’s jaw dropped. Then he raced back to Webber’s office to rerun the sequence of the mystery man. Webber followed. ‘Is it him?’
‘It … it must be … mustn’t it? I don’t know. That same effect. It’s not just a fuzzy image. It looks too small, but he’s bent over. It must be him.’
‘Go carefully. I think all we can say just now is that it’s someone wearing that same stuff. Maybe Drake learned the trick from someone else. Or he’s been teaching someone else.’ Despite his words of caution he felt a mounting excitement. ‘They’ve been alibiing each other. They’ve been at it for years. Remember those scraps from the old files. Alibis confirmed by chance bits of CCTV. One of them out doing the dirty work; the other flitting about on the periphery of someone’s security camera.’
‘Why the walk …?’ Ahmed’s words died away and he answered his own question. ‘They always stood out in a crowd.’ Webber realised Ahmed was quoting Jack Meyer. ‘The way they dressed, the way they walked … anything as long as it’s memorable. And if it’s a memorable something that doesn’t match, then it lets them off the hook.
It was as Webber saw his satisfaction mirrored in Ahmed’s face that a thought crept in, a sudden doubt that mushroomed to near-panic.
The ragged clothes! Drake’s snide asides about Tiffany clashing with his apparent concern for her welfare; Webber’s own concern that the search team be comfortable so they didn’t skimp anything. That central heating stove. ‘Search it first,’ he’d told them. Then he’d pointed to the heap of ragged clothes that lay where Drake had thrown them down as he’d changed. ‘Check those for pockets,’ he’d said, ‘and if you want to do his wife a favour put them in the stove before you light it.’
‘Are the search team still at the house?’ He saw Ahmed react to the undertone of alarm. ‘Get on to them,’ he ordered. ‘I want those clothes in for forensics. No …’ as Ahmed reached for the phone. ‘Call from in there.’
Ahmed rushed back to the main office. Webber watched him go then picked up the handset. He needed the reassurance of Melinda’s voice. I won’t be back yet, he would tell her, and if Ahmed remained out of earshot he’d tell her he’d acted like a bloody fool; that Michael Drake was running rings round them.
Again it was snatched up on the first ring. His heart sank. She wasn’t back. It was the nervy neighbour worried that a ringing phone might wake Sam.
‘Is Mel not back yet?’ he said. �
�Just tell her …’
A deliberate throat clearing cut across his words. ‘Um … yes … she … She told me that if you rang twice I was to tell you …’
‘Tell me what!’ He felt a constriction at his chest.
‘That … that there’s nothing to worry about but I’m to tell you where she’s gone if you ring twice. She said you’ll know who these people are. Someone called Fiona was in touch with her …’
‘Mel’s gone to Fiona’s?’ Webber’s head spun with the implications of Suzie returning home to find Melinda there.
‘No, no,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘She said to tell you she’s gone to get some information from Joyce.’
The world rocked under him. She’d done it again. He stared at the clock. Five to nine. How long had she been gone? Was she still on the road? What if she was on her way back as the hour struck? Where was Joyce Yeatman’s house in relation to those three junctions?
Ahmed was back in the doorway, his expression bright. ‘It’s OK, they’ve got them. But listen Martyn, he was wearing them. It– ’
Webber stared at him, aware it was his own expression that had cut off the words. What was Ahmed saying? Where was Mel? What did he do now?
He raised his hand. ‘Just a moment, Ayaan.’ He paused to pull in a deep breath, to keep the panic out of his voice.
Ring Melinda on her mobile. That was the obvious next move. She knew the score … she wouldn’t have forgotten about the traffic business … would she? Why couldn’t she have rung him? What had Fiona said to set her off? He should ring Fiona, too. Ahmed jigged impatiently in the doorway.
‘What were you saying, Ayaan?’
‘Michael Drake. Why was he wearing those clothes when DI Davis brought him in?’
‘Because I wouldn’t allow the time for him to change.’
‘Oh … well, I didn’t mean that. I meant why was he wearing them at all? It was nothing to do with that potting shed, was it?’
Webber fought to get his mind to follow Ahmed’s line of reasoning. Worry about Melinda had made him sluggish. Potting shed? Clearly just a tale to explain the rags, because … because they weren’t rags. A sudden burst of adrenaline snapped him back to alertness.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Mr Drake must have been on the point of heading off out when Davis collared him. And he didn’t plan to be distinct on any cameras he happened to pass. He talked to me about his wife and Suzie.’ His glance strayed to the mobile phone that lay in Ahmed’s hand. It was too late to replay it now. It couldn’t give them the concrete detail they needed. ‘He talked about irony,’ Webber said, ‘and the possibility of his wife dying without him having to do it. He talked about Suzie killing them both in a car crash.’
‘But where is she?’ Ahmed’s voice was heavy with despair. ‘We’ve looked everywhere.’
Ahmed was right. Every possible hideaway had been sought out and checked; Drake’s house and Stevenson’s … garages, cellars … Everyone remotely connected to them, to the Yeatman’s, even the Tippets had been shaken out until they spilt all they knew. Brad Tippet had fallen over himself to cooperate when he knew they were asking about Drake, but that had led nowhere. Had Drake hidden Suzie’s car or spirited it away from the city before they’d begun to look for it? There was no CCTV usefully near his house and nothing had shown up further afield.
The time! His gaze snapped to the wall clock. Ahmed was staring at it too. They stood frozen in the gloom of the empty building and watched the last few seconds tick down to nine o’clock.
Chapter 54
‘It won’t happen,’ Webber said. ‘If it’s Drake, it won’t happen because there’s no one to make it happen.’
‘But if it isn’t Drake …’ Ahmed’s eyes lost focus. Webber’s mind completed the thought. If it isn’t Drake, then it might happen, and Melinda’s out there somewhere.
The phone rang from Webber’s desk. He reached for it without checking the number.
‘Wasn’t expecting to catch you.’ The voice sounded surprised. It was the DI from across town. ‘It’s Edith Stevenson, she’s demanding to talk to you.’
His head spun. ‘Stevenson? To me? Why?’
‘She says it’s about – and I quote – “the policewoman”. She must mean Suzie but she reckoned not to have a name. She said for her information to be of any use, we’d need to be quick. It has to be worth a try.’
Webber’s glance strayed to the clock. ‘What were you going to do if you’d missed me?’
‘Oh … uh … get you on your mobile.’ That was a lie. They’d have had someone get in touch pretending to be him. He and Stevenson had never met so there was probably no reason why not.
‘Stevenson doesn’t know we have Drake in custody, does she?’ he asked.
‘No, she shouldn’t. Why?’
It occurred to Webber that a lot of people knew things they shouldn’t. ‘It might mean the time pressure’s not as tight as she thinks,’ he said. ‘And where is she? Last I heard she was in hospital in Hull. We can’t do this stuff by phone.’
‘She’s still there, can’t be moved. And there’s no time to get you and her in the same city, never mind face to face. We talked about it, maybe sending in someone who’s on the spot, but I suppose she knows what you look like.’
‘I’ve never met her but I wouldn’t want to take the risk, not if she’s going to talk.’
‘Yes, so I want to do it as a conference call so we can listen in. Is that ok? It’s pretty certain Stevenson was set to jump. She’s vulnerable … nothing to lose. We want to play on that.’
It was clear they’d discussed strategy and hadn’t expected Webber in the loop at all. The phone call across here had been so they could say they’d tried to get him. Maybe he should leave them to it. His focus should be to get after Melinda. But what if Stevenson knew his voice?
‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said. He covered the mouthpiece while connections were established and gave Ahmed the bare bones of this latest development, adding, ‘I called home. Melinda’s gone off after Joyce Yeatman. She’s out there somewhere right now.’
He wasn’t sure what had made him tell Ahmed, other than a need to unburden himself. Ahmed looked aghast. ‘Your wife?’ he said. ‘She’s gone and …’ He tripped on his words.
‘Yes,’ Webber finished for him. ‘She’s gone and done it again.’ He wanted to tell Ahmed to get after her … to contact her … but it wasn’t the right thing to do. And if she was driving, he wanted all her concentration on the road … on the junctions. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it on speaker. Stevenson knows your voice, doesn’t she, so keep quiet. Let’s see what she has to say.’
Webber felt the tension rise as they listened to his officers talking to Hull … the whirrs and clicks of connections being made … the clock ticked on … and Melinda was with Joyce Yeatman.
The tone from the handset changed, became clear and echoey as they made the final connection. It would be like talking in a vast cavern knowing that listeners were hidden in the shadows. Edith Stevenson’s voice came through low and gravelly, as though in the aftermath of a long shouting match. ‘Is that Webber?’ she asked without preamble. Webber glanced at Ahmed to see his expression harden. He’d recognised her.
‘Yes. You wanted to talk to me, Miss Stevenson.’
‘Do you want the golden girl back safe and sound?’
The turn of phrase threw him. It wasn’t something that should come out of Edith Stevenson’s mouth. ‘What do you know?’ he said.
‘Oh, not so fast. I need an answer. Do you want her back safe and sound?’
‘Yes, of course I do. Where is she?’
‘You know that you need to be quick, don’t you? You know what time it is.’
Webber couldn’t stop himself looking up at the clock. Almost ten past nine. He reached forward to scrawl, Traffic – find out, on a scrap of paper and looked round for Ahmed, but Ahmed had returned to the big office. Webber could see him raking through a heap of pape
rs. Hadn’t he told him to stay and listen?
‘Maybe it’s already too late,’ he said into the phone.
‘No, it’s not.’ He heard a tiny note of panic in her voice. With a feeling of floundering in the dark he pushed a little further. ‘How would you know from where you are?’
‘Window dressing,’ she said. ‘Distractions. The real one won’t happen yet, but it won’t be long. You don’t have forever to find them.’
‘What real one and where?’ He barked out the question as an order to spark against her growing anxiety.
‘I know exactly where they are, but you don’t have long. And I’m not telling you for nothing.’
Now they were getting to it. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want a cast-iron guarantee that I won’t get a custodial sentence.’
He felt his eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘You must know I can’t do deals like that.’
‘I know that deals get done. Deals just like that.’
‘Not by me,’ he said, though he knew she was right. What she didn’t seem to have thought of was that no deals like that were done for people like her and not over an open phone line with this many witnesses.
He heard her sigh. ‘You don’t want her back, do you? Solves a lot of problems for you if she dies, doesn’t it?’ There was no triumph in her voice, just defeat. He felt uncomfortable that this was being recorded. Stevenson clearly knew all there was to know, the expression ‘golden girl’ had given that away. He wondered who she’d talked to.
‘Miss Stevenson.’ He kept his voice level. ‘Tell me what you know. It won’t go against you to be honest, not even this late in the day, but I’m not promising you anything I can’t deliver.’
She laughed without mirth. ‘I hope you don’t think I was going to rely on your word. I’m not that stupid. It’ll be a cast-iron guarantee or nothing.’