‘But Harp … DI Harper … has me out of the loop. I hardly know what is known, let alone who knew it when.’
Groombridge bit his lip, openly vexed. ‘I understand. I’m sorry, Joe. But DI Harper is in charge. Swallow your pride and get on with it. I’m not expecting miracles, but whatever snippets you can glean. What’s the mood?’
‘DI Harper wasn’t happy when he saw the TV, Guv.’
‘No. He was generous with his displeasure when he saw the paper yesterday.’
‘Could just be some freelance pap getting lucky, Guv.’
Groombridge nodded. ‘Once is luck, twice is coincidence. A third would be bad news.’
It already was in Stark’s book. ‘Did you get my email about that call, Guv? Ronald somebody …’
Groombridge raised his chin, squinting into his own memory. ‘Oh yes. Buried among all the rest. I only caught up last night.’ His lower lip jutted out as he thought. ‘Can’t say I know many Ronalds. If it’s important they’ll call back, I suppose.’
Stark’s interview with the name at the top of his list produced no new information. The local uniform and CID had nothing more to add. Greenwich was seven miles from Crystal Palace – in London terms another town; they had nothing linking their recidivist to the area or the victims and the man himself was saying nothing.
Stark drove back to Royal Hill in the pool car. The radio was on but he didn’t hear it. His mind was rolling around the unsettling idea of a leak. If they had one, distilling the crime to MMO got you almost nowhere. Means was a mobile phone. Motive had to be money; they weren’t in any kind of investigative cul-de-sac where frustration at seeing someone getting away with a crime might tempt coppers to instigate trial by tabloid. No one joined the police for the pay, but the recent overtime restrictions hurt people’s bank accounts. And opportunity? Again, half the building would’ve known about the interviews, the raids and the arrest, and they’d have told the other half soon enough. If they had a leak, if, then Stark would never find it alone.
When he got back he went to find Ptolemy.
‘Are you lost?’
Stark turned to find PC Pensol looking up at him from where she was working. ‘I was looking for Sergeant Ptolemy.’
‘He’s off today.’
‘Constable Peters?’
‘Out on patrol. Can I help?’
‘Thank you, no. I’ll catch up with them tomorrow.’ He turned to leave.
‘Is it true that you took on a gun-wielding killer with just your walking stick?’
Stark looked at her. ‘Is that what you’ve heard?’
She smiled. ‘That, and more.’
Stark sighed inside. A reputation was a tiresome thing.
For the first time he focused on her properly, seeing the person and not just the latest rookie, and suddenly the scales fell from his eyes – Peters’ knowing looks, the peer-group giggling. Rumour of his split with Kelly must’ve reached the ground floor. Constable Pensol, he didn’t even know her first name, had a crush on him.
He suddenly felt a hundred years old. What was she, nineteen? Cute as a button, fresh as a flower, sweet as honey, innocent as a lamb gambolling towards a landmine. ‘You shouldn’t listen to tall tales.’ He tried to keep his voice on the kind side of cold but she still blinked in surprise.
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ She looked down, blushing. ‘I’ll leave a note for Sergeant Ptolemy that you were looking for him.’
Stark nodded silent thanks and left.
Out in the frigid night air he paused and took a deep breath. A few years ago he would have seen this situation as an open goal. Now look at him. He closed his eyes and saw the flash of pained embarrassment on the poor girl’s face, and felt ashamed. He told himself it was for her own good, but it was a long, cold walk home that night.
25
Peeping in through the door vision panel, Groombridge waited outside the observation room until Harper and Fran had gone in to begin the interview proper. Savage had declined the opportunity to spontaneously confess and been left to stew overnight. His fingerprints and DNA were finally in the system.
Groombridge slipped in quietly, holding a finger to his lips at Williams and Dixon, unsurprised to see Stark absent. What damn fool errand had Harper cooked up to keep Stark sidelined today? More of the same, most likely. Groombridge set his teeth in frustration. Wanton waste, to score a petty point. He didn’t know how bad things had got between Stark and Harper before the latter’s departure, not for certain. It was best left that way. If he knew for certain that it was Stark who put Harper’s arm in that sling he might have been compelled to do something about it. It was a year and a half ago. Best forgotten. Wishful thinking again.
He put that from his mind for now and watched through the one-way glass. Harper let Fran do the preliminaries and begin the interview; keeping his powder dry. Savage looked exactly like a man who’d barely slept a wink all night in a police cell facing a murder charge.
Fran placed an evidence bag on the table. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve never seen this necklace before. At least that’s what you said yesterday after it was found in your jacket. Odd, because by all accounts Mary Chase never took it off. So I would’ve thought you got a pretty good look at it every time you screwed her behind her husband’s back.’ Savage was straight on the back foot and Fran took full advantage. ‘What, no witty quip? No – “You don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re stoking the fire”?’
Savage glanced at his court-appointed legal rep, who leant in. ‘What my client meant is that he didn’t recognize the necklace, and doesn’t know how it got in his locker.’
‘His locked locker.’
‘A simple three-dial combination. Child’s play to a building full of security staff. It must have been placed there by the actual killer or …’
‘Or what? By us?’
‘I never said,’ answered the lawyer craftily. ‘But your other suspects both work there.’
‘Your client’s DNA was on the necklace,’ said Fran.
Sweat or saliva. Fran had pulled strings to get the samples compared overnight. Groombridge smiled to himself.
‘We were shagging,’ said Savage, trying to sound confident but not pulling it off.
‘So was Mary Chase’s blood,’ added Fran. ‘Which puts you in rather an awkward position.’
‘I was there earlier in the day, like I told you … but that was the last time I saw her, I swear!’
‘Swear all you like, sunshine,’ scoffed Harper harshly. ‘It won’t make anyone believe you. That necklace was ripped from Mary’s neck and taken along with all the other loose valuables and contents of the safe, by her killer; by you.’
Savage shook his head. ‘No.’
‘What was in the safe?’ asked Fran.
‘How should I know? Didn’t even know they had one.’ A lie. He was getting rattled, answering without thinking. Fran was playing this well.
‘You’d been in that room many times,’ she continued. ‘You never had a quiet snoop around while Mary was freshening up?’
There, thought Groombridge. Savage’s tell. When trying to decide what to say his eyes flitted between Harper and Fran, attempting to guess what they knew or didn’t.
‘Your fingerprints were found on the safe door,’ explained Fran helpfully.
Savage glanced anxiously at his lawyer. ‘Yeah, all right, I had a look. Just curious. Like I said, I was just giving her one for the road. So I had a little look around. I didn’t care if she caught me.’
‘So you’re changing your story?’ asked Fran, for the record. Nothing played back quite as badly to a jury as a changed story. ‘You were looking for something to steal.’
‘No. People in my world don’t have safes in their bedroom cupboards. I just wanted to see what was in it. But it was locked.’
‘So you came back later and forced her to open it,’ growled Harper. ‘And then shot her in the back like a coward and helped yourself
.’
‘No!’
‘What happened – did she put up more of a fight than Tracy Mills? Or do you just get a kick out of hurting women?’
Savage looked alarmed. ‘No! I …’
‘But while you were fleeing the scene, her husband finally caught you in his house,’ continued Harper. ‘How ironic. And you shot him dead too.’
‘No!’
‘Did she tell you she was carrying your child?’ asked Fran.
‘What?’ Savage looked genuinely sideswiped. ‘You’re lying.’
‘DNA confirms it. A girl, apparently. Tell me, did Mary beg for the baby’s life as well as hers?’
‘Or was getting rid of it a perk of filling your pockets?’ added Harper disgustedly. ‘But by the time you’d shifted everything else, the necklace had already slipped into the lining of your coat. Bet you wish you’d asked your mum to sew up that hole.’
‘No.’ Savage looked angry now.
‘No? What then, you kept it back on purpose? Thought it would go nicely with your earrings and tiara?’
‘First you lie about seeing the necklace before,’ explained Fran calmly. ‘Then about the safe … You’re a liar, Carlton.’
Groombridge smiled. It was fascinating to watch Fran playing the calm one for a change. She was surprisingly good at it.
‘I was working that night,’ insisted Savage, finally remembering his alibi. ‘You can check, I was doing my rounds in the works van.’
‘We have checked,’ replied Fran. ‘But every other piece of evidence says you were miles away, busy murdering two people in cold blood. Which makes us wonder if someone else was driving your van …’
Suddenly Savage looked scared.
The lawyer held up her hand. ‘A minute alone with my client, Detective Inspector?’
Harper looked far from happy, but shut off the recording equipment.
Groombridge cursed silently. Not wishing to scram like a schoolboy, he had to stay and be discovered looking over their shoulders again. Harper definitely looked annoyed, Fran hardly surprised.
Back in the interview room the lawyer was talking and Savage was shaking his head. But his body language said he was losing the argument. After a while the lawyer beckoned to the glass and Harper and Fran went back in.
Groombridge listened intently. A confession would wrap things up nicely, but such gems usually came with some plea offer, and what did Savage have that might mitigate his guilt?
The lawyer did the talking. ‘My client wishes to confess …’
Harper sat forward eagerly.
‘But not to your double murder.’
‘So what does he want to confess to?’ Harper scowled. ‘Telling Mummy he brushed his teeth when he hasn’t?’
‘To the burglary of ninety-six Cavendish Road, Woolwich,’ replied the lawyer. ‘He can and will furnish a full description of the house itself, everything stolen, plus the name of his cousin who took over the Chase Security van route while my client was miles from your murder scene busy not killing two people.’
In the dim light of the observation room, Groombridge let out a long sigh.
26
Wendell Savage looked terrified. A few years older than his cousin Carlton, severe learning difficulties meant Wendell had to be accompanied by his mother, with whom he still lived. It also meant he had struggled to find employment. When his cousin had offered him regular money to drive his routes the boy and his mother had jumped at the chance. Carlton had told them he was moonlighting at a nightclub. Wendell would meet Carlton at a prearranged spot and they would swap vehicles. Carlton would leave a map of the route and a time to meet back. This had been going on over two years.
You could tell from the mother’s eyes that she’d known Carlton was lying.
In the meantime, here was Wendell; the unwitting accomplice. So scared he looked fit to piss himself. CPS would probably not come after him for the burglaries. But he was still guilty of driving without a licence or insurance and, as his guardian, his mother was guilty of benefit fraud and failing to declare earnings to the revenue. Hardly Fran’s finest arrest. No wonder Harper had sent her to pick him up.
‘Can I go now?’ asked Wendell. His eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I want to go now. Please!’
His mother gripped his hand reassuringly, wiping tears from her own eyes.
‘Just one more time,’ sighed Fran. ‘For the record. On Saturday the thirteenth of November, you are certain that you met your cousin, Carlton, at the corner of Jackson Road. And what time was this?’
Wendell pushed his pocket diary closer to her, his eyes pleading. ‘Carlton. Jackson Road. Nine thirty p.m. Don’t be late.’ He tapped the diary. It was all in there, his desperate life: appointments with his doctor, social services, the day-care centre where he passed most of his time while his mother was out scraping a living cutting hair, charity day trips to rain-lashed seaside towns, and every few weeks or so … Carlton, an address, a time, and don’t be late!
‘We will have to keep this. You understand that?’
The boy’s hand gripped the diary. His lower lip quivered.
‘He’s very proud of the diary,’ said his mother. ‘He’s … he’s worked so hard on it.’ She stifled a sob, and Wendell turned round and enveloped her in a reassuring hug.
Fran closed her eyes. Some days this job made you feel so proud.
Carlton swore the burglary of Cavendish Road was a one-off, a desperate rush of blood to the head that left him full of remorse. He was glad to have it out in the open and would cooperate fully. He had panicked afterwards and dumped the loot in a public bin. He was sorry this meant the homeowners would never see their valuables again.
All the other times he’d swapped with Wendell, he said, he’d been sleeping or out clubbing or with some girl, a different one each time, or latterly with Mary Chase who couldn’t corroborate. This was what became of perps’ right to spend time with their lawyer before you questioned them. He made quite a good show of it; handy dress rehearsal before his command performance for the magistrate.
Fran wasn’t buying, but for now that didn’t matter. She rubbed her eyes. It had been a long morning. Now she would spend the rest of her day in CID checking the dates from Wendell’s diary with local burglaries. She had no doubt each would match one. If only it were just one. Between the boroughs of Greenwich and Lewisham alone there might be a dozen burglaries to choose from each time. And the missing hours on each night in question could put Carlton anywhere in Greater London or beyond.
When he let go of his mother, Wendell was crying too. But there was a fierce look in his eye. Protective.
Fran promised herself that if she ever found herself alone with Carlton Savage she was going to slap his face so hard his ears would ring for a month.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ barked Harper before Stark had even got his coat off.
‘Rechecking the longshots.’ Wasting time on the road to talk with the wrong people. Stark nearly added ‘like you told me’, but it was evident from Harper’s expression that this wasn’t the time.
Harper’s face darkened all the same. ‘I want a summary on my desk before you leave the building.’ Coat in hand, he strode out of the office like a fury, leaving Stark to wonder what had happened. When he’d left that morning Harper had been all but rubbing his hands together with glee at the prospect of hauling Savage over the coals. The office was empty now, so he went to the canteen to see if anyone was about and spotted Ptolemy and Peters finishing their dinner. Pensol was with them but, seeing him enter, said something and carried her plate and cutlery to the dirty dishes trolley and left with a backward glance.
‘You’ve scared my rookie away,’ said Ptolemy, as Stark sat.
Peters was looking at him accusingly. ‘What have you said to her?’
‘What makes you think I’ve said something?’
She gave him a look. ‘You can’t be that dense.’
Stark sat down. ‘If it’s what I think y
ou’re suggesting, it’s best nipped in the bud.’
Peters looked crestfallen. She had clearly been indulging in a little matchmaking. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she demanded. ‘She’s young, hot and smitten. You could do a lot worse.’
‘She could do better,’ replied Stark in a tone that he hoped might close the topic.
Ptolemy winced. ‘You’re crushing hopes, Joe. She’s been in a mope all day.’ He glanced at Peters. ‘And poor Pensol too.’
Peters elbowed him.
Stark shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’ll both get over it.’
Peters tutted in disappointment. ‘She was my favourite. You should know there’s far less sweet girls downstairs talking about you.’
Stark wished with all his heart that she was joking. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have head space for Pensol or any other complication.’
‘Joe,’ Ptolemy chided. ‘What kind of attitude is that?’
‘A temporary one, let’s hope.’ Life, after all, was temporary.
Peters grinned. ‘So there’s still hope for Pensol.’
‘Leave the girl alone.’ Stark smiled wearily. ‘She shouldn’t be waiting around for anyone at her time of life.’
‘ “At her time of life”,’ laughed Ptolemy, who had ten years or more on Stark. ‘Get you, oh wise and ancient one.’
Stark chuckled, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, and he had a long report to write.
‘You okay, Joe?’ Peters’ voice held a hint of concern. Ptolemy was sizing him up too.
Stark noted that he may not have close friends, but he did have good ones. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Harper giving you a hard time?’
A leading question if ever there was one. If it wasn’t bad enough having his romantic prospects giggled over, did half the station know about his past confrontations with Harper? ‘Did I miss something today?’
‘Ah …’ Ptolemy nodded sagely. ‘Now therein lies a tale …’ He filled Stark in on Savage’s reduced charges.
‘I heard Harper was steaming after.’ Peters smirked. ‘Back on TV explaining that he’s got the wrong man.’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 11