Ed watched her and listened. He knew when she needed to ventilate. All Senior Investigating Officers did. She pushed herself hard, always insisting on meeting the grieving family members.
‘You know,’ she said. ‘I look at them and I know life will never be the same for them. They’ll never get over it. They may learn to live with it. I’ve seen too many of them over the years. They’re shells, existing in the same world but not living the same life. Last night it changed forever for them.’
She spun the chair and looked away.
Ed needed a distraction.
‘Did you happen to look at Jack Goddard’s T-shirt?’
Sam tilted her head backwards and pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘No…Should I have done?’ she asked, slowly turning to face him.
Ed told her about the shirts the group apparently wore.
‘Okay. A few early decisions for the Policy File,’ she said.
Sam, like all SIOs, documented every decision she made in relation to the investigation in a bound book called a Policy File. She would record the time and date of the decision and her reasons for making it. More importantly, she would record what other options she’d considered and why those options were dismissed.
‘Firstly, let’s put it on HOLMES,’ she said. ‘No need to call everybody out now. Sort it tomorrow.’
Sam was acutely aware that HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was labour intensive, which was why the decision to utilise it was never taken lightly.
‘The so-called police intelligence system?’
They both laughed; contrary to many police dramas, HOLMES is not a police intelligence system. Once a major investigation is completed, the system is mothballed until its use is again authorised.
Sam rattled off the lines of inquiry she’d identified outside the mortuary, Ed scribbling them down in an A4 pad.
‘Finally,’ Sam said. ‘Ian Robinson, the POLSA, is calling out a search team. He’ll arrange the search along the tow path.’
The Jolly Roger was full... Sunday-morning footballers together with lunchtime drinkers, all watching the match on Sky Sports. A couple of groups of young women stood chatting, not interested in the latest offering from the Premier League.
Steve Donnelly rushed across the room to meet them, or to be precise, waddled as fast as his splayed feet and huge beer belly would allow him.
‘Ed,’ he said.
Ed shook his hand, and then turned to Sam.
‘This is DCI Sam Parker,’ Ed said.
‘Hello,’ Steve said, offering a sweaty palm to Sam. ‘DCI eh?’
He turned to Ed.
‘They’re getting younger by the day. And more attractive.’
‘And more aware of sexual harassment,’ Sam said evenly.
Steve looked at the floor, his face red.
‘You want to look at the CCTV?’ he muttered.
Ed smiled at Steve’s embarrassment and Sam’s quick put-down.
‘Yes please,’ Ed said.
Sam shook her head as she followed them – the Elvis hair, the black shirt and black trousers, the huge silver buckle on the belt, a 50s throwback and a ridiculous look for a town-centre licensee.
The only part of the Jolly Roger that was not covered by CCTV was the toilets. Other than that, the system had 100% coverage, which from an investigative point of view was fantastic. Whether the civil liberties brigade and the left-wing students agreed was highly doubtful, although the Mortimers were so hammered they probably never noticed the little infra-red lights.
They all concentrated on the images. Identifying Jack Goddard and his group was easy as they were in the pub so early.
‘I see what you mean about their shirts,’ Sam said.
‘Pathetic,’ Steve scowled.
He fast-forwarded the machines until it was almost 9pm. Jack, Elliott, Glen and the other two, could be seen staggering around, chatting to girls who weren’t interested.
None of the watching trio needed to be lip-readers to understand the redhead’s simple dismissal.
‘Stop the tape,’ Sam said, pointing at the screen. ‘Look at that group, those five girls with the redhead in it.’
She moved towards the screen.
‘That girl with her back to the camera.’ She pointed her out. ‘Red top, black shorts, silver boots. Wasn’t that what Alex O’Connell was wearing?’
Ed nodded. ‘The girl who found Jack’s body.’
‘I knew getting around the shifts, reminding uniform what we needed in statements would pay off.’
‘Always get them to describe their own clothing,’ Ed said.
‘Exactly.’ Sam looked at Steve. ‘Thanks. Can we continue?’
They watched the two doormen approach the Mortimers, watched Jack adopt an aggressive stance, and watched the tall young bouncer lean in and speak to him. Glen Jones remained with Jack while Elliott and the other two backed off. Jack picked up a pint glass and threw half a pint of beer over the tall bouncer.
‘He’s very calm, the young one,’ Ed said.
‘Cool as a cucumber,’ Steve said. ‘Thirty-odd years in this game and he’s the most frightening I’ve seen. Not massive, certainly not aggressive, just controlled. Frightens the shit,’ he glanced at Sam, ‘sorry, life, out of me. He can apparently handle himself, not that I’ve seen him. It’s what you hear, some sort of martial arts champion.’
‘We’ll need names and addresses,’ Ed said. ‘I’ll need to speak to them both. Replay that bit Steve.’
He moved closer to the screen and watched the confrontation again.
‘The older bouncer? Is that Billy Wilson?’
‘Yeah. Been at it for almost as long as I have.’
‘Well I am impressed. Back in the day the Billy I knew would have levelled Jack for that performance. Is he going soft?’
‘Times change Ed,’ Steve said. ‘They’re licensed now. Cameras everywhere. Not as easy to give someone a kicking as it was years ago. Give them a kicking these days and it’s on somebody’s mobile, Fight Night on YouTube starring a doorman near you.’
‘Times might change but the Billy Wilsons of this world don’t,’ Ed said, standing straight. ‘They just become more careful.’
‘So who’s Billy Wilson?’ Sam asked, settling herself into the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford Focus.
‘He’s been around for years. Father did the doors. The whole family are fighters... him, his dad, and his six brothers. None of them have convictions for dishonesty, just violence. The plastic gangsters have hired them as enforcers over the years.’
‘Capable of attacking someone with a hammer?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ed said. ‘Especially if he’s dwelt on it, had a drink, popped a couple of pills. He’d see it as an affront, a liberty, someone challenging the Wilsons. Forget the fact the beer was thrown over the younger one, Wilson was there. He’d see it as an attack on him.’
‘What about the younger one, this Tom King?’ Sam said.
‘Never heard of him,’ Ed shrugged. ‘Steve sounded impressed.’
‘That’ll be Steve the overweight-Elvis-impersonating-misogynist?’
Sam put a cigarette between her lips, searched her trouser pockets for her lighter, and spoke through the corner of her mouth.
‘Terrified more like,’ she inhaled. ’Let’s do some background checks on the pair of them. And let’s call on Alex O’Connell. Tell her it’s a follow-up visit, we’re just checking if she’s alright.’
Ed turned his head, eyes off the road and glanced at Sam.
‘Her statement’s all about finding Jack Goddard’s body,’ Sam said. ‘It starts about five minutes before the discovery. We never asked her where she was before. In fairness, I didn’t expect the young cop who took the statement to do that. But if it is her in that group in the Jolly Roger, her mate is telling the lads to do one.’
‘The issue being, did anything else happen between them?’ Ed asked.
‘Exactly. Elliott and tw
o of his mates went home in a taxi after getting their kebabs. Jack and Glen didn’t. It opens up all sorts of scenarios. Potentially we have a witness who is involved in an argument with Jack and then contacts us saying she’s found a body.’
Chapter Seven
‘I’ll just give Monica Teal a quick call before we go in, bring her up to speed,’ Sam said, as Ed pulled up outside Alex O’Connell’s apartment block.
Ed got out of the car, arched his back, stretched, and waited for Sam to update the Assistant Chief Constable.
The apartment block was modern: communal glass entrance leading to a terracotta-tile floor and a concierge desk, two large pots containing green ferns either side of the glass doors.
‘Jesus, I didn’t live like this at Durham when I was at university,’ Sam said, getting out of the car. ‘Concierge on the desk, secure underground car park, balconies.’
‘Can’t see you in a hovel.’
They walked across the visitors’ car park.
‘It was clean enough but nothing like this,’ Sam said. ‘This isn’t normal student accommodation I can assure you.’
Ed pulled a face. ‘Student loans, live the high life, live for the day.’
Alex O’Connell buzzed them in and they took the lift to the 14th floor. There wasn’t a 15th.
‘Penthouse,’ Ed said.
‘Told you this wasn’t a typical student.’
‘Hi, come in.’ Alex was a 22-year-old second-year student. She was tall, elegant, and graceful with long ink-black hair that had a hint of blue swaying in unison with her slender hips.
The focal point of the room was a huge abstract painting, the eggshell pastel-coloured walls and cream, linen sofas the perfect foil for its vibrant colours and broad-brush strokes.
Three sofas, each capable of seating three people, were placed around a large black marble-topped coffee table, each affording a panoramic view of the sea. Every external wall had a floor-to-ceiling window. On the balcony, a table and four chairs with enough space for a marquee.
Books filled the shelves and an iPad sat on the coffee table next to a Mac Air laptop.
‘Nice place,’ Ed said.
‘I like it.’ Her diction and Home Counties accent suggested a life of privilege. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Great views,’ Ed said, looking at the North Sea.
Sam was trying to rekindle her love of the water. A lifetime ago she felt bonded to the sea, but that was when Tristram was alive, before the accident. In February last year she’d jumped into a fisherman’s coble in a vain effort to rescue someone from the sea. That had been the first time she’d set foot on a boat in years. She wondered if she would ever sail the seas again. She loved it once. Maybe she could grow to love it again.
‘Why Seaton St George?’ Sam said.
‘It was the closest daddy would let me get to Newcastle,’ Alex said. ‘He reasoned that if I was miles away and had to travel, I wouldn’t be in the big city, partying every night.’ She laughed. ‘If only he knew. It’s no different here. It’s the North East. Everybody parties.’
Ed smiled. ‘My wife once said the CID would throw a leaving party if someone was moving desks.’
Alex laughed again. ‘Yeah I can imagine. Detectives seem fun but with that air of arrogance. Us girlies like that, real men. Military, police, fire. We’ve been chatted up by detectives before.’
‘Not as old as this one I hope,’ Sam said, jerking her thumb towards Ed.
Alex smiled.
Sam continued. ‘As we mentioned on the phone, we just want to ask a couple of questions if that’s alright?’
‘Yes,’ she hesitated. ‘Only, will it take long? I’m supposed to be meeting some friends later for a drink, then dinner.’
Ed smiled again. Call him old school but in the North East, dinnertime was around noon, tea was the evening meal, and supper was eaten in your dressing gown, usually consisting of a couple of Jacob’s cream crackers.
‘Not long at all,’ Sam said. ‘I’m just trying to get everything in chronological order. Get things right in my own mind. What are you studying?’
‘English.’
‘Nice subject. I did psychology. Anyway... Saturday. Were you at anytime in the Jolly Roger?’
‘Yes,’ Alex said. ‘We were in there from about 7.30 until, let me think…until about 10. The music’s decent and the drink’s cheap.’
‘Who were you with?’
‘Friends. Let’s see. There was Juliette, Charlotte, Tracey, Anastasia and myself.’
Sam saw a photograph of a group of five girls on the TV stand.
‘Is that them by any chance?’ She pointed at the photograph.
‘That’s them.’ Alex got out of her seat and passed the framed photograph to Sam.
‘Who’s the redhead?’
‘That’s Tracey. She’s from the North East. Everybody else is from Cirencester. I’ve known the other girls for like, forever, but I met Tracey on the course. She’s great.’
‘Did she have an argument with any boys on Saturday?’ Sam said.
‘Tracey? Every week. Look at her, gorgeous. Six foot. And that hair. There’s always somebody hitting on her. We girls have a code. If we like someone, we’ll say to the group ‘is that assignment due in next week?’ If we don’t like them, we’ll say ‘what time does your mother arrive?’ That way everybody in the group knows whether to stay for another drink or move on.’
‘And Tracey does this, does she?’ Sam asked.
‘Tracey?’ Alex laughed. ‘No. If she likes somebody, she’ll just say Julian, Conner... whatever, is going to buy me a drink. If she doesn’t like them, she’ll just tell them to eff off.’
‘Are you out with Tracey today?’ Sam said.
‘No. She and Charlotte had a late one. They both went to a party with some guys they met. I was texting Charlotte to make sure she was okay, you know, before I saw the…’
Her head dropped forward.
‘That’s why I said I’m supposed to be meeting someone. I’m not sure I can face going out. Juliette and Anastasia will want to know all the details.’
‘It’s a natural human tendency,’ Sam said. ‘You’re in the limelight. How long have you lived here?’
‘Not long. I was pleased to get out of the halls. Daddy looked at some rentals but didn’t like them. He bought this place so I didn’t have to share.’
Sam passed Alex her card.
‘If you need anything, or just want a chat, give me a call. What you saw in the early hours is not something people normally see. If you want to talk to someone about it, there are organisations I can recommend.’
‘Thanks,’ Alex said.
All three stood up and walked to the door. Sam looked at the spiral wooden staircase with brushed metal banister going to the upstairs of the apartment. Penthouse by the sea. Daddy’s got some cash.
‘May as well do Tracey while we’re out,’ Sam said, speed-marching to the car.
‘No problem,’ Ed said. ‘Nice flat.’
‘Very, and all because daddy doesn’t want her sharing. Must be nice.’
Tracey Davies’s flat was on the Conifers, an estate built in the 80s; two-storey buildings, each flat with its own ground-floor door.
Sam stared out of the passenger window.
‘I can’t drive past this place now without thinking of Danielle Banks and that masked bastard.’
It wasn’t a bad area per se. Dealers and low-lifes hadn’t infested it, but it was no penthouse by the sea.
Tracey answered the door and invited them in. Still in her dressing gown, she looked like she’d spent the night in a wind tunnel, hair wild and her naturally pale skin, a signpost to her Scottish heritage, so white she could have had an appointment with an embalmer.
‘Sorry about the state of the place, but it was a heavy night.’
Sam saw the wet patch on the carpet, her nose twitching at the lingering smell of vomit. A half-eaten pitta, red-stained doner, and a wilting salad la
y in a Styrofoam container on the floor; even the pirate-eye-patched Jack Russell snoozing by the window had been blessed with sufficient canine common sense to leave the food well alone.
Tracy flicked the top of a gold Zippo and lit a cigarette.
‘You’re aware that Alex found a body in the river last night,’ Sam said.
‘God I know. How awful for her. I saw it on her Facebook, not the body, the notification… I think I’d have thrown up… I did that anyway.’
A short burst of laughter was followed by a long bout of smoker’s cough. Tracey shot up, raced into the kitchen and the detectives heard her clear her throat then spit. Sam hoped it was into the sink.
‘Sorry about that,’ Tracey said, dropping on to the armchair and putting three pieces of sugar-coated chewing gum in her mouth, the cigarette no longer in her hand.
She confirmed that she’d been in the Jolly Roger with her friends.
‘Yeah, a group of lads came over. Pissed and wearing the same T-shirts. Juveniles. Anyway they were drooling all over us. I told them to fuck off. You know what it’s like.’
She looked at Sam.
Sam shook her head. Yes, she’d been chatted up, had her share of wolf whistles and the like, but there seemed no barriers now. Somehow it seemed much worse. The number of schoolgirls and students suffering indecent assaults their attackers passed off as ‘banter’ was frightening. Social media had sparked an explosion in cyber bullying, trolls threatening rape and worse from the safety of a laptop screen and anonymity.
‘Had you ever seen these men before?’ Sam asked.
‘Not that I remember. Was it one of them in the river?’
‘We’re following a number of lines of inquiry,’ Sam said. ‘Have you seen them around the campus?’
‘I don’t think so.’
She popped more chewing gum in her mouth.
‘As a matter of interest, Tracey, what are you studying at university?’ Ed asked.
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