by T S O'Rourke
Maybe Grant was all right after all, Carroll thought, leaving the squad room.
Chapter 8
Carroll made his way back from the forensics office towards Essex Road, where he was due to meet Grant for a pint. On the way, he stopped off to check out a bet that he had made earlier in the day. £10 on the nose of a Dunwoody ride over hurdles. It had come in at seven-to-one. He had taken the earlier odds of five-to-one, and was a little pissed off that the odds had gone further out than he had anticipated. Still, fifty quid was fifty quid. It was a few weeks since he’d had a decent win on the nags, and it was welcome. The only problem was that he would have to wait until the next day to collect it. The shop had closed at half five on the dot and there was no way of getting around it.
Grant hadn’t arrived by the time Carroll got to the King’s Head, so he just ordered a pint and sat at the bar, flicking through a newspaper he found lying on the counter.
The King’s Head was a middle-ground sort of pub. A cross between a spit and sawdust job and a plush lounge bar. It was carpeted and wallpapered, with the walls bearing pictures and prints of Ireland. The landlord was Irish, like in most other London pubs. Irish and proud, if lacking a little taste in the decor stakes. His name was Cormac.
Like Irish barmen and landlords everywhere, Cormac had an opinion on everything. The weather, the government, the state of affairs in Northern Ireland and, especially, the European Union. Cormac hated the whole idea of the EU. You could start talking to Cormac about the weather, but sure as there were pumps with stout and bitter on the bar, he would find his way around to talking about the EU. Dan didn’t care much for politics, and cared even less for European politics. The whole subject was a mystery to him, like it was to most people. Whatever those Eurocrats got up to with their big expense accounts, re-naming vegetables as fruits and destroying good food held in cold storage, was beyond him. Who had ever thought that there could be lakes of wine and mountains of butter? The whole idea just sounded too absurd to even contemplate.
Cormac’s favourite subject was bitching about farmers getting paid good money not to produce anything. In his mind this was just pure crazy. Carroll was inclined to agree.
The pint of stout that Carroll drank with an almost religious reverence was followed swiftly by a short sharp snap of Irish whiskey.
‘Nothing like a bit of an auld chaser to kill the thirst, eh?’ Carroll commented with a satisfied grin sweeping his face.
Cormac nodded and proceeded to inform Carroll of a new EU directive changing the ingredients of stout and ale. Carroll smiled indulgently and listened while Cormac went off on his little ranting and raving session. He nodded politely whenever Cormac stalled for a breath.
By the time Grant arrived, Carroll was half-way through his second pint. Grant had never been in the King’s Head, and wasn’t used to visiting pubs. He looked extremely uncomfortable as those assembled in the small Irish pub swung their eyes around to stare at the black intruder. Carroll called him over and offered him a chair at the bar.
‘What’ll you have?’
‘An orange juice.’
‘Ah for fucksake, man, have a pint with your partner....’
The pub crowd had turned back to their pints and thoughts after Carroll had called Grant over. It was as if it were only okay to have an unfamiliar black man on the premises with the consent of a regular. Cormac didn’t mind one little bit who drank in the place, be they black, brown, yellow or red. Their money was just as good as that of a sixty year-old Paddy off a building site, in his view.
‘I’ll have a pint of lager then – but just the one. I’m babysitting my kids tonight....’ Grant said. Carroll nodded at Cormac, who went to work on the order.
‘How many kids you got?’
‘Three.’
‘And you’re married?’
‘Just about – not for long though.’
They had never really broached the subject of their personal lives in the week and a half they had been together. It somehow didn’t seem appropriate talking about your family life when dealing with murderers and prostitutes. Family life had nothing to do with the outside world. At least not to the two detectives sat at the bar in the King’s Head.
‘What’s the story, trouble at mill?’ Carroll asked inquisitively.
‘You might say that – she’s pushing for a divorce. Says I’m not around enough for the kids. Mind you, she still has time to see other men....’
‘What, she’s seeing other men?’
‘Two at the moment, I think....’
‘Fuck that! Jaysus, man, have you no self-respect! Don’t let a woman walk over you like that....’
‘It’s not that simple....’
‘It rarely is, I suppose,’ Carroll admitted, realising what he had just said.
Carroll took a long gulp of stout and ordered another two drinks. Grant didn’t protest. It seemed that talking about one’s troubles made you thirsty. And if it was a thirst they had, they were in the right place.
Cormac arrived with the two pints and placed them on the bar. He smiled politely and looked at Grant, who seemed to be elsewhere, mentally. Carroll dug deep and gave Cormac a fiver.
‘You have to know how to treat the women, Sam, you know. They like you to take the upper hand – it’s a natural kind of thing, you know. Law of the jungle and all that....’
‘And you think that I don’t know all of this?’
‘No, but for chrissake man, how can you look after your kids while their mother’s out on the town with other men?’
‘It’s not that easy – let me tell you....’
‘What do the kids think about it – do they mind?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them about it.’
‘Why the hell not? If you get the kids on your side, then she won’t stand a chance. All you need is to get them to make her feel guilty about not letting you move back into the house. I take it that you’re not living there if you’re babysitting?’
‘No, I’m staying in a flat in Dalston....’
‘Get the kids on your side, man, get the kids on your side....’
Carroll could see the interest in the conversation had faded for Grant, so he dropped the subject.
‘Jo Mac’s kid has been sent up to her grandparents’ place in Scotland, according to Social Services. Good news, isn’t it?’ Grant said, changing tack completely. ‘What did the forensics people say about the earring you dropped off?’
‘Said they’d have something for me in the next two days at the latest. It’s just a matter of time now, that’s all....’
‘I don’t think they’ll be getting any decent prints off an earring. It’s too narrow, you know. But they’ll be able to match DNA type with the semen found in the victim.’
‘Great, that’ll really help us, won’t it....’
‘Well, we have a lot of information on the guy already, when you think about it. We’ve got his hair colour, his approximate age, the fact that he may have had an earring ripped out of his ear, and what kind of clothing he may have been wearing. All we have to do is contact that guy in Manchester to see what clothes he had on when he was with Joanne, and then we know what kind of stuff the killer was wearing, you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But what then?’
‘It’s just gonna be hard finding the guy if there’s no obvious connection with the victim. I mean, we don’t even have any idea whether she was seeing anyone, or if she owed money to anyone for her drug habit, you know?’
‘Keep that in your mind, Dan, it could be a useful lead. Money is a common motive for killing. If she was in debt to a dealer, then she’d....’
‘She’d probably blow him to pay off the debt. That’s how it works, Sam, that’s how it works. You’re talking to someone whose been dealing with hookers for the last ten years. I know how they operate. This was most likely just a random killing....’
‘How,’ Grant said, getting a little annoyed at the thought, ‘can you say
it was a random killing? Who the hell breaks into a house, rings an escort agency, sits on his arse for half an hour and then kills the woman after he’s finished with her? Think about it, man, think about it!’
‘Well, if that’s the case, he may have had a grudge against her.’
‘But the other girl was supposed to be on duty, remember? He didn’t know who was coming to the house. He just wanted a hooker, that’s all. It could’ve been anybody....’
‘So then it was a random killing.’
‘In that sense, yes, but there has to be more to it than that, you know. The killer obviously intended to kill the woman, otherwise he would’ve just hired a hotel room or picked up a hooker in his car. The guy’s a nutter – he has something against prostitutes in general if that’s the case.’
‘So if he’s done it once....’
‘He’ll do it again. Think about it – he had every intention of killing that woman, didn’t he? You don’t go carrying a blade like the one he used on her if you’re just planning to get your rocks off, do you?’
‘No, you most certainly don’t,’ Carroll agreed.
Grant had to get going. He had to be at the house by seven-thirty, and it was already seven. Carroll was just getting in gear. Grant was beginning to understand why his new partner was always a shambles in the morning.
If the truth were to be known, Grant had enjoyed talking to Carroll for the first time since he’d been forced to work with him. It was becoming obvious that they were very similar in their way of thinking, if nothing else. Hardly wanting to admit it to himself, Grant was actually enjoying their little sparring matches and ‘brainstorming sessions’, as DCI Jones would call them.
By the time Carroll got home it was around half ten, and his wife, Sarah, was sitting in front of the TV set, watching a film. Dan recognised the film straight away. He’d seen it over five times, but still enjoyed it. The Quiet Man was one of those films that never lost its appeal, and that couldn’t be said of a lot of movies.
‘Is that you, Dan?’ Sarah asked, turning in her chair.
‘Aye, it’s me. Are you all right?’ Carroll said softly.
‘I’m fine, Dan, I’m fine. Have you eaten anything yet?’
‘Eh, not yet, no.’
‘Are you hungry? I’ll put on some chips if you like....’
‘No, I had something earlier.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Sorry I’m so late. I just got talking to my partner and it got me into a drinking mood, you know....’
‘Sit down, I’ll get you something....’
‘I don’t like you cooking on that stove these days, it’s not safe.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m fine. I haven’t been too bad this week. My hands aren’t shaking too much at the moment and besides, I feel a little useless sitting here in this chair all day....’
Dan bent over his wife and kissed her softly on the lips. He loved his wife more than anything in the world, more than life itself. But it was tearing him apart, watching her slowly deteriorate. The doctor said it could take up to twenty years, but some only lasted ten or twelve with her condition. She’d already been suffering for ten years and was getting progressively worse as the disease ravaged her nervous system.
‘There’s a few beers left in the fridge if you’re still thirsty....’
‘Did the care worker come around today?’ Dan asked, making for the fridge.
‘That woman is more of a discomfort than this bloody chair. I swear I’ll swing for her one of these days....’
‘What’s she done now?’
‘Why they send idiots like her to look after people is beyond me. The woman doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she’s supposed to be my care worker, but she spends the entire two hours drinking tea and telling me how her love life is in a mess. If I wanted to know about that kind of thing I’d buy a magazine and read the problem page....’
‘Ah sure, she’s only a young one....’
‘She’s thirty-five. You’d think she’d know better....’
‘But what happened to that young Irish girl who used to visit you?’
‘That was last month. Now, sit down and I’ll get you something to eat....’
It was useless arguing with Sarah. Dan knew that, and wasn’t in the mood to disagree. He had never won an argument with her in the twenty years they had been married, and he certainly wasn’t going to try it now.
Sarah always had been a force to reckon with – in or out of a wheelchair.
Chapter 9
The Greater Manchester Police were very helpful. It must have had something to do with what Carroll had often heard described as ‘northern charm’. Either way, Detective Inspector Halloway had gone out of his way to be of service to the investigation.
Halloway had arranged to have two of his men check James O’Brien out – the guy who owned the mobile phone, and who, presumably, was the self same man that hired Joanne McCrae the night before she was murdered.
As it turned out, O’Brien had been in the hotel on the night in question and had paid for Jo Mac’s services with cash. He had been wearing only underwear when she arrived, he had said, and absolutely nothing when she had left. No sportswear, no oil-stained jeans. Only a pair of Y-fronts. Although somewhat unhappy about it, O’Brien agreed to give his fingerprints to the Manchester detectives. All of the details that they had been sent up by Grant had checked out. Times, places, hair colour, appearance. It was amazing how much could be deciphered by the forensics people these days. Just a few hairs and that was it.
Joanne, O’Brien had told the Manchester boys, was a rough sort of girl who didn’t waste any time. She went right down on the job in hand and stayed there until it was done. She was there no more than thirty minutes – not the hour or hour and a half that they had been told by Lynn, her boss back at the Dream Date Escort Agency. That was the last O’Brien had seen of her. She went off out into the night and back to her base, presumably, he had said. Only she hadn’t gone straight back to the escort agency.
Dream Date’s offices were a short taxi ride from the Towcester Hotel in Piccadilly. A ride that would only have taken around twenty minutes. There was another half hour or thereabouts that was still unaccounted for.
When Grant received the fax from the Greater Manchester Police and read down through their report, it was the one thing that struck him. Whatever Jo Mac did in that half hour could have had considerable bearing on what happened to her the next morning in Horseferry Road. It was just something they had to check out, even if her killing seemed to be an act of random murder.
Carroll’s first thought was to check out the hotel receptionist. Not the one they had already spoken to, but the woman who was on the desk on the night Jo Mac did her thing in room thirty nine for a certain Mr. O’Brien.
Carroll got on the phone straightaway and had a word with the manager of the Towcester Hotel, Mr. Winterbottom. Winterbottom was more than a little unhappy to hear Carroll’s voice again.
‘Look, Mr. Carroll, no crime was committed here and you’ve wasted enough of our time already – not to mention upsetting my staff and inconveniencing guests....’
‘We need to speak to the woman who was on the night shift. The girl who covered the reception desk. Can we have her name and address, Mr. Winterbottom?’
‘So you won’t be coming back to the hotel?’
‘Not if we can help it, sir. Now if you’d just get me the details, I’ll let you get on with your business....’
‘Very well.’
Carroll sat back at his desk looking up at the ceiling, as Winterbottom went in search of the personnel records. The squad room could badly do with a once over, Carroll thought. Paint was peeling from the walls and ceiling, the linoleum covered floor was so badly worn and marked by shoes that the original colours of blue and red were almost impossible to make out. As for the desks, well, a quarter of a century
of bored detectives with pens in their hands had decorated them with graffiti and doodles ranging from the absurd to the obscene. Winterbottom returned.
‘Sharon Walpole,’ he said, reading out her address and telephone number to Carroll, who eagerly scribbled them down in his notebook.