The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  ‘Andie, I really appreciate how frank you’ve been. And brave.’

  ‘It’s my first better day since. That’s all. I know you don’t switch off trauma. I’m just having a pause before the rest of it hits me. And I need to do everything I can to get back on track before then. Now, if it’s OK, I think I’d like to phone my mum.’

  PC Kelly Wilkes then swapped places with Goodhew. ‘Andie would like to phone her family now,’ he explained. ‘She’ll need a doctor too.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gary. The doctor’s on the way and I’ll keep a close eye on her meanwhile.’ He was glad Kelly would be taking care of Andie; she would never be the judgemental type of woman that Andie most feared. ‘Go see Marks,’ Kelly whispered. ‘He’s through there.’ She nodded her head towards the room adjacent to the interview room. Goodhew knew then that Marks had been observing the interview.

  Goodhew pushed the door open gently. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Carmel Marshall gave us Andie’s first name and approximate address, but I came back here to find I didn’t need to discover the rest. Here you were already. Nice interview, Gary.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘She’s a strong witness, and it’s such a pity Marshall’s too deceased to be charged.’ It was clearly meant as a quip, but it was obvious that the last thing on Marks’s mind was smiling. ‘Sit down. There’s a problem.’

  On the table in front of him Marks had written ‘Andrew Dalton’ in the centre of his notepad, with the Andrew above the Dalton. The letters were uniform and sharply drawn, as though the name had been written very slowly.

  ‘It makes perfect sense,’ he continued, ‘because some students will always get out of their depth. And, once they start struggling, plenty will go on paying for their phones and everything else to do with their social life, before they pay their rent and bills. A sharp landlord will be in a good position to exploit that.’ Marks retraced the letters A and D with his pen. ‘Young’s gone to check, just in case it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How are you with coincidence, Gary?’

  ‘Uncomfortable.’

  ‘OK, so would it be a coincidence that there are two separate business premises in Milton Road run by two different Andrew Daltons?’

  ‘Yes, but maybe not so huge if they’re, say, father and son, or if it’s a common name for that part of town.’

  ‘What if I said they were both businesses renting property to students, and both located over food outlets?’ Marks tilted his head slightly and looked hard at Goodhew.

  ‘Then I’d be surprised if they weren’t connected. I’d guess that either it’s the same business or two businesses owned by the same Andrew Dalton.’

  ‘I am similarly skeptical, Gary. Therefore I think DC Young will come back at any moment to tell us that it’s just one man and one address.’

  Goodhew studied Marks as he tried to rewind the last few sentences. He then shook his head. ‘Sir, I feel like I’ve missed the first five minutes of Wallander and now I can’t catch up. I don’t have a clue how another Andrew Dalton has come into the picture.’

  Marks tutted. ‘Go and find Young, then maybe we’ll know where this is going.’

  Goodhew pulled open the door and stepped out into the corridor. He’d only taken a few steps before Young himself came into view at the far end.

  ‘What did you find?’ Goodhew asked.

  ‘He’s the same man: one Andrew Dalton, one address, two business names.’ He carried a folded sheet of paper. ‘Here’s the detail.’

  Behind him the door reopened. ‘Let’s have it, then, Gary,’ Marks said, before Goodhew even had a chance to unfold the paper. They returned to the room and their seats but, to Goodhew’s surprise, checking out the sheet of paper wasn’t Marks’s priority. He didn’t say anything further until he had his pen poised over the name written on the notepad.

  ‘Remember Lesley Bough?’ the DI began.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Remember how she met Mary Osborne?’

  ‘Sure. Through the employment agency Mary ran.’ Goodhew stopped and his mouth formed a silent ‘O’. ‘The same place where Mary Osborne met Greg Jackson.’

  ‘Yes, Lesley was almost correct in her explanation of the agency’s name. Mary ran it with her friend Karen.’ Marks wrote down ‘Karen’ above Andrew Dalton’s name, and ‘Mary Osborne’ beneath it, emphasizing with his pen the K of Karen and the O of Osborne.

  ‘Paul Marshall’s murder and Mary Osborne’s are linked?’ It was Goodhew’s rhetorical question, but Marks unfolded the paper for confirmation,

  ‘Just the two businesses: A.D. Property and KADO Employment. In addition there’s the escort agency, which isn’t listed here. I’m therefore guessing that Student Services is probably unregistered. I’ll make sure it’s passed on to Revenue and Customs, too.’

  Marks had jumped further down the line, thinking of ways to shut down Student Services and wield an axe blow against the Daltons that would be hefty enough to prevent them from restarting that enterprise under another name.

  But seeing the name KADO appear on the page had sent Goodhew’s thoughts in a different direction. The coincidence wasn’t just that two murders were linked by one business, when that business served the relatively small city of Cambridge. Paths crossed here, and re-crossed – physically as well as metaphorically.

  When he’d been a kid, looking down from his grandfather’s library, he’d come to the conclusion that everybody in Cambridge must have crossed Parker’s Piece at least once. It wasn’t improbable that occasionally, two approaching people would recognize one another. This case was like that, up to a point, except there weren’t only two people involved here and the coincidence of the timings seemed to count for everything.

  He hated coincidence. He now considered the odds.

  Could it be just a coincidence that Jimmy Barnes, Genevieve’s husband, had asked to meet Goodhew so soon after Marshall’s murder? Or a coincidence that Jane’s arrest had been just a day before that? Or that Andie was linked to Mary Osborne by one route, and to Marshall by another?

  Goodhew often drew spider diagrams to help him think. He’d start them at the centre and work outwards, but he had no idea where the centre of this one lay. Facts now floated aimlessly, no longer anchored together in the way he’d imagined.

  He closed his eyes and tried to draw links between the various strands. It was impossible to picture it all without drawing it. He opened them to find that Marks had finished speaking, and Goodhew had no idea what he’d just said.

  ‘Is it just one big case?’ Goodhew wondered.

  ‘I don’t know. I need to think it through.’ Marks rose to his feet. ‘Tie up the paperwork with Andie Seagrove. I’ve already called for the on-call doctor, then make sure she’s seen by everyone who needs to see her. She mentioned her mother, but does she have any other family?’

  ‘Yes, definitely both parents.’

  ‘Good. She’ll be needing plenty of support. After that, go home and get some sleep. But, if you happen to lie awake, then tell me if something strikes you.’

  FORTY

  Michael Kincaide sat at his desk, lists of figures and copies of bank statements lying in front of him. Chasing figures bored the crap out of him but he also knew that, if he concentrated, he was pretty good at spotting funds where they shouldn’t be. Today they looked as meaningless as wingdings or hieroglyphics.

  He rested his elbows on the table and then his chin on one cupped palm, as he tried to figure out the exact moment the week had turned sour. Before then he’d been filled with so much anticipation that he hadn’t imagined anything could totally dampen it. Even the first mention of the Becca Osborne case barely bothered him. He doubted that any officer could make it through his career without taking a risk or two, and there was no reason to think that, in his own case, it should catch up with him when it never had yet.

  Even Jane Osborne’s appearance hadn’t bothered him; she knew nothing, aft
er all. At some point, though, the idea that his career might unravel had started to grow in his mind. And by the time they’d visited Jackson, it had grown enough to be as distracting as having another person in the room.

  He’d stood on the pavement outside Jackson’s house and realized that being at the heart of this investigation had to be the safest place to be. Now he slapped his hand down on the paperwork and told himself to concentrate.

  He went to fetch some coffee, then came back with a new focus on the figures. Follow the money. Just like it seemed to be the law of politics, it was often also the law of crime. Some of the banks hadn’t provided all the financial details that were required, so he decided to ease himself back into the right mindset by chasing the missing ones.

  Those banks frustrated the hell out of him, but he pulled the receiver from the handset and tapped out the first number. As his call was placed into a lengthy sequence of automated options and call queuing, he checked off the information so far received.

  In fairness the bank had already provided the necessary details of Gerry and Mary Osborne’s joint accounts up to the time of their divorce, and the bank accounts she’d subsequently transferred her money to. He could see there the proceeds from Gerry buying out her half of the house, and that money subsequently sitting in her current account. Then the balance gradually fell as she’d begun to withdraw it in modest parcels of cash, right up until the day she was supposed to have departed the UK.

  What he now wanted was quick results on the long-winded process of tracking down any new accounts that she might have opened since, either in her own name, or as Lesley Bough, or under another name entirely.

  After twenty minutes of rising frustration he felt as though he was hitting nothing but a succession of dead-ends. Surely a murder investigation ought to have enough significance to outrank the Data Protection Act. All he’d had so far were junior administrators who’d been trained to ram those three words into one and use them to bat his requests back at him.

  DataProtectionAct.

  Followed up by: Sorry, I do understand, but you’ll have to put it in writing.

  ‘If you can’t help me, then put me through to your manager.’

  The current call was being fielded by an insipid-voiced woman who was dumb and undoubtedly blonde.

  ‘I haven’t asked for personal information,’ he repeated with forced patience. ‘I’ve asked for advice on how to speed up the information request you’ve already received from us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, as I just explained, my role is to speak to existing customers only.’ No one really sounded that pleasant. ‘And unfortunately you don’t currently have an account with us. Would you like me to put you through to our new business section, sir?’

  Unbelievable.

  He should have negotiated with their staff until he’d been handed up the food chain to someone actually able to help. Instead he’d jabbed the ‘end’ button and was silently thinking of the most satisfying and expletive-ridden response he might have used. He picked up a sheaf of the statements, planning to go through them to decide which bank to tackle next.

  A voice from the doorway took him by surprise.

  ‘Something wrong, Michael?’ It was Marks.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Kincaide recovered quickly. ‘I’ve been chasing up the banks that haven’t come back to us yet.’

  Marks seemed happy enough with that, so Kincaide guessed he’d still been alone in the room when he had actually told the phone to piss off.

  Marks settled into Goodhew’s chair. ‘Do you remember Andrew Dalton?’

  The skin on the back of Kincaide’s neck began to tingle immediately. He frowned at the bank statements still in his hand, then slowly looked up at Marks while continuing to frown. He shook his head, then hesitated as if some little snippet of recall had just come back to him. ‘The first Osborne case?’

  ‘Yes, a partner in KADO Employment along with Mary Osborne.’

  ‘With his wife . . . I remember now. Why do you ask?’ For no particular reason, Kincaide proceeded to separate a few of the statements, carefully avoiding eye contact with Marks.

  ‘Andrew and Karen Dalton are landlords for one of the women assaulted on Marshall’s boat. I’m talking about the woman from the Gogs.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Kincaide placed the entire sheaf down now. Better that than drop them.

  ‘They appear to be running a student prostitution website. That’s how Marshall first met her.’

  As hard as he tried, Kincaide couldn’t manage to break eye contact this time. Luckily Marks did as he moved towards the door. ‘Let’s get down there now. We can’t discount the possibility that the Osborne and Marshall cases are linked now.’

  Kincaide hesitated, feeling as though he needed to say something. ‘They can’t be,’ he muttered, and felt his gut lurch.

  ‘Come on.’ Marks jerked his head towards the corridor. ‘I know you’re a bigger fan of coincidence than me, but even you’re not going to buy this one. They’re being brought in right now so I have about ten minutes to explain.’

  They headed for the interview room almost in tandem, Kincaide staying close enough to his DI’s shoulder for Marks to know he was being listened to, but at an angle too awkward for Marks to easily make eye contact.

  Kincaide’s mind was racing.

  The DI continued briefing him on all the leads that had driven the path to Karen and Andrew Dalton, but Kincaide’s thoughts revolved around snatches of conversation and phone calls, and the recurring sick feeling that kept clawing at the pit of his stomach. These thoughts repeated themselves until he’d all but blocked Marks out.

  He’d been inexperienced, he assured himself. He’d panicked.

  He’d found a business card and made a call. No big deal.

  And it had gone on from there. And it had become beyond his control.

  All these excuses meant nothing, though, all that mattered was that he’d made wrong decisions, allowing himself to be pushed into small but precarious steps that had jeopardized his own career and given Jackson a seven-year sentence instead of life.

  These thoughts continued looping round his head until he saw the Daltons being ushered into interview room 1. They’d arrived sooner than he expected, and Marks was through the door after them before Kincaide had had any chance to stall.

  They were both in their forties now, though Andrew Dalton may have been a year or two younger than his wife. He was below average height but solid with the kind of physicality that belonged with full-contact sport or full-contact street brawls. Dalton was shaven bald, with just the shadow of stubble across two-thirds of his skull. Bald undoubtedly suited him. Kincaide could remember him well, but he remembered his wife better.

  Karen Dalton was brunette, about two inches taller then her husband, with polished skin and whitened teeth. Everything about her hinted at efficiency and high standards. It wasn’t the first time Kincaide had wondered how these two had ever got it together. They might look mismatched, but Kincaide had also experienced their fierce loyalty.

  Kincaide nodded to each of them, while his superior remained stony-faced. But, then, no one else smiled either. Marks directed them all to sit around the table, two on each side, strictly police versus public. He then laid out the parameters of the conversation. Both of them continued watching Marks. Andrew Dalton sat further back, with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped and his face tilting slightly upwards. Karen Dalton seemed to listen intently, but twice her head turned away from Marks as she gazed dispassionately at Kincaide.

  ‘Do you both admit to knowing Andie Seagrove?’

  Karen Dalton answered, her tone languid, ‘As a tenant, Inspector, nothing more. She seems pleasant enough.’

  Andrew Dalton nodded, said nothing.

  ‘We have evidence that you own and run a website named Student Services.’

  She smiled easily. ‘That’s my baby, isn’t it, Drew?’

  Another nod.

  No hint
of a smile from Marks, of course. ‘It’s a site promoting and encouraging prostitution in Cambridge,’ he remarked coldly.

  ‘That was never my intention. As you know KADO is an employment agency, which we started up to supply catering and housekeeping staff. Most of the jobs are unskilled and minimum-wage, and most of the workers who fill them are students.’ She ran her hand across her lap, smoothing out the fabric of her skirt. ‘Some of those students are attractive, sociable people with more to offer.’

  Andrew picked up the next sentence virtually seamlessly. ‘Some of the students asked us to set it up. Escort work can have a seedy reputation but plenty of men are visiting from abroad and just don’t want to dine alone.’

  Karen ran her tongue across perfectly even teeth. ‘In fact, if you look at the website, you will see the advice “We categorically discourage students using this site to give out personal contact information and suggest that all initial meetings occur in a public place.” As you can hear, I’ve quoted it so many times I know it by heart.’

  Kincaide knew the score: if the interviewee turned on the theatrics, so could Marks. The Daltons seemed very sure of themselves. Marks had listened and grown very still. A trickle of sweat ran down Kincaide’s spine.

  Only Marks’s eyes moved, switching slowly between Karen and Drew Dalton. ‘Are you under the impression that there is an unwritten understanding between escort agencies and the police?’ he asked softly. ‘The escort agencies always trot out this urban myth about happily married and respectable businessmen who can’t stand facing an empty seat at dinner. Do you really think the police will say “Our apologies. As you were”?’ He paused for a second. ‘No one hires out a bedroom for a couple of hours so that a student and a “respectable businessman” can eat dinner there.’

  Andrew glanced at his wife. ‘I think he means the study rooms,’ he told her.

  She smiled again. ‘I know Student Services is used by men who like the company of students, and vice versa, but we don’t police it. Everyone pays a monthly fee.’