by Chris Simms
He kept his eyes on Inspector Troughton’s desk as he made his way across the incident room. Half the people present were too busy to notice his arrival. Now closer, he realized the person the office manager was speaking to was DCI Ransford. Sean fought the urge to slow down. It would be so easy to alter direction and avoid this. As he reached the office manager’s desk, the two men looked up.
‘Sir,’ Sean announced, addressing his DCI, ‘I’m reporting for duty.’
Ransford cocked an eyebrow. ‘I signed you off.’
‘Can’t sit at home, sir. Not with this going on.’
‘You feel OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
Ransford held his eyes for a moment longer. If he was convinced, it wasn’t showing. If anything, he looked slightly irritated. ‘Very well.’
‘Anything more on Mark?’
‘Still sedated and will be for a while. Could be nerve damage, could be a lot of things.’
Sean gave a solitary nod. ‘Can I have a word in private at some point, sir?’
Ransford shook his head. ‘Not now, DC Blake. Maybe later.’
Troughton pointed to the corner workstation. ‘Take a seat, I’ll be across.’
Sean turned swiftly to catch the tail-end of DS Fuller’s hostile stare.
On reaching his workstation, Sean stole a glance to Mark Wheeler’s side. The cardboard box was still there. Sean could see the tips of three trophies inside. I’ve never won a bloody trophy for anything, Sean thought, as he removed his jacket. He draped it over the back of the chair and squeezed into the narrow space. It felt like eating alone in a busy restaurant. Certain the whole room was watching, he turned his computer on and logged in. As he contemplated what the hell to do next, Troughton appeared.
‘I doubt you’ve heard about Cahill.’
Sean looked up. ‘No – the radio didn’t mention any arrest.’
‘That’s because he got away. Once out that back garden, he vaulted over into a neighbour’s and, two more gardens along, got lucky: their garage was open. We think he took some overalls, a pair of work boots and a jacket. After that, we’re struggling.’
‘Jesus,’ Sean whispered. ‘He vanished?’
Troughton placed a pile of printouts on Sean’s desk. ‘We could do with these being checked.’
Sean gave him a quizzical look.
‘Bank and credit card statements, plus expense account records for Francesca Pinto. Anything to indicate contact with Ian Cahill. Funds to or from a source with no clear reference – you know the stuff. Flag up anything iffy. Come back to me if you can’t pinpoint what it is.’
Sean wasn’t sure what to say. This was the sort of work normally allocated to a civilian support worker. ‘Aren’t we getting out there and trying to locate Cahill?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of detectives doing that. But DCI Ransford said you’re to stay in here.’
Sean hunched over the paperwork; his face felt like it could have lit the room. Judgement had obviously been passed and they didn’t think he could be relied on out in the field.
He was almost at the end of the second sheet when a commotion broke out on the far side of the room. An officer was on his feet, hand waving in the air. Cahill, thought Sean. Have they found him already?
Ransford appeared from his side office. ‘What is it?’
‘Call patched over from Trafford Division, sir! The body of an adult female has just been found. Same as Flood and Pinto.’
EIGHT
The electric hum rose as the train’s speed increased. Beyond the plate glass, the end of the platform slid by faster and faster. Around him, people were settling into their seats, arranging what they needed for the journey ahead.
A two-tone note sounded and a voice announced that the next station would be Stockport. He liked travelling on trains, the reassuring way they powered along, the calming effect of the carriage as it gently rocked. Train journeys, he concluded, should be tranquil experiences – and they would be but for stupid women who insisted on speaking.
He closed his eyes and listened to the wash of voices around him.
Two females, in seats somewhere ahead.
‘Hang on, how could it go back into my account?’
‘When it happened to me, it’s recredited automatically. It’s very quick, she said. About thirty seconds.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thirty seconds?’
‘I don’t know how they do it, but it’s very quick.’
‘That is quick. I wonder if it even spilled out? Maybe it was the bank’s money, not mine. There was nothing on my statement about it coming out.’
‘I don’t know how they do these things, but it is very quick. She said that.’
‘Recredited?’
‘Yes.’
He turned his head slightly, better to zone in on a male voice to his left.
‘Can Gavin put that information somewhere near the end of the presentation? Second to last slide, maybe. For today, yes. No. The client will want it as a PDF.’
Deeper, modulated, authoritative: the sound of men’s voices didn’t bother him. From somewhere in front, he picked out another female voice.
‘Butter on crumpets, jam on bagels, you silly so-and-so! If the butter’s dripping, that’s good, that’s part of it. There’s damp there again already? In that same corner? I can get it on the way home. Yes, Dettol, I know.’
A phone rang and he heard a new voice, female, soft and close behind him.
‘Hi there. Oh, right. Well, he’s the one who started last week. Matt. No not him. The taller one. Fair-haired. Yes, him. Well, we said to him, if he’s going to be rude, it can’t be to customers. Us? It’s water off a duck’s back with us, but not customers. No, I don’t think he will. Or he just won’t come back Monday, probably that.’
He opened his eyes. There was nothing of interest here. He contemplated walking through to the next carriage and listening in there. But the train was already starting to slow. Instead, he decided to disembark at Stockport. Dozens of local stopping services passed through the station. He could transfer to a different line and roam about for hours. After all, now his teaching career was over, he had all day. Sooner or later, some crass bitch would cross his path. Someone who needed to be silenced. Destiny had guaranteed it.
He stood, turned round and started making his way towards the doors. The woman who’d been talking about Matt was in her late thirties, with a round face and sloping shoulders. As more of her came into view, he saw the ponderous breasts and bulging stomach. The fingers holding the phone were pudgy. She wore a wedding ring. Glancing up, she caught his eye and automatically smiled.
He didn’t know what it was about his face that made so many people do that. Especially females. Over the course of his life, more than one woman had described his eyes as kind. The only woman he’d come close to feeling affection for – aside from Mother – had said he had puppy-dog eyes. When he’d asked her what that meant, she’d said he looked a little bit lost. Like he could do with a hug. He hadn’t liked the implication of that.
The woman who was on her phone reminded him of the principal at the Lightwater Academy who’d been engineering his removal from his job. Katherine Harpham. He positioned himself before the doors, as the train’s speed ebbed. Her infuriating self-importance. Her lavender lipstick and honeysuckle scent. All the times she’d phoned, summoning him to her office. The whine of her voice worming its way down his ear canal and into his brain. In high-pitched, fake-apologetic tones, she’d described the series of measures she was being forced to put in place. He knew they were designed solely to make him fail. Courses in equality, diversity awareness and gender relations. Claptrap, the lot of them. Reapplying for his old job, altering the department to make one teacher superfluous to the college’s needs …
Then he’d struck the female student and none of it mattered.
When he’d started teaching the NVQ in Electrotechnical Services, it had all b
een lads. Behaviour was rarely an issue. They might have larked about and swore a bit, but it was nothing he couldn’t put right. The student he’d hit? She’d deserved it.
As the flat of his hand made contact with her face, it created a sound that was so sharp. Every other noise in his classroom had been cut dead. In that tiny moment of time, he wasn’t sure if the hand that had done it was his. Her eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. The phone he’d caught her using beneath the desk clattered to the floor. A surge of adrenaline almost lifted him towards the ceiling. He felt immense. That shut you up, he’d wanted to shout. That put an end to your denials. Your foul-mouthed lies.
But before the words could leave his mouth, other people had butted in. Voices from all sides. People jostling him. Other females whisked their weeping friend from the room. Male students squared up to him, outraged at what he’d done. And the little shit in the corner who was filming the entire thing kept laughing.
As he looked at his reflection in the glass, the train came to a stop. He had no idea where the student was now, but he knew exactly where to find Katherine Harpham. Yes, he knew all about her pretty little cottage with its rose bushes and the secluded lane that led to it. It wouldn’t take him long to drive out there. Not long at all. To see her features transform as electricity charged through her …
‘Excuse me, are you getting off?’
His eyes refocused. The doors were open. On the platform was an elderly woman in a long beige coat. It looked expensive: cashmere, probably.
‘You’re in the way,’ she declared impatiently. ‘Are you staying on or getting off?’
He stepped down and as he passed her, bent to within whispering distance of her ear. ‘Slut.’
‘I beg your pardon? What was that? What did you just—’
But he was already trotting down the stairs into the underpass.
Sean regarded the sheath of printouts. The firm of twenty-four-hour solicitors Francesca Pinto worked for had found the time she’d been on duty when Cahill had been arrested: it had been almost three years ago. She hadn’t gone on to represent him in court, but that’s when contact between them had occurred.
All her records from that point had been obtained. She had two bank accounts and three credit cards. So far, all he’d established was that she was a creature of habit: a big shop at Sainsbury’s each Saturday. A few bits from M&S on a Sunday. Lunch purchased on a Wednesday, Thursday and Friday from Pret or Philpotts. A couple of drinks on a Thursday, usually Gino’s or sometimes, the Sky Bar.
Standing orders and direct debits seemed entirely regular: gas, electricity, water and council tax. Monthly gym membership with the YMCA in Castlefield. Five pounds a month to WaterAid, three pounds a month to the Tiger Trust.
He flagged up a few one-off transactions that would need to be checked.
£184 to Cross Lane Enterprises, last May.
£76 to BDDO in June.
£237 received from CP in September.
All the while, he kept sneaking glances to the main grouping of workstations where the rest of the detectives worked. Most of them were empty. He knew where they’d be: banging on the doors of all Cahill’s known associates. Where is he? Tell us what you know. The longer this takes the more grief you’ll get. Knocking on your door, ringing your phone, watching you in the street, turning up at your local. It will not end.
Those not scouring the city for Cahill were at the latest victim’s house. Sean had only been able to overhear that she was young. Early twenties. Her dad had found her.
Sean had started to glance over the credit card statements when he noticed someone approaching his desk. The female detective with the foreign name.
‘Hello, DC Blake, are you well today?’
The way she spoke made it obvious that her English had been formally learned.
‘Yes, fine, thanks.’ He waggled a finger above the paperwork. ‘Going through all this.’
‘Yes. You haven’t moved all morning. Have you been told where the nearest toilets are? Or where you can find a drink?’
That, he recalled, had been Mark Wheeler’s job yesterday. ‘No, but don’t worry. I spotted the canteen on the ground—’
‘There is one much closer. On this floor. It’s smaller, but you can usually get a seat.’ She kept looking at him. ‘I’ll show you?’
‘Oh, OK. Thanks.’
He tried to think of something to say as they walked down the corridor.
‘When did you join, Sean?’
‘A few years ago, but I’ve been involved since my teens. First, in the police cadets, then a spell volunteering as a special constable.’
‘Your mission in life, then?’ She smiled.
‘Well, my mum was an officer. Here, in the GMP.’
‘Yes, a sergeant, like me. But not a detective.’
He turned his head. ‘Did you work with her?’
‘No, but I know of her. She is a bit of a legend. Is it true that, on her beat, she knew everyone by their first name?’
‘I think that’s been a bit exaggerated. But she worked her area of Salford long enough to know a lot of them.’
‘The days when we actually had proper contact with the community. How times change. What happened to her was truly terrible.’
Sean wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘When something like that happens, the officer’s name sticks.’ She pushed open a set of double doors on the left. ‘Toilets through there.’ A doorway was in the corner. ‘The coffee bar is staffed until three o’clock each day. After that, it’s the machines.’
He took in a row of vending machines lining one wall. ‘OK.’
She came to a stop at the counter. ‘What will you have?’
‘You’re all right,’ he replied, patting a pocket. Idiot, he thought. No change and my cards are back in the incident room.
‘This is on me, don’t worry.’ She turned to the woman standing by the till. ‘Hi Anita, one cappuccino. Sean?’
‘Thanks. The same, please.’
He looked towards the tables and saw DS Fuller and DC Morris hunched over, heads almost touching. He quickly turned away before they caught him staring.
‘So – your surname. Drag …’
‘Omir. Magda Dragomir. I’m from Romania, originally.’
‘Really?’ Immediately, he knew he’d spoken with too much enthusiasm.
She was looking at him expectantly now. ‘You know Romania, Sean?’
‘Me? Not really …’
‘You could also be from that part of the world. With your … heavy bones. Here and here.’ She ran the tips of her fingers across her eyebrow and then round to her cheekbone.
‘Is that right?’ he almost laughed.
‘And the dark hair. It’s very common in the region. Is your father the same?’
The question caught him by surprise. He floundered for his words. ‘My father? Well …’ All he had was an old photo of the man.
‘Sorry,’ she cut in. ‘I am always so nosy. But you know Romania?’
‘Only to read about.’
‘You read about Romania?’ She looked puzzled.
There was no way of avoiding the question. Not without appearing evasive. ‘The Carpathian Mountains. It’s a very interesting area.’
She placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. ‘Come on! You’re not one of those Gothics, are you?’ Her gaze lifted. ‘Is that lovely thick hair of yours dyed black?’
He couldn’t help warm to her direct style. Anyone from Britain would have edged closer to that question bit by bit. ‘No, it’s not. And you mean Goths?’
‘The ones who wear black clothes and big clunky boots?’
‘Yes. Why would you think I’m a Goth?’
‘Transylvania is in the Carpathian Mountains. Vampires? Count Dracula’s castle?’ She scrutinized his hair another time.
‘No,’ he grinned. ‘But I do like wolves. The Carpathians are home to the largest wild population in Europe.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Not werewolves?’
‘No. Just wolves.’
‘And we have brown bears. Wild boar, even lynx.’
‘I know.’
‘But no vampire bats. Sorry.’ She handed him his coffee. ‘What do you like about wolves?’
He looked away for a second. ‘I don’t know, really.’
She touched her fingers to her sternum. ‘You feel that they are close to your heart?’
He nodded politely, not quite sure what she meant.
‘I think that is so for a lot of people. Have you ever seen one in real life?’
‘No.’ He eyed her more closely. ‘Have you?’
‘No.’
He was tempted to tell her about the Snowdonia Wolf Sanctuary. The live camera feed on his computer, but Fuller and Morris were making a beeline towards them. He felt himself stiffen.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Fuller said in an artificially loud voice, waving a copy of the Metro News. ‘It’s not what you know …’
Morris gave a rehearsed nod. ‘Same everywhere, isn’t it?’
Fuller dropped the copy of the free newspaper on the end of the counter. ‘Certainly is, mate. Certainly is.’ They carried on out the door.
Their comments had been clumsy. Obviously staged. Sean stepped back to better see the newspaper.
The main story was about the recall of a new model of mobile phone. Below that was something about a member of the cabinet and her son’s appointment as managing director of a research group she had established.
‘They will calm down,’ Magda said, leading the way towards the doors. ‘Emotions are all up for now.’
He wondered what she meant.
‘Julie, it’s Linds. You still asleep? Lazy old slapper!’ A pause. ‘When you can be arsed getting out of bed, give me a call. I have a Groupon voucher: lunch for two in the Jamie Oliver place, top of King Street. You fancy? Talk in a bit, bye.’
The glow on the screen’s handset lasted for a few more seconds. The bluish light made the blood that had clotted around the woman’s nostrils and chin appear black.
Footsteps approached the silent flat, the letterbox creaked and a few envelopes fluttered down to the carpet. The postman’s footsteps faded.