by Chris Simms
The one who had invited him along to the pub was beside the photocopier, watching sheet after sheet emerge from the machine. Sean had to pause a moment before the man’s name came back: Adrian Wareham.
Hoping the previous day’s friendliness had survived, Sean approached him. ‘Morning.’
The man glanced up. ‘All right?’
‘Yeah, you?’ Sean replied, encouraged. ‘What’s the score with Cahill?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘Just giving it “No comment” so far.’
‘Is he going to be charged?’
‘With the women’s murders?’
Sean nodded.
‘Not enough evidence. Ransford’s keeping his powder dry. So far, he’s only being held on the attempted murder of DC Wheeler.’
Sean inadvertently glanced over to his colleague’s empty desk. ‘Any update from the hospital?’
‘Still under sedation. Apparently, a consultant is checking him over today.’
Sean nodded again. ‘That’s good, I suppose.’
‘I suppose.’ The copier came to a stop and the officer took the stack of sheets out.
‘Have they even mentioned the victims’ names to Cahill?’
‘No: he’s just been asked to give his whereabouts for the estimated times of their deaths.’
‘And?’
‘He says he was just round and about in Manchester.’
Sean thought for a moment. If Cahill was claiming only that, he was putting himself as potentially in the vicinity of all the victims’ houses when they were killed. ‘Has he got no one to vouch for where he was?’
‘He reckons he swung by a petrol station on the morning Francesca Pinto died. CCTV is being retrieved.’ The officer sat down and reached for a stapler. ‘Our problem is time of death. None of them are precise.’
‘What did he say about that footage of him on Pamela Flood’s road?’
‘No comment.’
‘And the phone recording of him threatening to kill her?’
‘I’ll give you three guesses.’
‘Figures.’ Sean checked the time. It was now after ten o’clock. Though Cahill had been apprehended just before eleven in the morning the previous day, he wasn’t actually taken into custody until five that afternoon. In line with the PACE Act, he’d need to be formally charged with something in the next seven hours.
The other officer saw Sean studying his watch. ‘DCI Ransford’s called a press conference for later this afternoon. About four – in time for the early evening news and so that the papers can get their Monday editions ready.’
‘What’s the plan in the meantime?’
‘They’ll keep at him. See if he lets anything slip.’
NINETEEN
The aroma of baked grease and charred food had ingrained itself to the oven’s inner surfaces. He rested his weight on his elbows to relieve the muscles in his lower back. Twisting his head in the confined space, he spoke into his shoulder. ‘Almost done.’
He could only see her lower legs. Woollen stockings disappeared beneath the hem of her long skirt.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Brian.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ As he lifted the screwdriver once again, crockery chinked behind him. The thread of the last screw bit and he gave it another half-turn, just to be sure. ‘That’s it,’ he announced, shuffling backwards, thankful to be able to finally lift his head higher than his hips. ‘OK, a quick test to check it’s working. If you could flick the switch back on for me?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her slippers scraped across the tiled floor and there was a single click. The indicator light on the cooker glowed orange. ‘Is it on?’
‘Certainly is, Edith.’ He turned the dial for the main oven and the interior fan began to whirr. The sound steadied into a hum and he held a hand into the compartment. Heat soon started to waft between his outstretched fingers. He sat back on his heels. ‘I’m sure that’s fine, but we’ll leave it running for a minute or two.’
‘A cup of tea, then? And a slice of cake?’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ he replied, getting to his feet.
She smiled coyly. ‘It’s only a ginger cake. Nothing special.’
‘Nothing special! Let me be the judge of that.’ He knew the pride she took in her baking. It was why she’d been so anxious for her oven to be fixed.
‘And it’s a few days old, now.’
‘I’ll just wash my hands, if I may?’
‘Of course. The hand towel is the one on the left-hand hook.’
He glanced at the coil of metal he’d laid out on a sheet of newspaper. ‘Shall I dispose of the old element for you?’
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t.’ Not bothering with the handwash beside the sink, he dripped a bead of washing-up liquid onto his palm and began rubbing his hands together.
‘That family who’ve moved into the large detached house at the end of Windlehurst Road? The ones whose surname no one can pronounce?’ Edith’s voice now contained a hint of disapproval. ‘They’re knocking the garage down. Mrs Payne – she lives at twenty-three – she went to check the plans in the local library and it’s for a much larger garage, but she thinks it might really be used as a bungalow.’
He held his hands beneath the tap, knowing the type of response she’d be waiting for. ‘They like to all live together, don’t they? In-laws and whatnot.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, voice bolder. ‘Who knows how many they’ll try and cram in? Could they really use it as a bungalow?’
‘No. Planning permission will have been for a garage. There are all sorts of extra hoops to jump through if it will be for living in.’ He selected a towel on the left-hand hook and started to dry his hands.
‘Oh, that’s a relief. I’ll tell Mrs Payne. She was very distressed.’
‘Well, she has no need to worry.’ His reflection showed faintly in the window before him. His hair, mostly grey now, was slightly ruffled. He smoothed the side parting back into place. Nice and neat.
‘But if they do it sneakily, how would the council ever know?’
‘I imagine we’d tell them,’ he replied, turning round. He didn’t add that he quite liked the way their types lived. At least the women dressed properly and kept themselves to themselves. You didn’t see them roaming the streets in skimpy tops and tiny shorts, swigging alcohol, screeching and cackling like hyenas.
Edith nodded uncertainly. ‘Sit down, Brian, please.’
The chair at the head of the table had already been moved back. He took his seat and watched as she added milk to a couple of china cups. Then she lifted a teapot that was embossed with a pattern of roses. His neighbour was now in her eighties – a good three decades older than him – and her movements were slowing, growing less sure. The spout of the teapot connected with the rim of the cup. As she righted it, a dribble of tea ran down and dripped onto the cake. He pretended not to notice.
‘So, while I’m here with my toolbox: any other jobs to be done?’
She placed the teapot down and brushed both hands on her apron. ‘I don’t think so. Would you mind …?’ She glanced at the knife.
‘Of course.’ He surveyed her kitchen. The room was immaculate. Everything in its place, nothing frivolous or bought on a whim. Most of her appliances were years old. ‘How’s your boiler? Is it working fine?’
‘Yes, thanks to you.’
He pressed the knife into the cake.
‘Actually, I have noticed rainwater running down beside the drainpipe.’
‘Which one?’
‘By the front door.’
‘That one connects with the gutter above the bay window. It’s probably become blocked with leaves from Graham’s sycamore. They create a terrible tangle. I’ll fetch my ladders after this.’
‘I don’t want you to take any risks.’
‘It’s not high, don’t worry. Best to resolve the issue now, while the weather’s mild. If rainwater’s flowing over the brickwork,
it’ll cause cracking and all sorts of bother once winter sets in.’
Once he’d drained the last of his tea, he placed the cup back in its saucer. ‘Lovely, Edith. Now, I’ll pop across for those ladders.’
‘Thank you. And I’ll wrap you the rest of this cake.’
‘No, no, I couldn’t—’
‘Nonsense. I can’t eat it. Take it into the staffroom, I’m sure they’ll finish it off.’
‘Finish it off? Edith, when I bring your cake in, there’s a stampede.’
The modesty of her laughter made him smile.
They lived on a cul-de-sac of nine identical houses. His was the first on the left, opposite Edith’s. The driveway was short and, as he walked up it, he regarded the foil package in his hands. Even if he’d wanted to take it into the staffroom, that would never happen now: his job had been taken from him by that bloody Harpham woman.
By the time he’d unlocked the garage’s side door, anger was making his temples hum. He stood below the strip lights and thought about the bitch who’d put him in the position of having to pretend to go to work each morning. The humiliation of it.
He bent down and placed the cake on the concrete floor. Give this to the collection of snivelling cowards who lurked in the staffroom? His nostrils flared with disgust. As word spread about the incident with the student, how many of those colleagues had supported him? None. Not one, despite the amount of time they spent in that precious room, moaning about how students were always using their phones in lessons.
He raised his right foot and stamped down on the cake.
It hadn’t taken long before footage of what had happened appeared online.
His stamped down again.
Something needed to be done. Respect was an alien concept to the vain, self-important preeners. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to learn there was a video of him striking the student. How often would phones chirrup and buzz as he was trying to make himself clear? Always checking their bloody screens, tapping and swiping and tilting them to their neighbours and rolling their eyes when he demanded they turn the cursed things off.
The foil was now like a silver pancake fringed by a halo of crumbs. He stepped away from it and waited for his breathing to slow. His set of ladders lay beneath the workbench that ran the length of the garage. He lifted his gaze to the uppermost shelf.
The jars formed an orderly row. Most of what filled his garage had been fashioned from metal. Tools and implements with straight edges or hard, flat surfaces. The row of four glass jars stood in contrast. Their delicately curving exteriors allowed the passage of light. The liquid that filled each one glowed a faint, honeyed yellow. The butchered tongues suspended in that liquid resembled sea creatures. Once living things that had been torn from shells or ripped off rocks.
‘Julie, it’s Linds. You not ignoring me, are you? Listen, it’s Sunday, almost lunchtime – well, you know that. Maybe you got an extra shift? Can’t remember if you said you were due in today. Head’s pounding, Julie. You missed a good one. Faye came out and was fucking on one. Did I ring you? My phone says I rang you at half eleven. We were trollied! Call us – you and me need a catch-up. OK, later, yeah? Bye.’
The phone that jutted from the dead woman’s lips lit up and emitted a single beep.
New voicemail.
The red circle on the screen now displayed the number six.
On the other side of the living room wall came the muffled sounds of a man coughing.
TWENTY
Sean kept a surreptitious eye on Ransford as he stepped out of his office. There was a frown on his face; still no breakthrough with Cahill. It was almost three o’clock.
He was accompanied by a DI from a different team. Sean gathered that she had notched up a few successes with getting locked-down suspects to speak. Unlike Ransford, her face had yet to carry the corrosive effects of repeated exposure to lies and deceit. The exhausting effect of dealing with those who committed dark acts and then denied it.
The woman was not much over five feet tall and in her mid-thirties. When she spoke, Sean detected traces of a soft Scottish accent. ‘I had him put in number two.’
‘OK,’ Ransford replied. ‘Let’s give it twenty with your approach. But if nothing significant comes up, I lay out the murder stuff.’
‘Clear.’
Sean rose from his seat and set off towards them. He had no idea of what he was going to say; the urge had materialized too suddenly for any planning. By almost breaking into a jog, he managed to intercept them by the doors. ‘Sir?’
Ransford glanced to his side, but didn’t slow down. ‘Not now, Detective.’
He pursued them out into the corridor. ‘Sir, I only want permission to observe.’
Ransford looked back. ‘Observe what?’
Sean scrabbled for a coherent response. Something to justify what he’d found himself doing. ‘The interview, sir. I’ve been spending a lot of time going over the three victims’ final twenty-four hours. Hearing Cahill’s responses first hand, I think that – maybe – I could pick up on …’
Ransford slowed to a stop. He turned round and raised the manila folders in his hand. ‘You mean, you’re party to information I don’t have? Is that what you’re saying?’
Sean shook his head. ‘Of course not, sir. But … but I’ve been—’ he gestured to the doors – ‘I’ve been in there …’ Ransford’s expression was growing more disdainful by the second. ‘Since the incident with DC Wheeler, I’ve been in there and I’ve spent a lot of time—’
‘It’s Blake, isn’t it? Your surname?’ Ransford’s voice was light with impatience as he began backing away. ‘What planet are you from, DC Blake, that makes you think—’
‘Let me see him, sir.’ His voice was too loud. He looked down for a split-second and tried again. ‘I just want to look at his face.’
Ransford’s gaze raked him.
Sean nodded. This, he realized abruptly, is why I’m standing here. Everyone thinks I bottled it, that I was frightened of him. ‘He was as far as you are now, sir. Spattered with blood. Ready to jump at me with that spike of metal. I want to see him, sat there in cuffs, and I—’ the surge of emotion was drying up faster than it had appeared – ‘… I need to see him, that’s all. He didn’t scare me, sir. He did not scare me.’
No one said anything.
Then the female DI turned to DCI Ransford. ‘This is the other detective, from when Cahill—’
Ransford nodded.
She stepped forward and, to Sean’s horror, began to scrutinize him. ‘Lift your chin, can you? And look at me.’
Sean felt like he was at the doctor’s. Like he was some kind of specimen. ‘You what?’ Anger prickled him and he tried to look away.
‘No, look at me.’
At the edge of his vision, he could make out Ransford’s perplexed expression. He stared back at her, defiant now. Go on then, have your fun.
Finally, she blinked. ‘You pack a heck of a lot into that stare, don’t you?’ A smile appeared. ‘It’s intense.’
‘Sorry, Penny, but what’s this about?’ Ransford asked.
Her eyes had narrowed in thought. ‘The kind of man Cahill is? He won’t enjoy being stared at like DC Blake was just staring at me. He really bloody won’t.’
As a uniformed officer began to open the interview room’s door, Sean kept DI Penny McMillan’s instructions in his head. Take the left hand seat. Don’t speak. Don’t adopt a confrontational posture. Just look at him. That’s all, just look at him. And as soon as you hear a knock on the door, get up and leave the room. The woman’s voice had been gentle, almost soothing.
Cahill had both elbows on the table, head down as a thumb made circles in his palm.
Sitting next to him was a wispy-haired solicitor with a long nose and slightly bulbous eyes. The man watched carefully as they crossed to the table and took their seats.
DI McMillan started the recorder and stated who was present. At the mention of DC Blake’s name, Cahill rai
sed his head, a look of boredom on his face. The moment he saw Sean, he glanced at his solicitor then at McMillan.
Sean kept his eyes on Cahill, expression neutral. When Cahill came off the trampoline, his mouth had been open. He’d been panting like a wild animal. Sean could remember the man had a crooked front tooth. It slightly overlapped its neighbour. That tooth was now missing, along with the ones to either side. Cahill’s lips were still swollen. A series of tiny stitches ran from his bottom lip to halfway down his chin.
Just before the TAU officer had shouted from the first-floor window, Cahill had run his tongue across his lower lip. The flecks of Mark Wheeler’s blood that were peppering it had all vanished.
‘Mr Cahill.’ DI McMillan sounded like she was addressing a valued customer. ‘I’d like to run through, one more time, the reasons you gave for fleeing from your house.’
Cahill had sat up in his seat. His eyes kept cutting to Sean.
‘Mr Cahill, could we do that?’ DI McMillan’s voice was like water flowing across pebbles. She didn’t wait for his agreement. ‘You stated that, when you heard officers entering the property you—’
‘My client didn’t know for sure they were police officers,’ the solicitor interjected.
McMillan nodded. ‘When you heard people entering the property, clearly identifying themselves as police officers, you panicked. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ The words came out clumsily. His lack of teeth had left him with a lisp.
His voice, Sean thought, wasn’t as rough as he’d expected. No drawn-out nasal twang. No sandpaper rasp.
‘So you immediately made for the window, terrified that members of a criminal gang were racing up the stairs to attack you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And everything was a blur? You don’t recall grabbing the sharpened implement from the sill as you manoeuvred yourself out of the window?’
‘Yeah.’ He glanced at Sean yet again.
Sean kept staring back, trying to keep all emotion from his face.
McMillan placed a finger on the printed statement. ‘And in your state of panic and fear—’