by Chris Simms
Second was how many people joined in. It was nothing more than a mob: students, their friends, family members. People from around the country – and further.
Third was how Katherine Harpham had failed to support him. In a way, that hurt the most.
He continued scanning the screen and found what he was looking for five comments back.
Can’t wait to spend Monday on CPD: you never stop learning! Take care and see you all Tues!!!
His focus shifted back to her photo and he conjured their coming doorstep exchange.
‘Brian? Erm … what are you doing here?’
‘I have a delivery for you.’
‘Yes, of course. I can see that, silly me. So … so, you’ve already found a new job? Courier driver. That’s really great, Brian, really great. It really is.’
‘Yes, it’s not bad.’
‘You must … um … you must get to see all sorts of interesting places round Manchester. Places you’d have never thought to visit, normally.’
‘That is very true. My schedule, as a matter of fact, is rather tight.’
‘Of course! What am I like, keeping you here, chatting? Do you need a signature?’
‘I do. On this screen. Here, you can use this.’
He broke from the reverie to look at her message again. Take care and see you all Tues!!! No, Kat, you won’t. The college will open its doors and, at some point, people will begin to wonder why your office is empty. Why you’re not answering the phone. Tongues will start to wag, Kat. But not yours. Yours will have finally stopped wagging.
He thought about the jars in his garage. Your tongue will belong to me.
TWENTY-THREE
The instant the search team from Heather Knight’s flat came through the incident room’s doors, Ransford called the briefing. Chairs were wheeled away from desks as they congregated before the noticeboards.
Sean found a gap beside Magda and they both watched as a new photo was pinned up. That made four of them. Four victims in eight days. And, it now seemed, murdered by someone other than Cahill.
‘This is going to keep us very busy,’ Magda said from the corner of her mouth.
Sean nodded. Cahill formed the foundation of the entire investigation. Remove him and the whole thing would collapse – leaving them sifting through the debris, looking for something. Anything.
‘Listen carefully,’ Ransford said. The man’s voice was full of energy that sounded forced. He gestured at the latest photo. ‘The Home Office pathologist has now confirmed Heather Knight died between eleven a.m. and three p.m. yesterday. Cahill was in the A&E at the Manchester Royal Infirmary for most of that time. Allow for the fact Heather Knight’s flat is in Didsbury and Cahill was picked up all the way over in Middleton, and it makes it even more certain he didn’t kill her.’
‘That time of death is beyond all doubt?’ The officer who’d asked the question didn’t sound optimistic.
Ransford eased his head forward in a regretful nod. ‘The pathologist was able to go off lines of hypostasis and the extent of rigor mortis. She also took the victim’s internal temperature at the scene to provide us with more certainty. So,’ he clapped his hands, ‘other possibilities?’
‘He’s not working alone.’
‘Good,’ Ransford replied. ‘He’s not working alone. Given the theory that all the victims were killed in order to silence them, this could have legs. If the style of the actual murders is serving as a warning to others, it suggests a criminal enterprise of some sort. Something large. But,’ he held up a cautionary finger, ‘we have yet to obtain any evidence – forensic or otherwise – that links Cahill to Francesca Pinto, Victoria Walker or – so far – Heather Knight. So, we need other options.’
‘This latest one is a copycat?’
Sean recognized the voice and looked across.
DS Fuller’s eyebrows were still hopefully raised. ‘That way, Cahill is still our man. For the first three, at least.’
Yes, Sean thought. If you’re happy to overlook pretty much every other aspect of the investigation so far. He couldn’t believe the man could have blurted something like that out.
‘Interesting,’ Ransford said. ‘Talk me through your reasoning.’
‘Well,’ Fuller shrugged. ‘A third party picks up on the attacks so far and thinks, yeah, I’ll have some of that.’
‘Cahill having confided in this person how he has been carrying out the murders?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fuller said. ‘Just someone with a grudge against Heather Knight.’
‘But if they’re not learning the specifics of the killings from Cahill, how have they got that information in order to copy it?’
‘Oh,’ Fuller grunted. ‘You mean, because we’ve not yet made that …’
Ransford had stepped over to a new portion of the whiteboard. He plucked a marker pen from the ledge at its base. ‘Which leads us to this.’
He wrote out two words. Sean glanced about, sensing what everyone else in the room was thinking: they were faced with the nightmare scenario.
‘Random victims,’ Ransford declared slowly and deliberately. He surveyed the room. ‘We must now treat this as a working possibility. Which means everything we’ve done so far must be reviewed in that light. House-to-house enquiries, crime-scene evidence gathered, checks on the victims’ final movements. The lot.’
He let that sink in for a few seconds before continuing.
‘Samantha Greenhalgh is a psychological profiler who has provided advice on a number of high-profile cases where the victims had no prior contact with their murderer.’
Serial killer, Sean thought. He’s talking about a serial killer.
‘She’s already been given access to our records and has started an assessment. Mrs Greenhalgh is currently at a conference in Brussels, but will be with us via a video link tomorrow to share her initial thoughts. Anyone have any questions?’
An officer at the front immediately raised her hand. ‘What’s the official angle? I mean, are we now acknowledging that there might be—’
‘Absolutely not,’ Ransford cut in. ‘We still have Ian Cahill. We can still claim he’s being questioned in connection to the women’s deaths. And he will be charged with the attempted murder of Mark Wheeler. By the way, for those who haven’t heard, Mark was brought out of sedation a few hours ago. He can’t yet speak, but he was able to confirm that he has some sensation in both arms and both legs.’
Applause, slow at first, but quickly gathering strength, broke out. Sean exchanged a tentative smile with Magda. Behind her, he caught sight of DS Fuller. The man was methodically bringing his palms together. A slow clap, directed straight at Sean.
‘OK, OK.’ Ransford raised both hands. ‘Firstly, a magistrate has given permission for us to detain Cahill for another sixty hours. Until that period expires, our line is that he is being questioned in connection to all four murders.’
‘So, publically, we’re still treating him as our prime suspect?’ the same female officer asked. ‘Even though we now think—’
‘That’s correct, DC Williams. We’ve got him as a shield, but only until late on Tuesday. Two and a half days, people. I don’t need to emphasize to you all how fucking vital it is we have something before then.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Right, DC Blake?’ The printed sheet the allocator carried was so long it had folded itself over the man’s hands. He looked like a waiter, approaching a table with an oversized napkin.
For the last twenty minutes, Sean had tracked the man as he’d worked his way through where the main bulk of detectives were seated. Team after team had then risen from their seats and headed out to pursue the line of enquiry they’d been tasked with.
‘I need you to contact the council to confirm any refuse collections scheduled in the area of Heather Knight’s house for tomorrow have been suspended. Same goes for drain cleaning. We’ve got a team to do those searches, but it won’t be until first thing in the morning. Understood?’
>
‘No problem.’
‘After that, go over the inventory of the contents of Heather Knight’s house to ensure everything’s been catalogued correctly.’
Filler, Sean thought. Not real work – just going over other people’s. He felt more keenly how he was being kept at the periphery. Tossed jobs that were of no consequence. Remembering the conversation he’d had with his mum in the kitchen, he sat up. ‘Who’s doing the mobile phone analysis?’
The allocator paused in the act of walking away. ‘Which victim’s?’
‘All of them. I wanted to check the transcripts …’ He caught the man’s expression. ‘After I’ve completed what you’ve just given me, of course.’
He nodded. ‘You need to see Maggie about that.’ He pointed over to the coordinator of the Civilian Support Workers. ‘That’s her shout.’
‘OK, thanks.’
Within an hour, the allocator had returned. ‘Change of plan, DC Blake. How far through that are you?’
‘Council have suspended all their operations in that post code. I’ve just started on the inventory.’
‘OK, a CSW can finish that off. You’re needed to assist with the house-to-house enquiries around Heather Knight’s residence. Seven thirty on a Sunday night: most people should be in by now.’
Sean was already on his feet. At last, I get out of this bloody office. ‘Who do I report to?’
‘DI Heys is coordinator at the scene, rendezvous point is on the grass verge before the property. You know where you’re going?’
Sean didn’t need to check the sheet on his desk. ‘Sixteen, Kersal Mews.’
Knowing things would be busy close to Heather Knight’s flat, Sean parked on an adjacent street. As he strode round, he pulled cool air deep into his lungs. Above him, the evening sky was dull tangerine. It felt good to be outside.
The clang of a gate to his right. A man stepped out onto the pavement, phone held to his ear. ‘Says it should be raining. Seriously, my weather app says Manchester: light showers. Right now!’ He briefly regarded the sky. ‘How mad is that?’
When, Sean wondered, did people start trusting apps over what was in front of their face? He thought about people who drove their cars into lakes or off cliffs because that’s where the satnav was directing them.
A uniform in a high-vis jacket was standing before a Road Closed sign positioned at the end of the Darlington Avenue. That was me not long ago, Sean thought. Doing grunt work.
‘Are you a resident here?’ The constable’s hand was raised. ‘Only there’s no access.’
Sean took his ID out. Second time he’d needed it. ‘DC Blake, Serious Crimes Unit.’
The officer stepped back. ‘OK. You’ll see where to report in.’
Ahead, the road had been blocked by a couple of liveried patrol cars, a Crime Scene Investigation van and a couple of Volvos he knew to be unmarked police vehicles.
Crime scene tape formed a perimeter that started thirty metres away from the turning into Kersal Mews. Sean approached the access point, badge ready. ‘DC Blake.’
The uniform signed him in and Sean proceeded towards the grass verge where several officers were gathered. The inner cordon started at the turning itself; anyone going beyond that point would have to be wearing a forensic suit. Sean glanced towards the entrance to the inner courtyard. A couple of white figures lingered like ghosts in the archway’s shadow.
‘DC Blake, here to assist with house-to-house—’
‘Right.’ DI Heys had short hair that had been overloaded with gel. Thick shiny spikes stood proud of his head. Flab had accumulated around his lower jaw, the weight of it forcing his bottom lip out. ‘I need you to take the top half of Seymour Road. Annie will sort you out.’ He turned his back to continue his discussion and another officer with a clipboard stepped forward.
‘Seymour Road is—’
‘The next one over. I’m parked on it.’
‘Very good. Retrace your steps. Last house on the right side is forty-eight. Work your way back to the mid-point. By that time, you should encounter DC Morris, who started at the other end about ten minutes ago.’
Morris, Sean thought. DS Fuller’s sidekick. Part of that thing in the canteen with the newspaper. He realized he never did work out what that was about.
‘Victim’s estimated time of death is late yesterday morning,’ the other officer continued. ‘A resident saw someone stepping into the victim’s property around noon.’
‘Male or female?’ Sean asked.
‘He couldn’t say. He was in his car and the archway was in shadow. Dark shoes and trousers is all he could report. Probably male. So, the window we’re interested in is around that time. Clear?’
‘I’ll get started.’
‘And DC Blake? Word’s started to spread. At this stage, it’s a suspicious death. And that’s all you know.’
‘But what is it?’ The woman kept glancing down uneasily at the young boy standing beside her. One hand rested protectively on his head.
‘At the moment, all we can say is that it’s suspicious.’
The boy craned his head back. ‘What’s suspicious?’
‘Nothing to do with you. In fact, back in the telly room, please.’
He didn’t move. ‘Have you got a proper badge?’
Fourth time! Sean thought, immediately producing it. He kept the leather holder closed. ‘Are you thinking of becoming a policeman?’
‘No. Vlogger.’
Sean was left struggling. ‘Well … if I show you this, you go back in the telly room like your mum asked. Deal?’
‘OK.’
He flipped it open and let the youngster have a good look. ‘That’s your lot.’
The kid stalked off, mum watching over her shoulder until the telly room door closed. She turned back to Sean, now not bothering to hide her concern. ‘But it was a female. Am I right? The person who died, she was female?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Were you in yesterday, around noon?’
‘No. Sam plays football on a Saturday morning. We’re out the house by ten fifteen.’
‘And that’s everyone? The house was empty after that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you returned …’
‘Not until one o’clock.’
‘OK. Nothing caught your attention as you left? Unusual vehicle or anyone hanging around?’
‘Sorry, no. When will we be told what’s actually going on?’
‘Local radio is a good bet. They receive updates same time as me. Sometimes before. But, really, we’ll be in the area for a long time yet; there’s no need to worry.’
‘OK.’
He made his way to the next house, noticing the icy glow of a TV beyond the curtains as he began to knock. It wasn’t until the eighth house that Sean felt a flicker of excitement. The portly man spoke with a strong Italian accent.
‘Late morning, you say?’ His eyes had narrowed. ‘Lou-lou? When did you say to me about that van?’
He was soon joined in the doorway by a birdlike woman, who was busily drying her hands with a dishcloth.
‘Yesterday morning, Lou-lou, you spotted that van parked at the front.’
‘Yes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The family at sixty-eight, they don’t like when people park too close to their drive.’
‘And this van had done that?’ Sean asked.
She cocked her head. ‘Close enough for them to come out and tell the driver to move it.’
‘Did they do that?’
‘No.’
‘They couldn’t have spotted it,’ the husband interjected. ‘Or they would have come out and started shouting.’
‘They can be very aggressive,’ Lou-lou concurred. ‘But they were probably all asleep.’ She motioned daintily with a forefinger and thumb. Sipping from a tiny glass. ‘That’s what they normally do on a Friday night.’
Doubt it’s thimbles of sherry though, Sean thought. ‘Did you see who
was in the van?’
The couple looked at one another. Some kind of communication, evolved through decades of marriage, flitted between them.
‘We didn’t see,’ the man said. ‘It was there at about eleven and it was gone when I went for a paper. That would have been …’
‘Twelve thirty,’ Lou-lou stated.
Sean noted everything down. ‘What kind of van was it?’
‘White.’ This from the husband.
‘A transit van? Large, with a high roof?’
‘No. One of those little ones you see all over the place. The size of a car.’
‘Did it have windows in the rear?’
‘Yes, it—’
‘Ettre!’ The woman batted his arm with the damp dishcloth. ‘It didn’t have windows!’
‘Yes. A window at the back.’
She looked at Sean while shaking her head. ‘Don’t listen: there wasn’t a window. It had the outline of a window, but no window actually there.’
‘You mean like a panel?’ Sean asked. ‘A window-shaped depression in the bodywork?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think it was a window,’ Ettre muttered.
‘Tsss!’ She shot back.
Sean suppressed a smile. ‘Any writing or markings on the van?’
‘No.’ They spoke in unison.
‘And could you say which make of van it was?’
Ettre checked his wife’s face. Lou-lou lowered her eyelids to indicate she couldn’t say. ‘Just a van,’ Ettre stated. ‘A little van. The ones that are everywhere.’
‘OK, thanks. We might call back with some images to see if any stand out. Would that be all right with you?’
The next houses drew a blank. By the time the numbers were into the eighties, he could see DC Morris further down the street. Twenty-five minutes later, they met.
‘How’s it gone?’ Sean asked, readying himself to describe the van sighting when asked.
DC Morris walked straight by.
Sean found himself staring at a patch of empty pavement. It felt like he’d been slapped. He turned to look at the other officer’s back. ‘Problem?’