by Chris Simms
The four CCTV analysts who’d worked through the night had a sunken-eyed appearance. Like box-set bingers who had blitzed an entire series in one sitting. Sean took in their slouching postures and subdued conversation. It wasn’t the type of body language that signalled success.
I probably look similar, he thought. His room at the Ibis hotel by Piccadilly had been fine: cheap and cheerful, as his mum would have said. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, his mind vacillating between anger and concern. But she had his mobile number. If she really needed him, she could call and leave a message. He’d have a listen and – if the problem was genuine – call her back.
That’s the way it would have to be from now on. His life had to change. They needed to break free of each other.
The hotel booking was for five nights. As soon as he got the chance, he’d start looking for a flat or house-share near to her. Somewhere close enough to get to the house quickly if the need ever arose.
The canteen was busy, so rather than queue at the counter for a coffee, he went straight to the table of analysts. ‘Morning.’
Greyish faces turned in his direction.
‘Any sign of Dutch Pete in the footage?’
‘Fuck all,’ one of them muttered.
Sean was surprised; it had seemed so promising. ‘Has it all been checked over?’
Another chuckled. ‘We can’t watch it speeded up. There’s a good chunk of it still to go.’
‘How much roughly?’
He sighed. ‘About ten per cent. Should be done by about midday.’
‘That’s including what was sourced off the various forms of public transport?’
‘Everything.’
‘OK, cheers.’ He turned away. No sign of Dutch Pete so far. The chances of him being in the remaining footage was looking flimsy. Shit.
He hovered near the counter, knowing he was only putting off the inevitable. It was time to face the main incident room.
Detectives were sitting at almost half the desks, which meant several teams were out there chasing down leads. He spotted Magda. She gave him a wave and he drifted across to her side of the office. ‘Apparently, the CCTV footage isn’t any use.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I heard that, too. But don’t look like that, it’s still got potential.’
‘Maybe. It’s just that …’ He shrugged. ‘I thought we’d nailed it.’
‘There were more calls yesterday evening. The owner of a place where they sell plants and things for the garden …’
‘A nursery?’
‘Yes – that. The owner of it said Dutch Pete fixed a section of fencing for him less than a fortnight ago. He paid him in cash though – so no bank account we can go off.’
Handyman type, Sean thought. Another factor that fitted with the psychological profile. ‘Any other interesting calls?’
‘There was. A woman rang to say she’d been approached by him in a pub three weeks ago. They ended up going back to her place. But he made her feel uneasy and, when she asked him to leave, he became abusive and threatening.’
‘Did he touch her?’
‘No – but she’d been genuinely scared. He spat at her as he left.’
‘So he also has issues with women. Seems that Mrs Greenhalgh’s profile is on the money.’
‘Except the physical description: this guy is big. Muscular.’
‘True, but the jack-of-all-trades stuff. Travelling around with a toolbox. And this woman’s report; I bet more calls like hers come in.’ He glanced across to Ransford’s office. ‘Is the briefing still on for half eight?’
‘It is. I hear there’s something back from Interpol.’
When the briefing got underway, Sean spent the first part of it with his attention on the noticeboards. Most of what Ransford had to say was a repeat of what Magda had already told him. He looked up when his DCI lifted a new sheet of paper and announced: ‘And now for the best news of the morning.’
Magda turned to him and lifted an eyebrow. Told you so.
‘Interpol have now responded. Nothing came up on the database for Dutch nationals. However, they ran the facial image of our suspect across the entire system and got this match. Seems he isn’t from Holland at all.’
He turned the sheet of paper round so everyone could view it.
‘Petr Kadlec is from the Czech Republic, but no longer lives in that country. In 2011, he was convicted of criminal damage when he tried to kick down the front door of the matrimonial home. They’re now divorced. Early 2012, he moved away from the town of Rakovnik. It is believed he headed to good old Blighty, looking for work.’
A question came in from the back. ‘Nothing on our system for him?’
‘No,’ Ransford shot back. ‘The PNC has been checked; he hasn’t been arrested during his time so far in the UK. If he’s working in the gig economy – cash-in-hand stuff – there won’t be a huge amount on official systems we can go off. A request has gone into the Czech police to send us all they have—’
‘Sir!’
Heads turned. Maggie James was almost jogging across the room. Ransford waved at the rearmost officers to move out of her way.
‘A hit on his passport number. Petr Kadlec caught a ferry to Rotterdam on Saturday afternoon.’
Sean’s eyes went to the timeline at the top of the noticeboard. That was shortly after the most recent victim’s death.
Ransford obviously worked it out, too; he slammed a hand down on the table. ‘You’re saying he’s out of the country?’
‘Maybe not,’ she replied. ‘It’s a return ticket. Foot passenger. The ferry he is due back on docks at Hull just after two o’clock. Petr Kadlec is on board.’
Ransford’s entire body was tense. ‘Two o’clock? Which two o’clock?’
‘This afternoon, sir.’
FORTY-FIVE
Janet Blake snapped down the lid of her Tupperware container. Inside were a couple of ham sandwiches and a few sachets of dried fruit and nuts. Enough so she could stay on the buses all day.
She checked her phone. She couldn’t stop checking her phone. Why didn’t he call? Where had he stayed the previous night? She pictured him in a soulless hotel room. People thudding about on the ceiling, doors clicking open and shut, voices in the corridors at all hours. He wouldn’t have slept well. She knew he wouldn’t.
Perhaps she should ring him.
She was ready to apologize, if it would help. But he needed to understand she’d only done it for him. For his good. She thought about her own career. Ability and enthusiasm counted for a lot, of course. But they were both easily trumped by a quiet word from the right place. Something she’d never had the benefit of. How many of the officers she’d started out with had? How many had gone on to find positions far senior to hers? Most, if not all. It was how it worked and Sean needed to understand that.
Christ, Tony Shipton. Tony bloody Shipton! She could remember their first few weeks together on the job. He was so nervous. Nerves that manifested themselves in a heavy-handed approach when they’d been called to deal with a couple of teenage shoplifters. He’d been embarrassing, they way he’d tried to intimidate them. As if that kind of approach would ever work. And now look how high he’d risen.
She checked her watch. Just after nine. If Sean hadn’t called by lunch, she’d give him a ring.
Sean sat at his desk, staring at the checklist of the CCTV footage.
The briefing had been brought to a rapid close with news of the ferry booking. Ransford and a team of officers were heading straight to Hull. If Petr Kadlec really was on board, they’d make the arrest as he reached passport control.
Sean took a good look around; the sense of jubilation was palpable. The detectives nearest him were talking about how it would be a big night. One of them suggested starting a whip-round; he could do a booze run in Morrison’s at lunch.
Sean turned back to his screen; his mum’s theory was nagging at him. Check what they said, not who they spoke with. Could she have been onto so
mething? If Kadlec hadn’t eavesdropped on his victim’s conversations, how else was he able to know so much about them?
Spyware on their computers? A hack of their voicemails?
He clicked on another tab; the transcripts from Pamela Flood’s phone records. He started to go through them again. Most were bland conversations. The inconsequential crap people nattered about. He worked his way down the list to when Cahill had called her at 5.59 pm. The bickering went on for the next twelve minutes.
No. I said to you before, I’m not doing it.
You never fucking listen, Ian. You never fucking do.
I owe you nothing. Don’t you even try that shit.
Yeah, and it’s my fucking flat! Who paid the rent? Who paid for the gas and electric? Bollocks. You never did.
Quite happy there without you, cheers.
Quite happy.
I’m not like you, I can handle being on my own.
There it was: a clear statement where she said that no one else was living in the flat. He brought up the CCTV footage from the bus. An analyst had helpfully put a circle round Pamela’s head as she spoke on her phone. The time stamp showed 6.03 pm.
He scrutinized the passengers around her for Petr Kadlec. No sign of him.
Letting the footage play on, he watched her disembark at 6.05, still talking to Cahill. Among the three people who got off at the same time as her was one man: but it wasn’t Petr Kadlec.
This was so infuriating.
He minimized the screen and surveyed the other victims’ files. Francesca Pinto had been next to die. In her CCTV folder, he searched out Shuttle Bus Footage.
The picture quality was far superior to that for Pamela Flood’s final journey. New fleet of buses, Sean thought. Electric hybrids. Francesca made her way past the driver’s cab at 7.11 pm. The bus was two-thirds full, mostly commuter types returning to Piccadilly Station. He paused the footage as she turned round. One hand grasped a ceiling strap, the other held a phone. He scanned the fellow passengers.
No sign of him, yet again.
A couple of clicks gave him a view of Francesca’s call records. At 7.16 pm, she made a call to the offices of Wadden and Holden Property Management.
Sean sat back. Hadn’t Heather Knight worked for some kind of letting agency? Surely it wasn’t this one? That couldn’t have been missed. He selected her file and opened up her Personal Details document. Employer: Mellor & Key. No panic, after all.
Returning to Francesca’s transcripts, he searched for the call that coincided with her bus journey.
I was promised the issue would be resolved by now.
Under the terms of my tenancy – I work as a solicitor, by the way – I am entitled to withhold the next rental payment.
That’s correct. No, number three. One bedroom, yes.
I work normal office hours, so how am I supposed to be there at that time?
No, it’s just me.
There it was again! An announcement that she lived alone. Surely it was significant.
He waited until ten o’clock. For the past thirty minutes, not a single staff member had gone through the doors. Either she was working a late shift or she had taken the day off.
He fixed the offices with baleful eyes.
Was there any way he could find out if she was due in? Not without drawing undue attention to himself. He thought about the bus trip where he’d seen her.
She’d been handing out the surveys – so there was a faint chance she could still be doing it. In which case, she could be anywhere on the city’s bus network. Except, she was in a wheelchair.
That meant she could only travel on the newer types. The ones that had proper disabled facilities.
He left the platform and walked round to the Transport For Greater Manchester’s office. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get a list of all the wheelchair friendly routes.
The phone on Katherine Harpham’s desk began to ring at 10.52. Rebecca, her secretary, was on the line.
‘Hi, Becky.’
‘Hi, Katherine. You had an eleven fifteen with the planning officer. About the Health and Beauty proposals?’
‘Had? This is sounding ominous.’
‘I just heard from her office. She’s been called away unexpectedly and sends her apologies. We could reschedule for early next week? Monday at three works for her.’
‘Monday it is, then. Thanks, Becky.’
That left her with a free hour. She looked down at the patches of sunlight moving across the college playing fields. The clouds were breaking up. It looked nice outside.
The plastic bag she’d placed the suspicious delivery in was next to her chair. Why the hell not, she thought. By foot, the police station on Brodick Street couldn’t take more than ten minutes to reach. There’d be a form to complete, she was sure. But how complicated could it be? She gazed out the window, this time at the gently swaying fir trees that lined the perimeter fence. Fresh air, what a lovely prospect.
When she walked up to the front desk, the uniformed officer’s response had been one of bemusement. ‘Balls of newspaper and a block of wood?’
‘Yes. Take a look inside – I’m not joking.’
He folded the top of the shopping bag down then picked up a pen and used it to lift up the flaps of the box. ‘You’re right. That is most strange. And this label? That’s your name and address?’
‘Yes. But there’s no barcode. No return address. Nothing.’
‘How about the underside? Anything there?’
‘No.’
‘Mmmm.’
He reached into the box, plucked out a single ball of scrunched-up newspaper and flattened it out on the counter. ‘This has been torn out from a copy of the Manchester Evening Chronicle. Whoever’s behind this lives around here, it would seem.’
‘What’s worrying me is what he was up to. Are there reports of any burglaries taking place after a fake package was delivered?’
‘I’d have to check, but not that I know of. And this man: you say he was in a courier driver’s uniform?’
‘I only saw his van. But, according to my sister, he was.’
‘Which company was he from?’
‘She didn’t know. The uniform was blue.’
‘OK. Leave it with me. I’ll need you to complete this form. And could you also include contact details for your sister?’
‘With pleasure. I’ll do it now, if that’s OK.’
‘Whatever is easiest. Apart from you and your sister, no one else has handled the package?’
‘No – apart from the man who rang on the door.’
FORTY-SIX
The driver of the 419 bus waited until she’d backed her wheelchair into the bay beside the doors before he started to pull away.
‘You all right, Janet?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Mm?’
‘Looking a bit down in the dumps today.’
‘Oh, probably tired. I didn’t sleep very well.’ She did her best to inject some cheer into her voice. ‘So, Arthur, you on until three?’
His eyes were on his right-hand mirror as he forced his way back out into the stream of traffic. ‘That’s the one. How long have they got you on this route? I thought it had been covered off last week.’
She started removing customer survey forms from her bag. ‘All morning. Maybe the afternoon, too. Depends on how fast I can make this pile go down.’
‘Well.’ He looked briefly across. ‘You could just dump the lot in the bin and have done.’
‘Arthur!’ She forced herself to smile. ‘What a thing to suggest.’
‘World’s drowning in bloody paperwork. Why add to it?’
‘You have a point.’
The lights in front turned to red and he started to slow. She used the opportunity to have a look at the passengers in the main part of the bus. No sign of the suspect. No matter, she said to herself. One thing a career in the police had taught her was patience.
He crossed the tram tracks and approached the long line
of bus stops.
Lined up alongside them were royal blue Magic Buses with canary yellow lettering, lavender-and-turquoise single-decker Sapphires, Stagecoaches with red and orange ticks sweeping across the vehicles’ rear wheels. Every time one moved away, another took its place. They tried to edge round each other, diesels rumbling, brakes phewing. A gigantic gyre, slowly churning all day long.
He examined the timetables he’d harvested from the visitor centre’s racks. The number of wheelchair friendly routes was larger than he’d imagined. Much larger. In fact, there was hours of travelling involved, if he was to check each one.
He almost laughed. He was going about this all wrong. He clasped his hands together and raised them to the sky. ‘You’re testing me, aren’t you?’ he muttered. ‘Well, that’s fine.’ And I, in turn, have realized, there’s no need for me to roam the city searching for her. Not if I just stand here, where the buses turn in from the main road. This is where she will be presented to me.
Fifteen minutes after Ransford’s team left for Hull, the ferry company came through with the full details of Petr Kadlec’s booking, including an address in Chadderton.
Two detectives were immediately despatched to a magistrate to get a warrant signed to search the property. Another six set off for the house itself: the instant a signature was obtained, they’d crash the door in. The warrant itself could catch them up later. As Ransford had stressed via his car’s phone, speed was everything.
Sean watched from his seat in the corner as the search team was led out by DI Levine. Apart from him, the only people now left in the incident room were Troughton and few specialist support workers.
He turned back to his screen and began mulling over the fact every victim, apart from Heather Knight, had talked freely on public transport – and by doing so had unwittingly revealed details about themselves.
Heather Knight had also been alone in her property when the killer called. The boyfriend was out of the country on a friend’s stag do. How had the murderer known that? He retrieved the transcripts of her call to the BMW garage. This was the moment when, just like all the other victims, she let anyone in hearing know she was alone in the house.