Loose Tongues

by Chris Simms

  One man had chosen to stay standing. He was midway down the carriage. Sean’s eyes lingered on him. Unusual to voluntarily stand when seats were free. And if they did stand, people usually stuck by the area near to the doors. Sean could see that, behind his glasses, the man’s eyes were closed. His head was tipped to the side. Sean would have guessed he was listening to music, but no headphones were visible in his ears.

  The tram eased to a stop and the doors opened. A number of people got on, including Heather Knight. She had a face like thunder. Within seconds, she’d taken a call on her phone.

  Sean watched her speak. Fingernails tapped impatiently against the handrail. This would have been when she was berating the bloke from the BMW dealership. The very moment she gave out her name and address. Where the hell was Kadlec? Was he just out of the camera’s view?

  A couple of young men sitting close by looked at each other. One twisted his mouth into a grimace, causing the other one to wince. She obviously wasn’t keeping her voice down. The man who’d been standing midway down the aisle opened his eyes and edged forward a few steps.

  Why did he seem familiar? Maybe he resembled someone off the telly. Maybe he was off the telly: the BBC and ITV had studios out at MediaCity. A weatherman, or local correspondent, maybe. The man took a small notebook out then jotted something down, by the look of it. He put the booklet back in his pocket and closed his eyes again. He looked like a lover of classical music at a once-in-a-lifetime performance. Head lolling, drinking in every tiny sound.

  Heather Knight began to lower her phone. Then she lifted it again and checked the screen. Her expression softened somewhat. The boyfriend, Sean thought. That’s who she would have been talking to now.

  The tram stopped and more passengers climbed on board. Now the view of her was partially obscured. He stopped the footage and searched in vain for Kadlec. Where the hell was he?

  He let the footage play on and by the time the tram reached St Peter’s Square, the carriage was getting crowded. Heather Knight squeezed her way to the doors and disappeared from sight. Sean froze the footage again and did one last sweep for Kadlec. If he had been on board, it wasn’t anywhere close to Heather.

  His eyes were drawn back to the man who had been standing on his own. Now there was a young girl – somewhere in her teens – right next him. Her head was back, braided hair caught mid-swing, one hand making a stabbing motion. The other held a phone to her ear. Sean couldn’t tell if she was angry or elated.

  The man had opened his eyes and was staring at the back of her head. Sean felt his scalp contract: the look of untrammelled hatred on the man’s face. It was shocking. He let the last of the footage play. The loathing in the man’s gaze didn’t alter.

  The printer chuntered and whirred. Come on, he thought, watching the sheet work its way slowly out into the tray. Hurry up! At its centre was a label.

  Janet Blake, 16 Juniper Street, Hollinwood, Manchester.

  He placed the sheet on his dining room table alongside the package. Plain brown paper, neat folds. Seams sealed by translucent tape. He peeled the label from the sheet and applied it to the upper side of the package.

  All was in order.

  He put his glasses back on and cast his eye over the blue tunic draped over the back of the chair. There was quite a gathering of dust on the shoulders. The garage didn’t make an ideal storage place.

  After pulling a length of tape from the roll, he wrapped it swiftly round his fingers so the adhesive side was facing out. As he dabbed at the uniform, he considered the woman.

  She’d driven the little scooter up the ramp to her front door. Then she’d hauled herself out of it and, using a handrail, got to within reaching distance of the door. A key had been produced. The door had swung open to reveal a walking frame in the corridor beyond.

  Would it pose a problem if she answered the door while supporting herself with the frame? She’d need a hand free in order to sign for the package. He would be holding the console but he’d also need to keep hold of the package. Yes, that would work. She’d be gripping the frame with one hand and signing with the other. He’d press the button and she’d hit the floor same as the rest, mouth gaping like that of a fish. Ready for him to get the hood over her head.

  He found a single hair on the tunic’s sleeve and pressed the sticky tape against it. When he peeled it away, the tape protested with a little rasping sound.

  ‘Magda! Could you take a look at this?’

  She allowed the evidence bags to cascade onto her desk then gave Sean an exasperated look. ‘May I log this lot with the receiver first?’

  He beckoned at her urgently.

  ‘Your knickers are in a twist?’

  ‘No. Just … come here, will you?’ He pulled an empty chair alongside his as she weaved her way between empty desks.

  ‘But you do wear them?’ She sat down with a smirk.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. What’s got you all hot under the collar?’

  He shot her a glance. ‘When’s your phrasebook from, the 1950s?’

  ‘My father bought it for me when I was six, so possibly.’

  ‘I’ll get you a modern one. Now, tell me if I’m mistaken.’

  As she turned to the screen, he opened the first of a row of tabs.

  ‘This is the CCTV from Pamela Flood’s last bus journey home from where she worked. As you can see, she was on the phone. Ian Cahill had called and they argued for the entire journey.’

  ‘OK. I can see she is obviously not happy.’

  Sean paused it. ‘This man, two rows back. See him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him, not Pamela.’

  He let the footage continue.

  ‘See how he’s not staring at a screen, reading a paper or talking to his neighbour. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could he be listening to Pamela?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  He opened a new tab. ‘This is footage for Francesca Pinto’s last journey home from work. She hasn’t got on yet. Watch carefully when she does.’

  The view was downwards, from the ceiling. The doors of the bus opened and Francesca Pinto came into view. She made her way along the aisle. Behind her was another woman, her neck encased in the folds of a chiffon scarf. Then a man came into view. Short greying hair in a neat side parting. Francesca found a seat a third of the way back. He positioned himself directly behind her.

  Sean pressed pause and looked at Magda.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Look closely. Tell me if you recognize anyone.’

  ‘Francesca Pinto: right there.’ Her forefinger was reaching out to touch the screen when her hand stopped and she leaned forward. ‘It’s him!’

  Sean let his eyes close for a moment. ‘Thank God. Wasn’t sure if I was going mad. Francesca is talking on her phone, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve checked the timings from her call transcripts. She’s complaining about something – and, during the call, mentions that she lives alone.’

  ‘My God, Sean.’ Magda pointed at the remaining tabs. ‘These are …’

  ‘Each victim’s final journey. The only one he doesn’t appear in is Victoria Walker’s. But if you check her call transcripts, she’s bickering about mortgage arrangements to her fiancé. That conversation took place just prior to her tram arriving. So she was probably waiting on the platform. Once we get that CCTV footage, he’ll be within earshot of her, I’d bet my life on it.’

  ‘How about the third victim – Julie Roe? The one with Petr Kadlec in?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  He clicked another tab. ‘There you go. Julie is sitting across the aisle from Kadlec. They have their altercation. But check behind her. There he is – and he’s listening to every word. He’s not even trying to hide it. Now, watch. As soon as she starts gathering her things, what does he do?’

  ‘Stands up.’

  ‘In the transcript, she d
oesn’t mention her address. She does say she lives on her own, though.’

  ‘The creepy bastard! He’s getting off at the same time as her!’

  ‘And she’s so busy having a go at Kadlec, she’s oblivious. After that, she walks straight home.’

  ‘And he followed her.’ Magda licked her lips. ‘Right. Who’s around?’

  ‘No one. Troughton’s nipped out to get lunch. DI Levine’s doing the house search. Ransford’s over in Hull.’

  She glanced rapidly about. ‘We need to get hold of someone senior. I’ll have to go upstairs.’ She got her phone out. ‘What’s your number? I might need to be able to get hold of you, fast.’

  Once he’d given it to her, she stood. ‘Right, I’ve sent you a text. So you have my number now, too. Let me be clear: this man obtained the victims’ details through what they talked about on their phones? The transcripts all concur?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Once he has their address, he then calls on some pretext … window cleaner, courier delivery, meter reading—’ She stopped speaking. ‘What? Sean? What did I say?’

  He felt like his eyes might pop out of their sockets. ‘Courier delivery!’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Earlier today, I had to see this woman. She lives on her own … oh, Jesus. A man rang on her door. But it was the sister that answered …’ He tapped a finger on the monitor’s screen. ‘I need to show her this.’

  ‘You think it was the man from the footage?’

  ‘I don’t know. Her description fitted. It could be how he’s gaining access to their—’

  ‘OK, you call the sister. I’ll try and get hold of someone senior.’

  His mobile pinged: Magda’s text. He rewound the CCTV footage to a point where the man was clearly visible, screen-grabbed the frame and saved it to his desktop. Next, he yanked his notepad from his jacket and called Amanda Harpham.

  ‘Mrs Harpham, it’s DC Blake. I came to see—’

  ‘Yes. Is there anything—’

  ‘Are you able to receive a .jpeg file? It’s a still taken from some CCTV footage.’

  ‘I’m at my desk now. Would you like my email?’

  ‘Please.’

  After sending it over, he bowed his head, phone pressed against his ear. Please, please, please. Down the line came the distant noise of an office. Behind him, a phone rang and, in the phone’s earpiece, another one did the same. Parallel universes. Then Amanda Harpham spoke. ‘It’s here in my inbox. I’m opening the attachm— oh.’

  ‘Mrs Harpham?’ He hunched forward, now crushing his own ear with the receiver. ‘Mrs Har—’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  ‘The man who called at your sister’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes! That’s him, I’m certain. Yes.’

  Sean felt like the entire building was detaching itself from the earth. His fingers gripped the edge of his desk, but it didn’t help. ‘Thank you. I need to go.’

  ‘If it’s possible, could you—’

  He cut the call and sat back. Katherine Harpham hadn’t used public transport. She drove to and from the Lightwater Academy. So how – or why – had the man in the footage targeted her? He retrieved the academy’s number from his notebook.

  ‘Hello, the principal’s office, Lightwater Acad—’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Blake. I need to speak with Ms Harpham. It’s critical.’

  ‘One moment.’

  She came on the line seconds later. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Harpham. I need you to look at a picture and tell me if you have ever seen the man in it.’ Seconds later, he found himself on hold once again. He used the opportunity to see what Magda was doing. Her back was to him and she was speaking on the phone.

  Katherine’s voice came down the line. ‘I … I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘Sorry?’ He span round so he could face his monitor. ‘The email’s come through?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking at the photo right now.’

  ‘And do you—?’

  ‘Of course I know him. It’s Brian Miller. He used to work here.’

  ‘The man in the photograph worked at the Lightwater Academy?’

  ‘Yes. Until recently, but we had to bring disciplinary— why have you sent me his picture? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ms Harpham, why were disciplinary proceedings brought against him?’

  ‘He … I suppose normal rules of confidentiality—’

  ‘Believe me, they don’t apply. What went on with him?’

  ‘Well … ultimately, he lost his job because he struck a student.’

  ‘Struck? With a fist?’

  ‘No, the palm of his hand. He slapped her across the face. It was in a classroom, in front of everyone. Someone even filmed it.’

  ‘Why did he slap her?’

  ‘It was a bugbear of his. A well-documented one. She’d been talking on her phone. He remonstrated with her, she started yelling at him. It was … he should never have got into that situation.’

  ‘When you say it was a bugbear – what did you mean?’

  ‘There’d been many incidents. Many. And not only with students.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Brian Miller had to drive past her house and continue for a good thirty metres before he found a space. As he reversed into it, he searched for the dashboard clock. In the Peugeot, it had been to the right of the radio’s controls. In this new one, it was part of the display where the speed dial, petrol gauge and rev counter were. Stupid place to put it.

  The time was one twenty-nine.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He’d made it with minutes to spare. Why did he ever doubt that he wouldn’t? The drive from his house had been charmed: traffic lights had switched to green at his approach; buses had pulled over to get out of his way; vans and cars had melted down side roads. He had hardly needed to touch the brakes.

  The central locking clicked in and he paused to check the vehicle was properly against the kerb. He didn’t like the green paintwork. Maybe that’s what he’d do next weekend: respray it. Grey, perhaps. Or dark blue. Something less obvious.

  He transferred the package and console to his right hand. A bird trilled its song from a nearby roof. As he set off along the pavement, another joined it. He could hear a lazy breeze approaching through the trees behind him. The rustle of leaves got closer and he felt the air press lightly against his back. Like a hand gently ushering him forward. The trees ahead now started to shift, leaves nodding their approval. The birds sang louder and he knew then that they were singing for him. A triumphant chorus, just for him. He looked around and smiled. The world was such a wonderful place.

  Sean put the phone down and looked for Magda. Her desk was now deserted, as was Troughton’s. He glanced to the corner and saw several people were now in DCI Ransford’s office.

  Magda, Troughton, the media relations woman and someone else. It was only when he reached the door that he recognized Assistant Chief Constable Tony Shipton.

  Troughton’s head turned. ‘DC Blake, come in.’

  Sean stepped inside as Troughton turned to Shipton. ‘Sir, this is the detective. The one who did so much of the crucial legwork on this.’

  Tony Shipton was wearing a crisply pressed white shirt. Sean took in the diagonal cross fringed with leaves on his epaulette as the man extended his right hand. ‘Excellent work here.’

  Does he know? Sean wondered as their hands shook. Does he realize I know what my mum did?

  ‘How’s Janet, by the way? I was lucky enough to work alongside her, many moons ago.’

  ‘She’s … she’s well, thank you. Sir.’

  ‘Good to hear. I haven’t spoken to her for far too long. Send my regards, won’t you?’

  Sean felt his hand being released. ‘Of course.’ Was this what you needed to rise through the ranks? An ability to lie this brazenly? He wasn’t sure if he wanted it as his career, if it was.r />
  Shipton now appeared to be addressing Ransford’s desk. ‘Carry on, Jacob. What were you saying?’

  The DCI’s voice came from his desk phone’s speaker. ‘I think we need to hear Tina’s opinion. Is yet another press appeal so soon after the others advisable? We’re still receiving calls about Petr Kadlec. How will it make us look if we now ask for information on a brand new—’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  Every head swung round and Sean lifted his notebook. ‘I know who he is.’

  Ransford’s tinny voice emerged into the room. ‘Is that DC Blake who just spoke?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Come closer. I can hardly hear you.’

  Magda made room for him beside the desk.

  ‘I just talked with a woman who was visited by the man in the CCTV footage,’ Sean stated. ‘He was posing as a courier driver in order to drop off a package. It seems he didn’t expect her sister to answer the—’

  ‘Who’s the man?’ ACC Shipton demanded.

  Sean checked his notebook to be sure. ‘Brian Miller. He lives at Smithy Bridge, near Rochdale. Until recently, he taught the course in Electrotechnical Services at the Lightwater Academy, Collyhurst.’

  ‘That new one?’ Ransford asked. ‘On the A62?’

  ‘Yes. He was recently sacked from it because he slapped a female student in the face. But there had been multiple incidents prior to that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Colleagues found him to be fixated on discipline. Several female staff had complained that he was overbearing in meetings, trying to bully and cajole them into supporting him. He was described by the principal of the academy as the type who, if he was sitting in the staffroom, you’d find a seat on the other side. Very intense, very opinionated.’

  ‘But this incident – it was a student he slapped?’ Magda asked.