by Neil White
‘Jack? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there this morning. How was Bobby?’
‘He’s fine,’ Jack said, ‘but I’m not calling about that. It’s about the murder.’
‘I can’t tell you much.’
‘At least answer this then: what did Jane Roberts have in her mouth, and Deborah Corley?’
There was a pause, and then, ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s okay, I’m not looking for a quote,’ he said. ‘Just call me curious.’
‘Come on, Jack,’ she said. ‘Curious with you means more than just that. So tell me why you think there was something in her mouth?’
‘If you’ll give me a couple of minutes of your time, I’ll come and show you,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she said, more softly now. ‘It would be good to see you anyway. It seems like ages since we talked.’
‘I know, but just business for now,’ he said, and then hung up.
As the hum of the street took over, he felt that excitement again, something he hadn’t felt in a while. Maybe he was finally going to write the story he wanted.
He headed for his car.
Laura looked at her phone.
She was outside the station, fresh from her trip to see Jane’s boyfriend. How did Jack know that there had been something crammed into Jane’s mouth?
She knew she needed to speak with Carson, as Jack would be gaining special access. At some point they might need to ask journalists to hold something back, but if they find out that someone is getting the inside track, they won’t agree.
She walked quickly into the station, and when she went into the canteen she saw that Carson was sitting at a table. Joe was queuing for food.
‘How did you get on with the ex-boyfriend?’ Carson asked, as she sat down opposite.
‘He wasn’t so ex,’ Laura said.
Carson looked interested at that.
‘He had applied to become one of us, and Jane was thinking of joining too,’ Laura said. ‘Daddy didn’t like that and so tried to split them up.’
‘Jane was an adult,’ Carson said.
‘Yes, but he could make it difficult for them, and Jane still lived at home.’
‘So Don is back in the frame?’
‘He was never really out of it.’
‘How does the boyfriend rate as a suspect?’
Laura thought about that. ‘He can’t be ruled out, but I believed him. We’ve got something else to think about now though.’
‘Go on.’
‘Jack has just called,’ she said. ‘He knows that there was something jammed into Jane’s mouth.’
Carson looked surprised. ‘How does he know?’
‘He didn’t say, but he’ll tell me when he gets here.’
‘He’s not thinking of interfering, is he?’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing,’ she said.
‘You know the force has never been comfortable with this.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, her voice weary. ‘But Jack must know something worth listening to. Hear him out.’
Carson’s response was interrupted by the clatter of a tray onto the table. Joe passed three plates around with limp white bread and crispy tongues of bacon, and then scattered some sauce sachets onto the table.
‘I saw you and thought you looked hungry,’ Joe said to Laura. ‘I heard you mention Jack.’
‘He knows about the mud jammed into Jane’s mouth,’ Laura said.
Carson took a bite of his sandwich. ‘Do you talk in your sleep?’ he said, mumbling through his food, and when Laura responded with an arched eyebrow, he added, ‘the whispers were always going to start. And maybe it’s no real secret. There’s more than just us who know about it. There are the kids who found her, the uniforms who combed the scene. Someone will always talk. If we think that the rumours will end up in print, we’ll ask the press for an embargo, which means that Jack doesn’t get any special favours.’
‘I think there’s more to it than it seems,’ Laura said.
Carson stopped chewing at that. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Because he’s on his way here. He would have told me if it was just press rumours.’
Carson looked like he had lost his appetite. He put his sandwich back on the plate. ‘I just hope he isn’t using you to get closer than everyone else.’
‘I wouldn’t let him,’ Laura said, but from the scowl that Carson flashed across the table, Laura realised that she would be frozen out of the case if he tried it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jack had texted Laura to let her know that he’d arrived, and as he walked through the station doors he checked his pockets for his tools: a voice recorder, paper pad and pen. He was in the glass-fronted reception area, the windows like ticket kiosks, the seats opposite filled with bored customers waiting to be seen, some holding vehicle documents, one or two looking like they were waiting for a relative to emerge from the cells. As he glanced along the chairs, Jack saw a grinning face at the end. It was David Hoyle, the brash young defence lawyer from the court.
‘Mr Journo,’ he shouted over, and then leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, his legs outstretched, expensive-looking brown brogues on his feet, a fawn-coloured suit and pink shirt making up the ensemble. Hoyle looked a step up from the sale-rack suits and gelled hair of the police station runners who seemed to do most of the defence work.
‘Whose life are you exposing today?’ Hoyle said, his eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, you know, sometimes it’s good to get away from the routine,’ Jack said, and grinned back at him. ‘Like writing up your speeches.’
Hoyle’s smile twitched, and then he waved away the dig. ‘I know you don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘I’m the best thing to happen to that courtroom in years.’
‘The world is full of undiscovered geniuses, Mr Hoyle,’ Jack said. ‘It’s good to finally meet one.’
Hoyle’s smile waned. ‘You know that none of this matters,’ he muttered, leaning forward, so that Jack had to get closer to hear him properly.
‘This is people’s lives,’ Jack said.
‘But we’re only passing through them,’ Hoyle said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I talk like I make a difference, but I know that I don’t, not really. When I’ve finished, and you’ve written it up, will anything have changed?’ He shook his head. ‘No, not one thing. They go back to their messy little lives and I see them the next time they fuck it up.’
Jack was surprised. ‘You seem down today. A bad morning in court?’
Hoyle shrugged. ‘Sitting around here makes me like that. So what brings you to this neck of the woods?’
‘Just the usual journalist stuff. And how about you? Another cursed young innocent?’
‘None of us are innocent, Mr Garrett.’
‘Maybe so,’ Jack said, ‘but some are a lot more guilty. And the problem with lawyers is that guilt is just a verdict, and not a moral point.’
Hoyle smiled at that. ‘If I worried about morals, I would be a bad criminal lawyer.’
‘I’ll save the ovation for later,’ Jack said. ‘So what have you got?’
‘Just kids, doing what kids from the shitty part of Blackley do,’ Hoyle said.
Jack was rescued from the conversation by a door opening behind him. It was Laura. She tilted her head to tell him to follow her.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ Jack said to Hoyle, and then followed Laura further into the police station.
‘What did he want?’ Laura asked.
‘To impress me with his greatness,’ Jack said, and then he slowed as he saw Carson waiting for him.
‘What kind of mood is he in?’ Jack asked Laura in a whisper, nodding towards Carson.
‘The usual.’
‘Tetchy, then,’ he said, watching as Carson turned around and walked away. Jack took it as a sign to follow.
They settled in some low chairs along the edge of the canteen, the air heavy with the smells of lunch. Laura went to get so
me drinks.
Carson eyed Jack with suspicion. ‘Laura tells me that you’re not really pursuing this story.’
‘Like she said, not really.’
‘But you were at the press conference, and it was your name by the story on the website.’
‘It was just to give the local angle if the nationals became interested, and the local rag wanted to use it,’ Jack said. ‘I still need to put food on the table.’
Carson placed a newspaper in front of Jack, who looked down and saw the headline How Many More?
‘Does this have anything to do with you?’ he said.
Jack looked closer, just an excuse to avoid Carson’s glare. It was his article under Dolby’s byline and photograph.
Jack pointed at the picture. ‘It doesn’t look like me,’ he said. ‘And aren’t you more interested in why I’m here?’
Carson scowled. ‘Go on, tell me what you’ve got.’
Laura appeared with coffees on a tray, and Jack delayed his answer as he took a sip from his cup.
‘Just what I said on the phone to Laura,’ Jack replied, ‘that I was curious about what had been in the dead woman’s mouth when she was found.’
‘Who told you about that?’ Carson said.
Jack took another sip and considered Carson over the lip of the cup. Carson was frowning.
‘I have something to show you,’ Jack said, and he reached into his pocket and handed Carson the emails he had printed off.
Carson looked down at the pieces of paper. ‘What are these?’
‘I received them last night. My email address was at the top of the story I did yesterday.’
As Carson took in the words on the page, Jack turned to Laura and whispered, ‘Early start.’ His hand drifted towards her leg.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ she said, quietly, blushing slightly. ‘It will settle down soon, don’t worry.’
‘Fuck!’ Carson said, and he slammed the papers down on the table, spilling his coffee.
Laura looked surprised, and then she picked up the papers and began to read. When her eyes widened, Jack knew she had reached the poem.
He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,
He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,
He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,
And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.
She put the papers back on the table. ‘So this is how you know.’
‘So what do you think?’ Jack said. ‘Could they be from the killer? Who else knows the details of the murder scene? Your squad and the killer, that’s who.’
‘And every one in uniform who was guarding the scene, and their families when they got home and spilled the news, and then their neighbours,’ Carson said. ‘These things don’t stay secret for long, so don’t get too excited.’
‘What about this one then?’ Jack said, and handed over the email that simply said Ask them about Emma.
Jack watched Carson as he read it. He looked confused now.
‘Emma?’ Carson said.
‘Are you sure they’re not from the killer now?’
Carson looked at Jack. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He is telling me that he knows something about why Deborah and Jane were killed, but my guess is that you have no clue what he’s talking about, which means that he knows something you don’t.’
Carson thought about that for a moment, and then said, ‘It could just be an attention seeker. We get them all the time in murder cases.’
‘So you’re discounting the possibility that they’re from the killer?’
‘No, I’m not, but I’ve got to use my resources carefully. Do you remember that idiot who sent in the Yorkshire Ripper tape, Wearside Jack? And what do people remember about it? That more women died because the police wasted their time chasing him.’
‘And if you write him off as some nutter and it turns out that they are from the killer?’
Carson didn’t answer that, as the reality sunk in that whatever he did, it could be the wrong thing, and more women could die if he got it wrong.
‘Could it be a leak from within the station?’ Laura said.
Carson picked up the papers again and read through them carefully. ‘It’s pretty mean about Deborah Corley, and so if it is, someone has just got themselves a fucking problem.’
‘I’ve got a different idea then,’ Jack said, drinking his coffee. ‘Whoever he is, he’s said that he’ll write to other reporters, so the information will get out there. So why don’t you use me and take control?’
Carson scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you gain now by keeping the facts back?’ Jack said. ‘Because that is what you are doing, keeping it back. If you go public, then at least you’re back in control of the information, rather than leaving it to the internet.’
‘If I need press advice, I’ll speak to the press officer,’ Carson said.
Laura turned to Jack. ‘You’re not thinking of writing this up, are you?’
He tilted his head as he thought about it. ‘The local paper will want it,’ he said. ‘You know that they’ve run a few anti-police stories, and they haven’t got many friends left to lose.’ When Carson’s lips tightened, he added, ‘I’m not the guilty one here. There could be someone in this station blurting out secrets. The email said that he would know if I spoke to you.’
Carson put his head back and looked at the ceiling. He sighed and then looked back to Jack. ‘So what are you proposing?’
‘Go at him head on, turn him into a villain, spoiling murder investigations,’ Jack said. ‘Give more details about the murder and out him, whoever he is. Let him know that he’s gone too far, and see if someone will give him up – a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or colleague.’
‘But then he’s dictating the investigation,’ Carson said.
‘He already is, because he’s spilling what you’re keeping back,’ Jack said. ‘You won’t be in control of it.’
‘What, make him the main figure?’ Carson said.
‘As a hate figure, not a hero,’ Jack replied. ‘Everyone likes a whistleblower, but not if it costs lives. This just gives you the initiative. If the local paper doesn’t want it like that, then I reckon I can get one of the nationals interested. Make it about how he is risking lives, forcing you into giving more details.’
‘You could always choose not to write anything,’ Carson snapped. ‘I thought you were freelance.’
‘I am, but I have major customers, and the local paper is one. Think about it. It might make someone give him up, so you win both ways: if there’s a leak, you get it plugged, and you get your revenge. If it’s the killer, someone might know something from his letters, or even the email address.’
Carson nodded, although he was still scowling.
‘Pitch it that way, as a leak,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Will you let me approve what you send in?’
Jack shook his head. ‘It needs to be my story, not yours, but if you think I’ve fouled it up, fine, shut me out of the press conferences.’
That brought a smile from Carson. ‘That would be a pleasure,’ and then he sighed. ‘If you want to know what was in their mouths, follow me,’ and he got to his feet. Jack did as he was asked, Laura and Joe with him, and they made their way to the Incident Room. When they got inside, Carson pointed Jack to the wall at the front.
When Jack saw the photographs of Jane Roberts and Deborah Corley, his eyes widened and his mouth opened, but no words came out. Gorged on the floor. That’s what it meant.
Jack turned to Carson with fresh resolve. Now it seemed like more than just a story. He just had to make Dolby stick to his promise.
The noise around him was like an echo, the movement just a blur. Case-builders and detectives moving around with papers in their hands, or sitting in huddles, whispers over lunch, gripes about Carson, the lead detective working them hard.
He glanced over to where Carson was sitting with Laura McGanity. She had queued fo
r drinks next to him. She had touched him, just accidentally, a light brush, the soft swish of her trousers, her thigh against his thigh, a hint of perfume as her dark hair flicked past. Why had she done that? She could have stood further away, but she had invaded his space, as if she hadn’t seen him.
And he remembered how she used to be. Her accent had been filled with the south when she’d first moved to Blackley, all those rounded vowels, although it wasn’t quite that London sound. It was more cultured, educated even, and now she was back in the suits, hanging around with the headquarters crew. She would have noticed him before, but not now.
He closed his eyes as the memory of her perfume returned. It was so hard to recapture a scent. He could recall Laura’s smell though. There was the staleness of no sleep mixed in with the fabric conditioner on her clothes, fake and flowery, all lying underneath the musk of the perfume sprayed onto her neck. He could smell coffee on her, and just a hint of sweat from the morning’s work. He swallowed as he thought of how she would smell at the end of the day, at home, intimate.
He opened his eyes and looked away. People would stare at the flush in his cheeks, at the shortness of his breaths.
His smile faded as he thought of the woman behind the counter. He had smiled at her when she’d asked him what he wanted. She hadn’t smiled back. Just served him his food and saved her beam for the inspector standing behind him.
He heard the rumble of feet and he looked up. It was all movement now, the rooms that overlooked the atrium emptying as the staff hurried to the canteen for their lunch. The tables around him would fill up with the typists and administrative staff who prepared the files, who turned the footwork into something fit for court, and the detectives who’d worked out how to keep their working day from nine till five. He knew there’d be more uniforms soon, as they found an excuse to come back to the station, where they could eat without being pestered.
He heard a noise, an angry shout. It came from Carson’s table. There was someone else there. A man. Then he recognised him from the photograph on the newspaper website. It was the reporter. He had told him to look for Emma, not to speak to the police. He saw a printed sheet pass between them. An email.