Flawed Beauty

by Ernesto Lee

  Turning over a leaf in his pocketbook, Tony says, “Jolly but surprisingly coherent, according to the landlady. She was the one that brought him his bill to sign. He signed the bill, then thanked her for a great night and asked for directions back to the bus station.”

  “Anything else significant?”

  “No, that’s it, ma’am. Unfortunately, the CCTV in that part of town is a bit patchy. We initially have him walking in the general direction of the bus station, but then nothing until we pick him up again beside the taxi rank adjacent to The Starry Plough holding his bottle of booze.”

  “And the rest, as they say, is history,” Erin mutters to herself. “Okay, guys, I suggest you go and grab yourself a bite to eat while you can. I’m going to speak to the chief super again to update him. I’ll call you back in as soon as I have any news.”

  For his part, Tony doesn’t need telling twice. He is already on his feet and out of the door before Erin finishes speaking. Terri, however, remains seated and, although suspecting already what the issue might be, Erin asks anyway.

  “You mean apart from Tony’s deliberate attempts to wind me up?” Terri scowls. “You assured me you had him under control.”

  “I know what I said, and I’ll speak to him again,” Erin responds firmly.

  “You need to do more than just speak to him,” Terri retorts. “It’s gone well beyond that point now. He needs to be formally disc—”

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Erin interrupts. “You have my word that once we have this case under control, I’ll deal with him.”

  “I hope so. Because it’s either him or m—”

  Frustrated, Erin angrily interrupts again. “I said I’ll deal with it, Terri. Now if there is nothing else, I need to speak to the chief super.” Noting her colleague’s lack of any obvious intent to leave, Erin impatiently asks, “Well, was there anything else?”

  “Actually, there was. What are we going to do about the press pack outside? They know that we have a suspect in custody and they are going to wa—”

  “Fuck! I’d forgotten all about them,” Erin grunts to herself. “Actually, if we get the CPS approval to formally charge Murray for any of the murders, this could be a good opportunity to get the press back on our side.”

  Nodding, Terri comments, “Opportunity or not, I doubt they are going to leave without getting at least some kind of statement. Somebody should speak to them. At least this time, it will be good news.”

  “You’re right,” Erin concurs. “I’ll discuss it with the boss. “Thanks, Terri.”

  “It’s nothing,” Terri comments, getting to her feet. “We’re one team, remember? Will I bring you anything back from the canteen?”

  “Thank you.” Erin smiles. “A ham sandwich and a coffee would be good.” Then with a grimace, she adds, “Oh, and try not to throttle Tony if you bump into him over lunch. I promise I’ll deal with him when the time is right.”

  . . . . . . . .

  With no call or approval forthcoming from the chief super or the CPS by 3 pm, Erin recalls her subordinates to the office to brainstorm ideas and next steps for taking their investigation forward. Typically, when her phone does finally ring at just after five, Terri and Tony Bolton are once again noisily bickering over whose ideas have the greater chance of delivering tangible results.

  Waving to get their attention, Erin loudly tells them both to pipe down. “It’s the boss. This could be it.”

  As eager as Erin is to find out if they have the green light, both instantly settle down and listen quietly as she takes the call.

  “Yes, sir, that’s understood. Yes, that is good news. Thank you. And the other matter? Yes, sir, that’s right. The journalists.”

  Erin nods intently and then says, “Yes, that’s understood. I’ll do it myself. Thank you, sir. I appreciate your support. Yes, sir, I will. Thank you again.”

  Ending the call, she silently ponders for a few seconds over what she has just been told, forcing Terri to lose patience and ask, “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, boss. What did he say? Are we good to go?”

  Unable to suppress her grin any longer, Erin nods. “The CPS have given us formal approval to charge John Murray for the murder of Shreya Singh—”

  Banging the desk in triumph, Tony tries to say something, but is cut off by a dismissive wave of Erin’s hand. “And… for the murder of Shelley Wilton.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me?” Terri exclaims.

  “It’s true,” Erin responds. “The acid jars under Murray’s bed were enough to swing things in our favor.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said, Terri. But the CPS are satisfied that the evidence presented meets or exceeds the required threshold to formally charge him, and that’s all that matters.”

  Half the battle in a murder case is getting the Crown Prosecution Service aligned with the credibility of your evidence. And although they are still a long way from the finish line, Erin knows that the CPS decision today means it is at least now in sight.

  With this in mind, Erin justifiably allows herself and the team a moment of self-congratulation.

  “This is a stellar result, guys, but we need to go hell for leather now to get more evidence if either of these charges are going to stick. Mark my words, though. We’re halfway home.”

  Smiling, Terri asks, “When are you going to give young Mr. Quinlan the good news?”

  “I’m not. That particular pleasure is all yours. Once you’ve finished formally charging Murray, I’d like you and Tony to personally escort him to Thorn Cross prison, where he will be held on remand. The governor there is expecting him.”

  “You’re going to make a statement to the press then?” Terri asks.

  “That’s the plan. The PR team are working on the statement and the Q&As for me now.” Then with a hopeful smile, she adds, “With any luck, the headlines tomorrow morning should be a little more positive than the last lot.”

  Chuckling quietly, Tony says, “Let’s face it, boss. They could hardly be any worse, could they?”

  Noting Terri’s stunned expression, Tony raises a hand in wonderment. “What? I’m just saying. Those last headlines were about as bad as they could get. Of course, they are going to be better tomorrow.”

  “Yes, they will be,” Terri says. “A bit of sensitivity wouldn’t go amiss, though, DS Bol—”

  “It’s okay, Terri. It’s fine,” Erin says. “I’ve got thick skin and I’m sure there was no offense meant anyway, was there, Tony?”

  “No, ma’am. None at all. It was just an observation.”

  “An observation delivered in your usual tactful style,” Terri snipes.

  “Of course,” Tony smirks. “I’m the king of tact and diplomacy. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Yes, well, why don’t you go and use some of that tact and diplomacy on Murray and Quinlan?” Erin suggests. “And maybe add a dollop of your boyish charm while you’re at it. I don’t think our guests are going to be particularly happy when you deliver the bad news.”

  Nodding to Terri, she says, “Go on. Go with him. I need to get ready to meet our friends in the press. Message or call me when you’re done.”

  . . . . . . . .

  Ignoring the impatient young press officer hovering to her side and with no intention of being rushed, Erin slowly and systematically reads through the carefully prepared statement on the counter for a third time.

  Finally satisfied that all is in order, she turns towards the young woman and offers a less than convincing smile. “Okay, ready when you are, Gillian. How do I look?”

  “You look good, ma’am. But try not to look so worried. You’re an old hand at this and you’re delivering good news today. Just stick to the script and you’ll be fine. For anything else, you have the Q&As and you have me. I’ll be right there next to you.”

  “Okay, let’s do this,” Erin says, taking a breath.

  . . . . . . . .

  If she was surprised by the size
of the press pack besieging the station in the morning, Erin’s surprise is now amplified tenfold. Word of Murray’s arrest has spread like wildfire, and it seems to her that every crime correspondent within a hundred-mile radius has now descended on this particular patch of Merseyside in search of the scoop.

  With the information-hungry mob held back from the station entrance and microphone stand by nothing more than a flimsy line of barriers and half a dozen police officers, Erin mentally notes the striking contrast between this and the carefully orchestrated and controlled press conference held just a few days previously.

  As word spreads amongst the crowd of her arrival, the volume and pace of questioning quickly reaches fever pitch, forcing Erin to raise her hands in an appeal for calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could ask you all to please settle down. There will be time for a few questions afterwards, but for now, I have a prepared statement that I would like to read.”

  Patiently waiting for the noise to abate, she uses the time to scan the crowd in search of a familiar face. Surprisingly, Erin spots her target discretely tucked away in the middle of the journalistic scrum off to her right-hand side instead of in his expected prime position to her front.

  Their eyes briefly meet, and with a wry smile, Edgar Balmain nods a subtle acknowledgment. Blushing slightly, but straight-faced, Erin turns back toward the now silently expectant crowd and clears her throat. “Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, on behalf of Merseyside constabulary, I can confirm that an operation was carried out yesterday in coordination with our colleagues in the Greater Manchester Police.

  “During that operation, a suspect living in the Manchester area was arrested in connection with the murders of Shelley Anne Wilton on or around the 30th of December 2018, and of Shreya Maira Singh on or around the 17th of March 2019. I can further confirm that after an interview and an extensive high-level review of forensic and other evidence, that same suspect was formally charged with the murder of both women approximately thirty minutes ago and is now awaiting transportation to HM Prison Thorn Cross, where he will be held on remand pending further enquiries.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that is all the information I’m permitted to share for now, but I will be happy to take any—”

  Predictably, the rest of her words are lost as the reporters in the mob frantically jostle for position with their microphones and recorders.

  “What about a name, Chief Inspector?”

  “Was the suspect known to you?”

  “Who is it? Give us a name?”

  Prepared for these questions, and fully intending to provide the answers, Erin raises a hand for quiet. Before she can respond, however, a voice much louder than the others shouts, “Chief Inspector Blake. Can you confirm that the suspect is Mr. John Murray from Cheetham Hill in Manchester?”

  Turning to her right, Erin is surprised to see that the question didn’t come from Edgar Balmain. It did, however, come from a polished young man standing next to him.

  A budding protégé perhaps, but almost certainly primed by the man himself. Loudly repeating the question, the young man also now holds up an image of Murray, which Erin instantly recognizes as one of his mugshots from an earlier arrest. “This is a picture of John ‘Johnny’ Murray, Chief Inspector. Can you confirm that this is the man currently being held on suspicion of multiple murders?”

  Caught slightly off guard, Erin turns to Gillian for confirmation. A barely noticeable nod is approval enough to prompt Erin to respond. Straightening herself up and taking a deep breath, she confirms that Murray is the man in custody. “That’s correct, and in answer to an earlier question, Mr. Murray was previously known to the police in Greater Manchester.”

  “For what?” someone screams. “Has he killed before?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at this time.”

  “What about the evidence then?” another voice shouts. “Tell us what evidence you have.”

  Rightly ignoring the request, Erin instead listens for something that she can respond to.

  “How can you be sure that you have the right man?”

  This question comes from a dark-haired young woman pressed hard up against the barrier. Catching Erin’s eye, she extends her arm further so that her microphone is now just a foot away from Erin’s face. “Do you have solid forensics linking Murray to both of these murders?”

  “Yes, we do, and we’re confident that more evidence will be forthcom—”

  Her response is rudely and loudly interrupted by a familiar voice away to her right. “What about Darren Pope? What evidence do you have to connect John Murray to the murder of that young man? You did look into that, didn’t you?”

  Like the cat that got the cream, Balmain can’t help but smirk at Erin’s embarrassment. Justified or not, something about his delivery leaves her lost for words. Sensing a problem, Gillian steps forward and calls a halt to the impromptu press call.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That will be all for today. If you do have any further questions, please direct them to the Merseyside Police press office. I’m sure you all have the number and email address, but if you don’t, you can easily find them on our website.”

  Dismissing the frenzied pleas for more information, she hastily ushers a fuming Erin back inside the station, where they are met by Terri and Tony Bolton.

  Hardly able to contain herself, Erin is quick to unleash her anger. “What is it about that guy that gets me so fucking worked up? And why does he feel the need to humiliate or belittle me? For Christ’s sake, this was meant to be about delivering a positive message.”

  “And it was,” Terri offers. “Ignore that bloody idiot. It’s small-man syndrome, nothing more. It’s the only way guys like that can get their—”

  “And where did he get his information from again?” Erin snaps. “Did you see the mugshot that kid next to him was holding?”

  “Yes, I did,” Terri affirms with a nod.

  “Yeah, well. I’m sure that’s the one from his robbery arrest in Manchester,” Erin snipes accusingly at Terri.

  “Whoa, don’t even go there,” Terri snarls. “That picture and name didn’t come from me.”

  Uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going, Gillian moves slightly away from the three officers. “I should probably be getting home.”

  “Yes, you should,” Erin angrily grunts.

  Neglecting to offer any thanks to Gillian for her help in arranging the press call or for the swift rescue, Erin, instead, turns back to Terri. “I’m not saying it was from you, but it had to come from someone connected to this case. And when I find out who it is, I’ll have their bloody head on a plate.”

  Catching the tail end of his sideways smirk, Erin is quick to bring Tony back down to earth with an almighty crash. “And that goes for you as well, DC Bolton. You’re already skating on thin ice, and don’t you bloody forget it. One more screw-up or insolent word from you and you’re off this team. Comprende?”

  With both colleagues stunned to silence and her point made, Erin calms down, softens her tone and asks if everything is in place for Murray’s transfer.

  “He’s being processed out now,” Terri confirms. “Another ten minutes and we should be good to go.”

  “That’s great. Once you’ve delivered the package, get yourself home and get an early night. This is where the real work begins, and from hereon in, I need you both on top form working as one team. Is that clear?”

  Both officers nod, and Erin wishes them luck. She then turns to leave and laughs quietly to herself. “You’re going to need it to get through that bloody crowd out there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday 29th March 2019

  It has been a week since Murray’s arrest and transfer to prison, and Erin’s patience is wearing decidedly thin at the lack of any significant progress in her investigation.

  The damning headlines in the evening papers only serve to amplify that frustration, and as luck wou
ld have it, the late arrival of a junior officer to her end-of-week briefing is enough of a spark to ignite the already slowly smoldering powder keg.

  Although she’s only a few seconds into her introduction, Erin angrily dismisses his apology and bluntly warns him not to sit down. “Don’t you dare, DC Marsh. You clearly don’t view this investigation as your priority and you therefore don’t deserve a seat amongst this team.”

  Waving a copy of the Liverpool Evening Echo in his face, Erin prods the front page and sarcastically adds, “And why would you when we are making such amazing progress? Have you seen this, DC Marsh?”

  Thoroughly humiliated and visibly trembling, Marsh nods before mumbling a barely audible, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Erin mocks. “Of course you’ve seen it.”

  Then to the rest of the team, she accuses, “You’ve all bloody seen it, haven’t you? But, DC Marsh, in case anyone hasn’t, why don’t you read the headline for them?”

  Thrusting the newspaper in his chest, she orders, “Go on then – for the group, please.”

  With shaking hands, the young detective straightens the newspaper and nervously starts to read, “Um, Murder Investigation Stall—”

  “We can’t hear you,” Erin interrupts sarcastically. “You need to speak up, please, DC Marsh.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marsh mumbles. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he looks back down to the headline and reads aloud, “Murder Investigation Stalled. Have the Police Got the Right Man?”

  Snatching back the newspaper, Erin barks at him to sit down. “Don’t ever be late for one of my briefings again. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry again, ma’am.”

  Relieved to be finally out of the spotlight, Marsh quietly skulks away and takes a seat at the back of the room.

  For her part, Erin paces the floor, surveying the faces of her team in moody silence before she stops and points again to the newspaper headline.