I Know You (DI Emma Locke)

by Louise Mullins

  DI LOCKE

  Newport, Wales

  Gareth Delaney lives in a three-storey Victorian terrace in St Julian’s, less than three miles from Sinead’s house, and not far from the stagnant high water of the river Usk. I inhale in short bursts the foul-smelling air emitted from a drain in the backstreet as I reach Gareth’s smart looking house. It’s red-bricked with a cream painted façade, a newly tiled path, the tiny ten square foot lawn well-groomed.

  He answers the door looking dishevelled, yawning. ‘Rare day off. How can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Delaney?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Locke.’ I flash him my ID card. ‘I’d like to speak to you concerning an incident that I’m currently investigating. Can I come in?’

  Once I’ve been invited inside and have ascertained there are no women or children present – his daughter from a previous relationship still lives with her mother, he has just split up with his long-term partner – I explain why I’m there. He looks amused, then shocked when I insinuate involvement of a certain male ex-fling in the commission of the offence I’m here to discuss.

  ‘Conspiring through incitement, assistance, or encouragement, intending the death of Sinead—’

  ‘Sinead? I haven’t… I mean not that I don’t think about her, wonder how she is, but we haven’t spoken in so long I assumed she’d all but forgotten about me. Or at least left that part of her life behind. She’s blaming me?’

  ‘No, Mr Delaney. Mrs Griffith—’

  ‘Mrs? She’s still married?’

  ‘Yes,’ I accentuate the ‘s’.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just thought she was unhappy in her marriage. Only we, you know…’

  ‘Had an affair.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like… Well, I suppose it… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Griffith. So that’s her surname?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense. Why I couldn’t find her number when I… Oh I wasn’t, you know, going out of my way to look for her or anything. I was just curious. She never told me what her surname was. I only knew her by her first name. She went by Shinzo-belle on Facebook.’

  He’s not at all as I expected. He comes across as quietly observant, shy, an introvert. And I’m having a hard time picturing the two of them together. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t work out. She’s confident, loud, expressive, a typical extrovert. And he’s thoughtful, sincere, and dare I say it – although I try not to judge a person by the way they appear but instead by the way they demonstrate the things they don’t want you to see – genuinely nice.

  He confirms Sinead’s version of how their affair began, what the time they spent together entailed, how they felt towards each other, and how it ended, telling me nothing I haven’t already heard.

  ‘As you’ve admitted “looking her up” after “the spark blew out,” I’m wondering how the breakdown of your relationship affected you.’

  ‘I didn’t harass her if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘You didn’t follow her?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You didn’t conduct a business arrangement with her husband’s company?’

  ‘What firm? What are you talking about?’

  ‘A. G. Building Services.’

  A flicker of recognition crosses over his face. ‘The Market Hall contract. Whitechapel Properties. They were constructing the apartments next door. Aeron Griffith, that’s her husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had no idea. Like I said we didn’t swap surnames, although she knew mine from the signage printed on the door to the office shopfront on Carleon Road. You see, she mentioned once, in a passing comment, that she used her maiden name because she didn’t want anyone to associate her with her family.’

  What an odd thing to say. ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘I assumed she wanted our relationship to remain covert.’

  ‘You think she struggled to separate yours from her relationship with her husband, her children?’

  He shrugs. The room falls silent.

  ‘I thought they were in trouble. Perhaps her husband annoyed someone. I even considered the possibility they were in hiding or part of a police protection program or something.’ He snickers nervously.

  ‘Could you explain to me what gave you that idea?’

  ‘They moved here from London. Croydon, I think. Though she had a well-paid job over there. So did her husband by all accounts. I just thought it odd they’d upped and left to come here. I mean I’m a Welshman. I love my home city. But London is so vast, so full of opportunities. Although I imagine it is expensive to live in the capital, at least you can blend in there. Everyone knows everyone’s business round here.’

  ‘What was it that she did in Croydon?’

  ‘She was a detective. She worked for the Met.’

  It takes me a while to think of a reply. None of our background checks threw that up. But then the light searches we conducted were based on her being a victim not an offender. She has no criminal record. She only appeared on the electoral roll three years ago and when she did, she opted out of the open voting register so not even her name can be accessed by the general public. She has a code-protected credit record on Equifax, which means without evidence she’s committed fraud, I can’t get a warrant to access her personal details. And HMRC pay her child tax credit to her using her current name and address.

  ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ He looks at me with astonishment. But like Sinead, I can keep a poker face.

  ‘Something happened to her there. She filed a complaint to the commissioner. There was an internal investigation conducted by the Independent Office for Police Conduct by all accounts.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘Yes, though she didn’t expand on it. I presume it was something bad that led her to up sticks and move over one hundred and fifty miles away.’

  ‘This incident, any idea what it was?’

  ‘No, sorry. Though I know she left the police force sometime in 2015 because she bought a house here three years ago.’ He gives me an inquisitive look then adds, ‘I suppose you’ll know who to contact, won’t you, to find out what happened to her there?’

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘You’re studious in conducting a framework to base your assumptions on,’ he says, with the hint of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Delaney.’ I lower my voice to intimidate him, but it doesn’t have the desired effect.

  ‘It seems to me, Inspector Locke, the only one doing that is Sinead.’

  ‘I’ll see myself out.’ I don’t trust myself not to agree aloud.

  *

  While I’ve managed to have confirmed Gareth’s movements on the day of the vehicle incident with his personal assistant and two of his employees, eliminating him from our enquiries for now, I’ve discovered some compelling information concerning our victim.

  ‘What happened to Detective Sergeant Sinead Nicholls?’ says Jones, leaning over my desk to peer at my computer screen.

  ‘She was fired.’

  ‘She was the one under investigation?’

  ‘It appears she made a complaint against her partner, DC Pierce, regarding his behaviour during a case they were working on together. Two days after Pierce was temporarily suspended from duty, DI Rawlings discovered by sight a class B substance in her handbag, inside her locker at the police station.’

  ‘That smacks of a set-up to me.’

  ‘Yes, but proving it is not our job. What concerns me is what she accused Pierce of.’

  ‘Possession of cannabis,’ he says, reading from the report that DI Rawlings sent me five minutes ago.

  ‘His superior is going to have a lot of explaining to do when we get hold of him.’

  ‘You’ll be waiting a long time. DCI Evesham died of smoke inhalation in a house fire three years ago. His death is still under investigation because the fire service registered it as arso
n. CSI examinations never led to a shred of forensic evidence, nor a profile of the potential offender(s). Although it was suggested to have been a revenge plot by an individual one of Evesham’s lower-downs was involved in arresting.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ says Jones.

  I turn in my chair to face him and note the wheels turning in his head just as they had done mine. ‘I don’t like jumping to conclusions, but this is all linked. It’s got to be. The car incident, the dog faeces through the letterbox, her old partner’s shady dealings with drugs, their superior dying inside his house after it was set alight.’

  ‘It could be… but—’

  ‘And get this. The case Sinead was working on at the time all this happened began with the murder of Tyrell Campbell, an eighteen-year-old male who was selling weed to teenagers from his neighbourhood in a playground situated close to where he lived with his mother Carmen and sister Natalie. Natalie was shot dead in a drive-by three days ago. Natalie’s friend Steven was stabbed to death thirteen and a half weeks ago. Steven’s father, Dejuan, is currently serving time in a Jamaican prison for armed robbery but has priors for possession of class As. Dejuan’s friend Keenan was fired from his job serving in the fast food restaurant that’s located right next to the scene of the crime. Keenan gave Detective Sergeant Maguire a description of the vehicle that sped away from the scene that matches the car used by the unknown male, according to several witnesses, to gun down Natalie. And Keenan disappeared just two hours after the incident.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Tyrell was thought to have been affiliated with a gang, and Natalie’s younger brother, Jerome, and their friends Leighton and Marcus, are also thought to be members of a g—’

  ‘The car they’re looking for in relation to both Steven and Natalie’s murders is a black Volkswagen Golf bearing an almost identical number plate to the metallic-blue BMW we’re seeking for Sinead’s hit and run,’ he says staring at the screen of my computer. ‘That’s our link right there.’

  ‘As you well know assumption is the ultimate fuck-job, Jones. But on this occasion, I’m inclined to agree with you. Maguire and her team haven’t located the Golf. And although the vehicles don’t match, the number plate registered to the Golf could be the same one involved in both crimes because the first three digits match those on the BMW that hit Sinead’s car.’

  ‘Are you suggesting whoever’s committed these crimes has fit the same number plate to several cars?’ says Jones.

  ‘I think it’s a possibility.’

  His eyes skirt left then right but he doesn’t reply.

  ‘And let’s not forget either that Tyrell’s killer has never been found. Though Evesham’s sad demise could be an unfortunate coincidence, we can’t dismiss the possibility that Tyrell, Steven, and Natalie’s murders are related to the hit and run and the physical attack on Sinead.’

  I can’t deny the fact that we and Maguire are not only searching an identical registration, but we’re also looking for a blond male.

  ‘Okay, but let’s say, hypothetically, we’re investigating two separate crimes involving similar markers. Sinead works for a cleaning company employed by Whitechapel Properties, the estate agents where she met Gareth. He recently worked with her husband, Aeron during reconstruction of the Market Hall building.’

  ‘Jones, we’re going around in circles.’

  ‘I’m just trying to gain some perspective.’ I allow him to continue. ‘She kept the affair from her husband but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t worked it out for himself. If her previous job in law has nothing to do with her current circumstances my money is on him.’

  ‘You think Aeron borrowed the money from Terry the Loan Shark to pay someone to run Sinead’s car off the road, that he deliberately missed a payment knowing the man would rough her up?’

  ‘People have done a lot worse to cheating spouses.’

  It could almost be the perfect crime. Husband discovers wife’s affair, but instead of paying a hitman to kill her, he creates a scenario in which someone else becomes furious enough to want to murder her, the man being unaware it was Aeron’s intention for the individual to do so.

  ‘Look, you pay Sinead a visit and get a list of her family and friends, build a character profile of her from a third-person perspective. We need an unbiased viewpoint. Both Aeron and Gareth have only positive things to say about her.’

  No one’s that perfect.

  ‘I’ll get on to the detective superintendent at the Met’s homicide division of CID and see if I can uncover anything else relating to Sinead during her time in Croydon that might prove valuable.’

  HONOUR

  Croydon, London

  The moment I step through the front door I know instantly someone has been inside the house. I wonder if it’s base instinct that alerts me to the fact. An evolutionary response built into me, to protect my environment. The air has been disturbed, my privacy invaded.

  The kitchen looks like a scene from a paranormal film. All the cupboards have been left open, the contents of the drawers strewn across the floor. Were they distracted? Had they bolted from the house in fear of getting caught? Or did they simply not care enough to clean up after themselves?

  I hurry through the house, checking the living room, bathroom, and I’m pleased to note that Steven’s bedroom door remains locked.

  My bedroom though is where I keep my most prized possessions: faded handwritten letters, photographs, the band that was wound around Steven’s tiny wrist after I’d given birth to him, and the first Christmas card he’d made in Playgroup and signed using a red crayon. I find the objects scattered across my double bed. I realise whoever entered my home was looking for something. The key to Steven’s bedroom? They couldn’t have known I’d slipped it beneath the door two weeks after his death, never intending to enter his room again. Nothing, as far as my eyes can see, unless I’m deceiving myself, has been stolen.

  I turn and run downstairs, snatching my handbag from where I’d left it on the counter, and dart away from my violated home to sit in the car staring at the building and willing DS Maguire to answer her phone quickly. ‘Someone has broken into and entered my house. I’m worried they might still be in there.’

  ‘Sit tight and stay safe. Uniform will be with you shortly. You should have dialled 999.’

  Staring up at the house, I realise how my home invader gained entry.

  Usually studious in keeping my home secure I had forgotten to close the bathroom window before vacating the house. Anyone with forearm muscles small enough to fit through the six-inch gap could easily gain access to the property by forcing the handle of the window upwards and climbing through after leaping onto the bay top.

  It takes the police officers three minutes and fifty- six seconds to arrive. They find me in the car, parked opposite the house. One of the officers takes my statement on his Motorola while the other searches the property for a hiding villain. No one is found.

  ‘You’re positive nothing is missing, Miss Bennet?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Could you go back inside and check whether anything has been left?’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  The tall gangly man doesn’t reply but I sense he has a justifiable reason to suggest the possibility.

  Once I’ve ascertained that all the individual has done is make a mess of my secret hoard my stomach twists into a tight knot of dread. ‘They were searching for something specific. They knew where I hide stuff that matters to me.’ My voice wobbles. ‘This is personal. Someone I know did this.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone with the knowledge of where your jewellery box is kept, and what kind of things you treasure within it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might break into your house and do this?’

  Someone short and slim who can climb up onto the bay window and slide through a tight gap between the rough brickwork and a pane of glass. ‘A kid
.’

  Someone who knows my house well, has spent a lot of time here. ‘Jerome Campbell.’

  It can’t have been anyone else.

  DS MAGUIRE

  Croydon, London

  The fingerprint analysis from the break-in at Honour’s house is going to take a few hours to complete. Rather than wait around the station typing up reports, filing paperwork, and sifting through the numerous other case logs that I’ve got mounting on my desk, I’ve decided to pay Marcus West, Dejuan’s secret son and Steven’s sixteen-year-old half-brother, a visit. Something I’d have been able to do if I hadn’t been thrown off-course by Natalie’s sad demise, which Benson and Hodges are concentrating on for the moment, having not had any luck so far in pin-pointing from where in the country Keenan exited. There’s the distinct possibility he didn’t leave, but no evidence to support that theory either. At least not until we know his exact movements following his return to the property to deposit his keys through the letterbox before vacating his mother’s just as hastily a couple of days later.

  Marcus lives with his mum – who is currently on a fourteen-hour long shift at the hospital where she works – and older half-sister Leoni in a two-bedroom apartment in Centrillion Point facing the park on Masons Avenue. Develop Croydon established a regeneration project, ploughing a lot of money into this part of town. Though once I am inside, it seems that for all the majesty of the area the Wests have neglected the interior of their property.

  I’m immediately accosted by Marcus who stands feet apart, back straight, and nose to the air. He looks irritated when his posture doesn’t arouse fear, which I’m sure he’s intent on inciting.

  Shoes are scattered about the hallway floor. Crumbs coat the corners of an overused coat stand where I assume the vacuum couldn’t reach around the piles of shoe boxes to raise them off the carpet swatches used to line the living room. And as I round a stack of mobile phone cases swathed in dazzling bling, I cause a tub of what appears to be white paint to topple over, drenching an empty drawstring knot bag with a stoned looking unicorn printed on it.