by J. E. Mayhew
“So, what do we have?” he said. “Any more on this ‘Big Bro’ character from Rebecca’s phone?”
Manikas raised his notebook. “The landlady of the Compass knew Rebecca quite well, even though she was underage. Remembers her meeting a man much older than her on a couple of occasions. One we pinned down to around September 12th which would tally with the text Kinnear found. Described Big Bro as tall, over six foot was the best she could say, dark hair, thinning on top. He wore a dark jacket, green maybe, though, to be fair, how anyone sees anything in that dingy pub, beats me. He also wore red jeans, white shirt. She said he had a posh accent. They used to meet, have a swift drink and then go off somewhere else. She didn’t know where.”
“Okay,” Blake said. “Anything about their demeanour?”
“The landlady said Rebecca always seemed really pleased to see him. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, that kind of thing. She wondered if he was some kind of sugar daddy.”
Blake gave a faint smile. “Haven’t heard that phrase used for a while.”
“She said she tried to find out who he was but Rebecca wasn’t giving anything away,” Vikki said.
“Kinnear?” Blake turned to the Constable sat at his desk.
“Rebecca met with Big Bro nine times since April. The texts are deliberately vague, ‘great afternoon, yesterday, thanks,’ or ‘I’ll meet you at 2pm,’ that kind of thing. It’s as if they’ve agreed to keep any written evidence of who they are a secret, which is curious. The meetings are clustered. So there will be three meetings in a week and then nothing for a month or more. It suggests that Big Bro wasn’t in the area.”
“They might have had other means of contact, social media maybe,” Vikki said, glancing over to Cryer.
Cryer gave a grimace but kept her eyes on Blake. “Still working on that one, I’m afraid, Guv.”
“She may have used social media to talk to Big Bro but I don’t think so,” Kinnear conceded, picking up Rebecca’s phone. “It’s a set pattern of calls and no small talk. The last text from Big Bro is interesting: ‘Meet soon. Complications.’ That was October 21st. Two days before Rebecca was killed. She didn’t respond to it but it looks like they were going to meet up.”
“But we can’t be sure that they did,” Blake muttered. “So we have a man who is ‘posh’ whatever that means, who has interests elsewhere, possibly but claims to be related to Rebecca. Was he grooming her?”
“Sexually, sir?” Cryer cut in. “You wouldn’t claim to be her brother if that was your game, surely. Not unless you were really sick.”
Manikas raised his bushy eyebrows. “Unless it’s true and he really is her long-lost brother. It’s not impossible.”
“True,” Blake said, straightening up and wincing slightly. “You and Cryer have a word with Stafford when he’s ready. I’m going to have another word with Rebecca’s mum and dad. Vikki, you can come. Kinnear can you alert Tasha Cook, the Family Liaison Officer that we’re on our way?
◆◆◆
For a brief second, Blake wondered whether Mr and Mrs Thompson had moved since he’d last seen them. They still sat in the middle of the sofa, clinging onto each other. Mr Thompson had the beginnings of a scrappy beard and his wife seemed to have aged ten years in the last few days.
“These are really delicate questions I’m going to ask you but I do need to,” Blake said, clasping his hands together. “We’ve evidence that Rebecca was using cannabis quite a lot. Were you aware of that?”
Mr Thompson blinked at Blake as if he’d just slapped him across the cheek. “No,” Thompson said. “Rebecca wouldn’t do that. She was too smart to do drugs. Who told you that? It’s a lie.”
Blake raised his hands. “I’m sorry if these are upsetting questions, Mr Thompson. I take no pleasure in asking them, believe me,” he said. “We haven’t had the toxicology reports back but she had the number of a local drug dealer and seemed to make a lot of calls to him. Plus a number of witnesses have said that she smoked cannabis quite heavily.” Blake looked to Mrs Thompson.
“I knew,” she said in a soft voice. “I tried to talk to her about it but she went off the deep end whenever I did. So I just… kind of… ignored it…” a tear trickled down her cheek.
“You knew?” Mr Thompson said, staring at his wife, as if seeing her for the first time. He broke away from her. “You ignored it?”
“Mr Thompson…” Blake began, trying to face down an argument between them that would slow things down. They could fight all they wanted once he’d left but right now, he needed their full attention.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mr Thompson said, ignoring Blake.
His wife scowled at him. “And what would you have done? ‘Grounded’ her? She would have gone out anyway. You’d have gone wading in and driven her even further away from us.”
“There were problems between you and Rebecca?” Blake said, trying to regain control of the conversation.
Mrs Thompson nodded. “Yes. She was a free spirit, was Becky. There was a wildness about her… It was in her blood.”
“Spoilt by you…” her husband muttered.
“We were always so busy. Too busy. We never gave her the time and so she found her own way,” Julie Thompson sighed.
Mr Thompson gave an exasperated hiss. “Let’s be honest. She was off the rails. Trouble at school. Trouble with Rory and Gavin. Rebecca seemed to be at war with everyone. Whenever we tried to talk some sense into her, she’d say that we weren’t her real family. That we didn’t have the right to tell her what to do. I don’t know where she got these notions from. She needed some kind of counselling or something.” Mrs Thompson said nothing but stared at the carpet, crushing a wad of soggy tissues in her fist.
“Rebecca did have phone contact with somebody she called Big Bro. Is it possible somebody could have been feeding her these ideas?”
“Why would anyone want to do that?” Ken Thompson said.
Blake shrugged. “To manipulate her? I don’t know. Mrs Thompson have you any thoughts?”
She shook her head but continued to stare at the carpet.
Blake paused and something clicked into place. “Mrs Thompson. Do you know anybody currently at the Saint Joseph’s Hospice, by any chance? Someone ill?”
“What are you talking about, Blake?” Mr Thompson cut in.
Blake ignored him. “Julie, did you send a card recently?” he said, gently. “Just signed ‘J’?”
Julie Thompson snapped her head up and stared at Blake. “I want to speak to my husband. Alone.”
CHAPTER 26
"Why do you keep asking about Becky Thompson?” Eric Stafford whined, burying his head in his hands. “I’ve admitted we’ve got a cannabis farm in the loft space at home. Can’t you just put me on bail or something?”
DI Kath Cryer leaned forward over the desk. “We’re asking because you supplied Rebecca Thompson with cannabis and now she’s dead. You work in the woods where her body was found. Can you answer the question, Eric? Where were you around 6:30 pm on Wednesday the 9th of this month?”
Stafford glanced over at his brief who looked back at him as if to say, ‘I’ve told you not to say anything but you’re going to anyway, aren’t you?’
“I knocked off around 5pm,” Stafford said. “Picked up some weed and took it to the Compass. I was there until about 8:30.”
“Witnesses?” Cryer snapped.
“Kerry, the Landlady’ll vouch for me. And I sold some stuff to Adam Sampson, too. He dropped me in the shit. May as well return the favour.”
Manikas frowned. “How long have you been running that farm?”
“About ten years, I reckon,” Stafford said. “Grandad’s lump sum was running out and he didn’t have any pension.”
“You see,” Manikas said. “A decent set-up like yours, shifting decent cash, it always attracts attention. I’ve known smaller cannabis farms get rolled by other growers to keep the competition down. Yet you keep on going. How come?”
Stafford glance
d away. “Dunno. Lucky, I guess.”
“Or is it because of your grandad’s connections?” Cryer cut in.
“Haven’t a clue what you’re going on about,” Stafford said.
“You DO know what your grandad went to prison for, right?” Manikas said. “He killed a girl. Strangled her. Doesn’t that bother you? Your grandad a murderer?”
Stafford’s cheeks blazed. “You don’t say that about him. He was framed.”
“Really? Who by?” Cryer said.
Manikas lowered his voice. “You see, we heard that he took the blame for the murder for a big payoff. That’s how he got the house. Has he got connections, Eric? Is he protected? Is that why your business has never been rumbled by anyone else?”
“No,” Stafford said. “Look. I admitted growing cannabis and selling it. Why don’t you just charge me?”
“We will, Eric, we will,” Cryer said, smiling sweetly at him. “So, going back to Rebecca Thompson. When did you last see her?”
“I don’t know,” Stafford said, throwing his hands up. “A week ago, maybe?”
“Did she usually come alone to buy the drugs from you?”
Stafford frowned, thinking back. “Yeah. No, wait. There was one time when she rolled up in this fancy car. I couldn’t see who was in it but she wasn’t driving.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Range Rover. Dark colour it was, green or blue. Hard to tell. It was night time. I don’t know where she got the cash from but she spent a lot of money. I remember that car because I wondered if she was giving blowjobs for cash or something and whoever was in the car was a client.” A brief grin spread across his face and then it crumbled into a look of confused disgust. “Thought she might do me a favour… God, she’s dead…”
“Nice,” Cryer said, icily.
“This car, do you remember anything else about it?” Manikas said. “A registration or anything?”
Stafford picked at his fingernails and then looked up. “Yeah. I did actually. It was one of them personalised ones. Hard to forget.”
◆◆◆
The Thompsons had only been in the room a matter of ten minutes before Ken Thompson came staggering from the living room, blinded by tears.
He dragged his hand over his eyes. “You happy now, Blake? Now you’ve got to the bottom of everything?” he said and dragged open the front door, staggering off towards his car.
Blake, Vikki and Tasha Cook, the FLO, had been waiting in the hallway, listening to the increasingly agitated voices in the living room. He nodded in the direction of Ken Thompson. “Chinn, can you follow him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid?”
Vikki nodded and hurried after the stricken man. “Did you know?” Cook said, her arms folded. Clearly, she wasn’t very happy with the way this had been handled.
Blake shook his head. “More of a hunch. I saw a card next to Victor Hunt’s bed in the hospice and when Gerald Rees had said that Rebecca reminded him of Drucilla Hunt, I began to wonder if there was a connection."
"Next you have a 'hunch,' sir," Tasha Cook said in a low voice, "can you share it with me before you go charging in? I can find out with maybe a little more finesse. "
"Fair comment, Tasha. I'm sorry. Shall we go in?”
Julie sat in the same position that they’d left her, a tissue pressed to her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought he ought to know before I said anything to you. At least I owe him that.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Blake said.
“Or maybe you’ve had enough for one day and we can come back tomorrow,” Cook said, giving Blake a sidelong glance. “You’ve been through a lot, Julie.”
Julie Thompson shook her head. “No,” she said. “If you think it’ll help find out what happened, then you need to know the truth.”
Blake settled on the armchair, leaning towards her, feeling anything but comfortable. “So, Ken isn’t Rebecca’s biological father?”
“No,” Julie said. “Eighteen years ago, Ken was setting up the business. It was early days for the internet and many small businesses hadn’t really cottoned on to its power for selling and advertising. Ken was struggling to make his business work. He’d made a few bob over the Millenium bug scare but that ran out soon enough. So it was up to me to make some money. I took three jobs. Bar work in the evenings, a soulless telesales post in an office in Speke and I cleaned for Victor Hunt.”
Blake stayed quiet, gently noting down salient points.
Julie Thompson sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Ken was focused on getting the business up and running. Too busy meeting people, playing golf with investors and schmoozing to realise I was depressed. I was carrying the burden while he went off on his great adventure. So I was flattered when Victor Hunt paid me a compliment.”
“That’s only natural, Julie,” Tasha Cook said.
“He was thirty years older than me. A man in his sixties but he was still good-looking in a rugged, well-kept sort of a way. And he was wealthy. Influential. I’d dusted around his office enough times to notice papers and letterheads that showed he had fingers in a lot of pies round here. I wasn’t so naïve as to think a fling would last forever but I knew I could swing things in Ken’s favour if I played nice with Victor Hunt.”
“And it worked?” Blake said.
Julie smiled. “Yes. I had the most wonderful few months being pampered by Victor at the big house. I felt like a teenager again and Ken was so happy because suddenly, there was a rush of interest in his services. I remember him saying that it was like a tap had been turned on.” Her smile faded. He told me off about how negative I’d been about all those lunches and meetings on the golf course and look how it had paid dividends. I could hardly put him straight, could I?”
She fell silent for a moment, staring into the past.
“But then you fell pregnant,” Blake said, quietly.
“Yes. I knew Victor would lose interest but, you see, Ken and I had been trying for kids for so long with no success. I assumed the problem was with me. The business became Ken’s child, his labour of love. And I had a baby of my own.” She paused again and smiled, her eyes twinkling with tears. “I stopped my jobs and helped Ken run the business whilst bringing up Rebecca. I thought I was so clever. That I’d got it all; child, husband, business.” She lowered her head. Deflating in the chair as if telling the story had taken every last bit of energy.
Tasha Cook slipped next to her on the sofa and put an arm round her shoulder.
Blake’s mobile rang, jarring the silence and making him grit his teeth. “Sir?” Manikas said in an excited voice. “Stafford gave us a positive ID on a registration plate for Big Bro. It’s a green range Rover HNT34. Big Bro is…”
“Marcus Hunt,” Blake said, wearily.
No sooner had he ended one call than another came in. “It’s Vikki. It looks like Ken Thompson is heading into the Hospice. I think you should get over here right away.”
CHAPTER 27
Ken Thompson stood in the middle of Bluebell Ward, holding Victor Hunt by the scruff of his pyjama collar. In his other hand he held an ice pick, presumably left in the boot of his car after one of his outdoor winter adventures. Blake pushed past the uniformed officers and stood next to Chinn. Victor Hunt hung half out of bed, suspended by his pyjama jacket. He looked terrible; grey, his eyes closed tight and a line of saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth.
“I couldn’t stop him, sir,” Vikki Chinn said. “By the time I’d caught up with him, he’d already got the pick out of his car and run in.”
“You did what you could, Vikki" Blake said.
Ken Thompson glared at them. “It’s always the Hunts of this world, isn’t it, Blake? They take what they want without thinking of anyone else. While we’re all working hard, they sit back laughing at us.”
“Mr Thompson,” Blake said. “Ken. Listen to me. You’re not going to accomplish anything by this.”
“Have you got a daughter, Blake?”
Blake paused, then nodded. “I did have.”
“You did have?” Thompson said, blinking at him, trying to understand his reply.
“She passed away, Ken. Some time ago.”
For a brief second, the anger faded from Thompson’s eyes as he struggled with what Blake had just said. Then the rage returned. “Well, I never had one. How would you feel if you suddenly discovered you weren’t the father? My whole life is a lie. That’s what I’m faced with.” He tugged hard at Hunt's pyjama jacket, making the old man groan. “All because this reptile fancied my wife and used his power and influence to dazzle her…”
“So what are you going to do?” Blake said. “Kill him? He’s got weeks left at most; you’d spend the rest of your life in prison for murder. And how are you going to kill him? With that?” he nodded at the ice pick. “I saw a victim who had been killed with a sharp spike, once. You couldn’t imagine the blood. It requires frenzied, repeated blows. It takes a certain type of person to kill someone with a pick like that. You aren’t one of those people, Ken.”
Ken raised the pick. “Aren’t I?”
“No,” Blake said, stepping forward. “Look at him. Whatever you think of his past actions, he’s a frail old man, now. Are you going to trade your business, your home, your life for a moment of blood and madness?”
Ken Thompson lowered the pick. “I was a father,” he said, tears coursing down his cheeks. “A dad…”
“You’ll always be those things, Ken. Always,” Blake said, inching forward. “All those sleepless nights when Rebecca was a baby, nobody else was there just you and Julie, all those happy moments still happened. You were there when it really mattered. You were Becky’s real dad and you always will be.”
The ice pick made a loud clunk on the tiled floor as the energy drained from Ken Thompson. He loosened his grip on Hunt and looked at him vacantly. Then, without thinking, he lifted the old man up, plonked him in the centre of the bed and pulled the covers up to his chest. He scrubbed at his eyes and looked over to Blake.