by Linda Coles
“Oh? That sounds ominous.”
“It is. It’s also a bit left field, not what we normally come across in cases involving a shooting. We’re more used to gang-related hits. I’ll tell you more when we know more. We’ve only an inkling to go on, nothing concrete, so the more you can add to that, the better.” Changing the subject slightly, she asked, “Any DNA or fingerprints from the shooter?”
“There’s plenty – it’s a hotel room, after all – but from the shooter I couldn’t say yet.” Faye looked at the bed cover and added, “God only knows what and whose will be on that.”
The thought rolled Amanda’s empty stomach. “I’d hate to be the one to work the bathroom plughole contents.”
Dr. Mitchell went on. “The tough bit will be eliminating those with legitimate reasons to have been in here in the recent past. The hotel has a transient clientele, as you’d expect. They could live anywhere and everywhere, but that’s over to you and yours. It seems the hotel’s cleaning team aren’t that thorough, given the amount we’ve recovered to work with so far. Let’s see whose fingerprints are on file, eh? A print is only good when it can be matched.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she thought. Mitchell was renowned for remarks like this.
“Any usable camera footage?” the doctor asked her.
“Yes, but not much use. Two figures, presumably male from their stature, were seen leaving the back exit and headed off down the street on foot, not in any hurry. Dressed in what look like jeans and hoodies pulled up tight, but it was a cold, damp night. Could be coincidence, since it was around the right time, or they could have been visiting someone. Either way, they went down a side street. Jack and a couple of uniforms are talking to the neighbours down there, but it was the dead of night. Most of them were probably in bed. So we’re hoping you have better luck finding something for us to work with.”
“No pressure, then?” Dr. Mitchell smiled wryly. “And how’s our man Duncan?”
“Stable now, still groggy from the anaesthetic and painkillers, but we’ll talk to him again later when he’s a bit more compos mentis.” Amanda looked at her watch. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to finish off. Call me as soon as you hear something I can use.”
“Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”
As Amanda left the building, heading towards her car, her phone rang. It was Rick.
Amanda went straight to the point. “How’d she do?” There was no point dressing it up.
“Mixed, I’d say. Put it this way: she didn’t seem in any hurry to get to him, but then there are the two little girls to think of.”
Amanda grunted, not entirely convinced. There were ways to have the girls taken care of if she had wanted to dash off.
“She put on a pretty good act if it was one,” Rick went on, “but I saw a couple of holes. I’ve arranged to get her phone and bank account records, the usual, see if anything pops up. I’m also owed a favour up here. I’ll see what the word on the street is for a possible hit.”
“Someone with a grudge?”
“There’s always someone with a grudge when it’s an officer, isn’t there? One of the lads is checking recent releases, but I’m not aware of anyone from that side of things. Any news on transferring him up here? It would be great to see him.”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll see Rochelle shortly. His groggy state will be wearing off soon. She’s with him now.”
“Good. At least a friendly face will be there for when he wakes up properly, eh?”
“Let’s hope he can tell us a bit more than he’s managed so far.”
They said their speak laters and hung up, promising to do just that.
Two hours later, Rick was at his desk when the first of Sam and Duncan’s account details hit his desk. He surfed through her mobile phone bill, followed by the house landline bill. There wasn’t much on either, nothing to use his highlighter pen on so far. Calls and texts to a regular number that turned out to be registered to someone named Anika, a friend of Sam’s, he assumed. He called it to confirm and then hung up before she asked any questions. If Sam did have something to do with Duncan’s attempted murder, he didn’t want her friend forewarning her of her involvement in the investigation. There was also a text sent at 9.32 p.m. the previous night from Sam to Duncan’s phone, a number Rick knew well. He had looked at Duncan’s phone and had read the loving message from Sam saying goodnight. He asked a colleague to see where exactly the phone had been when that text was sent. Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy.
He turned his attention to the bank statements for the last six months. There were the usual deposits and store transactions, but he did note a pattern of regular £100 and £200 withdrawals from cash machines, and not the same one each time. Most people used their bank cards these days, didn’t they? Weren’t they all becoming a cashless society? Maybe she liked to use cash when shopping, unless she was using it for something else. Still, it was to be noted as somewhat unusual.
He turned to the last page.
“Hello, hello,” he said to himself.
There in black and white was a transfer of £20,000 into Sam and Duncan’s joint savings account. And that was closely followed by the sum of £6000 leaving it. Rick was not aware of the couple having planned any home improvements or nice holidays. His heart slumped.
“Oh dear, Sam. What have you been up to?”
Chapter Seventy-Three
It was around 4 p.m. when Duncan’s throat worked a little better and he was finally able to put a coherent sentence together. Though he was still hoarse, he was sounding remarkably better than when he’d first come to and was glad to see a friendly and welcoming face as he struggled with one hand to sit himself up in bed a little more.
Rochelle was by his side as his eyes fluttered open
“Here, let me give you a hand,” she said brightly, rearranging his pillows behind his head. “Welcome again to the land of the living. How are you feeling now? You’ve been asleep for ages.”
“Sorry to have kept you.” Duncan smiled as he slumped back heavily into the softness of them. “And quit the hand jokes, please.”
Rochelle smiled and offered him a glass of water with a straw. He sucked greedily on the end, draining the glass again.
“Feel up to some questions, then?” It wasn’t a question that warranted a ‘no,’ no matter how he was feeling. She needed to push for some answers before more time elapsed and evidence evaporated. Duncan knew the drill. She dived straight in.
“Let’s start with what you know, then we’ll move on to theory, okay?”
He nodded his approval, saving his voice for real sentences.
“From the top, then. Let’s hear it.”
And so Duncan recited all he could remember about travelling down, checking in, Amanda and Jack picking him up, being ill and getting into bed back at the hotel. There were some blurry bits about the night, how ill he’d been and the visions he’d had, which had made it difficult to decipher what had been real and what was a figment of his imagination.
Intrigued, Rochelle probed about the visions.
“I’m sure I heard hushed voices at one stage,” he said, struggling to think. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have rolled off the bed and thrown myself on the floor, would I?”
Rochelle narrowed her eyes. It was a good question. “That roll could well have saved your life because that’s where the first shot was found. The bullet lodged in the mattress over to the right side of the bed. If the intruders had been over you and aiming for your heart, we wouldn’t be talking now.”
It was a sobering thought for them both. In the gap in conversation, there was a gentle knock on the door. Amanda walked in.
“Welcome back!” said Amanda. Duncan rolled his eyes and, croaking, said, “if anyone else says that I swear I’m going to slap them.”
Amanda turned to Rochelle and said, “Nothing wrong with his sense of humour, then.” Both women smiled at each ot
her.
Rochelle filled her in from the notes she’d scribbled on her pad, and Amanda made her own notes as Rochelle spoke. Even though it was Amanda’s investigation, Rochelle was a close colleague of Duncan’s and she knew she needed to tread respectfully here.
“So can you remember what the voices said?” Amanda asked Duncan now.
“It sounds almost comical now, lying here, but I’m sure one said he couldn’t do it, and the other person told him he had to. They were definitely both male voices – if they were there at all. But like I said, why else would I have rolled?
“What did the other voice say?”
“Told him to get on with it. Then I rolled and got shot. I couldn’t do much else, so I pretended I was dead. I don’t remember anyone touching me, though I might have blacked out. Then I got to my phone and called it in. It was so dark and like I say, I wasn’t well. Migraine or something nasty.”
Both women scribbled in their notebooks for a moment, and then Rochelle broached the subject of what he’d said on first coming to.
“Do you remember what you said earlier, about Sam?”
Duncan stayed silent for a couple of beats, considering.
“Maybe I had that wrong,” he said at length. “She wouldn’t do something like this, and she’d have no idea how to find someone either. It’s not her. Sam loves me and the kids. Where is she, anyway? On her way down?”
The two women looked at one another and Rochelle took the question.
“Rick told her this morning, but with the kids, she may not make it down today. But they’re looking to move you to Manchester, so there may be no need for her to travel all this way.” Rochelle hoped she’d sounded positive and convincing that all was well on that front, that Sam did care.
Changing the subject away from Sam, Duncan asked about what they had so far.
Amanda took over. “By all accounts there’s a few prints to follow up but CCTV doesn’t hold much apart from a couple of grainy figures with hoods up. But we’re making the most of what we have, so we should know something a bit later. DC Rutherford, Jack, is talking to neighbours in the area where the figures headed off to. We’ll find whoever is responsible for this, Duncan, no stone and all that.”
She beamed at him, but he seemed to be somewhere else as she said it, deep in thought, remembering back to events of the previous night, maybe. Rochelle looked at Amanda who shrugged her shoulders, also wondering where he’d disappeared to in his head.
Would Sam have done such a thing? Could she be capable of finding a hit man to take me out? And if so, why had she? We were getting on so much better –she’d turned the corner, had sorted herself out, was taking an interest in life again. I’ve been worried about her for a time, worried for the kids, and after their adventure that day, ending up at that elderly woman’s house – a woman with a past, albeit from years ago – I’d nearly torn my hair out. I’ve never told her about that part, not letting her in on the fact the woman had done time, had been convicted for her part in a paedophile ring, not wanting to offload any more stress into her life when she was just getting it together.
But the change in behaviour raised a flag in my mind and Rochelle had voiced her opinion about that too – the status quo was about to change, she said.
And from where I’m sitting, it already has.
He pretended to be asleep while he thought it through, not willing to give Sam up to his colleagues yet. He could be wildly off track. No, better to let them do their jobs and follow other leads, and if that didn’t pan out, he’d perhaps say something.
But not until then.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Rick Black sat back in his desk chair, deep in thought. If Sam had taken a loan out and used some of it for a down payment, there could be trouble brewing – Duncan was still alive, thank God, but that left loose ends. For instance, was there a professional hit man roaming around out there with unfinished business? That could mean another attempt on Duncan’s life. Or at the very least, an angry customer – Sam.
But if Sam was behind all this, how had she got involved so deep, and who had she got to do the necessary?
He had to find out, and while it went against everything he stood for, he knew just the person who could help him shed some light on it.
Wilfred Day.
While Day wasn’t exactly on his speed dial, it wasn’t hard to get in touch with the man. He’d interviewed him many times in the past for various things. Rick looked up his contact number, dialled, and waited to be connected. He could almost hear the smile in Day’s voice when he answered.
“And a grand afternoon it is. How may I help you, DS Black – or is it DI yet?”
If nothing else, the man had manners. Rick smiled despite himself.
“Not quite. I’m working on it.”
“And I’ve no doubt that’ll be soon.”
Duncan came to the point. “I’d like to buy you a G&T if I may, Wilfred. I could do with your help with a particular matter.”
“How positively delightful and totally unexpected.” He sounded like a delighted aunt, not a criminal yet to be caught and prosecuted. “Of course. When would you like to partake in this little get-together?”
“How about right now? Name the place, and I’ll meet you there – if you’re free, of course.”
A moment ticked by, presumably while Wilfred checked his social calendar and thought of a venue.
“Meet me at The Washhouse; you know where it is. I’ll see you there shortly, and I shall be in eager anticipation of how I might serve you, Detective Sergeant. It could be an interesting meeting.” He chuckled.
“I’m on my way,” Rick said, and hung up before Wilfred told him to have a fantastic day. It was time for a favour to be returned. Wilfred Day owed him. Years ago, Wilfred’s twelve-year-old nephew had got himself tied up with a hit-and-run that had left a sleazy local drug dealer badly injured, and Day had persuaded Rick not to lay charges. The boy had been a decent kid at heart, though a bit of a tearaway. He shouldn’t have even known how to drive, never mind actually been driving, but living the life he had been at the time, it was no surprise. Rick knew the lad would be better off learning a life lesson from Wilfred rather than being swallowed up by the system of corrections. Mr. Day had been grateful, and today Rick was going to capitalize on that.
Duncan pulled up near the bar, one of Manchester’s secret though legal drinking places hidden in the back of a laundromat. Moments later, he saw Day’s distinctive Bentley pull up. Day, clad in a diamond-patterned sweater, climbed out, pushed his fingers lazily through his tousled blond hair, and then set his sunglasses back on top of his head. On a cloudy Manchester afternoon, they really were obsolete but he wore them rain or shine. Rick fell into step alongside Wilfred as they headed towards the door, which immediately opened. They went inside.
At four in the afternoon, the place was deserted, which was probably why Wilfred had chosen it. They could talk without being overheard or seen together. When they were seated in a private booth with their drinks, Rick began to speak.
“DS Duncan Riley has been shot. He’s stable but I need to know who might want him dead. Have you heard anything?”
Rick watched Day closely as he delivered the news. To his credit, the man actually looked shocked, which told Rick he wasn’t anywhere near it.
“I’m not aware of anyone holding a grudge, and I’m sure you’ll have looked at those fellows he’s helped put away in the past who now have a bit of freedom again?”
“There is one person whose activities I’m hoping you can trace,” he said.
Day smiled wolfishly. “Ah, and so we get to the real reason you called. You want me to find out how it was organized and with whom. And I’m assuming you can’t go to your own cyber team for some reason, even though they’d throw everything they could at it since he’s one of you.”
Rick nodded.
Day went on. “And this is the favour you wish returned, I presume?”
Ric
k nodded. He could feel himself going red in the semi-darkness of the bar and was glad it couldn’t be seen. There really was nothing more to be said. He took a sip of his drink and waited.
“So who is he? Who do you want me to snoop on?” Day tasted his gin and reached for a bowl of spicy cereal nibbles in the middle of the table. He tipped half of the bowl into his paw-like hand and took tiny amounts out with his other paw. Rick wondered how much pain those hands had inflicted on his enemies in the past and watched the nibbles slowly disappear.
“Come on, then – who hurt your friend? What’s his name?”
Rick was silent for a moment. Once he’d spoken the words, there was no going back. Did he really want to do this?
“It’s not a he, it’s a she,” he said finally.
“Oh.” Day looked nonplussed. “I didn’t think DS Riley was the type for a side piece.” He nibbled some more snacks, smiling at his own double meaning. Then he stopped chewing as the name of Rick’s suspect dawned on him.
“You think Mrs. Riley is behind it? Ah. Now I see why the cagey-ness. You want me to see whom she organized it with, so to speak. Am I correct? You’d like me to do some digging?”
Rick nodded. “Can you? She has never seemed the type to move in such circles, so I’m wondering …” He let the sentence hang in the air.
“You want me to trace her online activities. I get it. But it’s not that easy if you don’t know where to start looking. Can you get her laptop for me? And give me a list of her regular movements and the places she goes? If she’s been a buzzy little bee, she may have left me some breadcrumbs.”
Rick ignored the mixed metaphor. “How long will it take you if I can?”
“That depends on the trail and whether she took precautions on public Wi-Fi or not. And of course, who’s behind the operation when I get there, if anyone. Often, they shut up shop and move to another squat before the next customer comes along – helps keeps things secure. That’s why there are still so many kiddie-peddlers still walking the street. If you lot could clean that up, you would, wouldn’t you?”