by Paul Gitsham
When no suggestions about how to narrow down the time of death were forthcoming, Warren decided to leave it with the team to ponder and moved on.
‘Where are we with Jaidev Patel on the night of the murder?’ he asked.
‘A mixed bag,’ said Ruskin, who’d coordinated the team probing the man’s alibi. ‘We tracked down the three friends that he plays badminton with; they played as usual and went for a drink in the bar afterwards. The CCTV clearly shows showing him drinking until just before 8.45 p.m. One of the women was celebrating a birthday, which is why they drank for a little longer than usual.’
‘That’s a match so far,’ said Warren. ‘What happened then?’
‘That’s where it gets interesting. One of the men mentioned in passing that Jaidev said that he could have another drink, because it “wasn’t his turn to drive”.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, if you remember, Jaidev told us that he caught the bus home that night, which he does so he can have a drink?’
Warren nodded.
‘Well, apparently, he always stays for at least one round. Then either he drives home, or he gets picked up. He doesn’t catch the bus. In fact, when we looked back over the CCTV for the last few weeks, Jaidev usually picks up his kit bag and leaves the bar about twenty minutes before the bus is due at the stop outside. This week was no different. I followed him on the cameras and he went straight out the door; he didn’t even make a detour to the toilet.’
‘What are you saying, Moray?’
‘I’m saying that I don’t think he catches the bus home. One of Mags’ team in Welwyn looked at the CCTV footage from the bus that he would have caught that night, and nobody matching Jaidev’s description got on. The stop is right outside the sports centre door, so he’d have been waiting in the cold for several minutes before the bus turned up. He’s been doing it for years, so you’d think he’d have figured out the timetable by now.’
‘So why lie to us?’ asked Sutton.
‘Could he be worried that he was over the drink-drive limit?’ asked Hardwick. ‘If he is leaving straight after having a swift one, or maybe more, perhaps he didn’t want to admit it?’
‘Maybe, but what did he mean when he told his friend that “it wasn’t his turn to drive”?’ asked Sutton. ‘Does he lift-share with one of his playing partners?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Ruskin. ‘The other three all come together, straight from work, and two of the group are a married couple. They all live on the opposite side of town to Jaidev. He makes his own way there and back.’
‘Then it sounds as though he’s either being picked up, or he’s driving another person,’ said Hardwick. ‘Does he meet someone else in the car park? Perhaps somebody who goes to the centre for a different class?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Ruskin. ‘The sports centre CCTV doesn’t cover the public car park or the road outside.
There’s another thing that I thought was a bit weird. He turns up to the centre in a tracksuit with his kit bag. But he always has a shower afterwards and is smartly dressed when he leaves. I get the shower bit, you don’t want to go home all sweaty, but he’s supposed to be going home to bed. He’s all dressed up like he’s going out clubbing.’
Warren tapped his teeth thoughtfully. ‘OK, find out who controls those outside cameras, and let’s see if we can figure out who he’s catching a ride home with. I also want to know how he actually gets to the sports centre. Is he driving himself, or is he being driven there? Maybe he catches a bus, so get back onto the bus company and see if he ever appears on that bus.
He’s lied about how he got home that night. It sounds like he’s also lying about going straight there. I want to know why he’s not telling the truth, and if it has anything to do with his brother’s murder.’
‘There’s also something else,’ said Rachel Pymm. It was her first contribution to the conversation. As the others had spoken, she’d been swiping through her emails on her tablet. She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t spot it before.’
‘Don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Sutton.
‘He plays badminton every Thursday, yes?’
‘Yes, he’s been doing it for years,’ confirmed Ruskin
‘Well, according to the historic location data for his mobile phone, his handset is safely tucked up at home each week whilst he’s thrashing a shuttlecock around,’ said Pymm. ‘Either he’s really worried about his phone being stolen whilst he’s playing, or he’d rather people don’t know where he goes each Thursday.’
‘Or he has a second handset that he has neglected to mention,’ said Sutton.
Chapter 30
‘What have you got to justify the further detention of Leon Grime?’ asked Grayson.
The simple answer was ‘not a lot’. So far, everything had been circumstantial. The red stains on clothing seized from his flat were not blood. His shoes didn’t match the prints where Anish Patel’s body was dumped, and neither they nor his coat had revealed any traces of body fluids yet.
The tools that had been used to mutilate Patel’s body could have been accessed by other workers in the hotel, and even if they did find his fingerprints in room 201, they would be easily explained away by his role as head of maintenance.
Grime had lied about his whereabouts on the night of the murder and about his involvement with the doctored fire exit. He had also turned his phone off that night, presumably to stop it being tracked. That he had been up to something dodgy was pretty much a given, but was it relevant to their investigation?
‘What about a motive?’ asked Grayson.
‘Nothing substantial,’ admitted Warren. ‘We can’t even show any links between him and Anish’s family; there’s no overlap in terms of phone records. IT are still looking at his phone but so far as they can tell, unless he’s deleted them off his handset, he wasn’t a big user of social media or messaging apps.’
‘Well he’s not even close to the charging threshold,’ said Grayson. He looked at his watch. ‘What are you waiting on?’
‘I’m hoping for the forensics back on his car in a few hours, as well as more detailed analysis of Anish’s hire car. We’re also going through his financials to see if there is anything interesting.’
Grayson pursed his lips. ‘Well, we’re pretty confident that Anish’s body was driven to the dumping site in his hire car, so any traces of Grime in that car would be difficult to explain away. But I’m worried that we’re placing all of our eggs in one basket here, as far as Grime is concerned.’
Warren couldn’t disagree. His gut told him that there was something not right about Leon Grime, but they needed more than that. If he wasn’t involved, then why were his tools used? Surely that meant the killer had to have at least known where they were? How many of their suspects would have that knowledge? Leon Grime might have been up to no good, but was he involved in the killing of Anish Patel?
One thing was certain though: Leon Grime had been arrested twice now; if he was released a second time, they could pretty much guarantee that whatever evidence existed to explain his behaviour would vanish.
The rest of the day passed slowly. By early evening, they needed to make a decision to either release Leon Grime again or apply for an extension to custody. With that in mind, Warren headed towards his office. He hated nagging Forensics. He knew that they worked as hard and as fast as they could, with ever-decreasing resources. He also knew that his was not the only serious crime being investigated at the moment. Nevertheless, he needed to know where he stood.
As he entered his office, his desk phone lit up.
‘Andy, your sense of timing is impeccable,’ said Warren, recognising the number immediately.
‘I live to serve,’ said Harrison.
‘Go on then, make or break my day,’ said Warren, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘The vehicle team just reported back on Leon Grime’s car. It’s early days, and it’ll be another twenty-four hours for th
e fast-track DNA to come through, but we’ve found traces of blood on the driver’s seat, and the windscreen wiper stalk.’
Warren punched the air. Early days it might be, but they’d just got their extension to custody.
Chapter 31
Karen Hardwick’s breath curled around her face in the cold, evening air. Standing outside the restaurant, she checked her mobile phone one more time.
No calls, or texts.
She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. It was go/no-go, as they said in the space program. Either she walked through the glass doors, or she turned around and headed back to the safety of home, and a cuddle with the most important person in her life.
It was the first time that she’d used this babysitter; a lovely, sixteen-year-old girl that lived in the same apartment block as her. Other parents had sung her praises, and finally Karen had relented.
Normally she would call on Gary’s parents when she needed childcare. Both retired, they always jumped at the chance to spend time with their late son’s only child, and although Karen sometimes found their attentions a bit stifling, she knew that it came from a place of love.
And they didn’t charge.
But this time, it hadn’t felt right. They’d probably be upset that she hadn’t called them, but she knew it was the right decision. She couldn’t face them tonight.
Twenty-six months.
Twenty-six months since the senseless death of her fiancé, the father of her beautiful little boy.
Twenty-six months existing, rather than living.
And now, twenty-six months later, perhaps it was time to move on.
She pushed down the feelings of guilt that threatened to overwhelm her and forced her way through the double doors. The blast of warm air and the sudden sound of quiet music and conversation almost made her change her mind.
What the hell was she doing?
Twenty-six months was the blink of an eye. Ollie wasn’t even two years old yet, but here she was, galivanting around, trying to replace the father he had never even met.
‘Karen?’
Her name came from the direction of the bar. Too late.
She turned and forced a smile. ‘Adam,’ she managed.
The man slipped off his barstool and headed towards her. Karen started mentally comparing him against the profile on the dating site.
The photo he’d used was clearly a few years old, and he had a bit more of a paunch than the photo he’d chosen, but it looked as though he hadn’t told any massive whoppers about his age at least.
And who was she to judge?
Her foray into internet dating had been the result of a very drunken evening with her oldest and closest friend. Jenny had been using online dating sites for years and considered herself an expert – although given that she had yet to find Mr Right, that probably wasn’t a ringing endorsement.
Jenny had bullied her into opening an account and then taken charge of writing her profile.
‘What are you after? Soul mate, or just a good, hard shag?’
‘Jenny! I’m not even looking. I told you, I’m not ready.’
‘Bollocks, it’s been two years,’ she turned to Karen. ‘You’re beautiful and lovely, and funny and beautiful and lovely and you deserve to be happy.’
‘You said beautiful twice,’ mumbled Karen, taking another mouthful of the cheap rosé wine that Jenny had brought over. Since the birth of Ollie, she had definitely got out of practice; she’d feel it in the morning.
‘Because you are, and it deserves to be said repeatedly. Now let’s find a photo.’ She opened her camera roll and started scrolling through the images.
‘Perfect. Not too demure, not too slutty.’
‘You mean desperate,’ Karen had slurred.
‘Same diff.’
The following morning, the first of the matches selected by the website’s algorithm arrived in her inbox. Hungover, guilty, and full of regret, she’d almost deleted her profile there and then, but Jenny had begged her not to. ‘At least take advantage of the free trial. If you still feel this way when the month is up, cancel the direct debit before the auto-billing starts.’
So, for the next few days, Karen had looked through her daily suggested matches, her mood swinging from despair, to hope, back to despair.
And then Adam had popped into her inbox.
He wasn’t the first match that she’d initiated a conversation with, but he was the first one that she hadn’t blocked after two or three exchanges. And the first one that she had agreed to speak to outside of the dating app, giving him the email address that she’d set up specifically for the purpose of contacting strangers on the internet.
After a few exchanges, Adam had finally posted his mobile phone number.
Jenny had been even more excited than Karen, but still texted her list of do’s and don’ts.
After twenty-four hours of indecision, she finally called, dialling 141 first to block her own number. You didn’t spend years working murder cases and give out your contact details to just anyone.
And here they were.
After an awkward couple of seconds of greeting, the waiter mercifully arrived and took Karen’s coat.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Adam, as he finished the last couple of fingers of the pint of lager in front of his spot at the bar.
‘Just a soda and blackcurrant,’ said Hardwick. ‘I’m driving.’
That was another of Jenny’s dos and don’ts; don’t drink alcohol, keep an eye on your drink at all times, and make sure that you have your own transport.
Adam ordered her drink and another lager.
He’s as nervous as I am, thought Karen. The realisation made her feel better.
On Jenny’s advice, Karen had chosen the restaurant. It was a mid-price chain that catered to most tastes, and Karen had been there before. She knew exactly where the rear exit was, and she could be locked inside her car within two minutes.
She was sure dating hadn’t been this complicated ten years ago.
By the time the starters had been taken away, the conversation was flowing more freely and soon Karen knew all about Adam’s day job as a web designer. It didn’t sound like the most exciting of occupations, but she found that oddly reassuring. At least he wouldn’t be killed in the line of duty.
‘Are you OK, Karen?’
She forced her attention back to Adam, making herself smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
Adam nodded, taking a swig of his beer. He’d ordered it after their starters had arrived. Assuming that the beer he was finishing as she arrived was only his first of the evening, that made three by her count. Was three too much on a first date? She’d certainly gone on dates at university that had involved far more alcohol, but was that what she was looking for now?
The main course arrived. Adam had ordered a big, messy burger with all the trimmings, which he bit into with gusto; molten cheese dribbled down his chin. Karen started spooning around her penne pasta with tomato and basil sauce.
Suddenly, there was a commotion from the table behind them. The young couple who had been eating there were heading out the door at high-speed.
A middle-aged waiter raced after them, shouting.
Karen stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Adam, as she hurried towards the disturbance. A few seconds later, the waiter reappeared, out of breath and angry.
Before she knew what she was doing, Karen had her warrant card in her hand.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked quietly.
‘Fuckers did a runner without paying,’ the waiter said with a big sigh. ‘Second time this month.’
‘Did you get their names?’ she asked.
‘No, they were walk-ins.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s getting harder to tell these days. Years ago, if some scally in a tracksuit and trainers came in, we’d stick them in that corner and keep an eye on them. If they looked like they were going to leg it, they’d at least have to get past half a dozen tables and give us a sportin
g chance of grabbing them. But those guys were dressed smartly. I should have realised something was dodgy when they didn’t take their coats off.’
‘What’ll happen now?’ asked Hardwick.
‘We write it off,’ he shrugged. ‘The boss is pretty good, he doesn’t dock our wages or anything, but they had a good meal, with nice wine, I was hoping for a decent tip.’ He angled his head upwards. ‘At least we’ll have got them on the cameras. We’ll get headshots circulated around all the local businesses; they won’t be welcome anywhere in Middlesbury.’
‘Is everything OK?’ Adam was standing behind her; his eyes were watery, and a spot of ketchup dotted his collar. Karen was now certain that the beer he’d been finishing as she came in wasn’t his first of the evening.
‘You know what, I’m not in the mood for dessert,’ she said, forcing a smile. An idea was starting to form.
After insisting on splitting the bill two ways, and slipping an extra-large tip on the plate, Karen bid her farewells to Adam.
‘That was a lovely evening,’ he said, after an awkward kiss on her cheek. ‘Can we do it again sometime?’
‘Of course,’ said Karen. ‘Give me a call, yeah?’, before leaving him to finish his drink. She was already most of the way back to her car, before Adam realised that he didn’t actually have her number.
Pulling out her phone, Karen checked the time. It wasn’t too late to call, she decided.
Richardson picked up her mobile on the second ring.
‘Hey Mags, you still in the office?’
‘Yeah, for my sins.’
‘I’m going to pop in, I need a word.’
‘Sure. Wait, weren’t you supposed to be on a date? Andrew, or Aaron or something?’
‘Adam, and it’s finished.’
‘Oh shit, sweetie. Come in and tell me all about it. I’ll get the kettle on.’