Out of Sight

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘I’m afraid he hasn’t got anything to say for himself,’ said Pymm. ‘Ms Weybridge confirmed that part of the reason they broke up was because she found his burner phone and read the text messages that he was exchanging with men, but she said the relationship was failing already. He was struggling with a cocaine and drink habit that couldn’t be funded entirely from his wages as a builder, especially since he had a tendency not to turn up to work.’

  Warren had a feeling he knew where this was going.

  ‘He died of heart failure, probably from the coke and booze, back in October. He was dead long before Anish was killed.’

  ‘Damn.’

  Pymm lowered her voice, ‘We also got a trace on Anish Patel’s missing mobile phone, it just connected to the network. It’s using a different SIM card but the handset’s IMEI number matches. It’s on the Chequers Estate.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ said Sutton. ‘Where else would a murder victim’s stolen mobile end up?’

  Warren glanced over his shoulder. Karen Hardwick had her back to them, typing at her computer. He lowered his voice also.

  ‘Tony, arrange for a team to go and pick up whoever is using it. Keep it quiet, there’s no need for Karen to get wind of this just yet.’

  Sutton’s face turned grim. ‘Yeah, I get it. Nothing but bad memories on that estate.’ He looked at his friend. ‘You OK?’

  Warren nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was just glad that he didn’t have to go himself; the memory of Gary Hastings’ blood-soaked body in the passenger seat of Warren’s car brought a lump to his throat.

  Like Sutton said, there was nothing but bad memories there.

  ‘The person with Anish’s phone is downstairs in interview suite one,’ said Sutton an hour later. ‘She’d just put a brand-new SIM card in it.’

  ‘Where did she get it?’ asked Warren.

  ‘She claims to have bought it second-hand on eBay,’ said Sutton.

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘Not for a second. She’s on the system; dealing, shoplifting, a couple of busts for soliciting.’

  ‘Could she have been involved in Anish’s murder?’ asked Ruskin.

  Sutton shrugged. ‘Impossible to tell, but at the moment, she seems more fussed about being caught with stolen property. My guess is she bought it down the pub, no questions asked.’

  ‘Well, let me know when she’s spoken to her solicitor and you can go and put the frighteners on her,’ said Warren.

  ‘Sir, you’re going to want to see this,’ Mags Richardson called Warren over to her workstation.

  ‘The team in Welwyn have been looking through CCTV footage from the cameras along the A506. There is a camera overlooking the bus stop just along from the Easy Break Hotel.’

  Warren looked over her shoulder.

  ‘The video isn’t great, because it’s dark, but I have footage from the same camera over the previous two weeks. Here are the best screenshots. Look at the timestamp.’

  Each of the images over the previous two weeks were taken at the same time, plus or minus about two minutes. In each, the same figure was clearly recognisable.

  ‘OK, that makes sense,’ said Warren. ‘We’d expect him to pass by at that time.’

  ‘This is the night of the murder. We’ve played it for an hour either side, and guess what?’

  ‘He doesn’t pass the camera,’ said Warren. ‘So where was he?’

  ‘Exactly. Now let’s fast-forward a few hours.’ She manipulated the mouse.

  The image changed. Now the figure was clearly visible again. Warren looked at the time stamp. 02:56.

  ‘Got you,’ said Warren.

  Chapter 46

  Amber Mackie was on edge. Despite her forced appearance of calm – folded arms, chewing gum and humming to herself – the tension in her face was obvious, as was the jiggling leg under the table.

  ‘Do you know why you are here, Amber?’ started Ruskin, after identifying himself and Mags Richardson.

  Mackie gave a shrug and looked over the two officers’ shoulders.

  Richardson pushed an A4 colour photograph across the table. ‘Can you tell me who this mobile phone belongs to?’ she asked. The actual handset had been couriered to headquarters in Welwyn Garden City for forensic analysis.

  ‘Me. I bought it on eBay.’

  ‘When?’ Ruskin asked.

  ‘Dunno, last week sometime.’

  ‘Do you have a receipt, or proof of purchase?’

  ‘No. Chucked it in the recycling bin, di’n’t I?’

  ‘We saw no sign of it when we looked,’ said Richardson.

  ‘Bin men must have been.’

  ‘No, recycling’s tomorrow,’ said Ruskin. ‘What about an email receipt? Perhaps you could log into your account and show us who the seller is.’

  ‘Look, what is this really about?’ interjected the duty solicitor, a middle-aged black woman in a trouser suit. ‘A detective constable and a detective sergeant seems like overkill to establish the provenance of a mobile phone.’

  Richardson glanced over at Ruskin. The interview strategy called for a phased release of information to the suspect. She decided to increase the pace slightly.

  ‘The mobile phone was stolen from the victim of a serious crime.’

  ‘Woah!’ shouted Mackie. ‘I ain’t been involved in nothing. I just bought a second-hand phone.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could tell us your whereabouts on the evening of Thursday, November the 24th?’

  Mackie paused. ‘I ain’t done nothing. I just bought a phone, that’s all.’

  ‘A phone that we know was stolen on the night of November 24th.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘So where were you then?’ pressed Ruskin.

  Mackie licked her lips. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Look, Amber, we know that you didn’t buy that phone on eBay,’ said Richardson. ‘Either you stole it from our victim, or you received it from somebody else linked to that person. Now I need to know what you were doing that night, and if you have an alibi, who you got the phone from.’

  Mackie looked at her solicitor, who sat stony-faced.

  ‘I ain’t a grass,’ she muttered eventually.

  Richardson opened her folder again. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ she asked.

  Mackie shook her head.

  ‘How about you actually look at the photo, first?’ suggested Ruskin.

  ‘I ain’t a grass,’ repeated Mackie, but she glanced down at the picture, despite herself. Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped chewing. A second later, her eyes widened again.

  ‘Fuck off. No way. No way am I involved in that.’

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ asked Richardson again.

  ‘Shit. Of course I do. That’s the bloke on the news. They found him murdered in a ditch.’

  ‘That’s correct. This phone,’ Richardson gestured towards the picture, ‘belonged to the victim, Anish Patel. It hasn’t been seen since the night he was killed. Now, as I said before, either you were there and took the phone, or you got the phone from somebody else.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, I swear,’ Mackie’s voice had taken on a pleading tone. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘Then where were you?’ asked Ruskin. ‘You have to help us to help you here. That phone links you to a murder victim. We need to know where you were that night.’

  ‘I was at home,’ Mackie sobbed. ‘I scored some really good gear, and I took it all. I didn’t wake up until the next morning.’

  ‘Was anyone with you?’ asked Ruskin.

  ‘No. I live on my own now.’ She turned to her solicitor, who cleared her throat.

  ‘Ms Mackie has been struggling to stay clean and sober for the past year. Her eight-year-old daughter is currently with foster carers. In order for Amber to get her daughter back, she has to prove to the court’s satisfaction that she is a fit and capable mother.’

  ‘They won’t let her live with me if I’m still using,�
� said Mackie, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. ‘You can’t tell them what I said,’ she cried. ‘You can’t tell the court I’m still using. It’s just now and again, hardly ever.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not up to me,’ said Richardson softly. ‘But what I do know, is that you being involved in a murder investigation is not going to help get your daughter back.’

  ‘Tell us who you got the phone from, Amber,’ said Ruskin. ‘Help us solve this murder and I’m sure the judge will take that into account.’

  ‘What about the handling stolen goods?’ asked Mackie. ‘I’m on probation.’

  ‘Again, that’s not up to me, but I can have a word,’ said Richardson, ignoring the scowl from Mackie’s solicitor.

  ‘OK, OK. I bought it down the pub. Fifty quid.’

  ‘Which pub?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘The Rising Sun.’

  ‘Who from?’ asked Ruskin.

  ‘Just some bloke.’

  ‘We’ll need more than that,’ said Richardson. ‘What’s his name?’

  Mackie looked helpless. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘I dunno. White, blonde hair.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful, Amber,’ said Ruskin.

  ‘What can I say? I never spoke to him before. I needed a new phone, ’cause my last one was nicked by my ex. A mate said that he knew someone who could get one. The next night he turned up, I gave him some money and he handed it over.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else you can tell us about him?’ said Richardson. ‘Young or old? Tall or short? Slim or fat?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ sniffed Mackie. ‘I wasn’t in a good state, you know?’

  The two detectives looked at each other in exasperation; the phone was potentially a direct link to the killer but the woman in front of them was pretty much useless.

  ‘He was wearing a Chelsea top,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Well that narrows it down,’ said Ruskin. He had a feeling that there was more that Mackie wasn’t telling them. What was she holding back?

  Mackie looked down. For the first time since she’d arrived, she looked slightly ashamed.

  ‘I couldn’t really afford fifty quid. So, I asked my mate if he reckoned I could get a discount from him if, you know.’ She made a gesture with her hand and wrist, her fingers circled.

  ‘He just laughed and said I was barking up the wrong tree; I wouldn’t be his cup of tea.’

  Warren had called a team meeting; the pieces were flying in thick and fast and he needed everyone fully briefed.

  Mags Richardson had the floor. ‘Credit again goes to Karen for this particular idea,’ she said. ‘We used the purchase history on Anish’s credit card to see if we could secure any CCTV footage of who he had been associating with recently. As you all know, he very much enjoyed eating out. He also liked a weekend away.’

  She opened up a presentation on the wall screen.

  ‘Most of the CCTV has gone of course, but we did get lucky with a few bits. For example, we have footage of Anish with Isaiah Otis, AKA Car_lover12, having a meal in Stevenage back in June. That footage was retained because of a pending court case concerning a member of staff accused of dipping their hand in the till.’

  ‘That confirms what he told us,’ interjected Sutton.

  ‘More interesting is what we found on these dates,’ said Mags. ‘Again, we used his credit card records and retrieved CCTV from these premises.’

  She projected a compilation of images onto the screen, each of them date-stamped.

  Immediately, the room exploded into a babble of excited observations; Warren couldn’t keep track of who was saying what.

  ‘They’re all the same bloke.’

  ‘It looks like they went away for the bank holiday.’

  ‘A long weekend in July.’

  ‘They were seeing each other for months.’

  Grayson, who had been sitting quietly at the back anticipated Warren’s next request. ‘I’ll get a warrant for a real-time intercept on his phone. No problem at all now.’

  Before Warren could acknowledge him, Janice poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry DCI Jones, but I have Andy Harrison on the phone. He says it’s important.’

  ‘I’ll hold the fort,’ offered Sutton. If what Harrison had was urgent enough that he’d phoned, rather than just emailed, it was worth answering the call.

  ‘The fingerprints from Anish Patel’s hotel room have come back,’ said Harrison as soon as Warren picked up. ‘Sorry it took so long, but it isn’t the cleanest of establishments, so there were a lot of them.’

  ‘I understand. What have you got for us?’

  ‘Most of the prints were unusable, but of those that were, most had no hits on the database, or were identified as members of staff. I’ve sent a list to you in an email. There are also some that are too blurry to run through the system, but we could probably match by eye if you can get us a suspect.’

  ‘What about the ones that came up on the system?’ said Warren.

  ‘Two of them are current members of staff, but I think the most interesting is likely to be the set we found on the back of the bed’s headboard. Alongside Anish Patel’s.’

  ‘You’re right, that is interesting,’ said Warren, his pulse starting to increase. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘Unfortunately, these were the blurred ones, but we have prints from digits on both hands, just like Patel’s, on the rear edge of the headboard. Pointing downwards.’

  Warren tried to picture the scene. ‘As if Anish and this person were holding the headboard?’

  ‘Exactly. Not inconsistent with what you believe he was meeting these people for. There were plenty of other fingerprints in a similar position – try not to think about that next time you check into a hotel with the missus.’

  ‘I wasn’t, until you put the idea in my head,’ said Warren, already clicking on his email as he hung up.

  He scanned the list of names. Harrison was correct, most of the staff prints were workers that probably had a legitimate reason to have been in the room. Except for one.

  ‘What the hell were you doing in there?’ asked Warren out loud.

  Warren stood up and strode briskly back to the briefing room.

  ‘Perfect timing, Sir,’ said Mags Richardson as he entered. ‘I was just sharing this with the team. It came in moments before you called the meeting.’

  On the screen, black and white CCTV footage was coming to an end. She restarted it from the beginning.

  A smile crept across his face.

  With the fingerprints from the hotel room, the CCTV showing Anish’s previously unknown relationship, and the testimony from the woman who had bought Anish’s mobile phone, combined with this newly uncovered footage, Warren could feel all the pieces of the puzzle finally coming together.

  ‘Bring them all in and let’s see if we can finally put this to bed,’ he ordered.

  Chapter 47

  After the briefing, things moved quickly: warrants were applied for and granted, arrest teams sent out and witnesses located, authorization from the bean counters to fast-track forensics reluctantly given and real-time intercepts on phone locations approved.

  This time, Shane Moore, the trainee chef from the Easy Break Hotel, was accompanied by his father. As Ruskin set up the recording, Hardwick studied the teenager. His neck was slightly pink, and he seemed to have difficulty making himself comfortable. Unless Hardwick was very much mistaken, Shane Moore was a man – a boy, she corrected herself – with something he’d like to get off his chest.

  ‘Do you know why we’ve invited you back, Shane?’ asked Hardwick, her tone kind, but firm.

  Moore’s neck reddened still further. ‘It’s about the night that bloke was killed, isn’t it?’ He swallowed, and his father placed a comforting hand on his forearm. ‘I didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Hardwick. Beside her, Ruskin remained silent. It was clear that with gentle p
ersuasion, Moore would tell them everything he knew. Ruskin was aware that at times he could be perceived as … intimidating.

  ‘Look, I haven’t seen anything with my own eyes, OK, so, I don’t know what’s really going on.’ He fingered the array of studs in his left earlobe.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what you think,’ she encouraged.

  ‘I think that sometimes there are deliveries.’

  ‘At the loading bay?’

  ‘No, at the fire exit. I can hear when the door is opening and closing, it makes a loud squeak. Sometimes I hear people walk down the corridor, open the fire door, and speak to somebody outside. Then the door closes again. It isn’t long enough for a smoke break.’

  ‘And does this happen often?’

  Moore looked at his hands. ‘Most evenings.’

  ‘And did it happen the night of Thursday November 24th?’

  He nodded, still staring at the table.

  ‘Is there anything else you are not telling me, Shane?’ asked Hardwick softly.

  Moore continued looking at the table.

  ‘Go on, son,’ said Moore Sr. ‘Tell them what you told me.’ It was the first time that Moore’s father had spoken since the initial introductions.

  Eventually Moore spoke. ‘It’s about Nick …’

  Nicholas Kimpton was arrested at the same time his trainee, Shane Moore, attended the station for further questioning. The chef had vehemently denied murdering Anish Patel as his rights were read to him, but Hutchinson had detected a note of resignation beneath his protestations.

  ‘Do you recognise this mobile phone number?’ asked Warren, pushing a slip of paper across the table. To maintain consistency, Warren had chosen to interview Kimpton again, with a constable to observe and take additional notes.

  The man was a ghostly white under the room’s lighting. His eyes were bloodshot and slightly puffy, as if he had been crying. Warren wasn’t surprised. If they were right, and he had been involved in the death of Anish, he was going to prison for a very long time. Right now, he was probably wondering how on Earth it had all come to this.

  Kimpton looked at it and shrugged. ‘No idea. Who does it belong to?’

  Warren ignored the question and produced a sealed plastic evidence bag containing a black Samsung phone. ‘Is this your only phone? It was in your pocket when you were arrested.’