Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘They did. But guess what I found this morning?’ Sam paused.

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Tara said, hands still on hips, body braced, face twisted.

  ‘Another white rabbit suit.’

  Tara stood her ground, said nothing.

  ‘And guess where I found that?’ Sam said

  She looked up for dramatic effect.

  ‘Same place I heard a noise last night. Your loft.’

  Tara backed off, sat on the settee, and put her eyes to the floor.

  ‘So, unless these particular suits are in your loft breeding like rabbits…’ Sam continued.

  Ed bit his lip and tried not to laugh. He would have been proud of that one.

  ‘…you’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Sam walked over to the settee, put her hand on its arm, and leaned into Tara.

  ‘Now get some clothes on.’

  Chapter 23

  He’d told Tara he was getting the 12.25 to King’s Cross but that was a lie.

  Head stuffed into the upturned collar of his coat he boarded a northbound train to Newcastle and sat by the window. There was nobody in the aisle seat, and he was facing the back of the seat in front of him. His only eye contact was with a copy of yesterday’s Daily Telegraph.

  When the conductor appeared he held his ticket in his outstretched left hand without taking his eyes from the newspaper.

  He was a grey man amongst grey people.

  The first stop was Thirsk, a north Yorkshire market town, Darrowby in James Herriot’s novels about a rural vet.

  He stepped onto the single platform and walked, all smiles and outstretched arms, towards the waiting car and its driver.

  The small aerodrome, accessed by a five-bar gate with no security, was basically a well-maintained field, the grass cut cricket pitch short, an orange windsock on the boundary. Planes of varying sizes, colours and carrying capacity were lined up like parked cars.

  He spotted the white Piper Cherokee with red stripes that he would be flying in, the fairings over the wheels reminding him of Mickey Mouse’s feet.

  A large wooden hut about the size of two log cabins served as a clubhouse with café and bar, the mic on a small table a rudimentary air traffic control system.

  Sundays were popular with recreational flyers and there were already a few pilots standing in small groups outside the clubhouse. A few greeted the driver but took no notice of his passenger.

  Above the field a yellow bi-plane was doing aerobatics, buzzing around like an angry wasp.

  The Man shook his head. Whenever he came here he always felt he had stepped onto the set of some period drama, watching a University Air Squadron in 1930s England, young, carefree men a few years away from the Battle of Britain.

  A glance at the car park and the modern German saloons and Range Rovers snapped him back to the present.

  Ten minutes later The Man was in the Cherokee, headphones on as he waited for the pilot to complete his pre-flight checks.

  Less than thirty minutes after getting off the train he was airborne.

  They flew due east until they reached the North Sea and then turned southwards, flying over the coastal towns of Whitby and Scarborough.

  The Man marvelled at how easy it was to fly unnoticed from these fields. Air traffic controllers like to describe flying corridors as motorways in the skies, but he knew these were motorways without cameras or number plate recognition systems. Up here he was an invisible traveller.

  When Bill Redwood was alive The Man would sometimes sail with him towards Seaton St George after flying to the field and being driven to one of North Yorkshire’s picturesque harbours.

  He wanted people to be continually looking over their shoulders, constantly under pressure, never sure of when, or where, he was going to appear. Every move was planned.

  His ultimate aim? To be anonymous.

  Like a successful Cold War spy, only those who retained their anonymity survived. That meant leaving no traces, electronic or otherwise.

  Bill Redwood had been an asset but he got greedy and unfed greed could send men swimming in the police informant pool.

  He looked downwards out of the window, the low sun reflecting off the water and the yacht mast below.

  His view was better than Sam Parker’s.

  She was blind.

  ‘Leave her in there to stew,’ Sam said, slamming the interview room door. ‘She knows more than she’s letting on.’

  ‘Yep,’ Ed said.

  Sam leaned against the wall. Her plate was piled Everest-high…post mortems nearly in double digits, a police shooting, press digging around everywhere, and now a second white rabbit.

  Ed grinned and flashed his teeth. ‘Back in the day, the only time we’d be mentioning shooting and rabbits in the same sentence was when there were poachers.’

  ‘Poaching?’ Sam started to giggle, grateful this time for one of Ed’s distractions.

  ‘You had time for poachers?’

  ‘Good old days,’ Ed said. ‘Didn’t happen often, but it happened. More fields in them days.’

  Sam shook her head. Ed Whelan was a one-off.

  ‘Issued a lot of pig licences as well back then,’ Ed was saying now. ‘Cops had to issue them when pigs were being moved.’

  Sam giggled harder. ‘Remind me when you joined? Top hats, cloaks and lanterns was it?’

  Ed smiled, enjoying the sound of her laughter.

  ‘No really,’ he said. ‘We’d handwrite them at the front desk if a farmer came asking for one.’

  Sam looked at him, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Funny how things come into your mind,’ Ed told her. ‘I’d forgotten about those. Job still got done though. Murders still got detected.’

  Ed looked around the corridor, making sure he couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘Difference was no government targets and efficiency savings in those days. All the cops who sit in offices poring over statistics and preparing reports nobody reads, they’d be on the streets doing police work.’

  ‘Like issuing movement of pig licences,’ Sam snorted, the giggles back.

  She took a minute to compose herself.

  Ed Whelan I needed that laugh.

  ‘Two suits,’ she said at last. ‘Two suits. You know what that might mean?’

  ‘Zac Williams is not necessarily the shooter.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sam closed her eyes. ‘Jesus what are we dealing with here?’

  Sam suddenly turned, marched down the corridor towards the exit doors, and rammed them open. Outside she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Christ we might have shot someone who wasn’t even a threat.’

  ‘Hang on Sam,’ Ed was at her side. ‘Zac Williams was pointing a rifle. We had three dead in the street.’

  ‘I know, but what if he hadn’t shot them? What if there was a second person doing the actual shooting.’

  ‘How would we know that? Who would even consider it?’

  They stared at each other.

  Ed breathed out slow, broke the silence.

  ‘Bloody hell Sam, any danger that we might get something bog standard to investigate? What you’re suggesting wouldn’t just take a bit of planning, it would be sophisticated and very, very smart.’

  Sam inhaled, exhaled slowly.

  ‘I know and it blasts the ‘love rival’ theory out of the water.’

  She inhaled again before continuing. ‘And the cuttings? Were they there to act as motivation, or to point us in a particular direction? You know, crime scene staging.’

  Ed didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Like Sam, he knew that one of the reasons for staging a crime scene was to lead investigators away from the most logical suspect.

  Two quick drags and Sam ground the cigarette into the pavement.

  Small trails of smoke were still rising as she pulled out another and lit up.

  What if we’re looking at this totally wrong?

  She stopped walking, flicke
d ash off the end of her Marlboro, and turned to face Ed. ‘Jack Reacher.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘As in Lee Child.’

  ‘Yes, the first film. I can’t remember the book it was based on.’

  ‘One Shot?’

  It was Sam’s turn to raise eyebrows.

  ‘I read a lot,’ Ed said. ‘Better than watching soaps and it gets me into a different room.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Sam said. ‘Have you rung home yet?’

  Ed looked down, shook his head. ‘Some things are best put off. It’s too early yet anyway.’

  ‘Anything you need…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So,’ Sam said. ‘Jack Reacher, mass shooting, but only one true target. The others were shot to cover it up, throw everyone off the scent.

  Ed remembered the plot line.

  ‘What if Zac Williams wasn’t the shooter?’ Sam went on. ‘What if Marcus was shot to make it look like he was the intended target because of his relationship with Lucy?’

  ‘Two huge leaps of faith Sam.’

  Sam lifted her head, blew smoke skywards.

  ‘I know, and none of this gets mentioned at the briefing.’

  She checked her watch. ‘Which is in ten minutes by the way, but let’s at least explore the possibility.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m not sure Fatty Sanderson was high enough up the food chain to be the target of such a planned execution. So, for the purposes of this discussion, we can probably rule him out.’

  Sam nodded, drew heavily on her cigarette, and spoke as she blew out a plume of smoke.

  ‘Which leaves us with, if not Marcus, then Paul.’

  Ed shook his head, eyes wide and lost.

  ‘You think Paul Adams was the target? Why the hell would someone want him taken out? And why like that? This isn’t Hollywood. Paul wasn’t Bruce Willis.’

  Sam pictured Paul Adams, a decent copper who wasn’t over flashy or showy.

  ‘Maybe I’m way off here but the rabbit suit’s in Tara Paxton’s loft. She’s a high-end escort. Why was she giving it to Paul for free?’

  Chapter 24

  ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered.’

  Sam took her mobile out of her pocket, fingers moving quickly over the keypad.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  She held the phone towards Ed who looked at the screen.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘He told Steph Crosby he was Tara’s uncle when he visited last night.’

  Ed grinned. ‘Is that what they call it now?’

  The face of Lester Stephenson stared back at him.

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Could be from anywhere. Forward it to me. I’ll ask around.’

  Sam put the phone back in her pocket. ‘She’s expensive, so most people couldn’t afford her.’

  ‘Something’s not right here.’ Ed looked away, searching for an answer, seeking inspiration. He turned back to Sam. ‘We need to put pressure on her.’

  Sam had already planned to turn up the heat on Tara Paxton. Why was she giving it to Paul for free?

  ‘She’s not arrested,’ Sam said. ‘Let’s have a chat with her after this is out of the way.’

  They walked into the briefing room together and the silence was immediate. 8.30am: the minute everybody lost their voice.

  Sam stood at the front, addressed the audience.

  ‘Thanks for coming out. I appreciate it’s a Sunday but there’s a lot to get through.’

  Sam knew they would all be paid well for their efforts; many were due to be on days off and would get time-and-a-half for every hour worked. In reality, on any major job, the constables and sergeants made more money than her; like all ranks of Inspector and above, she didn’t get overtime.

  Nonetheless, without their commitment, the whole investigation would stall like a £50 junkie.

  Sam looked around…fifty personnel, a mix of CID and uniform; detectives from the Major Incident Room; detectives from other police stations who would form Action Crews, the arms and legs of an inquiry; detectives from centralised source units who would form the intelligence cell; the family liaison coordinator; a uniform chief inspector from the Seaton St George management team who would liaise with other agencies; uniform search teams; house to house teams; a firearms tactical adviser; Julie Trescothick from the crime scene investigators; Peter Hunt from media services.

  Sam presented an overview before going into specifics.

  ‘Okay…lines of inquiry,’ she announced. ‘I want the family liaison officers to obtain as much information about the victims as possible, but first I want them all formally identifying.’

  There was a short silence, the thoughts of everyone in the room with the victims and their families.

  ‘It’s an awful job,’ Sam continued, ‘but it needs doing.’

  Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. Most of them had already witnessed grief.

  ‘I know one of our victims is a serving police officer, but we need as much information from his family as we do from the others.’

  She paused and made sure all eyes were on her.

  ‘I do not want to hear any speculation about what Paul Adams was doing there, understood?’

  Another pause.

  ‘If I hear of anybody starting, or fuelling, rumours then not only will you be off the investigation, you will be facing a disciplinary. Do I make myself clear?’

  Nods all around.

  ‘Right, I want a full intelligence picture on Zac Williams. What do we know about him? Get a FLO to visit his family. See if we can establish his mental state. If Zac Williams wanted to go out in a ‘Suicide by Cop’ scenario, then research shows there’s a very high chance he had previous suicidal tendencies.’

  The figure was 87% so Sam knew the line of inquiry was solid. She waited until Ed had finished writing her instructions before continuing.

  ‘The rifle is another line of inquiry. Where does it originate from? More importantly, how did Zac Williams get his hands on it?’

  She glanced across at Ed.

  ‘And as a matter of priority I want to know Zac Williams’ mobile phone number and where his phone is.’

  Everybody waited for the next instruction.

  ‘And as if we haven’t got enough going on, we had three apparent suicides last night. Whilst I’m not linking them to the shootings, I want us to have a look at them.’

  She ran her tongue around her mouth. She needed a drink.

  ‘I want the CCTV checking in the town centre re Scott Green, who was hit by the bus, and I want CCTV cameras and speed cameras checking for the vehicle Davy Swan and Jimmy Marshall were in.’

  ‘Any reason for that Boss?’

  Detective Sergeant Russ Chaddick, dickhead and barrack room lawyer, slouched in the chair, legs spread.

  ‘Three suicides in one night is extraordinary,’ Sam gave him a stare alive with authority. ‘I dislike extraordinary as much as I dislike coincidence. Sgt Russell Willings from Road Policing will liaise with us on this.’

  The eyes of the room swerved onto Chaddick, who gave a curt nod.

  Back in your box little man

  Satisfied, Sam continued: ‘The FLOs who visit Lucy’s family need to establish what the relationship was like with Zac Williams and any alteration in his behaviour. Jean Spragg, Lucy’s mother, has no time for him but dig deep as to why. I know Jean of old. Salt of the earth.’

  Sam thought of Jean, how she’d react to the news of Lucy’s death.

  ‘See if we can find out how much domestic abuse there really was between Lucy and Williams. We certainly don’t have the full picture yet.’

  She looked at the Police Search Adviser, Sergeant Ian Robinson.

  ‘Ian there’s a questionnaire already prepared in the HOLMES Room for your house-to-house team. For the time being, set the parameters as the cul-de-sac itself and any houses with gardens backing onto them.’

  Ian Robinson wrote down his instructions.

  ‘Ed,’ she cont
inued, ‘I want the youngsters Paul went to save interviewed by a specialist interviewer and I want them interviewing on camera. We also need to interview the neighbour who helped the lad who managed to run.’

  She drew breath, searched out Julie Trescothick in the crowd.

  ‘Julie, keep me updated with any developments and let me know when the ballistic expert arrives. Did you sort a team for the post mortems?’

  A nod from Julie.

  Sam scanned the room for Peter Hunt and made eye contact. ‘We need to have a quick word after the briefing.’

  Sam had worked with the press officer enough times to know his importance and value his skill. She would need him more than ever now.

  Sam continued. ‘I want the mobiles of each victim doing. For speed, just get me texts, incoming and outgoing calls from Friday. If we need to change those parameters later, we can.’

  She ran through her mental checklist, satisfied she had forgotten nothing.

  ‘Okay everybody let’s get cracking.’

  Chair legs scraped along the floor, people stood, chats began.

  Sam shouted: ‘And for God’s sake remember the place will be swarming with media so don’t get caught doing anything stupid on camera; that includes laughing, smoking or parking on yellow lines.’

  Officers filed out, talking amongst themselves.

  Peter Hunt followed Sam into the corridor.

  ‘Shall we do press conference at 10am?’ she asked.

  ‘Your call,’ Peter answered. Even through a long career as a hard-news print journalist he had never covered anything like this.

  ‘It’s a bun fight as you’d expect,’ he told Sam. ‘All the nationals are here, a few international as well. It’ll be a feeding frenzy. Do you need a hand prepare?’

  ‘I’m not doing it Peter.’

  Hunt’s mouth dropped a little, his eyes widened a lot. ‘Who is?’

  Sam explained that ACC Monica Teal would lead the press conference.

  ‘Is she capable?’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate Peter. Sorry.’

  Tara Paxton jumped as the interview door burst open.

  ‘Right Tara,’ Sam said, ‘you’re not under arrest. Do you understand?’