Dodgy. O’Connor smiled as he gently closed the car door behind him. It was a word that witnesses, and villains, often used to describe his own appearance. He was often ‘that dodgy-looking copper with the tash’ – hardly any of them remembered his name or his rank. Which suited O’Connor just fine. He’d spent enough time working in vice to know how to use his reputation to his advantage and even some of his colleagues thought he used questionable methods to get information. The irony was that he didn’t. He was as straight as Barratt or Hollis, they just made assumptions and it served his purpose not to correct them. Even this recce was far from illegal and he had every right to ask Sam about the lorries as part of an ongoing investigation. It just wasn’t part of his current brief and Fletcher would hand him his arse on a plate if she found out before he could deliver the result that he was sure would come. In time.
His shadow was long and lean as it flitted across the backs of the white lorries, each one precisely parked, lined up with the fence and equidistant from the next. O’Connor’s list was too long for him to memorise but short enough for him to check the vehicles quickly. A count showed him that two of the eight were missing. He ran through the registration numbers and put pencil ticks next to the two that were absent from the line-up. Now all he had to do was find out where they were and where they’d been.
It was after midnight when O’Connor finally left his desk at Doncaster Central. He’d checked the ANPR data and pored over a couple of days of CCTV but he’d found what he wanted. Both vehicles had left the country via the ferry port on the River Tyne near Newcastle at 5pm. The departure point tallied with what Sims had told them about hoping to exploit less busy routes to Europe. There was no indication of where the lorries took on their cargo – it could literally have been anywhere between Thorpe and Newcastle – and, obviously, there was no clue as to when they’d be back on British soil. All O’Connor could do was monitor the traffic cameras around the ferry port to see when the vehicles arrived and, possibly, where they went from there. It was a waiting game. Fortunately, O’Connor was good at waiting.
20
‘We’re now officially treating the three cases as connected.’ Kate started the briefing with the key point from her morning meeting with Das. When presented with Sylvia Kerr’s testimony the DCI had reluctantly agreed to revise her stance on the case and allow Kate’s team to include Olivia Thornbury’s death as an official part of the ongoing enquiry into the deaths of Peter and Eleanor Houghton and Julia Sullivan, with the proviso that there would be no statement to the press at this stage. It was a minor victory for Kate but a major step forward. With three cases came three lots of evidence and three opportunities for their killer to have made a mistake. It also meant that they could try to find witnesses to Olivia Thornbury’s movements in the weeks leading up to her death. Kate wasn’t sure how she could do that without involving the media, but she had to respect Das’s wishes on that score.
‘You managed to convince the DCI?’ Barratt’s eyes widened with surprise.
Kate nodded. ‘We’ve got two similar factors in all three cases – the mirrors and the notes.’
She picked up a marker pen and strode over to the whiteboard next to the window. ‘Look,’ she said, drawing a grid pattern and writing the names of the victims at the top of three columns. ‘The Houghton case overlaps Sullivan because of the tattoos on the two women.’ She wrote tattoo and ticked the appropriate columns.
‘The Thornbury case, while there’s a lack of tattoo, may suggest a link to Eleanor Houghton because her tattoo was a known lesbian symbol and Olivia Thornbury was gay.’ She wrote the word in the appropriate square of the grid. On the next row down, she wrote broken mirror and ticked across all three victims followed by note with three more ticks. She added diazepam and ticked the Houghton and Thornbury columns and, as an afterthought added another column for Rohypnol.
‘None of the victims had sought help for suicidal ideation. In fact, none of them were receiving any sort of counselling for mental health issues.’ Kate paused, taking stock. ‘We currently have no suspects and no motive for these murders beyond what’s stated in the notes – it’s time to go – whatever that means. The fact that only one case – Olivia Thornbury – was actually mistaken for a suicide suggests that the killer is not trying to hide the crimes but that the message may have been too subtle in the Thornbury case. I’m also convinced that Eleanor Houghton was the intended victim in the Turton murder – not her husband.’
‘He did another one and made sure we’d know it was murder,’ Barratt said. ‘There’s no point in sending a message if nobody understands it.’
‘I just wish we knew what the message was,’ Cooper muttered. Kate understood her frustration. Tasked with a trawl of CCTV and social media, Sam had been unable to find anything linking the three different cases. She’d found plenty of online information about Olivia Thornbury but it all seemed to relate to her career. Julia Sullivan was mainly mentioned in connection with her husband until her recent election to the local council.
‘Can we add religion to the list?’ Sam asked. ‘We know about Sullivan, and the Houghtons attended their local church. Olivia Thornbury was raised Catholic. I know we discussed it before, but it is a potential overlap.’
Kate nodded. She wasn’t convinced that this was the link, but it would be foolish to overlook it at such an early stage. She added it to the list and ticked the columns for the Houghtons and Sullivan then, after a second’s thought, put a question mark in the Thornbury column.
‘I know this is getting frustrating, but I think there are plenty of things to follow up. Barratt, O’Connor, I want you to interview the people that Olivia Thornbury climbed with. I got a list from her partner – there’s a club in Broomhill that Olivia attended. Start there.’
Kate looked up in time to see O’Connor yawn.
‘Am I keeping you awake, Steve?’ she snapped. She knew that he wasn’t completely convinced about the connection between these cases, but this was bordering on insolence. At least he had the good grace to look embarrassed.
‘Late night,’ he said. ‘Honestly. Nothing to do with this.’
Kate believed him. If there was one thing she’d learned about O’Connor it was that he was generally straightforward in sharing his opinions. Sarcasm wasn’t really his style when it came to commenting on cases. Downright defiance, yes, but at least he owned it when challenged.
‘Sam. I’ve put in a request for a voluntary disclosure of the medical history of Olivia Thornbury and Julia Sullivan. We’re waiting on the tox report on Julia. God knows what’s holding it up, but it might help us to see if she was on any medication. I’m expecting to hear back from both their GPs this morning. Both bereaved spouses support the request so it should be straightforward. I’m still working on the Houghtons’ doctor – I couldn’t get hold of him yesterday, but I’ll have another go later. I’ve also requested case notes from Olivia Thornbury’s supposed suicide and from Julia Sullivan’s car accident. All the paperwork is on file, but I wanted to see the physical evidence as well. If the courier arrives while I’m out, take the boxes and feel free to have a rummage.’
That was a lot to burden Cooper with, but Kate felt that they needed a breakthrough and she had a hunch that it might lie in the jobs that she’d allocated to the DC.
‘Dan. I want to interview Sadie Sullivan to find out who her mother might have been having an affair with. If she can’t give us a name, then we’re back here helping Cooper. Everybody know what they’re doing?’
Nods from her colleagues and then chairs began to shuffle as they got ready to leave.
‘There are four murders here,’ Kate said. ‘The gap between the Houghtons and Julia Sullivan was only a couple of days. He or she could well be escalating. Let’s put a stop to this, okay?’
This time the movements of her team were more purposeful, determined.
21
‘And you’d never heard of her?’ Hollis asked as he pressed t
he button next to the imposing front door of Sadie Sullivan’s house on Doncaster’s South Parade. Sandwiched between a veterinary practice and a solicitor’s office, the Georgian house was separated from the busy road by a tiny strip of gravel and a low wall. It could easily have been mistaken for a doctor’s surgery or an exclusive gallery, being rather grand for a private home.
‘Not my kind of reading material,’ Kate said. She’d looked Sadie’s books up on the internet but none of the titles rang any bells – they had all been published after her son would have had an interest in such stories. ‘Barbara Cartland’s more my style.’
Hollis turned to her in surprise then grinned when he read her expression. ‘I’d have had you down as a fan of the classics,’ he said. ‘Wuthering Heights and all that Jane Austen stuff.’
Kate laughed. Given the pressures of the job, reading wasn’t something she found much time for; she was much more likely to unwind with a pizza, a beer and a box set. She did know, however, that Hollis had a weakness for fantasy and horror novels. ‘Did all that at uni,’ she said. ‘Now I’m more likely to read the bran flakes packet than the Brontës.’
‘Well, somebody’s buying books,’ Hollis said with a nod towards the front door with its shiny black gloss paint. ‘Most of these buildings are flats or offices, she must be doing well to have been able to afford this.’
Before Kate could respond, the door was opened, not by the servant in an Edwardian maid’s uniform that Kate had imagined lurking in the below-stairs scullery, but by Sadie Sullivan herself.
‘Detective Inspector Fletcher,’ she said, pushing a pair of reading glasses up into her thick hair where they held a few stray wisps off her face. ‘And?’ She turned to Hollis expectantly.
‘DC Dan Hollis,’ he responded holding out his ID card.
‘Has something happened? Have you found out who killed my mother?’ The woman held onto the side of the door, barring entry into the house and seemed unlikely to invite them inside without prompting.
‘If we could have a few moments of your time,’ Kate said with a smile. ‘I think it’s best that we don’t discuss the case on the doorstep.’
Sadie stepped back allowing Kate and Hollis to pass her. ‘Straight ahead,’ she said. ‘I just need to save my work and I’ll be with you.’
The tiled hallway led to an intimidatingly modern kitchen equipped with devices whose function Kate could only guess at. She took in the huge double fridge, the range cooker with six-ring hob and the island workspace that was almost the size of the entire kitchen in Kate’s flat. The dark-red walls were half tiled in a black-and-white chessboard pattern, a series of brightly coloured, framed book covers adding a quirky touch to the otherwise austere finish. This wasn’t what she’d expected, and she found herself wondering who Sadie shared the house with.
Hollis was craning his neck sideways, reading brand names on the stainless-steel coffee maker and microwave oven. Kate knew he was a self-proclaimed coffee snob and had his own state-of-the-art machine in his flat in Bentley.
‘Impressed?’ she whispered.
‘Very. That coffee machine costs three times what I paid for mine. I hope she offers us a brew.’
‘Of course,’ Sadie said from the doorway. The glasses had been removed and her hair was neatly tied back. She was wearing a pale-blue vest top and navy capris which revealed her calves and bare feet. ‘What’s your “brew” of choice? Cappuccino? Latte? Macchiato?’
‘Cappuccino please,’ Hollis mumbled, his face flushed pink with embarrassment.
‘DI Fletcher? You look like the complicated type. Let me guess… ristretto?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Too strong for me. A latte would be good, thanks.’
After seating her guests at the breakfast bar which overlooked a small but immaculate patch of garden through a sash window, Sadie fussed with the drinks, spooning out beans and using a jug to measure exact quantities of milk. She placed Hollis’s coffee in front of him with a flourish.
‘Sugar’s just there.’ She pointed to a silver canister next to Hollis’s elbow.
The latte took longer and then Sadie made herself an iced coffee which seemed an even more complicated procedure. Kate had the feeling that the woman wasn’t used to visitors and was demonstrating the full range of the expensive machine.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Hollis exclaimed, taking a sip of his drink. ‘What beans do you use?’
‘A local roaster,’ Sadie said as she perched on a stool next to the island. ‘Small batch. They call themselves Peak Perc – Sheffield based.’
‘I’ve not heard of them,’ Hollis said. ‘I’ll have to give them a try.’
Kate sipped her latte. It was good but she really couldn’t tell the difference between one bean and another.
‘Well, that’s the small talk done,’ Sadie said. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ She stared at Kate, amber eyes wide and expectant.
‘We just need to follow up on a few issues raised by our conversation with you at your mother’s house. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss and I completely understand if you find the circumstances of her death difficult to discuss but any information you can give us may help us to catch whoever did this to Julia.’
The woman’s composure was impressive considering how recently she’d found her mother murdered. She nodded and took another sip of her coffee. ‘Ask away. Anything to help.’
Hollis flipped open his notebook. ‘Can we start with the night your mother didn’t turn up for your appointment? You said you weren’t really surprised, that you suspected she was having an affair?’
Sadie wrinkled her nose. ‘Did I say that? I think I was in shock. Dad only moved out a few weeks ago and I think her religion might have forbidden that kind of thing.’
‘You sound sceptical about her conversion. Did you not approve of her choice?’
Sadie snorted and took another sip of her drink. ‘Choice? It was like she was on some kind of mission to be as offensive as possible to as many people. If that’s religion, then you can keep it.’
‘Offensive how?’
The sound of a glass being slammed down onto the marble worktop was shocking in the quiet kitchen. ‘You must have read about her rants about refugees, about foreigners, about bloody Brexit? Christ, sometimes I was really embarrassed to admit I was related to her.’
‘And yet you cared enough to go to her house in the early hours of the morning to check that she was okay…’
‘She was my mother!’
Hollis didn’t even flinch. Kate watched as he raised his mug to his lips, eyes fixed on his notes and then continued as though he was unaware of Sadie’s raised voice.
‘She had a car accident,’ Hollis said. ‘Your father says that’s what brought about the change. Would you agree?’
Sadie rested her chin on one fist, her eyes becoming unfocused. ‘Maybe. But you have to take everything he says with a couple of spoonfuls of salt. I think their marriage was struggling for years and her new views gave him the excuse he’d been looking for. You know he left on his birthday?’
Hollis nodded.
‘Typical. He loves drama. When we’re out people stare at him even if they don’t realise who he is. He plays up to it, preening and raising his voice. Last month a woman thought he was Brian Blessed and he was insulted. Imagine that! Prick.’
Kate looked out of the window to hide the smile in her eyes as she remembered Hollis’s comment when they’d visited the artist. It seemed that Sadie Sullivan had little time or patience for either of her parents. It was interesting background, but she needed to move the interview on to the night of the murder.
‘You told me when we spoke before that you waited until it was light to go to your mother’s house. Why was that? Why not just drive round there when you started to get anxious?’
‘I don’t drive.’
‘At all?’ Kate asked, surprised.
‘No. I learnt as a teenager, but I decided that I didn’t want to own
a car. It’s an environmental choice.’
‘So how did you get to your mother’s house? It’s a hell of a walk.’ Hollis was leaning forwards on his stool, obviously puzzled.
‘I cycled. I have an electric bike. To be honest I’d rather have a normal bike, but I use it as my main form of transport and cycling on a standard bike would have me arriving hot and sweaty to important meetings. Not a good look. It’s a compromise, I suppose.’
Unlike the house, Kate thought. The marble and gadgets seemed in stark contrast to Sadie’s claim of a real concern for the environment. Some people were like that though. Kate had worked with a woman in Cumbria who was a stickler for recycling, anti-plastic and grew her own organic veg but when she left for work, she left a light and the radio on because she didn’t like coming home to a dark, empty house.
‘How long does it take to cycle to your mother’s house?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-five minutes. There’s an old railway track just past the racecourse which takes me most of the way. It’s not lit though, hence the need to wait until it was light. I’ve got bike lights but I wouldn’t feel safe on the track in the dark.’ She ran a hand through her hair, pulling out the elastic tie that had been holding it in a ponytail, and drained her glass of coffee.
‘When did your mother get her tattoo?’ Kate asked, hoping the abrupt change of topic might help to focus Sadie’s thoughts.
‘When she was much younger,’ Sadie said. ‘Fancied herself as a feminist. She didn’t show it to dad for months but, in the end, I think he quite liked it.’ She smiled to herself, it was obviously a happy memory.
Shattered: a gripping crime thriller Page 12