‘Dunno,’ Kate said, reading to the bottom of the message. ‘Just got full forensics back from Julia Sullivan’s house.’
‘Wiped clean?’ Barratt guessed. ‘Bugger-all in terms of evidence?’
Kate ignored him. ‘Dan, when did Lincoln Sullivan say he’d last been at the house?’
‘April.’
‘Damn.’
The report revealed three sets of fingerprints. Those of Julia, Lincoln and Sadie Sullivan. All three had valid reasons for their fingerprints being in the house even if they hadn’t been there for two months or longer.
‘This makes no sense,’ Kate said. Hollis left his desk and moved to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder.
‘So, no sign of anybody else having been in the house?’ he said. ‘That’s just like at the Houghtons’.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Kate said. ‘At the Houghtons’ bungalow we had clear evidence that the killer had wiped down surfaces, put things in the dishwasher, even vacuumed the fucking carpets.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hollis take half a step back, obviously shocked by her outburst.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But it’s so frustrating. Why did they clear up at the Houghtons’ but not here? How could they leave no trace without doing some sort of cleaning?’
‘Gloves?’ Hollis suggested. ‘If Julia was in the bath then the killer could have walked upstairs with minimal contact with door handles and surfaces.’
Kate had thought about gloves. It made a kind of sense except for one detail. ‘There was no sign of a break-in,’ she said. ‘We’d been working on the assumption that Julia let her killer into the house. Wouldn’t she have noticed if she’d been wearing latex gloves, or any gloves? And why would she get in the bath if she had a visitor? There were no signs of a struggle either in the house or on her body.’
‘She?’
‘I’m currently thinking the killer is another woman from Greenham. It makes sense.’
Hollis’s eyes drifted off as he considered this probability. ‘Why? Couldn’t it have been another police officer – they were mostly men? Or an irate husband who blames the Greenham women for corrupting his wife or daughter or sister?’
Hollis was right but she felt that the reasons he’d suggested were a little tenuous. There was also the question of trust. Liv Thornbury and Julia Sullivan had been alone when they met their killer – would they have been as likely to trust a man as a woman? Why would Julia allow a strange man into her home? And why would Olivia Thornbury have met a man in a remote place in the early hours of the morning unless he was somebody who she didn’t perceive as a threat, somebody she knew? And the Houghtons. Would they have let a strange man into their house? They were both elderly and vulnerable but she got the impression that Peter Houghton was shrewd and wouldn’t have easily been conned.
As she was about to share her thoughts with the team, a detail from the report caught her eye. There were no fingerprints on the shard of mirror that had been used to make the incisions in Julia’s wrists and neck. Had the killer slipped gloves on to break the mirror and then attack Julia Sullivan after drugging her and placing her in the bath?
‘There is another scenario that makes sense,’ Cooper said. ‘Why wipe everything down if there’s a valid reason for your prints to be in the house? It’s very time-consuming. Why not just wipe the murder weapon?’
‘You think Lincoln or Sadie could have done this?’
Cooper shrugged. ‘Neither of them has an alibi. Lincoln was estranged from his wife because of her extreme politics and Sadie admits that she wasn’t happy about her mother’s views.’
‘But they’d have realised the change was due to her head injury, surely and been lenient with her?’
Hollis shook his head. ‘Both of them seem to blame her religious conversion for her views. Neither Sadie nor Lincoln mentioned the head injury.’
Was it possible that Julia Sullivan’s daughter and husband didn’t know the extent of the damage caused by her car crash? Kate found it hard to believe, but the woman could have kept medical details from her family if she’d thought she had a good reason for doing so.
‘How old would Sadie have been in 1983 or 4?’
‘Eight or nine,’ Cooper said. ‘Old enough to remember her mother disappearing for weeks on end. Old enough to harbour resentment towards the women who kept her away.’
‘Or does her husband blame the women in some way?’ Hollis added.
‘We need to speak to both of them again. Where the hell are they?’
‘I don’t know where they are now, but I know where Lincoln Sullivan will be tomorrow morning,’ Cooper said. ‘There’s a gathering of local dignitaries at the National Coal Mining Museum in Wakefield to witness the unveiling of his painting. I read about it on his website earlier. It’s some sort of preview event. He’s expected to be there.’
‘Well, he won’t be expecting us to be there. Let’s give him a surprise.’
32
O’Connor was sweating. It was nearly 11pm and every pore seemed to be oozing moisture. He glanced around at his colleagues who, thankfully, all seemed to be experiencing the same symptom. He didn’t want them to think he was anxious or uncomfortable. It was the bloody trees. They seemed to have trapped the heat of the day and were now sending it down in waves to warm the ground and the unfortunate officers sheltering beneath them. He almost expected to start sprouting fungi on his face and stab vest, emerging from the forest like some hairy, ancient Rip Van Winkle when he finally made the arrest.
Everything had happened so fast. Border Force had pulled the records of all Sims’s drivers who were routed through Port of Tyne and had found two with convictions for minor offences. One had been fined for common assault and the other had been caught driving without due care and attention. Privately, O’Connor wondered if these had been used as leverage by Sims when he was recruiting drivers for his new scheme, offering them jobs when other companies probably wouldn’t have. That would have to wait until after this evening’s operation – then there’d be plenty of time to interview the key players. Northumbria Police had put together a team to intercept the lorry in Kielder Forest and had agreed to allow O’Connor to make the arrest so the case could be passed back to South Yorkshire Police. Even DCI Das had been supportive and allowed O’Connor to take part in the operation despite his involvement with the murder case that his team was currently investigating.
His Airwave radio crackled into life. ‘Target has turned off just before Bellingham, heading to Kielder. Comms muted.’
The lorry was obviously following the same route as before – it may even have been the same driver, but O’Connor was doubtful. He’d have thought Sims allowed time between each trip to swap drivers regularly. He slipped the radio into the pocket on the shoulder of his vest in case one of the lights flashed and alerted the lorry driver to their presence, then shifted position to get a clearer view of the dark mouth of the car park’s entrance.
He checked his watch, covering the glow from the digital display with a cupped palm. Ten minutes, he reckoned. Ten minutes and a white lorry should be appearing in front of them. Unless this driver had chosen a different route. Or a different car park. Shit, how stupid would O’Connor look if nobody turned up? Or if a group of illegal immigrants was found wandering round another pulling-in place?
He didn’t dare to check his watch again and had no sense of how much time had passed since he’d last risked a glance. Three minutes? Five? Ten?
The absolute silence of the night was broken by the distant sound of a vehicle engine. O’Connor tensed his muscles and held his breath, keeping perfectly still. The sound came closer, moving at speed until it was next to their hiding place then it sped past, Dopplering into the distance.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled under his breath.
Another engine, this one deeper, rumbling like something prehistoric was emerging from the oppressive forest. Closer. Lights arcing across the gravel. A white lorry pul
led slowly into the dark clearing like a liner pulling up to a silent quay. Light spilled out of the cab as the driver’s door opened, splashing the ground a sulphurous yellow.
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The driver climbed down and went to the back. He seemed to take an age to unfold the lifting platform and open the doors. Then he disappeared briefly before reappearing burdened with a pile of boxes. Three more trips into the black interior and then another figure appeared.
‘Police!’ a shout went up and then there was movement everywhere. O’Connor fixed on the driver and ran towards him while his colleagues approached the other man. Exactly as planned. But then a dark figure cut across O’Connor’s path and he stumbled briefly before continuing forwards.
‘Fuck!’ There was no sign of the driver. Men swarmed the platform at the rear of the lorry, pulling and dragging three shapes which looked like bundles of clothes but could only have been the stowaways from the hidden section of the lorry’s interior.
‘Where’s the driver?’ he yelled, scanning the scene. Four heads turned to him, but it was obvious nobody knew.
‘Where did he go?’ O’Connor repeated, turning to look at the wall of black trees. His colleagues had formed a huddle with their captives a few yards from the lorry; nobody seemed to be looking for the driver.
A metallic slam had O’Connor spinning back round to the lorry. The bastard had climbed back into the cab and was trying to start the engine. The vehicle roared into life and the white reversing lights turned the scrum of men into a monochrome freeze-frame as the lorry turned.
‘No you don’t!’ O’Connor shouted, running to the entrance to the car park to block the driver’s exit route. He stood, arms outstretched, as the driver stopped.
‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Stop.’
The lorry seemed to pause, listening as he stood facing it down, David against Goliath, squinting against the full beam of the vehicle’s headlights. Then it roared and the suddenly the lights got closer and brighter. O’Connor was aware of people shouting. He heard his name.
Then there was only darkness.
33
‘This looks like the entrance to a nature reserve or a 1970s holiday camp,’ Hollis said as he led the way to the glass doors of the National Coal Mining Museum.
‘What do you know about the seventies?’ Kate asked. ‘When were you born? 1997?’
Hollis shook his head in disgust. She knew his real year of birth and it seemed he wasn’t going to rise to the bait, not this morning. He had a point though. The green-and-white single-storey building definitely looked like something from another era – Kate thought youth centre circa 1985 – but it was probably the least interesting part of the site.
Despite having been brought up in a mining community, Kate had never been in a coal mine. Her own father and most of her friends’ dads had worked down the pit and she suspected some of the boys she went to school with ended up there, at least for a couple of years, before they were all closed, but it wasn’t women’s work. She knew of a cousin of a friend who worked in the colliery offices and her own grandmother was rumoured to have been a cleaner at the pithead baths but she’d died when Kate was two so she’d never known if there was any truth to the story. She’d been to Beamish Museum in County Durham with her son, Ben, when he was at junior school, but he hadn’t been interested in the mining village or the replica pit; he wanted to get on and off the trams and spend an hour in the sweet shop. Kate had tried to explain what his granddad had done for a living, but she might as well have been talking about the Romans or the Vikings for all Ben had understood about his family history.
When the Mining Museum had first opened, she’d been tempted to visit – to try to fully understand what the struggles of the men had been for, to experience the hardships second-hand but, somehow, she’d never got round to it. She knew that there were activities and exhibitions inside that might interest her, but she’d always felt odd going to places like this without a child or two in tow. Not that kids would be overly interested in reading about the role of women in the miners’ strike of the 1980s or looking at paintings depicting mining through the ages – two of the attractions that appealed to Kate. The big draw for children was the ‘authentic’ pit experience – going underground in the cage-like lift and visiting the coal face in the company of an ex-miner. She suspected the adventure playground came a close second.
As she pushed open the door to the reception area a sea of heads turned in her direction, facial expressions ranging from quizzical to the open annoyance of Lincoln Sullivan who was facing the door, addressing the crowd. Kate nodded in his direction and went to stand at the rear of the gathering, folding her arms and leaning against a square concrete pillar – directly in Sullivan’s eyeline. Hollis mimicked her posture in a position close to the door. She knew they were being far from subtle but there was nothing to be gained from pouncing on Sullivan in private and she wanted to see if their presence put him off his stride or made him obviously nervous.
Dressed in his trademark faded jeans and oversized black T-shirt, Sullivan looked out of place amongst the suits and tidy hairstyles of the people who’d turned up to see the painting unveiled. The artist drew his eyes away from Kate’s, ran a hand through his tousled grey hair and resumed his speech.
‘I’m often asked whether I’m a real Yorkshireman,’ he said with what might have passed for a self-deprecating grin on a less formidable man. ‘It’s the name. Lincoln seems to suggest southern and middle class to a lot of people. Or American – we know how fond they are of using surnames as first names.’
A murmur of recognition buzzed around the audience like the low hum of electric current.
‘So, I’ll tell you the truth,’ he continued. ‘I’m Irish. Not born and bred but four generations removed. My great-great-grandmother was a huge fan of the US president who welcomed those fleeing the famine and encouraged them to fight in the war against slavery. It’s claimed that he kissed the Irish flag as thanks for services rendered and in recognition of his recognition.’ Sullivan paused, clearly expecting a response to his wordplay. When none was forthcoming, he went on, ‘My ancestor insisted that her son call his first male heir Lincoln. That tradition has been passed down through the family – fortunately, I’ve produced a single daughter so it looks like it might grind to a halt with me.’
A ripple of polite laughter greeted this last remark and Kate tuned out when Sullivan went on to describe his inspiration and his process. She didn’t know what he’d said to the assembled crowd before they’d arrived but there was no mention of his late wife. It seemed that, for Lincoln Sullivan, it was business as usual.
The artist stepped to one side to allow a well-dressed woman in her forties to take centre stage. She introduced herself as director of the museum, thanked Sullivan and then did a brief warm-up to the big reveal. The event was overly theatrical and Kate had to avoid Hollis’s eyes a couple of times – this was just the sort of thing that could make the DC behave like a bored schoolboy.
The cloth covering the painting was removed in a grand sweep of white cotton and the painting that Kate had admired in Sullivan’s studio suddenly dominated the space. Appreciative sighs and knowing mutters swept through the assembled guests as, en masse, they moved forward for a closer look.
Kate seized an opportunity to get closer to Lincoln Sullivan and tugged at his sleeve. ‘A word?’
Huge eyebrows drew together in a fierce scowl as the artist frowned down at her. ‘Now?’
‘It can’t wait.’ Kate fought the urge to apologise for the interruption as she followed Sullivan to a small office behind the reception desk.
‘What’s this about?’ he demanded, glancing at Hollis who had entered the room and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘We need to talk to you again about your wife’s murder,’ Kate said. ‘We have new evidence, and it suggests you may have further questions to answer about the night she died.’
Sullivan pe
rched on the edge of the office desk, leaning forwards, glaring at Kate. ‘What evidence?’
Kate took a breath. She knew the forensics were not conclusive and there was nothing that would stand up in court but, she believed, if she could wrong-foot Sullivan she might just trick him into making an error.
‘When was your wife at Greenham Common?’ she asked.
Sullivan’s eyes widened and he sat back, looking at Hollis as if for support. ‘What the hell has that got to do…?’
‘We think her murder may be linked to her activities at the peace camp,’ Kate continued, deliberately vague. ‘Could you answer the question please?’
Sullivan shook his mane of grey hair as if in disbelief. ‘She started going in 1982. There was a chain letter going round calling for women to attend some sort of protest and she joined in with that. Then she went back at every opportunity for a couple of years.’
‘Every opportunity? So she went back often?’
‘Yes. She sometimes spent weeks there.’
‘Did she tell you anything about her experiences? Name any friends she made?’
‘Probably. But it’s a hell of a long time ago. The world’s changed a lot since then. Why would I be able to remember the names of a handful of women that my wife knew?’
He was getting riled, Kate could tell, but he didn’t seem defensive. If anything, he was puzzled by her approach. Time to change tack. ‘And you were last in your wife’s house when?’
Sullivan just stared at her as if he was trying to make sense of the question. When he replied, Kate noticed a subtle shift in his tone. He was suspicious and guarded.
‘I don’t recall what I told you,’ he said. ‘But I left the house on April 14th and haven’t set foot in it since. And, for the record, it’s not my wife’s house; mine is the only name on the mortgage.’
‘You definitely haven’t been back?’
Sullivan made no comment or gesture to confirm or deny his statement. Instead, he started to scrub at the palm of one hand with the thumbnail of the other. Kate could see flecks of white paint drifting to the carpet like dandruff as the artist picked at the skin. He was obviously trying to create the impression that he was totally at ease as he looked away from his hands and back at her face.
Shattered: a gripping crime thriller Page 19