by Bill Rogers
‘Oh, Jo. That’s so sad. Never mind, you’ll soon be over here, on The Quays—’ There followed a nervous pause as Agata weighed the impact of her next few words. When they came, it was in a rush, on the outbreath. ‘—with me.’
‘Can’t wait,’ spluttered Jo through a mouthful of tomato, spinach, goats cheese, and basil.
‘It sounds like you’ve had an awful day,’ said Agata. ‘Bad enough there were two more victims but having to cope with all those mules as well.’
‘Mules?’ said Jo. ‘What mules?’
Agata laughed. ‘Check your text. The four hundred you drove?’
Jo smiled, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and licked off a smear of goats’ cheese. ‘I was in too much of a hurry to check. I felt guilty because I hadn’t got back to you.’ She picked up another slice.
‘Never mind about that,’ said Agata. ‘I wanted to tell you that I’m heading back north to Manchester.’
Jo’s spirits lifted. ‘When?’
‘In the morning.’
‘You finished the story you were working on?’
‘No, not exactly. It’s on hold at the moment. It’s complicated. I’ll explain when I see you. What I wanted to tell you is that I’ve been asked to cover the story of the missing girl. Melissa Walsh?’
Jo’s heart sank. She had no idea how to respond.
‘Jo?’ said Agata. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Uh huh,’ Jo managed.
Agata picked up on the change in vibe. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I realise this could be tricky, but I’m sure we can work around it. We did with your last investigation, didn’t we, even though we were not in a relationship at that time? After all, it’s not as though you’re leading the investigation?’
Jo’s mouth had dried up. The piece of pizza she’d been chewing was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She poked at it with her tongue and tried swallowing.
Agata ploughed on. ‘I’ll pursue my own sources, I promise not to ask you for any information, and I won’t use anything you tell me that you don’t want me to.’ There was still no response. ‘Of course, if you think there’s a conflict of interest, I’ll just tell them no. That’s one of the advantages of being freelance.’
Jo swallowed again, this time successfully. ‘You don’t need to do that,’ she responded. ‘Like you said, I’m sure we’ll be able to work it out.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Agata, as though it was already a done deal. ‘Look, Jo, I’ll let you finish your pizza and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll ring tomorrow when I’m back on The Quays. I’ll help you shift your stuff and fix you dinner at mine. Then I’ll know you’re getting some decent food down you. We can catch up properly over a bottle of wine.’
She sounded so young and enthusiastic that it made Jo feel even more exhausted. Old, even.
‘Let’s see how tomorrow pans out first,’ she said, immediately regretting her lack of positivity. ‘I can’t wait to see you, Aggie,’ she added. ‘I really missed you.’
‘Me too.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Good luck with the investigation. And remember, Jo, you’ve got to start taking care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Jo switched off her phone. Suddenly, the three remaining slices of pizza had lost their appeal. She closed the box, picked it up, and went through to the kitchen. She wrapped the leftovers in foil and placed them in the fridge. Then she poured herself a glass of milk, took it into the bedroom, and undressed.
She turned on the shower, closed her eyes, and imagined herself under a waterfall in a tropical rainforest as the cascade of water swept away eighteen hours of sweat, stress, and frustration.
Agata threw her phone on the bed and lay down beside it. She was beginning to regret not having been totally honest. She told herself she was simply being sensitive to the pressure Jo must be under right now. But deep down, she knew that she’d really been worried about herself. About how Jo might react if she knew the truth. About how that might damage their fragile, embryonic relationship.
What would it have cost for her, she wondered, to have admitted that she was not in fact freelance at this moment? That she’d taken on a lucrative six-month contract, and that when the small print had been pointed out to her, after she’d signed up, it turned out to be far more flexible from her employer’s point of view than she had anticipated.
‘Ah, Agata,’ the commissioning editor had crooned. ‘How are you getting on with the honour killing story?’
‘It’s early days,’ she’d replied, ‘but I’ve made some useful contacts and I have some very promising leads.’
‘Good, good.’ He had turned and looked out from his twenty-first-floor eyrie on Canary Wharf, across the Thames towards Greenwich. ‘Only we’d like you to put that on hold for the moment.’ He had swivelled to face her. ‘We’d like you to pop back up north and see what you can dig out on these serial ricin attacks.’
Agata remembered blushing at the time, just as she was doing now. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ she’d said.
‘Why not?’ he’d demanded. There had been something about his expression that told her he already knew the answer.
‘Because there’s a conflict of interest,’ she’d told him. ‘I’m in a relationship with the Senior Investigating Officer.’
His smile was lizard-like. Fixed and contemptuous.
‘Which is, of course, precisely why we chose you, Ms Kowalski.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d replied. ‘I can’t do it. It’s a question of ethics.’
The smile faded. ‘Since when did ethics have anything to do with journalism?’
She’d been tempted to remind him of the five core principles of journalism, and how the second of them – independence – included matters of conflict of interest but she could see she was wasting her time.
Faced with her obdurate silence he had picked up the contract from his desk and waved it at her like a headmaster with an end-of-term report.
‘In which case,’ he said, ‘your refusal amounts to an immediate termination of your contract and will require the return of such monies as have been paid to date, or alternatively, copies of all the data you have compiled on the project commissioned by us, including the names of contacts you have established.’
Before she had a chance to reply his expression softened. His tone conciliatory.
‘There is an alternative. The case of the missing schoolgirl. What was her name again?’
‘Melissa. Melissa Walsh.’ She mentally kicked herself for having been sucked into a reply.
‘Melissa. That’s the one. Well, if you tell me you’re prepared to get us an exclusive on that – without compromising your commendable principles – then I’m sure we can find someone else to pick up the ricin affair.’
Agata kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed. She felt certain that this had been his endgame all along. That he had been playing her. Perhaps he knew how much she had depended on this contract for the final payment on her apartment on The Quays?
Jo would have understood, she felt sure of that. But it wasn’t a gamble she was prepared to take. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Chapter 49
Melissa held her breath and strained to hear above the howling wind. There it was again. An owl hooting. She’d heard it twice the night before. She guessed that meant they were holding her somewhere in the countryside, on the outskirts of the city.
On the other hand, those planes low overhead must mean that the airport was close by. To relieve the boredom, she’d started counting the intervals between them. She’d worked out that it depended on the time of day. Sometimes they were as little as thirty seconds apart, one following close on the heels of the next. But at night-time they seemed to stop completely, starting again in the early hours of the morning. Because of the engine noise that grew steadil
y louder but never changed in tone, she felt sure they were inbound, slowly losing height as they prepared to land. Not the sudden deafening roar of take-off she was accustomed to on their twice-yearly flights to Majorca, that slowly faded as the plane gained height. That was a clue, wasn’t it?
And then there were the clues she’d picked up about the men who were holding her. There were three of them. And they were all men; she could tell by their voices. Only two of them ever spoke in her presence but she heard them talking to each other downstairs from time to time. Mainly first thing in the morning and again in the evening. There was a high-pitched squeaky voice that she felt sure must belong to the tall thin one. She’d christened him Gollum because sometimes he sounded like a cat sicking up fur balls. Then there was the shorter one, about the same height as her dad, with a broad chest, powerful arms, and mean eyes. He was The Boxer – the one with the Manc accent, the one who did talk to her. If growling commands qualified as talking. The last of them, she’d only caught glimpses of in the doorway behind the others. She was beginning to think he must be a foreigner. He had the look of one of those travellers who put their vans on the spare land by the Apollo.
She felt pleased with herself. Surely all this would help the police to identify them when she was released.
She shuddered involuntarily. They were going to release her, weren’t they? They had to. They wouldn’t dare keep her here much longer. They must know what her dad would do when he got hold of them. Well, maybe not him personally, but Skanky Morris and Dad’s other ‘associates’. And the police would be looking for her too.
She opened and closed the fingers of both hands to relieve the cramp. They’d taken the plastic ties off her wrists and ankles that morning but had replaced them with what she thought was nylon rope and tied that to the bed frame, top and bottom. It meant she had less movement, but at least the pain wasn’t so bad now. The worst had been when they’d cut the ties off. The blood rushing back into her fingers and toes had hurt so much it made her scream, and one of them had clamped his hand over her mouth. She’d tried to bite him and received a slap across the face that stung for ages. The funny thing was, the pain, it had made her feel alive. Made her angry. Shaken her out of the pit of self-pity she’d fallen into.
A new noise caught her attention. It reminded her of their ride-on lawnmower back home. Except that this was overhead and getting louder. A helicopter! That’s what it was – a helicopter. It must be the police searching for her. Her heart began to thump uncontrollably. She struggled to free her hands and legs, straining at the rope, ignoring the pain as the nylon bit into her skin. She tried to shout but it came out as a muffled croak.
The helicopter was right overhead now, hovering. They must know she was here. They’d see the vehicles. Wonder what they were doing here. They’d send someone to investigate.
She imagined men, dressed all in black, automatic rifles slung across their backs, abseiling down from the helicopter to rescue her. She willed them to come and get her.
The sound changed as the helicopter climbed, turned, and moved away. Steadily receding, until all that was left was the howling of the wind, the patter of rain on the windowpanes, and the sobbing sound as she cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 50
DAY FIVE – FRIDAY, 20TH OCTOBER
‘Ma’am.’ Phone in hand, Nick Carter waved to her from across the incident room, covering the microphone as she approached. ‘It’s the Manchester Coroner’s Service Manager,’ he said. ‘A Mrs Janice Westwell. We may have a lead.’
‘She’s in early,’ Jo replied.
‘I got her number last night and texted her. Told her that her former boss had been attacked and we urgently needed her help.’
He took his hand away and spoke into the phone. ‘Thanks for holding, Janice. I’ve got my boss, SI Stuart, with me. I’m going to put you on the speakerphone. Can you please tell her what you just told me?’
‘Of course.’ She had one of those cultured accents that was impossible to place. ‘Mr Carter asked me if I could think of any inquests held by Ms Rand that were followed by serious threats or harassment. There were several that sprang to mind, but I checked our record of restraining orders just to be sure. There were two that stood out. One Mr Carter tells me you were already aware of . . .’
‘Aaron Teesdale,’ said Jo, willing her to get to the point.
‘That’s right. The other one followed a particularly distressing case. A fifteen-year-old girl, Elaine Clements, who was found dead in her own bedroom by her father. The post-mortem found she’d died from an overdose. The finding of the inquest was misadventure. Death from a self-administered opiate. In essence, drug misuse.’
‘What was the opiate?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘And the father was unhappy with the verdict?’
‘The father was distraught, angry, and abusive. He made wild threats when the verdict was read out and had to be restrained and led from the court. I remember it well because I had to apply for a restraining order on Heather’s behalf. It didn’t stop him sending vile anonymous letters to the office and to her home. Anyone else and she’d have reported him to the police.’
‘But she didn’t?’
‘No. She felt sorry for him. That was typical of Heather – too soft for her own good.’
‘When was the inquest?’
There was a pause while she checked.
‘Six years ago. January 2011.’
‘The same year O’Neill was put inside,’ Carter observed.
Jo flashed him a warning look.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the service manager.
‘Nothing,’ said Jo. ‘It was just an aside. Tell me, was there a jury, or did Ms Rand handle it alone?’
‘It was a Coroner’s inquest. There was no jury.’
‘How long did the threats and harassment go on for?’
‘Several months, on and off. But for several years afterwards we’d receive a card in the mail on the anniversary of the inquest.’
‘What kind of card?’
‘A remembrance card – like the ones people distribute at funerals? I have in front of me the last one that we were sent, back in 2015. It has a photograph of the young woman on the front, her name, the date on which she died. Underneath that is written: MUCH LOVED. GREATLY MISSED. NEVER FORGOTTEN. And then there’s a drawing of a heart with a large hole in the centre.’ She paused. ‘It’s really rather sad.’
‘Do you have the father’s name and address to hand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’d appreciate a copy of your file and of the inquest proceedings,’ said Jo. ‘Could you arrange that for me?’
‘Certainly. I’ll do it straight away.’
‘In that case, I’ll send someone over for them later this morning.’
‘I can email them right now if that would help?’
‘That would be brilliant, Mrs Westwell. Thank you for all your help.’
‘Not at all. I hope you catch whoever it was who attacked poor Heather.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jo. ‘We will.’
The email arrived two minutes later. Jo spent the next five minutes speed-reading the attachments, then stood up, caught Nick’s attention through the glass and beckoned to him.
‘Did you find anything interesting?’ he asked, closing the door behind him.
‘It’s as she said,’ Jo replied. ‘The verdict of misadventure was inevitable. Had it been a listed company I’ve no doubt the CPS would have brought a corporate manslaughter charge, but it was a self-administered Class A drug and neither the supplier nor the dealer had been identified. Besides, who’s to say if it was the size of the dose she took, or the purity of the cocaine that was responsible?’
‘What about the forensic analysis?’
Jo shook her head. ‘She went up to her room at nine-thirty the evening before she died. The father didn’t find her until eight in the morning. We know that cocaine has a half-life of
an hour and given that there was no telling when she took it, they were unable to come up with a reliable estimate of how much she took. The whole thing was complicated by the fact that she was clearly new to drug-taking, which meant that whatever dose she took, her body was always going to react in a more extreme way than if she’d been a habitual user.’
Nick dragged a chair away from the desk and sat down heavily. ‘Russian roulette!’ he said. ‘That’s what they should be teaching the kids in school. That every time they decide to experiment with drugs they’re gambling with their lives.’
‘They do tell them,’ Jo reminded him. ‘But did you ever pay attention to what your teachers or your parents told you when you were a teenager?’
‘When it came to drugs I did.’
She cocked an eyebrow. ‘What about fags and alcohol?’
‘They don’t count. It’s like comparing nursery scissors and sushi knives.’
‘More people die from—’
He finished it for her. ‘—Cirrhosis and lung cancer than drug abuse. I get that. But not the very first time they take a drag or knock back a gin and tonic.’
‘Moving on,’ said Jo. ‘I’ve got the details for the dead girl’s family. I want you to get someone to find out where they are now, then we can decide how to proceed.’
‘Was she right?’ he said. ‘Does the father look like a goer?’
‘Put it this way,’ said Jo. ‘She didn’t exaggerate his reaction, or his ongoing threats against Heather Rand. I can only assume that allowances were made, both by her and the police, for the fact that he was grieving. Otherwise he’d certainly have been given a custodial sentence. But let’s not lose sight of the fact that he wasn’t the only one affected – just the most visible.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Quick as you can, please, Nick.’
Chapter 51
The wind and the rain showed them no pity, exposed as they were out here in the open.
Jo rang the bell again and pounded on the door. Just as she was beginning to think there was no one home, the door opened. A tall, statuesque woman in her late forties blocked the opening. She frowned at them.