by Bill Rogers
Carly handed him a typed sheet. He perused it and handed it back.
‘I was here,’ he said.
‘On every one of those dates?’
‘I told you, didn’t I? Look,’ he said, ‘my job is to maintain these gallops. And let the trainers know if conditions make any of them unsafe. That’s why I live right by them. This time of year you can never tell when someone’s going to be out on them. Most of the runs are over by lunchtime, but there are always a few in the afternoon. Horses not part of the stables, or ones that are coming back from injury. Like today. And there’s work I can only do before the horses are on them, like mowing the grass gallops, making sure the all-weather ones are safe, checking the rails. The only times I can get away from here are between five in the evening and five in the morning.’
‘And there are people who can verify that?’
‘All the racing grooms know me. There’ll be plenty of them who can tell you if I was out and about on a given day. Any outsiders who want to use the gallops have to rent a slot, so there’ll be a record of them. Then there’s the other guys who maintain the gallops next to ours. We see each other every day. Sometimes stop for a chat if there’s time.’
Jo was beginning to sense that they had been wasting their time. Except that they had had no choice but to definitively rule him in or out.
‘When did you last see your son?’ she asked.
The question took him by surprise.
‘Darren?’ He scratched his head distractedly. ‘Not since the divorce. In fact, the last time would have been about six months after I moved to Rusholme.’
‘Why is that?’ said Jo.
‘Because it was too hard for the both of us. It brought back too many memories. And to be honest, I think because he blamed me for the break-up with his mother.’
He looked at her with a mournful expression. ‘He was right too. Him and his mum, they wanted to put it behind them. Move on with their lives. I couldn’t let it go. There was no way we could carry on like that.’
Jo had run out of questions. ‘That’s about it then,’ she said. ‘If you could just let me have contact details for your employer, we’ll be on our way.’
For the first time he looked concerned rather than upset.
‘What d’you want this for?’ he asked.
‘So that I can check that you were here on those dates we gave you. You do realise that I can’t just take your word for it?’
‘I suppose,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You don’t have to tell him about the trouble I had, back in Manchester?’
‘The restraining order against you in relation to Miss Rand?’
He nodded.
‘I take it you haven’t told him then?’
‘I didn’t think it was relevant. He did a criminal records check and it came back clear.’ He sounded belligerent all of a sudden.
‘That’s because it was a civil order, not a matter of criminal record,’ she told him. ‘You’re right – you weren’t obliged to tell him.’
‘There you go then,’ he said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else?’
‘Only to ask if you’d be prepared to surrender your passport? Just while I’m checking what you’ve told me?’
She expected him to object. But he surprised her.
‘Not a problem,’ he said and left the room. The dog climbed out of its basket and padded after him. He returned in no time at all and handed the passport to her.
‘Couldn’t have used it if I’d wanted to,’ he said. ‘It expired four years ago. Never had a reason to renew it.’
He paused and waited for her eyes to meet his.
‘And I still don’t.’
Chapter 57
They called at the stables and checked Clements’s alibi with the owner and those of the grooms who were still around and about. It became clear that Clements couldn’t possibly have fired any of the shots, unless he’d had access to a helicopter. When the owner asked why they wanted all this information, Jo went out of her way to give the impression that she was sure it was a case of mistaken identity. In her book, Clements had suffered enough already. What was the point, she asked herself, of destroying the bolthole he had made for himself ?
It was 6.45 p.m. when they finally set off back to Manchester. The bad weather conditions earlier in the day had led to several accidents and lengthy delays. The backlog had run over into the rush hour period and they faced a disheartening stop-go journey ahead.
‘Can I ask a question, Ma’am?’ said Carly. ‘Why didn’t you take the rifle away for forensic comparison with the two pellets we’ve retrieved?’
Jo glanced at her. It was a fair question. Deserving a fair response. ‘We didn’t have a warrant,’ she said. ‘Although I grant that I could have asked him to volunteer to let me take it. The main reason is that I very much doubt we’d have been able to get a match. It’s difficult to establish any kind of pattern a pellet picks up from an air rifle, especially one that’s likely to stand up in court. And before you remind me that his was not an air rifle, although his rifle would leave distinctive lands and grooves and rifling marks on a normal bullet, that’s much less likely on a pellet with a much smaller surface area in contact with the surface of the barrel. Having said which, if his alibi hadn’t stacked up, I’d have been straight back there to collect it.’ She pressed the phone switch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better ring DS Carter. He’ll be wondering how we got on.’
He answered straight away. ‘Jo!’ he said, forgetting that Carly Whittle would be listening in. ‘Thank God for that. I was beginning to think you’d come to harm.’
‘DC Whittle and I decided we deserved a day at the seaside,’ she told him. ‘Finishing off with a fish-and-chip dinner in Scarborough.’
He chuckled. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me you’ve got our prime suspect handcuffed in the back.’
Jo gave him a potted version of the day’s events.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Must feel like you’ve wasted the best part of a day.’
‘Not entirely. We’ve as good as eliminated a significant person of interest. The defence won’t be able to accuse us of being sloppy. Have you made any progress?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Since the only trace evidence we’ve got is those two pellets and a few footprints with no one to match them to, our best bet is still finding common vehicle sightings in the vicinity of two or more of the crime scenes. I’ve got teams working on that for all three of our victims and Merseyside are doing the same for their one.’
‘I hesitate to ask,’ said Jo, glancing sideways at Carly, ‘but have you heard anything about Melissa?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I spoke with Max an hour ago. He said they’re chasing shadows. Either nobody knows anything, or if they do they’re too scared to say.’
‘What about the surveillance on the O’Neills?’
‘I got the impression that’s not thrown anything up either. Though I heard on the grapevine that DCI Fox has his work cut out stopping Ryan Walsh from going “round there and trying to beat seven bells out of Jason O’Neill”.’
‘You can hardly blame him,’ said Jo. ‘I’d want to do the same if it was my daughter.’
‘Have you contacted ACC Gates?’ said Nick. ‘Only . . .’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it now.’
‘Good luck with that.’
It was Helen Gates’s PA who answered. ‘Ah, SI Stuart,’ he said, in a tone that did not bode well. ‘ACC Gates has been hoping that you might return her calls. Unfortunately, she is currently in conference with the Chief Constable and the rest of the Command Team. I was given strict instructions not to disturb them. But I’ll be sure to let her know that you called as soon as she returns.’
‘Patronising git,’ said Jo, after she’d terminated the call.
‘Sounds like a reprieve to me,’ said Carly Whittle.
‘Except that in this case that’s called delayin
g the inevitable,’ Jo replied. ‘In the meantime, I think we should just enjoy ourselves, don’t you?’
She switched to Media and the haunting sound of k.d. lang’s ‘Constant Craving’ filled the car as they sped along the A64.
They were approaching Leeds when Gates rang.
‘Where the hell are you?’ she demanded.
‘On the M62 approaching the Leeds exit, heading west, Ma’am.’
‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you since mid-morning.’
‘Interviewing potential suspects, Ma’am. In Manchester, and then over in the Yorkshire Wolds. They were sensitive interviews so I had my phone on silent.’
‘No, you didn’t. You had it switched off.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Ma’am. I must have done that by accident.’
Jo glanced at her DC. She was staring studiously out of her side window.
There was a brief silence while Gates decided if there was any point in challenging her further. There clearly wasn’t. ‘So, these potential suspects,’ she said, ‘please tell me you have some good news?’
‘In a way I have,’ said Jo. ‘All three are connected with the most recent victim – Heather Rand.’
‘The Manchester Coroner,’ said Gates. ‘I worked with her for years. She didn’t deserve that. How is she?’
‘Getting there, the last I heard.’
‘Thank God. You were saying, about the good news?’
Jo was already regretting having implied there was any. She was also aware that Carly had suddenly taken an interest and was listening intently, with the hint of a smile on her lips.
‘A person of interest came to light,’ she said. ‘Someone who had lost a daughter to drugs and after the inquest bombarded Miss Rand with threats. I interviewed his now-divorced wife and his son, and then went over to Yorkshire to interview him.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve ruled the wife out. The son looks unlikely, but we’ll run the usual checks.’
‘And the father?’
‘Seems to have put it behind him. But he did get very emotional when questioned and possesses a shotgun and a .22 rifle.’
‘A similar calibre to the poisoned pellets!’ said Gates excitedly. ‘So you’ve arrested him on suspicion?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Jo replied, ‘it’s not an air rifle, it’s a different calibre, and he has a cast-iron alibi for every one of the attacks.’
‘Shit!’ said Gates. ‘Where the hell is the good news in that?’
Jo was aware that Carly Whittle’s smile had widened considerably and that she was looking forward to the reply almost as much as the ACC herself. ‘Well, it’s one less person of interest to worry about,’ said Jo, as confidently as she dared.
It was clear from the Assistant Chief Constable’s reply that she was not aware that there was a junior officer present in the car.
The incident room had an air of despondency about it. Nick Carter had left for the evening leaving another Detective Sergeant in charge. Two teams of officers were still reviewing CCTV footage from the crime scenes. DC Hulme was still at his desk. While Carly Whittle entered her notes in the system, Jo went to see what he was working on.
‘Statements from people living close to Fletcher Moss, and some of the ones who were in the park when the Rand woman was shot.’
‘Heather Rand,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t say “the O’Neill man” now, would you?’
There I go again, she told herself. Doing a Caton.
‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Heather Rand.’
‘And have we got anything, Jimmy?’ she said, using his given name to take the edge off the situation.
‘There is one that came in an hour ago,’ he said, ‘in response to the request for information boards we put up at the entrances to the park.’
He clicked a file on the screen and brought up the statement. Jo leaned in to read it.
‘A sighting of someone carrying what looked like a fishing rod,’ Hulme explained. ‘Walking away along the path by the River Mersey shortly after she was shot. The informant was one of the regular dog walkers who was there at the time but wasn’t aware of what had happened until he turned up as usual this afternoon.’
‘He was heading towards Kingsway,’ she said. ‘We need one of the passive media teams to focus on those cameras and on the ones on the motorway.’
‘I’ve already briefed them,’ he replied. ‘But he could just as easily have stayed off the roads and carried on into Heaton Mersey or Heaton Norris. He could even have taken the underpass and gone towards Cheadle.’
Jo turned and looked at the officers working on the passive media screens. ‘They’re looking there too?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
She straightened up. ‘Well done, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Well done.’
Jo went over to brief the officers working on the passive media to call her immediately if they found a definite pattern emerging between the various crime scenes or were able to track the unidentified man with the fishing tackle to an end destination. At the very least either of those might throw up the elusive vehicle that the unsub was using. She’d just finished when Carly Whittle approached.
‘I’ve entered my notes on the system, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘What would you like me to do now?’
‘Go home to your husband and get some proper food down you.’
‘What are you going to do, Ma’am?’
‘Much the same, as soon as I’ve brought the Policy Book up to date. I’ll see you in the morning. And Carly . . . thanks for today.’
‘I quite enjoyed it, Ma’am,’ she replied. ‘Just a pity we’ve not a lot to show for it.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Jo. She watched the DC pick up her bag and walk towards the door. ‘Actually,’ she muttered, too quietly for anyone to hear, ‘you won’t. You never do.’
Chapter 58
‘Jo!’
Agata threw her arms around Jo, stood on tiptoe to kiss both cheeks, and hugged her hard. It was exactly what she needed. Someone to bring her back to a totally different reality. To remind her that there was more to life than murder, mistrust, and misery.
Agata released her. ‘Come on through,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s ready.’ As Jo followed her into the apartment, Agata held out her hand. ‘Give me your coat,’ she said. ‘I’ll put it on the bed.’
The curtains were open. Jo walked across to the window and found the doors to the balcony unlocked. She opened them and stepped out into the cool evening air.
Up here, on the nineteenth floor of Imperial Point, the view was breathtaking. Two hundred feet below, the floodlit bowstring arches of the Millennium Bridge morphed from midnight blue to emerald green and back again. The Manchester Ship Canal shimmered with reflections from the lights along the sweeping curve of West Quay, all the way down to the dark brooding presence of the Imperial War Museum North. Clouds were scudding from west to east. Here and there, in the gaps between them, the sky was studded with twinkling diamonds.
She felt a presence behind her. An arm curled around her waist; a head rested on her shoulder.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Agata whispered. ‘So quiet and peaceful. It feels like a retreat. Where the rest of the world ceases to exist and no one can touch us. I like to imagine it as my mountain hideaway, only without the trees.’
Jo knew exactly what she meant. It was one of the main reasons she’d chosen to move to The Quays. The other one being its proximity to her NCA office. A sudden breeze caused her to shiver.
‘Come on,’ said Agata, ‘let’s eat.’
It was only when the first dish appeared that Jo realised how hungry she was. ‘This is amazing,’ she said, between mouthfuls of creamy cucumber soup. ‘Why have I never tasted this before?’
Agata smiled. ‘It’s one of my favourite Polish appetisers, with a twist. I add an avocado to give it depth.’
Jo tore off a hunk of rye bread. ‘I need the recipe. Email it to me.’
‘I thought it would be good to make a traditional Polish meal,’ Agata told her. ‘Partly as a nod to my own heritage, and partly because it’s so well suited to autumn and winter.’ She shrugged. ‘Not so good for the rest of the year. I’ll let you have all three of the recipes if you like?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Jo, ‘if the others are as good as this.’
Agata cleared the soup bowls, topped up their glasses, and returned with new bowls and then a large black cast-iron casserole dish. She lifted the lid to reveal a thick brown stew packed with meat and a hint of vegetables.
‘Wow!’ said Jo.
‘Bigos,’ said Agata. ‘You’d probably call it hunter’s stew.’
‘It smells amazing,’ Jo declared. ‘What’s in it?’
Agata began to ladle the stew into Jo’s bowl.
‘What isn’t in it?’ she said. ‘Pork, venison, veal, Polish sausage, beef, mushrooms, cabbage, sauerkraut, stock.’
Jo ate voraciously. Thoughts of Operation Alecto and the missing schoolgirl evaporated, together with the physical tension that had accompanied them. There was only room for conversation about the food itself and its preparation.
Just when Jo was beginning to feel sated, Agata presented with a flourish a plate of exquisite crescent-shaped, iced pastries, sprinkled with flaked almonds.
‘St Martin’s Day Croissants,’ she said proudly. ‘Also known as Marcinki after the region they come from. Traditionally they are eaten on St Martin’s Day which is November 11th, and which marks Polish Independence Day. It’s only a couple of weeks off, so I thought I’d get in some practice.’
‘They look scrumptious,’ said Jo. ‘What are they filled with?’
‘Poppyseed and almonds, corn syrup, sugar, and starch.’
Jo’s face fell. ‘What’s the matter?’ said Agata. ‘Do you have an allergy?’
‘It’s not that,’ said Jo. ‘It’s the poppyseed. You do know they’re the primary source for heroin?’
Agata laughed. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows that. But at such a small level as this they’re completely harmless or you wouldn’t be able to buy them in the shops.’