by Bill Rogers
She placed it down in a space on the workbench and gestured to Carly.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’re out of here.’
When they emerged from the polytunnel the rain had ceased. Jimmy Hulme was waiting for them with Jack Benson.
‘I got a hit, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Person who rents number 7 reckons the guy who uses this one also has a bike and a motorbike.’
‘A motorbike? Did he see the make and colour?’
‘Negative to both, Ma’am. He just caught sight of it when he was walking past. Possibly red or maroon, but he can’t swear to it. Says the guy pulled the door down sharpish. Like he was trying to hide something.’
‘Perhaps it was a one-off.’ Carly suggested. ‘Maybe he normally parks it somewhere else and uses the mountain bike to reach it?’
‘If he’s using a motorbike it would explain why the Micra hasn’t registered at all the crime scenes,’ added Jimmy Hulme.
‘We need to let DS Carter know that they should also be looking for a motorbike,’ said Jo.
‘I’ve already done that, Ma’am,’ said Jimmy Hulme, sounding nervous and contrite. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed while you were in there.’
‘No need to apologise,’ she told him. ‘Well done.’
She turned to Jack Benson. ‘All yours,’ she said. ‘There’s what looks like a ricin bean on the workbench that needs bagging immediately. When you’ve done whatever you need to do to the notebooks and the laptop in the trunk, get them over to Nexus House ASAP. We also need that locker forcing and the safe opening. Are you sure Bomb Disposal has passed them both?’
‘That’s what they said,’ he replied. ‘Let’s hope to God they were right.’
Amen to that, thought Jo. Poisoned pellets was one thing, but an explosive device packed with the stuff was something else entirely.
Chapter 68
Max Nailor was briefing a search team in Royal Oak when the call came through. Steve Yates had been observed entering O’Neill’s house.
‘If he tries to leave, arrest him,’ he said.
‘You don’t want us to follow him, in case he leads us to the missing girl?’
‘No. He knows we’re looking for him. He wouldn’t be that stupid. If he’s come out into the open, there’ll be a reason for it. Just do as I say. Wait and watch. And if he leaves, arrest him. I’ll be with you as soon as.’
Twenty minutes later he pulled in behind the watchers and knocked on the rear door of the van. It opened, and he climbed inside.
Two operational support assistants wearing headphones sat intently watching a bank of screens. Another sat beside them, also wearing headphones. She was busy transcribing notes into a tablet. The AKEU investigator who had opened the door for Max bade him take a seat on the bench beside her.
‘He’s still in there?’ said Max.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Any mention of Melissa Walsh?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘What have they been talking about?’
‘The weather. How they’ve been since they saw each other last. City’s prospects tonight against Blackburn.’ She shook her head.
‘The negative impact of cuts to police funding. How we’re all run off our feet and chasing shadows.’
‘Basically, they know we’re listening and they’re taking the piss?’
‘Yes, Sir. That’s the impression we get.’
‘Right,’ said Max. ‘Best not to keep them waiting.’
Jason O’Neill opened the door. He had a sour smile on his face. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said. ‘Or someone like you. Steve’s in the kitchen. You’d better come on through.’
Steven Yates was leaning against the centre island, a bottle of lager in his hand. His tight white T-shirt and bulging biceps suggested that he had spent much of his time away working out. The blue jeans and shiny Dr Martens boots looked brand new. The logo across his chest read NORA: The North Will Rise Again. He raised the bottle in salute.
‘Come and join us, officer,’ he said. ‘Take the weight off your feet and have a beer. You look bushed.’
‘I don’t have time for this,’ said Max. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Course,’ said Yates with a show of concern, ‘you’ve been looking for me.’
‘Where have you been?’ Max persisted. ‘We can do this here or at a police station. Your choice.’
Yates took a swig of beer. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I choose here.’
‘Then answer the question.’
‘I’ve been at a mate’s. I needed some time away. To grieve over Ronnie – you remember him? My boss and very good friend—’ He waved the bottle. ‘—and father to Jason here.’
‘You went away to grieve?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘And where does this mate live?’
‘Dobcross.’
‘Saddleworth?’
‘Like I said, I needed to get away.’
‘You must have known from the television that we needed to speak with you?’
He shook his head. ‘We didn’t bother with the telly – too busy training in his mini-gym. Running on the moors. Hanging out.’
‘The radio?’
He laughed and turned to Jason O’Neill. ‘D’you hear that, Jace? The radio! Who listens to the radio these days?’
‘What about social media? And phone calls? I know for a fact that Jason and your colleagues tried to get hold of you.’
He grinned. ‘D’you see me having a Facebook page? Snapchatting the guys? Instagramming Mr O’Neill’s customers?’
‘The phone calls?’
‘I mislaid my phone.’
‘On the moors?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s a bugger. I’ll have to go and get a new one.’
‘Your SUV,’ said Max. ‘We’ve been trying to trace it in the hope of finding you. Where is it?’
‘In the BMW service garage. I asked them to give it a good going-over while I was away.’
‘So how did you get back here?’
He raised his eyebrows and took another swig of lager. ‘That mate I told you about? He brought me. Soon as we found out you were wanting a word with me.’
‘And I suppose he’ll vouch for you having been with him all this time?’
‘Course he will. Addicted to the truth is Benny.’
‘And where can I find Benny?’
‘He’s right behind you.’
Max turned. A clone of Yates, slightly shorter, ten years his senior, leaned against the doorjamb. He smiled in amusement.
‘Say hallo to the officer, Benny,’ said Yates. ‘He’s got some questions for you.’
‘Hallo, officer,’ said the clone. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I suppose that you’re going to tell me that Mr Yates has been with you since Monday?’ said Max.
Benny grinned, revealing teeth that would have benefitted from an orthodontist in his teens. ‘Hole in one,’ he said. ‘And to save you the trouble of asking, we’ve been joined at the hip ever since. Never left his side, have I, Stevie?’
‘Bloody embarrassing when I needed a pee,’ said Yates.
That set the two of them off laughing. Max waited for them to recover.
‘Did you pick him up or did he come to you?’ he asked.
‘I picked him up outside the BMW garage in Stretford,’ Benny replied. ‘Sounded in a right state. Ronnie’s death really cracked him up.’
‘And you drove straight to Dobcross?’
‘Like it was an emergency. You might even have caught me on a speed camera or two.’
‘Which route did you take?’
‘Oldham. Then the A669 and A670.’
‘And today?’
‘The same.’
‘What’s your car registration number?’
Benny told him.
‘Stay here,’ said Max. ‘All of you. I’ll be back shortly.’
Benny had to step aside to let him pass. As h
e did so, he thrust an SD card into Max’s hand.
‘What’s this?’ said Max.
‘Footage from my CCTV at home. Me and Stevie coming and going. Me and Stevie in the gym.’
‘You have CCTV in your home gym?’
That crooked grin again. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Benny. ‘It’s a nasty world out there, officer. There are people who’d steal the froth off your beer.’
Max hurried back to the van. This time the doors opened before he’d had time to knock.
‘Did you get all that?’ he asked.
‘Clear as a bell,’ said the investigator. ‘Amir is checking the CCTV logs for the 669 and the 670.’
Max handed her the SD card. ‘Show me what’s on this,’ he said.
She stood up and slipped the card into the slot on the side of the computer. The antivirus program confirmed that it was safe and asked for an admin code for permission to open it. She tapped in the code. There were a series of files, each of them timed and dated.
‘Which one would you like me to open, Sir?’ she asked.
He pointed to the first one. Monday at 3.15 p.m.
She double-clicked it and the screen came to life. It showed the car Benny had claimed to own pulling into a drive and coming to a stop. Max watched as the driver door opened, Benny got out and walked towards the camera.
‘Must be over the front door,’ observed the DS.
Max had his eyes focused on the passenger door. Five seconds passed, then the door opened and out got Steven Yates. He stretched, went to the trunk, opened it, removed a large holdall and a kitbag, closed the trunk, and followed in Benny’s footsteps.
‘Try the next one,’ said Max.
The two men were both in T-shirts and shorts. Yates on his back on a bench, performing bench presses with an impressive set of weights. Benny stood above him, ready to guide the bar back onto the cradle. The time was 7 p.m. on Monday evening.
‘Show the last one,’ said Max.
‘Sir,’ said the furthest of the operational support assistants, lifting his headphones. ‘We’ve got a hit for today on the A669 heading west, at 16.25hrs this afternoon.’
‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘Keep looking.’
He turned his attention back to the investigator. ‘You can stop that now,’ he said. ‘We’re only going to see what they wanted us to see.’
‘Doesn’t mean that he couldn’t have directed it all from up there on the moors,’ she said. ‘All he’d need was a phone we don’t know about.’
Max nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’s all too pat and too carefully orchestrated. He’s up to his neck in her disappearance. I’d bet my job on it.’
He reached across and touched the second of the OSAs on the shoulder. He turned and lifted his earphones.
‘Anything?’ Max asked.
The OSA shook his head. ‘Chit chat. Totally innocuous, Sir. Too innocuous, if you know what I mean?’
‘The fact he’s turned up means that’s he’s up to something,’ Max told the investigator. ‘I want eyes and ears on all three of them, twenty-four seven.’
‘What if they try to leave?’
‘I want them followed. It’s time those mobile surveillance teams had something to do.’
‘Covert or overt?’ she asked.
He stood up. ‘Overt. They know we’re watching them. Better we don’t lose them rather than keep up the pretence.’
Max opened the van door and stepped out into the cool evening air. He stood there for a moment staring at the O’Neill house. The shadowy shapes of the vehicles behind the metal gates. The front windows lit, the rooms uninhabited. Like a ghost ship.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he murmured. ‘And where on earth is Melissa?’
Chapter 69
Somewhere in the house a phone rang.
Now there were voices. One hollow, on the inbuilt speaker, the other more familiar. Short and missing vowels, guttural, aggressive. Manc on steroids. The one she’d christened The Boxer. Melissa raised her head, straining to hear above the sound of the rain on the windowpane.
She caught the ebb and flow, the shifting emotions, a sense that the power lay with the caller. At this remove, their conversation was as incomprehensible as the Cant language the traveller children had used at her primary school.
Another voice now. Higher pitched, wet and squeaky, like her cat sicking up. Gollum. It sounded as though they were arguing. She strained to see if she could make some sense of it, but the words were fragmented and indistinct.
‘Ju . . . do it!’ The Boxer?
‘But Stee . . . said.’ This was Gollum.
‘ I know wa . . . St . . . said. An . . . m tellin’ you . . .’ The Boxer again.
A plane approached, drowning out the voices. When the sound of the engines faded the voices were still there, but faint and remote. She guessed they had moved to another part of the house. She let her head drop back onto the pillow and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Now that they had removed her hood, confident in their own disguises, all of her senses were restored. She’d not decided if that was good or bad. The hood had made it easier for her to get to sleep, whatever the time of day. Lying here on her back, she was acutely aware of the sores on her bum and the back of her thighs, where her captors had left her to lie in her own pee until it seeped into the mattress and dried on her skin. She turned onto her side as best as she could and prayed for the night to come and the dark to envelop her.
Sleep stubbornly eluded her. The light and that bloody dog yapping every time a plane flew past conspired to add to her tortured captivity. Melissa no longer had the consolation of being able to cry. She was all cried out. She no longer railed at her father and his cronies for failing to rescue her. Nor her mother for failing to love her. Anger, frustration, and hate for them and her captors had slithered seamlessly into self-reproach and guilt. She realised now that she’d never been worthy, never lovable. She’d failed time and time again to come up to their expectations. Her parents had left her in no doubt that her score on the Common Entrance – enough to gain her access to a private school, but not enough to convince them that it was worth the annual fees – had been a great disappointment to them both. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t bothered to come for her? To pay a ransom? To do whatever it took to get her back? The realisation finally hit her, like a blow in the pit of her stomach. It would be best all round if she was dead.
There were footsteps on the stairs. The sound of the key turning in the padlock. Bolts being withdrawn. She turned her head to watch. Her heart thumped in her chest. Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. The door opened inwards.
The Boxer entered the room. In one hand he held a plastic pop bottle, in the other a transparent disposable bag like the ones her mother’s cleaner put in the trash at home. He threw the bag and bottle down beside her and sat on the end of the bed.
From his right-hand pocket he withdrew a box-cutter – what her dad called a Stanley knife. He held it up so that she could see it. Slowly and deliberately, he first revealed and then retracted the blade several times.
In, out.
In, out.
In, out.
It was a routine to which Melissa had become accustomed. She nodded to signal her compliance. He sat back and waited. His eyes were like empty pits behind the balaclava he now wore. Black holes, within which there was the faintest hint of movement and occasional flashes of reflected light.
He leaned forward, his weight causing the bed to dip and the mattress to rub against her bum. She bit her lip to suppress a gasp of pain. He bunched the pillows up behind her to support her back, then sat back out of reach.
Melissa opened and closed her hand to relieve the stiffness. She painfully manoeuvred herself into a semi-sitting position and picked up the bottle. He watched soundlessly as she struggled to open it with her wrists bound together. Finally, she placed the cap between her teeth and turned the bottle. A small explosion of gas and c
ola splashed her face and dribbled down her neck. She spat out the cap, gulping several greedy mouthfuls before the gas rising back up her gullet forced her to stop. She examined the bottle. It was some kind of nasty cheap cola. It tasted like heaven. She clamped the bottle between her knees and turned her attention to the bag.
A packet of barbecue crisps and a burger. A large beef patty, topped with cheese, and sandwiched between iceberg lettuce, tomato, and toasted bun. Melissa burped. She could feel her gastric juices beginning to flow.
‘I told you,’ she croaked. ‘I’m vegetarian.’
He made a sound that could have been a growl or a laugh, reached out, grasped her arm with one hand, and removed the patty with the other. He let go and sat back. He shoved the patty through the slit in his balaclava, took a bite, and began to chew contentedly.
When she’d finished eating the crisps, he waited for her to drink the remainder of the cola. Then he took the bottle, roughly tugged the pillows away, restoring them to their original position, and got up. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring back at her. Something in the angle of his head, and the glint in his eyes, sent a chill up her spine.
‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ he growled. ‘It’ll soon be time to say goodbye.’
The door closed. Melissa lay back on the pillow. She realised that the rain had stopped. There were muffled voices. Outside the house this time. A van door slid open, the sound of metal on metal setting her teeth on edge. There was a dull thud as something was thrown inside the van. Her heart began to pound. They were getting ready to go. That must be what he’d meant. They were leaving her behind. A sudden belch carried with it undigested food. There was a sickening taste of bile at the back of her throat. She was terrified she would choke and began to cough.
Suddenly, her chest began to squeeze as though unseen hands were tightening a broad belt around her. In a panic she turned on her side and scrabbled desperately beneath the pillows. Her fingers found the inhaler. She closed her lips around the mouthpiece, pressed the canister down, drew in a long slow breath, and began to count to ten.