A Violent Heart, page 13
Bilal wrings his hands together. His breathing begins to increase rapidly in short wheezing bursts. His face goes grey.
Archer and Quinn exchange a concerned glance.
‘Hassan, are you OK?’ Quinn asks.
He’s trembling now. From his jacket pocket he takes out a blue inhaler and puts it into his mouth, inhaling a puff of the healing spray. A moment passes and he raises his hand to indicate he’s OK.
‘I’ll get some water,’ Quinn says, rising from the table and exiting the room.
Bilal has calmed and is taking in slow deep breaths. Quinn returns with the water, from which Bilal takes a sip. ‘Thank you.’
‘Talk to us, Hassan,’ says Archer. ‘Tell us what happened.’
He’s still clutching the blue inhaler as if it is some lucky charm. He nods his head and meets her gaze, ‘I had seen her around. I knew her from the Chicken House. It’s what they call the brothel above the restaurant. I would see her sometimes. I liked her. A lot. One time I drove her home. I would talk to her, say nice things to her, tell her she was very beautiful. I even gave her my number, asked her to call me personally if ever she wanted a lift. “Special price just for you,” I told her.’
‘Did she ever call you?’
He shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘And then she was gone. I’d watch the Chicken House from the street sometimes, the windows upstairs, looking for her but I never saw her. I wondered if she’d moved away or gone to another whore house. And then that night I saw her again. I couldn’t believe it. There she was, sitting alone in the restaurant. She left suddenly. I didn’t know what to do so I followed her. I just wanted to say hello and maybe get to know her.’ He drops his head into his hands.
‘From the CCTV it looks like you had some sort of argument,’ Quinn says.
‘It wasn’t like that. I was . . . I asked her . . .’
‘You wanted to have sex with her?’ Quinn says.
Bilal nods.
‘Could you answer yes for the recording?’ Quinn says.
‘Yes, yes . . . I asked for sex. But I didn’t have the money and she got angry. She insulted me, spat at my feet, and walked off. I didn’t like that. I became angry, too, and grabbed her.’
‘What happened after that?’ Archer asks.
Bilal sighs. ‘Nothing. I didn’t kill her. I know you think I did but I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to a woman. I have two daughters.’
‘You have a wife, yet you asked Elena for sex,’ Archer says.
‘It’s not what you think. I am a man. I have needs.’
‘And what did you think Elena’s needs were?’ Archer says.
He considers this for a moment before answering. ‘Money. Whores want money.’
Archer’s jaw tightens.
‘Where did you take Elena?’ Quinn asks.
‘I took her nowhere. I swear! She walked up St Michael’s Street. I called after her apologising, but she wouldn’t listen. It was then she stopped and talked to someone.’
‘Who?’ Archer asks, leaning forward.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Male, female?’
‘I don’t know. She was talking to someone in a car.’
‘What type of car?’
‘Like an Astra. Old.’
‘Do you recall the colour or registration?’ Quinn asks.
‘I think it was dark, like a blue or a black.’ He frowns. ‘How would I remember the registration? I didn’t even look. Whoever looks at registrations?’
‘It was worth a punt.’
As a suspect, Archer knows he might be slipping away, yet given his unashamed male entitlement, she can’t help but feel the urge to lock him up and lose the key. ‘What did you do after that?’ she asks.
‘I went back to work.’
‘How soon did you go back to work?’
‘I don’t know. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. I picked up my car and logged back into the Uber system.’
‘Do you have your work phone with you?’ Quinn asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you won’t mind if we look back on your records for that evening?’
‘But—’
‘No buts. We’re not done yet. For now, we’ll need to do more investigating. As Detective Sergeant Quinn has indicated, that will include a digital forensic search of your phone and a search of your car. Do you understand?’
To Archer’s vexation, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘Yes, I understand.’
Archer holds him firmly in her gaze, ‘A young woman has been murdered, Mr Bilal. You remain a suspect. You’d do well to keep your attitude in check.’
Bilal casts his eyes downwards but says nothing in response.
Chapter 27
T
OM ELSTON HAS PARKED HIS old blue Land Rover in a bay of Berwick-Upon-Tweed station car park, face concealed under the visor of a baseball cap and a PPE mask. He is watching the Mercers emerge from the station and cross the road. With his family in tow, Barry Mercer had walked by only moments back. Tom’s hands had tightened on the steering wheel. Mercer had not clocked he was being watched. He seemed in a daze, his face sombre, pale and riddled with guilt.
Good!
They climb into the silver Škoda people carrier and drive slowly across the station car park towards the exit. The car pulls up at the stop line near to where Tom is parked. He turns his head to the left with his phone to his ear under the pretence of taking a call, his arm covering his face. With his free hand he starts up the engine. The Škoda exits the car park, turning left onto Railway Street and driving up the hill and past the Castle Hotel. The car is indicating right. They are going into town. Tom allows a Ford Focus to drive in front of him and follows the Škoda, shielded by the Ford.
His phones rings from its dashboard mount. Mallory Jones’s name appears on the screen. He considers ignoring it but decides he could use someone to talk to. He answers on speaker.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘I left you a message, did you get it?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ he replies; suddenly, his voice is dry and croaky.
‘You sound tired. Have you been sleeping?’
She never misses a trick. ‘Usual.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
The Mercers’ car is heading down to Marygate.
‘Are you driving?’ Mallory asks.
‘Yes, and . . .?’ he says tersely, but instantly regrets his tone.
‘Sorry . . .’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’m just tired,’ Tom replies.
‘Are you still in Berwick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why there of all places?’
‘Have you ever been?’
‘No.’
‘Then don’t judge. It’s a nice place.’
‘It’s just so far from everything you know.’
Tom says nothing to that. The Škoda is turning right onto Hide Hill.
‘Anyway, I’m sure it’s lovely. Listen, Tom, I wanted to talk to you. Did you see the news report I mentioned?’
‘I haven’t seen any news,’ he lies.
‘There’s been a recent murder, Tom, and an investigation into another dating back to 1987. It’s the same man. I’m sure of it. Tom, this is big. I met with Detective Inspector Grace Archer of the Met. She’s going to reopen Hannah’s case.’
The Škoda is indicating right and pulling into a parking space outside a restaurant and wine bar. He drives slowly by, watching them emerge from the car. Mercer still looks miserable. Tom feels a small measure of satisfaction. His daughter, Lily, looks furious. He notices a free parking space further up the road.
‘Hello . . . are you there?’ Mallory asks.
‘I have to go,’ he says.
‘Call me anytime. You know that, right?’
‘Yeah. I know that,’ he replies and ends the call.
Tom parks the car and makes his way down Hide Hill, stopping outside the restaurant. Two different couples occupy two tables outside. One couple is paying their bill to a waitress holding a card machine. Inside, he sees the Mercers and the Škoda driver, whoever he is, sitting around a table, quietly perusing their menus. Tom holds his phone, dips his head as if looking at it, and watches them from under his visor. They seem like a normal, boring suburban family, yet scratch Barry Mercer’s surface, and you’ll find dirt and lies. The couple are leaving, the waitress is clearing their table. Tom approaches her. ‘May I take this table?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ she replies.
Tom sits at the table facing inwards and watches.
Lily is getting bored with her mum’s chittering and banal small talk. It’s as if nothing has happened. I mean, it’s not every day someone gatecrashes your dad’s big TV interview and accuses him of being responsible for the death of some people. What on earth was that man talking about? The food arrives. They had all ordered fish and chips with the exception of Uncle Si, who ordered the vegan burger, which looks gross. Dad pushes his chair from the table, the legs scraping harshly across the wooden floor.
‘I’m just going to spend a penny,’ he says.
‘We’ll wait for you,’ Mum says.
‘No . . . start without me.’
They watch him make his way to the Gents’. Mum and Si look at each other.
‘Do you know who that man was?’ she asks.
‘Oh, now we can talk about it,’ Lily snaps.
‘Hush, Lily,’ Mum replies. ‘Your father is mortified.’
‘We’re all mortified, Mum. All the town gossips will be whispering on the grapevine.’
‘I didn’t recognise him,’ says Si.
‘Did you see those hollow rings under his eyes?’ Mum says. ‘Drugs, I reckon.’
Lily forks a chip into her mouth and shakes her head.
‘I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows him,’ says Si.
‘He practically accused Dad of being a murderer! Why would he do that?’ Lily asks.
‘When you’re a police officer, like your father and I were, you encounter all sorts,’ says Mum. ‘He’s on drugs. Trust me. I know the signs.’
Lily cuts into the crispy coating of her cod, unsure if she can, or even wants to take her mum seriously. It’s been decades since she was in the police, so what could she possibly know?
‘Your mum’s right,’ say Si. ‘Police officers do come face to face with oddballs. I shouldn’t worry about him.’
Lily chews on the delicious fish. Maybe he was just some crazy person.
‘Hush, now. Your father’s coming back. This topic is not up for discussion any longer,’ says Mum.
Dad pulls out his chair. She notices his hair is slightly damp, his forehead too. Has he just splashed water on his face? He winks at Lily. ‘How’s lunch?’ he asks.
Lily has a mouth full of chips. She nods her head and gives him the thumbs-up.
‘Good. I’ve been looking forward to this.’
For the rest of the meal the subject is not brought up. The talk centres around local affairs, the pandemic, and the impact to food prices and food supplies. Lily extracts herself by scrolling through Instagram. Her phone pings with a message. It’s Gemma.
‘Who’s Gemma?’ Uncle Si asks.
Lily feels a surge of irritation that he was watching her phone.
‘Sorry, love, I wasn’t spying. When your phone pinged my eyes followed the noise.’
‘She’s just a friend.’
‘She’s a bit older than you, though,’ Mum interrupts. ‘Should you really be hanging out together?’
Lily gives Mum a withering look.
‘I’m just saying. That’s all.’
‘She’s two years older than me. That’s hardly much older!’
Lily’s tone is sharp. Mum purses her lips, drops her eyes and pokes at her chips.
‘She’s nearly seventeen, Isla,’ Dad says, coming to her defence. ‘She’s old enough to make her own decisions.’
Lily smiles at Dad and turns her attention to the message.
Babes. We’re on. Kitten Club broadcasting tonight at 10 o’clock. Can you be there? Cash in hand.
Gemma adds two smiley face emojis and two dollar sign emojis.
Lily types a message back.
I’ll be there, babes. As per our agreement, right?
Gemma is typing back.
The mask is yours, bitch! LOL XX
Lily feels a frisson of excitement. She turns her phone over, looks up and smiles insincerely at her mother.
‘Back with us, are you?’
The waitress arrives. ‘All done?’
‘Yes, that was delicious, thank you. Our compliments to the chef,’ says Mum.
The waitress gives Mum an odd look and Lily feels herself cringe to the point of death.
‘Dessert?’ the waitress asks.
‘Not for me,’ says Dad.
Mum and Si also decline.
‘I’ll have the brownies with ice cream,’ says Lily.
Mum arches her brows and gives her that irritating fat-shaming look. Lily sets her mouth and holds her gaze defiantly.
Chapter 28
T
OWARDS THE END OF THE working day, Archer receives a text from Liam asking if it is OK if he works a little later to finish painting the living room. She replies with a yes and tells him she is working a few extra hours, and that taking whatever time he needs is OK. He replies with a smiley emoji. Moments later, he texts back and asks if she fancies a drink at the Kings Arms after work. She blinks at the invite, unsure how to interpret it.
Biting her lip, she glances across at Quinn, Liam’s mate. His head is buried in paperwork. She takes a moment to consider and replies: Sure. Why not. I’m putting in a bit of overtime. I’ll let you know.
She hesitates before pressing ‘send’ and feels a pang of doubt, regretting her wishy-washy vagueness.
Liam is replying.
No worries. I’ll get back to it. Cheers. L.
Archer glances back at Quinn, sets her phone screen side down, and feels a tremor of confusion mixed with excitement. Did Liam just ask her out on a date? Does he like her? How has she not spotted the signs? Does she like him? He’s certainly easy on the eye. Another message pings. A small smile parts her lips as she picks up the phone.
‘Someone’s popular,’ says Quinn. He watches her with a curious expression.
‘It’s no one,’ she replies, dropping her gaze.
The number on the screen is one she doesn’t recognise. She feels a twinge of disappointment before shaking herself out it. Composing herself she opens the message.
‘What’s his name?’ Quinn asks.
Archer gives Quinn a look and ignores the question. She reads the message.
Dear DI Archer, you asked me for a photo of Sally. I went into the loft, after your visit the other day, and found this photobooth shot of Sally and me. It was taken about a year before she left Bristol. She looks really happy. I suppose we both do. Anyway, I found some others but they’re not so great. This is the best shot I have. Let me know if it’s good enough. All my best. Fiona.
‘It’s from Fiona Brooks.’
Archer opens the attachment. It’s a black and white photo of two smiling teenagers inside a photo booth. Fiona has short dark hair combed into a side parting. Sally, on the other hand, has thick blonde hair teased into a curly shag style. A heavy fringe half conceals her eyes lined thick with eyeliner. She has a strong jawline and a sweet smile. Archer feels an anger burn inside. Quinn is beside her, standing so close she can smell the soap on his skin. He sighs. ‘It’s one thing knowing she was just a teenager but seeing her like this . . .’
‘We have to find this motherfucker. Make him pay for what’s he done,’ says Archer.
‘We will.’
DC Phillips’s voice interrupts the sombre moment. She’s sitting at her desk. Her computer screen contains CCTV footage. ‘Sorry to interrupt. You might want to see this. I’ve gone through the CCTV from the night Elena was murdered and found the car Hassan Bilal was referring to. It’s a Vauxhall Astra. It belongs to a widow, a Mrs Eileen McKenna, who reported it missing the morning after Elena was murdered.’
Archer looks at the grainy footage of Elena stepping into the car. The driver is hidden from view.
‘I’ll fast forward a bit,’ says Phillips. ‘There’s no clear shot of the driver, as you can see.’
Phillips pages through the shots. She can just about make out Elena, but the driver has his visor down and he’s wearing a PPE mask.
‘Crafty fucker,’ says Quinn.
‘We lose the car in Edgware near the Silk Stream.’
‘Has it been found?’ Archer asks.
‘Not yet. That’s my next task.’
‘Good work. Thanks, Marian.’
‘Grace, Harry, I’ve found something,’ comes Klara’s voice. She’s approaching them with an open laptop, which she sets down on Archer’s desk. ‘I was searching through the records of Sally McGowan’s last known address at Stuart Mill House. She wasn’t registered there but obviously other people were. Onscreen is a report from a council database with a list of people registered at that address over the years. Recognise a name on that list in 1987?’
Archer and Quinn lean in for a closer look. Scanning the names, Archer’s eyes fall on one in particular.
‘I’m surprised, but not,’ Quinn says.
‘Are you in any rush to get home?’ Archer asks.
‘Nope. Shall we pop in?’
‘Let’s do it. Great work, Klara.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Twenty minutes later they are once more climbing the stairs of the Chicken House. Margaret Jackson watches them approach with a less than impressed expression.
‘We’re quite busy at the moment, so can we make this quick?’ she says.
‘Let’s go to your office.’
‘We can talk here.’
Archer is no mood for Margaret Jackson’s sass. ‘Recognise this . . . child?’ Archer asks, showing her Fiona’s photobooth shot which has since been cropped to depict only Sally.
Jackson’s eyes linger on the picture.
‘Sally’s last known address is Stuart Mill House. According to records you lived there, too.’
She closes her eyes for a moment and nods.
