A Deadly Likeness, page 24
‘Hannah’s the key to it.’ I was thinking out loud.
Harvey sat in front of me, with sad eyes that said I hadn’t been paying him enough attention. He put his jowls on my knee and made a huffing sound.
‘Someone tipped Hannah off that the police were looking for him. Probably advised him to turn himself in voluntarily.’
‘Well, that narrows it down. Who else would know that?’
‘We’re back to the investigations teams.’
‘You going to tell Callum . . . or Supt. Warner?’
‘I want to,’ I admitted, ‘but I don’t know who to trust.’
‘You thought someone was briefing Callum about your movements. Maybe you’re not paranoid after all?’
‘Not sure which is worse,’ I said. ‘Being paranoid, or being right.’
‘Maybe take comfort knowing you’re rattling someone.’
‘“Some that were involved . . . are in the job, and they won’t thank you for poking around in what’s dead and gone”,’ I murmured.
‘What?’
‘The last thing Finn said to me.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Poke around in what’s dead and gone.’
*
As soon as I’d hung up, the phone rang again. It was Callum.
‘Just wanted to update you on the latest.’ He was brusque.
‘OK.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Maybe because I am.’
‘Look, I know things are not . . . great between us, but you’re still part of the team and I need you to be as up to speed as everyone else.’
‘Well, that’s good.’ Was all I could think to say.
‘We’ve had initial results back from Cambridgeshire. So far, nothing connects Hannah to the scene. No trace fibres, blood – nothing.’
‘What about his car?’
‘Same. They’ve recovered his clothes, but I’m not holding my breath. Especially as they’ve been through the wash.’
‘Blood traces have been found on washed clothing—’
‘I know.’ He cut me off. ‘But if he’d killed Lutner, then gone back to the car, there would be some transfer there. But there’s nothing. Decision’s been taken to release him under investigation. We can’t hold him without something more concrete.’
‘What did he say about the number that rang him on Friday morning?’
‘Said it was a source. Some guff about a story for the true crime rag he writes for.’
‘But wouldn’t give a name?’
I knew he was shaking his head. ‘Says he doesn’t know. That same number’s come up twice in the last few months. He says it’s someone giving him info for his articles and they’re anonymous. There are two other numbers that the Telephony team say are burners. They’ve rung frequently over the last few weeks. He says the people who give him the leads usually use burners. There’s nothing unusual in that and he’s happy to take the information without knowing their identities.’
‘And a good journalist never reveals his sources.’
‘Yeah, some such bollocks.’
There was a silence and for an aching moment I wanted to tell him about the suggestion of a cop on the team leaking information. But something held me back. I really didn’t have enough to go on yet. And I still didn’t know who to trust. Even Callum.
That thought shocked me, even as it entered my head, but I couldn’t shake it.
‘You can watch the interview tape when you’re in,’ he was saying. ‘There was an interesting moment when we told him Malecki had put his name forward as the possible copycat.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Went ballistic. Said Malecki was just being a vindictive bastard. Giving us the runaround and causing him trouble into the bargain.’
‘So, it’s a massive coincidence, that he ends up at the next murder scene?’
‘Don’t believe in coincidences . . . Especially ones as big as that. Besides, Malecki’s not the only one to mention Hannah. Jack Halton did too. Obviously, Hannah doesn’t know that.’
Something occurred to me. ‘Could I get copies of the prison CCTV? I want to go through the visitors footage again.’
‘No problem. There’s an early morning briefing tomorrow – usual time, if you want to attend?’
‘OK.’
‘Meantime, I want you to look again at Randall. Need more of an insight into his character.’
‘I could do with the psych report that was done for his trial,’ I said.
‘I’ll get that to you, and, Jo . . .’
‘What?’
‘I do value your input. Despite how things might be right now . . . thanks.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Early hours, Monday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
For a second, I thought the alarm had gone off. I’d set it for sparrow’s fart – 5.30 a.m. – to get to Fordley in time for the briefing. Whatever had woken me from a dead sleep, the red glow of my bedside clock said 2 a.m.
Confused, I propped up on one elbow, then fumbled for my phone when it rang again.
‘McCready,’ I mumbled.
‘Jo?’ A familiar voice, that in the fog of half-sleep I couldn’t quite place. ‘Belmarsh calling.’ He laughed softly.
I sat bolt upright.
Chris McGarry.
I pushed the hair out of my eyes and leaned back against the headboard.
‘Obviously not through the prison switchboard?’
‘Er, no. You know how it works, Jo, you’re not that naive.’
‘You’re taking a hell of a chance, Chris.’
‘Getting the phone smuggled in was easy. It was the charger that made my pal’s eyes water.’ He laughed again. ‘Wasn’t just for you, I need it for business.’
‘But if you get caught . . .’
‘You’re worse than the missus – stop worrying. Listen, I’ve heard from Joshua about Hannah. Thought it was safer to speak to you directly.’
‘There’s been a development.’
‘Like what?’
‘Hannah’s been arrested.’
‘For what?’
I hesitated.
‘Oh, come on, Jo. If you don’t trust me, I can’t help.’
‘What does it say about me that right now, I trust a man serving time in Belmarsh more than I trust the police?’
‘That you’ve got great instincts.’ I could hear his grin.
‘The copycat killings.’
There was a low whistle down the phone. ‘Fuck me. Didn’t think the little weed had it in him.’
‘That’s just it. Neither do I. But he was at the scene, at the exact time of the latest murder.’
‘There’s me thinking we would be talking about Dirty Dave Finch.’
‘Still need to. What do you know about that?’
‘Personally, not a lot. I was just nine years old when he became a crispy critter, but I remember the talk on the estate. My uncle was Dad’s right hand back then. He’s doing time in Wandsworth. I’ve spoken to him and he’s told me what I think you want to know.’
‘I was told Hannah was on your dad’s payroll.’
‘True.’
‘And that your dad warned him away from covering the story?’
‘Also true.’
I waited, but emptiness crackled down the line.
Chris was far from his ebullient self. But then, we’d never before had a conversation that touched at the heart of his family business – or his family loyalties.
‘Is this how you want to play it?’ I asked.
‘Keep going.’
I took a long breath. ‘OK. Is Hannah still in your pocket?’
‘No.’
‘I was told your father wasn’t involved in Finch’s death, but he knew who was?’
‘Correct.’
‘That a local family was responsible and your father covered up their involvement?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were other people paid off in the cover-up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
Another empty silence, and then, ‘Some police.’
‘Names?’
‘Sorry, Jo. No can do.’
‘Because they’re still serving?’
‘Actually, the two I know of are both dead now. Of natural causes before you ask.’
‘Then why not give me their names?’
‘It’s something we don’t do,’ he said simply. ‘Even after they’re retired or dead. If word got out that we did, no plod would ever work with us again.’
‘Which means you’ve got police on your payroll now?’
‘Like I said, you’re not naive.’
‘If I give a name, will you confirm it?’
‘No.’
There goes that plan.
‘Was Finch trading in child pornography?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s why the local family were involved?’
‘Yes. Their little girl – five at the time – was groomed by Finch. He made videos of her being abused by himself and his sick mates. The family found out. You can fill in the rest.’
‘Can you give me the name of the family?’
‘No. My father went to a lot of trouble to protect them. Not to mention the kid involved. If I give you their name, it was all for nothing. There’s no expiry date on a murder charge, Jo. Wouldn’t want to see it all come out now.’
‘Was someone in that family a cop?’
‘Not sure whether they were a family member. But someone involved then is a cop now. And before you ask, I don’t have a name.’
‘Would your uncle know?’
‘Says he doesn’t. Think that died with my old man. All he knows is that they’re in the job, or at least they were last time he was on the outside.’
‘Which was how long ago?’
‘Five years.’
‘Can you tell me where they were serving?’
‘Somewhere in the West Yorkshire force.’
‘Are they protecting Hannah . . . from inside the force?’
‘Word is they may be. Hannah found out what the family had done. My old man warned him to keep his mouth shut. As far as I know, he has done ever since.’
‘Do you think Hannah’s involved in these killings?’
‘Personally, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the balls-to-brains ratio for it. He’s a self-absorbed worm, that much I do know. Used to beat up on his missus, especially if he’d had a few too many. He can be a violent bastard, but only with women. Cowardly shit. Drink is his weakness – always was. He’s approached me a few times, with offers of running exposés on rivals – to get them out of the game. But I won’t touch him. Too unreliable. Besides, it’s not the way we do things these days.’
‘Might have been better than your last solution.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, probably. But you know how it is when family’s threatened, Jo? Wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of it.’
‘Speaking of family, how’s your little boy?’
‘Not great. He’s in Fordley Royal Infirmary, but they’re transferring him to Jimmy’s.’
Saint James’s Hospital in Leeds.
‘It’s a brain tumour – malignant.’
‘Oh, Chris.’ As a mother, I couldn’t help but imagine my own son Alex and how I’d feel. ‘I’m so sorry.’
His voice caught and the thought of a man like Chris choking with emotion made my own eyes fill up.
‘It’s operable though – so . . . you know.’
‘And your application for transfer?’
‘Joshua’s on it.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ I meant it.
‘I’ve opened a tab for this one, Jo . . . just so you know.’
Of course he had. I wasn’t fool enough to think his help was gratis.
‘And, Jo . . .’
‘What?’
‘Be careful. I mean it. The people you’re dealing with play for keeps . . . Watch your back.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Monday Morning, Incident Room, Fordley Police Station
There was no point sugaring things up, so Callum didn’t.
‘We’ve got nothing to link Hannah to the murder scene.’ He launched straight into it. ‘Not on him, his clothes or his car and nothing in the birdwatching hide. We’ve spun his house and his phone. No point holding him and running the clock down, so he was released under investigation over the weekend. If Intel turn up anything on those burner phones or the other numbers, we can always pull him in again.’
‘Forensic Science Service have come back on the images of the white van,’ DI Wardman said. ‘They’re pretty certain it’s a Ford Connect.’
‘Without a registration to go on,’ Heslopp muttered, ‘cohort of owners could run into thousands.’
‘Until we get a break that narrows it down, we go through those thousands and eliminate them, if that’s what we have to do,’ Callum said.
Wardman tapped his notes. ‘They’ve confirmed it’s white . . .’
‘White van man,’ Ian Drummond muttered, just loud enough. ‘Can’t be many of those around.’
‘With marks on the side they think are from a decal being removed,’ Wardman ploughed on regardless.
It was something, but not much. And I knew the results could still run into thousands of vehicles around the country. Elimination would take time. Something the team didn’t have.
‘The good news is . . .’ all eyes turned to Tony Morgan ‘. . . DVLA have got a vehicle registered to Peter Randall.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘A white Ford Connect.’
‘I’d like to say “bingo”,’ Heslopp said, ‘but I’d hate to jinx it.’
‘Too much to hope that it’s at his registered address?’ Callum said, taking a drink of coffee.
‘He’s not been there for months,’ a traffic cop chipped in. ‘Van’s not been seen by neighbours in as long, either. Got a marker out on it. If it moves, we’ll pick it up.’
‘If Hannah’s telling the truth,’ Callum said, looking at the whiteboard for Paxton Pits, ‘and he didn’t kill Lutner.’ He tapped a mugshot. ‘Randall is in pole position.’
‘Hannah’s anonymous caller said his mate was a plumber,’ Heslopp supplied. ‘His van fits the one near Jones’s place and he loves Malecki enough to have his chops inked across his back.’
‘And he’s on the fan sites,’ Ian added.
‘Lee said he’d got something important on those.’ Callum scanned the room. ‘Where is he, anyway?’
As if he’d conjured him up, the door flew open and in an uncharacteristic burst of energy, Lee almost fell into the room.
‘Afternoon,’ Heslopp said. ‘Glad you could join us.’
Lee’s face was flushed. ‘I’ve been tracking fans on the Malecki site. Following those who seem the most radical. One who goes under the username WednesdaysChild is trading in unusual Malecki merchandise.’
‘Unusual, how?’ Callum asked.
‘Because they claim it’s stuff from the original murder scenes.’
‘Trophies,’ I said, suddenly feeling my innards tighten.
‘They must be fake,’ Wardman said dismissively. ‘Malecki never took trophies – except for body parts.’
‘He did.’ I shot him a look. ‘Family members said things had gone missing.’
‘Well, before we get carried away,’ Callum interjected, ‘we need to verify it. With no way for buyers to authenticate these, it could be just a scam. Dark web isn’t exactly an Amazon website. Show us what you’ve got, Lee.’
*
We all studied the images on screen. A distinctive Montblanc pen and a single silver earring.
Callum looked to me. ‘You studied the original crimes longer than anyone, Jo. These look familiar?’
‘Not the earring,’ I admitted, ‘but the pen. I’ve seen that in a photo. Press article, if I remember.’ I bit my bottom lip as I thought back. ‘Graham Hirst, maybe?’
Beth was busy at her computer.
‘Got it.’ She turned the screen to show an image of Graham Hirst, with the distinctive white top of the pen in his top pocket.
‘Beth, go through all the records for the original victims,’ Callum directed. ‘See if you can find mention of the earring. Lee, get everything you can on WednesdaysChild. Whoever it is, has access to stuff only Malecki knew about. We need to find out where they’re getting it.’
‘On it, boss.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
Monday, Late Morning
I’d decided to work from the farm.
After the kitchen, my office was probably the place I spent the most time. It was my sanctuary. A space filled with things I loved. It smelled of wood polish and leather-bound books, from the wall of bookcases that held volumes covering every conceivable aspect of murder or murderers past and present, as well as photographs and souvenirs from my travels.
The lamp’s honey-coloured glow made the room feel even cosier against the freezing weather outside.
Jen was making a brew, while I watched the CCTV from the prison visiting hall.
I’d trawled through hours of it. Even as I closed my eyes, I could see the images playing across my darkened eyelids.
I tried to refocus. Switching from the film footage to read my profile of our copycat.
Profiles were organic. Rarely fixed. Growing and shifting with each new piece of information as investigations unfolded.
There was something niggling at me that I couldn’t shake. A feeling that what we were seeing was not all it appeared to be. It was a gut instinct. One that had served me well, but I knew wasn’t enough to take to the investigating team.
Jen put my mug on the desk.
‘Penny for them?’
‘Not worth that much.’ I took a welcome sip of scalding tea.
She settled herself at the desk across the room. ‘I’ve been doing some digging into possible ways to ID a cop who could have been involved with the McGarrys or Hannah around 1993.’
Now she had my full attention.
‘Go on.’
‘It was a local family on the estate where Finch lived who were involved in his death.’
‘Yes.’
‘And someone involved with what happened then is in the police now. So, I went through the census records for the estate from those years and pulled up the list of family names.’ She glanced at me over the top of her reading glasses. ‘If you go through it, there might be a name you recognise.’
