A Deadly Likeness, page 27
I rolled my eyes at her and she mouthed a silent ‘sorry’. Then busied herself with the post.
‘How did you get here, Mamma?’ I shrugged out of my jacket. My mother didn’t drive and I knew taxis wouldn’t come along the unmade track to the farm in the snow.
‘Taxi left me at end of your lane. I would have to walk rest of the way, but this nice boy was driving here and stop for me.’ She smiled at Ed.
‘Luckily, just on my way here to help Jen with that stuff you rang me about, when I saw this lovely lady.’
‘Told him he must stay for dinner,’ Mamma said. ‘He says he’s a friend of yours, so I invite him.’
‘It’s OK,’ Ed said quickly. ‘I have to go back this evening.’
‘You staying, Mamma?’ I asked. Warming my hands over the hotplate.
‘No. Got a Christmas dinner tonight with the bowls club.’ She tapped the spoon against the side of the pan and put it on a saucer on the counter. Wiping her hands on my apron. ‘Maybe this nice boy give me a lift back, eh?’
I opened my mouth, but Ed waved my objection away before I could make it. ‘No problem. My pleasure.’
I peered into the pan, at meatballs bubbling in thick sauce. ‘Thanks, Mamma. I really appreciate it . . . but you didn’t need to.’
‘Yes, I did.’ She was looking at Ed as she spoke. ‘She has terrible job.’ She shook her head. ‘No job for a woman, dealing with killers and rapists. All the hours, with no time for good home cooking.’ She gave me one of her looks. ‘I keep telling her, she’s going to die lonely. Why you can’t get a proper job, eh?’
‘In an office – yes, I know, Mamma.’
‘Tell her, Eduardo.’ She stared up at him. ‘Nice boy like you, wouldn’t want a woman like that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ He was struggling to contain the grin.
I was used to this. The surreptitious criticism, wrapped up to look like motherly concern. Relentless since childhood and just as biting as ever.
‘You’re too strong-willed, Phina.’ She began to unfasten the strings of the apron. ‘Men don’t like that. Don’t like a woman with too many brains, either. I warn your papa when he insist on your education. A girl don’t need that. When a man gets to know you, they’ll leave you. And look . . .’ She waved her arms around. ‘Here you are, all alone – no husband. Men like a woman who makes a home. You’re so stubborn—’
‘Not stubborn,’ I said weary of this same conversation. ‘Just independent.’
‘Stubborn.’ She almost spat the word. ‘And too clever to take your mamma’s advice. It makes you unlovable.’ She nudged Ed. ‘Tell her.’
He grinned at me over the top of Mamma’s head and winked. ‘Yeah, I like my woman chained to the kitchen sink. Having my tea ready when I get in at night.’
‘You see!’ Mamma shot me a victorious look.
‘OK.’ I held my hands up. ‘I’m leaving you to it, while I drop this lot in the office.’
‘What time do you need to get back?’ I heard Ed asking Mamma as I walked down the corridor.
‘Can we go now?’
Jen hurried down behind me.
I dumped my files on the desk. ‘Did you two get anywhere?’
‘Massively.’ She glanced back towards the kitchen. ‘Left Mamma cooking and got a lot done, but then she commandeered him as her sous-chef.’
When I walked back into the kitchen, Mamma was struggling into her winter coat. Ed leaned back against the Aga, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He suppressed a laugh and rolled his eyes at Mamma’s back.
‘Want me to come back, later?’ he whispered, looking over at the pan. ‘And help you eat this lot.’
‘Definitely.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Tuesday Evening, Kingsberry Farm
With the dishes cleared away, we’d taken our wine down to the office. Harvey, full of leftover pasta, snored contentedly on the rug.
Earlier in the day, Jen and Ed had cleared space on Jen’s desk for his laptops. Plural. Three of them, linked together with lines of cables, which to my untrained eye resembled Mamma’s spaghetti.
‘Jen’s idea to go through the census was a good one, but it had limitations,’ Ed was saying as his fingers moved over the keys. He didn’t tap them, like me. It was more of a hovering touch that seemed to miraculously type at lightning speed.
I took a sip of Malbec, watching as rows of text filled the screen.
‘Instead of looking for the cop,’ he was saying, ‘I thought we might identify the family.’ He took a sip from his own glass and turned his laptop towards me. ‘The family’s five-year-old daughter was abused by Dave Finch.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, I explored census records for families with daughters that age.’
I scanned the list. ‘Don’t recognise any of the names.’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t think it’d be that easy.’ He smiled, pulling up more pages. ‘Someone involved with the family is a cop now. Could be male or female. So, I looked for uncles, aunts, cousins et cetera.’
I watched the names appear on the screen. ‘Wow. That’s more than I would have thought.’
‘Had to trace maternal and paternal sides of all the families. Plus, they moved around and settled all over the country. I’ve created a programme to cross-reference these with other criteria that might help narrow it down,’ he said, not looking up from the screens.
I watched his profile for a moment. ‘You’re really in your element, aren’t you?’
He grinned. ‘Love it. Especially the sneaky stuff.’
‘Err, how sneaky, exactly? I don’t want you doing anything that’ll get you in trouble.’
‘We need to know if any of the names on here joined the police.’
I frowned, suddenly worried about what I might have started. ‘But that’s—’
He waved away my objections with his hand. ‘Think it’s best if we operate a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.’
‘But, Ed, your laptop can be traced – your IP or whatever. My internet . . .’
‘Chill.’ He grinned at me. ‘Anyone looking at this right now thinks I’m operating out of Singapore. In five minutes, the location will shift to Belarus. It’s not my first time, Jo.’
‘I know, I just—’
‘Just nothing.’ His hand covered mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll be in and out of these databases before anyone knows the door’s even been opened. Won’t leave a trace. Trust me.’
*
Wednesday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
I felt his warm breath against my cheek, even before I opened my eyes. I rolled over and looked into dark brown eyes, an inch from my own.
Then he licked my face.
‘Harvey!’ I tried to push six stone of boxer dog off me, but he was having none of it. He licked me again, panting in that way that made him look like he was laughing.
I struggled to sit up on the couch and looked round my empty office, with a vague memory of going to sit on the sofa in the early hours, while Ed carried on working.
There was a blanket over me that I didn’t remember getting. As I swung my feet onto the floor, the office door opened and Ed appeared, carrying two mugs.
‘Morning, campers.’ He sounded far brighter than he had any right to.
‘What time is it?’ I took the cup.
‘Seven thirty.’
‘Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.’
‘That’s OK. You nodded off, so I covered you up and carried on till five-ish.’
‘You must be shattered.’
‘Nah. Used to it. Besides, me and Harvey took the sofa in the lounge. Caught a couple of hours in there.’
I took a welcome sip of tea. First cup – best of the day.
‘Feel bad you spent the whole night working.’
He fussed Harvey, who was loving the attention. ‘Could have stopped if I’d wanted to, but got into it.’
‘Find anything?’
‘None of the people we listed, or their extended family, joined the police, or took civilian jobs with the force.’
I couldn’t help worrying about breaching confidential databases.
‘I just hope you were careful.’
He shot me a look that said, not that again.
‘OK.’ I held up my hands. ‘Just nervous about this, that’s all.’
He sat in the armchair. ‘Some of those on the list have moved abroad and one or two ended up in prison.’
‘How could you find . . .’
He held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell, remember?’
I sighed and nodded.
‘Good news is, I may have found the family.’
He had my full attention. ‘Who?’
‘The Sheridans lived on the same estate as Finch. They had a five-year-old-daughter in 1993.’
‘So did half a dozen others you found.’
‘Bridget, the daughter, killed herself in 2005.’
‘When she was seventeen.’
‘Hmmm.’ He took another gulp of coffee. ‘Not an exact science, but her death certificate shows the place of death was Westwood Park psychiatric hospital in Fordley.’
‘Know it well.’
‘You were head of forensic psychology there, weren’t you?’
‘A thousand years ago.’ I put my cup on the table and stretched cramped muscles. ‘You think if she was the same girl who’d been abused by a paedophile, it might account for her stay in a psychiatric unit, as a teenager?’
‘And the manner of her death. Like I say, not an exact science, but worth following up.’ He got up and began to pull cables from his laptops. ‘Right now, I have to get back to the day job.’
Chapter Sixty
Wednesday Morning, Kingsberry Farm
Jen and I were working in companionable silence in the office. The landscape outside my huge arched window looked like a winter wonderland.
‘Keep your eye on the weather, Jen. You don’t want to get stuck up here.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Can think of worse places. Besides, Henry might appreciate me more if he had to fend for himself for a while.’
My mobile rang. It was Elle.
‘Just calling with the info you asked me about.’ She launched straight into it. ‘Post-mortem report on Dave Finch?’
I grabbed a pen. ‘Thanks, Elle.’
‘Want to tell me why you’re revisiting a death from 1993?’
‘Just following an instinct.’
‘Good enough for me. Well, although his flat was torched, the arsonist didn’t do a good enough job. Finch’s body was recovered with minimal fire damage.’ I could hear the rustling of paperwork. ‘He had dozens of bruises and abrasions over his torso. Consistent with taking a beating, but he actually died from severe brain trauma.’
‘Caused how?’
‘A severed artery caused by a heavy blow.’
‘He was hit over the head?’
‘No. He had a broken jaw.’
‘Sorry, I’m being slow on the uptake.’
‘Looks like the kind of injury we see in a “one-punch death”.’
‘A blow to the jaw can kill?’
‘Yep. I’ve seen a few single-punch deaths in my career. Usually drunken lads in pub brawls. It’s either caused by the punch knocking the victim down and they hit their head on a hard surface. Or, as it looks in this case, the blow is so severe, the brain bounces round inside the skull, like jelly in a bowl. The trauma causes a bleed on the brain. In Finch’s case, it tore the artery.’
I was scribbling notes.
‘Got a meeting, need to love you and leave you.’
I thanked her and hung up, just as my office phone rang.
‘Jo?’ It was Supt. Warner. ‘The team listened to the recording from your interview with Malecki. In light of his reaction, and what happened after you left, looks like you’re right about a disciple.’
‘What happened after I left?’
‘Once he was back on the wing, he made a call to one of the numbers on his PIN. The call was recorded and sent to the team. I can’t go into it over the phone, rather you came in to hear it for yourself. The techies can explain the rest.’
‘OK. When do you want me?’
‘Now would be good.’
Chapter Sixty-One
Wednesday Afternoon, Fordley Police Station
This close to Christmas, Fordley town centre would normally be packed with shoppers. But today, it was almost empty.
Despite requests from the police, the press whipped up feelings of foreboding, as every Wednesday approached, and a sense of barely subdued fear pulsed through the city.
News items reinforced the fear by reporting the soaring sales of home security systems and asking people not to panic, which predictably had the opposite effect.
CCTV companies were doing a roaring trade. Even the RSPCA were getting involved, as they reported a rising demand for big dogs. Especially Rottweilers and Alsatians.
People were staying indoors. Despite the reality that this killer usually targeted people in their own homes. They’d probably have been safer at the Christmas market, which this year complained that takings were down as the public stayed away.
When I finally got into the station, the place was humming with the frenetic energy of a fast-moving enquiry.
As the body count had risen, so had the number of officers involved, including those brought in from other forces. The major incident rooms now occupied two floors of the station, with every inch of space taken.
Supt. Warner was in a huddle with Callum and DI Wardman.
‘Recording from the prison is in here.’ She ushered me into an office. A young officer I didn’t recognise was sitting at the table, with the digital recorder.
‘This is DS Charlie Thompson from our specialist telephony team.’ Supt. Warner made the introductions. ‘He’ll explain how this call was made.’
Callum took a seat. Wardman hovered at the door, before saying, ‘I’ve already heard all this, ma’am, so I’ll get back to the team if that’s OK?’
She nodded, without looking at him, as DS Thompson cued up the recording.
‘As you’ll know,’ he began, ‘prisoners are given a PIN to make telephone calls.’
I was on more than a few prisoners’ PINs myself, including Chris McGarry’s.
‘Malecki only had four personal numbers listed and eight professional ones,’ Charlie was saying. ‘All of the latter were for members of his legal team or specialists they called on. His firm used non-geographic numbers, with the prefix 03.’
‘Why a non-geographic number?’ I asked.
‘Malecki’s solicitors had offices around the UK. It allows calls to be redirected to virtually any landline or mobile. The numbers were also diverted to out-of-hours answering services.’
‘OK.’
‘This firm rented a bundle. Each one was assigned to one of their offices and the answering service would route the calls.’ He passed me a sheet that I recognised as a prison phone list. ‘When Malecki was sent to Wakefield, his numbers were verified and they’ve never changed. The last time he called his legal team was five years ago, when they were launching an appeal against his transfer. It failed and he never called them again.’
‘Until yesterday.’ I ventured a guess.
Callum said, ‘We checked the number. It was the solicitors’ branch in Hull.’
‘And?’ I was struggling to see where this was going.
‘That practice closed four years ago and the number was never reassigned.’
‘So, how could he have spoken to anyone?’
‘It’s still registered with the answering service,’ Charlie said. ‘After the office closed, the solicitors stopped putting the number on their ads and stationery. It was sitting there as a spare.’
‘So, who did they route his call to?’ I was feeling slow on the uptake.
‘A pay-as-you-go mobile that was discontinued as soon as the call ended. A burner phone.’
I glanced from Callum, to Charlie and back again. ‘But how is that possible?’
‘I sent officers round to the answering service,’ Supt. Warner said. ‘Woke a magistrate up to get a warrant to look at their records. Apparently when the Hull office closed, the service was issued with this mobile number and told to route any calls there. The request was sent via email from the head office of the solicitors, which as an existing account wasn’t unusual. It looked authentic. But our techies have checked and it’s a cloned email. From an IP address that was bounced round a dozen servers worldwide. Untraceable now.’
‘This number is the 091 burner that called Hannah with the anonymous tip, to go to Paxton Pits,’ Callum added. ‘Play the recording, Charlie.’
We all listened as the phone dialled. Whoever answered didn’t speak. There was a crackle on the line, before Malecki’s unmistakable voice filled the room.
‘QRM,’ was all he said. Then he hung up.
‘That’s it?’
Warner and Callum both nodded.
Before I could ask the obvious question, Charlie supplied the answer.
‘It’s “Q” code,’ he said, as if that explained everything.
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A standardised collection of three-letter codes that each start with the letter “Q”. An operating signal initially developed for commercial radiotelegraphy. I recognised it because I’m a radio ham,’ he added rather sheepishly.
‘Why would he use that?’ I frowned. ‘If he knows the burner will be discontinued as soon as they ended the call, he could have spoken normally.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Malecki would know that his calls are recorded. Whoever answered was briefed not to speak – meaning we don’t have a record of their voice. By using a prearranged code, if the call was compromised, and it was someone else on the other end, they wouldn’t understand the message.’
‘So, what does it mean?’ I asked.
‘The literal definition is, “I’m being interfered with.” A more usual interpretation is that communications are suffering from interference or interception.’
