Killing Time, page 23
Rob had distanced himself from the session. He needed to be clear of it. There was an undertone to the investigation that he didn’t like. Didn’t trust. And it was now being played out across various media channels, with political stakes increasing by the hour. The melting pot was full, bubbling away, and Rob felt no closer to unmasking the killer now than he did when he had first set foot into William Reynolds’ bungalow several weeks ago.
Taking a step away was the right thing to do. Rob needed to look at the investigation, almost from the outside. With fresh eyes and whilst not in the middle of it, where emotions and opinions were raging. It is always easy to be defensive, or even blind, when it’s your work, but easier to be objective when you’ve taken a step back.
Rob was having to play his own political game too. He was well aware of the shit-storm that was shrouding the investigation, and although nothing had been directly received in terms of a taunting letter or a ‘catch me if you can’ message, it felt as if the killer was mocking the force. Provoking them further with every murder, for their inability to find him.
Rob was playing a political game with ACC Laura Mathers and Chief Constable David Parker, both of whom had assured him ‘everything possible’ was being done and ‘all resources needed’ would be available.
Rob didn’t doubt it; he knew the public line. He was also aware there’d be a political price to pay for this, and it could well be his career. The one that got away. The one that fucked it up completely.
He’d discussed the possibility of inside knowledge with Laura Mathers previously. Had it recorded, too, and backed up on an Apple Mac at home – non-police issue – and Rob knew he could use it to cover his arse if needed. He was never sure if it was strictly legal, GDPR and all that, but he’d cross that bridge later, when the brown stuff was neck deep and Mathers was ‘unable to recall’ the conversation.
Rob had Bernie Copp in his sights. He’d pissed him off by not going to Liverpool, and now Rob was actively looking into why that may have been. Or whether he had travelled up separately and was on the wrong side of Daniel Mortimer’s front door.
It was a new line of inquiry, even for Rob. He’d had to arrest colleagues before. Thieves. Blackmailers. A rapist. But a police officer murderer had always seemed a stretch, let alone a serial killer. Something that happened in the States, or on the silver screen. Not in Leicester.
Mathers was in agreement and supported the line of inquiry. She’d also approved a search of mobile phone masts for all cellular activity in the Liverpool area before and after the murder, in conjunction with Merseyside and with the approval of the IOPC. Rob was comfortable that the sub-investigation was being conducted appropriately, although the wider investigation remained compromised, and would become subject to full investigation by the IOPC when the dust had settled. Lessons would need to be learned.
Rob’s contemplation was broken by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He slid it out to see Becky Ryan’s cheerful face adorning the screen, and he slid the green icon to take the call.
“Miss Ryan.”
“Mr Rhone.”
The tone was playful, something of a break from a pensive twenty-four hours.
“How’s it going, Becky?”
“It’s going ok. Nothing to surprise you yet. Sorry. We’re not fully complete and have tox tests to run to establish any chemical involvement, but this one looks simpler. Less finesse.”
There was a pause. Rob hadn’t seen Becky at the house; they’d crossed paths somewhere on the M6, but he felt sure the mood at the scene would have been poor.
“You know three of Croft’s team were sat outside, right?”
“So I’d heard.”
“It’s a fucking mess, Becky. A real mess and we need to get a grip of it. I need anything you can give me. Anything at all. Blood spatter, DNA, hair, a fragment of something. I’d take anything.”
Rob was desperate and Becky knew it. She knew the magnitude of what was happening, and although Rob was SIO, this was beginning to reflect on the wider force. The whole of it. She suggested a review of the post-mortems as a collective. A discussion of four murders as opposed to individual post-mortems on a timeline. Rob’s team were now circling and going back over what they had found. Becky felt the time was right to do the same with her work, and Rob agreed. Look at it again. See something, find something, interpret it differently. He’d arrange a time to go through it with her in the coming forty-eight hours, when both were back in the city and some of the dust had settled. A small amount at least.
“Well, I just wanted to let you know we’re making progress here, and to check you’re ok.”
Rob appreciated the call, and was grateful for a cheerful tone. It had been a few days since he’d heard one.
“Thanks, Becky, I’ll talk to you later.”
Rob thought about calling Nicky but knew she’d let him know as soon as she knew anything salient. She was desperate for a breakthrough too, but was managing Jen and Jack well. Keeping them focused. Keeping them motivated.
Rob was deciding in his mind how he wanted the next twenty-four hours to play out. He wanted to be in control. Needed to be. The investigation and the killer were humming the tune and everybody, to a man, was dancing to it. The pool of people was small and so were his options.
Alan Reynolds was top of the pile. He was coming back in regardless. Rob still felt strongly that he wasn’t the man. He didn’t fit. Not smart enough, maybe not strong enough. Needles wouldn’t be his thing either, he was a blunt instrument in every way, but Rob needed to mine him, find a way to open up dialogue, help him to recall something, make him want to dig deep into his memory banks, and share something that may open up the case. Of all the people to be reliant on, Alan Reynolds was not the man of choice. But choices were limited.
Elizabeth Harris was coming back in too. Jen and Jack were already looking into where she’d been the previous evening, digitally at least; and although, like Alan Reynolds, she wasn’t top of the suspect board, she was fast becoming a survivor amongst a plethora of murder victims. She’d been married to one of the gang and had had an affair with last night’s victim. She was too weak, surely? She wasn’t a big lady, she had nothing on her, plus she was well into her sixties. Even with the needles, the murders needed some force. They were big men who wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.
Rob had even considered a team, or a couple, who were going at the men. He’d considered whether Alan Reynolds could have teamed up with Elizabeth Harris, or somebody else. A pact to free up the cash for mutual gain. But the options just didn’t look viable.
Rob wanted Elizabeth Harris to be told of the death of Daniel Mortimer in a controlled environment. See how she reacted. See what she said. How she responded. She was another protagonist who, like Alan Reynolds, might know something. Something seemingly unimportant and from decades ago that was now causing somebody to butcher the gang, one by one.
Bernie Copp was the real thorn. Yes, he’d pissed Rob off, which wouldn’t prove to be a strong career move, but with the line of inquiry now almost certainly proving that the killer had more information than they should have, an inside man looked likely. The way they’d navigated Field Street last night was just too slick, and although Joe Davies’ murder was similar; it was a regular house on a regular terraced street, Joe’s house had a side entry that would have been the natural route to take for the killer. Plus there weren’t police officers sitting outside.
Daniel Mortimer’s house was a mid-terrace. There was no rear alley, so to even get to the back door meant fence climbing and garden surfing, which should have meant noise. Security lights. Somebody must have seen something.
Rob knew uniforms from Merseyside had been banging on every door, and forensics would be scouring the gardens to trace back to the point of entry. Hopeful of a fibre on a splinter of a fence panel, a shoe print in a border. Blood.
The whole thing just looked like the killer had gone in the way they did because they knew there was a police presence to the front of the house. How they’d then got in was still unknown too. There was no sign of forced entry as the door was still in pristine condition, yet the killer clearly hadn’t just knocked on a back door. Or had they?
The skill level was evolving. The killer was showing a deftness that concerned Rob massively. The ability to stay undetected. To lay in the shadows. The only way the killer could have known of a police presence last night was if they were operating from inside the force. If they were one of them. An insider showing exceptional levels of skills, and exceptional levels of dedication to find and execute a criminal gang. Ruthlessly. Efficiently. The thought was horrifying but happening. This wasn’t just a serial killer; the evidence seemed to be pointing to the killer having a warrant card.
Rob continued to scrawl on the pad in front of him. A list of names, options he felt were credible. Alan Reynolds had motive, so did Elizabeth Harris, but did they really have the opportunity? If there was an inside element it would explain the opportunity, and the way the killer had been able to access Field Street.
Rob wrote ‘MOTIVE?’ in capital letters on the pad. He was still missing something.
Chapter 49
Rob had slept well. A solid six hours, and in his own bed, had prepared him well for today. Feeling energised and with his plan decided in his own mind, he set out early with a strong focus. He was determined to crack some heads during the course of the day, metaphorically at least, and to try to throw some light into the darkness.
Today was big for the team, a co-ordinated effort to break some of the characters still in the game. Still alive.
He’d arrived at the office early. The lights were still off, the office dark, but a dull light from a computer left on was reflecting across the surfaces of the desks, refracting on shiny surfaces. Glasses. Cups.
Rob hit a couple of switches on a long bank of lights, opting to turn enough on to light up the area he wanted, but keep the rest of the office in the dark. Nicer to work in at this time of day. Kinder on the eyes.
He walked over to the board and stared at Paul Harris’ death certificate, which was now pinned to the board, along with his certificate of cremation. Dated and time-stamped. In normal circumstances this would be more than definitive enough for him. Enough for proof of death. But Rob still had an inkling of doubt over Paul Harris. He knew he shouldn’t have, but it was there. Nagging away.
On paper he wasn’t the right character for this sort of crime. Maybe he didn’t have the mettle or had too many weaknesses, but then again, on paper he was dead. Had been for a couple of decades. Rob was disappointed at the cremation. Exhumation was always a good option in the DNA age. More definitive. Cleaner.
Alan Reynolds would be re-arrested in the coming hours. He would be back in an interview room with Nicky and Jack before he’d had time to sober up. Jack would walk Alan through his options and play the proverbial good cop. Nicky would be Nicky and see how much she could push it before Alan Reynolds decided what his best option was. Rob was trying to find out which duty solicitor was on call this morning, but was hoping it was the shit one again so they could really push their luck. Alan needed squeezing.
Bernie Copp’s whereabouts of the last forty-eight hours were still being assessed, digitally and otherwise. Rob had a call with the team assigned those duties at 8am. Delicate matters. Officers assigned to investigate another officer. Rob would travel to the Marriott Hotel just outside the city, situated near to junction 21 of the M1, for the call, as well as a meeting he had scheduled. Protocol dictated any internal investigations were not permitted to happen within the police station for reasons of professional conduct. Rob had no issue with that, and knew he would need to be whiter than white on all matters from here on in.
Elizabeth Harris would be coming back in too. Her intimate knowledge of her late husband, of Daniel Mortimer and of the men they called friends could be better than some of the knowledge Alan Reynolds held. Fresher. Less polluted. More credible in court, if it ever got to that stage.
Rob was also scheduling a meeting with Becky Ryan and the senior team, eager to review the forensic details and the assessment of the final hours of Daniel Mortimer’s life. The investigation had devolved into a quadruple murder, and the method of the fourth murder was only similar to the naked eye. Daniel Mortimer had been treated as indignantly as the three before him, but was this the same killer? Either way, the gang were now fully out of circulation, all five accounted for, one way or another.
Rob’s brain was fully awake. He felt as positive as he had recently, which he knew was odd given the situation. The pressure was still on, and although the gang had been accounted for, the team still didn’t know the agenda of the killer. A fact that worried him. Rob was determined this case would not go unsolved. A man who had killed four of his contemporaries was strutting about as free as a bird, and without a mistake, without provocation, he was likely to remain unidentified. That didn’t sit well.
Nicky had walked quietly into the office, conscious that Rob was in a groove, so she hadn’t initially disturbed him. Rob raised a hand as an acknowledgment, but was reading through some of the material before him. Scanning. Thinking.
“We need to go hard at the options we have left, Gov, right?”
“Bang on, Nicky. Do a job on Reynolds this morning, wring him out for everything he’s worth. We’ll see what else we can get out of Elizabeth Harris, and I’m hoping with Becky’s report and a full run around that we’ll find a new thread. We have to.”
Nicky’s phone lit up on the desk. The office was still dark with the hour and the time of year. Nicky knew better than to flick more lights on, leaving Rob to do his own thing, in his own way. She looked at the screen and smirked. It was Jen letting her know that she’d picked up Alan Reynolds. Nicky shared it with Rob. It was a positive start.
“Reynolds is in a patrol car on his way here, Gov, and we’ve got coffee on the way too.”
“That’s a good start to the day, Nicky!”
“Oh, and that dipshit brief is the one who’ll be covering the morning, too.”
“Then it’s an excellent start to the day, so don’t fuck it up!”
Rob was playful in his tone but he meant what he said, and Nicky knew it.
*
Nicky felt fresh, ready to extract something from the man sitting in front of her. He looked nervous. Looked like he’d been dragged from his bed from a drunken slumber. He’d likely have been pissed off with the interruption to his morning, but with the discussion in the car being of the discovery of Daniel Mortimer’s body, his mood had softened quickly as self-preservation had entered his mind. Jack had been in the car, and had made sure their man was fully aware of why he was coming in. He had brought the conversation up quickly and then let it fester. He could feel the cogs going round in the back of the car as the realisation of a fourth body had hit Alan Reynolds hard.
Jack sat, arms folded, opposite the brief, whose name was very forgettable. Even his demeanour was bland. Short-sleeved white shirt. Plain tie.
Nicky opened. “Who’s next then, Alan?”
It was an open question, and Nicky didn’t know the answer to it any more than Alan did, which was part of the issue for him.
“Can you protect me?”
“Who from, Alan?”
“From whoever’s doing this.”
“We haven’t got a clue who that might be, Alan, that’s why you’re here.”
Nicky’s openness wasn’t the normal tack when trying to draw out information, but the team didn’t have a suspect, and Nicky was more than happy to let Alan Reynolds know it. Maybe it would jog his memory. Sharpen his thinking.
“We don’t know who’s doing this, and at the minute we don’t fully understand why either. You are the only person who can shed any light on this investigation, so we’re looking squarely at you.”
Alan Reynolds wasn’t aware of Elizabeth Harris’ inclusion in the investigation, as far as the team knew. He wouldn’t have had the nous to put it together in his head either.
“We’ve got four dead bodies, Alan, and we’re hoping you can tell us something we don’t already know so we can find who’s doing this. If not, you are free to go home and we’ll just have to wait to see who number five might be.”
Nicky looked across at the solicitor, who was rigid in his chair, trying to avoid eye contact and scribbling on his pad. That last question was as loaded as it got. Alan Reynolds wasn’t free to go and he knew it. He also knew that number five could well be him, and he fancied his chances in this chair more than with the maniac who had killed his dad and left his bloodied body strapped to his kitchen chair. As choices went, it was preferable.
Alan Reynolds squirmed in his seat, coughed and sat back. The duty solicitor reminded him he wasn’t obliged to say anything, but that didn’t feel like much of an option either.
“I don’t know why this is happening, and I don’t know who’s doing it.”
“Ok, so what do you know that we don’t, that might help?”
Alan sighed deeply, deciding the thoughts in his mind were now worth sharing. “There was more than just the issue I had with the drugs. Joe Davies ran a loan shark business, and dad got into debt with him. Times were tough and even though Dad was working, he borrowed some money and that was that. I don’t know how much. A few hundred, maybe a grand. He owed Joe and he was in. That’s how he ended up being their getaway driver; he was forced to do it. What I did didn’t help, but if it had just been that, I think Dad could have sorted it. Dad tried to clear the debt but Joe held it against him, just kept coming back for more, and Dad couldn’t deal with it. Joe threatened Mum, he threatened me. Once Dad realised he still owed Joe, he tried to squirrel some of the goods away. We had nothing and Joe was will trying to take more.”
