Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller (24 page)

He got back to me in record time.

I learned that the Nike Huarache trainer was the brainchild of Tinker Hatfield, also the designer of Air Jordans and the Air Max. It was inspired by his water-skiing boots, and has a sock-like lining which they called Dynamic Fit.

‘Is any of this relevant?’ asked Fintan.

‘Just keep talking.’

Because of their unusual design, sales of the Huarache shoe hadn’t taken off. Last year, Nike didn’t get enough pre-orders to go into production. But then, a few months ago in April, some marketing guru decided to sell them, guerrilla-style, at the New York Marathon. Suddenly demand soared. Last month, Nike had re-launched the Huarache in the US, but they weren’t scheduled to be sold in the UK until October.

I raced back to Shep and told him the news.

‘There can’t be more than a handful of Huarache shoes in the whole of the UK,’ I said.

‘But forensics combed the scene for footprints. If they found prints from a shoe that rare, they would have flagged it up,’ said Shep.

‘Yes but I want them to check the doors.’

‘For shoeprints?’

‘Yes. You’ll see why, next time they take a break,’ I said, my growing conviction somehow eclipsing my inner terror at making a total arse of myself, yet again.

By now, Laura had reverted to her ‘no comment’ wall stare. Good cop Mick tried reason. Bad cop Colin attempted terror. He managed to scare the shit out of everyone, except Laura.

I stood and walked to the corner of the two-way to get a good look at those trainers. Beside the solicitor’s brogues, they looked tiny.

‘Get them to ask her what size shoe she is,’ I said.

Shep shuffled in his seat, irritated and reluctant.

‘Please, Guv, it’s just one more question.’

He paged Mick and met him at the door to the suite. I could see Shep having to work really hard to convince him. As Mick shut the door, he turned to the two-way, shook his head and mouthed, ‘wanker’.

After a time, Laura’s solicitor asked Mick if his client could take a bathroom break.

‘Of course,’ said Mick, terminating the interview and switching off the tape recorder.

As they all got to their feet, Mick smiled at Laura and said: ‘Before you go, our foot fetishist was wondering what size shoe you take.’

‘These are a size three,’ she smiled, ‘and even that’s a bit big for me. I have to wear thick socks.’

I ushered Shep to the corridor: ‘I want you to watch them go through the security door, Guv, really closely.’

After ten seconds, I almost had to shove his sceptical arse out to the corridor ahead of me. I hoped to God Laura would do the same as she did before. Otherwise, my theory would never fly and my career might crash land before it even had the chance to take off.

We watched the trio of WPC, Laura and lawyer walk towards that security door. As before, the WPC pressed the green release button, pulled the security door towards her and walked through first. Laura took the weight of the door with her arm, then turned her back against it, once again inviting her solicitor through next. As he waddled closer, I willed her to use her foot again.

‘Use your foot, Laura,’ I mouthed at her head, ‘use your foot.’

As the solicitor got within touching distance, her foot went up, her trendy green sole planting itself on the door and pushing it back, right up against the wall.

‘You see that, Guv?’ I said.

‘See what?’ he said.

‘What she did with her foot.’

He nodded.

‘The door to Marion’s flat is spring-loaded, like that one.’

‘Shit!’ He was with me.

‘The evening of the murder, when they waited for Marion at the bottom of the steps of number 21, Karen would have held the gym bag containing the change of clothes and the weapon. After all, she was the older sister and the one with the beef. To ensure Marion didn’t notice or question the bag, she stood behind Laura.’

Shep nodded, happy for once to ride pillion.

‘Marion would have led the way up the garden steps and through the front door, followed by Laura, then Karen. Marion picked up her post. She already had a handbag and a coat over her arm. When she pulled open that spring-loaded door to the flat, she had no spare hand to hold it open for Laura, who wouldn’t have been expecting the weight of the door.’

I could almost see celestial light passing across Shep’s rapt face.

‘Marion unlocked and opened the flat door towards her, walked through. Laura came next. She felt the weight of the door, turned her back against it to let Karen through ahead of her. But to open it wide enough to let fatso past, she needed to use her foot.’

I headed off Shep’s next question before he had the chance to ask it.

‘We know they probably destroyed their blood-soaked clothes, but there’s no way Laura would get rid of a pair of two-hundred-quid designer trainers.’

‘Two hundred quid? You’re joking.’

Shep flew up the corridor, me in hot pursuit.

He explained the scenario to the forensics officer.

‘What are the chances that a shoe print could still be on that door, after seven weeks?’

‘Well, it’s a flat surface. It’s not like a door handle that gets touched every two minutes. I’d say if she left a shoe print on that door, part of it should still be there.’

‘If the print is there, can we prove that it belongs specifically to her shoe?’ I asked.

‘They’re better than fingerprints actually, because they usually leave a more specific pattern. We can match it for design, size, even how worn the sole is. If we find a trace, then you’ve hit the jackpot.’

Clapham Police Station, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 13:00

Shep sent a team to formally arrest Karen Foster and bring her back to the station. We stood together at the custody desk as Laura was led out of her cell, minus the trendy trainers that had sealed her fate. She looked composed, impenetrable. As she was being processed, I heard the security door beep. I peered around the corner to see two officers leading Karen in. She looked flustered, scared, a busted flush.

As she turned the corner and came face-to-face with her younger sister, she crumpled. Laura’s malignant glare said: ‘Pull yourself together.’ Karen swiftly recovered her sullen insolence. I couldn’t help wondering if Laura had thrown her a similar look that July evening as Marion turned into Sangora Road. Perhaps Laura Foster had been much more than bystander in this murderous escapade.

Shep charged Karen and Laura Foster with the murder of Marion Ryan. As they were escorted to separate cells, they didn’t look at each other, or utter a single word.

Shep summoned the team for a newsflash. He looked strained, thwarted.

‘The good news is, we can now prove beyond doubt that Laura Foster was at the scene of the crime,’ he said.

‘We have established major flaws in both the Foster sisters’ alibis. We can show that Karen had motive: she was sleeping with Marion’s husband Peter until two weeks before her murder. According to her work colleague, Bethan Trott, she’d shown signs of being obsessed with him.

‘Why did they act together? I spoke to our old friend Professor Richards, and he mentioned a condition known as
folie à deux
. This is a psychiatric term for a shared psychosis or delusional belief between two people who are very close, often twins. He showed me a few examples and the best way I can describe it is “psychosis by osmosis”. Did Karen’s obsession with Peter Ryan somehow rub off on Laura? Did her devotion to Karen suck her into a state of mind where she would kill for her sister? We can get a judge to order psychiatric reports and investigate this right away.

‘Normally, we’d now try to turn the suspects against each other. But as the Prof has pointed out, these girls are too close for that. Both stopped talking to us some time ago.

‘I’ve just come from the lawyer who advises me that we still haven’t got enough to swing a jury. So where do we go from here? According to the pathologist, only a man could have inflicted several of the knife wounds suffered by Marion because of the strength required. Who was it? We’re still matching prints from employees and ex-employees of the Pines care home with those found at the scene, but so far we’re drawing a blank.

‘The bottom line is, until we find the man and can place both him and Karen at the scene, we haven’t got a case. And, to be blunt, I’m clean out of ideas.’

Marion’s butchering of my little finger flashed through my mind so I piped up. ‘The weapon, Guv.’

His tired eyes located me and squinted.

‘What about the weapon, Lynch?’

‘Nothing concrete, Guv. But let’s suppose that the murder weapon was the metal ruler that DS Barratt found in their dad’s mop this week. He told us how nervous Terry got when he was asked about the ruler and whether he’d found it in the mop the next day. We now know that Laura left a gym bag in Bethan Trott’s room. We know she came from the scene of the crime so the ruler would have been in that bag until they picked it up at midday the next day. It definitely wasn’t in the mop the day after the murder and Terry knows this. Also, I checked out Terry Foster like you asked. He’s got form for burglary. It’s twenty years ago, but he did a stretch. Eighteen months.’

‘Get him in,’ barked Shep, ‘and get that fucker Peter Ryan back in. Something’s not adding up about his story.’

Clapham Police Station, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 16:00

Shep and I sat in the interrogation suite’s viewing gallery, watching Peter Ryan fumble with his wedding ring.

‘We’re letting Terry Foster stew in the other suite,’ said Shep, ‘Barratt told him we’ve got some news about the weapon. By all accounts he’s rattling away in there like a garden gate in a hurricane!’

Yet again, they let Peter bring in his work pager. I couldn’t understand how this object could be considered any less dangerous than his cash, belt or keys. My mind flashed back to the night of Marion’s murder on Sangora Road, Peter fumbling in his pocket for the flat keys, when my mind snagged on a tiny detail.

‘You know, in his statement, Peter said he always kept his keys in his briefcase at work, otherwise he’d lose them. Karen would have known that.’

Shep blinked repeatedly. ‘What are you saying, Lynch?’

‘What if Karen or Laura took the keys out of his briefcase, let themselves into 21 Sangora and waited for Marion?’

Shep nodded slowly.

The sight of Peter’s pager transported me back to last night. Fintan removed the batteries from his so that no one could triangulate his location. I couldn’t fail to suppress a guffaw.

‘What’s so funny, Lynch?’

‘Fintan often takes the batteries out of his pager. He claims that otherwise spooks could work out his location, because the messages are re-directed from local transmitters.’

Shep smiled: ‘He’s got a vivid imagination, that boy.’

We both looked at each other suddenly, thinking the same thing. Karen was a trainee nurse at the Pines. She too would have been issued a work pager as standard. I followed his march to the kitchenette.

‘We need to find out if Karen Foster has a pager. We need to get hold of it and get it to our tech people,’ he gabbled, ‘that way we can place her at Sangora Road on the day of the murder.’

‘Better still, why don’t I just tell lover boy that we already have?’ said Mick.

Shep nodded.

I chased him back to the viewing gallery. He got on the phone to Barratt, told him to track down Karen’s work pager as a priority. He hung up and said: ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the crafty bitch has already destroyed it. She’s done her homework, that girl.’

Mick and Colin strolled into the suite, smiling and relaxed. Peter frowned in confusion. Mick switched on the tape recorder and Colin took up the slack.

‘We’re having a very good day, Peter,’ he said brightly. ‘We now have evidence that Laura was at the scene of Marion’s murder.’

‘And we now know where you and Karen were at the time Marion died,’ added Mick, planting his pager on the table, ‘thanks to the marvels of modern technology.’

Peter frowned.

‘DS Mulroney has just placed his staff pager on the table,’ Mick told the tape recorder.

‘May I see yours?’ Colin asked.

Peter visibly sagged, unclipped it and slid it across the table.

‘We got hold of Karen’s work pager a few days ago and let the tech boys do their work. Did you know that every pager message is relayed via the nearest transmitter? That means we can work out exactly where a pager has been. I must say, we were a little surprised to see where Karen spent her afternoon.’

Peter’s hideous, hooked-fish face returned.

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us, Peter?’

Clapham Police Station, South London

Sunday, August 18, 1991; 17:00

When Shep declared he’d be taking the interview with Terry Foster, neither Mick nor Colin looked remotely surprised.

‘Don’t you mind?’ I asked Mick as we settled in the viewing gallery.

‘Shep’s like the cavalry,’ he quipped, ‘he loves riding in when all the hard work’s been done.’

Terry sat bolt upright, rigid, defensive. Karen had clearly inherited his talent for sullenness. He was a short, slight man, which he compensated for by growing a scrubby beard and holding himself like a bantam cock – chest out, head wobbling, objectionable. His gaunt face radiated ill-health – a heavy smoker for sure. He wore black tracksuit bottoms, white trainers and a skin-tight grey Puma t-shirt which showed off his muscular arms, vein-green from faded tattoos.

‘Shouldn’t we get him a duty solicitor, even if he doesn’t want one?’ I asked. ‘At least then he can’t complain later?’

‘Maybe he’s ready to spill,’ said Colin.

To me, Terry just looked ready to kill.

Shep strode in with his suit jacket on, tie Windsor-knotted, carrying his briefcase, all business. He sat down: ‘How are you, Terry?’

‘Fine,’ snapped Terry.

‘My name is Detective Superintendent Dan Shepard. You’ve elected to conduct this interview without a solicitor. Is that correct?’

‘Correct,’ said Terry.

‘Fine. Just so you know, Terry, before we start, Karen’s been talking, Laura’s been talking and Peter’s been talking. Do you understand?’

Terry shrugged.

‘We now know, thanks to Peter Ryan, that Karen spent the afternoon of the murder in Bethan Trott’s room at the Pines, as she’s said all along. Except she wasn’t watching telly with Bethan. She was having sex with Peter Ryan. She’s what you people in South London would call a slag, isn’t she, Terry?’

Terry’s cheek clenched.

‘Your Laura’s a pretty girl, isn’t she, Terry?’

‘Fuck off,’ spat Terry.

‘Is she a slag too, Terry?’

‘You’re brave aren’t you, copper? I bet you wouldn’t talk to me like this outside.’

‘I just ask because my colleagues at the Historic Sex Abuse team would love to get hold of the statement your Laura’s just made.’

Terry shuffled uncomfortably.

‘Imagine that, Terry? The South London press reporting that you’ve been charged with kiddie fiddling? Wouldn’t be very good for business, would it, Terry? No one wants a paedo rinsing their kiddies’ bedroom windows, do they? But that’s what’ll happen if you don’t tell me the truth today. Do you understand?’

Terry glared at Shep, who now changed tack.

‘The best thing you can do, Terry, is seek the mercy of a jury. Tell us how it all went wrong that day, how you’d no idea it would end the way it did. How you too are a victim.’

Before Terry had a chance to punch his lights out, Shep leaned over, switched on the tape recorder and announced who was in the room.

‘Terry, please tell us all your movements from lunchtime on Monday July 1, 1991. And please, don’t leave anything out.’

Terry coughed. ‘I get home from work at about three, as usual, and leave my cleaning kit in the garage. At about quarter past, I’m watching the horse racing on telly when Laura comes in.’

Terry started breathing heavily through his nose.

‘Where were your wife Pam and youngest daughter Stacey at this time?’

‘Stace’s at school, Pam’s at her mum’s.’

‘Can you describe Laura’s appearance?’

‘Blue jeans and a black top with her hair tied up.’

‘And how did she seem?’

‘She’s very agitated. She tells me Karen’s being bullied at work by a woman. Laura wants to go to the Pines and have a word with this woman. I tell her I don’t want anything to do with it.’

Terry’s short breaths cranked up another notch.

‘Please, Terry, go on.’

He shuffled in his seat again, his restless eyes looking everywhere but at Shep.

‘She keeps going on and on. About what a shit dad I am, not even standing up for his own daughters. She winds me right up.’

Terry’s heaving breaths now bordered on snorts.

‘And?’

‘I agreed to go with her. As far as I’m concerned, she’s just gonna shake this woman up a bit. Give her a fright. Nothing like what happened.’

‘Please, Terry, try to stick with the order of events if you can. I don’t understand why you went with her at all?’

‘Like I say, she says if I was a proper dad, I’d back her and Karen up.’

‘
Have
you been a proper dad to your three daughters, Terry?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Why would Laura accuse you of being a shit dad?’

‘It’s not easy is it? If you have kids then you’ll know. They can be … trying.’

‘I’ve got two daughters, Terry. But I don’t get pissed and hit them like you do.’

Terry’s eyes darted towards Shep, his head wobbling in rage. Shep lifted his chin defiantly: ‘Or worse.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ shouted Terry.

‘Is this how you get, Terry? And now you’re sober. Imagine that temper after a skinful.’

Terry grimaced, turned his head away from Shep and folded his arms: ‘I don’t have to listen to this shit.’

‘Look, I know you’re not a killer, Terry,’ said Shep softly, ‘I believe you when you say you didn’t want to go with Laura that day. How did she make you go, Terry? What did she have on you?’

Terry’s hog-like snorting returned.

‘Maybe your lovely wife Pam could enlighten us? Or Lee social services?’

‘They make things up, don’t they?’ Terry spat, ‘and you can’t prove a negative. You can’t prove you never done the things they accuse you of.’

‘What was Laura going to accuse you of, Terry? Who did she threaten to tell?’

‘I never did any of the stuff she says. But people like to choose who to believe, don’t they? And Laura’s good at playing the victim, when it suits her.’

‘I bet she is,’ nodded Shep, ‘so Laura blackmails you into going with her. What happens then?’

‘I agree to drive her to the Pines. I go outside and get in the van. She comes out about five minutes later, carrying Karen’s black gym bag.

‘I drive her over to Lambeth. We get to the Pines about four. Laura tells me to park on the street outside and wait for her. She walks in past the car park barrier.’

‘Where’s the gym bag at this point?’

‘Still in the van.’

‘Go on, Terry.’

‘Next thing Laura pulls up alongside the van in Karen’s car. ‘Get in and bring the bag,’ she says. I get in and ask her what’s going on. She tells me Karen’s not well and the woman’s gone home so we’re gonna go talk to her there.

‘She parks up to use a cash machine, then drives on to Clapham. At about five twenty, she pulls up near a pub and tells me this woman should be getting home any minute. She says she doesn’t want a scene on the street. We’re gonna go inside and wait for her.’

Terry grimaced and bent forward. He clamped his hands together and stared at them.

‘I says to her “we’re just gonna tell her to leave Karen alone, right? No rough stuff.” She says “yeah, yeah, just a word. That’s all it’ll take.” We go up the steps. Laura unlocks both doors and we go in. Laura leads me up the stairs. I follow her into a bedroom at the front of the flat. We stand there a few feet from the window, waiting for this woman to get home.’

He shivered, looked up at Shep then back down at his interlocked hands, now shaking wildly.

‘Where was the gym bag?’

‘I …’ he faltered, ‘she told me to bring it in with me.’

‘Go on,’ ordered Shep, sensing that Terry was at the top of a confessional drop.

Terry started breathing hard again, in short, greedy bursts. ‘As Marion unlocks the front door, Laura tells me to get behind the bedroom door and wait until she calls me. As I’m stood there, I hear the bag unzip and her footsteps walking out onto the landing.’

Terry started blinking a lot, as if trying to bat away the images of these dreadful recollections.

‘I hear the flat door open, Marion’s feet coming up the stairs. I can see Laura through the crack in the door, crouching at the top of the stairs. Next thing, I hear a commotion …’

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into his hands.

‘Go on,’ ordered Shep.

‘I hear squealing, like cats fighting. I step out and see my steel ruler in Laura’s hand, Marion crawling about on the landing, blood splashes on her face, her eyes wild, staring.’

Terry’s eyes weren’t focusing at all anymore. He was right back there.

‘Laura’s stalking her about the landing, saying: “That’ll fucking teach you. That’ll fucking teach you” over and over. I recognise the girl as Peter’s wife. She came to ours for dinner once. I cry out: “Jesus, what have you done?”’

Each breath Terry now drew sounded more primeval, guttural, strangled than the last.

‘Laura turns, glares at me, holding the ruler up between us. I’m thinking: “She’s gonna do me now.” Then she focuses on the ruler and recoils, as if she’s no idea what she’s just done. Marion gets back on her feet. She’s stumbling about. “Terry,” she says, “Terry, please?” She’s seen us both now.’

A bestial grunt formed deep in his guts, like a trapped soul. ‘The girl, Marion, she’s deranged. She lunges at me, scratches my eyes so hard she leaves a piece of her fingernail in my cheek. I lash out. Instinct, you know? That’s when I realise I’d taken the knife off Laura. I’ve stabbed the girl in her hand. She’s seen me now. She knows who I am. I can’t go back inside. I have to finish her off.’

His face planted itself into the table and slid about helplessly on slobs of phlegm and snot and tears.

‘Interview terminated, 18.08,’ said Shep. He turned off the tape recorder, stood and inspected his stricken quarry.

‘Shit,’ said Mick, bolting to his feet and dashing to the door just ahead of Colin.

They reached the table just as Shep smashed Terry Foster’s face into the table. Mick and Colin swallowed Shep in a bear hug and led him out of there, rage convulsing his whole frame like bolts of lightning.