Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (28 page)

‘Jake, we’ve got two kids missing and I’m hoping you might be able to help us find them. As I tried to

tell you, we might be able to put these copied discs to one side if you can help us.’

‘What missing kids?’

‘Poppy and Zac Hambleton—’

‘
Hambleton?
’ Jessica saw the recognition in Jake’s eyes straight away. ‘As in Inspector

Hambleton?’

‘Have you seen the articles about your father over the past few weeks?’

‘I, er . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter if you have – the important thing is that you know that surname, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know nuffin’ ’bout no kids. There was something on the pub TV, like, but I wasn’t really

watching.’

‘I want you to tell me exactly what you spoke about with your father the last time you visited the

prison.’

‘I’ve not seen him, I—’

‘If you’re not going to tell me, I want to know exactly what you were doing yesterday. We’re

looking into motives for the kidnapping of two children and you’re one of the only people with a

reason.’

‘What motive, I—’

‘Police officer puts your dad away, then twenty-five years later, a couple of weeks after he dies,

you take revenge. He stole your childhood, how about you steal theirs? What did you do, follow their

mother around for a few weeks, find out her routine, then strike?’

‘No, I—’

‘Then you’re going to have to get talking. Where were you yesterday between three and four?’

Jake squirmed in his seat, the scratching becoming worse until flakes of skin were peeling from the

top of his hand. ‘In the pub, there were people there.’

‘You know we’ll check. Are you absolutely sure they’ll know you? What if they’re not certain?

What if you were in a back booth somewhere and no one remembers? What if they’re off sick today

and we can’t get hold of them?’

‘I was there!’

‘You were also at the prison a few weeks ago, weren’t you?’

‘No, I’ve not been there in years.’

Jessica took a deep breath, trying to stay on top of her frustration. ‘Okay, fine, when you saw him

three or four years ago, what did you talk about?’

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Jessica couldn’t let this go on for too much longer. She often felt more

nervous when there was no solicitor present. You could push things further, make it appear as if you

knew more than you did, but there was always a danger you’d get caught up and forget where the line

was. There was still a tape, still a video camera recording, still accountability.

‘He’d been trying to get in contact since I turned eighteen. I ignored him for years but somehow he

always managed to know where I was. I’d get a letter asking if he could have my phone number,

wanting me to visit. Sometimes it’d come to wherever I was living but I used to work in this factory

and I got one there.’

It was as coherent a sentence as he’d uttered.

‘What did you do?’

‘Eventually, I thought I’d go just to say I wasn’t interested.’

‘What did he say?’

Jake stopped scratching the back of his hand and began rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. ‘Can you

get a drink around here?’

‘I can do you tea, coffee or water – possibly some fizzy Vimto, depending on what’s in the

constables’ fridge, but I can’t promise anything.’

Jake was sucking on his teeth. ‘Nuffin’ else?’

‘Not the type of thing you’re after.’

‘Shite.’

Jessica got up anyway and opened the interview-room door, grabbing the first person to walk past

and asking him to bring water. When he returned, Jake drank down three cups back to back and

looked a lot better for it, his eyes having a focus to them that they didn’t before.

Jessica sat opposite him, waiting, using the silence.

‘Dad wasn’t what I thought,’ Jake said quietly. ‘When he was sent to prison, I was only eight or

nine and had been living with my mum. I wasn’t really aware of everything but there were

photographers in our garden. I remember her taking me to school and there were people everywhere,

pushing and trying to take our pictures. She sat me down and said that my dad had done a bad thing

but I didn’t really understand. After that, there were kids at school saying my dad was a murderer and

wanting to start fights. They ended up teaching me by myself. I only really remember it as a dream,

like I was watching somebody else. One day my mum walked me into a police station and told the

man she couldn’t cope with looking after me any longer. She said goodbye and I never saw her again.’

He was still sweating but sounded like a different person, pronouncing the words more clearly,

looking her in the eye, telling the truth.

‘You said your dad wasn’t what you thought . . .’

‘When I was a bit older, I read about what he’d done, then you always get the anniversary things –

ten years since the Slasher, fifteen years, it never ends. I changed my name because everyone knew

and I couldn’t escape it. I’d been ignoring him and then I was twenty-two, twenty-three, and thought

I’d get it over with. I had this vision of some big killer who’d murdered all those people, made my

mum leave and ruined my life. He wasn’t like that at all, though. He was some little guy; no muscles,

only a bit taller than me.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Back then? Nothing really – he wanted to know how I was doing: if I had a job, girlfriend. I had to

make things up so I didn’t sound so . . .’

He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Jessica left the silence for a moment, then said: ‘Didn’t you talk about him at all?’

‘Not then . . .’

‘How often did you visit?’

‘Two or three times a year. I was never doing much so didn’t have anything to say and he was

inside, obviously. We’d talk about TV programmes – or whatever was in the news. He’d want to talk

about books but they’re not my thing.’

Jessica reached into a cardboard wallet on the table and took out a sheet of paper, then slid it

across towards Jake. It was a photocopy of the visiting book from the prison, with the date from a few

weeks before, Jake’s name and signature. ‘We’ve got the digital record too,’ Jessica added. ‘We

could probably go back and get the CCTV from the prison with a bit of time.’

Jake glanced at the sheet, resigned. He sighed: ‘Dad was dying – there’s this hospital area where

prisoners go for things like that. He could have applied for compassionate leave, or whatever they

call it, but didn’t think it’d be safe on the outside.’

‘What did you talk about?’

Jake shook his head. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Was it about the Hambleton kids?’

Jake shook his head rapidly from side to side but didn’t answer. He was scratching the back of his

hand again, skin flaking like a dried-out Danish.

‘Tell me what he said, Jake.’

‘It’s private.’

‘Did he tell you about any sympathetic friends or cellmates?’

‘No.’

‘So what did he say?’

Jake stared down at the table, shaking and picking at the loose skin on his hand. ‘Nothing.’

‘Stop lying to me.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You lied when you told me you hadn’t visited and you’re lying now. What did he say?’

‘I don’t know anything.’

Jessica stood, her chair squeaking across the hard floor with an ear-piercing screech. Jake was

sweating more than before, head in his hands, the backs of both his hands red and raw. He was lying

and didn’t seem too bothered that she knew.

She kept her voice as calm as she could. ‘Jake, we arrested you for suspicion of copyright

offences. In the interview you’ve admitted to lying to us about an unrelated matter regarding the last

time you saw your father. Two children are missing, both of whom can be linked back to your dad.

You were one of the last people to speak to him, so can you see how that’s going to look if you keep

refusing to say what you spoke about?’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

‘You’re going to be put in front of a court for conspiracy. Your name will be in the paper, everyone

will know who your father was. They’re going to start looking at who you were working with when

those kids were taken. Even if you get off, think how that’s going to look.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘By refusing to tell me what you talked about, that’s enough. Withholding information, lying to the

police, it doesn’t look good, does it?’

Jake looked up from the table, tears in his eyes. ‘You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?’

‘Do what?’

Jake sniffed violently, eyes rolling into his head. Still the tears came. ‘All the times I visited him,

we never talked about the Slasher. I didn’t ask and he never spoke about it.’

The atmosphere in the room suddenly felt heavy, harder to breathe. ‘It was different when he was

on his death bed though, wasn’t it?’

Jake nodded slowly. ‘He said he had to tell me what happened while he still had the chance. He

talked about Inspector Hambleton.’

‘Did he mention the children?’

A shake of the head.

‘What did he say?’

‘He told me what happened back then.’

‘With the women?’

A nod. Jessica wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the rest. Niall’s description of the Slasher killings

had been enough: the bleach, the rapes as they were bleeding to death, dumping the bodies in a bin as

if they were worth nothing. She breathed in through her nose, trying not to show she was nervous.

Jake noticed, peering up to stare at her through tear-stained eyes. For the first time, she felt grateful for her glasses. A shield from the rest of the room.

‘He told me to be careful with everything and never trust the police. He was right, wasn’t he?’

‘Right about what?’

‘He knew you’d try something – because of what you did to him.’

Jessica was confused, thinking she was going to get a rundown of the Slasher’s crimes, or

information about the missing children. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Jake stared up towards the camera in the top corner of the room, taking a breath and speaking

clearly. When the reply came, it felt like someone had opened a freezer in the room, bitter air searing

through Jessica’s clothes. ‘He told me how your inspector fitted him up.’

29

Jessica listened to everything Jake had to say but it felt like he was interrogating her and she barely

had a reply. In the corridor, she asked the uniformed officer to wait outside the interview room,

assuring Jake she’d be with him soon but that she had someone to talk to first.

The station was buzzing with activity, full of officers in on their days off to help with the search.

Footsteps, voices, phones ringing, noise, noise, noise. Tired eyes, loose ties, unwashed hair. Jessica

had spent many years working in and around this place in various roles: she’d seen people come and

go, enjoyed wonderful highs and the worst of lows. Through all of that, the station had felt like a

second home, sometimes a first home. Now, it felt different: darker, harsher. Perhaps it had always

been like this, she simply hadn’t seen it. A detective who couldn’t see what was under her nose.

Jessica went into reception where Pat was hanging up the phone. ‘Bloody thing’s not stopped

ringing all day. How are we supposed to get any work done when the—’

‘There are two kids missing. What do you think’s going to happen?’

Pat reeled backwards, the blubber in his face wobbling.

‘I’m just saying—’

‘Do you know where Niall is?’

‘Aye, he came in about half-hour ago – went straight upstairs.’

‘Thanks.’

He began moaning about being overworked and underappreciated but Jessica ignored him, heading

up the stairs. There was a hum from the temporary incident room at the far end of the corridor but

Jessica didn’t get that far. Sitting by himself in DCI Cole’s office was Niall, wearing a thick woollen

granddad jumper, looking every inch the gentle retiree.

Jessica opened the door to Cole’s office and slipped inside, closing it behind her with a quiet

click. Niall glanced up, eyes sullen, skin grey. ‘How are things going?’ he asked.

‘Not good.’

He obviously assumed Jessica was talking about the search because his head sunk onto his chest.

When he spoke, there was no authority to his voice. ‘Those kids are all I’ve bloody got. Brendan’s

such a good lad and he struck gold with Rebecca.’

‘Do you have any idea what might have happened?’

Niall ran a hand through his hair and looked up again. ‘I was with them all through last night –

hardly any of us slept. It’s all they kept talking about: was there someone they’d fallen out with,

something in their past? We went over and over. I was half-expecting a ransom demand but nothing

came. Too much time has passed now . . .’

‘I asked if
you
knew what happened.’

‘Me?’

‘Do you remember when we went to the pub? We were talking about my promotion and you told me

to trust myself but know where the lines are. I was wondering if you knew.’

Niall shook his head slowly but his expression was hard to read. ‘When we were in the car and

you found out the children were missing, you said the word: “Slasher”.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember . . .’

‘Everything moved really quickly yesterday but it stuck in my mind – not even that you’d said it but

the way you said it. Like you knew something.’

‘Rawlinson’s dead.’

‘I know, I’ve been speaking to his son. He visited his father in prison a couple of weeks before his