Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (33 page)

There’s no way we’ll be able to stop everyone leaving. Some of the ones with younger children are

already going home. He could easily ditch the clothes too. We’ve got cameras covering the gates, so

might be able to check everyone in and out at a later date – but it’ll probably give you a few hundred

possible suspects.’

Jessica paused to watch the paramedics help Humphrey into the back of the ambulance along with

Georgia. Behind them a huge cheer went up as the band on the main stage started a new song. Adam

was waiting nearby, hunched over slightly.

Esther nodded in his direction. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I accidentally elbowed him in the balls.’

‘“
Accidentally
”?’

‘I wasn’t aiming.’ Jessica was about to explain when her phone began vibrating in her pocket. She

expected it to be someone at the station who had heard what had happened but when she hung up, she

could do nothing but stare blankly at Esther.

‘What?’

‘William Overton just walked into the BBC building in Salford, saying he’d give us the location of

Zac and Poppy Hambleton if they interview him on the news.’

35

Jessica watched the news on television that evening, not that she could escape it. The BBC had

shared their William Overton interview among the other news organisations and it was running on a

loop on television and radio.

Cole had already filled Jessica in on the details before she’d got home. As soon as Overton had

identified himself in the reception area of the BBC, a have-a-go-hero security guard had leapt into

action, vaulting the desk, eyes lighting up at the prospect of the citizen’s arrest to end them all.

Unfortunately for him, Overton had far more idea what he was doing and pulled a tyre iron out of his

pocket, slapping the man across the temple. As the guard lay in a pool of his own blood, Overton had

calmly told the second person on reception to open the main door and take him to the news floor.

Being a Saturday, anyone who was anybody naturally had the day off so protocol went out of the

window. Sitting with the tyre iron in his lap, Overton had done a piece to camera explaining why he’d

kidnapped the children. He gave chapter and verse on Niall Hambleton and the way he’d fixed Colin

Rawlinson up as the Stretford Slasher. One of the production crew had called 999 while that was

going on.

The interview hadn’t been broadcast live but Overton refused to answer any questions in custody

until he’d seen the footage appear on television. Stuck between the devil and the Mariana Trench, the

chief constable had caved, telling the BBC to run it.

An hour later and the children were safe, Overton was chatting merrily away in an interview room,

Niall Hambleton was under arrest and everyone even remotely associated with Greater Manchester

Police was utterly screwed.

Georgia had called from the hospital to say that she was planning on staying with Humphrey

overnight, leaving Jessica curled up next to Adam on the sofa under a blanket wearing only her

underwear. Adam had an arm draped around her, sleeping off the effects of an elbow in the balls.

Jessica flicked between the news stations watching the interview repeated over and over.

Overton explained how he’d become best friends with Colin Rawlinson in prison. ‘Everyone

thinks he’s a monster but he’s a normal guy.’ Overton held out his hands, showing off the tattered

remains of his own appearance. He looked every inch of his sixty-eight years, although his experience

clearly made up for a lack of physical strength given the ruthless way he had dealt with the security

guard and the level of planning he’d used to snatch the two children.

For anyone watching at home, he was an old man, wearing ripped tracksuit bottoms and an old

Manchester United football shirt, unshaven with that pepper-coloured stubble and short grey-white

hair. He sounded perfectly sincere when he spoke and even Jessica thought he was probably telling

the truth.

‘Look at me, I’ve wasted my life – I know I’ll die in prison but I’ve had my time anyway. This isn’t

about me. This is about a guy who had his life snatched away from him.’

He’d obviously planned what to say because he was so calm that even as a list of his crimes

skimmed along the bottom of the screen, any right-thinking person would have been left with the

opinion that he couldn’t be that bad, even with the tyre iron on his lap.

‘Colin told me all about Hambleton and Thorpe. They threw him down the stairs, smashed his

knuckles with a hammer, gouged him in the eyes – saying that if he didn’t confess to being the Slasher

then they’d make sure he never left the cells. What would you do?’

The camera switched back to the surprised presenter who hadn’t expected the question. He was

young, wearing a suit a size too big for him, hair hastily gelled, out of his depth without an autocue to read. ‘Well, I suppose—’

It was exactly the hesitation that Overton needed. ‘Exactly – so he confessed and said he did it.

They’d planted a knife in his garden and because of his job with the cleaning company and the fact he

lived alone, he looked guilty. Any jury would have sent him down, no one can blame them for that.

Colin didn’t – he knew how guilty he looked, it’s why he never appealed. He’d been fixed up good

and proper.’

The presenter finally took a degree of control. ‘Mr Overton, you’ve bullied your way into our

studios and made some very serious allegations and yet you’re the one with the weapon – you’ve

even admitted to kidnapping two children.’

Overton bowed his head in a piece of perfect theatre. He’d picked up all sorts of tricks while

inside. Some people got by through size and intimidation, others through being smart and learning.

There was no doubt of the type of prisoner Overton was.

‘All I can do is apologise. As soon as this footage is shown on TV, I’ll happily tell anyone where

those little wee kids are. This was never about them – it’s about justice for a friend.’ He reached

forwards, passing the tyre iron to the presenter, who clasped it between his thumb and forefinger as if

he’d found a flower pot full of used condoms. ‘This isn’t about harming anyone, it’s about getting

Colin’s story out there.’

The presenter handed the iron to someone off-camera and winced. ‘Even with that, there are some

who will say that as soon as Colin Rawlinson was arrested, the Slasher killings stopped. Have you

considered that he pulled the wool over your eyes too?’

Overton ran a hand over the top of his head, smiling sadly. ‘Of course it did. When you spend six

years sharing a cell with someone, you get to know everything about them. I knew he was telling the

truth – and that’s before the real Slasher got brought in.’

Even the presenter gasped at the moment that screwed everybody. Overton named the person he

claimed was the actual Slasher. Years after the Slasher killings, the man had been convicted of

murdering a divorcee after meeting her on the Internet. While in prison, he had openly admitted to

being the Slasher, even laughing in Colin’s face that the wrong man had gone down for it. He had died

almost two years previously of lung cancer, so there was no way to prove or dispute it, but Overton

reckoned there would be at least half-a-dozen other surviving prisoners who had heard the details.

It sounded plausible, not only giving Niall his comeuppance but making the later investigating team

who arrested the
actual
Slasher seem incompetent for not pinning any other crimes on him.

As Overton finished, the presenter turned to the camera, announcing that the police were there. The

cameras continued to roll as Overton lay on the floor putting his hands behind his back. With the

police knowing they were being filmed, it was the gentlest arrest Jessica had ever seen. Overton had

planned it to such perfection, knowing that if he’d waited to be found and a firearms squad had

become involved, all it would have taken was someone particularly trigger-happy and it would have

all been over.

The recorded interview cut back to the studio where the live newsreader could barely contain her

excitement, telling viewers that in the past five minutes it had been confirmed that the children were

safe and unharmed. Apparently, Overton had kept them in an abandoned flat in which he had lived

twenty years ago. Already an official inquiry had been launched, with some bloke seconded from the

Met to investigate what had happened in GMP twenty-five years ago. Having some London numpty

mooching around asking questions was only going to put everyone’s backs up even further.

And to think, a few hours ago, Jessica had been huddled under Adam’s arm thinking it was the best

time she’d had in as long as she could remember. Now she was lying in an almost identical position

on their sofa with another victim of their hoody attacker in hospital, no suspect, and the shit-storm to end them all brewing at her workplace.

Jessica was jolted awake by Georgia letting herself into the house at twenty past two in the morning.

She was still curled up with Adam on the sofa but the twist of key in lock got them both moving.

Georgia’s eyes were red from where she’d been crying but apart from saying that Humphrey was

being kept in overnight and that he seemed to be fine, she didn’t want to talk about much else. Adam

went up the stairs with her, making sure she was all right, as Jessica checked the news once more,

wondering if anyone had resigned yet. The only update was a text message from DCI Cole:

‘If you’re not on the rota, DON’T come in tomorrow. That’s an ORDER.’

Jessica wasn’t scheduled to be in and if ever she was going to obey an instruction, this was it.

Upstairs and Adam was waiting for her in bed, his bare thin chest as inviting a pillow as any.

‘How’s Georgia?’ Jessica asked.

‘She won’t talk about it. Perhaps you were right about Humphrey after all?’

Jessica closed her eyes without replying. Sometimes it was nice to be wrong.

Jessica hated hospitals. They made her think of fires, dead constables and misfiring shotguns. So

many lines on the floor, signs that sent you in circles and that endless smell of cleanliness. She

weaved her way through the corridors following a nurse who was asking about what everyone had

seen on the news last night and in the morning. ‘Is it true the Slasher wasn’t the actual Slasher? . . .

Awful, isn’t it, if some guy spent all that time in prison? . . . What do you reckon’s going to happen

now? . . . Did you see the picture of that cop who fixed him up in the papers this morning? He looks

just like my granddad. . . . Good job those kiddies are back, isn’t it?’

A succession of ums, ers, and ‘I’m not sure’s was the best Jessica could offer but even on a Sunday

people were only talking about one thing. They walked up two flights of stairs and kept going until

they were at the back of the hospital. Jessica didn’t ask but assumed Humphrey must have medical

insurance considering he had a small private room to himself. The nurse left them alone and Jessica

took a seat next to Humphrey, who was propped up in bed listening to someone with a cheesy voice

play love songs on Radio Two.

As if he hadn’t been through enough.

His face was almost unrecognisable, the skin on his cheeks and forehead red and scrubbed raw. It

was true what she’d told him that water would only make it worse but a constant stream of cleansing

solution was one of the few things that would eventually help to clean it away. His nose had bulged to

three times its regular size and the skin of his hands was peppered by so many red blobs that it looked

like an extreme form of eczema. His eyes were covered by two thin circles of cotton wool.

‘Humphrey, it’s Jessica. How are you feeling?’

‘I told Georgia that I didn’t want to see anyone.’

‘So she said but someone from the police has to interview you, so we thought it’d be best if it was

someone you knew.’

That wasn’t true at all – Jessica had simply called the station and said she was already at the

hospital with her sister-in-law so she’d do it. Considering the satellite vans parked outside the

station’s gates broadcasting live, she doubted anyone would notice.

‘I don’t have anything to say.’

Jessica gently took his hand, careful not to touch the sore areas. ‘Who are you married to?’

‘What?’

‘Let’s not go around in circles – you can either tell me or I’ll go away and find out anyway. One

way takes longer and pisses me off. It’s not been the best half-day or so and I’d really like – for once

– to do things the easy way.’

Humphrey sighed. ‘Are you going to tell Georgia?’

‘We’re speaking as investigating officer and victim of an attack, so no, I’m not going to tell her

anything. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t.’

It was strange talking to someone whose eyes she couldn’t look into but when Humphrey replied,

he told the truth anyway. ‘She’s called Beverley.’

‘And what’s your real last name? I’m assuming Caton is the one you told Georgia and not the actual

one.’

‘It’s Marsh.’

‘I’m going to need your address and details and am going to have to speak to her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve been attacked and we need to talk to anyone who might have information.’

‘You don’t think she’d got anything to do with this?’

‘I don’t think anything. All I’m saying is that there will be people we need to speak to – starting