I've Been Watching You: a stunning crime thriller from The North East Police Series (23 page)

He would get away with it again, and this time he wouldn’t have to move to another county. He had things to stay here for now and a life he quite enjoyed.

He’d just have to be exceptionally careful not to leave anything behind to incriminate him. Extra careful.

15
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June, 1205 hours – Custody, Sunderland City Centre Depot

John had just been handed another sandwich and cup of lukewarm coffee through the sliding window of the large metal cell door. Looking at the bread, he was sure he could see mould. He’d heard custody cells weren’t the nicest places. The stench from the toilet in the corner of the cell was powerful, and just when he thought his nose had acclimatised, a fresh waft would fill the air. Through the night there had been clanking doors, drunks yelling and people talking in a dull drone that could still be heard even through the heavy metal door.

It was a good job he’d slept in the boiler room, because there was no hope of sleeping in this shithole. He stood and walked the few feet over to the toilet, undid his trousers and had a piss. He’d needed to for a while but had been resisting, knowing from the last time that the piss sprayed out of the toilet bowl and onto the wall at the back, making the smell even worse.

Zipping his trousers back up, he put his hands under his shirt, and felt the thin nylon rope that was looped round his waist. He’d had to take his belt off, even hand over his shoe laces and the contents of his pockets, but they hadn’t known about this rope. He’d wanted to be prepared. The rope was his last-ditch attempt at controlling the death of his wife. His brow furrowed in disappointment.
The bitch is still alive. I’m here rotting in this cell and she’s living it up at the hospital with what, a broken arm maybe? This is not how it’s supposed to be.

Knowing that it would be almost thirty minutes until the window was opened on his cell again, he decided to make a new plan. He didn’t want to go to jail, didn’t know if he could face it. It was full of, well, criminals. And most of them a lot tougher than he was. He’d be pond scum to them. He’d purposely asked for the solicitor who handled his estate – an estate for an uncle he didn’t remember, but that who, knowing of John’s existence, had left everything he owned in trust. Not that it was much mind, but any hand-outs had been welcome when he had first gone into business for himself. He knew it would take them hours to travel up from London, and it had given him time to consider his options.

Unhooking the thin rope from his waist, he started looping the end into a large circle.

15
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June, 1240 hours – Major Incident Room, Sunderland City Centre Depot

Ali ran a hand over his eyes. He’d been in the nick pretty much solidly since last night, a quick hours kip and shower at some point in the wee hours his only break. The interview last night had consisted of total silence, Whitworth not disclosing anything. It had been decided to let him sleep on it, to contemplate his actions. They had locked him down in his cell, giving him a plastic cup of coffee and a sandwich.

Ali had actually watched through the sliding window of the cell door as the man meticulously removed the limp tomato and ate with methodical bites, chewing slowly before swallowing with a gulp. His eyes had been blank as they stared at the dirty looking grey floor of the 8ft by 6ft cell. He’d looked up as he had finished, and then said the fateful words. ‘I want a solicitor. Mackie and Steepling from London. I’m already a client.’

It had taken the custody sergeant more than a couple of hours to contact the solicitors, and he’d been promptly informed that Mr Mackie himself would be making the trip up from London, and was expecting to land at the police station at around 4 p.m. It was a good delay tactic, Ali had to admit. Until then interviews couldn’t be conducted. Not with Whitworth at any rate. Talking to the staff at the care home had been fruitful however.  A couple of suspicious incidents now seemed linked to the prisoner in the cells, including the hit and run fatality on the 5
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June. Staff had disclosed that the victim, Ann Caffrey, had been working closely with Eve, that she had expressed concerns about John in the past to her colleagues. It didn’t mean John was responsible for Ann’s death, Ali knew that, but it was still awfully convenient timing.

The phone’s shrill ring interrupted his thoughts. He picked it up. ‘McKay … what? How the fuck did that happen? … Shit ... I’ll be right down.’

Ali pretty much ran down the two floors to the cells. He used his station key to unlock the entry doors then buzzed for entry. As the door clicked he pushed hard, the metal hinges screeching as the door slammed into the wall. He didn’t even notice the plaster fall.

Striding past the custody desk and straight to cell M19, he pushed two uniformed cops out of the way.

‘Shit.’ He said again, as he saw John Whitworth lying on the floor, his eyes glassed and open, the noose still round his neck. This was not going to be a good day.

15
^th
June, 1930 hours – CSI Department, Sunderland City Centre Depot

It was going to be a quiet night. The dayshift had gone home after a slow day. Even Craig who’d been on mid-shift had requested a little time off, not wanting to be sat twiddling his thumbs in the office for hours before home time. Which left Ben covering the late shift on her own.

Popping her tunes on quietly, she made a coffee and opened up Socard, intending to make a start on the bag of property at her feet. It was always the same on a slow shift. She had been informed by Kevin that the vans were all cleaned and stocked, and most of the store-room had been cleared. She had one measly bin bag of property to book through the system for destruction and that was it.

Reaching down, she grabbed the first piece of property. It was one of Cass’s – a return from the Chem Lab. The label stuck to the front by the lab showed ‘no fingerprints found’ so the item was essentially useless. Inside the evidence bag was a plastic Asda carrier. It showed some yellow smears where it had been handled but Ben could see there was no visible ridge detail. She scanned the barcode onto Socard and marked it as disposed, then cut into the evidence bag and pulled it out, putting both into the other bin bag at her feet. When she’d finished she’d take it all down to the skip in the back yard. 

It didn’t take her long to empty the bag. For once, everything would be up to date. She turned in her chair, intending to stand, just as Ali walked in.

‘Hey, Ben, just the person I wanted to see. You remember the assault at Retox the other week? Have you done your statement? I’m trying to put the file together and I don’t seem to have it?’

Frowning, she replied, ‘I sent it over to CPS last week. Need me to do you another copy?’

As he nodded, she continued, ‘How’s Cass and Alex? I’ve been a bit manic, haven’t rang her.’

‘Yeah she’s fine. I think they’re both pulling their hair out a little, to be honest. Cass’s mum is still staying in the Hilton so is over every day, then our mum is down as well and staying in a bed and breakfast not far away. Guess it must feel a little like they’re being pulled from one way to the other. I’d hate it.’

‘Aw, bless them. I’ll drop Cass a text later. Maybe we can meet for a coffee or something, get her away from it all.’

‘I think she’d appreciate that. I can understand the mums though, Isobel is an absolute charmer. She smiled at me the other day, nearly knocked my socks off. I’ve got a photo on here somewhere,’ he said pulling out his phone.

Frowning in consternation, he muttered, ‘If I can find the stupid folder where the photos are kept. I hate technology. Here, you have a look.’

Ben took the phone with a grin, hit menu and brought up his images folder. Scrolling through the small number of photos, she smiled as she found the one he meant. Isobel was in his arms, the photo obviously taken by someone else, and her face was curved in innocent contentment. Ben didn’t have the heart to tell him it was likely wind. Pressing a few buttons, she set the image as his wallpaper and screen saver.

Handing it back, she said, ‘Press the button in the middle.’

Ali looked a little confused until Isobel’s face shone at him. ‘How’d you do that? Thanks, Ben.’

‘For future reference, to access your pictures you just press the menu button, and go to the file named images. If you’re ever stuck on how to do something just give me a shout.’

Nodding, Ali raised his behind off the desk he was resting on, and turned to leave the office. Glancing back, he thanked her again, and paused, wanting to say something but not quite knowing how.

‘Tough day?’ asked Ben quietly, taking in his body language, five o’clock shadow and crinkled clothing. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. She could see he felt guilty. The talk of the suicide in the cells had spread around the nick like wildfire. It meant a major investigation, and staff were already preparing for interrogations and finger pointing.

‘The toughest. Never lost one in the cells before.’

‘You know it’s not your fault right? PACE says custody don’t have to search if they deem there is no risk of harm right? Did he present as suicidal?

‘No he didn’t and I’m not sure they would have found the rope had they searched him to be honest. It was one of those really thin nylon ropes. But still, he killed himself in custody. It’s opened a shit can full of worms. You know what this stuff is like when it hits the media. The police are accused of everything and sundry. The headlines will probably say he had the shit kicked out of him on arrest and was mistreated throughout.’

‘As long as the custody officer did their job correctly, and it’s all documented, I don’t see what professional standards can do. They’ll investigate `cos they have to, but try not to worry, Ali. There wasn’t anything you could have done. If he wanted to kill himself he would have found a way. They always do if the intent is serious.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, Ben.’

Ali turned and left the office, his heavy footsteps fading as he made his way down the corridor. Ben sighed, sometimes bad days were bad days, and there was nothing you could do about it.

In what seemed like a few minutes, Ben had the rest of the property booked out for disposal. She was just about to pick it up and take it down when her radio burst to life.

‘7916 Cassidy, come in, over.’

‘Go ahead, LV.’

‘Ben, if you’re not busy, can you head down to the car park of the Sutton Arms in the town centre. There’s been a few attempt break-ins to some vehicles down there. It’s log 1215. Think most of the IPs are on scene.’

‘Yea sure, LV. ETA around fifteen minutes.’

She listened as the radio dispatcher informed whichever cop was on scene that she was on route, grabbed the van keys off the hook by the door, locked up and left.

So much for a quiet night.

15
^th
June, 2220 hours - CSI Department, Sunderland City Centre Depot

The job at the pub ended up being a complete waste of time. By the time she got there it was raining, and not just any rain, but that fine summer spray that drenches everything whilst barely even touching it. She had made quick work of the six cars that had been damaged, taking glass samples from the window frames and writing her notes in the van as thunder started to grumble in the distance. The cop had an arrest so the glass samples could be instrumental in linking the offender’s clothing to the cars. She’d already told him to seize the kids clothing for forensic analysis. The rest would be up to him, and the CPS. 

It had taken her all of half an hour to put the jobs through Socard and she stood to make herself a cuppa, almost tripping over the bag of property she’d done earlier. She moved it to one side, knowing she’d remember to take it to the bin when she left for home. Deciding to take her samples straight to the front office, she picked them up and wandered down the corridor.

The station was silent: few staff were working at that time of night, and most of them the 24/7 officers who worked on the next floor up. The front office clerks had packed up for the day hours before, and had she not worked out of the very same front office herself, she would have found the silence a little creepy. She pulled the key off the wall and opened the locked door to the transit store. As she placed the bags inside, something caught her eye. Turning the lock again, she walked over to the CCTV camera screens.

The CCTV had been installed in the station for years, but had been updated after Cass’s kidnapping to cover all the rear yard and front entrance more fully, and with better night vision. Concentrating, she stared at the four screens, curious as to what it was that had grabbed her attention. She finally focussed on a darkly clothed figure, sidling up to the staff entrance door beside the front office. Her senses went into overdrive as he suddenly vanished from view and she heard the door slam in the corridor right outside the office.

Thinking on her feet, she grabbed the radio from the charger beside the screens and pressed the emergency button just as the male came into the office, furtively looking around. As his gaze focussed on her, his eyes narrowed and he took a step forward menacingly. His pupils had dilated to pin pricks, and the strip of skin she could see above the scarf and below his hat, was pasty, clammy and scattered with bad acne pockmarks.

‘There’s no money in here. This is just a front office.’ She kept her tone neutral, holding her hands out in an attempt to placate the intruder.

‘A front office with a petty cash box,’ snarled the man, taking two more steps towards her. His hand was also out in front of him and she tried not to stare at the crowbar he held tightly.

‘There’s no cash in here. I’m sorry.’