She’d now decided that Wullerton – who was in his fifties and of burly build, with a thick moustache, sleepy eyes and a preference for cardigans and open-collar shirts – wasn’t pretending when he gave the impression he was a genial sort. But beneath the avuncular exterior, she’d always suspected there lurked a core of steel, and today he’d shown it.
‘
Let’s analyse what’s going on here, Gemma
,’
he’d said heatedly.
‘
The Serial Crimes Unit was specifically designed to provide intelligence and consultative back-up to regional investigations into major crime sprees. There is no one else more qualified than you and your team to tackle this kind of case. No one. You’re our last line of defence. But how’s that going to make the public feel if you can’t pull it off? The truth is that none of us may stay in our posts after this. I’m Gold Command remember. In the eyes of many, I’m at fault too. The very existence of the National Crime Group may be on the line here – are we an elite crime-fighting outfit or an expensive luxury? It’s your call, Gemma
.’
When she reached the Serial Crimes Unit, it was virtually unmanned, which was understandable given that almost the entire crew was up north. In truth, that was a relief. She didn’t feel like speaking to anyone as she trekked along the main corridor, took her keys from her coat pocket and let herself into her office, where she kicked her shoes off and slumped into her chair.
Joe Wullerton’s parting words still echoed in her head.
‘I’m not the sort of boss who says “I don’t care how you do it”
…
we have a system we need to operate within, but use every means you have available, push every envelope, think outside every box. Just catch these psychos, Gemma … catch them now!
’
She switched on the television in the corner, put the kettle on and threw a teabag and a few pinches of powdered milk into a mug. While the kettle bubbled, she sat back at her desk and channel-hopped, only stopping when she caught a news item regarding the case. Claire Moody was in the midst of chaotic reportage. Her hair was a mess and her cheeks ashen. It didn’t look great, but it hardly mattered as long as she did her job.
‘So are you able to tell us in which police station the two suspects are being held?’ a reporter asked.
‘For security reasons, no,’ Claire replied.
If only they
did
have two suspects in custody, Gemma thought. Garrickson had rung earlier, catching her just before she went in to see Wullerton, with Heck’s suggestion that they release a phony story in an effort to save the missing prostitute, Gracie Allen. Gemma had okayed it almost without thinking. It wasn’t the best idea, but what other choice did they have? On screen, the tough line of questioning continued. Claire was indoors this time, making it into a proper, pre-prepared press conference. That was sensible. It would help create an impression the team were on top of things. That said, Claire was alone. At the very least, Garrickson should have been seated with her.
‘Can we expect there to be more arrests?’ someone asked.
‘That’s our hope, yes.’
‘But is it your expectation?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
Gemma bit her lip. That hadn’t been a convincing response. Claire should have said ‘yes’. Why the hell not? They were already lying through their teeth. The idea had been to smoke the culprits out, not lull them into thinking they weren’t in any danger.
‘Which of these particular murders are these arrests in connection with?’ another reporter asked.
‘I believe the … erm …’ Claire faltered. ‘I believe the … Tara Greenwood murder.’
Gemma’s heart sank.
There was a brief silence, and then an explosion of amazed questioning.
‘Tara Greenwood was murdered in Lincolnshire back in 2009!’ a TV crime editor said. ‘Does that mean the enquiry’s been widened?’
‘Was Lorna Arkwright also a Desecrator victim?’ another voice shouted.
‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry,’ Claire said hastily. ‘I made a mistake. The suspect we currently have in custody is not being held in connection with Tara Greenwood.’
‘The suspect? Earlier, you told us that
two
arrests had been made.’
‘Yes of course …’
‘Are the suspects being held in connection with different murders?’
‘Yes, I believe they are.’ Claire didn’t look as if she believed any such thing. Her eyes were blank as they reflected the flash-bulbs.
‘Is either of them being held in connection with Tara Greenwood?’
‘No … forgive me. The Tara Greenwood homicide has nothing to do with this particular series.’
‘So exactly which murders are the suspects being held for?’ the crime editor asked.
‘Our main suspect is being held on suspicion of murdering Ernest Shapiro.’
‘Can we just clarify that there is another suspect?’ someone else said. ‘You don’t seem very certain.’
‘The other suspect was arrested in Manchester,’ Claire said.
‘There’ve been several murders on this side of the Pennines, Miss Moody. So in connection with which crime?’
‘Tara Greenwood,’ Claire said. ‘Sorry no, she’s not … the suspect, I mean. She’s not being spoken to on that basis …’
‘
She?
Does that mean the second suspect is female?’
‘There is no … sorry, I meant Tara Greenwood. No, Ernest Shapiro. There is no second …’
‘There is no second suspect?’
‘No, I mean the second suspect is not female …’
Gemma hit the ‘off’ switch and slammed her mobile to her ear.
‘Ma’am?’ came Garrickson’s distant voice. ‘Everything alright?’
‘No it bloody isn’t! And you shouldn’t even need to ask that question! Pull her out now!’
‘In mid-conference?’
‘Where are you, Mike? Hiding in the fucking toilets? Get her out of there before we look an even bigger set of tools! And when I get back up there, you’d better have a written explanation waiting on my desk as to why you weren’t sitting at that conference table taking some of the heat off her!’
After she cut the call, she hurled her mobile on the floor.
As a rule, Gemma Piper didn’t cry. There’d been many times during her career when she’d wanted to – for the grieving spouses, for the abused children, for the rape and robbery victims who’d wept and shivered as they’d tried to explain to her what had happened. But she’d always resisted crying for herself. Her late father, who’d never risen above the rank of inspector, had drummed this into her. ‘This is a man’s job, darling,’ he’d said the day she told him, beaming, that she’d been accepted for interview. ‘Always has been, always will be. So whatever happens out there, do not let them break you. You do, and they’ll come down on you like a ton of horse poo. Whatever they say, whatever they do – don’t blink, don’t flinch, and don’t you dare shed a single tear. Because that’s all they’ll need to tear you down.’
She’d clung on to those wise words many times, and now she clung on to them again – almost as tenaciously as she clung on to the edge of her desk.
It was early evening when two female plain clothes from West Yorkshire, both trained in Family Liaison, turned up at the house in Great Horton, and Heck was able to leave. Outside, he stood for several minutes in the torrential rain, thinking that only this elemental fury could wash away the pain, horror and despair that he’d witnessed at such close hand for so many hours in the midst of that bereaved family.
‘Hey, Heck!’ Ben Kane approached under the shelter of a voluminous umbrella. ‘Managed to get you someone in the end.’
‘Couldn’t you have left me in there a bit longer?’ Heck said. ‘I was really enjoying it.’ He pushed past, heading for the cars.
‘Where are you going now? We need a chat.’
Heck glanced back. ‘About what?’
‘About whether Barack Obama’s wife wears knickers or goes commando. What do you mean “about what”? Are we opening another incident room here in Bradford, or am I going to have to work this crime as well? I’m already running one enquiry in Leeds.’
Heck shrugged. ‘You go back to Leeds and deal with that one.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Go and contemplate that broken chimney for a few days. While I catch the bastards who did it!’
Thunder still broke over the Pennine ridges as Heck drove west towards Lancashire. Tumultuous rain drowned the bleak landscape. His laptop was open on the passenger seat, and he clutched the wheel one-handed as he typed. He was descending the high moors towards Manchester by the time he’d finished. He closed his computer and dug his mobile from his pocket, placing a call to Jen Weeks. It was now after six of course. The unit’s admin staff would no longer be on duty. Tough.
‘Yeah, Jen … it’s Heck,’ he said. ‘Sorry it’s late. I know you ladies have finished for the day, but I need something. It’s a special prison visit. Same as last time. Cameron Boyd. He’s on the remand wing at Strangeways.’ She droned out a few possible objections. ‘No,’ Heck replied, ‘that’s one thing we definitely don’t need to worry about. Boyd will be well chuffed to know I’m coming.’
The tempest followed Heck all the way to Manchester. As he navigated the bustling streets, rain continued to hammer down. When he finally came in sight of the prison, its vast redbrick outline reared over everything like an industrial-gothic fortress, rain streaming down its windowless facade, spouting from its gutters. Even the short distance Heck had to cover from the visitors’ car park left him sopping wet.
Cameron Boyd thought this hilarious.
‘Oh fuck,’ he chuckled, sitting down at the same table where Heck and Gemma had interviewed him the previous day. ‘Caught in the rain, were we?’
Heck smiled. ‘Not a problem you’ll ever have, is it?’
‘Smart arse.’ Boyd glanced around the otherwise empty interview room. ‘So … where’s your sexy boss?’
‘She’s busy.’
‘Too busy to see me? I’m a bit surprised. I wouldn’t have thought a mere detective sergeant would have the authority to sort out the kind of deal I’m looking for.’
Heck placed his laptop on the table and switched it on. ‘The only deal you’re going to get, Cameron, is a kind prison governor giving you a slightly roomier cell … assuming you help us catch the Desecrator, that is.’
Boyd chuckled again. ‘Still playing the heavy? It’s your only tactic that, isn’t it?’
‘Who yanked out those clumps of hair that we found under Ernest Shapiro’s fingernails?’
‘Nothing’s changed from last time. You know what you have to do.’
‘I think, Cameron, you’ll find that quite a bit has changed.’ Heck turned his laptop around. ‘See this?’
Despite himself, Boyd glanced down – seeing a mass of text on the screen.
‘That’s a witness statement,’ Heck explained. ‘From me. It’ll be attached to my arrest report as a late addendum.’
‘So fucking what?’
‘According to this I’ve now remembered something relevant to your case. It concerns Detective Constable Gregson’s attempt to apprehend you.’
Boyd’s sneering smile faded. ‘What happened to that rookie-pig was an accident.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Heck shook his head. ‘You were sat on top of that pile of bricks, and you started lobbing them down at him deliberately. You hit him four or five times … on the head obviously. The actual stack only collapsed when you saw me coming and tried to escape.’
‘You’re a sodding liar!’
Heck feigned hurt. ‘You don’t believe me? It’s all here, see … it must be true.’
‘You’re a sodding, lying bastard!’
‘At the end of the day, Cameron, it doesn’t matter what you think. Because this statement is now attached to an email, and all I have to do is hit the “send” button, see?’ Onscreen, he placed his cursor on the appropriate box; his thumb hovered dangerously above the keyboard. ‘The moment I do that, it goes straight to DI Burgess, who’s handling your case. That means you’ll be rearrested in here and, on top of everything else, charged with attempting to murder a police officer.’
‘You’re full of shit!’
‘Instead of getting fifteen years for aggravated burglary, Cameron, you’ll be going down for life. It may get worse … Andy Gregson’s not out of the woods yet.’
‘You’re full of fucking shit! You can’t make this up now. No one’ll believe it.’
‘You wanna bet? I suffered a head trauma that night too … remember the ticket machine you threw in my face?’ Heck indicated the fading mark on his temple. ‘I got treated for that in the same hospital where they brought Gregson. It’ll be on record. No one’ll be surprised that my memories became clearer later on.’
‘It was an accident, you pig bastard! My lawyers will have a field day with you.’
‘You reckon? How many times do you think I’ve given evidence at crown court, Cameron? How many scrotes like you are rotting in jail because of me?’
‘Fucking bastard, they’ll tear you apart!’
‘You want to take that chance? When all you have to do is tell me something that makes no difference to you anyway?’
Boyd’s hands clutched the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He gazed at Heck malevolently, but words failed him.
‘I’ve even brought the paperwork,’ Heck added, whipping an official form from under his coat and laying it down. Next, he produced a pen. ‘You give me the witness statement I want, and the button I hit on here will read “erase”, not “send”.’
‘You fucking …’ Boyd was still choked with helpless anger.
‘Your call, Cameron.’
Boyd clearly didn’t want to talk. Cooperating with the police was against everything he’d ever stood for. But he was in deep enough shit without facing the possibility of life imprisonment as well.
‘It … it was in The Moorside pub. Levenshulme.’
‘When was this?’ Heck asked.
‘A few months ago.’
‘Can you give me a date?’
‘Sometime early November.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘This blonde came in with this bloke,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t seen them before. Two bits of kids, really. Eighteen years old, tops. But she was fit as a butcher’s dog and dressed like a right slapper.’
‘Describe her.’
‘Like I say … blonde, very long hair. Almost down to her arse. Clingy white top, denim miniskirt.’