Scarred for Life (28 page)

‘I understand.’

Jessica really did. To an extent, on a different scale in a different line of work, she was the same. Big case or small case, there was a bad guy to catch. If you started prioritising one victim over another then you’d begin to see them as numbers, or targets, anything except people.

Tim took another drink, going silent as the commentator on the radio got excited again – United were two-one down.

‘Bastard defence again,’ Tim muttered, just as the internal radio rattled into life. One of the drivers was trying to get in contact but Tim ignored him.

‘Anyway, when I realised I’d let her down, I was trying to come up with something else I could do that she’d appreciate. She was always watching these shows about these crazy parties that people have, where they hire out a zoo for the day and invite their mates; or they have pop stars arriving in a helicopter to serenade them for their birthday.’

‘I once saw one where this girl dressed up as Snow White,’ Jessica said, ‘and hired seven dwarves to do her bidding for the day. All her guests were dressed up as Disney characters.’

Tim laughed. ‘Like I told you – girls are mental. What lad could ever come up with that?’

Jessica couldn’t disagree.

Another drink, smaller this time, and Tim continued: ‘On those shows, all the girls hire limos to get them to places. I told Mandy that we should start a limo hire business and I’ve never seen her so excited. I think she had visions of a fleet of pink cars chauffeuring her everywhere, and that we’d have a couple of others that would bring all the money in.’

‘But it didn’t work like that?’

‘Did it bollocks. Do you know how expensive those things are? Then you’ve got to get insurance and everything else. It’d have been cheaper starting a helicopter company. The bank was having none of it – but the guy suggested that if we could run our own taxi company, the limos would become a natural extension if we were successful.’

No wonder they were both miserable.

‘One thing led to another, and suddenly I’m here seven days a week trying to give directions to clueless drivers. Meanwhile, our lead singer’s off in America, where I should be.’

Jessica held out a hand and took the vodka bottle from him. He didn’t resist as she screwed the lid on and rested it under her seat.

‘Who hit who first?’

Tim had hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees but his head shot up, searching for Jessica. She held his gaze as he said: ‘I’ve never touched her.’

‘When did she first hit you?’

Likely without realising, Tim began scratching at his upper arm, returning his stare to his feet. ‘Around a year ago.’

‘Have you ever told anyone?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You know why I’m asking, don’t you?’ Tim didn’t reply, tapping his foot and listening to the football commentary, so Jessica continued: ‘You must realise there’s a reason why no one’s come through that door in the last twenty minutes – and it’s not because you haven’t sorted the sign out yet. We’re trying to give you the chance to do things quietly. It will look better for you in the long run.’

‘How many people have you got out there?’

‘Enough.’

‘But you came in by yourself?’

It could have sounded threatening but it didn’t.

Jessica shrugged. ‘I know this isn’t the life you want – and I don’t mean the band or the taxis, maybe even Mandy. The other stuff.’

No reply. Still two-one in the football.

‘We’re going to have to interview you properly at the station, take fingerprints, talk to your drivers to find out who was running the desk on the evenings you weren’t – we’ll put it all together with your help or without it.’

‘What if I don’t want to go quietly?’

Jessica tilted her head again, brushing her hair back to make the earpiece as clear as it could be.

‘If I were you, I really wouldn’t repeat that.’

34

Jessica was feeling smugger than Hamish Pendlebury and his scumbag solicitor. She sat in the chair across from DCI Cole’s desk staring at the row of commendations and certificates pinned to the wall, listening to him on the phone waffling on about procedural stuff to someone she couldn’t care less about.

Eventually, he hung up and spun around in his chair. He still wasn’t looking
at
her, instead focusing on a spot just over her shoulder in a way that made Jessica so self-conscious she wanted to turn around and see if there was anything there.

‘I did say you didn’t have to come in today,’ Cole said, still watching the spot.

‘It’s a Monday morning – what else am I going to do with my time?’

‘Give me the rundown.’

This was the moment Jessica had been waiting for all weekend. Rarely did she gloat over her achievements, knowing that anything she was pleased about was tempered by other people’s heartache, but here, for once, it felt good to stick a big middle finger up to whoever was making her life hard. From where she was sitting, it was the man across the desk.

Jessica began to read from her notes: ‘On Saturday afternoon, I arrested Timothy Stoddard for the murders of Cassie Edmonds and Grace Savage. The profile said . . .’ Jessica paused, fumbling with her papers to find the right one, ‘. . . that our killer “had a deep-seated hatred of women”, which is a fairly woolly and wide-ranging claim but at least had me thinking. I’m not actually certain it’s the case here – but Tim Stoddard had a definite hatred of one woman: his wife Mandy, even if he loved her too. Neither of them have any history of abuse, no criminal record and nothing that could’ve naturally drawn us to them.’

That was a relief in itself – it was always a problem explaining to the media why you’d missed an obvious clue in the first place.

‘Myself, DC Rowlands, DC Davey and PC Jamieson visited the taxi office when we were investigating Hamish Pendlebury and overheard Stoddard arguing with his wife. She ended up hitting him.’

‘Did you do anything at the time?’

‘Well, er, no – I mean—’

‘Carry on . . .’

And so it continued: Jessica talked Cole through how they’d got to this point and he nit-picked at every detail where they could’ve done better.

Proving the case against Stoddard was not likely to be difficult. They had the motive that he felt emasculated by his wife and so had taken it out on other women; the physical evidence to show that he himself had been frequently beaten; they found the spare number plates he’d commissioned for his taxis, including a copy of Hamish’s which he’d then used on another black cab; and the knife which had been wedged into a gap in the wall hidden behind the desk in his office.

Search teams were continuing to go through everything he owned but the only thing they lacked was either a full confession, or any evidence of the body parts he had cut from the women. Sooner or later, forensics would likely match something from his body to one of the victims. Given the size of his fingers and the way the women had been beaten, there was every chance they might find a partial fingerprint, or at least be able to match the shape of his digits to the wounds.

Under interview, the only thing he would talk about was Mandy. At first, his story about how they’d met had made Jessica feel slightly sorry for him. They had both had certain expectations from their relationship and neither had ended up happy. By the time he’d recycled it for the fifth time, Jessica was feeling less on his side, thinking that she had no desire to hear from either him or his slapper of a wife – in more than one sense – again.

DCI Cole was taking intermittent notes but still hadn’t looked directly at Jessica, nor said well done. After a case was solved, everyone said well done – even those who hated you. Even Fat Pat from behind a cream bun. It was the done thing, like a reflex, or when a mate told you they were pregnant and you said ‘congratulations’, instead of ‘oops, see you in sixteen years’.

Jessica waited for Cole to say something, even if it was to bring up Holden Wyatt again – not that she’d had much to do with that case in the past week. Without peering up from his papers, he dropped a different bombshell instead: ‘The press conference is downstairs at eleven.’

‘I don’t want to be in it.’

‘Tough – the assistant chief’s coming over and if I’ve got to put up with Rosie, then so do you.’

‘Who?’

‘Rosie – the chief PR woman: you know her.’

‘I know, I meant which assistant chief constable?’

Cole peered towards her, still not at her. ‘Graham Pomeroy.’

‘Oh, darling, you look fabulous!’

Jessica rolled her eyes and balled her fists tightly. This was not what she needed on any day, let alone when she was going to be in front of television cameras trying not to swear. She was sitting in an office off to the side of Longsight Police Station’s media room, away from the clatter as news crews bumbled their way inside, dripping wet, and began plugging in their cables into what definitely wasn’t an electrical fire waiting to happen.

Rosie was the head of PR for the whole of Greater Manchester Police and, luckily for Jessica, they had very little contact with each other. It was probably a good thing for Rosie too, seeing as Jessica started to understand how the mind of a murderer worked on every occasion she spent any amount of time with the woman.

Rosie flicked a strand of Jessica’s loose hair forward as Jessica tutted and nudged it back again. Rosie was somewhere in her fifties but seemed to be the last person to realise, dressing at least half her age and wearing enough make-up to single-handedly put Debenhams in profit. ‘Jessica, darling, it’s
so
wonderful to be working with you again. You look
so
fabulous with your hair up or down, I just wonder if perhaps you could have it a little more down? The lights out there are going to be really bright and if it’s down, it’ll frame your face a little better.’

For God’s sake.

‘I’m not sure people will be worrying about what I look like quite so much as the fact we’ll be telling them that we’ve caught someone who killed two women and they can go out to play bingo again.’

Rosie roared with laughter that even sounded genuine. ‘Oh, “bingo”, you’re so funny. That’s
so
fabulous. You’re wasted here. Honestly, I’ve still got a few of my old showbiz contacts if you want a nudge.’

‘You’re all right.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. You’ve got one of those faces for it.’

‘Faces for what?’

‘Television, darling! What else? Look at the skin on you – and the hair. I know people who’d kill for hair like that. Well, not kill – perhaps maim.’

Rosie launched into guffaws of laughter, finishing with a huge coughing spurt that sounded as if a lung might come up. Meanwhile, Jessica tucked her hair back behind her ears and frowned at her own reflection in the mirror. This was humiliating. The only reason she hadn’t sneaked away was that she was already in Cole’s bad books for an unknown reason – that and because she wanted a glimpse of Porky Pomeroy in the flesh. Well, not exactly a glimpse, but she wanted to know if he’d recognise her.

When Rosie recovered, she stepped closer again and began holding various hair ties next to Jessica’s ear, tutting and saying things like, ‘No, that’ll never do’ and ‘Hmm, maybe’.

Jessica glanced at her phone – five to eleven.

Rosie began humming to herself. When she caught Jessica’s inadvertent scowl in the mirror, she broke into a sickly sweet smile. ‘Oh, sorry, darling – you can’t break old habits. When I was a performer, I’d be singing all the time. Some said I was destined for a career in the West End but one thing led to another . . .’

She clearly wanted the question to be asked but Jessica didn’t trust herself to say anything. Rosie continued anyway: ‘Young love intervened, of course. I suppose they say all things are meant to happen for a reason. I wouldn’t have got my part on television if I’d gone to the West End.’

Jessica had met Rosie on four occasions – and every time she’d heard the story of how Rosie had ‘starred’ in a television soap. One of the constables had spent an afternoon phoning around to get the real truth – that she’d once been an extra for a dozen episodes and then killed off, but no one had the heart to break the myth.

‘I still keep an eye on the trade papers, of course,’ Rosie continued, oblivious to the fact that Jessica wasn’t interested. ‘Only last week I saw they were advertising for a new musical in Manchester. I’m a little too old now – but I could make a few calls if you wanted to audition?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

‘Are you sure? They say life begins at forty.’

Jessica had been in the middle of taking a sip from a cup of water, but spluttered so badly that she sent the liquid sploshing over the side. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said life begins at forty – if ever you’re going to switch careers, then it should probably be sooner rather than later.’

Jessica batted Rosie’s hand away, untied her hair, ruffled it up and then retied it as messily as she could. ‘I’m not forty.’

Rosie was frozen in position, hands hovering close to Jessica’s head. ‘You’re not?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not looking to change career either and I can’t sing.’

‘Oh darling, half the actors in musicals can’t sing – they just pipe the lyrics in. It’s all about having a pretty face.’

Jessica pushed herself up from the stool and headed towards the door, picking at her trousers and wondering how DCI Cole and Porky Pomeroy had got out of being annoyed by Rosie. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

As she headed along the corridor towards the entrance to the Longsight Press Pad, Rosie trailed behind, heels click-clacking on the floor. ‘That’s fabulous, sweetie, but I haven’t briefed you about what to say yet.’

Jessica ignored her, fumbling her way across the mass of wet cables, waving a non-committal ‘hello’ to the handful of journalists she recognised and didn’t want to throttle, and then taking her place on the end of the table that looked like it had been dipped in GMP branding. She poured herself a glass of water and then caught sight of herself in the monitor. Shite, she really should have let Rosie sort her hair out – she looked like she’d stepped off a rollercoaster. Her mum would definitely be watching this too.