Authors: Lindsay Ashford
She cursed the fact that it was the weekend; that there was nothing she could do about it until the court office opened on Monday. Perhaps by then, though, she might have a lot more to go on. She muttered a silent prayer for Rebecca Jordan to be there when she and Delva arrived at Linden House.
The hall of residence was a series of interconnected grey rectangles, typical of the brutalist architecture of the 1960s. The steps outside the main block had been colonised by a group of smokers. Some were sitting, some leaning against the wall and most had a can or a bottle in the hand that wasn’t holding a cigarette. The girls were clad in their flimsy Saturday night finery, cleavages heaving as they dragged on low tar Marlboro’s, belly bars glinting in the dying rays of the sun
Megan noticed heads turn as she and Delva threaded their way through. Delva had not heeded the advice to dress down:
in fact dressed
up
would be a better description of the way she looked. She had wound a brightly coloured scarf round her braids, its vibrant red and orange hues echoed in the
African-style
robe that swathed her body. The outfit seemed to add at least six inches to her height. No wonder the students were staring: they must look a very odd couple.
Leaving the smokers behind, they found themselves in the relatively deserted lobby of the building. The smell of battered fish lay heavy on the air and the distant clatter of plates and cutlery could be heard. Evidently they had arrived just as the evening meal was being cleared away. Directly in front of them was a honeycomb of pigeonholes, each with a letter of the alphabet above it. Megan glanced across at the reception area. A middle aged, bespectacled woman wearing a yellow polo shirt with the university crest on it was handing a key to a girl in sports kit who had a hockey stick in her hand. From what she could make out the girl had locked herself out of her room. An amiable but involved discussion seemed to be taking place and Megan decided to take advantage of this. ‘Stay here a minute, will you?’ she whispered to Delva.
‘Where are you going?’ Delva hissed back.
Megan jerked her head towards the row of boxes. She headed for the one marked ‘S’. She was well aware of the privacy guidelines for students’ correspondence but she needed to see if there was any mail for Jodie Shepherd. If she really was on holiday there ought to be at least junk mail waiting for her. As she took out the letters she heard Delva come up behind her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Delva! I’m trying to sneak a look at the post!’ Megan gave her an exasperated look. Go back to the door – please! You might as well have a neon sign above your head saying “Look at us!”’
‘But what are you looking for?’ Delva persisted.
‘Anything for Jodie Shepherd.’ Megan stepped sideways, away from Delva, hiding the bundle of letters inside her jacket.
Suddenly a voice boomed across the lobby. ‘Good evening. Can I help you?’ They wheeled round. A tall, slim man who looked barely older than the students was coming towards them. His black hair was brushed back behind his ears revealing an angular but handsome face, quite in keeping with the resonant voice. He was looking at Delva. Megan stepped between them. ‘Sorry.’ She offered him her hand almost in a reflex action. ‘Dr Rhys – Department of Investigative Psychology. I’ve just come to enquire about a student.’
‘Dr Rhys!’ His lips parted in a wide smile. ‘Delighted to meet you in person. I don’t know if you remember, but we spoke on the phone a few months ago about my PhD thesis.’ She looked blankly at him. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself: David Dunn – Department of International Politics. I’m the warden here.’
‘Oh, David, yes, I remember,’ she said, relieved that she was suddenly able to place him. ‘Your doctorate was on post-conflict stress, wasn’t it? I gather it was rather
well-received
.’
‘That’s very kind of you to say so,’ he replied, two spots of pink colouring his cheeks. ‘What you told me really helped. Perhaps I can repay the favour. What can I do to help?’
‘I… er… I need to speak to a couple of students.’ She hesitated, not wanting to give too much away. She certainly didn’t want to spell out the real reason she was there – not at this stage, anyway. ‘They haven’t been replying to emails and I’m a bit concerned. My friend and I were just passing so I thought I’d pop in on the off-chance.’
‘Have you got their student numbers?’
‘Not on me, no.’
‘Oh well, no problem. What are their names?’
‘Well, one of them is Rebecca Jordan. The other is called Jodie Shepherd.’
‘Jodie Shepherd?’ He looked at her, slightly bemused. ‘But she hasn’t been here for months.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘She was involved in a car crash the week after she arrived here. It was terrible – hit and run. She was in a coma – still is, as far as I know.’
Megan’s mind was racing ahead as he led them through to his office. A stolen identity: someone had used this accident victim as a cover. It was ideal – a student legitimately registered, with postal and email addresses set up, but no longer in a position to collect or respond to any letters or correspondence. When the visiting order was sent from Balsall Gate prison the imposter would simply do what Megan herself had done: choose a suitable moment to take whatever mail had arrived.
Megan and Delva perched on a low-backed brown leather sofa while the warden tapped the keyboard of his desktop computer. ‘Here it is.’ A printer whirred into life somewhere in the direction of his feet and he bent down to retrieve the sheet of paper. ‘Rebecca Jordan – she dropped out just before Christmas. Says here that she vacated her room on the seventeenth of December.’
‘Does it say why?’ Megan asked.
‘Should do.’ He flipped the paper over. ‘Yes, here it is: “Reason for departure: Dissatisfied with the course. Taking time out to travel before returning to new course next year.”’ He looked up. ‘Can I ask why you’re particularly interested in Rebecca Jordan and Jodie Shepherd? They were both outside of your faculty, weren’t they?’
‘I should have told you before.’ Gingerly, she took the bundle of envelopes from her jacket and handed them over. ‘Before I came here this evening I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but now I’m pretty certain that both Rebecca
and Jodie are victims of identity theft. ’ She gave him the bare bones of the story, telling him that girls using the students’ names were suspected of having smuggled drugs into prisons. She didn’t mention the poisonings or the location of the prisons involved. She had a good reason for holding information back: whoever had stolen those identities would need to have the confidence to be able to blend in and return to the lobby time and time again to check for mail. That person was either going to be a student or someone else closely connected with the hall of residence. She glanced at the young man standing in front of her. It could be him. Just because he was being so co-operative didn’t mean he wasn’t implicated in some way. In fact his very willingness to assist might disguise an involvement. She had to be careful not to give too much away.
‘Well, I’m truly shocked.’ Dr. Dunn raked his fingers through his hair, disturbing its slicked-back elegance. ‘These are very serious allegations. Do you think other students could be at risk?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she shrugged, ‘but what I’m wondering is whether one of the students has actually perpetrated this. Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously? Possibly someone loitering around reception when the post is normally delivered.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t say I’ve seen anyone. I will ask the porters – they’re more likely to have seen anything like that. I have to say, though, we have tightened our security a lot in the last couple of months. We’ve had quite a number of thefts of laptops from the bedrooms, so we’ve been much more vigilant about people coming in and out of the building.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got CCTV?’ Delva piped up.
‘Unfortunately not.’ He gave a small sigh. ‘It’s something I’ve been nagging the Director of Estates about, but as you
know, Dr Rhys, university finances are very tight at the moment.’
There was something about his voice, Megan thought. That honeyed tone never varied, even when he was talking about something negative. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let me know what the porters say, won’t you?’ She reached into her bag, pulling out a card with the institutional logo on it. ‘That’s got my mobile number on it.’ She handed the card to him.
‘I’ll get onto it straight away,’ he replied, tucking the card into the pocket of his crisply ironed chinos. ‘The porters aren’t all on duty over the weekend, so it might be Monday before I’m able to give you the full picture.’
‘Just one other thing before we go,’ she said. ‘Could I have the contact details for Rebecca Jordan’s family? I’d like to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t involved in this; that she really is travelling overseas.’
‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘You might as well take this, actually.’ He handed her the sheet of paper he’d printed off the computer. ‘Her home address and telephone number are at the bottom.’
‘Thanks.’ She shook his hand. ‘It was nice to meet you, David. I’m sorry it was in such unfortunate circumstances.’ She held his gaze for a moment, watching for a flicker in his eyes. Her years of interviewing prisoners had taught her to recognise the signs. She could usually tell when something was being held back. But he simply smiled back her, his eyes unblinking.
As she left the building Megan was acutely aware that any of the young people lounging on the steps could be tied up in all of this. How on earth could she make any headway with so many potential suspects? Of course, the letter purporting to be from Jodie Shepherd might yield fingerprints – she must get that checked out. But that would also mean fingerprinting the entire hall of residence. How was that going to go down
with the university authorities?
She and Delva mulled this over in Megan’s favourite Thai restaurant on the Bristol Road. ‘What do you think’s behind it all?’ Delva asked, dipping a corner of prawn toast into a pool of sweet chilli sauce. ‘I mean, is it the Irish connection? Is it drug smuggling? Or is it just plain revenge for a very old murder? It’s all getting so complicated, isn’t it?’
‘I know.’ Megan slid a chunk of chicken satay off its wooden skewer. ‘In all the other cases I’ve worked on the options have closed down the further in you get. But this time it’s almost the opposite: there are so many possibilities it’s hard to know what to focus on. I suppose there’s no more news on Ron Smith, is there?’
Delva shook her head. ‘I’m hoping there might be by tomorrow, though. Tim said he was going to pay his parents a visit tonight – he didn’t tell me before but it turns out his dad was in the force during the period when the Birmingham Six were arrested.’
‘What? You mean Tim’s dad was in the Serious Crime Squad?’
‘No, nothing like that, just a lowly PC, according to Tim. But he would have heard the talk going round at the time. Tim reckons he might be able to throw some light on it.’
‘Good.’ Megan nodded as the waiter brought two bottles of Tiger beer.
‘What did you think of that bloke in the hall of residence?’ Delva said when the waiter had gone. ‘Bit smarmy, wasn’t he?’
‘I suppose he was a bit full of himself,’ Megan nodded. ‘But he’s very well thought of in academic circles.’
‘You didn’t like him, though, did you?’ Delva grimaced.
‘He was very helpful.’ She lifted her glass and took a good mouthful of beer. ‘But let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind about him.’ From somewhere in the depths of
her bag she heard the trill of her mobile phone. ‘Sorry,’ she hissed, as she bent down to locate it, ‘I’d better get it – it might be him.’
But it wasn’t David Dunn, it was Dom Wilde, calling from the prison with his phonecard. ‘I haven’t got much juice left on this,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to know how you got on at Strangeways.’
The sound of his voice had the usual effect on her insides. She felt as if the lump of chicken she had just swallowed had got stuck on its way to her stomach. She coughed with her hand over the phone, glancing around at the other diners. It was a few seconds before she gave him a reply. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m in a restaurant. Can’t go into detail, really: it was the same as Carl, though. I’ll come in first thing Monday, okay?’
‘Don’t worry. I understand. Take care, Meg, won’t you?’
‘Bye Dom. You take care too.’
‘Who was it?’ Delva eyed her curiously.
‘One of the prisoners from Balsall Gate,’ Megan could feel herself blushing. She hadn’t meant to say his name. If she tried to be evasive Delva was bound to guess she was hiding something. ‘He’s what they call a Listener,’ she said, concentrating hard on prising another piece of chicken off the skewer. ‘He counsels other inmates when they’re having problems. He spent a lot of time with Carl Kelly. It was through him I found out about the Strangeways case.’
‘And his name’s Dom? Not Dom Wilde?’
Megan was taken by surprise, the chunk of meat halfway between the plate and her mouth. ‘How did you know?’
‘He’s the inmate our researcher’s been visiting,’ Delva replied. ‘She went to see him yesterday, actually. She was quite taken with him, I think, but she said he wasn’t very forthcoming about Carl Kelly.’
‘Oh?’ So that was who she’d seen in the visiting room
talking so intimately with him. ‘What’s you researcher’s name?’
‘Natalie. Natalie Steadman.’
Suddenly Megan was on the defensive: ‘Why should he have told her anything? He probably saw straight through her. He’s a bright man.’ She could feel the blush spreading from her face to her chest. Delva’s eyebrows lifted an inch. Realising that she was giving herself away, Megan tried to backtrack. ‘I’m just worried that if one of your people rubs him up the wrong way it might blow things for me,’ she said. ‘I’ve invested a lot of time in gaining his trust.’
‘But you know that’s putting me in a very difficult position.’ Delva was looking directly at her. ‘I don’t have the power to pull someone off a documentary – even if I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘Couldn’t you just have a quiet word with her though? Ask her to take things easy for a while until we’ve worked out where all this is going?’
‘I suppose so.’ Delva held her gaze. ‘Meg, is there something you’re not telling me about this guy?’
Megan felt her face burning under this close scrutiny. It was as if Delva was reading her mind. How could she justify her feelings for Dominic? How could she explain that the idea of some girl a dozen years her junior getting close to him had her seething with jealousy? It would sound ridiculous. Delva would be incredulous. No – she couldn’t possibly tell her. Not ever.
Megan had a disturbed night. She woke at least twice while it was still dark, her mind fogged with half-remembered dreams. The only one she could properly recall was about a baby. A woman she didn’t recognise had brought it to her in a cardboard box. It was sitting up on a pale blue blanket and
all she could see at first was the back of its head. Then, when the box was turned round, the baby reached up to her and she saw that it had no arms, just hands attached to the sides of its body. She lifted the child out and it buried its face in her neck. The woman said: “You have him. I don’t want him.”
Megan thought about the dream as she sat in bed sipping a mug of tea. Fairly obvious what had prompted it: the baby found in the Nike box in Moses Smith’s grave. And then there had been Ronnie’s news: a baby that she would no doubt see quite regularly over the years to come; whose development she would watch with more than a twinge of envy. She wondered if her subconscious was trying to give her a message; that if she couldn’t have a baby of her own she should think about adopting one.
With a big sigh she threw back the duvet and swung her legs out of the bed. This was no time to be thinking about babies or the lack of them: she had work to do. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table she saw that it was only eight-fifteen. Too early to make that phone call to Rebecca Jordan’s parents. Time for some breakfast first. Her stomach was rumbling despite last night’s Thai feast, but when she opened the fridge, all she found was a withered piece of ginger and a yoghurt that was past its sell-by date. God, she thought, I can’t even look after myself properly, let alone a baby.
She’d planned to have a bath and wash her hair before getting dressed but she was too hungry for that. Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt she headed for the car. There was a corner shop in the next street but if she went there she’d end up buying a load of stodge. If she was going to be serious about losing weight she needed to stock up on some healthy stuff.
Her car was parked right outside the house. For once there had been a space just big enough for her Mazda MX5 when
she had arrived back from dropping Delva off last night. The car was a new toy, purchased only two months ago as a birthday present to herself, so it came as something of a shock when she turned the key in the ignition and the engine died. Several more attempts at turning the engine failed. ‘Sod it!’ She brought the palm of her hand down hard on the steering wheel. She scanned the dashboard, wondering if she’d accidentally touched something she shouldn’t have. But it all appeared normal. She got up and stood in the road, looking for anything obvious that might be wrong with it. But again, everything looked to be in its proper place. There was no point trying to push-start it: she’d never get it out of the tight space it was parked in. There was no option but to call the AA.
She was promised a quick response: an estimate of thirty to forty minutes. Enough time for her to do something constructive. Returning to the house she decided to try the Jordans’ number while watching through the window for the recovery man.
The conversation with Rebecca’s mother was brief: yes, she was travelling in Australia at the moment, working in a bar near Bondi Beach. She’d been away since November and no, she hadn’t been in the UK since that time. No doubt, then, Megan thought as she replaced the receiver. Both Rebecca and Jodie had been used as a cover. She wondered if Carl Kelly and Patrick Ryan had been murdered by the same person: one woman posing as both of the students. She needed a good description of the two visitors. She would quiz Dominic tomorrow but she needed Ronnie on the case as well.
Rather than disturb her friend on a Sunday morning, she decided to wing off an email. The laptop was in its case in the hall and she glanced out of the window before darting to retrieve it. She perched on the arm of a chair as she tapped
out the message, her stomach complaining loudly about the lack of food inside it.
The AA man arrived just as she clicked the computer shut. Fifteen minutes later, having checked all the obvious potential causes, he stood in the road rubbing his fingers on a rag, no nearer to finding the source of the trouble.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’ Megan offered.