The Major Crimes Team - Vol 1: Lines of Enquiry (3 page)

‘C’mon then. Showtime.’

Walking past the immaculate garden, Evans pressed the doorbell and waited. Getting no answer he pressed again.

He heard the chimes but again there was no reaction.

Evans rapped his knuckles on the door. Hard

Is she a deep sleeper? Has she wrapped herself around a decent bottle of wine before bedtime? Is she out with another lover?

Taking a few steps back he looked for signs of life inside the house. There were none.

From the corner of his eye he could see Lauren pressing her mobile against her ear. She waved him over.

‘When you didn’t get an answer, I got DS Chisholm to track her mobile. He says it hasn’t moved from here since teatime yesterday.’

‘Shite.’

Either Susan was comatose inside the house or she’d gone out without her mobile. Knowing how few people left home without their phones, Evans had a sinking feeling about being able to raise Susan.

Every minute of Evans’s thirty years experience were telling him something was off. The house was in darkness, yet the curtains weren’t drawn. There was a car in the driveway, but the house seemed deserted. If Susan had gone out, she’d done so on foot and without her mobile.

Turning his collar up against the all-encompassing drizzle, Evans trudged towards a gate leading to the back of the house.

Stepping through the gate he found a narrow passage leading to the back of the house. A wheelie-bin was back up against the house wall, the house’s number hand painted onto its front as a mark of identification.

Reaching the back of the house, Evans found a rear door overlooking the garden. Looking up he saw the back of the house was also in darkness.

‘Shall I try the door?’ Lauren reached out a hand.

‘Gloves!’

Lauren’s eyebrows arched as she caught the significance of Evans’ instruction. ‘You think there’s something wrong?’

‘I dunno about wrong, but summat’s not right.’

Grabbing the handle with a gloved hand Lauren tried the door. It opened.

Evans touched her shoulder and intimated he let her go first. The gesture earned him a scowl.

‘I’m a trained officer.’

‘And I’m an inspector, step aside.’ Evans pulled out his collapsible baton flicking his wrist to extend it.

Pushing the door open with the tip of his baton he glanced left and right before stepping into the kitchen. ‘Hello. Anybody home?’ He’d learned the hard way never to enter a house without announcing his presence. When confronted by a stranger in their house, home-owners were liable to hit first and ask questions second, especially late at night.

No answer came back to him. Nor any sounds of movement.

Flicking on the light, he let his eyes dance round the room taking in the modern fittings and expensive gadgets as they searched for possible aggressors.

Opening the first door he came to he found a dining room. Six chairs surrounded a mahogany table, a matching dresser stood against the far. A large montage depicted a poodle-permed blonde accompanied by a man and a boy. The pictures charted the various stages of the boy’s life with the most recent picture showed him wearing the robes and mortar board of a university passing out ceremony. The man in the pictures was the same man and in at least half of the pictures he wore a military uniform.

Again there was no life to be found in the room.

Evans moved on to the next door and switched on the light. It was the lounge and just like the previous rooms, the furniture and décor was modern and expensive.

Evans looked at Lauren who shrugged. ‘She’s either upstairs or she’s gone out.’

‘Wow that’s clever of you. You should be a detective.’

Calling out as he went, Evans made his way into the hallway and up the stairs. Reaching the landing at the top he peered through three open doors to find un-occupied bedrooms.

That left the bathroom.

Evans banged on the door. ‘Susan. It’s the police. Are you in there?’

No answer. He looked at Lauren, reluctant to enter a woman’s bathroom when she may be lying in a state of drunken undress.

Her eyes rolled. ‘
Now
you want me to go first.’

Grasping the door handle she teased the door open and reached for the pull cord. When the light came on Lauren and Evans gasped in unison.

A blonde woman lay in an empty bath wearing nothing but a cerise thong. It wasn’t her nudity which made them gasp. It was the ruined mess of her chest. To Evans’ eye it looked as if she’d been attacked by a demented butcher.

Slash marks and stab wounds decorated her entire upper torso. Evans checked for a pulse knowing he was wasting his time. There was no way anyone could have survived the wounds on this woman’s chest.

‘You call control. I’ll take some pictures.’

Evans used his iPhone to capture a number of pictures of the woman in her final resting place. The CSI team would document everything properly but he wanted to get a few images to have at his disposal right away.

Once he’d got the pictures, he made a call of his own. Questions were asked and answers given. A minute later he hung up and made enquiries of another source. Getting the information he wanted, Evans made a third call. The final one was short and to the point. Instead of asking questions he gave orders.

*    *    *    *

It was well after midnight when Evans and Lauren were able to hand the investigation over to the CSI team. Will Cuthbertson had turned up wanting to help out but Evans had used his position in Major Crimes to pull rank and keep the investigation as his own.

There had been numerous emergency services arriving at the house and their presence had kept both Lauren and Evans occupied, as protocols were observed and procedures followed.

Now they were back in the car and returning to Carlisle he had a chance to tell her of the arrest he’d had made.

‘Kate Watson.’ Lauren lit a menthol cigarette. ‘Why do you reckon it’s her?’

‘A few reasons.’

‘C’mon Guv, don’t start pretending you’re shy. I know you better than that.’

‘Watson had a knife in his back. Therefore whoever stabbed him got the jump on him from behind in his own home. To me that suggests either a surprise intruder or someone he felt confident of turning his back on. The tea was all set to be made which means Kate was about. Which in turn means nobody could have got the jump on him. When I looked at where he’d been attacked, there was a spray of blood on the wall. The spray of blood had a gap in it. The gap was roughly human sized. Ergo the attacker was sprayed by the victim’s blood.’

‘Kate Watson told me she was in the shower when the boys came home and found him.’

‘I guessed as much. Her hair was wet but she’d been cooking tea, she hadn’t been out in the rain as her clothes were dry.’

‘That’s not enough to suspect someone of murder.’ Lauren ground the butt of her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray.

‘If you’d stop fucking interrupting me I’d be able to tell you it all.’ Evans stopped talking to Lauren so he could berate a driver who had the temerity to observe the speed limits.

‘What else Guv?’

‘She was already on my suspect list by then so I got the CSI guys to check the shower drain to see if there were any traces of Watson’s blood in there. There was.’ Evans lit a cigarette from the butt of the one he was smoking. ‘The washing machine was on so I also got them to check the laundry basket for women’s clothes. It was empty which meant she must have stripped off before going upstairs for her shower. It’s circumstantial, but it was enough to make me pay attention to her.’

‘Wow!’

Evans drove in silence for a few minutes as Lauren digested his logic. He knew she’d be chastising herself for not picking up on some of the clues. He didn’t like to gloat of his successful hunches paying off, but he did feel his logic processes should be passed on to the junior members of the team.

‘I can see why you fancy her for Watson’s murder, but what about Susan Galbraith’s, doesn’t the husband come into it?’

‘I had Chisholm check out his whereabouts as soon as I heard the husband was in the Marines. He’s been in Afghanistan for the last two months and is due home in a fortnight. Chisholm also checked Kate Watson’s number plate against the ANPR records. Her car was recorded as entering Kendal at ten fifteen last night and leaving a half hour later. To cap it off she picked up a speeding ticket at the bottom of Greengate Lane as she left. That puts her in the vicinity of a murder victim whom she has a motive to kill. Add the damage done to the victim by her attacker and you get the picture of a deranged murderer. Susan Galbraith wasn’t killed cleanly by an expert. She was murdered by someone who’d lost touch with reality. I’ll bet you a week’s wages and a night of passion with the chief constable a lot of her wounds will have been inflicted after she died.’

*    *    *    *

Evans got back to his flat at half-past six, just as the first rays of sunlight were appearing. Kate Watson had tried stonewalling at first but when confronted with all the evidence her defence had crumbled. After that it had been a case of charging her and filling in the endless forms.

He planned to get a few hours sleep and then take Janet out for the day. This was one of those rare occasions when their respective shifts granted them a chance to spend time together without either of them being on call or due to start work later in the day. Her work as an Accident and Emergency Surgeon at Cumbria Infirmary and his career in the police always seemed to conspire against them.

Creeping into the living room he heard a gentle sob. He opened the door to their bedroom to be greeted by darkness.

‘Harry?’ The grief in Janet’s voice broke his heart.

‘What is it darling?’

Evans switched on the light and found Janet lying on the floor. Her arms wrapped around their three-legged labrador, her beautiful face distorted and tear-stained.

Kneeling beside Janet and releasing her arms from Tripod pulled her into a tender embrace. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Are you OK?’

Her body convulsed in his arms as great wracking sobs shook her body. When she was able to speak her words were a whisper in his ear. ‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

He knew then what she was going to say. He’d thought perhaps her mother or a close friend had died suddenly. That wasn’t the case.

Realisation of their loss stole his breath. Dried his mouth to a crisp. Attempts to provide comfort failed as the words just wouldn’t come. The urge to squeeze her tight had to be contained lest he crush the life from her in his shared grief.

‘Are you sure?’ He knew the futility of his question. As a woman she’d know and as a surgeon she’d recognise all the symptoms of miscarriage. He just didn’t want it to be true.

Neither of them had expected her to fall pregnant but when she’d told him she was expecting it was the happiest day of his life.

Manhunters

DS Neil Chisholm pushed back his chair and eased his bulk upright. It had been a quiet week, so he’d spent his spare time perfecting a new surveillance algorhythm.

Designed to flag up any specific trigger words used on social media, the algorhythm was similar to ones used by international espionage agencies. Chisholm had added a few tweaks and parameters to his though.

First, it was contained to only monitor accounts registered to addresses in Cumbria. Second, it would also pick up visitors to the area using smart-phones to connect to social media outlets like Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Once the visitors went outside the county, they would be dropped from the database unless they had activated a trigger.

He’d chosen his trigger words and phrases with care. Knowing the public’s dislike of proper grammar on social media sites, he’d included as many common mis-spellings as he could think of.

Also included in his algorhythm’s remit were various instant messaging sites and apps.

The algorhythm had been doing its thing for a few days now. He’d had a regular stream of alerts but so far none of them were worth pursuing.

He knew what he was doing was illegal, but he was confident his algorhythm would never be detected. If it bore fruit he knew his boss – DI Harry Evans – would help him keep the algorhythm a secret from the brass.

His love of computers and a natural aptitude at programming saw him pretty-much desk bound at all times but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure he missed the excitement of the chase, but he didn’t miss being lied to, spat at and assaulted. He got his job satisfaction from providing Evans and the rest of the Major Crimes team with the information they needed to solve their cases.

Returning from the toilet, he sat down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. No files, documents or stationery had ever been in this drawer. The drawer contained his stash of chocolate bars and energy drinks.

Evans strode into the room as he was dropping a wrapper onto the overflowing pile that was his waste bin.

‘Got anything for us Jabba?’

Chisholm wasn’t offended by Evans’s nickname for him. He’d heard far worse and knew Evans wouldn’t allow anyone else to insult him. Considering the loss his DI had just suffered, he was surprised to see him at work.

‘Nothing that’d interest you guv. There’s a dubious fire at a house in Maryport, a spate of shoplifting at Penrith and few muggings in Kendal.’

‘They’re hardly major crimes. Are there no heists or murders to investigate?’

‘Nothing like that.’

Evans scratched the top of his bald head. ‘Anyone hurt in the fire?’

‘No, but they had to evacuate half the street.’

‘Fuck it. I’ll go and take a look at it. There’s nowt else interesting.’ Evans pointed a finger at DC Amir Bhaki. ‘You go to Penrith and get the crack on the shoplifting. I’ll pick up Lauren and take her with me.’

‘What about the muggings?’

‘Too easy, Barry Hammond got out of jail last week. A fiver says Will Cuthbertson will already have him in custody.’

Chisholm knew better than to wager against one of Evans’s hunches. They were so legendary in the station, he’d been christened Quasi by all those brave enough to use the term to his face.

*    *    *    *

The rest of Chisholm’s afternoon passed without any notable events until an alert came in from his algorhythm. Checking it out, he found someone had created a new Facebook group called ‘
Cumbria Against PAEDOS
’, the capitalisation of paedos a red flag in itself.

Logging onto the site with one of several profiles he’d created, he looked at the group the way a typical user would see it. Nothing too hateful was obvious, but there was an underlying current of anger in the group description. Reading down the list of members he recognised a few names from the more volatile elements of society.

There was no administrator listed for the group, so Chisholm opened another window on his screen and went into Facebook via the algorhythm. Five minutes later he’d tracked down the administrator.

Garry Robertson was a well-known figure to Cumbria Constabulary, any time there was any kind of major disturbance or protest he was involved. Too clever to get his own hands dirty, Robertson was an inciter and provoker who specialised in creating ammunition for others to fire. Never convicted of an actual crime he’d been present at many incidents. His presence a background one, his arms wound around a distraught relative or used to restrain a late-arriving aggressor.

Ever present but never ostensibly involved, he was known to cause more problems than he solved.

Minimising the second window, Chisholm used his fake profile to request membership of the group. The profile he’d chosen was one he’d set up to make himself look like a bigoted nationalist. He’d already managed to hook up with a few like-minded morons. By engaging with them, he’d established himself as just the kind of person Robertson could enlist to do his own dirty work.

Twenty-five minutes later he’d been accepted into the group and had received a friend request from Robertson.

Scrolling down the page he read message after message from members who had pledged their support to the group. Ten or twenty had gone so far as to allege paedophilia upon their neighbours or someone they’d seen outside the school. In the time it took to read to the bottom of the comment stream, another ten members had been added.

A new post grabbed Chisholm’s attention.

Troy Joserand lives on Orton Road. He’s a pedo whose been relocated by the council after he got out ov jail. We should drive him out. Now!

The poster had no profile picture and went under the name Paedos Beware. Likes poured in for the comment as other members agreed Joserand should be removed from the community. Some even pledged their support and suggested a meeting place.

Chisholm watched as people signed up to the idea of driving him out. The original poster added a new thread to the group.

I say we give the bastard a good kicking. Thoughts?

The replies streamed in suggesting everything from a stern warning to burning the house down and castrating him with a pair of rusty scissors.

Chisholm put on a pair of headphones and called Evans as he tapped at his keyboard to learn the true identity of the poster known as Paedos Beware.

‘Guv. You’re not gonna believe this but I’ve managed to discover a planned vigilante attack…via Facebook…of course it’s not legal, but that’s not important right now … their intended victim is called Troy Joserand and lives in Carlisle. They’re planning to attack him at nine tonight. What should we do about it?’ Chisholm listened to Evans’ answer then ended the call.

Following Evans’ instruction he called Control and warned them to be aware of false 999 calls directing police forces to the opposite end of town at 9pm.

Next he finished tracing Paedos Beware only to discover Garry Robertson was the presence behind it with a secondary account.

Evans had also tasked him with finding out more about Troy Joserand as the name was unfamiliar to them both.

Starting at the beginning, he checked the Police National Database but turned up a blank. Next he checked the social services and prison system databases. Neither of them had any details of a Troy Joserand.

Chisholm was glad he wasn’t searching for a Bill Jones or a John Armstrong. The name Troy Joserand wasn’t a common one which made his search easier, it was however, so unique it started to ring a few alarm bells of its own.

What if his name isn’t really Troy Joserand? What if that’s a pseudonym or a name given to him by someone else?

As the thoughts ran through Chisholm’s brain, he came to the realisation that if Troy Joserand was indeed an alias, the only people who could have placed him in a council owned property were the Protected Witness Scheme.

Experience had taught him the Protected Witness Scheme didn’t have a readily accessible database. For security reasons they didn’t have a central database connected to computers with internet access.

That left him with only one alternative.

*    *    *    *

Evans walked back towards his M3 with Lauren at his heels. The cause of the fire identified with ease by the senior fire officer.

The owner of the house had been growing cannabis plants in his attic and one of the heat lights had fused starting the fire. Everyone attending the scene apart from the firemen wearing breathing apparatus displayed the effects of the burnt cannabis. Nobody felt any urgency and a few of the bystanders had dissolved into fits of giggles.

Fighting to keep his temper somewhere close to acceptable, he struggled through the crowd, fishing in his pocket to retrieve his mobile. Despite the fire now being extinguished, people were still turning up to gawp at the ruined house. He guessed a significant amount of them were after a free high.

‘What?’

Evans listened as Chisholm relayed his suspicions about Troy Joserand.

Making sure nobody could overhear him; Evans gave a series of instructions and hung up.

Sending Lauren on an imaginary errand to get rid of her for a few minutes, he climbed into his car and called his old friend, ACC Greg Hadley.

If Troy Joserand was a protected witness, the ACC would know about him. That kind of information was on a need to know basis and as a DI, he wasn’t deemed worthy of the knowledge.

*    *    *    *

Chisholm munched on another chocolate bar while he watched the comments pour in. Everyone commenting on the thread was condemning Joserand for his alleged paedophilia and an ever growing number was agreeing to meet at the specified place.

His phone was answered before the first ring was complete. He didn’t get a chance to speak as Evans bombarded him with information.

When he did open his mouth it was to make a suggestion. He’d been thinking about the best way to handle the assembling lynch mob and had come up with an idea.

Evans gave him the green light so he started putting his plan into action.

First he put a call into control. They argued with his request for two dozen riot-equipped constables and six vans. It was only when he explained what he needed them for, he got his way.

Second he added two more of his fake profiles to the Facebook group. He didn’t think his original one would be cut out of the group, but if it was he wanted to maintain a presence in there.

While he was doing this he called the Witness Protection Scheme and using a reference number supplied by ACC Hadley, got a physical description of Troy Joserand and a contact number for him.

Evans hadn’t given him many details, but he’d intimated Joserand wasn’t the usual kind of toe-rag who gave up others to lessen their own sentence. If this was true Joserand must be in the scheme because he was a witness to a major crime.

Whatever else happened tonight, Joserand mustn’t be harmed.

Using his own mobile he sent a text to Joserand’s mobile to identify himself and offer support.

His plan was simple enough provided everyone played their parts as directed. A half hour before the mob was due to meet, Joserand was to leave his home and make his way to the small shop near the junction with Dobinson Road. He’d be collected there and taken to a safe place.

Then Chisholm would close the net on his would be attackers. With luck there would be a decent number of the less desirable elements of society could be caught in this trap.

Every thing about his plan hinged on collecting Joserand and spiriting him away before the mob found out he was gone. If anything went wrong, he would be serving Joserand up on a plate.

*    *    *    *

The man known as Troy Joserand shut the bathroom door and bent over the toilet. The call he’d just had from his probation officer had gone through him quicker than a dodgy kebab.

Vomiting until there was nothing left to come but thin streams of bile, he straightened himself and brushed his teeth.

A text had come in from someone identifying himself as DS Chisholm. The text urged him to answer the phone if this number called it. He would have doubted the provenance of the text had he not been forewarned of it by the probation officer acting as his handler.

Why the bloody hell did I step forward and give a description of those men? Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth shut and turn a blind eye?

He knew the answer to this question. He’d asked it often enough. His mouth had been opened because he’d witnessed a gang of five youths haul someone out of a car and slash his throat.

The attack had happened as he’d been walking back to his car after a night out in his native Liverpool. The five aggressors had jumped into the back of a van and sped off. While he waited for the ambulance to come he’d told the operator everything he’d seen including the registration of the van.

The van had been stopped and all its occupants arrested. He’d later been told their victim was a small time dealer affiliated with a rival gang. He’d been relocated to Carlisle as a precaution after he’d agreed to testify in court.