Animal Instinct (14 page)

“I'm on my way. That's another one you owe me!”

Massey leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Still not totally convinced, he hoped for some kind of miracle.
Stay positive, there's an interview to plan.
To be organised was second nature to him.

*****

Turner's secret mission had melted into obscurity. Since his meeting with the security agents, nothing extraordinary had happened at the Barleycorn apart from the routine nonsense one normally associates with licensed premises. At first, every visit to the pub with his colleagues drove him to become obsessively vigilant. He was distracted from the repartee and general chitchat to the extent that other officers thought that he was either ill or in love. Gradually he weaned himself off the drug of subterfuge and his unfulfilled assignment became a distant memory.

Some of the team were involved with the arrest at the mill; the remainder had disappeared to complete the house-to-house visits. He glanced across the main office. Massey was on the telephone. He checked the time on his computer screen; it was almost mid-day.

His desk was by a sash window. It was impossible to open the window; too many layers of gloss paint over the years had caused that. The offices were air conditioned now; the opening of windows was no longer necessary. It was hardly the weather for opening windows anyway; outside, it was raining again. He considered that a sandwich from the canteen would be the best bet for lunch; too wet to meet the others at the pub. Last night was bad enough. Uniform must have been soaked.

The ring tone of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. He took it from his pocket and pressed the answer key. It continued to ring.

Oh, my God, it's the other one!

Turner dashed from his desk clutching the secret mobile phone to his ear and simultaneously heading for the exit.

“Hello, is that Adam? This is Mary. There's something strange going on at you know where.”

Turner froze. It was her, the cleaner at the Barleycorn. What should he say? After the initial shock, he composed himself. He looked about him. Why had he locked himself in the gent's toilet?

“What's the problem?” he asked, wondering what else he should say.

“Is it possible to meet with you?”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” he replied.
What if she recognises me? My cover will be blown. I'm not supposed to exist as a real person, especially not as the local plod! “
Can you not tell me briefly over the phone?”

After a moment's hesitation, Mary spoke again. “A strange man has appeared on the scene. He was here at the weekend, but now he's returned with some other weird guys. He seems to have some kind of influence over Sean…he's the landlord of the pub… ‘cos Sean's dead jumpy when he's around. I know the man's name…it's Jimmy Moran. He's Irish like Sean. I've overheard them talking.”

“So, what's the problem and who are these other people?”

“They seem to be with this Jimmy guy, but they're not Irish. I've come across them in the corridor. They look a bit shifty, speak foreign and look foreign, you know, dark skinned with black hair and some have beards.”

“Maybe they're just a party of tourists.”

“I'm not allowed to clean upstairs since they arrived, you know, where the bedrooms are. I do the cleaning there when there are other guests. They don't have any breakfast, either. The Irish guy takes them off in a minibus every morning.”

“Perhaps he takes them on a sightseeing trip. I don't think it's anything to worry about. Have you not asked Sean about them?”

“I was told to mind my own business. He was really nasty with me. It's not normal for him to act in that way.”

“Possibly, he's just stressed out after a busy Easter.”

“He's been acting strange for the past week. I tell you, that Jimmy Moran is bad news.”

“Leave it with me,” said Turner. “I'll check it out. If anything else happens, contact me immediately.” He switched off the mobile.

She's bloody paranoid!
He left the gent's toilet and headed towards the front door for some fresh air. He pulled the card with the special telephone number from his wallet and twirled it around in his fingers. His thoughts turned to his sandwich.

*****

“You must have been born under a lucky star,” said John Nuttall, on his return from the mill.

Massey looked up from his notes. “I'm not having any joy here. What have you got for me?”

“A touch of saccharomyces cerevisiae,” said the forensic detective, placing a large sealed plastic bag on Massey's desk.

“Yeast?”

“A home brew kit, partly used. Found it in your concealed shed. Not yet tested any of the chemical samples from the various containers on the shelves, but it all looks promising. The question is how and why was all this passed on to the girl and parts of her clothing? My original theory suggested that she had possibly fallen onto some surface contaminated by this concoction of chemicals. Now, I'm not too sure. Perhaps during a home-brewing session in the shed, there had been some spillage onto some bin liners, which he used later to bag her up. If we knew where she was murdered, we could construct a possible scenario.”

“I'm still working with assumptions and circumstantial evidence. When will your analysis of this lot be available?”

“As your suspect is in custody for questioning, I'll try for later in the day.”

“Thanks for all your help. I think I must owe you another.”

“And the rest,” muttered Nuttall, making for the door with his bags of potential evidence.

Massey and Roker spent the remainder of the day interviewing Charles Howard accompanied by his solicitor. Both sides made little progress and the suspect was retained in custody overnight. He had denied all knowledge of the clinic brochure and correspondence using the excuse that Lara must have mistakenly left the papers at the mill following one of her visits.

Subjected to further questioning, he had dismissed the discovery of her bag by stating that she could have left it behind after a run-through for one of her photo shoots at Kam-A-O. When questioned why the bag contained several items of clothing, he had replied that she often ‘borrowed’ outfits from the boutique on the pretext that she was sampling for the fashion shows.

The detectives had asked him to describe the format of these improvised rehearsals. He merely stated that he had taken photos of her in various poses, following which they would discuss the pros and cons before agreeing the recommendations for the studio.

Massey asked the whereabouts of any copies of the photos. He had stated that, because they were only tests and not required for any other purpose, he had erased them from his digital camera. The detective made a note to check if there were any picture files on Howard's computer and laptop, which they had seen during their search of the mill. Subconsciously he added Fiona Wilson's name to this same line of thought without realising why at that moment.

During the same interview, Howard had also stated that he was unaware of the gardener's activities in the shed, suggesting that they should speak with Fred about any home-brewing issues on his release from hospital.

By this point, Massey became irritated and frustrated. He concluded that they had reached a temporary impasse and that the interview should be progressed the following day. He based his decision on the fact that, not only would they be buying time to verify some of his statements, but also other incriminating evidence may be forthcoming, especially from forensics.

After despatching one of the team to the hospital to check that the gardener was in a fit state to be interviewed, Massey and Roker decamped to the Barleycorn. Turner followed them, principally to check out Mary Cole's ‘foreign-looking’ residents. As they entered, Ricky Dalziel was propping up the bar.

“Here he comes,” shouted the local villain, “Mister
Elliot Mess
in person. Still chasing shadows, Inspector?”

Massey ignored him and accompanied Turner to a table away from the bar area. Roker ordered the drinks.

“Don't you worry about it, Inspector,” continued Dalziel. “She was probably some local dike, so good riddance, I say.”

Massey looked across at Turner. “Sometimes I ask myself why we continue to frequent these premises.”

“To keep an eye on miscreants like him,” replied Turner. “Besides, this place is like having a private line to the local underworld's bush telegraph.”

“It's not yielding much about our current investigation,” moaned Massey.

Roker arrived with the drinks. “Let's face it. If the mill owner's involved we're talking about a different criminal class here, not the usual riff-raff.”

“That's a fair point,” said Turner. “Perhaps we should be raising our sights and drinking in a trendy wine bar.”

“In Winsford? You must be joking,” replied Roker.

The conversation drifted towards the frustrations which they were encountering on the current investigation and what further evidence may convince a jury of Howard's guilt. It was at that point when Massey realised the relevance of Fiona Wilson.

“That bag which forensics found containing items of Lara's clothing and make-up…if we could prove that she left the house with it on the Thursday morning, we would have an irrefutable link to her presence in the mill.”

“And how can that assumption be proven?” asked Roker.

“Fiona Wilson. She was staying with Lara. She would know what she was wearing, et cetera… even down to the colour of her shoes.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Girls are conscious of such issues. Men don't give a toss for stuff like that. For example, without turning round, what's Dalziel wearing over there?”

“Blue jeans, a not-so-white tee shirt and trainers,” said Turner.

“Okay…a lucky guess,” said Massey.

Turner laughed. “Boss, he always wears the same. I don't think he possesses any other clothes!”

Roker started to show interest. “So, you reckon that Fiona Wilson could identify the bag as the one which Lara was taking to the clinic.”

“Exactly…and if the bus driver can substantiate that, we have him. In addition, if the gardener can confirm that he's not a home-brew fanatic…that the stuff in the shed is his employer's or that there was spillage on some bin liners in there, we will have further proof of his fabrication.”

“But this would only prove that she visited the mill, not that he murdered her,” protested Turner.

“We have him on tape lying about all these issues. If we can prove that he has lied about her meeting him at the mill, it adds more weight to our contention that, not only was she there at the time of her murder, but also that he had the motive to commit the crime, e.g. the pregnancy or even her desire for a termination. We have no witnesses, no physical forensic evidence apart from the chemical contamination, but all these pieces of the jigsaw puzzle would add up to one glaring fact. She was at the mill at the time of her murder and all the circumstantial and limited forensic evidence points at him.”

Roker nodded approvingly. Turner was still not convinced. He stood up. “I need the loo.”

Visiting the toilet was his opportunity to snoop around the area leading to the residents’ accommodation. There was no sign of Mary's strangers or even the mysterious Jimmy Moran. It seemed that Sean was also absent as there was only one member of staff on duty behind the bar.
She ‘s probably scared them off. She certainly scared me, albeit on the telephone.

He returned to the table, where his colleagues looked a little disheartened despite their previously upbeat conversation. Massey looked up at him. “We've just received a call from D.C. Jones. The gardener passed away this morning following a second heart attack.”

They drained their glasses and ordered another round of drinks.

*****

The following day was critical. Massey needed either a confession or all his expertise to convince C.P.S. that he had sufficient evidence to put Charles Howard on trial for the murder of Lara Crawford. He was still cross-examining the suspect with D.S. Roker in interview room one, when the phone rang in his empty office. D.C. Turner looked up from his desk in the main office. Should he walk across and answer it or would it transfer. Seconds later, Roker's phone rang. Turner sighed and went to answer the call.

“Front desk sergeant here. I'm trying to locate D.I Massey,” said the voice.

“Sorry, he's interviewing a suspect…probably be tied up for most of the morning. What's the problem? This is D.C. Turner, part of his team. Can I help?”

“There's some woman here, reporting a missing sister. She says that she will only speak with the D.I.”

“Can't someone else deal with it?”

“She's adamant that it must be D.I. Massey.”

“Does she know him or something?”

“Unlikely. She reckons that he's the best…it must be his high profile in the local press.”

Turner sighed…he had more important issues on his mind. “Okay, I'll come down and sort her out.”

Initially, the woman was reluctant to talk with D.C. Turner until he explained that he was an integral part of Massey's team. The fact that the inspector may not have been free until the following day had also possibly played a major part in her change of mind. Turner led her through to an adjacent side room.

“What makes you think that your sister is missing?” asked the detective.

“She left for work yesterday morning as normal, but failed to return at the end of her shift. I phoned her mobile without success, so I contacted the place where she works but she hasn't been seen since she finished yesterday lunchtime.” The woman shook her head, visibly upset and ran her fingers through her close-cropped blond hair.

Turner put her age at about mid to late thirties. “How old is your sister?”

“There are a couple of years between us. She will be thirty five now. She's strong, reliable, not like me. Even though she's my kid sister, she's the one who looks out for me. I rely on her.”

Turner flipped open a small pad to make notes. “Let's start with her name.”

“Mary…Mary Cole.”

The detective's pen hovered over the notebook like a bird of prey about to pounce on its victim below. He withdrew the pen slightly and looked across at the woman. He wanted to add that he had spoken with her sister yesterday lunchtime. He began to share her anxiety. She stared back at him waiting for some reaction. Slowly he wrote down her sister's name.