Beneath the Bleeding (25 page)

It was getting easier. Tony wasn’t dreaming it. He’d woken up just after six, needing to pee. It had taken less effort and less time to get on to his crutches, and he was sure he was managing to put more weight on his shattered knee. Maybe he could persuade the physio to let him try the stairs today.

He got back into bed and luxuriated in the relief of being horizontal again. Time to get back in touch with the world. He pulled the table over and booted up the laptop. Among the new emails, the one from Paula leapt out at him. Written at 2.13 a.m., it said, Looks like you were right. Positive ID in the pub in Dore. More later. Well done, Doc, good to see you’ve not lost your touch.

Tony made a fist and gave the air a tiny punch. It might not seem much, but from where he was sitting right now, it was a big deal. Profiling was like walking out on the tightrope. Confidence was a crucial part of the performance. If you didn’t believe in yourself, if you didn’t trust your instincts and your judgement, you ended up hedging your bets so much that your profile was worthless. It was an incremental process.
If you got something right, it made you feel better about doing it next time, and that increased your chance of being useful. Conversely, you only needed to fuck up once and you started from ground zero next time.

So, given that he was recovering from major surgery and feeling slow as a storyline in
The Archers,
and given that Carol had already rubbished the idea, getting it right about Danny Wade made him feel pretty damn good about himself. If the same person had killed Danny and Robbie, he should be thinking about what connected the victims to each other and to their killer. Maybe he could be useful from a hospital bed after all.

The flat Jana Jankowicz shared with her boyfriend was spotless. It smelled of polish and air freshener. It had obviously come furnished. Nobody that neat and clean would have chosen such scruffy, unmatched and flimsy items. What made it feel like a home were the hand-quilted throws on the sofa and the photos on the walls-printed on a colour printer and laminated, a cheap and cheerful alternative to professional prints and expensive frames. Jana, a round-faced, dark haired woman with an elusive prettiness, faced Paula over a scrubbed Formica-topped table, its edges chipped and scarred. Between them, an enamel pot of strong coffee and an ashtray. The presence of the ashtray explained the strong chemical smell of synthetic fragrances, Paula thought. Her sinuses would go on a protest strike if she had to live here.

Jana had asked no questions about Paula’s reason for being there. She had agreed to the interview
with genial resignation and had greeted her politely. It was as if she had decided the safest way to cope with the police in a foreign country was to be meekly co-operative. Paula had a sneaking feeling it wasn’t Jana’s normal style.

Jana thumbed her way through the photos for a second time. She shook her head. ‘I have never seen any of these men with Mr Wade,’ she said, her English only faintly accented. She was, she told Paula, a qualified teacher of English and French back in Poland. Skills her country couldn’t afford too well right now. She and her fiancé were here to make enough money to buy a house back in Poland. Then they’d go home. They could manage to make ends meet if they didn’t have rent to pay, Jana reckoned.

She paused at the shot of Jack Anderson. This man, though. I think I’ve seen him, but I don’t know where or when.’

‘Maybe he came to the house?’ Paula offered her cigarettes to Jana. She took one and they both lit up while Jana frowned at the photo.

‘I think he came to the house but not to see Mr Wade,’ she said slowly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. ‘He was selling something. I don’t remember. He had a van.’ She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed. ‘No, it’s no use. I can’t remember. It was a while ago.’ She shook her head, apologetic. ‘I can’t be certain.’

‘Never mind,’ Paula said. ‘Did you ever hear Mr Wade mention a man called Jack Anderson?’

Jana drew on her cigarette and shook her head. ‘You have to understand, Mr Wade didn’t talk about anything personal. I didn’t even know he came from Bradfield.’

‘What about football? Did he ever mention a footballer called Robbie Bishop?’

Jana looked confused. ‘Football? No, model railways. That was what Mr Wade was interested in.’ She spread her hands. ‘He never watched football.’

‘That’s fine. Did anybody come to the house to visit Mr Wade?’ Paula inhaled. Even if the interview wasn’t very productive, at least she could smoke. That wasn’t something you could say about many interviews these days. Even police interview rooms were non-smoking, which some prisoners claimed was a breach of their human rights. Paula tended to agree with them.

Jana didn’t even have to think. ‘Nobody,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think that was a reason to pity him. Some people are happier on their own. I think he was like that. He liked that I was there to cook and clean, but he didn’t want me to be his friend.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way…’ Paula gave a helpless little shrug, the kind that says,
I have to ask this and I wish I didn’t.
‘Do you know what he did for sex? I mean, he was a young man, presumably he had sexual desires…’

Jana didn’t seem in the least offended. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘He was never improper with me. I don’t think he was gay, though.’ Paula raised an eyebrow. Jana grinned. ‘No gay porn. But sometimes, those magazines you can get at the newsagents. Nothing very bad. But girls, not boys. Sometimes he would go out in the car without the dogs for a couple of hours. When he came back, he seemed to be a bit embarrassed and he would usually take a bath. Maybe he went to prostitutes, I don’t know.’ She gave Paula a shrewd look. ‘Why are you asking these questions?
Are you maybe starting to believe I am telling the truth about not making the pie?’

‘It’s possible Mr Wade’s death is connected to a murder in Bradfield. If that’s the case then yes, it would appear that you’ve been telling the truth,’ Paula said.

‘It would be good if that happened,’ Jana said. A wry smile twisted her plump lips. ‘Getting a job as a housekeeper when the newspapers print that you poisoned your last boss is a bit hard.’

‘I can see that.’ Paula shared Jana’s smile. ‘But if we’re right about the connection, you can bet there will be even more publicity about you not making the pie than there ever was when we thought you had. Maybe that’ll act as a reference.’ She drew the pictures together and put them back in their envelope. ‘You’ve been a big help,’ she said.

‘I wish I knew more,’ Jana said. ‘For his sake as well as mine. He was a good employer, you know. Not demanding, very grateful. I do not think he was accustomed to having someone to do things for him. It would be good if you found the person who killed him.’

Rhys Butler sat with his left arm across his narrow chest, hand cupping his right elbow, right hand covering his mouth and chin. His shoulders hunched, he glared at Carol Jordan from under his gingery brows. His red hair stood up in spikes and clumps, a classic night-in-the-cells hairdo. ‘My client will be pursuing a claim against Bradfield Metropolitan Police for the assault against him,’ his solicitor said sweetly, pushing a strand of her long black hair
behind her ear with a perfectly shaped and painted fingernail.

Bloody Bronwen Scott,
Carol thought.
Proof that the devil wears Prada.
Just her luck that the duty solicitor from the night before had been one of the baby lawyers in Scott’s high-profile criminal law firm. And of course, since the case had the potent combination of Robbie Bishop, Carol Jordan and a possibly lucrative civil action against the police, Bronwen herself had grabbed it with both hands. In her immaculately tailored suit and full make-up, she was clearly prepared for the ‘spontaneous’ press interviews she’d doubtless be conducting later that morning. And so the old adversaries faced off across the table again. ‘Good to know he’s come to a decision,’ Carol said. ‘Me, I’m still pondering whether to pursue an action against your client for false imprisonment.’

Sam leaned forward. ‘Not to mention he shouldn’t have legged it the minute he found out we were police officers. Verging on resisting arrest, that is.’

Bronwen gave them both a pitying look and shook her head, as if to say she’d expected better from them. ‘My client is still experiencing some pain as a result of your actions. Nevertheless, he is willing to answer your questions.’ She spoke as if this were an extraordinary favour granted from a great height.

Carol’s confidence took another knock. In her experience, Bronwen Scott’s clients tended to go ‘no comment’, which translated in Carol’s mind to, ‘I did it.’ That she was allowing Rhys Butler to talk to them told Carol that the chances were good she was wasting her time. Still, this might be the one time when a stupid client had managed to overrule the feisty Ms
Scott. She pulled her thoughts together and smiled at Butler. ‘Sorry to spoil what must have been a good week for you,’ she said pleasantly.

His forehead wrinkled like skin on rice pudding. ‘What d’you mean?’ he mumbled through his hand.

‘Robbie Bishop dying, of course. That must have cheered you up.’ Butler looked away and said nothing. ‘You probably think that he deserved it,’ she continued. ‘I mean, we know you didn’t think much to the way he treated Bindie.’

Butler glared at her. He let his hand fall from his face and spoke with venom. ‘Bindie chucked him ages ago. Why would I care what happened to him?’

‘Well, I would think you wouldn’t want them to get back together again.’

Butler shook his head. ‘No way. She wouldn’t lower herself. She’s just waiting for the right time so we can be together.’

‘And now Robbie’s dead, that time can’t be far away.’

‘Don’t say anything, Rhys,’ his solicitor butted in. ‘Don’t let her wind you up. Just answer the questions.’

‘You want a question? OK. Where were you between ten p.m. the Thursday before last and four o’clock on the Friday morning?’ Carol fixed him with an unblinking stare.

‘At home. On my own, before you ask. But I was at work until six and back at work on Friday at eight. And I don’t have a car. Just a bike. I’m fast but I’m not that fast,’ Butler said, his attempt at an insolent leer turned into a wince by the pain in his mouth.

‘There’s trains,’ Sam said. ‘Two and a half to three hours, Newcastle to Bradfield. Depending on whether
it’s non-stop or change at York. You could have borrowed a car. Or nicked one. Whatever, it’s doable.’

‘Except that I didn’t do it. I was in Newcastle all night.’

They’d have to canvass the stations and train staff, Carol thought. She’d have liked to have done that before they’d arrested Butler, but it had been clear as soon as they’d picked him up off the ground behind his house that he was not going to accompany them voluntarily. She’d had to arrest him to be sure he didn’t do a runner. And now the clock was ticking and she had no evidence. ‘Did you think you were doing Bindie a favour, getting rid of Robbie?’

‘Whoever got rid of him did her a favour, but it wasn’t me,’ he said stubbornly.

‘Are you sure about that? Because I reckon poison would be right up your street,’ Sam came in, as agreed in advance. ‘Let’s face it, when you tried to take him on like a man, Robbie gave you a proper coating. There was no way you could take him in a fair fight. Poison, now that’s more like it. A man can’t fight back against poison.’

Butler flushed, the colour ugly on his pale, freckled skin. ‘I made my point. I made Bindie see that people who really cared about her were prepared to stand up for her. And she got rid of him. I never killed him.’

‘My client has made himself clear, Chief Inspector. I suggest you confine yourselves to questions rather than insinuation and innuendo.’ Scott made a note on her pad.

‘Pharmacology, that’s the line of work you’re in,
right?’ Carol said, hoping the tangent would unsettle him.

‘That’s right,’ Butler said.

‘So you’ll know all about ricin?’

‘You probably know more about ricin than I do. I’m a lab technician in a company that makes cough medicine. I wouldn’t know a castor bean if it arrived on toast.’

There was a moment’s grisly silence. Carol could have sworn she saw Bronwen Scott momentarily roll her eyes. ‘So you do know where it comes from,’ Carol said.

‘So does half the country,’ Butler said, his voice rising. ‘All that stuff in the papers about terrorists making ricin? And now Bishop dying from it? We all know where it bloody comes from.’

Carol shook her head. ‘I didn’t remember. I had to look it up after Robbie was diagnosed. I bet most people did. But you remember.’

Butler turned to his lawyer. ‘Are you going to put a stop to this? They’ve got nothing on me.’

Scott gave a smile that showed little sharp teeth. Carol thought she’d probably learned it from a piranha. ‘My client’s right. This is a fishing expedition. Unless you’ve got anything that you have not disclosed this far, you’ve got no grounds for keeping us here. I want you to release my client without charge right now. Because we are done here. He’s not saying another word, and you have nothing.’

The worst of it was, she was right. ‘Police bail,’ Carol said, getting to her feet. ‘We’ll be back round this table again, Ms Scott.’

Bronwen Scott smiled again. ‘Not until you get
your act together, Chief Inspector Jordan. You’ll be hearing from us about the assault suit.’

Carol watched them leave, then gave a rueful shrug. ‘That’ll teach me to be impatient,’ she said. ‘They’re going to be laughing about us from John O’Groats to Land’s End.’ She gave herself a shake. ‘Next time you try to blindside one of your colleagues, Sam, see if you can make it worth our while, eh?’

When Carol got back to the MIT room Chris and Paula were waiting for her. They both looked as if they could have used a few more hours’ sleep, and Paula was looking distinctly shifty. ‘Any luck with Butler?’ Chris asked.

‘We’ve got nothing and he’s got bloody Bronwen Scott.’ There was no need to say more. She stifled a yawn, told herself she did not need a drink and settled into her chair. ‘What about you two? Any joy last night at Amatis?’