Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) (6 page)

Chapter Twelve: Somebody Told Me

The best way to interview nightclub staff was to turn up as they were opening, flash the badge at the bouncer and loudly declare that you wanted to see the manager. Bryn found that guaranteed him a cosy back room and time with every staff member he wanted. Jean Moore, manager of Koalas and proud Australian ex-pat, wanted him the hell out of her club—preferably before it got too busy for her to spare even one staff member for his interrogation. Suddenly, with the boss on their back, the staff became delightfully willing to speak with him, knowing it got them in Jean’s good books—and out from under her watchful eye for ten minutes.

At this moment, Bryn had precisely nothing. They were random killings, unrelated murders. The victims had a handful of common friends, all women or bent as a threepenny bit, and there was no doubt in Bryn’s mind that this was a sexual crime. If he had a body, he could damn well prove it too. As it was, he had to rely on Amy’s mood and willingness to get up in the mornings. Though, as much as he distrusted her new ex-con assistant, he seemed to be doing her some good and Bryn might just get a whole piece of work out of her. Murder was a bit of a step up from phone scams and overseas money trails, but she was pulling her weight like a trooper and he was oddly proud of her for the breaks they’d got so far.

Amy figured the Pete guy for Kate’s boyfriend, so Bryn would save him for last, make him sweat. He went for Naomi first, the vic’s housemate. The last time he’d spoken to her, she’d been in shock, babbling on about the rubbish being taken out, and that meant Kate had been home that night, that she must’ve been kidnapped. Bryn hadn’t made head nor tail of it but listened patiently while she blew her nose a lot and worked her way through three cups of tea.

She looked more together now, made up and hair ironed out flat, and she sat calmly across from him. “I saw on the news. I told you, didn’t I? Where’s he taken her?”

Bryn hid his wince in his notebook. “We don’t know. We think he probably followed her for several days before he...made his move. We need to know what he knew—and if there was anyone hanging around, anyone—”

“It’s a nightclub,” Naomi said bluntly. “There are always creeps and weirdoes hanging about, guys in costume, beards and hats. There could be a guy in here every night with a different fucking mask and a general loser attitude—and we’d never recognise him. Know what I’m saying? He could watch her from the balcony and she’d never even know he was there.” She inspected her thumb, a bright blue plaster over the nail. Her other nails were all bitten to the quick, the skin picked raw. “Though I guess the bouncers might clock him. They’re good at picking out trouble.”

“What about home?”

“It was just a place we crashed. We never spent enough time there to notice stuff, never got to know the neighbours. I only really saw Kate at work—we were never in that house.”

Bryn filed that information away. Unlikely then that the guy saw her at home. Must be work or university, with access to her address or following her home. “You noticed anything...after?”

“I left that place. Staying with friends up Gabalfa way.” Naomi looked away, a fine tremor running through her body. “I don’t feel safe in that house. Knowing he just got in there. She wouldn’t have let him in, I know she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t answer the door to the gas man in the middle of the day! He must’ve broken in. Landlord will never get anyone to live there now.”

Bryn had already interrogated the landlord, a Turkish bloke who spent more time abroad than in Cardiff and had the convenient alibi of being in the States when Kate had disappeared. “Thank you for your time, Naomi. I’ll let you know if we need to ask further questions.”

“Let me know when you find him,” she countered and left without meeting his eye.

Bryn didn’t know if it was fear that made her anxious—or was it guilt? Did she have something to hide, a boyfriend whose eye might have wandered? Something to bear in mind.

There just weren’t enough facts. Kate Thomas had died at home, but without reference samples, the hair and fingerprints in her bedroom could be the killer’s or they could be from a boy she’d shagged the week before. Bryn took a gulp of his ice water and concentrated on the task at hand. There had to be a lead here.

The bouncers did keep an eye on regular troublemakers, but they didn’t have anything for him apart from posturing and attitude, the typical response of security guys with a chip on their shoulder about proper coppers. They did describe a few guys who gave the girls hassle, but they’d all been barred now and they had no idea where he could find them. Bryn asked them to tell him if any of them tried to get back in, but he didn’t hold out much hope for cooperation from that lot of overeager amateurs. He’d be more likely to find his suspect bleeding in an alleyway.

The barmaids knew Kate to say hi to, but nothing more. She’d only been there for a few weeks, like the rest of them, and they didn’t do a lot of socialising. Most of them thought she’d been seeing Pete, but none of them seemed overly bothered about it. Bryn didn’t pick up much in the way of jealousy but they didn’t think he was a bad bloke either.

Bryn interviewed the bar-backs next, saving Pete until last. They got on well as mates, agreed that Kate was a looker but that she was definitely Pete’s bit of stuff. Dan, calling himself Pete’s best mate, told him that Kate had been Pete’s regular shag for a month or so, but there wasn’t much to it.

“You don’t think it was Pete, do you?” Dan said. “It can’t have been him anyway—he was working that night. He swapped with me so I could catch this gig at the Union.”

Bryn digested that information, annoyed that his prime suspect had an alibi.

“Don’t go upsetting him, yeah?” Dan said anxiously. “He’s missing his bird, her being dead and all. He might...well, he might do something stupid, yeah?”

Bryn figured out exactly what “something stupid” might be as soon as Pete burst through the door and, instead of taking a seat, paced angrily around the room, hands clenching and unclenching as he circled. “You’ve been talking trash about me,” he spat.

Bryn kept his cool and kept his seat, hands relaxed in his lap. “I’m trying to find out who killed Kate Thomas,” he said quietly and Pete subsided, blowing air through his lips.

“She was my girl,” Pete said, struggling to bring his temper under control. “Yet you’re asking all my mates if they’d do her? What’s that about?”

“Jealousy is a powerful motive, son. I need to know if there was anyone who’d kill Kate rather than see her with you.” Bryn tried to be honest with the boy, hoping he’d take it like a man and realise that he was only trying to help.

But Pete just continued to pace, his frustration mounting. “But they’re my mates! How can you think that? And what about the other bird—Mel? She’s nothing to do with here, is she? It’s some serial killer, isn’t it? Just picking off random girls.” Pete clenched his teeth, snorting like a bull about to charge. Bryn didn’t feel threatened but he did a quick inventory of breakables and bludgeoning objects around the room.

“It’s hardly ever random,” Bryn said. “Even serial killers start with people they know. Did Kate have any friends you didn’t like? She get on with her family?”

Pete gave a hollow little laugh. “How should I know? I was just sleeping with her. We didn’t do none of that couple stuff. She just wanted some fun, I’m a fun guy, that was all there was to it. I don’t even know if she had any family.”

“What about drugs?” Bryn asked bluntly.

“Bit of weed, bit of MCAT at a party—who doesn’t? Nothing Class A, nothing regular. Definitely no smack.”

Bryn was always surprised at how easy it was to get kids to admit to drug use, particularly if you were direct about it. They’d found nothing in her house to suggest drug use and, while they had no body to confirm it, her lecturers hadn’t noticed any problems with her work. It was always the schools and colleges who were first to cotton on, way ahead of the parents.

“Thank you, Pete. We’ll be in touch.” If he was involved, Bryn wanted him to know there was a watch on him, but Pete just nodded.

“Find her, yeah?” he said and then left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Bryn sat back in his chair and sighed, not an inch closer to discovering who killed Kate and Melody. His principle suspect had an alibi and there were no other leads to follow. What the hell could he do now?

Missing Persons was badgering him day and night to add another of their runaways to his list of potential victims, but they didn’t fit the profile: slender blonde students in their early twenties. But then two didn’t make a pattern, just a trend, and his nights were sleepless with the thought that there was another missing girl out there, another body not found that might be the key to stopping this bastard dead. And yet he hoped there wasn’t another, that he wouldn’t have to look at the photo of another girl dead on white sheets.

Students were starting to panic. They’d had an increase in phone calls about people lurking in alleys or on street corners, but they were just the usual brand of pervert or thug, nothing to link them to Kate or Melody. Bryn had banned his daughters from the clubs, much to their disgust, told them to be home by ten and call before they left their friends’ houses. At least he knew where they were now. If he had his way, he’d lock them all up until they were thirty.

The press hadn’t cottoned on to a unified nickname for the killer yet, but South Wales Strangler was gaining popularity, with Cardiff Ripper a close second. There were a horde of journalists outside police HQ, like a pack of wolves waiting for the next taste of fresh meat.

The city was holding its breath—waiting for another murder.

Chapter Thirteen: Can’t Erase the Past

Jason was ten minutes early to make up for running out on Amy the day before, and he’d managed to push back his one o’clock to two. He was going to brave the bathroom today, and tidy up a bit before Bryn and Owain dropped by with the tape.

Kate and Melody had been all over the evening news. Jason watched it with Gwen and Cerys, silently reviewing what the police knew and were willing to share. They were finally using the word
murder
and they mentioned the photographs but didn’t show them. Jason barely took his eyes off Cerys, pale beneath her makeup, and the way his mam’s hands tightened on her mug, suddenly looking so much older. No, they didn’t need to see the photographs.

The words
elite taskforce
were used and Jason struggled to hide the smile on his lips, at odds with the grim news. “Elite taskforce teaboy” would look good on his CV. At the end of the BBC Wales report, they showed the picture from the club—a blown-up, slightly blurred image of Melody in her black coat. Testament to the hours of work Amy put in and Jason’s ability to keep her in tea.

Jason rang the doorbell—but the door didn’t open. He held down the button, waiting for a message to appear. But there was no response. After waiting another minute, he turned towards his car and the lockpicks concealed in the dashboard. But he was stopped dead by an unmarked police car pulling up outside the flat. There was something about police vehicles that made them so bloody obvious, even when they weren’t dressed up. It probably had something to do with the grim men behind the wheel.

Bryn came up the steps and stared at the door, Owain rummaging in the boot as his silly floppy hair was caught by the wind. “She not answering? Shit, I hoped we’d have more days than this.” The statement made no sense, but Bryn just leaned past him and held down the buzzer. “Amy, Amy, quite contrary, how does your fungus grow?”

The box beeped and a message flashed up:
Voice imprint recognised.
The door opened of its own accord and Bryn stepped past him and into the opening lift, which was crammed full of shopping bags, sitting in ever-increasing puddles. The three men carefully picked their way across the grocery minefield before the doors closed, and they stood stock-still in the half dark, as if caught in the middle of a game of musical statues.

The lift doors finally opened and Bryn waded out, Jason following hard on his heels. Bryn scanned the living room with a sigh. “She’ll have crashed out. That’s that then.”

Jason wasn’t entirely sure what was going on but “crashed out” sounded ominous. “I’ll look for her,” he said and walked down the corridor, exploring the rooms at the back where he’d yet to go.

“Good luck with that,” Bryn called after him, but the cop didn’t show any signs of leaving, so Jason continued on his mission.

The first door on the left was the bathroom and it was just as horrible as he’d imagined, infested with mould and towels that stank of damp. Jason pushed open the window, allowing some air into the fetid room, before closing the door firmly behind him and trying the other room.

Heavy blackout curtains hung across the one wall of floor-length windows, shrouding the room in darkness. The room smelled of stale sweat and the musk of a woman, a scent he vaguely identified with Amy. In the centre of the king-sized bed, a small shape huddled beneath the blankets, shivering.

“Amy?”

The trembling ceased, but the lump in the covers made no move to reply.

Jason closed the door behind him and sat on the edge on the bed. “Come on, Amy—Bryn and Owain are here. We’ve got work to do, remember?”

“Fuck off.”

Jason swallowed down the wholly inappropriate urge to laugh. “Amy, you have to get up. World-famous detective, remember?”

“M’not. Get lost.” Still, the huddle stretched out and a tangled mess of mousy brown hair appeared above the covers, accompanied by a pair of glaring eyes.

“Good morning,” Jason said cheerfully. “Jump in the shower and I’ll find some breakfast, yeah?”

Amy reached up and ran a hand through her hair. “Shopping came, but I didn’t answer. Might be in the lift.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Jason didn’t hold out much hope that anything fresh or frozen had survived overnight in the stuffy lift. “See you in twenty minutes, okay?” He waited for a grunt of agreement before exiting the room. He strode back down the corridor to see Bryn and Owain talking together on the sofa. “She’s in the shower. Can I get you something to drink?”

“In the shower?” Bryn said incredulously. “Have you seen that thing?”

Jason heard two doors slam down the corridor, and then a muffled barrage of swearing as Amy encountered her now-freezing bathroom. Smiling to himself, Jason went to investigate the mass of sodden carrier bags. He discovered, to his surprise, that the milk and cheese had survived, though the frozen microwave meals were all beyond salvage. He carried the dripping carrier bags into the kitchen, hiding his wince from the amused faces of Cardiff’s finest—fucking ribs. He put away the few remaining edible items from Amy’s shopping and pinched a chocolate digestive.

“I looked you up, boy.”

Jason glanced up to see Bryn in the doorway, arms folded. He wasn’t surprised—cops didn’t get a haircut without doing a background check on their barber. Jason turned to the kettle and filled it for four, plucking clean mugs from the tree. He would let him say his piece but he wouldn’t rise to it. He wasn’t proud of his past, but he’d be damned if he let some cop trash him for it.

“Six months at Her Majesty’s Pleasure—in Usk, was it?” Bryn picked up Amy’s new coffee jar, tossing it from hand to hand. “At first, I thought you were a nonce. But clearly you’re just a bit soft.”

Jason had heard it all before—it was amazing how cutting the words
vulnerable prisoner
could be. His transfer across South Wales from the hardline HMP Swansea to Usk out in the wilds of Monmouthshire had earned plenty of jeers from his fellow inmates, but he was too busy nursing his broken ribs to care. It was almost funny how those verbal blows were always preceded by a physical battering. Funny if you were a masochist.

Jason gritted his teeth and poured water from the kettle, mashing his tea bag against the side of the mug as if it personally held responsibility for his anger. “Tea or coffee, officer?”

“Coffee. Black, no sugar. And it’s Detective Hesketh.”

Jason nodded and turned back to the mugs.

But Bryn leaned up against the counter beside the sink and held up his hand, counting off on his fingers. “Taking without consent—from a frail elderly woman. Dangerous driving. Resisting arrest. Oh, and assault on a police officer.” He tutted. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr. Carr. And now you’re working with a lot of frail elderly women, aren’t you? Are you going to take a swing at our boy Owain?”

“I served my sentence,” Jason said tightly, setting his mug down hard enough to make the draining board ring. “I’m starting again. If you have a problem with me, you can talk to my probation officer. I’d give you her number, but I know you already have it.”

Bryn chuckled. “Of course I do. I spoke to her as soon as I read your file. She seems to think you’re a nice boy who got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Crowd who are now all in prison—for armed robbery.”

Jason froze, holding two mugs in midair. “I haven’t spoken to any of them for a year or more.”

Bryn smiled like a shark. “Of course not. Because you got picked up a whole seven days before they got caught at that gold exchange. I hear they lacked a decent getaway driver.”

Jason swallowed down his fear. He knew—how the fuck did he know? And what did it mean? He could go down for conspiracy, and if Bryn found the gun... “I didn’t hear that,” he said, mouth dry.

Bryn leaned in, his mouth against Jason’s ear as he whispered, “Oh, I did. And I’m telling you—you put a foot wrong, boy, and I will send you back to your little friends down in Swansea. Am I clear?”

“Fucking crystal.” Jason stepped back, carrying the mugs through to the living room and slamming them down on the table, the scalding liquid spilling over.

Bryn smirked as he sat down and took possession of one of the mugs. Jason returned to the kitchen, retreating to his sanctuary of order in Amy’s chaos, as far away as he could get from the police officers who could send him down for ten years. He took a deep breath, then another. There was nothing he could do about it now. He had work to do and then he could get the hell out of Dodge.