Blood On the Wall (11 page)

T
he next morning, Denis picked Georgiou up and drove him to Carlisle. Being a farmer, used to getting up early to arrange milking, Denis liked to get an early start, before the ‘commuter traffic’, as he called it, clogged up the roads. As a result, Georgiou was walking in to the police HQ at quarter past eight.

‘Morning, Inspector!’ the desk sergeant, Andy Graham, greeted him. ‘Feeling all right?’

‘Better than I was yesterday,’ replied Georgiou. ‘Anyone in?’

‘DS Conway,’ said Graham.

Georgiou frowned. This was early for Conway.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘In the briefing room.’

‘Thanks,’ said Georgiou, and made his way there. If Conway was in this early, it could mean that there’d been a development. On which case? he wondered. The
head-hunting
serial killer, or the search for Billy Patterson?

He pushed open the glass door to the briefing room, and immediately registered the look of concern on Conway’s
face.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Did you get that CCTV footage from Tait Street?’

Conway shook his head.

‘There was no film in the camera,’ he said sourly.

‘What?’ said Georgiou.

‘Cuts to the council budget,’ said Conway. ‘At least, that’s the official explanation. They keep the cameras there as a deterrent, but they can’t afford to put film in. Or disks, or whatever it is they use.’

‘Incredible!’ said Georgiou, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Actually, that’s not the problem,’ said Conway awkwardly.

‘It sounds like one to me!’ growled Georgiou. ‘We could have got a vehicle! A number plate!’

‘It’s Richard Little,’ said Conway, sounding and looking very uncomfortable.

Georgiou frowned. ‘What is?’ he asked.

‘The problem,’ said Conway, adding, ‘He’s missing.’

‘Missing?’

Conway nodded.

‘I called at his house again this morning, and he wasn’t there. Vera said he hadn’t been home all night. She was worried, but she tried not to show it.’

What was it Dr Kirtle had said? We’re looking for someone neat and tidy. Fastidious. Georgiou’s own words flashed through his mind again: We’re looking for someone like Little.

No, it was madness. But Conway was still looking at him, awkwardly, and Georgiou could tell Conway was thinking the same thing: the unthinkable.

‘I know it sounds mad, but you don’t think that Richard might be…?’ Conway’s voice trailed off.

‘Our killer?’ said Georgiou. Trying to bring some sanity back to the situation, he said, ‘It’s bit of a leap. He’s missing. Could be any number of reasons.’

‘Like what?’ asked Conway. ‘Look how careful this killer’s been not to leave clues. A copper’s perfect for that. Any copper would know what we’d be looking for, and make sure they didn’t leave traces.’

Georgiou thought it over.

‘You spend more time with him than anyone else,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

‘To be honest, he’s been acting a bit strange of late,’ said Conway. ‘I don’t know what to think.’ Then he added: ‘Then there was that business with the Reivers.’

‘Which turned out to be a dead end,’ said Georgiou.

‘Yes, but maybe that wasn’t the point,’ said Conway. ‘He’d said about it to me earlier, and I’d told him it was a dead end and to forget it, but he brought it up anyway. And remember what he said: “It’s
my
name. Little.”’

‘He was talking about Reiver names.’

‘That’s what I thought, but say he wasn’t. Say he was trying to tell us something. Like … “It’s me”.’

Georgiou mulled it over. It was too simple. But then, often things were simple.

‘I think we’d better go and have a chat with Vera Little,’ said Georgiou.

He walked to his desk and checked his e-mails.

‘Ah-ha!’ he said. ‘We have a result!’

‘On what?’ asked Conway.

‘On our hooded ranting friend,’ said Georgiou. He moved to one side so that Conway could read through the e-mail from GCHQ. It was very basic: ‘Re website threat: 14-year old arrested in Truro, Cornwall. No known terrorist connections. No accomplices. Footage filmed by webcam in culprit’s bedroom. Detailed information follows.’

‘So, as we suspected, some teenage loner in his bedroom declaring war on society from a webcam in his bedroom,’ sighed Georgiou.

The sound of the door opening made them both turn. Kirsty Taggart had just come in, and she looked very pleased with herself.

‘I thought you’d be interested to know that we’ve got your friend Patterson downstairs.’

‘Patterson?’ queried Georgiou, momentarily thrown. His mind was still racing on the news about Richard Little.

‘The antichrist,’ said Taggart, grinning. ‘The thug who attacked you. Debby and I decided to make an early start, thinking we’d catch him at one of the addresses while he was still half asleep. It worked. We found him at his own place.’

‘Well done,’ said Georgiou. ‘Where is he?’

‘We’ve put him in one of the interview rooms,’ said Taggart. ‘Debby’s with him.’ She grinned again. ‘Mind, he protests his innocence. Says he hasn’t done anything.’

‘They all say that,’ snorted Conway derisively. Then, awkwardly, to Georgiou, he said: ‘What do you want me to do about …’ He let the rest of the sentence hang.

‘Fill in the rest of the team as they come in,’ said Georgiou. ‘Start with Kirsty here. Let them know
everything you know. Then we’ll talk about it after I’ve talked to our young friend.’ Turning to Taggart, he asked: ‘Did you say that Seward’s with him?’

Taggart nodded.

‘Right,’ said Georgiou. ‘I’ll let her interview him. Thugs hate having a woman question them. Makes them feel … small.’

Georgiou opened the door of the interview room. Seward was sitting at one side of a table. Across from her was a young man with a sallow complexion, riddled with acne. He had an almost shaven head and rings through his ears and his nose. Next to him sat a smartly dressed woman who Georgiou recognized as one of the regular duty solicitors, Janine Evans. So Patterson didn’t have his own brief. A uniformed police officer stood at one side, watching.

Evans and Seward both looked at Georgiou as he stood in the doorway. Billy Patterson kept his head studiously away from Georgiou.

‘Ms Evans.’ Georgiou nodded politely towards the solicitor, and she nodded back. Then he turned to Seward. ‘Sergeant, can we have a brief word, please?’

With a nod at the uniformed officer, Seward got up and followed Georgiou out into the corridor. Georgiou pulled the door shut, then said: ‘Thanks for last night.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Seward. ‘Just ran you home.’

‘You did a lot more than that,’ said Georgiou quietly. He wanted to say more, much more, tell her how much he’d wanted her to stay, but this wasn’t the time or the place for it. Instead, he said: ‘Well done on getting hold of Patterson.’

‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ she said. ‘He was at home, in bed. Kirsty and I obviously called on him earlier than he expected. Despite the fact that he must have known we were looking for him, with uniforms knocking on the doors of all his friends, asking for him. I think he’s got the brain cells of an onion.’

‘Lucky he has, otherwise our success rate wouldn’t be half as good as it is.’ commented Georgiou. ‘Anyway, you do the interview.’

Seward threw him a questioning look.

‘It’s your collar,’ said Georgiou. ‘I’ll just be there, in the background, listening and watching. Let’s make him sweat.’

‘OK.’ Seward nodded.

They went back into the room, and Seward took her chair opposite Billy Patterson. Georgiou remained standing, keeping his distance, but watching Patterson and Evans. Georgiou could tell that Seward handling the interview while he just observed had unsettled Patterson, even though he tried to hide it beneath an air of sullen bravado.

Seward switched on the tape recorder.

‘Interview began at 08.30 hours,’ she said. ‘Present: Detective Sergeant Seward, Detective Inspector Georgiou, William Patterson, Ms Janine Evans representing Mr Patterson.’ Addressing Patterson directly, she said: ‘Please state your full name and address.’

The youth shot a glance at the solicitor beside him, as if hoping she would tell him he didn’t need to do this, but she nodded for him to give the information. Reluctantly, sullenly, he mumbled something.

‘Would you make your reply louder, please, for the
purposes of the tape,’ said Seward.

Patterson was obviously discomforted by this, like a naughty boy in class who is being told off by his teacher, but when a further look for help towards his solicitor received nothing but another nod, he spoke again, louder this time, his voice strained and awkward.

‘William Patterson. 15 Mardale Road, Carlisle.’

Seward looked down at a sheet of paper in front of her, then said: ‘And that is your full name?’

‘Yeah.’ Patterson scowled.

‘Then you are not also known as William
George
Patterson?’ asked Seward.

A frown crossed Patterson’s face.

‘Well, yeah …’ he said. ‘But I don’t use that bit.’

Seward didn’t respond, but looked at him unsmilingly and said firmly: ‘Please state your
full
name.’

Patterson shifted uncomfortably, then said: ‘William George Patterson.’

Good, thought Georgiou. Start with a small victory. Chip away at that smug, arrogant exterior. Wear him down.

‘Where were you at half past four yesterday afternoon?’ asked Seward.

‘One moment …’ It was Janine Evans, speaking for the first time. ‘Surely my client needs to be told
why
he is being interviewed before asking him specific details?’

At this Patterson gave a smirk. Georgiou could imagine him thinking, That’s it! You tell ’em!

Seward carried on looking directly into Patterson’s face as she said: ‘Because of the serious nature of the case we are investigating, that information will have to come later.’

‘But surely …’ began Evans.

Seward didn’t let her speak.

‘As I said, this is a very serious case with associated investigations coinciding. Consequently we need to decide whether your client will form part of our ongoing investigation, and we need to determine that from his answers.’

The rush of hard words and the very firm way in which Seward delivered this left Patterson looking bewildered. Aloud, and defiantly, he said: ‘I didn’t beat him up.’

Calmly, Seward said: ‘For the purposes of the tape, let it be known that the interviewee’s statement was not prompted by any question.’

Then she looked across the table directly into Patterson’s eyes.

‘Tell us about Tamara Armstrong,’ said Seward.

At this, Patterson looked absolutely bewildered. Georgiou could tell that Evans was also puzzled at this line of questioning, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Seward held up a hand to silence her.

‘I must ask you again for your connection to, or knowledge of, Tamara Armstrong.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ said Patterson, obviously completely baffled. Georgiou could imagine the turmoil in Patterson’s brain; a brain that wouldn’t be the brightest at the best of times. Here he was, being battered by official, hard-sounding jargon, police-speak, about something he hadn’t anticipated. He would have had his alibi already cooked up for the time when Georgiou was being beaten up; the times and events rehearsed and held
like rote in his mind, but the questions had taken a turn he hadn’t expected.

‘What about Mr Han Sun?’ asked Seward.

Patterson just gaped at her, then turned to his solicitor, who said: ‘Sergeant, I was under the impression that my client was being questioned about an assault …’

Seward didn’t let her finish.

‘We are currently investigating the murders of Tamara Armstrong and Han Sun,’ said Seward. ‘We have reason to believe the assault on Inspector Georgiou is connected with both these murders …’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ said the youth, getting to his feet, agitated.

The uniformed officer made a move to step forward and grab Patterson, but Georgiou waved for him to stay where he was.

‘Please sit down,’ said Seward crisply.

When Patterson didn’t sit, just began pacing, Seward said: ‘For the purposes of the tape, the suspect left his chair and refused to sit down.’

For her part, Evans was doing her best to recover her composure.

The youth stood, torn apart by what was happening to him, then he sat down and looked at Seward feverishly across the table. All smug defiance was gone from him now.

‘This is nothing to do with any murder,’ he said. ‘Parksy said we were just teaching him a lesson.’

‘Parksy?’

‘Ian Parks.’

‘Is this the same Ian Parks that Inspector Georgiou
arrested for attempted theft?’ asked Seward.

The youth nodded.

‘My client …’ began Evans, desperate to stop her client from incriminating himself further, but Patterson was having none of it. He’d thought he was being pulled in for attacking a copper. Now he saw himself in the frame for two murders, and that was a different ballgame. He was going to get himself off that particular hook, whatever it took.

‘Parksy said we shouldn’t have these people coming into our country and telling us what to do, and beating us up like they owned the place.’

‘Which people?’ asked Seward.

‘Foreigners,’ said Patterson. Pointing at Georgiou he said, ‘People like him.’

‘And the names of the other people involved in the attack on Inspector Georgiou?’ asked Seward.

The youth hesitated, then turned towards Evans appealingly, but his solicitor had already mentally washed her hands of him. He’d already made a confession of his own guilt, and in her presence, and on tape. He could only make his own situation worse by refusing to name his accomplices. Seward waited, eyes fixed firmly on Patterson, her gaze drilling into his skull.

‘They’re my mates,’ he begged, helplessly.

It cut no ice with Seward, or anyone else in that room. Patterson looked around, as if there was some salvation for him, but all he got back was hard looks and blank, unfriendly walls. He was lost, and he knew it. Finally, the youth dropped his head and mumbled something.