On Laughton Moor (13 page)

22

Ron Woffenden rubbed his eyes. It had been a long drive, not wholly unexpected, but still sooner than they’d thought. At least he could lay low here for a while. It was the usual sort of place, terraced house in a run down street, an area where no one made eye contact or spoke to each other. Perfect. Don had done him a big favour, but he’d have to stay away from his brother now, out of contact for a while. He still wasn’t sure how they’d got onto him so quickly, maybe the tip off about the raid had been accurate after all. No one had believed it, but they’d moved on anyway, always plenty more houses to go to and it didn’t take long for the punters to realise you were there. Lucky that Don knew next to nothing about his brother’s work really.

If Kendrick had been annoyed the previous day, it was nothing compared to the ranting he treated Knight and Bishop to when he heard about Woffenden. He stormed around his office, smashing his fist into his palm, reminding Knight of John Cleese playing Basil Fawlty.

  ‘What were we playing at? How the bloody hell are the Superintendent and I supposed to explain this one at the press conference which, if I could remind you, is in less than an hour? Do you want to see us chewed up and spat out in the morning papers? We shouldn’t have gone haring after Woffenden to bring him in, we should have been cautious, watched him, the whole lot of them will have disappeared for good, Ron, all his mates and the poor cows that slave for them. How the hell are we going to get to them now?’

Bishop bit her lip. Knight kept his eyes on the desktop. Their silence infuriated Kendrick.

  ‘Do either of you give a toss about this?’

  ‘We still have Milica Zukic.’ Knight said.

  ‘And what bloody use is she now, the poor lass? She led us straight to Woffenden, and what happened?’

  ‘The killer of Steven Kent, who may or not be linked to Ron Woffenden, doesn’t know that the passenger in the back of Kent’s van didn’t actually see the murder. We could use that to our advantage in the press conference, not mention Woffenden at all. There’s no reason anyone should know about it.’ Knight spoke calmly.

Kendrick sat behind his desk, his fury finally exhausted.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We know Pollard and Kent were mates when they were younger, we don’t know of any link between Pollard and Zukic, Pollard and Woffenden or Ivona or this house Zukic was held in. That could be because there isn’t a link. Kent may have done some delivering for the people Woffenden and Ivona are involved with, and no more.’

  ‘So at the press conference . . . ’

  ‘At the press conference, we say we have a person helping us with enquiries who was a passenger in the vehicle Kent was travelling in shortly before his death. It was DS Bishop’s suggestion.’

  ‘Put the wind up the killer?’

  ‘Something like that. We wanted Woffenden brought in because he was a link to Kent, but he’s also part of this trafficking gang and the sooner we speak to him the better. That’s not to say finding Woffenden will bring us any closer to whoever killed Pollard and Kent. I think we’re agreed that the same person killed them both?’

  ‘The message seems to confirm that.’ said Bishop.

  ‘Or someone wants us to think it’s the same person.’ Kendrick said quickly.

  ‘The two messages were identical though.’

  ‘The fact is, we just don’t know. I’ll speak to the Super about all this, see how she wants to play it. You two better get out of here, before she comes for a quiet word with you as well.’

Kendrick turned pointedly to his computer screen.

Back in the CID room, Bishop threw herself into her chair.

  ‘Was there any need for that? It’s not like we brought in the wrong bloke on purpose.’

Knight found himself a seat.

  ‘He’s right though, Woffenden will have gone to ground, along with all his mates.’

  ‘What are we going to do with the other Mr Woffenden?’

   Shaking his head, Knight sighed.

  ‘Kick his arse out of here I suppose. We won’t get away with charging him for anything.’

  ‘Smug bastard, I’m sure he enjoyed stringing us along.’

‘No doubt. We need to find somewhere safe for Milica Zukic too, especially if she’s mentioned in the press conference.’

With a grin, Bishop said ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of inviting her to stay with you as well, sir?’

   ‘No more spare rooms, Sergeant. Unless you’re not coming back tonight?’

Bishop blushed, the first time Knight had seen her even remotely embarrassed.

  ‘Not sure, have to see how it goes. I need to tell you about the call I had from West Yorkshire . . . ’

23

Anna Varcoe reached for her coffee, took a sip, scowled, had a quick check around and spat the cold liquid back into the cup.

  ‘I saw that.’ said Bishop from the other side of the room. She got up from her chair, stood beside Varcoe. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘It’s a bloody nightmare, Sarge. This investigation is like unravelling wool – just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you find more knots.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Bishop said with feeling. ‘Fancy a trip to Leeds?’

Varcoe looked up.

   ‘Leeds? Why?’

  ‘A little bird there has told us she has some information. Come on, get your bag.’

Varcoe got to her feet, picked up her jacket.

  ‘A little bird? Who do you mean?’

  ‘Steven Kent’s sister. Come on, last one to the car park can drive.’

Knight stood at the back of the press conference watching Stringer’s face growing redder by the second. He was pleased he wasn’t sitting at the highly polished wooden desk at the front of the room, where DCI Kendrick was attempting to reassure the assembled journalists, and in particular local reporter Helen Bridges, that bringing the murderer of Craig Pollard to justice had always been a priority, and that it hadn’t taken a second murder to force them to take Pollard’s death seriously.

  ‘So you do admit there’s a link between the two cases?’ Bridges said.

  ‘We can’t comment.’ Kendrick folded his arms, remembered it made him seem defensive and uncrossed them.

  ‘Come on, Chief Inspector, two men, both with their heads beaten in, their bodies found a couple of days apart? Did Pollard and Kent know each other? Should young men in the area be worried? Can you confirm you’re investigating both deaths simultaneously?’

Kendrick cast a panicked look at Stringer, who cleared her throat.

  ‘No comment.’

Bridges gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘Are you actually going to tell us anything, Superintendent, or should we just all leave now? Your statement gave us nothing.’

Kendrick leant forward.

  ‘We can tell you that we have a possible witness to the Steven Kent murder and that person is helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Man, woman, what did they see?’ Bridges was up out of her chair again.

  ‘No further comments about the witness.’ Stringer said firmly. Bridges looked outraged.

  ‘You can’t just say you have a witness and leave it at that.’

  ‘We can, Ms Bridges, and we have.’

Bridges continued to splutter, and a young man stood up.

  ‘Superintendent Stringer, would it be fair to say that at this point in time you have no idea who killed Craig Pollard or Steven Kent?’

Stringer took a deep breath.

  ‘It would be fair to say our investigations are ongoing in both cases. That’s all everyone, thank you.’

She stood quickly and began making her way towards the end of the table and escape. The media liaison officer looked shell shocked. Knight thought it would be a good idea to make himself scarce and headed back to his office.

Jodie Kent’s house was warm and clean, modern and bright, as was Kent herself, or would have been, had it not been for the news of her brother’s death. She welcomed them in, apologised for the mess though there was none, and offered tea or coffee. She was pale, grief plainly visible on her face, but she managed a smile as she handed  them their drinks. They went through to the living room where a toddler was playing with a brightly coloured toy kitchen. Varcoe smiled down at him, and was rewarded with a grin.

  ‘He’s gorgeous.’ she told Kent.

  ‘Thank you. He’s almost walking, we’ve got to watch him every minute.’

  ‘Firstly, Ms Kent, please allow me to say how sorry we are for your loss.’ said Bishop formally. She hated these occasions, always uncomfortably aware how trite every condolence could sound when you had never met the victim.

Kent bowed her head.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘call me Jodie.’

  ‘Thank you, Jodie. DS Etheridge from your local station called to say you had some information you wanted to share with the officers investigating your brother’s death. Is that correct?’

Kent nodded.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell Etheridge, the woman that came with him to tell us about Steve was nice, but he was a . . . pig.’ she said, glancing at her son.

  ‘I see. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you apologise for him, you don’t even work with him, do you? You’re from Lincolnshire. I grew up in Northolme, came here to university and met Mark, never moved back.’

  ‘Were you close to Steve?’ asked Bishop gently.

  ‘I’d say so. He’s . . . he was a few years younger, we used to fight when we were little, like you do, but as we got older we got on fine. He used to call in if he was out this way with a delivery, stayed over occasionally . . . my partner’s a paramedic, works long hours like yourselves, so I was glad of the company if Mark was working. After Mum and Dad were killed, Steve and I were each other’s only family. He loved Toby,’ the child looked up and smiled, recognising his name, ‘and he and Mark always got on well, we all used to watch football and have a few beers.’

  ‘Your brother worked as a courier?’

Kent nodded, shifting anxiously in her chair.
Here we go
thought Bishop.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘Steve’s job?’

  ‘He called here one night, it was about seven o’clock. I asked him if he wanted tea, wanted to stay, and he did. We’d eaten, we were sitting in here watching the TV when Steve’s mobile rang. He got a strange look on his face, like he felt guilty or was worried. He took the phone out of his pocket, and I could see it wasn’t his usual mobile. He had a fancy one, all singing, all dancing, but this one was really plain and simple. He listened to whoever was ringing, didn’t say a word, not hello or goodbye or anything. He put the phone away and sort of slumped down in the chair. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but it seemed really odd to me. I asked if it was work, and he mumbled, I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and then he changed the subject.  I thought it was weird, and I mentioned it to Mark when he came home, but we didn’t worry too much, it was just strange. A few weeks later, Steve was staying again, and I could tell he was worried. He was quiet, snappy, not himself.’

She paused and took a mouthful of her tea, then pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes.

  ‘You’re doing really well, Jodie.’ Varcoe said quietly.

  ‘Mark was here, he said he’d take Steve down to the pub, have a talk to him, see if he could help. They came back later than usual, Steve was in a state, Mark said every time he went to the bar he’d had a double whiskey, according to the barmaid. He could hardly stand up, so Mark brought a duvet and pillow down and we just left him to sleep on the settee in here rather than try to get him up to the spare room. Mark told me Steve had said he could be in trouble, his mate  had done something daft that could drop them all in it. He’d mentioned some deliveries too, stuff he didn’t want to be involved with. Mark wasn’t sure what he meant, Steve said he’d been doing a few cash in hand jobs outside of work, good money. It had been fine to start with, a few parcels, but he was worried he was getting in over his head. He wouldn’t say any more than that.’

Kent’s son reached out a pleading hand to his mother and she excused herself, saying she needed to fetch the child a drink. Bishop looked at Varcoe, who nodded. Both thought Kent had something new to tell them, hopefully significant. Kent was back, bending to give the child a plastic lidded beaker. She sat back down, hugging a cushion close.

  ‘Anyway, when we were sure Steve was asleep, I think he probably passed out to be honest, I took his keys from his jacket pocket and Mark went to have a look in the van,’ her eyes sought out Bishop’s willing her to understand. ‘He didn’t want to, neither of us did, but we were worried, we thought if we knew what was going on, maybe we could help. Mark came back in, he was shaking his head, told me to look. I went out, opened the back doors, there were sandwich cartons in there, some empty bottles of water, some blankets . . . I didn’t understand, it looking like people had been in there, travelling in there, but why would they be? Why wouldn’t they sit in the front? I went back in, asked Mark what he thought. The only idea we could come up with was that Steve had taken a person, or some people, in the van who didn’t want to be seen. And why would that be? It had to be something dodgy, didn’t it?’

Bishop and Varcoe kept quiet, and Kent continued her story.

  ‘It could just have been some labourers or farm workers I suppose, but . . . anyway, we didn’t know what to think, and we couldn’t ask Steve. We did write these down though,’ she took a sheet of folded notepaper from her pocket and handed it to Bishop, ‘It’s the postcodes from Steve’s sat nav.’

Varcoe glanced at Bishop who shook her head slightly. No sat nav had been found in Kent’s vehicle.

  ‘I’m not sure if they’ll be any use to you. We were going to drive to them when Mark had his next few days off, see if we could find out what Steve was up to, but it’s too late now.’ Jodie Kent fought to keep her composure. ‘I don’t think he would have done anything illegal, I’m sure it was just some of his mates, a favour, cash in hand, that sort of thing. He wouldn’t have been involved in anything really dodgy.’