Post Mortem (3 page)

‘No, Sarge.'

‘OK, what does it say on the dispatch? Where has she gone?'

Collins scratched her forehead irritably while she waited for the operator to get back to her. Finally the radio crackled. ‘The officer has been dismissed from duty. The CAD shows a car taking her home.'

‘Home? Who authorized that?'

‘The duty officer, Sarge. Mr Shaw.'

Collins threw her cigarette on the ground and lit another one-handed. ‘OK. Thank you, Control.' She dialled into her mobile. ‘Steve, Lizzie Griffiths, the female PC—'

‘It's all right, Sarah, I called for an update myself. Tried to talk to her in the ambulance but the paramedic said she wasn't ready. She's on her own, apparently. God knows what Shaw was thinking. I'm on my way; turning into her street right now, actually.'

‘Thank God. Take her over to Victoria House. We don't want her anywhere near her own nick. I'll meet up with you as soon as I've seen Baillie.'

6

L
izzie had fallen into a stupor and the knock at the front door startled her. For a moment, she froze. Then she began to act swiftly, throwing her phone, some pants, a couple of T-shirts and a utility bill into a small backpack. The plate of the letter box lifted quietly and she paused.
A cop at the door, then
. There was no access to her garden from the front of the building. She would be OK if she moved quickly.

A male voice called into the hallway.

‘Lizzie?'

She stopped moving, hoping he would not realize she was at home. After a pause, the voice continued.

‘Lizzie, it's only me, Steve. You remember me? I came and said hello to you in the ambulance . . .'

The letter box shut. Lizzie bent down and quietly slipped some trainers on, but as she did so, her phone began to ring.
Beginner's mistake
. She heard the letter box open again.

‘Lizzie, I know you're there. I can hear your phone ringing.'

Lizzie reached into her bag and grabbed her phone. She rejected the call and switched it off. Then she threw the bag over her shoulder and ran into the hallway. She had to go this way to get out of the French windows into the garden. She could see the fingers of a white male hand holding the letter box open. She heard his voice again.

‘Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie. I can see you. This looks terrible, me talking to you through the door and you running away. It's bloody silly, for a start. We'll both look bad.'

She hesitated. He spoke again.

‘Lizzie, look, I understand. You feel dreadful. You're still in shock. Stay and talk to me. You can trust me . . .'

She turned away from the front door and began to run down the hall. Behind her she could hear the unmistakable sound of the detective constable trying to force his way in. The door was shaking in its frame. He would be in the house within a minute. Quickly she opened the French window and slipped into the garden. The side entrance was protected by a tall fence. The gate at the back led into the park. She unlocked it and pulled the hood of her tracksuit top up. Sunset was beginning to draw in. The fading city sky was streaked with vapour trails and pink clouds. She broke into a run, crossing the darkening park and turning towards the high street.

Her bank was already closed. She withdrew the maximum amount from the cashpoint. She paused, instinctively looking up and around for CCTV cameras. Then she decided it didn't matter.

She turned off the high street and ran about a mile along the back streets, towards the offices under the railway arches.

7

A
fat PCSO pointed Collins in the right direction. Baillie had commandeered an office at Farlow police station, up some stairs and along a corridor. As she struggled through the station with her heavy old laptop and her pile of papers, Collins could feel the local officers' eyes clocking her lanyard. The door of the office was half-glazed, and before she knocked, she caught sight of the back of Inspector Shaw. He was sitting down, facing away from her towards the desk, where, presumably, Baillie was also sitting, just out of view. She hesitated, then tapped on the door and entered.

Baillie smiled at her. ‘Sarah.'

‘Boss.'

Inspector Shaw had stood up, and now he turned and offered Collins his hand. The top button of his shirt was open and his police tie was threaded through the retainer on his shirt. He looked exhausted, but he was a good-looking man, she realized. Tall, athletic. Hair streaked with grey.

‘Sergeant. Collins, isn't it?'

She felt the DCI's eyes on her. ‘Sarah,' she said, accepting Shaw's hand.

‘Sarah.' He paused. ‘Kieran.' He waved her towards the seat he had been sitting in. ‘No, please, sit. I'm on my way now anyway. I was just updating the boss before I go off duty. Unless you need anything from me?'

She shook her head. ‘No.'

He turned to the DCI. ‘With your permission then, sir?'

‘Yes, thanks for your help.'

Shaw turned to go, then hesitated. ‘Look, Sarah, I'm sorry if we got off to a bad start. I was in shock myself.'

Collins nodded. ‘Yes, of course you were.'

‘I've never lost an officer before.'

‘Really, I understand completely. It's terrible.'

There was a pause.

‘Still, no excuse for not being professional. What is it they used to say to us at training school?' He gave a half-laugh. ‘You only get one chance to make a first impression?' He smiled complacently at the worn-out cliché. It was a reference to a shared experience – training school, years of policing – an appeal perhaps to Collins' better nature, but she was not put at her ease by his confidence and the cliché, she realized, cut both ways. She too, of course, had made a first impression, one that she felt sure he hadn't liked.

‘Yes,' she said, attempting a smile. ‘That's right.'

‘You getting all the help you need? My team being cooperative?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘I'll let you get on then, but if you need anything, call me.'

‘Yes, I will. Thank you.'

Collins' eyes flickered involuntarily towards the DCI. He caught her glance and held it as the door closed behind Kieran Shaw.

‘Not like him much?' Baillie said.

Collins shrugged. ‘No opinion. Don't know the man yet, sir.'

It took them a moment to get the laptop plugged in and up and running. The password was the usual struggle, but eventually the media programme opened. They leaned over the computer, watching.

First: jump frames of colour CCTV. Farah and Ben on a bus. A dark-skinned teenage girl in a cat-print T-shirt and a small boy in a bear suit. Farah holding on to the standing rail. The boy sitting separately but close to her on one of the high seats at the front. Passengers getting on and off. Farah jumping Ben down from the seat in three bites of images. Then, a different media file: council CCTV, black and white. Farah and Ben walking hand-in-hand through the estate. Now, by the entrance to the estate. Then a remote view: the slight figure of a teenage girl and a small boy crossing the central square. A local-authority camera showed two marked police cars entering the estate separately. Their flashing lights flared, whiting out the grey tones of the film.

The media window went black. Collins closed the program.

Baillie said, ‘That it?'

‘Yes, sir. That's all we've managed to recover so far.'

‘Still, not a bad effort. Is there anything you need to tell me about it?'

Collins picked up the sheaf of papers she had left on the seat of her chair. She handed them to Baillie.

‘Just the timings, sir.'

Something wary, something usually hidden, flitted across Baillie's face, and Collins thought,
No one gets to DCI without some steel in the soul
. He sat at the desk, put on his reading glasses and glanced at the papers. After a minute he removed the glasses and held them in his right hand. He looked up at Collins.

‘It's going to be quicker if you explain this to me.'

‘The first printout, sir, top of your bundle. The 999 call shows that the boy's mother, Mrs Stewart, called police at 15:48 hours to report Ben missing. At 15:51, the incident goes out over the radio with a description of the boy and a request for officers to attend the home address to take the report. No one knows the location of Ben at that time. In all likelihood he's already at Portland Tower
with the girl, Farah. We've got CCTV of them already on the bus before the mother dials 999. In any case, the unit reports Ben as a high-risk missing person. At 15:54, the duty inspector deploys units to conduct a search of the area surrounding the boy's home address.'

Baillie leafed through the papers. ‘OK.'

‘If you turn to the next dispatch, sir . . . At 15:53, a new report has opened. It's a member of the public calling 999. She's seen some figures standing on the roof of Portland Tower. The informant's not good on description, but she's sure there are two people, and thinks one may be a child. She's run into her home to make the call and can no longer see the roof. That's transmitted over the main channel at 15:56. The call's treated as an immediate suicide risk, and at 16:00, two units are dispatched on blue lights. No one links the two incidents at this point, at least not officially they don't.'

Collins felt Baillie's eyes flick to her. She found herself swallowing before continuing. It was important not to seem worked up.

‘So, neither PC Hadley Matthews nor PC Lizzie Griffiths is on the log as putting up for either call. I've examined the duty slate – that's the fourth printout, sir. PC Matthews is assigned to a non-suspicious death and he's shown making his way to that call. PC Griffiths is shown in the police station, unavailable. Her sergeant has told us she was assigned to complete an outstanding file for court. There's no indication why she suddenly abandons her case file and drives on blue lights – for which, incidentally, she's not authorized – to Portland Tower.

‘If you go back to that earlier dispatch . . . At 16:07, the first unit to attend Portland Tower notifies Control that it has arrived. At 16:09, this same unit radios. The officer can see three figures on the roof. Two together and one slightly further off. The figure standing a little further off is wearing a police uniform. The officer on the ground cautiously identifies this person as PC Matthews.

‘Control calls PC Matthews on his radio. There's no reply. Then if you go to the radio log – at the back of your bundle, sir – at 16:10, PC Matthews switches his radio off.'

Baillie put the papers down on the table. ‘Sarah, where's this going?'

‘Sir, the timings should be just the usual recording of a team responding to an emergency. But the dispatches look wrong for that. The log of the movements of PC Matthews' car show that at 15:57, without notifying Control, he diverted from his assigned call. That's just one minute
after
the transmission of the call from the member of the public regarding the suicide risk. So, the instant it's broadcast, Hadley Matthews decides to divert. And he must have driven like the clappers. He arrived at Portland Tower at 16:00. That's just four minutes after he hears the report of the figures on the roof, and seven minutes before any other officer arrives. In short, sir, the behaviour of PC Matthews and PC Griffiths seems irregular to me. They both get to Portland Tower too quickly.'

Baillie tidied the papers and added them to his case file. ‘It doesn't seem much, to be honest. If it's suspicious, I'm going to need a lot more than a couple of PCs getting there quickly.'

‘Of course. I understand that.'

It wasn't a good time for Collins' phone to ring. Steve's name flashed up on the screen. Baillie waved his hand for her to take the call.

‘Right, OK. Thanks, Steve. I'll tell the DCI. I'm with him now. Ask Jez to obtain an out-of-hours warrant. I'll get back to you in a moment.'

She closed the call.

The DCI said, ‘An out-of-hours warrant? What's that for then?'

There was no avoiding it.

‘Sir, I'm sorry. I've got bad news.'

8

L
izzie had been aware of this place and its big orange sign, but she had never been inside before. She knew it was where the drug dealers went to get their cars when they had a stash to sell. The man behind the counter leaned away from her as if to take a better look.

‘Wolverhampton Wanderers,' he said.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘You're wearing Wolverhampton Wanderers colours.'

‘Oh.'

He seemed pleased with his joke, if that was what it was, smiling to himself as though he had said something very funny. He took his time filling out the paperwork and checking her driving licence.

‘Doesn't do you justice,' he said, handing back the photocard and casting his eyes over her approvingly. ‘Going anywhere special?'

‘Not really.'

‘Fancy some company?'

She gave a laugh and said, ‘You're working.'

‘I'm off in a moment. You were lucky to catch us open, actually. I'm waiting for a customer, then I'm out of here.'

He passed her the card reader. She tapped in a number and then shook her head. How could she have been so stupid? She tried again, but she could not for the life of her remember her credit card PIN.

‘I can't believe it,' she said.

‘Don't put it in again. You'll lock it.'

‘Oh shoot.'

‘You got any other card?'

‘Not really. Should I risk trying it again?'

‘Up to you.'

‘Don't suppose you'd take cash?'

‘Against the rules, love. I need a card as a deposit.'

‘Damn. I'm going to a funeral tomorrow and I've got to be there first thing in the morning. I really need a car. Mine's suddenly gone to shit. I think it's the clutch.'

‘Sorry about that, love.'