The Backs (2013) (31 page)

Unbelievable.

He should have negotiated with their staff until he’d been handed up the food chain to someone actually able to help. Instead he’d jabbed the ‘end’ button and was silently thinking of the most satisfying and expletive-ridden response he might have used. He picked up a sheaf of the statements, planning to go through them to decide which bank to tackle next.

A voice from the doorway took him by surprise.

‘Something wrong, Michael?’ It was Marks.

‘No, of course not.’ Kincaide recovered quickly. ‘I’ve been chasing up the banks that haven’t come back to us yet.’

Marks seemed happy enough with that, so Kincaide guessed he’d still been alone in the room when he had actually told the phone to piss off.

Marks settled into Goodhew’s chair. ‘Do you remember Andrew Dalton?’

The skin on the back of Kincaide’s neck began to tingle immediately. He frowned at the bank statements still in his hand, then slowly looked up at Marks while continuing to frown. He shook his head, then hesitated as if some little snippet of recall had just come back to him. ‘The first Osborne case?’

‘Yes, a partner in KADO Employment along with Mary Osborne.’

‘With his wife . . . I remember now. Why do you ask?’ For no particular reason, Kincaide proceeded to separate a few of the statements, carefully avoiding eye contact with Marks.

‘Andrew and Karen Dalton are landlords for one of the women assaulted on Marshall’s boat. I’m talking about the woman from the Gogs.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Kincaide placed the entire sheaf down now. Better that than drop them.

‘They appear to be running a student prostitution website. That’s how Marshall first met her.’

As hard as he tried, Kincaide couldn’t manage to break eye contact this time. Luckily Marks did as he moved towards the door. ‘Let’s get down there now. We can’t discount the possibility that the Osborne and Marshall cases are linked now.’

Kincaide hesitated, feeling as though he needed to say something. ‘They can’t be,’ he muttered, and felt his gut lurch.

‘Come on.’ Marks jerked his head towards the corridor. ‘I know you’re a bigger fan of coincidence than me, but even you’re not going to buy this one. They’re being brought in right now so I have about ten minutes to explain.’

They headed for the interview room almost in tandem, Kincaide staying close enough to his DI’s shoulder for Marks to know he was being listened to, but at an angle too awkward for Marks to easily make eye contact.

Kincaide’s mind was racing.

The DI continued briefing him on all the leads that had driven the path to Karen and Andrew Dalton, but Kincaide’s thoughts revolved around snatches of conversation and phone calls, and the recurring sick feeling that kept clawing at the pit of his stomach. These thoughts repeated themselves until he’d all but blocked Marks out.

He’d been inexperienced
, he assured himself.
He’d panicked.

He’d found a business card and made a call. No big deal.

And it had gone on from there.
And it had become beyond his control.

All these excuses meant nothing, though, all that mattered was that he’d made wrong decisions, allowing himself to be pushed into small but precarious steps that had jeopardized his own career and given Jackson a seven-year sentence instead of life.

These thoughts continued looping round his head until he saw the Daltons being ushered into interview room 1. They’d arrived sooner than he expected, and Marks was through the door after them before Kincaide had had any chance to stall.

They were both in their forties now, though Andrew Dalton may have been a year or two younger than his wife. He was below average height but solid with the kind of physicality that belonged with full-contact sport or full-contact street brawls. Dalton was shaven bald, with just the shadow of stubble across two-thirds of his skull. Bald undoubtedly suited him. Kincaide could remember him well, but he remembered his wife better.

Karen Dalton was brunette, about two inches taller then her husband, with polished skin and whitened teeth. Everything about her hinted at efficiency and high standards. It wasn’t the first time Kincaide had wondered how these two had ever got it together. They might look mismatched, but Kincaide had also experienced their fierce loyalty.

Kincaide nodded to each of them, while his superior remained stony-faced. But, then, no one else smiled either. Marks directed them all to sit around the table, two on each side, strictly police versus public. He then laid out the parameters of the conversation. Both of them continued watching Marks. Andrew Dalton sat further back, with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped and his face tilting slightly upwards. Karen Dalton seemed to listen intently, but twice her head turned away from Marks as she gazed dispassionately at Kincaide.

‘Do you both admit to knowing Andie Seagrove?’

Karen Dalton answered, her tone languid, ‘As a tenant, Inspector, nothing more. She seems pleasant enough.’

Andrew Dalton nodded, said nothing.

‘We have evidence that you own and run a website named
Student Services.’

She smiled easily. ‘That’s my baby, isn’t it, Drew?’

Another nod.

No hint of a smile from Marks, of course. ‘It’s a site promoting and encouraging prostitution in Cambridge,’ he remarked coldly.

‘That was never my intention. As you know KADO is an employment agency, which we started up to supply catering and housekeeping staff. Most of the jobs are unskilled and minimum-wage, and most of the workers who fill them are students.’ She ran her hand across her lap, smoothing out the fabric of her skirt. ‘Some of those students are attractive, sociable people with more to offer.’

Andrew picked up the next sentence virtually seamlessly. ‘Some of the students asked us to set it up. Escort work can have a seedy reputation but plenty of men are visiting from abroad and just don’t want to dine alone.’

Karen ran her tongue across perfectly even teeth. ‘In fact, if you look at the website, you will see the advice “
We categorically discourage students using this site to give out personal contact information and suggest that all initial meetings occur in a public place.
” As you can hear, I’ve quoted it so many times I know it by heart.’

Kincaide knew the score: if the interviewee turned on the theatrics, so could Marks. The Daltons seemed very sure of themselves. Marks had listened and grown very still. A trickle of sweat ran down Kincaide’s spine.

Only Marks’s eyes moved, switching slowly between Karen and Drew Dalton. ‘Are you under the impression that there is an unwritten understanding between escort agencies and the police?’ he asked softly. ‘The escort agencies always trot out this urban myth about happily married and respectable businessmen who can’t stand facing an empty seat at dinner. Do you really think the police will say “Our apologies. As you were”?’ He paused for a second. ‘No one hires out a bedroom for a couple of hours so that a student and a “respectable businessman” can eat dinner there.’

Andrew glanced at his wife. ‘I think he means the study rooms,’ he told her.

She smiled again. ‘I know
Student Services
is used by men who like the company of students, and vice versa, but we don’t police it. Everyone pays a monthly fee.’

The dialogue passed back to Andrew. ‘And if a student needs to study, we’ll rent them a room. If they decide to meet up with someone there, that’s their choice.’

And finally back to Karen. She tilted her head slightly and studied Kincaide for a moment. She only slid her attention back to Marks as she began speaking. ‘You know what, I rarely visit the site, but I’d be disappointed to know that supposedly decent people are abusing their positions.’

Kincaide’s thoughts fell back seven years again. In the same situation, he’d behave differently now. No one would ever gain that kind of hold over him again. Even now, Karen Dalton was certain that she had leverage over him. And, in truth, perhaps she did.

Marks had been asking more questions, but Kincaide only tuned in at the end as he realized he himself was now being spoken to: ‘. . . find out whether Clark has that list ready, would you?’

Kincaide hoped Clark would be at the furthest end of the building, with at least two shots of coffee therefore possible between being given the list and passing it back to Marks. Depressingly, DC Clark was standing outside, leaning with one shoulder against the wall. He held out a single page.

‘Is that it?’ Kincaide asked.

Clark looked surprised. ‘They’re managing twenty-two properties, and they own four of them. That’s plenty for most of us, Mike.’

‘I meant, is that the only list he’s after?’

‘Oh yeah, far as I know.’

Kincaide ran his eyes down it. One address jumped out at him. It was the first time he’d felt like smiling since before Marks had hauled him down here. He pulled a pen from his pocket and marked it, writing his note in carefully formed letters so there would be no chance that Marks wouldn’t be able to decipher it.

He sat back down alongside his boss, and passed the sheet of paper across. From the corner of his eyes he saw the boss’s hand give the page an involuntary squeeze, and Marks sit a little taller in his chair.

‘You have a property in City Road?’

‘It’s being renovated,’ the man said.

‘It’s empty,’ she added.

‘Apart from Greg Jackson?’ Marks suggested.

‘Yes, well, I was about to say that,’ Drew replied.

Karen still smiled, but her posture had turned rigid and Kincaide suspected she was gritting her teeth behind those compressed lips. Marks had struck a nerve.

Marks picked up the phone, deliberately making the call in front of the Daltons, and watching them carefully throughout. ‘Young? Last thing for tonight, arrange for Jackson to come in for questioning. Pull him in a.s.a.p. and we’ll talk to him first thing.’

And after that, the pair avoided answering any further questions. The rest were rebuffed with persistent responses of ‘Don’t know’ and ‘No comment’.

‘Were you aware that Paul Marshall met a woman through your website?’

‘No comment.’

‘Were you an acquaintance of Mr Marshall?’

‘No comment.’

‘Do you know any reason for his murder?’

‘No comment.’

In the end they were bailed, but stopped from visiting their offices until a thorough search had been completed. Over three hours had passed by then, during which time the Daltons’ confidence barely seemed to falter.

Kincaide then showed them to the exit. He held open the front door and stood outside, leaving just enough space for them to go through one at a time. They would not be making an easy target of him that way. Neither was Karen Dalton the only one who could smile on demand. Kincaide’s smile was discreet and cold. ‘Don’t try anything,’ he warned her.

‘Come on,’ Drew Dalton murmured as he passed, ‘don’t we all want the same thing?’

‘To be left alone.’ She answered for her husband, accompanying her words with another meaningful stare at Kincaide. Then she slid an arm through her husband’s as they walked away from the police station.

Marks had gone back to his office, and Kincaide took a slow walk up the stairs, trying to rerun the sections of the conversation when he’d felt most at risk. Marks didn’t even look up when Kincaide arrived; that had to be a good sign. They finished up shortly afterwards, Marks debating the case, Kincaide quietly concurring with each subsequent thought put forward. Finally they headed towards the exit, side by side this time. Kincaide was just desperate to reach home and think things through.

‘So have you told anyone else, on the quiet?’ Marks asked suddenly.

The question threw him, and Kincaide scratched around for an answer, feeling like he had ‘caught-out’ written all over his face. ‘Told anyone what?’ he muttered anxiously.

Marks fished in his pocket for his keys. ‘Your promotion, of course, Michael.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I was still busy thinking about the case. Well, there have been a couple of cracks about me seeming unusually upbeat. People know I did the exam months ago, and I’m surprised no one guessed, but they didn’t. And I haven’t told anyone – no one at all.’

‘Except Jan?’

‘Not even Jan’. He was sure his wife would have merely found a way to sour it. So he had thought he’d enjoy it while he could, and let her know once his own excitement had abated. Now he had to tread carefully, because he felt overshadowed by the thought that it could all unravel. He couldn’t bear to tell her, then have it totally thrown back in his face if he was knocked back down to DC – or something worse.

‘I’ll announce it at the next appropriate meeting,’ Marks said.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And, talking of genuine coincidence, Becca Osborne’s murder was one of the first you worked as a DC, wasn’t it? Has it occurred to you that this will be just about your last case as DC? And, if it goes on long enough, one of your first as DS. Funny thing, eh?’

An hour later and Kincaide was still considering those words.
Your last case as DC.
That could go either way. He really, really needed it to go
his
way.

Goodhew was at home and in his grandfather’s former library. The end wall had been re-emulsioned back to its original white. It had needed four coats, with evidence of the marker pen he’d previously used to write on the wall leeching back through, each time he went over it. Of course there was a special product for ‘preparing walls stained by marker pen’ which he discovered only after coat three. He’d had no more plans to draw on the walls again, feeling that he’d be able to accomplish just as much by writing on sheets of flip-chart paper and then spreading them out on the floor.

Those sheets lay there now, but it didn’t seem the same. No matter where he stood, some pages assumed far more prominence than others. He climbed on a chair but he couldn’t recreate the same perspective as viewing the wall from the other end of the room.

His phone rang, and Bryn’s mobile number flashed up on the screen.

‘What’s the deal with standing on the chair, then?’