Breakneck point, p.8
Breakneck Point, page 8
‘DI Holt told me to get rid of the photos.’
‘What?’ This comes out louder than I intended, startling the young man. ‘Why?’
‘He said there was no need to make life any easier for the defence team than it already is, so I deleted them.’
‘You did what? Jesus, Jake, evidence is evidence. You don’t just get rid of it because it doesn’t suit the SIO’s cosy theory.’ His colour deepens. I feel sorry for the guy. I know how hard it is to stand up to a detective of Holt’s reputation, but that’s our job. And Holt should know better. ‘Well, I’m not bloody standing for this.’
Taking the back stairs two at a time to DCI Lowe’s office, I knock and enter without waiting to be asked.
‘Steve, did you know Chris Banstead has been charged with Janie Warren’s murder?’
DCI Steven Lowe, a small man, unusually lacking in presence and charisma for a senior police officer, stares at me and then at the person standing to my right: DI Holt. His unexpected appearance throws me, but only for a second.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing telling my CSI to delete photos?’
‘Ally, calm down,’ says DCI Lowe, getting to his feet.
‘No, I won’t calm down. I’ve just stood by and watched a shitfest of an investigation because DI Holt decided it was a domestic killing before I’d even got there.’
Holt steps forward.
‘That’s because it is a domestic killing. Banstead is as guilty as sin.’
‘What about the shoe mark I found on the steps which you told Jake to get rid of? I told you it didn’t belong to Banstead or the woman who found Janie and it certainly isn’t a copper’s boot. It rained until midnight that night so it had to have been made after that time, the time when Janie was killed. Christ, this is basic stuff. Someone else was there on the quay. I’m sure of it.’
I’m not, of course, but I am exceptionally pissed off that Holt won’t even consider the possibility.
‘I told Jake to delete the photos because they’re not relevant and Banstead’s defence will use the shoeprint against us. Anyway, it could have been made after Banstead killed her.’
I glare at Holt.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Probably someone else found Janie but didn’t report it to the police.’ The straws aren’t even clutched on this one. They’ve long been let go. Besides, people don’t ignore bodies. ‘Perhaps they didn’t want to get involved. It happens, Ally, whether we like it or not.’
I’ve had enough. Holt isn’t the only one who can rubbish a theory.
‘This is Bidecombe, for Christ’s sake, not Soho. People love to be involved. They get off on it. Janie’s got more friends now than she ever had when she was alive.’
Lowe cuts in.
‘But it is possible.’
His quiet voice of reason winds me up even more, but I can’t ignore his point.
‘Yes, it is possible, but it’s not probable.’
‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’ Holt’s smugness wafts over me. ‘We’ve got a witness.’
‘Someone saw Banstead kill Janie?’
‘Not quite, but as good as. A lad living above the pub on the corner of the quay sleeps with his window open, heard them arguing. Banstead was accusing her of having an affair with someone else, called her all sorts of names. The witness says he overheard Banstead saying, and I quote, “I’m going to kill you, you little bitch.”’
My anger drains away. If Holt had told me this before, I wouldn’t have burst into the office like a jealous ex. But he’s a cop. He understands the power of information and the power of withholding it. Just like in the court that day when DI Jon Stride and his cronies doctored my notebook and forged my statement. I’ve been had.
Situation diffused, Lowe sits down while I seethe in silence.
‘Ally, are you sure there’s not something else going on here?’ he asks.
Oh, sweet Jesus. I know where this is going.
‘Like what?’ I snap back at him.
‘DI Holt says there was an issue yesterday, a bit of an edge between you. That your comments weren’t helpful and were actually quite obstructive.’
Holt meets my glare, ready to bat away any counterattack. You don’t become a senior investigating officer without your Professional Investigator Practice Level Three Certificate in arse covering.
‘Funny, you didn’t say anything at the time. If I remember correctly, you told me I was the last person you wanted on the investigation. I’d say that’s pretty obstructive, wouldn’t you?’
‘You kept obsessing about this fucking shoeprint.’
‘And you kept checking your watch like your parking ticket was about to run out.’
Lowe holds a hand up.
‘That’s enough. Bob, it’s probably best if you leave this to me.’ The message is clear. Lowe believes Holt over me. As a detective chief inspector, Lowe outranks Holt and is his immediate superior, but – for all I know – they’re training-school buddies and I never stood a chance.
Lowe waits until Holt closes the door behind him. He sits down and invites me to do the same. I stay standing.
‘Look, Ally. Believe it or not, I’m on your side. I was never a member of the DI Jon Stride fan club as it happens, and you did the right thing in court. The guy was a bad apple.’
‘But?’
‘But you’re not on Major Investigations any more and you have to put it all behind you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning leaving shitty voicemails after every job you’re sent to just because it’s not the crime of the century has to stop.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I keep being sent to crappy scenes where there’s no chance of any forensics. It’s a waste of my time and police resources.’
‘Still, it’s pissing people off and, at the end of the day, I want the same result as you do.’
‘And what about Holt? He made it very clear we weren’t on the same side.’
‘You’re reading too much into this, Ally.’
‘He’s ignoring something that could be highly significant to the investigation.’
‘He’s a very experienced detective. If he says it’s a domestic and Banstead did it, that’s good enough for me.’
I ponder my options, but it takes less than five seconds to realize I don’t have any. Lowe isn’t going to take any notice of me.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ I turn to leave, but he’s not done. ‘And I’ve had a call from the Commissioner. Someone’s trashed his car again, you need to get over there right away and sort it out. He’s got a meeting at ten.’
‘But—’
He raises his hand to head off my protests.
‘Ally, get over it or get out. The choice is yours.’
I close Lowe’s office door behind me, wanting to scream. Fuck him, and fuck those that moan about me rather than admit they can’t tell one end of a crime scene from another.
And, as for Holt, he only complained about my attitude to deflect attention from his half-arsed investigation. I’m glad he made Jake put his name on all the exhibits we took from the scene. I don’t want to be anywhere near this mess when it gets ripped to shreds in court.
13
‘You’ll live,’ announces Trisha as she unplugs the stethoscope from her ears and peels the Velcro band from Cheryl Black’s mottled pink arm. She’s wearing a two-sizes-too-small dark pink flannel dressing gown, streaked with brown food stains. She couldn’t roll her sleeves up to have her blood pressure taken so she slipped her arm out instead, exposing her right breast, creased and sagging like a punctured party balloon. She’s watching him, a sly smile on her face, to see if he’s noticed, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction and his eyes stay trained on Trisha. He’s a professional after all.
This is the third time they’ve been called to Cheryl’s house on the Tarka Estate in Bidecombe. Trisha can’t stand the woman. She’s spent the drive from Barnston to Bidecombe moaning about her.
‘She’s a time waster, Si.’
‘Dispatch said she was having a heart attack.’
‘No, she’s not. There’s nothing wrong with that woman other than she’s lonely. No medicine can fix that.’
That doesn’t stop Cheryl from trying. She’s taking pills for everything: her circulation, her anxiety, her depression, her diabetes. Everything. All washed down daily with a litre bottle of vodka.
Trisha’s announcement disappoints Cheryl. She was hoping for something more serious. She’s enjoying the drama of it all. A lot of them do. Sirens, blue lights, paramedics running into her house. It makes her day.
‘So why did I collapse?’
‘You fainted. There’s any number of reasons. Dehydration, low blood pressure, too much alcohol. Diabetes. You need to make an appointment with the GP and get yourself checked out,’ says Trisha.
‘I thought I was a goner,’ she says, pulling her dressing gown together and finally covering up her right breast.
‘You’re not going anywhere, but alcohol, pills and fags don’t mix, Cheryl. You’ve got to take better care of yourself.’
But then no one would take any notice of her, would they? If it weren’t for the paramedics, the police and social services, no one would know she existed. In her head, they’re her friends and family.
Cheryl is getting tired of being lectured by Trisha and he can’t blame her. Trisha is fat and smokes twenty a day. Hardly a role model.
‘Actually, I’ve given up the fags. I use them things now.’ She nods at a vape on the mantelpiece. ‘And I have to take pills for my nerves. Those little bastards next door make my life a misery.’
Trisha isn’t interested. She’s already packing their equipment away. He kneels in front of Cheryl. She parts her knees by just a fraction, but it’s enough to tug her dressing gown apart at the waist. She isn’t wearing any underwear, but he pretends not to notice.
‘What have they done now, Cheryl?’
‘Kicking a ball against my front door all hours of the day and night.’
‘That must be terrible.’
He tries to sound like he cares; it seems to work.
‘It is, Simon. Does my head in. I swear I’ve had enough.’
Trisha tuts and looks at her watch, but he ignores her.
‘Have you rung the police?’
‘Yeah, but they’re not interested. I don’t know how much more I can take.’
‘You must be very frightened.’
She nods, her bloodshot eyes glistening with tears. Trisha rolls her eyes and bends down to whisper in his ear.
‘Si, come on, we need to get going.’
Cheryl chokes back a sob.
‘I’m scared witless.’
‘Is there somewhere else you can go? Or someone that can come and look after you?’
‘No, me and my sister don’t talk any more. There’s no one.’
‘OK, I’ll speak to the neighbourhood police officer. Ask him to drop in. Maybe have a word with your neighbours.’
She takes his hand. It’s dry and scaly and he tries not to flinch.
‘Will you? You’re a good man, Mr Pascoe. If only the world had more people like you.’
He smiles.
‘All part of the service.’
Trisha laughs.
‘Believe me, one Simon Pascoe in this world is quite enough.’
* * *
It turns out the Commissioner’s car hasn’t been trashed at all, but someone has scrawled ‘twat’ in the dust on the bonnet. By the time I finish examining it, I have some sympathy with this observation.
The Commissioner greets me with a rant about my perceived lateness and how I’ve compounded his humiliation as his neighbours have now all seen the obscenity writ large on the bonnet of his classic E-type Jag. This then tips into apoplexy when I tell him the ‘perp’ wore gloves and forensically there is nothing I can do. He’s still spitting about the breakdown of society and how national service would ‘sort the lot of them out’ when I drive away.
I continue to work through my ‘list’ for the day – mostly break-ins that have come in overnight, but I’m still seething about my run-in with Holt and Lowe and their decision to charge Chris Banstead with Janie’s murder. Maybe they’re right. Banstead had form for hitting Janie. Maybe this time, he just took it too far. It’s the most likely explanation, but the existence of that shoeprint bothers me. Someone else was there that night. Maybe they’re not involved in Janie’s murder, but what if they are? It’s irrelevant now, of course, because Holt has got rid of it and hunches don’t cut it in modern policing. The only thing I can do is make sure I’m as far away as possible when the shit hits the fan at warp speed. Besides, I’ve got my own problem to deal with: Sean.
My shift over, I’m parked outside Megan’s school. The thought that he is working just metres away from Megan makes me nauseous and nervous. That I could still fear him sickens me, but I can’t ignore him, hoping he’ll just go away. Sean is not the type to just go away.
It’s late afternoon and most of the children have left apart from a few stragglers. I quickly find Sean, standing by some scaffolding clinging to the side of the gym hall. It’s hard to miss him. He’s built like the proverbial shithouse, but it’s more than that. He always had the power to demand my full attention, throwing backgrounds into a blur, reducing sounds to low murmurs, like I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted, not for a second, from the main event: him. I know now that this is what fear looks like.
He’s shorter than I remember. And older, of course, but the years of working outdoors haven’t been kind to him, introducing deep leathery lines to his once smooth laddish looks. I imagine that niggles. Looks were always important to Sean, who topped up muscles cultivated on a building site with long hours in the gym.
He sees me and speaks first, which annoys me. Already he’s vying for the upper hand.
‘Hi, Ally, good to see you. What’s it been? Eight years? You haven’t changed a bit.’
Charm oozes from every pore. He’s a million miles away from the man who grabbed my throat because I hadn’t made him a packed lunch and squeezed it so hard that I passed out. So much so that I could almost be persuaded it never happened. Almost.
‘You can’t be here. This is Megan’s school.’
His wistful smile turns my stomach. ‘I know. I saw her yesterday. God, she’s grown. A proper young lady now, but it was really good to see her. I said hello, but she blanked me.’ He laughs and raises his eyebrows. ‘Typical teenager, eh?’
‘She blanked you because she’s terrified of you.’
His frown is genuine. Jesus, he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.
‘That’s crap. I loved her as my own. If she’s got a problem with me, it’s down to you and all the lies you’ve told her.’
‘Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she watched you smash her mother’s head against the kitchen table.’
Sean rolls his eyes like it’s a trivial detail.
‘Christ, Ally. Have you come all this way just to rake over stuff that happened between us years ago? I’m a different bloke now. I’ve married again. Got three kids of my own. I’ve moved on. Maybe you should too.’
He’s twisting my words, like he always did, but he’s right about one thing. I’m not here to talk about the past.
‘Megan doesn’t want you here. I’m asking you to leave for her sake, not mine.’
He looks me up and down. I shrink under his gaze, suddenly exposed and self-conscious. The smile returns, but this time it’s different; it’s mocking, designed to undermine me.
‘You always were at your sexiest when you were serious. Maybe we could discuss this over a drink. I’m about to knock off.’
Christ.
‘Please, Sean. Leave us in peace…’ I pause because I don’t want to say what I’m about to say but I have to. ‘Please, I’m begging you.’
He folds his thick arms and casts an eye around as if he’s seriously thinking about it, but he isn’t because I’ve been here before, pleading with him not to shout at me, not to shove me and not to hit me.
‘No. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘In that case, I’m going to see the headteacher right now and get you removed from the school.’
He laughs.
‘And tell them what?’
‘That you’re my abusive ex-husband and that Megan witnessed you assaulting me and that your presence here is upsetting her.’
‘And what proof do you have of all this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s no police report. Nothing to say I ever hit you.’ He mockingly places his forefinger to the corner of his mouth and looks upwards as if he’s trying to recall some fact. His face lights up. ‘Ah yes, I remember now, I divorced you on the grounds of your unreasonable behaviour. From where I’m standing, this looks like a bitter ex-wife trying to cause trouble so I’m staying until the job is finished and there’s not a thing you can do about it.’
He’s won and he knows it.
‘Fuck you, Sean.’
It’s pathetic, but it’s all I have left. He steps towards me, but I don’t flinch. Is he going to hit me? Public scenes were never his schtick. Maybe he’s changed, but so have I and I’m not moving.
The amusement in his eyes hardens into hatred.
‘No, Ally, fuck you.’
A glob of warm spit lands on my cheek and slides down towards my chin. Still, I stand my ground, sealing my revulsion behind a defiant stare, but it’s a pointless victory because I’ve lost the war.
He turns away. The only thing left in my arsenal is to close my eyes and not give him the satisfaction of me watching him swagger back into the school hall.
Opening my eyes, Sean has gone, allowing my surroundings to come back into focus; someone is watching me. I turn round and Megan is standing a few metres away. She’s seen the whole thing – just like she did all those years ago, but it’s not fear in her eyes, it’s disappointment and anger.
