Scarred for Life (16 page)

‘A story’s a story, Jess. This is what we do. You said it yourself: everything we’ve written is true.’

‘Someone’s trying to stitch him up.’

‘Are you on the record?’

‘Of course I’m bloody not.’

‘Why are we here then?’

Jessica looked around the setting again; it certainly wasn’t the type of place they’d been to together before, nor was it the type of place she’d usually go to. All the more reason for it to be here.

‘If anyone bothered to notice where I was going, they’d think I was doing the weekly shop.’

‘Why would anyone be watching where you were going?’

Jessica suddenly felt a little silly, exposed in front of someone she didn’t even know if she was friends with. ‘It’s complicated – things are different at work. Everything moved really quickly yesterday with this Potter case. One minute we had found Cassie Edmonds’ body and were looking into that, the next it was all systems go on nailing Holden.’

Garry finished chewing his next mouthful, leaving a smear of brown sauce on his chin. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because there’s something going on at the station that I can’t figure out.’

‘You said that.’

Jessica sighed, knowing she wasn’t getting herself across very well, largely because she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing either. She finished the rest of the orange juice in her near-empty cup. ‘Your story was written by a name I didn’t recognise.’

‘He’s one of the newer guys – we’ve hardly got any staff nowadays but he’s not long out of uni.’

‘Did he tell you who he got the story from?’

‘Yes. I’m news editor – I wouldn’t have run it otherwise.’

‘Who was it?’

Garry took another bite of his sandwich and shook his head. ‘You know a reporter’s source is protected.’

‘Perhaps I’m asking because there’s something bigger going on?’

‘Is there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t tell you anyway.’

‘Did whoever leaked it tell you that a lot of the other club members altered their stories? At first they said they’d seen Holden all evening on the night Damon died, then they changed their minds. That’s why you were able to link the initiation ceremonies to the actual death.’

‘Is that on the record?’

Jessica crunched the paper cup into the table. ‘Will you sod off with your “on the record” shite?’

‘I’m a journalist, what do you expect?’

‘Well, it’s not on the record. I’m telling you because I want you to know the full story if anything else gets leaked. If and when this ever goes to court, people are going to remember the rich kid who shoved things up new recruits’ arses. It’s only a short step from that to believing he forced some other kid to drink himself to death, or hid the body at the absolute least – he’ll never get a fair trial.’

‘That’s probably what his lawyer will argue.’

‘We both know that never works.’

Garry took the final bite of his sandwich and leant back into his chair with his cup of tea. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘If you won’t tell me the source, then nothing, I suppose. I just wanted you to know this stuff.’

‘Perhaps you should talk to your chief inspector?’

Jessica mocked surprise. ‘Well, why didn’t I think of that? Whatever’s going on involves him – even if it’s someone above him putting pressure on.’

‘Fine. I’ll keep an ear out and let you know if I get anywhere.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And you’re still invited to my wedding, by the way. You’ve not returned the invitation yet.’

Jessica motioned to stand then stopped herself. ‘Hang on a minute, are you going through this whole ritual – bribing a girl to marry you and inviting a bunch of people – just to get me into a dress?’

Garry stood and winked. ‘Got me.’

At Longsight Police Station, there was a strange atmosphere. Everyone was so busy that no one had a moment to stop. To Jessica it was as if people were avoiding her but then she knew she was feeling paranoid anyway and there was every chance it was in her imagination. Fat Pat did slide his bag of crisps further under the desk when he spotted her, so at least he’d noticed her.

In her office, Jessica read through the notes of everything that had happened overnight, which only made her feel more marginalised. She dialled Izzy’s extension and waited for the sergeant to pick up.

‘. . . No, I don’t bloody have it,’ Izzy’s voice shouted away from the speaker. ‘Tell him to check his own bloody desk then. Hello.’

‘Busy morning?’

‘Aren’t they always?’

‘Have you got five minutes?’

‘Yeah, I’ll come to you.’

A few minutes later, Izzy sighed her way into Jessica’s office, looking particularly bedraggled. She screeched a chair around until she was next to Jessica’s desk and then slumped on it. ‘We really do work with morons.’

Jessica nodded at her hair. ‘What happened to you?’

‘We were staying at Mal’s mum’s house last night. I looked at the weather forecast before we left and it said dry, so I only had my regular clothes with me. I got this wet walking across the car park this morning, then it’s been dip-shit day in here today. It’s like there’s a convention on.’

‘Did you see this?’ Jessica said, pointing at her monitor.

Izzy nudged the Post-it note stuck to the side with her fingernail. ‘The Samaritans’ phone number?’

‘No, I think Dave left that there for a laugh. I meant the fact that they brought in all nine of the people I wanted to talk to about Cassie Edmonds last night.’

Izzy peered in closely at the screen, reading the information for herself. ‘Since when do they let the night team do things like that?’

Jessica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. When I left last night, I thought we’d be charging Holden with GBH and sexual assault and that he’d be in court this morning. Instead, they interviewed him again first thing this morning before I got in.’

‘What’s going on?’

Another shrug – what else was there to do? ‘I read the report – Holden says he knows nothing about Damon’s death but they’ve been hammering him on it. He had the exact same story as he told Archie and me and was surprised when they told him his alibi had fallen apart. He kept saying he was at the party for the entire evening and that his friends must be mistaken. That’s what he kept calling them – “my friends”; he didn’t even know they’d stitched him up.’

‘Have they charged him yet?’

‘No one would likely tell me if they had – it was only my case in the first place because I got called out. It could have been another inspector on call. It’ll only be a matter of time – if they don’t do him for manslaughter, they’ll get him for the assaults, and see if they can dig anything else up while he’s in custody.’

‘You don’t think he’ll get bail.’

Jessica snatched the Post-it note with the Samaritans’ number on and balled it up. ‘Why do you think all that stuff got leaked to the papers this morning? All the magistrates around here would’ve seen that. Our lot will take him to court this afternoon and they’ll remember the name. Who’s going to let him out when they’ve already heard the story? Someone’s been very clever.’

Izzy lowered her voice: ‘The guv?’

Jessica launched the Post-it note at the bin and missed – as usual. She shook her head. ‘He’s acting like a dick but this isn’t his style. Someone else.’ Before Izzy could add anything, Jessica changed the subject. ‘Any luck finding Bones?’

Izzy ran a hand through her sodden hair. ‘You’d think that if you had your head tattooed, then it might be hard to go incognito, but we’ve not had a single sighting – plus we can’t get anything on the news because they’re obsessed with the hazing thing and that knocked-up soap star. The only place we’ve got his picture out is on the force’s website and no one looks at that.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find him.’

‘He’s probably in the Maldives by now. Anyway, don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject. What are you going to do about everything going on around here?’

‘Keep acting as if everything’s fine and everyone can walk all over me.’

Izzy tilted her head to the side, unconvinced. ‘What are you
really
going to do?’

Jessica winked at her friend. ‘I’ll think of something.’

18

As it was, Jessica didn’t have much time to think of anything because everything around the station went into meltdown when the call came through that another body had been found. Whoever had killed Cassie Edmonds hadn’t stopped with just her. The killing of Grace Savage lived up to the young woman’s surname. She had been dumped in a ditch in Little Hurst Wood, barely half a mile from where Cassie had been found. The crime scene was in a marginally better state given that it had been discovered by two kids skiving off school, as opposed to a clumsy dog-walker, but the torrent of the night before had done little to preserve the site.

The bad news didn’t end there: because they were almost certain Grace had been murdered the night before, the nine people of interest they’d brought in in relation to Cassie’s death were being interviewed at the station at the time Grace was killed, meaning that they were off the hook. It had been a long shot anyway; now, alongside a second victim, they officially had no suspects. As well as the beating her body had been given, the killer had again used a knife to nick away small parts of her body post mortem. It was yet to be confirmed but there was no obvious sexual motive, with the fingertip search in the rain throwing up nothing other than a lot of tired, wet, muddy officers.

A deep-seated hatred of women and an anger problem indeed.

Grace’s husband, Nick, had already been notified but someone had to take a formal statement. Feeling left out of the Potter case and as useless as she had done in years, Jessica went to do the dirty work. She arrived at the Moston house sopping wet, Izzy in tow, both of them nursing bruised egos – not that any of that compared to what Nick was going through.

A liaison officer let them into the house and then scuttled off to make some tea. If there was one thing you had to be able to do well when you were a liaison officer, it was make tea. Jessica assumed that the first week of the course was spent figuring out the exact amount of milk it took to make a perfect brew and stirring techniques. Week two would be the application of sugar, whether brown was better than white, and how to ensure there was no sludge in the bottom of the mug.

Then they’d move on to how to talk to a man whose wife had been beaten, murdered and sliced to pieces.

Nick was sitting in an armchair, legs curled under him, staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of him. In his hand an empty mug dangled, perilously close to slipping onto the floor.

Jessica introduced herself and sat with Izzy on the sofa. The sergeant had her notebook and pen out; just like the old days, before station politics and arseholes took over the asylum. Well, there were always arseholes – they just hadn’t always been in charge.

‘Can you talk me through yesterday evening?’ Jessica asked.

Nick had an earring in each ear, a stud through his nose and a ring through his lip. Above him, there was a wedding photograph on the wall, him with his bald head atop a grey suit, Grace looking every inch the perfect bride: her hair in long dark ringlets, beautiful smile, glint in her eye. Nick clucked his tongue into the lip ring and closed his eyes. ‘She goes to yoga every Monday.’

‘Where?’

‘This place near the Arndale – she works in the centre, so it’s easier for her to be a member of a gym there and then come home after rush hour. You know what the traffic’s like. I can’t remember the name of it but I’ve got the details somewhere.’

He motioned to stand but Jessica stopped him – they’d already checked those details after identifying her by crosschecking the missing persons reports. They had the CCTV from outside the fitness studio of her leaving on foot. It was only a quarter of a mile away from the spot from where Cassie had disappeared.

Before Jessica could ask anything else, the liaison officer entered with the brews, with Jessica’s as perfect as she expected it to be. As Nick swapped his empty mug for a full one, cupping his fingers around it for warmth, Jessica couldn’t help but feel England really was a ridiculous place. For all the prejudged ideas those from overseas had about Brits thinking a cup of tea made everything better, people really did everything to live up to the cliché. She had definitely become worse as she’d got older.

‘Did your wife usually walk home from the gym?’ Jessica asked.

Nick shook his head. ‘Occasionally in the summer, never in the dark.’

She wanted him to finish the story without her having to ask but he stopped to have another sip of his drink and then sat in a dazed silence.

‘It was dark yesterday . . .’

‘I know. It’s bloody November.’

‘What happened?’

‘Our car’s bollocksed – this piece of shit Peugeot. The bloody thing’s always breaking down. We were at the Trafford Centre this weekend, mooching around looking for Christmas presents, like you do. The place was heaving: kids screaming, people with huge bags, all sorts trying to get you into their shops. It was a nightmare, then we got outside and the car wouldn’t start. We had to sit there waiting for the AA to turn up and tow us home. Grace was always going on about what a shit-heap it was – well, she didn’t put it like that . . .’

Nick’s voice cracked and he stopped for another drink. Jessica knew exactly what it was like to have a car like that. There had been more than one occasion where she’d had to be towed home, although her old Fiat had now reached a sort of beatified state in her mind where she only remembered the good old days of strong-arming it around a corner while crunching through the gears. If she really, really tried, Jessica could recall all the times she’d cursed it and threatened any number of despicable acts upon it for not starting.

When he had settled, Nick continued. ‘Grace had a bit of time off work ill at the end of the summer, so there was no way she could take any more. I phoned in sick yesterday, then spent the day trying to get the car into a garage. She took the bus to work, even though she hates it. I normally give her a lift in because the bus is always over-crowded and you have to stand. Then it’s full of window-lickers too.’ He glanced up at Jessica. ‘I suppose you drive everywhere?’