Cold Kill (7 page)

Carson nodded and pulled at his lip, before he said, ‘Keep it quiet for now. We could let it out later, if we get nothing from the phones or the scene in the next couple of days.’ He checked his watch, and then looked at Laura. ‘The press will be here soon. Will Jack be?’

Laura felt her cheeks flush. ‘Probably. He was at the scene earlier.’

‘I know, I saw him,’ Carson said.

Laura was rescued by the opening of the door and a detective appearing, holding a camera in the air.

‘Who wants to look at the gawkers?’ he said. He was dressed in his scruffs to blend in, jeans and a T-shirt, but the short hair and muscles gave him away as police. The detective went to a computer terminal and hooked up the camera. He clicked the first photograph to make it fill the screen, and then stepped back as Carson stepped forward.

‘McGanity, you need to look at these,’ he said. ‘You’ve been based in Blackley.’

‘Look for people who are standing apart from the crowd,’ Joe said. ‘The person who is alone, not talking to anyone.’

Laura nodded as Carson began to flick through the pictures. It seemed to be people from the nearby estate, teenagers on bikes and young mothers. Nothing of interest there. Then Laura saw something.

‘Stop!’ she said. ‘Go back.’

Carson looked round. ‘Which one?’

‘The picture before.’

Carson clicked the back button and scoured the screen for someone of interest. And then he saw him, loitering at the back of the scene, his hands in his pocket, distant from everyone else.

‘Do you recognise him?’ Laura asked, and she could tell from the frown on Carson’s face that he did.

‘Deborah Corley’s father,’ he said quietly, before he looked at Joe. ‘It looks like we are going to have to look into more than just sex fiends.’

Chapter Ten

Jack strode into the offices of the
Blackley Telegraph
, a seventies relic of glass and concrete next to the bus station, made dusty by the passing fumes. The reception area was typical of a newspaper office, with a high counter and low chairs, the latest edition spread out over tables, the walls lined by recent photographs and framed past editions. There was no one at reception though, so he just strode through into the offices behind.

He missed the buzz of the newsroom. The shouts, the banter, the rush to make deadlines. Things were different now though. Most stories were done on the telephone, and the noise was just the sales staff trying to drum up advertising space. It was past two o’clock in the afternoon and people were busy trying to finish work on the next day’s paper. Dolby Wilkins worked from a glass-fronted office at the end of the room. He was leaning back in his chair, talking into a telephone.

Jack walked between the desks, smiling the occasional hello, pausing to knock on Dolby’s door, who waved him in impatiently. Jack settled into a leather chair opposite and read the newspaper cuttings pinned to the wall as Dolby finished his call. They were all headlines from after Dolby had arrived, part of the new style that he wanted the paper to adopt: unsubtle and edgy. Dolby liked to attack the police whenever he could, and once that became stale, he turned to the other easy targets,
asylum seeker
appearing often.

The phone went down and Dolby grinned, showing off bright white teeth, and swept his hair back, a habit of his, although it only ever flopped forward again. He was younger than Jack, only just past thirty, but he had the confidence that a good education brought.

‘How was it at the murder scene?’ Dolby asked.

‘Pretty much the same as always. Police en masse and everyone kept back.’

‘Do we have a name yet for the woman?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Not mentioned to me.’

‘There’s a press conference in thirty minutes,’ Dolby said. ‘There should be enough padding in that to make up the front page.’

Dolby could get one of his staffers to do it, Jack knew that, but this was about the power balance. Dolby gave out an assignment as an order, not a request, and being freelance was just like being a staff reporter, but without the paid holidays.

‘It will delay your Whitcroft feature,’ Jack said. ‘You wanted it today, but I can’t do it if I’m running around doing this.’

‘How is that story?’ Dolby said.

Jack frowned. ‘It’s not the hell-hole you want it to be,’ he said. ‘Just people like all of us, trying to make their way in life. It’s just that some do it better than others.’

‘Knock on some doors. We could run a
good life on benefits
story instead,’ Dolby said.

Jack sighed. He knew how they worked. You talk to people about their struggles, and then make sure you get a picture of them in front of the big television, grinning.

‘What do you want, someone with plenty of kids, or a brown face and a foreign accent?’ Jack said.

‘Don’t be like that, Jack,’ Dolby said. ‘It sells papers, you know that. It gets people talking in the pubs.’

‘And it gets innocent people beaten up.’

‘Okay, okay, you’ve tweaked my liberal conscience,’ Dolby said, sarcastically. ‘What about delinquent kids, causing mayhem as their parents sit in drinking?’

Jack smiled. ‘Lucked out again, Dolby. They have private security on there now, and so even those kids are probably better than they used to be.’

‘Private security?’ he said.

‘There’s a van that patrols the estate. Just a couple of bald men in black satin jackets, you know the type. It sounds like the residents pay for them.’

Dolby thought about that and then said, ‘Find out what you can about that. Why are people on the lowest rung paying someone to do the work the police should be doing?’ He leaned forward. ‘You never know, this could turn out to be a story to fill your pinko heart, the noble working class looking after itself.’

‘You really are an arsehole, Dolby,’ Jack said, shaking his head.

‘I know, but I write your cheques, so be nice to me.’ He tapped at his watch. ‘Press conference soon. I don’t want you to miss the show.’

Jack got to his feet and managed a small smile as he headed back towards the sunshine.

He was a spot of calm surrounded by noise. The jumpsuits and boots. Detectives deep in consultation. The air around him felt still. No one saw him. No one spoke to him. He could see them though. He watched them, saw how they gathered in small groups. Talking, laughing, always moving around him as if he wasn’t there.

He could tolerate the uniforms, because they knew their place, that it was all about eight-hour shifts and then home, nothing more. It was the detectives that he fucking hated. Glory hunters, just egos in pastel shirts.

He smiled, and then lifted the cup to his mouth to hide it. Beware the quiet man.

Chapter Eleven

Jack had to park some distance from the police station because the spaces were taken up by the out-of-town television crews sorting out their equipment, and the growing huddle of newspaper journalists who sucked on cigarettes as they waited for the show to start.

The police station was shiny and new, on the edge of town and visible from the motorway, its red brick and high windows towering above the low-rise office complexes that surrounded it, high steel fences guarding the car park. Jack saw Karl Carson ahead, Laura’s boss, a bald-headed bully of a man, making chit-chat with some of the reporters. They’d come across each other before, had fallen out and then made up again, and so when Jack got up close, Carson just smiled and made sure he used plenty of force when he slapped the
visitor
sticker onto Jack’s shirt.

Carson turned and walked back into the police station, holding the door as the journalists trooped past. When Jack got close, Carson muttered, ‘No trouble, Mr Garrett.’

‘Not if you behave yourself, Inspector,’ Jack said, and winked.

They were ushered to a room on the ground floor that looked out onto the police canteen. Jack went to the back as everyone else fixed their microphones to the tables at the front, the television people jostling for a prominent spot, so that their question could form a part of their edited highlights, ego over news. Cameras lined the back of the room. Deborah Corley’s murder three weeks earlier had provided fodder for columns filled with tales of her social life – how she was a pub regular and liked the company of married men. The television people just wanted to fill the late afternoon news slots, but the newspapers were wondering what the new murder might give them, needing to write it up for a deadline, and so the air crackled with tension. It went quiet though as Carson entered, with Joe Kinsella and Laura right behind him. As everyone settled into place, Jack ended up behind a television camera, his view restricted to what he could see over the cameraman’s arm.

Carson and Joe sat down behind a long white table and glanced at the cluster of microphones in front of them. On a board behind them was the logo of Lancashire Constabulary, a police crest over a blue ribbon. Carson reached for a jug of water and poured a drink. Jack watched Laura as she moved to the back of the room, tall and dark, in a grey trouser suit, her dimples flashing as she smiled her thanks at those reporters who moved aside for her. Jack made a space for her and she joined him against the wall. He straightened himself. Although just under six feet tall, his slouch made Laura look taller than him.

He leaned towards her. ‘I suppose there is nothing you can tell me that Carson won’t say?’ he whispered.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘No special favours, you know that.’

He smiled. ‘I missed you this morning. It was an early start.’

Laura blushed, and then her eyes went to the front as Carson cleared his throat into the microphones. He heard her sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll make it up to you later.’ And when Jack looked, he thought he saw some mischief in her eyes.

One of the cameramen looked at Laura, the trace of a smile on his lips, and then Jack noticed the boom microphone and the headphones clamped to his head. He must have heard their exchange, but he just shrugged an apology to Jack and then shifted his focus back to Carson, who was getting ready to speak.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Carson said, his voice coming out with a slight tremble. ‘I will make a short statement and then answer a few questions.’ He looked at the press corps, and then read from a sheet of paper. ‘This morning, the body of a young woman was discovered in woods in Blackley. She died a few days ago. We believe that this may be connected to the death of a woman in Blackley three weeks ago, Deborah Corley, the daughter of a Blackley police officer. We are trying to confirm the identity of the dead woman, but when this has been done, we would ask that you respect the privacy of the victim’s family.’ Carson took a breath and looked around the room again, his bald head reflecting the gleam of the camera lights as he tried to catch the eye of each journalist in turn. Then he looked directly towards the cameras at the back of the room, keen to make the most of his chance to address the public. ‘We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. If you know something, don’t keep it back. Don’t shelter this man. If you have any information that might help to catch this person, come forward.’ Carson paused to let his words sink in, and then said, ‘I will be limited in what I can say, but if you have any questions, please ask them now.’

Someone stood up at the front.

‘Martin Ashton, Sky News,’ the man said. ‘Do you think this is the work of a serial killer?’

Carson pursed his lips for a moment, and then said, ‘That term tends to overexcite. The post-mortem examination has not yet taken place, but, yes, we are looking at the possibility that the same person killed both women, if that is how you define a serial killer.’

Someone else rose to his feet.

‘Ian Bramley, BBC,’ he said. ‘Both the victims are young women. Is there any other connection between them?’

‘That is something we will try to establish, but until we know the answer we must assume that all women will be in danger.’

Jack scribbled some notes, and then watched as the questions petered out, each television network satisfied that they’d asked a question. Carson stood to go, and so everyone began to collect their microphones and laptops, all keen to edit the piece for the afternoon news.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Laura said.

Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her close. ‘Can’t you give me a name for the dead woman?’ he said, his voice low.

She squeezed his hand and smiled. ‘Nice try,’ she said, and then rushed to go after Carson, threading her way through the crowd.

Jack tried to follow her, still hoping for an insider quote, or even just for a longer talk, but an officer stepped in front of him and made it clear that journalists were to be escorted out. Instead, he watched her walk away, deep in conversation with Joe and Carson, just three suits making their way through the tables of the police canteen.

Jack sighed. One of the drawbacks of being involved with a police officer, he supposed, was that her job could sometimes be so damn important. He thought of how Laura could be when she was away from the station, fun and lighthearted, but also how absorbed she became when a big case came along. But as he watched her go, and thought of the two dead young women, their murderer still not caught, he knew that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter Twelve

Carson waited until they were clear of the journalists before he asked, ‘How do you think it went?’

Laura was surprised. Carson was a brute, direct and strong, but there was a hint of self-doubt in his voice. ‘It said enough,’ she said. ‘Maybe the serial killer question will help, because it scares, and it puts the word into people’s heads without our having to use it.’

‘But should we have said more?’ Carson persisted.

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘Say too much and you risk getting things wrong. Let’s see what comes in today, and if there is anything forensic to work from.’