Hope Road (19 page)

“A fake note?” Den asks.

“They’re all over town, or haven’t you heard? Hit the streets last night. Anyway, outside the
Majestic
was the last time I saw her. Off she goes, grumbling about the Ukrainians.”

Sugar seems relieved to have talked. For a second he looks vulnerable, as if he’s about to thank Den.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll do it. Where do I go?”

“Millgarth.”

His head snaps back.

“The only way you get me into that place is in chains, my friend.”

“I know somewhere neutral,” says John. “Will they play, Den?”

“Dunno. Give it a try.”

She stands. “Right. That’s me done. I never met
you
,” she says to Sugar, “and
you
,” turning to John, “I’ll give you a ring. Don’t follow me out, gents. Just in case.”

She stops to say goodbye to the little girl with the ketchup, then she’s gone.

“Nice girl,” Sugar says as they watch her go. “For a copper.”

They sit in silence a while, watching as Den’s old white Golf pulls away.

“So, who was it told you to look after Donna?”

“Lanny Bride.”

“Lanny?”

“When she started the escort stuff. Just keep an eye on her. He’s got a soft spot for her, apparently.”

“Has he really? You’ll not be in Lanny’s good books, then, not til this is all sorted.”

Sugar prickles. “You just find out who fucking killed her. Someone else’ll take care of the rest.” He pauses, looks around the restaurant. “Another thing. When I talk to plod you want the truth, the whole truth, is that it?”

“Don’t mention Lanny, obviously. But apart from that, yes. They’re gonna pin this on somebody and move on. I don’t want it to be Freddy. You know him. You think he’s a killer?”

“Oh, I know Freddy…”

He stops.

“Know what?” says John.

“Your dad’s old racket, isn’t it, snide notes? Thought I wouldn’t mention this to your fucking girlfriend either.”

Act normal. Let him talk.

“Funny money. Freddy’s been touting for business, that’s what I heard.”

“If you could keep Freddy’s name out of it, I mean, anything to do with the money.”

“You want me to lie to the bill?”

“Look, I don’t believe Freddy killed her. The other stuff, I’m dealing with it.”

He places his hand down flat on the table. Under it is a white envelope, an inch thick.

“Here. Five grand. Another five after the interview.”

He pushes the envelope across the table and leaves it in front of Sugar.

Sugar takes it, thumbs through the five thin bundles, each adorned with a red paper belt.

“Make a statement,” John says, “then disappear. If you’re gonna be out of circulation a while this should tide you over.”

“You wouldn’t be setting me up would you? How do I know she was killed at the hotel?”

“I’ve seen the video.”

“Cos if you are…”

“Yeah, I know. I go the same way my brother.”

“What the f…”

“Sorry. I’ve been reliving some old memories recently.”

“Shit,” says Sugar, his head shaking as he pockets the money.

“You were involved with her. It’s just possible they might arrest you. If they do, it’s twenty-four hours, max. You know the score. The money’s compensation.”

Sugar sits back, crosses his arms.

“These the real thing, are they?” he asks, patting the pocket of his jeans.

John smiles. “Whatever Freddy’s been up to, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

Sugar gets ready to leave. “You’ll ring me, then?”

“Yep. I’ll set it up, got the perfect place for a rendezvous. Thanks for coming.”

Sugar picks his way through the kids. They don’t even notice him. But their mums do, every last one of them.

“Detective Steele?” he says into his iPhone. “John Ray here again. I was wondering, are you having trouble locating a man called Sugar by any chance?”

S
everal desks have been pushed together in the middle of the incident room. Baron sits there and listens to the tap-tap-tap of police work going on around him. This is what catches criminals. Send out the teams and follow the leads. Suspects, witnesses, interviews, statements, all carefully entered into the HOLMES database, with your most experienced sergeants reading the reports as they come in, combing every inch of the investigation for new lines of enquiry. Eventually these thousands of words will yield up the truth about how and why Donna Macken was killed and dumped in the boot of a car.

He’s slept a total of two hours since yesterday’s early morning call, and there’s already a suspect in the cells. Guilty? This lad Freddy’s in shock, that much is obvious. The shock of finding out you’re capable of murder? Dunno. He’s not acting like a killer. Accidental? Something’s not right, that’s for sure. It’s as if he’s in denial, like he can’t believe she’s dead. Plus, she’d been beaten before she died, and evidence of forced sex. Freddy? Somehow he’s not a fit for any of that either.

Just keep going, Steve, more suspects, more leads, more chances. There’s a thug called Sugar who’s proving hard to track down, and a Ukrainian called Fedir to find. Keep it ticking. You’ll get this one, easy.

Despite everything, the name that sticks in Baron’s mind is John Ray. The prodigal son, with Den as his alibi, and in his bed. The Rays? Family of crooks. The name Tony Ray still gets a wry smile from some of the older officers at Millgarth. His performances in the interview room were legendary, as was his ability to stay out of jail. After his acquittal at the Old Bailey he had a crate of
Rioja
sent to every member of Leeds CID. Cocksucker.

He looks around at the plain white walls, at the door with its sickeningly green-tinged pane of glass, and reminds himself where he is. Millgarth, monument to British policing in all its glorious contradictions. In this building Tony Ray is held in higher regard than Rodney Baron,
his
father. Thirty years in uniform, Sergeant Rodney Baron had been viewed with suspicion by many of his colleagues, especially the ones who remembered the Oluwale case. A year after retirement he died of lung cancer and only five coppers turned up for the funeral.

A clipped sound approaching. Not many high heels in this place.

“Ma’am,” he says as Superintendent Shirley Kirk walks through the door.

She’s been down here regularly the last day and a half, looking for an early charge.

“Steve. How’s the sporting injury?”

He grins, runs a hand over his face.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“What we got on our blubbering prize fighter?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m not convinced.”

“Let him go then.”

“Not convinced about that either.”

Derrrr-DA… Derrrr-DA…

“Excuse me.”

He yanks the cell phone from his pocket, but not in time to stop his boss hearing the theme from
Jaws
.

“Henry, yes, another twelve hours. That’ll take us to three in the morning. I’ll ring you if we go to court after that, okay? Yes, see you.”

He snaps the phone shut.

“That was Henry Moran.”

The detention of Owen ‘Freddy’ Metcalfe has been extended by twelve hours, leaving Baron the rest of the day to nail him, or to persuade a judge to give him even more time.

“Right” she says. “The security tapes for Friday night, let’s have another look.”

He opens the laptop on the table and clicks on a file.

“Video tapes!” she says, looking at the grainy image on the screen, four low-quality frames, one of them blank.

“Cheapest option. Old secondhand stuff,” he says. “The hotel’s a real budget operation. Four lousy cameras, and the one outside not working.”

Hotel? A new report from the
Eurolodge
was phoned through by a uniformed sergeant a few hours ago. The outside camera is now working. No electrician or other workman was on the Scene of Crime log. On questioning, the manager of the hotel claims to have mended it himself. No one saw him do it.

Uniformed coppers with bags of experience, Baron tells himself.
Plods
they call ’em. That’s how it’s done. Everybody plodding along, the evidence mounting up bit by bit. The camera? How long had it really been out of order? That’ll be flagged up for investigation. More lines of enquiry, more reports…

In one of the squares on the screen two men emerge from the room at the end of the corridor. Suits, no ties.

“How we doing on Ukrainian tractors?” she asks.

“Their order book checks out. We’ll be contacting the tractor company in Kiev tomorrow, Monday. The Ukrainian police as well.”

The two men approach the camera, then reappear in the hotel entrance area. The young one is animated, grinning as he talks. But Bilyk? He’s not giving much away. They’d kept him in for questioning most of yesterday. Perfectly cooperative, and he gave them absolutely nothing they didn’t already know.

Then Freddy comes out of the room.

“Pause it,” she says.

Freddy’s mouth is open, face caught in an expression that reminds her of Munch’s
The Scream
. “He’s had time, Steve. Alone in there with her. Bruised before she died, was she? Doesn’t take long, y’know.”

“I’m just not convinced.”

She inhales, purses her lips. “Okay.”

“The next tape begins eighteen minutes later,” he says, clicking on another file. “The night porter arrived, found the girl dead and panicked, came out and rewound the tape.”

“What time?”

“He arrived at midnight. CCTV of him walking up York Road at five-to, about five minutes’ walk away.”

She nods. They’d kept Pearce in overnight yesterday. His story didn’t change. He asked for a brief but didn’t really need one. In the end they let him go on condition. He’ll be reporting in at the station sometime this evening.

Baron restarts the recording. Fast-forwards to the action.

The Mondeo pulls up outside the hotel. Freddy and the Ukrainians get out. No one’s grinning now. At the same moment, Adrian Fuller comes out of the manager’s office at the end of the corridor and knocks on the door of Room Twelve opposite, shouting, banging on the door with his fist, a pass key in his hand.

The younger of the Ukrainians joins him and kicks the door open before Fuller has a chance to use the key…

“Mmm, he’s done that before,” she says.

They disappear into the room. A minute and a half passes. Then they come out holding the girl, one man on either side, her heels dragging on the carpet.

They walk her around the corner at the end of the corridor and prop her up against the wall. Fedir, now carrying a large hold-all over his shoulder, wags his finger at her, pretending he’s giving her a warning. Then he punches her three times in the face, before grabbing her by the collar of her jacket and pulling her out of sight, towards the fire exit.

The show’s over.

“Let’s look at that again,” she says, a note of curiosity in her voice.

Rewind. Play again.

As the girl is brought from the room then taken out through the fire exit, Bilyk takes a seat in the bar area where he will remain for the next two hours, in full view. Meanwhile, Fuller returns to his office and shuts the door. The girl, Freddy and the Ukrainian do not reappear.

“It’s Bilyk we should have in the cells,” she says. “That bastard.”

Baron shrugs.

“Let’s see what we can get on him tomorrow.”

The video runs on, but they both know how it ends, two hours of Bilyk in the hotel lounge.

Matt Steele comes into the incident room at a jog, sees the Super, pulls up short.

“Ma’am, Sir.”

She waves a hand at the laptop.

“What’s your take, Matt?”

“About the videos?” says Steele. “Seems to me there’s a long gap between ’em.”

“We’ll file that under stating the friggin’ obvious, shall we?” she says.

“First tape ends 11:48, Ma’am,” Steele says, unmoved by her sarcasm. “Tape was full. Lad that works there put a new one in just before his shift finished.”

“Craig,” she says. “Bairstow, like the cricketer you’re both too young to remember.”

“Bairstow?” Matt says, confused. “Keeps for Yorkshire, doesn’t he?”

She chuckles. “You’re right. Showing my age, Matt. I was talking about his
dad
! Anyway, hit us with your thoughts, DC Steele.”

“Mike Pearce arrives, sees her dead, and at 12:06 he freaks and rewinds?” he says.

“So what?” she says. “He’s had a few to drink, panics…”

Steele stands his ground.

“Half-pissed loner with a violent record, Ma’am? Finds a dead body, rewinds the tape, then tells us all about it? I don’t buy it.”

She likes Steele. Cocky, knows it all.

There’s a moment’s pause.

“Ehm, we’ve found Sugar,” he says, almost at a whisper, as if he’s embarrassed to break the news.

“Who?” she asks.

“The girl’s mum mentioned him,” Baron explains. “He was supposed to be looking after her, sort of a minder.”

“Good, good. Bring him in.”

“He’ll only speak to us on neutral ground,” says Steele.

On reflex Baron looks at the Super.

“Does he have somewhere in mind?” she asks.

“Yes. That’s the problem.”

H
e looks out through the three great windows and remembers the old school as it used to be, the echo of its dark corridors, the mustiness that greeted you every morning. From these walls he’d planned his escape: O’ levels, A’ levels, then away. As a teenager his guilty bedtime reading was a stack of well-thumbed university prospectuses and a map of the railway network.

By the time he sat A’ levels, his dad was on trial for counterfeiting and the family name was constantly in the news. Here at school a conspiracy of supportive silence helped him through his exams. But then it was time to go, even before the trial ended. If his dad was sent down, Joe would be in charge. John didn’t want to stick around to see that.

And now he’s back, living in the very school that had made his escape possible.

“Do you want tea?” he asks.