Never Forget (3 page)

‘Let’s get in there, Bill,’ I said, pushing past him. I found myself in a double bedroom with built-in wardrobes on my right-hand side. The doors of the wardrobe were heavy, solid wooden doors. Soundproofed, I thought to myself. I wondered if Connor lay in his bed at night with a dead or dying woman the other side of the door. That really would be perverted.

Bill opened one wardrobe door. ‘There’s another sliding door behind this one,’ he said, loudly enough for the other officers to hear, and probably also anyone positioned on the other side of the chipboard door. The whole house was quiet as he slid it to one side with one hand, torch in the other. ‘Bloody hell. Can’t see anyone, but this man’s a big football fan,’ I heard him say, voice slightly muffled by the clothing he was shouting through. ‘Phil, Nina, I’m going through. Clear the clothes and follow me in.’

W
hat I saw, on stepping through the opening, was a room filled from ceiling to floor with cabinets and shelves of football memorabilia, photographs, programmes and an impressive collection of weapons. Knuckledusters, flick knives, lock knives, machetes, batons, coshes, gas canisters and swords adorned the walls.

‘Jerry. Get the camera in here,’ shouted Bill. ‘This is something else.’ Then, in a much lower tone, ‘I suppose this is why your man ran away, Nina.’

‘To be fair, Bill, without a warrant or enough to nick him for murder and search his house, we would never have known about these,’ I admitted. An enquiry to speak to someone regarding their location a mile from a murder scene didn’t by itself give us the legal power to ferret around in their wardrobe. The law called the shots every time.

As if to remind me that my personal life was flapping around like a fish out of water, I once again felt my mobile phone vibrating. I must have reacted this time, as Bill looked at my pocket. For a moment I thought he might be looking at my crotch, but I told myself off. Of course he wasn’t. It was only sad, desperate singles like me that had such thoughts. I really needed a date.

Phil came in and told us that the camera and operator were on their way and that we should leave the room if we didn’t want to appear on the film. I went downstairs and headed outside to call Wingsy and let him know what we’d found.

Just as I got my work phone out to call him, it rang. The caller display showed ‘Wingsy’.

‘Nin, got your drawers on?’ he asked with a smile in his voice.

‘Yes, you pervert. Want to know something?’

‘If it’s the colour of your smalls, no, I don’t. Got something to tell you, though, sweetheart. Our man Connor, he’s only wanted. Football violence. GBH on a rival fan last month up north. The local police had him on CCTV and have only just identified him. Bloke’s got a good job in the City, in a bank. Earns better money than you and me. Can you believe it? Why would he do such a thing? Sad bloody twat. They’re gonna travel down to interview him, so once they get here we’re working together again.’

That at least was good news. ‘Well, his house is a regular armoury. Think he may be in just a little bit of trouble. We found all sorts of stuff. Just got a couple of calls to make and then I’ll come back to the nick.’

I took out my own, less embarrassing twenty-first-century mobile and listened to my messages. Both were from the same person, but the content was completely unexpected.

T
his was serious. The messages were from Stan McGuire, asking me to get over to his house that evening as he had something to tell me. I knew that it couldn’t be good news.

We’d stayed in touch over the years, and he’d become a good friend. On the first Sunday of every month, I visited him for lunch and a session of putting the world to rights. He’d got older – hadn’t we all? – but he was still a giant of a man and was a constant in my life. I always called a couple of days beforehand to see if he needed anything bringing over. He would tell me not to be ridiculous, he could take care of himself, and I would nevertheless take him a couple of bags of shopping and a liberal supply of alcohol. In all the years I’d been visiting him, only once, about ten years ago, had he called me. That was the day his wife died of a heart attack.

Waiting until that evening was not an option. I dialled his number. After just two or three rings, a woman answered the phone. From the single word, ‘Hello,’ I could tell that it was not Stan’s daughter, Samantha. We got on fairly well but met infrequently. I couldn’t tell whether this was because she didn’t like me and thought I was muscling in on her old man, or – and this was more likely – she was actually a pretty decent woman who wanted to give me some time alone with Stan.

The woman talking to me now on the phone sounded much older than Samantha.

‘Can I speak to Stan, please,’ I asked.

‘Not at the moment. Can I take a message?’ came the curt reply.

I wouldn’t normally be put off quite so easily, but this was uncharted territory. Not one but two calls from Stan out of the blue, and a woman in his house who wasn’t a blood relative, or in fact me.

‘Could you please tell him that his friend Nina called and I’ll be there tonight at about 8pm,’ I managed to say, without adding, ‘And who the hell are you?’ because, in fairness to Stan, if there was a lady in his life, it had been a decade since his wife passed away.

‘Thank you for the call, Nina. I’ll make sure he knows. Goodbye.’ The call was ended without giving me any time for further comment or question. I tapped my mobile against my chin a couple of times while I thought over who the woman could have been. She hadn’t exactly been impolite, but not overly helpful either. In a professional capacity I would have asked more questions and probed a bit further, but this was personal, not work, and that would have just been plain rude.

Still puzzling over Stan and his mystery lady, I was brought back to the house search, carrying on quite nicely without any help from me, by a shout from Bill. ‘Any news, Nin?’

Walking towards him so that the neighbours wouldn’t be able to overhear, I replied, ‘The update is that our man is wanted for an assault.’

‘Wouldn’t be football-related by any chance, would it?’

‘Blimey, Bill, you’re good. Detectives from another force are coming down to interview him.’

I said my goodbyes, promised contact numbers for the other officers, waited until Bill turned around again to check him out a final time, and asked Jerry to give me a lift back to the nick to find Wingsy.

M
aking our way back to the Divisional HQ took us past my own nick. The county had seventeen working police stations. Some were occupied twenty-four hours a day but some were satellite stations, used only during office hours and for the odd hour during night shifts for patrols to eat their grub without the public looking on.

As a police officer I was used to working from a number of locations. It wasn’t unusual, although it was sometimes a bit unsettling to be away from your own station. It did at least allow us to get to know both civilian staff and officers from all over the county. The county town’s main police station was situated in Riverstone’s town centre, complete with custody suite, crime scene investigators and Major Incident Room.

Once Jerry had dropped me off, I went to find Wingsy, who handed me another pile of work for us to get through. He’d wasted no time getting us further witnesses to see. He told me what we had to do, having already efficiently researched each of the premises and people we were to visit. Breakfast was some time ago, so we opted to stop at a small sandwich shop around the corner and stock up on doorstop sarnies to eat in the car while we sorted out a schedule.

I felt much better after an egg mayo and cup of strong tea. Wingsy passed me the priority enquiry of the day. ‘Interview and take statement from Belinda Cook, cousin of Amanda Bell. Already informed by police of her cousin’s death,’ I read from the enquiry sheet. ‘Sounds pretty straightforward. I see
you’ve even got a recent address, photograph and information on her.’

‘Yeah – while you were poncing about looking in wardrobes and at Bill’s bum, I was doing some work,’ said Wingsy, downing the last of his tea from the polystyrene cup.

‘I was not “looking in wardrobes”, you saucy sod. I was going through the wardrobe to get to the hidden room.’ I paused and glanced at my colleague. ‘Do you ever tell your friends from outside this job what kind of thing you do all day?’

I saw him shake his head. ‘Would anyone believe us half the time? And the other half of the time, it would just get lost in translation. I notice that you didn’t deny the bumgazing.’

I answered him with a grin.

As we drove to Belinda’s house, we pondered what would happen to David Connor. Unlike Connor’s house, which was in a decent part of the town, Belinda’s was in one of the newer estates that already had seen better days. It was the type of area that wasn’t exactly unsafe, but you wouldn’t choose to live there if you could afford better. Not one person had come out to see what was going on when we’d nicked Connor and searched his house, either because the street’s occupants were at work or were keeping a safe distance, allowing the police to carry out their duties. Belinda’s street seemed the kind of place where the local residents would bring out deckchairs and a six-pack to watch the show.

‘Someone’s in,’ murmured Wingsy, as I slowed the car to a stop outside number 112. It was a new-looking house: large driveway, token half-dead evergreen shrub in front of the lounge window. The plant might have begun its life as a rhododendron bush but was now serving as an eyesore. Immediately above the sorry-looking plant, I saw a curtain move and a woman’s face appear at the top of the windowpane.

‘Inside of the house must be more impressive that the outside,’ I commented. ‘Looks like she’s cleaning the windows.’

The woman watched us as we got out of the car and walked towards her house. She remained motionless for three or four seconds before stepping down from whatever she had been standing on. Her pursed lips and frown gave me the impression of annoyance. I decided an apology would be my best course of action.

The front door swung in with speed. We already had our warrant cards held out for inspection. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I began, ‘could see you were busy, but we’re here regarding your cousin Amanda.’

I saw the frown on her face disappear and the pursed lips relax into a smile. She looked from my eyes to the floor. ‘You’d better come in,’ she muttered, standing to one side.

‘We just need to speak to you for a while, Belinda. As it’s sensitive, is there anyone else at home?’ I asked once we were all in the hallway and the front door shut behind us.

‘No,’ she said. ‘My children are at school. Please come into the front room.’ She led the way along the narrow corridor past a bookcase filled with hardback books. She paused as we entered the living room to pick up a discarded plastic wrapper from the floor, and, looking down at it in her hands, she said, ‘Meant to throw this packaging away now the curtains are up.’

Despite the shabby front garden, from what I could see the house appeared spotlessly clean and was newly decorated. I turned to face the window and the heavy, plush curtains with a sheer new net behind, commenting, ‘They’re a great colour for this room.’ I didn’t want to overdo the interior design praise; we were here for a murder enquiry. I turned to explain to her why we were in her home.

‘We realise that this is a difficult time for all of Amanda’s family but we have to make sure that anything at all that can help us find her killer is being done.’

As I said this to her, I saw Belinda sag as if the fight was leaving her. She gestured in the direction of a three-seater sofa, and moved towards a two-seater opposite. She threw herself into the cushions, sending the remaining hooks and other paraphernalia from her curtain-hanging up into the air.

We perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning towards her, using open body language. Wingsy began, taking his cue from me as I opened my book to take notes. ‘Belinda, I’m John and this is Nina. We’re police officers and part of the team investigating Amanda’s death.’ He paused and Belinda nodded, her pale face framed by a black bobbed haircut. I continued to watch her as he spoke. ‘When was the last time you saw Amanda?’

‘About a week ago. I know that I should be with the rest of the family now, but after I took my children to school this morning I got a hysterical call from Jim, crying and shouting that Manda had been killed. I went over but there was loads of you lot there and I didn’t have much to add. I was in the way, so I left my details and came home.’

I could see Wingsy nodding from time to time in agreement with Belinda. Nothing she had said so far was anything we didn’t already know. We had got her details from Harry Powell.

‘Such a shock.’ Belinda’s eyes filled with tears and she fumbled in her trouser pocket for a tissue. She held it over her eyes for a second before dabbing at the escaping cascade. ‘She was always a bit – you know,’ she continued with a little laugh. ‘Well, you know about the prostitution stuff. All very unpleasant. I’m not making excuses for her, but if men are willing to pay for that kind of thing, and pay well, then there you go…’ She trailed off, searching for another tissue and wiping her nose. ‘Last time I saw her was last Saturday. She wanted me to have Kyle until Sunday morning. It was her weekend to have him. That poor bloody kid.’ Belinda put her hands over her face and did her best to muffle a sob. It was a
pitiful attempt. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘Meant to be helping you and I’m getting upset.’

‘You’ve every reason to,’ said Wingsy. ‘Can you tell us how she seemed to you and if she was worried about anything?’

‘She was a bit preoccupied. Said she needed to get some things done, go to the bank, that kind of thing, but it was unlike her to cut into her time with Kyle. Since Jim got custody of him, she really looked forward to having him. It was for the best for all of them when Jim took him, though. Up till then, Kyle was here about twice a week. I told her that I couldn’t have him stay too often ’cos he ends up sharing with my Glen. Glen’s six and likes his big cousin, but the house is a bit too small.’ She paused again and looked at the tissue clasped in her hands. ‘God only knows where he stayed when he wasn’t here. Only reason I said yes to her was because she’s got some nasty mates and I didn’t like the idea of where Kyle might have ended up.’

‘Belinda,’ asked Wingsy, ‘what made you think that she was preoccupied?’

Belinda stared into space, as if trying to remember.

‘Her phone, now I think of it. She kept looking at it. Usually, for her, work was work, but when Kyle or other family were around her she wouldn’t even have the phone turned on. She took it out of her pocket at least twice in the ten minutes she was here dropping him off. I told her he could stay for the day but she would have to collect him before his bedtime. She kept checking it when she collected him, too.’ She gave a barely perceptible smile, as if satisfied with her answer.

After a few more minutes of talking, we took a detailed statement from her, then stood up to leave. As she saw us to the front door, I noticed a pair of men’s shoes tucked under the coats on the rack. I guessed they were about a size nine or ten. They couldn’t have belonged to Glen; he was only six years old. Kid was enormous if they were his.

‘Thank you for your time, Belinda.’ I smiled at her. ‘You did say it was just you, your six-year-old son and seven-
year-old
daughter living here, didn’t you?’

Puzzled, she tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down at the shoes.

‘Oh, those,’ she said. ‘They belong to my friend Tony. He left them here some time ago. Been here months, I think.’

‘OK, well, thanks again, Belinda. We’ll probably be back in the next couple of days,’ I said, giving the impression she had given me a plausible answer.

Back within the confines of the car, I said to Wingsy, ‘What do you reckon about her?’

‘Good spot with the shoes, Nin. I thought that the drilled holes for the curtain rail looked new and there was no drill lying around. They were probably done by a man.’

‘You sexist git,’ I said. ‘I’m capable of drilling holes in a wall, you know.’

‘You may be, but a bloke would drill the holes, put the tools away and then, as in Belinda’s house, leave the mess on the floor for the woman to hoover up. I expect that this friend Tony is a frequent visitor and does a lot of work around the place. We know she’s been living there for some time but a lot of the stuff in there looked newly renovated or decorated.’

I considered this. ‘Even so, why would she lie to us? We’re investigating her cousin’s murder.’

Wingsy and I were obviously thinking the same thing. Belinda had something to hide, and her friend Tony had something to do with her reluctance to tell the truth.