The Domino Killer (5 page)

Sam drove slowly towards the crime scene, leaning forwards over the wheel, scanning the cars along the side streets, just long rows of terraced housing. There were no driveways, so street parking was precious and cars lined the pavements, jammed close to each other.

He was looking for the silver or light blue Mondeo he’d seen on the footage from the florist. He couldn’t guarantee it would be here, because no keys had been found on the victim, but the killer might have arrived in a car too. Would someone covered in someone else’s blood have wanted to run around the streets clicking a key-fob, trying to find their victim’s car?

Every time he saw a silver or light blue car he turned down the street to note down their number plates, until he’d driven along all the residential streets that were close to the park. There were three possible contenders for the car he’d seen on the CCTV footage.

He headed back towards the park, pulled into an empty space, and called Comms to get details of the car owners. The reply came within a minute. Two of them lived on the streets where their cars were parked, so he discounted those. The other one was from Oldham, ten miles away. And he had a name.

‘Will you send me his DVLA photograph?’ he said, and he gave his email address.

As he waited, he watched the group of police officers still working at the crime scene. Brabham and Charlotte were out of their forensic suits, Brabham giving instructions to a group of uniformed officers.

Sam’s phone beeped as the email came through. He looked at his screen and gasped. He got out of his car and rushed up the hill. Brabham turned round as he got close.

‘I’ve got him,’ Sam said, breathless.

Brabham’s eyes widened.

‘Henry Mason,’ he said. ‘He lives in Oldham. His car is parked just down there.’ And he pointed. ‘He bought calla lilies yesterday afternoon. I have the footage from the shop. I’ve watched it and the person on the footage matches Mason’s DVLA picture.’

‘We’re getting somewhere,’ Brabham said.

‘There’s something else, too,’ Sam said. ‘Was the victim wearing a watch?’

Brabham frowned. ‘He’s been taken to the mortuary,’ he said, before calling over one of the crime scene photographers and asking her to scroll through the pictures on her camera. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

‘He was on the footage,’ Sam said. ‘I knew I’d seen something but it took me a while to work it out. Big garish thing, metal.’

‘Makes it look more like a robbery,’ Brabham said. ‘Sometimes these things are simpler than you think. And you know where you’re going next? To break the bad news.’

‘Me?’

‘If it’s a simple robbery, we don’t have to suspect whoever he lives with. Just give her the news and I’ll send along an FLO to sit with her. Take her with you,’ he went on, nodding his head at Charlotte. ‘I need to keep an eye on things here. And get his computers. Let’s see who he’s been talking to. We need to know who he was supposed to meet.’

Charlotte smiled at Brabham but Sam recognised irritation in her eyes.

As they walked to his car, Sam said, ‘Come on, spill it.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just feel that I shouldn’t be sidelined for the hand-holding parts, breaking the bad news. That’s his job.’

‘He’s a ducker. There’s no glory at the widow’s house. This is where the TV cameras are.’

‘At least I don’t have to put up with him looking at my chest all morning.’

‘That obvious?’

‘I’m sure he thinks I take it as a compliment.’

‘We’ll do our job and report back. You’re a good copper. Let’s make sure we do something to make him notice.’

‘Thank you,’ she said as they climbed into Sam’s car. ‘Do you know anything else about this Henry Mason?’

‘The florist said it seemed like he knew what he wanted. He asked for calla lilies, and I watched the footage; he didn’t even look up when she picked some out.’

‘Perhaps his girlfriend likes calla lilies.’

‘But if it was a long-term thing, and he knew that she liked calla lilies, would they really meet here, in a park at night? They’d have a routine – a pub or somewhere quiet.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m wondering if it’s something else, like a sign.’

‘What, a blind date?’

‘Something like that,’ Sam said. ‘He’s certainly a player. There’s the smack of a mid-life crisis. Dyed hair. Earring.’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Right, let’s go break some bad news. Always the worst part.’

‘Assuming he’s the body in the park,’ he said. ‘We know he bought lilies, and we know his car is still around here. Perhaps he did the killing. There’s not much left of his face, remember.’

‘All the more reason to get to his house,’ Charlotte said. ‘It sounds like Henry Mason is either our victim or our murderer, and we need to find out which.’

Charlotte stayed silent as he drove. As they got closer to Oldham, Sam said, ‘Everything all right?’

She looked out of her window for a few moments before saying, ‘I’m thinking of moving on.’

‘What, from the squad? How come?’

‘Because I’m sick of being the coffee-girl. Half the people on the squad do it for the machismo, for the pub tales. I’m thinking that I’ll have to go somewhere else to move up.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll do it in my own way.’

‘But if you went, I’ll be stuck with them.’

‘You’ll never be like them, though, and that’s the main thing.’ As they drove from the motorway and into Oldham, she said, ‘How are things at home? How’s Alice?’

Sam didn’t want to say too much. He kept his home life private, even from Charlotte, his closest friend on the Force, but he knew it was a pointed question. A year earlier, Sam’s job had brought peril into his family and put Alice’s life in extreme danger. Alice wasn’t coping well. Part of her wanted him to give up his job, but she knew as much as he did that it was more than just what he did. It defined him.

But Sam saw her sometimes, looking out of the window at the sound of his car engine, as if she’d been looking out for him. Once he got inside, it would be different; she’d be watching the television, or walking into the kitchen, but he knew what he’d seen.

‘She wishes I wasn’t doing this job,’ he said.

‘She’s not the first to think that,’ Charlotte said, before glancing across to Sam. ‘Don’t sacrifice too much for the job. It will end one day. The ones who miss it are the ones with nothing else in their lives.’

‘You’ve soon got old and wise.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Too many nights sitting in feeling pissed off. Look, we’re nearly here.’ And she pointed out of the windscreen.

Oldham was an old mill town on a high plateau just before Manchester gave way to Yorkshire. It was gritty and tough, lost industry never properly replaced, with the occasional mill building, high chimney and huge brick block, like relics on the horizon. It was a hard place to live, divided by racial tensions, and made harsher by the bitter winds that howled in from the Pennines during winter.

Henry Mason’s address was on an estate of new houses close to the main road, on the site of what had once been a factory. It was picture-perfect modern living, the estate fenced, all the driveways wide, the windows leaded, the flowers and gleaming photograph frames glimpsed on all the window sills hinting at ordered lives.

They went to get out of their car when Charlotte’s phone rang.

Sam waited for her to finish the call, which seemed to consist of Charlotte listening wide-eyed.

When she hung up, he said, ‘What is it?”

‘That was Brabham. The victim’s fingerprints were taken, before you came up with the identification, hoping to find him that way. Guess what: it turns out we’ve been looking for him.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You know the Keith Welsby case we’ve been getting nowhere with – the teacher stabbed by the canal, and all we had was a bloody fingerprint found on a knife nearby? Well, it seems that the fingerprint belonged to Henry Mason.’ She pointed at the house. ‘The dead man was a wanted man.’

Joe was on his feet in court. The police officer who’d stopped his client and then carried out the intoxilyser test at the police station was in the witness box.

The defence was that the machine was faulty so that the alcohol reading couldn’t be relied upon. Joe had picked and probed at anything he could think of, despite the prosecutor’s objections, trying to find a defect in the procedure. His client would think he was getting value for money if he put up a fight. It wasn’t the outcome that mattered to get a reputation; it was the showboating along the way.

So far, his questions had fallen flat and his concentration wavered. His client was making notes next to him, his script becoming smaller and more jagged. Joe’s mind kept flashing back to the man at the police station, Mark Proctor. The spark of recognition had been like a flash, the years gone in an instant, the memory of Ellie’s killer looking towards him as if it was the day before.

The sound of rustling paperwork interrupted his longest pause yet. The magistrates sounded restless, whispering to each other.

Joe turned back to the policeman, a tall traffic officer whose fluorescent green coat rustled as he stood ramrod-straight in the witness box. He’d seen a Porsche coming up behind him, but the driver seemed especially reluctant to overtake. The more the officer slowed down, the more the Porsche did, until there was no choice but to go past. And the driver did, weaving in his lane as he took the next exit, even though it wasn’t the one he wanted. Once at the station, he’d provided a breath sample that tested double the drink-driving limit.

An expert witness was sitting at the back of the courtroom, listening to the evidence in the hope he’d pick up on something. He’d provided a report, once he’d trawled through the historical data from the intoxilyser and exaggerated blips into potential major faults, the pages padded by technical information intended to justify his fee. He pretended to be neutral, there to assist the court, but it was the defendant he sat with before the case started, and it was the defendant who was paying him. Everyone has a price.

‘So at the station, on the intoxilyser, you asked Mr Pollard to provide the first sample of breath?’ Joe said.

‘Yes, your worships,’ the officer replied, turning to nod an emphasis to the magistrates, the equipment on his belt jangling.

‘And he didn’t delay or cause any problems?’

‘No.’

‘And he provided a long, steady breath into the tube, exactly in accordance with your instructions?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’d provided a sample at the roadside, hadn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Exactly in accordance with your instructions?’

‘Yes. Just as I asked.’

‘So the second breath sample into the intoxilyser. Talk me through that one.’

‘He put his mouth around the tube, but he seemed more reluctant.’

‘Had you told him that the first sample was over the limit?’

‘Yes. I remarked on the reading.’

‘So his reluctance to provide a further sample only came after you told him that the first was over the limit?’

‘Yes. I presumed that he knew he was in trouble.’

Joe glanced at the magistrates and smiled theatrically. ‘Or perhaps he was just surprised, given that he’d only had one bottle of lager.’

It wasn’t a question, it was a comment, and the prosecutor was rising to his feet. Joe put out his hand. ‘If it helps my friend who prosecutes, I will add a lilt to the question.’ He turned back to the officer. ‘So, this hesitation. How long did it last?’

‘A while. I was watching the clock on the machine count down from two minutes and I thought it was going to time out.’

Joe blinked and glanced across at the expert witness. He was scribbling in his notepad. There it was. The slip.

It was time for the fake.

‘The machine wasn’t counting down from two minutes, was it?’ Joe said.

‘Yes, it was. I was watching it.’

‘Are you sure you were watching it closely?’

‘Of course I was. I watched it tick down.’

‘Definitely two minutes? You have no doubts about that?’

The officer looked towards the magistrates and spoke clearly. ‘Absolutely none.’

Joe had what he wanted. The officer had made a mistake and then stood his ground, turning a possible mistake into a cast-iron certainty. Joe wanted to get through the rest of the case quickly, to leave the intoxilyser clock in the minds of the magistrates.

He didn’t call his client to the witness box. He had what he wanted and it would just give the prosecutor a chance to ask awkward questions, looking for a slip.

The expert did the rest. Blinded everyone with how the machines can sometimes be wrong, giving plenty of examples, even though they were mainly examples of where he’d blinded other courts. But the clock was the clincher.

‘Does the machine have a set period in which the second breath sample must be given?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes,’ the expert said. ‘The machine purges itself and then counts down. If the sample isn’t provided in time, the machine times out.’

‘And what is that set period?’

‘Three minutes.’

‘Not two minutes?’ Joe said.

‘No, three minutes. I have the operators’ manual in my briefcase if you need it confirming, but it counts down from three minutes, not two.’

‘And if it counted down from two minutes?’

‘The machine wasn’t working properly.’

There it was. The prosecutor hunched forward over his file, thinking how to deal with the problem, but there was nothing he could do. There was no expert for the prosecution, and why would there be? The prosecution case was that Joe’s client was telling lies about how much he’d had to drink, and backed up by bad driving and alcohol on his breath, it was a good one to make.

Until a police officer had made a simple and honest mistake, and Joe was ready to exploit and magnify it just because his client was wealthy enough.

His client walked out of court with the air of a man who had almost been the victim of a gross injustice. Joe hoped that at least when his client was alone later that day he would reflect that he’d got lucky, nothing more, but Joe doubted that.

Joe watched him go, his wife holding his hand, the expert witness walking with them.

He turned to the prosecutor and said, ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Sorry? What for?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t be, Joe. I’d have done the same. That’s the game.’ He collected his paperwork and his laptop and followed Joe’s client out of the courtroom.

Joe followed more slowly. By the time the courtroom door closed, there was no one left on the corridor. Joe went to the window and looked out over the city centre, or at least the sliver of it that he could see, the view ahead along the glass fronts of designers stores, the taxis and traffic of Deansgate further up. He thought back to the police station again, to Mark Proctor. Ellie’s death was the reason he’d become a lawyer. Helping wealthy clients avoid road traffic laws was just about paying the bills.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and took some breaths to calm himself. He’d written Proctor’s number on a scrap of paper.

Proctor answered on the third ring. ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Joe Parker from Honeywells, your solicitor from last night.’

A pause, and then, ‘Oh, hiya. What do you want?’

‘I need you to come into the office, just so that we can get your story straight for when you go back to the police station.’

There was another pause, and Joe fought the impulse to fill the silence. He had to sound casual.

‘Yeah, okay then. What time?’

‘We can do either three or four o’clock. Which suits you?’

‘Three,’ he said.

Joe thanked him and hung up.

He tapped his phone in his hand as he remembered his promise to himself. He’d made it at the time and reminded himself of it whenever he thought about Ellie. It was one he intended to keep and had dreamed of getting the chance.

The promise? To kill the man who murdered his sister.