Текст книги "Bones in the Nest"

Автор книги: Helen Cadbury

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Doncaster

Sean pressed the alarm but nothing happened. He put his ear up to the mesh of the speaker but there was no sound; he doubted whether it was connected to a control room. It was cool in the lift. The hairs on his arms and legs were bristling. The floor was damp and stank of piss. He looked up at the ceiling and tried to work out which section was the escape hatch. If he was in a James Bond movie, he would push it open and climb out. He shivered. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the lift had stopped between floors. It must be something to do with Terry Starkey. They’d worked out where he’d gone and decided to trap him. He didn’t think thick-necked Gary’s hips would fit through the hatch, but Starkey’s might.

He listened to the building. A door banged quite close, somewhere above him, and he heard the sound of a young child, giggling.

‘Bye bye, dada,’ said the voice.

‘Come on cheeky!’ A woman spoke, only feet away.

The lift had stopped just below the tenth floor. He could hear the wheels of a buggy squeaking and then coming to a stop. There was a pause.

‘Bloody thing,’ the woman said.

Sean wondered if he should call out.

‘It better not be stuck again.’ The wheels of the buggy squeaked and someone was banging on a door. ‘Lift’s broken. Here, Dave, give us a hand down the stairs, I can’t manage her and the buggy.’

There was a man’s voice, indistinct from behind the door of a flat, then the sound of the door opening. Sean didn’t want them to go down the stairs, he didn’t want them to leave him, trapped where Starkey could find him.

‘Hello! Can you hear me?’ he called.

‘Hello, hello!’ The toddler’s voice sang out in reply.

It sounded as if the adults weren’t there. Perhaps the man needed to get dressed, perhaps he was arguing about having to help. The toddler kept repeating ‘hello’ and it seemed like an age before he heard anyone else.

‘I’m going to go down that housing office and I’m going tell them,’ the woman was saying.

Sean took a deep breath and shouted. ‘Hey! I’m stuck in the lift. Any chance you could call the emergency number for me? I’ve got no signal and the intercom’s not working.’

But before she could answer, the lift mechanism whined into life, as if his words had undone a spell. It shook and lurched upwards. The doors slid open and Sean stood, in pants and socks, in front of a young woman, her little girl and a man in a Doncaster Rovers T-shirt. All three stared at Sean. Nobody spoke. Suddenly the door to the staircase was flung back. There was nowhere for him to hide.

‘Come on!’ Saleem said, breathless in the open doorway. ‘Let’s get up on the roof. We’ll be safe there. I came back to talk to you and I saw Terry Starkey’s lot running round in circles. They’ve been up and down the stairs and now they’ve gone back outside. They’re looking for you, aren’t they?’

Sean nodded, his muscles flooding with relief. He followed Saleem to the stairs and gave the young family one last look but they’d already turned away. The woman was pushing the buggy into the lift and the man gave her a peck on the cheek, as if this was the beginning of any normal day.

Twenty minutes later Sean was being driven away from the Chasebridge estate. It might have been PC Gavin Wentworth’s driving, or it might have been relief, but Sean was feeling very sick. He opened the window and gulped the morning air.

‘Steady on, mate,’ Gav said, laughing. ‘You’ll catch a cold dressed like that.’

Gav had been laughing, on and off, ever since he’d set eyes on Sean crouching on the roof next to the air vents in nothing but socks and boxer shorts. Alerted by Saleem’s shout of: ‘Oi, copper, up ’ere’, Gav had taken the lift and by the time he’d arrived, the boy had disappeared, but not before showing Sean the control panel, in its not-so-locked cabinet on the roof, in case he ever needed to stop the lift again. On the way down they’d hammered on Jack’s door but there had been no answer. He’d either gone out or passed out.

‘Can we go via my nan’s? I need to pick up some clothes.’

‘Well, make sure it’s your uniform. You’re back with me, son, as soon as the briefing’s over.’

‘Great news,’ Sean said. ‘I should have stayed on the roof.’

‘Feeling’s mutual!’ Gavin laughed and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

The briefing had started when they arrived. As he sat down, something caught Sean’s eye. Stuck to the corner of the whiteboard was an A4 piece of paper with a childish drawing of a face. The cheeks and lips were out of proportion but the eyes were unmistakable. Terry Starkey was staring straight at him.

He couldn’t follow what was being said. In his two days off the job the world had gone mad. A girl was dead. The picture of her body surrounded by leaves and flowers was like something artistically staged. He’d need to be very sure, but her eyes, the set of her nose, even in death, were familiar. Then it struck him. She was the girl in the picture in the library window, in the black and white photo of the playground.

He forced himself to listen. Each whiteboard had its separate family tree, its lines and patterns linking people and places, the fire at AK News, prints on a fragment of glass. DCI Khan was saying that the motive was unclear, but he drew a line in red pen to a photograph of Saleem, who was also being linked to low-level drug dealing on the estate.

Khan was talking about the Asaf brothers, the fathers who were both away in Pakistan. One had lost a son and both had lost their business, so why hadn’t they come back? Sean’s head was swimming and his mouth was dry, then DI Rick Houghton had his hand up, he was saying Sean’s name.

‘PC Denton might have some useful information, DCI Khan, can we invite him to address the briefing?’

Khan nodded and Sean made his way to the front. As he went past, Rick whispered:

‘Tell them about the CUC and Starkey.’

His colleagues were egging him on with grins and even a thumbs up from Carly at the back. Even DS Simkins offered him a nod and half a smile. Sean felt a little light-headed.

‘Excuse me. I think we need to consider that Mohammad Asaf’s murder was racially motivated. I … um … I was at a meeting, by mistake, which turned out to be organised by a right-wing group. A key player in that group is a man called Terry Starkey and, look, sorry this isn’t what I was going to say at all, but that drawing, on the other board, looks very like him.’

If he was expecting everyone to stand up and applaud him, he was disappointed. There was a brief silence, broken by Rick clearing his throat.

‘Um,’ Sean tried to get the ideas in his head into some sort of order. ‘I think Terry Starkey is in the middle of this. It was something Saleem Asaf said. He knew the lads who’d been paid to chase his cousin, presumably to his death. Sorry if that’s not much use, but if Saleem can identify those involved in killing Asaf, maybe we should talk to him again.’

‘And he trusts you?’ It was Khan. The question seemed straightforward enough, no hint of sarcasm. Maybe Sean had been forgiven.

‘Yes. I think he does. He may have just saved my life.’

There was a ripple of laughter across the incident room and Sean realised that news of his escape in his underwear to the roof of Eagle Mount One was now common knowledge. He sat down again, his face and ears burning, but Khan was watching him, stroking his beard and nodding slightly, as if something had clicked in his mind. Sean needed this briefing to be over so he could fill Khan in on some of the other things he’d worked out, but first he needed get to the toilet. A cold sweat gripped him and his stomach was churning.

People were standing up and a hubbub of conversation broke out around him. Images from the briefing merged in his mind: bodies and fingerprints, Lizzie had been waving a sharp weapon and some gardening gloves, and all Sean could do was breathe in and out of his nose, deep, slow breaths to keep the nausea still. He got to his feet and pushed his way out.

He was only just in time. With one hand on the edge of the cistern he emptied his stomach and then some. He left the cubicle and washed his face, rinsed his mouth and stared at the hollow-eyed fool in the mirror. The more he stared, the more he could see his father’s features starting to creep up on his own. He turned to go and let the door of the gents’ toilet swing shut behind him. Along the corridor the door to the incident room was open and the rows of chairs were empty. He could hear two female voices raised in an argument. He looked in. Lizzie Morrison and DS Simkins broke off when they saw him.

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’

‘You OK?’ Lizzie said. ‘You look pale.’

‘Rough night.’

‘Lucky you!’ she said.

‘Not really.’

DS Dawn Simkins was smiling at him. It pushed her cheeks into an unfamiliar pattern, as if the muscles weren’t used to it.

‘Good to have you back, Denton. If you’ve got a minute, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. In private.’

Lizzie was busy removing a memory stick from the back of the laptop. Sean didn’t want her to go, but Simkins was pointedly waiting for her to finish and leave them alone.

‘Catch you later, Sean,’ Lizzie said.

‘Yeah, where can I find you …?’ He faltered. ‘If there’s something I want to … I need to catch up a bit first, but …’

‘Extension 205, any time.’

Then she was gone and the square jaw of DS Simkins was back to normal.

‘Let’s get down to business.’

Sean looked at the boards and the drawing of Starkey. He wasn’t sure what it was he was searching for and then he saw it. Someone had written a list of vehicles under a heading which said: Halsworth Grange. Small white Fiat. Scout minibus. Dark posh car.

‘Could “Dark posh car” be a blue BMW?’

He reached for his phone to find the photo, but the battery was still as dead as before. Someone here must have the right sort of charger. He’d have to go on a hunt.

‘Never mind that, I want you to look at this,’ Dawn Simkins was tapping the end of a pen on a document printed on green paper. ‘Have a seat.’

Sean sat down.

‘What is it?’

‘Whistle-blowing Policy. Can’t you read?’

Fuck off.

‘Of course I can. I mean, why?’

If he’d been expecting to have the word ‘whistle-blowing’ put under his nose, he’d have seen it straight away, but he was still trying to break it down, match it to something on the incident board, but it didn’t fit.

‘Wendy Gore suggested we have a word. Professional Standards?’ she said, moving closer, the soft muscle of her upper arm pressing against his. ‘Now, I’m here to support you if you want to file a complaint against DCI Khan.’

‘Dawn, can I call you Dawn?’ Sean said, moving away. ‘I don’t need this right now, what I need is a phone charger, so I can get on with some police work. So you can stick your whistle-blowing policy up your arse, and unless you’ve got a phone charger up there too, I’ll see you later.’

He almost skipped out of the room. He might be off his head on lack of sleep and lack of food, but he was buzzing. In the corridor he found Rick Houghton.

‘What are you smiling at?’

‘Nothing,’ Sean said. ‘Have you got a spare phone charger that fits this? I’ve got a load of stuff. I don’t know what to make of half of it. God knows if it’s even admissible evidence, but we need to look at it. Khan needs to see it too. Our very own DCI Sam Nasir Khan. Let’s keep him here, shall we, where he’s wanted? And send that old trout back to Sheffield.’

‘Sean?’ Rick said. ‘Are you still drunk?’

‘Probably.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

York

The smell of burning wakes Chloe a few seconds before the high-pitched wail of the fire alarm kicks in. She lies still, letting the siren pound in and out of her ears. It’ll stop in a minute. If she jumps up and heads out to the garden, she’ll only be sent back when they work out it’s just someone smoking in the toilet. She turns on her side and puts her pillow over her head to block out the sound. On the other hand, it could be a real fire and if it is, the smoke will suffocate her before she burns to death and she won’t know anything about it. She shuts her eyes and wonders what colour the smoke will be that kills her. She opens them again to check it isn’t really coming under her door. Next to her bed she notices a plate. She remembers Emma bringing it in late last night. There was a peanut butter sandwich on it. Emma didn’t ask her where she’d been or what happened, she just gave her the sandwich and went away again.

Then it all comes back, everything that happened yesterday. There is a moment when you wake up in the morning and it’s not there. The thing that’s happened, the grief. The waves are far out to sea and you don’t even see them. When Jay died, they would come crashing in within seconds. She would be drowning in sorrow for the rest of the day. Only the first snap of light on waking was clear, then the rest was muddy and thick and impossible to breathe in. When she found out she would never see her mum again, she was already in prison. Three things to realise every day. Jay’s dead. Bang. I’m inside. Bang. I’ll never see my mum. Bang. Then they wrapped her up in medication, like a cotton wool nest that kept her up and away from the grief. The waves still rolled in, but she was safe from them, as if they were breaking somewhere far below her.

She knows how it goes now. This feeling before the big wave, the storm wave. She watches it, watches herself, wondering why she’s so calm. She pulls herself up to sitting and looks at the plate, the fire alarm bashing her skull with sound. It’s empty, so she must have eaten the sandwich. Emma will be awake now, lining up outside on the terrace for the fire drill. Chloe should get dressed and go out to join the others, or someone will come banging on the door, shouting at her. She loved Taheera and then she was so angry with her that she thought she hated her. Now it’s too late.

She gets out of bed and takes a pair of jeans from the wardrobe. The screwed-up, white forensic suit is on the floor. They kept her work clothes and her boots at the police station in Doncaster. She wonders if she’ll ever see them again. She pulls on her clothes and follows another couple of girls down the stairs, but nobody’s hurrying. The new night officer, who used to be a screw, has a clipboard and is ticking off names.

‘Come on, ladies. You need to get moving as soon as the alarm goes. No good waiting, could be fatal.’

There are some mumbled responses. Nobody believes it’s real. Chloe crosses the terrace to where Emma’s standing, rolling herself a cigarette. She feels seventeen pairs of eyes watching her.

‘Eh! Someone came home late. On a date were you? Nice fancy dress costume you had on.’ A voice cuts loud through the sound of the fire alarm, followed by a brittle, false laugh.

Chloe doesn’t turn to see who’s speaking. More than one curtain twitched at the front of Meredith House when she stepped out of the police car in her luminous white suit, long after curfew.

‘You OK?’ Emma says. ‘Want a ciggy?’

Chloe shakes her head.

‘Police were here yesterday, asking questions. She let them in your room,’ Emma says quietly, flicking ash in the direction of Clipboard Woman.

The other women are watching Chloe. She wonders what they know.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Emma. ‘I told ’em nowt. Said you were dead quiet, no bother. Didn’t even have to lie.’

‘Thank you.’

Chloe startles herself with the sound of her own voice, even though it comes out as a whisper. It’s the first thing she’s said out loud since she climbed onto the lawnmower yesterday, and behind those first two words a whole surge is waiting. She bites down hard, clamping her jaw shut, jamming her knuckles against her mouth, her lips against her teeth. She stares at the green, open leaves of a geranium in a pot at the edge of the terrace, concentrating on its white flower head. Inside she taught herself not to show her feelings, to grow a thick skin and become an expert in keeping her thoughts to herself. Now she needs to think of something, anything, that will keep the tears back, so she thinks of the plant names Bill was teaching her. It’s not really a geranium, he said, but a pelargonium. She starts listing all the Latin names of the varieties in her head. When she gets to pelargonium formentosa, the siren stops.

‘That’s it ladies, false alarm. Who’s been smoking indoors?’

Talking and laughter break the stillness as the women shuffle back inside. Emma is standing in front of her. She’s pinching the end of her cigarette and putting the stub in her pocket.

‘Talk to me, babe. What happened to you?’

Her arms open and her hands come to rest on Chloe’s shoulders. She squeezes gently, drawing a sharp needle of pain up through Chloe’s chest, until she can’t fight it any longer and falls forwards into Emma’s waiting arms, sobbing against her shoulder. Her knees give way and Emma falls to the ground with her, until they’re both kneeling and Chloe can’t stop the torrent of tears that heave up and through her body, soaking her face and Emma’s hair. They stay like that for a long time, until there’s nothing left. When they disentangle their arms, she sees that Emma’s been crying too.

‘Look what you’ve done,’ her friend says, gently, ‘started me off now.’

They’re both sitting on the ground looking at each other, unsure of what to do next. Emma gets up first and brushes a bit of dirt off her trousers before reaching out a hand. Chloe takes it and steadies herself, standing shakily, feeling so much lighter than she did before.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Emma says, ‘go for a walk and then, if you want to, you can tell me what’s been going on. And if you don’t, well that’s all right, I’ll fill you in on last night’s Coronation Street. Deal?’

Chloe tries to smile. She takes Emma’s waiting hand and they walk in through the back door, past the TV room. They go past the front desk and Emma waves to Clipboard Woman. They go out of the front door and onto the street.

‘Which way?’ Emma asks and Chloe turns right towards the main road and the city centre.

They link arms and walk together. Chloe tries not to think about Taheera. She can’t help her now. They walk in silence until they come to a familiar row of shops. Chloe stops outside the charity shop.

‘When I’ve got some money, I’m going to buy that cup,’ she points to the white china set with the blue irises round the rim. ‘Then the plate and then the bowl, then I’ll come back and get the saucer. I don’t really need it, but it would be a shame to leave it. I’d like the full set.’

Emma starts to laugh but then she stops. She can see Chloe’s not joking.

‘I bet you could have the cup,’ she says, ‘if you gave them fifty pence.’

Chloe turns away.

‘Here, I’ll get you the cup. I’ll get you the whole set. You can pay me back.’

Emma pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a thick, folded wad of notes. She peels off a tenner. Chloe stares at the money.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Doncaster

While Sean’s phone was charging, he went to get a couple of coffees and a bacon sandwich from the canteen. He stuffed the food down as soon as he’d paid for it. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He looked out for Khan in the canteen and all along the corridor to the CID office, but he didn’t see him. He wondered if his boss knew DS Simkins was trying to stab him in the back. Probably. But who was behind her, holding the arm that was holding the knife? She didn’t have the drive to have thought of it herself.

When he got back to the CID office, Rick was on the phone.

‘When was this? … And is that a regular order? … They have an account. Right. Do you have a record of who signed for them when they were picked up? Mm. Thanks …’

Sean put Rick’s coffee down. ‘Flat white, no froth,’ he said.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Rick said.

‘Funny. What was that about?’

‘Fulton’s Garden Centre, the only South Yorkshire stockists of the Scandinavian pruning knife, which Lizzie thinks sliced Taheera Ahmed’s throat open. They took an order from Halsworth Grange about two months ago. A range of items, including a pruning knife, something called a bushcraft knife, an 8cm locking knife and several pairs of pigskin gardening gloves. They haven’t sold anything to Halsworth since, except a pair of size five work boots that Coldacre picked up himself, first thing Monday morning.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not particularly. But we need to have a word with Bill Coldacre and see if he’s missing anything.’

‘I’ll ring him, if you like.’

Sean looked at his mobile, but it had only charged ten per cent. He picked up one of the phones on the desk and checked it had a dial tone.

‘Nothing better to do until I can find Khan. Gav’s on a break, so I may as well make myself useful.’

Sean got through to Halsworth Grange and asked for the gardens’ extension. He listened to it ringing and ringing, and was about to give up, when it was answered by an out of breath Bill Coldacre.

‘Sorry, couldn’t find the bloody thing. It was easier when the phone was stuck to the wall.’

Sean explained why he was ringing.

‘Why are you asking me?’ he said, ‘I thought you’d arrested the girl?’

‘We think the murder weapon might have come from Fulton’s. They don’t sell many pruning knives in the summer and they keep meticulous accounts for their regular customers. So I need to know if you’re missing one, brand new, straight out of the packet.’

‘I’ll have a look.’

Sean could hear him moving about, the click of a door opening and the rattle of metal and wood.

‘Thanks,’ Sean said. ‘And while you’re at it, can you tell me the names of anyone else you’ve had working there in the last two months?’

Coldacre gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s not hard. Until the girl started, I’ve been on my own for a month. We had to let the last trainee go.’

‘Did he or she come via the Probation Service too?’

‘Aye. Lazy bugger. Terry Starkey his name was.’

‘Thanks. Thanks very much.’

Sean scribbled something on a piece of paper and showed it to Rick who frowned initially, trying to decipher Sean’s writing, then let out an expletive.

‘That policewoman that was here,’ Bill Coldacre was saying, ‘the one in the white suit?’

‘Miss Morrison, yes, the scene of crime manager.’

‘She was asking about knives. I keep them in size order, you see, so it’s easy to find what you want. I’ve had three new ones this season. Hang on. There’s a pruning knife missing, sharp little beggar.’

‘Yes,’ Sean said.

‘It’s not here. It’s gone. Never even used the bloody thing.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Aye, there should be a little pocket knife, good for cutting twine.’

‘Would that be what they call a “locking knife”, 8cm blade?’

‘Aye, that’s the one.’

‘Thank you, Mr Coldacre. You’ve been very helpful.’

As Sean put the phone down, Khan swept into the room, flicking his car keys back and forth like worry beads.

‘Denton? Need a word. Not here. My car. Now.’

‘But …’

‘Now!’ Khan was already heading back down the corridor.

‘Here, take your mobile,’ Rick said. ‘Tell him what you’ve found out about Starkey.’

‘Two knives, Rick, he’s missing two,’ Sean managed to say over his shoulder as he followed Khan.

The black Range Rover was parked at the back of the police yard, slantways across two spaces. Khan clicked the locks off and they got in.

‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘We’re going to have a chat. Pigs have big ears, so we’re going to have a little chat in private.’

‘Right.’

‘What are you playing at, Denton?’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘What did you call DS Simkins?’

‘I don’t think I called her anything. I asked if she might have a phone charger up her … OK, there’s no way I can make this sound what it isn’t. I was rude to her. But did she tell you why?’

‘Go on.’

‘She was asking me to make a formal complaint about your conduct.’

‘Oh.’ Khan stared straight ahead at the concrete wall in front of them. ‘I see. And so it begins again.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do you know why they sent me here, Denton?’

‘No.’ He remembered Simkins sharing her theory with him, but he’d thought at the time it was bollocks.

‘Because I brought a complaint against a senior officer for racism and it stuck. He was disciplined and ever since then I’ve been playing cat and mouse with one ridiculous accusation after another.’

‘What a cow.’

‘Steady on, son. She’s just following orders and, at the end of the day, she’s not a bad officer.’

‘But she was sent to spy on you. To get something on you being sexist, I think she said.’

‘Sexist? Oh my, they really are scraping the barrel this time; they’ll be trying to stick me with being a communist sympathiser next. Sexist? Please.’ He thumped the steering wheel. ‘Ah, but I gave her almost as good, didn’t I? I gave her bullying a junior, white working-class member of the force.’

‘With a diagnosed specific learning difficulty. Serious shit, that,’ Sean smiled. ‘Mind you, she took the piss out of my reading, so maybe I could counter-attack with a complaint against her for that. Joking, of course.’

‘Look, I appreciate your support, Sean. And I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this. But it’s my fight.’

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Khan gathered himself.

‘What was Rick saying about your phone?’

‘It’s about Terry Starkey,’ Sean said, ‘the guy in the drawing. His brother was killed, pushed off the top of the Eagle Mount flats …’

‘… by Chloe Toms or Marilyn Nelson, as she used to be known.’

‘Exactly. And Bill Coldacre’s just told me that Starkey was also placed by probation on an apprenticeship at Halsworth Grange. He was there two months ago, when the last lot of tools and gloves were purchased. There are two knives missing. Damn, I forgot to ask about the gloves.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Khan said. ‘I’ll put someone on to that.’

There was a silence in which it felt to Sean as if Khan was waiting for him to say more, like being in school when they all got told off for something nobody would own up to and he felt like putting his hand up, to make it end.

‘There’s something else, sir,’ Sean licked his dry top lip. ‘He turned up at my dad’s place last night. You could say your scheme paid off.’

‘My scheme?’

‘Sending me back, as it were.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, I got him talking and I managed to record some of it. Listen.’

The Range Rover had a docking station for his phone, so they had the glory of Terry Starkey in four-speaker, highquality stereo. Sean winced at the sound of his own voice.

‘I sound so thick.’

‘Let’s just say you were in role.’

‘Thanks.’

Sean hoped the click of the ring pull and the hiss of another beer can being opened wasn’t too obvious.

‘What did he mean by that? “Now I know where to find her” …?’

‘The drawing she did. If Chloe saw him at Halsworth Grange, then chances are he saw her. Look, I’ve got a picture of the car he was driving last night. Here.’ Sean took the phone off the dock and flicked to his photos. ‘Could that be the dark car Mrs Coldacre saw? I’ve uploaded it to Rick’s computer; he’s running some checks on it now. Terry said something about a guy owing him; the car was payment for something. That’s coming up …’

Terry Starkey’s voice slurred out of the speaker.

‘He can’t help showing off, can he?’ Khan said.

‘There’s another thing; Mohammad Asaf took a photo of the second victim, the girl. It’s on display at Chasebridge library. Here, I took a couple of pictures.’

‘Sean, I wish you’d use a notebook like everyone else.’

‘Fair point, guv, it’s just I haven’t really had time to sit down with a pen and paper. It’s all happening a bit fast. You see? It’s her. They knew each other.’

‘I think we need to go back inside and get some of this stuff on the boards. Cassius and Brutus will have to wait. If we’re going to be making an arrest, we need to be very clear what the charges are.’

‘Who are Cassius and Brutus?’

‘In this case, DS Dawn Simkins and the Chief Super back in Sheffield. You really should read Julius Caesar, Denton, you’d like it.’

‘Yeah, right.’

They got out of the car and walked slowly across the car park.

‘How was it with your dad?’ Khan said. ‘He looked like he needed a bit of help.’

‘It started well, then turned nasty. Same old story. I don’t know why I expected anything else,’ Sean said. ‘I’m going to have to go back. I left all my stuff there, including my keys and my wallet.’

Khan’s phone rang at that moment. He answered and listened to the caller.

‘OK, thanks, we’re on our way. Come on, Denton. Looks like you’ll have a chance to pay your dad a visit sooner rather than later.’

‘Sir? I think I’m supposed to be on patrol with PC Wentworth.’

‘Leave that with me.’ He turned and headed back to the car. ‘Come on or we’ll miss the fun. You wanted to know where Terry Starkey was on the night of Asaf’s murder? Well, I think we’re about to find out. We’ve got a raiding party ready to do a full search on his mother’s flat. I’m not in the habit of scaring old ladies, but I think it might be justifiable in this case.’

Khan started the car and turned out of the police station, onto the road behind the law courts. His phone rang again and Rick’s voice burst out of the speakerphone.

‘Message from the IT department, and I think you’re going to like it. Mohammad Asaf’s Blackberry records are in. Last received text from a SIM card registered to a Taheera Ahmed, 3 The Old Orchard, South Barnsall.’

‘I see,’ Khan kept his eyes fixed on the road as he swerved round a cyclist.

‘So she wasn’t a random subject for his photo project,’ Sean said.

‘Also, something else interesting,’ Rick was saying. ‘The car in PC Denton’s photograph, the one Starkey was driving? I’ve got the results on the licence plate. It’s registered to the same address as the girl’s phone contract, to a Mr Kamran D. Ahmed. Thing is, the DVLA has him down as disqualified for a year.’

‘That’s not the father’s name, he calls himself Raymond,’ Khan said. ‘Find out who this Kamran is and pay him a visit. Tread sensitively, they’ve just lost their daughter.’

‘Sir?’ Sean had a feeling of things sliding into place, not quite connecting, but getting closer. ‘I took a picture of the screensaver on Starkey’s phone. I had a hunch it was nicked. There was a garden, trees covered in flowers, like an orchard. Could be The Old Orchard – where her family lives? The phone had these scratches, like where a cover had been pulled off. Pink. Look, I think he had the girl’s phone. Perhaps he sent the text to Mohammad?’