Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 35

Day 11 – Winkler

The Mervyn Hammond PR Agency was situated a long way from Winkler’s patch, in a converted warehouse set in a quiet street between Clerkenwell and Farringdon, surrounded by media companies and Internet start-ups. Winkler hated it around here. All those fucking hipsters, with their ludicrous facial hair and ridiculous trousers. Apparently there was a café near here that sold nothing but breakfast cereal, and the morons who dwelled in these parts were happy to shell out over three quid a pop. Three quid a Coco Pop, he thought, deciding he had to get that joke into a conversation at some point.

He looked sideways at Gareth Batey, deciding the younger cop wasn’t bright enough to appreciate his humour. They were parked outside the office, a little way down the road, in Winkler’s white Audi. The engine ran, filling the car with warm air.

‘I’m really not sure about doing this,’ Gareth said, for about the tenth time. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing something to help catch Wendy’s murderer?’

Every time Gareth mentioned what had happened to Wendy his eyes misted over, making Winkler wonder if the detective sergeant had been carrying a torch for the dead DC. Perhaps Wendy had been Gareth’s ideal woman. That would be another reason for Gareth to hate Lennon. Maybe he should hint that he’d actually seen Lennon and Wendy together . . . really get his rival into trouble. The guv had been stomping round like a rhino with piles ever since that Valentine’s card was found in Wendy’s locker, and Winkler was pretty sure it wasn’t just because one of the team had been murdered. Laughland was jealous! Of course, he felt sorry for Wendy, poor dead cow, but apart from that it was too delicious for words.

Winkler turned down the rainforest music a notch. ‘Leave all that to DCI Strong’s team – we’re investigating Nancy Marr, remember? Though I bet Lennon won’t be able to resist sticking his beak in. He’s all over the shop. I reckon he’s losing it.’

Gareth appeared to be suffering an internal struggle, but he pulled himself together. That’s my boy, Winkler thought. I’m your ally. Not that tattooed tosser.

‘So are we actually going to talk to Hammond?’ Gareth asked.

‘No. Not yet. I just want to watch him, see what he gets up to when he’s not putting on his public face. If he doesn’t seem to be up to anything, or this looks like a massive waste of time, we’ll move on.’

‘But you’re starting to think it could be him?’

Winkler held his hand out flat and tilted it from side to side. ‘I don’t know. But trust me – if he is guilty, I’ll find out. I’ve got the best clear-up stats in the MIT, did you know that?’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve told me, boss.’

Winkler was deliberately down-playing his suspicions about Mervyn Hammond, not wanting Gareth to think it was so important that he had to go running to Lennon about it. But since they’d found the signed photo of the PR man among Nancy’s belongings, Winkler had done some digging into Hammond’s background and what he’d found was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

A few years ago, Winkler had investigated – and solved, natch – the murder of a young female journalist who wrote for the now-defunct News of the World. That case had brought Winkler into contact with one of the newspaper’s Features editors, a guy called Doug Sandwell who reminded Winkler of an emphysemic crocodile, leathery and wheezy. They should stick a picture of Sandwell on cigarette packets – the smoking rate would halve overnight.

Sandwell had retired a couple of years ago, but Winkler knew the old journo had dealt with a lot of showbiz stories at the paper, as well as a number of juicy sex scandals and exposés of corrupt politicians. Winkler also strongly suspected, from conversations he’d overheard during the murder investigation, that Sandwell had colluded in phone hacking, though it appeared that – unlike many of his fellows – he’d got away with it.

Last night, after getting home from the gym, Winkler had given Sandwell a call. After listening to the other man cough for a couple of minutes, he’d asked Sandwell what he was up to these days.

‘Writing my autobiography, aren’t I?’ His voice crackled. ‘Great fun.’

‘I bet you can tell some stories, eh?’

‘Oh, you bet. Trouble is, most of this stuff couldn’t be published till after everyone involved is dead.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ The older man snorted.

Twat, thought Winkler.

‘So, what, is this a social call?’ Sandwell asked. ‘Ringing to ask me out on a date? You know I’m not that type . . . I never go out with cops.’ More hissing laughter.

‘I was actually wondering if you ever had any dealings with Mervyn Hammond.’

‘Hammond? Fuck yeah. We used to deal with that snake all the time. Got some of our best stories from him.’ He named a couple of fabricated scandals that Winkler vaguely remembered. ‘What are you asking about him for?’

‘Well . . . A mate of mine might be involved in a scandal himself. Hammond’s representing this bird who claims to have slept with my mate, and I was hoping to find some leverage to dissuade Mervyn from selling the story.’

‘A cop, is he? Someone high up?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Hmm. Well, since you ask . . .’ Glee crept into Sandwell’s voice. ‘This was about ten years ago and involves a bloke called Colin Denver. He worked as a nightclub promoter, knew loads of famous people, and that was his MO. He used to tell these young girls that he could introduce them to celebs, help their careers – all that bullshit. So he’d take them to parties and then, well, you can imagine the rest.’

Winkler waited impatiently for the other man to get to the really juicy bit.

‘So one of the girls came to us, wanting to expose these creeps, and it was potentially a huge story. She said she’d been to the police but couldn’t get your lot to believe her.’

Winkler cringed, thinking about the bashing the police had received over the Jimmy Savile case.

Sandwell coughed. ‘Two or three household names involved. A Radio 1 DJ, a TV presenter, these middle-aged scumbags who had probably been getting away with this stuff for decades. And they were all clients of Mervyn Hammond. As soon as he got wind of it, he came to us, claiming the story was bullshit, that this girl was a gold-digger and his clients would sue if we printed a word of it. Plus he’d stop giving us any more good stories. So we backed off – didn’t have enough evidence. But, according to the girl, Hammond wasn’t only doing it for his clients’ sake. He was one of the creeps. He molested her at one of these parties.’

‘I knew it,’ Winkler said. And he started to get that tingle, thinking ahead to his moment of glory when he exposed Hammond and cracked this case. With the Yewtree operation, and so many celebs now rotting in prison for committing the same offences Sandwell was talking about, the climate was very different now. This young woman might be willing to talk. ‘Do you remember her name?’

‘Yeah.’ The former journalist sniffed. ‘But it won’t do you any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she topped herself, about six months after all this happened.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. Shit. It’s haunted me ever since. I know you think we journos are a bunch of heartless wolves, but I met this girl. She was fourteen, a sweet little girl who’d got sucked in by men who really are wolves. I would fucking love it if you got Hammond. Just, er, don’t say you heard it from me, OK?’

Winkler wanted Hammond too. Hammond might be a wolf, Winkler thought, but I’m a hunter. And he entertained a brief fantasy in which he chased the PR man through the woods with a shotgun.

‘What about this Colin Denver guy?’ Winkler asked. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Last I heard he’d buggered off to Thailand, along with all the other nonces.’

Now, sitting next to Gareth in the car, Winkler imagined what would happen after he caught Hammond and proved he was responsible for the OnTarget murders. With Lennon in disgrace after the cock-up with Wendy, and with Winkler showing yet again that he was the best detective in south-west London – probably all of London, possibly the world – DCI Laughland would have no choice but to make him the lead detective on all future big cases. Lennon would probably be moved to traffic and he, Adrian Winkler, would be king. He’d be commissioner by the time he was fifty.

‘He’s coming out,’ Gareth hissed.

Winkler snapped out of his daydream and saw that Gareth was correct: Mervyn Hammond had emerged through the front door of the building, another thuggish-looking bloke beside him. Hammond waited while the thug went off round the back of the building. Winkler’s car had tinted windows, so he knew the PR man wouldn’t be able to see inside.

Hammond had a bag of nuts in his hand, the contents of which he daintily popped into his mouth, one by one, until a gorgeous Jag Coupé pulled up and he got in. The car headed towards the end of the quiet street, purring as it passed Winkler’s car.

They followed, Winkler driving.

The side street led onto busy Goswell Road. Hammond’s chauffeur – assuming that was who the thuggish bloke was – indicated right, cutting across the left lane and joining the queue of traffic on the other side.

‘Shit, we’re going to lose him already.’

There was no sign of another break in the traffic. Hammond’s Jag was being held at a red light, but the moment it changed he’d be off and would vanish at the crossroads ahead.

‘Fuck it,’ Winkler said, swinging out into the traffic, gambling that the oncoming car, a red Mini, would see him and brake.

The Mini did brake, but as Winkler attempted to cross the lane he stalled the car. He hurriedly turned the ignition, flushing pink, mortified that Gareth had seen him stall – the shame! – and as he fumbled to get going the Mini driver and all the cars behind beeped their horns. Hammond’s car was still stuck at the red light, and Winkler stalled the car again, at the same time that the driver of the Mini jumped out of his car and strode over, banging on the window of the Audi.

Winkler pushed the button to lower the window, flashing his badge at the irate driver. ‘Police. Piss off.’ The red-faced man retreated to his car.

He finally managed to get into gear, but now the traffic in the far lane was moving, and he had to wait for someone to flash him and let him across. Hammond had gone.

Chapter 36

Day 11 – Patrick

Patrick found Carmella in the canteen, staring into a mug of coffee, a half-eaten Kit Kat beside it, chocolate crumbs scattered across the Formica. There was an old stain on the table that made Patrick visualise the shape of a stricken body. He closed his eyes to clear his head of the image. His ears whistled, his stress tinnitus drilling into his brain. He plonked himself down in the seat opposite Carmella.

‘We need to find out exactly who Wendy was talking to before she went to the Rotunda.’

‘I’m fine, Patrick, thanks for asking. How are you doing?’

He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just . . .’

‘I know. Me too. What did the boss say?’

Patrick pointed at the remaining half of the chocolate bar. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Go ahead. I’ve lost my appetite. Jenny would go nuts if she knew I’d had half a Kit Kat for breakfast. Anyway . . .’

The chocolate made him feel a tiny bit better. ‘Suzanne said that we need to leave the investigation into Wendy’s murder up to DCI Strong and her team.’

‘But we’re not going to do that, are we?’

Their eyes met.

‘I don’t want to get you into any trouble, Carmella. This is down to me. Wendy called me just as you and Jenny were arriving at my place. I cut her off. So this is down to me. My bad, as Wendy would have said.’

Except ‘my bad’ wasn’t a strong enough expression, was it?

‘Pat, Wendy was my colleague too. Whatever you think we need to do to find her killer, I’m in. Besides, we find her murderer and we almost certainly solve our case too, right? It makes sense.’

He nodded, finishing the Kit Kat. The whistling in his ear had dropped to five or six. ‘All right. The first thing we need to do is find out exactly who Wendy had communicated with over the last few days, follow the posts she made on the OnTarget forum, Twitter, et cetera. The problem is, Strong’s team have her computer, and her phone was, presumably, taken by her murderer.’

‘We don’t need her computer to track her online activity. We only need her log-ins – her usernames and passwords. Did she give those to you?’

‘Shit. No.’

‘All right. Well, maybe we can figure it out.’ She looked around and Patrick followed her gaze. The canteen was busy, dozens of potential witnesses, flapping ears and beady eyes. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park in five minutes. We’ll go to mine.’

Carmella’s flat was as immaculate and homely as Patrick had always imagined – the home of a couple who obviously had no children. Patrick took a seat at the small table in the living room where, he imagined, Carmella and Jenny ate dinner together while listening to tasteful music. He didn’t imagine them as the types to scoff dinner in front of the TV with plates on their laps, and certainly not at a table with toddler-flung spaghetti shapes and sausages around their feet, CBeebies blaring in the background.

Carmella grabbed her laptop and sat down beside him. ‘Jenny’s at work. She just texted me to tell me she’s got a raging hangover. Apparently, she, Gill and Suzanne’s husband had a good chat after we left your party.’

‘Oh God.’

Carmella chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Nobody discussed how you’ve got the hots for the guv.’

‘Carmella! I don’t—’

She held up a hand. ‘It’s all right, Pat. I’m only teasing you. But you’ve gone very pink.’

He fixed his attention on the laptop screen. ‘Can we concentrate on this?’

‘Sure.’ The smile slipped from her face and he felt yet another prick of guilt – a sensation he shook off as he watched Carmella type in the URL of the official OnTarget forum. Wendy had told Patrick she had spent most of her time on this site because, although there were plenty of others, this was the most active. Immediately, Patrick realised this was going to be like searching for the proverbial needle. There were thousands of posts, most of them seemingly nonsensical – a sea of acronyms and bouncing smileys.

‘We need to know what her username was,’ Carmella said. ‘Otherwise we’ve got no chance of figuring out who she was chatting to.’

‘I should have got her to tell me.’

‘What about Strong’s team? They must have figured it out already. Can’t we ask them? We are meant to be working together, after all.’

Patrick shook his head. He knew that would be the sensible thing to do, but he was paranoid about Strong trying to take over the entire investigation, especially if he admitted to any weakness. That weakness being that, so far, they didn’t have a bloody clue who had murdered Rose and Jess, despite having worked on this investigation for a week and a half.

‘No. Let’s try to figure it out ourselves first.’

She looked at him, then nodded. ‘OK. We know Wendy went to the book signing at Waterstones – I saw her there – so maybe she was involved in one of the chats about that.’

Carmella typed ‘waterstones’ into the search box and two dozen forum topics appeared on screen. She sighed and began to click on each one in turn, skimming through the discussions about the event, from the build-up, with all the fizzing excitement about being in the same room as the OnT boys, through to the aftermath, with loads of links to photos of the signing, dozens of selfies with the pop stars behind a desk in the background. Patrick glanced over the photos to see if he could spot Wendy – he couldn’t – but that wouldn’t be helpful anyway.

‘Look,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s a number beneath each name stating how many posts they’ve made.’

Most of them numbered in the hundreds or thousands. Blake7 – 2,356 posts; CroydonChick – 1,398 posts; Jade – 18,467 posts.

‘Good grief!’ Patrick exclaimed. ‘I wonder if I’d have used these forums if they’d been around when I was a teenager.’

‘Yeah, in those days you had to use smoke signals, didn’t you?’

Patrick smiled but wasn’t in the mood for banter. ‘Look, this one, ShawnsCupcake, has only posted seventy-four times.’ He tapped the screen, indicating a message about the book signing: ShawnsCupcake asking who else was going to be there.

‘Let’s have a look at her profile,’ Carmella said.

Clicking on the username took them to a new screen showing the profile of ShawnsCupcake. The profile picture was, like many of those on the forum, a photo of Shawn, giving nothing away about the real identity of the user. Again, Patrick wished dearly that he’d got more detail from Wendy about what she was doing. He hadn’t realised there would be a time limit. But he still blamed himself, knew he wouldn’t stop beating himself up about it until he’d found her murderer. And even then, he didn’t know if he’d feel better. Because whatever happened, poor Wendy wasn’t coming back. She would never achieve the potential he knew she’d had.

‘ShawnsCupcake joined on the eleventh of February,’ Carmella said, snapping him out of his reverie. ‘Is that the date she started?’

Four days ago. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

The page linked to all of the discussions ShawnsCupcake had taken part in. The first was a joke about Shawn making her feel like a Haribo sweet.

‘Does that sound like something Wendy would write?’ Carmella asked.

‘I think so.’ He thought about the message in the Valentine’s card. You make me melt like chocolate. Carmella didn’t know about the card yet, but he bet it wouldn’t be long before word got around the station.

‘Look,’ Carmella said. ‘There’s a discussion here about football – did you know that Carl from the band is rumoured to be buying his local team, Torquay United?’

In the discussion, most of the users were talking about how they were going to become Torquay fans, that they were going to start going to the matches, despite agreeing that most of them hated football.

ShawnsCupcake had written, Not me! I’ll be Wolves till I die. Even though I live down south in Kingston. ☺.

Wolves. Wolverhampton Wanderers. Wendy’s hometown team. And she’d lived in Kingston.

‘It’s definitely her,’ Patrick said, sitting up straighter.

‘Look at this. She started a thread about the murders: I have a theory about what happened to them but I’m too scared to share it on here. Fuck. Looks like she was trying to flush out anyone with information.’

‘And it worked. Can we access her private messages?’

She gave him the look she used when he said something that made him sound like an old man. ‘Not without her password.’

‘Yeah, I knew that . . .’

‘And we could sit here typing in educated guesses all day, but we’re unlikely to get it right. This isn’t one of those stupid films. We need to talk to Strong’s team. They’ve got her computer – they’re bound to have found all her log-ins.’

‘And I’ll ask Graham Burns. You know, the social media guy. He gave me the messages that Rose and Jess exchanged.’

Patrick stood up and walked away from the table, over towards the window. He looked down at the street, red buses gliding by, a cyclist weaving through the traffic.

‘If it was you . . . if you were the person who’d killed Rose and Jess – assuming of course that you use the forums, which you probably do, to have found them – and you saw that, what would you do?’ he asked. ‘You’d want to know if this theory bore any relation to the truth.’

‘Yes, and I’d private message her. Find out about this theory.’

Patrick stepped away from the window. ‘The way Wendy was killed was completely different to Rose and Jess. Nancy Marr too. No sign of torture, just a swift . . . execution.’ He winced, imagining the shock Wendy must have felt as the knife flashed in the darkness.

‘He was trying to keep her quiet. Stop her exposing him.’

‘Which suggests that Wendy actually did have a theory, and that it was close to the truth. Close enough to worry the killer, anyway. We really need to get into her private messages. Let me call Burns now.’

He had Burns’s number stored on his phone. Burns picked up on the third ring and Patrick explained what he needed. ‘All private messages sent and received by a user called ShawnsCupcake.’

Burns made a groaning noise. ‘You know I could get in a lot of trouble for this . . .’

‘A police officer was murdered and we believe it was by someone using your forum. Now, if you want the whole OnTarget website shut down, your computers impounded, while we—’

‘OK, OK. I’ll help.’

He ended the call and Carmella came over, touching his upper arm. ‘Why don’t you go home, get some rest? You look like you’re about to collapse, Pat. I’ll do it.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Patrick. Boss. I insist. Go home; spend some time with Bonnie and Gill.’

As he was walking out to the car, his phone pinged. A message from Burns. That was quick.

Detective Lennon – I’ve found the messages . . . I’ll copy everything into an email for you – give me an hour. GB.

As he put the car into gear and waited for a gap in the traffic, he had another idea. It was all very well searching the Internet for answers, but perhaps they would find the truth in the real world, where he felt most comfortable. The only problem was, to seek answers in the real world he was going to have to risk his career.