Blood On the Wall (13 page)

A
s soon as Georgiou and Conway got back to the station, Georgiou headed up the stairs to Stokes’s office, but found the superintendent was out.

‘He had to go to a lunch,’ Stokes’s secretary, a smart young woman called Deirdre Fisher, told him. Georgiou liked Fisher, knew her to be efficient and calm under pressure, the very opposite of Stokes. Georgiou wondered how she tolerated working for someone as insecure and unstable as Stokes.

Georgiou looked at his watch. It was three o’clock.

‘A long lunch,’ he commented.

‘It’s a lunch with the business community,’ Fisher said smoothly. ‘These things can go on.’

I bet, thought Georgiou.

Georgiou went back down to his office and dialled the superintendent’s mobile number. When it answered, Georgiou could hear the droning chatter and clatter of glasses and bottles in the background that told him this lunch was everything he thought it would be.

‘Stokes,’ snapped the superintendent’s voice.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you did instruct me to tell you if there were any developments on the case—’ began Georgiou.

‘You mean you’ve got something?!’ Stokes interrupted him, hopefully.

‘Well, there have been developments which implicate someone …’

‘The killer!’ said Stokes excitedly. Then Georgiou heard him say smugly to whoever his companions were: ‘My men think they’ve got a lead on him.’ Then Stokes’s voice was clear in Georgiou’s ear again. ‘Have you arrested him?’

‘Not yet, sir …’ began Georgiou.

‘Why not?’ demanded Stokes. ‘We need a fast result on this!’

‘First, he’s vanished—’

‘Vanished?!’ echoed Stokes, angrily.

Before the Superintendent could say any more, Georgiou added, ‘and he’s one of our own team. Detective Richard Little.’

There was a silence that went on for so long that Georgiou might have thought they’d been cut off, if it wasn’t for the background noise.

‘Sir?’ prompted Georgiou.

‘You’re to say nothing of this to anyone, Georgiou,’ said Stokes, his voice suddenly low and conspiratorial. The background chatter on the phone had receded and Georgiou imagined that Stokes had moved away from his cronies to be out of earshot.

‘But …’ began Georgiou.

‘Nothing,’ snapped Stokes. ‘Is that clear? Nothing. I shall
be at the office within the hour and I want to see you with everything you’ve got.’

Then the connection was cut.

Seward sat at the table in the canteen toying with the plate of vegetable chilli. Opposite her, Taggart stopped tucking into her steak and chips and looked at her partner, concerned.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Seward, forcing a smile. ‘It’s just this business of these murders. And Richard disappearing like that, and maybe the suspect.’

She hoped it sounded convincing. The truth was, last night was still hanging heavy over her. Georgiou being beaten up, seeing him with grazes and bruises, knowing he was in pain, made her want to pour her heart out to him about her feelings for him. Maybe that’s what she should do. Maybe she should come right out with it to his face. Tell him she had feelings for him. That she loved him. No, that was too much at this stage. Just tell him she had feelings for him. Strong feelings. That she wanted to spend time with him. Personal time. That she wanted to take him in her arms and …

She must have let out a heartfelt sigh, because Taggart was looking at her, even more concerned than before.

‘Are you
sure
you’re all right?’ asked Taggart.

‘Yes. Absolutely,’ insisted Seward.

‘Only if there’s anything you want to talk about. You know, nothing to do with the job …’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Seward. Again, she forced a grin. ‘It’ll
be OK once this particular job’s over.’

Stokes paced around his office, shaking his head, an expression of horror on his face, as if his worst nightmare had arrived. Which, in a way, it had.

‘How on earth can it be one of our men?’ he demanded.

‘We’re not saying it is,’ said Georgiou. ‘All we’re saying is that circumstantial evidence …’

‘What about this terrorist?’ demanded Stokes, and suddenly the superintendent was desperate for the murderer to be the terrorist he’d been so anxious to avoid. Anybody, rather than one of his own squad.

‘There was no terrorist,’ said Georgiou. ‘GCHQ traced the website, and the video clip. It turned out to be some unhappy teenager in his bedroom in Cornwall, jumping on the bandwagon. No terrorist links at all, except in his head. He’s currently under arrest. Or, at least, he was. I imagine he’s been released back to his family while they work out what to charge him with.’

‘It can’t be one of ours! It can’t be!’ groaned Stokes. ‘The press will have a field day! They’ll wonder what sort of coppers we employ here! I’m going to come out of this looking like … like …’

Stokes stopped, lost for words. He shook his head numbly, shocked. ‘This could finish me.’

‘You can hardly be held responsible for the people you employ, sir,’ said Georgiou. Though inside he thought: yes you can, and rightly so. It’s about time some of the shit stuck to you. But then the other thought rose up again: if Richard Little was a rogue cop, Georgiou should have spotted it.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Stokes, and this time he was really asking; almost begging Georgiou to come up with an answer that would save his skin. ‘Isn’t there some way we can keep this to ourselves?’

‘No,’ said Georgiou. ‘If it is Richard Little who’s the killer, and we don’t know for sure it is – as I said, at the moment it’s just circumstantial – then we have to warn the public against him. It would be even worse for us if we say nothing and he kills again.’

Stokes groaned, slumping down in his chair.

‘There’s got to be a way,’ he appealed.

‘One way would be to just say he’s disappeared and put out an alert for him. We can say he’s a member of the team investigating the killings and we think that stress has caused him to disappear. That way we can get his picture in the papers and on TV without anyone assuming he’s the killer.’

‘But we want the public to keep away from him, not run up to him if they see him and be sympathetic!’

‘We add that because of his stress, Detective Little may be in a disturbed state, and members of the public are advised not to confront him but to get in touch with the police. It still doesn’t give anything away. And if it turns out he’s not the killer but just … run away … there’s no harm done. No one knows.’

‘Some smart alec journalist will put two and two together,’ groaned Stokes.

‘Not if we handle it properly,’ said Georgiou. ‘And not if we pick up Little quickly. And for that we need to use the media.’

T
he view from Castlerigg Stone Circle was breathtaking. Seward had been here a few times before, and each time it took her by surprise. No, surprise was the wrong word. Each time she was filled with a sense of awe. It wasn’t just the stone circle itself, which – as stone circles went – was interesting enough, it was the setting: the fells of the North Lakes on all sides grim and imposing, and at the same time beautiful. No wonder the ancients had believed this place had magical properties. Even in this ultra-realistic
non-believing
twenty-first century, the power of the fells came through. This was nature at its most powerful, worthy of those ancient Britons erecting this circle of huge stones as a temple in its midst.

Right now the stone circle was buzzing with activity: cameras, cables, generators, all the trappings of a film company on location. In this case, scaled down to Eric Drake and his handful of student friends manhandling the equipment into place and shouting at one another to watch out for this and take care of that.

Seward and Taggart stood and watched the activity. At
the centre of it all was Eric Drake, and Seward couldn’t deny that he was the hub of everything, stomping around, giving out orders, checking the camera, the equipment and the costumes. When they’d met him first in his room he had given the appearance of laziness to the level of sloth. The Eric Drake here was a different person altogether: high energy and organization.

‘Shall we check them off against the list?’ asked Taggart. She had a clipboard containing the names Drake had given them, the cast and crew.

‘Yes, but I suggest we do it with the help of one of the people standing round doing nothing,’ said Seward. ‘Less confusion for us.’

Taggart nodded and they selected one of the young women who was also holding a clipboard with papers attached to it.

‘Police,’ said Seward, holding out her ID.

‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Drake said you’d be here today. Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly busy,’ said Taggart noncommittally.

She showed her clipboard with the list of names to the girl.

‘We just need to check and see who’s here and who isn’t,’ she said. ‘As you know them, if you could point them out to us as I give you their names …’

‘Of course,’ said the girl.

One by one, as Taggart read out the names and ticked them off on her list, the girl pointed that person out. When they finished, Seward and Taggart did a quick count of the people milling around.

‘There are about half a dozen here whose names aren’t on
the list,’ pointed out Taggart.

‘Yes, well, when you make a film you always get a few more people turning up,’ said the girl. ‘Most of them are friends of people on the film.’

‘Maybe we’d better go and find out who the others are,’ suggested Taggart. ‘Make sure we’ve got everybody’s names.’

Seward nodded. To the girl, she said: ‘It’s important we have the names of
everyone
who’s involved with this film. Are you sure this is everyone?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl, nodding. Then she thought for a moment, and added: ‘Except for Jamie.’

‘Who?’ asked Taggart.

‘Jamie,’ she said. ‘He’s a helper.’

‘What? A gofer? A runner? Whatever they call it?’

The girl shook her head. ‘He’s kind of a history nut. He helps Drake with the details. You know, getting them right.’

‘So why isn’t his name on the list of crew?’

‘Well, he’s not really crew. And I think he and Drake had a row over something.’

‘Over what?’

‘I think it was to do with the history or something.’

Seward felt a tingle up the back of her spine, like an invisible antennae had just picked up a vibration.

‘What to do with the history?’ she asked.

The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was just something between Drake and him. I don’t really know about history. Film’s my thing.’

‘What’s Jamie’s full name?’ pressed Seward.

Again, the girl shook her head.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s just … Jamie.’ She
shrugged. ‘Drake might know.’

But Seward was already hurrying to where Drake was standing in the middle of the stone circle, setting up a scene. A girl dressed in what looked like a flimsy nightdress was lying on the ground. A young man was kneeling next to her, checking her through a viewfinder.

‘OK,’ Drake was saying to the young man. ‘This shot is from the crow’s point of view, right …’

‘Mr Drake,’ said Seward. ‘We need to talk to you.’

‘Sure,’ said Drake. ‘After we’ve done this shot.’

‘Now,’ said Seward firmly.

By now Taggart had caught up with Seward, her notebook open and her pen poised.

‘We’re on a very tight schedule,’ protested Drake. ‘The light is vital …’

‘So is our enquiry,’ said Seward. ‘What can you tell us about Jamie?’

Drake frowned. ‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Jamie,’ repeated Seward. ‘Your history expert.’

Drake laughed, scornfully. ‘Oh him! The nerd!’

‘Yes,’ said Seward. ‘Why isn’t he here today?’

Drake shrugged. ‘We had an artistic disagreement,’ he said. ‘Not that there’s any “art” in that idiot! He is so bloody pedantic! Wants everything to be “authentic”, as he calls it. I told him, this film is art, not some boring documentary.’

‘What’s his full name?’ pressed Seward.

Drake shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. Just … Jamie.’

‘You work with him and you don’t know his name?’

‘I didn’t work with him, as you call it. He just turned up one day when we were doing some shots up here and we got
talking about history of the stones and stuff.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We didn’t socialize. He wasn’t my kind of person.’ Then he added grudgingly, ‘Well, he
was
, until he started getting all precious about
facts
and stuff.’

Seward looked around at the others, still busy preparing for shooting the film scene.

‘Is there anyone here who had more to do with this Jamie than anyone else? Anyone he was friendly with?’

Drake shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Like I say, he wasn’t really our kind of person.’

‘We’re going to need to talk to everyone here, and we need to talk to them today,’ said Seward.

‘But the film …’ began Drake, angrily.

‘We won’t interfere with your filming,’ said Seward calmingly. ‘You just go ahead. We’ll talk to those people who are not involved at that time, or just hanging around. And then, when you break, we’ll talk to your main crew.’

Drake nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. Curious, he asked: ‘You think Jamie could be the one? The killer?’

‘Who knows?’ answered Seward noncommittally. ‘At the moment we’re just gathering facts.’

‘W
hat have you got?’ asked Georgiou.

He’d been sitting at his desk, going through the reports again, looking for a common connection to the murders, when the door of the office had opened and Tennyson had entered with a mournful look on his face and dropped into a chair with a heartfelt sigh.

‘It looks like Diane Moody’s not our murderer,’ groaned Tennyson.

Georgiou did his best to hide his smile. Frankly, he’d never thought she was, but he’d been wrong before, and Tennyson had appeared very convinced that Diane Moody was a prime suspect.

‘Oh?’ said Georgiou.

Tennyson nodded. ‘I did some checking. Her alibis for the times the murders occurred hold firm. She was in bed with a lady vicar.’

Georgiou raised an eyebrow.

‘It turns out they’re an item. Have been for five years. Seems they’re even thinking of making it official with one of these civil ceremonies.’

‘And how did you find this out?’

‘I asked Diane Moody where she was, and then checked it out with the lady vicar. She said they’re like an old married couple. They go to bed at eleven o’clock every night, and don’t get up till about seven the next morning.’

‘No chance of Diane Moody sneaking out during the night?’

Tennyson shook his head. ‘The vicar’s a kind of
semi-insomniac
. Gets up a lot during the night. Moody, on the other hand, sleeps like a log, and – according to the vicar – snores like one being sawn up.’

‘So, strike Moody.’

Tennyson nodded.

‘Which leaves us with Richard Little,’ murmured Georgiou. ‘And a lot of very bad publicity.’

His phone rang.

‘Georgiou,’ he said.

It was Seward.

‘We think we’ve got something,’ she said. ‘The strongest suspect yet.’

Georgiou felt his heart leap.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Seward. ‘So far we’ve only got a first name and a description. But we think he’s looking good.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Georgiou.

‘Castlerigg Stone Circle, Keswick,’ replied Seward. ‘Drake’s here making his film. We’ve been talking to him and his pals.’

‘How many of them are there?’

‘About two dozen. Some are cast and crew, a few are just hangers-on. But we’ve picked up some info about a character called Jamie. He’s not here, but he fits the profile. History nut. Fastidious to the point of obsession. He knew Tamara. I think he might be our killer.’

‘Stay there,’ said Georgiou. ‘Tennyson and I will come over and join you. Four of us taking statements will speed things up. And we’ll bring an e-fit artist with us and get the descriptions put into visual form and get it out to the media. With a bit of luck we may make the TV bulletins tonight.’

He hung up. Tennyson was looking at him quizzically.

‘A suspect?’ asked Tennyson.

‘According to Seward,’ replied Georgiou. ‘Let’s hope she’s right.’

Seward was watching out for Georgiou and Tennyson and hurried towards them as they came through the field gate towards the stone circle.

‘Tell me,’ said Georgiou.

‘Jamie,’ said Seward. ‘Age, mid to late twenties. Drives a dark-coloured van, but no one seems to remember the number. Local Carlisle accent. Very neat. The inside of his van was always tidy. His clothes were casual but always spotlessly clean. Someone said they thought even his jeans look liked he’d pressed them.’

‘Fastidious,’ murmured Georgiou, nodding.

‘According to Drake, Jamie’s obsessed with the Ancient Britons: the way they lived, their rituals, and especially the fact that the Romans conquered them and almost wiped them out. Again, according to Drake, Jamie was a
bore about both the Ancient Britons and the Romans. He reckoned Jamie could go on
Mastermind
with them as his special subject and win it easily.’

‘Better and better,’ said Georgiou.

‘The problem is, we don’t know what his second name is, where he lives, where he works,
if
he works. All we know is what we picked up from Drake and his crowd, and they only ever met him when they were out and about doing stuff for Drake’s film at places like Castlerigg and other ancient sites. It seems that Jamie knew where most of the ancient sites were.’

‘It doesn’t mean our killer
is
this Jamie,’ pointed out Tennyson. ‘It could still be Richard.’

‘I know,’ said Georgiou. ‘But I’m hoping it isn’t.’

He gestured towards the field gate.

‘We’ve got an e-artist parked in his van out in the lane just outside the field. I want everyone here to talk to the artist so he can get their descriptions of this character. And do it one at a time so we get accurate memories. One may recall him having a mole on his cheek, or his hair being parted a certain way, or whatever, and if they start doing it as a group we could lose those identifying marks.’

‘Will do,’ said Seward.

Tennyson looked towards the stone circle, where the girl on the ground was being terrorized by an obviously fake bird made out of papier-mâché.

‘How’s the film?’ he asked.

‘It’s crap,’ said Seward. ‘Worthy of Ed Wood at his worst.’

With that she went to join Taggart, who was talking to some of the crowd of students watching the filming.
Tennyson turned to Georgiou, puzzled.

‘Who’s Ed Wood?’ he asked.

Georgiou shrugged. ‘No one I know,’ he said.