Death By Dangerous (18 page)

A breakthrough at last − Adey had rung every estate agent in Manchester, posing as a bailiff trying to trace a debtor, Heena Butt. Adey's persistence had paid off. The Indian manager of a low-end rental agency in Fallowfield was keen to share his gripe. He disclosed that Butt had paid three months' rent upfront in cash, but was now two weeks behind. The agent had been unable to make contact. He didn't have a phone number for her though he'd gone round a few times but she wasn't in. Obviously unaware of her death, he'd assumed she was giving him the run around. More than happy to divulge her address to a voice on the other end of the phone, Adey couldn't believe her luck.

‘And if you see her, tell her I going in with key in seven day.'

‘I will,' Adey assured him.

‘Landlord very cross. Bad for my business.'

Adey tried to seem interested.

‘I take all possessions and sell. Then she will be sorry,' he went on.

After what seemed like hours of moaning and complaining, Adey was able to end the call. She'd already left her place for Fallowfield.

The one-bed flat was on Thornton Road, spitting distance from the Curry Mile. Long roads of Victorian red-brick terraced houses, some split into flats. She soon located the cheap, chipboard front door, then peered through the letter box. Stairs leading up to the living space.

Adey took the key made from the imprint of the one in Butt's handbag. She put it in the lock. It fitted. She stopped and reflected for a minute. This was a big call – interfering with a police investigation. Compromising the forensics. Sneaking into a dead person's home. Adey had inherited her mother's superstitious disposition. It just felt plain wrong.

She pulled out her phone and rang DI Taylor. ‘You'd better come. I've found Butt's flat.'

Sitting at his desk, Taylor almost choked on a mouthful of Hula Hoops. ‘What? How?'

‘Never mind that. Bring the key from her bag. I'm sure it'll work. I'm on Thornton Road, in Fallowfield.'

‘But I'm supposed to be going over to Bradford to give evidence in the trial.'

‘Then you'd better hurry up,' said Adey, predicting that his curiosity, if nothing else, would make him drop everything.

‘All right. I'm in Longsight. I will be there in twenty.'

In fact, he was there in ten, with the key. Taylor didn't like it when the defence were one step ahead of the investigation. He saw her waving from the pavement and managed to squeeze his Astra into a space right outside. Before he was even out of the car he asked, ‘So how did you find it?'

‘Good old-fashioned police work,' she teased. ‘Ringing round rental agencies.'

Taylor was impressed, and embarrassed he hadn't tasked that job. Not that Armstrong would've approved what was, on the face of it, a very expensive wild goose chase. ‘OK,' he said. ‘Let's go and have a look.'

He pushed the key into the lock.

Tilly held her face up to the shower head, hoping the jets would wash away the humiliation of what happened in court. She was angry at having been exposed – she'd always been the one to control situations, hide her duplicity. Nobody's fool, she'd always found it easy to use people to achieve her own ends. Had all the tools since school days: beauty, brains and guile.

She stepped out and patted the towel on her face. Catching sight of her firm body in the mirror, she moved her hips, checking all was still well with her best asset.

She heard the sound of a key in the lock. She'd have to do something about that. Dropping the towel on the bathroom floor she paraded to the top of the stairs. Why not let him see what he'd never have again? An added punishment. His suffering would make her feel a little better.

The front door opened.

Connor stood at the bottom of the stairs, gawping at her magnificence. ‘Why didn't you wait, Tilly?'

‘I want my key back.'

‘Why? What do you mean?'

‘You're toxic. Everyone's going to be talking about what happened today. I'm just praying I'm young enough to be forgiven. Hoping they'll think you took advantage of me.'

Always slow to catch on, Connor said, ‘I don't get it? We've got each other. Someone's already told my missus. And the kids won't take my calls. I love you.'

Tilly let out a sardonic laugh. ‘You're a fat, second-rate barrister who I was unfortunate enough to have as my pupil-master.'

‘Tilly, please?'

‘I messed up – backed the wrong horse. You're going nowhere. You've peaked. It's all downhill for you now and I'm not coming.' Then she added with a snigger, ‘Not that I ever did.'

Each word caused Connor a physical pain. He cut a ridiculous figure in his pinstriped suit and cashmere coat, being dismissed by someone almost young enough to be his daughter.

Tilly went back into the bathroom. Before shutting the door she called down to him: ‘Leave the key on the stairs and piss off.'

‘You can't speak to me like that.'

She didn't bother to respond. It was over.

Connor placed the key on the bottom stair. Then, feeling worthless, he left.

Having just opened it, Taylor instinctively shut the door, but the stench had already filled their nostrils.

Adey wretched, then asked, ‘What the hell's that?'

Taylor knew what she was thinking. ‘Don't worry, it's not a body. I know that smell well enough. Come on,' he said, raising a cuff over his mouth and going inside.

After a few seconds of preparing herself, Adey followed him up the stairs.

He'd already opened a window in the kitchen and was tying up a bin liner. ‘Takeaway,' he explained. ‘Must've been rotting all these months.'

As the smell subsided Adey scanned the room. Chipped Formica worktops and old lino, curled up at the corners.

Taylor pulled some plastic gloves out of his pocket and handed Adey a pair before opening the cupboards. Salt and pepper and a few tins. ‘Heena Butt certainly wasn't living the high life,' said Taylor.

‘I'd say financially, she was on her arse.'

Taylor grinned on hearing the expression. He went into the bedroom and started going through the drawers. Nothing personal, just a few items of clothing. Thinking out loud: ‘Nothing to identify her. No evidence of a life.'

An Ikea wardrobe, screaming out for an Allen key, listed heavily to the right. Covering her hand with the sleeve of her jean jacket, Adey opened it. Full Muslim dress, including burkas, hung neatly from hangers. ‘She was a strict Muslim?' Adey couldn't work it out. ‘Or a fetish hooker? For punters that liked the full garb?' she suggested, not really believing it.

‘Possibly,' he replied. ‘Then she wasn't on the job with Anderson.'

‘How do you know?'

Taylor joined her and ran his gloved hand over the outfits. ‘She was in jeans and a jumper when they pulled her from Anderson's car.'

‘Really?' asked Adey, realising that she'd never sought to clarify what clothes Butt had been wearing. She'd only seen the naked post-mortem photos.

‘Yes, I checked with the hospital. They weren't retained. Had to cut them off her. Covered in blood.'

Adey was relieved that as far as Anderson was concerned, the prostitute angle didn't seem to have any foundation.

‘And why no ID?' Then Taylor caught himself. Working with the defence? Sharing ideas? What was he doing? Adey Tuur had a strangely disarming effect on him. Taylor remembered his position, and hers. ‘Right, that's it. Nothing else to see. Come on,' he said, ushering her towards the stairs.

‘Hang on. What's the next step? You going to have the place tested for prints? DNA?'

Taylor laughed. ‘My boss would never approve that. It's not relevant to the offence − the driving.'

‘But we need to know who she was. How can you leave it like this?'

‘Don't be so naive,' Taylor snapped, more annoyed with Armstrong and his damn budget than with Adey. ‘Who's going to pay for it? Neither the jury, nor the taxpayer need to know who's been in this flat.' He winced, realising he sounded like his DCI.

Adey continued to protest as Taylor got into his car: ‘If Anderson gets potted, I hope you can live with yourself,
detective.
'

‘I'll cope, love.'

The glib reply infuriated Adey.

Taylor turned on the ignition, then lowered the electric window. ‘Has it occurred to you that Anderson might be guilty? Maybe his prints are all over that flat.'

Adey refused to accept it. She'd switched from being sure of his guilt to being sure of his innocence. There was no evidential basis to justify the change of heart. It was something more powerful. An emotional attachment. Blind faith. She wasn't prepared to give up on Anderson, and if the police wouldn't investigate, she would just have to take matters into her own hands.

Adey decided to walk across to Victoria Park to follow up the remaining lead. She'd spent a great deal of time analysing the data recovered from Heena Butt's phone. Of the four numbers in the contacts, three were no longer in use and all seemed to be pay-as-you-go. The fact that phones seemed to have been ditched suggested only one thing: criminality.

Adey had finally managed to hack into one network provider's records and, as luck would have it, the one number still in use was on that network. Most of the phone usage was cell-sited to the Victoria Park area, particularly when in contact with Butt's number. Adey took a walk around to see if anything jumped out; a long shot, but she was out of ideas.

She walked past Manchester Royal Infirmary on Upper Brook Street. Was this the link? Possibly, but the cell-site was slightly further along. After wandering down a few side streets she walked along Upper Park Road. Out of nowhere, rising up before her, Manchester's Central Mosque. On seeing it she knew. It fitted perfectly with the cell-site. Adey was sure from the call patterns that Butt must have attended this mosque and known someone else who did.

Time was running out for Anderson. She had no choice but to ring the number.

‘Hello?' The voice was male, Asian.

Adey took the plunge: ‘Oh, hello, who is this?'

‘Who are
you
?'

‘I'm a friend of Heena Butt.'

‘How did you get this number?'

‘I haven't seen her for ages. Is she OK?'

Silence. Then: ‘Where are you?'

‘At the mosque.'

‘I will meet you there tomorrow at eleven and I will explain. OK?'

‘I'm very worried, can't we meet today?'

‘No, I'm sorry, not today.' He hung up.

Adey breathed out. What was she doing? Who was this guy? And why the hell was she putting herself in danger by agreeing to meet him?

She decided not to mention it to the others.

The last prosecution witness was the officer in the case – Taylor. Hussain was apprehensive about cross-examining a detective who, days ago, had interviewed him on a charge of murder.

Once Stapleton had established the basics of the defendant's arrest and charge, she tendered him for cross-examination.

Hussain began: ‘There is one very important unanswered question in this case, isn't there, officer?'

‘What's that?'

‘Who was the lady that died in the defendant's car?'

‘It's certainly unanswered. No disrespect to the deceased, but I don't know if it's important. We think her name was Heena Butt.'

‘You are assuming that from a library card found in her belongings?'

‘That's right.'

‘Do you know anything else about her at all? Her job, anything?'

‘Afraid not. Her flat was located today, but it took that part of the investigation no further forward.' Taylor was almost sympathetic to the defence on this. He was an old-school bobby. He more than anyone was uncomfortable with knowing nothing about the deceased, whether or not it had any relevance to the issues for the jury. ‘Believe me, we've tried.'

Hussain chose not to belittle him in front of the jury, or even to point out that it was the defence who found Butt's flat. It wouldn't help Anderson. ‘What about her phone? We know some numbers were extracted – four, I think? What enquiries did you make?'

‘Yes, they were all pay-as-you-go, unregistered. We rang the one number that was still in use and left a message. No one called back. That's as far as we could take it.'

‘That's odd isn't it? Three of the four numbers in her contacts no longer in use. Could that indicate a criminal network was operating?'

‘Pure speculation,' interrupted the judge. ‘Don't answer that, officer.'

Hussain moved on: ‘Did you check missing persons for a Heena Butt?'

‘Of course. There was no match. I should add that we used the date of birth on the library card and ran a trace through the electoral role and all other lists at our disposal. Nothing.'

‘Possibly a foreign national then?'

‘Maybe, but she didn't enter our borders using that name – we ran a check.'

‘So you haven't found anyone that knew her?'

‘No, unless you count Mr Anderson, of course.'

On the face of it, the officer had done all he could. Time to change tack. ‘Would you agree that Mr Anderson had a lot of enemies – because of his job as a prosecution barrister?'

‘Quite possibly.'

‘He even reported receiving anonymous threats by phone whilst awaiting trial?'

‘Yes, that goes with the job. His and mine.'

‘You didn't find out who that person was?'

‘No, sir.'

‘This note was found in the deceased's handbag: “John Anderson, Spinningfields Chambers – 05 man.” Have you any idea what that means?'

‘No, sir, we don't.' Taylor's frustration was evident. ‘Look, if you are trying to say someone else was responsible for this car crash, then I need to know in what way? Give me something to go on.'

The judge peered at Hussain over his spectacles. ‘Is that what you are saying?'

‘It is, Your Honour, but we cannot provide that information because the defendant has no recollection of events.'

‘Ah, yes of course,' came His Honour Judge Cranston's cynical reply.

‘And why doesn't Mr Anderson know who his passenger was?' said Taylor. ‘If that's true then it makes it very difficult for us to investigate his claims that he didn't fall asleep or get distracted somehow.'

Hussain decided to cut his losses and sit down. He would have to rely on the Crown's unreliable evidence of tiredness from Tilly and Connor, and a good performance from Anderson in the box. Or was that wishful thinking?

Once the judge had risen for the day, Hussain went over the day's events with his client in a conference room. Anderson was wired. Too much to consider: Tilly, Connor, the text message, the prospect of giving evidence the following day. The pressure on both men was becoming unbearable. Anderson was a day or two away from years in prison, locked up with countless men he'd put there. Hussain imparted some advice to his client: ‘Get a good night's sleep tonight, John. You could be in the box for some time. Need your wits about you. Remember, don't answer back with a question. Don't be arrogant, the jury will hate that. And you need to come across as scared − terrified even.'

‘That won't be hard,' Anderson replied. ‘Could we get verdicts tomorrow?'

‘Possibly. Certainly speeches and summing up.'

‘Might try and see the boys tonight. Might be my last chance for a long time.'

‘If the worst happens, they could visit you?'

‘Definitely not!' Anderson snapped, then apologised. ‘I couldn't bear for them to see me like that.' He sighed. ‘Thanks for everything, Tahir. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Hussain watched what was left of John Anderson shuffle out and down the stairs. He knew then that a guilty verdict would finish him. Not just his career, but the man.

A light smattering of snow coated the square outside the courts. Anderson took deliberate steps to avoid slipping. The crisp evening air stung his ears.

Bradford Interchange was bustling with commuters heading back to Halifax, Ilkley, Huddersfield and the surrounding towns. A row of makeshift stalls, manned by undernourished Asian men selling second-hand shoes, lined the entrance. Up the escalator and onto the platform, the 5.13 was about to leave. He hobbled alongside the train and in through the first door. Standing room only. Once inside the relative peace and quiet of the carriage he realised his mobile was ringing. A feeling of dread. Was it him again? The display revealed a number – the same one. ‘Hello, what do you want?'

‘Another bad day at the office?'

The voice was unfamiliar, but definitely Mancunian and possibly the same person that rang before. As with the text, Anderson was at the station. Was he here on the train, watching? He took in the myriad of faces. He shouted into the phone: ‘Who are you?'

A few passengers looked over at Anderson.

The caller responded with laughter. Then: ‘Mr Anderson, I wanted to be the person to tell you.'

‘Tell me what?'

‘Your children are dead. I ate them.'

Anderson's blood ran cold. Everything slowed down. The words tripped across his brain, again and again. No! He terminated the call. Hands shaking, he rang Mia. Was he awake or in a dream? A nightmare? Ringing out. Directed to voicemail.

He rang again.

Waiting.

At last, she answered.

‘Mia, it's John.'

‘Oh, hello. What do you—'

‘Where are the kids?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Where are the kids?'

‘Don't speak to me like that.'

‘I'm sorry, please.' Trying to control himself: ‘Are they OK? What are they doing?'

‘Playing in the garden. We had a bit of snow.'

‘Check on them, please. I'll wait while you do it.'

Sensing the urgency, Mia's tone changed to one of concern. ‘Why, what is it?'

‘Just do it!'

‘You're scaring me.'

Anderson could hear Mia open the back door. ‘Boys, can you come in for a minute?'

He pushed the phone hard against his ear. Was she talking to them?

Mia's voice: ‘Boys, where are you?'

No response.

‘Can you see them?'

‘No.'

Anderson's body began to shake.

‘John, they're not here!' Panic. ‘Where are they?'

‘Oh my God. No, please. God, no.' Anderson slumped against the compartment door.

‘John?'

He tried to think. ‘Ring the police. Someone's been making threats.'

‘What? Who? Why didn't you tell me?' She yelled out: ‘Angus! Will! Oh, it's all right. They
are
here, on the Xbox.'

Relief. Anderson's face cracked up. Dropping his hands, he slid down the side of the carriage until he hit the floor. His head fell into his free hand. After a few moments he put the phone back to his face. ‘Don't bother to pack, just get in the car and take the boys. Go to—' He checked himself and instinctively looked around him at prying eyes. ‘Just go away for a few days. Call me when you are out of town.'

‘But, John?'

‘Just do it.'

‘OK.' She hung up.

Anderson put his hands over his head, pressed his fingers into his scalp and let out uncontrolled guttural groans.

Some passengers moved away. Those sitting at a safe distance gawped.

He closed his eyes. Jumbled thoughts, daydreams, faces; Angus and Will, Adey, Waqar Ahmed, Tredwell, Heena Butt's lifeless body. Little Molly Granger. Overload.

‘Mr Anderson, are you all right?' DI Taylor patted him gently on the shoulder.

Anderson stared at him, face blank.

Taylor helped him to his feet just before the doors opened – Halifax. A mass exodus of commuters freed up some seats. ‘Come on, sit down over here,' said Taylor.

Snapping out of the initial shock, Anderson blurted: ‘Officer you must help me, I'm begging you, for my children.' He gave a rambling account of the call and the text that morning.

Taylor had to slow him down a few times, just to make sense of it. Anderson was utterly convincing. One only had to look at him. If it was an elaborate lie, why do it after Taylor had already given evidence? This was real all right, and threats towards children was a different matter. More than just turning up at the zoo. And knowing what he did now about Martin Tredwell, Taylor resolved to step up all efforts to find him.

It took the rest of the train journey, but Taylor managed to bring Anderson back from the edge of the abyss. He calmed him with the logical point that it was all a wind-up by some disgruntled former defendant. After all, the boys were alive. Taylor spent the rest of the journey distracting him with small talk. He couldn't help but think how odd it all was – to be counselling the defendant in a case he had investigated. No doubt about it, he liked Anderson. There was a question he couldn't resist though: ‘One thing I can't understand: you are so establishment. You come from a dynasty of legal royalty. Why use someone as shady as Tahir Hussain to defend you?'

Anderson's intense gaze held Taylor's for a moment. ‘He turned out to be the best friend I've got.'