Die Twice (16 page)

‘He will do. Now that we've got the shirt he was wearing when he killed her. Covered in her blood.'

Capper looked far too self-satisfied for my liking. It was hard enough speaking to him when he was having a bad day, well nigh impossible when he was having a good one. I said to the room in general that it was a piece of very good news, smiled as if I'd just been told I had a really big cock, and sat down at my desk. Malik followed me and seated himself on the other side.

I looked at him with surprise. ‘Shit, that all happened fast. When did you hear about it?'

‘I saw it on Teletext first thing this morning and came straight in. That was a couple of hours ago.'

‘Who found the shirt, then?'

‘We got a tip-off. Apparently one of Wells's girls called in last night and said that Wells had admitted to her that he'd killed Miriam Fox and dumped the clothes nearby. They did another search of the area and found the shirt. It went off to forensics in the early hours of this morning. The preliminary tests show an exact match between the blood on the shirt and Miriam Fox's blood.'

‘That was quick.'

‘Time's of the essence, isn't it? By lunchtime we'll have already had him for twenty-four hours.'

‘So it's not a done thing yet?'

‘No, but it looks like it's going to go that way. It's definitely the murderer's shirt and we've got a good link between it and Wells.'

‘Who was the caller? Did she give a name?'

Malik shook his head. ‘No, but you can't blame her, can you? She's not going to want any publicity.'

I nodded slowly and lit a cigarette. It was a fair point.

‘What's up, Sarge? You don't look totally convinced.'

I yawned. ‘Nah, I'm just tired. I didn't sleep too well last night.' I had a bit of a hangover as well. I'd left the pub shortly after Carla had gone but had stopped off at the Chinaman on the way home for a quick one. Unfortunately it had turned into a slow three. ‘You wouldn't do an old man a favour, would you?'

‘That old man being you?'

‘That's right.'

‘What is it you want?'

‘A bacon sandwich and a nice cup of tea.' He gave me a dirty look. ‘Please, Asif, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency.'

‘You've got to change your diet, Sarge. You eat nothing but crap.'

‘Well, get me an apple as well.' I fished into the pocket of my suit and brought out two pound coins. ‘Please. Call it a personal favour. I won't ask again, I promise.'

He took the money reluctantly, checking that no-one was watching, and got up. ‘This is a one-off, Sarge. Remember that. It's only because you look so bloody rough that I'm agreeing.'

‘Your pity will be rewarded,' I told him piously.

When he'd gone, I started to think about this new development. I hadn't slept well because I'd been thinking about my conversation with Anne and the possibility that there was some sort of serial killer on the loose targeting underage prostitutes. It was a flight-of-fancy theory, really. Though they make ideal fictional villains and endless fodder for real-life documentaries, in reality serial killers are as rare as dinosaur turds. If there were more than two operating in this whole country of close to sixty million people at any one time, I'd be extremely surprised. But I suppose these things do occasionally happen, and if such a man was at work he'd picked the right sort of place and the right sort of victims to keep himself concealed. The only thing was, if Molly Hagger and any other girls had fallen victim to this man, where were the bodies? And why was Miriam Fox's left in such an obvious location?

These were the questions that had prevented me getting anywhere near the seven hours' slumber I need to function at what passes for optimum efficiency. I'd even managed to incorporate Carla Graham into the various theories and trains of thought I'd tossed about my brain. In the better ones, I'd solve the case, find the killer (even going so far as catching him as he prepared to despatch his latest victim), get a promotion, and end up fucking Carla's brains out.

Fat chance. But at least a man can dream.

The bacon sandwich tasted good anyway, and I was so hungry I even ate the apple down to the core.

At 9.15, Knox came into the incident room with a very tired-looking Welland. Welland sat down immediately and it looked like he needed to. Knox, meanwhile, addressed the rest of us. ‘We've just told Mark Wells about the latest developments and once again he categorically denies any involvement, but, to use the old phrase, he would say that, wouldn't he? He certainly looks far more worried than he has been. As we all know, he's a cocky bastard, and he's lost a lot of that now. We should get the rest of the results on the shirt later this morning and they'll tell us whether it belongs to Wells or not, although from the way he's behaving, I feel fairly certain it's his.'

‘So we're going to be knocking out the champers later, then?' This was Capper.

Knox smiled. ‘It's far too early even to think about a celebration drink yet. We've done well, very well, and it's been a team effort, but until you hear otherwise, it's still business as usual.'

He strode into his office, leaving Welland where he'd sat down. One of the women DCs asked Welland if he was all right. ‘Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,' he replied. ‘Just a bit under the weather.' Someone suggested that he go home for the day, but he said he'd stick around and wait for Wells to be charged. ‘I want to see that bastard squirm,' he said, with more vigour than I'd have thought his body would allow.

‘He looks terrible,' said Malik quietly, turning to me.

‘Yeah, I know. He should take a few days off. He needs it. And the taxpayer owes him a break. He's done a good job on behalf of society.'

Not that anyone had ever thanked him for it; or any of us, for that matter. It may be that it's not accurate to describe all coppers as unsung heroes, but neither is it fair to view them as the constant villains of the piece, which is usually the way we're portrayed whenever we get a mention on the box. And Welland, more than most, was one of the good guys. He'd put his all into policework, so now he might as well take something back.

‘If I was him, I'd go for early retirement,' said Malik.

‘If I was him, I'd have gone for it ten years ago.'

He gave me a disbelieving smile. ‘No you wouldn't. You enjoy the whole thing too much.'

‘Bullshit I do.'

My phone rang and I had a sudden rush of adrenalin, hoping it was Carla. But if she was the person I most wanted to speak to, then the person on the other end of the line had to be one of those whose voice I least wanted to hear.

‘It's a Jean Ashcroft for you, Mr Milne,' said the civilian receptionist.

Christ, what the hell did she want? ‘Thanks, can you put her through?' There was a pause as she came on the line. ‘Hello, Jean. Long time no speak.'

‘Hello, Dennis. Look, I'm sorry to bother you…' Her tone was strained, formal.

‘It's no problem. No problem at all. What can I do?'

‘It's Danny,' she said. ‘I think he might be in trouble.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Well he phoned me last night and, you know, he never normally phones me, so I knew something wasn't right. He didn't sound himself, Dennis. It was all very strange. I think he'd been drinking, or smoking something, and he was rambling, going on about changing his life, doing something different, saying that it was definitely time to make the break and go … and he said something about having saved up some money, a lot of money.'

‘Maybe he has.'

‘He doesn't have a job, Dennis. He would never have been able to raise a lot of money,' she stopped for a quick sniff, ‘unless he's involved in something. You know, something criminal. That's what I'm worried about. You know what he's like. It would break my mum's heart if anything happened to him again, especially after all that stuff before. And now with Dad gone.'

‘Look, I understand you're worried about him. It's only natural. And I know he's had his brushes with the law, but he hasn't been in trouble for a long time now.' Malik was looking at me quizzically now, but I waved him away, intimating that it wasn't business. Not police business, anyway. He stood up and walked off. ‘I don't think you should let one drunken phone call get you too concerned. Seriously, Jean.'

‘You still see him sometimes, don't you?'

‘Yeah, occasionally, but not as often as I'd like.'

‘You know, whenever we speak, which I know isn't that often, but whenever we do, he always talks about you. I think he looks up to you. Would you do me a favour? Please. I understand what you're saying about not getting too worried, but would you go round and see him, just to check things out? See that he's OK.'

This was all I needed. ‘I really think you're worrying unduly. Danny's no fool. He's done his time. He won't make the same mistake again.'

‘Please, Dennis. I'm sure you're busy, but it would mean a lot if you could just check up on him.'

‘OK, I'll see what I can do, but I'm sure it's nothing.'

‘Thanks. I really appreciate it.' And it sounded like she did.

I took her number in Leeds and said I'd get back to her one way or another in the next few days. We talked for a few moments longer, but the conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. Far too much water had passed under the bridge, and I was happy to hang up. Jean Ashcroft had been a good-looking girl once upon a time, and good company too, but now she was nothing more than a half-forgotten part of my past. Danny had really fucked up by talking to her. He'd seemed fine the other night at the pub quiz. We'd had a few drinks, a few laughs, and had even come a close second to the winners, and when I'd left him he'd been OK. Not exactly full of the joys of spring, but OK nevertheless. It was clear, however, that being cooped up at home for much of the time, with just himself for company, was making him seriously paranoid, and that was dangerous. Fuck knows what he'd do if they ever really got close. I was going to have to give him a good talking to. Knock some sense into him. Get him to calm down.

What was it that American president once said? The only thing we have to fear is fear. Well, Danny feared fear, and it was beginning to make him a liability.

14

At 11.55 that morning the results from the lab came back confirming that hair samples found on the shirt belonged to Mark Wells, and that it could safely be surmised that the shirt belonged to him.

At 12.10, the questioning of Mark Wells by DCI Knox and DI Welland recommenced. The suspect still denied any involvement in the crime and became hysterical when told of the new evidence against him, at one point attempting to assault both the officers present. He had to be physically restrained before questioning could continue. His solicitor then requested some time alone with his client to discuss these new developments, and this was granted.

At 12.35, the questioning once again resumed, Wells's solicitor sticking to the position that his client had had nothing to do with the murder of Miriam Fox. However, neither he nor Wells could offer any realistic explanation as to why the shirt had been found so close to the murder scene covered in the victim's blood. Wells suggested that it must have been stolen.

At 1.05, twenty-seven-year-old Mark Jason Wells was formally charged with the murder of eighteen-year-old Miriam Ann Fox. For the second time that day, he had to be physically restrained from attacking his interrogators. During the ensuing altercation, his solicitor was accidentally struck in the face by Wells and required medical treatment for a bloody nose. In a rare moment of wit, DS Capper later claimed this to be a double result for the Metropolitan Police.

At 2.25, still a little sleepy from my canteen lunch of lasagne and garden vegetables, I was called into Knox's office.

Knox was sitting behind his spotless desk looking serious, which surprised me a little under the circumstances. ‘Hello, Dennis. Thanks for coming in. Sit down.' He waved to a seat. ‘You've heard the news, then?'

‘About charging Wells? Yes, sir, DI Welland told me.'

‘DI Welland's had to go home, I'm afraid.'

‘He didn't look too good, sir, I have to admit.'

‘He isn't, I'm afraid. In fact, he hasn't been his best for some time.' I didn't say anything, so he continued. ‘He went for some tests a couple of weeks ago and he received the results this morning.' I felt a mild sense of dread. Knox sighed loudly. ‘He only told me after we'd charged Wells. I'm afraid DI Welland has prostate cancer. There's going to be an official announcement this afternoon.'

‘Jesus.' What a day. ‘I knew something was wrong but I didn't think it would be anything like that. How bad is it?'

‘Well, it's cancer, so it's bad. As to whether it's terminal or not, I don't know. Neither do the doctors. A lot depends on how he responds to treatment and his overall attitude.'

‘There won't be anything wrong with that. The DI's a fighter.'

I suddenly felt like crying, which is something I haven't done in a long, long time. It was the injustice of it all. Here was a man who for thirty years had been trying to do the right thing and he was repaid with a life-threatening illness, while there were criminals and politicians out there who'd spent just as much time trying to line their own pockets and were as healthy as a new heart. The moment passed, and I asked Knox if he minded if I smoked.

‘No-one should really be smoking in here, especially under the circumstances, but go on then.' He watched me light it and told me that I ought to give up. ‘It won't do you any good, you know,' he told me sternly, which was a statement of the obvious if ever I'd heard one. That's the problem with health fascists. They never understand that you know as much about the facts as they do.