On Laughton Moor (12 page)

  ‘Hopefully. I gave them Pollard’s name, she might remember him.’

  ‘We’re bound to have some journalists sniffing round before the day’s much older. There’ll probably be a press conference. We’ll keep the messages out of it, or try to of course. I don’t think Milica Zukic’s name should be mentioned either, if we can help it.’

   ‘We’re definitely not considering her as a suspect?’

  ‘Obviously we can’t rule her out completely, but as we’ve said, I don’t think so. There’s no way she could have killed Pollard either, if her story is true.’

  ‘Do you think it might be to our advantage if we let the press know there was a possible witness in the back of the van that Kent was driving though? Not mention a name, as you say, but. . .’ asked Bishop.

  ‘Try to rattle our man you mean?’

  ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘It’s a good idea. No doubt DCI Kendrick will want a chat soon anyway, I should think he’ll want to handle the press conference, probably the Super too.’

Bishop rolled her eyes a little, and Knight pretended he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘A double murder . . . we don’t have many of those around here, the press will be panting for some information. Might even make the national news.  Good job the DCI has his suit handy.’

  ‘With all the buttons attached.’

20

Keith Kendrick was still making his presence felt in the incident room as Knight opened the door. Kendrick spotted him immediately and beckoned to him. Knight managed a half smile and joined Kendrick and Cuthbert in the middle of the room.

  ‘DI Knight, just the man. How are we doing?’

Knight told him.

  ‘Superintendent Stringer and I will be holding a press conference at four this afternoon. The Super will want to talk to you before then, I’m presuming we expect to have some results from speaking to the Pollards and the rest?’

  ‘Yes, I would hope so. What about Milica Zukic?’

Kendrick raised his eyebrows.

  ‘What about her? I see the need to keep her safe . . . it would be a feather in our cap to shut down a gang of people traffickers, pimps and forced prostitutes as well as solve the Pollard and Kent murders. Wouldn’t be a bad way to introduce yourself to Lincolnshire, Jonathan.’ Knight made a neutral sound that Kendrick chose to interpret as acquiescence. ‘We’ve had hundreds of journalists wanting to know what’s going on, they’ll have to wait though. Let’s hope we have something concrete for them by four so we don’t have to cap in hand asking them to help us out.’

Knight, who had raised his eyebrows at Kendrick’s “hundreds” of journalists, made the neutral noise again and tried to move away without appearing to do so. Kendrick noticed.

  ‘I’ll set up a meeting with the Super at three o’clock. Her office again, I’ll see you there.’

To the relief of Knight, Cuthbert and everyone else in the room, Kendrick marched out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ said Cuthbert. ‘Now, what was I doing before I was interrupted?’

Knight finally had the opportunity to wander around the room, absorbing everything. He’d seen little of DS Cuthbert before but Bishop had said he was a conscientious officer and the usual choice for the key role of running an incident room. Knight paused to read the notes on the whiteboards, Cuthbert watching his progress without appearing to do so. Knight, seemingly satisfied, wandered out of the room. Cuthbert, astounded, turned to one of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Did you see that? He comes in, struts around then saunters off, doesn’t even bother to speak to me! I’ve worked my arse off this morning to get this lot set up, and he just . . . ’

The PC tuned him out, concentrated on the screen in front of her. This had the makings of a long day.

Bishop peered around the open door. The room beyond was small, but was filled with so much clutter and boxes of files that at first she couldn’t see whether anyone was in there or not.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

There was a rustling sound and a figure emerged from behind a bookcase. It was the woman from the briefing room.

  ‘Hello, are you looking for me?’

Bishop cleared her throat.

  ‘Claire Weyton? I spoke to DI Foster earlier, he said you might be able to help me. I’m Catherine Bishop, I think we met in the briefing room? I stood on you . . . ’

  ‘Good to meet you again.’ Claire Weyton grinned. She was a little taller than Bishop, not that it took much, with glossy dark hair and high cheekbones, her eyes that vivid blue. Bishop couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t noticed her around the station, but then if she had been working in this dungeon for the past few months, it was no real surprise. No one came down here unless they absolutely had to, it was like the land that time forgot. Claire Weyton held out a hand and Bishop shook it, Claire’s grip firm, her hand warm. Bishop blinked a little.

  ‘How can I help?’ Claire asked.

Pulling herself together, Bishop said:

  ‘I need any information you can find about a raid that may have been planned on a property that was being used as a brothel where trafficked women were being held.’

  ‘And this place is in Northolme? Nothing springs to mind, but I can check for you.’

Bishop waved a hand helplessly.

  ‘The problem is, we don’t know exactly where. It probably isn’t in Northolme, we think it could be somewhere else in the county. I have a few names that might help narrow the search down a little?’

  ‘Right. Well, I have my laptop set up over there, there’s just room for a desk, believe it or not. Shall we have a look?’

  ‘That would be great.’

They made their way through the mess, squeezing around the bookcase.

  ‘There’s only one chair, I’m afraid.’ Claire said, turning to look at Bishop.

  ‘Oh, it’s fine, you need to sit to use the computer.’ Bishop replied hastily.

  ‘Thank you. Let me just close all of this down,’ she said, her hands moving fluidly over the keyboard as she settled in the grubby looking desk chair.  ‘Okay. You said you had some names?’

  ‘Yes, but if I’m honest, what I have is a little bit thin. I only have the name of one of the women who was working there, plus two of the people that were holding them: Milica Zukic, Ivona and Ron.’

Claire Weyton paused, gazing up at Bishop.

  ‘And that’s all?’ she asked gently. Bishop nodded.

  ‘That’s all,’ she confirmed miserably. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, I like a challenge. I’ll write the names down then have a hunt around, see what I can come up with?’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Anything you can find that might help would be a bonus.’ Bishop stepped back, bumping into the bookcase behind her.

  ‘I’ll see you later then, DS Bishop.’

  ‘You will – and call me Catherine.’

Claire Weyton smiled, already turning back to her computer. Bishop hesitated for a second, then made her way carefully out of the room.

Bishop peered through the hatch in the door of the cell she’d led Milica Zukic to earlier, feeling a little uncomfortable about doing so. Zukic hadn’t been arrested and there was no real suspicion that she done anything wrong other than believe the words of a relative she should have been able to trust. Zukic lay on the blue plastic covered mattress on her side, face to the wall, head pillowed on her arm. The custody sergeant opened the cell door, and Bishop entered, closely followed by the interpreter, Doctor Whelan, who had volunteered to spend the rest of the day working on his laptop in the station canteen in case his services were required again. From the jam on his jacket it also looked to Bishop as if he’d found the time to sample a couple of doughnuts whilst he was there; she’d fallen foul of their explosions herself more than once. Zukic sat up, startled, then turned so she sat on the bunk and smiled warily at them. She looked exhausted, thin and very young. Bishop held up the sheaf of photocopies she carried, and said to Whelan:

‘Please can you tell Milica I need her to look at these photographs and tell me if she recognises anyone? I might have more photos later for her to look at too.’

Whelan nodded eagerly and approached Zukic, smiling and waving his hands as he spoke. Zukic listened, head tilted to the left and then replied. Whelan turned back to Bishop.

  ‘She said that’s fine, she just wants to help. She wants to know what will happen to her.’

Bishop tried to add reassurance to the smile she offered Zukic.

  ‘I honestly don’t know, I’m afraid.’

Whelan spoke again to Zukic, who smiled thinly back at Bishop and stood up.

  ‘Do you want her to look at the pictures here, or . . . ?’

  ‘I think we need a little more room.’ said Bishop, glancing around the tiny cell. They always gave her the creeps. She led Whelan and Zukic back through to the main station, then to a small room that was usually a place for visiting solicitors to wait. Zukic dropped into a chair, looking expectantly at Bishop, who took the seat opposite. She held up the first mugshot, a balding, obese man who glared fiercely at the camera. Zukic shook her head. This went on for some time. Bishop had only four photos left, when the one she held up to Zukic caused the young woman to stare, face paling. She leant towards Bishop, holding out her hand to take the paper. Bishop handed it to her, and she gazed at it, visibly distressed. Bishop waited expectantly, and Zukic spoke, her voice low and panicked. Bishop didn’t need Whelan to translate the word “Vuk”. Elated, she checked her notes. The man was Donald Woffenden, fifty one. He lived about twenty miles from Northolme. Don then, not Ron. This seemed far too good to be true. She asked Whelan to check that Zukic was sure, that this was definitely the man she called the Vuk, the man who she had met on her first full day in Britain, who had transported her to the house she had been forced to stay in. Zukic was emphatic, vehement almost – this was the man. Bishop leapt out of her chair, stuck her head out into the corridor and grabbed the nearest person, asking him to track down DI Knight. She quickly showed her remaining photos to Zukic, but again, more apologetic headshakes. Bishop didn’t mind, she had her golden egg. Knight appeared, expression confused.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Milica has just confirmed this,’ she waved the picture in Knight’s face, ‘is the man she told us about, the Vuk.’

Knight grabbed the photo, studied it.

  ‘She’s sure?’

  ‘Positive, sir, she’s certain.’

They both span around as footsteps hurried down the corridor towards them. It was Claire Weyton, a sheet of paper in her hand, her expression eager.

  ‘Sergeant Bishop? I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I’ve found something. The man you called Ron? There’s a Don Woffenden who we suspect of being involved in that kind of activity – we’ve not been able to really get anything on him as yet, but . . . ’ She glanced from Bishop to Knight and paused as realisation dawned. ‘Oh. You already know, don’t you?’

  ‘Only just.’ Bishop reassured her. ‘Milica Zukic recognised him from a mugshot. I was going to come straight down to let you know.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep looking?’ Weyton asked them.

  ‘Yes, for now,’ Knight said. ‘Catherine will let you know if we get useful information from Woffenden – it might take a while to find him.’

  ‘Okay – I’ll grab a cup of coffee and get back to it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Knight called after her. He turned back to Bishop and said: ‘Let’s bring him in.’

21

DC Varcoe approached Bishop, who was pacing the incident room floor, waiting for the message to say that Donald Woffenden had arrived in the interview room. Bishop didn’t see her, almost knocked her over as she turned at speed.

  ‘Sorry, Anna, bit distracted. What have you got?’ In her excitement, she’d forgotten where Varcoe had been.

  ‘Steve Kent didn’t go to school with Craig Pollard, I spoke to that teacher, checked the records, it was pretty clear that wasn’t our link, so I went to the Pollard’s house again. Reception was a bit less frosty this time, I was even offered a cup of tea. I persuaded Mrs Pollard to get a few old photos out, Craig in the football team, Craig in the pub pool team before he was old enough to drink, all that sort of thing, but no luck. However,’ she looked pleased with herself, ‘Mr Pollard gave me the name of the bloke who used to run the youth club Craig went to for a while – before he got chucked out, anyway. I found him, retired now, and guess what, he remembers Craig Pollard and Steve Kent being mates. Seems they met at the club, Kent lived out of town. He gave me a few more names, too, I’m going to run them through the computer now, see what falls out.’

  ‘Good work, Anna, let me know how it goes please. Sounds like you’ve got the Pollards wrapped around your little finger now then?’

Varcoe smiled over her shoulder as she made for the door.

  ‘Not sure about that, but they’ve definitely calmed down a bit.’

Bishop heard a mobile ringing and in the hubbub of the incident room it was a few seconds before she realised it was hers. She managed to get it to her ear before the voicemail cut in.

  ‘Catherine Bishop.’

  ‘It’s DS Etheridge here from West Yorkshire?’ Male, gruff voice, didn’t really want to be making the call.

  ‘Oh, right, hello.’

  ‘You wanted us to find the sister of a victim for you, break the news?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, we’ve done that. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She says she’s got some information she wants to share with whoever’s investigating her brother’s death, and that’s not us, so she won’t talk.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  ‘I know, but that’s the way it is.’ Etheridge interrupted. ‘Do you want her details?’

  ‘Go on then.’ Bishop stepped quickly to a nearby desk, fumbling for a pen and scrap of paper. She scribbled down the information and Etheridge was gone.

  ‘What a charming man.’ Bishop said in a posh voice to herself. Receiving the call had reminded her that she hadn’t replied to Louise’s text message and that she had better do it now while her phone was still in her hand and she had a spare few seconds. She type
d
Case moving, could be very late, will keep u posted C
x
  She took a deep breath and put the phone away.

I wonder if she ever smiles properly?
Knight thought, nodding firmly at whatever Superintendent Stringer had just said about the fast approaching press conference.

  ‘So this Mr Woffenden is on his way in?’ asked Kendrick.

  ‘Should arrive any minute.’

  ‘Can I just be sure I understand why we want to speak to him?’ Stringer took a sip of water from a crystal tumbler that sat by her elbow. ‘Our witness saw Woffenden in the house she was kept prisoner in, and we therefore think there may be a motive for him to kill Steven Kent?’

  ‘At this stage, we just want to find out what he knows. We want to know about the brothel he was allegedly involved with, not to mention the people trafficking, prostitution . . . ’ Knight shrugged.

  ‘According to Intelligence, he’s been a person of interest for quite some time.’

  ‘That’s right.’

The phone by Stringer’s perfectly manicured hand rang, and she lifted the receiver to her ear.

  ‘Thank you.’ she said, and replaced the receiver looking at Knight. ‘Mr Woffenden is downstairs.’

Knight met Bishop in the dimly lit corridor of the interview suite, though Bishop had always thought suite quite a flattering term for the straggle of grim little rooms.

  ‘He’s in Two.’ she said to Knight. ‘Milica Zukic had a look at him through the two way mirror, she’s sure it’s him. He’s not too happy to be here.’

Knight opened the door.

  ‘Finally. Are you going to tell me what the fuck I’m doing here, or do I have to guess?’

Woffenden stared aggressively at them as they took their seats. Bishop started the recording, stated her name and rank and the date and time. Knight confirmed his own identity, Woffenden shuffling in his seat impatiently before grudgingly saying his name.

  ‘So what’s this about?’

Knight leant back in his chair, calm and relaxed.

  ‘Mr Woffenden, do you know a man called Steven Kent?’

Woffenden glared.

  ‘Kent? No. Is that it? You could have phoned and asked me that.’

  ‘What about a woman called Ivona?’

  ‘Called what? What are you on about?’

  ‘Ivona. A woman. Do you know of any women called Ivona?’

  ‘No I bloody don’t. What is this?’

  ‘It’s known as an interview, Mr Woffenden. Looking at your record, I can see you’ve sat through several in the past, I’m surprised you don’t recognise the experience.’

Woffenden sat back, mirroring Knight.

   ‘Well,’ he said, ‘aren’t you clever?’ He smiled to himself.

  ‘I’ll ask you again. Do you know Steven Kent, or a woman called Ivona?’

  ‘And I’ll tell you again, no I fucking don’t.’

   ‘Didn’t you want legal representation, Mr Woffenden?’

  ‘You what? Why should I? I know I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Bishop stared at Woffenden, a horrible realisation dawning. She opened the file she held on her lap, discreetly examining the mugshot of Woffenden
. Oh, shit
she thought.

  ‘Mr Woffenden,’ she said. ‘Do you have any tattoos?’

  ‘Tattoos? No, no way. Not a fan of needles. My twin brother’s got a few, a huge one his chest,’ Bishop winced, ‘but not me. I was ill a lot as a young lad, had no end of blood taken, put me right off. You going to tell me what that has to do with anything?’ Knight looked like he wanted to ask the same question. Bishop sighed, told the tape recorder the interview was stopped and the time, and led a bewildered Knight out of the room. In the corridor, she stabbed at the mugshot with her finger.

  ‘Look, you can see the top of a tattoo here, where his shirt collar starts. We’ve got the wrong man, we need his brother.’

Knight groaned as realisation dawned.

  ‘How the hell have we managed that?’

Bishop shook her head.

  ‘It’s my fault, I should have checked.’

  ‘How were you supposed to know he had a twin brother? What are the odds? We can’t blame Milica, she wasn’t to know either, or Claire Weyton, come to that.’

  ‘I doubt the DCI and the Super will see it like that.’

  ‘Looks like the Mr Woffenden we have through there has done his brother a big favour then.’

  ‘Seems so.’

They went back in, resumed the interview for the tape.

  ‘So where’s your brother?’ Knight said.

Woffenden grinned.

  ‘You mean Ron? No idea, mate, I’ve not seen him for weeks. I’ve been minding his flat for him, and when your brave boys in blue came looking for Mr Woffenden, I naturally did what any good citizen would, and came quietly.’