It helps if you know who you want to speak to, and which station they are based at.
Dermott Pitt would be more familiar with who to approach and what to tell them, but in his absence I wanted to do something tangible for Luke.
At the desk I asked to talk to someone from the Serious Crimes section. Before I got any further I had to give my name, address and date of birth. I then explained that I had new information that could materially affect the charges against Luke Wallace, on remand for murder. The desk sergeant took it all down and then disappeared through a door.
I waited. Read a wall full of Crime Prevention posters and Wanted posters and waited some more. When he returned he asked me to go with him. We went through the door and into a small room immediately to the left. An interview room? I waited a few more minutes then I was joined by a Detective Sergeant Hatton. He wasn’t familiar with the details of the case so I did a quick résumé and then explained what I’d found out. Namely that the murder weapon belonged to one of the friends who had run away from home and was in hiding, and that there were inconsistencies in the statements given by the witnesses and even a question as to whether one of them had actually been present.
‘Based on?’
‘Well, hearsay at present, but I’m sure it could be proved.’
He grunted and rubbed his close cut beard. Had I informed the brief for the defence?
‘Not yet.’ Trying hard.
He suggested I did so. The brief could then apply through the appropriate channels for the case to be reviewed. ‘Sounds as though there may be some grounds there, the knife particularly, but they may decide to go ahead with the trial and debate the issues in full court anyway.’
And leave Luke on remand?
‘We could have you in, take a full statement, go through it all with you, but it wouldn’t guarantee a result any quicker than using the legals. That’s your best bet.’
No riding out on a white horse to rescue Luke from Golborne tonight then. I was disappointed. I’d been hoping for more decisive and compassionate action.
I had left a message at Rebecca Henderson’s office on the Friday afternoon after my antics with Debbie Gosport. I wanted to cover my back so I made sure that the firm knew what had transpired, understood how badly Debbie’s health was being affected and what advice I’d given her and her brother. I also informed Rebecca that the harassment now included assault, which would be significant in bringing any court action against G.
I was narked that I hadn’t stuck with the stalker; he’d have received his papers by now if I had, but at the time I’d been convinced that Debbie’s need was paramount.
Ricky rang late on Monday afternoon to let me know that Debbie and the children were staying with a friend in Chorlton. More letters had come to the house and he had intercepted them. Did I want to see them? Not particularly, but I asked him to hold onto them for evidence. The doctor had seen Debbie and changed her medication.
‘Is it helping?’
‘She’s half-asleep,’ he said, ‘but at least she’s not wired up like she was. She was up all night after you went, rabbiting on. Doin’ my head in an’ all.’
‘I’m glad she’s out of there, and that someone’s with her.’
‘Don’t know how long she’ll stay,’ he said. ‘She likes her own place, everything just so – you seen it.’
‘Yeah. Ricky, there’s a chance that the stalker will find out where she is and follow her again. Don’t frighten Debbie, but tell her friend to keep an eye out and ring me if there’s any sign. Make sure she’s got my number.’
‘She has. But how would he do that, find out where she is?’
‘Not difficult. Wait at school, see where she goes…’
An intake of breath. ‘Bastard.’
‘It might not happen. Next time he surfaces I’ll follow him home.’
‘Next time,’ he sneered.
I kept my voice even. ‘Ricky, I’ve not done it yet but that’s not because I’m no good at my job and it’s not because he’s particularly clever. It’s just been a run of unfortunate circumstances.’ And your sister’s vanishing act hadn’t exactly helped.
He grunted. Not convinced.
I didn’t waste any more breath.
The day had been exhausting and little fragments from my meeting with Luke, my encounter with Mrs Siddiq and my visit to the police kept floating into my mind. I didn’t want to be thinking about work. After tea I got a big map of Wales out and some old camping guides. I showed Maddie some of the places we could go.
‘We haven’t even got a tent, Mummy,’ she said scornfully.
‘We can borrow one. Harry and Bev have got one.’
‘Ring them now, ask if we can.’
‘Of course,’ said Harry, to my delight, ‘we’re not using it.’
‘Given up the outdoor life?’ I joked.
‘No, just prefer the warmer climes.’
I tutted. ‘All right for those who can afford it.’
Harry and Bev had struggled financially for years, both working part-time so they could share raising their two boys. Then Harry had got bitten by the investigative journalist bug, which meant long hours and not much more money. He’d begun to use computers as a tool for accessing commercial and business information; then he discovered the Internet and never looked back. Bev meanwhile had an unexpected pregnancy, and a third son came along. She never went back to her job and Harry began to rake it in, helping businesses get on the Net.
Sometimes they still seemed bemused by the radical change in their circumstances and their bank balance.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘You’re bound to let it slip when I’m least expecting it.’
‘Saint Lucia, for three weeks.’
I groaned. ‘So, the tent?’
‘I’ll ferret it out and all its bits for you, and drop them over some time next week.’
‘Thanks.’
Maddie was delighted. Though, worryingly for me, her view of what we were heading for was coloured by romantic notions from her books and videos.
‘We can catch fish, Mummy,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and make a fire and cook them.’
‘We’ll see.’ The classic get-out.
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday. I hadn’t had a swim for a week so went along to the early bird session as Ray could take the children to school. It was crowded and I couldn’t build up the pace I wanted because I had to do so much dodging and weaving to avoid kicking someone in the groin or getting raked by a full set of toenails.
They cleared the pool, just before nine, ready for the schools to use. I could hear the whine of a drill and someone whistling. They were having some building work done at the baths, taking down an old outhouse at the back and strengthening the roof and back wall. The drill stopped and silence descended. In my cubicle I took off my goggles and got out my towel.
Boom! The vibrations of the almighty thump that followed the explosion went right through me. I put my arms up to shelter my head, using my towel for extra protection. Not here, not now, I prayed. They can’t bomb here! My neck burned, there were spasms in my stomach. I held my breath and waited for the fallout, shivering, clammy with chlorine and sweat which prickled my armpits and broke onto my arms and sides. I was literally frozen with fear.
It was maybe a minute before intellect kicked in. No screams, no alarms, no bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Demolition, not a bomb. Relief brought a new wave of sweat and shivering, I found my shower gel and walked unsteadily to the shower. My knees felt weak. I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, rubbing my legs, arms, stomach and shoulders vigorously, trying to take the gooseflesh away. By the time I was dressed, a crocodile of children were already filing into the place, chattering away, excitement breaking like bubbles and echoing round the room.