The lupine grin returned. ‘Yeah. And she stayed all night.’
Patrick felt a terrible weariness come over him. Barrett had an alibi. And Patrick had no Plan B. ‘We’ll need to talk to her, get her to confirm this.’
Now Shawn looked worried. ‘Her boyfriend would go mental if he knew we were seeing each other.’ He named the well-known member of a girl band who was living with a Premiership footballer.
‘Lana Vincent,’ Patrick repeated. ‘We can talk to her discreetly. If she confirms what you’re saying, then . . .’
‘I’m off the hook.’
Patrick nodded reluctantly. This girl-band member was bound to confirm the alibi. Shawn wasn’t the killer. Carmella’s trip to Dublin had been a waste of time and they were no closer to knowing who had killed Rose and Jess. He wanted to punch the wall. But while he was here, he might as well see if he could get any useful information out of his former prime suspect.
‘Shawn,’ he said. ‘Did you ever meet Rose Sharp or Jess McMasters? Did you talk with them online? Ever Snapchat them?’
‘No! Listen, Detective, I honestly never met those girls. I swear. I love my fans. I wouldn’t hurt any of them.’
‘Except for Roisin McGreevy in Dublin?’
‘But she wanted me to do it. She liked it.’ Suddenly, he looked sheepish. ‘I just got carried away, that’s all . . . I didn’t mean to hurt her. I love women. I love my mum. If she found out about me and that girl . . . If she heard what you accused me of. Well, first of all she’d give me a good clout. And then she’d come after you.’
‘He’s not wrong,’ said Rickard. ‘Mrs Barrett is very . . . formidable.’
Patrick thought back to the exchange of messages Graham Burns had shown him. ‘This incident with Roisin. It wasn’t a one-off, was it? I have information about another young woman you took back to your hotel room after a concert at Wembley.’
Rickard jumped in. ‘Again, Detective – Shawn is a red-blooded male. All pop stars get women throwing themselves at them. It would be more unusual if he was celibate.’
Patrick clenched his jaw. Rickard was right. This was getting him nowhere. He decided to change tack.
‘If you love your fans so much, you obviously want us to catch the person who murdered them.’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Have you ever seen anyone suspicious hanging around? Anyone who seems to show an unhealthy interest in young women?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Surely you don’t think it’s someone associated with the band?’ Rickard said. ‘Do you want to know what I reckon?’
Patrick really didn’t, but let Rickard continue.
‘Well, I think we’re dealing with a Charles Manson type. Manson thought he heard messages in The Beatles’ songs, that whole “Helter Skelter” thing. I bet it’s something like that.’
Frustrated by this wasted trip, by the dead end he was staring at now it looked like Shawn Barrett was no longer a suspect, Patrick snapped, ‘How could anyone, crazy or not, hear messages in an OnTarget song? The lyrics are nothing but one cliché about love after another.’
Rickard shrugged. ‘Well, maybe that’s what it’s about. Love.’
Chapter 29
Day 9 – Winkler
Come on, then,’ Winkler said, ignoring the furious beeping from the Beamer he’d just cut up on the roundabout. ‘Describe your ideal woman.’
DS Gareth Batey squirmed in the passenger seat. Maybe he’s gay, Winkler thought. He’d never heard Gareth mention a girlfriend, and he blushed so easily. He glanced at the younger man as they pulled up at a red light. Regulation haircut, no jewellery or tattoos – unlike that poser Lennon – and nothing to suggest Gareth had any kind of life outside the Force. Married to the job; no time for a partner of any kind. Winkler had pretty much ignored Gareth throughout the three or four years they’d worked together. But DS Gareth Batey, Winkler realised, could be useful. His suppressed ambition, his longing to be recognised by the powers-that-be – that was the weak spot Winkler was ready to exploit.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘No, I just . . .’ Gareth laughed nervously. ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable, that’s all.’
Winkler slapped the other man’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not going to report you for political incorrectness. I’m not Lennon. It’s just a bit of banter to make the journey less boring.’ When Gareth didn’t immediately respond, Winkler said, ‘All right, let me tell you about my ideal woman.’
As he went on to detail the cup size and leg length and proclivities of his perfect bird, Winkler could tell that Gareth was desperate to join in. He just needed a little more coaxing.
‘Let me help you. Tell me what you think about Masiello.’
‘Carmella?’ Gareth seemed shocked. ‘But she’s, er, not heterosexual.’
Winkler spluttered with laughter. ‘I’m not saying your ideal woman has to actually let you shag her. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of chick you’re into. I know a lot of women who like men in uniform. I might be able to put a word in for you.’
‘But we’re plain clothes.’
Give me strength, Winkler thought. ‘So you don’t like Irish-Italian redheads, then?’
Gareth blushed.
‘What about blondes? Older blondes? Suzanne Laughland. Would you give her one?’
Gareth’s face went from candyfloss pink to fuchsia. ‘She’s our DCI,’ he spluttered.
‘That hasn’t stopped Lennon from, you know.’ He whistled.
Gareth stared at him as Winkler turned onto the industrial estate where the self-storage unit was based. ‘Patrick and Suzanne?’
‘Yeah, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? How else do you think he gets all the plum jobs? He makes Suzanne promise him all the cushiest assignments while he’s got her bent over her desk.’ Winkler was horrified to feel a twitch in his pants as he pictured this.
‘But Patrick’s married. And so’s the guv.’
Winkler laughed, focusing on the blackheads on Gareth’s nose to make his semi-retreat. ‘What planet did you beam down from, Batey? Firstly, Lennon’s wife’s a baby-battering loony who was locked up for nearly two years. You think our esteemed colleague restricted himself to bashing the bishop while the missus was in her padded cell? And have you ever seen Laughland’s husband? I haven’t. That picture on her desk was probably printed off the Internet. Fake husbands dot com.’
He spotted the yellow sign that told him they’d reached their destination and swerved in front of a lorry, eliciting another angry beep, into the car park.
As he unfastened his seatbelt he leant over conspiratorially. ‘Lennon’s not the man you think he is. Secrets and layers, that’s him. Always thinking strategically. The bloke should have been a politician. Not like me. I’m the kind of guy who’s straight down the line, who says it as I see it.’
He got out of the car, smiling to himself, not waiting for Gareth’s reaction.
‘Right,’ Winkler said, striding towards the building. ‘Let’s see what old Nancy left behind.’
Winkler had spoken to Nancy Marr’s son, George, the previous evening. George told him he was keeping his mother’s possessions in storage because he didn’t have room in his little flat. Mrs Marr’s house was still up for sale, but her son had been advised by the estate agent to move everything out. Winkler had already been through the old woman’s possessions once, when they were still in situ, but he hadn’t looked too closely. And now he was trying to prove that this case wasn’t connected to the OnTarget murders, he’d decided it was worth another look. He’d been round all the neighbours again and nobody had seen or heard anything. A couple of the neighbours hadn’t lived in the street when Nancy was murdered, and Winkler needed to follow that up, find out who had been there six months ago. But first, he was going to have a good sort through the old bird’s stuff.