Everyone Lies (21 page)

She shot him a sly look. ‘I believe you said nine-tenths.’

A smiled twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, 70 per cent of all quoted statistics are made up on the spot.’

‘Is that right?’

‘No idea – I just made it up.’ He frowned in mock exasperation. ‘And what exactly do I have to do to get you to call me Tanno?’

‘Nothing – Tanno.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just going to take some getting used to.’

He gave her a comical look. ‘Fair enough.’ He stared at her for a few seconds longer, as if he found her a puzzle. ‘So, what gave you the connection between your murder and StayC and the ODs?’

‘Composition of the heroin,’ she said.

‘Our paths do seem destined to cross, don’t they?’ He chuckled, turning to scrutinize the board again. A post-mortem photograph of ‘Rika’ was tacked next to the murder victim, below it, another, showing the bruises and the waffle effect of the riding crop on her buttocks. Tanford planted the broad pad of his index finger dead centre of the picture. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Overdose,’ she said.

He glanced down at her. ‘So?’

The noise of conversation behind them told her the team was almost ready for the briefing, but Tanford had offered her his support and friendship and she didn’t want to rebuff him by letting him know he was in the way. So she delayed checking her watch, and answered his unspoken question.

‘They’re up there for comparison, sir.’

He tilted his head in question.

‘The whip marks – they’re similar to the murder victim’s.’

She saw him work it through in his mind, and finally, he shook his head and turned back to the pictures. ‘If you’re hoping to link back to earlier assaults, you’d have to prove the whipping was non-consensual. Prostitutes will do just about anything to feed a drug habit. Anyway, most of these girls are so off their faces I doubt they’d reliably identify Howard.’

She wondered if she should confide in him – tell him her doubts about the tip-off.

He seemed to sense her hesitation and studied her closely. ‘Unless you’re thinking this Rika will lead you to someone else. You don’t believe Howard is the killer, is that it?’

‘I don’t know, sir. But I’d feel happier if I knew where Howard went after the pub on the night of the murder.’

‘You’ve got his DNA under her fingernails. His teeth marks on her body. How do you explain that if he
didn’t
do it?’

‘I haven’t made my mind up either way, sir,’ she said, adding reluctantly, ‘But there are anomalies – a gap in the timeline; no trace of the victim at his premises; none of his girls knows her.’ She’d already been through this with Superintendent Spry, but she sensed that Tanford would give her a more sympathetic hearing, and although he had no say in how the investigation was run, he had already proved a good ally.

He nodded, encouraging her to go on.

‘The pathologist is sure this woman
wasn’t
an addict; and why the hell would the killer strip the body, yet leave a wrap of drugs right next to it?’

‘Why indeed.’ He gazed up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘I must admit, that one’s got me completely foxed. I suppose DCI Anders would have labelled it “murder of a hooker with a habit”, and let it be. She’s lucky she got you.’

He glanced at the room; a few were observing them surreptitiously. Tanford took her elbow and turned her in towards the notice board, away from the curious eyes of her team. ‘But your resources are limited, Kate. You need to build the best case you can with the evidence you’ve got.’

‘I agree, sir. But only after we’ve gathered all the evidence available.’

‘Kate, you’re looking for a connection between this Rika and your murder vic because they were both flogged – that’s not evidence, it’s wild supposition.’

‘No, sir – I’m looking for a connection because their injuries are
distinctive
.’

‘Well, I don’t know who you’re getting your info from, but I’d be careful of getting too hung up on this.’ He flicked one of the photographs with a fingernail, suddenly exasperated. He seemed to collect himself, and went on more calmly, ‘You’ll always have men who like to inflict pain on women, Kate. And you’ll always have women who are willing to let them. There’s nothing “distinctive” about that.’

Without solid stats on the injuries from the National Injuries Database, Simms wasn’t willing to tell him he was wrong, but she did feel the need to defend herself, so she said, ‘The forensic pathologist said it’s the crisscross pattern that makes it unusual.’

He moved in closer to the board so that he could get a better look. ‘Is that so …’ He traced the lines on the photograph. ‘This pathologist wouldn’t happen to be David Cooper, would it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, on her guard now.

‘Little man. Cuban heels?’ He smiled to himself. ‘You know his motto – “If you can’t autopsy it – screw it.”’ He laughed. ‘Well, you know little men.’

She faced him, feeling suddenly – and completely irrationally – defensive on the pathologist’s behalf. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

He scratched his forehead and looked contrite. ‘Sorry – really – that was uncalled for. It’s just – I’m having a hard time following your logic.’

Simms wasn’t about to explain herself again. This time she did check her watch, and made sure he saw it.

‘I’m holding you up,’ he said. ‘I barge in here and mess up your schedule – questioning your decisions – and I know you’re not answerable to me. I’ll understand if you bar me out of here from now on. But I just want to say one more thing and then I’m out of your hair. Okay?’

She thought about it. ‘If it takes thirty seconds or less.’

He nodded, and now he seemed completely serious. ‘People are expecting good things of you, Kate, but it’s easy to get hooked up on the seedier details of a case like this. That’s not intended as any kind of criticism of you and, for all I know, you’re the exception that tells the rule to go diddle itself. But, Kate, I’ve worked this kind of case more times than I’d care to admit, and I’m just warning you – it can happen.’

Simms eyed him coolly. He seemed sincere, his concern genuine, and she felt she owed him an explanation for that, if nothing else.

‘I’ve got someone checking the numbers on the crosshatch wounds,’ she said. ‘And I’ve arranged a consultation with a forensic psychologist.’

Simms half-expected him to tell her she was wasting her time and a slice of her budget, but he gave her an opaque look and said, ‘I’ve held you up. Apologies.’

He strode from one end of the room to the other and people gave way to him. Simms called her crew to order and, while she waited for the noise to die down, she spread her notes out on a table next to the whiteboards. When she had silence she looked up. Tanford was standing in the doorway watching her. If she was pushed to it, she would have said that he looked disappointed.

He gave one sad shake of his head before he turned and left.

Simms listened to reports from the HOLMES manager, DS Renwick, the detective coordinating the trawl of massage parlours, and the two constables working through CCTV footage outside Livebait restaurant. CCTV had yielded nothing useful, there was no further information about Howard’s whereabouts on the night of the murder, and none of his girls would admit to knowing the victim.

‘The DNA says he was with her,’ Simms said. ‘Maybe his girls are too scared to speak out against Howard, or maybe they didn’t know her because our victim was from another salon and she was seeing him on a tryout. Which would explain why they’re being cagey, but not why we’re drawing a blank at the other massage parlours.’

Renwick seemed reluctant to speak, but when nobody else did, he cleared his throat. ‘Um, we’re the cops, Boss,’ he said, a half-smile of apology on his face. ‘That’s how it goes.’

He was doing it again – telling them it was all too difficult, that they might as well give up. ‘Go back to the massage parlours,’ she said, trying to curb her irritation. ‘Make them understand that if they want us to go away, someone has to speak up.
That’s
how it goes, Sergeant.’

‘Yep,’ he said, sitting up like she’d jabbed a sharp finger in his ribs. ‘Yes. Sure – yes, Boss.’

She looked around at her team. ‘A case can turn on a single question – so you’ve got to keep asking. The more you ask, the better your chances of coming up with that big breakthrough. For instance, the pub landlord is sure Howard knew the men he was drinking with, so why does Howard swear otherwise?’

Renwick glanced uneasily at the constable next to him. ‘He’s a liar?’

‘Everyone lies, Sergeant. But why would Howard lie about the two people who might be able to alibi him?’

Renwick shrugged, at a loss.

‘Maybe it’s because they
can’t
alibi him,’ she said. ‘Or maybe Howard is protecting his drinking buddies. And who was our victim’s dinner partner; why hasn’t he come forward?’

‘Sorry, Boss.’ Renwick again, avoiding her gaze, but determined to speak. ‘We don’t know if the girl in the picture
is
our victim and, if she is, this guy paid for her company by the hour – there’s any number of reasons why he wouldn’t want to hold his hand up to that.’

‘Good – fair comment on both points.’ Now he was thinking. ‘But we still need to eliminate him from the inquiry, and if he won’t come to us, we need to find him.’

‘How’re we supposed to—?’

‘The mobile phone – if it’s hers. Do we know that yet?’

He frowned at the paperwork on his desk. ‘Not yet, Boss. The lab’s working on the DNA. We’ll have the results by the end of the day. They say the identity number’s a bit trickier.’

She stared at him until he met her gaze, gave him a look that said,
Do you really think I care what they say?

‘I’ll get on to them,’ he said. ‘Right away.’

Fifteen minutes later, the briefing over, tasks allocated, Simms called Howard’s solicitor to let her know that she would be interviewing her client. Thirty minutes after, having caught up on a wodge of paperwork, she headed down to the interview suite.

Renwick appeared, breathless, outside the interview room, a panicked look on his face. The custody sergeant must have warned him.

‘Boss,’ he said. ‘I know I got off to a bad start, but I swear, when I interviewed Howard, I was thorough.’

‘I read your interview notes, Sergeant – the interview was fine.’

A custody officer approached from the opposite direction, walking slightly behind Howard.

‘So why—?’ Renwick nodded towards the prisoner. Howard’s solicitor arrived – a woman – attractive, perhaps mid-twenties, from one of the more expensive law firms in the city. They shook hands, the custody officer standing by Howard’s elbow.

‘It’s like I said, you’ve got to keep asking questions.’

‘I can do that,’ Renwick said. ‘You’ve got enough on, and anyway, best to have continuity in the interview process, eh?’ He smiled, but couldn’t keep the note of pleading out of his voice.

He was right, on all counts – Simms’s job as senior investigation officer was to administer, direct, guide and manage her team. Interviews were not typically conducted by officers of her rank – taking over from Renwick could reflect badly on him.

Howard was deep in conversation with his solicitor. ‘Take a look,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you see.’

He was standing too close to his lawyer, touching her arm, her shoulder, to emphasize his point. And when the solicitor stepped away, polite but strained, he closed the gap again.

‘He’s a bit touchy-feely,’ Renwick said.

‘I bet he requested a female solicitor,’ she said. ‘Trying to make us believe his regard for women isn’t all about what goes on between the sheets.’

‘Oh,’ Renwick said, ‘you think he’ll let his guard down with a female interviewer?’

‘I think he’ll judge me by my looks, Sergeant.’

Renwick’s quick appraising glance was unintentional, purely reflex. Simms arched an eyebrow, and he flushed and apologized.

She smiled. ‘It’s all right. But you see what I mean?’

She was about to move on, but he spoke again: ‘Uh, Boss – what you said about the girls being scared …’

She nodded, encouraging him to go on.

‘Made me think. I asked around and—’ He passed a sheaf of papers to her. ‘Well, you might want to have a look at this before you go in.’

Simms skimmed the text. ‘This is good work, Sergeant,’ she said, and Renwick fought to keep the smile off his face. ‘This could give me exactly the leverage I need.’

22

George Howard wore Italian wool trousers, slip-on shoes of polished leather and a casual maroon shirt under a matching cashmere sweater – bought new by his solicitor, under his instruction, after his clothing was seized by Scientific Support.

DCI Simms stared at him. All that red, and yet he was still grey. Grey hair, dull grey eyes, an ash-grey shadow of growth on his chin.

‘Before we begin,’ his solicitor said, ‘my client would like to make a statement.’

Simms felt a slight tingle of excitement in her chest. Had he remembered something from the night of the murder? She couldn’t read anything in his face, and he avoided her eye, spreading his fingers on the table and staring instead at the healing scars on the backs of his hands.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’

He cleared his throat and began, raising his voice slightly, as if he was addressing a seminar. ‘I run a successful business,’ he said. ‘Current footfall stands at around six visitors per hour. I charge twenty-five for the room per half-hour. Factoring in parties and seasonal specials like the Santa’s Helpers extravaganza last Christmas, and the Chocolate Indulgence weekend I’m planning for Easter—’

‘Spare me the infomercial,’ she cut in.

‘Very well.’ His tone became brisk. ‘I’m currently averaging a turnover of fifteen thousand a week. In my first year of trading, including the parties, I estimate pretax results of around 850 K.’ He leaned forward, linking his scarred hands on the tabletop. ‘Think about it, Chief Inspector. Why would I jeopardize that?’

Why indeed
, she thought. ‘And yet you were seen with blood on your clothing the night of the murder.’