Blue Murder (17 page)

‘Dean?’

‘Erm. I’ll meet you in Oldham, the coach station.’

‘Oldham?’ Like it was Outer Mongolia.

He gave her directions. Paula’s driving was good but her sense of direction was crap.

‘All right. ‘Bout three then.’

Dean came off the phone smelling so bad he needed a shower. Went upstairs. All her questions ringing in his head. One of his own banging like a big bass drum:

what the hell was he going to tell Paula?

*****

Bobby Mac, the rough-sleeper, was an irritable drunk. He’d been held at Bootle Street and that was where Richard interviewed him. It was the Duty Sergeant at Bootle Street who passed on the details to his opposite number at South Manchester. Told him about a vagrant, one Bobby Mac, no fixed abode, who’d been given bed and board after an affray in Market Street. Been rampaging around with a knife, a knife that matched the description in the bulletin that they had issued earlier that day. Long shot but you never know. The message was passed on to the murder room, both men aware that someone would want the knife sent for forensic examination and would probably want to discuss with Bobby Mac how it came into his possession.

‘Where did you get the knife, Bobby?’ Richard asked.

Bobby rubbed his hand over his mouth and over the pale bristles around it. He rocked a little in his chair.

‘The knife,’ Richard reminded him, ‘where did you get the knife?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Humour me. Did you buy it? Someone give you it? Eh?’

Bobby shook his head, an erratic movement, like he was trying to dislodge something. ‘Found it.’

‘Whereabouts?’

He shook his head again.

‘Listen,’ said Richard, ‘you were arrested for threatening people with a defensive weapon. That’s bad news. Get quite a stretch for that, Bobby. But it so happens we have a particular interest in how you came across that knife. Now, you tell us where you found it and they might take that into account when they consider your case.’

Bobby yawned then, giving the inspector a front row view of yellow-coated tongue and discoloured teeth along with a blast of fetid breath that caused Richard to sit back sharply.

‘You don’t wear a uniform.’

‘CID,’ said Richard, ‘plainclothes.’

‘I was in uniform, the army,’ he waved a finger at Richard. ‘Good soldier. It’s a hard life, you know. This lot these days …’

‘Bobby,’ Richard broke in. ‘This knife,’ he pushed the evidence bag closer, the knife sealed within, ‘where did you find it?’

‘That place near Marks, where there’s that stream thing?’

‘Millennium Gardens?’ Richard pictured the pedestrianised area, The Triangle at one side, Selfridges and M&S at the other, curving steps and a water course, where the stream bubbled between crazy-paving step ping stones, tall windmill sculptures. Part of the city’s re-build in the wake of the IRA bomb.

‘Whereabouts?’

‘In a bin.’

‘The knife was in a bin?’

Bobby looked at him, eyes bloodshot, blinking slowly. ‘I was hungry,’ he said, ‘you’ve no idea. I was a soldier. Her Majesty’s armed forces. Germany. The Falls Road, Belfast.’

‘You were looking for something to eat and you found the knife?’

Bobby nodded at the carriers neatly folded in the second evidence pouch, the department store logo visible on one. ‘I thought it was a sandwich.’

‘What?’ said Richard, lost now.

‘The knife. I thought it was a sandwich. They have those bags. I was looking for some grub.’

‘Did you see who dumped it?’

Bobby Mac considered this then shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see nobody.’

*****

Lesley Tulley sat in front of the blue partition screens flanked by her sister Emma on one side and Detective Chief Inspector Lewis on the other. Beyond Emma was someone from the police press office. Next to DCI Lewis was her boss, Mr Hackett.

They had all been rehearsed in where to sit and when to speak before the Press came in. Then they had to wait in the anteroom until everyone was ready.

Lesley felt cold even though the room was stuffy. She wore a grey cotton blouse with long sleeves and a grey slim-line skirt to match, chosen for the occasion.

Mr Hackett was speaking first, describing the efforts of the police, the reason for the Press Conference, the faith he had in his officers. For Lesley the words droned together. She kept her eyes cast down at the plain white laminate surface of the table. Her hands rested together at the edge of it, two small, limp fists. It occurred to her that they looked posed, unnatural and she moved to fold one hand over the other.

Mr Hackett was sitting down now. DCI Lewis speaking, introducing her. Lesley could hear buzzing, her heart felt too big, her chest tightened. She waited for her cue. ‘Mrs Tulley.’

A battery of flashes;’ clicks, whirrs. Cameras like some flock of scolding, chattering birds.

‘Please,’ Lesley began, her voice surprisingly clear, ‘if you know anything at all, anything that might help the police catch whoever did this to Matthew, please ring them up, tell them.’

She stopped, panic widened her face, she couldn’t remember whether there was more. Had she said it all? More flashes. Emma put her hand out, squeezed hers in reassurance.

Chief Inspector Lewis was giving out the contact number, repeating the request for information. Lesley could feel the room bearing down on her, she wanted a drink but was fearful of spilling some, of not being able to swallow. She wondered if anyone ever had a drink on these occasions or was it just there for show?

Janine Lewis didn’t give straight answers to most of the questions; just said they were still pursuing their enquiries or it was too early to say.

‘Any news about the murder weapon?’ one of the journalists called out.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a knife matching the design of the one used on Matthew Tulley has been recovered. Forensic tests will be carried out to determine whether this was the murder weapon.’

Lesley froze, a picture of bewilderment. The flash bulbs erupted. This was the photo that most of the papers would carry the following day.

Hackett and the Press Liaison Officer thanked the family and said their goodbyes as soon as they left the conference hail.

‘Why didn’t you tell us about the knife?’ Emma rounded on Janine. ‘You knew when we got here. You trample all over–’

‘Emma.’ Lesley’s protest went unheeded.

‘Matthew was her life and you treat her like dirt, like she had something to do with it. She’s never had it easy. You’re not getting anywhere, are you? That’s why you’re messing us about?’

Janine ignored the remarks. She focused on Lesley. ‘What was the bonfire for, Lesley?’

‘You cow!’ Emma said.

Lesley looked stung but upset too. ‘I couldn’t bear – we’d been so happy, holidays and I …’ she began to cry, ‘... I never thought about evidence, it wasn’t evidence.’ Distraught, she pushed at her hair and then at her sleeves.

Janine saw ugly red weals, shiny puckered scars, across her inner arms.

Oh, Christ, thought Janine, she’s cutting herself. What will she do if we push her too far? Be a bloody disaster. Janine wanted to catch a murderer, not cause a suicide.

‘If Matthew’s killer was known to him then we hope to find some information among his personal effects. Please leave everything else as it is at the house. I’ll call round later. By then we should also have some results from the Press Conference, an idea of what level of response we’re getting. It’ll be going out on the lunchtime news and again early evening Thank you again for your help.’

Emma still looked disgruntled. Lesley just looked worn out, thought Janine. Emma put an arm around her sister and walked her to the door where a uniform was waiting to take them to a car.

The Lemon had another axe to grind, complaining about her instruction to have the lab process the remains of Lesley Tulley’ fire. ‘You should have cleared it with me first. You know forensics cost a fortune.’

‘I think it’s crucial, sir.’

Her phone interrupted them, she blushed furiously and answered it with a hiss. Her mother!

‘Janine, he can’t get the video working! The news is starting any minute.’

‘Mum, it doesn’t matter.’ She knew they were proud of her but honestly, watching re-runs of herself at the Press Conference was the giddy limit. Janine heard her mum shout to her dad. ‘Press record.’

She was aware of The Lemon’s eyes boring into her. ‘Mum, really.’

‘Have you got the tape in?’ her mother yelled.

‘Mum, listen–’

‘Is it switched on?’

‘I’ll ring you back.’ She ended the call. ‘Sorry, sir. The bonfire – I believe that’s how she got rid of the washing that was there on Saturday.’

‘You’re squandering resources on three separate tracks. Narrow it down.’

Back in the murder room, officers were fielding calls from the public. All the lunchtime television news broadcasts led with the Press Conference and among the calls flooding into the incident room were the usual number of hoaxers, attention-seekers and fanatics with their own personal agendas. These included one who knew that Matthew Tulley had been killed by aliens and another who saw the murder as God’s sign to a corrupt society and predicted there would be one a week till the second coming of Christ.

All calls would be logged and anything that deserved closer attention was relayed to senior officers.

Janine made a quick call to reassure her mum. ‘The Press Office can always get me a copy. And how’s Dad?’ Apart from in the doghouse?

‘He’s had a letter, he’s an appointment next week.’

DC Chen came over with a memo.

‘Good,’ Janine said. ‘I’ll come with you, try and get some sense out of them about waiting times.’

‘Oh, that’d be great.’ She could hear the gratitude in her mum’s voice and hoped that work wouldn’t prevent her from keeping her promise.

‘Bye bye.’ Janine finished the call and turned to the DC.

‘Anonymous call from a woman,’ said Chen. ‘Claims Matthew Tulley was a right bastard and his wife should be glad he’s dead.’

‘Crank?’

Chen shrugged. Could be.

‘Get a name?’ Janine asked Chen.

‘No, number withheld, too.’

Shap came over then, obviously excited about something, a glint in his eyes, smile playing round the edge of his lips. ‘Matthew Tulley’s parents. Back from a weekend in Paris and just seen the news. Want to know why we didn’t try to contact them.’

‘What with? A ouija board? We were told they were dead!’ Janine was astonished. ‘When I asked about notifying close family on Saturday, Lesley Tulley said that both his parents were dead. Bloody hell!’ She stood up and paced a few steps to the wall and back. She tried to work out the significance of this bombshell. ‘So someone has been telling lies.’

‘I said you’d ring them straight back, boss.’

‘Of course. I’ll want to see them as well. Where are they?’

‘Lymm.’

‘Right. I’m taking an early lunch, parents stuff, Michael’s school. Then DI Mayne and I visit Ferdie Gibson’s friend Colin, we’ll see what Mr and Mrs Lazarus have to say after that.’

*****

‘We are very worried about Michael’s attitude.’ Mr Corkland, Michael’s Head of Year, spoke gravely. ‘His performance is disappointing and now these allegations of bullying have been made.’

Bullying! Oh, no. Her heart went out to Michael. The thought of him braving school each day. Waiting for the next attack. Had they hit him, verbally abused him or what? She’d had no inkling of it. ‘No wonder his work’s going downhill,’ she said. ‘You have an anti bullying policy, don’t you?’

‘Mrs Lewis,. Michael isn’t being bullied.’

‘But you just said–’

‘He’s doing the bullying.’

Janine stared at the man, opened her mouth then shut it again. ‘Michael?’ She finally managed.

‘There are four of them. They’ve been harassing two students in their year, sending text messages. There may have been thefts too. Mobile phones.’

‘Why isn’t Michael here? He should know what he’s being accused of.’

‘Michael’s not in school, he appears to have left school after registration.’

Janine’s heart sank. Bullying and now missing school. And the policeman last night, the one she’d sent away with a flea in his ear, who claimed Michael had been accused of an attempted mugging. She felt sick and dizzy. Michael. What on earth was going on?

She rang Pete from the police station car park where she was meeting Richard. ‘Is Michael with you?’

‘No. Why?’

She sighed. ‘He’s bunked off school. I’ve just been in. He’s got in with the wrong crowd. Oh, Pete, they’ve been nicking mobile phones, bullying other kids.’

He exhaled noisily. ‘So, he got a taste of his own medicine, Saturday?’

Janine closed her eyes. Wished this wasn’t happening.

‘Janine?’

Across the car park she watched Richard leave the building with Jenny Chen. He whispered something to her and the beautiful young woman flung back her head and laughed, put a hand on his arm to steady herself. Very chummy.

‘I don’t think he gave us the full story,’ she told Pete. ‘The police came round last night. Their version was that Michael was the villain of the piece.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Christ, Janine.’

Don’t shoot the messenger, she thought. ‘It was late and I thought they’d cocked it up, and,’ she added reluctantly, ‘Michael was drunk.’

DC Chen drove off and Richard scanned the cars. Janine waved him over.

‘What! He’s fifteen!’ Pete sounded completely appalled.

‘And how old were you, first time you got drunk?’

‘I was never a thief.’

Janine gave another sigh. Richard reached the car, she nodded for him to get in. ‘I expect he’s with these mates. If you hear from him …’

‘What?’

‘Just, don’t … don’t go mad at him.’

Pete cut the connection, obviously resenting her for the comment. She just didn’t think a full-blown row would help Michael.

Richard looked curious but she wasn’t in any mood to share it with him.

‘Any word on Dean Hendrix?’

He shook his head. Janine started the engine.