DS Jessica Daniel series: Locked In/Vigilante/The Woman in Black - Books 1-3 (5 page)

He had a reasonable time living on campus, made a few good mates he was still in contact with and got a decent grade at the end of it all. He even had an on-off girlfriend for a few months,
although the ‘off’ part was definitely her choice, before becoming her permanent decision.

Like most people about to graduate, he had left the job-hunting a tad late, although he resolved pretty quickly he didn’t have any intention of returning to his home area. Big cities were
definitely for him and he had spent two years in Liverpool, somehow making a living from freelancing around and doing a bit of bar work cash-in-hand. Generally he didn’t do much of any note
but then he got his big break, or so he thought.

He responded to an advert to become a junior reporter on the
Herald
and miraculously didn’t mess up the interview. He even had his hair cut for the occasion, albeit not that
short. After eighteen months, he was gradually coming to the conclusion he had made a huge mistake.

Garry looked over to see Mark still standing in line at the bar and then heard his phone ringing. The number wasn’t one he was familiar with but he answered anyway.
‘Hello?’

The caller introduced themselves.

Garry was confused at first, asking why they were calling from a different number but, by the time the person on the other end had finished telling him their story, the reason was obvious.

Considering she had been woken up early and had a strong suspicion the biggest case of her career was hurtling towards a dead end, Jessica knew she was in a mood her flatmate
Caroline would describe as ‘particularly sweary’.

The phone call wasn’t helping. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’ she asked the man on the other end of the line, who was definitely going on her shit-list when
she hung up. It was a fairly short list, consisting of the DCI, one of her ex-boyfriends and the pervy bloke who ran the chip shop at the bottom of her road.

‘My name is Garry Ashford,’ came the reply. ‘I work for the
Manchester Morning Herald
. I wanted to ask you about the body you found this morning.’

Jessica knew the media hadn’t been given any information yet. Later on, they would be told a standard line about a body being found and tests being done. If the son had been informed, they
might even be given the name of the victim. Next week would be when the media were brought in and asked to cooperate. They would get the details of the victim and asked to give out a phone number
for members of the public to call if they thought they had information.

Manning that line was definitely the worst job when you were a constable. Trying to pull out anything remotely useful from the mass of nonsense calls you had to wade through was a nightmare.
Everything had to be followed up just in case that one piece of information you had deemed useless actually ended up being something vital. Someone would have to oversee the operation and Jessica
thought it was a job that had Rowlands’s name all over it.

‘Which body are you talking about?’ Jessica asked, wondering if straight-batting the caller would work.

‘Hang on, let me check. Er, somebody Christ or something . . . sorry, I can’t read my own writing. Er, Yvonne, Yvonne Christensen.’

Those words meant there would be two names finding their way onto Jessica’s shit-list. First, this journalist, second, whoever leaked him the name. Everything released to the media by the
police had to go through the press office. They got decidedly annoyed if something they hadn’t approved ended up in the papers or on television. Working with the media was even part of the
training nowadays and, worse than that, the DCI would be annoyed if he didn’t get his chance to go on television and make an appeal.

‘How did you get that name?’ Jessica asked.

‘You know I can’t tell you that. I’ve got to protect my sources and all that.’

So he wasn’t just a know-it-all, he was a cocky sod too, thought Jessica. ‘Look, I’m going to have to refer you to the press office. There’s no one in at the moment but I
know there will be a statement going out later. If you phone their main number, somebody will come back to you in a bit.’

Jessica thought she was keeping her temper pretty well in check. The press-office speech was something she had given to people in the past, usually when she was far more junior and didn’t
know any information even if she wanted to give it out.

‘I figured that,’ Garry replied. ‘But I thought they would probably only be giving out basic information later and thought I’d ask someone who might actually know
something.’

‘Right . . . how did you get my number?’

Garry lowered his voice. ‘I know a guy at the phone company who can get numbers for me.’

He was really getting on her nerves now.

‘I wonder if you could pass him on a message for me. Have you still got you pen handy?’ Jessica didn’t wait for the caller to answer before continuing. ‘Tell whoever got
you that number that they
will
be fired and possibly prosecuted. Can you spell “prosecuted” or does it have too many letters for you?’

Even if he was telling the truth, Jessica was fully aware she had no way of knowing who this journalist’s ‘guy’ was – let alone a way of getting him fired – but she
might as well try to get someone sweating a bit.

‘Okay,’ Garry said dismissively. ‘I’ll tell them that . . . so do you want to make a comment then?’

‘No.’

The cheeky swine had gone right to the top of her list with that flippant remark.

Jessica hung up abruptly after considering sending the journalist packing with a two-word goodbye. She wondered if she should tip off Cole but thought that the journalist would have already gone
over her if he was going to. Besides he was probably just full of it. One of those Scene of Crime people, or someone in uniform, had just blabbed and he was trying it on, seeing if she let anything
slip. She would wait for the Sunday paper and then decide if she was going to hunt him down and make his life difficult.

As much as Jessica wanted to get on with the case, CID struggled with weekends simply because of everyone else’s working patterns. Courts, coroners, solicitors’
offices, forensics, their own press office and all kinds of other departments were either closed or trying to run with a cut-down weekend workforce. While uniformed officers had many more call-outs
and lots more work to do across Friday nights, Saturdays and Sundays, plain-clothes officers were often left catching up with paperwork.

She had been planning on going home and possibly getting something to eat with Caroline but knew she wouldn’t be the best company given her mood. After her talk with the journalist,
Jessica went back into the station to catch up on some paperwork, figuring it would be one less thing to do the following week. The desk sergeant was clearly confused, seeing as Saturdays were
usually the day when plain-clothes officers were battling to get out of the door, rather than back in it.

She had her own office but wanted a bit of company. Rowlands was on the main floor doing some paperwork of his own so she went and sat opposite him. ‘Wotcha,’ she said.

‘You’re way too old to be talking like that.’

‘Oi. How are you doing anyway? Did Eric Christensen get home okay?’

‘I assume so. Someone took him in a car to identify the body then they were going to drop him back.’ Rowlands paused for a moment, looking up at her across the table.

‘How are
you
? Isn’t it this week that . . . ?’ He tailed off.

As much as they bickered and joked with each other, there really was affection under the surface, albeit strictly platonic. ‘Yeah, Monday.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Eight months.’

‘Do you still miss him?’

‘Of course.’

Everyone who first joined CID started as a detective constable after spending around two years in training and a period before that in uniform. Generally, being a new DC meant you were the first
point of call when the teas needed to be made or you could possibly be sent on a biscuit run on a quiet day. Woe betide a freshly recruited constable who brought back a packet of custard creams
from a mid-morning dash to the local supermarket. Even hardened criminals didn’t get as much abuse as some unfortunate new recruit returning with something that didn’t have chocolate on
it.

You learned pretty quickly.

On top of that really important work, you also got all the jobs no one else wanted. You would get the vast array of forms to fill in and handle the rest of the paperwork to file, sending it off
to wherever it was needed. You would have to hunt through the mountains of papers or computer files to fulfil the freedom-of-information requests. You might have to work with the press office if
you really annoyed someone, or perhaps liaise with other police forces around the country and make the endless hours of phone calls to rule people out from inquiries. If you were really unlucky,
you could even get the task of hunting through hours of CCTV, phone logs or anything else in an attempt to find a breakthrough.

Every now and then you were actually responsible for a decent lead, something that might get an expression that wasn’t just a scowl from an inspector or chief inspector if you were really
lucky. If you got a ‘well done’ or someone bought you a pint, you knew you’d had a really good day.

Those months were the initiation ritual where you found out whether you actually wanted the job, or whether you were up to it. Not everyone was.

After her introduction to the department, Jessica had been assigned to help out Detective Inspector Harry Thomas around two years ago. Despite his position, he was still eager to get out into
the thick of the action. Desks weren’t for him and neither was the brown-nosing, which was why he hadn’t even tried for anything like a promotion. At first it was just a shadowing
exercise set up by bosses looking to tick boxes and perhaps have a laugh among themselves. She was in her late twenties, emerging from five years of working in uniform and taking exams to
qualify.

Harry was two ranks above her and twenty years older. He was an old-fashioned detective with not much hair, a paunch belly and a north-east accent – even though he hadn’t lived north
of Manchester since he was a child. He also had a supposed attitude problem, certainly when it came to anyone in authority above him.

It had most likely been their DCI’s little joke at first – pair the new girl with the grumpy old guy who has sat at the same desk for a decade and see how much she wanted to be a
detective then.

In fact, their partnership turned into a firm friendship and mutual respect. She liked how he got results and was completely committed to getting bad guys off the streets. He liked . . . well,
she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the type of conversation they would ever have had – feelings and all that. It would have been like confiding in your dad. Either way, he had put up with
her for long enough and, for Harry, that was as close as it ever got to giving someone his approval.

‘I know you and Harry were close but I didn’t really know the guy,’ Rowlands said. ‘He always seemed a bit grumpy and people went on about leaving him be. I don’t
think they really knew what to make of it when he took you under his wing.’

Jessica nodded. ‘He was certainly grouchy but I think it was just his way. When you got past that he had a really dry sense of humour.’

‘Is that where you got all your dirty jokes from?’

‘Only the good ones,’ Jessica grinned. ‘The thing was he had contacts everywhere. This killing this morning, if I’m honest with you, Dave, I don’t really know where
to start. I’m just sitting here hoping forensics strike lucky. Harry would have been out there talking to people he knew. I’d ask him how he had those contacts and he’d just shrug
and say he had a pint with them fifteen years ago.’

‘Blimey, I was still at school then.’

‘Exactly. This one time I was out with him and there was a homeless bloke he bought cans of lager for. He’d just put them down next to him and give the guy a wink. I didn’t
know why he’d done it but he just said, “You’ll see.” Then, two weeks later we went back to the same guy. He was in the same window wearing the same clothes and Harry went
and sat next to him on the ground.’

‘What, in his suit?’

‘Yeah, it was mad. I just kind of hung around on the other side of the path not knowing where to look. He gave the guy this brown envelope or something, had a quick word and then walked
off again. I asked him what was going on and it turned out this homeless guy had witnessed some incident a few nights previous. People don’t notice him because they think he’s asleep or
passed out or whatever. Later on, Harry goes and arrests some other bloke and the case we’re working on is all sorted.’

‘That’s quality.’

‘I know. Things like that happened all the time but most people didn’t get to see him work.’

‘Has he told you what actually happened with . . . y’know?’

‘I’ve not spoken to him in five months. He doesn’t answer his phone and, assuming he hasn’t moved, he doesn’t open his front door either.’

‘People have been saying he didn’t cooperate with the investigation.’

‘Who knows? I think he just feels embarrassed by it all.’

‘Surely it wasn’t his fault he got stabbed?’

Jessica sighed. ‘The thing is, Dave, I just don’t know.’

Eight months ago, Harry had gone to the pub after shift for a late drink. She didn’t know for certain but Jessica assumed it was something he did most nights. In general Harry
wouldn’t go near the police pubs; he preferred the ones far more dimly lit where the landlord was happy to let his clientele hang around after closing for a cheeky final drink. Or five.

The drinking never seemed to affect Harry’s work and, other than the job, there wasn’t much they had in common but Jessica had seen him mellow somewhat. After they had been working
together for six months, she had even persuaded him to go to the same pub the rest of the crew went to. He had let her buy him a drink: ‘Not that Scotch shite, a proper drink, bourbon,’
is what he had told her to order.