Nothing but Trouble (25 page)

DC Joanne Lister and DC David Franks knocked on the door to her tiny office and came in with their notebooks at the
ready. Lister was a small, pale-faced girl in her mid-twenties with a mop of curly red hair. David Franks, who played in the
Police Rugby League, was a couple of years older and at least a foot taller. The two of them were often partnered up together
– they made a good team – and the difference in their physical appearance usually made Valerie smile. Today, however, her
lips didn’t even twitch.

‘So, what have we got?’ she asked.

It was Lister who answered. ‘We talked to the other girls at the supermarket. There were five of them who met up at the Fox
at seven thirty. It was one of the girls’ birthdays, Kara Dean, and it was a fairly boozy evening from the sound of it. However,
none of them remember Becky Hibbert talking to a bloke – or to anyone other than themselves. They don’t remember her making
or receiving any calls either. She left at the same time as the others, at around twenty past eleven, and walked up the high
street with Kara Dean and …’ Lister glanced down at her notebook. ‘Yes, Kara Dean and Chelsea Williams. They both live on
the Mansfield, but not in the same block. Dean and Williams live in Carlton House. They separated from Becky at the fork in
the path and that was the last time they saw her. That would have been at about a quarter to twelve.’

‘And they didn’t hear anything? Didn’t see anyone hanging about?’

‘Only a few of the local youths. Four or five, they think. But they didn’t speak to them.’

‘Do we have any names, addresses?’ Valerie asked.

Lister shook her head. ‘They claim they’ve seen the lads around but don’t know who they are or where they live.’

Valerie wondered if the two girls were telling the truth. Even with their friend murdered, they could still be reluctant to
cause any trouble for the locals – trouble that could well come back to haunt them. ‘Anything else?’

DC Franks said, ‘The landlady of the Fox, Maggie McConnell, remembers the group but nothing about Becky in particular. They’re
regulars apparently, always lively but never any trouble. She backs up their story as regards the time they left.’

Valerie gave a nod. ‘Did any of the girls know if Becky Hibbert had a boyfriend?’

Franks shook his head. ‘She hadn’t mentioned anyone new. But the relationship with the ex sounds like it was pretty stormy.
Constant rows over child support, or rather the lack of it.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ Valerie said. ‘Look, I brought back a load of paperwork from Becky Hibbert’s flat. One of you start going
through it, will you? There may be an address or a phone number for Livesey in there somewhere.’

She saw the look on their faces and felt their disappointment. A murder inquiry and they were stuck with the boring task of
searching through a heap of utility bills. ‘Problem?’ Valerie asked.

‘No, guv,’ Franks said with an air of resignation. ‘No problem at all. I’ll get straight on to it.’

Valerie nodded at Lister. ‘And you can chase up any CCTV coverage there may be of the area.’

The two officers left the room and Valerie sat back in her chair. Could this have been a domestic? The first direction the
police usually looked in a murder inquiry was towards the nearest and dearest. Perhaps Dan Livesey had grown tired of his
parental obligations or of Becky’s complaints and decided to have it out with her once and for all. Rows could easily escalate
into something more violent. They would need to find him quickly, if for no other reason than to rule him out as a suspect.

Becky might have received or made a call before she’d gone out, perhaps arranging to meet someone after the evening with her
friends was over. Swann was currently chasing up the phone
records, but she knew from past experience that it could take a while for the results to come through. And where had that
money come from? Not from Livesey, if his past record was anything to go by.

Of course, the killer wasn’t necessarily male. She couldn’t rule out the possibility of a woman being responsible. But on
balance she was more inclined towards it being a man. Strangulation was a relatively slow and brutal way to kill, involving
a particular kind of strength and perseverance. The perpetrator had to hold their nerve – and their grip – while the life
of the victim gradually ebbed away.

Valerie leaned forward and picked up the small plastic bag with Jessica Vaughan’s card inside. Her mouth slid into a thin,
tight line. This was the second murder victim that Vaughan had been connected to. The first had been several years back at
Ray Stagg’s old club in Shoreditch, when she’d discovered the body of a barman in the car park. Harry had been working with
Vaughan on that occasion and it looked like he had got himself involved with her again. So how come he hadn’t mentioned it
when they’d had a drink together on Sunday night? Or when she’d talked to him on the phone only
last
night? His silence on the subject resurrected old suspicions.

Valerie had been convinced that something was going on between the two of them back then, although she’d never been able to
prove it. It had been at the time when she and Harry were on the verge of splitting up, when their relationship was gradually
disintegrating, every day a trial, every conversation rapidly descending into an argument. Had he cheated on her, slept with
another woman? It might be old history, but somehow it still mattered.

She stared down at the card. Who should she call first – Vaughan or Harry? She decided on the latter. Reporters were hardly
renowned for their openness or cooperation. And
Vaughan especially was adept at the art of evasion. At least
he,
as an ex-cop, might give her some straight answers. Yes, she would start with Harry and see what he had to say for himself.
But first she was going to get herself a strong cup of coffee. She was probably going to need it.

It was almost midday before Snakey Harris finally turned up with the Mini. Harry, who’d been keeping an eye on the street,
saw him arrive and went down to meet him. Snakey was a tall, lean-faced man in his early fifties with sad brown eyes and closely
cropped salt-and-pepper hair. The lower part of his face had a permanent purplish tinge, as if he was in constant need of
a shave.

Harry passed the cash over and thanked Snakey for his trouble. As they shook hands, he couldn’t help but notice the tattoo
of the slim blue-green asp coiled around the mechanic’s wrist, its head resting neatly between his thumb and forefinger.

‘I appreciate your help,’ he said. ‘Even if you have taken several hours longer than you said you would.’

‘Sorry about that, Mr Lind. I had an urgent call-out or I’d have been here sooner.’

Despite being told to call him Harry on numerous occasions, the invitation had never been taken up. Harry wasn’t sure if that
was because he’d still been a cop when they’d first met, or because Snakey preferred to keep things on a purely professional
footing.

‘Better check it’s the right car before I go,’ Snakey said.

Harry bent down and peered through the passenger window. The Mini was clean and tidy inside, with nothing to indicate whether
it was Jess’s or not. He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘It was the only red Mini Cooper there, right?’

‘The only one that I could see, Mr Lind.’

‘Okay.’ Harry straightened up and nodded. If it was the wrong one, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the local constabulary.
‘Thanks. I’m sure this must be it.’

‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Do you need a lift back to Dalston?’

Snakey shook his head and gestured towards a red Mazda MX-5 parked a little way down the road. ‘I’m sorted, ta.’

Inside the sports car, a glamorous brunette was busy reapplying her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. Snakey Harris, for some
reason Harry had yet to fathom, acquired one beautiful girlfriend after another. How did he do it? The man had a certain laconic
charm, but he was hardly George Clooney.

Harry was still pondering this mystery as he made his way back up the stairs. He had almost reached the landing when his mobile
started ringing. He took it out of his pocket and checked the screen. It was Valerie.

‘Hey, Val. How’s things?’

‘I’ve got a question for you.’

He could tell from her abruptness and the coolness of her voice that this wasn’t a social call. ‘Okay. Fire away.’

‘Would you like to explain to me what your connection is to Becky Hibbert?’

He frowned. ‘What?’

‘Becky Hibbert,’ she repeated. ‘One of Jessica Vaughan’s business cards was found at her flat with your name and number written
on the back.’

Harry stopped, his hand tightening around the phone. It
only took him a second to realise that something bad had occurred. If the police had been searching Becky’s flat, if Valerie
was dealing personally with it, then it could only mean one thing. ‘What’s happened to her?’

There was a short pause on the other end of the line. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘And you haven’t answered mine. For God’s sake, Val, just tell me what this is all about.’

He heard a small intake of breath before she answered. ‘Becky Hibbert was found murdered this morning at the Mansfield. She’d
been strangled.’

Harry felt a constriction in his own throat. ‘Christ,’ he murmured. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Hardly. So, if you wouldn’t mind explaining what she was doing with your number.’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Then the sooner you start telling it, the sooner I can get on with this murder inquiry.’

‘I’ll come down the station,’ he said, preferring to speak to her face to face. ‘Fifteen minutes, yeah? I’ll see you then.’
He hung up before she had the chance to say anything else. A chill ran through him as he thought first about Becky Hibbert’s
untimely death and then the fire at Jess’s place. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that those two things had happened on
the same night? He raised his eyes towards the flat, where Jess was still sleeping. She, at least, had had a lucky escape.

Harry stood for a while at the top of the stairs, going over the facts in his head. He thought about Becky Hibbert’s phone
call and her fear that someone would find out that she’d spoken to him. Had that someone decided that she was a loose cannon,
that she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut? Or had they found out that she
had
talked? Maybe she’d known more than she’d said. Or maybe, hidden in her words, was a clue to
what had really happened on the day Minnie Bright died. Well, whatever the truth, she would never be the one to speak it now.

Harry let Lorna know that he’d be out for a while, grabbed his jacket from his office and headed back down the stairs to his
car. As he drove, he considered the possibility that Becky’s death was unrelated to the murder of Minnie Bright. After all,
he knew nothing about her life or what she might have been involved in. She could even have been a random victim. But then
his thoughts returned to the fire at Jess’s flat. Although he was still waiting on the call from Jeff Bryant, there was now
little doubt in his mind as to what the news would be.

He parked the car as close as he could to the building and walked the rest of the way. As he stepped through the sliding doors
and into the warmth of the foyer, he was met by the usual hustle and bustle of a police station. Thankfully, there was only
a short queue at the desk. After a brief wait he approached the middle-aged PC at the counter, gave the man a nod and said,
‘Harry Lind. I’m here to see DI Middleton. She’s expecting me.’

‘Take a seat,’ the PC said, gesturing towards a row of plastic chairs. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here.’

Harry sat down, leaned back and looked around. It was a long time since he’d last been here, but the territory was completely
familiar to him, from the magnolia walls, through the midday drunks and nervous witnesses, to the strong, persistent smell
of disinfectant. He was suddenly assailed by two contradictory feelings, one of belonging and the other of utter estrangement.
It was as if his past and present had come together and temporarily knocked him out of kilter. But he had plenty of time to
regain his equilibrium. It was another twenty minutes before Valerie finally graced him with her presence.

She gave him a thin smile as she came through the locked glass door into the foyer, but that was the sum total of her greeting.
There was no apology for keeping him waiting. ‘This way,’
she said brusquely, opening another door that led off to the right.

Harry rose to his feet and followed her. He noticed that she was wearing one of her smarter suits, a grey pinstripe with a
white blouse underneath. She’d either been in court or had an important meeting to attend. As she strode along the corridor,
her high heels made a sharp tapping sound against the lino.

The room was the same as every other interview room Harry had ever been in, small and soulless, with a single high window,
a table with four chairs and a scuffed and stained floor. There was another, smaller table set off to the side holding a bank
of recording equipment.

Valerie sat down and laid her notepad and pen on the table. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What have you got to tell me?’ Her voice was
as chilly as it had been on the phone.

He sat down opposite her. Under different circumstances he might have been put out by her manner, but he understood that she
was under pressure and that his involvement in the case, however peripheral, was a complication that she really didn’t need.
‘How’s the investigation going?’

She frowned, ignoring the question. ‘Harry, as I’m sure you appreciate, I’m pretty busy at the moment. Can you please just
tell me what Becky Hibbert was doing with your phone number?’

He would usually have been cautious about what he told the police regarding a client – no one wanted a private detective who
blabbed about their business as soon as the law started asking questions – but this was a murder inquiry. Anyway, Sam Kendall
had already reported events to her local station, so he wouldn’t be betraying a confidence. Accordingly, he gave a concise
summary of the situation, of the damage to Sam’s car, the malicious notes and her connection to the killing of a child. He
saw Valerie’s face go blank when he mentioned Minnie Bright
and realised that she probably didn’t remember the case. At the time in question she hadn’t even been working in London.