Good Girls Don't Die (23 page)

‘How did you get on?’ Duncan asked as Grace and Lance appeared in the doorway to the MIT office.

Lance looked to Grace to respond, but she indicated for him to go ahead. ‘Polly Sinclair confided something to Danny about Matt Beeston and a bottle.’

‘And he told Roxanne?’

‘Who told Ivo Sweatman, whose private investigators blagged the rest, about a vodka bottle being retrieved from the scene of Rachel Moston’s murder.’

‘Result!’ said Duncan, as Keith emerged from his office and made them repeat it all again.

‘OK,’ said Keith with a nod of satisfaction. ‘Let’s run through what we’ve got on Matt Beeston.’

‘We can place him in the Blue Bar on the nights Polly Sinclair went missing and Rachel Moston was killed,’ Duncan began. ‘He lives within walking distance. We have him on CCTV on the route between the Blue Bar and his flat at one a.m. on the night of Rachel’s murder, which would have given him sufficient time after the last sighting
of the victim to have carried out the crime and be heading home. He was also on campus when Roxanne Carson was murdered.’

‘Hilary’s set up a Facebook page for people to post where they were and who they saw at the vigil,’ said Joan. ‘And our nifty simulation programme lets us use that information to track individuals across a given timeline. Not much so far on this suspect, but we have got him heading down towards the lake.’

Keith nodded in approval as Grace took up the reins. ‘Matt Beeston had sex with Polly and taught Rachel. As yet we don’t know if he was in direct contact with Roxanne, but she had information harmful to him, and he’s made his resentment against her and the other victims abundantly clear in his grossly abusive and violent messages.’

‘There’s also the post-mortem display of the bodies,’ said Lance. ‘Roxanne’s knickers were stuffed into her mouth, which suggests a desire to symbolically shut her up. Plus, at the time of her death, only the killer would have known where to place a bottle.’

‘And now we have hearsay evidence that Matt may have used a bottle as a sex toy with Polly,’ added Grace.

‘He has a known history of sexual predation against women he teaches and of using alcohol to disempower them,’ said Lance.

‘We must go back to the students who’ve given statements and press them further on the precise details of his sexual assaults,’ said Keith. ‘See if one of them mentions a bottle.’

Keith looked at Grace as he spoke, and she knew that this job would inevitably fall to her. She nodded reluctantly, reflecting that by the time this was over, Matt’s victims would have paid a heavy price for falling for his charm and the offer of just one more drink.

Duncan pointed to the photograph on the board of the wine bottle retrieved from Roxanne’s body. ‘We’ve put out an appeal for anyone who bought this brand of white wine,’ he said. ‘It was on sale at the campus shop, so we’ve asked the university to email every student. We want to know who discarded an empty bottle and, if possible, where and when, which might also help us plot the killer’s movements leading up to time of the murder.’

‘Good,’ said Keith curtly. ‘It’s enough to keep up the pressure on Matt in the next interview.’

‘So where is Polly Sinclair?’ No one had noticed Colin Pitman slip into the room. He stood beside the door, watching and listening. ‘Matt Beeston doesn’t drive,’ he said. ‘If she’s dead, how come no one’s found her body?’

An hour later Colin caught up with Grace as she set off to walk home through the car park that spread around one side of the police station. No one was using the front entrance any more, not if they could help it, for fear of being besieged by cameramen and journalists sticking microphones in their faces.

‘You were pretty quiet back there,’ Colin said. ‘Anything you want you share? Off the record?’

Earlier, in the MIT office, he had stressed that while it was feasible for Matt Beeston to have murdered Rachel and
walked home afterwards, and killed Roxanne before slipping unnoticed into the crowd at the vigil, they had never satisfactorily explained how Matt could have transported Polly Sinclair away from the town centre. By the time she disappeared the last train had gone, and exhaustive enquiries left them confident that neither Polly nor Matt had taken either a cab or a night bus. ‘If Matt Beeston is responsible for her fate,’ Colin had said, ‘then where is she?’

With an air of quiet triumph, he had then left it to his colleagues to announce not only that an additional budget had been provided for a renewed search for Polly, but also that it had already been announced to the media. There was to be a full sweep of every building in a radius around the Blue Bar, taking into account any points at which victim and perpetrator could no longer have evaded capture on CCTV.

But if Superintendent Millington had expected an enthusiastic response, she had been disappointed: a suppressed groan had rippled around the room; Duncan had stared at the floor while Keith remained expressionless. Extra resources were of course welcome: it was nearly two weeks since Polly had vanished and they were no nearer finding her now than when Phil and Beverley Sinclair had first reported her missing. But everyone knew this new search strategy was a logistical nightmare that would require them to track down innumerable key-holders of commercial premises, some of them unoccupied, and secure their attendance. Dozens of specially trained officers and dog-handlers would not only search but also have to ensure that they didn’t
trample all over any evidence that was found. With no new lead to suggest that Polly’s body might be hidden in Colchester town centre, it was little more than an expensive and distracting PR stunt. Grace was not the only one willing to bet that the chief con would find time to be on hand tomorrow to make a statement against the impressive backdrop of TV news footage of the sweeping new search.

‘Detective Superintendent Stalgood is pretty much on top of things,’ Grace told Colin now.

‘Any part of the investigation you think we ought to be looking at in particular?’

Grace shook her head and tried to keep walking. She had listened to the muttered grumbling that went on once Colin, Lena and John Kenny had departed. Although it was true that whoever killed Rachel and Roxanne had managed to get in and out without being seen or leaving forensic traces, she couldn’t believe the review team seriously supposed that whoever had taken Polly had access to somewhere in the centre of Colchester where she had either consented to go or been dragged or carried, where the initial search team had failed to gain entry and where, after several hot June days, the cadaver dogs they had already employed hadn’t picked up any scent.

Colin turned to look back at the modern, fortress-like brick building, forcing Grace out of politeness to hover beside him. ‘We all know how vital it is not to get sidetracked by a single mindset,’ he said. ‘If there’s any chance that our focus so far is wrong – out-of-the-ball-park wrong – then I’d like to hear your thoughts.’

‘What’s your thinking?’ she countered. While she had to admit that there’d been a time when she would have welcomed such a private approach from her boss as a sign of how much he valued her opinion, now she saw it for what it was – a petty manoeuvre to divide and conquer.

Colin smiled. ‘We can hang onto Matt Beeston until tomorrow. Then we need to apply for an extension. I’m not sure we’ve got enough on him to wrap all this up.’

‘He’s been charged under the Communications Act. He’s admitted those offences.’

Colin shook his head. ‘Doesn’t prove murder. All we’ve got is circumstantial, especially when it comes to tying him in to Polly Sinclair’s disappearance.’

He was right: Grace knew it was at the back of everyone’s minds that if, right from the start, they’d got it all wrong about linking Polly’s disappearance to Rachel’s murder, then they’d missed opportunities both to prevent Roxanne’s death and possibly to save Polly from God knows what fate. ‘
On
the record,’ she said, giving him a straight look, ‘all we’ve got so far to keep us focused on those suspects connected to both Polly and Rachel is victimology.’

Colin nodded, pleased by her answer. ‘The review team’s looking at the possibility that Polly’s disappearance isn’t connected to the murders, that we should be looking for two separate perpetrators.’

He turned back again to face the direction in which Grace had been walking. ‘The big question is this,’ he began. ‘Are we tempted to split Polly’s disappearance off as a separate investigation merely to rid ourselves of inconvenient
pieces of jigsaw that won’t fit into the murder enquiries?’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘On the other hand, there’s zilch to point us in any other direction.’

‘I know,’ Grace admitted. She was already regretting her rash impulse to speak, but it would be wrong to allow an old grudge to impede an active investigation. Colin might be a snide political operator out for his own advancement but, as an SIO, he’d had some notable successes. ‘If the new search draws a blank,’ she began carefully, ‘then there are other scenarios.’

‘Spell it out,’ he said, smiling at his reference to their old joke.

‘One, that Pawel Zawodny killed Polly and disposed of her body at sea.’

‘And Matt Beeston murdered Rachel and Roxanne?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It could just be coincidence that each happens also to be connected to the other’s victim.’

Colin nodded in satisfaction, making Grace wonder if this was precisely what he’d hoped she’d say. ‘That would work,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘And the other?’

‘That Polly is still alive. I’m not saying that I think she is, but we should keep an open mind.’

‘Quite right. Thanks, Grace. Have a good evening.’

Abruptly dismissed, Grace was nevertheless relieved to make her escape, crossing the main road that bordered the police station and heading downhill towards her flat. She felt itchy and uncomfortable. It wasn’t the warm evening trapping the rush-hour traffic fumes between the buildings; it was a nasty sense that Colin had been subtly inviting her
to be disloyal to Keith and the rest of his team. Had she been? She didn’t think so, but then neither had she considered it wrong to report Lee Roberts’s increasingly volatile behaviour to her trusted DCI. And, she reflected sourly, look how well that had worked out.

Why did Colin Pitman of all people have to be part of the review team? It wasn’t fair! She felt the past smearing itself over her again and suddenly realised with surprise just how angry she was that it could happen. Her phone signalled a message alert, and she looked at the screen. Trev! Without even reading the message, she tapped out her own message and pressed send, hoping that
Fuck off!
would be clearly enough understood.

Ivo was surprised when Trevor Haynes rang back and agreed to speak to him after all. The disgraced copper insisted Ivo come to the bike shop where he worked, as it kept late opening hours. The place was like a small cave crammed with brightly coloured helmets, jerseys and reflective strips childishly at odds with the precision engineering of the frames, wheels and gears that gleamed from great spiked hooks on the walls. Some wag – the Young Ferret, no doubt – had once suggested that Ivo take up cycling, probably when it was discovered that Ivo had never reapplied for his licence after his driving ban expired. But the joke just went to prove that the lad hadn’t yet found his way through those arcane intricacies of the expense account in which any number of eye-watering cab fares could be lost like invisible galaxies in outer space. Besides, Ivo had never understood the attraction of physical competition – apart perhaps from a spot of vainglorious arm-wrestling on a beer-washed pub table – and the only bit of specialist kit he’d ever coveted had been a trigger-lever corkscrew. Now,
hearing how much all this cycling stuff cost, let alone the special shoes and Lycra outfits that would frankly look more at home in a Streatham brothel, Ivo was doubly glad he hadn’t bothered.

But he was prepared to let Trev wax as lyrical as he liked about his sporting kit: after all, the man wasn’t stupid – indeed, he looked wily and shrewd, like a good beat copper should – and Ivo wanted him to relax his guard before going in under it to stick him with the killer question. He’d already prepared the ground when they’d spoken on the phone, offering the merest of hints that the Colchester murder inquiry was being hampered by internal strife and that Ivo had picked up the teeniest, tiniest rumour that DS Fisher was regarded as a bit flaky, perhaps even a loose cannon.

Now Ivo stared into Trev’s blue eyes. The man was attractive, even charming; lithe, tanned and obscenely healthy-looking, with one of those boyish, lop-sided grins the ladies seemed to go for. But Ivo had seen enough of DS Fisher to hope she’d fall for more than a mischievous smile, so there must be a bit more heft to this guy than the brutality required to inflict the injuries Ivo had read about in the copy of the police surgeon’s report the Young Ferret had provided.

Ivo gave himself a shake: dislike always showed itself, and he needed Trev to trust him. Ivo might never have been physically violent himself, no matter how pissed, but, he reminded himself sternly, for a drunk who’d screwed up the lives of everyone around him to look down on a man
who kicked the daylights out of a woman was like the prison inmate who robbed old ladies thinking it was OK to shank the nonce. So get a grip, he warned himself, and play nice.

Half an hour later Ivo was glad to get out of there, having finessed his well-practised manoeuvre of fussing over notebook, pen and pockets so he didn’t have to shake the bastard’s hand. In his taxi back to the train station his blood boiled. Trev had answered the killer question all right. Hadn’t even needed much encouragement. Had been only too glad to supply the perfect quote:
Trouble with Grace is, she just won’t listen to reason.
Put that next to the photo that Ivo had managed to wheedle out of the local rag of Trev leaving the magistrates’ court – they’d Photoshop it into grainy black and white to make him look like some syphilitic Public Enemy Number One – and the cycling champion would rue the day. At least, Ivo bloody hoped he would.

He didn’t understand why the Ice Maiden’s history had aroused his indignation so strongly, but he’d learned not to question his instinct for a good story. And somehow, for him, she
had
become the story, the beating heart of this investigation.

As the train pulled out of Maidstone, Ivo opened an email sent earlier by some minion in the office who should have known better than to treat such an overture so cavalierly.
Danny Tooley rang the office, asking to speak to you
, it read.
Refused to say what it was about except to tell you he was a friend of Roxanne Carson.
The name meant nothing to Ivo, but he
punched in the number left for him to call, and was answered almost immediately by a low, wary voice. The moment Danny Tooley informed Ivo that he worked in the bookshop on campus, Ivo knew he’d hit pay-dirt: this was the kid Roxanne had been schmoozing!

By midnight Ivo had Danny safely ensconced in one of two adjoining rooms in a budget hotel on the edge of Colchester. It was all a bit cloak and dagger, but it never did any harm to romance the punter a bit, make them feel important and then encourage them to live up to the hype by spilling their guts right onto the front page. He’d get him settled in first, order some food, watch a bit of TV, get chummy, and then they could start talking. Ivo had no idea what he was likely to get, nor quite what to make of him. Danny said he was twenty-three, but came across as much younger. He wore cheap clothes and looked like he’d never had a square meal in his life, yet didn’t appear the least interested in money, not even the
Courier
’s hefty reward. Ivo had called his editor from the train to get him to sign off on a decent scale of discretionary payments for anything less than a full confession – should Danny unexpectedly cough to the murders, then the sky’s the limit: once he was convicted, their lawyers would make damn sure they’d never have to pay out anyway – but Danny was eager to tell his story without any upfront cash offer.

So what did he want? Fame? Glamour? To be seen as the hero of the hour? Despite the young man’s self-effacing manner, Ivo reckoned he was sharp-minded and capable. No wonder Roxanne had held out on him and been so keen
to keep her source under wraps. And now Danny would tell him whatever it was he’d told Roxanne.

Ivo still found it difficult to bring the eager young reporter to mind without his thoughts being flooded by the razor-sharp image of her body as the flash on his phone camera had gone off. He moved to stand beside the window so he could stare down into the darkness of the hotel car park without Danny noticing that he was spooked, but all he could see reflected in the double-glazing was his own fingers lifting Roxanne’s skirt, exposing her, exposing what had been done to her. He prayed to whatever god might exist that it hadn’t been him who’d pushed Roxanne into danger, which is what the Ice Maiden had insinuated. Sure, he’d dangled a carrot or two, egged her on, got her nostrils flaring for a good story, but she’d have been up for it with or without him. He had to keep telling himself that.

But, as it turned out, it wasn’t Roxanne that Danny was so eager to talk about. It was Polly Sinclair.