Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
While I was eating linguine and discussing bad choices for wedding guest outfits with Lucy, a nineteen year old boy was stabbed in inner city Manchester, a bit more than a kid who’d been taken with gang culture rather than what the education system had to offer, the path of the butterfly taking him to the wrong place at the wrong time and to the wrong end of a knife.
Overnight, the media interested in the Manchester Push-Her diverted to knife crime in the city, and the waste and wasted youth, calling for tighter controls and more support for education in schools, which was the whole point of them anyway – if only there were exams on life skills and bad choices.
Immediately, our team was lightened, some of the analysts moved over to that, along with one or two of the constables we’d seconded when Brooke’s body was found.
There were promises of a revenge attack and a protest in the city centre, a gathering at Piccadilly Gardens on Good Friday, arranged on social media via messages that disappeared just as quickly as someone’s observation skills.
Stan wouldn’t be involved or interested.
This was too far down the pecking order for him to have any investment, the games of children seeking specks of power not even on his radar, and what had happened would be nothing new to him.
There may be different cultures and countries involved now, but the motivations hadn’t changed.
They were as old as time.
“Mac, have you got five minutes?” Wrigley poked his head out of his office, a brew in his hand, which boded well. You knew you were in for a bollocking when he was empty handed, because that meant he’d just had a meeting with someone who’d bollocked him.
I headed over to Wrigley, poking Vinny in the back of the head on the way, making him jump.
We’d all been looking at the two firm lines of enquiry – the two separate killers working together and Neil Hunt.
The former had meant watching countless hours of CCTV from around the crime scenes that we had identified so far, checking forums where incels might linger, and trying to build up a timeline for Neil Hunt’s whereabouts, although he was in the clear for Brooke’s murder – his alibi was tight.
“How’s it going, Mia?” Wrigley sat down on his favourite chair that really needed replacing.
“Slowly.” I took a seat opposite. “What’s the verdict on the Leeds case?” Because that was what I was here for.
“The victim was Charlie Mason. He was twenty-nine and killed just hours after being discharged from a mental health facility just outside Leeds. Arguably, he shouldn’t have been released as he wasn’t well, but as things occur, he was deemed fit to go home and ended up wandering round for a few hours.
He was drug dependant – a regular heroin user.
He was stabbed as it says in your email, and the subsequent investigation concluded that he’d been mistook for a known police informant who’d help land one of the bigger players in the nick for murder.
This informant could regularly be found at the Wheatsheaf Pub.
Charlie was stabbed just round the corner from it and could’ve easily been mistaken for the informant.
” Wrigley tapped the small, coffee-stained table.
“No CCTV round that side, which everyone knew because the Wheatsheaf was known to be a dealer’s pub.
I spoke to the senior officer and he’s pretty sure they got this right – just didn’t get who did it. ”
“So the email’s a diversion tactic?” Which would suggest that someone was trying to maliciously divert the investigation.
“Not necessarily. It could be a similar or the same weapon. The knife used on Charlie could’ve been sold on the dark web or black market and used on our vics.
Or it could be the same killer. There are too many could’ves in that sentence so we’re getting Dr Miz to go through the information she’s got, and her knowledge of the weapon used on Chelsea and Brooke.
I suspect if you visit her lab at the moment, she’ll be re-enacting something, so for fuck’s sake, don’t let Vinny near her.
” He shook his head. “I wanted to be a copper, not a fucking nursery teacher.”
“Have you had her side or his?”
“I’ve had her tech’s side, so I’m hoping he’s added extra drama. Look, Mia, I am bothered that you’ve been chosen to receive these emails, so just be careful, won’t you? On all counts.” He looked at me kindly, and I felt my eyes fill with tears but didn’t let them fall.
“I’m always careful, Sir.” Unless I chose not to be.
He gave a nod. “Any idea who your email writer is?”
“None. I don’t think it’s anyone to do with Stan.” I thought for a second. “Could it be someone who investigated Charlie Mason’s murder who wasn’t quite satisfied with the outcome.”
“Maybe. Let’s see what happens – if we’re still scratching our heads about it after the weekend, you could head to Leeds and do a bit of sniffing around. Any luck with Neil Hunt’s whereabout?”
I shook my head. “Nothing solid. We really need the name of the woman he was with, but he’s refusing to speak to us and has lawyered up. We don’t have anything to charge him with either. Something’s not right there.”
“I might pay him a visit myself. Been a while since I’ve got a suspect talking and this might be one of the last opportunities.” He smiled happily, casting a look at the photo he had framed above his desk, not of Pam, but of his cricket team last season, when they won their division.
“Still planning on retiring?”
His grin was impossible for him to swallow. “Yep. Three months. They’ve finally got my replacement.”
“Someone good?”
“Of course. That was part of the reason I’ve stayed – the person they wanted to bring in was shite, his only interest was climbing the career ladder.
I’ve invested too much into this team to let it be dismantled by someone’s ego.
” He stood up, picking up his mug that was now empty.
“Time to get a brew and see the boss. Make good choices, Mia.”
That told me he knew more about my promises to be careful than I’d given him credit for.
An hour later and I was driving Wrigley across the Pennines to Foxbourne Vale, an affluent town just outside of Newcastle and the home of Alexandra Astley, the woman we’d finally identified as Neil Hunt’s alibi.
It was solid detective work from Verity that led us there, quiet persistence over the course of days, cross referencing Hunt’s bank statements with the places he’d been that week, phoning restaurants and bars to find out if any of them had CCTV or recognised Hunt and a woman he might be with.
It seemed that Hunt and his mystery woman hadn’t been anywhere together, until Verity checked out the place at a long line of potential restaurants for the Monday night when he was in Newcastle.
D one I’d rarely worn and had picked up from the apartment on the way to Newcastle.
The plan had been to make me relatable, which involved me looking more upmarket than my usual high street suits and non-iron shirts.
The necklace had been a graduation gift from my foster parents, a ‘ticket back’, jewellery I could sell if I was ever in need of some emergency cash.
They’d done it for all their kids, Heidi and the two boys they’d had after I’d been with them for a couple of years.
It was too precious to wear much. A keepsake to show someone cared enough to want me to be able to get home.
Colour drained from her face, and she sat back in the chair, understanding that she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
“So, Mrs Astley, do you know this man?” Wrigley pointed to the photo of Hunt. “He hasn’t given your name, and he seems more concerned about protecting your identity than covering his own arse.”
She looked between the photos, nothing to immediately say.
“I understand your husband is a barrister, Mrs Astley. We also understood that this discussion needed to be carried out sensibly, hence meeting you here.” I toyed with my necklace again, the material of my jacket smooth against the skin it touched.
I’d bought it for a christening back home on Anglesey, a special occasion that I wanted to make the most of.
It was designer and cut well, making the most of my figure and I’d wear it when I needed to impress, or pretend I needed to impress.
“Which is considerate of you. Have you considered that I was just leaving the restaurant at the same time as this man? A simple explanation?” She looked restless again, and pleased with herself that she’d given an answer that could explain the photo.
“We didn’t have to. A member of staff confirmed that you’d had dinner together.
Mrs Aster, we can keep this quite simple.
Mr Hunt was in Newcastle on a job that week.
He didn’t stay at the bed and breakfast he was booked into because he claimed he stayed with a woman he was having an affair with.
All we need to be able to do is confirm this; that you can provide him with an alibi for the evenings and nights that week.
” Wrigley spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his words that made him sound like a father speaking to his daughter.
Alexandra Astley sighed and closed her eyes.
“We were having an affair, and my husband was away that week. I’ve known Neil since we were teenagers, and he was in a band.
He was my bit of rough, as my mother called him, and we only split up because we lived in different places and couldn’t see each other.
He got in touch when he started contracting up here and things started up again, only I'd never leave my husband. He knows that.”
“So he was with you? Can you give any evidence of that – any home security cameras that might show him entering your property?” This could be how we narrowed it down, although we still had a very unevidenced working theory that Hunt had orchestrated Chelsea’s murder somehow.
She shook her head, perfectly styled hair moving fluidly.
“I turned off the doorbell thing so my husband couldn’t check and see who was there, if Neil rang it.
I closed the cameras on the Alexa screens too.
I didn’t want to get caught. Neil stayed over in one of the spare rooms on the top floor – not that it makes having an affair any better. ” Guilt edged her words.
“We’re not the morality police, Alexandra,” Wrigley said. “Having an affair isn’t a crime and it needn’t be any of our business. Can I check he stayed every night?”
“Not every night. Just three.”
My lungs paused.
“Which night didn’t he stay, Alexandra?” I stayed calm, holding onto my bated breath.
“Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. He said he needed to be somewhere early Wednesday morning, which I was a bit pissed off about, if I’m honest.” She sat up a little straighter. “Is my husband going to find out about this?”
Wrigley shook his head. “Not necessarily. Can I just confirm, he wasn’t with you on Tuesday thirty-first March, or the morning of Wednesday April first?”
“That’s right. He asked me to tell you he was with me for all four nights, but I think I’ve lied enough to my husband, haven’t I?”