Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I didn’t have to be in until ten that morning, a gift from Wrigley for the hours put in over the weekend.
It wasn’t a gift, really. What he was doing was giving us space to allow us to process, time away when we’d take our minds off what we were looking for in the hope that when we drifted back to it, we’d have a fresh perspective, maybe notice a new link.
Lucy had stayed away last night, so I had the apartment to myself, no signs of Friday’s party anywhere to be seen, no noises that I didn’t make. No one to check up on or be checked up on by.
I managed to sleep, despite feeling like someone was watching me.
Sometimes, the cases got to me like this; they made me remember how vulnerable we were.
I woke early, like always, slightly achy from fighting with Jalen the evening before, had a quick bite of something that looked like it was still in date and grabbed a banana before driving to the place where I usually did parkrun.
For once, it wasn’t raining, the temperature mild and even the sign of some sun.
I ran quickly, pacing myself for a negative split, the slight wind hitting me head on and waking me up. The last hundred metres before the usual finish line were in front of me when another runner met my pace.
He was tall, broad and muscular, darked eyed and dark haired, the sort of jaw that can never look clean-shaven and I recognised him as the man I’d nearly walked into a week or so ago, although it felt like ancient history.
He slowed as I did, barely out of breath, coming to a walk at the same time as me.
Two dog walkers were near us. A family pushing two buggies just up ahead. There were people around and this man didn’t look like a killer, but then again, unfortunately for all concerned, killers didn’t go around with labels on their heads.
“Mia Bryce.” He said my old name clearly but quietly.
“You’re Atlas.” I kept heading for my car, keeping in sight of other people.
“That’s one name.” He stopped a couple of feet from where I was parked. “I’m not your killer. I don’t know your dad either. I do have something for you.”
“You didn’t want to email it?”
He grinned. “I wanted you to meet me in person and offer you half an explanation. Can’t give you the full one, unfortunately.”
“Can I have a name other than Atlas?” My heart wasn’t getting the message to slow down.
He opened his mouth to speak, maybe to say it, and then shook his head. “I like Atlas actually. Stick with that. The murders you’re working on, I’m getting some intel to pass to you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you can keep a secret.”
I must’ve lost all colour. “What do you mean?”
“Your dad. Who he is. Anyway, wait here while I get you something from my car.”
I stood, frozen, watching, wondering what the fuck to do. The car park was busy with families and couples and a walking party. It was doubtful Atlas was going to pull me into the boot of his car or drag me away. I also doubted he was going to pull out a weapon and commit mass murder.
So I waited, took my phone out. Dropped Vinny a message with my location, just in case. Then I opened the camera app and got ready to take a photo of my new friend.
“We can take a selfie if you want.” His gaze dropped purposely to my phone. “All I ask is that you don’t share it on social media or with your team. In fact, if you do, you’ll be putting me in a very difficult position.”
“But you’d trust me with a selfie?”
He nodded.
“A reverse image search then?”
“You won’t find anything. Ready?”
He moved in closer to me but didn’t touch, so I flipped the camera round and took a selfie of us, post-run glowing.
“Excellent. These are for you.” He extended what he'd retrieved from his car.
The envelope he gave me was A3 sized and unlabelled, no name on it, no writing. “Why are you helping me – or trying to help me?”
“Just doing my job. Look, have you been to the hospital in Leeds where the first victim might be from?”
“No. The focus is - ”
“On the incels. Go and check Leeds out. Speak to the nurse who was on the ward when he was discharged. His name’s Dave Beardsley and he’s a nice guy, worked there for years and holds the place together, or so he thinks. Just find out about him, rule it out if you think.”
I relaxed, some of the weight I’d been carrying lifted. “I will – but who are you?”
He’d started to back away to his car, the number plate artfully covered with mud. “I’m what every good little detective needs. An informant.”
I took the photos straight back to the office, handing them over to Nick, Wrigley doing a bit of leg work looking into Craig Watson, who still hadn’t been located along with Neil Hunt.
We couldn’t find anything to tie either of them to Morgan, and Neil was definitely out of the picture for Brooke’s murder, but there was still the working theory that we had more than one killer, and they were working together in a calculated way.
“Stills,” Nick lay two photos out, side by side. “That’s definitely Neil Hunt, and it looks like he’s outside a pub. Hang on, what’s that next to him?” He pointed to a large box, one very similar to what I’d noticed in the hallway of my brother’s new house.
“It’s a TV. A really huge TV.”
“You’re right. Let me get these scanned in and I can find out a bit more about them, although I’m going to go out on a limb here and say the other bloke’s Craig Watson. You might want to give the boss a buzz.”
As it was, I didn’t need to. He walked through the door with his boss, looking like all of his annual leave had just been cancelled, which it might have.
“Sir, come and see these!” Nick gestured towards us an over-excited puppy.
Wrigley didn’t waste time. “What’ve you got?”
I gave him a brief run-down of how I’d come by them, half expecting a lecture on running by myself at the moment, but none came.
“What can you get from it?” Wrigley asked, the photos now scanned in and up on one of the big screens.
“Give me half an hour. There’s loads in here. Whoever printed these off has left enough detail on them to give us something here.” He went into Nick mode, intently focused on his screen, one of the tech team coming over to assist.
I left them to it, logging onto my machine to check my emails.
There was nothing more there from Atlas, no further photos or cryptic messages.
I looked back at the last one he’d sent, the four-one-five-two in his email handle bothering me.
It followed the same pattern as the last email, seven-three-eight-four, the first number, then back by three, then one higher than the first, and back by three.
In the second email it was just back by two.
It was a deliberate choice, but I didn’t think it was connected to the three murders.
I was still lost in thought over who Atlas was when Nick called us back over.
The two photos were both up on the screens, both enlarged. One of the men was clearly Neil. He wore a cap and hoodie, hunched, mid-walk. The second man, stockier, was Craig Watson.
“And here,” Nick pointed at the screen. “Can you see the van in the window, reflected?”
“Not really.” He flicked open a second window, overlaying it with the first, the window now enlarged.
“It’s a really good reflection. That’s a Luton box van, hired from a depot in Cheetham Hill the day before.
I cross-checked the reg and it matches a recent BOLO — theft of multiple televisions from a warehouse. Twelve flatscreens.”
He tapped again, bringing up a photo from the crime report that’d been filed. "Same van. Probably the same night.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “So we know that Neil wasn’t at Alexandra’s, but he wasn’t anywhere near Chelsea either.”
“It’s not concrete as the pictures from your informant aren’t timestamped.
But we have two images, the same people in them, the same style box that matches the crime report, and a van with these two muppets near it.
That’s a lot of explaining to do.” Nick sat back.
“And look — Craig’s holding a crowbar in that.
” He zoomed in even more. “Classic ‘I’m about to nick shit’ behaviour.
If Neil was trying to stop him, he picked a hell of a time. ”
My voice was quiet. “So he lied to protect Craig. Lied to protect himself.”
Nick nodded. “Which makes him an arsehole rather than a murderer.”
Two men in the wrong place at the wrong time doing something wrong, but neither of them were murderers.