I will make you pay, p.11
I Will Make You Pay, page 11
Her phone rang. It was Sarika, who was still at Fulford Road station. Ellen walked into the storage closet she used as a study and closed the door behind her. The room was not big enough for a bed and had no window, but she had been able to fit a small table, on top of which stood a cheap whiteboard. Any files she took home from work stayed in this room, away from curious young eyes.
“Sarika, what have you got?”
“We’ve hit the jackpot with the IP address.”
“Go on then, put me out of my misery.”
“It’s an internet café, a few doors down from the Shepherd’s Dog.”
The Shepherd’s Dog was a pub in an old Victorian building around the corner from the North Yorkshire Police headquarters in Harrogate. Due to its proximity to the station, it was a popular spot with the nick. There was a bank of shops in the same row, including a shop where Ellen picked up her paper in the mornings.
“Before you ask, there’s no CCTV outside the café, only outside the pub. I doubt they’ll still have anything, but I’ll check before I call it a night.”
“This is really good work, Sarika. I’ll be on my phone if anything comes of it.”
Ellen picked up a marker pen and wrote the following names on the whiteboard.
Harry Gascoyne
Matt Jackson
Vicky Richards
Connie Taylor
Tom?
Becky Tansey
She underlined the name Becky Tansey and sat back on the office chair. Whoever was pretending to be Becky Tansey had to be a police officer based in Harrogate Police HQ. The coincidence was too great. This person, whether it be Matt Jackson or someone else, was trying to get to Vicky Richards. That same person may have killed Connie Taylor.
Vicky Richards and Connie Taylor knew each other from Lockton House. Harry Gascoyne abused both girls while they were residents there. The customer at Prufrock’s, ‘Tom’, couldn’t be Gascoyne as the description Connie’s co-workers gave was of a younger man. Could ‘Tom’ be Matt Jackson?
Ellen’s phone pinged and the doorbell sounded at the same time. The text was from Samuels.
I need to see you now.
Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at this time of night?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ellen looked through the peephole before opening the door. Lewis Samuels was standing in the street carrying a takeaway pizza and a bottle of red wine. She opened the door and Samuels’ eyes flashed over her pyjamas. He smiled. She forced herself into professional mode. “How did you find out where I live?”
Samuels nodded at the hand-painted sign overhead.
“You mentioned Fossgate, and your surname is over the door.”
Ellen glanced at the sign over Jackie’s shop: ‘McClure’s Mellow Fig Café’.
Samuels grinned. “I’m an investigative journalist. It wasn’t too hard. I did send you a text.”
Ellen held up her phone.
“Yeah, thirty seconds ago.”
Samuels shrugged, a sheepish expression on his face. She hadn’t noticed how tall he was when she had met him at the Lazy Days Café. He towered over her now. Her guess was that he had to be at least six foot five. He had a confidence that, in spite of her better judgement, she had always found attractive. He paused, gazing at her with a look of amusement. He was enjoying himself. More worryingly, she realised, so was she.
“I was passing your door. My office is just down the road.”
“And . . . ?”
“Look, Ellen,” he said, holding up the pizza and the wine. “I have something you might want to hear, but it can wait until tomorrow. Or you can help me with these and I’ll fill you in?”
Ellen thought for a moment. If Samuels had something, she definitely wanted to hear it.
“You can come up for five minutes. My daughter’s in bed, so we’ll need to be quiet.”
* * *
Ellen climbed the stairs ahead of Samuels. When she reached the landing, she poked her head into the bedroom. Zoe’s light was off. She had headphones on, and her eyes were closed. As she pulled the door shut, Ellen saw Samuels standing at the open door to her office, where she had left the light on. He was looking at the whiteboard.
“Harry Gascoyne . . . Jesus, really?”
Shit.
Ellen strode over and pulled her office door closed in what she realised was a futile gesture.
“You weren’t meant to see that.”
Ellen stomped ahead into the kitchen. She wondered how to play things. There were no flies on Lewis Samuels, he would have seen everything on the whiteboard. Was it better to reveal everything to him and have him working for her, or tell him nothing and risk having him working against her?
“Did the therapist give you the name? Remember, you got that tip from me.”
Ellen wished she had time to weigh up her options.
“Maybe,” she said in as non-committal a way as possible.
Samuels set down the pizza on the kitchen table and held the bottle of wine up.
“If you can provide a couple of glasses, I can tell you more about Harry Gascoyne. I know quite a lot about him, as it happens.”
There was that smile again.
Ellen fetched two glasses and a corkscrew, which she handed to Samuels. She excused herself and slipped into the bathroom. For a moment she stood with her back to the door. If whoever impersonated Becky Tansey turned out to be from Harrogate nick, then she would have to be careful about what information she introduced there. Monroe had made it clear that she was on borrowed time. Lewis Samuels had no connections to Monroe that she knew of. He had information about Gascoyne and a reason to get to the bottom of what happened to Connie. He could be a good ally and a terrible enemy. But could she trust him?
While washing her hands she looked at herself in the mirror. Jesus. Had she even stopped to brush her hair that morning? Her only hairbrush was in her bag in the kitchen, so she pulled out her ponytail, ran her fingers through her hair then decided, no, that was definitely not going to work, before quickly tying it back up again. She sniffed under her arms, realising she badly needed a shower. Instead, she sprayed some deodorant and hoped for the best.
Ellen was slow to trust people. Trust was something earned in her book, and few people had earned it. She had few friends bar Linda, who had betrayed her, Dan, who was more like family, and Jackie, who actually was. At work she was suspicious of co-workers until they earned her trust. Sarika Kaur was one of the few colleagues she allowed herself to rely on. The same went for romantic relationships, although she had barely thought about dating, let alone going on a date, since the split with Anthony. The truth was there were few men she found attractive enough to bother with. Lewis Samuels was the first man in a long time to cause a reaction.
Back in the kitchen, she saw that Samuels had set the table with two plates, knives and forks.
“I love your place. The wood, the pitched ceiling, very cool.”
He opened the bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“My sister runs the café downstairs. I’ve always loved it up here, but it’s really too small.”
“It’ll cost a few pennies to find a bigger place around here.”
Ellen pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I’m actually doing up a houseboat, out at Bishopthorpe. Hoping to be moving on board in the next few weeks.”
Samuels handed her a glass of wine.
“No shit? You bought a boat?”
“It was my dad’s, he died last year. He always meant to finish Gypsy, but never did.”
Samuels lifted his glass in a toast.
“I lost both my parents in the last year too, not easy. To our parents, wherever they might be.”
Ellen clinked her glass against his. Samuels opened the pizza box and pulled a slice onto her plate. She was still full but decided to have one slice. She picked it up and bit into the warm, juicy filling.
Samuels pointed at a photo on the fridge of Ellen, Jackie and Dan taken on the deck of Serendipity. “I’m guessing that’s your sister and your father?”
“My sister and my dad’s friend,” Ellen said with a full mouth. “That’s his boat.”
“You and your sister don’t look in the least bit alike.”
Ellen smiled. “So I’m told.” She didn’t feel the need to explain that both she and Jackie had been adopted and were not blood relatives.
The pizza was delicious but she really couldn’t eat more than the one slice. Samuels worked his way through the rest.
“I’m amazed it’s Harry Gascoyne,” he said. “I’ve written a lot about him over the years.”
Ellen filled their glasses with more wine.
“Maybe that was why Connie approached you.”
“She never would tell me his name, but it would explain a lot. He’s a big player in Yorkshire. That deal he signed with the American supermarket group a few months ago? The guy’s worth millions.”
“Powerful man,” Ellen agreed.
“From what I hear, he has a lot of ex-police working for his organisation in security consultancy. That’s what I’ve been looking into.”
Ellen took a mouthful of wine. “Go on.”
“Your colleague, Matt Jackson. Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. He is definitely not a friend of mine.”
“Good. According to my source, he’s been to the Hong Kong Sevens for the last four years running.”
“The rugby tournament? Plenty of the lads go. It’s hardly a crime.”
“He stays at the Ritz Carlton, one of the most expensive hotels in Hong Kong.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Gascoyne attends the Hong Kong Sevens every year. Hosts a dinner, entertains clients. Always stays at the Ritz Carlton.”
Ellen considered this information. It would make sense that Jackson was working for Gascoyne. Receiving payment in kind and no doubt straight cash as well.
“I’m sure lots of people stay at the Ritz Carlton.”
He raised an eyebrow. “At maybe two grand a night during the tournament? Not bad on a DI’s salary.”
“You think Jackson was behind the notes? The intimidation?”
“Or worse.”
Ellen poured the last of the wine into both glasses and downed hers. She had made the decision to let Lewis in on what she knew.
“Look, someone approached Connie on Facebook using the identity of a woman who has been dead for a few years. This woman was supposed to be in Canada, claimed she was at Lockton House.”
“I’ll assume that’s Becky Tansey. The last name on your list.”
Ellen raised an eyebrow.
“Jesus. Have you got a photographic memory or something?”
“Years of training,” Samuels said, a smile on his lips. “Go on.”
“We’ve checked the IP. It turns out to be an internet café in Harrogate, on Otley Road. Not far from Harrogate nick, where Jackson is based.”
Lewis Samuels whistled.
“That’s some hot potato you’ve managed to catch. You think it’s Jackson, I presume. How did Monroe react?”
“I haven’t had time to tell him. I’m guessing he won’t be too pleased to find out one of his own officers could be a potential suspect in a murder inquiry.”
“What makes you think Monroe doesn’t already know?”
Ellen gaped at him. Shit, why hadn’t she even considered that?
“You think Monroe is involved with Gascoyne?”
“Look, I don’t know. I’m not saying he is, but it’s a possibility.”
Samuels looked around.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Sure, it’s just there,” Ellen pointed to the door to the right of the kitchen. The automatic fan whirred into life as Samuels closed the door.
The bedroom door opened and Zoe appeared.
“Just getting some water.”
Zoe’s timing was suspicious. Had she been listening at the door?
“There’s a journalist here to discuss the case I’m working on,” Ellen told her, gesturing towards the bathroom. “He’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
Ellen watched Zoe’s eyes take in the wine and the pizza, her mother’s flushed face.
Ellen suspected that her daughter had a fantasy that she and Anthony would get back together. This in spite of the fact that Anthony was now living with Linda. After her parents had split, her mother had had a stream of men in her life. Ellen had resented them all, and had resented her mother for bringing these men into their home.
There was no question of her ever patching things up with Anthony. She wouldn’t have him back if he was the last man on earth, which was what she had told him when he had begged her to come back. It had been his second strike. She should have ended it on the first.
“It’s fine, I’ll just go back to bed.”
Zoe sloped back to the bedroom and closed the door.
When Samuels emerged from the bathroom, Ellen had his coat in her hand.
“Sorry, you’ve got to go,” she said. “My daughter’s awake. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ellen hopped out of the shower at 6:30 a.m. and threw on her clothes. She had forty-five minutes to get dressed and leave for Zoe’s parent-teacher meeting. Plenty of time. Sky News was playing the item about the murder every twenty minutes, and she repeatedly heard Monroe say the words ‘sex worker Connie Taylor’ at yesterday’s press conference. Monroe knew how to spin a story for the media.
The next clip was footage from Lockton House that Jackie and Zoe had seen. Why hadn’t Jackie insisted she get her hair cut? Or maybe she had.
She got Zoe out of bed and ten minutes later the two of them were out the door onto Fossgate. The ancient street packed with independent shops, bars, and restaurants was already busy with morning commuter traffic. Ellen’s car was parked around the corner in Peel Street.
At twenty past seven, Ellen drove through the gates at St Mary’s School. She had to make this a five-minute in-and-out affair. Instead of driving to the visitors’ parking area, she parked in one of the teachers’ spaces at the front of the building. Zoe groaned and got out of the car. Ellen took the opportunity to call Lewis Samuels.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Parent–teacher meeting,” Ellen explained. “Don’t ask.”
“Why don’t you swing round here after, have a coffee, and continue last night’s discussion?”
“I can’t, I’m heading straight to a meeting. That’s actually why I called. I need you to acknowledge that everything we discussed last night was off the record.”
Ellen heard Samuels take a drink of something and swallow.
“Agreed. But keep me in the loop.”
Ellen ended the call without confirming she would.
The school was housed in an old mansion, with sweeping parkland, tennis courts, and hockey pitches. It looked more like a grand hotel than a school. It was a far cry from the comprehensive Ellen had attended. Zoe was bright and had managed to snare a scholarship.
Inside the main hall, Ellen found the reception desk empty. Zoe reluctantly accompanied her to Mrs Telford’s office then skittered off. Helen Telford, a woman in her fifties, gestured for Ellen to take a seat. She pulled out Zoe’s file from the pile on her desk.
“Where do I start with Zoe?”
Mrs Telford launched into the reports from Zoe’s teachers. Zoe was consistently late for class, consistently failed to hand in homework assignments, and consistently flouted the uniform code by wearing a non-uniform jacket to and from school. Ellen snatched a look at her watch, she needed to go.
Mrs Telford hadn’t finished. Zoe had been caught smoking on several occasions and did not participate in any after-school activities.
“Look,” Ellen said, “I get it, she’s being a teenager, a general pain in the ass. I’m on it.”
Helen Telford leaned forward. Her voice softened.
“There’s more going on than that. Zoe is struggling here. She hasn’t made any friends, she’s isolated.”
Ellen stood up and put her bag on her shoulder. She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to acknowledge it was true.
Zoe’s form teacher continued. “I’ve been a school counsellor for twenty years, and I know a kid in trouble when I see one.”
This was nonsense. Zoe was always first in her class since she started school at five. Maybe she was struggling a bit, but she would be fine.
Ellen turned for the door. “I have to go. I’ll sort it.”
“Zoe tells me she has been feeling down in the dumps, and that she has been having panic attacks.”
Ellen halted in her tracks. Panic attacks? Zoe was thirteen, for God’s sake. What has a thirteen-year-old got to be feeling down about?
Ellen opened the door.
“Look, I appreciate you trying to help, but I have to go.”
Five minutes later Ellen emerged from the confines of the school into the open air with Zoe at her side, who she had tracked down in the cafeteria. Zoe refused to talk until they were in the safety of the car.
“What’s all this about you having panic attacks?”
“Just take me home.”
“I’m not leaving you at home on your own all day, Zoe. I have to go to work.”
“Of course you do. You always have to go to work.”
Zoe pushed open the car door. Things were clearly not fine. Ellen felt a stab of anxiety deep in her chest. If she was a good mother, she would drive Zoe home and spend the day with her, but that was just not going to happen. Not today. Not with a murder investigation to run.
“Look, it’s a half-day. You’re going to Dan’s after school,” Ellen said. “I’ll pick you up later. How about I cook us a nice dinner and we can watch a movie together?”
Zoe sighed and stepped out of the car.
