No Way Home

CHAPTER THREE

Pete saw the flashing blue lights through the trees from a couple of hundred yards away. When he reached the junction, he could see the cluster of police cars, an ambulance and a couple of other vehicles, tape stretched across the end of the side road and a small cluster of onlookers standing around idly.

Hadn’t they got better places to be, at this time of night? He stopped the car and climbed out, making sure to lock it as he stepped forward, raising his warrant card to one of the uniformed officers guarding the tape.

The blue and white plastic ribbon was raised for him to step under. He headed for the lamps and the white protective windbreak across the grass to his left. He could see the shape of a car and more uniformed police. A generator rumbled close by. Pete passed the ambulance crew as they were leaving the scene. He nodded, drawing a response from one of them. Closer to the windbreak, which had been erected to mask the view from the public rather than for its nominal purpose, he could see a white-overalled figure working over a body which had been laid out on a tarp.

Having recognised the car back on Pennsylvania Road, he didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was.

‘Evening, Doc. How’s it going?’

Tony Chambers looked up from what he was doing. ‘Peter. You’ve drawn the short straw again?’

‘Apparently. What can you tell me so far?’

‘We have a quite vicious attack, clearly aimed at being fatal. The victim was killed with a short, sharp blade – possibly a scalpel or utility knife – and some considerable force. The carotid and the jugular were severed as well as the windpipe. There are traces of inflammation around the eyes and nose which suggest the use of pepper spray prior to the knife attack. You can still smell it when you get close enough. The victim’s ID is in the car.’

Pete grimaced. ‘Sounds messy.’ He looked up at the vehicle. No need to ask if the victim was the driver or the passenger. The blood sprayed across the inside of the glass made it obvious.

‘Any idea when?’

‘Rigor hasn’t set in yet, so less than four hours. Body temperature suggests closer to one or two.’

‘OK.’ He looked up and around. ‘Who found him?’

*

‘Where is he?’

It was past one in the morning. Pete had been out more than two hours. His eyes were sore, his head fuzzy. He was exhausted. How did Louise not look as knackered as he felt?

But she didn’t. She’d met him at the door, blocking his way with her body as if unwilling to let him in until he gave her the answers she wanted.

At least now they were in the hall, the front door closed behind him. Pete kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb Annie, who he hoped was asleep.

‘For now, he’s still in Plymouth. Colin’s arranging his transfer but they won’t do it until morning and, even then, he won’t be coming home for a while. He’ll have to go for assessment, be interviewed and so on. And the knife charge won’t just go away. He’d be bailed if he wasn’t a flight risk, but given his recent history…’ He shrugged, hands spreading.

Her gaze locked on his. ‘We’ll be able to visit him, though?’

He raised a hand, indicating she should go through to the sitting room. Following her in, he closed the door behind them.

Tommy would be transferred from the custody of Plymouth nick to that of Exeter, where someone other than Pete – probably Colin Underhill – would interview him. Then he would be transferred again, to a secure youth residential facility where he would be assessed before any further decisions were made about his future.

‘My guess is, the best we can hope is that he gets transferred to Archways from Heavitree Road. Once they’ve settled him in we’ll have visitation rights, the same as any other parents. Except, of course, I won’t. Not with the case outstanding.’

She rubbed at her forehead, eyes closing, then fixing intensely on Pete once more. ‘I need to see him, Pete. Talk to him. Know he’s going to be OK.’

‘I know. Me, too.’ But Pete knew how the system worked. Tommy was involved in a case that he’d worked – a case that was yet to go to trial, thought the date was fast approaching. He wouldn’t be allowed to see him, in case of a conflict of interest. ‘But at least you’ll be able to in a day or two. And he’ll be as safe there as he would be anywhere. Those places are designed for it.’

Archways was a secure children’s home which happened to be less than half a mile from where they were sitting, here in Exeter.

‘God! I feel so… mixed up. Happy he’s been found and desperate to see him but at the same time scared to death. I’ll tell you – if I’d be able to see him when I got there, I’d be halfway to Plymouth by now.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Pete countered. ‘You’d be there. And so would I, because I’d have used the blues and twos to get us there and sod the consequences.’

*

Emma didn’t really sleep that night. Her mind kept playing back the attack, the moments leading up to it and those that followed. Over and over, she relived it. Could she have done anything different? Should she simply go down to the police station and report it?

Her instinct was to hide. The last thing she wanted was to have to go through it all again, even just verbally. But, was she thinking straight? She felt groggy, her eyes sore and gritty from lack of sleep. She didn’t know how many times she’d got up in the night to puke, though by three in the morning there was nothing left to bring up. Her stomach ached from trying. It heaved again now, but she knew there was no point rushing to the toilet. She rolled over, moaning, and grabbed a tissue, holding it over her mouth as she retched painfully.

If she went to the police now, her past, which she had tried so hard to leave behind, would all be brought out into the open. The press would get hold of it. Her colleagues would find out. The persona she’d built since she got here would come crashing down around her.

She couldn’t have that.

Emma wiped her mouth with the tissue and clambered out of bed. Took a sip from the bottle of water she’d left on the bedside cabinet last night, swishing it around her mouth before swallowing.

No, she thought: she couldn’t come forward.

But, having decided that, what was she going to do about it? What could she do? She checked the time. The red numbers on her digital alarm read 6.38 a.m. The buses didn’t start until eight and she really needed to be at work by then. She had to get back to her car, see if it would start and, if not, call the breakdown service. Get it going. Get it moved. Otherwise, it would only be a matter of time before someone spotted it and the police came knocking on her door.

But, how was she going to get there? She certainly didn’t fancy walking it.

There was only one way.

Could she?

After last night, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to climb into another taxi, but what other option was there?

None, she told herself.

She reached for the phone, about to dial a number she knew by heart.

No.

That, she couldn’t do.

She picked up the phone book instead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Her tension increased with each passing second. As the seconds became minutes, she barely knew how she managed to stop herself from screaming or running from the flat in a blind panic.

She alternated between watching through the sitting-room window and watching the clock.

Five minutes passed.

The dispatcher had said ten until the cab arrived. But surely, at this time of day, it wouldn’t take that long? Maybe she should go down and wait outside. It was a bright and crisp day. No doubt chilly out there, but there was no frost. Perhaps the fresh air would do her good? But she didn’t want to be seen pacing out there, and there was no way she’d be able to hold still.

She crossed to the window, looked out. Her stomach lurched, one hand going to her mouth as she turned quickly towards the bathroom.

A taxi was pulling into the parking area out there.

She moaned through the hand clamped over her mouth.

With nothing left to bring up, she swallowed and looked out again.

She could ignore it. Let it go on its way. Have the day off sick.

She sighed. She’d already been through all this. It wouldn’t work. She had to go in. Today, of all days, she didn’t have a choice.

Stomach roiling, legs like jelly, she picked up her bag, checked its contents with shaking hands and headed for the door.

*

‘Bob. Is Tommy here?’

The custody sergeant looked awkward. ‘Yes, but I’m under strict orders. You can’t talk to him. Fast-track was adamant. Called me himself. He’s got to be processed through as if you didn’t even know him.’

Pete’s jaw clamped, teeth pressing together hard. ‘If that were the case, I’d have him straight into an interview room. He’s a material witness in an ongoing case of mine.’

‘I know. But, like I said… my hands are tied, mate.’

The urge to ignore the station chief’s orders and head down the corridor to his son’s cell regardless was almost overpowering, but he knew he couldn’t. Apart from anything else, there was a powerful electromagnetic lock in the way, the release of which was out of his reach, on Bob’s side of the desk. He sighed. ‘He’s OK, though, is he?’

‘Of course. We’re checking on him every hour.’

Every hour? ‘How long’s he been here?’

‘Since three. Five hours, nearly.’

‘Well, dammit, how…’ Pete stopped himself, forcing his body to relax against all his instincts. He already knew the answer to the question he’d been about to ask: orders from Fast-track Phil, DCI Adam Silverstone, station chief until he took the next step in his rapid and illustrious rise towards the higher echelons, whether he deserved it or not.

Which, in the opinion of just about everyone who actually had to work with him, he definitely didn’t.

He tapped the high counter. ‘OK, Bob. Just take care of him, yeah?’

‘Goes without saying, mate.’

‘Thanks. Can you tell him I was asking after him, at least?’

‘Of course.’

Pete nodded to the big man and headed along the corridor towards the centre of the building.

*

Emma’s whole body was quaking by the time she got down the stairs into the foyer. The taxi was parked directly in front of her, just a few feet away from the toughened glass doors that were all that separated her from the outside world at this point.

She stepped reluctantly forward, didn’t even think to check her mailbox as she stared hard at the dark maroon car parked sideways on across the entrance. In the deep shadow of its interior, she could just make out the shape of the driver. She frowned. Something didn’t look as it should.

Then she realised.

It was a woman.

‘Oh, my God!’ She couldn’t help saying it out loud as relief flooded through her. She pushed through the doors and hurried to the waiting car. Climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Hi. Sorry it took me a minute to get down here,’ she burbled. ‘Had to check the front door three times. You know how it is. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on. At least, that’s what my boss tells me.’ She laughed.

The driver, curly blonde hair covering her ears, but not enough to hide her big hoop earrings, looked at her like she was crazy, but also a customer. ‘No worries. Where to, love?’

Emma had prepared her story. Don’t flunk it now, she told herself. ‘The Old Mill. Early start today. Big party coming in and we’ve a delivery scheduled this morning.’

The woman put the car into gear and set off towards Pennsylvania Road. ‘On a Wednesday? I usually see your deliveries on a Monday and Friday, don’t I?’

Oh, shit. Trust me to get a driver that knows more about my alibi than I do. ‘Uh… yes. That’s why we got the party booked for today. But the suppliers phoned last night. They’ve got some kind of vicious bug going around the depot. Lots of drivers off sick with it.’

Wow, she thought, proud of her quick thinking.

They turned left onto the main road, heading south.

‘So, how come you’re using a taxi this morning, then?’

Oh, crap. Why had she chosen a chatty persona for this journey?

*

Pete had made several calls when he got up that morning and, for once, he was the last of his team to arrive in the squad room. As he approached his desk, five pairs of eyes watched him, waiting to see what he was going to say. And about what, he guessed.

Draping his jacket over the back of his chair, he rolled up his sleeves and went straight to the whiteboard where, last night, he had put up the basic information on the new case.

‘Morning, all.’ He picked up a marker pen, not caring what colour it was. ‘Ranjeet Singh, 34, born and raised in Exeter, an independent taxi driver for the last four years, having previously worked for Cathedral Cabs since he got his licence in 2008. He was found, pepper-sprayed and with his throat cut, in the driving seat of his taxi near the junction of Argyll and Pennsylvania Roads at 10.27 last night. He’d been there at least half an hour at that point, though we’ve no other witnesses as yet. It doesn’t appear to have been a robbery, so we need to canvas the area, see if we can find any witnesses, speak to his colleagues and family to try and find a motive and establish a timeline. I informed his wife last night. She was too distressed to give an interview, though, so I said I’d go back this morning. Family liaison’s with her in the meantime.’

‘Pepper spray, boss?’ asked DC Jane Bennett. ‘Does that suggest the same thing to you as it does me?’

‘Probably. The fact that his flies were undone and the condom – still in its wrapper – found on the passenger seat beside him would tend to support it. But the fact that he’s married argues against. And he’s got no previous form.’

‘That only means he hasn’t been charged,’ DC Dave Miles pointed out. ‘It’ll be something to check with his previous employer, if nothing else.’

Pete nodded. ‘That’s your first job, then. Then you can follow the theme. Find out which ranks he used and talk to the other drivers on them. I’ll ask his wife about pre-bookings and let you know what she says. Jane, look for unsolved sex attacks in the city, see if any show signs of a taxi driver being involved. If not, we can eliminate the possibility. If so, you can follow them up. Dick, take Jill with you and interview family and friends. Ben, get a couple of PCs from Uniform and get yourself up Pennsylvania Road, canvas the area for witnesses and so on. The position of the car suggests it had come along Argyll, so concentrate along there initially.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Right, people. Let’s see if we can get this solved in record time, eh? There’s a killer out there. For the sake of public safety and the victim’s family, we need to get them off the streets sooner, rather than later.’

Turning to the whiteboard, he wrote up a quick series of notes of who was doing what, then put the marker pen down and headed for his desk.

Stopped in the middle of his first step.

His whole team were still sitting where they had been, staring at him expectantly.

‘What? I’ve given you all assignments, haven’t I? Or did I dream that?’

‘We’re waiting to see what else you’ve got to say, boss.’ Jane glanced at the rest of the team for support.

There were nods from around the grouped desks.

‘That’s right,’ said Dave. ‘There’s a bloody great elephant in the room here. You going to shoot it or hide from it?’

Pete sighed. It had been inevitable that they’d ask. A function of the team he’d built. Of any good team. They cared. That didn’t make him any more comfortable with the situation, though. This was his son they were talking about. His flesh and blood.

He crossed quickly to his desk and sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. You know Tommy’s downstairs, obviously. He was spotted working at the spring fair on Plymouth Hoe, stopped and found to be carrying a knife. So they arrested him. Colin got him transferred here because of the Rosie Whitlock case. I expect he’ll go to Archways in the short-term. Meantime, I don’t get to see him until after Colin’s interviewed him. If then. He’s…’ He stopped himself with a grimace. It was no use whining.

‘Why Colin?’ DC Dick Feeney, the old man of the team, asked.

Pete looked at him. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning and his cheeks were already grey with the suggestion of stubble that was just one of the reasons for his nickname of Grey Man. ‘Well, it’s not going to be me, is it? And what’s the alternative? Simon?’ He huffed dismissively. DS Simon Phillips had been looking for Tommy for months and come up with nothing. ‘Or Fast-track?’

‘God save us all from that,’ PC Jill Evans said, shaking her head.

‘No need,’ said Dave. ‘The only interviews he’ll ever do are the press type.’

‘And annual reviews,’ Jane added.

‘Yeah, and there’s a good reason not to rush into any promotional opportunities,’ Jill replied. ‘At least, not until he’s moved on up the ladder, out of the way.’

‘Well, sitting around here, yakking, isn’t going to bring that any closer, is it?’ Pete said briskly. ‘So, let’s get to it.’

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, glad of the opportunity to get out of the station. With his son in a cell downstairs, if he couldn’t talk to him, he’d sooner be out and about, doing something, keeping himself occupied rather than just a few steps away, dwelling on the fact that he was so close, yet so inaccessible.

He went quickly down the stairs and along the bland concrete corridor towards the back door and the fresh air.

*

Ranjeet Singh had lived just a few streets from the station, in an area of Victorian terraces. Pete walked there, needing the fresh air and the few minutes downtime to clear his head. Even at this time of day, the street was filled along both sides with parked cars. The Singh household was just a few doors up from the end of the street. The front garden was almost non-existent, but it was clean and tidy. He knocked on the door and it was answered by a uniformed police officer.

‘Morning, Sarge.’ She stepped aside to allow him in.

‘Naz. How’s Mrs Singh?’

‘Emotional, as you’d expect, but calmer this morning. We’ve sent the boys off to school. Keep things as normal as possible for them.’

There were two sons, aged five and seven. Pete had met them the night before when both appeared shyly at the top of the stairs, long after they should have been asleep, peering down, big-eyed, at the unusual activity in the hallway, until their mother shooed them away to bed.

It was moments after that that he’d informed her of her husband’s death.

‘She’s in the lounge.’

PC Nazira Mistry was one of three family liaison specialists in the city and the only Indian officer they had. She showed Pete through the door on the left of the hallway. Mrs Singh was on the sofa. The TV was on, the last few minutes of the BBC breakfast programme playing, but she was ignoring it, head bowed as she wrung her hands together.

‘Mrs Singh.’ Pete extended a hand. Her grip was limp and lifeless, but it stopped her hands writhing together, if only for a short time. ‘Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions about your husband this morning?’

She looked up at him, her expression blank as if she didn’t understand who or what he was, never mind what he’d asked.

‘I need to know as much as I can about Ranjeet, to stand the best chance of finding out who did this to him.’

She nodded wordlessly.

‘Are you aware of anyone having made any accusations against Ranjeet of any kind?’

She shook her head slowly.

‘Nothing? No one’s said they wouldn’t ride with him again? He doesn’t owe anybody any money? There’s been no arguments with other drivers or with neighbours?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘You understand, I’m just trying to figure out what the motive behind this attack might have been? So that I can figure out who might have done it. This isn’t about Ranjeet’s character, it’s about his attacker’s.’

She nodded again.

‘So, there’s nothing you can think of that might have caused anyone to want to hurt him?’