Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

me heard that night. You were right when you said they would have got my interest. I usually take the dog for a walk when Abdul starts closing up at ten. I decided I’d go in the direction of the shots.’ He saw Watts’ face change. ‘In the direction I thought they came from.’

‘What time was this, again?’

‘I’d say around ten fifteen.’

‘Go on.’

‘I walked over to Forge Street. There was a car there.’

Watts’ head came up. ‘Describe it.’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t say much about it. Dark-coloured. That whole lousy street was dark and it was raining.’

‘And?’

‘And, what? It was there. The car. In the dark.’

‘Was one of its rear doors open?’

Nigel frowned. ‘No, it wasn’t. All the doors were closed and all was quiet. No lights. Nothing.’

Watts absorbed this. Nigel had either got the time wrong or he hadn’t noticed the small detail in the dark. ‘Did you see or hear anything else that night?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see any movement inside the car?’

‘No. It had dark windows.’

Windows, thought Watts. ‘Did you see any damage to them?’

‘I didn’t approach it, but not from where I was standing.’

‘How close did you get to it?’

‘I was on the other side of the road.’

Watts sighed, gave him a disgruntled look. ‘You should have told me all this before now.’

‘Told you what? That I saw a car?’

‘You’re sure you didn’t pass anybody on foot or in a vehicle as you walked over to Forge Street?’

‘No, nobody.’

Watts glared at him. ‘I said, think. Think about your walk there. See it inside your head.’

‘If you’d been there, seen how dark it was—’

‘I was there. I know what you’re saying.’ He watched the big face opposite, saw it crease into a frown.

‘Sorry, Mr Watts. It’s all … The more I try to think, the less I remember.’ Watts was on his feet.

‘Stay here.’

Something he recalled Hanson his years-ago psychologist colleague saying about witness recall was inside his head. He opened the door, walked the corridor, saw Reynolds. ‘Get a witness statement form. Bring it here.’

He came back to Nigel. ‘After you’ve given a statement about what you’ve told me and anything else that occurs to you, I want you to go home, put it out of your head. All of it. Don’t think about it.’

‘I thought I’d do some brain-racking later—’

‘No. Leave it alone. Relax. Watch the box. Do whatever you usually do. You’ve got my number if anything does occur to you, but what I’m saying is, don’t push it.’ Reynolds arrived with a statement form.

‘Sorry I’m no help, Mr Watts. I’ll do what you’ve said.’

Glancing outside, seeing the Aston Martin, Watts left Reynolds to take the security guard’s statement and headed for his office. He found Traynor inside. He went directly to the Smartboard, started writing, talking over his shoulder to him.

‘The security guard has just decided to tell me that he was walking his dog in Forge Street after hearing the nine thirty shots. He’s not sure of the time but he thinks he was there around ten, possibly ten fifteen. He saw the Lawrences’ car parked there.’ He stopped writing, looked over his shoulder. ‘One thing doesn’t add up. He said all the doors were closed … What’s up?’

‘Molly Lawrence has told me that they were shot because Mike Lawrence lost control.’

Watts turned to him as Judd came inside. ‘He lost control because the gunman sexually assaulted her.’

‘You said she was holding back. What else did she say?’

‘That he unbuttoned her shirt, put his mouth against her neck, her chest, that there was nothing about him that appeared familiar to her. She said he was a stranger.’ He looked up at Watts. ‘As a male, I’m not the appropriate person to talk to Molly about that.’

Watts looked across at Judd. ‘Can you do it?’

‘Yes, and I’ll also pull all the jackets on sex offenders known for armed vehicle invasion.’ She frowned. ‘Hang on. How many days is it since the shooting? If we’d known about this sooner, we might have got DNA.’

Watts eyed Traynor. ‘DNA might still be there.’

Traynor took out his phone. ‘This morning, Molly Lawrence took her first shower since leaving hospital.’

Judd raked at her hair. ‘Didn’t it occur to her to tell us that any sexually motivated contact is something she should have told us about immediately?’

‘I want to know what happened to her and her husband’s clothes after they were admitted to hospital.’ He reached for his phone. ‘Mrs Monroe? Will Traynor. Do you have the clothes Molly was wearing on the night of the shooting?’ He glanced at Watts. ‘Yes. We’ll ring them, thank you.’ He ended the call. ‘As far as she’s aware, the hospital still has them. Molly was asked if she wanted them. She said no.’

Watts snatched up the desk phone. ‘You said it, Judd. If we’d known about a sexual element sooner, we might have him by now. Molly Lawrence must know about DNA. Didn’t she think?’

‘I’m guessing that all of her thinking, her critical faculties, were fully taken up with the aftermath of being shot,’ said Traynor.

Watts eyed him. ‘Is that sarcasm I’m hearing?’

‘No. Realism.’

Watts was talking into the phone. Judd looked across at Traynor. ‘He’s going to be mega pissed off if he doesn’t get those clothes. Yes, I’ll talk to Molly.’

Watts put down the phone. ‘Can’t fault the hospital’s organization. They parcelled the clothes up for Mrs Lawrence to take home and when she refused them, they put them in store. They’re sending them over now. I’ve requested Mike Lawrence’s clothes as well. I’d better alert Brophy.’

Judd looked at him. ‘Don’t, Sarge. Don’t tell him you’ve only just requested them. He’ll go on about why we didn’t check them out before.’

‘I’ve said it before, Judd, I like the simple world you live in. Unfortunately, I live and work in this one. You know that as soon as those clothes arrive here, they’ll be logged into incident room records, logged again by forensics. Brophy’s strength, if one exists, is that he likes facts, records.