She gives her mum a sad smile.
‘Do you mind if I ask why you were living apart?’ asks Lenny.
Mrs Whitmore stares at her hands. ‘When Hamish retired, he promised that we’d travel and visit old friends and fix up the garden, but he became fixated on old cases, trying to investigate them again. He called them his white bears.’
Lenny looks puzzled.
‘Things that he couldn’t forget,’ I explain. ‘It comes from a famous psychological experiment into thought suppression. The more we try not to think about something – let’s say a white bear – the more the white bear keeps popping into our mind.’
Lenny nods and turns back to Mrs Whitmore. ‘The detective who came earlier – did he give you his name?’
‘It was McGinn or McGann.’
‘Did he have a warrant card?’
‘Yes, I think so. Why are you asking?’
‘Did you see his vehicle?’
Mrs Whitmore looks from face to face. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘What exactly did he say to you?’
‘He said that Hamish was dead and that it was suicide. I told him that was ridiculous and he said there would be an inquest. He asked if Hamish had a home office, or a computer, somewhere he might have left a suicide note.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said Hamish had moved out and was living with Suzie and Jack.’
Lenny frowns and toys with her phone. ‘Excuse me, I have to make a call,’ she says, stepping out of the room into the hallway. I can hear her asking questions, but not the answers. She wants to know what officer came to this address and who authorised the visit.
Two minutes later, she returns to the room, but doesn’t bother taking a seat.
‘This detective who visited you – what did he look like?’
Mrs Whitmore pauses to think. ‘Late thirties. Tall. Fair-haired. He wore a nice suit and I remember he had very blue eyes.’
‘Anything else?’
She frowns. ‘He had a scar on his forehead shaped like a half-moon.’ She points to her own head.
‘Where did he sit?’
‘On the sofa.’
‘Did he touch anything?’
‘I made him a cup of tea.’
‘Where is the cup now?’
‘I washed it up.’ She’s growing agitated. ‘Why? Did I do something wrong? He seemed like a nice young man. He asked if Hamish was working on anything … if he had any files. He said these were now police property and he had to collect them.’
Lenny and I glance at each other.
‘What case was Hamish working on?’ I ask.
‘Eugene Green,’ says Jack.
‘The paedophile?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Hamish helped catch him.’
‘It was the biggest case of his career,’ adds Suzie.
Lenny looks puzzled. ‘That case is closed. Green died in prison two months ago.’
I remember the newspaper headlines. THE BEAST IS DEAD, one of them said.
Green’s first victim was found on the North York Moors, which is why the papers called him the ‘Beast of Whitby’. He went on to rape and kill at least two more children, one of whom he lured into his van using kittens that he’d collected from a local animal shelter. He pleaded guilty to the murders, but died within a year, beaten to death in a prison exercise yard.
‘Why was Hamish interested in Green?’ I ask.
Jack glances at his mother-in-law, as though wondering how much he should say. ‘Hamish said there were missing pieces … things he couldn’t understand.’
Mrs Whitmore makes a huffing sound. ‘He turned his office into an incident room, with whiteboards and photographs of murdered children. Gave me the creeps. I didn’t want them in my house. I told him that.’
‘Where are the files now?’ I ask.
‘At our place,’ answers Jack.
‘That’s what I told the detective,’ says Mrs Whitmore. ‘He said he’d call Suzie in a few days and collect them.’
‘You gave him our address?’ asks Suzie, an edge entering her voice.
Lenny glances at me. I can see her mind working. ‘Where do you live?’
‘We have a flat in Salford.’
‘Is there anyone at home?’
‘Yeah, my mate, Harley Parker,’ says Jack. ‘I left him there. He was painting the kitchen.’
‘Call him!’
‘Will someone tell me what’s wrong?’ asks Mrs Whitmore, more anxious than angry.
Lenny crouches next to her armchair. ‘The man who came to see you earlier – I don’t think he was a police officer.’
‘But he had a warrant card.’
‘Did you look at it carefully?’
She doesn’t answer. Lenny takes her hand. ‘We don’t believe that your husband committed suicide.’
It takes a moment for the information to sink in and the ramifications to play out.
Meanwhile, Jack has been on his mobile. ‘Harley isn’t answering. He may have gone home.’
‘We’re going to need your address and your keys,’ says Lenny.
Jack reaches into his pocket. ‘I’m coming with you.’
7
Cyrus
Lenny is on the radio, issuing instructions and giving a description of the bogus detective: a white male, late thirties, six feet tall, with short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a scar on his forehead. She wants a forensic artist to sit with Eileen Whitmore to create a likeness.
Jack has been listening from the back seat. ‘If he wasn’t a copper – how did he know Eileen’s address? And how did he get a warrant card?’
‘Likely stolen or counterfeit,’ says Lenny, then under her breath, ‘or a library card.’
We’re driving through Salford, a former factory town once famous for spinning cotton and weaving silk until it was swallowed up by Greater Manchester. Now it’s better known for its gangs, racist attacks and post-industrial decay. If Manchester is grim, Salford is grimmer.
As we near the Seedley Park Estate, shuttered-up shops give way to railway yards and tower blocks. A single brick chimney rises above the rooftops like a lone tree in a nuclear winter.
‘Turn left at the next intersection,’ says Jack.
We pull into a parking spot outside a red-brick building that is built in a U-shape around a central quadrangle. There are external stairs at either end linked by passageways that overlook the communal space.
‘Harley must still be here,’ says Jack, pointing out a battered white van. ‘We’re on the second floor.’
Pushing through the entrance, we step past chained bicycles and folded prams before reaching the stairs and starting the climb. Someone has discarded an armchair on the landing, which we step around.
‘Fourth door along,’ says Jack.
Lenny goes ahead. I’m next. We pass a flat where a couple are arguing. Another has a TV set turned up loudly, to drown out the domestic dispute.
We’ve reached the flat. The door is slightly ajar. Lenny nudges it open with her foot and feels for a light switch.
‘Call your friend,’ she says, moving into the living room. Jack takes out his mobile and punches buttons. A phone responds. The ringtone is ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis. It’s coming from the bedroom.