Page 32 of The Unforgiven

“Slowly.” I took a seat opposite. “What’s the verdict on the Leeds case?” Because that was what I was here for.

“The victim was Charlie Mason. He was twenty-nine and killed just hours after being discharged from a mental health facility just outside Leeds. Arguably, he shouldn’t have been released as he wasn’t well, but as things occur, he was deemed fit to go home and ended up wandering round for a few hours. He was drug dependant – a regular heroin user. He was stabbed as it says in your email, and the subsequent investigation concluded that he’d been mistook for a known police informant who’d help land one of the bigger players in the nick for murder. This informant could regularly be found at the Wheatsheaf Pub.Charlie was stabbed just round the corner from it and could’ve easily been mistaken for the informant.” Wrigley tapped the small, coffee-stained table. “No CCTV round that side, which everyone knew because the Wheatsheaf was known to be a dealer’s pub. I spoke to the senior officer and he’s pretty sure they got this right – just didn’t get who did it.”

“So the email’s a diversion tactic?” Which would suggest that someone was trying to maliciously divert the investigation.

“Not necessarily. It could be a similar or the same weapon. The knife used on Charlie could’ve been sold on the dark web or black market and used on our vics. Or it could be the same killer. There are too many could’ves in that sentence so we’re getting Dr Miz to go through the information she’s got, and her knowledge of the weapon used on Chelsea and Brooke. I suspect if you visit her lab at the moment, she’ll be re-enacting something, so for fuck’s sake, don’t let Vinny near her.” He shook his head. “I wanted to be a copper, not a fucking nursery teacher.”

“Have you had her side or his?”

“I’ve had her tech’s side, so I’m hoping he’s added extra drama. Look, Mia, I am bothered that you’ve been chosen to receive these emails, so just be careful, won’t you? On all counts.” He looked at me kindly, and I felt my eyes fill with tears but didn’t let them fall.

“I’m always careful, Sir.” Unless I chose not to be.

He gave a nod. “Any idea who your email writer is?”

“None. I don’t think it’s anyone to do with Stan.” I thought for a second. “Could it be someone who investigated Charlie Mason’s murder who wasn’t quite satisfied with the outcome.”

“Maybe. Let’s see what happens – if we’re still scratching our heads about it after the weekend, you could head to Leeds and do a bit of sniffing around. Any luck with Neil Hunt’s whereabout?”

I shook my head. “Nothing solid. We really need the name of the woman he was with, but he’s refusing to speak to us and has lawyered up. We don’t have anything to charge him with either. Something’s not right there.”

“I might pay him a visit myself. Been a while since I’ve got a suspect talking and this might be one of the last opportunities.” He smiled happily, casting a look at the photo he had framed above his desk, not of Pam, but of his cricket team last season, when they won their division.

“Still planning on retiring?”

His grin was impossible for him to swallow. “Yep. Three months. They’ve finally got my replacement.”

“Someone good?”

“Of course. That was part of the reason I’ve stayed – the person they wanted to bring in was shite, his only interest was climbing the career ladder. I’ve invested too much into this team to let it be dismantled by someone’s ego.” He stood up, picking up his mug that was now empty. “Time to get a brew and see the boss. Make good choices, Mia.”

That told me he knew more about my promises to be careful than I’d given him credit for.

An hour later and I was driving Wrigley across the Pennines to Foxbourne Vale, an affluent town just outside of Newcastle and the home of Alexandra Astley, the woman we’d finally identified as Neil Hunt’s alibi.

It was solid detective work from Verity that led us there, quiet persistence over the course of days, cross referencing Hunt’s bank statements with the places he’d been that week, phoning restaurants and bars to find out if any of them had CCTV or recognised Hunt and a woman he might be with.

It seemed that Hunt and his mystery woman hadn’t been anywhere together, until Verity checked out the place at a long line of potential restaurants for the Monday night when he was in Newcastle. D & L Cassons was an overarching name for a chain of gastropubs in Newcastle, whose online payment systems were shared by all twelve venues. People would pay a deposit to reserve the table, the deposit was held in one account and paid for by Hunt on the Sunday before Chelsea’s death.

Verity had contacted each pub, speaking with the front of house who’d been on duty each evening, and anyone who’d also been likely to have come into contact with Hunt – bar staff, waiters, glass collectors.

She was on the tenth pub when she got a lead. A young lad who was on his first shift as waiting on staff. He recognised Hunt as he’d tipped him well, and he was with a woman, who’d apparently acted quite nervous. That also gave Verity a time, and miracle of miracles, a working security camera. Twenty-four hours later, with some reverse image searching, we had a name for Neil Hunt’s girlfriend.

Alexandra Astley was not impressed at being asked to attend the local police station, a relic of the past that was only open two days a week. It’d been specially opened for us by a rather unpleasant police sergeant who managed to fit two disparaging comments in about my gender within three minutes of meeting him.

“I’m sure your lass here can make a brew when Mrs Astley gets here. What is it you need to speak to her about again?” He delved for gossip.

“We didn’t.” I made no move to find the kettle.

“Oh, it’s like that, then, is it?” He folded his arms.

Wrigley eyed him. “If you’ve any experience with dealing with ongoing cases, you’ll be aware of the need for confidentiality. Now what time is Mrs Aster getting here?”

Mrs Aster was late, probably on purpose.

“I have no idea, why I’m here, officer, and I’m sure you could’ve done this at my home.” She slid gracefully into the seat opposite us at a table housed in a tiny room that would’ve been the nightmare of someone with a dust allergy.

Wrigley offered her a bottle of water, which she declined. “I’d rather just get this over and done. I have no idea what this is about.”