Page 47 of The Unforgiven
“I have a true crime blog. I wondered if you’d tell me a bit about the murders, you know, so I can reassure the public that the police are doing everything they can.”
I looked at her phone, the device still in her hand so I couldn’t see the screen.
Two long, deep breaths, a prayer for sanity. “Are you recording me?”
She nodded, beamed a smile that would be sunnier than the weather forecast for today. “I am. Do you mind?”
“Yes.” I carried on with my coffee.
I had no desire to cause a scene. The men were being spoken to by security, about to be kicked out, or the police potentially called. I knew a few of the bobbies on the beat in the centre of Manchester, so that would be one way to start a Sunday if any of them turned up.
I could go over there and flash my badge, but given I was female, small and a cop not in uniform, there was every chance they’d think I was a stripper, and I’d have the opposite impact of what I was intending.
Chaos.
“I’ll turn it off. See?” She showed me her phone. It looked like the recording had been cancelled, but you could never be sure.”
“What’s your name?”
She looked surprised. I figured she’d predicted that I was going to outright refuse to speak with her.
“Darcy Harrop.” Her chin jutted up, a little proud, a little stubborn. “I knew you were a cop and you worked on the murdered kid case a few years ago. I’ve followed your career.”
“Flattery doesn’t get you anywhere, so don’t try to crawl up my arse.” She could happily quote that if she wanted.
A little of that confidence fell away. “Yeah, well, I’m not trying to trick you.”
“I don’t think you’d be able to. Look, I’m tired, stressed and really hoping I don’t have to arrest one of those wankers over there before work because I really don’t need the paperwork.” I was desperately trying to ignore them. One of the men was now standing on a table, pretending he was the star of Magic Mike and was about to take it all off. A second security guy appeared, approximately the size of two semi-detached houses.
“I’m a journalist graduate and I write local interest features for one of the weeklies, but I have a true crime podcast on the side – that’s what I want to do, really. It’s calledHer Final Hoursand it isn’t sensationalist. I look at crimes against women, not just in the UK, but across the world and how they’re allowed to happen. Here’s my card, and there’s a QR code that’ll take you to the website. My details are on there. I really admire your career – it’s male dominated and you put yourself at risk every day and I promise I’m not blowing smoke up your arse.” She swallowed and for a moment, looked nervous. “If when this case is done, I could interview you about what it’s like being a female detective, and what women can do to keep themselves safe, that would be amazing. We can pre-record and agree questions beforehand. I’m genuinely not trying to be a dick.”
She was so young and earnest and not yet jaded that I took the card. “Let me think about it.”
A flash of excitement and a smile brightened her face as the group of men were walked out onto the streets of Manchester.
“Really?”
“I’ll think about it. So not a no, but not a yes. There’s a press conference at eight outside Two Angel Square.” I stood up,happy to leave now and check those dickheads had moved on. It looked like one was throwing his guts up just outside.
“I don’t have a press pass.” She looked like I’d just snatched a Christmas gift out of her hands.
“Just use the ID from your day job. No one’s going to check, and if you’re giving advice to your listeners on how to stay safe, it’s to stay where there are people. Don’t go near lonely places.” I thought for a second, not sure where this was coming from. “And if they’re meeting up with someone they’re not sure about, do it in the middle of a busy place.”
“Sounds like common sense,” Darcy said.
“You wouldn’t believe how rare common sense is.” I tucked her card in my pocket. “See you at the presser and for god’s sake, keep to the main roads to get there.” Because, in my not that extensive experience, the killer could well be in the audience to see what the police were saying.
It was, as we expected, a packed crowd. Wrigley was at the forefront, would deliver the statement and take any questions, unless he wanted to divert one to someone else. I still felt nervous at the prospect of it ever being me, having to bounce difficult questions and answer awkward ones without giving anything away that might compromise the investigation.
Wrigley had been doing it for years. He knew the press, had known most of the hacks since they were just out of nappies, and they didn’t induce the sort of fear in him that they did in me.
I looked around the room for Darcy, spotting her at the back, keeping out of the way. She looked spellbound by what was going on, because this was a large gathering, the case making headlines across the country and even further afield, the internet bustling with theories and criticisms and fear.
It was also the first presser to take place in what would be our new building, once we left Pigeon Loft, millions of taxpayers pounds going into darkened sheets of glass and recycled steel. It was striking, angular and minimalist, giving an appearance of a no nonsense, modern police force and at the moment, wasn’t quite finished. A press room had been accommodated on the ground floor, a separate entrance from a side street used to get in and out, not much different from the front – slate grey, smoky and unpredictable, reflecting the ever-changing Manchester skies.
“We have several lines of enquiry we’re currently working on,” Wrigley said, the update given, and the floor now open for questions. “We’d advise the public to be vigilant, know where your wives and girlfriends and daughters are going, avoid lonely places, including those by water – all of which is good advice even when we don’t have a killer on the lose.” He spoke matter of factly, as if offering tips on how to make the perfect sourdough. “Remember, two of these women haven’t been killed near water.”
Another question. “Is it true that there is more than one killer?”
