Statements had been doctored.
He ran a hand over his face. Once again he compared them. In the original, the time of the robbery in Fleetwood had been written as 7.10 p.m. The typed copy stated 7.01 p.m. Luton could easily have forgiven this as a typing error and maybe it was. Pretty bloody elementary, though.
No way could the next change have been down to a mistake of fingers. It was much more fundamental, but still quite subtle.
The original statement had been quite specific about the descriptions of the men responsible. The witness had a very clear memory of events. He had described all the men as being quite small, about five foot six to five foot eight. And though they had all worn masks, he described their hair colours and even guessed at possible ages — seventeen to twenty-three. All young men.
The typed statement changed this to: ‘They were all of medium height’ — and the individual descriptions of the men had been amended too, making them much more general than specific. The age range had also been changed: ‘anything from seventeen to thirty-seven’.
One of the men had spoken during the raid and the witness had described his voice as ‘gruff, with a local accent, and I would probably recognise it again.’ The typed statement read, ‘He had a Lancashire accent and I probably wouldn’t recognise it again.’
The changes meant that the men could have been anyone of a quarter of a million males in the north-west of England and were evidentially worthless.
Another slight but significant change was the time that it took to rob the place — reduced from four minutes to two. This meant that the men had left the premises at the new time of 7.03 p.m., giving them ample time to make it to the newsagents in Blackpool… if, in fact, the men who had robbed the shop in Fleetwood were the same ones responsible for that subsequent, appalling crime.
Luton sat back and allowed his head to flop backwards so he was staring at the ceiling.
What was going on here? he asked himself. What did all this mean? Had other statements been changed too?
‘ DC Luton, isn’t it?’
Luton sat bolt upright and spun round on the chair.
‘ Oh, hello, sir.’
It was Tony Morton, Head of the NWOCS, and Jim Tattersall.
‘ Working late? I won’t be approving the overtime,’ Morton said with a short laugh. There was no humour behind it. He and Tattersall were standing at the door. Luton panicked inside as he wondered how long they’d been there watching him.
They walked towards Luton who, easy as he could, rotated back to face the desk. He picked up the typed statement and dropped it casually back into the basket, then rolled up his photocopies with shaking hands.
‘ So… what’re you up to?’
Luton faced them again. A wave of intimidation gushed through him. Like nausea.
‘ Uh — nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Just having a read of a few statements. Seeing where we’re up to…’ His throat was arid, constricted, but he could I not understand why. He felt as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, yet here was the perfect opportunity to tell Morton — in the presence of Tattersall — exactly what he’d found: someone had been tampering with witness statements. It was his duty to do so.
Fuck that, he thought. These two looked like they were in this together.
‘ We have statement readers for that sort of thing,’ announced Morton.
Tattersall loomed silently and menacingly behind him.
‘ Yes, I know, sir. Just interested, that’s all.’ He tried to slip the rolled-up photocopies smoothly into the inside pocket of his jacket. Actually there was nothing smooth about the way he did it because his nerves got the better of him. For a start, there were about a dozen sheets of A4-size paper, not specifically designed to fit into inner jacket pockets, especially when there is a wallet, diary and two pens in there already. Basically the statements did not fit, but he made them go in by crushing them up and forcing them. The result was a huge bulge like a rugby ball in his pocket.
‘ What’ve you got there?’ Morton asked.
Luton stood up. ‘Nothing, sir. Just some of my notes. If you’ll excuse me.’
He made to walk past Morton who held out a hand, placed it across Luton’s chest and prevented him walking away. Luton thought for one horrible moment he was going to reach into the pocket and grab the statements.
‘ Is everything OK?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. Luton nodded dumbly. ‘Any problems, you can come to me with them.’ He looked Luton squarely in the eyes and Luton was certain Morton must be able to feel the beating of his heart; the organ was thrashing around in his chest like a crazy man locked in a cell.
‘ No, no problems,’ croaked Luton.
Morton removed his hand. Luton said good night, sidestepped Morton and Tattersall and walked coolly to the door, where he then bolted.
He hit the stairs, he calculated, at somewhere approaching 100 m.p.h. and threw himself down them like a pin-ball. Within moments he had descended to the level of the CID office — which was as deserted as the incident room had been.
He needed to see his role model. But his role model wasn’t there.
‘ Henry, where the shite are you when I need you?’ he chunnered under his breath. He went to Henry’s desk, picked up the phone and dialled Comms. No, they had no idea where the Acting DI was. He dialled Henry’s home number. Kate answered.
‘ Kate, sorry to bother you. Is Henry there, it’s Derek Luton here.’
‘ No, he’s not back yet,’ said Kate. ‘Are you all right, Derek? You sound a bit strained.’
‘ Absolutely fine. Just breathless from the stairs,’ he said oddly.
‘ You want to leave a message or anything?’
‘ No, it’s all right. I’ll catch up with him later,’ he said in what he vainly hoped was a more controlled voice. ‘Bye.’ He hung up.
‘ What to do, what to do,’ he said to himself whilst he danced on the spot like someone on hot coals, opening and closing his fists. Then: ‘Get a grip, you knob,’ he remonstrated. He quickly scribbled a note for Henry on a yellow post-it and stuck it prominently in the middle of the desk blotter, as opposed to around the edge where the rest of them were stuck like flags. He hoped Henry would see it straight away.
In the back yard of the police station it was brass monkeys. After these past few pleasant days, the January nights had turned harsh and bitter. Luton strode out of the ground-floor rear entrance and headed towards his car at something approaching a jog, all the while looking over his shoulder, but feeling completely stupid for doing so.
He got to his car in one piece. Stop overreacting, dickhead, he told himself. Why should anyone want to do anything to you? Complete crap.
However, when he was in the driver’s seat, he made damn sure all the doors were locked before starting the engine.
Instinct was telling him two things.
One — you’ve just uncovered something very smelly indeed. And two — watch your back, pal.
When Luton had gone from the room, Morton walked over to where he’d been sitting and picked up the top statement from the file.
‘ Fuck,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this doing here, for everyone to see?’ He looked hard at Tattersall.
‘ I came back to put them away,’ he replied. ‘That’s when I found him.’
Morton’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘We cannot afford to take chances,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘D’you think he’s sussed it?’
‘ He’s sharp. Think about all those questions he’s been asking. I’d say yes, he’s sussed it.’
After a thoughtful pause, Morton spoke. ‘As I said, we can’t take any chances.’
There was a knock on the door.
Luton did not have to wake up to check the clock. He was already awake and knew it was 2 a.m.
Annie, his wife of six months, had been asleep; not as deeply as usual. His tossing and turning and sweating
