by A D FOX
It reminded Kate of the outpouring of grief that had followed the death of Princess Diana; news reports of that time showed mass hysteria - everyone jostling to prove that they were feeling it more than anyone else. It didn’t ring entirely true. Neither did the Dave Perry memorial party. She pulled up the news feeds and found that the murder had made the front page of The Journal, albeit their online edition at this hour. It had also scored a mention in the nationals and a couple of paragraphs on the regional section of the main BBC website. Details were sketchy at this point but the poetic nature of Dave Perry’s demise - found at the bottom of a radio mast - had caught a lot of attention. As it was surely meant to. None of it should have got out there yet, but once the police arc lighting at the scene of the crime had gone up, several curious locals had been drawn in, like moths to a flame, and caught sight of more than they should have. Rural areas were sometimes hard to quickly seal.
‘It’s a peach, isn’t it?’ The accent was warm American and Kate turned around with a ready smile, catching Michaels rolling his eyes.
Conrad Temple, their occasional guest crim psych, was back.
‘Didn’t take you long,’ muttered Michaels.
Conrad grinned and shrugged, pushing a floppy brown fringe off his forehead and fixing Kate with his wide brown eyes. ‘You know I just live for coming here.’
‘So what do you make of the death of The Voice of Wessex?’ Kate asked, sipping her coffee and checking her watch. ‘Make it fast because we’ve got to get to the radio station.’
‘Well, it’s not hard to work out that it’s been done as a big statement,’ said Conrad.
‘No, that’s not hard,’ said Michaels.
Temple grinned at him. What Kate liked most about the guy was the way he seemed to find every dig at him quite hilarious. She had never seen him take offence, even though he took a lot of crap from coppers who thought his lofty theories might take quite a beating if he ever spent time at the policing coalface. They seemed to miss the point that a criminal psychologist’s perspective was valuable because he or she wasn’t at the coalface.
‘Go on,’ said Kate, switching off the radio and pulling on her jacket.
‘Well, the microphone sock in the mouth and up the nose was clearly designed to suffocate the guy... but also, more symbolically, to silence him. So I’m guessing whoever killed him was offended by something he’d said. Also, it wasn’t very hands-on. It looks like Perry was made to tape up his own legs and one wrist, presumably at knife point. He didn’t make a run for it. Maybe he thought that was all the killer wanted - to shame him; leave him there alive to be found, humiliated, having peed his pants, by some local farmer or dog walker. But no - the final act of the killer was to tape his other arm up and then stuff in the mic sock and tape up the guy’s mouth and nose. So... our killer didn’t want to strangle the man himself. Didn’t want to beat his brains in or stab him. The knife marks weren’t deep, according to Death.’
He clasped a cardboard folder to his chest and tilted his head to one side, considering. ‘So it wasn’t a very physical act and not done in any kind of a frenzy. It was planned; methodical. I would say our killer had a long-held grudge.’
Kate nodded. Forensics were working over the car but nothing had come back yet, apart from traces of gaffer tape adhesive on the passenger seat head rest and rear seat footwell, which suggested Perry was taped up in the back of the car before arriving at the mast site. They’d found a small empty zip-up case on the back seat too, which was almost certainly for Perry’s personal mic sock. No prints anywhere. Kate guessed someone planning a ‘methodical’ and ritualistic murder would have gloves on and probably a hat and a face mask too, to minimise the risk of leaving a DNA trail.
‘We’ve got to go,’ she said, grabbing her bag and car keys. ‘We’ll see you at the briefing, yes?’
‘With some deeper insights, I hope,’ said Temple, favouring her once again with his boyish smile. She found him very likeable. Maybe a little more than likeable.
‘Twat,’ said Michaels as they headed out into the corridor.
‘Why?’ she asked, although she knew. Her young DC was probably picking up on the hint of flirting going on between her and the crim psych.
‘Symbolically silencing him,’ Michaels parroted, doing a bad copy of Conrad’s Boston accent. ‘Long held grudge.’ He snorted. ‘He got choked to death with foam and gaffer tape because some fucker hated him.’
‘Well, that’s the short version,’ said Kate, with a grin. ‘And probably just as accurate. Let’s see if we can find out which fucker, shall we?’
They passed DC Sharon Mulligan on the stairs. She grinned, shaking her head, when she saw them. ‘Former Mrs Perry’s just been in to ID the body,’ she said. ‘Took one look, said “Yeah, that’s him”, turned around and left.’
‘And that’s all she said?’ asked Kate. She was surprised. Sharon - a warm combo of northern lass and West Indian momma - could normally get anyone talking.
‘Actually, no,’ said Sharon. ‘I walked behind her on the way out. I’m pretty sure she muttered “Wanker”.’
‘Family all informed?’ asked Kate.
‘Yep - and all alibied up, too,’ said Sharon. ‘His sons and his daughter seem upset and shocked, of course, but nobody’s tearing their shirt. I’m guessing he never won Dad of the Year.’
‘Well... at least his listeners loved him,’ said Michaels.
“Yeah. All four hundred thousand of them probably flashed before his eyes,’ said Kate.
12
Gemma had never been so glad to get out of the station. Nervous, yes, because it was only the second time she’d been out in the old radio car on her own, but so, so relieved to get away from the rolling Dave Perry Memorial.
Salisbury Broadcasting House was filled with staff. It seemed everyone had come in, regardless of their shift, to share in the grief, the shock, the sheer fascination. Even Becs off the weekend gardening programme was hanging around, looking freaked out. Gemma wasn’t fooled; they weren’t purely there to speak to the police, as requested by Rob Larkhill. Most of them had come in way earlier than necessary, just for the traumafest. They were revelling in it. Not one of them, in their huddles and tear-stained hugs, had said ‘He was such a lovely guy.’ Because he wasn’t. Dave Perry was not a lovely guy. He was just a man who had somehow found a successful career to go with his unpleasant personality.
In truth, she was mostly glad to be out because she didn’t know what to feel. Dave Perry was dead. He was gone. How could she be sad? She should definitely make a show of being sad, like all the others, but knowing that she’d never again have to endure his slimy approaches was a blessed release.
She’d got lucky, really - after the first hour on air she’d picked up a call from the stricken leader of a community choir in Wilton, where Dave had gone to school, who said the group wanted to sing something in his memory, on the steps of the local church. Mostly retired ladies, they were planning their ad hoc gig right now and would be ready to publicly sing out their sadness within the hour. James had loved that, especially when he learned the song they were going to finish on was Everybody Hurts by REM. ‘Take the VERV and get down there!’ he’d commanded. ‘We want that to end the show. It’s perfect. We can backtime them from the nine o’clock news.’
So here she was, leaving James and a hurriedly conscripted Jack from the Jack & Spencer show, to man the Switchboard of Grief, while she headed out to Wilton. She was nervous, though, even in her relief, because it wasn’t the modern, easy-to-manage VSAT Enabled Reporter Vehicle that she was driving. Both of the VERVs were unavailable - one because it was being repaired and the other because it had already gone out for a sports fixture up country. This meant the only option was the old radio car. An unwieldy thing, it was basically a converted Ford Focus with a solid column of steel through its back seat area. The column housed the telescopic mast which could be raised to a five-metre height from a console fitted on the passenger side
dashboard. Most of these radio cars had been pensioned off years ago, when the BBC bought into a faster, lighter, cheaper fleet of vehicles which could use satellite and mobile phone technology to send live feeds from outside broadcast sites pretty much anywhere.
She had received her official training from Malc, the station’s chief engineer, a couple of months ago, on both the VERVs and the old radio car. The VERVs were easy to learn; very high tech, with their own WiFi field and a pretty much seamless connection to the nearest cell. The old radio car was something else. It was a museum piece - quite literally. It was kept in the garage mostly to entertain guests when they came in on tours of the radio station. In the same way they kept a couple of the old Uher reel-to-reel recorders and the massive Studer cut and splice editing machines with their oxide ribbon, razor blades and sticky tape. People loved that stuff. Malc, especially, got a bit misty eyed about it. Maybe this was the real reason why the station hadn’t yet junked all the ancient tech.
She’d only used the old car once, since her training, covering a harvest festival event for Becs on the weekend gardening show, when the VERVS were both out for two important football matches. Most broadcast assistants learned to operate the gear this way; ad hoc requests from producers or presenters who were short of help. When you were new in radio you did everything you were asked to do. It was the only way to learn and to move up in your career.
So she’d said yes to Becs, despite her misgivings, and driven the heavy old Focus off to Avebury. She’d nearly totally cocked up the whole OB, forgetting to press a crucial button to transmit via the correct mast tower. She’d also nearly electrocuted herself by starting to put the mast up under a power line; only noticing it as she’d held her finger on the hydraulic button and then freezing in shock before taking the mast down again, moving the car to a safer spot, and starting the procedure all over. All with an audience of two or three hundred agog harvest festival-goers. She still went hot and cold when she thought of it. But today would be better, as long as she could find somewhere safe to park. She wasn’t going to cock it up again.
In the event it went smoothly. She found the church and the weepy ladies of the choir and managed to park and get the mast up without incident. Then she linked through to the studio and got the choir on air, having backtimed their song, with a little rehearsal, to run up to the news at nine. The choir was good and their rendition of Everybody Hurts was rather touching, as long as she didn’t think too much about who it was being sung for. Afterwards, Carol, who’d set up the flash choir, came over to stand next to her as she brought down the mast. ‘I can’t believe I’ll never hear his voice again,’ she sniffed, pulling a fresh hanky out of her beige puffer jacket.
Oh, you will, thought Gemma. They’re going to be running his greatest fucking hits for weeks.
‘I mean, it’s so shocking,’ Carol went on. ‘Must be even more shocking for you; I mean, you knew him, properly. I’m just a listener. I know he could be quite… forthright… on air, but I bet he was lovely to work with, wasn’t he?’
‘He certainly was forthright,’ said Gemma. The mast had fully lowered now, but as she released the down end of the rocker switch the motor kicked off again and the aerial started to ascend. Puzzled, she hit down a couple of times, but it just kept going up. It got halfway to its full height before her insistent jabbing made it drop again. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Carol. ‘Having some technical issues here!’ But the mast finally behaved itself; the wires and telescopic sections concertinaing back into place and staying put at last. Gemma made a mental note to mention it to Malc. It clearly needed its wiring looked at.
She got back to the station feeling happier than anyone should on such a day. She’d pulled off a nice radio car opt for a really tough breakfast show and ding, dong, the shit was dead. Yes, she felt guilty, but hey, job done. She parked the radio car back in its bay, plugged it in to its charger point, locked up, left the key back on its hook, and then rearranged her face to mirror the de rigueur grief of the day.
It was only when she stepped into the newsroom that keeping the look became a more natural affair. A blonde woman in a dark green cord jacket, black jeans and black boots walked up to her. ‘Gemma Henshall?’ she asked, consulting a list of names on a clipboard. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kate Sparrow. Can you come with me please?’
Gemma glanced at Rob Larkhill, hovering nearby, and he nodded. ‘Everyone’s getting interviewed today, remember?’ he said, and she relaxed a little. She spotted Josh Carnegy hanging around the newsroom with a cup of coffee, looking freaked out. It was a rarity seeing him out in daylight hours; he looked odd without night lighting.
She followed the detective to Rob’s office where a man in his early-to-mid twenties was sitting to one side of the manager’s desk. ‘This is Detective Constable Ben Michaels,’ said the woman, settling herself into Rob’s chair and indicating that Gemma should take the seat opposite. ‘We’re speaking to all the staff here today to get a picture of Dave Perry’s life - in case it helps us understand what happened to him.’
‘What did happen to him?’ she asked. ‘Nobody seems to know.’
‘How well did you know Mr Perry?’ said DS Sparrow, disregarding the query.
‘I - um - well, I’ve only worked here for a few months,’ said Gemma. ‘So... not very well, really.’
‘Did you like him?’ asked the guy, pinging a ballpoint pen against his A4 pad and regarding her through slightly narrowed eyes.
‘I... um...’ Should she lie? ‘Well, he was a bit of a legend.’
‘So we keep hearing,’ said the female detective. ‘But that’s not what we’re asking you.’
‘Well,’ said Gemma, feeling a flush rising through her. ‘I thought he was...’ She floundered, trying to find a single adjective which was positive.
‘Have you got your phone with you?’ asked the woman, in an abrupt change of tack.
Gemma blinked and then rummaged in her jacket pocket, retrieving the iPhone. ‘Yes,’ she said, holding it up. ‘Why?’
‘Do you mind if we just take a look?’
She flushed again. ‘Um... well, I’m not thrilled about it - but if you must. Are you going to tell me why?’
Again she got no answer, but the woman smiled at her tightly and took the phone. Then she handed it back and said: ‘Can you put in the code so I can take a quick look around?’
Gemma did and then waited in tense silence while they started poking around in her apps. After a couple of minutes the pair of them glanced at each other and the guy said: ‘It can be checked at the network provider end. And the tech guys can probably retrieve it too.’
‘What?’ asked Gemma, getting seriously anxious now. ‘Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?!’
DS Kate Sparrow put the phone face down on the table, but kept her hand on it. It was only now that Gemma noticed the detective was wearing fine latex gloves. ‘We found Dave Perry’s mobile under the passenger seat of his car,’ she said. ‘Our tech guys got into it and scanned his texts and calls. It seems the last communication he had with anyone was a text, asking to meet up for a drink on Friday evening.’
Gemma looked from one to the other and held up her palms.
The detective regarded for a few seconds before adding: ‘The text was from you.’
13
Lucas was in the garage, washing down his bike, when a representative of the Wiltshire Constabulary showed up. He wasn’t surprised to get a visit - but he was surprised to get a visit from Chief Superintendent Rav Kapoor. On his own. No DS Kate Sparrow hanging awkwardly behind.
‘Is that a Bonneville?’ asked Kapoor, which had to be a better opening than tasering him senseless.
Lucas glanced up and then back at the bike. ‘My aunt left it to me. I don’t think she’d been on it since her wild child days in the seventies. It was pretty well preserved when I found it in here.’
‘Lovely machine,’ said Kapoor. ‘I used to have a Norton, back in the day.’
‘No,’ said Kapoor. ‘I came because I’m curious.’
Lucas sighed. ‘Do you want to come in? I could do with a coffee.’
‘That would be very welcome.’
In the kitchen the man settled himself at the table, taking off his cap and laying it on the spare chair beside him. He steepled his hands, leant his chin on them, and watched Lucas put the kettle on and get milk from the fridge.
‘Kate told you then,’ said Lucas, at last.
‘DS Sparrow has a responsibility to inform me of all developments in an ongoing case,’ Kapoor said. ‘Even when she doesn’t want to.’
Lucas sat down and placed steaming mugs in front of them both, pulling a tub of Demerara sugar and a spoon along between them. ‘I really didn’t want to get involved again,’ he said. ‘I should have just let someone else find that body and report it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Kapoor stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee.
‘Because I pictured some kid with a dog finding it. I wouldn’t want that. Just wish I’d done a better job of staying anonymous.’ He sighed.
‘DS Sparrow tells me you dowsed your way to the body,’ said Kapoor. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucas. ‘I heard the BBC staff talking about him being missing. I should have shut my bloody ears. But once it gets in there...’ He shook his head. ‘I picked up the guy’s promo postcard and it had his autograph on it; his... patterns.’
‘And that’s all you needed?’
Kapoor seemed genuinely interested. Lucas couldn’t pick up any sarcasm from him. He could pick up other things though. He shut his mind down. None of his business. Sid was still in the sock in the other room and he was bloody well staying there.
