Jaded

by Rob Ashman

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know – I thought I’d come and tell you.’

  Kray thought for a moment. ‘Would the crew from the Sea Breeze be able to recognise the men again?’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘If we arranged for them to come down to the station, do you think they would look at some mugshots?’

  ‘I’m sure they would.’

  ‘I’ll get that sorted right away. Can you give me the names of the people involved in the altercation?’

  ‘They’ll be delighted to help out. They were mad as hell. Apparently, one of the men used foul language, which was quite upsetting. Marjorie has been talking about nothing else since it happened.’

  ‘Marjorie?’

  ‘She was on the Sea Breeze. The guy was yelling at her, it got very personal.’

  ‘Do you think Marjorie would be able to describe the man?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have to. She took his picture.’

  Bateman fiddled with his phone then handed it to Kray. She zoomed in on the image.

  Gotcha!

  Kray spent the rest of the afternoon trawling through every database at her disposal. The overall picture was coming together slowly – very slowly. By the end of the day her eyes felt like someone had kicked sand in her face from staring at the screen.

  Tavener came in, he’d been a busy boy too.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked, handing over a coffee.

  ‘A thumping headache.’

  ‘Maybe this will help.’ He slid a computer printout across the desk.

  ‘Shit, where did you get this?’

  ‘Off the system.’

  Kray stared at her screen and then to the printout and back again. ‘You could have found this an hour ago and saved me the trouble.’

  ‘You needed me after all, Tonto.’

  ‘Cheeky sod.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  Kray explained what she needed him to do and left the office, carrying a thin folder. She took the stairs one at a time, arriving at the top floor. The secretaries had left for the day so there was no need to negotiate her way past Norma Pettiford. Kray tapped on the door.

  ‘Bloody hell, Roz. What are you doing in work?’ asked Quade.

  ‘You’re the third person to say that to me today.’

  ‘Please come in. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, ma’am.’

  ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Ma’am, I need to talk to you.’

  An hour later Kray rapped on Bagley’s door. ‘Have you got a minute, sir?’

  ‘I’m a little busy at the moment, can’t it wait until after we have the briefing?’

  ‘That’s just it, sir, I think this could be potentially sensitive and I’m not sure it’s appropriate for the rest of the team.’

  ‘Oh, what is it?’

  ‘I spoke with the man who runs the yacht club.’

  ‘The guy who showed up here?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘He told me that a boat called the Sea Breeze had an altercation with one called the Blue Lagoon. Something about them leaving the jetty in a dangerous manner.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘The Blue Lagoon was crewed by three men who weren’t members of the club and they had a shouting match with the people on the Sea Breeze. Anyway, one woman got so upset with their conduct that she took photos of them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sir, I think the person on the boat is Eddie Marshall.’

  ‘Not this again!’

  ‘Bear with me a second. The altercation took place bang in the time window when we believe Michael Ellwood was abducted, taken out to sea and dumped overboard. When I questioned Marshall he said he wouldn’t be seen dead on a boat.’

  ‘How sure are you that it’s him?’

  ‘They are a little blurry, but it looks a pretty good match to me. The Commodore is sending me the photos so we can run them past imaging.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Roz, do you know what you’re saying here?’

  ‘I know–’

  ‘The Blue Lagoon is owned by Delores Cross. We trashed her husband’s club yesterday looking for suspected illegal immigrants. His lawyer has already been on the blower twice. If we start going after his boat as well he’s going to have a field day.’

  ‘I agree, which is why I came to you. I’m not sure we should broadcast this new information until we have more evidence implicating Cross.’

  ‘There is no evidence implicating Cross and all the photograph shows is Marshall on a boat. Hardly a smoking gun, is it?’

  ‘I wondered if this was enough to get a warrant to search the Blue Lagoon. A good opportunity to get a CSI team on there, looking for evidence of Michael Ellwood.’

  ‘On the basis of what? That Marshall lied to you about his dislike of sailing? I hardly think a judge is going to consider that sufficient grounds to grant us a copy of Reader’s Wives, let alone a bloody warrant.’

  ‘But if we find evidence that connects Cross to the murder cases then–’

  ‘I’m telling you to drop it.’

  ‘That’s why I came to you first, rather than report it in the briefing.’

  ‘And I’m pleased you did because we don’t want anyone poking Bernard Cross with a pointed stick. But I’m telling you to drop this – move on – find something else to do.’

  ‘You don’t want me to progress the photographs?’

  ‘That’s right. Drop it.’

  Kray returned to her office via the coffee machine. Her heart was thumping through her chest. The drink tasted awful but it kept her hands occupied. She checked her watch – counting down the minutes.

  In the end she could wait no longer. Time was of the essence. She sunk the dregs from the bottom of the cup and set about her massive to-do list. The next few hours were crucial, she had to move fast. It was all about timing, and of late, her timing had been shit.

  Chapter 45

  Marshall screamed like a girl when I stabbed his wife, and began spewing confessions like confetti at a wedding – none of which were of any relevance to me. Once I’d calmed him down, promising to call an ambulance, he told me what I needed to know: Yes, he’d killed Michael and yes, he murdered Blythe.

  The torrent of unburdening continued. He went on to say that Michael’s death had been an accident, a case of mistaken identity – my brother was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had meant to take out a rival gang member and my brother got in the way. I have to say, despite his protestations, the additional information made no difference. He was responsible, that was the bottom line.

  I had the presence of mind to thank him for cooperating before I struck him over the head with the gun and rendered him unconscious.

  I was grateful for the integral garage – without it I would have been struggling to get him into my car. I drove in and closed the garage door behind me before slumping Marshall into the back seats.

  That was twenty minutes ago. Now I’m turning left off the Park Hall road, past the Best Western hotel and into the retail park. The place is deserted. I park at the back near the hedgerow. Marshall is moaning, which tells me he’s coming round – excellent timing.

  A patchwork of puddles reflects the halogen lights that ring the car park. Puffs of grey cloud scud across the sky, hiding the full moon, only to reveal it sometime later with a ‘Ta-da’ moment.

  Jade is rubbing her hands together, fizzing with excitement. She gives me a sideways glance. ‘What if he makes a run for it?’

  ‘He won’t, I’ve taken care of that.’

  ‘And what about–’

  ‘There’s no sign of security, the van isn’t here.’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I get out of the car and pop open the boot to make a last-minute check. I tick off the inventory in my head. It’s all there. I bang the boot shut and open the pa
ssenger door. Seizing his feet, I yank Marshall from the confines of the car. He lands with a bump, slouched against the sill.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ he asks, his voice slurring. The welt down the side of his face has turned a furious shade of purple and yellow. His good eye is almost closed.

  I lean down and shove the muzzle of the handgun under his chin. ‘If you call out, I’ll remove the back of your head. Is that clear?’

  ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘She’s probably tucked up in a hospital bed drinking tea.’

  ‘Can you call the hospital, find out if she’s okay?’

  ‘Nope, that’s not part of the deal. I said nothing about aftercare. On your feet.’ I haul him upright, which proves to be a struggle. He wobbles about trying to get his balance. ‘Walk ahead of me.’

  He shuffles in bare feet around the front of the car and along the hedgerow. His hands are secured behind his back and I’ve tied his ankles together with a two foot length of electrical cable. His unsteady gait makes for slow progress, but that’s fine, we don’t need to be anywhere in a hurry. We’ve got all the time in the world.

  We skirt around the perimeter fence until I say, ‘Stop.’

  ‘What happened to my wife? Did you call in time?’

  ‘Stop worrying. They can work wonders these days.’

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’

  I crack the gun across his face. The sight tears a three-inch gash in his cheek.

  ‘Aghhh!’ His knees buckle and I shove him into the long grass.

  The high fencing consists of galvanised metal struts, riveted vertically to a frame. I push the head of the rivet and it pops out, landing in my hand. I repeat the process eight more times and swing the stanchions to the side. Many years ago, I drilled out the rivets and replaced them with dummies. To a bored security guard they look fine, and so long as no one removes the cable tie on the first strut, I have a ready-made swing door to use anytime I want.

  I grab Marshall by the collar and drag him to the fence. ‘Crawl through.’ He does as he’s told, blood falling from his face onto the grass when he shuffles forwards on his knees. I follow him and pull the bars back into place, then replace the dummy rivets.

  Despite being in the open air there is a strange atmosphere that descends whenever I’m inside the compound. We pass the ironically-named Knightmare roller coaster, a rusted skeleton of a structure reaching up into the night sky. The screams and laughter have long since gone, replaced with an eerie silence.

  I used to have a room in my flat dedicated to killing the man who had murdered Blythe. The promise prevented me carrying out my revenge for real but it didn’t preclude me from acting out my darkest fantasy. When my demons got too much, I would retreat into my lair and not emerge until my bloodlust was satisfied.

  Then it dawned on me that having such a room was not good, should I be visited by the cops – or anyone else for that matter. That’s when I found Camelot, a disused theme park located south of Preston, close to the M6 motorway. It finally closed its doors to visitors in 2012 after coming bottom of the visitor attraction table and going downhill from there.

  At first, it seemed only right that I should carry out my fantasies in the dungeon that still had human dummies manacled to the walls. But the place proved a magnet for those looking for the rush of wandering around the derelict attractions. So I widened my search and stumbled across a set of wooden buildings located in the top corner of the park. One of them was emblazoned with the name Bluebell Bottom. I have no idea what it used to be, but it’s the perfect location for me to run and hide when my life spirals into the abyss.

  Today is a big day, the Bluebell Bottom is no longer going to be the recipient of my blackest imaginations, today it’s going to be the recipient of Eddie Marshall.

  He hobbles along in front of me, dancing from foot to foot as the vegetation grabs at the soles of his feet. I jab the gun into the small of his back.

  ‘Wait here,’ I say, stopping at the back of the building. I reach down and prise away three planks of wood from the wall to reveal a gap big enough for me to squeeze through. Marshall, on the other hand, might struggle. ‘Get inside.’

  He drops to his knees and eases his head and left shoulder through the hole. His movement is restricted by the cable tying his feet. ‘You need to untie me, I can’t–’

  I stamp my boot into his ribs. He yelps with pain, and jackknifes, trying to protect himself. The next stamp lands on his protruding legs. I hear something crack. He yells out and frantically tries to caterpillar himself through the gap in the wall. I jump and land with my full weight on his ankle. The sound of small bones splintering echoes through the air. He jerks his legs through the gap, yelping in pain.

  See, you fitted through after all.

  ‘Fuck, fuck!’ I hear him screaming inside. I poke my head in and order him over to the far wall. ‘You fucking broke my ankle!’

  ‘Move.’

  I slip through and pull the wooden planks back in place, plunging the room into darkness. The noise of him sucking air into his lungs through gritted teeth makes him sound like a wild animal. I flick on the torch on my phone. Marshall shrinks away from the light. I yank on a metal ring that is set into the floor and a trapdoor yawns open. A four feet square black hole appears, the top few steps of a wooden staircase are visible in the torchlight.

  ‘Get over here.’ I shine the beam in his face.

  ‘I can’t fucking walk.’

  ‘I’m not asking you again.’

  ‘I can’t push with my legs, you bastard.’

  ‘Okay, let me help.’ I walk over, grab the cable between his feet and heave. He slides across the wood, writhing around on his back.

  ‘Agghh!’ he screams.

  I dump his legs through the hole, his body still prostrate on the floor. His false eye stares up at me while he squints through the other. I seize his shoulders.

  ‘No, no, no. Please don’t…’

  I lift him and slide his protesting body through the hole. With every clunk, bang and scream my heart does a little jump for joy as he clatters down the flight of stairs. I shine the torch into the darkness just in time to see him pitch forward head first.

  It’s a long way down but looks like he made it.

  Chapter 46

  ‘This is a little unusual,’ Bagley barked at Kray as he walked into the incident room. It was late and he had been on his way out the door when she requested to see him. ‘Oh, good evening, ma’am, I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Please take a seat, Dan, we need to run a few things past you,’ Quade said, waving her hand at an empty seat.

  ‘What’s this about? Have I missed something?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a firm believer that in this job there is no such thing as coincidences. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?’ said Kray, prowling around the room.

  ‘What is this about?’ Bagley asked again.

  ‘Why did you fail to mention that you were involved in the original Critchley case?’ Kray was standing by the TV mounted on the wall, the remote control in her hand.

  ‘What the hell…?’ Bagley jumped back in his seat.

  ‘When we found out Michael Ellwood was the brother of the undercover police officer Billy Ellwood, why did you fail to mention that you’d worked on the original case?’

  ‘Err… how is this relevant?’

  ‘You were part of the team who investigated the murder of Blythe Ellwood and you were also on the team that wound up the Critchley operation. Why didn’t you mention that?’

  ‘Err, I don’t know. It was a long time ago. I was only a bit player in that investigation. I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘The murder of Blythe Ellwood took place in Birmingham and the Critchley operation was based in Nottingham. It was a cross-force investigation. Do you recognise this?’ Kray flashed a picture up on the screen showing a sheet of A4 paper covered in scrawled writing.

  ‘No, should I?’

&n
bsp; ‘This is a witness statement from Roland Eccleston, who ran the nightclub on behalf of the Critchley brothers. Do you recognise your signature at the bottom?’

  Bagley went up to the screen and peered at the image. ‘Yes, that’s my signature.’

  ‘Here’s another witness statement, again bearing your signature – and another. In fact, you took a total of seven statements. Five in Nottingham and two in Birmingham.’

  ‘I might have done, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘I think, sir, you had more than a bit part to play.’

  ‘I can’t recall.’

  ‘During the attack at Billy Ellwood’s home his wife was stabbed to death and the post-mortem said they found human skin and cornea under her fingernails. When I interviewed Billy Ellwood, he was convinced that the third attacker was Eddie Marshall. He showed me a photograph of Marshall cleaning his ocular prosthesis. In other words – Marshall has a glass eye. Which would be in keeping with such an injury. But the police at the time could not use the DNA sample because it had been degraded.’

  ‘Do we have to listen to this rubbish?’ Bagley threw his arms in the air. ‘This is a rehash of the fairy tale that had us chasing our arses at the Paragon club. This is bollocks.’

  ‘Sit down, Dan,’ Quade said.

  Kray continued. ‘The DNA evidence was compromised because the fridge in which it was stored developed a fault and stopped working. It was discovered on the Tuesday after the bank holiday. On the preceding Friday someone booked out the key to the evidence room at Nottingham police station. Do you recognise this signature?’

  ‘This is rubbish,’ protested Bagley.

  ‘You booked out the key. What were you doing in the evidence room, sir?’

  ‘How the hell should I know, it was eighteen years ago.’

  ‘Without the DNA sample, Marshall was never arrested. There was a later report of a mass brawl at a pub where he lost an eye in a fight. The incident report confirms you were involved in that case as well, sir. Did you tamper with the fridge, causing it to fail in order to protect the identity of the third attacker?’

  ‘That is an outrageous accusation! We should be out there, cracking real cases, not playing join the dots with things that happened years ago.’