Down Down Down

by L M Krier

  She called over her shoulder to a young man who was preparing food in the background.

  ‘Hey, Tony, is this Bernie, do you reckon?’

  He finished flipping bacon rashers then came over to look at the photo.

  ‘Yeah, looks like Bernie. Not seen him in months.’

  ‘You do realise there’s a Misper poster of him in the caff window, don’t you?’ Morgan asked her.

  ‘Why would I be looking in the window? I work here. Straight in, do me shift, then off home as fast as I can. So he’s disappeared, has he? Done a runner or something?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you know anything about him? Or do you know anyone who knew him?’

  She made a face. ‘Not really. I know he lived not far away but he seemed like a bit of a loner. I never saw him with anyone, but he’d chat to people in here sometimes.

  ‘I do know he was a Cat’lic. Went to church up Reddish way, I think. He used to come in after church sometimes and he’d tell me that’s where he’d been. Made a bit of a joke about it but you could see it was important to him, like. You could go and ask at the church. Someone up there would know more, for sure. Seemed like he was a regular.’

  Warren was watching the news in his cell after bang-up. His right to have a TV there was one of the privileges of the enhanced regime to which his exemplary behaviour entitled him. It was his TV and he fiercely guarded ownership of it against all comers. Anyone who happened to share his cell had to put up with his choices, which meant almost exclusively news and politics, with the occasional serious documentary thrown in.

  Warren’s interest was focused on the local news highlights. His current cell mate was trying laboriously to read one of Warren’s newspapers which, by the amount his lips were moving on some of the bigger words, was proving challenging. He looked up when he heard the words ‘serious fire’ mentioned, in time to see film of three fire appliances tackling a big blaze in what the soundtrack said was a former car showroom and garage premises.

  ‘Hey, Johnny, someone doing your old tricks, look. Unless you’ve been sneaking out over the wall at night. Not far from here, either, eh? Stockport, did they say? That’s just down the road, ain’t it? You’ve got competition, mate.’

  Chapter Ten

  Ted was desk-bound. Wading through the file which had convicted William Warren and seen him sentenced to a life term. The further he read, the more he was surprised that the case had resulted in even a majority verdict. Most of the evidence was circumstantial and Warren had vehemently denied any involvement, right from his first interview.

  His damnation was clearly the inability of either of his parents to confirm his alibi. His mother because of dementia, which was substantiated by medical evidence, his father because on his own admission, he might have ‘had a drink or two’ and couldn’t remember much of the crucial time-frame in question. There was seemingly no love lost between him and his son. Warren Senior was not about to back him up regardless. Ted made a note to look into that aspect, in case it was relevant.

  His notes, scribbled as he read, focused particularly on the details of the circle of fuel with the extra dollops at the cardinal points. That seemed to be consistent between the blaze for which Warren had been convicted and the first one in Stockport.

  Ted’s phone started to ring as he read on. It was George Martin, the fire officer now investigating both suspicious incidents on Ted’s patch.

  ‘An update for you, Ted, since first thing this morning. Hugh’s on the scene now, plus the fire dog and handler. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up.

  ‘With this being an empty building, the floor was bare concrete in most places, especially in the workshop where the fire started. So no fibres to melt and spoil the pattern the arsonist left. I’ve not checked and measured in detail yet, but it certainly looks like another precise yard-wide circle with Hugh’s famous dollops at north, south, east and west.’

  ‘Is there much damage?’

  ‘Once again, we got there in short order and had it under control soon enough. Probably a daft thing to say but from the times the fires have been set, they were clearly going to be spotted early on. So they weren’t likely to cause a great deal of damage. I wonder if that was the intention. Is whoever is doing this trying to get attention rather than anything else?

  ‘In an old motor workshop like this, there would have been traces of oil, grease, fuel, that sort of thing lying about. But like I told you last time, it’s vapour that ignites, not the fuel itself, although that will burn off. Most arsonists would know stuff like that. They usually know their trade well.’

  ‘How did they gain entrance this time?’

  ‘Same as last time. Of course it’s for your teams to confirm but it looks like a window pane was broken round the back to allow a catch to be opened. The window was left wide open again, giving our man a clear escape route, as well as leaving a better draught to help the blaze get going.’

  ‘Man? So you think the arsonist is definitely male?’

  ‘Statistically, it’s far more likely to be a man. Fewer women than men are convicted of arson. The figures may be a bit skewed because arson gets used a lot as a method in the so-called honour killings. Although I’ve never understood what’s particularly honourable about burning your wife to death just because she slept with someone else. If anyone took the trouble and strife off my hands, I’d be more likely to buy them a pint,’ he ended, laughing.

  ‘There’s something else about that wide open window. You can’t quote me on this as it’s just a feeling. Nothing remotely scientific about it. Man or woman, they plan their exit carefully. Well in advance. Almost as if they’re afraid of being caught in the building when it goes up. That’s not typical arsonist behaviour. Usually they’re fascinated by fire. Some of them get off on it. That’s why they’ll often come back to the scene to watch their own handiwork in action.

  ‘This one is different. Whoever he – or she, possibly – is, it’s like they can’t wait to get away once they’ve done what they came to do. No sign of loitering to admire their skills. Not that we can detect so far, but your CSIs might be able to tell you otherwise, of course.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to update you. We’ll clear the site as soon as we can to let your Forensics in. Oh, and to save you asking, I haven’t spotted any convenient cameras nearby.’

  ‘Thanks, George, I appreciate it. We’re checking CCTV all round, of course, and we’ve got officers out and about in the area, talking to people. Seeing what, if anything, they can find out.’

  No sooner had he ended the call than his phone rang again. A look at the screen showed him it was Penny, the local newspaper reporter. He was tempted to ignore it but decided it would only be postponing the inevitable. If he didn’t answer now, she’d find a way to track him down. She was nothing if not tenacious. Timid, in the way she always spoke to him, but determined. And a big improvement on her predecessor, Pocket Billiards.

  ‘DCI Darling.’

  ‘Erm, hello, Chief Inspector. It’s Penny. Penny Hunter.’

  Ted tried to keep it polite with everyone. It was how his dad had brought him up.

  ‘Hello, Penny. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Erm, I’ve been contacted by someone called David Mercado, from Gibraltar. Or rather, my news editor was contacted by him and passed it on to me. He’s trying to sell us a piece ...’

  ‘Yes, I know what he’s been peddling and I’m afraid there’s nothing I can say to you. A definite no comment. You’ll need to go through the Press Office.’

  ‘But I think there’s another story behind all this,’ she rushed on before he could bring the call to a close. He paused long enough for her to continue. Intrigued.

  ‘Only, it’s been hard to get any detailed information of what was going on in Spain ...’

  ‘That’s because it’s an ongoing investigation, Penny, you know that,’ he interrupted her.

  ‘Yes, but from what we have been told or fou
nd out, you went over to interview a retired police officer and just by chance found one of Britain’s most wanted criminals. I think that’s the story we should be running, locally. Who cares if you and the others had a bit of a celebration after that? That’s human nature.’

  She sounded passionate. It was probably the longest speech Ted had ever heard from her. He paused, surprised. Knocking the police seemed to have become a favourite sport for the press of late. It was refreshing to hear of a reporter who was looking for another angle. He doubted she could persuade her paper to run with it. It didn’t sound to him like the sort of thing which would sell papers. But he appreciated her sentiments.

  ‘Thank you for the thought, Penny. But I still can’t comment on any ongoing cases, so you really will have to speak to the Press Office.’

  Only Jo and Martha were at their desks in the office. The rest of the team were all out, working with Uniform officers on trying to find witnesses to help with either case. Martha went out to do the midday sandwich run for them. Jo took advantage of her absence to bring Ted up to speed on the latest findings.

  ‘How’s Martha getting on?’ Ted asked him before Jo started to speak.

  ‘Good solid officer, but a bit out of date on some procedural stuff. I need to keep checking up on that side of her work. I can see her filling Maurice’s boots very well while he’s off. She definitely has a caring, compassionate side.

  ‘Anyway, back to our body. More or less full house now, I think. Most of a torso found in a lay-by on the edge of town not long ago. Again in a bin-bag, stuffed behind a litter bin along with all the other crap people dump there. We got lucky, in a sense. A motorist stopped to water his dog. He let it off the lead, because apparently it’s usually obedient. It refused to come back so the owner went to look why and found it trying to gnaw at what turned out to be a human rib, still attached to the rest of them.’

  ‘I’m so glad I ordered a bagel and not spare ribs for my dinner,’ Ted told him.

  Jo laughed. ‘Yes, the poor bloke who owned the dog threw up his breakfast when he saw what it was. But he was kind enough not to do it over the evidence. I’ve diverted Rob and Jezza there to get his statement, and one from the dog, if it has anything to say for itself. Forensics are on their way too. Grumbling as ever at the volume of work. But I think this now gives the Professor pretty much a complete body to work with, so I’m assuming she’ll proceed to a full post-mortem as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll give her a call. I need to speak to her anyway. Were there any internal organs this time?’

  ‘Nothing. Just an empty shell. Thoracic cage, would you call it? Ribs and backbone, shoulder-blades and part of the spine. Apparently the head was removed and the spine sectioned with something resembling a chainsaw once again.’

  ‘An ID would speed things up. Let’s hope someone comes back with one, or at least a solid lead, from today’s work, or we’ll just have to wait for DNA results.’

  ‘Any theories on the missing organs?’

  ‘That’s something I’m sure the Professor can help me with. If you’ve no objection, I might go to that PM myself. Then I can pick her brains at the same time.’

  Jo laughed again. ‘Sounds a bit grisly, in the context. Will we ever find the head, do you think? The killer, if there is one, or at least the depositor, must realise we’ll be able to identify the body eventually, even without one.’

  ‘There’s a strong possibility whoever is involved is keeping the head and organs because they would either identify the victim or show the cause of death. A bullet to the head, for instance, tends to leave rather a lot of damage which is distinctive.’

  He was speaking from personal experience of his Firearms days. Not something he talked about much at all but he had once had to shoot an armed and dangerous man holding a hostage.

  ‘Fingers missing, possible gunshot wound to the head. Fingers and dangly bits possibly cut off while the poor sod was still alive. It’s all sounding more and more gangland, Ted. A bit more London than Stockport. Let’s hope we’re wrong on that theory.’

  Amelie and the sergeant found the parish priest at his church. He invited them into the vestry, which was a lot warmer than the body of the church, and with just a small hint from Eric, put the kettle on to brew up for them all.

  ‘Yes, I know Mr Byrne. He’s been a regular here for some time now, although I haven’t seen him for quite a while. I understand he’s considered as a missing person.’

  ‘Hasn’t been seen at his work for a few months now, which is apparently out of character.’ Then, in response to the priest holding up a bag of sugar, ‘Strong as you like and two sugars, please. Did you know much about him?’

  ‘Not really. He didn’t make his confession here, for one thing. Although you realise I couldn’t tell you anything even if he had. He used to come often to services and take communion. He’d always stop for a chat afterwards, but that’s about as much as I can tell you, I’m afraid. He was always on his own, too.’

  ‘Do you know where he lived before he came here? Or which church he attended?’ Amelie asked him. Morgan threw her a look she couldn’t interpret as she asked the question.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where he lived but he did tell me that he used to worship at the Hidden Gem.’

  Seeing her blank look, he went on, ‘St Mary’s. Off Deansgate, in Manchester. It’s a bit of an architectural gem, hence the nickname. I don’t know if it was all that local to him but he did tell me he was a bit of a traditionalist. He liked the old church buildings more than some of the modern ones which, it has to be said, can look more like a library from the outside than most people’s idea of a church.’

  ‘Did he just come here on Sundays?’

  ‘Mass every Sunday, without fail as far as I remember, but he’d often come during the week as well, depending on his shifts.’

  There wasn’t much more they could get from the priest. As they walked back to the area car, Morgan looked at Amelie and asked, ‘Are you telling me you don’t know where he was living before he came to our patch?’

  ‘That information hasn’t come out yet ...’ she started to say.

  He cut across her. ‘You mean you haven’t asked for it. Right, get your phone out and dial this number.’ He recited it for her. ‘Ask to speak to John in Housing and tell him you’re with me. Ask him to find Byrne’s last address before he got his flat here. Tell him I’m on my way there now with you and if he hasn’t got it by the time we arrive, I’ll arrest him for obstructing the police. Especially if he hasn’t got the kettle on.’

  Amelie wasn’t sure from his tone whether he was serious or not. When she dutifully relayed the message and got a chuckle and a ‘Tell him to piss off’ in response, she assumed it was a standing joke between the two of them.

  Another cup of tea. Another chat. This time full of easy banter between the two men. Then Amelie and the sergeant were on their way up to the police station at Gorton, armed with an address on its patch where Byrne had been living before he moved into their area some years previously.

  They stopped on the way. Another greasy spoon where the sergeant was welcomed as an old friend and where he put away yet more tea and a fry-up. Amelie suspected he had hollow legs, watching him tuck in. She, meanwhile, nibbled round the edges of a fried egg sandwich, the only remotely vegetarian food on offer, and sipped possibly the worst cup of coffee she could ever remember drinking.

  Eric Morgan sought out a sergeant of a similar age to himself when they got to the police station. They clearly knew one another well.

  ‘Does this bloke mean anything to you, Stefan? Lived on your patch for a while. Moved away about six, seven years ago, onto ours.’

  ‘We got the poster too, of course,’ the man said, looking at the copy Morgan was showing him. ‘He never came to our attention and believe me, with a moniker like that, I wouldn’t forget him. But if you’ve got his old address from round here, I can ask around and see what anyone knows or remembers abou
t him. Anything else to go on?’

  ‘Catholic. Practising. Used to go to St Mary’s in Manchester. Bit of a loner by all accounts. No close family that we’re aware of. That’s why I need some local knowledge from you lot. There’s also this other photo. I’ll leave you a copy. Maybe that will jog a few memories.’

  The other sergeant looked at it. The one from a booth, showing Byrne with the unknown little girl sitting on his knee. He grimaced.

  ‘Look where his hand is, the dirty bastard. Right, if that’s his game, I’ll make this a priority. Whatever we find out, you’ll have it as soon as I know it.’

  It was late by the time all the team members filed back into the main office. Even without being told, Ted could tell by the general mood that there were no new breakthroughs.

  ‘Time to call it a day, I think. Unless anyone has anything pressing, let’s pack it in and start back fresh tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Just before we knock off, guv,’ Eric Morgan put in, ‘Emily had a good idea while we were out. She got onto the council Housing Department and managed to track down Byrne’s last address before he moved here. He lived up Gorton way and I have plenty of contacts at that nick. So we’ve been up there to put the word out that we’re interested in anything at all they can dig up about his past history there. We showed them that photo with the kiddy, to motivate them.’

  Amelie had been about to snap at him for getting her name wrong again, as he’d been doing all day. Then she saw the sly wink he sent her way when he’d finished speaking and as the boss was congratulating her on good work.

  As everyone was standing up, getting their things together, she sidled over to the sergeant.

  ‘Buy you a pint, sarge?’

  ‘Aye, go on then Amelie, love. I reckon I’ve about earned one. Don’t you?’

  Soft humming. Over and over. So quiet it was barely audible, except from close to. The circle and dab movement of the mop in perfect time with the last notes of each line of chorus.