His school referred him to a psychologist who suggested that his artistic talent should be given an outlet, so he was taught to carve figures from wood, using tools with arcane names like skews and vee-tools, spoonbits and gouges. He would take his little disappointments out on the wood, paying back the humiliations of life, the hurt and the anger, finding release in cutting, chipping, scraping and gouging.
Later, he would bring the force of his displeasure to bear on the girls he hurt and scarred. The excoriation that he had felt, they would feel under his blade. He never forgot a single insult, and neither would they.
Chapter 36
A drugs dive in Tuebrook didn’t seem to Foster like the kind of place they’d find the power behind the challenge to Maitland’s regime. But apparently DI Dwight was keen to show the area superintendent that he could play the hard man as well as the community negotiator, so he’d ordered a few shakedowns as a show of force on the street. Foster was willing to concede they might get some useful information, and anyway, it kept his mind off the investigation into Ed and Hilary Shepherd.
At six p.m. they crashed through the front door of the target house. Eight officers piled into the house, yelling. Four upstairs, four below. In the sitting room, Foster counted five addicts, all too stoned to react.
One of the officers covered his mouth and nose with his hand. ‘Jesus, the stink!’ The vinegary smell of cooking heroin was overlaid with the reek of shit and vomit. The place buzzed with flies and hummed with the stench of unwashed bodies and something that smelled ominously like death.
The addicts in here didn’t look capable of lifting their heads, let alone resisting arrest, so Foster left two men to watch them until the medics arrived to check them over. He took a female officer and a green-looking kid who looked too young to be in uniform through to the kitchen at the back of the house.
If anything, the mess in here was worse. The bin had overflowed long ago, and takeaway wrappers had been dumped next to it. The sink was crammed with mouldy crockery, the worktops had multiple burn marks and the doors of some of the cupboards had been ripped off.
‘Take it easy in here,’ he warned. ‘The floor’s slippery.’ He didn’t like to look too closely at the cause of the hazard.
Footsteps pounded overhead, officers shouted warnings and orders. Then a crash — a body going down hard. Foster checked the back door was secure then made his way back to the stairwell. Two officers were carrying a man down the stairs. Handcuffed and screaming, he put up a fierce struggle as they manhandled him out into the waiting van.
Glass smashed in one of the bedrooms, followed by a scream. Foster flicked open his Casco baton and took the stairs two at a time, the carpet tacky under his feet, the smell of shit stronger up here. He heard whimpering from the second room down the landing. The first door stood wide. He spread his hand and pushed the door as far as it would travel before stepping inside. A mattress, soiled bedding, surgical swabs and blood-spotted clothing. A door in the centre of the wall to the right was closed. He tried it, but it wouldn’t budge.
He moved on to the next room, heart thudding, mouth dry. A man knelt on the floor, his hands clamped to a head wound, blood trickling between his fingers. Cass stood over him. A DC named Smith kept a little apart. His eyes darted to Foster as he entered. Foster thought he saw relief in them. He checked the area: window, second door in the wall to the left — connecting door to the other room? Stained mattress, a pillow with a greasy pillow slip, no bedding.
‘Smithie, check that door,’ Foster said. Then, looking again at the man on the floor. ‘He needs medical attention.’
Cass didn’t move. ‘Well, I’m not touching him — he could have hepatitis — AIDS, even.’
‘You did the damage.’ When he was angry, Foster’s accent came on stronger, so the ds were slurred.
‘He did that himself,’ protested Cass. ‘With his own fat head.’
‘Sarge.’ It was Smith.
‘What?’ Both Foster and Cass answered. Smith sounded shaken. The connecting door stood open. Foster caught a glimpse of tiling, the edge of a bath. Smith looked over his shoulder, the rest of him very still, as though he was fearful of startling something or someone.
‘You take care of your detainee,’ Foster told Cass. He went into the bathroom. The toilet was slimed with filth, the bath stained brown. Cowering in the corner, a woman. Elderly, small, her hair wild, her eyes wide with terror.
Foster telescoped his Casco baton and slipped it into his belt, then crouched in front of the woman. ‘It’s all right, love,’ he said. ‘We’re police.’
She looked first at Foster, then at Smith. ‘Police?’ she said.
‘Detective Sergeant Foster and Detective Constable Smith,’ Foster said. ‘Lee and Smithie. What can I call you?’
‘Betty,’ she said. ‘You’ve come for my John.’
‘Who?’
She angled her body to peer timidly around Foster, into the bedroom beyond. ‘My son.’ She raised her hand, seeking out Foster’s, and he winced at a circle of bruises around her wrist. He took her hand gently in his, covering it with his left.
‘He used to be a good boy, Sergeant,’ she said.
The ‘boy’ in the next room must have been forty years old, at least.
‘Honest to God — he never give me a minute’s worry when he was a lad.’
‘This is your place?’ Foster asked.
At first, she seemed confused by the question, then her brow cleared. ‘It was.’ Her voice quavered. ‘It used to be. You won’t believe it — not looking at it now — but I kept it nice.’
‘Oh, I believe you, Betty,’ Foster said. ‘Look, you must be gasping for a cuppa. Why don’t you go with Smithie, here, he’ll see you get a hot meal and a nice brew.’
The woman looked like she hardly dared to hope for such kindness. ‘Would you?’ she said. ‘I can’t get into the kitchen no more, what with the mess and that.’
He helped her to her feet, and Smith took over, handling Betty with special care. She balked as he led her to the door, and Foster realised she was afraid of passing her own son in the next room. ‘Here y’are, Betty.’ He slipped the bolt on the door connecting to the first bedroom. ‘Save your legs — come out this way.’
Smith gave him a troubled look on the way out. Foster watched her down the stairs, sick at the thought of a frail seventy-year-old trapped in a house full of addicts. He went back into the second bedroom, where Cass was still waiting for the man with the head wound — Betty’s son — to get to his feet.
‘Are you John?’ Foster asked.
The man replied with a groan. ‘Bastard’s gashed me ’ead.’
Foster dragged the pillowcase from the rancid pillow and flung it at the man. ‘You’re under arrest — for false imprisonment and assault.’
‘You wha’?’ John looked up at him. His face was ravaged by drugs: acne scars, rosacea, broken veins, but his eyes held a dangerous intensity.
‘Betty — your mum,’ Foster said. ‘I saw the bruises on her arms.’
John dabbed at the cut on his scalp with the pillowcase. ‘Mothers,’ he said, with a smile that was more like a snarl. ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em neither.’
‘You wanna show some respect,’ Foster said, putting enough threat into his words to make the guy think again.
‘She’s confused,’ John said. ‘Sometimes I have to restrain her.’
‘She’s dehydrated and half-starved,’ Foster said. ‘We’ll see how confused she is when she’s had a decent meal inside her.’
He was on his way to the door, couldn’t say what made him turn back — maybe a sound, maybe a deep-seated will to survive. Seeing only the blur of movement, he acted on instinct. Continuing the turn to his right, he blocked John’s lunge with his forearm, throwing him off balance. Then he saw a knife: a Stanley blade, razor sharp.
John recovered and made a second attempt, slashing left to right in a wide arc. Foster leapt back, adrenalin
e racing through his blood. He cannoned off the door frame and his shoulder screamed.
John’s eyes sparked cold flame as he saw his chance, lunged again, driving the blade upwards towards Foster’s face.
Foster ducked and shoulder-charged, hearing a satisfying oof as his attacker went down. He allowed his momentum to carry him forward into a roll and was up and bouncing on the balls of his feet before John could properly get his bearings.
They’d changed positions: Foster was now in the centre of the room while John was by the door, whooping for breath. The impact had sent his diaphragm into spasm. He still had the knife.
Foster was aware of shouts downstairs, but he kept his mind and his senses focused on the knife.
John moved his free hand back and drew his feet under him.
If he gets upright—
Foster stepped in and booted him hard in the knee. John screamed and grabbed his injured leg, falling back again and dropping the blade. Foster kicked it away and the blade skittered to a halt at Cass’s feet. Cass seemed to think this might be an appropriate moment to act and lifted one foot to trap the knife.
Two officers piled into the room and cuffed the addict, dragging him downstairs, while a third — the green-looking kid — hovered anxiously at the door.
Foster straight-armed Cass in the chest and he bounced off the wall. ‘Where the fuck were you?’ he demanded.
Cass managed a half-smile. ‘All those kung fu moves — you looked like you had it under control.’
Foster brought his forearm across Cass’s chest, jamming him against the wall, and he lost the smile. ‘You failed to clear the area,’ Foster said. He shoved hard to emphasise each point. ‘Failed to evacuate a vulnerable person at the scene. Failed to search a suspect. Failed to restrain him when he turned violent.’ He could have added ‘Failed to assist a fellow officer under threat’ — but even in the heat of this exchange, it was a charge any police officer would be wary of making.
Chapter 37
The wind battered against Rickman’s office window like a Liverpool supporter barred from the cup final. He was catching up on paperwork, updating his Policy Book — a legally required record of management decisions and choices. With that complete, he picked up his mobile and made a call he’d been putting off too long.
‘David Farmer.’ The voice was brusque, the accent clipped, the agricultural significance of the family name having been consigned to history two centuries before, as the descendants of the Cheshire Farmers discovered the more lucrative practices of law and medicine.
‘David? Jeff Rickman.’
‘Jeff! Not still working, are you?’ By the sound of it, Farmer was not — Rickman heard the cheery background chatter of a bar. Farmer’s favourite venue for an early evening snifter was, appropriately, Trials Hotel. Convenient to the Crown Court and his offices, it also had the advantage of being a good place to network, and David Farmer believed in the power of good connections.
‘Murder investigation,’ Rickman said.
‘Oh . . . you’re on the Elliott case, aren’t you?’ Farmer said. ‘Terrible news about the baby.’
‘Yeah.’ Rickman was loath to discuss the case, even in general terms, with half the solicitors, barristers and opportunistic journalists in Liverpool within earshot of Farmer’s booming voice. ‘But that’s not why I called. I need some legal advice — official and on the record.’
‘That kind of advice is far beyond the reach of a chief inspector’s salary, I fear,’ Farmer said, with theatrical regret.
‘I wouldn’t be paying.’
‘I don’t do pro bono work.’ He seemed amused by the very suggestion.
‘My brother will pay.’
‘Oh . . .’
Rickman heard a sudden drop in the noise level and guessed that Farmer had stepped outside. ‘That would be your millionaire brother?’
Rickman smiled despite himself. ‘I have no other.’ Talking to Farmer, it was difficult not to slip into his elliptical way of talking.
‘Not divorce, I hope?’ he said, although his tone suggested that the possibility of a nice juicy millionaire’s divorce might be just the thing he was hoping for.
‘Some kind of power of attorney,’ Rickman said. ‘It would involve the Italian judiciary as well as British — Simon intends to stay here, but the business is based in Milan.’
‘The Italian legal system is notoriously slow and complex.’ To give him his due, Farmer managed to contain his glee.
‘His wife wants an initial meeting in the next few days,’ Rickman said. He heard the rustle of paper and could visualise Farmer licking his pencil in readiness.
‘How about Tuesday afternoon?’
‘Text me a time and I’ll let you know.’ Rickman hung up with mixed feelings — relief that he’d taken the first steps in giving Tanya back some control over her life, and sadness that the brother he’d so looked up to could no longer be trusted to manage his own affairs.
His next task was to read over his team’s reports, check on tasks completed and find out if anything useful had come in during the day. He even put his head around the door of the drugs inquiry MIR. He’d heard about Foster’s near miss. There was no sign of him.
He pressed the contact number for Foster on his mobile. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Bruised shoulder. Bruised ego.’
‘The way I heard it,’ Rickman said, ‘You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.’
‘Basic training,’ Foster said. ‘Never turn your back on a potential threat.’
‘The addict or Cass?’ Rickman asked.
Foster huffed a laugh.
‘Fancy a pint?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic? Wait up, though — isn’t Tanya staying at yours?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Better let her know this might be a long session.’
Rickman returned to his own office and rang home. ‘Jeff!’ The warmth of Tanya’s greeting made him smile.
‘Good day?’ he asked.
‘Mm. I think I’ve clinched a deal with one of the big department stores. Liverpool is definitely on board, and there’s a good chance I’ll get a nationwide franchise.’
‘Wow. And I was thinking you might be at a loose end.’
‘I felt the need to set up a few meetings, so that either way my visit wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.’
‘I have some news on that score,’ Rickman said, pushing aside his regret that she would consider contact with Simon a waste of time. He related the details of the Tuesday meeting. ‘Farmer is good — he’ll see that Simon’s interests are protected, but he’ll play fair.’
Tanya was silent for a moment.
‘Is Tuesday difficult?’ Rickman asked.
‘Tuesday’s fine.’
He sensed a hesitation. ‘But?’
‘I was—’ Tanya broke off. ‘I wondered if—’ She stopped again with an impatient sigh. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she said. ‘It’s too much to ask. You have this investigation, and—’
‘Tanya,’ he interrupted. ‘If I can help, I will.’
She took a breath and finished at a rush. ‘Could you be there? I mean, if you’re free?’
‘I kind of assumed I would be,’ Rickman said, embarrassed by his own presumption, and Tanya laughed a little shakily.
‘You don’t know how much of a relief that is. It’s just, I can’t rely on Simon to show up. And if he does show up, that he’ll be reasonable.’
‘He’ll be there,’ Rickman said. ‘I’ll make sure of it. Reasonable is harder to manage.’
She laughed again, and it seemed to him that she was glad of the opportunity to talk to somebody about it. The boys were having a hard enough time. He knew that Tanya was doing her best to put a brave face on things, and that her business colleagues would be the last people she would want to confide in.
‘He doesn’t mean to make things tough for you,’ Rickman said. He remembered his brother telling him how hard it was to be constan
tly reminded of what he had lost.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Of course, I do know that. I know he can’t help it. But when I look at him, I see Simon — my husband, the boys’ father. He looks the same and talks the same, has the same voice and mannerisms, but—’ She broke off and tried again. ‘You have a history with him, Jeff. A life before the accident. He remembers that. But we no longer share any common experience.’
Even for Rickman, the change in his brother was striking, despite the fact that Simon retained an almost perfect memory of their childhood together. Apart from the obvious changes wrought by twenty-five years absence, Rickman had detected other, more subtle differences in his brother: poor attention, a childish egocentricity that prevented him noticing or caring for the needs and feelings of others. The sharp intelligence Rickman had idolised in their boyhood was now largely absent. Simon seemed like the husk of a moon in daylight — pale, transparent, insubstantial.
‘Come home soon,’ Tanya urged.
Home. Rickman felt an unexpected pang of loss — a recognition of how much he’d missed having someone to go home to — something to go home for. He checked his watch. ‘I have to catch up with Lee Foster — should be back in a couple of hours.’
His phone rang almost as he hung up. It was the front desk. ‘You’re a hard man to track down, Chief Inspector.’
Rickman recognised the voice. ‘Moving target, Bill, you know me. I thought you were house-training new intake in Netherley.’
‘The damp air down in Belle Vale must’ve seeped into my bones. Doc prescribed the rarefied air of Edge Hill.’
Bill Williams, or Double Bill, as he was generally known, had been in the force for thirty-five years. He had opted to continue in the job rather than draw his pension, despite arthritis in his left hip and a bad back from years of pounding the beat. He had been Rickman’s duty sergeant for three years when Rickman was new and impressionable. Double Bill had taught him the difference between good policing and achieving performance targets, and Rickman still regarded him with affection and respect.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 26
