Blood On the Wall

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘I think it’s a way of boasting on his part,’ said Georgiou. ‘A challenge. Each time he’s pushing the boundary further. I wonder what next?’

  ‘A body hanging up in the middle of Hardwicke Circus?’ suggested Tennyson.

  At the mention of Carlisle’s most notorious traffic bottleneck, the huge roundabout that fed the traffic between England and Scotland, Georgiou shuddered.

  ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, while the science guys are still busy, let’s get on the phone and tell the rest of the team, and tell them we want them in for a briefing on the latest killing.’

  ‘OK, guv,’ said Tennyson, pulling out his mobile. ‘What time do you want them in?’

  Georgiou looked at his watch and made a quick calculation. Say another hour for the science teams, then an hour for himself and Tennyson to go over the spot and give orders to uniformed.

  ‘Tell them eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘And tell them they’re lucky to be having a lie-in, unlike us.’

  THIRTEEN

  Eight o’clock, and the team were assembled in the briefing room: Mac Tennyson, Debby Seward, Kirsty Taggart, Iain Conway. Only Richard Little was missing. Conway had phoned his home and Little’s wife had said she’d pass on the message, but so far there was nothing from him. Georgiou couldn’t wait for him; Little would get the information later.

  ‘As you all know, there’s been another killing,’ he told them. ‘The body was found at the old Roman fort at Birdoswald. Same MO as the other two. Body strung up. Head cut off and removed. This time the victim was a man. From identification on the body, he appears to be a Chinese takeaway owner from Carlisle called Han Sun, so I think we can forget the Border Reivers link … unless there was a Chinese branch of the Reivers that we don’t know about.’

  A new section of evidence boards had been set up, these devoted to information on the latest killing. So far all that had been put up were photographs of the scene of the crime. The rest were blanks to be filled in.

  ‘We need answers: What was Mr Han Sun doing at Birdoswald? Did our killer meet him there, or take him there? Conway, pick up Richard and then I want the pair of you to go and see the victim’s family and his workmates. Everyone who knew him. Let’s try and piece together the last time anyone saw him.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ said Conway.

  ‘Seward and Taggart, I think it’s time you had a word with this Drake character.’

  ‘Right,’ said Seward.

  ‘Uniform are still going over the site at Birdoswald, so we’ll let them get on with that. Mac and I will stay here and co-ordinate things, pick up any information we can. Keep your mobiles switched on so we can get hold of you if anything turns up.’

  The address they’d been given for Eric Drake was a house in Denton Holme. It was one of the larger houses, and had all the hallmarks of student occupation: the curtains at some of the windows were closed, others had been replaced with a sheet hanging down, partly shielding the occupants of the room from prying eyes. They were responsible, though: in the small area at the front of the house one wheelie bin had a homemade label stuck on it which said ‘Can recyling’. Taggart lifted the lid and revealed a bin filled to the top with empty beer cans.

  ‘Any bets they’re all male students?’ she said as she shut the lid.

  ‘You think women students don’t drink beer?’ asked Seward.

  ‘Not this much,’ said Taggart.

  She rang the bell, and after a moment the door was opened by a bleary-eyed young man of about twenty in jeans, T-short, bare feet, and a woolly hat.

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked.

  Taggart and Seward showed him their police ID.

  ‘Police,’ said Seward. ‘Is Eric Drake in?’

  The young man seemed to be struggling with this sudden appearance of the police on his doorstep, and whatever was going on in the house.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Our question was first,’ said Taggart. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Er …’ began the youth.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Taggart, and she and Seward stepped inside. There was the definite smell of cannabis clinging to the inside of the house.

  The youth looked at them, unhappy.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant?’ he demanded.

  ‘That depends if you’ve got anything to hide,’ said Taggart. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No,’ said the youth defensively.

  ‘Fine,’ said Taggart. ‘So, where can we find Eric Drake?’

  ‘He’s … he’s still in bed.’

  ‘Then I’m sure he won’t mind us calling on him,’ said Taggart. ‘Where’s his room?’

  The youth hesitated.

  ‘Of course, we could always go knocking on all the doors and look for him,’ said Taggart. ‘Who knows what we might find?’

  The thought of the two policewomen searching through the different rooms in the house made his mind up for him.

  ‘Top of the stairs. Second door on the right. It’s got an Iron Maiden poster on it.’

  It would have, thought Seward. Heavy metal, another of her pet dislikes. What with that and a would-be career as a pretentious film director, she was beginning to dislike this Drake character more and more before she’d even met him.

  The door to Drake’s room was easily found. It wasn’t just the Iron Maiden poster pinned to it, it was also the gothic graffiti that adorned the rest of the door.

  Seward knocked. There was the sound of a grunting from inside.

  ‘That sounded to me like “Come in”,’ commented Taggart.

  ‘That’s what I heard as well,’ agreed Seward.

  The door was unlocked, and as they pushed it open the rank smells of sweaty, unwashed clothes and stale tobacco came out and hit them. The room was in darkness, the thick curtains pulled shut. Taggart switched on the light, although a shawl had been thrown over the shade of the central light, so that even with the light on, the room still seemed to be dark.

  The mess in the room was a sight to behold. Leftovers of meals on dirty plates on the floor. Beer cans. Ashtrays overflowing. Clothes crumpled and just discarded, hiding most of the floor and what furniture there was in the room.

  There came more grunting from the bed at one side of the room, and then a tousled head poked itself out from under the covers, like a tortoise coming out of hibernation.

  Eric Drake squinted at the two women.

  ‘What the f—’ he began. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Police,’ said Taggart, and once again she and Seward held out their police IDs. ‘Are you Eric Drake?’

  ‘No,’ said the young man.

  Seward and Taggart exchanged looks.

  ‘In that case, would you get dressed? We’ll need to talk to you down at the station.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re in Eric Drake’s room and we wish to find out where he is.’

  There was a pause, then the young man in the bed asked, ‘Why?’

  Taggart and Seward had adjusted their vision to the gloom and saw now that the man in the bed was in his late twenties, with long, greasy hair and the beginnings of a beard. Or perhaps he just hadn’t shaved for a few days.

  Seward sighed. ‘Look, can we cut all this,’ she said. ‘All we want to do is ask you some questions about a film you’re making. Then we can get out of here.’

  At the mention of his film, Drake sat up in the bed.

  ‘What about my film?’ he demanded.

  ‘First, what did Tamara Armstrong have to do with it?’

  Drake looked puzzled.

  ‘Tamara?’ he asked. ‘You mean the girl who was killed?’

  ‘That’s exactly who we mean,’ said Seward. ‘We understand she was in your film.’

  ‘No way!’ said Drake vehemently. ‘I use proper actors.’

  ‘So what was her part?’ asked Seward. ‘Crew? Background artiste?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Drake nodded. ‘Background artiste. An extra.
’ Looking from Seward to Taggart and back again, he appealed: ‘Look, can we do this downstairs so I can get a coffee? I’ve only just woken up.’

  ‘Here is fine,’ said Seward. ‘This way we don’t have an audience. Or, if you prefer, we can do it at the station?’

  Drake shook his head.

  ‘Here is good,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘For a start, your movements on the night Tamara was murdered.’

  Drake looked at them, his mouth hanging open in shock.

  ‘You think I’m a suspect?’ he said.

  ‘At this moment we’re asking this same question of everyone who knew Tamara to help eliminate them from the enquiry,’ said Taggart. ‘So, could you give us details of your movements on the night in question?’

  ‘When was it?’ asked Drake.

  Seward thought that Drake looked as if he would have difficulty remembering what had happened to him a few hours ago, let alone some days before. But then, that could be a clever ploy. Drake thought for a bit, then he began his story. According to Drake they’d held a party at the house on the night Tamara Armstrong had been murdered. Tamara Armstrong had not been amongst those invited. Taggart took down a list of names that Drake gave them as having been at the party. According to Drake, he hadn’t left the house at all that night; or the next day until about three in the afternoon to go and buy some milk and cigarettes.

  After the practicalities were out of the way, with names, addresses and mobile numbers of the people Drake claimed were his witnesses, Seward switched the subject back to the film.

  ‘What’s it about, this film of yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Pagan sacrifice,’ said Drake.

  ‘What sort of sacrifice?’ asked Taggart. ‘Cutting people’s heads off?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘Being eaten by crows,’ he said.

  ‘Crows?’ echoed Taggart.

  ‘I wanted to do a big burning thing. Like in The Wicker Man. But there’s these fascists in Health and Safety who say you need all sorts of licences. So instead I’m going for crows.’

  ‘How does the sacrifice work?’ asked Seward.

  ‘The victim is laid out in the middle of a stone circle. We’re using Castlerigg outside Keswick. You know it?’

  Seward and Taggart nodded.

  ‘The victim has honey and stuff smeared on her eyes and throat, and the crows come down and peck her eyes and throat out. It’s like symbolic.’

  ‘Aren’t crows difficult to train to do that sort of thing?’

  Drake smiled, smugly.

  ‘Tight close-ups. Lots of cutaways,’ he said. ‘No one uses real birds.’

  ‘Hitchcock did,’ said Seward. ‘They drew blood from Tippi Hedren when he was shooting The Birds.’

  ‘Yeah, but Hitchcock was a control freak,’ said Drake. ‘He had a thing about tormenting blonde women.’ Taggart gave Seward a look of appeal that said: ‘Can we finish this before he starts giving us a lecture about his favourite film directors, and you join in with him?’

  ‘Have you got a copy of the script?’ asked Seward.

  ‘Why?’ asked Drake. ‘You need it for some sort of evidence? Everything I’ve said is the truth. It’s crows.’

  ‘We’d still like to see a copy of the script,’ insisted Seward.

  Drake shrugged, and then hauled himself out of bed, revealing a pair of loose underpants. He went over to the table, cleared some clothes off it, and produced a few typewritten pages stapled together.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I was looking at it last night because we start filming in a couple of days. I want the ambience to be right for it when we’re at Castlerigg, so we’re doing it on June 21st. The Summer Solstice.’

  As he handed the script to Seward, he told her warningly, ‘This is copyright, you know. I don’t want anyone ripping it off.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m a police officer,’ said Seward, straight-faced.

  Once they were back outside the house, Taggart took a long, deep breath.

  ‘At last, I can breathe again!’ she said.

  Seward smiled.

  ‘I know the feeling,’ she said. ‘I feel like we ought to spray ourselves with disinfectant. One thing’s for sure: if our murderer is, and I quote, ‘fastidious and organized’, then it certainly isn’t our friend Drake.’

  As the two women walked back to their car, Taggart asked, curious: ‘What did you want a copy of his script for? It’s gonna be crap.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Seward. ‘But, like I said, I’m a film nut. And who knows what interesting things it might tell us.’

  FOURTEEN

  Georgiou and Tennyson were in the office, going through the initial reports from SOCO and uniformed division on the Han Sun murder, when Georgiou’s phone rang.

  ‘Georgiou,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

  It was Superintendent Stokes. ‘I need to see you,’ he said, his anger obvious in his tone. ‘My office, immediately.’

  There was a click as the phone disconnected.

  Tennyson gave Georgiou an enquiring look.

  ‘Our lord and master,’ grunted Georgiou. ‘Stokes has summoned me.’

  ‘A promotion?’ suggested Tennyson sarcastically.

  Georgiou laughed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can persuade him we’re doing all we can,’ he said.

  With that Georgiou headed out of the room and up the stairs.

  Stokes was pacing as Georgiou walked into his office. Before Georgiou could speak, Stokes turned on him, furious.

  ‘I’ve just had New York on the phone to me. New York!’

  Georgiou frowned, puzzled.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see what we have to do with New York,’ he said.

  ‘The press, Georgiou!’ raged Stokes. ‘As if it isn’t bad enough being under siege from the British media, now the world’s press have got hold of it! “Head Killer!” That’s what the headlines say. Not just here but in New York! Three murders, Georgiou! Three!’

  ‘With respect, sir …’ began Georgiou.

  ‘No!’ thundered Stokes. ‘No respect at all, because this murderer has none! Certainly none for us! He’s making you look a laughing stock!’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ continued Georgiou firmly, ‘I only came back to work yesterday morning.’

  That made Stokes stop whatever was on the tip of his tongue, but only for a moment. He continued pacing, agitated.

  ‘In all my long career I’ve never had anything like this. Never! My position is being questioned!’

  And not before time, thought Georgiou.

  ‘And this business in the News and Star about you doesn’t help!’ snapped Stokes. He took a deep breath, then turned to Georgiou. ‘I think, in fairness to this department, you ought to consider your position, Inspector.’

  A cold chill went up Georgiou’s spine.

  ‘Consider my position?’ he repeated. ‘Do you mean resign?’

  Stokes turned away, unable to meet Georgiou’s look.

  ‘You know what I mean!’ he blustered. ‘Your actions over this boy—’

  ‘Unproven allegations,’ interrupted Georgiou.

  ‘And your appalling lack of success over these murders,’ continued Stokes, as if he hadn’t heard Georgiou’s comment, ‘have brought discredit on this force.’

  ‘I repeat,’ snapped Georgiou, even more firmly than before, ‘I only returned to work yesterday. Now if you want me to make a statement to the press stating my position, and the difficulties that I have been placed under which hamper my investigation …’

  Stokes stared at Georgiou, open-mouthed.

  ‘What difficulties?’ he demanded.

  ‘The false allegations against me, the lack of support from superior officers …’

  Stokes’s mouth shut like a trap, and he glared at Georgiou.

  ‘How dare you!’ he challenged. Then he swung away and thought for a moment, before turning back to Georgiou. ‘Under no circumstances will you talk to the pre
ss. Not one word.’

  The phone on Stokes’s desk rang and he snatched it up.

  ‘I told you I was not to be disturbed!’ he barked angrily. Abruptly his manner changed, and he said apologetically: ‘Of course. You did the right thing. Put him through.’

  Someone important, thought Georgiou.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his tone respectful, but at the same time breezy and confident. He listened briefly, nodding the whole while, then continued: ‘Actually, Inspector Georgiou is with me at the moment …’ Then suddenly he stopped, his face going white. It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. ‘Of course, sir. What was that website again?’ He grabbed up a pen and scribbled a note on a pad. ‘Yes, I’ll go onto it straight away, and if it is terrorists …’ He listened again, still nodding, and then said: ‘I’ll get back to you immediately, sir.’

  As Stokes hung up, Georgiou asked, ‘Terrorists?’

  Stokes didn’t reply; he was too busy tapping keys on his computer, an expression of urgency on his face. An image appeared on his screen, a figure wearing what looked like a shapeless smock and a hood over his or her face with eyeholes cut in. As Stokes turned up the volume, Georgiou heard the voice, a young man’s, ranting.

  ‘These deaths are the price the ungodly will pay!’ he shouted, his voice muffled by the hood but still audible. ‘An eye for an eye! A tooth for a tooth! A head for a head!’

  Stokes stared at the screen, his face ashen.

  ‘It is terrorists!’ he said, shocked. He turned to Georgiou. ‘These killings are being done because of some Jihad, or whatever it is they call it! It’s Al-Qaeda!’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Georgiou. He pointed at the screen. ‘Look at the symbols in the background. That one’s an ankh.’

  ‘What the hell’s an ankh?’ demanded Stokes, bewildered.

  ‘It’s an Egyptian symbol,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Egyptians!’ exploded Stokes. ‘Muslims!’

  ‘No,’ said Georgiou firmly. ‘The ankh is from ancient Egypt, predating most conventional religions. It’s found mostly these days in fantasy games, or as a fashion decoration.’