by D Attrill
“Just a bad call.” Leyton lifted the phone a little so as to blind him from her buried troubles.
“Anyway, hey-ho, and back to the show.” She led him back out and along to the interrogation room. “What have we learned from our esteemed interviewee?”
“Like you was saying ma’am, I don’t think Greg were properly listening. Mr Graham can verify he were never out of his office during the day, yesterday. Worked solid graft, ten-while-half five. That’s all three gone out the window, where he’s to do with it.”
Leyton was ready to throw something at Greg Garstone. She threw the door open hoping he’d be standing right behind; she was aghast to find just Mr Graham sitting there alone.
“He’s just nipped off, photocopying,” Armitage informed “He were all over them houses Mr Graham had wi’ him.”
“Any excuse, when he knows his nagging Auntie Leyton’s on the rampage.” She stopped as Garstone emerged through the end doors.
“Seems like the toner’s needing a bit of a shake.” Garstone was waving some shoddily-produced prints. “Should be able to get the gist of the interior though. That two-bedroom place looks the business, I got to say.”
“I’ll have that, thanks, squire.” Leyton took the pictures off him and pretended to admire, although she couldn’t help but lust after one of these addresses for real. The first floor apartment at Fulwood tucked amongst them, made her current flat look like a Romany settlement.
“Done yet, ma’am?”
“I was actually heading to lambast you for ignoring my earlier instructions. Say however, if I get to borrow the-e-ese for the day, while you take Mr Graham back to Chapeltown, and offer to buy him some lunch... should I take it further eh?” Dishing out forfeits was better than formal disciplining, when it came to dealing with borderline neglect from her subordinates.
Sighing, Garstone invited Mr Graham to collect his coat.
“Nice meeting you.” Mr Graham thanked her in return. “I hope you find one of those houses to your approval.”
He gave Leyton a business card and allowed Garstone to lead him out.
Leyton made for the canteen as soon as they’d left. The Midelson HQ refectory was relatively quietened by the departure of most day-shift personnel, who routinely took their dinner away to their offices.
She herself felt she’d be little exception but a blueberry muffin was the extent of her hunger right here, with the sight of Mr Summers’ leg still playing on her mind.
Making space of a four-seat table, Leyton had a naughty look at the documents Garstone had copied. She slid out the second property, that Fulwood one that had appeared to attract him. The house addict in her loved perusing new properties. While she was sucked in by this picturesque pad, she cross-referenced the other two. She couldn’t help just hoping that one of those nice looking lodges on Becky’s street might be somewhere amongst this bunch. She could still survive without a French window, if it meant that she’d still enjoy an extensive kitchen to do all her crazy stuff in, as long as there was still that little grassy bit at the bottom.
Currently stuck in that sixth floor Wicker apartment, the only garden Leyton saw for now was the vivid plant collection along her kitchen window.
“Glad I caught you while you’re right in the mood for photos.” Pathologist Jamieson suddenly stood beside her, smiling wryly down. He fluttered a crisp plastic file between his fingers. “Got a few hot treats from the forensics trove for you, my dear.”
“Bear with me one second.”
Tucking her photos away, Leyton tried to devour as much of the muffin as her mouth could fit before binning the last.
She commanded Jamieson out into the corridor before allowing him to show her his wares.
“I think you’d better come out of the way to see this one.” Jamieson borrowed a small office opposite.
“I’ have a cast iron stomach Donald, don’t you worry.”
“Miss Radcombe appeared not to have a cast iron spine though.”
He pulled out the first picture and let her see. There was a fearsome frontal puncture to the victim’s upper chest, where she assumed the knife had been applied. Miss Radcombe’s death seemed to have been brutal but fast.
“She must have upset someone very badly indeed, to deserve anything like that.”
“You’d better look at where it went in before you jump to conclusions.” Jamieson said, taking another print out and passing it to her. “What you had just there was the exit wound.”
“No....god, this can’t be ...”
The sight of the victim’s back absolutely sickened Leyton.
She was looking on a totally different trauma - a tiny, circular hole less than five millimetres across.
Whatever had gone through Paula Radcombe had almost severed her spine clean in two without trouble.
The actual weapon used, came cruelly clear.
“Somebody shot her?”
Chapter 4
(i)
Garstone was on his way back into Chapeltown, with Armitage also along for the ride. As he descended close into the village centre, he was asking Mr Graham more about his business, and his enjoyment in working this end of town, until a radio ruined the conversation.
“Never guess who this is.” he got up his hands-free. “You can’t even trust me this little now, right?” he asked Leyton.
“Even less than that,” Leyton responded. “Just to let you know, I’ve had more pictures back from the mortuary. Appears a gun was guilty…”
“You’re kiddin’, aye?”
“Also, the guilty would have done it at the scene.”
“Doesn’t say nothing about the ‘diagonal’ attack.” Garstone had to have more.
“Well Don reckons that Ms Radcombe was killed at the scene. The gun was held against the lower end of her spine - i.e the old lie down and don't move routine. Obviously, with the body pressed right to the ground, the bullet travelled along a bit, ripping her tummy apart. Pedestrian bridge pathways aren’t that soft.”
"Where do I take the great Garstone road show now?" Having got the picture at last, he changed subject.
“8 Costhorpe Rd might be worth visiting… Chapeltown.”
“Just gone past it.” Garstone got a tap on the shoulder from Armitage who was pointing.
“Tell you what, I’m just gonna get Mr Graham safely to his place, then back over that way.”
“Don’t forget that lunch.”
“I say,” Mr Graham coughed, as if to get attention. “Would you prefer to drop me at the pavement here? I only have the roundabout to negotiate.”
“Just like we have, Mr Graham; plus, procedure is to drop you at the same point from which you were collected.” He knew Leyton could hear.
“I can go wi’ him.” Armitage offered. “Just give us t’ money for his dinner.”
“God, ok.” Slowing down for the roundabout, Garstone covered the radio whilst clamouring for his wallet. “Take fifteen, if you’re getting for yourself on top. Bring me a coffee back, that’s if KFC do them.”
Having let he and Mr Graham disembark, Garstone did a swift turnaround and took off back upwards.
“There’s a lot of chat going on, young Garstone.” Leyton spoke up beneath his fingers “Can I assume it’s ‘working’ chat?”
“Do you want to just whizz that address up again? Number eight...”
“8 Costhorpe Road. Payden. Now they-y have quite a history between them.”
“What have they been up to wi’ their life?”
“Theft, robbery, criminal damage to offer a few. The youngest, Gary also has a day in court coming up, apparently.”
“Sounds like a nice kid to me.” Garstone shouted up as he passed some heavy roadworks.
“You do know where you’re going don’t you? Left, onto Gowley Lane, then take the first ....”
“Found it!”
Garstone slowed as he recognised a row of houses he’d just seen through the trees. He followed along Costhorpe Road
by conscience. The address was exactly as he would describe, though it didn’t appear to welcome visitors. No8’s pavement space was taken up by a transit van, possibly some business of the family’s. A small white hatchback could be seen through the gate - a Vauxhall Corsa. He saw the plate ‘'W32GV’; the first three characters were a match with their criteria, although the cursed expression of innocent-until-proven-guilty got in the way.
(Easy Greg, you haven't Hargreaves’ example to follow any longer.)
Garstone stopped right across the driveway. He hoped his talk would only take minutes.
Squeezing around the gate, he slipped past, innocently eyeing the front garden up. Plants, mostly of prickly varieties, stood alongside the drive as if to deter people from dodging across the lawn.
A menacing, mesh-topped gate at the side ensured he knew the front door was the front door for a reason, as did the ‘Beware - I Live Here’ warning - complete with a Rottweiler’s face - by the front window.
As Garstone padded delicately towards the door, the gate latch unlocked.
He clenched, ready to become a dog’s next breakfast.
A youth aged about seventeen stepped out from the side. Clad in a red-black ‘Umbro’ zip-top and blue faded jeans, he was casually twirling keys in his hand as he made towards the van parked on the pavement.
“Are you Gary Payden, mate?” Garstone walked across to intercept him. “I’d just like a quick word....hey!”
This youth appeared to gather Greg Garstone’s occupation, a mile off, for he vaulted right over the gate and disappeared into the trees opposite.
Just for once, Garstone didn’t regret neglecting his central locking. He hurled himself back inside and backed up the Vectra, just before he lost complete trace of Gary Payden’s figure.
“You crafty little shit,” he muttered, jamming down the reverse.
He straightened the car, closely missing the wall of No.6 then left and out onto Gowley Lane, giving little consideration to traffic as he turned.
He cruised down the leafy suburban street, keeping to a disciplined 20mph.
The kid appeared nowhere in sight.
He slowed right up, waving past a small tailback he’d caused. Just then, the hands-free began making sounds again.
“Have you picked up our latest victim?” Leyton was asking.
“I tried. Turns out we’ve a mighty little Mo Farah on our hands.”
“Shall I send Will or Chris along?”
“No, it’s ok, I’ll just go wait outside his hou...WHAT THE FU-U-U-UCK?”
Garstone stopped as a loud smack shook his bonnet. A matchstick shape had galloped across his windscreen from the pavement and was springing away down the road. He fought to see through the spider’s web of cracks while also trying to salvage coordination.
Navigating the narrow white lines, he struggled as the cracks grew severe.
He found himself veering across wrong-side. He turned hastily left again, eventually ending up against the opposite wall.
Garstone just managed to squeeze out of his door and away. Examining the damage that had been left, he looked up at the wall - only trees stood above. The grass behind indicated Payden had run aground to some public park through there.
No, he couldn’t have, that wall was much too slippery and high: the wettened moss would have worked like ice.
There appeared no sign of him on the street ahead either. As Garstone perused further along, an oldish man, in an orange high-vis jacket, came out into the road. He was flailing his arms furiously, as if signalling for the public to help.
Garstone went along to answer him. The man was standing outside the entrance to Chapeltown Park.
“Can you do something?” gasped the man, who was wearing a warden uniform. “Me back were turned only a sec - this little twat’s had off us quad bike.”
“How did he manage that?” Garstone noticed the bollard at the park entrance. “See which way he went?”
Did he really need an answer? An electric motor could be made out, above through the bushes.
Garstone shot up the drive on his shoes till he got to the top and the open park.
He could hear the motor again, close behind.
To his right, a white battery quad went tearing past, along the path.
“Hey, pack it up kid!”
Garstone ran straight at it.
Payden, having turned to look, then leaped off the side and set off running.
Garstone grabbed the back of the quad and climbed over onto the seat.
He wrestled for control as he worked out what the various switches did.
He touched hard on what he thought was a brake, but instead sent the quad lurching into a dangerous headlong charge. It took a frightening 15mph skid to avoid an elderly dog walker, before he identified the right lever.
Having got the quad under control and stationed - just short of ploughing into a stone flower trough - he took time to memorise the mechanism.
“Hey copper, how much you asking for your Vectra?”
Looking round, he saw the boy standing spread-eagled against an oak tree, rudely gesturing him. Enough was enough. He felt in his jacket for his radio.
“Christ, it’s still in the car! Right...”
Garstone took a frantic sharp circle round the trough, then put the machine into a sliding turn. Once out of trouble, he then trundled forward again.
As he closed in on the tree, the lad looked as if he was going to give himself in.
Garstone got the quad to slow down, aiming not to intimidate Payden.
Just as he got the machine to within two metres, the boy suddenly shot off from the tree, into the middle of the park.
Garstone made a drastic left , and was forced to take an evasive figure of eight across the playground area behind, trying to bring both the machine and his fugitive under control.
While dodging bins and benches he finally found the handling slightly smoother but no easier to catch a criminal through.
As he got back onto the grass, Gary had dived amidst a row of rose bushes in the centre of the field, offering further vulgarities.
Garstone, his blood now boiling, threw it straight back the other way.
Unfortunately, his dedication to the catch had distracted himself from what was on the ground beneath.
He braked hard across a puddled patch, sending the quad into a horrendous pirouette.
Garstone tried for both control, and dear life together as he fought for fraught seconds to get it back.
Having recovered it, he moved slowly along by the shrubbery, trying to sniff Payden from his hideout. He seemed to have disappeared, just like a burrowing rabbit. Why the hell was this kid doing it to him? As far as that old 'only the guilty run' chestnut went, this one had fallen from the tree excessively hard.
A smallish but hard piece of twig hit the back of Garstone’s head. He swung the quad hastily round.
Payden was taunting him, from inside an old bandstand.
Garstone realised he couldn’t resist a little payback any longer. Getting the quad up to its 30mph limit he continued circling. However as speed sent him wider with each circuit, Payden had already seen his chance and was disappearing into the front field once again.
“I-I-I-m co-o-o-oming!” Garstone sniggered, taking his charge, “Just you wait, you little f...”
The flash of red, black and blue shot past from the left, as he had done earlier across his Vectra, again taking him totally unawares.
The pursuit moved onto the sloped side of the park.
Gary Payden had leapt onto a war monument and was trying to clamber around the obelisk.
Garstone’s concern switched to the kid’s safety instead of his. He closed in, watching Payden who was staring contemptfully at him from every corner he tried hiding.
He slowed for a second, ready to leap, but as he did, so did the boy.
Garstone accelerated to cut him off, but as he widened his berth, the slope became too steep for the mac
hine.
As the quad keeled over, he realised he wasn’t going to get it back.
He jumped clear, tumbling down through the trees, whilst the vehicle cartwheeled to its destruction behind.
Garstone writhed in agony as he finally got to his feet. His eventual touchdown, against an ivy-covered stump, had cost him a stiff shoulder blade, plus a once-impeccable suit jacket.
“Dad’s gonna hate me.” He looked at the tattered remnants of his right sleeve, as he also brushed various woodland presents away.
He was uncertain whether to climb back up or down, until he spotted a blue roof shining below the trees.
Staggering down the slope sideways, he tried not to take any brambles along with him. He climbed carefully over the stone wall, lowering himself onto a kerb behind his Vectra.
“Hope the little bastard didn’t have my radio.”
He satisfied himself with summoning backup, as per procedure. Relieved to find the windscreen hadn’t become even worse than already, he climbed around and in through the passenger door.
He turned the ignition and set off slowly down the road to find Armitage.
On entering the village centre, there appeared a commotion that was drawing crowds outside the shops.
He recognised a red vehicle roof amongst it.
“No.” Garstone gasped as he pulled slowly up, close.
He swapped his jacket for a bulky anorak before stepping out to look.
Ordering the gathered public aside, he saw the damage done right away.
A young man lay on the side of the road, dazed and dishevelled. He was staring up, at a visibly mortified DC Armitage.
“Sorry Greg. I’m so sorry.” Armitage repeated, sounding racked with guilt. “Just came running out behind, me. Had no time to brake. I were just dropping Mr Graham back off...”
“That’s ok mate.”
Taking his coat off, Garstone knelt down to give the boy a hand.
“Hello Gary, great to see you again.”
“Fuckin’ bastard!” Trying to leap up, Gary Payden fell back, crying in pain at his injury.
(ii)
