by Ian Jarvis
‘If you’re saying you’d like to take me out, the answer’s yes, if you take off those ludicrous sunglasses.’
He stuffed them into his pocket.
‘Thank you.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Ring me.’
‘Yeah.’ Rex watched her slip into the house, waiting until she waved from the window before climbing back into the Beetle. ‘I’ll do that.’
Twenty yards down the street, Gregson watched them pull away and settled down for the night behind the steering wheel.
‘Nice kiss,’ sighed Rex. ‘The girl’s crazy about me, but who could blame her?’
Watson turned to see if this was a joke and realised it wasn’t. ‘Will she be okay, Guv?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Quist. ‘An unmarked police car has pulled up. I wouldn’t have left her otherwise.’
‘That red Audi? How can you tell it’s a cop?’
‘It tailed us from the Golden Fleece and it was by the doors with the police vehicles at the lab earlier. The tax is in a Police Personnel holder.’
‘You noticed that? You don’t miss much, do you?’
‘Not much.’ Quist glanced in the mirror, but didn’t mention the Maserati headlights.
Chapter 26
Will Gillette pressed his spine against the lounge patio door, his terrified eyes flickering over his unexpected house guests: four vicious-looking giants and a smaller bearded character leaning casually against the fireplace.
‘Fulford seems to be a pleasant area of York.’ Drawing slowly on a cigarette, Strand ran a lazy finger over the ornate mantelpiece clock, his green eyes unblinking and almost reptilian. He gazed around the Victorian-styled room. ‘I can see why you chose to live here.’
The research director gave a tense smile, his eyes darting back to the bodyguards.
‘Big boys, aren’t they?’ said Strand. ‘They’re Elite, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, and not the nicest members of the Elite either. Browning here was part of a white supremacy movement before Silva recruited him for his personal security squad.’
Gillette’s face drained to a horrible grey, a sickly colour normally only seen in nursing home porridge. Patches of cold sweat bloomed on his shirt.
Strand gestured to the monster on his right. ‘Sangster was a boxer, but beat two men to death in the ring. Quite a few outside the ring too. Yes, they’re very big boys, but provided you assist me, Will, I don’t see any reason for them to worry you.’
The doctor swallowed uncomfortably. His heart hammered and the pounding of blood in his ears almost drowned out the rain on the patio doors.
‘So no one at the lab has seen anything of our friend since Thursday?’
‘That’s right.’ Gillette cleared his throat. ‘Stapleton called at the lab that night for a progress report and to make sure the latest batches had gone for testing.’
Strand blew a smoke ring. ‘And there was a phone call?’
‘Just one - Friday evening. I was ordered to clean out South Lab and destroy all traces of the Solstice and the eye droplets. Also to cancel the French consignments, and erase the data...’
‘Which you’ve done?’
‘Yes. That was the last I heard. I’ve tried ringing the house, but...’
‘What’s Solstice?’ enquired Hinds, his mind about twelve seconds slow.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Strand. ‘No questions.’
‘Silva rang me,’ stammered Gillette. ‘Apparently Thursday’s report never reached him. I don’t think he was pleased.’
‘How astute. No he isn’t pleased and that’s why we’re here to rectify matters. Tell me, Will, where are the authorities keeping Lisa Mirren’s corpse?’
‘Oh God!’ The grey complexion drained to white. ‘The autopsy was at the York Hospital. The coroner won’t have released the body, so I imagine it’s in the mortuary there.’
‘Thank you.’ Strand headed for the door, snapping his fingers for the security team to follow. ‘If you need to contact us, we’ll be at Stapleton’s house.’
‘Yes, yes...’ They were leaving - thank God! Gillette’s heart slowed as his visitors filed through the hall. ‘Of course.’
‘Are we going to the hospital now?’ asked Fisher.
Strand peered curiously. ‘Is that your concept of no questions?’ He turned back to Gillette. ‘One final thing. Have you had any strangers at the lab enquiring about the dead girls? Any unusual callers?’
‘Apart from the police, no one. Er, well, three men called briefly today, but I never spoke to them. My receptionist told me later that one claimed to be Lisa Mirren’s cousin.’
‘Really?’ Strand smiled evilly. ‘Describe them to me, Will.’
Chapter 27
‘This consultant detective lark obviously pays well,’ said Rex, sarcastically. He inspected the basic interior of the Beetle. ‘Talk about cramped? This is worse than the mini-subs we use in the SAS.’
‘Wow!’ Watson gasped. ‘What do you reckon to that, Guv?’
‘Amazing!’ drawled Quist. He turned off the Acomb road and into a pub car park. ‘Here we are.’
Rex read the neon sign. ‘The Squinting Ferret?’
The brewery believed Slugs and Lettuces, Coughing Cats, and other such jolly monikers attracted custom, and from the transport outside, the Squinting Ferret obviously enticed one particular clientele.
‘Great!’ Watson eyed the rows of motorcycles as he climbed from the car. ‘I suppose you want to go in here because of the badges you found? Even though the Lamberley landlord said those bikers had nothing to do with the murder.’
‘Bikers?’ Rex looked bemused.
‘Bikers,’ said Quist, showing him the Harley badges. ‘Someone either believes they were involved or wants us to believe that. That’s why they left these for us to conveniently find.’
‘What?’ Watson’s mouth fell open. ‘You think they were planted?’
‘Well of course they were,’ said Quist. ‘The police would have found them otherwise.’
‘But they might have been dropped accidentally by someone who went there after the police left.’
‘Watch!’ Quist flicked up the darker one and let it fall at his feet. ‘Each time I toss this up, it falls facedown. The convex face is heavier, like bread falling butter-side down. But as you can see the face is shiny and the reverse is matt black.’
‘So...’
‘So had it fallen accidentally, we’d have found it facedown. Someone left it shiny face up to ensure we didn’t miss it. Someone wants us involved in this and I want to know who and why. Selden has no fiancé. I doubt he even knew Diane Woodall, so why would he come to the office wanting us to look into her suicide? I need to know what’s going on here.’
‘Planted clues?’ Rex brightened. ‘Hey this is starting to sound good. So why are we here?’
‘Satan’s Heralds.’ Watson cringed. ‘A bunch of bikers calling themselves that were in Lamberley on the day of the murder.’
‘Correct,’ said Quist. ‘Whoever planted the badges wants us to believe they were present at both the murder and suicide. This pub is the sort of place where we’ll learn who they are and where to find them.’
‘Oh what fun!’ said Watson. ‘Bikers aren’t renowned for their love of us handsome, dark-skinned types, Guv; it’s their redneck genes. Anything could happen in there.’
‘But we have Captain Grant with us,’ pointed out Quist. ‘I told you his combat skills could prove useful.’
‘Er, yeah.’ Rex swallowed dryly. ‘No worries.’
Watson recognised the racket as Quist opened the pub door - That Babe’s Gonna Break Ya Spine, by a group named Coronary. He enjoyed loud music, but this was like being lobotomised with a pneumatic drill. The heaving lounge was as inviting as a bidet full of rattraps, the hairy custom
ers falling into two groups: the moody types seen in spaghetti westerns, and the sword-waving characters that swing from pirate ships. As Watson had suspected, the Squinting Ferret was one of those places where the lights can go out fairly quickly and you wake surrounded by hospital curtains. Rex realised it too and removed his shades before someone decided to do it for him.
‘It’ll be hard asking questions here,’ yelled Watson, above the din. ‘And asking for the jukebox to be turned down in places like this is a lynching offence.’ He glanced pointedly at Rex. ‘Pretty much like ordering a vodka martini.’
‘Might be best if we return when it’s quieter,’ shouted Rex.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Watson. ‘Like when it’s shut.’
Quist noticed a door by the counter and led them through the crowd into a games room with a lower decibel level. Five glaring bikers sprawled on seats and drank from bottles, two played at the pool table, and a girl leant by the door, eyeing the strangers the way cats eye fledgling sparrows. The largest pool player bent over the table preparing his shot. Rex watched him warily. The last time he’d seen anything like this, it had been co-piloting Han Solo’s ship in Star Wars. Quist spotted the skull design on his jacket with York Cannibals underneath.
He cleared his throat. ‘Excuse our intrusion, but perhaps you could help. We’re looking for a group of cyclists known as Satan’s Heralds.’
‘Fuck off!’ grunted the biker, without turning, ‘before I kill you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Watson and Rex together. They grabbed the detective’s arms and pulled him towards the door.
‘Nice one, Eddie,’ cackled the girl.
‘Really,’ tutted Quist, shaking free. He plucked the ball from the table as Eddie’s cue jabbed out and connected with thin air. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’
Every mouth in the room fell open.
Eddie rose slowly and turned. ‘Don’t bother, lads.’ He waved away two large friends who were moving forward. ‘I could use the exercise and this is a nose that’ll be hard to miss.’
‘Ah, I have your attention.’ Quist watched Rex and Watson flatten themselves against the wall. ‘As I was saying, have you heard of Satan’s Heralds?’
‘Have you heard of this?’ Eddie swung a high-speed fist.
It wasn’t speedy enough. His target ducked, and in the brief moment of realisation, the biker had taken four hard punches. Eddie’s pool opponent flew across wielding a cue and snapped it across the detective’s cheek. Watson winced at the gash and squeezed closer to the wall as Quist caught his assailant’s head and slammed it into the table. The man folded, showering the floor in teeth, and Quist twisted to face two more bikers armed with jagged bottles. Eddie nursed his flattened nose as Quist booted the nearest in the plumbing, and throwing a pool ball, cracked the second between the eyes.
‘What was the question again?’ stammered Eddie.
‘Satan’s Heralds.’ Quist turned back to him as the last attacker sank to the floor. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Er, yeah, that’s Creeper’s chapter.’
‘And where would I find them?’
‘They’re a York bunch. Most nights you’ll get some of them drinking at the Crown in Clifton. I’ve heard they’re holding an all-day party tomorrow at Creeper’s place on Minster Avenue. The whole lot will be there.’
Watson and Rex, who had been edging along the wall, slipped out.
‘Thanks.’ Quist turned to follow. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘No problem.’ The biker wiped his bloody mouth and turned to the groaning men on the floor. ‘Good puncher, that bloke.’
Out in the car park, Watson couldn’t agree more. ‘Nice work, Guv.’ He trembled with relief. ‘For a while there I thought we were dead. I honestly can’t believe what I just saw. You were amazing.’
‘Yes, not too bad.’ Rex jumped in the Beetle and lit a shaky cigarette. ‘I was going to step in, but it was over so fast and you seemed okay. I have to be careful in violent situations.’
‘In case you get hurt?’ sniggered Watson.
‘In case I forget to hold back and accidentally kill someone.’
‘Oh right.’ The youth inspected Quist’s face as the Beetle pulled out onto the road. ‘How’s the cut?’
‘What cut?’ He wiped his cheek and dry blood fell away from unbroken skin.
Watson shrugged at his mistake; the blood obviously belonged to one of the bikers.
‘I’ll take you back for your car, Rex,’ said Quist. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Over on the North York Moors. I’ll give you the number. Hey, speaking of which, you never asked for the number of the house where this party is being held.’
‘It’s a biker’s party.’ Quist smiled. ‘Believe me, we won’t need a number.’
***
Dreyer watched the Beetle leave the Squinting Ferret from his parking spot on the dark backstreet opposite. He reached for the ignition as a knock sounded on the Maserati window. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he snapped, lowering the black glass.
‘Mister Dreyer?’
‘Do I know you?’ He noticed the stranger’s BMW a short way down the road. ‘What is this?’
‘I believe you sell double-glazing? I need my windows replacing.’
‘Are you serious?’ Dreyer glanced at the departing Beetle. ‘Go away. I don’t have time for this.’
‘No, you don’t!’ A hand fastened on his throat, wrenching him through the open window and slamming him onto the Maserati bonnet. ‘You don’t have time for anything.’
A scorching explosion of pain in Dreyer’s abdomen was followed by a wet splatter. He clawed at the fingers clamping his neck and gazed incredulously at his own steaming intestines running down the windscreen. That’s something you don’t see every day, he mused. The philosophical thought ended abruptly as his windpipe and carotid arteries parted company with his spine.
Chapter 28
Adrian Pitt had never set eyes upon Doctor Stapleton, even though the pair had lived next door to each other on Linden Mount for six years. Springer walked Rommel along this suburban cul-de-sac each evening and he’d seen the blue Porsche with its mirrored windows many times, but never the reclusive scientist who drove it.
‘Hurry up.’ Shuffling in the rain, the solicitor tugged at the Doberman’s leash. Rommel’s leg quivered as he urinated over their neighbour’s gates. ‘Wait until we reach the field.’
Nipping the flow, Rommel set off, then stopped dead, bringing Pitt to a halt again. He sniffed at the new gate padlock and curled his lip.
‘What’s the matter?’
The dog hesitated and trotted on before stopping at the shrubbery by the gatepost. He stuck his head beneath the evergreen foliage and snarled at the broken lock that had been removed and now lay hidden in the grass.
‘What is it? A hedgehog?’
Rommel began barking. The dog was always drawn to the gates of this particular house on his evening walks, but although he often growled, he’d never carried on like this before.
‘Come on.’ Pitt pulled the leash and led it away. ‘You get fleas from hedgehogs.’
***
Strand stood admiring the many paintings and sculptures in Stapleton’s hall. The owner of Ebor Pharmaceuticals was obviously an art collector, although this art may not have been to everyone’s taste. The pornographic Beardsley illustrations and Austin Spare pastels would make a Legionnaire gasp, and the tantric sex positions depicted in the Hindu carvings would be tricky for copulating eels, never mind humans. He strolled into the lounge and studied a garish Aleister Crowley painting. Three of the security team sat around the fireplace behind Strand. The fourth hurried through the door.
‘I’ve been watching the grounds,’ announced Hinds.
Strand moved to another p
icture. ‘How interesting.’
‘I thought you should know, Sir, there was a man looking through the gates.’
‘I heard barking. It was probably a neighbour walking a dog.’
‘You wouldn’t like me to kill him?’
‘No.’ Strand glared at the bodyguard. ‘I wouldn’t like that.’
Sangster cleared his throat. ‘Sir, why are we wasting time here? Shouldn’t we go to the morgue tonight?’
‘He’s right,’ said Browning. ‘Tomorrow will be cutting things fine.’
‘You could have a point.’ Strand stroked his trim beard in mock thoughtfulness. ‘But let me ask you a question. Why do you suppose Silva placed me in charge of this operation?’
The burly giants glanced at one another.
‘Take your time. No need to blurt out the first thing that enters your heads.’
‘Errr...’ said Browning.
‘No. I’m in charge, not because of errr, but because I’m better at this than you. I know what I’m doing.’
‘But, Sir...’
‘What did I tell you earlier? Do as you’re told and don’t question. I’m here to think and you’re here for the muscle if it’s needed. If I say we don’t move until tomorrow, you can be certain there’s good reason.’ The lecture was interrupted by a trill in his pocket. He pressed the mobile to his ear. ‘This call is private. If you’ll excuse me?’
Four faces frowned quizzically.
‘The hall,’ he sighed.
‘What about it?’ queried Hinds.
‘Get out - now.’ Strand waited until the door closed behind the guards. ‘Sorry about that,’ he purred. ‘Staff problems.’
Chapter 29
For once the weather forecasters had been right. Quist arrived late at the office on Thursday morning and, switching on the radio for the nine-thirty local news, he peered through the window at the light covering of snow and the drifting fog. Thanks to smokeless fuels, inland fog was a rarity these days, but this icy mist was doubtless down to the frozen ground and warmer air. This would hamper today’s investigation, but hopefully Rex Grant would be trapped at his uncle’s moorland house and kept safely out of the picture.
