by Ian Jarvis
Quist raised his voice above the music. ‘With it being the festive season, I thought a few bottles would be nice.’ He opened the boot to reveal a case of Jack Daniels. ‘I hope these will be okay.’
The biker eyed the box. ‘Nice one,’ he growled. ‘Come on in.’
‘Er, merry Christmas,’ mumbled Watson, offering a bottle to an approaching mass of hair and denim.
The creature smashed the neck and emptied half the contents down its throat. Satan’s Heralds, read the rear of its jacket, and We Eat Our Own Dead.
‘Come on,’ murmured Quist, picking up the box and gently pulling the youth. ‘Don’t make eye-contact.’
They moved through the garden, passing bourbon to anyone who scowled, and squeezed into the smoky, crowded passage. It ran to the rear kitchen, with stairs to the right and a large lounge to the left where raucous arm-wrestling bouts were taking place. Inhaling the fog of marijuana, Watson noticed the hi-fi and pile of CDs by the door. AC-DC, Shrapnel, Whitesnake, Iron Bastards, Def Leopard. He raised his eyebrows. There wasn’t much point searching for White Christmas there.
‘Hold this to blend in,’ shouted Quist over the music. He gave him the last bottle. ‘We don’t want to stand out.’
‘Oh sure.’ Watson narrowed his eyes as a blonde-haired girl appeared from the kitchen. ‘We look just like everyone else now.’
Most of the girls at the party were attractive, but this young woman was incredible. Watson preferred females with breasts larger than their own heads, but her small bosom was only a minor problem. A much larger problem was her left arm, or rather the way it was draped around a yeti in leather.
‘How about that?’ Watson grinned. ‘Not bad, eh?’
‘Extremely attractive,’ agreed Quist. ‘Have you spotted her friend’s Harley badges?’
Realising she was being watched, the girl squeezed through the crush. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she yelled over the din. ‘Are you two sure you’re in the right house? You look a little out of place, to say the least.’
‘Oh?’ Watson glanced pointedly at Quist. ‘We thought we were blending in really well.’
Quist gave one of his odd smiles. ‘I hope your friend won’t get annoyed over you talking to strange men?’
‘Creeper?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle him.’
‘Have you fed him recently?’ asked Watson.
‘Do you mind. That’s the chapter President.’
‘Sorry,’ said Quist. ‘My friend has a tendency to put his feet in his mouth. What’s the occasion? Christmas party?’
‘The first of many. Funny that you had to ask. You wouldn’t be gate-crashers?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t advertise it.’
‘If you’ve gate-crashed this place, you’ve more guts than I imagined. No, I won’t tell.’
‘Good!’ said Watson. ‘I’m hoping to leave with teeth.’
The teenager looked her over. Here was one of those fortunate women in their thirties with no need for make-up. Blonde hair curled loosely about the shoulders of a tan leather blouson, pert breasts filled her denim shirt, and her long legs were clad in tight black jeans and boots. He leant over to make himself heard above the music.
‘You don’t look like a hell’s angel yourself, luv. I’d say you’ve had a shower and combed your hair recently.’
She giggled. ‘Francesca’s the name - Fran. Who are you?’
‘Bernard Quist,’ said the detective. This is Watson. I wonder if we could go outside where it’s quieter?’
She gave him an inquisitive look, but led the way to the garden.
‘Merry Christmas.’ Watson flattened himself against the wall as more bikers crushed past into the passage. ‘Bloody hell! They don’t all live here, do they?’
‘This is Creeper’s place.’ Fran pulled the teenager out of the writhing mass of denim. ‘But he lets chapter members crash here. Six of us live here at the moment.’
Quist dodged a flying axe. ‘You must have understanding neighbours.’
‘We have terrified neighbours.’
‘Who does the Harley belong to?’ asked Watson.
‘I shouldn’t touch it,’ warned Fran. ‘It’s Creeper’s.’
Quist fingered the badges in his pocket. ‘Expensive, aren’t they?’
‘He does contract work in Eastern Europe laying pipelines. The money is good. It paid for the bike and this place.’
‘Where in Eastern Europe?’ asked Quist. ‘Has he been there recently?’
‘Funny questions. You two don’t fit in at all. What are you doing here?’
Quist smiled. ‘Asking funny questions. I hear you were in Lamberley at the weekend?’
‘Oh, you’re cops? This is about the murder?’
‘Actually it’s a private investigation.’
‘Private eyes?’
‘Consultant detectives, apparently,’ said Watson. ‘We’re quite big in seedy divorces, taking pictures of fraudulent cleaners, and complicated murders.’
‘Divorce?’ Fran pulled a face. ‘My husband’s a lunatic, but he won’t come near while I’m with Creeper and the others. I’ve been trying to get divorced for months.’
‘How about that, Guv?’ Watson nudged Quist. ‘Give her your card.’
‘I imagine the police have questioned you?’ said Quist. ‘You were in Lamberley on Saturday.’
‘Seven of us, yes, but we were in the pub at the time of the murder. The landlord gave us alibis. I can’t really tell you anything about...’
Watson stiffened as a shadow fell over the trio. Creeper didn’t look overly intelligent, but appearances can be deceptive. The tentacled aliens in late-night movies don’t look clever either, but they still manage to build intergalactic saucers. A tattooed scarecrow stuffed with bricks instead of straw, the monster glared at Watson.
‘What’s goin’ on, Fran?’ he grunted. ‘Why are you out here talkin’ to wankers?’
‘I’m on my way in,’ she purred sweetly. ‘This is...’
‘I don’t give a shit who this is.’
‘I understand you own the Harley?’ Quist ignored the tension and held out the badges. ‘Would these belong to you?’
Creeper grabbed them. ‘They’re mine,’ he rumbled, suspiciously. ‘I lost them the other day. Where did you find them?’
‘Over there.’ Quist gestured to the gutter.
The biker fixed them back onto his leather waistcoat. ‘I’ve never seen you before,’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Someone in the Squinting Ferret mentioned you were having a party and...’
‘And who invited Sambo?’
‘Come on, Guv,’ said Watson. ‘I think the party’s definitely over.’
Chapter 36
Amy walked through the refectory at Ebor Pharmaceuticals and sat next to Nicole Patterson at one of the window tables. ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a big favour. A garage has been working on my car...’
‘Yes, I heard you mention it to Will last night.’ The secretary finished her coffee. ‘That’s why you’ve been using buses?’
She nodded. ‘The thing is, it’s fixed and ready to pick up. Now I know it’s a little cheeky asking... I mean, I don’t know you very well, but...’
‘But you need a lift?’ Nicole grinned. ‘When do you finish?’
‘I’m taking the rest of the day off, and as Will is sick...’
‘And as I have very little to do if he isn’t here...’ The redhead laughed and stood up. ‘No problem. Are you ready?’
‘I certainly am.’ Amy had been more than ready since checking Gillette’s computer. She set off for the lobby. ‘I didn’t like asking. I owe you.’
‘Forget it. How are you feeling, under the circumstanc
es?’
‘I’ve ignored police advice and I’m staying off work until after Christmas. A long break will do me good.’ If Gillette discovered she’d been in his office, her break was likely to last longer than a weekend. ‘I hear the police called on Will and he was okay?’
‘Kind of okay. He says he’s ill with stress.’ Nicole rolled her sweater turtleneck higher as they reached reception. ‘He’s not returning until the new year either.’
‘How do you find Will?’ Amy pushed open the door and walked into the cold. ‘Do you like working for him?’
‘It’s hard to decide in a week. As soon as his secretary returns, I’ll be someplace else. A temp is never at the same place long enough to know anyone.’ She unlocked a small Fiat. ‘Where’s the garage?’
‘Micklegate, near my house.’ Amy climbed in and glanced at the car by the steps. ‘Do me another favour. Give the horn a toot when you pass the unmarked cop car.’
Nicole honked twice and DC Mitchell woke with a start, jerking himself upright in the Honda.
‘It’s nice to know the police are watching you,’ laughed the secretary.
Chapter 37
Archaic English land taxes meant that the smaller the footprint of a medieval construction, the less the owner had to pay to the crown. Many of York’s older structures extend in lateral steps as they gain height, one of the best examples being the nine-hundred-year-old Shambles. Winding through the heart of the city, timber-framed Elizabethan buildings sprout on either side of the thoroughfare and overhang perilously into the centre, allowing people to reach from the upper storeys and shake hands. Watson’s friend Lestrade lived on Saint Andrewgate at the end of here, and he and Quist hurried along the narrow cobbled street.
Now a place of enchanting, almost fairytale, beauty, the original appearance was horrifically different and something of a visceral nightmare for vegans like Quist. Shambles is an obsolete term for slaughterhouse meat market, and the raised pavements created a channel down which rivers of steaming blood, excrement and offal once gushed. The butcher’s shops are now ornate tourist outlets, and in place of the dead animals, international holidaymakers fill the street, soaking up the almost tangible history.
‘So this is where your computer boffin lives?’ said Quist, nodding to the redbrick building ahead. ‘York’s answer to Bill Gates.’
Gareth Lestrade’s apartment was in an old converted Granary. Renovated and imaginatively named Granary Court, every window in the building looked out onto the nearby Minster. Rent here wouldn’t be cheap, but Quist knew that careers in computing were lucrative for teenagers who knew their stuff. He followed Watson into the yard, peering up at the enormous limestone cathedral beyond. With stained glass windows over fifty feet in height, and towers that soared above two-hundred, Quist never grew tired of gazing at this Gothic masterpiece.
Watson climbed the stairs to an upper apartment and rang the bell.
‘Watty.’ A bespectacled young man answered the door and ushered them into the hallway. ‘Hello? Who’s this?’
‘It’s my boss, and we’re after a big favour.’ Watson grinned. ‘We need some information.’
Lestrade eyed Quist warily. ‘What sort of information?’
Watson sniggered. ‘Okay, I know how he looks, but he’s alright really.’
The detective stored this for future discussion.
‘Well, if Watty vouches for you, that’s good enough for me.’ Lestrade headed for the lounge. ‘He’s told me a lot about you, Mister Punch.’
Quist glanced at his uncomfortable-looking assistant.
‘Here we are.’ Lestrade opened the door. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Quist knew this would be tricky. With a multitude of posters, models and action figures filling the room, the place was a shrine to the television series Star Trek. Watson’s friend walked over to a long table beneath the window, covered, as far as Quist could tell, with the sort of equipment they hook up to patients in intensive care.
‘Welcome to the cyber-cave.’ Lestrade sat at a large screen surrounded by computer banks and networked laptops. ‘So what do you need?’
‘Er...’ Watson cleared his throat. ‘Can you still get into the cop’s computer?’
‘The what?’
‘Come on, Gazza. I’ve already told him you can hack in there.’
‘I dunno.’ Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably. ‘It’s illegal, you know?’
‘You do surprise me.’ Quist produced two twenty-pound notes. ‘I wonder if these special vouchers would cover the electricity?’
Chuckling, Lestrade switched on the monitor and began typing, whilst the detective moved aside a Klingon sword and sat on a padded Borg cube to watch.
‘I see you like Star Trek?’ Quist held up a model of the Starship Enterprise.
‘Who doesn’t?’ said Watson. ‘A Yorkshireman was the Captain of that ship. Boldly going where no one has gone before.’
‘We’re boldly going somewhere right now.’ Quist gestured to the computer. ‘How is it possible to break into the police and what made you do it?’
‘It’s a challenge for hackers like me,’ said Lestrade. ‘The Pentagon and the CIA have both been hacked, so the Fulford Road cop shop isn’t exactly unthinkable. Plus, I was daft as a kid, nicking DVDs and things. I’ve learnt my lesson now though.’
‘Gazza’s also learnt how to wipe his record sheet clean,’ added Watson.
Quist frowned. ‘But surely they keep paper copies?’
‘Yeah,’ said Watson, ‘but no one looks at them. It’s easier to run checks by pushing buttons than spending hours searching through rooms of dusty files. Cops use the Internet so the different forces can access each other. They have shit-hot safeguards though. Top firewalls and advanced protective programmes.’
‘I’ve no doubt.’ Quist watched the complex screen. ‘So how did you break in?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Lestrade paused in his typing. ‘How familiar are you with tech-jargon? Worms, Trojans and stuff?’
‘About as familiar as Watson is with tasteful dress sense. Don’t they have passwords?’
‘You fool the computer into revealing them,’ said Lestrade. ‘When I broke in, I left a back door ajar. It won’t take long.’
‘You make it sound easy.’
‘It is if you’re a genius,’ said Watson.
‘Whoa!’ Lestrade nodded to the screen. ‘We’re in.’
Quist shuffled his seat closer and watched the display change to the North Yorkshire Police crest above a menu.
‘Okay, what do you want?’ Looking Quist up and down, Lestrade winked. ‘Points taking off your driving license? Your name removing from the sex-offender’s register?’
Quist smiled sarcastically. ‘I need to see what they have on the girl who was murdered on Saturday. The details that were left out of the media. Her name was Lisa Mirren.’
‘Let’s take a look.’ Lestrade went through several menus, typed in the name, and text appeared. ‘That’s some report on her.’ He indicated a key. ‘Press that when you want to scroll the page.’
‘Well done,’ enthused Quist. ‘The post mortem - amazing!’
Watson leant over. ‘No blood in the cadaver, it says there. That’s strange, isn’t it, Guv?’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Quist. ‘According to this, shock from major blood loss caused Lisa Mirren’s death. The torn throat occurred afterwards.’
Watson frowned. ‘Why would the killer tear her throat after she was dead?’
Quist turned to Lestrade. ‘Could you find the post mortem for Diane Woodall?’
The young man cleared the screen, typed and sat back.
‘Only enough blood in her to sustain life.’ Watson read the data. ‘It says even if she hadn’t topped herself she wouldn’t have lasted long
.’
‘Damn!’ Quist narrowed his eyes. This could be far worse than he’d envisaged. ‘And the file for Becca Travis, please.’
‘The same,’ whispered Watson, scanning the text as it appeared.
‘Yes,’ said Quist. ‘Massive blood loss in all three girls before their death.’ His eyes widened. ‘Ah, and it says the forensic team found several feline hairs on Lisa Mirren and on what was left of Becca Travis. Panthera Pardus or Panthera Leo–the analysis is unable to determine which.’
‘In English, Guv?’
‘They’ve found cat hairs which they think belong to a leopard or a lion.’
‘What?’ Watson laughed. ‘Are they serious?’
Quist ignored him. ‘Mmmh, one victim was burnt, one decapitated, and the lacerations on the other occurred after death.’ Standing up, he walked slowly to the window and stared thoughtfully at the Minster for a while. ‘According to those files, the bodies are stored in the hospital morgue.’
‘You’re looking into murders?’ Lestrade turned curiously to his friend. ‘I thought your work was all divorce papers and photographing wayward hubbies?’
‘Up until to yesterday, it was.’ Watson pointed to the screen. ‘Don’t you want to see if there’s a suspect list or anything, Guv?’
‘I don’t think there’ll be much point.’ The detective returned to the computer. ‘You joked about my driving license. Can you access such details?’
‘Yes, DVLC is linked to the cops,’ said Lestrade.
‘I have two car registrations. Is it possible to find the owners?’
Watson sat upright. ‘What cars?’
‘You recall the Maserati by the railway?’ Quist produced a paper with the numbers. ‘It spent yesterday following us, along with a white BMW. I didn’t want to worry you so I said nothing.’
‘Cheers.’ Watson laughed dryly. ‘Really believe in keeping your assistants up-to-date, eh?’
‘It won’t take long.’ Lestrade typed and waited.
