Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  ‘There’s a tart I work with, I think, no, what I mean is, she fancies me.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and what makes you think that, you tosser?’

  ‘Well, for starters, she don’t complain about me as much as some of the others.’ Tucker allowed himself a little smile at his joke.

  ‘Melanie’s ’er name, fuckin’ good tits on ’er too. Someone I work with said she looked like a dead heat in a ziplin race – whatever that’s supposed to mean. Are they big?’

  ‘Are what big?’ said Fry, not really interested.

  ‘Ziplins or whatever the fuckers are called?’

  ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know, you toss pot?’ Fry said with a whine in his voice. ‘Steve, she don’t fancy you – why the fuck should she, you’re just a stiff scrubber. That’s all you do all fuckin’ day, is scrub stiffs.’

  Tucker started to sulk. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He wanted to be cool. He wanted to crush Fry with his wit but a suitably damning reply eluded him. He gave up. Looking down at the beach, he let some drool drop from his continuously open mouth to the pebbles below.

  He remained silent for some minutes – until the memory of why he was sulking faded into insignificance. It was one of his few redeeming features. He wasn’t one to harbour a grudge. Then, suddenly with no warning, Tucker stood up and walked off.

  Fry was startled. He wasn’t used to unpredictable behaviour from Tucker. ‘Where you going, Steve?’ Fry called after him but Tucker didn’t stop or even glance back.

  Tucker crossed the road, bumping into a few people and banging his hand down hard on the roof of a passing car, causing the driver to stop and consider whether it was worth getting out and kicking him around the road for a while. But no chance – Tucker had stalked off. By this time, Fry had decided that he didn’t want to be left alone, so he ran after his friend and caught up with him after a couple of hundred yards.

  ‘Well, tell me where you’re going then?’ whined Fry, having to run to keep up with him.

  Tucker smirked. ‘I’m going to see my Melanie…you can come as long as you keep the noise down.’ Tucker’s face took on a determined look and he quickened his pace.

  ‘What are you talkin’ about?’ said Fry, amazed, even through the haze of alcohol. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock in the fuckin’ mornin’, she’ll be in bed.’ He had visions of Melanie, assuming she really existed, calling the police to complain about unwanted late-night callers.

  Tucker turned to Fry, with a look of superiority on his greasy face. ‘Don’t you think I don’t know that, you fuckwit? Of course, she’ll be in bed, how else am I going to be able to see her at this time of night – fuck, I wish I was famous, then she’d want to come and see me, in the daytime as well I suppose.’

  It dawned on Fry that the plan was to see the place where this Melanie lived and maybe try to look in through the window. So now, they would get done for prowling rather than causing a disturbance. A little incoherent voice in the back of his head tried to tell him this was not a good idea. But Fry wasn’t really listening to his inner voices. Tucker was his friend, after all.

  So Fry didn’t answer, he just lit a couple of cigarettes and handed one to Tucker. They walked in companionable silence for ten minutes, ending up in School Terrace, which ran parallel to the seafront, up behind the hospital. At the end of the terrace, Tucker led Fry up a narrow passage leading to the back of the tall Victorian houses. At the end of the passage, Tucker turned to the right and gestured for Fry to be quiet. They walked for about fifty yards and Tucker pushed open a wooden door that took them into the back yard of one of the houses.

  Up against the building stood a fire escape, which led up to the roof. It looked to be a bit rusty in places, but Tucker knew that basically it was secure. His confidence was growing by the minute.

  Fry had to say something. He whispered, ‘What are we doing here, Steve? We’ll be right in the shit if we get caught.’

  ‘Shut yer face. Melanie lives up there – an’ we’re going to see her – well I mean, I’ve seen her. I’m going to show her to you.’ Tucker bent down to undo his laces.

  Fry wasn’t too keen on heights. ‘I’m not sure I want to see her that badly. I mean, I’m sure she’s really nice an’ that, but let’s fuck off, Steve, before we get in trouble,’ he said in his most appealing tone of voice. ‘If the police get me again, they’re not gonna let me off with just a caution next time,’ he whined.

  Tucker was struggling with a knot.

  Fry wasn’t going to give up. ‘Anyway, what do you mean “see her”? You think we’re just going to climb up Mount fuckin’ Everest here and knock on her window an’ say, scuse me, Miss Melanie, wake up please, this little pervert what you work with wants to say hello an’ show you to his friend at whatever fuckin’ time it is in the fuckin’ morning? Oh, and while you’re standing up, please show us yer tits? Do me a fuckin’ favour.’

  Tucker clamped his hand over Fry’s mouth. ‘Shut yer fuckin’ face. I’ve done this loads of times,’ he hissed. ‘She sleeps with the window open in the summer. All I do is look in through the window – she never wakes up. Now, just follow me an’ don’t say nothin’, there’s other bastards livin’ here as well as her.’

  Tucker took his hand away. Fry gasped in a lungful of clean air. Tucker didn’t wait for a reply; he’d already taken his shoes off and put them against the wall. He started to climb the steps. He had to concentrate on keeping his mouth shut, although that was a struggle, given the extra oxygen needed for the climb.

  Several of the other occupants had decided to keep their windows open due to the heat wave, so Tucker took extra care not to make a sound. Fry, being stupid and, as usual, quite incapable of making his own decisions, followed a few seconds later. Without the bright moonlight, the climb would have been tedious and a great deal more dangerous, but the light was strong enough for them to see the steps and tread more confidently.

  Melanie’s flat was on the top floor and, sure enough, her window was open. They crouched down either side of the window and Tucker gently lifted the blind. Melanie, however, was not in bed. She was in her sitting room quietly reading.

  ‘She’s not fuckin’ there. Shit, she must be out,’ cursed Tucker under his breath.

  ‘Yeah, she’s probably out with ’er real boyfriend, who’s givin’ ’er one up against some wall, right now.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I don’t like it when people say things like that,’ said Tucker, looking at Fry with real anger in his eyes.

  Fry missed the message in his eyes and went on, ‘Yeah I’ll bet ’e’s got ‘er up against a wall somewhere, all groanin’ and sweaty.’

  Tucker could feel the anger and frustration rising fast. He pushed Fry in the face with the flat of his hand. ‘Just you fuck off – she wouldn’t do that, not my Melanie. Not while she’s interested in me, that is.’

  Fry shrugged, roughly pushing his hand away, and stood up. ‘You need serious help, you do – I’m goin’ ’ome, you do what ya want.’

  Fry started to climb down the stairs, leaving Tucker to make decisions. Not an ideal situation. He sat down and thought for a while and slowly the idea crawled into his head that if Melanie was out, then he could creep into her bedroom and borrow some of her underwear. She would never guess that it was he who took them. As he grew more excited by the idea, the bolder he became.

  The smell of her perfume wafting from the room made him tremble with anticipation, this combined with the element of danger was almost more than he could bear. The idea of her suddenly coming into the room, and seeing him there caused his already erect penis to shoot him in the groin as usual, somewhat earlier than expected. He fantasised himself throwing her on the bed, tearing her clothes off and giving her the best fuck she could have ever wished for. She would beg for more, but he would be manly and tell her to wait while he laid back and smoked. Just like in the movies.

  Melanie finished her book; she was sleepy and the big decision to be made was �
� sofa, where she had been lying for the last three hours, or bed, which required much more effort. Bed won.

  Tucker had his hands in her panty drawer as she walked in. She screamed when she saw the outline of a person against the moonlight which streamed into her bedroom. Tucker was relieved that she didn’t stop to switch the light on. She ran one way and he ran the other. His flight through the window and back onto the fire escape almost ended in disaster for him. He banged violently into the railing, nearly toppling over the edge.

  Melanie ran to the flat below, and hammered on the door until her neighbour woke and opened it. By the time he was on the phone to the police, Tucker was heading back to the beach where he decided to lay low until all the sirens stopped. He took out his mobile phone and called Fry.

  ‘Lee,’ Tucker panted down the phone, ‘I fucked up, I need some ’elp, where are you?’

  ‘I’m nearly at me pad – what happened, you toss pot?’ Fry laughed.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch walked in as I was standin’ in ‘er room, didn’t she,’ he gasped.

  ‘Oh, what happened to “my Melanie” then? Now she’s a fuckin’ bitch,’ Fry teased.

  ‘I don’t think she saw me, cos she never put the lights on – so I legged it down the fire escape and now there’s pigs all over the place. I need somewhere to stay for the night so I got an alibi,’ Tucker said in a grovelling tone.

  ‘No, don’t even think it, you can’t come ’ere, you wanker. I’ll meet you by the old West Pier. I don’t want you to be seen arriving here at this time of night. I’ll bring a few cans and if anyone asks, we can say we were there all night.’

  Twenty minutes later Fry found Tucker huddled in the doorway of an old derelict fish and chip stall. The West Pier was crumbling into the sea and most of the surrounding amusement stalls and small souvenir shops had failed because of it. The majority of tourists to Brighton gathered around the Palace Pier, which was still a thriving enterprise. The only reason to look at the old pier was to see the starlings, as thousands flocked above it at sunset.

  Fry handed Tucker a couple of six-packs, and said, ‘Follow me, dick ‘ed.’

  Slowly, they climbed the steps from the lower part of the promenade up to the street level. After a few minutes of standing by the barred gate to the pier – trying not to look suspicious, they squeezed through a hole in the barbed wire.

  Fry had been there many times. Usually to smoke a few joints, but when he was younger, to sniff glue. The journey to Fry’s little den of vice was precarious – a large percent of the floor was missing, and the sky was visible in many places.

  More imaginative people would have heard the echo of the past, the sounds of holidaymakers, singing to the tune of a great Wurlitzer or just tapping their feet to a brass band. The atmosphere was wasted on them. They just walked.

  Tucker followed behind, carefully treading in the same places as Fry – the last thing he wanted to do was to fall through the floor. If he fell, and survived the fall, the water would finish him off. He was to swimming, what Vlad the Impaler was to political correctness. Fry took Tucker to a corner and they both sat on an old bench and started to drink.

  ‘We ought to stay here for a while, at least until the pigs go back to the piggery,’ said Fry, trying to appear worldly. ‘They never come here. Fuckin’ good place this, it’s a bit spooky at first, but you get used to it.’

  Tucker didn’t respond; he just sat looking insecure. After an hour, they were both very drunk, but the adrenalin was still coursing through them. They discussed the merits of taking a stroll together along the seafront and maybe rolling some innocent bystander for a bit of cash. Serve them right for being out at that time of the night. The idea seemed good enough and they set off along the pier. The fact that he was so drunk prevented Tucker from feeling the pain he inflicted on himself as his leg suddenly disappeared into the void beneath the pier. Blood trickled down from a gash below his left knee, but he ignored it and started to laugh hysterically.

  A few minutes later, they emerged, falling through the barbed wire and turning left to walk in the direction of Hove.

  They didn’t have to go far before they saw a potential victim. Sitting in one of the wind shelters was a man. He had his feet on the seat, with his knees drawn up in front of his face and his head resting on his hands. His black baseball cap covered his face. He seemed to be quite small, but the light was not good, and his clothing was dark – making him difficult to judge size-wise. Fry always carried a small knife, although he had never actually used it on anyone, it was more to give him a sense of security.

  They decided that the best way to handle the mugging was for the pair of them to jump the guy, and hold his hat down over his eyes. They would then let him have a quick look at the knife, take his wallet and run. They split up and approached the man from both sides. Fry grabbed the back of his head and pushed his cap over his eyes, as planned. Tucker said nothing; he merely stood close to the man with the intention of keeping him on the bench.

  It didn’t work. The man sprang to his feet. He was much bigger than they had estimated – much bigger, and he was strong. In a flash, he grabbed them both by the back of their necks, squeezing so tightly that neither of them could utter a sound, and ran pushing them towards the railings. His strength, combined with the precision of his grip on a particular nerve, overpowered them immediately.

  With the speed they were running, all it took was a gentle push to launch them over the railing headfirst to the lower pavement thirty feet below. The last sound they heard was a voice that one of them thought he recognised, a second before their skulls smashed into the concrete below. ‘Leave the planet, scum.’

  Friday June 14, Brighton Seafront, 5.30AM

  Saxon dipped under the police tape and walked over to Parker who had been at the crime scene for thirty minutes already. They nodded to each other, then, Saxon lifted the sheet that covered, first Tucker then Fry. He grimaced at the injuries. Parker handed him one of the plastic cups of coffee he had been holding.

  ‘One of them looks familiar, Parker. Who is he?’ he said trying to stifle a yawn.

  ‘The ugly one, is one Steven Tucker, he’s an attendant at the mortuary – or was, I should say. The uglier one is Lee Fry – small-time crook, rent boy, several convictions for mugging, burglary, buggery and thuggery; he’s known for carrying a knife occasionally. There is a knife over there, and I would say that by the position of it, it came from his hand when he made contact with the planet.’

  Saxon sipped his coffee, ‘What about Tucker, what do we know about him?’

  Parker removed his jacket and draped it over the edge of a small rowing boat, which had been drawn up the beach. ‘Tucker is a bit more interesting – like Fry he was bisexual, but he never charged for his services. He is well-known by the local police for basically being a pervert and a pain in the arse. Bit of a Peeping Tom – he was barred from most of the pubs in Brighton for lewd and inappropriate behaviour. Educationally sub-normal, or I suppose I should say, educationally challenged. There was something interesting in his pocket, sir.’ Parker took a plastic bag from one of the SOCOs. ‘One pair of ladies’ pants. This is where it gets even more interesting – last night a call came in that a girl living in School Terrace reported a prowler in her flat. She was adamant that the prowler took a pair of her knickers from her bedroom, counted them I suppose.’

  Saxon felt the warm glow of pride in his sergeant. He had obviously been busy since the crack of dawn. ‘Okay, Parker, but what has that, got to do with this? They could be his girlfriend’s pants, maybe he carries them with him for good luck – believe me, people do stranger things.’

  ‘The fascinating bit, sir, is that, one: the girl worked with Tucker. Two: Tucker was bisexual, Fry was the same, and now they are both dead. Three: Jake works at the mortuary.’

  Saxon cut in. ‘It does seem to be centring on the mortuary. But I can’t for the life of me, understand why.’ He paused, and added, ‘Jake, as we both know, i
s in custody and couldn’t have done this. So the question has to be – were these two killed by a new fresh killer, or was it the old one, who has possibly done an excellent job of framing someone else?’ He walked over to the two bodies. ‘How certain are you that these two didn’t have a fight up there and just topple over the edge?’

  ‘It’s the distance, sir, they are too far from the wall to have just fallen – they flew some distance as you can see, and what’s more, they are too far apart. If they were fighting, they would be closer together.’

  Saxon had surmised the scenario already. He wanted Parker to come up with the same theory. ‘Did the girl identify Tucker as the perv who nicked her knickers?’

  ‘No, sir, she only caught a glimpse of him, the light was off and he was out through the window as soon as she walked in on him,’ said Parker, taking another sip of coffee.

  Saxon looked up to the railings at the crowd of people who had gathered. He gestured to a constable to move them on. ‘What about a time of death, have we got one yet?’

  ‘Yes, about two hours ago, although it’s a bit tricky to tell in these temperatures, according to Dr Clarke, who has been and gone,’ Parker said, tipping his coffee on the beach.

  Saxon and Parker climbed the steps to the upper promenade.

  ‘Parker, get some PCs and talk to the security people in all of these hotels and find out if any of them have CCTV cameras that would cover this area. Also, get on to traffic; there’s a chance that one of the road cameras might have picked something up.’

  Saxon strode off calling back to Parker, ‘Right, Parker, I think it’s time we finished our interview with Jake Dalton, let’s go and wake him up.’

  Friday, June 14, Brighton Police Station, 7.00AM

  Jake was already awake. He had not slept well since he was arrested. To be incarcerated, knowing that you are innocent, had to rank among the top three most frustrating situations a human being may have to endure. He had his own theories of why it had happened to him of all people. Life had been too easy for him for the major part of his life.