Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  ‘I think the sodding door is the least of our problems at this point in time,’ said Parker sarcastically. ‘Right now I’d like to know where Commander Saxon is.’

  ‘Why would you like to know that, Parker?’ called a voice from what was left of the door. All three of them turned sharply to see Saxon standing in the doorway with Francesca. ‘And what the hell have you done to my door?’ he continued, kicking bits of wood out of his way.

  Parker was almost speechless with relief. ‘Sir, thank Christ you’re okay…we were about to call out the helicopters and the dogs and start scouring the countryside for your body. Where have you been? I tried to get you on your mobile, but it was switched off. Didn’t you get my message when you turned it back on?’

  Saxon walked through the hallway with Francesca following behind. ‘Flat battery, I’m afraid. But I’m here now so tell me what’s going on.’

  Francesca started to walk to the kitchen. ‘Tea all round,’ she said as she disappeared through the door.

  Parker filled Saxon in on the phone call from the killer. ‘Basically, sir, he said that the time had come to stop the meddlers from trying to stop his mission and that number one on his agenda was you. He also said that it would be fruitless to try and stop him because higher powers were at work – usual loony stuff. I couldn’t contact you so that’s why we came here. Then there’s the symbol painted on your door.

  Ryan and Ellis lifted the door up and leant it against the wall so that Saxon could see for himself. ‘Ok, your motives were good – I won’t sue you for damages this time,’ joked Saxon. Francesca appeared with tea for everyone. The two constables, who obviously had asbestos throats, finished theirs first and stood up.

  Ryan’s radio crackled into life and he moved out into the hall to answer the call. He came back quickly. ‘Got an incident – sorry, sir, we have to go.’ They didn’t wait for permission.

  Parker drained his cup and hauled himself up. ‘Right, sir, I’ll organise someone to keep an eye on your flat. I can get a uniform to sit out in the corridor all night if you want.’

  Saxon interrupted him. ‘Absolutely not, Parker, the killer knows where I live, which is interesting in itself. How does he know my address?’ He pondered, ‘Does he know me, I wonder? What does worry me, is that if he’s been watching me, then he more than likely knows about Francesca.’

  Parker looked at her sitting on the sofa next to Saxon – perhaps too close to be just friends he thought to himself. ‘Oh, sir, I er, see,’ he said, instantly regretting having said anything at all.

  Saxon put him out of his misery. ‘Yes, Parker, we’ve been out to dinner and I suppose you could say it was a date – so end of subject okay?’

  Francesca beamed a smile at Parker who was now blushing heavily, but managed to return it, albeit sheepishly.

  Saxon continued. ‘As I was going to say, Francesca, before the interruption from Miss Marple here, I think that you should stay in one of our secure houses for a while. It’s nothing special – just a house where you’ll live with a couple of WPCs until we can be sure that it’s safe to come back here. As soon as the door is fixed, I will be back in here waiting for the bastard to pay me a visit. What I don’t want is lots of obvious police all over the place frightening him away.’

  Francesca turned to look at him and he could tell immediately that she was not going to cooperate. ‘But, Paul, what about my work? I’m a photographer. When I’m not out taking pictures, I live on my phone looking for work, and besides, all my equipment is downstairs. How am I going to earn my daily crust? It’s out of the question – I won’t be driven out of my home by some stupid nutter.’ Saxon knew he’d met his match when he first laid eyes on her.

  Too damn cute, this one – she’ll always get her way.

  He couldn’t order her to move out. He had started to feel very protective towards her and thought maybe gentle persuasion would convince her. Parker, who was dog-tired, and really wanted no more than to get to his bed, decided it was time to make his contribution to the minor domestic argument that was unfolding before him.

  ‘Miss,’ he began…but she stopped him.

  ‘That’s okay, you can call me Francesca. You don’t have to be so formal.’

  ‘Thank you, Francesca; by the way, my name’s Guy. I’m sure that we can transport your equipment to the secure house, and any phone calls you make can be paid for by you, as the bills are all itemised as a matter of course. We would all be much happier if we knew that you were safe.’

  Francesca thought about the situation for a moment. ‘Guy, you have a way with words. Let me just go downstairs and check my phone messages. I’m expecting a big job any day – my agent may have left the details for me. I’ll only be a minute.’ She stood up and walked across the room. Parker found it impossible not to notice her trim figure. Whatever she had, she oozed it.

  Saxon smiled at Parker. ‘Calm down, Parker. Don’t forget you’re a married man.’ Parker in turn was about to state the obvious, but thought better of it and merely nodded and grinned.

  Two minutes later, Francesca suddenly ran back into the room, her face as white as chalk. She was trembling as she spoke. ‘Yes, okay, this secure house you were talking about sounds like a nice place – shall we go there now please?’

  Saxon stood and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Fran, what’s happened? Don’t worry, we are here, nothing can happen to you.’

  Parker had immediately dashed downstairs to her flat and reappeared a couple of minutes later. ‘Sir, you have to come and look for yourself.’ They all walked down together – under-standably, Francesca didn’t want to be left on her own. When they entered her apartment, Parker closed the front door. Written on the back of the door, again in what looked like blood, were the words “AND HIS FRIEND”. Underneath it was the same red cross as on Saxon’s door.

  Saxon turned to Francesca. ‘Okay, well I think that just about settles it. If you don’t voluntarily accept police protection then I will arrest you for knowingly putting your life at risk. Can we do that, Parker?’

  ‘Oh yes sir, we can,’ said Parker slowly.

  Francesca looked at them both and held out her wrists. ‘Cuff me.’

  They hung around for a while as Francesca packed a few things into a suitcase, and left after a couple of PCs arrived to guard the building. The thunderstorm crashed and flashed as weeks of pent-up energy was released. Thunder spots splashed down on their heads as they ran to Saxon’s Land Rover. They drove down the road and stopped next to Parker’s car. He jumped out and met up with them at the secure house later.

  They stayed until Francesca was safely settled in with her two WPCs. One of them was a dog handler – she felt safe as Ralph, the dog, took an instant liking to her and after a licking frenzy decided that he wanted to sleep at the end of her bed. Then they returned to Saxon’s apartment. Parker told the PC who had been on guard duty to make himself scarce, and after he and Saxon had propped the door up to look as normal as possible, tried to sleep on the sofa.

  The thunderstorm continued for most of the night, causing both of them to wake periodically. But eventually the sound of the heavy rain on the skylight lulled them into a deep, well-earned sleep.

  Thursday, June 20, 8.15AM

  Saxon walked into the canteen at Brighton Police Station. Several officers stood when they saw him, but he gestured for them to sit. One of the perks of rank, he mused. Parker was already there, tucking into the full cardiac arrest fried breakfast. Saxon was one of those people who didn’t need to eat sensibly. Anything was fair game to his stomach. Emma used to say that she could have fed him wire wool and it would have no effect on him. He pushed any thoughts of Emma to the back of his mind. She was making no effort to contact him, so why bother with her.

  He loaded up his plate and sat next to Parker. ‘Heart attack by lunchtime then, Parker?’

  Parker smiled, ‘Yes, sir, but bloody worth it…do you suppose we could charge the cook with murder if one of the peop
le in here dropped dead from eating too much cholesterol?’

  ‘We’d never make it stick, Parker, unlike that blob of yolk you’ve got stuck on the front of your jacket.’

  ‘Shit, it was on clean this morning,’ cursed Parker as he tried to scrape it off with his knife, but managing only to spread it out a bit.

  ‘Right, let’s get down to business. I have some questions that urgently need answers. One: how did the killer know my address? Two: how the hell did he know about Francesca? Three: how did he get into the building? And four – and this one really disturbs me – is how the fuck he got into her apartment? Any ideas will be listened to.’

  Parker finished a large mouthful of his breakfast. ‘The only answer for your first question, has to be that he knows you. Simple as that.’ He took another mouthful.

  ‘Not that simple…I know lots of people – call me foolish, but I don’t think any of them are killers. But then again, would I really know? Remember what Prof Ercott said, and I quote, “You will be surprised at his normality”. Tell me, Parker, what do you get up to in your spare time?’

  Parker wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, so he smiled nervously. ‘Sir, he must have been watching you to know about Francesca. I work with you, and I had no idea you had…er, started a relationship with anyone. I did notice that you seemed less grumpy lately though.’ Parker’s mind flashed, Oh shit, why do I say these things?

  ‘Me, grumpy? I’m never grumpy,’ snapped Saxon.

  ‘Sorry, sir, anyway, as to gaining entry to the building – all he had to do was to either follow one of the other residents through the front door, or ring a bell and say the magic words “Gas Board, checking for leaks” and he could gain access to Hades if he wanted to. If brainless thick criminals can do it, then our killer who seems to have an IQ of about five hundred would find it a piece of cake.’

  Saxon looked up from his plate. ‘Carry on, Parker, you talk – I’ll eat, if I have anything interesting to add to the conversation I’ll tell you.’

  Parker continued after taking another mouthful of bacon and egg. ‘One thing has been bugging me ever since we heard the first voice message from our shape shifter. I have been looking into the type of computer that can simulate the voice he’s using. I’ve been doing a bit of research and the nearest match I’ve come up with is an artificial voice called “Bruce”; it’s a free bit of software that comes with an Apple Macintosh computer. So he either owns an Apple Mac or he has access to one.’ Parker dived in to his breakfast again before he was asked to talk any more.

  ‘Impressive…does Jake Dalton have one of these Apple computers?’ said Saxon, as he chased the last bits of his breakfast around the plate.

  ‘No, sir, I’ve already checked,’ he said, pleased that he had pre-empted one of Saxon’s questions. ‘Anyway, sir, STI said that he couldn’t have popped over to paint things on your door yesterday because they had him in their sights all day. He got up, drove to work and stayed there. Then he drove home, and there was no evidence to suggest that he had a pot of blood and a paint brush on or about his person.’

  ‘Does he have access to one where he works?’

  ‘Now that, I don’t know – but I suppose there would be blood in a mortuary. But I thought we’d decided someone was setting him up?’ said Parker.

  ‘Actually, Parker, I meant does he have access to an Apple computer, not pots of blood. But that’s an interesting point…I suppose there would be plenty of blood in a mortuary. Maybe, someone he works with is jealous of his position.’ Saxon sounded unconvincing.

  ‘I hardly think that’s the answer, sir, have you seen the state of them down at the mortuary? Besides, Jake is a very popular bloke. They all seem to like him a lot. It’s geek and nerd city rolled into one – a physical impossibility, there’s not one of them that could lift any one of our victims single-handed.’ Parker added, ‘I was wondering, sir, what are you intending to do about your personal protection while this threat is hanging over you?’

  Saxon pulled open the front of his jacket to show the handle of a standard police-issue handgun tucked under his left arm. ‘Just this, plus I’m thinking that maybe I will leave my apartment door open tonight in the hope that I may get a visit from the friendly neighbourhood murderer.’

  Parker finished eating and pushed his plate away. ‘I think, sir, that I should stay with you – just in case.’ He knew what the answer would be…and he was right.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but if he’s watching me – and I have no doubt he is, then we don’t want to frighten him off. If he saw you anywhere near my apartment, there’s no way he’d show up. I’ll be okay, Parker, because you, my friend will be sitting in a car watching my front door from the seafront with a nice big pair of night-vision binoculars.’

  Parker was about to say what he thought of the idea. He didn’t relish the thought of spending the night cooped up in his car on the promenade. Apart from the obvious attention it would draw to him, as he sat there looking inland instead of out to sea. If he were needed in Saxon’s apartment quickly, how long would it take him to drive up the square – would it be quicker to run? He didn’t like the sound of it at all. ‘But, sir I don’t think—’ was all he had time to utter as his mobile started to play a tune by Mozart. He answered it as several officers on adjacent tables chuckled at his choice of ring tone.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered. ‘Parker,’ he said abruptly into the phone. ‘Shit, okay when? – we’re on our way.’ He stuffed the phone back in his pocket. ‘Quick, sir, we’ve got to get to the so-called safe house. Someone’s pinned a wreath and a note to the front door.’

  The colour drained from Saxon’s face as he raced across the canteen and out to the car park at the rear of the station. As soon as they were on their way through the traffic, Parker called for a SOCO to meet them there. Saxon then handed him his own phone. ‘Call Francesca, the number’s programmed in – find out where she is and tell her to go to the nearest police station and wait for us to pick her up, and tell her to trust no one. It doesn’t matter how familiar or friendly someone may seem to her, she’s to wait for us – understand?’ he shouted over the sound of the siren.

  Parker was holding on to the handle over the door with one hand and operating the phone with the other, and trying not to look too stressed. At least breakfast appeared to be staying put. Saxon drove skilfully but faster than Parker was used to. ‘God, I hate mobile phones,’ yelled Parker, unable to get a signal. He picked up the police radio, gave control Francesca’s phone number and told them to try a landline. After a few minutes, they were successful and patched the call through. Parker relayed the message and fortunately, Francesca had been out on a photographic assignment with one of her WPC minders. They were driving back to the secure house. Parker told them not to go back to the house – they were to go to Brighton Police Station and wait there. He and Saxon would be along later to explain.

  Once they were out of the centre of Brighton, Saxon turned the siren off and slowed down. Soon they pulled into the quiet leafy suburban road where the secure house stood, looking just like all of the other rather plain-looking medium-sized houses. The only thing about it that would give anyone cause to take a second look was the wreath hanging on the front door. Saxon parked the car and with Parker behind, walked up the path to the door. Winnie Short, one of the WPCs who lived in the house, opened the door when they were halfway along the path.

  ‘Hello, Commander, Sergeant.’ She looked grim. ‘Well, I guess we aren’t as secure as we thought we were.’ She shrugged.

  ‘No, I suppose you could be right there, Winnie,’ replied Parker, lighting a cigarette and looking up and down the road. ‘I guess you didn’t hear or see anything.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, not a thing – I was in the kitchen and the washing machine was going. The old lady next door popped round to offer her condolences, then I noticed it…not that you could miss it. Shame the dog wasn’t here, he’d have kicked up a hell of a stink even if som
eone opened the gate.’

  ‘Not your fault, Winnie,’ said Saxon as he examined the envelope attached to the centre of the wreath. The bastard must have followed us here the other night. ‘How do you feel about staying here now that this has happened?’ said Saxon sympathetically.

  ‘I didn’t join the police to go hiding away if things got a bit sticky, Commander. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. But, I am trained to carry a gun, if that’s all right with you, sir.’

  ‘You’ll have one within the hour – how about your colleague?’ said Saxon as he looked up and down the road wondering where the SOCO had got to.

  ‘Jenny – she went for dogs, and I went for guns,’ she said with a smile.

  Saxon took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He carefully lifted the edge of the envelope and looked at the other side. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘He didn’t seal the damn thing, so no saliva to check for DNA; and I’ll bet there’s not a single print on it either. Bastard, why can’t you make one tiny mistake – not much to ask for is it,’ he mumbled.

  They didn’t notice Pinky Palmer park his white van three houses up the road and they certainly didn’t hear him walking up the garden path. ‘Oh, what have we got here then?’ he said loudly, causing Saxon’s hand to move towards his gun for a brief moment. Parker’s reaction was more verbal. ‘Fucking hell, Pinky, you know better than to creep up on armed police officers, and where’ve you been; we’ve been waiting for you?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, got stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Just get on with it, Pinky, and for Christ’s sake find something, anything will do; especially a large thumbprint.’ Parker had started to see the funny side of what had just happened.

  Pinky put his briefcase on the ground and opened it; he took out some tweezers and pulled at the envelope, which was attached to the wreath with a strip of sticky tape. ‘Well, there are no prints on the tape – not even marks from a rubber glove. He must have pulled a long strip from his roll of tape and stuck it to the envelope, then cut off the excess with a sharp knife or a scalpel.’