Drawing Blood

by J G Alva

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you. 11:24 seems a very specific time of death.”

  Hill blinked. Sutton could see a lightning quick reassessment of him in Hill’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You have a witness?” Because it could be nothing else.

  Hill cleared this throat.

  “We do.”

  “Alright. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  He looked between Hill and Diane. There was something between them, some collusion, of a shared secret, or of a revelation withheld. Diane had said that Gavin’s death wasn’t simple, so he had at least been prepared for some new and unpleasant information. Hill seemed dumbstruck in that moment, but Sutton knew it was because he didn’t want to tell him any more than he had to. And perhaps he was starting to wish he hadn’t come at all. Sutton was shaping up to be a nuisance, and in his long career Hill would know only too well that such people were nothing but trouble.

  So to open the door he had to offer him something.

  He said, “three weeks ago, Gavin came to visit me. It was something of a surprise, because I hadn’t seen him, or heard from him, in almost two years. I’ll be honest, he didn’t make much sense, and I certainly didn’t give what he was saying much credence. But he obviously believed it, because he came here and changed his will, I would guess straight after. Direct appeals hadn’t worked, so he put a plan in place to rope me in if anything untoward did occur.”

  “What did he say to you?” Diane asked.

  Sutton looked between the two of them and said, “that someone was poisoning people and giving them cancer.”

  “Why would he tell you that?” Hill asked. “If he believed it were true, I mean. What could you do? And why would he change his will to include you? What would be the point of that?”

  Sutton debated, and then said, “from time to time, I’ve helped people out. When the police are stuck, then someone might come to me, and I might poke around a bit, and see if I couldn’t find out something.”

  “An amateur,” Hill said, the scorn clearly audible in his voice, “in my opinion, does more harm than good.”

  Sutton looked Hill over.

  If he was going to get the truth out of him, he’d have to give him a galvanising prod.

  “Detective Hill,” he said, and Hill’s eyes flicked to his face. “You’re in your fifties. And married.” He indicated the wedding ring. “I’m going to hazard a guess and say that it’s been twenty years, at the very least. You have two children, two daughters, both in their late teens. The oldest one bought you that tie clip on your fiftieth birthday.”

  Hill was not impressed.

  “That’s not-“

  “She studied English Literature at university.”

  Hill’s eyes went a little bit round at that.

  “And your back pain…I’m going to assume you played cricket professionally in your youth. Either Somerset or Gloucestershire.”

  Hill now looked shocked…before suspicion brought the shutters down over his features. It was too much of a magic trick to be real, and so to Hill’s mind this meant that Sutton must have researched him. So this had been planned…to what end? Hill would conclude that it was for something nefarious. His experience as a lifelong policeman told him that it couldn’t be anything else.

  But it would soon come to him – it must – that Sutton couldn’t have researched him, as he had not been told of the identity of the detective he would be meeting.

  So Sutton sat and waited for the penny to drop.

  It did, but Hill still regarded him suspiciously.

  “Alright,” Hill said, leaning forward slightly, his face now as different from the genial cherub upon entering Diane’s office as day was from night. “I can play that game. So let’s play. Sutton Mills…not married. Never been married. You’re a lone wolf. Which also means no close family. No siblings…and your parents are deceased too. You’ve got that small scar on your top lip…it’s very faint, but it’s there. That’s a scar you get from fighting, from someone with a ring on their finger hitting you. So not a professional fighter, but someone who likes to scrap nonetheless. Who likes to stick their nose in. So you’re impulsive. Or reckless. The fading tan means you’ve been abroad recently, and coupled with that expensive wool jacket, it means you have a bit of money to spend. And the hair, long like that, for a man at least…it must mean you do something artsy. Something creative. Musician perhaps…or a sculptor.”

  Not bad. Inwardly, Sutton was impressed. Outwardly, he gave no sign.

  “Alright,” he said. “So we’re both observant. So why don’t you tell me what it is you known I’ve already observed that you’ve omitted.”

  Hill stared at him some more. Sutton got the feeling that Hill might be making some calls when he returned to his office, to see if he couldn’t find out who Sutton Mills really was…

  And maybe to stoke his ego, and see how accurate he had been.

  “Fraud, Mr Mills,” Hill said finally. “Gavin Thompson was involved in Fraud.”

  Sutton looked quickly at Diane; there was no faking the disappointment there…the disappointment at the truth of what Gavin had been doing.

  “What was he doing?”

  Hill didn’t look particularly happy about imparting the news.

  “It’s not my department, but as I understand it, it was a credit card scam. Gavin Thompson worked for a company called Fastrack Deliveries, based here, in Weston. The scam was in setting up credit cards using details of previous tenants of addresses that are now empty, that the drivers knew were empty, because they had seen them on their delivery routes. Electrical items would be bought from certain retailers on line, retailers that only used Fastrack Deliveries as their preferred courier. The parcels would go through the system, and be passed to the drivers in on the scam who would then supposedly deliver them to these empty houses. Proof of delivery need only be the name of the consignee, and a signature. Of course, the signatures would match the ones used to set up the credit cards in the first place. As far as Fastrack Deliveries was concerned, their drivers were delivering parcels to the addresses they were told to, and were being signed for. Of course, the drivers themselves were signing for them, and then doing what they wished with the items – selling them, or setting them up in their homes. It was a little better than your average, run-of-the-mill scam, but it was far from perfect. Too many people involved, for one. We have four people in on it so far. Five, if you include Mr Thompson. Sure, when the credit card companies tried to find out why nobody was paying back the deficit on these accounts and went to the houses to investigate and found nobody there, they assumed the residents had simply moved, and taken the goods with them, and would claim on their insurance if no forwarding address could be found. So they might have gotten away with it for some time, if they hadn’t been doing it so often.” He smiled slightly. “They got greedy.”

  “And that’s how you found out about it?”

  Hill shook his head.

  “Like I said, it isn’t my department. But I’ve been told that Mr Thompson took a lot of sick days recently. On one of these sick days, a relief driver was called in to cover Thompson’s route. He was not in on the scam. He went to one of the dummy addresses with a delivery and found that it was empty, and had been for some time. Had it been only one parcel on one occasion he might not have mentioned it, and it would have been taken back to the depot for Thompson to sort out when he came back. As it was, it happened on three separate occasions, for three separate addresses, and he got suspicious. Wisely, he contacted the authorities.”

  Why? Why had Gavin been involved in such a ridiculous scheme? He had no criminal record that Sutton knew of, and no criminal leanings either, that he had observed; to hear this now was like being told the Pope liked an occasional toot of cocaine.

  “So you had Gavin under surveillance,” Sutton said. “And they witnessed the murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “
So you have a good description of the man responsible.”

  Hill looked at Diane, and moved about on his chair.

  “Tell me you have a description.”

  It took some time, but eventually Hill spoke again.

  “There was only one surveillance post. A two man team. They were tasked only with logging the actions of Gavin Thompson. Their remit was only to observe the front door and the garage, to follow him if he left on an errand, and to note if anyone visited. So. A car pulled up at the house. They made a note of the registration; this has since been traced to a stolen car. There was a sole occupant. He got out, and went in through the gate. Moments later there was shouting. At this, the surveillance team decided to respond.” Hill paused, his eyes heavy with terrible knowledge. “They could not subdue the attacker however. By then Mr Thompson was already dead. But the intruder – whoever he is – cut open one of the surveillance team’s throats from ear to ear, killing him, and stabbed the other officer in the back. He survived, but he will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”

  Sutton took a moment to absorb that. Hill looked deeply upset, and Diane’s expression was grim.

  “So you think the suspect was involved in the scam,” Sutton said.

  Hill spread his hands.

  “It stands to reason that the two are connected.”

  Hill stared at him, and his expression was not without sympathy.

  “And what is the description?” Sutton asked.

  Hill grunted.

  “A tall man. Very tall. Taller than me, even. Six eight perhaps. Blue eyes, dark hair. Early forties.”

  “Alright.”

  Sutton thought.

  “Did Gavin have any keys on him?” He asked.

  Hill blinked, seemingly nonplussed by this change of subject.

  “Keys?”

  “Yes.”

  Sutton held up the lockbox.

  Hill stared at it in confusion.

  Diane chipped in, “Mr Thompson left Mr Mills that lockbox in his will. But not a key.”

  Hill stared at the lockbox and then said, “no. No key.”

  Hill shook his head as if clearing it, and then in a stern voice continued, “Mr Mills. You’ve told me why Gavin might have come to you with his troubles, but whatever you think you can do to help, you would only be meddling. And I don’t like meddlers. We have our best men working on this. After all, a police officer was involved…not that we wouldn’t take the death of a citizen seriously, but a police officer in the force…this makes it personal. People are invested; this was their colleague after all. Now. Can I have your assurance that no meddling, amateur sleuthing or general vigilante nonsense will occur, that could in any way hamper this investigation? It might cause consternation for all concerned.”

  Hill looked briefly at Diane.

  Sutton hesitated, and then said, “my friend is dead. Anything I might be able to do wouldn’t be of any use. So what would be the point?”

  *

  After Hill had left, there was no reason to stay.

  No reason, except for the lingering impression that Diane was more invested in Gavin than a solicitor ought to be…and that, if that was the case, she might be useful.

  Useful for what?

  Sutton rose and repeated, “you’ll let me know about the funeral?”

  Diane nodded.

  “Do you have a business card?” He asked. “So I can reach you if I need to?”

  She nodded again, and then opened a drawer in her desk. The card was produced, and she rose to hand it to him.

  It was grey, with a thin white stripe dissecting the lower third of it.

  Sutton stared at it.

  Diane Gable. Martin Price Solicitors.

  “You’re not going to meddle, are you,” Diane said, and it wasn’t quite a question…and Sutton was not able to tell if she was hopeful that he would be so inclined or not.

  “I don’t know that I can do anything,” he said.

  Diane nodded. She seemed neither surprised nor disappointed. The world was as it was: neither uplifting nor overly disappointing; just a series of events, with no rhyme or reason; some horrible, some worth remembering.

  Gavin was already dead, so the only really important thing that could be done was not within his power: he couldn’t bring him back.

  Did she regret, as much as he did, the things that hadn’t been done or said?

  *

  CHAPTER 3

  NOW

  Sutton found a door.

  It had been behind him the whole time; he felt foolish in not discovering it sooner.

  But it was impossible: locked, immovable, some kind of security door, a solid sheet of thick steel sunk into a reinforced doorframe.

  Of all the things rotting in this prison, this door was not one of them.

  After what he judged to be an hour, the pain in his head wasn’t any better, but added to this was a powerful thirst. He opened the bag and by the torch’s light, carefully examined its contents.

  A litre bottle of water. Nine sandwiches, wrapped in cling film, with various fillings: ham, cheese, salami, tuna. Also three bags of crisps and two chocolate bars.

  And something else.

  A teddy bear.

  He stared at it a moment. Why was this here? Was it some kind of a message for him? If it was, then its meaning eluded him. Perhaps when his mind was working better it would make some sense, but for now it did not, so he put it to one side and drank some of the water. It tasted pretty good. Better than good, his first impulse was to bolt it, but thankfully he managed to stop himself. He’d need to be careful; there was perhaps food to last him three days, maybe a week if he stretched it out, but on such a limited diet he would begin to grow weak very quickly…and if he was to escape he would need his energy.

  Escape. Even the thought was daunting, let alone the effort.

  Leave it for now.

  The water was more concerning. A litre of water wouldn’t last him long at all.

  Perhaps even more concerning though was the torch.

  How long would the batteries last? Without the light, he’d be pretty much ineffective, even if he had any food or water left.

  He turned the torch off while he ate a sandwich.

  He wasn’t hungry, but his stomach felt hollow and sick…which probably meant he was hungry, and that this was a lingering symptom of his poisoning.

  He had to save the batteries, but he didn’t like the dark.

  There were too many noises: the drip of water, the scurrying of lots of little feet, other unidentifiable sounds that seemed alien and disturbing without the light. And the fear…the fear came back without the light.

  He would get used to it, he supposed, but at that moment it was a struggle to hang on to himself, to not give in. Fear threatened to destroy purposeful thinking. Panic threatened to split his mind in two, to send him screaming into some dark hole inside himself.

  But of course this was what they wanted. They, whoever they were, who had put him in this place.

  Solitary confinement.

  Hell.

  He finished his sandwich, trying not to listen to the ticks, scrapes, mewling, clicking, dripping and fretful sounds that made him think the place was alive…and watching him.

  *

  He forced himself to go exploring.

  He would feel an absolute ass if he sat in the dark, shivering, when salvation lay in the form of an open door not three feet around the corner.

  He traipsed down the stone steps, dirt and grit crunching underfoot.

  At the bottom, he stopped. The steps went down again, it turned out, sinking into a still further darkness…but that wasn’t what which made Sutton pause. A draft of cold air was blowing in through the open doorway. Somewhere, the air was getting in…maybe there was an open door after all.

  He stepped through the doorway to find himself in a long hall. On the right, a bare wall with Art Deco style lights mounted at head height running along the length of it.
There was a light switch just inside the door, and Sutton tried it, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the lights did not come on. On his left, doors at intervals – half or completely open – allowed Sutton glimpses into small rooms.

  Sutton was puzzled; had this place been some kind of hotel? He tentatively entered the first room, pushing on the half open door; it squealed unpleasantly, and dust spilled into Sutton’s face, making him cough. The torch illuminated a room about four feet by eight, bare except for the remnants of a wooden bed. There was graffiti on the wall, and the faint odour of urine in the air. Small rooms. And no windows. So it wasn’t a hotel. A hostel then?

  An almighty crash from the far end of the hall made Sutton start.

  He quickly moved to the doorway and tried to probe the darkness with his torch. Ten feet was as far as the light managed, with the end of the hall hidden in darkness.

  Slowly, carefully, he traversed the hall to its end.

  He never made it.

  Halfway down, he stopped, the end of the hall finally illuminated.

  A yawning irregular hole just in front of the door to the last room had been torn open in the concrete. He shone the torch up at the ceiling, to the culprit: some part of the building above had collapsed; it had punched a hole through that floor and also this one, and then had effectively sealed the gap behind itself with rubble. The hole in the ceiling was blocked off by an irregular criss-crossing of bricks and mortar. Water dripped steadily through the cracks. It wasn’t air tight, as Sutton could feel the draft coming through it, but it might as well have been, for his purposes: there was no escape here.

  And it wasn’t new either; this had happened some time ago. The crash he had heard had probably only been the rubble shifting. In the torch light, he could see a mound of broken bricks piled against the wall on the far side of the hole. Perhaps it had only been that shifting, with some of it falling through the hole to hit the floor below.

  Despair filled him, like water in a glass.

  *

  All the rooms were very much the same: painted white, smelling faintly of mould or damp, one with an old wicker chair in the corner, another with an old rotten bed pulled away from the wall.