by Andy Wiseman
Before reading through the witness statements taken by the uniformed officers, he skimmed through the details on each individual cover sheet: a young woman had been reported missing by her mother - Steve noted she’d gone missing before; a “local businessman”, who was known to the police for the type of “goods” that he sold, had died in a fire, and in what might have been suspicious circumstances; and a man had fallen from a first-floor balcony to the street below - also believed to be under suspicious circumstances. Steve peered at the name of the man who’d fallen from the balcony: Wayne Salter. He frowned, deep in thought. Why was that name familiar? Then he remembered, ‘Cutter!’ Wayne Salter, better known as Cutter, to his friends - if he had any - and enemies - of which he probably had many. Cutter was a psychotic killer who was - or had been - in the employ of a man called Henry Solomon.
Henry Solomon... That was a name Steve hadn’t heard in a while.
CHAPTER 27
Harry awoke later than usual. He stared up at the bedroom ceiling, blinking away sleep. While the ceiling looked familiar, it wasn’t his bedroom ceiling. He raised his head and looked around. Of course. He turned to look at his arm. It was neatly bandaged. He glanced beneath the bed clothes. He was naked. He laid his head back upon the pillow, and let his mind drift to previous night’s events.
After watching Cutter’s body disappear over the balcony and into the black of night, Harry had stepped towards the damaged doorway. There he lifted his face to momentarily to enjoy the cooling wind and rain that blew in, before dropping his gaze to the street below, where he saw the damaged car, on top of which lay Cutter, partially enveloped by the collapsed roof. Izzy’s car. Concerned, he looked up, searching for her, to see her standing in the middle of the road, stock-still, hands raised towards her open mouth, her eyes wide, staring back at him in shock.
Harry returned his gaze to the wreckage of the car. He stared intently, looking for signs of movement, of life. He didn’t think Cutter was dead, it would take more than that to kill Cutter, unfortunately; the car’s soft-top had probably helped to break his fall. Harry then surveyed the damage that had been done to the car. It was certainly going to take more than a roll of duct tape to fix that, he mused, the thought bringing a smile to his face.
The sound of a distant siren told Harry it was time to leave. Exiting by a window at the rear of the flat, he climbed down a drainpipe to the garden below, scaled a wall into the street behind, then circled back around to Mollie’s car, by which time the emergency services had turned up and, looked on by Izzy, were giving their full attention to Cutter, allowing Harry to quietly slip away.
Harry’s saviour that night had been his tenant, Lucy, the veterinary nurse. Lucy had pleaded with Harry to go to hospital, but Harry had refused point-blank, in favour of someone he knew he could trust. He also knew hospitals logged the details of knife and gunshot victims, and with his past record, a run-in with the law was last thing he needed, and, he’d casually assured her, a hole in the arm was hardly life threatening - besides, he didn’t like hospitals.
The knife had gone straight through the fleshy part of his arm, causing minimal damage. After Lucy had cleaned the wound of fragments of leather and lint, she then tenderly and neatly stitched it up with a sterilised embroidery needle and thread. Harry’s anaesthetic was a large straight whisky, which he had at first refused, due to the previous night’s excesses, but eventually accepted under Lucy’s insistence.
As well as having a tender touch, Lucy also proved to be a good listener, which Harry figured was probably down to her caring nature; her love of animals. Without realising it, he found himself telling Lucy about his past, recent and long ago. He told her things he’d never told another human being, doing something he’d never ever done before: he opened up his heart.
It was in the early hours of the morning when Izzy had finally turned up at Harry’s place. Harry was standing in the dark, at a partially opened first-floor window, enjoying a purloined cigarette, when he saw Izzy walk up the garden path to his front door. He watched her lift her head and sniff the air, her keen sense of smell detecting the cigarette. She glanced up towards the window, just before stepping into the open porch and disappearing from view. He imagined her pressing the doorbell to his ground-floor flat and, of course, getting no response. After a few moments had passed, Harry did then hear the faint sound of ringing as she turned her attention to old Mr Jackson’s doorbell. She won’t get any joy there either, he thought, Mr Jackson was away at an ‘Old-Boys’ reunion’. The ringing then suddenly became a lot louder, as she tried the third doorbell.
Persistent.
It was at this point that Harry heard the rustle of bed sheets. ‘Who’s that?’ said a sleepy voice.
‘Nobody, Lucy. Just kids, that’s all.’
Harry watched Izzy throw another glance up to the open window, before stomping-off back up the garden path, his eyes following her while wondering what transport she was using to get about now that her convertible had been converted into scrap. He watched her get into a waiting taxi cab and leave.
It was only then that he realised something was bothering him. He realised he was feeling... uncomfortable? No... not uncomfortable... guilty! He wondered why he should feel guilty; it wasn’t as though they were in a relationship. Christ, Harry, you’ll be developing a conscience next!
CHAPTER 28
After signing out a pool car, Steve’s first visit that morning was to the local hospital’s A&E Department. He approached the nurses’ station and flashed his warrant card. ‘Morning,’ he said to the Staff Nurse seated at the computer. ‘I’m looking for a Wayne Salter.’
The nurse turned to her screen. She shook her head. ‘There’s no Wayne Salter logged on the system,’ she replied. ‘What were the circumstances of his coming in?’
‘He was probably brought in by ambulance, last night.’ Again, she shook her head. ‘He “fell”, onto a car roof,’ Steve then added.
‘Oh, him,’ she said. ‘“Mr Cutter” was the name he gave us. Not the nicest of people.’
‘That sounds like Wayne,’ said Steve. ‘What were the extent of his injuries?’
The Staff Nurse turned back to her computer screen. ‘Mr Cutter/Salter had three broken back ribs, a fractured wrist, two broken fingers, cuts and bruises, and a very badly broken nose... which was curious, really.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well... when the paramedics brought him in, they said they’d found him on his back, and the injuries he sustained, apart from the broken nose, suggest that’s how he landed,’ said the nurse.
‘I see your point. Where is he now? On one of the wards?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘he discharged himself as soon as he’d been treated - and good riddance too,’ she added. Steve requested Cutter’s address, and then turned to leave. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, suddenly remembering, ‘you’re not the first person this morning to be asking after him.’
‘Really?’ said Steve. ‘Who else?’
‘That female reporter from the North London Gazette... Isobelle-somebody-or-other.’
‘Did she say why she was interested?’
‘No, she didn’t - but then I wasn’t overly helpful,’ replied the nurse, grinning.’
‘I’m sensing you’re not a fan of hers?’
‘You sense right, I’m not! Last year she wrote a piece on this hospital, the nursing staff in particular, questioning our dedication to our patients and to the job. Needless to say it didn’t go down too well.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Steve.
‘Whatever story she’s after,’ continued the nurse, ‘will be at somebody else’s cost.’
Steve nodded, thanked her for her help, and left.
His second visit of the morning was to Cutter’s flat. He arrived as a gold coloured Saab was being winched onto a tow-truck. He double-parked the pool car, and then got out to watch the operation, his gaze taking in the severity of the damage to the car. Cutter had got off l
ightly, thought Steve. He noticed the duct taped wing mirror. Something tugged at his memory. He took out his notebook and wrote down the car’s registration number.
Steve looked up to the balcony of the first-floor flat, where he saw two workmen fixing sheet timber over a damaged doorway. He studied the height of the balcony, and the distance to the car.
The depth of the footpath was what Steve guessed as standard distance. Even so, it would have taken some effort - or momentum - to clear the footpath and hit the car.
He skipped up the steps. The front door was propped open with a fire extinguisher, and more sheets of timber. He made his way up to the first-floor. The door to Cutter’s flat was also wide open. He politely knocked. Realising his arrival would not have been heard over the high pitched wine of power tools, he entered, stopping at a crumpled pizza box and an empty bottle of lager, its spilled contents staining the hallway carpet. He prodded the pizza box with the toe of a highly polished brogue, to reveal its contents - or rather what was left of the box’s contents. Curious, he thought, pondering the nutritional value of Cutter’s diet, along with his somewhat quirky dining locations.
Steve followed a trail of blood into the lounge. The workmen paused as he entered. He flashed his warrant card, identifying himself as a Detective Constable, and then said, ‘I’m looking for the gentleman who lives here. You seen him by any chance?’
They both looked at each other, and then shook their heads. ‘Sorry Guv,’ said the bigger and older of the two, ‘I think he’s gone. Done a runner, you might say,’ he then added, before turning back to the job in hand.
Steve wondered if they were any good at putting up shelving, but, after taking in the shaven heads, missing teeth, a variety of homemade tattoos showing support for a local lower league football team and the words ‘love’ and ‘hate’ across sausage sized fingers on huge fists, he thought better of it.
Looking around the room, he saw a large ornate fireplace, bloody fingerprints smeared across its mantelpiece, as well as the ornamental samurai sword that sat upon it. He crossed to it, pulling out a latex glove from his jacket pocket, which he then put on to prevent fingerprint contamination - even though he thought it unlikely Forensics would be called in to ‘dust’ the place, because the ‘alleged’ victim had gone missing, therefore wouldn’t be pressing any charges. He gripped the end of the sword’s hilt, and then very gently pulled it far enough from its scabbard to inspect the blade. Christ Almighty! The ornamental blade had been honed to a razor sharp finish: sharp enough to decapitate.
After wandering around the remaining rooms of the flat, poking into drawers and cupboards and finding nothing of importance, he left, pausing only briefly at the pizza box to once again marvel at Cutter’s dietary choice.
Back down in the lobby, Steve found the tenant of the ground-floor flat struggling to move the timber sheets to close the outer door. In her efforts, she hadn’t heard Steve approach.
Steve coughed politely, so as not to startle the woman. ‘May I help you?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Oh, yes, please,’ she replied, breathlessly surprised.
She was an attractive woman in her early fifties, smartly dressed, and slightly shorter in height than Steve. Her hair was a luxurious chestnut brown that fell to her shoulders, her eyes of a similar colour, her flawless complexion complemented by the minimum of makeup.
Steve effortlessly moved the few sheets of timber, allowing the door to swing shut.
‘My knight in shining armour,’ she said, smiling at Steve while subconsciously straightening her hair.
‘My pleasure, Ma’am,’ said Steve, politely returning her smile.
‘So polite, too,’ she said, as her eyes took in Steve’s immaculate dress sense, and boyishly handsome good looks. ‘A girl can’t be too careful these days... about security, that is,’ she said, staring with fascination at Steve’s bright blue eyes and long lashes.
‘It’s all part of the job, Ma’am,’ replied Steve, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, while starting to feel slightly uncomfortable under the attractive woman’s gaze.
Two perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up in curiosity. ‘“The job?’”
‘I’m a police officer, Ma’am.’
‘A police officer! How delightful,’ she said, as she idly fingered the gold chain around her neck that disappeared down into her cleavage.
‘Detective Constable Steve Marshall, Ma’am.’
‘A Detective Constable!’ The perfectly plucked eyebrows again shot up. ‘But you’re so... young.’ Steve smiled weakly back, while shoving his hands deeper into his trouser pockets. ‘Can I offer you a drink, officer?’ she then said, indicating the open door to her flat. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Ma’am.’
‘Christine. Please call me Christine,’ she told him, holding out her hand. Steve responded. She held on to his hand.
Steve coughed, awkwardly, as he managed to retrieve his hand. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Ma’am... Christine. Did you see or hear anything last night?’
The attractive fifty-something looked momentarily puzzled, before Steve said, ‘Regarding the gentleman from the flat on the first-floor.’
‘Oh, him!’ she responded, her face darkening with a look of distaste. ‘He is certainly no gentleman. He is an offensive little man,’ she said.
‘Are you aware that the... man in question, met with an ‘accident’ last night?’
‘Yes, it was me who telephoned for the ambulance. Though had I realised it was him, I wouldn’t have bothered.’
‘So you didn’t see or hear anything?’ Steve asked again.
‘Other than a loud crash, breaking glass, that sort of thing - which I thought was a car accident at first - no, I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t hear any sign of a struggle within the flat itself? A fight, maybe?’ he said.
‘Since I had my ceilings sound proofed - due to the aforementioned offensive little man and his nocturnal habits - I’m pleased to say I’ve heard nothing.
Steve nodded. He stared down at the floor, thinking. He noticed what seemed to be a small piece of Anchovy stuck to the toe of his shoe. He fought the urge to bend down and wipe it off. So, I don’t suppose you’d know if he had any visitors last night?’ he enquired.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Other than the pizza delivery man, that is.’
Steve looked up, sharply. ‘He had a pizza delivered?’ Steve had assumed - wrongly, it would seem - that because the pizza and beer were partially consumed, and found in the hallway, Cutter had bought them elsewhere and then brought them home.
‘Yes,’ said Christine, ‘I let him in the front door.’
‘Can you describe what he looked like?’
Christine shook her luxurious chestnut brown, head. ‘He was wearing a motor bike helmet,’ she replied.
‘You didn’t by any chance see what company he worked for, did you?’ She again, shook her head. ‘He wasn’t wearing one of those jackets that usually bear the name of the pizza company?’ he prompted.
‘No, sorry. It was a plain leather jacket,’ she replied. ‘And a bit smelly, too,’ she then added, wrinkling her nose at the memory.
Steve gazed at the floor again, and at the offending piece of Anchovy still stuck to his shoe. He hoped it wouldn’t leave a permanent mark on the leather.
‘Is he still alive?’ asked Christine, drawing Steve’s attention back to the present.
‘Err, yes. Yes he is. Very much so.’ Christine look deflated. ‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing him again, though,’ he told her. ‘It looks like he’s packed and left.’
Visibly brightened, Christine said, as her fingers lightly touched Steve’s arm, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? Maybe something a little stronger?’
‘Sorry, Ma’am, I’m on duty,’ he replied, starting to colour-up.
‘Pity,’ she said.
CHAPTER 29
The Weasel was a bag of nerves. Ever since Harry Winds
or had paid him a visit, he was as jumpy as a scalded cat. The sudden blare of a passing car’s horn would have him fumbling and dropping the food he was attempting to serve. He was a mess. He was scared of his own shadow.
He’d just finished serving some hungry construction workers and was in the middle of preparing more burgers, when, sensing another customer, he looked up, only to find there was nobody there. He felt an onrush of fear and anxiety. He cursed himself for his timidity. Get a grip, Jimmy, he silently told himself as he tried to focus on the task in hand.
But he couldn’t. His eyes kept flicking upwards, sensing a threat, but seeing none. The Weasel wasn’t a hard man like Harry Windsor. He was an inept petty crook with previous convictions: burglary, shoplifting, and handling stolen goods, to name but a few. He’d upset a lot of people over the years, so he relied on his instincts to survive, to get him out of the trouble that his lying, cheating, and underhanded actions often got him into, and, right now, his instinct was telling him he was in danger.
His instinct was correct.
The door behind him, at the rear of his food trailer, was suddenly yanked open, and before he could turn around, a large forearm had wrapped and locked itself around his neck. In desperation and panic, the Weasel’s arm shot out, his hand scrabbling and searching for the kitchen knife he’d been using only moments before. As his fingers found and curled around the handle of the long, razor sharp knife, he felt a large hand enclose his, and the knife within it.
Despite all his physical effort, he felt his hand being forced upwards and towards his face, before eventually seeing the knife come into view. In morbid fascination, he watched the juices of a recently cut onion trickle down the blade. He imagined those juices being dark red. He whimpered with fear, and vainly tried to wriggle free from the vice like grip around his neck. But to no avail.
