by Dan Laughey
‘I’d vote for an independent Yorkshire any day of the week,’ concluded Sant as they deposited their trays on the clearing racks.
‘What did you say that magazine was called, Inspector?’
‘Red Lamp.’
‘I’ll search for it on academic portals and get back to you.’
Sant thanked Tony and made to leave, but once he reached the refectory doors he did an about turn. He hurried back through the refectory and then along a windowed corridor crowded with students, spotting the bald-headed Tony on the way. But it wasn’t the historian he was following. Further down the extraordinarily long corridor – effectively a skywalk adjoining otherwise disconnected buildings – he could see a bobbing head of hair. There was no doubt who it belonged to.
Professor Rothwell.
Sant had noticed Rothwell loitering in the fringes of the refectory moments earlier. But unlike his last attempt at snooping, this time Rothwell had gone out of his way to be seen.
So to repay the intrusion, he tracked the professor to his office and invited himself in.
‘Does one not usually knock before entering?’
‘One does,’ mocked Sant as he helped himself to a chair, ‘but one doesn’t usually act like a prick and spy on others.’
Rothwell made a confused grunt and fidgeted with his hands. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Stop pretending, Rothwell. You were prying on my conversation with Tony Gordon, just like you did the last time I ate with your colleague.’
Try as he might, the professor couldn’t hide his sheepish look. ‘Okay, I admit it. But I have my concerns. It would have been advisable, Inspector, had you asked my opinion before – ’
‘What is this? Do all lay folk need your ivory tower consent before they can talk to your staff?’
‘It is not that simple. You must understand that Tony is… a special case – ’
Sant crossed his arms and propped them onto the desk. ‘You’ve already told me – he’s got Asperger’s. Big deal! But I also know he’s far more open about Chloe Lee than you are. What are you hiding, Rothwell? Your own student is missing feared dead. I want your opinion and I want it now.’
Rothwell stood up fretfully and sunk his hands in his trouser pockets, his drooping eyelid twitching horribly. ‘My only concern is that Dr Gordon may – well – ’
‘May what?’
The professor stayed silent for a while, as if weighing up what to say next, but finally he came out with it: ‘Please do not quote me on this, Inspector, but I suspect Tony may have… unhealthy intentions.’
‘Meaning?’
He sat down again. ‘Tony and Chloe. How can I put it? They were close. Closer than I would consider decent.’
‘Were they sexually involved?’
‘I am alleging no such thing.’
Sant stroked the kink in his nose. ‘Give me an example of indecent behaviour.’
‘Well, I mean, by all accounts he regularly – almost daily – walked her home.’
‘I know. He told me.’
Rothwell stared wide-eyed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. On dark nights, for her own safekeeping. That’s how he put it. Any reason to doubt him?’
‘No… yes. I mean… I don’t know.’
At that moment Sant’s phone rang. He lifted it roughly out of his inside pocket, annoyed at the disturbance. It was Hardaker. There’d been a missed call from the same number three minutes earlier. He closed the connection and was about to switch off when she saw the message. The Chiefman was certainly keen.
URGENT COME TO JUBILEE WING FLOOR C WARD 19 ASAP. HARRY
Sant pocketed his mobile and stared at Rothwell going about his business as if all was normal. What secrets was he holding back? Was he always this neurotic? Or did those nerves announce his guilt? Maybe by throwing the spotlight on his special-case colleague, the professor was buying himself more time. Whether guilty or not, there was something deep inside this man’s psyche that needed to be put right – fast.
Sant let the silence hang a little longer, waiting for a reaction. Finally he said: ‘I’ve got an urgent appointment, but I’ll be back. Meantime, if you’ve an accusation to make against Tony Gordon, founded or unfounded, I’m the first to hear it.’
Rothwell was still avoiding eye contact, his head inclined downwards like a sulking dog. The inspector got the man’s phone number and left without a goodbye, the cowardly wreck in front of him deserving no better.
He wasted ten minutes trying to find a parking space somewhere remotely within the vicinity of Leeds General Hospital. Eventually he gave up on the idea and parked illegally outside the main entrance to the Jubilee Wing, squeezing his Fiesta along a narrow stretch of pavement so as not to obstruct the ambulances awaiting their next critical assignments.
Hardaker was waiting for him as he approached Ward 19. The superintendent beckoned him through the security doors, an expression of exasperation painted across his red-bearded face.
‘They’re both alive,’ said the Chiefman, ‘but only one is ready to be transferred to the high dependency ward, which means we’re able to speak to him. His name’s Paul Fitzgerald. His vocal chords are knackered. I can’t make out a word. You might have a better… ear for what he’s saying.’
They passed through another set of security doors into a dimly lit room carrying a distinct scent of disinfectant. Sant shrugged off the chill that ran down his spine as he surveyed the clinical scene before him. Intensive care meant one nurse to one patient. He counted five nurses and six beds, one left vacant for the latest ill-fated soul.
Paul Fitzgerald, his off-white pyjamas matching the linen, was lying in a rumpled bed raised as high as Hardaker’s chest, a fearsome arrangement of drips and tubes like strawberry laces looping above his bruised-purple face. One tube was inserted in his nose and another in his arm, and there was a thick strip of plaster stuck onto his forehead. His partner David Dixon was resting in a similar state on the opposite side of the ward, the monitor attached to a stand above his head bleeping louder than Fitzgerald’s.
Hardaker began fiddling with a recording device. ‘He’s saying something like an old cook or a cold cook or an old crook or a cold crook, but he keeps shaking his head at me.’
Sant walked cautiously towards the patient, wary of not frightening the poor man by giving him another unfamiliar face to contend with. At first he thought Fitzgerald was coughing to clear his dry throat. As he came closer he realised that he was speaking – to no-one in particular. A feeble groan that struck a rhythm with the man’s blinking eyelids.
Sant leaned over the bed and lowered his left ear so that it almost touched the half-moving mouth. He could feel the man’s breath on his cheek as he listened. The same grunt gurgled from the mouth three times. He was repeating himself. The sound came again – and again. Sant felt like a clock repairer testing for a chime. Then he looked up at Hardaker and shook his head.
‘Sounds like Thomas Cook or Holland cook, though I doubt either. What else have you got?’
‘A gold crook is more likely,’ judged Hardaker, ‘which would suggest a crook who deals in fake gold perhaps.’ The patient strained to shake his head. ‘Or perhaps not. Anyway, I’ve requested a speech therapist, though what good she’ll do is anyone’s guess.’
‘Other theories?’ probed Sant, a slight idea forming in his mind.
‘Well, cook or crook is what the third utterance sounds like, though other possibilities include hook or rook or duck or luck – none of which seem logical.’
‘The man nodded.’
‘He did what?’ the Chiefman cried, as if Paul Fitzgerald had committed a mortal sin.
‘The man nodded,’ repeated Sant. ‘We’re getting warmer.’ He came up close to the patient again, still cautious of scaring the man out of his wits by being too forthright. ‘Tell me again,’ he said gently, ‘but as slowly as you can, and just once. Okay?’
Fitzgerald did his best impression of a nod.
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Sant bent down and listened with his left ear again (it was slightly sharper than the right). Then he turned his head and looked straight at the patient. ‘One more time,’ he spoke softly
Carefully he watched the movement of the dry lips. And at last he knew what Fitzgerald was saying.
‘Donald Duck.’
The two detectives looked down at the patient. Fitzgerald was forcing a smile and a nod at the same time, but the effort exhausted the poor man.
Hardaker eyed Sant with interest. ‘Donald Duck?’
‘He’s telling us that the gunman on the bus walked like Donald Duck. Someone we’re trying to find in connection with Chloe Lee’s disappearance also walks like Donald Duck – or Charlie Chaplin.’
He recounted Zach’s description of the waddling man who’d knocked at the door of his student digs seeking the whereabouts of an acquaintance of Chloe’s called Oliver Mosley.
‘More than just a coincidence, don’t you think?’
The Chiefman stroked his red beard with interest. ‘Good work, Carl. Further proof, if we needed it, of criss-crossing between the two investigations. My perp in the bus shootings has something to do with your missing person.’
Sant could have told Hardaker that several days ago, but he chose a diplomatic silence.
‘Oh, a word of warning,’ the superintendent continued, following him out of the ward. ‘The Old Man wants to speak with you urgently. And there are no prizes for guessing what he’s got in store for you won’t be pleasant.’
‘Couldn’t care less,’ snapped Sant.
‘Don’t avoid him, Carl. Gilligan’s bark might be worse than his bite, but it’s Lister I’m worried about. The last thing I want is a top detective like you suspended from what you’re best at.’
Sant exited the last set of security doors and switched on his phone. Four missed calls – all from Gilligan. There was never a good time to speak to the Old Man, but the Chiefman was right. He was already in deep water with his superior and couldn’t put off the return call.
The call lasted ten seconds and involved repetitions of the words ‘get’, ‘here’ and ‘now’. But when Sant entered Gilligan’s capacious office fifteen minutes later, it wasn’t the Old Man who greeted him first.
Chief Constable Lister was standing with one foot on a chair, buffing his leather shoe until it gleamed.
‘We meet again.’ He whispered ominously. ‘ACC Gilligan has brought to my attention a couple of issues that I assume can be resolved in a swift and amicable manner. As you know, my time is precious and the sooner we rebuild professional relations between ourselves, the better.’
Sant noted how Gilligan avoided eye contact with Lister and himself. Once a coward, always a coward. Let the man wallow in his own shit.
Lister stepped forward until his lanky chest rested gently but firmly against Sant’s midriff. Too close for comfort.
‘The point is this, DI Sant. I don’t tolerate insubordination. Or is that word too long for your vocabulary?’ No comment. ‘Disobeying orders is in-ex-cus-a-ble. Get this straight. You do what ACC Gilligan tells you to do.’
Sant returned Lister’s cold stare as they came nose to nose. The stillness hung in the air like mistletoe at Christmas, the odds against a sloppy kiss from grandma lengthening by the second.
The chief constable raised his voice a notch. ‘Is my order loud and clear, DI Sant?’
‘What if ACC Gilligan proves to be incompetent?’ Sant said calmly.
‘How dare you?’ screamed the red-faced Old Man as he rose out of his chair. Lister struck out a thin arm and gestured for Gilligan to sit down.
Sant stayed silent, the silence growing larger by degrees. Then Lister turned and eyed Gilligan.
‘It seems you’re bang on the money, ACC Gilligan. What we have here is a frail man exhibiting the classic symptoms of short-term memory loss. Next he’ll forget his fucking name.’ He turned back to Sant with a cold smirk. ‘It’s time you had an urgent medical check-up, Inspector. I’m no doctor but my instinct tells me it could go either way, much like your future job prospects.’
It was a cheap shot. Sant tried to ignore it.
‘I’ll repeat myself at the risk of being crude,’ Lister went on, no longer whispering but growling instead. ‘My time – my precious chief officer time – cannot afford to be wasted on irritants like you.’ He waved a skinny wrist in Gilligan’s direction. ‘But since you raise the hypothesis, I’ll briefly address it. Assistant Chief Constable Gilligan is an experienced and reliable leader. I will have you know that he started out as an officer precisely one year after me – several years before you passed your basic ability tests. This man’s loyalty to the force is second to none.’ Then he thrust his scrawny face within an inch of Sant’s rugged nose. ‘You’d do well to learn from your seniors, DI Sant. And as for this man’s competence, I will be the judge of that. Not you or any other upstart.’
Sant gazed across the room at Gilligan, a smug look all over his purple-veined face. Time to count the stars on your shoulder, he said silently.
Lister scrutinised his manicured nails before continuing: ‘Your orders are simple, Inspector. ACC Gilligan will write them down if you forget them. You have a series of unresolved missing persons, not the least of which is Chloe Lee. That enquiry alone has cost a fortune. It’s more than enough for you to deal with. And who knows – your memory might come on leaps and bounds with less clutter on your desk.’
He pointed at the Old Man’s impeccable office suite as if offering up a model example of what a CID man’s furnishings ought to look like. Then he drew up as close to Sant as was physically possible without touching skin.
‘Let me warn you in no uncertain terms, Inspector. If you waste one breath of negative energy on matters of no concern to you, I will insist on a medical examiner knocking on your door immediately and without notice. Now get out of here and get back to work.’
Sant made haste as if willing to obey each command Lister had demanded of him. But that was merely a ruse. He had no intention of leaving just yet. He reached for the door and then turned back.
‘You’re right, Chief Constable. My short-term memory is appalling. But my long-term memory is five-star with bells on it. Let me test yours.’
Lister stood motionless, his expression unchanging. ‘What is this – ?’
‘Come on, Lister. Your illustrious career must be worth remembering. Don’t you keep diaries? Memoirs? Maybe you’ll publish a book when you retire. If so, make sure you include a chapter on the murder of Sergeant George Gray.’
Lister was still unmoved but his pointed ears were wiggling visibly, his Action-Man lips about as far from grinning as lips can be.
‘What Sergeant Gray’s murder has to do with anything we’ve just discussed beggars belief. I think it’s time for an explanation, DI Sant.’
‘No time like the present,’ the inspector countered. ‘Let me jog your memory. Halloween 1984. Two officers gunned down on the streets of Leeds. Gray dead, Police Constable Frank Tanner seriously injured. Public outcry. More bad news for a police force still reeling from the Ripper murders. Then follows the investigation into Gray’s killing. A comedy of errors. Cock up after cock up. And still more cock ups. I’d like to know your take on it all. Surely you can spare a little of your chief officer time.’
The chief constable breathed deeply and adjusted his tie as if biding his time. After a pause he said: ‘One of my first homicides. A bad job. To be faced with the death of a colleague – a friend no less, for I knew George well enough to count him as a friend – wasn’t easy.’ He swallowed hard. ‘ACC Gilligan shadowed me as part of the investigatory team.’ The Old Man nodded, his eyes welling up. ‘Sergeant Gray was a warning shot for us all. A fine officer; a family man with two kids and a loving wife, slayed in cold blood by an evil fuck who should’ve seen justice long before he did.’
Sant was getting somewhere. Lister had turned from a roaring loin into a meek kitten faster than he’d
imagined possible.
‘What do you recall of DCI Lotherton?’
‘Who?’
‘Keith Lotherton – the man who led the investigation.’
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘A hell of a lot. He was the man pulling the strings, after all, but he was pulling the wrong strings from the word go. It was a botched job. Lotherton was living in cloud cuckoo land from start to finish. Trying to appeal to the accomplice’s conscience, fixating on Irish terrorism and Spanish leads when all the evidence pointed to a local gig. And when the perp was finally identified years later, he’s a dying man in a police cell and his accomplice is denied a solicitor under questioning. Smell anything fishy?’
Lister shifted on his feet. ‘Keith’s heart was in the right place. But like all of us, he made mistakes. If he were alive today he’d be the first to acknowledge them. Keith didn’t let the mistakes get to him, though. He got his man eventually – and the accomplice. A textbook method in how to apprehend a pair of murder suspects it was not, but it paid off.’
‘Are you certain they were the right men?’ Sant probed.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Martin Humphreys and Alfred Shaw. Humphreys was identified posthumously as the man who shot dead Gray and wounded Tanner. Shaw was charged as co-conspirator, though he was later found innocent of the murder charge as he wasn’t even in possession of a firearm. How sure were you or Gilligan or anyone else that Humphreys and Shaw were guilty?’
Lister stared coldly at Sant. ‘To think an ignorant sod like you can stand there and query the integrity of your senior colleagues. You weren’t even an investigating officer back then. And now here you are, you insolent toe rag, dirtying the reputation of those who’ve gone before you. Great men like Detective Chief Inspector Lotherton, recipient of the Queen’s Police Medal no less – ’
