‘Right. OK. Thanks. Good pointer.’ Franklin took hold of Callum’s arm again. ‘We’ll just be on our way.’
‘That’s probably a good idea.’
She dragged Callum down the corridor and out into the custody suite. Then through the doors and into the bare-breezeblock corridor. Shoved him up against the wall. ‘Are you insane?’
‘Her solicitor’s manipulating her to—’
‘If Wilkes tells him about your visit, he – will – have – you – fired. Is that what you want?’ Franklin let go. ‘Because if it is, you’re on your own.’
Callum stared at her. The flared nostrils. The wide eyes. The bared teeth.
‘Fine.’ He pushed past her, out through the double doors and into the rain. Turned. ‘Emma Travis didn’t kill my mum and dad, OK? She didn’t abduct Alastair. It was her dad and Leo Bloody McVey.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Franklin jabbed a hand back towards the cell block. ‘Even if Donny “Sick Dawg” Newman is telling the truth, even if he is your brother, he was five when it happened. Five years old. Do you have any idea how easy it’ll be to rip his testimony into tiny frilly little pieces?’
‘That’s not—’
‘And Wilkes admitted it. She killed her own father! She killed Bob Shannon. She nearly killed you! Who’s the jury going to believe?’
He closed the gap. ‘You didn’t see her. She shot Bob and she was in pieces. Sobbing. Horrified. Does that sound like someone who’s murdered and dismembered a dozen people? Who’s been killing since she was sixteen years old?’ He marched away a couple of paces, then back again. ‘Because that’s when the first chunks of human being went into a freezer-bag at Casa Del Travis: thirty-one years ago. And apparently she’s been getting away with it ever since. But shooting a retired copper in a Norwich City T-shirt makes her break down in tears? You believe that?’
Franklin stared up into the downpour for a moment. ‘It doesn’t matter, OK? It’ll all come out at the trial. Newman can—’
‘There won’t even be a trial! She pleads guilty this morning, and that’s it. No jury. No witnesses. No trial. Emma Travis-Wilkes goes off to a rubber room for two years while her father and Leo McVey GET AWAY WITH BUTCHERING MY PARENTS!’
The rain hissed against the bland featureless back of Division Headquarters. Bounced off the patchwork tarmac of the rear podium car park. Drummed on the roofs of the parked patrol cars, pool cars, and assorted private vehicles. Soaked through Callum’s hair and trickled down the back of his neck. Leached into his jacket.
He screwed his eyes shut. Bit his lip. Took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I don’t … This is all a bit … It’s a shock, OK?’
Franklin’s hand was warm on his arm. Her voice: soft. ‘Maybe you should take a couple of days off?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ After all, it wasn’t as if he was already suspended or anything. He turned. ‘They killed my mum and dad, they took my brother, and they’re going to get away with it.’
‘Raymond Montgomery Travis is dead.’
‘That’s not the point. He shouldn’t get to stay a “beloved children’s author” – he’s a serial-killing dick-monkey. People should be spitting on his grave.’ Callum wiped his hands across his face and flicked the water out into the soggy morning. ‘They’re going to put the bastard on a stamp. How is that …’ Wait a minute.
‘Callum?’
Parked cars circled the gap behind the buildings, the space in between broken up into individual bays. A familiar red Mitsubishi Shogun sat in the far corner, and there was someone slumped in the driver’s seat.
‘Callum, are you all right?’
He jogged across the car park, splashing through the puddles.
McAdams was a crumpled heap, head thrown back, hands loose in his lap, mouth hanging open. Skin pale as mist. Not moving.
Oh Christ. He was dead, wasn’t he.
Callum tried the door. It clunked open.
A sour smell oozed out of the car, layered with the scents of wood smoke and menthol.
‘McAdams? Sarge?’ He reached in and shook McAdams’ shoulder. ‘Hello?’
‘Nnnghmppph …’ McAdams blinked. Shuddered. Then let loose a deep rattling cough. ‘Whrm I?’
‘You’re going to hospital.’
‘No. No hospital.’ Another cough and he sagged back in his seat. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Franklin clunked open the passenger door and slid into the seat. ‘You look like you already died.’
That got her a smile. ‘I love you too, Rosalind.’
‘Callum’s right, you need to go to hospital.’
He didn’t move. ‘It’s very sweet of you both, but I’m not going to the sodding hospital. Are we clear on that? No – hospital. Je ne vais pas aller → l’hôpital.’
‘But you’re—’
‘Dying. I know. And I’m not going to do it in a starchy bed surrounded by strangers and machines that go ping.’
Stubborn old git.
Callum sighed. ‘Fine, no hospital.’
‘Good. Now, where are we going? You’re both obviously headed out somewhere. Have we got a lead on Ashlee Gossard?’
‘I’m taking Callum home, before he gets himself properly fired.’
McAdams raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re taking him home? Are you two …?’
‘No, we are not.’
‘Well, that’s probably just as well, you have about as much on-screen sexual chemistry as a loaf of wholemeal bread.’ He clicked on his seatbelt. ‘Well, climb in, Constable MacGregor. I’ll give you a lift. No point getting a nice clean pool car all wet. You too, Rosalind: you can catch me up on the morning’s shenanigans.’
She pointed over her shoulder, towards the Divisional Headquarters. ‘Maybe I’d be better off—’
‘In you get, Constable.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ She got in the front.
Callum slid into the back. ‘You sure you’re OK to drive?’
McAdams grinned. ‘Let’s find out.’ He cranked the engine, setting it roaring, then slid them down the ramp and onto Peel Place.
Some civic-minded soul had removed the traffic cone hats from the war memorial opposite, and given the three bronze figures Oldcastle Warriors scarves instead. The blue fabric hanging limp and dark in the rain.
‘Come on then, Rosalind: shenanigans?’
‘Callum’s brother Alastair’s alive, only now he’s calling himself Donald Newman, AKA: Donny McRoberts, AKA: Sick Dawg.’
McAdams slammed on the brakes and the Shogun slithered to a halt on the damp tarmac. ‘Really? Congratulations, Callum! That’s …’ He turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you pair arrest him yesterday for beating up his ex, sexually assaulting a police officer, making threats to kill, and possession of Class A drugs?’
Heat bloomed in Callum’s cheeks.
‘What a jolly family reunion that must have been. Still, at least you’ll know where he is for the next six to eight years.’ A wink, then McAdams faced forward again, driving them past the front of Division Headquarters.
A crowd of media people jostled by the main entrance, sheltering beneath umbrellas, doing pieces to camera and taking photos. Behind them were a group of protestors, waving placards with things like ‘BRING BACK HANGING!’, ‘FATHER-KILLING BITCH!, and ‘YOU MURDERED THE MAGIC!!!’ More people drifted in off the street. By lunchtime there’d probably be a full-on lynch mob.
McAdams pointed. ‘It’s been on the radio all morning. Tributes to R.M. Travis, from all his celebrity chums. Someone’s started fundraising for a statue.’ A sniff. ‘Morons.’
Callum poked McAdams in the shoulder – all bones. ‘Your oncologist wants you to make an appointment.’ After all, why shouldn’t he share the misery?
‘Not this again.’
‘You need to start your chemotherapy!’
DHQ faded in the rear-view mirror, swallowed by the rain.
‘Have you ever tried it? No, d
idn’t think so.’ McAdams took a left, past a squat grey church and its peeling ‘THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE HIM!’ posters. ‘So don’t tell me what I’ve got to do. I’m not having another round of bloody chemo, and that’s final.’
‘Your oncologist …’ Callum sat back. Frowned. ‘Your oncologist told me you’ve not even started this course of therapy.’
‘It’s my life, and it’s my death too.’
‘But you were on the phone – you called from the hospital, wanting an update on the smokehouse searches. I heard your nurse in the background.’
McAdams flashed a smile over his shoulder. ‘Good, wasn’t it? I recorded four or five of them last time round. Now all I have to do is hit play and people don’t bang on about me not going to chemo. It stops Mother worrying.’
Not just a stubborn old git, he was devious too.
‘But you’re—’
‘Do you want to know what I do instead? When everyone thinks I’m strapped into my deathchair in the hospital getting poison pumped into my veins? I go and park outside the castle, or across the water by the golf course, or just a lay-by somewhere up on Blackwall Hill. I sit in my car and look out at the city. And I wonder if anyone’s going to remember me when I’m gone …’
A row of little shops went by, windows all dark, waiting for the morning to begin.
McAdams coughed again. Grimaced. Swallowed. ‘No one ever remembers the police officers, do they? Oh, if we cock something up it’s all over the papers: public enquiries, questions in parliament. Heads must roll!’ Right at the roundabout then left, drifting by the closed nightclubs, bars, and takeaways on Harvest Lane. ‘And if we actually catch the bad guy, do we get the credit? Do they bang on in the media about our thousands of man hours and dedication and genius? Do they hell. It’s all about the killer, isn’t it? How many people they murdered. What they did to the bodies afterwards. All the gory sensationalised details.’ He shook his head. ‘No one ever gives a toss about us.’
Franklin shifted in her seat. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Name a serial killer.’
‘Andrei Chikatilo.’
‘I’ll see Andrei Chikatilo and raise you Dennis Nilsen, Peter Manuel, John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, and Harold Shipman. Name the police officer who caught any of them.’
McAdams pulled up at the traffic lights. Rain battered the Shogun’s roof. Outside, an old lady lumbered through the downpour, dragging a tiny terrier along on the end of its leash. The lights turned green and he turned, past a strip joint with ‘WE ARE HIRING!’ in the window.
‘No?’ He sucked air through his teeth. ‘How about this then: Jeffrey Dahmer. He’s properly famous. Never mind who caught him, name one of his victims. Just one.’
Right, onto the main road.
‘See, you can’t. All people care about is the killer. The rest of us don’t matter at all.’
Kings River lay just beyond the docks, swollen and dark, breakwater curling against the supports of Dundas Bridge.
‘Oh, one exception: if the victim’s famous. People care about them then. JFK, John Lennon, they get remembered. The rest of us are just footnotes in a true-crime book.’ He slowed for a small coughing fit. Then shuddered. ‘So Emma Travis-Wilkes will probably be famous for generations. A serial killer who murdered her bestselling-children’s-author father.’
Callum poked him again. ‘She isn’t a serial killer, it’s all lies.’
‘Do you really still believe the popular press and prurient public care about the truth, Constable? How sweet. And where do you stand on the topics of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?’
The Shogun growled its way over the bridge.
‘You are such a dick.’
‘Oh, no doubt.’ McAdams gave a small, sour laugh. ‘You know what I did this morning? I went up and I sat in the barn behind Thaw Cottages. I shouldn’t have left Watt there …’
Franklin turned to him. ‘Mother says he’s out of surgery and they think he’ll be OK.’
‘Do they? Oh that’s good.’ He nodded. ‘That’s something.’
‘Of course he might have brain damage, but— Sod.’ She pulled out her ringing phone. ‘DC Franklin … Right … No, no put them through … Yes. Thanks.’ Franklin held the phone against her chest. ‘It’s the Land Registry Office.’ Back to the call. ‘Hello? … Right … Yes, hang on a second.’ She produced her notebook, pinning it against the dashboard. ‘OK … 14 Lehman Road, Blackwall Hill … Yes.’ Wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. ‘How many others? … Can you text them to me? … Yes. Thanks … No, that’s great. Bye.’
She hung up. ‘According to the Land Registry Office, Paul Terrance Jeffries only owns one property – in Blackwall Hill. He inherited it from a Mrs Georgina Mason. But before that he was left another four houses from various old biddies. And guess who he sold them all to?’
Callum had a stab at that one: ‘Northeast Ecclesiastical Trust Holdings Limited.’
‘Remember when you asked if N.E.T.H. was some sort of pensions and investment pot for the clergy?’
‘But he kept Mrs Mason’s house.’
Franklin reached across the car and patted McAdams on the shoulder. ‘Change of plan, Sarge. We’re off to Blackwall Hill.’ Then she was poking at her phone, holding it to her ear as it rang. ‘Mother? … Rosalind. I think we know where Imhotep’s keeping Ashlee Gossard …’
73
McAdams threw the Shogun around the roundabout, siren wailing over the squealing tyres. Lights flashing, reflecting back from the wet tarmac.
Callum braced his fibreglass cast against the door, leaning into it as the car fishtailed out the other side. Holding onto his phone as tight as possible. ‘No, I don’t know what the nature of the emergency is, I—’
‘Well how can you possibly need an ambulance if you don’t know what the emergency is?’
‘All right, here: one young woman, suffering from extreme dehydration, shock, and starvation. How’s that for starters?’
The tyres screeched again.
Franklin clutched the grab handle above her door, pretty much shouting into her mobile phone as the traffic parted before them and the streets raced past. ‘NO, LEHMAN ROAD. LEMUR, ECHO, HOTEL, MIKE, ALPHA, NOVEMBER … YES. I NEED A FIREARMS TEAM THERE SOON AS YOU CAN …’
‘An ambulance should be with you in about twenty minutes.’
‘No. Not twenty minutes, now!’
‘… WELL WHAT USE IS THAT? … NO, THAT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH. THERE’S A YOUNG GIRL’S LIFE AT STAKE – TELL THEM TO GET THEIR GUNS LOADED AND THEIR FINGERS OUT!’
‘Tell you what, I’ll get every available ambulance to open its doors and turf out whoever they’ve got in the back, shall I?’
‘Just get one there soon as you can.’
Assuming Ashlee Gossard was still alive.
He hung up. ‘Ambulance is on its way.’
‘YES … THANKS. OK … BYE.’ Franklin turned in her seat. ‘We’re not getting a firearms team for at least half an hour.’
McAdams stuck his foot down, nipping between a bus and a Transit van, coming within an inch of losing the paint off his left wing – earning himself a blare of horns from both vehicles and a lot of rude gestures too. ‘Well that’s no sodding use, is it?’
‘That’s what I told them. Apparently they’ve got to get all the way back to DHQ to get tooled-up before they head out again.’
The Shogun roared through a puddle that stretched all the way across the road, sending a wall of spray slamming into a bus shelter full of people. ‘What’s the point of having firearms teams if they don’t carry firearms on them? Might as well deploy a crack team of Morris dancers.’
Callum’s phone went off again. ‘Dotty?’
‘We’re about ten minutes away. Maybe less if this sodding school bus will get out of the bloody way!’ The sound of a blaring horn cut through the engine noise. ‘MOVE IT, PRINCESS!’
‘You got Mother w
ith you?’
Some hissing fumbling noises, and Mother was on the line. ‘Callum? Tell Andy he’s not to wait for us, understand? You kick that door in and you save Ashlee. If there’s any flack, that’s on me. Priority one is saving that little girl’s life.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘For God’s sake, Dorothy, look out for that lorry! Arrrrrrgh …’ More blaring horns. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Callum. If we survive. Oh God, I can’t look …’
And they were gone.
McAdams wrenched the wheel left and they drifted sideways around the corner, under the railway bridge, and out the other side. ‘Hahahaha!’
‘Mother says we don’t wait, we go straight in.’
‘Excellent!’ McAdams grinned over his shoulder. ‘Dig into the boot, young Callum. Should be a couple of stabproofs and a bit of MOE gear back there. I might have forgotten to sign them back in after we searched Tod Monaghan’s pied-→-terre of mummified delights.’
Callum fiddled with the back of his seat until the other side folded down, letting him drag stuff out of the boot. ‘Heads up.’ He passed a stabproof vest through the gap between the front seats.
Franklin took it, pulling at the Velcro fasteners.
He did the same with his one: opening it up like a tabard before sticking it over his head and fighting the front part in under the seatbelt as McAdams slid them around another corner.
Callum tossed a pair of thick leather gloves and a couple of elbow protectors to Franklin, then reached back in for the Method Of Entry gear, AKA: one hooley bar. A cross between a crowbar, an ice axe, and a claw hammer. Long enough to be a pain in the backside to extract through the gap where the seat was folded down.
A crack went off like a gunshot and the Shogun’s passenger-side wing mirror went flying off.
‘Whoops!’ A hard right.
Franklin reached out and killed the siren. ‘Almost there.’
‘Listen up, children. A rescue plan we must have. To save young Ashlee.’ McAdams slowed to a more sedate fifty miles an hour, semidetached houses streaking past the windows. ‘Callum: you take the hooley bar and pop the front door. Rosalind: you’re on pepper spray and truncheon. We don’t have time to fanny about here, so we go in hard and fast. Anyone not Ashlee Gossard is to be considered dodgy as hell and completely arrestable. Any questions?’
A Dark So Deadly Page 58
