by Mark Tufo
‘By we, I take it you mean your family?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what about you? How long have you yourself been up here?’
‘I came up about a week and a half earlier to get the house straight. Wait, what are you saying? Do you think I—?’
‘I’m not saying anything. My job’s not to suppose, it’s to prove. You see, I’m just trying to work out what’s going on around here. Look at it from my perspective... until these last few weeks, there’d only been one murder here in eight years. Now in the time since you first got here, seven people have died. Heck of a coincidence.’
‘And that’s all it is, a coincidence. I don’t know anything.’ He stopped, still trying to make sense of all of this. The woman in the woods, Potter, the girl in his garden, that nutter Graham McBride... ‘Wait... seven people?’
Litherland picked up a folder full of papers, then sat down opposite Scott. If he was trying to intimidate him, it was working. ‘Giles Hitchen,’ he said.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘You sure? Think carefully, lad.’ The detective pulled out a glossy photograph from the folder and passed it to Scott. He looked at it briefly, then put it down on the table. A young guy sprawled across a pavement on his back, his head and shoulders hidden in the hedgerow, legs naked and drenched with blood. What was left of his shredded penis hung between them. The gore was astonishingly vivid: a crimson scrawl across the monotone.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen this man.’
‘Joan Lummock.’
Another photograph, this one even worse. A woman in her late fifties, her skin discoloured by the first signs of decay, lying on a bed of blood-soaked leaf litter. He recognised the location from TV reports he’d seen. This was the woman they’d found in the forest last weekend. Again, same as the last picture, she was naked from the waist down. What was left of the rest of her was hard to make out; a vile, bloody mess instead of a vagina. Scott could barely stand to look.
‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, simply and emphatically.
‘Took us a while to find poor Joan,’ Litherland continued. ‘She’d been missing a day or so by the time we got to her. None of this ringing any bells?’
‘I heard about her on TV, but that’s all.’
A third photograph. A dead man in walking gear, anorak on top, waterproof trousers wrapped around one ankle. He was slumped against a wall inside a particularly cramped looking house, his groin eviscerated.
‘David Ferguson. Retired. Recently widowed. Father of four. His youngest, Karen, did admin work here at the station for a while. David was found like this up at the youth hostel near Glenfirth.’
Scott looked into the dead man’s face, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing. His glasses were at an awkward angle, half-on, half-off. It was easier to focus on them than on the rest of the bloody corpse.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t know anything about this.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘I swear!’
Unperturbed, Litherland continued. Another photograph, this one depressingly familiar. ‘Shona McIntyre. You must remember poor Shona?’
‘Of course I do. She’s the girl Ken Potter—’
‘—she’s the girl you found in Ken Potter’s garden,’ Litherland said, correcting him.
Next photograph. Barely a body to be seen in this one, but Scott knew exactly what it was. Parts of Ken Potter lying on and around the train track.
‘Notice anything?’ Litherland asked. When Scott didn’t immediately respond, the detective elaborated. ‘See, we thought old Ken might have been responsible for some of what’s happened, but it’s not looking likely. Look at his legs, Scott.’
Scott held the photograph, his hands shaking. It was hard to make out any of Potter’s remains. ‘Can’t see his legs.’
Litherland took the photo from him and tapped his finger next to a bloody chunk of flesh beside the tracks. ‘That’s a foot, see?’
Scott saw. It was like one of those old ‘magic eye’ optical illusions he remembered – pictures hidden in patterns. Once he’d been able to make out part of it, the rest of the image seemed to come sharply into focus. There was a bare foot, an ankle, then the bottom of a leg, crushed and dismembered below the knee. It almost made him gag.
‘I see it.’
‘He was half naked, just like the others. We’re waiting on confirmation, but it’s looking like he was dead before the train hit him.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Happened on a stretch of track not far from Barry Walpole’s yard. You’ve been working for Barry, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
Before Scott could finish his sentence, Litherland showed him another photograph. A young woman. Dyed hair, faded pink. Tattoos. Lying in the corner of someone’s lawn. Mutilated like the rest of them. He felt like he was going to vomit.
‘Angela Pietrszkiewicz... think I’m saying that right.’
Scott looked away. ‘I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know who she is...’
‘You sure about that? Angela was found yesterday morning. Mother of two, she was. Two little kiddies. Neighbour heard them crying, then we found Mum a couple of streets away. We did door to door enquiries. Only lead we got was that she was heard talking to some bloke...’
‘I was at home with my family all day yesterday. Ask them. I was with them the whole bloody day.’
The detective paused ominously. ‘Yes, but I didn’t say she was killed yesterday, did I? I said she was found yesterday. We’re estimating the time of death as being sometime Saturday evening.’
‘I was at home again.’
‘You sure, Scott?’
‘Yes. Course I’m sure.’
‘Thing is, with Thussock being such a small and close-knit community, folks tend to notice things that’re out of the ordinary. You and your family, you’ve been attracting more than your fair share of interest just by virtue of being here. No fault of your own, of course, that’s just the way it is.’
‘I was at home, I swear.’
‘You’ve quite a distinctive car. Ordinary, but distinctive. Blue Zafira, isn’t it? Seven-seater? One black wheel arch?’
‘Yes...’
‘Noisy old thing, eh?’
‘What of it?’
‘Well I’ve a number of folks who’re saying they saw your car driving around the estate where Miss Pietrszkiewicz lived on Saturday evening, around the time we think she was probably killed.’
‘No... no, that’s not right.’
‘Oh, so they’re all lying are they?’ He glanced at a page of notes. ‘Jean Morris of Strathway Crescent says she saw a “large blue car driving up and down the road at speed”, said it was making “a heck of a noise, like its exhaust was knackered”. And do you know Dez Boyle?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Well he seems to know you. Dez says he saw you driving around there too. Think very carefully, Scott.’
‘Wait... Tammy, my stepdaughter.’
‘What about her?’
‘She was at a friend’s house. I picked her up in the car.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘I don’t know... around half-eight, I think.’
‘And where exactly does your daughter’s friend live?’
‘Wayfield Close.’
‘Backs onto Alderman Avenue, that does.’
Scott shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Miss Pietrszkiewicz was found on Alderman Avenue. Litherland paused, looked at Scott again. ‘So tell me, did you drive straight from your place to Wayfield Close?’
‘Yes.’
‘You positive?’
‘Yes. Wait... I might have taken a couple of wrong turnings... that estate’s like a maze. I got a bit lost.’
‘So you didn’t drive straight there?’
‘You’re twisting my words. I went straight to the house.
I hadn’t been there before and I took a wrong turn, but that doesn’t mean I did anything to that woman.’
‘You can see where I’m coming from though, can’t you Scott? Here’s me telling you about a murder on Saturday evening, and that you were seen in the vicinity, and there’s you telling me you weren’t there, but wait, maybe you were there and you were just driving around the place on your own.’
‘I wasn’t just driving around...’
‘I think you were. It’s not the first time, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Angela Pietrszkiewicz was a sex worker, Scott. You’ve a history of using prostitutes. Done for kerb crawling near to the Hagley Road in Birmingham. You dirty little bastard.’
Scott put his head on the desk. This was getting worse by the second. ‘That was a mistake,’ he said. ‘It was almost ten years ago. It was a one off.’
‘Hardly. Mrs Morris said she’d seen your car before, a week or so back. Had you been that way before? Perhaps before the rest of your family arrived in Thussock?’
‘No comment,’ he mumbled.
‘I think you’d been to see Angela previously, hadn’t you, Scott? I think you paid Ms Pietrszkiewicz for sex.’
‘No comment,’ he said again, because lying was safer than telling the truth.
‘So, apart from taking advantage of vulnerable young women, paying for sex and cheating on your wife, are there any other bad habits you think you should tell me about? Because there is something else interesting on your record...’
‘Stop it. You’re just twisting everything. This is all circumstantial. You’re trying to make me out to be some kind of—’
‘I’m not trying to do anything,’ Litherland interrupted, ‘except find out who killed all these people and stop them before they kill anyone else.’
‘I need my lawyer,’ Scott mumbled, barely able to form cohesive words now.
‘I really think you do.’
‘I had nothing to do with any of this.’
‘What about Graham McBride?’
Scott started to sob involuntarily. He tried to stop himself, but that just made it worse. ‘We had a fight,’ he managed to say. ‘I already told you.’
‘That you did, aye. We know you were involved in his death, though whether you caused it or not is something the coroner’s going to have to decide, and we should have her findings shortly.’
‘What would you have done?’ Scott asked, pleading almost. ‘He exposed himself in front of my step-daughter. I did what anyone would do. Are you a parent? Do you have kids?’
‘That’s irrelevant. But for the record, yes, I do have kids and yes, I’d have certainly done something if I’d caught a man flashing at my daughter. I’d maybe not have killed him, though.’
‘But you know why I did what I did, don’t you? I saw red. You do these things for your kids.’
‘Not so good with other people’s children though, are we, Scott?’
His heart sank. A few barely suppressed tears became an uncontrolled flood. ‘This has got nothing to do with what happened back home. I made a mistake and I’ve been punished for it. Believe me, there’s not a day goes by when I don’t—’
‘When you don’t what, Scott? You see, I’m having trouble tying a few things up here. You’ve a history of lying to the police and—’
‘And I’ve paid the price for that. Jesus, please...’
‘You knocked a girl down and killed her, then just drove on.’
‘I panicked.’
‘Doesn’t change what you did.’
‘I was gone for a matter of minutes. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know what to do. I turned straight around and drove back but by then...’
‘By then other folks had got to her. By then it was too late.’
‘It didn’t make any difference. She was already dead. I did it. It wasn’t my fault, but I did it.’
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you moved to Thussock.’
‘How could we stay in Redditch? She lived on the same street as us, for Christ’s sake. We knew her parents. I’d got people throwing paint at the house, people badmouthing me all over the place.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘I’m not going to argue. If I could turn back time I’d do it in a bloody heartbeat. My business went down the pan... I lost almost everything.’
‘Not as much as the family of that poor kiddie though, eh? Or the relatives of any of the people who’ve died round here recently either.’
‘I didn’t do any of this. I punched that guy in the face, yes, but I didn’t have anything to do with any of the others.’
‘Then who did? I tell you, Scott, it’s causing us some real problems. We’re a small rural force, and our resources are stretched as it is.’
‘Then stop wasting them on me.’
Litherland looked at him for a few seconds, weighing him up. ‘This killer,’ he said, ‘whoever he is, is a devious little fucker. He’s not leaving a bloody trace, you know. Not a single clue. No footprints, tyre tracks, fingerprints... So you can see why we’re following up every lead, and why you’re so interesting to us.’
‘This has got nothing to do with me,’ Scott sighed, exasperated, wishing he could find some way of convincing the detective but knowing he probably wouldn’t.
‘Sick little bastard, we’re dealing with here, Scott,’ Litherland continued, not finished yet. ‘I do hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t dismiss your involvement. You saw poor Shona’s body so you know how sick what’s happening here really is. These people have virtually been bled dry, their bodies mutilated. Excuse my language, Scott, but I think you can probably understand how bloody angry this is making me. I’ve innocent people being abused then murdered in my town, and I’m gonna put a stop to it.’
‘It’s horrific,’ Scott said, ‘but I don’t know how else to tell you... it’s got nothing to do with me. You can’t accuse me of—’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything yet. I’m simply pointing out my concerns and asking you to clear a few things up. Surely you can see where I’m coming from? I might not have all the forensics I need yet, but alarm bells are ringing as far as you’re concerned and you’ve said little to convince me otherwise. Look at it this way, the killings only started after you arrived in Thussock.’
‘It’s coincidental.’
‘Lot of coincidences, though. You’re the one who found Shona, Ken Potter died not far from where you’re working, you’re seen driving around on Saturday evening when Angela Pietrszkiewicz was killed and you’d already paid her for sex, you’ve confessed to beating the shit out of Graham McBride...’
‘It’s all circumstantial. It’s not even that, it’s just bullshit. I want my brief.’
Litherland stood up, pushed his chair under the table and collected up his gruesome, blood-spattered photographs. ‘Fair enough, Scott. I’ll have you taken back to your cell, then we’ll do this all over again when the duty lawyer arrives.’
Chapter 65
PC Mark Hamilton couldn’t remember anything like this ever happening before. Not anywhere, and certainly not in Thussock. Born and raised in the town, he’d gone off to university then spent several years travelling before coming back home. He’d managed to get himself in (and out) of various dodgy situations whilst abroad and had seen more than his fair share of trouble in other postings around the country. He’d dealt with inner-city gangs, drugs traffickers, fraudsters, deviants – the whole gamut of shysters and bastards and society’s dregs. But not here. Not in Thussock.
Travelling had initially broadened Mark’s horizons and had made many of the people he’d left behind seem infuriatingly blinkered and self-obsessed. Being away from the town for so long, though, had also made him feel unexpectedly protective of the place. All his mates on the force thought he was out of his mind when he’d accepted the posting and come back here, but he knew what he was doing.
The crimes which had recently
been committed in and around the town were unprecedented in their number and ferocity. The killings were wanton, brazen, indiscriminate, and apparently motiveless. He was glad they’d got that slimy fucker Scott Griffiths locked up in the cells. Cocky bastard. Hamilton had had his eye on that one since they’d first met at Ken Potter’s house. Sergeant Ross felt the same about him, he knew he did. There was something about Griffiths which just didn’t ring true. There was no denying he was a suspect. More to the point, right now he was the only suspect.
PC Hamilton walked down the high street, making a point of acknowledging all the faces he knew, and making even more of a point of acknowledging the few he didn’t. He stopped and talked to several folks, letting them drive the conversations, reassuring them that everything possible was being done when the topic of conversation inevitably strayed towards recent events, going as far as to discreetly tell one or two of them that they did, in fact, have someone in custody.
In reality, this morning’s foot patrol was little more than an impromptu public relations exercise. Thussock didn’t particularly need much policing at this time on a Monday, but Sergeant Ross had taken great pains to stress the importance of maintaining a visible presence until they were able to go public about Scott Griffiths.
PC Hamilton was thirsty. One of the things he liked most about foot patrols like this was the freedom. In uniform he could come up with a viable reason to go just about anywhere, and right now Mary’s café was calling to him. Mary McLeod could gossip with the best of them and she was always willing to share anything she’d heard on the grapevine. If she knew how he’d used the titbits she’d inadvertently dropped into conversation before now she’d have been mortified, of course, so he kept things light and informal. To Mary, PC Hamilton was still the snotty nosed little kid she used to have to shoo away from outside the café with his mates in the school holidays.
He made a beeline for the café, figuring that even if Mary didn’t have any information for him today, she’d almost certainly have a mug of tea and maybe even a bacon sandwich if he played his cards right. His stomach growled at the prospect of food. He’d been on his feet since they’d brought the suspect in for questioning, and he’d likely be out a few hours longer yet. He needed sustenance.
