Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  All eyes fell on him and then looked away.

  ***

  Phillip sat, straight-backed looking rather arrogantly, staring at the blank wall. Occasionally he would turn round to the door but then relax again. The Officer behind him neither spoke nor made eye contact.

  The door clicked as Bennett, Gerard and Owen came in and sat opposite. The clattering and the scraping of the chair legs broke the silence.

  “Would you believe it? This room has a distinctive smell...” Cyril sniffed the air. “Can you smell it, Phillip? Normally, it’s usually a delicate aroma of a dose of disinfectant, but today... today of all days, it’s very different, funny that. Grant you, not funny as in Ha! Ha! ‘cos no one’s laughing, funny as in the fact that fear has a smell, also.” He sniffed the air again and Owen joined in. “Guilt and fear, now that’s a truly pungent odour that sticks in the throat and leaves a bitter taste. It’s in this room, right now. Can you smell the two, Owen?” He turned and looked at Gerard. “Vous pouvez la sentir, Gerard?”

  Cyril smiled and then looked quizzically at Owen and Gerard, before removing a packet of Vichy mints he had bought at the airport in Nice, from his pocket. He offered each of them a mint. Owen took it and popped it in his mouth.

  “Déjà Vu, Mr. Jarvis, Déjà Vu. This time, however, me owd mucker, we’re in grand old Yorkshire, the land of the white rose, your home and mine, the place of my birth, the place we are proud to be part of. We’re here to solve a crime that we know you were involved in. Yes, you, Phillip. All we need to know now is the extent of that involvement and who else was complicit. It’s very simple really, the dead kids were yours, DNA says so and unlike people, DNA doesn’t tell lies. Sorry, didn’t ask, a mint?”

  Phillip shook his head.

  “DNA doesn’t lie. Did I say that already? The kids were yours.”

  “I want a Lawyer, as promised, it’s my right,” Phillip protested, drumming his fingers on the table. “It’s my legal right. Innocent until proven...”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Jarvis, what you need right now isn’t a lawyer. What you need right now, if you care to cast your mind back to our chat in Nice, is a bloody good lawyer. A double murder, all the evidence is there, DNA staring everyone, you, me and the jury squarely in the face. It cannot be disputed. You’ll not see the light of day again, certainly you’ll not see the South of France again, Mary again or your close friend, Doctor Flint again unless they come to visit, but you know that’s not going to happen.”

  Cyril noticed that same twitch that he had noticed when Phillip was interviewed in France and so he said the name again. “What was Flint to you, Phillip? A friend, a business partner or possibly was he... a lover?”

  Cyril had no idea why he had said that, the last thing he thought Phillip might be was homosexual, but the twitch said it all. Owen noticed it too.

  “Goodness me! I’m getting warm and you’ve barely said a word. The innocent in me would never have thought you were so inclined. Maybe it’s because we’re now beginning to understanding your unorthodox, facial communications, and that’s probably because we’re now in Yorkshire and not France. So Phillip, Flint was your lover, is your lover? Mary is your business partner, but more importantly, Flint is your lover... cosy.”

  Owen glanced across the table and stared at the white knuckles showing on the hands opposite. Phillip’s face grew red with a cocktail of both fear and anger, as a bubble of saliva escaped from the side of his mouth. Cyril picked up the packet of mints and placed them in front of Phillip.

  “For you, Mr. Jarvis, for you. They’ll take away the bitter taste of fear, temporarily at least, but they’ll not take away the taste of guilt, that stays with you forever. Your good, no, sorry, your bloody good lawyer is on her way. You might want to save her a mint because I’m sure as hell she too will get a bitter taste in her mouth once she sees the evidence.”

  Cyril, Gerard and Owen left the room. The door snapped shut echoing along the corridor. They stopped on the stairs and Cyril brought out his electronic cigarette, pressed the button and inhaled, closing his eyes fully to enjoy the nicotine surge to his system. Owen suddenly realised that Cyril’s eye was beginning to follow instructions.

  “How come you mentioned a relationship with Dr. Flint when you knew categorically that he was the father of the two dead kids? Makes absolutely no sense!” Owen commented, truly puzzled by this off the cuff remark that had hit the target so squarely.

  Cyril inhaled again before starting to walk up the stairs.

  “Just popped out, apparently it can come to some people later in life. They realise that they have a penchant for their own sex and that they have been in denial all the time. Besides, he was probably shagging the good Doctor back then in the seventies but had an image to convey to his peers. The swinging seventies may have had Mark Bolan and Brian Ferry prancing around looking feminine in frills and makeup, but boys, however, they were dressed, were expected to be boys. Coming out was not something that was common then. When his lawyer arrives, she’ll take a while to look over the evidence and then she’ll brief him. They’ll be looking to make it manslaughter or do some sort of trade, probably information for anonymity and time. Call me as soon as she’s read all the stuff and is ready to brief him.”

  Cyril went directly to the incident room to check on the progress made in the North East. It was busy. Liz was directing operations well and Cyril took a moment to acclimatise from one case to the other.

  “Nothing as yet, Sir. National Crime Agency has been in touch and the questions are becoming increasingly probing. They’re growing anxious for a result or to get more fully involved.”

  “How’s the victim?”

  “In ICU at present, but she appears not to be as serious as previous attack victims. She has some vision problems as well as respiratory ones, but fortunately, that’s it.”

  “Anything on the CCTV?”

  “We’ve this...” Liz tapped the screen and showed a figure in a car park, trees behind him. “He’s our guy. It’s taken from one of the cameras attached to the Social Club. We’re lucky, to be honest, as the other camera at the back of the building had been nicked last week... Look he’s donning a mask and gloving one hand before heading in the direction of the victim’s house. These are the best shots we’ve had. It’s clear what he’s wearing and we have a rough description. Just need to get still pictures to all concerned; every station, bus company and airport, but he’s probably driving home as we speak and unless he commits a traffic offence and is stopped, we have little chance.”

  “Bloody Hell, Liz, we do have progress! If this is Lawrence Young...he’s not driving back if his last excursion is anything to go by. He’s leading us, trying to tell us something and he’s not blowing that whistle before every attack for nothing.”

  “Do you believe he wants to be caught?”

  “I didn’t say that but he wants to be taken very seriously, maybe he wants the public’s support. He’s hitting people the public despises, he’s trying to right wrongs, take an eye for an eye. He’s punishing people because we’re either incapable or too bloody slow. He has something else planned, he’ll want to tell the world why. Our job is to find out when.”

  “So where is he?”

  Cyril’s phone rang. It was Owen.

  “Lawyer wants a chat, Sir. Do you want me to make her wait a while?”

  “No need, she’s seen this for what it is and I guess she’s out for damage limitation, you’ll see. I’m on my way.”

  Cyril turned back to Liz.

  “Check using the facial recognition technology that’s available when you link with the rail and bus networks in and around Carlisle, Wigan, Manchester, Leeds and Harrogate. I can’t see a bloke of his age hitching, but extra patrols if they’ll co-operate might be wise. Check hotels around the area, he might lie low a while, and get descriptions of any single travellers. Call immediately you have something. And Liz? A camera van at Harrogate Station until further notice. Thanks, you’re
doing fine.”

  When Cyril opened the door, Owen stood before introducing Phillip’s lawyer.

  “DCI Bennett this is Miss Jo Pimblett. I believe you haven’t met.”

  Cyril offered his hand and smiled. Miss Pimblett was in her early forties, tall, slim and very elegant. Cyril noted her tailoring and grooming. She was welcome.

  “Hope you’ve brought some good boots and a rope in that brief case, Miss Pimblett!” He watched her look at the case before returning a smile.

  “I’ve climbed mountains greater than this one, Chief Inspector.” She looked at Cyril, a warm smile brought dimples to her cheeks. “I should like to see Phillip and then you can question him. May we have two coffees, please. Are you bringing him in here or do you want me somewhere more convenient?”

  “Here’s fine if you are comfortable. Owen will you do the honours? There’ll be an officer outside should you need anything.”

  ***

  Lawrence walked down the steps at Wigan Northwestern Station, putting his head down as he approached the passageway leading to the exit. There were always cameras; whenever you had a tunnel on a station, you had CCTV. A row of taxis and a number of bus shelters were the first thing to greet him in Wigan. The scaffold-wrapped buildings opposite were shrouded in green canvas. From his planning, he knew the next railway station was one hundred yards up the road, and as soon as he came to the road edge he could see it, its Victorian, wrought iron surround protruded a little onto the pavement.

  He bought his ticket from the machine in the entrance at Wigan Wallgate and waited ten minutes before taking the steps down to the platform. He had planned to cross Manchester on foot and then follow his previous route home, but he was concerned about Harrogate Station. His mind had played over all the possible scenarios and his instinct told him that they might be waiting. His gut feelings had worked in Hexham, he should trust them now.

  ***

  Janet had checked in, her flight from Nice to Manchester would depart in just over the hour and she could now relax. She dialled Mary’s number but there was nothing, no ring tone, it was dead. She dialled Charles. She could tell he was driving as music played in the background and she could hear the occasion squeal of tyres as the car negotiated the hairpin bends.

  “Janet, how are you? We’re trundling away from the coast. Where are you?”

  “I’m at Nice Airport, I fly in sixty minutes. Can I speak with Mary?”

  “You could if she were here but she’s indisposed at the moment. Have you tried her mobile?”

  He looked across at Penny, her head was nodding and moving from side to side as the car changed direction. “No? If she calls me I’ll get her to give you a ring. Have you heard from your English friend? No? Goodness, you are surrounded by negativity today. If you hear anything call, but only if you feel it’s absolutely essential. Life or death, my girl. Life or death! Have a safe flight.”

  “Charles listen I’m worried about Peter, he’s not contacted me and his phone is dead. The Police are looking for him but there haven’t been any reports of sightings of him nor the car.”

  “You know Peter better than anyone.” He didn’t wait for a response, just ended the call. He looked across at Penny who still appeared to be asleep.

  Janet thought for a few moments before dialling Cyril’s number. She stared at her mobile, considering the wisdom of ringing him, but then backed out. She’d call him when she was back in Richmond. She stood, went to get a coffee and longed to be back home. This wasn’t how things had been planned, Mary should be taking the girls and Peter should be sitting by the pool, but Phillip had been arrested and was back in the UK, Mary was missing and Peter was only God knew where.

  Her ring tone startled her.

  “Janet it’s me so listen carefully. You’re going to hear some news in the next few days and weeks. You’re going to hear that the police have found evidence of my suicide which is just what we want, but it’ll be bullshit. They’ll have forensic evidence; bits of me will have been found that will support their disclosure but only a tooth and a finger with luck. You know who performed this on the night of the storm. He should have been a doctor!” he chuckled. “At some stage, you will receive notification that you are the sole benefactor of my estate. Wait a time and then sell off the cars and the Yorkshire land but keep the houses in France and Richmond. Buy an apartment in Barbados or somewhere in the Caribbean before you transfer half of the money into the Monaco account. Don’t believe what you read about Mary. You can never contact me; this mobile will be destroyed after this call. Keep to the plan, Janet. Keep to the plan. Be brave and enjoy life.”

  Janet stared at the phone and her heart fluttered. Suddenly she realised another chapter of her life could now begin. Bravery wouldn’t come into it. She wasn’t Mary’s daughter for nothing and a smile appeared on her lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Phillip was sitting opposite his lawyer, each drank their coffee, neither eager to make the first move; the atmosphere reflected the fact. Jo put her coffee down before placing a small Dictaphone in front of him.

  He cleared his throat, like an actor about to say his well rehearsed lines and it didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Firstly, let me make it clear... that is on, yes?” Phillip’s tone made it more a demand than a question

  Jo nodded.

  “It started as a bit of a giggle...bedding as many girls as possible. I had bets with the other lads. Christ there were bloody loads of birds and many had never seen boys up close and personal. It was easy. It was Mary Nixon who suggested the ‘French’ nights.”

  “You’ve lost me Phillip, please explain.”

  “Originally, Mary would watch. I’d get a girl into my room and then she’d watch, secretly. We made a small spy hole from the next room. Sometimes she’d persuade the girls to come to my room and I managed to get sex six or seven times out of maybe ten girls. She then suggested that we buy a cine camera and film them. Blue movies were very popular with the army boys. Students are always short of cash and it seemed like it could be the best work in the world, for me at any rate. We had, though, a couple of problems, we didn’t know how to get the film developed, you couldn’t just walk into the chemist and hand it over.” He sipped his coffee as if he were coming up for air.

  “You found someone I take it?”

  “Mary did. Ripon had a cinema at the time. All I’ll say is that one of the employees was a bit of an amateur photographer. Mary found out from a conversation in one of the pubs and before long she had persuaded him to develop our film. He was married, balding and fat. Mary was very attractive and extremely persuasive. She was there when he did the developing, so she knew that he didn’t make other copies. You could say the dark-room served two purposes. It might even have been the red, dark-room light that gave her the idea for the brothel. In Ripon there were loads of Squaddies, army and young Air Force trainees and so she decided to encourage the girls to perform for cash. Twenty-five partners and they then got the original film.”

  “Sorry, explain. Are you saying that the girls whom you originally seduced and filmed were then blackmailed into prostitution?”

  “Twenty-five tricks, otherwise the film would be posted home. Don’t forget that Ripon was a C of E College so that made it easy.”

  “Did they all comply?” Jo found it difficult to keep the disgust from her tone and from her expression.

  “No, one didn’t and the film went home. The girl wasn’t seen at college after that. Strangely the parents made no fuss. We were expecting it to explode in our faces but nothing happened. I was scared shitless, I can tell you.”

  “Surely you were identifiable in the films?”

  “I knew where not to look and I knew just where the girls should; we became really quite professional. Anyway, we then progressed to bringing girls from Leeds, amazing the number of drop-outs from the university. They were happy to earn a few bob and have a roof over their heads.”

  “What about the de
aths, Phillip?”

  “Two of the girls got pregnant, both mine. We originally wanted them to have abortions. Dr. Flint was the College GP, known to bat for both sides. He was easy to get into my room and Mary filmed. She held him by the balls after that. She’d also learned to develop the film herself by then. Even with the blackmail threat hanging over him, however, he refused to carry out the abortions, but he did help to keep a check on the sexual health of the girls and to help patch up any who might have had a rough client.”

  “The children, what of the kids?”

  “They stayed in the house, mothers worked and the kids were brought up, they had loads of mums, bit of a commune really. There were two other pregnancies later, but Mary got them sorted in Harrogate. However, these first two started making demands and Mary refused to co-operate. One evening, they did a runner in the Doctor’s car, actually, I believe it was his father’s Rather than come back, they stuck a pipe up the exhaust and locked themselves in with the children. What a mess! Probably thought they’d get their own way by scaring us but what they actually got were two dead kids. Fortunately, Peter and I found the car and got the mothers out. Peter was brilliant and kept them alive, but the infants...Once the mothers were well, Mary put the fear of God in them and suggested that they could spend a long time in prison for murder. We never saw them again. Peter and I buried the kids. We kept going for another six months and then stopped. One day we were there and the next not. Mary moved away, but it didn’t work out and she wanted one more thing from Peter. He probably married her in exchange for the film but who knows as at that time, Peter and I were seeing each other on and off.”

  “I believe Mary was pregnant. True?”