Killing Time

by Mark Roberts

  ‘Are you trying to say I murdered three people?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Raymond,’ replied Clay. ‘But you didn’t do it alone. You had two accomplices. After you’ve spoken with Mr Robson, and while you’re waiting in your cell for this interview to recommence, I suggest you think about everything you’ve seen and heard so far, and think about telling us more about your friends.’

  ‘Why would I murder a woman and two men?’

  ‘Why would you stop taking anti-psychotic medication?’ replied Clay. ‘Why would you replace it with a cocktail of drugs? Why would you listen to the voices in your head? Why would you slit a dog’s throat? Why would you do any of these things? You tell me, Raymond,’ said Clay. ‘You tell me.’

  *

  As Sergeant Harris arrived to escort Raymond back to his cell, Clay stepped to one side.

  ‘You want to meet me and Raymond outside his cell, Sergeant Harris?’ asked Hendricks. ‘Come on, Raymond, walk with me...’

  ‘Is his mother still in the viewing room?’

  ‘No,’ replied Harris. ‘She turned crimson and started crying when he described his sexual encounter with Dominika Zima. She was mortified. It was awful.’

  ‘I need to speak to her about Raymond.’

  ‘What’s your take on this?’ asked Harris.

  ‘He picked her up with two of his friends, so-called CJ and Buster. They took her into the park, raped her and murdered her. Then they moved on to Picton Road and carried on the blood-fest in the Adamczak brothers’ flat. As soon as we pull in his friends, they’ll rat out on each other and we’ll know exactly what happened.’ Clay indicated the viewing room. ‘Did she say anything to you in there?’

  ‘I asked her for the real names of CJ and Buster. She’s never met them because the older son, Jack has barred them from the family home. And on the odd occasion when he refers to them, it’s always CJ and Buster.’

  80

  8.50 am

  Detective Sergeant Karl Stone banged on the door of 103 Breck Road, headquarters of the Merseyside Anti-Fascist Coalition, and listened to the sound of approaching footsteps inside the building. Looking through the bay window he saw a huge picture dominating the wall of the front room.

  It was a massive black and white image of the twentieth-century American folk singer Woody Guthrie singing at full pelt, the guitar in his hands bearing the slogan, This Machine Kills Fascists. The room was part-living room, part-office, with three very old filing cabinets lined up against a wall crying out to be decorated, and a photocopier from another era.

  The front door opened and a hugely tall man in his seventies peered at Stone with a lifelong suspicion of everything in his eyes. With his beaked nose and aggressive stare, he looked like a hungry eagle.

  ‘Karl Stone,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Black Sun, Karl Stone?’ Malcolm Charles responded with an ingrained public school twang in his voice.

  Stone showed his warrant card. ‘I need your help, Mr Charles. You’re an expert on fascist individuals and organisations. I’m a leading detective in a murder investigation and I’m trying to protect racial minorities.’

  Malcolm Charles’s eyes tick-tocked as he weighed the matter up and asked, ‘If this is about the racist fucking fascists who killed the Polish building workers in Picton Road, you’d better come in...’

  Stone followed him to a kitchen table littered with leaflets and card-covered files.

  ‘Are you wired for sound, Detective Sergeant Stone?’ asked Malcolm Charles.

  Stone placed his iPhone in the middle of the table and said, ‘Yes, Mr Charles, and this is it, but it’s not turned on to record and nor will it be, because I haven’t come here to interview you or in any way harass you. I’ve come cap in hand asking for your help. Black Sun?’

  Something bright danced in the man’s eyes, and he spoke after a significant pause. ‘What links Black Sun to the political abomination on Picton Road?’

  ‘At this point in time, Mr Charles, I can’t directly reveal what links this murder has to the far-right organisation...’

  Malcolm Charles held up a hand and pulled out a file from the chaos before him. ‘It was like a virus,’ he said. ‘A far-right political version of McDonald’s. They franchised their brand of hate across the globe. Everything that wasn’t Eurocentric and white was simply wrong. But it translated into many markets. The Japanese Black Sun were anti-Chinese and Korean. Etcetera, etcetera. In Africa, it ran along tribal lines. Are you with me still, Detective Sergeant Stone?’

  ‘One hundred per cent, Mr Charles,’ replied Stone, focusing on the imperative to learn about communal madness. ‘Everything has a purpose, right? What was Black Sun’s objective?’

  ‘It was simple: to stir up racial war and save the eventual fascist state the job of destroying the parasites within. Why kill the blacks, Jews, communists, gypsies, etcetera when you can create the conditions in which those savage minorities will wage a civil war of attrition and wipe each other out?’

  Malcolm Charles stood up, marched to the sink and picked up five card files from the drainer. ‘After you called me, I pulled together everything I’ve got on Black Sun. Why didn’t you tell me you were an agent of the state?’

  ‘Because I need your help and didn’t want to alienate you. You’re clearly the out-and-out expert in your field. Where else could I turn?’

  ‘Black Sun was at its worst in four territories; Italy where it started, Nigeria, Georgia, and the USA, and at its most laughably incompetent in one: Japan. I’ve thrown that one in to show you how bloody stupid the whole thing truly was.’ He walked across the small space, the five files in hand, and handed them to Stone.

  ‘This is everything I’ve got on all five organisations. I was up until the early hours photocopying them. It was an expensive and time-consuming business, I can tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Stone. ‘You’ve kept your originals, right?’

  ‘Of course. What are you doing?’

  ‘The files you’ve kindly copied for me are evidence. I’m putting the evidence you’ve supplied against Black Sun into an evidence bag.’

  ‘I suppose I should offer you a drink. Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you anyway. In your view, which was the worst of the five organisations?’

  ‘They were all as bad as each other. But the American Black Sun came out on top in terms of the body count. The killings went well into double figures, and that was all the lying American media propaganda machine admitted to. I’m relying on you not informing anyone I’ve assisted you in this investigation. I did so not knowing that you worked for the state.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’re going to tell your comrades in the Anti-Fascist Coalition, just as I’m going to tell my colleagues in the murder investigation, and that’s as far as it goes on both sides.’

  ‘I used to have comrades in the Coalition. They’ve either died or moved on to politically less constructive things.’

  Stone stood up, held out his hand and received no reciprocation.

  ‘Don’t pretend to be my friend. Just ask yourself the question. Why would a moribund fascist organisation suddenly reawaken now?’

  ‘What’s your view on it, Mr Charles?’

  ‘By the pricking of my thumbs,’ said Malcolm Charles. ‘Something wicked this way comes.’

  ‘It’s already arrived, and’s alive and kicking right here and now,’ replied DS Karl Stone, heading to the front of the house, desperate to look inside the files in his hands.

  81

  9.03 am

  In front of a row of yellow-brick terraced housing, in the shadow of Liverpool Football Club’s Anfield Stadium, sat a white Portakabin. Detective Constable Clive Winters looked out of its window at a hoarding proclaiming: CJ Construction Respectful Development In The Community.

  A bulky young man with ginger hair stopped in front of the window, pointed at Winters and then back at himself. With the fi
ngers of his right hand, he made a talking mouth and then walked away.

  ‘So, what’s it going to be when it’s finished?’ asked Winters.

  The site manager, Damien Wright, scrolled through the laptop on his desk.

  ‘A massive bed-and-breakfast facility for football fans from all over the UK and Europe.’ He paused and pointed at his screen.

  Winters looked over the site manager’s shoulder.

  ‘This is a list of everyone who was working on-site here in the week commencing Monday 24th November, and the weekend of Saturday and Sunday 29th and 30th November.’

  Winters looked through the list and double-checked: there was no sign of the names Karl Adamczak or Václav Adamczak.

  ‘I’ve asked around,’ said the site manager. ‘We’ve got work going on in Kirkby, Maghull, Widnes and Huyton at the moment. I can show you on the computer, the Adamczak brothers have never worked for CJ Construction. I can show you the rotas going back to late August when this project started if you want. But the men you’ve asked about simply didn’t work here.’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ said Winters.

  ‘No problem.’

  Winters smiled. ‘I’m a big fan of the beautiful game,’ he lied. ‘Mind if I have a quick nosey at the hotel-in-progress?’

  ‘You’re all togged up so that’s not a problem,’ said Mr Wright, sliding a document towards him. ‘Have a brochure. Pass on the good news.’

  Winters closed the Portakabin door and saw the ginger-haired construction worker waiting inside the open doorway of the site.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Winters.

  ‘Mike Carlyle.’

  He turned and walked deeper into the building, against a soundscape of electronic saws and heavy, repetitive banging. Winters followed him into the half-formed shell of an open-plan building, the former adjoining walls of the terraced housing supported by metal girders.

  As he crossed the wooden boards, Winters checked his hard hat and followed Mike Carlyle into what looked like a future kitchen.

  Winters showed his warrant card and said, ‘You’ve got something to tell me.’

  ‘I listened in when you were in Wright’s office.’

  Winters used silence against the background din.

  ‘You’re looking up Karl and Václav’s recent history on the site?’

  ‘Yes, did you know them?’

  ‘They worked here. Wright’s a fucking liar.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘They were sound, both of them. They’d help anyone out, anyone who was struggling or needed a lift. When you heard they were on site with you, it was a morale booster. They were really hard workers and top notch at what they did. There are some slimy bastards out there.’ A note of emotion crept into Mike Carlyle’s voice.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Remind me. What did Wright tell you about Karl and Václav’s work on this site?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything. He showed me a list of all the people employed on this project. He showed me employee lists from other CJ Construction projects around Merseyside. Karl and Václav Adamczaks’ names simply didn’t show up on any of them.’

  Mike Carlyle smiled bitterly. ‘Can you cover my back?’

  ‘If you’ve got information that will help this investigation, yes.’

  Three construction workers walked into the space, and the oldest of the three asked, ‘You’re a copper, right?’

  Winters showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Clive Winters.’

  ‘Mike called us and said you’d shown up asking questions about Karl and Vác.’

  ‘Karl and Vác who?’ said Mike, his voice laced with irony. His colleagues laughed.

  ‘Your site manager’s adamant. They’ve never worked here.’

  ‘He’s been lying to you,’ said Mike. ‘CJ Construction’s lying to you.’ His voice dropped down further. ‘You want to know the truth?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘We haven’t been paid for three weeks. Imaginary bonuses for patience and loyalty that never happen and when that scam runs out they start playing Russian roulette with us, making fucking heavy-duty noises about tax evasion, losing our houses and jail time.’

  Winters drank in the sourness and anger bonding the men.

  ‘They did work here, and they were good mates of ours.’

  82

  9.15 am

  ‘We didn’t get any direct CCTV footage of you from the Otterspool Park murder scene, but we did find you on CCTV that directly links you to the double murder of Karl and Václav Adamczak in their flat above the Polish delicatessen,’ said Clay, as Hendricks lined up the footage on his laptop. ‘Raymond, are you listening to me or just staring into space?’

  Mr Robson tapped Raymond’s arm and he looked across the table at Clay as if she’d just descended from a passing cloud.

  ‘Picton Road? I haven’t been on Picton Road for years.’

  ‘When was the last time you were there, Raymond?’ asked Hendricks.

  ‘When I was eleven. The school used to take us swimming in Picton Baths.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Clay. ‘You’ve already confessed to a leaky memory.’

  ‘I’m sure about that though.’

  ‘Well, we’re not so sure what you’re saying is true,’ said Clay. ‘DS Hendricks is going to show some footage of you walking away from the murder scene on Picton Road. We’ve already sent the footage to be cleaned up. While you’re watching yourself, think of this. When our Scientific Support colleagues took your house apart, they found the partially burned remains of the clothes you were wearing in this footage in a barbecue at the back of your house. The coat you wore was a black North Face coat. The white logo didn’t get burned. When we’ve cleaned up the footage we’ll be able to highlight the North Face logo on the jacket you’re wearing. Are you ready? Then we’ll begin.’

  Hendricks turned the laptop sideways. ‘Can you see it?’

  Raymond nodded, and Hendricks pressed play.

  ‘There you are. We think you had two accomplices, but snow covered the lens of the CCTV camera. I suggest they went one way and you the other, right towards the camera above the mini-market on Picton Road.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s where you’re wrong, because that’s not me.’

  Hendricks paused the film at the optimum shot of the figure walking towards the camera.

  ‘Good idea to wear a balaclava, not a good idea to walk directly towards the nearest camera.’ Clay leaned forwards. ‘You must have been as high on blood as it’s possible to be, you and your friends. CJ? Buster? Who are they and where do they live?’

  ‘We were all at CJ’s playing on the game station and smoking weed. His ma was in all night. She’ll tell you.’

  ‘Give us her name and address and we’ll see if she can confirm your alibi.’

  Raymond stared at the laptop screen and appeared to be fading away.

  ‘Raymond, I’m waiting. A name and address. CJ’s mother. If this is all a big mistake, she could be the woman who’ll kick-start you on the road back to freedom. Who is she? Where can I find her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You murdered Dominika Zima in Otterspool Park and went directly to Picton Road to kill the Adamczak brothers.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Three foreign nationals in one night.’

  ‘No comment.’ Raymond turned to Mr Robson and whispered behind his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, DCI Clay, but my client is refusing to answer any more questions.’

  ‘Look at me, Raymond,’ insisted Clay. When she had as much of his attention as she could, she said, ‘I could charge you with murder right now, but I have time on my side, so I’m not going to. I’m going to give you the chance to confess. That way the judge will look slightly more favourably than if you carry on playing games with me and DS Hendricks. I’m cutting you some slack here, Raymond.’

  Raym
ond turned to Mr Robson in silence.

  ‘In protecting others, you’re only harming yourself,’ said Mr Robson. ‘If I were you, I’d think carefully about what DCI Clay has said to you, and be proactive in protecting your own best interests. We’ll talk some more before your next interview...’

  ‘One last thing, Raymond. We know how you’re connected to Dominika Zima. How do you know Karl and Václav Adamczak?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The brothers you and your friends murdered.’

  Raymond raised his right-hand index finger to his temple and appeared to be tuning in to something inside his head.

  ‘One voice is saying, I can’t remember. One voice is saying... No comment.’

  ‘I’m not buying this voices in the head theatre,’ said Clay.

  ‘Repeat the question, says a third I’ve not heard before. Repeat the question.’

  ‘How do you know Karl and Václav Adamczak?’ asked Clay.

  Raymond nodded, spoke to himself, ‘All right.’ He looked at Clay and said, ‘I’m listening. No comment.’

  83

  9.25 am

  Detective Sergeant Gina Riley hurried towards the main door of the chaplaincy at Alder Hey. A dark possibility had assaulted her minutes earlier and, in her head, its echo was loud and shrill. Who was the priest who left rosary beads for Marta?

  She heard movement behind the chaplaincy door as she knocked loudly. It opened and an elderly nun smiled at her.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked.

  Riley showed her warrant card and the smile on the nun’s face turned into a frown.

  She checked the NHS ID badge hanging from the nun’s neck: Sister Agnes.

  ‘Who are the Roman Catholic priests working in the chaplaincy in Alder Hey, Sister Agnes? I need to speak to them, to see them as much as speak to them.’

  ‘Father James is in the chapel at the moment. He’s the most senior priest. And then there’s Father Mike and Father Timothy.’

  Riley turned and saw Father James through the glass panels of the chapel, on his knees and apparently deep in prayer. From the back, he looked nothing like the priest who had visited Marta Ondřej.