Four Below

by Peter Helton

  ‘What is that place? It’s not residential, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s a local charity. A community centre sort of thing.’

  ‘No one in the building?’

  ‘There was no sign. It’s normally closed this time of night.’

  McLusky nodded, prepared to turn around on his crutches. He was tired and had lost interest.

  ‘It could be arson, sir.’

  ‘Could it?’

  ‘Someone reported hearing a crash. Broken glass. Just before the fire broke out. And the centre’s van was torched a few days ago.’

  ‘Was it? Okay, Pym. Let me know what the fire officers say once they’ve been over it.’

  He turned his car around and drove home. Once inside the flat, he flicked on the light and exhaled. He could see his breath in front of him. He thought he’d probably be more comfortable sleeping in the car.

  ‘I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure it was drugs money. He did get paid a lot, might have put it by over the years.’

  James Boyce had handed himself in as McLusky had counselled. This advice had earned him another rocket from upstairs, and he had to admit to a certain amount of relief when Boyce actually turned up at Albany Road, on his own, without a solicitor. Now in Interview Room 2, Boyce was contrite and co-operative. McLusky let Austin conduct most of the interview so there could be no question of animosity.

  ‘Is that what you want us to believe, or is it what you wanted to believe yourself?’ Austin didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Did you see any drugs in the lockup?’

  ‘No. There was nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t find some bags of yellow or brown stuff and put them aside for a rainy day?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t deal in drugs. There was nothing. I would tell you. I’m totally against drugs.’

  One of the things SOCO had found and didn’t need forensics for was a note band that had once belonged to a thousand-pound bundle of twenties. ‘And you found the money how? Presumably a hundred and ten grand hadn’t just been left lying around?’ Austin asked.

  McLusky spluttered as the tea he’d been sipping went down the wrong way. ‘Excuse me, back in a while,’ he said when he had composed himself. ‘You carry on.’

  ‘DI McLusky leaving the room,’ Austin said for the benefit of the machine recording the interview.

  Once in the corridor, McLusky hurried. He had exchanged crutches for a single walking stick this morning and had also managed to fit his left foot into a shoe one size too large for him, both items bought at a charity shop in St Pauls. Using the stick and walking on his heel, he hobbled along as fast as he could manage. ‘Like a demented cripple,’ Sorbie muttered to himself as he watched the inspector limp past the CID room.

  McLusky felt in too much of a hurry to wait for the lift, and propelled himself down the stairs. His haste drew an interested glance from Sergeant Hayes at the front desk as he clattered out of the door into the car park. The MiTo bleeped and unlocked itself. Only when his hand had closed around the handles of the carrier bag did his heartbeat begin to steady. He travelled back up serenely in the lift.

  ‘DI McLusky enters the interview room,’ Austin informed the recorder.

  McLusky liberated the gift box from the carrier. He commented on it for the benefit of the recorder as he opened the box and lifted out the cake, which seemed none the worse for having bounced around on the floor of the car. The money was tightly crammed into the hollow cake. He lifted it out, counting as he went. Most of it consisted of neat bundles of twenties, with only some rolls of mixed notes on top, secured by rubber bands. ‘Happy fourteenth birthday. One hundred and ten grand, accounted for.’

  Austin didn’t comment on the fact that it hadn’t arrived in an evidence bag until after the interview was wound up.

  ‘The money totally slipped my mind. Dead bodies have that effect on me.’

  ‘We have a preliminary from forensics on the garage, minute traces of heroin found in a storage box. You think Boyce is telling the truth? That he just found the money, not sold the drugs?’

  ‘Can you see him dealing drugs? I don’t think he’d have walked away with the money; they’d simply have taken it off him.’

  ‘Then it was his dad. But he walked away with the money.’

  ‘Yes. Donald Bice knew more than just how to drive a boat. Either he was aware of a consignment of drugs hidden somewhere and laid his hands on it after Fenton was securely inside, or it was hidden in the lockup all the time. And he was no street dealer. You know what street dealers’ cash looks like: bags of grubby notes. You saw the money. That came in one lump.’

  ‘And it’s about the right amount for two kilos of good-quality heroin.’

  ‘Exactly. But if he managed to walk away with the money, why was he killed?’

  ‘Good question,’ Austin admitted. ‘I’ve got one of my own, though: what makes you so sure the cycle-path bodies tie in? Especially the woman? She could turn out to be a rape or robbery victim. Beaten for her credit-card details, for instance.’

  ‘Did you see what she was wearing? If she’d had credit on her card, she’d have bought some decent clothes.’ McLusky saw Austin take a deep breath and held up his hands. ‘I know, it’s all pretty vague. In both cases the killer takes a lot of time over the killings and much less care over the disposal of the body.’

  ‘But at least the first two were buried. These were just dumped.’

  ‘That’s because they were killed for a different reason, Jane. Same killers, different reason.’

  Austin took another deep breath, but McLusky cut him off again. ‘No point arguing about it. Listen to the oracle. When forensics dig their lazy arses out of the snow, they’ll confirm it. Anyway, we’ve a more pressing question. Who’s the second cycle-path body? Let’s try and find out before a third one lands on the mat, shall we?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alison Laing jabbed the ball of tissue into her eyes and made an effort to stop sobbing. Constable Purkis, who was sitting opposite her at the kitchen table, pushed the box of tissues closer to her. The woman pulled out a fresh one and noisily blew her nose with it. She was glad they’d sent a woman; you didn’t have to try and be delicate around them.

  ‘We can’t be certain yet that it is Deborah.’

  ‘Debbie. No one calls her Deborah. But if she’s not at home and she didn’t start her job, then where is she?’ She had tried for two days to get hold of her, even went around to her place in St Pauls and leant on her doorbell. In desperation she had called the Bristol Royal Infirmary to see if she could reach her at her new job. And eventually she’d been told that Deborah Glynn had not shown up for work. Not on the Monday, and not today.

  The doorbell rang and Alison made to get up.

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ Purkis told her. In the hall, she used the spyhole and saw a fish-eye view of DS Austin, scratching his nose. ‘Come in, sir.’

  ‘How’s … erm …’

  ‘Alison Laing. Tearful. Any news?’

  ‘All bad, I’m afraid. We went to Glynn’s flat. It’s definitely been searched without any sign of a break-in, and the neighbours haven’t seen or heard her music since Saturday. Apparently she likes to play loud music. Hip-hop. The neighbours had noted the quiet with relief; now they feel guilty about it. She used to have a boyfriend living with her until recently. I’m hoping Ms Laing knows where we can find him. McLusky is still at Glynn’s place, grilling one of the neighbours.’

  ‘How’s his foot?’

  ‘Making him short-tempered and more stubborn than ever.’

  Five miles away, at a window of Deborah Glynn’s second-floor flat, McLusky was struggling to subdue his stubbornness and short temper as he saw DSI Denkhaus arrive in the street below. The super’s Land Rover was the only thing down there not covered in snow. Upstairs and downstairs neighbours were being questioned. SOCO and forensics still hadn’t arrived, and McLusky had sent Austin to talk to the girlfriend who had alerted them. He had hoped
to find a few minutes of breathing space, to get a feeling for who Deborah Glynn was and what had written a violent death into her life story, along with that of three others.

  There were more possessions here than in Mike Oatley’s place, more books, CDs and DVDs, only it wasn’t differences he was looking for, it was similarities. If they were here, they didn’t show up easily. Except that again papers were strewn all around a couple of box files on the floor, and drawers had been left open. If the intruders had found what they were looking for, then it was no longer here, and today it was beginning to get him down. He was profoundly grateful that the kettle hadn’t disappeared from Glynn’s kitchen as it had from Oatley’s. Strange events he didn’t mind; weird McLusky hated.

  Playing catch-up was a police officer’s lot for most of the time, with a few bright moments of ‘catching them red-handed’ thrown in, but he knew he was about to have his ear bent about the lack of progress and the tenuous connections between the killings, and for a brief moment he wished he’d stayed at Louise’s place, as she had urged, put his injured foot up on a cushion and let someone else have a go. He leant heavily with both hands on his stick and nodded at Denkhaus, who stepped gingerly into the little sitting room.

  ‘No SOCOs, McLusky?’

  ‘Imminent.’

  ‘She wasn’t killed here?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Again no sign of a break-in. Could be both knew their killer and let them in. The two could still be unconnected and the second killer simply used the same place to dump—’

  McLusky cut across him. ‘No. They were grabbed elsewhere, killed, dumped and their house keys used to gain entrance to their flats.’

  ‘We’ve not established that yet …’

  McLusky limped into the kitchen to the waste bin and stomped his walking stick on the pedal. The plastic lid flipped back. He reached inside and with his little finger fished out a bunch of house keys. He held them up for Denkhaus, who had watched from the sitting room. ‘We have now. Same place scene-of-crime found Oatley’s set.’

  Denkhaus still made a show of hesitating but was already nodding. ‘All right. Carry on.’ McLusky and his bloody conjuring tricks. He turned on his heel and walked out just as SOCOs and forensics clattered their gear on to the landing.

  McLusky lifted his stick and let the bin lid drop. He raised the keys dangling from his little finger to eye level and shook his head: a McLusky hunch that actually came off; well what do you know? He left the field to the white-suited army and had just started the engine of the MiTo when his mobile rang.

  ‘Deborah Glynn’s ex-boyfriend Gary,’ Austin said. ‘He was not a happy camper when she threw him out. According to her friend Alison here, they had huge rows about it.’

  ‘Yes, neighbours here said there were noisy rows.’

  ‘Apparently he picked up a couple of ornaments and threw them at her.’

  ‘Tut. Can’t have that, can we. Have we got an address for him?’

  ‘He went to kip on a mate’s sofa when he moved. Alison thinks he might still be there. Gary is difficult to shift, she said.’

  ‘All right, give me the address, I’ll meet you there. We can deliver the news together.’

  A small attic flat in St George. There was no door release. It had taken them quite a long time to get Gary Hunter to come down and open the door, then to persuade him to climb upstairs again before they told him what it was about. Made him sit down on the narrow sofa; delivered the bad news.

  Gary was a runt of a man with a narrow triangular face and large eyebrows. He was alone, his friend at work. The TV was turned on, the games console plugged in. On the screen, two Japanese warriors faced each other for unarmed combat, not quite motionless, quivering. Gary stared at it, hands on his knees, similarly frozen, his life paused.

  Besides the sofa, which had blankets and a sleeping bag rolled into one corner, there was only a fat blue cushion on the floor to sit on. They remained standing on either side of Gary, Austin by the window, McLusky leaning in the door to the hall. ‘Can we get you anything? Glass of water?’ Gary managed a tiny shake of the head. ‘I appreciate how it must affect you, but I’m afraid we’d still like you to answer a few questions for us. If that’s all right.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You two recently broke up; when exactly did—’

  Gary suddenly spluttered alive. ‘Murdered? How, how was she murdered? Why? I mean …’ He subsided, looking from McLusky to Austin and back.

  ‘We can talk about that later, when he have more facts. At the moment, all I can tell you is that Debbie’s body was found on the Pill cycle path. We need to establish some basic facts that will help us put this crime into context. I believe you used to live together until recently.’

  ‘Yeah. At her place.’

  ‘So that was her place. She lived there before you two met?’ A nod. ‘And you broke up when?’

  ‘Ten … ten days ago.’

  ‘She asked you to leave.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Threw you out.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? What, you think I killed Debbie because she dumped me?’

  Austin, who was blocking out half the light from the small dormer window, took over. ‘You had a row. Several rows. The neighbours heard you.’

  ‘So what? Everyone has rows.’

  ‘But yours were more violent than some. You threw things.’

  ‘She chucked stuff back. It was almost comedy, only she was really angry.’

  ‘You must have felt resentful. At being made to leave.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t exactly chuffed. I mean, what do you expect? I’m homeless now.’ There was a short pause, in which his eyes unfocused. ‘But I … I really liked her. Really. She was my girlfriend.’

  ‘When were you last there?’

  ‘I said, ten days ago.’

  ‘You haven’t been back?’

  ‘She chucked me out; why would I go back?’

  ‘It’s only that obviously your DNA will be all over the place. How did you make the move?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you moved, did you hire a van?’

  ‘A van? What are you talking about? No. Dan picked me up in his car. I don’t have much stuff.’

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Bloke who rents this place.’

  Austin’s mobile rang. He listened for a moment before interrupting the caller. ‘Hang on, Deedee, he’s here, you can tell him.’ He handed his phone across.

  ‘McLusky. What you got, Dearlove?’ He listened while his eyes rested heavily on Gary, who began chewing his nails, looking from one officer to the other. ‘Don’t read me the whole damn thing, just give me the gist of it.’ McLusky listened, nodded, nodded, then said: ‘Thanks, Deedee, excellent.’ He handed the mobile back to Austin and turned to Gary. ‘Can you account for your movements over the last weekend?’

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘All weekend?’

  ‘We were playing computer games. Ask Dan.’

  ‘We will. Okay, thank you for your time.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Gary asked. He remained sitting, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Austin followed McLusky down the stairs. They had to let pass a gaggle of students and a man carrying a BMX bike, which meant that only when they reached street level could he echo Gary’s question. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘What did Deedee have to say?’

  ‘We’ve been wasting our time here. Forensics are backing me up for once. The two in the woods and the two on the path were most likely killed by the same person or persons.’

  ‘How do they make that out?’

  ‘Something to do with bricks, apparently.’

  A hundred and fifty thousand. Why hadn’t he asked for more? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty? It might have to last him a lifetime. The phone call had been the scariest bit, much scarier than anything so far. Even though he had be
en close to him for months, knew his distinctive voice, had heard it many times on the phone too, the phone call had frightened him. He’d had a few drinks beforehand; that helped a bit. He’d written down everything he needed to say. Mouth dry, hands slippery with sweat. The voice changer he had ordered from the gadget shop really had worked: he had sounded like a woman, a distorted, electronic woman, but definitely female. He kept saying ‘we want’ and ‘we demand’, as though he wasn’t alone in this. And the big man had fallen for it. He’d called him ‘bitch’ and said ‘whoever you are’. Once he heard that, he knew the disguise had worked. He was so relieved, he nearly missed the next sentence completely. But the big man had agreed. To everything. Just say the word … reasonable … we can do business … as long as the picture gets destroyed. As long as no more strips go to the Bristol Herald. Time and place had been agreed. And if he saw anything suspicious, then the deal was off. I’m as anxious as you are … you have my word.

  That was when he knew they would kill him. A lousy hundred and fifty thousand and he was inviting them to kill him. Anxious. It wasn’t in the man’s vocabulary; it was an act to allay his fears. He had never heard him speak like that, not to anyone. Or could the picture puzzle really have scared him? Perhaps it had. It could definitely destroy him, force him to flee the country, have plastic surgery even. That wasn’t such a bad idea either. How much did a new face cost? he wondered. He had done his best over the past few weeks to change his own appearance. He had grown a beard, shaved his head, bought unfashionable, middle-aged clothes at the charity shop down the road. He looked older now anyway, just eight months on from the beating. It had aged him inside and out. Perhaps the big man would get a few grey hairs before this was over. He certainly hoped so. But first they would try and kill him. The age of handing over photographs was over. There were no negatives now to destroy; digital pictures could get endlessly copied and disseminated. Once you had been photographed, and as long as that image lived on a computer, you were at its mercy. That was why the man hadn’t argued; that was why he had agreed so quickly: they were going to kill him anyway. It was the only way the big man could ever be sure. Sweat pricked on his chest now as he prepared two more envelopes to send to the Herald. The big man had no intention of letting him walk away with the money? Well, two could play at that game.