Four Below

by Peter Helton

  Someone else had found him first. Even the team leader looked uncomfortable; he probably didn’t know he was grim acing. ‘I think that probably comes under the category of he suffered a sustained attack. Jesus, he must have pissed someone off.’

  For Fairfield, the sight confirmed that the first day off she had had in weeks was now irredeemable.

  Sorbie looked over her shoulder in the narrow doorway. ‘I’m glad he’s still wearing his underpants. Not sure I want to see what’s left under there.’

  ‘Is that the bloke you saw at the back of the squat in Easton?’

  ‘No, that bloke had a face.’

  ‘DS Sorbie …’

  ‘I really can’t tell, honest, Kat.’

  ‘Looks like they tied him to a chair but the chair collapsed,’ Fairfield said.

  The body lying in a large pool of blood and the splintered remains of a kitchen chair was naked apart from one sock and a pair of boxer shorts. Both had probably been white but were now saturated with darkening blood. Blood seemed to be everywhere: on the floor, the double bed, the walls, the flimsy curtains drawn across the window. Somewhere in the mess where his face had been, she could make out a blood-soaked gag among the exploded skin tissue and shattered teeth.

  ‘I’m not going further in there, obviously,’ said the drug-squad leader, ‘but I can see the handle of a cricket bat poking out from that mess on the floor. Bet that’s what did it.’

  ‘We can safely leave all that to SOCO.’

  ‘But it looks like McLusky got something right at last,’ Sorbie said.

  Fairfield whisked around and pushed past him towards the stairs. ‘Shut up, DS Sorbie, and get on with something.’

  Unaccustomed warmth greeted McLusky when he pushed through the door into his flat. The temperature in the kitchen would have been pleasant, even, had it not been for the fact that there seemed to be no air left. There was an unpleasant smell, too. The kettle, which had boiled dry a long time ago, sat above the flames, blackened, buckled and pulsing with red heat. He turned off the gas and, armed with oven gloves, carried the kettle to the sink. He managed to free the lid and opened the tap, and even while doing it knew it was a stupid idea. Superheated steam shot upwards and temporarily blinded him. He dropped the kettle; it jumped and banged and crackled and sent acrid fumes his way. ‘Marvellous.’

  His phone rang; it was Austin. ‘We have an ID for the flyover guy. We traced the serial number on the wheelchair, easy-peasy; it’s a Darren Rutts.’

  ‘Good job.’

  ‘And he lived not far from your place. Another council flat; Deedee already picked up the keys.’

  ‘All right, what’s the address? I’ll meet you there.’

  Despite the proximity, McLusky took the car. He passed the scorched community centre on the way. The burnt-out floor had boarded-up windows, and scaffolding had gone up outside. Austin and Dearlove had arrived before him. Dearlove handed over the keys and they entered the building in order of seniority. At the flat, McLusky rang the bell and knocked.

  ‘He lived alone, apparently,’ Dearlove said.

  ‘That doesn’t mean he can’t have his auntie staying over.’ McLusky used the keys and threw open the door. ‘Yup, they’ve been. Same scenario; place is a tip.’

  ‘Could be he lived like that?’ Dearlove suggested.

  ‘Not in a wheelchair, you nit,’ Austin said. ‘How was he going to get through that lot?’

  ‘That lot’ was a mess of papers and books tumbled off the waist-high shelves that ran around the sitting room. There was a desk that looked plundered, its door and drawer open, the contents of its tabletop swept to the floor. There was no computer. McLusky looked around for a telltale charger that would point to a missing laptop, but saw nothing.

  ‘Deedee, go to the kitchen and open the bin.’

  ‘That’s what I joined for: the glamour.’

  ‘See if there’s house keys in there.’

  Dearlove obliged. Half a minute later he reappeared, holding the keys aloft. ‘Well, what do you know?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Austin said, and snatched the keys off him. ‘Definitely the same bastards, then.’

  While waiting for the SOCO team to arrive, McLusky gingerly sifted through the papers strewn on the floor: bills, bank statements – no luxuries there – and correspondence with the hospital; no personal letters. A name caught his eye and he snatched up the dog-eared letter. ‘Well, we were looking for something to connect our victims – how about Mike Oatley and Darren Rutts having the same social worker? I just found an appointment letter from Mr Justin Hedges.’

  ‘They lived in the same area, stands to reason. I take it you want me to check if he had dealings with Deborah Glynn as well?’

  ‘Discreetly. I don’t want him prepared. In the meantime, I’ll try and meet up with him and see how he reacts when the name comes up.’

  ‘Stuff’s melting everywhere. I hate slush,’ Sorbie said as he got into the passenger seat beside Fairfield.

  ‘It might be melting, but it’s hardly balmy. It was freezing in that place with all the doors open all day.’ What Fairfield craved was to sit by the fire in a warm, spacious room lined with books – and she had an open invitation to do just that – but the day wasn’t over yet and their destination was Albany Road station for a lot of desk work. There could be a connection between Ian Geary’s murder and the series of killings McLusky’s team were investigating, but until there was any evidence of it, Geary was her case. It wasn’t much, but it was better than scooping up dead junkies. The lack of sleep was taking its toll: several times she had called the dead man Dreary by mistake. It was exactly how the day had felt, and the dirty melting snow squelching under the tyres just rounded it off.

  Fairfield instinctively avoided the Gloucester Road, forgetting it would be quite driveable on a Sunday night, and dropped south towards Albany through a network of familiar streets that took them close to her own neighbourhood. When she saw the lights of a large newsagent’s at a street corner, she stopped opposite and jumped out. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ she told Sorbie, leaving him no time to get in a request for a chocolate bar before she slammed the car door.

  Five minutes later she emerged on to the street with a box of matches and a tin of small cigars. She paused by the side of the road to unwrap and light one and sent a blue cloud of smoke towards the sky.

  ‘When did you start smoking? And cigars at that?’ Sorbie asked when she slid back into the driver’s seat.

  She ignored the question. ‘Open the window if it bothers you.’

  ‘It’s not that it bothers, me; actually, I quite like—’ His airwave radio coming to life interrupted.

  It was control, with a rare request. ‘It’s a burglary in progress, reported by the neighbour. Intruders still on the premises. We’ve no units near, but I can see you’re only about a minute away. Montrose Avenue.’ Control gave the house number and the name of the neighbour.

  Fairfield was already pulling away from the kerb, her cigar clamped into the corner of her mouth. ‘Bloody GPS, there’s nowhere to hide. It’s the bloody perpetrators that should be fitted with it, every sodding one of them.’

  Montrose Avenue was a quiet residential street of large Victorian semi-detached houses, many of which had had their front gardens turned into off-street parking. There were no spaces left on the street, and Fairfield left her Renault double-parked several doors down from the address. The couple who had made the call lived in the next semi along. ‘I saw them going round the back and I heard glass breaking too,’ the husband told them.

  ‘How many?’ Fairfield asked.

  ‘Two of them. Boy and a girl, I think, couldn’t be sure. Teenagers, by the looks of them; I only saw them for a couple of seconds. One of them had a sort of shoulder bag.’

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘Single chap, young, trendy. Must have a few bob, drives a BMW. We haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. We’ll take a look.
Please stay indoors.’

  They left by the front entrance and walked casually next door. Blinds were drawn on both floors. A narrow passage led past wheelie bins to the back of the property, where their way was barred by an old but substantial wooden door. Sorbie stuck his torch into his back pocket and easily pulled himself up and over. Fairfield followed with little more difficulty and landed noisily in the wet snow on the other side. Sorbie pointed his torch: footprints were clearly visible, leading on to the lawn.

  Fairfield was wide awake now. She hadn’t done this kind of thing since her apprentice days in uniform, and the prospect of catching someone red-handed gave her a thrill, until she realized with a start that neither of them were wearing their vests – both their bulletproofs were in the back of the car. Sorbie was stealthily following the footprints towards the back of the house. She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re not wearing our vests,’ she murmured into his ear.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I think we should go back and kit up.’

  ‘They’ll be gone by the time we get back. Got to do it now. I got my spray.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  Wordlessly Sorbie handed her his pepper spray and moved forward again. They could both now see torch beams dancing behind upstairs curtains. In front of them the kitchen door had its half-glazed window broken and stood ajar. Sorbie’s shoes crunched on broken glass as he entered the kitchen. It was large, contemporary and cold. They crept forward, keeping the pools of their torchlight small and close to their feet. They could hear the creak of movement on the upper floor.

  ‘We’ll go up in torchlight, then hit the light switches,’ Fairfield murmured to Sorbie. ‘If they jump out of the windows, please don’t go after them.’

  ‘No fear.’ Sorbie led the way, making sure of the Speedcuffs on his belt. The house was heavily carpeted throughout, muffling the sound of their stealthy climb to the top of the stairs. They could both now faintly hear a hissed exchange in the second room across the landing, where two torch beams danced. Sorbie tiptoed forward, keeping to the left wall, out of sight. He snapped his torch off. From what he could see by the intruders’ light, they were in the master bedroom. He was nearly at the door, Fairfield close behind him. Door opened right to left; the switch for the ceiling lights had to be on the right. He’d have to reach across the open doorway, but it would be quick. Surprise them, rush them. He could see one of them, standing on the far side of the double bed, zipping up a holdall. Now.

  Sorbie slammed a hand across the wall switch and the ceiling lights came on, dazzling after the darkness. ‘Police, stay where you are!’ Behind him Fairfield rushed into the room. Both the scrawny boy with the bag and the hard-faced girl swore in a continuous stream. Everybody’s eyes went to the gun on the bedspread, but the boy got there first. He grabbed it with his left hand and pointed it at Sorbie, then waved it from him to Fairfield and back. ‘Fuck you, f-fuck you. I got a gun. I know how to use it!’

  Sorbie froze. Here it was, then. He had always known it was waiting for him somewhere along the line, the strungout junkie with half a brain, and a gun, and a screaming, rattling bitch behind him. ‘Calm down, there’s no need for that; you don’t want to use that.’

  ‘I will if you make me.’

  Sorbie tried to keep his eyes on the boy’s face, but they repeatedly strayed to the gun. A Beretta. Was the safety off? He couldn’t see it; the boy was shaking, terrified, waving the gun. ‘Get behind me, Kat.’ He wasn’t being chivalrous. Kat had the pepper spray and her airwave; out of direct sight, she might be able to hit the panic button and get the spray out.

  The girl was dancing on the balls of her feet, clearly as strung out as the boy, and shouting continuously. ‘Col, they’re trying something, don’t let them fucking come near us, we got to get out of here now, fucking do something, shoot them, why don’t you fucking shoot?’

  ‘Col, you don’t need the gun; put the gun away,’ Sorbie heard himself say, while his mind raced and his insides knotted into a hard ball of fear. ‘Just keep calm and no one needs to get hurt.’

  ‘Go over there, get to the side,’ the boy shouted, waving the gun towards the wall.

  Fairfield and Sorbie did as they were told, slowly. Why hadn’t Kat got behind him like he’d asked? Is the safety on or not? Hold the gun still, you stupid jerk, just show me the button’s on safe and I’ll come and shove the thing up your arse. ‘Okay, Col, no problem, take it easy.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Col said. The gun swept aside, pointed straight at Fairfield now. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Relax, it’s just a cigar. I feel like a smoke, keeps me calm. Just everyone keep calm, okay.’ Fairfield’s hands were shaking as she touched the flame to the cigar and sent a few fragrant puffs towards the ceiling. ‘Want one, Jack?’

  ‘They’re up to something,’ the girl squealed.

  ‘Maybe later,’ Sorbie said. ‘I was going to watch Strictly Come Dancing tonight. But I’m not sure if it’s on.’

  ‘I think it’s on. Actually yes, it’s definitely on.’

  ‘Shut up, you two. Take the bag, Tam. We’re getting out.’ The boy moved around the bed, coming forward, his gun hand shaking. ‘You two are weird, fucking weird.’

  ‘We need to lock them up somewhere,’ the girl said.

  ‘We just go. Go now, I got them covered.’ As the girl squeezed past him out of the room, the boy shook the gun like a wagging finger. ‘Don’t you come after us. If I see you come outside, I’ll fucking shoot both of you.’

  Fairfield nodded, took the cigar from her mouth and stabbed it on to the boy’s gun hand. He pulled his hand back; Sorbie lunged forward, grabbed his arm and jerked it upwards. The trigger finger tensed, but the safety was on. Sorbie crashed his forehead against the boy’s nose, which split in a spray of blood, then yanked the Beretta from his hand. ‘Go, go, it’s sorted!’ he shouted at Fairfield, and threw the gun on the bed. It was premature. The boy was wiry and furious and struggled in his grip, lashing out at his face, then kicking his leg. Sorbie managed at last to twist the boy’s arm to the point of no return and forced him to his knees. He got one cuff on, paused to get his breath back, then finished the job. The boy stopped threatening and started whining. When Sorbie had his prisoner securely cuffed on the floor, he cautioned him, told him to shut the fuck up, then kicked him hard in the back.

  Fairfield came up the stairs, out of breath, carrying the shoulder bag. ‘I grabbed the bag as she climbed the fence, but she got away. You’ve got blood all over your face, Jack.’

  ‘It’s his. Where’s the fucking bathroom?’ Sorbie stepped over the now quiet prisoner into the hall in search of a washbasin.

  ‘Strictly Come Dancing?’ Fairfield called after him.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. It was all I could think of.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At his desk, Dearlove bit into his sandwich, sending a small squirt of salad cream into his lap. It was a home-made sandwich, an economy measure he now regretted, since his mouth was bored with it almost instantly. With his free hand he clicked his mouse until the Bristol Herald website appeared. ‘Shit, it’s true,’ he informed the CID room in general.

  ‘Whatever it is, I doubt it,’ Austin said to the kettle as he waited for it to boil.

  ‘No, it’s here in black and white: they had a fire at the Bristol Herald. Early hours of the morning. In the newsroom. Says here the fire service thinks it could be arson. No paper edition for a few days; damn, I was waiting for the next instalment of the mystery photo competition.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ Austin asked as he carried his mug of tea past him.

  ‘This is lunch.’ Dearlove lifted his tattered sandwich as evidence for the defence.

  At his own desk, Austin clicked the print button and sat back while the large printer across the room started churning out preliminary reports by scene of crime and forensics. His phone rang. It was social services returning his call.

  ‘Wonders
never cease.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said the female voice at the other end.

  ‘Sorry, talking to a colleague there. Did you get a result?’

  ‘I don’t know what you call a result. I am now in a position to confirm that Mr Justin Hedges has had dealings with all three of the names you enquired about. I must stress that I think very highly of Mr Hedges and his work. That three of his clients have met with a violent death just shows that we are dealing with very vulnerable people.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right; we simply have to follow every lead. I must stress again, though, that this enquiry has to remain confidential while our investigation is in progress.’

  Austin hung up and, carrying his mug of tea, went to see McLusky.

  McLusky’s tiny office was still in chaos. The other day, he had managed to lose his telephone in the mess; today it was the wireless computer mouse that was missing. He remembered the way the office had looked when he first set eyes on it: small but bright and functional. Now it looked like a skip and smelled like an ashtray. How had that happened? ‘Sit down, tell me something cheerful,’ he told Austin while he rummaged through the drawers of his desk.

  ‘Social services called back: Hedges dealt with all three of our unburied victims. Ugh.’ Austin shot up again off the chair and picked up the computer mouse he had sat on. ‘Not looking for this, by any chance?’

  ‘Genius. Give it here.’

  ‘Are we bringing him in?’

  ‘No, I want him relaxed. I’m meeting him at Darren Rutts’s flat. He’s been there recently, so no chance of contamination; his DNA will be all over the place anyway and SOCO are done.’

  ‘Then you don’t really think he’s involved?’

  ‘Who knows? He doesn’t have a van registered to him, I know that much, but then that doesn’t mean a thing. He isn’t known to us and none of the three had any drug involvement, yet they were killed by the same bastards who killed the two in Leigh Woods. And both of those are connected to heroin. There’s only one explanation. They were in the way somehow. They were witnesses. They knew something. They saw something they shouldn’t have. They heard something, they read something. And from what we know so far, Fairfield’s body fits in perfectly. Let me rephrase that: even without an autopsy, I’m sure the amateur dealer she found was killed by the same bunch.’