The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Smell that,” Devlin said, passing the leaf to Mulronney. “And tell me you don’t smell something fishy.”

  * * *

  Hasson was at the edge of the woodland when Devlin struggled up the final incline to the road way, a hessian sack held in one gloved hand.

  “Have you found something?” Hasson asked, helping him up through the tree line.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “It’s a drag-hunt sack,” Hasson said, glancing at the object. “Some of our hunts are not allowed to track animals anymore, so we fill sacks with sponges soaked in gravy and leave a trail for the dogs to follow instead. Not as much fun, obviously.”

  “But nothing dies, I suppose,” Devlin said. “What about fish?”

  “Fish?” Hasson wrinkled his nose in disgust as Devlin opened the sack.

  “Smoked fish. Kippers, perhaps.”

  “We don’t use it, but it would divert the hunt, yes.”

  “So why would someone want to do that?”

  “To sabotage it?” Hasson suggested irritably.

  “Have saboteurs ever done anything like this before?”

  Hasson considered the question. “They’ve disrupted the hunts in various ways. He’s really the man you need to ask.”

  Devlin followed Hasson’s nod to where Michael Walker stood in the distance with a group of protesters, laughing soundlessly as he watched Devlin.

  The interview room in the station was stuffy yet, despite that, Walker seemed relaxed, sitting back in his chair, playing with his now empty polystyrene teacup while a Scene of Crime Officer took final swabs from his hands and arms. He pulled the cup apart, piling the pieces of foam in front of him. His solicitor watched him perform the act without comment.

  “You threatened disruption,” Devlin repeated.

  “We’re covering old ground here, Inspector,” the solicitor said.

  “Which is ironic,” Devlin replied. “Since the hunt today covered new ground. And lots of it. Someone laid a decoy trail for the hounds to follow. Using drag-hunt sacking and smoked kippers.”

  Walker glanced at Devlin and smiled.

  “Red herrings,” he said. His brief laid a warning hand on his arm.

  “Quite literally,” Devlin agreed. “It led Sean Cassidy to his death.”

  “My understanding was that Mr Cassidy fell over the quarry edge,” the solicitor said. “Are you trying to blame my client for that?”

  “I’m awaiting lab work,” Devlin said. “Unless Mr Walker wants to save me the bother.”

  Walker smirked again and turned his attention to the pile of polystyrene.

  A tap at the door broke the uneasy silence. The SOCO re-entered the room with a thin folder. He whispered something to Devlin, opening the folder and pointing to one of the sheets. Devlin nodded and thanked him.

  “So, Mr Walker. It seems your hands are clean.”

  The solicitor sighed and gathered together his papers.

  “Your wrists, however, just above the glove line, aren’t so much.”

  “Who said I had gloves?” Walker asked.

  “You have traces of talc all over your hands,” Devlin said. “The type of talc inside latex gloves. On your wrists and forearms, apparently, you have traces of fish oil.”

  “That proves nothing,” the solicitor said.

  “It proves you laid a trail for the hunt to follow. You led Cassidy to that spot. That’s reckless endangerment at least.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” the brief spluttered.

  “Nor will it help that the local Magistrate is a past Hunt Master,” Devlin added.

  Walker raised his hands lightly. “OK. I laid a trail for the hounds to follow. So what? I didn’t kill him though.”

  “You’ll take the fall for it though,” Devlin said. “The Deputy Master tells us you made threats to hurt Cassidy.”

  Walker shifted suddenly forward again. “Hasson said that, did he? Get me my camera. I’ve something to show you.”

  Devlin stared at Walker for a second, then nodded to the arresting officer to hand it back to him.

  “I admit I did lay a trail,” Walker began. “To disrupt the hunt. The dogs were almost on top of me though, so I panicked and flung the sack over the quarry, then ducked into one of the hides we use to monitor the hunts. I’d the camera with me. Anyway, Cassidy arrived and went to the edge of the quarry. He just stood there, dumbly, looking over the edge for the fox. It was like he couldn’t process what had happened to his hunt. I filmed him doing it; I was going to post something on the net, you know; him, the horse, the dogs – ‘which one’s the stupid animal?’ Walker laughed mirthlessly looking to Devlin to see if he shared his humour.

  “It’s not quite up there with Wilde,” Devlin commented.

  Walker frowned. “Anyway, he never heard the other man arrive.”

  Devlin leaned across and stared at the display on the camera, interested now. The only sound was Walker’s own harsh breathing, rustling in the speakers. In the small screen, Cassidy stood at the quarry edge. Then, from the other side of the shot, Hasson stepped into frame. He glanced around quickly, then approaching Cassidy from behind, he gave him a single two-handed shove, pushing Cassidy out of the shot, and over the edge.

  “It was no secret that he was jealous of Cassidy getting the Master’s position,” Walker continued. “Whoever gets it can make a mint with the connections it opens up. Cassidy stiffed Hasson over their business, then beat him to Master when they started up separate firms.”

  Devlin nodded.

  “Why didn’t you hand this in earlier?”

  Walker reddened. “Hasson will be the next Master. He’d scrap the hunts completely if he knew I had this.”

  “That’s enough to withhold evidence of murder for?”

  “To me? Yeah,” Walker said.

  “You and the hunters aren’t that different, after all,” Devlin said, shaking his head. “You’re both in pursuit of the inedible.”

  Walker stared at him blankly. “Eh?” he managed.

  MOPPING UP

  Col Bury

  * * *

  It’s always surprising how far brain and skull fragments fly from the back of your head when shot at close range. An odd mix akin to cheap ketchup and mushy peas splattering a whitewashed wall is never a pretty sight, but it can be perversely satisfying to see in this relentless process of mopping up.

  * * *

  “The Hoodie Hunter? He sounds like a real pussy to me, man.”

  “I’m telling you, Castro, he’s one mean muvver. Dunt fuck about. Takes out three at a time. According to the Sun, he once …”

  “The Sun? Rah, yeah, right, man, it must be true then.” Castro drew hard on his spliff. “C’mon, shock me. He did what?”

  “Well, they said he took out five in one go on the other side of town, but the cops denied they were all down to him, innit. Said it was gang shit.”

  “The Hoodie Hunter?” he said, disdainfully clicking his tongue on his teeth. “So he took out five hooded sweatshirts … in one go? Sounds like an aggressive shoplifter to me, innit. Hoodie Hunter, my arse.” Castro sneered under his own dark hoodie. Everything about him was dark, from his skin right through to his thoughts.

  Big-un was worried. All the papers had said this “one-man crime-wave” was responsible for up to a dozen hits this year alone, and he knew the net was closing on the likes of the Bad-Bastard Bullsmead Boys. They’d done some bad shit and this appeared to qualify them for whatever this crazy muvver was doing. He stroked a hand over the tattooed “B”s on each of his knuckles, signifying membership. “But, bro, he single-handedly fucked up the Moss Range Crew on the Westside.”

  “Rah, rah! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Those pussies? Blam, blam, fuckin blam. Heard it all before, man,” spat Castro, sucking the dregs of the spliff. He had to admit, though, their rival gang had been a bit quiet recently since their two main men had been smoked by someone. Granted, it saved him a job, but he knew it wasn’t any of his cr
ew. He’d heard the MRC had been branching out their business into Manchester city centre and had dissed a few doormen, so that was the most likely reason they’d been smoked and not this vigilante prick. He killed the weed stub in the ashtray.

  “Rah, bro. I had twos up on that.”

  “Fuck you and your bullshit, Big-un. You sound scared, man.”

  “Am not scared … just a bit … wary, innit.”

  “Rah, rah. A bit? Well, if that pussy ever fancies his chances, then I’m ready.” He withdrew the Browning revolver from his waistband and pointed it at an imaginary target. “I was fuckin born ready, man. Just ask Leroy Bright … or Mad-dog McPherson … or Lenny Jacobs …”

  Big-un knew he couldn’t ask them, because they were all dead.

  * * *

  DI Jack Striker had seen a pattern emerging. It was simple, but this guy must know someone close enough to access criminal records, as each one of his victims had been career criminals and menaces to society. He’d certainly done his research, having hit the bull’s-eye with each of his eight victims to date. The papers were calling him the “Hoodie Hunter”, and Striker had to concede that in the four months since this all started, the streets had become safer for Joe Public. Decent folk were off the killer’s radar completely and the vibes from media phone-ins, polls and news reports were, on the whole, edging toward being favourable to this accomplished assassin. After the initial bravado of the mini-riots from hooded demonstrators had waned, diminishing numbers of alcohol-fuelled youths were hanging out on street corners terrorizing their neighbourhoods.

  However, this was tempered significantly by the fact that Striker, and his sidekick DC Eric Bardsley, had had to tell eight mothers that their sons had been murdered. Striker could still hear the mothers’ screams now, haunting him.

  This was his first case since his promotion to the force’s Murder Investigation Team. Just his damn luck that it was the biggest murder case Manchester had seen since the notorious Doctor Harold Shipman. The pressure was mounting and, despite reinforcements being drafted in from outside the force, The Brass was not happy.

  Alone in his office, he continued scanning the fat file of statements and photos gleaned from the eight confirmed slayings to date. He must have missed something.

  The irony being, the Hoodie Hunter had done in four months what GMP had been struggling to do for four years. Striker castigated himself for fleetingly almost admiring the man’s work. Then, he swiftly reverted back to Detective Inspector mode and stared down at the fanned photos of dead sons.

  * * *

  He thought of his younger brother and bubbled with controlled anger. He’d learned to channel his rage into focus years ago in Kabul: an unforgiving place. He’d been watching the news and wasn’t overly impressed at being dubbed “The Hoodie Hunter” by the media. However, to the streetwise, the nickname did sum up his actions, he supposed, as he’d certainly sent shockwaves ripping through the hooded youth fraternity. And from what he’d seen of that Detective Inspector Jack Striker in the many press conferences, he did seem like a decent cop; another reason to focus.

  His latest reconnaissance now complete, he highlighted the last five names on the list, knowing exactly where to find them.

  * * *

  “He’s been quiet, Eric. Too quiet,” said Striker to the non-PC DC.

  Bardsley stirred the tea, splashing it round with the subtlety of a Sumo wrestler doing a pirouette. He rolled his eyes, his Scouse tones as bullish as ever. “Now you’ve gone and said it, Boss. Jinxing us with the Q-word.”

  “Well, nothing for ten days. You don’t start what he’s started and then suddenly stop. He’s planning something.”

  “He may’ve just finished. Had enough. Completed his … er … mission.”

  “Nah, there’s more to come. I know it. How’s our list of suspects looking?

  “Well, I’ve done four more today and, again, nothing too obstructive and all with solid alibis. I think DC Collinge has done a couple, too, with pretty much the same results. But we’ll keep plugging away, Boss.”

  The list of fifty possible suspects was drawn up by Striker and the Chief Inspector of the Operational Policing Unit based on intell’, and was just another tool in the investigation. It was almost certain the killer knew the area and had a decent IQ, which narrowed the possible perps down drastically. Nonetheless, frustratingly, without a DNA profile of this highly skilled individual, Striker wasn’t holding his breath on the list coming up trumps. But every angle had to be covered, including the remote possibility that the man was not even known to the Police, which would make things a whole lot harder. Striker also knew that they all slip up in the end, more so if they become prolific, as complacency creeps in, even with the best.

  Bardsley handed Striker a cuppa, a stray drop splashing on to a witness statement the Inspector was reading at his desk.

  “Shit, Eric!” Striker quickly dabbed the statement with the back of his silk tie. “No wonder Margaret does the brews in your house.”

  “That’s all she bleedin’ does though.”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  Bardsley said nothing, but Striker sensed there was more and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  “Well, I know I’m not the best hubby in the world. A bit brash, always in work … I am polite though … I always tell her when I’m coming.”

  Striker half-smiled, a tad confused.

  Bardsley continued, “But only problem is, I have to shout it because she’s upstairs in bed and I’m on the settee.”

  Striker grinned, shook his head.

  “If the truth be known, I’ve not had a shag for six months, Boss.”

  Striker was surprised at Bardsley’s sudden openness and briefly thought of his own non-existent sex life, especially since the first murder. But at least Bardsley had a missus. Well, one that was still with him. And, more importantly, he did still live with his kids, unlike Striker.

  “And with trying to catch this psycho I hardly ever see her.”

  “Nature of the beast, Eric … you could go back to uniform.”

  Bardsley stroked his greying goatee. “Fuck that! I’d rather be celibate!”

  Striker laughed, and at that moment realized that this was the first time his brain had had a conscious break from concentrating on the case. It also dawned on him just how much the whole thing was affecting them. Not only were The Brass – and himself – squirming in the incessant gaze of the media, but personally Striker had twice missed picking up the kids from school on his “arranged visits” and Suzi needed no excuse to block his access completely, such was her acrimony. He needed to call his solicitor some time soon.

  “Saying that, I wouldn’t mind getting stuck into some of those new probies,” said Bardsley with a pervy glint in his eye.

  And timed to perfection, as if God was both teasing them and refocusing them simultaneously, the porcelain face of stunning trainee detective Lauren Collinge peered round the door and both men stared agog.

  “Boss … quick … there’s an attack in progress … it might be our man.”

  * * *

  The call box door squeaked shut and he undid the top couple of buttons of his black trench coat; his funeral coat that held the memories which spurred him on. After a deep intake of the chilly night air to compose himself, he dialled the number. Three rings later and an official-sounding female answered.

  “Emergency services … which service please?”

  “Police.”

  A few beeps later, another female, same officious tone. “… Greater Manchester Police … which town, please?”

  “Moss Range, Manchester.”

  “What’s the nature of your call?”

  “It’s about that killer on the news … The Hoodie Hunter, I think they call him.”

  “Oh, really?” She sounded surprisingly unconvinced. Silly bitch.

  “Yeah, really.”

  “And what about him?”

  “Well, he’s attacking a l
ad on Moss Range Park.”

  “Oh, right … and your name is?”

  “That’s not important, but you’d best send someone down here … pronto.”

  “How do I know this isn’t another crank call? We get loads, you know?”

  “You’ll know when you get here cos there’ll be another dead lad!”

  “OK, OK. So how do you know it’s him?”

  “He uses a baton, right?” Silence on the other end. “Well, he’s using it right now. I saw him. It’s him. Listen …” He pushed play on his Dictaphone and intermittent screaming could be heard in the distance.

  “OK … can you still see him?” There was urgency in her voice now.

  “No.”

  “Can you stay on the line until we get patrols there?”

  “No.” With that, he hung up.

  He was beginning to enjoy this, and adding creativity had brought a sense of fun to proceedings. Thinking up new ways to outwit the police, and the fuckwits, had brought a new feeling of accomplishment to his work. And, he knew Striker and his cronies were as far away from catching him as ever.

  * * *

  “I’m off to drill me baby-muvver,” said Castro with a smirk.

  “Which one?” asked Big-un.

  “Laticia, of course. Need a fix of her Babylons.” His smile revealed a gold incisor.

  “Don’t blame you, bro.” Big-un pictured the said Babylons: impressive to say the least and well worth a juggle.

  “So meet me back ’ere in a coupla hours, OK? And bring some funds for tomorrow.”

  “Do I ever let yer down, bro?”

  “Never … so let’s keep it that way, man.”

  Their fists met in a show of respect and Big-un left Castro’s flat, then headed to meet up with the boys. They’d jack a few pissed-up students, inflict some pain, have a bit of Sniff, then go back to Castro’s to discuss business, like they did most nights.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, he was driving in the opposite direction towards the city centre, having passed half a dozen speeding police vehicles. Blue lights and sirens in full flow, plus a couple of plain cars carrying what he suspected were detectives. He could’ve sworn he’d seen DI Jack Striker amongst them.