by Ryan Casey
“Then what is this?” Brian said, jabbing his finger at the poem. “Why would he send this to me? Why would I receive question marks in cards with the same red felt-tip pen months before any of this started? And another identical card today?”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting this killer is targeting you solely? Because although it does seem a little strange and there do seem to be some links, that would be somewhat…self-centred. Why would anybody want to target you?”
Brian shrugged. “Just get this to DI Marlow, right now. Check the envelope. Get any matches on the murder weapon. Check the handwriting and check the fingerprints. Oh, and check the CCTV on my road—Brooklands Drive—too. If somebody dropped this on my doorstep, then they’ll be on that tape from yesterday afternoon to this morning at some stage. Check it. Now.”
Stephen Molfer stepped back and rushed towards the offices. “Yes, boss,” he said, saluting Brian.
Brian turned away. What did he do now? Wait around and twiddle his thumbs? No. He’d call Hannah before work. Apologise for rushing off. She’d understand. She had to.
“Oh, Brian?”
Brian turned back. It was Stephen Molfer.
He smiled. “You’ve done good.”
Before Brian had the chance to add anything, Stephen Molfer slammed the office door shut and disappeared from sight.
Brian looked out of the window. Rain—a familiar sight for a Prestonian. He sighed as he rested his hands against the glass. One hour until he started his PCSO duty once again. One hour until his life returned to normal.
But fuck. Stephen Molfer had complimented him. Whatever happened, today was far from normal, that was for sure.
Chapter Twenty
The cafeteria wasn’t a place Brian frequented so much these days. It was filled with officers he used to work with, which always meant he’d have a bit of explaining to do about why he was now just a “lowly PCSO”, as well as bearing a fair brunt of the banter.
Bearing the brunt of the banter was a nightmare, especially when those dishing it out were the biggest morons imaginable.
But today, as he waited for his first shift back on duty to come around, he sat with a coffee in his hands on one of the tables by the door, just in case he had to make a quick escape. The cafeteria was relatively empty, but it would get busier as the morning moved into afternoon, as officer after officer took break after break.
Lazy gits.
He sipped his coffee and stared at his phone on the table. Every time the door swung open, he jolted his neck round in hope that it might be DI Marlow, or somebody else on the “Harold Harvey II” investigations. He wanted to know what their progress was on the cases. He hated being forced to wait around as if he was some sort of civilian like this. He needed to know what any of this had to do with him.
He’d called Hannah as soon as he’d entered the cafeteria and found a table. She was a little shaken up, but she understood his urgency to get to the police station. He told her to make sure she headed round to the neighbours, or just go out for a walk in a public place.
He wasn’t comfortable with her being in their house, not with this morning’s special little delivery. Not one bit.
The cafeteria door swung open again. Brian looked over. Two younger officers taking an early break, one with long, wannabe rock-star hair, the other with a peculiar Seventies moustache and a skinny frame. Slackers. They weren’t real officers, not these days. They were fakers. Wannabes. Kids in need of a power kick. It wasn’t the same as when he’d first joined the police. There was no pride anymore. No loyalty.
Brian grabbed his phone as the door settled again. He’d been toying with contacting David Wallson for quite a while now. Truth was, he hadn’t heard from him since the incident, aside from the occasional text. He’d kept a lookout for his name in the papers, but he was limited to NIBs—News In Briefs—and the occasional page-filler. Nothing major. No breakthroughs.
But this wasn’t about news. Oh no. He knew David Wallson had many sources, however questionably he may have obtained them. He needed to put a word out. He needed to ask a question. A question that the poem from Harold Harvey II had put in his mind and just wouldn’t allow to settle.
He pressed David’s name—now changed from the previously insulting version to a more simple “David W”—and waited. The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
“Hi, this is David Wallson from the Lancashire News—” Typical David, mentioning his profession on his personal mobile. “—Can’t take your call right now, so leave a message or drop us a text.”
There was a bleep to indicate that he was being recorded. Fuck, what the hell?
“David, it’s Brian. Hope you’re well, blah blah, whatever. Anyway, there’s something I need you to look into for me. I…I received a letter on my doorstep today. I believe it’s from the killer. Came attached with a photograph of—”
“Brian? You received a letter?”
David Wallson’s voice took Brian by surprise as it cut short his message. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I did. Why didn’t you—”
“I’m on Sherwood Way working on a story. Just taking a moment to slack off, so make it quick.”
“I accept your sympathies,” Brian said, referring to Marie. “But anyway—I received a letter from the killer. Photograph of Marie attached before she was decapitated. Came with a nice little poem underneath, too.”
“Holy shit,” David said. Brian could tell from the traffic sounds in the background that he was somewhere busy. “So he sent something to you? Personally?”
“Well, it looks that way. We’ll speak more later, but the main reason I’m calling is because I want you to do a bit of research. The poem talks about eleven rats being slaughtered, but one getting away. I wanted you to maybe take a look into the possibility that one of Harold Harvey’s 17th Century victims might have hopped execution?”
“Wait, wait—this is all so fucking much to take in. So you think…you think there is some kind of link and that the killer’s trying to reach out to you about it?”
The cafeteria door flew open. Brian jolted around again, but again, nothing but young officers, laughing and jibing as they made their way towards the drinks machines. “I don’t know. I really don’t. But there’s a real chance that the killer might’ve given their identity up by sending this to me. Which seems sloppy. Unusually sloppy. Anyway, I’m just waiting until I hear something, but please, if you could contact somebody or find anything out about a potential escape of that twelfth executed witch, please let me know. I think it could be the key to this whole case, I really do. I’m just not sure where the door is yet.”
“Leave it with me,” David said. “I know a guy who works in the media. Cody Ballenthine. You might’ve seen him on the news. Geeky-looking chap. If there’s something you want digging up in history, he’s the man.”
“Have you just given your source away to me?”
David hesitated. “This isn’t journalism. As much as I want it to be, it isn’t. It’s personal. This one’s on the house. I’ll be in touch with him and see what he can find.”
Brian paused. Right now, this was the best he could hope for. It was likely the police would find something before David did, anyway. But it helped. Couldn’t hurt to try. “I appreciate it, Wallson. I don’t trust you, but I appreciate it.”
“Whatever,” David said. “I’ll, er…I’ll see what I can do about the Luther stuff too. I haven’t bailed on all that, I promise you, if you’re still interested in having your name and reputation cleared, that is.”
Brian was about to respond when he saw Scott heading in his direction, fully kitted out in his PCSO gear. He had a wide grin, his head freshly shaven. He still had a scratch on his cheeks where Mr. Tibbles the cat had fallen onto his face over two weeks ago. Shit. It seemed forever ago now. So much had happened since. They had a lot to catch up on.
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“Listen, David—I’ve got to shoot. Be in touch.”
“See you—”
“Well, who’s been a badass old git?” Scott said, punching Brian on the arm playfully. Then, his face took a turn for the serious all of a sudden. “Hey, I’m sorry about your sister-in-law, mate. I really am.”
Brian shrugged. “Thanks. Just good to be back out of the house again. I think it’ll do Hannah and me good. We’re engaged now, y’know? Every cloud has a silver lining, and all that. Or platinum and fucking diamond, in Hannah’s case.”
Scott smiled a genuine, warm smile. He patted Brian on his shoulder again. “I’m pleased to hear that. I really am. And it’s good to have you back, anyway. Dealing with homeless people flapping their cocks about really isn’t as fun when I’m doing it on my own.”
Brian laughed. “Oh, the crap I’ve missed.”
“Anyway, drink up. You might’ve had two weeks off but you can’t start slacking off like the rest of these layabouts in here. We’ve got…well, cats to save from trees, and the like.”
Brian gulped down the last of his cool coffee and stood up. The door barged open again. And again, no sign of DI Marlow or anybody else on the investigation.
Then again, why would they come looking for him? What was he to the investigation other than a member of the supporting cast?
“Ready to rock and roll?” Scott said, grinning.
Brian smacked him on the arm in as masculine a manner as possible. “Lead the way, old dog.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Scott said, before opening the cafeteria door, the pair of them disappearing outside, onto the street, back to reality and normality.
“Bet you’ve really missed this shit, haven’t you?”
Brian plucked a chip from his carton. It was so soaked with vinegar that it stung his eyes; just how he liked it. Scott and he sat on a Moor Park bench eating their lunch. In the distance, a group of teenage skivers kicked a ball around. Taking a day off school, clearly, but they could let it go as long as they weren’t making any trouble. What good was school, anyway?
He chewed his chip as the wind picked up, the cold of November growing chillier by the day.
“I heard, by the way. About you and that Wallson prick running your own little side investigation.”
Brian stopped chewing. He stared at Preston North End’s metallic football stadium, looming over the park. Although it was cold, he felt a sudden warmth come over him. His only real mate in the police was pulling him up for his allegiance with a journalist—a cardinal sin for a police officer. He wasn’t sure what to say to absolve himself.
“Before you start digging yourself an even bigger hole, I get it. I think. I mean, you used to be a detective. You used to solve mysteries like the Pendle Hill and Longridge stuff from the front line, not from the background. And damn—even I found that case interesting, and usually I couldn’t give a shit about current events. Give me a box set of ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘The Walking Dead’ any day over that real-life shite.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I can see why you’d get involved. And then when…when it got personal. I can see why you might’ve wanted to try and go it alone. So yeah. Fuck the other officers if they think you’re a traitor, or whatever. I get it, bud.”
Brian felt cold again all of a sudden, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He picked up another chip and dipped it in his soggy side serving of mushy peas, also drenched with vinegar.
“Cheers, Scott,” he said. “Truth is, David Wallson offered me something that I wanted very much. It’s…It doesn’t matter, actually.”
“Don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Scott said, crunching a crispy chip. “Don’t need to explain owt to me. Those journos can be as tempting as the Sirens.”
The wind picked up. The kids playing football were forcing one kid to stand against the goalposts while the others smacked the ball at his arse. A situation that would no doubt need diffusing in a short while.
“I mean, we all have stuff we—”
“When I woke up in that hospital bed, burnt all across my legs, I’d just found out that Robert Luther had murdered Nicola Watson. He’d murdered her—flat out admitted it to me. Tied me up, drenched the place in petrol, struck a match. Luckily I had Location Services on, which is how Cassy—erm, Cassandra Emerson, you know—that’s how she found me.
“And then the next thing I know I’m being told by…by an old Detective Inspector that Robert Luther did not kill Nicola Watson. I’m being told that it was that nonce Michael Walters—like everybody else believes—and that Luther burned himself and his offices in shame. I’m being told to accept that story because it’s what the people want to hear. I’m being told to accept that…that Cassy saving my life…losing her own life, was all just because I was a clumsy, curious old fuck.”
Scott dangled a piece of half-eaten chip in front of his mouth. His eyes had widened behind his glasses. “I…I had no idea. I had—”
“David Wallson gave me the opportunity to make that knowledge public. Says one of his ‘sources’ got hold of some of Luther’s documents that absolutely proved for definite that he was the perpetrator. Held off going to press with it because again, the ‘interests of the public’, media dealings, all that. But he told me that if I worked with him to try and learn as much about these recent killings as possible, then he’d go to press. That’s why I did it.”
Scott was silent. He placed the chip in his mouth, but he didn’t chew. After a few moments, he swallowed it whole, then spoke. “Do you think that’s…Well, with them targeting your sister-in-law. Do you think it was some sort of revenge thing? Lashing out to put you off the trail?”
Brian stared into the distance. Autumn leaves and discarded cans of old booze rustled across the pavement in front. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think so. But deep down, I get the impression that the killer had some sort of interest in me long before the killings started.” He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. “Sorry, I’ll just…”
Scott nodded and returned to his remaining chips, his eyes wandering, clearly deep in thought with what he’d been told.
An unknown number was calling Brian. He held his breath as he answered. It could be anybody. Nothing was beyond the realms of possibility anymore.
“Hello?”
“Brian, it’s Marlow. I, er…Molfer gave me your photograph and little poem. Interesting indeed.”
Brian’s heart skipped a beat. He hopped from the park bench to his feet. “What do you think? There’s evidence in there, isn’t there? Tons of it, surely?”
DI Marlow didn’t respond for a few seconds. There were a few other voices around him. “Look,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’m not even supposed to be telling you this, but fuck it—you’re a good cop, whether you have the badge or not. And this has affected you personally, so you deserve to know. But we’ve got a match on the weapon in the image. It’s a cut-down executioners’ sword, which was likely used in the 17th Century for all sorts of executions.”
Brian’s heart raced. He walked up the footpath, away from Scott, away from the park bench. “17th Century. That can’t be a coincidence. It just can’t be.”
“There’s more. The description of the blade matches the decapitation wounds on both the torsos and decapitated heads of all eleven victims. We ran an enquiry on distribution of these blades and we managed to find out from a local weapon buff that these particular 17th Century executioner’s swords are impossible to get hold of these days. They’re rare, even in museums. But Leeds Royal Armouries reported one missing four weeks ago.”
“Fuck,” Brian said, pacing up and down the path. “Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence. It can’t be.”
“There’s, um…something else, too.”
“Fingerprints? Handwriting? What else has the fucker given away? Have you had CCTV checked?”
“Slow down,” DI Ma
rlow said. “It’s still to do with the sword. Couple of years back, completely unrelated case, we have record of theft and illegal possession of weaponry. Did a little digging and it turns out this particular nut job is an avid weapon collector. Had hundreds of the things stashed in the cellar of his pub.”
Brian’s mouth went dry. “Are you…Wait, pub?”
“Not only that, but looking back at the Royal Armouries CCTV, the suspected thief is wearing a familiar red hoodie from another crime scene. It can’t be a coincidence. We matched the handwriting, too. Turns out we’ve got loads similar to this from times this crook’s been locked up in the past. Brian, a certain Phil Mcphee is our crook. He’s the sword collector and his handwriting is a near-identical match to that of the poem. I just…I thought you should know.”
The phone cut to silence. Brian lowered it from his ear. He was staring into the distance, looking at the trees as they blew in the breeze, looking at the cars as they drove past, but it all seemed so distant. So far away.
“You okay, Brian?” It was Scott’s voice. That too seemed so far away.
Phil Mcphee. The fucker who, together with his brother, Tony, had locked him in the cellar of the Grey Goose pub with David Wallson.
Those high cheekbones.
Those yellowing teeth.
Those shifty eyes.
It was him. All along, it was him.
Chapter Twenty One
Brian stared at the Grey Goose pub. Through the leaded windows, it seemed relatively quiet inside. There was a slight flicker of the open log fire emitting an orange glow. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel of the car as traffic thickened on Berry Lane. He had to get in there and find out what was going on before the police got here.
He took a few steadying breaths. His hands were shaking. Really, he should just wait for the police to get on with things. But he sensed that DI Marlow had thrown him a line. And shit—he might be slacking off another afternoon of work, which could result in even greater repercussions than his mere two-week suspension last time out.
