‘OK, Mr Priest. You think that I killed this Lapetite character because he owed me money, right?’
‘Or had him killed.’
‘Or had him killed. Fair enough. Would you be kind enough to have a look in the second drawer of the sideboard over there.’ He pointed across the room.
I stood up and walked over to the piece of furniture he indicated. ‘This one?’
‘That’s right. At the back.’
I pulled the drawer all the way open and saw a bundle of twenty-pound notes at the back. ‘There’s some money,’ I said.
‘Could you bring it here, please?’
‘No. You fetch it.’
He struggled to his feet and took the bundle from the back of the drawer. They were twenties, about four or five hundred pounds’ worth. This was getting awkward.
‘Worried about prints, hey?’ he said. ‘Well let me demonstrate something. This is how I count money.’ He removed the rubber band from the bundle and pressed them out flat. The pile was about a centimetre thick. He licked his thumb and peeled the top note off, flicking it with his fingers like a card sharp, to make sure there was only one. ‘Twenty,’ he counted, ‘forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred, one twenty, one forty…’
I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say ‘when’ at an appropriate amount, so I said, ‘If you think I’m going to salivate at the sight of a couple of hundred pounds you’re sadly mistaken.’
‘And you underestimate me, Mr Priest. What I’m demonstrating is that my prints will be on any money I loaned your Mr Lapetite. On every single note. Did you find any money?’
‘A small amount.’
‘If we’re talking about the same person, I loaned him £1,500 a few days before he was murdered. Have you checked his bundle for prints?’
‘We will have done.’
‘There you go, then. Why would I have someone murdered who still had the money I’d loaned him in his pocket? What’s my motive, eh?’
Coombs was the type of person I joined the police to put behind bars. His credit agency was a front for drug dealing, no doubt about it. But he covered his tracks well. He had no contact with the drugs. He just put up the money. They did the dirty work and he charged ten per cent per week interest, at the minimum. Sometimes, when a big deal was going down, he’d make that overnight.
And I was going to have to let him go. It hurt, oh, how it hurt.
One of the searchers poked his head around the door, saying, ‘Come and have a look at this, Mr Priest.’
I asked a uniformed PC to babysit Coombs and followed our man through into a kitchen. The doors of the units were wide open and crockery was piled up on the work surface. The brief was there, and he looked a worried man.
‘Down here, boss,’ the searcher told me and I knelt next to him on the pale wood-laminate floor.
‘See this front row of crockery?’ He picked up a cup and saucer, blue with a white pattern, like Wedgwood, and lifted them out.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, could you pass me a cup from the next row. Please.’
I tried, but couldn’t lift one. ‘It’s stuck down,’ I said.
‘That’s right. It would be such a drag lifting them out every time, so they’re glued down. Now watch this.’
He gripped the woodwork base of the unit and pulled. It came right out, cups and saucers and all, revealing a big hole underneath the units. ‘How’s that for a cubby hole?’ he declared, his face pink with triumph and exertion.
‘And is that what I think it is?’ I asked, looking into the void.
‘If you’re thinking suitcase, yes it is.’
‘Get Coombs in here.’
We lifted the shelf of crockery out of the way and manhandled the suitcase from the hole. It was one of those plastic Samsonite-style ones, in a sickly lime-green colour, and weighed a ton. Coombs arrived, the PC holding his arm, as we heaved the case out onto the kitchen floor.
‘Key?’ I said, but didn’t get an answer.
‘Somebody pick it,’ I said, and in less than a minute the lid was thrown back to reveal the biggest sum of cash any of us had ever seen in one place. ‘OK, seal it again, and put it in an evidence bag. Let’s do this properly.’ I turned to Coombs’ brief. ‘I’d like you to attend the station when this is counted, sir. In the meantime, perhaps you ought to tell your client all about the Proceeds of Crime Act, 2002. I’m told that a Samsonite suitcase like this can hold about half a million pounds. That should be enough to qualify.’
The Proceeds of Crime Act is the one that puts the onus of proof on the villain. If he has in excess of £5,000 and can’t say where it legitimately came from, the balance of probability says it came from crime or was intended for a crime. It’s a civil law so we just sit back and let it take its course.
I reminded Coombs that he was still under caution, to keep his brief happy, and noticed that the grin had vanished. ‘Nice colour,’ I said, patting the lurid suitcase. ‘Matches your complexion.’
Back at the nick I telephoned our Regional Asset Recovery Team to let them know we were doing their job. There’s always a chance that you’ve blundered into a larger enquiry and scuppered the whole thing, but we hadn’t. Coombs was known to them but they had nothing on him.
It was a result. A good result. Under normal circumstances we’d be cracking open the brown ale and celebrating, but we were on a murder enquiry, and Coombs wasn’t the Executioner, of that I was certain. I looked at my watch and saw that if I hurried I could go for a run with Sonia and take her out for a meal afterwards, but then I remembered it was Tuesday, and her night for the track. I’d picked up the phone, so I put it down again.
Athletics is big up in the north east, building on the popularity of local heroes like Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, who won countless middle distance titles back in the Seventies and Eighties. The Great North Run is the largest sporting event in the world, with over 40,000 entries, and the Gateshead International Stadium hosts regular top-flight meetings, attracting the world’s best to the city. The spectators there are probably the most knowledgeable in the country.
But occasionally there is one who doesn’t understand where adulation ends and obsession begins. Letitia Pringle was the third-fastest female hundred-metre runner the world had ever seen, and she had all the looks and style of a supermodel. Lycra was made for Letitia Pringle, and she used it in ways nobody else imagined. Except, possibly, Norman Easterby.
1999 wasn’t Olympic year, so the athletic community were free to wander the globe, competing wherever fancy and appearance money took them. Letitia came to Gateshead and hit the headlines as soon as she peeled off her tracksuit. Her right leg was clad in red and white stripes, her left arm in blue with white stars, and there was very little else joining the two. The photographers abandoned the pole vault and jogged across centre field, dodging the javelins to get to her.
She won by a distance, not hampered by her lopsided costume, and the crowd went wild. She accepted the winner’s bouquet, waved to the spectators and turned to shake hands with her fellow competitors. That’s when Norman Easterby could contain himself no longer. He leapt over the barriers, ran forward and threw his arms around the bewildered girl. Afterwards, he said he embraced her; she said he groped her. It was a disappointing end to the day’s festivities.
Five years later the PC – now sergeant – who arrested him saw a familiar face peering up from the papers on the front desk. ‘What’s our Norman been up to now?’ he asked out aloud, as he reached for the photograph taken by the Heckley Gazette photographer. He read the accompanying report and request for information, wondered what some men saw in skinny birds, and reached for the telephone.
Emergency 999 calls come through to the switchboard at HQ where they are prioritised. The crank calls are filtered off and the rest designated according to resources. Blues and twos are dispatched where necessary, the rest have to wait. Ten o’clock Wednesday morning is not peak time for triple nines. Drunken slappers have usually mad
e it home by then, so they don’t ring to enquire about late buses; teenage burglars are still curled up in their pits; and suicidal loners are fuelling their depressions with daytime TV. So when the call came through with a message for me, the telephonist passed it on personally.
‘Read it again,’ I said.
‘He said, “Tell DI Priest to get himself to 14 Canalside Gardens, Heckley, as soon as he likes.” I asked his name but he was gone.’
‘And you said the voice was muffled.’
‘That’s right, sir, with a radio playing in the background.’
‘But it’s been recorded.’
‘All calls are recorded.’
‘Of course. Will you bring this to the attention of your supervisor, please, and have the tape taken out of the system and saved. It could be important. Thanks for letting me know, and I’ll get back to you.’
We have an out-of-date electoral roll hanging by a piece of string under the notice board in the main office, and a more up-to-date one available on the computer. The office was deserted, desks strewn with papers, outdoor coats hanging behind the door because the sun was shining, coffee mugs left where they’d finished with them. Screensavers revolved and swam and swooped silently, lights blinked on telephones, the morning’s tabloids poked out of waste paper bins. I unhooked the electoral roll and sat down at the nearest desk.
The tenants of 14 Canalside Gardens were John Wesley Williamson and Miriam Williamson. Doc Bones. Somebody was telling me to get down to where Doc Bones lived. And his wife. The bundle of sheets fell out of my fingers to the floor. The screensaver where I was sitting showed snowflakes hurtling towards me, as if I were driving into a blizzard, and I felt dizzy.
Back in my office I found his home number and dialled it. There was no answer. I wrote Ring me in big letters on a sheet of A4 and left it propped against Dave’s VDU, but as I burst out into the sunshine he was walking away from his car towards the front door.
‘With me,’ I shouted to him, and he changed course.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, fastening his seatbelt as I bullied my way out into the traffic. I told him about the call and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
Canalside Gardens is a small development of detached houses near enough to the canal to claim an interest, far enough away to avoid the flies and the smell. You could probably see it from the upstairs windows, but I wasn’t there to admire the location. Number fourteen was one of two across the end of the cul-de-sac, with a pair of pergolas dominating the front garden.
‘She must be the gardener,’ I said.
‘Not necessarily,’ Dave argued, adding, ‘they probably grow smelly flowers so he can appreciate them.’
We’d tried ringing again, sitting outside his house, and also dialled his clinic, but a recorded message told us that the clinic was closed on Wednesdays. The paintwork was bright and the garden immaculate, straight from an estate agent’s brochure, but the windows were dark against the bright sun, and implacable to our enquiring eyes. I didn’t know if Miriam worked. I unfastened my seatbelt and we walked up his short drive. I peeked through the garage window but there was no car inside. Dave raised his hand and looked at me. I nodded and he hammered on the door. Four hammers later he tried the handle with a fingertip and it swung open.
You’re never quite ready for the smell, but this one was more of a surprise than usual. The door led straight into the kitchen, and somebody had been cooking. It reminded me of when my mother cooked Sunday roasts. Dad was a roast beef man, and I follow his example.
‘Mmm, that smells good,’ Dave said, doing his Bisto kids impression.
We stepped inside and I shouted Doc Bones’ name. ‘John,’ I called. ‘It’s Charlie Priest. Are you in?’ but there was no reply. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. ‘You look down here,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a look upstairs.’
There were gaudy prints of Caribbean beach scenes on the walls of the staircase. I felt for each step with a foot, looking upwards, calling ‘John, are you there?’ in a wavering voice. There was something about the silence that unnerved me. At the top, on the landing wall, was a big glossy photograph of the doc in his prime, three feet off the ground as he dropped the ball into the basket. Slam dunk.
‘Are you there?’ I called, more quietly. A bedroom door was open and I was drawn towards it as if by magnetism. ‘John? Are you there?’
His bare feet were towards me, white underneath, and he was sprawled across the bed. ‘Doc? Can you hear me?’ I touched the sole of his left foot, but it was cold and there was no reaction. It looked as if he were asleep, with his head dangling over the far side of the bed. I moved round the bed, so I could check for vital signs, then realised that there was nowhere I could check, and it would be a waste of effort. My guts convulsed and bile rushed upwards to fill my mouth, as bitter as henbane. The doc’s head was missing.
I made it downstairs without falling, trailing my hand down the banister, stumbling on each step, mindless of it being a crime scene. As I reached the bottom I heard Dave retching. He was leaning over the sink, doing his best to deposit his stomach lining in it.
‘Don’t look,’ he pleaded, as I entered the room, his hand held out towards me. ‘Don’t look, Charlie. For God’s sake, don’t look.’
But I had to look, hadn’t I. I turned to where he was unconsciously indicating, towards the microwave oven. The door was ajar but not closed. I placed a fingertip on the corner and eased it open, and saw what was left of the good doctor, his big teeth grinning at me.
I grabbed Dave by the arm. ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ I could hear myself crying. ‘Let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here.’
We sat in my car for ten minutes without saying anything, staring blankly through the windscreen, trying to comprehend the horror behind the front door with its climbing clematis and pretend stained glass. Eventually I broke the silence. ‘Miriam. His wife. We don’t know where she is or what time she’ll be back. See if a neighbour knows if she works, Dave, and I’ll make the call.’
I rang Les Isles, acting ACC, told him it was a murder enquiry linked to the other two, and that I was too close to the action to make rational decisions. He said he’d get straight over and take command.
Sonia was scraping new potatoes when I arrived home. ‘Hi Chas,’ she called as I closed the front door behind me. ‘I’m in here.’ I walked through into the kitchen and gave her a peck on the cheek from behind.
‘Don’t do any for me,’ I said.
‘Oh, have you eaten?’
‘Erm, yeah. I’m not hungry.’
‘What sort of a day have you had?’
‘So-so. And you?’
‘Not bad. I managed half an hour on the ice wall this morning, and the run went well tonight. I went from work, halfway round the bypass and back again, on the cycle path. One of the girls – Amy – chased me on her mountain bike. In think I’ll train there more often, until…you know. I reckon it’s about five miles. Will you measure it for me, please, on your big map at work? I can always go further round, if necessary. It’s not as much fun as the golf course and the woods, but there’s always plenty of traffic passing by. I like running through the woods, and the golfers usually give me a wave, but it can be a bit spooky. I’m not keen on running in the woods on my own again. Not for a while.’
‘Sonia.’
‘Sorry. Was I gabbling again?’
‘No love, you weren’t gabbling. Come and sit down, please.’
I led her by the hand through into the front room and told her that Doc Bones was dead. That he’d been murdered, and his death was linked to those of Alfred Armitage and Jermaine Lapetite. I didn’t tell her that his head had been sawn off and cooked in the microwave oven. Sonia shed a few tears, said that he was a lovely man and that she owed him a lot.
‘And you, Charlie,’ she added. ‘Between you, you got me running again.’
I made a little ‘Huh’ noise, and said, ‘I’m off the case beca
use I know the victim. So that’s my news. That’s what sort of a day I’ve had. Now finish telling me all about yours?’
‘My day? It doesn’t feel important, now.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Tell me. Tell me, please. Tell me about what you had for lunch or what the other staff have been gossiping about. Tell me how the traffic was on the way home, or about the weather. Anything at all, please, just anything. Bring some normality into my life.’
‘I…’
‘You what?’
‘I received a letter this morning.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s from South Africa. My friend who coaches at the University of Cape Town. She’s pregnant and there’s a temporary post available while she has maternity leave. She says it’s mine if I want it.’
I didn’t sit in on the big meeting, Thursday morning, but I heard all about it. I may have been off the case, but the rest of the team weren’t. The doc had died some time earlier that morning from a single blow to the head, same as Lapetite. His head had been cut off with a pruning saw that was found in the bedroom.
‘He was a big man,’ I said. ‘It would have taken a bigger man to have carried him up the stairs.’
‘He was killed upstairs,’ Dave told me. ‘In the bedroom, near the bed.’
‘So it was someone he knew?’
‘Or someone who talked him into going upstairs. Those phone calls to the UK News claimed to be from a police officer. Maybe he pulled the same stunt, then asked to use the toilet; something like that.’
‘Mmm, I suppose so.’
‘I haven’t told you the best bit.’
‘Go on.’
‘A cigarette end was found at the far end of the landing, beyond the bedroom door. It looked as if it had been flicked there. It’s gone to the lab. If he’s left DNA on it we could have him. The doc didn’t smoke, did he?’
‘I doubt it.’
Les Isles appeared at my door, so Dave stood up and left. Les sat in the chair Dave had vacated. ‘Did Sparky tell you about the cigarette butt?’ Les asked.
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