Shooting Elvis

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Let’s hope the boffins can work their magic on it; then we’ll have him.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I agreed. ‘Do you want my log book?’

  ‘Please.’ I pulled it out of the drawer and handed it to him.

  ‘Charlie…’ he began. ‘I don’t know how to put this…’

  ‘Do I think the doc was killed because he knew me? How does that sound?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what I wanted to ask.’

  ‘I don’t know, Les. I really don’t know. I’m desperately trying to convince myself that he wasn’t, but it isn’t working. And I want some sort of low-key protection for my girlfriend.’

  ‘Is there anywhere she can go for a week or two?’

  ‘I don’t know, and it might cause her unnecessary alarm.’

  ‘It’s tricky,’ he said, ‘but we’ll organise something.’

  Les sat there, leaning forward, his hands clasped. He’s not a murder man, was out of his depth. I asked him if he wanted a coffee and he shook his head. After another minute or so he said, ‘The pathologist reckons it would have taken about fifteen minutes to saw his head off. He said it was done inexpertly. What’s going through the mind of someone who could do that?’

  I said, ‘Jesus Christ. Do we have experts in that sort of thing?’

  ‘His wife’s under sedation. She’ll never get over it.’

  ‘No.’

  He stood up and opened the door. ‘I’ve told them to give the cigarette end everything they’ve got; spare no expense. They’ve taken it down to Leicester University. It’s our best chance.’

  ‘That’s where the experts are. Thanks for telling me, Les.’

  He went away and I found the list of other crimes that had troubled the good citizens of Heckley in the last week. I read through them mechanically, and when I reached the end couldn’t have described any one of them. Sonia holds a level-four coaching certificate, and Cape Town University had offered her a one-year contract coaching their ladies’ athletics team. I told her to snap it up.

  If Leicester found any DNA on the cigarette we’d have him, that was certain. First of all we’d check the database, which had three million entries at the last count, and was growing daily. If that failed – if he wasn’t in there because he’d never been arrested for burglary, or wagged his willy on the bus, or asked a policeman for the time – we’d start a programme of testing the local population. Eventually, we’d find a match. It might be in ten or twenty years, but we’d have him. And the chances of us being wrong were one in ten trillion.

  Except for one thing. It was all too easy. I didn’t believe for a second that the murderer had a fag dangling from his mouth when he killed poor Doc Bones.

  ‘He’s called Norman Easterby and he’s done something similar before. Well, he groped an American sprinter, back in ’99. Letitia Pringle; you might remember her.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said. I was talking to a DI at HQ, who’d rung me to say that a sergeant up in Gateshead had recognised the figure in the wire spectacles. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘We’re having him brought down, then hopefully we can organise an ID parade. Do you think Sonia will be up to it? He should be with us sometime after lunch.’

  ‘No problem. She’s taken it well.’

  Sonia might have taken it well, but I hadn’t. I’d have to find an excuse to be at HQ when the inadequate Mr Easterby arrived. I was pondering on what I’d do to him when Sparky’s phone started ringing in the outer office. I dialled the intercept number and took the call. It was the editor of the UK News, asking for DC Sparkington.

  ‘I’m Acting DCI Priest,’ I explained, ‘Dave Sparkington’s senior officer. How can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Priest. Mr Sparkington said to speak to you if he wasn’t available. We have some information which may be of assistance.’

  I grabbed a pen, checked that my recorder was working and turned to a clean page on my telephone pad. ‘Fire away,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve had another phone call, about fifteen minutes ago. Same as before. Obviously muffled, with traffic noise in the background. He claimed that he was an officer working on the recent murder case in East Pennine division, and that it was the work of the man you are calling the Executioner. He says that the victim’s head was severed and cooked in the microwave oven. Can you vouch for the veracity of that statement, Mr Priest?’

  ‘No,’ I stated, ‘I can’t. And I’ll take all the necessary steps to prevent you from printing the information. Presumably you have taped the message?’

  ‘I understand your concern, Mr Priest, and assure you we have no intention of printing it. Yes, we’ve taped the message. The last one went to Tower Hamlets, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll arrange for them to collect the tape.’

  ‘That’s OK; we’ll send it by courier. All I ask is that you keep us informed of any developments.’

  ‘I’ll ask DC Sparkington to contact you, and thanks for your cooperation.’ I clicked the cradle and immediately rang Dave’s mobile. ‘Get your backside back here,’ I told him. ‘We need your expertise.’ Sometimes, I have to remind him who’s the boss.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord St Bertrand, owner of Sandal Priory, a stately pile outside Wakefield, thought a rock festival over the spring bank holiday weekend was a great idea, and so did hordes of fans. Thousands of them turned up, driving converted buses, VW campers and every imaginable vehicle that could convey a small family and their menagerie. A town of tents sprang up overnight, like toadstools in October, and the air was pungent with exotic fragrances that enhanced the potency of the music. For three nights the sky above the priory vibrated to the beat, and the fabric of the building groaned and creaked under the assault. On the fourth day Lord St Bertrand did his sums, decided the venture had been worthwhile, and looked out of his window to wave goodbye to the parting fans.

  Nobody moved. The fans decided they liked it there, and stayed put. Two weeks later they were still there. Complaints were made, strings pulled, and the police called in. Arrests were made for possession, social services notified of possible cases of child neglect, vehicles confiscated for being unroadworthy. They got the message, and at noon on the seventeenth day a convoy of assorted vehicles moved off the once-manicured lawns of the stately home and the good lord heaved a sigh of relief and poured himself a stiff one.

  The travellers had heard of Heptonstall thanks to Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and PJ Proby, and decided that the place held some sort of spiritual significance. Maybe it did, but their creaking vehicles could not cope with the one-in-three gradient, narrow cobbled streets and lack of parking places. They immediately decamped and relocated to a less spiritual but more practical playing field outside Halifax.

  Halifax immediately fought back. There was an altercation, involving police in riot gear, and many arrests made. Twenty-two recalcitrant New World travellers were being processed at HQ by a small team of over-stressed custody officers (‘Yes, sir, I have noted that you are a vegan’) when the unmarked car containing Norman Easterby arrived. They immediately diverted him towards the nearest vacant cell, which was at Heckley.

  I was arranging my magic marker pens according to their colours when the phone rang. Dave had returned and was at his desk in the big office, head down, on his phone. ‘DI Priest,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I was hoping to speak to acting DCI Priest. Do you know if he’s available?’

  It was my opposite number at HQ. ‘Hiya, pissquick,’ I said. ‘It’s an honorary title, strictly for the press. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing. I just thought you’d like to know that Norman the groper is on his way to Heckley. Our cells are full of hippies, junkies and assorted peace warriors. Come over if you fancy a party.’

  ‘He’s on his way to Heckley?’ I repeated.

  ‘Be with you in about fifteen minutes,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Right. Thanks for telling me.’

/>   I took several deep breaths, then moved the yellow to the left of the pale green. My mind went back ten days to the worst night of my life, and I had a pain, right in the middle of my forehead. I moved the yellow back to where it had been and looked in my drawer to see if I had any aspirins. Negative. Who uses yellow highlighter anyway?

  Something was troubling me. Unpleasant thoughts were making me uneasy. I looked at my watch and went into the big office. Dave was talking to the boffins at the Met about the telephone call, so I stood by his desk and waited. When he’d finished he looked up at me, saying, ‘They’ve had a listen and are convinced it’s the same person, but they haven’t done the tests yet so it’s not confirmed. And they’re onto the phone companies.’

  ‘Good. Keep on it,’ I said. ‘Here’s another little job for you. Can you get me a transcript of the television appeals I’ve done, please, plus the radio and the press, and also transcripts of the telephone calls from the Executioner? Anytime.’

  ‘No problem. We have them, somewhere.’

  ‘Cheers. I’ve just heard that they’re bringing Norman Easterby here. All the cells are full at Halifax.’

  ‘Blimey. When’s he coming?’

  ‘Anytime.’

  I stood at the window in my office, looking down into the street. The weather was changing, alternating between sunshine and showers, and a sprinkling of rain was blowing in the breeze. Umbrellas were out as shoppers darted between the mall and the market, threading between the stationary cars. The lights changed and the traffic came to a standstill on the High Street and moved off on Station Road, as if choreographed by some great Eric Smallwood, up in the sky. I sat down at my desk and sharpened two pencils, then stood up again and resumed my vigil at the window.

  They brought him down in an unmarked car, handcuffed to an officer in the back seat. As the car pulled into the car park I turned and strode towards the door of the big office. I heard the scrape of Dave’s chair behind me.

  I yanked the door open and headed for the stairs, my feet noisy on the tiled floor. I could hear footsteps following me. I took the stairs two at a time, the footsteps behind growing closer. I hit the door into the foyer and it banged back into the wall. I was through it before the rebound but heard it hit the wall again behind me.

  In my hurry I’d timed it badly. He wasn’t here. I stood inside the door waiting. A few seconds later he was there, flanked by two officers who dwarfed him. I didn’t care. Size had nothing to do with it. The hurt you cause isn’t related to your size. I took a step forward as a big hand clamped itself around my arm and Dave was pulling me away, placing himself between Easterby and me. The two big Geordie officers ushered their charge towards the custody suite and I shrugged off Dave’s hand.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve done me a favour,’ I said as they vanished through the doorway.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he replied.

  I went over the road for a sandwich and a mug of tea while Dave went upstairs to finish what he was doing. I’d have got away with it. They’d have said I was stressed, the red mist came down, I was at the end of my tether. Easterby, once his broken jaw had mended, would have gone along with it, to save himself from further charges. I’d have been sacked, of course, but it would have been done quite decorously. One day I’d have been there, the next I wouldn’t. The gap I left would heal over in a week while I’d be enjoying the benefits of a full pension. There’d be nothing to stop me going to South Africa with Sonia.

  The transcripts I’d asked Dave to find were on my desk when I returned. I read through them and they weren’t the damning evidence I was hoping for. Never mind, I thought. They’d do. I walked over to Dave’s desk with them in my hand. ‘Thanks for these,’ I said. ‘Are you in a hurry to be off at five o’clock?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘In that case,’ I told him, ‘be in Mr Wood’s office at that time, and bring Maggie with you. Don’t mention it to anyone else, though. OK?’

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘OK.’

  I was supposed to be off the case, so I had more time on my hands. I rang Sonia to organise our meal but she reminded me that it was her track night and she’d be late home. We chatted for a while and she said she’d have a pub meal with some of the others. I said I’d probably do the same.

  Next I rang Damian at the shooting range. As I listened to the ringing tone the door behind me opened. I was about to turn to see who it was when he answered.

  I said, ‘Hello Damian, it’s DI Priest. Things are a bit slacker, so can you put me down for the next suitable course, please, if you have any coming up.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Priest. We can fit you in next Wednesday and Thursday. How does that sound?’

  ‘So soon? OK, put me down, please. What about some extra practice?’

  ‘Monday teatime? Five o’clock?’

  ‘That’s fine, Damian. Five o’clock Monday. It’s in my diary and I’ll let you know if I can’t make it.’

  I swung my chair round and saw it was Superintendent Stanwick standing there. ‘Hello, Mr Stanwick,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘Just passing through, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘Organising some shooting practice, were you?’

  ‘That’s right. My authorisation’s expired but I don’t like leaving it to the men if firearms are involved.’

  ‘No, I can imagine you’d want to lead from the front. I hear that the kidnapper has been caught and you have him in the cells.’

  ‘We have. They recognised him up in Gateshead.’

  ‘A good result, hey? That’s what it’s all about. No doubt he’ll be put away for a few years.’

  He’d have been eating hospital food through a straw for a month if Sparky hadn’t read my mind. ‘I imagine so,’ I agreed.

  ‘I could murder a chocolate biscuit,’ I said as I sipped my boiling coffee in Gilbert’s office, five minutes to five.

  He took the depleted packet from his drawer and handed them over. ‘So what’s it all about?’

  I passed the transcripts over to him. ‘Have a read through those,’ I said, ‘while we wait for the others.’ Dead on five there was a knock at the door and Dave and Maggie came in.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ I assured them, when we were all seated around the boss’s little conference table. ‘It’s been plain for a while that information is being leaked to the press. It started with the photograph of Alfred Armitage, and the latest example was today, with the information telephoned to UK News.’

  Dave said, ‘There’s a bit of difference, though, Chas. Sending the photo of Alfred was just mischief, done for a bob or two, perhaps. The info about Doc Bones was different. That was from the person who alerted us to his body, in other words, the killer.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I turned to Maggie and slid my A4 pad across to her. ‘Make a list, Maggie, please. OK, what have we got? First leak is to the Gazette, with a photo of Alfred.’

  Maggie wrote it down. ‘Got it,’ she said.

  ‘Then I made an appeal on the TV.’

  ‘You want me to put that?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Then we received a phone call about Jermaine Lapetite. Triple nine, anonymous.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Dave said, ‘Then the same person, now claiming to be a police officer, rang the UK News to say that Jermaine had been Simonised, which wasn’t true.’

  ‘No. I then did another TV appeal and one for local radio. Put all that down, Maggie.’

  ‘I have done. What next?’

  ‘The call about the doc,’ Dave said, quietly. Like me, he was having trouble with the images that the mere mention of the name brought gurgling up out of the darkness. Up to then it had been a game, an exercise – it was what we did – and it aroused almost as little concern in us as completing the five-minute crossword. Until Doc Bones. We hadn’t had a wink of sleep between us since then.

  ‘Triple nine,’ I said, ‘asking for DI Priest.’
>
  Maggie wrote it down. Gilbert said, ‘And earlier today the same person as before rang the UK News to describe what had happened to Mr Williamson.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what do you make of it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Dave said. ‘My opinion of Professor Foulkes has gone up. He said the Executioner would be planning something special, and he wasn’t joking.’

  Gilbert looked at Dave, then at me. ‘So what will he do next? What’s Foulkes had to say about that?’

  I said, ‘Hang on, let’s go back to where we were. We’ve got a leak. That’s the first thing. Then we have the killer ringing us with messages. The first two were from the bus station, the next, about the doc, from a mobile. Chances are that the last one to the UK News was from the same mobile.’

  ‘They’re checking,’ Dave informed us.

  ‘Good,’ I went on. ‘I think we can forget about the leak of the Alfred photo and concentrate on the phone calls. About a hundred people had access to that picture, including dozens of civilians, and any one of us could have passed it on. It’s the phone calls that bother me. He claims to be a cop. What does anybody else think?’

  ‘Everybody’s a cop, these days,’ Maggie reminded us. ‘It’s the new rock ’n’ roll. There’s more crime scene programmes on TV than you can shake a stick at.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Gilbert agreed.

  ‘Dave?’ I asked.

  He was quiet, staring blankly at the polished top of the table. A patch of sunshine glowed like a Titian painting around his clasped hands. ‘I think he’s a cop,’ he pronounced, after a long silence. ‘Or maybe he’s an ex-cop.’

  ‘Explain,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can. He’s clever; knows enough to keep us guessing. And he’s inconsistent, changing for every job. We look for patterns, and he knows it.’

  ‘So what’s his motive?’ Gilbert asked him.

  ‘Who can tell? He’s killed three people that we know about and probably has three different motives. I’m not big on motives for psychopaths. Bank robbers have motives. They want the money. Husband stabbers have motives. They want to be out of a violent relationship. Psychopaths are different. He probably killed Alfred because of mistaken identity and he wanted to avenge that girl’s murder. Lapetite was different. The killer convinced himself that he was on a mission, ridding the world of rubbish. There’s plenty in this job who think like that.’