by J. E. Mayhew
“I thought DCI Blake was investigating Pro-Vets, sir.”
“Nope. He handed it over to me once he realised his ex was mixed up in it. Good thing too, I reckon.”
“His ex, sir?”
“Don’t you ever listen to office gossip, Ian?” Cavanagh said, his eyes tracking the progress of a nurse on the other side of the ward.
“No, sir.”
“Well, you should. Listen when you spoke to Blakey, you said something about Pro-Vets having a lot of money going through its accounts from and to all kinds of companies, right?”
“At first glance, it seems to me that Pro-Vets is being used to launder money. I could be wrong of course but I think a deeper dive into the accounts might raise some questions. I bet you’ll find a lot of them are shell companies… with crabs in them…”
Cavanagh peered hard at Ollerthwaite. “You sure the drugs have completely worn off, Ian?”
“Yes, sir. Mostly.”
“You also told Blakey that Pro-Vets was paying an animal psychologist,” Cavanagh said, grabbing another grape, throwing it in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Can you remember a name?”
Ollerthwaite looked thoughtful. “Yes, it rhymed, ‘behaviour saviour’ or something like that. Why would a veterans charity hire a pet psychologist? I mean, I can see why they’d pay their main counsellor so much but this other woman? Seems odd to me.”
“I’ll remember to ask that question,” Cavanagh said. “How about the name Quinlan? Kyle Quinlan. Did that come up anywhere?”
“Yes. He was an executive director, nice little earner that one is, from what I remember. There may be a way to link Quinlan with some of these shell companies but it’ll take months, sir.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world as Barry White used to sing…”
“Louis Armstrong, sir,” Ollerthwaite said. “He sang ‘We Have All the Time in the World, not Barry White. It was from a James Bond film, On Her Majesty's Secret Service. The one with George Lazenby…”
“All right, all right, Ian, I don’t need a lecture. The point is we’re in no hurry.”
“Right, sir. Have they caught him, yet, sir?”
“Who?”
“Terry White, sir. The man who attacked me.”
“Sorry, mate, not my case. I think they’re still looking.”
“I hope they find him soon, sir. All that money spent on psychologists and it still couldn’t help him. He must have serious problems.”
*****
“One step behind him all the time,” Blake muttered, standing in the middle of Terry White’s flat. “What do you think brought him here?”
The uniformed police officer standing next to him reddened a little. “We think he came to get his medication, sir,” she said.
“Hadn’t it been logged and taken in as evidence? Jeez, at the very least, it’s hazardous stuff. They aren’t smarties, those tablets, are they?”
“No, sir,” the officer said.
“And you’re certain it was him?”
“He jumped out of the window as we came in. We only caught a glimpse of his back in the distance but there’s no sign of forced entry into the flat, so whoever it was had keys. We were assuming…”
“It doesn’t pay to assume anything, constable,” Blake said, staring out of the window. “It could have been someone acting for him or it may have been someone who stole the keys from him.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“I’m assuming you called for back-up to come and search the area, he can’t have got far if it is him.
“We’ve got people out there now, sir but it’s like he just vanished…”
“Or jumped into a car and drove away.”
“But, I thought he wasn’t able to drive, sir because of his condition.”
“It seems to me more and more likely that he has some kind of accomplice, constable,” Blake sighed. “How could he stay hidden for so long without any assistance and how is he getting around?”
“It would explain why we couldn’t locate him, sir.”
“Check with all the residents of the flat and with the houses over the road. Someone might have seen something.” Blake said. He wandered into White’s bedroom and sat on the bed. The killer was wandering free and Blake didn’t have a clue where he was. If there was an accomplice, perhaps they were connected with Pro-Vets too, all of White’s contacts seemed to have some kind of link to the charity. The pictures on the wall of Paul and Quentin had been photographed and taken down for further inspection and analysis. There had been some files and documents but they revealed little about the inner workings of Terry White’s mind and more about his inability to choose an affordable energy provider. In fact Blake wondered how a man who barely knew how to pay his gas bill could murder three people and avoid arrest for so long. That in itself was something of a conundrum for Blake and the accomplice theory helped solve it. But who in their right mind would help him?
His phone buzzed and he answered it immediately. “Mr Blake,” the vet said. “I’m sorry but I need you to come to the surgery immediately. It’s an emergency.”
Chapter 36
Taking the long route back to the garage cost a bit more in petrol but Noel had plenty of time to check he wasn’t being followed. His ankle throbbed as he pushed down on the clutch and, not for the first time, he declared himself too old for this game. He’d managed to jump out of the window at Terry White’s flat, but he’d landed awkwardly and twisted his ankle. It was a wonder his knees hadn’t given out as well. He was glad he’d parked the van nearby because he was able to hobble up to it and jump in. There was a woman over the road going into her house who glanced over at him but hopefully, she wouldn’t remember much about him, if anything. She didn’t look like her suspicions had been aroused.
Once he was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, Noel headed for Heswall and the old garage. It sat at the bottom of a long back garden down a narrow, unadopted lane. Feral plum trees and brambles more or less blocked it off from the main house which was in a similar state of neglect. Noel’s mate, Clifford, had made good betting on the horses and bought the house years ago but old age and slow horses had taken their toll on him too. Clifford didn’t mind Noel coming and going. Every now and then, Noel would drop in on Clifford with a few quid or some bottles of ale by way of rent, but Clifford seemed just grateful for the company these days.
Noel drove the van up the overgrown lane and grunted as he got out of the car. Most of Heswall had been smart and suburban for as long as he could remember but there were pockets like this one where neighbours didn’t watch each other or tut at the weeds growing in each other’s gardens, both literally and metaphorically. This was a great hideaway and Noel had stored some pretty hot goods here over the years before selling them on. Not that he needed much privacy, these days. He was more prone to the odd spot of shoplifting food when he was short of cash or had forgotten his card. Wincing, he limped over to the old wooden gate that marked the entrance to the rear of Clifford’s property. It scraped across the gravelly earth as he pushed it open.
Terry was still in the garage, standing at the back as Noel came in. He rocked back and forth nervously.
“Only me, Terry,” Noel said, setting down the pack of medication on an upturned box. “I got your tablets and I picked up some food along the way.” He set himself down in an old camping chair with a groan.
“Are you hurt?” Terry said, nodding at Noel’s foot.
“Bizzies came to your flat while I was there. I had to jump out of the window,” Noel said, pulling his boot and sock off. His ankle was purple already. “What did you do, that they’re so keen to catch up with you?”
Terry sat down and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hit a copper but yesterday, Quentin died. There was blood everywhere…”
“Who’s Quentin, Terry?”
“My friend.”
“And did you do it?”
“No. I
don’t know. I can’t remember properly. Everything gets mixed up with the past. Sometimes I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”
“So where was this Quentin when he died?” Noel said.
“In his house. Near where you stopped and picked me up.”
“And do you remember how you got there?”
“I walked. I’d been told to go there.”
“Who by, Terry?”
“The orders on the phone. I got orders to go there and wait for help,” Terry looked up as though a penny had dropped. “They sent me there and I found Quentin’s body.”
“Then you didn’t kill him?” Noel said. His heart thumped. He’d met a few psychos in his time, but he’d always been able to outrun them. Now at his age, stuck in this garage with a gammy ankle, he was a sitting duck. Terry didn’t seem like a killer, but what if he just lost control? Noel wasn’t a psychiatrist. He didn’t know if Terry was sane or not. “Who calls you and gives you orders, Terry?”
“They never say,” Terry muttered. “They just tell me to be somewhere and then someone dies…”
“This has happened before, mate?”
Terry nodded. “With Paul. I wasn’t there when Richard died. I tried to tell the police that Richard had been murdered but they didn’t believe me.”
“So let me get this straight in my old head, mate. You get a call telling you to go somewhere and when you get there, someone’s dead. Why do you go?”
“It’s Corporal Graves, see. He hates me. He can get into anyone’s body and control them. But every time a body he’s in dies, he gets weakened and if I burn an effigy, a bit of his soul dies too. They place the effigy for me, I melt a replica…”
“If you don’t kind me saying, Terry, that sounds a bit… crazy,” Noel said, easing himself into a standing position and putting the kettle on.
“I know. It is but it makes so much sense to me.”
“Does it make less sense when you take your tablets?”
Terry nodded and sighed. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I need help, Noel. I had a counsellor, she was good. I could talk to her, a bit like I’m talking to you now and everything made sense then for a while. She understood me.”
“Maybe we should find this counsellor then. See if she can help you,” Noel said. “Do you know where she lives?”
“I’m not meant to but I do. She lives by me. I saw her on the train and followed her home once. She’s called Nicola. Nicola Norton.”
*****
The Veterinary Surgery was only a couple of miles up the road and Blake employed the blue lights to get there in a matter of minutes. His mind raced, fatalism stumbling over panic as he imagined worse and worse scenarios. He couldn’t lose Serafina, not now, not ever. If she was gone, then he was cut loose from his past. Lost.
Abandoning the car by the roadside, he ran in, banging the door open. The receptionist gave a little squeal of fright. A woman sat hugging a dachshund and stared at him in horror.
“W-Will Blake… I’m Serafina’s… the cat… big Persian one…”
The receptionist’s eyes widened even more at the mention of the cat and she pointed mutely at the door through to the actual examination rooms. “Can I go through?”
The receptionist nodded once, still looking as though Blake was levelling a sawn-off shotgun at her. Blake nodded back and rushed for the door, bracing himself for the worst. He remembered all the times he’d accompanied bereaved relatives when they were required to identify a body. This wasn’t that bad. Not by a long chalk. “It’s only a cat,” he muttered to himself, grabbing the handle. But it was Serafina!
“It’s only a…” The low growl he heard as he opened the door was the most welcome sound he’d ever heard. Then things got strange.
“Please, no. Good pussy cat…” The vet stood on the examination table, holding a clipboard to her face.
Serafina, a ball of mad, exploded blue fur stalked around the base of the table like a tigress on the hunt. Her tail lashed from side to side.
In the corner of the room, a young girl huddled on top of a filing cabinet, desperately ensuring that no part of her dangled over the edge. It was quite a feat. Thin scratches lined her hands. She looked at Blake. “Please help us…” she said, weakly.
“Serafina,” Blake whispered, squatting down and rubbing his finger and thumb together as though he had a treat for her.
“Mr Blake, I wouldn’t advise…” the vet began to say.
“It’s okay, she knows me…” Serafina padded up to him and gave a plaintive meow, rubbing her head against his knuckles. Then she bit him, drawing blood before scrambling up onto his shoulder. “I missed you, too, old girl,” he muttered. He looked up at the staring veterinarian who hadn’t come down from the table yet. “Could I borrow a crate to take her home?”
“Absolutely,” the vet said, making no attempt to hide the relief in her voice. “I think we can assume she’s made a full recovery.”
*****
It was only two storeys but it was a fall that could easily kill. George Owens had been sitting on top of the Pro-Vets building most of the afternoon holding a bottle of vodka and a knife. PC Mark Robertson had spotted him from the carpark and called in assistance as well as phoning Blake.
“I’m sorry, sir. He was so insistent on not having any protection and now I can see why,” Robertson had said.
Blake had been at home just settling Serafina into her basket. The cat had become drowsy after giving him a few more scratches and bites. “Keep him talking, Mark. I’m on my way over.”
Owens had accessed the roof through a service door on the second floor. The office part of the building was a brick tower in the corner of the warehouse and the door opened onto a small flat roof. Owens had climbed off the roof and onto the corrugated metal that formed the warehouse part of the premises. The surface was smooth and slippery as Blake inched his way across it towards Owens.
“George?” Blake called when he got close enough. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t come near me,” Owens said, waving the knife in Blake’s direction. “Leave me alone. I’m ending this. It’s over for me.”
“I can’t leave you, George, you know that,” Blake said. “What’s happened?”
Owens threw Blake a disgusted stare. “What’s happened? My best friend has been murdered and now another member of staff too. That’s what’s happened.”
“I know that, George but what good is killing yourself going to do?”
“I deserve to die, Blake. It’s all my fault.”
Chapter 37
Kinnear’s house lay on a small, modern estate just on the edge of Knowsley by the M57. It was a detached, three-bedroomed property and they kept it spotless. Or rather, Chris did. A typical teacher, Chris was ruthlessly organised. Every activity was mapped out on year planners, things were stored in labelled boxes and woe betide a fleck of dirt that landed on the polished floor. Having said that, the mere presence of Kinnear meant that Chris was fighting a constant battle against entropy, so the house was always homely.
Right now, Kinnear sat in the car, not wanting to get out. He had come home early to go through some adoption papers with Chris. How could he go prancing in there and pretend he was all for this when he had so many reservations? He should have spoken earlier but that was no reason to be dishonest now. Chris deserved the truth. With a sigh, Kinnear climbed out of the car.
Chris had set out all the papers on the table so that Kinnear could look over them. He gave Kinnear a hug and settled him down.
“Okay, so these are declarations about convictions and health,” Chris said, leaning over Kinnear’s shoulder. “I’ve managed to cover up your drug cartel years, but they found out about your fungal infection…”
Kinnear smiled, wearily. Chris sounded so excited. “Listen, Chris,” Kinnear said, resting his hand on top of his husband’s. “I’ve been thinking…”
Chris hugged him. “I’ve told you about that, Andrew. It does you no good. You’ll start won
dering about the role of the police in a modern society and the effectiveness of prisons and then where will you be?”
“Just listen. I-I’m not sure we should do this. We’re both so busy and my hours are so unpredictable. How can we bring up a child?”
Chris settled into the chair next to him. “What brought this on, love?”
“It all happened so fast. And there’s work. We’ve been chasing these feral kids all week and it just made me think what kind of family life they might have. Honestly, if you saw some of the depravation and squalor and the useless parents…”
“But they aren’t us, are they, love? What we’re doing is lifting someone, a small child, out of that situation and giving them a chance.”
“And how are we going to do that with the hours we work?”
“I’m going part time, aren’t I? And your mum and dad are dying to help out. Mine too. Blimey, Andy, I thought we discussed this so many times. Were you just smiling and nodding while I went through it all with you months ago? Why didn’t you say sooner?”
“I was listening, but it just didn’t seem real. Now we’re a few weeks away from actual adoption and I don’t know. Is that so wrong?”
Chris pursed his lips for a second. “No. It’s not wrong. I just wish you’d got your head straight before we went so far down this road. I thought we were committed to Niamh. We were going to do so much for her…”
“But what if I get injured or even worse?”
“I don’t know, Andy. What if you do? What if I do?”
“I’m more likely to get…”
“I know that but it’s a risk I’m happy to take. And make no mistake, if you were killed, it would be me who would be left behind to cope and help Niamh. But that won’t happen and you can’t go through life expecting it to, can you?”
“No but…”
“Listen Andy, I work with some kids who have been dealt a really shit hand from the start. You know that. I see them too, every day and I know how hard life is for them. I work with kids who have busy, hard-working parents who love them, too. Those kids are safe and secure. It’s not being busy or taking a risk that changes a child’s life. It’s how much they’re loved.”
