by Rob Roughley
‘We pulled him in a couple of years ago; he’d been seen hanging around outside an infant school, so they called us in.’
‘Paedophile?’ Bannister hissed.
‘No, we searched the house, the man didn’t even own a computer and there was nothing to suggest he had an interest in young girls.’
‘So what was he doing hanging around a bloody infant school?’ Bannister glared, his lips twisted in anger.
‘He said it was on his daily route to a cafe in town. We checked and he went there at the same time every morning for a brew and cream doughnut, had done for the past two years.’
‘And you left it at that!’
Chadwick winced and took a backward step, convinced that Bannister was close to blowing his stack.
Lasser thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘What else could we do, I checked with the local health authorities and he’d undergone some therapy for depression, but that was all, there was no record of anything illegal.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Croft Street, it’s off Gidlow Lane.’
‘Right, come on, don’t just stand there,’ Bannister strode across the room.
‘What the hell’s the matter with him, I thought he’d be pleased,’ Chadwick whispered.
‘Must be the time of the month,’ Lasser mumbled before chasing after him.
35
Rachael smiled when she heard the light footsteps on the stairs, the telltale creak of old varnished floorboards. When Paul walked into the bathroom, she raised an eyebrow; the bathtub was almost full, a sea of bubbles covered the surface. Rachael slid a towel beneath her neck, for a moment her breasts broke the surface, golden, perfect her nipples standing erect.
‘So what did the police have to say?’ she asked with a smile, before sinking back into the water.
Sinclair perched on the edge of the tub and picked up a handful of bubbles. ‘They seem to have it in their heads that you are some kind of major drug dealer, Rachael.’
‘Oh, boohoo.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he smiled. ‘Fulcom put them onto you, but I had a word with our friend and he’s seen the error of his ways.’
‘Fulcom’s a fool.’
Sinclair blew the bubbles from his hand and reached down to gather more. ‘It makes me wonder how he ever managed to get the job in the first place. I mean, someone like him in charge of all those young impressionable girls, well, it doesn’t seem right somehow.’
‘Impressionable girls like me, you mean?’
Sinclair raised an eyebrow. ‘But of course. I mean, I’d hate to think of you left alone with that man, who knows what might happen?’
Reaching out a hand she trailed a wet finger along his thigh, leaving a dark stain on the tan cloth. ‘Do you think he might lose control, make inappropriate advances?’
He slid his hand beneath the surface of the water. ‘You mean like this?’
She smiled, as she felt his hand glide along her leg. ‘Honestly, what would my mother say if she could see you now?’
‘Your mother is downstairs emptying another bottle of Vodka.’
Rachael’s eyes glittered up at him. ‘It’s so hard having a drunk for a mother.’
‘And then there’s your father, don’t forget him.’
She arched her back, water slid over the edge of the tub, pooling on the black and white granite tiles. ‘You’re my daddy,’ she said and groaned.
36
Bannister ignored the man holding the red stop sign and blasted through the narrow gap. Lasser looked over his shoulder; he could see the figure shaking a fist, his face white with shock.
Bannister hit a couple of buttons and the blue lights beneath the radiator grill began to flash, hazard lights blinking on and off, headlights glaring. He gripped the wheel tight, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, the car barrelled back onto the dual carriageway and the bushes at the side of the road flew past in a blur of green.
At the Cherry Gardens roundabout he swung left, the car sliding as the wheels fought for grip. Lasser planted his feet in the foot well and gave a tug on the seat belt. Gradually, the detached houses gave way to semis and then terraced houses as they swept toward the town centre.
‘Next left!’ Lasser bellowed, as Bannister slammed on the brakes a cloud of black smoke poured from the tortured tyres, he yanked hard on the steering wheel, leaving a trail of rubber on the road like a shed snakeskin. Lasser closed his eyes as he saw them heading straight for the trees. The car lurched to the right, juddered, and then gripped the surface. Cracking open one eye, Lasser sighed in relief.
‘Number?’ Bannister growled.
‘I think its thirty-six, blue door.’
Bannister slowed to a crawl counting numbers on doors, thirty-six did have a blue door, the paint cracked and flaking. Lasser looked up at the house, grubby curtains hung at the window, the frames rotten and crumbling.
By the time he clambered from the car, Bannister had slammed open the gate and was striding up the path.
‘Hang on, boss!’
Bannister ignored him and began hammering on the front door, as Lasser reached him he was bellowing through the letterbox. ‘Open up, Brooks, it’s the police!’
Lasser headed down the side of the house, overgrown bushes grew close to the wall, the passageway scattered with leaves and empty crisp packets. The rickety gate was hanging off its rusting hinges. Trying the handle, he sighed and then barged at it with his shoulder, revealing a back garden overgrown with weeds and ivy. In one corner a dilapidated greenhouse leaned precariously to the left; he could see an ancient push along lawnmower embedded in the foot-tall grass. A water butt filled to the brim with scummy water stood by the back door. Peering in through the kitchen window revealed a darkened room that appeared derelict, the sink was littered with filthy pots and pans, congealed fat coated the cooker, and there was no sign of either washer or fridge. He could hear Bannister still banging and shouting on the front door, his voice muffled, though the anger was still coming through loud and clear.
Stepping back into the garden he looked up, the gutter was festooned with weeds, the windows too grimy to see through.
Bannister suddenly stormed around the corner of the house, eyes rabid with fury.
‘Break it down,’ he snapped and pointed at the door.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Don’t argue with me, Lasser, just do it.’
Moving forward he lashed out, the sole of his boot slamming into the door, it took two, three attempts, and then the old Yale lock gave way. As the door bounced inward Bannister barged past into the kitchen. Looking around, he grunted in revulsion before dashing down the narrow hallway. Lasser followed, the stench of the place making him want to gag. Bannister thrust open the living room door, the space contained a solitary chair, the arms threadbare, stuffing poking out of a hole in the back. An ancient-looking television stood in the corner, the top covered with a thick layer of dust. The floor was bare, no carpet, not even lino, just floorboards, twisted with age and riddled with woodworm.
Turning, Bannister elbowed Lasser out of the way and began to clatter his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. ‘Come on, Brooks show yourself!’
Lasser flicked on the light switch, but either the bulb had blown or Brooks had forgot to pay the leckie bill. By the time he reached the top, Bannister had the bathroom door open, the smell in the narrow landing was overpowering.
‘Jesus, what’s that stink?’
Bannister ignored him and stormed to another door. Lasser glanced into the tiny bathroom with a hand held over his nose and mouth. The lid to the toilet was partially closed, stopped only by the mound of human excrement that rose from the bowl, like a brown mountain range in miniature.
‘Fuck me,’ he muttered.
The shower curtain looked as if it had been attacked by acid rain, hanging in tatters over a bathtub lined with scum. When he saw the overflowing plastic bucket, he spun away, the bile risin
g in his throat, hot and bitter.
‘Sergeant, get in here!’
Lasser weaved his way down the gloomy landing and into the front bedroom. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was actually seeing, the room was too dark, but when his eyes began to focus he wished he were blind. The remains of Marshall Brooks’ body lay scattered throughout the room. Both legs lay by the side of the bed like artificial limbs; an arm tossed into the corner like an old dog bone. Bannister walked across to the window and snatched back the curtains; dust billowed in the butcher-like air. Lasser burped and fought down another wave of bile. The bed sheet was crimson and grey with gore, the torso half on, half off the mattress, the right arm attached only by a sliver of muscle and ragged skin.
‘Bloody hell, boss,’ Lasser hissed in shock.
Bannister grunted and looked back at the bed; Marshall Brooks’ head had been planted on the pillow, the lank grey hair spread out across the linen. His eyes had been removed. Lasser could see the flesh on the cheeks had run like wax under a blowtorch, the holes were a mass of swirling black flesh, burnt to a crisp.
When Bannister saw the pictures scattered across the bed he leant over and picked one up, it showed his daughter sitting in front of her bedroom mirror, a look of concentration on her face as she applied lipstick.
‘Bastard!’ Bannister lashed out, his boot thudding into one of the hacked and bloody legs that lay on the floor.
37
The normally quiet street was heaving with onlookers trying to get a closer look at the grisly proceedings; as a line of officers struggled to keep back the crowd.
Lasser had spent twenty minutes trying to get his stomach under control as he searched the bedroom. Along with the human remains, the floor was littered with discarded clothes, a couple of pairs of grimy jeans, a jumble of washed out T-shirts, a pair of worn out walking boots all tossed into the corner. The wardrobe had been empty apart from one shelf that contained three identical dark green sweatshirts, with some kind of badge sown neatly onto the chest. Empty wire coat hangers hung from the rail like the skeletal remains of long-dead bats. Bannister found the three photo albums beneath the bed, all containing a gallery of young girls, more evidence of Marshall Brooks’ sickness.
Carl from the SOCO team came out of the front door, a black evidence bag clutched in his hand.
From the corner of his eye, Lasser could see the sporadic flash of camera bulbs going off, even those who weren’t reporters had their mobiles out, filming everyone who either came or went from the house. Welcome to the digital age.
‘Don’t forget to look grim Carl, the world is watching; in ten minutes time you might be starring on YouTube.’ Lasser hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
Carl looked towards the crowd and shook his head, ‘Bloody vultures.’
‘So what do you think, is Brooks dead?’ Lasser asked nodding at the sack.
‘Well you can try and give him the kiss of life, but I don’t fancy your chances,’ he held out the sack and Lasser grimaced.
‘I’m a big believer in oral hygiene, so I think I’ll give it a miss.’
Opening the back of the transit van, Carl hoisted the bag into a grey plastic tub and sealed the lid. ‘You know, the head is one of the heaviest parts of the body?’ he said.
Lasser grimaced. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘It’s true; the average head weighs in excess of eight pounds...’
‘I don’t doubt it, now where’s Bannister?’
Carl pointed up at the house. ‘Upstairs, with Doc Molder.’
‘Right, I’m going to nip into the back garden for a fag, you coming?’
‘No bloody way. If he catches you, we’ll be taking you away in a body bag.’
‘Well, let’s just say that’s a chance I’m willing to take,’ Lasser said as he headed down the side of the house. Spenner and Black were already in the garden, slashing at the knee-high grass with long white sticks. Checking to make sure Bannister wasn’t hiding behind the water butt, he pulled out the cigarettes and sparked up, keeping the cigarette cupped in his right hand, like an errant schoolchild smoking behind the bike shed.
Closing his eyes, he blew the smoke out on a sigh, then the image of Brooks’ head reared in his mind and he snapped them open and swallowed. Above his head, the bedroom window suddenly clanged open and Bannister leant out, Lasser flattened himself against the wall and dropped the cigarette onto the floor.
‘This isn’t fucking Gardener’s World, get a move on!’ Bannister bellowed before disappearing back into the room. Spenner looked bemused and Black wiped a hand across his forehead. When he spotted Lasser under the window, he frowned. Lasser gave him the thumbs up, snatched the cigarette from the floor, and disappeared around the side of the house.
A minute later, head spinning from the nicotine rush he walked back to the front of the house, just as his boss bolted from the front door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I was just having a breather.’
Bannister looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Bullshit, you stink like a factory chimney.’
Lasser could feel his cheeks burning.
‘And what the hell are you still doing here, I thought I told you to get over to Hindley High and get digging.’
‘But...’
‘But what?’
‘We came in the same car, mine’s still back at the station.’
Bannister fumed and stormed down the narrow passage. ‘Black, have you got a car?’
Black looked up, ashen faced. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, Lasser seems to have misplaced his, so run him back to the station and then straight back here, understood?’
‘Right away, sir.’
The DCI turned to Lasser. ‘Make sure you come back bearing gifts, Sergeant.’
Lasser nodded.
38
The Headmaster of Hindley High was as far removed from Christopher Fulcom as it was possible to get. He sat rigid behind a cluttered desk; face like a battered old satchel, blue thread veins patterned his cheeks, his bulbous nose tinged blue.
As soon as he heard the name Rachael Bradley, his watery green eyes shut down as if the mains power to his brain had been tripped. ‘Yes, Sergeant, the name is familiar to me.’
‘Is it true she left because she was caught selling drugs?’
The sigh came again, longer this time; it was like watching a blow-up doll slowly deflate. ‘Unfortunately, that’s correct,’ he paused and shook his head. ‘Rachael was always a troublesome child.’
Lasser folded his arms. ‘That word that can cover a multitude of sins.’
‘Mm, and she covered most of them. In the end, I was left with no alternative. I mean, I’ve been doing this job for over forty years and in all that time I’ve only ever given up on a handful of children.’
Lasser looked around the office, the withering plants in the window, the dusty picture of the family on the desk, a man trying to hold onto a sense of normality in a world he no longer recognised.
‘And she was one of them?’ he asked.
Harper nodded sadly. ‘Let’s just say it’s no surprise to find you asking questions about her.’
‘Do you know what happened to her after she left?’
‘Well, I would imagine she’s either in some approved school or pregnant.’
‘Actually, she’s just finished her last year at Claremont’s.’
Harper rocked back in his chair, for a couple of seconds Lasser was convinced he was going to fall over backwards, legs in the air as he clattered into the filing cabinet.
‘Claremont!’ he blustered in disbelief.
‘I take it that’s a surprise?’
The Headmaster looked flabbergasted, as if he had just been informed that a porn star had jacked it all in to become a nun. ‘You could say that, Sergeant.’
Lasser looked out of the window; he could see a group of kids strutting across the playground. One of the lads made a lunge for a young girl’s breast and t
hen spun away laughing, the girl mouthing obscenities at him, set off in pursuit.
‘I’ve also heard a rumour that Rachael wasn’t just dealing to the kids...’
‘I don’t know where you get your information from, Sergeant, but let me assure you, there was nothing like that going on.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Harper straightened his tie, his eyes suddenly sharp with annoyance, ‘Because, I know my staff.’
‘So the rumours about her having sex with a couple of the teachers is also incorrect?’
Harper looked ready to pitch a fit. ‘Look, what is this all about?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
The Headmaster harrumphed. ‘Rachael was a difficult girl, and I won’t deny that one or two members of staff didn’t trust her...’
‘How do you mean?’
Harper pulled a spotted handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped at his brow. ‘Let’s just say she was very mature for her age.’
‘You think she was sexually active?’
‘Look around this place, you’d be lucky to find a virgin beyond year eight, and that includes the boys.’
‘And she made some of the male members of staff uncomfortable?’
‘Oh, Rachael didn’t like to discriminate.’
Lasser raised an eyebrow. ‘It wasn’t just the blokes?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Sergeant, I was glad to see the back of the girl. We’d been watching her for a while and when we discovered she was carrying drugs,’ he paused, ‘well let’s just say I took full advantage of the situation.’
‘To get rid of her?’
He nodded. ‘In a school like this there are always bad elements, there are the children who refuse to bend to the will of authority, and whose home lives are a disaster,’ he shook his head forlornly. ‘We try our best, but sometimes there’s nothing we can do. I mean, the majority of students want to learn and we can’t forsake them just to concentrate on the one or two percent of no-hopers.’
‘Rachael was a no-hoper?’
Harper lounged back in his chair as if warming to the subject. It was almost as if he were giving a lecture – ‘Teaching Today – The Wilderness Years.’
