by Nick Oldham
This, he told himself, was why it had taken him a bit of time to realize that the electronic tag on the ankle of ‘Charlie Wilder’ was on the wrong leg. He instinctively knew something wasn’t right when Rik Dean arrested the man who was believed to be Charlie, but Tope had needed to sit down and work through it at a computer, with a nagging sensation in his brain which was confirmed when he discovered that the tag had been put on Charlie Wilder’s right ankle, not his left.
By that time, Henry Christie had come face to face with Luke in a cell.
‘Damn, blast and bollocks,’ Jerry had cursed after the event.
So after he had completed the required circulations regarding Charlie, he went back on to the security company’s website, hacked illegally into its database and went on to the GPS system that the firm used to track the movements of the tags, just to have a look at where ‘Charlie’ had been.
The system was very accurate.
Tope shot upright, grabbed his PR and called Henry, who he knew had gone back to Whitworth.
Roy Philips could not bring himself to leave Wallbank, his urge to find or assist in finding a murderer keeping him drifting slowly around the estate – just in case.
It was as he drove slowly along Westgate that he saw something slightly unusual.
A man walking along the footpath who, Philips knew, was rarely out of bed before noon – and after that he would usually be in one of the many pubs or clubs in Whitworth. A man Philips usually found staggering home drunk at midnight. Morning was very unusual for him. In fact the only time Philips had ever seen this man out in the morning was when he picked him up from a gutter, drunk, and drove him back to his flat.
The sighting seemed all the more odd when the man, who was walking towards Philips, spotted the cop, stopped guiltily, pirouetted and began walking the other way, as if the cop in the car wouldn’t notice this very suspicious manoeuvre.
The other strange thing was the supermarket carrier bag he held in his hand, which appeared fairly light, yet bulky.
Billy Stone, Roy Philips said to himself, what are you doing out here at this time of day, boyo?
Stone walked on, head down. Philips did not need to accelerate to draw level with him and within a couple of seconds he was lowering his window.
‘Mornin’, Billy,’ he called. Stone glanced sideways once, then continued to walk. Philips kept alongside him. ‘What are you doing out at this time of day?’
‘Why, is it a crime?’ He shook his head, mumbled something else, kept going, upping his pace slightly.
Philips was intrigued by the bag. ‘What’ve you got in there, mate?’
‘Nowt.’
‘Doesn’t look like nowt to me. I want to have a look. You stop walking right now, Billy.’ He swerved in and stopped.
Billy Stone suddenly burst into action. He swung the bag through the open car window and into Philips’s face, and ran. The bag burst open across Philips’s knees to reveal it was packed with wet, dirty clothing. Philips picked up a T-shirt; he held it up and saw that, as well as being wet, it was also bloodstained.
Philips threw the split bag and contents across into the front passenger footwell, then set off after Stone, transmitting on his PR as he did.
Billy Stone ran as if he had been shot in the leg. He wasn’t a man designed for speed, and his gait was rather like a painful lope and not terribly quick. Philips followed him on to Westgate Close and Billy ran into a garage colony that was a cul-de-sac with lock-up garages on either side. Philips smiled patronizingly, knowing he had the man trapped, because at the far end was a six-foot high concrete wall and unless Billy Stone was a hurdler, there was no escape on foot.
Philips was right up behind Stone when he reached the wall, where he stopped and turned, already exhausted, to face the front grille of the police car, his hands on his knees, looking as though he was going to heave.
As Philips climbed out of the police car, one of the armed response vehicles entered the cul-de-sac behind him.
Henry had done a lot of damage to Monica Goode within just a couple of minutes. But the truth was, he did not care. He had hurled the bloody fate of her brother straight into her face, no finesse, sympathy, empathy, using none of the skills he would normally have employed when delivering news of a death And his idea of using emotional blackmail had simply been replaced by a sledgehammer approach.
He wanted to give it to her smack between the eyes because he suddenly found he did not have the time, patience or inclination to coax anything out of her. He wanted to see her raw reaction there and then, which he got as he watched her world crumble. At the same time Roy Philips shouted up that he was chasing a suspect on the estate, but Henry turned the volume down on his PR once he heard that the man being chased was not Charlie Wilder.
‘So that’s it, then?’ he concluded.
‘Yes, yes … I don’t know where Charlie is, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I swear on Johnny’s life.’
‘But Luke came back here earlier and took some of Johnny’s clothes – and the ankle tag.’
‘Yes, but I don’t know where he took them or why. He wouldn’t tell me, and he threatened me, too.’
‘Clearly he didn’t go far?’
‘No, he came back soon after and got into bed, Charlie’s bed, and told me to shut my face.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said, half-listening to the chase that was going on. ‘I’m going to be back,’ he told her, ‘and we are going to have a very long talk, you and me.’
She nodded, tears streaming down her crumpled face. ‘Where is Johnny? Do you know?’
‘I don’t – but I do know he is dead … and for that, I’m sorry.’
His instinct almost made him reach out to her, but instead he turned and went out. As he walked down the garden path, he upped the volume on his PR and called Jerry Tope when there was a lull in the chase, which seemed to have reached a satisfactory conclusion, someone having been caught.
‘Jerry? What do you want?’
‘Possible location for Wilder, based on that electronic tag.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Sometime last night, between Charlie and Luke leaving the farm and us arresting Luke at Monica’s house, the GPS shows that the tag went from her address to another address in Fern Isle Close, then back again. This is presumably where Luke fitted it on his leg, somehow.’ Tope gave Henry the exact address.
‘You can be that specific?’
‘Well, only up to three metres. I’ve checked the voters’ register and a guy called William Stone lives in a flat there.’
‘PC Philips interrupting on that,’ the local cop cut into the conversation.
‘Go ahead, Roy,’ Henry said.
‘I’m on a garage colony on Westgate Close, boss. You need to get round here and see this, urgently – I’ve got that William Stone here now.’
‘Less than two minutes,’ Henry said, sprinting to the Audi.
He swerved on to the garage colony, slamming on to stop behind a Ford Galaxy – the armed response vehicle – parked behind Roy Philips’s car. Philips was holding a man by the concrete fence at the end of the cul-de-sac. Henry walked over.
‘This is Billy Stone,’ Philips said, giving Billy a little shake. ‘Lives at the address on Fern Isle Close.’
‘What happened?’ Henry asked, bending his knees slightly to look up into Billy’s sagging face, seeing a vivid map of broken capillaries spread over a slightly bulbous nose and, like a spider’s web, across his ruddy cheeks. The classic look of an alcoholic, one who drinks a lot of cider.
‘I saw him walking,’ Philips said. ‘Odd at this time of day, but even odder that he wouldn’t stop for a chat. He had a plastic carrier bag in his hand which he wouldn’t let me look in and he did a runner, but he wasn’t hard to catch, were you mate?’
Stone raised his head miserably, still trying to catch his breath, his lungs rasping.
‘The plastic bag’s in my car; unfortunately it burst when he threw it
at me. Have a look, boss.’
Henry took a few steps back to Philips’s car, reached in through the driver’s door and pulled out an item of clothing. With a finger and thumb he lifted it up, then unfolded it between his hands.
A Metallica T-shirt. Splashed with blood.
Charlie Wilder’s Metallica T-shirt.
As if he had ice spreading through him, Henry suddenly became cold.
Billy Stone watched him worriedly.
Henry came up to him. ‘I take it you were disposing of this stuff for him?’
‘Look, sir,’ Billy pleaded, ‘I don’t even know the guy, he just came round with his brother a few hours ago. Honest, I don’t even know him. I know Luke, yes—’
‘What are you doing with his clothing?’
‘I’m just … I’m just …’
Philips gave him a shake to get him to spit it out. ‘Just what, Billy?’
‘We know what you’re doing, Billy,’ Henry said. ‘You’re an accomplice – to murder, now.’ Billy’s eyes opened wide. ‘But what I want to know is this: is he still in your flat?’
‘Have you ever killed anybody?’
DCI Rik Dean stood in the open cell doorway, looking into the insolent eyes of Luke Wilder. Luke was sitting on the edge of the cell bed, his elbows on his knees, his face resting in his cupped hands.
Jerry Tope stood a couple of feet behind Rik with a sheet of paper in his hand.
The faces of the detectives were serious.
‘I’m not talking,’ the prisoner said.
Since his true identity had been discovered, Luke had been put through the custody system again, though this time he refused to divulge anything, his name, address or date of birth.
‘That’s fine, Luke, don’t have a problem with that.’
Luke yawned to give the impression he was bored rigid with the situation. But he was getting weary now; he wanted to sleep and his resistance was waning. That did not bother him too much because he knew that the law required the police to let him have eight hours of uninterrupted rest. They had no choice but to let him sleep, which would give Charlie even more time to do what he needed to do and then scarper.
‘So, coming back to my question: have you ever killed anybody?’ Rik asked. Luke gave him a lopsided grin.
‘I don’t mean, were you a passenger in the car that ran over and killed that prison guard yesterday morning, which I know you were and I will prove in due course. I know Charlie was driving. I know you were the passenger – but that’s on the back burner for an hour or two.’
Luke blinked, outwardly showing nothing. Inside, his guts churned sickeningly. ‘Saying nowt.’
‘That’s fine, Luke. This isn’t a formal interview anyway, it’s not on the record, it’s just an information sharing exercise, but I still need to know something: to the best of your knowledge, have you ever killed anyone? You know, actually directly killed someone?’
Rik saw Luke’s nostrils dilating as he wondered where this was leading.
Eventually Luke said, ‘No.’
‘Good,’ Rik said. ‘Because have you ever thought what it might be like to snuff out a life? Take everything from someone? Take them from their family. Take them from their future … destroy a family … you know, stuff like that?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I mean, we know Charlie has. He’s a psycho and he loves it, but you, I don’t see that. Not to that degree. Charlie kills and you just watch, eh?’
No response, other than a yawn again.
‘I mean, to knock someone around, show you’re a man – that’s one thing, isn’t it? But to leave them dead, that’s a whole different agenda, isn’t it?’
Luke pushed himself to the back edge of the bed, leaned against the cell wall.
‘Isn’t it, Luke?’
‘Whatever.’
‘The thing is this, Luke. Before I tell you the next thing, I want you to know that if you help us, we can help you – and that’s a promise.’ Rik turned to Tope, stepped back and allowed him to take up position at the cell door with the sheet of paper in his hands.
‘Luke, we just want you to know something,’ Tope said. ‘We know that you and your gang – which incidentally now only numbers two – carried out an armed robbery at a convenience store in Rochdale yesterday afternoon. As you know, the store owner was shot dead—’
‘I didn’t—’ Luke began to protest.
Tope held up a finger. ‘Let me finish, I hate being over-talked. During that robbery, the daughter of the store owner was brutally assaulted – by you, Luke Wilder. We know that – but what you don’t know is that she died of horrific brain injuries one hour ago, because you kicked her to death.’
Luke’s chin dropped.
‘You took everything away from that young girl and destroyed a family, you and Charlie.’ Tope gave Luke a quick nod, stepped back, and Rik took his place.
‘So you have killed someone, Luke – but here’s the crux: I want you to have a think about all this and then, when you’re ready, speak to us and tell us all you can about Charlie, where he is and what his plans are, OK?’
With a bright smile, Rik slammed the cell door shut.
He and Jerry walked side by side down the corridor towards the custody desk.
Rik started counting. ‘One … two … three …’
On ‘six’ there was a pounding from Luke’s cell.
Rik said, ‘Owe you a quid – I was certain it would be on three.’
NINETEEN
Earlier, Charlie had given Luke five minutes to get back to Monica’s, then reloaded the shotgun with the last two cartridges he had left. That didn’t bother him because that was all he would need. He had no intention of getting his head down.
Billy Stone watched him slide the ammunition into the barrels and click the weapon closed. ‘Safety catch?’ Billy asked, even though he knew nothing about firearms.
‘Hacksawed off,’ Charlie said, holding up the gun and showing Billy the rough saw marks. He placed the gun on the kitchen table and asked Billy if he had a big coat of some sort. Billy opened the pantry door on the back of which swung his few coats. He picked a parka type and handed it over.
‘Nice one,’ Charlie said, slipping into it, then sliding the shotgun down the left sleeve to see if he could hide it there – more or less – and if there was room to let it slide out into the grip of his left hand. It was just a bit tight as it came through the hole. He looked at Billy. ‘Need to cut it. Scissors, please.’
Billy rummaged in the cutlery drawer and found a pair of blunt ones. Charlie held out his left arm, the palm of his hand facing upwards to expose the seam running up the inner side of the sleeve.
‘Four inches should do it.’
‘Me, cut it?’
‘Yes, you.’
Billy’s hands shook as he took hold of the sleeve and snipped at the stitching to loosen it. He stood back to admire his handiwork as Charlie slid the shotgun up and down the sleeve into his hand and back again, nodding with satisfaction.
‘Nice, that, just the job.’
‘Cost me, that did, that coat,’ Billy said, knowing he was being brave and cheeky, but when Charlie peeled off a twenty from his roll of notes – the take from the convenience store robbery – he was glad he’d asked.
‘Thank you Billy. Just one last thing.’ Charlie pointed to the pile of discarded clothing. ‘That lot needs to go, never to come back again. Know what I mean?’
‘Right, right, right …’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Uh, my mate … he works down the mill in Hallfold, the one that does kitchen units. He looks after the furnace there. They could go on there.’
‘Do it,’ Charlie said, peeling off another twenty-pound note which Billy almost snatched from his hand. Then he held out another twenty and said, ‘For your mate.’
Billy took this one cautiously, a puzzled frown on his brow. Charlie saw the expression and shrugged. ‘Only money,’ he said, but he knew that Bill
y, although he was nothing more than a drunk, had seen right through him.
Charlie Wilder was setting out on a course of action from which he would probably not return alive.
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie was parking the old Range Rover in a street about a quarter of a mile from Rochdale Infirmary.
Charlie Wilder found Annabel within just a few minutes of walking in through the front door of the hospital. Wearing Billy Stone’s coat with the shotgun tucked down the sleeve, he went straight to the reception desk and said, ‘Annabel Larch?’
The lady behind reception said, ‘Unfortunately I can’t really tell you anything unless you’re her family.’
‘I’m her brother,’ he said, his face showing worry. ‘I would like to see her and know how she’s going on. I believe she’s suffered a terrible assault.’
The lady sized him up – he gave her his best puppy-dog look – and she relented. ‘Tell me your name, take a seat and I’ll see if I can get a doctor or nurse to come and talk to you.’
‘That’s really kind.’
‘You may have to be a little patient, though. She is being treated as we speak.’
‘That’s OK. My name is Johnny Goode … Larch is her married name.’
The lady nodded and picked up a phone.
Charlie wandered to a seat in the waiting area, pleased with his lies.
A few minutes later a nurse came through the double doors from the A&E unit and glanced at the receptionist, who nodded in Charlie’s direction. She came over to him with her hands clasped in front of her, as though she was praying. She reminded Charlie of a nun with her simpering, sympathetic expression. Then and there he wanted to blast her face off, but he gave her his best worried smile instead.
‘Mr Goode?’ she asked. He nodded and started to stand up. ‘No need to get up,’ the nurse said, placing gentle fingers on his shoulder, then sitting on the chair next to him. ‘You’re Annabel’s brother?’
