UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  Look forward, he’d thought. Sort yourself out.

  And sharpish.

  Geoff didn’t know nearly as many people today as he had at Samantha’s funeral. He could see a lot of relatives, of course, but most mourners were Dad’s friends and neighbours from Morton. He recognized a few from The Busfeild, because he still called in from time to time, even though his footballing days were now distant memories. And there was Frank with his third wife, Gilly, the latest twenty-five-year-old replacement. Gilly looked like a youthful Joanna Lumley which, while undoubtedly a big plus when it came to bedtime, quite possibly didn’t make up for her total lack of conversation. Like both the others. No wonder Frank kept trading them in for newer models.

  A taxi pulled up and Rick got out almost exactly where he’d got out all those years ago. He passed the taxi driver a banknote and shook his hand before straightening his already straight tie. Once again Baby Brother seemed to have captured all the female attention as he started through the throng.

  This time Elaine waylaid him and they chatted briefly before he moved on to Frank, saying something that made Gilly guffaw. He eventually arrived at the chapel and, ignoring Dad’s outstretched hand, embraced him instead. After a few quiet words he turned to Penny and kissed her cheek before hugging Sandy and Becky, who spoilt their grown-up appearances with fits of giggles. He then turned to Jamie, who’d been waiting in anticipation, and gave him a salute. Jamie immediately snapped back a far smarter salute, making Rick laugh and those around them chuckle.

  Geoff wished he could be touchy-feely and so much of a people person. He could understand it in Frank, who’d been a salesman from the day he was born, but Rick . . . a soldier who shot and presumably killed people? How could Rick be so at ease with himself? Maybe he had some sort of big brother complex, but Geoff couldn’t do hugging. Since the age of sixteen he’d only hugged Samantha, Penny and (not very often) the kids.

  ‘Morning Bruv,’ Rick was regarding him levelly. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t get one.’

  Geoff forced a smile. ‘It was the kiss I was worrying about.’

  ‘You don’t get one of them either.’

  ‘Saving them up, eh?’ Geoff’s smile felt warmer. ‘Have you got Elaine’s number already?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Either way, don’t count on me carrying you home later on.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Arthur had been obliged to do jobs before so at first he wasn’t too worried. In fact at first he took it as a compliment. It was nice to know someone still appreciated him. Then he started to think about Harry.

  ‘Look guys,’ he ventured. ‘I’ll help you. Honest I will, but now is not a good time.’

  The monster to his right glowered at him. ‘Never mind not a good time, fuck us about and you won’t be having a good life.’

  Arthur considered a moment. He didn’t recognize any of these men but they had to be pros. They’d know how things worked.

  ‘I’m not independent anymore,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’m with Harry Williamson. He’s expecting me. He won’t be happy if you make me late. If you know what I mean.’

  The monster laughed humourlessly. ‘I didn’t know Williamson started this early. His liver must be as knackered as yours.’

  ‘I’m not meeting him yet. It’s . . .’

  ‘It’s a crock of crap, that’s what it is. Now, shut up.’

  ‘But Harry . . .’

  ‘Fuck Harry. I don’t give a shit about Harry. Just shut the fuck up.’

  They stopped outside Arthur’s house. Accompanied by the two from the back, he collected his safecracking kit and was alarmed to be hooded when they returned to the car. Okay, it was a professional enough precaution, but there was an air of finality about it. And he hated airs of finality.

  Too scared to object, Arthur sat there, quaking. He tried to work out where they were going but immediately lost it. All he knew was that they seemed to be driving a while, generally uphill.

  When they finally arrived at wherever the two big men marched him, still hooded, down an uneven path and into a building where he was firmly plonked onto a hard chair. The hood was ripped off and, as his eyes adjusted, he realized the guys from the car were going, leaving him with three different guys in what looked to be a derelict farmhouse. These three were wearing ski masks; another alarming development.

  Arthur waited until the door slammed then tried again. ‘Your mates didn’t seem to understand, but I’m with Harry Williamson. I’m not just saying that. Harry really is expecting me.’

  One of the masked men was massive, well over six feet and possibly as heavy as Josie, although better proportioned. He was clearly leader of this new team and, equally clearly, wasn’t scared of Harry’s name.

  ‘You’re going to find this job’s a piece of piss,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is open us a safe and have a drink.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about the drink,’ Arthur replied. ‘Can we get on with the safe? There’s somewhere I need to be for twelve.’

  ‘You’re not with the plot, Arthur. The drink comes first for you on this job.’

  The second masked man shoved an old, mildewed table in front of Arthur while the third produced a large cardboard box with BELL’S stencilled on the side.

  ‘Lots of choice for you,’ the massive guy said. ‘And all good stuff, none of your cheapo shit. We’ve a couple of bottles of Captain Morgan; two Smirnoff; a Gordon’s; Pernod; two Bell’s; and four Johnnie Walker. So . . . what’s your poison?’

  Arthur looked at the half-pint glass that had appeared on the table and shook his head. ‘I’ve given up.’

  ‘That’s good, coming from someone who starts in Spoons every day at nine, never gets home before midnight.’

  ‘You sound like my fucking wife,’ Arthur said bravely. ‘Probably look like her as well.’

  ‘Tube,’ the leader said, holding out his hand. One of the others passed him something and he held it up for Arthur to see. It was a couple of metres of clear plastic tubing with a medium-sized funnel attached; the sort of thing a home-brewer would use.

  ‘It’s up to you, Arthur,’ he said. ‘How is it going to be?’

  * * *

  ‘It’s not what I expected,’ Heather said as they sat with their drinks.

  ‘No?’ Joanna looked at her curiously. ‘What were you expecting, spit and sawdust?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. Some people recommended it. Others said it was full of scoundrels and gangsters.’

  ‘Maybe scoundrels, but no gangsters,’ Joanna chuckled. ‘Not in Bingley. Not even dealers in The Kings. The owner’s very strict.’

  ‘Was that the guy who just served me?’

  ‘He’s the landlord. The owner doesn’t seem to be about.’

  ‘We’ll make do with the landlord, then. He’s quite attractive, in a rugged sort of a way. And I think he fancies you.’

  ‘Heather . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. You’re saving yourself for your Bee friend.’

  They both chuckled at that.

  ‘It really is okay in here,’ Heather went on. ‘And The Ferrands is okay too. We should get out of the office more often.’

  ‘Hobnobbing with the boss?’ Joanna made a face. ‘Buying her lunch? You’ll get a reputation.’

  ‘It’s the only way I can get you to take your winnings. Besides, I still feel awful about running off and leaving you.’

  ‘Of course you do. Speaking of which, how did WYB’s Number 3 work out?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Heather smirked. ‘Pretty good, actually. A bit rough and ready, but very obliging.’

  ‘I went home for cocoa and a recording of Strictly Come Dancing.’

  ‘I did offer.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Heather. I’d had a long day. I needed my beauty sleep.’

  ‘Not much. Not with those nail extensions.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Okay. Dare I ask about the bills?’

  ‘The bills,’ Joann
a chuckled again. ‘They caused a minor stir yesterday, but we survived.’

  ‘Phew. I worried about that all weekend.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you can pull the other one. You’ll have been clashing bodies all weekend, not worrying about the Bank’s expenses.’

  ‘I did worry; a bit.’

  ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Heather shrugged. ‘We swapped numbers. I’ll see how it goes.’

  ‘Oh to be young . . .'

  ‘Never mind me. Have you called your Bee friend yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t even got his number.’

  ‘Bet you have.’

  ‘I haven’t. I’m not trendy enough to ask for things like numbers. Anyway, he’s married.’

  ‘Ridiculous institution if you ask me.’ Heather paused while two well-presented plates of sandwiches arrived. ‘Marriage, I mean. It uses up all the decent men.’

  ‘I was thinking exactly the same on Saturday. Just before I went home for my cocoa.’

  ‘Did Playgirl get a look in?’

  ‘Do you honestly think I’d confess?’

  Heather was still laughing as she went for more drinks.

  * * *

  This time there was no boyfriend so Rick called a taxi and shared it with Elaine, sitting with her in the back.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he began, ‘what happened to Laughing Boy?’

  ‘If you mean Rob, he’s ancient history. I dumped him years ago.’

  ‘That’s a shame. There was a definite spark between us.’

  ‘Right,’ Elaine said. ‘I spotted that myself. Subconsciously. That must be why I threw him out. I must have known I could never compete.’

  ‘Have you replaced him yet?’

  ‘I’ve not been living like a nun, if that’s what you mean. I bet you haven’t, either. In fact I bet you’ve got a little wifey back at base, haven’t you?’

  ‘No wifey.’ Rick grinned. ‘And I’ve been in the desert, living like a hermit for a week, which is far too long.’

  ‘Good job I’m still single then, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is. Particularly with you looking better than ever.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she stroked his leg. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself. A bit weather-beaten, but nicely tanned. You could do with a haircut, though. I thought soldiers had to shave their heads.’

  ‘I’m not a raw recruit anymore,’ he said, before thoroughly kissing her.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ she wondered when they finally broke apart. ‘I can’t wait to see all your new scars.’

  ‘Nowhere yet. I might book into the Bankfield for a few nights. Fancy being half of Mr and Mrs Smith until Friday?’

  ‘Why don’t we book as Mr and Mrs Rodgers? We could tell them we’ve just got married; see if the bridal suite’s free.’

  ‘Sounds like an expensive way to get a free bottle of bubbly.’

  ‘You’re so romantic,’ she laughed. ‘Forget the Bankfield, stay at my place. Save on hotel bills. Spend your money wining and dining me instead.’

  ‘Okay. But only if you’ll stay close and keep holding my hand.’

  * * *

  ‘‘Allo, ‘allo!’

  ‘Oh,’ Heather said, turning to see who’d addressed her, ‘it’s you.’

  ‘Little me,’ said McGuire. ‘Small world, isn’t it?’

  Heather managed to raise a smile. She fancied the prop forward (B&B’s Number 1, as Ms Jones would have put it) but the bulky, heavily patched-up guy with him was downright scary. So was the way they’d materialized beside her at the bar.

  ‘Where’ve you sprung from?’

  ‘In there.’ McGuire pointed at a closed door. ‘There’s an important meeting going on.’

  ‘Delivering something, are you?’

  ‘Cheek! We’re part of it. The meeting, I mean. We’ve just come out for refreshments.’

  ‘A bit like me and Joanna. You remember her, don’t you? The poor soul you stood up the other night.’

  ‘Stood up?’ McGuire’s grin made his ugly mug even more appealing, in an odd sort of a way. ‘I don’t remember agreeing anything in the first place.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, because you weren’t involved.’

  ‘Now you are confusing me.’

  ‘Joanna won the toss,’ said Heather. ‘Tails never fails. Picked you straight off, wouldn’t go best of three or anything.’

  McGuire’s grin widened as he stared into her eyes. ‘Tell her I’m sorry. I really did have other arrangements.’

  ‘Tell her yourself. She’s over there.’

  ‘Better not. She looks to be the type who gets easily embarrassed.’

  ‘Coward.’

  He laughed. ‘Ask her. If she wants me to go grovel, I will.’

  Heather glanced over her shoulder, seeing her colleague giving frantic warding-off signals.

  ‘Okay McGuire,’ she said. ‘You’re excused.’

  ‘I’m Pat.’

  He glanced at the bulky guy before deciding not to introduce him. Heather could only admire his judgment.

  ‘I’ll get those,’ McGuire said as the landlord placed two halves of lager in front of her. ‘Or rather, Sean will.’

  ‘Who’s Sean?’

  ‘He’s chairing the meeting. He owns this place.’

  Mr Three Hours, Heather thought. Just wait until I tell Vic who’s been buying me drinks!

  * * *

  Jack Carlisle hung up the landline and chewed a pen as he reviewed his notes. Although he hadn’t expected the conversation to go anywhere, it had actually given him food for thought . . . not to mention anticipation of more disappointment.

  DC Longdon from Donny seemed to think West Yorkshire was full of out-of-control killers. He’d dwelt mostly on Sutcliffe but had also managed to mention Neilson, Sams and Shipman at least twice.

  ‘Must be something in the water,’ he’d said.

  Carlisle could have suggested a few more names but beat back the temptation. Instead he’d given an in-depth account of Micky Johnson’s murder. Longdon had responded with a detailed report on the prostitute killing, then they’d looked for points of comparison.

  Not that there were many. Carlisle had drawn a line down the middle of a page of notepad. The differences were listed on the left, similarities on the right. He let his eyes run along the far shorter list, considering the individual headings.

  Random: yes, they were random all right.

  Outdoors: no arguments there.

  Similar ground: Longdon had pointed out both victims had died in open spaces within relatively densely populated areas, which was undeniably true.

  Planned: that was one to come back to.

  Lack of witnesses . . .

  Lack of third party fluids . . .

  Carlisle hated the words “lack of” when looking for similarities. He’d abandoned that bit of list after jotting down the second absence. Now he moved back to the longer section.

  Too much to dwell on. Concentrate on the biggies. Tramp versus prostitute. Male versus female. What motive could fit around that? Come to think about it, what was the motive anyway: sexual? Of course it was bloody sexual. Something sick and sadistic with Johnson, albeit without an intimate assault. With the girl . . .

  She’d had a beer bottle shoved into her vagina. Signs were she’d had protected sex earlier, but not necessarily with the killer. Forensic were still checking for DNA on a single pubic hair found in her knickers. And there had been three separate, smudged, as yet unidentified prints on the bottle. Carlisle wasn’t holding his breath for the results. In fact he was tending to think this latest atrocity had been particularly deliberate.

  Right then: let’s say there was a plan. Let’s also say Longdon’s correct in thinking his killer is from somewhere around and about Shipley. See where that goes.

  Shipley man, setting out to murder a prostitute; picks Doncaster
because he knows it, or knows of it.

  Heaton’s a reasonable place to nick some wheels. Middle of the afternoon, nice and quiet, plenty of decent enough motors, most of them likely to have juice.

  Easy drive to Donny.

  Find a pub car park without CCTV. Not likely to be noticed there; much better than dumping it outside some old dear’s net curtains.

  Look for a suitable girl on one of the more secluded pitches.

  Take her to that open space.

  Whack her head with some brought-along, taken-away-again blunt object.

  Do the deed.

  Vacate the scene.

  Carlisle scowled. It wasn’t Blackadder’s most cunning plan, but who needed intricate? These things were best kept simple.

  What else? Why leave the motor? Because it was only wanted for the one-way ride. Once parked it was no more than a last resort. Longdon said it still had half a tank of petrol, but the killer wouldn’t have used it again unless he had to. By the time he’d gone back it might have been flagged up as nicked. Or the pub landlord might be waiting to give him a bollocking for misusing a parking slot. Not to forget the risk of an unlucky breathalyser driving away from a boozer . . .

  Okay, then. How did he get home? Bit late for the train. Hotel overnight? No, probably nicked another motor. He’d better make sure Longdon had covered that angle. Better check this end too. There could be something sat there waiting to be complained about, even now.

  Carlisle scrawled more notes before going on.

  Was the car a coincidence? Joyriders aside, most car thefts were out and out criminal. Resale or use in robberies, usually. This one wasn’t in that class. And it wasn’t that other old favourite either: I missed the last bus. Not on a midweek afternoon. And not home from Heaton to Donny; Keighley, maybe, Donny never.

  Talking about coincidences, how about a robbery in Doncaster? Had Longdon considered that possibility?

  Another scrawled note, then Carlisle dared to dream.

  If Longdon’s killer was from these parts, could he really be the same man who’d slaughtered Micky Johnson all those years ago? There was sod all similarity and a thousand differences, but Johnson’s killer had been nothing if not calculating.