by Damien Boyd
‘Different.’
‘You’re not really a “small cog” kind of chap.’
Dixon was flicking through the post mortem report.
‘Are you?’ said Poland, smiling.
‘Am I what?’
‘Never mind.’
Dixon was still reading Poland’s report in the back seat of the patrol car.
‘How far is it?’ asked Poland.
‘Half an hour or so,’ replied the uniformed officer sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Depending on the traffic.’
‘It’s not him, is it?’ asked Dixon, sliding the report back into the envelope.
‘Not as far as I can see,’ replied Poland. ‘I’ve looked at the original PM reports, X-rays and the photographs. Leaving aside the amateurish attempt to find the jugular vein with the fleam, the force applied to the trephine is very different.’
‘More or less?’
‘More. The best that can be said is that they’re both right handed.’
‘Is that it?’
‘As far as similarities go, yes.’
Dixon glanced at the road signs as the car sped down the slip road, southbound on to the M60. ‘Where does he live?’
‘A little place called Marple,’ said Poland, smiling. ‘Rather apt, I have to say.’
‘Do you?’
The rest of the journey was spent in silence, only the crunch of gravel bringing Dixon back to the present.
‘Is this it?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied the driver.
Dixon looked up at the large double fronted detached property. Paint was peeling off the old metal window frames, condensation forming on the single glazed panes. The lawn had long since been replaced with parking and the single garage door was ajar, obviously too small for whatever was parked inside.
‘It’s a Bentley,’ said Poland. ‘He bought it when his wife died.’
‘Whose is that?’ asked Dixon, pointing to a red Nissan Micra parked against the overgrown hedge.
‘The carer’s, probably.’
Poland rang the doorbell and turned to Dixon. ‘You’ll like Geoff.’
‘Rachel’ it said on the badge pinned on to the white uniform just beneath the EK Care Services logo.
‘Roger Poland and Detective Inspector Dixon to see Dr Burkett.’
‘Come in. He’s expecting you.’
They followed Rachel through to a conservatory at the back of the house where Dr Burkett was sitting. Patches of rust on the window frames and red streaks running down the wall underneath. Odd, the things that catch your eye, thought Dixon as he watched a narrowboat motoring past the end of the garden.
‘The Peak Forest Canal, if you’re wondering, young man,’ said Burkett. He reached down and pulled a lever on the side of his reclining chair, which sprang forward, sitting him bolt upright. His glasses fell off the end of his nose into his lap.
‘I was, Sir, thank you,’ replied Dixon.
‘This is the police officer I told you about, Geoff.’
‘You’re going to catch The Vet when the whole of Greater Manchester Police failed, is that right?’
‘I think you’re going to tell me I’m after a copycat, Sir,’ replied Dixon, turning away from the window and shaking Burkett’s cold and frail hand. He was dressed in a shirt and tie under his dressing gown, but would have needed help for that, the tartan blanket over his legs probably hiding pyjama bottoms.
‘How are you, Geoff?’ asked Poland, pulling up a chair.
‘Old and bored, but I mustn’t grumble, I suppose. I can still see to read and watch the TV, so that’s something to be grateful for. And my marbles are all still lined up.’
‘Pleased to hear it.’
‘What about you? Still in Somerset is it?’
‘Musgrove Park Hospital, plus the police work, of course.’
‘Let’s have a look at it then,’ said Burkett, pulling a set of reading glasses from the top pocket of his dressing gown.
Poland handed a copy of the post mortem report to Burkett, letting him read it while he powered up his laptop.
‘I made tea,’ said Rachel, placing a tray on the table. ‘I hope that’s right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Poland.
‘Help yourself to the biscuits, but he mustn’t have any.’ Rachel gestured to Burkett, who was still reading.
‘I heard that.’
‘He’s diabetic.’
‘Really?’ asked Poland.
‘Type 2,’ said Burkett, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Last couple of years.’
‘Well, he’s Type 1, so I’d better have them,’ said Poland, picking up the plate.
Dixon had watched three narrowboats motor past along the canal before Burkett dropped the report on to the coffee table and shook his head.
‘Amateur.’
‘Who, me or the killer?’ asked Poland.
‘What about photos?’
‘Here,’ said Poland, placing his computer on Burkett’s lap. ‘You know how to—?’
‘Of course, I do.’ Burkett began scrolling through the photographs, peering over his reading glasses. ‘It’s definitely a fleam, but he’s missed the vein entirely. There’s a faint nick in it on one of the incisions, this one here, but that would have closed up on its own, I expect.’
‘It’s certainly not enough for the victim to bleed out, is it?’ asked Poland.
‘Definitely not,’ replied Burkett. ‘But then he didn’t, did he?’
‘No.’
‘And he’s made a right hash of the trephine.’
‘What’s the significance of the fleam?’ asked Dixon.
‘It opens up the blood vessel with a clean incision about an inch long, depending on the size of the blade,’ said Burkett. ‘And it won’t close without intervention. Pressure alone won’t do it. This is a vein, remember, so it’s taking blood back to the heart and lungs. It’s not pumping like an artery. Hit one of those with a fleam and it’s like a fountain!’
‘How long would it take to bleed out then?’
‘Half an hour or so. It happens in minutes with an artery, so they’re buried deeper in the tissue for that very reason.’
‘This is the external jugular vein, Nick,’ said Poland. ‘There’s an internal one, which is bigger, but you’d have to go through muscle to get to it.’
‘There’s one on either side,’ said Burkett, holding his hands to the sides of his neck. ‘Not the pulse you can feel on your left hand. That’s the carotid artery.’
‘And The Vet hit the jugular every time.’
‘Every time, first time,’ replied Burkett. ‘And he went through the venous sinus with the trephine too. With surgical precision. He really could’ve been a vet.’
‘Could it be The Vet operating on his own, perhaps, with no one to hold the victim down?’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Poland.
‘He’s twenty years older now, maybe even an alcoholic, his hand shaking, victim struggling. I’m clutching at straws here—’
‘No, it’s not him,’ said Burkett. ‘These marks here . . .’
Poland leaned over and looked at the laptop screen.
‘Bruises?’
‘There’s no finesse,’ said Burkett. ‘The Vet never went deeper than he had to, hit it with just the right amount of oomph. This guy’s got no idea. And he’s hitting the fleam so hard he’s leaving bruising around the wound. Even drunk, The Vet would do better than that.’
‘And the trephine?’
Burkett smiled. ‘The Vet used to take his time. Not too much pressure, plenty of turns of the handle. You can see the marks on the skull in my original photographs. This chap’s pushing too hard and it’s taking fewer turns of the handle. Roger?’
Poland nodded. ‘He’s even gone through the dura into the surface of the brain. The Vet never did that.’
‘Never.’
‘What about the original burials then?’ asked Dixon.
‘The sequence was always the same,�
� said Burkett. ‘The fleam was used, and the victim allowed to bleed to the point of almost losing consciousness. That much was evident from the blood on their clothes. Then, and only then, was the trephine used, at the point when the victim was beyond screaming.’
‘Why, though?’
‘You’d need to ask the profiler. That’s his department,’ replied Burkett.
Dixon glanced at Poland and rolled his eyes.
‘We never found a specific reason,’ continued Burkett. ‘And you won’t without finding The Vet. I don’t know that there was one anyway. This was gang warfare, don’t forget. The triads hack you to death with meat cleavers and machetes, so the Carters came up with this. For the fear factor.’
‘Did it work?’
‘For a few years.’ Burkett nodded. ‘The photos helped, of course. They added to the drama of it all.’
‘What photos?’
Burkett sat up. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you about the Polaroids?’
‘No they bloody well didn’t.’
‘The Vet used to take a Polaroid photo of each victim. You know the old instant camera? Press the button and the picture pops out the bottom. Collectors’ items they are, these days, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘What happened to these Polaroids?’
‘I never saw them, and it’s just a rumour, really. But if they’re out there somewhere, I doubt they’re in anyone’s family album.’
Chapter Ten
Dixon used the patrol car to take him back to GMP headquarters, Poland staying behind and calling a taxi. It would give him an extra half an hour with Dr Burkett to chat about the good old days, as Roger had put it.
‘How’d you get on?’ asked Sexton as Dixon switched on the computer at the adjacent workstation.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Not the same killer?’
‘No.’
‘We can go home then.’
‘All in good time,’ said Dixon, dragging the box of surveillance evidence on to his desk. He counted twenty-four photograph albums, arranged in date order, and four compact discs, one for each year until 1996. Just watch the stuff from 1995 and ‘ignore the rest’. That’s what Hargreaves had said. Dixon frowned. He’d start with 1996 and work back.
Photograph albums first. Grainy, some black and white and some in full colour. Faces, groups of faces, the same ones coming and going. Hervey’s snooker club, a betting shop, pubs. He was staring at a photograph of Michael Carter standing on the pavement outside the club, smoking, when he heard footsteps behind him.
‘Big lad, isn’t he,’ said Douglas.
‘Who’s that standing next to him?’ asked Dixon, handing him the photograph album. ‘It just says “unidentified” on the back.’
‘Devindra Kohli. Carter caught him with his fingers in the till and he disappeared.’
‘Are there others of Carter?’
‘There are some from 1994 certainly,’ replied Douglas. ‘Pass me the albums.’ He began flicking through the photographs, before handing an open album to Dixon. ‘Here he is, in the middle.’
The picture had been taken from a distance using a zoom lens. Clean shaven, dark hair, tall and stocky, sharp suit. That was about the best Dixon could get from it, no matter how hard he squinted at it.
‘Who’s that he’s with?’
‘That’s his brother, Kenny, on his left. I don’t know who the other one is.’
‘Pull up a chair, Sir,’ said Dixon, gesturing to the empty swivel chair at the workstation behind him. ‘Tell me about the brother.’
‘He was younger,’ replied Douglas, sitting down.
‘Michael and Kenny Carter. Manchester’s answer to Ronnie and Reggie.’
‘Michael was. Kenny wasn’t a villain by nature. It was Michael’s operation.’
‘What did Kenny do?’
‘The books, possibly. We never saw him taking any sort of active role.’
‘You never mentioned the Polaroids either,’ said Dixon, fixing Douglas with a stare.
‘We’ve never seen any of them. That’s if they exist at all. It was just a journalist from the Post spreading gossip.’
‘So, how did Rick Wheaton get in?’
‘You ever been undercover?’ asked Douglas.
‘Two weeks as a trainee teacher in a boarding school,’ replied Dixon. ‘Does that count?’
‘No.’ Douglas laughed. ‘This was deep undercover. You don’t just drop in and out of it, you live it. He became one of them. Only on the fringes, mind you. The snooker club was theirs, and he worked behind the bar.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘And he volunteered?’
Douglas nodded.
‘And they never suspected him?’
‘He wouldn’t be here today if they had. Others tried and failed.’
‘Are there any photos of him in these albums?’
‘No.’
‘So, how did he do it?’
‘He witnessed some things he shouldn’t have, told no one, and they began to trust that he’d keep his mouth shut. Beatings, mainly. You’d be surprised what someone can achieve with a snooker cue and bit of determination.’
Dixon winced.
‘There was a bit of drugs too. He’d been in six months before he started feeding stuff back.’
‘Risky, if they had someone on the inside.’
‘I’m not convinced they ever did,’ said Douglas. ‘Despite Baker’s conviction. He went to his grave swearing blind he’d been framed.’
‘And was he?’
‘We’ll never know now. But I’ve seen no evidence they had anyone on the inside.’
‘The first time then . . .’ said Dixon.
‘There was a killing at the snooker hall. A beating . . .’ Douglas shook his head. ‘And the bloke died. There must have been at least fifteen people in that night, and they all saw it, so he had cover. Then there were a couple of drug deals. It got easier when the Shannons turned up because Carter thought it was them.’
‘But he never got close to Carter?’
‘Never got beyond the snooker hall, really,’ replied Douglas. ‘He tried, but never broke into the inner circle.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was close knit. All extended family.’
‘Really, who else?’
‘A couple of cousins. They’re all in the albums.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Spain, last I heard.’
Dixon nodded.
‘How did Wheaton get out?’ he asked.
‘Ray Hargreaves had him arrested. When the bomb went off, Michael got very jumpy and started accusing those close to him of all sorts. It was the safest way. A month in a safe house, then the Carters disappeared. After that it was ten years with the Met before he came back to Manchester.’
‘Whereabouts in London?’
‘The East End. Bow, I think.’
‘I was at Wimbledon for seven years.’
‘Soft out west.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Dixon, smiling.
Douglas stood up. ‘Looks like the pathologist’s back.’
‘It’s not the same killer,’ said Poland.
‘You’re sure?’ asked Douglas.
‘Definitely. And Geoff Burkett agrees.’
The GMP officers sitting in front of Dixon started murmuring amongst themselves, Chapman and Pandey included. Much of what was said was lost in the general chatter, but Dixon picked out ‘wasting our fucking time’, although he couldn’t be sure whether it was Chapman or Pandey who had said it.
He turned when there was a knock at the door behind him, leaned over and opened it.
‘Excuse me, Sir.’
‘What?’ replied Douglas.
‘There’s been another body,’ said the uniformed officer leaning on the door frame. ‘In Somerset.’
Poland looked at his watch.
‘I’d better get back,’ he said. ‘Is there an earlier train?
’
‘There will be if you change at Birmingham,’ said Chapman.
‘Thanks.’
‘Get a car lined up to take Dr Poland to Piccadilly,’ said Douglas.
‘Via the Premier Inn,’ said Dixon.
‘You coming too?’ asked Poland.
Dixon nodded.
‘Hadn’t you better check with—?’
‘No.’
Once back at his workstation, Dixon put the lid on the surveillance box and dropped it by the pile. He handed the CDs to Douglas.
‘Can you get these copied and sent down to me, please, Sir?’
‘Manny can do that,’ he replied, passing them to Pandey.
‘Are we going?’ asked Sexton.
‘There’s been another body.’
‘Where?’
‘Buried in the sand on Dunster Beach,’ said Douglas, smirking. ‘It sounds idyllic.’
Dixon ignored the sarcasm. ‘Can you leave this stuff out, Sir?’ he asked, gesturing to the boxes.
‘If we must.’
‘I may need to have another look at it at some point.’
‘Really?’
Half an hour later they were sitting on a train at Manchester Piccadilly, Dixon staring out of the window at another as it pulled away from the adjacent platform.
‘Are you sure we’re not supposed to be on that one?’
‘You can if you like,’ replied Poland. ‘But you’ll end up in London.’
‘It’ll be dark in twenty minutes.’ Sexton was looking at his watch.
‘Clocks go forward the day after tomorrow, don’t forget,’ replied Poland.
‘Did you speak to your assistant?’ Dixon shifted in his seat and glanced across at the commuters sitting on the other side of the aisle: one staring at a laptop screen, the other a copy of the Manchester Daily Post.
‘When you were in the hotel. He’s arrived at Musgrove.’
‘Same injuries?’
Poland nodded. ‘He’s getting better at it too. He got the jugular vein this time and—’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Is there an ID?’ asked Sexton.
‘Not yet.’
‘What time was it?’
‘First thing this morning. A dog walker found him just behind a groyne at the far end of the beach.’
‘I’ll bet you a tenner the dog found him,’ muttered Dixon.
‘How are we gonna explain this to Potter?’ asked Sexton.
