by JOHN STANLEY
Montgomery looked at him with hooded eyes.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that your DCI Davison told you her son worked on the driving range at one time.’
They nodded.
‘Uncouth type,’ said Montgomery. ‘Not the kind of image we are trying to foster at The Lake.’
‘I am sure it isn’t,’ said Perlow with the ghost of a smile.
‘Is that it now?’
‘Almost.’
‘God, you mean there’s more?’ said the president bleakly.
‘I am afraid so,’ nodded Perlow, handing over a photocopy of the employment record. ‘You see, we are really interested in this fellow.’
‘He helped Alan Hayworth on the driving range for a short while,’ nodded Montgomery. ‘Rather an intense chap as I recall. He did not last long. Neither of them did.’
‘Why?’ asked Gaines.
‘To be honest,’ said Montgomery, lowering his voice as if someone might be listening, ‘we suspected Alan Hayworth was the one who carried out the break-ins. For all I know, his friend helped him.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Being burgled by one of our employees? Something like that could cause great damage to the reputation of a golf club. Imagine if it got into the golfing magazines. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘It’s always bloody reputation with you!’ exclaimed Perlow.
‘It is a very traditional world,’ said Montgomery defensively, ‘and some of the people at more established clubs look on Johnny-come-latelys like ourselves as imposters. Think how they would view this.’
‘Think how Colin Jeavons views it,’ said Gaines.
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ said Montgomery hurriedly. ‘I really am very distressed about what has happened to poor Colin, of course I am, and I will do everything I can to help you. Everything in my power. Yes, indeed, everything in my power.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Perlow blandly.
‘It’s just,’ and Montgomery looked at them hopefully, ‘I mean, I don’t suppose there is a way of keeping the club’s name out of this, is there?’
‘Do you know,’ said Perlow, standing up, ‘I don’t suppose there is.’
Chapter twenty six
Radford stood in the wooded picnic area car park and watched Peter England walk towards him. The CID chief had suggested that they meet on the outskirts of the town so that nobody saw them.
‘Jason de Vere is very pleased with you,’ said England, shaking the DCI‘s hand. ‘Very pleased.’
‘I should bloody hope so.’
But is he pleased enough?
‘He told the chief that he misjudged you. There’s a big investor looking at Leyton, apparently. If this had gone on much longer, they would have been out of here. Now they’ll come and de Vere will be in our debt.’
‘But does he trust me?’
‘Says he would like to work closer with you in the future.’
‘Good.’
Get inside the system, it’s the only way to work.
‘In the meantime, de Vere has offered the force some additional financial help, enough to keep Heron running. Bit of a bonus but if nothing else, you’ve achieved that.’
But the big prize is yet to come, Peter my boy.
‘I want to tell him that we’ve heard he’s bent.’
‘Shit, Danny, isn’t that a bit of a risk?’
‘No, he’ll deny it, I’ll say I believe him. It’ll build up even more trust. Besides, he’s bound to have heard what Marjorie Pretty is saying. It would sound odd if I didn’t mention it.’
‘Maybe,’ said England doubtfully.
‘Listen. You said right at the start of this that if we made me out to be a bent copper, de Vere would not fall for it. You said we had to make sure he knew I was an honest copper because he would not be able to resist the temptation of turning me, just like he did with the chief constable.’
England thought for a moment.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Radford. ‘Oh, one more thing, isn’t it time we let Connor in on this?’
‘Not until we’re sure about him,’ said England.
‘Come on, he’s straight as they come.’
‘Maybe, but for the moment we play it my way.’
Radford nodded and turned to walk away.
‘Where you going? I thought I’d buy you a coffee.’
‘Got to see Perlow at the hospital,’ said the DCI. ‘Time to finish this once and for all.’
Chapter twenty seven
It was early afternoon and the hunched figure of Ginch still sat motionless by Ronny Gallagher’s bedside in the half-light of the intensive care unit, just as he had throughout the long night. As dawn had streaked the sky outside, Ginch had slipped into an uneasy sleep and the nurses had left him there to slumber. When we woke, they entreated him to leave and take a proper rest but he declined. Where would he go? asked Ginch, where on earth would he go? Now, as the clock clicked past 2pm, Ginch was still gazing upon the shattered shell of his friend. He did not turn round when Danny Radford and Dave Perlow walked in.
‘Ian,’ said the constable.
The use of his Christian name caused the teenager to turn and view the detectives through eyes bloodshot with crying. He looked even more gaunt than usual and Perlow felt the stirrings of compassion, as he so often did when dealing with the teenager. The constable was not a complex man but something about Ginch had always moved him, right from the day they met.
In rare moments of introspection, Perlow had found himself forced to acknowledge that they were not that different. The detective’s background had been equally difficult, his dad walking out never to return when his son was six, old enough to remember, not old enough to understand, and his mother struggling to bring up four children. Perlow remembered that she was hardly ever at home, instead working all hours cleaning toilets and serving behind bars, treated like shit by people who did not even stop to consider her feelings, and all to keep the family together.
Much of the childcare had fallen upon Perlow’s older sister and for the constable, memories of childhood were of a fragmented, uncertain time in which he was forced to grow up too fast and in which the silent and dark night-time hours were spent lying awake listening to his mother’s sobs. His difficult childhood inevitably had an effect on the young man but after wavering as a teenager, including a spate of petty crime, Perlow got it right, concentrated on his studies and carved himself a career.
Standing at the door to the intensive care unit, looking into Ginch’s hollow eyes, he felt a strong sense that there for the grace of God did he go. Radford, sensing that the constable was confronting his demons, watched in silence.
‘How is he?’ asked Perlow eventually, walking forward to stand behind Ginch.
‘No change,’ said the teenager, not taking his gaze off the wires and machines which were keeping Ronny Gallagher alive.
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘He’s been done bad, Mr Perlow, real bad,’ said Ginch, voice breaking.
Instinctively, the constable and placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. Ginch looked up, surprised yet grateful, and reached up to clasp the hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Perlow softly. ‘I really am, Ginch. We never wanted this.’
Ginch nodded but, for the moment, words were beyond him and the detectives let him cry, watching as the sobs wracked his frail body, the constable feeling his own tears welling up. Fighting them back, he sat down on a chair next to the teenager and Radford moved to stand in front of him.
‘Are you prepared to tell us what happened?’ he asked. ‘Come on, son, time to end this.’
Ginch gave a heavy sigh and wiped the tears from his grimy face with the back of his arm.
‘Ronny were just being stupid,’ he said, ‘shooting his mouth off, saying he had dropped Ray Gerrard in it. The next thing we know
a couple of guys came looking for Ronny in Greenbank Road.’
‘Was one of them Manny Roberts?’
‘They worked for him. They beat Ronny up bad and dragged him away,’ and Ginch looked up at them in anguish. ‘I tried to stop them, I really did.’
‘But?’ said Radford.
‘They threatened to kill me. They had baseball bats,’ and he hung his head. ‘I let them take him. I let him down.’
‘I don’t think you did,’ said Perlow. ‘This lot are as bad as they come. Besides, we’ve got them, thanks to you.’
The teenager nodded, the words appearing to bring some comfort.
‘Ginch,’ said the chief inspector. ‘We know who’s been committing the murders in Alma Street.’
‘How can you know that?’ asked Ginch, looking up at him in amazement. ‘I said nowt.’
‘You didn’t need to. And you cannot protect him anymore.’
Ginch looked at the prostrate Ronny and nodded.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I suppose we can’t. When you find him, ask him about the Numbers Game.’
‘But what is the Numbers Game?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘He came up with the idea years ago. Got it from some horror comic he’d read. He was always reading them. He said he would play it one day but I never took it serious, none of us did. He was always saying weird things.’
‘Yes, but what is it?’ repeated Radford.
‘Check his room,’ said the teenager. ‘Just you check his room.’
‘Why?’
‘Just you check his room. Then you’ll see.’
‘But why did you not tell anyone?’ asked Perlow.
‘He said I’d be next if I did and I ain’t going to say no more,’ and the teenager turned back to look at the motionless form of Ronny Gallagher. ‘I’ve already said too much.’
‘You probably have,’ nodded Radford. ‘I should arrest you right now for accessory to murder.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Promise?’ said the chief inspector.
Ginch nodded and something about the teenager’s demeanour made the detectives trust his words. As the officers reached the door, Ginch called the constable back.
‘Mr Perlow,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Look after yourself,’ and Ginch gave the smallest of smiles. ‘Everyone’s number comes up some time.’
He turned back to his vigil and with the teenager’s disturbing words ringing in their ears, the detectives walked out of the room into the corridor where Radford stopped and looked at his constable.
‘What did he mean by that?’
Perlow shrugged. ‘Search me,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I think it means. I reckon he knows our man has not finished. Is there any reason why he would go for you?’
‘We’re not exactly bosom buddies, guv.’
‘No, I imagine not,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Do you want some time off, maybe go away for a few days?’
‘I’m not running from this.’
‘OK, if you’re sure,’ said Radford. ‘Listen, hang around here until we can get a uniform to guard Ginch, will you? I don’t want him slipping through our fingers.’
The constable watched the chief inspector head down the corridor and disappear down the stairs. As he did, he felt a shiver run down his spine. So that’s what people mean by someone walking over your grave, he thought.
Suddenly, in a hospital full of people, Gerry Perlow felt more alone than he had ever felt.
Chapter twenty eight
The sickly stench told the detectives immediately that Ernest Kemley’s mother was long dead. It hit them like a wave, sweeping past in tides of nausea as they broke through the front door of the terraced house she shared with her son. Staggering backwards out of the hallway, their stomachs churning, the officers doubled over in the street, Radford retching noisily, Gaines spitting repeatedly and Miles gasping for air.
After a few moments recovering their senses, they went back in, Radford tentatively leading the way, fearful of what he would find but already knowing what horrors lay within. Checks by the detectives with Susan Kemley’s workplace had revealed that she had not been seen for several days and that phone calls from increasingly worried friends had gone unanswered. One of them had finally called the police just as the detectives were on their way to the house and now a small knot of neighbours had gathered in the street anxiously awaiting developments.
The chief inspector paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked at his colleagues with a grim expression.
‘This is bad,’ he said in a muffled voice, having taken a handkerchief out of his pocket and clapped it across his face to stifle the smell. ‘This is very bad.’
‘Too right,’ nodded Gaines, wrinkling his nose. ‘Shall I check downstairs, guv?’
‘Yeah,’ and Radford nodded to Miles, ‘we’ll do the bedrooms.’
As the two detectives clumped up the stairs, Gaines walked into the narrow galley kitchen and surveyed it for a moment. All seemed normal but when he idly flipped up the lid of the bread bin he discovered a mouldy loaf. A quick glance behind him revealed a curdled bottle of milk left out on the work surface and an unwashed plate and cup in the sink.
A shout sent the sergeant running back down the hall and thundering up the stairs to the back bedroom where he found the others standing in silence and surveying the body of Susan Kemley, slumped like those in nearby Alma Street in the corner of the room, one arm flung up across her face as if in a final act of desperate defiance. The blood from a single stab wound had stained her white blouse and seeped onto the pale blue carpet to create an ugly pool. The metal spike was still sticking out of her chest.
Radford stared into the woman’s lifeless eyes. ‘Where is he?’ he rasped, turning to fix the detectives with a fierce stare.
‘No one’s seen him and the bloke at the hostel said he did not turn up for work,’ said Gaines. ‘I’ve got everyone out looking and Eric Davison’s boys and girls are on the prowl as well over on the east side.’
‘Well, get them to look harder, we need him off the streets quickly,’ said the chief inspector grimly.
He watched as the sergeant walked over to the window and peeked behind the edge of the pale blue curtain.
‘What you got?’ he asked. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
‘See for yourself,’ said Gaines, pulling the curtain back to reveal a red 60 chalked on the white wallpaper.
‘The Numbers Game again,’ breathed Radford.
‘Yeah, and Eric Davison sent his boys back to Penny Hayworth’s home and they discovered a number 36 in the room where she died.’
‘How come they missed it?’
‘I guess they weren’t looking for it.’
‘Yes, but what is the Numbers Game?’ asked Miles in bemusement. ‘And how do you play it?’
‘I hate to think,’ said Radford. ‘Come on, let’s check chummy’s bedroom. Maybe that will tell us.’
They walked across the landing and into the cluttered bedroom in which Ernest Kemley lived much of his life. Checks into his background had already revealed a strange and lonely young man with a passion for horror movies and dark fantasy books and the contents of his bedroom bore out the fact. The small cramped room was dark, the curtains having been drawn, and the air was pervaded by a fetid smell of sweat and dirty clothes. Gaines went over to the window and opened the curtains, letting the pale afternoon light stream in to reveal one wall lined with shelves piled high with books and comics whose covers showed gore-filled images depicting men with their throats cut, men impaled on stakes and blood-stained women crucified on crude crosses.
The detectives and gazed at the disturbing images for a few moments. None of them spoke, trying to come to terms with the dark world that the hostel worker inhabited behind his respectable façade. It took a lot to shock them but something about Ernest Kemley’s room did just that and they began to understand t
he black motives that drove him. Gaines and Radford, having met him, marvelled at the way he had been able to conceal his dark urges.
Although it was Eric Davison’s tip-off that led them to Ernest Kemley, his name had already cropped up, detectives having spent several days tracking down as many acquaintances of Ginch and Ronny as possible. Kemley’s name had emerged as a former school friend. Rejected as a loner by pupils his own age, Kemley had spent much of his time with younger children, currying favour by plying them with cigarettes. Digging further, the detectives were able to establish links between Kemley and all of the murder victims as a picture emerged of a disturbed young man living in a world of sleights, real and imagined. A man who carried grudges for years, Kemley had also confided to hostel residents that he endured a stormy relationship with his domineering mother and had grown to hate her. Now she was dead as well and there seemed little doubt that she had died at the hand of her son.
It was Miles who broke the silence.
‘This lad is deranged,’ she said quietly.
Radford glanced at his sergeant, whose attention had been attracted by a pile of comics on one of the shelves. Gaines picked up the top one and started to read then glanced around the room. The colour drained from his face.
‘Oh, God,’ he breathed.
‘What is it?’ asked Radford, alarmed at the normally unflappable sergeant’s tone.
‘The Numbers Game,’ croaked Gaines, holding up the front cover of the magazine, which showed a man nailed onto a huge dart board by a spike through his chest, his face contorted in his agony. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘See what?’
‘He’s playing darts,’ said the sergeant, pointing to the dart board on the wardrobe door. ‘He’s bloody well playing darts!’
Radford looked closer at the five darts sticking in the board. Chill-cold realisation began to dawn.
‘Jesus,’ he gasped. ‘You’re right, it’s house numbers! He’s going round the board.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Gaines, holding up the magazine again. ‘Three hundred and one and out. Each house where he kills someone is a number on the board.’
