“I told the local police about all this,” Sylvia added, ‘and asked them to spread the word. Dean is on every notice board in every police station from here to Scotland.”
“Unless,” Daisy said, suddenly bursting into violent and uncontrollable tears over her large cream and chocolate cake, “he’s lying in some ditch, murdered by that murdering creep out there.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“As far as I’m concerned,’ Morrison said, “It’s time we started looking further afield. The boys up in Notts are already hard at it. And it’s us down here, running around in bloody circles. The media have started calling us useless as usual – that’s always the cry once the time speeds past. And I don’t give a shit what they think. Except that I’m beginning to agree with them. What the bloody hell are we up to, with no results? We’ve tramped every inch of forest, and we’ve trailed every meter of road, path, lane, street and bloody quagmire. Helicopters have upset every bird colony from here to Wales, and we’ve even had the drones swooping. DNA is pointless, although the forensic guys are still plodding along behind us, and we’ve interviewed what’s left of our man’s family, with no interesting results at all. We have an empty grave, bags of remains, and worst of all, one of our own men has been killed. So what happens next? We all resign and go off to join the French Foreign Legion?”
“Does that still exist?”
“Don’t try to be clever, Walsh. It doesn’t suit you.”
Rita, sitting at the back of the Briefing Room, stood up and raised her voice. “So tell us your latest theory, Darcey.”
“Not that it’s going to help at this stage of affairs,” said Darcey. “But I still maintain there’s two killers. There’s two young girls killed in the Sullivan manner with a couple of obscure differences, both killed up near Nottingham. No DNA discovered from the killer. The bodies, although mutilated, were wiped clean. As far as I’m concerned, these are from a different hand.”
“What about our Ralph?” demanded DC Grant.
“Sit down, Susan. You know what I feel about that.” Morrison shook his head. “And what’s worse, I just don’t know. It’s logically down to Sullivan, who didn’t want to be recognised and dragged into custardy. But there’s still a few points that don’t fit, including the strikes from the spade that killed him. As far as I’m concerned, they came from someone a good deal smaller and weaker than Sullivan. This was a long handed implement swung from behind by someone roughly six foot, no more, and without any great muscle power. And we know Sullivan has a gun now. Why didn’t he use it?”
“But it was Sullivan who dug his wife up,” said Rita.
“Yes, I’m quite convinced about that.” Morrison nodded. “And we haven’t traced her yet either.”
“We have,” said the strident voice from the doorway. “The remains of Joyce Sullivan have just been discovered in a stream up in Staffordshire, quite some way from here. Forensics have confirmed it’s her, and the parts are being sent down here full speed. Her corpse has been mutilated, Sullivan style, and there’s some of Sullivan’s DNA unashamedly left on the relevant parts. No attempt at disguise. She must have been there for at least a couple of days, but it’s hard to tell since she was dead anyway. Decay had already set in before her coffin was dug up. Now – we’re fairly sure Sullivan was encountered driving back down from that direction two and a half days ago, with stories of being shot on the road. Presumably he drove north to dump the body bag and intended to mislead us to his whereabouts as he’s been doing lately. On his way back home he was shot. We still don’t know where he is.”
“Dead or alive.”
“Precisely,” said the chief. “But it backs up my theory that all the killings have been Sullivan’s work whether here or further north. He’s our man, and now at the very least he’s wounded and can’t move around in the same fashion.”
“But not yet in custardy,” Morrison sighed.
“Can’t be long now,” said Crabb.
“We said that nearly four months ago,” added Rita. “And longer if you count back to the prison escape. We know he was there when the Howard triplets were discovered, one dead, one arrested, and that poor girl rescued. Sullivan was definitely there, three and a half months ago. And still no sign.”
“But no new killings for a month,” DCI Lewis Dark muttered, pacing the front of the room as Morrison stood aside. It became clear that Morrison, under his dusty black trousers, was wearing odd socks. One black, one navy blue with a faint white stripe. But they blended. “Not here. Not there.”
“And can’t be, for the near future,’ said Rita.
It had taken Paul quite some time for the hospital to admit they were releasing their proud patient the heroic Hamilton girl, He visited in a hurry before risking her departure before his arrival, and discovered her fully dressed with a small shoulder bag lying open on the rumpled bed, busily packing it with hospital towels,
“Ah,” said Paul Stoker with a cynical grin, “here you are. Caught you just in time.”
She grimaced at him and turned back to stuffing her bag. “None of this stuff is any good,” she admitted. “But I can’t leave without a sweet nostalgic reminder.”
“Very sweet,” said Paul, eyeing the grubby towel with the threadbare patch and the hospital details sewn to one end. “Anyway, what about another quick interview? The heroine of the hour, the beautiful Miss Hamilton who outwitted the monster.”
Regarding him with amused scepticism, Piper said, “Last time you was swearing you weren’t no reporter. Now I reckon you’re saying that’s what you is.”
“Oh well,” admitted Paul, “I just want a few words with the famous Piper. Eighteen but looks sixteen. Or is it the other way around?”
“They found his body?”
“No.” Paul shook his head. “The bugger isn’t dead. He can’t be. But they found his last wife. Not the real wife, that is, since the second marriage was bigamous. Mind you, she was already dead and buried. He unearthed her, cut her into little bits, stuck nasty things in and out of her decayed corpse, slung all the bits in a rubbish bag, and hurled that into a river. He’d just finished all that when he met you.”
Even Piper Hamilton felt somewhat sick. “Well, I shot the bastard.”
“You must have hurt him. That’s good.” Paul helped the girl zip up her bag. Her arms and hands were scarred with long black stripes zigzagged with stitches, some well bandaged, others left to the air to help them heal. Her chin and neck were also patterned in deep cuts, and she limped, although the leg bandages were hidden beneath her jeans. Yet she looked defiant. “Obviously you’ve got no car. Want a lift somewhere?” Paul asked her.
“You trying to be funny?”
“He realised, apologised, and laughed. “No, no, - yes after the last time, I understand. But you know that’s not me. I just want to talk. Real talk. Talk about you and your family and most of all the serial killer who really did give you a lift.”
Nodding, she flung her bag over her shoulder. “OK. But ask about me, and ask about that foul bastard. But don’t ask about my family cos I won’t bloody answer. No way and not ever.”
“I understand.” He didn’t.
Having bought his Suzuki from the book profits, Paul was proud of his car. “Get in. So – back to your family home? Or the aunty in Wales?”
She had told him the position of both, but now she said, “London. West Ken.”
“Suits me,” Paul started the engine. “I live there too. Not West Ken though. Who’s your posh cousin?”
“My brother,” she said. “But don’t bloody ask no more. You know wot I said.”
“That your family is sacrosanct, I remember,” Paul agreed. “But it sounds as though your brother’s doing well for himself. In a flat, is he? Or one of those posh houses? What’s his name?”
“Piss off,” Piper said, but smiling. “This your idea of no bloody questions? Well, it’s a nice big house and as posh as you like, and yes, all belonging to my brother. My
Sunny’s a proper rich boy. I calls him Sunny cos he is, but his name’s Simon. Now, that’s it. Shut yer mouth till we gets there.”
It was not in the least sunny and the road was dreary for much of the drive once leaving the stretches of countryside, and taking to the motorways. Piper soon closed her eyes. Paul felt he was also on the verge of sleep, and put the radio on. Piper woke with a start. Paul muttered an apology, and added, “It’s all very well, you can kip but I can’t. So sit up and talk. If I fall asleep on this road, we’ll both soon be sleeping forever.”
“Shit,” said Piper. “Getting lifts ain’t wot it used to be. Bloody rape and bloody chatter.”
Paul was about to say something and changed his mind. “So go on, tell me something. And why the bloody hell can’t I talk about your family, anyway? Most girls like talking about their families.”
“My family’s not like other families,” said Piper. “And I reckon I ain’t like other girls. Don’t want to be, neither.”
“Hardly.” Paul snorted. “Not if you carry a gun around at all times, and know how to use it. I hope you don’t have one now.”
“The cops took it. Big bullies.”
“So come on,” said Paul after another long pause, “give me something for my next book, or at least a really good article. It’s all I live on. Give us some secrets.”
Piper sighed. “Reckon I’m the Pied Piper and there’s a street full o’ rats following us down the bloody road. I ain’t here to pay your rent. Nor I ain’t got nothing on me anyway.”
“A story about Lionel Sullivan, just to pay for the petrol? Or – ,” when he realised she really had nothing more to say, “about this mysterious family of yours?”
“Listen,” said Piper, leaning back with a yawn, “my family ain’t no nice cosy bunch around the fire and the telly, nor the sort you wanna have dinner with. Bloody Lionel Sullivan seemed normal enough when he stopped. I were on the roadside barefoot with bloody miles and miles more to walk, cos I run away from me sweet cosy family. He just says as how me feet were bleeding, which they was, so I thought he were OK till he got out the car later on. Just like I thought you was OK till you turns out to be a bloody nuisance.”
Laughing, Paul turned left and stopped the car at a motorway café. “Tea? Sandwich? I can’t afford a proper lunch.”
“Coffee, That’s all,” she said.
“Have a sandwich – let’s call it a bribe. Tell us about your crazy family.”
“Oh, shit,” said Piper, received the coffee and sandwich, and sat with Paul in a booth which looked fairly private.
Paul pulled out a notebook and pen. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
“I don’t want to bloody tell you nothing.” She spoke through the mouthfuls of bread, tomato, ham and cheese. “So, I’m sixteen. Piper Hamilton. Me dad’s the boss o’ the local Mafia. Not real Mafia, just a gang. But they make big money and every now and again some shit bastard from some other gang comes past and shoots fucking bullets through our windows. I got a big brother, Simon, what runs a protection racket and makes a bloody fortune. I got a big sister Jennie what wants to divorce her hubby cos he’s a thief and a thug and just threw a kettle o’ hot water over her and burned all her stupid face. Fancy marrying a git like that. Just as well the water weren’t proper boiling. Me dad’s a pig, and he chucks all sorts at me so I gotta keep out the bastard’s way. Me mum just hides in the bedroom and complains all the bloody time about back aches and not sleeping proper and such. I just want a nice family where we all goes out together to the cinema, or we sit at home with a bag o’ crisps and watch Neighbours on the telly.” She paused, then said rather sadly, “Trouble is, I ain’t a nice quiet little kid neither, and I reckon I might be bored shitless with a decent family. I learned how to shoot when I were seven. I well nigh killed some pissy little bugger at school when I were twelve, and got expelled.”
Paul sat, mouth slightly open until he closed it with a snap. “The Hamilton Mobsters?”
“Yeh, that’s us.” Piper stuffed in the rest of her sandwich and drowned it with coffee dregs. “Enuff fer you, then?”
“You’ve got me even more interested,’ said Paul in a gabble. “Look, I’ll never say I got all this from you, but tell me some more. It’s something I’d love to write about.”
“No way.” Piper shook her head. “Look, I’ve already said too much, but most of it ain’t a secret cos the cops know, and there’s bin stuff in the news every now and again. But no more – right? Real secrets is gonna stay secret.”
“Tell me about Jennie.”
Paul stood and began to shuffle out, making sure he stayed close by Piper’s side. He had parked in an empty run of the car park where it backed onto private land and a rummage of cows. They were grazing, but looked up, curious, at their two spectators. Piper leaned on the bonnet of the car. “No,” she said. “She ain’t done nothing wrong, She just wants free of her bloody husband.”
“OK, tell me about him.”
“What? Martin? Don’t make me laugh. He’d think it come from me or Jennie herself, and we’d both get clobbered. He’s just a nasty-tempered crook, that’s all. He ain’t no Lionel Sullivan, but he ain’t no nice guy saint neither.” Piper turned her back on him and pulled on the car door. “Come on, unlock the bloody thing. I’m fed up with this. One bloody mean lunatic after another.”
“I can make good money out of interviews and photos and articles,’ he said. “But I could make more out of a book. Now listen to me. It needn’t ever be traced back to you. There’s been books about the Mafia and so on, and the authors don’t get slaughtered in return. Give us some of the innocent stuff first. Where were you born? Was your mother great when you were a baby? After being expelled from school, what did you do? Was your dad angry, or did he laugh and pat you on the head and say you were growing up like him? And what do you want to do when you’re older, anyway? Follow the family business? Or go off and change your name?” She had been standing with her back to him but now turned, hands deep in her jean’s pockets. Paul added, “Come on, favour for favour, play fair. I’m driving you all the way to London. And I’ll never say I got my information from you.”
“But you wants to write a whole fucking book? And once you drop me home and knows where me Sunny Boy lives, I reckon you’ll be phoning me every bloody day and living on me doorstep?
“No,” lied Paul. “I’ll never try to contact you again.”
“Liar. And how does I know you won’t bugger off to the cops?”
“Because I promise I won’t.”
Piper, leaning back against the car door, smiled and spoke softly. “I’s gonna give you one more chance. You leaves off now and we talks about the weather? Or you gonna keep on and on and on till I tells you more and more?”
He considered lying but knew she’d never believe him. “Look,” he said, “I need this story. I believe we could be friends. You tell me everything you can, including the secrets, no one will ever know it was you, and I’ll buy you a slap-up dinner this evening. So, your family will get a bit famous. They might like that. And I can write an interview with you just because you’re the fantastic sixteen-year-old girl who shot Lionel Sullivan. I mean, it’s like the stories of who shot Billy the Kid.”
“Except that I should never have had that gun. The cops let me off, cos I were in self-defence against the biggest bastard wanted. But they took me gun and warned me about using it again, and me dad ortta have a licence.”
“Well, your name’s out there for shooting Sullivan anyway. Nothing I could do about it even if I wanted to.” Paul was sniggering slightly. Piper remained patient, but her eyes had grown cold.
“Pushing your luck, mate. Wot if I got another gun?” Her hands stayed in her pockets.
“Look, silly cow,” said Paul, still half laughing. “I know what I know and you can’t wipe that out. You told me. I can look up the rest from all the old magazines and so on. I know your brother’s address and I know what he does. You’ve told
me plenty. So either tell me the rest – or go on, bloody shoot me.”
Quite slowly, Piper pulled both hands from her pockets. In her right hand, she held a gun. This was not the same gun she had used previously. “It’s a Beretta,” Piper said with a wide smile. “I always fancied having a real proper Beretta. You know, it’s a good name. They calls it a Pico. Reckon that means little or someint. Anyways, it shoots OK. Wanna try?”
Unamused, Paul pointed at the thing pointing at him. “You rotten bitch. I thought we were friends. You told me what you wanted to tell me, I didn’t force you did I now? You were willing enough, and you told me plenty. But I promised I wouldn’t say it came from you. Yes, I’ll write a book. But it’ll be me at risk with my name on the cover – not you. You stop being bloody stupid and put that thing away, or I bloody will go to the cops. I bet it isn’t loaded, anyway.”
“Oh yer, tis loaded alright,” smiled Piper.
“Silly bitch,” said Paul. “Stop showing off.”
So she shot him.
His astonishment was evident for one split second before he fell, tumbling backwards. She certainly hadn’t missed this time. The cows looked up with faint alarm, and one, skittish, stumbled backwards. Piper kicked the crumpled corpse behind a skip standing back almost against the fence, leaned down and retrieved the car keys from his jacket pocket and the wallet from his back trouser pocket, clicked the car open and climbed into the driver’s seat. With a sigh, she drove out of the car park and back onto the motorway, heading towards London.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next letter was quite affectionate. ‘My Dear Ruby, What did you say that friend calls you? Dearest Bluebell? I like that. Perhaps I should start calling you by that name. In the meantime, my lovely lady, I really want to see you again. I need to talk about my future career and what I’ll study at university – after all, you’re the one with all the experience. I suppose I’m still a kid. And there’s that film about Queen Mary. It looks good. So how about lunch, then the film, and then dinner? And I promise, promise, promise, no sex. I won’t even say the word. A kiss goodbye perhaps, but no more. Can you meet me at Cavendish House, outside, tomorrow? How about midday? Perfect time for lunch. Come on, Beautiful Ruby. If you don’t turn up, I’ll be standing there like an abandoned idiot for an hour or more. With much Love and Appreciation, Brad.”
Daisy Chains Page 24
