by David Hodges
He had spotted Superintendent Honeywell tucked away in a corner of the room while he was talking and had sensed an impending problem in the grim set of her face. He was not long kept in doubt, either.
‘I understand from my LIO that you instructed him to carry out an unauthorized vehicle check?’ she snapped, buttonholing him in the corridor outside the incident room.
Fulton scowled, inwardly cursing George Oates for his treachery. ‘Did I?’ he said.
She stood her ground. ‘I shall have to report this, Jack. It’s a clear breach of the rules.’
He sighed. ‘Well, you do what you think best, Dee,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got more important things to worry about – and so have you, with one of your own men AWOL.’
‘I am well aware of the possible implications attached to PC Derringer’s absence, thank you,’ she replied, ‘and with my DCI on leave and my area chief inspector on the sick, I have quite enough to do running the police area, without having to check up on what you are doing all the time.’
Fulton shrugged. ‘Then don’t,’ he retorted.
Her jaw tightened. ‘This is a very serious matter, Jack,’ she persisted. ‘You do realize that, don’t you?’
‘So is murder,’ he retorted, angered by her dismissive attitude towards Derringer’s disappearance. ‘And you’d do better putting more effort into finding your own officer than hounding me over trivialities.’
‘Trivialities?’ she choked, but was abruptly silenced by the blast of the police station Tannoy above her head: ‘Detective Superintendent Fulton, please contact control room immediately.’
Anxious to pursue her point, she followed him as he ducked into an adjacent office and picked up the telephone to dial the appropriate extension number. ‘You’ve set an appalling example,’ she continued, ‘and you just don’t give a damn, do you?’
But he was not listening. ‘Fulton,’ he barked into the receiver, turning his back on her as he listened intently to what he was being told by the control room operator.
‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ he said, and slammed the receiver back on to its cradle.
‘And what was all that about?’ Honeywell demanded.
Fulton stared at her as if he were contemplating a scaly insect. ‘Nothing much, Dee,’ he said, pushing past her for the door. ‘Just another murder, that’s all!’
Dusk was already shadowing a watery sun when Fulton swung his Volvo into the entrance to the old cement works and Gilham, sitting tensely beside him, flinched instinctively as the woodland crowding the narrow rutted track seemed to close in on the car and a stray branch scraped across the windscreen like a claw. A hundred yards further on a line of red-and-white cones forced them to come to a halt and a uniformed constable appeared at Fulton’s window – only to step back to kick two of the cones aside and wave them through when he saw who was behind the wheel.
Beyond the temporary security barrier the track opened out into a vast concrete apron, bordered at the far end by derelict brick buildings. Several police vehicles were parked on a broken section of hard-standing to their left and Fulton pulled up sharply behind a dog van, sending the Alsatian inside into a fit of frenzied barking and snarling. ‘Shut up!’ a coarse voice yelled from the driving seat, silencing the dog immediately, and a balding constable in blue uniform overalls poked his head out of the window. ‘Sorry, guv.’ He grinned, nodding towards the low growls now coming from the rear of the van. ‘Trouble is, Satan can’t tell the goodies from the baddies.’
Fulton cast him a cynical glance. ‘Maybe you should get him some glasses then,’ he commented. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
The dog man leaned further out of the window, yelling at the Alsatian again when it resumed its barking, and pointed towards a small group of people standing a short distance from an old Mercedes car parked about thirty yards away. ‘DS Prentice, guv. He’s over there with Sally Ojibwa, the local area beat unit, talking to the guy who found the stiff.’ He grinned, adding: ‘Sally’s the one with the dreadlocks!’
Prentice came to meet them as they approached the car, his face cold and impassive as ever.
‘Guv,’ he acknowledged and jerked his head back towards the elderly man he had been talking to. ‘That’s Mr Duncan Hayes. He found the body.’
Fulton grimaced. ‘Bully for him,’ he commented. He went to the car and bent his head to peer in through the side window. The dead man had fallen sideways and now lay across both front seats, his face turned towards them to expose the grinning gash in his throat, which appeared to have almost decapitated him. Much of the front interior of the car, including virtually the entire windscreen, was plastered in blood, as if someone had sprayed it with a high pressure paint gun, and some of the thick sticky juices had already begun to solidify.
‘It’s Lenny Baker,’ Gilham breathed. ‘My informant.’
Fulton raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, he won’t be passing on any more grubby gossip, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘No doubt that’s why he was done.’
Gilham straightened up and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lenny said he heard something, but I just put it down to his usual dramatics.’
Fulton stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ he said sharply.
‘He asked if I’d heard a noise and if I’d been followed. Then this cat emerged from the place over there and I thought …’ His eyes widened. ‘Gordon Bennett, Jack, the swine that did this must have followed me here. He coolly waited until I left before …’ He broke off again and gestured towards the car in resignation.
Fulton walked away from him in the direction of the building he had indicated and peered in through the doorway. Even in the diminishing light, he could see the grass and weeds poking through the broken concrete floor. The place smelled like a urinal and he made a grimace as Gilham joined him.
‘We’ll get SOCO to give the place the once over,’ he said. ‘Might find a fibre or two, you never know.’
Prentice coughed discreetly from behind them. ‘Mr Hayes was out walking his dog when he came across the car, guv,’ he explained. ‘Dog ran off and—’
‘Anyone else in the vicinity?’ Fulton interjected, turning to eye the DS quizzically. ‘Or maybe another vehicle driving away?’
Prentice shook his head with the weary patience of the experienced professional being taught to suck eggs. ‘Just the car and the dead man. He rang us on his mobile.’
Fulton nodded. ‘Grateful to him for his help. Get his details and take a statement. We can always speak to him later. Pathologist and SOCO en route?’
‘All in hand, guv.’
‘Good.’ Fulton cast a roving glance around him. ‘Hopefully they’ll turn up before the press get wind of what’s happened.’
Prentice shook his head. ‘Already been, guv.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah – just one of them though. Some smarmy creep calling himself Ewan McGuigan. Said he knew you.’
Fulton’s jaw dropped. ‘McGuigan? How the hell did that bastard get on to this one so fast? You didn’t let him anywhere near the car?’
‘Not a chance.’ The DS gave a rare smile. ‘He didn’t get much opportunity anyway.’ He nodded towards the dog van. ‘Jimmy Talbot was exercising Satan and the Alsatian took a bit of a dislike to your man. Tell you, I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to get back to his car.’
Fulton’s eyes gleamed. ‘Nice one. Pity the bloody dog didn’t sink his teeth into his arse. Anyway, I’ll get some extra units up here to help you secure the scene.’ He inclined his head towards his number two. ‘DCI Gilham will remain here too until they arrive.’
Gilham rewarded his boss with a sour grimace, but said nothing until he was seeing him to his car. ‘Thanks for that, Jack,’ he said.
Fulton smiled again. ‘My pleasure, Phil,’ he replied. ‘But don’t let the damp spoil that tan of yours, will you?’
Gilham didn’t acknowledge the jibe and there was a frown on his f
ace as he opened the driver’s door for him. ‘Who the hell are we dealing with, Jack? Surely Derringer wouldn’t have…?’
There was the double click of a lighter and cigarette smoke trailed in the still air. ‘Who can say what anyone would do under the right amount of pressure?’ Fulton replied. ‘And we don’t know whether the same person did both jobs anyway – although, apart from the fact that Lenny seems to have hung on to his balls, the two MOs are very similar.’
‘Both had their throats cut, certainly.’
‘More than that. Didn’t you notice the rear view mirror?’
‘The mirror?’
‘Yes, it was twisted at an unnatural angle.’
Gilham thought about that for a second. ‘Could have been knocked when Lenny fell across the seats,’ he suggested.
‘Unlikely, the way he was lying, and it wouldn’t have ended up at that sort of angle anyway. Don’t forget what Abbey Lee said about Lyall.’
‘So are you saying Lenny was forced to watch his own throat being cut, just like our late judge?’
‘Something like that. It’s possible that the killer was in the back seat, waiting for your man, and that he forced his head back against the headrest with one hand while he did the job with the other. He would have already worked out the best position for the mirror and no doubt adjusted it just before Lenny climbed behind the wheel.’
Gilham shivered. ‘A nice beauty.’
Fulton climbed into his car. ‘I can think of a better description. And one thing is very clear: whoever he is, he seems to be keeping very close tabs on us.’
Gilham glanced quickly into the surrounding woodland as his boss drove away and shivered again, feeling the mist that was rising through the gathering dusk settle on his shoulders like a clammy dead hand.
chapter 9
FULTON MADE A point of dropping into the LIO’s office when he returned to Saddler Street police station. George Oates was already packing up for the day, one hand on his computer mouse as he bent over his desk to shut down the demanding beast that dominated his working life. He winced when Fulton’s shed-like bulk darkened his doorway.
‘Thanks a lot, George,’ the big man drawled, studying him with open hostility. ‘Dee Honeywell and I had a real heart to heart over my vehicle check.’
Oates straightened and held up both hands in a defensive gesture. ‘What could I do, guv?’ he pleaded. ‘She is my boss and she had already sussed that you were up to something. I had to tell her in the end just to get her off my back.’
Fulton ignored his obvious preparations for the ‘off’ and dropped into the chair he had occupied on his previous visit. ‘Well, you can make amends by doing me another little favour,’ he growled.
Oates raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Guv, look—’
‘And this time it’s official.’
Oates sat down heavily in his swivel-chair. ‘But I was about to go home.’
Fulton snorted. ‘What, at this hour? Wish I had your job.’
‘You wouldn’t. I’ve been at an LIO conference all afternoon. Likely to put you off criminal intelligence for life.’
Fulton leaned forward. ‘What do you know about a lowlife called Lenny Baker?’
Oates raised an eyebrow. ‘The guy who’s just had his throat cut?’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘It’s my job to know what’s going on and there are such things in police stations as personal radios.’
Fulton ignored the sarcasm. ‘So, what about Baker then?’
Oates shrugged. ‘Local tea leaf. Likes – liked – to think of himself as a supergrass. Came up with some useful snippets from time to time though. Maybe your serial killer thought he’d seen too much and decided surgery was necessary.’
Fulton pursed his lips for a moment. ‘We don’t know he is a serial killer,’ he reminded him, ‘or that he stiffed both Lenny as well as the judge.’
‘OK, but from what I hear, the MOs are pretty similar anyway.’
‘Not quite. There doesn’t appear to have been any other form of mutilation this time.’
‘Both victims had their throats slit in the good old Sweeney Todd tradition though, didn’t they?’
‘Maybe, but two hits don’t necessarily make a serial killer.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
Obviously tiring of the discussion, Oates started to get up in his chair, only to sit down again when Fulton continued. ‘Where did Baker live?’
‘He had a bedsit, I believe, over on Caledonian Row by the canal – number 22.’
Fulton produced a cigarette and lit up. ‘Then we shall have to give it a spin, won’t we? Might be something there that will lead us to our killer.’
‘You’ve discounted John Derringer, then?’
‘Hardly, but he seems to have disappeared into thin air and anyway, I like to keep my options open.’ Fulton studied him keenly. ‘Know Derringer well, do you?’
‘Not particularly. He keeps very much to himself. Good thief-taker, but not much of a team man.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
Oates hesitated. ‘Look, guv, I’m going out tonight. Can we continue this conversation tomorrow?’
Fulton’s eyes narrowed. ‘My gut tells me you know quite a lot about PC Derringer, but you don’t want to say.’
‘Well, he is a colleague.’
‘He’s also a key suspect in a murder investigation – maybe two murder investigations.’
Oates wriggled in his seat for a moment, plainly torn by indecision. In the end, however, he had no choice but to capitulate. ‘OK, so he liked a little flutter.’
‘Just a flutter?’
‘Well, the word is he was in over his head with one of the local villains.’
‘Mickey Vansetti?’
Oates nodded, looking down at his feet. ‘John likes the good life, anyone will tell you that – designer suits, fast cars and expensive birds. Bit of a problem on a bobby’s pay.’
‘Do you think that’s why he went missing – Vansetti came after him?’
‘Could be.’
‘Could be – but, eh?’
Oates made a grimace. ‘He had a bit of an axe to grind with Lyall. Said he was bent.’
‘Oh?’ Fulton was very interested now. ‘And why would he think that? From what I hear, Herbert Lyall was an absolute pillar of the community.’
Oates gave a disparaging snort. ‘They’re often the worst kind.’
‘Maybe that’s true, but why would a simple plod like Derringer have a thing about a crown court judge? Despite his extravagant lifestyle, I doubt that he and Lyall moved in the same circles.’
‘They didn’t have to. Derringer’s twenty-year-old sister, Mary, was killed in a nasty road accident at Claverslea a few months back and—’
Fulton snapped his fingers, his eyes gleaming. ‘Remember it! The car was driven by Lyall.’
Oates nodded. ‘He always maintained that the girl stepped out in front of him and the hospital autopsy did later reveal she had knocked back a fair few glasses of claret before the accident.’
‘And Lyall got off with it.’
‘Totally exonerated. Thing was, a witness said that his car was being driven a bit erratically immediately prior to the accident, yet he was never breathalysed.’
‘Fix?’
‘Derringer thought so, especially as Lyall was a mate of both the Lord Lieutenant and the Lord Chief Justice. Derringer was obsessed with conspiracy theories and said Lyall needed to be punished.’
‘Enough of a reason to kill him?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘So how do you know all this?’
Oates sighed. ‘John used to drop by my office for a chat every so often. We’re both loners, so I suppose he felt he could trust me.’
Fulton stood up. ‘Well, he obviously couldn’t if you’re telling me all this now.’
Oates glared at him. ‘That’s not fair, guv’nor,’ he snapped.
Fulton paused briefly with his hand on the door frame. ‘Being fair is not something I’ve ever aspired to, George,’ he said, his face suddenly grim. ‘Just being right suits me.’
The special thanksgiving service had finished ten minutes early; a real rollercoaster ride of short hymns, short readings and an even shorter sermon that left the congregation feeling disgruntled and cheated. After all, what was the point of sacrificing the night’s soap episode on television and raiding the wardrobe for the suit or dress that would impress the most, only to find an unsmiling twitchy vicar who could hardly wait to say the magic words ‘Go in Peace’ and get rid of everybody?
Not surprisingly, the handshakes of the Reverend Andrew Cotter’s flock were less than enthusiastic as they filed past him through the north door of the little country church and hurried to their parked cars, muttering and shaking their heads in righteous indignation. But Cotter was hardly aware of their dissatisfaction. He had a much more important problem on his mind, something that threatened to destroy his career, his marriage – his whole life. And that problem had had the audacity to demand a meeting with him in the church itself, straight after the service.
As he closed the door after the choir and stewards had finally left, he tried for the millionth time since the sealed letter had been placed on the sacristy desk to work out who his tormentor might be, but yet again he failed miserably. He had only been at St Peter’s for three years and the skeletons in his cupboard were much too old for any of his present flock to know about. No, the person who had typed that note must be someone who had known him in the old days, someone with a grudge – and possibly a desire for money as well as revenge.
Turning back into the church, he shivered. The lights had been dimmed by the departing verger, and without its worshippers the building seemed suddenly cold and sinister, the twin rows of ornate stone columns that marched so resolutely through the rows of vacant pews, reaching up into the heavy blackness of the vaulted roof as if into infinity, and the brass eagle supporting the pulpit lectern gleaming lifelike and malevolent in the dimly lit gloom.
