by David Hodges
‘Well, we’ve been sure for some time now that the Slicer is someone at the local nick and we did have a likely suspect – a bobby called Derringer who was AWOL – but he has turned up in Middle Moor hospital and looks like being off the hook.’
‘But I thought you had just arrested someone else in connection with your inquiry? According to the news on the radio, a local journalist is currently in custody.’
He gave an irritable shake of his head. ‘I don’t think for one moment that he’s our man, though it is possible he is part of some sort of conspiracy. I’m not going to get the opportunity of following that up now, anyway.’
‘So you’re stuck.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Not quite. Master Derringer has indicated that he may know who our killer is and wants to cut a deal in exchange for the information.’
‘So?’
‘I think I might toddle along to see him.’ He gave a fierce grin. ‘Use my subtle counselling skills to get the info out of him.’
‘What?’ She half-rose on the settee. ‘Are you mad? The force will hang you out to dry.’
He took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Maybe, but I’ve no intention of just sitting here while the bastards finish stitching me up.’
‘Don’t you think you should trust your own team to get that sort of information out of Derringer?’
He emitted a harsh laugh. ‘And which member of my own team should I trust to do that, Ab? I’ve already said someone in the know has to be our killer and it could just as easily be someone on the team itself.’
‘Surely not Phil Gilham or Ben Morrison?’
‘I wouldn’t rule anyone out at this stage – especially after what I discovered from a few routine enquiries this morning.’
‘This morning? Then you’ve been poking your nose into things already, have you?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve been checking on someone I’ve had particular doubts about – and it turns out he has been telling me a few porky pies.’
‘And who would that be?’
He shook his head. ‘Never you mind.’
She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, but whatever suspicions you might have about anyone, I still think you’re crazy going to see this PC Derringer when you should be keeping a low profile. And in any event, how do you propose getting away from here unnoticed? Wherever you go, you’ll have a posse of reporters chasing after you.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘That’s where you come in, Ab.’
She jumped to her feet, shaking her head repeatedly. ‘Oh no you don’t. No way. I’m not getting involved in your suicidal scheme.’
He held up one placatory hand. ‘Look, all I’m asking you to do is drop me at the hospital gates after dark this evening. There’s a lane behind my garden. If you were to be there this evening at say,’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘eight-thirty time, I could hop over my garden wall and slip in the back of your motor. No one will bother to follow you even if they do see the car. What press are still around outside will think I’m still indoors.’
‘Absolutely not, Jack – and that’s final!’
He nodded and treated her to the first genuine smile he had been able to manage for many hours. ‘Thanks, Ab, I knew I could count on you. Fancy a cup of tea and a sandwich before you pop home to change?’
chapter 17
‘I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m doing this.’ Abbey Lee engaged first gear with a horrible scraping noise and crept back along the lane, using the moonlight instead of the car’s headlights to guide her between the garden walls of the adjoining houses and the steep ditch on the other side.
‘Lights!’ Fulton growled from the back seat as they joined the main road. ‘We can do without a ticket from some eagle-eyed woodentop.’
It was a clear night and, for once, there was not much traffic about – even the police seemed to have stayed indoors – and Abbey made good time to the hospital, pulling into the large lamplit car park and steering the big four-by-four into a bay partly hidden by the shadows of an overhanging beech tree.
‘You’d better stay here,’ Fulton said, struggling to extricate himself from the cramped space between the front and rear seats. ‘I won’t be long.’
Abbey snorted. ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she retorted and shivered as she glanced round the near empty car park. ‘I’m not staying here on my own.’
Fulton placed a heavy hand on her shoulder from over the back seat. ‘You’ll do as I tell you,’ he growled. ‘As yet, you have only given me a lift to the hospital. Go to the next stage and you’ll be totally compromised.’
She released her breath in an irritable hiss, reluctantly accepting the wisdom of his argument. ‘All right, all right, but don’t do anything stupid.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘Just keep your eyes open for the bogeyman, will you?
‘Very funny,’ she called after him. Slamming the door and applying the internal locks, she sank down as low in the seat as she could, her eyes probing the car park for the slightest movement.
Fulton found the main reception area of the hospital deserted. Visiting hours had long since ended and the regular administrative staff had all gone home. The uniformed security officer slouched behind the reception counter seemed to be fast asleep and the big man shook his head with cynical amusement as he strode past him to the lift. So much for security, he mused, pressing the call button and slipping into the lift even as the doors slid silently open.
He knew exactly where he was going, having learned from Phil Gilham earlier that Derrringer was occupying a private room on the fourth level. Seconds later he stepped from the lift into a long vinyl-floored corridor with a large Exit sign at each end.
He was greeted by the strong smell of antiseptic and the sound of raucous coughing from somewhere to his left, but the corridor itself was deserted. Room Six was easy to spot; there was a plastic chair positioned to the left of the double doors, a thermos flask beneath it and a paperback book open on the seat. His eyes narrowed. So where was the policeman who should have been sitting outside?
Heart thumping, he gently pushed the doors open, took a few steps into the room, then abruptly froze.
John Derrringer had lost a lot of blood – in fact, most of his allocation by the look of it – and it had exited through the deep slash in this throat, plastering the bed, floor and the inside of the double doors in the same fashion as Lenny Baker, like paint from a spray gun. It was apparent that he was already dead: his wide open eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling, as if studying something of interest, while the blood continued to drip from the sheets on to the vinyl floor with a hollow ‘plopping’ sound.
‘Looks like it only just happened,’ Mickey Vansetti said, emerging from behind the right-hand door. ‘Must’ve missed the arsehole by a whisker.’
Fulton snapped out of his trance and stared at him, but his astonishment at finding him at the murder scene was abruptly cancelled out by a more immediate concern. ‘Stairs!’ he snarled. He wheeled round clumsily in the doorway and lumbered off along the corridor towards the nearest exit door, ignoring Vansetti’s shout: ‘Too late, Jack.’
He heard the ‘boom’ of a slammed door and the clatter of fast-descending feet at least two landings below him the moment he shouldered through the exit door, but even as he started down the staircase, he stopped short, hanging on to the banister rail and panting with the exertion. It was pointless. If that was the killer making good his escape, there was no way he would catch up with him – especially in his present physical state. Cupping his hands round his eyes to shut out the reflection from the fluorescent ceiling-light, he peered through the landing window and saw a shadow emerge from an invisible door at ground level and streak round the side of the building. It disappeared in the direction of the car park at the front.
‘He must have dived in somewhere when he heard the ping of my lift,’ Vansetti said at his elbow. ‘Weren’t no one in the corridor.’
Fulton leaned back against the wall, breathing heavi
ly and studying him with predictable hostility. ‘Maybe there was no one else, Mickey,’ he grated. ‘Maybe there was just you.’
Vansetti shook his head, disappointment in his expression. ‘Come on, Jack, you know that’s cobblers. Why would I stiff him? He owed me a bundle and I come here to persuade him to tell me where he’d stashed it.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘Anyway, you knows me. Don’t need to do no heavy jobs meself. Got boys to do ’em for me.’
Fulton chose not to follow up on that one, though he realized deep down that his old antagonist was speaking the truth. ‘So where’s the bloody copper who should have been outside the door?’ he grated.
Vansetti grinned. ‘Last time I see him, he was comin’ out the lift as I got in an’ headin’ for the nurses’ rest room on the ground floor,’ he replied. ‘Had a packet of fags in his hand.’
‘The bastard,’ Fulton breathed and reached for his mobile phone.
Vansetti quickly grabbed his wrist. ‘What you doin’, Jack?’ he said. ‘Not callin’ up Ol’ Bill?’
‘What do you think?’
Vansetti shrugged and withdrew his hand. ‘So what’s goin’ to happen when you does that, eh? You’re already suspended and on sus’ for toppin’ your ol’ lady. You shouldn’t even be here. Officially you ain’t a copper no more.’
‘So?’
Vansetti sighed. ‘Jack, they’ll crucify you if they knows you been here. How you goin’ to get yourself off the hook stuck in a cell?’
Fulton hesitated, the cover of his mobile open and the cold display staring back at him.
‘Anyway, you’re too late,’ Vansetti murmured, holding the exit door open a fraction.
‘What?’ Fulton peered through the gap and saw a thickset uniformed bobby striding towards Derrringer’s room from the direction of the lift.
‘Let’s go, Jack, before the shit hits the fan.’
For a moment Fulton just stood there.
‘Jack!’ Vansetti breathed urgently. ‘Come on!’
‘Why should you give a toss?’
Vansetti pushed him towards the stairs. ‘Maybe ’cause I don’t like bent coppers no more than you do and your bleedin’ psycho is one of ’em.’
‘Yeah,’ Fulton agreed, reluctantly following him. ‘And by killing Derringer, he’s also scotched any chance you had of recovering your money.’
Vansetti threw open the door of the lower landing and grinned. ‘Psychos is always bad for business, Jack,’ he said.
The lights in the car park seemed brighter than before and for the first time Fulton glimpsed the big Mercedes projecting from behind a low hedge in a disabled bay. The powerful engine came to life the moment they appeared and without being summoned, the car eased smoothly out of the bay towards them, a big hunched shape behind the wheel. ‘Be in touch, Jack,’ Vansetti called as he threw open the rear passenger door and ducked inside. ‘Keep your head down.’
Fulton felt sick and giddy as he headed for the four-by-four on the opposite side of the car park. He couldn’t believe that he had just walked out on a serious crime scene without doing anything about it. OK, so John Derringer had not amounted to much – he was a completely rotten apple – but was Fulton himself any better? He should never have allowed himself to be persuaded by Vansetti’s bent logic to cut and run. At least he should have telephoned the incident room or Phil Gilham – or should he? What would that have achieved? Another nail in his coffin and an ace in the hole for Skellet. No, like it or not, he had to keep a low profile or risk losing any possible chance of clearing his name this side of a pensionless retirement.
First, though, he had to break the bad news to Abbey. He had selfishly dragged her into this business and after the latest horrific development, her position would be totally compromised and she would find herself inextricably bound up in his own continuing misfortune. He dreaded to think how she would react, but there was no easy way of saying what he had to say and he steeled himself for the inevitable heated confrontation as he threw open the front passenger door.
But there was no confrontation. Abbey was no longer in the car. He smelled the strong antiseptic smell first and saw the piece of paper lying on her seat as he bent inside. The message, written with what looked like lipstick in squat block capitals, was short and chilling in the car’s interior light:
I HAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND NOW JACK SO DON’T DO ANYTHING SILLY. TELL NO ONE UNLESS YOU WANT HER SLICED LIKE THE OTHERS. AWAIT MY CALL.
Fulton passed a fleet of incoming police cars on the hospital’s service road as he eased the big four-by-four into the late-evening traffic flow. Obviously Derringer’s police guard had found his charge and he could well imagine the mayhem that must have broken out.
Borrowing Abbey’s Honda to get home was a risky move, but so was leaving it where it was. The police were bound to check the car park and do a registered owner check on any vehicle there. Then they would be asking where Abbey had gone and what she had been doing at the hospital in the first place. Furthermore, the only other way he could have made it home was by taxi and any good police investigator would check every taxi firm in town for hospital pick-ups as a matter of course.
The rationality of what he was doing didn’t ease his conscience, however. He had got Abbey into this thing and he felt as if he were now callously abandoning her to her fate, even though staying put would not have helped her in the slightest.
It had occurred to him to disregard the instructions in the note and contact Phil Gilham direct, reasoning that maybe their combined talents, coupled with the police resources at their disposal, would enable them to find her before it was too late. But then he had dismissed the idea as a total non-starter. He was no longer a member of the force and if he were to reveal Abbey’s kidnapping, he would have to admit to finding Derringer’s body as well, opening up a whole new can of worms. In addition, if the police investigation team had so far been incapable of catching the killer, there was not much chance of their finding Abbey. And if the man they were after was someone at the nick, as now seemed certain, their quarry would soon learn that Fulton had disobeyed his instructions, with disastrous consequences for Abbey.
He swung off the main drag and headed into the back streets to avoid falling foul of one of the police checkpoints which, he knew, would soon be set up. He had to admit to himself that he had never felt so helpless and alone. Dancing to a psycho’s tune was contrary to everything he had ever stood for and the very thought left a nasty taste in his mouth, but with no idea whatsoever as to the identity of his antagonist, what choice did he have? If only he could remember what had been bugging him for the last two days and why the spectre of Sweeney Todd loomed so large in his mind. What the hell was the connection between the demon barber and this sadistic serial killer? He was sure there was one, but his constipated mind still stubbornly refused to give it up, and the more he puzzled over the issue the deeper it sank into the quicksand of his subconscious.
He was still struggling with it as he climbed over the low wall into his back garden after parking the four-by-four in the lane where Abbey had picked him up, but the next second he had something more pressing to think about, for the telephone in his bungalow was ringing.
chapter 18
PHIL GILHAM STOOD for a full minute in the doorway, staring at the bloodstained shell that had once been John Derringer. ‘Poor devil,’ he muttered. ‘He must have seen it coming and couldn’t do a damned thing about it.’
Ed Carrick, the Home Office pathologist, straightened up from his examination of the corpse and gave him a keen glance. ‘I doubt he saw it coming,’ he said. ‘At least, not until he was actually attacked. From the angle of the wound and the slightly contorted position of the body, I would say that this was done from the left side of the bed after a heavy blow to the forehead. See the bruising just starting to come out on top of his other injuries?’ He smiled grimly. ‘Your officer would have been stunned like a bull going to slaughter before the blade sliced through the artery.’
Gilham jumped, startled by the sudden flash of the SOCO photographer’s camera. ‘Maybe Derringer was asleep and woke up when the killer bent over him,’ he suggested. ‘Hence the blow to the head.’
‘More likely he knew him, guv,’ put in DS Prentice, who had materialized at his elbow and was now breathing a heady mixture of stale beer and cigarettes over him.
Gilham turned his head to study the sallow pockmarked face, surprised yet pleased to see the DS already at the scene. ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed, ‘but whoever our man is, how the hell did he get past the plod stationed outside the door? I left strict instructions that no one was to be allowed in here, except duty medical staff.’
Prentice hesitated briefly before answering. ‘PC Leighton, the officer on security duty, says he went for a leak and when he got back—’
‘Give me strength!’ Gilham raised his eyes to the ceiling in disbelief. ‘You’re telling me he left his post for – for a leak?’
Prentice shrugged. ‘That’s what he told me, guv. Gone just a few minutes, he claimed.’
Gilham snorted. ‘More likely he went for a damned smoke. And hospital security? Were they all having a leak as well?’
Prentice shook his head. ‘Only one security officer on duty and he was downstairs in reception.’
‘Security cameras?’
‘None on site as yet. Hospital are currently doing a competitive tender for them. Should be installed next financial year.’
Gilham gave a short cynical laugh. ‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘It’s encouraging to know the NHS is on the ball.’
Prentice made a face in sympathy. ‘Do you want to see PC Leighton now, guv? He’s downstairs in reception.’
Gilham took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ll save that pleasure for later.’ He glanced along the corridor. ‘But I would like to know where my DI, Ben Morrison, has got to.’
Prentice shook his greasy black hair. ‘Dunno, guv,’ he said. ‘Control room have apparently been trying to raise him ever since you called up, but they’re getting no reply from his mobile or personal radio.’ He grinned. ‘Probably gone to bed early.’
