by David Hodges
Gilham’s bleak expression indicated that he didn’t think much of the joke. ‘Well, you can tell control they can send someone round to get him out of it,’ he snapped. ‘If I’m still up, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be.’
As Prentice headed off in the direction of the lift, the pathologist ducked under the blue-and-white security tape fixed across the doorway. ‘One of those nights, eh, Chief Inspector?’ he said, peeling off his surgical gloves. ‘You have an AWOL DI and I have an AWOL pathologist.’
Gilham followed him to the empty bedroom hospital security had placed at the disposal of the police. ‘Not your call tonight then, sir?’ he queried, watching the elderly man shake himself out of his protective suit.
‘Not at all,’ the other replied. ‘Should have been Abbey Lee, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. No one can get hold of her.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘Probably having a sleep-over.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be with Ben Morrison, that’s for sure,’ Gilham replied uncharitably, thinking of his gum-chewing leg man as he stared out of the window into the lamplit car park.
‘Ah, but who can tell what’s in a woman’s mind?’ Carrick countered.
‘Or in Ben Morrison’s,’ Gilham murmured, wondering exactly where the ex-marine had got to and why his absence made him feel so uneasy.
He was still lost in thought when Carrick shook him by the elbow. ‘They’re calling you,’ he said, nodding towards the corridor. ‘New development by the sound of it.’
Gilham almost collided with a uniformed bobby in the corridor. ‘Better come down, sir,’ he said, breathing heavily from an apparent sprint. ‘Search unit has come up with something. SOCO are already on their way downstairs.’
‘This better be worth it,’ Gilham threatened, following him to the lift.
The ground-floor fire exit stood wide open, the window smashed, and black masking tape still trailing from some of the jagged pieces of glass left in the frame. A concentration of torches directed at the shrubbery just outside revealed what looked like a white hospital coat rolled up and dumped among the bushes and even from where he stood, Gilham could see the coat was heavily soiled.
‘OK, so we know how he got in and away again,’ he said. ‘That’s something anyway.’
‘Bit more than that, guv,’ a uniformed woman sergeant put in, the triumph in her voice very pronounced. ‘That bush is a pyracantha, which has some pretty unforgiving thorns.’ She grabbed a flashlight from one of the other officers standing beside her. ‘Look you there.’
Gilham bent down to study the prickly branch arching out towards him in the powerful beam and his heart lurched when he saw the patch of discoloured leaves.
‘One of my sharp-eyed units spotted it,’ the sergeant went on. ‘Our man must have torn his hand open when he pushed the coat into the shrubbery.’ Her eyes seemed to shine in the light streaming out through the fire exit. ‘Your serial killer may have got away, but he made us a very nice present of his DNA.’
Fulton snatched up the phone in the hall and leaned against the wall with his other hand, breathing like a misfiring car engine. There was a clucking sound at the other end of the line.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ a metallic voice mocked. ‘Didn’t make you run, did I?’
Fulton couldn’t answer for a moment and when he did his voice was strained and unnatural. ‘Just cut the crap,’ he wheezed. ‘What is it you want?’
The caller sighed. ‘I’ve got the greatest respect for you, Jack – always have had – but you’re becoming a bit of a pain. Almost caught me tonight, so I decided I needed to buy some insurance.’
Fulton went into a fit of coughing. ‘You touch her, you bastard, and—’
‘Now, now, Jack, don’t go getting yourself all worked up. She’s quite safe,’ and the voice hardened, ‘but she’ll only stay that way if you keep your distance.’
Fulton held himself in check with an effort. After years of dealing with people like this, he knew that losing his cool would achieve nothing. If he wanted to help Abbey, he needed to stay calm and focused. ‘Why did you kill Derringer?’ he said quietly, using the tactic he had employed so often in the past to keep his target talking in the hope that he might let drop something that would help to identify him or his location.
Another sigh. ‘Had to, Jack. He was getting a bit too close to things.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Pretty shrewd cookie was our John. Always sniffing around, trying to get the dirt on people so he could make a few quid.’
‘You’re saying he was into blackmail?’
‘Oh I think that was coming my way eventually, but he wasn’t quite there. Then he fell foul of the Vansetti family and had to do a runner. Good of them to find him for me, wasn’t it? Gave me the opportunity of preventing any little indiscretions on his part.’
‘Indiscretions? How did you know that was on the cards?’
‘I didn’t, but when I heard on the nick’s bush telegraph that he had been found, I couldn’t afford to take the chance.’
The killer’s disclosure about the source of his information seemed like a bad slip at first and Fulton felt a thrill of satisfaction, but then the other chuckled. ‘Oh I’m not shy about confirming what you’ve always suspected, Jack – that I’m a copper – but the problem for you is that you don’t know which copper, do you?’
‘That shouldn’t take too long to find out.’
‘You reckon? OK, so how many bobbies do you think there are on this police area, eh? Force establishment figures say ninety-three. About a third of those are wopsies, but that still leaves a healthy sixty-two of the male gender – lot of suspects there for you to choose from.’
‘I’m gradually getting there.’
‘Oh, I know you are, Jack, and it will come to you before long. That’s why I needed an edge, just in case.’
‘And part of that edge was battering my wife to death, was it?’
‘Well, at the start I naïvely thought it would get you out of my hair, give me a bit of time. And she wasn’t a very nice lady, was she? As for her boyfriend – ugh! Insipid little shit, he was. You should be grateful to me for getting rid of the pair of them for you.’
‘I’ll come after you, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Quite sure you will, Jack, but once I’ve finished what I have to do, I won’t care anyway. Just need a little more time and then I’m all yours, so be patient.’
‘How do I know Abbey’s still alive?’
‘You don’t, but you’ll just have to accept a policeman’s word, won’t you? And she should feel completely at home where she is now anyway.’
‘Let me speak to her.’
The caller snorted. ‘Oh come on, Mr Superintendent, this is beginning to sound like one of those crime movies – you know, the good guy speaks to the hostage and she slips him the info about where she’s being held so he can rescue her. Get real, Jack.’
Fulton straightened up, his face taut and uncompromising. ‘Either I speak to her or it’s no deal.’
Another chuckle. ‘Do you know, Jack, I can practically hear that shrewd little mind of yours going into overdrive, trying to work out where I might be phoning from, listening for any telltale background noises or any giveaway comments. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m using the mobile I nicked from Lyall, so I could be anywhere.’
‘I said I want to speak to Abbey.’
‘Patience, Jack, patience. Why don’t you give me a tinkle – say, at midnight, the old witching hour, eh? Maybe I’ll tell you a bit more about the little lady then – like the colour of her knickers, for instance.’
‘I want to speak to her now.’
The other ignored him. ‘See, if you had still been in charge of the inquiry, Jack, you could have had this call taped and traced or the conversation broken down by the tech services unit to try and identify my voice. But you’re no longer Mr Big Wheel, are you, so you can’t call the shots any more. Must be really hard to s
tomach. Still, we can talk about all this at twelve, can’t we? Don’t forget to ring me, will you?’
‘Either I speak to Abbey or I keep looking for you.’
There was a brief pause and the caller’s voice was heavy with menace. ‘Get anywhere near me, Jack, and I’ll use Abbey’s tools of the trade to give her open heart surgery. Got it?’ At which point the line went dead.
For a long time after the call Fulton sat slumped in his armchair in the lounge, communing with his whisky bottle and watching the hands of the mantelpiece clock tick inexorably towards midnight as he tried to mediate in the fierce struggle that was taking place between conscience and principles. In the end, however, he had to accept that he was stuffed and had no option but to go along with the killer’s demands – but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try a little subterfuge of his own.
At precisely 11.30 he picked up the lounge telephone and retrieved the details of the psycho’s call from the BT 1471 service. Then, tapping in the code to withhold his number, he carefully dialled Lyall’s mobile to see what would happen.
The telephone rang for several seconds before there was any response. Then to his surprise there was a click and a voice said cautiously: ‘Yeah, who’s that?’
He froze, his hand tightening on the receiver and his lips compressed into a thin hard line.
‘I said who’s calling?’
Very slowly he put the telephone back on its rest and stared at the wall, his brain numb with shock. He had not really expected anyone to answer the call half an hour early or, if they did, that he would be able to recognize the voice of the person at the other end of the line – and he had certainly not expected that that person would be Acting Superintendent Phil Gilham!
chapter 19
SADDLER STREET POLICE station was like a mausoleum when Phil Gilham pushed through the security door from the foyer, curtly acknowledging the station duty officer who had let him in. Most of the night shift were already out on patrol and the local area control room, with its team of civilian operators, was a sealed unit, inaccessible to all save authorized communication staff.
He gave a thin smile as he made for the ornate Victorian staircase. Funny how what should have been the safest place in town had now assumed such a menacing brooding atmosphere. Even the bobbies themselves felt uneasy and vulnerable. The suspicion that one of their own colleagues was behind the spate of murders had had an unsettling effect on everyone, creating a distrust that was working its way through station morale like a destructive worm. Every patch of shadow in the dimly lit corridors and offices had become a threat, every creak and groan of the antiquated building as it stretched its weary sinews something sinister and every member of staff a potential assassin. Saddler Street was a police station teetering on the very edge and it only needed a gentle push to send it right over.
Pausing at the foot of the staircase and peering up towards the first floor landing, still cloaked in heavy darkness, he had to empathize with his colleagues. Even without the Slicer’s influence, the place was about as creepy as any building could get and the antiquated lighting system did not help matters either. He reached for the switch and flicked it twice before anything happened. Then it was a case of watching and waiting as the landing globe reluctantly came on, dipped and steadied into a pale watery glow, before he was able to begin his ascent, his leather-soled shoes ringing on the naked stone.
The first floor accommodated the offices of the superintendent, DCI and uniformed chief inspector, plus the area’s admin staff, and through the glass-panelled door off the landing he saw that, as to be expected at this time of the night, everything was in darkness. But, hand on the banister rail leading to the top floor, he stopped dead, conscious of the sound of heavy footsteps directly above his head. He frowned. Who the devil could be wandering about on the top floor? There was only a conference room and the police club – now the incident room – on that level and there was no reason for anyone to be up there at such a late hour.
As with the floor below, all the lights on the top floor had been turned off and he opened the landing’s glass-panelled door cautiously, freezing in the long corridor on the other side to listen. More noises from his left (the incident room) and the faint glow of a light inside, which was abruptly extinguished. Then further heavy footsteps, muffled by carpet at first, but sharper on contact with the vinyl floor of the corridor. His hand fumbled for the light switch, but he was too late and the heavy thickset man cannoned into him just as the corridor illuminated.
‘Sorry, guv,’ Ben Morrison mumbled. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
Gilham stared at his number two in astonishment. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for at least two hours.’
‘Yeah,’ Morrison admitted. ‘Just checked me mobile and got your message about Derringer. Had an accident, see.’ He pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket to reveal a heavily bandaged hand and forearm. ‘Ran over a bloody cat on me way home for some nosh. Soddin’ thing clawed me hand when I went back to check it.’
‘So why didn’t you let me know?’
Morrison shrugged. ‘Couldn’t use me mobile in Casualty – X-rays and all that – and public phone out of order.’
Gilham looked unconvinced. ‘So what are you doing up here at this time of night?’
Morrison frowned. ‘What is all this, guv – third degree? Came up to see you, didn’t I? Thought you’d be back and wanted to apologize.’
‘So why didn’t you check with the SDO first to see if I’d returned?’
Anger burned suddenly in the DI’s dark eyes. ‘Dunno what you’re on about. Look, time I went home, unless you’ve any objections. Got a shot at hospital and don’t feel so good.’
‘Fine. I’ll talk to you again in the morning.’
Morrison slammed the exit door against the wall as he slouched for the stairs. ‘Look forward to it,’ he growled. ‘If I decide to come in.’
For a few moments Gilham stood behind the glass panel of the door and watched him go, his brows puckered in thought and a nasty little bug crawling around inside his head. Then abruptly he turned away from the door and headed off along the corridor in the opposite direction.
The incident room was in darkness, the computer monitors switched off, but green and red lights glowed everywhere and the hum of quietly operating circuits competed with the clatter of an activated fax machine. He glanced at the messages in the fax tray, but it was all routine stuff – mainly press enquiries that should have been directed to the headquarters press office and responses to enquiries made to other police forces. Despite Morrison’s very plausible story about the accident and the reason he had given for returning to the police station, doubts still crowded Gilham’s mind and he couldn’t help asking himself the question: what on earth had the DI been doing in the blacked-out incident room?
The door to the small SIO’s office was shut, but it was not locked. He turned on the light inside and scanned the room. Everything appeared to be more or less as he had left it, though a couple of the drawers in the desk were half-open and the catch on the flap of the briefcase he had left in the corner was not engaged. His policeman’s nose twitched. What the hell had Morrison been looking for? And what had prompted him to start looking in the first place? Gilham felt uneasy and vulnerable, but, though he did not realize it at that moment, his night of surprises was far from over.
It was cold in the big four-by-four. The engine had only been off for around an hour, but the Honda’s polished tin was no barrier to the chill rising from the frozen ground as Fulton climbed behind the wheel. He had decided to borrow Abbey’s Honda again as it was less likely to attract the attention of any lurking reporters than his familiar battered Volvo, but he knew he was taking one hell of a risk. If he were to be pulled over for a routine check by a police patrol, he would have quite a bit of explaining to do – especially as Abbey was missing and he was already suspected of murdering his own wife. But what cho
ice did he have? If he used the Volvo, he was almost certain to end up with an unwelcome press entourage all the way to Saddler Street police station and staying at home with the whisky bottle was certainly not an option.
As it was, he got to Saddler Street without incident. He parked the Honda in the entrance to a nearby industrial estate, and to his surprise access to the station was just as easy. The officer manning the front desk obviously hadn’t read the local newspapers or force email circulations that referred to his suspension and barred him from police premises, for he let him in with hardly a glance in his direction. Though the lapse was to Fulton’s benefit, the big man shook his head in disbelief as he stomped along the corridor towards the stairs. Talk about communication.
He forgot all about the negligent bobby as he panted his way to the top floor, however, for he had more important things to worry about. In fact, his mind was so crowded with doubts and questions that he could hardly think straight. Although it was almost impossible to believe that someone like Phil Gilham – a man he had worked with on so many cases in the past – could be a cold, sadistic killer, he was unable to come up with any rational explanation as to how his former DCI could have got hold of Lyall’s stolen mobile unless he was implicated in the murders in some way. Derringer had already suggested that there might be more than just the psycho involved in the serial killings; maybe he had been right after all and Phil Gilham was the accomplice?
But if Gilham were implicated, certain things just did not add up. For example, why would he deliberately indicate he was using Lyall’s mobile when he rang earlier, and then not only fail to take advantage of the number withheld facility, but actually invite his old boss to phone him on the number later the same night? And why would he go to all the trouble of masking his voice in the original phone call and yet make no attempt to do so when Fulton rang him back? It was time for some answers and Fulton was in exactly the right mood to demand them.
