Slice

by David Hodges

  Gilham was still in the SIO’s office, slouched behind the desk, when he lumbered through the half-open doorway. The former DCI’s face was pale and drawn, the stress cruelly evident in his expression, and Fulton couldn’t help noticing, with a sense of malicious satisfaction, the uncombed hair and rumpled state of the usually immaculate suit.

  ‘How the devil did you manage to get in?’ Gilham demanded, his eyes widening as he instinctively straightened in the chair.

  Fulton towered over him. ‘Never mind that,’ he snarled. ‘What are you doing with Lyall’s mobile?’

  Gilham picked up the silver-grey telephone from his desk, absently turning it over to reveal the Dyno-tape label, ‘H B Lyall’, on the back. ‘So it was you who rang me just now,’ he breathed. ‘What are you playing at, Jack?’

  Fulton snorted. ‘You’re the one who should be coming up with the explanations, Phil,’ he said. ‘McGuigan told us that the psycho was using Lyall’s phone, remember? So how come you’ve got it now?’

  Gilham gave a short nervous laugh. ‘Oh, hang on a minute, Jack, you’re away with the fairies. Believe it or not, this phone was in the top drawer of my desk. I only discovered it when it started ringing.’

  ‘How did it get in your drawer – fly in?’

  Gilham’s face hardened. ‘Someone must have planted it there while the office was empty – and I’m pretty sure I know who that someone was.’

  Fulton deposited his massive frame on the edge of the desk. ‘Oh? And who’s that?’

  Gilham looked up at him. ‘Ben Morrison,’ he said. ‘He was buggering about up here when I came back in.’

  ‘You’re saying he was actually in this office?’

  Gilham pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. ‘I can’t say that, but he had just come out of the incident room when I turned up and he looked pretty guilty, I can tell you.’

  ‘But why would he go to all the trouble of trying to stitch you up?’

  ‘He probably thought he needed to divert attention away from himself.’

  ‘For what reason? As far as I know, there has never been any suggestion of him being a suspect.’

  ‘There is now.’ Gilham quickly told him about Derringer’s murder, the excuse Morrison had made about the injured cat and the significance of his injured hand in relation to the bloodstained pyracantha bush at the hospital.

  Fulton was tempted to say that he had first-hand knowledge of Derringer’s death, but decided against it, instead exhibiting shock at the news and making the right sort of convincing noises as he lit up a cigarette to cover any visible signs of guilt in his expression.

  ‘We always said it was someone on or close to the team, didn’t we, Jack?’ Gilham continued, turning to stare out of the window with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. ‘Someone who knew everything that was happening and could wander in and out of the nick at any time of the day and night without attracting suspicion. Who better than Ben Morrison?’

  The big man shrugged. ‘And who better than you, Phil?’ he said, back on the attack. ‘Maybe Ben’s explanation about the cat clawing his hand is legit – and after all, you are the one actually in possession of Lyall’s phone.’

  Gilham swung back into the room and stared at him in astonishment. ‘Oh come on, Jack, you can’t really think I’m the killer surely? I mean, look at it logically. If I were, I would hardly leave the most incriminating bit of evidence of all in my drawer and answer the first call that came in on it. I’m not totally stupid, you know.’

  ‘Nor is Ben Morrison, but someone put the mobile there.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me and, on the subject of likely suspects, you forget that I wasn’t even here when Lyall was killed. I was on my way back from Jamaica with my partner, Helen. I didn’t land at Heathrow until after Lyall’s body had been discovered.’

  The suspicion in Fulton’s eyes did not diminish. ‘Cast-iron alibi, you reckon then, do you?’ he said.

  ‘It counts me out as a damned suspect, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Does it? Well, it may interest you to know that, following my suspension, I made a few enquiries about your little holiday trip.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘And my contact at Heathrow Airport was very helpful indeed. In fact, she told me there was no record of a Philip Gilham on the passenger manifest for the fourth of October – the night Lyall was killed – but there was a Philip Gilham listed for the night before, which means you were actually home around twenty-four hours before the old boy’s estimated time of death.’

  Gilham had paled significantly and was now gnawing at his bottom lip. ‘All right,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ll admit I was home a day earlier than I led you to believe, but certainly not to slit a retired judge’s throat.’ He took a deep breath and turned back to the window to hide his embarrassment. ‘Truth is, Jack, I’ve been over the side for a couple of months now – an old university girlfriend of mine I dated in my final year. I – I told Helen that I was due back at work the morning after we returned from Jamaica and would be away overnight on a crime conference in the Smoke, but actually I was with – with my ex-girlfriend at her flat.’

  ‘Nice to know integrity still means something.’

  Gilham winced at the barb and turned to face him again. ‘OK, so I’m not proud of myself,’ he admitted, ‘but the important thing is that I can prove I was nowhere near Lyall the night he died – I was with the lady in question – and if anyone wants that fact verified, I am fully prepared to give them her details so that they can check with her personally.’

  ‘Even if that means destroying your long-term relationship with Helen?’

  ‘Better that than being in the frame for multiple murder – and anyway, I would hope that any enquiry would be discreet.’

  Fulton grunted. ‘As discreet as it has been for Janet and me, you mean?’ he commented, a bitter edge to his voice.

  Gilham flinched. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Janet,’ he said, ‘and for the witch-hunt that’s been mounted against you, I truly am, but that’s no reason to accuse me of being a sadistic psychopath.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, but you have to admit that your behaviour so far has been more than a little questionable.’

  ‘Well, what about yours? For instance, how is it you knew to ring Lyall’s mobile in the first place?’

  Fulton threw him a cynical glance and stripped the seal off a new packet of cigarettes. ‘Let’s just say I got a call from a little bird who suggested I should,’ he replied, selecting a filter-tip and lighting up.

  Gilham nodded grimly. ‘Probably the same little bird who sent me a text message, telling me to be in my office at midnight tonight,’ he retorted, ‘which is how I came to be here when you rang.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve since deleted that message?’

  There was a sneer on Gilham’s face as he jerked another mobile phone from his pocket and flicked open the flap. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t,’ he said, tapping some buttons and thrusting the phone almost into his face.

  Fulton didn’t react, laconically glancing at the illuminated display. ‘Who was the sender?’ he queried.

  Gilham checked and showed him it again. Fulton nodded, unsurprised. ‘Lyall’s number,’ he said.

  His colleague nodded. ‘Strangely enough, until you told me that, I wouldn’t have known whose number it was, but the killer obviously slipped the mobile in the drawer here after making his call to you.’ He frowned. ‘And what I can’t fathom is why the Slicer would give it to you at all. I mean, why would he want to draw you back into the inquiry after taking so much trouble to get you taken off it in the first place.’

  Fulton stiffened. ‘What makes you think he had anything to do with my suspension?’ he said, the suspicion back in his tone.

  Gilham snorted his derision. ‘Oh come on, Jack, it stands to reason that he was responsible for the murders of Janet and her boyfriend. You may b
e many things, including a real pain in the bum at times, but a cold-blooded murderer is not one of them.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  Gilham raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘Which brings me back to my original question,’ he persisted, instinctively sensing he was on to something. ‘Why would the killer choose to rattle your cage at all?’

  Fulton affected an indifferent shrug. ‘Maybe it’s more a case of his cage being rattled rather than the other way about,’ he replied, thinking of his own refusal to give up on the case even after Abbey’s kidnapping and the killer’s threats. ‘Could be he wanted to muddy the waters a little and create a rift in the team, which would bugger up the inquiry and leave him free for his next hit.’

  ‘His next hit? How do you know there’s going to be another one?’

  Fulton drew down a lungful of smoke. ‘I don’t,’ he said, then hesitated, debating whether he could now trust his former colleague enough to fill him in on the latest developments regarding Abbey. He was spared that difficult decision, however, by the sudden screech of an alarm, which tore through the building with the force of an erupting cyclone. It was the ultimate conversation stopper and both men immediately recognized it for what it was. Someone had hit the panic alarm in the custody suite downstairs.

  chapter 20

  THE CORRIDOR LEADING to the custody suite was in darkness and nothing happened when Gilham skidded to a halt to fumble for the light switch. The scream of the panic alarm was so loud that it was actually on the pain level now, even drowning Fulton’s cursing as he clapped a hand over one ear.

  ‘Someone nicked both the bulbs, guv,’ a shadowy figure yelled from the end of the corridor, briefly masking the ghostly light streaming out of an open doorway.

  Fulton was surprised to see it was Dick Prentice and pushed past Gilham to join the DS in the doorway. ‘Can’t you turn that bloody noise off?’ he shouted.

  ‘Already sorted,’ Prentice shouted back and just as he said that, an unseen hand obliged, the alarm abruptly dying in a choking hiccup.

  There was a pool of blood on the floor of the small office on the other side of the doorway and two uniformed police officers were bending over a prostrate figure in one corner. The iron gate leading to the cells stood wide open and the metal ring normally attached to the custody sergeant’s belt now dangled from the big black key in the lock.

  Fulton didn’t need chapter and verse from anyone as to what had happened. The fact that the panic alarm had sounded, the gate to the cells was open and the figure lying on the floor wore the chevrons of a sergeant on his epaulettes told its own story and even as he headed for the iron gate, he felt a knife-twist in his gut that had nothing at all to do with his physical condition.

  McGuigan was in Cell 2 and he had died in a welter of his own blood, his throat bearing the familiar vicious signature of the so-called Slicer and his body lying on its back, half in, half out of the integral toilet cubicle. Fulton stared at the sightless eyes and the glistening muscular tissue now creeping from the rent in his throat and made a tight grimace. ‘Poor bastard!’ he said.

  Gilham slumped back against the door frame with his eyes halfclosed. ‘And slaughtered in our own nick,’ he added. ‘The press will tear us to pieces over this. I’ve only just persuaded Dee Honeywell to authorize extended detention—’

  ‘Never mind the press or friggin’ Honeywell,’ Fulton cut in, studying the dimly lit passageway leading to the remaining cells. ‘I’m more interested in where our killer went. Check each of the other cells thoroughly.’

  Then he was striding back along the passageway, leaving Gilham smarting like a castigated schoolboy and staring after him in a cold fury.

  The injured sergeant was no longer in the custody office when Fulton lumbered back through the iron gateway, but the place was far from empty. At least half a dozen uniformed officers – several of them missing ties, indicating that they had probably been on meal break when the alarm had activated – were milling about the room, one actually standing on the edge of the pool of blood the sergeant had left behind.

  ‘Get out of here – all of you!’ Fulton yelled. ‘This is a flaming crime scene and you prats have already trampled over half of it.’

  As the uniforms began to melt, DS Prentice pushed through them towards him. ‘Ambulance en route, guv,’ he said, automatically reporting to him, despite the fact that he was on suspension and should not have been there in the first place. ‘I’ve also told control to get hold of SOCO plus the Home Office pathologist – oh yeah, and Superintendent Honeywell has been advised and is making her way.’

  Fulton’s mouth tightened at mention of Dee Honeywell. ‘Oh joy,’ he muttered under his breath, then glared at the departing uniforms. ‘Who’s on the front desk?’

  One of the bobbies turned back towards him. ‘I am, sir – PC Sharp.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Just me, sir. Civvy station duty officers only work until midnight here. Has to be one of us after that.’

  Fulton raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Ye gods! So whoever did this had a clear exit to the street afterwards? Now that really is brilliant!’

  Sharp shook his head. ‘I responded the moment the alarm went off, sir. No one passed me in the corridor and it’s the only way out of the nick. Rear door is security locked at night.’

  Fulton snorted. ‘So what? The killer was either on his toes well before the alarm sounded or he found somewhere to hide until you were out of the way – like in one of the damned interview rooms next door, for instance.’

  ‘Well, I – I suppose that is possible, sir.’

  ‘Possible? It’s not just possible, man, it’s obviously what bloody well happened!’

  Then, presenting his back to him, he turned to Prentice again. ‘Did you sound the alarm?’ he snapped.

  ‘No, guv, I’d only just got back from the Derringer job at the hospital when it went off,’ the DS replied. ‘Must have been DI Morrison.’

  ‘Morrison? He was here?’

  ‘Coming out of the cell when I arrived. He sent me to call for an ambulance for the skipper. I made the call, then you and Mr Gilham turned up.’

  ‘And where is Mr Morrison now?’

  Prentice gave a soft chuckle in spite of the situation. ‘Probably in the bog, guv. He looked a bit pale when he passed me in the corridor afterwards and he weren’t hanging about neither.’

  ‘The bog? I can’t see him being upset by a bit of gore – the man’s an ex-marine.’

  ‘Claimed it was something to do with an injection he’d just had.’

  Fulton scowled, remembering what Gilham had said about the DI’s accident. ‘Well, get him Tannoyed. I want him down here pronto. Also, get hold of a couple of uniforms to secure the scene.’

  ‘Right away, guv.’

  ‘What about the custody sergeant?’

  Prentice half-turned on his way to the door. ‘Huw Davies?’

  ‘If you say so. Where has he disappeared to?’

  ‘Couple of the lads took him to the doctor’s room to await the ambulance.’

  ‘You mean, they moved a head-injury case?’

  Prentice said nothing and Fulton shook his head in resignation. ‘Bloody woodentops,’ he murmured and headed for the door.

  Sergeant Davies was lying on the examination couch, a couple of pillows under his head and a hastily applied bandage round his forehead which seemed to be getting redder by the second. A balding thickset constable was sitting on a chair beside the couch. He stood up smartly when Fulton burst in.

  ‘How is he?’ Fulton snapped.

  Before the constable could reply the sergeant’s eyelids fluttered open and he gave a weak smile. ‘Bit of a headache, sir,’ he said in the soft lilting tones of the Welsh valleys.

  Fulton nodded. ‘Did you see who did this to you?’

  Davies automatically shook his head, then released a sharp cry, one hand darting to the bandage, his eyes tightly closed in pain. Fulton wa
ited for him to recover.

  ‘Heard a knock on the custody office door, sir. Unlocked it, but corridor was in darkness so couldn’t see a thing. Then wham! Something hit me.’

  He swallowed with difficulty, a haunted expression surfacing in his blue eyes. ‘Get to my prisoner, did he, sir?’ he asked.

  Fulton waited while the station Tannoy blasted Ben Morrison’s name three times, then nodded. ‘You could say that,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t your fault.’

  The Welshman’s mouth tightened. ‘Maybe had something to do with that damned note, sir?’

  Fulton stiffened. ‘Note? What note?’

  Davies took a deep breath, wincing again in pain. ‘McGuigan wanted the SIO. Something about new information. Wouldn’t say what it was though. He – he asked for pen and paper and jotted something down, which he insisted on sealing in an envelope. PC Brooks, my gaoler was going off sick, so I got him to drop the envelope on the SIO’s desk for when Mr Gilham came in.’

  Fulton resisted the urge to strangle an injured man.

  ‘Should have called up Mr Gilham straight away, shouldn’t I, sir?’ Davies said, reading the censure in his eyes.

  Fulton grunted. ‘Might have been better, skipper, but don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘Weren’t to know what?’ Gilham queried at his elbow.

  Fulton steered him firmly to one side as a pair of uniformed paramedics appeared through the doorway. ‘Skipper says McGuigan had some new information for us,’ he replied, studying the other’s face for a reaction. ‘Apparently a note was left on your desk.’

  ‘My desk? But there was nothing on my desk.’

  There was a cynical gleam in Fulton’s eyes. ‘So you say – just a stolen mobile, right?’

  The dig was not lost on Gilham. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Forget it. How were the cells?’

  Gilham looked confused by the sudden change of direction. ‘The – the cells were clear,’ he replied. ‘Seems McGuigan was our only guest tonight.’