Slice

by David Hodges

  ‘Nice and convenient for his killer then?’

  The other released his breath in an exasperated hiss. ‘Jack, what is all this rubbish about a note? I’ve just said there was nothing on my desk.’

  ‘OK, so there was no note. Someone must have lifted it then. Maybe we should ask Ben Morrison about that too.’

  Gilham’s mouth tightened. ‘Jack, can I have a word?’

  ‘If you must.’ Fulton followed him out into the corridor and into one of the adjacent interview rooms, where he leaned against the wall, knowing exactly what was coming. ‘Well?’

  Gilham lowered his voice, but his tone was nevertheless very brittle. ‘I’m fed up with all these snide comments of yours, Jack,’ he said, ‘and I don’t know what you think you are doing here anyway. You have no right to be interrogating anyone or bellowing out orders. That’s my job. I’m SIO now. You’re on suspension and you shouldn’t even be in the nick.’

  Fulton lit a cigarette. ‘Finished?’ he said, his tone pure acid. ‘Good, because I want to make something perfectly clear to you. Until I’m absolutely sure you’re kosher, I intend following this business through to the bitter end – suspension or no suspension. So we can either work together and share information or against each other and foul up a major police inquiry better than any killer could ever hope for. It’s your choice.’

  Gilham had difficulty keeping his voice down. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ he hissed. ‘It’s not a question of choice. You’ve been ruled out of the inquiry and have no option but to stay out.’

  Fulton gave a thin smile. ‘Is that so?’ he replied. ‘Well, the killer seems to have ruled me in again and, as far as I’m concerned, he has the final say – whoever he might be.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘Meaning whoever he might be – and that includes everyone in this nick.’

  ‘But you can’t still think of me as a suspect, surely?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve not yet entirely dismissed the possibility that you are involved somehow.’

  ‘Oh come on, Jack. After what I told you upstairs, you know damned well I couldn’t have killed Lyall – and I was actually with you in the SIO’s office when McGuigan got sliced.’

  Fulton remained unmoved. ‘The jury is still out on Lyall,’ he growled, ‘and as far as McGuigan is concerned, who can say exactly when Sergeant Davies was clobbered or McGuigan had his throat cut? Minutes can count a lot, as you well know, and you could easily have done the job yourself, then retreated upstairs, leaving the next visitor to custody to sound the alarm.’

  ‘Which just happened to be Ben Morrison, didn’t it? For heaven’s sake, Jack, use what little of that atrophied brain you have left. Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that Morrison should be the one to stumble on it all – especially in view of his behaviour earlier tonight? I mean, why was he in custody in the first place? When I confronted him on the top floor earlier, he said he was going home.’

  ‘Maybe he was and then the alarm went off.’

  ‘But that was nearly an hour later. What was he doing all that time – reading the note Huw Davies says he put on my desk? OK, so maybe he’s a slow reader, but come on!’

  ‘All very suspicious, I grant you, but if Ben is our man, I can’t see him luring you to the nick for the phone call from me, then being stupid enough to be there when you arrived.’

  ‘Could be he cut it too fine after planting the evidence in the drawer?’

  ‘And could be he didn’t put it there in first place?’ a voice snapped from the doorway behind him.

  Ben Morrison’s face was ashen, his ever restless eyes still for once and locked on to Gilham with obvious hostility.

  Fulton raised an eyebrow and took another pull on his cigarette. ‘You shouldn’t be listening at keyholes, Ben,’ he commented.

  The DI slipped a new strip of chewing-gum into his mouth with a bandaged hand. ‘Wouldn’t need to if I could trust me own guv’nor,’ he said.

  Gilham was plainly embarrassed at being caught out, but that didn’t stop him hitting back hard. ‘Trust me?’ he ranted, jerking round to face him. ‘You’ve got a flaming nerve. You’re the one who’s got the explaining to do, not me. You go missing half the night, turn up later in the incident room with some cock and bull story about being scratched by a cat, then just happen to be the first one on the scene of McGuigan’s murder.’

  Morrison snorted his contempt. ‘Do me a favour! If I was the friggin’ killer, would I hit the bloody panic alarm?’

  ‘Maybe you heard someone coming and wanted to make things look good.’

  ‘That’s crap and you know it.’

  ‘Is it? Then why disappear so rapidly afterwards? To wash McGuigan’s blood off your hands in the bog?’

  Morrison took a step towards him, neck muscles bulging and fists clenched by his sides. ‘And how come you had Lyall’s mobile in your desk drawer? Nick it from him after you slit his throat, did you?’

  Gilham smirked in triumph. ‘And how is it you knew it was there in the first place?’

  ‘Drawer was half-open. Saw it inside, right?’

  Fulton straightened up off the wall and raised both hands in censure. ‘Listen to the pair of you,’ he growled. ‘You’re behaving like a couple of five-year-olds.’

  But Gilham was still not finished. ‘OK, so ask him what he did with the note Huw Davies left on my desk. He obviously took it.’

  Fulton raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Valid question, Ben,’ he said. ‘Did you take it?’

  Morrison hesitated, reddening appreciably, then nodded. ‘Popped into nick on me way home from hospital to explain to Phil where I’d been. He weren’t back from Derringer hit, so decided to wait.’ He shrugged. ‘Just happened to see sealed envelope on desk and had a dekko, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  Morrison’s face hardened. ‘Been with this firm a long time, guv. Always been a leg man – doin’ shit jobs while others got the bleedin’ glory—’

  ‘So you decided to grab some of that glory for yourself by getting the SP from McGuigan first, eh?’

  There was almost an entreaty in Morrison’s eyes as he glanced in his direction. ‘Well, thought it would be good to make DCI before I retired. Saw this as me big chance.’

  ‘What a load of rubbish!’ Gilham exclaimed. ‘How gullible do you think we are?’ He stabbed an accusing finger in the DI’s direction. ‘After you left me on the top floor, you were gone around an hour before the alarm went off. Where’d you go? Midnight mass?’

  Morrison took a deep breath, now completely on the defensive. ‘Couldn’t get me car started and came back in—’

  Gilham’s derisive chortle cut him off in mid-sentence. ‘Oh come on, Ben. Can’t you think of anything better than that?’

  Fulton grunted, apparently no longer interested in Morrison’s explanations and keen to move on. ‘Where’s the note, Ben?’ he said.

  The DI nodded again and reached in his jacket pocket to produce a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Hung on to it,’ he replied, slumping into an adjacent chair. ‘Thought it might be useful evidence later.’

  But Fulton was not listening. He was too busy smoothing out the A4 sheet on the nearby table to study the cramped writing.

  LIED WHEN I SAID I DIDN’T SEE WHO DELIVERED ENVELOPE AFTER LYALL’S MURDER. CAUGHT SIGHT OF HIM AS HE SCARPERED. SAME GUY PASSED ME IN CORRIDOR TODAY BEFORE THEY BANGED ME UP AGAIN AFTER INTERVIEW. NEED TO TALK TO YOU PDQ!

  Gilham whistled. ‘So our local hack was actually on to the killer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fulton growled. ‘and a fat lot of good it did him.’ He threw the other a quizzical glance. ‘So why was he being interviewed again?’

  Gilham shrugged. ‘I believe his solicitor called in to see him.’

  ‘So he would have been taken to one of the two interview rooms near the custody suite – maybe even this one?’

  ‘More than likely. Custody record should say. What’s your point?’


  ‘My point is that whoever he saw in the corridor must have been there for a specific reason. The corridor itself is a dead end, so the killer must have been there on custody business and the last thing he would have expected was to come face to face with the one person who might have been able to identify him.’

  Gilham’s eyes flicked to his number two. ‘Like Ben Morrison, you mean,’ he sniped.

  Morrison left his chair with an angry snarl, but Fulton moved more quickly and blocked his path. ‘Just pack it in, the pair of you,’ he rapped. ‘Having a go at each other will achieve nothing. Now, where’s the envelope the note was in, Ben?’

  The DI hesitated, then, with a curt nod, abruptly fumbled in his pocket and produced a buff-coloured ball of paper. Fulton snatched it from him, smoothing it out on the table beside the note. ‘Now that is interesting,’ he murmured.

  Morrison frowned. ‘What is?’

  Fulton grunted. ‘Take a look,’ he invited.

  Morrison complied, partly obstructing Gilham as he pressed in closer to the table. The envelope was marked ‘Confidential’ and addressed to ‘Det. Supt Fulton’ in blue ballpoint pen.

  ‘OK,’ Gilham observed. ‘McGuigan was obviously unaware of the fact that you were no longer SIO – so what?’

  ‘Not that,’ Fulton snapped. ‘Look at the handwriting, man. The envelope may have been written in block capitals like the note, but it is pretty obvious, even to my untrained eye, that it’s in an entirely different hand.’

  Both his colleagues looked blank and he swore his exasperation. ‘Oh, come on, the pair of you are supposed to be bloody detectives! This is obviously not McGuigan’s original envelope. That one was torn open, so the killer had to replace it with another one and readdress it.’

  There was a pregnant silence for a few moments and sensing the two pairs of eyes boring into him, Morrison gulped quickly and shook his head several times. ‘Don’t look at me – I had nothing to do with it. Note was in envelope when I found it.’

  Fulton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure about that, Ben?’ he said.

  Morrison took another deep breath, a hunted look in his eyes. ‘Look, guv, I just give you the note, didn’t I? Hardly have done that if I was the flippin’ killer, would I?’

  Gilham shrugged. ‘Who knows how a psycho’s twisted brain works?’ he retorted.

  Fulton threw out a restraining arm as Morrison went for him again. ‘Shut it, Phil,’ he rapped. ‘Don’t forget, you’re not above suspicion yourself.’

  Gilham flushed. ‘Neither are you,’ he fired back, ‘and you’re carrying a lot more baggage than either of us.’

  Fulton gave a bitter smile, too tired now even to get angry. ‘You mean because I’ve got previous for battering my wife and her lover to death, is that it? Funny, I didn’t realize there had already been a trial.’

  Gilham swallowed hard, averting his gaze. ‘Sorry, Jack,’ he muttered, ‘that just came out.’

  The big man nodded, his expression contemptuous. ‘’Course it did, Phil,’ he acknowledged. ‘You’re right though. I’ve got more against me than most, but as everyone at the nick is under suspicion until this swine is nailed, it leaves you with an arse of a problem, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t follow you?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Fulton pushed past him to the door. ‘Well, think about it,’ he said, turning briefly with one hand on the handle. ‘Not only have you got to decide whom you can trust, but how you are going to convince the rest of the team that they can trust you!’ He jerked the door wide. ‘As for me, bed sounds like a pretty good idea.’

  The prospect of soft sheets and a cool pillow was certainly foremost in Fulton’s mind as he left the police station, but that indulgence had to be relegated to the back burner when he eventually got home, for there was a sliver of light probing the back lawn through a chink in his lounge blinds. He had an intruder in his bungalow!

  chapter 21

  FULTON BURST THROUGH the lounge door like a runaway JCB, but a few steps into the room he stopped short, staring first at the table lamp, burning like a malevolent eye on the coffee table, and then at the gaunt hunched figure occupying the armchair beside it.

  ‘Mazel tov, Jack,’ Mickey Vansetti said, taking a sip from a glass of whisky.

  Fulton stared at him in disbelief. ‘You cheeky bastard!’ he choked, starting towards him with both fists clenched. ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  The former gang boss smiled with the warmth of an open tomb. ‘That catch on your French winders was just askin’ to be slipped, my son,’ he answered. ‘You ought to get it fixed.’

  Fulton took another step towards him, his voice trembling with anger. ‘You break into my place and calmly sit down and drink my Scotch? I’ve a good mind to wring your scrawny neck.’

  Vansetti threw up his other hand in a swift defensive gesture. ‘Not a good idea, Jack,’ he warned. ‘Not if you wants to nail the Slicer. Anyway, what was I supposed to do with the bleedin’ press out front? Wait till you was in an’ knock you up? Look good, wouldn’t it, local villain callin’ to see his ol’ mate, the suspended police super?’

  The big man hesitated, one part of him itching to grab his uninvited visitor by the collar and hurl him out into the night and the other urging restraint until he had found out what he had to say.

  Vansetti seemed to sense his dilemma and made the most of it. ‘Fact is, Jack, I ain’t been that straight with you.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s why I’m here, ain’t it – to make it right and give you the SP on a few things?’

  ‘And why would you want to do that? Just in case I had a touch of the seconds and thought about turning you in?’

  ‘Close. You catchin’ me in the same room as that stiffed copper might take some explainin’ if it got out. But there’s more to it than that.’

  Fulton produced his packet of cigarettes and leaned back against the doorframe as he lit up without offering Vansetti one. ‘OK, so I’m listening. But it had better be good.’

  Vansetti drained his glass and brazenly refilled it from the bottle beside the chair before slopping whisky into a second glass perched on the arm.

  ‘Sit down an’ have a drink, Jack,’ he said, nodding towards the other glass. ‘Standin’ there, you looks like you got a pole stuck up your arse.’

  ‘You’ll get my boot up yours if you don’t get on with it.’

  Vansetti stared into his own glass for a moment or two, as if seeking inspiration from the amber-coloured spirit. ‘My ol’ man’s in Derryman ’Ospice, Jack,’ he said at last, looking up. ‘Took him there yesterday. Big C. They say he’s only got a few days at most.’

  Fulton grunted, remembering from his early days on the crime squad what a vicious antagonist Carlo Vansetti had been. ‘Forgive me if I don’t cry,’ he commented. ‘So what has he got to do with this confessional of yours?’

  It was Vansetti’s turn to hesitate. ‘I ain’t no grass, Jack, but seein’ as Carlo’s on the way out, what I got to say can’t hurt him no more.’

  The mobster produced a part-smoked cigar from his top pocket and fumbled in his pockets for a second before nodding his thanks when Fulton tossed him his lighter. ‘First off, about tonight. I weren’t after that little shit, Derringer, ’cause he done me at the tables. That was a load of ol’ fanny – even though he did use my club an’ shag one of the croupiers. Truth is, Derringer had been puttin’ the black on me ol’ man and had squeezed him for a few thou before I sussed what was goin’ on. So I sent Bruno to find him, get back what was owed and give him a bit of a slappin’.’

  ‘Sounds like Bruno did a good job there. So what did Derringer have on your father in the first place, apart from thirty years of villainy?’

  Vansetti grimaced as if he had found an unpleasant taste in his mouth. ‘At the start, Carlo told me it were to do with a bit of business involvin’ some nicked gear, but it turned out he were tellin’ me a load of ol�
� porkies. When they shunted him into Derryman, he decided to come clean – shit scared he was goin’ to end up with his throat cut like the others.’

  Fulton stiffened. ‘Like the others? And why would he think the killer was after him?’

  Vansettti appraised him with a cold reptilian intensity. ‘That’s what I come here to tell you,’ he replied. ‘What do you really know about our Mr Justice Lyall?’

  ‘What should I know?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. There were quite a bit to ol’ Herbie.’

  ‘Herbie?’

  ‘That’s what they called him on the street when he weren’t wearin’ his wig. Bit of a bad boy were our Herbie.’

  Scooping up the spare glass of whisky from the arm of Vansetti’s chair, the policeman dropped on to the settee with an explosive thud, his stomach juices stirring in anticipation. ‘How bad was bad, Mickey?’ he encouraged.

  Vansetti leaned towards him. ‘Bad enough to enjoy a regular bit of S and M, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘Sado-masochism? You’re saying he was bent?’

  ‘As the proverbial. Been at it for years, long before he got the silk an’ then became a judge.’

  ‘Dirty old sod.’

  ‘Yeah, an’ not only him – good ol’ Reverend Cotter too.’

  ‘Cotter?’

  ‘Yeah, Mr ’Oliness hisself. They was in a syndicate, see – like minds an’ all that – run by a high-class shrink, called Score.’

  Fulton drew in his breath sharply. ‘Julian Score?’

  ‘That’s the geezer. Had some kind of private clinic for junkies an’ screwballs out in the sticks not that far from here.’

  ‘You’re talking about Drew House.’

  ‘Right again. Score had this cellar, see, rigged up like some bleedin’ torture chamber, and they used to meet there regular as clockwork for a bit of what was on offer.’

  Fulton thought about what he had seen for himself in the mansion’s church crypt and felt his skin crawl. ‘And what was on offer?’

  ‘Rent boys mostly, them as would do any trick asked for an’ could be relied on to keep shtum afterwards if they was paid enough.’