Slice

by David Hodges

  ‘And Carlo told you all this?’

  Vansetti slumped back in his chair, a bitter expression on his skeletal face. ‘Come out with it last night just before I left him at the ’ospice,’ he replied.

  ‘So he was in this syndicate too, was he? Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘No, Jack, you got it all wrong. Carlo weren’t part of the syndicate itself. He just supplied the rent boys for ’em. Saw the whole thing as a nice little earner an’ he made quite a bit of dosh out of it too. But then there was an accident.’

  ‘The fire?’

  ‘You know about that then?’

  Fulton gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I do read crime reports, Mickey,’ he snapped, but didn’t volunteer any further information, determined to keep the conversation on track. ‘So, what happened?’

  Vansetti shrugged. ‘Dunno exactly, as I weren’t there, but Carlo says Score an’ a young lad got crisped.’

  Fulton remembered studying the crime report on the LIO’s computer and nodded. ‘Edward Heath.’

  Vansetti avoided his gaze. ‘Yeah, that’s him. Papers had him down as some local junkie, who’d broken into the place lookin’ for dope, but that were just somethin’ they was fed. Truth is, he were one of Carlo’s rent boys hired to do the usual tricks for the syndicate an’ Carlo thought that were all there were to it when he run him there like he’d done with all the others before.’

  ‘But this time it was different, eh?’ Fulton suggested, sensing Vansetti had a lot more to divulge, but was still reluctant to put it all into words.

  The other nodded and studied the carpet through the smoke from his cigar. ‘Yeah, see, Score an’ the others was bored with the same ol’ bondage thing, so they decided to up the ante without telling Carlo. When the kid was delivered, they pumped a load of LSD into him to try and liven him up. But he went off his head an’ as they was cartin’ him back to the house from the crypt, he broke free, got into the library an’ started a fire. Score tried to stop him,’ and he shrugged again, ‘but you knows the rest.’

  ‘And how come only Score’s name got a mention in dispatches?’

  Vansetti’s face registered contempt. ‘It were all sorted by one of your own, that’s why.’

  ‘Nick Halloran,’ Fulton grated before he could stop himself.

  Vansetti nodded again. ‘After everyone had scarpered, Cotter suddenly remembered they’d left the crypt door open and went back to lock up. Halloran saw the light in the church an’ caught him with his frock down. In a panic Cotter grassed up the rest of the syndicate.’

  ‘Paving the way for Halloran to cut a deal in return for a nice little earner – with no one to dispute a “no questions asked detected arson” except an incinerated Edward Heath?’

  ‘Somethin’ like that, yeah. How Derringer found out Carlo were mixed up in it all, I ain’t got the faintest, but he were well in with that slime-ball, Lenny Baker, who used to do a trick or two himself in the ol’ days. I reckon maybe Lenny come across some stuff an’ passed it on for a quick buck.’

  ‘And how do you fit into all this?’

  ‘I don’t. Knew sweet FA about any of it until last night. The ol’ feller unloaded the lot on me out the blue, like some bleedin’ confessional.’

  Fulton grunted. ‘The Nazis expressed the same sort of ignorance at Nuremberg,’ he said with a wry grimace.

  There was a flicker of alarm in his visitor’s dark eyes. ‘On my life, Jack, I had no part in it all and I want to set the record straight right now.’

  ‘You mean, before the facts come out anyway and you get nailed as an accessory to manslaughter, conspiracy and maybe even sexual perversion with a minor?’

  The ageing villain swallowed several times. ‘You’re a hard man, Jack, but this is legit, I swear it. I done many things over the years – blaggin’, bit of protection, runnin’ knocking-shops and spielers – yeah, I’ll admit to it all. I been a naughty boy an’ I done porridge for it too, but I ain’t no nonce an’ that’s the truth.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but with your form and all the baggage you’re carrying for Carlo, convincing a jury you’re Mr Clean would be a pretty tough job.’

  Vansetti threw up his hands in desperation, almost knocking over his whisky glass in the process. ‘Strewth, Jack, all this happened fifteen years ago. You had me banged up in Wandsworth then on a double blaggin’, remember?’

  ‘OK, but why come to me with all this?’

  ‘I need your help, that’s why. Carlo’s shit scared he’s next on the killer’s list. That’s why I went to see Derringer at the ’ospital, to find out if he knew enough to finger the Slicer before it were too late.’

  Fulton made a sour face. ‘Yeah, well it may have escaped your notice, but I happen to be suspended. You need to speak to a proper copper. Try Acting Detective Superintendent Gilham.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Jack! How can I trust Ol’ Bill when this nutter is probably a bleedin’ copper hisself? Anyway, with my previous, if I told them what I just told you they’d just bang me up.’

  ‘Chance you’ll have to take.’

  ‘An’ what happens to Carlo meantime, eh? Can you see your mates givin’ someone like him police protection?’

  ‘He doesn’t need it. You’ve got your own thugs to do that.’

  Vansetti scowled. ‘Already tried. ’Ospice won’t let Bruno anywhere near the place – even though I offered ’em a nice little bundle. Said it would upset the other patients.’

  ‘So, what do you expect me to do?’

  The dark eyes studied him fixedly. ‘Nail the Slicer before he gets to my ol’ man,’ Vansetti said simply.

  Fulton shrugged. ‘What’s the point? As you said yourself, Carlo will be dead in a few days anyway.’

  The other looked genuinely staggered. ‘I can’t believe you just said that, Jack,’ he gasped.

  Fulton fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got problems of my own, Mickey.’

  ‘Find this nutter an’ they’ll all be sorted.’

  ‘You reckon?’ The policeman hauled himself to his feet, picked up the whisky bottle and poured himself another drink. ‘Maybe it’s time to retire anyway.’

  Vansetti nodded. ‘So you just goin’ to give up, that it? Let this bastard butcher a few more people? Don’t sound like the Jack Fulton I used to know.’

  Fulton snorted. ‘You don’t give a damn how many more people are butchered, Mickey. You’re only interested in your old man.’

  Vansetti stood up and buttoned his coat with an air of finality. ‘Maybe you’re right, Jack,’ he replied, turning for the door. ‘But, as a copper, shouldn’t you be interested in that as well?’

  Fulton made no effort to stop him leaving and sat scowling into his whisky glass for a long time after the back door had slammed and his visitor’s footsteps had receded along the gravel path outside. Being reminded of his moral obligations by someone with Mickey’s track record was more than a bit rich, but he knew the mobster was right. Carlo Vansetti was as much entitled to the protection of the law as anyone else, regardless of what he had done in the past, and now that Fulton knew the old man was at risk, he was duty bound to do something about it. But what, that was the point? He had not been able to prevent the murder of any of the Slicer’s victims so far, so what chance did he have where Carlo Vansetti was concerned? Then there was Abbey. He was still no nearer to finding her than when she had first been seized. Everything was a diabolical mess and after compromising himself by quitting the scene of Derringer’s murder, enlisting the help of his former colleagues was out of the question.

  He was still agonizing over it all, the whisky glass cradled in both hands, when his over-wound body clock finally took the initiative and shut down. As the whisky glass slipped from his nerveless fingers, spilling its contents into his lap, he pitched sideways on to the settee and left reality behind him. And while his depleted batteries slowly began to recharge, the figure in the hooded anorak slipped round the front of the bungalow from
the back garden, under the very noses of the two reporters drinking coffee in the car parked outside, and thrust a padded envelope through the letterbox. It was just after four and much too early for the Royal Mail.

  chapter 22

  FULTON WAS RUNNING A bath and about to get undressed when the doorbell rang and he levelled a curse at the ceiling. A good five hours’ sleep might have gone some way towards helping his exhausted body to recharge its batteries, but it had done little to soften his bad humour. The battered settee he had been abusing for so many years could not have been a worse place to crash out on, especially in the contorted position in which he had ended up, and now even the chance of steaming away the pain eating its way through his locked back muscles had been denied him.

  ‘This better be important,’ he shouted, storming to the front door and wrenching it open.

  ‘It’s that all right,’ Phil Gilham said, his expression grim as he pushed past him into the hallway.

  Fulton’s eyes narrowed and he nodded towards the lounge. ‘In there,’ he snapped, bending briefly to pick up the post from the mat. ‘And you’ve got exactly ten minutes.’

  ‘Have I indeed?’ Gilham retorted, following him into the room and turning to face him again. ‘Then answer me this, Jack, where the hell is Abbey Lee?’

  Inwardly, Fulton jumped, but he was careful not to let his feelings show in his expression or tone of voice. ‘Abbey?’ he repeated, avoiding the other’s gaze and sifting through his post. ‘How should I know where she is?’

  Gilham’s mouth tightened. ‘Well, you’ve been using her flaming car, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘I saw you drive it away from the nick when you left there this morning and it now seems to be parked in the lane behind your bungalow.’

  Fulton threw him a swift glance. ‘And what makes you think it’s her car?’ he prevaricated. ‘There’s more than one Honda four-by-four on the road.’

  ‘Because it happens to have personalized number plates.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  Gilham hesitated. ‘Who do you think the old university friend was I’ve been over the side with?’

  Fulton gaped for a second, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Abbey Lee?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve been shagging Abbey Lee? You dirty little bugger!’

  Gilham gave a dismissive snort. ‘Only because you fancy her yourself, Jack – now, where is she? I’ve been round to her flat twice this morning, but the place is deserted.’ He held up a single Yale key to emphasize the point. ‘And her colleague, Ed Carrick, seems to think she has disappeared.’

  Fulton tossed a bundle of junk mail on to the settee, keeping only the bulky envelope. ‘I’m her keeper now then, am I?’ he said, frowning when he saw that the envelope was addressed to him in bold block capitals, but bore no address or postmark.

  ‘Well, how do you explain the car?’

  The big man looked up quickly, suddenly angry at the apparent inference. ‘She leant me the damned thing, OK? My Volvo would have attracted too much media heat every time I went out, so I started using hers.’

  He crossed to a small bureau, produced a paper-knife from inside and went to work on the sticky tape sealing the envelope, relieved to have been provided with a convenient distraction.

  But Gilham was not about to give up. ‘So how is she getting around herself, if you’ve got her wheels?’

  ‘How should I know? Because I borrowed her car doesn’t make me her personal confidant.’ Fulton glanced at him over his shoulder, a malicious gleam in his eyes. ‘Maybe she’s over the side with another DCI and is having an extra long lie-in.’

  ‘This is not funny, Jack.’

  But the reproof was unnecessary, for Fulton was in no mood for laughing – even less so after seeing what he had just pulled out of the envelope. ‘Mother of God!’ he whispered, and stared at the grisly object in his hand with a kind of horrible trance-like fascination before suddenly recovering his senses and throwing it on to the flap of the bureau with a violent shudder as if it were a leper’s bandage.

  Gilham was by his side in a couple of strides. ‘What is it, man?’ he exclaimed, peering at the plastic bag lying on the square of green leather.

  ‘What does it look like?’ the big man gasped, the colour draining from his face as he grabbed at the mantelshelf over the fireplace to steady himself.

  Frowning, Gilham reached past him and picked up the bag to study the contents more closely – only to drop it even more quickly than Fulton when he realized what it was he was holding. Made of transparent material and neatly sealed at the top with what looked like Sellotape, the bag was not unlike one of those used in supermarkets to hold grapes, but there were no grapes in it this time – only a severed human ear! ‘Gordon Bennett!’ he breathed. ‘What kind of a sicko would send something like this through the post?’

  Fulton gulped several times and pressed his chin into his throat as he belched repeatedly on the acid welling up from his stomach. ‘The same kind of sicko who likes to cut off people’s balls and slit their throats in front of a mirror,’ he choked. ‘And he has Abbey.’

  ‘He has what?’

  Fulton jerked a folded note from the envelope he was still holding and shook it open, scanning the unsigned message at the same time as Gilham. It was only very short, but the warning was unambiguous.

  THOUGHT IT WAS TIME I SENT YOU A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM ABBEY, JACK. KEEP POKING YOUR NOSE AND I’LL SEND YOU A BIT MORE.

  Gilham snatched the note from him and read it again, his own face also deathly white as he turned to face him. ‘You knew he had her and you said nothing?’ he shouted. ‘You let him mutilate Abbey and told no one?’

  Fulton’s legs started to fold under him and he made the armchair just in time. ‘Get me a drink,’ he said hoarsely.

  Gilham bent over him, his eyes blazing. ‘A drink? You want a drink? You useless cretin! I’ll see you in hell for this!’

  Fulton’s breathing became ragged and he clutched at the arm of the chair as a succession of fiery spasms ripped through his gut. ‘Don’t you think I’m already there?’ he rasped, his mouth twisted into a savage grimace. ‘Have been ever since he took her.’

  Gilham hesitated, eyeing him narrowly for a second, then abruptly crossed to the cocktail cabinet and returned with a double whisky, thrusting the glass at him as if it were a closed fist. ‘So what happens now?’ he demanded. ‘You just going to sit here and wait for this filthy psycho to deliver Abbey to us piece by piece or are you finally going to let me in on your little secret?’

  Fulton stared at the floor over the rim of his glass. ‘Haven’t got any bloody secrets,’ he muttered. ‘Just nightmares.’

  ‘Well you must know something.’

  Fulton raised his head and glared at him. ‘He snatched her from her car in the hospital car park last night when she took me to see Derringer,’ he snarled, ‘and that’s it, OK?’

  ‘You went to see Derringer last night? But that’s when—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. He was dead when I got there.’

  ‘When you got there?’ Gilham turned away from him, running his hand through his blond hair and staring at the ceiling in total exasperation. ‘This gets worse and worse, Jack – quitting a murder scene, concealing a kidnapping, withholding evidence, taking and driving away a motor vehicle; is there any rule you haven’t broken? And all the time you’ve been quizzing me as a murder suspect. It’s beyond belief.’

  Fulton downed the rest of his whisky and leaned forward in the chair to light a cigarette, his hands trembling so much that it took him three attempts to get his lighter going. ‘History for now, Phil,’ he retorted after a long pause, the combination of whisky and nicotine apparently restoring some of his former resilience. ‘First priority is to find Abbey.’

  Gilham jerked his vibrating mobile telephone from his pocket and studied the text message that had evidently just come through. ‘Maybe we have already,’ he snapped, heading for the door. ‘That was control room. Woman’s
body’s been found at a derelict asbestos factory just outside town. White, thirties, with long black hair – and she’s minus an ear!’

  The scenes-of-crime tent had seen better days, but it fitted neatly over the door of the Nissan hut and was effective in keeping the reporters at bay. They were forced to huddle together in a dispirited group just outside the encircling blue-and-white crime-scene tape: a dozen or so phantom-like figures, wrapped in the icy skeins of autumn mist.

  Gilham arrived in the temporary parking area in a swirl of gravel. Fury had directed his right foot all the way, fury and bitter resentment towards the unwelcome passenger who was slumped in the seat beside him. He had used every means of persuasion he could think of to deter Fulton from forcing his way into the car, knowing full well that to turn up at a murder scene with a suspended superintendent in tow was likely to finish his own career for good. But Fulton had been at his most determined and short of calling up the cavalry to arrest his old boss, which would have raised more than a few questions about his own conduct, Gilham had been left with no alternative but to let his personal Jonah aboard. But he had made it plain to him that, as part of the deal, he was to remain in the car out of sight of the press and anyone else who might recognize him – not that there was much hope of him sticking to his side of the bargain.

  The local DI, Jaspreet Sidhu, was a willowy thirty-something-year-old, who would have been attractive but for the hard cynical turn of her mouth, and she was waiting for them by her car. ‘Guv,’ she acknowledged, apparently recognizing Gilham immediately he got out of the car, but reserving a curious wary glance for Fulton as he clambered out after him. ‘Corpse found around mid-morning by a couple of kids bunking off school. Took ’em a while to pluck up courage to ring the nick.’

  She lifted the tent flap as the uniformed bobby manning the entrance quickly stepped aside. ‘One of her ears was amputated,’ she explained as she pulled on the pair of protective overalls and booties handed to her by a second uniformed constable inside the tent. She waited patiently while Fulton and Gilham did the same. ‘Thought there might be a connection with your so-called Slicer.’