by Limey Lady
‘True,’ conceded Marsh. ‘But we’re convinced the print we found on the track comes from the twat’s Timberland.’
‘Because it was on dried dog shit,’ said Carlisle. ‘And everybody else uses that track in daylight. Avoiding the dog shit.’
‘The scientists reckon the print was days fresher than the dog shit,’ said Marsh, clearly sensing some disbelief. ‘They reckon the timing was about right.’
‘Okay. Carry on.’
‘Mr Bastard kept on the track until here, where it passes three metres from the fire. He then moved to here and started shooting.’
‘Wouldn’t the . . . the victims have seen him coming?’
‘The victims probably didn’t even know what day it was. They’d supped half a brewery each.’
‘I’ve solved that one, anyway.’
Four sets of eyes fixed on Waterman.
‘The booze,’ she said. ‘It was a delivery to an offy in Wrose. Apparently it arrived early and the owner wasn’t there. The driver threw a wobbly when someone said he’d have to wait; so he dumped it out in the street.’
‘Then these three happened along,’ Wilkes anticipated.
‘Must have,’ said Waterman. ‘We’ve checked and it matches, bottle for bottle.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Carlisle. ‘That particular evidence was barcoded.’
‘Yes, unlike the stakes. Although God knows how they managed to carry it all.’
‘I don’t think we need to worry too much about that.’ Carlisle turned back to Marsh. ‘How come one of the victims nearly got away?’
‘He was the sober one, relatively speaking. He’d been for Monster Munches. Probably only just got back, judging from the time on his receipt. He might have arrived as the shooting began. Maybe just after, when a stake was the closest weapon to hand.’
‘Explaining why he got two instead of just one?’
‘Yeah; in a way he was lucky. Mr Bastard finished him off quick. The others were made to suffer.’
‘Ball gags,’ said Waterman.
All eyes on her again.
‘The shock of their wounds would have only kept them quiet for a few moments. He used that time to make his first kill and apply the gags.’
‘Ball gags.’ Ayling laughed. ‘What made you think ball gags?’
‘I’ve been considering getting some for you and Wilkes.’
‘I’m not sure I like the idea of that. Can’t we leave Wilkes out of it?’
‘I’m not sure you’d like the idea I have for using them on you.’ Waterman smiled slightly. ‘But forget that. I’ve spoken to the pathologist. He agrees the marks on those two’s faces are consistent. And they’d be quick and easy to put onto two more or less defenceless men.’
‘Like me and Wilkes?’
‘Behave.’
‘Let me get this right,’ said Carlisle. ‘On top of everything else, we’re saying Mr Bastard applied gags. Maimed, tortured and killed. Then calmly pocketed the gags and strolled away.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he’s getting more resourceful by the minute. Not to mention more formidable.’
‘He went this way.’ Marsh indicated the second section of the rough track. ‘According to the one and only witness Ayling’s come up with.’
‘Like I said, that business park is crap for witnesses,’ Ayling continued. ‘Busy as hell during the day, deserted at night. It’s not even a decent shortcut to anywhere.’
‘I heard there have been lots of calls.’
‘Yes, but only from the usual loonies. And even more from folk who can’t help at all, just want to wish us good luck. There’s just been one so far who might have seen something.’
‘Is that the prostitute?’
‘Yeah; she’s flaky though. I need to talk to her a lot more before I start believing.’
‘I don’t believe her at all,’ added Wilkes. ‘Look at the geography. Why would he start off at one corner and exit diagonally opposite? Where would he leave his vehicle? It doesn’t stack up.’
‘Who says he had a vehicle?’
‘An immaculately prepared man like him; course he had a vehicle.’
‘Grandma and eggs,’ said Carlisle. ‘But are we . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Wilkes and Ayling together.
‘Okay. Let’s go interview, interview; we need to hear from everybody who was out and about late on Saturday . . . walking, driving, whatever.’
‘Already on it,’ said Ayling. ‘We’ve confiscated all the CCTV footage in town. We’ll identify them and eliminate them one by one.’
‘Speaking of being out on a night, how are you getting on with the rough sleepers?’
‘They seem to be all gone, sir.’ Waterman shrugged. ‘Must have gravitated to Bradford city centre after all.’
‘Make sure everyone keeps watching out. I want to know if they start gravitating back.’
‘Yes, sir, will do.’
‘Okay. Let’s call it a wrap for today. Obviously this is a case crying out for good, old fashioned legwork. I’ll curb my expectations of an instant result.’
Once again Waterman lingered after the others had gone.
‘These strange signatures,’ she began, indicating photographs of the four victims.
‘Consistent, aren’t they.’ replied Carlisle, close to exhaustion, trying not to yawn.
‘It’s the X’s and H’s that are puzzling me. They have to signify something.’
‘The X’s remind me of Charles Manson.’
‘Me too, but when I Googled it, I saw it was a swastika.’
‘It was an X first,’ said Carlisle. ‘He modified it later.’
‘So it could be someone with a fixation on serial killers?’
‘Manson wasn’t a serial killer.’
‘Maybe not technically, but . . .’
‘Are you volunteering to do some additional research?’
‘I suppose I am, sir.’
‘Request granted, Waterman.’
Chapter Twelve
(Thursday 24th April 2008)
Rick emerged from the inn with fresh pints, finding his partner in crime smoking in the most remote corner of the beer garden.
‘Heard anything?’ Judd wondered, taking his drink.
‘Not a dicky-bird. Although I wouldn’t have, would I?’
‘I just thought the spooks might have been in touch to say thanks.’
‘My arse,’ said Rick. He had a mouthful of Black Bull and glanced around. The latest April shower had caught them in-between pubs, forcing them into a run, robbing them of their planned chat as they walked. The sun was shining again now the rain had stopped, but it would soon be disappearing for good behind a stand of trees. Hardly anyone else had bothered to come back outside, apart from the cluster of nicotine addicts over by their shelter.
‘No names or places,’ he said, satisfied they were out of earshot.
‘Yes, as if I’d name names!’
‘Sorry.’ Rick laughed shortly. ‘There’s still nothing doing, though. I keep checking online,’
‘Me too; must have cleaned up for us, mustn’t he?’
‘He must have. It’s been a fortnight. News like that should have made the headlines straightaway.’
‘Have you said anything to the others?’
‘No. Nothing since debrief. They still think we just gave him the hard word.’
‘Right,’ Judd snorted. ‘Beefy had a go at me when we got back. Didn’t like the way the spooks split us up. I fobbed him off and he hasn’t asked again, probably because he’s been checking online himself.’
‘He asked me if we put in a word for Palace.’ Rick laughed again. ‘I told him it all depends on Messi’s availability. Smiggs hasn’t said zip.’
‘That’s it, then. Mission accomplished.’
‘Darkest fucking mission I’ve ever been on. I don’t need another like it.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
They chinked their half-empty glasses
in agreement.
‘Makes you wonder,’ Judd resumed. ‘What did the twat think when he woke up? That he’d done it himself, in his sleep?’
‘Doubt it. A guy like that’s not going to flap. I bet he had it worked out in five seconds flat.’
‘Okay. So he gets the message at once; why no diplomatic incident?’
‘He’s not a diplomat. And dialling 999 would have meant answering questions about all sorts of crap, wouldn’t it? Speaking of which . . . I’m glad I’m not his head of security. That poor sod’s probably in the salt mines already.’
Judd stubbed out yet another cig and set off for refills. While he waited Rick tried not to remember the snap as Anna’s neck went. He’d killed in cold blood before, but not like that. The others had been players in their own right; finishing them off had been part of the challenge.
Terrorists, he thought, paid muscle; part of the job. If any of Ivan’s boys had got in the way I wouldn’t have blinked an eye. But offing an innocent young girl like that . . .
‘Do they still have salt mines?’ Judd asked as he returned.
‘I’m not sure. And I don’t think he’ll have been so lucky. Most likely he’s sharing an unmarked grave with the young lass.’
‘He’s more likely been cremated with her.’ It was Judd’s turn to check for eavesdroppers. ‘To tell you the truth, Rick, I’ve not been able to look in a mirror since.’
‘That figures. I thought your razor was fucked.’
‘No, really, I . . .’
‘Enough,’ said Rick. ‘I know how you feel. You need to stop thinking about it.’
A brief silence ensued. Judd lit up again before taking a new tack.
‘That bit about the Land of the Aryans. What do you reckon?’
‘True or false, you mean?’ Rick shrugged. ‘It could be. There again, they might just have said that to make us believe we were saving the world.’
‘You don’t trust anyone, do you?’
‘Not when they’re wearing a thousand quid suit.’
‘You’re sure they were . . . Well, on the level?’
‘Yeah; I made a call after they’d pulled Beefy and Smiggs aside. Like I said I did. It was all legit and above board.’
‘It doesn’t feel above fucking board.’
‘The order was confirmed. Ours not reason why, eh?’
‘Too right,’ Judd shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s that, then.’
‘Too right it is.’ Rick punched the younger soldier lightly on the arm. ‘Don’t worry about it mate. Shit happens.’
*****
It was approaching nine o’clock, the day’s final visitors had gone and the ward was settling down for the night. Geoff was sitting in a chair beside his bed, doing perhaps his millionth crossword; trying very hard to persuade himself he wasn’t bored.
And, as usual, he was failing miserably.
He had been in hospital nearly three weeks, although it felt more like twenty years. By now it was fair to say he’d got into much the same routine as everyone else: up at seven for a wash and shave, using his personal bowl, behind his personal privacy curtain; clumsily self-dressing in time for a breakfast of cereal and orange juice, not forgetting the first of many cups of tea; then the newspaper trolley came round and he had chance to buy three or four dailies. Then, after reading them all cover to cover . . .
Then he’d hit the crosswords . . . and the Sudokus.
Before reverting to the puzzle magazines Penny kept bringing, and the great stack of crossword and Sudoku paperbacks Sandy had brought. And then . . .
Well, then it was time to go back to bed.
Of course there were other distractions: two sets of Visiting Hours; the tea trolley arriving every now and then; meal times; nurses and care workers to endlessly bicker with . . .
Mostly though, it was puzzles. He must be doing one sort or another ten hours a day. That was why he kept getting writer’s cramp. Normally he was glued to a keyboard, only picking up a pen to scrawl the occasional, unavoidable signature.
Breaking off for a moment, he straightened his ink-smudged fingers, half-expecting the bones to go crack. Instead he just got a bit of discomfort together with that strange sensation he’d had for a while. Not pins and needles, more of a . . . a tingling. Good job he’d been cured, otherwise he’d have worried about that.
Noticing the clock he abandoned his hand and concentrated on his legs. That nice physio lady had told him he needed to get his muscles working again so, on her advice, he’d been raising alternate legs every hour, on the hour. He always felt silly while he did that because sitting in a chair, lifting his legs six feeble inches hardly seemed like exercise. Not even when he strained and did his utmost to hold his foot out at the maximum elevation for ten whole seconds.
Rick would not have been impressed.
I have to get out of this place, Geoff thought as he began yet another set of repetitions. I really can’t take another week after this.
I’ve got to get back to work.
To tell the truth, time hadn’t dragged as much as he made out. The only truly bad spell had been Dr Strohl’s IVIG treatment. He’d been hooked up to a machine through a needle in the back of his hand and told not to move. That had lasted through every waking hour of five whole days. Five whole days! He had managed to read, in a wrong-handed fashion, but filling in crossword squares had been impossible.
And the flipping machine had been hyper-sensitive. He hadn’t had to move one millimetre to make it break down; a single glance was enough to stop it in its tracks. Cue the call for an already flustered and overworked nurse to drop everything and come to reset the damn thing . . . and to give him plenty of grief while she was at it, naturally.
Anyone would have thought he’d kept stopping it on purpose!
Five excruciating days and the treatment finally ended, signalling the arrival of the physio team and the road to full recovery, his first reason to be cheerful in ages . . . apart from summer, Buddy Holly and the working folly, of course.
Not to mention Good Golly Miss Molly!
Geoff still couldn’t believe all this had happened. He’d always been fit and well. Strange, out-of-the-blue syndromes weren’t supposed to have anything to do with guys like him. Syndromes were for other people . . . ill people; he was far too busy for things like that.
Anyway, at least the worst of it was behind him now. If only he could crack on with the exercises a bit quicker. He could maybe double them up to six sets of five. Trouble was they weren’t getting easier, were they? He must be pushing it too hard. Skipping a couple of meals probably hadn’t helped. Have to fix that tomorrow. It was roast beef and Yorkshire puds tomorrow. With any luck that cramp in his fingers would be gone and he wouldn’t slosh gravy all over the place. It was embarrassing when he did that. No wonder he didn’t have any appetite.
‘Are you okay, young man?’
Geoff looked up. Cyril was watching him from his chair next to the opposite bed. Cyril was sixty-nine (Geoff knew that because they all had to give their date of birth when the medicine trolley came round) so he was entitled to call him “young man”. Like most of the others on this ward, Cyril was recovering from a stroke. And a severe one at that; he was still quite badly affected. It was, therefore, concerning to see the worry in his eyes.
Don’t fret about me, Geoff wanted to reply. You’re the one who’s poorly.
‘Just a spasm,’ he said out loud. ‘Never mind me, are you okay? Are you ready for them to put you to bed?’
‘I’ll have another hour.’ Cyril sighed. ‘It’s not like Only When I Laugh, is it?’
‘Here in Airedale? I don’t know; there are some similarities . . .’
‘You didn’t seem to be laughing just then. You looked to be in agony.’
‘It’s nothing, just a twinge. I’ve probably been overdoing it. I’m in too much of a rush to get home.’
‘Aye, I guessed that. You’ve been overdoing it ever since you saw that physio woman.’
‘I am trying to hurry it along,’ Geoff admitted. ‘I need to get back to work. Not to mention the pub.’
‘The pub,’ Cyril chuckled. ‘I haven’t been in a pub since February.’
