by Rob Ashman
Mitchell connected one end of a cable to a battery terminal and pushed a bath sponge into the jaws of the clamp. He did the same with the second cable.
‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know!’ Wrigley yelled. ‘For Christ’s sake, why don’t you people listen?’ he began to sob. ‘Please, please don’t…’
‘We do listen, it’s just that we don’t like what you’re saying.’
Mitchell snapped open the hooked blade of a knife and sliced through Wrigley’s shirt. Three more cuts and the material lay in tatters around his shoulders. His torso shone creamy white apart from the angry patchwork of bruises covering his body. He twisted the top off a bottle of water and drenched the sponges, then emptied the remainder of the bottle over Wrigley. He handed the clamps to Vasco, who had donned a pair of heavy rubber gloves.
‘Your fingers are fine, for now, Mr Wrigley. But you might find this stings a little.’ He shoved the sponges into Wrigley’s chest. Mitchell grabbed his Happy Meal and turned to shut the door.
Chapter 37
‘I reckon someone shot it with an air rifle, so the quality isn’t great,’ Marjorie Cooper said as she froze the image on the screen. It was a cobweb of fractures radiating outwards from a small round indent in the centre. The picture was a kaleidoscope of colour. ‘I think that’s her.’
Malice and Pietersen peered over her shoulder.
‘I can’t make out anything?’ said Pietersen inching closer.
Cooper pushed her thick rimmed spectacles to the end of her nose and sighed. ‘Okay, so this is what we have.’
Waite had delivered on her promise to provide help with the CCTV footage. Marjorie Cooper was a one-woman surveillance analysis team. Give her a time window and a location and if it was there… she’d find it. At fifty-something years of age and thirty-two years in the force, she had a healthy disdain for anyone who wore a suit to work rather than a uniform. Malice and Pietersen were no exception.
‘On the day in question there were four trains from Paddington to Fallgate Station,’ said Cooper. ‘Three were on time and the one was half an hour late. This is the footage taken at the exit at 11.05am. From your description and the photograph, Belinda Garrett is around five feet nine inches tall, slim build with blonde hair. I reckon that’s her.’
They peered at the screen, the image distorted by the splintered glass.
‘It could be, but it’s hard to be sure. Are there any other cameras at the station?’ Pietersen asked.
‘Yeah, there are three altogether. The other two are broken or out of service,’ Cooper said sitting back in her chair and removing her glasses. ‘This is the best I could find.’
‘Do you have anything to show where she went from here?’ Malice asked.
‘Nothing. I called the taxi firms in the area and no-one picked up a woman matching Garrett’s description at or around her time of arrival,’ Cooper replied.
‘Shit.’
Malice stepped away, his fingers scratching under his chin in frustration.
‘Can you run the footage again please, from the time when she comes into shot,’ Pietersen asked, her nose almost touching the screen.
‘Sure,’ Cooper wound the thumbwheel in reverse and clicked play.
‘Mally, look. There’s a flash of red.’ Malice joined Pietersen at the VDU. ‘She’s pulling a case behind her.’
‘Her flatmate thought there was an overnight bag missing from her room.’
‘The next step would be to get hold of the CCTV from Paddington station around the departure time and any footage from inside the train,’ Cooper said replacing her glasses to the bridge of her nose.
‘I’ve already put in a request, I can narrow down the time-window,’ said Pietersen.
‘Let me know when you have it,’ said Cooper.
Superintendent Waite bustled into the office.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention please?’ She strode up to the evidence board. ‘Dennis Cane, AKA Bullseye, was found dead this morning,’ she stuck his mugshot on the board next to Burko. ‘A bunch of kids found him in a drug house with a knife wound to his neck. This is the second death in as many days, both violent, both bodies discovered on the Claxton Estate. I’ve handed both cases over to the Murder Squad to be headed up by DI Malcolm Wilson. He is at the scene now with the Crime Scene Manager and the Forensic Pathologist. Cane had defensive wounds on his hands and arms and we’re treating his death as murder. Both men had known drug connections, if you have any intel please brief Malcolm’s team accordingly. Any questions?’ She scanned around the room. ‘No… carry on.’
‘Shit, another one,’ said Pietersen, walking over to the board.
Malice ran his hand through his hair and went back to his desk. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and read the message.
‘Ma’am!’ he scurried after Waite. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘My office,’ she barked over her shoulder. Malice skirted around the desks and followed her out. ‘What is it?’
‘Amy isn’t well. Hayley took her to the doctors this morning and they’ve referred her to a specialist at the hospital.’
‘Oh, sorry to hear that. Is she okay?’
‘Yeah, she has an ear and throat infection and is running a sky-high temperature. She’ll be fine, but we just need to get her checked out.’
‘What do you need from me?’ Waite was doing her best to sound compassionate.
‘I might need a few hours off to help Hayley. I know we’re busy, but things haven’t been good between me and—’
‘Tell me a time when we’re not snowed under. That’s fine, just make sure Kelly knows what she’s doing.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘How’s she getting on?’
‘Well let’s put it this way… one thing I don’t need to do… is make sure she knows what she’s doing.’
Forty-five minutes later Malice was pulling up outside a row of domestic garages on the outskirts of a housing estate. Every one of the doors could have done with a lick of paint.
He stepped out, fished a small key from his pocket and unlocked the one with No.44 scratched into the metal. He twisted the handle and heaved the up-and-over door open. The mechanism complained with a squeal.
He shimmied himself between the car and the inside wall before sliding into the driver’s seat. The car smelled like old socks. The engine spluttered then cranked into life on the third attempt, black smoke belching from the exhaust.
Malice edged out of the garage and parked to one side. Then he got out, leaving it running, and backed his car into the vacated space. It was a tight fit. He gathered up his things and squeezed himself out.
The garage door banged shut.
Behind the wheel, Malice checked the controls were in working order — indicators, wipers, lights — and opened the windows to rid the interior of the smell. To his amazement they worked as well. It had been fifteen years since his father had passed away and the Rover 75 had been his dad’s pride and joy. Maybe that’s why every time Malice had come to sell it, he couldn’t bear to part with it. Though, why the hell the vehicle held such a special place in his father’s affections had always been beyond Malice. It was a shed of a car. But at least it was running.
He reached under the passenger seat and his fingers found their target; a man’s brown leather toilet bag. He lifted it onto his lap and ran the zip down.
The smell of gun oil wafted towards him.
Game on.
Pietersen sipped her coffee. It was hot and bitter. A young couple were perched on bar stools in the window while a woman sitting at another table nursed a pot of tea. She was staring into space with shopping bags at her feet. A TV on the wall was tuned to the news channel. This was much better, not only did she have coffee, but she wasn’t going to return to the office stinking of piss.
Ryan Anderson stepped up to the counter and ordered an Americano. He picked a newspaper from a rack and sat at the table next to Pietersen.
; ‘This is more like it,’ she whispered, sipping from her mug.
‘I’m pushed for time and this is closer to the office. Too public for my liking.’
‘I prefer this place.’
‘Your message sounded urgent.’
‘They discovered the body of a man on the Claxton this morning. They’re treating it as murder. I reckon it’s the guy I saw Malice speaking to when he bolted from the car.’
‘On which occasion?’
‘The second.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t get a good look at them?’ Anderson flicked open the newspaper and held it up in front of himself.
‘That’s right, I didn’t. But I reckon it’s the man I said looked like a beachball. His name is Dennis Cane, AKA Bullseye. I ran him through the system. One of his known associates is a guy called Wrigley. I think he was the other bloke that Malice spoke to. I’m putting two and two together here, but I’m pretty confident it’s him.’
‘That’s good work.’
‘Bullseye was into drugs and so is Wrigley. Possession, supply, that type of thing.’
‘Do you think Malice is involved in the murder?’
‘I don’t know. This is the second killing. Another man called Burko was also found dead on the Claxton. The Murder Squad have opened an investigation.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Anderson turned to the sports pages.
‘See what you can find out about the three men. I’m sure Malice spoke to two of them and he might be connected to the third. I’ve got my hands full with the missing person case and it would help if you could do some digging.’
‘Okay.’ Anderson took a pen from his inside pocket, scribbled on the newspaper and tore off the corner. ‘Are you getting closer to Malice?’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Good. There’s no need to see each other tonight unless something else blows up. We’ll meet at the same place same time tomorrow.’
‘But the café will be shut.’
‘Not the café, the underpass.’
Anderson got up from the table and left.
Tosser!
Pietersen took a slug of coffee instead of yelling out what was in her head. She glanced up at the TV to see a headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
Case halted when Catwalk Killer attempts suicide.
She picked up her drink and wandered over to the screen. The woman eyed her and pulled her bags closer.
‘Sorry, I just want to listen to this,’ Pietersen said by way of explanation. The woman looked unconvinced.
‘There was pandemonium outside Southwark Crown Court today…’ a reporter yelled into a big fluffy microphone, while being buffeted from all sides. ‘When the trial of the so-called Catwalk Killer was halted after the accused tried to kill herself in her cell. The judge has called for a postponement pending psychiatric reports. There is no word on the condition of the fashion designer Tracey Bairstow — the woman accused of murdering her husband, the model and entrepreneur Brendan Bairstow. This high-profile case continues to rock the fashion world…’
Pietersen wasn’t listening. She was watching the figure of Damien Kaplan being jostled by the crowd. While all around him wore troubled faces, he was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
Chapter 38
M alice returned to the station to find Pietersen, once again, drawing arrows on the white board. The place was quiet apart from the sound of Waite giving some poor individual the benefit of her experience at full volume.
‘Did you get things sorted?’ she asked, replacing the cap on the pen.
‘What?’
‘Your daughter… you said she was poorly.’
‘Oh yes. She has to have more tests but they don’t think it’s anything serious. You know what it’s like with kids, you worry about the smallest thing.’
‘You know I have a car instead of a boyfriend, right? So, no, I don’t know.’
‘She’ll be okay. Thanks for asking. I’ve been thinking…’
‘About?’
‘We need to split up.’
‘I wasn’t aware we were…’ Pietersen pulled a face.
‘Very funny. What I mean is, if we make the assumption that it is Garrett at Fallgate Station then she had to have had a lift to the Kaplans’ place.’
‘Because the taxi firms came up with nothing,’ said Pietersen, tossing a marker pen into the air and catching it.
‘Correct. So maybe one of the Kaplans was waiting for her... or…’
‘Or maybe it was our friendly taxi driver, Anna Robbins, the duty manager at the Mexborough.’
‘She was a taxi service before, why not use her again?’
‘What are you proposing?’
‘You pay Robbins a visit and I’ll drop by the Kaplans … see if I can rattle them.’
‘Is that wise?’ she cocked her head to one side. ‘Would it be better if I went to talk to Elsa?’
‘I can handle Elsa Kaplan.’
‘I think a spot of handling is exactly what she had in mind.’
Malice rapped his knuckles against the woodwork and the sound echoed around the hallway beyond. He stepped back and whistled at the grandeur of the house.
I wonder if it helps to have a gaff like this if you plan on being a swinger?
After a long pause, he then tramped across the front of the house, around the corner to the back garden.
‘Hello. Anyone at home!’ he called out. Nothing.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked back, cursing his wasted visit, when a car pulled through the gates onto the driveway.
Elsa Kaplan jumped out.
‘Detective Sergeant how lovely. I wasn’t expecting you. You should have called ahead and I would have been here for you.’
‘Mrs Kaplan, I wonder if you have time to answer a few more questions?’
‘Of course, come inside. I’ve been to the gym.’ She was dressed head to foot in black and green Lycra sportswear with sparkly trainers. ‘Go through into the kitchen while I change.’ Before Malice could say a word, she scampered up the stairs.
Malice did as he was told. He mooched and picked up the ornate vase on the window sill. He flipped it over to find the inscription ‘DK 10 Nov 2018’ etched into the clay on the bottom. The sound of an electric shower reverberated through the ceiling.
Pietersen’s words barged into his head.
I’ll be fine.
Minutes later, Elsa came downstairs wearing a short bathrobe, towelling her hair dry.
‘Let me fix you a coffee.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary, if I could just—’
‘I’m having one and it would be rude to drink it on my own. How often do you go to the gym?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘You look like you work out a lot, very impressive.’
‘We want to check—’
‘Damien is at work. So, if you don’t mind just talking to me?’
‘That’s okay, I wanted to ask if—’
‘He’s done it again, he knows I can’t reach,’ Elsa said, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and positioning it against the worktop. She stepped up onto the seat and reached up. The bathrobe rode up. She held the position, the cafetiere in her hand. ‘You were saying?’
Malice pulled his notebook from his pocket and was determined to stare at that. Elsa stepped off the seat giving him a generous glimpse of her inner thigh. Malice’s notebook ploy wasn’t working.
‘Tell me again, when was the last time you saw Belinda Garrett?’ asked Malice.
‘Divorced or separated?’
‘What?’
‘You come over to me like a man that is either divorced or separated. My money would be on divorced. Am I right?’
‘Can we stick to the questions, Mrs Kaplan.’
‘That is a question, Detective.’
‘When was the last time you saw Belinda Garrett?’
‘Spoil sport,’ Elsa pouted. ‘It was at the Mexborough. She came o
ver for the weekend as usual and it was then she told us she’d met someone. We wished her well in her new relationship. Of course it was sad but that’s what happens.’
Elsa busied herself with the kettle and brought two mugs from the cupboard.
‘You met her six times over a twelve-week period — every two to three weeks. The pattern suggests that you were due to meet her again on or around the weekend she disappeared. Had you arranged to see her again?’
Elsa poured boiling water onto the ground coffee.
‘We’ve been over this once, Detective Sergeant, when you were last here.’ She turned to face him, leaning against the worktop, the top of the robe coming loose. ‘Why do you want to go over this again?’
‘We need to be thorough.’
‘Was I not convincing the last time?’
‘As I said, we need to be sure.’
‘Did you come here for something else?’
‘What do you mean?’
Elsa stroked her finger down the lapel of the robe. ‘Oh come on, Detective. Don’t be coy.’
‘Mrs Kaplan—’
‘You liked my coffee so much you wanted more.’ Elsa straightened the robe and poured the drinks. ‘Here’s your coffee, please take a seat.’
Malice sat on one of the chairs with the drink in front of him while Elsa continued to lean back against the work surface.
‘So you didn’t see Belinda Garratt again after the Mexborough?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘We have reason to believe that she visited your house the weekend she went missing.’
‘Really? That’s interesting,’ Elsa took the seat opposite, clutching her mug in both hands. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Did you or your husband drive to Fallgate train station to pick Belinda up?’
‘Good heavens, no. As I said we’ve not had contact with her since.’
‘Did you pay Anna Robbins to pick her up?’
Elsa shifted her position and the gown gaped open. ‘Mmm… no, we didn’t do that either. We only used Anna when staying at the hotel.’ Elsa played with the silver chain around her neck. ‘So, let me get this straight. You believe Belinda was at the train station and she was on her way here?’
