“Tomorrow’s front page. I want you to write the lead. Give readers the real story. The prick in the media’s a pathetic copycat. The police have screwed up again.”
How to piss off the cops in one easy lesson. It was an exclusive he could live without. “Thing is...”
“We’ll write it together.” He paused. “After all, we are in this together. Aren’t we, Matthew?”
THURSDAY
30
Bev was in the office, trying to decipher the handwriting on a note left overnight on her desk. She glanced up at a muffled fumble on the door. Mac appeared with a wide grin on his face. “See...I can knock, boss.”
She frowned. God knows how. A bag with interesting-looking grease spots was tucked under an arm, both hands clutched polystyrene cups. “Come and have a look at this, mate.”
Mac bummed the door closed, ambled over, deposited the coffees on the desk. She relieved him of the goody bag, handed him the scrap of paper. He had the same trouble; the scrawl was virtually illegible. Mac just had more patience. “Who’s it from?” He quipped “Your doctor?”
She was poking doughnuts. “These raspberry?”
“No. Marmite. What d’you think they are?”
“Only asked.” She took a bite. “It’s from Bruce, the new SOCO.” Doing her a favour. She’d asked for an early heads-up from the Graves’s place. Shame she couldn’t make head or tail of the bloody thing.
“The one as fancies you?” Mac waggled his eyebrows.
Thin smirk, smug nod. “Dead ringer for Donny Osmond.”
“Jimmy,” he corrected. “The fat one.”
“You’d know, mate.” She licked sugar from her lips.
“Anyway.” He hoisted his jeans. “One of the Osmonds reckons he’s got a match for prints they lifted from some crime scene at Handsworth Wood. Tudor Grange? Ring a bell?”
“Ping.” She got a timely tongue to runny jam.
“Belong to a Caitlin Finney.” Mac read. “Thirty-eight years old. Address in Shirley. Shoplifting, speeding, contempt of court convictions. More bells?”
“Ish.” She frowned trying to recall where she’d seen the name. Recently, she thought. “Anything else on there?”
He returned the note. “What more do you want. Kisses?”
“Jealous?”
“Ravenous.” He grabbed the bag off her desk. “Why’s he telling you anyway? Handsworth Wood’s not our baby, is it?”
She gave him the condensed version: doctor’s suicide, anonymous letters to the police and the widow, criminal damage at the family home. Small beer given how Operation Wolf was kicking off.
“Started off as a favour to Flint as it happens.” She pulled her bottom lip, made a few mental notes: numbers to call, people to see.
Mac looked sheepish. “About that, boss.” That Flint had chosen a newbie DC over Bev for a big interview.
“Not down to you, mate.” She flapped a hand. “No worries.”
“Yeah, well. Flint’s going ballistic. No Wayne Pickering either.”
The early brief was neither early nor brief. DCS Flint had put it back an hour and was still pontificating at half nine. Bev had just checked her watch. She sighed, couldn’t be doing with time-wasting talk when there were actions to get stuck into. She’d spent the sixty minutes shoving inquiry irons in the fire; they’d need chasing on top of anything dished out now.
A quick glance round suggested the rest of the squad was equally keen to get going. Toes tapped, feet kicked, legs jigged; there was a buzz in the air. Flint had already run through top lines thrown up by the late shift diggers. Seemed to Bev they were now going over the same ground twice.
Much of the information was anecdotal, picked up by questioning Pickering’s neighbours. Apparently, he liked a tipple, and the booze loosened his tongue. Official checks were underway, but he’d told two drinking buddies that he came from a broken home, had spent much of his childhood in care in Burnley. The only family member he’d maintained contact with was the cousin, Eliza, who’d killed herself six months ago.
Bev crossed her legs, scowled when she spotted a ladder in her tights. What a bum hand those kids had been dealt. Wayne Pickering brought up by strangers in kids’ homes, Eliza molested by a neighbour. The serial abuse had led her to self-harm, eventually to self-destruct. Eyes creased, as she recalled her first conversation with Eddie Scrivener. His daughter’s story had parallels. Abuse that touched more than the victim’s life, rippled on for years. She jotted Scrivener’s name on a pad. He still hadn’t surfaced, sightings had tailed off. The Pickering development had pushed everything else off the front page.
Flint’s shoes squeaked as he paced the floor. “We know Pickering came to Birmingham in the summer. Took a short-term lease on the bedsit.”
Positioning? Planning? Had his cousin’s death been the trigger that launched a killing campaign? But why Birmingham? And what governed the choice of victim? Far as they could establish the hits had been random, the only criterion being each target had paedophile convictions.
She pursed her lips, had to admit that if Pickering wasn’t the Disposer – he was a big fan. Last night, armed with a search warrant, a team had entered his pad in Acocks Green. Sparsely furnished, it was fastidiously neat – except for the newspapers: national, regional, local, redtop, broadsheet, every issue going back to the first murder victim were scattered around. Loose pages covered every surface, most of the floor. Every column inch, every picture, every reference to the killings had been hacked out, stuck on the walls.
Was Pickering the story – or a voyeur following it? He wasn’t around to ask. Wayne Pickering was well and truly AWOL.
“No sightings, no steers, nothing.” Flint’s glare raked the troops as if it was their fault. “Where the hell’s he gone?”
Not far, Bev reckoned. A new visual – a photograph – had now been released to the media, Pickering’s details had been circulated to every police force in the country, ports and airports were on alert. Not that he had a passport with him. The search team had found it among other personal documents at the bedsit. Signs were that he’d not done a runner.
“Someone’s harbouring Pickering,” Flint said. “Got to be.”
But was Wayne Pickering the real deal? Apart from the cuttings, there was no evidence linking him to the murders. So was he the Disposer? And had Doyle been on the hit list? Or was Pickering a copycat? The squad was taking its lead from Flint. The DCS wanted a collar, and seemed convinced it was round Wayne Pickering’s neck.
Bev wasn’t so sure. The MO – such as it was – didn’t fit. She suspected Pickering was a freelancer who’d specifically targeted Roger Doyle. In which case, why tell the fat man he was the serial killer?
“What’s Doyle saying?” Mac got the question in first.
“Nothing.” Flint sniffed. “He took off last night for his sister’s in Devon.”
“Who says?” Bev asked.
“A neighbour, I think. Ian’ll know. He was knocking doors.” DS Ian Blunt on lates all week.
She frowned. “What’ve we got on Doyle? Apart from the convictions.”
“Not a lot,” Flint ceded. “He didn’t leave any numbers.”
“Sister’s place? Sure about that?” Bev wasn’t. “Doyle said he was estranged from his family. Claimed as far as they’re concerned, he’s a dead man.”
Grim-faced, Flint tipped his head towards the door. Bev was already halfway there – just behind Mac.
31
Roger Doyle lay spread-eagled in a viscous lake of liver-coloured blood. The throat had been slashed; gore showed through the scrubby beard though fleshy chins covered most of the gash. Impossible to know at this stage whether death was down to the neck injury or the multiple stab wounds piercing, desecrating, the body. Bev bit her lip; Doyle put her in mind of a beached whale. She swallowed hard, noticed the ubiquitous dishcloth now stiff and brown lying just beyond his grasp. The kitchen he’d cleaned obsessively would always be stained.
&n
bsp; Given the congealed nature of the blood, Doyle had almost certainly lain dying last night, his life draining even as DS Blunt and his partner hammered at the door, armed with questions that would now remain unanswered. By Doyle at any rate.
“It’s an abattoir.” Bev’s breaths came in short gasps. Waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm her again. The sight, the stink, the shit, more than that: the sense of guilt. This butchery should not have happened. They should have known that while Pickering was at large, Doyle was at risk.
She inhaled slowly, deeply. She should have questioned Doyle more closely, elicited more background, confirmed the details, requested surveillance on the house. She should have done a proper job. And why hadn’t she? Because the inquiry was over-stretched and under-resourced? Or because the fat man revolted her? Doyle certainly hadn’t been given top billing. Mentally, she’d dismissed him as a flaky self-pitying shit. And now he lay rotting in his own faeces.
“Don’t do it, boss.” Mac wiped sweat from his forehead with an off-white hankie.
“What!” She spun round, immediately regretted it, felt dizzy, stomach lurched.
“Blame yourself.”
“Bollocks. I didn’t listen. Doyle was petrified. I should’ve seen it... should’ve stopped this...”
“Then so should I,” Mac snapped. “And Ian Blunt. And Flint. He’s the boss. He prioritises. The buck...”
“Fuck the buck.” Flint hadn’t talked to the fat man. She had. A lead detective’s calls were based on information from his officers.
Mac put steadying hands on her arms. “Don’t beat yourself up, Bev. You are not responsible.” He pointed a toe towards the far wall. “He is.”
In contrast, Wayne Pickering looked as if he was sleeping, curled on his side, slight smile curving his lips. Was Pickering at peace at last? An empty bottle of Bells lay close by used to down a cocktail of drugs. Bitter pills? Or happy release? He must have taken some satisfaction in killing the man who’d wrecked his childhood.
As they now knew, Eliza’s recent suicide may have been the catalyst for the bloodletting here, but not the sole cause.
They ducked automatically as something dark crashed screeching into the window. Black wings flapped wildly against the glass before the stunned bird took off again. Looked like a crow or a raven. Magpie would have been even spookier.
As spooky as hearing voices from beyond the grave. Pickering had recorded the final scene, his vicious taunts, Doyle’s pleas for mercy. Bev and Mac had only been able to listen to a few minutes. The tape was now bagged and tagged. It wasn’t the only painful legacy Pickering had bestowed. A bloodstained letter – addressed to the police – fluttered in Bev’s latex-gloved fingers. Confession? Catharsis? Both. Doyle’s shaky signature was there too. With the soundtrack, it wasn’t difficult to picture Pickering goading the fat man, forcing him at knifepoint to ’fess up to the years of abuse he’d committed as a carer in young Wayne’s children’s home. Carer? Bev snorted. What a joke. Doyle had certainly looked out for himself, fleeing before his crimes were discovered, changing his name. But despite the new-leaf-turned protestations the other day, he’d been unable to change his nature. If Doyle hadn’t committed more offences, maybe Pickering wouldn’t have been able to track him down.
Mixed emotions, complex thoughts, she shook her head. Doyle deserved punishment for what he’d done to young lads like Wayne Pickering, but not this.
“He should’ve left it to the courts.” Mac echoed her thinking, doing quite a bit of that these days.
“Call it in, mate.” She turned away, reached for her own phone.
Even though the sordid tableau told its own sorry story, the evidence still had to be collated. In less than an hour, the place would resemble a shoot from The Bill: white-suited SOCOs, steel cases, flash photography, pathologist putting in a guest appearance. Inquests would be held, outstanding inquiries would be made.
She glanced at the letter again. A posthumous postscript made one point crystal:
Wayne Pickering was no serial killer.
The Disposer’s doing a good job. The man should get a medal for getting rid of filth.
“I’d best have a word with Flint.” She grimaced, glanced at Mac. “Make his day this will.”
At Highgate, DCS Kenny Flint’s day was just about to be made. Leastways it was one he’d not forget any time soon: not so much red letter as black caps. Writing a report at his desk, the detective glanced up annoyed at the interruption as news bureau chief Bernie Flowers barged in and slammed the Evening News on a pile of files. Early edition. Flint couldn’t see it getting any worse by the final. As it happened, it wouldn’t take that long.
Bernie was too wired to sit, he hovered, polished his glasses with his tie. The outlook was still crap. “They’re going ape shit, Kenny. The Beeb, ITV, Sky. The print guys as well. They all want interviews.”
Flint was momentarily lost for words. The headline said it all.
SERIAL KILLER TAUNTS COPS
The detective’s lips tightened further as he read the story.
A serial killer targeting Birmingham paedophiles claims West Midlands police are hunting a ‘pathetic copycat’. In an exclusive interview with Evening News Crime Correspondent Matt Snow, the self-styled Disposer is threatening to strike again to prove he’s the murderer. “Unlike the police,” the killer said. “I don’t make mistakes.”
The man leading Operation Wolf, Detective Chief Superintendent Keith Flint, was unavailable for comment last night. Cont. page 3.
Not for Flint, he’d had a belly full. “This is crap, Bernie. It can’t be true. Christ, they can’t even get my name right.”
“Not a main concern, Kenny.” Flint read Bernie’s cold stare, cool voice correctly.
The cops weren’t just facing a bit of bad press. The media en masse would now be sniffing for a scalp. And if another paedophile died – forget scalps, they’d be after detached heads.
“Did Snow make an approach, ask you to comment?” Bernie asked casually, studied his fingernails.
“What do you think?” Flint snarled. Of course he hadn’t. Because if Flint had caught wind of the story: a) he’d have done anything to prevent it appearing in print, and b) he’d have forced Snow to reveal where it came from. Tried to force Snow. They’d had nil success so far.
Bernie finally sat, took a biro from Flint’s penholder. “I think we need to discuss strategy. How we handle the fallout. It’s gone beyond damage limitation. We need to call a news conference, hang Snow out to dry.” He nodded at the paper. “That’s as irresponsible as it gets.”
Flint nodded, snatched the phone before its second ring. “What?”
“Bev here, boss. We’re still at Doyle’s place. One thing’s for sure – Wayne Pickering’s not the Disposer.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Got the story in front of me. I’m bringing Matt Snow in now.”
“Snow?”
“Have you seen his latest offering? Get back soon as you can, sergeant.”
“What about handing over? The crime team?”
“What crime team?” Flint’s face drained of colour as she told him what they’d found. He hung up, stunned.
Bernie’s pen was poised. “What is it, chief?”
Eyes closed, Flint massaged his temples. “You know when you think it can’t get any worse...”
Even as Flint uttered the words, a fifteen-year-old terminal truant was studying a stiff on the Churchill estate. Steep learning curve for a kid who avoided lessons like the plague. Unlike the detective, Ryan Jackson was having a good day. Blue sky, sun shining, combats and hoodie pockets jammed with pickings: fags, crisps, Carling black label, Mars bars, mint Aeros, even a top shelf tit mag. Small shopkeepers on the estate were wise to Ryan, just not quick enough, and he’d had stacks of practice.
If bunking off was on the national curriculum, Ryan could give masterclasses. A short skinny target for bullies at Queen’s Comprehensive, truancy was a form of survival. Ryan k
new every scam in the book. Actually, given his reading age, not book. The only ABC he had a passing knowledge of was the acceptable behaviour contract he’d not been able to sign.
A few months back, his unemployed cokehead mother had been hauled before the courts for the umpteenth time because she couldn’t get her little darling out of bed let alone the house. The family was well known to the cops; received wisdom at Highgate had it that Mona Jackson had spent more days in prison that term than her son had in class.
Though academically challenged, Ryan was streetwise, and like most kids, media savvy. Standing behind a tree, transfixed by the body in the distance, his first thought was: what’s in for me? Second was: maybe he could flog a few pictures. Papers were always after photos. The telly even. You’ve Been Framed. Ryan scowled. Nah. Don’t be stupid. No one’d die laughing at the sight of a bloke in front of a wheelie bin. This was serious, the sort of stuff he’d seen on the news. His weasel face lit up. Everyone knew the cops were after a psycho wasting kiddie fiddlers. What if...? And wasn’t there a reward or something?
Eyes screwed, Ryan lined up a shot in his phone’s viewfinder. Was the geezer even dead? Shit. Some dude was in the way, going through the pockets. Cheeky sod, getting in first like that. Ryan switched to video mode. Great timing: the scrawny dude looked up, glanced round.
Ugly git. Could turn nasty. Ryan legged it quick. Had he looked more closely, he might have noticed the graffiti spray-painted on the metal. Not that he could have read the word. Polysyllables didn’t feature in Ryan’s lexicon. Disposed wasn’t a word that had hit his radar. Ryan was more interested in the action he’d captured on camera. He reckoned the cops would be too. When he reached the relative safety of his mate’s dad’s lock-up, he made a call.
Anna Kendall was on her mobile shouting over traffic noise. “I’m really sorry. I’d have told you sooner, but I’ve only just seen it myself.”
“You and me both.” Bev held the offending article at arm’s length while Mac tried to nose the motor into a tight space back at the nick. After leaving Doyle’s they’d nipped into a newsagent’s, keen to catch up with what Flint had scathingly described as Snow’s ‘latest offering’.
Bad Press Page 21
