by Steven Dunne
‘But they already knew you were gay.’
‘We did it on their bed, Inspector. Have you any idea?’
‘Go on.’
‘When my parents came back, Davey dropped round. Bless ’em, they gave him three hundred pounds when he told them I’d forgotten to pay him.’
‘Did he tell them about your little dalliance?’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ said Gibson, tight-lipped. ‘I paid them back and gave Davey an extra three hundred to get him off my back.’
‘And he accepted?’
‘What choice did he have?’ said Gibson. ‘I called his bluff. He had just as much to lose as me. Probably more.’
‘Then why pay him anything at all?’ asked Noble.
It was Brook who answered. ‘Guilt money.’
‘Amongst other things,’ said Gibson. ‘Also I felt sorry for him. He was conflicted. And he really did need the money.’
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘Not really. He had a short temper, yes, but he didn’t know my address, so I slipped him the extra cash before he was minded to find out. And that was that.’
‘And now?’
‘Now what?’
‘Now he’s on the run,’ explained Brook. ‘Location unknown.’ Gibson splayed his hands, playing dumb.
‘Has he been in touch?’ asked Noble.
‘He didn’t kill my parents,’ said Gibson. ‘He would have taken the rent money.’
‘We know.’
Gibson’s face creased in confusion. ‘If you know, what the fuck is the point of all this?’
‘Are you really that obtuse?’ said Brook. ‘The point of all this is to bring him in safely. If he feels cornered or threatened, his record shows that he resorts to violence.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ demanded Gibson.
‘You don’t know?’ declared Brook.
‘Know what?’
‘If he didn’t kill your parents, then someone else must have,’ said Brook. ‘For all he knows, you killed them, and he knows how it would look if you were to accuse him.’
‘His fingerprints are in the house and he has a violent criminal record,’ continued Noble. ‘He’s the ideal patsy and he knows it.’
‘And when you denied knowing him, he probably felt you were lining him up to take the fall.’
‘For killing Mum and Dad?’
‘Why not?’ said Brook. ‘It would make a lot of sense to him, the way you’ve behaved.’
‘Christ,’ said Gibson quietly, thinking it through. ‘Poor Davey.’
‘And poor whoever gets in his way if we don’t pick him up. So I’ll ask you again, and I don’t want to repeat myself. Has he contacted you within the last twenty-four hours?’
A pause, followed by an almost imperceptible nod. ‘He phoned me, said he knew where I lived, said he needed somewhere to lie low. I told him I couldn’t help so he asked for more money.’
‘Did you give it?’
‘A thousand pounds. On condition he didn’t show up at my house.’
‘Then how did you get the money to him?’
‘I met him in the village.’
‘Do you know how he got there?’ asked Noble.
‘He had an old motorbike. A Norton Commando, I think he said. A real antique.’
Noble shook his head at Brook. ‘Fry’s got nothing with the DVLA.’
‘It was pretty old,’ confirmed Gibson. ‘Looked like it’d been in a shed for a decade.’
‘If he turns up or phones …’
‘He won’t.’
‘If he does, please tell him to call us, and stress to him that we don’t suspect him of your parents’ murder.’
Gibson agreed with a nod.
‘And it might make things easier if you also tell him that you don’t suspect him either.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Gibson softly. ‘Last year, when Davey and I … We talked about guns.’ Brook prompted him with an eyebrow. ‘I never saw it, you understand, but he said he had a souvenir in a lock-up in Peartree. A gun he smuggled back from Afghanistan.’
‘It wouldn’t be a Glock, by any chance, would it?’ said Brook.
Gibson stared at the ground. ‘A comrade was killed. Davey took his weapon.’
‘One last thing,’ said Noble. ‘Your parents had kept a copy of the Derby Telegraph, dated the twenty-fifth of August, which carried an announcement celebrating their wedding anniversary. Did you pay for that?’
‘I did,’ said Gibson. ‘Jimmy’s idea. I told him Mum always read the obituaries in the paper, looking for people she knew. We thought it might be nice if she came across something positive for a change. Why?’
Twenty-Six
‘If he’s got a gun, we have no choice. Tell Cooper to get Fry’s face to all news media, top priority. And make sure the release stresses that he’s armed and not to be approached.’
‘We’re hanging a target on him for Armed Response.’
‘What else can we do?’ sighed Brook. ‘Fry may not be a murderer, but if he’s armed, he’s dangerous. What about the motorbike?’
‘No trace. Nothing licensed to him.’
‘And the lock-up?’
‘Read and Smee are heading to Peartree to look for the gun.’
Brook nodded. ‘Let’s hope they find it. Any signal from his mobile yet?’
‘No hits on GPS.’
‘With all his training, he’s unlikely to be careless,’ mused Brook. ‘Apply for a tap on his home phone, John – quick as you can. If he gets desperate, he may want to speak to his wife at some point.’
‘He’s a soldier,’ said Noble. ‘He won’t ring her. He’ll expect us to be listening.’
‘But he might not care if he only wants to say goodbye.’
‘And give us a fix on his position? Doesn’t make sense. If I was him, I’d be lying low out in the sticks during the day and making my way out of the county by night.’
‘You’re assuming he wants to get away, John.’
‘Well bugger me sideways,’ said Crump, peering through the lens.
‘What?’ said Caskey, kneeling beside him.
‘Blood. And better yet, a fingerprint.’
‘Brook was right.’
‘Coulson must have opened the window for some reason,’ said Crump, mimicking the action with both hands. ‘And in pulling it up, he placed his hands underneath the frame and left the print on the underside. When the aftermath cleaners came to do their thing, the window was closed and the contact preserved.’
‘Sounds viable,’ said Caskey, crouching to peer intently at the faint blackened smudge, her face almost touching Crump’s jowl. She stood and put her hands on the upper part of the frame. ‘Except you’d expect him to leave similar bloody prints when he closed it again.’
‘It would’ve been visible and we would have found it,’ said Crump. ‘He must’ve wiped it clean.’
Her expression registered scepticism at the absurdity of Coulson bothering to wipe away a blood-smeared fingerprint in a house drenched in blood. ‘Unless you missed it,’ she suggested.
Crump greeted the notion with icy disdain. ‘Wash your mouth, out, girl. Now if you don’t mind, this may take a little time.’
As Crump did his work, Caskey left Reardon’s bedroom and wandered along the bare hall, past the locked security suite, to the brand-new refurbished kitchen. The hacienda-style double doors had been replaced with something more tasteful, and she pushed through into the virginal snow-white room, spotless and unused.
Everything was different, new, even the flooring, to which Caskey’s gaze was drawn, seeking the spot where she’d first laid eyes on the lifeless bodies of Monty and Patricia Thorogood.
Realising that her breathing had quickened, she recalled the surge of envy rushing through her the moment she saw the two of them. Envy for the couple who had died together, one enveloped in the other’s arms, walking into infinity locked in a fatal embrace.
How different
from the worst night of her life, knife on vein, and lying beyond her vision in stark brushstrokes, Georgia’s disfigured, inert beauty, cold and lifeless.
‘Do your job, Rachel,’ she mumbled, fists clenching, breaking away to the French windows to take in the scrub of the grounds. ‘You will get past this.’ Distant fireworks sprayed their colours into the darkening navy sky, the explosions muted by the double glazing, and she realised the rehearsals were over and Bonfire Night had arrived.
Turning back to the room, her eye wandered to the only familiar artefact from that deadly afternoon – the white phone on the wall. She padded across to it and for no particular reason lifted it to her ear to listen to the dial tone, hand resting on the thermostat. It was working. She replaced it on its cradle and turned to leave then stopped, returning her gaze to the wall, her eyes narrowing.
‘All done,’ said Crump, spinning her round. ‘Now if you don’t mind, my missus is expecting me home for a few fireworks and a barbie.’
‘Clear print?’
‘Crystal,’ said Crump.
‘I’ll need to know whose,’ she said, fixing him with her gaze. ‘Soonest.’
Crump was tight-lipped. ‘What’s the rush? The case is closed. It’s not like you don’t know Coulson was in the victim’s bedroom with blood on his hands.’
Caskey was unmoved. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’ll come with you while you run it.’
‘Why are we only now taking Fry seriously?’ demanded Charlton. ‘An ex-soldier living round the corner, fingerprint found in the Gibson house, and you failed to bring him in?’
‘We did try, sir,’ replied Brook, not meeting his eyes. ‘He made a run for it.’
‘That’s why we take backup,’ snapped the Chief Superintendent.
‘It didn’t seem to be indicated, sir.’
‘Not indicated? With his record of violence, he should have been on the radar from the off.’
‘He doesn’t fit the profile,’ said Brook. ‘The Champagne Killer isn’t driven by the sort of anger and confusion that drives Fry.’
Charlton’s expression turned to ice. ‘Does Fry have an alibi?’ Brook was silent. ‘No. Motive?’ Again Brook didn’t answer. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘It’s not motive enough to prompt a series.’
‘He’s connected to Gibson and his parents’ house,’ said Charlton. ‘He knows how to handle guns and he’s armed and on the run.’
‘It’s not him.’
Charlton glared at Brook. ‘Then why has he run?’
‘Because he’s worked out all the reasons you just listed for picking him up, and when Sergeant Noble and I went to interview him, he panicked.’
‘And absconded with a weapon.’
‘Unconfirmed as yet, but Matthew Gibson claims Fry told him he’d smuggled home a Glock from Afghanistan.’ Brook was aware he was banging another nail in Fry’s coffin. ‘He took it off a dead comrade’s body.’
‘Armed Response?’
‘Alerted.’
‘Where are we looking?’
‘Gibson lives in Ticknall, and Fry was there yesterday to pick up funds.’
‘Which suggests he intends to put some miles between himself and Derby.’
‘Maybe,’ said Brook. ‘He has the resilience and skills to make himself scarce and stay that way.’
‘Let’s hope we catch him before that happens. Roadblocks around the area?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What else?’
‘We’re calling in a chopper for first light tomorrow.’ Brook’s phone vibrated and he held up a hand. ‘Okay, John. Seal it off.’ He ended the call. ‘Fry has a lock-up in Peartree. It’s full of ladders and paint but they also found several nine-millimetre ammunition boxes. Empty.’
‘Any sign of the gun?’
Brook shook his head.
Back in the incident room, Brook flicked on the kettle as he looked up at Fry’s mugshot on the display board. The e-fit of the unknown man at Frazer and Nolan’s party sat next to it.
The telephone rang on DC Cooper’s desk. ‘Caskey for you.’
Brook moved across to pick up the receiver. ‘Sergeant?’
‘Just out of EMSOU,’ said Caskey, sounding breathless.
‘You didn’t need to ride shotgun this late.’
‘I wanted to. And you were right. We found blood on the casement. In fact we got an actual fingerprint. It seems when the cleaners washed everything down, the underside of the window was shielded against the sill.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve just got a hit, though they haven’t compared the bloods yet.’ She paused for effect. ‘It wasn’t what we expected.’
‘Was it Reardon Thorogood’s print?’
There was a momentary silence from the other end of the line. ‘You knew?’
‘Not for sure,’ replied Brook. ‘But there were no bloody shoe prints leading over to the stain, and Reardon was the only one in the room with bare feet.’
‘Right,’ conceded Caskey. ‘Well, we’ll know for sure soon enough. I’m on my way to Nottingham to ask her.’
‘No!’ said Brook, louder than he’d intended.
There was silence at both ends of the line. Brook glanced up to see Cooper hurriedly looking away.
‘Why not?’ said Caskey, her voice clipped. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘It’s not that,’ said Brook, casting around for a viable reason to keep Caskey away from Terri. He failed. ‘If we need to speak to her, I want to be there.’
‘Why wouldn’t we need to speak to her?’
‘It’s her bedroom, after all. The fingerprint may be nothing.’
‘But it has blood on it,’ replied Caskey. ‘Plus she never mentioned in her statement opening and closing the window.’
‘She was under stress and in shock,’ argued Brook.
‘Maybe, but the blood …’
‘… is probably Jemson’s, and if so, its presence on the window is explicable. Look, Sergeant, we don’t talk to Reardon until we know whose blood it is, then we frame our questions around that context.’
‘Then why send me all the way to the farm? Crumpet could have run the print on his own.’
‘It’s still your case,’ said Brook, trying to sound encouraging. He regretted it immediately.
‘If it’s my case, why can’t I interview Reardon?’
‘Because I came up with the print, so now it’s my case too. You’ve done good work today, Rachel,’ said Brook. ‘We’ll pick it up—’
The line went dead. Brook sighed. The newest member of his squad was now thinking he didn’t fully trust her. And he wasn’t certain she was wrong.
Caskey glared maliciously at the handset before switching it off in case Brook tried to call her back. She flung the tablet on to the passenger seat, glaring resentfully across at Reardon’s large stuccoed house, the dark park beyond. A spray of red and green gunpowder cascaded across the blackened sky, briefly illuminating the shadowy exterior.
‘This is my case,’ she muttered, clambering out of the car and training her gaze on the upper storey. There was no discernible light or movement behind the heavy curtains pulled firmly across the windows. ‘My shambles, my case.’
She marched across the road to rap on the heavy door, then depressed the intercom button.
‘Reardon. It’s Rachel Caskey. Open the door, please.’ No answer. She tried again. ‘I know you’re in there, Reardon.’ She waved her warrant card at the security camera.
After further, and louder, attempts to gain entry, Caskey headed for the flagged patio that ran around the house to the gloomy rear. Once there, she squinted through the darkness to the upper floor. No sign of life at the windows or the access door to the wrought-iron fire escape. No lights, no movement, not even the tiniest twitch of the curtain from a nervous occupant.
She returned to the front door and held down the intercom. ‘Reardon. We need to talk. It’s important.’ She began to fumble in her pocke
t, but stopped when the shiny brass latch caught her eye. It was brand new. The locks had been changed.
‘Reardon!’ she shouted, furious now, pounding on the door, jabbing her thumb down on the intercom button. ‘Let me in. I need to speak to you.’
Light rain had begun to fall, and when another explosion reverberated nearby, Caskey stepped away, glaring at the door before striding belligerently back to her car. Jumping into the driver’s seat, she slammed the door and, with a screech of tyres, sped away.
Caskey splashed through the puddles at the entrance to the firing range, relieved to see that Freddie wasn’t the Firearms Support Officer on duty – at least she’d be spared the usual banter and intrusive enquiries about her welfare.
Once signed in, she hurried to her locker. Two minutes later, she emerged from the range, jacket pulled tight around her.
Back in the car, she sat behind the wheel, raindrops streaking her hot face, cooling her. As the rain beat harder on the windscreen, the world of pain beyond disappeared from view behind a curtain of water. Screened from the world, Caskey pulled the photograph of Georgia on the platform of the Eiffel Tower from beneath her jacket and pressed on the beads of Blu-Tack at each corner to fix it to the dashboard. Tears filled her eyes and her shoulders began to shake.
‘I tried, baby, I really did.’ She touched the metal G resting on her breastbone beneath her shirt, then reached under the driver’s seat and withdrew a handgun – a Glock 17 – and slipped it into her waistband. ‘No way I can make it without you, baby. I’m sorry. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I betrayed you.’
Fry woke to the faint double crack of simultaneous shots, long after most fireworks had ceased. Half awake, he rolled over in his lightweight sleeping bag while his unconscious mind identified the weapon. A Glock. Maybe a 17, maybe a 19. He sat upright when the temperature told him he was no longer in Afghanistan. A third crack. Then a fourth. Louder. Nearer.
Already dressed for a speedy evac, he slithered out of his tent, rummaging in a pocket for his night-vision binoculars. Within seconds he’d trained them on the line of houses beyond the trees a quarter of a mile away. A movement caught his eye – a figure striding purposefully from the end house, pulling on a black balaclava. From a distance, in the dark country night, the house looked like a small boat afloat on the ocean. The figure paused to push two black metal objects into a zipped pocket before sealing them emphatically. It was a pair of guns.
