by Steven Dunne
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we’ve got a suicide competition on our hands,’ replied Brook, getting to his feet and heading down the slope after Caskey.
‘Brook! Get back here, damn you,’ screeched Charlton, not moving from his cover.
‘Put down the phone and get on the ground,’ Brook shouted at Fry.
‘Inspector,’ called Fry above the whirr of the rotor blades, nodding to the sky. ‘Just in time for the evening news.’
‘Get back, Inspector,’ shouted Caskey when she saw him. ‘I’ve got this. You’re out of your element.’
‘On the contrary, Rachel,’ called Brook. ‘Self-destruction is my speciality.’
‘What?’
‘She won’t be there, Rachel,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Georgia.’
Caskey hesitated. ‘She won’t be where?’
‘Where you’re going. She didn’t wait for you. She’s gone. She’s not anywhere, Rachel. She’s dead, and the only place she lives is in your head and in your heart. And if you die today, she’s gone for ever.’
Further down the slope, Fry laughed. ‘You starting a cult, Brook? Count me in.’
‘Drop the phone and get on the ground,’ bellowed Brook. ‘It doesn’t need to end this way.’
‘Can’t do it,’ said Fry, taking another step.
‘But … I …’ Caskey turned back up the hill, staring at Brook, her face drained of all colour, pleading for meaning.
‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘You could have saved her. Well now you can.’
Caskey’s shoulders slumped as though she were a puppet whose strings had been cut, and she collapsed to her knees.
‘He’s right, kiddo,’ called Fry. ‘Go home. It’s big boy rules today.’
‘David, throw the phone away and lie on the ground,’ shouted Brook.
‘Not gonna happen,’ said Fry.
‘Put down your weapon and get on the ground,’ boomed the police helicopter speakers.
‘It’s a phone,’ Brook shouted to the sky, then turned to Tinkerman. ‘Stand your team down, for God’s sake. I’ll bring him in.’
Fry took another step and smiled at the stirring of a signal on his mobile. He depressed his thumb to send the message just as a gust from the news helicopter blades rippled at his shirt, exposing the handle of the gun in his waistband.
‘Gun sighted, over,’ crackled urgently over the firearms channel in Tinkerman’s ear, followed seconds later by several sharp reports as the semicircle of AFOs dotted about the ridge opened fire.
‘No!’ screamed Brook.
The smile on Fry’s face tightened a notch as he looked down at the explosion of muscle and rib above his heart. The phone fell from his hand, smashing on a rock, and he dropped to his knees. His breathing became jagged, resembling laughter almost, and after what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, he fell face down on to the ground.
With you, Dunphy.
Twenty-Nine
Monday 7 November
With Noble still absent, Brook sat in the incident room running through what he was going to say in the briefing that morning, especially as Charlton had threatened an appearance to shake hands and slap backs. As far as he was concerned, an armed and dangerous serial killer had been taken down with minimal fuss and without further harm to the public. And even though Fry’s weapon was later found to be empty, the shooting board were unlikely to find against officers who had perceived a threat and fired. In Charlton’s eyes, the fact that Fry had effectively committed suicide seemed only to confirm the profile of an organised and motivated serial killer who, when cornered, preferred to take the easy way out.
‘The Telegraph press office say Matthew Gibson took out a personal ad of his own at the same time as his parents’ anniversary,’ said Cooper. ‘It went in the same week.’
‘Something else he didn’t tell us,’ said Brook.
‘What did it say?’ asked Banach.
‘“I love you, Jimmy”,’ replied Cooper.
‘To the point at least,’ remarked Banach.
At that moment Charlton marched into the room, beaming broadly. ‘All here?’
‘DS Noble is still giving his statement on the shooting,’ said Brook.
‘And yours?’
‘An hour ago.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Good. Everything by the book for when the IPCC and Professional Standards take a gander. You’re cleared for duty?’
Brook nodded. ‘I didn’t fire a weapon.’
‘What about Sergeant Caskey?’ ventured Banach.
Charlton glanced testily across at Brook. ‘Clearly your SIO hasn’t had a chance to inform you, but Sergeant Caskey is on indefinite suspension pending psychological evaluation and a full investigation into her conduct.’
Having been appraised of events at Calke Abbey, none of the assembled detectives expressed surprise.
‘Bit harsh suspending someone for not shooting a suspect, sir,’ ventured Banach.
‘Angie,’ warned Brook.
‘Sergeant Caskey was an experienced AFO, Constable,’ said Charlton. ‘She knew the protocols better than anyone yet she put herself in danger, and by extension the rest of the unit.’
‘And by the time the shrink is done with her, she’ll be lucky if she’s allowed to shoot ducks at the fair,’ chipped in Morton.
‘Very colourful, Sergeant,’ said Charlton, his smile tight.
‘Well if I were in Armed Response, I wouldn’t be chuffed to see her roll up to an armed siege,’ said Cooper. Read, Morton and Smee nodded their agreement.
‘Anyway, Sergeant Caskey’s failure of judgement apart, I just popped in to congratulate you all on a good result.’ Charlton glanced at Brook. ‘Inspector, if you could thrash out the main bullet points of a statement and get it to Media Liaison by four so they can draw up a script. We face the cameras at six.’
‘Sir,’ said Brook. ‘I suggest we hold off on the full epilogue until ballistics matches Fry’s gun to the seven victims.’
‘I don’t mind throwing in the usual caveats, but there’s no doubt we have our killer,’ boomed Charlton. ‘And the people of Derby need to know that.’
‘But he tested negative for GSR at this morning’s post-mortem,’ said Brook.
‘Then he wore gloves,’ said Charlton.
‘There weren’t any in his kit,’ pointed out Banach.
‘So he dumped them on his travels,’ retorted Charlton, irritated now. ‘What is this?’
‘You saw last night’s footage on the news?’ asked Brook.
‘I saw an armed and suicidal suspect advancing on police officers …’
‘I mean Fry’s farewell message to his wife. And to me.’
‘Catnip to what passes for newsrooms these days,’ said Charlton. ‘Doubtless the not-so-merry widow now has a few thousand pounds to put towards the funeral. What of it?’
‘Fry denied killing Matthew Gibson and his family.’
Charlton unfurled his most sarcastic tone. ‘Suspect Denies Guilt Shock!’ A few awkward smiles broke out amongst the gathered officers but were just as swiftly stifled.
‘It was one of your own.’ Brook paused before voicing the unpalatable. ‘He accused a police officer of the Ticknall murders. Sir.’
‘I hope you took that with as big a pinch of salt as I did.’
‘Of course,’ lied Brook. ‘But if we rush to judgement and ballistics doesn’t come through, a statement announcing Fry as the Champagne Killer may look hasty. Or worse, disingenuous.’
‘Are you serious?’ exclaimed Charlton.
‘I just want to be sure,’ said Brook. ‘We don’t want to be accused of a cover-up.’
‘What possible grounds can Fry have for accusing a police officer?’
‘He was camped near Gibson’s house last night, and we found night-sight binoculars in his kit, sir,’ said Banach.
‘Which means he could have observed anyone approaching or leaving the
property.’
‘A police officer?’ Charlton’s voice was soft and menacing. ‘Utter rubbish, and I suggest you don’t speak of it again. The eyewitness evidence against Fry is overwhelming.’
Noble walked into the incident room, easing the tension slightly. He made immediate eye contact with Brook and followed up with a curt nod.
‘Fry’s guilt is circumstantial,’ said Brook, with more confidence. ‘The sensible thing would be to wait for ballistics.’
‘We’re issuing a statement, Brook, and that’s an end to it.’
‘Sir, Fry—’
‘What are you doing, Brook?’ demanded Charlton, his voice flat and hard.
‘Trying to get the truth, sir.’
‘We have a good result, thanks to you and your team, and all the evidence points to Fry. He was seen at the Gibson house with a gun and three people were shot dead there. How much clearer do you need it?’
‘Clear enough that I know his gun was used at all three crime scenes, including Ticknall.’
‘But we only recovered one weapon from Fry,’ said Morton. ‘Two guns were used in Breadsall and Boulton Moor.’
‘Something else that doesn’t add up,’ said Brook.
‘I suppose he could’ve dumped the second gun while he was legging it,’ said Morton. ‘There’s plenty of acreage between Ticknall and Serpentine Wood to lose one of the murder weapons.’
‘And Fry’s an ex-soldier,’ pointed out Smee. ‘He could’ve had a dozen guns in that lock-up for all we know and dumped both murder weapons last night. The Glock we recovered from him doesn’t even have to match and he could still be the Champagne Killer.’
Charlton spread his arms triumphantly and grinned at Brook. ‘Wise words, detectives.’
‘Then we find those weapons and test them as well,’ said Brook.
‘Find them?’ said Charlton. ‘DS Morton’s right. They could be anywhere.’
‘Fry’s route from Gibson’s house was fairly tightly defined, sir,’ said Noble. ‘It shouldn’t be a huge problem with the right gear.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Charlton. After a few seconds’ thought, he took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Very well. I’ll mark time in front of the media tonight, and when Fry’s gun is found to be the murder weapon, you can make the statement to the press, Inspector. But be clear on this. I am not blowing the budget looking for phantom guns across the Derbyshire countryside.’ He sighed irritably and looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting.’
‘One more thing, sir!’ Brook nodded to Noble, who flicked on the projector and dimmed the lights. ‘We’ve identified the unknown suspect from Frazer and Nolan’s engagement party.’ When his computer was booted up, Noble tapped a few keys to split-screen the photograph of the partially obscured partygoer with a head shot from an ID card. ‘Sergeant Ellis Tinkerman, Bronze Commander from yesterday’s shooting.’
There was a shocked silence until Charlton managed to speak. ‘Sergeant Tinkerman? From Armed Response?’
‘The same.’
‘One of the officers who shot David Fry.’ Charlton’s voice was almost inaudible, such was his anger and disbelief. ‘You confirmed the ID?’
‘Another partygoer, Maureen McConnell, spent time talking to him,’ said Noble. ‘As you saw yesterday, Tinkerman has grown his hair and a beard since then, but we showed his photograph to McConnell. ID is a hundred per cent.’
Charlton was stern, considering his response. ‘He went to a party given by Frazer and Nolan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he know them?’
‘Very slightly. He met them in Derby. They felt sorry for him and invited him to their party.’
‘What do you mean, felt sorry for him?’
‘Tinkerman’s wife died eighteen months ago. He was grieving.’
‘So they invited him to a gay party.’
‘It was just a party,’ said Brook.
Charlton was quiet, searching for the right words. ‘There’s no mystery here. Obviously Sergeant Tinkerman went to the party under a misapprehension and was embarrassed about it when he found out. Yes, he should’ve spoken out when Frazer and Nolan were killed, but he didn’t, and for reasons I think any red-blooded male would understand. Is that all you’ve got?’
‘There’s also the profile, sir.’
‘The one that said the killer was a professional shooter,’ snapped Charlton. ‘Like David Fry.’
‘Fry may have been a decent shot, sir, but his record of violence counts against him here.’
‘How so?’
‘The crime-scene management at the first two killings. Fry didn’t have the training to subdue victims without resorting to physical violence. He was a disorganised individual, not plausible enough to gain entry to a victim’s home without arousing suspicion and resistance.’
‘And come to think of it, his finances were wafer-thin,’ added Morton. ‘Bank account running on fumes, no credit card, no regular income.’
‘Since when do you have to be well-off to commit murder?’ Charlton scoffed.
‘From the moment you decide to take sixty-pound bottles of vintage champagne to your kills,’ declared Brook.
‘Fry didn’t own a pair of handcuffs either,’ said Noble.
‘You’ve searched his house?’ asked Charlton.
‘This morning,’ said Smee.
‘The lock-up, too,’ said Noble. ‘We found nothing incriminating. No handcuffs, no champagne, no research materials …’
‘Research materials?’
‘Notes showing the victims’ names and addresses, surrounding streets, physical entry points, details of their movements and habits, copies of the Derby Telegraph with personal announcements marked.’ Brook paused. ‘Fry knew Matthew Gibson intimately and his parents slightly but we couldn’t find a single link to Frazer and Nolan. And he had no credible motive for any of the killings.’
‘Also he didn’t own a car,’ said Banach. ‘Getting to Breadsall would be problematic.’
‘What about the motorbike?’ said Charlton, more thoughtful now.
‘That barely got him to Ticknall,’ said Morton.
‘It got him to Ticknall; it could’ve got him to Breadsall,’ barked Charlton. ‘As for motive, Fry and Matthew Gibson had an affair …’
‘I don’t deny a case can be made,’ insisted Brook. ‘But if Fry had an issue with Gibson, why kill six other people?’
‘You heard the last message to his wife,’ argued Charlton. ‘He was ashamed of his sexuality. He killed Gibson and his partner so no one would know he was gay. Sean Trimble got in the way. Gibson’s parents may have found out, so they had to die too.’
‘But then why bother to stage the killings?’ argued Banach.
Charlton was silent for a moment. He interlocked his fingers as though in prayer. ‘You have a motive for Sergeant Tinkerman?’
‘In my opinion, the crime scenes and the method show that the Champagne Killer is motivated by life-changing grief,’ said Brook.
‘According to his personnel file, Tinkerman took his wife’s death hard,’ added Noble. ‘He had time off, and counselling, and stood himself down from the ARU for six weeks.’
‘Grief could affect anyone like that,’ argued Charlton.
‘Of course, but for some, it can become an obsession,’ said Brook. ‘Tinkerman was stricken. So stricken that maybe he wished he’d died beside his wife.’
‘And when he meets Frazer and Nolan, he gets the idea,’ said Noble. ‘He sees how happy they are and decides to kill them so they can never be parted.’
‘It goes well,’ said Brook. ‘In fact he’s so pleased, he scours the personal columns of the Derby Telegraph looking for more couples to send off to eternal bliss.’
Charlton shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t wait so long to start killing. There had to be some kind of trigger.’
‘Black Oak Farm, sir,’ said Brook.
‘DI Ford’s case?’
‘Tinkerman was in
charge of the Armed Response Unit that day,’ said Brook. ‘He and Sergeant Caskey found the Thorogoods dead in each other’s arms. That planted the seed. When Frazer and Nolan invited him to their home, he saw what he had to do.’
‘Killing them was no way to repay their hospitality,’ scoffed Charlton.
‘In a strange way, he thought it was,’ said Noble.
‘It was his gift,’ said Brook. ‘Like you or I might give champagne.’
‘And once the idea had taken root, it wouldn’t be a stretch to plan and carry out further attacks, especially with his expertise in home invasion and pacification,’ said Noble. ‘All he needed were the right victims.’
Charlton stood, making for the door. ‘Well it’s been interesting, at least. Shame you don’t have any hard evidence.’
Cooper raised an uncertain hand. ‘The Telegraph press office emailed us this morning, sir. A month ago, they gave out details of Matthew Gibson’s name and credit card payment for two personal announcements for an edition in August. The request came from someone purporting to be from the County Constabulary press office in Ripley.’
‘Where Armed Response is based,’ said Brook.
‘And a credit card leads to an address,’ chipped in Noble.
‘Two addresses,’ said Banach. ‘Gibson owned his mother and father’s house. He may have followed him there.’
Charlton stared, unable to conjure a response, so Brook pressed the point home. ‘Sir, we need a search warrant for Tinkerman’s home, any vehicles he owns and his locker at the shooting range in Ripley. If we can scare up some of those research materials we talked about …’
‘Unless you can tie Tinkerman to that phone request, the answer is no,’ replied Charlton.
‘Sir?’
‘Really, Brook. Do you honestly think I’m going to authorise a warrant application to search the home of a respected
police officer on such flimsy circumstantial evidence?’
‘Have I ever let you down before, sir?’
‘Too often to calculate.’
‘Sir …’
‘Stop,’ ordered Charlton. ‘I’m not immune to your persuasive powers, but I am not about to expose myself in that way. The Federation would go ballistic.’
‘Sir, we’ve had two separate killings in five days,’ said Noble. ‘The Champagne Killer is escalating and there’s no telling how soon—’
