More Equal Than Others. The DS Lasser series. Volume five: Robin Roughley

by Robin Roughley

  Pulling out his cigarettes, he lit one and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

  Michael Brewster was a Godsend, a man riddled with anger, a malleable personality that could be used to great effect. It was all about knowing which buttons to press and the man was good at reading people, an expert at pressing buttons.

  Shaking his head in amusement, he watched from his vantage point as people went about their business. With luck those same people would soon be outraged about the dubious individuals they had in their midst and Brewster would be ideal for spreading the inevitable fear, perfectly placed to turn the screw. Some people called it scaremongering; the reporter would see it as bringing sight to the blind.

  Either way the result would be the same. Reaching for his mobile, he jabbed at the screen with his huge fingers the smile still locked in place.

  CHAPTER 16

  Brewster frowned as he watched the young woman manhandle the buggy through the clutter of kerb side tables. The baby strapped inside wailed, it's ruddy face crinkled in balling anger, a trail of snot dangled from the brat’s left nostril.

  Brewster grimaced as she sat down at the table opposite, he could see the weave of her hair extensions, her lips glistening with tacky gloss.

  'Scrubber,' he mumbled under his breath, watching as she struggled out of a check, fake Burberry coat. Draining his coffee cup, he threw the girl a withering look before striding away from the coffee shop.

  'Tosser,' she shouted after him before plugging the baby’s mouth with a Homer Simpson dummy.

  Brewster ignored the jibe and strode along the street stopping to admire a leather jacket in Burtons shop window. Peering at the price tag, he grimaced; three years ago, spending three hundred quid on a jacket would have posed no problem. Today however, his finances were limited, a fact that never failed to stoke the anger that always seemed to be bubbling away beneath the surface.

  The truth was he hated this town, despised the people in it with their pinched faces and vacant eyes. It was like living in a Lowry painting, surrounded by dim-witted people with narrow minds.

  Turning from the window he collided with a man who looked to be in his early twenties, his hair shaved close to the scalp, his neck stencilled with a half finished tattoo.

  'Watch it dickhead!' The thug snapped.

  Brewster opened his mouth to fire a retort, however, when he saw the anger smeared across the acne-scarred face, he decided to keep his mouth closed.

  Spinning away, he carried on walking, his face flush with embarrassment.

  When his phone began to vibrate in his trouser pocket, he thought of ignoring it. Chances are it would be his editor moaning about the piece he'd done on camera the night before. The snot-faced bastard had come straight from Uni armed with a PHD in media studies. As far as Brewster was concerned, the man was an idiot who knew nothing about real reporting.

  The phone continued to shiver against his thigh and he sighed heavily before dragging it out. Slapping it to the side of his head, Michael carried on weaving his way between the zombie-like locals.

  'Whatever you're selling I don't want any,' he snapped.

  'Michael Brewster?'

  Brewster elbowed his way past a young kid on a skateboard. 'Who wants to know?'

  'I watched your piece last night about the body in the woods.'

  'Yeah so what?'

  'It was impressive stuff.'

  Brewster stopped and plugged a finger into his left ear. 'Look, who is this?'

  'I've been reading about you and it seems to me that a man of your talent is wasted in a town like this.'

  Despite his annoyance, Brewster nodded as if he agreed whole-heartedly with the stranger's assessment. 'Yeah well, this is a temporary arrangement; believe me pal I won't be here for much longer.'

  'I can well imagine.'

  Brewster eyed a down-and-out sitting in front of W H Smiths, a sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders, a bob cap perched on his head. The man looked up and smiled showing a set of crooked teeth.

  'Spare a few pence, Mister?' he held out a hand like a twenty something Oliver Twist.

  Brewster resisted the urge to spit in the man's face; instead, he spun away and continued to trudge up the street.

  'Look, I don't mean to be rude but I'm kind of busy here...'

  'I'm sure you are Michael but I'm ringing to see if you would be interested in an exclusive?'

  Here we go, Brewster thought, another idiot who thought that a missing cat was front-page news.

  'Go on I'm listening.'

  'The body in the woods...'

  'What about it?'

  'How much do you actually know?'

  Brewster frowned. 'Look, Mr...' He waited for the man on the phone to fill in the gap. After five seconds of silence, he cleared his throat. 'Let's just say I'm working on it,' Brewster said.

  'So the police are being tight lipped is that what you're saying?'

  'Bastards, the lot of them,' Brewster snapped in anger.

  'I see.'

  'They hate free speech; I've had run-ins with that lot before.'

  'Well, what I'm offering takes a special kind of man to see it through.'

  'I...'

  'The type of man who doesn't back down when things get complicated.'

  'Look, who the hell is this?' Brewster's eyes locked onto the behind of a woman in front, her buttocks encased in black Lycra wobbled as she walked.

  'You said in your report he'd been attacked by a maniac?'

  'I know what I said.'

  'And how did you reach that conclusion, I mean, did you hear it from someone who actually saw the body?'

  Brewster's frown deepened. 'If you knew anything about the work of a reporter then you'd know I can't reveal my sources.'

  'So you made it up?'

  'What!'

  'Come on, Michael, I know you embellished the story, which is fine...'

  'Right, that's it no one calls me a liar...'

  'Calm down, I know how these things work, and I agree the public have a right to know what's happening in this town.'

  Without even realising it, Brewster came to a stop, watching as Lycra ass disappeared into the crowd. 'What are you talking about?'

  'The body was missing its head, feet, and hands.'

  Suddenly the black and white fronted shops began to close in, the chattering of the crowd diminished.

  Michael watched as a pigeon flew past.

  'Is this some kind of sick joke, because...'

  'His name was Patrick Wilson.'

  Brewster licked his lips tasting salt on his tongue. 'How do you know that?'

  'Douglas House.'

  Brewster blinked in confusion. 'What?'

  'Do you know where it is?'

  'Of course I know where it is but...'

  'Flat number forty seven, take a look and I'll ring you back in a couple of hours.'

  'I can't simply...' The phone beeped and Brewster looked down in surprise.

  Then the noises started to resurface, he could hear the blood thundering in his ears, someone barged into him though this time he didn't spin around to give them a mouthful.

  Sliding the mobile into his pocket, Brewster turned on his heels and strode back along the street. The man sitting in the sleeping bag spat at his feet as he hurried past.

  Michael Brewster didn't even notice.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bannister sipped at the coffee and frowned in disgust.

  Carl from forensics looked at him cautiously. 'I'm sorry sir, I can tell you the blood type but I can't give you a name.' He flicked a glance at Lasser who raised an eyebrow and waited for Bannister to blow his stack.

  The DCI slammed his foot down on the peddle bin, the lid cracked open and he dropped the cup inside. 'What about the clothing?'

  Carl swivelled away from the microscope. 'Well the shell suit did reveal a number of stains.'

  Bannister glared at Lasser before turning back to the technician. 'What kind of stains?'

>   'Well the trousers had traces of semen on the inside and small specs of blood, though to be honest I can't explain how they got there.'

  'The man had half a dozen needles inserted into his scrotum.' Bannister replied.

  Carl's eyes sprang wide in surprise. 'You're kidding right?'

  'Do I look like a comedian?' Bannister asked, stone-faced.

  Carl blanched, 'No sir, of course not.'

  'What about the jacket?' Lasser asked in an effort to diffuse the situation.

  'Er, we had a couple of ketchup stains and small burn holes which suggests the man either rolled his own cigs or smoked dope.'

  'So basically you can tell us sod all apart from the fact that he liked red sauce on his chips and he smoked the occasional spliff.'

  Carl shrugged. 'I'm sorry, I mean, as soon as you find the missing bits...'

  'When and if we find them then we'll no doubt be able to put a name to the man ourselves, which basically means your input will then be worthless.'

  For a couple of second’s anger flashed across Carl's face and then his shoulders slumped. 'Well I suppose if you put it like that...'

  'Come on, Lasser this is a waste of time.' Bannister spun away and stormed towards the exit.

  Lasser slapped a hand on Carl's shoulder. 'Take no notice mate.'

  'Bastard,' Carl hissed.

  'Precisely.'

  'Lasser get a bloody move on!' Bannister's voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  Lasser winced and hurried after his boss.

  Bannister was waiting in the corridor, hands thrust into his pockets his eyes burning with suppressed rage.

  'I don't know why we bother with these people; I mean they never have anything worthwhile to offer.'

  'Come on; would you sooner he made stuff up?'

  'I'd sooner he did his job, I mean ketchup stains, what good is that?'

  'So what do you want to do?'

  Bannister tapped his foot as if to some internal random tune. 'We know Philips was a sex offender and I doubt whether the guy chasing Lucy Croft through the woods wanted to offer to walk her home safely.'

  'You want me to check the local weirdo's?'

  'That's hardly the politically correct term, sergeant.'

  'Come on you know what I mean.'

  Bannister sighed. 'Unfortunately, I do. Right, get Coyle and see if anyone is missing off the list.'

  'Will do.'

  Checking his watch, Bannister grimaced. 'Half two already.'

  'I'll ring later with an update.'

  'Make sure you do, sergeant, I don't want to have to come looking for you.'

  Lasser nodded, 'Understood.'

  CHAPTER 18

  Michael Brewster crinkled his nose at the tart smell of old urine and boiling veg. As expected, the lift was out of order forcing him to take the stairs. Reaching the landing of the second floor, he stopped to grab his breath and wondered how people managed to exist in a place like this.

  It looked as if the walls hadn't been painted in years, the floor beneath his feet felt tacky as if the building itself were a living entity that suffered from bad breath and BO.

  Brewster continued trudging up the stairs, reluctant to put his hand on the black handrail, he stuck to the middle of the steps his shoes clicking as he made his way up.

  Reaching the third floor, he pushed his way through the double doors and peered along a corridor swathed in semi darkness. Counting the numbers on the scuffed doors, he stopped when he came to forty-seven. The door stood open about three inches; Brewster wiped a hand across his sweating brow and looked left and right before nudging it open.

  The smell on the stairwell had been bad enough but this was worse. Brewster raised a hand placing his index finger under his nose like someone doing a corny impersonation of Adolf Hitler.

  'Jesus,' he muttered, before stepping into the narrow hallway. 'Hello is anyone home?' he almost laughed aloud, 'home' this was more like a squat or a place where small animals came to die.

  Easing his way along the passage, he stopped and peered around the cluttered living space. The room stank of old sex and sweaty feet mingled with the greasy stench of fast food. Brewster could see the sofa bed spread out on the floor, a scattering of pornographic magazines lay on the mattress.

  Tiptoeing his way across the asphalt floor, he glanced into the kitchen grimacing at the stack of filthy pots and pans that rose from the sink, a grimy lace curtain hung at a tiny fly blown window.

  'Dirty sod,' he mumbled before continuing along the narrow passage. When his boots slapped into the puddle of water he stopped and looked down in confusion. 'What the...!'

  Lifting his boot, he took a hurried step back. The door at the end of the corridor was closed; Brewster could see a couple of holes in the woodwork showing the egg carton padding beneath.

  If this turned out to be some kind of joke then he would find the tosser responsible and rip him a new arsehole. With a sigh he splashed his way through the water, when he reached the door, Brewster hesitated, suddenly a feeling of apprehension rippled through his brain.

  This could be a trap. Michael tried to think if he'd upset anyone enough to resort to something like this, truth was, he'd upset plenty of people in the past. Drug dealers, sex offenders the list was long and in the past Brewster had delighted in the fact that he'd drawn the attention of some hard bastards. It helped with his reputation and reputation was everything in this industry. However, in true hack style, he'd always managed to convince himself that it was all done in the noble pursuit of the truth.

  Swallowing, he reached for the handle, his breath ripping in and out in short shallow gasps.

  The door squealed open and Brewster shuddered in relief when he found the bathroom empty.

  Water poured over the rim of the toilet bowl. Stepping forward, Brewster made the mistake of looking into the bath. His legs became unhinged and he slithered to his knees as his eyes locked on the severed limbs in the tub. One hand lay open; the index finger seemed to be pointing directly at him the other locked in an eternal fist. Brewster shuffled back on his knees; the water soaking into his designer jeans, his left hand shot out and grabbed the rim of the toilet, cold water slid over his fingers and down his wrist. Brewster gasped and snapped his head around, the head bobbed in the bowl the hair swayed like seaweed caught in the undertow.

  Michael Brewster screamed.

  CHAPTER 19

  Martin Barlow didn't fit the stereotype of your typical sex offender. For one, he didn't live in some run down high rise in the middle of town. Until two years ago, he'd been a dentist raking in the cash in a private practice in Shevington. That was until he'd been accused of interfering with one of his patients when they'd been sedated for root canal work.

  Barlow had been adamant he'd been innocent though the jury had seen things differently, he'd been banged away for twelve months and his licence to practice had been revoked. Though being out of work didn't seem to have impacted on his way of life.

  Barlow sat on a huge Chesterfield sofa, one leg casually thrown over the other, an iphone clasped in his right hand as if ready to speed dial his lawyer, should the need arise.

  'So what are you actually doing here?' he asked.

  Lasser stood looking out of the window at a huge garden full of well-established trees and bushes. The lawn looked like a bowling green; he could see an elderly man pushing a mower back and forth leaving tramlines in the grass.

  Lasser turned from the view, Susan Coyle stood over by the door, her young face stern.

  'You have your own gardener?' Lasser asked thorough gritted teeth.

  Barlow waved a languid hand. 'I didn't realise it was a crime to have someone cut the grass.'

  'So what have you been up to since you came out of the slammer?'

  'You mean since I was wrongly accused of gross indecency.'

  Lasser sighed and moved away from the window. 'That's not how the jury saw it.'

  'Yes well, you'll have to forgive me
but my faith in the legal system has been somewhat dented.'

  'I bet it has.'

  Barlow uncrossed his legs and leant forward on the sofa. 'I'll ask you again, sergeant, what are you doing here?'

  'Have a guess?' Lasser watched as Barlow's face curdled.

  'Look, I'm trying to rebuild my life...'

  'Well it doesn't look as if you're doing too badly. I mean, you have a gardener and I dare say a cleaner so money isn't an issue.'

  'I...'

  'Just out of curiosity are you signing on jobseekers?'

  Barlow's face was suddenly flushed with anger. 'Is that some kind of joke?' he spat.

  Lasser slid a hand inside his jacket and had a quick scratch at his sunburned shoulder. 'Absolutely not, it must take a fair bit of cash to keep a place this size up and running.'

  'I had a private dental practice, a very successful business...'

  'I understand all that,' Lasser said as he eased down into a huge leather chair. 'But I know what it's like; savings don't last long when you've no income.'

  Barlow folded his arms and smiled. 'I get by.'

  'But how do you manage it, that's what I want to know?'

  'That's none of your business.'

  Lasser pursed his lips and looked around the huge room; Barlow had gone for the minimalist look - no clutter - everything just as it should be. The television hung on the wall like a huge black picture frame; there were no pictures on view, no family knick-knacks.

  'So what have you been doing with your time?'

  'I would imagine it sticks in your throat, sergeant, knowing that I have friends, good friends who've stuck by me through this debacle.'

  Lasser threw him a wide smile. 'I would imagine you were welcomed back to the Masonic Lodge with open arms.'

  'Is that meant to be funny, because let me tell you it isn't?'

  Lasser shrugged. 'That depends on your sense of humour.'

  Barlow suddenly shot to his feet. 'Right well, if you'll excuse me I have somewhere I need to be.'

  'And where's that then?'

  Barlow chose not to answer; instead, he strode across the room only to find Susan Coyle blocking his path.