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

by Robin Roughley

  'Do you mind getting out of the way?' he snapped.

  Susan looked towards Lasser.

  'What's the big rush, Martin, I mean you haven't even offered us a brew or do you have a minion who does it for you?'

  Barlow remained with his eyes locked on Coyle. 'If you must know I'm going to the estate agents.'

  Lasser frowned before crossing the room. 'You're putting this place up for sale?'

  'Not that it's any of your concern but yes I am.'

  'You're downsizing?'

  'In your dreams sergeant.'

  'So where are you off to?'

  'That has nothing to do with you.'

  'Wrong, you seem to forget that you're a convicted sex offender and your movements are monitored.'

  'Yes well not for much longer.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'I'm moving abroad.'

  Lasser thrust his hands into his pockets, 'Abroad where?'

  'Bulgaria.'

  'I...'

  'And before you ask, it's completely legal,' he grinned, as expected his teeth were pearly white. 'I have a friend over there who's looking for a partner...'

  'So you're going to be practicing again!' Lasser asked in disbelief.

  The shark like smile widened. 'That's correct sergeant, like I said I'm innocent and besides I served my sentence.'

  'You think so do you?'

  Barlow took a step towards Lasser, his eyes brittle with anger. 'Do you have any idea what it's like to be incarcerated for something you didn't do?'

  'Kelly Ross was twelve years old when you abused her...'

  'Kelly Ross was confused and no doubt primed by the likes of you to say all the right things.'

  'Don't make me bloody laugh...'

  'You hate the fact that I'm not in pieces don't you, Lasser. If you had your way, I'd be living in a hovel on some Godforsaken council estate. But that's never going to happen, so you might as well get used to the idea.'

  Lasser felt like grabbing the bastard by the throat and throwing him through the picture window. 'So this partner of yours he's not called Gary Glitter by any chance is he?'

  Barlow's face turned the same colour as his trendy burgundy shirt. 'Get out,' he pointed at the door his finger quivering with anger.

  Lasser nodded at Susan who straightened her shoulders. 'We'll be in touch, Mr Barlow.'

  'I'd like to say I look forward to it but I don't like to lie.'

  'And I was going to ask you to look at one of my wisdom teeth but I don't think I'll bother.' Lasser spat as he strode from the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  Brewster drew some strange looks as he sat in his car, his face bone white with shock, his eyes wide and staring. Dragging the cigarettes from his pocket, he lit up and slid the window down. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the severed head floating in the filthy toilet bowl, the eyes open and staring, the flap of skin from the ravaged neck undulating with the water.

  'Jesus,' he muttered before scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

  The view from the car window showed people going about their business, shoppers carrying Primark bags, teenagers pushing prams, the flotsam and jetsam of a northern town.

  Brewster swallowed the rising panic, he had to think, had to make sure he got this right.

  By rights he should ring the police, after all wasn't that what any law-abiding citizen would do? As soon as the thought entered his head, Brewster crushed it. He owed those bastards nothing; in fact, this could be the turning point, his route back to the big time.

  Despite the horror, Brewster smiled; this could be the chance of a lifetime, all he had to do was figure out what to do with the information. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he yanked out his diary, flicked it open, and began to scribble on the page. Never one to shirk from the gruesome facts, he painted a picture that left nothing to the imagination. Occasionally, he would scrawl out a word and replace it with one that had more impact. Five minutes later, his cigarette had burned to extinction in the ashtray.

  When his phone began to ring, Brewster frowned; he was trying to think of a word to encapsulate the sight of the limbs in the bath, something that would conjure up the true horror of the spectacle.

  The phone continued to warble as the words fragmented in his mind.

  'Bastard!' he snarled before snatching out the phone, when he saw the ‘number withheld sign,’ he swallowed before lifting it tentatively to his ear.

  'Hello,' he whispered.

  'So what do you think Michael, can we do business?'

  CHAPTER 21

  'What a creep.'

  They were driving out of town and for a change; the traffic was flowing well. 'You got that did you?' Lasser asked with a grin.

  'I mean, can he do that, can Barlow just sell up and move as if nothing's happened?'

  'Like the man said, he served his sentence.' Lasser slowed at the zebra crossing, watching as an elderly couple hobbled across, the man was wearing a flat cap and despite the heat, his wife was wrapped up as if she expected it to snow. She even sported a rain hood with bright yellow canaries stencilled onto the plastic. When they reached the curb, the old man turned and raised a hand in thanks. Lasser smiled before giving the thumbs up, wondering if he was witnessing himself and Medea in forty years time. Surely, by then everyone would be flying around wearing jet packs, the car would be a thing of the past. Grimacing, he pulled away; chances are in Wigan people would still be riding around on pushbikes and rust bucket cars.

  'So who's next on the list?' Susan asked.

  'James Sanderford.'

  'Can I ask you something, sir?'

  Lasser swivelled his eyes towards her. 'I thought I told you to drop the sir bit.'

  She smiled tentatively. 'It's hard, I mean I can't call you, sarg, it sounds naff.'

  'Agreed.'

  'And I can hardly use your surname.'

  'Why not everyone else does?'

  Coyle shook her head, 'No way.'

  Lasser sighed. 'So go on what did you want to ask me?'

  'How many convicted sex offenders are there in this town?'

  'Too many.'

  'So you're saying this is a kind of dumping ground?'

  Lasser indicated and turned left at the lights, the road rose steeply before dropping away, he twisted the wheel to avoid the numerous potholes that had sprouted up since the council ran out of cash. 'They'll never admit it, but let's just say we have more than our fair share of creeps and weirdo's.'

  'So what about Sanderford?'

  'Well he ain't a dentist that's for sure.'

  The road rose again, the houses began to thin out until fields took over, the barbed wire fences snagged with plastic carrier bags.

  Half a minute later, Lasser turned left and drove down a short cobbled street made up of two rows of terraced houses. Pulling up at the last house on the left, he unclipped his seatbelt before climbing out. Coyle looked at him over the roof of the car, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun.

  Lasser strode past her and knocked on the front door.

  'Do the neighbours know they have someone like this living next door?' she asked.

  'What do you think?'

  'But...'

  'Look Susan, the Sanderford's of this world tend to move around a lot. Sooner or later someone gets wind that they have a paedophile living on their street and then we have no option but to move them on.'

  Two doors down the front door opened and a young girl stepped out onto the pavement, she looked to be about twelve years old, hoisting a bag over her shoulder, she gave them a cursory glance before heading off down the street.

  'I can't believe he's living two doors down from a young kid like that.' Susan said in disbelief.

  Lasser knocked again, harder this time until his knuckles throbbed with pain. 'Sanderford wouldn't be interested she's far too old for his tastes.'

  Coyle scowled and yanked the belt tight around her waist. 'Pervert,' she hissed.

  'You're learning,'
Lasser replied before peering through the front window. Apart from a tatty looking sofa, the room was empty. 'Right, let's check around the back.'

  Coyle followed as Lasser trudged down the side of the house and into an alleyway littered with wheelie bins. Trying the gate, he frowned before slamming his shoulder into the flimsy wood; his sunburned shoulder throbbed as he pushed his way into a tiny back yard littered with dog shit.

  Susan crinkled her nose and tiptoed across the flags, following Lasser to the back door.

  Heading straight for the window, he peered in through the glass, surprisingly, the kitchen looked neat and tidy, the worktops gleamed, and a bottle of washing up liquid stood in the windowsill.

  Moving away, he hammered on the back door, suddenly a dog began to bark, followed by a scratching on the inside of the door.

  'It's a staffie,' Susan was peering in through the window, she could see the dog looking up at her, tail wagging, it's mouth hanging open as it panted. 'I can't see any food or water bowl.'

  Lasser turned and made his way to a desolate flowerbed filled with small pebbles of all shapes and sizes. Grabbing a handful, he turned and began to toss them up at the back window. The first one missed the target and bounced off the sill, just missing Coyle as it fell back to earth.

  'Sorry about that,' he said sheepishly.

  Shaking her head, she moved away from the back of the house and Lasser took aim again. This time the small stone pinged off the glass.

  'It's no use, he's not at home.'

  Lasser turned to find a man peering over the side fence, he grinned showing a ramshackle set of teeth.

  'Any idea where he's gone?' Lasser asked

  'Not a clue, why, what's he been up to?'

  'Nothing as far as I know.'

  The man sniffed before wiping a dewdrop from the end of his bulbous nose. 'So what you lot doing here then?'

  Lasser decided to ignore the question. 'Can you tell me the last time you saw, Mr Sanderford?'

  'Yesterday about dinner time.'

  'Do you have any idea what he was wearing?'

  'That's an odd question.'

  'Just humour me, Mr...'

  'Woods, ' the man replied. 'Bert Woods and he was wearing what he always wears.'

  'Which is?'

  'One of them daft shell suit things.'

  Lasser tossed the stones back into the barren flowerbed and raised an eyebrow at Coyle before turning back to face the neighbour, 'Any idea on the colour?'

  'That's easy it was black, I mean, I like the guy but he's a bit of a scruffy bugger.'

  'So does he often stay away overnight?'

  Bert shook his head, his chicken skin neck wobbled from side to side. 'Nay, I've never known him stay out before. I mean it's not as if he's got a bird tucked away somewhere.'

  Susan sighed and placed her hands on her hips.

  'And what about the dog?' Lasser asked.

  'Owd Bess, there's no harm in her, soft as your pocket she is.'

  'Right, well thanks for your help Mr Woods.'

  'No bother lad,' he replied before disappearing from view.

  'So what do you want to do?' Susan asked.

  Dragging the phone from his pocket, Lasser tapped at the screen. 'Bannister will want to know about this, besides we need to sort the dog out.'

  'You think Sanderford was the body in the woods?'

  'One thing at a time Susan, one thing at a time,' he replied with a grin.

  CHAPTER 22

  Brewster paced back and forth in the apartment, his brain in overdrive. Snatching off his leather jacket, he tossed it onto the sofa, stormed into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of Bud from the fridge.

  Retracing his steps, he moved over to the picture window and looked down at the canal below. This apartment was the one thing he liked about this shithole town. Although the rent was crippling, he'd been determined to hold onto it, the last vestige of when times had been good.

  Down below, a colourful narrow boat lodged between the lock gates, slowly rising as the murky water flooded into the narrow trough. Brewster smiled at the analogy, with luck his career would soon be rising from the shit. If he played things right he could be back on top and then it would be payback time to all those who had shafted him in the past.

  Tilting his head, he took a swig from the bottle and burped loudly.

  Admittedly, the conversation with the man on the phone had been brief and one sided but then again, he'd still been in shock at the discovery he'd made in the filthy bathroom.

  'What do you mean by business?' he'd asked.

  'You might not realise it, Michael but this small town of yours is quite special.'

  'I don't come from here.' Brewster snapped, despite the recent horror the thought that someone could imagine he actually hailed from this dump was preposterous.

  'Tell me, do you have any idea how many sex offenders are living in the area?'

  A light bulb went off in Brewster's head. 'Are you saying that the body parts in the flat belonged to a paedophile?'

  'I think you already know the answer to that question. Patrick Wilson had served three years for molesting a six year old girl in Preston.'

  'I...'

  'Prior to that, he spent twelve months in Walton prison for downloading child pornography.'

  'And you killed him is that what you're telling me?' Brewster could feel the excitement building; the sense that he was on the cusp of something momentous bloomed in his head.

  'Wilson is only the start...'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Can I trust you Michael?'

  Brewster watched as a young woman strolled past the front of the car, her tanned midriff on display a silver belly button bar catching the sunlight. 'Why me?' he'd asked.

  'Because I believe you're someone who won't buckle under the pressure.'

  Brewster had frowned. 'What pressure?'

  'Listen to me carefully Michael, people like Wilson don't deserve to live, are we agreed?'

  'Well...'

  'If you disagree then say so and I'll find someone else to be my mouthpiece.'

  Brewster panicked, the thought that the man might hang up if he said the wrong thing was too terrible to contemplate. 'Of course I agree but...'

  'Good, then we understand one another. Now what I want from you is a front page spread in a national ...'

  'Hang on I'll never get this past my editor!'

  'Then go to another editor.'

  Brewster blinked and reached for another cigarette. 'It doesn't work that way.'

  'You disappoint me Michael, I'm offering you something unique, and you stumble at the first hurdle.'

  'No, no wait, I'll see what I can do.'

  The silence had stretched out, the magnified sun pouring through the windscreen had felt intense, sweat lathered Brewster's forehead.

  'Let me down, Michael, and I'll go somewhere else. I would imagine there are plenty of young hungry reporters who would die for a scoop like this.'

  The thought that someone else might grab the story and run with it was too much for Michael Brewster to bear. Sitting back whilst some snot nosed junior reporter made a name for themselves was unthinkable.

  'I promise I'll sort it,' he said, running a hand across his tacky brow.

  'Good, now I want you to forget about Mr Wilson for now...'

  'Forget about it but I thought you wanted me to break the story.'

  'Relax Michael, do you know the woods than run through Mesnes Park?'

  'I guess.'

  'Don't guess you either know them or you don't.'

  Brewster licked his lips, suddenly aware that he was talking to a lunatic, someone capable of hacking limbs from bodies, for a moment the thought made him feel physically sick. 'I know them,' he mumbled.

  'Good, behind the brick pavilion there's a track, follow it for about a quarter of a mile and you'll find something of interest.'

  'Something of interest?'

  'Don't tell me you're going to
be one of those annoying individuals who have to hear everything twice?'

  Brewster had felt his cheeks flare with anger. 'I...'

  'But first go home and get a couple of hours rest, you look worn out.'

  The cigarette slipped from his fingers; Brewster snapped his head around, his eyes wide in fright. People still flowed back and forth, the sun still shone; he tried to pick out a face from the crowd though his eyes couldn't seem to lock on.

  'We'll talk later, Michael.'

  A tiny pinprick of heat flared between his legs and Brewster gasped and shot up in the seat, his hands flapping between his spread legs. The cigarette fell to the foot well and he stamped angrily on the glowing ember.

  Slumping back down, Brewster heaved a trembling sigh of relief. When he checked the mobile, the screen was blank.

  The lock-gates opened and the barge glided forward. Draining the bottle of Bud, he tossed it into the waste paper basket then grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa, Michael Brewster headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 23

  Bannister looked around the living room, a television stood in the corner gathering dust, the sofa had a full ashtray perched on the armrest. Lasser rummaged through a small cupboard, apart from one or two unpaid utility bills the space was empty.

  'Have you tried upstairs?' Bannister asked.

  Lasser turned. 'Not yet.'

  'Right, come on there's bugger all down here.'

  Lasser followed his boss up the steep stairs, which lead to a narrow landing with three closed doors. Bannister pushed on the first one and stepped inside; as soon as he spotted the desktop computer, he stopped and frowned.

  Lasser peered over his shoulder. 'What is is?'

  Ignoring the question, Bannister moved into the room, the single bed was neatly made; an old fashioned wardrobe took up half of one wall.

  Moving across the room, Lasser slid the drawer out from a small bedside cabinet before tipping the contents onto the bed.

  'Sanderford had been banned from owning a computer.' Bannister said.

  Lasser glanced at the desktop that stood on the floor beneath the bedroom window, a jumble of wires snaked out onto the threadbare carpet.