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

by Robin Roughley

  'Can you tell me what aspects of the job got to him the most?'

  'Being a case worker is a weird experience. On the one hand, you're responsible for vulnerable children. I mean you must come across them in your job?'

  Lasser nodded. 'Unfortunately we do.'

  'Simon was great at that side of things, he could get the kids to open up to him, really empathise with them.'

  'He sounds like a nice guy?'

  'Too nice, that's his problem. But he couldn't cope with the other side...'

  'The Barlow's of this world?'

  Another nod, 'Don't get me wrong he was never less than professional but the crimes they'd committed seemed to eat into him. I spoke to him once about it, tried to get him to open up, but he said he was fine.'

  'But he wasn't?'

  'People started to talk; you know, workplace gossip, usually spread by those who spent their days sitting on their fat behinds.'

  'The ones with ten cases rather than a fifty?'

  Kerrie nodded. 'Viscous sods most of them.'

  'Sounds like the station doesn't it PC Coyle?'

  She smiled a reply.

  'So what happened?' he asked.

  Kerrie looked out of the window, as a magpie landed on the fake grass, the blue tits scarpered. 'Simon went to see one of the sex offenders, one of those on the 'watch like a hawk' list. When he arrived, he found the man in the back garden, there was a four-year-old girl playing in a sandpit.'

  'What?'

  'She belonged to the neighbour, a woman with seven kids by four different fathers, as you can imagine she had her hands full. So when the nice man next door offered to look after one of her kids she jumped at the chance.'

  'Jesus, ' Lasser said in disbelief.

  'Simon didn't give him the benefit of the doubt...'

  'Can't say I blame him, so what did he do, report the dirty sod?'

  'No, he beat him half to death.'

  Lasser shot forward on the sofa, he wasn't expecting that.

  CHAPTER 66

  Brewster had never felt this kind of uncertainty before. Gritting his teeth, he strode past the receptionist.

  'Excuse me but you can't go in there!'

  Brewster ignored her and barged through the door. Lewis looked up and smiled before tossing his pen onto the desk. 'Michael, my friend, I hope you come baring gifts?'

  The receptionist popped her head around the door her face flush with anger. 'I'm sorry Mr Lewis; I tried to stop him...'

  'No problem, Sarah, hold my calls for the next thirty minutes will you?'

  Sarah threw Brewster a look of pure hatred. 'Of course Mr Lewis,' she replied before closing the door behind her.

  'Has he been in touch?'

  Brewster could see the excitement shining from Lewis's eyes. Opening his jacket, he tossed the photographs he'd taken of Patrick Wilson onto the desk.

  Lewis grabbed them with both hands, for a fleeting moment a look of disgust flickered in his eyes, replaced almost instantly by a blooming euphoria.

  'You are the man, Michael, no bloody doubt about it!'

  'I thought you'd like them.' Brewster tried to smile and found that his lips refused to join in.

  'I take it you have the name and address?'

  'Of course.'

  Grabbing a pen and pad, Lewis leaned over the desk. 'Fire away.'

  'I want double what you offered.'

  When Lewis looked up, Brewster could see the hardness in his eyes. 'Double?'

  'You heard - I'm the one taking all the risks here.'

  'Risks, what risks?

  By the time he'd finished explaining about the note he'd delivered to the police, Lewis's face had curdled.

  'Well why the hell didn't you bring it here?'

  Brewster slumped down into a chair and scowled back across the desk. 'Because he told me not to...'

  'Jesus Michael, since when have you ever done what someone told you to?'

  'Ok, say I ignored the man, what do you think would have happened then?'

  'I...'

  'He would have gone somewhere else.'

  Lewis pursed his lips. 'Not necessarily.'

  'You could have kissed your exclusive goodbye and I'd have been fucked.'

  'Come on, you don't know that.'

  'I'm telling you Lewis, if you don't agree to my terms then I'm out of here.'

  Panic rose in the editor's eyes. 'Ok, ok, I understand.'

  'In fact you can forget double, I want triple what you're paying!'

  Lewis shot from his chair as if someone had put a rocket up his arse. 'Fucking triple!'

  'Make up your mind now, triple and you get the address and any future information that comes my way.'

  Lewis licked his lips. 'But I can't make a decision like that, not here and now!'

  Brewster stood up. 'Right as long as I know where I stand.'

  'Michael wait!'

  Michael folded his arms. 'Triple?'

  Lewis slumped back down into his seat. 'Triple, but you'd better keep the goods coming, or so help me God...'

  Brewster smiled. 'I thought you were an atheist?'

  'Don't let me down, Michael.'

  'When have I ever let you down, Shane?'

  'Do you want the list now or later?'

  Brewster tossed the slip of paper onto the desk. 'That's the name and address, as soon as I know more you'll be the first to have it.'

  'First and only, remember the deal?'

  Brewster didn't respond, instead he turned and walked from the office, the spring back in his step.

  CHAPTER 67

  John Sanderford wanted to beg, plead, and say he was sorry for killing Bert Wood, wanted to say sorry for the way he had been made. Trouble was the gaffer tape stretched across his mouth made any form of conversation impossible.

  He was squashed in the back of the Range Rover, sprawled behind the front seats, his head lodged against the rear right hand door. He could feel blood from the old man mingling with the sweat that ran from his open pores.

  When the car began to lurch left and right Sanderford tried to move but he was too weak, the terror sapping the last of his pitiful resources.

  He could feel the bulk of the man behind the wheel pressing back as if he were trying to mash him into the carpeted floor of the car.

  Suddenly, John thought of his mother, the image reared in his mind of a small woman with a sour face, devoid of any love or affection.

  'You disgust me,' he could see her lips moving, her voice flat and lifeless.

  It had been over ten years since her death, ten long years since she had last entered his head, and the image terrified him almost as much as the man driving the car.

  She had always had her suspicions about her eldest son, watched him through narrowed eyes as if she knew what he was, even before he did.

  John groaned as she pointed an accusing finger. 'You deserve this you filthy animal, I hope you suffer. I hope you cry like a baby.'

  Sanderford screwed up his eyes, trying to block out the image but she wouldn't be denied.

  'Our Shelly was seven, you disgusting pervert...'

  'I never meant to hurt her, mother!' he screamed behind the gag.'

  'Paedophile!' she hissed.

  John Sanderford started to cry.

  CHAPTER 68

  Despite their best efforts, Lasser and Coyle had arrived late for the debrief, like a couple of cinema-goers sneaking in half way through the movie, colleagues had given them the evil eye as they made their way to their seats.

  Bannister was in full flow, demanding answers that nobody could provide his face twitching as if he were receiving electrical pulses from a dodgy pace maker.

  DI Cooper was on his feet looking nervous as he explained about their inability to track down John Sanderford.

  'We've checked his bank account and it's empty.'

  'Well what do you expect?' Bannister yelled. 'The first thing he would have done is take out any cash he had.'

  'I und
erstand that sir, but you see he's due another giro in three days time.'

  'And?'

  'Well chances are he'll try and make a withdrawal, so at least it should pinpoint his whereabouts.'

  'So that's it we have to wait until he draws cash from the hole in the wall.'

  'Well...'

  'What happens if we miss him and he buggers off with a couple of hundred quid in his back pocket?'

  Cooper opened his mouth to reply but Bannister cut him off with the swipe of a hand. 'What about Barlow?'

  DI Chadwick shuffled his feet before reluctantly standing up. 'We've talked to all the neighbours...'

  'All the neighbours! Barlow lived in a cul-de-sac, how many houses are we talking about, three, four?'

  'Er, it's five actually, sir.'

  'So it took you all afternoon to interview five people, is that what you're telling me?'

  Lasser was beginning to enjoy himself; it made a nice change to see Cooper and Chadwick getting a bollocking.

  Suddenly Bannister spun around. 'And where the hell have you been, Lasser?'

  Inwardly Lasser sighed. 'We've been to see Kerrie Fleming, sir.'

  'Who?'

  'By the time he'd finished explaining about Fleming, and more importantly Simon Cropper, Bannister was puce with rage.

  'And when were you going to tell us about this, sergeant?'

  'I...'

  'Right I want to know everything there is to know about this Simon Cropper.'

  Lasser stuck up his hand, Bannister glared towards him.

  'What now.'

  'Cropper's in the mental health unit at Leigh - has been for the past six months.'

  Bannister slammed his hands down on the desk knuckles first, the room held its collective breath.

  'Check him anyway; he could have been the one who provided the names in the first place.'

  Lasser responded with a nod of the head.

  'Right, we have someone working on a photo-fit of the man seen at Patrick Wilson’s flat, so hopefully it'll give us an idea of the man we're after.'

  Before Lasser could stop her, Susan Coyle had her hand in the air. 'What about Wilson, sir, what do we actually know about him?'

  Surprisingly, Bannister nodded. 'Same as Philips, Barlow and Sanderford, he was a sex offender, served time in Preston before coming here. According to Social Services he kept to himself but as we all know you can't trust these people...'

  Coyle's hand shot up again. Lasser sighed, she was pushing her luck.

  'Which people are we talking about, sir?'

  Bannister threw her a tired smile. 'Both. Offenders like these rarely change and as for Social Services well let's just say they're stretched to breaking point.'

  'I know the feeling,' Lasser mumbled from the corner of his mouth.

  'What was that, sergeant?'

  'Nothing, sir.'

  Bannister held his gaze for a couple of seconds before clearing his throat. 'As I was saying, they have a heavy work load, corners have been cut, and with people like these, if you cut corners then they will take advantage.'

  Mumbles of assent spread around the room.

  'Right, so everyone knows what they're doing. Find Sanderford; look into what Philips and Wilson were up to and catch this bastard before the locals start to lose the plot. Now I want everyone back on the job by six in the morning, is that clear enough for you?'

  Five minutes later, Lasser was heading home, the clock on the dashboard crawled toward nine o’clock, another fourteen-hour day with nothing to show for it.

  When his phone began to vibrate, Lasser yanked it from his pocket in dread. When he saw Medea's name flashing on the screen, he smiled in relief.

  'I know, I'm sorry, I'm on my way to the takeaway right now.'

  'Do you mind if we leave it?'

  Lasser fumbled out his cigarettes. 'Don't tell me you've been hitting the biscuit barrel again?'

  'I don't want you to get angry.'

  Lasser frowned. 'Christ, Med, it was only a takeaway, I can always call at the chippy if you've eaten.'

  'Someone's been back to the house.'

  Lasser felt the sliver of fear slide into his brain. 'Are you ok?'

  'I'm fine.'

  Without realising it, Lasser's right foot pressed down on the gas, the big car lurched forward. 'Is it the tyres again?'

  'No not this time.'

  'So...'

  'Someone's sprayed something vindictive on the front door.'

  'Little bastards, what are they calling me this week, dickhead, tosser..?'

  'It's not aimed at you, Lasser.'

  Lasser's mouth slammed shut, the car swerved to the left. 'What?'

  He heard Medea sigh. 'It's me.'

  Without hesitation, he flicked on the whistles and bells and slammed his foot all the way down to the floor.

  'Five minutes Med, I'll be home...'

  'Have you got the siren on?'

  'And the flashing lights.'

  'For God's sake, turn them off.'

  'No way.'

  The trees flashed by in a blur, the faster he went the angrier he became.

  'Look I'm going to go while you concentrate on driving; the last thing I want is you to end up in a ditch.'

  'Five minutes, I promise.'

  The phone died, Lasser slammed his hands on the wheel, teeth clamped together, eyes glaring, he bulleted towards home.

  CHAPTER 69

  Harry Bolt had gone straight from work to the Rotary Club, but even the ‘womb-like’ feel of the place had failed to ease his mind. George Miller had found him ensconced in the corner, nursing a large brandy.

  'Evening Harry.'

  Bolt shivered; the last thing he felt like doing was talking to George Miller. The man was a gossip of gargantuan proportions and what he couldn't garner from an individual he was more than happy to fabricate.

  'George,' he nodded a hello.

  'What are you doing hiding away in the corner?'

  'I'm not hiding...'

  'Come on you can tell me.'

  Harry had sighed. 'There's nothing to tell. I'm just having a quick drink and then I'm heading for home.'

  Miller plonked himself down opposite. 'And how are things at work, still grim?'

  If it had been anyone other than Miller, Harry might have considered opening up. All the fear and uncertainty would have come pouring out, the fear of losing his job, his pension, his bloody house for God's sake. As it was, he had tilted his head and drained the glass before pushing to his feet.

  'Right, George, I'm off.'

  'I thought I could smell something.' George had grinned at him as if he had just made the joke of the century.

  'Bye George.'

  Now he was heading slowly home. The big jag juddered and Harry dropped down a gear. He felt the beginnings of a headache and wondered how long he would be able to carry on like this.

  The pressure of work was bad enough, the daily grind of watching his workforce diminish, the knowledge that within the next three months more people would lose their jobs as another round of cuts kicked in.

  Pulling up to the traffic lights, he sighed and yanked on the handbrake. Work was a nightmare but things at home were a damn sight worse. He'd been married to Ellie for five years and he didn't trust her. Bolt looked at his image in the interior mirror, the play-doh face, the thinning hair, and the desperation in his watery blue eyes.

  Ellie on the other hand looked fantastic, ten years younger she spent her days at the private gym, an hour on the running machine then a yoga session followed by a stint in the sauna. While she kept herself trim, Harry had piled on weight. It seemed bizarre, but the more his life unravelled the more he ate.

  When Ellie did bother to cook, it was normally nothing more than a salad, so Harry had fallen into the habit of fast food eating before he arrived home, a form of comfort eating that was rapidly spiralling into gluttony.

  To top it all off, he was sure Ellie was having an affair. After all, someone
must be getting the benefit of all her hard work, because it certainly wasn't him.

  He tried to think of the last time they had made love and found that he couldn't. All he knew was that he was having problems in that department as well. He'd contemplated booking an appointment with the BUPA doctor but what was the point when your wife looked at you with unbridled disgust.

  The lights changed and he moved slowly forward. His mother had warned him this would happen, she'd said Ellie was too high maintenance, too young.

  Harry sighed again, deeper more heartfelt.

  'She's a gold-digger, Harold.' Those had been his mother's exact words. 'She'll bleed you dry, you mark my words.'

  Harry had refused to listen, after all when was the last time a leggy blond had showed an interest in him, answer, never. So he'd ploughed on, blinkered to the reality of the situation. When they'd got married half of his family had refused to attend the wedding and Harry had been deeply hurt. Despite this, the first few months had been wonderful; he would lie awake at night with this goddess by his side and wonder what he had done to deserve such luck.

  Now however, things were far from wonderful. Although he'd managed to keep his job, his salary had shrunk dramatically. The thought of telling Ellie about the diminishing pot kept him awake at night.

  So he carried on worrying and she carried on spending. Her wardrobe was bursting with designer clothes; she was even talking of having an extension built onto the house to cope with her ever expanding fascination with designer clothes and all the accessories that went with it.

  If she knew he had missed four payments on the mortgage, then Harry Bolt had no doubt she would hire a truck, pack her bags and go, and Harry didn't think he could stand that. It would be an admission that his mother had been right all along, and he was nothing more than a pathetic fool trying to cling onto something that had been nothing but a mirage in the first place.

  Harry drove past the hospital, the sight of the sprawling building made his chest tighten and he wondered if he would end up in there with a heart attack. An image came into his pummelled brain, lying in a hospital bed with wires and tubes going in and out of his body and not a visitor in sight. Harry shivered and put his foot down averting his eyes as the hospital swept by.