by Liz Mistry
Knowing exactly what the man was going through, having nearly lost Alice a few months ago, Gus thought he’d give the man some time to come to terms with what had happened. He turned his gaze away from him, and seeing Alice had her notebook out, he nodded at Sid. ‘Shoot.’
Indicating they should follow him out, Sid showed them a block where a piece of earth had been covered. ‘We got a bit of a print here. From a tyre. Must be a van of some sort because it’s deep, which is the only reason we were able to get it. The rain had only just started when we got here, and we covered it up quick. Looks like your killer drove right onto the glen, again indicating a van of some sort.’
Gus agreed. Anyone driving off the road onto the glen itself would need to be in a van or a four-by-four. The vast rocks interspersed with hardy grasses and bracken made it near impossible to drive over, yet their killer had managed to get to that spot.
Sid stood up, and moving back over to the tent, pointed to a yellow marker with a number two. ‘That’s the same print as I took from the dog shit in the car park. We’ve sent samples. We’ll see what we come up with. I’ve taken a mould. Gore’s clothes were cut off as per the previous victims. They were folded and laid here.’ He pointed to a number three marker. ‘We’ve bagged them up, however, we did discover something.’ He walked them over to a durable plastic box containing evidence bags and sifted through until he found what he was looking for. ‘This!’
Gus peered at it and saw a long hair, just as Sid farted. ‘For God’s sake, Sid. I’m trying to concentrate here.’ Trying to ignore the odious stench, Gus said, ‘Our killer’s got long brown hair?’
Laughing like a teenage prankster, Sid said, ‘Oops, sorry, don’t know what came over me! Nah, or rather, neigh. Your killer’s not the owner of that hair … but maybe the killer has come into contact with the owner.’
Gus frowned. ‘You’re doing that thing, Sid.’
‘What thing?’
‘That fucking thing where you’re being an arsehole and pissing me off. Just tell me the damn significance of the hair.’
‘Horse …’ said Alice, with a grin.
Sid scowled at her. ‘I wanted to tell him, Alice.’
‘Not a damn competition, children,’ said Gus. ‘Just give me the info I need, okay? Is it from a horse?’
‘Yes. I’ll be able to tell you a breed later, and, of course, you find the horse, and I’ll match the hair to it.’
Alice looked thoughtful.
‘What’s up, Al?’ asked Gus.
‘What about that horse we saw this morning? In the field near the Bay of Biscay.’
Gus frowned. Although there were loads of horses in Bradford, it was a coincidence. Pretty far-fetched, perhaps, however it was the one horse they’d come across in the course of their investigation. He frowned. Something was niggling him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It’d come to him, if he left it alone. ‘Yeah, worth trying out. I’ll send a uniform up there to get a strand from its mane.’
‘Don’t worry.’ said Alice, ‘I picked about three off my coat when I got back into the car and put them in my little binny.’
Gus shook his head, ‘Bloody binny, indeed,’ he muttered, then grinned. ‘Well done, Al. Sid …?’
Sid was already sending one of his techs over to Alice’s car, saying, ‘It’s that silly little Mini with the floral monstrosities all over it.’ Alice cast him a dirty look and then followed the tech, beeping it open with the key as she ran.
Chapter 65
16:40 Bradford Royal Infirmary
Gus had spent the journey to the hospital catching up with Sampson and Compo. He knew they wouldn’t be able to talk to Lewis Gore, but he wanted to touch base with Lewis’ wife and make sure she was okay.
There had been no word about Christine Weston, and according to Sampson, Graeme Weston was snoring ‘like a buffalo in labour’ in a police cell. No doubt the alcohol was to blame for that! Other than the blood stain on the carpet and some skin cells and hairs on the corner of the coffee table, the SOCOs had found no evidence of wrong-doing in the Weston’s house.
Gus hoped Christine Weston and her husband had had a bust up, and that she’d walked out. If that was the case, Gus would be very angry with Graeme Weston for wasting police time. Wasn’t like they didn’t have a fucking serial killer to catch, was it?
When they parked up, Alice took a deep breath before pushing her door open and getting out. Gus understood how she felt. He’d been the same the first time he’d returned to BRI after his own brush with death. It was a combination of fear, relief and guilt all balled up together. It got you right in your gut. He caught up with her and slipped his arm through hers, giving it a quick squeeze.
She turned and smirked at him. ‘Don’t you get all bloody soft on me now, McGuire. Can’t be doing with that shit.’ Pulling her arm away from him, she straightened her back and marched ahead.
Well, that’ll teach me to get in touch with my feminine side, thought Gus, following at a slower pace. The biggest hurdle for her would be walking through the doors, so he kept an eye on her as she approached them. Not that there was anything he could do to make the process easier.
As Alice walked past the smokers’ fug and up the disabled ramp leading to the automatic doors, they opened, and a woman came out. Although she was half-turned away from them, talking to someone behind her, Gus recognised Christine Weston. What the hell! He’d had officers looking for her all afternoon, and here she was. Maybe she’d come to get whatever injury her husband had inflicted on her seen to. He frowned. He’d given explicit instructions to check all the hospital A&E departments, and they’d come back clear. Quickening his step, he moved over to the stairs to cut-across Christine Weston’s path. Alice, head down, didn’t notice the woman, who turned to go down the steps with her son.
‘Mrs Weston, wait,’ called Gus, causing Alice to look back at him and then spin around to locate the target. Running up the last few feet of ramp, Alice, instead of going through the doors, turned to the steps and began to descend, just as Gus reached the bottom of the stairs. Christine Weston was sandwiched between them. First, her gaze was directed at Gus and then back at Alice again. Her shoulders slumped, and her face took on a hunted look.
Realising how threatening it must appear to have one officer in front of her and another behind, Gus smiled. ‘We just wanted to have a quick word, Mrs Weston.’
Now that he was up close, he could see a large dressing at her temple, and a large bruise swelling out from under her right eye and down towards her cheek. His eyes narrowed. The thought of Weston inflicting this sort of injury on his wife, no matter what she’d done, made Gus want to punch him. He sighed. This sort of violent thought was becoming a bit too frequent for comfort. He needed to keep a lid on it. It didn’t matter he knew he wouldn’t carry it through in reality. The fact he’d had the thought at all disturbed him.
Seeing Christine hesitate and glance at her son, her eyes wide and pleading, Gus said, ‘Why don’t we find the canteen and have a drink?’ He turned to Jacob. ‘They do a mean hot chocolate there, if you fancy one?’
Jacob look swivelled between Gus and his mother. ‘You do realise I’m not ten, don’t you?’
Gus’ lips twitched. Jacob was right. He had tried to bribe him as if he were a child, not a teenager.
The boy shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and turned to walk back inside the building. ‘Hope you’re here to stop that bastard hitting my mother again.’
Gus smiled. That was a change in attitude from the first time he’d met the boy. Then, when Christine was drunk, he’d lashed out at her. However, looking at Jacob’s expression, Gus could see whilst he’d lashed out at his mother through love, he seemed to have a much less benevolent attitude to his father. If Gus wasn’t mistaken, Jacob Weston hated his dad.
Christine gasped, and her hand reached out to grip the handrail as if she thought she might fall. Gus, somehow managing to maintain a neutral expression, said, ‘Wel
l, we want to chat to your mum, Jacob. Let’s see what she says first, huh?’
He stepped towards them, forcing Christine to either barge past or turn and follow her son. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then turned, making her way back inside the hospital. Alice stepped aside to let mother and son lead the way. Once inside, Gus kept pace with Christine, whilst Alice attempted to distract Jacob. From what Gus could hear, Jacob was not one for being mollified. He smiled. He was much the same in his early teens. Thought he was an adult and hated being excluded from ‘adult’ things.
At some point, either he or Alice needed to phone in they had found Christine and to call off the search for her.
Deciding to postpone the big conversation until they were sitting in the canteen, Gus said, ‘Are you here visiting someone or getting your injury dressed?’
Christine cast an anxious glance back at Jacob and said nothing.
Glancing back, Gus saw the boy’s angry gaze was piercing into his mother’s back. What’s all this about? wondered Gus, as they moved into the canteen. Manoeuvring Christine to a table in the corner, Gus sent Alice and Jacob to the counter to buy drinks. Jacob, despite his obvious reluctance to comply, stared at his at his mother, his gaze intent, and then stalked over to join Alice at the counter, his entire body bristling with annoyance.
Once seated, Gus studied Christine. Her fingers clasped and unclasped on the table top, she kept sending worried looks towards her son. Biting her lips, she spoke, ‘Graeme didn’t do this, Inspector McGuire. I fell.’
Gus inhaled and leaned towards her. ‘Look, Mrs Weston. I’ve seen abusive men and the things they do to their wives on many occasions, and the one thing I know beyond a doubt is, once they’ve gone down that path, they will not stop … not ever.’ He waited until she glanced up and held her gaze before continuing. ‘You don’t need to put up with that.’
She lowered her head, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. ‘I deserved it, though. Didn’t you see the newspaper?’
Gus sighed and lowered his voice in response. ‘Yes, I did see the article, and although he’s got every right to be angry, he does not have the right to hit you.’
She sniffed and fumbled in her pocket. At last, she drew out a tissue and blew her nose. Wiping her eyes, she said, ‘You don’t know everything. It’s easy to sit on the sidelines and judge him, but he’s a good man.’
Gus shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. You clearly don’t share his views, and yet, here you are defending him.’
She glanced over to where Alice and Jacob were now queuing up to pay for their drinks. ‘I don’t have to share anything with you. I don’t need to do anything. My husband had a right to be angry. He didn’t hurt me. I, on the contrary, did hurt him. Whoever sent those pictures to Graeme said they were only to tell him about my behaviour, not for public consumption.’ She shrugged. ‘They must have changed their minds.’
‘Are you telling me you’d already seen those images?’ Gus could barely keep the surprise from his voice.
‘My husband showed me them on Sunday night. I promised I’d end the affair …’ Fingers shredding her tissue, she focussed on her moving hands. ‘I didn’t need to, though … Razaul was found dead the next day.’
Gus gave her a moment to compose herself. He’d assumed the photos had been sent to Jez Hopkins first, and from Hopkins’ responses at interview, so had he. The question of who had sent the photos remained, and now, another question was raised. Who sent the images to Graeme Weston, and was it the same person who’d delivered them to the journalist?
‘Do you have any idea who sent those photos to your husband? Who took them?’
She shrugged. ‘They’re taken through Razaul’s living room window. Whoever took them was spying on us.’ She shuddered. ‘Makes me feel unclean. Could it have been the Tattoo Killer? The one who killed him?’
‘We don’t know, Christine. It may have been. I want you to think really hard. Who else would have taken the time to follow you and wait to take compromising images of you with Razaul?’
Eyes wide, she shook her head. ‘It’s all so awful.’ She exhaled and then went on. ‘I suppose, it could’ve been any one of his Albion First cronies. None of them were happy with what they considered my lacklustre support for my husband’s political aspirations.’ She inclined her head to one side, a slight smile on her lips. ‘Truth is, I didn’t even know my husband was standing in the by-election until I saw the newspaper on Monday. He didn’t bother telling me. He keeps his political life away from me.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
She laughed. ‘Very. The rest of them are all in it together. Husbands and wives attending their meetings and rallies and demonstrations … taking the kids along, shouting racist and homophobic abuse … teaching them to hate.’ Her fingers pulled her tissue to bits as she spoke. ‘I found it distasteful. So, Graeme and I agreed to differ.’
Gus could not understand what made this woman so loyal to her racist, bigoted husband. She clearly didn’t support his political views, and yet, here she was, defending him, although distaste was written all over her bruised face. ‘So, you have nothing to do with the Albion First members?’
‘Of course I do. Michael and Marcia Hogg are family friends. Marcia works for my husband. We have dinner parties, and occasionally, there are social events I attend.’
‘Do you like them?’
She laughed. ‘The social events or Marcia and Michael?’
‘Both.’
‘No to the social events. Michael tends to use them as an excuse to rub his vile body over his friends’ wives, once he’s had a few, and Marcia throws daggers at Michael and whichever woman he’s salivating over at the time. Generally, she’s an insipid little thing, but if she imagines a woman is a threat to her marriage, then she can be toxic.’
Bundling the fragments of used tissues together, she continued, ‘Look, I really don’t have anything more to tell you. I’m ashamed of my behaviour, and I’ve ruined my husband’s chance to further his political career. Michael will find it difficult to put a positive spin on those pictures. Even if he did, there are some in the party who believe in extreme measures, and I’m sure I will be on their target list. Maybe Graeme will disown me. That’s the only thing he can do, given the circumstances.’
‘And his son?’
A strange expression passed over Christine’s face, one that Gus struggled to put a label on, then she smiled. ‘No matter what, Jacob will stay with me.’
Gus sensed he was missing something important. Christine was hiding something, and he needed to get to the bottom of it. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do you know where your husband goes on a Wednesday afternoon once every six weeks or so? Does he have a regular appointment?’
Christine jolted, her hand jerked to her mouth, and then, she straightened. ‘Yes, I do know, Inspector. He spends time with Jacob and me. That’s what he does. He’s a family man.’ She looked him straight in the eye, and her gaze didn’t falter.
What the hell did that mean? It didn’t seem likely, from his experience of the man, Graeme Weston would book a regular slot for ‘family time.’ Yet, his wife seemed quite definite about it. He shrugged and let it go … for now.
Alice and Jacob approached and sat down. Alice distributed the drinks. Shrugging off his hoodie, Jacob reached forward for his. His sleeve rode up his arm revealing a small plastic band round his wrist. Almost before Gus noticed it, Christine jumped to her feet and grabbed the boy’s hoodie. ‘Put this back on Jacob, we need to head off. Take your drink with you.’
Jacob looked as if he was about to object until he caught his mother’s eye. He glanced down at his wrist and then jumped up, shrugging his hoodie on as he did so. Christine left her drink steaming on the table, whilst Jacob, a quick glance at first Gus and then Alice, grabbed his hot chocolate takeaway cup and followed his mother.
‘Anyone would think the Hound of the Baskervilles was after them,’ said Alice, watch
ing Christine usher her son through the café exit door.
‘Or a delegation of Albion First supporters, pissed off he’s discredited their golden boy,’ answered Gus.
Alice sipped her drink. ‘What was all that about?’
Gus frowned. ‘Not entirely sure, did you see the band ‘round his wrist?’
Alice shook her head. ‘No, what sort of band?’
‘A hospital one. It had a ward number on it, and I intend to find out which ward young Jacob Weston visited as an in-patient today and why. Strange that they’re being so secretive about it, don’t you think?’ He slurped his coffee and grimacing, pushing it away, ‘Yeuch, that’s awful coffee … really bad.’
Alice grinned. ‘It’s tea, actually. Thought you’d had enough caffeine for one day.’
Gus peered into the offending cup and shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced. I think it’s dishwater. Come on, drink up so we can check on Lewis Gore.’
They found Lewis Gore in a private room in ICU, with his heavily pregnant wife and his mother taking turns to sit with him.
Gus and Alice stayed only for a brief time to ascertain he was being monitored, and that there was an officer on the door. Lewis seemed to have suffered some sort of reaction to the drug his abductor administered. Probably Propofol, Gus thought. His heart had stabilised now, and as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he spoke a few disjointed words here and there.
According to his wife, he seemed to be intimating his abductor had thought he was dead. It seemed Lewis had tried to keep immobile all the time he was being tattooed. It would be a couple of days before they’d be able to question him fully, but that was interesting information. Gus had wondered why they’d found Lewis Gore alive. He wondered how the Tattoo Killer had reacted to thinking his victim had died before he’d had the chance to torture him. Another question for Sebastian Carlton.
Before leaving the hospital, Gus and Alice made a detour to see which ward Jacob had been on that day. On finding the right ward, Gus went in and had a chat with the nurses. Although they wouldn’t give information about specific patients, a flash of his badge got him a general description of the sort of things people attended this ward for.
