by Liz Mistry
As Gus left the hospital, his head buzzed with ideas. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser.
Chapter 66
17:45 The Fort
On the short drive from the hospital to The Fort, Gus phoned Sebastian Carlton and was relieved to learn the other man was already heading into Bradford. He’d no sooner hung up than Compo rang.
‘What’s up, Comp?’
Despite Compo sounding like he was chewing cardboard, Gus could just about make out his excited words. ‘I’ve got something for you. How close are you?’
Peering out the window, Gus saw they had just turned off the Duckworth Lane roundabout. ‘Two minutes away, Compo. Get the coffee on, will you. Alice has got me on a reduced caffeine diet, and I’m flagging.’
Some static came over the phone line, and then, the sound of running water. Gus assumed Compo was filling the coffee machine. ‘Hurry, Gus, this is good …’ Gus was left with a disconnect tone buzzing in his ear.
By the time Gus and Alice arrived back at The Fort, Compo was all but bouncing on his chair. As soon as Gus walked through the door, he catapulted from his chair and dashed over. ‘We got a hit on the ANPR. My programme correlated it down to one in that area. Registered to a seventy-five-year-old man named Jack Froud. I checked and couldn’t find any links to neo-Nazi organisations or anything. No previous convictions. He looks like he’s led a blameless life.’
All of Compo’s words seemed to run together in one long stream, and Gus had to concentrate to realise what he was telling him. ‘You’ve narrowed the cars in the vicinity down to one possible?’
Compo grinned. ‘That’s it!’
Gus thought for a moment. The possibility of the Tattoo Killer being a seventy-year-old man hadn’t been in Sebastian Carlton’s profile, and it certainly hadn’t crossed his mind either. Something seemed off to him; still, you had to follow the leads. He frowned at Compo, who was still grinning like an idiot.
‘Any links to Graeme Weston?’
Compo shook his head and bouncing on his toes like an inebriated rabbit, his face glowing, he grabbed Gus’ arm. ‘Nope, no links to Weston, or to any of our victims. On paper, the old guy’s a saint. I despatched uniforms to check him out.’
His bouncing increased in tempo. Gus frowned, quelling the urge to grip him by the arms and force him to stillness. Aware of Alice looking on in amusement, he said with more patience than he felt, ‘Compo, I know you’ve got something else, so do us all a damn favour and spit it out.’
Compo’s arms lifted in the air, as if he was conducting an orchestra. ‘Uniforms were smart. They mentioned the areas he’d been seen in, and the old bloke categorically denied it. He even provided proof that, on one occasion, he was out of the country. So, the uniforms had a look at his vehicle and what do you think they found?’
By this stage, Gus guessed where Compo was going with this. Rather than burst his bubble, however, he shook his head, hung his jacket up to dry and kicked off his sodden shoes. Pulling off his socks and chucking them in the bin, Gus walked barefoot to his desk, and from the bag underneath it, he pulled out a towel, a pair of dry socks and his trainers, and began to dry his feet before putting on his dry socks. ‘Go on then, Compo. What did they find?’
‘The number plates had been swapped.’ Compo grinned. ‘You get it? It means that my programme worked. Must’ve been the Tattoo Killer who swapped the plates, yeah?’
Gus nodded, wondering where this left them now. ‘Yeah, good work, Compo. I presume you’ve –’
‘Yep, the plates on Jack Froud’s car were registered to a vehicle that’s been sent for squashing. So, that doesn’t link to our man. However, the net’s drawing in.’
Gus sighed. It wasn’t drawing in quick enough for his liking. ‘Keep on it then, Comps.’
Re-commencing his earlier bouncing, Compo burst out. ‘I’ve got a new lead though.’
Gus raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘Well, I re-did the whole rigmarole focussing in on only two areas this time. Lewis Gore’s house and Tetley Street where he was abducted from – and I got two hits. An octogenarian called Trevor Blackhurst, and a sixty-year-old called Ishmael Mahboob. So, I sent uniforms to them, and guess what?’
Gus pulled a face. ‘I sincerely hope you’ve got something concrete, Compo, with all this rabbiting on you’ve been doing.’
Compo took a bite of a Mars Bar that had appeared seemingly from nowhere and continued nodding his head. ‘Yeah, yeah, we did. After Mr Mahboob checked out. He lives two streets from Lewis Gore and works in a garage off Tetley Street. His plates are intact and I reckoned, like, with all the racism and that, we’re probably looking for a white bloke. I moved onto the second candidate. Assuming Mr Blackhurst couldn’t be our killer, I got uniforms to check his vehicle and guess what …?’
Again, his arms stretched out like a demented conductor. All he needs is a bloody baton, thought Gus, beginning to think if Compo didn’t speed up his delivery, he’d strangle him. Aware of Alice’s snigger, he said, ‘Hurry the fuck up, Comps.’
Compo’s face fell for a second, and then, he grinned. ‘Mr Blackhurst doesn’t drive his car at all … except for on a Tuesday night, when he goes to get fish and chips from Mother Hubbard’s on Ingleby Road. Otherwise, it’s secured in his garage. So that’s the only time the plates could have been switched. I’m waiting for CCTV footage from Mother Hubbard’s to be sent over as we speak.’
Gus heart rate increased, and the desire to strangle Compo was replaced by an urge to promise him a year-long supply of bacon butties. A quick mental calculation of the number of bacon sandwiches the younger man could get through in a year made him swallow the promise. Never mind, though. He knew they were onto something. This was great news. Within a few minutes, they could have footage of their killer in their hands.
‘Bloody great. You’re a star.’
Alice and Gus were discussing Compo’s findings, when the door opened. Professor Carlton exploded into the room like a grenade, saying, ‘Update.’
Blinded by his rather ‘out there’ burgundy suit, banana yellow tie and his lime green trainers, Gus gawped at the Professor, before shaking his head and gesturing for him to sit down. Although the police activity on Shipley Glen had made it onto local news, Gus had so far managed to keep a lid on the fact Lewis Gore was still alive. He wanted to discuss it with the psychologist before coming to any decisions and had ordered a complete press blackout. He and Alice brought Sebastian Carlton up-to-date on the car and Lewis Gore.
Sebastian jumped to his feet, thrust one hand into the pocket of his vibrant trousers and strutted back and forth. ‘This is all quite interesting. There are two separate things to consider here. Firstly, he thought Gore was dead. So, what effect will the fact our killer was unable to play out his entire ‘torture scene fantasy’ have on him? Secondly, how will he be affected on discovering he was wrong about Gore, and, just as importantly, that Gore is still alive?’
Gus glanced at Alice and rolled his eyes. What the hell was it with these experts? First, he had Compo grandstanding to him, instead of getting to the damn point. Now, it was Sebastian Carlton’s turn. Couldn’t they just blurt it all out, like normal people?
Turning on his heel, Sebastian glared at Gus through his lopsided specs. ‘You want to know what I think?’
With difficulty, Gus managed to confine his response to a nod, which appeared to be enough encouragement for the psychologist to continue.
‘I think our killer is beginning to unravel. The fact he made a critical mistake shows this. He played out his fantasy on a dead man. If he wasn’t unravelling, he would have discovered his mistake at some point and been able to yank it back in his favour.’
Another myopic stare, this time at Alice. ‘No, he’s unravelling faster than a ball of wool on an alpaca. Thing is, what will he do now? He’ll have other targets in mind. My feeling is, he’ll go with the next one pretty damn fast. You need to shut this down.’
Gus got to h
is feet, but before he could respond, Alice stepped in front of him. ‘In your considered opinion, Professor, should we release the information Lewis Gore is still alive or not?’
‘Not. The killer is unstable and is on a downward spiral, which, as I’ve said, will result in an acceleration of his plans. Any hint he has left a living witness will increase that acceleration. We need to get as close as we can, before flushing him out. However, although not ideal, I do think you need to issue a public warning.’
‘What do you mean by ‘not ideal’?’ said Gus.
Sebastian shrugged. ‘It will no doubt infuriate our killer, however, on the other hand, people need to know. Mention his next victim will have been stalked already. You know the victim profile … the public even know the victim profile, thanks to the press. Use it. Get people thinking about a stranger loitering in their neighbourhoods.’ He took off his specs, pulled his shirt loose from his trousers and used it to wipe the lens. ‘My experience with the FBI shows when these killers unravel, they do so big style. They become more unpredictable. It’s a balancing act between not needlessly aggravating him and making the public aware. A vigilant public may thwart this guy’s plans. Appeal for information about where our killer acquired the tattoo paraphernalia. It’s clearly not state-of-the-art equipment, so maybe he got it second-hand. Mention the racist motives. It may contribute to his unravelling; perhaps on balance, it may also save a life or two.’
Gus considered the Professor’s words. Sebastian was right. The public already knew what the press had leaked about the Tattoo Killer. It was time for the police to build on that.
Sebastian putting his specs back on, flung himself into a seat and rolled it across the floor to where Gus leaned against his desk. He sighed. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, Gus, but I think you should head up that public appeal.’
Gus was already shaking his head. No way was he going to do that. Nancy was much better at these things than Gus. He hated the limelight. All he wanted to do was focus on catching the bastard. Nancy would do a better job than him.
Sebastian gripped his arm. ‘Listen. I’m suggesting this for a good reason. I know you don’t want to do it, but this isn’t about you, is it?’ He released Gus’ arm. ‘With the killer targeting blacks and Asians, you are the perfect choice to deliver the appeal. The killer’s perception is non-whites are inferior, unworthy. By using you as the police spokesperson, we will be doing two things. One, we’ll be playing into his warped belief these deaths are inconsequential. To him, it will seem the police are not prioritising this investigation.’ He grinned at Gus. ‘He’ll see you as an inferior detective, and it’ll pacify him a little. Two, your photo has already been in the media regarding this case, so it won’t seem unusual. If I were you, I’d use that young lad Taffy as your sidekick.’
Cursing under his breath, Gus raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t have fucking time for this!’
‘He’s right though, Gus,’ said Alice. ‘Just bite the bullet and do it.’
Gus turned, and picking up his desk phone, he contacted DCI Chalmers. As he explained the situation to her, he half hoped she’d veto the Professor’s advice. Deep down, though, he knew she wouldn’t. Nancy believed if you asked for expert advice, then you damn well used it when it was proffered. With Nancy agreeing to the press conference, he left her to set it up for 1830. No point in hanging around. He’d rather get it out of the way.
Turning to Alice, he said, ‘I want an increased presence around the black and Asian communities like West Bowling, Manningham and the rest. Nancy has sanctioned overtime, so we need feet in the streets to coincide with my press conference and to continue in eight-hour shifts ‘til we shut this down. I want them talking to the communities. Get more admin staff in, too, for the hotlines. I’ll be making a direct plea for information, and we need to facilitate the public getting through to us quickly. I also want all the key Albion First Generals under observation. I know it could well be one of their foot soldiers or perhaps someone outwith the organisation. We need to be sure.’ He turned back to Sebastian Carlton. ‘Will you brief me again?’
Carlton grinned. ‘That’s my job!’
Gus stood up and rolled his shoulders. ‘Right, let’s crack on.’ Then, noticing Alice still standing nearby, he said, ‘What’s up, Al? You look thoughtful.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been thinking about something, too. I think it’s worth following up.’
Gus, conscious of how little time he had to prepare his appeal, made a rolling gesture with his hands to hurry her up.
‘You know the horsehair that Hissing Sid found today?’
Gus nodded and waited for her to speak.
‘Well, we know Graeme Weston has a horse. He told us the horse was kept at a paddock owned by the Hoggs, didn’t he?’
‘That’s it. That’s what was niggling me earlier. The horsehair. Graeme Weston has access to a horse, and his sidekick owns some. Good catch.’ He smiled at Alice. ‘You’re thinking the horsehair could be from Weston’s or the Hoggs’ horse, not from that horse we came across at the Bay of Biscay?’
Alice shrugged. ‘Maybe … maybe not. Worth looking into though?’
‘Certainly is,’ said Gus. ‘After this bloody thing, we’ll head down there, and see if we can get ourselves a couple of hairs to compare to Sid’s sample.’
Chapter 67
18:30 The Fort
In contrast to the drizzling snow of the past few days, rain now fell in sheets, bouncing off the pavement, soaking on the way down and on its rebound. Street and car lights slashed through the torrent as rush hour slowed to a drizzle. From inside The Fort’s entrance, Gus watched with satisfaction as a four-by-four swished past a tad too close to the kerb, sending a deluge over the waiting journos. Some had come prepared with umbrellas, although most seemed to prefer getting wet and having their hands free for gesticulating and holding their recorders. ‘Drookit craws!’ would have been his dad’s pithy observation of the cluster elbowing each other out of the way like a nest of cackling chicks vying to stay safe inside their haven. He saw Jez Hopkins join the group … the cuckoo in the nest. Gus hoped some other cuckoo would come along and oust him before too long.
Taffy joined him, hair damp and flattened down over his forehead giving him the appearance of a teenager. Just the sort of image the Prof wanted them to portray for the benefit of their killer … young, inexperienced, incompetent. ‘You all set, Taffy?’
Grinning, the younger man shrugged. ‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose.’
Well, that makes one of us, thought Gus, wishing the entire thing was over. He waited whilst the corrugated canopy was rolled over to protect them from the torrent. At least he wouldn’t get soaked, and maybe the adverse weather would encourage the unprotected reporters to speed up their questions. He and Taffy would stand under it with a podium bearing West Yorkshire Police logo and contact details and a microphone in front of them.
As he pushed open the glass door and walked the few feet to the lectern, his knees shook, and he hoped it wasn’t visible to the crowd. There was a momentary silence.
Gus saw the journalists look at one another. A whisper of surprise spread through them, and then, one of them, a male reporter from one of the nationals, said, ‘Where’s DCI Chalmers?’
Here it was, the first hurdle. Gus took a deep breath. ‘I am Detective Inspector Gus McGuire, and on the authority of DCI Nancy Chalmers and in my position as senior investigating officer in the so-called Tattoo Killer investigation, I am here to brief you on updated information regarding the abduction of Lewis Gore.’
Gus risked a glance down from his elevated position on the top step and saw the reporters appeared to be listening intently to his statement. All heads were tipped towards him, and Taffy, who stood to Gus’ rear, hands clasped behind his back, a solemn expression on his youthful face. Over the drum of rain on the makeshift roof, he heard the unmistakeable click of camera lenses shutting, and the rustle as the reporters huddled closer
to hear his words.
‘Earlier today, the body of Lewis Gore was discovered on Shipley Glen. At this point in time, we believe the perpetrator of this murder to be the same person responsible for the unlawful killings of Asim Farooq, Manish Parmar and Razaul Ul Haq. Our investigation is ongoing, multi-faceted and complex. With this in mind, I wish to enlist the assistance of the public.’
As he’d rehearsed with Professor Carlton, Gus stopped and glowered directly in the camera of the BBC reporter stationed at the front. He paused and gathered his thoughts, glad the pooling of sweat under his armpits was obscured by the suit jacket he’d borrowed from Sampson. Resisting the urge to yank at the tie, also borrowed from Sampson, he swallowed and continued.
‘This killer is targeting non-white citizens of Bradford. Therefore, it is imperative that people in these communities remain vigilant. This attacker will have, on numerous occasions, visited the areas where his targets live. He will have staked out their homes, and he will have followed them as they went about their day-to-day business. We believe, despite an increased police presence in these communities, he will strike again.’
Gus paused once more, as rehearsed, and moved his gaze along the rows of reporters.
‘I appeal to Bradford’s ethnic communities to look after each other. Be alert, be strong and above all else, be careful. If you lead any sort of alternative lifestyle, be extra vigilant. There is safety in numbers … stay in groups. These are the things I want you to watch out for.
‘1. A white vehicle, probably a van, with an occupant inside, parked up for any length of time.
‘2. Repeat sightings of strange vehicles in your neighbourhood.
‘3. Any sense of being followed or of seeing the same person in repeated locations.’
Gus gathered up the papers he’d placed on the podium. He drew a deep breath, and knowing this was the part where he allowed the vultures to peck his eyes out, he said, ‘Any questions?’
