by Liz Mistry
The immediate barrage that erupted from the crowd would have thrown him backwards, had he not been holding onto the lectern. Instead, thankful when Taffy stepped forward to stand beside him, he raised his voice and spoke into the microphone. ‘If you want to ask a question, raise your hand. DC Bhandir will indicate when you can speak.’
Taffy pointed to a woman in a long raincoat, clutching a pink and white spotty brolly in one hand, her recorder held aloft in her other. ‘Lesley Smithson, Channel Five News. Bearing in mind how high profile the Tattoo Killer case is, I think we’re all wondering why it is only a Detective Inspector and a Detective Constable leading this press briefing. Why is DCI Chalmers not here, reassuring the people of Bradford the police are on top of this investigation? Perhaps the minority communities in the city would be right to wonder if this case is not high priority.’
Despite knowing this was exactly the sort of response they had aimed for, Gus’ hackles rose. The murmur of support for the questioner was clear, and Gus wished he could lambast them. Instead, he bowed his head and counted to three before raising his eyes and focussing on The Chaat Café on the other side of the road. ‘I am the senior investigating officer on this case, and I am co-ordinating the investigation of a series of leads. These murders are West Yorkshire Police’s top priority, and we are confident we will make a breakthrough soon.’
‘Aliya Qureshi, the Telegraph and Argus. In light of the Albion First leader Graeme Weston’s arrest yesterday, is he or anyone in his party, a suspect in these clearly racially motivated attacks?’
Another murmur went around the mob, and Gus groaned. A flurry of hands went up before he’d even attempted to respond. ‘At this moment, Graeme Weston is assisting us with our enquiries, and I am unable to speculate on any ongoing lines of enquiry.’
Questions bombarded him as harshly as the rain that hit the pavement. Their tone seemed venomous and unforgiving, like the howling of jackals. He put up both hands in a placating gesture, knowing he’d done the job the Prof had wanted him to do. ‘I can’t take any more questions at this time.’ And, feeling like a coward, despite knowing that that was precisely the desired effect, he shuffled back inside The Fort, Taffy on his heels.
Minutes later, having taken the elevator upstairs, Gus loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket before handing both back to Sampson with thanks. Alice had set up the TV and as Channel Five News began, Gus, Professor Carlton, Nancy and the rest of his team settled down to watch his performance. Critical of himself at the best of times, Gus realised any soupçon of street cred he thought he had had just drained into Bradford’s sewage system with the rest of the rain. What a fiasco. Yet, as he stood embarrassed in front of his colleagues, having just exposed himself as an idiot on national news, he knew he’d do it all again, if it helped buy them more time from the Tattoo Killer.
The one thing he hated, though, was giving the impression West Yorkshire Police were side-lining this investigation because of race. There were some dicks on the force, course there were. However, not nearly as many as there had been a few years back and none on his team. He didn’t tolerate that.
Chapter 68
19:15 The Tattoo Killer’s Home
What. A. Joke. Gus McGuire, senior investigating officer and clueless fool. He has no more control over the investigation to find me than Christine Weston has over spreading her legs.
Laughing, I help myself to another whisky. There’s always something nice about being at home with the curtains shut and the rain battering against the windows. After that sorry excuse for a press conference, I think a little celebration is in order.
They’d found Lewis Gore. That still rankles, however not as much as it did earlier … before the press conference. No, seeing McGuire so clearly out of his depth, so clearly flummoxed, asking the communities for help, has really cheered me up.
I suppose, though, I will have to exercise a bit more care. If the Pakis become more vigilant, it’ll make my job harder. Well, it would but for one little thing that Detective Inspector Gus McGuire and his motley clue are oblivious of … one thing that’s flown right under their radar. Idiots!
I press rewind and watch the whole sorry mess again. It’s the best TV I’ve watched for years. A sudden thought occurs to me. It’s a case of the stupid leading the even more stupid, isn’t it? McGuire asking the thickos to help. Between the lot of them, they couldn’t work their way round a plate of bangers and mash.
Well, his little appeal isn’t going to help him. Not with what I’ve got in mind. He won’t see this one coming. Not a chance! Whisky always makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and tonight is no exception. That, and the thought of what I’m going to do next, gives me a warm glow. DI Gus McGuire may think he’s onto the home stretch, though the truth is, it’s only just beginning. I stretch out on the sofa, whisky glass balanced on my chest, feet up, and hit rewind again.
Chapter 69
19:40 The Fort
Gus had just about managed to watch the disastrous press conference, and despite Professor Carlton beaming his approval like a rotund toddler meeting Santa Claus, he was still fed up. His body ached with inactivity, and he had a tension headache coming on. He needed to get out of The Fort and do something. He jerked his head towards the door, and Alice sighed.
Glancing outside, she said, ‘Why does it always piss it down when we have to go out? Why can’t it be nice and dry?’
Gus grimaced. ‘Yeah, well, at least you’ve not ripped your favourite trousers, been puked on and had to endure torture at the hands of Jez Hopkins’ cronies.’ He grabbed his coat. ‘You can put your wellies on, and you’ll be fine.’
Alice opened her mouth as if she was about to complain but was interrupted by Compo. ‘I’ve got something.’
Dropping his coat by the door, Gus moved over to Compo’s computer station. Wincing at the array of wrappers, near-empty mugs and coke cans, he glanced around for somewhere to lean his hand while he bent towards the computer screen. With a finger and thumb, he picked up a plate with the remains of congealed pizza and deposited it on the desk behind before placing his hand where it had been. Almost immediately, he yanked his hand away, with a ‘Yeuch!’ A smear of tomato sauce covered his palm.
Alice, who’d followed him over, shook her head before rummaging in her capacious bag and offering him another wet wipe. ‘I’ll be expecting reimbursement for these, if you keep this up.’
Ignoring her, Gus wiped his hand and then the table, before leaning over Compo’s shoulder. Oblivious to the pizza incident, Compo was engrossed in the information on his screen. ‘Don’t know how this was missed before. Someone only did a half-arsed search, I bet.’
Jumping on the balls of his feet, he continued, ‘Look, Christine Weston, Graeme Weston and Razaul Ul Haq all went to the same secondary school – Bolton Woods!’
Gus read the details from the screen. ‘Weston was two years ahead of Ul Haq, but Christine and Ul Haq were in the same year group. That’s a big school, still, they must have known each other. What subjects did Christine and Ul Haq study?’
Compo pressed a few keys, and Christine Weston and Razaul Ul Haq’s A-Level results came up side by side on the screen. ‘Looks like they both studied drama and geography.’
Gus straightened. ‘If they both studied those two subjects, chances are they’d have come across each other. Why the hell didn’t she mention that before?’
‘I suppose it’s conceivable Graeme Weston was oblivious to Ul Haq’s existence, but you’d think she’d have told us she knew him at school.’
Gus shrugged. ‘Don’t recollect having the chance to ask her how she met Ul Haq. She was just so damn keen to get away from us.’ He turned to Compo. ‘If they all went to the same secondary school, chances are they lived near each other. Check out their addresses from then.’
‘Already on it,’ said Compo, pressing a key. ‘The electoral roll will tell us where their parents lived at that time. Here we are!’
Gus an
d Alice craned their necks to read the information. ‘Well, all three of them lived in Bradford Two postcodes.’ Gus pointed to Ul Haq and Graeme Weston’s addresses. ‘I’m sure these two streets are near one and other. Pin the three addresses on a Google map, will you, Comps?’
Compo did as he was asked, and Gus blew out a long breath of air. ‘Those three must have known each other. It’s too damn co-incidental. These streets are all within a couple of minutes’ walk from one another. Check out their primary schools.’
‘Bolton Junction First School followed by Bolton Junction Middle for all three of them.’
Gus sucked in his cheek and bit on it from the inside of his mouth. He didn’t know what all this meant. Christine Weston, to give the woman her due, hadn’t actually denied knowing Razaul Ul Haq from her childhood. Bit co-incidental they were having an affair now, though. Her husband, on the other hand, had categorically denied knowing him … and that just didn’t add up for Gus. Why the hell would he deny knowing him, if he had nothing to do with his murder? Was it just because of his wife’s affair? Well, one thing was sure, he needed to have a little chat with Mr Weston, but that could wait until he came back from seeing the man’s horse.
‘See if you can come up with some friends from high school who might be able to link the Westons more closely with Ul Haq during those days. Get Sampson and the boy wonder to help you. I’d like a solid link before I re-interview the idiot.’
He moved over to the door. ‘Get Christine Weston on the phone; I’ll speak to her en-route. I want to see what she has to say about all this.’
Chapter 70
20:25 Canal Lane, Bingley
Gus got out of the car and stepped straight into a puddle. Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, he cursed under his breath. What the hell is it with me and bloody shoes today? This is the second pair I’ve soaked in the space of a few hours. It hardly seemed worth putting on the wellies he’d grabbed from The Fort, but ignoring Alice’s giggle, he walked around to the miniscule boot and took them out. Sitting on the front seat of the Mini, his legs sticking out, he swapped footwear and succumbed to his dark mood.
Christine Weston had been uncommunicative. She’d admitted to knowing Razaul at secondary school, yet refused to commit to her husband having known him. Whatever secret she had, she was clamming up big time.
Not only was it still raining, but it was well and truly dark now, and the last thing Gus wanted to do was traipse around a bloody quagmire to get a hair from a horse’s mane. Apart from anything else, they were quite big fuckers, and the moonlight served to make their looming presence all the more menacing. It even smelled of farmyards, and that thought was enough to trigger memories – memories of big ‘coos,’ as his dad called them. The damn ‘Hieland’ ones, with their enormous horns, were the worst. You could be impaled on those things. They could slice right through you! Lethal, that’s what they were, lethal! He risked another glance at the horses. Why couldn’t they have been Shetland ponies? They were okay; small and dainty and mostly timid. Unlike these hulking bloody monsters.
Unwilling to reveal his trepidation to Alice, he flicked his mobile torch on and, trying to look nonchalant, headed over to the paddock at the side of the Hogg’s house. He and Alice had already decided they could swipe a couple of horsehairs under the pretence of petting the animals, rather than ask permission of either Marcia or Michael Hogg. To be honest, the way Gus felt right now, he’d probably flatten the little scrote, if he saw him, so best to avoid that, if at all possible.
Two horse-shaped forms in coats cowered against the rain under a tree in the corner of the field. Great. At least they wouldn’t have to climb into the field. That would have appeared decidedly dodgy if the Hoggs caught them. He motioned to Alice to hurry up. She’d grabbed some sugar from the canteen before they left and would use that to entice them close.
Looking all the while like a toddler, Alice seemed to take great pleasure in splashing through every puddle in her wellies. Gus shook his head, but couldn’t quite prevent the grin from forming. Drawing level with him, she offered him a sachet of sugar. ‘You just sprinkle it on your hand, and they’ll lick it off.’
Gus shuddered. The very thought of those massive rough tongues rasping against his palm made him feel ill. He shook his head. ‘No, you’re alright, Al. Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.’
Casting a sideways glance to let him know she knew his game, Alice leaned against the fence and began to click her tongue in a kind of Morse code seemingly only known to horses. Two pairs of ears quivered in response, yet they remained in their sheltered position. Alice climbed onto the fence and clicked a bit louder, holding her arm at full length towards the horses. The black one shook his head and then took a couple of steps closer. Alice clicked again and spoke encouragingly. ‘Attaboy … come on then.’
Gus, about to roll his eyes, realised he used the exact same tone when speaking to Bingo. He restrained himself, instead took a couple of plastic bags from his pocket and opened one of them. The larger horse had edged closer and was nuzzling Alice. Sprinkling sugar on her palm, she offered it to him, and when his head dipped to snort it up, she ran her fingers through his mane. Trailing loose hair, she thrust her hand at Gus who enclosed it in the bag, sliding it down her fingers to trap the hairs before sealing and annotating it.
‘One down, one to go.’ Alice moved along the fence and reached out her hand to the brown mare that seemed a bit more hesitant than her equine friend. Coaxing words and her gentle tone seemed to work, as the horse dipped her head and licked the sugar from her hand.
Alice had just reached out her other arm to touch the mane, when the spotlight attached to the side of the house and aimed at the field illuminated them.
Fuck! Just a minute more, and they’d have had all the evidence they needed. Gus swung around, his heart sinking when he saw the door slamming open and a figure power from the house. The horses startled, retreated to their tree, as Marcia Hogg stormed across to them, her coat flapping as she ran.
Gus concealed the evidence bag he held in his hand and cursed under his breath before stepping forward. ‘Hello, Mrs Hogg, we just wanted to have a quick word with your husband. Is he at home?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed as her gaze moved from them to her horses. Alice stepped forward, smiling. ‘Such lovely horses, Mrs Hogg. I couldn’t resist saying hello to them. They remind me of my parents’ horses. They live in Sussex, so I rarely get the chance to see them anymore. Beautiful animals, though.’
Alice’s words seemed to mollify the other woman, and she moved forward, smiling slightly. ‘The black one’s Graeme’s and the other one’s my husband’s, but it’s me that looks after them in the main.’ The black horse whinnied and pushed its head towards Marcia. She stepped forward, hand outstretched to the horse, and without warning, her foot slipped in the sludge.
Alice reached out with both arms and grabbed the woman before she landed in the mud. ‘Oops, careful, it’s slippy.’ She pulled Marcia to her feet and accepted her thanks.
Gus cleared his throat, and Marcia turned towards him with a sneering look. ‘He’s not in. He’s at a meeting. Don’t know when he’ll be back. You lot need to get off his back. Hounding him like he’s a criminal.’
Gus smiled and dipped his head. ‘Well, if he’s not in, Mrs Hogg, we won’t take up any more of your time.’ And he and Alice walked back to the car. As they swapped their wellies back, Alice grabbed an evidence bag and scraped the horsehair from her hands into the bag. ‘Slightly contaminated by Marcia Hogg’s coat, but there’s still some brown horsehair there too.’
‘So, not a wasted journey then. Wonder if we’ll get a match. Although, it’s not as if Graeme Weston’s the only one with access to the horses, is it? So, it won’t be entirely conclusive, even if we do get a match,’ said Gus.
‘My money’s on Hogg,’ said Alice. ‘He’s more likely to fit the bill. I can see him wielding that tattoo thing and not blinking an eye.’
&n
bsp; ‘Hmm, perhaps. I’m not convinced. I think he’s more the ‘beat ’em up, knife them in the gut’ sort of thug. Mind you, I’ve been wrong before.’
‘Talking of tattoos, how’s yours coming along?’
Gus grinned. ‘Scabbing over now. Not long ‘til it’s properly healed. I’ll let you see it when we get back, if you like.’
Chapter 71
20:30 Albion First Headquarters, Shipley
Michael Hogg was proud of what they’d built up over the years. As he viewed the main hall of Albion First Headquarters, the same pride he had experienced when they first dared to dream made his chest puff out. He and Graeme had started small. First, they’d courted those UKIP supporters who believed the party offered only an uneasy placebo rather than hard and far-reaching policies. These were ordinary people. Milkmen, labourers, doctors, businessmen and the like. Bradfordians who saw at firsthand the effects of spiralling immigration, diluted culture, and who wanted to see that trend reversed once and for all.
The BNP had sullied their copybook and lacked the political credibility in the mainstream, and so many of their followers had drifted to them, too. Albion First offered an alternative to Nick Griffin’s hopeless efforts in the European Parliament. Graeme always said with clever politicking and tireless campaigning, Bradford Central constituency would be to Albion First what Brighton Pavilion had been to the Greens.
Donations from their various benefactors had furnished the building with plush conference tables and chairs, but what really brought a lump to his throat were the large swastikas mounted on flagpoles extending at angles from the wall. Each was interspersed by Union Jack and Saint George’s Cross flags. A picture gallery spanned one wall, holding portraits of great leaders such as Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Francisco Franco, Hendrik Verwoerd and Oswald Mosley in gilded frames. He thought Mussolini was a bit of a damp squib when compared to Adolf’s achievements or those of Hendrik Verwoerd, the mastermind behind apartheid in South Africa. Nonetheless, some thought he’d earned his place on the wall. Pride of place on one wall was a huge TV used both for educating their members and monitoring current affairs. Underneath that was a wooden shelving unit containing hundreds of Albion First, British National Party, National Front and English Defence League propaganda DVDs. Hogg’s gaze took in the double-sized bookshelf containing mainly illegally obtained publications. He particularly enjoyed leafing through the American Ku Klux Klan magazines, and the South African apartheid cum fascist newsletters on racial superiority and cultural purity.
