by Liz Mistry
‘Take Razaul Ul Haq out of the equation for now, Comps,’ said Gus, envying the other man’s energy. ‘He might be the anomaly. Focus on a link between the other three victims. They must have crossed paths with our killer at some point. All we need to do is find out when and where.’
Gus had sent the others home. He saw no need for everyone to be knackered the next day. So, for now, only he and Compo were left in the room. He’d thought Alice seemed tired and knew she wouldn’t go home if the others were still there. Despite Sampson and Taffy’s protests, he’d insisted. Anyway, Gus could just as easily not sleep here as he could at home. Compo, on the other hand, often pulled all-nighters and never seemed phased by it. He once told Gus he could cat-nap anywhere.
With the gentle buzz of Compo’s computers and the occasional scrape of furniture as Compo wheeled his chair from side to side, Gus scrunched down in his chair, propped his feet on the table and closed his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Thursday
Chapter 79
02:15 Doe Park, Denholme
His headlights barely pierced the cloying darkness of the winding lane down to Doe Park reservoir. Jez Hopkins had left the streetlights of Denholme village behind when he passed the children’s playing field and took a left down the pot-holed track leading down to the reservoir. Through his rear-view mirror, he glanced at the lights behind him, ever conscious of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as they faded in the distance. This felt off to him. The text message from a withheld number ordering him to drive here had, in the bright lights of his flat, seemed strange but not ominous. He’d assumed it was from Michael Hogg or one of Albion First thugs wanting to check he’d done as they’d asked and submitted the press release.
Now, though, in the dark, it seemed weird. He was used to getting strange requests to meet in outlandish places. Once, he had to meet a drug dealer on top of Ilkley Moor in the middle of a damn blizzard, and he’d been glad he had. He’d nearly contracted pneumonia, and it had taken him hours to defrost, yet it had been worth it. The scoop he got about failed police drug raids throughout the region and police incompetency had graced the paper’s front pages for nearly a fortnight.
Then, there was that homeless guy who insisted he meet in his ‘camp’ in the bushes next to the Boating Pavilion café in Lister Park at midnight. That, again, had been worth the discomfort. Turned out the bloke had bought a lottery ticket and won fifty grand on it. He wanted to give it to his wife and children anonymously, so he could continue to live under the radar ... stupid, really, to have come to Jez about that. He had a moral obligation to report, and that’s what he did. The emotional stories resulting from that article had kept going for weeks, and then, when the fella committed suicide in the boating pond a few weeks later, Jez’s initial news articles had got a second, regurgitated, airing.
The random appearance of a horse bucking its head, inches from his passenger window, followed by the melancholy bray of another animal nearby, gave him the jitters. Clutching the steering wheel tight, he pulled his body forward and peered through the windscreen. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, specks of rain dotted the glass, and his wiper’s rhythmic scrape all combined to freak him out.
What if it wasn’t one of Michael Hogg’s crew who had texted? After all, they didn’t need to meet him to find out if he’d submitted their whitewash of their führer’s wife’s bedroom romp. They could wait until the morning edition. His head almost banged off the window as he hit a large pothole and was nearly catapulted from his seat. Shit, this was madness, what was he doing? Maybe they had an exclusive interview for him? ‘Behind the Scenes at Camp Nazi’ or some such. He grinned. That would make a great headline, though he suspected all he was going to get from them was more of the same claptrap about Graeme Weston being a maligned cuckolded innocent, and, of course, who was to blame? The Pakistanis, blacks or gays, of course. Jez didn’t actually hold with all that racist shit, but a story was a story at the end of the day.
The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed they’d arrange a meeting in quite such a remote place. Thinking of remoteness made a thought spring into his mind. Could this be something to do with the Tattoo Killer? A fox ran in front of his car, and, instincts on high alert, he braked. The fox paused, its disdainful eyes catching the headlights, as, with a swish of its tail, it sidled under the fence and disappeared into the night. Jez released a long slow breath. He was getting spooked. He knew he was nearing the entrance to the reservoir itself, and thoughts of the Tattoo Killer still uppermost in his mind, he allowed his car to roll to a stop, engine idling as he considered. Shuddering, he glanced around him. He’d worked himself up so much, he half-expected a monster to loom out of the shadows.
Reaching over, he flicked the switch to lock all his doors, and then, with a strangled laugh at his stupidity, he flexed his fingers and prepared to drive on. What was he thinking? He wasn’t in the Tattoo Killer’s target group; he wasn’t gay, black or Asian. Nah, the Tattoo Killer wasn’t his mysterious caller. He edged forward, eyes searching for the hidden entrance, and then, as he swerved a degree to the right, his headlights caught the outline of a van nestled behind a tree. A figure in baggy clothing was wheeling something down the ramp from the back of the van. It looked like a trolley of some sort. In that instant, all of Jez’s instincts screamed at him to drive past, not to stop, to get the hell away from there as fast as he could.
Glad his Corsa was small and nippy, he screeched into the entrance, all set to do a U-turn. The gate to the parking area was padlocked shut, so he rammed his steering wheel to the right, narrowly missing the van, as his Corsa screeched forward sending stones flying under his spinning wheels. An abrupt left yank, and he was moving back to the entrance, ready to head back up Foster Park View to Denholme. Thankful he’d not made the mistake of continuing on the road, which he knew was a dead end, Jez put his foot on the brake, and tyres barely touching the road, he all but flew back.
In his rear mirror, he saw a shadowy figure wheel the trolley back into the van, slam the door, and then run to the driver’s door. Thankful the van had been facing away from the road, Jez was sure he’d gained a few seconds lead as the larger vehicle would surely have more difficulty getting out of that tight spot.
Breathing heavily, he’d just reached the horse, who seemingly sensing his anxiety cantered beside the car to the end of the field. He could hear the van’s acceleration behind him, and despite its lack of headlights to show its position, he sensed it was gaining on him. Muttering prayers to a God he generally thought little of, he approached the bend near the swing park and the welcome sight of streetlights. Breathing more easily, he risked a glance behind him and saw the van had now switched its headlights on full, making it impossible for him to see the driver or the number plate. He got to the end of the road and turned left, heading towards Thornton, where he knew he’d be on main roads most of the way.
Chapter 80
03:25 Lister Apartments, Manningham
Punching the steering wheel makes me feel slightly better. I imagine it is Hopkins’ smarmy little arrogant face. How I’d love to see his nose squelch open under my fist, blood flying everywhere … and his teeth? He’d have nothing to smile about when I’d finished with him. Maybe I’d make him eat every one of them. He’s got it coming to him.
Wonder what spooked him? I knew he’d come. He is always greedy for a story, always wanting to be in the limelight. That had been the easy part. Soon as I’d seen his lights turn the bend at the top, I knew I had him. Wonder if he saw me getting the trolley out. Doubt it. The tree was in the way. That’s why I parked there … so I could get my stuff together, without being seen.
Don’t know what he was playing at. I had it all planned. The road down to Doe Park has no cameras, and neither does the little lay-by leading to the car park. It was perfect, just perfect, until that idiot Hopkins got all skittish like a new-born foal and made a run for it. I was really looking forward
to getting him. It was no more than he deserved. I was looking forward to hearing him scream, and I bet he is a screamer … probably a poof as well. Well, he might imagine he’s gotten away from me. He should think again. I’m not letting a little gay boy like him off the hook.
Glancing in my side mirror, I see the entrance to the Lister Mills car park. He thought he’d out-manoeuvre me by driving round via Thornton. Thought all the street lights and cameras would protect him, but all that will do is delay the inevitable. I drove back into Bradford via the back roads. Now, all I have to do is wait. It’s not perfect, though I’ll make it work. A bit of determination goes a long way in this world, and I am determined. Jez Hopkins needs to be punished. I’m not letting him get away with all his sordid little accusations. How dare he accuse me of being gay? Tonight, Jez Hopkins will die.
Chapter 81
03:55 Marriners Drive
Gus missed Bingo. The house always seemed empty without him. However, he knew that when he caught a case, Bingo was better off with his mum. Good for Bingo’s mental health … not so good for his. He glanced over at Ringo, his canary with the Beatles haircut. His cage was covered with a cloth, and Gus, much as he was tempted to, had no intention of waking him up. Just because he was lonely didn’t mean he should upset his pet’s sleep rhythms. His dad had left him a bottle of Talisker, and although it was not his favourite malt whisky, Gus was drawn to it. The sleeping pills hadn’t worked, yesterday’s morning jog hadn’t worked, so maybe the whisky would. With heavy limbs, he pulled himself to his feet and grabbed a glass and some ice from the kitchen, before pouring himself a liberal measure – a bit more than the two fingers he normally allowed himself at night.
He knew he was fading away. In his desire for sleep, he was exercising too much and not eating enough. No wonder he was in a damn state. Every time he fell asleep, the flashbacks about Alice jolted him awake. Only last night in the office, he’d dozed off for five maybe ten minutes tops, only to wake up screaming – with Compo’s scared face looming over him. He had to get a fucking handle on this. Last thing he needed was to substitute Alice for Greg in his dreams.
He’d hoped when she came back to work he’d feel better, that the nightmares would stop. If anything, they had intensified. Between those and the panic attacks, he was losing it big time. He knew he had to let go of his guilt regarding Alice, and Greg too.
He raised his glass to the Bob Marley painting on the chimney breast. ‘Slainte, Greg!’
Pushing his sleeve up, he studied his tattoo. He’d bloody shown Mo! He’d gone and done it, and now, he was the proud owner of a brand-new tattoo. Idiot thought he was a wuss and wouldn’t go through with it, but he’d shown him. However, it was still raw and needed more Bepanthen. Tempted to scratch it, Gus quickly let his sleeve fall back into place. Last thing he needed was to scratch it and end up with it blotchy. It was a work of art, and he’d no intention of spoiling it. It was his reminder of his friend.
Pulling a blanket over his lower body, he savoured the last of his whisky, before lying back and resting his head on the pillow he’d brought down from his bedroom. He went over everything they’d have to do today, whilst at the back of his mind, the thought someone else could already be in danger was never far away.
Chapter 82
04:20 The Fort
‘I’m telling you. I want to see McGuire, and I want to see him right now!’
The Desk Sergeant watched as Jez Hopkins postured in front of him, spittles of saliva spraying from his mouth. In all his time as an officer, Hardeep Singh had experienced more than his fair share of awkward customers, and he’d no intention of letting a scumbag like Jez Hopkins intimidate him. ‘If you don’t calm down, sir, you’ll be seeing DI McGuire alright … in a cell.’
Hopkins ran his hands though his hair, and like a puppet with its strings severed, he seemed to collapse in on himself. All his bluster dissipated, and his body seemed to shrivel. In a small pleading voice, he said, ‘Look, I need to see McGuire. I think the Tattoo Killer came after me.’
Hardeep studied the man, taking note of his appearance. Hopkins was dishevelled, as if he’d been dragged out of bed, and he looked frightened. He kept darting glances towards the door as if he expected the killer to burst through The Fort’s entrance brandishing a tattoo gun. Sighing, Singh pressed a button to release the inner doors and signalled for the man to come through. It was too early to waken DI Gus McGuire on a whim, so he’d see what the little scrote had to say before contacting his boss. He’d seen how drained Gus was when he’d left only a couple of hours earlier. His blue eyes had been even more haunted than usual as he’d raised a hand in farewell. That was one guy who, no matter how much he tried, couldn’t seem to outrun his demons.
He led Hopkins through to a side room, clicked on the light and bade him sit down at a cluttered table, before pushing a packet of digestive biscuits towards the journalist. Hopkins, eyes still darting round, took one and, as if he wasn’t really conscious of his actions, began breaking it into small pieces. He inserted each one in his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. As soon as he’d finished one, he started on another, and all the while, his right leg jogged up and down as if ready to run a marathon, minus the rest of Hopkins’ body.
Hardeep didn’t bother to ask what Hopkins wanted to drink. He just made coffee – strong and very, very sweet. If there was one thing he knew, it was when someone was in shock, and Hopkins was definitely in shock.
He placed the mug in front of the journalist and sat opposite, arms folded, resting on his large stomach, and sipped his own drink. He waited for Hopkins to take a few sips and calm down. Soon, the sugar worked its magic, and his leg slowed to more of a trot than a canter. When he saw a little colour return to the other man’s cheeks, Hardeep spoke. ‘Right, tell me what’s got you all hot and bothered, lad, and we’ll go from there.’
Jez put his mug down and rubbed the palms of his hands down his thighs. He cast his eyes upwards as if trying to recollect verbatim what had happened. ‘Got a text about half one from a withheld number saying I should drive to Doe Park in Denholme straight away.’ Jez glanced away, and his leg began to bob again.
Hardeep’s eyes narrowed. Experience told him that by looking away, Jez was deciding how truthful to be with him. ‘Look, lad. If you want our help, it’s best you tell us everything. We can’t help if you hold things back.’
Jez glanced around, and then, his eyes fixed on an old ‘dob in a dealer’ poster hanging by one pin on the wall. He appeared to study it for a few minutes, and then, with an abrupt nod, he looked at Hardeep. Rubbing his hands down his trousers again, he continued. ‘Okay. I thought it was Michael Hogg posturing on Graeme Weston’s behalf.’
Hardeep had the pulse of The Fort at his fingertips and knew about Weston being arrested. He also knew Gus had raked Jez Hopkins over the coals earlier about those pictures in the Chronicle. So, why was Hopkins accepting texts from Michael Hogg? ‘Michael Hogg? Firstly, why would he send you a text, and secondly, why would he withhold the number?’
Dunking a biscuit in his coffee, Hopkins lifted it, and it broke and splashed back into the mug, showering him with coffee. He cursed and picked up another biscuit which he began to crumble between shaking fingers. ‘Yesterday, one of his Albion First thugs turned up at my door unannounced. He gave me a press release and –’ His eyes flicked away. ‘He threatened me. Not implicitly, you understand, but I got the message: get it in the paper … or else.’
Hardeep reached over and moved the packet of biscuits out of Hopkins’ reach. ‘So, did you submit it?’
With a shrug, Jez lifted his chin as if to say, ‘So what if I did?’ and then nodded. ‘’Course I did. Checked it for typos then submitted it.’ He splayed his hands. ‘The public’s got a right to hear Weston’s side of the story, you know. Besides which, I prefer to keep my bones intact.’
Hardeep snorted. He knew exactly the sort of spin Michael Hogg would put on it, and it would all be to beef up t
he Weston campaign with scant regard for the truth. He was sorry for Weston’s missus. Hopkins was hunched over the desk, looking sorry for himself. Hardeep had little sympathy for the journalist. The amount of misery his irresponsible articles had caused the victims of the Tattoo Killer, not to mention his unfair representation of the police. Well, he deserved some payback.
Keeping his expression neutral, Hardeep said, ‘So, you’re scared of Michael Hogg and think the text came from him?’
Regaining a modicum of his earlier arrogance, Hopkins snorted. ‘Get lost! ‘Course not. I wasn’t scared. Been to all sorts of drug dens and whorehouses and all sorts. I thought maybe they had some sort of exclusive for me … maybe more images of Christine Weston or something?’
Not bothering to hide either his disbelief or his distaste, Hardeep said, ‘So you went to the arse end of nowhere, in the middle of the night, in the hope of gaining some saucy images to grace your newspaper’s front pages?’
‘Well, not exactly. I went to see what they had to say, that’s true.’
Hardeep stood up. ‘Look, you’re beginning to piss me off. You came in here all of a dither, saying the Tattoo Killer was after you, and now, you’re waffling on about Albion First, I think you’re pulling my strings, trying to get me to get DI McGuire over here so you can get an exclusive. Well, it’s not gonna work, lad.’
‘No, no, let me finish!’ Hopkins pushed his mug away from him. His leg bouncing had accelerated.
With misgivings, Hardeep glared at him. He was in half a mind to toss him onto the street, but there was something in the journalist’s eyes that stopped him. He thought it looked very much like real fear. Rolling his eyes, the Sergeant sat back down, glanced at his watch and said, ‘Five minutes, and if you’ve not convinced me, then you’re out.’
