by Robert White
Rick Fuller’s Story:
Lauren had received my 0600hrs text whereas the bed hopping Scot had not.
Finally, at 1000hrs, the three of us sat around the table in the lock up with a large pot of tea and an even larger headache in the form of the murder of Todd Blackman.
“Okay, Lauren,” I began. “Good job obtaining the files yesterday… well done.”
She nodded her acknowledgement, but offered no further details of her evening out with the Detective.
I gave Des a sarcastic smile. “Nice of you to join us, Desmond. Had I known it was going to take you so long to find one address, I could have saved you a job. I had the information from the forensics team whilst you were still taking your pants off… Now, if we are all concentrating on the job at hand, we’ll start with the timeframe, then the scene and what we know about the cop’s initial findings.”
Nods all round.
“Good… Okay, Todd Blackman’s body was found by a decorator who works for Devlin Paint, one of the contactors renovating the properties in the street. He was there to complete what is known as the ‘snagging,’ any small issues, drips of paint, missed sections, that kind of thing. That was just after 0800hrs day before yesterday.
The first cops arrived along with ambulance crews eight minutes later. Todd’s body was informally identified by officers at the scene at 1109hrs using his driving licence photograph. The perpetrators not bothering to remove his wallet from his discarded clothing. Ten hours later, we were being bundled into the back of a Range Rover by the CIA and daddy was in the air. That’s the logistics.”
“No fucking about, eh?” said Des.
“None at all. I’ll be speaking to Cartwright later today. Then, hopefully we can get to grips with exactly why we are involved in this pissing contest.
Anyway, as you can see from the crime scene photographs, the boy was to all intents and purposes crucified. Cause of death is presumed shock from loss of blood, but we won’t know the full script until we get the PM results.”
Lauren picked up some of the shots I’d printed and examined them one by one, a look of disgust on her face.
“Who could do such a thing?”
“Well,” I offered. “Who is one thing. Why, is quite another. Crucifixion was always intended to provide a death that was particularly slow and painful, hence the term excruciating, literally ‘out of crucifying’. It wasn’t only gruesome but humiliating, and I think humiliation plays a big part here. Humiliation and revenge.”
I placed more photographs on the table.
“This is a very personal crime. The body stripped naked, the makeshift cross, the painting of the walls to indicate the placement of the boy, the religious references and the proclamation of Todd’s ‘crime’... homosexuality, are all designed to shame JE Blackman and ruin him as a political force.”
I sat back in my seat and stretched my back. “I realise that the murder has religious overtones, but this is a sensationalist crime rather than a religious one. I believe the driving force behind it is more political and personal than anything pious.”
“Agreed,” muttered Lauren.
“So,” I asked. “What kind of people are still nailing poor sods to trees, posts, road signs, and in this case - walls?
“The Saudi’s,” offered Des.
I nodded. “Yes, true, they do, as do the Yemenis and some Arab Emirates, even those you may think are moderate.”
Lauren dropped the photographs on the table.
“The script may be Arabic, and the quote is definitely from the Quran, but I’m not seeing Al Qaeda here or some terror group. I’m with Rick. This is personal. It’s meant to embarrass Blackman and enrage his so-called Christian followers enough to change their voting decision.”
I tapped my temple with my index finger.
“Certainly, makes you think, eh? Now, in the forensic reports, it appears that Todd had been bound with a thick rope before being cut in the groin with a sharp instrument.
Looking at the blood patterns on the floor, this was done in the lounge and Todd’s claret was then used to paint the cross on the wall and the various other daubing’s. He was probably made to watch this process.”
“The kid must have been terrified,” said Des.
I nodded. “Not a good way to go… It then appears that one perpetrator has held Todd roughly in position, whilst the second nailed his arms to the wall. This was done through the wrists, between the radius and ulna, exactly the way the Romans would have nailed Jesus Christ. His feet were also nailed, but these were later removed by the perps.”
“Why?” asked Lauren.
“So far as I can find out. Historically, items used in the act of crucifixion - such as rope, there’s no trace of that by the way, and nails, were often taken as amulets.”
“What the fuck is an amulet then?” asked Des.
“A lucky charm,” said Lauren.
“No lucky for you Todd eh?” he muttered, picking up the pictures Lauren had dropped.
I ploughed on.
“Not at all, but it points to our perps being not only religious but superstitious. The tech boys seem to think a traditional hammer was used rather than a nail gun and the nails had traces of a purple coloured cloth on them, similar to velvet.”
“Like something a priest would wear?” asked Des.
“Maybe, but it could just have been a bag, or such like, used to carry the items they used. That said, there is no doubt in my mind that the killers want the world to see that this was a ritual killing - a ceremony.”
Des looked at one picture and examined it. “What’s with the stick pushed into the wound?”
“Again, traditional crucifixion ritual. The only thing they haven’t followed is the smashing of the kneecaps.”
Des grimaced. “Aye, I remember being told that at school. They used to smash them even if the poor sods were dead already.”
I checked some text I’d printed. “Crurifragium, it’s called. It’s normally done to hasten death, but also to dissuade any onlookers from committing a similar heinous offence.”
“In Todd’s case, being gay,” said Lauren flatly.
I shrugged.
“Well, that’s what they want us to believe… Also, there’s a possibility the killers were disturbed or were forced to make an early exit, hence Todd’s knees being in one piece and the blood smears on the door casing and banister.
I’ve combed all the police reports, and as yet, there are no witnesses, no one saw or heard anything suspicious or unusual. So, who or what disturbed our killers isn’t in Larry’s files.”
“That’s because a lot of the flats are still empty,” said Des.
I nodded. “Maybe. Okay, Des what do you have? Other than a stupid grin on your face?”
Des turned down the corners of his mouth and shot me a look.
“Not a great deal, but the chances of keeping the crucifixion from the press for much longer is slim. I was told about it by a local yesterday, so some old hack is going to get hold of the story and this will go ballistic then.”
Des finished his brew.
“The flat where the murder took place, in fact most of the rental properties in the area are all owned by a firm called Lucas Estates. Now, this company are big time and have a group of so called, ‘purchasing officers’ going around Ancoats strong-arming all the existing residents, pushing them into selling up. Apparently, there’s a massive building project on offer and they want all the surrounding properties to go alongside the big hi-rise developments. I ended up having a run in with a couple of their employees. They were leaning on the landlady of the pub I was in… all smart suits and million-dollar smiles they were, but underneath it all… mean fuckers.
I opened Google and typed in Lucas Estates.
“You are right there, big company. Operations worldwide… o
wned by one Khalid Kulenović…very rich guy… Anything else, Des?”
“Only that big Mitch was waiting for me as I left the pub this morning. They obviously have GPS trackers on their vehicles. Apparently, Carver is disappointed at our lack of intelligence sharing.”
Lauren turned.
“You need to read the rest of the file, Des. Catch up with what we already know about JE Blackman. He’s a real ‘Good Ole Boy’ and Mitch is right there alongside him. Hence we left him at home to stew for the time being.”
“Aye, I will. I’ll read it the now.” said Des sheepishly.
I turned to Lauren and asked her the question that had been burning in my gut all morning. “Want to talk us through last night with Larry? Late drinks, was it?”
She pushed her hair from her face and blew out her cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, guilt, or my own paranoia.
She locked eyes with me. “Actually, Larry was very helpful if you must know.”
Des rolled his eyes but sensibly stayed out of it.
“So,” she began. “Todd Blackman’s arrest back in Louisville. When I pushed our Sgt Willis for more information on that matter, she told me that Todd had been lifted for kerb crawling.
Not true. Turns out, he was arrested for waving his willy at an undercover cop in a gent’s urinal.”
“Oops,” said Des, pouring us all more tea.
“Oops, indeed,” said Lauren. “Well, the UK cops know about this incident back in the States and Larry put it to JE Blackman. Now, get this…JE says that although Todd had been somewhat confused sexually as a teen, by the time he came to the UK, he’d been cured of any homosexual leanings.”
I couldn’t stop myself laughing out loud. “Cured?”
Lauren took a deep breath. “Oh, yes…cured was the word he used. JE sent Todd off to some religious retreat, or whatever, where he was officially freed of his gayness. And, as Des says, if this shit hits the fan and Fleet Street do get a sniff of what is written on the walls in Ancoats, that will be the American’s official stance on the matter. Head in the sand. Miracles happen. Todd Blackman was straight as a die.”
She cricked her neck and laid her hands flat on the table.
“There is no doubt in my mind that we have been employed in the hope that we sort out this job before JE has to start answering awkward questions about his son’s sexuality. It’s simple as far as the Americans are concerned… No arrests and no trial, equals no publicity, happy days, wave the stars and stripes, JE’s the President.”
I agreed. “Yeah, I got that feeling from Carver when he was going on about sexual overtones and mistaken identity…it will be flat denials all round. And they’ll be prepared for a damage limitation exercise if we aren’t quick enough… Anything else?”
“Yes,” she said. “Larry is being stood down from the lead detective role and replaced by a Detective Chief Superintendent Williams. He found out within an hour of his meeting with JE.”
“A patsy then,” said Des leafing through Lauren’s file dutifully. “Blackman or Carver must have influence with GMP. Obviously, Larry wasn’t helpful enough.”
Lauren nodded. “Looks that way, but Williams has no murder squad experience. More likely just a friendly face who will feed information to the CIA and keep the fine detail from the press until we can do our job.”
I pointed at Lauren. “Make this Williams bloke your priority for today. Find out about his background. What’s his connection to Blackman, if any? That kind of thing.”
“Will do,” she said. “When exactly are you meeting Cartwright?”
“This afternoon, the Crown Plaza, by the airport.”
She managed a thin smile. “Maybe the old sod can shine a light on who is behind this horror.”
I rubbed my face with my hands. “Maybe.”
Des picked up the file again. “I dinnea get this at all. If all this crew wanted to do was ‘out’ the wee boy Todd as being gay and discredit his dad, I’m sure there are easier ways than nailing him to a fuckin’ wall… And another thing,” he held up a crime scene shot. “Why not just plaster their own version of these all over the internet and make JE’s life awkward from day one?”
Des had a good point.
Lauren examined me. “Rick… Do you think the Americans already know who these guys are?”
“Anything’s possible. Do you trust any of them?”
We sat in silence for a moment, before Lauren broke it. She held out a piece of notepaper. “Larry gave me the name of Todd’s best friend from college as part of the so-called deal we made. She’s called Henrietta Duvall, she’s nineteen and was on the same course as Todd. Poor little rich girl I believe, lives in the same block as our Todd did on the Quays. She’s what the local kids refer to as a Fag Hag, Larry’s term not mine. She was also the last person to see Todd alive.”
“Well, it’s a start,” I said. “The Cops will already have interviewed her but you never know… Des, you get into her, will you…and I don’t mean the way you got into the local landlady last night.”
“Very funny,” he snorted, and snatched the note from Lauren’s hand. “For your information, she’s called Maggie and she’s very nice.”
Lauren gave Des a warm smile that told him everything was fine and he grinned like a naughty schoolboy. Something I’d not seen in many years and something that told me he was very keen on this Maggie.
Despite the slight bruising to her face, Lauren looked beautiful. She seemed as in control as I’d ever seen her. No signs of the jittery shell of a girl that was airlifted from Ireland.
Yet, despite her confidence and prowess, there was something going on deep inside her, something troubling, and I knew it was all to do with Larry. There was no doubt, he was offering her that regular life… the life that I couldn’t. Was she already tired of the violence and killing that was our world? Was losing JJ the final nail in the coffin?
Larry could offer normality, a home, marriage… maybe even kids, it wasn’t too late for her… not yet.
It was her choice, and I felt helpless.
I mentally shook myself and got on with the job at hand. “Make sure you’re both armed at all times from now on,” I said.
“We go on lock down mode from today. We know the American’s haven’t been telling us the full tale and that their internal security is about as reliable as their cars. So, we may not need to go searching for these boys, they may come knocking and I want us ready if they do.”
I tapped my finger on one gruesome photograph. “Also, I have no intention of being nailed to a fucking wall.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
Before I left the lock up, I took a shower, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled a Glock 19 from our stash together with a spare mag and found the keys to the BMW I’d bought to run us about during the Irish job.
As Rick had now dropped into full on stealth mode, we were off our own phones and back on the cheap pay as you go jobs with the GPS disabled.
Henrietta Duvall lived in a penthouse style apartment that overlooked the water. It wasn’t unlike Rick’s old gaff. The one he had before Goldsmith and Co sold it from under him, presuming him dead.
Half a mill if you want one.
The Quays were no more than a fifteen minute drive away and despite the security clampdown, I drove with the windows down and the radio on. I’ll be honest, meeting Maggie had given me a real spring in my step.
Henrietta’s gaff had underground parking and lots of security. Cameras were visible all around the exterior and what appeared to be an ANPR system opened and closed the garage doors.
I presumed that there would be cops guarding Todd’s flat, but hoped Henrietta’s would be easier to get access to and I wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions from nosey policemen.
The door entry system was similar to Rick’s old place too, w
ith a camera fitted at the top of the chrome plate full of buttons to show the resident who was doing the pressing.
I pushed number nine of twelve. It took three goes before a sleepy voice answered.
“Who are you?”
“Hello, Henrietta,” I said in my poshest Glaswegian. “My name is Cogan, Desmond Cogan. I’m from the University’s pastoral care department. I just called for a quick chat.”
There was a pause as if the girl was considering the validity of my tale. That or she was thinking if she needed counselling in the first place. Hoping the camera system wouldn’t be good enough to pick out the fine detail, I held up an old ID I’d been issued with back in my time at Hereford. It dangled on a lanyard around my neck.
Finally, there was a buzz and the entrance door clicked open.
I knew Todd’s flat had been number six, so avoided his landing. Just in case the cops were monitoring the elevator, I used the stairs rather than the lift to access the third floor.
As I reached Henrietta’s door, she opened it lazily and peered out.
She wasn’t just pretty, she was stunning with long, fine, straight, white-blonde hair that fell past her elbow as she cocked her head around the frame.
“You’re not from the Uni,” she announced in a cultured, confident Southern accent. “You’re a villain.”
I stood in the hallway sinking into the plush carpet assessing my options. I went for honesty as the best policy.
“No, Henrietta, I’m not from Salford University, but I’m not a villain either. I’ve been asked to assist the family in the investigation into Todd Blackman’s murder.”
“You’re no cop either,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously. “And anyway, I’ve already told them all I know…and the bloody Americans.”
“I’m sure you’ve been very helpful, Henrietta, but...”
She looked me up and down. “It’s Henri, everyone calls me Henri…and you still look dodgy to me.”
I smiled. “I dinnea suppose I’d let me in either, to be fair.”
“You’re Scottish,” she pronounced, as if I wasn’t aware of the fact myself.
