A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery

by Vogel, Vince

  His eyes came to life, and he looked down at her, a slight grin on his lips.

  “I never heard that. No,” he said. “But I suppose, like most things, it holds some form of truth. People always look for themselves in others.”

  “Maybe. But I really meant it. The lonely have a way of finding each other among the despair. To lean on each other.” She then looked intensely in his eyes and added in a solemn tone, “You can always lean on me, Alex Dorring.”

  The grin on his lips widened. She was showing her young age, he thought. There was a silliness to her, intermingled with her more serious aspects, and it made him smile to see. For all the darkness that had enveloped this girl, she still appeared to have kept a part of her whimsical youth. Even if it was only a shard.

  “I’m a heavy burden,” Alex said, having gazed in her eyes for several seconds. “I may crush you.”

  “I wasn’t offering to carry you.” She smiled. “Just to be there for each other. Like me and Danny are.”

  “So I’ve become an honorary member of your rabble, have I?”

  “Hey!” she exclaimed. “We’re more than a rabble.”

  He smiled at her, and she shook her head, blushing a little. She got up from in front of him and went to the rucksack. She took out two more bags of crisps, throwing one at Alex. He caught it as it was about to strike his face. She then came and sat back down on the bed, opening up her bag and eating. They each sat munching on crisps for a moment, and the rain began to hammer on the window and roof, a storm quickening and rapping its thunderous fingers upon the room.

  “What was the other time?” Chloe asked.

  “What other time?”

  “When you had a home.”

  Alex’s eyes again appeared to cast their gaze into the dark shadows of his mind, and he froze in the chair.

  “I was married,” he said, his eyes blank.

  “You were married?”

  “Yes. Somewhere else. Not here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Crimea. Do you know where that is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s south of Ukraine, on the coast of the Black Sea. But the only thing you need to know about the place is how isolated it is. It’s all rolling forests and meadows and hills and rivers and mountains and giant lakes. You can find your own little spot out there and drift away.”

  “Is that what you did? Found your own spot?”

  “That’s exactly what I did. I disappeared from everything for so long that I forgot myself. Forgot the sad boy. The murdered father. The lost family. The killer I’d become. The dead. All the ghosts I’d grown accustomed to in my life. Nothing could follow me out there. I had a little house. A beautiful wife. A dog. And…” His voice broke apart here. In his ears Dorring heard the humming of his love and saw that Tatyana and Katya were standing at the side of the bed, the little girl enveloped in her mother’s arms, both of them gazing at him. “A daughter,” he finally choked.

  “How old is she?”

  Alex mouthed some words, but no sound came out, his wet eyes continuing to gaze into the abyss, until he shook his head, breathed in loudly, and wiped his tears away.

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” he declared sternly.

  “We don’t have to,” Chloe replied softly. “It’s like you said before: we never have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

  Dorring gave her a crooked smile, and the two continued to eat in silence, the rain thundering down all around them.

  37

  “Well, that was a bloody waste of time,” Jack said to Lange when they were back in the car, the rain now hammering on the roof.

  “What was all that stuff about some Gemma Doe?” Lange wanted to know.

  “Something in Becky’s diary. She mentioned a friend of hers in there called Gemma. I thought that this Gemma girl could lead us to the identity of the Beast, but we don’t even know who and where she is, so we’ve no chance in that. Hopefully we’ll find something from her arrest sheet.”

  “That’s if we’re not immediately suspended the moment we get back to Upper Hackney.”

  “Good point. We should probably turn our phones back on.”

  Jack reached forward and took his from the glove box, switching it on. Lange did the same. Immediately both phone screens lit up with a list of missed calls and messages.

  “You’d think they’d give up,” Jack said, scrolling through the missed calls. “Oh, Christ,” he exclaimed as he came to a particular name.

  “What is it?” Lange asked, a look of trepidation contorting his expression as he glanced over at Jack.

  “Tommy Bishop.”

  “As in Deputy Commissionaire Bishop?”

  “Same one. He used to be my old boss at Scotland Yard, before becoming deputy commissionaire.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “I don’t think he wants to talk about the footy, George. I haven’t spoken to him in years. I’ve an inkling it’s probably got something to do with the meeting between my forehead and Don Parkinson’s nose.”

  “You gonna call him back?”

  “I guess I have to. You don’t get a call from the deputy commissionaire and ignore it. He’s not Caldwell.”

  “Then call him.”

  Jack let out the groan of a schoolchild told to brush his teeth again, but properly this time. He stared at the screen, his finger unwilling to reach down and swipe Tommy’s number. It had been years since he’d received a chastisement from Tommy Bishop, and he fully expected that’s what this would be now. Back in the day, Jack spent the majority of his time in Bishop’s good books due to his uncanny ability to see things that no one else could—Jack’s “divine hunches,” Tommy used to call them. But that wasn’t to say Jack didn’t find himself wandering into the bad books every so often. He’d always had a tendency to keep his superiors out of the loop, and, like Caldwell, this had often upset Bishop. Several times the superior officer had felt the need to stamp down hard on his rogue detective. Then, when it all came out about Jack’s affair with Col’s wife, he’d been forced to demote Jack and essentially remove him from Scotland Yard.

  Jack swiped his finger across, and Tommy answered within the first two rings.

  “Hello, Jack,” Bishop said in a warm voice heavily tinged with his Yorkshire accent. “I hear you gave Don Parkinson a whack today.”

  “I’ll admit I shouldn’t have done that, Tom.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. But then Don does love to run his mouth. Might be good for him to have it shut every now and again.”

  Jack was surprised by Bishop’s affable tone. He felt slightly eased by it, but not completely. He’d known Bishop to often take this approach. He’d start off as your mate and within seconds turn into your worst enemy. It meant that no one could be off their toes for a second around him, because he could go from cold to hot and back again in the space of a few minutes.

  “Is this why you’re calling, Tom?” Jack enquired, his voice still rattling with nerves.

  “Partially. I have to say that Don’s pissin’ blood, but I heard from one of the crime scene lot that Don had egged you on. Said some pretty harsh things.” Jack knew immediately that it was his old beau Sylvia Warren who’d stuck up for him. “I’ve spoken with Don, and he’s agreed not to write this one up. So you’re in the clear on that.”

  “You mean he’s left it?”

  “He’s not your biggest fan, Jack. But he sees where he went wrong and is willing to accept that.”

  “So does that mean I’m still on the case?”

  “It does. I wanted to say that I personally want you to remain on this crucifix case. Especially now with Davey Doyle and half the Earles Crew lying dead in the woods. I’ve had to put Don head of a task force on it, so he’ll be busy for a while. Meaning, that you won’t have to worry about Don Parkinson for the time being. I’ve also just gotten off the phone with your DCI at Upper Hackney to reassure him that you’ll be remaining on this cas
e, which appeared to calm him. He’s a very nervous man, this Caldwell.”

  “He is, Tom.”

  “So basically, Jack, I need you to catch us this killer. Show us the old Sheridan magic.”

  “I will.”

  “Do you remember what we used to call you down at Scotland Yard?”

  Jack grinned a little at the memory.

  “Searcher,” he answered with an element of pleasure.

  “That’s right. Searcher. Because that’s what you used to do: you’d search. Search for the clues that no one else could see. Form those divine hunches. I want to see the old Searcher do his thing again.”

  A gentle wave of joy passed through Jack at the recollection of former glory.

  “Right, now down to business,” Bishop went on, his voice going solemn. “From now on, Jack, I need you to directly report to me. I can understand your animosity with the Yard, so I realize that you’ve been keeping your findings to yourself. But going forward I want to hear about it personally. Don’t bother with that jackass Caldwell. Come straight to me. You’re to call me about any developments. Now what have you got so far?”

  Feeling reassured by Tommy, Jack explained everything. Starting with how the case was similar to John Dorring’s death fifteen years ago. Tommy replied that he recalled the tragic murder. “Terrible business,” he commented. Jack then explained that Becky Dorring was John’s daughter.

  “Could the same people be involved?” Tommy enquired.

  Jack assured him that he doubted it. That the crimes were only similar in that there was crucifixion. Jack told Bishop about him and Col going after the Doyles in connection with the murder. He left out the part about the threats to their family and simply said that they’d dropped it due to a lack of evidence.

  “So you suspected John Dorring’s death of being gang related?” Tommy was curious to know.

  “Yeah,” Jack replied. “But that’s why I don’t think it’s the same people this time. John got too close to the Doyles, and they had no other choice but to kill him. That was the motive behind his murder. They mutilated the body and threw it out onto the street to send a message. It was a very particular crime. With these girls there’s no apparent motive other than the crucifixion. They’re chosen for the simple pleasure of the act. All of them are young women. All blonde. All working or having worked in the sex industry.” He added that that was where the real link to the Doyles lay. But it was too loose at the moment to even think about going after them yet.

  “So what leads are you following up?” Bishop asked.

  Jack told him about the diary but not about Coop. He lied and stated that Becky’s mother had given it to him. He was sure that Tommy wouldn’t bother to check, and the deputy commissionaire only chided Jack lightly on protocol, in that he should have logged the diary as evidence. Jack went on to explain that he’d read of something called the Beast in its pages and had only this minute visited Rampton Psychiatric Facility to try and find out if it was a real person, but that he’d come up against a brick wall there. He then described the rest of what he’d read in the diary, including Gemma Doe and how he was now going to look into her. He hoped that if he could track her down, he might be able to get to the bottom of the beast’s identity.

  “And you think this Beast could be the killer?” Bishop asked.

  “It could be. It could just be Becky’s killer. I don’t know. It’s merely one source of enquiry that I want to eliminate.”

  “What makes you think this Becky Dorring is special?”

  “She’s the first that we’ve identified.”

  “And you think that’s significant?”

  “I do, Tom. I think there may be something in Becky Dorring’s life that points to it all.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “Like I said, I’ll try and track down this Gemma Doe. But I don’t hold out much hope in it.”

  “So what else?”

  “There’s one other person. A Dr. Holby. He’s mentioned over and over in the diary, and I thought that he was from Rampton. But they’ve never heard of him. I was going to try to find him. I think Becky talked to him more than she did to the people at Rampton. He may be an outside psychologist she was seeing. I was going to ask her mother.”

  “Very good, Jack. I’ll leave you to get on with it, then. Any new leads, let me know immediately, and I also want you to call me tonight when you knock off. You can update me with everything. All the best.”

  And with that, Tommy was gone. Jack turned to Lange and saw that the detective constable had worn a bemused expression throughout his chat with Bishop.

  “Are you in the clear, sarge?” Lange asked.

  “I believe I am, George. I believe I am.” Jack bunged a smoke in his mouth and added, “Now, let’s head back to the station. There’s a few things we need to sort before we can go any further.”

  38

  “It’s bloody lucky you’ve got Deputy Commissionaire Bishop fighting your corner,” Caldwell threw at Jack. The latter had only just returned back at Upper Hackney and was sitting in the DCI’s office, Caldwell having had him sent there by the desk sergeant the moment he stepped foot inside the station. “If it wasn’t for that,” Caldwell put to him while he paced back and forth behind his desk, his sausage hands clasped behind his back, his cheeks two red veiny blotches, “you’d be out on your bloody ear with unpaid leave.”

  “Look, sir, as much as I’d love to sit here and have you shout at me, myself and DC Lange have some important leads to follow up.”

  “I take it you heard the boyfriend was found dead yesterday?” Caldwell put to Jack, lumping his round ass back down in his chair and facing the detective sergeant.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t think it adds up to anything?”

  “No. It wasn’t the boyfriend. Anyway, I heard he’d been dead for some time.”

  “Then what have you found, Jack?” the DCI bawled in an exasperated voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve been told to liaise exclusively with Deputy Commissionaire Bishop.”

  “Bollocks! In this station I’m your superior. You speak to me.”

  “But—and I hate to have to point this out—Mr. Bishop is deputy commissionaire of the whole Metropolitan Police Force, so therefore he’s kind of all of our superior.”

  Caldwell’s face contorted into an ugly grimace. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his nose, and, in a much calmer tone than the one he’d previously used, said, “Jack, look, I know we’ve had our run-ins over the years, but please don’t help them take this away from me… from us. You should know how underfunded this station is. A big case like this could really sway things when I request next year’s budget. More coppers on the beat would do this community the world of good.” Jack wondered what that community actually thought about that prospect. “Heck, I could even send a couple of new CID boys down there to help you out in the detectives’ office. All I’m asking is that you don’t let them take it away.”

  “No one’s trying to take the case away from Upper Hackney. I’m Upper Hackney and the deputy commissionaire reassured me that he wanted me on the case.”

  “Yes, but what if they move you over to Scotland Yard until it’s over? Then all I get is one officer off the payroll for a couple of months tops until they either solve it or pull part of its funding. No overtime or budget support for Upper Hackney. Not even the right to say that one of my boys sorted it.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes and gazed strangely at Caldwell. Behind the DCI on the wall of fame, next to the one of him at Ibrox in full Rangers regalia, was a picture of Caldwell in his purple-and-black Masonic robes, beaming with pride, a shit-eating grin stretching his fat cheeks. Prestige, nepotism, promotion, social elevation. These were everything to Caldwell. You weren’t even supposed to tell anyone that you were a Mason, but Caldwell proudly showed it off to everyone with that picture. Jack realized that inside it all, Caldwell was a frightened child scared to fall do
wn too many rungs of the ladder.

  “And this turf war thing as well,” Caldwell rabbited on like an old woman. “What is it all coming too, huh, Jack?” Sheridan didn’t answer. He knew there was no point. “I thought that six years after the riots it was all calming down, business as usual. But now we have both a serial killer and a turf war on our patch.”

  “It’ll look good if we bring it all to an end,” Jack stated in an attempt to cheer the man up.

  “Yes.” And there was a break in the clouds for the DCI. He even managed a smile as he imagined the plaudits that would come his way if both issues were resolved by officers of his station. “Yes, it will,” he went on, the smile still glittering his lips, his fat hands rubbing together and his eyes away somewhere else. But then something appeared to throw sand in Caldwell’s face, probably the thought that it could all be taken from him just as easily, and the frown returned. His eyes turned sharply to Jack and he added, “Just you catch this bloody killer.”

  Having given him this last rebuke, Caldwell dismissed Jack, and the latter made his way downstairs, another ten minutes of his life having been wasted in that man’s office.

  Passing reception, the desk sergeant, a tall acerbic woman named Moore, informed Jack that he had a visitor. When he ventured into the public seating area, he saw a sad-looking Helen Cuthbert sitting on the wooden bench against the far wall. She was gazing into space and had a wretched look that produced such pity in Jack.

  “Helen,” he announced as he came close to her. She snapped out of wherever she’d been within her thoughts, turned to Jack, and offered him the glint of a half smile. “What are you doin’ here, love?” he added.

  “I wanted to speak to you, Jack.”

  “About what?”

  “About the case, I guess.”

  “You shouldn’t worry yourself too much on that,” he replied, feeling a little guilty he had nothing of real value to give her. “What about your family liaison officer. Hasn’t she spoken with you?”