A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery

by Vogel, Vince

  “How’d you know which car’s which?” she enquired.

  “I memorized the number plates of each car I placed a tracker on. I then ran the number plate through one of my nice little government apps and found out which one belonged to who. Two of them were in the name of Billy Doyle. So let’s see where Billy has been going these last twenty-four hours.”

  Dorring clicked on Billy’s trackers and a map of London lit up. A green line and a red line showed everywhere the two cars had been. Then markers pointed to different places the cars had stopped, giving the amount of time it was static for. Looking through this data, nothing special came up until Alex saw that one of the vehicles had stopped at a large collection of garages in Woodford for a total of three hours between one and four in the morning. He searched the address on satellite mapping and zoomed in on the area. He saw that the garages were innocuous and stood at the end of a country lane surrounded by derelict houses that were clearly boarded up.

  “What is it?” Chloe asked.

  “What was he doing at a garage for three hours?”

  “Shall we find out?”

  “I think we should.”

  59

  Sitting in his car in the hospital car park, Jack checked his phone and saw he’d gotten a missed call from Shiva Patel. He immediately dialed him.

  “Shiva, what’ve you got?” he said the moment the pathologist answered.

  “Several of those partial prints definitely don’t match the homeowners. They were on the doors of the sink cupboard, where all the cleaning products are kept. Looks like someone didn’t quite remove all the prints during the cleanup. I just got back to the lab with them now.”

  “You think there’s a chance of getting our guy with it?”

  “Could be. I need to get the prints under the scanner so I can run them through the files. I also got a call from the toxicologist who’s already at the lab. He told me that early analysis has confirmed that flunitrazepam is on one of the drinking glasses we removed from the site earlier.”

  “It’s looking better all the time. Okay, Shiva, I’ll meet you at the forensics lab in forty minutes or so, all right?”

  “See you then.”

  Once the call was ended, Jack dialed Lange.

  “Sarge?” the DC answered.

  “What you up to at the minute, George?”

  “Door to door.”

  “Getting anything?”

  “Not a dicky bird. No one saw anything. No blonde girl with someone going into number eighteen. Nothing. To add to that, most of them are out anyway, so I can’t see what good we’re doing.”

  “Leave that, then, and come meet me at the Met’s forensics lab in Lambeth. You know where it is?”

  “My satnav does.”

  “All right, I’ll meet you there in under an hour.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Shiva’s partial print. We may have something.”

  “Still, though, sarge, it’s only a partial.”

  “It’s good enough for the minute. They might pull something better later on, but I’ll take a partial at this stage.”

  “Yeah, but it could be anyone. The last partial I got, we found over fifty different possible people and even after that we couldn’t use it in court.”

  “I’ll take fifty possibles at this point, George.”

  “How was Steven Cuthbert?”

  “Remorseful.”

  “I take it he didn’t admit to anything. Maybe this partial belongs to him.”

  “It’s not him, George.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I do. He told me everything else. How he’d been abusing Becky. How he’s been abusing others. He wanted to confess, and if he had’ve killed her, he’d have confessed to that too. Plus, he’s got an alibi for the night Becky went missing, and trust me, it does him no favors.”

  “What is it?”

  “He was seeing one of his students.”

  “Bloody hell. Dirty bastard. Did he say who sautéed his bollocks?”

  “I didn’t ask, George.”

  “But who do you think it could be? Some local vigilante? A revenge hit on him?”

  “Maybe he’ll tell us when he comes to writing his statement. But if I were him, I’d keep that part a secret. Anyway, George, we better be heading over to the forensics lab.”

  “See you later, sarge.”

  “Bye-bye, George.”

  Jack sat in the car for a moment gazing out the windscreen across the cracked asphalt carpark at some tangled weeds growing out the side of an old gray-brick hospital ward. He shook his head as he wondered whether to say anything to Tommy about Alex. He was sure that it was Alex who’d hurt Cuthbert, and he was sure that it was Alex who was the masked man at the shootout. The fact that one of the bodies had had the bullet cut out of his head appeared to confirm this. It appeared Alex Dorring was actively hunting down those he thought responsible. Now that Cuthbert was out the way, Jack was sure Alex would return his attention to the Doyles.

  He felt himself in a race against Alex to find the killer. Because if he didn’t do it soon, he feared that Alex would leave London burning in his wake. If Jack could get to the truth first, he might be able to save so much carnage. With no other option, he decided to call Tommy Bishop and see what was up with him tracking down Alex.

  “Tommy,” he said when the deputy commissionaire answered.

  “Yes, Jack?” came Bishop’s Yorkshire accent.

  “Did you find out anything on Alex Dorring for me?”

  “I was about to call you. The MOD gave me squat. Claimed that an Alex Dorring was no longer working for them in any capacity. So I checked with immigration, and they said he was out of the country. When I asked where, they gave me some bollocks about it being confidential. I pulled rank and they told me that it was part of the Official Secrets Act and that I’d have to speak to the minister in charge of the governmental department.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yeah. Franklin Granville. He’s a mate.”

  “And what’d he say?”

  “Told me to piss off as well. Just who is this Alex Dorring bloke anyway?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve this minute come back from Steven Cuthbert’s hospital room, and he’s suddenly very willing to tell me every bad thing he’s ever done.”

  “That’s the stepfather, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’d he end up in hospital?”

  “Someone branded the word ‘pedo’ into his forehead and threw boiling water and baby oil onto his meat and two veg.”

  “You think it’s this brother?”

  “I do.”

  “Who do you think he’ll go after next?”

  Jack ran his hand down his stubbled chin, pondering whether he should say it. Come on, it’s Tommy, cried out in his head.

  “I think he’s coming for the Doyles,” Jack finally replied.

  “Bloody hell. You think they’ve got something to do with all this?”

  “I really don’t know, Tommy. But there’s a hell of a lot pointing at them.”

  Bishop went quiet for a moment.

  “What’s your next move?” he eventually asked.

  “Forensics have gotten a partial off the house. I’m off to see them now and see if we can’t pin it to someone.”

  “Let me know the second you think you have someone, Jack. Okay?”

  “Of course, Tom.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  Jack put the phone down, started the car, and made his way out of the hospital car park. So many stones rattled away in the spray can of his head. With each new development, he became more confused as to what he was actually looking at. He hoped that the partial print would point them toward something substantial.

  He hoped that he could figure this thing out before Alex Dorring caused any more destruction than he already had.

  60

  Jack arrived at the forensics lab to find Lange’s car alrea
dy there. When he’d parked beside it, Lange got out and they walked into the tall stone building together.

  They found Shiva in one of the labs, sitting at a bank of computer terminals in the far corner.

  “You got us any possible matches on that partial?” Jack asked as he and Lange approached.

  Shiva turned to them from the computer he was using with a gentle grin.

  “It’s actually not too bad,” he said when the detectives took seats on either side of him. “I found only eighteen possibles. I’ve looked over several already and can’t say they mean anything to me. I was hoping you’d have a look through them and see if anything jumps out.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Jack said, turning the computer in front of him on.

  Shiva set both men up on the computers, and all three began searching through the files.

  “So they just brought back what was left of the fourth possible victim,” Shiva began as they looked over the possibles. “Terrible mess she was in. Sylvia Warren says we’ll get nothing from her.”

  “You had a chance to see the body yet?” Jack asked him.

  “No. Too busy with this.”

  “Well, the cross is the same design as the first two victims.”

  “And the timing is odd too,” Shiva added.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  The three of them continued to go over the records. None of the men they found stood out. Jack saw domestic violence, drunk drivers, shoplifters, GBH, narcotics possession, affray, but nothing which would suggest any of them had moved on to serial murder.

  “Hey, sarge,” Lange suddenly called out.

  “What is it, George? You found something?”

  “I think I might.”

  Jack and Shiva got off their chairs and came around Lange.

  “It’s this guy here. Patrick O’Brian,” the DC said. Jack looked at the screen and saw a skinny young man with hollow eyes. “Last year he was picked up for breaking and entering. Apparently he’d been spotted leaving a house via the front door while the homeowners were away. The neighbors called the police, and a patrol car picked him up around the corner. Nothing had been stolen from the address; he’d just slept there.”

  “But he’s only a boy,” Shiva remarked. “He’s fifteen. He can’t be the killer.”

  “And I wouldn’t think that too,” Lange stated. “But it’s something else on his file. It says here that he was given over to the care of his grandma Moira O’Brian of 23 St Helens Court, Buntingford.”

  “Buntingford?” Jack exclaimed, his attention fully piqued as he stared at the gaunt young man on the screen.

  “What’s Buntingford got to do with it?” Shiva asked with a gentle frown.

  “It’s something we picked up along our enquiries,” Jack explained. “Becky Dorring spent time at Rampton with a girl who had a tattoo that I recognized as Irish gypsy. This in turn reminded me of that fire at the gypsy camp four years back in Buntingford. You remember it, don’t you, Shiva?”

  “Obliquely, yes.”

  “Well, something of a theory formed in my head. I suspected this girl we were looking for could have originated from the camp.”

  “A bit of a leap, even for you, Jack,” Shiva remarked.

  “Yeah, it was, and that’s why we left it. But now we get a partial print from the possible crime scene, and here’s Buntingford again.” Jack then turned to Lange. “George, are there any mention of distinguishing marks?”

  “I’ll have a look.” Lange scrolled down the page to the section on distinguishing marks. “Yes, there is,” he said. “Look. On his right shoulder blade, he had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones and, listen here, the words ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’ written below it.” He looked over his shoulder at Jack. “What does it all mean, sarge?”

  “I have no idea, George. But I plan to find out. Get the address. We’re going to see the gran.” Jack turned to Shiva. “Thanks, Shiva. Let me know what else you find.”

  “Will do, Jack.”

  Once Lange had copied down the address, he and Jack left the building. In the car park, they took Lange’s car. Jack needed a smoke and a think. He got out a cigarette and sparked it the moment they hit the road, his eyes narrowed as he tried to piece it all together. A part of him worried that they were chasing a loose end, but another part—the place he got his hunches from—was willing him full force to find out what a fire at a gypsy camp had to do with four dead girls and the Doyles.

  61

  Alex and Chloe arrived at the line of brick garages. As the satellite imaging had shown, the place was surrounded by derelict houses with temporary Heras fencing all around them. Weeds grew out of the orange brickwork of them, and metal sheets hung over the doors and windows so that anyone in need of shelter wouldn’t get the silly idea of using the place for its intended purpose. These properties would have once housed families. Now they lay abandoned along with the plans to knock them down and build new homes, a result of the housing market crash. It was as if the whole area had been frozen in time.

  Dorring parked at the back of the garages. A large chain hung across the entrance and blocked traffic from entering the forecourt. It was padlocked at the far end, and Alex wondered who had the key.

  “You wait here,” he said to Chloe as he opened the door and got out.

  “Hey! I wanna come with you this time.”

  “Please, Chloe,” he pleaded, turning back to her. “I don’t know what I’ll find here.”

  She gave him a grumpy look but did as he told her.

  Dorring stepped over the chain, a notice dangling from it warning people not to trespass, and made his way across the weed-ridden cracked tarmac of the forecourt. The garages were two rows of eight facing one another, most of the doors scrawled in bad graffiti. One of them was completely missing, and inside the garage were the signs of people: folded cardboard lying on the floor, needles spread about, burnt beer cans used as pipes, burned-down candles growing out of the floor, and a soiled duvet hunched in the corner. Alex didn’t know which garage Billy had spent so much time at, so he began opening them up one by one with a skeleton key. Most were completely empty. Others still had old cars in them. One had nothing but a chest freezer up against the back wall. Dorring investigated and, when he opened it, was met with a swarm of fat bluebottles and a pungent stench that smacked him in the face and made him instantly turn away. The bottom writhed with the movement of millions of maggots covering a green slab of flesh that Alex instantly recognized as a rotting joint of beef. He slammed the lid shut and moved on. Several more had junk left behind from when the residents had moved out, and Alex quickly ignored them. Eventually, however, he came to a white door with a black crucifix graffitied in the center and opened it.

  The first thing he saw was the large metal table in the middle. On the concrete floor beneath it, he spotted dried blood running into a drain. At the far end, against the wall, sat a workbench. He flipped the light switch and was met with a neon blue glare that made his eyes recoil. It was then that he saw the walls. On every inch of breeze block was the graffitied scrawl of a crucifix, all of them interlinking into one another’s space like the patterns on bathroom tiles. He walked to the workbench. Laid neatly to the side of it was a large hammer, a line of six-inch nails, and a bag of black zip ties. Alex glanced over at the wall to the other end of the workbench and saw something large stacked against it, a black cloth draped over the top. He walked over and removed it. There stood before him was irrefutable proof that he was standing in the killer’s lair: three neatly stacked seven-foot-tall crucifixes.

  Dorring’s head began to fill up with red fog, an inferno attacking him. He rushed up to the workbench, grabbed the hammer and nails, and marched out of there.

  Approaching his car outside the forecourt, he saw that it was empty. Chloe was gone. He had a split second to ponder this before something hot whizzed past his ear and clattered into one of the garage walls behind him. He dived for cover behind his car as a hail of b
ullets came zipping toward him. With glass cascading all around, he sat with his back against the door. Placing the hammer and nails down on the floor, he got his gun out of his jacket. He then threw his body down on its side and aimed his gun underneath the car. He saw a pair of feet briskly moving toward him. He sent one bullet into each ankle. The man instantly keeled over, and Alex saw the strained face that fell to the deck. He sent another bullet crashing through it. More bullets smashed into the car, sending glass everywhere, someone firing a semiautomatic from across the street. Sounded like an AK. It would run out any minute and have to be reloaded. So Dorring waited, the car now riddled with bullet holes, and the sound of tinging metal reverberated in his ears. Click. That was his cue. He came out from behind the car, just as the man was tugging out the clip. Zip. Zip. One in the chest and another in the face. The man fell to the ground holding the empty AK to his bloodied torso. Another gunshot went off, again missing Alex by a whisker. He saw through the windows of a black Hummer parked farther down the road that there was a man crouching down behind it. Dorring sent a bullet through the windows and into the man’s ribs, sending him keeling forward. Alex darted his eyes around and saw nobody else.

  “Amateurs,” he muttered to himself.

  Dorring made his way to the injured man on the other side of the Hummer. When he came around the end, the bleeding man turned his gun sharply on Alex, and the latter instantly shot the hand that held it, making the man scream out and drop the weapon. He was sat slumped to the vehicle, wheezing uneasily, the shot to the ribs having gone through a lung.

  “Any more?” Dorring asked, glancing about.

  “No.” The man coughed.

  “I guess not. You hardly made yourselves inconspicuous.” Dorring came around and crouched down in front of him, the man’s eyes glancing toward the silenced PPK aimed at his head. “Who sent you?” Alex asked.

  “The Doyles.”

  “Have they got the girl?”