Three explosions burst into the left side of my head. I hit the ground and rolled over, my brain filled with a muffled, screaming silence, and looked for my new adversary.
Nigel was standing there, as immobile as anything in that park. His arms were reaching forward, the hands clasping a big, beautiful, police-issue Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, silhouetted against a pall of white smoke that drifted off into the darkness.
I rolled on to my knees. K. Tom was on the ground, with Sparky running towards him, then toeing the shotgun away from his body. I stood up and turned to Nigel. He hadn’t moved.
‘Easy, young feller,’ I panted, reaching for the gun. I grasped it by the barrel and pointed it skywards, prising his fingers open. The barrel was warm, and the smell of cordite burnt my nostrils, pungent in the cold air. He suddenly released it and lowered his arms, but remained staring in the direction of the fallen body.
‘You did well,’ I told him. ‘You did well. Come over here.’
I led him by the arm and sat him on the plinth of the sculpture. ‘Just sit there,’ I said and turned to Sparky. ‘How is he?’
‘Not sure, but he’s breathing.’
‘I’ll ring for assistance.’
When I’d finished, Sparky said it was only a shoulder wound, and the patient was conscious. Two bullets had missed. If I’d been there alone I’d have been sorely tempted to finish the job, once and for all.
The adrenaline rush faded with the danger, and reality returned. I had a police .38 in my pocket, with three spent chambers, and a wounded prisoner. I unloaded the gun and walked back to where Nigel was sitting.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Will he live?’
‘It looks like it. Come for a little walk. I want a word.’
I led him up the hill until we were out of K. Tom’s earshot. ‘Nigel,’ I began. ‘How come you had a gun?’
‘What’s it like when you kill a man, Charlie?’ he asked.
‘You haven’t killed anyone,’ I reminded him.
‘He might die.’
‘OK. It’s not very nice. You have to convince yourself that you had no other option, and learn to live with it. K. Tom might die, but if you hadn’t fired when you did, you’d be going to two funerals next week. Never forget that. Some of us are very grateful you were here, tonight, and did what you did. Now answer my question, Nigel. This is important. Why did you have a gun and where did you get it?’
He brushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘I was waiting in the nick,’ he replied, ‘for Sparky – Dave – to ring me back. I decided to check if Davis is licensed to hold a shotgun. He is. It occurred to me that he might have it with him, so I drew the thirty-eight from the armoury.’
‘How, Nigel?’ I insisted. ‘How did you withdraw it?’
‘Inspector Adey was on duty. He signed it out for me.’
‘Off his own bat?’
‘No. He rang Force Control. The officer in charge sanctioned it.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes. It’s all right, Charlie. We did it by the book.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ I sighed. Good old Nigel had played it by the book. I should have known better than to imagine he’d do it any other way. Suddenly, I felt weary. I sat down on the grass and stretched out, lying on my back staring at the moon. I could have lain there all night, except the revolver was sticking in my kidneys, and the helicopter was chomping in over the treetops, flashing and banking like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
K. Tom survived. Considering the range, and the bad light, it was good shooting by Nigel, but outside the normal parameters for taking out an armed assailant. By the rules of the game Davis should have been dead. I spent Tuesday morning giving evidence to the investigating officer brought in from another division to look into the shooting. He shook his head once or twice, but nothing worse.
After that I needed a cup of tea and a pork pie, badly. I was running down the stairs when I met Inspector Adey.
‘Hi, Gareth,’ I said as I passed him.
‘Everything OK, Charlie?’ he called after me, concerned.
‘I think so,’ I shouted back over my shoulder.
‘Charlie!’ he yelled.
I stopped and looked up at him.
‘Thought you might like some good news,’ he said.
‘That would be most welcome. What is it?’
‘This morning Fingerprints rang us about a match they’d made. We’ve just arrested a youth for killing the swans in the park, thanks to that beer can you found there.’
‘Hey, that’s great. Is it anybody we know?’
‘We don’t know him,’ he replied, ‘but apparently he’s an old friend of yours.’
‘Oh,’ I said, taking a step back up towards him. ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it.’
In the afternoon Superintendent Les Isles and I held a case review meeting in his office. Makinson was with us, too, but he didn’t have much to contribute. K. Tom Davis was in Heckley General, under armed guard. He was sitting up and had been charged with attempted murder.
‘First of all,’ Les began, ‘let me tell you about Michael Angelo Watts. I have a miracle to report – his memory has returned. We fed it to him that Davis had been arrested and the remainder of the gold recovered, and he decided that it might be helpful to us if he made a statement. The gist of it is that he’d left his portable telephone – more correctly, his father’s telephone – at K. Tom Davis’s house on the Wednesday before Lisa was killed. I asked him if there was anybody who could corroborate that and he suggested Mrs Davis. I told him that was a no-no. She denied ever seeing the phone, and he looked uncharacteristically glum. He brightened a little when I disclosed that I had a witness who might help him.’
‘Me,’ I said.
‘Mmm,’ Les continued. ‘I told Watts that you had made a statement saying how you saw him visit Davis at the appropriate time, and suggesting that his behaviour indicated that he had taken the wrong phone with him. In other words, you’d got him off a murder rap.’
‘Did he express his gratitude?’
‘Not exactly – don’t forget you had helped put him behind bars for dealing. I made it plain that we’d been fair with him, and that making threats against your girlfriend was bang out of order. I’d be lying if I said he looked sheepish, Charlie, but I think he took it onboard.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘That’s good news. It was worrying me.’
‘I’ll bet it was. Now let’s have a look at Davis. I’m afraid the outlook is not so rosy from now on. We’ve only recovered the one bar of gold, for a start. Either he spread it around, or that’s all there is left.’
‘Twenty kilograms, or one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth, out of ten million quid. That’s not bad going.’
‘These drugs barons have expensive tastes. Mr and Mrs Davis – K. Tom and the desirable Ruth – have had sudden pangs of remorse, too, and they have both decided to fully cooperate with us. Their tales, sadly, differ in one important area. He says that he stayed in on the night Lisa was killed, but that she stormed out in a paddy. Ruth Davis says more or less the opposite.’
‘What are the stories?’ I asked.
‘Well, according to K. Tom, Lisa rang him about her business, as previously stated. Ruth was insanely jealous, he claims, convinced they were having an affair. After the second call she dashed out of the house, saying she would settle things – wait for it – “once and for all.”’
I said, ‘Gosh, well, that proves it. Did he mention the phone?’
‘Reckons he never saw it. She must have found it and planned the whole thing to put the blame on poor old Watts.’
‘So he claims that her motive was jealousy, and the desire to protect her loveless marriage.’
‘Correct.’
‘And what’s her story?’
‘Ah. Mrs Davis wants to eat her cake and have it. Her tune has changed since she learnt that,
whatever happens, she keeps the conservatory. She claims she was in bed with migraine…’
I chipped in with ‘Not DC Migraine from Huddersfield?’
Makinson scowled while Les smiled and went on. ‘That’s the one. Her loving husband brought her a cup of tea and two aspirin, at about ten thirty, and said he was popping out for the last half hour in the pub.’
‘The woman’s a living lie,’ I stated. ‘Can’t accept that they hate each other’s guts. They’re held together by mutual greed. You said she hadn’t seen the phone, either.’
‘That’s right. Says he must have found it and planned the whole thing…’
I finished it off for him. ‘To incriminate poor old Michael.’
‘That’s right. And then there’s the problem of motive. We believe he killed Lisa to stop her spilling the beans about the gold, but we’ve only your word about that, Charlie.’
Makinson shuffled in his seat and was about to speak when a PC came backwards through the doorway, carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits.
‘About time,’ Les said, jovially, pushing papers aside to make room on his desk.
We shouted our thanks after the departing uniform and I looked for the sugar. There wasn’t any. I took a sip. It was like drinking neat creosote.
When we were ready again Les asked Makinson what he’d been about to say. He was called Tim. He wiped a crumb of chocolate digestive from his chin and sat back. ‘I was just about to make an observation,’ he mumbled. ‘As I see it, we have two suspects, and one of them almost certainly killed Lisa Davis. Unfortunately, we can’t present them both to the court and say, “Take your pick.” We have to decide which case is the stronger, and go with that. The evidence against him is minimal. She has the stronger motive, but would come across as a harmless housewife. Taking them individually, I’d say we didn’t stand a chance of a conviction.’
‘Mmm. What do you think, Charlie?’ Isles asked.
I lifted the cup to my lips and decided I didn’t really need it that badly, so I lowered it again. ‘I’d say that Tim has just made a very fair assessment of the situation,’ I admitted. ‘But I’m not leaving it at that. K. Tom Davis might be going away for a long time, but that doesn’t help Justin Davis. He wants a conviction. He needs someone to blame, to focus his hate on. He needs to make sense of what happened to his wife. If this goes to court on a not guilty plea, Lisa’s reputation will be dragged through the mire, laid open for the vultures to pick over. How’s that gonna make her husband feel?’
‘Not to mention,’ Les added, ‘the suspicion that his mother killed his wife. It’s like bloody King Lear.’ His Shakespeare was worse than mine but I know what he meant. After a sip of coffee he dunked a biscuit, saying, ‘Aah. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve got them making it just how I like it.’
‘So Forensic haven’t come up with anything?’ I asked, forlornly, already knowing the answer.
‘Some tyre tracks,’ Makinson informed me. ‘Small sample of the same type as on Davis’s Range Rover, but nowhere near enough to be conclusive. Oh, and some really good ones that are a perfect match with your Cavalier.’ He enjoyed telling me that.
I stood up and turned to Les. ‘Is it all right if I have a go at K. Tom?’
He looked at Makinson, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Be our guest,’ he replied.
‘Cheers. Maybe I can appeal to his better nature, convince him that a confession would be in order.’ Winking at Isles, I added, ‘Failing that, I’ll kick the shit out of him.’
I could have done it, I know that. Last night, in the Sculpture Park, I coud have put the gun to Davis’s head and blown his brains out. And in the years afterwards, whenever I woke in the night filled with doubts about what I’d done, I’d have conjured up that image of Lisa, lying in the bath of blood, and fallen back to sleep again.
I went down to the canteen for a mug of sweet tea, and succumbed to a vanilla slice while thinking about how to handle K. Tom. I decided to cause him as much grief as I could. That way, there’d be no need for acting.
The hospital is only a couple of streets away from headquarters, and parking spaces there are auctioned by Sotheby’s since they sold most of their land for office developments, so I walked. The afternoon visitors had left and meal trolleys were monopolising the lifts, so I climbed three floors rather than wait. My, I was catching up on my exercise today.
The PC on guard duty was sitting outside Davis’s private little room. ‘They’re changing his dressings,’ he told me, after I showed him my ID.
‘Has he much to say?’ I asked.
‘Not to us, sir, but he’s plenty of chat with the nurses. Has them eating out of his ‘ands, running about, doing favours for him. Sometimes I feel as if I’m the villain. Takes me all my time to get someone to fetch me a cup o’ tea from the machine.’
‘Right. We’ll see about that,’ I said, pushing the door open.
Three figures turned to me, two of them wearing nurses’ uniforms and the third an expression of loathing.
‘Detective Inspector Priest,’ I announced, showing my card.
‘Sorry, Inspector,’ the older nurse said, straightening up, ‘we’re just changing Mr Davis’s dressings. I shall have to insist that you leave.’
‘That’s all right,’ I replied, looking at him. ‘I don’t faint at the sight of other people’s blood. Neither do you, eh, Tom?’
‘What do you want?’ he hissed.
‘I came to see where you were shot. The officer who fired at you has a certificate for marksmanship – I’m thinking of revoking it.’
The older nurse came to the foot of his bed as I positioned myself at the other side. He was propped up on several pillows, bare chested except for the bandages on his right shoulder. His right arm was across his body, rubbing the top of his other arm, the way he’d done in the snooker room.
Boss nurse said, ‘This is highly irregular, Inspector. It isn’t a matter of you fainting. We have to consider the patient’s privacy and the risk of infection. I’d be…’
‘Look,’ I interrupted, ‘from now on, he has no privacy. As for infection, I’ve had all my jabs. I’m staying, so why don’t you just get on with it?’
She made a few tutting noises and muttered threats about taking it further, but went back to the task of snipping away the old bandages. The young nurse, who was only a green belt, noticed Davis massaging his arm and said, ‘Is that still bothering you? Would you like the doctor to look at it?’
‘N-No. It’s n-nothing,’ he stuttered, holding his hand still but not removing it.
‘Have a look at what?’ I demanded, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away.
‘How did you get that?’ I asked, as he pulled his hand free from my grasp and placed it back over the mark on his upper arm.
He glowered at the young nurse and the older one took a step backwards, holding a pair of scissors towards me. Davis hyperventilated, his face reddening alarmingly, and his body jerked backwards and forwards.
‘I asked you a question, Davis,’ I yelled at him. ‘How did you get the mark on your arm?’
He took a long slow breath, staring at the pattern on the quilt over his legs. ‘I banged it,’ he replied. ‘In the garage. I banged it.’
The PC outside had managed to find himself a cup of coffee. ‘You haven’t time for that,’ I told him, holding the door to Davis’s room open so I didn’t lose sight of him for a second. ‘Radio HQ straight away. Tell them to get a photographer here, as soon as possible. Then find out where Superintendent Isles is and tell him Charlie Priest wants a word, urgent.’
He dashed off to a window, where the reception was better, and I went back inside. It wasn’t necessary – he was already under arrest for attempted murder – but I did it just the same. I wanted to see their faces. I said, ‘K. Tom Davis, I am arresting you for the murder of Lisa Davis. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in co
urt. Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’
There was a chair for a visitor in the corner. I sat on it, hoping the photographer wouldn’t be long. The marks had been on Davis’s arm for twelve days but I didn’t want my case thwarted by a miracle recovery. I rocked back on two legs, leaning against the wall at an impossible angle, watching him, wondering if I’d still be able to make it to Annabelle’s for supper. I wanted to – I deserved it – but there was work to do, and people to talk to. Happy, happy, happy, happy talk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The waiter slid Annabelle’s chair underneath her and, when she was settled, lowered the huge leather-bound menu into her hands. She was wearing her purple suit, no make-up, no blouse visible, no jewellery. If the architecture is right, you don’t need decoration. Her hair had grown longer, and she’d tied it up on the top of her head. I dragged my eyes away to study the menu the waiter was manoeuvring into my grasp.
It could have been The Book of Kells, hand illuminated, written with the imagination of a Stephen King, but it was only a menu. I studied it for key words, like chicken, or steak.
Annabelle leant across and whispered, ‘Can we afford this, Charles? There are no prices in my menu.’
I smiled at her, saying, ‘Don’t worry about it. I think the prices in mine are for two.’
‘Ho ho,’ she laughed. ‘You will be lucky.’
The wine waiter brought the bottle we’d ordered earlier and went through the usual ritual. I waved a hand for him just to pour it. When he’d gone, Annabelle said, ‘You were telling me about K. Tom Davis. So how did you prove it was him?’
‘Right,’ I replied. ‘It was all down to highly skilled detective work.’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Absolutely. I took a SOCO round to Broadside – Justin’s house – and he cut a slice of apple that was just the right thickness. Don’t ask me how he worked that out. Justin offered it to the parrot – Joey – who promptly bit straight through it and ate the piece. So he tried again, this time with a piece of turnip. Joey sank his beak into that and either didn’t like it or it was too tough for him, so he let go. SOCO sliced into the turnip and unfolded it, and voilà! A perfect imprint of Joey’s beak. Have you ever studied a parrot’s beak?’
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