by Bill Kitson
Clara conceded the point reluctantly. ‘It’s intriguing, I grant you, but it still doesn’t amount to much.’
‘There’s another thing about the wire. If Vickers did buy piano wire, that argues premeditation, as does taking her into Helm Woods to kill her. So, how did he persuade her to go with him? The prosecution case is that Vickers got overcome with lust, raped her and then got scared she’d tell her mother. Knowing that, he panicked and strangled her. There’s a huge contradiction in that argument.’
‘I see what you mean, although it isn’t conclusive. What do you intend to do?’
‘Nothing until we’ve spoken to Vickers. I want to look him in the eye before I form a judgement.’
There was another curious fact Nash had noticed about the case but he decided to keep it to himself.
Nash’s mobile chirped to signal an incoming message. He read the text slowly and groaned.
‘Bad news?’
‘Not really. At least, I don’t think so.’ He read aloud, ‘“Michael, going to France on business. Back Friday. What about weekend? X.”’
Clara fought to restrain her laughter. ‘That sounds like good news.’
‘It would be, if I could remember the girl’s name.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Gino’s fortieth birthday party. You know, from La Giaconda.’
‘The answer’s simple. Go to La Giaconda and ask Gino.’
‘I can’t do that! Most of the guests were either his or Maria’s family.’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realize. That could be difficult. I don’t suppose it’s etiquette in Italian society to say, “I had a great time at your party. Afterwards, I gave your cousin a good shagging. Would you tell me her name?”’
‘Not if you want to stay healthy it isn’t.’
‘First time you’ve visited Felling?’ the prison officer asked Nash and Mironova.
Nash nodded. ‘My job usually finishes when the judge passes sentence.’
‘That happened to Vickers a long time ago.’
‘What’s he been like?’
‘A pain in the arse. Nobody likes Category 43s even when they’re quiet, and Vickers certainly hasn’t been quiet. Forever writing letters and trying to stir up a campaign to prove his innocence. He pestered anyone he thought might show an interest, not that it did any good.’
‘The others gave him a hard time, I understand?’
‘Funny you should say that. There was a load of aggro in the early days – usual treatment. His food was doctored regularly – not the usual stuff though. Three times he’d to be pumped out; been poisoned. He was beaten up half a dozen times, knifed twice. In the worst incident he nearly died; he was on life support for three days. After that he was watched pretty carefully. Then suddenly the trouble stopped, almost as if someone had ordered it. I mentioned it to Vickers and he laughed. He said, “Oh, it won’t happen again. I’ve arranged it,” and you know what? He was right. As you say, they go out of their way to make life unpleasant for sex offenders but I can’t explain why Vickers escaped the treatment. It’s almost as if they thought he got a rough deal. Why they should think that, God knows.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘They’re not usually far wrong; that’s what intrigues me. Even now I have doubts.’
‘Why?’
‘About six months back, I read the story in one of those true crime magazines. It carried a photo of the girl – Stacey, wasn’t it? I got a hell of a shock when I saw it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d seen that photo. Vickers keeps it in his cell. He has a stand-up photo wallet; photo of his parents on one side, the girl on the other. I know all sex killers are perverts but I’ve never heard of one keeping a photo of his victim. Maybe a porno type, but this is more like a photo you’d keep of your wife or girlfriend. I reckon it’d take a really sick mind to keep a photo like that. However hard I try, I can’t make it fit with the Vickers I know. Anyway, you’ll meet him in a few minutes; judge for yourselves.’
Nash waited until they were on the return journey before asking Clara, ‘What do you make of Vickers now?’
‘I don’t know. I came away wondering if we’d achieved anything, or if our visit was a waste of time. I keep wondering if we’ve actually met the real Gary Vickers.’
‘You mean because he was so quiet?’
‘Quiet! Mike, I’ve known deaf mutes make more noise. He never volunteered a statement, made a spontaneous remark or contradicted us. Where was the trouble-maker who continuously made a nuisance of himself? Where was the man who pestered the press, the radio and TV? Where was the angry man who wrote screeds of letters asking to be cleared? Above all, why did he sit quietly in front of us and fail to protest his innocence? All he did was stare at us and answer in monosyllables.’
‘Yes, I found that intriguing. He was obviously not scared of us. But then, why should he be? The law’s already punished him. As to why he didn’t proclaim his innocence, he probably reckons he’d be wasting his breath, seeing who we are. But I agree, I reckon we’re a long way from having met the real Gary Vickers, let alone finding out what makes him tick. There’s one question I’d have liked to have asked, but it’ll wait until Vickers feels able to talk freely.’
‘What was that?’
‘I want to know why Vickers made all that fuss. You just listed the people he canvassed to get his case looked at. There’s one glaring omission, and frankly I’m at a loss to explain it.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘We know Vickers is well off. The file says he got a big insurance payout after his parents were killed. Plus his father had life cover on the mortgage, so that got redeemed. Vickers has paid for a property maintenance company to look after the house whilst he’s been inside. That won’t have been cheap. In other words, he has ample resources at his disposal. So why has he never appealed against his conviction? If he’s as innocent as he makes out, that would be the first thing he’d want to do.’
‘Does that mean you think he is guilty?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. On balance I believe he probably is, but there’s a whole raft of unanswered questions. And that’s making me uncomfortable. If he isn’t guilty, why not appeal? Why court the publicity when he knows it won’t lead anywhere?’ Nash thought for a moment. ‘Unless he was sending a message. You heard what the prison officer said about the attacks stopping suddenly. Perhaps there was an order given for them to be discontinued. Maybe Vickers did all that protesting to let people know he was on their case.’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘One reason would be to stop the punishment he’d been getting. If that was so, it worked. And it would explain why Vickers was so confident he wouldn’t be attacked again. Apart from that, I’d only be guessing. Perhaps he kept quiet during his trial and didn’t go for a formal appeal because that would have required him to give evidence. If he remained silent because he was shielding someone, that might explain his actions. I checked the file after we talked to the warder and, guess what? All the fuss Vickers made began after he was attacked.’
‘Sorry, I don’t see how that’s significant?’
‘Suppose Vickers was protecting somebody and found out that the person he was shielding had paid someone to top him. He had death threats, remember. That might have been the spark that set him off on his campaign.’
‘But his campaign fell short of an appeal.’
‘That ties in with him sending a message. An appeal needs solid evidence. Vickers isn’t stupid. He’d know he didn’t stand a chance of clearing his name. So he doesn’t appeal, he just makes a nuisance of himself. If I’m right, that also explains his insistence in returning to Helmsdale.’
‘You think he has an agenda?’
‘Yes, and I’ve an idea what it is. I think Vickers wants to settle matters with whoever ordered him to be killed. I think he believes they’re responsible for the girl’s death.’
‘You really have serious doubts about his guilt don’t you?’
‘In some ways I do. What the prison officer told us about the photo worries me too. That’s not the action of a guilty man. There’s one thought that scares the pants off me, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You remember I asked him why he wants to come back to Helmsdale? Although he didn’t reply, he was looking at me as I said it. There was an expression in his eyes I found frightening. It was the closest I came to getting a reaction from him.’
‘What sort of expression?’
‘It was like a boxer before he steps into the ring or a soldier going into action. Psychedup for the battle ahead. Unless I read him wrong, Vickers is going back expecting there to be trouble. In fact, I believe he’ll provoke it. Maybe he no longer cares what happens? Or maybe he sees it as the only way the truth will come out. Either way, I’m sure of one thing. We’re in for one hell of a summer.’
Chapter three
‘Councillor Appleyard?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Carl Rathmell here. I thought you might like to join me for lunch at my place. I’m inviting one or two friends. I believe our discussion might prove mutually beneficial. What do you say?’
‘That’s very kind. When do you suggest?’
‘Are you free tomorrow?’
When Appleyard arrived, the gravel sweep in front of Rathmell’s house was almost full. Alongside several luxury cars were some run-of-the-mill vehicles, including a worse-for-wear Toyota pick-up.
Rathmell opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Councillor. We’re in the drawing room. Follow me.’
Appleyard glanced round the wide hall. Everything suggested wealth, status and power. He’d heard that Carlton Rathmell, Member of European Parliament, had married into one of the richest families in the county. Seemingly, the report wasn’t exaggerated.
Heads turned as they entered. Appleyard recognized several guests at a glance. His host performed introductions.
As Appleyard joined in the social chit-chat, he speculated on those present. Rathmell’s agent seemed the most obvious. The two businessmen, heads of local electronics and plastics firms, were no surprise. Slightly more obscure was the presence of a trade union convenor, a man well known for his outspoken views.
Two others seemed totally out of place. Jake Fletcher, a building contractor with a reputation for toughness, who’d worked on several of Appleyard’s properties. Their business relationship had been more than satisfactory. Appleyard couldn’t imagine how Rathmell was acquainted with the builder, whose upbringing on the Westlea council estate was a world away from these surroundings.
The last guest caused Appleyard to give up speculating. Why Rathmell would need an alliance with a senior police officer, he couldn’t imagine.
The conversation over lunch was more small talk, although here and there politics entered via questions from one or other of the diners. Rathmell and Appleyard were naturally expected to reply to these. Both took their part, but the whole business was managed so skilfully that Appleyard didn’t suspect an ulterior motive.
It was only when they were having coffee that Rathmell provided an explanation. ‘Gentlemen,’ the MEP began. ‘With one exception,’ Rathmell smiled apologetically at Appleyard, ‘you all know the reason for this gathering, and most of you know Councillor Appleyard. Before I go further, I need everyone’s reassurance that we’re of the same mind.’
Rathmell’s remarks were greeted with a chorus of approval. He turned his attention to Appleyard. ‘It’s time to put our cards on the table, Frank.’ Rathmell sipped his coffee. ‘We propose to create a new political entity. A break from the traditional parties involved in that sham at Westminster. We intend to create a social force that will attract people disaffected by politics. We mean to step outside the existing structure. It will cause disapproval and condemnation. That won’t bother us. If it didn’t, I’d be worried we weren’t doing it right. We believe our radical policies will appeal to voters. They’ll bring us to the forefront of British politics and sweep the others into the wilderness.’ He gestured to his agent. As the man filled Rathmell’s cup, the MEP continued. ‘The average Englishman feels trapped and powerless. What happens on their own doorstep is beyond their control.’
Appleyard listened intently. He’d attempted to put across similar fears in council, but met only hostility. It felt good to hear someone voicing the same concerns.
‘I agree,’ Appleyard told his host approvingly. ‘I’ve longed to find someone prepared to take a lead in such matters.’
Appleyard’s words were greeted with smiles of satisfaction. They’d definitely made the right choice.
Rathmell continued. ‘Local people see politicians toadying to incomers and resent it. They see council officials bending over backwards to give immigrants the assistance they need. They see foreigners getting benefits locals aren’t entitled to. Crime on the Westlea and similar estates is out of control. Ask Jake. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have needed a sign on his vans that there were no tools left inside overnight. Now, it’s dangerous for a woman to walk along the street at night because foreigners have the wrong impression as to what that signifies. The police have neither the manpower nor the willpower to combat crime on the estates.’
Rathmell turned to the police officer. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds like criticism, Martin. I have great admiration for your officers, but they lack the necessary support. They need a judicial system that doesn’t protect the guilty and a sentencing policy that doesn’t make them a laughing stock. They’ve lost control of the streets.’
The policeman threw up his hands despairingly. ‘Once, I’d have argued with you. If any of you have any doubts about what Carl has just said, my presence here should cast them aside.’
Appleyard leaned forward in his chair, his face animated. ‘You’re dead right. I know from constituents how bad things are. But what’s to be done? Nobody has come close to identifying the problem, let alone suggesting a solution.’
‘The only way is by forcing the issue. Bad has to become worse before anyone will act. Look at the symptoms. Those who get the best treatment are the immigrants, legal or otherwise, the asylum seekers and those who are already a drain on society.
‘We’ve just paid millions for that smart new facility for travellingpeople to the east of Helmsdale. Do the gypsies use it? No way. Instead you see them camped on every bit of grass verge. Their caravans are unsightly, they leave litter and God knows what other unpleasantness behind.
‘Go into the Good Buys convenience store on the Westlea and listen to the conversation. You’d struggle to hear a Yorkshire accent. You’d be more likely to hear Latvian, Polish or some Baltic tongue. Even the shopkeeper’s an immigrant. If we don’t see action soon, there’ll be trouble on a big scale.’
‘How can it be prevented?’ As Appleyard spoke, he wondered how Rathmell knew so much about the Westlea.
‘It may already be too late. But I’m not sure it should be stopped. Not completely. We need direct action to focus on the problem, to highlight how serious the situation’s become.’
‘Direct action?’ There was concern, but no alarm in Appleyard’s voice. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘If folk can’t communicate their fears by orthodox methods, they’ll use other means. It’s the only way left open to them. Let the authorities know how deep their resentment goes and send a message to the parasites that they’re no longer welcome.’
‘It sounds like a recipe for trouble,’ Appleyard commented.
‘Sometimes the cure’s as painful as the complaint. Our task would be to co-ordinate and guide the local population so they can act without fear of reprisal.’
‘How do we go about it?’
Rathmell leaned forward. ‘We,’ he gestured round the group, ‘need someone on the inside. Somebody who’s trusted, maybe even feared. If you and I control the policy, a man like that would plan the actions and ens
ure they were carried out successfully.’
‘He’s talking about me, Frank,’ Jake grinned.
Two hours later Rathmell watched the cars leaving.As the lead vehicle turned onto the main road he picked up his mobile. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘It went like a dream. Appleyard and Jake will start work tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, are you going to be free?’ He listened. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. My beloved wife has taken her money to London on a shopping spree. Usual time and place?’
Billy was excited. The younger of the Floyd brothers and unarguably volatile, Billy had suffered as a child. That changed when he was twelve. He’d been watching TV at home. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. Billy’s parents had gone to the pub. Billy’s sister was baby-sitting.
She’d interpreted her duties freely. She’d made Billy a sandwich and disappeared upstairs with her boyfriend. After they’d been gone half an hour, Billy decided to see what they were doing. He forgot that the bedroom door creaked. Confronted by his sister’s angry boyfriend, Billy stared in wonder at the huge thing sticking from between his legs. He failed to see the punch. The pain in his gut underlined the message as clearly as the accompanying words. ‘Get back downstairs, you pervert, or I’ll stick this up your arse.’
Billy crept back downstairs. A film had started on TV during his absence. As he watched a couple on the screen doing what his sister and her boyfriend had been doing, Billy’s interest grew. As the tower block they were in caught fire, his interest turned to excitement. Billy discovered that his thing was getting bigger too. Thereafter Billy’s confused mind linked the conflagration of fire with the passion of lovemaking. A year later he put this to the test. He took a girl from his class across the fields to a barn. He told her he’d seen some newly born calves. When they were inside, Billy forced himself on the girl. He’d grown and filled out in the last year and the girl was no match for him. Despite her muffled screams and writhing protest, he managed to achieve what he’d seen his sister enjoy. Just before his climax, Billy paused and withdrew. The girl was quiet now, barely breathing.
