LOOT & I'M WITH THE BAND: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series by B.L.Faulkner. Cases 5 & 6 (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad cases Book 3)

by Barry Faulkner

  ‘Christ!’ was the only word Palmer could utter as small bits of the boat fell from the sky all around them. A gold bar fell and clanged to the ground beside him. A few more hit the quayside flagstones among a shower of mixed wood and metal that was until a few moments ago part of an expensive motor boat,

  ‘Cover your head, Sergeant!’ he shouted to Singh as they squatted, their arms protecting their heads as more gold bars hit the quayside and others plopped into the harbour waters in front of them. As quick as it had happened, it was all over. Slowly Palmer and Singh stood up and looked out onto the harbour where the burning base of a once expensive motor boat was all that was left floating on an oily sea.

  Handly and his men were attending one of their own, who had taken a hit on the legs from the flying wood.

  ‘Is he okay?’ Palmer asked with concern.

  ‘Yes, fine sir. He’ll be a bit bruised and have a couple of stitches in a cut, but other than that no problem. Not the worst injury we’ve ever had, sir.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ Palmer answered.

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be much left of the Leytons though. I can’t see anybody surviving those explosions.’

  ‘No,’ Palmer said, thinking the same thing. He turned to Singh. ‘You okay Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes sir, I’m good.’

  ‘Right, radio Jones and tell him to cordon off the whole harbour; absolutely nobody to come in. Then tell him to get an Underwater Search team down here pronto – two or three teams if he can. Warn them that there are two bodies – or what’s left of them – and two hundred gold bars in that water somewhere. Oh, and get the Border Patrol boat to come in and seal off the harbour entrance from the sea – no vessels to be allowed in or out. The whole place is a restricted crime scene now.’

  He stood pensively looking at the burning remnants bobbing on the waves.

  ‘What a bloody awful end to the case. Just shows you what greed can do.’

  He stooped and picked up a gold bar off the quayside and turned it over in his hands.

  ‘Pure greed.’

  ‘Guv, look.’

  Gheeta nodded towards the water lapping the harbour wall at their feet, where Palmer’s battered trilby was gently rising and falling on the waves. Next to it, a sodden wig was doing the same.

  Chapter 54

  ‘Isn’t it lovely? I’ll put it away until he’s old enough to appreciate it.’

  Mrs P. was showing Palmer a gold link bracelet with ‘GEORGE’ engraved on the name plate.

  ‘It must have cost Benji quite a lot you know, it’s not a cheap one.’

  It was a token of Benji’s appreciation for Mrs P.’s help in his ‘hip replacement’ hour of need: a small thank you present for their latest grandson, one year old George – their tenth grandchild. Palmer wasn’t impressed.

  ‘He does know George is a boy, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he does. Boys wear bracelets these days, Justin. You’re so out of touch.’

  ‘That could have been made from stolen gold.’

  ‘Shut up, Justin. So could your teeth fillings.’

  Palmer hadn’t thought of that. How ironic would that be, eh? Him being one of the detectives on the edge of the Brinks-Mat gold heist caper, and now having some of it possibly filling his teeth. He smiled; he could live with that. But what if he was an FBI Agent with gold fillings? Could he live with that, knowing that a fair proportion of the US gold reserve was from recovered Nazi loot? And we all know where a high proportion of that came from…

  END

  CASE 6

  I’M WITH THE BAND

  Chapter 1

  Stag George was on autopilot. With forty-two years of touring with the band behind him, his body went through the live show from start to finish on autopilot. The crowd in front of the stage were just a tangled, frantically excited, jumping mass of out-of-focus heads and waving arms; it was all a blur. Perhaps he ought to have contact lenses fitted, or laser eye surgery; the band’s manager, Solly Brockheim, had been on at him to have one or the other for ages. Stag raised his guitar up into the air in front of him as he launched into his lead solo. He didn’t need lenses or surgery for that; he could play that damned solo blindfolded, same as he could play all their songs blindfolded come to that. One day he would count up how many live shows they’d played in the forty-two years the band had been going. Was it really forty-two years? Seemed like only yesterday that he and Rob Elliott on bass guitar started up their rock band and decided on the name Revolution. The name came from their intense belief that they were going to set the rock n’ roll world alight with their music. They hadn’t done too bad over all – five number one albums, and so many sold-out tours Stag had lost count; and still the fans filled the major venues to see them. And it began all those years ago, in Rob’s dad’s garage. It seemed like yesterday.

  Stag’s left arm was really aching. Thank God it was the final number. This bloody guitar is getting heavy now, holding it up in front for the solo. It never used to feel heavy, but then I never used to have an arthritic elbow. Getting too old for all this…

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Rob Elliott sidling up on his left, and Charley Frost the rhythm guitarist moving in on his right – both getting set for the big finale. Charley was on wages, like the drummer Sid Harley and the keyboard player Jon Madley, brought in over recent years to replace the other original members who had left; retired with their millions or packed off to an expensive rehab unit by their wives before all the money disappeared up their noses. There had been plenty of changes to Revolution’s line up over the years, but the fans didn’t seem to mind and still packed venues when they toured. I’m going to make this the last live tour was always the predominant thought in Stag’s mind, at the end of every live gig of every tour for the past ten years; but the internet and music downloads had made the band accessible to a whole new generation of fans and given them a whole new income stream, which was very nice. Stag had never been able to say no when Solly waved the promoter’s financial guarantees in front of him. Okay, just one more – then finish. And then there was always another one being offered. But this has got to be the last… It never was.

  The last bars of the finale were coming up, and all three guitarists hit the final chord in unison and raised their guitars above their heads as one; standing godlike as the pyrotechnics blasted out fire behind them, and compressed air cannons blew thousands of pieces of coloured tinsel into the air above the masses that floated down over their screaming heads.

  The stage lights dimmed, and from the wings the roadies hurried out to take the instruments off the band, while others draped thermal wraps round their shoulders and led them quickly off and away down a long dressing room corridor; out of the stage door, through a small autograph book-waving crowd, into the stretched limo and off back to the hotel suite. Another one done.

  There was never much chat in the limo on the way. After forty-two years and hundreds of gigs, there wasn’t anything new to say between the band members. Solly was usually the bouncy one, telling them what a good show it had been and how fantastic the merchandise sales were, and how the back catalogue sales were leaping up during the tour. Not that it really mattered when you’d got a few million in the bank already.

  Chapter 2

  Peter Brown looked out of place amongst the stage door autograph hunters. He stood at the back as they held out their books in the hope that one of the band would stop and sign. None of them ever did; the band was quite aware that most of the publicity photos being thrust towards them with a biro or felt tip were being held out by autograph dealers, and if they did sign one it would probably be up on eBay within the hour. So they never signed, which of course made their autographs more valuable, and the hunters more determined.

  Peter Brown knew this. In fact, he knew just about everything there was to know about the band. He knew how they formed, how they played for five years in the local pubs for nothing; how they ha
d had to use their day job wages to put diesel in the first old van they bought so that they could play venues further away; how they had slept in it for a fortnight when they played nine grotty clubs and pubs in London for no money, on the back of false promises from record label A &R men that they’d ‘come and have a look.’

  Peter Brown knew all this because Peter Brown had been their mate and manager – their first manager. Just a mate from school who liked the thought of being in ‘the music business’ and had taken care of the bookings, scamming free rooms for rehearsals, walking the streets and pestering the pubs and clubs to give them an ‘open spot’, usually an unpaid ten minutes somewhere in the evening; probably between the stripper and the filthy comedian who always closed the show in those days. He built their website too, ran it, and used most of his wages as an IT technician on keeping the old van running, and coughing up cash when an instrument broke or meals were needed.

  Peter Brown lived for that band. Now he was killing them.

  Chapter 3

  There was always a sense of emptiness at the end of a tour. Stag had never been able to fill the void that hit him every time he walked back into his fifth-floor apartment on the Battersea embankment and shut the door behind him. It was warm and inviting, and everything was just as he had left it eight weeks ago. He had a cleaning company that came in every week and gave it the once-over while he was on tour and made it ready for his return; they made sure the boiler hadn’t burst, the fridge was full of his favourite snacks, and things were all in order. But it still took him a few days to come down from major celebrity status to being just a bloke who liked a pint at the local and a take-away in front of the telly with his feet up and on his own.

  He stood looking out of the panoramic window over the Thames to Chelsea, where the night lights and neons flashed and beckoned. Not tonight though. Tonight, he would relish his own king-size bed, instead of a hotel bed that could range from the equivalent of sinking into a large marshmallow to laying on concrete. Then tomorrow? Well, that was the problem. What would he do tomorrow? Not a lot, that’s for certain. Perhaps go down to the local pub and catch up on the neighbourhood news, or take a stroll down the Kings Road. He wouldn’t be recognised – not after the wig and hair extensions had been removed by the band’s make-up artist after last night’s gig. He smiled to himself. In reality, Stag was as bald as a badger’s arse – or, in these days of political correctness, he was follically challenged. His trademark three foot pony tail was, in fact, completely false, and usually lived in his wardrobe with his ties. Quite a few times on stage, too much headbanging had started it to move around towards the front of his head, and Rob had had to catch his eye and signal with a little nod towards it. Stag would then move slowly to the back of the stage out of the main light glare, and a roadie would reposition the errant tail in the dim light.

  Rock n’ roll, eh? False hair, make-up, tight leather trousers that had to have talcum powder liberally sprinkled inside or he couldn’t get in or out of them, fake tan spray over the chest and any other visible body parts, embrocation rubbed into his dodgy knees before every gig; and now he had a skin-coloured elbow support bandage to aid lifting the guitar for the big finale. Yes, it was definitely time to pack up; he’d more than enough money to see him through his remaining years in good comfort. Better give it a day or two, and then tell Solly; and don’t let him talk you out of it this time, he told himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. He’d ordered a prawn and chicken biryani on his ‘Just Eat’ phone app on the way home – his favourite late night meal – and there was bottle or two of Chardonnay in the fridge to go with it, as well as several episodes of The Bridge to watch on ‘catch up’. The evening was sorted.

  Stag’s doorbell rang again. Okay, okay, hang on, thought Stag. He’d detoured through the kitchen on his way to answer it, plucking a bottle of the Chardonnay from the fridge and a glass from the kitchen cupboard to save time. But it was not his take-away that smiled at him when he opened the door.

  ‘Fucking hell! Pete Brown.’

  Stag recognised his old manager at once.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Hello, Stag. I was just passing, and I know the last tour just finished and I guessed you’d be taking it easy for a few days. If it’s inconvenient I’ll go, I only called on the off-chance.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Stag, pulling the door open wider. ‘I was just about to sit down. Thought you were the delivery chap – got an Indian ordered. Come in.’

  He beckoned Peter Brown inside and through to the lounge. What the hell does he want after all these years? thought Stag. The parting of the ways wasn’t exactly amicable. Hope he’s not on the cadge – skint and looking for a handout. Not going to go down that path. Christ, it’s been what – thirty years? Must be.

  ‘So how’s life treating you then, Pete ?’

  Shit, probably shouldn’t have asked that…

  ‘It’s okay, pretty steady… I’m good, can’t grumble.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  The bell rang again.

  ‘That’ll be my take-away, excuse me a moment.’

  It was the take-away. Stag returned from the door with his meal in a hanging bag and put it on the table next to the wine, which he opened. Peter Brown was out on the small balcony, looking out over the Thames.

  ‘Nice view, Stag. Good view of the boat race I bet, eh?’

  Stag laughed and joined him.

  ‘Yes, it’s not bad. You must come up and watch from here next time if it interests you. Can’t say it excites me much.’

  ‘No, nor me – but the wife is ex-Cambridge.’

  Peter Brown was putting his carefully thought-out plan into operation.

  ‘Wife? Are you a married man now then, Pete?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Peter Brown leant over the hip-high railings of the balcony and pointed down towards the pavement five floors below.

  ‘She’s waiting down by the street door. I wasn’t sure you’d be in, and if you were you might not want to see me. It wasn’t exactly a happy parting of the ways all those years ago.’

  He gave Stag an embarrassed smile.

  ‘But that’s all ancient history now, eh? You can see her down there.’

  Peter Brown leant over the railing and waved to somebody out of Stag’s view. Stag was beginning to wish he hadn’t invited Pete in, not if he’d now have to invite in the wife as well; all he wanted was a quiet evening in with a meal, wine and ‘catch-Up’ TV. He leant over beside Pete, thinking he’d better show willing and beckon the wife up.

  It was a mistake. Quick as a flash, Peter Brown was behind Stag and bending down, he clasped both Stag’s legs with his arms, and straightening up, propelled him over the railings. A split second later, a quick glance over confirmed the plan had worked. Stag’s body was impaled on the security railings at the front of the building between the basement flats and the street.

  Brown ducked inside quickly, took the meal bag from the table and pouring half a glass of wine, put them both on the small balcony table. Next, he took the wine bottle and emptied most of it down the kitchen sink, before putting it next to the glass and meal. Then, after wiping the glass and bottle clean of any prints, he was out of the apartment and down the stairs as fast as he could go. At the ground floor, he walked quickly along the residents’ corridor and exited the building from a side door a hundred yards away from the main entrance. He glanced back to where a small crowd was gathered around Stag’s body, and someone had had the decency to cover it with a coat as they waited for the police, ambulance and fire brigade.

  Peter Brown felt elated, alive, and very happy. He laughed out loud. Job done.

  Chapter 4

  Peter Brown talked to himself inside his head quite a lot. They didn’t care about you, they left you… All you did for them and they left you… They wouldn’t be anywhere without you… It’s your money, and they stole it… They deserve this, they deserve to die – they
do, they really do, it’s only fair and right… And by talking to himself, he only ever got a reply that agreed with him.

  This continual fixation of his right to some of the band’s financial success and status had grown over the years, and over time had morphed into his life’s obsession. It was like a court case: he’d put his case, argued his right, and then – being the victim, the judge, and the jury, he’d passed sentence. They had to die; the complete payback, the only justifiable verdict. No appeal would be allowed.

  He angrily remembered that awful time when the record label had called him in to say they wanted an experienced, professional manager for the band, and thank you for what you’ve done Pete, but goodbye. He was shocked, speechless at that – never had he imagined that could happen. They were a band of brothers; they’d survived the con artist promoters, the pay to play venues, the A&R rejections; and then, when they’d broken the surface and the air tasted good, what did they do? They killed me off. No other word for it, Your Honour, they killed me; and so, as murderers, they must pay the ultimate price.

  Two of them already had. Original band members Maurice Jade and Frank Moss were dead. Peter Brown had no quarrel with the newer members, just the original ones he’d spent eight years working his arse off for; eight years driving them around, hassling for gigs, taking the rejections on the chin and sugar coating them for the band: ‘Their A&R chap was at the gig and I rang him this morning. He says we are nearly there, and he’ll keep an eye on us – maybe do a pitch next year’ – the truth being that the chap hadn’t even bothered to turn up. Eight years of spending all his time and money on their shared dream. And then came the nightmare ending: ‘Thanks for what you’ve done Pete, but goodbye.’ Not even the offer of a roadie’s job; a complete end.