by David Carter
‘I feel like I am about to witness an execution.’
‘Nothing like that,’ said Walter. ‘All we are trying to do is serve justice.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ’You’re right, of course,’ and in the next moment they were out of the room, and heading for the stairs to take them down one flight, to inspect a line-up of faces that Corla Revelation would never forget.
Downstairs, Karen opened the door to the room with the false mirror, and Walter stood back and beckoned Corla inside. She smiled and stepped through, and caught her first glimpse of men, all in a line, all waiting on her inspection and decision.
‘Stand still please,’ they all heard Bob Barnes say. ‘Please raise your number board and hold steady in front of your chest.’
The boards went up. Faces went dull and disinterested as they always did, as if inspected men always imagined an ordinary face might help. Walter placed his palm on the small of Corla’s back and eased her to the end of the room. ‘Let’s start with number one,’ he said gently. ‘Take your time, there’s no hurry, take all the time in the world.’
‘And they can’t see me?’
Walter shook his head. ‘Not one jot.’
Corla nodded and stood closer to the glass. She studied the face of number one, the Job Centre ringer. He was quite a good looking fellow, a little younger than her, but the kind of man who always gravitated towards Corla on a night out, and she might let him buy her a whisky if she was in the right mood. But of course she wasn’t there to inspect potential dates, though weirdly it had that feel to it. Speed dating, with potential criminals. Yes, she liked him, but he wasn’t the man who’d come out of Belinda Cooper’s house at one o’clock in the morning, or whatever time it was.
On to number two. Derek Nesbitt. Right on cue he grinned at her through the glass, as if sensing his moment in the limelight had come. Corla took a step back, and glanced at Walter as if for reassurance.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He can’t see you. Keep going.’
It wasn’t number two. He was too young, and not strong boned enough, and she didn’t fancy him one bit.
Number three was Ronald Speight, the tallest of them all. There was something mean looking about this guy, and maybe he even resembled the archetypal picture that some people have of a murderer. She didn’t like the look of him at all. He appeared to her as something of a bully, though whether one can tell such things on looks alone was debateable. He looked pushy and cocksure and was all the things she hated about men. There was no doubt he would be able to look after himself in certain situations, and look after other people too, if the feeling took him, but Corla did not fancy him at all, but neither did she think he was the man she had seen coming out of Belinda’s house.
Number four was the Mirror man. Even though he had a decent alibi for Belinda’s death, Karen harboured hopes that he had somehow managed to slip away from Grizelda in the dead of night to commit the crime. She held her right hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. It would be brilliant if Corla Revelation could ID Miroslav Rekatic, not simply because they would proceed to charge him with murder, but also because it would finally let David Baker off the hook.
The thought had occurred to Karen that he, David, would have looked right at home amongst the other suspects, and that didn’t bear thinking about. She and Walter observed Corla taking a definite pace toward the glass, as she stared through at the Mirror man. Was there something there? Had she seen something in him that struck a chord? She was certainly taking a lot longer over Miro than any of the others.
Corla sighed and shook her head, and took a sideways step to the right, to be confronted by the bouffant hairdo of Gareth Williams. She pulled a startled face and took a second look. It detracted or distracted from his slightly fattening face. Had it been him, retreating from the house in Berryland Avenue? He was dressed right, but he didn’t look right, and he looked better off financially then any of the others, not that that meant anything. He also looked married, and Corla Revelation had experienced umpteen men who had said they were single when they were not. So much so, she could spot them a mile off. It wasn’t him, she would have liked it to have been, and fleetingly that potential reward money came back into her mind, but all to no avail. There would be no bounty paid out on bouffant man.
Another pace to the right. Another bland man’s face, Iain Donaldson, the geography teacher, though Corla was not to know that. He was the right height and almost the right build, but the wrong body shape and the wrong body language, as if he didn’t believe in himself. He wasn’t broad enough or strong enough, but he was involved in the case all right, her gifts told her that, but he was not the man confidently strolling down Berryland Avenue in the wee small hours.
Another step to the right, and there was Flanagan, and there was danger. Here was a man who could kill women, she instinctively knew that, but had he killed Belinda Cooper? Maybe. It was possible. The height was right. The build was right. The body language was spot on; this was a man quietly confident in his own skin, a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. The best looking man there by a distance, in Corla’s eyes, the kind of man she could have fallen in love with, even if he was a little younger than her.
A dangerous man too, that was self evident, but also an incredibly exciting man, the kind of guy women gravitate towards in pubs and clubs, maybe without even realising it. She stood stock-still and stared into his face. His neat hair looked recently cut, his dark eyes staring directly ahead, rarely blinking. Number seven was a man she would have liked to have known, but was he a killer?
Had he murdered Belinda Cooper with a baseball bat, as the press said? Was he the man who had looked straight at her in Berryland Avenue before turning and walking away? She so wanted it to be number seven, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t positive, as Walter had reminded her that she must be. She couldn’t possibly ID him, she couldn’t pick him out.
Pity really, for she already knew through her peripheral vision, that it was not number eight, an irrelevance of a man, too nondescript, too weak, too much of a loser, too obviously not right, and probably a police plant, on reflection a little like number one. He clearly did not belong there. She glanced at Walter and pursed her lips.
‘Well?’ he said, hopefully.
‘I need to get closer to them,’ she said.
‘You mean you want to go inside?’
Corla bobbed her head and said, ‘I need to smell them.’
‘But you weren’t close enough to the man that early morning to smell him, were you?’
‘Of course not. I want to smell the guilt on them, I need to smell the fear.’
‘Okay, if that’s what you want.’
‘Will you come in with me?’
‘Yes, of course, all the way.’
Walter nodded at Karen and she went on the intercom and said, ‘They are coming inside, Bob.’
They watched Bob nod, and stare at his charges and say, ‘Best behaviour now, lads, ladies present,’ and unbelievably all the men stood up straighter, shoulders back, chests out, a man thing, as if they were about to experience an inspection by the Queen. They probably didn’t even know they were doing it.
Corla paused at the door and said, ‘May I take your arm?’
‘Of course,’ and she linked Walter’s chunky forearm.
They entered and went to the far end of the room without glancing into faces. They turned to face the parade. Corla pursed her lips and looked upward. A dainty sniff at number one, she meant it literally, thought Walter, she was going to smell them all. Mothballs and over-strong soap. It wasn’t him. A stooge. Number two, Nesbitt, grinning, sniffing, expensive aftershave, probably imagined it would bring him all he desired; yet she instinctively knew it did not. It wasn’t him.
Another pace along and number three, the tall one, Speight. He smelt of musty and dusty offices, and musty and dusty houses, where an absent wife hadn’t kept up with the cleaning. But there was more to it than
that. Arrogance and ignorance, for starters. Corla shivered and it wasn’t cold in there, the heating was full on. She didn’t like the man, in fact she couldn’t stand being near him, and that was often an indicator of a violent and out of control guy. But no matter how much she might have liked to, she couldn’t ID him, for he was clearly not the man. Simply too tall. Better not to waste a single second on the cretin.
Man number four, Rekatic, was totally different. He smelt of women. Maybe he had sneaked some of his wife’s perfume, or maybe there was more to it than that. This was a different kind of man altogether, and possibly dangerous too. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Fear and loathing oozed from his pores. He looked guilty, and he smelt guilty, and he knew it too, a man with many sins to conquer, but was he the man she had seen in the street? Deep down she knew he did not like women, enjoyed hurting them, even. Corla had met more than her fair share of such brutes. But that worked both ways. She didn’t like him either, and she imagined many other women would feel the same. It would have been so easy to finger him too, and maybe he deserved it, but sadly, he was not the man she saw.
Number five, the man with the flourishing hair. He smelt of gel, and cosmetics, probably spent a goodly portion of his lunch hour inspecting the latest products in the high street chemist, something of a supercilious guy who imagined he knew everything, and thought that money could and would solve all the world’s problems. Up close and personal, she thought she might have met him or seen him before, though she could not place where. She peered up into his dark eyes. He grinned back. He imagined she fancied him. What a prick!
On to number six, Iain Donaldson. He smelt of books, and domineering women, probably an insurance clerk or something similar, mused Corla. He couldn’t murder a woman if he tried. Corla doubted he could fight his way out of a paper bag. A timewaster, and a waste of time.
But number seven was not a waste of time. Michael Flanagan, he of the recent haircut. She wondered why he had done that, and how long his hair had been before he’d had it trimmed. He could kill; she knew that from the first moment, though whether he had killed Belinda, she still harboured doubts. She tried to sniff him without appearing to do so. There was nothing there, so she was reduced to a more pronounced sniff that none of those men present could have missed. Still very little, just that tiny trace of man.
He wasn’t sweating, and he wasn’t nervous. Here was a man like Geronimo who could go places and leave little or no trace of his presence. Here was a man totally in control of his own body, and what a fine and strong body it was too, powerful and threatening. Corla lingered. She imagined him wielding a baseball bat. What a sight that would have been. Terrifying, but exciting too. She didn’t want to move along the line. Yet still her overlong inspection and presence did not unnerve him. He wasn’t only strong in body, but incredibly strong mentally, and that was a rare combination. God had been unusually generous when bestowing gifts on this gentleman.
She wanted to ask him if he had murdered Belinda Cooper, but guessed that would have been beyond her brief, and though his answer would undoubtedly have been a curt denial, she could have deduced things from the intonation in his words. Maybe she was in the wrong job. Maybe the man Darriteau should make an appointment and employ her for her expertise. For a brief second she let her mind run riot.
‘Corla,’ whispered Walter, easing her on to the final fellow.
He smelt of cheap burgers and overdone onions, probably unemployed, possibly unemployable, maybe hauled in from the local Job Centre, imagined Corla, a place filler, a deliberate attempt to mislead her by people who didn’t believe in her gifts, a red herring who stunk out the place. She shook her head, and Walter said, ‘Thank you, Bob, just give us a few more minutes.’
Back in the soundproof room next door Walter and Karen glanced at Corla. Walter said, ‘Well, what did you make of that?’
She scratched her chin and rubbed her warts and said nothing.
‘Was he there?’ asked Karen, softly. ‘The man you saw coming out of Belinda’s place?’
‘It’s none of them,’ she said. ‘But it’s all of them.’
Walter jerked his head back and took a second take of her face, and said, ‘I don’t follow. How do you mean?’
‘They’re all involved in the case, aren’t they? Except the two ringers you threw in at each end, they were just so obvious. But all the others are in there somewhere, and at least two of them are quite capable of killing women.’
‘Unfortunately we are not here to discuss conjecture or theory,’ said Walter. ‘Illuminating though that might be.’
‘Pity,’ she said. ‘I could tell you things.’
‘Which two?’ asked Karen.
‘Karen!’ said Walter, and he slowly shook his head.
‘Four and seven, and maybe number three as well.’
‘The only thing that matters is whether or not the man you saw leaving Belinda’s house is in that line-up,’ said Walter, and he pointed at the glass.
‘No!’ she said ‘He wasn’t there, you are looking in the wrong place.’
Walter sighed and shook his head.
Karen’s backbone tingled. The worst result she’d feared had come to pass. Walter turned the intercom back on. ‘Thank you, Bob,’ he said. ‘That is all for today, thank you all for your attendance and patience, everyone is excused. Good afternoon.’
‘Thank Christ for that!’ said Speight, ‘and where’s my fucking apology?’
‘You’ll wait till hell freezes over before you get that,’ said Flanagan.
Speight nodded and said, ‘Anyone fancy a quick pint?’
Gareth Williams, Iain Donaldson, and Miroslav Rekatic made their excuses and left, but the other five were up for it, and they made a beeline for the nearest boozer, amongst much loud and cocky conversation.
Walter and Karen took Corla back upstairs and Jenny produced tea without waiting to be asked.
‘So sorry,’ said Corla.
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ said Walter.
‘I feel as if I have let you down.’
‘Not at all, if the man wasn’t there, he wasn’t there.’
‘Some of the others were involved though, weren’t they?’
‘I really can’t discuss that.’
‘No, of course you can’t.’
‘Finish your tea and I’ll get one of the young men to run you home.’
Corla nodded and drank the tea.
‘Nicky! Can you run Miss Revelation home?’
‘Course, Guv. My pleasure.’
Corla and Karen and Walter shared a look of gentle disappointment, as Walter said. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I could help you, you know.’
Walter bobbed his head and escorted Corla to the door. Karen left them to it, for they seemed awfully pally all of a sudden.
Twenty minutes later Hector came back in. His face was swollen, his top lip crooked like some kind of fifties rock star.
Gibbons looked across at his face and said, ‘That’s a big improvement.’
‘Funny funny!’
‘What did you have done?’
‘Two fillings. All done with now, thank God. How did it go here?’
‘Drew a blank, though Karen seemed to think it was worthwhile.’
‘I did, as it happens,’ she said, ‘I think she’s a talented lady, that Corla,’ and she turned to Walter and said, ‘Guv, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’
‘Guv, Guv!’ yelled Jenny, and everyone turned to her.
She set the phone down and came running.
‘You’ll never guess what!’
‘What?’
‘That was forensics, an update report on Belinda’s house.’
‘And?’
‘They have a fingerprint match from Bel’s bedroom.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet they have, and it will be Williams, Speight, or Donaldson.’
‘No Guv, that�
�s the crazy thing, it’s Michael Flanagan’s print!’
There was a moment’s stunned silence as communal brains in-took fresh information.
Karen breathed out heavy.
Gibbons said, ‘Oh no, I couldn’t bear it, surely Hector hasn’t been right all along.’
Walter pursed his lips as if about to whistle, though no sound came. Then he said, ‘That is interesting, Jenny, mind you, he could have left the print there anytime. Get on to the tag people again; double double double check to see if his tag could have been faulty. If he was there in Berryland Avenue at the time of the murder the tag must have been interfered with.’
‘Triple check even,’ muttered Gibbons.
‘On it, Guv,’ said Jenny.
‘I wonder why Corla didn’t pick him out,’ said Walter, thinking aloud.
‘You saw her, Guv, you saw how close she was to doing so.’
‘Mmm, yes, but she didn’t though, did she?’
‘What now?’ asked Karen.
Walter glanced at the clock. Nearly half past six. Michael Flanagan would have to be home within the next half hour.
‘You and I are going to pay a visit to Mr Flanagan’s neat little house in Christleton, where we are going to arrest him in connection with the murder of Belinda Cooper, and maybe Eleanor Wright as well.’
‘Get in, Guv!’ said Gibbons. ‘A result!’
‘Not yet, Gibbons, not yet.’
Hector looked incredibly smug.
‘Do you want us to wait on?’ asked Gibbons.
Walter bobbed his head and said, ‘Please, just until we get back, you can stay on as long as you like after that.’
‘Karen!’
‘I know, Guv, a car and an unmarked one at that.’
‘You got it, and Jenny, can you make sure we have the full forensic report as soon as poss, so we can have a quick scan through it.’
‘On it, Guv.’
Thirty-Four
Outside, it was already full dark and getting noticeably colder. The streets were still busy. On the short trip to Christleton, Walter said, ‘What were you going to say earlier?’ ‘Oh, it’s not important, Guv, another time, maybe,’ and that fitted in well, for they were already pulling in close to Flanagan’s house. Karen doused the lights and said, ‘He’s in.’
