Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  ‘So I see,’ or at least the lights were on downstairs, though the curtains were drawn. ‘Make sure we seize his computer.’

  ‘For sure,’ she said, looking forward to getting inside it and checking it out.

  Walter felt deep into his raincoat pocket. The cold steel cuffs were there, ready and waiting for business, and Walter intended on using them. They went to the door and Karen rang the bell. A moment later a large shadowy figure appeared behind the glass. Flanagan opened the door and hiccupped and stared out.

  ‘Not you again, what do you want now?’

  He stank of beer.

  ‘Michael Flanagan, I am arresting you in connection with the murders of Belinda Cooper and Eleanor Wright,’ and before the guy could say anything at all, Walter reached forward and slipped the cuffs round Flanagan’s left wrist, and cuffed it, grabbed his right, and clipped it closed. Karen read him his rights.

  ‘You’ve just had me on an ID parade, for fuck’s sake! She didn’t pick me out. I’m innocent! What more do you want?’

  ‘New information has just come to light.’

  ‘What kind of new information? You’re trying to fit me up.’

  ‘All will be revealed back at the station. Karen, collect the computer. We are seizing that as evidence.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘We can.’

  Karen collected the computer from the lounge, as Flanagan slipped on some shoes. She glanced at him and said, ‘There are no pay and display girls skulking about upstairs, are there?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd!’

  ‘Anything else you need, medication or anything at all?’ asked Walter.

  ‘I’m not on bloody medication! It’s you lot who should be on the meds.’

  ‘Where are your keys?’ asked Walter.

  ‘On the ring, there,’ said Flanagan, nodding to some hooks beside the door. ‘It’s the fat bronze one.’

  Karen took it down and began turning everything off, TV, lights, cooker, where some kind of heavy and meaty dinner was on the go.

  ‘If you take me out of the house now I’m going to break my bloody tag-time.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that, we’ll let them know you are with us.’

  ‘You’d better! I don’t want to do extra time because of you, and I want to see a solicitor.’

  ‘All that can be arranged at the station. Do you want a jacket?’

  ‘Do I fuck!’

  ‘Language, Michael,’ said Walter. ‘No need for it.’

  Walter dragged Flanagan outside and put him in the back of the car. Karen carefully closed and locked the house up and joined them.

  ‘What about my key?’

  ‘All in good time. Let’s get back to the nick.’

  In the police station Karen turned on the recorder and said, ‘Interview with Michael Flanagan starting at 7.26pm,’ and she added the date, ‘I am Sergeant Karen Greenwood, also present is Inspector Walter Darriteau.’

  ‘I’m starving, I want something to eat, I missed my dinner.’

  ‘We’ll get something organised for you,’ said Walter.

  ‘And I want to see a solicitor.’

  ‘Do you have a solicitor?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t need one, it’s only because of you....’

  ‘Do you want me to get the Duty Solicitor?’ said Walter.

  Flanagan nodded and said, ‘I do, and I am not saying anything at all until he, or she, is right here beside me.’

  ‘Could be a long night,’ said Karen.

  ‘Suits me, sister, I couldn’t go out anyway, so it’s your social life that’s suffering, not mine.’

  He had a point there, and he knew it, as Karen momentarily thought of David Baker, and wondered where he was, and what he was doing, and what he was thinking.

  ‘How well did you know Belinda Cooper?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Oh no, you are not getting me on that, sliding questions in when you think I haven’t noticed.’

  ‘How well?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Solicitor? Chop chop!’

  Walter went to the door and peered out. Gibbons was at his desk, staring at his phone.

  ‘See if you can find the Duty Sol, will ya?’

  ‘Sure, Guv, I’m on it.’

  Walter sat back down again and scratched his chin and said, ‘When did you last visit Berryland Avenue?’

  ‘Look! I don’t want to start no commenting, but I will if you persist.’

  ‘You were having an affair with Belinda Cooper, weren’t you?’ asked Karen.

  ‘No.... fucking.... comment.’

  ‘When did you first meet her?’

  ‘How could I have been having an affair with this woman if up until quite recently I was in prison? Answer me that!’

  He had another point there, and a good one too. Maybe it was a fresh thing, recent, it had to be, otherwise it didn’t fit.

  ‘Did you meet her speed dating?’ asked Karen.

  ‘See this solicitor here,’ said Michael, pointing to an empty chair, ‘I’ll just ask him, or her, for some advice, and then I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘What’s your email address?’ asked Karen.

  ‘You’ve got my computer, look it up!’

  ‘We will, Michael, just thought you might like to speed things up a tad. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the sooner we can get finished and get out of here.’

  She thought back to Bel’s computer and tried to recall if she’d seen any recent messages between Bel and another man, a man like Michael, but nothing registered. They only had Bel’s word for the fact she’d only ever had five boyfriends. Maybe that figure needed updating.

  ‘Where’s me food? And where’s the solicitor?’

  ‘Maybe you could eat the solicitor,’ suggested Karen.

  ‘This isn’t the time or place for fucking jokes!’

  He had a point there too. Walter hid his smirk well.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing at Walter.

  Gibbons came knocking at the door and said, ‘The Duty Sol is on the way.’

  Walter thanked him and Gibbons retreated.

  ‘And the food?’ said Flanagan.

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Where did you meet Belinda Cooper?’ asked Karen.

  ‘I have never met Belinda Cooper.’

  Walter opened the manila file before him. Took out a solitary sheet bearing a large photograph of a single fingerprint. He turned it around and slid it across the table.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Could it possibly be a fingerprint?’

  ‘It is, Michael.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s your fingerprint.’

  ‘Yeah, so what’s your point?’

  ‘That print was lifted this morning from Belinda Cooper’s bedroom.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh! That ain’t possible.’

  Walter shook his head.

  ‘It’s no joke, Michael, that print was found in Belinda’s bedroom, the same room in which she was murdered.’

  ‘You’re full of shit!’

  ‘Do you know whereabouts in the bedroom it was found?’

  ‘How could I know that when I have never been in Belinda Cooper’s house, never mind her bedroom?’

  ‘I’ll tell you where it was, inside the drawer on her bedside table. That’s a pretty intimate place, inside the drawer of a bedside table, by a lady’s bed, not the kind of place where any old person would ever touch.’

  ‘But a lover might,’ said Karen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter, ‘and it’s the kind of place where one wouldn’t think to go when wiping prints. It would be so easy to miss one there, wouldn’t it, Michael?’

  ‘You’re talking bollocks; you’re trying to fit me up. I was at home, in bed. My tag proves I was. It’s a rock solid alibi. I don’t know what your game is, but it stinks. When I first met you I thought you were a decent guy. I shouldn’t have been so naïve. I shouldn’t have been
so stupid. I should have known better. You’re just like all the rest, crooked and bent to hell. I ain’t saying another word until I see a solicitor.’

  Right on cue Gibbons knocked and came back in.

  ‘Duty Solicitor, Guv,’ said Gibbons, and he did the introductions and left the room.

  She was a smart young woman, was Gayle Drake, neat and tidy too, as any man would testify. No one ever looked quite so good in a plain fitted grey suit. She nodded across the table at Walter and said, ‘May I have ten minutes with my client?’

  ‘Later,’ said Walter, ‘we are in the middle of something.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape,’ said Karen, ‘the Duty Solicitor, Gayle Drake, has entered the room.’

  Gayle sat beside Flanagan and studied the photograph on the table, and said, ‘And this is?’

  ‘That print was lifted this morning from inside the deceased’s bedroom. It matches your client.’

  ‘I have never been inside that woman’s house, ever,’ said Flanagan.

  ‘This says you have,’ said Walter, tapping the photo. ‘How do you explain your print being inside Belinda Cooper’s bedside table?’

  ‘I can’t, maybe you can. And I would remind you that my tag proves that I was at home.’

  Gayle Drake butted in.

  ‘Am I to understand that my client is tagged, and your own records show that he was at home?’

  ‘At present, yes,’ said Walter. ‘But your client is also a computer expert, and we suspect he has been tampering with the tag.’

  ‘Have you any proof of that?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Karen. ‘We’re checking through his computer as we speak.’

  ‘Well, until you have proof I would like my client released, pending further enquiries.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Walter.

  ‘Where’s me food?’ moaned Flanagan. ‘I haven’t eaten in nine hours.’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Gayle.

  ‘We don’t know when Mr Flanagan last ate,’ said Karen, ‘but we have ordered something for him. It should be here any time soon.’

  ‘It’s getting late,’ said Gayle. ‘Why not chase up the food, chase up the research into my client’s computer, and reconvene in the morning?’

  Karen imagined Walter would reject such a suggestion out of hand, and was surprised to hear him say, ‘That’s not a bad idea, Mr Flanagan will be detained overnight, and we’ll come back to this at 9am tomorrow.’

  Gayle looked pleased with herself and nodded.

  Job done, so far as she was concerned.

  ‘Flanagan said, ‘Food?’ and back came Gibbons, knocking and entering, bearing a white cardboard box full to overflowing with fried fish and chips, and boy, did they look and smell good, and that reminded Walter that he hadn’t eaten in hours either.

  It was almost 10pm by the time Walter and Karen arrived in their respective homes. Walter bunged a ready meal in the microwave and slammed the door. Karen settled down on the sofa and ate two bananas and a beautiful ripe pear, and afterwards gave herself a rare treat, a portion of mint chocolate ice cream, though she felt guilty about it afterwards.

  She thought back on the day, and the last conversation she’d had with Walter. He’d said that everyone was getting tired, and that’s when mistakes were made, and a break would do them all good, and things would look quite different in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. She hoped he was right.

  It had been a packed day, what with the ID parade, and Corla Rev’s revelations, and then the forensic info on that print, putting Flanagan firmly in the frame, and David Baker firmly out of it. And thinking of Mr Baker, she had thought he might have rung, but he did not. Maybe he was playing tough again, silly mind games, making her sweat, and the annoying thing was, it was working. She thought of ringing him, but that wasn’t going to happen. In Karen’s world the man did the chasing, and if he didn’t, it was clear proof there wasn’t much to him, and didn’t think anywhere near enough of her.

  The good news was, as Walter had pointed out, that Mrs West was back in the morning, and with the latest development of Flanagan being in custody, and likely to be charged, she should be more than happy with that. The weird and wacky ID parade featuring not one but six men, all of whom played some part in the case, or cases, might simply be glossed over and forgotten, if everything went well. That was the hope.

  Karen sank a single glass of cold sharp white wine, albeit a large one, and headed for the shower, ultra hot and ultra cold in quick succession, and then to bed, where she thought awhile, replaying the day’s events in her mind, fantasised for a while longer after that, of a tall dark man, who would remain nameless, and finally fell into a totally satisfactory sleep.

  Walter was asleep too, dreaming of racing greyhounds made of roast beef that he couldn’t catch, and eat, and hot sunny beaches in the Caribbean, and playing the perfect forward defensive stroke at Lords cricket ground, only to be given out by an incompetent umpire, and some bits of Carlene Henderson too, if only briefly.

  The man was not asleep, but fully awake, and thinking and planning. Tomorrow was a big day in more ways than one. He planned to prune another, the third and final one, the last act that would bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. Closure, and he said the word aloud. ‘Closure.’ It would not be easy, but then it never was, but it was satisfying, and in a weird way, truly uplifting too.

  Those who had not travelled the same road would never be able to properly understand, or comprehend the intensity of feeling and exhilaration it brought. Only members of such a select club could possibly know.

  He smiled a surprisingly warm smile, and prepared for bed. Sleep would come eventually, and of a satisfying kind. There would be no twisting and turning, no restlessness, and certainly no pangs of conscience. It was far too late for that.

  Thirty-Five

  8.30am, and Walter brought Mrs West fully up to speed. The unorthodox ID parade barely rated a mention, for all eyes were firmly on the prize. Flanagan’s print was inside Bel’s bedside table, proof positive that he had been there, in her house, in her bedroom, and Mrs West imagined him resting in Bel’s bed, maybe after a steamy lovemaking session, reaching over and slipping open the bedside table drawer, touching the inside, leaving evidence that would surely do for him.

  But what was he looking for? A tissue, a condom, surely too late for that, a pill, maybe he had a headache, the poor love, or maybe he was getting something for her, a sleeping pill, perhaps, though none had been found, it would be interesting to know why he’d gone in that drawer.

  ‘Ask him, Walter,’ she said. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  Her previous certainty that tags couldn’t be broken and interfered with had been washed away, overwhelmed by actual positive evidence that would stand up in court. She’d speak to the tag people, there had to be an obvious explanation.

  9.00am, and the interview began, as Karen read the intros for the recorder. Flanagan looked unshaven and rough, as if he’d experienced a hard night’s sleep, which wouldn’t have been surprising. Cell beds were not supposed to be five-star comfortable. Some deodorant wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Gayle Drake looked good again, businesslike and smart. Walter didn’t miss that.

  He kicked things off by asking Flanagan when he first met Belinda Cooper. The question brought the first of many frank denials, frequently interrupted by Ms Drake, who consistently pointed out the lack of any other evidence. One hour later, and Walter brought an early end to proceedings by ordering a timeout coffee break.

  Karen and Walter sat before Mrs West and sipped coffee, or lemon flavoured water, in Karen’s case.

  ‘Just such a pity that Corla Rev didn’t ID Flanagan,’ muttered Walter.

  ‘You saw how close she was to doing so,’ said Karen. ‘She couldn’t keep her eyes off the guy.’

  ‘Maybe you should go and see this Mrs Revelation woman again,’ said Mrs West. ‘See what else she can tell you.’

  �
�I agree,’ said Karen. ‘She’s a gifted woman all right, she can see things that others can’t, and oh, by the way, she likes to be called “Miss”.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Walter. ‘Let’s not go down that line again, hippy nonsense.’

  ‘We need more than we’ve got,’ said Mrs West. ‘Or he’ll wriggle free.’

  Walter bobbed his head and reluctantly said, ‘We’ll see Corla again.’

  Mrs West grinned. ‘Keep at it team! The same questions half a dozen times, compare the answers, and there you will find incriminating discrepancies.’

  It was the same old mantra, give them enough rope, and all that, and that was what they would do.

  ‘Crack on,’ she said, and they got up and returned to work.

  Before they returned to the interview room, Walter said, ‘Strange we never found anything about the fifth man.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Karen.

  ‘What do you mean “ah”?’

  Karen bit her lip and said, ‘I have ID’d the fifth man.’

  ‘Have you now? And when did you do that?’

  ‘Yesterday, I think it was, but with everything else going on, and then the discovery of Flanagan’s fingerprint, it didn’t seem so important, or relevant,’ which was not quite the truth, and they both knew that.

  ‘Would you like to acquaint me with this new intel?’

  But before she could answer, he called Gibbons over.

  ‘Go and tell the Duty Sol there will be no more questioning of Michael Flanagan today until later this afternoon, say it’s due to fresh information that has just come to hand. She can stand down; we’ll keep her informed, and get Flanagan back to the cells.’

  Gibbons pulled an impressed face and said, ‘Sure Guv,’ and beetled off to give the impressive Ms Drake the news.

  Walter turned back to Karen. His face said everything: Tell all.

  She didn’t need prompting.

  ‘His name’s David Baker, he’s thirty-six, and works for a grain merchant. Never been in any kind of trouble.’

  ‘Does he fit the description of the man Corla described?’

  ‘He does.’