by Tim Ellis
Dark passed Lake a couple of plastic restraints from an inside pocket of his coat. ‘Pull them tight. If they try to escape – shoot them.’ He climbed into the back of the van with Mohican and slid the door shut. ‘Talk – don’t touch.’
‘We hacked your phone.’
‘I already know that.’
He pointed to a blinking light. ‘That’s a Shadow 6200 tracking unit. There’s a magnetic tracker attached to your car. As well as transmitting your location it downloads the GPS information as well . . .’
‘You mean that every time I keyed an address into the satnav it was transmitted to you.’
‘Yeah. We knew where you were going before you did.’
‘Ingenious. What else?’
‘We put a Trojan on your laptop. When you switch it on, I see what you see.’
‘Keep going.’
‘We bugged your home phone.’
‘You’ve been in my house?’
‘It was Tam’s idea.’
‘What else?’
‘There’s some cameras in your house as well.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Tam’s got a thing for you.’
‘A thing?’
He touched the side of his nose with an index finger. ‘You know – a thing.’
Dark pursed his lips. ‘Is that so? Where are the cameras?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual places.’
‘Such as?’
‘Every room.’
‘Every room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The bedroom?’
Mohican nodded.
‘The bathroom?’
‘Tam made me do it.’
‘Did she?’
Mohican moved his hand.
Dark squeezed his shoulder.
‘Just getting something.’
‘What?’
‘A DVD you might want to take a look at.’ He passed it to Dark.
‘And?’
‘A guy went into your house earlier today.’
‘A guy? Who?’
‘Beats me, man.’
‘Have I been robbed?’
‘Not that I saw. He opened your front door with a key, walked round the house for a while and then left.’
He slipped the DVD into his pocket. ‘What else?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Copy everything you’ve got on that computer onto a memory stick and give it to me.’
‘That’s like slipping a noose round my own neck.’
‘Do it.’
Hendrik did as he was told.
Dark put the memory stick into his pocket with the DVD. ‘Get the tracker off my car, delete the Trojan from my laptop, disable the cameras in my house . . .’
‘You want me to come and remove them?’
‘I’ll tell you when.’
‘Okay.’
‘And stop hacking my phone.’
‘Aren’t you going to arrest us?’
‘Not yet, but you’re in deep shit – you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If I did arrest and charge you, and you were found guilty in a court of law, which of course you would be, we could sell all of your equipment and put the proceeds into the GMP coffers.’
‘Shit, man! We’re talking . . .’
‘As I said, I’m not going to arrest you, but your soul belongs to me now, Hendrik. If I ever want you to do something for me – you come running and do whatever I say, no questions asked.’
‘Whatever you want, man.’
‘You stop working for Oakley from now on.’
‘She ain’t gonna like that, man.’
‘She’ll like it.’
‘You don’t tell anyone about our arrangement.’
‘My lips are super-glued together.’
He patted the DVDs in his pocket. ‘If you ever decide to renege on our deal . . .’
‘I won’t.’
‘Go and remove the tracker.’
He opened the door and climbed out of the van.
‘You fucking slime ball, Hendrik.’
Hendrik shrugged and scurried off.
Dark gripped Oakley’s elbow and guided her away from the van and far enough away so that the driver or Lake couldn’t eavesdrop.
‘It stops now.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking . . .’
‘In the current climate, I’d say you’d probably get five years for hacking a police officer’s phone, bugging his car, putting cameras in his bedroom and shower . . .’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘We both know who it was. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘And?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Old enough to know better. Your arrangement with Hendrik is at an end. If you see him again I’ll find out and arrest you.’ He pulled out the DVD. ‘I have all the evidence I need to put you away for a good few years and end your career.’
‘You’re going to blackmail me?’
‘I’m going to ignore you. From now on, you’re just a run-of-the-mill journalist with no tricks up her sleeve.’
‘You’re letting me go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe because it’s Christmas.’ He began to walk away, but then turned back, took her head in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.
‘What was that for?’
‘Think of it as a Christmas present.’
‘Cheapskate. What about the restraint?’
As he walked away he said over his shoulder, ‘You’re a resourceful woman. I’m sure you’ll find a way.’
‘You bastard.’
***
1705 hours
‘So, that’s why you’re nearly treating me like a human being and I’m your partner all of a sudden?’
They were travelling back to Bootle Street Police Station – near Albert Square – where he’d been closeted away like an embarrassing relative with some obscure disease.
The SCD was located on the third floor of the new Force HQ in Central Park on Northampton Road, which was three and a half miles away along the A62 in East Manchester, but he wasn’t welcome there. The hierarchy wanted young thrusting officers with Masters Degrees in Community Policing who embraced accountability and the potential for development to senior levels. They didn’t want an old-school copper who believed that sometimes two wrongs did make a right, they didn’t want someone who hadn’t crawled up the promotional ladder as expected. They suspected his motives, and felt threatened by his experience, his knowledge, and his ability to solve complex crimes. Dark by name, dark by nature they said. He didn’t give a shit what they said, just so long as they left him alone.
So, he had been given an old basement office in the only 24-hour police station left in the city centre – Bootle Street. It was a convenient staging post on the way to the exit door, and nobody would miss him when he was gone. The Chief passed him the cases that no one else wanted, the ones that would embarrass the division – the Chief – if they went unsolved.
‘What else would it be?’ he said. ‘Did you think that the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had visited and shown me dire visions of what might come to pass unless I had a change of heart?’
‘I had hoped that you’d changed your ways, Ebenezer.’
His lip curled up. ‘Stop being so naive, Lake. You’re my partner under duress. I’ve been honest with you from the start – I don’t want a partner. Partners are too much trouble. I work better alone. The Chief is forcing me to take you on. That’s the way it is.’
‘Maybe I don’t like the way it is.’
He shrugged. ‘Entirely up to you.’
‘You’ll lose your job if I ask for a transfer.’
‘There are other jobs.’
‘I’ve decided that I’m going to stick with it until we solve this case, and then I’ll reassess the situation.’
‘Don’t do me any favours.’
‘I’m not.’
He drove through the archway and parked in his space in the courtyard. The one demand he had when the Chief had shuffled him off to Bootle Street was that he get his own parking space. Trying to find somewhere to park in the City Centre was like searching for Santa’s Secret Grotto – a fruitless task.
With the exception of two Police Community Support Officers (PCSOs) on the front desk, and a skeleton staff – consisting mainly of single officers – playing charades in the canteen, everybody else had gone home to their families. It was Christmas Day – nobody caused trouble on Christmas Day. It was a time to forget about the long dark days and celebrate the giving of expensive electronic gifts with family and friends.
The one advantage of being in the basement was that – ignoring the old property room and the ancient paper-file store full of stuffed cardboard boxes, and bent and twisted filing cabinets – it was quiet, and the people upstairs left him alone.
‘It’s a dungeon,’ Lake said looking round.
‘Yes, but it’s my dungeon.’
‘The Chief said you were the best.’
‘That’s why I’m down here.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to.’ He pointed to a whiteboard on three wheels. ‘Drag that over. You’ll need to replace the missing wheel with a book or something.’
She did as he asked. ‘So, this is policing in the twenty-first century?’
‘No – this is real old-school policing. The crap they feed you during training isn’t policing, that’s politics. Grab a marker pen.’
‘Okay.’
‘Put everything we know on the board.’
‘Everything?’
‘Across the top list the four victims . . .’
‘Are they the victims though? I mean, aren’t the two dead people the victims?’
‘Let’s not argue semantics. We’ve got the Claytons in Cheadle Hulme, Nicholson and Noble in Wilmslow . . .’
‘Shit!’
‘What?’
‘Because of you my car is still in Wilmslow. How am I going to get home?’
‘I usually find taxis are good for getting people home.’
‘Do you know how much that last taxi cost me?’
‘Is it relevant to what we’re doing?’
‘You could offer to take me to pick it up seeing as it was you who made me leave it there in the first place.’
‘Totally wrong direction – sorry.’
‘You’re not sorry at all.’
‘You won’t need a taxi if you don’t get a move on. Next, there’s the Glovers in Poynton, and lastly the Crumpsalls in Wythenshawe.’
‘Done.’
‘No. I want the addresses, the names of each family member, what they do and . . . all the details.’
She sighed as she took out her notebook. ‘You’re right – we’ll never get home.’
‘Just get on with it.’ He wandered over to the small kitchenette in the corner. As he was making himself a coffee he said, ‘That’s probably why you’re here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a whiner.’
‘I am not.’
He went back with his coffee.
‘Have you made me one?’
‘I don’t make other people’s drinks, and you haven’t got time to be drinking coffee anyway. Have you finished yet?’
‘Keep it coming. I’ll just down tools and walk out.’
‘Let me know when you’ve finished whining.’
‘No wonder they put you down here.’
‘No wonder you’re down here with me.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Underneath the four families, I want you to put what we know about the two corpses.’
‘Such as?’
‘The male had two tattoos of Aztec gods. One on his back and the other on his left upper arm, which were more than likely obtained in Mexico. Also, because of the injuries to his back and knees, the severe scarring to his liver, and the inactive southeast Asian strain of gonorrhoea spores he was probably a sailor . . .’
‘. . . About six foot in height and aged around fifty-five . . .’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And had a childhood fracture of his right forearm.’
‘The female had given birth probably when she was a teenager – I’ve just thought . . .’
He rolled his eyes. ‘What now?’
‘We have her left hand.’
‘And?’
‘There was no wedding ring and no sign that she’d ever worn one.’
‘Okay . . . How is that relevant?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s not, but I was thinking that these two were married.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know – I just assumed . . .’
‘There’s no indication that they were married. If he was a sailor . . .’
‘I know.’ She scratched her head. ‘It just made sense that they were married. If they weren’t then . . .’
‘. . . Everything is more difficult?’
‘Yes. Did they know each other? Were they total strangers?’
‘Shall we continue?’
‘The woman was aged about forty-nine as well.’
‘Okay. Don’t forget that the bodies were kept in a freezer for three months.’
‘Oh yes.’ She wrote that on the board.
‘How are those two corpses connected to the four families?’
She pulled a face. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’
They both stared at the information on the board and tried to connect the disparate facts.
‘I’m not getting anything,’ Lake said.
‘No. Why did Santa choose these two to kill? Why did he chop them up? Why did he store them in a freezer for three months? Why did he wrap the body parts up as Christmas presents? How did he know the names of every family member? Why did he deliver the body parts to the four families on Christmas morning? Why did he dress up as Santa? Why did he choose those four families? Why . . . ?’
‘You have a lot of questions.’
‘Voicing them out loud helps me. Right, what about Santa?’
‘He had a key to all four houses . . . How is that possible? I mean, he must know all the families. He must have had access to their door keys . . .’
‘And you covered everything?’
‘I covered everything.’
‘You must have missed something.’
‘I didn’t miss anything. Don’t blame me for your insecurities as a DI.’
‘He also had a red car.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘There was a witness.’
‘Where? You didn’t say.’
‘I forgot to mention it. Outside the Crumpsalls in Wythenshawe a young woman accosted me. She and her boyfriend were coming home drunk and saw Santa leaving Number 97. She said she saw him get into a red car and the first four characters of the number plate were MK69.’
’Does that help us?’
‘Not really.’
‘Have you asked Transport . . . ?’
‘When have I had time to ask Transport? It’s Christmas Day – is there anyone in Transport? You can ring them before you go . . .’
‘Me? You’ve got a nerve.’
‘I’ve also got the authority. You might have forgotten that I’m an Inspector and you’re a Constable.’
‘I haven’t forgotten . . . Sir.’
‘Good. You can also ring Polly Tyree in forensics and find out why she hasn’t notified us about whether Santa has a DNA match.’
‘She’s probably gone home.’
‘Ring her at home then.’
‘People have lives outside work, you know.’
‘I’m trying to solve a case here. Ring her at home.’
‘I’ll sleep here, shall I?’
‘You should be aware that there are mice in the old evidence store and silverfish in the filing room.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re wel
come. Right, it’s been a long day, so I’m going home now. I’ll meet you here at eight-thirty tomorrow morning – don’t be late. Oh . . . and Happy Christmas.’
She didn’t say anything as he made his way towards the stairs.
***
2015 hours
Lake was right – he did have a lot of questions. It was generally the way. Criminals rarely made it easy for him. He had to work to get to the truth.
Whatever happened to the old-style apprenticeships? When he joined the force it was generally accepted that you knew less than nothing, coppers were coppers. There was far too much mollycoddling of young recruits these days.
The roads were quieter than usual, but not much. Where were people going?
Driving home was a straight run along the A56 to Brooklands in Sale. He had a four-bedroom detached house that he’d bought with Ellie a long time ago. It was their house, their love nest, the place where they’d planned to bring up their children. What had gone wrong? Why had she left him? Oh, it wasn’t a teddy bears’ picnic by any stretch of the imagination, but they worked through their difficulties, they talked to each other and . . . he thought that they loved each other.
As he pulled into the driveway, he remembered Hendrik saying that a man had been in his house earlier. Who? Why? He felt for the DVD – it was still there.
He let himself in, grabbed a lager from the fridge and opened up his laptop. Once it was whirring away he slipped the DVD in the drive, opened the file up in Windows Media Player and said, ‘Right, let’s take a look at you.’
Although the image was grainy, he could still see that the unwanted visitor was in his late thirties or early forties, about six feet tall with average looks and build. He was surprised that he didn’t know who it was.
Dark watched as the man wandered through the house looking at things, sometimes picking them up and examining them more closely. He wondered what the hell the guy was playing at. The visitor paused at the antique telephone seat table in the hallway, leaned over and seemed to be writing something. He paused the DVD and went out into the hallway.
There, next to the telephone, was a small white card. He turned the card over. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the seat. On the reverse of the card was printed:
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
He walked through into the kitchen, took the small white card from under a pineapple fridge magnet that he’d put there after Ellie had left and held the two cards side by side.
