Fault Lines

by Natasha Cooper

  Now he was going to have to apologise, and that was something he always loathed doing. Still, better get it over with. It was pissing with rain again so he went upstairs to fetch his coat, his shoulders aching and his feet dragging.

  The moment he pushed open the swing doors at the end of the corridor that led to the incident room, he could sense that something was happening. It wasn’t just the high-pitched buzz of talk: there was something in the air, excitement and hot, pulsing anger. He could feel it all from ten feet away, and when he opened the door into the room itself, he was greeted with a roar. He stood, a little puzzled, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘You’ve done it, Guv,’ Blacker called from his desk. ‘You were right all along. It is a copycat and it is Chaz Chompton who killed her.’

  Femur let his shoulders settle. ‘What did you find in his flat?’

  ‘This,’ Blacker said, holding out a flat plastic evidence bag.

  Femur walked across the room to look. He saw a familiar photograph – in colour – of the real Kingsford Rapist’s last victim. The print was creased down the middle as though it had been folded to fit into a pocket.

  There was dust around several distinct-looking fingerprints. There was also a red-brown smudge in one corner.

  ‘You found this in Chaz’s flat?’ he said, hardly daring to believe it. He and Cally must have spent much longer with Napton than he’d realised.

  ‘We did. And the reference on the back of the print shows that it was made three weeks ago.’

  Femur raised his eyebrows. ‘Does it indeed?

  ‘Sure, Guv. And the prints have been photographed. They’re being checked now, but they look right.’ He grinned. Femur realised he must mean that there were prints on the photograph that looked like Spinel’s. Blacker must be sticking to his orders to keep quiet about Spinel. Good.

  ‘And that’s blood, I take it?’

  ‘We think so. Owler’s about to take the print to the lab to get it tested against Huggate’s.’

  ‘Good.’ Femur let his shoulders settle a little. He could legitimately postpone his visit to Blair Collons until this was sorted. ‘But before he goes, make a note of the reference on the print and find out who requested it.’

  ‘Then we’ll be home and dry.’

  ‘With luck, Tony. I’ll be in my office. Tell me as soon as anything comes through.’

  Four hours later, Blacker picked up Barry Spinel, brought him to the interview room where Femur was waiting. They cautioned him, charged him, and offered him legal representation. He declined that and sat, as cocky as ever, challenging them both.

  ‘It won’t help you to hold out on us now,’ Femur said, with a slight smile. Spinel was a fair target. He wouldn’t crumple or throw up. He could take whatever Femur chose to throw at him. And he deserved it all. ‘We’ve got plenty of evidence. We’ve got Michael Napton singing like a canary, and we’ll have Drakeshill before long. You could improve your chances by helping us.’

  Spinel leaned back in his chair, his strong muscles bulging in the usual overtight jeans. His jaw was taut and his eyes were watchful, but he wasn’t afraid. There hadn’t been any leaks from the incident room, even when Spinel’s involvement was announced. Femur was proud of that. The local Kingsford officers had come good in the end, and stuck by the AMIP team as though they were part of it.

  ‘Things must’ve changed since I last questioned a suspect,’ Spinel said, in a casually mocking voice.

  Femur raised his eyebrows. At his side, Tony Blacker shifted in his seat, restive as always when anyone challenged his boss. Femur nodded to give him permission to say whatever he wanted.

  ‘You should be lucky we don’t use your techniques, Spinel.’

  ‘And what do you know about my techniques?’ Spinel asked, suddenly dangerous. ‘If you think I’ve ever held out inducements to my suspects, you’ve another think coming. Lucky for me the tape’s running. You’ll never get away with it, you know.’

  ‘What I heard on the street is that you terrorise defendants, hit them, blackmail them, just like you blackmailed Michael Napton into working for Drakeshill.’

  ‘Do I have to listen to this shit?’ Spinel asked Femur, who shook his head slowly.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, Spinel, but as you well know, if you do not mention when questioned evidence you later rely on in court, that may harm your defence.’ Femur laughed. For the first time in days he could remember what it felt like to enjoy himself. ‘But, like I say, we don’t really need anything from you since we’ve plenty of evidence already. Evidence no one could wriggle out of.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘Because you could help yourself by helping us.’

  ‘Why should I? You’ve arrested me on suspicion of the murder of Kara Huggate but, as I’ve already said, I’ve an alibi supported by hundreds of witnesses. I was at a work dinner of my wife’s in the City the night the woman was killed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Femur, as calmly as though he was asking for a cup of tea, ‘and I’m sure you can rely on everyone there to say what you want them to say.’

  Spinel nodded, satisfaction all over his face.

  ‘But unfortunately you can’t always rely on everyone in the same way.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Charles Chompton.’

  There was a definite movement in Spinel’s face, which he tried to disguise by smiling widely and saying, ‘One of Drakeshill’s mechanics? The one they call Chompie?’

  ‘As if you didn’t know,’ said Tony Blacker viciously.

  Femur waved his right hand, palm down, as though he was trying to slow the traffic. ‘That’s right, Sergeant Spinel,’ he said. ‘The lad who kept the scene-of-crime photo of the Kingsford Rapist’s last victim that you’d given him.’

  He waited for a reaction, but Spinel had himself well in hand and didn’t move. He didn’t seem to be breathing either so Femur wasn’t too worried.

  ‘The photo Chompie used to work out how to arrange Kara Huggate’s body on the floor of her cottage after he’d killed her so that it would look as much like the Kingsford Rapist’s victim as possible. You were taking a risk, you know, trusting a lad like that.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I expect you told him to get rid of it after he’d finished with her – or perhaps you just assumed he would – but he didn’t. I don’t know whether he kept it as insurance in case we ever did pick him up, or whether he was just too thick to realise how we’d use it.’

  ‘And how’s that, sir?’ Spinel was back in his favourite pose, legs spread, head thrown back, hands splayed on his meaty thighs. I dare you, his body language said. You’ll never beat me.

  ‘To tie him to Kara’s death, since there are traces of her blood on it, as well as his fingerprints.’ Femur smiled. ‘And yours, Spinel.’

  Spinel’s hands tightened, the fingertips pressing into his legs and the joints whitening. But he didn’t speak.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why you didn’t wear gloves,’ Femur said, sounding regretful, sympathetic, even. ‘Unless you thought that would make the woman from the photo lab suspicious when she gave it to you. Or perhaps you didn’t worry since you were certain you could rely on Chompie to destroy the photo. But we’ve two nice prints, you see, unmistakably yours. And there’s no legitimate reason for you to have handled that photo. We’ve even talked to that poor pathetic girl in Records.’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean,’ Spinel said automatically.

  ‘The one you went to only three weeks ago to say you thought you had some more evidence on the rapist and needed to check something on the photo.’

  ‘Bitch.’ The single syllable was almost spat. ‘She …’ Spinel recovered himself and shut his mouth. But his chest heaved as though he’d been running, and his face was reddening as they watched.

  ‘We know she owed you – and ultimately Drakeshill, no doubt – for her smack, but she’s been wise enou
gh to come clean. She’ll lose her job, but that’s probably all. It’s all unravelling, you see, Spinel. You might as well join the angels and give us Drakeshill. We know he’s always been the boss and you’re only a gofer. Talk to us and we’ll see what we can do for you.’

  For a moment Femur thought Spinel would respond to the insult, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut and went on smiling. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer or even a Federation rep. He must have known he was in far too deep to do any kind of deal with them. He was going down, and he had a better chance of surviving what he’d have to face in prison if he were known to have kept quiet about Drakeshill.

  Femur couldn’t bear the possibility that Drakeshill might escape, but he had to face it. They were working their socks off to get evidence against him, but so far not much had come through. Informally Femur had been told that the CPS would bend over backwards to help – they’d been longing to go after him for years – but they needed something concrete. Napton’s evidence would help, but without support from either Spinel or Chompie, it might not be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As Femur followed Steve Owler out of the station, the dank air clawed at his chapped lips and seemed to float up his trouser legs to make the skin chafe against the fabric of his suit. He’d never realised how rough it was. He hunched his shoulders down into the coat and told himself to stop whingeing. It only seemed as bad as this because he was on his way to apologise. Most officers wouldn’t have bothered, but he owed Blair Collons. He owed him for the information that had broken the case wide open, he owed him for the contempt, and for the bullying.

  Owler drove straight to Holmside Court in helpful silence, as though he understood enough of Femur’s mood to know that the squad’s crowing triumph was getting to him. He was a good lad because it was probably his first successful murder case and he must have been fizzing with triumph.

  There was no answer from Collons’s flat when they rang the bell. Femur stepped into the neat flower bed that ran along the front of the building and walked along to the furthest window, which he knew was Collons’s, so that he could look in. The curtains were drawn, but there was a narrow gap between them.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ he said then yelled: ‘Owler, get an ambulance.’

  ‘Who are you?’ came a nervous female voice to Femur’s right. He pulled away from the window and saw a young woman carrying a baby in a sling against her breasts. She looked terrified as she stood by the front door to the flats and was cupping both her hands around her baby’s head as Steve Owler jabbered into his mobile.

  ‘It’s all right, madam. I’m sorry I startled you. My name is Chief Inspector William Femur of the Metropolitan Police.’ He smiled and held out his warrant card. Seeing some of the terror leaving her face, he walked quickly back to the path and showed her the card again.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, letting her hands fall to her sides. But she was still breathing faster than she should have been and the baby was wailing.

  ‘No, please. It’s me who should apologise. But I need to get into the ground-floor flat over there straight away. D’you know the owner?’

  ‘Mr Collons?’ Her nostrils flexed and her lips thinned. She shook her head. Her hands were once more protecting her baby’s head. ‘He never talks to any of us; just scuttles in and out. I don’t want … What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing at all. He’s been a witness for us; very helpful; I just need to get in to his flat quickly.’

  ‘I can let you in to the front door, but I haven’t got a key to his flat. None of us have. He doesn’t mix much.’

  ‘Right. Well, if you could open this door. That would be very helpful. As soon as you can.’

  She got the door open and stood aside to let Femur go first. He ran. Luckily the baby’s wails rose to a pitch that no one could ignore and she muttered an apology and disappeared up the main staircase. Femur fished in his pocket for a credit card.

  He slid it between the door and the jamb and felt the Yale move back.

  But the door wouldn’t budge. Shit. There were no other keyholes in the door itself. Collons must have bolted it from the inside.

  ‘Steve! Quick.’

  But neither of them could kick the door down. The bolts must be the security type; well installed, too.

  ‘Back to the garden, Steve. Break a window.’

  This time there were no passers-by to make a fuss as Owler efficiently broke one half of the big casement window and knocked out the loose glass with his arm. Femur thrust him aside and climbed over the sill, grazing his hand and wrenching his shoulder. The curtain blew back in his face and he forced it away, pulling out two of the hooks and tearing the thin material.

  It was much too late. He’d known that all along, but he’d had to try. With the sound of the ambulance siren in his ears, he saw that the slumped body, crouched and hanging from the door handle, was way beyond anyone’s help. From the eyebrows down, the face was deep purple and there was a trickle of dried blood making a wobbly line from the mouth to the chin. Blair Collons must have died hours earlier.

  Femur was aware of Steve Owler standing behind him, trying to say something. He shook his head and held up a hand to ward off the words. He didn’t want questions or sympathy. This was his fault.

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, but he didn’t touch the body. It looked like a straightforward suicide, but it might not have been and he didn’t want to wreck any evidence.

  There weren’t any bruises on the face or neck, just the almost horizontal ligature at the base of the dark-purple stain under the skin. And there were no marks on the hands that he could see.

  ‘You’d better cancel the ambulance,’ he said drearily to Steve. ‘And get hold of the police surgeon instead.’

  ‘Too late, Guv.’ Owler’s voice was gentle. ‘The paramedics are here. I’ll go and have a word.’

  Femur nodded and turned away from the body to look for a letter. The first thing he saw, as Owler went to unbolt the door, was a pile of creased photographs on the writing desk near the window. They looked as though they had been ripped apart and later carefully mended with Sellotape. Stirring the pile with his gloved finger, he saw that they were all of Kara. He shook his head. Beside the photographs were some women’s underclothes, stained with what looked like tea leaves and orange peel. So Collons was what he’d always assumed. But it didn’t make it any better. He turned away, disgust and sympathy fighting each other.

  Then he saw the letter. It was propped on the mantelpiece and marked: ‘Kara’.

  Femur knew he should have left it for the SOCOs, but he couldn’t. Still wearing the latex gloves, he opened the envelope. The single sheet inside was covered with neat black writing, just three words repeated over and over again: ‘Kara, I’m sorry. Kara, I’m sorry. Kara, I’m sorry.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘I’ve been worried about Barry Spinel and that poor Kara Huggate for months,’ Drakeshill said, with a confiding air that didn’t convince Femur one little bit. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but ever since she was found, my conscience has been nagging at me. All along I’ve wanted to come in and talk to you lot, even though I’ve got no evidence. But it’s the suspicion, Mr Femur. You can’t think what it’s been like. I tried to hold out – I mean, he’s been a friend for years – but I can’t. Not any longer. You’ve got to know about Spinel and why he wanted that poor woman dead. At first he –’

  ‘Stop there,’ Femur said. ‘When’s “at first”?’

  Drakeshill shut his eyes and frowned, pursing his fat little lips. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. ‘Three months ago? Four? I can’t remember.’

  ‘OK. So what did Spinel do – or say – that worried you?’

  ‘He fancied that poor woman.’ Drakeshill suddenly forgot about looking tormented and grinned as though he couldn’t help himself. ‘We’ve always had different tastes in women, Barry and me. I like ’em younger and foxier, but he’s always gone for
the teacher-type. Mad. Anyway, he had the hots for this one. I shouldn’t talk like that about her, now she’s dead, but you’ve got to understand, see. Barry kept making up reasons to meet her, pretended she had information on drug dealers for him to arrest so’s he had an excuse to see her again and call round at her cottage.’

  Drakeshill’s grin turned into a brief, barking laugh. Femur battled to keep his own lips smiling. His teeth were grinding against each other like the mills of God. He knew this story of Drakeshill’s was some kind of scam. He knew it was Drakeshill who had given the order for Kara’s death, but finding the evidence wasn’t going to be easy. And stories like this would only add to his problems. He wanted, more than anything he’d wanted in a long, long time, to get Drakeshill, and Spinel with him.

  Femur had no illusions about the Job, but every time he came across a bent officer he hated him – or her. And Spinel was one of the worst he’d come across. Even though Femur was sure Spinel hadn’t been the prime mover in what had been done to Kara, he’d had a hand in it. At the very least he’d procured the crucial photograph of the Kingsford Rapist’s first dead victim, and he’d almost certainly given Chompie a map of Kara’s cottage and probably a good deal else.

  ‘And?’ Femur said, still pretending to share Drakeshill’s crass amusement at the thought of Spinel fancying Kara Huggate.

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t have none of him, would she?’ Drakeshill settled his paunch over his belt and leaned forward. ‘So after a bit he changed his tune, stopped making excuses to see her and stopped telling me how great she was. Suddenly she’d turned into a frigid bitch who was giving him grief. I knew he was angry, but I never thought he’d go this far.’

  To Femur’s astonished rage, Drakeshill stopped grinning and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket so that he could mop his eyes. ‘And I never thought he’d corrupt one of my lads like he’s done Chompie.’ Drakeshill even produced a kind of sob.