‘They can’t pin it on us without any evidence,’ Nelson said, drawing out the final sound in a hiss.
Daryl shook his head, while a snarl of laughter rumbled up from somewhere deep in his guts.
‘They can pin anything they want on guys like us,’ he said. ‘And I’m telling you, they’re gonna be like dogs on heat trying to pin that murder on someone. You think we can slug it out with the pigs? We’re the obvious scapegoats. They’ve got to nail this crime on someone and who’s gonna leap to defend us? Think about it. The dude croaked. They don’t give a shit that it wasn’t one of us done for him.’
‘Who says it wasn’t one of us?’ Carver said.
He picked up his knife and began flicking the blade again, in and out, in and out, a slick well-oiled weapon. Three pairs of eyes stared at the moving sliver of metal.
‘The dude’s dead,’ Daryl persisted. ‘I seen it –’
‘Yeah, yeah, you seen it on the news. And they’re saying it was us done for him.’ Carver grinned. ‘That means we’re big news, man. Everyone’s gonna know about us.’
‘That means they’re gonna be hunting for us, man,’ Daryl cried out, losing his grip on the last vestiges of his self-control.
‘Don’t talk shit,’ Carver growled. ‘You’d best shut your face unless you wanna seriously piss me off.’
Daryl subsided, grumbling under his breath.
Without stirring from his seat or raising his voice, Carver seemed to swell to fill the space between them. ‘What’s that you say, boy? If you lost your nerve, you just come out with it right now.’
‘Nothing,’ Daryl mumbled. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’
Nelson flapped his elbows, clucking and sniggering.
Lifting his bottle to his lips, Daryl watched Carver through narrowed eyelids.
Nelson rose to his feet in one lithe movement. ‘We run out of booze.’ The other two boys ignored him. ‘And we run out of fags.’ He stretched his skinny legs.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Carver asked, his eyes still fixed on Daryl.
‘I told you, bro. We run out of fags.’
Carver’s eyes didn’t move. ‘Sit down.’
‘I’m dying for a smoke, man.’
For a moment Nelson held his ground. He knew he was useful, because he could fix almost anything. It was Nelson who had tapped into the electricity supply of a neighbouring property to give them a light overhead.
‘I said, sit down.’
Nelson hesitated, nearly said something, then glanced at the switchblade in Carver’s hand and complied. He crouched down, eyes on the floor, hands dangling between his skinny knees, eyebrows lowered in a scowl.
From outside came the noise of a car engine that revved and roared off down the road, while in the room the air grew heavy with silence. Somewhere far away a siren wailed. The three boys stiffened almost imperceptibly. For a few minutes no one stirred, then the faint clicking resumed, the blade slipping in and out, in and out. Daryl began to fidget, his gaze shifting from the stain on the carpet to the blade in Carver’s hand, and back again.
At last Carver spoke. ‘What now?’
Daryl shrugged without looking up. ‘We wait till they pin that murder on some other fucker and we’re cool.’
‘I’m cool,’ Carver turned to Nelson. ‘You cool, blad?’
‘I’m cool.’
‘So what we gonna do, genius?’ Carver asked.
‘If you’re asking me,’ Daryl replied, with a burst of frantic animation, ‘I’d say the best thing we can do is lay low for a while. No one’s come after us yet. They don’t know who we are. We just stay out of trouble until the heat dies down. It always does. So we only need to be patient and stay off the streets, out of sight, and as long as we hold our nerve –’
‘I mean who’s gonna get in the booze and fags.’ Carver cut him off with a sneer. ‘You’re full of shit, man. Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Lay low, stay off the streets, hold our nerve? What the fuck are you talking about? I swear you flap like a gash. Now, what I want to know is, who’s gonna get me some fags? I could do with a smoke.’
He leaned back comfortably in his chair and closed his eyes, while a smile spread slowly across his broad face. The knife resumed flicking, in and out, in and out, clicking faintly in the silence, regular as a ticking bomb.
5
The victim had lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house just a short walk from the train station but, for the moment, it was understandable that his widow had chosen to go and stay with a sister in Heslington, a few miles away from the centre of town. Geraldine and Ian drew up outside an old house with a rambling rose growing up one brick wall. In the front garden the leaves of a gnarled tree bent almost double with age were dotted with waxy magnolia blooms. The idyllic setting was poor recompense for the morbid reason for their visit. They walked carefully along an uneven path to the front door which was opened almost at once by a harassed-looking woman. Still holding the edge of the door, she brushed an untidy strand of hair off her face with the back of her free hand.
‘Mrs Jamieson?’
The woman frowned. ‘What is it you want? Only I’m sorry, I’m very busy right now –’
For answer they displayed their identity cards, and she screwed up her eyes to scrutinise them, her face twisting in a frown at the sound of a small child wailing in the house behind her.
‘This really isn’t a good time –’ she began again.
‘Please, Mrs Jamieson,’ Geraldine said gently, ‘we really do need to speak to your sister, if she’s here. We won’t keep her long.’
The woman drew in a deep shuddering breath and shook her head. ‘Well, you’d best come in then. You can speak to her, but I doubt you’ll get much sense out of her. She’s in a real state, which is hardly surprising. And I don’t suppose you pestering her is going to help any.’
She led them into a front room where a dining table was littered with torn wrapping paper and toys, birthday cards and cake crumbs, and half eaten chocolate fingers.
‘It was my youngest son’s birthday yesterday,’ she said apologetically. ‘We decided to go ahead, even though… The children don’t understand what’s happened, and anyway it was too late to cancel everyone.’
She shrugged, embarrassed at having held a party on the day her brother-in-law’s body had been discovered. Somewhere in the house a child could be heard whining.
‘I’ll go and find Ellie now. Please, sit down.’
She left the room and returned a few moments later with another woman trailing behind her.
‘Ellie, these are the police officers I just told you about. I’m sorry,’ she added, with an anxious glance at Geraldine, ‘but I’d better go and see to my daughter before she gets hysterical.’
She withdrew, leaving her sister standing in the doorway. Slim and fair-haired, she would have been pretty had her face not been blotchy, her pale blue eyes swollen from crying.
‘Come and sit down, Ellie.’
When the young widow didn’t respond, Geraldine repeated her invitation, doing her best to speak firmly yet kindly.
‘Ellie, we need to ask you a few questions,’ Ian said.
‘It’s about Grant,’ Geraldine added gently.
At her husband’s name, the widow started and her eyes travelled uneasily from Geraldine to Ian and back again.
‘You can’t speak to Grant,’ she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘Grant is dead.’ She began to shake, and tears slid down her cheeks. ‘He’s dead,’ she repeated in a shaky voice.
‘We’re so sorry,’ Geraldine said. ‘We’re sure you’d like to do whatever you can to help us find out who did this terrible thing.’
Ellie shuffled forwards into the room. Taking a seat, she stared at the table.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said in a flat voice.
‘I wasn’t there. No one was there.’ She raised one hand to her lips, stifling a sob. ‘He was all by himself when…’ Unable to control herself any longer, she broke down in tears, covering her face in her hands. ‘He was a good man,’ she mumbled through her fingers. ‘What kind of monster would do something like that?’ Lowering her hands, she glared at Geraldine, her eyes hardening with anger. ‘Find out who did it. I want to look Grant’s killer in the eye and – and –’ Her emotions overwhelmed her again and she put her head in her hands and sobbed, rocking backwards and forwards on her chair.
Ian glanced helplessly at Geraldine, and they waited until the widow’s crying fit subsided.
‘Ellie,’ Geraldine said, ‘can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband?’
‘No,’ came the muffled response.
‘Had he fallen out with anyone?’
Ellie’s head jerked up and her red-rimmed eyes widened in surprise. ‘What are you talking about?’ She hiccupped. ‘I thought – that is, they said – they told me he was mugged.’
Geraldine gave a cautious nod.
‘So why are you asking about people arguing with him, wanting to harm him? I don’t understand. Are you saying… What are you saying, exactly?’ Her expression of surprise switched to anger, and her voice hardened with suspicion. ‘Tell me what you mean.’
Geraldine spoke slowly. ‘We’re exploring the possibility that your husband’s death may have been the result of a deliberate attempt on his life.’
‘Deliberate? I don’t know what you mean. Are you telling me Grant was murdered?’
‘At this stage in our investigation we have to pursue every line of enquiry.’
Geraldine was aware that she was being evasive, but she was reluctant to say anything that might start the widow crying again. She didn’t want to cause her any unnecessary distress, but they couldn’t shy away from the truth indefinitely.
‘We believe there’s a chance your husband may have been murdered,’ she said gently.
Ellie looked agitated. ‘No, that’s not true!’ she burst out. ‘No one would want to hurt Grant. You didn’t know him, but he was a lovely man. A wonderful, kind man. No, what you’re suggesting, it’s just not possible. Everyone liked Grant.’
Clearly nothing Geraldine could say was going to persuade her to alter her opinion that her husband had been popular with everyone who had known him. Grant’s wife had loved him, and if he had made any enemies she had been ignorant of their existence.
‘Unless she was covering up something she knew,’ Ian suggested as they walked away from the picturesque house. ‘Maybe she was protecting someone?’
Geraldine shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. No, I believed her.’
Ian nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Her face impassive, she was nevertheless pleased by his ready acquiescence. They had worked on many cases together and she was gratified to know he trusted her opinion.
Their next visit was to the school where the victim had taught history. It was closed for the weekend but the senior management, along with the members of the history department, had all agreed to attend a meeting with Ian and Geraldine. The head teacher had assured Ian that supporting the police in their investigation into Grant’s murder would take priority over everything else for himself and his staff. As they drew into the car park, the head teacher himself emerged to greet them. A tall robust man in middle age, he led them into a staff room where half a dozen people were waiting for them. After they had introduced themselves, the two detectives set to work.
Dividing the victim’s colleagues into two groups, they questioned the staff individually. It took a while, but no one raised any objections. On the contrary, everyone seemed keen to do whatever they could to help. The same picture emerged, regardless of who was being questioned. Grant Marcus had been an easy-going member of the history department, friendly and committed to his job. There was no sense that anyone was holding back out of reluctance to speak ill of the dead. All his colleagues had genuinely liked him, and enjoyed working with him. What was more, they all reported that he had been popular with the pupils as well.
‘A little too popular,’ the Head of History added, when Geraldine was questioning her about Grant.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, never anything untoward. Grant wasn’t like that.’
‘Like what?’
The teacher looked flustered. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t have done anything inappropriate. He was happily married.’
‘Was there any accusation of wrongdoing?’
‘No, not really. It was just a silly fourth former who had a crush on him and pestered him for a while. We moved her to my set and she was peeved. She got her parents to kick up a fuss about it at first, but it all died down when they heard why we had moved her. It was no reflection on him.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last year.’
‘Is she still in the school?’
‘Yes, but nothing happened. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘Do you think she, or her parents, might have held a grudge against him?’
‘I doubt it very much. Her parents were involved in all the discussions, and very supportive of our actions. In fact, they were both mortified by the girl’s behaviour. And her history grades improved when she moved to my set – only because she was focusing on her work, not on her teacher,’ she added quickly. ‘There was never any hint that Grant hadn’t acted properly or done a good job. He was an excellent teacher.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll all miss him.’
‘All the same, I’d like to see records of the incident.’
The headmaster handed over the pupil’s file readily, reiterating the departmental head’s assurances that nothing inappropriate had taken place, and summing up the general consensus, that the dead man had been conscientious and personable.
Ellie’s assurance that Grant had no enemies was echoed by everyone who had known him. Not only that but, according to his sister-in-law, he had been in a steady relationship with his wife since they had met in their first year at university, and it had been the first serious romance for them both. There was little chance either of them had a jealous ex. It was looking as though their initial theory was correct after all, that Grant had unfortunately walked along Pope’s Head Alley at the wrong time.
On the night Grant had been killed, he had gone out for a curry with the other members of the history department, one of whom was retiring at the end of the term. Other than one woman who been driving, they all admitted to having drunk quite a lot that evening. ‘Rather too much, in fact,’ one of them confessed. That explained why Grant had drunk so much on the night he was killed. After thanking the assembled staff for their time, Geraldine and Ian left. They had learned a lot about Grant, but were no nearer to discovering the identity of his killer.
6
A study of the file the headmaster had given to Geraldine made the situation very clear. The basis of the pupil’s complaint was that her history teacher had refused to give her individual coaching. He had agreed to see her with two other pupils for extra lessons at lunchtime, but she had wanted his undivided attention. When the girl’s parents had complained he wasn’t giving her the support she needed, he had passed the issue to his head of department who had promptly moved the girl out of his set and offered her a few individual sessions that the girl had failed to attend.
Facing Geraldine on Monday morning, the girl looked excited.
‘Is this about Mr Marcus?’ she asked.
‘Yes. You liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Everyone liked him.’
‘Why were you moved out of his history set?’
‘What?’ The girl blushed. ‘Oh that. Yes, we had a bit of a thing.’
‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’
The girl’s
eyes rolled and she began to fidget with her cuff. ‘We liked each other, you know.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. I fancied the pants off him, and of course he fancied me too. But then Mrs Beer decided to split us up so she made me change set, and my parents backed her, so there was nothing Mr Marcus – Grant – and I could do about it. We were heartbroken, of course, and the other girls were really bitchy about it, but they were just jealous because of me and Mr – Grant, and then Freddy came along.’
‘Freddy?’
‘Yes, my boyfriend. And before you ask to see him, he’s not here. He’s left school. He’s twenty. Well, nearly twenty.’
Her boyfriend’s age was clearly something she liked to boast about. Taking the way the girl spoke about Grant, together with the absence of any evidence of wrongdoing, Geraldine was sure the school had been right to dismiss the girl’s complaint against her teacher. Thanking the headmaster, she returned the file.
‘Of course, if there’s any possibility of any inappropriate conduct we would suspend a member of staff immediately pending investigation, but all we could discover here was that the teacher in question was, quite rightly, refusing to be alone with this girl.’ He sighed. ‘Teenage girls can be tricky around the young male teachers.’
Following that dead end, there was a surge of excitement at the police station when a familial match was reported for the DNA sample found at the crime scene. The connection led to Peter Drury, a convicted criminal who had died in prison three years before. Peter Drury had a brother called Jamie, and it seemed that he could be the killer they were looking for. Jamie had never been arrested, but they knew his identity. Finding him was now only a matter of time.
Peter and Jamie’s mother was also dead. When Geraldine volunteered to question their father, who lived near Oxford, Eileen told her a local constable had already been despatched to question him discreetly, without revealing the reason for the police interest in his family. The team all felt as though they were holding their breath until the disappointing message reached them that both Mr Drury’s sons were dead. His only daughter had drowned as a child over twenty years earlier, one of his sons had died in prison, and his other son had died in Australia or Thailand two years before. It was a severe blow to the morale of the team, who had all been quietly confident the killer had been found, but they had to accept that DNA matches weren’t always completely reliable, and move on with the investigation.
Rogue Killer Page 3
