Rogue Killer

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘do your worst. You don’t scare me.’

  But she did want her bag back.

  26

  In her lunch break, Geraldine took a quick look at the list of recent arrests. There were only a couple for relatively minor infringements. A drunk had been brought in the previous evening and left in a cell overnight. It wasn’t the first time he had been brought in for brawling in a pub. On this particular occasion he had been too sozzled to end up in any real trouble, but one day he was likely to have his head bashed in. A patrol had brought him in as much for his own protection as to stop him causing a nuisance. Other than that, a young girl had been caught shoplifting and had been brought in to give her a scare. This wasn’t her first offence. There was nothing new or interesting in any of it. But just as she was closing the report, her attention was caught by one detail.

  ‘Look at this,’ she called out, to no one in particular.

  Ariadne was sitting opposite her. ‘What have you found?’

  Geraldine directed her to the report.

  ‘Oh, a girl was caught shoplifting.’ Ariadne didn’t actually say ‘So what?’

  ‘Never mind the shoplifting,’ Geraldine said. ‘Look at the details. Look at what she had on her.’

  ‘A bottle of Captain Morgan, a shirt, a magazine and some chocolate,’ Ariadne read aloud. ‘OK, I’ve looked at the list. What now?’

  ‘That’s not all. Look again.’

  ‘Geraldine, there isn’t anything else.’

  ‘The bag,’ Geraldine replied, unable to conceal her impatience. ‘She had a bag with her. Look!’

  ‘Oh yes, I see, she had a Burberry bag. Very nice. So you’re saying she was stealing from other places as well as the supermarket? Well, that figures.’

  ‘Yes, but she said the bag was given to her.’

  ‘OK, she lied about it. That’s hardly any surprise, is it?’

  ‘What if she wasn’t lying?’

  ‘Geraldine, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Who would give a fifteen-year-old girl a Burberry bag? I don’t even know if I could afford one of them. Do you know how much they cost?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, but enough to know that she stole it. And the question remains: so what? I daresay the shop takes out insurance against –’

  ‘The significance of the bag is that one of the victims of the recent muggings was carrying a brown leather Burberry bag which was stolen. So when a young shoplifter turns up with a brown leather Burberry bag and claims it was a gift, perhaps we should try and find out who gave it to her.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to speak to Eileen while the girl’s still here. Whatever else happens, we’ve got to find out who gave her that bag.’

  ‘One of the muggers!’ Ariadne said, finally catching Geraldine’s drift.

  As soon as Eileen understood the significance of the Burberry bag, she sent Geraldine to question the girl.

  ‘She’ll be a hard one to crack,’ Ian told Geraldine when they met outside the interview room. ‘These youngsters think they’re untouchable. The borough intelligence team recognised her name straightaway. She’s tough for all that she’s only fifteen.’

  ‘They know her?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t get your hopes up. They don’t know who her associates are.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Yes, all they have is a record of her shoplifting and some alleged minor drug offences. At one time she was suspected of soliciting but they never discovered the identity of her pimp. She was under surveillance for a short time but these kids are slippery and they concluded there was nothing serious going on so she dropped off the radar. Until now.’

  ‘It’s a pity they don’t have the names of her associates,’ Geraldine repeated.

  ‘I know, but once she understands what’s at stake, we should be able to crack her all right. She thinks we’re only interested in her pilfering. We need to make it clear that if she persists in obstructing us, she’ll be treated as an accessory to murder. That should put the fear of God into her, if nothing else does.’

  ‘She’s only fifteen,’ Geraldine reminded him.

  ‘We’re looking for a murderer, and this kid might be able to help us find him.’

  Geraldine rather hoped the girl would lead them to the muggers so that they could finally establish the gang wasn’t responsible for murdering Grant or Felicity, leaving the team free to focus their attention on searching for the actual killer.

  The girl was seated beside a sharp-faced woman, not her mother but a local lawyer who specialised in defending underage youngsters.

  ‘Good,’ Ian said, smiling grimly at the lawyer, ‘I’m very glad to see you. With such a serious accusation pending, we need to do this by the book.’

  ‘Alexa has been accused of petty shoplifting,’ the lawyer replied in a tinny voice. ‘That’s hardly a serious accusation. It’s her first offence –’

  ‘She was cautioned for the same offence two years ago,’ Geraldine interjected.

  ‘When she was thirteen. As I’ve already pointed out, this is hardly a “serious accusation”,’ the lawyer repeated evenly, still looking at Ian.

  ‘You can’t touch me,’ the girl piped up.

  The lawyer gave her a warning frown, reminding her to keep quiet. With a sullen glare, the girl lowered her head and sat motionless, staring at the table. Geraldine gazed at streaks of pale scalp showing through the girl’s thin hair. She looked a lot younger than fifteen, possibly because she was scrawny and flat chested. Her skin was very pale, making her look sick. Perhaps she was. For all her swagger, Geraldine thought she was frightened.

  ‘Where did you get your bag?’ Ian asked suddenly.

  The girl glared across the table but she didn’t answer.

  Ian repeated the question. ‘You’d not be wise to obstruct us in this investigation,’ he added.

  It was almost a throw away remark but the lawyer’s expression altered and she glanced thoughtfully from Ian to Geraldine and back again. A detective inspector and a detective sergeant working in serious crime were hardly likely to be interested in a teenager who had been caught shoplifting. Finally the penny seemed to be dropping, at least with the lawyer.

  ‘Answer the question, Alexa,’ she instructed her young client.

  ‘I told you, my boyfriend gave it to me. Which means it’s mine, doesn’t it? And I want it back. They can’t keep it, can they?’

  Ian leaned forward slightly, his low tone menacing. ‘And where did your boyfriend get hold of such an expensive bag?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘He must’ve found it in a charity shop,’ she replied coolly.

  Ian sniffed. ‘Very well. We need the name and address of your boyfriend and then you’re free to go.’

  Alexa shook her head. ‘He’s called…’ Her hesitation was pathetically transparent. ‘He’s called Harry.’

  ‘And where does Harry live?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’

  ‘Where do you meet him?’

  ‘I just see him around.’

  That might even be true, Geraldine thought. But Ian was growing impatient.

  ‘We have evidence that your bag was stolen in the course of a serious crime,’ he said firmly, glaring at the lawyer. ‘If your client persists in obstructing us in our enquiries by withholding information, she is likely to end up accused of being an accessory to a serious crime.’

  ‘Shoplifting isn’t a –’ the lawyer began to trot out a predictable response.

  ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ Ian interrupted her roughly. ‘I suggest you recommend your client starts talking to us or she’s going to find herself facing a very serious charge.’ He turned to Alexa who was looking baffled. ‘Even your clever lawyer here won’t be able to save you if you decide to join your boyfriend on
a murder charge. We’ll give you a moment to reconsider.’

  He nodded at Geraldine to pause the tape.

  ‘Let’s hope she does actually know where we can find this so-called boyfriend,’ Geraldine said after they had left the girl to discuss her position with her counsel.

  Ian nodded. ‘This could be it,’ he said softly, speaking more to himself than to Geraldine.

  He didn’t need to explain.

  27

  Carver was sprawling in his armchair when Daryl arrived. Nelson had bagged their new acquisition, a rickety yellow kitchen chair, leaving a wooden crate. Daryl would have preferred the chair, but he didn’t complain. The crate was better than the floor. At least he was more or less on a level with the others. In new jeans and sweatshirt, and expensive new trainers, Carver was listening to an iPod Daryl hadn’t seen before. Nelson was also kitted out in new gear. Only Daryl was still in worn jeans and old trainers, because his mother had nicked all his dosh. She called it rent, and promptly spent it all on booze.

  ‘How did your mother like her new bag?’ Nelson sniggered when they were all seated.

  Daryl felt his face go red. ‘I didn’t give it to my mother.’

  ‘Wanted to keep it for yourself?’

  ‘I gave it to my girl,’ Daryl blurted out, stung by the mockery.

  ‘I gave it to my girl,’ Nelson mimicked him, flapping his hands stupidly in the air. ‘Ooh, I gave it to my girl.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Daryl muttered. ‘Just fuck off, will you? What the hell?’ He scowled and heard his own voice grow shrill with anger. ‘What? You think I can’t have sex with my girl any time I want? We’re not all like you.’

  He hadn’t really had sex with Alexa yet, but he had gone as near as possible, short of actual penetration. He figured it counted. He got excited just thinking about it.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Nelson asked, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Daryl snarled.

  He stood up and turned to face Nelson.

  ‘Enough,’ Carver interrupted them quietly.

  Daryl and Nelson both turned to look at him. He didn’t need to speak again. Nelson slumped back down on his chair, sulking. As Daryl took his seat on the crate he experienced an unexpected rush of pride because it was true. He did have a girlfriend. Never having stood up to Nelson’s taunts before, he had just batted the other boy’s gibes away without even thinking about it. He felt suddenly free, able to do anything.

  Carver’s keen eyes missed nothing. ‘What are you grinning about?’ he asked.

  Daryl shrugged.

  ‘Thinking about his imaginary girlfriend,’ Nelson suggested with a sly grin.

  On the point of responding, Daryl thought better of it. Sometimes silence made a powerful statement. He had never felt so much energy coursing through his veins without getting high. Nelson would never intimidate him again. There was nothing so special about Nelson, anyway. If anyone was special it was him, Daryl. He had just never recognised it in himself, until now. With a rush of elation, he threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Nelson said.

  ‘Ignore him. He’s just a dick,’ Carver drawled.

  And just like that, Daryl’s excitement fizzled out. But he knew he would never tolerate Nelson’s goading again. From now on they were going to be equals. Only Carver would continue as their leader because, well, he was Carver and he had killed a man. They spent the rest of the evening discussing their plans for the future. It was frustrating. They had been doing so well and now they were having to be careful on the streets, just because some other idiot had killed a few people. It was so unfair. The recent murders had nothing to do with them. Nelson suggested they shift their operations to Leeds where the police weren’t out looking for them.

  ‘I bet the Leeds police are all here in York, helping to look for us. So we’d be safer there.’

  Carver dismissed the idea. The beauty of what they had been doing until now was that they had their garage, he said. As soon as they lifted the goods from someone on the street, they withdrew to their bolt hole. Mugging on the streets of Leeds would mean returning to York, and all the time they were travelling they would risk being picked up. They all agreed it wasn’t a sensible idea to mug people elsewhere, but none of them could come up with a solution to the problem of York which seemed to be teeming with police officers, all hunting for them. Carver’s pride at being newsworthy had given way to a sullen rage.

  ‘They’ve screwed us up royally, and we’ve done nothing to deserve it,’ he raged. ‘Nothing!’

  Failing to reach any conclusion about what to do next, they split up for the night. By the time Daryl arrived home, his mother was snoring in the living room, an empty bottle of Scotch at her feet. In a food-encrusted bowl on the arm of her chair, a cigarette butt sent tiny spirals of white smoke into the air. Daryl’s father had left them years ago. Now his older brother had gone, leaving only Daryl and his mother in the house. As soon as he could, he would be off too. If the old cow was left on her own, she had only herself to blame. He was going to find a place with Alexa and sleep with her every night. She had told him exactly how it was going to be. He wasn’t keen on the idea of a baby, but she had explained that was the only way they were going to get their own place, and had promised him it wouldn’t stop them having sex every night. Proper sex. So that was all right. In the meantime he had to put up with living with his mother. At least he no longer had to sleep in the living room, now his brother had gone. He went upstairs to bed and fell asleep almost at once.

  He was woken by a loud noise. At first he thought he was having one of his nightmares, but then he heard the banging again. He sat up. He certainly felt as though he was awake. If this was a dream, it was horribly real. Again he heard banging, this time accompanied by voices.

  ‘Open up! Police!’

  A few seconds later, he heard his mother shrieking. ‘What the fuck are you doing? It’s the middle of the night! Fuck off out of here!’

  A deep voice answered her, ‘Where’s your son? Where’s your son?’

  His mother had the presence of mind to shout that her son had left home. Meanwhile, Daryl was scrambling out of bed. He was naked. His mind raced as he pulled on jogging pants. There was only one small high window in his room. He ran out on to the landing intending to run to his mother’s room, but he was too late. Heavy footsteps were pounding up the stairs. He fled, but before he reached his mother’s room his arm was grasped and twisted up behind his back so sharply he thought his shoulder would be dislocated. Screaming he fell to his knees and felt a hand pressing down on the back of his head, forcing him to the floor. The carpet stank of vomit.

  28

  The boy was skinny, with a severe case of acne and cavernous dark eyes that made him look older than his sixteen years. Geraldine watched him, noting how his eyes flitted away every time he glanced at her. He fidgeted constantly with the frayed cuff on his sweatshirt, and appeared unable to sit still. At his side, his mother gazed vacantly across the table. She could have been stoned. All at once she jolted, seeming to realise where she was. At Daryl’s other side was a legal representative who specialised in defending underage offenders.

  ‘What’s this all about then?’ Mrs Bowen asked, brushing her straggly fringe out of eyes as cavernous and dark as her son’s. She turned to Daryl. ‘What have you got yourself into this time, you fucking pillock? You’re nothing but trouble.’

  Without warning her hand snaked out to clout her son on the side of his head. He barely flinched. Only his glittering eyes revealed his anger, or perhaps they were shining with unshed tears. He was barely more than a child.

  When her son didn’t respond, Mrs Bowen turned to Ian. ‘I asked you what this is about. My boy here is only fifteen. This should be illegal, what you’re doing to him. He wants to go home. This is harassment. You can’
t keep him here.’

  ‘Please, be quiet and let them say what they have to say,’ the lawyer remonstrated quietly.

  Ignoring the advice, Mrs Bowen carried on. ‘This is no place for a child. You’ve got no business putting the wind up him like this. Can’t you see he’s scared out of his wits?’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ the boy muttered. ‘Nothing scares me. And I’m sixteen.’

  He cast a quick glance at his mother, as though to check she wasn’t going to hit him again. She stood up and he scrambled to his feet beside her.

  ‘You can leave when we’ve finished with him,’ Ian said. ‘Sit down, both of you.’

  ‘Please, just listen, and leave the talking to me,’ the lawyer insisted.

  The constable beside the door shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ready to move. Mrs Bowen hesitated and then sat down, and the boy followed suit.

  ‘What’s he supposed to have done this time? Go on, what stupid nonsense has he got himself involved in?’ Mrs Bowen demanded.

  There was a faint pause before Ian spoke, very quietly. ‘Would you describe murder as stupid nonsense?’

  The lawyer opened her mouth to speak but closed it again abruptly. For a moment no one spoke.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about? My son’s got nothing to do with any murder. He’s a kid. He’s a good kid.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘He just gets a bit high spirited, that’s all. Nicking my fags and stuff like that. It’s harmless nonsense. He’s never broken the law, have you, Daryl? He shouldn’t be here.’