Threadbare

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  April’s phone signalled that she had received a message. She knew it would be relevant. The room fell silent awaiting her response to Nixon’s brief. “Forensics have a match on the thread found within the ammunition box. It comes from the carpet at Samuel Peterson’s.” She let the thought linger before speaking again. “So, a piece of Lyons’s property finds its way to Peterson’s and something of Peterson’s finds its way to the home of George Lyons.”

  “One piece of evidence seems to have replaced the other,” Quinn astutely pointed out. “And the object from the later killing was placed there before or just after the first death. Coincidence?”

  Brian Smirthwaite stopped chewing his pencil. “Doubtful, Quinn. Don’t believe in coincidences. What about Lyons’s friends? How did his wife die?”

  “Cancer. We’ve tracked a friend with whom he’d meet for a drink. Will be interviewed tomorrow. He’s away on holiday at present.”

  It was Owen’s turn to speak. “Surely a countryman would know that putting this weapon to his head might not result in death, if we work along the theory of suicide. So, why not a shotgun in the mouth or a .22 to the head as he’d know the immediate repercussions of either of those? And if it were a murder attempt with a captive bolt and you were left with a live victim, you’d shoot again surely?”

  “The murderer was disturbed? Didn’t realise that it might not kill immediately?” Shakti added.

  Owen was tapping the top of his pen to his lips. “Someone didn’t want him to die quickly? Lyons died slowly too. That’s what that venom does. Can cause dreadful injuries. So too would the captive bolt. Maybe he wasn’t out to kill, just maim. Inflict suffering and pain but not kill.”

  “Failed on both counts there then, sir!” a voice from the back of the room added. “That’s all we need, an incompetent nutter who might now have a .22 gun.”

  “Let’s not forget that according to Bostock, the gun could be in the boot of the missing car,” April suggested tentatively.

  There was an immediate silence as her words were considered.

  Nixon was the first to speak. “According to a friend in firearms, to kill an animal, slaughtermen use the captive bolt against the skull and then pith it.” He immediately saw the looks of enquiry and explained in some detail. “It’s humane and the animal is killed painlessly.”

  Owen saw that Quinn had turned a shade of grey. “Add that to the whiteboard please, Quinn. As April rightly identified, there’s a common thread here, the mixed items from both houses and possibly the slow deaths. Am I grasping at straws ladies and gentlemen or am I simply keeping an open mind?”

  April turned. Owen sounded just like Cyril. The master was there within the student.

  “If there’s a connection between the two murders, items left in each house before the killings took place, we should presume that there could be further killings planned. Is there anything in Peterson’s home that shouldn’t be there? We know that the picture and the gun may have been missing from the time of the murder. Whether that’s relevant cannot be verified as yet. What we do need to do is find out what the missing picture depicted. April, if you’d talk to Bostock again. Take him to the house. Take Shakti with you. A new pair of eyes.”

  She made a note.

  Chapter Ten

  The gloved hand moved the sheets of newspaper cuttings one by one. All appeared old and dogeared as if they had been there a lifetime. Some still contained dates which confirmed their age. The sheets were momentarily scanned before they were inverted and stacked neatly ready to be returned as found. Where there were a few photographs attached to an article, the page was checked with more care. They had been saved for a reason, that was very clear. Occasionally one was placed on a white sheet that had been spread on the table and the copy photographed. The barrier mask covering the mouth, like the rest of the barrier suit, was always an inconvenience but rules were rules if you did not want to contaminate a scene.

  ***

  DC Stuart Park sat opposite Peter Finch. He looked tanned after his holiday and was only too pleased to help. The news of the death of his friend George Lyons had come as a total shock.

  “And how did he die?”

  Stuart batted the question, immediately asking one of his own. “How long have you known George Lyons?”

  “Goodness, how long have I known Sniggy? I suppose thirty years on and off. Worked with him for a while and then our paths diverged. We were both at The Knackery, that’s a slaughter house at Coalcut but he suffered with some respiratory disease I think it was for a while, and he finished on medical grounds. Wasn’t that old either. As far as I’m aware, he didn’t work again. Come to think of it we might have been about the same age.”

  “What did you call him? Sniggy?”

  “His nickname. Always called Sniggy or Snig by his mates. Don’t ask me where, when or why but he was always called that, even by the boss and some clients.”

  Stuart scribbled notes. He should be adding it to an electronic tablet but he wanted the chat to seem informal and less threatening. “How often did you see him after he retired?”

  “Hardly ever. I bumped into him about three years after leaving; he had packed in well before I finished. I’m seventy-seven now you know.” He paused waiting for a compliment that did not materialise. “Anyway, we had a beer and chatted about the old place. He told me he missed the lads and the banter.”

  “Do you know if George did any work on the quiet?”

  “What kind of work?” Peter Finch flushed a little and suddenly seemed on the defensive.

  Stuart deliberately kept quiet as the induced silence was designed to ensure his interviewee would feel uncomfortable and need to speak. It worked.

  “We would help out farmers on occasion, humanely I have to say. We used our experience and our skill to minimise the suffering of the animals.” He looked at the beer mat as he fumbled it nervously in his hands. “I don’t think it was illegal.”

  “I take it you were cheaper than the official process?” Park’s tone was sympathetic as he added the notes.

  “It was better than leaving it to the farmers, that’s for sure. Some only balanced sympathy with the contents of their wallets, I can tell you, and animal welfare was not their number one priority.”

  “And after that?”

  “The carcass you mean? We advised incineration, and burning well away from any public place for obvious reasons. We didn’t want them buried.”

  “So, it was all down to cost?”

  “And embarrassment. The vanity of the rich and the famous drove much of it. We were approached by an important person of the area. He took his hunter for a ride out on a particularly frosty morning against his better judgement. Metal shoes and iced cobbles are a recipe for disaster. Luckily, he hadn’t got as far as the public roads and we were called in to help. He wasn’t too bothered about saving a bob or two, just didn’t want the neighbourhood to know about his incompetence. Mostly though, it’s all about money. To come and put down an animal and remove it would cost the thick end of two hundred pounds – they go by the size of the animal. We’ll do it for less than half that. Granted, we don’t take it away.”

  “So, for a big animal you’d use the captive bolt?”

  “No, we’d use a thirty-caliber pistol and if it were really unapproachable, as some can be when hurt, we’d use a forty-four Winchester. You needed a quick kill.”

  Stuart Park stopped writing and looked at Finch. “Say that again.” He did not give Finch time to respond. “Who owned those two weapons?”

  “Neither of us. We’d used them at work when called to a job. Most times a vet would do the job but on occasion it was too dangerous and we would have to dispose of the injured animal as quickly as possible. He borrowed the pistol and the Winchester. You knew an animal wouldn’t suffer any more if you used either.”

  “From whom?” The incredulity in his question was clearly evident.

  Finch just raised his shoulders. “Never asked.
Always best that way. I didn’t handle them. That was George’s forte.”

  “When was the last time you worked together?”

  “About five months ago.”

  “So, Mr Finch, the question is, who owns the tools of your trade?” Park deliberately did not name the gun, he wanted everything to come from Finch.

  “George had his own humane killer. He’d had it throughout his career. When they changed to compressed air guns, they kept some as back up or field work but got rid of the older pieces. He’d bring that in an old ammunition box. Standard old fashioned stuff but effective.”

  “What about the pithing?”

  Finch paused hearing the officer mention the word pithing. It took a moment for him to collect his thoughts. “Long screwdriver, nothing fancy. That’s kept in my car. George was reliant on me after he got rid of his old jalopy; he had a three-wheeler Reliant for years. We’d never take that as they were prone to roll on corners and in my opinion, it was a bloody death trap. It drew a good deal of attention too. It wasn’t what we nor the customers wanted, believe me.”

  “So, five months. Do you have a record of the work?”

  The look on Finch’s face told him everything and he did not pursue that line of enquiry. “Did George Lyons ever work on his own do you know?”

  “Probably, always happy to make a bob or two. How often? I couldn’t say. All I can be certain about is what we did together. Besides, we chatted about carrying the tools in the car. What with all this terrorism stuff and the possibility of being stopped by you fellas or breaking down which was more possible. Mind, saying that, you police are like that old Reliant, as rare as hen’s teeth these days. Never see any and if you do, they’re usually in twos in a car, never on foot.”

  Stuart was only too well aware of that.

  Finch watched as Park made further notes. He seemed to be writing for ever. “Look, DC …”

  “Park.” Stuart looked up and then back to adding the notes into the pad. “Just want to read this through and make sure that I’ve written everything in your statement.”

  “Statement? You wanted a friendly chat you said.” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “He was a bloody friend and nobody knows everything about their real friends let alone a work mate. Just look at the number of families who have skeletons hidden in the cupboard. Married for years and people have shadowy and hidden pasts so how I’m supposed to be able to talk about this bloke … have a friendly chat you said and now it turns out to be a statement. I don’t know anything he did when we weren’t together. As I keep saying, he was a work mate who I occasionally had a beer with and that’s it.”

  “You worked together – tax man know, did he?”

  Finch noticed that Park did not write anything further but put his pad into his pocket. Finch stood.

  “Next time I want a solicitor. Bloody statement.”

  “Next time, Mr Finch, you might require one. Thank you for your co-operation.”

  ***

  The Forensics results on the captive bolt gun had returned a positive match with the tests carried out on the ammunition box. They had their connection. Shakti stared at the arrows drawn on the white board showing a connection between the two death sites. There was an obvious thread between the two male victims and it was still believed Barbara was the unfortunate victim and that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The results clearly showed that DNA from Lyons, Peterson and Bostock were on the wooden handle of the weapon but it could not be determined who was the last to handle it. It was presumed to be Bostock. All enquiries as to any long-term links with either Lyons or Peterson proved negative.

  The call from Stuart Park after his interview with Finch had added two more weapons to that missing from Peterson’s cottage. A search of the specialised firearm licence records should track those in the locality holding a pistol and the Winchester that matched those described, as well as confirming their working together. Having to get a licence for such weapons would limit the number of owners, but there was the chance that these weapons were held without the necessary paperwork.

  ***

  Leonard loitered by the hallway. The sun’s light penetrated the coloured glass within the transom window above the door and the shadows from the leaves of the roadside tree played and danced in varying strengths along the wall. He tried to tap the moving shadow with his hand and giggled momentarily; it occupied him for a short while as he waited for his mother. His coat was fastened and he had been ready for ten minutes. He hated to wait, it made him cross.

  “You’re an eager beaver, Leonard. Has Karl got more secrets to share with you? We’re early and there might be children still walking to school.” She raised her hands and carefully placed them on each of his cheeks. “We don’t want you upset now do we, my precious boy?” She slipped on her jacket.

  Leonard had smiled on hearing the name Karl but his expression changed when it was followed by the word children. His mother’s gentle touch briefly comforted him. He frowned and moved away from the door the instant the sun went behind a cloud bringing darkness to the hallway. Leonard approached his mother and took her hand. “Now, please, now. Karl is kind. I do like him. We have secrets.”

  His mother knew about the secrets. When she had first heard Leonard talk about their secret, alarm bells had gone off in her head. She had always feared people might take advantage of his disability and naivety, and that she would guard against at all costs. Unbeknown to her son, she had chatted with Karl and asked for an explanation. He had told her about the spider and the other animals he was allowed to keep in his apartment but also talked about himself. Over the week they realised that they had much in common.

  Not originally from Harrogate, he had moved into the apartment when he retired having always had accommodation linked to his profession. Karl had spent time in Belize, a country first visited when he was in the forces and a place that drew him back. The fact that English was the main language and the chance of working and studying at Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary allowed his enthusiasm for the biodiversity of the area to develop. He moved then to work in zoos within Britain, mainly Chester and Blackpool, predominantly with reptiles until retiring early and moving to Yorkshire. Karl had never married. Penny liked him and she appreciated the fact that he could not only help Leonard, she saw that he also knew that it helped her. The insistence on secrets, she realised, was a way of keeping his interest and maintaining discipline. He needed Leonard to follow instructions, abide by rules that would safeguard the welfare of his pets and using the knowledge that his mother would find out and prevent his going to Karl’s apartment had worked. She had also seen the logic and was only too grateful for the respite his kindness afforded.

  “Come on then, but no shouting if we see any children.”

  Leonard shook his head. “No shouting, no shouting.” He moved eagerly to the door before pulling his hat down lower until it reached his eyebrows. The short walk passed without incident and soon he had disappeared to spend an hour in Karl’s company whilst she settled down with a cup of tea and some adult conversation.

  “Now remember, Leonard, we don’t touch unless you’re given permission, nor shout when I bring your friend Tony out here,” Karl instructed, his voice firm but fair.

  Leonard rocked on his knees and smiled. He had held the spider on a few occasions but was as eager now as he had been on the first day. “Incy wincy, Tony,” he muttered to himself. He still squealed as Karl freed the spider from the box but he was controlled, his excitement palpable. He watched as Karl placed it on his arm. Leonard now knew the terms for the various parts of its anatomy. He counted each leg. “They are the metatarsus, Karl, your legs Tony are metatarsus.” He would then go on to list the parts he knew, like a young child fascinated by the complicated names of dinosaurs: spinnerets, cephalothorax, pedipals, chelicerae. Each word would trip off his tongue in the same sequence. He relished his newfound knowledge and he loved being in Karl’s company.

&n
bsp; “I’m going to bring another friend of mine to meet you when we put Tony to bed. It’s another secret, Leonard. You must promise not to shout or touch when I bring it. Do you understand?”

  Leonard nodded and immediately brought his legs to the side and his index finger to his lips like an infant. He was demonstrating he would comply. Karl removed Tony and within minutes brought another plastic box back into the room. This was larger. Around the upper ring he could see rows of perforations. Karl placed the box on the floor in front of, but away from Leonard who was about to move closer. Karl raised a finger and he stopped.

  Leonard’s eyes were wide open and again his hand went to his mouth. The box lid was removed and Karl withdrew a snake.

  “Kaa! Kaa!” Leonard shrieked as he watched the snake coil on the floor, its tongue shooting back and forth. “Jungle Book. I love Jungle Book and I love Kaa. I see Kaa in the park. He’s on the benches. I like to go and see.”

  “You can call him Kaa. It’s a Corn Snake, Leonard. It has a longer name too, Pantherophis guttatus, but we won’t worry about that.”

  “Guttatus, Guttatus.” Leonard’s smile grew.

  “Another of our secrets.” Karl put his finger to his lips before picking up the snake.

  ***

  April sat opposite Owen as they read through further Forensic results from the homes of both Lyons and Peterson.

  “They discovered a number of documents relating to the stolen car located within the box Peterson had been retrieving, old service records and the like but no registration details. There was also this.” She handed it over.