Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Ma’am.” WPC Taylor moved away from the glass- fronted club door and crossed the road.

  The Zodiac’s rear entrance led directly into the club’s small car park, which was about half full. Most people didn’t bother to try to squeeze their cars into the awkward spaces, primarily because of the brand new multi-storey immediately behind but also because no one wanted to get boxed in by double-parkers. Beyond the multi-storey lay the canal, and looming over it the elevated section of the Inner Distribution Road, or IDR as it was known locally.

  Helen followed Charlie and the young PC into the car park. The muted pulse of the Zodiac’s sound system grew louder as they approached the rear entrance. It was officially a fire exit and was locked from within, but an adjacent frosted-glass window stood partially open.

  “Toilets.” Charlie turned to the young PC. “Feeling athletic, PC Keohane?”

  “Ma’am.”

  Helen watched as PC Keohane heaved himself up to the ledge and fiddled with the window catch. After a moment he had it fully open. They watched as he disappeared inside. Thirty seconds later the fire door opened and Keohane beckoned. “It was the ladies,” he told them. “Fortunately unoccupied.”

  “What about the gents?” Helen had to raise her voice to be heard. Even out here the volume was gut-thumpingly loud. “Worth a check.” Her heart was pounding as she remembered what had happened to DC Hill. OK, Banner was a pain, but he was a colleague too.

  Charlie motioned to PC Keohane. The PC cautiously pushed open the door of the gents. They heard him rapping on cubicle doors. “Police. All right in there?”

  Two punters appeared through the connecting door from the club, both girls. Charlie showed them her ID and told them to wait. The girls exchanged looks and retreated.

  Keohane’s head emerged from the gents. “One no reply, ma’am.”

  “OK, let’s have a look.” Charlie followed Keohane and Helen waited half-in, half-out of the doorway, ready to turn away any male clientele.

  “Police.” Charlie rapped hard on the cubicle. “Can you respond, please?”

  Two seconds passed. Nothing. Charlie nodded to Keohane. The PC put his shoulder to the flimsy panelled door and it flew open.

  “Damn.” Helen heard Charlie’s muttered expletive. “Helen?”

  Helen was at the cubicle in two strides. “Oh no . . .”

  Banner was sitting on the toilet, his head lolling on his chest. A note was pinned to his stomach, scrawled in red felt tip pen. It read, Next time, dead.

  The church was a lofty, high-ceilinged building, unlike others Moran had visited which were usually modern, characterless halls. Diffused light from a large stained-glass window spread across the interior as he made his way to the centre of activity, to the right of the nave by the confessionals. A fretful young man in a dog collar was pacing up and down between white-suited SOCOs as they milled around photographing, videoing and scouring the area for tangible – and not so tangible – evidence. Patrick Maclennan, the scene manager, welcomed him with a gruff “Moran.”

  Maclennan led him to the first confessional, a two-door cupboard-like structure which enabled priest and penitent to face each other in complete anonymity. Outside the box Maclennan paused.

  “Hope you’re not a religious man, Moran. Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid.”

  Moran followed Maclennan’s gaze. The second door, the priest’s door, was wide open and floodlit. It was occupied by an older man, also dog-collared and clearly dead. A savage knife wound had opened his throat, and his black shirt was shiny with the blood which had splattered the woodwork and the gauze-curtained grille separating the two partitions. The grille was slashed and torn, as if the attacker had ripped his way through with the knife.

  “God,” Moran muttered.

  “Absent, I’d say,” Maclennan replied darkly. “Or not paying attention to what one of his own was up to.” The big Scot gave Moran a humourless grin. “You taking this one on as well, or are you still tied up with the others?”

  “One at a time, Patrick, that’s the way it works. Unless there’s a clear link.” Moran peered into the confessional, wrinkling his nose at the sickly smell of blood.

  “Same kind of slash to the throat as the town centre boy,” Maclennan observed. “Tenuous connection, though. Blinged up Asian lad to parish priest?” He laughed grimly. “Good job it wasn’t the local mosque or there’d be a political Hiroshima on top of us.”

  Moran straightened up as if he’d been stung. “What did you say, Patrick?”

  The Scot frowned. “Just that an attack like this in the mosque would produce a much bigger backlash in the local community – all the way up the ladder. We’d never hear the end of it.”

  “I wonder,” Moran said quietly. “Maybe this isn’t some personal vendetta. Not against anyone in particular, anyway.”

  “Meaning?”

  Moran looked the Scot straight in the eye. “Maybe it’s about religion, Patrick. The second Asian boy was a Muslim; Bling Boy too, I’d bet. Now we have a Catholic victim.”

  “You reckon? What next? The Freemasons? The Quakers?” Maclennan looked sceptical, but Moran didn’t wait to hear any more. By the time Maclennan had ticked off the Methodists, Baptists and Seventh Day Adventists Moran was already on his way out, stick in one hand, mobile in the other.

  Maclennan shook his head and went back to his laptop to upload the crime scene photographs to the fingerprint bureau. They probably belonged to the victim, but you could never be sure. As he entered his password he wondered if Father Peter Jeffries had had time to make his own confession before his life had been so abruptly terminated.

  Banner looked like crap. Not surprising really, Moran thought, considering the dose of Ketamine he had received. It said something for Banner’s iron constitution that he was fit enough to attend the midmorning briefing at all, given last night’s incident in the Zodiac’s toilet – an incident that Moran knew the detective sergeant would struggle to live down, especially given the stick he habitually dished out to his colleagues. Wouldn’t do him any harm, Moran concluded. He was just relieved that he didn’t have to announce the death of another serving officer.

  Moran had assembled the team both to update them and to find out more about what had been going on during his afternoon absence. Nothing good, by all accounts. Although DI Pepper had done the right thing in keeping the lid on Banner’s rescue from the Zodiac, Moran was not best pleased that they had been sussed out so easily, and he wanted to know why.

  “Right then, first things first.” He addressed the tired but attentive faces. “You’ll all be pleased to hear that acting DI Robert Phelps is doing well. He’s out of immediate danger and is expected to make a good recovery, although it will be some time before he can resume active duty. DS Banner has been restored to us, albeit in somewhat sickly shape, by DC McKellar and DI Pepper, who I’m sure all of you have met by now. DI Pepper will be filling Robert Phelps’ shoes in his absence, so hers is a timely arrival. DI Pepper, can I take this opportunity to formally welcome you to the team?” Moran looked at each officer in turn. “I’m sure you’ll all give DI Pepper your full support.” Murmurs of agreement. “Good. Secondly, DC McKellar is going to fill you in on tonight’s events at the Zodiac.”

  Moran stood to one side as Helen McKellar described Banner’s sudden abduction and her suspicion that she had also been targeted. When she finished Moran thanked her and resumed his position in front of the whiteboards.

  “It doesn’t take a great deal of head-scratching to realise that someone knew they were coming. Which means in turn that someone leaked not only the information that two coppers were going under cover, but they also got hold of some mug shots to make the job a simple one. Thoughts?”

  Banner raised his arm. “I’d go for Neads, guv. Just the sort of thing that sick sod would enjoy.”

  “But how would Neads know what was going on, unless someone told him?” Moran appealed to the gathered officers.

  “Doe
s he still have network access?” Helen McKellar asked.

  “Nah.” One of the DCs shook his head. “All access is switched off on an officer’s resignation. Or termination,” he added quickly.

  “Are we sure?” Moran frowned. “Neads was highly IT literate. We need to make sure those doors are closed. Can you check it out, DC Harding?”

  “Will do, guv. I can check the stats to find out the last time he logged on.”

  “Thank you.” Kenneth Harding was a bright boy – West Indian parentage, and a way with computers that was no less dazzling than his often visible smile. But was it really likely to be Neads? Sure, Neads was unpredictable but Moran didn’t reckon he’d stoop so low as to expose his ex-colleagues to danger. But then, there was the mocking text, the way he had hung around the station...

  Moran’s eyes traversed the room. “DI Pepper. Any ideas?”

  “Well, guv,” she hesitated, “I don’t really want to suggest this, but it’s a possibility.”

  “Go on,” Moran prompted. The room hushed.

  “Isn’t it possible that DC Hill talked – under pressure obviously? Maybe he was forced to spill info about the team.”

  A ripple of discontented muttering passed around the room. Charlie Pepper shrugged. “I’m sorry, but it’s possible.”

  “But the Chinese died thirty-five minutes after Hill was found. He wouldn’t have had time to pass on any info,” Helen McKellar argued. Moran saw a slight flush of colour rise on the whiteness of her throat. There was a chorus of agreement from the other officers, and Charlie, tight-lipped, looked down at the carpet.

  “DI Pepper is right.” Moran quietened them with a wave of his hand. “Let’s get this straight. DC Hill was under extreme pressure. We’re not here to pass judgement. He was a fine detective, in spite of his youth. His integrity is not under question, but under the circumstances it is entirely possible that he may have reluctantly provided information, which could have been texted, emailed, whatever, even in such a short timeframe.”

  More mutterings and head-shaking from the floor. Moran paused, allowing the team to express their objections. No one wanted to think badly of an officer killed on active service, but he had to factor in the possibility and he was glad Charlie Pepper had been brave enough to suggest it. It told him a lot about the way she ticked, and so far he liked what he saw.

  “OK. The threatening note left on DS Banner has been sent off for analysis, but I doubt it’ll help us much. For the time being, excluding Neads as a suspect, I’m assuming that the perpetrators have some connection with the drug ring. We’ll need to work out how to approach the Zodiac with a little more subtlety. DS Banner and DC McKellar, we’ll get together after this to do a little brainstorming. If DS Banner is up to it?”

  Moran waited for the catcalls and one-liners to subside. He knew that behind the ribbing lay relief and not a little concern. Banner raised his hand weakly and tried to laugh it off. A hard man, yes, but not immune to feeling a little shaken up. Moran raised his voice and the hubbub died down.

  “OK, let’s move on. You’ll all have heard about yesterday’s ’s incident at St James’ Church?”

  Moran briefed them and floated his theory regarding the religious connections. “That means we have three separate murders, all of which have a similar MO, namely the victim’s throat pierced with a thin knife and multiple bodily stab wounds. The exception is DS Reed-Purvis, who was doped and strangled. Question: does she prove the rule, or is her murder unrelated?”

  “Have the path lab come to any conclusions about the weapon, guv? Was the same knife used?” someone asked.

  Moran shook his head. “No word yet regarding the St James’ incident; we’ll have to wait for the autopsy. But Bling Boy and Slough Boy were killed with different weapons, that much we do know. Slough Boy’s wound was more ragged, wider–” Moran pointed to the photograph pinned to the whiteboard. “And Bling’s is neater, a sharper, thinner blade.”

  Charlie Pepper shrugged. “Doesn’t rule out the same killer.”

  “Agreed,” Moran said. “The killer isn’t stupid. He hasn’t left us much to go on at the crime scenes so far. No one saw anything untoward either before or after the attacks.”

  “Guv?” Banner’s hand was up.

  “Yes, DS Banner?”

  “I guess that Father Jeffries’ murder rules out the drug connection?”

  Moran nodded. “I think so. Even taking into account the haul we found in the Chinaman’s car, my belief is that we’re dealing with a serial killer. He’s moving in the same circles as the drug syndicate, but he’s not actually involved with them – not directly, anyway. There’s a connection of some sort, but exactly what that connection is – well, that’s down to us to find out.

  “Forgive me for stating the obvious, guv, but, well–”

  “Go on, spit it out, Banner.”

  Banner hesitated, scratching his ear with his pencil. “Well, we reckon the Jeffries murder has Neads written all over it, guv. I mean, after Charnford Abbey, you know, and the guy was mugged recently wasn’t he? Might have sent him over the edge…” Banner trailed off and, reading Moran’s expression, began to examine a scuff mark on his shoe.

  Moran exhaled deeply. “OK, let’s put this one to bed. As I’ve said before, Gregory Neads may well be an awkward little so-and-so, and yes, he’s been through the kind of traumatic experience I hope none of us ever have to endure, but I can’t bring myself to believe that he’s capable of multiple murders. I accept that he’s a bit of a loose cannon, but I’m also convinced that his current game plan is to irritate and harass, not to kill. As I said before, I think we’re dealing with a serial killer on some kind of religious agenda.” He paused but no one challenged his opinion. All eyes were looking elsewhere – the floor, the window, the whiteboards. “OK, let’s have some updates from you lot. What about the Audi? Any joy?”

  DC Harding spoke up. “ANPR’s been on a go-slow the last day and a half, guv. Something to do with IT maintenance work.”

  “In other words, they screwed up,” another officer said to a burst of knowing laughter from the room. Harding carried on through the noise.

  “But we’ve got an interim result anyway, guv. Came in just half an hour ago. A Crystal Blue Audi of the type we’re after stopped at Tilehurst Service Station at five thirty-five the night Bling Boy was killed. We’ve got a positive ID via the station’s CCTV. I’ve just sent the registration to the DVLA for matching.

  “And Sulham Woods is down the road.”

  “Yes, guv. Around half a mile.”

  “Thank you, DC Harding. My desk as soon as, OK?” The news made Moran feel slightly better. It might not be the vehicle they were after, but then again, it might. At least they had something tangible. And then there was the fact that Reed-Purvis had been found in Sulham...

  “Are we still on a short timescale, guv?” Helen McKellar asked.

  “Very,” Moran confirmed. “Today is half over already. We only have until tonight, strictly speaking. Maybe I can stretch it to close of play tomorrow. After that it’s out of my hands and into OCG’s. He clapped his hands smartly. “OK That’s it for now.”

  “Are you joining us later, guv?” Helen stopped him as he turned towards his office.

  “Later?”

  “We’re going down the Falcon. For a drink. You know, for James…”

  Moran spotted the slight tremor in her voice and felt a wave of empathy. He nodded. “Of course. Eight o’clock?”

  “Eight o’clock sharp, guv,” she replied in a passable imitation of his own well-used phrase. “See you there.”

  Chapter 16

  The Falcon was the favoured watering hole of TVP, not on account of the quality of its beer or its outstanding ambience, but primarily because of its proximity to the station. That, and a long, friendly history with one of Reading’s longest serving landlords, Brian Carroll. Brian was a huge, barrel-chested man with the most magnificent Jimmy-Edwards-style moustache Moran had ev
er seen. There was a long-running, apocryphal rumour that Brian would be awarded a full police pension on his eventual retirement, which, given his age, couldn’t be that far away. He’d seen officers come and go, laugh and cry, argue and celebrate. He had dispensed and presided over the disputes, the birthdays, the engagements and, on occasion, as tonight, the wakes.

  “What’ll it be, Brendan?” Brian’s eyes creased. “The hop or the grape?”

  “Pint of Brakspear’s please, Brian.”

  “Good choice.” The landlord selected a glass and expertly pulled the pint. “Sorry to hear about Robert. How is he?”

  “Holding his own.” Moran sipped the pint. “I thought he was indestructible.”

  “Like you?” Brian laughed. “How’s the leg, by the way?”

  “I’m fine.” Moran shrugged. “Physically, at any rate. The grey matter needs a little attention.”

  Brian leaned over the bar. “About the boy – don’t take it personally, Brendan. I’ve heard you give that advice yourself.”

  “True. But he was so young. What am I going to tell his parents?”

  “Tell ’em the truth. That’s what they’ll want to hear. Hard, yes, but it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Brian,” Moran smiled, “you’ve missed your vocation. You should have been a counsellor.”

  “I think not.” Brian’s eyes twinkled. “Suits me here just fine.”

  “Buy you one, guv?” Helen McKellar was at Moran’s side.

  “Allow me.” He ordered for her, and they moved off to allow Banner and a few other team members access to the bar.

  “Did you invite DI Pepper?”

  “Yes, guv. She said she’d be here around half past.”

  “Seem OK to you so far?”

  “She’s really nice. And pretty quick off the mark, too.”

  “Good. She’ll need to be with Rob Phelps out of the picture.”

  “Excuse me, guv.” Helen indicated a group of colleagues at a nearby table. “I owe Jim a tenner.”