Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  Mick Wright appeared in the doorway, face crimson and mouth moving like a goldfish until the words escaped.

  ‘What the hell is this,’ Wright was almost growling. ‘You’ve got the suicide note. What more do you want?’

  Willings’ cheeks reddened but when Sam stood up, she was in control.

  ‘We’ve also got two witnesses saying he was being chased,’ her words measured, assured. Wright’s own words were quick, defensive.

  ‘Two people running? So what? You’ve never seen people running?’

  ‘What were they running for?’ Sam asked, like a teacher speaking to a young child. ‘They’re not likely to be running for a bus if they’re coming out of a car park are they?’

  Wright glared but the cracks, the awful doubts, were showing.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not a bloody mind reader, but the note’s pretty conclusive.’

  Like a boxer closing off the ring, Sam kept Wright on the back foot.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about the note?’

  Wright shook his head and tried to reignite his aggression.

  ‘Such as? He can’t spell? Not exactly unusual. Not like the shite are literary buffs.’

  Russell Willings shuffled in his seat, wanting to be anywhere but here.

  ‘It’s not just the spelling,’ he heard Sam say.

  ‘What then?’ Wright throwing a desperate counter. ‘He hasn’t done joined-up writing?’

  Sam quick-stepped up to Wright and eyeballed him. Still she didn’t raise her voice.

  ‘Scott Green spent his childhood playing rugby. Nothing else mattered, least of all school.’

  Sam paused, watching Mick ‘Never’ Wright’s bluster begin to fracture beneath the tough façade.

  ‘If you had one ounce of investigative nous, you’d know not to take things at face value. You know, the ABC of investigations?’

  Sam’s nose was inches from Wright’s.

  ‘Accept nothing, believe nothing, challenge everything. Try doing some checks next time. Check Scott Green’s custody records. Check the system.’

  Sam turned around, walked to her desk, and delivered the knockout blow with her back to Wright.

  ‘Scott Green can’t read or write.’

  Tara Paxman dropped off The Man near the city walls in York and then took ages trying to get out of the place, the one-way system proving anything but one-way; she’d driven in circles for what felt like hours.

  She might have got out quicker had she concentrated on the road signs instead of his list of instructions. He dished out more tasks than her lecturers, and she had binned university because it was too much like hard work.

  At least with the academics if you couldn’t be bothered you just fluttered your eyes, flashed your tits and they drooled a stay of grace. Not him.

  Could she really trust him? He was as ruthless as a pit viper. If he felt you had served your purpose or you were a loose end that needed tying off…she shuddered at the thought of a car full of carbon monoxide.

  Finally she stumbled across the sign she was looking for and followed the rest to the A19.

  She’d known The Man a couple of years now. She had at least met him. Many hadn’t. Some wondered whether he was just a myth.

  She negotiated the roundabout and turned right towards the A19 north, smiling at the sudden memory of a day out in York with Harry Pullman.

  Harry had always treated her well, set her up with a few locals who had decent wallets. Not that he ever took anything from her. He wasn’t a pimp.

  He’d even let someone take her into his flat above the pub one night. What did they call him?

  There’d been so many, the money too easy.

  John, that was it. John. A local councillor. Always getting grief off his wife. She seemed to recall a distant rumour he had finally left her and shacked up with somebody new. What the hell was his surname? She gave up trying to remember and tried to find something bearable on the radio.

  Joining the dual carriageway she relaxed her shoulders and settled back into the seat, stress melting away like snow in a sauna.

  Her mind went back to John. He was always quick, more time talking than performing, and it was always an easy £300. A slow erotic dance in an Ann Summers red basque followed by a few quick, panting thrusts.

  She recalled that night in Harry’s flat. She had rubbed his thigh but he’d been more interested in the laptop on the coffee table. And then all hell had broken loose, Matt Skinner smashing glasses and bottles in the bar below.

  John’s surname, though, still escaped her as the monotony of the drive back to Seaton St George – and the gin – folded tiredness like a cloak around her shoulders.

  Back in the house she poured a large gin, no tonic, and turned on the TV. No need to put on her dressing gown. She’d crash in her joggers. She channel hopped before settling on MTV.

  She had no idea how long she had been there when her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and answered. ‘Lester?’

  ‘Open the door. I’m coming around the corner.’

  ’Now?’

  ‘Right now. The place is deserted, except for a few Muskas.’

  Tara presumed Muska was a cop and tried to shake the sleep from her head. She only had a minute or two. Now wasn’t the time to be off her guard.

  Ed sat up in the chair when Sam walked into the living room.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to bed?’ she said.

  ‘Knew I wouldn’t get to sleep. Too much on my mind.’

  ‘Do you want a cuppa?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Ed followed Sam into the kitchen, sat on one of the stools by the island.

  Sam filled the kettle. ‘What are you thinking about? Tonight?’

  ‘That…all sorts of things really. Ray Reynolds.’

  Sam leaned against the bench.

  Ray Reynolds, deceased, had been a Detective Superintendent.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘In spite of everything I still went to his funeral,’ Ed said. ‘Puts things in perspective.’

  Sam dropped a tea bag into each mug and walked to the fridge for the milk; she remembered Ed dashing to this kitchen when she thought she was going to be attacked. Now it was him who looked worried.

  ‘I used to go to weddings,’ he said. ‘Then it was christenings, now its funerals. Just reminds you where we’re at. More years behind us than in front.’

  He took the mug.

  ‘I’m nearly at retirement but what delights does that hold? Home life up the proverbial creek, not a paddle in sight. Bad enough now, but the thought of being there full time…doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Sam sat opposite him.

  ‘Even if she gets half your retirement pot, you’ll be okay financially. Sell the house. Buy somewhere smaller. Live your life as you want to live it.’

  ‘Sounds a plan I suppose,’ Ed said with no conviction.

  He raised the mug to his lips, temporarily lost in domestic purgatory.

  ‘Anyway, how did you get on?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Shed load to do tomorrow.’

  ‘What was it like inside?’

  ‘Zac Williams is dead, down to us. Lucy Spragg’s dead.’

  ‘Down to Williams?’ Ed’s tone making it a question not a statement.

  ‘On the face of it.’

  Ed gave her a weak smile. Sam challenged everything, even when something looked surer than death and taxes.

  ‘We found internet print outs of newspaper reports stuck on the kitchen wall. All mass shootings in America.’

  Sam told him about the grim collection, that all the killers had been young; all had committed suicide at the scene.

  ‘He’s been planning this then?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Looks like it but that means he must have lured Marcus Worthington-Hotspur there. It can’t have just been wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘So, he takes out Lucy and Marcus because they’re shagging behind his back, but why the o
thers?’ Ed said.

  ‘Who knows?’ Sam had already been going over and over the same question. ‘Because he can?’

  ‘Towards the end shots are fired inside the house,’ Ed said. ‘Is that when he shoots Lucy?’

  ‘Probably’ Sam said. ‘Well, possibly.’

  Ed nodded. ‘So it’s fair to say, at least as a working hypotheses, that Marcus was killed whilst Lucy was still alive.’

  Sam blew across the tea before she answered.

  ‘Are you suggesting he wanted her to know? He wanted to punish her?’

  ‘Could fit,’ Ed said.

  Sam sipped her tea and when she spoke again her words were slow, thoughtful.

  ‘It could, but what about the others?’

  Ed put his mug down. He had a question but had to wait for it to take solid form through the fog in his head.

  ‘Does he even have a printer?’

  Sam’s sleep-deprived eyes widened.

  ‘Shit!’ Her fingers tightened around the handle of the mug. ‘That never crossed my mind. Shit. How did I miss something so obvious?’

  She jumped to her feet and started to pace the room.

  Plenty would excuse themselves for a missing something in the middle of a bloodbath but Sam never needed much of a reason to give herself a kicking.

  ‘Fatty Sanderson had half his head blown off,’ she said now, almost subconsciously changing tack.

  Ed shrugged. ‘That’s his suspended sentence permanently suspended then’

  This time the sledgehammer wit brought a smile. Sometimes you had to lighten up.

  ‘There’s some fur missing from the hands of the rabbit suit, some possibly transferred onto the gun. I’ve told Julie to have a look at it when they’re swabbing for gunshot residue.’

  Ed’s scrunched face resembled a puzzled Shar Pei. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Not sure,’ another question simmering in Sam’s mental in-tray. ‘It’s as if the gun was sticky and when he dropped it some fur’s come off with it.’

  Ed pictured the scenario, said: ‘Can’t have been that sticky then.’

  Sam stared blankly then fumbled for her mobile.

  ‘Julie, it’s Sam. Sorry to bother you.’

  Julie Trescothick assured her it was fine.

  ‘When you go back to the house, check to see if there’s any glue, you know like Super Glue.’

  ‘Will do,’ Julie said. ‘We’ve done the swabs for gunshot residue. There’s definitely some sort of gluing agent on both the suit and on the weapon.’

  Chapter 19

  The Man walked around the room, naked except for the white towel wrapped around his waist, torso red and tingling after the hot shower.

  He bent down, pulled open the mini-bar, grabbed a small bottle of lager and a miniature bottle of whisky.

  He gulped the lager, draining the bottle in a couple of seconds, tipped the whisky into the toothbrush tumbler, rolled a little of the fruity liquid around his tongue and swallowed. It burnt more than usual, a sharp contrast to the throat-numbing cold lager.

  He flopped on the bed and mentally replayed the day.

  Not everything had gone to plan, but when did that ever happen? Improvisation was key.

  He stretched out on the bed, took another sip and grinned.

  If he had a family Coat of Arms his motto would be the Latin equivalent of ‘improvise’.

  ‘Thanks Julie.’

  Sam looked at Ed. ‘Hands glued onto the gun?’

  She started pacing again.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ she said.

  ‘Stop you losing your grip if you’re sweating,’ Ed said.

  He put the mug on the Angel of the North coaster on the bench, carried on speaking.

  ‘He’ll be sweating anyway because of the situation. Throw in the fact he’s wearing a rabbit suit and he’ll be sweating his bollocks off.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Sam conceded.

  She sat back down. ‘Oh, and Scott Green’s dead.’

  Ed’s eyes were as wide as his smile.

  ‘There is a God. What was he doing in there?’

  ‘He wasn’t. He was wiped out by a bus.’

  Ed let his smile stretch wider.

  Sam took out cigarette. ‘You mind?’

  ‘Your house. Carry on.’

  Sam lit up. ‘Strangely though two witnesses say he was being chased and I found blood on the walls on the top deck of the multi-storey.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t know, but he had a suicide note in his pocket and the world and his wife knows…’

  ‘He can’t write.’

  ‘Exactly. But if he was killed, who by?’ Sam said.

  ‘The Skinners aren’t as intimidating as they were. Not with Luke and Mark on remand. Taking out one of theirs is a bit easier now.’

  ‘Even so, they’ll still be operating from prison. Every little shit can get a phone in prison. Plenty would want to keep on the good side of the Skinners.’

  Ed tried rubbing away the shadows under his eyes.

  ‘I keep thinking of Paul. Poor bastard. Talk about the wrong place at the right time.’

  ‘I know,’ Sam said. ‘Saved those little kids, killed for his trouble. I saw the girl he was visiting.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Prostitute.’

  ‘What! You’re kidding,’ Ed said, voice tailing off.

  ‘Not your skeletal junky street worker, though. High end. And she didn’t charge Paul apparently.’

  ‘What the hell was he doing with a Tom?’ Ed still couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘I’m not condoning him but believe me I could see the attraction,’ Sam said. ‘I had a little chat with her.’

  Sam looked away, staring at the gleaming granite worktops as if she was searching for inspiration

  There was something about her.

  She stared a little longer before turning back to Ed.

  ‘I heard a noise upstairs when I was in Zac Williams’ place, then heard it again in her house. I wanted to check it but she wouldn’t let me without a warrant.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s been around the block,’ Ed said, surprised a civilian witness would give the cops a hard time when the Wild West had just kicked off next door. ‘Who is she?’

  Tara Paxman.

  Ed knew the name. He looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the fog bank to clear again.

  ‘Tara Paxman. Bugger me!’

  ‘You know her?’ Sam said.

  ‘Tara Paxman. Former bedmate of Councillor John Elgin. Well known to our good friend and witness for the prosecution, Harry Pullman.’

  Sunday 1st November

  Sam zombied into the en suite, eyes swollen, red and filled with grit.

  5.20am. She’d be at her desk by 6am.

  Stepping out of the shower she managed a smile; it had been years since she’d dressed to a male snoring concerto. Ed was still in a deep sleep.

  They had agreed to tell no one Ed had stayed the night. The rumour mill would be like a bush wire and if Ed’s wife spotted the smoke she would go ballistic. The separate bedrooms arrangement would never wash.

  Sam dragged her body into clean clothes, eyes on the bed, the duvet like a magnet pulling her back. She had been in there three hours and had no idea when she would feel its warmth again.

  On her way out she glanced into one of the other bedrooms. Ed’s clothes were neatly piled on the wicker chair; she could see the smudgy outline of his body still wrapped in the duvet. She closed the door silently.

  When she reached work a young uniform was waiting outside her office.

  ‘Can I have a quick word Ma’am?’

  I hate that. Makes me sound so old!

  ‘Of course you can. What can I do for you?’

  She had no idea who he was. Even someone as switched-on as Sam couldn’t be expected to know everyone.

  The uniform followed her into the office, waited for her to sit down. He was so rigid it l
ooked like someone had rammed a poker up his back.

  Sam indicated a chair. ‘Sit down.’

  He started speaking as he lowered himself into the seat.

  ‘I’ve been on nights Ma’am. Getting ready to go off duty soon.’

  Sam smiled, leaned forward. It was obviously important. Important enough for him to conquer his nerves and wait for her.

  ‘I went to a suicide last night.’

  ‘The one with the bus on the High Street?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No, that happened before I came on duty. We were told about that at the briefing. No, mine was another one. A double actually.’

  ‘Two bodies?’ Sam interrupted, leaning further across her desk, pulse a little quicker. ‘As in potential suicide pact?’

  Sam had investigated most things but this would be a new one.

  The young officer spoke faster than a job seeker at his first interview. Sam resisted the urge to tell him to breathe.

  ‘I don’t know. Two bodies in a car, both male, hose running from the exhaust into the driver’s window, taped up from the inside.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  The officer gave her the location and time, told how he had found the car by chance while he was on patrol and what he had done as ‘first officer on the scene’.

  Sam knew the uniform, starting to like someone in the early throws of hypothermia, wanted to say more.

  ‘But you think something is suspicious?’

  Sam’s world revolved around the ‘s’ word and if this wet-behind-the-ears cop wanted to become part of it, he needed to grab his cojones and back his judgement.

  ‘There was a phone smashed to bits near the car,’ he said quickly. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why destroy your phone if you’re going to top yourself?’

  His eyes darted left and upwards, worried his choice of phrase wasn’t part of any police manual.

  Sam leaned back in her chair. The young man’s instincts at the scene had been sharp, alright.

  ‘Good point,’ she nodded. ‘I’ll get that looked into. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Both had their trousers and underwear off.’

  ‘Lovers?’

  ‘Don’t know Ma’am.’