Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam turned up her collar, lifted her face skyward and allowed the drizzle to wet her face. Five down, another three tomorrow.

  The PMs revealed Lucy Spragg, Marcus Worthington-Hotspur, Joe ‘Fatty’ Sanderson and Paul Adams had all died as a result of gunshot wounds. No surprises there.

  The ballistic expert had confirmed the wounds were consistent with the ammunition used by the rifle recovered at the scene. He had taken pages of measurements to allow him to reconstruct the trajectory of the bullets.

  Zac Williams had been killed by police issue ammunition.

  Sam pressed the button on the remote and lit a cigarette. Her head was a whirling tornado of questions and plenty of them had been airborne without answers since all of this started.

  Sam rattled through the list in no particular order.

  If Zac Williams was the killer, how had he got a rifle?

  Was Tara’s story true?

  In light of the video on Scott Green’s SIM card, was his death an accident, or were Fred Thompson and the mother pushing the buggy right when they claimed he was being chased?

  Had Davy Swan and Jimmy Marshall killed him as they had Bill Redwood?

  Had they themselves been killed and the scene staged to make it look like a suicide pact?

  Was Paul Adams the real target and if so, why?

  How was Ed?

  She climbed into her car, reached into the glove compartment and sprayed her clothes with Yves Saint Laurent’s ‘Opium’, fruit and spice notes battling with the smell of cordite and death.

  She turned on the radio in time to catch the last few seconds of the 4pm news and Monica Teal’s press conference.

  Back at HQ she popped into the toilets. On her way out she walked straight into Mick ‘Never’ Wright.

  Dressed in cheap jeans and a hideous ill-fitting shirt he wore a smirk Sam wanted to batter off his face.

  ‘See they finally caught up with your partner in crime,’ he said.

  The pressure cooker inside Sam exploded.

  ‘If I was you, I’d be more concerned about how you’re going to keep yourself out of the shit.’

  Wright kept the smugness on his face but a trace of doubt flashed briefly in his eyes.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Bill Redwood.’

  Wright shrugged his shoulders. ‘Old man. Lost his footing. Shit happens.’

  Sam closed the gap between them, her words quiet but menacing.

  ‘I’ve got information to the contrary.’

  Mick ‘Never’ Wright glared at her, mottled spots of anger colouring his cheeks.

  ‘You never found any evidence of an argument, did you?’ Sam said it as a challenge. ‘No evidence that Redwood wasn’t alone?’

  Wright’s mouth was a tight line.

  ‘Thought not. You were too quick to write it off. We’ll follow it up. Coroner will be interested. So will his daughter. And the Seaton Post.’

  Now the fleeting concern that had washed through Wright’s eyes had taken up permanent residence.

  ‘What have you got then?’

  Sam took a second to enjoy the moment.

  ‘Just a video of him being beaten up on his boat on the night in question.’

  Mick ‘Never’ Wright’s face went from blood-red to ghost-white in a heartbeat.

  ‘You really should have checked the CCTV before Bill went on board,’ Sam drove home the blade. ‘It’s called being thorough.’

  Now she leaned into his ear.

  ‘You might have seen other people on the pontoon. If you’d looked fifteen minutes after he got on his boat, you’d have seen Scott Green, he’s a criminal by the way, running away from the boat.’

  Sam turned, took two steps, then spun back quickly. Wright hadn’t moved.

  ‘So instead of gloating about other peoples’ problems, worry about your own. If I have anything to do with it, you’ll have enough Regulation 15 Notices to decorate your bathroom.’

  Sam came forward again as she spoke, only stopping when she was inches from Wright’s beer gut.

  ‘For starters there’s failing to investigate Bill Redmond’s death, and all the shortcomings are neatly presented in the file you submitted to the coroner.’

  She leaned forward. Any closer and they would be Eskimo kissing.

  Wright could feel Sam’s hot breath on his lips.

  ‘I hope you get busted back to PC. If it was down to me you wouldn’t be supervising a school crossing.’

  She spun around again. This time she didn’t stop or look back and was still walking when she answered her ringing mobile.

  Julie Trescothick.

  Sam listened.

  Her head was pounding, the pressure of the investigations, the confrontation with Mick Wright and her fears for Ed pushing her to the limit.

  Ninety seconds later when she ended the call, Sam was on information and interpretation overload.

  Julie’s report had been, as always, to the point: no gunshot residue on the hands of Zac Williams’ rabbit suit; fibres found on the stock and barrel of the weapon; sticky substance on both the hands and on the stock and barrel.

  Maybe Tara’s story wasn’t so fantastical after all.

  Luke and Mark Skinner were playing pool. Not as nice as the table on the raised area in their mother’s house, but better than nothing.

  ‘Association’ inside didn’t mean they had to associate with anyone other than each other.

  Other remand prisoners were standing in twos and threes talking football, women and grasses. A pair of old-timers, career criminals who’d spent longer inside than out, were playing chess.

  The case against the Skinners revolved entirely around the evidence of Harry Pullman. There was nothing else.

  The trawler skipper who’d navigated the beaten victims to their salty graves never said a word to the police. He preferred to take his chances with the Crown Prosecution Service rather than the Skinners.

  Without their star witnesses the prosecution wouldn’t get as far as an ‘opening statement’. The defence would make an application to discontinue proceedings before the jury had even warmed their seats and they would win. No Harry Pullman meant no evidence and no case to answer.

  Two more weeks and they’d be back on the outside.

  Luke smiled as he potted the final red, walked around the table, and lined up his shot on the black, an easy kiss with the ball already in the jaws of the pocket.

  He bent over his cue and called it.

  ‘Top left.’

  From behind a hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head up and rammed his nose onto the side of the table. Blood sprayed onto the green baize.

  Luke tried to run but a single kick to his right knee sent him crashing chest first onto the table. Strong hands pulled his head back and held it there.

  Mark had rushed forward but two thick-set heavies blocked him and pinned his arms. A third kicked the back of his left knee. Mark staggered like a newborn calf before his weakened leg collapsed. Like Luke, he felt his hair grabbed and his head yanked back.

  By the time the head pullers reached into their pockets, took out a toothbrush with a razor blade taped to the end and sliced the Skinners’ throats wide open, the onslaught had lasted less than 20 seconds.

  The brothers dropped to the floor, hands gripping their wounds, dark blood bubbling between their fingers.

  One of the chess players walked away, toothbrushes in his pocket, while the attackers watched two pools of red rushing to meet in a final act of sibling solidarity.

  Chapter 32

  Sam sat down behind her desk. She needed five minutes. She got one before her mobile rang.

  ‘Can you speak boss?’

  It was one of Luke Skinner’s phone monitors.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting call to Skinner’s phone.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Three points of interest.’

  Sam shuffled in her seat, the power of three raising its head again; thr
ee forensic issues, now this.

  ‘Firstly, the caller says, in last night’s game the Reverend was killed.’

  Sam wrote it down.

  ‘Next we’ve got, any joy with the source?’

  Sam wrote it on a new line.

  ‘Skinner then says, ‘Can Pugsley help out?’ and the caller replies, ‘Pugsley’s status unknown at the moment.’

  Sam wrote everything down, stood up and paced her office with the mobile pressed to her ear, silently cursing Ed. He was always good with cryptic clues.

  ‘Any joy with the number of the incoming call?’

  ‘We’re working on it, but don’t hold your breath. Anyone ringing Skinner in prison isn’t going to be daft enough to use a contract phone.’

  ‘Okay thanks.’

  She put the phone down, stared at her handwriting.

  Pugsley. The Addams Family. She recalled watching reruns of the 1960s programme. Pugsley was the son.

  That had to be Paul, didn’t it?

  She stared at the sentence, ‘Can Pugsley help?’

  If Pugsley was Paul Adams, Luke Skinner asking if he could help could only mean one thing.

  Her hands covered her face, her shoulders slumped. Bent cops were worse than criminals, but a bent cop on your team…

  She sighed and looked back at the paper, staring hard at ‘Reverend’ and ‘the source’.

  Nothing. A total blank.

  Her desk phone rang.

  ‘Sam Parker.’

  ‘Sam its Darren.’

  Darren Halshaw was the DCI on Organised Crime.

  ‘Hi Darren. What you doing out on a Sunday.’

  ‘Luke and Matt Skinner are dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘My response as well. Seems they had their throats cut whilst playing pool.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Sam was instantly relieved the prison was in a different Force area. At least she didn’t have another multiple murder investigation on her hands.

  ‘I’m just giving you the heads-up Sam. You might want someone to prepare a Community Impact Assessment. There’s a chance of reprisals. Maybe someone’s getting ready to launch a takeover bid.’

  ‘Any ideas who’s behind it?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Killing the Skinners? Sketchy at the minute but the two we fancy are on remand with shedloads of evidence against them for murder. They’re connected to a crime family in Newcastle. As for who ordered time on the Skinner boys…plenty of potential suitors.’

  ‘The crime family you mentioned,’ Sam said. ‘Are they looking to expand?’

  ‘If they are we’ll never prove it,’ Halshaw told her. ‘But there are families on Teesside, teams in Leeds. Could be anybody. And obviously you’ve got the Campbells on your patch. Hugh might be the country squire these days but his sons aren’t.’

  ‘God, we don’t need a gang war in the middle of this shit,’ Sam groaned.

  ‘I know. But live by the sword and all that. Listen, if you need any staff I can probably help out for a couple of days.’

  Sam tilted her head into her free hand.

  ‘Cheers mate. You know what it’s like trying to get bodies on seats these days.’

  Sam opened a desk drawer, found an oat bar, ripped it open with her teeth and took a small bite. She was too hungry to check the ‘best before date’. Just as well.

  ‘I’ve even gone through the admin cupboards, looking for a new box of detectives but I can’t find any,’ Sam said. ‘Must be lost in the post.’

  Darren Halshaw laughed. ‘Grab me a few if you find any.’

  The next question she knew would be coming.

  ‘What’s happening with Ed Whelan?’

  Well it was always going to get out.

  ‘You know as much as me,’ Sam said. ‘Suspended. I was on my way to the mortuary when it happened.’

  ‘He kept some bad company.’

  Sam kept her tone conversational. There was no point in losing her temper. Speculation would grow whatever she said until everything was resolved.

  ‘C’mon Darren. Every detective who ever had an informant keeps bad company. It goes with the territory. You know that better than me.’

  ‘It’s when people cross the line there’s a problem,’ Halshaw said. ‘There are so many rules these days. Not like it was back in the day.’

  Sam heard Darren take a slow breath.

  ‘Not like it was in Ed’s day,’ he said.

  Sam switched topic.

  ‘Did Paul Adams’ name ever crop up?’

  ‘The DC on your team?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’

  ‘Just one of a number of theories I’m exploring.’

  ‘You think he should have cropped up?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Sorry Sam, can’t help you there. I’ll keep you posted re the Skinners.’

  ‘Cheers’.

  She hung up, walked to the Deputy Chief Constable’s office.

  ‘Come in Sam,’ John Winsor said as she appeared at his door.

  As he was the on-call chief officer she took the indicated chair, briefed him on the prison murders and that she had just spoken to the on-call superintendent about a Community Impact Assessment.

  There had been no request so far to provide family liaison officers to the mother, Marge Skinner.

  ‘Thanks Sam. Have you seen Whelan?’

  ‘No sir, I was going to the post mortems when he came to see you.’

  ‘Look I apologise if Appleton seemed to be gloating. I know there’s no love lost between some uniform officers and the CID.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was gloating sir, although it doesn’t surprise me.’

  She pictured Josh Appleton. Josh the shit: another desk jockey who couldn’t investigate a bad smell. Never been in the CID. Thought a stint investigating his own would look good on his CV.

  Sam smiled as an image of Ed in full flow slipped into her mind, the mention of Appleton’s name enough to ignite the burners.

  ‘This is a very serious investigation Sam.’

  Shit. He saw me smile.

  ‘I want minimum collateral damage. You need to bite your tongue, exercise maximum discretion around Appleton.’

  He adjusted his glasses. ‘This is incredibly delicate.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Now, how are we getting on with the shootings?’

  She briefed him on the forensics, the newspapers, Tara Paxman and the rabbit suit.

  ‘You think it was a set up? This Tara girl might be telling the truth?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ve fast-tracked the second rabbit suit for DNA examination. Hopefully, if someone has worn it, their DNA will be all over the inside. Then it’s just a case of hoping whoever was wearing it is on the DNA database. First DNA profile to be checked will be Harry Pullman.’

  Winsor removed his glasses, pinched his nose.

  ‘What you’re suggesting is that we’ve potentially shot an innocent man.’

  Sam took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s early days yet, but that is a possibility, given what we know at the scene. No residue on the suit Zac Williams was wearing.’

  ‘Are we sure we were even negotiating with the man who got killed?’

  Sam paused remembering Ed’s reaction.

  ‘Ed was certain, and we can get comparisons between the voice speaking to Ed and previous interviews we have with Williams.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ll listen to the tapes of Ed negotiating with him again. There were times Ed felt Williams’ responses were a little slow. That could be down to the stress of the situation…’

  Winsor put his glasses back on.

  ‘Or,’ he pressed, sensing something was coming.

  ‘Or,’ Sam hesitated, ‘it could be that someone was telling him what to say and he was under duress. The duress of a gun being pointed at your girlfriend.’

  Winsor nodded, then spoke.

  ‘Keep me
posted Sam. As for interviewing the firearm teams you retain primacy until you’re satisfied that there are no murder or manslaughter issues.’

  ‘I’ll speak with the CPS first thing tomorrow, before we interview any AFOs,’ she said.

  Whilst the Crown Prosecution Service was responsible for authorising any charges after the evidence had been gathered, many SIOs liked to get them involved very early in a major inquiry.

  Five minutes later and after sneaking a Marlboro moment, Sam walked to the HOLMES office.

  ‘Listen up,’ she shouted as she burst through the doors.

  Necks turned and fingers stretched, glad of a disconnect from the keyboard.

  ‘Nobody has any contact with Ed. Understand?’

  It wasn’t a request and Sam watched a wall of nodding heads.

  ‘If he rings you, hang up and notify me, and before you ask, I have no idea what he has allegedly...’

  She paused, letting the word allegedly resonate across the room.

  ‘…done. We all know these things can take bloody years. As much as it hurts to say it, even if the allegations are unfounded, by the time the investigation is complete, Ed will no doubt retire. He’s worked his last murder.’

  Sam scanned enough sad eyes to grace a funeral and headed for the door.

  The whispers would start as soon as she closed it.

  Chapter 33

  Rain was lashing against the windows when they pulled up, the kind the Lake District wears like a badge of honour.

  The car park was diagonally opposite the White Lion, but in this monsoon, it was still far enough away to have them drenched by the time they reached the door.

  Inside, much to Tara’s disappointment, they had gone straight to the room; she’d hoped to dry off with a gin and a roaring fire.

  But Sam had already marked Bev’s card and she wasn’t going to let a witness, especially one who enjoyed a drink, anywhere near a bar. Not yet anyway. Maybe later.

  Sam had spoken to the owners before Bev’s arrival, telling them that it was a delicate situation and that Tara was fleeing domestic violence. Sam hated lying to them, but sometimes it had to be done. Tara’s safety was paramount. Mentioning protective custody would lead to a shed load of questions and the fear that the wrong people would be alerted.