'But…'
Bannister had lunged forward and jabbed a finger into Brewster's chest. 'This isn't the first time we've had this conversation is it Brewster? People like you never learn, you think yourself above the law but I'm here to tell you otherwise. Now I'll be coming in to see your boss and I can promise you that by the time I'm finished you'll be lucky to have a paper round.'
Brewster had licked his lips, Lasser had looked towards his car as Suzanne Ramsey pulled up in her huge black Range Rover, a moment later she'd climbed out and tapped on the window. Now she and Medea were standing talking, and for some reason the sight made Lasser feel nervous.
All that had been an hour ago, he'd apologised to Medea about the way things had turned out, and she'd smiled at him in response, telling him it was no problem, before climbing into the Range Rover. Suzanne had walked over and then amazingly she'd kissed Lasser on the cheek and given Bannister a small wave before driving away.
Now they were trudging along another endless alleyway, Paul Currie leading the way with the big German Shepherd straining at the leash.
'The bastard will be long gone by now,' Bannister sighed and spat onto the cobbles in disgust.
The dog barked and lunged forward. 'He's onto something, boss!' Currie shouted and then set off running.
Bannister and Lasser gave chase, weaving in and out of the bins, the ground beneath their feet treacherous with rain. When they ran out into the main square the dog suddenly stopped and began sniffing at the ground, a few drunken die-hards stopped and watched with bleary eyes as the dog moved slowly forward before letting out a yap and setting off again.
As soon as they entered the churchyard the animal bulleted across the grass, huge paws kicking up divots of wet earth as Currie struggled to hold it in check. They entered the bushes, the dog barking continually now, the noise deafening between the cover of the trees.
'Here!' Currie slid to a halt and dragged the Shepherd back.
Bannister shouldered him out of the way and looked down. It looked as if the body was lying in a makeshift coffin, the arms laid straight by the sides, the long beard tainted red.
'Oh shit, no,' Lasser slumped to his knees.
Bannister frowned. 'Do you know this man, Sergeant?'
Lasser looked down at the old man's face, the immaculate dentures set in a rictus grin. 'His name's Tommy Grieves.'
Bannister turned to the dog handler. 'Right, get forensics, I want them here ASAP.'
Currie nodded, before spinning the dog around and slithering free of the bushes.
'Christ, why would he want to something like this to old Tommy?'
Bannister sighed. 'The same reason he attacked the woman on the car park, he's lost control. I mean, you could argue a twisted sort of logic for killing Connelly…'
'Fuck Connelly.'
Bannister ignored the comment. 'Even Graham Nash, he went there expecting to find the woman and he turned up instead,' he paused, 'but the rest is beyond me.'
'Eventually he'll try and get at Nash and Palmer.'
Bannister's phone began to tweet. 'What do you want Harper?'
Lasser looked at Tommy and remembered when he'd gone into the shop to get the tattoo done, he'd been seventeen and cocky as hell. Even back then, Tommy had the beard though it had been neat and tidy and flecked with grey. When Tommy had refused to do the tat, Lasser had thrown a strop and Grieves had smiled and told him to come back in a couple of years, if he still wanted one then he would gladly do it. Lasser had returned on his twenty-first birthday, Tommy's beard had been longer, the eyes a little redder. Even then, the booze was starting to take hold, though Tommy's skill with the needle remained undiminished. Over the following years, Lasser had occasionally bumped into him in town. Watching as the tattooist succumbed to the drink, he lost the shop, the woman he'd lived with for years upped and left, and Tommy had fallen to pieces. Now he lay beneath a cover of twisted elms, dead in a cardboard box because of some animal who had nothing better to do.
He heard Bannister cursing as he fought his way back through the undergrowth, 'Lasser?'
He turned and looked up.
'Come on, we've got problems.'
87
By the time Shaun arrived home the sky was turning from black to pale grey, heavy rainclouds gathering like a bad omen. The house felt empty, dead. Making his way into the kitchen, he plugged in his mobile before climbing the stairs. Rummaging through the wardrobe, he pulled out a pile of clothes, sweatshirts and jeans. Taking one last look around the room, Shaun closed the door and headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, he was back in the kitchen drinking a mug of tea and reading the desperate text messages from his mother. The last one promising that if he didn't get in touch she was going to ring the police to log him as a missing person. With a shake of the head, he pressed the call button and took another gulp of tea. Looking out of the kitchen window, he could see the waterlogged lawn, the bushes dripping with water. When she answered, he drew in a deep breath and began to talk.
An hour later, he was heading to the hospital, rucksack on his back, woollen bob cap on his head. He told his mother he was going to sort out arrangements for Gemma and the baby and then he was going away for a few days to think things through. At first she'd sounded distraught but Shaun had kept his voice under control, explaining rather than shouting and gradually she'd calmed down.
'But you promise you won't disappear, Shaun, I couldn't stand it if I thought you were going for good?'
'As soon as I've been to the hospital I'll ring you and I'll be back in time for the funerals.'
'Promise, Shaun, promise me you won't do anything stupid?'
'I promise.'
'I love you son; you know that don't you?'
He did but he also knew it wouldn't be enough. 'I know,' he replied trying to keep the truth hidden.
Two hours later, he emerged from the hospital feeling ravaged and raw. Rain fell from a leaden sky, bouncing off his waterproof jacket. He stopped at the first newsagent's he came to, buying half a dozen papers and sliding them unread into the backpack. He crossed the road and made his way into the grounds of Haigh Hall – two hundred and fifty acres of dense ancient woodland – for the first time in days he felt a kind of peace descend.
Disappearing beneath the trees, he moved deeper into the forest until he came to a huge scotch pine, the ground beneath bone dry and sprinkled with last year's fallen needles. Crouching, he pulled the papers from his backpack. By the time he'd finished reading he felt the anger sweeping up through his body, his hands shaking as he read the true extent of the Robert Flynn's crimes.
Rolling the papers into a tight bundle, he pushed them back into the bag and set off walking. No doubt the police would eventually catch the killer and lock him away but as far as Shaun was concerned that was no kind of punishment. No, he would make good on his promise to the woman in the trees, he would find the man responsible, and they would go to hell together.
88
Daylight felt like some kind of pathetic reprieve. As Lasser slid his key into the front door and grabbed the pint of semi-skimmed from the step, he felt the tiredness wash over him. Placing the milk in the fridge, he opened the back door and looked out at the remains of the broken chair that lay scattered on the patio.
They'd spent the last couple of hours talking to Sarah Palmer as she described the events that had unfolded in the trees at the rear of the house. To Lasser it had sounded like bollocks, bizarre, ludicrous, the have-a-go hero turning up out of nowhere like an avenging angel.
Erin Nash had sat stock-still at the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on Sarah, who seemed reluctant to meet her gaze.
Bannister had looked as if he didn't care anymore, his eyes distant and brittle like a man on the verge of a breakdown. Lasser had caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror and grimaced, he looked as bad as the DCI, no in fact he looked worse, his face haggard, his eyes bloodshot with dark smudges beneath.
'
Well, under the circumstances I think its best if we move you until all this is over…'
'I'm not moving,' Sarah had snapped.
Erin had looked at her in surprise but said nothing.
'But…'
'This is my home, I'm not leaving.'
Bannister had thrust his hands into his pockets. 'Well, if you insist on staying then you have to give me your word that you won't go walkabout again because to be brutally honest I don't have time to babysit an idiot.'
Sarah's eyes had grown hard. 'I won't be doing anything like that again, Inspector.'
Pulling the fake cigarette from his pocket, Lasser stepped onto the patio and took a few hurried pulls.
'Morning.'
Medea stood in the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe with matching slippers on her feet.
'Hi.'
'You look worn out.'
Lasser tried to smile but his lips felt rigid. 'To be honest I feel like shit.'
Medea stepped outside and laced her hands around his neck. 'Have you any news on the woman?'
'Not yet, I would imagine she'll still be in surgery, that's if she survived at all.'
She brushed the back of her hand across his stubble cheek. 'I still can't believe this is happening.'
'Yeah well it seems our man's not had enough of killing yet, you remember Tommy Grieves?'
She frowned up at him. 'Of course I do.'
'We found him with his throat cut open in the churchyard.'
Medea gasped and looked into his eyes, Lasser nodded. 'Don't ask why, I mean, what harm could old Tommy have done to someone like that?'
'Oh God, Lasser, I am so sorry.'
He pulled her closer; he could smell the shampoo in her hair, the freshness of her skin. 'Imagine living all those years on the streets, losing absolutely everything, house, business, wife,' he snarled. 'Living in a cardboard box and still managing to keep a smile on your face and all for what?'
'Come inside.'
She led him back into the kitchen and he slumped down in a chair.
'Are you sure it's the same man?'
'Well, if it isn't then we're in more trouble than we think.'
Medea flicked the kettle on before lifting a couple of cups from the cupboard. 'Poor Tommy,' she whispered.
Lasser watched as she spooned coffee into the cups. 'You know he once told me that I needed to relax; he said if I carried on being so,' he paused trying to remember the word, ''furious'', then I wouldn't get to forty.'
'Maybe he had a point,' she slid the steaming brew onto the table. 'I mean, it's as if you somehow blame yourself for the things that happen around you.'
He took a sip of the coffee and sighed. 'I just can't understand why we haven't caught him yet, I mean, how hard can it be? We know his name, where he lived, everything about the prick. It's one bloody man who's been killing in a three-mile radius and we can't grab him. What does that say about us, what does it say about me?'
'That's what I'm talking about; it's not just up to you to catch this man.'
'I saw the bastard, chased after him and he still managed to get away.'
She stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. 'You need to get some rest, trying to think when you're worn out is useless.'
He tilted his head and she bent down and kissed his eyes, he could feel her warm breath, the weight of her breasts on his back, her hair brushed his face.
'Come on, let's go to bed.'
He didn't protest as she led him up the stairs.
'What are you doing?'
Lasser looked up from his desk, Bannister looked better than he had a few hours earlier. Clean-shaven, wearing a fresh suit, shoes shined to a high sheen, though he could do nothing about the bags under his eyes.
Lasser ran a hand across his own freshly-shaved chin. 'I'm going over the file on, Flynn.'
'What file?' Bannister dragged out a chair and sat down.
'Well, actually it's a file on the mother.'
'Why?' Bannister folded his arms and frowned.
'It says in here that she was killed by a single cut across the throat using a scalpel-like blade.'
'Go on.'
'So why wasn't Flynn questioned?'
'I presume it's because he had the unblemished record that Dawes was waffling on about. I mean, Flynn wasn't your typical disturbed child, no killing small animals, no robbing knickers off the washing line, he was seen as the victim. Anyway, we don't need to delve into his past, all we have to concern ourselves with is catching him before it goes dark. Because the chief is waiting in the wings to stab me in the back over this, the nationals are having a field day, we're all over the television looking like a bunch of inept twats.'
'Right.'
'So rather than playing Sigmund Freud, I suggest you get your arse into gear and get out there.'
Lasser opened the drawer and dropped the file inside. 'Yeah, OK.'
'Coyle's waiting outside.'
'What do you want us to do?'
Bannister trapped the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger and squeezed. 'How the hell should I know, do what you do best, get out there and dig in the shit.'
A mile away from the station Lasser pulled onto Robin Park shopping centre and turned left into the drive-through Burger King. 'What do you fancy?' he asked.
'I'll get these.'
Lasser shrugged, five minutes later, he parked up, and set about a flame-grilled burger with all the trimmings.
Coyle sipped a cup of coffee, 'Sir.'
'Mm,' he wiped a blob of ketchup off the steering wheel with a napkin.
'I want to apologise.'
He looked at her in surprise, 'For what?'
'The other night, I shouldn't have held you up like that.'
'Forget it.'
'No, it was wrong and if I hadn't been so immature then you might have caught Flynn and…'
'I doubt it.'
She took another sip of her drink. 'I'm starting to wonder if I've made a bad choice.'
Lasser dropped the empty box into the brown paper bag and took a gulp of chocolate milkshake. 'Regarding what?'
'This job,' she paused, 'my career.'
'Ah, I see, the dark night of the soul.'
She looked at him in confusion.
'Listen, I have no idea if you're suited to this job or not.' He saw the look of disappointment in her eyes. 'I can tell you I think you have the makings of a good officer, but I don't know what goes on up here,' he tapped a finger to the side of his head. 'Only you know the answer to that one. But I can promise if you decide to stick with it then you'll have plenty of sleepless nights wondering if you've made the right choice.'
'What about you, do you ever doubt yourself?'
'Never.'
She smiled. 'Born to be a copper, is that it?'
'No, the exact opposite, I know I'm not cut out to do the job, most of the time I hate it and then I despise myself for feeling that way.'
'But…'
'You need to be able to switch off, Susan, and if you can't do that then get out now.'
She slid the cup into the holder on the dashboard. 'If you hate it so much then why stay, you're smart you could do something else?'
'Because the time to jump ship never arrives.'
Her frown deepened.
'Take now for instance, we have a maniac on the loose, so I can't just leave and I can guarantee that when we catch him there will be something else to fill the gap. I'm not saying it'll be anything as bad as this guy but there'll be something and before you know it you're involved and it just rolls on from one case to the next.'
'You make it sound like torture.'
'Come on, you know how hard it is to get into the force, you probably wanted it from being a little kid?'
'It's all I've ever wanted,' she admitted.
'So, you strive to get your dream job and then you can't bring yourself admit it's more nightmare than dream.'
She chewed her lip, her eyes agitated. 'What do
you think I should do?'
'Not my decision, but the one thing I've learned is that coppers, no matter what their rank, are arrogant bastards.'
Coyle shook her head. 'I don't believe that.'
'Really,' he raised an eyebrow. 'Why else would you think you're somehow destined to do this job? What gives you the right to lord it over the man in the street, to stop people and demand that they answer your questions. It's arrogance because we imagine that we're better than the average Joe.'
'No,' she shook her head violently. 'I don't believe that.'
Lasser shrugged. 'That's up to you, maybe you're the exception to the rule,' he threw her a smile. 'But somehow I doubt it.'
The blush crept up from the collar of her uniform.
Lasser wiped his fingers on a napkin. 'Right, what do you suggest we do to catch, Robert Flynn?'
Coyle looked away.
89
Shaun scanned the back of the houses, before checking his watch; it wouldn't be dark for at least another four hours. Making one last sweep of the area, he moved back into the thicket of trees and slid the pack from his back. Taking a sip of milk from the bottle, he smoked a cigarette, before lying on the ground, using the backpack as a makeshift pillow. He thought about setting the alarm on his mobile and then dismissed the idea. The nightmares would wake him soon enough.
90
Robert rolled over and tried to get comfortable, but the concrete floor made him wince, his joints throbbed, elbows and knees creaking like old timber. He watched the rat in the corner staring back at him with coal-chip eyes, its segmented tail wrapped around its body. When he sat up it scuttled away beneath the debris that littered the floor. He should have stayed in the old house with the dirt floor, he'd felt safe there with the rain falling outside, protected by the mass of brambles and ancient trees.
Dipping a hand into his pocket, he yanked out a box and pulled the strip of tablets free, his heart rearing when he saw the empty circular slots. Desperately, he rummaged in the lining of the coat, sweat breaking out over his body, fingers grasping. When he came across the last box, he heaved a sigh of relief and slumped back against the pitted wall. Twelve left, he groaned in despair and listened for any hint of the voice returning, but his head remained empty like a disused warehouse full of obsolete machinery rusting away in the dark.
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