4. Clay. We think he was the one who lured the girls to his ice-cream van, drugged them and then took them to the farmhouse. This is supported by Bethany’s evidence. Bullock is in the frame for murdering him by hitting him with that plank of wood, by virtue of his ginger hair left on the body.
5. Bethany. She managed to escape from the farmhouse and her body has given us evidence that they used her and her blood for their rituals. She also helped with the ice cream van ruse and identified Clay as her abductor. Bullock recently tried to kill her, no doubt in an attempt to shut her up, as she clearly could identify him as being one of the people at the farmhouse.
6. Dawn. Most likely her murder was an accidental overdose. But we can charge him with abduction, attempted murder of Bethany and abduction and murder of Dawn. Even if he didn’t do it himself, he is still culpable.”
As he finished, Crane sat down with a thump on the nearest chair, his stick between his legs and his hands and forehead resting on the top of it, sick to his stomach at the crimes perpetrated by, and the evidence against, Bullock. Lifting his head and looking at his friend he said, “And all this done by a man who was a police officer. Sworn to tell the truth and to uphold the law. What on earth possessed him?”
“The devil.”
Crane and Anderson looked towards the door, where DC Douglas was speaking from.
“I think you’re right there, lad,” said Anderson. “I think this is the worst, most evil case I’ve ever come across. How about you Crane?”
All Crane could manage was, “Copy that.”
68
Left alone, DS Bullock had had to wait to be interviewed again and also to wait until his solicitor or Federation representative arrived. As the interminable day dragged on and on, with no distractions, flashes of the past began to flicker in his head like lightening. Appearing and then disappearing just as swiftly. Bursting brightly before burning out. He heard Enid choke, he felt his hands around her neck, he smelled smoke and flames and burning, he saw the flickering of candles on the altar, he watched his fellow supplicants engaged in their rituals, heard the bell ring nine times, saw the pubescent girl on the altar, once again tasted her blood on his lips.
It wasn’t his fault. None of it. He’d bothered no one. He’d just wanted to be able to get on with his worship, with his way of life, in peace. But oh no, they wouldn’t leave him alone. None of them. It was entirely their fault. They’d pushed him to his limits. Enid, her parents, stupid Clay. Why hadn’t they all just left him alone?
The flame of anger grew inside him, fanned by the bloody idiot of a solicitor who, when he’d eventually arrived, was of no use at all. Apparently he had no experience of police interviews, as he mostly dealt with house purchases. Bullock knew more about criminal prosecutions than he did. Apparently he was sent as he was the only one in the office who was free to come. It seems no one wanted to get involved with the prosecution of a police officer. He may have well have asked for a Duty Solicitor for all the use Rainworth was going to be. And the Police Federation said the local rep was off sick, they promised to get someone to travel to Aldershot, but it wouldn’t be until the next day at the earliest.
And then they came for him; bloody Crane and Anderson, who walked into the room as if they owned the place.
In an attempt to calm himself down he began to recite the Rules of the Earth in his head.
“Thank you both for your patience,” said Anderson to Bullock his solicitor. “Sorry for the wait.”
Sorry? Sorry? Is that all Anderson had to say? Bullock was losing the fragile calmness that reciting his Rules had given him.
“Have you had time to confer with you client, Mr Rainworth?”
“Yes, um, sort of DI Anderson.”
“What does sort of mean?”
“Well he won’t talk to me.”
Bullock wondered if Anderson and Rainworth had forgotten that he was in the room. They seemed determined to talk over him. To ignore him as much as possible.
“Ah, I can see your difficulty, but that’s not actually our problem is it? So shall we proceed?” Turning at last to Bullock, Anderson addressed him directly and said, “It seems you’ve a fair few troubles, DS Bullock. Want to tell us about them?”
“Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.”
Anderson looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.” Bullock repeated. “And I’m pretty sure you don’t genuinely want to hear them. You don’t give a toss about me and my problems and you never have. You’ve hated me from the first day I got here.”
Ignoring what he’d just said, Anderson then asked him, “What about Enid? Why did you kill her?”
“Do not take that which does not belong to you, unless it is a burden to the other person and they cry out to be relieved.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Crane burst out.
Anderson said, “I’m not sure if your client is fit to be questioned, Mr Rainworth, perhaps we should suspend the interview and call a doctor.”
Rainworth said, “Um, I don’t know, DI Anderson. I’ve not had much experience of this type of thing.”
It seemed that everyone in the room was stupid, apart from himself thought Bullock, so with a shake of his head at their ignorance, he had to explain it to them.
“Enid was bowed under the weight of her troubles with her parents. They had taken over her life. She had no life left of her own at all, constantly carrying the burden of her elderly parents. So I decided to relieve her of the burden of living.”
“Are you saying you killed Enid, DS Bullock?”
Bullock didn’t reply.
“What about her parents? The Underwoods? Did you kill them as well?”
Bullock looked down at the table. “If someone bothers you, ask them to stop.”
But it seemed Anderson wouldn’t stop. “How about Clay? What did he do wrong? Did he kill those girls?”
“Do not harm little children.”
Anderson turned to Crane. “What did you just say?”
“It’s in the Satanic Rules. Do not harm little children, isn’t it Bullock? That’s why you killed Clay because of what he’d done to the girls.”
“Stop, just stop asking me these stupid questions, I’ve done nothing wrong,” Bullock said. Sweat was breaking out all over his face now and he was wringing his hands in agitation.
“Yes you have, you tried to kill Bethany only this morning,” said Anderson.
“Stop, stop, stop.”
“And you’ve killed Dawn, Clay, your wife and her parents.”
Pushed to the limit Bullock banged his fists down on the table and roared, “If someone bothers you, ask them to stop. If they do not stop, destroy them!”
And without any warning he stood and tipped up the table with the strength of a man possessed. Anderson managed to move out of the way by falling sideways out of his chair, but Crane, slowed by his injuries, was pinned underneath it. Looking around, Bullock saw Crane trying and failing to lift the table off him and Rainworth cowering in the corner and crying.
Flinging himself at Anderson, he grabbed the policeman by the throat, shouting, “If they do not stop destroy them!” repeatedly banging Anderson’s head against the floor and squeezing his neck, squeezing like he’d done with Enid, squeezing the life out of Anderson so he couldn’t bother him anymore.
69
The next thing that Anderson knew was that he was somewhere quiet and white. For a moment he wondered if he was in Heaven, but then occasional beeping disturbed the peace and every now and then he felt the contraction of a blood pressure cuff on his arm. The sight of Crane sat by his bed clinched it. He couldn’t be in Heaven, for surely Crane wouldn’t be there as well. He didn’t believe God would be that cruel. Anderson laughed at his own wit but only a gurgling sound came out that made Crane snap up his head from his examination of his hands. Or had he been
praying? Surely not.
“Anderson, thank God!”
Maybe Crane had been praying after all. He looked strained, but not like he usually did from the pain, this was much more primeval. There were was fear mixed in there as well. Had his friend thought he was going to die? Anderson tried to speak, but again only a strange croak came out.
“Don’t speak, your larynx and throat are injured. Hang on I’ve got to get the Doctor. He wanted to know when you were awake.”
Anderson had loads of questions running through his head on a loop, but had to subject himself to an examination by the doctor. Once he’d been prodded and poked and left alone, Crane said, “So, as the Doc has just said, you won’t be able to speak for a few days, thank the Lord for small mercies,” and grinned.
Anderson scowled at his friend.
“Oh, right, sorry, but we were more concerned about the head injury. You’ve got concussion and have been unconscious for 24 hours, but it seems you’re on the mend. Look, I’ve got you a pencil and paper so you can write instead of speak.”
Pushing himself upwards onto his pillows, Anderson grabbed the writing implements from Crane and wrote - Bullock?
“Still in custody. A bit battered and bruised from where officers pulled him off you, but he’ll live.”
- You?
“Fine, no damage done. I just couldn’t get up. The table pinned my good leg down and I just didn’t have the strength in my other one to help me get up off the floor.”
- Solicitor?
Crane laughed, “Shocked but okay. I don’t think he’ll walk back into a police station any time soon though.”
- Home?
Your wife and kids have been here. They’ve only just left so the Doc is going to ring them and let them know you’re awake.”
Anderson was finding this one sided conversation very frustrating and wrote - Go Home?
“Not a chance. You need to stay here another few days, until the Doc says you’re okay to leave.”
Bugger that, Anderson thought and fumbled with the bed covers, flinging them back and swinging his legs out of the bed. But the action made his head swim, he started sweating and his hands trembled.
“Not so fast, Derek,” Crane said, pushing Anderson back onto the bed. “If you don’t behave I’ll get the Doc to knock you out.”
Anderson sank back on the pillows, for the moment defeated. But he’d try to get out of bed again as soon as the room stopped spinning and his stomach stopped feeling like he was riding a roller coaster.
70
The first place Anderson wanted to go to when he got out of the hospital was not home, but the police station. Something Crane wasn’t surprised by. When the police car transporting them from the hospital pulled up in the car park, Anderson shook off Crane’s helping hand and stormed into the custody suite.
- Show me Bullock, he wrote and showed the note to the Desk Sergeant.
They all looked at the monitor, which showed a large picture feed from Bullock’s cell. He was lying on the plastic covered thin mattress. The man’s ginger hair was dishevelled, he was unwashed and unshaven, and his clothes crumpled and scruffy looking. His dress shirt was grimy and creased, the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. His trousers appeared to be falling down without his belt and his feet were clad in socks, his shoes being outside his cell placed next to his door.
As if sensing they were watching, Bullock sat up and stared at the CCTV camera located high up on the wall of his cell. His gaze didn’t waver and in the end it was Anderson who nodded to his fellow officers and turned away from the monitor.
- Charges? wrote Anderson in the small notebook he carried in the pocket of his beige raincoat.
“Attempted murder of one DI Anderson,” said Crane.
- Not good enough.
“I know that, Derek, but Superintendent Grimes said it was the one we could slap on him straight away, whilst we waited for conclusive evidence on the other charges. It was a good job that he did attack you, by the way, otherwise we only had an initial 24 hours to put a case together complete with forensic evidence.”
- Magistrate!
“We’re well aware we could have got an additional 48 hours from a Magistrate, thank you very much, but we were all rather more concerned about you. Don’t forget you were lying in a hospital bed, unconscious with swelling on the brain.”
Anderson looked frustrated, but in the end wrote - Okay. Followed by a rather begrudging, - Sorry.
But once they got to Anderson’s office, it was clear Anderson wasn’t going to leave the subject of Bullock alone.
Sitting in his chair behind his still cluttered desk, Anderson wrote - Throw the book at him!
“Bloody hell, Derek, of course Grimes will,” Crane sat in front of Anderson’s desk, looking at his friend’s pale face and the angry black and yellow bruises that could be seen, forming a necklace of thumb and finger prints around his throat.
- Need justice for girls.
“Don’t we all, Derek. Bullock needs to go to prison for murder and kidnap for the rest of his life. But we have to wait for the evidence. You know it takes a long time for all the tests to be completed.”
Crane was desperately trying to rein in his temper. He had to understand that his friend was injured and angry. That thought made Crane smile, for he knew more than enough about how it felt to be injured and being frustrated and angry about it.
“It’s been a tense time for all of us, the whole team, from Grimes all the way down to DC Douglas.”
Anderson nodded his understanding.
“From the results of all the tests we already have,” Crane continued, “we have built a case against Bullock for most of the murders and attempted murders.”
Anderson frowned - Most of?
Shit. It seemed Anderson had picked up on Crane’s frustration about one of the charges. He must practice his blank look; it seemed he was a little rusty still.
“It’s the old people, the Underwoods.”
- What about them?
“Well, the fire was definitely started with petrol, according to the fire brigade, but we haven’t any witnesses to say it was Bullock, nor fingerprint or other evidence. Anyway if his prints were found there, he would naturally say that it was from previous visits. After all they were his parents-in-law.”
- There must be more!
“I know, Derek. But I just don’t know what it is.”
- Find something. I’m going home.
“Yes, boss,” said Crane.
71
Once left alone, Crane asked DC Douglas to bring all the evidence gathered from DS Bullock’s house. Commandeering a table in the incident room, Crane and Douglas spread all the packets and tubes across the table.
“What are we looking for, sir?” asked Douglas.
“Something to tie Bullock to the fire at the Underwood’s house.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve no bloody idea.”
“Ah, a needle in a haystack job.”
Did Douglas actually look happy about such a search? Crane was sure he’d just seen the man’s eyes flash with interest.
Crane grumbled, “Something like that, but in this case we don’t even know what the bloody needle looks like.”
“Oh. Right.”
Douglas’ reply was rather more subdued, which was about right, as Crane felt they had an uphill struggle on this one. But he wouldn’t let Anderson down. He’d show him and the rest of the police team that he was good at his job. As good as them, if not better. A grumbling hip and gammy leg wasn’t going to stop him doing what he was good at. He had been a bloody good army investigator and he was determined that he would be equally as good a police investigator.
That thought made Crane pause in his perusal of the evidence. Had he just been positive and determined? He reckoned he had and the thought straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. He looked at the stick in his left hand. Could he? Should he? He stood dithering.
“You a
lright, boss?” Douglas broke though Crane’s reverie.
“Couldn’t be better,” Crane replied and walked into Anderson’s office. He took off his suit jacket and put it around the back of a chair, rolled up his shirt sleeves and went back to join Douglas. Leaving his stick behind.
It was a long job. Each piece of evidence had been logged and Crane and Douglas had to cross reference it with the murder book to see what theory it substantiated. Nearly an hour had gone by before Crane came across a small paper ticket.
“Any idea what this is, Douglas?”
Douglas joined Crane and took the packet from him. “No, sorry. Don’t remember seeing that before.”
Crane took it back and looked at it more closely. He checked with the files but there was no notation that the ticket had been attributed to any charge. Or that there had been any follow-up on it.
Limping into the office, Crane got a magnifying glass out of Anderson’s desk, for once ignoring the chocolate treats in there. Peering through the glass he read the small logo; Bright’s. Underneath this word was a number. One edge of the ticket was jagged, as though it had been torn out of a book.
Bright’s. Crane considered the name. He considered where Bullock lived - Farnborough. Ignoring his laptop, Crane pulled a Yellow Pages telephone directory off the shelf behind Anderson’s desk and thumbed through it.
“You got something, boss?”
Crane hadn’t heard Douglas come up behind him and jumped at the young man’s voice.
“You know I think I have,” said Crane and pointed to the open page.
“Dry Cleaners,” Douglas read out loud.
“Exactly,” said Crane. “More specifically Bright’s Dry Cleaners in Farnborough. Right, get someone to put away that lot,” he pointed at the evidence spread around the table, “and then you can drive me to Farnborough.”
The dry cleaners looked less bright and more grey as the exterior of the shop looked in need of a facelift. The paint was peeling off the sign and the entrance door. There was a metal roller security screen that wasn’t pushed all the way back and multi-coloured graffiti could be seen adorning the bottom of it. The windows were grubby and in need of a wash and the window frames had hardly any paint left on them.
Death Rites Page 19
