'How come it's so quiet around here?'
'Haven't you heard?'
Lasser felt the frown resurface. 'Heard what?'
'Everyone's up at Rivington; apparently there's been a murder,' he whispered like some gossipmonger who doesn't really like to spread rumours. 'Some bloke rang in stating he'd found a pile of blood-stained clothing in an old farmhouse. PC Harper went to check it out and since then it's been bedlam.'
'Who took the initial call?'
Colin looked bemused. 'I did.'
'So, did this 'bloke' leave his name?'
'Er yes, yes he did.'
Lasser began to tap his fingers on the desk in mounting frustration. With idiots like Meadows and those plastic plods who rode around town on mountain bikes topping up their tans, it was a wonder the police force still existed in any meaningful fashion.
Meadows rummaged around among a small pile of paperwork, paused for a moment, stuck on a pair of glasses, and began to go through the stack a second time.
'Ah here we are, the man's name was Fossey.'
Lasser leant across the desk and plucked the paper from Meadows's hand.
'Fossey!'
'Yeah, first name…'
'Patrick.'
Meadows frowned. 'Do you know him?'
Lasser ignored the question and studied the log-in details.
'This call came in over four hours ago!'
Meadows began to look uncomfortable. 'That's right.'
'So, why didn't you let me know about it?'
'Well, you were already out on a job and I thought…'
'Look, I am not a frigging community bobby, I have no interest whatsoever in forging meaningful links with thieving little scrotes, do you follow me?'
Meadows blanched. 'Yes, but…'
'When you get a call like this, as a senior officer I expect to be informed immediately, not in a few hours or when it suits you.'
He threw the paper across the desk, Meadows made a grab for it and missed, swallowing, he bent to retrieve it. When he looked up Lasser had vanished, the door hissing quietly shut on its hydraulic hinges.
Lasser stormed across the car park, his mind full of conspiracy theories. Perhaps Meadows had been acting on orders from Hopkins to keep him in the dark; he wouldn't put it past the bastard.
He slid behind the wheel, the heat inside the car matching his mood. Maybe he should just head for home, but the name Patrick Fossey had stirred his curiosity.
Twelve months earlier he'd been forced to go on one of those personal development seminars he despised so much, Fossey had been the guest speaker.
Lasser had attended the seminar with the intention of hating every minute of it, he only hoped there'd be a chance to do some heckling and maybe get pissed in the free bar.
He'd expected all the usual tosh, 'people commit crime because they come from underprivileged backgrounds, broken homes, they're not responsible for their actions. Blah, blah, blah'.
However, to his surprise, Fossey had been different; oh, some of the rhetoric included the usual banal bullshit. Yet he'd also spoken about choices, he had been forceful in his defence of the victims and scathing about some of Lasser's superiors, which he had to admit made a refreshing change from all the arse licking that usually went on at these events. Despite his best intentions, he had begun to warm to the man. By the wonders of modern technology, he had discovered that Fossey had helped a couple of forces in the past in tracking down one or two 'colourful characters'.
So, what was a top shrink doing in an old farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere?
Starting the car, he headed off the car park and paused at the junction; turning left, meant heading for home, for another night of cheap beer and crap television. Lasser lit another cigarette and turned right. Why should Hopkins be the one to have all the fun?
11
Ronnie loitered on the car park of the Radfield Arms, watching as another police car thundered past, lights flashing, sirens wailing. That was the third in less than five minutes, he checked his battered old Timex; Susan should be here any minute now.
A plain white transit rounded the corner and shot past.
Pulling the stump of a cigarette from his pocket he lit up, ruing a government who made old men stand outside in all weathers just to have a bloody fag.
At the sound of tyres on gravel he looked up, Susan waved through the Land Rover window; dropping the cigarette, he trudged over and climbed in.
'Sorry I'm a bit late, Dad, the traffic's been horrendous,' she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
'It's all right, love.'
'How are Bert and Sam?'
'Same as always,' he replied. 'Ere, Sue, you haven't noticed a load of cop cars knocking about have you?'
Flicking on the indicator, she pulled back onto the road. 'No. Why?'
'Well, four have gone past in the last five minutes and it looked like they were in a hell of a rush.'
'Maybe there's been an accident; you know what folk are like on this road, especially on a Saturday afternoon.'
'Aye I thought of that,' Ronnie paused and scratched his chin. 'But there were no fire engines or ambulance, just police cars.'
Susan slowed for a bad bend and then accelerated as the road straightened. They both heard the siren at the same time. Susan glanced in the mirror, her eyes widening in alarm, she yanked the wheel sharply to the left as the police car overtook at high speed. The hedge-side brambles scraped down the side of the Land Rover as the car disappeared along the winding road.
'Daft bastard!' Ronnie straightened his glasses, yanked a hankie from his pocket, and mopped his sweating brow.
'Are you all right, Dad?'
'Aye, love, no thanks to that idiot.'
Susan swallowed down the panic. 'You were right about them being in a rush.'
'Driving like that it wouldn't surprise me if we found the daft bugger arse up in a ditch.'
Susan checked the mirror, before carefully pulling back onto the road, a moment later her phone began to twitter.
'Can you get that, Dad?'
Ronnie fumbled in the footwell, retrieved Susan's bag and rummaged through the contents before pulling out the phone.
'It's the green button.'
'I know that, lass,' he slapped the phone to his ear. 'Now then, Jenna love, did he turn up?'
Susan indicated and turned right onto a narrow lane.
'You bloody what!' Ronnie's voice was cracked with disbelief.
Susan hit the brakes, a bag of shopping fell off the back seat and clattered to the floor.
'What's the matter?'
Ronnie held up a hand and he listened to his granddaughter, Susan watched nervously as his eyes grew wide in shock.
'Dad?'
'Shush! Go on, Jenna love, I'm listening.'
Susan snatched on the handbrake.
'Listen, Dad, I don't know what's going on but you…'
'Right, love, we're on our way.'
Ronnie stabbed a gnarled finger at the 'off' button and turned to his daughter.
'You had best get up to the old house, love.'
'Why, what's happened?'
'I'm not really sure but that's where all the police are heading.'
'Is Jenna OK?' Susan could feel the panic flare in her chest.
'Aye, love, she's fine, but she thinks some bugger's been murdered up there.'
'Murdered?'
'Aye, come on, love, get your foot down.' Ronnie urged, a flush of colour rising in his grizzled cheeks.
Susan released the handbrake and did as he asked.
12
He stood on the edge of the woods and watched as the police car pulled up behind the Range Rover, the blue lights turning lazily in the heat haze. A frown of confusion flitted across his face. He had been prepared to be patient; prepared for the long game, the last thing he had expected to see was this. Lifting the field glasses, he trained them at the house, the image blurred for a moment and then the house sprang into
view. Sweeping slowly to the right, he spotted the man as he made his way towards the septic tank. A moment later, a dark-haired PC came into view and followed him along the path. Reaching down he stroked the dog's ears, the German Shepherd licked the back of his hand, warm and wet.
The girl looked to be about sixteen, long blonde hair framing a face that in a couple of years' time would be stunning.
It was tempting to stay and watch the proceedings, though caution told him to distance himself from the area, nothing would be gained by staying longer. Although the police would not find a body, they'd obviously found enough to get them interested.
He turned and immediately spotted the old man in the yellow jacket, a small sheltie on a wandering lead standing by his side; both man and dog looked directly at him.
'Afternoon,' he raised a friendly hand and began slowly to make his way towards them, his own dog tight against his right leg. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'
The man was in his sixties, dressed as if he were expecting some kind of heavy thunderstorm. His waterproof jacket and stout walking boots at odds with the old, flat cap perched on top of his head.
Sunlight dappled down between the huge trees, casting light and shadows. As he approached, the old walker visibly tightened his hand on the lead, a worried frown crinkling his forehead.
'Er yes, yes it's grand,' he licked his lips.
The killer smiled warmly.
'Hello, boy,' he bent and offered the back of his hand to the small dog.
'It's a 'she' actually.'
'Oh right, sorry about that, old girl,' his eyes raked the surrounding area.
'Is something going on at the old house?'
'What makes you think that?'
'It's just that I thought I heard a police siren,' he smiled, his white dentures looking at odds against the grey pallor of his skin.
'Well, I suppose you could say that. I was just watching through my glasses but then again you knew that already, didn't you?'
The old man blinked, looking perplexed at the admission. 'I must admit I did wonder what you were doing'
'Of course you did,' his eyes made another sweep of the trees. 'And I could say I was bird watching but you wouldn't quite believe me, would you?'
The dog walker swallowed. 'Right well I'd better be going, it's getting late,' he gave the lead a tug and the sheltie stood and shook itself.
'If you must know, they're looking for a body.'
The old man stopped and turned. 'Excuse me?'
'Give it another ten minutes and this place will be crawling with the law.'
'Look, this really is none of my business.'
'So, if we go our separate ways, I can rely on you to keep your mouth, shut, can I?'
'I…,' the old man paused as if he were giving the question some serious consideration. Then he turned and began to run, dragging the hapless dog with him, his new boots swishing through last year's fallen leaves.
The man made one last careful sweep of the area then moved forward.
A couple of seconds later the old rambler felt an enormous weight hit him from behind. He slammed to the ground, the dog lead slipping from his fingers; dazed and winded, his asthma kicked in immediately.
'I promise I won't say anything,' he managed to utter, though his throat seemed to have shrunk to the size of a drinking straw.
The killer flipped him over and knelt by his side, pulling a plastic carrier bag from his pocket. 'I know you won't, old cock,' he slipped the bag over the man's head, pulling it down with a sharp tug. Then he placed his hands loosely around the scrawny throat, applying gentle pressure.
Thomas Kitts had always thought himself a fit man, he would often sneer at Martha, his wife, as she sat eating her chocolates, pointing out a heart attack was on its way if she carried on gorging herself. He, on the other hand could walk for miles, he could still ride his bike, he was active!
As the hands closed around his throat and the bag cut off his air, he realised that it was all a lie, his virility was an illusion. His struggles were ineffectual; he tried to lash out with his fists, though his body knew the truth that his mind had kept hidden.
He took a huge, shuddering breath and the plastic moulded itself to his screaming mouth.
Twenty seconds later, it was over.
The man waited a full minute, his eyes scanning the trees as he counted down the seconds. His own dog eyed the sheltie as it ran between the trees, the long lead trailing in its wake.
When he pulled the bag free, he had to laugh at the stencilled motto, 'every little helps' how true he thought as he slipped the carrier bag back into his pocket.
13
'What's happening?' Jenna was standing by the Range Rover as another white transit van bounced across the field heading towards the house. The police were everywhere.
'Forensics are going in now.' Fossey nodded towards a group of men struggling their way into white-paper boiler suits.
Jenna chewed at a fingernail. 'I managed to get in touch with Mum, she's on her way.'
'Good,' he paused, 'look maybe we should make our way to the bottom of the field and wait for her there.'
'OK, what shall I do about T?'
'Leave him in the car; he'll go to sleep.'
Jenna frowned. 'Can't we drive down?'
'I'm afraid not, the police don't want anything moved.'
Jenna looked puzzled. 'But why, I mean, your car's not in the way or anything?'
'No, but they want to check it over.'
'But why would they want to do something like that?'
He could hear the confusion in her voice.
'Well, it appears it's because I was up here yesterday.'
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. 'They think you're a suspect?'
Fossey smiled. 'The police are paid to be suspicious, Jenna.'
'But didn't you tell them that my grandad was with you?'
'Yes, but he didn't actually come into the house with me, he stayed outside.'
'But if you were guilty of anything,' she said. 'Why would you call the police to report it? I mean, it's ridiculous.'
'Look, it'll all get cleared up quickly enough, let's go and wait for your mum, OK?'
Jenna nodded reluctantly, her mind befuddled. 'OK'.
They moved away from the car and headed down the path. The police officer who had responded to the initial call was standing by her car in conversation with a male colleague.
Jenna glared at the woman as they walked past, throwing her daggers.
'What did your mother have to say when you told her what was going on?'
'I didn't get to speak to her; it was my grandad I told.'
'And what did he say?'
'Not much, I think he was in shock.'
'I'm not surprised.'
As they made their way across the field, Jenna spotted the familiar dark-green Land Rover driving along the lane. 'They're here,' she set off running towards the approaching car.
By the time Fossey arrived, Ronnie and Susan were out of the vehicle and Jenna was in full hyperactive mode trying to explain everything at once.
'Calm down, Jenna, love.' Ronnie's cap was askew, his eyes wide.
''Calm down''! Look, Grandad, there might be a dead body in the house,' she pointed towards the dilapidated structure. 'There might be a murderer watching us right now.'
Ronnie looked uneasily towards the mass of trees on the hillside. 'Bloody hell, Jenna, you've got a vivid imagination.'
'Well, we don't know, the killer could be anywhere.'
'Afternoon, Susan,' Fossey said, as he approached.
'Good afternoon, Patrick, this is awful.'
Jenna eyed her mother, since when did she get to call him Patrick?
'What the bloody hell's happened? Our Jenna said summat about some blood-stained clothes?' Ronnie asked.
'Patrick found them in the kitchen.' Jenna said, trying her best to appear in control of her emotions.
'Under normal circumstances I wo
uldn't have bothered ringing the police. After all, you get people squatting in old empty properties all the time and they leave all sorts of rubbish behind.'
Ronnie grunted. 'Tell me about it, there was a load of them traveller types parked on a bit of waste land in Horwich last year, never seen such a bloody mess.'
Susan suddenly looked hopeful. 'Perhaps that's what it is. I mean, we hardly ever come up here anymore, anyone could have been living in there, and we'd never have known.'
Fossey pursed his lips. 'I don't think so.'
She placed a protective arm around her daughter. 'So, what are the police doing now?'
'The forensic team have gone in,' Jenna said.
'Dear God.'
'Aye, it's a bugger.' Ronnie pushed the cap back onto his head.
'Right, well there's nothing we can do here, and I refuse to just stand around like some morbid rubber-necker.'
Jenna looked at her mum in alarm. 'But we can't just go home and pretend this isn't happening.'
'Listen, Jenna, the last thing the police need are spectators cluttering up the place. Besides, we need to get back and tell your dad what's happened.'
'You go, we'll wait here.'
Susan shook her head. 'I don't think so, young lady; you're coming home with us.'
'Mr Fossey, a word, now.' Detective Hopkins was standing twenty feet away, he crooked a finger, beckoning him over.
'Fascist.' Jenna hissed, Susan looked at her daughter in shocked surprise.
'I'm on my way.' Fossey turned his back on the officer. 'Look, Susan, when they've finished with me would it be OK if I called in on my way home, just to let you know what's going on?'
'Of course, that would be fine.'
'But, Mum…'
'Come on, Jenna, home.'
She cringed, her mother was treating her like a child, it was excruciating.
'Fossey!' This time there was no mistaking the anger in the voice; Hopkins was rapidly losing his patience.
Fossey raised an eyebrow and smiled. 'Hopefully I won't be long, but if it gets too late I'll ring in the morning.'
The Needle House Page 5
