45
Lasser pulled into the small lay-by, cut the engine off and climbed out, his mood as dark as the tarmac beneath his feet. Maybe this constant heat was scrambling his brain? He looked out over the open countryside, in the distance he could see the traffic on the M61, a seemingly never-ending stream of commuters travelling in and out of Manchester. A kestrel hovered nearby, after a few seconds it plummeted to earth, disappearing in the grass before rising back into the clear sky. Trouble was, Hopkins was now in charge of a double murder and all he was left with was figuring why some overweight snob had decided to top himself. It was probably the same reason other people did the dirty deed, money worries or maybe he'd just had enough of life. Christ, he could sympathise with that.
He kicked a stone, watching as it bounced across the narrow lane and into the ditch. Right, it was time to stop fucking about and look at the facts. Billy Jones murdered late Wednesday night in a house in the middle of nowhere. At the time, he had been running from his so-called friends who probably wanted to beat the shit out of him. If they were not responsible for Billy's death, then it meant that either the killer had followed Billy into the house or he had already been waiting inside. Lasser took a drag on the smoke, the thought that Billy had been unlucky enough to try to hide in a house that contained a vicious killer seemed far-fetched at best. So, that meant that the person responsible had watched as the kid headed for the house, after all, the field was huge, it would have taken Billy at least a minute to cover the open ground, time enough for the killer to see which way he was running and conceal himself in the house. After all, the cottage backed onto a narrow lane with plenty of tree cover and it made sense that the killer must have had a car, or more likely a van, to carry the body away in. Lasser pictured the scene, moonlight on the field, Billy staggering down the hillside; according to Connelly they had started the night at the top end of the Chinese Gardens and that had to be well over a mile from the house. He was a kid who could probably move fast when he needed to, though the panic of being chased would have tired him quickly. Besides, knowing the type of people he was dealing with, Billy might have even popped a couple of pills or smoked a fat joint, so he could have been wrecked. The house would have been a last resort, a place to hide because he was incapable of running any further. The man had watched and made his way to the house, entered and waited. Lasser dropped the cigarette onto the floor, it sounded reasonable enough. People murdered for all sorts of pathetic reasons, he had been in the job long enough to know how these things worked. Trouble was, this was completely different. He thought back to the murder enquiries he had been involved in and every one without exception had been a domestic that had gone too far, or drug related. The sad thing was that the four domestic murders had all been avoidable; each of the women had called the police on numerous occasions to complain about their partner's behaviour. Lasser recalled the escalating violence against Colleen Shaw, the bruises on her arms, the screaming of abuse at the man who had thrown her across the room, a woman with plenty of fire in her eyes. Six months later, he had gone out to see her again and the spark had vanished. He had spent over three hours trying to get her to see sense, one of her eyes had been swollen shut, and he had seen the finger marks around her neck where her boyfriend had tried to throttle her. By this time, she was broken, unable to take on board what he was saying. Lasser had made sure she had a place at the women's refuge, he had made it his business to keep in touch and, for a few months, it seemed as if she were turning a corner. The last time he'd seen her she'd been talking about going to college and maybe getting a place of her own. Three weeks later, she had been having a night on the town, the first time she been out in almost two years, trouble was she had bumped into her ex. He had been off his face on cheap cocaine and cider. By the time her girlfriend got help, Colleen had been dragged behind a parade of shops, raped and murdered, her body dumped amongst the bins, a place littered with empty beer cans and used condoms. He had been the first on scene at the boyfriend's house and found him slumped at the kitchen table. Grabbing the gobshite by the hair, Lasser had lifted his head from the table, the eyes had fluttered open but there was no recognition, though there had been blood around the mouth from where Colleen had bitten him. Lasser had let go and the head had slammed into the table top, the man's nose exploding in a shower of blood.
When the case had gone to trial, the boyfriend had denied any knowledge of what had happened; the sad thing was Lasser believed him. He had sat in the dock, hollow-eyed, looking like a hunger strike victim, he didn't have a clue where he was, let alone what he was being accused of. A horrific crime, nevertheless it was murder. You could see how it had happened, bad drugs fuelling the brain of a man who cared for nothing. The last he'd heard, the killer had found God and was repentant for his sins, typical bullshit.
Yet this business with Billy Jones was different. Whoever had killed the boy had shown a level of control and according to Molder, a certain degree of skill had been required to remove the internal organs. Lasser sighed, then there was Kitts, it was impossible to know if the same man had killed him but the chances of two killers, murdering their victims within three hundred yards of one another seemed unlikely. He believed in coincidence but not to that extent. Which could only mean that the killer of Billy Jones had been up in the woods when Kitts had come wandering along. Lasser scratched his chin and thought back to the path of flattened grass that had led to the edge of the trees. Maybe Kitts hadn't been the one standing looking out across the open field. Suddenly it made sense, the killer had been watching the house, keeping his eye on the place. When he'd turned, there was the unfortunate Thomas pretending he was an elderly Ray Mears, but why kill the man?
He rested his arms on the roof of the car, then pulled them away with a hiss, the metal red hot. Cursing he rolled down his sleeves and tried again. Unless the killer was doing something suspicious, something that Kitts would have remembered and maybe reported to the police. Lasser smiled, that was more like it. Research had proven that murderers would often return to the crime scene; it gave them a buzz to watch the police bungling around while they jerked off. Lasser rubbed his hands together suddenly feeling on a roll. They were looking for a man who had no qualms about disembowelling a fourteen-year-old boy and who had enough control to kill an old man and try and make it look like natural causes.
He glanced at his watch, by rights he should be trying to find out more about Malcolm Radfield's past, though maybe that could wait for a while.
46
The dog strained at the leash, back legs scrabbling at the soft earth, nose to the ground. 'He's onto something, sir.'
Hopkins tried to keep up but both man and animal were surging ahead up the steep hillside.
'Currie, slow down!' he bellowed.
The dog handler skidded to a halt. 'Sorry, sir, it's just that he's dead keen.'
'I can see that, but we go at my pace, do you understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'We do not go blundering, we do not trample, we go lightly.'
'Understood, sir.' Currie reined the dog in, pulling the German Shepherd tight to his side.
Hopkins turned; he could see the line of men moving slowly up the hillside, fluorescent jackets shining in the afternoon sunshine. Each had been supplied with a baton for searching through the undergrowth; all of them had their heads trained on the woodland floor looking for clues.
'Come on, you lot, keep up!'
The men raised their heads, though no one quickened their pace.
'Am I talking to myself here?'
A chorus of apologies drifted up the hillside, Hopkins grunted in approval as he saw the men begin to jog towards him.
'Right, Currie, get a move on.'
The dog handler extended the lead again and the animal dashed forward. Hopkins set off in pursuit; shafts of sunlight blasted down between the canopies of leaves, the air heavy with summer scents. He could hear the sound of his men closing behind so he quickened his pace.
In his book, it was important to lead from the front, to lead by example. Currie had extended his lead, the dog dragging him along.
'Currie, I bloody well told you to slow down!'
Once again, the dog handler stopped in his tracks and waited for his boss to catch up.
'You're meant to be in control of that animal at all times, not the other way around.'
'Yes, sir.'
PC Spenner fell in by their side. 'It looks like he's onto something, sir.'
Hopkins turned, Spenner smiled at him, hands on hips.
'Well spotted, constable.' Hopkins injected just the right amount of disdain into his voice, a trait he had perfected over time and loved to use at every available opportunity.
Spenner blushed. 'I…'
'Right, you lot, get up here.' Hopkins bellowed.
Spenner looked nervously over his shoulder. Twenty seconds later the men had gathered around in a rough semicircle. 'As Spenner here so kindly pointed out, it appears the dog has picked up a scent.' Hopkins noted the look of disgust that some of the older officers directed towards Spenner. 'Now, from here on it's eyes and ears open, that doesn't mean treating this like a Sunday stroll in the park and it doesn't mean discussing how United will fare on Saturday, am I clear?' He didn't wait for a response but turned and gave Currie a nod before setting off again. Hopkins redoubled his effort, surging ahead, leaving lesser mortals to puff and pant in his wake.
'Do you think the dog's going to find the body, sir?'
Hopkins stared at Spenner in disbelief.
'What do you think you're doing?'
The young PC looked bemused. 'I don't understand, sir?'
Hopkins could feel the heat rising from his shirt collar, his face darkened in anger.
'You should be down there with that lot.'
'But I thought…'
'Listen to me, Spenner, if you intend making a career for yourself then you'd do well to remember that you're here to do my bidding and nothing more, is that clear?'
Spenner snapped to attention. 'Yes, sir.'
'That doesn't include trying to second guess me or putting your own personal spin on a situation, it simply means doing exactly what I say, to the letter, without question.'
'Understood, sir.'
'Right, get back into line and do your job.'
Spenner turned and trudged back down the hillside, a few seconds later Hopkins heard scathing laughter drifting up the hill.
Currie was reining in the big dog to avoid another roasting, pulling back on the leash as the animal strained forward. When they reached the first flight of stone steps the dog hesitated for a few moments, sniffing the ground in concentration, a few seconds later and it was off again.
Hopkins smiled to himself, if he could get a result on the case it would help to catapult him further up the ladder. At thirty-two things had gone well, his grand career plan on schedule and this could be the crowning glory, this could get his name onto the front pages of the newspapers.
The heat of the day was becoming unbearable, although he never considered loosening his tie, or removing his jacket. He allowed himself a tight smile, if Lasser had been here he would probably have been stripped to the waist by now. As far as he was concerned, that man represented everything that was wrong with the force. A man who went through his working day with a disdain for everyone he met. Moreover, he was lazy and arrogant and angry because he knew he would never get any further in the job, he had reached his limit. In fact, it was a miracle he had achieved the rank of detective sergeant. Hopkins jogged up the steps picturing a scenario where he had surpassed Lasser in rank, the day would come he was convinced of it. Lasser would be apoplectic with suppressed rage, having to address him as sir, having to kowtow to his every whim. Hopkins surmised that Lasser would last six months before he cracked, which could result in him asking for a transfer. As far as he was concerned, this outcome would be unacceptable. He wanted the man gone, preferably working nights as a security guard on some run-down industrial estate.
Stopping, Hopkins looked up; the flight of stone steps appeared to stretch into oblivion. Currie had let the lead out to its full length, the dog sweeping left to right, after a few seconds it gave a loud bark and shot off to the left.
'This way, sir.'
'I'm not blind, Currie.'
He skipped up the steps then veered left, following Currie into bushes, by the time he made his way through the thicket, dog and handler were jogging ahead. It looked as if they were closing in on something; Hopkins just prayed it would lead to a fruitful result.
Glancing over his shoulder, he wasn't surprised to see Spenner emerging from the foliage, like a lapdog trying to impress, keen to make himself known to his master. Yes well, people like Spenner could be used; they were always prepared to go the extra mile to ingratiate themselves with an authority figure.
'Here, sir!'
Hopkins turned but Currie had disappeared around a large block of rhododendron bushes, the dog barking wildly now, a high-pitched yap that sounded strange coming from such a large powerful animal. When Hopkins rounded the wall of greenery he stopped in surprise. The tower soared towards the sky, looking oddly out of place amongst the huge beech trees. Currie was standing at the metal door; the dog on its hind legs, front paws paddling at the door.
'Currie, control that animal!' he bellowed. 'And stop it barking, I thought you were meant to be an expert handler?'
Currie didn't reply, he merely turned and moved away, the dog now reined in and trotting by his side.
Hopkins eyed the padlocked door. 'Currie!'
The handler turned; if looks could kill then Hopkins would have been writhing on the leaf-littered floor gasping out his last. Hopkins ignored it, he wasn't being paid to pamper to a glorified dog walker.
'Sir?'
'Are you sure about this?' he pointed at the door.
'Jake doesn't make mistakes.'
Hopkins nodded in response and then gave the padlock a shake.
'Should we break it off, sir?'
Hopkins swiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and turned. 'And what do you suggest we use, Spenner?'
The young officer glanced around as if he expected to find a pair of bolt cutters in the long grass.
'Well…'
'Besides if you took the time to look then you'd see that this plaque attached to the door tells us that this building belongs to United Utilities. In addition, if you look closely you'll see that it also provides us with a phone number. So, if it's all right with you, I'll give them a ring before we start attacking the door with sticks.'
A few of the men had caught them up; a couple sniggered at Spenner as he withered under Hopkins disdain.
'Right, you lot, spread out, I want this place cordoned off and the area searched, is that clear?'
Nods and 'yes, sirs' followed, he pulled out his mobile and punched in the number, keeping his fingers crossed.
47
'So, where is he now?' Michael stood on the doorstep of Connelly's house, a carbon copy of his own home, same weeds in the garden, same paint peeling from the front door. He could even smell fried food wafting out through the open door.
Kyle's mother twisted the ring in her nose, wincing at the sting. 'I'm telling you they took him away yesterday and I haven't seen him since. I haven't a clue what he's meant to have done but you know what the coppers are like, any excuse.'
Michael bit his lip in frustration.
'And how are you coping?' she asked.
'I'm all right.'
'I couldn't believe it when I heard about your brother.'
'His name was Billy,' he said through gritted teeth.
She flicked the cigarette stump into the garden. 'I saw your mum on the news earlier, she must be going spare?'
'So, he's not in then?'
For a moment, she looked confused and then the penny dropped. 'No, I've already told you he got carted off yesterday.' Michael turned to go. 'I'll tell him you called when I see him.'
He didn't bother with a reply; he couldn't see the point.
On the street, an ice-cream van trundled past, blasting black smoke from the exhaust. Pulling out another cigarette he lit up, his eyes glued to the gum-littered pavement. He could go round to Miller's house but he knew it would be a waste of time, the filth had them banged up, but eventually he would get his chance.
'Hello, Michael.'
He looked up; Tina Sheldon smiled at him nervously, a crop top showing the slight swell of her stomach, the make-up thick on her face.
'All right, Tina.'
'How are you?'
Michael looked up at the sky. 'Why does everybody keep asking me that?'
The ice-cream van had stopped, kids were migrating towards it, running with money clasped in their grubby hands. Some nursery rhyme warbling in the still summer air like the Pied Piper attracting a town full of rats.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…'
'When's the baby due?'
She looked at him in surprise. 'Four months to go yet but I just wish it'd hurry up, I'm sick of walking around like this,' she held her arms out, the shirt slid up revealing the bottom of a black bra. 'How did your mum take it; you know about Billy?'
Michael dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it. 'I don't wanna talk about that bitch.'
Tina raised an eyebrow and sighed. 'Why, what's she done now?'
'Just leave it, Tina.'
'OK, sorry,' she paused, before looking skyward, 'so where are you off to?'
He shrugged, suddenly feeling tired, as if the long walk from Fossey's house, coupled with the dragging weight of Billy's death had left him washed out. He looked at her; they had known each other from junior school, sat in the same classes. He remembered when they had gone onto high school, Tina was placed in the higher sets and had shown a real flair for art.
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