The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

  'Get out,' her voice was clipped, dripping venom.

  'Why would someone target this house, Susan, I mean, they haven't taken anything…'

  'My daughter's been taken, you bloody fool!'

  'Losing your rag solves nothing.' Lasser said.

  'Losing my rag,' her voice was incredulous. 'You think I'm throwing a little tantrum, over-reacting like a hysterical woman who can't control her emotions!'

  'Susan!' They heard thundering steps on the stairs, the next instant she spun away and fell into the waiting arms of her husband.

  'It looks like they used a jemmy, boss.'

  Lasser was standing at the front of the house looking out over fields. 'Yeah, Carl, I figured as much.'

  'Do you think it's the same guy?'

  'No doubt about it.'

  Carl scratched at his chin. 'Jesus, he's running rings around us.'

  Lasser watched as a buzzard swept across the field, wings outstretched, riding the warm air, the blue sky segmented by hulking black clouds. 'How are things panning out at Radfield's place?'

  'Well, we got a partial boot print, in fact it matches the one we found down by the side of the lake.'

  Lasser pulled out his cigarettes. 'That's something I suppose.'

  'In fact, when they got the dog in, he followed the scent up through the woods.'

  Lasser turned, the cigarette hanging from his mouth the lighter held in his right hand. 'And?'

  Carl shrugged. 'Dogs are fucked when they come to water, boss, you know that.'

  'Water?'

  'Yeah, the canal runs along the top edge of the woods, Colin reckons he must have tossed the head into the water.'

  'What did Simms make of it all?'

  'They've got frogmen up there now but sooner them than me. I mean, can you imagine swimming around in that shitty water looking for a head.'

  Suddenly, he thought back to what Michael had said, a big fucker with these weird ball things hanging from his keys. 'Fuck me,' he muttered.

  Carl frowned. 'You OK, boss?'

  'He has them in case he drops the keys into the water.'

  'I'm sorry, you've lost me?'

  Lasser looked at him, the flicker of a grin on his face. 'Michael Jones said he saw someone walking through the woods while he was waiting to pay Radfield a visit. He reckons he had a bunch of keys attached to his rucksack and there were a couple of rubber or cork balls hanging from them.'

  Carl looked at Lasser as if he'd finally lost the plot.

  'The fucker lives on a canal barge, if he drops the keys into the water then the cork stops them from sinking.'

  Carl raised an eyebrow. 'But what makes you think this man's the killer?'

  'You said yourself the dog lost the scent when he reached the water.'

  'Well, yeah but loads of people go walking in the woods; he could have been going anywhere.'

  'Don't be so negative. I mean, Jones was hiding in the woods waiting for it to go dark and this guy was the only person he saw, he was heading away from the house and towards the canal, carrying a rucksack.'

  'So, what are you going to do?'

  'Get up there and take a look around.'

  Carl pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. 'And what about me?'

  'Find out if the blood belongs to Jenna Fotheringay, you never know we might get lucky, perhaps she managed to draw blood before he took her.'

  'What do you reckon her chances are?'

  Lasser thought for a few moments. 'I think she's still alive but for how long is anyone's guess. If anything turns up, you can get me on my mobile.'

  Carl nodded. 'Straight away, boss.'

  91

  When the first smattering of rain hit the windscreen, the man smiled and started the engine before flicking on the wipers, the blade smearing grey dust and grime across the glass. He glanced into the back of the van. The girl was looking up at him, her eyes huge in the gloom, long, blonde hair hanging loose. Turning away, he watched as the summer downpour intensified. In the distance, he could see the blurred, grey-green smudge of the forest, the conical roof of the needle house jutting out from the centre of the trees. He knew Radfield Manor was hidden away in the distance, the local news had been full of the fact that Ashley Radfield had been murdered, he just wished he could have been there watching the police as they stood around scratching their heads. However, he'd had more important things to do. Before he had died Ashley Radfield had begged, pleaded, squirmed like a dog, and boy had he talked, couldn't shut the fucker up. Yet threaded within the garbled nonsense, the man had picked out some startling revelations. He smiled as he conjured up the memory of Radfield trying to twist his head away, his eyes, screwed tight in fear, had sprung open as he felt the cold sliver of steel against his throat. Then the man had seen it in his eyes, the realisation that he was going to die, and the body had gone limp as if suddenly resigned to his fate. Fucking weakling, giving up life so easily, so readily, it made you wonder how the Radfields had ever managed to get on in life. When Radfield was dead, he had taken the time to look around the house, the peeling silk wallpaper, the mothballed rooms, he had even thought of torching the place. He patted the dog that lay stretched out on the passenger seat, truth was Radfield had led him to the Fotheringays which was good, in fact it was more than good, it was life affirming. After all what was the point of having a vendetta if there was no one left to hunt? He could hear muffled groans coming from the girl, sounding like a mantra. Ignoring her, he pulled out the binoculars and trained them on the woods, making a slight adjustment he swept them to the right, he could see the canal running along the embankment then vanishing from view as it threaded its way between the valley. Sliding down the side window, he twisted his head and raised the glasses again, the canal reappeared for about two hundred yards. He could see the red strip of the narrowboat moored to the bank. A figure was walking along the towpath, a small black dog dashing off in front and then someone in a yellow, high-visibility vest came into view, closely followed by two more. He frowned and zoomed in on the small group, his hand shaking slightly causing the people to jitter, the blue strip on the back of the jackets had the word 'police' stencilled in silver. He lowered the glasses, for the first time a realisation dawned on him that the police might not be as stupid as he imagined.

  For a few seconds he felt a flicker of panic bloom like some wild animal slamming against the bars of a cage, frantic to break out and flee. The man glanced over his shoulder, the girl had balled herself into the corner of the small space, the sight of her had a calming effect, she wasn't an impulse – she was family.

  92

  'Right, Spenner, I want you to find out who owns this boat.'

  'How do I do that, sir?'

  'There's a licence in the window, see if there's a phone number and if there is, then ring the bloody thing.'

  Spenner blushed and headed over to the boat, pulling out a small note pad as he went.

  The narrow towpath was clogged with police officers, milling around trying to look as if they had some purpose in being there. The last thing any of them wanted was to be singled out by Simms; his face was florid with frustration all he needed was a spark to send him into the stratosphere. Lasser was crouched by the side of the boat, trying to find a gap in the curtains so he could peer inside.

  'Lasser!'

  'Yes, sir,' he stood up just as Spenner began to jot down the phone and serial number. Simms gave a twitch of his head and began to walk away down the path, avoiding the puddles that had quickly formed after the downpour. When they were about twenty feet from the boat, he stopped and turned.

  'Are you sure about this?' he nodded towards the barge. 'I mean, Michael Jones could hardly be classed as a reliable witness, especially considering the fact that at present we have him banged up.'

  Lasser looked down at his mud-spattered shoes. 'He only described the man, he has no idea about the connection…'

  'To be honest, Sergeant, neither do I.'

  Simms
listened as Lasser explained everything, occasionally his wiry eyebrow would flick upwards in surprise, apart from that he showed no emotion. When Lasser finished, Simms looked out at the water, a couple of ducks bobbed on the choppy surface. 'So, you think that this Ronnie fella has a son and he's the one responsible for this?'

  Lasser nodded. 'I think that's why he's taken the girl.'

  'Explain?'

  Lasser took a moment to get things straight in his mind. 'Now the Radfields are dead, I think he's turning his attention to the Fotheringays.'

  'You think he's aware of what went on between his mother and Ronnie?'

  'Some of this is still guesswork, but it seems strange that a few hours after Ashley Radfield is murdered, the killer turns up and takes the girl.'

  'So Radfield spilled the beans?' Simms grunted.

  'Well, I know I would if some maniac was holding a bloody big knife to my throat, I'd try and say anything to keep myself alive.'

  Simms nodded. 'It sounds plausible, but…'

  'Sir!' Spenner came striding towards them.

  'What have you got?'

  'I've just been onto British Waterways; I spoke to the department that deals…'

  'Stop wittering, Spenner, and tell me what they said.' Simms snarled.

  Spenner cleared his throat. 'The boat is registered to a Mr James Wickham.'

  Lasser thrust his hands into his pockets, to keep them from punching the air.

  Simms gave a curt snap of his head, as if this latest news was no surprise. 'Right, Sergeant, I want access to that boat. Now.'

  Lasser resisted the urge to run but only just, he climbed onto the back, the small twin doors were locked a padlock threaded through the clasp 'Anyone got a crowbar?' Blank faces peered back at him. 'For God's sake, will one of you go and grab one from the van?'

  You had to give Spenner his dues, as soon as he heard the request; he was off down the towpath, his long legs catapulting him along at a furious pace. Lasser noticed one or two of his colleagues smirking.

  'Something funny, Watson?' he asked.

  Watson looked about the same age as Spenner but there was something of the schoolyard bully about him, he had the same mean eyes and slab-like forehead that Donald Fletcher sported.

  'What do you mean, sir?' he asked, an innocent frown on his face, his eyes full of insolence.

  'Don't fuck me about, sunshine. I want tape set up, twenty yards in either direction, see to it,' he snapped.

  The men began to disperse; Watson glared and stalked off, leaving Simms standing alone on the bank. 'It looks as if you were right, Sergeant.'

  'Well, until we actually get our hands on the bastard, I'm taking nothing for granted.'

  'Wise man,' he looked at Lasser and smiled, his face full of weariness. 'Now we need to find out if he lives here permanently or if he has a house somewhere. And the bugger must have a car or a van.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Black, come here.'

  A thickset officer walked over, hair shaved short, fat face sweating. 'I want to know everything about James Wickham, where he lives, what car he drives, where he works, absolutely bloody everything and I want it ASAP, understood?'

  'Sir.' Black turned away and pulled the two-way up to his mouth, head tilted, turning his two chins into three.

  Spenner appeared from the undergrowth and began to sprint towards them brandishing the crowbar as he ran. 'There you go, sir.'

  'Thanks, Spenner,' placing the bar behind the clasp Lasser yanked down, two, three, four times and the lock clattered to the floor. He pulled open the doors and climbed down the three narrow steps that led to the tiny engine room, a faint smell of diesel laced the stale air. Moving along the narrow passageway, Lasser passed a small bunk on the left, a sleeping bag rolled up neatly on top of a thin mattress. Yanking open the curtains, he peered down the length of the boat.

  'Anyone home, Sergeant?' Simms's voice sounded loud in the narrow confines of the boat.

  He slid open a small door, showing a portable toilet and shower space. 'No luck!'

  The boat swayed slightly as Simms climbed on board, a few seconds later his boss appeared.

  'It looks like our friend likes to keep things neat and tidy,' he said.

  Lasser pulled open a couple of cupboard doors, one had a solitary tin of beans on the shelf the other was empty. 'There's no way he's living here, at least not on a permanent basis.'

  Simms crouched down and opened the door of the small, wood-burning stove, the grate was spotless. 'I get the feeling our friend is very meticulous.'

  Lasser looked out of the window, it was surprising how high the water level was, the two ducks reappeared and paddled past. He resisted the urge to pull out his cigarettes and spark up, when he had been snapping off the lock he had imagined finding Jenna alive and well, the hero of the hour, discovering evidence that would lead them straight to the killer. Now, as he looked around the narrow space he realised that Simms was right, this bastard wasn't one for leaving clues.

  'Right, we'll get forensics in here, see if they can find anything, if he has been spending time here then he must have left traces.' Simms said.

  Lasser loosened his tie. 'I wonder if it's worth hanging fire before we get them in?'

  Simms pulled the cap from his head and gave his scalp a quick scratch. 'You think he might show up?'

  'It's a possibility; I mean; he must have left the boat moored here for a reason.'

  Simms slid open a small overhead drawer, peered inside and then closed it with a sigh. 'From the look of this place he either doesn't come here often or he makes sure he cleans the place every time he leaves,' he checked his watch. 'Right, we'll give it a few hours; if he doesn't show we get them in.'

  'Right, sir.'

  'We need to clear the area and get a couple of teams in place, before it gets dark.'

  'I'll see to it,' he made his way outside, the wind had picked up, sending the black clouds scuttling across the sky.

  Five minutes later, the tape had been removed from the towpath and Lasser was looking for the best place for concealment, it was going to be a long night.

  They were crawling over the boat, invading his space, fucking with him; the copper with the dark hair had smashed his way onto the boat and then disappeared inside as if he had a right to be there, Cunt! He twisted in the seat, she was lying still, her back turned to him, the pale-yellow T-shirt had ridden up showing the curve of her hip, they were all cunts every last one of them. The filth in the yellow jackets were walking along the towpath one of them picked up the police sign as he passed, they were so obvious it was laughable. They would hide in the grass, skulk amongst the trees, waiting to ambush him, weaklings, ineffectual boys trying to do a man's job. Yes well, let them waste their time, while they were spending the night getting cold and wet, he would be busy elsewhere.

  Everything was in place, there were ten officers concealed at the bottom of the embankment, spread out over a distance of fifty yards, another fifteen hidden in the woods. Lasser had managed to salvage a waterproof jacket from the back of one of the vans before it had been driven away from the immediate area. The sky overhead was squally with rain clouds; he flicked up the collar and leaned against the trunk of a huge oak. Just one break, just one piece of good luck and they would have him, he heard a rustling sound to his left, Simms emerged out of the gloom, a tartan scarf had materialised around his neck, matching the flat cap.

  'James Wickham owns a house in Southport,' his voice sounded triumphant, his eyes suddenly sparking in the half-light.

  'So, what are we doing about it?'

  Simms checked his watch. 'Merseyside CID should just about be kicking his door in as we speak.'

  Bloody typical, you spend all this time busting a gut and some scouser comes along and steals your thunder. 'What else do we know about him?'

  'He's thirty-nine, spent his younger years in the army…'

  'That's why he keeps everything clean and tidy.'

  'Since l
eaving the forces he's moved around a lot, he settled in Southport seven months ago.'

  'Wife and kids?'

  'Apparently not.'

  'So, what do we do now?'

  Simms tucked the scarf into his jacket, adjusted his cap. 'Stay here until we hear from the Liverpool boys. In an ideal world they'll find him at home, and the girl will be alive.'

  Lasser fished out his cigarettes and then remembered who was standing a couple of feet away.

  Simms waved a hand. 'It's OK, have your cigarette, you've earned it.'

  Lasser didn't need telling twice. 'Do we know what he does for a living?'

  'His last job was a fitness instructor, he worked in the Lake District, you know the type of thing, bonding weekends for companies that have more money than sense.'

  It was no wonder he had proved so hard to track down, in places like this he would be in his element, sneaking around in the undergrowth pretending he was on manoeuvres, Hopkins hadn't stood a chance.

  Simms yawned and rubbed at his eyes. 'Right, I'm going to head over to Radfields, I've had portable incident room set up in the grounds, as soon as I find out how it's gone you'll be the first to know.'

  'Thanks.'

  As he walked past, he patted Lasser on the shoulder. 'Well done again, Lasser, good work.'

  With that, he wandered off between the trees, after a few seconds he was lost from sight.

  Lasser smoked the cigarette down to the stump before dragging his phone from his pocket, he scrolled through the menu until Fossey's number appeared in the window; his finger hovered over the call button. Sod it, he pressed the green phone sign and waited.

  93

  David stalked the room, occasionally he would cross to the window and look out as if he expected to see his daughter come strolling up the drive. Susan sat rooted to the sofa, her eyes fixed on the blackened grate of the fire. When Fossey's phone began to chime, she looked up confused, as if she had never heard the sound before.

  He checked the number and headed towards the front door; he didn't answer the call until he was striding away from the house. 'Any news?'