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Title: Vice and Virtue
Author: Azpou
Subject: CID/Boulton/Meadows
Summary: A serial killer who won't be caught until he
wants to be decides to target Sun Hill.
Spoilers: Maybe one or two. (Sorry! :-))
Disclaimer: "The Bill" doesn't belong to me (unfortunately [g])
and none of the characters belong to me
either. Those which don't feature in the show do. If
anybody ever wants to use any of them, tell me what
you plan to do with them, okay?
Note: Thank you Kel! You genius beta reader, you. [g] Also
to Brigitte, for her good sense and help. (She writes
Homicide: Life on the Streets fic - she's veeery good.
[g]) And Claire, for offering some extremely helpful
comments, pointing out plot holes, just generally
picking fault. I salute you.
Comments to: Azpou@aol.com
****************************WARNING**************************
This story deals with serial child murder and abuse. If
anyone thinks they will be disturbed by this, please, please,
please don't read it. I got disturbed writing it, and that
doesn't happen easily. If you think you will be disturbed,
and decide to read it anyway, well, tough luck if you have
nightmares. You brought it on yourself. Don't anybody say I
didn't warn you.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 1
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
2.35 am
"How long has your son been missing, Mrs Hayes?" Sam Harker
searched for a pen.
The woman standing at the other side of the desk was pale. In
her mid-thirties with light brown hair, she looked extremely
distressed.
"Over twenty four hours."
Harker looked up. "Have you checked to see if he's with
friends, relatives?"
"Yes, yes, hours ago." She looked briefly annoyed, then her
face fell. "You have to find him."
"We will, Mrs Hayes, we will," Harker said hurriedly. "How
old is Anthony?"
"Eleven." She brought her hands up to rest on the desk,
clenching and unclenching her fingers. She looked at Harker,
her eyes pleading with him. "He's just a boy."
"I know, Mrs Hayes. We'll find him, don't worry." He made a
note, then looked up again. "Mrs Hayes, I'm going to go and
speak to Sergeant Cryer. If you'd like to wait, I'm sure
he'll come and inform you of the procedure in these cases."
Mrs Hayes nodded, her eyes wet. "Yes, thank you."
Harker smiled comfortingly.
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
CANLEY PARK
2.35 am
"What have we got here, Chris? It better be good, I'm
usually tucked up in bed at this time of night." DCI Jack
Meadows strode over to where Chris Deakin was questioning a
fireman.
"Depends on what you mean by "good", sir," Deakin said,
walking towards him.
"Oh yeah? What's that supposed to mean?"
Deakin hesitated. "Dead kid."
Jack groaned. "Do we know...?"
"Who it is? No, they've taken the body to the mortuary. Ron
said the autopsy'll have to wait until tomorrow. He's around
here somewhere if you want to speak to him."
"Thanks. Who found the body?"
"John Boulton."
"Eh?" Meadows started. "How?"
Deakin shrugged. "I don't know, I haven't seen him yet."
"Well why the hell not? Where is he?"
"Probably throwing up somewhere if what Ron said is anything
to go by."
Meadows looked at him sombrely. "Bad, is it?"
"Apparently. I was advised not to look."
Meadows nodded, looking around. Moonlight flickered through
the branches of the trees, almost as luminous as the street
lights, lending an almost funereal calm to the scene. The
branches were just beginning to bud. Meadows found it
obscurely comforting. A life had been lost, but still more
life was gained.
The desolation of the park was only emphasised by the
frantic activity going on around him. The flashing lights of
panda cars, ambulances and, rather bizarrely Meadows thought,
a fire engine. Police officers were sealing off the scene
with yellow plastic ribbon, while paramedics sat or stood
aimlessly among the confusion wondering exactly what it was
they were supposed to be doing. His eyes swung round to the
local residents standing at the edge of the scene. He turned
back to Deakin.
"Witnesses?"
Deakin shook his head. "It's doubtful. Most of these people
have turned up since they saw the lights. Still, I've got
uniform canvassing. They might get something."
"Good. We'll have to keep a lid on this one, Chris, I don't
want the press getting hold of something we don't want them
to."
"Sir."
They moved over to a tree where forensics experts were
perched, taking samples from its branches. Feeling ill,
Meadows asked, "The body was up there?"
Deakin nodded. "Parts."
Meadows shuddered. "I was wondering what the fire brigade
were doing here." He looked around again. "Right, I want this
place sealed off completely for forensics to go over again in
the morning. I don't want any of that lot --" he gestured
vaguely at the gathering public and press "-- getting
anywhere near this lot, understand?"
"Right. I'll get them to rig some sort of canopy over all
this. Looks like it might rain."
"Good idea. I'm going to phone Derek and get him to call Mr
Brownlow, and then I'm going to find John Boulton."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
2.45 am
"Sarge!" Sam called out, running to catch up with Cryer.
Cryer turned around, looking harassed.
"What is it, Sam?"
"There's a Mrs Hayes sitting at the front desk. Her son's
gone missing."
"Sam, lots of kids go missing, what's so special about
this?"
"It's been over twenty-four hours since anyone's seen him."
Cryer stopped. "Twenty-four hours? Been a while then." He
considered. "Why'd it take her so long to report it?"
"I don't know, Sarge, I didn't ask. She's in a bit of a
state." He looked around, noticing the relative peace and
quiet of the station. "Where is everyone?"
Cryer looked at him for a second. "Oh yeah, you've been
stuck in the wilderness all night, haven't you? You won't
have heard."
Harker looked at him, a slight smile on his face. "Heard
what?"
"They found a body out the back of Canley Park. Young boy."
Sam's breath caught. "Christ."
Cryer looked at him warningly. "Yeah, exactly, so don't you
go mentioning that to Mrs Hayes until they've got a positive
ID."
"They don't know who it is?"
"From what I've heard, I don't think there was much left to
identify."
Sam swallowed, and repeated, "Christ." They regarded each
other quietly for a moment.
"Come on, then," said Cryer, rousing himself. "Let's talk to
Mrs Hayes."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
CANLEY PARK
3.10 am
Meadows was rapidly descending into a bad mood. A body,
rain, poor light, a migraine and an AWOL officer had done
little to sweeten his temper. He stalked over to Deakin, who
was supervising the uniform officers.
"Any luck finding Boulton?"
"I still haven't seen him, Guv, sorry." Seeing the scowl
etch itself further onto Jack's face, he added quickly, "Why
don't you phone him?"
Meadows shot him a dirty look, then pulled out his mobile
and dialled the number.
"Yeah?" The voice that answered was cautious.
"John?"
"Guv." His voice was relieved.
"Where are you?"
"With Ron, next to the fire engine."
"Stay there." He snapped off the phone and walked the twenty
yards or so over to the fire engine, where he saw Boulton and
Dr Ron Mitford, Sun Hill's well respected, ageing
pathologist. Boulton was leaning against a car and looked
decidedly fragile.
"Don't wander off again," said Meadows by way of greeting,
only slightly mollified by the sight of his officer.
"Sorry, guv," said Boulton, looking anything but. His eyes
drifted to the tree where the body had been. Meadows frowned,
feeling concerned.
"You all right?"
Boulton wrenched his eyes back. "Oh, excellent thanks," he
muttered, voice laden with sarcasm.
"Bit of a shock, I'd imagine."
Boulton glared at him. "You could say that, yeah." Meadows
watched his eyes focus on the tree. "I never want to have to
look at anything like that ever again." His voice was low. He
rubbed the back of his head with a shaking hand, then visibly
pulled himself together. "Sorry, guv."
Meadows smiled, understanding. He looked at Ron. "What can
you tell us, Ron?"
Ron shifted as he became the focus of attention. "Well, this
wasn't where the murder took place. The body was dismembered.
The limbs were all placed in the tree, along with the head.
There'd be a lot more blood on the ground if this was the
murder scene, and your guy, well. He'd be covered in the
stuff."
"So you think he killed the boy somewhere else and then
brought the body here?"
"Absolutely. A murder like this... it was planned, Jack,
right down to the last detail. The murderer was extremely
precise. The marks on the body are clean, almost surgical.
He's not stupid enough to kill a boy like this and get caught
running away covered in blood." He shrugged. "Of course, I'm
not an authority on mental issues, but I think it's fair to
say you're going to have a job to catch this guy. He's
smart."
Meadows nodded. "What about the state of the body when it
was found?"
Ron glanced sideways at Boulton before responding. "Well,
like I told Chris, the limbs were separated from the torso
and placed in the branches. The torso itself was left at the
foot of the tree."
"I tripped over it," murmured Boulton, eyes fixed on the
ground. Ron patted him on the arm comfortingly in a fatherly
manner. Boulton stared at his arm, looking a little puzzled.
Ron continued.
"The eyes have also been gouged out of the sockets. And,
from what I could see in this light - " he glanced upwards at
the sky, "the entire body was covered in Christian symbols of
some sort. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, or later
today, before I can be sure about that."
"Sexual assault?"
"Probably. But I'm afraid it's hard to tell for definite,
there's so little left. And as I said before, this light
doesn't help much either."
"I know it sounds stupid," said Meadows, "but what was the
cause of death?"
"Not stupid at all." Ron looked at Meadows. "All but one of
the limbs were removed after death. I can't give you an exact
cause yet, but I suspect he either bled to death or went into
severe shock and just... never came out of it."
"What about the time?"
"The body was still fairly warm - not more than three hours
before I arrived."
"When will you be able to identify him?"
Ron considered carefully. "It could take until tomorrow
night. We'll have to use dental records. The finger tips have
been removed."
Meadows grimaced in distaste. "Okay, thanks, Ron."
Ron looked at his watch and made a face. "If that's it, I
think I'll get off home now. I'll be doing the autopsy at
8.00 am if either of you want to attend."
Meadows nodded. "Thanks again, Ron. See you later."
"No offence, Jack, but I hope I don't have to see you like
this any time soon." He shook Meadows's hand. "Night, Jack,
John."
"See you, Ron." Boulton accepted the handshake offered to
him. Ron climbed into the car and drove off.
Meadows was silent for a moment, then turned and fixed
Boulton with a piercing stare. "Well?"
Boulton sighed and started making his way back to his car.
Meadows fell in step beside him. "I was in the office when I
got a call saying there'd been some sort of assault out the
back of Canley Park. I found old Lenny Briggs staggering
around with a broken nose and a couple of smashed ribs."
"Lenny Briggs? This isn't one of his regular haunts. What
was he doing here?"
Boulton nodded. "Said he got lost." Seeing Meadows' doubtful
look, he went on.
"Yeah, I know, that's what I thought. I was gonna ask him
what he'd been up to when I got another call." He turned as
they were joined by Deakin. "The guy said there was something
I should see around the corner, and that he hoped I hadn't
eaten for a while."
"Those were his exact words?" Deakin looked at him
carefully. Boulton nodded.
"That's all he said. He had an accent, but it was hard to
tell what it was." He frowned, trying to remember. "He
sounded as if he was from the north-east, but not quite, you
know? Like he was putting it on."
"What do you mean?"
"He had a twinge of something else... Scouse, maybe."
"You're sure?" asked Meadows, frowning.
"Yeah, but it wasn't strong. I reckon he's lived in London
for a bit, like me."
"Okay. Then you came round here?"
"Yes. I couldn't see very much, but... I had this feeling.
Then I got closer to this tree and... well. You can smell it
can't you?"
The three exchanged a glance full of knowing experience.
None of them required an answer.
"Where exactly was the body?" Meadows kept his voice quiet
and calm. Boulton paled.
"The torso was on the ground. I tripped over it, fell flat
on my face. When I got up, I happened to look in the
branches, and I saw --" he broke off, his Adam's apple
bobbing as he swallowed hard. He looked at the ground, and
continued, his voice low.
" I saw the... head, with the... well... you know."
"Yeah." Meadows gave him a minute, before asking, "Did you
see anyone else about?"
"No, just Lenny."
"Lenny Briggs?" asked Deakin.
"Mm."
Deakin looked at Meadows. "What was he doing around here?"
Meadows rubbed his forehead. "I think that's something we
have to find out." He sighed. "How many people know your
number, John?"
Boulton shrugged. "Quite a few. Most people back at the
nick, my family, friends, some of my informants."
"Which informants?"
"You don't think one of them might have done this?"
"Do you?"
"I... No. No I don't. One or two of my snouts have been
violent in the past, but neither of them are into this sort
of thing." Meadows watched Boulton taking in the scene.
Various details jumped out. Matt Boyden answering a radio
call. Dave Quinnan and Polly Page questioning a man and a
woman. Tony Stamp forcing back the press. A member of the
forensics team losing his balance and falling to the ground
from the tree. Right next to the small but highly noticeable
blood stains at the base of the trunk. Boulton suppressed a
shudder. "This isn't crime, it's evil. My snouts aren't
capable of anything like this."
"It's a possibility we have to check, though."
"I suppose. But I don't think we'll get anything from it."
"Maybe." Meadows thrust his hands into his pockets. "Okay,
this phone call. There are two possibilities as to who could
have made it. One, one of your informants found the body and
called you --"
"Not likely." Boulton shook his head. "The guy said 'just
around the corner'. He knew where I was. If it was one of my
informants, why not just come and get me?"
"If they were up to something dodgy they might not have
wanted to," Deakin pointed out, thinking. "Lenny Briggs. He
was doing something he shouldn't."
"We need to find Lenny then," said Meadows. "The other
possibility is that the caller was the killer."
"Not comforting. That means the killer knew where I was."
"It also makes it probable that the killer is someone you
know."
"Someone I know?" Boulton looked blank.
Deakin paused before speaking. "Not necessarily." He
scratched his forehead.
Meadows and Boulton looked at him curiously. Deakin exhaled
slowly. "I've heard a whisper on the streets... someone's
started dealing in coppers personal numbers."
There was silence while they digested this information.
"That's very bad," said Boulton. "If you know how, you can
find out anything you want with a phone number."
"When were you planning on sharing this bit of information?"
Meadows asked icily.
Deakin spread his hands.
"I hadn't seen or heard anything to back it up, and I'm not
in the habit of coming to you with unreliable rumours."
Meadows held up a hand. "Yeah, all right." He stifled a
yawn. "Look, John, I think you should go home and get a
couple of hours sleep. It's 4.00 -- I want you back at work
by 7.30."
Boulton looked doubtful. "Sleep?" Meadows rounded on him.
"Yes, sleep, especially you. You're not going to be any use
if you're dead on your feet. You've been working the night
shift, and you found the body. In fact, I don't want to see
you in before 9.00."
"Guv," Boulton replied reluctantly. He looked round as Matt
Boyden came up behind him. "All right, Matt?"
"As good as can be, under the circumstances. You?" Matt
looked vaguely concerned.
Boulton looked away.
"Fine. What's up?"
"Bob Cryer just radioed in with a message." He turned to
Meadows. "A woman's just reported her son missing. Anthony
Hayes, eleven years old. Could be him." He nodded towards the
tree.
"Eleven years old," murmured Deakin. There was a pause.
"Sweet dreams," said Boulton bitterly.
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
9.01 am
Boulton parked his car in his usual spot and sat for a
moment. He felt awful, still slightly in shock at the earlier
events. He'd slept only fitfully, haunted by the images of a
face forever twisted in pain; pale, bloodstained arms,
pathetically frail, the fingers softly curling. He'd woken at
7.00 for the fourth time to find his skin crawling, and had
stood in the shower for almost an hour. Now he sat and tried
to compose himself. He knew he looked in control,
immaculately dressed in white shirt, plain tie and navy suit.
Taking a breath and prising his fingers away from the
steering wheel, he got out of the car.
He met Brownlow and Meadows going in, looking tired. He
shook his head disapprovingly.
"Heavy night, guv?"
Meadows grunted at him as they walked through the corridor.
"You're feeling better, then?"
"A lot better, thanks."
Brownlow fixed him with a stare. "I understand you found the
body."
Boulton met his eyes steadily. "Yes, sir."
"And how are you coping?"
"Sir?"
"Well, it can't have been a very pleasant experience."
Boulton paused. "No sir. No, it wasn't."
Brownlow coughed tactfully before saying, "Counselling is
available if you feel you're having difficulties, John. Not
just now, but throughout this investigation."
Seeing that Boulton was about to protest, he added, "It won't
affect your position at any time."
Boulton restrained himself from refusing point blank,
feeling suddenly too tired to create a scene. "Thank you,
sir. I'll keep it in mind. If you'll excuse me."
Meadows watched him go, frowning. "That's not like him. It
must have affected him more than he's letting on."
Brownlow held the door to his office open and waved Meadows
inside. "I wouldn't worry too much, Jack. I have a strong
suspicion he was trying to avoid more questions."
"Huh. It worked."
Brownlow sat at his desk and offered Meadows a seat. He
began sorting through the papers on his desk. "I know he
seems all right at the moment, but do you think his...
discovery will affect his ability to work on this
investigation?"
Meadows shrugged. "I don't think so. I know he has a
tendency to get carried away sometimes, but I've never known
him to endanger an investigation as serious as this."
"You're sure of that?"
"As sure as anyone can be with Boulton."
"All the same, Jack, I'd like you to keep an eye on him. Let
me know if he seems to be having problems. We can't afford to
have John Boulton on the rampage in this investigation. If we
put one foot wrong, the press'll have us for breakfast."
"I'll do that sir, but I don't think he'll give us any
problems."
"Good. How are things coming?"
"We're pursuing a number of leads at the moment. I've got an
APB out on Lenny Briggs but we haven't heard anything yet."
"What about identification of the body?"
"Uniform had a report of a missing boy last night, Anthony
Hayes. Ron said that he'd follow that up. I'd have to say it
looks probable."
Brownlow stopped what he was doing. "I want this one wrapped
up quickly, Jack. I've already fielded questions from the
press about this murder - people will panic if he's not
caught."
Meadows stood. "We'll get the bastard."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He sat, calmly eating an apple and reading a newspaper. His
eyes flicked occasionally over his captive. The boy hung
naked on a wooden cross, blindfolded, his body battered and
bruised. His back had been beaten to a bloody pulp some hours
ago, and pus now seeped from the wounds.
The man looked up from the paper when he heard a soft
whimper.
"What am I going to do with you, pretty one?" He got up and
walked over to the boy. He stood and contemplated the
trembling body for a moment, then asked, "Are you hungry,
boy?"
The boy nodded, his body trembling. The man's lips curved
upwards in a smile. He went over to the table where he had
placed a fruit bowl. He paused before selecting a banana,
grinning cruelly. He walked back over to the boy and pushed
it into his mouth.
"Have a banana," he said cheerfully. The boy gagged. The man
looked distressed.
"Oh, no, no, no. No, don't do that. Don't cry. It's all going
to be over soon, there's no need to cry." He turned around
and gestured towards the map he'd hung on the wall.
"Look, see, I'm picking a spot. You're going home soon." He
examined the map more closely. A pin was used to mark Canley
Park. Holding a ruler horizontally across the map in line
with the Park, a street name jumped out at him. He pulled a
sheet of paper out of his pocket and checked something.
"Well, well, well, well. How about that." He laughed,
extremely pleased. He turned back to the boy. "I've chosen a
spot for you now. You're going home in a couple of hours." He
picked up a knife from the floor and flicked it over the
boy's body. He laughed again, his breath quickening at the
sight of blood flowing over pale skin. "But first --" his
pupils dilated as yet more blood streamed, "-- first, we're
going to... play." He took the banana from the boy's mouth
and coated it with blood before moving it around and down the
cleft of the boy's buttocks. "Oh yes," he purred.
"We're going to have a lot more fun."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 2
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
10.07 am
Meadows walked grimly into the CID office, a file in his
hands. He stood in the midst of the CID staff.
"All right, can I have your attention everyone?" He raised
his voice, opening the file and handing around photographs of
the crime scene. A horrified silence fell abruptly over the
room.
Meadows surveyed the faces of the detectives, mentally
assessing which of them looked likely to have problems.
Deakin, Beech and Daly looked slightly ill, but he knew he
could rely on them. His eyes rested on Boulton for a moment,
whose face and body language screamed out that he was in
control. He resolved to follow Brownlow's suggestion and keep
an eye on him.
Meadows let his gaze travel to Liz Rawton, who was standing
next to Kerry Holmes.
Those two would be fine, probably more so than some of the
others. If they did have a problem, they'd keep it to
themselves. Lastly he watched Skase and Proctor. He saw
nothing but determination to catch the person who had
slaughtered a child. He nodded almost imperceptibly in
satisfaction, and with a touch of pride. His team were
consummate professionals, every one of them. This case would
be wrapped up swiftly.
"Right, you all know that earlier this morning a body was
found at the back of Canley Park. You also know that the body
was found by Sergeant Boulton." Their eyes focused on
Boulton, who glanced up from the photograph he was studying
intently. His face gave no hint of his emotions. Meadows
continued. "Now, we've got a number of leads that we can
check -- "
"Do we know who the victim is yet?" Skase interrupted.
"No, not yet." Meadows looked around before continuing.
"I've just been on the phone to Ron. He checked the dental
records of Anthony Hayes, the boy who was reported missing
this morning. They don't match the victim. This boy --" he
turned and pinned a picture of the head to the board " -- is
not Anthony Hayes. Which means that Anthony Hayes is still
missing, hopefully for a reason completely unconnected with
this boy."
There was a thoughtful silence, before Daly spoke.
"I think we should be ready to find another body sometime
soon."
"It won't come to that," said Meadows firmly, hoping against
hope that he was right.
"John, have you had any luck tracing the number of the man
who called you?"
Boulton nodded an affirmative. "Yeah, it's from a mobile
owned by a Mr Marc
Bolan -
"Marc Bolan?" Beech asked, grinning.
Boulton nodded again, smiling slightly. "Marc Bolan, lives
at 24 Westland Terrace, Sun Hill. No record."
"Right, you and Rod can go over there and check it out.
Anyone had any luck tracking down Lenny Briggs?" He gritted
his teeth in frustration at the collective shaking of heads.
"I want him found. He's a drunken old man, he can't have gone
far. Chris, what about this snout of yours dealing in phone
numbers?"
"It's not my snout who's dealing in them, it's just something
he heard. I haven't been able to get hold of him yet."
"All right, you and Liz get out there and find him. The rest
of you, dig out every snout you can. I want Lenny Briggs
found." He paused. "I don't think I need to tell you that Mr
Brownlow wants this case closed quickly. *I* want this case
closed quickly, before another kid ends up dead. All right?
Good, now get out of here."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
CHINA GARDENS CHINESE TAKEAWAY, SUN HILL
10.45 am
Daly and Holmes stood in the doorway leading into the
kitchen around the back, scanning the assembled workers. Daly
caught sight of a shock of thick platinum blond hair and
called out. "Ryan!"
The blond-haired man glanced around. "Mr Daly. What do you
want?"
Daly grinned at him. "Can we have a word?"
"Sure." He stopped what he was doing and faced them.
"Outside," Daly said, holding the door open for him. Ryan
hesitated, then nodded.
They stepped out into burgeoning sunlight.
"Who's this?" he asked, glancing at Kerry.
"This is DC Holmes. DC Holmes, this is Ryan Sparks."
"DC Holmes, yeah? I've never seen you before, love." He
flashed a leering grin at her.
"I've never seen you before either." She stared at him with
dislike. Daly broke in.
"We need to ask you a few questions, Ryan."
"I haven't done anything."
"Yeah, we know that. We wanted to ask you about Lenny
Briggs."
There was a pause. "Who?"
Daly sighed and pulled out a five pound note. Ryan's eyes
lit up.
"Is he the old drunk who hangs around next to the canal?"
Daly's eyes widened. He pulled out another fiver. Ryan
nodded sagely.
"Oh, yeah, Lenny. What do you want to know?"
Daly exchanged a glance with Holmes. "We were wondering if
you could tell us where he is."
"Oh, I haven't seen him for a while. Couple of weeks ago,
actually."
"Come on, Ryan. Lenny Briggs was seen in Canley Park last
night. What was he doing there?"
"How should I know?"
"I know you know, Ryan. A little bird was telling me only
yesterday that you and him are big mates."
"Not his keeper, though, am I?" Ryan said reproachfully.
"Don't play games with us, Ryan." Kerry's voice was cold.
Ryan looked at her.
"What's it worth?"
"More money, Ryan?" asked Daly dryly. He looked pointedly at
Holmes. She stared at him.
"What?"
"Well, I haven't got any more. Cleaned me out, he has."
Holmes raised her eyebrows, unconvinced, but rummaged around
in her pockets. She handed Ryan a note.
"A twenty, eh? You're not such a tight arse as him, then."
"Just tell us about Lenny, Ryan," Daly said.
Ryan nodded. "Lenny's been running drugs for Steve Marshall.
Not much, just a bit of grass for a few of Steve's friends."
"Lenny has? Why? I thought he was dead against drugs."
"Lenny owed Steve money, about fifteen pounds, I think."
"Lenny was playing drug courier for Steve Marshall because
he owed him *fifteen quid*?"
"It's a lot of money to Lenny, Mr Daly. Where's he gonna get
fifteen quid? It was the only way Lenny could get him off his
back. He never realised that Steve Marshall never lets anyone
off a debt, no matter how small." He laughed sourly. "You owe
him ten pence, he'll still hunt you down looking to collect
it."
"So where does Steve Marshall live?" Holmes asked.
"Canley Estate, right next to the park," Daly said grimly.
He glanced at Ryan. "Thanks."
"Oh hey, anytime. Always glad to help the Old Bill, I am."
"Course you are, Ryan," Holmes said sweetly as they walked
away. She looked across at Daly, who appeared to be thinking.
"What is it, Sarge?"
"I was just wondering if we'll be able to claim expenses."
Kerry paused and stared at him incredulously. Daly laughed
and made his way back to the car.
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
24 WESTLAND TERRACE, SUN HILL
10.57 am
Rod Skase glanced across at Boulton, watching him closely.
The man is made of ice, he found himself marvelling.
//Anybody else would’ve taken the day off.// He caught sight
of a row of terraced houses as they turned into a deserted
road. "'Ere, these houses are derelict."
Boulton stopped the car. "Clever, Rod." His voice dripped
sarcasm. "You'll be up for promotion soon with observation
skills like that."
Skase grunted, annoyed. He got out of the car abruptly and
stood staring at number 24. Peeling paintwork, boarded up
windows and a general air of abandonment combined with the
clouds overhead to make Rod feel uneasy. He moved over to
where Boulton stood, half-looking for reassurance and
berating himself for expecting to find it. He succumbed to
his need to break the silence.
"Bit creepy this, isn't it, Sarge? I wonder where everyone
is."
"Don't you know, Rod? The people who live on Westland
Terrace only come out at night."
"Eh?"
"Oh, yeah. They melt in daylight. It's not very nice."
"Oh, ha ha. Very funny." Skase again considered number 24.
He pushed open the gate and gestured for Boulton to go
through. "After you, Sarge."
Boulton nodded in exaggerated courtesy. "Thank you,
constable." He made his way up the path, then paused. "Can
you smell that?"
"Yeah." Rod sniffed. "Smells like fish."
"Rotten fish," Boulton agreed. He screwed up his face in
disgust. "It gets worse closer to the house."
"You reckon it's coming from inside?"
"Be just my luck, wouldn't it?" Boulton muttered. He banged
on the door, then gave up. "Don't know why I'm bothering, no
one's going to live with that stink." He tried the handle,
and stepped back as the door swung open. "Yep. The fish is
*definitely* inside." Covering his nose and mouth with his
hand, he made to go in. Rod grabbed his arm quickly.
"You're not going in, are you?"
Boulton nodded, moving his hand away from his mouth
slightly. "I want to know what's inside." He shook off Rod's
hand and walked in. Skase groaned and glanced skywards in
frustration, then followed.
The hallway was a mass of cobwebs and dust. Rod coughed as
he pushed his way through. "I don't think Mr Bolan's lived
here for a while."
"Who says there is a Mr Bolan?" Boulton replied cryptically.
He wandered through to the front room and looked around.
"Nothing in here."
"You keep food in the kitchen, don't you?"
"Rod, I'm impressed. Your mental power is astounding."
Rod snorted. "Let's find it, shall we?"
Boulton pushed past him back into the hallway. "Kitchen's
usually out the back in these houses, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Skase followed Boulton down the passage. His eyes
widened as Boulton pushed open the door. "What the.... ?"
Boulton stood for a moment, his eyes widening. The kitchen
floor had been cleared of furniture to make way for a circle
of fish carcasses. There were bags of fish in each corner of
the room. The stench was incredible.
"What kind of nutter fills a kitchen with fish?" Skase
asked, bewildered.
Boulton shrugged. "What's that?" He stepped carefully into
the circle and crouched down, his eyes fixed on something.
"You got an evidence bag on you?"
"No, but -- " he fished around in his pockets and pulled out
an old McDonalds serviette. He handed it to Boulton, who took
it wordlessly.
Boulton unfolded the flimsy paper slowly, then reached down
and used it to pick up the object, making sure not to get his
fingerprints on it.
"What is it?" Skase asked.
Boulton turned the phone over thoughtfully. He saw a small
red fish painted on the back. "This," he said, standing up
and proffering the mobile for Rod's perusal, "is a red-
herring. This guy's playing with us." Pocketing the mobile,
he said, "I think we can rule out my informants now."
"How'd you figure that?"
"None of them have the brains to set something like this
up."
Rod looked around and suppressed a shiver. "You think the
killer did this?"
"Absolutely." He took out his own mobile and dialled
Meadows' number. "We'll need to get forensics down here."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
MOORCROFT ESTATE, SUN HILL
11.27 am
Deakin banged on the flimsy wooden door of Flat 17. There
was no answer. He exchanged glances with Rawton, then tried
again.
"Come on, police! Open up!"
"I don’t think there’s anyone in, Guv," Rawton said.
"Oh, there’s someone in, all right," Deakin answered,
sounding annoyed. He peered in through the small glass pane,
cupping his hands around his eyes.
"Can you see anything?"
"Yeah." He squinted, then pounded the door with his fists.
"Mrs Cooper, it’s DI Deakin. Open the door."
After a short silence, they heard the sound of a bolt being
drawn back. A small woman clutching a baby stood in the
doorway. Deakin stared at her cut lip and the purple bruise
that covered half of her face.
"Sandra? What happened?" He gently grasped her arm and led
her through to the tiny kitchen at the back of the flat. Liz
took the baby from her and she slumped gratefully into a
chair, resting her head on her hand.
"Sandra?" Deakin touched her soothingly on the arm. She
flinched slightly.
"I’m sorry." She looked at him appealingly. "I would’ve
answered the door sooner, but I thought he might’ve come
back."
"Who?" Deakin paused, then frowned. "Sandra, did Gary do
this?"
"Gary?" She laughed slightly. "No, Gary didn’t do this. It
was some other bastard. He was around here earlier looking
for Gary."
"And he’s the one who hit you?"
"Yeah." She sniffed. "I haven’t seen Gary for two days, Mr
Deakin. I told him, but he didn’t believe me. I told him, and
I told him, and I told him, but he just wouldn’t listen."
Sandra looked at Deakin hopefully. "You haven’t seen Gary,
have you?"
"No, I’m afraid not. We were hoping he’d be here."
"Fat chance. What’s he done?"
"Nothing," Deakin assured her. "We just wanted to talk to
him."
"Mr Deakin, you never ‘just’ want to talk to anybody." She
looked up angrily. "I’ll kill him if he’s done something
wrong. I couldn’t cope on my own if he went inside again -- "
She broke off and looked away.
"It’s all right, Sandra."
"No, Mr Deakin, it’s not all right. My husband is missing,
I’ve been beaten up by a maniac who trashed the flat as well,
and my two little boys haven’t been here since last night.
Things are definitely not all right."
Deakin gave her a moment to calm down. "Could you give us a
description of this man?"
"Yeah, I think so. I don’t know how much use it’ll be,
though. It all happened so fast."
"That’s okay, Sandra," said Rawton calmly. "Just tell us
what you can remember about him."
She nodded. "Okay. He was about six foot two, dark hair."
She paused. "He was white. Erm..." She looked helplessly at
Deakin. He smiled comfortingly.
"It’s okay, Sandra. What type of clothes was he wearing?"
"Blue jeans, and a black sweater. I’m pretty sure the jeans
were Levis."
"All right, what about distinguishing marks? Tattoos,
birthmarks...?"
"He had a tattoo on his left wrist, like the back of his
hand? It was a name, a woman’s name."
"What was it?"
"Charlotte, I think. Yeah, I’m sure of it. Charlotte."
Deakin grinned at her. "That’s really great, Sandra. I’m
sure we’ll find him. When did you last see your boys?"
She looked at him, worried. "Last night. You don’t think
anything’s happened to them, do you?"
He glanced at Rawton. "I don’t think that you should be
taking chances with their safety, especially after what
happened this morning."
Sandra nodded. "I heard about that boy. You anywhere close
to catching him what did it?"
"No." Deakin stood. "We’ll find Gary, Sandra, don’t worry
about him."
"I’m not." Seeing Rawton’s questioning look, she explained.
"He does this all the time. He goes out, gets so drunk he
forgets his own name and ends up sleeping it off on a park
bench somewhere."
Rawton smiled. "So that’s where we should be looking."
"Yeah, Or you could try David Fenwick’s place. He sometimes
goes there."
"Where’s that?" asked Rawton.
"He’s got a place near the canal, Prior Street, number 22.
Gary might be with him."
"Okay," Deakin said. "Thanks, Sandra. We’ll let you know
when he turns up. And keep an eye on your kids."
"I will. See you later, Mr Deakin."
"We’ll show ourselves out," said Liz, handing the baby
gently back to Sandra, who nodded thanks.
As soon as they were outside, Deakin turned to Rawton. "Call
Inspector Monroe. Tell him that I want Uniform to keep a
lookout for Matthew and Carl Cooper. They’re about four foot
eleven, blond hair, brown eyes, slim build. They’re identical
twins, and they’re usually together."
"Should I tell him to worry if one of them’s found without
the other?"
"*Yes*."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
CANLEY ESTATE, SUN HILL
11.40 am
Daly and Holmes paused outside the door of Steve Marshall’s
flat as they heard the noises coming from inside.
"Sounds like someone’s taking a beating," Holmes observed
with her eyebrows raised. They heard a crash. "Ouch."
Daly made a wry face. "Come on." Standing back, he raised
his foot and sent the door flying backwards on its hinges.
There was a brief silence, then they heard a groan followed
by the sound of someone climbing out of a window. Daly ran
through to the sitting room just in time to see a man wearing
a black jacket scramble out. He struggled through and set off
in pursuit. Holmes moved quickly over to the figure writhing
on the ground.
"Steve Marshall? Steve, can you hear me?"
"O’ course I can bloody well hear you, I’m not deaf!" He
struggled to a sitting position and glared at her. "Have you
caught him?"
"Who?"
"That bastard who gave me a kicking! Christ, my leg hurts."
He rubbed his shin and winced.
"I’ll phone an ambulance," Holmes said, straightening up.
"No!" Marshall protested viciously. "No, I’m all right."
"Are you sure?"
He nodded. "Yeah." He tipped his head to one side and
grimaced. "It’s not exactly the first time. I’ll live."
"This has happened before?" Holmes was startled. "Why didn’t
you report it?"
"No point, really, is there? I’m sure you have better things
to do with your time."
She smiled softly. "I don’t know about that, Mr Marshall."
"Well you should." He looked at her curiously. "Aren’t you
supposed to be investigating that murder?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Word gets around. Are you?"
Holmes considered carefully before answering. "Yes. That’s
what we came about, actually."
Marshall stilled, his fingers halting where they had been
rubbing his chin. "You think I had something to do with it?
That’s ridiculous! I wouldn’t do anything like that, I love
kids!"
"So does the killer, apparently."
He glared at her. "I don’t know anything."
"Sure?"
"Yes! Look, who are you anyway?"
She extended a hand and smiled at him brightly. "I’m DC
Holmes." Marshall looked at her for a moment then shook her
hand slowly.
"You know who I am."
"Yeah. Come on, up you get." She hauled him to his feet,
where he leaned heavily on the wall to stop himself swaying.
Kerry looped his arm over her shoulders and wrapped her arm
around his waist. "Let’s get you sat down."
Marshall grunted in reply, but he didn’t resist. He limped
slowly in the direction of the sitting room, grimacing as his
muscles spasmed. Kerry glanced across at him.
"Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?"
"Yeah." He eased down into a seat. He met her eyes and
smiled crookedly. "Thanks."
"It’s okay." She smiled back and looked around. "Place is a
bit smashed up."
Marshall shrugged noncommittally. Holmes frowned at him. "Who
was it, Steve? You know who it was, don’t you?"
Marshall hesitated. "I don’t know who it was, but I can
guess who sent him."
"Who?"
"Jimmy Smith."
"Jimmy Smith? What does he want to beat you up for?"
Marshall sighed impatiently. "He’s looking to expand, isn’t
he?" He leaned towards her and spoke, his voice low. "I run a
very small operation here on this estate. I only serve a
select number of... clients. Jimmy wants this place all to
himself, doesn’t want me undercutting his prices."
"He’s trying to scare you off?"
He leaned back into the faded brown armchair. "Exactly. He
tried to buy me off, wanted me to split my profits fifty-
fifty. Once he worked out that I don’t give my money away....
well. He started making threats."
Holmes nodded. "And now he’s following through."
"Making good on his promises." He cackled, seeming to
briefly find a dark humour in the situation before he became
serious and leaned towards her again. "This is the fourth
time he’s had a go at me, and by now he knows I’m not
shifting. I’m just worried about the safety of my clients."
Holmes laughed. "You mean you’re worried about their ability
to purchase your... merchandise."
He gave a small smile and shrugged good naturedly. "It’s the
same thing, isn’t it?"
She sighed. "Sometimes these days I think it’s the only
thing people are capable of. You think Jimmy’ll start going
after your ‘clients’? Force the market, so to speak."
"Yeah. And some of them have very fragile health. I think
they could easily be persuaded to try new products."
"What makes you so sure he won’t just eliminate the
competition?"
"Kill me?" Marshall snorted. "Nah. Everyone knows he’s
trying to muscle in here. If I vanish, it’ll be easy to point
the finger at him."
Holmes nodded, then looked up as Daly came through the door.
"Long time no see, Sarge. Did you get him?"
Daly shook his head. "No, I lost him. I called uniform,
they’ll keep a look out for people with his description,
but..."
"He’s long gone, eh?" Marshall smirked. "You wanna get
yourself to a gym, Mr Daly."
"Is that right?" Daly asked, rolling his eyes slightly.
Marshall laughed at him.
"Yeah. If you could run faster for longer you might catch
more people like me."
"Hey, how old do you think I am?" Daly grinned, but couldn’t
help the slightly defensive tone to his voice. Marshall
laughed again. Holmes suppressed a smile and turned back to
Steve.
"We heard you might know where we can find Lenny."
"Lenny Briggs?" His laughter subsided. "No, I haven’t got a
clue. He’s usually down by the canal, though isn’t he?"
Holmes glanced at Daly. "Yeah. Do you know what he was doing
here last night?"
"Ah." Marshall looked from one to the other and shifted
uncomfortably.
"Well?" Daly asked irately.
"Lenny was running some errands for me."
"Running ‘errands’? Christ, Steve, he’s over 70!"
"How the hell do you know? Half the time even he doesn’t
know, he’s too drunk. I wish he wasn’t, things would be a lot
easier if he was sober."
"Why’s that?"
"He’d be able to run more errands for me, wouldn’t he?"
Marshall spoke slowly as if Daly were a young child.
"If he was sober he probably wouldn’t be mixed up with the
likes of you lot," Daly retorted sharply.
"Ouch, Mr Daly. You’ve hurt me." Marshall smiled derisively.
Holmes broke in, seeing that Daly looked dangerous.
"So," she said, "you don’t want to make a complaint about
this, you saw Lenny last night and you don’t know where he is
now." She stood. "I think we’ll be on our way, then."
"Fine," Marshall said abruptly.
"You don’t want to make a complaint?" Daly asked,
disbelieving.
"No."
"So I ran all that way for nothing?"
"Looks that way," Marshall said indifferently. He started
back at Daly. "What?"
"I chased that guy for miles!"
"I think that’s an exaggeration, Sarge."
"Yeah, it probably only felt like miles." Marshall smirked.
Daly snarled, and Holmes shepherded him towards the door
quickly. "Come on. Thanks, Steve."
"Oh, anything for you, sweetheart." He flashed her a grin.
"Maybe I could help you again sometime, over dinner perhaps?"
Kerry laughed. "I don’t think so. See you around."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
12.30 pm
"I stink," muttered Skase darkly as he and Boulton walked
into the CID office.
"You want a coffee, Rod?" Boulton asked mildly as he hung up
his jacket.
"I reckon you owe me more than a coffee. Sarge."
"That’s a loaded sentence if ever I heard one." Boulton
grinned to himself as Skase looked at him irritably. "Oh, all
right, I’ll buy you a drink tonight after work."
"I’m not going out smelling like this." He picked at his
shirt sleeve. "You can buy me a drink tomorrow night."
Boulton grinned again. "I might’ve changed my mind by then,
you know."
"I’ll risk it."
"Well, if you’re sure. You want that coffee?"
"Mm." Skase sat down at his desk across from Tom Proctor,
who was buried nose deep in a file. He looked up in greeting.
"All right, Rod?"
"Fine."
Proctor raised his eyebrows, surprised at the shortness of
the answer. He went back to his work, then looked up again,
his face twisted. "What’s that smell?"
Boulton laughed as Rod stood up and walked out of the room.
He came over to Proctor and sat down, offering him Rod’s
coffee. Proctor took it with a smile.
"Seriously, what is that smell?"
"It’s us."
"Yeah?" Proctor sipped his coffee. "Where’ve you been? I
thought you were checking out that address."
"We did, and we found some... strange stuff in the kitchen."
"Yeah? What?"
"Fish."
"Fish?"
"Fish. Loads of it, in bags, lying on the floor, on the
table, the workbenches, in the cupboards, and some arranged
in a nice, pretty circle pattern."
"Our nutter did it then."
"That’s what I’m thinking. We’ve got forensics going over
the place, trying to identify all the different species." He
took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes, letting the
bitterness diffuse in his mouth. "We did find something else,
a mobile. I’ve sent it down to the lab, but I don’t think
there’ll be any prints on it."
Tom looked at him, and noticed his slightly deflated
demeanour. "Is it the phone he used to call you last night?"
"Probably, but I’ll have to check with the phone company.
"You want me to do it?"
Boulton opened his eyes and sat straighter. "No, it’s all
right, thanks. I’ll do it."
Proctor nodded and went back to his file. Boulton sat and
watched for a few moments before relaxing again and letting
his mind drift. He concentrated on the emptiness of the far
wall. He’d always thought it was funny that when you’re tired
you can just sit and stare at nothing in particular for hours
on end. A slight smile curved his lips involuntarily as he
thought about going home tonight. Sleep. That’s what he
needed.
He took another sip of coffee and nursed the mug, warming his
hands.
"Ha!" Proctor gave a triumphant cry as he set down his mug.
Boulton roused himself.
"What?"
"I knew I’d heard that name before."
"Erm.... T-Rex, perhaps?"
"No!" He looked put out for a moment, then explained. "Marc
Bolan. Polly Page arrested a guy a while back for attempted
abduction of a four year old girl. Our Mr Bolan was one of
the witnesses."
"Not the perpetrator?"
"No, but still..."
"You think it could be something? What’s the address given?"
Proctor skimmed the surface of the document. "Here it is. 24
Westland --"
"-- Westland Terrace, Sun Hill," Boulton finished, nodding.
"It could be the same guy."
"Could be?" Proctor sounded uncertain.
"I don’t think our killer is really called Marc Bolan."
"What makes you think that?"
Boulton shrugged. "I think it was too easy to find out. Did
you see that body this morning? He’s methodical, he’s not
going to let us find out his name so quickly."
"You think he’s got another boy?" Proctor voiced a fear.
Boulton paused, the sickness from earlier that morning
returning in force. Swallowing, he nodded.
"Anthony Hayes is still missing. He’s eleven years old. The
boy found this morning was about the same age. It’s too much
of a coincidence."
Proctor nodded silently, a worried expression on his face.
"What about Marc Bolan? If our guy isn’t him, he must be
somewhere. Maybe we should try and find him."
Boulton looked at him in agreement. "We could speak to some
of his relatives, find out where he is. When was that report
made?"
"Eight months ago, July."
Boulton grimaced. "God. He could have died since then." He
stilled, and Proctor met his eyes in shock.
"He killed him?"
Boulton shrugged again. "Might have. It’s something we should
check, anyway." He stood. "Check to see if anyone who might
fit was reported missing in the last eight months. I’ll check
the phone company, then we’ll go and ask around on Westland
Terrace, see if anyone knows anything."
"Right."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
22 PRIOR STREET, SUN HILL
12.30 pm
"De ja vu," murmured Deakin as he banged on the front door.
Rawton glanced at
him, smiling to herself with mild amusement.
"I don’t think there’s anyone in, Guv." She echoed herself
dryly. Deakin rolled his eyes.
"I’m not going through all this again." Standing back, he
raised his foot and kicked open the door.
Inside the house it was dark. The curtains were drawn, so no
light from outside was able to penetrate the gloom. Rawton
groped along the wall for the light switch.
Finding it, she flicked it on. Light flooded the hallway.
"David Fenwick?" she called out, moving through to the
sitting room.
"Check upstairs," Deakin said. Rawton nodded. Deakin moved
through to the kitchen, taking in the unwashed dishes with
distaste. Green mould was starting to form on a leftover
cheese sandwich. He opened the blind, and surveyed the room
in more detail. He noticed a dark stain on the wall. Moving
over to it, he saw a small hole. Plaster crumbled when he
touched it lightly. With a sinking stomach he sniffed the
stain. Blood.
"Guv!" Rawton shouted down from the top of the stairs
urgently. Deakin moved quickly up the stairs, where she
directed him through to the bedroom. He stopped short as he
caught sight of a body. It draped over the bottom left corner
of the bed, the forehead almost touching the floor. Congealed
blood and grey matter had hardened into a solid mass at the
foot of the bed, as a result of a wound to the back of the
skull.
The body itself was stiff, frozen rigid in the position it
had fallen. A sliver of blood had leaked from the thin lips,
now blue, and dried on the side of the chin.
The eyes were open and staring, fixed at a point on the
wall. A small spider crawled across the pupil of one swollen,
green, leaking eye.
Deakin shuddered and turned away. "Call the DCI."
*
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PART 3
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
25 WESTLAND TERRACE, SUN HILL
1.15 pm
"Sorry," said the woman, brushing bright red hair out of her eyes.
She abruptly made to shut the door. Gritting his teeth in
frustration, Proctor jammed his foot in the doorway before it
closed completely. "Please, Mrs...?" "*Ms* Maddocks," she
replied. Proctor nodded, holding up a hand. "Ms Maddocks, I just
need to ask you a few questions."
Her lip curled disdainfully. "Won’€™t do you any good, I have
hearing problems."
Proctor sighed. "What you mean is, you don’t hear very well when
it’s a copper asking the questions."
"You catch on quick," she observed. She paused, then nodded
viciously at Boulton, who was leaning on the car behind them.
"Anyway, it’s only certain coppers I have trouble hearing."
Proctor quickly smothered his grin. "Ah, you don’t get along with
DS Boulton, then?"
"Not since he sent down my brother for shoplifting."
"Shoplifting?"
"I know, it’s unbelievable, isn’t it?" She opened the door wider.
"Did you say they made him sergeant? God help us all."
Proctor glanced back, grinning widely as he saw Boulton roll his
eyes. He turned back to Ms Maddocks. "I was wondering if you’d
seen Mr Bolan from number 24 at all lately?"
Her eyes widened. "Who, Marc? Why, is he in trouble?"
Proctor shook his head. "No, we’re just a bit concerned about
him. Have you seen him?"
"No, not for about... two months, I think. The guy who’s been
house-sitting said he’d gone to India on a ‘quest for
enlightenment’."
Proctor raised his eyebrows. "House-sitter? What’s his name?"
She shook her head. "I don’t know, but I can tell you what he
looks like."
"Go on, then."
She frowned. "He’s about six foot, dark brown hair, pale skin.
Got blue eyes."
"Blue eyes?"
She smiled. "Yeah, bright blue eyes. Bit strange, now I come to
think about it. Sort of... staring."
Proctor looked up sharply. "When did you last see this man?"
She considered for a moment, then said, "It must have been
Monday, because that was the day --" She broke off, smiling self-
consciously. "Monday, it was definitely Monday."
"And he’s been living there since Mr Bolan left?"
She paused. "No, actually, only about a week. He said he’d had a
postcard from Marc when I asked what he was up to. That’s when he
told me Marc was in India."
Proctor wrote down the information. "I see. Do you know where we
can find him?"
"No, sorry, he never said." She stared past him at Boulton, who
was speaking on the phone. "Is that all?"
Proctor nodded. "Thank you, Ms Maddocks."
She shrugged. "*You* can call again. And you might save yourself
some trouble if you come without him next time."
Proctor laughed quickly. "How long did your brother get?"
"Five years."
He blinked. "For shoplifting?"
"Ask the Sergeant over there." She shut the door roughly.
Proctor grimaced and turned back to Boulton.
"Yeah... yes... What?" Boulton started. "Yeah... yes, yes, okay.
Thanks."
He turned off the phone and nodded at Proctor. "That was the phone
company. They confirmed that the call I received was definitely
from the mobile Rod and I found."
"The killer knows your number, then."
A shadow crossed Boulton’s face. "Don’t remind me." He glanced
down at his shoes. "They also said that the call I got at work
last night was from the same phone."
"The same... Hang on, that means --"
"It might have been the same person. Yeah, I know."
"It could’ve been stolen."
"Don’t complicate things."
"So, why didn’t you mention it was the same guy on the phone?"
Proctor asked,
annoyed.
Boulton stared stonily at him. "I didn’t realise."
Proctor sighed. "I suppose it was an easy detail to miss, Sarge."
Boulton smiled thinly. "Yeah, well, maybe." He looked across the
road at Number 24. "Come on, let’s go and see what’s going on."
As they crossed the road, Proctor asked, "Did brother Maddocks
really get five years for shoplifting?"
Boulton chuckled. "Glenn Maddocks was the leader of a gang that
kept knocking off the post office on the High Street." He pushed
open the gate. "You could call it shoplifting, if you define
shoplifting as threatening to shoot the assistant with a sawn-off
shotgun, smacking an old woman with it and stealing a couple of
hundred quid."
"Ah, so he got five years for armed robbery." Proctor smiled to
himself.
"And Ms Maddocks is just another relative deluding herself."
Boulton smirked. "Yeah. People can’t stand to think ill of their
own, can they?"
*
WEDNESDAY 31 AUGUST 1999
22 PRIOR STREET, SUN HILL
1.30 pm
"What happened to this one then, Ron?" Meadows stood looking over
the shoulder of the kneeling pathologist.
Ron stood up, carefully removing his gloves. "Killed by a gunshot
wound to the head. He’d been shot in the arm before that, though,
probably in the kitchen where Chris saw the blood."
"ID?"
"Looks like David Fenwick, Guv," Deakin said quickly. "He owned
the house."
"What were you doing here?"
Deakin sighed, frustrated. "Looking for my snout."
"Who is...?"
"Gary Cooper. He knew the person who was dealing in the phone
numbers." He glanced around. "I’d say it’s likely it’s David
Fenwick, wouldn’t you?"
Meadows smiled slightly. "I don’tlike to jump to conclusions, but
I’m inclined to agree. Someone buys a number and decides to
silence the witness."
"John’s number?" Ron sounded quizzical.
"Probably," Meadows answered. "The killer bought John’s number
from David Fenwick and shut him up, then somehow found out about
Gary, which is why Sandrahad a visit earlier."
Deakin nodded agreement. "The question is, *how* did he find out
about Gary?"
"I’d say there was a good chance he could have got that
information from the deceased." Ron gestured to the body. "From
the position the victim was found in, I’d say he was kneeling when
he was shot. From close range, by the way."
"David Fenwick begged for his life," Deakin said quietly.
"His killer didn’t even do him the courtesy of killing him face
to face," Ron answered.
"What was the time of death?"
"Between six and seven hours ago. If you want me to be even more
precise, I’d say 7.00am."
"So," said Meadows. "The killer dumped, or rather positioned the
boy’s body in the park, then came here and shot Mr Fenwick."
"That sounds a reasonable supposition to make," Ron said. "But
I’m afraid I have to cast *some* doubt on that." He looked at them
both. "Killers rarely change their methods. It’s unlikely in the
extreme that these two murders were committed by the same man. The
chances are very small."
"Maybe," said Meadows calmly. "But small chances are still
chances."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
24 WESTLAND TERRACE, SUN HILL
2.40 pm
Boulton squinted up at the face of the house, noticing the debris
blocking the gutter.
A bird chirped in the branches of a nearby tree. He turned as he
heard Proctor come up behind him.
"They’re almost done in there, Sarge."
Boulton rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Fantastic, Come
on."
"What are we doing?" Proctor asked, dutifully following the other
man inside and upstairs to the bedroom.
"We’re trying to find out if Marc Bolan really has gone to
India."
"Ah. Anything in particular I should be looking for?"
Boulton idly picked up a stack of letters from the chest of
drawers. "Travel brochures, leaflets. Stuff like that. I think
you’ll know it when you see it."
Proctor nodded, then frowned. "Are you all right?"
Boulton raised his eyebrows, surprised. "I’m fine. Why?"
Proctor shook his head. "You’re just... different, that’s all."
"What do you mean?" His eyes narrowed.
Proctor squirmed. "Well... this morning you... forget it. It’s
hard to explain." He threw his arms open, then dropped them back
to his sides. "You just seem more... I dunno. *Approachable*. The
others’ll never believe it."
Boulton grinned wryly. "Don’t tell them. I’ve got a reputation to
consider."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
SUN HILL STATION
2.50 pm
"Jack," Brownlow said warmly as Meadows knocked on his door. "How
are you getting on?"
Meadows grimaced. "We’ve got another body."
"Yes, I heard. Any leads, suspects?"
"No definite suspects as yet, sir. No suspects, in fact." He
shrugged. "We’ve got a number of inquiries going, so it’s all a
bit confused. What we really need to do is get everyone together
in the same place and compare notes. Hopefully we’ll find some
sort of common thread we can work on."
"Sounds like a good idea. Let me know when, I’d like to attend."
"Sir?"
Brownlow smiled sourly. "The Commissioner wants constant updates.
The case has captured the media’s imagination. I don’thave to tell
you that the Met doesn’t need any adverse publicity at this point
in time."
"We’re doing our best, sir." Meadows turned to leave.
"Oh, one other thing, Jack," Brownlow added. "I think perhaps
that you should conduct a formal interview with John Boulton. To
clarify certain points about the events of last night. I know you
probably know all the pertinent details, but just for the
record..."
"Of course, sir," Meadows said, his voice faintly annoyed. "I’ll
get it done this afternoon."
*
WEDNESDAY 31 MARCH 1999
24 WESTLAND TERRACE, SUN HILL
3.30 pm
Proctor stood staring around the room, unable to believe that
someone *chose* to sleep in it. It was almost a cupboard. A bed
took up a large amount of the floorspace, and an antique pine
wardrobe stood in the corner. Posters bearing Communist slogans
covered the walls, and most of the ceiling. The floor was littered
with pamphlets extolling the virtues of Marxist thought, and
suggesting that Communism *is* a practical, working alternative to
capitalism. A small glass ashtray filled to the brim with
ciagrette butts sat unobtrusively under the bed, surrounded by
empty beer cans. Next to it was a thick book with a picture of an
ancient Hindu temple and a ruined village on the front.
"Sarge," Proctor said, picking it up. "Look at this."
Boulton dumped the travel magazines on the bed and moved over to
Proctor. "What is it?"
"A book on the Indus Valley. It’s in India, Sarge."
"Pakistan." Boulton took it and opened it at the bookmark. He saw
a map with a large amount of text on the opposite page. "‘The
Indus Valley is commonly regarded as the birthplace of
civilisation in Southern Asia, and is thought to have been the
focal point of the early Hindu religion.’ "
Proctor peered over Boulton’s shoulder. "He’s circled this bit,
look."
Boulton nodded and read, "‘One of the most well known sites of
the Indus civilisation was... Mohenjo-daro? thought to be in the
vicinity of the modern town of Larkhana.’ "
Proctor shrugged. "Guess that’s where he’s gone then. Those
travel brochures were for India as well, weren’t they?"
"Yeah." Boulton studied the posters on the wall gloomily. He was
silent for a second, then said, "I dunno, Tom." He opened the
wardrobe doors and gestured. "Look at the clothes in here. The
guy over the road said that he’d never seen Bolan wearing anything
other than Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian t-shirts."
"So?" Proctor asked dryly. "He’s obviously gone to India, and
taken his clothes with him."
"So who do the brown cords belong to?"
"The house-sitter, perhaps?"
"Look around, Tom." Boulton gestured around the room. "Does this
look like the room of a guy organised enough to get himself a
house-sitter?"
"How do we know the house-sitter didn’t make this mess?"
"I think the inch-thick dust is a pretty good indication that
nobody’s touched this room for quite a while."
"Point." Proctor was silent for a moment, then said, "So, does
this mean that Bolan’s dead, and the killer’s been using this
place, or that he's in India, and his house-sitter’s been living
here?"
Boulton shrugged. "Can’t say for certain. I’m inclined to think
he’s dead, that our resident nutter’s been using this place as a
base to throw us off the scent."
"That could be paranoia talking."
Boulton glared at him, but let the comment slide. "Either way,
the DCI’s not going to go for it unless we have solid evidence."
Proctor considered. "We should contact Interpol. They might be
able to trace Bolan if he’s in India."
Boulton nodded agreement. "I want to search this place again,
make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed. There has to be something
else aside from dead fish lying about the place if the killer’s
been living here for a week."
"Sarge," Proctor groaned, annoyed.
"Shut it, Tom. I don’twant to hear it."
Proctor gritted his teeth as he watched Boulton go back
downstairs.
"Arrogant ginger shortarse," he muttered angrily before following.
He bumped into Ron in the hallway. "What’re you doing here?" he
snapped.
Ron stepped backwards and held his hands up. "Just having a look
round."
"Why?"
Ron tapped his nose, smiling. "You should know me by now, DC
Proctor. I’m a nosy old bugger."
Proctor ran a hand over his head. "Sorry, Ron."
"Nah, it’s okay. What about you? Why are you still here?"
Proctor jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.
"Boulton’s on a mission."
Ron grinned without much sympathy. "Another one? He dragging you
along for the ride?" He sniggered. "You don’thave to be
sympathetic." Proctor shoved his hands into his pockets. "I
suppose you can understand it, though." He leaned in close to make
sure Boulton couldn’t hear. "What happened this morning must have
shaken him more than he’s letting on."
Ron nodded agreement. "It did. I know if I were him I’d want this
murderer under lock and key as quickly as possible." He glanced at
the kitchen entrance. "Did you hear about the other body?"
*******************************************************************
He smiled as he adjusted the angle of a leg, then stood back to
admire his work. Said leg there, by the sink, the other crossed
over the arms by the toilet, and the intestines over the shower
rail. The effect was pleasing, but he knew something was still
missing. The room didn’t feel truly macabre.
He walked out into the kitchen and made himself a coffee. Maybe
looking at it again in a few minutes with a clear mind and a fresh
perspective would give him some clue as to what the problem was.
It came to him just as the kettle boiled. Going back into the
bathroom, he picked up the torso. A hot sweat broke out over his
forehead as he wrapped his arm around the neck. He braced
himself, drew in a deep breath, and pulled.
He stood gasping at the sound. Carelessly dropping the torso to
the ground, knowing subconsciously it would give the room a
delightfully random look, he delicately, almost reverently, held
the head in both hands. Balancing it precariously on the edge of
the sink, he opened its mouth, then lowered his trousers. He
grasped it by the temples as he eased himself in, staring into the
eyes as he did so.
"All mine," he murmured, and began to move.
***
To be continued in part 4...
Comments: Yes please! Azpou@aol.com
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