Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Are you sure there is no one in his circle who might be jealous of the doctor, bear a grudge and act on it?”

  “I can’t answer that. I’ve no idea what goes on in people’s heads. The people Doctor Ahmed met were mostly patients. They were very sick, Inspector. Even if they didn’t like him much, it’s unlikely they’d have the energy or the will to do much about it.”

  “Okay, then, clinical staff — can you arrange for us to talk to them?”

  “Certainly — you need Doctors Hurst and Hussain. Both are on the wards or in theatre at present. If you leave your card I’ll get them to come in and see you . . . In my opinion, Inspector, whoever did this will be someone nearer to home. I doubt it will turn out to have anything to do with this hospital.”

  * * *

  Albert North wasn’t very good on his feet these days. But the dog needed walking and that waster of a nephew of his hadn’t shown his face all day. It wasn’t late, just gone six and ordinarily he’d be making his way to the pub about now for a pint and a chinwag with his mates. Now he’d have to forgo that and take the damn dog out himself. He’d give Jayden a clip around the ear when he did eventually turn up. Inconsiderate little bastard.

  He grunted at the animal and reached up for its lead, taking it down from a coat hook. He’d walk him over the common and make it back before it got too dark. Not that Albert North was afraid of the dark — Albert North wasn’t afraid of anything. Time was when most of the folk living around here — on the Hobfield Estate — were afraid of him. He’d been the man — the man with drugs to sell, and the man you didn’t cross. He sighed wearily. That was a lifetime ago, and those passing years hadn’t gone easy on him.

  These days he was old and infirm. He’d had a stroke and it had left him unsteady. He didn’t like to stray too far from his flat — the pub, the post office and occasionally the doctors and that was about it. Rarely did he venture out to walk the dog — that was supposed to be Jayden’s job.

  He pulled his stocky frame into his coat and scarf and whistled for the mutt. The beast was old like him and wouldn’t give him any trouble. He took the lift down to the ground floor and left the block by the side door. There was nobody about, too bloody cold.

  It took him about ten minutes to shuffle his way onto the common. He’d keep to the perimeter, he didn’t want to stumble and do himself an injury. It was icy. He hated nights like this, cold and dark. He was shivering, the wind bit deep into his bones and his legs were stiff. Bloody Jayden making promises he couldn’t keep.

  He hadn’t been out long but he was already breathless and his knee hurt. He was down for a new one but he’d probably be dead before the NHS called him in. He lowered his heavy frame onto a bench by some trees and let the dog off his lead for a while. He leaned back and closed his eyes. God it was freezing — far too cold for him. He rubbed his gloved hands together and hunkered down into his coat. He’d give the dog five minutes or so and then it was back to his warm flat.

  “You’ve not seen a cat?” A female voice interrupted his thoughts. “This cat.”

  The woman shoved a piece of paper in front of his nose and waved it at him. “I’ve looked everywhere. The poor thing’s never done anything like this before. I’ve been searching for Mitzie all week but there’s no sign.”

  Who calls their cat ‘Mitzie’? Albert wondered. He didn’t even bother to look up at her but shuffled up so she could sit down.

  “Wrong glasses on,” was his excuse for not examining the piece of paper she was still wafting about. “Dog person myself, don’t like cats. Smelly things.” He was mumbling through the scarf wrapped around his face.

  “Not my Mitzie. She’s a beautiful cat, won prizes and everything,” she protested, flopping down beside him. “I’ve been out for ages, I’m beginning to think I’ll never find her,” she moaned.

  Albert grunted at this — he wasn’t impressed, cats were dreadful creatures. He inhaled the cold air. There was a smell, one he recognised — whiskey. The woman had pulled a flask from her bag and was pouring the hot alcohol into a beaker.

  * * *

  The cat talk was getting Harriet nowhere. Even after all this time, at the very least she’d expected him to recognise her voice. But it was obvious he had no idea who she was, and that was disappointing because she wanted him to know. She wanted him afraid, and to know why his life was going to end very soon — horrifically.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Harriet was angry again. These days she lost control easily. The rage seemed to boil permanently within her. It had the upper hand and it made her do things. But it also gave her an edge, the energy to see things through.

  His indifference made her want to strike him. She had hated this man for as long as she could remember so how could he not know her? She couldn’t do this anonymously; he had to understand, feel the fear. He must be made to remember what he’d done. Then he would die, and she’d be satisfied. This was too important for her to continue with the charade about the cat.

  She watched him shrug. He wasn’t interested. “If you knew who I was and what I was going to do, then you wouldn’t sit there so calmly.”

  But her words were going over his head — they obviously meant nothing to him. Harriet could see that in his eyes she was nothing but a batty old woman. Right now he was far more interested in keeping out the cold than listening to what she had to say.

  “We’ve met before, and I swore then that I’d get even. I’m surprised you’ve no memory of it. It was quite an occasion — the courtroom. Remember now?

  But Albert simply grunted. He wasn’t even listening.

  “I expended a lot of hate and venom that day.” She sniffed, and took a swig of whiskey. “You must remember that day in court when you were had up for killing my Jimmy.”

  At that Albert coughed and stamped his feet on the hard ground against the cold.

  Still nothing — not even a hint of remorse. The man deserved to die.

  “Hot toddy.” She surprised him by holding out the flask. “Very strong, just how I like it. When I’m out like this I need something to keep out the cold.”

  Now she had his attention. She couldn’t afford to bungle this and she wanted him distracted for the next bit.

  She handed him the beaker and watched Albert grasp it gratefully in his gloved hands and take a sip. He swallowed the remainder in one gulp — she had plenty left in that flask of hers.

  “He’d have been in his thirties now, my Jimmy,” she droned on. “You robbed me of that. You robbed me of him and of grandchildren too, probably. You sit there all quiet and easy, and I bet you’ve got family, haven’t you?”

  Albert nodded.

  Harriet guessed he’d be racking his brain, but was he any the wiser?

  “You alright, love?” he asked. “You’re not from that care home at the end of the road?”

  So he thought she was demented — she’d show him!

  “Jimmy Finch,” she said sharply. “You must recall him — dark haired, skinny lad. Ran drugs for you on the Hobfield for long enough.”

  As she spoke her son’s name she saw the first spark of recognition on Albert’s face. That name rang a bell. If there was any justice he should be feeling the first shivers of terror snake down his spine.

  “You had him done away with. You had him beaten to a pulp and dumped in the underpass by the dual carriageway. You and your thugs left him unconscious on a pile of rotting cardboard.”

  “Not me, love,” he lied, his voice a mere rasp. “No way. You can’t pin that on me.”

  “Oh, I know that — I tried back then and got nowhere. But it was you, Albert North. I know it was. You were the big man on the estate, the man who doled out the punishments. You beat him with a bat, the police said. Then you left him unconscious, bleeding heavily, and at the mercy of a pack of feral kids who set him alight.”

  “Not my fault, then. The kids did him, not me at all.”

  His head was bent — Harriet watched him inh
ale the steam that floated upwards from the beaker. He was using it to warm his face. She’d warm him alright! She fumbled in her bag again.

  She got up from the bench and moved behind him. He didn’t even turn to look at what she was up to — why should he? In his eyes she’d lost it. He saw her as a stupid old woman with a mad idea. out looking for her cat. How wrong he was.

  Harriet unscrewed the cap from the petrol can she’d brought with her. Albert sat there helpless, unsuspecting — just like her Jimmy had been. Her rage was back. North deserved everything that was coming to him. She shook the contents wildly over Albert’s head and then threw the can to the ground.

  He was old and Harriet knew he wouldn’t be quick enough to save himself. She saw the liquid run in rivulets down the side of his face and soak into his clothes. The strong vapours replaced the smell of whiskey in the air around them, making her feel sick. He swore. Harriet took a step back. His hands were clutching frantically at his petrol-sodden scarf. But it was too late.

  She was shrieking at him. He was shouting, begging — he’d do anything, promise anything to stop this. Then she saw the look of horror on his face. He’d heard the sound of the striking match.

  Harriet smiled. “That is for my Jimmy, you bastard!” Those were the last words Albert North ever heard.

  Harriet dropped the match onto his scarf. He was too slow to react. A heartbeat later he had become a blazing torch — a human beacon lighting up the dark night.

  Harriet stood well back and watched. She watched his skin shrivel and then appear to literally melt from his flesh. She waited until he ceased to scream, until he was unrecognisable — his head nothing but a blackened, charred mess. His lower body wasn’t too badly burned though, and no doubt the police would rifle through his clothing in an effort to find out who he was. With that thought in mind, she took a tarot card from her bag and placed it in his coat pocket.

  The Devil — perfect for a man like Albert North.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday

  Lydia was poking him in the ribs. “For heaven’s sake, Tom, your mobile’s been ringing on and off for the last ten minutes. Do something about it or it’s going through the window,” she hissed at him.

  He prised his eyes open. “What time is it?”

  “Some unearthly hour. If this is what it’s like when you’re working then you’ll have to sleep in the spare room.”

  “I thought this was my house,” he said, rubbing his stubbly face. “So shouldn’t that be you in the spare room?”

  “Come on, Detective, you don’t really mean that, do you?” She ran her hand provocatively over his naked chest down to his navel. “You’d be far too lonely,” she said, slapping his belly.

  Minx she might be, but she was right; he would be lonely without her and not just in bed either. Calladine picked up his mobile from the table — Ruth. What now? “We’ve got another one, sir,” she said at once. “It’s not good. Another feast of horror for the eyes and I’m not kidding you. I’m on the common, near the small copse of trees opposite the bus stop. You need to get down here fast. You need to see this because we need to get the body moved quickly.”

  “Another one?” His brain wasn’t functioning on all cylinders yet.

  “Another tarot card murder.”

  “So that’s what we’re calling them now?”

  “It’s what the press will call it if we don’t get our act together.” The phone went dead.

  “Got to go,” he told Lydia as he jumped out of bed. “Nasty case shaping up — could be gone all day.”

  “You haven’t forgotten I’m seeing your cousin later? Visiting him in Strangeways?”

  “No,” he lied. “But why you’re still chasing after that thug is beyond me.”

  “Because he has a story to tell, Tom, and he’s going to tell it to me — exclusively. And when he does it’ll blast my career to the sky,” she enthused, rolling onto her back and stretching out her long limbs.

  “Waste of time. He’s using you. He’ll have an angle, take my word for it.”

  “Don’t care,” she sniffed. “I need this, and I won’t be put off.”

  “The man tried to kill me.”

  “And I saved you, so don’t cross me on this. It won’t go down well.”

  Once Calladine had showered and dressed, he went back into the bedroom and kissed her mouth gently. She’d gone back to sleep.

  * * *

  The sun was just rising as he arrived at Leesdon Common. He parked by the road and walked towards the taped-off area. The unmistakable smell of burnt flesh hung in the air. He shivered. Poor bugger, whoever he’d been. Ruth and Rocco were on the scene and had things organised.

  “Sir!” Rocco shouted to him. “Think we’ve got an ID.”

  Calladine nodded a greeting to the young DC, but it was the sight of Albert North’s body, still seated on the bench, that caught his full attention. His lower body and clothing looked practically intact but the upper half was a mess. How could anyone ID that?

  “He must have been walking his dog,” Rocco explained. “Eventually it took itself off home and his nephew,” he said, nodding at the corpse, “came looking for him. He’s Albert North, lived on the Hobfield.”

  Calladine knew North alright, and where he had lived. He’d spent a great deal of his time as a rookie cop chasing after the reprobate. He’d been a bad lot back then and from the look of him, he was still upsetting people today.

  “Can the nephew say for sure that this is North?” he asked doubtfully.

  “He recognises the clothing, what’s left of it, and the dog certainly knew him. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog more distraught.”

  “How long ago?” Calladine asked, turning to Doc Hoyle who was with the ambulance people.

  “Last night, I’d say.”

  “So what links it to the other case?”

  “This, Inspector.” Julian Batho showed him the tarot card they had found in Albert’s pocket, now secured in an evidence bag. “We’ve got an empty fuel can too. I’ll get it back to the lab and see what’s what. I’ll be in touch.”

  Calladine sighed. He didn’t know what to make of this. Apart from the cards, there was nothing obvious to link the cases at all. Different method and the men were poles apart socially. So what did they have in common?

  The bad feeling was back — the one he got when things were worse than he’d realised and they were up against it. He beckoned Ruth over to join him. She’d been talking to the nephew. He saw her pat his arm comfortingly and pass him over to the ambulance crew who were waiting to take North’s body to the morgue.

  “Looks like we’ve got a serial killer, Ruth,” Calladine told her quietly. “We need to do some digging, but I can’t see what could possibly link North to Ahmed.” He shuddered. “I just hope our killer isn’t choosing people at random — that’s all we need,” he said, stamping his feet up and down against the cold.

  “Albert lived very quietly according to his nephew.”

  “He did recently. But not when I knew him. The man was a right villain back in the day.”

  “According to his nephew he couldn’t get about much anymore due to a stroke he had a while ago. He wasn’t a well man. He was breathless most of the time and had a failing heart. This wasn’t part of his usual routine — walking his dog on the common, I mean.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t the target, then. Who was it usually took the dog out?”

  “Jayden — his nephew over there.”

  He didn’t look more than twenty. This must be a nightmare for him, seeing his uncle like this. Calladine wondered if he knew about North’s past — the things he’d done, the trouble and misery he’d caused. “We’ll look at him closely too, in that case. But even if the victim’s a case of mistaken identity, I still don’t see where the tie-up is.”

  “It could be anything — drugs, the hospital or something else. North was a patient and Ahmed a doctor. That could be something. I’ll check it out �
�� see what clinics North attended,” said Ruth.

  “It looks to me like he was doused in a flammable liquid and set alight. Whatever was in that can most likely,” Doc Hoyle offered. “Most of the heat seems to have been at the neck area and his head. That was down to the thick scarf he was wearing. Soaked up most of the accelerant and then burned good and hot.”

  Calladine winced. The old man wouldn’t have been able to help himself — it’d all have happened too quickly. “Get the body back,” he told Hoyle. “I’ll come and see you later once I’ve briefed the team.”

  “I think most of your team are here, aren’t they, Tom? There’s only DC Goode missing.”

  True. It was a measure of how short-handed they were. Calladine looked around. There was no sign of Thorpe, and he was grateful for that.

  * * *

  “All we can say for now is that the two men were murdered, but everything about those murders is different. Despite the different methods used we’re still looking for only one killer. The reason? Because one of these was left at the scene of both,” Calladine told the team, pointing to the two tarot cards pinned to the incident board. “I can’t even begin to understand what they mean but we’ll find someone who does and they may be able to cast some light. That shop in town,” he said to Ruth. “The one you bought the new cards from — perhaps they can enlighten us.”

  “I’ll go back and ask,” she nodded, making a note.

  “We’ll both go,” he decided. Suddenly the fact of the cards had become important. “This is different from other multiple killings we’ve dealt with. For a start we’re used to killers using a single method of dispatch. Serial killers have a tried and tested way of operating that they’ve perfected over time. What’s baffling about this is the different methods.”

  He rubbed the back of his head and stood away from the board. “Anyone have any ideas?”

  “Could we have two killers — each using their own methods but each with a common purpose — operating together?” Imogen offered.