Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “A tarot card was left at the scene. He thought he’d give me the heads up. It’s got them flummoxed.” He grinned. “He’s also given me the partial registration number for that black van.”

  “Useful contact this DS.”

  “Don’t be too sure, sir,” Imogen butted in. “He’s got a reputation for being a bit on the wild side has Jed Quickenden.”

  “Check the van out would you, Imogen? We’ll go from there.”

  Oldston. Why Oldston? Calladine wondered. Was their killer branching out? “In that case it is one of ours.” He reached for the phone and dialled the number for Oldston nick. Seconds later he was speaking to Greco.

  “We’ve had three in the past week. We should talk, compare findings.” There was a pause while Calladine listened, pulling a face. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll wait until you get here. Any chance you’ll have a preliminary PM report?” He shook his head at the reply. The man was hard work. “He’s coming in,” he told Rocco. “When he gets here I’ll have a short chat with him in my office, to compare what we’ve got. Then I’ll bring the team up to speed.”

  “What was the card, sir — the one left behind?”

  “The Eight of Swords.” He gave a shrug. “Means nothing to me.”

  Calladine disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him. He took his mobile from his jacket pocket and rang Amy.

  “Morning, gorgeous! Not a social call I’m afraid. We’ve had another one and I need your help.”

  “Ask away, Tom.”

  “The Eight of Swords. Why would it be left at a murder scene? What’s the killer trying to tell us with this one?”

  “It could be many things. Generally speaking swords are not good cards. It is possible that he was lured to his death on some pretext and met his end instead.”

  “Thanks, Amy. I’ll see you later with any luck.”

  It didn’t really help. Out in the incident room Calladine poured himself a coffee and pinned the card to the board — it came from Ruth’s pack. Their killer was a considerate soul. Without the cards they’d have very little to link the murders together. So why leave them? The doc and he had talked about a list, a bucket list. Could this be the work of someone getting even because of an anniversary, or because they were short of time? Either way the person they were looking for was on a mission and wanted the deaths to be linked.

  “Ruth’s late,” remarked Rocco. “Is she chasing up on something?”

  Calladine grunted an unintelligible reply. She’d gone for her first scan. He hoped everything had gone okay. Besides the fact that he didn’t want any drama at the moment, Ruth was a good friend, and he wanted her to be happy.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes or so later, Imogen announced that DI Greco had arrived.

  “We’ll talk in here.” Calladine grabbed the case file and led the way into his office.

  Once they were seated Calladine laid out the various reports, photos of the scenes and the cards. Greco had brought only two photos — one of the tarot card, and another of the body.

  “Do you have a name for your victim?” Calladine asked.

  “No. He had no identification on him, apart from his phone. But that had only been used to make and receive calls from one or two numbers. All pay as you go and currently all turned off.”

  “How was he killed? Have we got any forensics?”

  “He was knifed. The blade pierced one of his kidneys and was long enough to cut through the lower lobe of one lung. The pathologist still has to confirm but a second cut was made to his neck; it cut through his carotid. Forensically there is nothing. It rained last night, threw it down, and he wasn’t found until the early hours.”

  “Still, you can have his DNA profile done. He could be on the database.”

  “Inspector, the victim’s DNA profile is not your concern. He is our body. This is our case.”

  “But you have to acknowledge that they’re linked. They must be. Our first victim was killed with a blade — a long narrow one. We think it might have been concealed in a walking stick. Have you checked CCTV?”

  Greco looked at Calladine with a frown on his face. “Look, Inspector — I do know my job. How can you be so sure that the blade had been hidden?”

  “A snippet of film we got from a witness,” Calladine told him. “What looked like a woman shuffling along the road with a walking stick.”

  “You don’t know for sure though, do you? Your woman may have had nothing to do with the killing.” Greco didn’t look impressed. “I see from your notes how much is based on assumption. The retribution theory for example. This matching the method of killing to something from the past. It doesn’t work, not really, does it? It wouldn’t get past a jury.”

  “It will when we get more meat on the bone. I trust my instincts. They’re not just wild theories. I’ve been a cop for years and I have a reasonable idea how these things work, and how a killer’s mind operates. We have a killer; he or she has a list of people they want to get rid of. The method of dispatch they choose is meaningful in some way. We are investigating the death of Albert North and when we find a set of old case notes I will be able to prove it. Don’t you work on your hunches, Steve?”

  “As I’ve told you before, it’s Stephen.”

  This was getting boring.

  “And no I don’t. I gave that up a long time ago. I don’t do theories; I do proof, solid evidence. And you should know from the start that I have no plans to hand this over to you.”

  Calladine watched as Greco’s expression hardened. The only sign of humanity in him was a nerve that twitched high on his cheek. Irritation, assumed Calladine.

  “I saw the other incident board in the main office — the one for the missing children. That case is currently being dealt with by a team at Oldston, headed by me. It has nothing to do with you. I don’t understand what you hope to gain by getting involved.”

  The man was being a real pain in the arse. It’d been a while since Calladine had met anyone so pedantic.

  “What I hope to gain, Inspector, is to get those kids back. And frankly I don’t give a toss whose toes I tread on to do it. Isla Prideau went missing from Leesworth — don’t forget that. Later today I intend to go and speak to her parents.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You can’t work both cases. You don’t have the manpower for a start.”

  Calladine wanted very much to tell him that he’d do exactly what he bloody liked. But he didn’t. He swallowed his expletives and decided on a different tactic.

  “We could combine our resources — help each other out. My team are keen to cooperate and share findings on both cases — the murders and the missing kids. So why don’t you get off that bloody high horse you seem so fond of?”

  Greco was silent, his face frozen. Several seconds passed and neither man spoke.

  “Like it or not, the fact is your team is getting nowhere fast. It’s been over a week and what have you got? A brief glimpse of a black van,” said Calladine.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind, it’s not important. It strikes me that the case needs a bomb up its backside. Don’t you feel anything for those girls’ families?”

  “Of course I feel for them. I have a daughter of my own; she’s the same age.”

  Somehow Calladine couldn’t picture Greco as the doting father.

  “Have you considered that what happened around here might not be the full extent of the problem? Have you looked at other cases of missing kids? You should take a serious look at what Imogen found. Investigate who has accessed the two mothers’ Facebook accounts.”

  “Inspector, at this very moment there is an entire team looking at exactly that. In fact, if you don’t drop this you’ll jeopardise a major operation at a crucial point. We know that we are looking at a trafficking ring. Central is up to speed and has invested both time and effort making contact with these people.”

  Calladine was genuinely surprised. He’d heard nothing
about this, but then he’d been out of action for a while. “Contact them? How? You can’t just phone them up.”

  “Through the dark web, Inspector,” Greco explained. “Central has gained the confidence of a gang member. A sting is in the process of being set up. The last thing they need is you wading in and ruining months of work.”

  The dark web? What in hell’s name was that? He’d only just got to grips with the surface one and that was dark enough as far as he could see.

  “So, you do know your job,” he conceded.

  “Yes, and you must appreciate, now, that there are things going on that you are not privy to.”

  “But the kids are still out there and it strikes me that no amount of surfing, dark or not, is bringing them back. I still say you need help.”

  “Leave it. That’s good advice and you should listen to it. If those kids are still alive and still in the country then they will be found.”

  “Bollocks — not without more input they won’t.” This was going nowhere.

  “And I didn’t disregard DC Goode’s information either. I acted on it, promptly. It fed into the information the team at Central already has. You are not the only cop who can get things done you know.”

  There followed another uncomfortable silence until Greco appeared to shake himself and picked up the photo of Tariq Ahmed. “But perhaps you have a point about the killings. I’ll get forensics to see if they can ascertain whether the same weapon was used in both.”

  It was something at least. “And the kids?”

  “That’s down to me, my team and Central. So leave it.”

  * * *

  Friday dawned bright and sunny. It was cold, but without the bone-numbing, damp winter gloom there’d been for the last day or so. Harriet Finch was feeling slightly better. Her task was nearly complete. Now she’d dealt with Lessing it was all over and all the names on her list had been crossed off. After Lessing, she now had to face the tidying up. She’d go round to his place later, perhaps after dark, and make sure he was suffering as she’d planned. If not — then it was simple. She’d inflict further injuries.

  In the good weather she decided to tidy up her back garden, and get some fresh air into the bargain. The autumn leaves had lain sodden on the garden path for long enough.

  She hummed to herself as she worked. Uppermost on her mind was what to do about Lessing’s phone. She’d wait until later, after she’d heard the news. If the news didn’t mention anything about finding him, and his involvement with the children’s kidnap, then she’d have to get it to the police. Harriet decided to work on the detail later.

  She did her work a little at a time, brushing the leaves into piles to be shovelled up later if she felt up to it. Harriet was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the back gate open, nor did she hear the footsteps until it was too late.

  “Want some help?” Harriet spun round. He was young, tall and wiry looking. He was wearing those jeans that bagged and hung loose around the rear end. He looked shifty and she felt suddenly afraid, which wasn’t like her at all. This was followed by an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh out loud. What was this? She was scared of nothing, not any more. She was a cold-hearted killer for heaven’s sake! So what was it about this lad that scared her?

  “I’ll finish up here for a tenner — what d’you say? You could go and brew up, I fancy a cuppa.” He grinned, rubbing his hands together.

  “Who are you? You’ve no right to come in here uninvited.” Harriet waved him back the way he’d come. “Go on! Get out before I call the police and have you dragged off.”

  He was tutting — tutting! The cheek of him! “I mean it.” She pulled off her gardening gloves and threw them to the ground.

  “It was an offer of help. But seeing that you don’t want to play the game then I’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  What did he mean, the hard way?

  “Remember the old man? The one sat on that bench on the common, the one called Albert North,” he said moving a couple of steps closer to her. “Helpless he was, helpless and ill. He couldn’t fight back and he wouldn’t harm a fly. Remember him now?”

  “Of course I remember him; I’m not senile. Friend of yours was he?”

  “My uncle, that’s who he was. And you killed him — murdering cow!”

  His eyes were set too close together — he could well be one of the North clan, wicked lot all of them. “Setting fire to that villain was one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done,” she told him.

  She could see no sense in denying it, and anyway, he’d already shown his hand. He’d obviously come here to exact some sort of retribution — which was rich, given what North had done to her son.

  “What do you expect me to do, young man? The bastard’s dead!”

  “And you killed him. You set him alight and left him to suffer. You’re a cruel, vicious bitch, and now you’re going to get yours.”

  He meant it. There was real hatred in his young eyes. It fascinated her because she understood it so well. He stepped closer and she saw he was clutching a baseball bat in his hand. Why hadn’t she spotted that before? How very remiss of her; she was slipping, must be the medication.

  “What do you imagine will happen if you strike me with that?”

  She smiled; it was obvious that her words had surprised him. He scowled at her, and lowered the bat.

  “Whatever, it’ll be worth it to see you suffer like he did. I’ll get you across the legs first — break ‘em both and send you to the ground. Then I’ll do your head.”

  He had all the right words. They sounded a lot like those she’d used herself recently. Harriet nodded. It was a good plan. In different circumstances she could have warmed to this young man.

  “My neighbour is watching us, right now, from his kitchen window.” She looked towards it and waved a casual greeting. “One shout, one scream and he’ll be here in a flash. Also there are probably another dozen or so pairs of eyes on you as we speak. Haven’t you noticed the block of flats behind you? All those windows overlooking my garden? Still fancy your chances?”

  “Shut up, bitch!” He looked around anxiously. He didn’t want to be seen — he was well known, easily recognised. “Get in that shed — go on, get in now.”

  Harriet sighed, turned and walked towards her large garden shed. When he’d been alive her husband had used it as a workshop. Not only was it large but it was well equipped too. She wasn’t worried now, her earlier panic had subsided. She’d just have to deal with him: another name to add to the list.

  “Nice.” Jayden North looked around at the workbench and the tools so neatly arranged.

  “My husband could turn his hand to anything,” Harriet told him proudly. “He did up the entire house after he retired. He made all my kitchen units.”

  “Why? Why did you do that to Uncle Albert?” He moved towards her.

  “Because he killed my son. There — a simple explanation and one that should suffice even for an idiot like you.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Yes you are. You’re an uneducated idiot with a background completely lacking in any sort of adult guidance. North was a brute, a drunken lout without any morals at all. You must know that. He killed anyone that got in his way, and not just my son either. Over the years he dispatched any number of the rogues and villains who crossed him — innocent people too. The world should be grateful to me.”

  It worked. Jayden North lost control and lunged forward at her with the bat held high. But before he could strike, Harriet dodged to the side, sticking out her foot to trip him up. He tumbled headlong onto the bench. He was bent at the waist, his hands sprawled forwards, face red with anger, and winded by the force of his landing. The bat rolled away across the floor out of his reach.

  Perfect. Harriet took the cordless drill from its holder on the wall and held it to Jayden North’s face like a revolver.

  “Not so full of accusations now, are you lad?”

  She
fired the drill, making it buzz centimetres from his left ear.

  “How much damage do you reckon I could do with this?”

  Jayden recovered his breath. “I’ll bloody do for you — stupid old bitch!”

  He made to raise himself up but Harriet was too quick for him. She lowered the drill bit from his ear to his neck and pressing the tip on his carotid artery she squeezed the on switch with her forefinger.

  The bit went in so smoothly it surprised her. Jayden North blinked once and slithered to the floor in shock from the sudden catastrophic blood loss. It spurted in a thick red torrent, covering everything, and Harriet moved away in disgust. Remarkably, she didn’t like blood; she was squeamish. She watched from a distance as his body twitched and shook. His eyes, full of bewilderment, searched her face, as the blood pumped relentlessly from his neck. One last jerk, his face contorted, and he moved no more. It had taken only seconds; he wouldn’t have suffered much, she reasoned. But now that it was over, she had another body on her hands.

  Harriet stepped over his still frame and replaced the drill on its hanger. She took an old tarpaulin that lay folded in a corner and pulled it over him. It was large enough to cover both Jayden North and the blood which was now spread all around him. Should anyone casually look in, they’d see nothing. Job done.

  Harriet locked the shed door behind her and dropped the key down the grid on the path. The incident had given Harriet new strength and with her frail health, this wasn’t something to be squandered. Now was the time to make that final check on Lessing before exhaustion set in, as it inevitably would.

  Chapter 17

  Once Greco had left, Calladine called a case team meeting. He wanted to bring together all their findings. Maybe someone would have a bright idea. By the time they were all assembled he’d already been on the phone to see if Doc Hoyle had remembered anything about the post-mortem he’d worked on years ago — the one involving fire — but he hadn’t. They badly needed a break.

  “It looks highly likely that the killing in Oldston last night was done by our man. Or woman,” he added. “This victim is something of a puzzle. He had no identity on him for a start. His phone was used only for a couple of numbers — why? What are we looking at?”