Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Sir!” Imogen called. “The back door’s open.”

  “How very fortuitous.” Calladine smiled. “Come on then, let’s take a look.”

  “It’s all very quiet, sir, and there’s a funny smell,” Imogen said, holding her nose.

  “Vile smell, you mean,” Ruth corrected. “Smells like damp, Imogen, damp and vomit.”

  “Vomit?”

  “Well, vomit and other bodily functions,” Ruth explained as politely as she could. “Seems to me that someone’s had a bad night.”

  “Mr Lessing!” Calladine called out. “Anyone in?”

  They did a quick check of the house but there was no sign of anybody. The heating was off and the place was like ice.

  “There’s a cellar!” Imogen announced, as she found the door leading from the kitchen. She wrinkled up her nose again. “It’s definitely coming from down there, whatever it is.”

  Calladine went first. “Watch the steps; they’re steep and slippery.”

  It was dark, and for several seconds none of them could see anything. The foul smell was everywhere. It was making Calladine nauseous, and he guessed the others must feel the same. When his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, Calladine could just make out a shape on the floor.

  “Get an ambulance!” Calladine instructed Ruth. This was going to be bad.

  Imogen bent down and felt for a pulse in the neck. “I think he’s had it, sir. He’s bleeding from his chest and frozen. Look at his legs — they look broken. Could he have fallen down those steps and been stuck here all night?”

  “I don’t think so,” Calladine told her. “The stairs are too far away and his hands are cable tied — look. He’s been injured and left here to rot. This was no accident.”

  “He could have crossed one of the traffickers. This could be their way of getting even.”

  It was a reasonable explanation. In any other circumstances she would have been right — but not this time.

  “I don’t think so, Imogen.” Calladine had spotted the card — the tarot card left on the floor a few inches from the man’s head. “That makes it the work of our killer, not some trafficker hell-bent on revenge.”

  “Ambulance is on its way and I’ve rung Julian and the doc. They’ll be here as soon as.”

  “Look familiar?”

  Ruth met his gaze. She was as puzzled as he was.

  “I don’t get it — what has this to do with the missing girls?”

  “Well, there’s a link somewhere. The phone had a known number on it — the number of an Eastern European man that Central has in their sights. In fact it was used to ring and receive calls from that number on many occasions. So, like it or not, there is a link.”

  “Inspector Calladine!” Stephen Greco made his way down the stairs. “Ours I think,” he said, nodding at the body.

  “Ordinarily I might agree with you but I’m afraid there are . . . complications.” Calladine grinned at his rival.

  “No. This one is definitely ours,” Greco replied, the warning in his tone clear enough.

  “See that?” Calladine pointed to the card. “One of those has been left at each of the murder sites in the current case we’re investigating — so this one is ours, DI Greco.”

  Calladine watched DI Greco’s face contort in an angry frown, then he span on his heel and retraced his way up the cellar steps.

  “He’s not gone far,” Ruth assured him. “Long will back him, and you’ll get your knuckles rapped yet again.” She sighed. “You are your own worst enemy, Tom Calladine, and you just don’t learn. Accept that Greco has a part to play and let him in.”

  “No — and don’t tell him anything about our case either.”

  “I won’t need to — it’s all on the database.”

  “I want to know about that card.” He wrote the words Ten of Swords in his notebook.

  “You want an excuse to swan off and see Amy, you mean.”

  “Stay here with Imogen. Guard this crime scene until Julian and the doc get here.”

  “Guard it against who, sir? A DI who’s senior to me and has every right to know as much we do?”

  “Do whatever you think fit.” Even he knew that his behaviour was way out of line.

  * * *

  Ruth had had enough. Calladine’s attitude was that of a schoolboy. So DI bloody Greco got on his nerves. Everyone had to work with a pain in the arse occasionally.

  “I hope for all our sakes that Stephen Greco doesn’t become our new DCI,” she told Imogen. “Can you imagine what life would be like with those two constantly sniping?”

  “The problem is — he’s good. There’s no denying it, he’s a breath of fresh air. Jones was incompetent, Long’s too fond of doing nothing, and, in my opinion, DI Greco would be great.”

  “Go and discuss that with the boss . . . Anyway, what do you reckon happened to him?” She looked at the body.

  There was no doubt in Ruth’s mind that Gordon Lessing had been left here to die. This killing was like the others — it satisfied some grudge held by the murderer. What it had to do with the missing girls she couldn’t even guess at.

  “Whatever happened we’ll soon know — the doc’s here now!” Imogen called.

  Ruth heard his voice as he climbed down the stairs. And he had DI Greco in tow.

  “I want the PM report doing promptly and no short cuts,” Ruth heard him tell the doc.

  She shook her head. The doc wouldn’t appreciate being spoken to like that. Having Greco at Leesdon would make working there impossible. He’d have everyone’s back up within the first week.

  “We do a thorough job but it takes what it takes,” the doc replied sharply. It brought a smile to Ruth’s face, and so did the look that warned Greco not to tell him how to do his job.

  “So, is this the killings or the kidnappings?”

  “Both,” Ruth interrupted, “although we don’t see the tie-up, not yet anyway.”

  “Is DI Calladine here?” asked the doc.

  “No. He’s gone off to get some more information about the card that was left. The actual card is over there.”

  “He’s wasting his time.” Greco turned to the doc. “Have you asked Doctor Batho to attend?” The doc nodded.

  “Then I’m afraid you’re wasting his time too. This is my case now, whatever DI Calladine might think. I want this cellar and the rest of the house gone over with a fine tooth comb forensically.”

  “Julian is always meticulous,” Ruth pointed out.

  “We outsource our forensic needs at Oldston. Everything we’ve gleaned from the missing children case is with the Duggan Centre. I would like whatever CSI find here to be sent there too.”

  Ruth folded her arms. “So you don’t need Julian on this? Are you sure? Like I said, he’s very good and he gets results.”

  “I don’t doubt it, sergeant, but this is my case so we’ll do things my way.”

  “Poor Julian,” she whispered to Imogen.

  “I heard that, sergeant.” Greco turned round to face both women, grim-faced. “A word to the wise — I know he’s very friendly with your team but you should tell him to look to his future, and I doubt it’s with the forensic lab at Leesdon General.” He indicated the body. “It’s this man’s phone we recovered in the supermarket, so this is most likely Gail,” Greco told them.

  “The stalker from Facebook,” added Imogen.

  “Yes, you did well there, working that one out.”

  He gave praise but without smiling, Ruth noticed.

  “Why would these people use someone like Lessing to do their dirty work? He’s got no previous — how would they have recruited him?”

  “Recruitment — I’ve no idea, but they’ll have used him for exactly that reason — no previous. He was a clean skin — someone not known to the police.”

  * * *

  “He’s going to be a problem,” Ruth stated, once Greco had left the cellar. “If he gets the DCI post at Leesdon things will never be the same. I doubt we’l
l ever use Julian and his team again, and goodness knows what else he’d change.”

  “Well, I think DI Stephen Greco’s rather dishy,” Imogen said with a smile on her face.

  “Don’t let Julian hear you say that,” Ruth warned.

  “Don’t let me hear what?” he asked, coming down the steps.

  “Over here!” Ruth called to him.

  “You should be suited up, the both of you,” he said and handed them each a paper coverall.

  “Apparently you’re not needed,” Ruth told him. “All the stuff CSI collect is to be sent to the Duggan Centre.”

  Ruth watched Julian’s face harden. “Am I in or out?” he asked bluntly.

  “It’s got nothing to do with me or Calladine,” Ruth reassured him, holding her hands up. “It’s him: Greco. He’s a new broom at Oldston nick and out to make his mark.”

  She rubbed his arm. “Sorry, Julian, but it isn’t my call.”

  Chapter 19

  There were one or two customers milling around Amy’s shop, mostly interested in the jewellery.

  “Tom! Something’s up; you look dreadful.”

  “I need your help again,” he said, ignoring the comment and pulling his notebook from his coat pocket. “The Ten of Swords?”

  “What of it?”

  “What does it mean? It’s been left at the scene of another murder.” He spoke in a whisper, so the customers wouldn’t overhear.

  “Well, like the Eight of Swords it’s one of the Minor Arcana. You see the Tarot is divided into two halves — the Major and Minor Arcana.”

  “So our killer is knowledgeable?”

  She shrugged. “They could have read a book, looked it up. But back to the card, if it was left at the scene of a killing it suggests someone with a grudge. It signifies that the victim had it coming. It indicates someone with a burning hatred for your victim. When they finally get the opportunity, they stab, stab and stab in a fury — you get the picture.” She showed him the graphic image on the card. “It’s frenzy. Overkill. It’s a bad card, Tom.”

  It certainly had been for Gordon Lessing.

  “What are you doing later, say, early evening?” he asked.

  “Nothing, but you look as if you have something in mind,” she replied, blue eyes sparkling.

  “I was thinking of the art exhibition at the community centre — fancy coming?”

  “Why? Do you intend to buy something, Tom?”

  “No — it’s work, but I want to look like one of the punters. You like art anyway, I’ve seen your flat,” he smiled.

  “So you want me as part of your cover. How flattering.” The blue eyes no longer held a sparkle.

  “Well, no, but I don’t want to wander around looking like a policeman.”

  “Okay I’ll come, as long as you make it up to me. We could come back here afterwards — have a bite to eat and go from there.”

  Calladine nodded. After the day he was having, it sounded like a plan.

  “We’ll walk there. They have wine at those events and I fancy getting you squiffy,” Calladine said.

  “Squiffy, eh? So you can have your wicked way with me.”

  He leant forward and kissed her cheek — and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Calladine went back to the nick. He wanted to know more about Gordon Lessing. Imogen was still at the scene with Ruth so he pounced on Rocco.

  “Lessing is dead. Same as the others — well, not exactly the same method, but a card was left. See what we’ve got on the guy. He’s mixed up with the kidnapping of the two girls somewhere along the line, so I can’t believe we’ve got nothing on him.”

  Rocco spent several minutes checking the police files and then looked up, shaking his head. “There’s nothing, sir, not even a motoring offence. The guy’s clean.”

  “How does he earn a living? Get me his bank details. What family has he got? Get me the basics, Rocco. I need something on him and quick.”

  Greco would be digging up exactly the same stuff. Damn the man! He’d no idea why he’d taken against him so strongly, but he had. The idea that he would probably have to hand the entire case over to Oldston was getting to him. He needed to crack this — and soon.

  “Sir! There’s been a call from the community centre,” Joyce said, popping her head around the office door. “The PC on the door says the tickets you are interested in have been presented, and he’s got a couple waiting to see you.”

  This could be it. Calladine grabbed his coat and made for the stairs. “Rocco — keep on with Lessing. I’ll ring you within the hour.” He’d ring Ruth too, when he got there, and tell her to join him.

  He drove down Leesdon High Street and turned into the community centre car park. The plain-clothes officer who’d been checking the tickets had Nesta and Charlie Dunlop waiting in the office. They were an unremarkable, middle-aged couple. Calladine wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but these two looked very unlike a pair of murderers.

  “DI Calladine, Leesworth Police.” He flashed his ID. “The tickets for this afternoon, where did you get them?”

  “Why? Why’s it so important?” Nesta challenged hotly. “It’s my birthday. I’m supposed to be having a good time, not sitting in here with him . . .” she nodded at the PC, “. . . like some criminal.”

  Calladine could see that Nesta Dunlop was clearly annoyed. She was sitting with her handbag on her lap, her face sporting a look that could curdle milk.

  “I’m sure we can clear this up,” Calladine reassured her. “The tickets are important evidence in a case we’re working on.”

  “D’you hear that, Charlie? Tickets with excitement built in.” Now she was smiling. “Harriet doesn’t do anything by halves, does she?”

  “Harriet?”

  “Yes, Inspector, Harriet Finch, my best friend. She gave me those tickets for my birthday. She knows I like things like this. She’s so thoughtful.”

  At last a name — something he could really use.

  “Where does she live, this Harriet Finch?”

  “Clover Close, number four, just round by the tower block on the estate.”

  Right under their noses.

  “Thank you, Mrs Dunlop. You’ve been a great help. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Calladine told the PC to keep the couple there long enough for him to reach Harriet Finch, and not to let them make any calls.

  * * *

  Outside, he sat in his car and rang Ruth.

  “We’ve got a lead, a big one — a name and address for the woman who most likely took the tickets. Harriet Finch, Clover Close — it’s a small cul-de-sac off Circle Road. I’ll meet you there.” He gave her no chance to respond. If she was still at Lessing’s house, and Greco was within earshot, Calladine didn’t want him getting wind of this.

  * * *

  “I think you upset DI Greco, sir. He wasn’t happy about you being at the scene, and now he’s changed all the procedures. It’s a case of goodbye Julian and hello the Duggan Centre.”

  “Hope you didn’t tell him anything about what we’ve got.”

  Ruth shook her head. “It was hard not to, though. He has every right to know.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I waffled. Fortunately he was more interested in organising the house search, so I managed to escape.”

  “I’ll deal with him later,” Calladine assured her. “By the end of the day I’m hoping to have a lot more. I’m sure DI Greco would like as full a picture as we can give him, and we might have something here.”

  “This isn’t like you. Where’s your professionalism gone? Sharing information isn’t something you usually shy away from.”

  “We’ve done all the donkey work. This is our case. Given half a chance he’ll swan in and steal the bone from under our noses. Well, that’s not happening.”

  “You’re wrong. This attitude you’ve developed all of a sudden will backfire. But you’re not going to listen, are you?”

  “He nee
ds to stay in Oldston where he belongs, and then we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Number four — there. Looks okay, neat and clean.”

  “What do you expect the lair of a serial killer to look like?”

  “Well, it’s not a flat in a tower block on the Hobfield, is it? It looks ordinary, no sign of grinding poverty, no blaring music or teenagers lurking about. She’s even got net curtains.”

  Calladine knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. Ruth peered through the front window, trying to see through the lacy fabric of the nets.

  “She could be out.”

  “No. She’s in. I’m going round the back.”

  “Be careful. She might be neat and tidy, but she’s probably our killer, remember?”

  Calladine opened the small gate and wandered round to the back door. It was open.

  “Mrs Finch!” He stuck his head through the doorway. “Are you in?”

  Ruth suddenly dashed past him. He saw her snatch a pan of boiling potatoes from the hob. It had boiled dry and was about to burn.

  “That was careless. You don’t think she’s got wind and done a runner, do you, guv?”

  But Harriet Finch hadn’t gone anywhere. She lay shivering on her sitting room carpet. Her face was deathly pale and she was mumbling incoherently. Something was very wrong. This wasn’t what the detective had expected to find.

  “Get an ambulance,” Calladine told Ruth, “and some water.”

  “Did she fall?” Ruth asked as she tapped in the number.

  “I don’t think so. I think she’s ill.” Calladine could see how thin she was and the sparseness of her hair. “Mrs Finch — Harriet.” He spoke gently, raising her head a little. “What’s happened? Are you not feeling well?”

  Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him for a few moments. “You’re police,” she whispered. “You’ve finally worked it out and come for me.” And then she smiled.

  “DI Calladine and DS Bayliss from Leesdon,” he said. “I wanted a word with you about the tickets you gave your friend, Nesta Dunlop.”