Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7)

by Tony J. Forder

  Bliss carried his suit jacket hanging over the crook of one arm, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up. A cooling breeze took the edge off the heat. All along the pavements his fellow pedestrians seemed less burdened by life, as if the pleasant weather alleviated stress and provided a calming influence. People even looked up from their phones occasionally, smiling awkwardly as they passed one another. Nose to tail, the seething mass of gleaming traffic rumbled by, basslines thumping from windows, e-cigarette vapour scenting the air. Bliss enjoyed the short walk, feeling invigorated as he mentally prepared for what he expected to be a difficult meeting.

  Price & Son Solicitors had a suite of offices located on the ground floor of a shared building a hundred yards or so from Old Street station. Andy Price was in his late fifties, but looked a decade younger. The man was of average height and build, but Bliss could tell he worked out. His grip was firm as they shook hands, and he filled out his sharp suit across the chest and arms. By contrast, his son Stephen looked older than Bliss knew him to be. Pale, with ill-fitting clothes and a soft centre, he looked nothing like his father; not that he bore any discernible resemblance to his late mother, either. Both men eyed him with overt suspicion.

  The room they used was compact with a high ceiling. Shelves ranged across one wall held weighty tomes, many of them referencing cases in which precedents were set, while others related to current law. Bliss knew they were mostly for show, given the wealth of information available online. He noticed a wide range of framed certificates littering the walls, and wondered if they were meant to impress the clients or the Prices themselves.

  As the three men took their seats and Andy Price ordered a round of coffees from an assistant, Bliss weighed up the situation and decided to change his play. It was a tough call; potentially, he had one stab at this, and if he approached it the wrong way, it might leave the investigation further behind by putting the victim’s family at odds with the lead detective. Having initially intended to come at them aggressively, he softened his eyes and unburdened his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,’ he said. ‘I realise this is the last thing either of you wishes to do. Raking up the past can be a fraught process, and in your case I understand how delicate the matter is.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest with you, Chief Inspector Bliss, I’m not at all sure you do.’ Andy Price spoke with a local accent that had been strangled from trying to appeal to a more refined clientele. ‘If you did, I don’t think you would be here.’

  Bliss was prepared for some pushback. ‘It’s just Inspector, sir. And this will go a whole lot easier if you hold off on your judgement until you’ve heard me out.’

  Price senior accepted the mild rebuke with a shrug. ‘In that case, please let’s get it over with.’

  A young man wearing a snazzy red bowtie brought their drinks in on a tray, which also held cookies fanned out on a plate. Hungry though he was, Bliss ignored the biscuits but sipped his black coffee before breaking the news.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have to tell you this is not a courtesy call. I’m not merely ticking a box on an unsolved case file.’

  ‘Just tell us what you are doing here,’ Stephen demanded. The flesh was drawn tight across his face, cheeks bordering on the concave. He sat back with one leg hooked over the other, the dangling foot jerking fitfully.

  Bliss looked both men in the eyes before making his announcement. ‘We are reinvestigating the murder of Geraldine Price. I imagine you’ve heard about the severed hand found at Tower Hill on Monday?’ Father and son flashed sidelong glances at each other, the look enough to convince Bliss they were fully aware of the findings so far. ‘Good. Then you’ll probably also know there are three separate cases we believe are connected: one involves a man by the name of Earl Dobson, another is Tommy Harrison, while the third case relates to a Ben Carlisle. I’m sure at least one of those names will be familiar to you, but I suspect the others are, too.’

  Andy Price reacted first. ‘Tommy Harrison was a person of interest in connection to the murder of my wife at one point. I have a vague recollection of the other two as names from the past, but that’s about as far as it goes.’

  Usually, Bliss focussed on whoever was speaking, while Chandler concentrated on the reactions of others. Without his partner by his side, however, he was having to cover both men. He had seen a flicker of interest in Stephen’s eyes when Harrison’s name was mentioned. The gleam lingered, so he was unable to tell whether the other names meant anything to him. Bliss appraised the Prices with what he hoped was a degree of subtlety. Despite his age, the father certainly had the build and strength to tackle any of the three victims; Stephen, on the other hand, looked as if he’d struggle to tear his way through a wad of wet tissue paper.

  ‘Our current strategy in all three cases,’ Bliss said, continuing to eye both men alternately, ‘is built around the belief that they have their roots in the murder of Mrs Price.’

  Once again it was the older man who was the first to respond, his voice charged with emotion. ‘In what way? Are you suggesting all three were somehow responsible for what happened to my wife?’

  Bliss nodded. ‘It’s certainly a theory of serious interest to us. We believe it’s entirely possible that one of the men involved in your wife’s murder is now reacting against the others for some reason.’

  A deep wedge appeared across Andy Price’s forehead. ‘I don’t understand. From what I have been able to glean, your investigations amount to little more than finding some pieces of flesh and a hand. I don’t see how they have anything to do with what happened to Geraldine, other than belonging to three men who admittedly lived in the same area as us when she was murdered. I’m not seeing the connection, Inspector. And I do this sort of thing for a living, remember.’

  Bliss began to filter the conversation he was about to get into. If either or both of these two men were responsible for the current spate of mutilations, he could not afford to have them suspect the true purpose of his visit.

  ‘Mr Price,’ he said. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, in certain investigations – and especially in cases of murder – the police may hold back specific pieces of information. This is true of your wife’s case, sir; there is information the police would not have shared with you. It’s also true of the three ongoing cases. We believe the link lies within those unreleased details. Please, trust me when I tell you the connection is valid. I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.’

  Andy Price appeared to relax, his posture losing its rigidity. His son continued to show signs of apprehension, though Bliss saw nothing untoward. Speaking with the police about such outrages was a difficult experience, and anxiety levels often went through the roof. Bliss thought the time was right to poke at them just a little.

  ‘I have to be honest,’ he said after finishing his drink, ‘I’m not sure either of you can help me. However, it would be absurd of me to run an operation like this and not speak to the people who were the most affected by Mrs Price’s murder. And given your occupation, I’m sure you understand I have to ask certain questions. Formalities, mainly, but asking them often provokes a negative response.’

  ‘You want us to provide alibis,’ Price senior said. His expression did not change, but his body tensed.

  ‘For the current investigations, yes. Actually, for the time being I think we can settle on the one, and let’s see where we go from there.’

  ‘Please, go ahead. We understand you have a job to do.’ The man spoke for his son, though this time he did not glance across at him.

  ‘Thank you, sir. So, let’s look at earlier in the week. Where were you both between the hours of, say, seven and nine on Monday morning?’

  For the first time since Bliss had entered the room, Andy Price smiled. ‘That’s an easy one. We were both in Manchester. We travelled up on Sunday after lunch, came home late on Monday evening. We were in chambers a
ll day, meeting with Queen’s Counsel. I can vouch for our entire day, but during the specific time window you mentioned we were enjoying an early breakfast with the QC himself. And three other people.’

  Bliss smiled as he nodded. It helped if they thought this was the answer he had been hoping for. If they were no longer suspects – as now seemed obvious, at least in respect of dumping the bag at Tower Hill – he wanted to keep the Prices on his side and feeling comfortable in his presence. There was a fair way to go before he’d be willing to dismiss either man as a potential suspect, however; they clearly had the means to pay for somebody else to carry out the physical aspects of the crimes.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I love it when things are so clear cut. Makes our job easier all round. Obviously, I’ll need to have one of my team follow up on this with you, Mr Price. Obtain details and contact names, perhaps briefly discuss the other two finds and their less precise timeframes. But at least now that’s out of the way we can move on – although, in this instance, that also requires us to look back.’

  They spent the next half hour in much the same way: Bliss asking questions, the father answering them before responding with a few of his own. Stephen Price chipped in if spoken to directly, but otherwise sat fidgeting and seemingly distancing himself. Bliss understood: twenty-six years had passed, but still they were discussing the man’s mother, her sadistic torture and brutal murder. There would never be a time when enduring those horrific memories would not be agonising.

  From what he remembered of the original case file, Andy Price’s current verbal account matched in all critical aspects. The last time he had seen his wife alive was when she left for work on the morning of Friday 4 February 1994. He had since remarried and raised a second family. He spoke about the moment he first became aware that one of his neighbours, Tommy Harrison, had been interviewed as a suspect. Emotions were running high at the time, and every name mentioned in connection with his wife’s murder had turned Andy’s grief into white-hot fury. He had always believed no locals were involved, simply because there were too many eyes, ears and mouths on every estate for such a terrible secret to remain undiscovered. His wife’s father, Robert Naylor, had convinced him of this after the man had personally interrogated every able soul in the district.

  ‘And now?’ Bliss asked when they reached that point in the conversation. ‘With Harrison, Carlisle and Dobson falling victim to whatever is being done to them?’

  ‘You’re forgetting, Inspector Bliss: you know something I don’t. I can’t change my mind if I don’t know what it is that connects those men to Geraldine. I’m having to trust in your theory, but I’m doing so while blindfolded. Without being privy to the information you have, I still think the murder of my wife was the work of outsiders.’

  If he was guilty, he was the best Bliss had ever seen. But the man was intelligent, calm, and completely rational. He could just be that good. His son, on the other hand, was a bundle of nervous energy, and clearly in the room under sufferance. Yet both of them had what appeared to be solid alibis for Monday morning, and Bliss had to weigh the evidence against anything his instincts were telling him.

  They spoke further about the initial investigations – first the abduction, then the subsequent murder. Both men found it difficult, Stephen Price coming close to tears as he revealed how numb he had felt during the entire time from hearing his mother was missing to the point at which she was laid to rest. He admitted he had switched off; Bliss didn’t think the man had ever flicked the switch to restart. Married, with a son and daughter of his own, Stephen had followed his father into law on the back of obtaining no justice in his mother’s case. Bliss thought it was as good a reason as any to start a career, and better than most.

  Throughout the entire meeting, Bliss picked up mixed signals, and wasn’t at all sure what to make of them. On the surface, he was neither seeing nor hearing anything to elevate either man to the status of prime suspect, but an unidentified feeling in his gut made him reluctant to rule them out. As he cleared his thoughts to form the next question, something else popped into his head.

  ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to have to do this,’ he said, shrugging and spreading his hands. ‘But just as I’ve had to ask you two gentlemen some awkward questions, so I will also need to speak to your daughter, Mr Price – Valerie. We’ve attempted to track her down, but so far without luck. I was hoping you would be able to provide me with her contact details.’

  Andy Price’s eyes became pained and angry in an instant. ‘You need to do your homework,’ he said, barely able to look at Bliss this time. ‘Val took her own life eight weeks ago. If you’re wondering why my son and I are not exactly welcoming this reinvestigation of yours with open arms, Inspector, it’s because it’s too damned little, too damned late.’ His voice cracked, then softened. ‘She left us a note. All about the severe depression she’d suffered ever since her mother’s body was found. My daughter became an addict, Inspector. Drink and drugs. It was a habit she was never able to kick, despite our many attempts to find her some peace of mind. She eventually found a way to achieve that for herself.’

  Horrified, Bliss apologised for the misstep. The sympathy he expressed was genuine, but his nerves jangled as a result of what he had learned. If he and his team were looking for a single recent event that may have triggered the crimes they were investigating, he had just discovered a massively significant one.

  Twenty-Seven

  More than twenty-four hours after his run-in with the police, Freddy Swift was still feeling queasy, as if adrenaline continued to pump through his veins at high pressure. He’d barely been able to eat since the two cops from Peterborough had interviewed him, his subsequent thoughts consumed not only by the attitude of the senior detective, Bliss, but also the reason for their presence at his place of business. Despite the fuss they had kicked up about the shoot, their interest went way beyond the young girl he was using. They had far worse on their minds, and he felt completely entangled in the web they had spun.

  Since leaving his office the previous evening and booking himself into a hotel under a false name that matched the credit card he was able to produce, he had practically lashed himself to the TV, devouring the news cycle on multiple channels. Following confirmation that the body part discovered at Tower Hill belonged to Tommy Harrison, the names of two additional missing men had been formally released to the public by the police; they were thought to have come to significant harm. Swift was beside himself with worry at how quickly the investigation was moving, and he needed to do something about it.

  The alibi he had provided was good for all of the five minutes it would take the police to speak with the star attraction he had boasted of meeting on Monday morning; one short conversation and they would be back, sniffing around him again. He wouldn’t risk going home, not even to empty his bedroom safe of cash. For all he knew, his lie had already been exposed, though he hoped the police had not yet verified his responses. Alternately scratching his head and clasping his hands together, he paced the narrow strip of carpet at the end of the bed.

  He had to find a way out of this nightmare. The call he had made earlier would go part of the way to achieving that, but his stress levels remained dangerously high. He felt ill. He wasn’t built to cope with this extreme level of anxiety, and he was acutely aware of how close he was to falling apart completely. He had this one move left, but if it proved unsuccessful his entire future would be in the lap of the gods. There was no way he’d handle a second police interview.

  Swift checked his watch for the twentieth time, gathered up his things and left the hotel. He kept his head down, covered with a shapeless grey hoodie, unaware of any security cameras but knowing there must be some around. From the cool shade of the entrance porch, he surveyed every inch of the car park. There were no obvious signs of occupation, none of the vehicles belching exhaust or windows misting with exhaled breaths. A couple of cars entered, and their
occupants retrieved luggage before booking into the hotel. A number of people exited, went to their cars, got in and drove away. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still feverishly checking his watch, Swift gave it all the time he could spare before making his own move.

  The small Epping Forest car park off the A104 was familiar to him, as were the roads leading to it. He drove a circuitous route, within the speed limit, checking all the while for any sign he was being followed. By the time he felt comfortable enough to pull in and stop, he was ten minutes late. Enclosed on three sides by trees, the car park spawned four paths leading away into the forest itself. A row of wooden picnic tables and seating lay to one side, waste bins overflowing with wrappers and plastic bottles, several of which glinted in the sunlight on the ground beneath. There was one other vehicle parked up; he didn’t recognise it, but had not expected to. He saw nobody else. The arrangement was for him to take the path to the right and keep walking until he was met. With mixed feelings, Swift eventually climbed out of his car and followed the instructions.

  In spite of the clandestine meeting and a heart hammering so loudly he thought people an entire county away would be able to hear it, Swift began to relax. He started to feel safer, secure in his anonymity here. His aim was to avoid the police, and there was no chance of them being in on this as part of a sting operation. This was about old-school loyalty, which was something you did not screw around with.