Burning Ambition (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad Book 7)

by B. L. Faulkner

  He nodded to Singh who started dishing out the iPads.

  ‘All communication to be through DS Singh as usual. Names are what we want now, and plenty of them. You’ve no firm procedural orders as yet, so just dig deep into your contacts, lean hard on the grasses and find out what’s going on. Whatever it is, I’ve a feeling it’s big. Three hits don’t come cheap; somebody has put up a lot of money to shut those guys up, and I want to know who it was and why they had to be shut up. Okay, that’s it – off you go. Any information we get coming in will be forwarded to you by Claire as soon as we get it, so keep your iPads on and take care.’

  The Team sorted themselves out into pairs and left the room. Claire pinned three mugshots of Kershaw, Shore and Kalhoud onto the large white progress board on the far wall, leaving plenty of space for arrows and information to be written below each one as it came in. Palmer walked over and stood looking at it as Singh joined him.

  ‘So you think they knew something they shouldn’t have known then, guv?’

  ‘Without doubt Sergeant, it’s the only answer. You only kill three people if they know something so damaging that they have to be silenced, and silenced permanently.’

  ‘So they could have stumbled on something whilst inside the remand centre?’

  ‘Undoubtedly that’s where they got it; that’s the only place they could have got it.’

  ‘Shore and Kershaw did the Post Office job together; they could have been in the know before they went down, guv.’

  ‘No, if they’d ruffled somebody’s feathers before they were nicked they’d have been whacked then. No, it’s got to be something they discovered while inside – something about a past crime, or about a job planned for the future. But to kill them in order to silence them means it must be a bloody big job.’

  ‘Sir!’ said Claire, in a stop everything this is important tone. They both looked towards her.

  ‘The pathologist’s report has come through.’

  She pointed at her screen.

  ‘The third body wasn’t killed in situ – that is, in the van – he was shot somewhere else and put in the van later; he was dead before he was put there. Bullet in the head same as the other two, but the bone fragments from the entry wound were not complete; the body had been moved about and lost some. If he’d been shot where he was found in the van, all the bone fragments would be there.’

  Palmer barely had time to take this on board before a puffing Reg Frome came quickly into the room, quite out of breath. Without his all-covering white forensic paper suit and head gear on, Frome bore a distinct resemblance to Doc from the film Back To The Future; a shock of hair stood up from his head as though an electric shock had hit him, and a general unkempt appearance completed the mad professor look. But appearances can be deceptive; Reg Frome was a forensic expert of international standing, and was often called upon by Interpol for his input into difficult cases. It was Frome’s forensic advances in DNA profiling that had led to the Hague trial and conviction of Madjik for the Bosnia genocide.

  ‘Why is it that every time I want to use that bloody lift it’s stuck on the fifth floor?’

  Palmer smiled.

  ‘Executive power, Reg. Has to be kept ready in case one of the Assistant Commissioners wants an early night. Any case, what brings you up here so soon?’

  Frome placed his portly frame thankfully onto a chair and thrust a piece of paper towards Palmer, who took it.

  ‘No doubt you’ve seen the pathology report on the third body? Well, I can tell you it was not Robert Kershaw – he was not in the van. The third body was George Shore, brother of Peter. We did a DNA test against the DNA library, and that’s what came up.’

  ‘Hang on, Reg, George Shore couldn’t have been in that van. He wasn’t on trial at Southwark,’ said Palmer.

  ‘George Shore wasn’t listed as being in the van Justin, I grant you that. But George Shore was definitely the third body in that van, no doubt about it. DNA doesn’t lie.’

  ‘So where’s Kershaw then?’

  DS Singh took out her mobile.

  ‘I’ll call Southwark Court and get the CCTV from the backyard where they load the vans. We’d better make sure it was Kershaw who was put into that van.’

  It was. Confirmation soon came back, as did an email file copy of the CCTV footage showing Kershaw, Peter Shore and Kalhoud being put in the van. This was quickly followed by a call from one of the team on the street, telling them that Harry Shore had been shot dead outside a betting shop the day before.

  ‘Well, well, well, that throws a new light on things, doesn’t it?’ said Palmer, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘The whole Shore family taken out, and Kershaw apparently kidnapped.’

  ‘The Shore brothers must have upset somebody in a big way,’ added Gheeta as she pinned the headshots of George and Harry next to their brother on the progress board, and moved Kershaw’s a little away from them. Palmer looked at the board.

  ‘They certainly upset somebody, and that somebody needed Kershaw in a big way too. But why bother to put George Shore’s body into the van?’

  Gheeta shrugged.

  ‘Maybe they thought the fire would destroy all his DNA, and we’d go on thinking it was Kershaw and not go looking for him?’

  ‘Could be. Forensics say the same gun was used, so the killer or killers might have thought they’d fool us. But why not just spring Kershaw? Why all this killing?’

  ‘We’ll get the update out to the team, guv. I take it we are now looking for Kershaw as a missing person?’

  ‘Yes, put his picture out. Don’t bother with the Border Agency; I think this has all the hallmarks of a domestic squabble.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Three bodies all incinerated, and another shot in the street!’

  Mrs P. was serving up Palmer’s dinner in the kitchen at home that evening as he sat on the bottom of the stairs in the hall and prised off his shoes, watched by Daisy the dog who was hoping he’d pull a treat out of his pocket for her. No such luck.

  ‘Oh, that is nice,’ he said as he wiggled his toes.

  ‘I don’t think four bodies is very nice at all.’

  ‘No, not that. It’s nice to get my shoes off. About time we had a decent carpet in the room at work, instead of that cheap government issue rubbish that makes my feet ache.’

  He gave Daisy the dog a pat and wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to his plate on the table.

  ‘Tuna salad with new potatoes.’

  ‘I thought we were having toad in the hole tonight?’

  ‘We were, but Benji borrowed the sausages.’

  ‘Borrowed them? How can you borrow sausages?’

  ‘He’s had a new barbecue installed and wanted to test it.’

  ‘I noticed all the smoke in his garden when I drove in the front. I thought he was having a bonfire.’

  Benji – real name Benjamin – was Palmer’s neighbour and nemesis: mid-sixties, ex-advertising executive on a massive pension, and nothing to spend it on except cruises and new big boys’ toys; with a new expensive car every year – top of the range, of course – a non-fading suntan, a ponytail, and a mincing walk that Palmer had his suspicions about. But worst of all, the good ladies of Dulwich – those of a certain age, anyway – who used to have Palmer as their local hero to flirt and be cheeky with, had now turned their attentions to Benji; even more so after he was recently elected to the Local Council.

  ‘He said he’d replace them.’

  Mrs P. put the mayonnaise on the table and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Replace what?’

  ‘The sausages.’

  ‘Probably be vegetarian ones if he does, all nut and hedgerow. He could have walked down the road to the shops and bought some for his barbecue.’

  ‘The installers were waiting to test it. It’s propane gas.’

  ‘Gas?’

  ‘Yes, four gas rings that heat some large stones, and then the heat from the stones
comes up through the grill and barbecues the food.’

  ‘That’s not a barbecue, that’s a gas oven. A proper barbecue burns charcoal; that’s what flavours the food. Won’t get much flavour off of hot stones.’

  ‘It’s the modern way. Eat your food.’

  ‘It’s a gas oven. Might as well cook the food in the oven in the kitchen and bring it out on plates’.

  ‘Anyway, he’s invited us round on Saturday for the christening.’

  ‘Whose christening?’

  ‘The new barbecue’s christening; most of the WI are going with their husbands, and a lot of the councillors will be there too.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘No you’re not, you never work Saturday nights – especially if Barcelona are on Sky. Wild horses couldn’t drag you from the telly. How’s your meal?’

  ‘Horrible. I keep thinking of my sausages being mistreated on Benji’s hot rocks.’

  ‘Well you can question him yourself, he’s just come in the back gate – and be civil.’

  She nodded through the window as Benji approached it and gave them a wiggle-finger wave, before coming in through the garden door.

  ‘Hello both. I thought I saw your car Justin, so I bought some sausages. I stole yours, did Mrs P. tell you?’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘Here you are then,’ Benji said, placing a pack on the work surface. ‘Can’t let you starve.’

  ‘Vegetarian?’

  ‘Of course. Linda McCartney’s, tofu, nut and... something else I can’t remember.’

  ‘Hedgerow.’

  ‘I do like your tee-shirt, Benji,’ said Mrs P., hurriedly changing the subject and giving Palmer a glare.

  ‘Do you?’

  Benji beamed and opened his jacket to reveal a ‘Harry & Meghan’ photo tee-shirt.

  ‘It’s their wedding next week, so I thought I’d celebrate it at the barbecue on Saturday.’

  Palmer nearly choked on his tuna.

  ‘I’m definitely working.’

  Benji was disappointed.

  ‘Oh that would be a shame, Justin. Being a sort of official person, I had you in mind to propose the toast to the happy couple.’

  Mrs P. stepped in as Palmer was about to reply with his usual diatribe about the ‘family of pariahs that live at the end of the Mall’.

  ‘Justin has a very difficult case on at present, Benji. A quadruple murder.’

  ‘Oh, how awful! Well never mind, you must come around one evening and I’ll cook you a Benji special. I’ve a couple of my special kebabs on the grill right now.’

  Palmer pointed out of the window at thick white smoke billowing around outside.

  ‘I think they might be done, Benji. Either that or my fence is alight.’

  A look of complete panic overtook Benji and seemed to root him to the spot, staring out of the window.

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and see what’s happening?’ Mrs P. suggested.

  ‘Oh my god! Yes, yes.’

  And he was gone. Mrs P. sighed and fixed Palmer with one of her ‘I give up on you’ looks.

  ‘One day, Justin Palmer, I won’t be around to step in and prevent you from saying something in front of the wrong person that will backfire on you and give you a much-needed kick up the bum. You are a Detective Chief Superintendent, and need to remember that – non-political at all times.’

  ‘The policing bill for that wedding will be about six million quid – and the taxpayer will pay it! Amazing how the government can find that while cutting the police budget every year, safe guarding their future knighthoods.’

  ‘Enough! Most of the lower ranks would have been glad of the overtime.’

  ‘If the government paid coppers a decent wage to begin with, they wouldn’t need overtime.’

  ‘Enough!’

  Palmer was about to continue when the look on Mrs P.’s face made him reconsider and get on with his tuna salad.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning Palmer, Singh and Claire were in the Team Room going through the messages sent in by the team. They weren’t very encouraging messages; no word on the street as to who was involved in the killings, no sign of Kershaw, and no whispers of a big job in preparation. It seemed to be business as usual in the criminal section of the economy. The one good thing happening overnight was that the prison van driver and guard had been found alive and well, after being driven out into the middle of nowhere in Lincolnshire and padlocked to a field gate. There they had remained, until a lady having a morning hack on her horse had found them.

  ‘They are having a check-up at the local hospital, and as soon as the doctors give the okay I’ll get them brought down here and see what they have to say,’ said Gheeta.

  ‘I don’t think it will be much,’ said Palmer. ‘This is a professional job, I doubt whether they would have been allowed to see or hear anything of use. But have a chat with them, you never know.’

  Lucy Ross from Press and Media Department gave a perfunctory tap at the door as she walked in, a sheaf of papers under her arm.

  ‘Good morning all.’

  She crossed to join Palmer and Singh as they returned her greeting.

  ‘Oh, I see you have the case I want to talk about up on the board.’

  She stood and looked at the progress board.

  ‘Ugly bunch, weren’t they?’

  ‘Their mothers loved them,’ Palmer said as he eyed the sheaf of papers suspiciously. ‘I hope that’s not all for me.’

  ‘No, not all of it. I’ve just been in with Bateman; we are getting a lot of calls on this case from the press Justin, a bloody lot seeing that as far as I am aware nobody’s tipped off the press about it. But they’re on the scent and baying for details.’

  Palmer shook his head.

  ‘Not us, Lucy. We haven’t said a word, but I’ve got a full team out on the street banging heads for information, so no doubt the press put two and two together.’

  ‘Probably. Anyway, Bateman wants you to handle a press briefing as soon as I can get it organised; pour some oil on choppy waters, calm it down a bit.’

  ‘I don’t do press briefings Lucy, you know that. Bateman does them – he loves them; standing there in his smart uniform, making out he’s in complete control when if the truth be known he hasn’t the faintest idea what’s going on.’

  The three ladies smiled, knowing that Palmer’s description of Assistant Commissioner Bateman’s press briefings was just about spot on.

  ‘I’ve put you in the frame for this one, Justin; in fact, I have insisted you take it. The murder of three prisoners in a prison van, and the brother of one of them gunned down in the street, and no arrests so far is going to generate a load of negative headlines about lack of security and no police presence on the street; all the usual stuff the media likes to hit us with.’

  ‘No, let Bateman do it. He likes the limelight, he can give the everything under control and arrests imminent crap that he gives every time.’

  ‘He would do it, but I don’t want him to. I want you doing it. The press know you and your record, and it will give them confidence that we really are in control if they know you are at the helm. They know Bateman and his stock answers too well; they’d roast him and then us in print and on the telly. I need this one to come from the horse’s mouth. I’ll arrange it for midday in the media suite so we get the one o-clock news. Don’t be late.’

  She gave Palmer a wide smile and left. He looked from Gheeta to Claire and shrugged.

  ‘Nothing like being thrown to the wolves, is there?’

  Press briefings were one of Palmer’s pet hates. He knew most of the press boys and girls, and over the years respect had been built both ways; he’d keep them up-to-date if they didn’t make up their own scenarios or break his embargoes.

  The briefing went fine; he told them what he wanted them to know, and didn’t tell them what he didn’t want them to know.

  ‘Is it a gang killing, Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘
It could well be.’

  ‘Romanian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Drugs deal gone wrong?’

  ‘That’s one of the scenarios we are working on.’

  ‘There’s a rumour the mafia may be involved.’

  ‘No, there isn’t any such rumour; you just made that up looking for a splash headline. Stop it – and anyway, I’ve had a word with Don Corleone and he says it’s not his family.’

  Laughter in the room.

  ‘Is it true that the victims had been shot before the van was set alight?

  ‘We are waiting for the forensic reports, but yes, they had been shot.’

  ‘If it is gang-related, are we likely to see a gang war on the streets of London?’

  ‘No.’

  And so it went on, until the press was subdued and their hoped-for garish headlines about imminent gang warfare on the streets had been ditched in favour of ones about a drugs deal that probably went wrong.

  Lucy Ross called an end as the questions dried up and whispered: ‘Well done’ into Palmer’s ear as he left.

  ‘Bateman would like a word with you.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No, a message came down just now. Perhaps he wants to congratulate you on a good press briefing.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well done Palmer, you handled the press very well.’

  Assistant Commissioner Bateman smiled a false smile across his desk at Palmer sitting opposite. Bateman was the epitome of a social climber, but in the police force; he sucked up to anybody in authority he thought might assist in his career path to Commissioner. He was always immaculately turned out in a uniform with ironed creases that could cut bread. His nemesis was his head, in that he was bald, totally bald. It didn’t worry anybody, except AC Bateman. It was hereditary: his father had been bald, his brother was bald, and he wasn’t sure but he had a suspicion that his sister had started to infuse false hair pieces into her receding locks. He had once tried a wig, but the silence from all quarters of the Yard on the day he wore it, and the number of staff who kept their hand in front of their faces as he walked past put paid to that idea. Now he was contemplating a transplant and had a brochure from a Harley Street company on his desk, and was considering going for a consultation.