'Yes, well, I think you turned up just in time.'
He glanced at his wife and gave a slight shrug. 'Truth is, we should have been there a lot sooner, but…'
'Come on, Alan, you were trying to catch a killer and as far as you knew Odette was still feeling ill with a virus. I mean, you didn't just abandon her, you spoke on the phone.'
'Yeah, but that prick must have been at her side, either threatening her or more than likely Spenner, so she had no choice but to lie.'
Suzanne could see the anger in his eyes, as he turned away she winced when she saw the black stitches in his shaved head.
'As soon as we get a break, we'll be out there following it,' he whispered.
Suzanne felt the sigh build but held it in check. 'I know you will,' she said, resting a hand on his shoulder.
When he turned and kissed her fingertips, she smiled, though she could do nothing about the fear that rippled through her body.
'Do you feel up to carving the turkey?' she asked.
Bannister pursed his lips for a moment and then his chin jutted out in the familiar set of determination. 'Not a problem,' he said before tossing the brandy down his throat and pushing to his feet.
They walked arm in arm back through the conservatory and into the dining room.
Bannister stopped for a moment and looked at them all, Lasser and Jackie sat side by side, Tasha and her brother were talking, Jackie taking a sip from the glass of wine, Poppet the whippet sat by her side.
Kelly and Belle were giggling, Dorothy Marsh sat between them, her wrinkled face alight with pure joy, a strand of red tinsel in her frizzy grey hair.
Walking to the head of the table, the conversation stopped, and heads turned towards him.
He looked at each one in turn, Tasha with eyebrow raised, Lasser's dark eyes looking unsettled and swirling with hidden anger, Jackie by his side, her hand folded over his own as if trying to stop him leaping to his feet and dashing for the car. Kelly and Belle both appeared thoughtful, Dot grinning away as if she couldn't believe what was happening. Suzanne looked at him, her face a strange mix of apprehension and love.
Lifting the glass from the table, Bannister raised it high.
'To absent friends,' he declared, his voice trembling slightly.
Glasses were raised.
'Absent friends,' they all said in unison.
Bannister glanced quickly at Lasser and then turned away as he saw the tears shining in his eyes.
108
Lasser stood beneath the shower, his hands splayed on the tiles, hot water pummelling his head. Turning, he felt the spray of needles pepper his shoulders and back, helping to ease the pain of his bruised body a little, the water running over the tattooed raven on his chest.
He had spent the day trying to keep the sense of panic at bay, though the truth was the turmoil had not stopped spinning around inside his skull. At one point he had found himself dancing with Dot, the radio had been on, Sinatra telling everyone to, ''Have yourself a merry little Christmas''. Dot had smiled the whole time, in fact, every time Lasser had glanced at her she had been beaming.
No doubt she had been locked in a Cinderella-type dream, transported from a world of dank walls and rat shit and deposited in a house full of warmth, light and subdued laughter. The girls had fussed over her and Dot had loved every second of it, she had ploughed her way through the Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, informing the rest of them that she normally opened a tin of ham for Christmas. When Belle had asked her when she had last had turkey, Dot had carried on smiling as she answered.
'Nineteen sixty-nine.'
Conversation had stopped for a moment and then Dot had popped a sprout in her mouth, her eyes alight as she munched the vegetable. Half an hour later, she had tucked into Bannister deluxe Christmas cake packed with half a bottle of brandy.
Shortly after, she had fallen asleep, upright, on the sofa, the smile still in place.
Wiping the water from his eyes, he turned the shower off and grabbed a towel from the heated rail, absently drying himself as the extractor sucked out the steam.
Once the dinner had been eaten, Lasser and Bannister had cleared the table, the DCI washing and Lasser drying.
'Carole rang while I was outside having a cig, Bannister said, 'they've done the autopsy of Rowntree and found a tumour on the brain.'
'So that could have been the reason he went on the rampage?' Lasser asked as he thought back to Rowntree screaming at him in a voice pitched high with madness.
'I doubt whether we'll ever know, but apparently the tumour was inoperable and the guy would have been dead within six months.'
'Did he know that?'
'Carole checked up on his medical history and the last time he went to the doctors was over twenty five years ago, so chances are the man had no idea he was even ill.'
Lasser had placed a dry plate in the cupboard, hesitating before he asked the next question. 'What about Lanark, did he say nothing about what he intended doing?'
Bannister had sighed, his hands encased in pink Marigold gloves. 'If I could have taken the bastard down then I would have, but he told me what he would do if I tried.'
Lasser had closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Lanark with the knife held to Odette's throat. 'What if she's already dead?' he'd asked, forcing the words out around the fear clamped tight in his throat.
'If that were the case he would have done that sooner and scarpered, he wants her alive for some reason and…'
Lasser broke in and started to tell Bannister about Odette spotting Plymouth in the Lakes a couple of months earlier.
By the time he had finished, Bannister's face was starting to redden with anger. 'Why wasn't I told?'
Lasser had shrugged, having no answer to give.
'Plymouth must be tied up in all this, but I don't see how,' Bannister said, placing another plate on the drainer.
'I just pray that Spenner can tell us more when he wakes up.'
Bannister had grunted in agreement. 'One way or another we'll find her, Sergeant.'
Stepping out of the shower, he walked over to the sink, studying his face in the mirror – the dark smudges beneath his bleak eyes, the stubble on his chin looking anything but trendy. He tried to picture Odette somewhere warm and dry, but his mind seemed to mock his attempts. Showing him instead Odette cowering somewhere dark and dank, losing all hope, despairing as she realised that this time there would be no one to save her.
He blinked, and his eyes shone with tears of desolation.
Then a sudden image of Plymouth lanced into his mind like a blinding flash of cold, stark light.
Lanark had given them the false information on Plymouth and he had targeted Odette, though as yet all they could do was hope and pray that Spenner would be able to help when he woke up.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to form the links. Odette had gone to the Lakes for a holiday, and while she was there she had met Craig Lanark, but Plymouth had been there as well.
He remembered Odette telling him about the conversation they'd had in the small churchyard. Plymouth had been his usual self, smiling and charming but Odette knew him well enough…
Suddenly, he opened his eyes, Odette knew Plymouth, in fact they both did, but how had Lanark known in the first place that Odette had come into contact with the blue-eyed killer?
When he heard the tap on the door he tried to ignore it, his mind trying to form the links in the chain.
'Lasser, are you OK?' Jackie's voice sounded muffled from the other side of the door, and the fragments of ideas vanished from his mind.
Turning, he opened the door to find her looking in at him, her eyes full of relief as he smiled at her.
'Sorry, I was just having a think,' he replied.
Reaching out, she took hold of his hand and led him from the en suite to the bed. The room was cloaked in a muted pink light, the blinds open, snow once more drifting down past the window.
Lasser sat down
with a thump as she knelt before him.
'You will sort this,' she said, her voice firm with belief.
'What if I can't, what if it's too late?' he all but gasped, the fear jangling his nerves.
Pushing her hair from her face, she held his eyes with her own. 'I've been thinking about everything.'
For one agonising moment, Lasser was convinced that she was going to end the relationship, deciding that she couldn't cope with the murder and mayhem that came with loving him.
'There has to be a link, and I think I could have found it,' she said.
'You have?' he asked in surprise, the tension pouring out of him in a shuddering wave.
Nodding, she rose to her feet before scuttling onto the bed, her back propped against the headboard, she was wearing black harem pants and a small strappy top, her toenails painted a deep red.
Lasser eased back until he was sprawled at her feet, his eyes watchful as he waited for her to speak.
'Lanark lied about Plymouth being in the churchyard, didn't he?'
Lasser nodded. 'Yeah, he did.'
'So, it stands to reason he did that to try and loosen tongues.'
Lasser frowned slightly. 'Go on?'
'Both you and Odette have met Plymouth, right?'
'You know we have.'
'Yes, but how do I know?' she asked.
'Because I told you.'
Jackie nodded. 'I don't really know Odette, but would she have done the same with Lanark?'
The frown on Lasser's face grew deeper as he tried to picture Odette talking to Lanark about the white-haired killer. 'No, I don't think she would.'
'That's why Lanark ended up hurting her,' Jackie said, her face serious, her arms threaded around her knees.
Lasser felt the gears in his mind start to shift. 'That's what you meant by loosening tongues, isn't it?'
Jackie smiled sadly. 'I think he hoped that by giving the description of Plymouth then Odette would open up to him about the man.'
Lasser looked around the unfamiliar bedroom, his brow furrowed. 'When Odette didn't talk he started to try and beat the information out of her,' his jaw clamped shut, the fury crashing through his mind.
'But what information would she be able to divulge?'
'Bugger all,' Lasser admitted with a heavy sigh. 'Plymouth is as much as mystery to us both now as he was three or four years ago.'
'Then there's the man on the canal.'
Lasser tried to fathom the sudden change and then the penny dropped. 'Lanark,' he snarled. 'When he didn't get what he wanted from Odette he went after you!'
Jackie shivered at the implication and then nodded. 'He would have tried to get to you through me.'
'Fucker!' Lasser's eyes ignited with dark menace.
Reaching down, she took his hand and gave it a tug.
Lasser snaked up the bed until he was laying by her side.
Then she leaned over and turned out the light, pale moonlight filtered into the room as he placed his head on her breast and threaded his arm around her waist.
'There's one thing that I can't fathom out,' she whispered as she stroked his hair, he could smell the usual jasmine scent coming from her warm body as he closed his eyes.
'Who told Lanark that we knew Plymouth?' he mumbled as his mind started to close down.
'It would have to be someone close, someone who knew the two of you had met Plymouth more than once,' she said.
'A fucking grass,' Lasser spat.
Jackie continued to stroke his head, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling, the heat in the room making her sleepy as tiredness seeped into her bones.
'Any ideas?' she eventually asked.
Silence.
When he growled in his sleep, she shivered, as beyond the window, the soft snow continued to flutter down from the abyss of darkness.
The End
If you love Plymouth, the anti-hero, read one of his earlier exploits in Stormcock. Available on my amazon page https://www.amazon.co.uk/Robin-Roughley/e/B00CQ15GG4
Plymouth, the anti-hero, the man who has a moral compass as skewed as his white hair is straight. His idea of justice isn't one you will find in any court. But maybe it should be? He can silently track down and kill without apparent conscience, he is a killer after all, what does he need a conscience for? He kills using any method or implement he has to hand, be it a knife, a gun or even a Dyson cleaner. As long as the end is achieved, the means don't matter.
So, who is this man who silently tracks down his target and eliminates them, leaving no clues, no evidence behind? Rumours exist of his bright warm smile and the killer glint in his piercing blue eyes, DS Lasser has seen it first hand and knows the truth. Plymouth can smile even when he is ending a life in the most vicious of ways, but he can also save a life with the same smile locked in place.
For Lasser and Plymouth are intrinsically linked, after all Plymouth has saved the taciturn detective on more than one occasion and if there is one things Lasser hates then it is to be in anyone's debt.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
If you like dark humour, you will love book one in a new series about Charlie Roebuck.
Read on, but don't forget. Take it with a few
Pinches of Salt.
When we were young we were taught to be....
Whatever our parents had failed to achieve
As time goes by we understand
False dreams have slipped right through our hands
Now we know who was truly at fault
When all we are left with are
Pinches of Salt.
Pinches of Salt.
Roebuck paced the room, his face twitching in frustration as he thought of Cavendish, the walrus of duplicity with his smarmy smile and viper's heart. Stopping, he looked at the monitors and sighed before leaning forward and hitting another button. This time the classroom had been replaced with a science lab, eleven-year-old Peter Donald was concentrating on a test tube perched atop a Bunsen burner, the flame licking at the glass tube, his eyes narrowed behind a pair of Perspex goggles.
'This looks interesting, what is it you are actually doing, Peter?' the now-familiar voice asked.
Young Peter remained transfixed with the flame. 'Test,' he eventually replied, his tongue poking out in concentration.
'Really?'
'Mm.'
'I take it you like chemistry?'
'Love it,' Peter glanced at the camera, his face studious. 'I am going to be a famous doctor when I grow up.'
'Like Doctor Who?' the commentator asked with a slight laugh in his voice.
'Doctor Who isn't real,' Peter replied with a frown.
'Of course not. So, you want to help people who are sick?'
'Well, yeah, that's what doctors do.'
'And tell me, what sort of doctor would you like to be?'
For the first time, Peter looked perplexed. 'What do you mean?'
'Well, for instance, some doctors are called surgeons,' the pompous voice replied, sounding so far up his own arse that you could detect the echo.
'What's a sturgeon?'
The interviewer laughed long and loud. 'Well, young man, a sturgeon is a type of big fish.'
Peter eased back in the small chair, his eyes widening behind the goggles. 'I want to be a doctor, not a fish!'
The clip ended, and for the first time Roebuck smiled before sitting down in the swivel chair.
Entwining his fingers beneath his chin, he thought back to the glory days, prime-time television, billboards at the side of the road with his face emblazoned on the pasted wooden frame, advertising the shows he starred in. One minute, he would be grilling a bent politian, the next interviewing some celebrity about their life and how it had all fallen to pieces. Closing his eyes, he pictured the faces of the stars he had interviewed, for some the one-hour specials had given CPR to their flagging careers, others had flat-lined and been carted off to the showbiz mortuary.
He conjured Tommy Hammer and grimaced, the man had been low on the
pecking order to start with, working on children's television until he was found with his face planted in a mound of cocaine ten minutes before he was due to go live on air to do a reading of The Wind In The Willows. There had been outrage and he had been sacked on the spot, leaving the building dressed as Toad, no need for make-up or extra padding.
Five years later, the producer of Catch a Falling Star with Charlie Roebuck, had insisted that Hammer was on the show.
Roebuck remembered the sound of the spade scraping the bottom of the barrel, and right there and then he had decided it was time to put an end to the show.
As expected, Hammer had broken down in floods of crocodile tears, telling Roebuck all about his demise and what he had been doing in the intervening years. After being booted out for the toad in the coke incident, Hammer had been forced to work at a fast food burger franchise, serving the public through the drive-thru hatch.
In the end, the ''burning need to entertain'' had been too much to bear and he had started to sing to the punters as they waited for their brown paper bags to be handed to them.
If the order was over twenty pounds he would burst into a horrific rendition of ''Hey Big Spender'', anything less than that and they were treated to ''Money's Too Tight To Mention'', the Simply Red version, his fat, sweating face looming at the window, leaving some of the smaller children in tears of fright.
One or two unhappy customers had used their phones to film Hammer in action, and the studio audience and the viewers at home had watched as they played back the clips on the big screen, Hammer looking insane, his face drenched with sweat as his tonsils wobbled. ''The minute you walked in the joint… … I could see you were a man of distinction, a real big spender!''
In the end the manager had fired him, and Hammer had left, claiming he was only trying to make sure the customers ''had a nice day''.
Roebuck remembered expertly fixing a look of empathy onto his face in the glare of the studio lights when what he really wanted to do was hit Hammer with a hammer. He had glanced at the audience, watching as some of the familiar blue-rinse brigade fell for his sob story, dabbing at their eyes with chunks of screwed-up tissues.
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