A few in the group shook their heads.
Sam picked up on it immediately, moved away from the window, and stood almost to attention.
‘Whatever else they might have been, they were all victims of a horrible death. Some of you might be thinking they got what they deserved but our job is to find their killers. Understood? The day we turn a blind eye we may as well turn the lights off and go home.’
The nods told Sam she had made her point.
‘Right, let’s get cracking.’
Another camera flash had Sam blinking again.
Telling the press about one execution would have got their attention; briefing them about three guaranteed a hungry full house.
Saturday or not, all the media channels and major newspapers were present, TV crews as always trying to hog the best spots in the crowded room.
‘So I have a number of appeals today,’ Sam said. ‘Firstly has anybody seen any suspicious behavior around the disused buildings that used to be O’Grady’s garage or Edmundson’s abattoir…people, vehicles, anything?’
Sam paused to allow her words to sink in.
‘I am also interested in anybody who may have come into contact with the victims or knows anything about them. I want to build up a picture of them and their habits and I’m appealing for help in that regard.’
More camera flashes.
Sam watched the assembled throng writing their notes, the print reporters no doubt in shorthand. They tended to be old school.
‘Finally I want to hear from anybody who saw a white Ford Transit in the vicinity of The Avenue last Thursday. Thank you.’
With plenty of seasoned operators among the press corps, the rain of questions was never likely to be less than a heavy downpour.
Sam would have expected nothing else. She was ready.
‘Are all three deaths linked Chief Inspector,’ a reporter from one of the nationals fired first.
‘As you would expect that is a line of inquiry we are following,’ Sam said. ‘Nothing, as yet, has been ruled in or out.’
‘So is there a serial killer in our midst?’
The question, shot from a tabloid hack who knew the ropes, had ‘give us a headline’ in 10ft tall letters. It was also a moment where Sam needed to watch her step.
‘I can’t say that at this time,’ she answered smoothly. ‘Yes there are similarities in the killing sites in that they are disused buildings on the edges of the town but it really is too early to suggest the same person or persons is responsible.’
‘But it is a possibility?’
Here we go, Sam thought.
‘In life everything and anything is a possibility, but as I’ve just said it is too early, far too early, to suggest these deaths are linked.’
It was the best and safest response but Sam knew she would be reading ‘Is A Crazed Serial Killer On The Hunt?’ headlines tomorrow.
‘Were the victims known to the police?’
‘That is another line of inquiry,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure you understand that we are at the early stages of the investigation. As soon as I have more information I will let you know.’
A young woman wearing a Sky zip up and, Sam noticed, beautiful drop earrings, raised her hand.
‘Jeremy Scott was known to the police, albeit many years ago and albeit in Hampshire,’ she began. ‘He stood trial on charges of child sex abuse. Does that give you some idea of the killer’s motive?’
Another tricky one but a question Sam knew would be coming.
‘He did, but as you quite correctly point out, that was many years ago and he was acquitted…to link his death to him being cleared is again premature at this stage.’
Drop earrings held her pitch and fired again when she had Sam’s eyes.
‘Julius Pritchard and Hans van Dijk were running a junior football league,’ she said. ‘Perhaps their interests in young boys may be a factor in their deaths.’
Like any good journalist, she had done her research. Sam was impressed.
‘I do not want to speculate,’ she answered, the theme unchanged but now reinforced. ‘I deal in facts. Speculation and what may turn out to be unfounded allegations help nobody, least of all the newspapers which make them. Speculation is a dangerous thing for all of us.’
Sam hoped the response would end the line of questioning.
Every journalist, she expected, knew the case of a high-profile murder suspect hung out to dry in sections of the national press in the days after his arrest. The man was innocent, no charges were brought and a handful of major media names found themselves paying him significant sums for libel. The fallout had left a mark.
As the questions moved to safer ground…how many officers were involved in the enquiry, had causes of death been established, was there an appeal hotline...Sam knew she had been right.
Harry Pullman was lying on the settee watching Sam Parker’s press conference go live on one of the 24-hour news channels, Dean Silvers on an armchair close by.
‘What gets me is who gives a fuck about a few nonces?’ Dean said, tugging the ring-pull and feeling lager spurt onto his fingers. ‘They’d be better off catching these dirty bastards when they’re at it not the ones who sort them out.’
He put his legs on the coffee table.
‘Look at her, appealing for this and that. Waste of time and money.’
Dean took another mouthful of lager as Harry sat up.
‘Billy Skinner,’ Harry said.
‘Told you, take him out, sit back and watch the fireworks,’ Dean shrugged. ‘Mat won’t know where to start and when he finally starts somewhere, it won’t be with us. He’d never believe we had the balls.’
‘Luke might though,’
‘Doubt it,’ Dean tipped the can again, belched softly. ‘He’ll want to cut a deal. Mat will be running around like madman’s shite but not Luke.’
Harry said: ‘You seem sure.’
Dean downed the lager, crushed the tin, and wiped his chin.
‘I’ve spoken to them all at some time,’ he said. ‘Luke’s smart, Mark’s thick and Mat’s an arsehole. Likes one or two as well.’
He sniggered.
‘I heard Mat’s marrying Geoff,’ Harry said. ‘Not that Billy’s taken with the idea.’
‘Would you be if I minced in here and said I was marrying a bloke?’
‘Would make no odds to me,’ Harry told him. ‘Live and let live. So Luke’s our man?’
Dean reached for another cold can at his feet, condensation running like summer rain to a damp patch on the floor.
‘He’s the brains so he’ll want allies when it kicks off. We need to be sure we’re in that band of brothers.’
Chapter Eighteen
Ed was standing with his right hand on a desk, bent over looking at a TV screen, when Sam walked back into the HOLMES room.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ Sam said, exhaling loudly. ‘The Assistant Chief pulled me in the corridor after the press conference.’
‘And?’
‘The usual. Do you need more resources? How’s it going? What are your lines of inquiry? Are the deaths related? How much are you spending?’
She paused, rubbed her eyes. ‘But all roads lead to Rome. In this case Rome being how long will it take to get it sorted?’
‘In that case,’ Ed emphasised the word ‘case’, ‘you might want to look at this. Rewind it Paul.’
Paul Adams hit a button and the TV monitor brought up a black and white image.
Ed pointed at the screen. ‘There’s Julius Pritchard.’
Sam bent down for a closer look and saw Julius walking along North Road. ‘Who’s he with?’
‘Just watch for now,’ Ed said.
Sam saw two men in gorilla suits grab Julius and force a mask on his head before one of them opened the back doors of a Ford Transit.
‘Freeze that.’
Paul Adams hit a button.
Sam peered closer. ‘Are they cuffing h
im?’
‘Difficult to tell,’ Ed said. ‘We’ve watched it a dozen times but it looks like they’ve used something to restrain his wrists. Maybe cable ties. The quality of these cameras isn’t getting any better, sadly. ’
‘Go on Paul.’ Sam said, as she watched Julius thrown unceremoniously into the van. ‘Ooh, bet that hurt.’
‘No doubt,’ Ed moved his eyes off the screen. ‘Pretty gentle though when you think what was coming his way at the abattoir.’
Sam stared at the screen again as the two gorillas got into the back of the van.
‘Rewind it Paul,’ Ed said. ‘Now watch closely Sam, but don’t look at Julius, watch his mate this time.’
Sam locked everything onto the other figure.
‘There,’ Ed said, pointing at the screen.
Paul froze the footage.
Sam stared then under her breath whispered: ‘Shit.’
‘John Elgin speaking,’ the mobile shaking in tandem with his hand as soon as he heard the voice on the end of the line.
‘Councillor Elgin, star of stage, screen and CCTV,’ Billy Skinner laughed. ‘Not the biggest boy the girls have seen but certainly willing, for a more mature gentleman anyway.’
‘What do you want?’ Elgin’s voice was laced with sour unease.
‘Easy tiger,’ Skinner serious now. ‘I’ve got a new proposition. I’ve just negotiated the purchase of the old abattoir.’
‘What, where those two bastards were killed?’ Elgin’s stomach felt like it was in a fast descending lift.
‘Killed?’ Billy Skinner was as calm as the sea on a still day. ‘Don’t do those upstanding citizens a disservice. They were doing us all a favour. I thought you’d be pleased the kiddie-fiddlers were dead.’
Does he know? Does this bastard know everything?
‘You there John?’
‘I’m here.’ Elgin dropped into the armchair and rubbed his brow. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Seems the owners are keen to sell,’ Skinner told him. ‘Hoped they’d make good apartments when they’d secured planning permission.’
‘They failed twice.’ Elgin exhaled, looked up at the ceiling and shook his head.
‘They’d get it eventually,’ Skinner paused. ‘Anyway they’ve had a change of heart now, didn’t fancy posh apartments being nicknamed The Slaughter House.’
The sinister laugh made him sound like the bad guy from a black and white pot boiler.
Elgin shivered: ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘It’ll be one of the first jobs on your list,’ Skinner said. ‘A new club. I’m going to call it Angels, a small tribute to whoever gave it to those two sacks of shit.’
‘It’ll never get through,’ Elgin started. ‘The police will object for sure and…’
‘No excuses John.’ Skinner’s voice had changed, still conversational but Elgin could feel the aggression radiating down the connection. ‘Would you like me to send you a copy of the tape? Or perhaps your lovely wife would like a preview before it hits YouTube?’
Another burst of laughter. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Elgin dropped the mobile and slumped into his chair, a tidal wave of acid rising in his throat.
He took the stairs two at a time, barged through the bathroom door, and put his head in the toilet bowl. He hated the colour, 1970’s avocado green. He hated it more when it reeked of disinfectant, his eyes watering as he vomited yellow bile.
He pushed himself up and saw an old man staring back in the vanity mirror, the eyes as lifeless as a dead fish, the forehead clammy and lined. He ran the cold tap and splashed icy water on his face.
The smell of the heavy pine disinfectant in the small room was harsh. The smell of his own fear was even worse.
He gargled cold water, spat it out, and squeezed toothpaste onto his brush with a shaking hand.
‘I’m better than this,’ the words said out loud bounced back from the mirror.
Elgin had been smart enough to make a mark, smart enough to put a blighted childhood behind him and survive.
He would survive now. He would find a way.
He began brushing his teeth slowly, rhythmically, and watched something flicker in the haunted eyes, something take hold and grow.
This time the voice was only in his head but every word burned like a flame.
Fuck you Skinner. Fuck you.
Like John Elgin, Mat Skinner stared into a small vanity mirror and felt alone. He was in the bathroom of the three-bedroom static caravan that had been the perfect bolt hole for him and Geoff…a sea view, a site that was open all year, and most importantly, anonymity. Mat filled his cupped hands with freezing cold water and soaked his face until it was numb then walked into the lounge, the water running down his bare chest. He picked up a bottle from the coffee table, stared out to sea through the rain splattered patio doors, and drank. Three mouthfuls had him spluttering, his throat on fire. He didn’t like whisky but it was Geoff’s drink of choice and this was his bottle. Staring at the waves thrashing against the lighthouse rock, he hoped whoever was taking Geoff to sea drowned as well. Certainly they needed to pay.
Mat had already known where he stood in the family. Even the proverbial blind man could see Luke was the favourite, the one his father always turned to for advice, the one he really trusted.
Mat took another mouthful.
The last desperate days had just hammered it home.
He was the oldest. He should be being groomed for the top job, but even his mother thought he was a hothead who was too wild to safely run the show.
Yet today, Mat knew, he had been worse than weak.
He’d walked head-down past Geoff’s pleading eyes, walked past without a second glance, without begging for the life of someone he loved.
Some boss he’d make.
Mat had been on the boat many times, watched men already beaten to a pulp plead for their lives as their feet were manacled to a rope and rock; watched them try to shake free, heard the splash when they were thrown to the waiting water miles from shore.
Now it was Geoff’s turn and he’d done nothing to stop it.
Mat wiped his eyes, took another slug, and dropped onto the settee. His shaking hands managed to light a cigarette and he blew smoke towards the flecked oatmeal carpet, suddenly remembering lino-floored caravans of his childhood, before statics the size of bungalows.
Contrary to what his father said or believed, Harry Pullman was ripping them off. A lifetime as an ant in their organisation, what the police now referred to as a ‘crime family’, enabled Harry to understand the real size of the Skinner pie. Now he had decided to take a bigger slice.
But his father was right about the nephew, Mat conceded. Dean Silvers was nothing if not ambitious.
He walked to the cupboard above the gas cooker and hunted for the unregistered Pay-as-You-Go mobile. He scrolled through the contacts list, found the pre-programmed number for Scaramangers, and hit the call icon.
As soon as the call was made he’d go for a walk and drop the mobile into the harbour.
The risk he was taking carried the ultimate price. A Skinner or not, if what he was about to say ever got out he’d be taking a one-way trip on a trawler.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Let’s see it again,’ Sam ordered.
She watched the footage and there was no doubt.
As soon as the mask was forced on Julius’ head, one of the gorillas slipped another mask to the unidentified man alongside him. He took off his black cap, pulled the mask over his own head and then helped the others throw Julius into the back of the van.
‘Where did the other gorilla go?’ Sam said.
‘The van’s picked up on a speeding camera,’ Ed told her.
‘If you’re telling me that, we’ve obviously got the film.’
‘We have,’ Ed said. ‘All down to Paul.’
‘Good work Paul,’ Sam said. ‘We got a photo of the driver?’
Paul handed Sam a blow
n up photograph. She stared at it. ‘Not much chance of identifying him is there?’
‘Not unless they’re teaching gorillas to drive,’ Ed said. ‘But it’s not all bad.’
‘We’ve obviously got the number plate,’ Sam turned to Paul.
‘We have,’ Paul told her. ‘But it should be on a Range Rover. One of ours.’
‘What?’ Sam’s jaw dropped. ‘The cheeky bastards. So what’s the good news?’
‘Watch the gorilla who passes the mask to his mate.’
Paul replayed the video and Ed pointed at the screen.
‘This one on the inside of the path. Look at him. Look how straight he walks. Remember how Jayne Culley said the man she saw at Scott’s was ramrod straight, like he was on a parade ground?’
Sam stared at the screen. ‘Same with him.’
‘Exactly,’ Ed said. ‘Now look at where Julius is. He’s walking on the inside. When they grab him he’s got nowhere to go. He can’t run onto the road because he’s boxed in.’
‘Deliberate,’ Sam said.
‘I would say so. But look,’ Ed pointed again. ‘There, they grab him right next to the van. This has been choreographed like a dance routine.’
‘And our mystery man with Julius is pulling the strings,’ Sam said.
‘Would fit,’ Ed agreed. ‘Now watch it all again and count the gorillas.’
Paul hit play and Sam focused once more on the screen.
‘Two on the path, a mask handed to Julius’ mate makes three, and then military gorilla goes out of sight, probably to drive the van.’
She stood up straight. ‘Three. The same number as Curtis filmed getting Jeremy Scott out of the van.’
They watched the now frozen screen without speaking.
‘Jesus,’ Sam broke the silence. ‘We’ve got a gang of vigilante serial killers on a mission.’
‘Where the fuck is he then?’ Billy Skinner, sat behind his desk in Pussycats, his face redder than a curry-from-hell eating champion.
Luke, standing next to Mark, said he had no idea.
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