Right to Kill

by John Barlow

She cast a glance around the restaurant, which was filling up. ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

  ‘Angry white men?’

  ‘It was just off the main square.’

  Joe knew. Birstall had been worldwide news. The murder of a Member of Parliament by a deranged English nationalist.

  ‘The bloke that did it,’ she said. ‘He’d eaten in here a few times. Lived just up the way.’

  ‘Why did he do it? I mean, what leads someone to murder another human being to prove a point? Delusion? Madness?’

  ‘We got him, that’s the main thing,’ she said. ‘You want a beer? It’s BYO. Offie’s in the square.’

  He shook his head. ‘Big day tomorrow. Time to decide on a main suspect?’

  ‘Most def,’ she said, suddenly sitting up straight as a waiter approached with the first of the starters. ‘Stuff about the pencil’s good. You’ll be off back to the library?’

  He nodded as they started eating. But he was tired, almost too tired to think.

  ‘The main courses are Bengali fish, mutton in apricots, some chicken in a minced lamb sauce and…’ she twiddled her fingers, trying to remember, ‘well, a few other bits and bobs.’

  He nodded. There was going to be far too much for the two of them, but it was difficult not to be taken up on the constant wave of Rita’s enthusiasm, the way she never took her foot off the gas, even in a restaurant. However, there was something nagging at the back of his mind.

  ‘What?’ she said, mid-pakora, noticing his sudden frown.

  He glared at her, eyes wide open. He’d just remembered.

  ‘Danny Cullen’s cock. Tell me!’

  She exploded. A hand flew to her mouth, but too late to contain a spray of pakora bits.

  ‘He was picked up for flashing!’ she said, as she dug down into her cleavage to retrieve chicken fragments. ‘Near Batley Park, late one night. Mistaken identity, but the description sounded just like him.’

  ‘Flashing?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said as she inspected her T-shirt for stray food. ‘The reports we got were that the flasher had whopped out a massive dong.’

  ‘That was in the report?’

  ‘Plural. Two.’

  ‘He had two penises?’

  ‘Two incidents, yer twat. Both women said the same. Plus, apparently it had some sort of tattoo on it.’

  ‘And you dragged Mr Cullen in because of the description?’

  ‘Look, he was walking along the main road at midnight. A patrol car saw him. He was a perfect fit, height, body type, hair, face…’

  ‘All you needed was the genitalia.’

  She could hardly breathe now, her ample chest heaving with laughter as she relived the interrogation of Mr Daniel Cullen.

  ‘We had him brought in, explained things as delicately as we could.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘No, no, we just said, y’know, the member in question had several identifying characteristics.’ Her face suddenly became serious. ‘Do you know what he did? No solicitor, no nothing? He dropped his kecks and pulled it out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not massive. Totally ink-free, though. Respect to him,’ she said, piling raw onion onto a poppadum.

  He watched her. His hunger was already on the wane.

  ‘What’s your thinking on the Patriot League’s heavy mob?’ he asked.

  ‘Daz and Ranksy? I don’t see it.’

  ‘They were over in Leeds visiting Shaw’s mum, threatening to sort her son out.’

  ‘That’s what she says. She also described herself as a drug addict, and lied to you about the car, about where her son lived, about his girlfriend. You show her photos of a couple of thugs, day after her son dies…’

  ‘Why would she make that up?’

  ‘Dunno, but if they deny it, it’s their word against hers. A lying drug addict. It’s all in your notes.’

  Finally, when she realized that he was staring at her in disbelief, she put her food down.

  ‘Look, Danny Cullen? The Patriot League? No. Not for this. Honestly, Joe, not murder. Danny’s a guy looking for a cause. He’s done the usual stuff, dabbling in extreme politics, UKIP, all the Brexit malarkey, now this patriotic shit. He’s not dangerous. In some ways I almost admire him.’

  ‘You admire him how?’

  ‘Says what he believes. Not a bad place to start, is it?’

  ‘And the racist stuff? All that about grooming gangs?’

  ‘Like I said. It’s what he believes. It’s his perspective. And it’s all about perspective.’

  ‘Bollocks it is. If it’d been a gang of white men doing the grooming, would you have heard about their colour? Or their religion?’

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right. But the grooming gangs were all Asians, Joe. Asian men. I don’t have an issue with saying so. It’s a good place to start.’

  Joe was only just managing to believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Tommy Robinson was right, then?’

  She shifted her weight, making it look like a massive effort on her part.

  ‘He’s a sad wad, and he almost brought a grooming trial down. But I can put myself in Cullen’s place. He looks around, sees what’s happening to his country. He’s an angry white man. I can understand where he’s coming from.’ She looked at Joe. ‘What? You can’t?’

  ‘No, I bloody can’t, to be honest.’

  ‘Fair enough. We got that out in the open, at least. Oh, I didn’t know whether you wanted rice, chapatis or naan, so I got plenty of everything. By the way,’ she said, twisting in her seat and pulling a phone from her front pocket, ‘have you been following things on Twitter?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘The case is getting a lot of attention. Weird stuff, an’all.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Pro-killer, I think you’d call it. Wait, I’ll show you.’

  But before she had a chance to find Twitter her phone rang.

  ‘I’d better get this.’

  She pressed the phone to her ear. Not even uttering a hello. She listened, and by degrees her face became sterner. At the other end someone was doing all the talking. Rita’s mouth hung open. Then:

  ‘OK. We’re on our way.’

  She pocketed the phone, set both arms on the table.

  ‘Another kill.’

  He let his eyes fall shut. ‘Where?’

  ‘A couple of minutes away,’ he heard her say as she pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Come on.’

  Sunday

  23

  This is me, isn’t it?

  Or is it?

  It’s been like this since Tuesday night. I understand, then I don’t. I get who I am, who I’ve become. Then I have no idea. Day or night, asleep or awake. It’s overwhelming. Confusing. But I’ve got to do it. I’ve been driven to it. To Jason.

  It was all so easy. I rang him, said I was Detective Peterson from Kirklees Police, did he remember me? No. I told him that I’d questioned him a year or two ago. Surely he remembered me? Nah.

  ‘None taken!’ I said with a little chuckle.

  I told him we needed some advice. He was confused. Coppers asking him for advice? Yeah, it sounded strange, I said. But there was something in it for him. For his defence, if he ever needed it. Something definite, on paper, signed and stamped by the police. He agreed to meet me. He’s not a total idiot.

  When I pulled up he was already waiting. A street corner a few blocks from where he lived. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to go through with it, but he looked cocky, smirking like he’d just had three bells on a scratch card. It made everything so much simpler.

  ‘Hi there, Jason. Get in!’

  He did, but cautiously, a quick glance left and right as he ducked down into the passenger seat.

  ‘You still don’t remember me? DS Peterson, Kirklees District?’

  Shakes his head, like it makes him cool.

  ‘Well,’ I say as we drive off, ‘we’ve got something. An object. Could be ev
idence. It’s still where we found it. There’s nobody there. It’ll just be you and me. I want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen it before. You’re not a suspect. This is about identifying where the object came from. It’s got nothing to do with you. I can’t say much more than that.’

  His brain is whirring.

  ‘If I’ve seen it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an object. Just tell me if you recognize it. And if you have seen it before, tell us where. It’s all anonymous, that’s why we’re alone. One hundred per cent anonymous, OK?’

  He’s like a dog, confused but thinks he’s done well. Y’know, tail wagging but he’s not sure he’s getting the bone.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘A letter,’ I say as we take the long way around Cleckheaton town centre, avoiding the cameras, up past the school and down through a housing estate. ‘A signed letter explaining your full cooperation with the police. It goes into your file in a sealed envelope. In the event of you being sentenced for any future crime, the envelope will be passed to the judge before sentencing. Tell your brief about it. Make sure it gets to the judge.’

  He nods, grinning now. He’s on bail for robbery, tells me as much.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are no promises. But the information you give us today could make a big difference. Judges like that sort of thing. They like it a lot. Do you understand, Jason?’

  Happy dog now. Tail wagging. I want to pat his head.

  We stop under some trees. It’s a back road, hardly anyone uses it now, right next to the park, close to the old railway line that used to run into Birstall.

  Do it. A voice in my head. No, it’s not that. It’s my own voice. Only it’s new, it’s louder, more insistent now. Do it, it’s saying. Like, swoosh! Just do it! What alternative is there, now that I’ve got this far? I have to.

  The sun’s just gone down. There’s not much light here anyway, and it’s already quite dark. I hold a torch.

  ‘There, behind that wall.’

  The wall has sunk part-way into the earth, about ten feet from the road. The whole area is neglected and overgrown, disused since Dr Beeching rode into town.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks as I make my way through a gap in the wall where the stones have fallen.

  I’ve caught sight of myself in the mirror a couple of times over the last few days. This can’t be right, something tells me. But it must be. Why else would I have been there, under the old railway bridge with Craig? That wasn’t me. But it was me. It’s what I’ve become. I was given this to do, after all these years. And I can’t stop. Not now.

  The ground is uneven, littered with loose stones. He follows reluctantly. I shine the torch at the base of the wall. We’re out of sight from the road now.

  ‘It’s down there. Look. All we need to know is whether you’ve ever seen it before, and if so, where.’

  ‘I can’t see nothin’.’

  ‘Get closer, but don’t touch anything.’

  He follows the light from the torch, crouching slightly, then more, hunkering down and shuffling in towards the base of the wall, still unable to see what he’s supposed to be looking for. When his knees are almost at a right angle, I take the hammer from my pocket, get a decent stance, and swing it into the side of his head.

  He hardly moves. He doesn’t make a sound.

  I swing again, harder. The noise of the impact is dull, flat.

  I’ve been driven to this. And now it’s my responsibility. No excuses. Not for anyone.

  His body sways a little. I wait. Then he falls forwards, head first. His arms do not come out to break his fall. He lands on his head, his body still in a crouched position, but upended.

  Then I hear the air escaping from his lungs. His body topples to one side. The dog face is gone. Eyes wide open. Nothing.

  Yes, this is how it has to be. How it should have been, all this time. I was brought here to do this. And now it’s done.

  Another swing at his head. Harder, deeper goes the hammer.

  Then I push a pencil in.

  Why? Because I can. Because I have to.

  There’s some resistance as it enters.

  I finish it off with my foot.

  Two down.

  24

  There were three patrol cars in attendance when they arrived. Broadyards Country Park was unrecognizable to Joe. He knew that they were close to its perimeter, but on the other side, perhaps half a mile from the car park where Craig Shaw had been left to burn. The new kill, though, was within the Kirklees boundary.

  As soon as a pencil had been found in the victim’s eye socket, the info had been relayed back to District, and it was immediately confirmed that DS Rita Scannon would be SIO. She’d been informed shortly after she arrived at the scene with Joe. When she got the call, she took a deep breath, looked around, and that was that.

  Joe had stayed just long enough to watch her assume control. Suddenly she was everywhere. Calm, smiling, efficient. Rushing nothing, not so much as a raised voice. She knew the name of every officer, and they responded to her orders as if they were glad she was in charge. It didn’t feel much like a typical murder scene, he thought as he watched her work. Then again, what was typical about murder?

  There hadn’t been much for Joe to do. A quick look at the victim: a young lad with his head caved in, a square impression deep into his skull, around the temple area. The pencil had been left this time, pushed all the way in, the eye itself still intact, wide open, a watery grey.

  With the gentle chunter of the mobile generator in the background, he’d watched things come to life. Rita was like a circus ringmaster, the way she orchestrated the show but never dominated it, a kind of centre-stage confidence, self-assured but making each player feel like the star.

  He’d seen his fair share of circuses, too. Gustavo Romano, his granddad, had been a circus clown. A great one, famous enough in Italy to be offered work at Blackpool’s Tower Circus. Not the top job, though. Another Italian got that, and never let go of it. As Joe’s grandma used to say: Be careful with clowns, they’re the worst.

  By one in the morning Joe was back in Leeds. There were no other officers at Elland Road from the Shaw case, not at that time of night, so he did it all himself, manning the phones, sending stuff from the Shaw case file across to Kirklees.

  Now, as dawn broke, he was back at the murder scene. Light was just beginning to break through the trees overhead. There were vehicles parked right along the narrow lane, some facing one way, some the other. The road had been sealed off and tyre-track impressions had already been taken, so it didn’t much matter where anyone parked.

  There was a white tent nestling under the trees. It straddled a low wall, the fabric hitched up awkwardly over the stones like a badly fitting shirt. People walked around in white overalls and boots, and each time one of them stepped into the glare of the overhead floodlight they became dazzlingly bright against the darkness of the trees behind, as though they were on stage.

  For a while he stood and watched the morning sun creep in through the foliage, changing the balance of everything by slow degrees. And with each passing minute the place looked slightly less atrocious, less cold and evil.

  ‘Joe, great, you’re back!’

  He’d been in touch with Rita a few times over the course of the night, as he’d worked the phones and database in Leeds, relaying info to and fro, collating material from Kirklees District. Two inquiry hubs were being kept open until there was a decision from higher up about a joint operation.

  ‘You eaten anything?’ she asked. ‘There’s a loaf of bread and some biscuits in the Landy. I got our curry delivered, but it all went ages ago.’

  He shook his head. It occurred to him that other than a few starters in the curry place he’d eaten nothing since… since when?

  ‘You had any sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Grabbed an hour at my desk. You?’

  ‘Sleep’s for wusses.’

  Fair enough.

  ‘Where you
at?’

  ‘Pathologist’s coming in an hour,’ she said, wiggling her hips as she yanked up her jeans. ‘Then Forensics’ll sweep the area, once there’s enough light. After that I reckon Jason’ll be getting a taxi to the morgue.’

  ‘You’re on first-name terms?’

  ‘You might say that!’

  So far, the victim had been little more than a name: cross-referencing him with Shaw, getting support staff in Leeds to crank up data searches on the two men, likely associates, points of intersection, a mass of info that might or might not be useful… Rita was definitely moving things along quickly.

  ‘I…’ he began, but wished he hadn’t.

  He’d spoken to a few other officers from Kirklees during the night as well. And he was detecting the same tone in Rita now.

  ‘Come on, spit it out!’ she said.

  He sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I dunno, but I’m getting weird vibes from you lot.’ He looked around to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. ‘The kid was nineteen. Not much more than a boy. He…’

  But he didn’t know what to say. The case was being handled with prompt efficiency. Yet the caved-in head, the pencil right through the brain? None of it felt particularly important.

  He’d been involved in quite a few murders over the years, and normally there’s a quiet respect for a dead body, the natural human response to the worst crime of all. Not a respect for the victim, perhaps; more a recognition that life is itself fragile, that each of us is separated from the most chilling of deaths by the finest, most tenuous of threads.

  ‘…I mean, don’t get me wrong, but it all feels more like a robbery around here.’

  She nodded with uncharacteristic patience, allowing him to go on.

  ‘That sadness? Y’know, the way a murder scene grinds you down a bit, the fact that a life has just been taken away, docked out like a cigarette. The starkness of it.’

  She let his words linger. And there was a softness to her face now, a kindness.

  ‘Jason Beverage,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, interesting name.’

  ‘Scum. How much do you want us to care?’

  ‘It’s a murder, no?’