Right to Kill

by John Barlow

  ‘Do you use it a lot?’ he asked as he took a couple of pictures on his phone, including a close-up of the tyre.

  ‘Most days. I try to keep fit. Either cycling or long walks.’

  Joe nodded appreciatively. Sam kept telling him to join a gym. But he worked on the assumption that if he couldn’t be bothered to drag himself there to register, it was unlikely he’d ever be inspired to use the facilities.

  ‘Last Thursday, for example? Thursday evening?’

  ‘Thursday? Yes, I probably had a training session. Ninety minutes, thereabouts. Up and down the valley. I take the cycling quite seriously.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Mid-evening. Eight-ish, I guess.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  Turner held up his phone.

  ‘I think I checked my emails when I got back. I don’t have the location activated, I’m afraid. Google doesn’t need to know every time I pop out for a loaf of bread, does it?’

  ‘Quite so. We’ll sort all that out later.’ Joe was already making his way back to his car. Turner followed. ‘Would you allow us to see your internet and phone history without a warrant?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Great. I’ll be in touch.’

  He got into his car, checked his WhatsApp.

  Hi, Joe! Absolutely. I’m in Tong village. Any time today is fine. Early evening?

  He felt a smile creep onto his face as he turned onto the road and headed back to the motorway. A main suspect and a date, and it wasn’t even midday.

  He called Rita as he drove. She was slowing down a bit now, the bouncy urgency in her speech replaced with a more measured tone.

  ‘Leo Turner, eh?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep. As of now, he’s my main suspect.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what you come up with. I’m off for a few hours’ kip. Oh, by the way, the stuff about the pencil is all over the internet.’

  ‘Jesus! How did that happen? Rita? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah, just. I’ve got no idea. It wasn’t me. You made the right call on that. But I’ll tell you what, Joe, I dunno about Leeds, but over here we fuckin’ hate rapists.’

  ‘Especially ones you never got sent down?’

  ‘You might have a point there, partner. But that pencil stuff was never gonna stay quiet for long. There were a lot of folk at that crime scene, and some of ’em have got big mouths.’

  ‘OK. I’m off for a bite. We’ll speak this afternoon, OK?’

  ‘Yeah. One of us’ll be busy by then. Decision on a single hub by mid-afternoon, they’re saying.’

  ‘Yes,’ he told himself after he ended the call. ‘And I have a main suspect.’

  26

  His eyelids were drooping badly now. He only noticed the arrival of his haddock and chips when the aroma of hot beef dripping made him spontaneously dribble. By the time he’d shaken himself awake, the waitress was already walking away.

  ‘Thank you,’ he called after her, fighting back the spittle.

  She turned her head and gave him a smile. She might have been twenty, he thought, fresh-faced, the unmistakable look of a girl from a good family.

  ‘Bloody hell, Joe,’ he told himself as he grabbed the vinegar and doused his battered fish, ‘you’re turning into your grandma!’

  He watched the girl for a second or two as she took an order at another table. She was nice, though. A student, perhaps? She had a mature kind of confidence, a politeness, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be working in a place like this forever. The kind of girl he hoped Sam would be getting to know.

  He pulled out his phone. Sam had replied to his text.

  Hi Dad. Cool here. Busy. Goin prague nxt week. See you xmas!

  Then there was a second text from him.

  Use WhatsApp, loser?!

  I do use it, he thought as he grudgingly added Sam’s name to his WhatsApp contact list. Old-fashioned texting felt more personal, like a private line of communication between the two of them, something that almost no one else did anymore. Now even that was deemed unacceptable.

  Prague? Christmas? He counted the weeks as he checked his WhatsApp for new messages. There was one from Chris Saunders, and another from Bridgette in Forensics. Duty-bound, he chose the latter.

  Joe. You might want to drop by when you’ve got a sec. A little present for you from the Shaw vehicle.

  He thought about giving her a call. Nah. He’d be there in forty minutes. It could wait. Meanwhile, there was the message from Chris.

  Hi, Joe. It’s Chris Saunders again.

  He liked the way that she also announced herself unnecessarily.

  Something’s cropped up. But I’m still free later this evening, if that’s any use.

  He replied straight away.

  That sounds good. I’ll send a message when I know how things are going here. See you in Tong!

  The batter around the fish was now sodden with vinegar, perfect for the adhesion of salt, which he sprinkled on liberally. It wasn’t going to do his heart any good, but one of the enduring pleasures of adulthood was that there was nobody to tell you not to do it. He’d realized this when he sat down for his first meal as a student in Nottingham, a quarter of a century ago. A plate of instant noodles, and no one there to tell him off for going mad with the ketchup. He’d never lost the daft, adolescent pleasure of smothering his food in ketchup, just because he could.

  But now, with Sam up in Edinburgh, he worried himself sick about what the new freedoms of his son’s new life might lead to. It was ridiculous, he knew. But he’d heard all about medical students. In fact, he’d arrested a couple of them. He’d also picked one up off the pavement in Leeds, a shit-faced kid, first year away from home, so drunk that eventually some kind soul had used him as a punchbag, kicked him to the ground and taken his wallet.

  What on earth could he say to Sam? Don’t get too drunk? Stay out of danger? Wrap yourself in cotton wool? He put his phone down and stabbed a chip. He had it halfway to his mouth when the phone pinged.

  The Greyhound pub in Tong? I’m very close, if you fancy it.

  He fancied it, he told himself, grabbing the ketchup and emptying half its contents onto his chips.

  27

  Back at Elland Road, he didn’t need to traipse all the way down to Forensics. Gwyn Merchant was in the operations room, grinning like a dog with two dicks.

  ‘Joe! You heard?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Your man Shaw? Mr Class B, eh? Or is he? Ta-dah!’

  A bellyful of well-ketchupped cow grease did little to make Merchant’s childishness any more bearable. Fortunately, Bridgette’s report was already on the system.

  As Joe logged on and read it, Merchant reclined in a nearby chair, feet up on the desk, hands behind his head, like a lobster dripping in serotonin.

  The report was brief. Under Shaw’s car, within reach of the driver, two small magnetic boxes had been found, the kind that some drivers still use to keep a spare key in. One box had contained a dozen wraps of cocaine and fentanyl, the other, ecstasy and ketamine.

  ‘They took their bloody time finding that!’ Joe said, clicking the file closed.

  ‘Heat from the fire had kind of moulded ’em to the chassis.’

  ‘I know, I just read it. Shit!’

  ‘Yep. Shit. Doesn’t get us anywhere, but shit.’

  ‘Cheers for the input. You know what I think? If someone was warning Shaw off, if I was part of a rival drugs operation, for example, what would be the best cover? How about anti-drugs vigilantes? Ranksy and Daz? They’ve been seen warning drug pushers on the street. We still haven’t spoken to them. Do it now?’

  Merchant swung his legs off the desk.

  ‘Ticked that box, as it happens. I chased ’em up this morning. They’re off the radar.’

  ‘What? They threatened the mother of a murder victim. Said they’d sort him out. They’re right on my radar.’

  ‘Yeah, no, no, I mean, for Bev
erage. I was over there early on today. Did a bit of digging. I’ve got ’em outside Spider’s nightclub in Batley ’til two in the morning. They work the door, both of ’em. Plenty of witnesses, bar staff, manager. They started at six the previous evening. Poor bastards have to clean the bogs before the place opens! The victim was still alive at a quarter to eight.’

  ‘Rita’s got that already?’

  ‘Yeah. Beverage phoned a mate, said he was off to meet a copper. They’ve already got a statement. She’s a fast worker, Rita.’

  ‘He was meeting a copper? What details do we have on that?’

  ‘His mate said the copper were called Peters or Peterson or something.’

  ‘Peterson? Any coppers with that name? In Kirklees?’

  ‘Dunno. We don’t have joint ops yet. No access to their system. Any road, Rita’ll be looking into that.’

  Joe thought about it.

  ‘OK, so let’s assume they got Beverage to the park by pretending to be a police officer. I still want to speak to Daz and Ranksy.’

  Merchant shrugged.

  ‘They’re not in the frame for Beverage. Plus, they’re a couple of ball-less tossers. Always have been.’

  ‘What? You know ’em?’

  ‘Yeah, I used to play rugby with Daz. And Ranksy? He’s just a bell-end. Y’know, if…’

  ‘If you come from Batley.’

  Merchant met his stare.

  ‘Aye, if you come from Batley.’

  Joe turned to his screen, keen to write up the notes from his interview with Turner while it was fresh in his mind.

  ‘What’s the news on joint ops?’ he asked as he typed.

  ‘Still waiting. Gonna be a single inquiry, once the brass’ve finished their rounds of friggin’ golf. Apart from that,’ he said, shaking his phone, ‘we got a lot of interest on the twattersphere.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, the general public want us to give the killer a medal. No, on better thoughts, don’t tell me.’

  ‘He’s got a name now. The Graphite Assassin!’

  ‘That information was supposed to be kept back. Who the f—’

  ‘Kirklees, eh? You can’t trust that lot.’

  ‘Ah, hell! Better get this onto the system. I’ll explain as I type. Mr Leo Turner, a.k.a. the Professor…’

  By the time the report was finished and uploaded, Merchant was sitting next to Joe, and his frivolity had dissipated. They had a main suspect.

  ‘I dunno, is it a match?’ Merchant said, as Joe held his phone up next to the monitor and they compared Turner’s bike with a screen shot from the footage of the bike racing away from Shaw’s burning car on Thursday evening.

  ‘Looks a decent fit to me.’

  ‘The back light’s different. You sure there was no residue?’

  ‘From the tape? I couldn’t feel any on the crossbar. I didn’t want to arouse his suspicions. Forensics might say different. And the light could’ve been changed.’

  ‘Or he could have another bike? He’s a lawyer. He’s smart enough to use a different bike.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Probably smart enough to get rid of it as well.’

  There was only one way to find out: they had to search the Turner residence.

  ‘Question is—’ Joe began.

  ‘Question is,’ Merchant interrupted, looking at his watch, ‘we only get one shot. And it’s gotta be now.’

  Joe’s heart sank, just a touch.

  ‘Asking for a warrant on a Sunday afternoon, on flimsy evidence? Who’s the sitting magistrate?’

  ‘Makes no difference,’ Merchant said. ‘We don’t have enough to take it to Andy.’

  Joe sat back, looked at the ceiling.

  ‘We’ve got the timeframes. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. There might be CCTV somewhere near Turner’s house. Get him coming and going at the relevant times?’

  Merchant was already shaking his head.

  ‘It’s Kirklees District. We might as well just feed this into Rita’s inquiry. They’ll be all over him anyway, once they’ve seen your report.’

  Joe was now staring at the ceiling so intently that his neck began to go into cramp.

  ‘He said we could look at his internet and phone history without a warrant. How about it? We could pick Alex up, shoot over there now, see if there are any gaps in his internet use, his TV streaming, I dunno, anything that…’ He stopped. ‘I mean, if he’s planned it, he must’ve read about Beverage online.’

  ‘Dicks like that still read real papers.’

  ‘He had the Yorkshire Post on his table today. But you’d want to know more. You’d do a Google search, wouldn’t you?’ He was already standing up, grabbing his jacket. ‘Come on. Let’s take a punt. I bet Alex’ll find something.’

  Merchant drew himself up from his seat with a lot less vigour, despite his relative youth.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ he said.

  Suddenly there was a subtle but perceptible shift in the atmosphere. They both stopped and looked over towards the door to see Andy Mills coming towards them, hands deep in his pockets.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ Merchant whispered. ‘On a friggin’ Sunday, an’all.’

  It took Joe a second or two. Then he knew.

  ‘Gents, a word,’ Mills said. ‘Kirklees are taking over the investigation.’

  ‘Both murders?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Yep. They’re assuming it’s the same killer.’

  Merchant was already turning to leave. ‘I’ll get a coffee. One for you, Sir?’

  Mills shook his head.

  28

  Joe remained at his desk. DCI Andy Mills was leaning on the adjacent one, hands still in his pockets, jangling his keys. He looked down at the floor in front of him. There were three or four other people in the room, all discreetly busying themselves, pretending not to listen: it wasn’t every day you saw an officer being relieved of a double murder.

  ‘Not much I could do, Joe. It’s turned very serious very quickly.’

  They’d trained together, been best man at each other’s wedding, and they’d both come close to tears when Tetley’s stopped brewing Bitter in Leeds. There didn’t really need to be any apologies. Yet.

  ‘Have you seen the press this is getting?’

  ‘Doing my best not to,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s the Graphite Assassin now. Hash-friggin’-tag. They’re already calling him a bloody serial killer.’

  ‘Leaked before Beverage was in the morgue.’

  ‘Aye, that’s as maybe, but Kirklees reckon they can get a result. Who was I to argue?’

  ‘The implication being that you don’t think I can?’

  Mills considered the question. There was no one on the Force he admired as much as Joe, and there was no one else he could really call a friend. Their families had spent summer holidays together. Even their kids liked each other. Then Joe had gone to Interpol. That had messed things up a bit. In fact, it had messed everything up.

  ‘Kirklees wanted overall control. You stay on the Shaw case, though.’

  ‘OK. I’m sure you argued my corner.’

  ‘I bloody didn’t. They’ve got a team ready to go. Whereas I’ve got some knobhead who’s been in France translating international arrest warrants and playing pétanque. It’ll save us a fair bit of money, an’all.’

  ‘I assume I’m not getting any more men this end?’

  Mills exhaled, long and hard. And he was a bulky guy; there was a lot of air to come out. It was the same when the two of them were out drinking. There’d be too much beer, then a late-night curry, washed down with more needless pints. At some point Andy would just sit back, empty his lungs, and he’d be done. Half-comatose, he’d stagger to a taxi rank, his night over. You either love a bloke for that, or you don’t.

  ‘Money’s too tight to mention, pal. If you need owt, ask. But from what I’ve heard, they’re gonna have more to go on with the second body.’

  ‘OK, OK. Who do I report to over there?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s
, y’know, who you’ve been working with.’

  ‘Rita! She gets a double murder, and I get the shaft.’

  Mills shrugged.

  ‘She’s local, and she’s got experience of the kind of folk they’re looking at. Who would you have chosen?’

  Joe had to admit it, he’d’ve chosen Rita too.

  ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘we just got a main suspect.’

  Mills nodded. ‘Let them have it. You’re still officially SIO on the first murder, but you’ll be answering to Kirklees on the overall investigation. Sorry, mate. You want an unsolved against your name? Two? If it’s black on black, let them have the bad stats.’

  ‘It’s not black on black.’

  Mills raised his eyebrows.

  ‘OK. What is it, then?’

  ‘I dunno just yet.’

  ‘That’s the ticket. The Joe of old!’ Mills said, venting his exasperation into the air above him as he made his way to the door.

  An hour later, the investigation hub for the double murder was up and running at Wakefield HQ. Joe made sure all the case files on the system were copied across. Two data clerks helped him, scrupulously polite and efficient, avoiding eye contact as they worked. The last items to go were Turner’s lists of the members of the Patriot League and the Lobster Pot discussion group. They were scanned and uploaded, with copies emailed directly to Rita.

  He’d already told Gwyn Merchant to go home. There wasn’t much more to do late on a Sunday. They’d regroup tomorrow morning, see where they were on Shaw.

  Joe sat down at his desk and checked his phone. Sam had sent a WhatsApp message: Welcome to the modern world, Dad!

  He considered a witty riposte, but couldn’t think of one.

  He clicked on Twitter, searched for the Kirklees District Police feed. There she was, a one-minute video of DS Scannon on the steps of HQ, all po-faced and official. The Comms Officer had even managed to find her a nice sombre jacket.

  He listened without really taking it in. Her tone was different now. The victims were young men, and the killer was ruthless and calculated. There was nothing about rapist scum, no mention of the fact that she would have snuffed Beverage herself given half a chance. He was glad Merchant had gone home; he’d have been rolling on the floor, creased up with laughter, going on about all that one-sixty-six bullshit.