Blood On the Wall

by Jim Eldridge

  He looked at his watch. Another eight minutes had gone by. OK, that was it. A false errand. Or maybe she’d chickened out at the last minute? Whatever it was, if she was genuine, she’d phone again.

  He walked back to his car and opened the door. As he was ducking his head down to get in, he sensed rather than saw a movement behind him. He started to turn, but it was too late, something heavy crashed down on the side of his head, and he felt himself tumbling down, banging his face on the bottom of the doorway of his car.

  He Tried to stagger up, forcing himself out of the car, trying to swing his arms, but something had been dropped over his head, a cloth of some sort. He couldn’t see; all he could feel were blows and kicks forcing him down. He tried to tear the cloth off his head, but arms gripped him, pinioning his arms to his sides. Something hit him hard on the head, through the cloth, and he felt sick, felt himself sliding into darkness.…

  He was aware of the ground hard and cold beneath him. There was the sound of a shout, the thud of feet running away … and then Georgiou was falling … falling … falling.…

  TWENTY

  Tennyson watched Diane Moody as she talked, her large fingers pointing out illustrations in the books she’d taken down from the shelves, and pointing out places on the large map of Britain she’d spread out on her desk.

  ‘But you say the Romans didn’t cut off and collect the heads of their enemies,’ he queried.

  Moody nodded.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘The head cult was practised by the ancient Britons, as I mentioned before. But there was one noticeable exception: Suetonius Paulinus.’

  ‘Who was…?’ queried Tennyson.

  ‘Governor of Britain from AD 58 to 61. In AD 61 there was a major uprising by Queen Boudicca against the Roman occupation. An army of 250,000 Britons rose up against the Romans, but Paulinus defeated them with a force of just 10,000 men.’

  ‘And he cut their heads off?’

  ‘No,’ said Moody. ‘He cut off the heads of his own men on a campaign just prior to this in AD 61, when he drove the Druids out of Anglesey, in north Wales. You see, contrary to general opinion, the majority of the Roman army was not made up of Roman soldiers. Thousands of the troops came from different parts of the Empire: Germany, North Africa, Gaul. And it was the Gauls in one of Paulinus’s auxiliary companies that caused him concern when he was preparing to attack the Druids hiding on Anglesey, because many of them still followed the pagan religions of the Celts and believed that the Druids were all powerful. So he had every tenth man in the Gaulish auxiliary beheaded. You may have heard of the word “decimate”. That’s where it comes from: killing every tenth man in a Roman military unit, as an example to the others. From the Latin ‘deci’, or tenth. Which, of course, is also where we get the word decimal from.’

  ‘And what happened?’ asked Tennyson, intrigued in spite of himself.

  ‘Paulinus led his men across the Menai Strait to Anglesey and they slaughtered every man, woman and child on the island. They also burnt the sacred groves of oak trees to wipe out any trace of the Druids.’

  A sudden thought struck Tennyson.

  ‘You said this happened in AD 61?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moody, nodding.

  ‘But the Romans didn’t start building Hadrian’s Wall until AD 122, sixty years after that.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Moody nodded again.

  ‘So … how is it connected with Hadrian’s Wall?’

  ‘In one way it isn’t,’ admitted Moody. ‘But in the cutting off of the heads, it is: either because of the ancient British connection, or the example of Paulinus instilling discipline into his troops by beheading his own men. Either way, these murders have taken place along the line of Hadrian’s Wall. Now, that could be coincidence, or it could be deliberate. But if it is deliberate, then I believe you’re looking for someone who has an obsession with either the Romans, or the Ancient Britons.’

  As Tennyson headed back to his car, he wasn’t sure whether he’d just wasted valuable investigating time listening to yet another of Diane Moody’s historical lectures, or whether he was on the fringe of putting her in the frame as a suspect. She’d said it herself: they were looking for someone with an obsession with either the Romans, or the Ancient Britons. And that certainly summed up Diane Moody.

  He had just reached his car when his mobile rang.

  Georgiou was sitting on a bed in the A&E department at Cumberland Infirmary when Tennyson walked in. Georgiou’s face looked a mess. There was a livid purplish bruise starting just above his left eye that spread across his forehead, with a gash in the flesh at the centre of it. Another bruise was on his left cheekbone.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Tennyson.

  Georgiou groaned ruefully. ‘OK, Mac, you can tell me I was stupid to go there alone,’ he said.

  Tennyson shook his head.

  ‘Not me, sir,’ he said. ‘But then, I never contradict a superior officer. If you say you were stupid …’

  Georgiou tried to get up, then groaned and sat down again.

  ‘The doc thinks they might have broken a rib or two,’ he said. ‘We’re just waiting for the X-rays to come back.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, we’ve got one of the bastards,’ said Tennyson.

  Georgiou looked at him, impressed.

  ‘Already?!’ he said.

  Tennyson nodded. Then he added: ‘Well, we haven’t got him as such, but we know who he is. His name’s Billy Patterson. A local teenage hoodie. He lives on the estate. We were lucky that one of the people who lived opposite the garages saw what was going on, and he recognized him. It seems there were four of them, and they all had hoodies on. But luckily Patterson wears a very distinctive top which he’d painted himself, including misspelling “anachrist” instead of “anarchist”. Also his hood fell off at one time during the attack. Luckily for us, the witness is an ex-soldier who says he’s fed up with these teenage thugs on the estate – that’s why he came forward. We warned him he might be in danger from other thugs for giving evidence, but he just said, “Let ’em try. They know me around here. Anyone messes with me I’ll tear their head off.”’

  ‘Pity there aren’t more like him around,’ said Georgiou. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Wilson,’ said Tennyson. ‘Former sergeant in the Parachute Regiment.’

  ‘Right, remind me to buy former Sergeant Wilson a pint when this is over,’ said Georgiou. ‘But not before,’ he added hastily, seeing the look of concern on Tennyson’s face. ‘We don’t want the defence accusing us of bribing a witness with beer. What’s happening about Patterson?’

  ‘Seward and Taggart are on their way to his house to pick him up.’

  ‘They’ll need a search warrant if they want to find this top of his,’ said Georgiou. ‘Remember what Stokes said: everything by the book.’

  Tennyson nodded. ‘That’s all in hand, guv,’ he said. ‘They’re getting the warrant as we speak.’ He sat down next to Georgiou. ‘So?’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the murders, Mac,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Ian Parks?’

  Georgiou nodded.

  ‘It has to be. Raffles estate. Parks’s home territory. ‘Ruefully he added: ‘And I walked right into it.’

  ‘The question is, can we connect this Billy Patterson to Ian Parks?’ said Tennyson. ‘You know what that lot are like: they clam up. The threat of a sentence doesn’t frighten them because they know it quite likely won’t happen, it’ll just be a hundred hours’ community service, or an Anti-Social Behaviour Order. And these kids treat ASBOs like some kind of badges of honour, proving they’re hard nuts. And even if they do get sent down, with fifty per cent remission, plus the time spent on remand, they’re out in a month. It’s a joke.’

  Georgiou nodded.

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But it’s up to us to make that connection. And by the book. Which we’ll do once we’ve got Billy Patterson in custody. So, apart from me getti
ng myself beaten to a pulp, what else is new?’

  Tennyson told him about his latest meeting with Diane Moody, and her theory about Hadrian’s Wall and the Romans.

  ‘A little bird nagging at the back of my brain wonders if she mightn’t be a bit more involved than she lets on,’ he added.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, look at those hands of hers,’ said Tennyson. ‘If you ask me she’s strong enough to do it. And maybe she feels superior to us, all this history stuff she spouts. Maybe she’s making fools of us, which is why she’s told us about Hadrian’s Wall. Making us run around in circles.’

  ‘She kills three people just to make a point about her superior mind?’ queried Georgiou.

  Tennyson shrugged.

  ‘People have been murdered for lesser reasons,’ he pointed out.

  ‘True,’ admitted Georgiou. ‘OK, we’ll look into her. God knows, we’ve got few enough suspects in this case. So far it’s her, the would-be student film-maker, and our ranting hooded friend on the website.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The X-rays confirmed that Georgiou did indeed have two cracked ribs, as well as cuts and bruises, but nothing else was broken.

  ‘Which is something to be grateful for,’ said Georgiou.

  The one note of concern expressed by the doctor was that of concussion, especially while driving.

  ‘No problem, doctor,’ said Tennyson. ‘I’ll drive him home.’

  ‘I’m fine to drive,’ insisted Georgiou. ‘It was just a bang on the head.’

  ‘One hard enough to render you unconscious,’ said the doctor. ‘The brain is a mysterious organ. Despite all our advances in science and medicine, there’s still a lot we don’t know about it. Sometimes apparent recovery can be temporary.’

  ‘See?’ said Tennyson. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘But what about my car?’

  Just then, Tennyson’s mobile rang. He gave an apologetic look at the doctor’s disapproving expression.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I thought I’d switched it off.’

  He headed for the main reception as he answered the phone.

  ‘Take my advice, let your colleague drive you home, and then rest. Is there anyone at home to take care of you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Georgiou reassured the doctor.

  Inwardly, he thought: no, there’s no one to take care of me. Not any more, not since Susannah died.

  ‘If you don’t promise me to let yourself be driven home, and to rest once you get there, I may not allow you to leave,’ said the doctor.

  ‘You can’t afford the beds,’ countered Georgiou.

  ‘I’ll find one,’ said the doctor.

  Tennyson returned, once again giving an apologetic look at the doctor.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said again. Turning to Georgiou, he said: ‘That was Seward. Billy Patterson’s disappeared. They’ve got uniform calling on all his known pals, places where he hangs out. We’ll find him, guv.’

  ‘Good,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘And Seward says she’ll follow us in your car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I drive you home. You were worried about leaving your car where it is, so we’ll go and pick it up. Then she’ll follow us in it, and I’ll drive us both back.”

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Yes it is,’ said the doctor. ‘On those grounds, I’ll let you go.’

  ‘And it’s half past six,’ said Tennyson. ‘End of our shift. So, we’re on our own time now. We can do what we want, and what we want to do is drive you home.’

  Debby Seward drove along the coast road in Georgiou’s Vauxhall. Ahead of her was Tennyson’s car, a green VW beetle. There was no chance of her losing the tail; they were the only two cars on this stretch of road. And, even if she did lose them, this road only went to one place: Bowness on Solway. All the turnings off went left, inland. To her right was the sea. This journey didn’t need a map or Satnav, it was one no one could get lost on.

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel in anger as she thought of Georgiou being beaten up, and so badly he’d ended up in hospital. When she got hold of this rat, Billy Patterson, she’d make him wish he’d never been born. She’d kick his balls through his head. Break his ribs, see how he liked that.

  No, she wouldn’t. If she did, she’d just be handing Georgiou’s enemies more ammunition. That’s what this had all been about. Nothing to do with the murders. A gang of juvenile thugs from the Raffles estate. This was to do with Ian Parks. Revenge for Georgiou being reinstated after that ‘incident’ with Parks. The Parks family and that rat, Councillor Maitland, would be looking for any signs of what they could label ‘police violence’ to use against Georgiou, and if she damaged Patterson, as all her feelings told her she wanted to do, then they’d use that as evidence that this was the way Georgiou encouraged his officers to behave. So, no. When she finally got hold of Patterson she’d find some other way to make him squirm. She didn’t know how, yet, but she’d think of something. That little bastard was going to pay dearly for what he did to Georgiou.

  She did her best to make her fingers relax on the steering wheel. His steering wheel. Oh, if only she could hold his hand! When she’d heard about him being beaten unconscious, she wanted to run to the A&E and hold him, tell him how much he meant to her. God, that would have caused a stir! That would have set tongues wagging.

  But say he hadn’t responded? Say, instead of being flattered, he’d been shocked and rejected her. That would be the finish for her. She’d have to leave the force.

  What did he feel about her? Anything? Or was she just a work colleague? After that one occasion when she’d held his hand sympathetically and told him she was there for him, there’d been nothing from him. But she was sure he had some kind of feeling for her. Sometimes when he looked at her, and he didn’t realize that she was aware of him, she saw something in those deep brown eyes of his. Indecision, certainly, as if he wanted to say something to her, something personal. But he never did. Or was she just being over-imaginative?

  If only she could get some time with him that wasn’t about work. Like … now. This evening. Maybe tonight was the time to find out if there was something there, or if she was just wasting her time.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Seward pulled Georgiou’s car to a halt behind Tennyson’s. ‘Right, thank you, my pair of nursemaids,’ said Georgiou. ‘I think I can make it to my front door from here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she found herself blurting out. ‘I still don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  Georgiou and Tennyson looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘What isn’t?’ asked Georgiou.

  ‘You see, there was a cousin of mine. Mark,’ said Seward. She was gabbling now, but trying to sound coherent. ‘He fell off a ladder and banged his head. Only a little knock. Everyone thought he was fine. The hospital sent him home, and that same evening he collapsed at home and died. Brain haemorrhage.’

  ‘The hospital did an X-ray of my skull,’ Georgiou pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but that’s just the bone,’ countered Seward. ‘My cousin Mark said he was fine, too. And he was. But then, three hours later, he was dead.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ demanded Georgiou. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past seven. You two stay and watch me until the magic hour of half past ten?’

  Tennyson looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, boss,’ he said. ‘It’s my turn to put the kids to bed.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to!’ Georgiou snapped irritably.

  ‘I can,’ said Seward.

  The two men looked at her, both puzzled.

  ‘I haven’t got anyone to go home for,’ said Seward hurriedly. ‘And I’d never forgive myself if I went and you collapsed and died.’

  ‘I’d phone 999,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to if you collapsed suddenly,’ insisted Seward.<
br />
  ‘She’s got a point,’ said Tennyson.

  Georgiou pointed to his car.

  ‘And how will you get home?’ he asked.

  Maybe I won’t, thought Seward. Maybe this is when things change. Aloud, she said: ‘I’ll drive home, and come back and pick you up in the morning.’

  Georgiou shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘It seems a lot of fuss over nothing,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what my cousin Mark said,’ defended Seward. ‘And look what happened to him. The doctors said that if someone had been with him when he collapsed, he might have been saved.’

  ‘It’s worth considering, guv,’ added Tennyson.

  Georgiou gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You seem determined, and I’m in no fit state to spend time arguing with you.’ He turned to Tennyson. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Mac. And, if I die in the meantime, DS Seward will be able to let you know.’

  ‘It’s not something to joke about,’ said Seward angrily.

  Immediately, Georgiou gave her an apologetic look, remembering that she’d had a personal experience of such a tragedy with her cousin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Debby,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be flippant.’ He gestured at his front door. ‘Let’s go and get that kettle on. I’m dying for a coffee.’

  While Debby Seward made them coffee, Georgiou went upstairs, showered, and then changed his blood-spattered clothes into something clean. Every movement he made caused him pain. Those thugs had done a good job on him.

  He thought of Seward, downstairs. It was the first time he’d been alone with a woman in his house since Susannah died. At least, an attractive, available woman. If Seward was available, that was. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in her life, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to just offer to stay and keep an eye on him.