Blood On the Wall

by Jim Eldridge

  He dismissed the thought. She was a colleague, his detective sergeant. Romantic liaisons between officers was frowned upon. Stokes would leap upon it if he even thought there was something going on between Georgiou and Seward. The chance to get rid of Georgiou for ‘disciplinary reasons’. And maybe get rid of Seward, too. Not that there was any such thing going on.

  But she was an attractive woman. A very attractive woman. And it had been a long time since Georgiou had held a woman like her in his arms. Felt her arms around him. Felt her lips touching his, his arms touching her body, her hands touching him …

  Stop this! he told himself. We have to get out of this house, somewhere where there are other people around.

  He limped downstairs, and found Seward sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of coffee.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Coffee’s fine, but after the day I’ve had, what say we grab a meal and a drink at the pub. I don’t fancy cooking tonight, and I wouldn’t dream of asking you to negotiate my oven. And I’m not even sure what I’ve got in the cupboard. Plus, it’s getting late.’

  Seward looked at him, taken aback by this list of reasons why they shouldn’t eat here, even though it was all said with a friendly smile.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sounds a good idea, sir.’

  ‘Can we drop the “sir” business while we’re in the pub?’ he asked.

  She hesitated.

  ‘What should I call you?’

  I don’t know, Georgiou realized. The members of his team always called him sir, or guv, or chief. He didn’t want to set a precedent, where suddenly his junior officers were on first-name terms with him, no matter what directives came down from head office about ‘adopting an informal team-led approach’.

  ‘Maybe don’t call me anything,’ he suggested. ‘Anyway, we may not have much chance to talk tonight, once it’s nine o’clock. I’ve just realized that tonight is quiz night at the pub. Once the questions start, there’s a very serious atmosphere there. No idle chatter.’ He gave her a grin. ‘We can form a team, if you like. It might be fun. A break from running around after serial killers. Getting beaten up.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’ asked Seward, frowning. ‘Is two a team?’

  ‘There might be someone spare, there usually is,’ said Georgiou. ‘So, what do you say?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Kings Arms was half full when Georgiou and Seward entered. Georgiou led the way to a table where a bearded man was sitting alone with a nearly empty pint glass.

  ‘Hi, Denis,’ said Georgiou.

  Denis peered at Georgiou.

  ‘My God, someone gave you a going over, and no mistake!’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Georgiou. He gestured at the two empty chairs. ‘Are these seats taken?’

  ‘They will be once you sit down,’ said Denis.

  ‘Good,’ said Georgiou, and gestured for Seward to sit. ‘This is Debby Seward, a colleague of mine. Debby, this is Denis Irving. Farmer, local historian, and a fount of all knowledge about Carlisle United football club.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Seward, shaking hands.

  ‘So, plain clothes or just out of uniform?’ asked Denis.

  ‘Debby’s a detective sergeant,’ said Georgiou. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Jennings,’ said Denis. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Debby?’

  ‘A tonic water with ice and lemon.’

  ‘Driving?’ asked Denis.

  Seward nodded.

  ‘I’ll order us something to eat while I’m at the bar,’ said Georgiou. ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘What’s good?’ asked Seward.

  ‘Everything,’ said Denis. ‘Jenny’s a really good cook.’

  ‘I’ll get you a menu,’ said Georgiou.

  He headed for the bar, while Denis studied Seward.

  ‘This is very rare, Andy bringing one of his colleagues in here,’ he said. ‘In fact, you’re the first, as far as I can recall.’

  ‘Yes, well, he needed a driver tonight.’

  ‘Oh? Something to do with those bruises and the cut lip?’

  ‘Er.…’ Seward hesitated, wondering if Georgiou would like her talking about what had happened to him. She decided not, so instead she just smiled.

  Georgiou returned and handed her a menu.

  ‘Drinks are on their way,’ he said.

  Seward gave Georgiou a desperate look.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ she said.

  ‘No need,’ said Georgiou, grinning. ‘Denis is one of the brightest people I know. He’ll have worked it all out. He should have been a detective.’

  ‘I prefer cows,’ said Denis. ‘You know where you are with cows. So, what happened? Or is it an official secret?’

  ‘I ran into some people who didn’t like me,’ said Georgiou. ‘They beat me up.’ He gestured at the menu in Seward’s hand. ‘So, what do you fancy?’ he asked.

  Seward scanned the menu, then said: ‘The chicken pie.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said Denis approvingly. ‘Handmade. Like I say, Jenny is a good cook.’

  Georgiou returned to the bar to place their order, then came back with three drinks held in his hands: a pint each for himself and Denis, and a tonic water for Seward. By now the pub had begun to fill up as more people filtered in through the door.

  ‘Quiz night,’ said Denis to Seward. ‘Fifteen minutes more and this place’ll be packed.’

  ‘Yes, so …’ Seward was about to say ‘Andy’, but stopped herself. Instead, she finished with ‘So I hear’.

  ‘So, what’s your speciality?’ asked Denis.

  ‘Speciality?’ queried Seward.

  ‘For the quiz. I assume we’re a team,’ he said, looking at Georgiou.

  ‘We are,’ agreed Georgiou, sipping at his pint.

  ‘Films,’ said Seward.

  ‘Right, that’s you with films, me with local history and agriculture, Andy here with pop music …’

  ‘Pop music?’ echoed Seward, surprised.

  ‘The eighties are his speciality,’ said Denis. ‘That and football. Except for Carlisle United, of course, that’s my area.’

  ‘I do follow Carlisle,’ protested Georgiou. ‘I always check their results.’

  ‘Yes, but you haven’t been following them as long as I have,’ pointed out Denis. ‘You don’t know all the names of all the old players.’

  ‘No,’ admitted Georgiou. ‘But I can name all the Arsenal Invincibles team of the 2003-2004 season.’

  ‘Arsenal!’ snorted Denis derisively. ‘They didn’t even have any English players! All French and African!’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ countered Georgiou. ‘Ashley Cole. Sol Campbell. Martin Keown. Ray Parlour …’

  Seward sat and watched him, feeling both slightly bewildered and also amused. She’d never seen Georgiou like this before: relaxed, despite his injuries, talking about something other than the job. There was an easiness to him in here, which the team didn’t see on a day-to-day basis. At work, Georgiou was all business, intense, determined, driven.

  She sipped at her tonic water. Maybe if I had a glass of wine next, she thought. Enough for him to say that I shouldn’t really drive, and suggest I could stay the night in his spare room. Or in the living room on his settee. Or, maybe …

  Stop thinking like this, she told herself sharply. You’ll drive yourself mad. Or mess things up.

  Denis pointed at her glass. She was aware that he and Georgiou had nearly finished their beers.

  ‘Same again?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ she said, and hurried quickly to the bar.

  The landlord, a friendly-looking man with glasses and a moustache, smiled at her.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.

  ‘Two pints of Jennings,’ she said. ‘And a glass of … of tonic water.’

  She carried the drinks back to the table.

  ‘Still on tonic water?’ asked Denis.


  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘A law-abiding copper,’ said Denis, nodding approvingly. ‘That’s good to know.’

  There’s still a chance, Seward told herself. When we finish here, he still might decide it’s too late for me to drive home, and suggest I stay rather than have to come all the way back in the morning.

  ‘Still, if you’re driving back home tonight, and I’m guessing you’re in his car, how’s Andy getting to work tomorrow?’ asked Denis.

  ‘She’s coming to pick me up in the morning,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Carlisle,’ said Seward.

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ snorted Denis. ‘Going back all that way tonight, and then coming back in a few hours.’ He shook his head. ‘Makes no sense.’

  No, it doesn’t, thought Seward, but she hoped that Denis hadn’t raised the issue too soon. She’d hoped that Georgiou might say the same thing, but later.

  ‘I’ll drop Andy off in Carlisle tomorrow,’ said Denis. ‘I’ve got to go in anyway and go to the Mart.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Georgiou.

  No! Seward felt herself wanting to shout out. No! This is my chance!

  ‘No problem,’ said Denis cheerfully. He smiled at Seward. ‘It’ll save you making an unnecessary trip.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Denis,’ said Georgiou. He smiled at Seward, and as she looked at his battered face, the cuts and bruises, and those twinkling eyes of his, Seward’s heart melted. ‘He’s a good bloke, is Denis.’

  Yes, thought Seward, but inside she felt numb, as if everything she’d hoped for had just been snatched away.

  At 10.30, Seward, Georgiou and Denis left the pub. It had been an unusual evening. They hadn’t won the quiz, although they’d come close. There had only been two questions about films, both of which Seward had got right. The trouble was, because they’d been easy questions, nearly everyone else had got them. The meal had been excellent, as good as Denis had said it would be. And once Denis had made that offer to run Georgiou in to Carlisle the next day, an offer that Georgiou had so eagerly snatched up, Seward had stuck to non-alcoholic drinks for the whole evening. A pity, she thought. It would have been great to unwind with a glass or three of wine. And afterwards, go back to Georgiou’s house with him.

  Denis waved them goodbye and walked off down the street, and Georgiou and Seward walked to where his car was parked.

  ‘You sure you’re going to be all right driving back?’ he asked.

  What do I answer? she wondered. Do I say, ‘No, I’m feeling really tired,’ and hope he suggests I crash out at his place? But then what? A sleepless night in his spare bed, lying there, hoping.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘No concussion.’ He smiled. ‘I’m good.’ He hesitated, and for a brief moment Seward thought he was going to ask her in. But then she was sure he gave a brief sigh before he said: ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, even though she wanted to throw herself at him, throw her arms around him, kiss him. ‘Tomorrow.’

  With that she walked to Georgiou’s car, unlocked it, got in, started the engine, and drove away.

  Georgiou stood watching the red tail lights of his car as it disappeared. Then he opened his front door, and into went his house. He didn’t see the slight, slim figure standing in the shadows by the corner of the pub, watching him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning, Denis picked Georgiou up and drove him to Carlisle. Being a farmer, used to getting up early to arrange milking, Denis liked to get an early start, before the ‘commuter traffic’, as he called it, clogged up the roads. As a result, Georgiou was walking in to the police HQ at quarter past eight.

  ‘Morning, Inspector!’ the desk sergeant, Andy Graham, greeted him. ‘Feeling all right?’

  ‘Better than I was yesterday,’ replied Georgiou. ‘Anyone in?’

  ‘DS Conway,’ said Graham.

  Georgiou frowned. This was early for Conway.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘In the briefing room.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Georgiou, and made his way there. If Conway was in this early, it could mean that there’d been a development. On which case? he wondered. The head-hunting serial killer, or the search for Billy Patterson?

  He pushed open the glass door to the briefing room, and immediately registered the look of concern on Conway’s face.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Did you get that CCTV footage from Tait Street?’

  Conway shook his head.

  ‘There was no film in the camera,’ he said sourly.

  ‘What?’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Cuts to the council budget,’ said Conway. ‘At least, that’s the official explanation. They keep the cameras there as a deterrent, but they can’t afford to put film in. Or disks, or whatever it is they use.’

  ‘Incredible!’ said Georgiou, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Actually, that’s not the problem,’ said Conway awkwardly.

  ‘It sounds like one to me!’ growled Georgiou. ‘We could have got a vehicle! A number plate!’

  ‘It’s Richard Little,’ said Conway, sounding and looking very uncomfortable.

  Georgiou frowned. ‘What is?’ he asked.

  ‘The problem,’ said Conway, adding, ‘He’s missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  Conway nodded.

  ‘I called at his house again this morning, and he wasn’t there. Vera said he hadn’t been home all night. She was worried, but she tried not to show it.’

  What was it Dr Kirtle had said? We’re looking for someone neat and tidy. Fastidious. Georgiou’s own words flashed through his mind again: We’re looking for someone like Little.

  No, it was madness. But Conway was still looking at him, awkwardly, and Georgiou could tell Conway was thinking the same thing: the unthinkable.

  ‘I know it sounds mad, but you don’t think that Richard might be…?’ Conway’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Our killer?’ said Georgiou. Trying to bring some sanity back to the situation, he said, ‘It’s bit of a leap. He’s missing. Could be any number of reasons.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Conway. ‘Look how careful this killer’s been not to leave clues. A copper’s perfect for that. Any copper would know what we’d be looking for, and make sure they didn’t leave traces.’

  Georgiou thought it over.

  ‘You spend more time with him than anyone else,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘To be honest, he’s been acting a bit strange of late,’ said Conway. ‘I don’t know what to think.’ Then he added: ‘Then there was that business with the Reivers.’

  ‘Which turned out to be a dead end,’ said Georgiou.

  ‘Yes, but maybe that wasn’t the point,’ said Conway. ‘He’d said about it to me earlier, and I’d told him it was a dead end and to forget it, but he brought it up anyway. And remember what he said: “It’s my name. Little.”’

  ‘He was talking about Reiver names.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but say he wasn’t. Say he was trying to tell us something. Like … “It’s me”.’

  Georgiou mulled it over. It was too simple. But then, often things were simple.

  ‘I think we’d better go and have a chat with Vera Little,’ said Georgiou.

  He walked to his desk and checked his e-mails.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he said. ‘We have a result!’

  ‘On what?’ asked Conway.

  ‘On our hooded ranting friend,’ said Georgiou. He moved to one side so that Conway could read through the e-mail from GCHQ. It was very basic: ‘Re website threat: 14-year old arrested in Truro, Cornwall. No known terrorist connections. No accomplices. Footage filmed by webcam in culprit’s bedroom. Detailed information follows.’

  ‘So, as we suspected, some teenage loner in his bedroom declaring war on society from a webcam in his bedroom,’ sighed Georgiou.
/>
  The sound of the door opening made them both turn. Kirsty Taggart had just come in, and she looked very pleased with herself.

  ‘I thought you’d be interested to know that we’ve got your friend Patterson downstairs.’

  ‘Patterson?’ queried Georgiou, momentarily thrown. His mind was still racing on the news about Richard Little.

  ‘The antichrist,’ said Taggart, grinning. ‘The thug who attacked you. Debby and I decided to make an early start, thinking we’d catch him at one of the addresses while he was still half asleep. It worked. We found him at his own place.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Georgiou. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We’ve put him in one of the interview rooms,’ said Taggart. ‘Debby’s with him.’ She grinned again. ‘Mind, he protests his innocence. Says he hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘They all say that,’ snorted Conway derisively. Then, awkwardly, to Georgiou, he said: ‘What do you want me to do about …’ He let the rest of the sentence hang.

  ‘Fill in the rest of the team as they come in,’ said Georgiou. ‘Start with Kirsty here. Let them know everything you know. Then we’ll talk about it after I’ve talked to our young friend.’ Turning to Taggart, he asked: ‘Did you say that Seward’s with him?’

  Taggart nodded.

  ‘Right,’ said Georgiou. ‘I’ll let her interview him. Thugs hate having a woman question them. Makes them feel … small.’

  Georgiou opened the door of the interview room. Seward was sitting at one side of a table. Across from her was a young man with a sallow complexion, riddled with acne. He had an almost shaven head and rings through his ears and his nose. Next to him sat a smartly dressed woman who Georgiou recognized as one of the regular duty solicitors, Janine Evans. So Patterson didn’t have his own brief. A uniformed police officer stood at one side, watching.

  Evans and Seward both looked at Georgiou as he stood in the doorway. Billy Patterson kept his head studiously away from Georgiou.