Walk in the Park

by Jay Gill

  “Do you know where I might find Colewell now?”

  Bowers shrugged then stepped outside onto the pavement and pointed to a block of flats. “Last I heard he was living with his mum in those flats over there on Augustus Street. Dunno if he’s still there.”

  I looked at the flats and knew from experience if we started asking around on an estate like that, someone would tip him off.

  “Any idea which number? I should imagine you’d have some sort of paperwork if he worked here.”

  Bowers looked at me as if he was regretting having opened his mouth. “Hang on.”

  He walked into a small, dirty office and flicked through piles of notes and receipts and delivery notes. He scratched his head, then tugged at a filing cabinet that was stuffed so full it couldn’t be completely closed. He waved a scrap of paper in the air and stuck his head out through the office doorway. “Forty-two.”

  From inside the van Mark shouted, “If it was that weasel that murdered those women, tell your mates down the station to give the bastard a slap from me. And I mean a proper kicking.”

  His request rang in my ears as I hurried out of the garage and down the street. I pulled out my phone and hit Fuller’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fuller answered on the first ring.

  “I’ve got a lead. Look into the name Shane Colewell. I’m headed over to his last known address, the flats on Augustus Street, flat number forty-two. You got that?”

  “Yeah. You want backup?”

  “I’ll follow this up myself. No point putting anyone else onto this. For all I know, this might be a dead end. Keep everyone going door-to-door. I’ll call if I get anything solid.”

  “What about Jensen?”

  “Let her know and tell her I’ll call her if I need her.” I was sprinting now, dodging pedestrians and avoiding traffic. “I gotta go. I’ll call when I know something.”

  I looked up at the block of flats while I caught my breath. Across the entrance to the flats a large group of youths were gathered, and I had clearly caught their attention. As I got closer the group started to melt away. They’d had no trouble determining I was police.

  While most of the group watched from a distance, one lad hopped up on the wall and sat staring at me. He’d decided he was going to stand his ground. After all, this was his patch.

  He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and slouched. “Alright?” he said. “Can I help?”

  I looked down the street. “Perhaps you can. I suppose it depends. What’s your name?”

  “Everyone calls me Buzz.”

  “So, Buzz, do you live in the flats?”

  Buzz looked at me down his nose. “Why do you want to know that? You some sort of perv?”

  “I think you and your friends know I’m police. I’m a detective.” I showed my warrant card.

  “Gotta check these things. The streets ain’t safe. Mother told me never to talk to strangers. You know how it is.” Buzz was mocking me; he was as street smart as any kid I’d ever met.

  “Believe me, I do know how it is. Your mother’s a wise woman.”

  “You taking the piss, Detective Hardy? You better not be talking bad on my mother.”

  “You have my word.”

  “So what do you want with these flats?” asked Buzz. Despite his efforts to hide it, I could tell Buzz was a smart kid. The rest of the group were slowly heading our way and I thought it best to get what I needed before they returned. Once back in his gang he’d be less inclined to assist.

  I showed Buzz the photo of Colewell. “He lives in those flats,” I said, stating it as fact.

  Buzz shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he mumbled.

  “All I want to know is which flat. That’s it. It’s a lot of flats and a lot of stairs. I don’t want to go up and down all those flights of stairs for no good reason. I’m not as young as I used to be. Which flat is his?”

  “You think I’m some sort of grass?” Buzz looked over at his friends, who were getting closer. The group had stopped and were talking to a couple of lads on scooters, who were revving the motors to get my attention.

  “You wouldn’t be grassing. To my knowledge he hasn’t done anything wrong,” I lied. “I just need to speak to him.”

  “You know what?” said Buzz hopping off the wall. “I gotta go. I ain’t never seen him before.”

  I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb if I started walking round the flats in my white shirt, suit and polished shoes. I needed to go straight to the Colewells’ front door.

  I stepped back and gave Buzz some space. As he turned to walk away, I said, “Tell you what, tough guy. You help me out and I won’t call in a half dozen squad cars and insist they check the pockets of you and your buddies over there for weed and inhalants. I’m guessing you don’t want to be known as the one that earned you and your mates a trip to the station?”

  Buzz looked at me, sized me up, and began making out like he had a choice. We both knew the truth, but I played along.

  “He’s on the end there.” Buzz turned his back to his friends and pointed with his thumb. “Third floor. Facing us. Far end. Two or three from the stairwell. Now I gotta go.”

  “Thanks, Buzz. You’ve done a good thing. Your mother would be proud. I guarantee it.”

  Buzz smiled briefly then headed off to brag to his pals about how he’d faced down a Scotland Yard detective.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Keeping the miserable patch of grass to my left, I followed a concrete path to doors that led to a stairwell. I took the stairs two at a time. On the third floor I looked left and then right. My lungs were heaving. I might be about to meet him, my head kept telling me over and over.

  I reached the third floor and checked the number on the first door. It began with a 4. This must be the correct floor. I looked over the railing at the patch of grass below. Buzz and his friends had now become spectators.

  As I started towards number 42, a door at the other end of the passage opened. A skinny figure in a blue t-shirt, track-suit bottoms and trainers filled the doorway. Over his shoulder he carried a rucksack. He dropped it to the floor beside him, crouched, and started searching through it. He had his back to me. This could be him. I needed to close the gap between us before he turned.

  I picked up the pace, checking door numbers as I moved: 36, 38, 40… Yup, this must be him. I was desperate to see his face.

  He stood now, pulled the key from the lock and dropped it back in his rucksack. Then he finally turned and looked my way. Our eyes locked. In an instant I knew it was him. He matched the photofit, with the addition of some serious scratches down the side of his face and a split lip, courtesy of Catherine Simmons.

  I played the innocent.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for my auntie’s place.”

  Colewell wasn’t fooled for a second. In an instant he’d turned and sprinted to a second stairwell.

  “Stop. Police!” I shouted, then called. “Shane, it’s not a good idea to run. Let’s talk.” The only sound I heard was his feet rapidly hitting the stairs as his head start increased. “Shit.”

  I started after him, pulling out my mobile phone and calling Fuller as I ran. “This is Hardy. Backup needed. Augustus Street flats. I’m in pursuit. It’s him—I feel certain. Shane Colewell is the killer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Colewell knew the area better than I did, so losing sight of him would be disastrous. He was down the stairs like lightning, and as I reached the bottom I could see he’d already crossed the grassy area and was hopping over the wall onto the pavement. The rucksack was gone. He must have stashed it.

  Buzz and his friends were cheering and laughing as I reached the grass. “Come on Sherlock, you can do it. He’s getting away. Get those knees up.”

  Colewell looked over his shoulder as he crossed the road and ran straight into one of the scooter lads, knocking them both to the ground. The lad sat cursing and swearing, trying to shove h
is bike off him as Colewell got back to his feet and headed down the road to a playground.

  I was gaining on him as we crossed the park. His initial burst had drained him and he was slowing.

  A group of lads on bikes were still following and shouting a mixture of obscenities and mock encouragement. They gave up the chase after I threatened them with causing obstruction.

  Colewell ran through the playground and then took at sharp right at the exit. On seeing a squad car, sirens blaring, turn into the road he climbed over a garden wall. He scaled the side gate and I heard the thump and clatter as he landed awkwardly on bins on the other side.

  I waved to the squad car and they carried on past us. They turned into the next road to cut Colewell off behind the house.

  Instead of scaling the gate I kicked it open. I shoved the bins aside and was pleased to see Colewell limping.

  “Give it up, Shane,” I yelled. “You’re really pissing me off.”

  He ignored me, pushed open the back gate headed towards a building site.

  Despite his limp, Colewell picked up the pace before sliding under a gap in the perimeter fence. Beyond were churned-up plots and piles of building materials surrounding six partially built homes.

  I got down onto my back and slid under the fence. My jacket snagged and I heard it tear as I attempted to yank it free. Now I was even more pissed off.

  When I looked up again, Colewell had vanished.

  The squad car pulled up on the other side of the fence.

  “I want this place surrounded,” I shouted as an officer climbed out. “Get backup. Get a helicopter and a get a dog unit. The suspect, Shane Colewell, mustn’t get away. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure Colewell doesn’t double back. I’m going to search the houses.” I took off my jacket and threw it towards the fence. I rolled up my sleeves as I started towards the empty houses.

  In two rows of three, the houses were at various stages of completion. I checked the first house and could smell the cold, damp air that filled it. Internal stud walls were up and electrical cables poked through holes in the plasterboard.

  I came out of the house and walked around to where the back garden would eventually be.

  An electrician was rooting around in the back of his van. He looked up when he heard me approach.

  “I’m a detective. Have you seen—?”

  “He went in that one.” The electrician pointed with a large crowbar. “He looked like one of them oiks from the estate. I was just about to go over there and tell him to clear off.”

  As I approached the front door I grabbed a short length of wood from a skip outside.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The house was silent and I leaned back outside and looked over at the electrician. He nodded and confirmed I was in the right house.

  “Shane Colewell,” I called out. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector James Hardy. I’m a Scotland Yard detective. I’m here to help you. To do that, I need you to come out and walk slowly towards me, with your hands where I can see them. Do you hear me, Shane?”

  Silence.

  “We need to talk, Shane. This whole area is teeming with officers and police dogs. I can already hear the police helicopter overhead. Can you hear it, Shane? It’s important you and I talk.”

  My whole body was tense as feelings of frustration, anticipation and hate coursed through me. I was just a few feet away from the man who had so brutally ended Cerise’s life. The thoughts of the fear and helplessness she must have felt in her final moments were like daggers driving me forward. I needed to be the one to bring Colewell in. It had to be me.

  I listened again. Still silence.

  My hand tightened on the length of wood as I checked the downstairs rooms. A small, incomplete kitchen and dining area.

  Keeping my back to the wall, I checked the next room, which would become the lounge.

  I looked at the staircase. The balustrade had not been fitted. I kept my back to the wall and listened for any sound of movement as I crept upstairs. The steps creaked.

  On the landing a large window threw light on four doorways. No doors had yet been fitted.

  Before moving forward, I turned and watched through the window as officers fanned out around the building site. The gates to the site had been opened and a couple of squad cars were moving along the fresh tarmac road.

  “Whatever you’re feeling, Shane, I can get you help,” I said as I began checking each room. “What you’ve done, I understand.” I held the short length of wood up with both hands as I moved to the last room. “You’re not the first person to feel what you feel. We can talk about it. These emotions are distressing—I understand that.”

  I held my breath and charged into the last room. I turned left and then right.

  Nothing.

  The room was empty.

  “Damn it.” How could I have missed him? Had he slipped past me?

  I was in what would eventually become the master bedroom. Through the large window I could see the tops of the trees in Regent’s Park.

  I allowed my breathing to relax as I wondered what my next move should be. I didn’t relish calling Fuller and telling him I’d lost the prime suspect.

  I let the piece of wood fall to the floor and opened the double windows. Jensen was below. I leaned out and shouted to her, “He’s not here. Check the other houses. I must have the wrong one.”

  Jensen looked up, nodded and made a call as she waved to officers to started checking the other houses.

  I stood in silence. I kicked the piece of wood across the room. It hit the wall with a thud.

  A shuffling sound caught my attention. It stopped. Then a creak.

  I walked silently and stood at the doorway. Above me was a loft hatch.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “You up there, Shane?” I peered into the darkness of the hatch.

  I stepped closer. Nothing. I walked underneath and peered from the other side.

  Colewell came swinging through the loft hatch, knocking me to the floor. I landed heavily. He tried to run past me and I grabbed his leg, bringing him down behind me. He kicked back, repeatedly hitting me in the face. I let go of his leg and we both got to our feet.

  Colewell charged at me. I grabbed hold of him and we fell onto the unfinished floor. He was skinny but strong. He wriggled free and ran for the length of wood. I was getting to my knees as he brought down the first blow across my back. I slumped face down as he rained down further heavy blows. I knew I needed to move.

  “So you think you know me?” spat Colewell. “You know nothing.” He beat me again and again, across my back and legs. I covered my head with my arms. “Want to know how it felt for those filthy bitches? I’ll show you.”

  I rolled over as he raised the wood for another punishing blow, preparing to bring it down on my head.

  Jensen called from the front door to the house. “Hardy? Are you there? We’ve found nothing.”

  Colewell glanced towards her voice. I got to my feet and sprang at him, shoving him backwards across the room, pushing him with all I had towards the open window. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he glared at me. I kept moving him closer and closer to whatever was beyond the open window.

  He dropped the wood and grabbed my shirt.

  His legs hit below the window and I kept pushing. One hand let go of me as he grasped the window frame.

  Clawing at my shirt, he looked me in the eye. “Don’t let me go. I go, we both go.”

  I looked down through the window. For the first time I noticed the pile of broken bricks and splintered wood below.

  “Why the hell not?” I spat.

  “You can’t. You’re police. You’re no judge and jury—bitch.”

  He had a smug look on his face that said he knew I wouldn’t let him fall.

  I lifted him higher. He let go of my shirt with the other hand and grasped the window frame by his fingertips. I could see they were slipping.
<
br />   “Who’s to say you didn’t fall, Shane? An accident. Who would care? Anyone looking on would say I was trying to save you.”

  “You can’t just push me out of a window—you can’t.”

  “Who says I can’t? One of those women was a friend of mine, you worthless piece of shit.”

  I knew he could see the fury in my eyes. He twisted his face around, looked down at the rubble and broken bricks below, then looked back up at me. Now his eyes were full of terror.

  “Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As a mark of respect, Rosie’s Tea Shop had been closed the week of the funeral. So many bouquets of flowers had been left by customers and well-wishers during the lead-up to it that Rosie had been forced to put up a sign of thanks and respectfully request donations to charity instead.

  The evening before Rosie’s reopened, I dropped by to see how she was doing. After we hugged, we chatted and made small talk. Rosie changed the water in the vases. The room was alive with flowers. She showed me some of the messages she’d received.

  “She really brightened so many lives,” said Rosie, with tears in her eyes.

  “She did,” I agreed. “She’ll be remembered as bright, energetic, loving and giving. And that laugh of hers…”

  Behind the counter I noticed the addition of a small, discretely placed photo of Ceri on the wall. She was smiling broadly, and it looked like she was at the seaside.

  I made us both tea, and we sat down at one of the tables. Rosie took a packet of cigarettes from her coat.

  “Wales was a long journey. These were my companions.” She held the packet up and showed me. “I quit over twenty years ago and I don’t plan on allowing that bastard to be the cause of my starting again.” She crushed the packet and threw it in the bin.