Yet what was most effecting was the large open crack in his skull which was caked with blood and a grey porridge-like substance which Coyle knew to be brain matter. Someone had hit him with immense force and it was not difficult to guess with what as the bloodied baseball bat lay just to the side of him.
“Bingo!” Said Grainy. “Got it in one - and another absolute charmer who’s finally got his just desserts.”
“I know - I recognise him from that first case working for you. We looked at him in connection with that poor butchered girl - remember?”
“I do, yes” said Grainy. “Strange thing is though, Rope, had I known McCullough was back on the scene, I’d have made sure we looked into him, too. A crime like that was tailor made for these two and I’d put money on it that they were both involved somehow.”
“Their D.N.A. should hopefully answer that one.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“But who killed ‘em?”
“That I don’t know. Not yet,” answered Grainy rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But we found a couple of balaclavas - there and there,” he said, pointing them out to Coyle, “which I’d guess belonged to the pair of ‘em.”
“You reckon they were doing a job of some kind?” Roper asked.
“Chasing some poor black fella more like,” Grainy replied. “That’s more their style and it certainly fits with the pathetic Bomber Squadron M.O. - bloody hateful bastards.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None yet.”
“Then who found ‘em?”
“Little old lady,” Grainy replied, “lives in one of the flats over there. She rang in saying she’d heard terrible screaming like someone was being killed - I reckon that was most likely McCullough there, getting stabbed in the nuts.”
“I’d say if anything’s gonna make you scream then that sure would,” offered Coyle.
“Amen to that.” Agreed Grainy. “Anyway, couple of uniforms went to check it out and found the two of ‘em lying here all bloodied and gooey. A fitting end to the pair of ‘em if you ask me.”
“And the killer?”
“Dunno. But in my book I’d say the guy needs a medal.”
Roper regarded his boss for a moment before looking back at the two dead men on the ground, remembering the terrible sight of Claudette hanging from a tree.
With horror he recalled how she had been battered and bruised, covered in semen and blood, the hideous lacerations of a chain clearly visible on her broken neck and the grotesque symbol of a swastika carved into her chest so deeply that her breasts had been sliced through.
Roper felt his gorge rise at the thought of it but it was something he would never be able to forget.
If these two men had been amongst those who had done such dreadful things to her, then they did, indeed, get everything they surely deserved.
But now it was Roper’s job to find the person who had killed them.
***
Mr. Patel and his son, Anil, walked into the station several hours later and asked to speak with a detective about the murders which had been reported on the morning news.
The desk sergeant summoned Roper and he, in turn, led them to a side room where they could speak in private.
Mr. Patel then proceeded to explain to Roper how his son had come home late last night, breathless, sweating and clearly terrified, saying how he and his friends had been set upon by a group of masked men. This armed gang had apparently bundled out of a black van in purposeful pursuit of them.
Anil recounted how he became separated from his friends and found himself being chased by two of the men - one wearing all black and armed with a pick-axe handle, the other wearing typical skinhead attire and wielding a baseball bat.
Roper listened intently as Anil proceeded to tell him how the one dressed like a skinhead had then miraculously saved his life. Evidently this individual had ripped off his mask and told the boy to run having already brought down the man dressed in black by using the baseball bat to trip him.
Anil went on to say that he immediately did as ordered by hopping over the wall and running away down the alley on the other side.
Yet no sooner had he escaped when he was very nearly run down by the very van that had been stalking him and his friends originally.
Anil sprinted off again, fearing that the driver, also wearing all black, might give chase. But fortunately he did not.
Several anxious minutes later, Anil arrived home safely to find his father waiting up for him.
However, upon watching the breakfast news on the T.V., they heard about the two dead men in the alley and Anil prayed that one of them was not the man who had so bravely saved him - possibly at great personal cost.
Grateful to this selfless individual for saving his son, Mr. Patel had insisted they go to the station to tell the police what they knew, hoping it might help in some way.
Roper found all this fascinating. Neither of the dead men were wearing typical skinhead attire so it was safe to assume that this apparent ‘hero’ and, indeed, the probable killer was the only one of the skinheads who was not dressed in black, which was extremely perplexing.
Why would a skinhead kill two of his friends in order to save the life of an Asian boy whom they were all apparently chasing? It did not make any sense at all.
Unfortunately, the boy could offer no proper description of the man who had saved him, aside from the fact that he was white and had a shaved head, as everything had happened so quickly. As for his clothes, Anil remembered a white Fred Perry shirt, calf length jeans and cherry red Doc Martens, which left no doubt as to which tribe the man belonged.
Anything else was little more than a blur.
Nevertheless, Roper thanked Mr. Patel and his son for the information and said he would be in touch if he needed anything further. For now, however, they had been very helpful.
Later that day, Roper and Grainy visited the morgue where the pathologist had more news for them.
She confirmed that Merton’s death had been caused by ‘blunt instrument trauma’; the weapon used unquestionably the baseball bat found at the scene.
As for McCullough, he had been killed by a curved bladed knife of between seven and eight inches long, possibly something like that which a hunter might use. Having stabbed through the right eye, it severed the optic nerve and pierced the temporal lobe of the brain killing the skinhead almost instantly.
Prior to his death, however, the same weapon had been thrust into McCullough’s scrotum, slicing through the left testicle before being twisted to cause maximum pain.
The pathologist had also discovered that both the injury to Merton’s skull and the stab wound to McCullough’s groin had been inflicted from a position on the ground. This meant it was probable that their assailant was, in fact, being attacked by them at the time. Indeed, their wounds were consistent with this supposed killer attempting to defend himself.
More interesting still, was that the D.N.A. of both men did indeed match that found at the scene of Claudette Sekibo’s murder. Furthermore, the pathologist was in no doubt that each of the skinheads had raped her and been complicit in her death.
This was momentous news and whilst Grainy continued to speak with the pathologist, Roper studied the naked bodies of the two skinheads laid out on the tables before him with utter disdain, hating them for the terrible things they had done.
First, their was the ghoulish sight of Merton; his skin grey in death and the hideously deformed harelip drained of blood so that it now appeared almost blue in colour.
Coyle then glanced over at McCullough; his muscular body seemingly carved from marble yet the large bulldog tattoo on his arm glaringly colourful in comparison.
As he studied them, an uneasy feeling was niggling Roper; his subconscious telling him that there was something about the two men’s appearance tha
t was incredibly important. Nevertheless, no matter how hard he tried to force it, the information would just not come.
However, he would not let it rest and would think on it some more because instinct told him that the answer to his many questions lay with the bodies of those two dead skinheads in the morgue.
And Roper Coyle was nothing if not relentless.
Chapter Sixteen
Vasily arrived shortly before lunch having received the phone call from Sam just an hour earlier.
He was immensely relieved to hear from his best friend at long last - although a little hurt that Sam had not kept him informed of his whereabouts over the past few months.
Nevertheless, he arrived at Miriam’s bedsit bearing coffee, donuts and a bag full of pastries - mostly for himself.
Yet upon seeing Sam as he opened the door Vas was incredibly shocked by his friend’s bruised, beaten and shaven-headed appearance, although careful not to let his concern show.
“Christ!” He blustered, disguising the worry in his voice with humour as Sam showed him in, “Did you lose a fight with your barber?”
Self-consciously, Sam rubbed his hand over the two millimetres of stubble that covered his scalp and smiled, “Yeah, something like that,” he said, before embracing his friend in a manly hug.
“Good to see you pal,” he added, patting him firmly on the back.
“You, too, tovarich,” replied Vas, as Sam invited him in, “but I wasn’t kidding about the fight - you look as though you’ve just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty banged up but okay.”
“That’s good to hear. But what’s with the accent?”
Sam had become so used to speaking in an English accent that it had become almost second nature. “Hey, it’s a long story,” he shrugged, slipping back into his more natural New Hampshire tones for the first time in months, which felt somewhat odd.
“So come on then,” coaxed Vas, “what happened?”
“Yeah, I’d like to know that, too,” said Miriam, who unbeknownst to her friends, had suddenly appeared in the doorway of her own home, a little out of breath.
The two men looked at her, clearly surprised to see her standing there.
“What? I was worried,” she said defensively, “so I swapped shifts with someone at the hospital - thought I might be better use here, that’s all.”
Vas gave her a knowing smile. “Of course,” he said.
Miri ignored the veiled insinuation as she shut the door and slipped off her coat. She then crossed to where Sam was standing and silently gave his wounds a cursory inspection, all the while keeping her gaze from his for fear of her eyes giving her away.
“Good,” she said, approving of her handiwork. “Everything looks alright.”
“Great. Pleased to hear it,” said Vas, clearly impatient and unable to wait any longer. “So come on then, Sam, tell us what you’ve been up to all this time.”
“Fine,” Sam said. “Hand out those donuts and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Vasily did as instructed and once they were all comfortably seated in the cosy nest of chairs in the centre of Miri’s modest bedsit, Sam set about telling them exactly what he had been doing for the past few months.
***
Miri and Vas listened intently to Sam’s story, neither quite able to comprehend the lengths he had gone to in order to find Merton and McCullough. Furthermore, after hearing how the two skinheads eventually died, they considered Sam extremely lucky to have survived the ordeal at all.
In point of fact, neither Miri or Vas were shocked by Sam’s commitment to the task he had set himself as they knew him to be nothing if not determined. What is more, once he had set his mind on something there was very little hope of dissuading him.
Nor did they judge him for what he had done as in their opinion, the men Sam had killed were evil and rightly deserved to die.
Slightly more surprising, however, after all that had ensued, was that Sam remained unflinching in what he still had to do with his resolve to track down the others completely undiminished, despite whatever personal cost he might have to pay as a result.
The fact that he had just killed two men - whose blood still soiled his discarded clothes - had obviously not discouraged him from his quest at all, even though he had been so badly injured himself.
Indeed, he was chomping at the bit to go after the man Finch for whom he now had a firm lead.
Yet what Sam did not say, what he could not enunciate for fear of his anger exploding, was that he still saw Claudette’s butchered carcass every time he closed his eyes. His sleep was haunted by visions of his murdered fiancé and the men that had brutalised her; their faces etched so indelibly in his mind that he could see them as clearly as if they were in front of him.
Each time he saw them in his dreams his blood boiled and his resolve gathered ever more steam, as if a speeding locomotive charging towards an unstoppable destiny.
For the present, however, he had no choice but to rest up and let his body heal. If he had learned anything from his confrontation with Merton and McCullough it was that he needed to be at his best if he was to have any hope of defeating the others.
Even so, it was immensely frustrating, which was clear for Miri and Vas to see, although the warmth of their friendship and their good, common sense advise helped to quell his urgent desire to rush off to Pemberton Woods and kill Roger Finch, injured or not.
According to Miri, it would take around eight weeks for Sam’s arm to mend. Until then he would just have to be patient - yet he already knew the waiting would be hell.
However, he had no choice and until such a time when he was fully fit he would stay with Miri in her bedsit.
Whilst there, Sam also thought it prudent to keep a low profile, just in case he was being sought by the police or, indeed, the remaining members of the Bomber Squadron who would undoubtedly have some rather pointed questions about his part in the deaths of their associates.
Nevertheless, Sam’s enforced convalescence would not prevent him from recceing Pemberton Woods for the location of Finch’s cottage nor preparing for what he might do when he was eventually able to pay him a visit.
And he could not wait.
***
After a long chat and a good catch-up, Vas finally left Miri’s flat shortly after dark, promising to call his father to ask if any information had been found on the three remaining men whom Sam was still yet to find.
However, Vas was deeply troubled by Sam’s description of what he had been through. Indeed, the injuries he had sustained in pursuit of his prey were really quite shocking and brought home to Vas the very dangerous nature of what his friend was doing.
It had suddenly become startlingly real and for the first time Vas realised that he could actually lose Sam. His best friend could die - and it was a thought which was gravely concerning.
Yet despite his misgivings, Vas was as good as his word and telephoned Moscow the moment he got home.
In turn, Vladimir Voronin told his youngest son that he was making steady progress but it was a lengthy exercise that needed careful handling. What is more, the men he was enquiring after were all experts at concealing their identities and covering their tracks so it would not be wise to alert them prematurely for fear of them scattering on the wind.
Nevertheless, Vas was assured information was slowly filtering through and Vladimir was hopeful he would have something concrete to report soon.
This news both heartened and dismayed Vasily. The fact that the net was slowly closing on Claudette’s killers sitting uneasily with the fact that his friend was risking his life in pursuit of them.
Claudette was Vas’ friend, too, and he wanted vengeance for her death almost as much as Sam did, yet it was only Sam putting himself on the line for it.
Indeed, he had been
seriously injured just a few hours earlier as he finally caught up with two of the men responsible.
In comparison, Vas had done nothing. In his opinion he had been happily resting on his laurels, letting his best friend take all the risks whilst he had merely carried on with his life as if nothing had happened and, as such, he felt ashamed.
He spent the rest of the night and the following few days thinking long and hard on this.
He also pondered on the information that Sam had discovered regarding the supposed whereabouts of the third man, Roger Finch. The fact that he was apparently so tantalisingly close, just outside of Cambridge in Pemberton Woods, playing over and over again in Vas’ brain.
Finally, after much deliberation, he decided that he would reconnoitre Pemberton Woods himself to determine where exactly Roger Finch’s cottage was located.
Hopefully then, by the time he had found the place, he would have summoned up the courage to do something about it, determined that Sam should not solely shoulder the responsibility of avenging Claudette’s murder.
For the time being, however, he thought it best to keep this to himself, knowing that Sam and Miri would undoubtedly try to stop him - and he was afraid of how easily they might succeed.
***
The story remained hot in the media for a week or so but soon after the next news cycle it was quickly forgotten; the reality being that very few people cared about a couple of dead skinheads.
Even so, Sam rarely left Miri’s bedsit for the next few weeks and whenever he did it was never without a baseball cap or a hoodie to disguise his appearance.
Since his arrival at Miri’s he had also grown a beard and was now sporting a fresh, new sprouting of mousey hair which was flourishing on his previously shaven scalp.
After three weeks, he was barely recognisable as the terrifying skinhead who had broken into Miri’s home and was starting to look, once more, like the man both she and Vas remembered.
Sam was also healing remarkably well. His stab wound had scabbed over nicely and would soon be nothing more than a scar, his broken nose had reset satisfactorily and his various bruises and cuts had all but disappeared.
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