by Ian Jarvis
Sinking into the leather chair behind the desk, the detective took out the Harley badges. ‘Why were you left there?’ he murmured. He fingered them meditatively and lit a cigarette as the newsreader told of Becca’s death. ‘Why did Selden lie to us?’
When Watson turned up, their first call would be Duggan’s debt office for an enlightening chat with the skinhead. Quist narrowed his eyes as the next radio news story began. The Leeds manager of Brightshield Glazing, Carl Dreyer, was missing and his Maserati had been found abandoned near the Squinting Ferret in Acomb in the early hours. There was no sign of the owner, but his clothing had been draped across the bonnet and foul play was suspected.
‘Brightshield,’ said Quist. So the Maserati that had been tailing them belonged to the seedy character who approached him outside the newsagent on Monday night.
He noticed the flashing answerphone and, reaching over to play the messages, he stiffened as the next news story announced the Leeds murder of York resident Kevin Selden.
‘What?’ whispered Quist.
The detective gaped at the radio. Selden had been murdered? He’d called here behaving in that peculiar manner, lied about Diane Woodall, and the following day someone had killed him? So far, this bizarre mystery of planted badges and fictitious fiancés had been an intriguing diversion, but something far more serious than Quist had envisaged was going on here. Whoever wanted him involved in this could be behind the skinhead’s death. And why the hell was the Brightshield manager following him around? Come to that, where was he now, having left his clothes on the car bonnet? Was he dead like Selden? Stubbing the cigarette, Quist clicked on the answerphone.
Beeep! ‘Hullo, Guv. Sorry, but the Grimpen bus isn’t running because of the snow and fog, so it looks like I’ll be late. Bye.’
Beeep! ‘Bernard?’ The next voice was obviously scared. ‘This is Amy Clarkson. About our talk last night - it’s Doctor Gillette. He hasn’t turned up at the lab and... well, I don’t know, but I thought you and Rex might like to know. Er, ring me when you get this. Bye.’
Quist grabbed the telephone directory and rang Ebor Pharmaceuticals. A minute passed before he was transferred to the right department and Amy answered.
‘I just heard your message,’ he sighed. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine.’ Amy checked to ensure no one was listening. ‘I’m also very scared. I don’t know why I called you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ He laughed quietly. ‘It must be the amazing sense of comfort and trust I instil in young ladies.’
‘Yeah, that must be it.’ Amy let out a nervous giggle. ‘I’ve tried ringing Rex, but they said he’s out. I’m not sure what to do any more.’
‘Doctor Gillette still hasn’t arrived?’
‘No. The police are checking on him. We thought he was late with the weather, but he’s not answering his phone. I know this sounds crazy, but if he’s dead...’
‘Then you’re the only surviving member of the research team. Yes, I imagine that would be scary. Equally scary, I have to tell you the gentleman who lied about Diane being his fiancé was murdered last night too.’
‘Jesus! You’re joking?’
‘It’s just been on the news. Are the police there now?’
‘Only the undercover men. They want to maintain a low visible presence as they term it.’
Quist thought hard. ‘Amy, will you help me?’
‘How?’
‘I’m not sure why, but I believe these deaths could be connected with the products you worked on recently.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If Gillette hasn’t shown up, then I assume his office is empty? I know it’s asking a hell of a lot, but listen...’
***
‘Crazy!’ croaked Amy. ‘Absolutely crazy!’
Checking the corridor and closing Gillette’s door behind her, she glanced fearfully around the director’s empty office and at the computer on the desk, grappling with her conscience and wondering whether she was doing the right thing. What on earth was she thinking of in agreeing to this?
‘You crazy bitch!’ she hissed.
But what if Bernard Quist was right in his suspicions? What if South Lab’s recent projects were somehow linked to the murders? The police had already searched through their work, hoping to find some connection or motive, so what harm could it do in letting this private detective see the data on the eye droplets and the sunblock? She couldn’t imagine what he hoped to find, or even if he’d understand the chemistry, but he genuinely seemed to want to help.
Amy hurried to the terminal and punched at the keyboard, her stomach twisting into the sort of convoluted knots associated with boy scouts. What would happen if Gillette or Doctor Keating, the assistant director, came in? The doctor turned from the changing menus to apprehensively check over her shoulder. She knew exactly what would happen, and it involved a fan and excrement.
‘Right,’ she whispered, recognising the onscreen numbers. ‘The project codes. Here we go.’
02239 was Calypso, the moisturiser. Amy clicked on the code and technical data filled the screen. Nodding, she exited back to the menu.
‘Solstice. There you are - 02248.’
File Erased appeared. The code 02247 for the ultra-violet eye droplets was entered, but the result was the same. The girl sat back bemused, then out of curiosity keyed in the numbers for a mascara terminated three weeks earlier, and a lipstick two weeks before that. She shook her head at the pages of data.
‘Still there,’ she murmured. ‘Yet the projects cancelled at the weekend are erased.’ She checked the recycle bin and found it empty. ‘You’ve been a busy boy, Will. So you cleaned South Lab and cleaned your computer too.’
Chapter 30
To anyone weaned on the thrilling police stations of television cop shows, with their colourful hookers, loud-mouthed lawyers, and lunatics in holding pens, York Central on Fulford Road would be a boring disappointment. Constable Zoe Planer worked studiously by herself at a desk in the murder incident room.
‘Who were they?’ Katie Bradstreet marched in. ‘I’ve just heard about Amy Clarkson visiting the Golden Fleece with three men, one of whom picked her up in a Ferrari?’
‘That’s right, Ma’am.’ Zoe nodded. ‘Rex Grant owns the Ferrari and he’s the brother of Lisa Mirren’s ex-fiancé Raoul. He lives in London, but Doctor Clarkson told her protection officer that he’s here looking into Lisa’s death. He has a sound alibi for Saturday - he was at the same London party as his brother. The Volkswagen Beetle belongs to Bernard Quist from Askham Richard. He has no police record, but we’re running the usual checks on him.’
‘Any luck locating Stapleton, or the owner of those fingerprints in the stolen Range Rover?’
‘No luck with either. There are no records of Doctor Stapleton ever leaving the country.’
‘Really?’ Katie smiled. ‘I’ll be interested to hear how Gillette explains that when he turns up. I’ve been talking to the lab. Those black animal hairs the SOCO found on Becca Travis’ legs were feline and match the ones on Lisa Mirren’s body.’
‘Leopard or lion, you mean? That’s crazy. We’ve checked everyone connected to these girls and no one appears to have any link to zoos or big cats.’
‘They still can’t pin down the species and think the cat is possibly a hybrid.’ Katie turned to see Gregson walking in. ‘Has Mitchell taken over watching Amy?’
‘Yes.’ Gregson yawned and ran a weary hand through his hair. ‘Plus we’ve got Sherman and Cromwell covering the lab. Her protection officer, WPC Farnon slept in her spare bed last night.’
‘You’d better grab some sleep,’ said Katie. ‘Use the couch in my office. I’ve just been with forensics and there was no bag in the school furnace.’
‘Jesus!’ Gregson shook his head. ‘Diane’s bracelet, Lisa’s binoculars and now Becca�
�s bag. Could the Superintendent be right about sociopaths taking trophies?’
Katie turned back to Planer. ‘So what’s this about Gillette not showing up at the lab?’
‘He isn’t answering calls either,’ said the Constable. ‘Uniform are on their way to the house; that’s probably them now.’
The Inspector snatched the ringing phone. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve completed the autopsy,’ said Jay Mortimer the Pathologist. ‘Your Sergeant’s on his way to you with the report.’
‘You didn’t start until nine. You don’t mess about, do you?’
‘Two half-burnt legs? It might have taken longer if there’d been arms too.’ Mortimer hesitated. ‘Longer still if there’d been any trace of blood in the legs.’
‘No blood?’ whispered Katie, her eyes widening. ‘Just like Diane Woodall and Lisa Mirren.’
Chapter 31
Quist turned his car into the Grimpen housing estate in Acomb and drove along the main street avoiding abandoned shopping trolleys, barking dogs and snowball-throwing kids. He grimaced at the depressing mess of steel shutters, graffiti and satellite dishes. Thanks to recessions and unemployment, Grimpen was no Beverley Hills. This situation was growing stranger and far more serious, and he debated whether it was right to further involve his young assistant. Watson was resilient and streetwise, but his safety would be the main concern.
The detective turned into one of the better crescents and pulled up outside number 22. Most of the estate gardens were littered with torn trampolines, dog mess and broken fridges, but not this one. On the occasions he’d accepted a lift home, Watson had insisted upon being dropped at the corner and this was Quist’s first visit to the house. Climbing from the car, he peered over the fence at the multitude of figurines and saw why his assistant had been reluctant to speak of his mother’s work.
Three military gnomes abseiled from the gable, a suicide in a noose dangled under a bush, and another with bloated features floated in the pond. Walking up the path, Quist passed tiny Jehovah’s witnesses, a gnome injecting smack, another sodomising a squirrel, and an escaped prisoner with arrowed tunic and spade emerging from the snowy lawn. He rang the bell and studied the Yuletide gnome by the boot scraper - a drunken Santa urinating his name in a curl of brass wire. An attractive woman in T shirt and jeans answered.
‘Mrs Watson?’ He smiled. ‘I’m your son’s employer - Bernard Quist.’
‘Ooh, hello. You’d better come in, luv.’ Giggling, she pulled him into the tinsel-draped hall. ‘The name’s Jo.’
A fat ginger cat appeared from beneath the lounge Christmas tree. It spotted Quist, hissed and shot out through the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong with Hucknall,’ she muttered. ‘He normally takes to strangers.’
‘I have that effect,’ confessed Quist. ‘It must be my after-shave.’
‘Mmmh!’ She leant close. ‘You smell okay to me, Bernard.’
He turned away uneasily. The shelves on his left held gnomes, identical to those outside, except these were wood. ‘Your originals?’ he asked, feigning interest.
‘Yeah, I use these to make the resin moulds.’ Jo picked up a wino with tiny bottle. ‘Gnomes With a Twist, I call them, but Johnny hates them. I sell them in garden centres and markets, but he gets embarrassed about me having them outside for advertising.’
‘Really?’ Quist glanced through the window at the rentboy gnomes. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘I got a grant to start my own small business.’
‘Amazing!’ He motioned to a flasher, raincoat open and erection waving. ‘And they say the government wastes money.’
‘Glad you like them, Bernard. Hang on... I thought your name was Cyrano.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘That’s what Johnny calls you. I imagined you’d be Greek or something.’ She pointed to the stairs. ‘He’s in his room; first on the right at the top. You might as well go up while I make coffee.’
Quist paused on the stairs. ‘I’d love a coffee, but I don’t suppose you have soya milk?’
‘No chance, luv. It’s the stuff from cows.’
‘Then I’ll take it black, please.’
‘I see we’ve got similar tastes,’ giggled Jo.
The detective pushed open Watson’s bedroom door and gaped at the mess of clothing, comic books and music posters - the sort of devastation seen in crime movies where villains have searched an apartment. Magazines, CDs and computer games covered the carpet and drawers hung half-open with the linen contents spewing out.
‘Gone back to sleep, have we?’ Quist prodded the teenager-sized lump in the bed. ‘Come on. Cyrano De Bergerac’s here.’ He shoved a hi-fi speaker under the motionless quilt, turned up the volume and switched on the CD player. The bed leapt and a terrified black face appeared.
‘What the fuck...’
‘Catchy little piece.’ Quist killed the music. ‘Who was it?’
‘Er...’ Watson rubbed his eyes. ‘Rapping MC Jacker.’
‘Not Mozart?’
‘Obviously you won’t like it.’ The teenager rolled his head to clear the fuzziness of sleep. ‘It’s aimed at the under-thirties.’
‘Years or IQs?’
‘I feel like shit. Uurgh! What day is it?’
‘Thursday. It usually arrives after Wednesday, unless you’re an alcoholic, or an inventor with a time machine.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Watson yawned and sat up. ‘Well, this is a surprise. You found the house then? What did you er, think of the gnomes?’
‘They’re... different.’ Quist peered through the window at the misty garden and saw the white BMW parked near the Volkswagen. ‘Very different.’
‘I’ll say. What with the busses not running, I decided to catch up on my beauty sleep after ringing the office.’
‘Well your transport worries are over now.’
‘You were brilliant yesterday, Guv’ Watson pulled on a yellow sweater and rubbed his head to liven up the short curls. ‘Talk about unexpected? You look like a librarian, yet you fight like a black guy in the ring. Those fast punches - wow!’
‘Violence isn’t something one should rejoice in. I told you, I hate aggression.’
‘Good thing you didn’t hate it last night; they’d have torn us apart. Speaking of fighting, have you seen anything of the SAS Captain?’
‘I rang him before leaving the office, but the butler said he was exercising.’ Quist jotted down the BMW number. Even if he could get close, identification of the driver was impossible due to the black glass. ‘Apparently the snow and fog on the North York Moors is worse than here.’
‘Butler?’ Watson whistled. ‘Cool.’
‘I take it you don’t have servants?’
‘It’s their day off. I expect you think the room’s a shithole?’
‘Nothing that four hours with a duster and bulldozer wouldn’t sort out.’ Quist turned from the window. ‘I recall you once telling me about a friend of yours. Someone named Gareth Lestrade who could hack into any computer.’
‘That’s right - Gazza.’
‘How do you think he’d cope with er, the police computer.’
Watson paused in tugging on a pair of jeans. ‘The cops?’ He raised a curious eyebrow. ‘It can be done. Er, why would you want to get in there?’
‘You’ll soon see.’
‘Shouldn’t we ask that arsehole Selden a few questions first?’
‘He’d have difficulty answering. He’s dead.’
‘WHAT?’
‘Our favourite skinhead was killed in Leeds last night. Hacked to pieces by machetes.’
Watson shook his head. ‘He lies about a phoney fiancé and the next day he’s murdered?’
‘It happened in Milverton. According to witnesses, from th
e way he was dressed in a swastika shirt, he was obviously looking for trouble.’
‘I know about Milverton. Looking for trouble there? That’s suicide.’
‘Someone told him to lie to us. They must have either paid him or threatened him. I wonder...’
‘I’m doing a little wondering too, Guv. Wondering why we don’t drop this right now?’
‘A gang from one of the illegal clubs there have been arrested for the murder.’
‘So it isn’t connected with the lab murders?’
Quist didn’t answer. ‘Don’t you ever wear anything dark?’ He gestured to the yellow sweater, blue jeans and red jacket.
‘It clashes with my complexion.’ Watson opened the bedroom door. ‘A lift from the boss, eh? I’m honoured.’
‘Your mother has made coffee,’ said Quist. ‘Hurry up and drink it, because we’re going to Ebor Pharmaceuticals.’
Chapter 32
Rupert Grant’s newspaper read: Ozone Hole Shock, but the problem was somewhere over the third world. Rupert would only have taken an interest if a breach appeared above Yorkshire, and only then if it affected Sedgefield Grange. Sprawling on a Chesterfield couch, he turned to the international page and food riots in Africa.
‘Hang the darkies,’ he muttered. He’d never met the late Kevin Selden, which was a pity, for they’d probably have become good friends.
A petite girl walked into the morning room with a tea tray, a white robe accentuating her tanned legs.
‘A mile in twelve minutes,’ announced Marika. Three couches surrounded a large coffee table where she set the tray down. ‘It’s so invigorating. You ought to join me in the pool.’
Duck shooting and otter hunting were the only water sports that interested her husband. ‘Have you read the paper?’ he snarled. ‘Greenpeace are moaning about another oil slick. When will the idiots learn that these problems are solved naturally? If you spill oil and cause a slick, Mother Nature simply soaks it up with birds.’