Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  The view from the glider was breathtaking. From his 3,000ft perch, he could clearly see from Ditchling Beacon to Eastbourne, and he thought that if he climbed another 2,000ft or so, he would easily be able to see France quite clearly. The wind speed was more than enough for him to angle the glider in such a way that it stopped moving forward. It was a strange sensation, a bit like flying on a kite by a non-existent wire. You couldn’t really describe it to someone, you had to show them.

  Jake held the aircraft there for a few seconds until it stalled, the nose dropped and it started to lose height. Then he went looking for thermals. These are found over freshly ploughed areas or cornfields on a sunny day as they reflect the heat of the sun. Once he located his thermal, he turned to the right and dug the wing that was being buffeted by the rising hot air into the thermal, and pulled back on the stick gently as the warm air lifted the glider.

  Soon he was at 6,000ft, the only sound coming from the wind as it skimmed over the glider. Total silence only came if the angle of the aircraft was acute enough to slow it down to stall speed. The nose would then drop and the glider would gain speed and back came the noise.

  When the time to land arrived he lost the first 5,000ft with what could only be described as a power dive. He bottomed out at 1,000ft and at 600ft he started to operate the air brakes, strips of wood or glass fibre, which at the pull of a lever protrude up out of the wing and disrupt the flow of air, causing the glider to slow down and lose altitude.

  The glider stops and drops in a series of steps, until you have it correctly positioned for landing. You didn’t get a second chance, so it had to be good. It was. He made his turn and the glider’s speed was perfect; he was lined up well with the grass runway and it was a textbook touchdown. All his landings went well, and he was a natural pilot, if such a thing existed. The glider bumped along on its single front wheel for a while and had completely come to a stop before it gently tipped to the left and settled on its wing. Perfect.

  The weather was fine with hardly any wind. Jake and a fellow pilot dragged the glider to its parking space, threw over a tarpaulin, and pegged it down. Often at the end of a long flight he would go to the clubhouse, and socialise with the other pilots and rather like fishermen exchange stories of the biggest thermals or the strongest crosswinds and how they fought them. But tonight, Jake was tired and decided to go home and slob out. Saturdays were a big night in Brighton but he wasn’t in the mood right now.

  The track from the gliding club to the main road was long and extremely rural. His car was not really suited to it, and he was forced to drive from side to side and avoid the potholes. Either side of the track the terrain was typical Sussex, one side the flatness of the Weald, and the other, sheep-cropped Downs dotted with dark green gorse bushes and the odd chalk pit. Once Jake hit the main road, he smoothly joined the flow of traffic and sped off in the direction of Brighton and home.

  Saturday, May 18, Pavilion Square, Brighton, 8.19PM

  Saxon punched in the four-digit code to unlock the main outer door of the house. He checked his mailbox without enthusiasm – bills as usual – and entered the large circular hall. In the middle was a small two-person lift with a concertina slide door surrounded by a cage. Around the lift was the main staircase, the original one having been ripped out long ago. The house was an unusual mixture of Regency style with a touch of 1920s Art Deco. He rather liked it. Every window seemed to contain a stained-glass peacock or a sleek woman holding a fan.

  His flat was on the top floor and often he ran up the four flights of stairs; it was part of his somewhat limited keep-fit regime. But not tonight. He was on automatic as he took the lift. As he approached the third floor, a voice startled him.

  ‘Good evening, caged cop. And how are we today?’ It was Francesca, his neighbour on the floor below. She was taking rubbish to the chute and she waved at him as he headed skywards. She smiled up at him as he opened the door of the lift at the top.

  ‘Fine, Fran, I’m fine.’ Then he smiled back, realising that it was a while since anyone had actually cared how he was. He could hear voices coming from her flat. ‘Well, actually I’m frustrated and exhausted, but bearing up. And how are you?’ He put his key in the lock.

  ‘I’m all the better knowing there’s a big strong policeman in the place. I count on you to protect us all from the bad guys.’ She laughed.

  He laughed too. ‘Not so much emphasis on the big, if you don’t mind,’ he answered, patting his stomach.

  Francesca took in the small paper carrier bag he was holding in his other hand.

  ‘Is that your dinner?’ she asked with raised eyebrows. ‘You’re very welcome to join us, you know. Neil and Gary are here. You met them before when I had a little party to introduce you both to all the other inhabitants when you moved in.’ She paused. ‘Some company might help.’

  She was still smiling. He’d always had the impression that Fran was one of life’s happy people. He thought, not for the first time, how attractive she was. He wondered how she knew that Emma was still away. The thought of Fran keeping an eye out to see who was in residence and who wasn’t momentarily irritated him. Then he mentally slapped his own wrist. Bringing a takeaway home for dinner on a Saturday night didn’t exactly look like normal married life, did it? And it was nice of her to notice and to care, wasn’t it.

  ‘But, it’s okay,’ she was saying. ‘I would understand if that was a problem right now.’

  ‘Thanks, Fran,’ he said, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open, ‘I appreciate the invitation. Maybe another time.’

  ‘Of course, it was just a thought.’ She seemed very relaxed. It helped.

  ‘My regards to the lads. They’re okay?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Mmm. We’re planning a brochure for the next exhibition, so we’re going through a creative phase tonight.’ Voices were raised slightly inside Fran’s apartment. ‘I’d better get back in there before it gets too heated,’ she laughed.

  ‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said, suddenly hungry for a social life that had once been quite busy but seemed to be non-existent these days.

  ‘Yes, you too,’ she answered, walking back towards her own door from the chute. ‘But come down and join us later if you want a coffee or a nightcap.’ She looked down at her wrist, but there was no watch there. ‘I was going to say, it’s only early, but that would have to be a guess on my part, since I don’t for the life of me know where my watch is!’ She laughed again.

  He raised his hand in farewell. ‘Well, okay, I might just do that. Thanks. Not sure that I’ll be able to add much to the creative process, though.’

  She lifted her own hand in response. ‘No creativity required, we’re overflowing with it,’ she laughed. ‘Did you know,’ she asked, in a deep and serious voice, ‘that there is a direct correlation between a good Chianti and the creative process?’

  They both laughed and he was still smiling as he closed his door. Saxon stood in his hallway and his smile faded. The mess was clearly out of control, growing a bit more with each passing day. He was beginning to think that if he didn’t clean up soon, a new life-form would evolve from the mess and jump on him one night as he slept, rip him to pieces and add him to the mess. He hoped that there might be a message on the answerphone from Emma but there was nothing.

  He looked at the takeaway but couldn’t summon up any appetite for it. When he found his kettle, he made some tea and switched the TV on in time for the local news. The main story of the day was the murders at Anvil Wood House. No doubt, it was headlining on the national news too. The report played heavily on the gruesome nature of the killings, although the police withheld any reference to the fact that the victims had been dismembered, or that body parts had been spread around the house, including in the oven.

  The phone number of the police incident room was flashed up on the screen, and that was it.

  A couple of other items of local news and then it was the weather forecast. At least the prospect
s were not so gloomy on that front. A heat wave was on the way.

  He flicked off the TV and, with his mug, climbed the stairs to the roof. Saxon was fortunate that his flat was at the top of the building. He and Emma had built a staircase up to a skylight and converted it into a door to the flat roof, where they could sit and look at the stars and think. Saxon leant on the stone balustrade, and looked out over Brighton to the Palace Pier.

  Saturday night in Brighton was a busy time for policemen. The London crowd still descended on the town in droves at weekends. Inevitably, a few of them drank too much and needed to be mopped up and rescued, although only a small few were grateful for that kind of help. Some weren’t and managed to get into fights. Saxon was glad at times like that he was no longer a beat cop.

  The phone ringing in the apartment below broke his rooftop meditation, and he dashed down the stairs. He grabbed it as the answerphone kicked in.

  ‘Paul, it’s me.’ Her voice was soft. He was filled with a mixture of relief that she’d phoned and dread at what she was about to say.

  ‘Hi, Emma, how’s things?’ he said, with slight hesitation.

  ‘Fine,’ she answered. ‘Well, you know.’

  Saxon sensed immediately that the news was not going to be good by the tone in her voice. Emma would not have made a good negotiator; her voice gave too much away.

  She went on. ‘I saw the news report about the murders. You’re handling that one?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. It’s all mine,’ he answered.

  ‘It sounds really bad, even by your standards,’ she said, sympathetically.

  He was puzzled by the turn the conversation was taking. ‘Well, without revealing any state secrets, I’m not making much progress at the moment,’ he said. ‘We’ve got sod all to go on. He’s a cunning bastard, as well as an evil one.’ His voice trailed off. He wasn’t going to discuss the case with her and they hadn’t spoken in a week, so there were other important things to think about.

  Emma wasn’t as anxious as he was to move on to other things.

  ‘Or her,’ she offered.

  Saxon’s response was emphatic. ‘No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Unlikely anyway, it’s usually a man. I don’t get any female vibes from this one. Plus, the amount of physical strength used makes me think it’s got to be a man.’ He realised that he was going into lecture mode and Emma hated that so he changed the subject abruptly.

  ‘When are you coming home, Emma?’

  She made no response for a few seconds, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

  ‘I’m not…not yet anyway,’ she said slowly. When he didn’t answer, she went on. ‘Paul, I need time to think things over.’ Still he said nothing. ‘And it’ll do you good, give you time to reassess.’

  Saxon stopped holding his breath.

  ‘What on earth do you mean, it’ll do me good?!’ he shouted. ‘It’s pissing me off, that’s what it’s doing. It’s telling me you don’t want to be here.’ He instantly regretted losing his temper and apologised. This was followed by a long silence as if neither of them was prepared to be the first to speak.

  Emma gave up first. ‘I have to go; I’ll call again in a few days,’ she said. ‘Look after yourself.’ The phone clicked, and she was gone.

  The apartment was deadly quiet. He went back up to the top of the stairs to the roof and locked the door. Saxon was depressed by Emma’s apparent lack of compassion. He couldn’t tell for sure but he sensed that she didn’t really care too much how he felt. Although she hadn’t said that it was all over, he wondered if she might’ve done, if the murders at Anvil Wood House hadn’t persuaded her that now was maybe not a good time to hit him with more bad news. Maybe she was being considerate. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and went into the kitchen, where he dumped the takeaway, still in its carrier, into the bin.

  He spent the next two hours on the floor below, drinking better coffee and helping Fran, Neil and Gary with their creativity by giving them constructive feedback about their efforts so far. He didn’t think about Emma once.

  Chapter 9

  Monday, May 20, Brighton Police Station, 9.00AM

  Parker arrived with his usual Monday-morning eagerness. Usually Saxon liked that little quirk about his DS, but this particular morning it was a bit irritating. The weekend had made its mark and the conversation with Emma was still echoing around inside his head. Not to mention the conversations with Fran.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ said Parker, his tone cheerful and his tie bright. ‘Summer’s here at last.’

  Parker was happy. They’d made some progress on the case at the end of last week and he’d had a great weekend with Lynne and the kids. Today was going to be useful, he just knew it. Life, in fact, was pretty good.

  He sensed that Saxon wasn’t in quite such a positive mood and retreated discreetly, returning in ten minutes with two steaming skimmed-milk lattes.

  Back to business. ‘Boss, you know that the address book you found under Barbara Jenner’s floor contains a few business contacts and an awful lot of names and phone numbers of what could be friends,’ he started.

  Saxon nodded. ‘Have you had any success working out the stars? Are there any other codes?’

  Parker shook his head. ‘No, we’ve tried various ways of looking at them, but I think we’re going to have to assume that the stars are just a personal rating that Babs used.’ He couldn’t help smirking slightly. ‘Since we know from Dr Marks that she was pretty highly sexed, I suppose it’s safe to assume that she was giving them marks out of ten.’

  Saxon didn’t laugh. ‘One, it’s never safe to assume, Parker, you know that. And two, just because you got laid at the weekend, doesn’t mean everyone else is only interested in sex.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The smirk had disappeared from Parker’s face. ‘Er, we know that most of the names are female; about sixty percent, I would say.’ He put the photocopied sheets onto Saxon’s desk and pointed at two separate entries.

  ‘Two of those female names have been crossed out, both with “BITCH” written across them. We’ve been trying to get through to that one in Camberley since Friday, but up to now, no reply. Could be on holiday, I suppose.’

  ‘Or away for the weekend,’ Saxon offered.

  ‘A WPC is checking the address this morning. Physically going round there to have a look. We should hear later today.’

  ‘Did you have any luck with the other one?’ Saxon looked at the entry. ‘The one that’s in Cookbridge?’

  ‘Yes, boss. She’s a married woman, a Mrs Gertraud Bishop. She’s a German lady, apparently, married to a Mr Angus Bishop. They’re long-term residents of Cookbridge. She was very upset when we spoke to her, very cagey and didn’t want to talk on the phone. Apparently, her husband wouldn’t understand. And I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Parker smirked again, but wiped the smile off his face as Saxon looked up at him, eyebrows raised. ‘She’s coming here to talk to us this afternoon at about four. She was anxious to come to us rather than have us go to their place.’ Parker was still amused, however hard he tried to hide it.

  ‘And what about the other names?’ asked Saxon.

  ‘The Yard team are working their way through the other names, all the data is in the computer and we’ll see what it spits out later.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve found the brother,’ Parker continued, looking even more pleased with himself. ‘One Keith Jenner. He doesn’t sound the most pleasant of people. When I phoned him on Friday afternoon, he didn’t seem too bothered that his sister had been murdered.’ Parker shook his head in disgust. ‘More interested in coming to view the property, which I suppose, he will inherit. He’ll be dropping in here tomorrow. Lives and works as a scrap dealer in South London. He does very nicely, thank you. Big house at the nice end of Upper Norwood and, as a special bonus he’s got a bit of form. Small-time gangster, by the look of things – likes to rough people up a bit sometimes.

  ‘He’s done time for GBH – got three years for beating u
p some poor bastard who owed him money. The original charge was attempted murder due to the extent of the injuries, but the victim changed his testimony during the trial and said that he attacked Jenner first. Prosecution thinks the family of the victim were threatened to keep him from testifying; CPS decided it was unsafe, so the attempted murder charge was dropped. Two years ago he was arrested for insurance fraud but the charge was dropped, not enough evidence.’

  ‘Well, at least we have someone who is not totally straight to talk to,’ Saxon said, showing his pleasure at the progress the team was making. ‘Not likely to have much of a motive for killing her though. It sounds as if he’s worth more than she is.’

  ‘Yes, boss, but I’m not making any assumptions about that,’ he said, keeping a straight face. Parker collected the papers and put them back on his desk. He was good at records, kept things in order. He never lost a piece of paper. It was one of his strengths. ‘As I said, Mr Jenner will be here for a chat tomorrow afternoon at 2PM.’

  ‘Great stuff, Parker, keep digging up as much as you can on him between now and tomorrow, I want to see what you have a good couple of hours before we talk to him, okay?’

  Parker took the lid of his coffee and inhaled the smell.

  Saxon was thinking aloud. ‘You never know, it could be a hit for gain, and maybe I’ve got it all wrong. It’s possible that we have two killers. One weirdo who’s bumping off the gays – and the Anvil Wood House killer, who’s just killing for profit. It would be neat and tidy if it was Jenner.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Parker switched on his PC and binned his empty cup. His boys had been on at him to stop using the paper cups and take a reusable cup in each time instead. Knowing he was addicted to Starbucks, they’d even bought him one for his last birthday, one with a lid, specially marketed by the coffee company for exactly that purpose and to placate the green lobby at the same time. But the reusable cup was somewhere at the Yard, waiting for a good wash.