Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  ‘Shame on you, Parker, but that’s not a bad idea. Now go outside to a phone box and call me…just so the record shows that such a call came into the station – on your way, don’t dawdle.’

  Ten minutes later, they were driving along the coast road to Rottingdean. There was no need to hurry; the fictitious “shifty devil” was probably long gone.

  The house was set back from the road. The wrought-iron gates were unlocked; the key was probably mislaid decades ago. They drove slowly along the drive, which was “S” shaped, ending at a quite large roundabout at the front entrance to the house.

  Saxon stopped the Land Rover under a large fir tree that looked as though it had been providing shade for carriages for at least a couple of centuries. The house was partially castellated and it was evident that the owner had restored it sensibly; nothing seemed to be out of place.

  Parker stood transfixed, such was the contrast between his own modest two up, two down and the mansion he stood before now.

  ‘Sir, I’m thinking of making a career change. If this is what you get for poking around dead bodies, then I’m game for it.’

  Saxon just nodded in agreement, and walked up to the front door. ‘I guess we’d better try the bell just in case he has a housekeeper.

  There wasn’t one. They checked the garage for Clarke’s car – it was open and empty. ‘Okay, Parker, I think we need to find the window that the alleged burglar might have used.’ Saxon looked left and then right. ‘You go that way, I’ll go this way and I’ll meet you around the back. If you find a window that looks as though it could be the one, call me.’

  A second or two after Saxon disappeared around the corner, Parker heard the sound of breaking glass and he ran to see if Saxon was okay. He found him carefully brushing tiny fragments of glass from his elbow. Saxon had broken one of the small diamond-shaped panes of glass and reached in with his hand to release the catch. ‘I think this is the one, Parker – in you go and I’ll meet you at the front door,’ he said in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

  ‘I just hope he’s not at home, sir, we’d have a lot of explaining to do if he is.’

  ‘So would he, Parker…so would he – now get a move on.’

  Saxon returned to the front door as Parker unlocked it. The interior had not been maintained to the same standard as the exterior. It had been a long time since the place had been dusted; cobwebs hung down from the corners of the ceiling in long strands. There were potted plants in abundance, some small and some several feet high; when they were alive at least. They walked from the hall to what appeared to be the main drawing room; the floor was uncarpeted and looked as though it was original. Underneath the thin veneer of dust, it was evident that at one time someone had lavished a lot of care and attention to it.

  In the corner stood a grand piano with the lid closed. It was covered with various sizes of silver frames, but that was the only difference between each picture – they all contained the same image, a photograph of an attractive, smiling woman.

  In among the pictures, stood a tall, fluted silver vase, which held a single red rose. They walked over to the piano. ‘Sir, it looks as though this rose is fresh, so he’s only just left here recently.’

  Saxon lifted it out of the vase. ‘It’s made of silk, so it tells us nothing except that this is his altar – this is where he comes to brood over the death of his wife. What we need to find is where he keeps his trophies…they always keep trophies.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Here’s what we do, Parker, search but don’t disturb anything – put your rubber gloves on. When we find something, anything incriminating, we get out of here and I’ll get a search warrant, understand? Now there’s got to be a cellar, these old places always seem to have one, let’s try there first.’

  There was a cellar, Parker found it when he opened what resembled a cupboard in the kitchen. He switched on the light and they cautiously made their way down the steps. The ceiling was vaulted with brick, and every ten feet or so, stood a pillar. In between the first and last of the four pillars were racks of dusty wine bottles. The floor was also brick, laid out in a herringbone design.

  Around the edges of the cellar were odd items of old furniture, some of which looked as though it may have been built at the same time as the house. As Saxon and Parker stood at the bottom of the stairs, they noticed a large white plastic bucket with a snug-fitting snap-on lid. Next to it on the floor were several empty boxes. Saxon picked one up and read the front. ‘This is very interesting,’ he said as he held it towards Parker. ‘What we have here is rubber skin – makeup artists use it to build up people’s faces and to make masks.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’ He paused and sniffed the box. ‘But I remember the smell – Andy Pike’s body, it’s the same smell; but why would his body smell of this stuff?’

  Saxon pulled the lid off the bucket. ‘Watch and learn, Sergeant.’ He dipped his finger into the off-white solution, and quickly replaced the lid. His finger was covered with a layer of latex, which was drying rapidly. Within a couple of minutes, it had hardened so much that he had to pull at it quite hard to remove it.

  ‘Imagine, Parker, if you covered your entire body with this stuff, except for your eyes of course, and a breathing hole for your mouth. You could even build it up around your feet and make any foot shape you wanted – even take an impression of someone’s shoe. But you know the main reason for this stuff, don’t you? It’s so bloody obvious now. If you went into a person’s house to kill them with this plastered all over you, including your hair, then nothing would be left behind. How could it – every-thing would be glued down. And that’s why we’ve not found any DNA. What’s more, Clarke is always the next person to get close to a victim after it’s been discovered, so he can check again to see if he’s missed anything first time round.’

  ‘It explains why we couldn’t get him on the phone after PC Lucas copped it,’ said Parker. ‘He would have probably still been off somewhere to peel off his kinky rubber suit. If only we could find out what he does with the stuff after he’s finished with it…’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Parker,’ Saxon interrupted. ‘Unless he tells us, we haven’t a chance of finding it. He’s no fool, he will have disposed of it, or should I say them, after each murder.’

  The light in the cellar was not good and it took their eyes a while to become accustomed to it. Looking into the dim light, they noticed a door to their left. Parker tried to open it but it was jammed – there was no lock, it was swollen damp wood that prevented it from opening.

  ‘Shit, why is nothing easy,’ he said despairingly, and gave it a hefty kick. It crashed open.

  ‘Well done, Parker – good job there aren’t any neighbours…in you go.’ Then Saxon pulled Parker out of the way. ‘Only joking, I wouldn’t send the troops anywhere I wouldn’t go myself,’ he said as he pushed past him. The unpleasant smell that assaulted his nose was faint, just a hint of what was to come. There wasn’t a light in the room, so he took his torch from his pocket. The space was about two thirds of the size of the main cellar, it was void of anything except for a pickaxe and a spade. Saxon noticed that the smell was getting stronger as he walked to the centre of the room.

  Parker followed, and shone his torch on the floor. ‘Sir, the bricks look as though they’ve been disturbed here.’ He knelt down and directed the beam further across the floor. ‘Look, sir, there’s several places like this.’ He moved a few of the bricks out of place, it was then the smell suddenly hit them both as if it was waiting just under the floor to be released.

  Parker fell backwards. ‘God, that’s disgusting,’ he said, almost unable to catch his breath.

  Saxon helped him to his feet. Parker was coughing and trying not to throw up. ‘Right, Parker, I think we both know what that smell is – question is, who is it?’

  Parker was the first up the stairs and out into the open air. Saxon got on the radio and was about to call in when a thought struck him. Did he really want the place to
be crawling with police just yet? Wouldn’t it be better to leave it as they found it? He ran back into the house and tidied up the broken glass where Parker had climbed in through the window. He moved a dead potted plant to hide the fact that a piece of the window was missing. Then he returned to the cellar to replace the few floor bricks they had moved out of place.

  Parker watched as he leant on the Land Rover, smoking a cigarette; he was trying to replace the smell of decay that was lingering in his nose with an alternative odour. Saxon walked across to him. ‘Here’s what we are going to do…precisely nothing.’

  Parker looked up, surprised. ‘What about the bodies under the floor? We need to get some SOCOs up here and start a thorough search of the house. We can’t just leave it…can we?’

  ‘We can, Parker. Let’s get out of here, and bring your cigarette butt with you. I don’t want there to be any signs that we’ve been here – let’s play him at his own game. Just because Clarke told his secretary that he’d be travelling around the country, doesn’t convince me that he will actually do that. He’s no more on holiday than we are. If he is stalking Francesca, and me, then I don’t think he will be admiring the views in the Lake District, will he?’

  Parker looked uneasy. ‘What are you proposing, sir, that we lie in the bushes and wait for him to come home?’

  Saxon started the engine and as they pulled away, he smiled at Parker, who was looking even more puzzled. ‘No, nothing so crude, I have a plan, Parker…a very good plan.’

  When they were back on the road to Brighton, Parker threw his cigarette butt out of the window and turned to Saxon. ‘What I’d like to know is why after all the trouble he’s taken not to leave any evidence, does he then decide to bury a few bodies in his cellar. It doesn’t make much sense to me at all – in fact, it seems bloody stupid.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon I think, Parker. Meanwhile, use your mobile, not the radio. I don’t want anyone overhearing you. Call the station and tell STI that I want to talk to them when we get back. I’ve got a little job for them.’

  As Saxon and Parker hurried through the reception area of Brighton Police Station, Superintendent Mitchell was on his way out looking flustered. Saxon could tell by the expression on his face and the half-open briefcase full of files, that he was well into bureaucrat mode. ‘Ah, Commander Saxon, could I possibly have a word if you’re not too busy?’

  Saxon didn’t stop. ‘I’m too busy – talk to you later.’ He didn’t need to talk to anyone, particularly a paper-pusher like Alex Mitchell, so he kept going. Mitchell followed Saxon along the corridor to the incident room, but Saxon was speaking to Parker in hushed tones. ‘Find out what make of car Clarke owns, and tell traffic to get off their arses and find the bloody thing. Then check on Francesca to see if she’s okay, as quickly as possible.’

  Mitchell interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to insist, Commander. The chief constable has asked me how you are progressing…I need to tell him something, he can be quite difficult you know.’

  ‘Alex, if you have to tell him anything at all, you can tell him that I’m not close to making an arrest, no more than that. I don’t want any press releases flying about all over the place. If the media gets wind of what’s going on, then so will my prime suspect and I don’t want him to know that I’m on his tail. If the CC gets awkward then you can tell him that I will talk to the commissioner and he’ll talk to the Home Secretary, okay? That should keep him off your back.’

  Saxon turned and walked away and left Mitchell standing with sheets of paper fluttering to the floor from his briefcase.

  Inspector Mike Honeysett, who was in command of the Surveillance and Technical Intelligence squad, was waiting in his office. Saxon knocked and entered the room. Honeysett was a fastidious man – in his line of business, he had to be. His entire working day revolved around not being seen. Often fellow officers would pretend to bump into him and say things like, ‘Sorry, guv – didn’t see you there,’ or they would stand in front of him and ask if anyone had any idea where Inspector Honeysett was. He stopped finding it funny years ago but still they did it. Nowadays, he hardly reacted. Just a slight roll of the eyes and a cold stare, it usually stopped them for a while at least.

  Honeysett jumped almost to attention as Saxon entered the office. ‘Commander, good to see you again – I hear through the grapevine that you have a job for me.’

  ‘I do. I have a house in a rural setting. The person who lives there, is away at the moment – however, he may come back at any time. I want to know when he returns. But I don’t want your people crawling around in the shrubbery. The target is extremely dangerous. His favoured weapon is a knife, but he has killed several people with his hands. If he even gets a sniff that we’re on to him, he may vanish. He is too clever and too dangerous to be allowed to escape. That’s it…what can you do for me?’

  Honeysett barely moved his lips. ‘Remote camera…in a tree, pointing at the front of the house. Simple, I’ll rig it up myself. Are you sure the target isn’t in the house?’

  Saxon was amazed at Honeysett’s calm approach, it was as though the man had no emotions. ‘As sure as I can be, Mike – all I know is that he’s on annual leave, and that he’s supposedly gone away for a few days. But that, we know is bullshit. He’s in the area and could be back in the house at any time.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll do it tonight after dark. The camera will have a night-vision lens, which automatically switches over from the normal one when the light drops below a certain level. Where is the target house?’

  Saxon filled him in on the exact position of the house using an Ordnance Survey map.

  Honeysett added, ‘If you want, you can come along with me – you could be my van driver, we usually do this sort of thing in pairs so that someone can keep an eye on things while I’m in the grounds setting up the camera.’

  Parker knocked on the door and entered the room. ‘Sir, Clarke owns a – and you’re not going to believe this – a Morris 1100, early 70s model in the exciting colour of dark grey…hardly surprising nobody ever noticed it. Oh,’ he continued, ‘Francesca and WPC Hedges have left the building.’

  ‘What do you mean, left the building?!’ he shouted. ‘I told them both to stay here. Get WPC Hedges on the radio now. She’s to bring Francesca back here immediately – what the fuck was she thinking? Do it now, Parker, don’t just stand there…get moving.’ Parker was long gone before he heard the tail end of Saxon’s wrath.

  ‘It’s not her fault,’ said Francesca looking at the floor, ‘I needed a few things from home and besides; we had Ralph with us all the time. He’d have bitten the nuts off anyone who came too close.’ She looked up with appealing eyes, and continued, ‘I gave her no choice in the matter – I told her that as I’m not under arrest I can come and go as I please.’

  Saxon didn’t only find it hard to be angry with Francesca…he found it impossible. Besides, he was so pleased to have her safely back in the station, he had trouble hiding his pleasure. He tapped his pencil on the edge of the desk and did his best to look annoyed.

  ‘Well, please don’t go off like that again…I worry about you,’ he said shyly. ‘So if you do need to go anywhere, tell me, and I will go with you.’

  ‘I’m flattered – it’s been a long time since anyone worried about me. It’s rather a nice feeling.’ She gave Saxon a lingering smile.

  Ian Dowling, knocking on the door, broke the spell. ‘Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?’ Saxon said trying not to gaze at Francesca in such a goofy manner.

  ‘Sorry, Commander, Jake Dalton in interview room one, for his six o’clock appointment.’

  Saxon slumped down opposite Dalton and lit a cigarette. ‘I know I should quit, but I’ve got a lot on my plate…It helps.’ Saxon squared up some notes that he had on the table. He paused tentatively; then he stubbed out his cigarette after a couple of drags.

  ‘The reason I’ve asked you here is going to come as a shock to you.’

  ‘You have
my attention, Paul – fire away.’

  ‘How do you get on with Dr Clarke?’

  ‘Okay, but why do you ask?’ He thought for a second. ‘Now, wait a minute – you can’t be suggesting that he’s now your next suspect.’

  ‘When you hear what Sergeant Parker and I saw this afternoon I think you’ll agree that he’s our man.’ Saxon had a way of communicating matters of a serious nature without trying too hard.

  ‘You’re not bullshitting me are you. I can tell – you’re deadly serious aren’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t got time for bullshitting anyone, Jake. Parker and I went to Clarke’s house and took a peek inside. Tell me, have you ever been to his house?’

  ‘No, he’s never invited me. In fact, he doesn’t socialise with any of the staff. And tell me what was it you found in his house that makes you think it might be him?’ Jake said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

  ‘Oh that, yes it was the bodies in the cellar that did it for me, and I think Parker would agree with that.’

  ‘Bodies…right.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t actually see any bodies, but it’s evident that the floor in the cellar has been recently disturbed – and there’s the smell. The smell, which you and I have sampled too many times in our careers – you know the one, the dead body smell. Now to move on a bit, did Clarke tell you where he would be going for his holiday?’

  ‘Not a word, he never tells anyone where he goes – and he never sends postcards to the office.’

  ‘If I give you a list of dates, could you tell me whether he was in the mortuary or not?’

  ‘Sure can, but I’ll need my diary to check it properly…I’m having trouble believing this. I’ve worked with the man for some years now and he always seemed so…’

  ‘Normal,’ added Saxon. ‘That’s the trouble, Jake, they always do. How about gays, has he ever mentioned gay people in conversation?’

  Jake thought for a few seconds. ‘Once, he talked about Steve Tucker and said that he shouldn’t be working in the mortuary, because he was too bloody thick and he was a disgusting little shirt lifter. I was quite surprised when he said it because it was such a sudden outburst. Not his way to go about things normally. He’s usually very calm about most things – loud occasionally, but that’s only when he was feeling a bit theatrical.’