Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  “Lawson. You back on duty yet?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you got in last month?”

  “I did, but I’m on leave.”

  “Taking your time. When are you back?”

  I ignored the jibe. “Six weeks.”

  “Fuck. Never mind. A squaddie was murdered a few hours ago in Bishop Wood, near Selby. I want your help.”

  Under normal circumstances, I’d have jumped at the rare opportunity to investigate a serious crime, but the two months off wasn’t optional. Major West had been crystal clear about the consequences of disobeying her orders; they began with a psychological evaluation and went downhill from there. “I can’t; I’m not allowed anywhere near the office.”

  “Lost your bottle? Man up, Hutt, I’ll keep you off the radar.”

  “No, I’ll have to pass.”

  “Pass. This isn’t a fucking game! You owe me, I’m calling in the favour, get over it.”

  I was about to tell Lawson to fuck off, when synchronicity struck. I thought about Siân, about what I’d just done, and about what was to come. Lawson was a police detective, and a dangerous bastard with it. He was no stranger to violence, or Professional Standards, who’d already investigated him for one homicide, two GBHs, and one ABH.

  Synchronicity.

  I swallowed my pride and said, “Okay –”

  “My place, half-ten.” He rattled off an address in the Mount, in York. “Be there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I arrived back at the flat to find Maikel and Siân watching TV. Actually, although the TV was on, they were rapt in conversation, which I was pleased to see for both their sakes. Maikel was doing a sterling job with Siân and I resolved to make it up to him whenever we next met. Siân was telling him about her father, which was unexpected, because they didn’t get on very well. I guessed Maikel had asked about her family; he was very close to his. Siân’s father had been a career soldier and retired to Snowdonia to run his own business teaching mountain climbing. I’d never met him, but I knew he’d been very successful and suspected he’d been in the Special Air Service, like Maikel’s uncle.

  I assured Siân that all had gone well with Collier and didn’t mention our scuffle. I didn’t like lying to her, even by omission, but I thought it was more important to give her peace of mind at this point. I apologised to them both for my imminent departure, which I described as arranging some mutual assistance with a local cop. Siân’s relief at having a potential police ally was obvious, even though she didn’t say anything. I left for Lawson’s at twenty-five past ten. It was a fifteen-minute walk or five-minute drive and I couldn’t be bothered to walk there and back.

  Lawson had been my CID liaison in the year and a half I’d spent at 33 SIB. We’d only met a few times, and I knew very little about him aside from his reputation as a throwback to the seventies era of policing, or beyond. Eighteen seventies, went the joke. I had no idea how he’d survived in the modern police service, though I suspected that while his superiors enjoyed trying to sack him, they were probably glad to have him around when all hell broke loose on a Saturday night, or some particularly nasty criminal needed arresting.

  I followed the signs for Harrogate, stopped at the T-junction where Scarcroft Road meets the Mount, and saw Lawson’s building directly in front of me. One-one-eight was a red-brick house in a Victorian terrace with a mixture of frontages. I parked outside a Kwik Fit garage at the end of the row, let myself in through the iron gate, and pressed the intercom for Flat B. A few seconds later I heard a buzz and click by way of answer. I walked up to the first floor and found Lawson waiting.

  He was exactly my height, with much more muscle, and looked somewhere around thirty-five. He had a deep chest, broad shoulders, shaved head, and a prominent nose that had been broken more than once. He was dressed exactly as I remembered him: beige suit, no tie, and a scowl.

  “C’mon.” He stepped aside to let me in. His soft Cumbrian accent was at odds with his appearance and it had always made me wonder if there wasn’t more to him. So far, I’d been disappointed.

  I had no idea of his domestic set-up, but it was immediately apparent that he lived alone. The lounge was immaculate and masculine, with a dark hardwood floor, burnt umber leather suite, and wooden blinds over a sash window. There was a black and white framed print of John Wayne on one wall, which didn’t surprise me; and one of Audrey Hepburn on another, which did – I’d have made Lawson for more of a Marilyn Monroe kind of feller. The original open fire had been replaced with a gas substitute, and there was a photo of Lawson receiving an award from the mayor of somewhere above the mantelpiece. I moved in for a closer look, but he intercepted, directing me to a sofa near the widescreen TV.

  Lawson sat in a matching chair next to a side table. Most of the tabletop was covered by a cardboard folder stuffed full of paper, on top of which stood a near-empty glass of lager on a coaster.

  “What’s all this about?” I asked.

  “I got a call at quarter past two this afternoon. Do you know Bishop Wood?”

  “No.”

  “About a thousand acres of woodland, a couple of miles west of Selby. Lots of people take the kids there for Sunday walks and all that bollocks. Main access is from a place called Dutchman’s Car Park in Scalm Lane, just off the B1222. It’s all in here.” He tapped the folder with his index finger, noticed the glass, and knocked the rest of his drink back. “This bloke and his two kids are walking their dog in the wood a few minutes before two, when they hear what turns out to be a shot from a small calibre pistol. The dog leaves the track and heads for the noise, so Homer Simpson and his brood follow. They arrive at the crime scene, which is about a mile to the north-west of the car park, and find Lance Corporal Clinton Haywood, 242 Signal Squadron, twitching in a bloody heap. He’s also stark fucking naked.

  “Homer gets rid of the children, has a quick gander at Haywood, decides he’s past help, and goes after Santa’s Little Helper, who’s run off. He can hear the dog barking so he follows it to Hammersike Road, and puts it back on the lead. He hits the triple nines, and our Armed Response Vehicle turns up seven minutes later, by which time Haywood is dead. The ambulance arrives next, followed by the rest of the Woodies. They call CID, Boniface and I pick up the shout, and head out with the CSIs. We call the governor, and he opens the Incident Room at Fulford.”

  Lawson paused, an unexpected courtesy, but I was too intrigued to disrupt his flow.

  “Haywood was killed with a single shot to the right temple by a .25 bullet. Looks like he was kneeling when he was executed. So far all we’ve found is the cartridge and his clothes. The cartridge is from a semi-automatic, some make of pocket pistol. His uniform and boots were rolled up and stacked neatly on the branch of a tree about twenty metres west of where he was killed. All we know for now is that he was nineteen and based at Worsley Barracks. There’s a Geordie from your factory who’s sent us his file.”

  Even though I’d assumed Mac was on call, I’d wondered what he’d been doing in the office on a Sunday afternoon. “Footprints?” I asked.

  “Fucking paw prints is all. The CSIs have been working flat-out, but the place is a circus, thanks to Santa. The dog followed the exact same route to the road as the player. Looks like a getaway vehicle was waiting in Hammersike Road. Homer followed the dog, and came back with him. To make matters worse, after he left Santa with the kids, Homer retraced his steps to Hammersike Road to hail the armed Woodies down. These two muppets then followed him for a fourth ramble down Santa’s route, completely cocking up any hope we had of taking a useful print. Thank God one of the other Woodies had the sense to set up a parallel path when the rest of the Big Top arrived.”

  Lawson shook his head in disgust.

  “The CSIs have taken soil samples. There might be unique pollen or mineral features that could link a shoe or tyre to the scene. We think we have a single tyre imprint from the getaway vehicle. There’s no hard shoulder and the driver parked with two whe
els on the soft ground. The front one was obscured, but the rear could be from a Land Rover or some other type of four-wheel drive. It might be possible to match the imprint to a specific vehicle. The CSIs have got the arc lights out at the moment, but it’s difficult in the middle of a bloody wood.”

  “The feller you spoke to at 33 Section is Staff Sergeant McBride,” I said. “Don’t be fooled by the boy band thing, he’s been an Investigator for years, and he’s sharp – very sharp. He’ll be happy to be involved in something more challenging than our usual inquiries. Keep him onside and you won’t go far wrong.”

  “You think that’s it, you can fuck off home now?”

  “There’s nothing I can do from home that Mac can’t do better from the office. Stick with him, you’ll see.”

  “Not good enough. I want you.”

  “You don’t get it, Lawson. I haven’t taken leave for four years; I’m not allowed back until I’ve had two months off. Direct order, not negotiable.”

  He frowned. “You on the take or something?”

  “What, in the Army?”

  “Fair point. I’ll feed you the info as I get it, and you can work the inquiry from the sidelines. What the hell else are you doing with your time off?” Unfortunately he had a point, which was more than he needed to know. “I’m not going to shine up your ego, but I don’t want your mate’s help, I want yours. I know what you’ve been up to in Afghanistan, chasing turncoat cops. I heard you always get your man.”

  I wondered how he knew. 63 SIB operations were classified as confidential and not even common knowledge in the Army. “That’s probably the first and last compliment you’ve not quite given me, but I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “I need to make the collar.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged his big arms and shoulders. “I thought you were bright enough to guess that. I’m thirty-six years old, I’ve been a cop for exactly half my life, and a detective for a third of that. I’m a good thief-taker, and I passed my inspector’s exams years ago, but I’ve been investigated too many times and the governors don’t like my manners. This is the first time in a while that I’m not under investigation and I’ve been assigned to the Major Investigation Team that’s come down from HQ. That’s why I’m home early, because I’m due back for the briefing at seven. This is my one chance to impress, but it’s going to be tough. There are two dozen detectives in the MIT, not counting the governor – who doesn’t take any shit – and five other locals on detachment. You owe me; I’m calling the favour in. Don’t fuck me around.”

  I had no idea why he thought I owed him, but it wasn’t important. “Is that file for me?” I pointed to the folder on the table, which looked pretty thick given that it was less than nine hours since Haywood’s murder.

  “Yes. Everything we have so far. Reports, PNC and HOLMES2 entries, the works.”

  “Jesus, you’re probably not even authorised to copy that, never mind give it to someone who’s in effect a civvy. Your MIT governor won’t be happy if he finds out.”

  “She. DCI Marie Hardy is in charge and she’s not going to find out unless you tell her. It’s worth the risk.”

  So Lawson’s plan to impress his superiors began with passing restricted information to me. Sounded about right. I thought about Siân, a shadow of the beautiful, vibrant woman I’d known, running scared from Bell, and suddenly my orders didn’t seem very important. I had no idea how I was going to deliver the help I’d promised her, but I knew Lawson could make a big difference, whatever happened. “I’ve got one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  I’d expected at least a token display of resistance. “Name it?”

  “Yes, just get a move on.”

  “My help not only wipes the slate clean, but you owe me now.”

  Lawson waved his hand. “Yes, fine, whatever.”

  I was astonished at his acquiescence. It was completely out of character. There had to be something he was keeping from me. “Okay, then you’d better give me the file.”

  “This is the deal. Take it with you and go through everything. I’m due at the postmortem tomorrow, which will probably be a waste of time. I’d rather be knocking on doors, but the governor will be there, so I haven’t kicked up a fuss. Monday night will be too busy, but Tuesday night I want to get you into the IR to have a look at the crime scene –”

  “Forget it. You said you’d keep me off the radar. I’m not walking into the Incident Room at Fulford police station. Have you forgotten that Imphal Barracks is next door? Once the CSIs are finished, I’ll take a drive down to Selby, but crossing the police tape is as far as I’m prepared to go.”

  “But we’ve got this new system. It’s called R2S Crime. It’s better than being there. You have to see it.”

  “I’m not going to the police station.”

  He jumped up. “For fuck’s sake, Hutt, I thought you were going to help.”

  “I am, but I’m not risking my neck any more than I have to.”

  He paced around for a few seconds, then leant over the back of his chair and pointed at the file. “There’s more at stake than you think.”

  “Go on.”

  “The partially decomposed body of a young white male was found in a shallow grave in Chalkney Wood on the 15th September 2009. The crime scene was a washout – literally, there’d been heavy rain and the area had flooded – and no clothing or other inorganic material was recovered. The pathologist estimated he’d been dead for about four weeks. Chalkney Wood is in the Colne Valley, eight miles north-west of Colchester, and the Essex coppers checked the AWOL records at the garrison. They turned up Neville Gordon, a twenty-one year old private from HQ 2 Medical Brigade at Goojerat Barracks. His identity was confirmed by his dental records. Guess the cause of death.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Lawson continued. “A single .25 calibre bullet fired into his right temple. It was still in his brain when they sawed open his skull.”

  “Does that mean –”

  “I think the British Army has a serial killer. An as yet undetected serial killer.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My mind was racing, and I waited until I’d composed myself before speaking. “You can’t be the only one that knows about it.”

  “I am at the moment. Once the bullet is retrieved from Haywood’s skull and confirmed as a .25 calibre, it’ll be entered onto the relevant databases, which means PNC and HOLMES2, as well as VICLAS.”

  “What’s VICLAS?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to know about this stuff?”

  “Probably, but my job in the Helmand was a little more hands-on.”

  “It’s the Violent Crimes Linkage Analysis System. It was set up at the National Crime and Operations Faculty to provide a more detailed crime pattern analysis than the Police National Computer. In about twelve hours, alarms are going to go off on at least one – and probably all four – of these programs. But I’ll have already made my move, at the postmortem, where I’m going to tell Hardy about Gordon. First blood to me.”

  “How did you find out about Gordon?”

  Lawson sat down. “I try and keep an eye on as many unsolved murders as I can. According to VICLAS, there are at least four serial killers active in the UK at the moment, five if I just found another one.” Maybe there was more to him after all. He pointed at me. “If you can come up with something by tomorrow afternoon, that would be mint. Once the dust settles after I’ve dropped the Gordon bomb, I want to be ready with a suggestion for what comes next.”

  “I’ll look at the files first thing tomorrow, but I’m not a miracle worker. Who found Gordon’s body?”

  He leant back in his chair. “Another dog walker – a different one, I checked. Chalkney Wood is about a fifth of the size of Bishop Wood and the public have full access. The grave was in the north-west of the wood, close to the village of White Colne.”

  “Did the police have any reason to suspect the corpse was a soldier?”


  “No, not from what I can tell. You know what your lot are like – any trouble on the manor and we look to the squaddies first. He was last seen leaving the barracks on Friday the 14th August and reported as AWOL when he failed to turn up for duty the following Monday. Seems like he was a bit of a misfit. Third year in the Army, very few friends, barely any contact with his family, and a queer.”

  “Gordon was homosexual?” I asked.

  “Looks like it. Why, I thought it was okay to be a poof in the Army now?”

  Lawson’s rabid homophobia was one of many endearing qualities. “Yeah, never mind. If he was a loner, does that mean there weren’t many interviews?”

  “Yes. His only friend was a sergeant named Vaughan, in Three Links something-or-other.”

  “3 LANCS is the 3rd Battalion of the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment.”

  “Vaughan was suspected to be queer as well, although he was married. Gordon only associated with three other people off duty, two soldiers and a civvy. The soldiers were another medic from his unit, a woman named Lynch, and an infantry captain named Bavister. The civvy was also a woman, Jackie Bates. He didn’t even socialise with his roommate, Foster. Nil result on any of them. We’ll be repeating the whole performance with Haywood when we start on the door-to-doors tomorrow.”

  “What we want is for one of those names to crop up again,” I mused.

  “Really! I hadn’t thought of that. I’m so glad I asked you for a helping hand. Any other points you’d like to draw to my attention?”

  “Okay, I know. I doubt we’ll get that lucky. But if Haywood’s murderer is one of your five active serial killers, you’ve picked the right one.”