‘I mean it.’
‘So do I,’ Tom said, ‘a good journalist never gives up his source. Just ask your two goons out there if you don’t believe me.’
‘I did,’ said the DCI, ‘which is why you’re here.’
‘Out with it then.’
Kane leaned back in his desk chair and folded his arms. ‘Well sit down and I’ll tell you.’
Tom took the seat opposite Kane and let the police officer begin. ‘You’re familiar with Professor Burstow and his role in the Kiddy-Catcher case.’
‘Of course,’ said Tom but he still wasn’t going to admit to writing the article that had made it public knowledge.
‘His input has been to narrow down our investigation. It is his psychological profile that has enabled us to sift the many hundreds of leads received by Durham Constabulary. The detectives on this case have all basically been working for him, in a manner of speaking. If he tells us a lead is worth following then we follow it, if he says it’s a dead end then we put it to one side, because he represents the new way of doing things, he is the future.’ Kane said that last bit drily.
‘I get the picture.’
‘And it’s not as if he isn’t credible,’ continued the DCI, ‘I mean, he’s got all those letters after his name and that glowing report from the FBI after all of the work he’s done for them.’
‘Where are you going with this?’
‘But what if I was to tell you that Professor Burstow isn’t who he claims to be?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Tom. ‘Are you saying some of his CV doesn’t stand up to scrutiny?’
‘Perhaps I’m saying that none of it does,’ Kane admitted.
‘Bloody hell,’ Tom thought for a second, ‘if you’re telling me that the hunt for a multiple child killer has been going down blind alleys because the man who has been directing the investigation is a fraud then I would say that’s a very big story indeed.’
‘I thought as much,’ admitted Kane with classic understatement.
‘How the hell?’
‘He’s never worked with the FBI,’ said Kane, ‘nor helped a police force anywhere on any of their cases, least of all a murder enquiry. He’s not a professor or even a doctor, his qualifications are fake. The man is a fantasist.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘It seems we were so desperate that the man who did the hiring didn’t bother to conduct any background checks on Burstow. Instead he read all the testimonials on their headed notepaper, helpfully provided by the FBI and others, and took them on face value.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘All of this only came to light because an American tourist read a newspaper report in London on the Michelle Summers’ case. The story contained a reference to a professor Burstow being heavily involved in solving a previous case in the U. S. Trouble was, this man was an FBI agent who worked that case and knew Burstow had nothing to do with it. Being a civic-minded soul, he called to let us know. One of our detectives contacted the FBI in Langley and, lo and behold, they had no record of a Professor Burstow involved in that case or any other. It took us about an hour and a half to pick apart every other claim on his CV then we asked the good professor to come into the station and help us with our enquiries. Only this time he was on the wrong side of an interview table. He’s down in the cells right now in fact.’
Tom could scarcely believe what he was hearing. ‘Why did he think he could get away with it?’
Kane shrugged, ‘because he’s barking,’ he said simply, ‘I don’t mean he’s rolling-round-in-his-own-shit-frothing-at-the-mouth crazy, but he’s clearly wired very differently from other people.’
‘Has he admitted it?’
‘He’s not admitted or denied it. He’s just acting like it doesn’t make any difference. He knows who the killer is and he’s going to help us find him, if only we’d listen. Big of him, isn’t it?’
‘Does anybody else know about this?’
‘If you mean other journalists, then no.’
‘Who does know about it?’
‘Half-a-dozen senior police officers and a couple of panic-stricken politicians, including our esteemed local MP.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Tom, ‘they are not trying to put a lid on this?’
‘What do you think?’
‘But how can they?’
‘Oh I don’t know, get the charges dropped or perhaps have chummy down there sectioned under the mental health act; hope nobody notices.’
‘And you don’t want that to happen?’ Tom narrowed his eyes, ‘even though this could be very damaging to the force? Now why is that?’
‘There’ll be a shit storm,’ Kane admitted, ‘for a while, but I think there are more important concerns here, don’t you? That man has endangered the lives of every young girl in this county by jeopardising a police investigation into a serial killer. I reckon it’s time we blew the whistle, got it all out in the open. The public have a right to know.’
‘Very noble,’ and Tom regarded the Detective Chief Inspector with interest.
‘What?’
‘Professor Burstow was Trelawe’s man wasn’t he?’
‘I believe Trelawe brought him in, so, yes, he was Trelawe’s man, as you put it.’
‘And what will happen to him?’
‘I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Trelawe has been suspended, pending the outcome of an enquiry.’
Tom finally understood. ‘So your boss could be for the chop and you don’t want this hushed up while charges are dropped, madmen placed quietly in asylums and Detective Superintendents exonerated? That’s how your lot normally operate, isn’t it? But you want to see Trelawe hung out to dry.’
‘Why would I want to see a fellow officer come to harm?’ asked DCI Kane in a deadpan voice.
‘Maybe you don’t care for him or he doesn’t like you. It could be that simple but my best guess is you’re next up,’ Tom told him, ‘who is overseeing the Michelle Summers’ case now that Trelawe has been suspended?’
‘I am liaising directly with the Assistant Commissioner,’ admitted Kane, ‘for now.’
‘Really?’ Tom shook his head in disbelief, ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Kane, even if I don’t believe a word of that story about off-duty FBI agents on holiday in London. Do me a favour. You checked out Burstow. You did the leg work your boss couldn’t be bothered with, all the way back to the FBI in Langley. You invented that tip-off to justify it when you went over your boss’s head. You’ve thrown him to the lions.’
‘You’ve never had any dealings with the detective superintendent. If you had, you wouldn’t be so shocked. He’s a very political animal,’ Kane informed him, ‘and so, it turns out, am I.’
‘You shafted him before he shafted you, that it?’
‘Partly,’ admitted Kane, ‘but my main concern is his judgement, or lack of it. A police officer of his rank should have some don’t you think, and that man is an empty uniform.’
‘And when I write up this story, he’ll be finished,’ said Tom.
Kane shrugged. ‘What do you care?’
Tom felt weary all of a sudden. ‘I don’t, not really.’
‘Right,’ DCI Kane’s face hardened, ‘so do you want this story or not?’
CHAPTER FIFTY
This time Tom only gave Alex Docherty half an hour before calling Terry for a second time.
‘Did you give the Doc my message?’
‘Er … yeah, I did,’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Not much,’ admitted the sub-editor.
‘Well what, exactly?’
‘You know the Doc.’
‘What did he say, Terry?’
Terry sighed, ‘ “Tell him to go fuck himself.” ’
‘Great,’ answered Tom, ‘that’s just great.’
Tom hung up and dialled Paul Hill at the Mirror, then he called Helen.
As Tom made for the old vicarage, he walked past the pensioners’ bungalows and the vacant lot which used to h
ouse the old brewery. It was amazing to think a village this size once had its own site for brewing beer but that was long ago and the building had lain empty for years before finally being torn down. The site had been grassed over and trees planted, some tall and mature but the ones nearer the road were more recent additions; little more than saplings, tied to thick wooden supports to keep them aloft while they bent and twisted in the wind.
Tom was in a more buoyant mood following his conversation with Paul Hill. With another story sold, he felt as if he was managing to build up a war chest, which might help sustain him when the time came for his inevitable dismissal from the paper. At least he could keep the wolf from the door while he worked out what to do next with his life.
He rounded the corner, his mind preoccupied with Mary Collier, which was why he didn’t notice Frankie Turner coming towards him from the other end of the street until it was too late. The older man spotted Tom though and immediately broke into a run. ‘Oh shit,’ mumbled Tom as he belatedly recognised the snarling face powering towards him, ‘not now.’ Caught unawares, Tom had a split second to make a decision.
‘Come here!’ shouted Frankie and Tom made up his mind then. He turned on his heel and fled. ‘Stay there, you bastard!’ roared Frankie.
Tom disappeared back round the corner and Frankie Turner shot after him, determined to catch up with him, not quite believing that Tom had the sheer bloody nerve to stay in the village when he had been warned away. Frankie’s anger lent him speed, ‘Come here, you!’ He was determined to catch Tom and give him another beating. Frankie went barrelling round the bend, praying he’d made up enough ground and hoping to see Tom just ahead of him.
But Tom was a great deal closer than Frankie was expecting. He was waiting just round the corner for his attacker to catch up with him. Before Frankie could do anything, Tom twisted his body and brought something crashing towards him. Frankie managed to put his arms up to parry the blow but Tom adjusted his stance and brought the wooden strut he’d pulled from one of the saplings down low so it missed Frankie’s hands and face, instead landing a sickening blow to his torso.
Frankie groaned and gasped at the same time and went down hard, clutching his stomach. That blow would have been enough to end the fight on its own, because Frankie wasn’t going to be getting up in a hurry, but Tom wasn’t finished yet. He dropped the wooden strut and instead lashed out with a boot that caught Frankie full in the face, sending him hurtling backwards. Frankie groaned as he rolled along the ground. ‘Did you think I was running away from you, Frankie? No chance! I’ve been waiting for this, you bastard!’ The next kick went in hard on Frankie’s knee and he cried out in pain. ‘Did you reckon I was going to stand in the street and trade punches with you? No way. You like to fight dirty, well, that’s fine by me.’ The next kick was aimed at the face and Frankie tried to shield it with his hands but Tom anticipated that and redirected his kick so it connected with Frankie’s ribs. He groaned again and tried to crawl away but Tom saw his opportunity and the end of his shoe went in hard between the other man’s legs. Frankie let out a strangled, coughing choke and rolled over, clutching his balls.
‘Not done yet,’ Tom assured him, his fury increasing as he recalled the cowardly attack he had endured at Frankie’s hands.
‘No,’ pleaded Frankie, ‘stop,’ he gasped.
‘Fuck you,’ Tom told him and the next kick went into Frankie’s shin, causing another cry of intense pain as he rolled on the ground. Weeks of anger and frustration seemed to roar out of Tom then and Frankie Turner took the brunt of it all; his betrayal by the Doc, fury at Timothy Grady, anger at the two rogue detectives who’d left him stranded five miles away and, of course, there was Helen and her idiot boyfriend.
As Frankie took another blow from Tom’s boot, he pleaded, ‘Enough.’
‘No,’ Tom assured him, ‘you don’t get to decide when you’ve had enough,’ and he knelt down next to the man, drew back his arm and punched him hard in the mouth, ‘I get to decide!’ another punch in the face then another, this time opening up a big cut above Frankie’s eye. ‘I get to decide!’ he gripped the other man’s shirt with one hand and it ripped as his other fist slammed into Frankie’s face once more. Tom drew back his arm to administer one final punch.
‘Tom!’ screamed Helen and he looked up to see her standing there. He hadn’t even heard her car draw up at the side of the road and now she was out of it and screaming at him, ‘Stop! For God’s sake, stop! You’ll bloody kill him!’
Tom did stop then. He looked at Helen’s wild eyes then glanced down at the man he had been pummelling. Frankie Turner was conscious, just, but his head was lolling and he was making an unnatural gurgling noise caused by the blood in his nose and mouth. His face was battered and bloody and there was no way he was going to be able to stand unaided.
Tom took a step away from Frankie and viewed his handiwork while Helen moved closer. ‘Fuck him.’
‘You can’t just leave him in the street like this,’ she told him, ‘he needs help!’
‘If you care about him that much, you help him!’ he snapped and before she could reply he turned his back on her and was gone.
By the time Helen caught up with him again Tom was already sitting in the corner of the Lion, clutching a half-drunk pint but still flushed from the exertion of fighting Frankie Turner. Helen was breathless from the effort of catching up with him, which she did just as soon as she’d confirmed that Frankie Turner wasn’t in a critical condition. He’d merely snarled at her and staggered to his feet, swearing and brushing her away before limping from the scene. She was stunned that he could walk at all after such a savage beating and she watched him until he disappeared round a bend, convinced he was likely to collapse at any minute.
‘You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges!’ her voice was loud enough to attract the attention of the men in the bar, all of whom had been sensible enough not to ask Tom how he had bloodied his hands.
‘Press charges?’ sneered Tom. ‘Frankie Turner? That’s the last thing he’ll do. He knows the police would shake me by the hand for giving that arsehole a beating.’ Helen saw that the skin on his knuckles was broken and bloody. ‘He came after me. It was a fight and he bloody lost. I gave him more chance than he gave me the other night and he’d have done worse if I hadn’t got the drop on him.’ He could tell she was unconvinced, ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Helen,’ he told her firmly, ‘I don’t want to talk about anything.’
‘Well that’s going to be difficult, since we are supposed to be working together. Sulking isn’t going to help.’
‘I am not sulking.’
And she gave him a look that said you clearly are then reminded him, ‘We were supposed to be seeing Mary Collier.’
‘Just give me a minute, will you, for Christ’s sake,’ and when she said nothing. ‘Can I not have just one minute to myself without you standing there, looking at me like that!’ He drained the beer from his glass.
‘Like what?’
‘Like I’ve crawled out from under a rock. Can we not have a one-minute holiday from that?’ He was scowling at her now and she was stunned by the ferocious look on his face.
‘You can have as many minutes as you like,’ Helen told him quietly and she walked away from him then, leaving Tom staring into the bottom of his glass.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Mary Collier was alone that afternoon but she did not invite Helen in. ‘What is it this time, Miss Norton?’
Helen was still angry after her argument with Tom and in no mood for chit-chat. ‘We’ve been to see Sam Armstrong,’ she informed Mary, ‘he told us all about you and Sean Donnellan.’ There was a look of resignation on the old lady’s face then as she opened the door wider to admit her.
This time Mary poured two glasses of sherry and passed one to Helen, who took it from the old lady’s trembling hand and sat down opposite her.
‘Where’s Tom,’ asked Mary, ‘you two had a tiff?’ She looked Hele
n directly in the eye. ‘You are sleeping with him, I assume?’ she asked, catching Helen completely off guard. Mary smiled but there was no warmth behind the smile. ‘I could tell he’s interested you,’ she explained. ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ she added, ‘it’s the duty of every generation to shock the one that came before it? Though you’d have to do something pretty racy to shock the generation after mine.’
Helen surprised herself with her choice of words: ‘Who I’m sleeping with is none of your business.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Mary, ‘though you seem to think the whole world might be interested in who I may have been sleeping with.’
‘Yes,’ answered Helen, ‘that’s because your boyfriend was murdered.’
Mary let out something between a gasp and a startled laugh then she regained her composure. ‘My boyfriend? He was a boy, a man actually, twenty-two years old when he came here, so young but seemed so worldly and sophisticated somehow and of course you want to know all about us, like we’re public property all of a sudden.’
‘I just want to know what happened to him, that’s all.’
‘Why?’ Mary asked sharply. ‘So it will make your name, set you on your way to a glamorous career as a journalist? Is that it?’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Helen, ‘that’s what we do. We find out what happened and we write about it and yes, if I can write a good piece about this then it might not do me any harm, but there’s more to it than that.’
‘How so?’
Helen could feel her anger rising at this old woman who seemed to care more for her reputation than the truth, ‘a young man came to this village one day and never left. Something bad happened here and he was killed because of it and his body buried in a marshy field, with no headstone, no funeral and no mourners. He probably had a mother, a father, sisters, brothers, friends who cared for him. They never saw Sean again and if any of them are still alive I think they deserve to know what happened to him. I think this secret has been haunting you for years and you need to tell us the truth.’
No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) Page 28