by Michael Kerr
She sighed with relief. He really wasn’t used to dating.
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve opened the wine, and the meal is almost ready.”
“Good. I just thought I should call, in case you’d got surprise company, or...”
“No cold feet here, Alistair. I’m all on my ownsome, looking forward to finally meeting you.”
“Okay. I’ll be there very soon.”
“Park in the drive. No need to leave your car out on the street.”
He switched off the mobile phone and smiled. She was primed, so eager for it that he had heard the near desperation in her voice. He had done a drive past the week before. Knew that her small thirties, detached bungalow was set back from the quiet avenue, and that tall evergreen hedging shielded it from prying eyes. He had planned to abduct her and take her to some quiet, deserted location. But there was rain in the air. Why not stay at the house? He would be careful. Leave nothing behind, except Emily of course. He would be able to relax more behind closed doors. Could take it nice and easy, and still be home and tucked up in his own bed before daybreak. He had pulled into a lay-by and changed the plates on the car. And the mobile phone he had used to call her was stolen. There would be no trail for anyone to follow.
Driving between the open gates, he drove up the curving drive. Stopped. Got out and quickly made ready as he walked up to the varnished hardwood door. The outside light was on. He pressed the bell.
Emily heard the car pull up. Took a deep breath, went to the door and opened it as he thumbed the bell push.
Her brain seemed to stutter. Was this his idea of a joke? It wasn’t funny. The tall man standing in front of her was wearing what appeared to be surgical gloves on his hands and a stocking over his head. His nose was flattened beneath it and slits had been cut in front of his eyes and mouth. This was definitely not Alistair. He was smiling beneath the fine, smoky-grey denier, as though he knew her. And his eyes were fixing her to the spot. They looked almost the colour of amber.
“Hi there, Emily,” he said. “Alistair couldn’t make it, so you’ll have to entertain me instead.”
It didn’t compute. It was Alistair’s voice. She opened her mouth, and a scream formed in her throat.
Chapter SEVEN
A week slipped by. Ryan had little to show for it. The autopsy report on Veronica Kirkwood gave up nothing that they didn’t already have. In plain terms, she’d had her brains – or at least a portion of them – blown out. Two slugs had been totally unnecessary. Though given the chance, a pro always made sure. There had been cases of people being shot in the head, to subsequently make a full recovery. There were no other injuries, and no indication of any sexual activity.
Forensics were still sifting through a mass of hairs, fibres, cigarette ends, condoms, chewing gum, and other litter gathered in the proximity of the murder scene. Eventually it would all be cross-referenced with that which had been collected from the other scenes. It was a slow, meticulous process. The only positive though expected news came from ballistics. The bullet that passed through Veronica’s skull had been found embedded in soft earth just four yards from where the body was found. It was a match to the other killings, in that it had been fired by the same handgun. And there was more than just the identifying striations from the rifling inside the gun’s barrel. The slug had passed through a suppresser, or silencer.
Ryan phoned ballistics and talked to Alan Dunhill.
“I’ve got your report on the Kirkwood shooting in front of me, Al,” he said. “What’s the bottom line?”
“Same gun fired all the bullets recovered from the three scenes in question. All nine millimetre ammunition. And they all passed through a silencer that is unique in that the user packs it himself. The baffles, or sound absorbent material that dampens the explosion from the muzzle and traps and bleeds it off, is only effective for a few shots. It needs replacing, and this shooter doesn’t use a recognised commercial product. Particles recovered from the tissue and bullets suggest that he makes do with a branded steel wool. Apart from that, I can tell you that if the latest vic was not moved after being shot, and was standing when he put the muzzle against her skull, then the perp is approximately six-two. The angle of entry and the location of the spent slug give us that.”
“Thanks, Al.”
An explosion made Ryan pull the receiver away from his ear.
“What the hell was that?”
“One of my assistants either just topped himself because I refused him a day’s leave, or was firing a high-powered rifle into a water tank.”
“Bye, Al.”
“Bye, Ryan.”
Julie walked into the office as he hung up.
“We’ve got the go ahead to see Ray Savino in Belmarsh,” she said. “He’s agreed to talk to us, though I don’t know why he would do that.”
“Something to ease the boredom, and curiosity,” Ryan said. “You want coffee?”
“Please. And then we’ll go and see the slime ball.”
“We?”
Julie nodded. “I’ll use my feminine charm on him. Show a bit of thigh and melt his romantic Italian heart.”
Ryan smiled as he poured the coffee. His DCI really was lightening up. “Maybe you should put your pants in your shoulder bag and Sharon Stone him.”
“Easy, Ryan. Don’t go there.”
He handed her the mug. Let a picture form of Julie Brannigan crossing her legs and momentarily showing a flash of what makes the world go round. His eyes met hers, and she shook her head. She could read him.
“Men,” she said, with mock disdain. “You’ve all got a one-track mind.”
“Not true,” Ryan came back. “I was just thinking that Savino will prefer you to Eddie.”
“Don’t try to kid me, Ryan. Remember, I worked vice for years.”
Ryan was beginning to see her in a new light. He liked what he saw. She was not the stuck-up bitch he had first thought her to be. Now that the ice was broken, they were beginning to mesh; getting along just fine. Like him, she wanted to clear cases and put bad guys behind bars. That was what it was all about. Find them, make a case that was bullet-proof, and let due process do the rest. And, yes, he was attracted to her. When they were together, the air seemed charged. He would have to keep his distance. It would not do to get involved with a superior officer. Nothing good could come of it. And it was officially a no-no. Not that he gave a rat’s arse about what the wankers on the top floor thought. They were, for the most part, a bunch of back-stabbing, small-minded men who had their own acquisitive aspirations, and were far removed from cops who actually worked the streets.
“Come on, Ryan,” Julie said, placing her still half full mug on the desk. Let’s go see this Mafia creep. You never know, he might just throw us a bone.”
Ray Savino was intrigued. It would be a pleasant aside to talk to the cops. He didn’t get to see many new faces. They wanted to talk about Joel Cattrall, his late accountant, who had sold him out at the trial. It had been Cattrall’s evidence that put him away. But he had been questioned over the turd’s death at the time and had obviously given them nothing. Surely they didn’t think that he would now shed any light for them?
Julie and Ryan were already in the small special visits room when Savino was escorted in by a screw. They both stood up and faced him. He liked that. Knew that it wasn’t respect for who he was; just good manners, because they wanted something. He didn’t.
He put his hand out. The female cop shook it. He caught the subtle scent of the perfume she wore. He didn’t recognise it. The big cop with her gave him a steely look, but reached out and gave his hand a curt, fleeting shake. He had a firm grip.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brannigan, and this is Detective Inspector Ryan,” Julie said. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Savino.”
“No problem,” Ray said. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ that can’t wait. Why the rank? Don’t you have desks to ride?”
“We like to get out and about, visit new pl
aces and meet interesting people,” Ryan said.
“You gotta sense of humour, Ryan. I like that. Let’s sit down and talk the talk.”
Julie and Ryan sat next to each other at one side of the cigarette-scarred, Formica-topped table. Savino, the other.
Even with the prison officer outside the closed door, glancing in through the toughened, splinter proof Perspex window, Ryan could hear the constant hubbub of background noise: steel gates being clanged and locked, footsteps, the murmur of voices, and even laughter. Prison was a thriving, industrious, closed community, with: workshops, an education department, kitchens, library, laundry, gymnasium, and of course the residential and hospital wings. Separate from the inmate population was the administration block, that housed the offices of the probation department, governor grades, and a plethora of clerks. This was an institution in which men were contained, catered to, and spent a part of their lives conforming to a regime that needed to maintain order if it was to function smoothly. In some ways it was like the Armed Forces. Though the only weaponry the inmates had were non-issue home-made knives and blunt instruments.
Ryan took his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket. Offered Savino one. He declined. Ryan fired up, not interested in whether he was allowed to or no, and inhaled the smoke down into his lungs and was rewarded by the nicotine being dispersed through his bloodstream, to reach his brain and flood his central nervous system. It was a hit that always relaxed him. The crooner, Dean Martin, had reputedly said: ‘I’d hate to be a teetotaller. Imagine getting up in the morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re gonna to feel all day’. Ryan felt the same way about smoking. He reckoned that if you didn’t smoke, drink, take any other drug, or even overindulge on chocolate or something, then you lived on a different and lesser plane in the same world.
“We’ve got a headcase offing girls for the thrill of it,” Julie said to the swarthy Italian.
Ray Savino examined his manicured nails as he spoke. “Give me a clue,” he said. “Why do you suppose I would care, or be interested? Bad shit happens.”
“You’d care if he double-tapped your daughter,” Ryan said.
Ray looked into Ryan’s eyes and gripped the edge of the table with his meaty hands. They stared at each other. Neither was going to back down and break the contact.
“Hey, you two. This isn’t a pissing contest,” Julie said.
Ray and Ryan gave her their attention. They both smiled.
“I read the papers,” Ray said. “I don’t understand killin’ for the sake of it. Why do you think I would know anythin’ about it? I’m in here for tax evasion.”
“Four years after you got sent down, the star witness against you at the trial was taken out. Joel Cattrall. He was your accountant, and gift-wrapped you for us to save his own skin,” Ryan said.
“Lucky I had a cast-iron alibi, ain’t it?” Ray said.
“The shooter used a nine-millimetre with a silencer on Cattrall, after he’d been chewed up by wildlife. The slugs are a match for these current killings.”
“So?”
Ryan found the man inexorable. He was not going to give them anything. Why would a man who was known to have routinely ordered the deaths of anyone he considered expendable for one reason or another, cross over and aid them with their Inquiry?
Julie gave it a shot. “You’ll be coming up for parole soon, Ray,” she said. “Do you think you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting it?”
“You’ve got my attention, darlin’. Make me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Let’s just suppose that you knew who had Cattrall topped,” Julie began, picking her words carefully. “I wouldn’t be concerned how you knew, or try to tie you to it. But if you were to mention a name, in any context you chose to, then I would see that as being a reason for the police not to oppose you being released on licence.”
“But no guarantees, eh?”
“Get real, Ray. There are no guarantees in life...I take that back. I can guarantee that you won’t walk early if you don’t take this one-off opportunity. And that when we do catch up with this hired killer, and if he points at you for the Cattrall hit, then we’ll build whatever case we can against you, and fuck up your life for as long as is humanly possible.”
“You got balls, for a woman,” Ray said to Julie. “You do realise that bein’ in this shit-hole doesn’t stop me from conductin’ business. I make a phone call, and things happen. Why do you think I would need a lowly DCI to put in a word for me. I have people on my payroll who rub shoulders with the Home Secretary.”
“It’s wheels within wheels, Savino,” Ryan said. “It only takes a couple of broken teeth on one little cog to stop a machine running. The pen really is mightier than the sword. Bad press at the right time, and even if the Home Secretary was your son, he wouldn’t put you back on the street.”
“You two should take your act on stage,” Ray said. He then pointed to the pack of cigarettes that Ryan had left on the tabletop.
Ryan pushed them and his Zippo across. Ray took a cigarette out and lit it. Slid them back. Julie and Ryan said nothing else. Just waited. Watched as Savino smoked half of the cigarette, then dropped it on the floor and stubbed it out with the sole of his trainer. He was thinking, weighing up what his best move might be.
“There was a guy doing a short stretch in here who comes to mind,” Ray said. “I remember that he was fearless, in that he didn’t back down from anythin’. He got hurt bad, but bounced back. He was capable of any act. One of those death wish types who would have played Russian roulette just to pass time on a rainy day. “Maybe he heard me badmouthing Cattrall. Thought he’d do me a favour when he got out.”
“Why would he want to do you a favour?” Julie said.
“I looked out for him. Made sure he did his bird the easy way, and kept the screws off his back.”
“So give us a name, Ray,” Ryan said.
Ray got up, a crooked smile on his face that could have been a sneer, or maybe a take on Elvis. He walked to the door and caught the officer’s attention. Ryan cursed under his breath. The no-good little greaseball had been playing them. He wasn’t responding to carrot or stick.
“Tyler,” Ray said from the corner of his mouth. “Andy Tyler.”
And then he was gone, walking away down the corridor with the officer at his side.
“And I didn’t even have to cross my legs,” Julie said.
“Maybe he played ball to stop you getting down and dirty.”
“He should be so lucky. Let’s have a word with the governor. See if we can get a copy of this Tyler’s F 1150.”
The governor of the prison was Tom Bullock, with the soubriquet of Raging Bull to inmates and prison staff alike. He was a hard-liner, who liked discipline and cleanliness, and ran the nick strictly by the book.
“Take a seat,” he said to Julie and Ryan, after they had been shown in to his large office in the separate admin block. “And please refrain from smoking.” He could smell the smoke on their clothes, and was not to know that Julie was, as he, a non-smoker, who was subject to inhaling and being contaminated second-hand by other people’s toxic fumes.
Bullock was all business. He glanced at his wristwatch to let them know that time was an issue. He was due to do his rounds of the prison in twenty minutes, and was never late.
“I understand that you want to look at the file of an ex-inmate, Andrew Tyler?”
“Yes, Governor,” Julie said. “We have information that makes him a suspect in the current spate of shootings that you may have read about.”
“And this information was given to you by the inmate you have just interviewed.”
“Yes. Savino gave us his name.”
“And do you believe him, Detective Chief Inspector Brannigan?” Bullock said, giving her a contrived look of surprise over the top of his gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles.
“I believe that any lead is worth following up when lives are at stake,” Julie countered.
> “I agree,” Bullock said. “Though Savino is far from being the type who can be relied upon. Even within these walls, the blade of his power is hardly dulled. Whatever he has said will be self-serving, unless I am a very poor judge of bad character.”
“I’ll bear what you’ve said in mind,” Julie said, not wanting to tell the pompous prick that his personal views were not a consideration.
“Good. I have arranged for the officer who wrote up Tyler’s assessments to come up and talk to you. As you know, we assign an officer to monitor a number of inmates’
general behaviour. He will have had quite a lot of contact with Tyler. Ah, here he is. Come in, Officer Lavery.”
The officer looked a little nervous. He was like a fish out of water away from the wings, and in an environment that he would rather not be.
“I’ll be off then,” Tom Bullock said to Julie and Ryan. “Don’t hesitate to contact me again if you need anything else.” He left without shaking hands, marching out past the other offices with his hands clasped behind his back. His body language said: I’m the king of this castle. He that has to be obeyed.
“What’s your first name?” Julie said the officer.
“Roy,” he replied.
“Well, Roy, we understand you were Tyler’s reporting officer, and knew him better than any of the other staff. Is that correct?”
“I wouldn’t say I knew him better, ma’am. But yes, I did his assessments.”
“Please tell us what sort of individual he was. And how you personally perceived him to be.”
“He was a cold, callous bast...type,” Roy said. “He could not be intimidated by staff or inmates. He got in thick with a con named Savino, and looked after things for him.”
“In what way?” Ryan asked.
“Kept other cons in line. There’s a pecking order, and Savino is top dog in here. He lives like fuc...like royalty. Nothing happens on his wing without his blessing. That makes for a quiet life, most of the time. He doesn’t let idiots kick-off and make waves. Tyler and a few of Savino’s henchmen acted like a private police force. They hurt anyone that was a bit slow on the uptake, or thought they could handle themselves.”