No Way Home

by Jack Slater

  ‘Ah. Excellent.’ Pete picked up the paper. It was folded open to page three, the top half of which was filled with the three headshots of their suspect with a large-print headline: Have You Seen This Woman? The article went on to state that the three images of her were from the night Sunil Pati, victim two of what they were predictably calling “the cabbie killer”, was murdered and left in his taxi in a backstreet of the city. It described what they knew of Pati, which thankfully didn’t include his involvement with drugs or child sex, then speculated on why the murders might be occurring. The journalist had ended the piece with the statement that the police were struggling for leads but wanted to speak to the woman in the pictures urgently, in case she had any relevant information.

  Pete turned the folded paper back over to look at the pictures. He looked across at Jill.

  ‘This is on page three. What’s the cover story?’

  She grimaced. ‘You weren’t supposed to notice that, boss.’

  He unfolded the paper and was in the process of closing it to see the front page when the door opened and DCI Silverstone barked, ‘Detective Sergeant Gayle. My office. Now.’

  Pete looked up, but the door was already closing. He finished rearranging the newspaper and glimpsed the headline: Third Taxi Driver Murdered. In Broad Daylight. He pursed his lips and tossed the paper back to Jill. ‘Here we go again,’ he muttered. ‘Find me some evidence while I’m gone, will you? And tell Louise I love her if I don’t come back.’

  Silverstone’s door was closed. Pete knocked. The DCI’s voice was a lot less calm than it had been the day before when he snapped ‘Come’.

  Pete entered.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Have you seen the chaos out there?’ He waved a hand towards the front of the station.

  ‘Yes, sir. Uniform are diverting traffic down onto the Topsham Road, to come into the city that way.’

  ‘Well, they shouldn’t bloody well have to. It’s a bloody disgrace. Especially right outside a bloody police station.’

  ‘No, sir. But they are taxis. They need licences to operate and those can be revoked.’

  Silverstone looked up at him in horror. ‘Are you suggesting…? That would cause absolute uproar.’

  Pete tilted his head. ‘Depending how you handled it, sir.’

  ‘No. No way, Detective Sergeant. I’m not having my station accused of something like that. Where are we on these damned killings? We need to appease them somehow. Get rid of them that way. Is there anything you need in the way or resources?’

  ‘The latest one has given us some more information, sir. We’re following up one or two leads.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There were a couple of suspect cars that went by the site that we need to track down. We’ve got the registration on one, but not the other as yet. And we’re waiting for a couple of things from forensics. A palm print and a bit of trace evidence. And your interview yesterday’s out there now, so hopefully that’ll produce something. At least it shows we’re making the effort.’

  ‘Making the effort is not good enough, Peter. Looking out there this morning is enough to demonstrate that.’

  ‘I know that, sir. I’m just saying, we can’t be accused of sitting on our laurels for any reason.’

  ‘Discrimination, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘God.’ His gaze turned inward as he contemplated yet another possible stain on his reputation.

  ‘Is that all you wanted, sir?’

  Silverstone looked up. ‘What? Yes. Get to it, Detective Sergeant. And get me some results. Pronto.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Pete returned to the squad room. Jill was putting down the phone as he walked in. Dick still had his in hand and Ben was concentrating on his computer screen.

  As Pete sat down, Ben looked up but Jill beat him to the punch. ‘That was forensics. Terry Thatcher?’

  Pete nodded.

  ‘The palm print’s come back negative and the red fibre is cotton. They’re still dealing with other evidence from the car, but he said you wanted results on them ASAP.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve been going through the file data on these pictures from Fisher’s phone, boss,’ Ben said. ‘It looks like there’ve been five separate occasions when he downloaded them. Correlating the dates and times, they were all early evening on weekdays and he downloaded between ten and twenty in a session.’

  ‘That’s a lot of pictures,’ Jill said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dick said and put his phone down.

  ‘So, we need to question Fisher about where he was on those dates and at those times,’ Pete said. ‘But first, Jill, get onto Risingbrook and see what they have to say about them. Would he have been there? Would he have been on duty if he was? What would be going on in the school, generally, at those times on those days? If we can tie him down that way first, then question him, he’ll have no wriggle room.’

  Dick was watching him, waiting for a chance to speak.

  ‘What have you got, Dick?’

  ‘That was a bus driver I was just talking to. He saw the paper this morning and recognised the face. Said she was a redhead when he saw her. It was yesterday afternoon. She caught his bus from Holloway Road. He thinks she got off at St David’s, but he can’t be certain. He noticed her because of her red hair and red skirt and the fact that she seemed to be in a bad mood. Fiery, he thought. She had a leather jacket on that was done up to the neck and a large, black shoulder bag.’

  Like the one the girl in Cathedral Square had, Pete thought. And she’d been a redhead when she went into the pub. So, was that her true colour?

  He looked at Dick. ‘Buses have CCTV onboard nowadays, don’t they?’

  Dick nodded.

  ‘So, call him back. Get the number of the bus he was driving and then get onto the company. Get us that footage.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ Dick picked up his phone again and started dialling.

  Moments later, Jill put hers down and looked across. ‘The resident kids, which is about sixty per cent of them, have their dinner in the timeframe we’re looking at, boss. There’s a staff rota to supervise them. I asked about the specific dates. Fisher wasn’t rostered for any of them, so he could have been anywhere, onsite or off.’

  ‘OK. Next question then: where was his phone? And where were the lads we’ve got downstairs? We need to ask them, check for corroboration and we need the phone GPS records. All ten.’

  ‘Blimey. That’s going to take a while,’ Ben said. ‘These phone companies ain’t quick and I’d lay a good bet that, between ten of them, there’s going to be several providers to deal with.’

  ‘Best get to it, then,’ Pete said. ‘Where’s Fisher’s phone? We’ll start with that.’

  ‘Here it is, boss.’ Jill held it up, still in its evidence bag.

  ‘Pass it over. I’ll get that in motion. Give Jane or Dave a ring downstairs, tell them to get permission for as many as possible of the lads’ phones. Any that don’t give it, tell them they’ll be charged with aiding and abetting a paedophile – see if that helps. And after they’ve got permission, ask each of the lads where they were on those dates, at those times.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ She nodded.

  Pete took the phone from her, turning it over in his hand. On the outside of the evidence bag was written the phone’s make, model, number and provider, the name of its owner and the date, time and location of its seizure. He brought up the Internet on his computer and found the service provider’s web site. With the Contact Us page open in front of him, he picked up his phone to dial their number.

  The girl who answered sounded Scottish and gave her name as Kirsty.

  ‘Hello. This is DS Peter Gayle of the Devon and Cornwall Police, Exeter CID. I need the GPS data from a suspect’s phone. I’ve got the details here and the warrant number.’

  ‘OK. I’ll have to call you back, to verify you are who you say.’

  ‘Of course. Quick as
you like, though, please. This is very time-sensitive.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  The phone clicked dead. Pete hung up. He waited, hand poised over his desk phone. Seconds slipped past. How long did it take to dial a damned number? They could look him up, the same as he did them. Then, to be put through from switchboard or the front desk… Finally, it rang. He picked it up. ‘DS Gayle, Exeter CID.’

  ‘Call for you, Pete.’

  There was a click. ‘Hello? DS Gayle speaking.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. This is Kirsty. If you give me the number of the phone, the name of its owner and the warrant number, I’ll see what I can find for you.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘You said it was time-sensitive, Sergeant.’

  ‘I did. Thank you.’ He read out the information she wanted.

  ‘OK. Hold on.’

  Faintly, he heard the tap of a keyboard over the line. A pause. More tapping. Silence again. Then: ‘Hello? DS Gayle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got the information you wanted in front of me. Should I read it out or fax it across?’

  ‘Just to be safe, can I say both?’

  She laughed. ‘OK. Four of the time periods you asked about, the phone was in the same location.’ She read out the GPS coordinates. ‘On the second occasion, though, it was somewhere else.’ More coordinates. ‘What’s your fax number there? I’ll send a paper copy through.’

  ‘Right.’ He gave her the number. ‘Thanks, Kirsty.’

  ‘No problem. Goodbye, Detective.’

  Pete put the phone down and called up a map of Exeter on Google Maps. Moving the cursor over the map, it took him seconds to find the two positions. When he saw the second one, he chuckled out loud. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What a silly bugger you are, Mr Fisher.’

  ‘What’s up, boss?’

  He glanced up. All three of his team members were looking at him. ‘What’s Fisher’s address, Jill?’ he asked.

  ‘14 Middletown. Why? He didn’t, did he?’

  Pete nodded. ‘Just the once, but yes, he most certainly did.’

  ‘The dozy sod,’ Dick said, shaking his head. ‘And him a bloody teacher? No wonder the country’s gone to shit.’

  ‘Well, stupidity isn’t an arrestable offence,’ Pete said. ‘But I think we should bring him in for questioning.’ He jerked his head. ‘Come on, Ben. Let’s get you away from that screen of yours for a bit.’

  *

  As they headed through the downstairs reception area, Pete saw out of the front window that DCI Silverstone was standing at the top of the steps outside, addressing the crowd of angry-looking taxi drivers and the surrounding members of the press, which now included a couple of TV crews.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Watch it, boss,’ Ben said from close behind him. ‘I nearly ran into you.’

  Pete turned aside to the front desk, where the big, grey-haired sergeant stood watching through the window with a half-smile. ‘Bob, have you got a pool car you could lend us for half an hour?’

  ‘Eh?’ His attention returned abruptly from the outside of the station. ‘Uh… all we’ve got this morning is a patrol car. And that’s going to be needed in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Give us the keys. It’ll be back in nineteen. Promise.’

  Bob gave him a sideways look. ‘In one piece?’

  ‘Of course. Unless you dither about.’

  Bob rolled his eyes. ‘OK. I’ll hold you to it, though.’ He reached under the desk and lifted up a set of keys. ‘Car 57.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Pete grabbed the keys from his outstretched hand. ‘Come on, Ben. No time for dilly-dallying.’ They hurried through from the public area into the back corridor, through the custody suite and out the back door. Pete glanced around the car park behind the station. Several patrol cars were there, as usual. But where was 57? He was checking the big numbers on their roofs.

  ‘There,’ said Ben, pointing across to the left.

  The car was a big Vauxhall. It was parked facing into the car park, near the entrance.

  ‘Right. Let’s go.’ Pete led the way at a brisk pace. He unlocked the car with the remote, hopped in and had his seatbelt fastened before Ben had his door open. With less than the usual number of cars in the car park, swinging the big saloon round was easier than it might have been. He completed the move in one big sweep, lined it up on the short drive down the side of the building and put his foot down, waiting until he was almost at the front of the station before he hit the blues and twos. Sound slammed back at them from the wall just a couple of feet from the side of the car as they shot into the open and down to the main road, where Pete turned right, away from the fray in front of the station, and accelerated away towards the city centre.

  Middletown was a short crescent overlooking one of the riverside parks between the city centre and the Old Mill. A short, dead-end road, lined on one side with a hedge that bordered the park and on the other by a short row of semi-detached houses, built in the early twentieth century, of dark brick with half-timbered upper floors. This was not a cheap address, Pete knew.

  He sped through the light Saturday morning traffic, using the lights and sirens until he got to within a hundred yards or so of the end of the cul-de-sac. Then he turned them off. Turning into the crescent, he found that the houses, having been built before anyone but the wealthiest had cars, had no garages, or even drives, so both sides of the crescent were lined with parked cars. He drove slowly along to the far end, checking numbers as he went, turned the big car around and came back the few yards to Fisher’s address, where he double-parked, blocking the road.

  ‘Right, let’s see if he’s in.’

  They stepped out of the car and approached the gate to the large, neatly kept front garden. There was a high wooden fence with a gate at the side of the house.

  ‘You take the back, just in case,’ Pete said as he opened the black-painted gate. They split up. Ben went from sight around the side of the house and Pete heard the sound of a latch opening and closing. He counted to five then rang the bell.

  The discreet chime had faded to nothing and Pete was starting to wonder if the man was in when a shadow moved behind the door and it swung open. Fisher was in shorts and T-shirt, a light sheen of sweat on his skin as if he’d been working out.

  ‘Detective. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We need to have a talk, Mr Fisher. Down at the station.’ Pete nodded towards the car. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  Something seemed to shut down in Fisher’s eyes. ‘Do I need to call my solicitor?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘That’s entirely up to you, sir. But think on this: as we stand here now, your job’s over. They’re not going to keep you on at Risingbrook. They can’t. But you’ve still got your freedom and your life as you know it. You could go somewhere else and get another job.’ As long as it’s nowhere near my kids and, preferably, nobody else’s either. He forced his expression to remain neutral as he fought the disgust that twisted his stomach, hoping Fisher would just think he was letting that sink in.

  ‘But once we charge you, that’s gone,’ he continued, when he could be sure of keeping his voice even. ‘You’ll be on the sex-offenders register. There’s the likelihood of prison with all the risks that entails for someone on those sorts of charges. Will you get bail in the meantime? I don’t know. But would you want to gamble on it? I wouldn’t, in your shoes. On the other hand, if you cooperate with us, this is your chance to get out from under, get ahead of the game, put your case before the boys and their expensive barristers drop you any deeper in it than you already are.’ Pete spread his hands. ‘It’s completely up to you, but I know which way I’d go.’

  Fisher didn’t react for several seconds. It was almost like he’d gone into suspended animation. He was a few inches shorter than Pete, but well-built. Powerful. With that and the element of surprise, he might think he could get past him and away. Pete readied himself for a
fight. But then Fisher seemed to slump. He took a step back.

  ‘All right. Let me just grab a tracksuit.’

  He turned away and headed back into the house. Pete followed.

  Fisher mounted the stairs, Pete close behind him. The door opposite the top of the stairs was open, light flooding in. It was laid out as a gym with a rowing machine, exercise bike and set of weights. A maroon tracksuit was draped over a wooden towel rail beside the weights rack.

  As Fisher reached for it, Pete was two steps behind him at the top of the stairs.

  Fisher put on the tracksuit top. His arm went out again towards the trousers. Suddenly, he bent at the waist, reached beyond the towel rail and snatched up a foot-long dumbbell. Twisting, feet spread, he swung the heavy metal back towards Pete, hoping to catch him off-guard. But Pete wasn’t there. He’d paused outside the doorway. The dumbbell slammed into the wall, punching a hole in the plasterboard. Fisher growled, stepping forward fast as he snatched the heavy weight free and lifted it like a weapon.

  ‘Boss?’ Ben’s voice came from the kitchen.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  Fisher was too short for Pete to get inside the move. Space was cramped. There was only one way to go. He stepped back and to the side, grabbing for Fisher’s top, pulling him forward. Fisher was already swinging the dumbbell, its weight, combined with his own, pulling him off-balance. The metal struck the banister in front of him. Wood splintered. He yelled. Pete saw what was about to happen and his other hand came around, grabbing for the back of Fisher’s vest, trying to swing him around to the side, but his weight and momentum were all wrong. The vest ripped. The dumbbell clunked on the wooden floor. Fisher’s shoulder hit the already-damaged banister. It gave way. He went down hard, three-quarter turned back towards Pete, his torso hanging out over empty space. Horror filled his eyes as they met Pete’s but then he was tipping, legs flailing in the air. His arms cracked against the banister spindles at his sides, but they were already split and ruined.

  Pete went down to one knee, grabbing for his leg, but pain ripped through his shoulder from the damage it had taken at the dogfight the other night and Fisher’s skin was slick with sweat from his recent workout. The leg snatched away and Fisher bellowed as he tipped backwards, arms and legs flailing. Pete dove forward, flat on his belly across the landing, reaching over the edge despite the agony spreading into his neck and chest, but it was too late. Fisher started to flip end overend, but the fall wasn’t far enough. He’d tipped about fifteen degrees past the vertical when he hit the floor headfirst. Pete paused, watching for movement.