Chosen To Kill (DI Matt Barnes Book 4)

by Michael Kerr

  After sucking twice on the bronchodilator to draw in a metered dose, Elsie became calmer and her breathing eased.

  “Get up, go through to the lounge and sit down,” Billy said.

  Elsie pushed herself up onto her knees, then got to her feet and went into the lounge and dropped onto the two-seater settee.

  “You have spare keys for Dr. Markham’s house,” Billy stated.

  “They’re in my bag,” Elsie said, not prepared to lie and risk further violence.

  Billy told her to take them out and identify which doors they unlocked. He also confirmed that the doctor was alone in the house, and in what room he slept, after she had explained the layout and given him the code for the alarm system.

  He did not harm her. Just bound her wrists and ankles together and wrapped more of the tape around her head to cover her mouth, before leaving her in the bath, obviously terrified and uncomfortable, but still alive.

  Elsie had told him that her employer retired at ten p.m. every evening, his sleep aided by prescription sedatives.

  It was eleven p.m. when he entered the rear of the house, found the alarm panel and punched in the code to disarm it before cautiously ascending the stairs. When he reached the second room on the right he could hear the loud, regular sound of snoring emanating from the partly open door.

  The old man was lying on his side with the bedclothes up to his neck. His face looked paper-white in the faint glow of moonlight that filtered through the gap in the curtains at the old fashioned sash window. Billy walked over to the window and pulled the thick curtains together, overlapping them for total privacy, and then switched on a bedside lamp and shook the old man’s shoulder.

  Maurice Markham came round slowly, a little befuddled due to the sedative in his system. He believed that he had woken naturally, and that his full bladder was the cause. And his mouth was bone-dry. He needed to take a piss, and then drink some water from the plastic bottle on the tabletop next to him.

  Why was the light on? He absolutely never left it on. He needed darkness and silence, as well as a pill to give him the seven hours’ sleep he required. Maybe he had nodded off while reading. The book would most likely be on the floor, and he would have lost his place.

  As Maurice made to throw back the duvet, a hushed voice spoke to him, making him yelp like a startled puppy as his head snapped round to face whoever was in the room.

  “Just stay where you are,” Billy said, brandishing the knife.

  Maurice felt an amalgamation of emotions well up. Fear and fury vied for supremacy, and after just a couple of seconds of staying stock-still he reacted, reaching for his ebony, silver-handled walking cane that was leaning against the wall next to the bed within easy reach.

  Billy was not prepared for the onslaught. The man looked feeble, and yet he moved cat-quick, lashed out and cracked Billy on his wrist, causing him to drop the knife. The pain was momentarily disabling, and before he could gather his wits, the hunched, frenzied old man had struck him hard four times, across his side, shoulder and neck.

  He panicked, ran for the door and almost fell head over heels down the stairs in his haste to get away from the house.

  The humiliating scene faded, and Billy found himself still standing in the cellar, now holding a handful of crumpled banknotes in a white-knuckled grip.

  It had been a learning curve, he thought as he placed all the money in the plastic bag, and wrapped the gun and silencer in an oilcloth before returning it all to the box and replacing it in the hidey-hole. It had been after that debacle last year when he had obtained the handgun. No one would argue with a gun pointing at them, and he would make sure that he kept his distance. But even then he knew that he would use the weapon; just holding it made him want to shoot someone.

  Back upstairs in the kitchen, Billy made more tea. It was still early. It amazed him just how much you could pack into one day if you wanted to. He would go down to the snooker hall and talk the talk with Sean Mulloy; a guy he’d worked part-time with at a warehouse a while back and got on with. And maybe he’d give Suzy a bell later and treat her to a meal somewhere decent that evening. He had kept a few hundred quid in his wallet and was feeling good about life. Some days were just golden.

  He already wanted to deal with the next rich bastard on his list, but would hold off for a few weeks. He didn’t want to let what he did spiral out of control. Too much of a good thing could lessen the pleasure of it. It was like quarterpounders with cheese and fries, he loved them, but knew that if he ate one every day he would end up fat and sickened of them. Anticipation was surely the best part of almost everything you did in life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was three days before they got a single lead. Matt was stood in front of the white boards with a cup of coffee when Pete came in with a few sheets of official looking paper in his hand.

  “We got something back from ballistics, boss,” Pete said, offering the paperwork to Matt.

  “Give me the bottom line,” Matt said.

  “A match. The slugs they recovered from both scenes were a little mangled, but they have the technology. They came from the same nine millimetre pistol, and had been shot through a silencer.”

  “And?”

  “They’re from the same gun used in a robbery of a freight company at Heathrow nearly six years ago. A security guard was shot in the leg.”

  “What happened to the gun, Pete?”

  “It was never recovered, but the three-man team were lifted a few days after the raid.”

  “Who were they?”

  “A crew that allegedly worked exclusively for Ricky Lister.”

  “So Lister will have got rid of the gun. Right?”

  Pete shrugged. “No way of knowing. It was sold on, or kept by one of Lister’s goons. But we know that it’s still out there now and being used, so it wasn’t dumped in the Thames.”

  “Tell me about the three robbers.”

  “They all had form and got ten years. One of them, Alan Eltringham, looked good for pulling the trigger, but there was no proof. They’re on the back end of their sentences now, so we have no leverage.”

  “Maybe we do,” Matt said. “What nick is Eltringham in?”

  “Maidstone. He’s category C now.”

  “Nice county, the Garden of England,” Matt said. “Get on to the prison, Pete. Set up an interview with Eltringham. We’ll put him under the microscope before we visit. Maybe we can work something out with him.”

  “There’s more news, boss. We have what looks to be a related crime,” Pete said as he thumbed through the sheets of copy paper. “A woman, Elsie Garrity, who lives in Finchley, was hustled into her flat one evening last October. The guy threatened her with a knife and asked a lot of questions about her employer; a retired plastic surgeon with a big house and a lot of money. I’ve checked, and she still lives at the same address, but the old boy croaked a month after the attempted burglary at his place.”

  “And she was the guy’s housekeeper?”

  Pete grinned. “Exactly. This could have been the killer’s first attempt. It went pear-shaped, so now he’s refined his style, has a gun, and doesn’t leave anyone alive.”

  “Let’s go and talk to the woman.”

  “I’ve got her statement. Do you want to read it on the way?”

  Matt nodded and took it from Pete.

  Elsie walked along the corridor and stopped at the sight of the two men standing outside her flat.

  Pete saw her as Matt rapped on the door again.

  “Police,” Pete said, taking his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket, to flip it open and display his warrant card. “Are you Elsie Garrity?”

  “Back off,” a deep voice said from the now open door to the flat next to Elsie’s.

  Matt and Pete turned to find themselves faced by a giant of a man. He was black, wore a white T-shirt with cut off sleeves, and tight blue jeans. Matt pegged him as being over six-four and weighing as much as a young rhino, and none of it was fat.


  “This is police business, sir,” Matt said as he held up ID. “I suggest that you go back inside your flat.”

  “You think I’m gonna believe whatever’s printed on that card?” Lee Bishop asked.

  Matt smiled. “You’d better, if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, big guy.”

  Lee took one giant stride towards Matt and put a hand the size of a dinner plate on his chest.

  Matt almost leisurely grasped the middle finger of the enormous hand and wrenched it back, adding pressure to bring the man down to his knees. “That was an assault on a police officer,” he said. “I’m Detective Inspector Barnes, and my colleague with his hand round the butt of a gun is Detective Sergeant Deakin. Who are you?”

  “Lee Bishop,” Lee said through gritted teeth as he realised that he may have been a little hasty in his actions.

  “Okay, Lee,” Matt said. “I’m going to let go of your finger without breaking it, and we’ll put your exuberance down to being good neighbourly. But if you don’t piss off back in your flat and stay there, you’ll end up having a really bad day.”

  Lee clambered to his feet and clutched his throbbing hand. He thought that the finger, which was swelling up before his eyes, was just badly sprained, but knew that the cop could have just as easily snapped it.

  “You okay with this?” Lee asked to Elsie in an attempt to save face.

  “Yes, Lee. Do what the policeman says, love. When they’ve gone I’ll pop round for a cuppa.”

  Lee gave her a weak smile, glared at Matt and Pete and went back into his flat, slamming the door hard enough to almost take the frame away from the wall.

  “What do you want to see me about?” Elsie said to Matt as she unlocked her door and stood aside for them to enter.

  “The events of last October, Mrs. Garrity.”

  “It’s Miss, Inspector,” Elsie said. I never found a man worth the hassle of marrying and having to wake up next to every morning. And call me Elsie, everyone else does.”

  Elsie offered them a drink, and they both asked for coffee, black.

  “I was interviewed for hours over what happened,” Elsie said. “Your lot made it quite clear for a while that I was a suspect. They thought that I was involved with whoever that horrible man was.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Elsie,” Matt said. “We have to consider all possibilities.”

  “Doctor Markham sacked me,” Elsie said. “He couldn’t forgive me for giving the man my set of keys to the house, and telling him the alarm code.”

  “You did what you had to, Elsie,” Matt said. “We need to go through it again with you, though.”

  “Why, have you caught him?”

  “No, not yet, but it would appear that he’s committed the same kind of crime again, twice.”

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you. He was wearing a mask with eyeholes in, and had a knife. I thought that he was going to kill me.”

  “Please, just tell me exactly what happened that evening,” Matt said.

  Elsie closed her eyes and let the evening of the attack unfold. It was easy. She still had nightmares over it. “I unlocked the flat door and opened it,” she began. “Something hit me in the back and I fell down. I didn’t know what had happened until he was kneeling next to me, holding a knife just an inch away from my eye. He said that he wasn’t going to hurt me; that he just wanted information. I thought he was a rapist or a burglar, but all he did was ask questions about Dr. Markham and his house. He took the keys and the code to the alarm system, then tied me up and left me in the bath.”

  “What did he look like, Elsie?”

  “I’ve no idea. I just told you he was wearing one of those woollen masks with eyeholes.”

  “So all you could see was his eyes. What colour were they?”

  “Green,” Elsie said, surprising herself. “That’s the first time I’ve remembered that.”

  “You’re doing well,” Matt said. “Anything else about him?”

  Elsie shook her head. “He sounded young, but spoke just like everyone else this side of town. He was about the same height as your friend here,” she said, looking at Pete. “Maybe a little slimmer.”

  “What was he doing while he talked to you, Elsie?”

  “Doing? Nothing. He was just sitting there with the knife in his hand, and…and come to think of it he did do something a little strange. He started squaring things up on the coffee table, as if they were out of place. I don’t think he realised he was doing it.”

  Matt and Pete finished their coffee and left soon after. All they had new was the colour of the perpetrator’s eyes and the fact that he was a neatness freak, or maybe suffered from some form of OCD. Two more small pieces of a large jigsaw.

  Pete rang Maidstone nick, was eventually put through to the Senior Officer in charge of Special Visits, and booked a time the following day to see Eltringham. He had also run a check on the con’s wife, Claudine, and was not surprised to find that the mortgage on a semidetached house in Camden was being paid, and that Claudine drove a late model car. Ricky Lister obviously valued Eltringham, and was footing the bills while he was doing bird, including paying private school fees for Claudine’s two daughters.

  They drove out to Camden. Pete parked next to the kerb on an avenue lined with trees. The Eltringhams’ house was on a small estate in a pleasant area of the borough.

  Walking up to the front door, Pete knocked on it. There was no answer, and no car in the drive.

  “She’s out,” a voice from above called down to them.

  Matt and Pete looked up and to the side. A big guy in a navy boiler suit and a pair of Timberland boots was up a ladder next door, cleaning out the gutter with a trowel; scooping the crap into a bucket that was hung to a rung by a metal hook.

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?” Pete said.

  The guy descended the ladder and removed the thick garden gloves he’d been wearing. “You the law?” he asked.

  Matt showed him his warrant card and introduced Pete.

  “I’m Eddie Stonehouse. It’s about time the bitch got pulled for something. Her husband’s inside, you know…Prison. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Yeah, we do know, Eddie,” Matt said. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “She’ll probably be over in Dagenham at her mother’s. And then she’ll pick the kids up from school.”

  “Sounds like you keep tabs on her,” Pete said.

  “She talks a lot. I listen.”

  “Is your wife friendly with her?” Matt said.

  “My wife pissed off almost two years ago with some teacher from the night school class she attended. I thought she was learning bookkeeping skills, but she was just screwing around behind my back.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Pete said. “You reckon Mrs. Eltringham is playing the field while her hubby is behind bars?”

  “Doubtful,” Eddie said. “Al would find out, and then she’d be lucky if she just wound up in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. He’s a mean bastard with a bad attitude.”

  “How would he know what she was up to?” Matt asked.

  “She’s being watched over. I see the same guys that work for Lister cruise the area, and she gets a package delivered by one of them at the end of every month.”

  “How do you know Lister?” Matt said.

  “I don’t know him. But I recognise him from the TV. He was up at the Old Bailey last year for having some other lowlife whacked, but the case collapsed and he walked.”

  “You think that Lister is raiding the cookie jar while Al’s out of the way?” Pete said.

  “Maybe. He calls round once in a while and stays for an hour or more, and sometimes a lot longer.”

  “You mentioned packages.” Matt said.

  “More like a thick packet, or a large padded envelope. I reckon it must be cash.”

  “Best keep a low profile, Eddie,” Pete said. “You don’t want to show up on Lister’s radar.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not stupid.” Eddie said.

  Matt and Pete went back to the pool Mondeo and drove away. “That idiot is sticking his nose in business that could get it broken or cut off,” Pete said.

  “He’s just a one-man neighbourhood watch,” Matt said. “A snoop. And he knows that Lister isn’t someone that he’d want to cross swords with.”

  “What about Claudine? Are we going to do a call back?”

  “No need. I’m sure that Eddie will tell her that the police were knocking at her door, and she’ll be on the phone to Al sixty seconds later to put him in the picture.”

  It was nine p.m. when Matt parked outside the cottage and made his way up the path to the solid oak door. It opened as he reached it, and all thought of murder and mayhem evaporated as Beth met him with a hug and a kiss. At the exact time that their lips met, a lone figure strolled along Dean Street in Soho. He was hunting, waiting for the right victim to turn up at the right place. And he was patient. The expectation of committing rape and murder made it extremely difficult not to have a fixed smile on his face, and impossible not to have an erection that rubbed up against the denim of his jeans and threatened to take him over the edge. His blood felt on fire in his veins. He needed to take some woman by force, and strangle her to death as he ejaculated.

  An hour went by with no sighting of a suitable candidate, and then in the dimness of a back street he saw a young couple stop at the mouth of an alley and get into a clinch, kissing and groping each other. A minute later they went into the alley, to no doubt finish what they had started.

  He was drawn to them. Needed to at least watch them, or better still, deal with the lad and then take the girl. His need was overwhelming and had to be satisfied.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “So what kind of day have you had?” Beth asked as they walked through to the farmhouse kitchen and sat facing each other in the nook, which was reminiscent of a wall booth in an American diner.

  “Usual,” Matt said. “How has yours been?”

  “I did an assessment on a patient who has been in the system since the seventies. I interviewed him and found it bloody depressing. He’s over sixty now, and has had so much medication through the decades that he has no recollection of what he did as a twenty-one year old.”