by Michael Kerr
“A middle-aged white female with a gunshot to the head,” Matt said as they climbed the stairs.
One of the techies armed with a Nikon took shots of the body from every conceivable angle, and of the bedroom, as others searched for trace evidence.
Soon after, while Nat began his examination of the cadaver, Matt and Errol stayed outside the flat, drank the coffee from the corner shop and then put on the transparent poly gloves and booties that one of the forensic officers had handed to them.
Entering the bedroom, Matt waited until Nat had finished making notes on a form he had placed on top of his now closed case, which lay on its side near the bottom of the bed.
“What you’ve already seen is all there is,” Nat said. “The victim was shot in the back of the head from extremely close range. There’s gunshot residue on the entry wound, and substantial damage around the exit wound, where her left eye had been.
“Taking into account the level of rigor mortis for a naked body in this ambient temperature, and the readings from the liver, and minor clouding of the corneas, I can give you an off the record guesstimate that she died approximately twelve hours ago. And the lividity suggests that she expired in situ and was not moved.”
“Any other injuries?” Matt said.
“None that I can detect. It would appear that she was just knelt on the bed and shot in the head.”
“An execution,” Matt said. “The scumbag did it purely for the pleasure of the act.”
If there was anything else at the scene, then it was not obvious. All Matt could hope for was that forensics would give them something to run with, and that James Brodie came through surgery and was able to shed some light on the man who’d attempted to kill him.
It was a little after ten p.m. when James regained consciousness. He had been lucky, if being shot can ever be deemed as being providential. No vital organs had been compromised by the wound to his side, and the bullet that had hit him high up on his right temple had grazed his skull, causing a scalp wound that bled copiously but was not serious. He had been extremely fortunate and knew it. He was sore and aching, but happy to still be breathing.
Matt phoned Beth from the hospital before he talked to Brodie. Told her that he had no idea when he would be off duty, and that she should not wait up for him. He had fallen into a habit of letting her know when he expected to be home, due to the crazy hours that he worked.
After being told by a doctor not to overtax the patient, Matt opened the door to the hospital room to find James Brodie sitting up in bed with his head heavily bandaged and an IV tube running from a bag on a stand to the inside of his right forearm.
“Are you a cop?” James said.
“Yeah,” Matt said, showing James his ID.
“Have you checked on my housekeeper? The punk that shot me said he’d killed her. Nobody has told me a damn thing.”
Although he was putting on a brave face, Matt could see the anxiety etched on the American’s face, and in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Mrs. Wade was shot to death. If it’s any consolation at all, it appears to have been instantaneous, and there was no visible sign of any other injuries.”
James lowered his head and seemed to stare at the green bed quilt that he was now tightly gripping with both hands.
Matt said nothing, just let the man absorb the bad news in his own time and way.
James slowly raised his head. “I don’t know how I can help you,” he said. “The guy was wearing a mask and gloves.”
“Just tell me what went down at your house. Everything, Mr. Brodie.”
“I prefer Jim, Inspector. And before we get into it, I need a cup of coffee.”
“So do I,” Matt said. “I’ll go and get some from the machine. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
When Matt returned with two hot if weak and gritty cups full of what vending machines purported to be coffee, and handed one to Jim, he could see that the wounded man had assimilated what had happened to his housekeeper and was in control.
“That’s a really foul brew,” Jim said after taking a sip of the coffee. “I usually drink Fazenda Santa Ines.”
“What the hell is that?” Matt asked.
“A coffee from Brazil. I’m addicted to the stuff.”
“So what happened?” Matt said.
“I’d just got up and gone downstairs, poured a cup of the aforementioned Java, and this wacko walks into my kitchen with a gun in his hand. I threw the coffee in his face and we got in a tussle. I thought I’d got the better of him, even punched him in the mouth, but I ended up shot and tied up.”
“How hard did you hit him?” Matt said.
“Hard enough to split his lip and draw blood.” Jim said, lifting his right hand to show the grazing on his knuckles that were the result of his fist making contact with teeth.
DNA, Matt thought. Just one spot of the killer’s blood recovered from the scene and they would have another lead.
Jim related everything that had transpired, and Matt made notes. It was obvious to him that the American’s foolishness or bravery to badmouth his attacker had resulted in the misaimed headshot that had not proved fatal. James Brodie had beaten the odds.
“I’ll keep you up to speed,” Matt said as he stood up to leave.
Jim just nodded as Matt left the room to head for the lift, phoning the squad room as he walked.
Pete was on duty. Matt told him what Brodie had said and asked Pete to contact forensics to inform them that a small amount of the killer’s blood may well have been left on the tiled floor of the kitchen. When he ended the call he felt totally drained. It had been a very long day, was now almost midnight, and all he wanted to do was get home and be with Beth.
Beth was all set to hit the sack. It was late and she was tired. She went out onto the deck and listened to the hooting of an unseen owl. Living in a village away from the city was proving to be a wonderful form of therapy.
A moving shadow caused her to look towards the orchard. At first she thought it might be a fox, or even a deer, but it was neither. The shape of a tall man seemed to materialise from the gloom, shattering her sense of peace and solitude. He had obviously been approaching through the trees at the rear of the cottage, but was now stood still, just watching, seemingly unconcerned that he had been spotted.
Beth could not make out his face, for even the light of what seemed to be an almost full moon was not sufficient enough to separate him from the coal-black surroundings to reveal him.
“Who are you?” Beth called out as she slowly backed up to the open door. “What do you want?”
The large figure remained unmoving and did not reply. His lack of response was in itself threatening. Stony silence could be just as intimidating as verbal threats.
Beth reached the door, went inside and closed and locked it, and then ran to the doorway that led out into the hall to switch off the light, after first picking up a torch from where it was kept on top of phone directories in a wall unit.
Back at the door, Beth hit the button on the torch with the intention of illuminating the garden, to see more clearly the intimidating trespasser, should he still be there. The powerful beam from the halogen bulb shone through the double-glazed top half of the door to reveal a face that was no more than twelve inches from Beth’s, only separated from her by the glass. The man was grinning, and staring open-eyed into the blinding glare, as if he could see her clearly; as if it were her face that was being lit up to be studied.
With a squeal of fear escaping her lips, Beth dropped the torch and jumped back, to turn and run out of the kitchen and along the hallway, to climb the stairs and lock herself in the bedroom.
Shit! Her mobile was downstairs. She lifted the receiver of the landline extension on the bedside table with a trembling hand and punched in Matt’s number. Engaged. She hung up and listened to the house. Nothing. No sound of breaking glass or other noise that would signify forced entry. For thirty seconds she stood rooted to the spot. Death’s cold embrace h
ad almost crushed the life from her on more than one occasion, and the faces of deranged killers formed and morphed into each other in her mind’s eye. Had Matt’s war against the worst kind of humanity brought danger to her door yet again? Or was the prowler outside just a burglar looking for a soft target?
The sound of a car engine starting up broke the inertia that held Beth in its thrall. With the light off, she went to the window and looked out into the night. After just a few seconds a vehicle slid out from the lane that ran alongside the cottage, to turn left on the B road and slowly vanish from sight. It looked much like the man had, big and black. It seemed more than likely that he had come to the cottage with purpose, perhaps to frighten her. If that were so, then he had succeeded. She was shit-scared, and needed Matt to be there with her.
Going back downstairs, Beth still felt in danger and checked that all the windows were locked, and that the bolts were engaged on the front and back doors, and that all the curtains were drawn. Back in the kitchen, she withdrew a large carving knife from the hardwood block that stood on a counter next to the breadbin, before picking up her mobile and calling Matt again.
Matt took his phone out of his inside pocket and broke the law without a second thought, answering it as he drove when he saw the caller ID. Even as a cop, he thought that some laws were made to be broken. “You okay, babe?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” Beth said. “We just had a midnight caller.”
“Who?”
“I’ve no idea. I went out onto the deck for some fresh air and he was standing in the orchard. I shouted to him and asked who he was and what he wanted, but got no reply. I went in and locked the door, then shone the torch through it, and he was right there in my face.”
“Has he gone?”
“Yes, a couple of minutes ago. I’m sure he drove off.”
“I’m ten minutes out,” Matt said. “Hold tight.”
“I’m holding tight to a bloody big carving knife. Hurry, Matt, but be safe.”
“Stay on the line till I get home.”
“Okay. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”
“No, Beth. What did he look like?”
“He was a black guy, the size of Frank Bruno.”
“Did you see what model car he was driving?”
“I don’t know what make it was. Big and dark. Most cars look similar to me, and I only got a glimpse of it.”
“Okay. Brew some coffee, I’m almost there.”
Matt noted the few saloon cars that passed in the opposite direction as he sped the last few miles to Woodford Wells. Only one large, dark Ford caught his eye, but as it went by he looked sideways and could see the driver, who was white and female.
He parked next to Beth’s car. “I’m here,” he said into his phone. “You can unlock the door.”
Beth let him in and returned to the kitchen to put the knife down on the counter as Matt followed her. He went to her, held her tightly and felt sick at the thought of her being under threat. He could feel her trembling.
“Do you know who it was?” Beth said, pulling back and frowning at him. “Is it someone you’ve pissed off?”
“I’m not sure,” Matt said. “His description fits a lowlife that works for a gangster I had words with.”
“Words!” Beth said. “What kind of words did you use to put us in danger again?”
“Just the usual kind of things I say to scumbags. He obviously took exception to my slightly abrasive attitude. I’ll sort it out.”
“Do that,” Beth said. “I like living here, and don’t want to have to move again because your bloody work attracts these creeps. This is our home, Matt; a place where we should be able to relax and enjoy our downtime. I don’t want to feel under siege and have to adopt a fortress mentality when I’m here.”
They sat in the nook and drank coffee, and Matt told Beth everything about the two cases, so that she was up to speed with them.
As they talked, Matt planned another visit to Ricky Lister’s place of business. And this time it would be unofficial. If Lister wanted to play rough, then he should know that mixing it with Matt would cause him more grief than he was used to dealing with. Crossing lines was something that Matt had done for much of his career. He was a good cop, but would bend to breaking point and further if necessary. He was not going to let anyone spoil what he and Beth had together. He was impatient for morning, to do whatever it would take to make Lister see the light and back off.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Billy was cleaning all the work surfaces in the kitchen with Dettol anti-bacterial spray and wipes when he got a phone call at eight-thirty a.m. from the care home. A female voice told him that his mother was in a critical condition and that he should attend with all due haste.
He left the house a few minutes later and walked quickly and with purpose, adjusting his stride almost subconsciously to avoid standing on cracks. He had the presentiment that his mother was about to die, and realised that he would mourn the loss. She had been a weak-willed woman in many ways, but had loved him dearly, and so on some indefinable level he supposed that because she had always been in his life, he would miss her. She would leave a hole in the fabric of his personal reality, and that was disconcerting.
When he arrived, a nurse led him to the room. She was talking to him, but he was preoccupied with his thoughts and had no idea what she was saying. He had tuned out all else but thoughts of bygone years and events that he and his mum had shared.
Standing next to the bed, he looked down at the face of the frail woman, who was hardly recognisable as being the same person that she had once been; the mother who had always made provision for him, even if she had to do without to keep him well-fed and suitably clothed for school. But he owed her no debt. He had not asked to be born, or to be maltreated by a father he had grown to despise more with every slap, punch and kick that he had been helpless to protect himself against.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Foster?” the nurse said as he pulled up a chair to sit next to his mum.
“No, just fuck off,” he said. “I want some time alone with her.”
The nurse left the room, forgiving the outburst without reservation, knowing that the impending death of a loved one caused the nearest and dearest to display many symptoms of grief.
Billy listened to the slow, pained inhalations that his mother took as her life slipped ever closer to the edge of whatever came next. He placed his hand around hers, and was put in mind of a bird’s bony claws. And as he looked at her skull like face, her hand shifted, turned, and her fingers tightened with surprising strength on his strong, young hand, and two of her fingernails actually punctured his skin and drew blood.
With one final exhalation of bad breath, Gwen Foster ceased to be, and Billy withdrew his hand and wondered what purpose life had. He decided that it had none, and that like a bird that flies into a window and breaks its neck, there had been no valid reason for it to ever have hatched from an egg in the first place. All you could do was enjoy one day at a time, do whatever the hell gave you some sense of pleasure, and not take anything too seriously.
“She’s dead,” Billy said to two nurses standing outside in the corridor, talking about arrangements that they were planning for a colleague’s hen night, before she got hitched the following month. “What do I need to do?”
Sandy O’Donnell was a little disturbed by the young man’s stony expression and apparent lack of emotion. He seemed totally composed, without any outward sign of anguish. She told him to instruct a funeral director to make necessary arrangements, and that she would put his mother’s belongings together for him to sign for.
“She had nothing in here that I want,” Billy said. “Just bin or burn it.”
Back out on the street, he felt somehow hollow, with no direction to his life. He stood facing the old factory opposite the home and let his mind wander. He needed purpose, so decided that after visiting the Co-op funeral directors to arrange a cheap send-off for
his mum, he would go home, cook a meal and make plans to take Suzy away for a couple of days. A change of scene would do him good. He fancied a weekend in Brighton, to walk on the beach and feel the salt air on his skin. He would go online and book a nice room in a swish hotel; Suzy would like that. Reality check. Suzy would not leave her mother alone. He really would have to murder the old bitch. Suzy needed to escape the clutches of a selfish woman who treated her as no more than a fucking slave.
Less than half an hour after his mum had died, Billy was sitting in a room looking at photos of coffins and shrouds, and impressing on William Courtney, the funeral director, that he wanted an inexpensive package, and that he required his mum’s cremated remains to be scattered. He certainly didn’t want them in a small wooden box or urn. Ash was ash.
It was ten a.m. when Matt drove into the yard and parked his car next to Lister’s Merc. He opened the office door and saw the gangster sitting at a computer. Lister was in shirtsleeves, and his dark-blue mohair Jacket was on a hanger, hung from a hook on an internal door.
“I hope you’ve got a warrant, Barnes,” Ricky said, pausing to look up as he lifted a large hand rolled Cuban cigar from an onyx ashtray. “Because if you haven’t you’re less welcome on my property than a turd in a swimming pool.”
“I don’t need a warrant, Lister. This isn’t police business, it’s personal.”
“You want for me to throw him out, boss?” Henry Norton said, standing up from a chair in the corner and approaching Matt.
Sammy Clements was also present. He just smiled at Matt but didn’t stand up.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let Henry break both of your arms?” Ricky said.
“Because potentially you have a serious problem that you don’t know anything about yet, that I’m here to discuss,” Matt said. “Tell these morons to take a hike.”