by Michael Kerr
“Is he dead?” Tam asked, looking over to where Gibson was curled up on his side, unmoving.
Matt shook his head. “No, he just wishes that he was.”
It was nine p.m. when Matt arrived home. He’d done some of the paperwork in the squad room, after having first discussed the chain of events with Pete, to be sure that they were both on the same page with their reports. He handed in his pistol, which was procedure after having discharged it in the line of duty. There would be no awkward questions. The sawn-off shotgun had been found in the culvert, and the sickle retrieved from the tree trunk. Matt and Pete’s statements were solid. In them were the pertinent facts, being that Matt had shouted ‘Armed police, drop your weapon’, before having to fire at Gibson to save Pete’s life. That he had called out a warning was a blatant lie, but statements had to be bulletproof and unambiguous.
“You look in high spirits,” Beth said as she poured them both coffees.
“We arrested Gibson today,” Matt said as he took the two mugs over to the nook, set them down on the table and then turned to put his arms around Beth to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her.
“So tell me all about it,” Beth said when they finally sat down facing each other.
Matt gave her a summary of what had happened. He kept it brief, just outlining the main points.
“Is Pete okay?” Beth asked.
“Yes, apart from a sore throat. How’s yours?”
“Fine. Just the bruising that you can see, and that’s fading. And I put papers in requesting to retire on medical grounds.”
Matt was speechless for a few seconds. He hadn’t thought that Beth would actually go through with it. After a lengthy silence during which they just stared at each other, he said, “I’m pleased that you did. But are you sure you won’t regret leaving Northfield?”
“I’m positive. I was stagnating, and my position will be advertised and probably filled before I get time to empty my desk drawers and leave the office. I’ve been in a rut, and being almost strangled to death gave me the nudge I needed to stop ploughing the same furrow and leave the field. I need a change of direction.”
“Have you thought what you’ll do with all the extra time you’ll have?”
“I’ll be able to spend more time at the cottage, working on something from home. And the consult work will keep my grey matter sparking. I’ve been going through that list of potential victims that you gave me, and out of a total of one hundred and eighty I’ve narrowed it down to thirty rich men that live alone and have a housekeeper. I believe they would tick all the offender’s boxes. And I may even do psychological evaluations on prospective employees for large companies that want to be sure that top jobs are going to be offered to the type of people that have the right qualities.”
“Sounds good,” Matt said. “Onward and upward, eh?”
“Definitely. Now that I have you in my life fulltime my priorities have changed radically. I don’t need a single, all consuming career to fill my time with. And don’t forget that we haven’t had an engagement party yet,” Beth said, raising her hand to let the light glint off the diamond on her finger.
“As soon as the other repeater is caught I’ll give Ron Quinn a bell and set a date for a shindig.”
“Good. My mum and dad are looking forward to flying in from Cyprus to meet all the shady characters I’ve told them about.”
“Shady characters! You mean Tom and the team, and Ron?”
“Yes. They both watch a lot of crime series’ on TV, and read too many books by Patterson, Rankin and their ilk.”
Matt had only met Beth’s parents once and thought that they were a nice couple, who were both retirees now and had sold up and moved to Cyprus for the more clement weather. They were in their sixties, but were in good health and filled their days playing golf, enjoying photography, reading and eating out. It suited some people to put their working lives firmly behind them and, if monetarily possible, take pleasure in the freedom that it allowed them to benefit from in the autumn of their lives.
It was ten the next morning when Matt got a call by landline from Lloyd Mercer in Forensic Science Section.
“We got a break with the DNA from that sample from the Brodie household in Chelsea.” Lloyd said.
“Have you found a match in the database?” Matt asked, his heart rate quickening at the prospect of being told the identity of the Housekeeper Killer.
“No, but as good as.”
“Meaning?”
“A family connection between the sample from the house and from one of the samples you had taken was determined. Richard Lister is the uncle of whomever that blood came from.”
Matt was astounded. It flashed through his mind that they were suddenly extremely close to apprehending the killer. “Thanks, Lloyd. That should be the case breaker. Can you get the findings to me in print? I’ll probably need a warrant.”
“No problem, Matt. Good luck with it.”
“You just took luck out of the equation,” Matt said before hanging up.
Errol, Tam and Phil were in the squad room, going through the list that Beth had furnished. It wasn’t practical to watch over the addresses of all the housekeepers and their employers’ addresses 24/7. And they could not reduce the list further. The decision to be made was whether to warn all those that may be at risk, and that was something which Tom would have to decide, or pass upstairs to Grizzly Adams for him to ponder.
“We’ve got a break,” Matt said. “The blood retrieved from the address in Chelsea is from Ricky Lister’s nephew.”
The grins on his squad members’ faces could have lit up a darkened room.
“Do you know who he is, boss?” Tam asked.
“Not yet. Check Lister out, find his nephew’s name and it’s game over.”
It took less than five minutes to establish that the gangster’s sister, Gwen, recently deceased, had a son by the name of William Foster.
“He lives on Wilton Street in Hounslow,” Phil said, looking up from his monitor. “All I can find is that he’s a twenty-six year old single guy, unemployed and with no previous. I’ll check if he has a passport, car licence, or owns a vehicle”
Matt fisted his right hand. There was no reason for Foster to feel at risk of being lifted. He would imagine that he was safe to carry on planning and committing murder. “Get the full team in,” he said. “We’ll stake out the house and take him coming out or going in. And we know that he’s armed and prepared to shoot, so I want everyone wearing vests and prepared to use deadly force. We’ll handle this gig ourselves. I don’t want the area crawling with uniforms and armed response units.”
“He has a passport,” Phil said. “So we have a photo of him.”
They all went over to where Phil had enlarged the photo on his screen and studied the face of the man that they believed to be a serial killer.
“It’s frightening,” Marci said. “So many of these sickos look like the boy next door.”
“Appearances are skin deep,” Matt said. “We all know that. If Foster is the Housekeeper Killer, then he’s an evil, callous bastard.”
Phil, Marci and Tam nodded. They knew that some of the most heinous murderers could affect a charming personality.
Marci reflected on the arrest of Neil Hemmings, a forty-year old married man who had reminded her of a younger Cliff Richard; slim and pleasing to the eye, and with a pleasant demeanour. But Hemmings had been the antithesis to the person he purported to be, having abducted, sodomised and knifed to death four young boys aged between eight and eleven, to leave their naked bodies on building sites to be found. He had been apprehended purely by luck. A female motorist – Kathy Fleming – had stopped at the kerb on a street in Kilburn to make a phone call on her mobile, to be momentarily distracted as she watched a dark-coloured Transit van pull up just a few yards in front of a young boy who was kicking a can or something along the pavement. It was dusk, and the woman would not have taken much notice if the man that climbed out of the van
had not hesitated and looked around warily before going to the rear of the vehicle and opening a door. He then turned towards the boy, who had drawn almost level with him, to just hit him in the face, snatch him up and toss him into the back of the van before hurriedly getting back in the driving seat and speeding off. Kathy was no slouch. She was close enough to see the registration plate and hit text on her phone and thumbed it in, before phoning 999 and reporting what she had witnessed.
The van had been stopped on the A5 in Cricklewood within four minutes of Kathy’s call. Hemmings was arrested, and the young boy, still unconscious from the blow to his head, was saved, thanks to the alertness of a member of the public.
It horrified Marci to think that a person could be stolen like an apple from a market stall, to be used by a monster that lurked within society, and to then be discarded like a core when done with. How many of the people that went missing every year had been taken in such a way, to be sexually despoiled, murdered, and then made to vanish?
“A penny for them,” Matt said.
“I was just quietly coming to the boil, boss. It guts me to think how many sick fucks are out there, preying on people.”
Matt nodded. He felt the same way. All his team did. Finding and closing down the worst kinds of offenders was what the SCU existed for. It really was a mission, and he felt blessed to have officers like Marci on the team, who shared his view.
“When do we go?” Marci said.
“You and Tam can get over there now and watch the house. If you see him leave follow him, but don’t attempt to lift him. We know that he has a firearm and that he isn’t frightened to use it. We’ll plan on taking him down this evening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Marlon arrived over two hours after Billy had left the house. He supported Stuart by an elbow as they walked up the steps to the front door. Ricky and Lorraine took hold of Stuart, who was still feeling queasy and a little unsteady on his feet, to guide him through to the lounge.
Tears ran down Lorraine’s cheeks at the sight of Stuart. His face was ashen, and some of his hair had been shaved off to disclose a two-inch long wound that had been sutured closed.
“Are you okay, babe?” Lorraine said.
Stuart attempted a smile. “Never better,” he said. “Are you?”
“I am now that you’re here.”
“I’m truly sorry that this happened,” Ricky said to Stuart. “You need to put it behind you, and not tell anyone about it. Lorraine will explain why it happened.”
Turning his attention to Marlon, Ricky inclined his head towards the door leading out into the hall. He led the hitman through to the kitchen, so that he could see Henry’s body.
“The guy who shot my employee is a psycho,” Ricky said. “He’s armed, and as you can see he enjoys killing people.”
“You want him whacked?” Marlon said.
Ricky thought it over. He didn’t need to torture Billy, he just wanted him dead. “The sooner the better,” he said. “I can give you his name and address. He has a friend that’s in this with him. He needs to be taken care of as well. There’s a CCTV monitor in my study, so you’ll be able to back up this evening’s footage and see him entering the house. They’re driving a black Insignia that belongs to me.”
While Marlon went into the study, Ricky went to the front door to watch as a seven-seater Grand C4 Picasso pulled up in the large gravelled area and parked.
Ricky had phoned Norris Beck. Norris ran Hygenica Specialist Cleaning Services, based in Staines and operating out of a large unit on the new Prince George Industrial Estate. Norris handled the decontamination of crime and trauma scenes for both domestic and commercial clients, including the police, dealing with the aftermath of such diverse incidents as suicide, murder, body decompositions and other scenarios. He was a specialist in remediating and restoring the scenes of violent crime and subsequent forensic investigation, guaranteeing to leave a scene hygienically clean. Fortunately for people in Ricky’s business, Norris was only too happy to mop up their messes when required, for a large cash-in-hand fee.
Ricky showed Norris and his son, Mark, through to the kitchen. “I’ve emptied his pockets,” he said. “And there’s another body out near the road in the ditch next to the gates.”
“Has any other room been contaminated?” Norris said.
Ricky shook his head. “No. He entered by the kitchen door and was shot in-situ.”
Norris nodded. Mark went out to the vehicle and returned with a rolled-up black vinyl body bag with carrying handles. He placed it next to the corpse, far enough away to not be in the now tacky, darkening pool of blood, unzipped it, and as his father, donned latex gloves and plastic booties before they lifted the late Henry Norton by his wrists and ankles and laid him out in the standard thirty-eight by ninety-four inch bag.
Once zipped up, the two men quickly removed the now weighty body bag by the handles, to take it out and deposit it in the back of the large Citroën. They then drove back to the road to repeat the process with Sammy’s body, before returning to the house to remove all traces of what had happened.
Ricky watched as the pair worked. They were quick and thorough. The lingering smell of cordite and blood was replaced by that of disinfectant, and he knew that there would be no physical residue of Henry’s bloody demise.
“All done, Mr. Lister,” Norris said half an hour later. “I’ll have the items disposed of.”
“Thanks,” Ricky said, waiting until Norris and his son had removed their gloves before shaking hands with both of them. “As always your services are much appreciated.”
Ricky went to his safe in the study for the second time that evening, to withdraw the required fee and return to pay Norris.
After the ‘cleaners’ had left, Ricky discussed the current situation with Marlon. Lorraine had heard Billy call his accomplice Sean, and had given a description of him. The only other significant detail she had was that Sean had told Billy that he wished he’d stayed at the snooker hall. That was it.
“I think that the snooker hall will be in Hounslow,” Ricky said to Marlon.
“Leave it with me. I’ll find them both,” Marlon said, giving Ricky a tight smile before leaving the house.
Sean stopped at the end of Wilton Street. He thanked Billy for the thick wad of twenties that Billy gave him before climbing out of the vehicle and strolling off down the street to his house.
Sean felt a surge of relief as he drove away. “Fuckin’ head banger,” he muttered as he headed for home and hoped to God that Ricky Lister never found out that he had helped Billy rip him off. Gangsters like Lister didn’t take prisoners. If you crossed them you were dead meat, if they found you.
Parking the Insignia in a space at the kerb at least thirty yards from the front door of the three-storey house that had been converted into eleven small bedsits, Sean checked the door pockets, glove box and the rear, just in case there was anything worth having; there wasn’t. He got out and walked along the street and entered the house, to climb the stairs to the first floor and enter his room. He didn’t feel safe; had the feeling that he was a sitting duck. Maybe he would go and stay with his sister in Luton for a few days, or even quit living in the Smoke altogether. He didn’t want to wind up like Dave Shaw, who had been a grass. Dave had boasted to friends at the snooker hall over how he was a confidential informant for a DI in the Met. But like the wartime posters advertised: Walls have ears. Dave had been found on the pavement at Victoria Embankment, wired-up to railings under the statue of Boadicea with his throat cut and his tongue missing.
After brewing coffee and making a sandwich, Sean decided get a few hours’ kip before packing a bag and leaving the city before lunch the next day.
Marlon struck lucky at the second call he made. It was ten a.m. when he climbed the narrow stairway and entered the gloomy confines of the Empress Snooker Club.
Delroy Walcott owned the club, and employed his teenage son, Lawrence, to sweep the floor and keep the place c
lean. His fourth wife, Alisha, twenty years his junior, kept the toilets clean and smelling fresh, and also tended the small bar.
“I wonder if you can help me.” Marlon said to the tall black man with white crinkly hair, who he thought bore a striking resemblance to Bill Cosby.
“‘pends what you want,” Delroy said. “Dis is a snooker ’all, not a Citizens Advice Bureau.”
Marlon reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a leather wallet, to flip it open and present Delroy with a fake warrant card. “I’m advised that the young man I need to talk to is a regular here, sir,” he said. “That means he will be a member, so you can give me his address.”
“Jus’ who exactly you lookin’ for?” Delroy asked.
“His name is Sean. I’m told that he’s about five-nine, with a pockmarked face and long, greasy hair. Ring a bell?”
Delroy nodded. “That’ll be Sean Worsley. He lives jus’ round de corner on Chapel Street. Plays in here most evenin’s.”
“What number?”
Delroy went behind the bar and pulled out a battered looking box file from a shelf behind the counter. He opened it and thumbed through a wad of membership forms that were held together by a rusted bulldog clip.
“Forty-six,” Delroy said. “But dey is all bedsits.”
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
“No.”
“Thanks,” Marlon said and left.
Finding a parking space in Walpole Square, Marlon walked around to Chapel Street. He passed a black Insignia and smiled.
The front door was closed but not locked. He went in and made his way to the end of a hall that stank of curry and sweat, and knocked on the last door on his right.
An elderly man with malignant looking blotches on his wrinkled forehead opened the door a couple of inches and said, “Yeah, what’re you selling?”
“Police, sir,” Marlon said, once more using his fake ID. “I’m looking for Sean Worsley. Do you know which bedsit he lives in?”