by Michael Kerr
“No problem,” Chris said. “You have my word.”
“Actions always speak louder than words,” Dewey said. “My friends will blindfold you, drive you back and drop you off near your house.”
“Thank you,” Chris said, as if he had been given something, when in fact he had been abducted, hurt badly, and experienced a depth of fear that would in all probability haunt him for the rest of his life. But the fact that the man was going to spare him did make him feel thankful.
Carl wrapped a dirty red bandanna around Chris’s head before pulling the unit’s door up and leading the blindfolded man to the rear of the van. He opened one of the back doors and told him to climb in and lie down, and then covered him with the tarp. He didn’t even tape Chris’s wrists together. They knew that he was no threat to them; just a nonentity that they had taken by mistake.
Carl shut the door of the van and walked back over to where Dewey and Jay-Jay were waiting.
“When you’ve dropped him off, find the bowling club in Romford and get the name of the creep that should be sitting in front of me now,” Dewey said to them both. “And don’t fuck up again. Just get his address. You can lift him tomorrow night while I’m at the club.”
Dewey was feeling mellow again as he walked back to the gates, opened them and made his way to where he’d parked his Merc. He watched as the van pulled out of the yard and stopped. Carl got out and shut and locked the gates, and then climbed back in and drove passed him.
Feeding a CD into the slot, Dewey drove to his apartment in Teddington, enjoying a Motown compilation that featured greats like Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Diana Ross, Edwin Starr, the Temptations and of course Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, the Four Tops and Mary Wells. He couldn’t handle hip hop or gangsta rap. He wasn’t some badass muthafucker, unless he needed to be. The dumb bastard who’d accosted him on the towpath would at some point be tied to a chair in the storage unit, which brought a terrific scene from Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs to mind. In it, Mr Blonde had been doing a few lame dance moves in front of a guy he was torturing, and cut his ear off with a straight razor as Stealers Wheel sang Stuck in the Middle with You. It was a great movie moment, which had inspired him to do the same thing to several dickheads over the years. He decided to think of a really cool soul track to play when he made his own sweet moves and caused the as yet still unknown gunman to scream and beg and piss his pants, and wish that he was dead to end his suffering.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MATT and Pete left the pub and headed to the next address on their list. Ten minutes later they were parked outside a detached bungalow on an avenue in a very pleasant residential area of Romford.
“You okay?” Pete said as they walked up the path to the front door.
“Fine,” Matt lied. His arm was pounding, and the shots he’d been given at the hospital, combined with a pint of beer in the pub, had made him feel a little woozy. And the incident at the house was going to generate a lot of paperwork, due to the fact that he’d discharged his weapon. That the bullet had killed a dog on the dangerous animals’ register didn’t matter. He’d phoned Tom Bartlett when they’d left the hospital to bring him up to speed, and been told to report back to the Yard, hand in his pistol and make out a report. He had told Tom that he was still being treated, and that he’d be back when he got back, and then he switched off the phone.
Tom had immediately phoned Pete’s number and ordered him to bring Matt back to base. Told him that if they weren’t both in his office within the hour, he’d pull them off the case. Pete had said ‘Right, guv’, and then switched his phone off.
Pete knocked on the door. It had two vertical panels of frosted glass in the top half, and he could see the shape of someone approaching it from inside. The door was opened and a man who looked to be in his late fifties and of average height gave them both a guarded smile and said, “Yes, can I help you?”
Pete ID’d himself, introduced Matt and said, “Are you Gabriel Harris?”
“Yes officer. What brings you to my door?”
“We’re interviewing everyone that works or did work at one time or another with David Madsen.”
“Then I obviously know what this is about,” Gabriel said. “You’d better come in.”
The inside of the bungalow was bright and clean. There was a large, wall-mounted TV and an ivory-coloured three-piece suite set in a semicircle in front of a large rectangular coffee table in the lounge. An almost floor-to-ceiling dresser occupied half of the far wall. The floor was covered in thick-pile maroon carpet, and there was no clutter.
“Take a seat,” Gabriel said as he sat on one of the chairs and nodded to the settee. “But please keep your damaged arm off the material, Inspector Barnes. It would appear that you’ve been in an accident, and the blood on your sleeve looks wet.”
Matt and Pete sat on the edge of the settee.
“So what exactly do you want to know?” Gabriel asked.
“How well do you know David Madsen?” Matt said.
“I don’t know him now. I was an engineer at Beckton Sewage Treatment works a long time ago. But you obviously already know that. I left what was literally a shithole, back in oh-two.”
“How did you feel when his daughter was murdered?”
“Sad, Inspector. David and Nancy seemed a nice couple on the few occasions that my late wife and I met them socially at work Christmas do’s. I remember that it happened the same week as a colleague of mine fell into what we call a settling tank and drowned.”
“Is that relevant?” Pete asked.
“In that terrible things happen to people we know, yes. I’ve reached a point in life where most of my family are gone, and many friends have also died. You have to get past the losses and carry on as best you can.”
“Do you have any particular view on what the killer of Josie Madsen has subsequently done?”
“What the man that the media are calling The Clown has done is unlawful, and without the law it follows that society would collapse. But maybe they deserved what they got. I know that if my daughter had been raped and strangled, then I would not be happy to see him set free, ever. People need closure.”
“Do you own a dog, Mr Harris?” Matt asked.
“No,” Gabriel said. “I’ve never needed the company of a pet. Why?”
“Just a line of inquiry we’re following,” Matt said in answer, with no intention of mentioning the dog hairs that had been found at the three scenes.
“What do you do for a living now, Mr Harris?” Pete asked.
“Nothing. I don’t work. When my wife, Lisa, died I had a nervous breakdown. I’m still not used to her being gone. Fortunately I was left property by my father that was worth a tidy sum. I have no mortgage to worry about.”
“Someone who knew the Madsen’s killed the man that murdered their daughter,” Matt said. “Who do you think that might be?”
Gabriel hesitated and couldn’t look Matt in the eyes before saying, “I’ve no idea.”
“I think you have your suspicion. Give it your best guess.”
“I remember David once said that if Connolly ever got released from prison, he would kill him. But that was shortly after it had happened. I don’t believe for a second that he would have done it.”
That was it. Harris could not give them an alibi for the evening that the third victim, Craig Danby, had been murdered, and that to Matt was a mark of innocence. He was positive that the killer was organised and would have been able to furnish them with one. He thanked the man for his time, and he and Pete left the house.
“What was your take on him?” Matt said as Pete drove off, heading for the last address on their list.
“That he believes the girl’s father did it,” Pete said.
“Madsen was out of the country when Connolly was murdered, we know that.”
“Which gives Madsen a great alibi, but he could have arranged it.”
“If he’d paid someone to do it, then it would have been a one
-off. We’ve got a repeater; a ritual killer.”
“And we only have one more suspect to call on,” Pete said. “We should leave it till tomorrow. You look like shit, and Bartlett will be bouncing off the walls and planning how best to make our lives hell.”
“Tom will be fine. He knows how we operate. He’ll just slag us off for ten minutes, then calm down. The art of dealing with him is to say nothing, nod a lot, and look contrite.”
“What’s contrite?”
“Sorry or repentant.”
“He won’t buy that.”
“It’s the best he can hope for, so he will.”
It was a little after three p.m. when Pete parked the Toyota outside a block of eight council flats on Burton Avenue in Seven Kings, within earshot of the traffic on the nearby A12.
There were names printed on slips of paper under acetate holders at the side of the locked entrance door. Pete pressed the bell push for number five.
“Yeah?” A tinny voice asked from a speaker grill above the name holders.
“Is that Colin Peel?” Pete asked.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
“Police,” Pete said. “We need to have a word with you.”
No reply. Pete waited a few seconds and then reached out to press the bell again.
“He’s coming down the stairs,” Matt said.
Colin Peel was a powerful-looking man, and still looked very fit considering that he was in his late fifties. He was wearing a white tee-shirt, navy-blue sweat pants and old trainers.
He opened the door to be met by Matt and Pete holding their warrant cards up to be inspected.
“What?” Colin asked.
“We’d like to talk to you about David Madsen,” Matt said.
“So talk.”
“Inside would be better,” Pete said.
Colin smiled. “For who? I’m happier keeping you at the door.”
“Something to hide?” Matt asked.
“Behave, copper. I don’t invite every one that rings the bell in. You’re not friends or relatives, so why would I want you in my flat? You’re about as welcome as gypos selling clothes pegs, or Mormons touting their weird religion.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Maybe you’d rather be interviewed in more official surroundings.”
“You’re pushing it,” Colin said. “I don’t respond well to threats. If you lay a finger on me I will be obliged to defend myself. I haven’t broken any law, so you have no right to get heavy-handed.”
Matt sighed and then said, “Tell me about David Madsen.”
“I worked at the treatment plant that he did,” Colin said as he raised a muscular arm, that was covered in a sleeve of tattoos, to grip the frame of the door. “And I read about the tosser that topped his daughter being found murdered. Is that what this is about?”
Matt nodded. “Someone’s on a killing spree, and we need to stop him.”
“And I’m as suspect, right?”
“You’re a person of interest, because you knew Madsen.”
“I wasn’t his friend. He was an okay guy, but when I jacked the job in, that was it. I haven’t seen him since.”
“What do you do now?” Pete asked.
“Keep fit and read a lot. Gail, that’s my wife, owns a hairdressing salon, so we make ends meet without me having to do an honest or dishonest day’s work.”
“So you’re unemployed with a lot of spare time to fill,” Matt said.
“That’s right. But I don’t fill it by killing people.”
Matt asked Peel his whereabouts on the date that Craig Danby had been murdered.
“I was at Gail’s salon every evening that week, helping her brother to knock a wall down to extend the place. We usually ended up in the pub next door for a couple of pints.”
“Do you own a dog?” Matt asked after Pete had written down the name and address of Peel’s brother-in-law, and of the salon and pub.
“Yeah. We have a Scottie. Why?”
“What colour is it?”
Colin latched the door so he wouldn’t be locked out, then walked past Matt and Pete and a few yards along the pavement before stopping and shouting “Mac, Mac,” up in the direction of the picture window of his flat.
A small, snow-white dog appeared on the top of an easy chair and barked down at him.
“Thanks for your help,” Matt said to the man.
“You’re welcome,” Colin said. “If you call again, bring some treats for Mac and I might even invite you in for coffee.”
Pete drove back into the city.
“What do you think?” Matt asked.
“That we drew a blank,” Pete said. “None of them seemed to fit the bill.”
“So what are we missing?”
“That Madsen must have organised it. The more I think about it, the less I believe that a friend, however good, would kill Connolly sixteen years after the event. Life moves on. The only two people that would still feel strongly enough about the girl’s murder to do something would be her parents.”
“And they were both in Australia visiting their son,” Matt said.
“If Madsen arranged it, then we’re back to having no clue as to why the other two were murdered. Hitmen and serial killers are two different breeds. One does it for money, the other for pleasure, because serial killers are basically fucked-up nutters.”
Matt thought about it and said, “If it was a contract, how would a guy like Madsen know how to hire a hitman?”
“He had sixteen years to work it out.”
“True, but would he risk paying a stranger to do it? He seems to be an intelligent man.”
“So if he did arrange it, and it wasn’t a pro, who the hell does he know that would kill for him?”
“His brother,” Matt said.
“You and Marci interviewed his brother and decided he wasn’t good for it.”
“He’s ex-Army. Killing Connolly and the others wouldn’t bother him.”
“You said he only has one leg. Do you see him manhandling corpses around?”
“Some top-of-the-line prosthetic legs have hydraulics, brakes, microchips and motors in them. I’m sure he can move about as well as you or me. He looked to be in decent shape.”
“If he did it for his brother, then why kill the others?” Pete said. “He was in the clear.”
“He would know that if we thought Connolly was the only target, then as a family member he’d still be a suspect. The other two murders put a different light on it. Made us think that it was a full-blown vigilante on a mission.”
“If you’re right, then how are we going to prove it was him?”
“Maybe we won’t, Pete. But we’ll put a tail on him, and the next time he pops in a pub or a café we can lift a glass, cup, spoon or anything else that will have his DNA on it.”
“How will that help? There was no DNA trace at any of the scenes.”
“The killer had fought with Craig Danby and killed the old woman in the bedsit. Some of the fibres collected will match what he was wearing. If we can get a warrant to search Richard Madsen’s house, then we can have samples taken from anything he might have been wearing. And if he kept the first two victims there, then there will be trace of them. He won’t know what we did or didn’t find at the bedsit.”
“Let’s hope it is him,” Pete said. “Because we don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
“We’ll just do what we always do,” Matt said. “Keep chipping away until we get a break.”
“That won’t help if The Clown has got no connection whatsoever to David or Nancy Madsen.”
Matt said nothing. It had been a long day, his arm was pounding, and he knew that Tom would be waiting for them when they got back, to read the riot act, even though he knew that Matt didn’t give a toss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HE closed the front door and rushed back into the lounge. Keeping well back and to the side of the bay window he watched through the net curtain as they climbed into the car. They
seemed relaxed. He waited, and the car backed into his drive. He almost panicked. Thought that they were going to come back to ask him some more questions, but the sergeant was just reversing to go back out of the avenue the way he had driven in.
Jesus! What had led them to his door? He had never been a close friend of David Madsen.
His stomach began to churn. He ran back out into the hall and staggered to the bathroom, to kneel down in front of the toilet bowl and throw up. He had not thought for a second that he would become a suspect. He should have known that they would start with the murder of Connolly and keep an open mind as to whether he had been murdered because of what he had done to Josie. And the cop had asked him if he had a dog. What could that be about?
He threw up again, and reached over to reel out a length of toilet tissue from the holder, to bunch up and wipe away the strings of viscous bile that were swinging from his bottom lip and chin.
He found a little composure after swilling his face with cold water. The police were just going through the motions and interviewing everyone that knew or had known Madsen. But why had the tall, hard-eyed cop asked him if he owned a dog? It had seemed important to him. That meant that they had trace from the corpses, which could only be hair or saliva. He had unwittingly transferred one or both from Rascal. It had to be from the clothes that he’d worn. He had been so careful, and yet not given something like that a thought. Thank God that he had washed Rascal’s duvet and put the bowls away, and that he was a little obsessive about cleanliness and had done his housework.
Drying his face, he went back into the lounge, stood behind the settee and slowly scanned the room. He could see absolutely nothing that would give him away as a dog owner. But his neighbours knew that he had Rascal. If the police had started door-stepping and asked the right questions, he would probably have been taken into custody, unless he could have somehow got the gun from the hidey-hole in the bottom of the credenza and shot them. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He was already on the clock. Some insidious, mindless, mutated cells had started to proliferate in his lungs and liver. He was terminal, and had been told by a consultant to prepare himself for the inevitable. What a stupid thing to say. How the fuck do you prepare yourself for dying? He was on powerful drugs, and still felt reasonably well, but knew that as time slid by he would reach a point when he had a decision to make. Although now that he had a gun, he envisaged taking the easy way out. He had even practised pressing the muzzle up against his temple and pulling the trigger, or easing the barrel into his mouth, angled upward. When he felt that it was time, he would blow his own brains out, and that would be an end to it all. So in reality he had nothing to worry about. He would stick to his game plan, and he would not let anyone get in his way.