by Michael Kerr
Nancy had drunk three glasses of brandy and Babycham and was feeling as horny as a bitch in heat. She could see by the lustful look in Gabriel’s eyes that he was up for it, and so reached out and stroked the front of his trousers, to feel the shape of his erect penis through the thin cotton material.
“Where?” Nancy said, and could hear the urgency in her husky voice. “And we’ll have to be quick.”
Back inside the clubhouse they walked along the passage at the rear of the building and Gabriel tried the handles of every door, to find one unlocked halfway along. It was a storeroom. They slipped inside, and without turning the light on they kissed and touched each other briefly. Nancy kicked her high heels off, removed her scanty satin knickers and found the first shelf of a unit that held cleaning gear to put her right foot on.
Gabriel dropped his trousers and jockey shorts and grasped Nancy’s buttocks as she took hold of him and guided him into her. It only lasted for a frenzied sixty seconds. Gabriel tried to hold back, but without success, and was pleased to hear Nancy cry out, “Yes!” as he came.
That had been the first of half a dozen times that they met and had sex. Neither of them thought of it as love. It was an aside with no real depth, though they enjoyed what they did together immensely.
Gabriel had ended it. The sense of guilt over what he was doing behind Lisa’s back was not worth the assignations with Nancy.
And then Nancy had had Josie, and he wondered if it was David’s or his daughter, but did not pursue it, just pushed it to the back of his mind and got on with life.
It had been when Josie was raped and strangled that he had felt an irrational weight of loss, and decided that in all probability the girl had been his daughter. He had attended the funeral and spoken to Nancy. Asked her if there was anything he should know. But her grief was so profound that she had not answered him. Just thanked him for being there and walked away, back to David.
It ate at him. A month later he had phoned Nancy at home, and she had admitted that she could not be positive that Josie had not been his.
And so the years had gone by, and when Neil Connolly was eventually released from prison, he was truly a dead man walking.
Had Lisa still been alive, or had he not been given his own death sentence, courtesy of the Big C, then he may not have murdered Connolly or the others. But circumstances combined to send him on the path he had taken. The most dangerous person is one that has no hope, no future to look forward to, and has lost the most precious things that fostered the will to go on. Having lost Lisa and now Rascal, and knowing that he was soon destined to join them, he was liberated to do whatever he chose to. He was above and beyond any conventional law of man.
Making two trips out to the rear of the garage with the bulging bin bags, Gabriel took the lid off a large rusted steel oil barrel that he had at one time used to collect rainwater in, and emptied the bags into it, to pour petrol over the contents and throw a lighted match in as he stood back. The barrel rocked slightly as with a dull explosive sound the petrol was ignited and flames and smoke erupted from it.
He stood and watched, enjoying the heat, and in some way feeling relieved that the circle of his life was closing.
Stan Hodges was not sure what if any action he should take. The photos of the two men’s faces shown on the TV behind the bar of the bowling club had been accompanied by their names and the fact that they had been found murdered in a storage unit in Paddington. He was glad. They had been the men that had hurt and threatened him, and asked him about a club member with a black dog. He had given up Gabriel, fearful for his life, and felt a little ashamed of having done so. Yes, he was overjoyed to know that the two thugs had been topped. He gave it some thought and then rang the Barking police, due to knowing Andy Thomas, a desk sergeant there who was a member of the bowling team. Andy was not available, so he talked to a constable and let him know that he had been paid a visit by the two men that had been murdered in Paddington, and that he had never seen them before that night, but that they had hurt him and been asking questions about a member. He gave his name and home address and also the address of the club, and was told that he would receive a visit. He then looked up Gabriel Harris’s address and phone number and called him.
It was eleven a.m. when the landline phone rang. Gabriel frowned. He rarely received calls, and did not have caller ID on the old phone, so had the choice of picking up or ignoring it. He chose to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Is that Gabriel?”
“Who are you?”
“Stan Hodges from the bowling club.”
“What can I do for you, Stan?”
“Nothing, but I thought you would want to know that I had a visit from two guys that I’ve just seen on the TV. Well, photos of them. They were found dead in a storage unit.”
“Why would I want to know?”
“Because they came here looking for you. After being knocked about and having a finger broken, I gave them your address. I’m sorry, but they would have killed me if I hadn’t.”
“A big black and a smaller white guy?”
“Yes.”
“Did they say what they wanted to see me about?”
“No, they just said that if I told anyone about them I would die.”
“They had me mixed up with someone else, Stan. I dealt with it, and I’m sorry that they hurt you.”
“Well you might get a visit from the local plods, because I obviously gave them a bell.”
“No problem,” Gabriel said and hung up. But it was a problem, and a big one. He needed to think. The police would make the link. Barnes would be informed that Dewey Marvin’s men had been looking for him, and that would be the beginning of the end of it. They would show up at his door in force, and he would end up dying in custody; probably not in prison, but in an outside hospital handcuffed to a bed. He didn’t plan on letting that happen. He needed to get away, now. Time might be running out for him, but he wanted to choose where he was when it did.
Putting a North Ridge one-person tent, sleeping bag, warm clothing, plenty of canned food, money and a few other items in the boot of his car, he locked the door to his bungalow for the last time and drove away, to head for a place that he had not visited for over forty-five years.
CHAPTER FORTY
DI Tony Underwood had been on duty and in the station at Barking when PC Trevor Nesbitt took the call from Stan Hodges.
“That was the old guy that runs the bowling club in Romford,” Trevor said to Tony.
“And?”
“He said that he’d seen mug shots on the news of those two lowlifes that were found in that storage unit in Paddington. Says they came to see him, asking questions, and that they had assaulted him. I said we’d call round and have a word.”
“I know where the club is,” Tony said. “I’ll go and talk to him.”
“I’ve got his home address and phone number here,” Trevor said, tearing a page out of a notepad on his desk.
Tony finished the coffee he was drinking and left the station to make the short drive to the bowling club in Romford.
Stan was putting bottles of lager on a shelf when Tony walked in and approached the bar, and was about to tell the serious-looking man that it was a members’ only club, but was shown a warrant card and knew that the copper had called because of his phone call.
“Stan Hodges?” Tony asked.
“Yes,” Stan said.
“I understand that you recognised two men that were shown on the TV.”
“That’s right. They barged in here as I was leaving the other night and demanded to know about one of the members. They asked me if I knew a bloke with a black dog, and I told them to leave.”
“What happened?”
“I tried to call you lot, but the white guy took the phone off me and hit me with it. And after I told them what they wanted to know, he broke my fuckin’ finger, and the big black guy with him said that if I mentioned that they’d been to see me I would die,
and he meant it.” Stan raised his right hand to show Tony the bandaged, splinted middle finger.
“Who were they looking for?” Tony asked the old man.
“A member who owned a black dog. The only one I could think of was Gabriel Harris.”
“Have you contacted him?”
“Yes, just after I called the station. He said it was a case of mistaken identity, and that it was sorted.”
Tony sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Give me Harris’s address, and do not phone him again. We’re investigating a murder case.”
“Are you saying that Gabriel is a murderer?” Stan said, shocked to think that the mild-mannered little man could be capable of such an act.
“I’m saying that you need to keep out of it completely Mr Hodges. Do you understand?”
Stan nodded. It wasn’t something he wanted to be involved with.
Tony left the club and phoned Scotland Yard and gave his rank and name and asked to be put through to DI Matt Barnes. He held for almost a minute before Matt came on the line.
“Yeah, Tony, what can I do for you?” Matt said.
“One of the names you had on your list of suspects just came up; a local guy by the name of Gabriel Harris. The two tossers you found dead at that storage unit were looking for him. They somehow knew that he had a link to a bowling club in Romford, got his name and address from the manager and paid Harris a visit.”
“That’s terrific,” Matt said. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Maybe,” Tony said. “The manager phoned Harris when he saw the item over Marvin’s men on the news. He could have done a runner.”
“Shit!” Matt said. “Have an unmarked car go to his address, but make sure they don’t approach him, he’s armed and dangerous.”
“I’ll get over there now. I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll wait for you to arrive.”
Matt and Tam were in Matt’s Vectra. Pete was with Errol in a pool car. They drove out to Romford and liaised with Tony, who was parked further up the avenue that Harris lived on.
“No one in and no one out,” Tony said to Matt. “And as you’ll have noticed there’s no car in the drive.”
Matt’s choices were limited. If Harris was The Clown, and he was positive that he was, then the phone call from the manager of the bowling club would have spooked him. He could have just taken off like a rabbit. Or his car could be in the garage, and he could be in the bungalow.
Every second counted. “Grab some documents out of the glove box,” Matt said to Tam. “Then walk down to the bungalow next to Harris’s and have a word with whoever is in. They may have seen him leave, or know that he’s in.”
Tam sauntered down the pavement with the pool car’s manual in his hand, opened the wrought iron gate, walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.
Brenda Cuthbertson opened the door and immediately decided that the tall, young Asian-looking man was some kind of door-to-door salesman, until he produced a warrant card identifying himself as a policeman.
“I need to ask you some questions about your next-door neighbour,” Tam said. “May I come in for a minute?”
Brenda stood aside and let Tam in as a large man with a bald head and thick, grey walrus moustache appeared behind her with a frown on his ruddy face.
Tam held up his ID again for the man to see.
“What’s the problem?” Jim Cuthbertson asked.
“I need to know anything you can tell me about Gabriel Harris,” Tam said.
“That’s easy,” Jim said. “Virtually nothing. We moved here from Purfleet four years ago, and I’ve only spoken to the man a couple of times. He’s a loner. We were told by other neighbours that his wife had died, and that he became very reclusive. I would sometimes pass him in the street when he was taking Rascal for a walk, but the most I ever got was a nod if I said hello.”
“Rascal?” Tam said.
“His dog,” Brenda said. “It was a black lab, but it died very recently. The receptionist at the vets lives in the next avenue, and she likes to gossip. She told me that it had suffered head wounds that it didn’t recover from. She said that Mr Harris picked it up and mentioned that he would be burying it in his garden.”
“Do you know if Mr Harris is in?” Tam asked.
“I saw him drive away about an hour ago,” Jim said. “He seemed to be in a hurry.”
“What make of car was he driving?”
“It’s a tan-coloured Golf hatchback.”
Tam thanked them and jogged back up the avenue to where Matt and the others were waiting.
“Harris took off about an hour ago,” Tam said to Matt. “And he lied to you when you talked to him. He had a black Labrador that died recently. And it’s believed he buried it in his back garden, so we should have DNA to link the dog hair we found at the dumpsites to match to it.”
“Now all we need to know is where he’s gone,” Matt said. “Get his car’s registration, Tam, and then jack up an all points warning. We’ll take a look around his bungalow. We have reason to enter, now that we believe that he’s The Clown.
Matt parked in the drive, and Pete pulled in to the kerb out front. When all four of them were at the back door, Tam tried the handle, found it to be locked and stood back to unleash an impressive side thrust kick, which was known as a Yoko Geri Kekomi in the martial art of Karate.
The door flew open with such force that it ripped the rubber doorstop out of the floor and smacked into the corner of a unit.
“Nice one,” Pete said to Tam. “Remind me never to upset you.”
The bungalow was clean and tidy. There was nothing obvious to link Harris to the murders.
Matt saw the mobile phone on top of a coffee table in the living room. It was resting on a piece of notepaper. Taking a pair of flimsy cellophane gloves from his pocket, he pulled them on and picked up the phone, but read the writing on the lined sheet first. It did not surprise him that it was for him. It read:
Hello, Barnes,
Welcome to what was my home. I obviously will not be coming back. You will now know that I am the vigilante or avenger that has been given the epithet of The Clown, which would be mildly amusing if what I have done was not so deadly serious.
I do not know if the connection between the dead girl at 26 Bellamy Street in Dalston and Ian Peterson has been made yet. You are probably holding Peterson’s phone as you read this. There is a photo on it of how I left him, and to save you waiting for a member of the public to come across his body, I’ll save you the trouble. He is literally hanging around in the old cement works at Aveley.
Well, that’s all I have for you, Barnes, apart from the fact that I shall not be taking any more lives, unless doing so proves necessary to preserve my freedom.
Respectfully,
Gabriel Harris
Matt switched on the phone and opened the pictures. Only one of the half dozen photos that came up was of any interest to him. He brought it up to fill the screen. It was of a naked body hanging upside down from a rope, and there was a mask over the face.
“He knew we’d put it together when the guy at the bowling club gave him a bell and said he’d phoned the police,” Matt said to the others as they crowded round him to see the image. “Phone the squad room Errol and explain the situation to Phil or Marci. I want them to locate the cement works at Aveley and drive out to verify that there’s a victim. If there is, then they can arrange for forensics and a pathologist to attend. And we’ll need a team here to look for any trace.”
Errol walked through to the kitchen and made the calls.
“He knows that we’re on to him and he’s on the run,” Matt said to Pete and Tam. “We need to know where he’s gone to ground.”
“Do you think he would have planned ahead, in case he became a suspect?” Tam asked.
“Yeah, he seems to be a methodical type. I would guess he had a contingency plan and somewhere in mind to go.”
“Maybe with a friend or relative,” Pete said.
Matt shook
his head. “I doubt that. By all accounts he’s a loner, and so he wouldn’t feel safe with someone else. He needs to be somewhere away from prying eyes. Find out everything there is to know about him. He may have relatives that could have some idea of where he might go to be out of harm’s way.”
While Pete worked his phone, Matt walked out into the back garden. There was a garage to his left, and a path leading down the middle of the lawn to a large outbuilding. He went behind the garage first, saw a rusted oil drum and looked into it. There was a layer of damp, black ash in the bottom that he supposed was the residue of paper. Perhaps Harris had burned a lot of paperwork before taking off: burning his bridges behind him.
The solid outbuilding was fitted out as a workshop. There was a large bench with a vice bolted to one edge; shadow boards packed with tools and cupboards filled the walls. There was also a single wooden chair and a cupboard with a radio/cassette player on its top.
Switching on the overhead fluorescent light, Matt surveyed what he ascertained to be the place where a craftsman worked. There was a Georgian-style doll’s house that was built to a standard that he would expect to see for sale at a ridiculous price in stores like Harrods. And next to the house was a rocking horse of similar high-quality. Harris was like many serial killers; a man with an almost split personality. He could obviously produce beautiful work, and yet also had the capacity to be a ruthless murderer with no compassion in his heart for the men he had selected and then done away with.
Matt saw a dark mark near the bottom of one of the bench’s legs. He squatted down and examined the tear-shaped blotch, and knew that it was blood. It could have been the result of Harris accidentally scratching or cutting himself with a chisel or saw as he worked, but Matt thought that to be highly unlikely. This man was careful and fastidious. With any luck it was physical evidence from one of his victims. Not that they required any further proof. All they needed now was to locate Harris and arrest him.
Matt walked back out into the garden and stood and thought it through. Where would he go if he was on the run? Somewhere out-of-the-way, to lie low for a while and take stock and make decisions. Harris was in the almost same position that another killer had been in a while back. John Gibson had been a rapist and murderer, and when an e-fit of him had been shown on TV he had taken off, to dump his car in a reservoir and then break into a cottage in Epping Forest and hold a couple as hostages. Matt hoped that Harris did not attempt to copy that scenario.