by J. E. Mayhew
“Thanks sir,” Kinnear said, with a flicker of a smile.
“Right. Turning to grimmer matters,” Blake said. “The post-mortem on Paul Travis confirmed what we already knew. He’d had a few pints and was beaten unconscious with a blunt object and then had his throat cut. It was a premeditated act as far as we can tell. A fw week before this, he’d had an altercation with a gang of teenagers, one of whom was called Bobby. Last night, Eric Smith, a pensioner from Port Sunlight, was attacked with a baseball bat by a gang of youths. The name ‘Bobby’ cropped up again. The bat was abandoned at the scene of the crime. Vikki, any news on that?”
Vikki consulted her notes. “Given the circumstances, it was fast-tracked today and it seems as though there are traces of Paul Travis’s blood on it and some bone embedded in the wood.” A few officers winced and shook their heads. “There are also traces of Mr Smith’s blood and DNA from another, unknown, person.”
“Probably Bobby unless he was wearing gloves,” Alex said.
“Possibly,” Blake said. “But it looks like we have the murder weapon. Kath, Alex and Andrew, can you coordinate the search for this Bobby? I want door-to-door and ask at local schools and colleges too.”
“What about Jack Kenning’s concerns, sir?” Vikki said.
Blake paused, running his fingers through his hair. “So that you’re all aware, Kenning discovered a plastic toy soldier in Paul Travis’ grip.”
“Do you think it’s significant, sir?” Kinnear said. “I mean it seems a bit odd, don’t you think?”
Alex nodded in agreement. “Soldier killed on a war memorial clutching a toy soldier. Add the boot print and it’s all kind of strange.”
“When you put it like that, Alex, yes, it does. But there are a number of reasons why Travis could have been holding that toy. It could have been given to him as a joke, he could have just found it…”
“All the same, sir,” Alex said. “You have to admit, there’s a kind of… I don’t know… theme building up here.”
“I’m not denying there might be something in it, Alex, which is why I’m asking Vikki to review the circumstances surrounding the suicide of Richard Ince, who was found with a similar plastic soldier in his hand six months ago.”
“Really?” Alex said.
“Oi!” Vikki snapped, giving him a playful jab with her finger. “Don’t you think I’m up to it?”
“N-no, Sarge,” Alex stammered, “I mean yes. I mean, another man has been found dead with a toy soldier in his hand? That’s weird…”
“Weirder things happen, Alex. If you look for a connection, there’s a danger you’ll make one that isn’t really there. Let’s be open-minded but look for actual evidence of any kind of link, right? Oh and we keep this detail to ourselves. Nobody else knows about the toy soldier, so it could be useful during interviews. What else have we got?”
Vikki looked at her notes. “Pretty much as we expected, sir. I spoke to George Owens and he confirmed that he and Dave Jones took Barry Davies home in a taxi. Davies was a bit the worse for wear.”
“Nope,” Kath Cryer said. “The first bit was right. Barry was pissed and he wasn’t a pretty sight today when I interviewed him. George Owens wasn’t in the taxi, though.”
“You’re certain, Kath?” Blake said. “Alex, what did Jones say?”
Manikas checked his notes. “He said that Owens got the train.”
“’Like he always does,’ were Barry Davies’ exact words,” Kath added.
“He was quite specific that he got into the taxi with the others, he even said he got out after Barry.” Vikki said. “He became quite edgy when I started asking him about his relationship with Paul, too.”
Kinnear looked at the map. “If he walked to the station, he’d be going in the same direction as Travis at least part of the way. He could easily have diverted off, run ahead. Shall we call him in, sir?”
“No,” Blake said, rubbing his chin. “I’ll go and have a word with him, tomorrow at Pro-Vets. I want to see this charity of theirs, find out a bit more about that. Then I might get a better idea why Mr Owens lied to us about where he went on the night his friend was murdered.”
Chapter 10
Some things seem like a great idea when you start, but the longer you spend on them, the less appealing they become. This was what Jeff Blake thought as he watched Josh Gambles shuffle into the visiting room, flanked by two prison guards. He was a young man with a scruffy black beard and glittering dark eyes. His pointed features made him seem like he was mocking Jeff and the guards and anyone else he encountered. Maybe he was.
Josh Gambles was a serial killer and Jeff, for his sins, was his biographer. Gambles had an obsession with Jeff’s brother, Will, and the Searchlight programme. He claimed that he had only committed the terrible murders to make Will Blake famous and it had, for a couple of weeks. Jeff’s own star as a novelist was waning fast and, when Gambles had invited him to write his biography, Jeff had jumped at the chance.
The agreement to write for the serial killer had angered Will and put their already creaking relationship under even more strain. At first, Jeff dismissed Will’s objections as morally pedestrian, but as time went on, he realised just how manipulative Gambles could be; dangerous, too. Even though he was locked up in prison, he had a number of twisted followers and old friends only too keen to gather information for him and keep him informed of what was going on in the outside world. Even as he settled himself in the chair opposite, Jeff could tell that Gambles had some news to impart, another game to play that would turn the screw on Will and make his life even more uncomfortable. Jeff often wondered if Gambles actually wanted his biography to be completed or if he just kept his regular meetings as a means to get at Will.
“Good afternoon, Jeffrey, I trust you’re well?” Gambles said an eager light in his eye. Much of the psychopath’s genius was imagined and his pompous greeting gave that away, Jeff thought.
“Fine, Josh, you look excited. Like you’ve got some news to share with me.”
Gambles’ face fell. “Really? Oh. I may have,” he said, his eyes sliding right and left as though checking for anyone listening. Nobody was, and Jeff was beginning to wonder just how long the killer’s currency would last outside prison. His infamy was still fresh at the moment but, from what Jeff could tell, his outrages hadn’t really caught the public imagination in the way the Yorkshire Ripper or some of the American serial killers had.
This weekly ritual of meeting up, Gambles relating some anecdote of his and Jeff dutifully writing down had become old very quickly. Gambles refused to talk about either his family life or the killings that had put him behind bars.
Writing up his notes at home, much of what Gambles told him was unpleasant but mundane. His early life in care, his misdemeanours in school, being put into secure units, none of it shone, whichever way Gambles presented it and Jeff polished it. The story came over as a litany of grievances made by a petulant monster against largely dull and petty people. Whenever Jeff did touch on something interesting such as family life or possible abuse at home, Gambles shut down. He didn’t want to be the flawed monster to be pitied, he wanted to be the evil mastermind to be feared.
Jeff sighed and got his pen and pad out. “Well, you can tell me now, or you don’t have to tell me anything. Sooner or later you’ll spill the beans. You can’t help yourself…”
“Can’t I?” Gambles steepled his fingers, as he always did, in a ridiculous ‘Bond villain’ manner.
Jeff began to wonder if taking another tack with Gambles might be interesting. Sliding his pen back into his jacket pocket, he shook his head. “I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered and closed his notepad. “I’m off.”
Gambles eyes widened. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“I’m going home. This is a waste of time. I could get more information on you by interviewing members of your family…”
“No.”
“There are probably journalists doing that right now, if they haven’t done so alr
eady. Plastering all the gory details over the weekend papers. The time you wet your pants in school, what your first pet was called. What an odd little boy you were… all of it. And I have to sit here watching you doing your impression of Dr Evil, every fucking week, writing down some pearl of half-baked internet wisdom you’ve thought up in that addled mind of yours. I’m sick of it. Even if your impending trial picks up the public interest, this book with be as dull as ditch water and less appetising. Goodbye, Josh.” Jeff stood up and extended his hand.
Gambles just stared at the hand, making Jeff wonder if he should pull it away before it was bitten. “Smidge.”
“What?”
“My first pet was called Smidge. He was a rabbit,” Josh said, staring off into some distant past hell. For the first time in Jeff’s short working relationship with Gambles, he saw the real human being underneath all the bravado and showmanship. He saw a vulnerable little boy, tossed around on a sea of upheaval and cruelty.
“What was he like?”
“Small, black and white. My dad came home with him from the pub and threw him in my lap. I kept him in my bedroom.”
“What happened to him?” Jeff hated to ask. He didn’t imagine much good would come of being looked after by a psychopath like Gambles. Many serial killers were reported to have been cruel to animals during their childhoods and Jeff couldn’t see why Gambles would be any different.
“Dunno,” Gambles said, glumly. “He just disappeared one day while I was at school. Dad kept making jokes about having stew for tea. I didn’t eat for weeks.”
“I see,” Jeff said, sitting down and slowly getting his pen out. “You were upset.”
Tears glittered in Gambles’ eyes. “Of course I was upset. Wouldn’t you be? That rabbit was my only friend. I fed it and nurtured it. From the day he vanished, I swore I’d never be tricked like that again…”
“Tricked?”
“Into feeling affection for something or someone. That was a watershed moment for me, Jeffrey. That was when I shut down.”
“I see,” Jeff looked hard at Gambles. Was he serious? It was hard to tell, sometimes. It had started off quite genuine but now was rapidly sliding into the melodramatic. Jeff wondered if some other fate had befallen poor Smidge all those years ago. Perhaps he would investigate further and actually seek out Gambles’ family. “What do you mean by shut down?”
“It was like a short-circuit in my emotions. I became numb. After that, I could hurt anyone or anything and not feel anything. No remorse, no pity just nothing.”
“And you believe the incident with your pet rabbit was the trigger for all of this?”
“I know it for sure.” The light returned to Gambles’ eyes. “Just like I know other things, Jeffrey.”
“I’m warning you, Josh, I’m not going to continue coming here if you’re just going to play silly games. Now let’s talk more about this early memory. This is what readers want.”
But the old Gambles was back. “Don’t readers want a romance, Jeffrey? A lovelorn hero, a handsome bad boy and a whore with a heart of gold? Isn’t that what readers want?”
“You’ve lost me.”
“She’s back.”
Jeff shook his head. “Nope. You’re talking in riddles again. Who’s back?”
Gambles flared his nostrils and widened his eyes. “The girlfriend…”
“Laura Vexley? Will’s girlfriend? When?”
“I thought you didn’t want to know. Ah well, Jeffrey, it’s been nice talking to you but I’m feeling too tired to carry on. See you next week?”
“Come on, Josh, tell me. When did she come back?”
“Guards!” Josh called. Jeff watched, fuming, as they escorted the killer back to his cell. What was he going to tell Will?
*****
Rock Lodge lay in darkness when Blake finally reached home that night. It was late and he felt every aching muscle as he climbed out of his car, his feet crunching on the white gravel. The lights of Liverpool’s suburbs twinkled on the black waters of the River Mersey. The house had belonged to his parents and Blake had planned to sell up and move when Laura was with him. It was only two or three miles south of the Birkenhead Tunnel. Here, the A41 widened into a dual carriageway, hemming in the old Victorian villas of Rock Park against the banks of the Mersey. It also cut them off from the estates of New Ferry and Rock Ferry and gave it a shabby, but strangely exclusive feeling.
Blake’s house was small in comparison to some of the big properties in the area. His house had once been a gate house for a bigger property that had since been demolished. It had four bedrooms and an overgrown garden. The thick bushes around the tiny lawn meant that you’d easily miss it if you hurried past. But its relatively small size gave it a certain charm, given that it still boasted the ornate brickwork and tiling in the hall of the other, grander properties. To Blake, it was beginning to feel like a trap again.
For a brief few months, Laura had breathed new life into this place and into Blake himself. She’d woken him up from a nightmare and given him some hope. They’d started making plans and thinking about the future. Then she’d vanished, fleeing from her brutal ex-husband Kyle Quinlan. But Blake hadn’t slipped back into his old lethargy. His first instinct was to go after her but lately, he’d wondered at the wisdom of this. She was a grown up and her own person, after all. Blake wondered if his instinct to go after her was partly the same need for control that drove him to solve crimes. In a work context, it was valuable but in his relationship with Laura, it had caused them to clash. Laura was a free spirit and sometimes, Blake hadn’t taken account of that.
Blake let himself into the house and switched the light on in the hall. Charlie came bounding up to greet him. Youde had texted earlier to say he’d taken the dog out for a walk and Blake suspected that he’d been out for most of the day. Serafina lay curled up on his armchair. He checked in the kitchen, her bowl was empty and he just hoped that meant she had eaten her food and the antibiotics. It was just as possible that Charlie had helped her out but Youde would have watched out for that.
Blake scanned the fridge for anything edible and found a lump of cheese and some ham that was only three days past its use-by date. His bread was a bit mouldy but he picked the worst of it off and rustled up some cheese and ham on toast. “Hardly health food,” he muttered to Charlie who watched intently for anything that might drop on the floor.
The little dog turned his head to the hall and gave a brief ‘yip.’
“What is it, boy?” Rising from his seat, Blake followed Charlie who had scurried out to the front door and was scratching at it. He let him out and watched as Charlie bounded into the front garden barking into the dark lane beyond the bushes.
A dark BMW sat at the entrance to Blake’s drive, its engine idling. The moment he stepped towards it, the car pulled away and drove off. Charlie gave a final yelp and started sniffing the ground. A wave of disquiet swept over Blake. Rock Park was something of a dead end and not a place you drove through. Sandwiched between the river and the A41, it was a destination and hardly anyone came here at night unless they were visiting. Or keeping an eye on someone. Blake was pretty sure it was the latter and he had an idea who it was.
Chapter 11
Sun streamed through Blake’s bedroom curtains. His alarm clock bleeped frantically for the fourth time, this time loud and insistent, as though annoyed at having been ignored the last three times. Blake pushed an arm from under the duvet and jabbed an equally indignant finger at the clock. He leaned out and squinted at it. Then his eyes widened.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He was meant to be meeting George Owens in fifteen minutes. Leaping out of bed, he grabbed a shirt off a nearby chair and recoiled from it. “Jeez, smells like a dead otter.”
He thundered down the stairs, two at a time and scrambled through the pile of shirts awaiting the attention of his iron. They all looked like unwanted betting slips, crumpled into a ball and dumped. Hissing with frustration, Blake grabbed the nearest and
tried to smooth it out. Charlie bounced up and down around Blake barking excitedly at this new running-around-the-house game. Serafina wound herself around Blake’s ankles just as he set off, sending him tumbling out into the hall with a yell.
“Right, Blake. Stop. Slow down,” he muttered to himself. “Feed the cat and dog. Antibiotics. Phone ahead and tell them you’re going to be late…”
As it turned out, Blake was only a few minutes late. Even with the rush hour traffic, it was ten minutes’ drive from Blake’s house. Pro-Vets headquarters was an industrial unit down by the Birkenhead docklands. It looked like a large hangar in grey and blue with a few windows and a door in the front. He pulled up outside the main office, but at the side, he could see a larger opening with people carrying food parcels from a van and taking them inside. There was the sound of hammering and construction, too. The whole place was a hive of industry.
Blake pushed the office door open and stepped into the main reception where a smartly dressed young woman sat behind a counter. It was a small space, bordering on cramped. A few chairs stood in a line to the left of the door he had just entered by and a staircase ran up beside the counter to a second floor. A door at the bottom of the stairs led into the warehouse area, Blake presumed. The woman smiled at him, but Blake could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Clearly the news about Paul Travis had filtered through the workforce and he was missed. “Welcome to Pro-Vets. How can I help you?”
Blake produced his warrant card. “DCI Will Blake, Merseyside Police. I have an appointment with…”
“DCI Blake,” George Owens said from the stairs beside the counter. He was a stocky man with cropped brown hair and a straggly beard. He’d clearly relaxed his exercise regime since leaving the forces. “It’s okay, Chloe, I’m expecting him. Would you like a quick tour, Inspector? It’ll give you an idea of what we do and the legacy that Paul leaves behind. We made a decision not to halt business but to keep it going in his memory. It’s what he would have wanted.”
Blake nodded. “That would be great, thank you.” He wanted to get an idea of what it was that Paul did, anyway and a tour would give him useful background.