Tethered to the Dead: DS Lasser series volume three (The DS Lasser series. Book 3)

by Rob Roughley

  ‘It’s me, as soon as you get this message give me a ring,’ he ended the call and tossed the battered phone onto the table top.

  ‘You’ve thought of something?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s like you said earlier, why would a school like Claremont employ someone like Fulcom, it...’

  ‘But he was qualified.’

  ‘He was also an outsider; you said the school has a long history of tradition, so why run the risk of jeopardizing all that, especially with someone like him?’

  Medea thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps the board thought it was time for a change, I mean, even a school like Claremont’s has to keep up with the times.’

  ‘So what changes did he make?’

  The question threw her. ‘Well,’ she paused, trying to think of something, anything that would justify her choice of words. In the end saying he’d allowed the girls to ditch the wearing of the school hat seemed pathetic. ‘What are you saying exactly?’ she eventually asked, the blush of embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks.

  ‘As far as I can see the only way Fulcom could have got the job is by knowing something about one of the board members...’

  ‘Blackmail!’

  Lasser sparked up another cigarette, watching as she processed the information, her face flitting from uncertainty, through to anger before settling on incredulity. ‘But most of them are elderly or getting that way.’

  ‘What about this Simmion, you said you didn’t really know much about him?’

  ‘Well no, but he seems like an ordinary guy.’

  Lasser leaned further forward. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Early to mid-fifties.’

  ‘So he’s not a geriatric?’

  ‘None of them are geriatric, even Mr Spalding has all of his marbles.’

  ‘The barrister?’

  ‘Ex-barrister.’

  ‘I need to find out more about these people...’

  ‘But it’s ridiculous, they’re all respectable,’ she sounded perplexed, though her eyes told a different story.

  ‘Yeah well, in my experience the only way you become respectable is by shitting on people on the way up.’

  Medea sat back in the chair and crossed her long legs. ‘There you go again, one minute you seem like a really nice guy and then you turn all suspicious and bitter.’

  Lasser looked at her in surprise. ‘Bitter?’

  ‘It’s as if you want these people to be involved in some way, to have some kind of dirt that you can dig up...’

  Lasser raised a hand. ‘All I’m doing is trying to find out what happened to Kelly Ramsey and find the person responsible for killing Brooks, Sophie Washham and Christopher Fulcom. So far, we have next to nothing, but both girls went to Claremont’s and you have to admit that Fulcom wasn’t your average deputy head.’ He reached down for the bottle, the garden chair wobbled. ‘Even if you disregard his past with Rachael Sinclair, you still can’t give me a legitimate reason as to why he got a top job at the most exclusive school in the area?’

  She opened her mouth to snap a reply and found that she suddenly had nothing left to say.

  85

  Sinclair hadn’t been able to risk going into work. There would have been too many question asked about the damage done to his face, the gossip machine would have gone into overdrive and in his line of work, gossip could be fatal. Besides, he was a senior partner, answerable to no one. In the end, he’d rung his secretary and told her he was taking the rest of the week off.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he winced as he dabbed at the lacerations on his face with a wet face cloth, his mind in uproar. Rachael’s words kept coming back to him as if on a continual loop, ‘we’ would make him pay; ‘we’ would bleed him dry.’ How had she known, how was it possible?

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he hissed, the reflection in the mirror peered back at him. Dark circles shone like tarnished silver beneath his eyes. His normally perfect hair looked a mess. For the first time in his life he looked his age, no, he looked older, ravaged like the painting of Dorian Grey.

  She had smiled across the table as she told him about the blackmail, but he had been paying now for so long that it felt more like a simple business transaction rather than blackmail. Every month the money went out of the bank and it never varied, the man never asked for more, never even contacted him. Sitting on the edge of the bath, he let his head fall forward; thankfully, the money had never been an issue. In fact, he had so many scams going that the cash he paid to the anonymous blackmailer didn’t even dent his savings.

  Over the past couple of years, he’d managed to convince himself that Rachael really loved him, that she enjoyed their harmless little games. She kept him feeling young and virile, with her sublime youth, like a fountain of life that nourished him. He thought back to the first time he’d seen her, sitting in a house littered with empty pizza boxes and gossip magazines and woodchip paper peeling off the damp walls. She had sat at the kitchen table while he spoke to her useless mother. Watching him closely, a Barbie doll clasped in her hand, her tiny fingers smoothing down its wiry hair and he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. So he’d made it his business to drag the shoplifting case out, called at the house regularly with the pretence of, this paper needs signing or we need to go over things one more time. All the time, he had watched the girl and she had watched in return.

  After a couple of weeks, she was smiling at him, a month and she was sitting on his knee while he talked shit to the mother just so he could spend time with her daughter. In the end, he had turned on the charm and Clara Bradley had thought that her ship had finally come in. Oh, he had taken his time, reeled her in slowly but surely, encouraged her drinking; promising her everything would be all right. He grimaced when he thought of all the times she had pawed him and he had pretended that he felt the same way. Sitting on the grubby sofa while she gave him a blowjob, he would look down at the darkened roots of her bleach-blond hair in disgust, closed his eyes and pretend that it was...

  When the doorbell chimed, Sinclair snapped up his head and leapt to his feet, disorientated. A moment later it rang again, he hesitated, suddenly feeling anxious. Crossing the bathroom, he hovered at the top of the stairs, breathing hard, the slivers of open flesh on his face throbbing in time with his slamming heart. For the first time in his life, he had a sense of what it was like for all the dead-beats he made his living from, hiding when the doorbell rang in case it was someone coming to collect on a bad debt.

  Living a life where you told your offspring never to answer the door, never talk to the filth and grab whatever you could. This time whoever was on the outside of the door kept their finger on the bell? The sound echoed inside his head and then he heard the familiar clatter of the letterbox snapping open.

  ‘Come on, Sinclair, I know you’re in there, open the bloody door!’

  He recognised the voice of the copper, yet astonishingly, he couldn’t remember the man’s name. A bead of sweat trickled into his lacerated face making him gasp in pain. Sinclair scuttled back towards the bathroom. The sound of the letterbox clanging shut made him jump, as if the copper had somehow forced his way into the house and shot at him as he dashed for the bathroom. Once inside, he turned and closed the door quietly, backing off until his calves hit the bathtub. Looking down at the pristine marble he thought of all the times he had spent in the huge tub with Rachael, the way the water would glisten on her tanned skin, the way she would wrap her legs around him until he could stand it no longer. Yet all the time it had been a sham, a vicious game, leading him deeper into a tangle of deceit. A feeling of hatred swelled up inside his chest until he thought he was going to collapse onto the black and white tiles. How long had she known, and why had she carried on with the pretence? He tried to fathom it out, but found that he couldn’t. When she told him about Fulcom he’d been furious, he’d wanted to go around there and kill the bastard. However, Rachael wouldn’t hear of it, she had said that it was nothing to worry about; she would
take care of it herself. When he’d insisted and tried to storm past her she’d slapped his face, leaving him standing in the kitchen with his ears ringing, sporting the hardest of erections. They’d made love on the kitchen table and for every small bite he gave, she bit harder and longer, until he cried out in pain, her eyes shining down at him as she reached orgasm.

  When the heavy thud came at the front door, Sinclair shot across the room and back onto the landing. Bang! He looked down the stairs and tried to think. Bang! The door shook in the frame, the sound travelling towards him like a hurricane blast.

  ‘I...’ he muttered, then the door slammed open and as soon as he saw the man, Sinclair remembered his name, ‘Bannister!’

  The man closed the door quietly and stalked up the stairs towards him, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes locked upon his.

  ‘What do you want?’ Sinclair backed away as he came ever nearer.

  ‘A quiet word.’

  Sinclair shook his head. ‘You have no right to be here...’

  ‘Fuck rights.’

  ‘If you don’t leave I’ll...’

  ‘Call the police?’ Bannister reached the top of the stairs, turned and strode towards him.

  Over the years, Sinclair had accused the police of almost everything. In court he told lies, spun the jury bullshit, anything to win the case. One of his favourites had been police brutality; it always seemed to pay dividends. However, as Bannister reached out his hands, Sinclair suddenly realised that this time he wouldn’t need to fabricate anything.

  86

  They found Noel Spalding pruning the roses in the late afternoon sun, the huge house stood on a slight natural rise, with twin bay windows that peeped out between a smothering of ivy, the gardens were immaculate.

  Spalding had looked at Medea the way a doting grandfather looks at his only grandchild. ‘Well, my dear, this is a pleasant surprise.’

  Five minutes later, they found themselves ensconced at the rear of the house on garden furniture that put Lasser’s to shame. The huge lawn was dotted with apple, plum, and pear trees festooned with blossom, the scent of which swirled around them in the late spring breeze.

  As soon as Lasser mentioned the name Fulcom, Spalding shook his head, his chicken skin neck flapping. ‘Terrible business, I heard it on the news this morning and couldn’t believe my ears.’

  ‘So what do you think will happen now?’

  Spalding looked at Lasser in confusion. ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand. I mean, you are the policeman my friend, not me.’

  ‘No, I mean at the school,’ Lasser explained.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he pulled out a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco taken from a small leather pouch. ‘Well I’m afraid it’s not really my concern anymore, you see, I’ve decided to call it a day.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Medea looked genuinely shocked at the news.

  They waited while he lit the pipe, his liver spotted hand shaking slightly as he struck a Swan Vesta. ‘I’ve had a good innings, my dear, and besides, there isn’t really room for the likes of me anymore.’

  ‘But I hadn’t heard anything?’

  He looked at her, his eyes still sharp beneath his wiry brows. ‘No, it was something of a snap decision on my part.’

  Lasser eased back into the chair that felt more comfortable than his sofa. ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

  ‘Not at all, for one, I am not as young as I once was, the old eyes are on their way out, and the dammed hearing isn’t too sparkling,’ he grinned around the stem of the pipe. ‘Plus, over the last couple of years I’ve come to realise that the school is looking to the future, and considering I don’t have much future left, I thought it was time to say my goodbyes.’

  ‘How long have you been on the school board, Mr Spalding?’

  ‘I started in seventy-four I think, or was it seventy-five,’ his face crinkled in concentration.

  ‘I expect you’ve seen a lot of changes over the years?’ Lasser asked.

  Spalding removed the pipe, tapping the bowl on the arm of the chair. ‘Surprisingly few, Sergeant, I mean, young Medea knows how the place works, more tortoise than hare, aren’t we, dear?’

  Medea smiled and nodded.

  ‘Of course that’s no bad thing, the school always prided itself of continuity, nothing was ever rushed,’ he smiled again as if reliving better times.

  ‘Until Christopher Fulcom came along?’ Lasser asked and watched as a look of distaste passed across the old man’s face.

  ‘Personally, I had nothing against the boy...’

  ‘But?’

  Spalding dusted a fleck of tobacco from his chunky knit Aran cardigan. ‘Look, I didn’t expect to go on forever but it has always been my intention to uphold the traditions at Claremont’s for as long as possible. After all, it’s what the parents expect; in part it’s what they pay for.’

  Lasser could hear the barrister’s tone in Spalding’s voice, he could envision him in some oak lined courtroom lamenting on the passage of time.

  ‘And that tradition was changing, is that what you’re saying?’

  Spalding looked at him, a shrewd gleam in his eye. ‘No one wants to stay where they no longer feel relevant, and I have no intention of overstaying my welcome, Sergeant Lasser.’

  Medea leaned forward in her chair, her face creased with concern. ‘But the school needs people like you, Mr Spalding.’

  Spalding smiled sadly. ‘That’s kind of you to say so; though I am afraid it’s no longer true.’

  Lasser watched as a Jay landed on the lawn and began to strut across the short-cropped grass. ‘Tell me, when Christopher Fulcom applied for the job; were you for or against the change?’

  ‘I would imagine you already know the answer to that question, Sergeant.’

  ‘That was one of the changes you weren’t happy with?’

  ‘As I said earlier, I had nothing against the man but I didn’t like the way it was done, it felt rushed, as if the decision was already made.’

  ‘Made, by whom?’

  For the first time Spalding looked uncomfortable. ‘Well that’s just it, it should have been a decision made by the entire board, not just one or two members.’

  Lasser could feel the need for urgency, but rushing someone like Spalding would only make the old man suspicious causing him to clam up and then he would come away with nothing. ‘Can you be more specific, Mr Spalding?’

  Spalding thought for a moment and then straightened his shoulders. ‘Well I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, especially the dead.’

  Lasser hesitated for a moment as he took on board what Spalding was actually saying. ‘Jonathan Ramsey?’

  The old barrister grunted a response. ‘Then of course there’s young Simmion.’

  ‘Ramsey and Simmion gave Fulcom the job...’

  ‘Steamrollered over the lot of us. Of course I tried to voice my concerns but the other two didn’t take a blind bit of notice.’

  ‘You’re referring to Barry and Philips?’

  Spalding nodded. ‘You see to them, having a position on the board is more about prestige, they aren’t really interested in upholding the principles of the place. It’s all about image,’ he spat out the last word with a flake of tobacco.

  Lasser was beginning to see how it had panned out – Spalding suddenly finding himself surrounded by people who no longer cared, or worse still, wanted to make radical changes to an institution that was close to his heart.

  ‘Did you know anything about Fulcom before he came to the school?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’

  Lasser had to stop the smile that threatened to break out. ‘But...’

  ‘I voiced my concerns, believe me I did, but the others simply treated me as if I were some Luddite standing in the way of progress. In the end, I even started to believe it myself and that’s why I decided to pack the whole thing in. Of course I’ll be sorry to end my association with the school,’ he shrugged. ‘But I won’t stay where I’m not w
anted.’

  ‘This is awful; I mean, there must be something we can do.’ Medea was rubbing her hands together in agitation, an angry gleam in her eyes, another injustice to fight.

  ‘If I were twenty years younger I would’ve probably kicked up a fuss, but not now.’

  ‘But it’s not right...’

  ‘Well, Mr Spalding, thank you for your time,’ Lasser rose to his feet and Medea threw him a cold look.

  Spalding clapped his hands on his knees and creaked to his feet. ‘Not a problem, Sergeant, and I hope I’ve been of some use?’

  Lasser thrust out a hand. ‘You should listen to Miss Sullivan, I’m sure she’d be more than willing to fight your corner.’

  ‘Too damn right I would.’

  Spalding laughed aloud. ‘I appreciate the offer but to be honest I have enough here to keep me busy, and my wife has been nagging me for years to put my feet up and enjoy the fruits of my labours.’

  ‘Well, thanks again for your help.’

  He waved to them as they vanished from view around the side of the house. Medea had to quicken her pace in order to keep up with Lasser as he jogged towards the car.

  Climbing in, he started the engine, getting somewhere at last.

  87

  Bannister made a fist, relishing the bruising on his knuckles, watching as the squad car thundered past through the traffic lights. He kept a careful eye on the vehicle in his rear view mirror as it screeched to a halt outside of Sinclair’s house. Then the lights flashed green and he drove forwards, the view behind him diminishing. He tried to come to terms with what Sinclair had said, as he tried to dash into the bathroom, Bannister had yanked him back by the hair, his feet slithering on the polished floorboards. Sinclair had screeched like a banshee and lashed out as Bannister’s fist rocketed forward; slamming home squarely between the man’s eyes, Sinclair had collapsed, writhing to the floor.

  ‘Why did you kill Fulcom?’ Bannister had snarled.