Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’ Julia was now entirely immersed in her role as solicitor for this suspect. Paul Moxon became just another police officer trying to put away just another of her clients. Very well, she thought, if he’s got the ammunition to do it, fine. If he hasn’t, he’s up against Julia Grant.

  ‘So?’

  Paul leaned forward, his elbows planted on the table in front of him, hands raised in the air and clasped together with overlapping fingers. ‘One: Sagoe is a known associate of Sam Smith. You probably knew that anyway so I’m not going to give you chapter and verse on this.

  ‘Two: eye witnesses to Smith being sprung from the prison van gave a description of an accomplice who fitted with Sagoe. Before you ask, none will be able to ID Sagoe because the offenders were masked, but it was the general height and build we were interested in, you know, one of those things you can start to build up a picture from.

  ‘Three: one of my officers was shot dead, as you know full well, not more than a hop, skip and jump from Sagoe’s house, which she was staking out. And then a prostitute gets killed in the neighbourhood and the MO is pure Smith. We’re not saying Sagoe was in on it but it fits in with Smith being there because of his connection with Sagoe.’

  Julia watched his face closely. He had a look of steely determination. He was obsessed with re-capturing Smith. ‘But you’ve already hauled Sagoe over the coals and let him go, so what new evidence have you got that warrants another arrest?’ she demanded.

  ‘The killing of the prostitute was only last night,’ Paul said. ‘We haven’t asked him about that yet.’

  ‘And you can’t reasonably expect to either, surely?’

  ‘Worse things have happened,’ he said. ‘A young girl from his community viciously killed by a man he’s brought there, you never know . . .’

  Julia took a deep breath, wincing at the smell of stale cigarette smoke wafting up from the tin wastebasket which, judging by its odour, was nothing but a giant ashtray. ‘Well, if that’s it, I’d like to have a word with him, please.’

  ‘Coffee?’ Paul asked. ‘It’ll only be a MaxPax, but better than nothing.’

  Julia’s face softened. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Kev, MaxPax for Mrs Grant, if you don’t mind, and wheel in Sagoe on your way back too. If I’m not mistaken it’s milk, no sugar.’

  Moorsley obliged without a murmur, closing the door behind him.

  Still watching the door, Paul waited a few moments, then switched his gaze back to Julia.

  ‘Don’t do this, Julia. You know you’ve got a conflict. And you know I’m right. There’s enough there to go at, and if he played his cards right he’d come clean and we can do a deal with him.’

  ‘But you want me off the scene first, don’t you, because you think I’ll be harbouring some interest in favour of Smith that would make me advise against doing a deal.’ She shook her head. ‘Frankly, I’m disappointed, Paul. You’ve got a hunch, maybe even a good one, but it’s some way off being damning evidence. I don’t have a conflict. And I also think you know exactly how I’m going to advise my client. Naturally if he wants to confess, I won’t stand in his way.’

  Paul looked pleadingly at Julia, then lowered his eyes.

  ‘Paul, don’t ask me again, please. Let’s keep this professional.’

  ‘No,’ he said, then looked up slowly. ‘I want to see you afterwards.’

  ‘You mean ─ ’

  ‘Nothing to do with this case.’

  ‘I must get home. Wendy’s baby-sitting.’

  ‘Just for a few minutes. Please. It’s important.’

  Only moments ago he’d been the tough efficient policeman. And now?

  Heavy footsteps echoed along the corridor, a sense of urgency in their staccato beat.

  ‘That’ll be Kevin bringing your client down. We’ll do this by the book. See you afterwards, away from here. I’ll wait at your car.’

  Julia nodded her agreement as the door flew open.

  ‘Boss,’ Moorsley blurted. ‘It’s Sagoe. You’d better come right now. Custody Sergeant thinks he’s dead.’

  * * *

  Julia thanked the PC for escorting her to the door. She had hung around for a few minutes to see if there was anything she could do to help, but in the end had asked to leave. Paul had said he had wanted to see her, but that was before the shock news of Sagoe’s death. There’d be no chance of that now so the sooner she got out of here the better.

  She shivered as she walked out into the cool night air. Poor Joe. He’d never looked healthy as long as she’d known him, but at least he had no family left to mourn him since his brother was killed.

  She stopped abruptly at the top of the steps as the realisation suddenly hit her. Now I’ll never know whether Smith was badly injured or not, she whispered to herself, until he makes his next move. There’s no one else to ask. He could be here now, in this road, waiting to follow me in whatever car he has just stolen . . .

  Her legs felt stiff and leaden. She looked both ways and then once more before going down the steps. She stopped again. And although there was no traffic in sight, she hesitated. Finally she crossed the street and ran to her car. She was just about to unlock the door and jump in when she heard footsteps behind her.

  - 64 -

  As Paul bounded down the steps he took the two tickets from his pocket in readiness. He had wondered all week how to persuade her to spend some time with him, and the Royal Northern College of Music concert advert on the canteen wall had provided the perfect answer.

  ‘Tomorrow night. Back row seats. All I could get. Programme nothing but Mozart,’ he blurted out as he skidded to a halt beside her.

  Like a frightened kitten she jumped when she heard his voice. He quickly took her arm.

  ‘All your favourites,’ he said, smiling and holding up the tickets.

  ‘Oh, Paul,’ she said, sounding as though she was about to cry.

  She was flicking her head nervously from left to right. A few people were walking past and it seemed that she was scrutinising each one of them.

  ‘Is this what you wanted to see me about so urgently?’ she asked.

  All at once Paul realised how frightened she was. She had worked hard at appearing unconcerned at Smith’s threat, but now she was like a bird that has flown into a room and can’t find its way out.

  ‘You need a break,’ he said. ‘All this is too much for you.’ He held her arm. ‘And there’s something else wrong too. What is it, Julia? Has Smith been in touch with you again?’

  ‘Paul, nothing’s wrong. I . . . I’m just . . . I’m missing Duke.’

  ‘Yes, of course you are.’ He moved closer. ‘But please come tomorrow. We can meet at the concert hall if you’re working late.’

  ‘Paul . . . ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What about Sagoe?’

  ‘A heart attack, I think. And I must go back quickly. I’d hoped you’d come to the flat for a coffee. I’ve something I want to give you. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. After the concert.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d come.’

  ‘You need to relax, Julia. Mozart. All your favourites. Please?’

  He pulled her towards him, surprised when his fingers felt her ribs through her flimsy blouse.

  ‘Yes. All right,’ she said. ‘But only if Wendy can baby-sit.’

  ‘Quarter past seven. In the foyer. Quick drink first.’ He opened the door for her. He held her gaze and then she was gone.

  As he ran across the road he watched her tail-lights disappear.

  A thread, he thought, as he charged back up the steps. A fragile thread. But it’s a start.

  - 65 -

  Nothing moved on the Rochdale Canal. Nothing but the murky green ripples splashing against the slimy walls. He heard footsteps echoing on the towpath. Stopped. The footsteps stopped.

  He held his stomach, dug his fingers in to stop the
pain. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one there.

  Must lie down soon. Somewhere. Anywhere. Christ. All the fucking buildings were boarded up. Must get to Dukes . . .

  Blue and white police ribbon. Must walk faster.

  Under Deansgate. Water swishing over the lock. Lock 91. Thirsty. Dukes Bar not far now.

  Under the railway bridge. Water dripping. Drip drip drip. A train squealing on the rails.

  Must lie down. Must get to that derelict building opposite Dukes Bar. The one with the tower. Blackened with age and fire. No windows left to board up . . .

  At last. Lights. Hanging baskets full of flowers. Chairs outside. Sounds of laughter. Jeez, he could smell the beer. Taste it. Feel it trickling down his cracked throat.

  He jingled the coins in his pocket. Enough for half a pint. Maybe some fags and matches too? No. Not a hope. Must conserve the funds for petrol and vital phone calls.

  He stood drinking near the door. Safer there, just in case. Two more gulps of beer. Felt like angels pissing down his throat.

  Damn. Too much. Hand over mouth. Quickly. Out the door. Over the bridge. Up three steps to the cobbled car park. A dirty white Fiesta. Abandoned?

  Keep going now. Under the dripping archway and there it is, oh God, how beautiful, it could be the Ritz, a pigeon perched like a statue of liberty on top of the sagging roof, stumbling over hollyhocks, piles of rock, rubble, plastic bags, ancient rusty pipes and twisted metal. Falling on the floor. Vomiting at last.

  He drew his knees up to his stomach. Pressed out the last two buttons from the foil pack Joe had given him. Washed them down with the few remaining drops in the small plastic water bottle, thankful he had a spare one in Joe’s survival bag.

  Drip drip drip. Water from nowhere into puddles on the floor. Only it wasn’t a floor any more. Weeds growing out of it. An old boiler with a shiny tube going through the charred bricks.

  Julia Grant did this. Must pay her back. For fuck’s sake, how? Think. How?

  The wind howled, blew dust in his face. He pulled a piece of black plastic over his head and slid into blessed oblivion.

  In his sleep he heard a siren.

  Was it dawn or was he imagining the light in the gaping holes that once were windows?

  He opened his eyes wider. Saw bits of wire hanging from the blackened rafters, the piles of rubble. Shivered. Drew the plastic closer. He had often seen this building from Dukes Bar but had never thought it would be home.

  REVENGE. He saw the word scorched in the wooden rafters, cut by flames belching from his wound. Never intended touching the child or hurting her in any way. Only to frighten the bitch into giving him the cash.

  But things were different now.

  He held his swollen stomach. Never thought it would come to this. It was okay walking down a street, going in a pub, taking a chance. But not okay to see a medic with all their fucking forms and questions.

  He felt the square edges of the passport in his pocket. All he needed was the brass. And the bitch had all that, only she was hanging on to it. Hoping the filth would get him before she had to cough up. So far nothing he had threatened or done to her had made her see sense. By now any other broad would have thrown the lucre at him. Take it, they would have screamed. Anything for peace. For safety. For silence. But not Mrs Solicitor fucking Grant. She thought she could out-think him. Wear him down. Make him give himself up.

  Well, she was fucking wrong.

  Nothing Ada had ever done had surprised him as much as that hatpin. He’d hardly felt a thing. No blood. Nothing to worry about at first except the indignity. And the pain in his balls.

  But now it had changed.

  The pain gnawed. The buttons had made no fucking difference. He adjusted the plank under his head.

  Pain. All his life he’d had pain. Not just from Ada but long before when he’d first fled from it into the night, sirens screaming, frightened, cold, running, feet bleeding, sleeping on stones, running . . . running . . . running . . . Away from the blood and the terror . . .

  He knew how to tell pain to go away. Ada had taught him that. Otherwise he’d never have survived. So do it now, for Chrissake.

  Tell yourself you have no fucking pain.

  He licked his lips. What he wouldn’t give for that John Smith’s he’d left on the windowsill at Dukes.

  A scuttling near his feet. He jerked his knees up and wrapped his arms around his ribs.

  He’d had rats for playthings when they used to come up through the holes in the caravan, when Ada locked him in for hours and hours. The games had always been evenly matched. He’d be sitting on the floor, dead still, watching the rat until it was right next to him. Then he’d shoot his hand out like a chameleon catching a fly and grab its tail.

  He’d hold it firmly. Watch it wriggle and squirm, wetting itself with fright. He’d always given it a chance. It could have bitten him any time it liked, but it never had. And when it was worn out and shit scared and its hair was standing up straight with lack of food and water, he’d let it have it.

  First a blow to the head to stun it. It would stagger a bit then flop over. Its eyes would close. Then they’d open and look at him like it wanted to say something. It would squeal. Oh yeah. It would squeal okay. Just like he had. Yelled and squealed and cried and pleaded, only no bastard had shown him any mercy. Now it was the rat’s turn.

  The next step was a lot of fun. The only fun he ever had. Out would come his flick-knife, the one he’d nicked off old Bert when he hadn’t let him warm his hands on his miserable old fire when Ada had taken his coat off of him for coming home late. It was a long time since he’d had a flick-knife of his own.

  One jab on either side of its spine usually made the legs go berserk. After a few minutes it would stop and just lie there looking at him. He always took the front legs off first, laying them next to the rat like two crutches. It looked so stupid with only two legs.

  He took his time over the back legs. First there were the smaller, more interesting bits. Like the ears . . .

  The room - the whole dilapidated space was starting to revolve.

  He closed his eyes. Breathed in deeply. He knew what was coming.

  First there was nothing. Just blackness. Then jagged flashes across the big red screen. And those white marble sculpted shapes coming and going like the intestines of a rat when he’d slit its stomach and tried to push them back inside.

  The scuttling noise again. The waves of dreamy relaxation. He knew the signs.

  And then, from nowhere it came. Leaping into his head. A plan.

  A brilliant plan.

  He forced his eyes to open.

  Julia.

  Thought she was so tough. But she wasn’t. She would scare easy. Not the usual bullshit. He’d tried all that crap and none of it had worked. But now he knew how.

  It was all different now.

  First he’d frighten the shit out of her. One step at a time. Like with the rats. Leave her to stew and then . . . Wham! A shame, really. All her fault. Now he had to go the whole hog. Put the bitch through hell and back again until she paid up. Scare her to death.

  Must get to a phone.

  He tried to move. His eyelids drooped. He forced them open but they closed again. His head slid slowly down. Tomorrow, he murmured. Tomorrow I’ll begin.

  FRIDAY

  - 66 -

  Julia sat at her desk paging through the files for the day’s cases, seeing the words but not their meaning. If I don’t hear from Smith before I go to court, she said to herself, this will prove conclusively that he is ill.

  Or even dead.

  She gulped the cold black coffee. No. Not dead. Please, not dead . . .

  In this cat and mouse game the element of surprise would be high on his agenda. If he could make me think he was dead I would begin to relax and thereby increase my vulnerability. Well, I’m ready for that.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Before she could object, Ben walked in. He pulled up a chair
and placed it on her right, far too close for her liking.

  He looked at her and squinted. ‘You look terrible, Julia.’

  Her efforts to cover the circles under her eyes with the Max Factor Lasting Performance she kept for emergencies had clearly failed. ‘I didn’t sleep last night,’ she said.

  ‘You look as though you haven’t slept for a week. What the hell is wrong?’

  She pressed her thumbnails into the ends of her fingers one after the other. She looked down at the dents and watched them slowly disappear. Why is he behaving as though nothing unusual has happened between us? Was that barbecue fiasco only one week ago? Has he forgotten everything?

  She edged away from his encroaching arm. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve at last decided to take a sensible attitude about last Friday night. We must have a chat and see what we can sort out.’

  His smugness made Julia feel quite sick. How the hell have I worked with him for so long and never noticed before how bloody insensitive he is?

  She scraped her nails against her teeth. He had once been a friend, a confidant, a trusted colleague. He seemed so distant now. In fact everyone Julia knew was distant these days. There was not one person she could really talk to ─ not even Paul ─ or even Wendy now, so wrapped up with her pregnancy.

  I desperately need his help and all he can think of is making a bloody pass at me.

  ‘You could do with a rest, Julia. Why not take a few days off?’ He reached for her hand.

  She snatched it away.

  ‘Sam Smith’s threat getting to you, is it? Even though you said it wouldn’t. He’s sure been having a field day. A cop, and now another prostitute.’

  She turned away and shook her head from side to side as though this would make her see more clearly.

  ‘At least he’s proved he isn’t interested in harming you, Julia. I thought you’d be his number one target, but you were right all along. He was only reacting on the spur of the moment like so many of them do. So why don’t you relax?’