by Paul Finch
‘He lived in Hucknall when he was a kid,’ Strickland added. ‘But he spent a lot of his time back then locked up.’
‘Not just then either,’ Heck said. ‘According to this, he’s only been out of Roundhall for the last six months.’
‘Yeah, and what does that tell us?’
Heck didn’t need to reply. Roundhall was a low security prison in the West Midlands. According to these antecedents, Jimmy Hood, now aged in his early thirties, had served a year and a half there before being released on licence. However, he’d originally been held at Durham after drawing fourteen years for burglary and rape. As if the details of his original crimes weren’t enough of a match for the case they were currently working, his time back in the community put him neatly in the frame for the activities of the so-called ‘Lady Killer’.
‘He’s a bruiser now and he was a bruiser then,’ Strickland said. ‘Six-foot-three by the time he was seventeen, and burly with it. Scared the crap out of everyone who knew him. Got arrested once for chucking a kitten into a cement mixer. Him and his mates did time for bricking a couple of builders who’d given them grief for pinching tools. Both workmen were knocked cold; one needed his face reconstructing.’
Heck noted from the paperwork that Hood, the mug-shot of whom portrayed shaggy black hair fringing a broad, bearded face with a badly broken nose – a disturbingly similar visage to the e-fit they’d released a few days ago – had led a juvenile street-gang that had involved itself in serious crime in Hucknall, from the age of twelve. However, he’d only commenced sexually offending, usually during the course of burglary, when he was in his late teens.
‘So he comes out of jail and immediately picks up where he left off?’ Heck said.
‘Except that this time he murders them,’ Strickland replied.
Heck didn’t find that much of a leap. Certain types of violent offender had no intention of rehabilitating. They were so set on their life’s work that they regarded prison time – even prolonged prison time – as a hazard of their chosen vocation. He’d known plenty who’d gone away for a lengthy stretch, and had used it to get fit, mug up on all the latest criminal techniques, and gradually accumulate a head of steam that would erupt with devastating force once they were released, and he could easily imagine this scenario applying to Jimmy Hood. What was more, the evidence seemed to indicate it. All four of the recent murder victims had been elderly women living alone. Most of Hood’s victims when he was a teenager had been elderly women. The cause of death in all the recent cases had been physical battery with a blunt instrument, after rape. As a youth, Hood had bludgeoned his victims after indecently assaulting them.
‘Funny his name wasn’t flagged up when he first ditched his probation officer,’ Heck said.
Strickland shrugged as he drove. ‘Easy to be wise after the event, pal.’
‘Suppose so.’ On reflection, Heck recalled numerous occasions in his career when it would have paid to have a crystal ball.
On this occasion, they’d caught their break courtesy of a sharp-eyed civvie.
The four home-invasion murders they were officially investigating were congregated in the St Ann’s district, east of Nottingham city centre, and an impoverished, densely populated area, which already suffered more than its fair share of crime. The only description they’d had was that of a hulking, bearded man wearing a duffle-coat over shabby sports gear, and ‘smelling bad’, which suggested that he wasn’t able to bathe or change his clothes very often and so, maybe, was sleeping rough. (Heck had since lost count of the number of raids they’d made on homeless shelters, subways and cardboard cities, rounding up everyone with a beard – which was usually most males there, only to discover that none of them owned either a shell-suit or a duffle-coat.) However, only yesterday there had been a fifth murder in Hucknall, just north of the city, the details of which closely matched those in St Ann’s. There’d been no description of the perpetrator on this occasion, though earlier today a long-term Hucknall resident – who remembered Jimmy Hood well, along with his crimes – reported seeing him eating chips near the bus station there, not long after the event. He’d been wearing a duffle-coat over an old tracksuit, and though he didn’t have a beard, fresh razor cuts suggested that he had recently shaved one off.
‘And he’s been lying low at this Alan Devlin’s pad?’ Heck asked.
‘Part of the time maybe,’ Strickland said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well … I wouldn’t have called it “whereabouts known”. But it’s a bloody good start.’
Alan Devlin, who had a long record of criminal activity as a juvenile, when he’d been part of Hood’s gang, now lived in a council flat in St Ann’s. These days he was Hood’s only known associate in central Nottingham, and the proximity of his home address to the recent murders was too big a coincidence to ignore.
‘What do we know about Devlin?’ Heck said. ‘I mean above and beyond what the paperwork says.’
‘Not a player anymore, apparently. His son Wayne’s a bit dodgy.’
‘Dodgy how?’
‘General purpose lowlife. Fighting at football matches, D and D, robbery.’
‘Robbery?’
‘Took some other kid’s bike off him after giving him a kicking. That was a few years ago.’
‘Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.’
As part of the National Crime Group, specifically the Serial Crimes Unit, Mark Heckenburg had a remit to work on murder cases across all the police areas of England and Wales. He and the other detectives in SCU (as it was abbreviated) tended to have a consultative investigating role with regard to the pursuit of repeat violent offenders, and would bring specialist knowledge and training to regional forces grappling with large or complex cases. They were usually allocated to said forces in groups of four or five, sometimes more. On this occasion, as the Nottinghamshire Police already had access to experienced personnel from the East Midlands Special Operations Unit, Heck had been assigned here on his own.
SCU’s presence wasn’t always welcomed by the regional forces they were assisting, some viewing the attachment of outsiders as a slight on their own abilities – though in certain cases, such as this one, SCU’s advice had been actively sought. At the outset, Heck had been personally contacted by Strickland on the orders of Taskforce SIO Detective Chief Superintendent Max Grinton, who had solved many crimes off his own bat, but was a keen student of those state-of-the-art investigations carried out by other bodies, SCU figuring highly on his approved list.
Grinton was a big man with silver hair, a distinguished young/old face and a penchant for sharp-cut suits, though his most distinctive feature was the patch he wore over his left eye-socket, having lost the eye to flying glass during a drive-by shooting fifteen years earlier. He was now holding court under the hard halogen glow of the car park lights at the rear of St Ann’s Central. Uniforms clad in full anti-riot gear, and detectives with stab vests under their jackets and coats, stood around him in attentive groups.
‘So that’s the state of play,’ Grinton said. ‘We’re moving on this quickly rather than waiting ’til the crack of dawn tomorrow, firstly because the obbo at Devlin’s address tells us he’s currently home, secondly because if Jimmy Hood is our man there’s been a shorter cooling-off period between each attack, which means in plain English that he’s going crazier by the minute. For all we know, he could have done two or three more by tomorrow morning. We’ve got to catch him tonight, and Alan Devlin is the best lead we’ve had thus far. Just remember … for all that he’s a scrote from way back, Devlin is a witness, not a suspect. We’re more likely to get his help if we go in as friends.’
There were nods of understanding. Mouths were set firm as it dawned on the Taskforce members just how high the stakes now were. Every man and woman present knew their job, but it was vital that no one made an error.
‘One thing, sir, if you don’t mind,’ Heck spoke up. ‘I strongly recommend that we take anything Alan Devl
in tells us with a pinch of salt.’
‘Any particular reason?’ Grinton asked.
Heck waved Devlin’s sheet. ‘He hasn’t been convicted of any crime since he was a juvenile, but he wasn’t shy about getting his hands dirty back in the day – he was Jimmy Hood’s right-hand man when they were terrorising housing estates around Hucknall. His son Wayne is half way to repeating that pattern here in St Ann’s. Try as I may, I can’t view Alan Devlin as an upstanding citizen.’
‘You think he’d cover for a killer?’ Strickland said doubtfully.
Heck shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. Assuming Hood is the killer – and from what we know, I think he probably is – I find it odd that Devlin, who knows him better than anyone, hasn’t already come to the same conclusion and got in touch with us voluntarily.’
‘Maybe he’s scared?’ someone suggested.
Heck tried not to look as sceptical about that as he felt. ‘Hood’s a thug, but he’s in breach of licence conditions that strictly prohibit him from returning to Nottingham. That means he’s keeping his head down and moving from place to place. He’s only got one change of clothes, he’s on his own, he’s cold, damp and dining on scraps in bus stations. Does he really pose much of a threat to a bloke like Devlin, who’s got form for violence himself, has a grown-up hooligan for a son and is well ensconced on his own patch?’
The team pondered, taking this on board.
‘We’ll see what happens,’ Grinton said, zipping his anorak. ‘If Devlin plays it dumb, we’ll let him know that Hood’s mug-shot is appearing on the ten o’clock news tonight, and all it’s going to take is a couple of Devlin’s neighbours to recognise him as someone they’ve seen hanging around. The Lady Killer is going down for the rest of this century, ladies and gents. Devlin may be the hardest bastard in Nottingham, but he won’t want a piece of that action.’
They drove to the address in question in a bunch of unmarked vehicles; five cars, one of them Heck’s metallic-blue Peugeot 306, and one plain-clothes APC. They did it discreetly and without fanfare. St Ann’s wasn’t an out-of-control neighbourhood, but it wasn’t the sort of place where excessive police activity would go unnoticed, and mobs could form quickly if word got out that ‘one of the boys’ was in trouble. In physical terms, it was a rabbit warren of crumbling council blocks, networked with dingy footways, which, at night, were a mugger’s paradise. To heighten its atmosphere of menace, a winter gloom had descended, filling the narrow passages with cloying vapour.
The address was 41, Lakeside View (there might have been a lake sometime in the geological past, perhaps with a stunning view across it, but no one who lived here now remembered that). It was a boxy, redbrick structure, accessible by a short cement ramp with a rusty wrought iron railing, and then a single corridor running through from one side to the other, to which various apartment doors – 41a, 41b, 41c and 41d – connected.
Heck, Grinton and Strickland regarded it from a short distance away. Only the arched entry was visible in the evening murk, illuminated at its apex by a single dull lamp; the rest of the building was a gaunt outline. A clutch of detectives and armour-clad uniforms were waiting a few yards behind them, while the troop-carrier with its complement of PSU reinforcements was about fifty yards further back, parked in the nearest cul-de-sac. Everyone observed a strict silence.
Grinton finally turned around, keeping his voice low. ‘Okay … listen up. Roberts, Atherton … you’re staying with us. The rest of you … round the other side. Any ground floor windows, any fire-doors, block ’em off. Grab anyone who tries to come out.’
There were nods of understanding as the group, minus two uniforms, shuffled away into the mist. Grinton checked his watch to give them five minutes to get in place, then glanced at Heck and Strickland and nodded. They detached themselves from the alley mouth, ascended the ramp and entered the brick passage, which was poorly lit by two faltering bulbs and defaced end to end with obscene, spray-painted slogans, which also covered three of its four doors. The only one that hadn’t been vandalised in this fashion was 41c – the home of Alan Devlin.
There was no bell, so Grinton rapped on the door with his fist. Several seconds passed, before there was a fumbling on the other side. The door opened as far as its short safety chain would allow. The face beyond was aged in its mid-thirties, but pudgy and pock-marked, one eyebrow bisected by an old scar. Whoever the guy was, and he looked like Devlin – though the last police photographs taken of him were a decade and a half out of date – he was squat and pot-bellied, with a shaved head. He’d answered the door in a grubby t-shirt and purple Y-fronts, but even through the narrow gap they spotted neck-chains and cheap, tacky rings on nicotine-yellow fingers. He didn’t look hostile as much as puzzled, probably because the first thing he saw was Grinton’s eye-patch. He put on a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed glasses, so that he could scrutinise it less myopically.
‘Alan Devlin?’ the chief superintendent asked.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Grinton introduced himself, displaying his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Inspector Strickland and this is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’
‘Suppose I’m honoured,’ Devlin grunted, looking anything but.
‘Can we come in?’ Grinton said.
‘What’s it about?’
‘You don’t know?’ Strickland asked him.
Devlin threw him an ironic glance. ‘Yeah … I just wondered if you did.’
Heck observed the householder with interest. Though clearly irritated that his evening had been disturbed, his relaxed body language suggested that he wasn’t overly concerned. Either Devlin had nothing to hide or he was a competent performer. The latter was easily possible, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to hone such a talent while still a youth.
‘Jimmy Hood,’ Grinton explained. ‘That name ring a bell?’
Devlin continued to regard them indifferently, but for several seconds longer than was perhaps normal. Then he removed the safety chain and opened the door.
Heck glanced at the two uniforms. ‘Wait out here, eh? No sense crowding him in his own pad.’ They nodded and remained in the outer passage, while the three detectives entered a dimly-lit hall strewn with crumbs and cluttered with piles of musty, unwashed clothes. An internal door stood open on a lamp-lit room from which the sound of a television emanated. There was a strong, noxious odour of chips and ketchup.
Devlin faced them square-on, adjusting his bottle-lens specs. ‘Suppose you want to know where he is?’
‘Not only that,’ Grinton said, ‘we want to know where he’s been.’
There was a sudden thunder of feet from overhead – the sound of someone running. Heck tensed by instinct. He spun to face the foot of a dark stairwell – just as a figure exploded down it. But it wasn’t the brutish giant, Jimmy Hood; it was a kid – seventeen at the most with a mop of mouse brown hair and a thin moustache. He was only clad in shorts, which revealed a lean, muscular torso sporting several lurid tattoos – and was carrying a baseball bat.
‘What the fucking hell?’ He advanced fiercely, closing down the officers’ space.
‘Easy, lad,’ Devlin said, smiling. ‘Just a few questions, then they’ll be gone.’
‘What fucking questions?’
Strickland pointed a finger. ‘Put the bat down, sonny.’
‘You gonna make me?’ The youth’s expression was taut, his gaze intense.
‘You want to make this worse for your old fella than it already is?’ Grinton asked calmly.
There was a short, breathless silence. The youth glanced from one to the other, determinedly unimpressed by the phalanx of officialdom, though clearly unused to folk not running when he came at them tooled up. ‘There’s more of these twats outside, Dad. Sneaking around, thinking no one can see ’em.’
His father snorted. ‘All this coz Jimbo breached his parole?’
‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Mr Devlin,’ Strickland said. ‘So serious that I really
don’t think you want to be obstructing us like this.’
‘I’m not obstructing you … I’ve just invited you in.’
Which was quite a smart move, Heck realised.
‘We’ll see.’ Grinton walked towards the living room. ‘Let’s talk.’
Devlin gave a sneering grin and followed. Strickland went too. Heck turned to Wayne Devlin. ‘Your dad wants to make it look like he’s cooperating, son. Wafting that offensive weapon around isn’t going to help him.’
Scowling, though now looking a little helpless – as if having other men in here chucking their weight about was such a challenge to his masculinity that he knew no adequate way to respond – the lad finally slung the baseball bat against the stair-post, which it struck with a deafening thwack!, before shouldering past Heck into the living room. When Heck got in there, it was no less a bombsite than the hall: magazines were scattered – one lay open on a gynaecological centre-spread; empty beer cans and dirty crockery cluttered the table tops; overflowing ashtrays teetered on the mantel. The stench of ketchup was enriched by the lingering aroma of stale cigarettes.
‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Grinton said. ‘Is Hood staying here now?’
‘No,’ Devlin replied, still cool.
Too cool, Heck thought. Way too cool.
‘So if I come back here with a search-warrant, and go through this place with a fine-tooth comb, Mr Devlin, I definitely won’t find him?’
Devlin shrugged. ‘If you thought you had grounds you’d already have a warrant. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve got my permission to search anyway.’
‘In which case I’m guessing there’s no need, but we might as well look.’ Grinton nodded to Heck, who went back outside and brought the two uniforms in. Their heavy boots thudded on the stair treads as they lumbered to the upper floor.