Mercy Killing

by Lisa Cutts

  ‘Perhaps he’s chipped,’ offered Millie, trying to help.

  ‘No,’ said Albie as he shook his head. ‘She hasn’t had him long and I’m walking him because she’s been ill. This will just about finish her off. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave your number?’ she said. ‘In case we see him or someone finds him?’

  His face lit up at this idea. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Whilst Millie scrambled in her rucksack for a pen and paper, her focus on helping a stranger, Albie Woodville nodded and smiled at her children.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. She leaned over and grabbed it, hoping that one more noise on Bonfire Night wouldn’t wake her children.

  It took her a moment to work out who was calling her.

  ‘Ian,’ she said. ‘Is that you? I can’t understand you.’

  Her brother’s voice eventually made sense to her as he said through an alcohol-fuelled mumble, ‘You don’t have to worry about that dirty bastard Woodville any more.’

  Chapter 8

  With everyone else out of Albie Woodville’s flat, senior CSI Joanna Styles got down to business. She could hear the officers and PCSOs knocking on doors in the block of flats and asking those who were living a short distance from a sex offender what they had heard on the evening of his death. From the official tone that her colleagues were adopting, she could make out that the dead man’s past was not given away or discussed in any way. Whipping people into a frenzy was the job of the media, not local police officers. The latter were investigating a murder, not trying to titillate a nation for five minutes on the national news before another money-spinning vote via phone-in filled their evening television schedules.

  Joanna’s white paper suit and foot coverings rustled as she knelt down beside her kit bag and got out her camera. Her first task was to take dozens of photos of the body, including close-ups, before anyone disturbed him any further, seizing and exhibiting anything near or on him. She would then set about moving around the two-bedroomed flat from room to room. She knew that it wouldn’t take her too long in a space as confined as this one, but Joanna was very experienced in her job, not to mention thorough.

  Apart from being a very highly regarded senior crime scene investigator, Joanna also taught forensic investigation to everyone from police probationers in their first few weeks of basic training to senior investigating officers who headed up murder inquiries. It had been one of the police service’s longest slogs to stop its staff from walking through a crime scene whenever they fancied, picking up items out of curiosity.

  To reiterate the point, she was about to finish taking pictures of the open-plan living room and move to the kitchen area, when she heard the sound of Harry Powell on the stairs. It was usually impossible to mistake Harry for anyone else, as few people were as loud or as forthright as he was.

  ‘Hello, Matt,’ she heard him say to the officer standing outside the front door. ‘I’ve got my paper suit on, plus these very becoming booties, and I’ve even picked up a face mask. Give me the scene log and I’ll sign myself in.’

  She zoned out of a brief exchange where the DI was warned by the young PC that he wasn’t to touch the front door because of the boot marks, and then the DI, who had probably joined the police before the uniform officer’s birth, asked his advice on where he could safely walk to get inside the flat without disturbing the forensic evidence.

  ‘It’s all right, Harry,’ she called out. ‘When you open the door, you’ll see where it’s safe to walk. Go to your right.’

  ‘All right, Jo,’ said Harry as his head appeared around the door.

  She laughed at him and said, ‘You don’t need to wear the face mask in here. Not unless you intend spitting all over my crime scene.’

  ‘I’ve got incredibly bad breath,’ came the reply before he pulled the white card cover from his mouth and left it dangling around his neck. ‘I was only trying to do you a favour.’

  ‘These sausages go out of date today,’ she said more to herself than Harry, camera poised above the kitchen table.

  ‘Well, I’ve eaten, so they’re all yours.’

  ‘Very funny. They’ve got a Co-op Reduced sticker on them. It’s probably that local one. He was in there today, I’d guess.’

  As she spoke, Harry made a note of what she was saying and then joined her in the small kitchen area to look for obvious signs of a receipt. He saw a screwed-up carrier bag on the table top and pointed at it.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, taking several photographs of it before allowing him to pull the bag open with his gloved fingertips.

  ‘There’s a receipt in here dated this evening,’ he said, looking up at her from his position bent over the table. ‘You’re some sort of fucking genius. You should do this for a living.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ she said, moving away from the kitchen area to the short hallway leading to the other rooms. ‘These rooms have been given a quick look-over by the PC on the door but I’m going to move into the bedrooms now. Apparently one’s a bit odd.’

  Harry turned towards the direction of Joanna’s voice although there was now a wall separating them. He thought about following her but figured he would only get in the way and had seen all that he needed to for now.

  Curiosity took him towards the television and the shelf of DVDs next to it. Harry had spent many years on child protection teams when he was a detective constable and had a bet with himself that somewhere in the flat he would find a box set of Star Trek episodes.

  He nodded his head with a sense of satisfaction as he stood in front of the shelf where a box set of DVDs sat beside another containing the latest collection of the series.

  ‘What is it with nonces and Star Trek?’ he said to himself, interrupted by Joanna’s voice coming from the direction of the bedrooms.

  ‘Is it right that this bloke lived alone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he shouted back. ‘Why?’

  ‘Then I can only think of one reason why he’s got this stuff in here.’

  Harry wondered what new depths of depravity his day was going to take him to as he walked the short distance to join Joanna beside the bedroom door.

  ‘Then he really was a totally sick person,’ said the CSI as she pushed the door open for Harry to get a better look.

  All Harry could find to say was, ‘For fucking fuck’s sake.’

  Chapter 9

  Any Friday night without either a performance of the East Rise Players or a rehearsal found Eric Samuels sitting in his study, brandy in hand, stressing over budgets, casting or ticket sales. Guy Fawkes Night was no exception as far as the worrying was concerned, but this time, although it was to do with the amateur dramatic society he had been a part of for over thirty years, chairman of for sixteen of them, what was on his mind was a meeting he had called and the fallout from it.

  Previously, two young detectives had come to see him and asked to speak to him in private, giving an even greater air of mystery to their unannounced arrival. The only times he had ever had occasion to deal with the police were when his house was broken into and when he was stopped for not wearing a seat belt, admonished and sent on his way. That had been that.

  To see police at his door had been worrying, but then slightly thrilling when he realized that death messages were delivered by uniform officers. It surely couldn’t be about anything that bad, he’d reasoned, whatever it was.

  It merely went to show how wrong he could be.

  He had just applied on behalf of the East Rise Players for Lottery funding. They wouldn’t want to know now. He’d had a dream that if they could secure funding for their own premises to rehearse and store their costumes, they wouldn’t have to make do with cupboards at the back of the village hall or under the stage and they’d have their own base to work from. That way they’d go on to bigger and better things.

  Eric had been delighted to welcome any new member and
had even approached the local schools to see if they had any up-and-coming performers.

  He nursed his temples with his free hand and swilled the brandy with the other.

  He realized that not only would he have some explaining to do as far as the schools went – angry parents wanting to know exactly what checks were carried out on cast and production-team members – but also he’d have to call an immediate halt to unsupervised get-togethers in members’ houses. He wasn’t at all sure the Players would survive.

  All this was a mere bagatelle in comparison to the repercussions likely from the raised tempers caused by the emergency meeting he called a week ago. Fifteen of the members arrived within a couple of hours of his phone call to the room above the Cressy Arms.

  Naturally, he didn’t ask Albert Woodville to be present, but he had asked the core people from the society, those he had known the longest and those he trusted to react calmly.

  The chairman had underestimated the reaction from Jude Watson and Jonathan Tey.

  He hadn’t expected them to become so angry, surrounded as young people were by so much more unpleasantness than his own generation and exposed to it more frequently.

  Now, as he sat in his chair in the safety of his own house, he could still remember Jude’s exact words, hissed at him from across the meeting table: ‘You let a bloody sex case join us?’

  Jude had banged his fists on the table and Eric had heard the sound of his chair legs scraping back against the floor as he’d started to get up.

  He felt himself flinch, ready for the younger man to launch at him. Fortunately for Eric, on his arrival Jonathan had taken the last empty seat next to Jude, and had the size and strength to hold him back with one hand.

  ‘I didn’t let Albert join knowing what he’d done,’ Eric defended himself. ‘I was as in the dark as you all were about his past.’

  Eric was shaking as he spoke and hoping that no one picked up on the wobble in his voice and someone saved him from being beaten to a pulp.

  ‘Come on,’ Jonathan said to Jude. ‘Let’s leave and cool off.’

  The two of them got up. Jude’s chair knocked to the ground as he pushed himself away from the table’s edge.

  Most watched the two walk towards the door leading back down to the pub, a few preferring to avert their eyes. Eric’s gaze followed Jude with a kind of fascinated horror.

  At the door, one hand on the handle, the other pointing at Eric, Jude said, ‘Someone’s got to put this right. It’s sodding disgraceful. He was around our kids.’

  Eric considered going to the police after Jude’s outburst but what exactly was he going to tell them? He had passed on to a few members of the amateur dramatic society that one of their members had served time in prison for sex offences? A couple of them had lost their tempers and left early?

  He decided that, first thing the next day, he would telephone Woodville and let him know that he was no longer one of the East Rise Players. He wouldn’t even give him a reason. That wasn’t something he wanted to discuss.

  The only problem being, of course, that by the time Eric Samuels made his decision, Woodville had been dead for some hours.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Make that a half-pounder burger, love,’ said Leon, nodding at the waitress. He thought about trying a smile at her but he knew from previous attempts that women found him creepy when he did.

  The look he got in return from the young woman serving greasy food on a Friday evening to people with nowhere better to go told him she still found him repulsive. Even so, he couldn’t resist winking at her.

  From across the other side of the plastic table, Toby leant forwards.

  Leon mirrored his actions and their faces were inches apart, chins almost touching above the glass salt and pepper pots and bucket of cheap paper napkins.

  ‘We need people to remember us being in here,’ said Toby, ‘but not because you’ve frightened the life out of the staff.’

  ‘I’m still not sure this was a good idea,’ said Leon. He put his hands up to stop interruptions and added, ‘And I know we’ve been through this many times about how we should appear to act normally and put ourselves a distance away around the time—’

  He paused to scrape his chair nearer to the table to allow another customer to get to the empty bench behind him. He made his movements as noisy as he could and made a point of speaking to the young lad who was trying to get past. ‘You all right there, mate? Got enough room there?’

  A warning look from his oldest friend halted the bouncing up and down in his seat and sound of metal chair-leg studs scratching their way across the hard floor. Leon Edwards always intended to do the right thing but he had no stop button. His heart was almost constantly in the right place but he didn’t know when to call it a day. It was probably his best and his worst characteristic.

  The day he and Toby Carvell had met they were in a children’s home, both placed there due to their misfortunes. Toby had been a skinny and nervous boy, Leon larger both in size and in heart than his contemporaries. What Leon lacked in finesse, he made up for in other ways. He picked up on the expression on his friend’s face and said, ‘Why are you smiling? I thought I was in for a bollocking then.’

  ‘I was thinking about when we met and how my first thought was that you were going to beat the living daylights out of me.’

  ‘That goes to show, Toby, how appearances can be deceptive.’ As he spoke, he rubbed his hands over the front of his white shirt, stretched to capacity across his stomach, and belched. ‘I’m ready for my grub now. Hope she’s not too long with it. I can’t even see where she’s gone. You don’t think she’s forgotten our order, do you?’

  ‘Trust me on this one – appearances are not that deceptive,’ said Toby with a slow shake of his head. ‘Going on past eating-out experiences with you, I know that you’re going to regret wearing that white shirt. You asked for your burger stacked with onions, relish, sauce. You may as well ask the waitress to tip it straight down your front.’

  ‘I’m only doing what we agreed,’ said Leon. ‘I’m wearing completely different stuff.’

  Again, Toby pitched forward in an attempt to cut off any idle talk in the café. They had planned to use a harshly lit, town-centre, late-night eatery with a sprinkling of customers so they wouldn’t stand out as odd and would mix with the regulars. For three months, every Friday, they’d made a point of dropping in at about the same time, sitting at the same table, close to the counter and near to the plate-glass windows peering out to the High Street, being served by the same waitress. Toby knew that planning was what would save them when the time came. He couldn’t afford to have a careless comment give them away.

  He need not have worried as the arrival of the waitress with two plates laden with food halted Leon. Little silenced him, but a half-pounder burger, chips, coleslaw and onion rings was as likely to work as anything else.

  She plonked down the food without looking at either of them, concentrating on not spilling the meals. Task complete, she said, ‘I’ve put you loads of extra pickles in yours, Dilly.’

  At this point, she risked eye contact. ‘Is that why you’re called Dilly?’

  ‘No, Lorraine,’ Leon said, smothering his chips in vinegar. ‘It’s a long story but if you ever feel like hearing it, I can explain over a pint.’

  Toby had read Lorraine on her name badge but now he read horror on her face.

  ‘How about we let the nice lady get back to work now?’ Toby looked up at her and gave her one of his smiles.

  Both men watched her backside as she made her way to other customers, customers who were there to be served and not with the main intention of being noticed so that their alibi for the evening was easy to establish.

  Chapter 11

  Any given Friday night of the year, staffing levels could be low, but if Guy Fawkes Night fell on a Friday it was guaranteed there’d be no spare police officers on hand. Murder never took into account police availability.

  Har
ry Powell called the control room from Flat 12, Pleasure Lane and warned East Rise’s Major Crime team that a suspicious death was coming their way. Those able to postpone whatever else they were occupied with prepared themselves to work through the night.

  As he said goodbye to Joanna Styles, who had finished taking photographs and was now getting ready to video every room and cupboard the flat had, Harry recognized the feeling of excitement at what was to come. Experience had taught him that most homicides were straightforward, albeit that they still needed to do a vast amount of work to get the guilty to court and ultimately to prison. It was clear to Harry that this one had something that many didn’t have – no obvious suspect. Why this particular victim, however, seemed to be staring them in the face, although nothing was to be taken for granted. Harry knew the dangers of that only too well.

  He wasn’t going to dwell on the reason why someone had gone to the extreme of taking another’s life. Motive alone didn’t interest him, just as long as he got the right person. People usually killed for drugs, money or because they thought it was perfectly acceptable to pulverize a family member on a daily basis until one day they went too far. Few of the deaths he had dealt with had been pre-planned, even the most horrific ones.

  Before he drove back to the police station, Harry made the decision to brief the team in the incident room rather than try to find a suitable hall or venue nearer to the scene. He didn’t want to waste any more time on something that could be easily sorted out in the morning, simply so that they could have an overnight base close to Albie Woodville’s flat. He knew that he only had a team of six on duty but they could cover a lot of ground between them. What was pressing most urgently on his mind was how he was going to buoy them up to investigate the murder of a paedophile.

  It all started with the senior investigating officer; if he got it wrong now, the team wouldn’t recover. He drove the entire way back to East Rise Police Station mulling over his tactics.