Slice

by David Hodges

  ‘I don’t believe you – you’re spinning me a line.’

  ‘And what would be the point in my doing that? According to you, I’m in the mire for filing the story anyway, so why would I bother to make all this up?’

  ‘To protect a source maybe?’

  McGuigan shook his head firmly. ‘You’re way off beam this time.’

  ‘And I bet you didn’t get a look at your nocturnal postman?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. By the time I got to the front door he or she had gone.’

  ‘Convenient. Didn’t you think of looking out of the window before going to the front door?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘So you just went downstairs to answer the door in the middle of the night, not knowing who was on your doorstep? You were either very brave or plain stupid.’

  ‘Maybe I was stupid then, but that’s what I did, and when I opened the door there was no one there, just the envelope on the mat and an empty street – well, almost empty.’

  ‘What do you mean, almost?’

  McGuigan shrugged again. ‘There was a police patrol car cruising past. I waved to him actually and he waved back.’ He grunted. ‘Maybe you should have a word with the copper who was covering my area. You know where I live.’

  ‘I’ll do just that; you can count on it. I might even get your letterbox printed to see what else we can find.’

  ‘Be my guest, though I think that that would be a bit of a long shot. There must be any number of different fingerprints on it from a whole variety of callers.’

  Fulton grunted. ‘So, what time did your postman call?’

  ‘About twelve-forty-five.’

  For a moment the detective’s brain froze as the full implication of what McGuigan had just said dawned on him. ‘Twelve-forty-five? You sure about that?’

  ‘Give or take five minutes, yes. I’d only just gone to bed as a matter of fact. Watched some stupid TV documentary about the Iraq war. Why, is it important?’

  Fulton’s heart was racing. Damned right it was. If McGuigan had received the envelope then, it meant that Lyall’s body must have been left tied to the swing at least half an hour before it was found by police. He was conscious of McGuigan staring at him intently and tried to conceal his excitement, but it was too late.

  ‘You think that envelope was deposited by the murderer, don’t you?’ the pressman breathed.

  Fulton ignored the question. ‘I need everything you were sent,’ he snapped. ‘And I mean everything.’

  McGuigan slipped a hand inside his anorak and produced an A4-size envelope, folded in two, which he slid across the table towards him. ‘Got it all here for you. I was going to give it to you anyway.’

  Fulton stared at the envelope in disbelief. ‘You’ve been carrying this around with you ever since? How the hell could you have known you’d run into me?’

  McGuigan grinned. ‘I found out you were the SIO, so I sat on your tail when you left your bungalow for police HQ this morning. Not difficult to spot your battered Volvo on the double yellow lines outside this place.’

  Fulton lumbered to his feet. ‘You cheeky bastard.’

  ‘True, but cheeky is my middle name. So, do we have an arrangement?’

  ‘Arrangement? You’ve got to be joking.’

  McGuigan’s hand shot out to retrieve the envelope, but Fulton’s meat hook was quicker and snatched it away. ‘The only arrangement you should be thinking about,’ he grated, ‘is under the plea-bargaining process when they throw the book at you for impeding a police murder inquiry.’

  The journalist sat back in his chair and studied him as he swung for the door. ‘You always have been an awkward sod to deal with,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, well awkward is my middle name,’ Fulton threw back over his shoulder. ‘And I’d rather go back to issuing parking tickets than doing a deal with you.’

  McGuigan chuckled. ‘Well, at least that’s better than receiving them,’ he sniped, ‘I saw a nice young lady in uniform sticking one on your windscreen when I came in here just now!’

  chapter 4

  SADDLER STREET POLICE station was an ugly Victorian building, dating back to the 1880s, which had once accommodated the business of ‘H Cotton, Upholsterers and Saddlers’, going by the faded lettering still visible on the brickwork above the arched entrance. The place was due for closure when the new police station opened for business on the outskirts of town, and for those who for far too long had had to put up with its shabby, draughty rooms, flickering lamps and dirty leaded-light windows – which admitted only a greyish light but could not be replaced because of a misguided preservation order – closure could not come soon enough.

  However, while the building would ordinarily have passed into total obscurity without a soul shedding a tear when that auspicious day actually arrived, a lot had changed in the last twenty-four hours. Due to the gruesome murder of Herbert Lyall, Saddler Street nick had suddenly achieved a level of notoriety that assured it a small but permanent place in the annals of crime history and when Fulton finally returned to the station, he was faced with an aggressive, clamouring throng of reporters and camera units camped outside its doors like a besieging army.

  The office of the LIO (or Local Intelligence Officer), which was buried in the basement and sandwiched between the found-property store and archives, was Fulton’s first port of call and he burst into the office with characteristic aplomb, all but removing the door from its hinges.

  PC George Oates looked up quickly from his computer and swung his swivel-chair round to meet his visitor, almost dislodging a pile of papers on the corner of his desk as he did so. ‘Guv,’ he acknowledged, his shrewd brown eyes studying Fulton as the big man dropped into a chair in the corner, mopping the perspiration from his forehead.

  Oates had been LIO for close on ten years and had become part of the antiquated furniture on the police area, earning a reputation for himself as one of the best intelligence gatherers in the force. Not that there was much about him to suggest greatness. Short and bald, with protruding ears and a permanent lugubrious expression that had earned him the nickname Gollum after the notorious creature in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, his talents were pretty well hidden, but they were there all the same. His razor-sharp brain and photographic memory, coupled with a local knowledge that was second to none, had put many a villain away. Consequently, he was an indispensable resource to any investigating officer and Jack Fulton did not believe in wasting resources.

  ‘Long time, no speak, George,’ he said, getting his breath back at last.

  Oates nodded slowly. ‘Heard you were SIO on this one, guv,’ he said. ‘Bit off your usual manor though, aren’t you? You usually cover the northern end of the force.’

  Fulton grunted. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘But they ran out of SIOs down here, so they had to scrape the barrel.’

  Oates tried to affect a smile, an unusual facial contortion for him. ‘Hardly scraping the barrel where you’re concerned, guv,’ he replied, making no effort to conceal his respect for him. ‘How’s Janet?’

  Fulton threw him an old-fashioned look. ‘You must be the only one who hasn’t heard. She’s run out on me.’

  ‘I had heard; I was just asking you how she was.’

  Fulton shrugged. ‘Who knows – or cares?’ he lied and changed the subject quickly. ‘How long is it since we last worked together, George?’

  ‘The Meldrew killing – you were a DI then.’

  ‘As long ago as that. Must be all of—’

  ‘Twelve years,’ Oates finished for him. ‘I was acting DS.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember. Never made it to skipper, then?’

  Oates sighed. ‘Nope and not interested now anyway. This job’ll suit me fine until I pack it in in a couple of years’ time.’

  ‘As soon as that, is it? Doesn’t seem possible. Still fooling around with an oval ball, are you?’

  ‘Hardly. My days playing rugby ended a long time ago.’ Oates’s gaze dropped to Ful
ton’s ample stomach. ‘As I suspect yours have. Too old and too many injuries along the way. Just a spot of fishing now.’

  Fulton chuckled, his eyes more alive than they had been for a long time. ‘Happy days though, George, eh?’

  Oates didn’t answer, but glanced at his watch. ‘Look, is this just a social visit, guv, only…?’

  Fulton scratched his nose. ‘I need a favour, George.’

  ‘Ah, thought you might. What sort of favour?’

  ‘I need a PNC check on a car reg.’

  Oates frowned. ‘Why don’t you ask one of your own team to do it?’

  ‘Not strictly their bag, George. It’s sort of unofficial. And it might raise a few questions if I did the job myself as head of a high-profile murder inquiry. This way, it will be just another vehicle-check from your office.’

  Oates shook his head firmly and held up one hand to emphasize the point. ‘No go, guv. You should know that as well as anyone.’

  ‘It’s just a bloody car number, man.’

  Oates leaned forward in his chair. ‘Look, guv, my own boss has specifically told me not to get tied up with your inquiry, but to remember that I’m an area – not a headquarters – resource. She said I am to help where I can—’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’

  ‘But only if absolutely essential. What you’re asking me to do is well out of order anyway. It’s a breach of force regulations, using the police national computer for private purposes, and probably Data Protection as well. It could cost me my job. No thanks.’

  ‘You owe me, George,’ Fulton said bluntly.

  Oates’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t rake that up again. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yeah, but I still stuck my neck out for you, didn’t I? We lost a target criminal because you fell asleep on that surveillance job. If my boss had had her way, you would have been off the department there and then.’

  Oates stared at the floor for a moment. ‘Is what you’re asking me to do connected with Janet?’ he said at last.

  ‘Best you don’t know.’

  Oates groaned, ‘Oh, Guv’nor!’

  Fulton produced a piece of paper and scribbled down the number of the sports car he had noted outside his home and handed it to him. ‘George, it’s nothing illegal, OK? I just want you to find out an RO for me. Simple as that.’

  Oates looked at the number and shook his head wearily. ‘So what reason do I give for the check? Tell them I’m just returning a favour?’

  Fulton grinned at the jibe, but before he could answer, an attractive young woman in superintendent’s uniform poked her head round the door. ‘George …’ she began, then froze when she saw Fulton sitting in the corner behind the door. ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said. ‘What’s all this? Not leaning on my LIO, I hope?’

  Fulton hoisted himself up out of the chair. ‘Afternoon, Dee. Just a social visit. George and I go back a long way.’

  Superintendent Dee Honeywell looked unconvinced, her blue eyes studying his face suspiciously. ‘Got a minute, Jack?’

  He nodded, considering the slim blonde appreciatively. One of the new breed of senior officers, this one, almost straight out of university and already starred for future chief officer rank. Maybe he had been born much too early. ‘Anything for a lovely lady like you, Dee, you know that.’

  Out in the corridor she nodded towards the stairs and cornered him in the stairwell. ‘Do you have to make such overtly sexist innuendoes in front of my staff?’ she snapped.

  His jaw dropped. ‘Sexist … what? Dee, it was a joke, OK? A joke!’

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed, her expression hard and unsmiling, ‘but those sorts of jokes have no place in today’s modern police service and you should know better. Now, I’ve given our LIO strict instructions that he is not to get bogged down with incident room enquiries – you have your own team to do that. He can provide local knowledge as and when you need it, but that’s all. Do we understand each other?’

  Fulton grunted. ‘Understanding a woman is something I’ve never been very good at,’ he retorted.

  She frowned, but chose to ignore the remark. ‘So, how’s the inquiry going?’

  He shrugged. ‘It isn’t at the moment. But we have one lead your lads might be able to help us with.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Lads? That’s not very equal ops, is it? You mean personnel, don’t you? There are women on this police area as well, you know.’

  Fulton caught his breath quickly. ‘I’m investigating a bloody murder, Dee, all right?’ he grated. ‘I haven’t got time to worry about all this political correctness crap.’

  She compressed her lips into a tight line. ‘The chief constable might not look at it that way.’

  Fulton’s face darkened. ‘Then he can come down here and do the job himself,’ he snapped. ‘And while he’s about it, maybe he can explain why his marvellous SOCO team was so short-staffed that they turned up late and we had to borrow floodlights from traffic just to see the bloody corpse!’

  ‘Still no reason to forget the niceties.’

  ‘Niceties?’ he erupted. ‘What bloody planet are you on, Dee? A man is dead. Have you got that? D-e-a-d! Save your politically correct niceties for the officers’ mess or one of your focus groups. I have to live in the real world.’

  Her eyes glittered. ‘You’ve made your point, Jack. I think you’ve said quite enough.’

  He emitted a short, unamused laugh. ‘Oh, I haven’t said anywhere near as much as I’d like, Dee, but I think I’ll save it all for another day – or maybe for your next grammar school class.’

  Her face was ashen now. ‘Anything else we can help you with, Detective Superintendent?’ she breathed.

  He nodded, unabashed. ‘Yeah, there is as a matter of fact. One of your area cars was seen in Merchant Street at around 00.45 hours. I need to find out who it was and whether your personnel saw anyone there on foot. OK? That’s if you can tear yourself away from your GCSE studies!’

  ‘We have a problem, Jack,’ DCI Gilham said, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Fulton looked up from the pile of newspapers on the desk in his temporary office. He looked haggard. His hair was dishevelled, his coat lay over the back of his chair and one of his red braces was hanging over his arm. ‘What, apart from the press?’ he snapped, pushing himself away from his desk. ‘I gather they’re all over the crime scene as well as camped outside this place. I’ve had to get more troops down to the rec.’

  ‘Best way of dealing with them is a press conference, Jack – give ’em something to keep the hyenas happy. I’ll set one up tomorrow morning, if you like. Might cool things down a bit.’

  Fulton shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. ‘Not a chance – not yet, anyway. HQ press office have given them a prepared statement and they’ll have to be satisfied with that for now.’

  He peered curiously at the manila folder the DCI was carrying. ‘So what’s this other problem then?’

  Gilham carefully laid a portfolio of photographs on the desk and bent the file cover back to reveal one of the prints. It showed a pair of wrists photographed at close quarters. Even before Gilham said anything, he noted the groove-like indentations in the skin.

  ‘Handcuffs, we believe,’ Gilham continued. ‘SOCO did a magnificent job getting these to us so soon, but Eddie Hutch thought you ought to see them straight away.’

  ‘I bet he did. He needs to do something right after the cock-up his lot made of getting to the scene.’

  Fulton glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. He’d forgotten all about the time. The incident-room briefing had taken up at least an hour and a half and produced little but speculation from his team. Nothing found in the recreation ground, apart from a half a dozen car keys and double that number of used condoms in the undergrowth of the copse, and so far there were no witnesses from the ongoing house-to-house enquiries. It was like walking in treacle.

  ‘Handcuffs,’ he said eventually. ‘So, what are you sayi
ng?’

  Gilham raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Come on, Jack, you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘You can pick up handcuffs in any military surplus shop.’

  ‘True, but they’re mainly the old hand-bolts we used to use and they wouldn’t have left those marks. Only the new ratchet cuffs applied very tightly would fit the bill – and why remove them and tie up the wrists with cord afterwards anyway?’

  ‘Maybe the killer wanted to keep the cuffs as a souvenir – only had one pair.’

  ‘Or maybe he didn’t want us to know he had used them, which suggests all sorts of possibilities.’

  ‘Like, maybe our man was a copper, eh?’

  ‘It’s possible and it would certainly explain why Lyall was prepared to let him into his place. Nothing like a police uniform to reassure an elderly security-conscious judge.’

  Fulton scowled and lit a cigarette. ‘Maybe,’ he agreed, ‘but I don’t want us jumping fences before we can smell the fox. And I don’t want this getting to the press. It’s the only thing we’ve got that they don’t seem to know about.’

  ‘So, what about the rest of our team?’

  Fulton agonized for a few moments, then took a long pull on his cigarette and exhaled with an asthmatic wheeze. ‘They don’t need to know yet. Warn Eddie Hutch to keep shtum.’

  ‘And when they find out later? They won’t be very happy that we’ve kept something back.’

  ‘Tough. I’m not into counselling and anyway, there are more important issues to worry about than a handful of bruised egos – like why Lyall was topped in the first place, for instance. There’s got to be something in his background that made him a target. Find that out and we’re well on our way to catching his killer.’

  Gilham shrugged. ‘Being a judge would be enough. There must be a fair few villains around who have him to thank for a nice helping of porridge.’

  ‘So look into it then. I want to know everything about him: friends, hobbies, where he went at night, any threats he may have received – everything.’

  ‘Could be a mite sensitive, considering who he was.’