Slice

by David Hodges

  ‘You’ve all done pretty well for yourselves too. Money, position, civic honours, you’ve had it all – and I believe I am right in saying that the Reverend Andrew Cotter is actually tipped for an MBE in the New Year’s Honours list because of his tireless work with disadvantaged children. Now that really is a success story, isn’t it?’

  The chair swung back to face the mirror again and his captor’s face was once more reflected in the glass below his own. ‘Well, Andrew, the time has come for you to pay – just like Herbert Lyall and those others I have yet to chastise.’

  A flicker of understanding showed in the clergyman’s eyes and his tongue flicked along dry trembling lips. ‘Please, you’ve got it all wrong,’ he whispered.

  There was a click and a hand appeared in the mirror, holding a thin blade between long violinist’s fingers. ‘Oh no,’ the other said softly, ‘I’ve got it exactly right. But I wanted us to have this little chat first, so there are no misunderstandings and you know precisely why you are being punished.’

  ‘Punished?’ Cotter’s voice rose to a choking scream. ‘Why, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Do?’ the other said. ‘Why, I’m going to emasculate you, my dear Reverend, and then exhibit your shame to the world. But before that, I’m going to very slowly cut your throat – and you can watch the whole thing as it happens, just like on television.’

  chapter 11

  THE MEDIA SIEGE of Saddler Street police station was still in full swing at eight the following morning when Fulton, early for once, drove into the police station car park on the opposite side of the road and reversed into a tight space between a CID car and a flashy BMW saloon that he knew, belonged to Superintendent Honeywell.

  Pushing through the crush, he headed straight for the incident room, surprised to find not only Gilham waiting for him in his office, but Andy Stoller as well.

  ‘You’re up early, Andy,’ he said, shrugging himself out of the heavy woollen coat he was wearing. ‘Shit the bed or something?’

  Stoller turned away from the window he had been facing for the best part of five minutes and thrust a copy of the regional daily towards him as if it had been a dagger. ‘Think you’d better read this, Jack,’ he said grimly. ‘You may not feel quite so humorous afterwards.’

  Fulton raised an eyebrow and cast a brief enquiring glance at his number two, but was treated to just a warning frown in reply. Sensing imminent meltdown (detective chief superintendents did not normally put in a personal appearance in incident rooms at just after eight in the morning), he dropped the newspaper on to his desk in an effort to maintain a protective air of indifference and draped his coat over the back of his chair. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said conversationally, ‘Al Qaeda have blown up my favourite whisky distillery?’

  Stoller treated Gilham to a curt nod, but the DCI knew when it was time to go and he was already heading for the door. ‘Just read the front page, Jack,’ the headquarters man grated as Gilham closed the door behind him.

  With a reluctant sigh, Fulton retrieved the newspaper and held it up in front of him, only to tense noticeably when he read the headline and first few lines of text.

  SLICER STRIKES AGAIN

  Police hunting the killer of crown court judge, Colonel Herbert Lyall, are investigating the brutal murder of another local resident, who was found by a dog walker in his car at a derelict cement works with his throat cut. The dead man, who has yet to be formally identified, is believed to have been a valuable police informant and, according to an inside source, police believe both crimes were committed by the same man, whom local residents have nicknamed the Slicer….

  ‘They’ve given the swine a nickname?’ Fulton almost spat. ‘Whose bloody idea was that?’

  ‘The press themselves, I should think,’ Stoller replied. ‘A dramatic nickname always helps a story like this along. Remember the Yorkshire Ripper?’

  Fulton shook his head several times, his anger practically boiling over once again. ‘But how the hell did they get hold of all this info?’ he snarled. ‘It’s just like last time. Some bastard on the team is leaking stuff – has to be.’

  Stoller did not disagree. ‘Maybe they are, but you know as well as I do that it is next to impossible to keep something like this under wraps,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t referring to that story, though heaven knows it’s bad enough – I meant this!’

  He pointed to a smaller boxed piece at the foot of the front page and this time the headline and opening paragraph made Fulton cringe.

  SUPER’S TIME OUT

  Despite leading the investigation into the grisly murder of an eminent crown court judge, Detective Superintendent Jack Fulton (otherwise known as The Grunt), still had time to relax yesterday afternoon. And what better way of doing that than with a nice cup of tea poured by the fair hand of Dr Abbey Lee, the forensic pathologist in the case, at her mews terrace home in the upmarket Grove area of the city. Who said crime investigation was dull?

  Beside the story was a photograph of himself leaving the house with Abbey, which bore the caption ‘Suitably refreshed’.

  ‘ACC ops has done his crust over this,’ Stoller went on, trying to keep calm, but failing miserably. ‘Damn it, Jack, why the hell did you have to go home with her? The SIO in a murder case fraternizing with an expert witness? It’s totally out of order and you know it.’

  Fulton glanced at the newspaper again and stabbed a finger at the boxed story. ‘Bloody McGuigan! How was I to know he was lurking around outside?’

  Stoller raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Jack, this isn’t about McGuigan. You’re missing the whole point. If we catch our killer, Abbey Lee will be providing vital forensic evidence. Any cute brief is bound to try and use your association with her to discredit that evidence, don’t you see?’

  ‘Yeah, of course I see. But there was nothing in it. We didn’t even discuss the case.’

  ‘That doesn’t enter into it. The implication is enough and when the press find out our key suspect is a serving officer who has gone missing, how do you think that will look – especially if he turns out to be innocent? They’ll shout “fix” from every newspaper stand in the country.’

  Fulton suddenly looked drained and his hand shook slightly as he settled heavily on the corner of the desk and stared down at his scuffed shoes. ‘So what happens now?’ he said after a pause, raising his head to peer at Stoller.

  Stoller turned to face the window again. ‘Nothing – yet,’ he replied with his back towards him. ‘By rights you should be off the case, and that has been considered, believe me, but it would send out the wrong message and play right into the hands of the media. So you’re staying with it for the time being, but,’ and his expression was bleak as he turned to face Fulton again, ‘one more cock-up and you might as well grab your pension and run while you still have it to look forward to. Do I make myself clear?’

  Fulton hesitated a second, thinking of Dee Honeywell’s report about his unauthorized vehicle check and his errant wife’s possible complaint of assault. ‘Totally clear,’ he replied.

  Stoller looked unconvinced, but left it there. ‘Good. Now, any further developments on the inquiry itself?’

  Fulton quickly got a grip on himself and brought his boss up to date, including details on the murder of Lenny Baker, though he guessed that the head of force CID would know most of it by now anyway.

  ‘And anything new on this missing PC Derringer?’

  ‘None. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Looking at his background, he seems an unlikely suspect.’

  ‘Yeah, but then why run?’

  ‘Maybe he was carrying other baggage.’

  Fulton thought of Mickey Vansetti and nodded. ‘Something I’m looking into.’

  ‘ACC operations thinks you should be looking into holding a press conference too.’

  ‘Oh, he does, does he?’

  ‘Yes, he feels we should be using the media rather than ignoring them. Ap
peals for witnesses, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, I don’t, not at this early stage anyway. We have nothing more we can tell them other than what they have got hold of already and HQ press office has already put out a press release, asking for witnesses.’

  ‘Maybe, but television has more of an impact, especially when the SIO is in front of a camera.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m doing that until I have something worthwhile to say. Besides, it would be daft for me to stick my head above the parapet just after that story about Abbey Lee and myself has hit the front page – I’d be hung out to dry.’

  Stoller looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re having a conference, whether you like it or not.’

  Fulton’s face froze. ‘What did you say?’

  Stoller shrugged. ‘ACC ops has instructed the press office to set one up here at ten-thirty, straight after your morning incident team briefing. Caroline James, the force press officer, is coming over to hold your hand.’

  Fulton lurched to his feet, his fists clenched angrily. ‘Like hell! Who does Skellet think he is?’

  Stoller raised an eyebrow. ‘The assistant chief constable operations, I believe,’ he answered. ‘And as such, he outranks both of us.’

  ‘I’m SIO. I decide if and when to hold press conferences.’

  Stoller shook his head. ‘Not this time, Jack.’ He retrieved his newspaper from the table and turned for the door. ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Skellet also asked if you had considered using the services of one of our criminal profilers yet? Seems appropriate under the circumstances. You know, two stiffs, no leads – that sort of thing.’

  Fulton looked about ready to explode. ‘Any other advice Sherlock Skellet might want to pass on?’ he grated. ‘Like which eggs I should suck first?’

  Stoller chuckled, more than a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘Nothing that comes to mind, Jack. No, that’s about it, I think. Oh no, tell a lie, there is one more thing I should mention before I head back to the “big house”. Arrangements have been made for one of the press office liaison assistants to be on hand here from now on to deal with all press enquiries. Find a suitable office, for them will you?’

  The press conference, which had been set up in the police station’s old parade room, was a total disaster, just as Fulton had predicted. After being virtually ignored for the best part of two days, the media were in an ugly vindictive mood and very definitely out for blood. Once they found Fulton had nothing new to tell them and that what he did have he wasn’t prepared to divulge, they got personal and concentrated instead on his relationship with Abbey Lee.

  After a tense, totally unproductive incident room briefing, he needed this kind of hostility like a hole in the head. Nevertheless, at first he tolerated the insinuations as to be expected under the circumstances, but when the questions got more and more vitriolic, he started to lose the small amount of patience he possessed. In the end, sensing that things were about to fall apart on them, Caroline James brought the conference to an abrupt close and ushered him from the room.

  But Fulton’s problems were not over even then, for his mobile phone rang as he headed back to his office. It was Abbey Lee and he grimaced when he recognized her voice.

  ‘What the devil’s going on, Jack?’ she demanded. ‘Have you seen the newspapers?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Wouldn’t help if I said no, I suppose?’ he replied.

  ‘Jack, do you realize what they’re implying? I’m damned furious.’

  ‘I’m not best pleased either, Ab.’

  ‘Coroner’s been on to me and he’s not a happy man – especially as I gather the opening inquest on Lyall is likely to be on Monday next.’

  ‘It’s all down to a little creep called Ewan McGuigan …’ he began, then tensed as Phil Gilham appeared through the double doors at the end of the corridor, obviously in something of a hurry.

  ‘I don’t care who’s responsible, Jack. What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing we can do, Ab. Just keep our heads down and think of England. See you at the inquest when it’s confirmed, OK?’

  Before she could say anything else, he ended the call by snapping the cover of his mobile shut and turned to meet his number two, raising an expectant eyebrow when he saw the agitation on his face. ‘Problem?’ he queried.

  Gilham nodded. ‘Derringer,’ he replied.

  ‘Don’t tell me the DNA result on his car is back already?’

  ‘Hardly that quick – not even for a judge – but apparently, since SOCO found the stained carpet and sent it off to the lab, the car was stripped out and something even more interesting was found under one of the rear seats.’

  Fulton motioned him into an adjacent office. ‘Which was?’

  ‘Torn bit of an old-style driving licence in the name of Herbert Benjamin Lyall. The car’s a hatchback, so the piece of paper must have slid under the seat from the boot when it fell out of Lyall’s pocket.’

  Fulton lit a cigarette and stared unseeing at the uniform patrol beat plan pinned to the wall. ‘So, even without the DNA result, Derringer is well in the frame then?’

  ‘Got to be.’

  The big man shook his head, his frustration evident. ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Phil. There’s more than one thing going down here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Fulton quickly told him about his encounter with the intruder at Derringer’s flat and his visit to Vansetti. Gilham’s mouth dropped. ‘You’re still doing it, Jack, aren’t you?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Your own thing – going it alone.’

  ‘Don’t talk bollocks! Something was nagging at me. I had to follow it up.’

  ‘So you took off on a one-man raid?’

  Fulton ignored the sarcasm. ‘At least we know what Derringer was up to.’

  ‘And you think that’s the only reason he bolted?’

  ‘Well, it seems a good enough one to me.’

  ‘Despite everything pointing to the contrary then, you don’t think Derringer is our murderer?’

  ‘I can’t say that. I just think the whole thing is a lot more complicated.’

  ‘Then how did Lyall’s driving licence get in the boot of Derringer’s patrol car? Come on, Jack, it isn’t like you to look for things that aren’t there.’

  Fulton scowled. ‘Something’s been playing on my mind, Phil, ever since we found Lenny Baker, but I can’t put my finger on it. Something I saw or something someone said.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been bugging me ever since.’

  ‘OK, so let’s humour you for a moment. If Derringer isn’t our man, who the hell is?’

  ‘I’m a copper, not a clairvoyant.’

  ‘OK, so maybe we should consider calling for more specialist assistance – like a profiler, for instance?’

  Fulton visibly started, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘What made you say that?’ he snapped. ‘Someone been talking to you?’

  Gilham looked bewildered. ‘Talking to me?’ he repeated. ‘No, not at all. I just thought – well, it’s early days yet, I know, but we’ve nothing to lose and we have used profilers before.’

  The big man grunted, stubborn pride making him dig his heels in almost up to his neck. ‘Don’t go there, Phil, OK?’ he retorted, his face hard and uncompromising. ‘Just don’t go there.’

  Gilham had known his boss for far too long to try and pursue something when he was in this obstructive frame of mind, but he was determined to make his point anyway. ‘OK,’ he said with a resigned shrug, ‘forget the profiler for now then, but with Derringer on his toes, local enquiries so far turning up little of value and the results of forensic analysis still awaited, maybe you can tell me precisely what else we should be doing?’

  Fulton didn’t answer the question, but snapped his fingers as another thought occurred to him. ‘What about the vehicle mileage book? All police vehicles have them to record who drove where and when. That should narrow things down a bit.’<
br />
  There was the suggestion of a smirk on Gilham’s face now. ‘Already tried that. Book’s gone walkabout.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve done a thorough search of the nick and all that, but so far, nothing.’

  Fulton propped himself on the edge of a desk. ‘Then either Derringer dumped it or …’

  Both men exchanged glances.

  ‘Someone else did,’ Gilham finished for him. ‘Which means if Derringer isn’t the killer, another of our finest is.’

  Fulton nodded, his expression bleak. ‘And either way, we’ve got a psycho cop on the loose,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anything worse, can you?’

  Before Gilham could answer, his own mobile rang and his face was ashen when he turned to face his boss. ‘Control room, Jack,’ he said simply. ‘Apparently we’ve got another stiff. And, by all accounts, it’s worse than the last two.’

  Fulton stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Got any more good news up your sleeve, Phil?’ he commented drily.

  chapter 12

  THE REVEREND Andrew Cotter had not had a good death – that much was reflected in the bulging eyes and the terrified expression on the grey contorted face – and as Gilham tore his gaze away from the horrific spectacle, he desperately tried to hold his quivering stomach in check to prevent it from jettisoning everything it contained.

  The small market town of Axton, just ten miles from Maddington, had witnessed more than its fair share of blood and violence over the centuries. The soldiers of Henry VIII had put a score of its residents to the sword on the steps of its Norman church for opposing the dissolution of the monasteries and Oliver Cromwell had left his own bloody mark on the town during the Civil War because of its Royalist connections. In World War II Hitler’s Luftwaffe had bombed Axton as part of an attack on the nearby airfield and, more recently, an armed robbery at the local post office had left two people dying from shotgun wounds when the postmistress had sounded the alarm and the gunman had lost his head, blasting the customers at close range as he fled.