The Burning Men

by Will Shindler

  ‘Make sure you look after yourself. I know how difficult it can be when things aren’t great at home; you start going in early, coming back late. Using the job as an umbrella to hide under.’

  ‘You’re sounding like Karin. She gave me pretty much the same lecture before she died.’

  ‘Should have guessed she’d already marked your card.’

  The barman walked past, another two burgers plated up in each hand. Finn signalled to him for the bill.

  ‘She left me something, by the way. Only found it on the day of the funeral. A riddle.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Seriously. A note. In her underwear drawer.’

  Ojo arched an eyebrow.

  ‘ “How far will a blind dog walk into a forest?” She said it was important. Any idea?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue! Can’t you look it up?’

  ‘No – can’t do that. Be cheating . . .’

  ‘And asking me isn’t?’

  ‘I thought, y’know, the female perspective. You might have an insight.’

  Ojo shook her head, nonplussed.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong girl. I reckon she knew exactly what makes you tick. My advice: try looking at yourself through her eyes.’

  He looked back at her helplessly and she chuckled. Ojo stood up and swung on her coat.

  ‘But maybe not tonight. Do yourself a favour, give your brain a rest. It’ll help – with all of it.’

  She patted him on the shoulder and left. Finn sat at the table on his own for a while as he finished his drink. The empty flat waiting for him wasn’t enticing. Ojo was right – his head felt full. There was far too much spinning around it; Adesh Kaul, Mattie Paulsen and a blind dog in a forest.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Karin.

  Chapter 20

  Five Years Ago

  The top four floors were now ablaze. Walker could taste his sweat dripping on to his lips as they made their way up the concrete staircase. The heat was stifling, the smoke swirling around them ominously now. It was getting hazier the higher they went, but there was no sign of flames yet. They were now on the third floor – a large grey hangar-like area – and began hunting for the man they’d seen at the window.

  Maddox and Kaul took one side, Walker and Elder the other. Construction equipment and builders’ materials were strewn around them. Walker reached for his radio.

  ‘Crew now on the third floor – smoke logging, but no sign of fire.’ Even through his protective layers he could feel the temperature rising sharply now, and once the heat was inside your suit there was nowhere for it to go. The smoke was getting noticeably thicker too. Experience trained him to shut out the discomfort, concentrate on what he could see. He and Elder were both scanning for the same thing, but there was no sign of movement, no sign of life.

  Elder gestured to the far corner, where a small room was mid-construction. The smoke was slightly less dense there and Walker followed Elder through. Inside were twelve wooden pallets each stacked with large canvas sacks. Elder went over and peered inside one of them.

  ‘Jesus! Marty – come and have a look at this.’

  Walker went over and looked into the nearest one. Instantly he saw the unmistakable design of currency.

  ‘There must be thousands here,’ said Elder.

  More than that, thought Walker. Millions. The size of the bags, the number of notes, the number of bags . . . it was easily millions. But what was it doing there? He focused again, annoyed – distractions like these are what got you killed.

  A shoe was poking out from behind the pallets and Walker ran over to find a body lying face down.

  ‘Casualty!’

  Turning it over, he saw the face of a lined, heavily tanned man in his late forties. There was something of the ageing rock star about him. Walker thought he looked exactly like the kind of guy you’d find unconscious next to several million pounds in a burning building. He removed his glove and put his hand on the man’s chest. He reached for his radio.

  ‘We have a casualty. Probable smoke inhalation.’

  Kaul was now coming through the small entrance to join them.

  ‘There’s no sign of anyone else on this floor, skip. Phil’s still checking though.’

  ‘Good. Help me with this one. I can’t tell if he’s breathing,’ Walker replied.

  Elder was still standing by the canvas sacks.

  ‘Just wait, before we rush into anything.’

  And Walker knew. He didn’t need to ask. He knew exactly what Elder was thinking. Because he’d been thinking it too.

  Chapter 21

  Today

  It took Finn a while to find them, but the whispery thin fingers of smoke still just about visible above the rooftops were a clue he wasn’t too far away. The burnt-out remains of the yellow Maserati GranTurismo were found smouldering in the early hours of the morning by a builder who owned one of the nearby lock-ups. He’d called 999 and it hadn’t taken long to identify who the car belonged to.

  Finn spent the drive from Balham taking in the implications of it. While he’d been out drinking with Jackie O, a second member of the Pacific Square fire crew was burning to death. One of the five men who’d retired so soon after that night. Suddenly the theory he’d shared with Ojo in the pub seemed less like conjecture and now a hard line of inquiry to be pursued. Was the Maserati, like Kaul’s lavish wedding, visible evidence of a very bad decision they’d made in the heat of a blaze? One thing at a time, he thought.

  He parked up in the street that gave way to the cordoned-off cul-de-sac. The sunshine from the previous day was long gone, replaced by a windy, grey morning. The rank smell of burnt-out metal, plastic and flesh hit him straight away – a variation on a theme from the stench he’d experienced at the hotel. He saw uniformed officers doing door-to-door inquiries at the nearby row of terraced houses. The other side of the cordon he could see the silhouette of DC Paulsen talking to what looked like a uniformed inspector. Behind her was the charred skeleton of the Maserati.

  A black scorch line extended around twenty yards from the wreckage, and it wasn’t hard to deduce how the blaze began. There was nothing accidental about this. Scenes of crime officers in blue gowns were working within the cordon, and there were numbered markers dotted around them. The fire investigation team would be on scene shortly too.

  Paulsen turned, saw Finn approaching and ducked under the tape to join him.

  ‘There’s the remains of one body inside – I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s what’s left of Gary Elder,’ she said.

  ‘How much do we know?’

  ‘Well, there’s no doubt about this one.’ She pointed at the scorch line that snaked away from the car. ‘You can see where it started. Whoever did it wasn’t worried about making this look like an accident. Uniform think Elder might have been lured here. There won’t be any CCTV or ANPR though – this cul-de-sac’s completely blind.’

  Finn quickly looked around and could see it was the perfect location. There were no properties backing on to it, and he could already tell the chances of any useful witnesses would be slim to none.

  ‘So, we’ve now got two of the retired firefighters who attended Pacific Square in the morgue. What’s your instinct, guv?’

  Finn looked at the smoking funeral pyre which once was Gary Elder’s pride and joy. Images of the abandoned banqueting hall in Morden, the scorched scene in the toilet and a distantly remembered television report of the Pacific Square blaze passed through his mind. He felt a note of caution.

  ‘Let me tell you something about coppers’ instinct; it’s what bad police use as an excuse to cut corners. Egotistical chancers throw it out when they want to chuck procedure out of the window and do their own thing. If I had a quid for every monumental cock-up that happened because some idiot wanted to follow their nose, their gut, their sphincter or any other part of their anatomy, I could probably retire now.’

  ‘Yeah – but what’s your instinct?’ said Paulsen, and he smil
ed.

  ‘I think it’s possible this fire crew stumbled on something five years ago. Clearly we need to look at protecting the other three members of that team. But there’s one question I always ask myself, because it always comes back to this . . .’

  His eyes were alive now, Paulsen thought. For the first time since she’d met him the deadness there was gone, replaced with a new vitality.

  ‘. . . Why now?’

  The bespectacled man in the waistcoat looked up at the charcoal grey sky with a disdainful sneer. The weather was so unpredictable at the moment, and he was a man who deeply disliked unpredictability. Seven minutes later he arrived on the dot of nine twenty-five outside a small shop on the other side of the village green. He unlocked the front door and walked inside.

  The small, almost Dickensian interior was lined with varnished wooden floors. There was a vintage panelled mahogany counter at the far end which spanned the width of the entire shop. Behind the counter were boxy wooden shelves offering a variety of gentlemen’s shoelaces, Zippo lighters, metal house numbers and brass door knockers. There was a sign on the wall written in ornate font, declaring:

  Shoe Repairs, Key Cutting and

  Engraving Services. Inquiries welcome.

  The man sat down on a worn leather stool behind the counter, and extracted a mobile phone from his waistcoat pocket. He tapped on it and waited for the call to connect. Outside on the street he could see a middle-aged woman with a King Charles spaniel. The dog was defecating on the pavement and he watched as she went through the meticulous process of scooping and collecting the deposit into a small plastic bag. If ever there was a metaphor for life, he mused to himself. Finally, his call was answered.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Things are gathering some momentum and we need to talk face to face.’

  The shop door opened with another tinkle, and he calmly returned the phone to his pocket, smiling pleasantly at the young woman who’d entered.

  ‘Dear me. The weather’s quite the disappointment today, isn’t it?’

  To his surprise, Finn discovered there’d been an early breakthrough. A teenage girl who’d seen Elder driving his car around the area before told one of the uniforms she’d seen him in the local nightclub the previous evening. He’d apparently tried it on with a group half his age and left, tail between legs, just after eleven. It gave them something to work with and the beginnings of a timeline. As he and Paulsen drove over to the club, Finn decided to do some gentle probing.

  ‘You haven’t told me yet what made you put in for a transfer.’

  She turned and looked at him coolly. He thought he’d been subtle. The brief silence was broken by the satnav and he focused on the road.

  ‘A bad experience. The first really bad one I’ve had in the job.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’d rather not go there, if that’s okay.’

  In the rear-view mirror, she saw his jaw tighten. Paulsen was starting to recognise it as a sign of irritation. She felt a flush of anger herself; the question was intrusive and she owed him no explanations. ‘I know how things can sometimes linger,’ Finn persisted. ‘If you ever do want to talk . . .’

  . . . I’ll talk to Nancy, she thought, but didn’t say. ‘Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind, guv,’ she said instead. The words were respectful, but the tone emphatic. She wanted to ring-fence the subject, then build a wall around the fence. It was important people understood what was off limits, even superior officers. The fewer people who looked in that direction the better as far as she was concerned.

  ‘And how are you, sir? This can’t be an easy time for you,’ she asked, deliberately changing the subject. Have some back, she thought, as she saw his jaw tighten again.

  ‘I’m not brilliant,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s really helpful getting back to work, but bereavement’s like an iron grip around your heart. It’s always there and sometimes that grip tightens.’ Paulsen suddenly regretted her earlier brusqueness.

  ‘I can’t imagine . . .’

  ‘Then don’t try. It’s not a headspace you want to get into. But no, in answer to your question, I’m not quite myself yet, or at the least the man I like to be. I hope you can forgive me any unintended insensitivity.’

  She wondered if he was making a point – she hadn’t wanted to share with him, and then he’d shared with her. She wasn’t sure if he was playing with her or whether something important just happened. For the next few minutes they sat in awkward silence, the only words coming from the satnav.

  The nightclub manager was helpful. Elder was a regular at the club and a bit of an oddity by all accounts. An older man, who tended to frequently come there on his own. There’d never been any complaints about him and he tipped heavily, which made him popular with the staff. The manager also provided them with the hard drive for the club’s security cameras.

  ‘It’s possible the killer mingled inside the club, the same way as at the wedding – assuming it’s the same person. If we’re lucky we might get a match,’ said Finn as they left.

  ‘Do you want me to look at it?’ replied Paulsen.

  ‘No, I’ll get uniform to do that. There’s something else I want you to do as a priority. DS Ojo’s been putting in some calls at my request. There’s a few pieces of the jigsaw missing, and I think I know someone who can help us find them.’

  Chapter 22

  An hour later Paulsen was driving through an area of dense woodland on the London–Surrey borders. As the trees gave way to the countryside, her satnav directed her down a well-maintained approach road. A few minutes later she caught a first glimpse of the building she’d been sent to visit. HMP Brazely was a sprawl of grey blocks. From a distance it could have been a factory, but the razor wire that topped the fence around the perimeter hinted at its true nature. She drew up at the security gate, produced her ID, then focused on the reason she was there, and the man she was going to meet.

  Jane Prentice, the governor, was pleasant and easy-going. Her office was all modern greys and minimalist furniture, with some eye-catching abstracts on the walls to add a splash of colour. Paulsen imagined it was probably some contrast to the living quarters of the five hundred and ten inmates housed inside the nearby cells. Prentice pulled out a couple of chairs and they sat in front of her desk.

  ‘Kenny Fuller’s from Liverpool originally, came down to London around fifteen years ago. He lived in Edgware and worked as a scaffolder before he was arrested. But I’m guessing this is more to do with the Handyman, isn’t it?’

  Paulsen nodded.

  ‘My DI thinks Fuller’s the nearest thing we have to someone with a direct link to him – if he exists – and that he might be prepared to talk about it.’

  ‘I suppose that depends on who you believe the Handyman is? Fuller worked as hired muscle for a number of gangland figures. It gives him a certain power in here so be careful he doesn’t try and play you. He’s got good reason to keep that going.’

  ‘Does the name Raymond Spinney mean anything to you?’ said Paulsen.

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the names constantly linked with the Handyman.’

  ‘Fuller worked with Spinney on a post office raid in Holloway a few years back. He was quite chatty on the subject after he was nicked, which was unusual. Most of his associates are too petrified to give up a thing.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in Spinney?’

  ‘Because of two deaths on our patch. There’s a chance we can connect them to him. It’s possible they’re the work of a professional and if anyone can recognise the signs it’s probably Fuller.’

  Prentice thought about it for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

  ‘For the most part he’s been quiet and cooperative. But he’s very . . . how can I put it? Distinctive. His nickname in here is “Smiler” – do you know why?’ Paulsen shook her head and Prentice continued. ‘He spent some of his early twenties sleeping rough. One night he got in a fight and was attac
ked with a machete. They left, literally, a dent in his scalp. He calls it his “other” smile – you’ll see why when you meet him. He can get frustrated very easily, and just occasionally spectacularly loses his temper. It’s only happened once here when he was accused of cheating during a game of table tennis. It took four men to restrain him. Two of them were hospitalised, and one’s still not back at work.’

  ‘I’ll be sure not to take him on at table tennis then,’ said Paulsen. ‘Has he asked for a solicitor?’

  ‘We told him someone was coming to see him and he waived his right. I think he’s just curious to know why you’re here.’

  Fifteen minutes later, after a seemingly endless walk through the prison complex, Paulsen found herself in a small, sparse room with a table and a couple of chairs. There was a mounted security camera in the corner, and the prison officer who’d escorted her waited by the door as she took a seat. Shortly afterwards there was a knock and a second officer entered with a tall shaven-haired man. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs and studied Paulsen with interest as he walked in.

  ‘Blimey. You didn’t tell me she was a student?’ he said with a toothy grin and a thick Scouse accent. To Paulsen’s chagrin his escort flashed the ghost of a smile back, before ushering him to the chair opposite. The escort exited and took up a position outside the door, while the other prison officer remained in the room with her. Both of them, she noted, carried tasers.

  ‘You writing a paper on me or something, love? For your diss-ur-tay-shun?’ He grinned again and Paulsen smiled curtly back before going through the necessary formalities. When she’d finished she produced her notebook and placed it on the table in front of her, and pulled a biro out of her bag. Fuller was watching it all closely.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I know about you, DC Paulsen?’ he said with a friendly smile. She needed him to talk, so at this point allowed him to control things a little – or at least gave him the illusion of control.

  ‘You’re on edge. You keep looking down. Stop doing that, I’m not a threat. Treat me like an adult and I’ll treat you like one.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Alright, love, I’m going to do this – but we’re just going to see how it goes, for the minute. What can I do for you?’