The Burning Men

by Will Shindler

  Her eyes were immediately drawn to it; the twisted lump of barbecued meat in the tub. Whispers of hair sat in tufts on a charred bald skull, grinning with yellow teeth. Strips of bright red flesh hung out of the blackened torso, while greasy white ribs were visible where the midriff was completely burnt away. The body lay curled up in a layer of sooty black water. What interested her was that the firefighters hadn’t actually put anything out. They’d found the carcase still steaming. The inference was clear; someone took care to stop the flames from spreading. Forensics and the post-mortem would confirm it later, but it looked like Maddox was set alight in the tub, then the shower used to extinguish the blaze. Like Kaul and Elder before him, he must have been overpowered. For a moment she tried to imagine the battle. After the first two he’d have known what was going to happen. Why the intruder was there. She tried to imagine his fear in those last, desperate moments. The bathroom, all antiseptic whites, would have felt like an execution chamber. Finn must have arrived barely minutes too late, just as the attacker was finishing up. She took one last look at the blackened eye socket of the dead thing in the bath and left.

  Finn’s head was thumping. He’d been lucky, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. The worst of the damage was just a nasty cut on the side of his head. He’d been taken to nearby St Thomas’s Hospital where they’d stitched him up. The X-rays showed no signs of concussion, and he’d finally been released not long after three in the morning. Now, six hours later, after very little sleep, he was sat in his kitchen downing painkillers. His front doorbell chimed, and he found Mattie Paulsen unexpectedly waiting outside with an awkward expression on her face. He gave her a thin smile and let her in.

  ‘How are you feeling, sir?’ she asked.

  He noted with private amusement the chastened use of the word ‘sir’. They hadn’t actually spoken since their confrontation the previous day. It felt an eternity ago.

  ‘Like a truck hit me.’

  ‘Actually it was a Halligan bar. We found it outside, Maddox must have kept his after he left the job.’

  ‘No wonder I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Anthony Joshua.’

  She looked bemused, clearly unfamiliar with the reference.

  ‘What have I done to earn a home visit?’

  ‘The DCI was concerned about you; he wanted to know if you were alright.’

  Finn knew that wasn’t true because he’d spoken to Skegman on the phone earlier. He could guess her real motive for coming over. The reality of what she’d said to him the previous day was clearly now biting at the young DC.

  ‘I’m fine. Before anything else – I take it we’ve paid Kevin Pender a visit?’ said Finn, in no hurry to give her the opportunity to apologise. Paulsen nodded.

  ‘We sent officers directly to his address the moment we heard what happened. He wasn’t there, but we tracked him to his parents’ house. He went straight to them after he left the station yesterday. They’ve both given him an alibi for last night and it looks solid.’

  Finn digested the information, but he’d already been certain it wasn’t Pender who’d attacked him; the man in the motorbike helmet was taller and broader for a start. It wasn’t just his head making him feel nauseous. From the moment he’d regained consciousness he’d been haunted by the realisation they should have given Maddox protection. He’d told Skegman in his office not to do it, that he’d take responsibility if things went tits up. Well, a man was now dead. He also remembered what he told Ojo in the pub – that he felt he was functioning at eighty per cent. He’d thought it was enough.

  ‘That’s a big twenty per cent,’ she’d said to him. It was feeling like that now. Somewhere in that twenty per cent he’d failed Phil Maddox. And even then, was he using his grief as an easy excuse or was he simply not doing his job properly? It was the very point Paulsen had screamed at him the previous day. Self-doubt was something new to him. He was a man of certainties and police work was the area of his life where he felt most certain. He didn’t like how he felt one iota; it was bordering on self-loathing. He saw Paulsen looking at him curiously, as if sensing what was going through his mind.

  ‘I want a thorough search done of Maddox’s flat when SOCO and the fire investigation team are finished there. There was something he wanted to tell me which he thought was important.’ He said it firmly and quickly, hoping the weakness he felt wasn’t showing. She nodded in acknowledgement, but still seemed awkward. It wasn’t just him feeling awful, he realised. She looked sheepish. He hadn’t seen that before.

  ‘Is there something you want to say, DC Paulsen?’

  She looked up, finally meeting his gaze properly.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to apologise for what happened yesterday. It was inexcusable. I’m dealing with some personal issues at the moment. I let them get to me and it won’t happen again.’

  He considered his response. The fact she might have had a point when she’d been yelling at him didn’t change or excuse the shocking nature of her outburst. Or his need to address it. The apology was a good try as an opening gambit but he wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily.

  ‘As I recall, it was asking whether there was something else on your mind which triggered the whole episode yesterday. I don’t suppose you feel able to tell me what it is?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but no. It’s difficult and very personal,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Okay. If we weren’t up to our eyes in what’s now a triple murder inquiry we’d have a longer and blunter conversation. But make no mistake, if you’re going to continue on my team then you’ll have to explain yourself fully to me at some point. Not today, not tomorrow but when this is over we’ll have that conversation. I’ll decide then what disciplinary action is appropriate.’

  Whatever she privately thought, she contained it well.

  ‘There’s something else you should know.’ Her tone was brisk again. ‘I’ve received an email overnight from a sergeant at Chapel Row – a DS Godden. I haven’t looked properly at the detail yet, but he thinks he’s got evidence someone might be trying to reactivate one of Erik Whitlock’s smurfing networks. He’s suggesting the only person with the capability would have to be Whitlock himself.’

  Finn almost forgot the banging pain in his head for a moment.

  ‘That’s impossible. They identified Whitlock by his teeth. Have you looked at the records?’

  ‘I’m still trying to establish who the forensic dentist was, but the remains were returned to the next of kin.’

  ‘Then see if you can track them down, we may need them back.’

  ‘How much credibility do you want to give this?’

  ‘That Whitlock’s alive? It’s nuts . . . but he worked for some pretty serious people. So could his death have been faked? Your guess is as good as mine, but talk to this Godden by all means and see what he’s got.’

  ‘There’s one final thing, guv: DCI Skegman’s authorised round-the-clock surveillance for Walker and Portbury.’

  Finn nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be pushing those two harder about the money now?’

  ‘What money? We’ve still got no hard evidence they took anything.’

  Paulsen nodded, then stood up.

  ‘You know they found you on the stairwell? You’d been placed there, presumably by the same man who attacked you. DS Ojo says it looks like Maddox’s killer was careful to keep the fire contained so it didn’t spread.’

  ‘Just like the other two. Whoever did it just wanted Maddox hurt. He was targeted. These are professional hits. The only question now is who’s next? Walker or Portbury?’

  Stuart Portbury followed Mei up the stairs and stopped on the landing. Like every other part of the house it was spotless, and upstairs it smelt of freshly washed clothes. Mei pointed at the door at the end of the corridor. She brushed his arm with her hand, then turned and went back downstairs. He walked over to the door and knocked. A quiet voice responded, inviting him in, and he went on through. The room
was nothing like the usual cliché of a teenager’s bedroom. The bed, all crisp white linens, was immaculately made up with an expensive-looking velvet throw at the end. An ornate antique lamp sat on the bedside table, and the brilliant white walls were lined with shelves stacked with books. At the far end was a wooden desk, where a young man was sat studying a laptop screen intently. He turned and Portbury was greeted by a boyish face with a fringe of floppy black hair and John Lennon spectacles.

  ‘Riku? I’m Stuart, I’m a friend of your mum’s.’

  The boy stood up, almost to attention.

  ‘Please, sit down. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’ Portbury gave him a reassuring smile and Riku sat down again. He knew what he wanted to say, but he suddenly realised he hadn’t a clue how to begin the conversation. The boy solved the problem for him.

  ‘I guess Mum must be worried about me then . . . ?’ He smiled shyly.

  ‘She’s just being a mum. It’s what they do.’

  ‘I’m fine. She worries too much.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything specific she’s concerned about. It’s . . .’ Portbury faltered, aware of how atrocious he was at talking to anyone under the age of twenty. ‘Well, my dad died when I was young. So I know what it’s like to grow up without one. Especially when you hear all your mates talking about their families. You feel different, like you’re some sort of freak. But you shouldn’t.’

  Riku’s eyes flicked involuntarily down and Portbury realised he’d hit a spot.

  ‘There’s loads of people just like you. Why don’t you tell me all about your dad? I want to hear all about him.’

  He hadn’t even liked Gary Elder that much, Martin Walker mused as he tended to his roses. But it was the strange thing about that job – he’d probably have given his life to protect him once, knowing Elder would have done the same for him. You had each other’s backs, that’s just how it was. So soon after Adesh’s wake, there’d be another funeral now. He’d met Elder’s mother once – a genuinely sweet lady who’d been so proud of her boy. She was old then, so she must be nearly in her eighties now. It wasn’t fair.

  It was another beautiful day and the garden couldn’t have felt calmer. He looked up and saw Christine through the kitchen window. Something wasn’t right with his wife. Something hadn’t been right with his marriage for a long time though. Not since he’d retired if he was honest. There was a hairline crack beneath the surface, and it was getting larger every day. He’d always thought she understood the bigger picture of their lives, that everything he did was for her. But there was no doubt she’d been shaken by the deaths of Kaul and Elder. She’d met them back in the day, so could put faces to the names. The horrific manner of their murders prompted a deluge of questions he couldn’t answer. More than that, there was real fear now. It lurked beneath the surface as they ate their meals, stalked them while they were out shopping, hung over them as they silently watched television at night.

  He’d never told Christine about the events inside Pacific Square, but she wasn’t stupid. However hard he tried, she knew him well enough to know something significant took place that night. The unspoken secret was the elephant in the room of their relationship. She’d withdrawn into herself, giving him a small melancholic smile whenever he caught her watching him.

  He’d been particularly non-communicative about the reason he’d disappeared the previous day. He’d told her it was just some admin work related to a charity walk he was planning, but they both knew that was a lie. He always told her where he was just in case she needed help, and he always kept his phone switched on for the same reason. To break such fundamental unwritten rules of their marriage signalled something was seriously up.

  The uncomfortable atmosphere was now stifling after his day trip to Whitstable. The truth was he didn’t quite know where his conversation with the man in the beach hut left them. If the Handyman – the man who’d stolen the bloody money in the first place – wasn’t behind Kaul and Elder’s deaths, then who the hell was? He’d pondered moving out of London for a while, but with Christine’s condition it simply wasn’t practical at short notice. What would he tell her? Where would they go? More importantly, they’d have to come back at some point. He didn’t see any point in running and was reluctant to get too close to the police; when the dust settled he didn’t want to end up in a prison cell. But he also knew he needed to do something because someone, somewhere, was coming for him.

  He’d messaged Portbury and Maddox on the WhatsApp group as soon as he’d returned from the coast. He knew Portbury read the message but hadn’t received a reply. Maddox on the other hand called straight away. Walker told him everything – about the man in the gym, the trip to the beach and the conversation with Spinney. Phil predictably began to panic. He was talking of going to Spain and maybe staying there. He’d also talked of telling the police everything. It’d taken a lot of persuading to get him to see sense. He just hoped what he’d told him would stick and the idiot wouldn’t do anything stupid. The camaraderie of the old days seemed a long way back in the past.

  He heard the doorbell ring and turned around; Christine was waving at him from the conservatory to indicate she’d get it. He emptied the remainder of his watering can into the soil. The sky was a cloudless blue and he leant in, inhaling the gentle fragrance of the flowers. Everything was actually perfect right now – that was the irony of it. He heard the conservatory door open, and saw Christine emerging. She was accompanied by a uniformed police officer and he felt his heart sink.

  Chapter 45

  Mike Godden slept remarkably well and woke with a clear sense of purpose. There were things to do with the day. He knew Farmer’s body would eventually be found, and Chapel Row’s own CCTV cameras would show them leaving together. An explanation would be needed, but he was sure he could come up with something. He was equally confident the evidence at the scene would point to a tragic accident. The fact no one would even suspect him of being responsible would help carry the lies a long way. He’d spent the previous evening at the same Indian restaurant where he’d first met Ray Spinney. He didn’t fancy a night in on his own given the day’s events, and a curry felt a reassuringly normal thing to do. It also gave him a chance to think.

  He was certain now it was Spinney behind the calls to the two members of Whitlock’s smurfing network. He’d never really bought into the idea Whitlock was still alive, largely because the timing was so suspicious. The sense he was being toyed with wouldn’t leave him, and the question remained: why? Farmer’s inquiries may have disturbed Spinney more than he previously thought. If he genuinely believed Godden was compromised, then there was no telling what he might do next. This was a man known for his abhorrence of loose ends, and Godden didn’t fancy ending up in a ditch with a screwdriver sticking out of his skull. He briefly considered informing Spinney about Farmer and the steps he’d been forced to take the previous day. It might be a reassurance to know the source of the problem was now eliminated. Alternatively, a dead police officer might freak him out even more and that was the last thing he wanted. It was a gamble he decided against.

  Godden possessed one piece of leverage on Spinney, and again he mulled it over. It was the nuclear option, but then sometimes the way to take control of events was to seize and shape them yourself. In the course of their six-year association, Spinney had always used prepaid burner phones to make contact. He used a different one each time, but that didn’t matter – if anything it’d helped. As a contingency, Godden had ordered cell site analysis done on three separate phones in succession. Naturally he didn’t explain why he’d wanted them, or who he was pursuing – but the results gave him what he needed. He knew where Spinney was, down to the street number, and now was the time to use that information.

  Feeling better after a chicken madras and a beer, he’d gone home and started to put his plan into action. First, he rang an old snout. Someone usefully pliable, perfect for what he needed. He instructed him to send an anonymous email the followi
ng day from a newly created account. A small internet cafe without security cameras would do the job. He talked him through the detail of it and then when he was satisfied his instructions were understood, he’d finally gone to bed. The memory of what took place at the landfill site resurfaced unbidden as his head hit the pillow. Somewhere along the line he’d become a monster, he thought, but what shocked him the most was how little he cared.

  The following morning, he had arrived at work early and emailed DC Mattie Paulsen the information he’d uncovered regarding Whitlock’s network. Alerting Cedar House to the possibility Whitlock might still be alive was as good as tossing a small stick of dynamite into their investigation. He could imagine the conversations they’d now be having down there. If the body of a young DC turned up in Hertfordshire, then it’d be just another twist in an already evolving inquiry. As he sat at his desk sipping on a coffee, he felt things were starting to come back under his control a little. He looked across his office window at the empty seat at Farmer’s desk, and shivered involuntarily.

  ‘Mike – you got a sec, mate?’

  It was Warrender.

  ‘Sure, guv.’

  ‘I’ve just seen the paperwork you left me on Whitlock’s network – what’s your take?’

  ‘It’s taken us literally years to track down the people on that list. Even now, I’d say we’ve only probably got about sixty per cent of the whole network identified. I honestly don’t know who else other than Erik Whitlock would or could be ringing any of them up. The whole point of the network is its anonymity. None of them know each other. The only common denominator was Whitlock.’

  ‘You can’t really believe he’s still alive?’ Warrender’s face was taking on that pinkish hue again. The one it tended to when he was working himself up.